This has been going around for ages, but we in the office and at dinner parties have been watching it over and over again recently. Seriously, this guy is way talented and I would love to buy him a drink. Or dinner. Or pick out china. I'm just sayin'.
And as we keep talking about it, and dancing to it here at Drinkie's dinner party, I think it deserves a reference here.
The evolution of dance:
Friday, May 26, 2006
Steeplechase Weekend Day 1: the Arrival
My time has not been my own with catching up at work, having jury duty, and working after to get shit done after a day of jury duty. But I am eking out some time to finally post about the fabulous Steeplechase weekend!
I arrived Thursday afternoon completely shattered. It was a long, hot flight, and I was sufficiently sleep deprived as to be short on sugar and patience. Mom had told me that she and Dad would be in a H.G. Hill Board meeting and I should call their phones when I landed. They would be on silent but vibrate and I should try calling Dad's first. Jay Bradford was on my flight and suggested I ride home with him. Billy Lyle was coming to pick him up, and Jay's parents' place is only two or three streets away from Mom and Dad's. I called Dad's cell three or four times. Mom's three or four times, and sent text messages to both. Instead of getting them out of a meeting, I accepted Billy's gracious offer to take me home. En route, Mom called to say that Dad was already at the airport. I finally got dad who was still in traffic on his way there, but turned around and headed home. All of this might have been better coordinated had they thought to tell me that Dad had a new cell number.
It was nice to be home. I forget how lush Nashville is. And with the recent rain, even more so. It was sunny when I landed, and storming on the way home, and then humid and quiet by the time I made it to Sheppard Place. All I really wanted was a nap. Less wanted, more needed. Terribly. Previously just short on sugar and patience, I then running on fumes and ready to snap. Dad came home and welcomed me warmly. We chatted briefly, but if anyone knows the necessity of a nap, it's Papa John. Mom showed up and of course we needed our warm welcome homes. But really, I needed a nap. Ellen would be joining us for dinner, and Mom wanted to make reservations at 7:30 at the Club. That was fine by me. That would give me 15 minutes to sleep, 15 to get ready, and 10 to get there (it's just a block away). However, Mom felt the need to make the reservations while standing over me—me being in sleep shorts in my bed, head down, eyes closed. She brought in the cordless phone from their bedroom at the other end of the house to make the call next to me while I was trying to sleep. And, of course, partly for being nearly lobeless a headset can press uncomfortably against her earring, but moreso because the antenna from the phone might muss her hair, she has to use the speakerphone on the handset.
I was ready to crack. Barely holding it together. Impressing the importance that I have a nap before I take someone's head off. I manage to eke out 15 minutes to touch the dreamspace and pull myself together, and she brings a megaphone into my bedroom. My God I had forgotten how crazy my parents are.
And it wasn't just that. How could the accomplished socialite get to her [shall not be revealed] age and not know how to make a reservation? "Yes, we would like a table for four at 7:30. Under 'Hardcastle." That's all you need. But no, when Mom makes a reservation, she feels it necessary to share her life story, or at least the previous several hours. And painfully, in real time.
I kept muttering from bed "Just tell him how many and when. He doesn't need to know why."
"Really, I don't need to be here for this conversation."
"Can you please continue that call in the other room?"
Finally I reached the breaking point, and I am still impressed by my restraint. Any other Hardcastle man would have gone ballistic at this—I've seen it too many times. But still I had to yell to get her to understand, "Mother. I love you very much. GET OUT!" Basically, my 15 minutes of nap time were spent listening to a conversation that was the audio equivalent of watching someone fold up a map incorrectly. Arrgh.
I write all this not to dig on my mother, but to tell the story. Are we all completely annoyed by our parents? I mean, I love them dearly and we get along great. My family is tight, and that is saying something for all we have been through. And I certainly feel blessed when comparing my familial relationship with my cohort. I love my mother, but does she have to act like such a... mother all the time?
Luckily, we could not get a reservation until 8:00 and I got my 15 minutes of unconsciousness and was a much happier houseguest.
Dinner was fabulous and I got to see some familiar faces, and the added bonus of some quality time with my newly eleven niece Ellen.
Next update: Day 2: The Hunt Ball.
I arrived Thursday afternoon completely shattered. It was a long, hot flight, and I was sufficiently sleep deprived as to be short on sugar and patience. Mom had told me that she and Dad would be in a H.G. Hill Board meeting and I should call their phones when I landed. They would be on silent but vibrate and I should try calling Dad's first. Jay Bradford was on my flight and suggested I ride home with him. Billy Lyle was coming to pick him up, and Jay's parents' place is only two or three streets away from Mom and Dad's. I called Dad's cell three or four times. Mom's three or four times, and sent text messages to both. Instead of getting them out of a meeting, I accepted Billy's gracious offer to take me home. En route, Mom called to say that Dad was already at the airport. I finally got dad who was still in traffic on his way there, but turned around and headed home. All of this might have been better coordinated had they thought to tell me that Dad had a new cell number.
It was nice to be home. I forget how lush Nashville is. And with the recent rain, even more so. It was sunny when I landed, and storming on the way home, and then humid and quiet by the time I made it to Sheppard Place. All I really wanted was a nap. Less wanted, more needed. Terribly. Previously just short on sugar and patience, I then running on fumes and ready to snap. Dad came home and welcomed me warmly. We chatted briefly, but if anyone knows the necessity of a nap, it's Papa John. Mom showed up and of course we needed our warm welcome homes. But really, I needed a nap. Ellen would be joining us for dinner, and Mom wanted to make reservations at 7:30 at the Club. That was fine by me. That would give me 15 minutes to sleep, 15 to get ready, and 10 to get there (it's just a block away). However, Mom felt the need to make the reservations while standing over me—me being in sleep shorts in my bed, head down, eyes closed. She brought in the cordless phone from their bedroom at the other end of the house to make the call next to me while I was trying to sleep. And, of course, partly for being nearly lobeless a headset can press uncomfortably against her earring, but moreso because the antenna from the phone might muss her hair, she has to use the speakerphone on the handset.
I was ready to crack. Barely holding it together. Impressing the importance that I have a nap before I take someone's head off. I manage to eke out 15 minutes to touch the dreamspace and pull myself together, and she brings a megaphone into my bedroom. My God I had forgotten how crazy my parents are.
And it wasn't just that. How could the accomplished socialite get to her [shall not be revealed] age and not know how to make a reservation? "Yes, we would like a table for four at 7:30. Under 'Hardcastle." That's all you need. But no, when Mom makes a reservation, she feels it necessary to share her life story, or at least the previous several hours. And painfully, in real time.
I kept muttering from bed "Just tell him how many and when. He doesn't need to know why."
"Really, I don't need to be here for this conversation."
"Can you please continue that call in the other room?"
Finally I reached the breaking point, and I am still impressed by my restraint. Any other Hardcastle man would have gone ballistic at this—I've seen it too many times. But still I had to yell to get her to understand, "Mother. I love you very much. GET OUT!" Basically, my 15 minutes of nap time were spent listening to a conversation that was the audio equivalent of watching someone fold up a map incorrectly. Arrgh.
I write all this not to dig on my mother, but to tell the story. Are we all completely annoyed by our parents? I mean, I love them dearly and we get along great. My family is tight, and that is saying something for all we have been through. And I certainly feel blessed when comparing my familial relationship with my cohort. I love my mother, but does she have to act like such a... mother all the time?
Luckily, we could not get a reservation until 8:00 and I got my 15 minutes of unconsciousness and was a much happier houseguest.
Dinner was fabulous and I got to see some familiar faces, and the added bonus of some quality time with my newly eleven niece Ellen.
Next update: Day 2: The Hunt Ball.
Noms de plumage
EJ has started signing her e-mail with silly names. It started off with "Winnefred Elizabeth Bagos." To which I replied with "Harvey." Now she's signing off as "Hardin Long."
Which is scary because we know guys named Hardin, and people named Long. Here's hoping they do not connect and think to get cute. That's a lot to live up to.
Which is scary because we know guys named Hardin, and people named Long. Here's hoping they do not connect and think to get cute. That's a lot to live up to.
Overheard at work - 12
Did you ever notice that Elizabeth Dole's initials are E.D.?
Like, you know, Bob Dole and his ads suffering from "E.D."...
Like, you know, Bob Dole and his ads suffering from "E.D."...
Mine own bons mots
Unrealted to the comments from Ms. Verde.
My line from dinner which is entering our lexigraphic shorthand:
"Pot called. Kettle is the new black."
My line from dinner which is entering our lexigraphic shorthand:
"Pot called. Kettle is the new black."
from the mouth of Titties Verde
As I recall, I have not yet had the time to write down the Ballad of Titties Verde, but I still love it when her character comes out. I found these bons mots scribbled on a piece of paper from Wednesday night's aMAYzing dinner.
Titties Verde on Scarlett Johansson:
"She's eaten plenty of meat and can back it up with a side of pussy. That woman is hot."
Titties Verde, it should be noted, has at times enjoyed fruit from both ends of the garden.
Titties Verde on Scarlett Johansson:
"She's eaten plenty of meat and can back it up with a side of pussy. That woman is hot."
Titties Verde, it should be noted, has at times enjoyed fruit from both ends of the garden.
Thursday, May 25, 2006
Thirdsons!
Third-born males rock.
This just in from Sandy Nelson (the grandmother): Carrington had a third boy this morning - Simon Prentiss Fox - 6 lbs. - very cute.
And now this from David (daddy): We are pleased to report that Oscar and Julius have a new baby brother. Simon Prentiss Fox was born at 10:37 a.m. today. He's named for his great-great-great grandfather Simon Fox (who came over from "the old country") and his uncle, Prentiss Nelson. He's 6 pounds 1/2 ounce, 19 inches. The delivery was C-section, so Carrington will be in Baptist Hospital until Monday. Both Simon and Carrington are doing great!
This just in from Sandy Nelson (the grandmother): Carrington had a third boy this morning - Simon Prentiss Fox - 6 lbs. - very cute.
And now this from David (daddy): We are pleased to report that Oscar and Julius have a new baby brother. Simon Prentiss Fox was born at 10:37 a.m. today. He's named for his great-great-great grandfather Simon Fox (who came over from "the old country") and his uncle, Prentiss Nelson. He's 6 pounds 1/2 ounce, 19 inches. The delivery was C-section, so Carrington will be in Baptist Hospital until Monday. Both Simon and Carrington are doing great!
Blue darter
Sent to me by alert reader Dr. Barney May:
I duly forwarded it my mother.
She has reported that my father thought it was hilarious.
Update: The above link no longer works, but the story was copied and pasted into someone else's blog here.
The story:
A patient's "gas leak" is being blamed for bringing a hospital operation to a fiery end.
The man suffered minor burns in a brief but "dramatic" operating-room fire which is believed to have been caused by flatulence, The New Zealand Herald reported today.
The man was at the Southern Cross Hospital in Invercargill to have hemorrhoids removed and was singed in the "exceedingly rare" incident involving his own gas.
"This was thought to be flatus containing methane igniting," a health source told the newspaper.
"There was a sort of flashfire and that was it, but it was fairly alarming at the time."
Haemorrhoids are swollen veins in the lining of the anus. If they protrude outside the body and become troublesome, they can be removed by surgery, which in the Invercargill case employed an electrical "diathermy" machine. A hand-held tool for cutting tissue and cauterising to stop bleeding, it produces heat and can spark.
Southern Cross is releasing little detail other than confirming an "electrical fire" occurred on March 22 and that it commissioned an independent forensic scientist to investigate.
I thought of you when I read this. Thought you might like to share it with [your mother] as it would appeal to her sense of humour and clinical interest.This is a New Zealand news item about a particularly conflagratory event in the operating room.
I duly forwarded it my mother.She has reported that my father thought it was hilarious.
Update: The above link no longer works, but the story was copied and pasted into someone else's blog here.
The story:
A patient's "gas leak" is being blamed for bringing a hospital operation to a fiery end.
The man suffered minor burns in a brief but "dramatic" operating-room fire which is believed to have been caused by flatulence, The New Zealand Herald reported today.
The man was at the Southern Cross Hospital in Invercargill to have hemorrhoids removed and was singed in the "exceedingly rare" incident involving his own gas.
"This was thought to be flatus containing methane igniting," a health source told the newspaper.
"There was a sort of flashfire and that was it, but it was fairly alarming at the time."
Haemorrhoids are swollen veins in the lining of the anus. If they protrude outside the body and become troublesome, they can be removed by surgery, which in the Invercargill case employed an electrical "diathermy" machine. A hand-held tool for cutting tissue and cauterising to stop bleeding, it produces heat and can spark.
Southern Cross is releasing little detail other than confirming an "electrical fire" occurred on March 22 and that it commissioned an independent forensic scientist to investigate.
Wednesday, May 24, 2006
Even on the scales of justice I am overweight
It was a long afternoon of voir dire. As the session closed, the attorneys got to invoke their preemptory whatevers and reject certain jurors. By this time, I was kinda invested in the case and was looking forward to the arguments (I didn't come in here for abuse; I'm looking for an argument!). Before the session closed, I was hoping the ADA would ask me another question. Her questions were so poorly crafted I wanted to take a crack at calling her out on it. I suppose her intention was to make sure there were no indecisive jurors who might prompt a hung jury. She asked of those with children, "Have you ever had to make a decision regarding your children?"
okay, DUH! Are you kidding me? And when she made a mistake and asked someone without kids, or someone with only one child, she would repeatedly ask, "Have you ever had to make a decision?" Sometimes she would clarify, "In your life, have you ever had to make a decision about something?"
Oh my God. This young woman was not the brightest in her class. I was waiting for another question to me so I could say something along the lines of, "Juror Number Ten asks if counsel might wish to reconsider the question." "With all due respect to this court, and considerably less to the counselor, 'have you ever made a decision'? Everyone makes decisions all day long. We made the decision to open our mail. We made the decision to read the jury summons. We made the decision to heed the summons, appear here today, and to pay attention during the proceedings. Clearly, everyone makes decisions on a daily basis. I don't see the aisles of Safeway clogged with bodies because we all go catatonic when faced with the dilemma of paper or plastic. And I am making the decision to risk offending his Honor with my candor in expressing that this potential juror hopes that counsel makes the decision to do her homework before wasting any more of this court's time."
As it was, she rejected me as a juror and I have been excused.
Perhaps she could see it on my face. Or could tell by the 'pfff's or open laughs during her questioning.
My favorite response to her questioning was from a new alternate, who was Chinese with good English skills although severly accented:
"Do you have any children?"
"Three daughters. 44, 42, and 40."
"Have you ever had to make a decision regarding your daughters?"
"No."
"No?"
"No."
"You've never had to make decisions regarding your daughters?"
"No. Their Daddy."
[Laughter and even some applause from the gallery and juror pool.]
"What about your job? Did you ever have to make any decisions in your job?" (Again, are you kidding me with these questions?)
"No."
"No?"
"No."
"You never had to make a decision in your job?"
"I was a dealer in Vegas. We don't make the decisions."
Love her.
okay, DUH! Are you kidding me? And when she made a mistake and asked someone without kids, or someone with only one child, she would repeatedly ask, "Have you ever had to make a decision?" Sometimes she would clarify, "In your life, have you ever had to make a decision about something?"
Oh my God. This young woman was not the brightest in her class. I was waiting for another question to me so I could say something along the lines of, "Juror Number Ten asks if counsel might wish to reconsider the question." "With all due respect to this court, and considerably less to the counselor, 'have you ever made a decision'? Everyone makes decisions all day long. We made the decision to open our mail. We made the decision to read the jury summons. We made the decision to heed the summons, appear here today, and to pay attention during the proceedings. Clearly, everyone makes decisions on a daily basis. I don't see the aisles of Safeway clogged with bodies because we all go catatonic when faced with the dilemma of paper or plastic. And I am making the decision to risk offending his Honor with my candor in expressing that this potential juror hopes that counsel makes the decision to do her homework before wasting any more of this court's time."
As it was, she rejected me as a juror and I have been excused.
Perhaps she could see it on my face. Or could tell by the 'pfff's or open laughs during her questioning.
My favorite response to her questioning was from a new alternate, who was Chinese with good English skills although severly accented:
"Do you have any children?"
"Three daughters. 44, 42, and 40."
"Have you ever had to make a decision regarding your daughters?"
"No."
"No?"
"No."
"You've never had to make decisions regarding your daughters?"
"No. Their Daddy."
[Laughter and even some applause from the gallery and juror pool.]
"What about your job? Did you ever have to make any decisions in your job?" (Again, are you kidding me with these questions?)
"No."
"No?"
"No."
"You never had to make a decision in your job?"
"I was a dealer in Vegas. We don't make the decisions."
Love her.
courtside seat
I'm still on jury duty, but on lunch break. But with only three lunch places nearby, including the McDonald's, and no nearby wi-fi, lunch time is really frustrating. For all the lip service they pay to the importance of the jury process and respect for jurors, you think they would have coffee for less than $2 in the building and a wi-fi hotspot in the juror waiting room. There is a wi-fi service for the courthouse (which is some serious scary skanky by the way), but it is a monthly service for people who work here, and the day pass for those on jury duty is around $10. For fuck's sake, this is San Francisco, arguably the most wired city in the world. The City has a network in the building, is it too much to ask that they spring the $50 for an access point and open a secured port, or offer daily keys, for those doing their civil service. Honestly.
The commute down here is significantly more than my three blocks to work. I take the N to Civic Center then change to the 19 Polk (which oddly does not run down Polk Street), then walk the two blocks to the courthouse. This morning the line to get in was out the door and almost all the way down the block. Think airport security lines, but without x-ray machines, you don't have to take off your shoes, your bags get hand-checked, and with such thoroughness that I could stuff an attack dog and the Iraqi guard in my backpack and be passed through. And the attitude is lovely I hope the illusion of security is enough to prevent any of these whack jobs from bringing anything dangerous and acting out in there.
We're still in voir dire, but as Juror #10, it looks like I am here for a couple of weeks. I need to start brown-bagging something healthy, and start packing/freezing some coffee in the morning. SoMa this week is way hot, and not only is it warm and dry in the depressingly adorned courtroom, but the idea of sitting and paying rapt attention for two weeks without a cup of joe at hand (or the option of going to the bathroom as my bladder deems necessary) is equally uncomfortable. My apnea already makes me a little narcoleptic; I hope the litigants can keep this interesting enough to ensure consciousness without caffeine.
My break's over. I'll have to upload this later when I get a connection somewhere and backdate it to 1:14.
The commute down here is significantly more than my three blocks to work. I take the N to Civic Center then change to the 19 Polk (which oddly does not run down Polk Street), then walk the two blocks to the courthouse. This morning the line to get in was out the door and almost all the way down the block. Think airport security lines, but without x-ray machines, you don't have to take off your shoes, your bags get hand-checked, and with such thoroughness that I could stuff an attack dog and the Iraqi guard in my backpack and be passed through. And the attitude is lovely I hope the illusion of security is enough to prevent any of these whack jobs from bringing anything dangerous and acting out in there.
We're still in voir dire, but as Juror #10, it looks like I am here for a couple of weeks. I need to start brown-bagging something healthy, and start packing/freezing some coffee in the morning. SoMa this week is way hot, and not only is it warm and dry in the depressingly adorned courtroom, but the idea of sitting and paying rapt attention for two weeks without a cup of joe at hand (or the option of going to the bathroom as my bladder deems necessary) is equally uncomfortable. My apnea already makes me a little narcoleptic; I hope the litigants can keep this interesting enough to ensure consciousness without caffeine.
My break's over. I'll have to upload this later when I get a connection somewhere and backdate it to 1:14.
Tuesday, May 23, 2006
Hung jury
Sorry for the absence people. I have been stuck on jury duty all day. I have been assigned to a case and go back for more questions tomorrow. Unfortunately, this comes at a significantly inconvenient time for work. On the upside, I was originally assigned to a murder case which is expected to last until August. This one should just last two weeks. I have already been cramming for work to deal with this week and next, and this just doubles my daily workload.
Back to raining and pouring: I need a new job. I need a new apartment. My car has been stolen. And I am on jury duty. I am not buying any lottery tickets this week.
I wonder what the moon is up to now.
Major points to those who get this reference. It sort of sums up my attitude now:
Back to raining and pouring: I need a new job. I need a new apartment. My car has been stolen. And I am on jury duty. I am not buying any lottery tickets this week.
I wonder what the moon is up to now.
Major points to those who get this reference. It sort of sums up my attitude now:
My boat's gone. My candy's gone. Dead pirates are coming to get me...I wanna go home.(If it rings a bell, say so in the comments section.)
The Justice Squadron!
I am trapped in a courtroom waiting to hear if I will be required to serve on the jury for murder trail. It is expected to run through June 22. I think. I may have misheard. At first I heard July 22, because that is my Dad's 70th birthday and I will be back in Nashville for that. I don't mind serving on a jury as much, it's just that I will be home with the family Thursday-Monday the second weekend in June, the third weekend in July, and in August or September I plan to have the follow up surgery to alleviate my apnea. There is rarely a good time for jury duty, but this summer particularly sucks if I am required to be at the south of Market courthouse for any extended engagement. The last time I was called for jury service was the week of my last surgery, and I was excused. I don't know what they will do with me today. I am particularly annoyed by the tone of the judge, who started out thanking all of us for showing up and stressing the importance, honor, and duty of jury service. Those platitudes were quickly supplanted by impatience and condescension with her instructions as to what and what she will not consider a hardship.
I've filled out my hardship form and am waiting with the 200 other folks to see if I will be excused. (My hardship is that I will be in Nashville in June and July.)
All morning I have been thinking about that Simpson's episode when the Mensa people took over running the town. Comic Book Guy created new juror summons to get people excited about serving. Instead of a jury summons, citizens of Springfield received a comic-styled sheet announcing that they had been invited/inducted into The Justice Squadron!
Moe seemed impressed.
Gotta stop now. Back later. (post backdated)
I've filled out my hardship form and am waiting with the 200 other folks to see if I will be excused. (My hardship is that I will be in Nashville in June and July.)
All morning I have been thinking about that Simpson's episode when the Mensa people took over running the town. Comic Book Guy created new juror summons to get people excited about serving. Instead of a jury summons, citizens of Springfield received a comic-styled sheet announcing that they had been invited/inducted into The Justice Squadron!
Moe seemed impressed.
Gotta stop now. Back later. (post backdated)
Monday, May 22, 2006
Overheard at work - 11
If you have a shirtless photo on Friendster, you're pretty much a whore.
(I'm just sayin'.)
(I'm just sayin'.)
Overheard at Work - 10
"You want to try one of these?"
"What are they?"
"Lentil pea flavored faux chips."
"They look like dried areola."
"What are they?"
"Lentil pea flavored faux chips."
"They look like dried areola."
Overheard at work - 9
Three words you never want to hear together: "Indian rap band."
As in, "So that guy I'm not dating is going down to L.A. and has a friend who directs music videos. Oh, like for an Indian rap band. It's horrible. So emabarassing. I'll send you the link."
The Indian rappers are a group calling themselves "Karmacy." Which is better than what I would call them. (Something like "root canal from an ex-girlfriend," because it is painful and awkward.)
The link is to the production company Plan 9, but Ed Wood has nothing on this group for out-of-this-world bad. (The production, however, is good. Plan 9 should be praised for form, but not be blamed for content.)
As in, "So that guy I'm not dating is going down to L.A. and has a friend who directs music videos. Oh, like for an Indian rap band. It's horrible. So emabarassing. I'll send you the link."
The Indian rappers are a group calling themselves "Karmacy." Which is better than what I would call them. (Something like "root canal from an ex-girlfriend," because it is painful and awkward.)
The link is to the production company Plan 9, but Ed Wood has nothing on this group for out-of-this-world bad. (The production, however, is good. Plan 9 should be praised for form, but not be blamed for content.)
Hot and wet
Pink is the New Blog has a link to the trailer for the new WB series "Aquaman." However, it also seems as though the newly merged CW network may not pick it up. This is surprising as Smallville is such a huge hit and so abominably written that I can't see how a beach/shirtless/bikini-clad version of Smallville could fail to garner the teen audience. Throw in the Bermuda Triangle for good measure and you even get the nerds.
See the trailer:
Read the gossip on Pink. (You'll have to scroll down a a bit.)
Clearly, the above trailer looks more likely to win new viewers than this one.
Update: Apparently the promo has been taken down from YouTube because the PTB don't want it out there.
From the AquamanTV.com website:
See the trailer:
Read the gossip on Pink. (You'll have to scroll down a a bit.)
Clearly, the above trailer looks more likely to win new viewers than this one.
Update: Apparently the promo has been taken down from YouTube because the PTB don't want it out there.
From the AquamanTV.com website:
The Aquaman promotional trailer that landed on Youtube.com "has been removed at the request of copyright owner Warner Brothers because its content was used without permission."
The trailer video was viewed over 100,000 times and was in the top ten most-viewed videos on the site for the past few days.On the bright side, this means that the studio is aware of all of the fan demand for the project.
The trailer is probably hosted on other parts of the Web, but you'll have to find it for yourselves. I'd prefer not to hear from any lawyers myself :) Hopefully everyone who wanted to see the trailer has been able to.
Thursday, May 18, 2006
traDDitional
So Shilpa had a date tonight. But the FOB called and said he'd be late. As in, "instead of 6:30 how about 9:00/9:30." Yeah. Whatever. She called, but at 8:00, I was still at work. Tomorrow's a crap busy day, and I need to prepare all of next week tonight as I will be in meetings from 8:00 to 4:00 tomorrow, but have the possibility of jury duty starting Monday.
So, having no car and no groceries, I was going to walk over to Crêpes on Cole for a dinner salad. Shilpa wanted to get together for a drink and socialize before her date—her interest in which was diminishing by the minute. She had started already (go girl) and I agreed to meet at our favorite Café Flore. We managed to time it so we caught the same train.
Love this girl. We are what to the other makes daily life with Señorita Psycophath bearable. And she is such a silly drunk. Happy, lovable, giggly, and hilarious.
I ordered the chicken breast with rice and veggies. I can't identify any (meaning the presence of) seasonings on the rice, chicken, or veggies, but all are amazing— light, buttery, but not buttery and melt-in-your-mouth. Seriously folks, if you ever get to SF, Flore is the best place for lunch. I would say dinner, but if you are a tourist you should do something tourist-y. This is a neighborhood place, sensibly priced, recently gained a liquor license, and is oh so good. Later, the cafe becomes Bistroteque. Something I have not yet experienced. But I digress.
Gems from the dinner (evening of her watching me eat) with Shilps:
Walking from the Muni:
"It's like that song: NoTika Masala! It means 'no curries!'"
At dinner:
"That's why it's so hard for me to meet Indian guys. They look at me and see an independent woman and don't know what to do. But if they get to know me they learn I'm charming, speak three native languages, visit my parents regularly, and can cook up a native storm. And I've got double D's. What is their problem?!"
"I've got a new calling card for you: Shilpa Anonymous: traDDitional."
Enjoy this post while it lasts. I know she will e-mail me later tonight and demand its removal. Can't say I blame her. But c'mon!
And as she was leaving... btw, FOB called when I got on the train and said he was already at the bar at 8:30. She was planning on 9/9:30 and left here at 9:20, loathe to leave her number one gay. I am, clearly, fabulous company.
As she was leaving, I say to her, "Call me if you need rescuing. I'll take a cab, check my bag, and pretend to pick you up at the bar."
"Thanks Sweetie."
She walks to the exit, turns on a heel, and shouts past the other diners, with a somewhat accusatory tone, "I'LL BE TEXTING YOU!" Turns, and gets a cab.
The other diners turn in unison and look at me.
"Straight girl. First date." I say.
Seriously, all together, heads nod and one hears the waves of "Ahhhh."
Me, left alone at the table with my entree and wine, say "Drama, table of one, your table is now available."
Love that girl.
So, having no car and no groceries, I was going to walk over to Crêpes on Cole for a dinner salad. Shilpa wanted to get together for a drink and socialize before her date—her interest in which was diminishing by the minute. She had started already (go girl) and I agreed to meet at our favorite Café Flore. We managed to time it so we caught the same train.
Love this girl. We are what to the other makes daily life with Señorita Psycophath bearable. And she is such a silly drunk. Happy, lovable, giggly, and hilarious.
I ordered the chicken breast with rice and veggies. I can't identify any (meaning the presence of) seasonings on the rice, chicken, or veggies, but all are amazing— light, buttery, but not buttery and melt-in-your-mouth. Seriously folks, if you ever get to SF, Flore is the best place for lunch. I would say dinner, but if you are a tourist you should do something tourist-y. This is a neighborhood place, sensibly priced, recently gained a liquor license, and is oh so good. Later, the cafe becomes Bistroteque. Something I have not yet experienced. But I digress.
Gems from the dinner (evening of her watching me eat) with Shilps:
Walking from the Muni:
"It's like that song: NoTika Masala! It means 'no curries!'"
At dinner:
"That's why it's so hard for me to meet Indian guys. They look at me and see an independent woman and don't know what to do. But if they get to know me they learn I'm charming, speak three native languages, visit my parents regularly, and can cook up a native storm. And I've got double D's. What is their problem?!"
"I've got a new calling card for you: Shilpa Anonymous: traDDitional."
Enjoy this post while it lasts. I know she will e-mail me later tonight and demand its removal. Can't say I blame her. But c'mon!
And as she was leaving... btw, FOB called when I got on the train and said he was already at the bar at 8:30. She was planning on 9/9:30 and left here at 9:20, loathe to leave her number one gay. I am, clearly, fabulous company.
As she was leaving, I say to her, "Call me if you need rescuing. I'll take a cab, check my bag, and pretend to pick you up at the bar."
"Thanks Sweetie."
She walks to the exit, turns on a heel, and shouts past the other diners, with a somewhat accusatory tone, "I'LL BE TEXTING YOU!" Turns, and gets a cab.
The other diners turn in unison and look at me.
"Straight girl. First date." I say.
Seriously, all together, heads nod and one hears the waves of "Ahhhh."
Me, left alone at the table with my entree and wine, say "Drama, table of one, your table is now available."
Love that girl.
Overheard at work - 8
(Upon leaving work to go on a date.)
"We're not eating, just drinking. (pause) I hope I don't do anything stupid. I'm saving myself for [shall remain nameless]."
yeah huh.
"We're not eating, just drinking. (pause) I hope I don't do anything stupid. I'm saving myself for [shall remain nameless]."
yeah huh.
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