Had one of those great nights that makes glad I don't live in the suburbs.
I needed a mellow low-key night to be alone and get to bed early. After work, I walked around a bit and bought some magazines at Bulldog News. I took the magazines to the B&O and had a nice glass of wine, some good food and read.
I walked a bit more and discovered a new bisto, Thomas St.Bistro, that I am looking forward to trying very soon. The menu looks good, but more than that, the place looks interesting and a bit off-the-beaten path. The place is tiny, no more than 6 tables, but charming.
Nights like this, where I can leave my house, walk around and stumble on something cool makes me pleased I live in a city.
Saturday, December 29, 2007
Sunday, December 23, 2007
Skydiving
"So, are you in or are you out?" my friend Willow asked me.
"I'm in."
"Great. I'll e-mail you the details soon".
One phone call from my friend Willow on a very hectic Monday morning and my life would change .I had just agreed to join Willow and few friends in two weeks for a skydiving trip.
Great, I thought to myself. What have I agreed to do?
I suppose, in some ways I was always a risk taker, or more accurately, a closet risk taker. I have climbed Mt. Everest. I have piloted a jet. I have hiked into the darkest, dankest, most fetid reaches of the jungle and dove to the bottom of the sea--all, of course, in my head. I kept these thoughts to myself because I am not an “outrageous” person. Nothing on my person was pierced, bleached or tattooed. I was neutral--keeping my need for adventure tucked away gazing into a computer monitor day after day safely tucked away in the gray walls of my cubicle. This was abruptly about to change.
The two weeks leading up to the date I spent either jumping from nervous distraction to total exhilaration. I wanted to work into every conversation, "Hey, I am going to jump out of airplane. Can you believe it? Pardon me? Yes, a paper bag is fine."
The point came when I needed to inform my parents of my little adventure. This was not to get their approval, but so they could plan for any medical or mortuary needs that may arise in the aftermath. My mother, in typical Mother fashion, took a deep breath and said, in a register so high that neighborhood dogs howled in communion, " Well, I can't stop you, but just remember I die before you do."
The conversation with my father was less eardrum piercing. "Dad, next weekend I am going to jump out of an airplane,” I said. "You're going to what?" he asked as I could hear him start to pace from the kitchen to the dining room.
"I going skydiving next week with Willow," I said over the rhythmic cadence of his shoes on the wood floors.
"B--a--a--a--b--e...why?" he pleaded, the situation far too dire to call me by anything other than my nickname.
“Because it sounds like fun and it's a great chance to try something I have always wanted to do", I replied in defense.
"Are you going to pay for this fun?".
"Uh....yes"
"So, (sound of breakneck pacing) you're going to jump out of a plane and PAY to do it when you might not make it down alive?"
I affirmed my decision and heard the pacing abruptly stop as if he had an epiphany. "Why don't you come over here and we can tie a sheet around your neck and you can jump of the deck for free,” he proposed. Ah yes, my Dad, always looking to save a buck while offering his wayward progeny an alternative to death and injury. He is nothing if not solution oriented and thrifty.
A week later, after avoiding calls from my parents, Willow some friends and I were on our way to the skydiving company in Shelton. The drive down began in high spirits. We laughed, joked and carried on as we drove drown the deserted early morning freeway on our journey south.
In Olympia, we stopped to grab some food. I thought to myself, I am not hungry, but I should eat something. What do I want as a possible last meal? I want pancakes. Wait--not pancakes. I do not want to barf up pancakes. What is quick to digest and will not be barfed up. Luna bars---I will have Luna bars. I am ever the pragmatic adventurer.
About an hour later, we pulled into the parking lot of the airport. The van was silent as what we were about to do hit home. The sound of the little planes filled the air and the sun bounced of the tarmac as we saw people craning their necks up to the sky watching the little dots of people drift closer to the ground. Soon, I would be one of the little dots.
The first order of business after checking in was to view an instructional video and then sign the proper release forms. This seemed simple enough; watch a video, sign some forms, get into the gear, meet the instructors and away we go into the wild blue yonder of fun and adventure. However, as the video started the first words out the mouth of the narrator were, "...injury, equipment failure...death." The video was certainly not the most serenity inducing bit of narration ever committed to celluloid.
The next step was to fill out several of the aforementioned release forms. The paperwork exempted all of the following from any lawsuit brought by me, my family or anyone I knew, met, or passed on the street in the unfortunate event of my death or injury: the airport, the pilot, the instructors, the equipment manufactures, or anyone and everyone associated with the jump. This list even appeared to include: the person that packed the chute, to the woman who ran my credit card at the front desk, to the person at the pen company that supplied the pen I used to sign the form. I could not even sue myself at this point.
After the administrative stuff, it was on to the fun part--waiting. We sat around the airport for close to four hours until the planes were ready to go. I used this time to alternately sit and then pace (I am my father's daughter) around the little airfield.
Between bouts of sitting and pacing, I noticed a young man packing the chutes. He was about 15 years old; skinny with a mop of sun bleached blond hair and probably had not even had his first pubic hair yet. I decided to speak to the young man and see how his day was going as he held the key to if I lived or not.
"Hi. How are ya?" he said with a cute pubescent smile on his whiskerless face as I walked over to him.
"Don't worry about me, I'm fine,” I nervously spit out. " How are YOU doing today? Can I get you anything, coffee, water, a muffin? Are you feeling good? Are you experiencing anything that is preventing your full concentration on packing the chutes; any family problems, girl problems? Are things at school okay? Just let me know if you need anything, anything at all."
"I'm...fine.... thanks," he said slowly as he went back to packing the chutes. I took this as my cue to start wearing out the flooring in they other room.
After a few more hours of pacing and moving from exhilaration to extreme boredom, it was finally time to get into the harness and the rest of the proper attire. My outfit consisted of a yellow jumpsuit, a pointy leather hat, and goggles. The bright yellow jumpsuit I tried on fit height wise, but would not zip all the way up in the chest (I am a bit, shall we say, boobular.) I discreetly pointed out the zipper situation to one of the instructors. First, he stared at my chest for minute. I would like to think he was trying to figure out which size jumpsuit would better fit someone of my proportions and not just ogling my boobs and t-shirt spilling out of the canary yellow fabric. Eventually, he procured a baby blue jumpsuit that fit in the chest, but required cuffing at the ankles at writs. I felt like a cross between the chubby Elvis and a penitentiary inmate wearing what looked like a leather condom as a hat.
The next task was to get into the harness. This went well until the instructor tightened the chest strap so much that I started to hyperventilate. I gestured to him to loosen the straps and as he did I tried to gain control of my breathing and appear calm. This required further pacing. After a minute or two, I was able to breathe normally, or as normally as possible given that in a few minutes I was going free-fall towards the ground at 120 mph. If I was nervous earlier, it was nothing compared to how much adrenaline was now coursing through my body.
The next step in courting death was a briefing by my tandem jump instructor, Monty, who I liked instantly. He was easygoing, tanned and confident, as I expect one who courts death and adventure on a daily basis would be. I do not imagine many Type A's would relish the thought of being grounded into the dust on a daily basis. Besides a three piece suit is most uncomfortable under a harness.
Monty's instructions were brief and they quickly became my mantra:
* Do not grab my hands
* Do not let go of the chute
The time had come to board the little plane and ascend to 10,000 feet. While Monty strapped us together in the tandem harness I repeated my mantra, but now it had changed into:
* Do not pass out
* Do not throw up
While I focused on repeating my mantra, the plane's engines throttled back. The deafening noise of the engines lessened so that I was sure Monty could hear my heartbeat. It would be a few seconds before we moved to the door and I was to stand at the opening with Monty behind me as I crossed my arms at my chest and waited for Monty to count down before we exited the little plane. It is difficult to describe the intense thoughts and feelings that raced through me. Mainly, it did not seem real, it felt as if I was watching myself in a movie--my brain could not fully connect with what I was seconds away from doing.
This was it. When the door opened and I felt the cold air hit my face as I looked down at the earth from 10,000 feet, it became rapidly and very real. A snippet of a thought crossed my mind as I bent my head back to get into position, curled my legs up, and between Monty's, "This is the stupidest thing I have ever...". Before I could finish the thought, we gently rolled out of the door and the droning of the engines faded as we fell away from the plane. I was in awe as I looked up to see the plane flying away against the bluest sky I had ever seen.
During the first few seconds, of repeating my mantra, I noticed that I was holding my breath. Somewhere back in my brain I must have thought this was like jumping into a pool. A second later I realized that I had done it! I was flying! Okay falling through the air at 120 mph, but the sensation I think is much the same.
In freefall, I craned my neck to take in as much as I could. Monty tapped my shoulder as the signal to spread out my arms and to help keep us stable. After stabilizing, I moved my hands in from of my face just to prove to myself that I was not in a plane looking out the little round window. I guess I still needed to convince myself that there was nothing encasing me and this was real.
Finally, Monty pulled the parachute cord. I felt the a powerful jolt as the bright colored chute expanded with air (the teenage kid had done it!) All was silent except for the fluttering of the chute fabric against the wind as we slowed down considerably and drifted closer to the ground. This gave me a chance to take in more of the view. To the west, the Pacific Ocean and the Olympics stretched to the horizon. To the north the cities of Seattle, Tacoma and Olympia surrounded by green trees and blue water. To the east rose the Cascades and Mt. Rainer. I could even see Mt. Adams to the south. The vista was breathtaking and I felt an overwhelming sense of peace, and a bit of regret that soon it would be over and I would be on terra firma once again.
The landing was smooth but I barely managed to stand up as we touched down. My knees were weak from the adrenaline and my cheeks hurt from smiling so much. My friends were there to hug me and help me take off the harness and goggles, my hands were shaking too much to do it myself. All I could do was walk around the drop zone with an ear-to-ear grin on my face until my heart stopped racing. I had just spent the best 30 seconds of my life.
This adventure was in the summer of 2000. I have had many others since. The most important and probably most terrifying, is stand-up comedy. I would never have thought I had it in me to get on stage and use the dumb, scary, infuriating or silly things that I do to entertain a room full of strangers had I not jumped out of the plane that day.
To this day, I find I can do just about anything as long as I remember my little mantra:
Do not pass out
Do not throw up
"I'm in."
"Great. I'll e-mail you the details soon".
One phone call from my friend Willow on a very hectic Monday morning and my life would change .I had just agreed to join Willow and few friends in two weeks for a skydiving trip.
Great, I thought to myself. What have I agreed to do?
I suppose, in some ways I was always a risk taker, or more accurately, a closet risk taker. I have climbed Mt. Everest. I have piloted a jet. I have hiked into the darkest, dankest, most fetid reaches of the jungle and dove to the bottom of the sea--all, of course, in my head. I kept these thoughts to myself because I am not an “outrageous” person. Nothing on my person was pierced, bleached or tattooed. I was neutral--keeping my need for adventure tucked away gazing into a computer monitor day after day safely tucked away in the gray walls of my cubicle. This was abruptly about to change.
The two weeks leading up to the date I spent either jumping from nervous distraction to total exhilaration. I wanted to work into every conversation, "Hey, I am going to jump out of airplane. Can you believe it? Pardon me? Yes, a paper bag is fine."
The point came when I needed to inform my parents of my little adventure. This was not to get their approval, but so they could plan for any medical or mortuary needs that may arise in the aftermath. My mother, in typical Mother fashion, took a deep breath and said, in a register so high that neighborhood dogs howled in communion, " Well, I can't stop you, but just remember I die before you do."
The conversation with my father was less eardrum piercing. "Dad, next weekend I am going to jump out of an airplane,” I said. "You're going to what?" he asked as I could hear him start to pace from the kitchen to the dining room.
"I going skydiving next week with Willow," I said over the rhythmic cadence of his shoes on the wood floors.
"B--a--a--a--b--e...why?" he pleaded, the situation far too dire to call me by anything other than my nickname.
“Because it sounds like fun and it's a great chance to try something I have always wanted to do", I replied in defense.
"Are you going to pay for this fun?".
"Uh....yes"
"So, (sound of breakneck pacing) you're going to jump out of a plane and PAY to do it when you might not make it down alive?"
I affirmed my decision and heard the pacing abruptly stop as if he had an epiphany. "Why don't you come over here and we can tie a sheet around your neck and you can jump of the deck for free,” he proposed. Ah yes, my Dad, always looking to save a buck while offering his wayward progeny an alternative to death and injury. He is nothing if not solution oriented and thrifty.
A week later, after avoiding calls from my parents, Willow some friends and I were on our way to the skydiving company in Shelton. The drive down began in high spirits. We laughed, joked and carried on as we drove drown the deserted early morning freeway on our journey south.
In Olympia, we stopped to grab some food. I thought to myself, I am not hungry, but I should eat something. What do I want as a possible last meal? I want pancakes. Wait--not pancakes. I do not want to barf up pancakes. What is quick to digest and will not be barfed up. Luna bars---I will have Luna bars. I am ever the pragmatic adventurer.
About an hour later, we pulled into the parking lot of the airport. The van was silent as what we were about to do hit home. The sound of the little planes filled the air and the sun bounced of the tarmac as we saw people craning their necks up to the sky watching the little dots of people drift closer to the ground. Soon, I would be one of the little dots.
The first order of business after checking in was to view an instructional video and then sign the proper release forms. This seemed simple enough; watch a video, sign some forms, get into the gear, meet the instructors and away we go into the wild blue yonder of fun and adventure. However, as the video started the first words out the mouth of the narrator were, "...injury, equipment failure...death." The video was certainly not the most serenity inducing bit of narration ever committed to celluloid.
The next step was to fill out several of the aforementioned release forms. The paperwork exempted all of the following from any lawsuit brought by me, my family or anyone I knew, met, or passed on the street in the unfortunate event of my death or injury: the airport, the pilot, the instructors, the equipment manufactures, or anyone and everyone associated with the jump. This list even appeared to include: the person that packed the chute, to the woman who ran my credit card at the front desk, to the person at the pen company that supplied the pen I used to sign the form. I could not even sue myself at this point.
After the administrative stuff, it was on to the fun part--waiting. We sat around the airport for close to four hours until the planes were ready to go. I used this time to alternately sit and then pace (I am my father's daughter) around the little airfield.
Between bouts of sitting and pacing, I noticed a young man packing the chutes. He was about 15 years old; skinny with a mop of sun bleached blond hair and probably had not even had his first pubic hair yet. I decided to speak to the young man and see how his day was going as he held the key to if I lived or not.
"Hi. How are ya?" he said with a cute pubescent smile on his whiskerless face as I walked over to him.
"Don't worry about me, I'm fine,” I nervously spit out. " How are YOU doing today? Can I get you anything, coffee, water, a muffin? Are you feeling good? Are you experiencing anything that is preventing your full concentration on packing the chutes; any family problems, girl problems? Are things at school okay? Just let me know if you need anything, anything at all."
"I'm...fine.... thanks," he said slowly as he went back to packing the chutes. I took this as my cue to start wearing out the flooring in they other room.
After a few more hours of pacing and moving from exhilaration to extreme boredom, it was finally time to get into the harness and the rest of the proper attire. My outfit consisted of a yellow jumpsuit, a pointy leather hat, and goggles. The bright yellow jumpsuit I tried on fit height wise, but would not zip all the way up in the chest (I am a bit, shall we say, boobular.) I discreetly pointed out the zipper situation to one of the instructors. First, he stared at my chest for minute. I would like to think he was trying to figure out which size jumpsuit would better fit someone of my proportions and not just ogling my boobs and t-shirt spilling out of the canary yellow fabric. Eventually, he procured a baby blue jumpsuit that fit in the chest, but required cuffing at the ankles at writs. I felt like a cross between the chubby Elvis and a penitentiary inmate wearing what looked like a leather condom as a hat.
The next task was to get into the harness. This went well until the instructor tightened the chest strap so much that I started to hyperventilate. I gestured to him to loosen the straps and as he did I tried to gain control of my breathing and appear calm. This required further pacing. After a minute or two, I was able to breathe normally, or as normally as possible given that in a few minutes I was going free-fall towards the ground at 120 mph. If I was nervous earlier, it was nothing compared to how much adrenaline was now coursing through my body.
The next step in courting death was a briefing by my tandem jump instructor, Monty, who I liked instantly. He was easygoing, tanned and confident, as I expect one who courts death and adventure on a daily basis would be. I do not imagine many Type A's would relish the thought of being grounded into the dust on a daily basis. Besides a three piece suit is most uncomfortable under a harness.
Monty's instructions were brief and they quickly became my mantra:
* Do not grab my hands
* Do not let go of the chute
The time had come to board the little plane and ascend to 10,000 feet. While Monty strapped us together in the tandem harness I repeated my mantra, but now it had changed into:
* Do not pass out
* Do not throw up
While I focused on repeating my mantra, the plane's engines throttled back. The deafening noise of the engines lessened so that I was sure Monty could hear my heartbeat. It would be a few seconds before we moved to the door and I was to stand at the opening with Monty behind me as I crossed my arms at my chest and waited for Monty to count down before we exited the little plane. It is difficult to describe the intense thoughts and feelings that raced through me. Mainly, it did not seem real, it felt as if I was watching myself in a movie--my brain could not fully connect with what I was seconds away from doing.
This was it. When the door opened and I felt the cold air hit my face as I looked down at the earth from 10,000 feet, it became rapidly and very real. A snippet of a thought crossed my mind as I bent my head back to get into position, curled my legs up, and between Monty's, "This is the stupidest thing I have ever...". Before I could finish the thought, we gently rolled out of the door and the droning of the engines faded as we fell away from the plane. I was in awe as I looked up to see the plane flying away against the bluest sky I had ever seen.
During the first few seconds, of repeating my mantra, I noticed that I was holding my breath. Somewhere back in my brain I must have thought this was like jumping into a pool. A second later I realized that I had done it! I was flying! Okay falling through the air at 120 mph, but the sensation I think is much the same.
In freefall, I craned my neck to take in as much as I could. Monty tapped my shoulder as the signal to spread out my arms and to help keep us stable. After stabilizing, I moved my hands in from of my face just to prove to myself that I was not in a plane looking out the little round window. I guess I still needed to convince myself that there was nothing encasing me and this was real.
Finally, Monty pulled the parachute cord. I felt the a powerful jolt as the bright colored chute expanded with air (the teenage kid had done it!) All was silent except for the fluttering of the chute fabric against the wind as we slowed down considerably and drifted closer to the ground. This gave me a chance to take in more of the view. To the west, the Pacific Ocean and the Olympics stretched to the horizon. To the north the cities of Seattle, Tacoma and Olympia surrounded by green trees and blue water. To the east rose the Cascades and Mt. Rainer. I could even see Mt. Adams to the south. The vista was breathtaking and I felt an overwhelming sense of peace, and a bit of regret that soon it would be over and I would be on terra firma once again.
The landing was smooth but I barely managed to stand up as we touched down. My knees were weak from the adrenaline and my cheeks hurt from smiling so much. My friends were there to hug me and help me take off the harness and goggles, my hands were shaking too much to do it myself. All I could do was walk around the drop zone with an ear-to-ear grin on my face until my heart stopped racing. I had just spent the best 30 seconds of my life.
This adventure was in the summer of 2000. I have had many others since. The most important and probably most terrifying, is stand-up comedy. I would never have thought I had it in me to get on stage and use the dumb, scary, infuriating or silly things that I do to entertain a room full of strangers had I not jumped out of the plane that day.
To this day, I find I can do just about anything as long as I remember my little mantra:
Do not pass out
Do not throw up
Love, 1984 Style
RFID (Radio Frequency Identification) has been in the news lately. Most recently, a Bellingham man and a Vancouver woman embedded RFID chips into their hands that had been programmed to allow access to each others homes, car doors, and computers among other things.
RFID technology is mostly used track things. Retailers such as Wal-Mart use it to track each individual item in the store, to know when to replenish stock or quickly check in merchandise. Storing medical information is another common use. Future uses could be to store banking info so that all you need to do it walk through the doors of store with your chipped merchandise and have your account debited without every going through a checkout stand.
Privacy advocates are outraged. Some feel this is the birth of “Big Brother” and the chip is the “mark of the beast”. Soon, the government will track us all, our medical status will be monitored, our bank information accessible to anyone with a RFID reader. Scary stuff, no?
Let’s go back to our “chipped” love birds. Would you be willing to do this? Think about it—your movements, medical information, and bank info would be out there. What if this happened? Boyfriend goes “out to Wal-Mart to pick up some stuff.” Girlfriend tracks boyfriend via RFID.
Upon return of BF, GF says:
“Honey, why were you circling the same block near the airport for 20 minutes? You seem to stop, the weight of your car increased by about 115lbs. You then parked down an alley. Next, it seemed your heart rate, blood pressure and breathing jumped, steadily increasing until you had an involuntary muscle spasm and an increased rush of endorphins. Shortly after your heart rate slowed, and then fifty bucks was debited from your account. How was Wal-Mart, big sale, eh?”
RFID technology is mostly used track things. Retailers such as Wal-Mart use it to track each individual item in the store, to know when to replenish stock or quickly check in merchandise. Storing medical information is another common use. Future uses could be to store banking info so that all you need to do it walk through the doors of store with your chipped merchandise and have your account debited without every going through a checkout stand.
Privacy advocates are outraged. Some feel this is the birth of “Big Brother” and the chip is the “mark of the beast”. Soon, the government will track us all, our medical status will be monitored, our bank information accessible to anyone with a RFID reader. Scary stuff, no?
Let’s go back to our “chipped” love birds. Would you be willing to do this? Think about it—your movements, medical information, and bank info would be out there. What if this happened? Boyfriend goes “out to Wal-Mart to pick up some stuff.” Girlfriend tracks boyfriend via RFID.
Upon return of BF, GF says:
“Honey, why were you circling the same block near the airport for 20 minutes? You seem to stop, the weight of your car increased by about 115lbs. You then parked down an alley. Next, it seemed your heart rate, blood pressure and breathing jumped, steadily increasing until you had an involuntary muscle spasm and an increased rush of endorphins. Shortly after your heart rate slowed, and then fifty bucks was debited from your account. How was Wal-Mart, big sale, eh?”
Saturday, December 22, 2007
Maybe not the best use of a "Blooper" reel
My next adventure is a tandem paragliding trip. The company that does the tandem flight has a website, that in addition to providing the facts about the cost, etc, also provides a helpful and instructive “blooper” reel.
Really? A "blooper" reel.
“Remember the time you blew the landing and crashed into the ground at 130 mph and broke every bone in your body? That was soooo funny and we have it on tape! It’s up there with the time Steve dangled upside down from that tree for 12 hours. Look at how red his face is and his eyes are bulging out a bit in this photo. What a riot!. Hey! Let's put this on the web so prospective clients can see it. That will inspire confidence."
80/20 rule?
I have lots of fantastic male friends. Many I spend lots of time with. All are attractive, fun, interesting, and I enjoy their company.
Why am I still single?
The 80/20 rule.
I can have 80% in common, feel attraction, etc. to someone and not act on it. The reason is the remaining 20% is really important to me. The 20% is more than feeling someone is 'hot", or funny, or has lots of material stuff. It is who they are as a person. Are they kind? Mature (better put, no more or less mature than I am). Do they have their shit more or less together? Are they self-aware? Do they listen? Are they stuck behind a persona that never drops away?
I would say the 20% carries more weight than the surface 80%. The 20% is the deeper, scary, "who you really are layer". It's the uncomfortableness of showing yourself and seeing someone beneath the surface and seeking a level of honesty, compassion and awareness that we so often gloss over because we are lonely, or drunk, or needy, or whatever..
Here's to the 20%. May we all find it someday.
Why am I still single?
The 80/20 rule.
I can have 80% in common, feel attraction, etc. to someone and not act on it. The reason is the remaining 20% is really important to me. The 20% is more than feeling someone is 'hot", or funny, or has lots of material stuff. It is who they are as a person. Are they kind? Mature (better put, no more or less mature than I am). Do they have their shit more or less together? Are they self-aware? Do they listen? Are they stuck behind a persona that never drops away?
I would say the 20% carries more weight than the surface 80%. The 20% is the deeper, scary, "who you really are layer". It's the uncomfortableness of showing yourself and seeing someone beneath the surface and seeking a level of honesty, compassion and awareness that we so often gloss over because we are lonely, or drunk, or needy, or whatever..
Here's to the 20%. May we all find it someday.
Thursday, December 20, 2007
I heart the oboist
Went to the Symphony again and this time I had a different experience. Thankfully, “The Slurper” was not in earshot. I hope that she decided to forgo the ribs before the performance.
I did discover a new crush, the first chair oboist. Oh yes, my thing for musicians is still there, but has morphed from guitar players and drummers to… wind instruments. I do not know how it happened, but it did.
The principal oboist is young, cute and, plays beautifully. I realized something-- a classical player has amazing lip and mouth control, is able to follow conductor directions, can gently coax the nuances out of a song until the final crescendo. Etc. All over a long period, and is probably not a drug addict. Think about it—who ever heard of a strung out French horn player? A cellist smashing up the stage or a coked out flutist. Ever hear of a second viola trashing a hotel and waking up in a pool of vomit? No, you have not (yes, I know that Mozart was a bad boy and probably could have done his share of damage if given a hotel bar and a night in Vegas, but for the sake of argument, go with me on this.)
And yet they have still a passion for music and are creative, artistic, and probably have some brains. Eureka! I think I have found an untapped market; young classical musicians!
Ladies prepare your thongs and powered wigs and meet at the stage door after the show. They are doing a Strauss piece and it is heavy on the wind instruments.
I did discover a new crush, the first chair oboist. Oh yes, my thing for musicians is still there, but has morphed from guitar players and drummers to… wind instruments. I do not know how it happened, but it did.
The principal oboist is young, cute and, plays beautifully. I realized something-- a classical player has amazing lip and mouth control, is able to follow conductor directions, can gently coax the nuances out of a song until the final crescendo. Etc. All over a long period, and is probably not a drug addict. Think about it—who ever heard of a strung out French horn player? A cellist smashing up the stage or a coked out flutist. Ever hear of a second viola trashing a hotel and waking up in a pool of vomit? No, you have not (yes, I know that Mozart was a bad boy and probably could have done his share of damage if given a hotel bar and a night in Vegas, but for the sake of argument, go with me on this.)
And yet they have still a passion for music and are creative, artistic, and probably have some brains. Eureka! I think I have found an untapped market; young classical musicians!
Ladies prepare your thongs and powered wigs and meet at the stage door after the show. They are doing a Strauss piece and it is heavy on the wind instruments.
A Night at the Symphony
Talk about High Class
I was given two free tickets to the Seattle Symphony recently. I am not a classical music fan, per se but I do have some classical music CD’s and listen on occasion. I could not tell you the difference between Mozart, Beethoven or Brahms, but I thought it would be interesting to hear such complex music played live. Plus, the deal included a free catered reception at a great restaurant beforehand and a wine tasting at intermission.
The one thing I noticed right off the bat is how quiet the audience is once the music starts. It is somewhat eerie how totally still people are, and it became part of the whole experience noticing how absolutely silent everyone is.
Good. Silence is a virtue, etc…
Then it started.
The teeth sucking sound began to my left. It was the sound of someone who has a morsel of dinner in a far back tooth. You know, the sound you make when you have eaten a whole ear of corn on the cob and are afraid to open your mouth lest you have a corn kernel smile.
Now, one or two sucking, smacking slurping sounds are fine. It’s kind of gross, but hey, it’s happens to all of us. Get it out. Move on.
This sucking, slurping and smacking went on for the whole 2 hour performance, at around 2 minute internals. Nonstop. Suck. Slurp. Smack.
At one point, I thought that maybe the” Slurper” had Tourettes. That theory was blown when I isolated the sound as coming from a woman in leather pants, a fur coat, and big old rocks on her fingers. You see, following every few suck, slurp, smack she would dig one long fake fingernail into the same spot on her mouth. As a bonus, every time she did this her ring would catch the light like a beacon. (Had we been outside planes would be trying to land on us after confusing the flashing light from her big old rock with runway lights.). So, she was not disabled, she just did not have the courtesy to give a shit.
It became apparent that other audience members could here “The Slurper”, too. Every 50 seconds a different head in the rows in front of us would turn around craning their necks to see what in the hell was making such a god-awful noise. It became a game to see who would turn around next. Would it be the grey-haired couple on the aisle this time? The lady with her hair in a ponytail? Look, now it’s two rows ahead of us. Benoroya Hall must have amazing acoustical properties to amplify that noise so far into the audience. After one particularly exuberant slurp, I was surprised the conductor did not stop to offer the lady some floss.
At that point, the whole thing became unbelievably funny in one of those Jesus-this-is-the-wrong-place-to-bust-up-but-I-just-cannot-stand-it way; like being at church, a murder trial, or a funereal sort way. I started thinking about depressing things to keep from laughing—sick puppies, Republicans, dead kittens, past romantic failures-- anything to stop from giggling. Then, one of men in front of us got from his chair and ran out of the hall. Clearly, he could not hold his laughter in any longer (or maybe he did not have the same sort of romantic failures than I have had to draw on.)
There is one thing I am sure of had this been monster trucks show the smacker would have had the common courtesy to get a toothpick and take care of it. So much for high-class, eh?
I was given two free tickets to the Seattle Symphony recently. I am not a classical music fan, per se but I do have some classical music CD’s and listen on occasion. I could not tell you the difference between Mozart, Beethoven or Brahms, but I thought it would be interesting to hear such complex music played live. Plus, the deal included a free catered reception at a great restaurant beforehand and a wine tasting at intermission.
The one thing I noticed right off the bat is how quiet the audience is once the music starts. It is somewhat eerie how totally still people are, and it became part of the whole experience noticing how absolutely silent everyone is.
Good. Silence is a virtue, etc…
Then it started.
The teeth sucking sound began to my left. It was the sound of someone who has a morsel of dinner in a far back tooth. You know, the sound you make when you have eaten a whole ear of corn on the cob and are afraid to open your mouth lest you have a corn kernel smile.
Now, one or two sucking, smacking slurping sounds are fine. It’s kind of gross, but hey, it’s happens to all of us. Get it out. Move on.
This sucking, slurping and smacking went on for the whole 2 hour performance, at around 2 minute internals. Nonstop. Suck. Slurp. Smack.
At one point, I thought that maybe the” Slurper” had Tourettes. That theory was blown when I isolated the sound as coming from a woman in leather pants, a fur coat, and big old rocks on her fingers. You see, following every few suck, slurp, smack she would dig one long fake fingernail into the same spot on her mouth. As a bonus, every time she did this her ring would catch the light like a beacon. (Had we been outside planes would be trying to land on us after confusing the flashing light from her big old rock with runway lights.). So, she was not disabled, she just did not have the courtesy to give a shit.
It became apparent that other audience members could here “The Slurper”, too. Every 50 seconds a different head in the rows in front of us would turn around craning their necks to see what in the hell was making such a god-awful noise. It became a game to see who would turn around next. Would it be the grey-haired couple on the aisle this time? The lady with her hair in a ponytail? Look, now it’s two rows ahead of us. Benoroya Hall must have amazing acoustical properties to amplify that noise so far into the audience. After one particularly exuberant slurp, I was surprised the conductor did not stop to offer the lady some floss.
At that point, the whole thing became unbelievably funny in one of those Jesus-this-is-the-wrong-place-to-bust-up-but-I-just-cannot-stand-it way; like being at church, a murder trial, or a funereal sort way. I started thinking about depressing things to keep from laughing—sick puppies, Republicans, dead kittens, past romantic failures-- anything to stop from giggling. Then, one of men in front of us got from his chair and ran out of the hall. Clearly, he could not hold his laughter in any longer (or maybe he did not have the same sort of romantic failures than I have had to draw on.)
There is one thing I am sure of had this been monster trucks show the smacker would have had the common courtesy to get a toothpick and take care of it. So much for high-class, eh?
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