SQL Database
May. 15th, 2008 | 11:00 am
OKAY Cyberworld. I need some help. I write Crystal Reports. I am not great, but not awful. We just purchased a huge portfolio and are about to get their database. Do I have to run databases in a SQL enviroment? If so, is there a really inexpensive way to create a SQL enviroment?
HELP HELP!
HELP HELP!
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Advice
Dec. 4th, 2007 | 10:08 am
Okay... I haven't posted in a long while. Been very busy eating and not working out.
BUT: I have a friend who is trying to break up with someone. He was going to do it via a text message - but I told him that wouldn't really do... mainly because they usually call back and you want something that is final and lasting and so there are no questions or "what if's" later.
BUT: I have a friend who is trying to break up with someone. He was going to do it via a text message - but I told him that wouldn't really do... mainly because they usually call back and you want something that is final and lasting and so there are no questions or "what if's" later.
I suggested a new out going phone message that says somethign like: "HI thanks for calling! Please your message at the beep unless you think we are dating... and if that is the case, you are sorely mistaken..." or having me to do it, which I would love. If he had to use text message (Kids these days – sheesh) to try sending this text message: This number is no longer accepting calls or Text Messages from you as the owner has De-friended you and taken you out of his call group “dating.”
I also suggested the old: Raise your hand if you are in a happy relationship… not so fast there, Mister.
OR wait until they say “I love you” and reply with “Ohhhh…that makes this next part really difficult…”
More seriously: I told him you really have two choices: 1. Be an adult. 2. Don’t be an adult. Choice one is do it. Choice 2 is to make tiny choices to do it, but wait until the situation becomes so unbearable it forces the other person to do something. And each day you are following one path further and further. “Not wanting to ruin Christmas” isn’t doing anyone any favors, either. I also told him to do it in a public place. You don’t want to have to ask them to leave your house, or have to walk out of theirs.
What was the worst way you have broken up with someone or have been broken up with? What is your best and worst advice?
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Say "Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh(!!!)"
Aug. 14th, 2007 | 06:57 pm
"You know, you would really look good with your haircut really short"
So says my dentist as he has his hands wrist deep in mouth. I would roll my eyes if they weren't shut so tightly.
I have a horrible history with dentists. My first dentist was actually my Godfather, and he was excellent. A man who would hum to himself as he worked on my teeth, and for most of my life he lived right next door to us, an old friend of the family. His mantra of daily brushing and flossing went mostly ignored.
Then I went to college and sometime, while gaining my freshman fifteen on pizzas, beer, and hard candy, I managed to crack a tooth and it has been all downhill ever since. The cracked tooth literally exposed a nerve, something I did not think humanly possible... poor design if you ask me.
I ended up going to the Dental School at UVa and having a root canal done by a first year student. I remember seeing yellow strands of "root" being pulled from my mouth like a dead sea creatures that smelled of putrid garbage in the hot Virginia sun.
Later, somewhere in Alaska, while on tour with CATS, I had large cavity filled. As it was happening, I was told, “you’ll be fine, as long as we don't hit the root and it doesn’t' bleed.” He said this as he was taking bloody gauze from my mouth and throwing it inconspicuously into the waste can. This is the same tooth that, 9 years later split right down the middle while I was eating popcorn.
Later, I thought while I was in NYC that I would take better care of my teeth and since I had the insurance through Actor's Equity (which they have now discontinued) I would get regular checkups and cleanings. My dental hygienist was an African American woman with a Jamaican accent and penchant for pain. I felt like she cleaned my teeth to teach the white man a lesson, always starting the session/interrogation with an incredulous "have you been flossing?" while aiming the too-bright light directly into my pupils.
"Yes, quite diligently, actually"
I could never quite hear her response to this over the scraping and clawing into which she so eagerly dove, Even so, I thought I could hear her say "this is for my people" under her breath.
So says my dentist as he has his hands wrist deep in mouth. I would roll my eyes if they weren't shut so tightly.
I have a horrible history with dentists. My first dentist was actually my Godfather, and he was excellent. A man who would hum to himself as he worked on my teeth, and for most of my life he lived right next door to us, an old friend of the family. His mantra of daily brushing and flossing went mostly ignored.
Then I went to college and sometime, while gaining my freshman fifteen on pizzas, beer, and hard candy, I managed to crack a tooth and it has been all downhill ever since. The cracked tooth literally exposed a nerve, something I did not think humanly possible... poor design if you ask me.
I ended up going to the Dental School at UVa and having a root canal done by a first year student. I remember seeing yellow strands of "root" being pulled from my mouth like a dead sea creatures that smelled of putrid garbage in the hot Virginia sun.
Later, somewhere in Alaska, while on tour with CATS, I had large cavity filled. As it was happening, I was told, “you’ll be fine, as long as we don't hit the root and it doesn’t' bleed.” He said this as he was taking bloody gauze from my mouth and throwing it inconspicuously into the waste can. This is the same tooth that, 9 years later split right down the middle while I was eating popcorn.
Later, I thought while I was in NYC that I would take better care of my teeth and since I had the insurance through Actor's Equity (which they have now discontinued) I would get regular checkups and cleanings. My dental hygienist was an African American woman with a Jamaican accent and penchant for pain. I felt like she cleaned my teeth to teach the white man a lesson, always starting the session/interrogation with an incredulous "have you been flossing?" while aiming the too-bright light directly into my pupils.
"Yes, quite diligently, actually"
I could never quite hear her response to this over the scraping and clawing into which she so eagerly dove, Even so, I thought I could hear her say "this is for my people" under her breath.
My current dentist, the one who likes to comment on my attire, and will place his ball sack on my shoulder as he reaches for some sort of Machiavellian dental instrument, was recommended to me by a friend who now resides in Atlanta, although we met and worked together in NYC. We both gave up "the biz" and like to make fun of the dancers on SO YOU THINK YOU CAN DANCE, even though I can no longer touch (or see) my toes. He has beautiful teeth and shows them off proudly.
"He's great, but don't be surprised if he keeps your credit card number on file or just asks for you ATM PIN number" my friend says. He's not kidding.
He is not so much a dentist as an accountant. When I first went in, I don't think he saw my canines as much as a series of dollar signs being loosely held in place by my gums. I have had Root Planing, Scaling, and a Pulp-ectomy. They all feel just like they sound. But he does good work. And when it comes to teeth, you want someone who is not stingy with the anesthetic
I am an awful patient. I squirm, I moan. I usually leave a puddle of sweat in the chair and fog up the protective glasses - to wit: I always being a change of clothes with me. His army of assistants scold me for my inability to floss properly and ask me to show them how I brush, to which I always run a finger around my mouth, hock a loogie and ask for some Listerine.
They don't think it is funny and meet my “Tah-dah" attitude with a cold dead blank stare.
He always numbs me up well, though, for which I am always appreciative. But it is not all his doing. The night before, I lay out a Hydrocodone or some sort of controlled substance which I have squirreled away for just such an occasion. When the alarm goes off, even before my first pee, I pop the pill and blurrily find my gaze in the mirror. The visage that meets mine is terrified and doesn’t look anything like me. Then, 20 minutes before I arrive, I rub some Ambesol on the area that is getting the work. (I keep an extra bottle in my car, just in case.) Then he does the topical, and then comes the metal shot thingy that reminds me too much of an angry mechanical mosquito.
If I was in interrogation at Guantanamo Bayand they pulled out dental floss or that weird pointy tooth coat hanger thing, I would give it up. I would tell them where the terrorist were, I would tell them all the plans, and even make some up. I would make a horrible soldier.
I had another pulpectomy today. After being put comfortably into a chair, Dr. ATM reaches over me to get some gauze and I can feel his boxered manparts resting on my shoulder as I mutter: "What do you want to know? I know dates, names and addresses and can draw you a map to the headquarters..."
It does me no good.
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Blur
Jul. 17th, 2007 | 07:14 pm
“Like masturbating with a cheese grater.”
That is how I would describe my experience so far. I was unable to get Lasik surgery on Saturday because they found that after I had had my contacts out for over a week, and my cornea had returned to its normal shape, there were a series of inconsistencies that made the surgeon wary of doing Lasik. So they did something called PRK.
In essence, the difference is that with Lasik, tiny butterflies make a little flap in the soft tissue of your eye and then little furry bunnies operate under the flap while angels gently sing Yanni in your ear. With PRK, they pour acid on your cornea, scrape off the top layer with a three year old toothbrush, and use a high powered laser to reshape the cornea. There is suppose to be about a 24 hour recovery period with Lasik and the literature for the PRK says that “the excruciating pain should ebb in only 5 days, followed by just normal pain for a week, then a dull ache for about 3 years.”
Actually, PRK is supposed to be safer, and use less of your cornea, but the healing time is a great deal longer. Don’t ask me right now if I would do it again. There are moments when I can see clearly, but those moments are brief. Most of the time, everything is blurry, as if someone has put Vaseline in my eyes, and my eyes have a constant dull ache.
To make matters worse, I can’t see close up or far away. I can’t read. I can’t watch TV, I can’t go to a movie, I can’t really write (I have WORD set to 200% and a 30 pt. font), and I can’t play the piano (other than the first stanza of Journey’s OPEN ARMS which I memorized for Tonya Ousler back in 1988).
The Vicodin is nice, however. Very nice…
The only problem I have found with the Vicoden is that it gives me colossal constipation – since Saturday, I have created only one cantaloupe shaped and sized turd – almost a perfect sphere. Thank God I had Vicodin. I can see how people get hooked on this stuff as it is a vicious cycle.
Two of my friends took me to the strip mall to have my eyeball reshaped and I cannot believe they gave up their Saturday to sit with me. The waiting room was in the back of the office and one side of the waiting room was a floor to ceiling glass wall, and on the other side of that wall sat the three lasers – each for a different kind of operation. You could watch as each patient/victim was shuffled in, tied down and Laser’d.
On each machine, a camera would show a close up of the patient/victim’s eye and what they were doing to it. I imagine this was to bring a certain amount comfort to those waiting. I refused to watch. My two friends watched and had worked out between the two of them when to jump or scream together, as if watching some sort of Wes Craven horror movie. They went on to say that they thought they had seen the Surgeon out the night prior doing “Jaegerbomb shots” and wondered out loud why he kept bumping into things.
The jokes dwindled as I got more and more pale.
As I was waiting to have my eyes scraped, my mother called and asked “what I was up to this weekend…”
After a moment’s pause, and with all the steadiness of a swordsman eyeing his coup d’grace, I said “I am having my eyes operated on today…what about you?”
She had forgotten. Panic ensued and I sat back to hear the hysteria on the other end of the phone. Rarely, if ever, does my mother miss an opportunity to worry about me. She has always been there when I needed her, her phone is never busy, and when I was an actor, she saw every show I did.
Except One.
The National Tour of Gypsy.
Gypsy WAS my ace in the hole. I brought it up whenever I needed leverage. But now… NOW I had: Forgotten Son and the Eye Scraping. When I called her after the procedure, I might have accidentally dramatized the gore and pain, and crushing silence that met me when I called out for my mother from the operating table…
And I milked it. To make amends, last night my mother came to the house and I got my very own pan of homemade Cheese and Macaroni, Blueberry Cobbler, homemade meatloaf (that she had cut in two so that there were FOUR ENDS), and Mississippi tomatoes. I kept saying “Tell me, mother, does it look as good as it smells?”
She didn’t think it was very funny. On the other end of the empathetic spectrum is L. L. has been somewhat impervious to my attempts at sympathy. My heavy sighs from the sofa are met with “Why don’t you get some fresh air. You know that lawn isn’t going to cut itself” and “this was ELECTIVE SURGERY, wasn’t it?” That isn’t totally true and L. has been an angel in fielding calls from our worried friends.
I am trying to keep my spirits up. This has been a great deal more painful than I had anticipated. Everyone I spoke to said it was the best decision they had ever made. I keep telling myself that I need to relax and be patient; not two of my stronger suits.
I have enjoyed my time at home. Not being able to do anything like read or write or occupy my mind with frivolous stuff, I have been able to cogitate on some of the bigger questions in life. And here are my conclusions:
I feel lucky. I love. I am loved. I have friends who are family and family who are friends. In a world where I can’t see the hand in front of my face, I find comfort in this very clear, unblurry truth.
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I'll be seeing you...
Jul. 14th, 2007 | 09:53 am
"The machine is loud and there can be a funny smell," said the literature.
Yeah, that would just be them burning off little pieces of my cornea. I go today to get Lasik surgery. I would like to believe that I have done my research. I did a price and facility comparison with about three places and finally decided on LasikPlus in Buckhead. Being in the credit industry, I pulled all the information I could legally pull without a signature. I found that there are no open legal filings or judgements against either the Doctor or the Clinic and other useful information.
I have planned this afternoon's final meeting with the Doctor out to a T. Upon entering his office, I plan to stumble just in front of him and drop my packet of information. At that point, all my research, showing the history of his business, his Certifications and Memberships, and his home address will be splayed out on the floor. As he helps me gather the information, he will realize what it is.
And our eyes will lock. Just for a moment.
He knows. He knows, as well, that I know. It will be at this point that I will say very slowly and deliberately, "by the way, did you know your cerfification in the State of Georgia expires in 4 months... you might want to get on that... just sayin'."
Of course, I don't want to be too confrontational with the man who will be aiming a high powered focused laser at my eye... no proverbial "sword fight." As a counter-attack, I envision him shooting the laser at my forehead leaving a perfect little red dot on my head and saying "ooops...that almost never happens" just to prove HIS point.
In fear of never seeing again, I spent some time last night gazing at the stars, rereading some of my favorite passages in To Kill a Mockingbird and reading music and playing some piano. I also wanted to remember my face. Not the current bloated one, so I took out some pics from about 5 years ago. I also stared at L.'s face - well, a picture of it, for he is out of town and returns this evening (probably to a very whiney, grumpy patient).
I am ready for the surgery. I have spent the last week in glasses and the week prior to that, I was at the beach and lost 4 contacts in the ocean. I am pretty sure they knew their forboding doom and would rather spend the last few useful years floating around the ocean rather than my eye. With each contact that I lost, I would begrundingly replace it, saying only so that the contact could hear me: "You have no idea how little I am going to need you in about a week." (Don't we all have fantasies of saying that to certain things... and people?)
I have worn contacts since I was 13 and I have never been a model contact-wearing-person. I would keep them in my eye until they themselves decided to fall out. This has led to horrible infections, frequent pink eye, and one Eye Doctor was bold enough to say that my eye was becoming "allergic" to the contact from so much wear. The nerve.
I have also manage to rip two large holes in my cornea from ripping out a dry contact.. Not fun. Not even a little.
It wasn't until I decided to get this done that I realized how frightened I am of not being able to see. I have disposable contacts hidden all over the house, in my car, at work, in my gym bag, my dopkit, my carry on, the kitchen, and a pair of my jazz pants from 1995 - don't ask why i found those recently.
Okay... I am going to go outside to walk the verdant yard one last time, and enjoy the glorious colors offset by the grey morn.
Hope to see you soon!
Yeah, that would just be them burning off little pieces of my cornea. I go today to get Lasik surgery. I would like to believe that I have done my research. I did a price and facility comparison with about three places and finally decided on LasikPlus in Buckhead. Being in the credit industry, I pulled all the information I could legally pull without a signature. I found that there are no open legal filings or judgements against either the Doctor or the Clinic and other useful information.
I have planned this afternoon's final meeting with the Doctor out to a T. Upon entering his office, I plan to stumble just in front of him and drop my packet of information. At that point, all my research, showing the history of his business, his Certifications and Memberships, and his home address will be splayed out on the floor. As he helps me gather the information, he will realize what it is.
And our eyes will lock. Just for a moment.
He knows. He knows, as well, that I know. It will be at this point that I will say very slowly and deliberately, "by the way, did you know your cerfification in the State of Georgia expires in 4 months... you might want to get on that... just sayin'."
Of course, I don't want to be too confrontational with the man who will be aiming a high powered focused laser at my eye... no proverbial "sword fight." As a counter-attack, I envision him shooting the laser at my forehead leaving a perfect little red dot on my head and saying "ooops...that almost never happens" just to prove HIS point.
In fear of never seeing again, I spent some time last night gazing at the stars, rereading some of my favorite passages in To Kill a Mockingbird and reading music and playing some piano. I also wanted to remember my face. Not the current bloated one, so I took out some pics from about 5 years ago. I also stared at L.'s face - well, a picture of it, for he is out of town and returns this evening (probably to a very whiney, grumpy patient).
I am ready for the surgery. I have spent the last week in glasses and the week prior to that, I was at the beach and lost 4 contacts in the ocean. I am pretty sure they knew their forboding doom and would rather spend the last few useful years floating around the ocean rather than my eye. With each contact that I lost, I would begrundingly replace it, saying only so that the contact could hear me: "You have no idea how little I am going to need you in about a week." (Don't we all have fantasies of saying that to certain things... and people?)
I have worn contacts since I was 13 and I have never been a model contact-wearing-person. I would keep them in my eye until they themselves decided to fall out. This has led to horrible infections, frequent pink eye, and one Eye Doctor was bold enough to say that my eye was becoming "allergic" to the contact from so much wear. The nerve.
I have also manage to rip two large holes in my cornea from ripping out a dry contact.. Not fun. Not even a little.
It wasn't until I decided to get this done that I realized how frightened I am of not being able to see. I have disposable contacts hidden all over the house, in my car, at work, in my gym bag, my dopkit, my carry on, the kitchen, and a pair of my jazz pants from 1995 - don't ask why i found those recently.
Okay... I am going to go outside to walk the verdant yard one last time, and enjoy the glorious colors offset by the grey morn.
Hope to see you soon!
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Cigar Meme
May. 26th, 2007 | 10:21 am
Some Cigar Meme...
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My trek begins..
May. 16th, 2007 | 08:53 am
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A PREFACE
May. 15th, 2007 | 09:48 am
I haven't posted in a while. I don't know why. I turned 36 on Sunday. I thought I would post some of my old journal on here.
A Preface:
I was asked recently: "What happened?"
And to this I didn't have a response... mainly because I didn't know what the question meant. Richard looked me deeply in the eyes and said: "You closed a Broadway show, three days later, you sell everything you own, you pack up your stuff, you leave a successful career, you buy a car and you spend the next three months traveling coast to coast by yourself... something had to have happened."
I never thought of it this way, but yes, I guess something had happened.
In retrospect, to me, there are three reasons to live in NYC:
1. You have a career that keeps you there.
2. You have a partner who needs to be there.
3. You love it.
None of that applied to me anymore. This revelation came to me on my Birthday this past year as I was crawling up the five floor walk up to my sublet room in an apartment on 52nd Street in the heart of Hell's Kitchen. It was also the day that we got our closing notice on MILLIE.
Unhappy with my living situation, my career, and more importantly, the man I had become, I decided it was time to do something about it. Leaving seemed the most logical and easiest.
But the next question is this: Why the West Coast? The answer is a surprisingly good one. I was going to be a pool boy.
Yes, you heard me. I was going out to Laguna Beach, CA to be a pool boy for someone that I had met on one of the Atlantis Cruises. We had kept in touch sporadically after the cruise and I had mentioned wanting to live on the West Coast. When his lover of 14 years ran off with the pool boy, the house was left empty and the pool unattended.
How often in life to you get such opportunities and come on.. I am 33... tick tick tick.
We agreed on an arrival date and time and all I had to do was pack.. and thus began my journey...
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Changed man..
Feb. 18th, 2007 | 04:46 pm
It was a lovely Valentine’s Night until the rat trap in the kitchen snapped.
I should go back.
About 3 weeks ago, the night of No Pants Friday, L. and I were greedily gobbling up our 2 A.M. purchase of Chinese food, when L. went into apoplexy. He claimed he had seen a small cat or rat scurry across the living room. I was tickled because of how indigent L. was. “How dare he … we are RIGHT HERE.” I thought he was just drunk.
A few nights later, we awoke to find the homemade pound cake in shreds across our kitchen counter top. No one touches our pound cake. No one.
Now, I think rats are like herpes. A lot of the population has them and no one wants to talk about them. And I hate them. I had only one rule: L. has to kill the bug, but I have amended that to include rats. They terrify me; the blind scavengers with a chip on their shoulder – it is a combination deadly in a rodent.
L. went out and bought traps called T Rex. He called me at work to let me know and put the phone up to rigged trap. I could hear him imitating the mouse:
“Oh, look! A handsome treat. Boy, could I use a little sna..SNAP!”
L. had tripped the trap and I don’t think he could hear my dread over his maniacal laughter. First and foremost, I don’t like rats, but secondly, I don’t like killing things… I spent the rest of the day at work unable to concentrate; thoughts of getting my foot stuck in a trap, or worse finding an actual rat in one… or even worse, the penultimate: my foot AND a rat in one at the same time…
Valentines night, as we were snuggly in bed, we heard the SNAP! L. could barely contain himself and quickly jumped out of bed like it was Christmas morning. “Little Fucker! We just got in bed. But we got one, we got one!” he sang as he slipped into his slippers.
Not wanting to be left alone, I followed him, at a safe distance, into the kitchen. I stopped to get my camera, but in the mean time, I heard a cry from the kitchen “OH GOD! It isn’t dead!” and I turned the corner just in time to see L., the brave Big Game Hunter, hopping onto the counter.
There was no question as to who was going to have to be doing the cleaning. After extricating the rodent carcass, L. was about to put the trap in the dishwasher to use again. NO NO NO NO, I cried. Absolutely not. With the killing out of the way, I was bit more relaxed. L. was leaving for two days and I made him promise me not set any traps while he was gone.
He promised.
The next night, in my carbohydrate coma sitting on the sofa after work, with a line of clothes leading from the door, to the kitchen, then straight to the sofa, I was diligently watching my TiVo when from upstairs in the attic I heard the unmistakable:
SNAP!
And then screaming. And thumping.
L. had forgotten the traps in the attic. L. was in Augusta.
Panic.
PANIC!
I could hear the monster screaming upstairs and it was obviously large enough to thump about, and I feared for the structure of the roof. To drown out the screaming, I turned up the volume on the TV. I then went into the kitchen to turn up the iPod. Nothing helped. It was my own personal Tell Tale Rat. It was too cold to go outside. I called our neighbors down the street, ![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif)
tuffbullxand his very brave partner, to ask them if they would come and save me. After what sounded to me like giggles, they promised to come over quickly and help.
tuffbullxand his very brave partner, to ask them if they would come and save me. After what sounded to me like giggles, they promised to come over quickly and help.The next call was to L.
“You forgot the attic”
“DID WE CATCH ANOTER ONE? COOL!” he asked with childlike excitement.
“You don’t get it. The trap is screwed to the floor. It is thumping around and screaming. It is too cold to go outside. You aren’t here to get rid of it. This is like some sort of scene from the movie SAW 4: Gayville”
The boys finally showed up. They used a shovel, a Makita Drill, a bucket of water, a coat hanger, and two packets of mayonnaise to kill it (was it a Rasputin Rat?) to get it down from the attic and outside. There was also grisly red goop everywhere, which I later learned was the cherry juice from the chocolate covered Cherries I got L. for Valentine’s Day that he used to bait the traps. Apparently, rats have a sweet tooth. I took a full Ambien and quickly fell to sleep, dreaming of battalions of rats plotting their revenge and crying in unison “Rat Jihad!”
I am a changed man. I feel like there are rat ghosts now that haunt me. I feel guilty eating cheese. I can still hear the little screams.
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Cornea-copia
Feb. 3rd, 2007 | 06:21 pm
For the second time in ½ as many months, I have managed to rip a hole in my cornea.
Now, I have had a lot of pain in my life. There was the time I had two broken vertebrae from doing THOU SHALT NOT. The time I snapped my elbow in two while auditioning for SATURDAY NIGHT FEVER. . The time in High School when I crushed the disc in my neck from playing football, and the numerous times I have twisted, sprained, and ruptured my ankle. Also, seeing ONCE UPON A MATRESS with Sarah Jessica Parker
Nothing compares.
Nothing.
My contact had been bothering me while L. and I were watching Curse of the Golden Flower, and I didn’t know if it was a symptom of having my contacts in for 3 months without taking them out, or my eyes were revolting due to the Dynasty set in the Tang Dynasty (see how I did that? See what I did there?) At any rate, after the movie, with popcorn buttered hands, I ripped the contact from my eye.
Little did I know that it had taken a little piece of my eye with it. Just the tiniest little piece. And when I looked down at the contact, I could see it.
I tossed and turned most of the night, and as I do when I am sick, worried, or in pain, I took a shower… well, I took three of them. I woke the next overcast morning with bloodshot eyes and a restless demeanor. L. had suffered most of the evening as well and didn't get a good night's rest. I went into the office, using my hell or high water mentality to get work done. I sat there in the dark, with the blinds closed. Occasionally people would come in and instinctively turn on the light. I would dive under my desk and howl like a vampire in the morning sun.
“Don’t be so dramatic. I need these numbers by 4,” they’d say to the feet sticking out from under my desk. I think they have come to accept some of my eccentricities.
For the next ten days, I was relegated to glasses. Let’s face it. Glasses aren’t glamorous, as much as we pretend they are. They come with a nerdy stigma that to this day can’t be escaped. They also show a flaw. I hate hearing people say they have 20/20 vision. I have to curb the impulse to fly at them with a cream cheese knife and gouge their perfect eyes out. I can’t see anything without my contact/glasses. Shapes, lights, color… that’s about it.
After 10 days, the coast was clear. Or at least I thought it was, for I never went to see a Doctor about it. I put my contacts back in and went gaily about my life.
My light sensitivity returned about 3 days later, so upon coming home from work, I took out my contacts again. With it, again, came a little piece of my eye, as if somehow, they were having some sort of affair and couldn’t stand to be separated.
I didn’t scream. I didn’t cry (at least not by choice). I just muttered, “oh, no.” I told L. what had happened as we were getting ready for bed. He looked at my wearily and said, “Oh, honey. I am so sorry. You are going to have another restless night, hunh?” Where he promptly pulled out his prescription for Ambien and popped a whole one…
With the continuous pain, panic struck me in the middle of the night and I knew I was going to lose my eye. I had waited too long, been too haphazard in my care. By 4 AM, I welcomed the idea of having my eye extricated from my body. At the Hospital/Eye Clinic the next morning, the ophthalmologist laughed at my fear of having my eye-pendecotomy and told me that I had basically put a band-aid over the wound on my cornea whereupon I then ripped it off like a petulant child, taking the scab with it.
Others were lucky that morning to have a gloriously sun filled day. At home, I drew the curtains, iced my eye, and turned off the fire, for even its glare was upsetting. I couldn’t watch TV, I couldn’t read, I couldn’t look at a computer screen.
I am now, again, relegated to glasses. I am fine with it. L. says the glasses are sexy. He says he likes having a smart “looking” boyfriend. At the time, I didn’t have the wherewithal to question him about the “looking” part. But this has been good for me. We all have moments in our lives where we change; exact moments when our lives, from this moment on, are going to be different. And I have come to a conclusion.
I am not longer young.
I know that now. I need to take my contacts out at night. I need to floss my teeth every day. I need to watch what I eat. I need to return my friend’s phone calls and spend more time with my parents. I need to be thankful for what I have.
Why does it take a hole in my cornea to figure these things out?
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NO PANTS FRIDAY!
Feb. 3rd, 2007 | 05:16 pm
”It’s No Pant Friday!” he exclaimed with a flourish as he sipped his newly freshened drink.
“What?” I said.
“What?” he hollered back.
It was loud in the crowded East Atlanta bar, aptly called Mary’s, and I wasn’t sure I had heard my compatriot correctly.
“Yeah, it’s No Pants Friday. Take off your pants and you get a free drink.”
Sure enough: he didn’t have his pants on and was standing there in his underwear, a fresh drink, and a sly grin. I didn’t need to be told twice and quickly left our upstairs perch where the four of us had been lounging in velvet sofas. I took the stairs down two at a time and quickly bellied up to the bar.
“I hear it’s No Pants Friday,” I said to the scruffy bartender.
“Ummmm… Okay”
He must be new, I thought as I began to unbuckle my pants. “AND, I hear that I get a free drink if I take my pants off…”
“ummmmm… Okay…”
And faster than you can say Drunk as a Skunk, I had my pants off, neatly folded, and was offering them to the new and oddly unknowledgeable-of-bar-events bartender. “Give me a Long Island Ice Tea.”
So I spent the rest of the evening in my long sleeve T-shirt, my 18” knee high Wescos, and (thankfully) black boxer briefs.
Nursing a horrific hangover the next morning, L. said “I can’t believe you fell for that…”
“What?”
“There’s no such thing as No Pants Friday…"
“Then why did Paul have his pants off?”
From under his coffee, L. said, “because you had spilled his drink on them… he went to get a new one and they were drying the others for him. Didn't you notice it was just you two?”
“Hmmmmmmm…and I guess they weren't taking pictures because I won 'best underwear?'”
This sort of thing always happens to me. Not that I'm overly gullible, but I am very game. I’d like to believe it is a good quality. People don’t usually believe my innocence, but I am usually astounded by their creativity. How could someone possibly make that up?
We had two friends show up at our Bad Sweater Party in full sports coats and button down collars. They looked great, but horrifically out of place surrounded by the Lillian Verner parade of Christmas Sweaters. “We thought you were kidding… that is something you would do.” Not to fear, though, gentle readers, I had purchased extra sweaters from the Salvation Army and our trips to both the Georgia Mountains, and Fort Lauderdale.
On another note, a friend is having a Drag Superbowl Party. It is the first of its kind that I have heard of. He invited me to go not 15 minutes ago and as I was leaving his house, he snapped his fingers and said: “Oh yeah, I almost forgot. It’s a Drag party, so come all made up…there is a contest for the most gaudy. And why don’t I meet you there? I have some errands to run before I get there… I need to get a disposable camera.”
“WOW! That is so cool and creative!” I said as I gathered my stuff to go. “I am glad you remembered. Boy, would THAT have been embarrassing!”
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Animal Farm
Jan. 6th, 2007 | 06:25 pm
“I’ve got to get home to walk the puppy,” I told L. as we were driving home.
“That’s what I would say if I had a puppy,” I continued.
I have been trying to talk L. into getting a puppy for a long time. I know I would be horrible with it. I would enjoy it for the first little while but then get tired of the onus. Plus, L. is horrifically allergic.
I grew up with dogs. Strange dogs. Dogs that were terrified of TVs or enjoyed eating my brother’s earlobes or others that would spend hours scratching themselves under the car until they had a solid black stripe running down their back… not unlike an anti-skunk.
We had one dog that loved to chase cars: Scarlet. To teach her a lesson, my father would drive around the neighborhood, and when Scarlet would chase after his MG (it must have been one of the few times the car actually ran..), he would hop out and hit her with a newspaper.
But then it became a game for Scarlet. And she loved it. Watching my father chase her around the neighborhood with a rolled up newspaper… it was like Canine Nirvana for her. She later her met her demise from a teenager racing through the neighborhood.
I had hermit crabs, too. There is an awful memory of me coming into feed them their lettuce and peanut butter only to find them all dead… every single one of them… like it was some sort of Jonestown plot. Similar to a Jane Austen novel, I remember it was raining that day and I had a full mental breakdown that worried my parents and wouldn’t stop crying until I had buried each of them in the wet earth.
After my parents divorced, my mother finally got herself a cat: Merlin (my brother named it while watching the Sword and the Stone). Merlin, in his later years, went crazy and spent all his time outside shitting on himself and making odd strangling noises. Fearful of him not finding food, my mother would walk out on the balcony and scatter cat food in the driveway and hydrangeas, all the while saying: “Here Merlin… Here Merl, Merl.” It was a sad affair and I am sure didn’t sit too well with the neighbors; for all they saw was a woman throwing cat food and talking to no one in particular.
My brother and I once saved a cat that we found in the woods. We brought it home and diligently fed it baby formula through a syringe. Then one evening, not hearing her following me around, I came in from the yard only to hear an odd thud and muffled scream as the spring loaded screen door came crashing back into place. The poor kitten was stuck at a right angle and was shortly there after put to sleep. Sometimes a right angled cat visits me in my dreams.
For Christmas a few years back, my brother bought my mother a Jack Russell (read: Hyperactive Spawn of Satan) that is ironically called “Angel.” He thought it would help my mother exercise.
Angel is an awful dog.
She jumps, she begs, she crawls into bed with you, she can leap on top of counters and eat a whole ham. She desperately craves attention and will hop into your lap and place her head right on your face. And my mother loves her.
I would sometimes tell mother that I was going to take Angel for a ride up to the Mountains to see a nice family with a big farm. In harder times, when Angel seemed to be too much to bear, I would say this with pictures of a burlap sack and a babbling brook in mind. It didn’t go over well.
Even with all my awful luck with pets, I still kinda sorta maybe want a dog. Not really, though. My imaginery one is enough. As L. and I watch TV, I will lean down and pet her. I sometimes throw balls for her to catch and if I drop food on the floor, I wave it off and say: “Don’t worry; the puppy will get that…”
“That’s what I would say if I had a puppy…”
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excellent...
Dec. 31st, 2006 | 01:53 pm
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Mark, Rick, Steve...
Dec. 17th, 2006 | 03:49 pm
Every year I have same two resolutions:
- Have better handwriting
- Get better with remembering people’s names.
L. and I are those guys. You know, the ones you have met 1,000 times and they can never remember your name.
And I have never liked “those guys.”
There was an actor in New York that I met thousands of times… and every time he would look at me waiting for an introduction and someone would say: “Oh, this is Davis, have you two met?”
“No, nice to meet you Davis…” he’d reply both glassy-eyed and noncommittal.
He was somewhat known in the theater community and was so very proud of his notoriety. After the first 65 times we met, I would always ask the same question: “So, Sean, what do you do?” It was a small victory, but one, just the same.
After work on Friday, L. and I were both feeling a bit browbeaten and down and found ourselves respectively staring into the flames in the fire place. L. broke the revery with a simple “we should go out.”
So, I poured myself into a pair of pants I should know better not to wear… apparently, I was going to spend the evening standing, and off we went to the local bar to have a beer and a cigar.
Our first encounter was with someone who was newly single… unbeknownst to us. We asked about his partner to which we got a surly reply of “You’d have to ask him, now that he is single…” We only know his name because both he and his (X) partner have the same name. Now THAT’S out the window.
Then we saw the single guy who was in a triad… and his new partner… and then the soccer guy with the tooth missing, then the guy we call Manny the Machine Molester from the gym (because he does strange exercises the machines are not intended for). Usually, I will find L. fully ensconced in a conversation and he will have no idea what their name is. I will surreptitiously point to him to inquire about a name, and L. will simply raise his shoulders. He is no help. Not even a little.
It isn’t that we don’t deem people’s name important, or that we deem people unimportant. We are just really really bad with names. We don’t know them outside this casual environment.
I was lucky once to actually date two people consecutively with the same name… I would start to yell (names changed to protect the not so innocent): Bob, OHHH! Sorry.. No, wait… that’s still right… Bob! Stop movin’ all my figurines around…
Stuff like that.
We are getting better now. We quiz each other on the way home.
“Now, who’s the guy who works at the coffee shop?”
“Roger”
“Right, and his friend, the one who always checks himself out in the mirror?”
“Steven?”
“Scott. You were close. And the guy who thinks he’s really clever to turn everything you say into a sex joke?”
“Mark.”
“Excellent.”
Then we both sit back and relax, knowing that the other one has just been thoroughly tested and will rise to the occasion on our next outing when we see run into Manny the Machine Molestor or any other in our cast of characters.
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Silent Flight, Holey Flight
Dec. 13th, 2006 | 04:14 pm
I take such solace in the quiet moments afforded in First Class. The gentleman next to me is nervous for his 28 hours of traveling that spread before him. Coming from Minneapolis, I am going to ascertain that he is making a connection in Atlanta to the land once known as Tibet or some other Eastern destination. I am guessing this because he wears sandals, has a copper bracelet with strange writing on it, is reading a book by a Swami, and is listening to “The Sounds of the Astra Planes” on a vintage 1984 Walkman.
The trip to MN was good one, but even I wondered why I was invited to go. I think I was to pick up on these meetings with prospective Brokers or how to deal with Bank People. I did learn a great deal that way. Even so, the one thing I was supposed to do, which was a presentation, the projector didn’t work. Even started to smoke. I felt like an utter ass.
Minneapolis has become a smoke free city and I had to walk the streets to enjoy my cigar. I was overcome when the mist turned briefly to snow. From what most of the Minnesoteans said, they were ready for the snow and tired of looking at the grey, brown, and green earth. A blanket of white, God’s sofa cover, would do just the trick.
During this peaceful time of reflection, and so near the holidays, I wonder about Jesus. Well, not so much the middleman of the great Troika, but his siblings – the other children of Joseph and Mary. Can you imagine what that must have been like in the household? I mean, Joseph’s not the father. How does he control the child? All of the Big J’s siblings could have done really well in school, but never lived up to the “Son of God” mantel bestowed upon their eldest ½ brother.
I bet the teen years were tough.
I sometimes think we should take a “backstory” approach to the whole thing. What if Joseph, a carpenter, had made a delivery table for the one Doctor in the town where Joseph and Mary lived? That is where the Doctor met Mary. Sparks flew. Two months pass and Auntie P hasn’t visited and Mary gets worried.
“It’s immaculate,” she says to Joseph
But Joseph wants proof. They go off to the doctor. We all know what he’s gonna say.
But then there is the whole thing with the annunciation and the arrival the angel with the news. I can’t remember if Joseph was there for that either. Now that is something I love about the Mormons. God, himself, talked to John Smith, the Mormon Prophet. He sent an angel to talk to the mother of his unborn Son, but to John Smith, he spoke directly.
My battery is dying. Or maybe it’s a sign. I should probably go.
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OCD
Dec. 13th, 2006 | 12:05 pm
JHTSBRCCTT
COILWFASRTWY
OTSIFAFACY
COILWFASRTWY
JB, JB, JATW, OWFIITRIAOHOS
SN, HH, AIC, AIB, RYVMAC, HISTAM
This is just some of the stuff I had filled on the dry erase board as I was waiting for a meeting in another room to end so I could ask one of the participants a question. I didn’t bother to erase them.
So, on the following day, when the entire office was amassed in the conference room to talk about the plans for the New Year, our CEO said: Can I erase this?
Someone from accounting said: “I don’t think so. The auditors were all in here yesterday, it might be some billing codes or OFAC Regs”
I had to speak up. “No, you can erase them. They’re just Christmas carols.”
A general murmur came from the crowd…
I started in my bravest baritone: “Just hear those sleigh bells ringling, ching, ching, tingling, too. Come on it’s lovely weather for a sleight ride together with you.”
Silence.
My contemporaries all stared at the blank pads before them and shook their heads. My boss said: I don’t even think those are the right words. Ringling? Ching Ching Tingling? That can’t be right.
When I was actually old enough to spell, I found that it was much faster just to say the first letter of every word in a sentence. My mother would ask where I was off to and I would say “O” for outside.
You see, that saved .05 seconds of valuable time! I was well on my way to being an efficiency engineer. My mother learned to stop asking.
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Horrible Holiday Sweater Party
Dec. 12th, 2006 | 07:31 pm
We had our First Annual Horrible Holiday Sweater Party and I want to say it was a success. The first prize went to tuffbullx and his partner who made felt ponchos out of tree skirts. They won a lawn reindeer that is festooned with holiday lights and when plugged in, appears to be grazing in your front yard.
I know they are delighted.
There were some grumblings and I got a call from an unctuous friend who said: “I don’t know about you, but my invitation said Horrible Holiday SWEATER Party… not Horrible Holiday TreeSkirt Party.” He laughed it off, but I know there was a kernel of truth to what he said. Upon hearing this, I quickly fired off a letter to several contestants who I felt had been slighted and apologized for the error in polling and assured them that we were looking into allegation of tampering or flirting with the judge.
tuffbullx and his partner who made felt ponchos out of tree skirts. They won a lawn reindeer that is festooned with holiday lights and when plugged in, appears to be grazing in your front yard. I know they are delighted.
There were some grumblings and I got a call from an unctuous friend who said: “I don’t know about you, but my invitation said Horrible Holiday SWEATER Party… not Horrible Holiday TreeSkirt Party.” He laughed it off, but I know there was a kernel of truth to what he said. Upon hearing this, I quickly fired off a letter to several contestants who I felt had been slighted and apologized for the error in polling and assured them that we were looking into allegation of tampering or flirting with the judge.
I might have maybe had a bit too much to drink. I took special joy in banging away on the piano and screaming out FIVE GOLDEN RINGS! Some of the carols that were requested I had never heard of so I would try and make them up as I go, using basic D, G, and Em chords. I would usually take the title, sing it three times, and then croon away about the Lord crowning in the Virgin’s giney. This usually brought my mother, who catered the event, running in from the kitchen and whacking me in the back of the head with a wooden spoon, much to the delight of the encircled revelers.
My mother works at a church, and feels a certain allegiance with her employer – all the way up the corporate ladder.
We borrowed some propane heaters from some new neighbors which worked really well, once we found the scorched remains of a bird’s nest. I called L. The Aviary Arsonist for a good portion of the day.
L. also spent a great deal of time designing his sweater. He installed lights, used about 3 sticks of hot glue, and wove glittered pipe cleaners into the delicate fabric. He was ineligible to win any prizes, but I assured him that if he weren’t shackin’ up with the judge, he’dve been in like Flynn. (Who is this Flynn guy? Errol? Did he get into places easily?)
We probably had about 65 guest in total, most of which showed up in some of the ugliest sweaters I have seen… many stolen from their mother’s closet, others handmade. One of my favorites said: “I [heart] Santa” in glittered calligraphy.
Getting the party out of the way early in Holiday Season was a brilliant idea. Now there is no pressure. We are just guests for the rest of the season. No pressure. We also scored with the wine and to my amazement, have about 12 great bottles of wine on hand.
A few days after the party, someone said they knew I was a bit tipsy when they saw me peeing in our backyard. I assured them that peeing in the backyard is no indication of inebriation, as L. and I do it all year long, any time of day (respectively, not collectively). Usually, mid-sentence, either of us will drop trow and water the lawn. We have an unspoken understanding that it is good for the plants. Actually, I got the idea from L., who seems to relish the idea that his yard is his domain and he can do what he wants. I agree whole-heartedly.
People have already started to talk about our White Trash Picnic, which we hold the last Sunday in April and had about 120 guests last year. The thought of it makes my stomach turn a bit. Only three weeks ago, we finished eating the leftover chicken breasts from last year’s fete.
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Vacation at Sea
Nov. 22nd, 2006 | 02:15 pm
Waiting in line to check in for a our flight to Fort Lauderdale we heard the screech of wheels and turned to see a sleek black Mercedez sedan spaxpotically pull up to the curb. Out jumped a 23 year old female wearing tight jeans, fur boots, and some sort of crop top. She huffed her way to the back of the line, just behind L. and I and then said to the amassed people, “Is anyone here like SUPER DUPER late?”
After a moment’s hesitation, I spoke up: “Well, I am only DUPER late, but letting you go ahead of me would make me SUPER DUPER… Sooooo…”
I am now somewhere between Cozumel Mexico and Grand Cayman. I have spent a lot of energy doing absolutely nothing and get easily tired from eating. I have finished two books, about 14 cigars, and have managed to pickle my kidneys with Knob Creek. Good times, man.
I like to spend most of my time on the ship. I spent 6 months singing and dancing on this cruise line, doing this basic path every day of the week in a 7 day rotation. Surprisingly, one of the singers on the ship is someone with whom I worked over 10 years ago. In the Disco, around midnight, our eyes met. She was clad in a flourscent pantsuit singing an ABBA Medly and I didn’t’ think she would recognize me with my beard and 30 extra lbs. But she did.
I guess things only change if you want them to.
L.’s 6 year old nephew is on the cruise and he is getting credit for the days missed by coming back and giving the class a presentation on the things he learned while he was on here. I am being most helpful by pointing out the rarely seen, but very exotic Key West Sloth.
“Uncle Davis,” he says knowingly, “that’s a Cat.”
I tried to point out the other strange indigenous creatures of exotic Caribbean, but he lost interest in me.
My cigar is halfway done, my drink is almost empty, and I am rady to go kick some granny’s ass at backgammon.
After a moment’s hesitation, I spoke up: “Well, I am only DUPER late, but letting you go ahead of me would make me SUPER DUPER… Sooooo…”
I am now somewhere between Cozumel Mexico and Grand Cayman. I have spent a lot of energy doing absolutely nothing and get easily tired from eating. I have finished two books, about 14 cigars, and have managed to pickle my kidneys with Knob Creek. Good times, man.
I like to spend most of my time on the ship. I spent 6 months singing and dancing on this cruise line, doing this basic path every day of the week in a 7 day rotation. Surprisingly, one of the singers on the ship is someone with whom I worked over 10 years ago. In the Disco, around midnight, our eyes met. She was clad in a flourscent pantsuit singing an ABBA Medly and I didn’t’ think she would recognize me with my beard and 30 extra lbs. But she did.
I guess things only change if you want them to.
L.’s 6 year old nephew is on the cruise and he is getting credit for the days missed by coming back and giving the class a presentation on the things he learned while he was on here. I am being most helpful by pointing out the rarely seen, but very exotic Key West Sloth.
“Uncle Davis,” he says knowingly, “that’s a Cat.”
I tried to point out the other strange indigenous creatures of exotic Caribbean, but he lost interest in me.
My cigar is halfway done, my drink is almost empty, and I am rady to go kick some granny’s ass at backgammon.
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Dollywood
Nov. 18th, 2006 | 08:11 pm
I have eaten nothing but chicken breasts and raw vegetables since my return from Dollywood.
Since I was the last to arrive from work, and we were driving in my car (which desperately needed both gas and a wash), I had no time to eat. While filling up at the nearby Shell station, I went inside to get something to eat. I found a “chicken product” sandwich, which I quickly shoved in my mouth. That was the culinary acme of my weekend. We stopped to eat dinner at a Fuddrucker’s on the way up that evening where I ordered my half pound burger Medium. Don’t ever do that. Ever.
At the park, I ate a CheeseSteak sandwich, a funnel cake, a tub of popcorn, a tube filled with colored sugar, and for the ride home, we had Burger King. (Not to mention the undercooked burger we had at the Falcons game on Sunday).
I was expecting to return from Pigeon Forge with a new outlook on life, having gleamed some sort of epiphany from the Applicacians. This expectation fell comically short. Our time in Dollywood was great, replete with fun rides, greasy food, and a staff that is beyond cordial.
The only real ride I went on was the wooden rollercoaster called Thunderhead. It was fast and furious and while standing in line we decided to play a game. Each of us were to count something. I was going to count attractive Cowboys, L. was going to count Christmas Sweaters (with the oncoming Horrid Christmas Sweater Party approaching), our friend G. was going to count African American People in the Park, and his boyfriend C.was going to count Handicapped People.
C. took off with an early lead as we passed the wheelchair rental place. L. was in a close second with about 12. We quickly limited C.’s counting of the handicapped to a physical ailment, and not just being lazy and overweight. I am lazy and overweight, but didn’t have the guts to rent a wheelchair (this might have been different, however, if I wasn’t in present company).
The acres and acres of parking spaces for the handicapped that filled the outside parking lot of Dollywood should have been a pretty good indication of who was going to win.
At one point, C. tried to count a mentally handicapped person who was slobbering and yelling “Elephant, elephant” at a particularly heavy woman. But we drew the line there; for then you could just count everyone in the park – emotionally handicapped, financially handicapped, fashion handicapped…the list goes on. As a quorum, we restricted it to the visibly handicapped: missing a limb, being attached to “some tube,” or shaking uncontrollably.
He still won.
I had one. One hot cowboy.
It was then that I realized that most of America is, well, pretty ugly. I don’t consider myself a “pretty” or attractive person, but I do think of myself as Not Ugly. Kinda like I think of myself as being Not Stupid, Not Straight, and Not Sane. Graceful noncommittal Nonconformity.
When I was young, and would laugh at someone’s hair or lack of taste in clothing, my mother would scold me: Davis, people can’t help the way they look, they can only help the way they act.
But time has proven her wrong. I mean, buy one size bigger jeans, don’t use green makeup, invest in some hair product or in some cases less hair product. People can help that. Turns out Crazy people can’t help the way they act.
The Christmas show we saw was called “Babes in Toyland,” and this was its premier year. It involved child actors who fall down a well and have to find their drugged up Uncle to rescue the Toy shop back on Earth before being attacked by the big Purple Electronic Spider or the Uber Gay Duo (two sidekicks that were so gay, I thought I might have to beat them up. When they emerged from the ass shaped mushroom, I thought it was a joke. It was just bad design.) Luckily, a team of giant Toy soldiers come to their rescue.
Oh, and there was singing.
It was awful and I spent most of the time looking around wondering if I was seeing the same thing everyone else was. Dolly, if you are reading this, dump that show like I did the funnel cakes not 10 minutes after consumption.
All in all, it was a great road trip. We laughed a lot. We got spend time with some dear friends, and the Dolly museum was… was truly something. I spent most of the time in there digitally trying on Dolly’s wigs. L. was so moved by the trip that he is reading her biography. I am eager for him to finish it, as I am jealous of the constant giggles he gets from it.