Elizabeth

I went to lunch with my mom today. There were a lot of options that we could choose from, and we decided upon going to a burger place who's mascot is the cheerful robin. The primary reason was that I love steak fries. Well, actually, I like any kind of french fries. Or furthermore, any potatoes, or any type, combination, or style of potato would be my favorite.

Being the observer that I am, I notice service. Usually, the service is pretty decent at this place. Though, I sometimes question word choices, behaviors, or catchy jingo that servers tend to use at places like this, as most of the servers are either in high school or immediately out of it.

I love how they open the door for their customers, and on this particular occasion, a very small girl with a very squeaky voice greeted us. I'm always a bit put off when this age group refers to mixed gendered groups as "guys" when greeted, but I thought I would put that out of my mind. After all, I have had a lot of things going through my mind in the last 24 hours.

So we sat down, I ordered coffee. I was very impressed when my coffee came. Usually at this particular place the coffee is just thrown on the table, with any of the accoutrements tossed to the side on the bare table. This is no easy feat, mind you, since at places like this one, they have ALL kinds of paraphenalia adorning the top of the table to prompt me to try something different. As a creature of habit (and very particular about what I like) I opted for the ordinary. But, the remarkable thing was that this time, the coffee was served on a plate, and had a doily placed under it, the stirring spoon (well, soup spoon...) set neatly to one side, and the cream neatly placed opposite the spoon. Impressive as it was, I knew that 1) this wasn't done by some bubble gum chewing boy named Cody, and 2) obviously this young lady was fishing for tips. I almost took the bait, but waited until the whole episode played out at the restaurant.

This delusion of detailed serving was quickly scorched to oblivion when the young server would sit by the table, and interject her comments about other patrons, how she didn't wish to have to wait on a huge table of about 12, and that (after mumbling her dissatisfaction with the situation) said, "don't tell anyone." I didn't quite get that.

I like dining without extraneous interruption from the wait staff. This girl, however, just didn't really know how to leave. Like an uninvited houseguest that comes without warning, and doesn't know when to leave and is a huge burden or imposition on the host (hell, I have a relative and his wife like that...), I couldn't help but become overly annoyed.

Well, after my order of fries came out cold, and having this young daisy thrust herself upon my mom's and my conversation, I ended up giving an ordinary tip. The doily might have been a nice touch, but when everything settled, it was just ordinary. I wonder how many times this happens. I guess service is more than just a coffee cup on a doily.

Creative Marketing

As I was driving to an offsite meeting today, I noticed a creative marketing device that really was "thinking out of the box." As I was stopped at a busy intersection waiting for a stoplight, I noticed a driver's education vehicle in the lane next to me, with a student behind the wheel, the vehicular tutor, and a student passenger in the back seat. They happened to be in the left turn lane, and I was behind them in the straight ahead lane.

It was really hard not to miss the student driver. After all, every side of the vehicle had the CESA1 Driver's Education signs on them in their blazon yellow with black lettering. Usually, being somewhat paranoid, I try to avoid these marked vehicles for fear that, like a rabbit caught in uncoming traffic, should an errant decision be made by the driving novice, I wouldn't have a half ton of aluminum and fiberglass on wheels careen into my innocent (and new) vehicle at any given second.

I kept watching the vehicle, and noticed that the instructor must have been giving some constructive feedback to the student. It was quite animated. I have no idea what they were talking about, but as I looked at the light, I noticed that this vehicle was keeping about 4 cars behind it from getting through the intersection. The left turn light was green.

I felt a sense of relief, when I noticed that on the one door of the vehicle (the passenger rear door) was an ad: for State Farm Insurance, with the name and phone number of the agent listed on it. Thank god someone was using their brain!

Perhaps any repeat offender, drunk driver, or other person prone to driving negligence should be also required to have such sign. It certainly made me breathe a sigh of relief today!

That's what I call creative (and practical) marketing!

Expired

I'm running out of time. My driver's license is coming due next week, and I have been putting off getting it renewed. Normally, such a task should be pretty benign, but my stomach churns just thinking about getting it done.

I have nothing to worry about. I can still see. I haven't had any driving issues. But why do I worry? Well, it's not the friendliest place to spend any iota of time. It could possibly be the charming atmosphere when one goes there. The cattle gates, the gloomy decor, the overly friendly personalities, and the lines of people are all reasons why I should flock there without care. One would think that it is the most popular place to be. I love extensive lines of people waiting, and the lovely service the clerks there provide. The hours are so convenient. After all, as a working person, the 9-4 Monday through Tuesday, the 11-11:15 on Wednesday, and the 2-2:02 on Thursdays and Fridays are, for me, the most convenient ever.

I sure hope I have the right forms too. Like the post office, I best better make sure that I arrive in the right frame of mind. Heaven forbid that I have the inappropriate document, let alone have it completed correctly (and we all know that guy at the post office.....yes.....the loud, scoldy one....). I might need therapy afterward. And that's just another day out of the office......

And the photos.....anyone who knows me, knows how I well I like my picture taken, and unless it's a Glamor Shot with a lot of airbrushing, I ain't happy. Anyone who also knows me knows how much I love declaring my weight as well. I hope they have a Xanax dispenser. I'll need it. I sigh as I post this, only for the fact that renewing this necessary evil is a requirement. After all, I must be mobile. I feel so resigned.

Perhaps I need to take a day off, as it might take me at least 3 hours to get this accomplished, and about 4 hours of drinking afterward (the latter being a better use of my time, and a far more attractive option).

Help!

And That's the Way It Was...

I was browsing the internet today, and I came across a website that made me shudder. I don't care what anyone says, but the style of the 70's (and lack thereof) was well represented in all of its putrescent splendor in the website http://www.omodern.com/

I've attached a few photos that give you a flavor of what I'm talking about, and to prove my point:

I now know where my toilet and tub came from in my bathroom....and it's still not stylish:

Still can't hide an afro:

Little Sven's attempt to prove his masculinity after being dressed in his floral finest:

And finally my favorite:

And I thought fashion choices in Janesville were questionable. Somewhere in the world I know a tap dancer in need of this costume:

I'm glad times have changed.

Last of the Mohawkans

After my show last night, I met up with my friends Donna, Eric, and Shaun at a local watering hole. It was a beautiful night to be able to sit outside in the bar's patio, and the company of my good friends was something that I have realized I have missed for a long time. I also love sitting out there since there is never a dearth of interesting characters either at the bar, walking along the street, or walking through the parking lot. Last night was no exception nor disappointment.

Anytime either I or my friends go to these establishments, there is always a wide cross-section of people. Last night, it happened to be an amalgam of hip-hip wannabes, flannel-clad proletarians, death metal junkies, pole dancers, skate punks, athletic has-beens, and then (in this particular instance) the three of us, whatever we might be classified as. Given how we, in our society, classify people, I have always wondered what others (if they even remotely have the wherewithal to be as observant as me) would make my group out to be. Then again, given the apparent choices many of these others make (whether it be social, fashion, or behavioral), I guess I won't lose too much sleep over it.

As I had to go back into the bar at one point in the evening, a guy literally ran into me as I was heading to the men's room. I must not have been looking where I was going, because when I looked up, the guy was sporting a mohawk. Had I been watching where I was going, I would most certainly have noticed (and mentally remarked). Being at this particular bar, I should not have been surprised by this person's mohawk. After all, I have had to volunteer in a third grade class, and have had an 8 year-old boy in one of my classes sporting one (with an earring to boot). This young Cochise's Mohawk was a true fin from forehead to neck, coiffed with enough product to ensure that it stood up vertically, even in a monsoon. It actually looked pretty darn good, and his mom did a great job sculpting the effect.

The guy that ran into me (and nearly knocked me over in the process) last night, unfortunately, must have used the home mohawk kit (reminding me of the 70's Toni Home Perm Kits minus the flowered plastic hair cap), or had a friend do it while both were drinking Jager-bombs and Colt 45's. It was a mess. The shaved lines were anything but straight, and there was just no lift to the fin. It looked as if someone had taken a bad toupee from Wink Martindale, cut it in a rectangle, and then used mucilage to paste it to his scalp. It was unfortunate.

I was impressed, though, that the guy was very apologetic for running into me. I was, however, unsettled by the pierced lip, eyelid, and chin. "Hmm," I thought, "not a neurosurgeon." Does this guy, when he looks in a mirror (if he even has a mirror) say to himself, "God I look good!"?

I guess the point of all of this is: is the mohawk making a come-back? If so, I'll have to prepare myself for being unfashionable. I'm afraid that if I were attempt such a feat as a mohawk, my fin would look like the scaly "fin" of a triceratops: one clump above my forehead, and one clump in the back. Now THAT would be unfortunate.

Practice Makes Satisfactory

Opening night has come and gone to the show I'm doing, "The Frogs."

Things went off without incident, and everything went well. I really enjoyed hearing the audience laugh at everything. It certainly proves that this show is funny!

I look forward to seeing as many of you come out and see the show. It's running again Friday the 20th and Saturday the 21st. Curtain is at 7:30 p.m. The show runs about 2 hours, and is very enjoyable. The cast has been a phenomenal group of very dedicated individuals that have really worked hard to entertain our community, and raise money for JPAC in the process. I have really enjoyed working with the amazing production team of Mike Stalsberg, Rob Tomaro, Eleanor Moriarity, Chris Blakeney, and Craig Bergum.

Come see us!

Roadside Assistance

About a month ago, I bought a new car and I love it. I was going through some old e-mails, and came across one that I sent to my good friend Dan, who's currently stationed in Saudi Arabia as he's in the Army. I couldn't help but share my experience with Roadside Assistance and Volvo, because he thought it was rather amusing (and after I read it, I thought it was one of my better emails!).

I previously had a 2005 Volvo, which I also liked very much, but I came to the reality (and came to terms with my busy schedule) that I needed to have a car that I could have serviced in Janesville if necessary. About a month ago, I was on my way to volunteer at a grade school. On my way there, my car just died, as if I were out of gas (even though I had 3/4 of a tank).

I remembered that Volvo had roadside assistance. I called the toll-free number, and was told that a tow truck would arrive shortly, and that I would have to wait by my vehicle for them. Well, I waited an hour and 45 minutes for a tow truck. The guy arrived (after I had to flag him down as he stopped two blocks away and was about to tow some poor soul's car instead of mine, which wasn't a Volvo). I knew this guy wasn't from Janesville, because anyone from Janesville knows that you just never see that many Volvos (I think there are about 5 TOTAL in Janesville, but he sure had trouble finding mine even WITH giving him the address of where I was). We got the car onto the flatbed, and proceeded to take it to the nearest dealership...in Rockford.

The ride in the tow truck to Rockford was excruciating. Normally, such a drive SHOULD be only 35 minutes. My fortune was that it ended up being an hour and 15 as this worldly driver didn't know where he was going. At one point I was giving him directions, and then he proceeded to take an unauthorized short cut. After that, all bets were off. After getting lost in Rockford, he finally asked me where he should turn. At that point I had no clue. While sitting in the cab of the truck, I noticed, though, that he had GPS. I suggested he use it. Apparently (he told me) it wasn't working. It, too, apparently needed roadside assistance.

Well, I got my car to the dealership... eventually. Man! It was hotter than hades in the tow truck. I think it was about 78 degrees that day, yet he had the heat on and the windows closed. I was sweating something awful, and of course, he had NO vent on. I was ready to stick my head out the window of the likes of my hounds, hoping to catch a breeze (which would have been interesting, as I still was dressed in a business suit since I was coming from work).

Well, it turned out that there was a recall on the fuel injection sensor of my Volvo, which ironically arrived in my mail the next day. I loved the advanced notice! For about 6 days, I ended up having to drive a Chevy Aveo (oh my god, I felt so white-trash....it was wonderful) and then had to go down and get my car. After having to take practically a whole day off for my car, the decision to get a new car was easy.

I loved the room and the ability to haul things that my mom's CR-V had, and knew that the Honda CR-V was an easy decision. I went to the dealership. While I was there, it was really weird not to test drive or actually even see what I was buying. It took all of 30 minutes. After coming home, I thought, "what the HELL just happened? What the hell did I just do?"After the initial shock (and feeling 10 lbs. lighter from metaphorical unplanned bowel movement in my pants given the shock of the situation), I came to terms with my purchase. And now I'm happy, and love it, love it......LOVE IT! It's like a dark red/maroon color, and it has gray leather interior. It has every option it can possibly come with, and is a nice "little" car. I'll have you know, at least MY GPS works!

I hope none of you ever get placed in a situation like this, but while this experience wasn't so great when it first started, the end result is something that I am grateful actually happened. If you ever get a tower that doesn't know where he's going, perhaps tell him to turn on the GPS, as that was the problem with why it didn't work in the first place.

Gosh I love professionals.....

A Purple Monstrosity

Ok, I have to relay my experience yesterday.

During my lunch hour from work, I was on my way to pick something up to eat before going home. As I was driving, I had the misfortune of ending up behind a big van. It wasn't one of those tricked-out conversion vans, or a commercial van like serial killers tend to drive, but rather a 12 passenger van with what looked like 20 people in it.

I'm not the most patient driver in the world. In fact, often times I find myself having to exercise extreme caution for fear that I'm going to flip off my neighbor, my mom's neighbor, or my boss, or that I'll yell something at someone that will be audible to a person 2 miles away that I'm sure to regret at a later date. I was traveling down a main thoroughfare in Janesville with a posted speed limit of 40 m.p.h. This van, however, was going about 25. After a few verbalized choice expletives, and reserving my right to show my "you're number one" hand gesture to the driver of the van once I passed, I realized that the van I was passing contained a gaggle of costumed women bedecked in royal purple.

Yes. You're all groaning. You know who they are. We ALL do. I, too, groaned:

the ladies of the Red Hat Society.

Back in 1987, Jenny Joseph had her poem, "When I'm An Old Woman, I Shall Wear Purple" published in a book by the same title. I remember my mom getting a copy of said book, and read the poem. And, in all honesty, it was quite funny: then.

Ever since Jenny did our nation a favor by writing this poem, Red Hat Societies have sprung up all over the place, much like the creeping charlie that has also infested my lawn (and everyone else's lawn in my neighborhood) as of late. Yes, the societies for retired women. I would try to be politically correct and address the age of the women as "mature." However, if you have ever had an experience with a group of these harpies, mature is certainly not a word I would use to describe their general behavior when they're out as a group in public.

Perhaps I'm a bit harsh and don't appreciate them as much as I should. However, I don't see how, by wearing purple (in addition to a ridiculous wide-brimmed red hat festooned with purple pansies), it would somehow entitle a person to behave in an obnoxious, rude, and selfish manner.

I recall once when a group of the "Red Hat" ladies (and I use the term ladies very loosely) attended a play for which I was ushering. Not only did they storm the lobby of the theatre like a group of Valkyries in a Wagnerian opera (minus the cry of "HOJOTOS!"), but trying to get them all seated was like a blind man herding an array of cats. It was damn near impossible. After they eventually got seated, I ran into an additional issue: the hats. The unfortunate souls sitting behind these purple roses of Cairo, couldn't see. I exercised my rights as an usher and quickly confronted the offenders and kindly asked them to remove their hats. You would have thought I was asking for a kidney. It seems that several of the "ladies" neglected to fix their hair prior to putting on their scarlet sombreros, and several of them expressed an emotion just short of panic. I relished the fact that I had the upper hand, and they had no choice but to obey my command. They removed their hats. Next time, I'm sure, they'll remember to wear their wigs prior to coming to the theatre. Needless to say, I had no trouble with the group afterward.

So, as I approached the van (thinking about my experience), I didn't salute them like I wanted to. Rather, I let them go on their merry way, expressing my gratitude that I would not be the sorry person who would end up having to deal with them once they reached their field trip destination.

And to my mom I have one thing to say: No!

Let's be Literate!

I added a new feature today to my blog. I always love new words, so I added the "Word of the Day" at the bottom of the page. Check it out, and let me know about any interesting experiences in which you used that word today!

Have fun and more later!

Les Grenouilles Adorables

Yes, I speak French.

For those that don't, the title translates to, "the adorable frogs," which is part of the lyrics of a song in Stephen Sondheim's musical, "The Frogs," which will be opening on Thursday, June 19th, and running the 20th and 21st, as well as the 26th-28th at JPAC in Janesville. Why would I include this? Well, as I've alluded to rehearsals a couple of times in this blog, it's the production that I am currently working on.

I can't help but marvel at how a propos it is for it to be playing at JPAC (which is situated next to the Rock River which as I've mentioned is currently in flood stage) at this particular time. How ironic! Not only is the content a political satire that is based off of Aristophenes' Greek comedy relevent to everything going on in today's world, but also that it would be about a river, and frogs, etc. It's quite funny, and promises to be an interesting production for anyone who cares to come see it. I have been working a lot getting the cast vocally ready for the show, which is why I have been so preoccupied lately.

I have no idea what I'll do after the show's run is over, but I'm sure it will include adding more to this corner of the world wide web, as well as more interesting media.

If any of you visitors out there get the opportunity, come see it! We'd love to have you!

Now....off to rehearsal!

Bali Hai

I must be on a tropical kick lately. I've mentioned tropical drinks (margaritas...are they tropical?), bananas, and plantains. My inspiration this time is tropical shirts. As I was working this morning and looking out at the fountain outside my office window, I noticed about 3 people that passed by that were wearing a Hawaiian tropical shirt. Mind you, they weren't the same tropical shirt, but several variations on a theme of one. The same thing happened yesterday while I was at rehearsal, one or two people were wearing tropical shirts.

I can't seem to help but think as to whether or not this fashion "icon" will always be a staple of people in Janesville. Perhaps it's because it's now summer and people are getting into the summer spirit, or that people are yearning for a tropical vacation after a winter in which we had entirely too much snow. Whatever the reason may be, I have come to the realization that I don't appreciate the tropical Hawaiian shirt as much as I should.

How many do I have, you might ask? One. Yes, one. It's black, with some vine-type vertical print and pineapples attached to the vine. I chose the vertical stripe pattern since I didn't want to look like an oversized bowl of poi, but rather for the slimming effect that vertical stripes have. In my case, makes me look like an Easter Island monolith. I could have chosen an electric blue, or red, or (my favorite) orange one, but instead, I chose black. After all, black is fashionable. This shirt I own, however, is anything but fashionable. I don't know where in the world they have pinapples growing from vines. Then again, I don't think a pumpkin or squash substitute could ever convey the sense of "tropical." I think I've only ever worn the shirt twice, once for a friend of mine's wedding rehearsal dinner, and the second, I think, was because I literally needed something to wear as I was doing laundry.

My affinity for the Hawaiian shirt is likened to the same feeling I have hearing the song, "Bali Hai" from "South Pacific." Not only is it my least favorite song, but least favorite musical. Perhaps subliminally, my tropical preoccupation must signal that I need a vacation or something.

I hope it comes quickly, for I fear that I'll somehow dress like Dustin Hoffman in "Meet the Fockers." Yikes!

Bessie the Beacon

The celebration of Bessie's return to her urban pasture by Del Taco in Janesville today has now come and gone.

Here's Bessie in her corral prior to her facelift and apparently relegated to solitary confinement prior to her move:

She has been moved a spot very near where she grazed for many years, and will still welcome visitors to our wonderful city.

It's really remarkable how so many people have used Bessie to identify Janesville as they pass by, especially on the interstate. A couple of years ago, my mom and I traveled to Spain, Portugal, and Morocco. On our tour we met an incredible couple, Karin and Ian from Edmonton, Alberta. When we were in Portugal having a drink or two (or three....or four) at the bar, we got talking about how my mom and I were from Wisconsin. Karin and Ian mentioned that the one thing that stuck out to them about Wisconsin was a place where they could buy awesome cheese and that it had a big cow out at the entrance. Of course, that big cow turned out to be our beloved Bessie! Here I took her for granted as a landmark, and yet, she's an international ICON! I love Bessie all the more as a result!

Thankfully she wasn't bastardized with any alternative decoration, but rather remained true to the glorious Guernsey she was meant to be, and that she can continue to be the beautiful beacon she is!

Welcome back, Bessie!

Things Will Be Great When You're........Downtown

I am really amazed today at all of the traffic that was in downtown Janesville today. I think if I were the Janesville Downtown Business Association, I would have had a field day today! It always seems like the members of this organization are always clamoring for people to come and visit. Well, today, they have people and have nothing to entice people to spend....spend....spend!

What's ironic to me is people are there not to shop or visit the businesses, but rather to gawk at the river, which has become a swollen ribbon of water wending it's way through the center of the city. I am also amazed at how people are naturally drawn to potential disaster, like a moth drawn to the elusive hue of a lightbulb, or a lemming to a cliff.

If you haven't had an opportunity to gander, our Traxler Park is 2/3 of the way submerged under water, and no doubt businesses along the river are getting pretty panicky. Yet, everyone and their left-handed grandmother is out for a stroll along the riverbank, despite warnings not to do so. I guess it's no different from me sitting at home while the tornado sirens are going off, hoping to catch a glimpse of the ever-elusive tornado as I stand outside in the middle of my driveway. What draws us to such disaster?

To top it all off, have you ever noticed how people gawk at others' misfortune? I know I do. Perhaps it's our curiosity, or our need to self-validate that our lives could be worse. Whatever it is, I think that now would be a good time for two-for-one margaritas in the "Barmuda Triangle" downtown (can we still call it that with "Quotes" now there?), or perhaps offer a "catch of the day" special at a local eatery in celebration of our 100 to 500-year flood. Why not make it a family outing? Bring your kids fishing. Why not!

Instead of wallowing in our misfortune, again, make lemonade from life's lemons....and make a dime or two in the process! That, my friends, is what America is made of! Nothing says America like a grand (and soggy) sidewalk sale (or John Cougar Mellencamp)!

Making Lemonade From Lemons

Now this is what you call using your resources.....When life deals you lemons, just call in the Wisconsin Ducks! (But why is it that disasters always occur at the trailer court?)

From frivolity to function. Whoever came up with this idea is BRILLIANT!

I've gained a bit more respect for the Dells today.

Nursing Home Blues....or Country

As I always do every morning, I was listening to NPR and all of the liberal-spun news broadcasting that it as to offer. I always love the snippets of music in between each of the segments of news, one of which happened to be some twangy, steel guitar, country clip.

It reminded me of an experience I had this week. For my job, I sometimes have to go to a local assisted living facility to assist clients with their financial business. I'm not always keen on going for several reasons: 1) it never seems to come at a very convenient time of the day for me (then again, NOTHING seems to ever be convenient for me when it comes to time during the day or night), 2) it's always ghastly warm in the facility and would be an ideal locale to raise rare tropical plants (how about the plantain?), and 3) it's not the most cheery place to spend a couple of hours during the day. Well, this week, I realized another reason why I'm not too keen on going: the muzak.

Now, you would probably think that the muzak that usually plays in a retirement facility would be the mellifluous melodies of Percy Faith, string versions of R&B tunes of Aretha Franklin, or in one particular experience of muzak, a lovely wind version of James' hit tune "Laid" (which I'm rather fond of in it's original form, but was a little creeped out that it would be an appropriate muzak selection for an assisted living facility). No. It was none of these. It was country music.

Country music is not my favorite music genre. But at one point during my visit, I could barely hear myself think. The volume level could be best compared to that of a cruise ship foghorn. As we age, I realize that sometimes our senses, "the big five," tend to retire like we do, and that hearing is one of the first to go on permanent vacation. I couldn't help, though, to wonder if it was really necessary to blast Kenny Chesney's proclamation about his tractor. And really, do any of the residents really think this tractor is sexy either? Most, if not all of these residents probably have never grown up agrarian given the financial resources one must possess in order to live in this particular facility.

In the unfortunate event that I would ever have to go to a place like this, it truly would be my own hell if I had to listen to country music at brain-piercing volume while I had my pablum and Geritol. With any luck at all, I would be graced with not having the wherewithal to even know what's going on. I don't know, but the thought of my experience this week is what nightmares are made of.

And the trumpet shall sound.......well....maybe a siren...

Here I am sitting composing this, the tornado sirens are wailing: again.

Yet the sun is shining, and we've had buckets of rain. I don't get it. Gosh, I hope I'm safe!

I've been thinking about the whole Lake Delton debaucle, in which I think they had a visit by Moses at some point, only instead of parting the man-made lake, he decided to drain it instead. Sounds like an efficient plan to me. But what I don't understand is, why we mess with mother nature, the force of nature, or whatever you wish to call it. I mean...water has to go somewhere. Yet we continue to build roads, and homes, and trailer parks, and dams, and levees, and yet the water has to go somewhere.

Think of it: Louisiana. The army corp of engineers had a brilliant plan to redirect where the Mississippi River flows to the Gulf of Mexico out of sheer convenience, and really, Mother Nature didn't want it to do that. Hence, we have so many issues with Louisiana and flooding in addition to its other "issues."

Lake Delton further proves this fact. We build a dam and whatnot so that people can enjoy an over commercialized Illinoisian vacation mecca, and well, Mother Nature didn't want the dam there. Apparently she is into mud wrestling. It'll be interesting to see in the next few days how all of this rain will effect the Rock Aqua Jays and lo-and-behold the Jaycees 4th of July extravaganza. What excuse then will they use this time for not making money? Flooding?

Needless to say, I think it's apparent that I'm tired of rain. And my lawn is still not in order, and my co-workers are crabby, and I think now is a good time to go to play practice.

Banana or Plantain: You Be the Judge

As I was letting out my greyhounds today, I noticed these obnoxious weeds that seem very prolific in my well manicured lawn. I'm not the best groundskeeper by any sense of the word, but I was told that what these HUGE weeds are are plantains.

Here's what I'm talking about:



This confuses me. It doesn't look like a banana, now, does it? No, it looks nothing like banana-type plantains that I've seen at Logli's; and furthermore, I can never decide if a plantain is or is not a banana. I've been told it's not a banana, because they taste different. I probably will never try a plantain, since it indeed LOOKS like a banana....and I hate bananas. I guess it's their texture, and their smell. And since I don't like the texture or the smell, I suppose that I won't like plantains either. I especially don't like bananas in jello. And for that matter, I don't like jello. So for me, bananas and jello are a double dose of badness in my book. But that is a discussion for another day.... Yet, I see no banana-like fruit coming from my lawn.

I've doused my lawn in a variety of chemicals, but these pseudo-bananas just keep coming back and I don't know what to do. I've been told to use dish soap. I am probably going to try that too, since I've always wanted my hands to feel Palmolive soft, the likes of which Madge would be envious. I'm also curious to know what an anti-bacterial orange lawn smells like.... I may not kill them, but I'll have the BEST smelling lawn in the neighborhood if nothing else.

Anyhow, if anyone out there has some advice on this, I'm all ears. Word to the wise: I'm not one for complexities or multiple steps, nor am I an aspiring chemist. I want to rid my lawn of these noxious weeds, not blow it up. HELP!!!!!

Is Beijing Ready for the Olympics?

Well, I have to say, my friend Dan is always one that can ferret out a funny web site when needed. I just added a link that I'm sure you'll all like. He always knows how to send something funny to me when I need it the most.

Having a mind numbing headache this morning, I wasn't sure what kind of mood I'd be in today. I was supposed to have my last door and storm door put on my house today. But, given that construction workers/carpenters, cable installers, telephone line people, (you get the picture) create their own schedules over and over again, I wasn't the least bit surprised that they didn't show up today (and....it's not a monsoon!). What's REALLY annoying is having had to make "camp" arrangements for my two hounds today, for no apparent reason......apparently.

Pissy as I was this morning about the missed "appointment" with the contractor, my friend Dan sure must have sensed it. He sent me one HELLUVA website. Now, for anyone that might be offended by off-color humor (especially when it deals with other cultures, let's say) you may not like it. I, on the other hand, thought the website was SHEER BRILLIANCE!

I visited Dan when he was stationed in Korea a few years back, and I marveled at all of the signs, t-shirts, and other weirdness of Korea had to offer when the English language doesn't really translate well....or at all. Take for example the word "wow." Seems pretty simple. Well, in Korea....it's so.....not simple. As Dan and I were strolling through this underground mall in Seoul (apparently constructed in case the North Koreans with their wooden combat weapons and germ warfare devices might attack....at least Seoulians will have a place to shop!), we came across a t-shirt that had a really odd English-like word on it. As we glanced at it more.....and phonetically sounded it out loud, we soon realized that the word was "wow," only in Korean it translates to : WHOAU. Go figure.

After that, and seeing a little boy dressed in a pink shirt that said "Tommy Girl" on it (which i quickly said to Dan, "oh, how unfortunate"), I realized I wasn't in Wisconsin anymore, but rather the "land-of-the-not-quite-right." Yes, this would be Korea in all its splendor. Well, "Engrish" is a great (and FUNNY) website that no doubt will keep me busy "hunting" when I go to China in October. It was nice to reminisce about the time I had in the Orient.

What'll they think of next?

Pomp and Circumstance

I'm curious...do people still say that the best times of your life are the times that you spent in high school?

As I sit here listening to Elgar's, "Pomp and Circumstance March," it inspires me to think about this question.

All I know is, I hated high school. To me it was one big show: the more popular, beautiful, and connected you were, the better your chances were for being cast in a lead role in that show. I was relegated to either chorus, identified in the play as an "extra," or some other position that to the lay person seems irrelevant.

For high schoolers, my best advice would be: whoever tries to tell you that your high school years are the best years of your life are lying like a bad IKEA rug. Rather, the time in college is WAY better that anything in high school, and your friends are much closer friends. At least that's what I have found.

March to the beat of your own drum, sing out with a carefree spirit, and just be you. That's what people like about you, instead of being the poseur that most people tend to be in high school.

Leaves of Grass

OK, whoever upstairs controls the rain machine, I have one thing to say: You can stop for a while! I think we got the point. It reminds me of SNL (the name of the skit escapes me at the moment) where Will Farrell says "more cowbell!" The rain machine person is like the cowbell guy, thinking to himself, "if I do this, I'm going to do this with conviction!" I'm a fan of the sound of the cowbell, but a little of that sound goes a long way. Much like this rain we've been having.

I don't know about you, but every time I watch some random "Wide World of Sports" episode (and is this program even on any more?) it usually happens to be downhill skiing. It always seems that there is some crazy Swiss contingent that plasters themselves in the colors of their flag, and they always ring that damn cowbell. It's always a veritable cornucopia of sizes and timbres, but cowbell nonetheless. And they ring those bells like they're going out of style. I always have to wonder whether or not the Swiss population tends to have a higher frequency of deafness than any other nationality.

Well, that cowbell, is how I feel about this rain lately. A little bit has gone a LONG way. I have come to the conclusion that I don't like the feeling of wet grass while walking barefoot. It's kind of slimy, and god knows how many worms, birds or other fauna has pooped on the grass to make it feel that way.

Anyhow, it was a definite wake up this morning. All I know is, wear shoes, and stop the rain!

The Daunting Task- or so it seems?

Well, I suppose one would ask why I would start one of these. I guess you could say, upon inspiration from my dear friend Donna, that this would be an interesting thing to do. Often times, I am told that I have a lot of things to say. Yet, when it comes to actually writing things down I'm somewhat (well ok....mostly) lazy.

Interesting as I get this thing started, is that trying to come up with a journal name is about as difficult as thinking about what you're going to drink at your local watering hole, when you know you want something different, yet always migrate to the same thing. Some genius said that the number of words that the average person in the U.S. knows in English is about 10,000. And here I am with about 10,000 options to choose from, and I have a hard time even coming up with a topic let alone a sentence.

So, I guess a place to start would be, "why is your blog called 'Being Boris?"

I'm asking myself that right now. I'd love to be able to say that it's some exotic reason, or that I was born with that name, or that it was something that I just made up after the muse struck me. The fact of the matter is: it's none of the above. In actuality, somehow when I was in college and pledging my fraternity at Ripon, my brother (for whatever reason) gave me that nickname as a pledge. Like some nicknames (and thankfully with this one) it never stuck. I suppose I could have gotten some awful nickname like Boozer, or Crotch, or Phlegm, or H.C. (you figure THAT one out), or some other random name that often was derived from a night at a line up after most brothers had too much to drink. The more you hated it, the more they called you it.

I had a hard time liking it. All I kept thinking was either Boris Karloff, or the character Boris from "Rocky and Bullwinkle." I wondered to myself how I ever resembled EITHER of those two, since I'm not much of a horror film person (let alone old, BAD horror films), and the other Boris was an oaf of a cartoon character villain, with a very bad Russian accent I might add. And at that time, I HATED vodka and beets. So any semblance of an affinity for Russian culture or food and drink was pretty much nil. I have no friggin' clue.

So pretend to love it, I thought to myself. Embrace it. Enjoy it. Use it whenever you need to, and never complain. That, I guess, was the magical solution. It never stuck (well, at least for now). Probably since for many at college it was easier to say "DF" or "Franker" or both names simultaneously with an applied hyphen. Anyhow, I guess I would throw a piece of my guarded self out there since most people would never know that Boris was actually my nickname for all of about 9 weeks.

I have no idea where I'll go with this. But like any journey, it'll hopefully be interesting, and diverse; varied, and eclectic; and hopefully amusing.
We'll see, now, won't we...?