Su-Wing, batta-batta-golfa-bat-a-golfa

With permission from Jim, another golf story:

Jim is beefy man. Oh, the beef that is Jim; lots o' muscle, and he uses it in golf.

He gets a pretty good long ball, but his drives need direction...or rather, a different direction.

On hole nine at Capitol City, the fairway is lined on the right with a pretty solid row of trees, mainly to keep those potentially-fatal driving-range balls from killing golfers. Of note in particular was one tree, a good hundred feet high, with plenty of foliage. That tree was maybe forty yards in, and twenty yards to the right of the fairway from the tee-off place.

Jim's swing had such consistency, he could hit that tree with a slice not one, not two but...well, to cross over games, I'll just leave the not-too-subtle clue of "Could there perchance be a strike six?"

To put it in an even kinder way (*Snicker*), he hit more balls to that tree than I have dropped follows in my life.

I think after seven, he called it quits, having gone through an entire metaphorical baseball inning.

Thwak du Jour

Golfing isn't usually the most amusing thing in the world. Sure, there are plenty of things to say to people who miss their swings entirely ("Strike 2."), land in sand traps ("Looks like I'm hittin' the beach!"), or putt circles around the hole ("Shall we just lay down a NASCAR strip for your ball?").

But, at least once in a golfer's lifetime, something glorious will happen. I ain't talkin' Hole-in-Ones, either, Holy as those may be (Chalk one more pun up for me). My moment of glory was on Hole 5 at Capitol City, Friday evening.

The only thing you need to know for this story is what a tee marker is:
A tee marker is a cube, about eight inches to the side, that is planted into the ground in pairs. It marks where a player sets his tee. There are usually three distinct sets: The back is for pros, the middle is for casual males, and the front is for casual females (maybe pro females, too, I'm not sure). They are made of wood.

Here's the setup of the markers at Hole 5: One pair about five yards in front of the other, with the lady's offset a bit to the right. Nothin' spectacular.

I set up my tee and all that in the middle tee-marker pair. I had my driver (light but big-ass club) in hand, and was ready to send one into the air...or at least send it more than fifty feet ahead of me. That was my goal: To do better than I had for the rest of the day, and get that fifty-first foot onto my drive. (You may be able to infer from that that I'm a beginner.)

I took one practice swing (actual practice swing, not a whiff that I re-dubbed afterwards). I had a well-relaxed swing, and had the thought, "Now this is gonna take me places. Like way the hell out on the fairway."

While a main objective of a drive is to get the ball in the air, I focused more on the straight-angle shot. I used that same relaxed swing, only I tried to get a little more speed behind the drive, and that I did get. I had a beautiful connection, transferring all the power of my swing into the ball.

The problem: The ball didn't go up. And I set my tee directly behind the lady's tee marker on the left.

Not only did I smack the ball right into that tee marker, I made the marker:
* Rise out of the ground,
* Spin through three or four complete revolutions, and
* Land a good ten feet away from where it was planted.

And it was planted in with a 4-inch nail.

The ball landed about three feet away from me, almost bouncing straight back, but none of us cared. Jim, Aaron and I were all incapacitated--we were all on the ground, keeping our sides from bursting with laughter.

We decided, at the first moment that we could breathe regularly again, that we should claim that hole as "Alex's hole." --Which quickly degenerated into "Alex's anus," since we're all male to the core. I then thought I should knock a golf ball into Uranus, throwing that out of alignment, and thus claiming Uranus as

All right, all right, I won't say it again. Once was enough.

But hot damn! that was a shot to be proud of. Jim & Aaron thought that I deserved a stroke bonus for that; I'll just have to remember my claim on hole 5 as my hole.

My Hair Hurts

Ha! I say to all of you nay-sayers. This sentence is intellectually possible.

Assuming your hair is sweaty, forming strands that sting you in the eye.

Wednesday, my hair was sweaty. It formed strands, and settled in my eye every once in a while--again, the gazillion and one turns I do a night came back to haunt me.

Though I suppose Leah is the only one who could experience this the same way I do; to test this, all we have to do is get her hair wet, and spin her. A lot. Stopping every now and then; I think the perfect solution is to dip her into clothes-washing machine. Soap shouldn't be necessary.

At this point, I once again reference my appropriate facial gesture.

Woe?

The Jitterbug Club at SPSCC decided to make t-shirts for club members, via an iron-on patch system that functioned mainly on Jen's donated time and ironing talents. Oli Newsome had this to say on his backside:

"Dancing is far better than sitting on a wet trout."

It seems non-sensical and British to me, but then, I don't have much leeway here, as the back of my shirt proudly reads:

"Woe to he/Who drops Follow Three."

See, before last Wednesday, I had dropped two and a half follow-partners. One of them was an old lady who didn't have the abdominal muscles to get out of a dip that I had over-extended myself on, so we slowly plumetted (out-of-place word, that one) to the ground, and I had to drop her the last three or four inches. This was at the Occasions ballroom, which I must say is, above all...resonant. For the mini-afro that lady had going, her head made quite the contact.

Another follow (integer) that I dropped was Spring; I just screwed up a dip and plop she did go. An "Oops," a little burning shame, and it's passed.

The half of a follow that I dropped was Susan Deuell (I probably screwed up that name--silly French spellings). During a Stupid Moves song at a Jitterbug Club meeting, Susan and Oli Newsome were dancing together, and I decided to cut in, since Oli wasn't being particularly Stupid at the time. I kicked him in the butt and sent him on his merry way (*Insert evil grin here*). I then did a few regular Lindy Basics with Susan, racking my brain for a follow-up stupid move, and she tripped coming in on one of those basics. Her fault; but since I ended up letting her fall to the ground (I don't remember if it was through my arms, or if she was too far away from me to catch her), I just chalked that up as half of a Follow Drop.

I realize now that last Wednesday, I actually dropped another follow. Well, sorta. I do a gazillion and one turns a night, and on one of those turns, this girl I was dancing with lost her footing and plopped down. She had stepped on her ankle funnily. She is still fairly new to dancing, and took up quite a bit of floor space every time I did turn her (which was a lot, since my muscle memory knows turns darn well). I still don't know if I should count that as a drop on my behalf or not; I decided to conveniently ignore it, for the sake of my shirt.

But there is no way in hell I can ignore Tuesday's ...resonance.

I don't remember how I ended up out there, but I was alone on the floor, somewhat near the DJ stand, spinning around like a careless child (that's meant in a good way). Suddenly, Andrea (Olympian swing dancer) grabs me from behind, and I use her momentum to spin myself. Or something; to make a potentially long and spotty story short, I ended up on my back, with my legs high in the air. My memory's actually quite spotty on how that happened...but nevertheless, that's the context.

Andrea pulled me up, and we started doing some Lindy. I did a left-hand turn, maybe a little too flamboyantly, and she fell. Oh, man, did she fall. Ass-first, vector of motion was DOWN. And "the Earth...done quaketh" (Lewis Black). She plopped onto her back, a huge smile on her face. Of course, I didn't fully realize she was smiling, and therefore enjoying herself, because I was too busy thinking "Hoooooooooooly shit, did I feel that through my shoes?" And, Andrea and I were still just about the only people on the floor.

I helped her up, and she was laughing and chortling, so it was all in good spirit. We had a fun dance after that--vertically. But when I walked towards my Precious Water, Cassie and Aaron were siting there, poised to wag my shame back at me. They had come to the dance for the Birthday Dance Jim and I were sharing, but since neither of them dance much (Aaron, none at all), they didn't have much to do but be an audience.

Cassie quoted Black.

Aaron had his fingers held high, for the world to see: "Three."

Jim was a little of both, with emphasis on "Three."

So, here was the Plan: My shirt promised me Woe. I didn't feel like having Woe. So, at Aaron's suggestion, I'll just take a marker and strike through "Three" and write "Four" below it (sorry, Jen!). The rhyme will still be there, and people will be able to see the ...update.

Note how I said that "was" the plan.

Nick (Sheppard) came behind me as Aaron and I were chatting about something, and he started blues-dancing me from behind. Granted, male-to-male, this looks about on par with watching two guys wrestle, differing in that blues dancing is meant to be dirty. He was singing "Happy Birthday, Mr. President," in the style of Wayne (Wayne's World). Miranda joined in, and blues-sandwiched me between her and Nick. After the last note, they both commenced birthday spankings--and I had 19 to go through. So, it naturally followed that I tried to wriggle my way out, and ended up tilting myself and Miranda. Nick was suspending me, and I was suspending Miranda--until Nick gave me a birthday "spank" on the Wrong Side, with a fist. It was somewhat light, but still enough to pull the Male Reflex, and Miranda lost her suspension. Down she went.

See, here's my point of debate: She was not Follow Five, because not only were we not dancing, she was SPANKING ME at the time.

In any case, I may have to cross out "Four" and write "Five" below that. Aaron also thinks I should have descriptions of how I dropped each follow--that's kinda iffy for a t-shirt.

Centenniel

(Blog entries, not years.)

I could think of no better way of celebrating having published 100 entries than...well, I actually couldn't think of anything beyond posting that I got 367 comments so far. And that I updated my Links sidebar with some more Transformers humor: A Mugshot gallery. Each mugshot has one of those Windows "helpful comment" mouse-over yellow blobs, but with humor laced inside. Excerpt:

Beast Machines, Maximals, Battle Unicorn: "Dost thou see me? Hast thou not known the pleasures of a femmebot's touch? Pity."

Beast Machines, Maximals, Buzzsaw (a bee-like 'bot): "Float like a butterfly, sting like A MAWFOCKA!"

A fine way to spend an afternoon, if you're fairly versed in Transformers lore. Some of the references are inside jokes, but there are still plenty of PG-13 generalist jokes. (I think that's as risqué as it gets.)

I've also noticed that Movable Type does not enjoy accented ASCII characters anymore. That last text schpiddle was an e with a forward accent, pre-saving.

And, besides that, I had to play with Leah's face. Some of us see the resemblance between Leah and me now that we have almost the same haircut. The difference is in the back, though--where I have a bowl (or brain, as my brother Damian likes to say), Leah has, well:

But head-on, if one of us changes our hair color, and if I sit in sunbathed rooms more often, then we would be indistinguishable. And, I suppose, if you sawed off my shins, removed my intestines and a few vertebrae to shorten me a bit.

Spooky, no?

Sticakamjig -- the Second

I remember that last summer, of '02, Katie went off to Hawaii for a family vacation. She brought back souvenirs for a bunch of us, including Hawaiian golf balls for Aaron and I, some...uh, other stuff (so much for remembering), and I remember getting a necklace. It was a small, wooden salamander carving--or is that Gecko?--and attached to a simple black band (nylon, I think).

At the time, I had my driver's licence, but no vehicle of my own. I was driving my family's haul-ass (alternately a hauler-of-assloads) '89 F-250 Custom. 8' x 10' bed, no working AC, and sprinkles of mold on the outside from being parked under a maple tree. ("Tank", as some of you may remember.) I drove around for a few days (not all at once, tempting as driving around in a 12-mpg vehicle for 72 straight hours may seem) wearing that Gecko as a necklace, but soon became paranoid for its safety, since it was wooden, potentially fragile, and I was (am) a person of flamboyant movement. So, I went the Fuzzy Dice (sans dice) route, and adorned the rearview mirror of Tank with that Gecko.

Soon afterwards, my dad and I got a '90 Acura Legend, which I christened "The Stickamajig" and adorned with my Gecko--after I learned to drive it, since I knew squat about stick-shifting. The Gecko would often turn and face away from me, I suspect because the sun & general heat contorted the nylon band. By great fortune and chance, I could run my finger down between the two nylon strands that met at a knot holding the Gecko in place, and upon removing my finger, the Gecko would be facing me, perfectly. The broad side of its carved side faced directly at my head in the driver's seat. Running my finger down the strands would remind me of fun times with Katie, and I became quite happy to have that Gecko, watching me drive--comforted, even.

Of all of the driving I did with people, there is a toss-up between who I've driven around more. I think Damian wins that award by way of daily school driving and misc. trips, but the recorded highest amount definitely goes to Jen. She logged somethin' like 9 hours, a third of which were quiet because we were both pretty tired from three hours of Oly Tuesday dances.

At the last Oly dance she went to--last week--one of her hair accessories fell out a couple times. As a male, I have no idea what the heck it's called, but it's not a clip, it's more like a set of teeth that just goes into the hair--I remember playing with one of my mom's as a kid and using it as a picket fence. But Jen's was too small to be a fence.

That night was the last time I was going to see Jen in person 'til...Christmas? I dunno. But I had to say goodbye to a friend I had made that year; in fact, that was the first goodbye I said all summer. To all the other people I had seen, like in the daytime choir, I would alawys say "see you later," even after the concert ended. But Jen was the first person I knew fairly well that was departing.

It saddened me to give my first, and unfortunately not last, goodbye that Tuesday/Wednesday-by-ten-minutes morning. But, I moved on, and drove myself home. In the morning, I realized Jen's picket-fence clip with Amazing Fly-from-Head powers was in my passenger seat. I had another piece of memorabilia for my car, since she was probably over the mountains by the time I found it. However, I had not a place to hang it--so I stuck it in my dashboard-compartment, next to the pen that melted into a curvy shape but still clicks.

Unfortunately, I had to unadorn The Stickamajig today. I took out Jen's hair-thingy, the Heart and Soul of my audio system (the mp3 discman), the t-shirt I throw over the steering wheel on hot days; but the hardest part was taking down the Gecko. The angle on that was perfect; it was a Moment of Zen; it was flowing Feng Shui at a finger's reach. But I had to take the Gecko off of the rear-view mirror, as part of the Exodus of Alex's Crap from the Car Formerly Known as the Stickamajig. Because the Former Stickamajig is going up for sale.

I got a new car today. Much yip and accompanying ee.

I upgraded from a '90 Acura Legend 5-speed--wth no anti-lock brakes--to a '98 Accord 5-speed--with no anti-lock brakes. I lost a sunroof (-), lost a ticking sound in the engine (+), lost the optimal location of in front of the arm rest for my mp3 discman (-), and got one helluva heavy clutch; 'tis like a lead weight.

Oddly enough, I gleamed a few bonuses from the features that were originally designed for smokers. I don't have a cigarette lighter / plug-in; it's now just an electrical jack, no lighter included. Righteous. Also, I found something next to the steering wheel that pulls out like an ash tray, but is way too plushy to be intended for that gray crap. Jen's hair thingy fits spookily well into it, though; so I didn't have to ditch that piece of memorabilia.

I hung the Gecko off of the rearview mirror, but I couldn't bring myself to test it. I wanted to see if it would face me on command, on the same command that I used in the Stickamajig; but I left it for morning. I'll wait for full daylight until I can pull the same effect from my first car adornment; I'll wait until it's legitimate morning, instead of this 0122 silliness, to drive with my Fuzzy Dice substitute.

...

...I spent four and a half hours writing this. Something tells me I need to write more than once a week, since I seem hellbent on getting a week's worth of writing out.

This is entry #99. What do with my third digit...hmm...maybe I'll just poke more fun at Leah's haircut. Yeah, that sounds like a plan. *Insert evil laugh sound-effect here.*

To Make You Think

Saturday night, Olympia Outdoor Cinemas showed The Sound of Music. I was less than enticed to go, since I recall not liking that movie at all the last time I saw it. So, I had an evening of video games ahead of me (forgot about Fool's Play).

Aaron called, and asked if I wanted to see the show he was playing for, Me and My Girl. I had heard that it was funny & British, so I immediately agreed. Damian came along for the ride when Aaron picked me up--and we were off to dinner.

Over (Brewery City) Pizza, I told Aaron and Cassie about the next planned event Damian had coming up. Someone cued my memory by talking about weddings:

Me: "Speaking of weddings, guess what Damian has coming up next week?"

Aaron: "'Eeey, now 'oo's the lucky lass?"

While Aaron played along, Cassie gave me a funny (and good-humored) look. She noted I like to say things that make people stop and think; I say wedding & Damian in the same sentence, and that brings the mental gears to screeching, squeaking halts.

I do like those moments where I can cause a sudden "What the hell?" silence, then resolve it gracefully. Damian has a gig next Wednesday, in a string quartet; however, I learned today that it wasn't for a wedding, just background music at an outdoors dinner party. Ah, sweet wording...

Anyways. Aaron did want to go to my choir concert Thursday, but unfortunately Me and My Girl started that same night. I'm glad I saw what all the hub-bub was about (Bub). 'Twas a hilarious show, goof-ups and all. Well, I shouldn't say the goof-ups were all funny: A table laden with set glasses and brandy bottles tipped over and crashed in Act 1. Ouch. Act 2's one goof with croquet balls was more highly anticipated, though; Aaron knew from day 1 that with people hitting croquet balls on a perfectly flat stage, the ONLY logical place for balls to end up would be the orchestra pit. Saturday night was the first time a ball rolled off-stage into the pit--sans klang & klunk, luckily, as Mr. Klein caught it (or retrieved it from the floor) with neither sound nor damage.

As for other things that weren't in the playbook: The lead, Bill, and another guy had a dance/song duet, and after that was over, the other guy was on the floor, sitting up, and Bill was kneeling next to him. After a few lines, talking about their respective womenfolk, Bill nonchalantly bends over and gives the other guy a kiss on the lips.
And then they sat.

They looked at each others' eyes, and sat.

They gave no lines, and sat.

The audience finally cracked up, at which point Bill turned to them and said "Awh, you people ahr too ea-sy." Much hilarity ensued.

I was glad to have gone to that--great dancing, great humor...a bit much on the sex side (between cousins, nonetheless!), but oh well. Great show.

Tease

Tonight, I had my first vocal solo. Or rather, I had my first musical choral solo--I've already had one solo in a choir concert, where I just did a really hideously loud & evil laugh. That lasted a whole five seconds.

Tonight's solo was Moon River. That lasted for a bit longer. I didn't see anybody there from the FallenEarth community, save Jen (who I drove in myself). Not that I blame any of you, or hold it against you--I was just weirded out when the one guy who recognized me in the audience was a friend(?) of my ex-girlfriend. I don't recall having liked the guy, either; oh well, he kept the chitchat brief.

Moon River was nowhere near as good as I hoped it to be. I did fine Wednesday night when I rehearsed it, because I had to use solely the power of my voice to project through the entire hall. I had no choice but to take the balls-out approach to the song. But then, Darrel gave me a microphone--I then thought I could get away with singing at less than full strength.

Urgh. Solo singing must be chest-out! I didn't realize this until I finished sucking my way trhough the first half of the song. After the piano had its thematic reprieve, I finally let loose and finished the song the way I sang it the first time Wednesday night--but I used the mic too. Huzzah, and all that. Volume wasn't the point--power in the voice was.

Anywhoo, as I mentioned already, I drove Jen in to see this concert. Good times at the concert and on the drive back to her house--we sang "The Sexy Data Tango," among other things. So much for her being driven by a gentleman.

Ah, but the drive wasn't all fun and singing. In Montesano, after we turn past the traffic light (yes, the), the next road we take is a 25 mph stretch. There are two signs to remind drivers; about fifty feet after the second sign, there's a "Nevermind, now it's 35" sign. Clever layout.

Anywhoo, I've had a nasty habit of taking the road the wrong speed--the latter. Tonight, I took the latter speed of 35 about a hundred feet before the 35 sign, and got a terrible shock. Red and blue, a football field or two behind me.

Once again, Jen heard an ungentlemanly side of me come out--much cursing, et cetera. I had yet to have gotten a ticket, and had a brief sense of really not wanting to have it--but that passed and I accepted my fate, knowing that I would have a potentially obnoxiously-priced speeding ticket on my record.

Then the car passed right on by. I was in the clear.

This has happened to me FOUR times. Twice, the squad cars had their siren-horns blaring, causing me to pull over. Yet, I have yet to have a cop car pull up behind me. And I'm feeling TEASED. Honestly, I'm going to thank the first officer that does pull me over for going the wrong speed or taking a yellow light when it's too yellow. I WANT a ticket--I'm tired of being scared for no good reason.

...

"I want a ticket..." Hoo boy. I imagine that'll pass pretty soon. Still, I get pretty stressed seeing those lights come on behind me--I stayed on the side of the road for a minute after Unrelated Officer #4 passed me tonight, collecting myself. Thanks for the pat on the back, Jen.

Camping: My pictures

Let's see, I wrote that I would upload my pictures from camping a week or two ago. Well, after Profesionally Crastinating, like I do with a lot of work every summer, I've gotten the shots up. These are from the weekend of July 11th, mostly Saturday. If any of you want the full original (1600x1200 pixels), of these or any of my Graphical Gallery entries, send me an e-mail with the Pxxxxxxx #.

_

I tell ya, there's nothing like having an open (read: coverless) campground and having it start to rain on some of the essential items (firepit, chairs, etc). At the first sight of rain, a couple of us threw a tarp up and over an area of the campsight, roping it down (up?) in place.

Unfortunately, as you may note in the foreground, we couldn't cover the firepit. So, in need of a source of heat, the group huddled around their newly placed fire:

After Mirali managed to separate herself (or sometime that day), they got into a brunch of cereal. They both wanted Trix, and they both shared the box. Either Miranda or Ali decided to take their half of the box all in one mouthful, and the other half of Mirali, thinking on the same wavelength like normal, took her half of the box the same way. Of course, upon seeing each other do the same thing, they both pointed and laughed, though it was somewhat like laughing at one's reflection in the mirror, then realizing there is no mirror.

Eventually, the light rain had dried off and we could start a fire. Miranda, group-designated Fire Goddess, stoked a fire into existence about half an hour before sundown. We all gathered 'round, and chatted for a bit. At some point, someone made a funny comment about Jim & marshmellow-like figures, and Katie thought of something she could add to it. She started to say it, but stopped herself, due to thinking that it would be incredibly rude for her to say. Jim noticed her start to say something, and asked her for what it was. After Katie politely declined to say hat it was, Jim asked her again; then he badgered her; and so on, and so forth, with two or three intermediaries evaluating the message and advising Katie against saying it. Jim, however, would not be sated, and continued to demand that Katie "Say it!" in progressively (and still friendly) demonic tones:

This is what he looked like an hour after Katie kept herself from saying it. (She eventually told him. I, however, remember the battle far better than the victory, and don't recall what it was.) I love this face of Jim's; partly because Jim is terrific at making faces period, but I like the little hints of evil too. MMmm, evil.

Besides that playful romp around Katie's phrase, we still had a long night around the camp fire. It may have been a bit too long for me, as I whipped out a little brand of evil of my own--in the dead of night, with everybody illuminated by a fire's light, I used the flash on my camera. (Oops.)

So, I stuck with the no-flash, all fire lighting for the rest of my shots. Some of these are from Friday night too. My favorite is the last shot I posted here, of Ali lighting a plate on fire--I love how the flare of the plate cast shadows in the dirt, and how it lit Mirali & Katie.

And now, I'll leave you with a lighter side of Jim's many faces. The hair was the result of the picture being taken at some ungodly early hour of the morning (like, 8 or so), but the face was his work.

Another Reminder

Once again, I'm reading Aaron's blog and I'm inspired to write another of my own.

Incoming concert plug:

Next Thursday, at SPSCC in the lecture hall (26-105), the summer choirs are having their collective concert. I think the concert is titled "A Medley of Movie Melodies," simply to screw up the director as he introduces it. But yeah, the theme is movie songs, and we plan on having the concert be a multi-media shindig: The choir sings, and clips from the movie play in the background.

I sorta cheated on one of my solos, though: I'm doing the Mister Ed theme. I may have to use a physical prop in place of a clip. My other solo's legit, though--"Moon River" (Breakfast at Tiffany's).

So, at 1900 next Thursday, if ye have nothing else to do (or if you need to see eight concerts in a quarter, like one happy-slacky trombone player), come on down to SPSCC and hear the summer choir.

Dancing, En Route

Disclaimer: Written with permission from hapless Ali.

The Setting: Miranda's Car, I-5 North before Exit 111, en route to Idaho Dave's Wednesday Night Lindy Bomb dance.

The Cast: Miranda (driving), Ali (Shotgun), Nuvo & me (in the back, me on the right)

The Idea of the Hour: Ali decided to change her pants. In the car. She brought a pair along that she didn't want her mom to see take out of the house (nothing inappropriate; they were just meant to be worn at college and not before, so decreed her mother).

The Reassurance of the Idea of the Hour: Ali thought that having me seated behind her would make everything dandy. No guy could possibly see the color of her underwear (she told us, anyway: blue).

My Cynical Assumption: At least three high-seated SUV drivers would drive by, on the right, and get a free show.

What Really Happened: Nobody was in the lane next to us. Nobody. However, the next lane over, there was a bus. A high-seated bus. "Discovery Tours," the side read. And guess what they discovered? Ali, in the middle of her pelvic thrusts that she had to use to pull her new pair of pants up in the front seat. Miranda was the first to notice that a group of middle-aged people had one heckuva free show. Ali screamed and immediately planted herself back into her seat, as low as possible; however, I would like to stress again, there was nobody blocking the line of sight between Ali's single window and the bus's dozen.

Miranda sped a bit to get away from the bus's opportune eyes. We all had a good laugh for a while, but with my one-track mind, I continued to laugh for the next ten minutes, off-and-on. Besides thinking it funny by itself, I also thought of what she could have used to cover herself, had she so desired; at my feet was a Kleenex box.

*Snicker.* Heck, I'm still laughing now.

Aaron's Day at McDonald's: THE MOVIE

Aaron wrote a fine entry on a trip to McDonald's, and the movie-maker in me saw the McDonald's guy hand off the hamburger in a soft-focus shot. I wrote that in a comment to the blog, but then I thought "What would it look like as this guy realizes he gave the wrong order out?"

And, well, I got a wee bit carried away. Here's my fifteen-minutes-of-writing, potentially-1-week-of-shooting movie, inspired by a true story of Aaron Wilson:

A.) Fade into an up-angle shot, focused on a McDonald's electronic ordering board, with the camera situated across the Drive-Thru lane. A car drives into the shot, covering the board with the door. The driver and the employee's speaker converse in "Blah's" and other odd, yet normal-talking-volume mumbling sounds (the more electronic snow sounds, the better). The car continues on, and the board has an order of two hamburgers.

B.) Simple cut to an over-the-shoulder shot of a window-worker in McDonald's looking outside, a bag in hand. The window-worker looks in the bag.

C.) Simple cut to a top-down shot of the bag's contents: Two cheeseburgers.

D.) Simple cut to the over-the-shoulder shot. Aaron & Cassie drive into the shot, and the window-worker, hitherto referred to as The Guy, hands off the order. The Guy holds up a double-printed receipt, rips off Aaron's half, and hands it to him. Aaron gives a slight salute / wave goodbye and drives off. The Guy is holding the other half of the receipt.

E.) The camera takes place of the receipt, in The Guy's hand. The Guy looks at the receipt, and then jolts his head up and out the window; the camera can see up his nose, since the shot is positioned in front of The Guy's chest. Cross cut from The Guy to The Guy's perspective, watching Aaron drive away, back to The Guy, who looks at the receipt (directly into the camera) again.

F.) Cut to an extreme close up of the receipt, focusing on the line: "2 Hamburgers..."

G.) Simple cut to a five-year-old girl and her mother at the counter, ordering; the camera is at the ketchup dispense-a-ma-jig. The girl is actively swaying herself around, obviously bored; she stops suddenly and looks off-screen.

H.) Simple cut to the girl's perspective, which is about a foot below the countertop. She is standing about a foot away form the counter, and thus sees a whole lotta ceiling--until The Guy flys over the counter like a Hurdle-runner. He lands out of the camera shot, but we all hear his shoes clack against the ground.

I.) Simple cut to outside the McDonald's arch-path door, at the end of the Drive-Thru lane. A middle-aged gentleman opens the door, expecting to walk through it himself. But The Guy seizes this opportunity and charges by Middle Age Man, who falls with his back against the wall. The Guy grabs the top rung of the walkway rail with his left hand, burgers in right, kicks his legs to the side so he can go over the top, and uses his running's momentum and stiffarm to barrel-roll himself twice before landing on the ground, burgers perfectly protected.

J.) Simple cut to a crane shot, top-down perspective. The Guy chases after Aaron's car, about to turn out of the McDonald's parking lot.

K.1) Simple cut the camera to about Aaron's head level, but just outside of the passenger-side window so Cassie's head is in the shot as well. Aaron is looking in the rearview mirror at this approaching Guy--this Dude/Duke of Deliverance. The Guy stops himself mostly by legwork, but with a slight touch of the left hand on the top of Aaron's door (the window is still rolled down). He holds up the hamburgers, and...

K.2) The focus grows soft. Aaron acts as the intermediary between Cassie and The Guy, trading with-cheese for without-. After the burgers are traded, Aaron thanks The Guy. With a swell of pride for a good deed, The Guy stands at attention (yet squats, keeping his head in the shot, while giving the appearance of a straightly-erect torso), and gives Aaron a salute. "All in a day's work, sir." This is almost the perfect, happily-ever-after ending--however, on "day's," The Guy's voice cracks. Aaron and Cassie look forward and drive off, leaving The Guy squatting and saluting. The Guy holds this pose for three more seconds, then lowers his hand, stands up, then relaxes his face. His expression maintains the "I just got a buttload of Browny Points" look, as he walks back into the store.

L.) Simple Cut the camera to the walkway, almost parallel to the glass wall (horizontally inclined toward the door). Middle Age Man is still standing with his back braced against the wall, a bit dazed. The Duke of Deliverance offers his hand to Middle Age Man, and The Duke helps him through the door. The door closes on its own momentum. Fade out.

Written at Dusty Couch Studios; dedicated to Aaron and Cassie.

How too Spel Corectlie

The title was for prodding me into writing this blog, Katie =P Love ya.

Well, as Katie wrote, Friday night was a pretty late soiree of her, Nuvo and I. At about midnight, the three of us were up doing madlibs. I was typing at that point, with my write hand, since I was the only person fully in the seat the three of us had assembled ourselves in (Katie on my lap/chair's armrest, Nuvo on the floor). My right hand wasn't too quick with the typing, but it didn't fudge up too many words.

We got a call from Jane at that early Saturday-morning hour, and left for Jane's party (as Katie already wrote about). That wasn't too cheery an experience for me; Jane's boyfriend tried to make the place sound uber-cool by saying that Kurt Cobain lived their and wrote one of his songs, but I didn't believe him at all. Why? A few minutes before he said that, someone kicked a paper bag over, and spilled a couple of beer bottles off of the top, bringing the rest of the bag crashing down, and letting everyone in the room know that the entire bag was full of empty bottles.

I do not find alcohol charming; I can act friendly around it, and tolerate it for maybe a couple hours, but a drinkin' hall is not an environment I find much enjoyment in--unless there are plenty of drinking songs. I like the Irish (drinking) songs especially. Unfortunately, the background music was quite mellow pot-smoking music--again, somewhere I don't want to be for extended periods of time.

Well, as Katie already wrote, her other friend Alex was driven home by another girl who was at the party. I asked Alex how she was getting home, with what I thought was a compassionate grin showing on my face; Alex thought it was cute (like an aunt looking at her young nephew), and said that she thought her driver was OK. With my mind still on the bag of beer bottles, I smiled...outwardly. And then Katie, Nuvo and I left the tobacco-smoke-laced appartment, heading back to Katie's. At least, I hope that was tobacco I was smellin.'

Well, Katie got control of the keyboard when we got back, and oh my was their hilarity in her ad-libbing. Nuvo and I kept feeding her words, but Katie..."interpreted" the words' spellings quite...euh, liberally. Many laughs ensued from Nuvo and I.

As for having direct fun with Katie's magnificent spelling skills, I can only remember being a particularly big dickweed at one point: Katie had asked Nuvo and I for an adjective. I gave her one through a deliciously evil and well-deserved grin: "Psychokinetic."

Nuvo and I shared an evil chuckle and looked at the monitor. Katie had gotten three letters out: "Phy." Nuvo and I snickered the same way we had for the other hundred and one or so times Katie had put in words besides "mean," "dead," "murder"--I was almost surprised to see her spell "dying" correctly, after seeing her finish the current word off as "phykokinitic." I guess she has more experience with inflicting literal pain than the average person. Or maybe Nuvo's and my chuckles struck her spiting nerves. Yeah, that's probably it; I'm sure hearing me remind her that "house" doesn't have a 'w' brought out the murder in her typing anyway.

Of course, I tried to condition myself to not correct her. Eventually, she would get four letters of a word out, and I would open my mouth and start to utter, but cut myself off, "Euh, nevermind." I had plenty of opportunities to learn to do that--but alas, the anality in me had to check Katie's spelling. Nuvo learned a lot quicker than I did--but it was still funny =)

And now, I'm off to see Shrek downtown, with plenty of friends including Katie. If Katie hasn't ground me into sausage meat with her knuckles by the end of the night, I'll post some camping pictures.