8 posts tagged “qotd”
What's your cell phone's ringtone? What made you pick it?
My cellphone is set to the standard ringing sound. "Brrrrring!," it says. Simple, classic. I chose it because I don't care for the other options and I don't care to download something special.
People actually remark about my standard ring. They say they like it.
If you could get someone in your life to start a blog, who would it be and why?
Kevin Newman. I mean, he has a blog now, but he has so much more to say then what he puts out there. He's one of the smartest cats I've ever met. The blog world is worse off without his input.
David Cross.
It was after his infamous show at the Exit/In in Nashville. That show was off the hook, and I don't throw that phrase around lightly. It was sold out, jam packed, and David Cross was ragging on the owner for insisting there be tables in the joint so he could serve sandwiches. It was brutal. The comedy itself was just ridiculous. I have never, ever laughed so hard, ever. I remember him saying, "I knew Nashville would kick ass."
His show lasted well over two hours. He'd go take a pee break or go get another beer and just hand over the microphone to some girl in the audience while he did his business. One girl tries to heckle him, but he shut her down so hard. She was hating on New York City. The result was not pretty.
So it was really intimate and awesome and after the show was over he just plopped down on the edge of the stage. He was ready to meet and greet. So everybody lined on up, except for me, I cut line. (I was drunk on SQUAGELS!) He noted as much once I made it up there to say hello.
"You totally cut line, I saw you." I confessed, but assured him it wasn't so much cutting as saying hi to an old friend from high school who happened to be a bit farther up. That old friend from high school was an enormous David Cross fan and had brought an old video tape of Maynard from Tool doing something ridiculous in his pre-Tool days. (Maynard and David are friends.) He had stuff for him to sign and a camera. I did not bring a camera. I asked old high school friend to take a photo, and he did, but then I never saw him again. He promised to send it to me.
So, somewhere out there exists a picture of me cheesing it up with David Cross, my arm wrapped around him. I would love to see it.
P.S. I heard he spent that night alone drinking PBR at Springwater and playing an arcade game. Bummer, I just went home.
[I have also met Dean Wareham and Britta Phillips and Mary Lynn Rajskub of '24'.]
(This is reprinted from my old Pitas blog. It was written in June 2003.)
I had to utilize, for the first time in my life, the barf bag. I always see it there, tucked behind the SkyMall catalogue*: the butt of so many jokes, the namesake of so many insults, but one never thinks they'll have to use it.
My last night in Los Angeles went by in the blink of an eye, but in retrospect was several (like 5) hours spent getting shitty. There was vodka. Bar hopping. Breaking into ballrooms. A one-man jam. It's all somewhat hazy.
I fell asleep sometime after 3 a.m., I'm guessing, because at 5:08 the phone was ringing, I'd missed 3 calls and my airport shuttle was already waiting for me outside. Luckily, I'd mostly packed the day before, so I blindly zipped shit up and stumbled outside. It was still dark. I wasn't awake enough to know it yet, but I was still wasted.
The shuttle driver wanted to chew the fat and all I wanted to do was pass back out, but the trip to the airport was too quick for that. Somehow I made it through the gate at Burbank and found I had over an hour until the plane left for Phoenix. And every single freaking hard plastic-backed chair had armrests. I slept mouth agape, head against the corner with one eye on the clock.
I arrived in Phoenix feeling better until I discovered that my next flight left momentarily and I had to take a train, bus, boat and bike to a terminal alllllll the way on the other side of the enormous-ass airport. Why Arizona needs an airport the size of a small country is beyond me. I had to fucking full-on run to catch my plane and after nearly mowing down what looked to be a family of 8 doddling in the aisleway, I made it to my gate. I forked over 3 whole dollars for orange juice and water and slurped down the fruit juice with haste. Sprinting with a heavy carry-on while still mostly inebriated makes one thirsty. I boarded the plane to find myself next to some fatty wearing Puff Daddy clothes and within minutes he'd fallen asleep, monopolizing both armrests since he was in the middle. I tried to catch some rest in the aisle but was distracted by the rail-thin sorority girl eating Wendy's french fries out of the bag, one by one, sliding each fry into a cup of BBQ sauce, coating her fingers and fake french manicure in the dark red, blood-looking stuff. She licked her bony fingers clean when she'd finished her Biggie-sized potatoes. That is when the nausea started to swell.
I wondered if it was nerves. I'm often overly anxious. I convinced myself I was just nervous and tried to breathe through it. An exercise of the chronically high-strung. Then, suddenly, violently--without any warning--I felt the slam of vomit in my throat and groped just in time for the barf bag. Totally humiliated and all of the sudden BARFING MY GUTS UP, I started to cry. All at once I was wretching and crying into a tiny bag in front of like 200 people. There wasn't an empty seat on the entire aircraft. Luckily, I'd had nothing but fluids and the sickness was overly fairly quickly. But still. The poor guy in the row next to me started to reflexively gag and this other lady began awwwing and patting my hair. Everyone knows how vulnerable one feels when he throws up, but imagine how completely out-of-control it is to do so in front of a huge, confined audience. In the dead quiet. Nothing quite carries sound like the inside of a flying tin can.
To my relief, the ultra-nice flight attendant moved me to a seat near the bathroom, which allowed me first and easy access into the lavatory. This also prevented me from having to look into the eyes of the folks I just hurled before. I was given all the Sprite I could drink and a ice-cold washcloth for my forehead. But no amount of lemon-lime soda or first-class style TLC can erase the indignity one experiences when she is forced to upchuck in the airplane barf bag. For all to see and hear.
*Who are these people who buy hot dog-only toasters and robo vacuum cleaners that sweep while you sleep?
A Wrinkle in Time. It was the first time I fell in love with a book. It stoked my love of reading.
I worked as a bartender and waitress for a while, so I heard an array of things from customers over the years. Kate Winslet (I wish), Jennifer Grey (which one?), but the one I got more than anything else--and the one I have to agree with--is Sara Gilbert.
Which is a bit odd since we share a last name.
Yesterday was my mom's birthday. I spent the afternoon with her eating veggie fajitas and lying in her new birthday hammock.
Today I'm headed back to the gym for the first time in a while. Oh, how many "do overs" have I had in this lifetime? I've yet to make exercise a lifestyle or a habit. But I keep trying.
Later I will scrub this nasty house. The dishes are ridiculous and the laundry is crying out in need of a good cleansing.
I will think about what it would be like to move to a big, huge city.
