For those who know me, staying with my mother in Salem, Oregon, has not been a pleasant experience. I feel far too akin to the overweight ne'er-do-wells living in their parents basement in their mid-twenties (oh, and my birthday is in a few days, so I suppose late twenties now officially applies). My mother is also insane with a life ruled by clutter.
It was while soaping my naked body, enjoying the piercing stream of hot water, that I decided that I'm not coming back to Oregon. Well, I'll visit. After all, there is a certain young child who will be celebrating his first birthday not long after I sign off the big boat. But I shall not be returning to stay with my mother. There is no room in her home to breath, to exist, without being touched by something. Even in the shower. (In this case it's this weird oversized shower curtain she has over the window in the shower. There are some ways I like to be touched while in the shower. This is not one of them. It's creepy and it's gross.)
Rather, my vacation will be spent traveling, and visiting friends. I'm warning those of you who know me now, I may be calling in May...
As it stands, I'll be on the big boat out of Miami for the next six months. We're in our home port every Sunday, so any phone calls will be made and received then. If I don't email immediately, please don't take it personally. We are dependent on satellites, and this time of year we'll be trying to evade tropical storms and disturbances!
Thanks to the three people who occasionally read this. I'll try and upload photos from my various ports during my contract. Although they may start to look exactly the same, as we'll be going to the same places every two weeks... Then again, embarrassing photos where I'm drunkenly interpretive dancing will never grow old.
01 November 2007
29 October 2007
Back in the USA
There will be no post mortem. I had an amazing time, but it doesn't feel appropriate to blog about it. Suffice to say, I'll have to go back to Italy, if only to explore the southern most points that I neglected this journey. The art was awe-inspiring, the clouds breath-taking, and the scenery fantastic. I was sad to go.
It has raised one very important question. I understand that for some reason people feed pigeons. I also recognize that it's a business opportunity to exploit. Sell bird seed to dumb tourists. Of course. But...why oh why do they dumb tourists encourage the pigeons to land on them like animate statues? I WISH pigeons would land on those dumbass street kids that dress themselves up in gold and silver paint to astound tourists with their sudden movement upon payment. Because I want them to be shit receptacles and get what they deserve. So I really don't understand why people invite this upon themselves:
Just because you're in the cradle of Catholocism, does not mean that Jesus is going to keep you disease and bird shit free...
It has raised one very important question. I understand that for some reason people feed pigeons. I also recognize that it's a business opportunity to exploit. Sell bird seed to dumb tourists. Of course. But...why oh why do they dumb tourists encourage the pigeons to land on them like animate statues? I WISH pigeons would land on those dumbass street kids that dress themselves up in gold and silver paint to astound tourists with their sudden movement upon payment. Because I want them to be shit receptacles and get what they deserve. So I really don't understand why people invite this upon themselves:
Just because you're in the cradle of Catholocism, does not mean that Jesus is going to keep you disease and bird shit free...
12 October 2007
Little Lies
I never got around to finishing up Bahamian Rhapsody, prioritizing packing and organizing myself over blogging, which makes me a big liar. I leave tomorrow, and I expect to be on hiatus until I return around the 26th. After all, I have a lot of time and sex to make up for. Your prayers for my safety and security should go something like this:
Please God allow A. to travel and arrive safely in Venice. Let no major misshaps keep her from Internet Jim and her goal of going through every condom packed between the two of them, requiring several stops at the Italian for quickie mart. Allow no harm to come to them in this quest. Please God, let her get laid. Many, many times. And please God, let it be good, if not awe-inspiring.
Please God allow A. to travel and arrive safely in Venice. Let no major misshaps keep her from Internet Jim and her goal of going through every condom packed between the two of them, requiring several stops at the Italian for quickie mart. Allow no harm to come to them in this quest. Please God, let her get laid. Many, many times. And please God, let it be good, if not awe-inspiring.
10 October 2007
Bahamian Rhapsody, Pt. 1
So...to explain the Oregon pronunciation debacle, which is most assuredly not worthy of the hype, I must explain about Jake the drunk as well as my many technical difficulties onboard.
In my previous ship experience, my main objective was to host. Any glimmer of a technical issue was easily resolved with a page to the lounge tech. Admittedly I’m not the most technically savvy person when it comes to sound boards and 8-channel mixers, despite my stint as a radio deejay. Knowing this, I usually spend a great deal of time and energy learning the bare bones so that I can avoid any embarrassment or take away from the guests’ experience of the events I host. Well, the oldest ship in the fleet (hereby the OSF), is as I’ve mentioned a “special” place. There is no dedicated lounge tech to take care of karaoke. There is such a person, but I have no real understanding of their job description, as they are like ninjas, never seen during an event and turning up mere moments before I am to walk into the (spot) light.
I was given no training, and had to be proactive in learning the ropes, thus I accompanied a fellow staff member to karaoke to see how he handled things. The technical aspects of sound and mike control, as well as song input, and hosting all fell to him. (And therefore to me, when I was scheduled to host.) I was leery. I suspected disastrous results. I’m not a very efficient multi-tasker (one more reason I still don’t have a driving license). However, I went for it. My first attempt at hosting karaoke went…alright. I had no idea where the sign up sheet was, so I improvised. I didn’t know how to turn the broadcast music back up after the event, so I paged the tech ninja. I’m not sure if anything ever came of it. But that’s the benefit of being somewhere for only a week. While it’s uncomfortable to know nothing, it has no real effect on your overall employee status as you’ll be long gone by the time the guests’ comments are received.
My second attempt at hosting karaoke was slightly more complicated, as it was occurring in a separate and unfamiliar lounge. I showed up more than twenty minutes early, hoping to get everything set up and have a smooth, worry-free evening. The sound guy arrived and made the room sound amazing. The deejay handed me my mike. I figured it would be a smooth evening.
We are required to show up fifteen minutes early in order to set up and meet the guests. It’s a way to make them feel comfortable and have a stronger connection during the event itself. I know of fellow team members who sit in silence until it is time to host, but that’s just awkward for everyone. Also, I detest silence during karaoke. While bad singing makes me want to stab myself repeatedly with a fork, being forced to cajole unwilling guests into “You’re the One That I Want” is far worse. The alternative is to kill time by singing FOR the guests. That’s just a crap idea, and as it was required on my former ship, there was no way I was going to do it willingly on the OSF. So I would often go into the audience and inquire as to who they might wish to sing, and try to get the entire group into the decision. Attempts to induce them by introducing their bar staff didn’t seem to work that evening (strangely most people seemed to be oblivious to the fact that they were on a “booze cruise). Yet when someone asked for Otis Redding, and the only track we had to offer was “Sittin’ on the Dock of the Bay,” I found my savior in a woman named Kris.
She drunkenly shouted above the din, “I’ll sing it!”
We walked hand in hand to the stage where she informed everyone that she was from Tampa, and sang poetically with adlibs about Tampa Bay, and sitting on her deck. The mood began to shift. Kris had become a star. She enjoyed the limelight and throughout the evening danced for everyone, both interpretive and line. Karaoke became a lot more fun.
At some point while on the dance floor, a young man by the name of Jake began to drunkenly weave around Kris, while a man sang in the background. Jake shuffled to the Doobie Brothers, and cocked his hips as provocatively as is possible while lumbering about with a bottle of Corona. At some point, freeing himself of his dinner jacket, he made glazed eye contact with Kris. Answering his siren’s call, she picked up his jacket, managing to slide his jacket between her legs without any hint of sexuality. A woman clad in a cleavage-baring gown ran onto the dance floor presenting Jake’s crotch with a dollar bill, and escaping his pawing clutches to return to her seat. An inebriated form of the lambada began between Kris and Jake. And then the song ended. As Jake and Kris began to part ways, I urged them to stay. Accompanied by the male singer, I turned to Jake and said, “There are some people I’d like you to meet Jake. The woman you’ve been dancing with is Kris. And this is Wayne. Kris’ husband.”
The crowd enjoyed the show.
The night wore on, and Jake did not find himself wanting for partners. Yet, while he howled a Dean Martin song (“Ain’t that a Kick in the Head”) with his friend, he set his sights on me. “Dahnth vif meee.” I blushed. I shyly looked away and shook my head. I used the “I’m not old enough” and the “I don’t dance” excuse. To no avail. He continued to hound me throughout the next song. Finally, over the mike I informed him that “Jake, sometimes dreams just aren’t meant to come true.” He didn’t take the hint. Luckily it was time for the deejay to begin his set and he asked Jake to step away from me, and also to leave his Corona on the side of the dance floor, as there is a strict “no drinks on the dance floor” policy. Jake seemed confused by “God’s” interference into his mack...
Upon the strains to a deep R/B dance track, I busted a move in my long formal gown, shocking the other guests as they’d drunkenly believed me when I had said I don’t dance. Little did they realize I was on my way to a crew party...where it was learnt that I most definitely do dance…and with little shame.
I’ll continue this saga of the pronunciation of Oregon tomorrow...
In my previous ship experience, my main objective was to host. Any glimmer of a technical issue was easily resolved with a page to the lounge tech. Admittedly I’m not the most technically savvy person when it comes to sound boards and 8-channel mixers, despite my stint as a radio deejay. Knowing this, I usually spend a great deal of time and energy learning the bare bones so that I can avoid any embarrassment or take away from the guests’ experience of the events I host. Well, the oldest ship in the fleet (hereby the OSF), is as I’ve mentioned a “special” place. There is no dedicated lounge tech to take care of karaoke. There is such a person, but I have no real understanding of their job description, as they are like ninjas, never seen during an event and turning up mere moments before I am to walk into the (spot) light.
I was given no training, and had to be proactive in learning the ropes, thus I accompanied a fellow staff member to karaoke to see how he handled things. The technical aspects of sound and mike control, as well as song input, and hosting all fell to him. (And therefore to me, when I was scheduled to host.) I was leery. I suspected disastrous results. I’m not a very efficient multi-tasker (one more reason I still don’t have a driving license). However, I went for it. My first attempt at hosting karaoke went…alright. I had no idea where the sign up sheet was, so I improvised. I didn’t know how to turn the broadcast music back up after the event, so I paged the tech ninja. I’m not sure if anything ever came of it. But that’s the benefit of being somewhere for only a week. While it’s uncomfortable to know nothing, it has no real effect on your overall employee status as you’ll be long gone by the time the guests’ comments are received.
My second attempt at hosting karaoke was slightly more complicated, as it was occurring in a separate and unfamiliar lounge. I showed up more than twenty minutes early, hoping to get everything set up and have a smooth, worry-free evening. The sound guy arrived and made the room sound amazing. The deejay handed me my mike. I figured it would be a smooth evening.
We are required to show up fifteen minutes early in order to set up and meet the guests. It’s a way to make them feel comfortable and have a stronger connection during the event itself. I know of fellow team members who sit in silence until it is time to host, but that’s just awkward for everyone. Also, I detest silence during karaoke. While bad singing makes me want to stab myself repeatedly with a fork, being forced to cajole unwilling guests into “You’re the One That I Want” is far worse. The alternative is to kill time by singing FOR the guests. That’s just a crap idea, and as it was required on my former ship, there was no way I was going to do it willingly on the OSF. So I would often go into the audience and inquire as to who they might wish to sing, and try to get the entire group into the decision. Attempts to induce them by introducing their bar staff didn’t seem to work that evening (strangely most people seemed to be oblivious to the fact that they were on a “booze cruise). Yet when someone asked for Otis Redding, and the only track we had to offer was “Sittin’ on the Dock of the Bay,” I found my savior in a woman named Kris.
She drunkenly shouted above the din, “I’ll sing it!”
We walked hand in hand to the stage where she informed everyone that she was from Tampa, and sang poetically with adlibs about Tampa Bay, and sitting on her deck. The mood began to shift. Kris had become a star. She enjoyed the limelight and throughout the evening danced for everyone, both interpretive and line. Karaoke became a lot more fun.
At some point while on the dance floor, a young man by the name of Jake began to drunkenly weave around Kris, while a man sang in the background. Jake shuffled to the Doobie Brothers, and cocked his hips as provocatively as is possible while lumbering about with a bottle of Corona. At some point, freeing himself of his dinner jacket, he made glazed eye contact with Kris. Answering his siren’s call, she picked up his jacket, managing to slide his jacket between her legs without any hint of sexuality. A woman clad in a cleavage-baring gown ran onto the dance floor presenting Jake’s crotch with a dollar bill, and escaping his pawing clutches to return to her seat. An inebriated form of the lambada began between Kris and Jake. And then the song ended. As Jake and Kris began to part ways, I urged them to stay. Accompanied by the male singer, I turned to Jake and said, “There are some people I’d like you to meet Jake. The woman you’ve been dancing with is Kris. And this is Wayne. Kris’ husband.”
The crowd enjoyed the show.
The night wore on, and Jake did not find himself wanting for partners. Yet, while he howled a Dean Martin song (“Ain’t that a Kick in the Head”) with his friend, he set his sights on me. “Dahnth vif meee.” I blushed. I shyly looked away and shook my head. I used the “I’m not old enough” and the “I don’t dance” excuse. To no avail. He continued to hound me throughout the next song. Finally, over the mike I informed him that “Jake, sometimes dreams just aren’t meant to come true.” He didn’t take the hint. Luckily it was time for the deejay to begin his set and he asked Jake to step away from me, and also to leave his Corona on the side of the dance floor, as there is a strict “no drinks on the dance floor” policy. Jake seemed confused by “God’s” interference into his mack...
Upon the strains to a deep R/B dance track, I busted a move in my long formal gown, shocking the other guests as they’d drunkenly believed me when I had said I don’t dance. Little did they realize I was on my way to a crew party...where it was learnt that I most definitely do dance…and with little shame.
I’ll continue this saga of the pronunciation of Oregon tomorrow...
Freedom of Choice
In places it was reminiscent of industrial Eastern Europe architecture; oppressive and dark, promising only misery to its occupants. Even the windows managed to occlude light between its rusted frames. The air, a combination of unendurable humidity and a stifling lack of circulation, colluded to choke the life out of anyone cursed to breathe it in. So I found the crew area of the oldest ship on the fleet, where I found myself for one week. Two cruises.
There are aspects of that week which made it the best contract possible (directly influenced by its short duration). I never paid for my alcohol, I was secretly given the password to a login which accessed the internet for free, I was berthed in a cabin with a port hole (which will be the only time I ever see one of those without sleeping my way to the side of the ship), and I had the best looking crew ID picture of all time. That alone guarantees that my next crew ID will be hideous. The one I’ll have for six months.
However, the biggest surprise that came out of this contract was the slop chest. The slop chest is just one more way that the company can take back its money from crew, offering nutritional delights like Twix and cans of Pringles which become far more appealing after looking at the free meal offerings in the crew mess. Often little more than four shelves with a plastic razor, condoms of questionable reliability, pocket sized Listerine, two bars of Irish Spring, and a limited variety of junk food, I find myself easily resisting its charms most nights onboard.
Except what I found on this ship left me speechless, and then effusively gushing in awe. This ship, with its awkward and counterintuitive layout, its small and ineffectual disco, and its overall air of “special” (the short bus variety), has the most amazing slop chest that anyone could ever imagine. It is a claustrophobic room in the forward-most area of the first deck, accessible only by walking up to the second floor, through guest area, and then back down to the first floor via a hidden staircase. Yet it houses aisles of goodies, a veritable Wal-mart on the high seas, without the asinine happy face. Should you find yourself in want of undershirts or underwear, shoes, socks, luggage, a mini web cam, a Swiss Army knife, a cornucopia of both sugary and salty junk food delights, a bevy of soap or toothpaste choices, or the trusted name of Trojan, you needn’t worry. This slop chest had it. No longer could anyone argue that they didn’t have the ability to track down deodorant, and therefore couldn’t help their rancid perspiration. Rather, they had a buffet of scent and brand choices.
While I will not miss the ship or its drunken, classless passengers, I will miss the sheer volume of unexpected possibility on offer there.
There are aspects of that week which made it the best contract possible (directly influenced by its short duration). I never paid for my alcohol, I was secretly given the password to a login which accessed the internet for free, I was berthed in a cabin with a port hole (which will be the only time I ever see one of those without sleeping my way to the side of the ship), and I had the best looking crew ID picture of all time. That alone guarantees that my next crew ID will be hideous. The one I’ll have for six months.
However, the biggest surprise that came out of this contract was the slop chest. The slop chest is just one more way that the company can take back its money from crew, offering nutritional delights like Twix and cans of Pringles which become far more appealing after looking at the free meal offerings in the crew mess. Often little more than four shelves with a plastic razor, condoms of questionable reliability, pocket sized Listerine, two bars of Irish Spring, and a limited variety of junk food, I find myself easily resisting its charms most nights onboard.
Except what I found on this ship left me speechless, and then effusively gushing in awe. This ship, with its awkward and counterintuitive layout, its small and ineffectual disco, and its overall air of “special” (the short bus variety), has the most amazing slop chest that anyone could ever imagine. It is a claustrophobic room in the forward-most area of the first deck, accessible only by walking up to the second floor, through guest area, and then back down to the first floor via a hidden staircase. Yet it houses aisles of goodies, a veritable Wal-mart on the high seas, without the asinine happy face. Should you find yourself in want of undershirts or underwear, shoes, socks, luggage, a mini web cam, a Swiss Army knife, a cornucopia of both sugary and salty junk food delights, a bevy of soap or toothpaste choices, or the trusted name of Trojan, you needn’t worry. This slop chest had it. No longer could anyone argue that they didn’t have the ability to track down deodorant, and therefore couldn’t help their rancid perspiration. Rather, they had a buffet of scent and brand choices.
While I will not miss the ship or its drunken, classless passengers, I will miss the sheer volume of unexpected possibility on offer there.
08 October 2007
I'm Afraid of American (Airlines)
As some of you already realize, a dramatic turn of events came about this weekend delaying both this blog post as well as my return to the state of Oregon. Upon my sign off from my weeklong gig in the Bahamas I was already composing posts regarding the lady who informed me emphatically how to pronounce Oregon “correctly” or the cruise-long saga of continued technical malfunctions and Jake the drunk. However, as I stated in a voicemail to Mr. G & T, I was involved in a situation which may well be the jumping the shark moment on this blog (which may say something unflattering about this blog’s resonance and content that is also most likely quite true, as I have my doubts whether I can ever top this).
I signed off the ship early on Friday morning, after successfully making a small packet of money and successfully avoiding the purchase of any of my alcoholic beverages. I was not looking forward to my day of travel as I’d spent more time on the back deck drinking with my coworkers than I did in my small bunk bed, and my flight wasn’t due to depart until 520 pm. Yet, the airport looked more like a mall that happened to conduct air travel, complete with a hotel the airport terminals were built around, and had plenty to keep me entertained.
My first flight was rather uneventful, and left me in Dallas safely, without any memorable moments to share. I then found myself feeling an odd sense of déjà vu as I wandered through the arrivals terminal and made my way to the train which would take me to the departing terminal. As I walked toward the train stop, I overheard two traveling companions wonder aloud if this was the correct train/place for them to be. I asked them which gate they needed to find, and assured them that they were in the correct place. A small-statured southern blonde, standing nearby then gasped at the intimidating sprawl of the airport indicating that it was far more impressive than the local Kentucky airport she was used to (not terribly surprising to anyone thinking clearly). I learnt that the original traveling duo was from Vancouver, Washington and that we’d be on the same flight. Apparently the younger of the two hadn’t flown for seventeen years, and they seemed quite taken aback by my life of travel on the high seas and sense of ease with air travel. I found myself mildly amused and too tired to continue the conversation, the large coffee from hours ago no longer working its magic.
I managed to while away the nearly three hours in the airport terminal without drooling on myself or falling in a comatose heap onto the floor. I was silently proud of my accomplishment. I had no sense of foreboding as I took my seat on the flight, which tells me that I’m more of a 14 year old boy than a mysterious and intuitive female (which I knew already, but had verified later). I met my seat mate who seemed both remote but also curiously chatty. He immediately asked me about myself and my line of work, without the benefit of offering any personal information. As I was exhausted and my line of work involves being overly friendly and polite to everyone regardless, I was rather curt in my replies. I then looked over and saw that his reading material of choice had a distinct gold leaf edge to the pages, and I silently cursed my luck at having a missionary as my seatmate. I then allowed myself to close my eyes and look forward to the ache in my neck as I slowly found some semblance of REM sleep…
Which was rudely interrupted by three simultaneous events. The distinct smell of burning (my interior monologue was desperate to utter, “This plane smells like burning…” but realized that it wasn’t actually that funny as it was true); a rather swiftly moving set of flight attendants; and the captain coming over the intercom informing the passengers that due to a lack of any navigational controls, we would be returning to the airport in Dallas. There was an immediate sense of heightened, unspoken tension throughout the cabin. We were asked to return our tray tables in an upright and locked position, and to return our seats upright as well, as we would be landing rather crudely. We were later given a refresher course on emergency evacuation and landing procedures, being informed that in the event of a crash, the emergency slides would inflate and that we would not be allowed to bring anything with us and to take off any sharp objects such as stiletto heels as this could damage the slides. I sat in my seat, my mind racing, trying to remain outwardly calm.
I have been in worrisome situations while in the air, circumstances where my thoughts led to my impending death. At these times my interior monologue often went like this: “Well…this may be the end. I’m not ready to go, nor do I especially wish to end it like this. However, I’m happy with my life thus far, and if this is my time, so be it. I guess it’s my time.” This time was a little different. Upon hearing the intercom announcement, I muttered aloud, “Are you fucking kidding me?!” My interior monologue stated, “Fuck that! I’m going to Venice in a week. Screw this ‘don’t bring anything with you’ shit.” I reached down to my messenger bag and grabbed my passport, my wallet, and my mobile phone. Yes, I fully intended on getting back on a plane a week after crashing, no matter the extent of mental anguish or physical harm that may occur. As my friend Stephen said, I’m a retard.
My seatmate ignored the requests to raise his chair, seemingly disinterested in the quiet panic surrounding him. When I grabbed my personal items, he asked if I was alright/calm. I believe I blathered a bit. I indicated that I felt far safer on ships than I did in the air, as I had at least some semblance of understanding of safety/emergency procedures at sea, and could have partial control of my own fate. He didn’t seem terribly interested. He kept the remote look upon his face.
We landed safely, albeit heavily, and were immediately swarmed by the flashing lights of numerous emergency vehicles. But, at least we were safe. As we made our way to the gate, a hook and ladder truck made its way beside us, and firemen in silver, heat-proof gear swiftly monitored the engines and brakes for hotspots. I decided that I should photodocument the event, as it was rather impressive rather than scary at this point. My helpful seatmate chose to proffer unwanted photographic advice on the composition and execution of the shots. I accepted the truth in the statements, but resented his tone. Also, a combination of extreme exhaustion and too much caffeine colluded to make any attempt at photography an amateurish effort at best, despite the pointed coaching. (Additionally, I really didn’t feel like getting too close to the window and my seatmate… So clearly, he’d gotten under my skin.) He continued to critique my efforts and seemed to mock my excitement stating that he’d take my pictures with the firemen upon exiting the plane. Uh…yeah, no need for that, thank you.
We then made our way from the back of the plane through the emergency stairs, over the tarmac and up the gate steps to the terminal where we waited for further information and assistance. Everyone began phoning family and friends to discuss the situation and assure them of their own relative safety. We waited. We were informed that we would be issued a new plane, one which would be arriving soon from San Jose, and then we would try it again. We were given an estimated time of departure of fifteen minutes, which is the same amount of time my stepsister claims she needs to get ready to leave the house. And like my stepsister that estimate means it was closer to 45 minutes. Our next announcement informed us “you’re never going to believe this,” but the plane had a maintenance issue in the log which would require a mechanic to look it over before it would be allowed to leave. It was an issue that was not immediately fixable we found out later. We continued to wait. I wasn’t really even angry at this point. I was tired, and put out. But I was still riding the high of being happy to be alive, and frustrated by the waiting. Yet, I was still docile at this point. I even understood when the pilot’s voice came over the intercom and apologized for her decision, but as her crew had been working a 14 hour shift, they were going to throw in the towel that night, as they were in no condition to safely outmaneuver another emergency, and they’d retry our flight in the morning. I had originally assumed that the airline would put us up in a hotel upon our emergency landing, so this didn’t exactly come as a shock to me. The airline representative then stated that they would need time to find a hotel with space for all of us, and arrange transportation to said hotel. This took an extended period of time. We were finally issued vouchers for our hotel and lunch from any participating vendor in the airport the next day, and told to exit the terminal to wait for our three shuttle vans which would whisk us away to our hotel and to the promise of rest.
We were abandoned.
We found ourselves on the street level of the Dallas airport in sweltering heat at 1 in the morning, encapsulated by eerie shadows and the amber glow of distant street lamps. There were no security guards or any representation from the airline to maintain morale or to look after our safety. We waited for the promised shuttles. One of which came twenty minutes later at 130 am. It was clearly far too small to carry all of those who wished to board. Thus, we continued to wait for the other two…which never came. Hackles began to rise, and bitter words were exchanged with formerly passive and quiet strangers. Feelings for American Airlines were decidedly unflattering at this point in time. A shuttle not affiliated with the hotel stopped and we were offered to chance to go to the hotel and escape the oppressive humidity…for five dollars a person. It was widely agreed that no opportunists would be making money off of our small group. Fuck that. We didn’t ask to be put in the situation, and we would have rather sat there until the airport reopened in three hours than pay some asshole for taking advantage of those in need. It took three trips from the original shuttle to finally pick up the last passengers, the last of which arrived at the airport at 220 am.
The hotel was not impressive. It was clearly going through renovations, and even more distressing was the line snaking out of the sliding glass doors of our fellow passengers. This shouldn’t have surprised us, as our aggravated calls for assistance had gone unanswered by the hotel front desk, and looped to an automated system without benefit of voicemail. Helpful, that. As our final shuttle approached the hotel portico, we were flanked by several taxis, which had carried some of our fellow passengers too disgusted to wait any longer…and had left well before the final shuttle arrived. They paid their drivers who had managed to get lost on the way.
We then waited in line, watching our watches tick by the minutes that were taking away our hopes for a thorough rest. After all, the airline had promised to send their buses to pick us up at 8 am and 9 am (otherwise we’d need to take that trusty shuttle). Given the encroaching hour of 3, we were looking at naps rather than a true sense of sleep. As the hotel bar had closed, we had no other choice but to stand in yet another line; one further injustice in a night full of them. As this didn’t look like a hotel complete with minibar, any attempt at liquid relaxation was improbable.
I made my way to the room and was confronted by my amazing view of a brick wall, the always classy water-stained lampshade, and an empty can of Jumex Mango Nectar in the waste basket. I was too tired and too beaten down to throw a fit. Rather, I walked to the bathroom, grabbed a towel to place on the pillow, and slept in my clothes. I didn’t allow myself to reflect on the possibilities of bed bugs or stains only seen courtesy of black light.
I awoke in a panic, fearing that my fatigue had caused me to miss both alarms and my doomed flight out of the state of Texas. I hadn’t. I made my way to the lobby at 715 am and met up with my new friends and travel buddies who commiserated about our distaste for American Airlines’ handling of our situation. We made a pact to stick together in the face of our ensuing flight, and opted for the hotel shuttle, rather than wait for the promised buses, after all, the promises made by the airline had been rather hollow in our already lengthy experience. This turned out to be a wise course of action, as it did turn out that the airline couldn’t be bothered to send any transport to the hotel for their passengers. This added to our sense of indignation.
My travel buddies and I asked to speak to the supervisor about our experiences, and hoped to find an apology or explanation. At the very least, an offer of compensation for our trouble. We found none. No one had informed the supervisor on duty of our situation or our existence. Our rescheduled flight didn’t even appear on her duty list. She had nothing to offer us, other than the advice to complain to American Airlines through their website. She indicated that only corporate would be able to offer us travel vouchers or compensation (as if I really wanted to fly American ever again, even if it was free…). I nodded, and still plan on writing them tomorrow, though I doubt that the ether of the internet is really going to offer a sense of resolution or justice. After all, out of sight, out of mind, and it’s so terribly easy to delete unwanted email.
As I waited for the flight, I realized that I was very much dreading sitting next to my seatmate for another go around. I discussed this matter with my travel buddies, and it was decided that D. and I would ask his seatmate if he’d trade with me, as I had a more attractive seat in the front of the aircraft. We waited until the end of the line to board, watching my seatmate seemingly flirt with the pilot at the gate desk. We eventually boarded the aircraft, making confused eye contact as we both waited for our seatmates, which never materialized. Finally I saw my seatmate walk down the aisle, and turn into the first row of coach. And sit down. Apparently he wanted to avoid me as well. Which rather than feeling any sense of relief, I was slightly offended. It was like when my sister was looking forward to dumping her boyfriend, only to find that he wanted to dump her too…and did it first. The irony was not lost on me. Here are his pompous shoes, propped up against the wall separating coach from first class, where A. (another travel buddy) was firmly ensconced with her microwaved chocolate chip cookies and guaranteed thin polyester blanket:
Although, I am glad that I didn’t have to sit next to him.
All in all, it was a dramatic and eventful moment. I suppose it was easier to focus on the anger and indignation than allow myself to recognize the panic and fear. I’ve nearly drowned in a sailing accident, and I’ve experienced a fire at sea, but I’ve never been confronted with the real possibility of crashing while midair. I don’t recommend it. Especially on American. They didn’t even give us free cookies or snacks on the eventual flight. Perhaps they feared we’d choke on something and sue them for endangering our lives or emotional distress.
By the way, hello to my expanded readership of five! Thanks for reading through this massive post. Feel free to add your own thoughts in the comments section.
I signed off the ship early on Friday morning, after successfully making a small packet of money and successfully avoiding the purchase of any of my alcoholic beverages. I was not looking forward to my day of travel as I’d spent more time on the back deck drinking with my coworkers than I did in my small bunk bed, and my flight wasn’t due to depart until 520 pm. Yet, the airport looked more like a mall that happened to conduct air travel, complete with a hotel the airport terminals were built around, and had plenty to keep me entertained.
My first flight was rather uneventful, and left me in Dallas safely, without any memorable moments to share. I then found myself feeling an odd sense of déjà vu as I wandered through the arrivals terminal and made my way to the train which would take me to the departing terminal. As I walked toward the train stop, I overheard two traveling companions wonder aloud if this was the correct train/place for them to be. I asked them which gate they needed to find, and assured them that they were in the correct place. A small-statured southern blonde, standing nearby then gasped at the intimidating sprawl of the airport indicating that it was far more impressive than the local Kentucky airport she was used to (not terribly surprising to anyone thinking clearly). I learnt that the original traveling duo was from Vancouver, Washington and that we’d be on the same flight. Apparently the younger of the two hadn’t flown for seventeen years, and they seemed quite taken aback by my life of travel on the high seas and sense of ease with air travel. I found myself mildly amused and too tired to continue the conversation, the large coffee from hours ago no longer working its magic.
I managed to while away the nearly three hours in the airport terminal without drooling on myself or falling in a comatose heap onto the floor. I was silently proud of my accomplishment. I had no sense of foreboding as I took my seat on the flight, which tells me that I’m more of a 14 year old boy than a mysterious and intuitive female (which I knew already, but had verified later). I met my seat mate who seemed both remote but also curiously chatty. He immediately asked me about myself and my line of work, without the benefit of offering any personal information. As I was exhausted and my line of work involves being overly friendly and polite to everyone regardless, I was rather curt in my replies. I then looked over and saw that his reading material of choice had a distinct gold leaf edge to the pages, and I silently cursed my luck at having a missionary as my seatmate. I then allowed myself to close my eyes and look forward to the ache in my neck as I slowly found some semblance of REM sleep…
Which was rudely interrupted by three simultaneous events. The distinct smell of burning (my interior monologue was desperate to utter, “This plane smells like burning…” but realized that it wasn’t actually that funny as it was true); a rather swiftly moving set of flight attendants; and the captain coming over the intercom informing the passengers that due to a lack of any navigational controls, we would be returning to the airport in Dallas. There was an immediate sense of heightened, unspoken tension throughout the cabin. We were asked to return our tray tables in an upright and locked position, and to return our seats upright as well, as we would be landing rather crudely. We were later given a refresher course on emergency evacuation and landing procedures, being informed that in the event of a crash, the emergency slides would inflate and that we would not be allowed to bring anything with us and to take off any sharp objects such as stiletto heels as this could damage the slides. I sat in my seat, my mind racing, trying to remain outwardly calm.
I have been in worrisome situations while in the air, circumstances where my thoughts led to my impending death. At these times my interior monologue often went like this: “Well…this may be the end. I’m not ready to go, nor do I especially wish to end it like this. However, I’m happy with my life thus far, and if this is my time, so be it. I guess it’s my time.” This time was a little different. Upon hearing the intercom announcement, I muttered aloud, “Are you fucking kidding me?!” My interior monologue stated, “Fuck that! I’m going to Venice in a week. Screw this ‘don’t bring anything with you’ shit.” I reached down to my messenger bag and grabbed my passport, my wallet, and my mobile phone. Yes, I fully intended on getting back on a plane a week after crashing, no matter the extent of mental anguish or physical harm that may occur. As my friend Stephen said, I’m a retard.
My seatmate ignored the requests to raise his chair, seemingly disinterested in the quiet panic surrounding him. When I grabbed my personal items, he asked if I was alright/calm. I believe I blathered a bit. I indicated that I felt far safer on ships than I did in the air, as I had at least some semblance of understanding of safety/emergency procedures at sea, and could have partial control of my own fate. He didn’t seem terribly interested. He kept the remote look upon his face.
We landed safely, albeit heavily, and were immediately swarmed by the flashing lights of numerous emergency vehicles. But, at least we were safe. As we made our way to the gate, a hook and ladder truck made its way beside us, and firemen in silver, heat-proof gear swiftly monitored the engines and brakes for hotspots. I decided that I should photodocument the event, as it was rather impressive rather than scary at this point. My helpful seatmate chose to proffer unwanted photographic advice on the composition and execution of the shots. I accepted the truth in the statements, but resented his tone. Also, a combination of extreme exhaustion and too much caffeine colluded to make any attempt at photography an amateurish effort at best, despite the pointed coaching. (Additionally, I really didn’t feel like getting too close to the window and my seatmate… So clearly, he’d gotten under my skin.) He continued to critique my efforts and seemed to mock my excitement stating that he’d take my pictures with the firemen upon exiting the plane. Uh…yeah, no need for that, thank you.
We then made our way from the back of the plane through the emergency stairs, over the tarmac and up the gate steps to the terminal where we waited for further information and assistance. Everyone began phoning family and friends to discuss the situation and assure them of their own relative safety. We waited. We were informed that we would be issued a new plane, one which would be arriving soon from San Jose, and then we would try it again. We were given an estimated time of departure of fifteen minutes, which is the same amount of time my stepsister claims she needs to get ready to leave the house. And like my stepsister that estimate means it was closer to 45 minutes. Our next announcement informed us “you’re never going to believe this,” but the plane had a maintenance issue in the log which would require a mechanic to look it over before it would be allowed to leave. It was an issue that was not immediately fixable we found out later. We continued to wait. I wasn’t really even angry at this point. I was tired, and put out. But I was still riding the high of being happy to be alive, and frustrated by the waiting. Yet, I was still docile at this point. I even understood when the pilot’s voice came over the intercom and apologized for her decision, but as her crew had been working a 14 hour shift, they were going to throw in the towel that night, as they were in no condition to safely outmaneuver another emergency, and they’d retry our flight in the morning. I had originally assumed that the airline would put us up in a hotel upon our emergency landing, so this didn’t exactly come as a shock to me. The airline representative then stated that they would need time to find a hotel with space for all of us, and arrange transportation to said hotel. This took an extended period of time. We were finally issued vouchers for our hotel and lunch from any participating vendor in the airport the next day, and told to exit the terminal to wait for our three shuttle vans which would whisk us away to our hotel and to the promise of rest.
We were abandoned.
We found ourselves on the street level of the Dallas airport in sweltering heat at 1 in the morning, encapsulated by eerie shadows and the amber glow of distant street lamps. There were no security guards or any representation from the airline to maintain morale or to look after our safety. We waited for the promised shuttles. One of which came twenty minutes later at 130 am. It was clearly far too small to carry all of those who wished to board. Thus, we continued to wait for the other two…which never came. Hackles began to rise, and bitter words were exchanged with formerly passive and quiet strangers. Feelings for American Airlines were decidedly unflattering at this point in time. A shuttle not affiliated with the hotel stopped and we were offered to chance to go to the hotel and escape the oppressive humidity…for five dollars a person. It was widely agreed that no opportunists would be making money off of our small group. Fuck that. We didn’t ask to be put in the situation, and we would have rather sat there until the airport reopened in three hours than pay some asshole for taking advantage of those in need. It took three trips from the original shuttle to finally pick up the last passengers, the last of which arrived at the airport at 220 am.
The hotel was not impressive. It was clearly going through renovations, and even more distressing was the line snaking out of the sliding glass doors of our fellow passengers. This shouldn’t have surprised us, as our aggravated calls for assistance had gone unanswered by the hotel front desk, and looped to an automated system without benefit of voicemail. Helpful, that. As our final shuttle approached the hotel portico, we were flanked by several taxis, which had carried some of our fellow passengers too disgusted to wait any longer…and had left well before the final shuttle arrived. They paid their drivers who had managed to get lost on the way.
We then waited in line, watching our watches tick by the minutes that were taking away our hopes for a thorough rest. After all, the airline had promised to send their buses to pick us up at 8 am and 9 am (otherwise we’d need to take that trusty shuttle). Given the encroaching hour of 3, we were looking at naps rather than a true sense of sleep. As the hotel bar had closed, we had no other choice but to stand in yet another line; one further injustice in a night full of them. As this didn’t look like a hotel complete with minibar, any attempt at liquid relaxation was improbable.
I made my way to the room and was confronted by my amazing view of a brick wall, the always classy water-stained lampshade, and an empty can of Jumex Mango Nectar in the waste basket. I was too tired and too beaten down to throw a fit. Rather, I walked to the bathroom, grabbed a towel to place on the pillow, and slept in my clothes. I didn’t allow myself to reflect on the possibilities of bed bugs or stains only seen courtesy of black light.
I awoke in a panic, fearing that my fatigue had caused me to miss both alarms and my doomed flight out of the state of Texas. I hadn’t. I made my way to the lobby at 715 am and met up with my new friends and travel buddies who commiserated about our distaste for American Airlines’ handling of our situation. We made a pact to stick together in the face of our ensuing flight, and opted for the hotel shuttle, rather than wait for the promised buses, after all, the promises made by the airline had been rather hollow in our already lengthy experience. This turned out to be a wise course of action, as it did turn out that the airline couldn’t be bothered to send any transport to the hotel for their passengers. This added to our sense of indignation.
My travel buddies and I asked to speak to the supervisor about our experiences, and hoped to find an apology or explanation. At the very least, an offer of compensation for our trouble. We found none. No one had informed the supervisor on duty of our situation or our existence. Our rescheduled flight didn’t even appear on her duty list. She had nothing to offer us, other than the advice to complain to American Airlines through their website. She indicated that only corporate would be able to offer us travel vouchers or compensation (as if I really wanted to fly American ever again, even if it was free…). I nodded, and still plan on writing them tomorrow, though I doubt that the ether of the internet is really going to offer a sense of resolution or justice. After all, out of sight, out of mind, and it’s so terribly easy to delete unwanted email.
As I waited for the flight, I realized that I was very much dreading sitting next to my seatmate for another go around. I discussed this matter with my travel buddies, and it was decided that D. and I would ask his seatmate if he’d trade with me, as I had a more attractive seat in the front of the aircraft. We waited until the end of the line to board, watching my seatmate seemingly flirt with the pilot at the gate desk. We eventually boarded the aircraft, making confused eye contact as we both waited for our seatmates, which never materialized. Finally I saw my seatmate walk down the aisle, and turn into the first row of coach. And sit down. Apparently he wanted to avoid me as well. Which rather than feeling any sense of relief, I was slightly offended. It was like when my sister was looking forward to dumping her boyfriend, only to find that he wanted to dump her too…and did it first. The irony was not lost on me. Here are his pompous shoes, propped up against the wall separating coach from first class, where A. (another travel buddy) was firmly ensconced with her microwaved chocolate chip cookies and guaranteed thin polyester blanket:
Although, I am glad that I didn’t have to sit next to him.
All in all, it was a dramatic and eventful moment. I suppose it was easier to focus on the anger and indignation than allow myself to recognize the panic and fear. I’ve nearly drowned in a sailing accident, and I’ve experienced a fire at sea, but I’ve never been confronted with the real possibility of crashing while midair. I don’t recommend it. Especially on American. They didn’t even give us free cookies or snacks on the eventual flight. Perhaps they feared we’d choke on something and sue them for endangering our lives or emotional distress.
By the way, hello to my expanded readership of five! Thanks for reading through this massive post. Feel free to add your own thoughts in the comments section.
21 September 2007
Bahama Mama
A much needed distraction from my frenzied over-thinking regarding Venice and Internet Jim came about in the form of an email today. The scheduler was desperate for someone to fill in for a week on a ship out of Cape Canaveral. With no unfortunate overlaps into my travel plans, I’ve taken her up on the job. It’ll get me out of dreaded Salem, serve as a diversion from my fevered obsessive thoughts, and give an influx of hard currency. Not to mention the fact that I’ll get away from the cooling temperatures for a week in the Bahamas. Sometimes I love my job…
It’ll also be the first time I wear my knee-length pleated front khaki shorts. I’m gonna scare the natives with my deathly pallor.
It’ll also be the first time I wear my knee-length pleated front khaki shorts. I’m gonna scare the natives with my deathly pallor.
19 September 2007
Love Canal
According to Mr. G & T, I’m an idiot. I often agree with that assessment, as there has been a great deal of evidence of this fact throughout the years he’s known me. After all, I met him the night before I embarked on a European vacation to go see a tubby older gentleman forever known as the Dutchman. That incredibly defining relationship crumbled after a few years of depression-induced codependency. However, he did pay for my tickets to come see him. So, apparently I was worth the airfare. Then there was the previously discussed Norwegian. He wanted me to be his baby factory and live in a flat above his parents. He paid for my flight too, although I paid the fee to change the ticket departure date...
So, apparently I’m a sucker for international booty call.
Last August, in a crappy Marriott Courtyard near Detroit, Michigan, I met someone. As I was walking back to my room, I noticed someone trying unsuccessfully to unlock what appeared to be my door. I hadn’t yet seen my roommate, but based on the teeny silver sandals laying in a heap on the floor, I’d assumed it was a female roommate. However, this bespectacled gentleman did not appear to be the owner of said footwear. Rather than any sense of caution, I acted saucily, and a flirtation was borne. Throughout the four days that he was at the associate auctioneer conference, which overlapped my training, we sought each other out, sharing meals and conversation. I told my roommate (a Canadian called Jan) “I sold him in the first five minutes, he’s yet to sell me…” Which wasn’t really true, as I found myself hoping to see him throughout the day, during the ten minute breaks which were few and far between, and feeling a great deal of jealousy for the girl to his left at the final evening’s dinner party. I ran off without saying a proper goodbye that night, concerned both with the completion of an assignment due the next day as well as my own confused desire. In a rather piss poor attempt to make up for my nerve-induced disappearance, I slipped my contact information underneath his door, which happened to be right next to mine (and which I later learnt was occupied solely by him...) He emailed me within a day of his leaving, and over the past year, we have continued our flirtation via phone calls and email, leading my friend Stephen to bestow a nickname on my gentleman caller: Internet Jim.
Attempts to see one another again have been unsuccessful, the timing being difficult for two people who work on ships and calling different countries home. Because, of course he’s not American. That’s not how I get down. He’s British, and I’m sure I probably get a fake accent whenever I talk to him, sounding more and more like Madonna every minute that passes (which I suppose is fitting, considering our initial Motor City meeting). We’d loosely planned on meeting up during my vacation from this current contract, as I was to have two months off and money in my savings account. I vowed that we’d see each other by New Year. However, that too became unlikely as I’m going to be starting a new six-month contract in November. Yet, all hope was not lost. He’s in dry dock for ten days in October, the first time he and I will be on dry land at the same time for more than 48 hours. And the destination is as much of a draw as the person waiting for me at the airport.
I’m going to Venice. As a student of fine art, art history, and architecture (and I actually graduated...a surprise to Mr. G & T), this is paradise. One of the few tourist destinations that I’ve always dreamt of going, but never thought possible. I always figured it would sink well before I’d have the chance to go. There is the nagging fear that I’m going to be making European Mistake #3; and ironically enough I’m nervous that my significant nerves will limit my enjoyment of the place as well as the person. Yet I also know that I’ve learnt from my past choices. Should things not go well, I plan on sightseeing and experiencing the Biennale, as well as the many museums, galleries, and churches which surround the area. I have a back up plan, for once, and am equipped to act on it. This time I also happen to know that the person on the other end of the journey is just as nervous and just as excited to see me, as I am to see them; someone who knows that I am a big nervy nutjob and is prepared for it, and likes me in spite of it. I’m also terribly excited: the food, the wine, the chance to see if instant chemistry sustained over correspondence has developed to something a bit more both in reality as well as in my head...
I bought the ticket today... He’s giving me his half of the airfare when I get there. Just so long as he doesn’t leave it on the bedside table.
So, apparently I’m a sucker for international booty call.
Last August, in a crappy Marriott Courtyard near Detroit, Michigan, I met someone. As I was walking back to my room, I noticed someone trying unsuccessfully to unlock what appeared to be my door. I hadn’t yet seen my roommate, but based on the teeny silver sandals laying in a heap on the floor, I’d assumed it was a female roommate. However, this bespectacled gentleman did not appear to be the owner of said footwear. Rather than any sense of caution, I acted saucily, and a flirtation was borne. Throughout the four days that he was at the associate auctioneer conference, which overlapped my training, we sought each other out, sharing meals and conversation. I told my roommate (a Canadian called Jan) “I sold him in the first five minutes, he’s yet to sell me…” Which wasn’t really true, as I found myself hoping to see him throughout the day, during the ten minute breaks which were few and far between, and feeling a great deal of jealousy for the girl to his left at the final evening’s dinner party. I ran off without saying a proper goodbye that night, concerned both with the completion of an assignment due the next day as well as my own confused desire. In a rather piss poor attempt to make up for my nerve-induced disappearance, I slipped my contact information underneath his door, which happened to be right next to mine (and which I later learnt was occupied solely by him...) He emailed me within a day of his leaving, and over the past year, we have continued our flirtation via phone calls and email, leading my friend Stephen to bestow a nickname on my gentleman caller: Internet Jim.
Attempts to see one another again have been unsuccessful, the timing being difficult for two people who work on ships and calling different countries home. Because, of course he’s not American. That’s not how I get down. He’s British, and I’m sure I probably get a fake accent whenever I talk to him, sounding more and more like Madonna every minute that passes (which I suppose is fitting, considering our initial Motor City meeting). We’d loosely planned on meeting up during my vacation from this current contract, as I was to have two months off and money in my savings account. I vowed that we’d see each other by New Year. However, that too became unlikely as I’m going to be starting a new six-month contract in November. Yet, all hope was not lost. He’s in dry dock for ten days in October, the first time he and I will be on dry land at the same time for more than 48 hours. And the destination is as much of a draw as the person waiting for me at the airport.
I’m going to Venice. As a student of fine art, art history, and architecture (and I actually graduated...a surprise to Mr. G & T), this is paradise. One of the few tourist destinations that I’ve always dreamt of going, but never thought possible. I always figured it would sink well before I’d have the chance to go. There is the nagging fear that I’m going to be making European Mistake #3; and ironically enough I’m nervous that my significant nerves will limit my enjoyment of the place as well as the person. Yet I also know that I’ve learnt from my past choices. Should things not go well, I plan on sightseeing and experiencing the Biennale, as well as the many museums, galleries, and churches which surround the area. I have a back up plan, for once, and am equipped to act on it. This time I also happen to know that the person on the other end of the journey is just as nervous and just as excited to see me, as I am to see them; someone who knows that I am a big nervy nutjob and is prepared for it, and likes me in spite of it. I’m also terribly excited: the food, the wine, the chance to see if instant chemistry sustained over correspondence has developed to something a bit more both in reality as well as in my head...I bought the ticket today... He’s giving me his half of the airfare when I get there. Just so long as he doesn’t leave it on the bedside table.
12 September 2007
Puts a Smile On My Face...Or Is That a Rueful Grin?
I have finally received news from the company. The scheduler has indeed received my paperwork, and has even chosen to clarify my fate with the company in response to my email. She’s been “working the schedules” to see where an opening exists. She found one.
The position opens 4 November. On a GINORMOUS ship. Which means when I finally work (in two months)...I’m going to make up for my slothful lifestyle onshore. Now, should something come up sooner, and she says that it definitely will, I’ll be moved into that position.
The position opens 4 November. On a GINORMOUS ship. Which means when I finally work (in two months)...I’m going to make up for my slothful lifestyle onshore. Now, should something come up sooner, and she says that it definitely will, I’ll be moved into that position.
06 September 2007
Pass the Buck on the Left Hand Side
As my two loyal readers already know, I’m sick of Salem. I’m also sick of being ignored by the bitchy lawyer at the head office. I wrote her an email. I waited two days. I called and left a message. I waited the obligatory 48 business hours that she asked for in her voicemail. I called back. Still nothing. While perhaps not an urgent matter, I took her prerecorded direction and called her supervisor. Finally, that seemed to light a fire under her ass. She called me fifteen minutes before she left the office. Left me a voicemail…which didn’t answer a single question I’d posed. To say that I was feeling fucked about doesn’t quite cover it.
The scheduler had previously told me that she was “pretty sure” she’d be able to place me, as soon as she received my paperwork from the bitchy lawyer. Now while I have already commented on my lack of faith in such a definitive declaration as “pretty sure,” it was more than I had gotten from my friend at the head office. But based on the mail I received from the lawyer today (amazing what cc’ing someone’s supervisor will do for their communication skills), someone doesn’t want to take responsibility. For the lawyer claims that she has a mere advisory role, and it is Human Resources who is in charge of scheduling, and she has no control over the matter. And yet, it is her signature that is required on the paperwork which stands in the way of my placement…
Get me out of here. I have to relearn some line dancing so that I can teach it.
The scheduler had previously told me that she was “pretty sure” she’d be able to place me, as soon as she received my paperwork from the bitchy lawyer. Now while I have already commented on my lack of faith in such a definitive declaration as “pretty sure,” it was more than I had gotten from my friend at the head office. But based on the mail I received from the lawyer today (amazing what cc’ing someone’s supervisor will do for their communication skills), someone doesn’t want to take responsibility. For the lawyer claims that she has a mere advisory role, and it is Human Resources who is in charge of scheduling, and she has no control over the matter. And yet, it is her signature that is required on the paperwork which stands in the way of my placement…
Get me out of here. I have to relearn some line dancing so that I can teach it.
05 September 2007
Cue the Trumpet Fanfare
I’ve known a number of musicians. Hell, I tried to be one in elementary school when the school band will take in absolutely anyone with a half-hearted inclination. Except it requires a linear form of logic and thinking that I do not possess; reading, translating, and doing in a fleeting moment and repeating this for an entire song’s length was far too much for my addled brain to process. Yet, a musician’s relationship to music is odd to me; its analytical rather than emotional. I don’t understand it anymore than I understand making music.
As established earlier, I’m a committed listener. And for me the best music elicits an emotional response, whatever that emotion or sensation may be. Lately I’ve noticed that I’ve had a sense of yearning when listening to a certain selection of my cache. Yet, it’s a really pleasant sensation. It’s not some sense of wretched pining; it’s the feeling of being open to something new, and there is a calm sense of serenity.
I think I’m gay for a guy.
As established earlier, I’m a committed listener. And for me the best music elicits an emotional response, whatever that emotion or sensation may be. Lately I’ve noticed that I’ve had a sense of yearning when listening to a certain selection of my cache. Yet, it’s a really pleasant sensation. It’s not some sense of wretched pining; it’s the feeling of being open to something new, and there is a calm sense of serenity.
I think I’m gay for a guy.
02 September 2007
Welcome to the Weekend
The sign read “MOUNTAINS OF COKE.” Conjuring up visions of whores and a late 80s hair band; I was concerned by its presence at a bowling alley. It turned out that it literally meant a very large pile of 12-packs of Coca Cola products, rather than anything illicit.
I remembered that vision yesterday morning when I awoke with my first massive hangover in a very, very long time. I felt as if I had consumed a mountain of beer. Not just any beer though, my welcoming committee had Pabst waiting in the fridge, just for my arrival. Welcome back to Portland.
Every infinitesimal movement caused a flurry of pain, followed by a “fuck” or a “shit,” whichever seemed appropriate at the time. While I knew how much alcohol I’d ingested (as did my constricted blood vessels), I had been saved the awkward embarrassment of falling down or gesticulating wildly while inebriated—or worse crying. Rather, I kept my cool during our night on the town, which could not have been more perfect.
We started the evening with a trip to the Delta for some southern inspired treats, a greasy delight that I have fondly remembered while out at sea. I had the sweet potato fries, and happily drank the two beers our waitress had mistakenly thought I ordered. I had also ordered a fried chicken sandwich (I was at a table with a vegan, and two vegetarians…and as a relapsed vegetarian, I felt guilty ordering and ingesting meat in their presence)…but again it was miswritten as a blackened chicken sandwich; I ate a few bites…sadly, I wasn’t a fan. So, on to the second beer. I was happy again by the time the dum-dums arrived with the bill.
We arrived at the Crystal Ballroom to see Eugene and the rest of the gypsy punk crew, just as they’d begun their set. The last time I saw them was at Berbati’s about a year ago, and there were several men in the audience obviously gleaning their styling tips from promotional photos of the lead singer (Eugene Hutz):
I saw some guy in this exact outfit, and sadly the ladies seemed to be fine with stroking the ego of a poseur.
The Crystal show was PACKED. The audience was far more diverse than at the previous show, there was the requisite overweight nerd, myopically busting a groove, devil horns raised in salute. It was a sight. There were the hot chicks dressed to score in little more than bras and skirts too far away from the band to be successful groupies. There were some elderly couples standing to the side, gentling nodding their heads to the frenetic strings and insistent percussion. It was a really good time. As we left during their extended encore, it was decided that a night out in Portland was not complete until naked ladies were seen.
On to Mary’s, a Portland institution. The woman at the door, easily in her 60s, is Jewish. We wished each other a good Sabbath. Flesh was observed; beer continued to flow. Which led to the massive headache discovered hours later upon waking in my friend’s bed.
I love Portland.
29 August 2007
Let the Music Play
The New York Times, MSN, and a million music-obsessed blogs have commented on this phenomenon, and perhaps that merely underscores its pervasiveness rather than the irrelevancy of this post. Or, most likely, it’s both.
The album does not exist anymore. I have over 250 GB of music. I have no idea how many artists or albums went into creating that number. I listen to a small percentage of that music to be fair, but I keep it because of that niggling need within me that has me thinking of a song and running home just to find it and appease the craving. I have about fifteen versions of some songs and no appreciation for their individual significance; live performances, demos, single and album versions, and covers, and I keep them partially from a digital packrat disorder, and also because I want the choice of listening per album or per group—as a way of organization rather than a sense of something finite. But the album still doesn’t exist.
My sister shaped my musical taste, partially. She’s ten years older than I am, and as such she was more interested in watching MTV than Sesame Street. However, I took in far more than the glossy, Top 40 sound she was obsessed with. Somehow, perhaps reverse osmosis, I grew to like Lloyd Cole and the Commotions, the Stranglers, Depeche Mode, and Joy Division. I guarantee you that my sister is only familiar with DM.
Yet, my musical tastes were patchy, and it has only been through the past ten years that I’ve become familiar and grew passionate for other types of music that were the inspiration for the music I enjoyed, or which sprung from it. I’ve stolen music from friends, copying CDs and files of bands that I’d never heard of, or were only vaguely aware, to see if I liked them too, just because I wanted an opinion rather than to remain ignorant.
As such, my understanding of these bands is quite different from those who came to them at the time they produced their music. I don’t have memories of individual albums, anticipating the natural song progression as it plays through the speakers. While there are bands that I know this intimately, my knowledge has been bastardized by large blocks of songs in alphabetical order by artist. I listen to random play and therefore don’t know the exact titles of the songs, complete with random parenthetical comments, a natural extension of sweatily reading the liner notes immediately upon purchasing an album. I can’t tell you each individual album a song was included, nor which were singles albums. Sometimes my downloading habits are such that I don’t even know the title of a song, the artist, or the album it sprung from while I’m listening to it. Doesn’t help matters much when it’s included in a mix, which further complicates the issue.
The thing is...I’m not sure it really matters. I like what I listen to, but I’m not a slavish devotee, and if I was that obsessed with it, I’d be involved in the creation of music, or I’d be a far more annoying individual than I already am. The last thing I need is for people to think of me as a music snob, on top of everything else.
The album does not exist anymore. I have over 250 GB of music. I have no idea how many artists or albums went into creating that number. I listen to a small percentage of that music to be fair, but I keep it because of that niggling need within me that has me thinking of a song and running home just to find it and appease the craving. I have about fifteen versions of some songs and no appreciation for their individual significance; live performances, demos, single and album versions, and covers, and I keep them partially from a digital packrat disorder, and also because I want the choice of listening per album or per group—as a way of organization rather than a sense of something finite. But the album still doesn’t exist.
My sister shaped my musical taste, partially. She’s ten years older than I am, and as such she was more interested in watching MTV than Sesame Street. However, I took in far more than the glossy, Top 40 sound she was obsessed with. Somehow, perhaps reverse osmosis, I grew to like Lloyd Cole and the Commotions, the Stranglers, Depeche Mode, and Joy Division. I guarantee you that my sister is only familiar with DM.
Yet, my musical tastes were patchy, and it has only been through the past ten years that I’ve become familiar and grew passionate for other types of music that were the inspiration for the music I enjoyed, or which sprung from it. I’ve stolen music from friends, copying CDs and files of bands that I’d never heard of, or were only vaguely aware, to see if I liked them too, just because I wanted an opinion rather than to remain ignorant.
As such, my understanding of these bands is quite different from those who came to them at the time they produced their music. I don’t have memories of individual albums, anticipating the natural song progression as it plays through the speakers. While there are bands that I know this intimately, my knowledge has been bastardized by large blocks of songs in alphabetical order by artist. I listen to random play and therefore don’t know the exact titles of the songs, complete with random parenthetical comments, a natural extension of sweatily reading the liner notes immediately upon purchasing an album. I can’t tell you each individual album a song was included, nor which were singles albums. Sometimes my downloading habits are such that I don’t even know the title of a song, the artist, or the album it sprung from while I’m listening to it. Doesn’t help matters much when it’s included in a mix, which further complicates the issue.
The thing is...I’m not sure it really matters. I like what I listen to, but I’m not a slavish devotee, and if I was that obsessed with it, I’d be involved in the creation of music, or I’d be a far more annoying individual than I already am. The last thing I need is for people to think of me as a music snob, on top of everything else.
28 August 2007
Norwegian Wood
I’ve been thinking a lot about penises lately. They say absence makes the heart grow fonder, or perhaps it just makes a girl more likely to settle. I have an appointment with a particular penis later this year, and while deriding my tendencies toward international booty call; it was Mr. G&T who realized that this continental penis would most likely be uncircumcised. Of all the obsessing I’ve been doing over this unseen and oft thought about penis, that was one thing that I hadn’t focused on. I suppose because that is more the norm than the exception in my experience. No, my concerns regard the size and shape, not an excess of skin. This seemingly shallow anxiety has far deeper roots than any petty stereotype.
I met the Norwegian over six years ago, through a friend I’d made while living on the East Coast. We were the type of casual friends that would email occasionally, not hearing from one another for months. It was casual and light. Then something shifted and the emails increased in frequency and intensity. I had been invited to sightsee for years, and I finally agreed to fly over for spring break and recognized that our friendship would be tipping into far more intimate territory. I mean, those emails had been getting fairly incendiary and I’m a lot easier than I like to admit to myself.
I’d dated someone whom I mocked for his repeated laments. “I’m fat, I’m balding, I have a small penis.” Well, he didn’t say these things in tandem, but all three were stated with such frequency, that they seemed like a run-on sentence. Thus, going into my first liaison with the Norwegian, I decided that I wasn’t going to judge his sexual prowess by the size of his penis. I was not going to look. I was going in blind, as it were, and going to see what he could do with what he had, rather than judge it all in a biased manner. What a fucking mistake that was.
In school I studied art history as well as fine art, and unfortunately I had a specific image in mind after I finally got a good look at the Norwegian. Sadly, he even resembled the artist a tad too much for my taste. Perhaps you are familiar with the artwork of Vincent van Gogh. Specifically the way he depicted cypress trees. This work, Road with Cypress and Star from 1890 is a fair example of what I was confronted with.
It went to the left. It went to the right. Back to the left again, and ending with a narrow tip no bigger than a standard thimble. Erect. It was horrifying and I could not imagine the trauma involved to create that nightmarish example of manhood. I knew for certain that no amount of alcohol or money could get my mouth near it. I wouldn’t even know what to do or where to begin. It is this lurid imagery that haunts me when I think about my rapidly approaching vacation.
I’m not interested in having any pictures of his penis sent to me for analysis. I know for certain that he wouldn’t do it if only due to the fact that we both use our laptops in pubic. I also recognize that I just really don’t want him to send pictures, even if he was willing. So, it seems that I’ve made my proverbial bed, and now I must lie in wait…hoping that the visuals I am confronted with are of a pornographic nature than an art historical one.
27 August 2007
Great News?!?
As is fairly standard, if you're out of sight for the company, you're out of mind. So, I thought that I would remind the scheduler for the company that not only am I better, but I'm enthusiastic about returning. (Shockingly enough, they have a problem with turnover.)
Officially, I can't be placed until the insurance agents and the lawyers decide that I'm truly "fit for duty," and send official paperwork stating as much. Though my final doctor's appointment occurred last week, this has not happened, as the scheduler is still waiting for it. According to the scheduler, she'll contact me immediately when she receives the proper paperwork, and "I'm pretty sure I'll be able to get you back out there quickly!!" That "pretty sure" is probably her idea of a positive outlook, but it's not exactly inspiring.
Oh, and I want my paycheck. I have loans to pay and a Gogol Bordello concert to attend.
Officially, I can't be placed until the insurance agents and the lawyers decide that I'm truly "fit for duty," and send official paperwork stating as much. Though my final doctor's appointment occurred last week, this has not happened, as the scheduler is still waiting for it. According to the scheduler, she'll contact me immediately when she receives the proper paperwork, and "I'm pretty sure I'll be able to get you back out there quickly!!" That "pretty sure" is probably her idea of a positive outlook, but it's not exactly inspiring.
Oh, and I want my paycheck. I have loans to pay and a Gogol Bordello concert to attend.
26 August 2007
Making Fire
Staying with my mother has made me regress into a teenager, complete with the frustrations that come from living with someone who thinks they know what is best for you, and not so subtly attempting to control your behavior. It is of course more maddening when you’ve lived on your own across the world, making regrettable decisions which were loads of fun and often captured on video—completely ignoring those same admonitions that come unprovoked every day in my mother’s presence. Some of these frustrations are decidedly sexual, as my mother’s house doesn’t have any doors that close and she’s a light sleeper.
My sexual enlightenment came with the help of a black box, the Adam and Eve channel, and a Berkeley fraternity. Had I have stayed for the frat party, no doubt my sexual life would have taken a distinctly different turn. However, as a thirteen year old, that might not have been good for either the college student or myself. Rather, my frustration was given a name when I discovered my first porn after perusing the many channels on offer where I was house sitting. I cringe upon reflection on the attempts at a story line, the costuming, lighting, and the overall appearance of the “performers,” but I couldn’t keep my hands off of myself after the denouement. I was even able to set aside the massive thoughts of guilt and mental distractions offered by my skewed religious upbringing.
I had some very cobbled together beliefs about the afterlife as a result of having Mormons, Jews, and Catholics in my extended family, not to mention my role as a Presbyterian preacher’s kid. I believed quite literally that my dead relatives looked down on me from heaven. However, that eye that they kept on me was both omniscient and judgmental. Which is why it is quite regrettable that puberty coincided with the death of my maternal grandmother. Every frenzied attempt at getting myself off was distracted by thoughts of my grandmother knowing exactly what I was doing and disapproving. The woman had never liked me while alive, I could only imagine how much her dislike had grown in death. It took a lot of concentration and mental fortitude to continue to seek pleasure in myself, knowing that I was being caught out.
Further bad luck formed itself in a metal daybed that created a telltale squeak every time I found my rhythm. This would have been quite embarrassing as my mother only rarely discussed sex and the subject of masturbation was approached with a whisper as “playing with yourself.”
Thus it is with these memories burning bright that my current sexual frustration is amplified. My surefire nightly sedative is approached with great caution as my mother never seems to sleep, and I am dead certain that she knows exactly what I’m doing.
I need this shirt.
My sexual enlightenment came with the help of a black box, the Adam and Eve channel, and a Berkeley fraternity. Had I have stayed for the frat party, no doubt my sexual life would have taken a distinctly different turn. However, as a thirteen year old, that might not have been good for either the college student or myself. Rather, my frustration was given a name when I discovered my first porn after perusing the many channels on offer where I was house sitting. I cringe upon reflection on the attempts at a story line, the costuming, lighting, and the overall appearance of the “performers,” but I couldn’t keep my hands off of myself after the denouement. I was even able to set aside the massive thoughts of guilt and mental distractions offered by my skewed religious upbringing.
I had some very cobbled together beliefs about the afterlife as a result of having Mormons, Jews, and Catholics in my extended family, not to mention my role as a Presbyterian preacher’s kid. I believed quite literally that my dead relatives looked down on me from heaven. However, that eye that they kept on me was both omniscient and judgmental. Which is why it is quite regrettable that puberty coincided with the death of my maternal grandmother. Every frenzied attempt at getting myself off was distracted by thoughts of my grandmother knowing exactly what I was doing and disapproving. The woman had never liked me while alive, I could only imagine how much her dislike had grown in death. It took a lot of concentration and mental fortitude to continue to seek pleasure in myself, knowing that I was being caught out.
Further bad luck formed itself in a metal daybed that created a telltale squeak every time I found my rhythm. This would have been quite embarrassing as my mother only rarely discussed sex and the subject of masturbation was approached with a whisper as “playing with yourself.”
Thus it is with these memories burning bright that my current sexual frustration is amplified. My surefire nightly sedative is approached with great caution as my mother never seems to sleep, and I am dead certain that she knows exactly what I’m doing.
I need this shirt.
24 August 2007
Service With a Forced Smile
There are many activities that I have to host onboard, some of which I really enjoy, others not so much. There is scrap booking, where ladies and some men, bemoan the color selections of the die cut palm trees and ships, while others find their inner five-year-old and happily glue and color, kibitzing with their fellow attendees. There is karaoke, where the junkies bring their own CDs, and ask for “two down” (referring to the key, apparently) so that they can show up their fellow passengers with their amazing talent, while others, full of liquid courage will belt out a female-empowerment tune out of their range, to the hearty applause of the audience. There is trivia, where the prizes are nothing better than plastic key chains, yet the bragging rights are beyond measure. There is line dancing, where we all pretend that we don’t mind country music, and blame our missteps on the movement of the ship.
At their best, these activities are great fun, and an opportunity to meet people from all walks of life, enjoying the simple pleasure of greeting someone by name from across the bar. When it’s good, it’s great. When it’s bad, it makes me want to step beyond my smiling façade and give the guests a loud reality check.
I simply do not understand people’s self-importance and their need to act rudely during events. This is not Olympic competition, neither the prizes nor the glory are worthy of a surly attitude and haughty know-it-all tone. What is deficient in their lives onshore that they need to show up their fellow passengers during activities that are supposed to at their core, fun? These questions are never more resonant in my mind than in my least favorite activity: ping pong (or as its called by the “pros,” table tennis).
Ping pong is supposed to be a simple activity to host. You set the people up, and no worries, in a half an hour or so, you’re on to the next scheduled activity. Except that’s never how it works out. There is always some guy who brought his own paddle, complaining that someone got a by (inevitable when there are only five passengers who made their way to the well-hidden ping pong tables), and lamenting the incorrect serving technique of their fourteen-year-old opponent.
I had been previously warned that ping pong tournaments might be a slight problem for me, because sexism rules in sports. This was stated with a straight face. It was not untrue, as I came to learn. “The other GUY didn’t do it this way. The OTHER GUY let us play until 21... The other GUUUUUUUY had us warm up first.” Seriously? No really, you’re serious? What about a cruise ship makes you think this is going to be a tournament worthy of warming up? The tables are uneven by the mere fact that we’re moving. We’re at sea. We’re ROCKING, for god’s sake. Oh, and by the way, sandpaper covered paddles are verboten in international competition, and a game is eleven points.
I know this, because after several negative experiences, I looked up the rules, thinking that it might actually settle debates. Yet, I soon realized that simply knowing the rules was not definitive enough for these people. After all, some sources claim that a game is to fifteen or even twenty-one points, and that may be, but I have a vested interest in these games only going to eleven points. It’s called a sixteen-hour day, and I’d like the opportunity to simply sit in my room and stare into oblivion without smiling for ten minutes between activities. Therefore, while on land, I have ordered myself the thirty page official International Table Tennis Federation rulebook, which underscores those very important eleven points that make up a game. (Sure a match is best two out of three, but I don’t have to show the guests THAT page, do I?)
I love my job, and I have met some amazing people, but ping pong gets on my last nerve. Now I have to figure out how to kindly, yet firmly, show my rulebook. It’s supposed to be fun, but I will not hesitate to beat these competitive bullies to a pulp with all the weight my paperbound rulebook can manage.
At their best, these activities are great fun, and an opportunity to meet people from all walks of life, enjoying the simple pleasure of greeting someone by name from across the bar. When it’s good, it’s great. When it’s bad, it makes me want to step beyond my smiling façade and give the guests a loud reality check.
I simply do not understand people’s self-importance and their need to act rudely during events. This is not Olympic competition, neither the prizes nor the glory are worthy of a surly attitude and haughty know-it-all tone. What is deficient in their lives onshore that they need to show up their fellow passengers during activities that are supposed to at their core, fun? These questions are never more resonant in my mind than in my least favorite activity: ping pong (or as its called by the “pros,” table tennis).
Ping pong is supposed to be a simple activity to host. You set the people up, and no worries, in a half an hour or so, you’re on to the next scheduled activity. Except that’s never how it works out. There is always some guy who brought his own paddle, complaining that someone got a by (inevitable when there are only five passengers who made their way to the well-hidden ping pong tables), and lamenting the incorrect serving technique of their fourteen-year-old opponent.
I had been previously warned that ping pong tournaments might be a slight problem for me, because sexism rules in sports. This was stated with a straight face. It was not untrue, as I came to learn. “The other GUY didn’t do it this way. The OTHER GUY let us play until 21... The other GUUUUUUUY had us warm up first.” Seriously? No really, you’re serious? What about a cruise ship makes you think this is going to be a tournament worthy of warming up? The tables are uneven by the mere fact that we’re moving. We’re at sea. We’re ROCKING, for god’s sake. Oh, and by the way, sandpaper covered paddles are verboten in international competition, and a game is eleven points.
I know this, because after several negative experiences, I looked up the rules, thinking that it might actually settle debates. Yet, I soon realized that simply knowing the rules was not definitive enough for these people. After all, some sources claim that a game is to fifteen or even twenty-one points, and that may be, but I have a vested interest in these games only going to eleven points. It’s called a sixteen-hour day, and I’d like the opportunity to simply sit in my room and stare into oblivion without smiling for ten minutes between activities. Therefore, while on land, I have ordered myself the thirty page official International Table Tennis Federation rulebook, which underscores those very important eleven points that make up a game. (Sure a match is best two out of three, but I don’t have to show the guests THAT page, do I?)
I love my job, and I have met some amazing people, but ping pong gets on my last nerve. Now I have to figure out how to kindly, yet firmly, show my rulebook. It’s supposed to be fun, but I will not hesitate to beat these competitive bullies to a pulp with all the weight my paperbound rulebook can manage.
23 August 2007
The Waiting Game
After a lot of heavy breathing and awkward fumbling with my shirt, I was a lot happier than I have been for a while. My doctor gave me the all clear yesterday and it is now up to the head office and the insurance people to decide if I am a good risk as an employee, despite my lengthy bout with kennel cough.
Now the waiting begins. I have been told that placing me shouldn’t be a problem. Of course, it took about six months for me to be hired, thus I don’t necessarily trust their timetable. I’ve started packing, trying to find individual socks and articles of clothing in my mother’s museum of my past. (I found a shirt from 1989 in the closet, freshly laundered and pressed.) My afro wig lays on the dresser, soon to be replaced by a Janet-style shag. I’ll uselessly obsess over which ship and which itinerary I’ll end up on. With my luck it’ll be the same ship I was on before, complete with petty resentments from poor drunken choices. However, one thing will be certain. Within a month most of the ships will be repositioning toward the Mexican Riviera and the Caribbean. Most likely, I’ll still be blindingly white by winter.
Oh, and have I mentioned it’s still hurricane season?
Now the waiting begins. I have been told that placing me shouldn’t be a problem. Of course, it took about six months for me to be hired, thus I don’t necessarily trust their timetable. I’ve started packing, trying to find individual socks and articles of clothing in my mother’s museum of my past. (I found a shirt from 1989 in the closet, freshly laundered and pressed.) My afro wig lays on the dresser, soon to be replaced by a Janet-style shag. I’ll uselessly obsess over which ship and which itinerary I’ll end up on. With my luck it’ll be the same ship I was on before, complete with petty resentments from poor drunken choices. However, one thing will be certain. Within a month most of the ships will be repositioning toward the Mexican Riviera and the Caribbean. Most likely, I’ll still be blindingly white by winter.
Oh, and have I mentioned it’s still hurricane season?
22 August 2007
Feel My "Love" Inside You
One of the many pleasures had this past weekend was singing along to 80s new wave hits with Mr. G&T and sharing my love of car dancing with Boo. While on a hunt for meat, my neurons fired up an idea based on the soundtrack of our venture.
After hearing Adam Ant ask, “If I strip for you, will you strip for me?” I notified Mr. G&T, “I have a really cool idea for a mixed CD.” (I also remarked upon my awareness of the inherent contradiction of that statement.) “What if you had a CD of the ‘sex’ songs of the 80s?”
Mr. G&T seemed enthusiastic, and challenged me to come up with something, after we bandied around some of the required songs. Here are a few thoughts for the stages of seduction in the 80s:
The Perfect Kiss - New Order
Lips Like Sugar - Echo & The Bunnymen
Kiss - The Art of Noise, ft. Tom Jones
Need You Tonight - INXS
I Want You Now - Depeche Mode
Let’s Go To Bed - The Cure
Strip - Adam Ant
Sex (I’m A…) - Berlin
Wild Sex (In the Working Class) - Oingo Boingo
Until She Comes - The Psychedelic Furs
Brand New Lover - Dead or Alive
Now this list is by no means comprehensive, and has more to do with the suggestive titles and their implications (after all, the “Perfect Kiss is the kiss of death.” I am of course aware of the implications of “Jenny/867-5309” or “Turning Japanese,” but those are far more ambiguous and not nearly as fun. Additionally, as much as I can sincerely appreciate Journey, “Lovin’, Touchin’, Squeezin’” does not belong on this list, because it is completely at odds with the spirit of the music invoked.
Suggestions?
21 August 2007
Welcome to the Promised Post
Blogopalooza over here in Stolen Internet Central. Because NOW is the time for the actual post I’ve been asked to write.
This past Saturday was the one-year anniversary of my departure from Oregon and my responsibility-light lifestyle as a poor college student. Perhaps I suffer from a dissociative disorder, because there are very few people that I really missed. Those few that I did, I have been able to see while here on medical leave. Except for one couple that I’ve known since before I could legally drink: Mr. and Mrs. Gin & Tonic. They have been a very important force in my life, often providing laundry facilities, meals, an education in strip clubs and beer (without which I would not be the person I am today), and one ex-boyfriend (that they warned me against—totally should have listened).
Their life has significantly changed since my first visit to their home, a Halloween overnight visit where upon first meeting Mr. G&T, I told him that he reminded me of Chandler from Friends. Strong friendships can survive a great deal, proven often by my thoughtless comments. They now have children. (A continued shock to my system every time I think about it.) I’ve kept up with their new life via emails, photographs, and blog posts…but this past weekend, I got to see it in person.
On Saturday I was invited to ride along during a “Daddy-Boo Adventure Day.” Mr. G&T and his daughter Boo met me in Salem where I was told that the plan was to experience the joy of Salem and then make our way up 99E toward their home. Nominally a day to show Boo new/exciting things, in actuality it was an excuse for Mr. G&T to take pictures of Boo with his super sexy camera. A sort of “Boo Out of Context” photo shoot.
There isn’t much happiness to be found in the capitol city, but there is a hand-carved carousel near the waterfront. To a two year old, it can’t get much better. Except Daddy kept confusing the issue at hand—glistening, vibrantly hued animals moving in a circle—by trying to take away her attention with a photo shoot.
When Daddy was done (though Boo wasn’t), we made our way to the mighty Willamette for some wind-strewn hair photographs.
Clearly, Boo doesn’t yet grasp the necessary narcissism inherent in a Boo photo shoot.
When I helpfully suggested she look at Daddy, she looked at me. Which really made sense, as I was the one speaking with her, and she’s savvy enough to understand that people appreciate eye contact and attention when you’re having a conversation.
After the undoubted success of the Riverfront photos, we made our way to the “Eco-Earth Globe.” I remembered it as a big eyesore in its previous incarnation as a pressurized acid tank used by Boise Cascade, and, I’m not sure it’s changed that much in that respect… Apparently it took five years to make it a work of public art (and I won’t even start about my feelings on the “One Percent for Art,” which might be surprising coming from an art major). Luckily for Boo it had a protective fence, which allowed for climbing.
Daddy continued the photo shoot…
Boo suitably ignored him, and imagined a life behind bars:
FINALLY, Boo was allowed to have fun on the playground.
Daddy sat on the bench and showcased his purse, sure to lure the most distrusting child.
Upon realizing that he hadn’t taken a single photograph with his deliciously phallic camera (I’m totally jealous, on a number of levels) for more than three-and-a-half minutes, he went back to the task at hand.
Boo continued to oblige him.
After play time was over, we went on a side task for Daddy, and while he was occupied, I had a little fashion shoot of my own.
Suddenly I heard the strains of “Fat guy in a little coat…” Which led to Boo sporting my shades—because if they obscured most of MY adult-sized face, surely it would be far more entertaining to see her wearing them. (While they had originally been purchased for 70s night onboard, I realized that I liked them beyond their capacity as a costume).
At this point I felt underdressed for an adventure day. Luckily, we were in close proximity to my mother’s residence and I needed to make an amendment to my wardrobe. After all, for once in my life, I too had boots. While nothing in comparison to Boo’s pink shit-kickers, they could probably do some damage if necessary. We were then entertained with “You have brown boots, Boo has PINK BOOTS!” I could not challenge her logic. She’s a very smart girl. Gets it from her mother, no doubt.
Del Taco was to be had…and apparently they have WiFi. Who knew? While Mr. G&T thinks their food is manna from the gods, Boo did not seem suitably impressed. Either that or she’s on a diet. After all, she is a successful model, and there are certain expectations…
We then took our photo safari to more exotic locales. Silver Creek Falls. A place that I have never actually been before, which is probably pretty wrong considering I’ve been in and out of Oregon since 1992.
Mr. G&T continued to demonstrate his abilities as an art director and photographer, keeping Boo enrapt with his suggestions of “Look at Daddy.”
While Boo may not give her all in front of the camera, she did enjoy humoring our attempts at photography. “Show Boo! I wanna see Boo!”
We decided that we’d seen the falls (albeit from afar), and that would be that. Two year olds and hiking aren’t really a great combination. Kind of like the words Menudo and reunion.
We took the scenic route.
But Richard Blade was spinning the classics, so it wasn’t all bad. Boo chose to take a nap. After all, Rock Stars need their energy too.
Other things happened, and we eventually made our way to our final destination. The boat. Promised throughout the day, the boat was the golden Mecca: the enticement to leave all other activities throughout the day. Mr. G&T hadn’t bothered to check the operating times for the Canby Ferry, and periodically muttered to himself, “It better be open, or I am so screwed.” Apparently his reaming was scheduled for another day, because we successfully parked the car on a ferry for our four-minute ride across the river. Molly was incredibly impressed, as she demonstrated for our commemorative photo.
This past Saturday was the one-year anniversary of my departure from Oregon and my responsibility-light lifestyle as a poor college student. Perhaps I suffer from a dissociative disorder, because there are very few people that I really missed. Those few that I did, I have been able to see while here on medical leave. Except for one couple that I’ve known since before I could legally drink: Mr. and Mrs. Gin & Tonic. They have been a very important force in my life, often providing laundry facilities, meals, an education in strip clubs and beer (without which I would not be the person I am today), and one ex-boyfriend (that they warned me against—totally should have listened).
Their life has significantly changed since my first visit to their home, a Halloween overnight visit where upon first meeting Mr. G&T, I told him that he reminded me of Chandler from Friends. Strong friendships can survive a great deal, proven often by my thoughtless comments. They now have children. (A continued shock to my system every time I think about it.) I’ve kept up with their new life via emails, photographs, and blog posts…but this past weekend, I got to see it in person.
On Saturday I was invited to ride along during a “Daddy-Boo Adventure Day.” Mr. G&T and his daughter Boo met me in Salem where I was told that the plan was to experience the joy of Salem and then make our way up 99E toward their home. Nominally a day to show Boo new/exciting things, in actuality it was an excuse for Mr. G&T to take pictures of Boo with his super sexy camera. A sort of “Boo Out of Context” photo shoot.
There isn’t much happiness to be found in the capitol city, but there is a hand-carved carousel near the waterfront. To a two year old, it can’t get much better. Except Daddy kept confusing the issue at hand—glistening, vibrantly hued animals moving in a circle—by trying to take away her attention with a photo shoot.
When Daddy was done (though Boo wasn’t), we made our way to the mighty Willamette for some wind-strewn hair photographs.
Clearly, Boo doesn’t yet grasp the necessary narcissism inherent in a Boo photo shoot.
When I helpfully suggested she look at Daddy, she looked at me. Which really made sense, as I was the one speaking with her, and she’s savvy enough to understand that people appreciate eye contact and attention when you’re having a conversation.
After the undoubted success of the Riverfront photos, we made our way to the “Eco-Earth Globe.” I remembered it as a big eyesore in its previous incarnation as a pressurized acid tank used by Boise Cascade, and, I’m not sure it’s changed that much in that respect… Apparently it took five years to make it a work of public art (and I won’t even start about my feelings on the “One Percent for Art,” which might be surprising coming from an art major). Luckily for Boo it had a protective fence, which allowed for climbing.
Daddy continued the photo shoot…
Boo suitably ignored him, and imagined a life behind bars:
FINALLY, Boo was allowed to have fun on the playground. 
Daddy sat on the bench and showcased his purse, sure to lure the most distrusting child.
Upon realizing that he hadn’t taken a single photograph with his deliciously phallic camera (I’m totally jealous, on a number of levels) for more than three-and-a-half minutes, he went back to the task at hand.
Boo continued to oblige him.
After play time was over, we went on a side task for Daddy, and while he was occupied, I had a little fashion shoot of my own.
Suddenly I heard the strains of “Fat guy in a little coat…” Which led to Boo sporting my shades—because if they obscured most of MY adult-sized face, surely it would be far more entertaining to see her wearing them. (While they had originally been purchased for 70s night onboard, I realized that I liked them beyond their capacity as a costume).
At this point I felt underdressed for an adventure day. Luckily, we were in close proximity to my mother’s residence and I needed to make an amendment to my wardrobe. After all, for once in my life, I too had boots. While nothing in comparison to Boo’s pink shit-kickers, they could probably do some damage if necessary. We were then entertained with “You have brown boots, Boo has PINK BOOTS!” I could not challenge her logic. She’s a very smart girl. Gets it from her mother, no doubt.
Del Taco was to be had…and apparently they have WiFi. Who knew? While Mr. G&T thinks their food is manna from the gods, Boo did not seem suitably impressed. Either that or she’s on a diet. After all, she is a successful model, and there are certain expectations…
We then took our photo safari to more exotic locales. Silver Creek Falls. A place that I have never actually been before, which is probably pretty wrong considering I’ve been in and out of Oregon since 1992.
Mr. G&T continued to demonstrate his abilities as an art director and photographer, keeping Boo enrapt with his suggestions of “Look at Daddy.”
While Boo may not give her all in front of the camera, she did enjoy humoring our attempts at photography. “Show Boo! I wanna see Boo!”
We decided that we’d seen the falls (albeit from afar), and that would be that. Two year olds and hiking aren’t really a great combination. Kind of like the words Menudo and reunion.
We took the scenic route.
But Richard Blade was spinning the classics, so it wasn’t all bad. Boo chose to take a nap. After all, Rock Stars need their energy too.
Other things happened, and we eventually made our way to our final destination. The boat. Promised throughout the day, the boat was the golden Mecca: the enticement to leave all other activities throughout the day. Mr. G&T hadn’t bothered to check the operating times for the Canby Ferry, and periodically muttered to himself, “It better be open, or I am so screwed.” Apparently his reaming was scheduled for another day, because we successfully parked the car on a ferry for our four-minute ride across the river. Molly was incredibly impressed, as she demonstrated for our commemorative photo.
Preambling... (It could be a word.)
Before I write the blog that I’ve been asked to write regarding this past adventure-laden weekend, I will give you a shortish summary of life onboard.
I learnt my lesson about the crew bar...well, sort of. My first contract onboard as an associate auctioneer involved a weeklong training that was straight out of Wall Street. The training employed fear-based tactics pitting us against one another. We had little sleep as there were long hours of memorization for the impromptu presentations we could be asked to give at any time. The joke around the hotel was “Chicken or beef?” In other words, what do you want to eat when you get sent packing…
When we finally landed onboard, our first week was unpaid, as the auctioneer onboard could choose to fire us if we didn’t prove ourselves on the ship itself. Sea days on a ship are hell for anyone with a nametag. There is no escape, so we all work. Bar bills are always due on a sea day, and the auctions always interfered with our ability to pay those hefty bills. (After all, if the guests can’t go anywhere, why not make them look at crap art and attempt to convince them to become “collectors.”) Thus, I put down my Visa, as I was instructed by my auctioneer and never saw a single bill from the ship. I had also never seen a paycheck from the art company. They didn’t start paying you until 11 weeks into the job, and as I was on a crap run from Galveston, TX, the paychecks weren’t high. (It was solely a commission-based job…and while there was a great deal of money to be made by some auctioneers, those fortunate people weren’t attempting to hard-close field hands and oilfield workers.) When I came home I found out that my credit card had a balance of 3800 due…and after receiving my final check, including my recouped expenses, I had made 3700 USD. Oops. Apparently buying rounds for your coworkers, and going out every night is expensive. Lesson learnt!
As Cruise Staff, you are an actual employee of the cruise company as opposed to a contractor (as I was with the art company). You receive your pay every two weeks in cash, minus federal taxes (if you are an American citizen). Immediately upon receiving your pay, you are handed your bar bill. This includes any purchases you made onboard, including uniforms, snacks or bottled water, internet use (therein lies one reason I’ve been crap at updating this blog), and any purchases made at the bars onboard. It keeps you responsible, and after my boondoggle last contract, I’m completely fine with this arrangement.
I had also planned on not making any regrettable choices in the crew bar. If I’m not spending money there, then I won’t be making an ass of myself, right?
Yeah…wrong. There is a story regarding that photo. The one you’re concocting will probably suffice.
The rooms are…small. Guests (what we’re required to call passengers) onboard may complain about the size of their staterooms (what we’re required to call cabins), but they have no room to grumble. We sleep in bunk beds that are so small that my oversized throw (50 by 70 inches) is just perfect as a comforter. (We’re supplied with one thin wool blanket, and most of us choose to make our rooms more inhabitable by cheering it up with our own duvets.)
We also have curtains for privacy on the bunk beds…well we’re supposed to. Sometimes that doesn’t always work out. The new person coming into the room gets the top bunk. Always. It's the order of things. Sex is possible on the top bunk. I didn’t have a curtain on my last contract…and didn’t realize that there was an additional lock on the door. Awkward.
Upon arriving onboard you’re asked if you’ve had any gastrointestinal “issues” over the past 48 hours. Norwalk Virus or G.I. is a BIG problem on ships. If you have it as a crew member, you’re automatically confined to your cabin for 48 hours. Those rooms are small and being confined can feel like a death sentence. Especially when you’re exploding from both ends (thankfully I’ve not experienced this).
Some of you may know that I was incredibly ill and that is why I’m currently on land. I was stuck in my cabin for two weeks, unable to work, stuck watching the same crap films on loop. I was allowed to leave my cabin to eat in the crew mess and to go to the doctor to have them confirm that I was still unwell (being off duty only lasts one day, so you have to go back every day to get examined and placed back on the sick list). After two weeks of being off duty, they send you home on medical leave to get well, and if you respond to treatment and the lawyers at the head office agree, you’re sent back to a ship.
My doctor is seeing me tomorrow to give me the all clear. Then I wait for them to tell me where to go...
I learnt my lesson about the crew bar...well, sort of. My first contract onboard as an associate auctioneer involved a weeklong training that was straight out of Wall Street. The training employed fear-based tactics pitting us against one another. We had little sleep as there were long hours of memorization for the impromptu presentations we could be asked to give at any time. The joke around the hotel was “Chicken or beef?” In other words, what do you want to eat when you get sent packing…
When we finally landed onboard, our first week was unpaid, as the auctioneer onboard could choose to fire us if we didn’t prove ourselves on the ship itself. Sea days on a ship are hell for anyone with a nametag. There is no escape, so we all work. Bar bills are always due on a sea day, and the auctions always interfered with our ability to pay those hefty bills. (After all, if the guests can’t go anywhere, why not make them look at crap art and attempt to convince them to become “collectors.”) Thus, I put down my Visa, as I was instructed by my auctioneer and never saw a single bill from the ship. I had also never seen a paycheck from the art company. They didn’t start paying you until 11 weeks into the job, and as I was on a crap run from Galveston, TX, the paychecks weren’t high. (It was solely a commission-based job…and while there was a great deal of money to be made by some auctioneers, those fortunate people weren’t attempting to hard-close field hands and oilfield workers.) When I came home I found out that my credit card had a balance of 3800 due…and after receiving my final check, including my recouped expenses, I had made 3700 USD. Oops. Apparently buying rounds for your coworkers, and going out every night is expensive. Lesson learnt!
As Cruise Staff, you are an actual employee of the cruise company as opposed to a contractor (as I was with the art company). You receive your pay every two weeks in cash, minus federal taxes (if you are an American citizen). Immediately upon receiving your pay, you are handed your bar bill. This includes any purchases you made onboard, including uniforms, snacks or bottled water, internet use (therein lies one reason I’ve been crap at updating this blog), and any purchases made at the bars onboard. It keeps you responsible, and after my boondoggle last contract, I’m completely fine with this arrangement.
I had also planned on not making any regrettable choices in the crew bar. If I’m not spending money there, then I won’t be making an ass of myself, right?
Yeah…wrong. There is a story regarding that photo. The one you’re concocting will probably suffice.
The rooms are…small. Guests (what we’re required to call passengers) onboard may complain about the size of their staterooms (what we’re required to call cabins), but they have no room to grumble. We sleep in bunk beds that are so small that my oversized throw (50 by 70 inches) is just perfect as a comforter. (We’re supplied with one thin wool blanket, and most of us choose to make our rooms more inhabitable by cheering it up with our own duvets.)
We also have curtains for privacy on the bunk beds…well we’re supposed to. Sometimes that doesn’t always work out. The new person coming into the room gets the top bunk. Always. It's the order of things. Sex is possible on the top bunk. I didn’t have a curtain on my last contract…and didn’t realize that there was an additional lock on the door. Awkward.
Upon arriving onboard you’re asked if you’ve had any gastrointestinal “issues” over the past 48 hours. Norwalk Virus or G.I. is a BIG problem on ships. If you have it as a crew member, you’re automatically confined to your cabin for 48 hours. Those rooms are small and being confined can feel like a death sentence. Especially when you’re exploding from both ends (thankfully I’ve not experienced this).
Some of you may know that I was incredibly ill and that is why I’m currently on land. I was stuck in my cabin for two weeks, unable to work, stuck watching the same crap films on loop. I was allowed to leave my cabin to eat in the crew mess and to go to the doctor to have them confirm that I was still unwell (being off duty only lasts one day, so you have to go back every day to get examined and placed back on the sick list). After two weeks of being off duty, they send you home on medical leave to get well, and if you respond to treatment and the lawyers at the head office agree, you’re sent back to a ship.
My doctor is seeing me tomorrow to give me the all clear. Then I wait for them to tell me where to go...
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