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.
29 August 2007
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...
20 August 2007
I Ran (So Far Away)
Most people on ships agree that the common factor between us is that we are all running away from something. There are reasons we end up signing our lives away for months at a time to live in dark, cramped conditions at sea. During my medical leave I’ve been able to pinpoint exactly what it is that I’m running from or avoiding by working on ships. My mother. She’s a lot easier to take in small doses over a phone line, with a continent between us.
My health has vastly improved, I no longer have kennel cough and I can walk the small burg of Salem without wheezing. It is time to return to my 16 hour work days in pleated, tapered, khaki man pants.
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