Sunday, June 22, 2008

How to take your mind off of swatting bugs outside on the hottest day of the year while waiting for a really good outdoor Shakespeare performance to begin:

Michael: Who do you think would win in a fight: Macbeth or MacGyver?

Adelphia: What?

M: C’mon. The Thane of Cawdor with a dagger before him, versus Richard Dean Anderson with a paperclip and duct tape.

A: Hmmm. Guess I’d bet on the guy with the mullet.

M: Okay, what if you throw Mark McGwire into the mix?

A: Juice or no juice?

M: Out, damn steroids.

A: I don’t know, but Mayor McCheese could kick all their asses.

M: That’s true.

A: I know.

Michael guzzles some more water. Adelphia swats more bugs.

A: Okay: Lady Macbeth or Lady Marmalade?

Tuesday, June 17, 2008

Out at a way cool watering hole with my boozy floozy fiancée and a couple of friends, we could see that sitting in a row at the bar wasn’t conducive to conversation. We spotted a table free. There were seven cushioned stools around this table -- on one end, three seats were taken up by hot-to-trot hoochie mamas, and a fourth was occupied by a purse belonging to one of these girls.

We asked the ladies if they would mind if we sat at the other end of the table, if the remaining seats were being saved for anyone. No, they said. But one of the girls said she wanted to use a stool for her purse. When Adelphia pointed out that that would leave one of us humans without a seat, the girl said, yeah, well, I’d prefer to keep my bag here.

This isn’t the first time this has happened at this joint. At another gathering, we were searching for seats for our hovering friends, and a woman at the adjoining table insisted that the empty chair next to her was for her friend, her purse acting as a seat-saver. After a half-hour of our friend standing around, and the woman’s imaginary friend never materializing, it was obvious her “friend” was nothing more than a cheap Louis-Vuitton knock-off.

I started to wonder if the bar would do better business if more chairs were filled by people with pocketbooks rather than the pocketbooks themselves. But why ask why? I went to take one of the stools we had vacated at the bar and add it to our table. The bartender told us we couldn’t remove the seats from the bar.

So that settled it. We told the women we were sitting there, that they’d have to find some other place to put their purses (like how ‘bout up yo ass, lady?) -- nicely, of course, and gathered around. The hoochies started to bitch under their breath to each other, which annoyed Adelphia even more.

“You’ll be blogging this, won’t you?” I said.

“Totally,” she said, trying to contain her exasperation at their inconsideration.

I tried to change the subject, talking about the cool music mix they had going on – seemed to be a combo of Sublime, Jimi Hendrix, Led Zeppelin…

Our friends had mixed feelings about the mix. Adelphia wasn’t a fan. The most recent song she had downloaded was “When I Grow Up”.

She suggested that the Pussycat Dolls song might be good running music for me. But I’m more of a classic rock kinda guy. “You know what was a surprisingly good addition to my iTunes? ‘Someone to Love’. It’s got a great rhythm.”

“Ugh, I hate Jefferson Airplane,” Adelphia said.

“Really?” My friend said. “Not even ‘White Rabbit’?”

Adelphia said no. I was surprised -- thought she’d like the Lewis Carrol references. Her literary tastes are very good; surely we’d agree about something musical…

“Now, ‘We Built This City’ -- that’s a great song. I love the Starship.”

She was serious. I just stared at her.

“You’ll be blogging this, won’t you?”


Actually, I guess now I’m blogging both.

Friday, June 06, 2008

"It's too ornate!"

That became a catchphrase in my family, after my dad yelled it out in the middle of the dream one night, waking everyone up. I was a kid at the time and didn't know that word so I asked what it meant.

"Ostentatious," he said. "Gaudy, flamboyant, garrish..."

Then I asked what he was dreaming about that was too ornate. He had no idea.

I just thought of this story yesterday while visiting Hearst Castle in San Simeon. Wonder why.

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Monday, June 02, 2008

Last month was full of drama (wedding planning), more drama (the middle school play Adelphia directed -- I'm very proud of her and her students... and, ahem, I deserve some props for making some props)... and comedy.

Such as the beautiful Saturday afternoon that Adelphia and I went down to Abbot Kinney. I've taken her there on occasion, mostly to enable her Pinkberry fix. But there's a lot more to that stretch in Venice than franchised fro-yo. It's become pretty chic in recent years, full of fancy little boutiques and restaurants, with a hipster/beach bum vibe. Perfect for walking around after riding my bike, following behind my cute fiancee as she pedals her one-speed cruiser with its bell & basket.

We made a lot of local discoveries -- weird art galleries, a cool book store that would've been the perfect place for a West Coast wedding shower that won't happen (see above regarding drama), and wine bars.

There was also a tavern that seemed wonderfully out of place. No pretense to it, just a local dive. Adelphia loved that they advertised cheap margaritas during happy hour. I liked the pool tables, video arcades, and the regular joes hanging out the bar.

"We needed to add this place to our repertoire," Adelphia said. "I think there's even a back patio area."

As she went to check it out, I slipped into the men's room. I'd been holding it in all afternoon.

Relieved at relieving myself, I stood in the stall and leaned back, looking upward. That's when I noticed the decorations above me -- the ceiling was plastered with a photo collage. I focused on one of the pictures.

It was a dude. A naked dude. A naked, buff dude. A naked buff dude with an erect penis. Come to think of it, all the photos were -- whoa -- penis, penis, penis, penis... Wait a minute...

I left the men's room and saw Adelphia, who had come back from exploring the establishment and had the same expression on her face as I did. She said, "Did you realize that--"

"I know," I said. "This gay bar doesn't have a fire exit!"

We walked out, thinking perhaps this wasn't a place to add to our pub crawl routine, even though it was pretty cool, aside from the pastiche of penis potpourri. And the patrons were pretty cool, too. As we left, the regular joes at the bar waved and shouted in unison, "Bye!!!"

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