Gap Part I: The Gift

I think most retail is the embodiment of evil.  The bright colors, the intense lighting, the sexy sales ladies are all there to tempt you and destroy your resolve for moderation.  That and mannequins are getting sexier. 

I just rode my bike to Aspen Grove shopping center.  It’s one of the new outdoor shopping malls that are all the rage.  You can enjoy a huge swath of concrete and steel and cheap Chinese crap and still be in touch with nature.  It works for me so I made a rare retail appearance to get my sister a gift.  Tomorrow is her 28th birthday.  Initially I thought a Victoria’s Secret gift card would be perfect.  My wife loves that stuff. But as I approached the store I thought that getting underwear from your brother might be kind of creepy.  That’s when I noticed the mannequins.  They are hot!  Each plastic woman is molded to anatomical precision then left to stand nearly naked in full view of every passing customer.  In the name of being offended I stood and studied this display. 

Even today's fake woman is  anorexic.  Then I thought, "fake?"  Wait just one very stimulating second!   How hot is it that these mannequin breasts could be more real than Pamela Anderson's coveted zongers?  

Modern mannequins also come in different colors.  This Victoria's Secret featured some very sexy Hispannequins.

Sauna Talk 03/31/06

I think this will be a weekly feature in the Playhouse.  I try to make it over to the Englewood Rec Center on a regular basis and it never fails that the conversations in the heat of the sauna are always interesting.  Yesterday I learned from a woman that nettle leaves, in the form of a pill, have rid her of arthritis pain as well as her many allergic reactions.   Apparently though, according to a topless and sweaty Texas rancher who might be as hairy as I am, touching those darned nettle roots will cause you quite a pissload of pain.

The day before the sauna talk (saunversation?) confirmed one of my long-held beliefs.  I've always thought that one advantage of being elderly is that you can get away with saying pretty much anything.  I remember introducing a black friend to another friend's father.  He fought in WWII and lived through all kinds of harrowing experiences.  And then provided me with one.  Upon hearing my friend's name was Kina, he cocked his head, raised an eyebrow and with absolutely none of todays PC filters to slow him down said, "Kina?  That's not a very Negro name!"   I don't know if there is a name for your soul leaping out of your body and hiding in the next room, but that's what happened to me.  Kina was fine.  Barely flinched.  He was older.  It was OK.

Then, just last Saturday my wife and I took a chance and bought a lamp at Home Depot.  The fact that 'depot' is a synonym for 'garage' should have gave us pause for consideration.  But filled with home decorating dreams we brought home and unpacked a lamp that might have been more dangerous yet less effective than a buring torch.  We went back to the Home Despot and got in the line for returns.  While waiting an older fellow pulled up behind us.  He eyed our lamp box.  I said "oh no, you don't want this".  He said "why?  Is their juevos rancheros all over it?"  I had no idea what that meant.  "Uh, no, it's just not all that great---juevos rancheros?"  With his jolly old eyes peering out past his giganitic blue nose (and it really was blue.  Is that something to look forward to? Hypercolor features.)  he picked up his volume.  "Yah, Mexican.  It's got Mexican written all over the box!  They probably got it gummed up with juevos rancheros!"  Now just like when my brother and I were wandering around lost in Detroit, I suddenly felt very alone in the retail epicenter for home construction and cheap labor.  And scared.  I needed to look like A) I had not encouraged this conversation and B) no matter how inconvenient it's location, juevos rancheros is one of the many great contributions to America from Mexico.  However, my fears quickly subsided.  No one seemed to care.  I think it was his old guy immunity. 

Finally I take you back to the sauna.   It was there that just yesterday, shortly after discussing the attributes of nettle leaves, that my final piece of evidence fell into place.  

Into the heat walked a girl.  She might have been eleven or twelve.  She was a bit heavy and you could tell that the awful 'tween' years were  taking its toll on her childhood optimism.  Avoiding eye contact with any of the adults she sat down, hunched her shoulders and stared at the floor.  Even me, a cavalier conversationalist, could see she did not want to engage anybody.  Yet I admired her for even entering the little room that's typically a steamy lair for chatty adults.  But I can guarantee she'll never do it again.  An old guy, empowered by his old guy immunity, leaned forward and commented on the little girl's shirt.  It was a commemorative souvenier of a Scottish festival.  It bore the cartoon image of a husky fellow throwing a log.  Apparently it's a Scot thing.  The elderly man, not content with just noting her heritage, then pursued his role as a verbal renegade and said "You're a pretty thick gal.  I bet you could fling a pole or two!"  I can't be 100 percent sure if her contemporaries are cruel to her but it's something you assume of middle school kids.   Another assumption is that older folks are supposed to represent warmth and acceptance.  On this day this little girl had no one.  She did not move, she just slumped further.  Like she was Caesar gasping "you too, Grandpa?"  Yes sweetheart.   He has immunity.  But if it's any consolation, simply survive your youth and you can say whatever the heck you want. 

Another Pointless Shooting

If there's a rim without a net is it even worth your while to try and make a shot?  The ripping sound of a net is really the only reason I ever make the effort to get the ball even close to the goal.   Cumulating enough points to win a contest is exciting but it's usually just me at the park shooting at the netless rims.  And today it seemed to me pointless.  "Nothing but net" means absolutely nothing but nothing.  And on several shots that plainly went clean through the hoop it looked, at least to the untrained observor, that I missed everything all-together.  I can assure you they were silent swishes.  (Sounds like an oppressed peoples.)  No ripping or recoiling of the nylon.  Just some bored guy throwing a ball in the air.  Even when I hit the rim it sounds empty.  I might as well throw rocks at a barrel.  

Except then even the novice would know when I missed.  I think I just convinced myself that no net is good.  

Goal!

And now the Tat

As the Ewy entertainment report expands around the world I may find myself with too many fronts to fight.  But for now this little back-and-forth has been fun.

I respond to BI2 fan. And Whitney is whack.

Sad Woman Needs Help

I did all I can do to warn her.  But she still wants to see it.

This is her complaint.

Shamelessly Pimping Pimps

I hate dating.  Luckily, my wife isn't so fond of it either.  So we're married. 

She can predict most everything I'm about to do.  I'm not as good as her but on occasion have forecasted her next move with great precision.  Not being easily detracted she'll just sit back and say "Ok, you got me.  Now dance."  And I'm already dancing.  Because she knows that whenever I get something right there will be a celebratory dance.  Usually there's lots of hip gyrations and loud whooping--my buck teeth biting down on my lower lip as I concentrate on the careful nuances of what must look like a large animal being electrocuted in our living room. 

So my wife pretty much knows everything.  I'm fine with that.  I want her to wear the pants.  Who knows, I might just shrink them in the dryer.  Besides, what guy doesn't like spending the day in his underwear?

My point, that I so long ago set out to make, is that I don't like dating.  And therefore I'm not a fan of anything that is even remotely close to dating.   "Hey, Jared, come over to our BBQ and meet our new friends Ben and Jerry!"  No.  Sounds like dating.  That means I still have to have awkward dating-like conversation with Ben and Jerry about what each of us do and how we know so-and-so and how awful traffic can be.  I already know people with whom I can skip this conversation and randomly tackle without the violence being an issue.   I like it when without warning and for no reason I can start jamming on my air guitar.  Before I play I even air tune it.  And people I know understand the importance of having your imaginary instruments sounding optimal.

So the last thing I'd ever do is go some place where the soul purpose is meeting new people.  The tackling has caused some problems.

Until an established friend, one who has patiently attended many of my air guitar jam sessions, asked me to come to her Speed Leads networking conference.   I was regretting saying 'yes' as I drove north to "The Bella Building" at 3950 Wynkoop.   To get there you get off I-70 at Washington and wind through industrial Warsaw.   I was hoping to get lost so I could call and say "I can't make it.  I'm lost." 

But I made it.  Perhaps foiling my wife's prediction of not getting to my destination because I didn't write down the directions.  

Upon pulling into the dirt lot surrounded by a chainlink fence I spied some well-dressed folks lining up to get into the building.   Immediately I silently comforted myself by thinking how I wasn't like those others.  I didn't need to network.  I'm fine.  I'm a stand-up comic who performs at the same three venues over and over.  I don't have a problem.  Leave me alone. 

Shortly after entering the room I zipped over to a complimentary bottle of wine (Dr. Persoff:  Jared, do you drink because of social anxieties?   Me:  No, no, I love new people, new situations.)   Frank from Hungary had already been tipping.  His crazy, unkempt mustache was partially purple.  This was a guy with whom I could relate. 

"I, I ehm ah grapheec designair," he said as I leaned dangerously close to his moistened mouth fur to hear him over the clamor of the arriving networkers. 

I nodded with approval and tried to play it cool.  "I'm just a friend of the lady who runs this.  She wanted me to check it out."  I'd barely finished when Dave, a financial planner, practically leapt into my arms to introduce himself and his business.  

Dave, Frank, eventually Bob, and myself stood in a square near the brownie bites and cheese plate discussing how bad traffic can be.   Suddenly a  bell rang and we  were instructed to go to  individual tables.  

I started in the number 6 chair.  Across from me sat Jen, a newspaper ad saleswoman.  Another bell rang and so began our five minutes to discuss what we do.   At first I was hesitant to say anything and beckoned Jen to tell me more about her.  Then she said that she needed help with ad copy.  And I said I could do that.  Before long I was actually talking with her and not peering past her at the brownie bites.  And then a bell rang and we moved to the next table.  This was Stacey, a guy, and he owns a window tinting business and was interested in sponsoring my radio entertainment reports.  Several rings later and I was sounding like a focused salesmen pitching some moneymen in an elevator. 

Before leaving I'd signed up for dance lessons, got Frank to do some poster design for my upcoming 24-hour comedy fund raiser and have Sara, an events planner, looking into my emceeing some shows for her.  Oh, and Pat will be coming by so I can coach her for an upcoming radio interview.  I'm not sure how I'll do this.  But I'm pretty sure my air guitar will help break the ice. 

The Club

I’m one of those guys I’ve always made fun of: The has-been who can’t get over the glory days of high school sports.  This morning at about three I lay in bed thinking about trying to chase down this kid.  He was a Mustang from Kremmling.  He had just intercepted our quarterback and was running it in for a touchdown.  Kevin Robinson dove and barely nicked him so I slowed up thinking he went out of bounds.  The referee didn’t agree and let him score. 

I remember this referee well.  I ran up to him to plead my case.  It was not typical of me to yell at an official.  But I was impassioned and figured if there was ever a time to put myself on the line it would be the most important day of my young life—Homecoming 1991.  I was voted Mr. Wildcat for god’s sake.  I had to step up.  And feeling empowered in my padding I yelled at the little man in the zebra shirt and small, white pants that still hung too loosely on his anemic frame.  He was very tiny.  I most remember his face.  His skin, at one point, had been dark, maybe Puerto Rican, and his cheeks were sunken in thus pronouncing his huge, ogling eyes.  But as I approached him his inherit gift of melanin drained away and his already farfetched optical receptors grew even bigger.  I really was scaring this guy.  See, that’s what happens when you tick off a seventeen-year-old All Conference Honorable Mention offensive lineman playing for the 8-man squad in Walden, Colorado.  You go down brother!  Or at least that’s what I thought.  For about three seconds I swelled to larger-than-normal.  That’s what men do when presented with someone shrinking with fear.  Instead of asking if everything is all right we lose ourselves in the size advantage.  “That’s right lady!  The osteoporosis got you down and big daddy is here to gloat!” we might exclaim in a confrontation with the neighbor lady with all those cats.  But my moment of virility was brief.  The scrawny ref’s gaze was not at all concerned with me.  Something else was moving in.  Its shadow drew up and over both of us.  It yelled.  The referee reached out as if to push me aside and protect me.  I turned to share his point-of-view.  This was a natural disaster I’d seen before.  My father, dressed in his most frightening hick woolies, was running down the hill to the field.  His war cry was a familiar one.  “You little, sorry piece of…” and I had to make a snap decision.  It was either sit by and watch this ref pay for his poor field judgment or avert a lifetime of driving to Wyoming to visit pa in prison. 

This was during the first Iraq war and gas was up to a $1.65 per gallon. 

I ran up the hill and did something I had not very often done during a game.  I tackled someone.  It was not a very effective grappling.  My father had about seventy pounds and a lifetime of petrified bitterness on me so I was like a racquetball hitting a wall, reduced to a mere accessory, an anklet really, dragging on my belly yelling at the beast to stop.  

But it was enough to shock the entire community.  They were all there, sitting on the planks we called bleachers. 

The halftime buzzer went off.  A fellow referee--who no doubt had been chased in Soroco, Hayden, Granby and every other cow town where sports trumps reason--grabbed his cohort and they rushed off the field.  My father didn’t even acknowledge my presence.  He may not have felt me.  I walked away feeling fairly tough though.  However, I wondered if I should just continue to wear the pads home and during dinner and throughout the ensuing weeks it would take my dad to cool off.  

We ended up losing 52-26.  And that was actually pretty close for us.  The next game we’d lose 72-20.  And my dad would  get a police escort off the field.  Imagine if those of us playing cared so much.  We might have only lost by forty.

Today I find that I can no longer mock his intensity.  Like my father I too am a has-been.  And with no football to sop up overflowing testosterone, I go to the rec center and compete against unwitting adversaries.  The middle-aged lady on the elliptical next to mine usually has no idea she's getting trounced in overall strides.  I even do it in less time.  

Is this over-competitiveness out-of-bounds?  Not according to some referees. 

Tonight I out swim the handicapped.