Happy Birthday, Jen!
Prezzies for Jen from our Montreal trip...
I'm going to a picnic and I'm taking...
armadillos
Bob Dylan
Cthulhu
dandelions
Egon from Ghostbusters
Final Fantasy 10
galvanometer
hat
ichthysaurus
juicebox
klezmars
liberals
Motor City
nylon stalkings
one d10 people per round
Ponce DeLeon
quintessence
radio signals
strippers
tsunamis
uranium
valkyries
William Shatner
xenophobes
yaks
Zotars
The Strange and Wonderful Tale of Jorge and Suzanne
While on our way to Montreal, Jen and I passed a car piled chock full of stuff and lo and behold, on top of it rested a car top carrier. Inside were two young people. We figured they were probably returning to college, but that was far too dull. This is the story we created for them.
His name is Jorge and she's pregnant. They're taking their stuff to New Hampshire where they can “Live Free or Die,” and they're starting a new life for themselves, the baby that's on the way, and the toddler they're keeping in the car top carrier. Her name is Suzanne. She was going to waitress at a less than fantastic bar. Jorge is going to be an auto mechanic and make enough money so that some day, they can actually give the toddler a room that isn't the car top carrier. After all, that toddler has to get bigger eventually. Out in that great world of New Hampshire, their love (and their children) can grow.
Don Koi
Another short tale from the land of Montreal:
The Holiday Inn Select Centre-Ville was designed with the principles of Feng Shui. It's located in the heart of Montreal's Chinatown and contains a Chinese restaurant. Like all things Feng Shui, it has a good big of pretention to it and this extends to what has to be the most massive and overly complicated indoor koi pond I have ever seen. You have to actually walk across little bridges to even get to the restaurant.
Inside the koi pond are...well...koi. Hello, giant goldfish. And the not-so-giant goldfish. But what caught Jen and I's ever shifting attention spans was this positively massive white koi sitting around, surrounded by all the smaller koi. For a while, we referred to it as Moby Dick or simply Moby Koi until we realized that all the little fish were like it's minions. Like it's lackeys. Or body guards. And clearly, the White Koi is the Don Koi, king of the Koi Mafia.
There was one particularly chubby koi that had gotten into a shallow patch. We had seen her the night before in the same position she was in today and last night I thought she was dying and Jen thought perhaps she was pregnant, as most of the smaller koi did seem to flock around her. Thus, we concluded that since somehow she was the female koi in either scenario, she must be the Koi Gun Moll.
An adorable young child was running around. He was going to the restaurant, he told me, and he was going to get chicken and he was going to feed the fish. He wanted to color on Jen's archaeology papers. His mother pulled him aside and told him he couldn't feed the fish, but someone in the hotel apparently gave the child some fish food. That was when the final piece fell in place: the smaller koi had to test Don Koi's food to make sure it was not poisoned. Poor smaller, lesser koi.
Why Not to Mention Pick Up Lines at a Truckstop
Funny story, so Jen and I decided to take a lunch break in Orange County, New York. I was amused and wanted to get a chopper; Jen didn't understand the joke. Instead I called Chris, and he got a kick out of it. On the way there we passed the Blade Runner Knife Co., though, and had a hearty chuckle. Still, this isn't about the amusing business that dot Orange County, it's about the Buck Horn Family Diner.
We grabbed a couple seats in the bar. Not counting the waitresses, the two of us brought the female count up to...well, two. We availed ourselves of the restrooms, only to be astounded at the efficiency of the diner: they had placed the advertisement for the shop inside the doors of the stalls. Jen and I amused ourselves reading the various items (notably including an “Ombre Mexican Blanket” which prompted me to comment that now, not only is the H silent, it's invisible). Still, the bar was calling our names and we had the joy of checking out the menu. It was chock full of meats meant for a king, but I chose to go for the more demure and vegetarian cheese omelet. Jen challenged the vocabulary of those working by inquiring if they could put “vegetables” in her omelet. The answer to this was yes, they had “veggies.”
So, please, allow me to set the scene. Where we sit at the “bar”, the shop is in front of us and to the left. Behind us are the bathrooms. Behind us and to the right are tables and booths for the dinners. Oh, and in front of us alongside the bar is a salad bar, where the food is under heating lamps and colored such that perhaps it had been there for days. Thankfully, we were not close to it and could not smell it. Across the table and to my right sits a man “reading” a newspaper-in all honesty, he was on the comics page the entire time we remained in the diner, but never once did he put down the paper. Not even to drink his (decaf) tea he ordered. The seat next to him was empty, there sat two more truckers. Another empty chair. Eventually, the chair next to empty chair will be filled with Trucker With Friends, but more on that later. Then one more empty chair and you get the gentleman who was sitting a mere one empty seat away from me, TV Evangelist Trucker, sporting a giant piece of cross bling around his neck. Of course, Jen sat next to me and there was one more empty seat before you reach Trucker Huh?-the Trucker that so desperately wanted to talk to girls, but instead just insulted us.
It is at the moment when Jen's coffee arrives that she asks me, in all seriousness, “Have you heard the coffee pickup line?”
Well, no, Batman. But I'm sure I made some snarky comment that led to a digression because it isn't until several minutes later that Jen says, “So, the coffee pickup line. This is a true story-some guy used it on me. So this guy is sitting next to me at a diner and orders a coffee. The waitress says “How do you want your coffee?” The guy replies, “Light and sweet, *dramatic head swivel to face Jen* just like my women.'”
TV Evangelist Trucker then begins to laugh but remains quiet, nursing a hot cup of joe himself. Jen continues, “But the response to that is to order a coffee as well and when the waitress asks how you want it, tell her you want it strong and black-just like your men.” More laughing ensued from TV Evangelist Trucker.
Now, I don't encourage the truckers. Heck, if you know me, you know that I don't encourage much social interaction with most people, ever. But Jen, she kept talking, possibly not realizing that TV Evangelist Trucker was starting to warm up to us. “But the worst.line.ever is the one some guy gave me at a bar. He comes up to me and says, “You're so sweet, I'd drink your bathwater. What are you supposed to say to that? Well, yeah, so that's just gross.”
TV Evangelist trucker begins to wipe tears from his eyes because he's laughing, but finally starts speaking. “That's bad. I'd at least say something like “You're so beautiful, can I speak with you?”” And Jen just kind of gives him a look that says, “Oh, you speak English?” before nodding and smiling.
Well, more chatter ensues off and on. Trucker with Friends causes a hullabaloo by deciding randomly that he no longer wants to sit at the bar and instead, wants to sit at a table with his friends. And then needs to rearrange all the tables in the diner to accommodate his friends. And needs to proclaim this loudly.
Some well-dressed black gentleman was clearly lost in hell when he stumbled into the truck stop diner, and perhaps realizing that Jen and I were the closest thing he could come to any sort of minority solidarity, sat down between us and s and Trucker Huh? It was then that Trucker Huh? Began speaking. He told the black guy that Jen bites. And Jen defended her honor. And I forget the other various things Trucker Huh? Said, but trust me when I say that they only went downhill from there.
By now you're wondering, “Uh...when DOES this story end?” Well, the waitress asks TV Evangelist Trucker if he'd like anything else and he says, “Just a smile from a beautiful waitress.” She smiles a corny sort of smile.
Honestly, there are many more stories one can tell about the Buck Horn Family Diner. There was toe-curling sexism, New York State was referred to as being fascist, and TV Evangelist Trucker has more than a few interesting words about being politically correct. Still, the moral holds true: around members of the opposite sex you're not (and never will be) interested in, talking about pickup lines is only an invitation for pickup lines. The waitresses will not thank you.
Philologist
I'm an Astrophysicist. Astro, as in Astronomy. Physicist, as in Physicist. Pat's a Philologist. Philo...as in...Umm...something Pat studies.
Remember Lord Asshat the Third of Kaimsthorne? He had two friends, Doug and Pat, remember? They were minor players in the grand scheme of things, but do get an additional brief aside.
Pat is a Philologist. What the fuck is a philologist? But on the plus side, he had the same look on his face when Jen said I had a bachelors in Astrophysics. So...you know, we're all fair. He definitely was like, “Well, I'm about to go speak Latin for two hours at a round table discussion, but Doug and I are rooming up at 718, come look us up.” And Jen was like, “Dude, we're in 513.” Because she was drunk.
So we looked them up later to asked them to drinks-it would've been a much more fascinating experience than John from Ohio perhaps, but maybe we wouldn't have learned about Loch Ness Koi. Anyway, we left a note being like “You weren't in. Aww, shucks.” (I wrote it. Jen's was like, “Hey, Man, you weren't here, but we're in 513.”) And it's 1:23 in the morning and they've called about three times in the past few minutes. Jen wants me to answer because I thought Pat was cute. I contend that, had I my typical anti-social way, they wouldn't know our room number. I mean, really, what am I to speak to a philologist about? “Yeah, so about philology...nice damn weather, right?” I totally can't do small talk that well.
Where Radio Stations Go to Die
First, I believed the radio stations went somewhere in the mid-north-east of Pennsylvania when they died. While in this section of our journey, we mostly heard Christian Rock and Radio Stations That Play Songs No One Really Listens To.
Ah, but then we reached the Adirondacks. At one point, Jen commented that it was the middle of the night, in the Adirondacks, in the fog, but actually it was about 5:30 at night-not the middle. Still, it was pitch black because the Adirondacks, they dictate what time the sun sets and rises, dammit. And there...well, there there just weren't radio stations and the ones we picked up played the exact same crap we had heard in the mid-north-east of Pennsylvania-perhaps we were stuck in a temporal loop, doomed to listen only to dull eighties songs and uncatchy pop from the nineties. Oh agony!
Well, ahoy! We saw what we thought was civilization. I mean, when you say “Montreal” people know what you mean. Unfortunately, the same can be said for a lot of places. Like Siberia.
Oh yes, in Montreal the only station we could get in English was play Some Guy We'd Never Heard Of Picks for the top six songs of all time. And the first song was something really creepy about a train and Jesus and Satan playing poker for souls. Satan was cheating and pulling aces from out of his sleeve and Jesus, you know, was honest and all and lost. And now sometimes that train still rides, and the guy singing truly hopes that Jesus wins, but he keeps losing.
Followed by Rolling Stone's “Paint it Black.”
We finally found the final, hellish resting stop for radio stations. Yup.
And finally, these stories didn't quite get finished, but here's what I have.
The Quest for Peter Day
1. The conference spaz.
2. The back at hotel stalking.
3. The sitting in hotel lobby.
4. The guy with chair (nice beard)
5. Chris and Guy at Bar.
6. Girl Student.
7. John Cherry.
8. Peter Day.
(Mostly, needs fleshed out.)
Lord of all Asshattery
Jen and I are sitting in the lobby of the hotel, close to the bar and the Koi pond. Jen's reading stuff by an archaeologist named Ucko and I'm reading my library book on Sati. It's about 3:30 in the afternoon. We had already played nice with the bartender, who laughed at us. See, Jen ordered a beer slightly after three and I made fun of her for being a lush. She said, “It's after noon! It's okay.”
In my typical bitchy fashion, I quipped, “Barely.” And the bartender laughed at both of us. Me for caring and her for drinking.
So, sitting around, Jen's drinking a beer and reading and I'm just reading. There's a group of four chairs next to us and these three guys are walking by when one of them passes us, halts completely, backs up and says loudly, “Wait, let's sit here.” This fellow is wearing a suit. Jen is amazed because one guy is wearing a bright green shirt and she's convinced he was in her colloquim. There's a third guy who is actually rather cute, but not too distinguishable yet.
(still needs finished with the whopping sculpture story)
Finally, although it never got written, it occurs to me that perhaps I ought to create a story about Roald. *swoon*
Happy Birthday, Jen!
I'm going to a picnic and I'm taking...
armadillos
Bob Dylan
Cthulhu
dandelions
Egon from Ghostbusters
Final Fantasy 10
galvanometer
hat
ichthysaurus
juicebox
klezmars
liberals
Motor City
nylon stalkings
one d10 people per round
Ponce DeLeon
quintessence
radio signals
strippers
tsunamis
uranium
valkyries
William Shatner
xenophobes
yaks
Zotars
The Strange and Wonderful Tale of Jorge and Suzanne
While on our way to Montreal, Jen and I passed a car piled chock full of stuff and lo and behold, on top of it rested a car top carrier. Inside were two young people. We figured they were probably returning to college, but that was far too dull. This is the story we created for them.
His name is Jorge and she's pregnant. They're taking their stuff to New Hampshire where they can “Live Free or Die,” and they're starting a new life for themselves, the baby that's on the way, and the toddler they're keeping in the car top carrier. Her name is Suzanne. She was going to waitress at a less than fantastic bar. Jorge is going to be an auto mechanic and make enough money so that some day, they can actually give the toddler a room that isn't the car top carrier. After all, that toddler has to get bigger eventually. Out in that great world of New Hampshire, their love (and their children) can grow.
Don Koi
Another short tale from the land of Montreal:
The Holiday Inn Select Centre-Ville was designed with the principles of Feng Shui. It's located in the heart of Montreal's Chinatown and contains a Chinese restaurant. Like all things Feng Shui, it has a good big of pretention to it and this extends to what has to be the most massive and overly complicated indoor koi pond I have ever seen. You have to actually walk across little bridges to even get to the restaurant.
Inside the koi pond are...well...koi. Hello, giant goldfish. And the not-so-giant goldfish. But what caught Jen and I's ever shifting attention spans was this positively massive white koi sitting around, surrounded by all the smaller koi. For a while, we referred to it as Moby Dick or simply Moby Koi until we realized that all the little fish were like it's minions. Like it's lackeys. Or body guards. And clearly, the White Koi is the Don Koi, king of the Koi Mafia.
There was one particularly chubby koi that had gotten into a shallow patch. We had seen her the night before in the same position she was in today and last night I thought she was dying and Jen thought perhaps she was pregnant, as most of the smaller koi did seem to flock around her. Thus, we concluded that since somehow she was the female koi in either scenario, she must be the Koi Gun Moll.
An adorable young child was running around. He was going to the restaurant, he told me, and he was going to get chicken and he was going to feed the fish. He wanted to color on Jen's archaeology papers. His mother pulled him aside and told him he couldn't feed the fish, but someone in the hotel apparently gave the child some fish food. That was when the final piece fell in place: the smaller koi had to test Don Koi's food to make sure it was not poisoned. Poor smaller, lesser koi.
Why Not to Mention Pick Up Lines at a Truckstop
Funny story, so Jen and I decided to take a lunch break in Orange County, New York. I was amused and wanted to get a chopper; Jen didn't understand the joke. Instead I called Chris, and he got a kick out of it. On the way there we passed the Blade Runner Knife Co., though, and had a hearty chuckle. Still, this isn't about the amusing business that dot Orange County, it's about the Buck Horn Family Diner.
We grabbed a couple seats in the bar. Not counting the waitresses, the two of us brought the female count up to...well, two. We availed ourselves of the restrooms, only to be astounded at the efficiency of the diner: they had placed the advertisement for the shop inside the doors of the stalls. Jen and I amused ourselves reading the various items (notably including an “Ombre Mexican Blanket” which prompted me to comment that now, not only is the H silent, it's invisible). Still, the bar was calling our names and we had the joy of checking out the menu. It was chock full of meats meant for a king, but I chose to go for the more demure and vegetarian cheese omelet. Jen challenged the vocabulary of those working by inquiring if they could put “vegetables” in her omelet. The answer to this was yes, they had “veggies.”
So, please, allow me to set the scene. Where we sit at the “bar”, the shop is in front of us and to the left. Behind us are the bathrooms. Behind us and to the right are tables and booths for the dinners. Oh, and in front of us alongside the bar is a salad bar, where the food is under heating lamps and colored such that perhaps it had been there for days. Thankfully, we were not close to it and could not smell it. Across the table and to my right sits a man “reading” a newspaper-in all honesty, he was on the comics page the entire time we remained in the diner, but never once did he put down the paper. Not even to drink his (decaf) tea he ordered. The seat next to him was empty, there sat two more truckers. Another empty chair. Eventually, the chair next to empty chair will be filled with Trucker With Friends, but more on that later. Then one more empty chair and you get the gentleman who was sitting a mere one empty seat away from me, TV Evangelist Trucker, sporting a giant piece of cross bling around his neck. Of course, Jen sat next to me and there was one more empty seat before you reach Trucker Huh?-the Trucker that so desperately wanted to talk to girls, but instead just insulted us.
It is at the moment when Jen's coffee arrives that she asks me, in all seriousness, “Have you heard the coffee pickup line?”
Well, no, Batman. But I'm sure I made some snarky comment that led to a digression because it isn't until several minutes later that Jen says, “So, the coffee pickup line. This is a true story-some guy used it on me. So this guy is sitting next to me at a diner and orders a coffee. The waitress says “How do you want your coffee?” The guy replies, “Light and sweet, *dramatic head swivel to face Jen* just like my women.'”
TV Evangelist Trucker then begins to laugh but remains quiet, nursing a hot cup of joe himself. Jen continues, “But the response to that is to order a coffee as well and when the waitress asks how you want it, tell her you want it strong and black-just like your men.” More laughing ensued from TV Evangelist Trucker.
Now, I don't encourage the truckers. Heck, if you know me, you know that I don't encourage much social interaction with most people, ever. But Jen, she kept talking, possibly not realizing that TV Evangelist Trucker was starting to warm up to us. “But the worst.line.ever is the one some guy gave me at a bar. He comes up to me and says, “You're so sweet, I'd drink your bathwater. What are you supposed to say to that? Well, yeah, so that's just gross.”
TV Evangelist trucker begins to wipe tears from his eyes because he's laughing, but finally starts speaking. “That's bad. I'd at least say something like “You're so beautiful, can I speak with you?”” And Jen just kind of gives him a look that says, “Oh, you speak English?” before nodding and smiling.
Well, more chatter ensues off and on. Trucker with Friends causes a hullabaloo by deciding randomly that he no longer wants to sit at the bar and instead, wants to sit at a table with his friends. And then needs to rearrange all the tables in the diner to accommodate his friends. And needs to proclaim this loudly.
Some well-dressed black gentleman was clearly lost in hell when he stumbled into the truck stop diner, and perhaps realizing that Jen and I were the closest thing he could come to any sort of minority solidarity, sat down between us and s and Trucker Huh? It was then that Trucker Huh? Began speaking. He told the black guy that Jen bites. And Jen defended her honor. And I forget the other various things Trucker Huh? Said, but trust me when I say that they only went downhill from there.
By now you're wondering, “Uh...when DOES this story end?” Well, the waitress asks TV Evangelist Trucker if he'd like anything else and he says, “Just a smile from a beautiful waitress.” She smiles a corny sort of smile.
Honestly, there are many more stories one can tell about the Buck Horn Family Diner. There was toe-curling sexism, New York State was referred to as being fascist, and TV Evangelist Trucker has more than a few interesting words about being politically correct. Still, the moral holds true: around members of the opposite sex you're not (and never will be) interested in, talking about pickup lines is only an invitation for pickup lines. The waitresses will not thank you.
Philologist
I'm an Astrophysicist. Astro, as in Astronomy. Physicist, as in Physicist. Pat's a Philologist. Philo...as in...Umm...something Pat studies.
Remember Lord Asshat the Third of Kaimsthorne? He had two friends, Doug and Pat, remember? They were minor players in the grand scheme of things, but do get an additional brief aside.
Pat is a Philologist. What the fuck is a philologist? But on the plus side, he had the same look on his face when Jen said I had a bachelors in Astrophysics. So...you know, we're all fair. He definitely was like, “Well, I'm about to go speak Latin for two hours at a round table discussion, but Doug and I are rooming up at 718, come look us up.” And Jen was like, “Dude, we're in 513.” Because she was drunk.
So we looked them up later to asked them to drinks-it would've been a much more fascinating experience than John from Ohio perhaps, but maybe we wouldn't have learned about Loch Ness Koi. Anyway, we left a note being like “You weren't in. Aww, shucks.” (I wrote it. Jen's was like, “Hey, Man, you weren't here, but we're in 513.”) And it's 1:23 in the morning and they've called about three times in the past few minutes. Jen wants me to answer because I thought Pat was cute. I contend that, had I my typical anti-social way, they wouldn't know our room number. I mean, really, what am I to speak to a philologist about? “Yeah, so about philology...nice damn weather, right?” I totally can't do small talk that well.
Where Radio Stations Go to Die
First, I believed the radio stations went somewhere in the mid-north-east of Pennsylvania when they died. While in this section of our journey, we mostly heard Christian Rock and Radio Stations That Play Songs No One Really Listens To.
Ah, but then we reached the Adirondacks. At one point, Jen commented that it was the middle of the night, in the Adirondacks, in the fog, but actually it was about 5:30 at night-not the middle. Still, it was pitch black because the Adirondacks, they dictate what time the sun sets and rises, dammit. And there...well, there there just weren't radio stations and the ones we picked up played the exact same crap we had heard in the mid-north-east of Pennsylvania-perhaps we were stuck in a temporal loop, doomed to listen only to dull eighties songs and uncatchy pop from the nineties. Oh agony!
Well, ahoy! We saw what we thought was civilization. I mean, when you say “Montreal” people know what you mean. Unfortunately, the same can be said for a lot of places. Like Siberia.
Oh yes, in Montreal the only station we could get in English was play Some Guy We'd Never Heard Of Picks for the top six songs of all time. And the first song was something really creepy about a train and Jesus and Satan playing poker for souls. Satan was cheating and pulling aces from out of his sleeve and Jesus, you know, was honest and all and lost. And now sometimes that train still rides, and the guy singing truly hopes that Jesus wins, but he keeps losing.
Followed by Rolling Stone's “Paint it Black.”
We finally found the final, hellish resting stop for radio stations. Yup.
And finally, these stories didn't quite get finished, but here's what I have.
The Quest for Peter Day
1. The conference spaz.
2. The back at hotel stalking.
3. The sitting in hotel lobby.
4. The guy with chair (nice beard)
5. Chris and Guy at Bar.
6. Girl Student.
7. John Cherry.
8. Peter Day.
(Mostly, needs fleshed out.)
Lord of all Asshattery
Jen and I are sitting in the lobby of the hotel, close to the bar and the Koi pond. Jen's reading stuff by an archaeologist named Ucko and I'm reading my library book on Sati. It's about 3:30 in the afternoon. We had already played nice with the bartender, who laughed at us. See, Jen ordered a beer slightly after three and I made fun of her for being a lush. She said, “It's after noon! It's okay.”
In my typical bitchy fashion, I quipped, “Barely.” And the bartender laughed at both of us. Me for caring and her for drinking.
So, sitting around, Jen's drinking a beer and reading and I'm just reading. There's a group of four chairs next to us and these three guys are walking by when one of them passes us, halts completely, backs up and says loudly, “Wait, let's sit here.” This fellow is wearing a suit. Jen is amazed because one guy is wearing a bright green shirt and she's convinced he was in her colloquim. There's a third guy who is actually rather cute, but not too distinguishable yet.
(still needs finished with the whopping sculpture story)
Finally, although it never got written, it occurs to me that perhaps I ought to create a story about Roald. *swoon*
Happy Birthday, Jen!