The Sound and the Fury

20 Signs That You Might Be Spending Too Much Time On Pinterest

2012-01-27T19:50:00.000-06:00

1. You no longer remember the names of your children. Or if you even have any.

2. The last time you looked at the television, “Friends” was still in prime time.

3. You would rather be on Pinterest than pick up the dry-cleaning, let the dog out, have sex, pay bills, or eat things containing chocolate. (That last one is a sure sign that the devil has spoken to you.)

4. On Sunday mornings, you attack the paper boy at 5:45am so you can read the ad circulars first and get some pins up about new stuff before your friends do. He’s suing, but you don’t care.

5. You are very confused when you can’t find the “Pin It” button in the circulars.

6. You have a low opinion of people with only one or two boards. You find this lazy and irresponsible.

7. You discover that you have three boards of your own that you don’t remember creating, and you can’t tell by the titles what you meant to do with the boards. (Possible products of a drinking binge, improperly balanced medication, or just old age. Who knows.) But you like the stuff you pinned in them even if you don’t understand the grouping, so you shove them down to the bottom of your board page and hope you have a revelation about their births before anyone asks questions about them.

8. You realize that you have pinned the same exact quote on four different boards, with slight color variations being the only difference. (Oh, and one of them has a really sweet panda bear that caught your eye.) It takes a full week for you to decide which three of them to delete, because the pins are your children now and its hard to pick one as your favorite and let the other children have crappy, abandoned lives.

9. You get really angry with people who use their own captions with YOUR pins, because you worked super hard on that original, witty caption and all they came up with is “Bunnies are SO cute!”, and there’s not even a bunny in the pin.

10. But when their new caption is actually funnier and better, you still get mad, because it feels like they are getting a little uppity and pointing out to the world that you have sucky writing skills.

11. You constantly refresh the screen just to see if your “Repin” and “Like” stats go up. And you seek therapy if they don’t. (“Doctor, I just don’t understand why people don’t click on me!”)

12. You purposely pin not-so-interesting things just to keep your name at the top of the feed, because if you roll too far down that feed people will forget you and you will live a life of misery and loneliness.

13. There’s really no reason to have two Ryan Reynolds boards, one “with shirt” and one “without shirt”. (And those of you with stalker tendencies will have a third board: “Skanks that better keep their hands off my man. I’m just waiting for him to figure out that he needs me and we can get married and I won’t have to work and I can pin all day”.)

14. You delete older pins from back in the day when you clearly didn’t know what you were doing and you pinned stupid crap about nothing. This is the same thing as hiding your high-school yearbooks from your current lover. The past is the past, you have better outfits now.

15. You actually have a board named “I’ll figure this one out later, gotta keep moving”.

16. You keep wondering when the Pinterest People are going to start handing out awards for content and design. After all, you have amassed the largest collection of cats playing with empty boxes that the world has ever seen. That alone is worth a merit badge. And where are they going to hold the national Pinterest Convention? (“Pint-Con?”) We need to start pinning hotel options for that mess. These thoughts keep you awake at night.

17. You consider gaining another follower to be far more important than Moses doing that boring Red Sea thing.

18. You carefully review the boards of those people that have followed you, before daring to follow them. Can’t have no scrubs jacking up your feed, you need the good stuff coming down the pipe.

19. You lie to people about how much time you spend on Pinterest. “I was working on a spreadsheet for how to feed the homeless” is code for “I spent the entire weekend pinning 217 images of kumquats”.

20. You actually have a Pinterest tramp-stamp. And you’re not ashamed.

Cruise Control - Part 22: Mary Jane Appears On The Scene

2012-01-26T21:19:00.001-06:00

Click Here to read the previous entry in this series…

So we’ve arrived in Jamaica, and we’ve been somewhat kidnapped.

Okay, not kidnapped, exactly. More along the lines of “forced to deal with something one would rather not deal with whilst on a tropical island”. And by “we” I meant myself and Crispy. I had no idea where anybody else was, and that lack of knowledge was starting to get on my nerves just the tiniest little bit. Anyway, the unpleasantness went something like this:

A hyperactive man who was clearly reinforcing possibly unattractive Jamaican stereotypes had rudely forced Crispy and I to participate in some local custom that involved virginal tourists being subjugated to un-requested madness. As this man prodded us to an apparent staging area just to the side of the ship’s gangway, he was babbling in an over-emphasized accent and insisting on being our best friends, shoving us toward his buddy, who was quickly snapping presumably trashy and expensive photos. The man threw his arms around our shoulders and made us pose.

I was so not in the mood for this.

And he was amazingly sweaty. Drippingly so. I’m not really a fan of sweat, not even my own, unless the wetness occurs during a bout of strenuous and physical intimacy. Then it’s kind of enjoyable and erotic. Not when we’re on a pier in Jamaica, surrounded by billions of tourists that I don’t know on a first name basis. In such a setting, I don’t want to be hugging anything that can easily shoot out of my grasp like a bar of soap at a tawdry YMCA. (Although I might have been a bit more cooperative had someone arranged for The Village People to be giving a performance nearby.)

But I played along, mainly because any form of resistance seemed to energize the man even more and I just wanted this to be done. He rambled on about this and that, ramping up the exaggerated patter until I thought his dreadlocks were going to explode. When he finally released us from his jabbering performance, he seemed to be expecting a tip of some kind for providing local color. He was greatly mistaken.

Happily, it was right after this that we ran into most of the rest of our zip-lining party. Karen and Janet were there, both of them being polite at this point, but obviously quite ready for things to get moving, as we had places to do and things to be. Dawn and Tara were also present and accounted for, wearing basically matching mother/daughter outfits and sunglasses, both of them being fully trained in this skill. Tiffany and Terry were still AWOL, but surely they would show up at any second, right?

Well, not exactly. The happy streams of people that were surging past us failed to reveal any recognizable faces. I started to sweat, partly from the sun (which was already pretty intense at that hour of the day, thusly justifying the pale-faced, probably Norwegian staff woman onboard who had been bellowing “Don’t forget the sunscreen!” as we tromped past and completely ignored her) and partly due to the ticking of the clock. Tiffany and Terry had best hurry, or there would be brutal disappointment in some manner.

I thought back to my earlier conversations with those two, trying to recall if they had given me explicit instructions on how and when to disembark the ship. I didn’t recall anything like that, but it was not out of the question that I had been distracted by something shiny and didn’t fully understand my given orders. Such personal failures happen much more often than I care for them to happen. Let’s blame it on my troubled upbringing, shall we?

A check of my watch revealed that we had roughly 10 minutes until our tour bus was scheduled to depart, trundling us off to the jungle setting wherein we would be hurled along somebody’s clothesline for the grand zip-lining experience. The outcome of this situation did not appear promising.

I turned to the other members of our already-reported party. “Maybe you guys should go on ahead, just in case.” No reason for everybody to miss the excursion. But in a moment of bonding or perhaps simple misunderstanding, they all chose to stand guard as a unit. Probably so we could collectively terrorize the tallying twosome as a solidified coven when the errant duo finally arrived.

Luckily, it was at this precise point that Tiffany and Terry came strutting down the ship’s runway, both of them fashionably attired and, for the most part, managing to skirt the crazed Jamaican Man and his paparazzi sidekick. (I’m assuming that there may still have been a few random photo captures of someone’s breasts, based upon the way the Man and his Kick high-fived each other after reviewing the latest snaps.)

Tiffany and Terry made their way to our little gathering, with Tiffany still waving at her fans, something she always has to do when making an appearance in public. We calmly explained to them that we had roughly three seconds to get to the bus or our agenda for the day would be severely altered. Both of them nodded their heads and became instantly focused, being veterans of many past incidents in our family where speed was of the essence or there would be tears and smeared mascara.

While the score from one of the Mission Impossible movies played in the background, our team scurried to make it past the little welcoming desk where overly happy people were trying to welcome us to their island. We didn’t have time for pleasantries, even though they were wearing very cute outfits and there was the vague promise that free adult beverages were available just off to the side. To ensure quick processing, we politely but firmly shoved a few slow-ass tourists out of the way.

Once through that mess, we encountered another obstacle we didn’t have time for, namely a maze of little shops where 47 different retailers were offering the same model of bongs supposedly made from plumbing pipes ripped out of Bob Marley’s home. Fascinating as I briefly found that to be (dude apparently had a lot of plumbing), it just really wasn’t the time to be perusing potential Christmas gifts for the bad sheep of the family. (“Hey, Joe Dean, look here at this Bob Bong we brought you from Jamaica. Now please stop selling your teeth to buy drug paraphernalia.”)

We made it passed all of the folks loitering in the primitive shopping mall, along with all of their distinctive aromas. (Why are there so many cultures in the world that don’t value daily bathing? Is there something I’m missing?) We then spied a woman prancing around in a vaguely official uniform who was giving off an aura of possibly being privy to directional information. We descended on her, en masse. Where do we go to meet the buses?

She pointed.

At the other end of her finger was an area with lots of little signs on poles, advertising the various excursions, with snippets about “Snorkeling With Dolphins” and “Submarine Tour of Old and Wrecked Ships” and “Drunken Fiesta on a Beach”. Hurray! Trouble is, there were no longer any people lined up at these signs. No matter, can’t stop now. We raced to the non-existent line for the Zip-Lining tour.

And we waited for a while as absolutely nothing happened.

Then, miraculously (I bet good ole Bob had something to do with it), a woman came sauntering in a door, waving a clipboard. People bearing clipboards know things, right? We pounced. She responded. Why, yes, the tour buses for the Zip-Line extravaganza were still in the parking lot. Follow me.

We loved her instantly.

So our merry band of dysfunction followed Mary Magdalene-Mon out into the parking lot, where rows of buses were belching fumes into the air. She led us to a particular bus, spoke briefly with a man standing beside it who might have been the driver or might have just been a serial killer on a break, then she turned to us and indicated that we should climb aboard.

We did so. Or tried to do so. Turns out there were only four seats left on the bus, and there were eight of us. My sister Dawn, who did not have a designated place to stick her fanny and was therefore still outside the bus, proclaimed quite defiantly that this arrangement would not work. We were all going on the same bus or this whole thing was not going to happen.

Part of me was not thrilled with this Norma Rae moment, as I was one of the lucky four with a fanny-place, and I was rather enjoying the cushiness of my temporary home. But the other part of me knew that she was right, and I climbed back over the couple from Canada who had been very accommodating when I first staked my claim, but were now not so thrilled with me butting them in the face a second time.

Mary Magdalene-Mon, still efficient but obviously not satisfied with all aspects of her profession, led us to another bus. This one happened to have enough seating for the entire tribe, although a few of us had to perch on these odd fold-down seats that effectively sealed off the back section of the bus, a not-really-happy thing that could prove irritating should we need to hastily evacuate the bus in the event of a fire or the inability to withstand another round of “99 Bottles of Beer on the Wall”.

I guess it didn’t matter, though, as Mary scribbled something on her clipboard, murmured another something to the serial killer who was indeed the bus driver, patted the side of the bus in a manner that could have meant “God speed” or “Please have this one fumigated before you return” and then she marched off, presumably to a place where over-worked bus-designators can unclench for a few moments until the next ship of fools arrives.

The serial killer selected a gear and we drove off.

Now, the area just outside of this little port was fairly industrial. Maybe they always are, I don’t know, not having had many experiences arriving at a port in a foreign country and then boarding a bus that will take me to a place where I can pay people to let me ride a clothesline over gaping chasms. It might be standard procedure to drive past questionable buildings where there are odd, leaky 55-gallon drums stacked alongside said buildings while rusty, clearly inoperable cars are parked nearby. Perhaps this is that they mean by “atmosphere” in the travel brochures.

But we soon progressed out of that area and found ourselves in a more city-like area. We were now seeing cute little houses and cute little shops and cute little cars that were apparently driven by people who were out of their minds. It was this last bit that caught my attention. Was it normal that people just dart about with no respect for lane boundaries, proper turn-signaling, and, I don’t know, potential casualties from their automotive decisions?

Then we pulled up to a stoplight at what appeared to be a major intersection, and I got a second dose of local culture. I was in the midst of aiming my camera out the window, attempting to take one of those travel photos that end up being important only to you and that no one else will ever care about, when I lowered my camera in surprise.

The man driving the car right next to us was clearly smoking a joint. And not in a furtive way. He was really happy, and he was ready to share, holding the reefer out his window at the surprised, touristy faces that were reviewing his actions. Wanna hit?

Actually, it turns out that I was the only one who was surprised, apparently. The other folks sitting around me, including members of my own family, were discussing the situation with nonchalance. Yep, pot is legal in Jamaica. Smoke it anywhere you want, no problem.

Why did I not know this? (More importantly, why did everybody else know this and not me?) Not passing judgment, not at all, I went to college, enough said. But seriously, I didn’t know if I was really cool with people sucking down on ganja whilst on the open highways, especially if the munchies kicked in. Because you do crazy things when you have a drug-induced fixation on a particular food combination that you would never consider when weed-less. (According to people I have spoken with, of course.)

The random driver beside us, realizing that no one was going to partake of his kind offering, whipped his hand back and took another deep drag, with burning embers dropping off his special spliff and extinguishing in his beard without any notice on his part. His reddened, watery eyes made it clear that singed hair was a small price to pay for basic happiness.

Connecting the dots, I glanced forward to our own driver, he who was in control of the bus and our eventual fates. His eyes were a perfect match to Mr. Friendly on the left. (Have these people never heard of Visine?) Was the entire island stoned? Were we really being taken to a place where people could zip-line, or were we about to become drug mules in a tawdry scheme resulting in us living in dirty hovels, wearing ugly clothing and having sex with strangers just to pay the light bill? (Because isn’t that what always happens in Lifetime movies?)

The light turned green and the bus continued through the intersection…

To Be Continued…

Cruise Control - Part 21: Searching For Zero

2012-01-23T19:21:00.003-06:00

Click Here to read the previous entry in this series. Click Here to start at the beginning.

The breaking dawn of Wednesday morning brought something with it we hadn’t seen in a while.

Land.

Terry was the first to make this joyous discovery. Sadly, he did so in a time frame that is not one of my favorites. I do not leap out of bed with the first ray of sunshine. (And I don’t understand people who do.) I wake slowly, reluctantly, and anything miraculous that might transpire during early morning hours is simply unimportant to me. I’m not invested in anything until I have exhausted all valid excuses for further slumber. Then we can talk.

Speaking of conversation, Tiffany, who also does not believe in societal interaction until after 10am, spoke up from her little daybed mere inches from my head. “What is that noise?” It was quite clear that she forced these four words from her mouth whilst barely controlling the urge to cut someone.

“It’s Terry,” I reported, half-heartedly thinking about opening my left eye but getting no further than that. “He’s out on the balcony. I believe pictures are being taken.”

Just then, we heard a burst of rapid clicking, as if one of those super-thin beings was strutting down a runway and wearing an ensemble that had just provoked a legion of photographers into a frenzy. (We also heard what might be the sound of someone tripping over a poorly-placed deck chair and slamming their head into the side of the ship, but this second noise was never fully investigated.)

Separately and instinctively, we both decided that the safest and best-advised response to these developments was to remain exactly where we were and not do anything. However, these precautionary measures soon proved irrelevant, as the balcony door was suddenly ripped open and Terry bounded inside. “We’re here! We’re in Jamaica!” (Or something like that. I’m sure the reportage was much more detailed, but I was distracted by the flood of sunshine which was now pouring in said door, causing my skin to begin sizzling and my fangs to drop.)

Tiffany sat up in her petite daybed, tossing aside her sleep mask with admirable Joan Crawford-esque disdain. “Are we in port yet?”

Terry shook his head. “Not yet, but we’re almost there. You’ve got to see this, come on!” He was very excited, and I felt the first stirrings of actual interest in the day, but I remained steadfast in my brave and noble intentions to stay bed-bound.

Tiffany, however, took a traitorous turn, throwing back the covers, lunging out of bed, adjusting things that needed to be adjusted, and then tottering toward the dual-beckoning of Terry and balcony door. They joined hands and skipped through the portal, with Tiffany releasing a squeal of delight once on the other side.

She continued squealing.

I continued pretending that neither of them existed.

Finally, after one nearly orgiastic howl of delight, I caved. Cursing, I bid adieu to the warmth and sanctity of the bed (I shall miss you, my beloved), and stumbled out onto the balcony, joining Ansel Adams and Joan Crawford at the railing, where I couldn’t help but let out a gruff little squeal of my own. Let’s just say that there is something quite satisfying about pulling up to an island, by boat, in the middle of nowhere. I approve heartily.

But the vision of the island soon caused another important piece of information to click into place in my grudgingly activating mind. We had to be on that island within an hour or so, ready to board a bus and be transported into the advertised jungle. This was Zip-Line Day and we had to get a move on. No piddling around or there would be no zipping.

Thus commenced the delicate give-and-take ballet of multiple people attempting to freshen and spritz at the same time in a space roughly the size of a cigar box, with the requisite accidental breast-fondling and tripping over toothbrushes and air. But we had done this choreography many times in many places by now, and we had it down to an art, rushing out the door 37 seconds after the first person had stepped into the shower.

Breakfast was also a quick affair, especially on my part, because I had never been on a zip-line before, and I did not want to shamefully discover that one should not fly through the air with a full belly. I ate only enough to ensure that I did not drop dead from hunger halfway up the mountain, especially since my family would probably just leave me by the side of the road since it was entirely too hot to be carrying anything about.

At some point during all these preparations, probably due to a bad decision on my part, I became separated from the group of clan members who were going on the zip-line excursion. (The rest of the family was going on a different tour, something that involved splashing in the water and humping whales, not really sure. I wasn’t going on that one and didn’t really study the details or care.) I decided, considering the clock was ticking, that I should head for the deck where we were supposed to disembark and hope for the best.

Another poor decision.

First, I had to make my way to “Deck 0”. I found this to be a troubling name for a destination. Deck 0? It didn’t sound like good things would happening in a place like that. Why didn’t it have a “real” number? Was it less important than the other decks? If people had to go there to get off the ship, I’m thinking that’s a very valuable function to have and the deck deserves a better name.

Adding to these concerns was the somewhat-confusing directions about how to get to this numberless deck. As in, there weren’t any directions. Well, there might have been some valuable instructions somewhere, I just couldn’t find them. I only had the vague notion that one must head toward the bottom of the boat, which is the same thing some people were doing in The Poseidon Adventure, and we saw how well that worked out.

Of course, none of the elevators and stairwells that I selected actually offered a straight-line run to The Land of Zero. So I had to wander around, making random choices and haphazardly working my way toward the ocean floor, repeatedly gaining (losing?) two floors and then having to back up one. I was beginning to hate life and the concept of physical movement.

Slightly sweating, I became concerned at one point that I really wasn’t seeing a whole lot of other people. As in no one. I was on Deck 1, very near my goal and yet so far, off in some super quiet section with lots of closed doors, standing in a stairwell where the next section of steps, presumably leading to the mythical Zero, had been roped off. In a noticeably hurried manner that indicated “something very bad has happened on the next floor but we haven’t told the right people yet so please go somewhere else and not talk about this”.

Hmm.

Well, I could just step over the rope and head on, which would at least get my ass on the right deck, finally, even if I still had a lot of maze to get through before I found the cheese. On the other hand, I didn’t want to become another statistic in whatever situation had led to the roping of the stairs, a surprised participant in destruction and mayhem.

Thinking of possible victims and grisly fates, I studied all those doors around me. Why were they all closed? Where was everybody at? Why was it so quiet? Was this the serial-killer section of the ship? It was certainly big enough to have one. There was just something not right about the area, like Shelley Duvall was hiding behind one of the doors, trembling and holding an eventually ineffective butcher knife.

Perhaps I wouldn’t be jumping rope right at the moment. Maybe the next recess.

I turned and headed back up my current choice of stairs, down a hallway to another stairwell that I swear hadn’t been there mere seconds before, down a flight on that one, my heart racing a bit as I did not discover a warning strand of rope, down another flight, and I came to a halt in a landing area with a door in each of the three other walls. Well, I was finally on the damn Zero Deck. Now I just had to choose a door. Maybe Monty Hall was standing around somewhere, waiting to assist me?

I picked the middle one. Because that’s how you win elections. I stepped through, discovered another short stretch of hallway, followed that, made a turn to the left, and found myself at the top of three short steps.

At the bottom of the steps was a massive room, packed with roughly 4 billion people who were pouring off two packed elevators and heading toward Security lines where they where scanning room cards as people stepped off the ship and onto Jamaica.

Well, hell. Why couldn’t I have just found those elevators? Geez.

“Uncle Brian!”

I turned in response, and I spied Crispy heading toward me. The expression on his face was transitioning from “I have no idea where I’m at and no one will ever find me” to “Cool, I know that person, we can be lost together and it won’t be as painful”.

“Have you seen anybody else?” I asked, scanning the crowd.

He shook his head. “Nope. Everybody was right there and then all the sudden they weren’t.”

I knew the feeling. “Well, let’s wait a sec, and see if anybody shows up.”

We stood there as people streamed past. People who were looking at us the way people do when something happens that breaks the monotony of life. (Why are those two guys standing over there? Why aren’t they walking with everybody else? Have they done something wrong? Is that why that one stairwell was roped off? I better openly stare at them in case I need to pick them out of a lineup later.)

That quickly got on my nerves, so I decided it was time for Plan B. “Let’s go on through Security, just in case they’re waiting for us on the pier. Surely they wouldn’t just get on the bus without us.”

Yeah, right. If any of them had already gotten into the Bloody Marys this morning, they were probably driving the bus and halfway up the mountain by now. But you gotta have faith.

We quickly got through Security (they scan your card and shove you along, nothing intricate there) and soon stepped out into the beautiful Jamaican sunshine that had started the day. It was very nice. We got to enjoy it for roughly two seconds before a crazed, drug-addled man sporting dreadlocks attacked us with exuberance, dragging us off the gangway and away from the ship.

Great.

Click Here to Read the Next Entry in This Series…

20 Random Thoughts After Re-Watching The Very First Harry Potter Movie

2012-01-20T19:28:00.002-06:00

1. Wow, those kids look like they’re about 6 years old.

2. Hermione was pretty bitchy back in the day.

3. Daniel Radcliffe/Harry has exactly two facial expressions: “total surprise at being famous for basically doing nothing” and “grim determination as he prepares to face off against a monster that the adults really should be killing instead of sitting around and making stupid rules about not going in the forest”.

4. Maggie Smith/Professor McGonagall has exactly two expressions: “prim disapproval of basically everything that is going on” and “sad acceptance of the fact that no one understands how much she suffers for her art (I won an Oscar, people!)”.

5. How did Dumbledore wash that beard of his? Or not have nightmares about garbage disposals?

6. Alan Rickman must have had a very understanding pharmacist.

7. Those “viewing towers” at the quidditch matches were really cool, despite being essentially pointless if you actually wanted to watch the game.

8. There are hundreds of kids mucking about at Hogwarts, but at any given time there are only four kids in a given classroom. And one of the four is usually Hermione, waving her attention-craving hand in the air and yearning to answer another question from the teacher before her head explodes with all that knowledge.

9. They only have one caretaker in this place? No wonder he looks so mean and old.

10. Hagrid, dude, it’s about that hair.

11. Hey, the woman who plays Harry’s nasty aunt is the same woman who showed up on True Blood last season and made Pam’s face not be pretty any more, which of course led to dissatisfaction, war, and debate about Marnie’s right to open a pseudo Pottery Barn shop.

12. What’s the horrid, spoiled cousin’s name, the one with all the presents and the whining? Runtley? Grunt boy? Doesn’t matter. Just kill him. Life’s too short to put up with that mess.

13. Why do they let Hagrid live in that little hut off by himself? Nobody else gets to have a cabana.

14. You’d think somebody could figure out how to make those staircases not move. This is a school, right?

15. Wouldn’t it be easier to just have someone cast a spell on you so that you would automatically know all the spells and wouldn’t have to go to class? Or is this a union issue?

16. I don’t want the paintings on the wall to talk. I don’t care if I get to wear a pretty robe and wave a twig around, I need my decorating accessories to be quiet.

17. Seriously, they had a multi-million-dollar budget and they couldn’t come up with a scar for Harry that didn’t look like a third-grader got crazy with a magic marker?

18. Practically the whole school year goes by, with unicorns being ravaged and ugly goblins being let loose in the lavatory, and no one thought to take a peek under that one guy’s turban?

19. There’s something wrong with that whole scoring thing for the House Competition. Hermione and Ron got the same amount of bonus points for the little underground death-chess thingy toward the end of the movie, even though all she did was stand there, with her and her hair looking anguished, while Ron did all the work and almost died about 40 times. And he rode a horse. Hermione didn’t ride anything. I’m thinking somebody needs to file a grievance.

20. I would never take off the Invisibility Cloak. Ever.

10 Things I Learned About My 9-Year-Old Niece Over The Holidays

2012-01-06T21:06:00.001-06:00

1. She is often airborne.

The lovely lass has been taking gymnastics lessons for some time, and apparently the leaders of this possible cult encourage their members to practice ALL the time. This results in startling moments when said lass will perform sudden handsprings across the kitchen counter whilst the bleary-eyed adults are just trying to sip their morning coffee.

2. She doesn’t have bones that can easily snap like the dried-out older people.

As can often happen when trying to get the best score from of the Olympic judges that are possibly hiding in the laundry room, excessive zeal during an otherwise spectacular tumbling maneuver can lead to missed targets and small bodies slamming into innocent walls. Post-crash, the little trooper simply springs up and races off to prepare for another exhibition, whereas any adult involved in the slamming would be in traction and fully qualified to star in a Hallmark movie about plucky people who can no longer use their body parts but still have a good enough heart that Tori Spelling will marry them at some point.

3. The global energy crisis has been resolved.

She never stops moving. Ever. This is what is known as a “natural, unlimited resource”. No one has to drill for anything and the planet remains green and friendly. We just need to make a few clones of my niece (based on observed energy output, I don’t think we would need more than half a dozen little dynamos or so to light the entire universe), convince them that it is fashionably acceptable to run about whilst tethered to a power grid (“sweetie, ALL the cheerleaders are wearing cords these days”), and not charge anybody a penny for the output, since youngsters don’t even need or understand money.

We’ll probably get a Nobel Peace Prize for this, what with people no longer needing to go to war over oil and stuff. (I’m sure folks will soon find another reason to justify international conflict, but hopefully this won’t happen until after the nice people in Sweden have handed us a check.)

4. She can wear absolutely anything and still be adorably cute.

Uncle Brian: “Sweetie, that outfit is the cutest thing ever. Who got that for you?”

Niece (rolling eyes, because adults are just so stupid and you have to explain things to them): “I made it out of popsicle sticks and dryer lint. Last week when the Disney Channel wasn’t working because I landed on the remote control and it got stuck and we had to watch America’s Stupidest Redneck Weddings for three days.”

Uncle Brian: “Are you going to be a fashion designer when you grow up?”

Niece (rolling eyes, because she was nine years old and clearly a mature woman in her eyes): “Nope. I’ll just let Mommy keep buying me things to wear. Most of the time she does a good job.” (Then her rolling eyes briefly stopped on a wadded-up Kohl’s sack that had been shoved in a corner, presumably containing a horrid garment that had not met couture requirements and had been left out as a warning against future Mommy slip-ups.)

5. There is absolutely nothing wrong with watching the same episode of a young-adult program at least 714 times.

During one of these repeat sessions, Guiness Book of Tweenager Records called and wanted to interview us for shattering the old milestone. I told them they might as well wait, because we still had two days left in our visit and could easily watch this same show another thirty times. They have a plane on standby.

6. Hip nine-year-olds have their own language and knowledge base.

I often felt like Forrest Gump in that extended bit of the movie where he kept running and running. We didn’t really know why he was doing that or where he was going but we just assumed we would understand more when he got there. I never did understand some of my niece’s oratory destinations, but at least I got a nice telegram from Sally Field explaining that sometimes its better to have a small part in the movie than not be in it at all.

7. My niece really, really, really likes to win at video and board games.

Enter the arena at your own risk. Pay no attention to the caged lions off to one side that can be released with a small signal from Angelic Niece. Hunker down and pray for daylight.

8. My niece has a vast and healthy imagination.

Any playtime activity (which is basically any waking moment) can turn into a fantastic adventure full of creativity concerning otherwise mundane things, proving that you don’t need fancy, over-priced toys that require multiple batteries be shoved up their butt.

The most exciting visit to the Imaginarium? We took the Woody and Jessie dolls from Toy Story, rechristened them Snickers and Jolly Rancher to better suit our indie, on-the-fly, Quentin Tarantino script, and set out on a quest to recover a holy receptacle that had been stuffed with candy before being whisked away by one of the many evil Pig Kings that live in the niece’s mandatory pile of stuffed animals.

It was a treacherous journey, with both of us dying several times, mostly due to the murky “rules of engagement” that my niece kept changing on a whim (I’m assuming she was a double agent with the Porky People), but we’ve learned from video games that you just have to push a button and everybody is breathing again, so it was all good. We eventually triumphed, cramming sugar-based products into our mouths and then racing out to the family room to share our adventures with the other relatives. They just looked at us and then went back to watching America’s Funniest Redneck Plumbing Incidents.

9. Mandatory bedtime is an outrage against the youth of the world, and those youths have banded together to form Occupy Living Room to have their grievances addressed.

Sadly, the social and political network in this country is still dominated by The Big People With Money. Big People who can still pick you up and carry you to the slumber chamber which you dread (even though said chamber was the delightful land of Snickers and Jolly Rancher mere minutes ago, where sugar caches could be discovered in the most amazing places).

And then you are ungraciously plunked down in the cushy bed, where you will pout for the three minutes it takes you to fall asleep (700 cartwheels does take its toll after all), drifting away while the adults continue swilling from glass bottles, consuming a forbidden nectar that makes them increasingly louder and happier and erroneously convinced that they can beat all takers in something called “beer pong”.

10. I really need to get back to Tulsa more often than I do.

Jolly Rancher still has more treasures to find, and I want to be her sidekick whenever I can…

Peace.

10 Things I Just Realized While Wrapping Christmas Presents

2011-12-16T19:49:00.001-06:00

1. It sucks.

Granted, there was a time and place when I greatly enjoyed swaddling carefully-selected gifts in whimsically-printed paper. I would spend hours ensuring that each box o’ joy was so meticulously enshrined in festive wrapping that angels would descend from Heaven and sing praises about the craftsmanship. That is no longer the case. Now I just want the dang things done and shoved under the tree as quickly as possible.

2. The discreet use of tape is highly overrated.

I used to be an acolyte of the school which believed that if you could see the Scotch tape lovingly applied to yuletide packages, then you just didn’t care enough. The tape should be placed so precisely that the gift recipient would swear that artisans of great fame were responsible for the finished product. But I dropped out of that school. Now the tape is used as a binding tool, physically forcing the wrapping paper to do what I want it to do, even if it means we end up with weird wads of paper mashed into the ends of the package.

3. I can no longer cut in a straight line.

Another skill that has eroded over time is the ability to slice off the required bits of wrapping paper at perfect 90-degree angles from the baseline, thus ensuring that the next person to use the tube of paper has a clean and geometrically-pleasing starting point. My snipping with the scissors starts out swimmingly for the first few inches, but then things go terribly awry and I end up with a ragged edge that looks like the San Andreas Fault. My partner is not amused, and there are heated discussions.

4. I apparently had a fetish concerning the purchasing of “after-Christmas” discount wrapping paper at some point.

We have tons of this stuff. There are countless bins of paper that I don’t even remember buying, shoved into random corners of the attic. I think it’s fair to say that I won’t need to purchase more wrapping paper until 2027. And some of the patterns I picked out? I have no idea what inspired me to purchase the New Kids on the Block “Figgy Pudding” tribute roll of paper. Maybe I had bronchitis.

5. The TO and FROM areas on gift tags are entirely too small.

Dear low-paid people who make these tags: Not everybody in America is named “Ann” or “Biff”. Expand, please. And while you’re at it, quit making those glossy tags where the ink smears and it looks like I have some motor-skill issues.

6. I have lost interest in bows.

These things just irritate me now. Visiting the past again, I actually used to make bows, using rolls of ribbon and this plastic thing with spokes that, after several hours of threading and twisting, would create intricate displays of glossy art, resulting in treasures that would send Patti LaBelle running to the nearest hair salon.

I don’t do that anymore. In fact, I don’t do bows at all. Just flat packages, because the bows are just going to get crushed when you cram all those presents in the back of the car and drive 20 hours to the house of the relative who is hosting this year’s awkward gift-exchange extravaganza. Nobody likes smashed gift-toppings. Save yourself the pain.

7. There’s no shame in random gaps in the wrapping.

So the square of paper that you just cut out is apparently FUBAR and doesn’t adequately hide the entire thingy you are trying to cover? No worries. Just make sure that critical words on the packaging are nicely obscured, and you’re good to go. It’s not like anybody is actually going to care, what with the entire planet being afflicted with attention-deficit disorders of one kind or another. They’re just going to rip the thing open, squeal with fake Southern Belle delight, and then toss the thing aside and never look at it again. At least you didn’t waste any time putting a bow on it.

8. I made the mistake of actually sitting on the floor while doing the wrapping.

This would not have been a problem in my more limber years. But as well know, things and bodies don’t work quite the way they used to function. Once I was in the lower altitudes, I was pretty much staying there unless a fire broke out in the house. So I’m wallering around on the floor, grunting and trying to reach for the next present that needed to be wrapped, usually one that I had stupidly placed way on the other side of the room. (Side Note: How is it that the scissors that you just used disappear the instant that you set them down and you have to search for five minutes every time you need them?)

And when I needed a fresh beverage? I rued the day, just sayin. Try convincing Scotch the Cat to go get Daddy another beer. The success rate with that endeavor often leads to disappointment, hurt feelings, and a restraining order. Ungrateful little hairball launcher.

9. Some companies maliciously create products that are difficult to wrap.

Why can’t they just put the item in a standard box and be done with it? Doesn’t that make more sense for everybody? But noooo, these evil manufacturers insist on the most jacked-up packaging they can design, with odd angles and things that stick out and sharp pointy bits that will rip the wrapping paper to shreds. I think these companies should have to pay hefty government fines until they knock it off and act right.

Yes, I know that I could just put the unruly gift into a wrap-technician-pleasing box and go from there. But it’s a known household fact that you can never find a box when you need one. Two days ago, of course, there had been hundreds of empty boxes all over the house, tossed in piles by irresponsible people who didn’t care, leading to me bellowing things like “who the hell left these boxes EVERYWHERE!” and to a very quiet evening meal where the perpetrators didn’t say much after I made them haul the boxes to the trash. Clearly, I wasn’t planning ahead.

And I could also take advantage of those “holiday” gift bags, with their symbols of high-cholesterol Santas and fornicating reindeer. But using a gift bag just seems like a cop-out to me. The bags might as well come printed with a disclaimer stating “It’s two in the morning, I’m tried of wrapping, so I’m just going to throw your over-priced Pier 1 ornament into this bag and cram some tissue on top of it. I still love you, though. Kiss, kiss.”

Maybe it’s that tissue paper that leaves a bad taste in my mouth. I can never get that crinkly mess to look right. Some folks are a wiz at it, sculpting delicate snow angels and an origami Baby Jesus out of the stuff. My tissue paper looks like I ran over it in the driveway and then shoveled it into a designer bag featuring dancing chipmunks and special dots that, if you scratch and sniff, smell just like fruitcake.

10. Despite all of the above, I actually do like to wrap Christmas presents.

I just have to force myself to set aside a big chunk of hours, pick a room where I can seal myself off from the rest of the house and all those prying eyes (“Yes, you were trying to peek, now get out of here you little urchin.”), make sure I have everything I need so I don’t slip out of the wrapping chamber and get distracted by things like a Will & Grace rerun or a Facebook request that somebody needs materials for their suppository factory in BodyCavityVille, stay focused, and get the job done.

Oh, and at some point I must play the entire “Christmas Portrait” album by The Carpenters. It’s not the holidays without it, and it takes me back to those innocent, less-bitter, child-eyed times when I really did care about not being able to see the tape on the packages as I wrapped up the tiny, dime-store goodies I had carefully picked out for my family after I saved my allowance for months and months.

And that strategy worked just fine this evening. I managed to get twenty gifts prepped and ready to go, an admirable amount if I do say. But now I have to get up off this floor, and that’s going to take a while. Thankfully, I was able to convince Scotch to bring me my laptop so I could blog about my experiences while I build up the strength to get back on my feet.

Cheers.

Backup Dancers From Hell: Lady Gaga - “You And I”

2011-12-10T21:21:00.001-06:00

We start out with Gaga marching down a dusty road, decked out in some tribute-to-Skeletor getup, complete with coordinated veils and death mask. Seems girl has been trudging down that road for some time, long enough that her feet are all bloody and she’s got a bit of an attitude. But before we can tell her “honey, if you’d just take those eight-inch heels off it wouldn’t be so bad” we whisk to another.. I’m not sure what it is.

And then the images and costume changes start flying. Somebody’s hiking up her skirt, some corpses are getting married, something about fingernails, melting ice cream cones, ugly street vendors, possible cattle-prod usage and public tinkling. Gaga goes at it all with gusto, in that amazing knack she has of creating startling but mesmerizing images that may not mean anything but she’s having such a hell of a good time that you’re right there with her.

Anyway, the song proper starts, and we’re back with the original Gaga character, she of the black veils, now standing in the middle of what passes for an intersection in Podunk, Nebraska. She poses for a while, because her outfit is really striking and we need to study all of it, then she starts prancing around with an attitude, sashaying, while at the same time trying to fix one of her arms that has apparently short-circuited. Then she throws down a black rose and goes stomping toward an ice cream truck, which is exactly where I would go if my arm was making buzzing noises and didn’t have any flesh.

Cut to another Gaga, this one wearing very little makeup and playing a piano in the middle of a cornfield at night. Sitting on top of said piano is Jo Calderone, the alter ego that Gaga has created as a means to… well, the jury’s still out on that one. But kudos to the special effects person that blended these two into the scene. You really believe that Jo is right there, smoking cigarettes and guzzling beer while Gaga bops her head dangerously close to Jo’s crotch. They look sweet together.

We spend a little time with them, because when you stumble across a piano from the corn rather than a child, you might as well make the best of it. (We get some jump shots of Black Veil Gaga stomping around on those roads, but she doesn’t seem to know where she’s going so we can check back on her later.) While Gaga tinkles, this time with the piano keys and not herself, Jo does manly things like spit and grab at his crotch and not bathe.

Hold up, more whirring images again. Some shirtless guy (good costume choice, sayin) is messing around with Gaga dressed as a severe RuPaul angel, another shirtless guy (or maybe the same, we’re just seeing torsos here, fine by me) is kissing a Gaga dressed as a dead nurse, and there’s something about a barn. Then we’re back to the RuPaul angel, and Shirtless is fiddling with chemistry-set looking things while RuPaul tries not to be eaten alive by her costume.

And the possible barn theme is confirmed when we cut to a Green-Haired Gaga leading a line dance. (It’s just not a Gaga video without one.) Leave it to Gaga to all out hoof it up in a big production number involving horse stalls and haylofts. She and her girl posse flop around for a bit, stirring up dust that probably doesn’t feel good once it’s trapped under those leather outfits they are all barely wearing.

While the Horsey Hoes pivot and twirl, we drop by one of the other set pieces in the video for a status update. RuPaul appears to be getting her mouth oiled by Shirtless, followed by something to do with an old-timey hypodermic being shoved into RuRu’s neck and causing her to…

Turn into a mermaid? I think. All that’s certain is that we now have Gaga as FishWoman, reclining in an antique bathtub that would probably run you 25K at Restoration Hardware, while Shirtless is dumping pails of water on her. (He’s a very busy boy.) She’s also managed to lose her top somewhere along the line, testing the patience of censors with the creative use of a tiny strip of mer-flesh that just barely covers her nipples. (What’s the point, at this point, about even bothering to hide the points? Just asking.)

Back to the Horsey Hoes and their Equus tribute. Everybody’s still hunching the hay with complete professionalism, showing no signs of stopping, so we can just let them be for now, although at some point they’ll need to find another place to dance because the cows are due for milking shortly. Bessie don’t play when it’s pail time.

And we visit with Mer-Gaga once more, to find that she is hopelessly devoted to her breasts, caressing them with a love that usually only takes place on certain pay-per-view channels. We also have some mess with Shirtless shoving a gas mask at her, but there’s already so much going on that we’ll just let that go for now.

Oh, look, it’s time for another montage. Black Veil Gaga is still stomping around that dusty intersection, so I’m not sure that she’s being all that productive. Mer-Gaga is splashing around in her tub in a manner that would have had me sent to my room as a youngster. And Jo and Plain Gaga are still mooning at each other under the harvest moon in the cornfield without children.

Then the pace kicks up even more, and the jump cuts are too numerous to mention. Suffice it to say that, in general, Shirtless is really invested in transforming Gaga into something else. We’re just not sure what that else might be or exactly which Gaga he is working on at any given time, especially since some new Gagas start cropping up, like Black-Haired Gaga who seems to be doing aerobics in front of a giant wooden wheel while wearing a leftover Barbarella outfit.

Hold-up, soft-porn alert. Shirtless and his tattoos are gettin’ busy with one of the Gagas, probably Mer-Gaga if you base it on breast-identification. But before the loosely-draped towel on his behind slides off like we want it to, we go back to that damn montage. Now we have images of splashing water, Plain Gaga leading a line dance in the cornfield (you knew it was coming), and a shot of Jo spitting off the back of the piano (how nice of him/her).

Next we have another teasing snippet of that towel sliding lower on Shirtless, then scenes of Black Veil Gaga still not finding what she’s looking for, more cornfield choreography, Plain Gaga playing the piano with her foot, self-loving mermaids, questionable aerobics, religious references involving the signs of the cross and some hair gel, and a very convincing trick shot of Gaga kissing herself via Jo.

Did I mention that things were a little busy in this video? Yep, they be.

Oh, I almost forgot about the Horsey Hoes. We check in on them a few times, including a startling scene where Green-Haired Gaga has apparently managed to get herself stuck high up on a really aggressive stripper pole, and the other Hoes race up a convenient staircase to cut her down. Or something like that. It may have just been a political statement of some kind.

Brief interlude where Shirtless is sitting around in flimsy, soaking-wet pajama bottoms while Mer-Gaga throws more water on him, then the montage fires up again. Barbarella Gaga is having some type of reaction to shellfish, Plain Gaga suddenly decides it would be fun to run a marathon in the cornfield, Dead-Nurse Gaga is still getting married or some such in the most confusing scenario of many confusing scenarios, and the towel finally gives it up and we get a partial booty shot of Shirtless atop Mer-Gaga. (Pause at 5:08, for those who roll that way, sayin.)

The tilt-a-whirl finally starts to slow down, and we’re back with Black Veil Gaga, still on that road to nowhere, warbling the slower end of the song. The music fades, and we get one last look at Shirtless and Mer-Gaga, all cozy in their bathtub of lust, a glimpse of Dead-Nurse Gaga and her apparent groom, and a lonely, abandoned farmhouse where little boys and girls used to dream of growing up one day and doing whatever the hell they wanted and people would love them anyway…

Click Here to Watch the Video on YouTube.

10 Strategies From The Republican Jacked-Up Playbook

2011-12-09T20:53:00.001-06:00

1. Pray Away The Gay Today, Hey Hey

This is one of the cornerstones of our cult. Any time you are in a situation where you need to misdirect guilt, blame the gays. Gays are responsible for everything that is wrong in our lives and this great corporate nation of ours. Point fingers and talk about Jesus casting them out of paradise. (Side note: Mixing Jesus and homophobia should be at the top of your Republican recipe list, up there with Fake Soldier-Support Soufflé and Anti-Abortion Antipasto.)

If someone wants to know why you are trying to de-fund Medicare, explain that it’s the only way to stop same-sex couples from holding hands in a recovery room. If people question your slashing of school budgets, tell them it’s the only way to prevent classes on interior design and humanities, two breeding grounds for homosexuality. And if one of the two remaining reporters in the world who has not been bought off happens to spot you slipping out the back door of a gay nightclub wearing nothing but a studded-leather jockstrap and a satisfied smile, say you are doing “research” for Marcus Bachmann.

2. Taxes Are The Devil’s Work

Under no circumstances should you ever appear to be supporting tax increases, at least for the super-rich and our citizen corporations. (Be sure to keep taxing the lower and middles classes, because somebody has to pay for all the crap we have, right?) And don’t be troubled by the stupid poor people who die because they can’t afford to pay their medical bills. (Fewer living poor people means less votes for the opposition and better parking spaces for our Humvees. Yay!)

Remember, never back down from this stance, no matter what. This is the only idea we can ever get an entire room of Republicans to agree on, so it’s like our official motto and stuff. If we waffle on this, then people might question other things we do, and we sure as hell don’t want some of those rocks looked under. Got it?

3. Say Whatever You Want On Television

We own the media, so we can take whatever dumb-ass thing you said and spin it into something else completely, preferably a rebuttal that blames Obama for something we did. So just relax and be the bigot we all know you are. Ain’t no shame in the hatred game, sayin.

4. Pay No Attention To History Books

Thankfully, most people don’t read those nasty things, anyway. But if you run into someone who insists on quoting from that trash, be prepared to deny that whatever they are talking about actually happened. Things like the Holocaust, Emancipation and Separation of Church and State. Besides, a homosexual probably wrote those lies, and Jesus doesn’t want you to read such flighty filth. If all else fails, we can just revise the voting districts so that the common people have no actual say in what their insipid children learn. (Like they can even afford to go to college anymore. Puh-lease.)

5. Fundamentalism Is Fierce!

In any situation where you need to inject religion into the discussion (which is every situation), always take the most extreme anti-progress position you can. As we all know, enlightened human thought is a critical threat to our mission statement. Stick with the basics: fire, brimstone, enslavement of the masses, and unimpeded power at any expense. It doesn’t matter if you actually believe what you are saying, the important thing is to say it and get the votes. The end justifies the desecration.

Oh, but even if you don’t really buy all that biblical stuff, be sure to go to church at least twice a month and wave at the cameras as you go in. (See special section in the appendix concerning “How to protect yourself from spontaneous combustion in the House of the Lord”.)

6. Responsibility Is Highly Over-Rated

With only a few possible exceptions (sorry about all that “ethics violation” mess back in the 90’s, Newt, we didn’t own as many newspapers back then, our bad), you will probably not be held accountable for your actions. Do whatever you need to do to further our agenda, even if you don’t understand the agenda or you break several laws in the process.

There is only the tiniest risk that you might be arrested, and that risk is far outweighed by the healthy balance on your bank account statements. Besides, if people start nosing around, look for the nearest Democrat, lesbian, or welfare recipient and blame them, even if they were out of the country or not even born when you screwed people over. We’ll take it from there.

7. Pander, Pander, Pander

Read the polls. Immediately change your speeches to agree with those poll findings, even if they are the complete opposite of your past, documented standing. (Unless the poll says rich Republicans are getting away with robbery. We will shoot you if you agree with that. Dick Cheney is on standby.) Swear that you will never change your new position. Then immediately change it if the next poll has a different outcome.

8. Equality Is Evil

We were not all created equally. That’s just some communist crap that Thomas Jefferson came up with before we deleted him from history, at least in the Texas schoolbooks. Men are better than women. (With a hall pass given to Michele and Sarah, who have managed to bring in a contingent of horny male voters who inexplicably find them attractive.) Men have the full right to govern a woman’s body in whatever way they see fit. It says this in The Bible and in Playboy, and that’s all we need to know.

Side note to the females we sleep with when our wives are off having plastic surgery: Don’t get bitchy. For clarification, see the articles in the appendix entitled “Testosterone Is God’s Natural Selection” and “Balls Are Da Bomb, Even If They Be Tiny”. And don’t forget that we can take away that 19th Amendment just as easily as we took away the rights of most Americans with that Patriot Act thing we shoved through when everybody was busy mourning and not paying attention.

9. Special Section On The Rick Perry Thing

Let’s just say that some part of George Bush Two understood that he had some manner of misfiring in his noggin, and mostly chose to allow others to speak and do for him. But Rick? Well, he actually feels that the “Book of Rick” was somehow left out of the Bible, and that he is indeed the Messiah of the Morons. And we’ll let him have that title, because he does get brownie points for the sheer arrogance he displays, and us Republicans sure do love to love ourselves.

Still, we’re not really happy with him right now, because you can’t fix stupid. But if he does manage to get our nomination (hey, Newt could get caught with another hooker at any moment), you still need to vote for him. Because we would much rather see our country destroyed than have a Democrat in the White House for a second term. (See article in appendix: “Don’t Let a Democrat Win Again Or Homosexuals and Vegans and Actual Patriots and Bernie Sanders and Elizabeth Warren and People Who Are Just Decent and Fair-Minded Will Get This Country Back On Track Again and We Will Actually Have to Pay Our Fair Share of Taxes and Do The Right Thing.”)

10. “The Stepford Wives” Movie

Why didn’t we include this concept in the Patriot Act? WHY? Send memo to Karl Rove demanding explanation. Arrange for extra bailout checks to national banks so that one of them can fund research into automated dummies to replace common citizens. Lie to reporters that we are doing this. Cross fingers that we once again get away with a total crapfest of wrongdoing, hypocrisy, white supremacy, blatant disregard for those not born with a trust fund shoved up their ass, and inability to understand that just because I said it, it doesn’t make it true.

Hold up, folks, our broadcast is being interrupted by a message from Occupy Bonnywood Manor, as they briefly take control of our airwaves before being arrested by Koch-Murdock Security:

“Now is the time for all good men and women and however you identify to come to the aid of their country. One human, one vote. Live it. Be it. Refreshments are now being served in the non-denominational atrium. The cheese puffs are especially tasty. End trans…”

Peace, y’all.

Cruise Control - Part 20: I’m Too Sexy For This Deck

2011-12-07T20:52:00.001-06:00

Click Here to read the previous entry in this series…

Tuesday was the day that I became an international male sex symbol.

Well, at least in my head, I did.

And it went something like this…

It was another “at sea” day, which meant that once again we had no firm structure and could do whatever we felt like doing all day long. So of course we started things off with a visit to the breakfast buffet, where I shoved anything containing the tiniest speck of grease into my mouth, a habit that would probably bring me great regret if I kept it up for much longer. As usual, our morning meal was accompanied by the imagery of petulant children throwing juice at each other while the parents completely ignored them and instead moved one day closer to an imminent, bitter divorce.

Tiffany and I walked off some of the grease by traveling to what was becoming one of our favorite rooms on the ship, Vincent’s Lounge, a nightclub that was basically deserted during the day, being a nightclub and all. But they kept it open all the time, and it was quite relaxing to just slip in there and ogle the incredibly bizarre décor. Something to do with Vincent Van Gogh and his “Sunflower” period. (There are glass flowers hanging from the ceiling, people. Not making this up.)

So we sat for a while, idly wondering exactly what type of drugs were responsible for the visions of both Vincent and the obviously-flamboyant interior designer who tried to channel him on a cruise ship populated mainly with folks who had no idea who Vincent Van Gogh might be and, more importantly, did not really care as long as the greasy buffets remained open and alcoholic beverages continued to appear magically before them.

Speaking of libations, we reviewed our tentative (everything is always tentative on a cruise) agenda for the day, to ensure that we had adequately done whatever we needed to do to make things flow smoothly and not lead to shocking moments of shame and degradation.

We knew that we were doing the zip-line thing in Jamaica early the next morning, which meant that we needed to respect that “early” theme this evening and get ourselves to bed at a decent hour, which in turn meant that if we were going to do any serious drinking today, then we would have to get started with that…

Right now! Oh my God, did everybody realize this? Tiffany and I looked at one another with slight panic. We have a definite method to our madness, and one of those methods pertains to the protocol surrounding proper and classy binge drinking. There’s a certain pacing as well as requisite dance moves during key moments. You have to do it right or you won’t get the merit badge.

We had to remind people of the schedule change or there would be chaos.

We leapt to our feet and raced toward the door of Vincent’s, pausing a moment to let another passenger come in said door and stand there momentarily in shock. (It was clearly the poor woman’s first time reviewing the décor. We considered holding her hand and graciously helping her adjust to the environment and get her bearings, but there really wasn’t time for that. We spied the motion-sickness bracelet on her arm, knew she would eventually be fine, and fled.)

We clattered out of the elevator on the Lido Deck and instantly began a complex search-and-seizure mission of locating other members of our party (well, at least the members who could drink), with Tiffany doing an expert imitation of Jill Munroe from Charlie’s Angels, complete with hair-flipping and bell-bottom jeans-wearing. (She really wanted to go all out and pursue a gunman whilst riding a skateboard, but neither was available at the time.)

I played Charlie. Which meant I didn’t really have to do anything other than talk on a phone.

Our mission proved both stylish and successful, as we quickly located Dawn, Darrin and Tara loitering around a table quite near Fuchsia’s House of Liquor and Lust. Great, perfect arrangement. Maybe we could get things in motion with the mojitos before it was too late.

We thundered up to the table to find that there really was no need to accelerate the program to an adult level. These three horses had apparently done left the barn some time ago.

Tara: “Heeeeyyyy! Where the hell have you been?” (She knocked something over, but no one complained, so it was all good.)

Tiffany: “Oh. We were just going to remind you that-”

Dawn: “I loooovvveee Bloody Mary’s!” (Then she was briefly distracted, thinking that her celery stick had just asked her a question, but she recovered quickly, tossing the celery behind her so she couldn’t hear it.) “Don’t you?”

Me: “-there’s the zip-line thing early in the morning and-”

Darrin: “…..”

Tiffany: “Okay, then. Guess you’re on schedule.”

Tara: “Go get some sunscreen, girl. We are gonna lay out all afternoon and DRINK! Woooaagga!” (Fair disclosure: That last word was completely made up, I have no idea what she said.)

And thusly, we had an agenda.

Suffice it to say that it was a very enjoyable agenda at that. The weather was perfect and sunny, the boat was behaving and not tossing people about like rag dolls with focus issues, and every single person on the entire ship was suddenly absolutely comfortable with their bodies and what they could do with them. (Did I mention that drinking was involved?)

Example of that last bit? The “Hairiest Chest” contest. This business kicked into gear at some point, details are sketchy, but it was clearly a huge hit once things were under way. The women in the crowd (and a few of the men, equal opportunity obnoxiousness here) were screaming with zealous passion as a handful of men who were smashed enough to not care paraded around nearly naked. I’m sure that it will come as no surprise to learn that none of these men should ever quit their day jobs.

While that mess was going on, Tiffany and I noticed that Dawn was off to one side, allowing Tristany to get one of those temporary, air-brushed tattoos. Well, thought the Tiffster and I, we certainly can’t let the young and the restless have all the fun. So we swigged down the rest of our current cocktails, hollered at Terry that we had a mission, and our Trilogy of Terror headed toward the sound of compressed air being squirted at human flesh.

(Not that you could actually hear such a noise, what with a live band on the balcony of an upper deck, playing music whose soul purpose seemed to be that of providing a steady, thumping beat so that the hairy-chest contestants could better attempt to swivel their hips and try to look even remotely seductive.)

We got to the little tattoo stand and began poring over the many books containing the wondrous artwork that could be stained onto our bodies for a promised five or so days (assuming that we didn’t rub too hard, bathe, or breathe during that time). In a moment of stunning originality, we decided to all go with yin-yang tattoos, because nobody ever does that, right? Fifty bucks later and we were officially in a gang. An Asian-Oklahoman-West Texan gang with minimal purpose or skill, but a gang nonetheless. We be street and stuff.

We rejoined the family and continued to quench our bottomless thirsts and the sun continued to shine as complete strangers became life-long friends while standing in line for a Blue Hawaiian. Everybody was very, very happy.

At some point, Tiffany and Tara managed to obtain tropical drinks that had been wedged into coconuts that had been carved and painted to minimally resemble monkey-heads. The duo loved these little creatures, christening them Cocoa and Crispy. With only slight slurring, they even came up with very detailed biographies that included a torrid romance and some possible espionage in the south of France. There also might have been a guest appearance on an episode of “The Facts of Life”, but I might have garbled that message with periodic status reports from Dawn’s Tristany-tracking walkie-talkie.

As I smiled faintly while listening to their tender words of wooden-headed life adventures droning in the background, it became evident that Cocoa was a girl (this one was parented by Tiffany, natch), but I never quite learned the fabricated gender classification assigned to Crispy, so I don’t know if their Mediterranean fling ended in a marriage, a civil partnership or just your standard open relationship where they could see other monkeys on the side.

And the sun kept up with that beaming down business, distributing the lazy sensation of freedom and short-term irresponsibility that is the traditional gift of UV-Rays and alcohol. My lulled and mulled mind began to wander, taking hazy note of the other things going on around me, images of frivolity and mayhem that would intrude briefly and then fade, leaving wispy, fragmented impressions that somehow coalesced into absurdity.

We had that odd sense of accidental intimacy, with random people running about in skimpy bits of bathing attire, where you are presented with far more uncovered anatomy than you typically get in your daily routine. And there was sweat, also courtesy of the sun, which, for me anyway, enhances exposed musculature in a pleasing manner, shining things up a bit. Well, certain musculature. As in the men folk.

But then I shifted around in my deck chair (Wait. When did I get here?) and began to analyze the flesh parade with a sharper eye, or at least as sharp as one could get when the alcohol is baking in your veins. The drumming of the live band intensified as I studied the carnality of happy, liberated hedonists presenting their wares for all to see. And I came to a sobriety-deficient conclusion.

They weren’t really all that attractive, these people with their thongs and straining board shorts and strategically-exposed patches of this and that. These people were out of shape and had crammed themselves into structurally-stressed attire, looking like some church benevolent mission had air-dropped a shipment of free bathing suits over a really trashy trailer park where people considered bathing to be too much exercise. In fact, it was a little bit rude of them to parade around with such confidence and self-love. They didn’t deserve the spotlight, no sir. The rhythmic, pulsing drums weren’t beating for them.

They were beating for me.

I was sure of it. As my drums kept up the beat, I stretched my arms out over my head, assuming a provocative pose in my deck chair, convinced that at any moment hundreds of men would be rushing to my side and begging me for a chance to worship my mind-blowing physique. I would toy with each of them, work them into a frenzy, and then-

There was a scraping sound to my left.

I looked over and realized that Tiffany had just repositioned the deck chair next to me, and then reclined as well. She also adjusted the horizon of her body to allow the sun to kiss her curves at just the right angle of illumination. “Feeling good right now, are you?”

I smiled. “Oh, yeah. I am having the best time. I am so glad we came on this cruise.”

She adjusted herself just a tiny bit more, as there had apparently been one square inch of her luscious-ness that was not properly displayed. Then she planted Cocoa the Coconut next to her on the chair, because a good parent always keeps tabs on their offspring, wooden or otherwise. “Really?”

I nodded my head, leaning in conspiratorially. “Yes! Have you seen all these people around here?” (I may have made an unnecessary arm flourish to indicate the masses at this point.)

Tiffany gazed about, taking note but not quite sure where I was headed.

I clarified. “I am feeling so sexy right now. Compared to them.”

She smiled understandingly, although I wasn’t sure if she meant it. Then her sunshades slipped down just the tiniest bit, and I caught a reflection of myself in her lenses. My pale-ass white body and a beer gut where whaling ships could probably dock during a sudden squall. The rhythmic drums were suddenly beating for someone else, disillusion dissipating. Damn demon alcohol. Inspired and then killed another dream.

I sighed and flopped back in my chair. “Well, it was fun feeling hot for at least a little bit.”

Tiffany smiled again, this time with understanding that was clear. “Well, you are what you believe, and you can believe anything you want, right? And for the record, my Cocoa is always hot.” And then she patted her little love monkey.

To Be Continued…

Cruise Control - Part 19: Cleopatra And The Paparazzi

2011-12-05T18:34:00.001-06:00

Click Here to read the previous entry in this series…

So there we are, a train of gussied-up people, chugging our way to the elevator in anticipation of a semi-formal dining experience courtesy of a presumably world-famous chef. (At least this person was world-famous according to the way they crowed about him in the daily itineraries that were shoved under our doors every night. I didn’t know him from Eve.)

We pile out on Deck 3 because, in theory, there’s one of the fancy watering holes somewhere around here. We notice a line of similarly-gussied folks inching their way toward something, and decide that joining the queue is probably our best option. But we’ve only been sort of in line for about 7 seconds when Mom spies a photographer taking group photos, and she basically loses her mind.

Mom has been pushing for a group photo all day. She’s one of those people. Nothing would please her more than to have a permanent record of us being pretty, smiling, and forced to stand together amicably for a minute or two without a round of bickering and/or constant rehashing about who actually got treated more pleasantly when we were children.

For the record, I loathe getting my picture taken. Cannot stand it. I was apparently not put on this earth to be photographed. No matter how hard I try, I always end up looking like a drunken child molester. It happens every time. There’s the flash of a camera and next thing you know there are representatives from America’s Most Wanted who would like to have a word with me.

But there was no escaping the mug shot this time, Mom made that very clear, mainly by shoving us toward the photographer with an amazing strength that Moms only have when contemplating family photos or rescuing Little Johnny after he managed to get stupidly trapped under an overturned washing machine whilst chasing a lint ball that he had named Bosco.

The photographer, also apparently world-renowned based on the smug expression he was sporting as he jacked around with his expensive camera, looked up from said camera and noticed our thundering herd, and the expression went from “I am simply fabulous” to “Good God, there’s just not enough vodka in the world to deal with this.”

“How many?” he asked, a slight twitch of fear beginning to flutter in one eye. Surely these people aren’t all together, right?

“Fifteen!” proclaims Mom, with a joyous inflection that one normally only hears when people have just won presidential elections, unaware that such a large number probably just gave the man a small stroke. Getting two people to smile at roughly the same time is difficult enough, especially with alcohol flowing freely on the ship like it does. Convincing fifteen people to adequately perform synchronized swimming is nearly as challenging as convincing a single Republican that he might actually be wrong about something.

But then the photographer summons inner strength, probably realizing that with this big of a bunch, then there’s certainly going to be one or two misguided souls who will hand over outrageous sums of money for the final prints. He barks a command. “Gather thusly!” Or sum such. (Did I mention that he thought he was something rather special, flitting about in that pompous, pseudo-European way?)

So we shuffled about, doing our impromptu best to acquire the look of a high-school chorale class on picture day. We apparently failed miserably, probably because our family happens to be composed of very tall people and very short people. We don’t have any average-height representatives that can fill in the gaps between the two, leaving large and unattractive empty spaces.

Henri sighed, as the burdens of his life as an artist were positively unbearable at times, especially when dealing with obvious country folk who would never amount to anything from a cultural perspective. He stepped over and began wrenching us apart and then reorganizing, not being the nicest person about it and increasing my dislike for his existence on this ship.

And I think he took the easy way out, shoving Roni and her wheelchair into center stage. Anybody could have made that decision. After all, she comes with her own vehicle, so it’s too obvious of a choice. A real artisan would have pursued a more unique path. But I wasn’t consulted and therefore held my tongue as were moved about like chess pieces, basically ending up just where we started. (Like I said, really tall and really short, you can’t get away from it.)

There’s some clicking and some flashing and eventually Henri gets a few shots that he considers at least tolerable, then dismisses us with a wave of his egotistical hand. I turn to run toward the nearest bar, because this is just instinct with me, but Mom has other ideas. Let’s take pictures of all the husbands-and-wives and domestic partners and packs of children who can claim the same baby-daddy!

One of my own eyes starts to twitch.

But we finally get through that as well, with things taking long enough that all the alcohol guzzled during the afternoon, back when we were just talking about doing this fancy dinner thing and not really having to do it, has been used up and tossed aside by my body. We aren’t even at the table yet and I’m depleted. There’d better be somebody with a big old bottle of something waiting at that table.

We get back in the line of dandy diners and work our way to the little hostess area, the place where they always stash somebody who’s pretty but not necessarily the brightest bulb on the staff. (No offense to the smart and savvy members of Hostess Association International, but you know what I’m talking about, that business of hiring “Britnee” because she has pleasing cleavage but couldn’t add up a lunch tab to save her life.)

Britnee and her breasts smile fakely at us. “How many for dinner?”

The horrifying number is uttered, and the scramble begins. Britnee immediately signals her backup dancers, Syndy and Foo-Foo Ron. There is a huddled discussion, during which one of them utters “oh my God” at least twelve times. Then Syndy dashes off one way while Foo-Foo Ron prances in another direction, off to do who knows what, a range of possibilities that probably includes an extra does of medication on someone’s part.

Britnee’s breasts smile again. “It’ll be just a moment.”

So our little Red Sea is temporarily parted, allowing the people who had the decency to show up in more manageable numbers to be seated before we are. I’m fully expecting us to still be standing in this line when we get back to Galveston.

Surprisingly, the backup dancers are quickly back with us, muttering something to Britnee, then all three of them turn to face our population of a small country. “Right this way!” exclaims Brit, who then proceeds to simply turn around and wave her hand at two large tables that are on a raised platform just behind her.

Right there. Empty tables that can hold all of us. And yet they had to video-conference with the home office just to work all this out?

Oh well. We gather together and start to follow Breastee, and we manage to get roughly two seconds into our trek before there’s a complication, in the form of three steps up to the platform where the tables beckon wantonly. Hello? One of us can’t get up those steps. We motion toward Roni and her wheelchair.

Brittknee is completely flummoxed. “Oh.”

What, you didn’t notice the woman in the wheelchair? A wheelchair, Britnee, not just a person with a slight limp that you could understandably overlook. And it’s not like we slipped her in at the last moment, trying to deceive you in some way. She’s been here the whole time. Yep.

Britnee is still immobile with confusion, so I try to help us toward a resolution. Do we have any type of wheelchair access up to this flight deck?

Britnee starts looking around and we follow her gaze. The entire reception area is lower than the restaurant proper. The only way in is up. Who the hell planned this?

The backup dancers rush to Britnee’s side, patting her consolingly for the horrible tragedy that has just stricken her life, muttering in another huddle. Britnee finally nods her head, hugs them as breasties forever, then turns back to us. “You can take the elevators to the upper level of the restaurant. No stairs there. We can find you some other tables.”

Then she smiles once again, because that was apparently part of the skill set she exhibited at her job interview and she feels safer falling back on that whenever she’s uncertain of what to do.

I’m just about to lose it. Normally, I put up with a lot, I’m usually the last member of the family to say anything when confronted with bad service. But when it comes to the wheelchair thing, I have very easily-pushed buttons. I open my mouth, ready to tell Diana Bress and the Supremes to run fetch a manager, when this comes out instead:

“We’ll just carry her.”

Heads swivel toward me. Pardon?

“Come on, guys. It’s just a few steps and we’re there.” (With there being out on the main floor with all the other patrons, and not shunted off to a secondary location in the restaurant because some fool of an engineer only designed things for able-bodied people and not everybody.)

So the guys gather round and we hoist, parading Roni and her wheelchair into the restaurant like Cleopatra has just arrived to review the Wheat Festival on the left bank of the Nile. I’m sure she was partly mortified by the whole mess, and at the same time very pleased that we were there. Because that’s how it always goes with families, right?

The family-dichotomy thing continued throughout the meal. Through some happenstance (and some probable manipulation by certain people who shall remain nameless but I will not forget their actions), I ended up at the table with the younger nieces and nephews. Not that I minded sitting with them, I just didn’t think they would find me very interesting, since they considered me un-hip and very ancient, being three and four times their ages. (Wow, I almost choked getting that bit out. Time flies.) What would we talk about?

But it turned out to be just fine. We had a really nice time at our table. (I have no idea what those hussies were doing at the other table, and I actually stopped caring after a while.) At one point, as I was telling a rather long story (imagine that), something that I don’t even recall now but I think it involved Mom, the whole table erupted into a round of laughter where they couldn’t stop. And I couldn’t stop telling the story, making it worse (or better, really), and it just went from there.

And as I looked at their happy faces, waiting for Uncle Brian to keep going, I thought, wow, this is exactly what it’s all about. Right here.

Perfect. Moment.

To Be Continued…

Cruise Control - Part 18: No Splashing Allowed

2011-12-02T19:31:00.001-06:00

Click Here to read the previous entry in this series…

My eyes popped open.

I had no idea where I was, and it was completely dark. I was lying in a bed, that was my only certainty. And I did appear to have a slumbering bed partner, so hopefully somebody had a good time at some point. Then the entire room rose in the air and plopped back down with a splash.

Ah. The boat. It was the middle of the night, and I had finally managed to drift off for a few seconds, only to be jerked back into wakefulness as the ship slammed through another patch of rough sea. And there were a lot of those patches the first night on the boat. Far too many for my satisfaction. I have a hard enough time sleeping in a strange bed. It’s even worse when the bed thinks it’s in a scene from The Exorcist.

Speaking of Linda Blair, my eyes finally adjusted to the dimness and I glanced over to see how things were going with Tiffany in her little Tiffany-size couch-bed. Hmmm. Her eyes seemed to be really wide-open, staring at me with giant whiteness like that Annie chick in the cartoon strip from way back in the day. Was she in shock? Did I really look that bad with bed-head?

Suddenly, I heard a tiny, Tiffany-size snore, along the lines of a mosquito rubbing a few of its legs together. Was she sleeping with her eyes open? Girl had some madd skillz. Then I realized she was wearing a sleep mask, one of those puffy things that Joan Crawford would wear before she ripped it off and went to beat on some of her unwanted children.

I looked the other way, checking on Terry and his snoring. We definitely had something more than mosquito legs going on over there. But at least he and Joan were getting some much-needed sleep, unlike tossing-and-turning me. Hated them a little bit. I sighed and stared at pointless things, firmly convinced that this night of unwelcome rocking and rolling would never end.

But eventually dawn broke, and I leapt out of bed, completely un-refreshed and cursing mankind’s decision to ever leave land. (Okay, it wasn’t that bad, and after the first one the nights kept getting better until I actually enjoyed being lulled to sleep by the rocking of the boat. I just wasn’t there yet.)

I stepped out on to our little balcony, and my mood improved greatly. The sun was shining, the water was sparkling, and the promise of a completely unstructured day was at hand. This was an “At Sea” day, wherein you could participate in tons of optional activities that were being offered, or you could do absolutely nothing other than sit in a deck chair and drink. Plan B sounded pretty good at the moment. But when does it not?

Eventually our little trio was freshly-scrubbed and presentable, and we left the cabin in search of pleasure. We had a leisurely breakfast (duly noting that the thousands of screaming children had not disappeared over night as hoped), explored the ship some more (which turned into a daily activity, an always-surprising journey of discovery), and tried to get a status check on what the other members of the tribe might be doing.

One thing about being on a ship this size, with hundreds of different diversions? You can go long stretches of time without seeing people, including members of your own party. (I didn’t see two of the nieces for several days in a row, and even then our encounters would be brief and peripheral, as they scurried to the disco or other places where young people could avoid meddlesome things like parents and gay uncles.)

Of course, all this vastness made it somewhat difficult to find someone if you wanted to do so, unless you had a vague idea of where they might be. And this was not necessarily a good situation for parents with younger children, kiddos who required more supervision than the teenagers who could mostly supervise themselves, rushing to social functions and wearing trendy clothing. So, in what I considered a brilliant move, Dawn and Darrin brought along walkie-talkies to keep tabs on the youngest member of our tribe, Tristany.

And these walkie-talkies were critical elements in what became known as Operation Super Slide.

See, the ship featured a massive, twisting water slide that hurled occupants downwards through three decks and then plopped them next to a shallow swimming pool, which they could then leap into with abandonment and excessive screaming. Naturally, any child with the tiniest bit of adventurous spirit simply could not go on living if they didn’t get to ride this thing at least 700 times.

Trouble is, there were some complex operational regulations involving this enticing slide, something about wind shear and ocean turbulence and the angle of the sun, some mess like that, and the slide was often out of commission. This led to extended periods of unsatisfied yearning and bitterness amongst the tempted tykes.

For example, on the day we first boarded the ship, and after we had all gotten initially established in our rooms and were already breaking in our eventual second home on the Lido Deck, a cutely-clad Tristany appeared, sporting modest bathing attire and an exuberant grin. As we watched and waved, she raced up several flights of stairs, stood in line with other vibrating urchins, and plunged downward with pigtails flying in the wind.

Then they shut the slide down.

One ride. That’s all she got the first day, and then her happiness was cruelly crushed. This was actually worse than if she hadn’t gotten to ride the thing at all, because, as we all know, once you’ve tasted exotic fruit and really enjoyed it, the dismay of not getting a second bite is more painful than if you’d never tasted the fruit at all.

They didn’t open the slide back up for the rest of that day. Or the entire next day.

Poor little Tristany and her pigtails. Dreams temporarily put on hold, she constantly monitored the situation, one eye always on the distant, empty slide, whenever possible, searching for signs of official activity. If she spied something even remotely promising taking place, a hint that maybe she could finally get a chance to be happy again, she would grab her walkie-talkie and race to the twisting tower, seeking intel and updates.

Unfortunately, for days on end, the report was the same, with her sad and dejected voice coming out of the little speaker in Dawn’s unit. “It’s still not open.” Then she would wander back our way, slowly, her head constantly whipping around to look back and confirm the horrible the nightmare was still happening. Finally, she would rejoin us, sighing dejectedly as she took a seat at the table.

Where the adults were happily guzzling alcohol with total abandon, attacking their beverages with a predatory viciousness one usually only sees in wildlife videos, not caring at all that the damn slide wasn’t working. But that particular day, we did care about one thing, and that was the dress code for dinner.

We had arrived on the ship, unsure about how one should clothe oneself whilst shoving food in one’s mouth. We had initially been under the impression, based on what we could glean from the Carnival website, that we were all required to “dress” for dinner.

I was thoroughly unimpressed with that discovery. I don’t like to get dressed for weddings, let alone dinners. Additionally, this meant we had to take even more crap with us on the ship, basically two outfits per day. If I had known about this angle before we booked the cruise, I would have had to seriously think about even going. This “dressing” bit sucked. But I just sighed and threw some “business casual” gear into one of my suitcases (now that I had to take two) and hoped that was good enough.

Then we get on the ship, and we learn several things. The “dressy” angle only applies to the fancy dining rooms onboard, of which there are several, but does not apply to the non-fancy eateries, of which there are many more. And even in the fancy rooms, the code was rather lax. You could wear jeans, if you wanted. The only things truly frowned upon were flip-flops, bathing suits, full-frontal nudity, and people who didn’t tip.

This pleased me greatly, although I was still irritated about the extra suitcase that now no longer had a purpose and probably would never even be opened. But some of the ladies were actually a bit blue about not getting to get gussied up, having spent time picking out clever frocks and all. Surely something could be arranged that would satisfy everyone and still allow for prettiness and some pseudo high-society action.

Several cocktails later, and after a somewhat lengthy interruption where we all stopped to study an especially-shocking example of Families Gone Bad as a troop of heathens belched and tooted across the deck in a walking white-trash dictionary, we came to a decision. We were going to put on our finery this very night and invade one of the shmancy dining extravaganzas, thusly allowing those who wanted to be belles of the balle to get their fix, and also getting the whole mess out of the way so the rest of us didn’t have to worry about it for the remainder of the week. Yay!

Cheers erupted. Mostly from a nearby table where the people were sick of us babbling endlessly about something that could normally be decided in four seconds, but still. We had a plan. We finished our latest round, and then the girls rushed off to get an hour or two of skin-tone-enhancing sun, design an appropriate wardrobe, and begin the intricate makeup application process that would elevate their natural beauty to even more astonishing heights. They guys just sat around and waited until it was time to change their underwear, at which point they would be good to go.

But actually, the prep work did turn out to be more exciting and fun that I would have admitted earlier in the day. This change of attitude can be attributed, at least in part, to those swilled beverages. The golden rule of travel is that all experiences are much more interesting if your performance levels and expectations have been lowered due to intoxicants.

Before you knew it, we were all thundering back and forth between each others rooms, fixing this and borrowing that and making critical last-minute alterations that completely changed the wardrobe from suspect-slutty to chic and swank. There was a moment of high-pressure when Crispy arrived in our room, wanting Uncle Brian to tie his tie for him. At first I couldn’t even remember the last time I wore a tie, let alone tied one. Things were even more challenging because I was standing on the wrong side of the tie. But it quickly came back to me, it really is like riding a bicycle. Backwards, in this case.

Finally, everyone was basically presentable, and we gathered in the hallway, oohing and aahing over how sharp everybody looked. Even Roni had pimped out her ride, slapping some bling on the spokes of her wheelchair. Feeling good, we started the long tromp to the elevators, giggling and chattering and nodding at other clumps of families that had also decided to glam it up. Those other families looked nice and all, but our family was clearly going to win the sweepstakes. At least that’s what my last margarita had told me.

As our snake of swishing couture wound past our cabin door, I did briefly glance at it, with a small voice in the back of my head advising that it might be the last time I ever saw it. Our family can never simply go get something done and then come back, mission accomplished. Something was eventually going to go wrong, we just never knew the full scope and scale of the badness until it happened and insurance adjustors had been consulted. And disaster could strike when just two of us were let loose on society.

Yet now there were fifteen of us marching along, hungry but pretty, excited but slightly-buzzed, and headed toward a place on the ship where we were expected to behave with at least a pretense of decency. This was going to be a challenge.

It was probably a good idea that they had made everyone on the ship do that dang lifeboat drill on the first day. Just sayin.

To Be Continued…

Backup Dancers From Hell: Foster The People - “Pumped Up Kicks”

2011-11-30T23:28:00.001-06:00

Note: Another mix of concert footage and random scenes of people and food, so we’ll do the timestamp thing…

0:03 Man falls out of sky and crashes into lake. This is probably symbolic of Rick Perry’s chances of becoming President.

0:08 One of the band members is being attacked by a laser-wielding robot in the distance.

0:17 Enthusiastic fan is missing part of her top, doesn’t care.

0:19 Nearby restaurant is totally empty. Making mental note to avoid.

0:24 Startling appearance of Capri pants.

0:27 Robot still pissed.

0:31 Cubbie drives getaway car after incident at convenience store.

0:36 Band members not sure if this is the right bus stop.

0:44 Cubbie very pleased with his choice of black shirt.

0:45 Something about a snapping turtle.

0:50 Capri redux.

0:56 Mark violates sea creature, feels no remorse.

0:58 Tennis shoe given walk-on part, ends up in credits.

1:06 Cubbie performs magic trick with vague purpose.

1:12 Confusion over where the camera might actually be.

1:16 Abandoned latte weeps pitifully.

1:28 Overdue for potty break.

1:34 Still looking for that camera.

1:38 Gratuitous shot of water.

1:44 Crowd scene involving darkness and possible sweating.

1:47 Possible blurry image of Elvis, fueling rumors once again.

1:52 Lone member of audience is still very dedicated.

2:01 Possible fornication with keyboard. Discuss.

2:09 Overuse of moisturizer.

2:19 New dance craze sweeps nation, dubbed “Bow-legged Bebop”.

2:22 Nun escapes from monastery, becomes street walker.

2:29 Robot is still way back there, proof of issue with motor skills. Danger element diminishes.

2:36 Cool shades accent cultivation of mustache.

2:39 Lost episode of… Lost.

2:40 Desperate resistance fighters attack enemy with flattened bombs.

2:48 Band member locates missing jockstrap from eighth grade, celebrates.

2:53 Another politician stumbles during Republican debate.

3:03 Whistling makes your head heavy.

3:07 Dreams of becoming a star on Broadway briefly resurface, alcohol most likely the culprit.

3:09 Recovered jockstrap proves to be a bit binding.

3:18 Creative attempt to put on shoes receives low performance numbers from judges.

3:22 Tree.

3:28 Over-exuberant smile hides dark secret about stolen French fries.

3:31 For medicinal purposes, of course.

3:37 It is apparently very important that somebody get something done right now.

3:45 Crowd mistakenly thinks they are in Pamplona, waits for signal to start running.

3:51 Signal is given.

4:01 This is why you don’t ride around in open convertibles, people. Bugs.

4:10 Whoops, guess that robot finally made it here. Pain ensues.

Click Here to Watch the Video on YouTube.

Cruise Control - Part 17: Rock-A-Cry Baby 3

2011-11-30T20:17:00.001-06:00

Click Here to read the previous entry in this series…

I just stared at my lawyer, greatly confused over the sudden turn of events, his sudden accusation, and the fact that some people in the audience still thought that plaid was a good idea. “I’m sorry, what did you ask?”

My lawyer sighed (although I probably should stop calling him that, what with his traitorous move to the other side). “Did you kidnap your sister or not?”

I looked at the judge. “Is that what I’m on trial for? I thought this was about the incident with the quiche.”

Judge Severe leaned towards me, greatly intrigued, no small feat considering she had seen just about everything there was to see in her courtroom and had grown bored with it all years ago, even the surprising number of times men in the jury had been discovered pleasuring themselves instead of paying attention. “Well, it was about the quiche, and the damages to the ship, but this sounds much more fascinating. Do tell.”

I looked back at my ex-lawyer, then over at the jury where some of them actually seemed to be awake now, over to the prosecuting attorney who appeared to have actually wet himself slightly with unexpected joy, over at the court reporter because I still couldn’t believe she would wear something like that in public, and finally back to my Ex. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Ex quickly ran to his little table, shuffling about in the piles of paper. “We have pictures, taken by one of the ship’s officers.” He snatched up several prints and then scampered up to the witness box. “First, this is your sister, is it not?” He waved something at me.

I turned to the judge again. “Doesn’t he have to officially introduce that to the court, call it Exhibit A or something?”

Judge Severe sighed. “It’s obvious that he’s exhibiting something. We’ll worry about the alphabet later. Answer the question.”

I took the waving thing from Ex, muttering “this was supposed to be about the quiche” as I did so. In the picture, I did indeed find one of my sisters, Roni, perched in her wheelchair and wearing an expression that she wasn’t particularly impressed with the picture-taker because they weren’t handing her anything tasty to eat or turning on the TV so she could watch something with Keanu Reeves in it. She may not have been in a jovial mood, but she certainly didn’t look kidnapped.

I handed the photo back. “Yes, that is my sister.”

Someone in the jury gasped. Obviously someone who didn’t get out much.

“The very same sister that you kidnapped on the night of October 17th?” queried Ex, with far more drama than his measly evidence should have allowed.

“I did not kidnap my sister. Why are you saying that? What are you basing this information on?”

Ex whipped out another photo. “On the words of this man.” Then he shoved that at me as well.

I reviewed the picture. Contained within was the image of a man crisply dressed in the white uniform sported by official-looking people from the cruise ship. He did look slightly familiar, but I really didn’t see what this had to do with… then it hit me. “Oh.”

“Oh?” repeated Judge Severe, curiously.

“Oh?” repeated Ex, smugly.

“Ohhhh!” repeated Gaspy in the jury, adding an inflection indicating she had immediately found me guilty on all charges, whatever they might be.

“Well,” I said, “there was a small situation that may have been interpreted in a suspect manner. But it was purely coincidence.”

“That will be for the jury to decide,” clarified Judge Severe, adjusting her chair for comfort and settling in as she apparently expected me to tell the tale. “Do let us know what happened, won’t you?”

Out in the audience, Suzanne the court-appointed bell-ringer leapt to her feet, proffering her implements proudly toward the sky.

“Ah, yes,” said the judge. “And don’t forget that the Villegas woman is here to ding if you dally. Proceed.”

So I began.

I was on the Lido deck of the ship, and it became imperative for me to return to our cabin on a quest for something that I no longer actually recall. (This was always happening onboard, the quick runs to the cabin, because you didn’t want to lug your crap around with you all the time but you invariably had need of some such or other. It was a constant battle.)

I signaled to Terry and Tiffany that I would be back shortly. They signaled that it was mostly likely a free country, whatever country we were in at the moment, and I could scamper at will without a need for the filing of travel reports. Besides, they were drinking, and this was far more important than any activity I might be contemplating.

Fine. I worked my way across the Lido deck, fighting upstream through a sudden onrush of women all wearing t-shirts proclaiming that this was the annual family reunion of some gaggle of apparently very loud people. I got past that mess and reached the elevator bank, an area that is usually also packed with people, but was oddly deserted at the moment. I punched a button and soon found out why people were not milling about in a mix of wet bathing suits and formal attire.

The elevators were not moving. I studied the various indicator panels and found all of the cars to be bopping between the fourth and fifth decks. You ran into these situations from time to time on the ship, when they would be throwing some big shindig and tons of folks were trying to mass relocate from one floor to another and people on the other decks were essentially screwed.

Great. This meant I had to take the stairs, an activity that I loathed despite the full realization that doing so would help to somewhat counter-balance the excessive amount of time I had been spending at the feed troughs in the buffet lines. I just don’t care for physical exertion unless there’s a prize of some kind at the end.

Oh well. I still needed to get whatever from the cabin, so off I tromped toward one of the richly-detailed but annoying wooden stairwells that meander downward in little half-flights, journey undertaken. Halfway to my destination deck, the ship did one of those lurch things, and as I was already in the midst of twisting and turning, the nausea instantly kicked in. Here comes the rain again. The fact that I had been imbibing did not help matters at all.

So by the time I got to Upper deck, I was sweating and emitting pressure-relieving belches, not a pretty sight. My appearance was not enhanced by the super-long trek down the endless hallway toward the cabin, increasing the sweat factor and the paleness and the bodily disquiet. Topping things off was another round of ship-lurching, resulting in additional unattractiveness like staggering and bouncing off the walls. Suffice it to say that I probably looked like David Hasselhoff that time he really, really wanted that cheeseburger on the floor.

I was just about to slide my card into the key lock of the room, when something registered to the left of me, further down the hallway. I turned to review, and spied several of the Carnival room attendants in a huddle. They seemed to be studying something in the midst of them, a something that appeared to involve what might be a wheelchair.

Wait a minute. I recognized that wheel.

I headed their way, just as the ship tussled with another swell, resulting in a lurch that propelled me forward and had me nearly knocking the group over. Some of them scrambled out of the way, and there was Roni in her wheelchair, looking very, very mad. She also had her good hand on a the knob of a door leading to one of the mysterious places where the service people did whatever they did, a hand-position that was making the workers very, very nervous.

I leaned down to converse with Roni. “Sweetie, what are you doing out here alone? Where’s Mom?” (She can’t actually speak, but she can answer in other ways.)

Roni just kept glaring at the door, refusing to look at me, anger flushing her face. She tried jiggling the doorknob again, determined to achieve whatever goal she had in mind.

This caused the workers around me to burst into chatter, in a language that was not English. Terrific. No wonder there was a stalemate, here. I’m sure that no one was really impressed with the situation.

But we could still communicate. One of the young men touched me on the arm and nodded his head at Roni. “Your?”

I shook my head. “Yes, it’s my sister. I’ll take her back to her room.”

As a unit, they all turned and pointed at the correct cabin door, just around a small corner. Well, then. Apparently this wasn’t the first time Roni had gone on a spontaneous adventure and they all knew where she came from. We had barely been on the boat 24 hours and already our family had a reputation. Yay!

I thanked them for staying with Roni until someone had come along. They thanked me with their eyes for finally taking away the Rolling Lady Who Does Not Speak. I got Roni into her room, though she put up a heck of a fight to prevent this from happening, that good leg of hers can take down a small building if she wants it bad enough. During the struggle I didn’t realize that the cabin door did not close.

I tried to figure out what had happened. “Where’s Mom?” (It was very possible that Mom had stepped out to get something, just for a second, but long enough for Roni to feel the call of the open road.)

No response from Roni, just the glaring at the floor that means she is furious about something.

“Where’s Crispy? Is he supposed to be with you?” (Her son. It seemed I had seen them together just a bit earlier in the evening, maybe it was his shift.)

No response, just the glaring. It was like we had been married twenty years.

There was another lurch and the cabin door suddenly swung all the way open. A man was standing there, wearing an outfit that identified him as probably an officer of the ship. What was this all about?

He said something to me that sounded Italian, maybe Portuguese, one of the Romance languages. I could only rule out French and Spanish, and I really wasn’t even sure about that, I was a little unfocused.

“I’m sorry?”

“You take the lady?” He nodded at Roni. “You take the lady?”

“Yes… I brought her back here. She’s my sister.”

He considered my words, then his eyes seemed to narrow. “Your card?”

My card? My room card? Why did he need that? Something was off and I was feeling a little uneasy about this, like things had suddenly become very serious. Did they think I meant Roni harm? I reached into the pocket of my shorts where I kept the “don’t lose this” essentials. But I didn’t feel the already familiar rectangle of plastic. I checked the other pocket. Nothing.

I had no idea where my card was. And an officer of the ship really wanted to see it. Right now. Was I about to be thrown in jail? Or at least a windowless room with harsh lighting and mean people with rapid questions.? “Ummm…”

“Your card,” he repeated, then he handed said object to me. “There was dropping in the hallway.”

Oh. Apparently I had lost control of it whilst struggling to prevent Roni from taking over the ship using a lugnut from her wheelchair. I graciously accepted the errant card, thanked him profusely, and the Man in White wandered off to do something elsewhere.

I turned to Roni, she of The Great Escape. “Okay, I’m going to go find Mom and figure out who is supposed to be here with you right now. Okay? I will be right back.”

She didn’t care. She had already moved beyond the trauma and was now watching the constantly-blaring TV, something involving loud explosions and people running, her favorite theme. She waved dismissively. Go forth and do what you must.

I began to scurry down the hallway once again, that massively-long thoroughfare, when I suddenly remembered what I had originally needed when I first came down here, and I slid to a halt in front of our own room. I unlocked the door, shoved the key card deep into my pocked and hoped it would stay there, and went inside.

Wait. Was somebody in the shower? That was odd. I had thought everyone was still up on the Lido deck, but there were definitely sounds of wetness and body-cleansing coming from the tiny hygiene closet. Oh well.

I pulled out one of my suitcases and began to rummage. Whilst digging through hundreds of things that I really hadn’t needed to bring, I heard the water being shut off and a towel being grabbed. Then the bathroom door popped open and I turned to see if it was Tiffany or Terry. But it was neither.

It was Bobby Ewing.

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Cruise Control - Part 16: Rock-A-Cry Baby 2

2011-11-28T19:17:00.001-06:00

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Judge Severe banged her gavel a second time, hoping to quell the antics of the heathens in the audience, and then turned to me. “Now, then, Witness Person, let’s try this again, continuing with your testimony. I trust that you got my notes on the matter after we recessed last night?”

I nodded my head.

The judge sighed. “The court reporter can’t really hear that. Try again.”

“Yes, your honor, I received your documentation at 3am this morning, after getting a truly extensive 7 minutes of sleep. I thoroughly reviewed both volumes, including the 93 pages of footnotes. I now understand exactly how you prefer that proceedings take place in your judicial arena, and I will strive to meet those standards, although I must say that the one bit about the-”

Judge Severe held up her hand. “You’re doing it again, using 400 words instead of one. Would you like to try answering again?”

“Yes.”

“Did you receive my notes?”

“Yes.”

“Very good. See how that works?” She offered something that might have been a brief smile, but could just as easily have been an intestinal disturbance. “Now, let’s continue where we left off, something about the rocking of the boat.”

“But I did have one question, about that one bit.”

She sighed. “Let me guess. The bell. You are troubled by the bell, and could easily expound on your troubles for days on end.”

“Yes.”

The judge did something flippant with her hair, a remarkable feat considering we hadn’t seen a single strand move a millimeter over the last two days. “I like the bell, and we’re keeping the bell. But thank you for reminding me about the bell, as I nearly forgot about it, what with all the excitement of getting to hear you speak again.” She now did something sarcastic with her hair, and then turned her attention to the viewing audience. “Has Ms. Villegas arrived?”

Suzanne had, leaping to her feet in a spasm of attention and validation, wearing an even smarter pantsuit than the previous day. (She had also made a rather surprising choice in lipstick color, but this would probably prove irrelevant in the end.) “Yes, Your Judgmenttress, I am present and prepared for my assigned duty.”

“Please approach the bench.”

Suzanne promptly scurried forth, practically knocking the little “unimportant people stay behind here” gate from its hinges and crossing to the bench at lightning speed. (Now that we could see her more clearly, the unfortunate lipstick choice was more apparent, and could still be an issue at some point.) “I am ready for the bell.”

Judge Severe pulled out a satchel from the dark and mysterious place under her desk (Anne Frank probably handed it to her) and began to shuffle through it. After tossing aside a tire iron and a heft container of cooking spray, she produced a tiny silver bell and an even tinier little hammer. Both of these items were presented to Suzanne with a flourish generally reserved for state functions attended by royalty.

Suzanne took possession of said items with equal reverence, her eyes shining with awe and future blog posts. “And the instructions are the same as we discussed in the chat room?”

Judge Severe nodded, then skillfully recalled her own admonishment to me about the court reporter and her lack of visual interpretation. “Yes. Yes, they are. If the witness strays from the testimonial path with pointless anecdotes and useless imagery, you are to strike the bell soundly, and the witness must immediately curtail the pointless uselessness and return to a more valid plot objective.”

Suzanne looked as if there was nothing in the entire world she would rather do more, getting to make me stop talking whenever she wanted. (Side note: That sound you hear in the background is hundreds of my friends and family members rushing to find out if this magical bell was available on the Internet.) “I understand completely.”

“I don’t,” I said, with perhaps a more grating flavor of insolence than recommended.

“Your issue?” inquired the judge, although she clearly didn’t care.

“Why does she have to ring a bell? Can’t she just say something?”

Judge Severe sighed, as it was such a bother having to explain things to stupid people all the time. “Because this is a much more sophisticated manner of raising an objection than crude bellowing. Besides, I happen to like bells.”

“I love bells!” enthused Suzanne. “I greatly enjoy hitting things.”

Judge Severe beamed down upon the irksome Suzanne, pleased that she had cultivated another convert to musical adjudication. “That’s wonderful, Ms. Villegas. Now, if you would return to your seat in the Unimportant Section, we can finally begin.”

Suzanne retraced her enthusiastic steps with haste, only pausing twice to allow other jealous audience members to briefly touch the power-status bell. Then she got settled, perching on the end of her chair and clutching her sonic alert system.

I glanced over at my attorney to see if he was getting any of this, with an expression of “isn’t this a bit wrong, what with the judge allowing complete strangers to edit my testimony, especially a stranger with an undue fondness of pantsuits?”. He just looked back at me with his own expression of “dude, you made me stop playing Angry Birds when you’re on the witness stand, so I think I’ve contributed more than enough to society today, don’t push me”.

“Mr. Lageose?” inquired the judge, somewhat icily, “if you’re done flirting with your lawyer, we should proceed with the rest of your story. Let’s get back on the cruise ship.”

(“Thank God,” muttered a previously-unknown member of the audience, a Frenchman named Olivier who had only come to the courthouse after hearing a rumor about Tomato Tart Provencale being served in the cafeteria, but instead ended up in Courtroom B listening to this increasingly frustrating tale.)

I took a deep breath. “Okay, it’s still the first night on the ship, and we haven’t yet-”

A clear but echoing chime rang through the courtroom.

All eyes turned toward Suzanne. “What? I was already bored.”

Judge Severe smiled sourly. “Sweetie, let’s at least let him finish a paragraph, shall we? Then you can commence with the judging.”

Suzanne nodded. “Got it.”

All eyes turned back to me. “So, it’s the first night, and the rocking of the ship is causing me to feel a little bit nauseous. Not real bad, but I can tell things are brewing and we might have a potential issue. But I don’t want to take any Dramamine, because then my body would depend on it and I’d have to keep taking it, and besides, that stuff can make you sleepy and I didn’t want to spend my whole time in the cabin.”

(“Just take the pills, you fool,” muttered Olivier. “Pills can be little, round miracles.”)

Suzanne raised her bell, hammer poised. “Was that a paragraph? Can I hit it now?”

Judge Severe shook her head. “I’ll grant that he’s rambling, but instinct tells me that he might be slightly headed toward a point, and since we haven’t really seen him do that yet, I’d like us to get there. Objection over-dinged.”

I nodded in agreement. “Yes, I was talking about the nausea because I did have it off and on, never for very long, but long enough that I would get sweaty and pale and I would stagger a little bit. That’s what was happening when that one witness saw me and later said that I looked a little… unkempt.”

Judge Severe flipped through her notes. “I believe the phrase was ‘wild-eyed and foaming at the mouth’, does that sound right?”

“Foaming? I wasn’t foaming, you’d think I would remember something like that. Oh wait, I also had a little bit of acid reflux going on, because there had been a lot of fried food on the dinner buffet and I have a hard time passing that up even though I know some of it is going to repeat, and maybe that’s what-”

My lawyer suddenly jumped up from his table, marched through the little social-segregation gate, grabbed the bell away from Suzanne, and then began to ring it like a Salvation Army worker on crack.

This surprised even the usually-nonplussed judge. “Counselor, are you interrupting your own client?”

“That I am,” confirmed my lawyer. “This story is still days away from the time of the crime and we are never going to get there at this pace.” He shoved the bell back into Suzanne’s hands, with her looking devastated that her moment in the sun had been snatched away. He then stomped back up through the gate and right up to my startled face in the witness box.

“On the night of October 17th, did you or did you not try to kidnap your sister?”

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20 Reasons Why Republicans Are Just Like Thanksgiving Turkeys

2011-11-25T21:56:00.001-06:00

1. They both make a lot of pointless noise about nothing.

2. When you put them in the same room they all look exactly alike.

3. Both groups could float in the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade, one for the theme and the other for the hot air and the fact that their movements are controlled by somebody else.

4. They both try to distract us from the real issues by sporting unnecessary things on their head.

5. They both are very popular in rural areas of the country.

6. When confronted with something they don‘t recognize, like the truth, they just stand there and blink, not sure what to do.

7. Some members of both species have wattles around their neck, but with the Republicans this is often just a euphemism for a past history of working for behemoth oil companies, claiming they never said something until the video surfaces, or having spouses who are deeply in the closet.

8. Both of them make you sleepy.

9. Despite claiming to stand for moral values, they are often found flat on their backs in the middle of a dining table, with their legs in the air and strangers touching their body parts.

10. Some people can agree with eating certain parts of them, but nobody likes the whole thing.

11. Neither group actually understands that if they don’t pay taxes they won’t have roads to drive on to get to the Nascar races.

12. They both expect somebody else to clean up their own droppings.

13. Both groups firmly believe that if you just keep repeating something, it will become true. Like the turkeys with their gobbling and the Republicans with their insistence that the current economic situation magically happened at the very second Obama opened the front door of the White House.

14. Both groups are associated with congealed cranberry sauce, one for the side dish and one for the content of their speeches.

15. Both groups are skilled in the art of fake support, like the turkey who pretends to love the farmer for the food he brings every day until it’s hatchet time and then he runs, and the Republican who waves the flag for our troops just to get votes and then he runs when the troops come home looking for decent benefits.

16. Both of them are very good at standing in a line and not making any sense, like turkeys trying to do math or Republicans at a presidential debate. And they will both claw you to death rather than admit they are wrong.

17. If somebody comes at them with an axe or a grand jury investigation, they both point at less-fortunate animals in the barnyard and blame them.

18. When you get fed up with either one, there is still way too much left over the next day.

19. No matter how pretty and right you think you are, time and circumstance will eventually catch up with you, and you will shoved someplace where it’s very, very hot. And no one will ever come to help you out, even when the little red things pops up.

20. They both have things stuffed up their ass. This might explain why their head is missing.

Cheers!

Cruise Control - Part 15: Rock-A-Cry Baby

2011-11-22T19:20:00.001-06:00

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So I’m in the witness box, and the prosecuting attorney directs his beady eyes toward me, a skill that he learned in pseudo-lawyer classes at Beaver Valley Community College. Then he takes a long, leisurely stroll toward my little box, because heightening the drama is another skill set learned at BVCC. Finally, after the entire jury is nearly rabid with expectation, he gets to his question.

“Are you really expecting us to believe that the rocking of the ship is entirely responsible for all of the events on the night in question?”

I turn to the judge, a severe-looking woman who has most likely had limited sexual activity during the course of her bitter career, and wait for her to do something reactionary and legal-like, such as accuse the prosecuting attorney of “leading the witness” or have the bailiff shoot him in the head.

This does not happen. Severe-Etta just looks at me and waits, her ugly glasses perched on her mammoth nose, similar to a fly sitting atop a watermelon. Not getting any help from that direction.

I clear my throat. “Well, you have to admit that cruise ships do rock. This is part of the package, what with cruise ships floating on water and all. And water is not, well, stable all the time. Rocking is going to take place, yes?”

The prosecuting attorney, who goes by the horrid last name of Gruntley, which doesn’t surprise me at all, makes a scoffing noise. “Mr. Lageose, some of us cannot afford the luxury of going on a cruise. Therefore we have no idea what a cruise ship may or may not do.” Then he waves his hand off-handedly, in a manner that indicates he is here for the little people, not the rich, soulless citizens who have the means to float on a boat for no reason other than personal pleasure.

Half of the jury nods in kindred spirit, agreeing with the uppity lawyer about the lowity of people who have spare cash lying around which they then use for exploits both sinful and evil. Perhaps they haven’t noticed that said lawyer is wearing designer footwear that has a purchase price higher than the entire road-repair budget of 16 state governments.

Gruntley steps closer to my little box. “I’m sorry, Mr. Lageose. I don’t believe I heard your answer…”

I glance at my own attorney, who appears to be playing Angry Birds on his phone and is unaware that a trial is even taking place. This is what happens when you use the yellow pages for judicial matters, duly noted. But I’m completely on my own, it seems. Time to take matters into my own slightly-sweaty hands. “I’m sorry, I seem to have forgotten the question, what with having to gaze upon your tie, a solid example of what happens when you allow French designers to create fashion accessories in their studios without any type of oversight committee keeping things in check.”

One of the jury members gasps rather theatrically, and then fans herself in a vigorous manner, using her oversized ID badge that bears startling marinara stains from the Italian restaurant she managed to discover after we recessed last night. She’s actually not all that offended, but she’s a first-time juror and has lain awake at night during the preceding week, practicing her gasping should the developments in the case require such.

As for Gruntley, well, he’s paused in the jurisprudence playground in front of the judge’s bench, not quite sure of his next move. He understands that it’s his volley, this much is clear, but he’s never heard that many words in one sentence before, and survival instinct tells him to tarry a bit and pretend to formulate his next move.

Judge Severe-Etta sighs and addresses Gruntley. “You were asking about the rocking of the ship. Are you still asking?”

Gruntley, clutching the life preserver: “Yes, the rocking interests me greatly. Was it real, or just a desperate attempt by the witness to distract us all from the matter in question.”

“Like your tie?” asks Severe, in a bit of a mood because she’s done this so many thousands of times that she really only cares about anything that breaks the monotony.

Chastened, Gruntley nods. “Point taken.” He makes a motion at his assistant, one Miss Jeannette Paul-Gauthier, that his current stylist must be fired immediately, and Jeanette discreetly whips out her cell phone and barks a few orders. Gruntley then rips off his tie and hurls it asunder, an action resulting in a podiatrist in the third row of the viewing audience suddenly requiring ocular surgery.

Gruntley then approaches the bench. “I am now tie-less, and shamed. Please make the gay man in the witness box answer the question.”

Severe makes a slight snorting noise, because she also practices before trials, and then turns to me. “You may now commence with the entire story of why the rocking of the boat led to the subsequent suspicious events. Do not leave out any details, whatsoever or however pointless.”

Gruntley grunts. “The entire story, your honor?”

Severe looks at him, full of stink eye. “Yes, the entire story. Ellen is in reruns this week while she and Portia are off in Malawi feeding the homeless. Are you not on Twitter?”

Gruntley, once more with the chastening, bows his head. “Of course, what was I thinking. We must hear all of the tawdriness and sin-committing.”

Severe looks back at me. “Proceed.” Then she signals the bailiff to bring in the popcorn, extra butter.

We now switch to personal-diary mode.

So, as the embarkation date of the cruise approached, I had been in a bit of a quandary about the rocking of the boat and the possible motion-sickness. It was a real thing, obviously, and I didn’t want to spend my time aboard in a state of discomfort and wretchedness. On the other hand, I didn’t want to be shoving pills down my throat, developing an addiction, and thusly ending up in a Lifetime movie starring Meredith-Baxter-Now-Proud-Lesbian. (You go, girl!)

I chose the no-pill option. And at first, everything was just peachy. Of course, we were still in port and the boat was just sitting there, not moving. It was very easy to think that life was grand, and that appreciative gifts would soon be coming my way, honoring me for my valiant ability to not get seasick. It was not out of the question that I might receive a Humanitarian Award for valor and non-upchucking.

But then the boat finally left port, and we had a different spin on things. Yes, it was exciting, what with embarking on our journey and feeling the immense power of the ship, cutting through the waves with strength and mightiness. (And there were actual dolphins accompanying our departure, splashing about and squeaking well-wishes for safe travel, because dolphins haven’t learned to be bitter about life like so many humans have chosen to do.)

Yet it was that “cutting through the waves” that gave me pause, this repetition of being slightly airborne and then dropping back down. (I’ve been on much-smaller sailboats before, with that wicked bouncing and rolling and extreme moments of the sailboat tilting almost parallel with the surface of the water. Not a fan of that at all, nearly wet myself too many times.) The interplay of sea and vessel is much more subtle with a big-ass ship. And much more insidious.

After all, when you’re frolicking about on something the size of a Chicago city block, with all that massive weight stabilizing things, it’s often easy to forget that you are floating around in the middle of nowhere. It can feel like you really are sitting in a pseudo-Parisian café in the trendy section of a popular town (assuming you can ignore the overabundance of fellow patrons wearing bikinis and flip-flops). The illusion is gaudy but effective.

Then here comes one of those rolling-shift sensations, and suddenly your croissant is now sitting in front of your neighbor instead of you. Nothing dramatic, mind you, with smashed crockery and high-strung housewives from Phoenix screaming and clutching at their rosaries. But you definitely feel it, that slow-motion lurching.

And it gets even more fun when you are actually mobile and stupidly trying to traverse the ship. The swells come out of nowhere. One moment you are simply walking down one of the endless stateroom hallways, nodding politely to passersby, and suddenly you are bouncing painfully off a wall and them slamming into one of those passersby, both of you human pinballs getting to know one another with a degree of physical intimacy that was perhaps not on the agenda.

There was the sound of vehement throat-clearing.

I blinked twice as my mind reconnected with the current day, misty memories of careening madly replaced by the harsh glare of the overhead courtroom lights. As my vision sharpened, I spotted a young woman, wearing a smart pantsuit and standing up in the middle of the audience, her hand raised above her head in a questioning manner.

I looked over at Judge Severe, and found her in deep concentration over an apparent popcorn kernel that had become lodged inappropriately, finger shoved in her mouth and prodding about. She suddenly noticed me noticing her, and the digit was removed with an audible pop. “What is it, Witness Person?”

I nodded my head toward Pantsuit in the audience. “I believe that woman wants your attention.”

Severe, wiping her finger on the cheap judicial robe that she hated anyway, studied Pantsuit for a few seconds, then barked out “Why are you doing that, with the waving?”

Pantsuit’s face brightened with expectation and potential fulfillment. “I just wanted to ask a question.”

Severe turned her head briefly and spat the finally-freed kernel in the general direction of what was presumably a waste receptacle before addressing Pantsuit once again. “You have nothing to do with what is going on in here. You are supposed to sit quietly and just watch. This isn’t a real estate seminar where someone is trying to sell you an overpriced timeshare that you will never use. There are no questions from that side of the fence.”

Pantsuit did not seem deterred in the slightest. “I fully understand that, and I appreciate you acknowledging that I even exist. I just have a tiny little question.”

Severe, obviously regretting the acknowledgement, nevertheless did not cut the woman off entirely as she typically would have done. (Perhaps the judge had an underlying interest in finding out where the smart pantsuit may have been purchased.) But she also had a question of her own. “Who ARE you?”

Pantsuit beamed. “My name is Suzanne Villegas. I am a reporter for The El Paso Gazette. And I would just like to know… why is the witness taking so damn long to get to the point? We’ve been here four pages already and we still don’t know what he did or why. There are only so many hours in the day.”

Several members of the audience grumbled unity with this position, others nodded their heads in agreement, and two nuns sitting on the far left high-fived each other and then looked skyward and sent silent prayers of thanks to Big Daddy.

I gulped discreetly and turned back to the judge, expecting admonishment and possible additional felony charges against me. But Severe wasn’t even looking at me.

Her eyes were still focused on the impatient Villegas woman. “Do you not believe,” asked Severe, “that sometimes the journey is far more important than the actual destination?”

The Villegas woman’s eyes lost a wee bit of their slightly-manic sparkle. “Well, I wasn’t aware that I had stumbled into a philosophy course-”

“And that,” continued Severe, “if you just relax and trust in the driver, you may find out everything you need to know, and not just what you want to know.”

Villegas Woman: “But what if we don’t learn a damn thing? And this is a courtroom, not the Travel Channel.”

Severe smiled. “You are correct, this is indeed a courtroom. One where I am in charge, in case that was not clear to you. As for your objection concerning the length of time this is all taking, let me add this: We shall now recess until this afternoon. Or possibly tomorrow. I’ll let you know when we come back from lunch. Court is adjourned.” Bang.

Most of the people in the room, who weren’t really invested either way but were certainly hungry, dashed toward the available doors, tossing aside any concerns over length versus content, a debate that has raged since man discovered his own ego.

Severe turned to the official gentleman on the other side of her bench from me. “Oh, Bailiff?”

The man paused in his escape, clenched. “Yes, your honor?’

“Next time, I’m assuming that there won’t be any kernels in my popcorn?”

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Cruise Control - Part 14: Yinning The Yang

2011-11-21T20:35:00.001-06:00

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Note: Continuing with the fever dream from the last episode, then we’ll get back to the real story in the next post…

As is usually the case, Tiffany eventually tired of subtly leading on yet another doomed-to-fail suitor. She allowed Fuchsia to attend to all of her possible needs for a few more drinks, then, when Fuchsia was temporarily distracted whilst attempting to chisel an ice sculpture in Tiffany’s image, Our Favorite Diva leaned toward me and muttered. “I’m bored. Let’s go.”

I considered the implications of travel plans right at this particular moment in time. “Are you sure? Fuchsia will be devastated.”

Tiffany waved a disinterested hand. “She’ll be fine. Besides, we can’t let her get too comfortable and think she has already won me over. We have the whole rest of the week ahead of us, and we need to keep the yearning factor very high or the service will get sloppy. I don’t like drinks where the ice is already melting.” Tiffany grabbed a few things off the bar counter (Tiffany always has things), threw them in her pretend-designer bag, and slid off her stool.

Over near the ice machine, Fuchsia sensed a change in the atmosphere, and she whipped around to face us, chisel still raised in the air. Her eyes were filled with shock, horror, and a possible bit of serial-killer madness.

“Oh,” I muttered back to Tiffany. “Perhaps you should at least lie to her and pretend that we are coming right back. Maybe she’ll calm down long enough for us to get to a Panic Room.”

Tiffany, loving the delicious combination of potential drama and being the center of attention, took her cue and stepped back up to the bar, carefully running one hand through her hair and then cocking her head slightly to one side, permitting the sun to highlight her natural beauty. “Fuchsia, we’re just gonna run snatch up a wee bite to eat. Perhaps we’ll see you later?”

Fuchsia immediately hurled the chisel to the floor (where it embedded in the thick rubber mat, remaining lodged there until later that night when another employee tripped over it and spilled mango juice on a startled couple from Toledo) and then hurled herself at the counter. “I’ll be right here!” she squeaked. Rather trite and mundane words, I’ll admit, but she said it with such passion she might as well have uttered “I shall save my virginity until the soul-uniting night of our legally-recognized same-sex wedding day!”

Tiffany just smiled briefly, then she and her flowing caftan sashayed away, her hair and the billowing material caressed by a breeze that hinted of salt and SPF 70. Wait, something was a bit off. I know these things instantly with La Tiffania.

I caught up to her a bit further down the deck, batting that damn caftan out of the way so I wouldn’t get in my mouth. “Hold up, what’s going on? I can tell by the way you’re not looking at people looking at you that something is wrong.”

Tiffany waved another hand. “I’m fine. Nothing is wrong whatsoever.” Then she hauled off and slapped a complete stranger who was walking by wearing a thong. (Okay, she didn’t really, but she would have done so if there hadn’t been so many dripping-wet witnesses dashing about around the nearby pool.)

I sighed. So we were doing a mood swing, were we? Fine. Best to work our way through this and then get back to the cocktails. “No, really, why are you going all Sybil?”

She sighed as well. “It’s just hard sometimes.”

“And we’re talking about…”

“Everybody always wants me.”

We had to step around a woman with a harmonica (no idea, but you get used to odd little scenes on this boat) and join back together on the other side. “Missy, why are going there? We’ve talked about this. There is just something mystical about you that brings the boys to your yard. And really, this is a problem?”

There was a conversational pause as we arrived at another bar (big surprise, right?), ordered some beverages that were foofy but not too foofy, and slipped onto another set of barstools. Tiffany then returned to her neurosis. “Well, I try to tell myself not to worry about it, but I was on a website the other day, Divas and Dilemmas dot Com, and there was a whole page of people with the same issue. So I joined their club.”

“Their club? There’s a club for this too much love thing?”

“Yes!” exclaimed Tiffany. “Wonderful Women with Wooing Woes. You can ask a question and everybody tries to help you with answers. It’s very supportive, and I managed to make a profile pic that I really like.”

I truly could not think of a response, so I just drank.

“But the bad part about this,” continued Tiffany, “is that a lot of the people keep saying that you have to try not being so attractive all the time.”

“And… this bothers you?”

She looked at me as if I’d lost my mind. “Of course it does. How could I possibly not be beautiful? It just doesn’t work with me.” She then made a sad little face, as if the terrible weight of her personal tragedy was causing endless pain. “I’m just naturally beautiful.”

Tiffany then pulled out her pretend-designer bag, rummaged around, selected several items, applied lip gloss, touched up her eyelashes, powdered some flesh here and there, trimmed one strand of hair that had dared to become slightly frizzy, gargled with some teeth-whitening mouthwash, self-performed some out-patient plastic surgery, and then threw everything back into the bag. “See? Natural.”

I knew exactly what was needed at this point, after years of being groomed by Tiffany in the art of just-say-what-I-wanna-hear. “It must be terrible, the suffering. I don’t know how you do it, but I’m so proud of you.”

She beamed. “I knew you’d understand.” She patted my hand on the bar, but was then distracted by the tiniest nub of a hangnail on one of her own fingers, and reached for the pretend-designer bag again. She hauled out an industrial sander and began to look around for an electrical outlet.

Once the sander was cool enough to be placed back in her satchel without igniting the lip gloss, Tiffany announced a firm resolution. “So, anyway, that’s it for the rest of the cruise. No more worrying about pleasing my adoring fans. No more flirting just to ensure a steady flow of alcohol. No more inadvertently arousing the men folk by simply being in the same room with them.”

We toasted on that.

Two seconds later, one of those men folk, a stunning example with tanned muscles, hairy chest, and tightly-fitting trunks came waltzing down the stairs from the deck above and into the bar, glanced around in a way indicating that he didn’t really know anybody but was just stopping by to see what might be going on, and then slid onto a stool directly opposite from us. Just picking up the drink menu caused 77% of his muscles to ripple enticingly.

I heard a gasp from Tiffany beside me. “Oh my God, I can’t breathe.”

Me: “Why would you want to as long as you can look at that?”

And a years-long conversational theme kicked into gear, a topic that we greatly enjoy, pushing the discourse along with great relish. Tiff: “Do you think he wants me or you?”

Me: “I don’t care, as long as he stays right there.”

Tiffany analyzed the situation with her practiced eye, studying the stud for a few minutes. “I think he’s looking more at you than at me, damn it.”

Me: “I don’t know. He seems to be looking your way quite a bit. Maybe if you weren’t shoving your breasts in the air.”

Tiff: “I’m not shoving, they rise naturally.”

Me: “We’ve been friends too long, and I know their exact elevation in all situations. You are shoving, and you’re going to give yourself back strain if you don’t stop it.”

Tiff: “I’ll stop if you stop.”

Me: “I don’t have breasts, poodle.”

Tiff: “You’re shoving your crotch forward. Showin’ the monkey, mmm hmmm.”

Me: “I am so not doing that. Besides, he can’t even see my crotch, the bar’s in the way.”

Tiff: “He could see it if he really tried, and that’s what you’re counting on, you little stealth slut.”

The man suddenly signaled for the bartender, having decided on a drink. His voice was very deep. We couldn’t hear all of the words, but we could hear the growling.

Tiff: “Well, he doesn’t sound like Cindy Brady.”

Me: “That doesn’t mean anything. I have a deep voice.”

Tiff: “And that doesn’t mean anything. You’re always doing all the gay things wrong. You’re a really bad queen. We’ve talked about this.”

Me, catching another detail: “He trims his chest hair. That’s one for my team.”

Tiff: “It’s not just the gay boys, some straight men do that, too.”

Me: “Yeah, but straight men don’t know what the hell they are doing. They shave everything completely down to the skin, even the guns and ammo, making them look like overgrown 12-year-olds. You’ve got to leave something to hang onto.”

Tiffany gasped again. “He’s getting up!”

The man stood and stretched (okay, he’s obviously a tease) and then started to round the corner of the bar. During his ambling journey, Tiffany christened him “Heath” (because she thought that would look hot on wedding napkins) and I named him “Cliff” just to complete the Wuthering Heights reference.

Heath/Cliff paused right in front of us, his pearly teeth glistening in the sun. “Could I ask you a question?”

“Of course!” Tiffany nearly shouted.

“Have you found Jesus?”

Two beats, as we processed the situation being flipped on its ear.

Then Me: “Well, I haven’t seen him lately. Do you think he’s with Waldo?”

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Cruise Control - Part 13: Passion Flowers

2011-11-19T19:39:00.001-06:00

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So I’m standing there, with body parts of complete strangers somewhat blocking my vision, trying to figure out if the captain of the ship just said what I think he said. I glance down at niece Baylor beside me. She’s got that mid-teen expression of being firmly convinced that anything that comes out of an adult’s mouth is essentially pointless or offensive, so she’s good. Then I hear Tiffany make a noise that would not be out of place in the primate exhibit at a local zoo.

Oh God.

My eyes cut in her direction, and I see that she and Terry are in the throes of full-spasm hilarity, clawing at each other and the wall just to keep from dropping to the ground and rolling around. Tears are streaming and cackles are echoing up and down the ship, with their immediate neighbors quietly edging away from them and looking for available exits. Okay, then. I guess I did hear something a little untoward tumble out of the captain’s mouth.

I glance the other way, and I see one of the Benetton-ad Carnival workers toss aside her demonstration life jacket and try explaining to a passenger what the captain actually meant. “He was saying to use caution around the wet decks. Wet decks!” (Judging by the slightly-irritated tone of the worker, it was clear that the captain hits this particular enunciation speed-bump quite often.)

Trouble is, Benetton was directing her words towards the tiny Asian woman who had insisted on standing right next to her husband, all Tammy Wynette and pushy. Tammy looked like she didn’t understand a wet anything, glaring at Benetton like a bug just smacked into the windshield of her overpriced convertible. (I made a mental note to avoid Tammy at all costs for the remainder of the trip. She was wearing too much jewelry for us to ever be friends.)

I studied the rest of the jostling and sweaty crowd, and no one else seemed to be expressing dismay or confusion. What they were expressing was an intense desire for this whole mess to be done with so they could get back to whatever overindulgence they were partaking in when the horrid Muster Summons had interrupted their various revelries.

As if on cue, Captain What-Did-He-Say came back on the intercom, thanked us for our extreme patience during this critical meeting and related time of temporary drought (no alcohol was allowed to be served throughout the exercise, the horror), urged us to now enjoy ourselves (like we needed any encouragement on that angle), and then he turned things over to Hennie the Cheerleader so the captain could go get this boat out to sea.

Perky Hennie (probably performing a herky while he did so) let us all know that we had completed the last official thing we had to do. We could now be completely irresponsible for the next two and a half days until we got to Jamaica. As for entertainment options, there were simply oodles of things (another herky, this time with cowbell) that we could do, such as-

The rest of Hennie’s words were drowned out by the sound of thousands of guests racing to get off the Muster decks. You don’t tell people they are free to do whatever they want and then expect them to keep listening to you babble about activities you have no desire to experience. Hennie eventually just turned the intercom off and went to go watch old reruns of Blossom.

And with that, ladies and gentleman, my personal enjoyment factor on this cruise began to rise. It was just the drudgery of that first half day, what with getting those millions of people on to the boat and getting them situated. I don’t do well in crowds. Or standing in line. But now that all sections of the ship were open (way more sections than I realized even existed), massive amounts of people simple disappeared and were never seen again. (Until we got back to Galveston, but that’s a whole different story worth at least 5 separate blog posts.)

Of course, that’s not to say that we didn’t run into some misadventures on the high seas (Teaser foreshadowing: Tiffy sticks her finger where it doesn’t belong. Yep, she do.)

But for the next few days, the primary goals were relaxation and decompression. So of course we immediately raced back up to the Lido deck and resumed our seats at our already officially-favorite bar before some other fools stupidly attempted to take our positions. Another round was ordered and we got to work on that important relaxing and decompressing.

Now, let’s venture into a little side story, one involving a torrid love obsession that grew in strength as the days rolled by. It was a decidedly one-sided affair, and no physical transgressions actually took place, but there was definitely an attraction, one resulting in innocent but increased flirtation as the ship plowed onward, much to the extreme amusement of myself and the other family members who were paying attention.

Tiffany found herself a little girlfriend.

Of course, Tiffany was not in the market for an international lover, especially one with body parts that match her own. Tiffany is only interested in callers of a gentlemanly nature, shall we say. But La Tiffany, a sophisticated woman who is accepting and supportive of all the colors in the rainbow, is not above slightly working things to her advantage, should the opportunity arise. And if that opportunity should involve the quality and expediency of bar service aboard a cruise liner? Well, all the better.

And now let’s introduce Fuchsia, a charming woman from an exotic land not our own. (This is not her real name, naturally, we must protect her identity from the overlords at Carnival, especially that hyperactive and cheerleading Hennie the Cruise Director, who has far too much time on his jazz hands.) We met Fuchsia the very first day, working as she was behind the counter of what became “our bar” on the Lido Deck. She had a blazing smile, a pleasing personality, and we loved her instantly. We loved her even more as the drinks kept coming.

Fuchsia treated all of us with professionalism and charm, promptly satisfying all of our needs. But it soon became evident that Fuchsia’s sparkle was brightest when Tiffany had a libation request, especially once Fuchsia determined that Terry and I were not possible suitors of Tiffany. (This revelation was probably most obvious when the two of us would drool as yet another finely-muscled member of the male species would walk past shirtless. Or the Madonna references. Or the singing of show tunes. Quite a lot to pick from, actually.)

Anyway, the one-sided tropical crush soon took on a decided rhythm when Tiffany and Fuchsia would encounter one another, and it went something like this…

Tiffany, always mindful of paparazzi that she envisioned surrounding her, would purposely choose the further away and less-convenient elevator bank on the other side of the deck, away from our bar. This would increase the amount of sun-kissed wooden planking that Tiffany had to cross in order to quench her lushly-glossed lips, allowing her ample acreage on which to stroll saucily while pretending to be disinterested in all her adoring fans in the deck chairs along the way.

Fuchsia, upon spying her beloved making such an enticing entrance, would rush to clear a section of the counter, even if it meant lying to a patron about the availability of free iPads at the back of the ship, just so they would vacate a barstool. Fuchsia would then thoroughly sanitize said section of counter, polish said stool, and plop down a small crystal vase holding native flowers that Fuchsia had brought all the way from her home country for just such an occasion.

Tiffany, once done with her promenade among the fans (and this alone could take hours), would finally wander toward the bar and then pause just shy of it, glancing around contemplatively, as if not certain where she wished to purchase her next cocktail, there were so many choices. If necessary, she would pepper her performance with a dramatic, unresolved sigh.

Fuchsia, quivering in anticipation, would stand as tall as she possibly could, doing her best to look warm, welcoming, and completely available. If one of her co-workers stupidly walked into the visual gap between her and Tiffany, Fuchsia would shove that person under the counter or over the side of the ship.

Tiffany, releasing another small sigh along the lines of “well, I suppose this will do, in a pinch”, pretends to reach a decision that she fully intended to reach all along. She sashays up to the open barstool, and then pauses again, as if she can’t actually see the engraved, golden nameplate and the single rose that has been lovingly placed in the seat by her trembling admirer.

Tiffany finally makes full eye contact with Fuchsia. “May I?”

Fuchsia, sporting a smile so big it nearly splits her head in two, nods vehemently, unable to speak, what with how the glorious gods have just blessed her day and her libido.

Tiffany smiles briefly, then proceeds to arrange herself artfully on the stool, making sure everything is just so, and remembering to hold each movement for the requisite three seconds the paparazzi will need to get an adequate photo. Finally settled, she parts her shining lips to make a request. “Could I trouble you for-”

Fuchsia instantly slams down a drink in front of Tiffany, one carefully concocted of such exquisite flavors and colors that merely contemplating the consumption of such beauty is more than enough satisfaction to last a lifetime. Fuchsia tenderly and carefully removes the last bit of paper from the straw, instantly jealous of the lucky plastic that will soon be nestled between Tiffany’s lips, and worshipfully slides the treasure forward.

Tiffany embellishes her performance with more dramatic delaying tactics, pausing to turn and intimately wave at what she thinks is Gwyneth Paltrow standing near the chili dog station (“Let’s do lunch, sweetie! Call me!”) but it’s totally not. Then she deftly uses her manicured hand to insert the straw into the favorite part of her anatomy and begins sucking, extending one pinky outwards, because really, shouldn’t you always do that?

Tiffany pauses again, this time unplanned. “Oh my, Fuchsia, darling. This is extraordinary, simply beyond words. My tongue is tingling with satisfaction. What does one call this?”

Fuchsia is barely able to remain standing, thoughts of Tiffany’s satisfied tongue battling with her need to remain coherent and eventually marry her fashion bride. “It does not have a name, I leave that for you to bestow, if you find it worthy. It has 22 different liquors in it, 12 of which I distilled myself, last night, using a colander and a hair dryer.

“Oh heavens,” mutters Tiffany, basically unable to stop with the sucking because the liquid glory is satisfyingly irresistible. “You really shouldn’t have gone to so much trouble, with the distilling and all.” She pauses yet, again, this time to belch discreetly, and eyes her now half-empty container. “But since you did, how about we fetch another one, yes?”

Fuchsia, gratefully willing to do anything that is remotely thrilling to her beloved, immediately races to the ice machine and begins hacking away to break the chunks, with great exuberance, thusly relieving at least a small amount of her burning desire. Little chiplets of said ice go flying through the air, tinkling down on the two co-workers at the other end of the bar, but they aren’t really a part of this particular story and therefore we don’t care.

Speaking of unconcern for the lesser characters, it is at this point that I arrive on the scene. Well, not arrive, exactly, because I’ve been standing just off to the side the entire time, mentally filing blog notes about the tawdriness and desperation. My own beverage has become depleted, and steps must be taken.

So I take steps to the bar.

Fuchsia is busily adding love-scented garnishes to Tiffany’s second offering when she notices me standing there. Her eyes briefly spark with the horrible implications of what my arrival might bring. (“Go away, little gay friend of Tiffany. Do not take her away from me. Bad gay boy!”) But then she recovers and retains her professionalism. “What can I get for you?”

I wave my empty beer bottle. “Another one, when you have a minute.”

Now her eyes are expressing another situation. Of course she has a minute, that’s what she’s here for, once Tiffany is happy. But replenishments for my particular brand of beer are way at the other end of the bar, with the ice-chip people. If she leaves Tiffany’s front for any length of time, horrible things could happen, like distracting gay friends suggesting other places that Tiffany might wish to visit, places that correspondingly do not have a Fuchsia. Her eyes hate me again.

On the other hand, if I have something to drink, maybe I’ll just go away. Or at least sit down and be quiet and say witty gay things that are mildly amusing. So Fuchsia takes her chances, and takes off running.

I turn to Tiffany. “What should we do next? Should we go see what everybody else is doing?”

Down at yonder bar end, Fuchsia hears my words, her ears being finely-tuned to all things Tiffany, lying in bed late at night and listening to the sounds of Tiffany’s eyelids fluttering several decks away. (Whoosh, whoosh.) She turns and races back, leaping over a co-worker who chose that moment to bend down and retrieve a dropped maraschino cherry.

“I don’t know,” breathes Tiffany, absently fondling her second offering of love nectar. “What do you think?”

Fuschia crash-lands in front of us, practically hurls my unopened beer at me, and completely fails at any pretense of nonchalance. Her eyes implore me beseechingly. Please do not abscond with the fair maiden.

“Well,” I say. “I suppose we could just wait right here and see if anybody comes along. Sound good?”

Fuchsia’s eyes, instantly dewy with mingled lust and gratitude, whip toward the damsel.

Tiffany pauses, artisan of pausing that she is, taking another slurp before responding. “I believe I find that satisfactory. For now. We shall see.”

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Cruise Control - Part 12: Muster Fluster

2011-11-18T19:04:00.001-06:00

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I leaned forward in the deck chair on our tiny piece of room-balcony real estate. “Is anyone else hearing a disembodied voice?”

Terry and Tiffany both nodded, all of us wondering exactly what might have been in the cocktails that the Foo-Foo Man served us up on the Lido Deck. Was peyote legal on the high seas?

The voice from nowhere kept babbling about something, and our confused heads turned upwards, locating a public-address speaker perched just above the balcony door that lead back into our room. I guess whoever was in charge of the speakers really wanted to make sure we heard what was being said, because the volume was suddenly high enough that the sounds were bouncing off the ugly industrial buildings on the shore of Galveston and slamming back into the ship, annoying us in stereo.

Perhaps we should listen then, right, because they might be warning us about horrid things like a fire on one of the decks or the life-changing fact that the buffet on the Lido Deck had run out of chocolate éclairs. We had no idea at the time that somebody would be getting on that damn speaker system throughout the day, every day, benignly informing us of shipboard special events that most people would ignore, and we incorrectly assumed that tragedy of some kind had taken place.

We listened closer, ears perked.

Nope, no tragedies. Just the captain of the ship personally welcoming us aboard, like he had any idea who we were or who we might have slept with in our shady pasts. He had a very thick accent, my mind zeroed in on Italian origin, possibly, so many of his words flew past us without any real comprehension. But he seemed pleased that we had given his company money and hoped that we would enjoy our financially-justified stay.

Then he began to introduce our Cruise Director, and my mind immediately went to Lauren Tewes playing “Julie” on The Love Boat. (Couldn’t help it, it just happened. Would we get to meet Gopher?) Sadly, Julie was not in our particular deck of cards. Instead, we were being directed by one Hennie van Heerden, from South Africa.

Really? No offense, but what kind of name is “Hennie”? Was this a dominant chicken who was really rude to all the other cluckers in the henhouse? Actually, continuing with the not meaning to offend, “Hennie” sounded like a budding-lesbian lacrosse player at a private prep school on the East Coast who was determined to win the love of the up-till-now straight cheerleader who always wondered why she became aroused in the hosiery department at Macy’s.

But Hennie turned out to be a man, although we can’t discard the cheerleading angle because he certainly knew something about that. He major-hyped all the amazing fun that we were going to have on our shared adventures, and he was simply brimming with the excitement of it all. We had oodles of pleasure coming our way, details to be shared soon, but our focus right now should be the mind-blowing joy of the Report-to-your-Muster-Stations process. We’ll be doing that very shortly! Yay!

Then Hennie was shoved to the side, the Italianate Captain uttered a few more unintelligible words, possibly advising of a crop infestation or a duty-free opportunity on the Promenade Deck, who knows, and the sound system went dead.

We looked at each other. What was this Muster thing, anyway? Did we have enough alcohol in our systems to deal with that?

Then we decided that thinking and comprehension were over-rated, especially when you were supposed to be on vacation, and it was probably best that we not worry ourselves anymore. Perhaps we should head back up to the Lido Deck, otherwise known as Alcohol Central, and partake of more beverages? That seemed festive. Especially since we could now hear other people banging into their rooms around us, meaning that the formerly-restricted areas of the ship were now open and people should be filtering off the Lido Deck, and that we shouldn’t have a problem getting to the bar. Good times awaited.

It’s the small things in life that truly matter, people. It really is.

So we clamor back into the guestroom itself, and I notice that the TV (which is NOT flat screen, what’s up with THAT in this day and age of modern guest-services technology) is airing more detail about this mysterious Muster business that we are supposed to be doing in the near future. It sounds kind of important, so I try to get the attention of Tiffany and Terry as they race to the outer door.

“Dudes, I think we need to listen to this.”

They both look at me as if I’ve absolutely lost my mind, then they turn and hightail it into The Shining hallway where vengeful twins might cut them down with a chainsaw at any moment. Okay, then. Plan B. I decide to study the TV long enough to pick up a few details.

They were playing video of confused people wearing life vests, huddled around lifeboats, listening to crew people as if their lives depended on it. The repetitive “life” reference made me think this might be information I should retain. I watched for a bit more, then raced to join the other two in their unsuccessful attempt to leave me behind in my obsession with tiny details.

We work our way towards the elevator area (at this point we have no idea that there are multiple elevator areas, this knowledge only comes with time), and we are quickly whisked back to the Lido Deck, which, again unknowingly, will become our favorite destination on the ship. Lots of things happen there, some of them tawdry, most of them pleasing, all of them involving alcohol to some degree.

We sashay up to a bar and plop our asses on the comfy stools. Keeping with the trend of paying more attention to the country names of the employees rather than their actual names, we note that this bar is staffed with delightful people from Belo-Russia, Slovenia and The Philippines. They love us dearly, especially when we hand over the sacred sign-and-sail plastic cards that make price-revelations utterly unimportant. It will take a few days before we learn their actual names, and they learn that we will become their best customers. It’s the usually pointless meet-and-greet moment. Relationships will flower later.

We settle in and enjoy our libations. We people-watch the folks around us, and it becomes abundantly clear that personal-shame concerning clothing or hairstyle choices simply does not exist in many human beings. We review redneck men eating an entire corndog in one bite, completely unaware that this is a skill that might attract the wrong following. We stare at the giant, twisting waterslide that starts near the highest deck of the ship and hurls the brave into a swimming pool a few stories down.

“So,” I wonder aloud, “are we getting on that thing?”

Terry: “What are the rules? Am I sober when we do this? Is there a prize?”

Tiffany: “The twins will catch on something and I’ll be flipped over the side. I don’t have the right outfit for that.”

Okay, then. Ixnay on the turbo-charged wet wedgie. This lovely exchange is interrupted when we spy the guy from security, that fool who tried to sneak vodka onto the ship via the case of bottled water. He was nasty then, he’s nasty now, with him and his Kenny G-tribute hairstyle wearing a skimpy, groin-clutching swimsuit that could star in its own horror movie. His girlfriend/paid-companion looks like somebody beat Elvira to death with a tree limb and then brought her back to life using Goth makeup and a cattle prod.

Terry: “That’s why you stay in school, kids. Right there.”

Tiffany: “They better restock this bar if they want us to keep looking at something like that.”

Then the gods intervened, saving our lacerated eyes in the form of an announcement that it was now time to report to our Muster stations. Tiffany is perplexed. “Are they making us eat hot dogs now? Pretzels, maybe? And how do we know where our Muster stations are?” I smirk knowingly, thinking that I’m the only one with the intel, when Terry suddenly cuts me off.

“We have to go to Muster Station A. It says that on our sign-and-sail card. I think it’s on Deck 3. There are signs that will show us where to go.”

See, he’s always doing that, making me think that he’s paying no attention whatsoever, yet not only is he paying attention, he’s already spoken with customer service, had them email him schematics of the entire ship, and is receiving status alerts on his phone every five minutes. God.

So we start to gather our things. (We always have things to gather in this story, have you noticed?) Tiffany reluctantly leaves her drink behind, but not before struggling with the decision like she’s Meryl Streep picking out her favorite kid in Sophie’s Choice. Slovenia, one of the staff behind the bar, just looks at her like “honey, it’ll be here when you get back. Go do the lifeboat thing.”

We traipse toward a stairwell. There are hundreds of people dashing about, vaguely aware that they need to be doing something but not quite sure what that is. Most of them are clustered in front of the elevators in dense packs that mean you might as well give it up on the elevator option if you want to get anywhere in a reasonable amount of time.

Terry veers toward the stairs instead, quickly clattering out of view. Tiffany and I just look at each other. Did you see what that bitch just did? He took the stairs. We haven’t taken the stairs since Clinton was in office. Aw, hellz no. Then we glance at the 400 people jostling for a single elevator. Okay, then. Stairs it is.

Off we go, lumbering downward, looping our way through the half-levels of rich carpeting and finely-detailed wooden handrails. (Hey, somebody spent some money building this boat.) But there’s really no time to appreciate the quality, what with the bulls of Pamplona thundering along with us and knocking people askance.

On one of the decks, who knows which, I encounter Bacon, one of my nieces, offspring of Roni. She’s dripping wet and wearing a surprisingly low-material bikini. “What’s going on, Uncle Brian? Do I need my card for this?”

“Yes, you need your card for this. Do you not have it?”

“Um, I left it by the pool.”

You left it by the pool? Why would you do that? What part of “keep your card with you at all times” do you not get? Get your ass back over there and find it. Of course, what actually comes out of my mouth is “Honey, run fetch that thing real quick, mmmkay?”

She glares at me briefly (you are so not my favorite uncle right now), then she stomps away.

Anyway, we finally get to the designated deck, and eventually manage to follow the signs and work our way to an outer deck area, with the vivid imagery of lifeboats hanging right there to let us know we’re in the proper place. The lifeboat-instruction people make us line up in a single file line against the wall. At first, things are not so bad, with a nice breeze blowing and people being polite.

But then other people keep coming, the slacker people who really aren’t taking things too seriously and are grudgingly reporting as instructed, miffed that they are being forced to do something official when they really didn’t want to do so. Hundreds of people. So our pleasant single strand of people lined up against the wall soon transforms into a mass of humanity that is five layers deep, with the decent people who got here in a timely manner being shoved up against said wall with no room to move. Things get a little tense.

The highlight of this moment is when a certain Asian woman, upon being instructed to stand in a specific place, completely loses her mind and screams that she must stand next to her husband. She shoves people out of her way to do so. (She might have been tiny, but those stubby legs had some serious leverage.) The fallout of her actions ripple through the crowd, with people slamming into and bouncing off of this and that.

And it doesn’t stop there. We are now so packed in that every time a single person moves for whatever reason, everybody feels it. I’ve got random elbows and kneecaps and camera bags poking me from all directions. Via kismet of some kind, another one of my nieces, Baylor, has managed to end up just to the left of me. She looks up at me with her troubled little eyes. Why are these mean people trying to hurt me? And why does it smell like road kill out here?

I try to smile lovingly and protectively, but this is difficult to do when a breast that has clearly had some plastic-surgeon attention is banging me in the back of the head while the breast’s boyfriend is giggling like he’s five and fondling the other honeydew as if he’s just found the Ark of the Covenant.

All of our various thoughts are interrupted by the intercom system activating.

And then we have that damn Italian Captain again, bellowing away with his thick accent and propensity to butcher words. He says something about this is where you need to report if we have to abandon ship. He says more about how many people can fit into each lifeboat and what snacks can be found under the seats. He moves on to general safety tips aboard ship and how one can avoid accidents. Then he says something so off the wall that I temporarily forget about a stranger’s metal-enhanced nipple being lodged in my hair.

“Watch out for the wetbacks!”

Excuse me?

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Cruise Control - Part 11: Cocktails and Chatter

2011-11-17T19:13:00.001-06:00

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This much is true: Alcohol can be a sacred a beautiful thing.

I was chanting this to myself as I sucked down the lovely cocktail recently gifted to me by the Carnival person who had now vanished into the sea of people around us. It was just what I had needed. I turned to my ravishing companion, Tiffany. “Better?”

She finished slurping up every last molecule of her beverage. “Much, mon cher. I am now ready for anything. Bring it.”

Just then, Terry came stumbling back to the table with his own pickings from the buffet line, his eyes wild and his hair slightly mussed. “What is wrong with those damn cow people grunting at the trough like that? Have they never eaten before in their lives?”

I slid one of the tropical concoctions across the table. “Drink. Let the spirits calm you.”

Terry gulps down half of the gallon-size drink in two seconds, the stress visibly melting away almost as fast as the tacky pancake makeup plastered on a fashion-challenged woman at a nearby table. “Well, then,” he says, eyeing the remaining contents of the cheap plastic cup, “I believe I’ll be needing a few more of those.”

I look around for… I’m not sure what his name was, the Soul-Saving Man with the foo-foo drinks. I’m sure he’s around somewhere, he couldn’t have gotten far with this crowd pushing and shoving. I’ll just have to be on alert and tackle him if he reappears.

“So,” queries Tiffany, done with her buffet plate and sliding it away, “what are we doing now?” She whips out a compact mirror to ensure that she remains stunning and desirable, then promptly throws it back in her purse, thoroughly satisfied. “When are the rooms going to be ready? I didn’t know that we would have to wait for them. You’d think they would put something like that in the brochure.”

An hour earlier, I would have been irritated with this waiting, this outrage against humanity, cramming us all together on one deck whilst apparently sluggish housekeeping and baggage people took their lethargic time prepping the rooms. But pretty drinks in cheap plastic can make a world of difference. (Wait, did I just come up with my own epitaph?) “Poodle, it doesn’t really matter. We’re finally on the boat, after all that hell, and we should just relax.”

Tiffany just looks at me, her mascara-laden eyelids batting away like a giant combine threshing wheat in a Kansas field. Woosh, woosh. “That’s sweet, glad you found your inner Pippy Longstocking. Now, can we find some more of these drinks so I can join you on that delusional island of yours?”

And thus began another theme of our journey, the finding of alcohol when things got a bit messy or awkward. I’m not embarrassed to admit it. Ain’t no shame in the cruise survival game. Sayin.

As if on cue, the perpetually-smiling Foo-Foo Drink Man twirled into view with a freshly stocked tray of beverages. Interested?

Of course we were. Sign the cute little receipt, numbers ratchet up on my plastic card, and merriment is ensured for at least the next 30 minutes. Foo-Foo thanks us for shopping at Wal-Mart, rearranges the remaining items on his little tray just so, then twirls away with a flair and grace that would make many leading ballerinas weep with envy.

“Hey,” queries Tiffany, pulling the lipstick-accented drink straw out of her powerful lips with a squelching pop that normally would have been heard across the room, if it wasn’t for another irksome little tyke banging on the window behind us like he just spotted Waldo floating by on a raft, “where did his name tag say he was from?”

I’m apparently not as invested in this bit of knowledge as she is. “What are you talking about, Hooverine?”

Tiffany sighs, realizing that once again I was not paying full attention to her, despite the agreements found in our friendship pre-nup. “His name tag. All of their name tags have their country on them.”

“Oh, I hadn’t noticed.” Probably because I had spent the entire time since we boarded keeping my eyes averted from any strangers that I didn’t want to talk to, which was all of them. “That’s kind of cool.”

And it really was, in that essentially unimportant but fascinating way that some trivia can have. I started studying the staff as they darted and twirled about. Philippines, Sweden, Brazil. The variety of nationalities was eye-opening, and it put a world perspective on things.

Trouble is, it also put a perspective on the country names and not the people names. As the week would progress, we would get to know a few of the thousand-member staff rather well, like the fine folks who worked our favorite bar. But the country names were easier to remember than the people names, especially when the people name looked like you’ve drawn a really bad load of tiles in Scrabble.

This would lead to odd bits of dialogue like “Panama left the cutest little towel-bunny on the bed last night!” and “That trashy Canada isn’t wearing a bra again” and “Has anybody seen Croatia? I need another margarita.”

After letting the alcohol marinate and gently allow us to be civil again, we decided to walk around a bit until those damn rooms were ready. We gathered up our things, glanced around to see if we were just supposed to leave our trays on the table like pigs (yes, we were), and then we staggered out a door that looked like it led somewhere.

And it led to another restaurant, this one apparently a diner-based kind of thing because these folks over here were shoving hot dogs and hamburgers in their mouths while the kiddies were squirting each other with those red and yellow plastic bottles. (This became another theme of our time on the boat, stumbling upon a previously-unnoticed door or hallway and discovering yet another new restaurant, bar or dimly-lit trysting spot where unregulated teen couples were discovering new things you could mutually do with your pierced tongues.)

Then we traipsed past a supposed adults-only pool that was packed with youngsters who had somehow changed into swimsuits despite no one theoretically having their luggage yet, a pizza parlor, another bar, some place that might be serving deli sandwiches, not clear, another bar, up a flight of stairs just to see where it went, out on a deck where adults were sunbathing and also sporting mystifyingly-gotten swimsuits (some of the suits no bigger than teabags and a piece of thread), around a corner to one of the official smoke holes (Yay! Leave some bread crumbs back to this place!), down this one long gallery thing, the purpose of which was murky, and then-

“Hold up,” I suddenly barked. “I’ve had it with these carry-ons banging into my legs and my side. I’m tired of walking around with all this mess and all these people. I want to put this stuff down and stop sweating and get back to my happy place or I’m going to go INSANE!”

Tiffany and Terry eyed each other. (Did he take his meds? I think so. What do you mean, you think so? Well, I would assume he did. Dude, he cannot be un-medicated right now, do you hear me? Okay, let’s get his ass to the room and shove pills down his throat until he goes into a coma.) They turn to me. “Should we see if the room is ready?” They smile sweetly, hoping to hide the subterfuge in their eyes.

“Yes, I would like that very much, thank you.” (Little skanks. I can shove things, too, you know.)

So we make our way to one of the elevator banks, and easily find a downward-headed traveling box that is completely empty. (Of course it is, the drinks are on this deck and everybody is already here.) We arrive on the Upper deck (a name which makes no sense since there are decks higher than that), our home for the next week, and try to figure out how to maneuver around. We vaguely know that our room is toward the front of the ship on the right side (I don’t know the nautical terms yet) due to some investigative Internet clicking, but that’s about it.

It’s eerily quiet down here, mainly because most of the passengers are still up on the Lido deck, drinking fruity things and becoming increasingly convinced that somebody needs to pull out a limbo bar, unaware that somewhere below them a trio of pushy but fashionable dissidents are scampering around in places they really shouldn’t be. (Occupy Carnival! We are the 99%!)

We round a corner and find the main hallway that runs down the length of this side of the ship. The hallway shoots off in both directions, for miles, with things at the opposite ends appearing tiny and fuzzy. I notice it’s a little claustrophobic, in that hotel-hallway manner where natural sunlight is prohibited and all the doors are nondescript. I also notice that the color scheme of this hall is unsettlingly similar to one of the hallways of the Overlook Hotel in The Shining. If twin girls suddenly appear, holding hands and wearing vintage frilly dresses, I’m going to wet my pants.

We head toward the front of the ship, creeping along slowly at first, then speeding up as we realize that if we don’t move any faster, we won’t get to the door of the room before the ship gets to Jamaica. After several days, we find ourselves outside said door, panting. We slide one of the magic keys into the slot, glance both directions to make sure no one is recording this in case there are legal complications, and then slip inside.

Cruise ship cabins are notorious for their non-largeness, and this example was no exception. There was a queen bed (which was really two twin beds shoved together, a fact we later discovered while searching for an errant bottle cap), where Terry and I could lay and not speak to each other after one of us inevitably did something irksome or even mean-spirited. There was a small couch with a cute little table that might be able to hold a gumdrop. And there definitely wasn’t enough floor space to get a decent game of Twister going.

But really, not bad at all. Everything was very clean, we had tons of storage along one wall, and there was just enough acreage that we could avoid bumping into each other, something that would prove useful on those potential mornings when we would all wake up with hangovers, dreading sunlight and human contact.

Opening a door, we discovered our little balcony patio, and things brightened considerably. There were some decently comfortable chairs and another diminutive table, just right for beverages and a tube of sunscreen. Walls on both sides meant that we didn’t have to deal with our neighbors unless we felt like leaning out and saying hey.

We plopped in the chairs and gazed over the protective railing, envisioning the vast expanse of blue ocean that we could gaze upon in serenity once we left port. (Right now our eyes rested upon the industrial crapfest of the Galveston port. Why does everything look so rusty?) I knew right away that I would be spending a lot of time out here, just watching the water and emptying my mind. I glanced at Tiffany and Terry, and their eyes said the same.

Then Jesus suddenly spoke to us from the sky.

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Cruise Control - Part 10: Where The Buffalo Roam

2011-11-15T20:18:00.001-06:00

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The Check-In Lady smiles sweetly at me. “So, you’re checking in using your birth certificate instead of a passport?”

I gulp, having no idea how critical my answer might be. “Yes. Yes, I am.”

She hits a button on her keyboard. There’s a slight beep as her action is either benignly recorded or the Tri-Delta security police is elevated to high alert. “Could I see your certificate?” She proffers one lovingly-moisturized hand as a receiving vessel. “And a photo ID, of course.”

Of course. One must have photo ID’s these days, especially when dealing with Republicans, who apparently think that forcing a person to have one will stop them from voting in presidential elections. I place my documents in the lotioned basket.

“Thank you,” chirps Check-In, who then proceeds to briefly scan my personal proof of existence, and then hits a few more keys, makes a notation of some kind on a sheet of official-looking paper, pauses momentarily to adjust the collar of her perfectly-ironed blouse, because one should never appear unkempt in society, and then apparently moves on without any hesitation. “I see that you already have a credit card on file. Would you like to use that for your sign-and-sail card, or settle with cash at the end of the trip?”

Wait a minute. That’s it? The birth certificate worked? No questions about where my passport might be? I’m actually slightly disappointed. I haven’t slept for two days, worried about the not-having-a-passport angle. Granted, I didn’t want any trouble, but there should have been at least a few sweat-inducing questions about my lack of international travel documents and whether or not I’ve left my luggage unattended for the merest of seconds.

But no. Check-In patiently awaits my response, unable to hear the neurotic thoughts in my brain, her head slightly-tilted to one side as if she were a Pan-Am stewardess in 1963, pleasantly taking my cocktail order on a luxury flight to Greece.

“Let’s leave it on the credit card for now,” I mumble, still befuddled about how things were turning out after troubled nightmares of being thrown into prison for wanton misplacement of my passport. “But wait. Can I put cash on the card once I’m on the ship?”

Check-In perseveres with her award-winning smile and professional aplomb. “Of course. You can do whatever you want.” She hands me the plastic card which serves as room key, dining key, adult-beverage-purchase key, and general lifeline onboard the ship. “Enjoy your cruise!”

And we’re done. I turn and stumble toward the rest of my family gathered in a seating area off to one side. Mom hops to her feet. “All good?”

I smile brightly at her, nodding. I also realize this is the first time I have truly smiled in a few days. Perhaps I’m going about this in the wrong way. If only I could not worry about pointless things. If only. But it’s hard to break life habits, right?

Mom beams. “Then let’s get on the ship.”

So we all clatter our way toward another round of signs, leading to a series of continually-rising ramps that theoretically will take us onboard at some point. We’re trudging along the third or fourth riser, with an employee at the end of this section, a sour-faced woman who is bellowing that we need to have our important sign-and-sail cards ready for presentation up yonder.

Mom suddenly slams to a halt. “Ummm….”

Oh God.

Mom: “I can’t find Roni’s card.”

Hold up. You can’t find the card that someone handed you mere seconds ago? The super important card that you must have on this ship? Are you serious?

Mom: “I don’t know what I did with it.”

I don’t take this news kindly. As Mom starts frantically digging through whatever, I grit my teeth. Why is this happening? Why can you not hang on to things for the tiniest amount of time?

Then Mom says this: “You just shouldn’t have brought me on this trip.” Frustrated and sad.

And I melt. Yes, I’m still a little irked, but it’s Mom. We’ve had our ups and downs, as all mother-son relationships do, but at the end of the day I love her deeply, despite the fact that I don’t call anywhere near as often as I should.

Mom makes a triumphant discovery. “Found it!”

And on we trudge, lots of able-bodied people and one clicking wheelchair.

At one point, we enter an area where an overly-chirpy photographer and his not-as-chirpy assistant are cajoling people into posing for photographs. (“You can buy copies on board!”) We wait patiently while clumps of three and four people pose with entire fakeness and then move on. Then the photographer addresses us. “How many”

Thirteen. (Karen and Janet have not yet joined us, they are coming later.)

The photographer looks stricken by such an overwhelming contingent, stepping back in horror and pretending to be interested in his camera lens. Fine by me, not a fan of having my picture taken. We march past him. We’ll do the group thing later. Love and kisses.

Finally, after endless twisting and turning, we are actually at the point where we enter the boat. A smiling woman holds out her hand for the sacred plastic cards that we possess. Well, hopefully possess. I glance at Mom. She glances back with an expression of “I got your ass to school every day for twelve years, don’t get me started.” Cards are scanned and we traipse our way into the interior of the ship.

We are entering on Deck 3, the Lobby deck. As first timers, you really don’t understand the importance of deck numbers and names right at first. Because, basically, you really have no conception of how big these cruise ships actually are. Yes, they look mammoth from the outside, but it doesn’t really register until you need to get from Point A to Point B. Then it becomes incredibly important.

Anyway, our clan marches forth. And we find ourselves in an area with a mammoth atrium, stretching skyward for many decks. It’s quite impressive, but it doesn’t disguise the fact that down here, on the entrance floor, there are four billion people milling around, most of them not completely sure where to go or what to do.

A kind attendant, noticing the fear in our eyes, explains. “You can’t go to your rooms just yet. Still loading the luggage and all. And you can’t get to most of the decks. But this deck is open, with alcohol available at the bar over there (she points lovingly and knowingly) and tons of food available up on Deck 9, the Lido Deck. And more bars.”

This is something I’m keenly invested in at the moment, the mention of multiple bars. In fact, I’m fairly certain I could start a new religion that is alcohol-based. Worse things have happened in the history of the planet, right?

Based on the fact that we really can’t even breathe properly on Deck 3, there are so many people pushing and jostling, it’s fairly clear that we need to get our asses on Deck 9, where there’s both food AND adult-beverages. It’s a survival instinct.

So we make our way to a bank of elevators, only to find that most of the planet also wishes to make their way towards heaven. It’s clear that we can’t go all at once, what with so many people on the verge of brandishing switchblades just to get on a damn elevator. We wish each other luck, and then it’s every clan member for himself.

Eventually, I manage to clamor into one of the glass-walled contraptions, along with about 300 other people, with one woman in particular that had felt it necessary to wallow in a vat of some low-grade perfume that clearly also doubled as a pesticide in third-world countries. When the doors finally opened on Deck 9, I stumbled out of the confinement, gasping and wishing for the death of strangers who douche incorrectly.

And I found the rest of the family, staring at me with an air of wonderment about why it had taken me so long to join them. So sorry. I didn’t realize this was a race. My bad.

So we assess our predicament, and the general consensus is that we should get something to eat, and then deal with whatever after that. A few of us are a bit hesitant, eyeing the enticingly-placed, liquor-proffering bars perched here and there, but we should at least be nice to one another on the first day. After that, screw everybody.

We meander into what we will soon know as the “buffet area” of Deck 9 (Lido Deck for those keeping score), and peruse our options. There are thousands of people in this space, fighting over free food and hogging the places to sit. Somebody spies an unoccupied table, way in the back of yonder, and an emissary is sent to stake a claim. The rest of us get in one of the several buffet lines, definitely on a learning curve and making things up as we go.

And the next lesson in our Carnival syllabus involves an introduction to the wildlife species know as the Buffet Buffalos. Your first encounter with these animals can be quite startling, especially if no one has bothered to adequately prepare you for what these animals do in their native habitat.

Firstly, these are very impatient creatures, hopping from one foot to another in anticipation, craning their necks to better study the freshly laid-out grub ahead, and knocking the civilized people about, completely unaware that they are practically drooling down the back of your neck and letting loose with primal grunts.

Secondly, the Buffet Buffalos go completely insane once the line moves forward enough that they can actually begin shoveling food onto their surfboard-size plate, serving themselves mountains of steaming everything, with juices and gravy splashing all over the place. Their plates will become so heavy that they can’t even carry them, and instead start shoving them down the buffet counter from one serving station to another, piling on more grease-drenched this and fat-based that.

It is completely unbelievable the first time you see this.

Oh, and the Buffalos have catchphrases that they utter, things like “Why are you just giving me ONE chicken-fried steak. I want FIVE” and “I’m just going to take this entire jug of ranch dressing with me, they have more” and “I am SO hungry!” even though they are still belching from the last meal and haven’t even bothered to wipe their chins off.

Tiffany and I just looked at each other, stunned. What happened to these people in their lives that made them be such gluttonous pigs? Geez.

We hoist our modest-portioned trays at the end of the line, and head toward the distant table that is hopefully still being saved for us, carefully avoiding a few thundering buffalos who are actually headed back to the line to fill up another tray, before they’ve even touched the first one, in case something goes horribly wrong and the endless food stops pouring out of the kitchen for two seconds.

There is no way, in hell, that these folks can even eat half of the food they have taken. No way. I don’t care what special talents they may have, or what type of training programs they may have been involved with in the livestock pens of local farms, they cannot get all of that food in their bodies.

It’s obviously never occurred to these people that if they didn’t waste so much food, the cruise tickets would be cheaper. But that line of thinking involves logic and restraint, and the Buffet Buffalos are clearly complete strangers to both of those concepts.

The journey to our table takes a bit longer than we care for it to take. There are people everywhere, with over-excited children, further stimulated by the free ice cream gushing out of self-serve machines, dashing about and bouncing off things like a giant pinball machine. One innovative little urchin even plops his empty juice cup on my tray before scampering toward an older brother urging him to hurry up before anyone made them stop having fun. Two points for neatness, but you’re still a brat.

Oh, and we were still lugging around our carry-ons, can’t get to our rooms yet and all. So there we are, struggling along, hot and sweaty and tired and trying to keep everything from sliding off our trays and whacking innocent grandmas in the back of the head. And the soundtrack of our trek is the ceaseless, irritating drone of hundreds of strangers babbling about nothing.

It is right at this frustrated point, with all the etiquette-deprived people and my disdain for crowds, that I start to think “Wow, I really might have made a mistake coming on this cruise. What was I thinking?”

We get to our table and plop down our trays. Tiffany and I start to disinterestedly pick at the food. (Side note: The food looked and tasted mighty fine. We were just, well, pretty much done at the moment.) Then we hear someone clear their throat, and we look up.

A smiling Carnival person is standing there, bearing a tray with large, tropical, probably adult-oriented drinks. A small sign on the tray announces that these little jewels are nine bucks a piece, further bolstering their possible adultness.

“Do those things have alcohol?”

“Yes, sir. They have rum and vodka and-”

“I’ll take five of them. Tiffany, you want anything?”

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Cruise Control - Part 9: The Passport Man Cometh

2011-11-14T21:02:00.001-06:00

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I just look at the security guard, slightly stunned. She wants me to take everything out of my laptop bag, and there’s a ton of crap in there. It’s crammed with things I thought I might possibly need while on a cruise. What did I do to trigger this kind of search?

As I flip open one of the zippered sections and start to haul out the 74 different power cords contained within, Nosey Nancy’s neighbor leans in. “Just the laptop, sir.” Then she glares at her co-worker, a look that questions why Nancy is being so difficult.

Nancy glares back. (Why do you continue to breathe? You know this is what I live for.) But Nancy relents and confirms. “Just the laptop.”

I pull out the larger of my two laptops and cooperatively place it in the bin, lovingly patting it because we’ve shared so many experiences together. Then I haul out the smaller netbook. “Both of them?”

Nancy’s eyes spark again, awash with renewed suspicion. (Who takes two laptops on a cruise? I knew you were a terrorist!) But she refrains from tackling me to the ground. “Yes, both of them.”

I place the netbook on top of the laptop. Nancy immediately separates the two so that they are not touching, tidying up after my apparent glaring breach of protocol. Just to make sure that I don’t break anymore rules, I clarify my next action. “Anything else?”

This intrigues Nancy’s neighbor, and she leans in again. “Do you have another laptop?” (Perhaps I am about to break some type of record, and Neighbor will have something exciting to share with her co-workers on the next coffee break.)

“Um, no. But I have a Nook and a Kindle and a-”

This is no longer interesting to either of them. Neighbor leans back to her own station and Nancy waves at me to head on through the body scanner thing. I step forward, heart slightly accelerated, as the rest of my belongings are trundled into the evil world that lives under the flaps of the luggage scanner.

I do NOT like going through security, makes me feel like a criminal even though I’m clearly not or I would live in a nicer house. I’m always half-convinced that they are going to find the exact ingredients that can accidentally make a weapon of mass destruction, and I will end up in a Turkish prison, where Internet access is sure to be unreliable.

But alarms did not sound and men wearing matching storm trooper gear did not surround me, so we’ll assume that nothing tawdry was found in my luggage or my person. I was quickly doing the mad scramble one does at the tail-end of the security process, where you frantically try to retrieve your phone, get your shoes and belt back on, and cram your laptop back into a bag that suddenly seems three sizes too small, all while impatient people behind you are clearing their throats in irritation because they only had one thing to scan and you had 27.

So now I’m in a little holding area where you wait for the rest of your loved ones to get through the lines, assuming that you are still on speaking terms with these people after the drive to Galveston. Most of the gang was already through, and I did a headcount to determine who might be missing this time. Okay, Mom and Roni. Hmm.

This was very interesting. At the start of all this security mess, when the rest of us were slowly inching forward in the lines, any enjoyment of life sucked out of us, I had spied Mom and Roni racing down the “special access” lane for people with wheelchairs and such. There was hardly anybody in that line, so the two of them were whizzing through, with Roni high-fiving the air and Mom, little legs pumping as she pushed the chair, grinning happily that they didn’t have to sloth their way along like everybody else.

So they should have been through security by now. But they weren’t. Oh boy.

I wandered over to that special lane, and there was Roni at the walk-thru (roll-thru) detector, with personnel intensely studying every aspect of her wheelchair like they expected a cruise missile to drop out her ass. This always irks me greatly. She can’t move the left half of her body. Exactly what kind of mischief do they expect her to get up to? Meanwhile, unwashed, wild-eyed jerks wearing Anti-American t-shirts waltz right through without anybody batting an eye. Idiots.

Speaking of unwashed, though, we had another example of that at a table near where our huddled family was standing. It seems one of the guards had gotten a little suspicious about a certain man who was trying to carry a case of bottled water onto the boat. Lo and behold, as the guard checked the bottles with great detail, he began confiscating some of them. Turns out they were full of vodka, and carrying your own alcohol onto the ship was extremely verboten.

Now, I am by no means condoning such behavior, but I would suggest that if you want to try something like this, you probably shouldn’t draw attention to yourself by not bathing, sporting one of the most unattractive head-banger hairdos ever known, wearing enough gaudy gold jewelry that you could melt it down into a tank, and having that really-short-man attitude of the world owing him something more than platform shoes.

To make him even more special, the man was getting somewhat belligerent about being challenged for doing something wrong. Dude, you got busted. Suck it up. And go see a stylist. I’ll even pay for the visit, if it means you’ll never walk by me again looking like that.

The fun didn’t stop there. Suddenly, we had a security guard on the other side of us politely asking another man to stop taking pictures of the alcohol raid with his phone. (“No pictures allowed in the security area.” Just like the 15 signs posted everywhere said.) Picture man gets all smart-ass, waving his phone around. “Too late! Already got the picture. Hah!” Proud of himself for being an arrogant jerk.

Geez. Just what kind of people were they allowing on this boat?

Mom and Roni rolled up just then, with Mom looking like sometimes she’s just not real happy about having to do certain things, and Roni looking like she was determined to learn how to walk again just so she could come back here and kick someone’s ass. Our little clan is reunited and we can move to the next stage of what is starting to be a lengthy ordeal. (One that is not even hinted at on the happily chirping Carnival website, I might add.)

We head down this one hallway thing, and find signs directing us to escalators and elevators. Apparently the next bit of the check-in experience requires its own floor, so this should be real fun. We arrive on the this new floor, and find a room triple the size of the one below, and crammed with a population bigger than most counties in Oklahoma. And we have more lines, snaking about and doubling back and forth on themselves.

Sigh Number Forty-One.

So we get in one of the lines, and even though things are moving more quickly than expected, it’s still a very patience-testing process, what with that doubling-back thing where you keep encountering the same people, running out of ways to politely nod at these reappearing people until you just get tired of it and keep your eyes downcast on the ugly carpet pattern below you. Way at the other end of the lines is a bank of Carnival folks doing the final check-in business. We may never get there in our lifetime, but we’re going to try.

Suddenly, Mom (who had disappeared with Roni as they once again headed to a “special access” lane), is back with us, hollering something about she’s already at the check-in counter, but we have to check in together because we booked together. They said to get you out of the line. Come on!

We look at each other for half a second (Is she telling the truth or is she drunk?), then we are all leaping over the line dividers and thundering down the length of the room like somebody was after us with cattle prods and a can of Crisco, darting around slow-ass strangers and whacking things with our carry-ons.

We arrive breathlessly at the check-in counter where Mom is standing. Her face is aglow because she knows she just pulled a golden ticket out of her Willy Wonka chocolate bar by getting us all leap-frogged up here. We love her. Until she loses something else.

So Check-In Lady starts doing her thing, processing each person singly, and it takes a bit, because you have to set up expense accounts and whatnot. (The boat is mostly cashless, you just run around with a little credit card thing, happily and ignorantly running up a tab that might scare the hell out of you at the end of the cruise.) It’s a little boring, waiting your turn, but the very nice lady punching on the computer is very pleasant and efficient.

Turns out that not everyone at Carnival is so helpful, though. And we got to meet Wretched Gretchen a few minutes later.

She comes stomping up right behind me. “You’re gonna have to move.”

Me: “But we’re checking in.”

Wretched: “You’re blocking the walkway. People can’t get through.” She then stabs her finger at one single person who has to adjust slightly to the right as they pass.

Me: “But we’re checking in. Right now.” With this lovely person who obviously went to a different school than you.

Wretched: “All of you? On the same booking?”

Me: “Uh, yeah. Same booking.” Otherwise we wouldn’t all be standing here, you twit.

She rolls her eyes dramatically (Tiffany scribbles a note to herself to practice this technique, because it really did look very impressive), then stomps away. Twelve seconds later she’s back. “You are blocking the walkway.” She stabs her finger at another victim of our heinous crime, this time an old man dragging along an oxygen tank as he skirts around us, a much more traumatizing sight than our first victim, but still.

Me: “What do you want us to do?” Ride on each other’s shoulders?

Wretched: “You need to hurry!” Then she glares at our check-in lady before stomping away again.

Check-In Lady glares back at Wretched Gretchen, and her look makes it very clear that she could happily bludgeon Gretchen to death with a stapler and not think twice about it. But she does type a wee bit faster, even though she had been doing just fine before.

Our group begins to dwindle, as fully-authorized family members go racing off to the next area, waving their fancy little room-key credit card things and babbling excitedly. As fate would have it, I’m the very last one to be checked in, meaning I have to stand there and sweat the longest, because I’m still not sure if there is going to be an issue with me not having a passport. I have been worried about this for two days now, and judging by how our adventure has gone so far, my hopes are a little battered.

“Brian? Could you please step forward?”

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Cruise Control - Part 8: Sweat and Security

2011-11-13T20:07:00.001-06:00

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So the little baggage attendant person finishes opening the gate, and marches into the holding area to begin the search for Mom’s luggage. Mom, just trying to be helpful but perhaps misunderstanding the protocol in this place, dashes forth as well, only to have the attendant politely shove her back. No, no, Mrs. Ma’am Woman. You do not have authorized access. Please go back over there and wait with your passport-losing, automobile-destroying, very talkative family.

Thusly, our family huddles in a concerned pack off to one side. Well, most of us huddle. Some of the youngsters are so wired for sound by now that they are thundering all over the place. And some of the oldsters are so desperate for a drink at this point that they are considering sucking down the bottles of hand sanitizers in their purses.

This is just too much excitement for me to properly enjoy, so I head back outside, hoping that watching other families struggle to get on board properly will distract me from my own troubles. I spy Tiffany leaning against the same wall as before, only having moved roughly two inches, probably so that she could better position herself for random paparazzi photos. “Are we ever going to get on this boat?” she inquires, the expression on her face indicating that the nature of my response just might determine her sanity.

I sigh. “I don’t know. They’re looking for the passport now. If Roni doesn’t have it, she can’t get on.” (Internally, I’m also thinking that I’m depending on a copy of my birth certificate to get myself on board, and I won’t relax about the possible failure of that whole mess until the cruise is over and we are back in Dallas. But one disaster at a time, right?)

Tiffany nods her head slightly, a gesture that could mean she grasps the criticality of the situation but is being quietly supportive, or she’s wondering if the guy who left the intriguing comment on her Facebook wall last night really thinks she’s interesting and fun or he just wants her sexually. Such are the quandaries faced by high-fashion supermodels who are waiting for the rest of the world to figure out that’s what they are.

We just stand for a while, because there’s really nothing else we can go until the verdict is returned by the flower-shirted baggage man. We idly stare at the same cracks in the sidewalk. We grimace at the multiples signs all over the place proclaiming “Keep track of your passport at all times, people!” We sigh as hundreds of other joyous families stomp past us, smiling happily with the comfortable assurance that their lives are completely in order.

“I hate them,” mutters Tiffany.

“I want to slap them,” I concur.

Just then, Mom comes rocketing out of the baggage warehouse like she’s just been shot out of the chute at a local rodeo. “We found Roni’s passport!” Cheers erupt and there is spontaneous celebration. In the midst of the revelry, Roni determinedly wheels her chair over to Mom, snatches her passport out of Mom’s hand, and promptly shoves it at her son, Crispy. Mom has just been relieved of Passport Retention Duty.

It’s always startling when your children turn on you, isn’t it? One day you’re throwing powder on their butt, the next day they are taking legislative action against you.

There’s a cry of greeting, and we turn to see Terry, Darrin and Tara returning from the long-term parking lot, which is apparently based in Atlanta, considering how long it took for them to return. (And how the hell did Tara end up with them? She wasn’t driving one of the cars. But I don’t say anything because I did sort of notice that Tara had been missing quite some time ago, but I didn’t bother to follow up on it once all the excitement started with dead batteries and Mom shoving things where they didn’t belong. My bad.)

But wait, something was still off here. “Where’s Launa?” I inquire.

The returning trio just looked at me blankly, as if asking “Do you see a badge anywhere on our bodies identifying us as being responsible for the welfare of other human beings?”

Well, no, I don’t, but she was with you when you left. Wouldn’t it be, oh, proper etiquette for her to still be with you when you come back? Am I missing something here?

Tara explains. “We took the last seats on the bus. And Launa was still doing something with the van.” (Discovering forgotten travel companions?) “She’ll get on the next bus.” Then the three of them promptly moved on with their lives.

Oh boy. I didn’t really care for such a behavior making an appearance this early in the trip. Later in the week, when we were all absolutely sick of the sight of each other, it would be understandable to leave people behind, with intentional vengeance. But right now, shouldn’t we still pretend to love one another?

Mom stopped not paying attention and joined the conversation. “Where’s Launa?”

Tara sighed. Good God, what do you people think we did with her? It’s not like this is an episode of Law and Order. “She should be on the next bus.” Anybody else want to ask that same question? Should I distribute a flyer?

Mom looked at me, as if to say “This doesn’t feel right. How could you let this happen?”

Me? I didn’t do anything, you Irresponsible Passport Person. Wait, I was one of those persons, too. I’d best opt for another response. “I guess we just wait for Launa.”

Then everybody picked up their carry-ons and walked away, leaving me standing there.

Hold up. How is walking away considered waiting? Do I just not speak the same language as the rest of my family?

Tara sighed again, because having to explain things all the time was really getting tiring. “The buses from the parking lots come in down there. That’s where we going.” To wait for Launa. The person you apparently think we strangled and shoved behind a Starbucks somewhere.

Oh. Got it. Great idea, that, waiting for someone in a place that they would show up. Good thinking.

So we clatter our way down to the other end of the loading area, and we set up temporary camp. As each bus arrives, we personally inspect every single occupant that descends the steps. All of these people keep turning out to not be Launa. They also turn out to not be impressed with a pack of wild-eyed Oklahomans staring at them with dissatisfaction that they are not someone else.

This goes on for a while. How many buses are there? How many parking lots? Did Launa decide that all of this was not really worth it and is somewhere on the Interstate, thumb out, ready to ride what she must in order to escape?

Mom gets worried. “I’m gonna walk back over where we were in case Launa is there.” She starts to trottle off.

Um, no, we don’t need another sheep straying, especially one that is not going to win any awards today for keeping track of things. “She’d have to walk past us to get there. We would have seen her.”

Mom gives me another look, one saying “if only you hadn’t broken your lunch thermos in the second grade, none of this would be happening.” But she stayed.

And we sweated. It was really hot out here on this concrete, a situation made even worse by all of us having to lug around over-stuffed carry-ons and other bits of business that we didn’t want baggage handlers handling. And the humidity? Ugh. (It does not yet dawn on me that if the humidity is bad now, wait until we’re in the middle of the damn ocean.)

Tiffany catches my eye. “It’s the middle of October. I shouldn’t be this moist in October. Do something to rectify the situation immediately.”

“There she is!”

All of us turn toward the latest disgorging bus, and yep, it’s Launa, trudging our way. We whoop and holler with far more exuberance than one normally expects when simply successfully exiting a bus. She looks at us and our obnoxiousness with slight suspicion, as if contemplating strolling right past as if she’s never seen us before in her life. (And I believe she even glances at Terry, Darrin and Tara with a “you couldn’t wait two seconds for me to fetch my bag of snacky peanuts out of the car?” Hmmpff.)

Anyway, we are once again a complete unit, and we head toward what looks like the official entrance to the building. As we near, a woman sporting a Carnival outfit feels it necessary to entice travelers inside. “Come on in! It’s air-conditioned!”)

What, does she think she’s working at a movie theater in the 1940’s?

We stumble into the welcoming area, and notice two things. One, Home Girl at the door was right, it’s definitely air-conditioned up in here, with chilled air gushing about in a manner that is almost erotic after the heat outside. And two, there’s a serious amount of people milling about. My normal aversion to crowds awakens in my brain, stretching and yawning and hinting that things are about to get a little uncomfortable.

We wander around a corner, following vague signs, and enter another, much larger room, and the aversion beast in my head fully awakens. There are people everywhere, jostling to get into one of several lines that lead to Carnival people checking boarding passes and identification. Beyond the checkers, there’s a twisting mess of people and baggage getting screened at 20 or so units.

The scene you encounter when you arrive at a busy airport during peak times, and the mass of people waiting at security is overwhelming? Multiply that by a factor of five. Stir in a sizeable amount of people who think that shoving and cutting you off is perfectly acceptable behavior. And top it all with the anxiety of not being convinced that things are going to be okay with me not having a passport.

I sigh for about the fortieth time that day.

But we get in line. What else can you do but endure? Lo and behold, it’s not very long before there’s a general realignment of the crowd, and Terry and I notice that the lines are uneven, with one of them now being very short. (People just don’t pay attention, one of the founding principles of getting ahead in society. Take advantage of it when you can.) We dash to that line, and it’s our turn very quickly.

We start shoving things at the woman, but all she really wants right now is a photo ID of some kind and a boarding pass. This is just the initial screening. The fun stuff comes later. We query her about my situation. What do I do if I don’t have an actual passport?

She pauses only briefly, then primly smiles. “You’ll have to talk to the people upstairs.”

The people upstairs? That sounds like a Wes Craven movie or something you overhear at a Baptist Revival when the offering plate comes back empty. I don’t want to talk to people upstairs, that sounds unpleasant and East Berlin-ish.

“How do I get upstairs?”

“Oh, you have to go through security like everybody else. They’ll look at your paperwork when you try to check in.”

Notice her sly use of the word “try”.

Great. So I have to claw my way through all of this mess, and I still may not be getting on the boat. Depends on the people upstairs. Yay.

We march past Photo-ID Patty and approach one of the screeners. It’s just like the airport, you have to pile things in bins and make sure there’s not anything overly-metal on your body, like intense jewelry or Kitchen-Aid appliances. I hoist one carry-on onto the conveyor belt, and it is quickly whisked into the little tunnel. I take my laptop bag off my shoulder, and I’ve barely set it down when the belt stops moving and a hand appears on my bag. I look up to see a security person.

“I need you to take everything out of this bag.”

“Everything?”

“Everything. Now.”

What the hell?

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Cruise Control - Part 7: Lost In Transportation

2011-11-12T19:32:00.001-06:00

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So there we were, with a car that wouldn’t start, blocking the traffic of people just wanting to unload their crap and get on with things. I don’t know what I did in a past life to deserve this, but it must have sucked ferociously. Then I took a deep breath, realizing that it wasn’t just me being affected. Terry was also in the thick of things, and he was positioned out there in the middle of the road, a much easier target for the flaming spears to hit once the villagers hurled them.

Terry was staring at me, not sure what to do. I stared at Terry, even more not sure what to do. I don’t know anything about cars, except that they cost money and no matter how much you try to take care of them they will still do something dumb-ass at a very bad time. Like right at the moment. Seriously, the car couldn’t have chosen to do this at any point on the trip before now? This proves that machines really do want to take over the world, and they will flaunt their power at soul-damaging times.

Then Terry grabbed an official-looking person that just happened to stupidly stroll by right then, and there was a rapid conversation that I couldn’t hear. Then the uniformed man pointed at some other uniformed men, a crew of three that didn’t appear to actually be doing anything and perhaps shouldn’t be wearing uniforms. Terry hollered something at me about “jump the car” and then he dashed toward the trio of people who needed something to do, they just didn’t realize it yet.

Okay, so they were going to jump the car. At least I think so. Hopefully, Terry’s words weren’t a literal directive for me, with the expectation, for some insane reason, that I would now perform a running handspring over the top of the car. But who knew at this point? The only thing for certain was that this day was not going to get an award for happiness, and if the current situation didn’t get resolved in a timely manner then we were going to miss the boat. Assuming that we weren’t first killed by the villagers.

Alright, settle down and quit whining. Having a breakdown, although flashy and exciting, would not help anything. I just needed to stand here and look pretty and wait for someone to take care of things.

Just then, someone arrived, in the form of the rest of the family from the other cars. (Wait a minute. Where were Tiffany and Tara? They had been in our car, yet they were nowhere to be found at the moment. This did not surprise me with Tiffany, she handles confrontation in unique and creative ways, but Tara is a bit more take-charge. I was actually surprised that she wasn’t standing on top of the building with a bullhorn, demanding that high-level city officials get their asses over here NOW and fix this or somebody was gonna get cut.)

I turned to the family members that hadn’t deserted me, as they stood there peering at my unmoving vehicle. “The car won’t start.”

All of their eyes turned toward me, suspicion and my past history of defiling automobiles filling those eyes. “It’s not my fault,” I exclaimed. “I didn’t do anything. Maybe that tire we hit did more damage than we thought.” Translation: The tire that Terry hit, not me. So why don’t you stare at him like he’s been linked to killing of Bambi’s mother?

My family just looked at me. No sir, we are not blaming Terry in any way. We love him and think he’s pretty keen. Besides, we all know about your defiling of automobiles that was just mentioned in the last paragraph. (Insert shameless plug concerning past blog post about car defilement. Click Here.)

Speaking of Terry, he returned from his expedition, and announced that they were bringing a truck over and they would try to jump the car. Great. He went to await delivery of salvation next to the car, and Crispy joined him. Good. They both know about cars and interesting things you can do to them to make stop being obstinate. Surely they would ensure that all the proper issues were addressed.

Speaking of Crispy, let’s pause a moment. He’s 16, and has a license to drive. This boggles my mind, him being that old. Isn’t it an odd feeling when the next generation in your family goes from wee ones that you pat on the head to adults that can actually fix and drive cars? Of course, this also means that he’s probably having sex, but we’ll avoid going down that road any further. For now.

I finally locate Tiffany, standing off to one side and wearing an expression that clearly states “I’m a little bit over all of this right now, and I need either an adult beverage or a handsome stranger that will comment on my loveliness”. In case that expression is not clear enough, she’s also running one manicured hand through her hair with a dissatisfied air, forcing her luxurious locks to sway in a personally-offended manner.

I sidle up to her, and try to counter her dissatisfaction with my dissatisfaction “I am not believing this is happening.” Then we both realize that getting worked up is so not going to make the problem any better, and we do our standard Will & Grace shorthand thing that helps us calm one another. And then we’re good.

Perfectly on cue, we see a truck pull up beside my obstinate car, and people begin scurrying about. Hoods are raised and things are being clamped and voltage is being applied, with Terry and Crispy (who is probably having sex, can’t get past that) monitoring and advising. Then, hallelujah and order me a martini, the damn car starts right up. The Carnival people zip off in search of other people with truculent vehicles, and Terry zips off to join Darrin and Launa in the mystical long-term parking lot that the rest of us have never seen.

Deep breath. We’re back to normal.

Which lasts roughly two seconds. Then Mom has a sudden announcement: “I can’t find Roni’s passport!”

Hold up. What do you mean you can’t find a critical document that Roni must have in order to be wheeled onto this boat? How could you lose that?

Thankfully, I don’t say any of this out loud. Because, well, there had been a slight incident the previous day. There are always incidents in our family, it happens with the sunrise, but this one had been a bit of a humdinger.

I had lost my own passport. And it went something like this.

We had booked this cruise decades ago. We all knew full well that we had to have a passport. After all, we would be cruising to countries not our own, and there were huge banners on the Carnival website stating that you better have a passport or your life will suck.

I didn’t worry about the sucking. I knew I had a passport. We had been to Paris in 2009, and I had renewed my passport at that time. I rested easily, quite complacent that all was well and good with my international documentation status. My passport was surely resting comfortably in the fire-safe that we had at the house, which is where Terry and I keep important things like proof of birth, citizenship, and the sacred, limited-edition of Madonna’s Sex book.

Trouble is, my passport wasn’t there. And I learned this joyous news within mere hours of our scheduled departure.

Me, tragically stricken: “What do you mean it’s not in there?”

Terry, patiently ignoring my stricken condition: “It’s not there. Thought it was, but it’s not.”

And therein began the panic. I searched high and low, the passport had to be somewhere, it’s not something that you just casually throw in the trash unless drugs or mental deterioration are involved. But I couldn’t find it anywhere. I dug through places that hadn’t even been dusted in 15 years. Nothing.

Which meant that when the rest of the family rolled into town on the day before our departure, I was potentially on the casualty list and wouldn’t be able to join them. So sorry. I’m an idiot that should have located the passport way before now but I stupidly thought things were just grand. And how was your day?

But the family, being the family, was not going to let this speed bump derail things. Quicker than you can say “Oh my God, hide the porn!”, these people were tearing the house apart in search of a little blue booklet that had a picture of my unsavory mug hating the person who was taking my passport photo. It was a wee bit unnerving.

The pinnacle of my uncomfortable-ness occurred when at least 5 family members were in the home office, poking and prodding and touching personal stacks of things that were only mine to touch. At some point, they were going to stumble upon old love letters or arrest incidents that weren’t shared with the family or lewd photos from when I was much younger and far more limber. (We all have those things, right? Right?)

So I snapped. “This is making me a little crazy. Could you maybe go somewhere that is not here and let me pick through this stuff on my own?”

Depart they did, somewhat grudgingly, but still. And I tore through everything once again. And found nada. I was so screwed.

But as I continued to rampage through the office, shoving questionable material into more secure locations, Mom and Launa got on separate phones and consulted with Carnival Cruise Lines. They both came back with the same report. I could board the boat with just an official copy of my birth certificate. As long as I didn’t do something dumb-ass whilst cavorting about in nations that were not our own and managed to hurt myself in some way that meant the ship would have to leave me behind, the passport was not necessary.

Got it. There was a copy of my birth certificate in the safe, we should be good. But I’m a thoroughly anal person, and I knew that I was going to be clenched from now until the cruise was over. I shot out of the womb worrying about everything that could ever happen to me, and I’ve never wavered in my obsession with potential tragedy.

Flash forward to all of us standing at the boarding dock in Galveston. Mom is freaking out that Roni’s passport has gone AWOL (we ain’t got no cruise-dependent birth certificates for Roni up in this grill) and I’m still mind-whacked with my car deciding to die in front of 4,000 people. It’s not a pretty time.

Mom first decides that maybe she just dropped Roni’s passport when we were all clamoring out of our cars. It’s now important that all of us scour the drive-thru area and search the ground for important but accidentally-abandoned legal documents. Fine. We scatter and scour. Trouble is, it’s a big-ass drive-thru, stretching for blocks, and the little blue book could be anywhere. We’re fighting upstream against hundreds of people who are not impressed with us playing CSI at this moment in time.

But we find nothing.

So we return to Mom, empty-handed. No worries, she’s got another idea. Maybe she left it in Roni’s suitcase. Or maybe her own. Some piece of luggage that we had handed over to the happy men with flowered shirts who took our tips and whisked away our suitcases. Mom races over to the place where we had watched the flowered-men push carts of baggage. We’ve got an issue, dear flowered people, really need to get to our suitcases and check for a lost passport.

No problem, utters flowered person #247. We just have to find your bags before they get loaded. Then he throws open this massive gate thing, and lets us gaze upon the collected luggage in a huge holding area.

There are thousands of suitcases stacked all the way to Jesus and the Celestial Travel Office. And they are already loading some of them on to the ship.

My sphincter slams shut. With a force of such magnitude that an alarm goes off in the local office of the National Geological Society. Surprised interns wonder if they need to pick up the special red phone and call somebody about a possible earthquake at the Carnival Cruise dock…

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10 Things To Do With All That Irritating Left-Over Halloween Candy

2011-11-11T19:29:00.001-06:00

1. Create an imaginary friend.

This really isn’t that hard. Based on the information we’ve received from watching Disney movies and purchasing discount children’s books at the supermarket, all it takes to whip up something magical is a bit of imagination and some really good drugs. Use licorice whips for limbs and popcorn balls for heads, and you’re already halfway there. Add some accessories fashioned out of jellybeans and, presto, you have a new companion.

Now you can drive in the carpool lane with complete abandon. If some fool police officer pools you over with questions, you can accuse him of being discriminatory towards minorities. (Sugar people have feelings, too!) Write his badge number down, this always makes them have second thoughts.

2. Determine if it’s really possible to slip into a sugar coma.

People always make jokes about this, but it’s something that we should investigate so that we know the facts if we ever get called into a court of law. Round up some high-density sugar products and throw them all into your mouth, then turn on the TV and watch Fox News. If you don’t find yourself outraged at the lies spilling forth from the air-brushed commentators, then you clearly have slipped into a medically-inert, useless state that is detrimental to the progress of modern society. Make notes for your eventual blog post, and then go vote.

3. Teach uppity neighborhood children about the facts of life.

You know those obnoxious kiddos who think it’s just fine to ride their over-priced bikes through your delicately-tended garden of Easter Lilies on the front lawn? It’s time to take those bitches down. First, throw some of those “bite-size” candy bars into the freezer and wait for them to turn into pellets of pain. Then proceed to your front porch and wait, pretending to be brushing away the cobwebs in the corners. When Little Damien comes hurtling through the stratosphere with a war-cry of destruction, smack him in the head with your frozen ammunition. He’ll think twice in the future.

4. Make a Casserole of Doom that will give you more free time.

Ever notice how so many candy products these days are made of that mysterious hardened-gelatin chewy mess? (We’re talking Dots, Tootsie Rolls, Laffy Taffy.) Plop a bunch of that crap in a baking dish, charbroil it in the oven, and then serve it to your family at meal-time with a nice peppercorn-rhubarb glaze. They will never ask you to cook again, giving you ample time to sample all those Whiskey-of-the-Month bottles that have been piling up in your “special pantry”.

5. Get you some lovin’.

Tired of having to think of creative ways to get your partner to hit all the bases and make a mutually-satisfying homerun? No problem. Nearly everybody loves chocolate. (If they don’t, break off the relationship immediately, there’s no point in continuing with that mess.) Put on something flimsy, accent all of your targeted body parts with bon-bons, arrange yourself artfully in the boudoir, and then begin purring with the need for salvation. Either your toes will be curling within minutes, or a worker from the Humane Society will arrive to throw you in a cage. Roll the dice.

6. Improve the market-value of your home.

Having a wee bit of a problem with the foundation of your house settling in unsatisfactory and costly ways? No worries. Locate the fault point, and shove in several bags of Jolly Ranchers. Those things are bricks of invincibility unless they get wet. Of course, if it does rain, you’re screwed, so get that house on the market before monsoon season.

7. Torment the cat.

Felines cannot resist the sound of crackly plastic wrapping. Gather up all those bite-size treats (we know your cheap ass didn’t buy any of the full-size candy bars), put them in a bowl and place it just out of reach of Little Fluffy. When you get bored, reach in and stir that crap around. Fluffy will go insane trying to get at the bowl, and this can amuse you for hours. (Side Note: In case Fluffy eventually contacts the SPCA, practice saying “I have no idea how that bowl got there” in front of the mirror so you will sound convincing in court.)

8. Extend the holiday festivities.

Who says you have to stop giving candy out after the 31st? Keep the spirit alive, and avoid awkward front-door encounters in the process. Some fool wants to know if you’ve found Jesus? An unwashed person wants to repaint your house number on the curb? A sleazy campaign worker wants you to support a candidate whose publicity photo just screams “pedophile“? Hand these people some stale candy and slam the door.

(Side Note: If you should happen to run out of candy before your enjoyment of this activity has been depleted, start handing people your overdue bills. Eventually some misguided idiot will actually pay one.)

9. Use the remaining candy to justify your natural inclination to procrastinate.

Any time a family member hints that maybe you should get off your ass and do something around the house, simply point to the mounds of unclaimed candy and proclaim that you can’t bear to do a thing until the sugar has found a home. It just wouldn’t be socially responsible. Then retire to a convenient swooning couch in front of the TV, placing one delicate arm over your forehead and moaning about the horrid burdens of trying to do the right thing in life. Work this right, and you won’t have to get off the couch until Christmas.

10. Just eat all the candy yourself.

This is what you really wanted to do anyway. Godspeed.

10 Awards That Should Have Been Handed Out at the Country Music Awards

2011-11-10T20:15:00.001-06:00

1. The Best Person for the camera to cut to any time we need a reaction shot about anything.

Reba McEntire.

2. The Best Performance by an Actress pretending that all that mess up there doesn’t really hurt.

Shawna Thompson of Thompson Square. And her hair.

3. The “I’m gonna conquer this crappy sound system ‘cause my Momma taught me never to back down” Award.

Carrie Underwood during her duet with Brad Paisley. Something wasn’t quite right with the technical side of things, making her sound a little off. So she bravely kept yelling louder and louder so we could be damn sure to hear her hit those notes, going after that microphone like Jesus better take more than just the wheel. Good thing Brad was holding that heavy guitar or he would have been blown off the stage.

4. The “Hey this song is really good and they sound great together but does that guy need to pee?” Award.

Matt Nathanson during the duet with Sugarland. Jennifer Nettles looked cute as always, but Matt was really, really squirmy, with that “I’m going to lunge at you, no I’m not” thing going on.

5. The “I have a better set of pipes than every car in the parking lot but I keep losing to children” Award.

Martina McBride.

6. The “Perhaps I just don’t understand the meaning of this award” Award.

Taylor Swift as Entertainer of the Year. For the second time. Discuss amongst yourselves.

7. The “Are you really sure you’re in the right place?” Award.

Three-way tie: Nicole Kidman (I know, she’s been coming for years, clinging to Keith Urban and wearing couture, but it still throws me when she pops on camera every 20 minutes), Susie Brown of The JaneDear Girls (I have no idea what was going on with that outfit), and Emily VanCamp from the Revenge TV series (because they play SO much country music on that show, right?). Honorable Mention: The upper balconies, which appeared to be filled with hundreds of howler monkies, at least when there was a cute male on the stage.

8. The “Horizon-Too-Far” Award.

Another three-way tie, to Vince Gill, Keith Urban and Brad Paisley, with the Glen Campbell tribute. All three of them are very talented people, but sometimes you just don’t touch a song that was done perfectly the first time. I’m sure it sounded very good on paper. On stage, not so much. (And what was up with inviting Glen to come on down and then not letting him speak?)

9. The “When in doubt, bring the hookers out” Award.

Luke Bryan, performing with a gaggle of the only pole dancers in town who didn’t have a private gig lined up after the show. There were more legs in the air than Democrats in the audience. Things have come a long way since back in the day when the only risqué thing you got to see was the dangling price tag on Minnie Pearl’s hat.

10. The “Don’t ever do this again on a Wednesday night” Award.

To ABC. Thanks to your scheduling decision concerning this lovely pageant about the commercialization of country music, I was unable to watch episodes of Suburgatory, Modern Family, Happy Endings and Revenge. This was emotionally devastating for me, and I’m still mad at you about the Pushing Daisies cancellation, so you really need to try harder if you want our relationship to remain healthy. Send me something pretty and maybe I’ll get over it.

Cheers.

Cruise Control - Part 6: The Audacity of Automobiles

2011-11-09T21:50:00.001-06:00

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So there I was, wallering around in the parking lot of a Jack-in-the-Box in who-knows-where Texas, trying to whack my still-burning cigarette out from under a stranger’s vehicle before an explosion made sure that no one got to eat a decent breakfast. Heart pounding, I finally snatched the thing up, scrambled to my feet, then I threw it back on the ground and stomped the hell out of it.

Situation back under control. For now. Hopefully no one had taken pictures.

Two seconds later, Darrin banged out of the restaurant and made the same navigational error, stumbling off the edge of the sidewalk, although he recovered much more successfully and didn’t hurl a flaming baton across the parking lot. It was now clear that some messed-up construction engineer had found it amusing to make this patch of sidewalk so treacherous. Perhaps some day I would hunt this person down and end his mean little life, but this was not that day.

Darrin and I are the two quietest members of the family, fully believing that you really shouldn’t say anything unless it has merit in some way, unlike the rest of the family who can babble for 7 hours about smooth versus crunchy peanut butter. Put the two of us together and we say even less, just grunting occasionally as we smoke. This is how we bond, in blessed silence and welcome non-flapping of the mouth.

But this time we had plenty to share. We had to quit with this leaving the highway every other exit business or we were never going to make it to Galveston on time. The boat would leave without us, a move that was probably a wise and just decision for Carnival to make, but a dismaying decision for our family. No more piddling around. If people threw up, then they threw up. Roll down a window and keep going.

One by one, and with increasing evidence of agitation and dissatisfaction, the rest of the family members were disgorged from the restaurant doors, initially not bearing any actual food but eventually carrying grease-stained white paper sacks. Food was distributed and people clamored back into vehicles. There was general agreement that Metallica had reached the pinnacle of her worthiness in this life.

As we were pulling out, a lengthy process where we count heads and get all the cars in line, I noticed another car pull up to the curb, commandeering one of the handicap spots right near the door even though there was nothing dangling from her rearview mirror that justified such an action. Out popped a woman sporting Jack-in-the-Box couture, and she sauntered inside, clearly arriving late for work but just as clearly not caring about tardiness or offensive selection of parking places.

She was also slathered in copious amounts of metallic eye-shadow, this time a horrifying blue. Perhaps it was a club. Maybe there was just nothing else to do in this small town except drive tractors down Main Street or be a really bad drag queen. In any case, these people were just messed up, and it was time to get out of here.

Get we did, rolling along the highway so a cruise ship wouldn’t pass us by, doing our best to make sure that we didn’t slow down for any lame reason. After about 10 exits of not-stopping, I relaxed a little bit, and even got out my laptop to begin the first drafts of capturing our journey. Too much had already happened, and I knew I would forget things if I didn’t start making an inventory. Besides, we just might need my documentation for legal reasons, if things kept going the way they were.

Amazingly, we only stopped one other time, to top off the gas tanks. Even more amazing, nothing extraordinary or shocking took place during the process. The only thing I even remember from this stop is the image of several of us standing in a little half-circle in the parking lot, waiting for the others to pee, and staring at the giant red button they have at truck-stops, that emergency thing you can push if something goes awry at the gas pumps. We really, really wanted to push that button, just to see what would happen. But we didn’t. Obviously, we were tired, and not up to full performance mode.

The next time I looked up from my laptop, we were entering Houston. For those of you who are familiar with East Coast big cities, the metroplexes of Texas are a little misleading. They don’t look like all that much when you only focus on one part of the city, but these are some big-ass towns. They go on forever. There’s just so much more room in a state larger than many countries. People spread out. And the women wear hairstyles bigger than Rhode Island.

Even though Galveston is technically 45 minutes or so from Houston, it’s really one big city from Point A to Point B, with lots of little “cities” that have been swallowed up by progress and the American inability to not build a strip mall every time you stumble across an open patch of ground. Houston has oozed considerably from back in the day.

So arriving in Houston basically meant that we had arrived in Galveston, with a bit of a delay before we could actually get out of the car. We watched with growing excitement as those strip malls whizzed past, along with strip joints, mega-churches, hot-spot dining places that would disappear in three months when something new opened somewhere else, and billboards for bail bondsmen, with teasing glimpses of open water on our left. Eventually we got to that long bridge that crosses the bay and drops your ass down on Galveston Island.

An exit later, and we were moseying along Harborside Drive, headed toward the cruise docks. It wasn’t hard to figure out where we basically needed to go, what with the Carnival Conquest sitting at one of the docks and clearly visible from space. (That thing is huge.) It was a little bit more confusing trying to figure out what to do once we got there. We had multiple entrances, exits, parking lots, shuttle stops, confusing signs, and mysterious restricted areas to choose from, with hundreds of people milling about and also trying to figure out the game plan.

Terry, our fearless caravan leader, studied the options, chose the access point that appeared to be appropriate, and we all pulled in. We were now in a long line of cars waiting to spew forth passengers and luggage, with colorfully-dressed men shoving around luggage carts and vying for our attention and tips. So far, so good.

Now, at first we thought this might take a while, since there were so many people. But the thing is, people were in a hurry. Folks wanted to get on the boat and the luggage guys wanted to make some money, both groups desiring speed, so this really wasn’t the place to be if you wanted to leisurely do anything. If you visibly dawdled, there was outrage and honking.

Very quickly, a curbside space opened up, and Terry deftly slipped into it. Darrin and Launa suddenly shot past us in their vehicles, snapping up two spaces ahead of us that had become available early, the tidy result of repeat visitors who knew what they were doing and were much more expedient at accomplishing things. (In reality, Darrin and Launa were probably already trying to distance themselves from me and Tiffany, because it was a given that one of us two would do something socially unacceptable on the ship. It was bound to happen.)

Anyway, the four folks in our car piled out, and we were soon heaving luggage at the flower-shirted man whose eyes were happily calculating his tip. I paused for breath and surveyed the scene behind us, to find that there was now a massive number of cars piling up, with drivers that were already getting antsy. We had gotten here just in time, missing the human deluge that was percolating just steps away.

I turned back around studied the nearly-empty car. This was the tricky part, where you had to scour for very important items that may have fallen out of handbags or were tossed in the car at the last minute and never officially given a home in the actual luggage. It’s a frantic moment, not wanting to leave anything behind, made even more nerve-wracking by the restless people behind us starting to pace back and forth in their cages.

I didn’t spy anything that seemed worth the stretching it would take to reach it, so I slammed the back door and motioned to Terry that all was good. He and Darrin and Launa were going to drive the cars to the long-term parking and then shuttle their way back here. I stepped up on the curb and was immediately swallowed by a writhing mass of humanity.

Between passengers and crew, there were going to be over 4,000 people on this ship. And as luck would have it , every single one of those people was apparently right here around me, with their sole purpose in life being that they do everything they can to get in my way and make my life miserable, cutting me off and tripping over my feet and not bothering to practice good hygiene.

“Hey, Brian!”

Why was someone yelling my name? Wait, was that Terry’s voice?

“Brian!”

I clawed my way back to the curb, to find the SUV still sitting there, with Terry standing outside the driver’s door. “The car won’t start.”

He had to be kidding me, right? “What?”

“The. Car. Won’t. START!”

My head immediately swiveled to the herd of vehicles waiting behind us, vehicles that we were now completely blocking with a dead car that refused to move. Judging by the impatient and angry sea of faces, it was only a matter of seconds before the villagers reached for flaming torches and fashioned nooses out of seatbelts.

This was not going to be pretty.

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Cruise Control - Part 5: Mask of the Green Death

2011-11-08T19:39:00.004-06:00

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So we get back on the interstate, after narrowly escaping the slowest security guard to ever be issued a gun permit, and we motor south. Based on the track record of our journey so far, I’m fully expecting our caravan to be zipping down another exit ramp within minutes, forced to deal with yet another surprising development that causes our mission to slam to a halt once again, with people running to purchase emergency medical equipment and some cheap bean burritos. (People are always hungry, what can I say.)

But no, we actually manage to drive for a bit, with dawn finally breaking and the sun casting a golden glow on our pale and haggard faces, reminding everyone that natural beauty is something that takes a lot of work, despite what the magazines tell you. I caught a reflection of myself in the window that would cause most people to swear off sex for the rest of their lives. It’s hell getting old.

Eventually, though, the sunrise and the making of actual progress came up against another obstacle, namely hunger. In one planet-aligned moment of mass hysteria, we all suddenly decided that we were absolutely starving to death. We had to consume food right this instant or people would perish. Text messages went flying between the various vehicles, and people began chanting to the gods of nourishment and satisfaction.

Terry, being the lead driver and therefore inherently responsible for the survival of the tribe, had to make a decision. Locate some mutually-agreeable emporium of fast-food nirvana, and do it quickly. Otherwise, there would be rioting in the streets and reactionary results at the next public elections.

Terry scanned the horizons, as man has done since primitive times when you had to kill your own food and there was no satellite TV, and his practiced eye spotted the gleaming, brightly-lit yellow arches of a McDonald’s in the distance. He sagely decided that surely everyone could find something at said location that they could shove in their mouths, and turn signals were rapidly engaged, with now-happy people high-fiving each other in rapturous anticipation.

We exit, cross over the interstate, and our train of fools motors toward the Mickey D’s a short way down the road of whatever town it was that we found ourselves descending upon. (I didn’t bother to initiate the GPS program on my phone, not realizing at the time that I would need to know the name of this town for possible future legal action.) We pulled into the parking lot of Ronald’s House of Salt and Grease, spirits high.

Only to find that the damn restaurant wasn’t open for business. What the hell?

Signs on doors, with words written by evil people who hate happiness, proclaimed that the building was still under construction. No food was being proffered, no surly high-school students were there to reluctantly take our orders, and no local redneck women would be giving birth to their 17th child in the restrooms, using the noisy hand-dryer blower to tidy the tyke up before they marched back out to order a Happy Meal.

“Then why the hell is the sign lit up?” bellowed Terry, deftly maneuvering our vehicle to avoid slamming into the random construction equipment that we hadn’t been able to see from the highway. “Turn the stupid sign off!”

Plan B. We headed toward the exit of the pointless parking lot, with the other cars grudgingly following us (It’s not open, people, get over it), only to find that somebody apparently rang an important bell, and now every single car in the entire town was lined up on the road before us, and not letting us out of the parking lot.

“Really?” muttered Terry. “This road was deserted two seconds ago. I hate people.”

“I hate people, too,” I offered soothingly. This is one of the reasons why we are a couple. It makes things easier if your partner has shared animosities.

Tara, my seat companion, awoke from her Dramamine-induced catnap, probably due to all the violent twisting and turning of a vehicle that was supposed to be going in a straight line to Galveston, and presented a question to the court. “Do we have to eat it if we don’t want it?”

I chose to ignore this query, presuming that Tara’s words were merely the rambling side-effects of taking drugs. No one ever makes fully-coherent statements when arising from chemically-induced slumber. This explains much of the content you hear on Rush Limbaugh’s radio program.

Eventually, there was a gap in the yokel parade, and Terry floored it. The other two vehicles did the same, because if we got separated now we would probably never see each other again, and although this prospect was pleasing on one level, it probably wouldn’t be a good situation once one of the cars managed to make it to Galveston. We had a group booking, and all of the heathens had to be present or there would be irritating questions.

Terry led our entourage of the pretty but damned back up the road, and then whisked into the parking lot of a Jack-in-the-Box. The other cars followed, after narrowly avoiding being run down by some farmer driving his tractor down Main Street. (What’s up with that? Why do they let people wearing overalls operate combines on city streets? I don’t get it.)

Seconds later, people are leaping out of cars and racing into the restaurant. (I’m assuming that at least one person needed to throw up, because that was already an established theme for our travels.) Since I was blessedly feeling non-eruptive, I took my time, so I was one of the last of our clan to enter the establishment.

Where I found said clan all crammed together in front of the tiny ordering counter, gathered in a minimal space between the counter and the miniscule seating-area of the restaurant. There were only about four tables, none of them occupied, because an average-sized human being probably couldn’t fit into the seats. Who designed this layout? The Lollipop Guild?

I joined the rest of my family at the counter, huddled as we were like badly-dressed immigrants at Ellis Island. I was already over the situation, because I don’t like crowds, even if I know or am related to the people doing the crowding. Everyone else was studying the menu board, salivating and dreaming of useless grease coursing through their bodies. I was studying the fact that there were no employees standing on the other side of the counter.

Where were the people who worked at this place? Shouldn’t one of them be out here with us? That certainly seemed like a good idea to me. I briefly considered the possibility of a grisly store robbery having just taken place before we got here, leaving slumped bodies strewn across the kitchen and greatly impacting customer-service response times. Then I heard a burst of cackling laughter coming from said kitchen, a sound that normally doesn’t follow slaughter near the deep-fryer. Okay, then. The staff wasn’t dead, they just didn’t care.

There was a small bang, which could have been anything from someone being fed up with the malt machine to a bedpan being hurled at a cheating boyfriend, then a woman came through the doorway into the counter area. She seemed thoroughly amazed to find so many people looking at her. I was thoroughly amazed that she could keep her eyelids open, considering the stunning amount of metallic-green eye-shadow she had heaped on those straining lids.

She just stared.

We stared back.

No one was immediately satisfied.

Then she finally sighed and pried open her just as heavily-coated lips. “Whaddya want?”

One of the clan stepped forward. (Okay, perhaps I should say “was squeezed closer to the counter by the remaining tribe”.) A very simple order was placed, one without embellishment or special instructions. Metallica did not respond in any way. Our clan member tried again, being very thorough, and practically acting out the butchering of a pig, the preparation of bacon, and the placing of the fatty strips on a biscuit.

Metallica flinched the tiniest little bit, a very dim light briefly sparking in one eye. She looked down at the cash register, some reanimated primal instinct reminding her that she should probably push one of the buttons located on the keyboard. After about three days, she finally found a button that appealed to her in some way, and she stabbed at it, frowned, and stabbed again.

I was two seconds away from being done with this whole mess.

Metallica studied the results of her handiwork while the register did something important, seemed satisfied with the results of whatever this was, and then looked back at our family member, her facial expression indicating that she fully expected this order to be the largest ever placed in the history of the planet.

But no. “Um, that’s it, just the biscuit.”

Metallica seemed quite pleased with this development, happy that the unbearable horror of taking an order was over for at least a few minutes. She searched for and punched another button. Almost immediately, a cry of “Got it!” rang out from the kitchen area. For my family’s sake, I hoped the cook was talking about the biscuit order and not an STD.

Metallica announced a purchase total, and then seemed devastated when our family member handed over a few bills. It became very clear that Metallica preferred the simple swiping of plastic cards over the handling of live cash, because the second option required her to count, and she already had far too much going on in her life to mess with that. But she sighed and took the money anyway, rooting around in the drawer for what she hoped was the proper amount of pennies and nickels.

Metallica shoved the distasteful coinage at her first customer, obviously put out with people who used actual money, then moved on. “Next?”

But before anyone else could step forward, an odd beeping noise took place in the mysterious, staff-only hallway, some kind of alert signal. “Oh,” announced Metallica. “Someone’s at the driv-thru.” Then she turned and slowly sashayed out of sight, the weight of her immense duties in this establishment causing her feet to drag even more.

She was working both the counter and the drive-thru? At seven o’clock in the morning, one of the peak traffic points for this kind of place? Aw, hellz no.

The buzzer on my tolerance alarm clock went off, and I was finished. I calmly turned to Terry, explained that I had to get out of here, and gave him my rudimentary order (one sausage biscuit, that’s it, nothing else or Metallica’s head would explode), wished him luck, then turned and fled.

I climbed over three startled family members debating their chances of ever getting to place an order, then crashed through the doors. I whipped out a cigarette, crammed it in my mouth, and lit the damn thing without even looking, a dexterous skill I had honed after years of fleeing overwhelming social situations. Politely, I stomped away from the entrance so my disgusting habit would not irritate newly-arrived patrons, even though a wisp of smoke was nothing compared to what awaited inside.

Unfortunately, my polite maneuver did not include paying attention to where I was stomping, and I suddenly realized there was nothing but air beneath me as I plummeted off the edge of the sidewalk. (My eye caught the brightly-painted “Watch your step!” on the curb just a tad too late. My bad.) It wasn’t a huge drop, just a half-foot or so, but it was enough to result in a loss of motor skills, a poorly-executed landing that Olympic judges would frown upon, and the launching of the cigarette from my cussing mouth.

The burning little tube flipped acrobatically through the air, paused at the top of its trajectory as if surveying possible landing targets, then dive-bombed into the grease-spot peppered parking lot, little flashpoints of danger, and rolled under a strange car, still burning with the potential of igniting an explosion that could demolish this entire town.

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Cruise Control - Part 4: Bonnies and Clydes and Wal-Marts

2011-11-07T19:33:00.000-06:00

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So we’re in the practically-deserted Wal-Mart parking lot, with folks huddling in and around our little caravan of once-again not-moving cars. Issues are happening and people are reacting, with the lovely burble of digestive disobedience on the soundtrack. This is standard protocol with our family. It’s just usually not taking place before dawn in a city that is not a place we want to be. Unless we’ve been up all night and someone made a random, alcohol-based travel decision.

Then things started to get interesting.

Someone dashed inside the store to purchase the required medicinal elixir for the casualty in Mom’s van. Well, one of the casualties, anyway, they were starting to stack up. I suppose we all could have gone into the store, out of sheer boredom, but arranging for all of us to get through the doors at one time would be like arranging for a hurricane evacuation out of Houston. We just didn’t have the time for a retail adventure, en masse.

Instead, we loitered. After all, that’s what we were doing, can’t get around the fact. We were standing there with nothing to do and not buying anything, the suspicion element increased by the fact that it was the wee hours of the morning, and there were so many of us with no purpose standing in that parking lot. It should not have come as a surprise that we should attract the attention of local authorities.

Okay, only one local authority. And he was a security guard for Wal-Mart, so we’re not talking sirens and squad cars. Not yet, anyway. But he was attracted. And not in a good way.

Mr. Man comes shuffling out of the building, in that slow-moving way people have when they are not in the best of shape. (I’ve never understood why so many security guards are in such poor physical condition, or why companies would hire them for such an important position. If some fool is running out the front door of your store, lugging a stolen TV and a box of diapers, don’t you want somebody on your team who can actually tackle their ass before they get out of the parking lot?)

Maybe it’s just me.

Anyway, the man was shuffling, looking around in what might be a slightly-furtive way as he stepped somewhat off to the side, away from the revealing light of the entrance doors. He actually looked like he was about to take a leak. (Because walking to the back of the store and using the actual facilities would be far too much work, right?) One hand was moving around in his crotch area, but to be fair, it might have just been a reassurance grope and not a preparatory maneuver. (Some men like to touch their wee-wee’s constantly as validation. Fact of life.)

Then he spotted our clan. This was an excellent piece of detective work on his part. After all, we weren’t easy to see, what with being the only people in the otherwise empty parking lot. Big stretch of nothing and then, BAM, crowd of babbling out-of-towners probably having one of those rave things. Very hard to see.

The guard’s hand shot away from his jewels, so I’m guessing the verdict with that business was self-love and not recycling. He stared for a bit, perusing, then whipped out his phone and began discussing developments with a counterpart, or maybe ordering pizza. The odds were probably about even.

Well, surely he couldn’t have a problem with us being there. After all, one of our tribe was actually inside, making an indirect retail contribution to his eventual severance package. We weren’t doing any harm, just waiting on a beloved relative to return to the fold, bearing purchases most-likely manufactured in countries with lax labor laws and a history of human rights violations.

But then I turned to see what my family actually was doing.

Well, we had a few folks gathered around Mom’s van, vigorously wiping down a seat of the car after Roni had decided to redecorate things. An innocent passerby, not knowing the full story, might mistake this innocent act for something a bit more sinister. Like a pack of hoodlums mopping up blood at a crime scene just before tossing a lifeless body behind a Dairy Queen. Hmmm.

Next we had Darrin’s truck, with some more activity that could be possibly misperceived. Dawn and Crispy were clamoring around in the bed of the pickup, rifling through the luggage on a quest for who knows what that somebody needed. Trouble is, there were a lot of bags, some of them buried, meaning the search party was stretched out on their bellies across the bags, poking and prodding and straddling. This meant their rear ends were rhythmically popping above and below the side of the truck.

It certainly looked like we had some randy people up in that grill, sayin.

Now, I’m sure the incestuous implications of this arrangement did not trouble Mr. Security Guard in the least. You didn’t get a face like his without some cross-pollination somewhere in his tree. But public fornication was another matter, especially in a small town, where fornication is simply not allowed unless you are on the football team, pastor of a church, or the one doing the fornicating.

But we weren’t done. Nope, moving a little over from the truck of lust we had the outnumbered but still defiant group of smokers in our family. These folks were busily sucking down as many cigarettes as they could before somebody made them get back into the smoke-free, nerve-snapping environments of the vehicles. Right at that moment, an unnamed family member chose to let loose with a bellowing gush of laughter that could be perceived as tequila-derived, then hurled her still-lit cigarette to the ground, with the wind catching it just right so that burning embers skittered across the pavement for half a block.

Great. If I was tallying correctly, we could easily be charged with murder, public indecency, inbreeding, attempted arson, and littering. This was going to be some serious paperwork. I turned back to the security guard, fully expecting him to be almost upon us by this time.

But he wasn’t. He was still way the hell over there by the door, tinkering with one of those little carts those people drive around the parking lot, the kind you can’t see until you almost run them over, with them getting cranky and honking at you with their tiny mouse-squeak of a horn. The cart didn’t want to start, and the man felt that pushing the same button a hundred times would somehow resolve the issue.

This had to be the laziest security guard I had ever seen in my entire life. He couldn’t walk thirty feet over here? And if he thought the little cart somehow made him look more authoritative, he clearly hadn’t driven one in front of a mirror. Then the vehicle roared (okay, hummed) to life, and the man hopped on, engaged something, and headed our way. At the pace of roughly .000013 miles an hour. I’ve had molasses drip off my fingers faster than that. (Long story, another time.)

But rapidly or not, bad news was approaching. I turned to say to the family “Hey, remember that talk we had where we all realized that someday we would have to change our names and leave the country?”, but before I could get my mouth open there was a commotion from the Little Engine That Could. I turned back around, and discovered that the cart had come to halt (barely discernible from actual movement) and Lazy Man was talking on his phone again. He nodded and grunted a few times, then killed the engine (it sounded like a gnat just flew into a wall), hopped off the little tram, and went back inside.

Maybe the donuts were ready in the bakery?

Before the store doors fully closed after the guard lumbered through, the family member assigned Clara Barton duty came racing out with the goods for the personal plumbing incident and dashed towards Mom’s van. This set off a chain reaction of people realizing that we were about to be on the move again, with folks hopping into cars, making sure everyone was accounted for, fighting over who got to sit where, and selecting the crunchiest and most-annoying snacks to irritate your neighbor with.

As the train left yet another station, I glanced back into the parking lot, which was now completely deserted, save for the tiny cart. She looked at me with sad little headlight eyes, pleading for me to take her with us, yearning for a more exciting life somewhere down the interstate, a dreamed-of place where people would take care of her properly, wash off all the dirt and soot and donut glaze, make her feel clean again. I smiled sadly and waved a warm goodbye, promising that someday her rinse would come.

Click Here to Read the Next Entry in This Series…

Something Irresponsible This Way Comes

2011-11-04T20:03:00.002-05:00

Prosecuting Attorney Lowena Purvis cleared her throat rather demonstratively, an attention-getting device she had perfected while studying law at Beaver Valley Community College in Syracuse. This effort at guttural domination was offset by the horrid paisley blouse that Lowena had ignorantly plucked from her wardrobe closet this morning, but the throat-clearing was enough to get the attention of the most important person in the courtroom.

Judge Kennewick Upthrust eyed Lowena from his high perch, his bifocals a bit askance on his startling but still admirable nose, pausing for drama since this is what judges do when they get bored with it all, then he opened his mouth and roughly queried: “Is there something you require Ms. Purvis?”

Lowena smiled in what she hoped was a prim and legally-responsible manner, but she wasn’t quite able to fully disguise the slight grimace that was fighting the primness for domination of her facial muscles, a grimace she usually reserved for one of the endless stream of construction-worker buffoons who had once again improperly followed her exact specifications for the installation of an heirloom bidet in her master bath.

“Yes, your Honor” replied Lowena, discreetly digging the nails of one hand into the tender flesh of her opposing arm, thusly hoping to temporarily allay her disgust with the flashback concerning disrespect of plumbing decrees. “While I appreciate the voluntary testimony of our current witness, the lovely and intriguingly-dressed Bitsy Longbottom, I’m not quite certain that her… ramblings, if I may… are really serving any purpose. Why is she going on so about her disrespectful children and an unapproved tattoo? What merit does this have in the current proceedings?”

Judge Upthrust sighed, removed his spectacles for an impromptu cleaning involving the hem of his robe, then turned to Bitsy in the witness stand, visually unassisted. “Ms. Longbottom, my dear…. Ms. Purvis does have something of a point, despite toting a briefcase made of something that is clearly not leather. Have you finished with your dissertation on offspring gone bad?”

Bitsy looked at the judge, her eyes blinking with the slow realization that perhaps she might have flavored her testimony with seasoning that was not quite proper, and then confessed. “Yes, sir, Judge Man. I have inadvertently made this trial about me and my disappointments with beastly children that ripped me apart during birthing rituals. I shall now depart and rend my hair quietly in another, hopefully-unoccupied legal chamber, as penance.”

Judge Upthrust sighed again. “Really, Ms. Longbottom, we shan’t go there, with the rending and all. Simply exit the uncomfortable accommodations of the witness box, saunter forth, have Valerie at the concierge desk validate your parking, and then leave the city and stop feeling sorry for yourself. We have all issued things from our loins that did not prove satisfactory, keep your chin up.”

Bitsy fought her way out of the witness box, clearly having an issue with the little door that really didn’t serve any purpose other than to make one feel claustrophobic and therefore more apt to confess secrets learned during sorority initiations, then she finally broke free and headed up one of the aisles through the courtroom audience, where she managed to trip over something that was nothing and bang her head on ancient marble flooring scuffed with years of people lying for personal gain.

“Are you quite alright?” asked Judge Upthrust, though he didn’t really care.

“Yes, quite,” responded Bitsy. “I’ve been banging my head for a very long time. I don’t even feel it anymore.”

“Perfect,” muttered the Judge to himself, because he was the only one he really enjoyed as a conversational companion. “Another useless exercise kept off the docket.” He finally replaced his essentially pointless bifocals, and spent a few minutes fluttering his eyes until he could once again focus on Prosecuting Attorney Purvis. “Lowena, you have managed to halt the circus train of defense witnesses, and I tip my hat, even though we haven’t been allowed to wear such couture for some time now, a mystifying regulation if you ask me. I assume that you have a mind-numbing assemblage of witnesses for the prosecution?”

Lowena smiled primly, because when it came right down to it, her repertoire of facial responses was rather limited. “Yes, your Honor, I indeed have an assemblage. Well, if you consider a grand total of two witnesses to qualify as an assemblage. I’m not sure. We’re not in Alaska, where five drunk people can apparently elect Sarah Palin as governor, so there may be laxer qualifications for an assemblage, one never knows these days.”

The judge smiled, perhaps because he was actually amused, or perhaps because he had his own fond memories of an Alaskan Sarah doing whatever it took to get herself elected, including banging judiciary and then claiming that she never did it because the magazines she never read said she should always claim innocence. “Two witnesses is just fine, and should allow us to wrap this thing up before the Blue Plate Special expires at Hannah’s House of Hash. Good work, counselor, nice and tidy. Proceed.”

Lowena glanced at her notes, as if she didn’t already know every single word in her documentation, considering how many times she had practiced this moment whilst consuming endless bottles of Chardonnay. “I now call to the stand one Tiffany Davis.”

The doors at the entrance to the courtroom were flung open, and a demure, pale-faced semi-starlet was thrust forward through said doors, nearly losing her balance because the starlet had chosen to wear high-heeled flip-flops for her day in court, a surprisingly-poor choice since said Tiffany had been severely counseled about elevated foam footwear after a shocking incident in Paris. But Tiffany recovered and strutted toward the witness stand, because her Momma had taught her to never stop moving until the police become involved.

Tiffany entered the witness box, clicking the little door closed with an aplomb usually reserved for corporate executives that don’t understand that their severance package is about to be initiated via court order, and the check is not going to be as big as they think. She then aligned an array of lip gloss tubes on the wooden barrier before her, then swished her hair in an extravagant manner meant to cause the courtroom lights to capture the shimmery quality of her tresses.

“Are you quite comfortable?” inquired Judge Upthrust. “Perhaps we should call in a court-appointed stylist?”

Tiffany then beamed brightly, because there’s no point in beaming if it isn’t bright. “Thank you, Robe Man, but I’m just fine. I’ve been home-schooled in the art of maintaining beauty in 247 social and legal situations. But thank you for asking.” Then Tiffany swished her hair again, and made a dramatic gesture with one arm that implied she had suffered greatly for her country, but was still strong.

Judge Upthrust glanced at Prosecuting Attorney Purvis. “I trust that we won’t be spending a lot of time with this girl who fell on her ass in Paris?”

Lowena smiled. “No, your honor, I know how to handle these people, having been rejected from every country club on the eastern seaboard.” She approached the witness stand with misplace but vengeful relish, paused briefly, because pausing is a very important part of courtroom protocol, as we have learned, and then addressed Tiffany and her lip gloss. “So, on the evening in question, you-”

Tiffany suddenly burst into tears, losing control of her massive hairdo which horrifyingly knocked all of her lip gloss to the floor, with several of the glass tubes shattering in a syrupy and glass-gritty act of self-sacrifice. “Why must you torment me with all these questions? Fine. FINE. I’ll tell you everything!”

Lowena maintained her composure at this sudden advancement in the proceedings, but the truth must be told that she actually experienced a slight orgasm at her sudden good luck, a biological event that was pleasing, taken on its own, but might present an embarrassing situation when she next visited her dry-cleaner. “Yes, my love,” cooed Lowena to Tiffany, in an eye-opening simulation of a scene that could easily appear in an independent film about lesbians finally taking control of their own lives and raising goats together, although this was really not the case at all. “This sister girl is listening and ready to represent!”

Tiffany paused to glare at Lowena for a moment (who the hell actually says a line like that?) but then continued with her breakdown, because the cameras were rolling. “I tried to tell him. I did!”

Lowena smirked, in a manner similar to a previously-unknown actress who managed to snag a recent Emmy nomination and might actually win. “Are you talking about Brian? The defendant? Brian Lageose?”

Tiffany sobbed even harder, or pretended to sob, it was no longer clear who was being motivated by what and whether or not there might be talent agents in the courtroom audience. “I told him,” sniffled Tiffany, “that this was the day. He had to do something now or… or…”

Lowena smile wickedly. “Or what, Miss Davis? What would happen?”

Tiffany covered her eyes, shielding herself from the pain of confessions in public and the shattering of sacred lip gloss. “That Laura would know, that Laura would find out that someone she trusted would do such a horrible thing.” Then Tiffany flopped backwards in the witness stand, thrusting her head to the left, making sure that her tormented psyche was captured in the most cinematography-pleasing angle. Several members of the courtroom audience leapt to their feet in tribute for such a courageous but still Vogue-worthy performance.

Then Tiffany whispered, in the loudest whisper ever known to mankind, “He didn’t wish her a happy birthday on her birthday. It was terrible and dark night. So many tears. And the liquor stores were already closed!”

The audience erupted with cries of outrage and anguish. Two women fainted, and a third broke water.

Judge Upthrust whipped off his glasses once again, since it was now clear that he didn’t really need them to see the truth, despite what his optometrist might have to say. “Well, then, I really don’t need to hear any more. This crime is an outrage of social injustice. Bring the defendant before me. And hurry, because those people at Hannah’s are pigs and will devour everything if I don’t get there early enough.”

The bailiff marched over to Brian, glared at him menacingly because that’s what his training said he should do, then snapped his fingers in a demanding gesture that he had also practiced whilst guzzling Chardonnay. (There had been a really good sale at Jo-Jo’s Juice Warehouse downtown.) Brian rose to his feet and slowly approached the bench, because really, when does anybody ever run to do such a thing?

Judge Upthrust first tossed his spectacles to the side, sick of dealing with bad prescriptions, inadvertently blinding the surprised court stenographer. Then he focused on the horrid criminal before him. “Is the defendant ready for sentencing?”

“Sir, yes, sir!” (Brian was stupidly assuming that giving off a military aura would help his cause in some way. This was only one of his many misconceptions about life.)

The judge waited for the eye-bleeding stenographer to be taken somewhere less annoying, then he proceeded to pass judgment. “Mr. Lageose, for the crime of forgetting to honor Miss Laura Hopeman with birthday greetings, on her birthday, I hereby sentence you to writing a blog post about your inadequacies.”

Brian breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank you, sir. I can do that willingly, and with full regret and acknowledgement of my sins. I’m a blogger, sir. It’s what I do best.”

The judge smirked. “Don’t be so smug, ye who thinks he can write his way out of anything. Do you see that bus pulling up outside the courtroom window?”

“Sir, what bus, sir?”

“That bus. Out there. It’s full of other people from whom you’ve withheld birthday salutations because you don’t pay attention. And every one of them is here to state their case and exact painful retribution. Can you write your way out of all that mess?” The judge signaled for the bailiff to go find some extra chairs. “You are going to be typing until your fingers snap right off.”

The audience gasped.

Brian gulped.

Lowena had another small orgasm.

Tiffany reapplied.

And Laura smiled.

(Hopefully.)

10 More Life Lessons From the Latest “Survivor” Episode

2011-11-03T20:39:00.001-05:00

1. If everybody gets invited to the hoedown, something’s up.

So we have the duel on Redemption Island, with Ozzy against Christine, and we see that the viewing bleachers are loaded down with all the survivors from both tribes, along with some extra people that may have drunkenly fallen off a passing ship, instead of just the normal two representatives from the teams. If that doesn’t say “the merge is in da house”, then I’ve been drinking the wrong kind of beer. Kudos to these fine folks for acting surprised and all when Jeff hollered out that they should drop their buffs. Even Michele Bachmann could have figured this one out, despite her husband squealing in the background that he only rents gay porn for research purposes.

2. Ozzy will not be winning an Academy Award in the near future.

Surfer Dude went over the top with his dramatic oration about how the Evil Cochran blindsided him with the bogus idol play and his pale white, nerd-god skin. The way Ozzy bogusly spit out the word “revenge” reminded me of Bill Clinton saying “I never had sex with that woman!” when we and that blue dress knew differently. And poor Christine. Despite her ill-advised choice of an island-wear smock, I was actually rooting for her. Girl done beat everybody else for the past 20 weeks or whatever, Momma deserves a payout.

3. Coach is one twisted mess of a person.

He’s annoying as hell, but he’s also incredibly smart, much to my dismay. (Can’t stand the man with his supposed spiritual beliefs that don’t align at all with his actions.) When Cochran tried to pull one of his double-agent moves, Coach threw it back at him and made it very clear that he knew exactly what was going on with the Ozzy crapfest. Whoopsie. Then Coach confesses that people have sometimes tormented him for being different, melting Cochran’s heart and creating a secret man-boy crush that will lead to Cochran not having a date at the finale prom. Just wait for it.

4. Mormons should not retrieve tree mail.

Whilst stomping on native flora and fauna as they march to the local post office, Dawn has (yet another) emotional breakdown, fessing up to Cochran that they have both been treated as outsiders and maybe it’s time to flip to the other side. As Dawn’s tears irrigate the gasping plants that they have just tromped on, they have a special moment akin to totally unrelated high-school students discovering that they have something minimally in-common whilst eating crappy cafeteria food at the Avoid These People table. (Don’t get me wrong, I actually like Dawn, but girl has got to quit crying every time a coconut falls to the ground.)

5. People named Sophie might have some developmental issues.

Honey, maybe I just missed something, but how the hell did you end up with that bloody Freddy Kruger gash on your nose? Did you have it shoved so far up Coach’s booty that you snapped an important artery? And really, since we’re gettin’ all real here and stuff, why are you so angry about things? Who took what from you as a child that you decided you needed to be this bitter? Wait, were you sitting at that same high-school table with Cochran and Dawn?

6. Men always do better in competitions that involve them holding their nuts.

What? Did you really think I wouldn’t go there? Seriously, a man understands the sanctity of the nut (okay, a coconut, but still) and he will treasure it and nurture it with undying devotion. Unless your name is Cochran, in which case you really won’t understand the relevance of a nut, and you end up falling off your tiny little balance beam faster than Jeff Probst can find a supposedly-macho-but-not-really necklace to accent his meticulously disheveled shirt, like he’s actually roughing it along with the real survivors instead of retiring to his yacht after his daily ten-minute appearance on the island.

7. How quickly the tide can turn, even without the requisite number of supermodel contestants splashing in the surf and zipping by under the eviction radar.

Cochran lasted roughly 3 seconds after the merge before he was spilling his guts to everybody on the opposing tribe. Really? What part does he not understand about “don’t flop on the ground and throw your legs in the air before you actually get to know these people”? Make them buy you dinner first, seriously.

8. I’m still not understanding why Brandon hasn’t already been evicted.

This basket case comes with more jacked-up baggage than anybody needs to deal with when people are starving and you can’t bathe with any type of satisfaction. Yet there he still is, alternately lusting after anything with boobs and then pointing to the sky where he assumes that Jesus lives. Perhaps someone should hand him a brochure about the destination that lies in the other direction. Boobie-lusters go there, Brandon. Lying boobie-lusters. Five floors straight down. Oh, and watch out for that campfire, it’s a real humdinger.

9. Does Jeff Probst really not understand that he can be annoying?

Up in the Tribal grill, he’s acting all surprised about some of the revelations, like who has the Immunity Idol and who snores at night and who night be swearing on their departed grandmother’s soul that they will do one thing and yet they do another. Like he doesn’t watch every tiny bit of footage so he can figure out something pithy to say that will make him seem like Yoda with chest hair. Puh-leeze. And that whole “I’ll go tally the votes” mess, which really means “I’ll go arrange the votes for the most drama so people in the viewing audience can wet themselves in anticipation”. Over it.

10. What’s up with hatin’ on the Cowboy?

So, Ozzy’s tribe decided to go after Rick? Who really hasn’t done anything other than grunt occasionally and manage to grow facial hair that seems a little bit odd. He’s the least of your worries. Why wouldn’t you focus on Coach, and at least make him play the Idol? (He does still have it, right? I’ve slept.) Or what about Albert? Kicking him out will at least force him to find that shirt he hasn’t worn since he stepped off the boat.

Then again, I’m not actually on the damn island, forced to survive on rice, tiny little fish that result in everyone only getting a single bite of protein, and a Cochroach that has delusions of grandeur and flipping sides. (The jury starts after the next eviction, does he really think jumping ship at this point was a wise idea?)

Wait, why am I even questioning the motivations of someone who would wear a sweater vest to a Survivor Island? Did he think there would be a library where he can study Shakespearean plays and sip tea with old ladies who completely forgot about sex long before he was even born? That Cochran is just a real catch, eh?

Anyway, that’s all I’ve got for you, head back to camp.

Unless you have a creative idea about a new necklace for Jeff. Then you might want to stick around and get some brownie points. Perhaps a fancy necklace, one with a “I’ve fallen and I can’t reach the microphone” panic button that Jeff can slap at when he trips over Coach’s ego and bangs his head on an overstuffed box of past Survivor losers who switched sides at a really, really bad time. Of course, that box is right next to the crate of Survivor winners who fell back-asswards into the last chair, so you never know…

Cruise Control - Part 3: Twist Ties, Tiaras and Tuberculosis

2011-11-02T20:39:00.000-05:00

Click Here to read the previous entry in this series…

So there we are, at a convenience store in Tumbleweedville, with a possibly-jacked hoopty and people having digestive issues in public facilities. Not a very promising start to our journey, although my mind is already calculating the potential number of blog posts I can get out of this mess. (Silver lining where you can find it, right?) To make things even more fun, local farmers are now arriving in the parking lot, peering over their worn steering wheels at the obvious city-folk who clearly have issues.

Time to at least pretend to get organized and back on the road, if at all possible.

Some of the folks head inside to attend to Mom and her apparent need to become a human lawn sprinkler, some of us head to the tire-walloped vehicle for an update, and the rest remain in the little cluster on the sidewalk in front of the store, because you always need a contingent of inactive people to stand there and answer questions from passersby like “What’s going on over there?”, “Is anybody hurt?”, and “Is this what they mean by letting the dogs out?”

I’m in the investigative committee checking on the vehicle status, mainly because it’s my vehicle and I should probably be aware of whether or not I should have a small psychotic breakdown. (You have to carefully plan these episodes to properly align with developments, otherwise you just look like a drama queen with focus issues.) I squat down and survey the activity beneath the truculent SUV. Not that I would be able to assist in any way, but squatting brings me closer to the ground in case I need to pass out from the overwhelmingness of it all and I won’t have as far to fall.

Terry and Crispy have purchased some cute little bungee cords and managed to strap the mysterious hanging thing closer to the undercarriage. (I don’t know if this is even an appropriate word, but it sounds good and I’m too lazy to look it up.) This temporary rigging would get us on the road again, barring any additional damages to the vehicle that we hadn’t yet joyfully discovered, but we really needed a more permanent fix to get us all the way to Galveston. Assuming we would even be allowed in the city limits if word of our clattering arrival got there first. We had to find something more reliable, pronto.

The Rescue-Mom-from-the-Toilet Brigade came marching out, with her weakly smiling and saying she felt a bit better. (Of course she did. Any time you suddenly lose a few pounds, you always feel more slender and pretty. Once you stop dry-heaving.) They heaved Mom back in her van, and Launa stepped up to politely shove some medication in her mouth so she would settle down and quit trying to steal the spotlight.

I didn’t even bother to ask if anyone had cleaned up Mom’s redecorating efforts in the lavatory. Some things you just leave behind and move on.

So we all start piling back into our respective vehicles, with me racing to claim my seat in the bandaged SUV instead of running off into a cornfield and burying myself in the anonymous soil like I really wanted to do. As I’m sitting there, clutching the engaged seatbelt like it’s a gift from Heaven while the rest of the clan slowly finds their own seats, a truck pulls up next to our car. The driver looks at me expectantly.

I don’t know why he’s doing this. I’ve never seen the man before in my life. I glance around at my fellow passengers as well as the other family members as they lumber back to their respective cars. None of them show the slightest sign of realizing this man wants our attention for some reason. Am I having a vision?

I reluctantly hop out of the car and mosey toward the strange truck, while dueling banjos play in the background and I briefly wonder how cute my victim photo will be on America’s Most Wanted.

The man rolls down his window. “That place you need?”

Well, I need a lot of places, all of them not here. But I play along. “Yes?”

“Just stay on the service road until it dead-ends. Then turn left. There’s a truck stop right there. They should have what you need.”

Okay, so this man takes one look at me and thinks I can find personal satisfaction at a truck stop. Great. There’s a good boost for the self-image. But hopefully, it’s just a matter of him having talked to another member of my family earlier and he just thinks he’s talking to the same guy. (Which means that we all look alike, and that I should probably check into plastic-surgery options.) “Got it. Appreciate your help.”

He kind of nods his head, slightly, then rolls up the window and drives away. Off to plow a field or build a rocket, whatever is popular around here in the early morning hours. I climb back in the car, to find everyone glaring at me like I’m late for biology class and nobody could dissect the frog until I showed up. (Totally didn’t understand the dissection thing in high school. I have never used the information from that experience. Ever.) This irritates me, but so does getting out of bed and going to work, so I roll with it. “That man said we should stay on the service road until it ends, then turn left. There’s a truck stop there.”

Terry’s face lights up. “Just what we need. I’m on it.” Or some such.

What am I not understanding about truck stops? Why are people so happy to find one?

So our little caravan pulls out of the parking lot, meanders through some arcane loop-around lane that doesn’t make any sense (did Republicans design this?), and we finally get on the service road for this desolate stretch of I-45. And it turns out that the stretches are really, really long here. We drove for centuries before we hit that mythical dead-end where we had to make the mythical left turn.

Happily, there was indeed a retail structure on the other side of the highway. Sadly, it didn’t look much like a truck stop. It looked just like the convenience store that we had departed after fertilizing the restroom. Okay, there was a lone 18-wheeler parked along one side of the building, but that was the only difference. Is that all it takes to be a truck stop? I guess I need to study more brochures.

No matter, our caravan thundered in and took up half the parking slots. Immediately, doors flew open and hundreds of people were running to use the bathroom. (Wait, didn’t we all just pee at the last place? What is going on with the bladders in this family?)

Terry hopped out and raced inside as well, in search of some mysterious treasure that would theoretically make our lives better in some way. I wished him the best in his endeavors, but I remained firmly implanted in my seat. The last time I had gotten out of the car, a strange man had structured my life goals around a truck stop (and a crappy one at that), so I really wasn’t interested in any more of that kind of advice.

Eventually, after watching the same family members race in and out of the bathroom area like there was some kind of competition, Terry came out of the store waving those plastic tie strips you normally use to bundle and hide power cords behind the TV so that drunken party guests don’t trip over them and spill Chardonnay on the sofa. He presented these to Crispy, who immediately dove under our car and began doing who knows what. Based on the sounds I could hear coming up through the floorboard, Crispy may have been performing some type of ritual sacrifice.

Apparently the operation was successful, since Crispy popped back in view a short time later, there was a general air of high-fiving revelry, and Terry jumped back in the car. Then he jumped back out, and sprinted into the store once more.

People were seriously starting to get on my nerves with all this spontaneous running.

He soon returned, chatted quickly with the other drivers, and then took his place in our car once more. I briefly considered stapling his hands to the steering wheel so he couldn’t hop out again, but I was too tired to screw with it. “There’s a Wal-Mart four exits down,” he announced.

Were we supposed to clap? What was going on now?

He clarified. We still needed to get something for the “personal plumbing issue” in Mom’s car. (Oh yeah, forgot about that business. I guess it can’t always be all about me, despite my best efforts.) Apparently the required treatment regimen could not be obtained at your casual convenience store, at least not at one that had actual cows within a three-mile radius. One could only find this item in your fancier department stores, and in this neck of the woods that meant Wal-Mart. Lovely.

So the train pulls out of the station once again, and we clatter down the highway. We zip past the first exit, some obscure crossroad with a name like Duckbutt Holler or some such. Then we encounter an overly perky sign announcing that the next several exits were for the town of “Ennis”.

Uh oh.

Ennis has been in the news lately, for a surprising (at least to me) reason: The town is in the midst of a tuberculosis outbreak. Yes, tuberculosis, a contagious infection that I ignorantly thought had been eliminated in this country. Apparently not. And the outbreak in Ennis was pretty severe, to the point that surrounding communities were seriously considering not playing high-school football with Ennis. (In Texas, the possible cancelling of these Friday-night athletic worship-fests is a disaster of biblical proportions.)

I personally don’t give a hoot about football. But I knew that our asses didn’t need to be stopping in Ennis. With the size of our traveling family, it was inevitable that one of us would manage to encounter somebody with an odd cough, and BAM, all of us would be quarantined, stat. And I really didn’t want to go there. I just don’t feel pretty in an open-backed hospital gown.

But I apparently didn’t have a vote in the matter. Our wagon train piled off the interstate at the designated exit, and we were soon motoring along the streets of Ennis. At least the Wal-Mart wasn’t hard to find. They had the biggest sign in town, a towering beacon, beckoning the unwashed to come shop at a venue where you could buy condoms, fishing tackle, a bra, and a set of tires, all in one trip. Praise Jesus.

So we meander into the lovely realm of said Wal-Mart, where there are only two parked cars populating the mammoth acreage of the parking lot that is normally overrun with ugly people sporting worn-out tube tops and flip-flops. (I’m thinking somebody made a bad decision about making this place a 24-hour experience, but nobody asked me. Then again, maybe it was the TB thing. Who wants to catch a communicable disease while shopping for plastic worms? Even the slow folk understand that angle.)

Then we have a surprise development. (Which really shouldn’t have been surprising considering what we had experienced so far, but I digress.) Two of the three cars politely head toward parking slots near the entrance. The third car erratically peels off and slams to a halt in a distant, far from the door, location.

What the hell? (Should I just have a t-shirt made with that question?)

Emissaries from the two protocol-observing cars race to the radical car for intel. What are you people doing? After a brief consultation, the emissaries race back. “Roni just threw up all over Mom’s van!”

Really? Really? Is that the theme of this trip? Random regurgitation?

Somebody just shoot me in the head. And hurry.

Click Here to Read the Next Entry in This Series…

Cruise Control - Part 2: Darkness and Rubber Tires

2011-10-31T21:21:00.000-05:00

Well, now.

We’re less than two hours into our journey, and my mind is boggled already. Seriously, so much has happened in the few minutes since we left the house that I’m beginning to wonder if I’ve slipped into an alternate reality. One where I eventually end up in a padded room, mind-snapped, and refusing to ever go outside again, speak to another human being, or wear flannel.

But I’m getting a bit ahead of myself. Let’s start where things should start, shall we?

Someone in the family, not really sure who to blame at this point, came up with the brilliant idea that we should go on a cruise in the Caribbean. Wouldn’t that be swell? Why, sure it would, we all agreed in that offhand way you have when you think something will never come to fruition but it’s fun to talk about it. Then we probably ordered another round of drinks and most of us assumed that was that.

Nearly a year later, after much hemming and hawing and trying to figure out when we could all take vacation at the same time (an agonizing process that could easily kill weaker souls), we are actually getting on a boat in Galveston in a few hours. I will be cruising the wide open seas with 14 members of my family.

Fourteen. That is not a typo. It might be an ill-advised decision, and possibly criminal in some states, but it is not a typo. I will be trapped on a boat with lots of relatives, all of us slammed together, with no ability to simply get in a car and go back home when they all inevitably get on my nerves. I assure you that my anxiety medication has been fully refilled, and I have a secret backup plan to simply slip away at one of the ports of call and never be heard from again. I’m thinking my new name will be Reynaldo. I like the sound of it.

So this was the initial plan: The biggest chunk of the family lives in or around Tulsa. They were going to caravan it to Dallas (where I live, far enough away from Tulsa to satisfy court orders resulting from previous incidents that might be discussed at a later time), spend the night, and then we would add our car to the train and everybody would motor south, Galveston bound, where our ship lay waiting, rocking gently in a harbor that doesn’t understand what is heading its way. The ignorance before the storm.

And that plan was fine and dandy, up to a point. The Tulsa contingent arrived in Dallas at the designated hour of 3pm yesterday, plenty enough time that we could all chit chat a bit, catch up on things, and enjoy a nice dinner before attempting to get in bed early so we could leave at the butt crack of dawn in the morning. Actually, we were planning to leave even before that. (Is there a equally-rude term for even earlier than BCOD? Pre-Crack of Dawn? Dark Crevice of the Dying Night? The Gray Valley of Indecision and Poor Choices?)

Anyway, we were leaving at 5 in the morning. Leaving at 5, not merely getting up at that time and starting to load the car. A whole hyena pack of people, youngsters included, were expected to be tucked securely in the line of cars and happily motoring down the highway, smiles on our faces about our punctuality and the upcoming possibility of singing traveling tunes. Shouldn’t be a problem at all, right?

And it wasn’t. Everybody was up and ready at the appointed time. So I knew right away that something was amiss in the cosmos.

Sure, it wasn’t an easy task, getting up and marching out the door. We had people lined up at the coffee maker, grunting from sleep-deprivation, circling one another like wolves waiting for someone to do something irritating so the rest of us could pounce and rip a body to shreds. But things remained relatively civil, and we stayed on schedule. At least in our house. We had no idea what was going on at the hotel.

Oh, did I mention the hotel? Yep, we had to arrange for two rooms at a nearby Hilton Gardens. There were just too many people in our circus of the damned. I suppose we could have sardined it at mi casa for one night, but the potential fallout from such a situation was more than any of us were psychologically healthy enough to deal with.

I’m sure that things were interesting over at said paid accommodations, what with Mom and Launa being in charge of FOUR energetic folks between the ages of 9 and 16. Personally, I would never sign up for such a tour of duty. I know my limitations and my skill set. Some people were born to nurture. You will not find my picture in that brochure.

Anyway, the possibility of a scheduling hiccup was rather high at this hotel, with me prepared for something awkward and unplanned to take place that would result in us leaving for Galveston two days late. I lay awake last night fully expecting to hear sirens and news helicopters heading toward the hotel, followed by a knock on my door with the FBI having a few questions for me.

Amazingly, we were still in the driveway at the house when a call came in. The gang at the hotel was not only already up but they were currently parked at a nearby convenience store, gassing up for the drive and anxiously awaiting the start of our adventure. We were still completely on schedule. Wow. Things were working out really well, and the dawn (when it finally broke) would be ushering in a splendid and carefree day.

My satisfaction with the world lasted roughly twenty minutes.

This was long enough for us to get on the interstate and get out of Dallas proper. Then another call comes in from one of the train cars. We have a sick occupant, need to stop at a CVS or Walgreens as soon as possible. (Some “personal plumbing issue” with one of the young ladies, one of those mysterious things that I know nothing about and that’s the way I would like to keep it.) Thanks and carry on.

Okay, that might be a tiny bit of a problem. For those of you who haven’t had the joy of traveling by car from Dallas to Houston, here’s a news flash: Once you leave Dallas on I-45, ain’t nuthin’ much up in that grill. We abruptly go from exciting metroplex to cows and tumbleweeds. Not a whole lot of all-night pharmacies out this way. Nope.

But we kept our eyes open, carefully studying our surroundings in case a strip mall suddenly appeared amid the abandoned rusty pickups, hunting lodges and bait shacks. Wireless phones were whipped out and fingers tapped away, trying to get a GPS-fix on where we might be and where we might find-

THUMP. Bam. Bam. Bam. BAM.

We had just run over something. Something that was not happy about being run over and had tried to fight back. I had been staring at my phone as it struggled to find a decent signal, so I had no clue what might have rudely decided to be in our path right at this particular moment.

I calmly directed a query at our main pilot, Terry. “What the hell was THAT?”

“A tire. We were on it before I could see it.”

“I didn’t see it, either,” proclaimed our co-pilot, Tiffany, with what felt like a little unnecessary enthusiasm. (Translation: I wasn’t really paying any attention, so the fact that I didn’t see it, either, should surprise no one. Of course, if someone had actually said to me, hey, watch for giant pieces of molded rubber in the middle of the road, I would have been on it. But no one did. So I wasn’t.)

A tire? It had felt like a barn. But the car was still rolling along, no indicator lights on the dash demanding attention with universal symbols for mechanical dissatisfaction, so maybe it hadn’t been that bad. It probably had been just enough to startle me out of the droopy, post-coffee slumber I had been contemplating before we encountered things where they shouldn’t be. We drove for a bit more.

Then I noticed an odd noise, coming from the left side of the car.

Tara, my companion in the back seat, noticed me noticing. “Can you hear that?”

Me: “Uh, yeah. Not sure what that is.”

Tara: “It sounds like flapping, maybe. Is that normal?”

Me: “Thanks for asking. And no, that’s not normal.” When purchasing this vehicle, I specifically asked for non-flapping accessories.

We tried alerting the pilots. They did not seem initially concerned, instead choosing to focus on discussing their mutual pleasure for a song currently playing on the radio.

Then the flapping became louder, more insistent.

Tara: “The flapping is louder.”

No response from the flight deck.

Me: “THE FLAPPING IS LOUDER.”

The pilots continued with their not caring.

The flapping grew impatient with the lack of full-occupant attention, and it ramped up with the flapping. Was there a seagull stuck to the side of the car? Were we dragging something? Were Tara and I both having a hallucinogenic reaction to the possibly un-fresh creamer that we had boldly used in our coffee this morning?

Now the pilots decided that something might be amiss, after all. (Perhaps because the noise filling the car now sounded like a cargo plane landing on a mile-long stretch of speed bumps.) Luckily, we were just coming up on an island of light in the otherwise darkness, a lone outpost of a convenience store. We exited the highway and pulled into the parking lot.

Terry hopped out and began to investigate under the car. Darrin hopped out and began to investigate under his car. Crispy hopped and investigated his. Great. Apparently everybody got a whack at the giant pinata tire with their vehicles. Well, at least we got the group plan, and nobody can say they didn’t get a chance to participate in the fun.

Everybody else hopped out, because it seemed like the hip thing to do at the time.

Status report? Darrin and Crispy didn’t seem to find anything unruly with their undersides. Our car? Not so good. There’s something hanging down, a box-like thing with tubes and such. (I’m sure somebody more in the know could take one look and go “hey, your whackjammer is busted!”, but I had no idea.) It seems the flapping had really been a dragging, but still very real and not the product of dairy-based auditory visions.

Terry goes running into the convenience store to see if there’s something that can help fix the issue. (Like a mechanic? Do they sell those here?) I go running into the store to use the bathroom, because this is quickly becoming far too much excitement and I need a release in some form. I do my thing, then saunter back out into the store proper.

Mom goes running past me, followed by Baylor, who is asking “Grandma, are you okay?” They disappear toward the bathrooms, ignoring me and my quizzical look.

Oh? I go outside and wander up to one patch of family, while another group of them is wallering around on the ground and trying to fix whatever under the car. “Is something wrong with Mom?” I query the group just standing there and not really doing anything.

I get several blank stares, unconcerned flicks of ashes from two cigarettes, and a startling head butt in the stomach from one niece who is only nine and still considers this activity to be a form of affection. Okay, this peanut gallery is not ready for harvesting.

The door of the store suddenly bursts open. “Grandma threw up all over the bathroom floor!” echoes across the parking lot, startling a nearby cow. (No idea, it was just there.) This is quickly followed by a distant shout from the folks poking around under the potentially disabled car, a garbled grunt that seems to indicate the discovery of something very-not-good in the belly of the battered beast.

Then it spins completely out of control, with far too many things happening at once for a sleep-craving mind to adequately inventory and process. People are running and things are hanging and relatives are spewing and we’re in the middle of nowhere and its very possible that we may suddenly not have enough vehicles to get us from wherever the hell we are to somewhere more useful. Like Galveston. Where we have to be on the ship in roughly eight hours.

I am less than enthused. The cow moos in agreement.

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Cruise Control - Part 1: Meet The Gawkers

2011-10-29T19:36:00.000-05:00

Howdy, folks.

Well, we up and went on another family trip, because we clearly haven’t learned our lesson yet and keep banging on the door to disaster. This particular adventure involved a big boat, extensive amounts of water, and the availability of copious amounts of alcohol, so of course things developed that shouldn’t have, and of course I had to start blogging about it the very second we walked back into the house. Things just seem to happen to our family. We’re definitely followed by angels. I just haven’t figured out if they’re good angels or the bad kind that got kicked out of heaven for letting boys sneak into the Celestial Dormitory after midnight.

Anyway, after completing the first two (unpublished at this point) posts, I realized that the cast of characters was a bit extreme, and perhaps it would help things a bit if I provided a wee smidge of background on those 15 personalities, complete with actual photos from the trip and short biographies that are totally and completely true. And here we go. (Oh, and everyone under legal age has been given a fake moniker, to protect their identity and allow them to destroy their own reputations later in life. This explains some of the odd names, and not the possibility that we all grew up on a commune where people named their children Bean Sprout and Roach Clip.)

1. Me

And this is from one of the better days on the cruise, although I’m still a little blue in this shot because I’ve just learned that the opening of the Sausage and Grease buffet line has been delayed after a misunderstanding about where to put the mustard sauce. But at least I still have my cute little hat. Things are always better with hats.

2. Terry

My partner. (His face is a little dirty because he just wouldn’t listen when we told him he really shouldn’t look into the smokestack on the ship.) We’ve been together for 11 years. Come to think of it, that might explain why he was so invested in shoving his head into a deadly space.

3. Tiffany

My bestie. She actually selected this picture herself, because I know better than to ever post a picture of her without review and approval. She often goes on family trips with us, partially because she’s loads of fun, but mainly because she requires a lot of supervision, and she can’t be left on her own for more than a few days or the police become involved.

4. Dawn

One of my sisters. She’s the kind of woman that can roll out of bed, belch, then shake her hair slightly and look stunningly gorgeous the rest of the day without any effort. So of course we have to hate her a tiny little bit and talk about her behind her back, because that’s what good families do when they can’t afford therapy.

5. Darrin

Dawn’s husband. He actually spoke once, in 1994, (I believe the phrases were “I do,” to Dawn, and “Is there any beer left?”, to anyone who would listen.) He hasn’t said much since, but don’t let the silence fool you. Once he gets going you better hide the good china.

6. Tara

Dawn and Darrin’s daughter. Tara is a modest, reserved woman who rarely has anything to say. She likes to wear frilly dresses and do needlepoint. She never drinks or smokes, instead choosing to spend her time working in homeless shelters and attending Bible study. She always has a kind word for everyone she meets, never once thinking of saying anything rude or sarcastic. Except for the first sentence, this entire paragraph has been a complete lie.

7. Tristany

Another item in the Dawn and Darrin product line, Tristany is an energetic 9-year-old who will happily share with you every single detail of every single thing that has ever happened in her entire life. When she grows up, we’re all assuming that she will be either an auctioneer or the person who says all that legal stuff really fast at the end of a commercial.

8. Mom

Mom, as is the case with most Moms, is the one that makes us all get along even when we really don’t care to be speaking to one another. And yes, we made her hair look like that because of the naughty things we did while growing up. But I’m not taking responsibility for the outfit, she did that on her own.

9. Roni

Okay, my sister Roni really can’t do this anymore, after the stroke and the wheelchair business, but this is what’s going on in her head. She’s a very determined woman, and will run you down with that wheelchair if you even look like you might get in her way. (Under no circumstances should you ever deny her a Diet Dr. Pepper if she requests one. Write that down.)

10. Karen

My sister Karen is a hoot, but she may not be thrilled with this revelation: As a youngster, she wanted to be Cher. She and Dawn would give concerts in front of the fireplace, using those really long matchsticks as slender microphones. Being a budding young gay thing, I wanted to join them so we could be The Supremes. This was clearly unacceptable, and I was usually booted out of the room. Then they would swoon over a Shaun Cassidy album cover and fight about who was going to marry him. Good times.

11. Janet

Aunt Janet is definitely a free spirit, and she is not afraid to tell you exactly how it is and where you need to stick things. This is a great attribute. Actually, she and Karen have very similar personalities. Both of them can march into a room and take control, getting things done and making the annoying people find something else to do. I, on the other hand, shuffle into a room reluctantly, instantly decide that I don’t care for most of the people, and then proceed to do absolutely nothing about it. Except drink.

12. Launa

A friend of the family. She’s a little tense, because she agreed to come along on the trip and keep an eye on Roni’s children. I have no idea what she might have been drinking at the time of the agreement, but it must have been very liberating.

13. Crispy

My nephew, Roni’s son. He’s 16, which means he knows absolutely everything he will ever need to know for the rest of his life. Just ask him.

14. Baylor

My niece, Roni’s daughter. Baylor has plans to completely run the world some day, but she’s content to wait for people to figure out that this is really going to happen so they better start treating her right. In the meanwhile, she’s biding her time trying to figure out why boys can be so stupid.

15. Bacon

Another niece, Roni’s daughter. Bacon has never had a bad day in her entire life. Some unpleasant things have happened, yes, but she chooses to just ignore them and continue singing, dancing and wearing saucy outfits. And laughing. She laughs a lot. One day we may discover that she just has chronic gas, but for now we’ll just let her chuckle away because it keeps her occupied.

And there you have it, the whole cast and crew. It’s not really important that you take notes or anything, and there most likely will not be a pop quiz, but I thought this might help you navigate through the deluge of blog posts that are about to come tumbling out of my head. Too many twisted things happened during the cruise for me to simply keep my mouth shut, and it would be negligent of me not to tell the tale. Besides, have I ever passed up an opportunity to make fun of everything around me? Of course not.

Ready? Let’s go.

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