Saturday, June 26, 2004
O-TOWN, N.Y. -- As I mentioned before, the car I have up here is new to me, as it was purchased from one of my dad's colleagues while I was at boot camp. It's a grey '96 Park Avenue Buick. Genuine gramps car. It's a boat. Jack wants me to "soup it out" with rims, base lights, the works. I told him how in high school my friend Matt and I wanted to soup out his '89 Crown Vic, affectionately called "The Pimpmobile." The car died before we could put hydraulics on it. Jack doesn't think we'd be able to get rims the right size to put hydraulics on the Buick, but he's going to look into it. Thatta boy. That's the kind of go-getter I like to see.
This car doesn't have a CD player, which is fine, though I did get spoiled by the Lumina. The Lumina's fate? It's with my brother in Chicago. The CD player's fate? Well, I'm not exactly sure, except that it got jacked, along with all my CDs that were in it. A mixed CD with U2 and New Order isn't going to break my heart, but the jackass who stole those CDs got off with my Clash double-set, my NIN CDs, all my Nirvana, MJ and my Bruce.
I've learned not to place values in material things, but still, those were some good CDs.
If for no other reason, they were great because they helped me ignore how awful the radio can be. The radio stations here make the Columbia stations look like hot shit. Hell, at least Columbia had a station that would play "Hot Shit." Not here, though I did hear the new Nelly-Justin song on one of the more current stations. It calls itself "Today's Hits," which means that about a quarter of what they play is anything within the last year from Alanis, John Mayer, Counting Crows or Sheryl Crow, and then the rest is Spin Doctors, Seal or Soul Asylum, and then a grab bag of 80s and 90s crap.
Most of the stations here play a good amount of '80s tunes. Even the "modern" stations. London had a few stations like that, but you know what? The stuff they played was good. I'm a fan of 80s songs, but I think it would okay to go a whole day without hearing Phil Collins. The station they play at work averages about 4.3 a day. I have this shit down to a science.
The station also likes Bruce, Mellencamp and Tom Petty. I love me some Bruce, too, but "Cover Me" every other hour? Styx, Foreigner and Golden Earring are also quite popular. And if it's Phil Collins? Oh sweet merciful heavens. "Easy Lover" must be on 37 different CDs at the station, "just in case" something should happen to one of the copies. You know, just in case I come in and break it over the program director's head.
Of course, you'd think that having three major stations in O-town would mean that you'd be able to find at least something good at any given moment. No, this just means that you can hear three crappy songs on the radio at once.
Case in point: Driving home the other night, one station was playing Jewel's "You Were Meant For Me," one was playing REO Speedwagon's "Keep On Lovin' You" and then another one was playing Sister Hazel. REO Speedwagon won that one, hands down. Monday night when coming home I had ABBA's "Dancing Queen", EMF's "Unbelievable" and some unintelligible Creed song.
When I was in London, I blissfully forgot about Creed. I've picked up on this every time I've turned on the radio and heard Creed or Hoobastank or Nickelback or some other generic suck-rock band.
And I got to thinking.
I think in the future, Great Britain and the U.S. should have an "I'm sorry" peace accord. We'll apologize for Journey, Andie MacDowell, Creed, Eddie Vedder and Courtney Love. In return, they'll apologize for Phil Collins, Rod Stewart, Vanessa Feltz, Rowan Atkinson, Ozzy Osbourne, Simon Cowell and Bono. We'll tell them that they don't have to apologize for Bono, because he's OK half of the time, and besides, he's not even British. They'll apologize for that, and then apologize for the Spice Girls. We'll throw in Alec Baldwin and Richard Gere. They'll give us a warning about Britney and John Mayer, and we'll warn them about The Sugababes and Gareth Gates, and all will be forgiven.
I really am afraid that I will hit a deer one night on my way home. I'll just be barreling down the road in my Buick, rocking out to the third Bryan Adams song I've heard on the radio that day and then THUD! I'll look up and see a deer face sliding down the windshield. That, or his hooves will have broken the windshield and impaled my face. Either way, it's not going to be fun.
I pray it never happens, but I can't help but fear it every time I drive at night, especially on my way home. Maybe it's good I have a little fear in me so that I will drive with caution. Slowing down on these windy roads is a good idea, whether it's dark or not. Maybe driving 10 miles an hour through the fog will help me not hit a deer. Or at least give the suckers a chance to run away.
But they really are right when they say "deer in the headlights." They see headlights and just freeze. It's not like police lights, though. What are these deer afraid of? It's not like I'm a cop coming to bust 'em up for fornicating or eating herb. I'm just trying to drive home.
The animals who deserve props are the badgers, beavers and woodchucks. I saw a badger at the side of the road as I rounded a corner on my way home Tuesday, and that little guy just waited his turn until I passed. He was a perfect little gentleman. He looked to his right, and then looked to his left, and because he did so, he's alive to tell the tale. His mama raised him right.
Or maybe it's because he's seen too many of his dear deer homies get hit.
Anywho, here's a health to thee, and to me not plowing into a deer.
Wednesday, June 23, 2004
OTEGO, N.Y. -- Jack and I live on windy country road, called the 0tsdawa. Well, to get to said road from work, I have to drive on the interstate and then take state route 7 to get to the big O. And all the while, I have to look past fog to make sure I don't see Bambi or his 800 cousins who all reside in the area.
When my parents came up to bring me my car, my mom was horrified at how many dead deer she counted on the side of the highways and roads. I was horrified that she referred to each of them as Bambi's mother.
Well, I keep this all in mind when I drive the mighty Buick toward the homestead. Deer lover or not, I don't want to christen my like-new car with blood and deer guts. I imagine that a CD player with a removable face would be a much smarter way to celebrate the Buick.
Anywho, I was coming down the big O on Monday night when I noticed a deer in a yard on my left. This deer gets me every time. It's not a live deer, but a fake one, bent over, looking like it's eating grass. I was going slow but this still startled me.
"Watch out, you damn deer!"
And then what should I see but two damn deer sprinting across the street to disappear in the brush.
"Watch out, you damn deer!"
Thankfully, the llamas don't wander or sprint across the streets. No, those ugly bastards are fenced in by Jake's Deli. Good thing, too. Those things are distracting enough. I catch myself looking at them as I turn onto Route 7, but if I don't watch myself, I'm liable to hit something.
Like a deer.
When my parents came up to bring me my car, my mom was horrified at how many dead deer she counted on the side of the highways and roads. I was horrified that she referred to each of them as Bambi's mother.
Well, I keep this all in mind when I drive the mighty Buick toward the homestead. Deer lover or not, I don't want to christen my like-new car with blood and deer guts. I imagine that a CD player with a removable face would be a much smarter way to celebrate the Buick.
Anywho, I was coming down the big O on Monday night when I noticed a deer in a yard on my left. This deer gets me every time. It's not a live deer, but a fake one, bent over, looking like it's eating grass. I was going slow but this still startled me.
"Watch out, you damn deer!"
And then what should I see but two damn deer sprinting across the street to disappear in the brush.
"Watch out, you damn deer!"
Thankfully, the llamas don't wander or sprint across the streets. No, those ugly bastards are fenced in by Jake's Deli. Good thing, too. Those things are distracting enough. I catch myself looking at them as I turn onto Route 7, but if I don't watch myself, I'm liable to hit something.
Like a deer.
Friday, June 18, 2004
Funny things in Pat's computer world these days. As Amy has pointed out, I am not updating the WBBP as often as I normally would.
First off, I'm being worked like a call girl in Soho, but I love what I'm doing. Besides copy editing, they have me designing, which is always a great challenge.
Second, and more importantly, I don't have Internet access at the house. Don't have a lot at the house, actually, and that includes cell-phone reception or TV reception. Thus, any Internet access I have (for the time being) will be at the newsroom, and I get the idea that if I'm not editing copy or designing pages, they want my cracker butt outta there.
So, I thought I could do what I did in London, and what Erica has been doing for her blog, and that is to type the entries on my computer, save them to a disk, and them put them online at a later date.
This is how this current entry is getting to you.
Until today, there was something wrong with my keyboard and I don't know what it was. What was happening was that as I typed, some of the letters had special characters added.
Here's what one of the above sentences had looked like (before fixing and copy editing):
Act=uallpy, I t=h;in/k t=h;e kepyboard is okayp, but= t=h;ere's some sort= of sn/ag[ in/ commun/icat=ion/ bet=ween/ t=h;e kepyboard an/d t=h;e compyut=er. Wh;at='s h;apypyen/n/in/g[ is t=h;at= as I t=pypye, some of t=h;e let=t=ers h;ave spyecial ch;aract=ers added.
Shitty, eh?
So what I did was type the whole text and then did a "find and replace" for the whole document.
But now everything seems to be working.
Moving on.
"Deep cow plop"
MEREDITH, N.Y. -- This is dairy country. Sure, it's not Wisconsin, but still, it's farming and agriculture that runs this struggling region.
To celebrate the area's dairy roots, there is a Dairy Fest each year. This past weekend, the who's who of Delaware County come out for a fair with donkey-kissing contests, funnel cakes and a "redneck beauty pageant."
Well, I went to said dairy fest, and boy, let me tell you, this fair was a fun time for me, the city slicker who usually sees his cows on his bun at Steak n' Shake.
I didn't see anybody kissing donkeys, and I didn't stay for the redneck beauty contest, but I did watch "cow plop bingo," where a field was turned into a giant set of bingo squares, and whoever picked the square where the cow "plopped" won a cash prize. I think the actual wording was "a prize of cash money," but as a copy editor, I won't let that shit fly, no way.
Besides the cow shit, there was also "Redneck Revenge." The announcer pegged this "the chance to hit a jenn-you-wine redneck in the face with a cream pie!" It turned out to be to fat red-headed stepchildren taking turns sticking their faces in a wooden board while their friend sprayed whipped cream on a styrofoam plate so that you could throw it. I observed two of my newsroom colleagues fail at their attempts to get these hoosiers in the face, so I took note of the wind patterns and gingerly tossed that plate toward the east just right so that a big old faceful of whipped cream hit the red-headed stepchild just as he stuck his tongue out at me. He didn't mind, though, because he licked his lips afterward.
"Tastes good!"
The fair had been advertised on multiple wooden cow signs throughout the area, and at least once a week, we ran a front page story about how many of these things are being stolen or vandalized.
The sheriff's response? "If we catch anyone in possession of these signs, who isn't supposed to have it, they will be in deep cow plop."
Go get 'em, chief. Of course, in dear ol' O-town, these kids don't have much to do but breathe in and out of plastic bags and then go loot some cow signs.
"You need a man"
As I said in my last post, I was hit on not one but two creepy guys my first night in town. I shall now elaborate because, well, that's what I do.
My roommate Jack had picked me up at the Binghamton airport and brought me back to the house, a cute one-story house outside of O-town with a great view of the foothills.
He had said the paper's editor wanted to meet me, so after eating some grilled pork chops, we headed to the newspaper's token watering hole. It was there that I met the regulars, some of Oneonta's more colorful characters:
*Patrick, a retired NYC cop, simply called "the Irishman," known for spending most of his waking hours on Friday drunk and playing pool with himself, much to the amusement of high school kids who come to meet this legendary lush
*"Smoke Shop Bob," the human incarnation of South Park's Mr. Garrison, also affectionately known to townfolk as "Gay Bob," whose dirty jokes made me cringe
I met the editor, a nice guy who was rough around the edges but not unapproachable. He sent me to watch Jack play pool and when I approached the table, I met a cute mousy girl named Jen. She had just broken up with her boyfriend, who just so happened to be 15 feet away ordering drinks for himself and some chick.
After talking with her about that, I returned to the bar, where Bob told me some more jokes. Those jokes got the attention of his house-mate John, a tall Morrissey-Vinnie Jones lookin' guy sitting in the next seat over from us. John introduced himself, told me I was cute and then apologized for being drunk, adding, "I'm sorry, you're probably not even gay, but you should know you're cute."
Not sure what to say to that ("Thanks!"), I continued listening to Bob, but John persisted. The details of their living arrangement became clear: they were friends, not lovers, and they lived in separate rooms. Bob was the slob, and John was always on him to keep clean. I unfortunately let it slip that I was a slob, too. I shouldn't have, but it's because I did that I am even telling you all this.
"Well," John began, "what you need is a man. Yes, you need a man to get on... your case... and then to have great casual sex with you. Yes, yes, that is what you need."
That could very well be true (Keith's been telling me this for years), but I doubted it was true. And it was all too clear that this guy was gonna be cleanin' none of my shit. Back off, you Morrissey-Vinnie Jones looker.
I made a bee's line for Jack and Jen. "Hi, guys!"
I didn't have to tell them what happened, because they were experienced with the bar enough to know. Bob and John have been trying to get in Jack's pants for at least a year. The fact that he's straight has had no bearing on their quest. In fact, it may have even helped.
"Uh, that's a dude"
After my first Friday at the desk, one of the copy editors invited me and the other new copy editor out for drinks with the sports guys. We went to Red's, a former filling station converted into a bar. Funny thing is, they still have gas pumps.
Well, the copy editor announced she and one of the sports guys had gotten engaged, so we had some champagne and about 3 more pitchers. At 2:30, when the bar closed, we left our cars there and took a taxi to the sports editor's house.
The taxi we took was actually a mini-van, and from behind, our driver was K*m, a heavy-set woman with American Indian features and dyed black hair down to her butt.
At 4:30, when we left the sports editor's house, K*m was the driver again. She was a nice woman, and so I chatted with her about how smart it was to have someone else drive you when you're plastered off your ass. It was a light conversation, so it went on longer than the topic allowed for it to go on (i.e. repetitive statements followed by "Yup, yup").
When we got to the house, she said, "Jack." Apparently she knew my roommate. "I've met him, I think."
The next morning, I told Jack, and he bolted upright.
"He knew I was?"
"Yeah, she did," I said.
"He," Jack said. "It's a he."
I looked confused and explained that K*m had been female.
"That's a dude," he said. "But she likes being called she."
Huh?
"She's a transsexual."
Here? In O-town?
"We may be a small town, but we're not insulated," Jack said. "And keep in mind we're only a few hours from New York City."
Well, how do you like that, a tranny taxi-driver in O-town. When you add that to Bob and John, the dairy fest cows, the canoe races and the potato guns, this town's character starts to take shape. It's straight out of a David Lynch or Coen brothers film.
First off, I'm being worked like a call girl in Soho, but I love what I'm doing. Besides copy editing, they have me designing, which is always a great challenge.
Second, and more importantly, I don't have Internet access at the house. Don't have a lot at the house, actually, and that includes cell-phone reception or TV reception. Thus, any Internet access I have (for the time being) will be at the newsroom, and I get the idea that if I'm not editing copy or designing pages, they want my cracker butt outta there.
So, I thought I could do what I did in London, and what Erica has been doing for her blog, and that is to type the entries on my computer, save them to a disk, and them put them online at a later date.
This is how this current entry is getting to you.
Until today, there was something wrong with my keyboard and I don't know what it was. What was happening was that as I typed, some of the letters had special characters added.
Here's what one of the above sentences had looked like (before fixing and copy editing):
Act=uallpy, I t=h;in/k t=h;e kepyboard is okayp, but= t=h;ere's some sort= of sn/ag[ in/ commun/icat=ion/ bet=ween/ t=h;e kepyboard an/d t=h;e compyut=er. Wh;at='s h;apypyen/n/in/g[ is t=h;at= as I t=pypye, some of t=h;e let=t=ers h;ave spyecial ch;aract=ers added.
Shitty, eh?
So what I did was type the whole text and then did a "find and replace" for the whole document.
But now everything seems to be working.
Moving on.
"Deep cow plop"
MEREDITH, N.Y. -- This is dairy country. Sure, it's not Wisconsin, but still, it's farming and agriculture that runs this struggling region.
To celebrate the area's dairy roots, there is a Dairy Fest each year. This past weekend, the who's who of Delaware County come out for a fair with donkey-kissing contests, funnel cakes and a "redneck beauty pageant."
Well, I went to said dairy fest, and boy, let me tell you, this fair was a fun time for me, the city slicker who usually sees his cows on his bun at Steak n' Shake.
I didn't see anybody kissing donkeys, and I didn't stay for the redneck beauty contest, but I did watch "cow plop bingo," where a field was turned into a giant set of bingo squares, and whoever picked the square where the cow "plopped" won a cash prize. I think the actual wording was "a prize of cash money," but as a copy editor, I won't let that shit fly, no way.
Besides the cow shit, there was also "Redneck Revenge." The announcer pegged this "the chance to hit a jenn-you-wine redneck in the face with a cream pie!" It turned out to be to fat red-headed stepchildren taking turns sticking their faces in a wooden board while their friend sprayed whipped cream on a styrofoam plate so that you could throw it. I observed two of my newsroom colleagues fail at their attempts to get these hoosiers in the face, so I took note of the wind patterns and gingerly tossed that plate toward the east just right so that a big old faceful of whipped cream hit the red-headed stepchild just as he stuck his tongue out at me. He didn't mind, though, because he licked his lips afterward.
"Tastes good!"
The fair had been advertised on multiple wooden cow signs throughout the area, and at least once a week, we ran a front page story about how many of these things are being stolen or vandalized.
The sheriff's response? "If we catch anyone in possession of these signs, who isn't supposed to have it, they will be in deep cow plop."
Go get 'em, chief. Of course, in dear ol' O-town, these kids don't have much to do but breathe in and out of plastic bags and then go loot some cow signs.
"You need a man"
As I said in my last post, I was hit on not one but two creepy guys my first night in town. I shall now elaborate because, well, that's what I do.
My roommate Jack had picked me up at the Binghamton airport and brought me back to the house, a cute one-story house outside of O-town with a great view of the foothills.
He had said the paper's editor wanted to meet me, so after eating some grilled pork chops, we headed to the newspaper's token watering hole. It was there that I met the regulars, some of Oneonta's more colorful characters:
*Patrick, a retired NYC cop, simply called "the Irishman," known for spending most of his waking hours on Friday drunk and playing pool with himself, much to the amusement of high school kids who come to meet this legendary lush
*"Smoke Shop Bob," the human incarnation of South Park's Mr. Garrison, also affectionately known to townfolk as "Gay Bob," whose dirty jokes made me cringe
I met the editor, a nice guy who was rough around the edges but not unapproachable. He sent me to watch Jack play pool and when I approached the table, I met a cute mousy girl named Jen. She had just broken up with her boyfriend, who just so happened to be 15 feet away ordering drinks for himself and some chick.
After talking with her about that, I returned to the bar, where Bob told me some more jokes. Those jokes got the attention of his house-mate John, a tall Morrissey-Vinnie Jones lookin' guy sitting in the next seat over from us. John introduced himself, told me I was cute and then apologized for being drunk, adding, "I'm sorry, you're probably not even gay, but you should know you're cute."
Not sure what to say to that ("Thanks!"), I continued listening to Bob, but John persisted. The details of their living arrangement became clear: they were friends, not lovers, and they lived in separate rooms. Bob was the slob, and John was always on him to keep clean. I unfortunately let it slip that I was a slob, too. I shouldn't have, but it's because I did that I am even telling you all this.
"Well," John began, "what you need is a man. Yes, you need a man to get on... your case... and then to have great casual sex with you. Yes, yes, that is what you need."
That could very well be true (Keith's been telling me this for years), but I doubted it was true. And it was all too clear that this guy was gonna be cleanin' none of my shit. Back off, you Morrissey-Vinnie Jones looker.
I made a bee's line for Jack and Jen. "Hi, guys!"
I didn't have to tell them what happened, because they were experienced with the bar enough to know. Bob and John have been trying to get in Jack's pants for at least a year. The fact that he's straight has had no bearing on their quest. In fact, it may have even helped.
"Uh, that's a dude"
After my first Friday at the desk, one of the copy editors invited me and the other new copy editor out for drinks with the sports guys. We went to Red's, a former filling station converted into a bar. Funny thing is, they still have gas pumps.
Well, the copy editor announced she and one of the sports guys had gotten engaged, so we had some champagne and about 3 more pitchers. At 2:30, when the bar closed, we left our cars there and took a taxi to the sports editor's house.
The taxi we took was actually a mini-van, and from behind, our driver was K*m, a heavy-set woman with American Indian features and dyed black hair down to her butt.
At 4:30, when we left the sports editor's house, K*m was the driver again. She was a nice woman, and so I chatted with her about how smart it was to have someone else drive you when you're plastered off your ass. It was a light conversation, so it went on longer than the topic allowed for it to go on (i.e. repetitive statements followed by "Yup, yup").
When we got to the house, she said, "Jack." Apparently she knew my roommate. "I've met him, I think."
The next morning, I told Jack, and he bolted upright.
"He knew I was?"
"Yeah, she did," I said.
"He," Jack said. "It's a he."
I looked confused and explained that K*m had been female.
"That's a dude," he said. "But she likes being called she."
Huh?
"She's a transsexual."
Here? In O-town?
"We may be a small town, but we're not insulated," Jack said. "And keep in mind we're only a few hours from New York City."
Well, how do you like that, a tranny taxi-driver in O-town. When you add that to Bob and John, the dairy fest cows, the canoe races and the potato guns, this town's character starts to take shape. It's straight out of a David Lynch or Coen brothers film.
Thursday, June 10, 2004
ONEONTA -- I am here, safe and alive. That third one should have been assumed based on the first two, but you never know. I am not here and safe in the way that Reagan is "here and safe" in D.C.
O-town is pretty, and pretty small. Sleepy. Not too many people around in the summer, which makes it easy to breathe. And relax. I'm slowly getting about to see what this town is made of, and that has included:
*A filling station turned into a bar, complete with old fashion gas pumps
*A field party/bachelor party with a keg of Bud Light, a potato gun and a bonfire that nearly burnt my eyebrows
*A trip to the newsroom's token bar, where I was hit on by not one but two creepy guys, one of which looked like Morrissey and Vinnie Jones
*Watching people stop on the highway overpasses to wave at people racing canoes on the river below
*Paying $8 for a coffee and a sandwich that would have been $4.50 at the Artisan (salvation not included)
My roommate is a reporter who's pretty cool, and so far we've bonded over Jet (the band, not the magazine, though we have talked about weave).
My cell phone has changed and most of you have gotten that. Funny thing is, I don't get service in the hills.
Wait, who am I kidding... Anyone who reads this already knows all this.
Anywho, I started compiling a big ol list of soundtrack songs -- you know, songs I would put on my be-all, end-all soundtrack -- and then Sarah AND Erica posted similar posts. I will have to work on my list to make sure it's a good one. I'm trying to find a way to put Rufus Wainright's "Instant Pleasure" on there, not because I am a slut, but because:
a) I like that song
b) It reminds me of my friends who ARE sluts
Still speaking of said soundtrack post, I'm still trying to figure out what "A night alone" means. I'm guessing it means a night where you think and contemplate. R**ben has taken it to mean something completely different.
Okay, I'm off to the vending machine before making my nightly dials to Fiscus and my Dow Jones buddies, the only people still awake right now. Apparently, everyone else goes to bed at 11 p.m. CST now. At least I'm not calling from a karaoke bar. I don't know if that's done in this town. I am told it is, which will be good for me.
Okay, over and O-U-T.
O-town is pretty, and pretty small. Sleepy. Not too many people around in the summer, which makes it easy to breathe. And relax. I'm slowly getting about to see what this town is made of, and that has included:
*A filling station turned into a bar, complete with old fashion gas pumps
*A field party/bachelor party with a keg of Bud Light, a potato gun and a bonfire that nearly burnt my eyebrows
*A trip to the newsroom's token bar, where I was hit on by not one but two creepy guys, one of which looked like Morrissey and Vinnie Jones
*Watching people stop on the highway overpasses to wave at people racing canoes on the river below
*Paying $8 for a coffee and a sandwich that would have been $4.50 at the Artisan (salvation not included)
My roommate is a reporter who's pretty cool, and so far we've bonded over Jet (the band, not the magazine, though we have talked about weave).
My cell phone has changed and most of you have gotten that. Funny thing is, I don't get service in the hills.
Wait, who am I kidding... Anyone who reads this already knows all this.
Anywho, I started compiling a big ol list of soundtrack songs -- you know, songs I would put on my be-all, end-all soundtrack -- and then Sarah AND Erica posted similar posts. I will have to work on my list to make sure it's a good one. I'm trying to find a way to put Rufus Wainright's "Instant Pleasure" on there, not because I am a slut, but because:
a) I like that song
b) It reminds me of my friends who ARE sluts
Still speaking of said soundtrack post, I'm still trying to figure out what "A night alone" means. I'm guessing it means a night where you think and contemplate. R**ben has taken it to mean something completely different.
Okay, I'm off to the vending machine before making my nightly dials to Fiscus and my Dow Jones buddies, the only people still awake right now. Apparently, everyone else goes to bed at 11 p.m. CST now. At least I'm not calling from a karaoke bar. I don't know if that's done in this town. I am told it is, which will be good for me.
Okay, over and O-U-T.
