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Reproduced from DataLounge. Permission pending.
Saturday, June 21, 2008
Re: "52-year-old guy here, looks mid-30s tops"
Reproduced from DataLounge. Permission pending.
Friday, June 20, 2008
Rapunzel, Rapunzel
What do you do up in the tower all day, but obsess?
Watch the waves crashing on the rocks below.
Watch the seagulls and pelicans flock around beneath you as they take the navigational turn around the bluffs.
The harbor seals look like lifeless grey slugs on the rocks, while the seas crash around them. It must be exhausting trying to fight against rough seas, so the cleverer of the seals hunkers down. When they are in the water, they are moving very quickly and with great agility. When they are out of the water, they are exhausted and relieved for the chance to relax on a nice safe rock. It would be difficult for a predator to sneak up on them to grab a quick snack, and if something tasty swims by them as they are saving up their calories they can motivate themselves to roll or dive off and give chase.
Friday, May 2, 2008
Light Housekeeping
Training for the rigors of being a docent in the clockwork room of the tower, I learned to pack my lunch and bring it along. I hadn't considered whether cleaning rags and feather or lambswool dusters would be waiting for me on site, or I should bring my own. Is there a stash of monster gear, I wonder?
It is also clear that no belt buckles or cameras can be allowed in the lantern room. I'd bet that most of the people who are willing to make the climb to the top would understand the importance of not wearing clothing with zippers or snaps, and soft, cushiony clothes, with fluffy gloves. There are "specialty" polishing gloves available in fibers specifically designed to clean metal, plastic, or glass surfaces. We can make them up with the Lighthouse Keepers logo, and sell them in the gift shop. For $10 they get a pair of commemorative gloves and the chance to use them to polish a First Order Fresnel Lens. In fact...why not set them up with completely plush Lighthouse Keeper's gear?? "Welcome to the Pt Arena Light Station. For your safety and comfort, as well as the continuing preservation of the light station, we welcome you to the top of the tower provided you are properly equipped and attired as a Lighthouse Keeper. Snap them a photo portrait, share the memory with your officially autographed Lighthouse Keeper's Certificate.
It is also clear that no belt buckles or cameras can be allowed in the lantern room. I'd bet that most of the people who are willing to make the climb to the top would understand the importance of not wearing clothing with zippers or snaps, and soft, cushiony clothes, with fluffy gloves. There are "specialty" polishing gloves available in fibers specifically designed to clean metal, plastic, or glass surfaces. We can make them up with the Lighthouse Keepers logo, and sell them in the gift shop. For $10 they get a pair of commemorative gloves and the chance to use them to polish a First Order Fresnel Lens. In fact...why not set them up with completely plush Lighthouse Keeper's gear?? "Welcome to the Pt Arena Light Station. For your safety and comfort, as well as the continuing preservation of the light station, we welcome you to the top of the tower provided you are properly equipped and attired as a Lighthouse Keeper. Snap them a photo portrait, share the memory with your officially autographed Lighthouse Keeper's Certificate.
"Look! That's ME wearing these GLOVES in the LIGHTHOUSE! I was five and felt like Kim Novak!"
Friday, March 28, 2008
Barking Dogs
So here's my story.
I found the house of my dreams, at the time, on a suburban street 29 miles from San Francisco. It had been owned only twice before, the original owner having sold the previous year to the current owner, who was selling to me. The little angels had to fly back up to heaven, or Portland, as the family was about to be re-blessed and there was not enough bedspace nor plumbing in the current home for a fifth child. So blessed, so young.
Soon thereafter, my realtor showed me a multi-family residential rental property which taught me the phrase "deferred maintenance" as a preferred alternative to total neglect, and I bought it at a very good price.
Upon taking possession of the multi-family property, I introduced myself to the tenants. I felt it important to be up-front with them, answer any questions, and update their leases. Some terms were going to change, and they needed proper notification.
There was a long-term tenant who was getting a rent reduction in exchange for her services as "Resident Property Manager." For the previous two years, she had been simultaneously receiving a salary and an apartment gratis at another complex across town, and was sub-letting to her daughter and roommates. The same woman had lived with her husband and small daughter at the end of the street where I live. She had fled an abusive relationship with a physically violent man to live in the multi-family property that I bought. There is another tenant in the property, who has lived at this address for many years. She moved in as a single mom with two teenage sons. She grew up on this street, in the house next door to that of the woman who fled the abusive husband. Oh, and the daughter of the Property Manager who as a small girl had fled an abusive home life at the end of this street had a roommate - a hunky young guy named "Yogi" - whose family lives in the next house down.
When the apartment occupied by the daughter and her friends, including Yogi, was flooded out that first winter of my management, when the gypsy roofer's hired hands stripped off the existing membrane too early on the Sunday January morning on which record rains fell to please the agoraphobic insomniac in the next apartment, whose only crime was to blanch all of the metal fixtures with pure bleach. She once wept to me in the laundry room about having caught the husband in flagrante delicto. She had thrown him out and now was worried about how she would make ends meet. Perhaps she had been hoping I was wanting her, and would jump at the chance to take care of her rent, but when I only offered to waive the late fee she reconciled with the guy and I became the cunt of all time.
The gypsy roofer tore off the old roof early one Sunday morning in January and awakened the agoraphobic insomniac in the next apartment, who telephoned me. Her message was brought to me in a conference room at the hotel in which I ultimately housed the tenants displaced by the flooding. I was teaching the first and penultimate seminar produced as an independent training provider. I had initially offered them a motel room around the corner from the apartment, but the girl insisted on something nicer, so I put them up at their preferred lodging and they stiffed me on a fifty-dollar phone bill. I imagine the girl's teary two-hour bubble bath as she recounted her ordeal on the phone to her mother, who at the time was struggling through her own latest round of re-hab.
As for my immediate neighbors on the block, my neighbors on all four sides came with the house. The Western neighbor introduced herself and her family with the distinction that they had once lived in a "really nice neighborhood" before a physical disability had prevented her husband from continuing his work as an instructor at a Tractor Trailor Driving Academy. They were forced to economize, and sold the mansion to move into this dump.
The neighbor to the East is a delightful woman of a certain age who enjoys travel, gardening, good music, good food, and the company of good friends. She has told me stories of our street, as humorous anectdotes, such as the funny time the kid down the block who was a notorious stoner drove his car into her tree, and later died of a drug overdose...this was apparently one of the sons of the single mother who is still my tenant in the multi-family property.
The houses clustered at the end of the cul-de-sac, where this drama continues, are time-worn little sad shacks. Some attempts to dramatically alter the original intent of the tract design with synthetic horizontal siding, pastel hues, and exotic garden statuary offer bleak hope beside rotting husks and thistled greenery.
I found the house of my dreams, at the time, on a suburban street 29 miles from San Francisco. It had been owned only twice before, the original owner having sold the previous year to the current owner, who was selling to me. The little angels had to fly back up to heaven, or Portland, as the family was about to be re-blessed and there was not enough bedspace nor plumbing in the current home for a fifth child. So blessed, so young.
Soon thereafter, my realtor showed me a multi-family residential rental property which taught me the phrase "deferred maintenance" as a preferred alternative to total neglect, and I bought it at a very good price.
Upon taking possession of the multi-family property, I introduced myself to the tenants. I felt it important to be up-front with them, answer any questions, and update their leases. Some terms were going to change, and they needed proper notification.
There was a long-term tenant who was getting a rent reduction in exchange for her services as "Resident Property Manager." For the previous two years, she had been simultaneously receiving a salary and an apartment gratis at another complex across town, and was sub-letting to her daughter and roommates. The same woman had lived with her husband and small daughter at the end of the street where I live. She had fled an abusive relationship with a physically violent man to live in the multi-family property that I bought. There is another tenant in the property, who has lived at this address for many years. She moved in as a single mom with two teenage sons. She grew up on this street, in the house next door to that of the woman who fled the abusive husband. Oh, and the daughter of the Property Manager who as a small girl had fled an abusive home life at the end of this street had a roommate - a hunky young guy named "Yogi" - whose family lives in the next house down.
When the apartment occupied by the daughter and her friends, including Yogi, was flooded out that first winter of my management, when the gypsy roofer's hired hands stripped off the existing membrane too early on the Sunday January morning on which record rains fell to please the agoraphobic insomniac in the next apartment, whose only crime was to blanch all of the metal fixtures with pure bleach. She once wept to me in the laundry room about having caught the husband in flagrante delicto. She had thrown him out and now was worried about how she would make ends meet. Perhaps she had been hoping I was wanting her, and would jump at the chance to take care of her rent, but when I only offered to waive the late fee she reconciled with the guy and I became the cunt of all time.
The gypsy roofer tore off the old roof early one Sunday morning in January and awakened the agoraphobic insomniac in the next apartment, who telephoned me. Her message was brought to me in a conference room at the hotel in which I ultimately housed the tenants displaced by the flooding. I was teaching the first and penultimate seminar produced as an independent training provider. I had initially offered them a motel room around the corner from the apartment, but the girl insisted on something nicer, so I put them up at their preferred lodging and they stiffed me on a fifty-dollar phone bill. I imagine the girl's teary two-hour bubble bath as she recounted her ordeal on the phone to her mother, who at the time was struggling through her own latest round of re-hab.
As for my immediate neighbors on the block, my neighbors on all four sides came with the house. The Western neighbor introduced herself and her family with the distinction that they had once lived in a "really nice neighborhood" before a physical disability had prevented her husband from continuing his work as an instructor at a Tractor Trailor Driving Academy. They were forced to economize, and sold the mansion to move into this dump.
The neighbor to the East is a delightful woman of a certain age who enjoys travel, gardening, good music, good food, and the company of good friends. She has told me stories of our street, as humorous anectdotes, such as the funny time the kid down the block who was a notorious stoner drove his car into her tree, and later died of a drug overdose...this was apparently one of the sons of the single mother who is still my tenant in the multi-family property.
The houses clustered at the end of the cul-de-sac, where this drama continues, are time-worn little sad shacks. Some attempts to dramatically alter the original intent of the tract design with synthetic horizontal siding, pastel hues, and exotic garden statuary offer bleak hope beside rotting husks and thistled greenery.
Friday, January 25, 2008
The Strange Loves of Varla Jean Merman
Varla Jean Merman Loves a Foreign Tongue! is filled with love and laughter, delivered at the tender hands of the superbly talented Jeffery Roberson as the eponomous Varla Jean Merman.
The surprises included an intimate dance number featuring conjoined twins exchanging deep-tongued kisses, the head of Joni Mitchell and a new installment of the ever popular, "Don't Eat Out, Varla Jean!" series. (the first episode featured Sal Minelli, a very raw chicken whose bacteria drove it to mean ends)
As she takes us on a trip around the world, Varla Jean reminds us that it is filled with wonder.
Hurry, while there's still time, to book tickets for Varla Jean Merman's upcoming engagement at a chic, upscale venue near you! (http://www.varlaonline.com/upcoming.html)
It's a triumph of a show that could only be overwhelmed by the closing of another cabaret icon.
The Plush Room survived prohibition, Charles Pierce, Lypsinka, and Lainie Kazan, but they were only talented bumps in the road of entertainment that lead, ultimately, to Jeffery Roberson and Jacques Lamarre's outrageously entertaining and engagingly integrated evening of multimedia cabaret performance.
The intimacy of the Plush Room complements the depth of Varla's turn of phrase, as the audience leans in to relish every somewhat sibilant syllable.
Our all-encompassing beneficent memory about this much-loved venue is crowned by Jeffery Roberson's Varla Jean giving us a feast of foreign flavors.
There were no programs handed out on opening night, but Varla Jean's website lists the credits. Mark Cortale, the silver-throated tenor who can fit in my pocket any time, treated us to a romantic duet with Miss Merman.
Fans of Varla Jean Merman will go wild for this new show. Newcomers who are lucky enough to have friends who are already fans and who bought them tickets in advance will be new fans. Those who only just heard about Varla Jean Merman, check for an upcoming performance at a chic transformational venue near you.
The surprises included an intimate dance number featuring conjoined twins exchanging deep-tongued kisses, the head of Joni Mitchell and a new installment of the ever popular, "Don't Eat Out, Varla Jean!" series. (the first episode featured Sal Minelli, a very raw chicken whose bacteria drove it to mean ends)
As she takes us on a trip around the world, Varla Jean reminds us that it is filled with wonder.
Hurry, while there's still time, to book tickets for Varla Jean Merman's upcoming engagement at a chic, upscale venue near you! (http://www.varlaonline.com/upcoming.html)
It's a triumph of a show that could only be overwhelmed by the closing of another cabaret icon.
The Plush Room survived prohibition, Charles Pierce, Lypsinka, and Lainie Kazan, but they were only talented bumps in the road of entertainment that lead, ultimately, to Jeffery Roberson and Jacques Lamarre's outrageously entertaining and engagingly integrated evening of multimedia cabaret performance.
The intimacy of the Plush Room complements the depth of Varla's turn of phrase, as the audience leans in to relish every somewhat sibilant syllable.
Our all-encompassing beneficent memory about this much-loved venue is crowned by Jeffery Roberson's Varla Jean giving us a feast of foreign flavors.
There were no programs handed out on opening night, but Varla Jean's website lists the credits. Mark Cortale, the silver-throated tenor who can fit in my pocket any time, treated us to a romantic duet with Miss Merman.
Fans of Varla Jean Merman will go wild for this new show. Newcomers who are lucky enough to have friends who are already fans and who bought them tickets in advance will be new fans. Those who only just heard about Varla Jean Merman, check for an upcoming performance at a chic transformational venue near you.
Friday, January 11, 2008
How I Love my Roofer
Liam is one of the most handsome men I have ever met.
His are deep blue eyes, dark hair, and clear skin bronzed from working in the sun. He’s so impeccably attractive that just a flash of that brilliant smile is enough to convince you that you never, ever, would willingly forget the impression you had had from just that congenial shared moment. You want this man to live a long and healthy life, bringing forth generations of beautiful, healthy people with a lovely, sensitive wife with whom he shares a special and everlasting bond.
Liam installed a “Dur-O-Last” roof on my home. The roofing material is sheet goods consisting of two layers of polyvinyl chloride overlaying a fiberglass mesh. Liam spec’ed the roof and ordered pre-sized sheets from the factory, which he and his crew assembled and seamed using a heat gun to melt the edges of PVC sheeting together.
Liam has twice been hospitalized for treatment of a cerebral tumor. He is newly wed to a beautiful young gal with whom he has one child, who is perfect in every way except she will grow up without her father.
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