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Weekly Wacko (11)

It’s a long post but I think it has some funny stories. Especially part V.

In August of 2009 I went to a beautiful wedding in San Francisco. My brother-in-law’s best friend (and cousin), Dominique, got married. The bride’s name is Chantilly.

They got married at the Palace of the Fine Arts, which was a great setting.

After the ceremony we stood around and snacked on some foods that had been brought out. I was standing with my sister, brother-in-law and some of his family (two cousins – Ira and Luis, and Ira’s girlfriend Shyla). We talked and cracked stupid jokes and got to know each other somewhat. They were all sarcastic and quick-witted so it was a lot of fun.

I

Buses took us to the site of the wedding reception. My sister and I grabbed some food while Pierre (my brother-in-law) did some more photos with the wedding party. Soon Shyla, Luis and a woman (I don’t remember who) joined us.

I didn’t actually remember this but my sister spent this past Christmas with Pierre’s family and Luis brought it up to her. Either Shyla or the mystery woman were talking about the movie ‘Rachel Getting Married’ and I chimed in with my typical I’m-the-world’s-sarcastic-younger-brother style, and said, “ohhh … yeah … that was so sad with the deaf brother.” There was a pause where everyone (but Erin – who through years of training has learned to assume I’m being a punk) tried to figure out what I was talking about. Eventually they caught on and my inputs were quickly ignored from there on.

I didn’t think all of that was particularly funny, but I think the fact that Luis did was very funny. What can I say, it’s as simple as the fact that I enjoy it when people enjoy me.

II

After we ate and speeches were made, the music came on. It was my time to shine. Except not at all.

At my sister’s wedding (about a half year before this) I drank a pretty fair amount, which meant I also danced a pretty fair amount. My dancing is like a variety show: it’s sort of funny, you don’t know what to expect, and you’re not sure if you’re laughing along with it or laughing at it … For whatever reason, Ira  enjoyed it (though to be fair he’d also been drinking). I walked up to him and my sister and he told me that my “dancing … is genius!” My sister and I were both pretty amused and surprised. This is high and inaccurate praise for me, but I’ll take, it sober or drunk.

A week or two before Dom and Chantilly’s wedding, my sister brought up Ira’s compliment. I admitted that I felt like the pressure was on. The first time around – who would expect the 6’3″ q-tip to dance? This time my only hope was that everyone would’ve had enough to drink at my sister’s wedding that I could do the same exact dance moves and no one would remember them. Erin (my sister) asked if I had been practicing some new dance moves and I could honestly tell her: sort of. I like to turn on music and dance while doing dishes, which I am sure has won my fair share of neighborly hatred. I didn’t think I could duplicate my success from Erin’s wedding, though.

Turns out I was right, sort of.

Pierre’s mom came up to me while I was dancing with a group and said, “look at you! You have rhythm! We were watching you and you have rhythm!” It was a nice thought, but she didn’t have to sound so surprised when she said it. I told this to some folks, we laughed about it, then I excused myself to go to the bathroom.

Where I ran into Pierre’s dad.

Mr. Pierre: “You’re good out there!”
Me: “Haha … Oh thanks.”
Mr. Pierre: “Where did you learn those dance moves?”
Me: “Ha … I don’t know.” (Seriously, how do you respond to that?)
Mr. Pierre: “Did you learn those in high school?”
Me: “…” (…)

I wasn’t sure if that was an insult or a compliment. Pierre’s family is very nice so I’m sure it was a nice thought, but really, what does that mean! Anyway, the photos I copied to my computer from the wedding are all named ‘High School Dance Moves.’

III

A group of us stayed at the reception until it ended, and we wanted to continue to dance. We decided to head to someplace in San Francisco near the hotel where everyone was staying, and the best way to get there was the Muni, a form of mass transit in San Francisco.

Yes, the bride and groom came too.

A photographer was on the Muni with us and he asked if he could take our pictures. He thought it was so cool to see a wedding party riding mass transit.

The photographer ended up posting some of the photos on flickr. I told my mom about it and she found the guys’ page with this set of photos, along with a note congratulating the married couple. The funny thing (to me, not as much to her) was that the photo at that time that represented this ‘married couple’ album was of Ira and me. Here are the photos, I’m the white guy (and I’d been drinking): here.

IV

While we were walking to catch the Muni I hiccupped. Pierre’s sister, Sabrina, described my hiccup pretty accurately by saying, “you hiccup like a small dog!” I found this hysterical. Actually, probably everyone who heard this found this hysterical. Again, we’d been drinking.

Not long after that, we were riding the Muni. Sabrina sneezed. I saw this as an opportunity.

“You sneeze like a small dog!” I said loudly, and very proud. Aren’t I so clever?

Shyla, though, had apparently not heard Sabrina’s comment to me about my hiccup. Taken without the context – me yelling very happily to someone “you sneeze like a small dog” – this is a weird thing to say to someone you don’t know all that well. Shyla told me, shocked at my behavior, “that was rude!”

But you know, my strongest association with Shyla and Sabrina are those 3 lines.

V

Last story, I promise.

We went to a club that was at the roof of some hotel near Union Square. There was a live band and we started up dancing some more. We were tired, and boozy, but it was still a lot of fun. (Below: drinking makes me short.)

After a while my sister and Pierre sat down and I was standing a bit in front of them. I was sort of dance walking toward them when an Asian girl (maybe late 20s?) came up to me.

She wanted to – what is this? – dance with me! Weird! Normally people don’t approach me to dance. I’m not sure why, it could be the flailing limbs.

Anyway, we started ‘dancing.’ This was a cue for my body to shut down. I would look at my sister, then at this tiny stranger, then at my brother-in-law, then the tiny stranger, and so on. How to ‘fast-dance’ (as I still refer to it in my 6th grade mind) with this tiny lady? My dancing, like most of the things I do, is meant to be funny. Strangers might not get that.

Thankfully (I guess) she ended my mental melt-down with some talk. These aren’t verbatim, but it’s the gist of the conversation.

“You’re really white.” (Seriously, this is the first thing she said to me. What an opener.)
“Uh … yep … You’re really Asian.” (I may have muttered the last part.)
“… Where are you from?”
“What?” (I leaned down about a foot.)
“Where are you from?”
“…” (I’m paranoid so I wonder why she’s asking me this, then I decide it’s a harmless enough question.) “I live in the South Bay … Where do you live?”
“I used to live in the South Bay!”
” … Cool …” (?)
[I think she asked something about what are you doing here after that. I may be missing some.]
“I’m here – that’s my sister over there!” (I pointed.) “It’s her husband’s best friend’s wedding!”
“Oh cool! I’m here for [no idea – sister, friend?] wedding! You should meet her!”
” … Uh …” (What?)
“She likes guys like you! Tall and white!”

I look up to my sister, hoping she’ll drag me away or something. I was afraid for my life. I don’t know why. It made sense at the time.

The tiny girl starts dragging me toward another part of the club. I look back and Erin and Pierre are just as casual as can be. I don’t usually meet people at clubs. And by ‘don’t usually’ I mean never.

Suddenly she stops me.

“Are you smart?”

I found this question hysterical for so many reasons – 1, we’ve both been drinking; 2, she’s about to introduce me to a girl for Lord knows what reason but I’m assuming not something you’d preach about since said girl is about to be married; 3, who cares?; 4, you started off our talk by saying “you’re really white.”

“Sure.” (I grin.)
“Seriously.” (And she really did ask it seriously. Wow.)
“I don’t know? Why’s it matter?”
“My friend only likes smart guys.” (Again, the engaged girl on her bachelorette party. People these days.)
“Sure.” (I’m not sure what I said – it was either sure or some overly long answer about how do you really judge if someone’s smart. Either way I proved I was a geek.)

Whatever I said, she found it acceptable because she continues to drag me back to the chicas. I get back there and she introduces me by saying something. One of them stands up and they take a picture of us. I probably looked scared out of my mind. So tiny and, I was assuming the worst, slutty!

One of Pierre’s cousins comes around to tell me they’re leaving. I say ok and jet set out of there.

We get to the elevator where the cousin is politely informing me what I could’ve done to/with/for/had done to me/etc with this girl. I noticed around the time he was saying, “f her over a table” (with charades to go with the words) that the bachelorette girls are boarding an elevator.

I’m pretty proud of my first interaction with a bachelorette party. I’m sure some guys would be shocked at my not going for such an easy thing, but in my mind there is a direct correlation between easiness and the amount of STDs someone has.

These things are ‘Weekly Wackos’ for a reason, people.

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Weekly Wacko (10)

I wrote this maybe 2 weeks ago because I wanted to voice my frustration over unknown work stuff. So this post is more like a diary-entry than my usual thing. Anyhow, it’s a big news thing for me so I wanted it to be able to go back and read it x years from now and be able to say, “ohhh, I remember young Brad, he was dumb, and he smelled funny. I’m glad I’m not him.”

Goodbye Silicon Valley, Hello Houston

At work on December 9 (2009) I got an email from a guy in Houston. I had applied for a job down there a while back.

A little background – the economy has affected my company as it has so many, and the original assignment I’d been doing since being hired was cut. My last day doing that was September 30th. Since then I’ve been bouncing around to short-term assignments and looking for a long-term one. It has been incredibly frustrating because I have not known when/if I’ll be moving, and I figured if I ended up on company overhead for a while then I would be out of a job.

I had received some word from Houston before which led me to believe they were interested in me. And the job description matched pretty well with work I had been doing before so I felt pretty strong about my chances.

On December 9th I talked with my potential future-manager and I asked a few questions about the work. He didn’t know much about what I would be doing exactly (programming stuff). This worried me because how does he know I’m a good fit if he doesn’t know better about what I’ll be doing … But, one bright spot from the conversation was that he said he’d decided to hire me and then realized he’d never once spoken to me. This either means he’s a really bad manager, or my recommendations from the other folks I’ve worked with were good. Actually now I’m worried about that, too.

I’m not sure how evident this is in other things I’ve posted – but for random people reading this I’m a glass half-empty kind of guy.

Anyway. I am still unsure if I’ll get the job – paperwork stuff has to be sorted out. My potential start-date as of right now would be January 11th which doesn’t give me much time left in California.

When I move to Houston I want to move to a place where I’ll have roommates. I really like having my own space and apartment, but I took a long time before I made any friends and I don’t want to repeat that.

I got in bed last night and pictured myself in bed the night before my first day of (potential) work in Houston. That’s a very depressing thought.

New work. New home. Don’t know anybody. Have to prove myself. Not sure if I can do my work well. Won’t know the co-workers quirks or what they’ll be like. An outside of work-project I’ll be doing – it’s part of work but it’s during my free time (read: lots of unpaid overtime). I’m worried about how I’ll perform with that as well. To sum it up: oy.

Also, I’ve liked the Silicon Valley way more than I thought I would. This is the 10th different place I’ve lived and usually I don’t miss or really appreciate a place until I’ve moved. I think being unsure if/when I’ll move for the past three months has had the silver lining of helping me to appreciate California sooner. Also, I figured from the start I wouldn’t be here for too long so I’ve tried to get out and do a fair amount.

Anyway – I’m just venting and expressing my frustrations. If the job works out it will be really nice to know where I’ll be living for at least a year (the assignment length). Also I went to college in Dallas so I could drive up there to visit some friends. And my sister really wants to go to South by Southwest (SxSW) in Austin, so we can meet there for that. AND, Houston’s not too far from New Orleans and I’ve never been there. I call this paragraph: glass half full ish (ish being the radio version of a certain s word).

I’ll say this in person as well – but I want to thank JMinnie and Theresa (who you may have seen write comments on the blog) for putting up with me and helping to make California as fun as it was. And all of the folks I met through them as well.

Enough sissy stuff. I’m going to watch porn and “Die Hard” and play “Grand Theft Auto” right now. All at the same time. And shotgun a beer. Boo yah.

***
This is an update – on Friday December 18th I found out some good news. I am going to start in Houston on January 25th rather than the 11th, and my work is going to pay for some of my relocation costs. Sweet!

Wish me luck random strangers, and people who know me who read this.

Good-bye Silicon Valley, hello Houston!

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Weekly Wacko (9)

It’s Christmas! We’re waiting on my brother to arrive before we open gifts … In the meantime here’s a story about a time I looked like an idiot. Not a Christmas theme, but an every day theme for yours truly.

Also, the banner photo is of me waiting for the recital to start. Dig that costume.

Eat Your Heart Out, Horowitz

Me: “Did you stay til I played my song?”
My friend: “Oh … no …”
Me: “Ah … probably for the best. I screwed up big time.”
My friend: “Well I’m sure you weren’t worse than the girl who played [that one song].”
Me: “Actually I thought she was pretty good …?”
My friend: “Oh …”
Me: “Uh … So …”

My senior year of high school I finally got to take part in something I’d been wanting to do for a while – piano lessons. In seventh grade, when my family lived in West Point, New York, my mom saw that a piano was for sale. It was a good piano – and a good price, too. A member of the West Point band was moving and didn’t want to deal with having the piano shipped.
My mom was thrilled: A piano!
My dad was not: A piano?
Enter: Me.
Naturally I had spent fourth grade making sweet cash money (I was a paper boy). I, like a young Scrooge McDuck, would take every penny I earned and deposit it. I was in fourth grade, I couldn’t be irresponsible and spend my money on toys! Heck no! What if a recession hits!?
I loaned my mom several hundred dollars (at a good interest rate … seriously, though for fun I calculated things like what if I charged 3% interest per day. I’m a real stud) and she bought the piano.

We got the piano and I tinkered around and memorized a few songs (by counting from the one note I knew – middle C), but eventually I became tired of this.
I’m sure my family had tired of it long before I had.
“I’ll be taking requests …”
“Anything but Good King Wenceslas! You play that stupid song like ten times a day!”
“Did I hear Good King W? That old fan fave? Out of season … but you got it!”

Senior year, though, this would change. I would learn to play the piano!
My neighbors took lessons from someone they enjoyed – so I was signed up under him as well. I told my piano man: I know squat, I’m moving in May, I want to learn songs. He was down with it.

About a month and a half into my lessons a word came up: Recital.
The Piano Man was happy with my progress – he wanted me to shoot for playing an easy version of The Entertainer for the recital. An easy version, but still pretty dang tough thank you very much.
The Piano Man and his wife both taught piano lessons, and most of their students were little kids. They decided, since the recital would be right before Halloween and the parents would gush over this, to have the recital be in costumes.

I practiced. And practiced. And watched “The Sting” (for costume research).
I could play The Entertainer beautifully. Standing up. Eyes closed. Lightning speed (The Piano Man told me not to, but come on, it’s fun).

The day came and on went my costume. Grey slacks, dark shoes, a white button up shirt, a ‘Newsboy’ hat (like Robert Redford wears in ‘The Sting’), and a bow tie.
The bow-tie was untied and just hanging around my neck. This gave me the look of a cool, rebel piano player. I didn’t know how to tie a bow-tie.

I arrived at the school where the recital was being held.
I realize The Piano Man and his wife had a requirement for what little kids they taught.
“My son would like to learn to play the piano …”
“Hmmm … not adorable enough. Sorry.”
Every stinking kid was leaking cute.
There were some other older looking kids (my neighbors included) who were slated to play good songs. What you’d expect from older kids.
Then there was me.
Six feet plus of gangly, much too tall and long-limbed to be cute – and yet, I still maintained the same piano skills as a child.
A classic case of: not cute.

As the recital went on I started to get more and more nervous. In class you can practice a speech in your head as your classmates go. But what could I do there? D … D sharp … E …
I was killing myself.

Finally the kid before me gets up to go.
His song was “Puff, the Magic Dragon.”
He was in a dragon costume, and a pretty awesome one at that.
He aced the song.
You never heard a more beautiful “Puff, the Magic Dragon.”
As he walked back to his seat you could feel a giant collective wave of “awww!”
My turn.
My big, awkward, crappy piano skills turn.

I sit down the proper way you’re supposed to sit at a piano. Probably the first time I did that.
Oh God.
Which key.
Oh nooo which key which key which key which key …
I press the right key.
I’m off to the races.

Do you know the song The Entertainer? Probably so – but you may not know that you know it. You don’t need to know the song for my story, but you do need to know one thing about the song (my short version in particular). The song starts, hits a sort of middle section, then repeats the first part. Then it ends with a kind of bang.
I managed to get through the first part ok – my fingers had trembled and were quite unsure of themselves at first but eventually it almost felt like normal. Time for the middle break part before I repeat what I’d just played and –
Yeeesh!
That wasn’t the right key!
Ohh …
Oh no …
That wasn’t the right key!
My fingers and mind were going there separate ways.
My mind saying things like, “oh no oh no oh no oh no,” while my fingers poked at keys like a child – amused that each key made a noise.
I panicked.

The Piano Man had told me so many times to practice at the right pace. Don’t play unnecessarily fast. Whoops.
I skipped the second half of the song and tore through the end part.
Whoosh.
The song was over.
I had played the start ok, ‘stumbled’ through the middle part, skipped the second half all together (bravo! A daring artistic move!) and played the end lightning fast.
The next thing I know I’m at my seat, by my parents, embarrassed and wanting to leave.

My dad told me later that, when I’d finished, I stood up and faced the crowd and shrugged.
I really don’t remember that – I was too freaked out – but I think that was probably the perfect ending to my piano debut.

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