Joke's Over, Part II

I'm disabling the ability to make comments on my blog, since the person who's still leaving "joke" comments got defensive about being "caught. They decided to turn nasty by making fun of a part of my life that seems to be funny to them, but actually was a time that both meant a lot to me, and was hard.

Come to think of it, that was behind the other two "comments". Given they were centered around the same thing. It's just the first ones weren't quite so pointedly, defensively mean.

Here's the point: Humor is only funny if both parties involved find it so.

If it's at the other person's expense, that's not humor. That's being hurtful and mean. That's why you're "lurking" -- you know it's not funny and so you don't want your name or face attached to it.

That's also why you're pissed off (misdirectedly so, as it's aimed at me) and getting nasty.

But, still. Even though I may understand where it's coming from, the other point is that real and true friends don't pull that kind of BS in the first place.

And don't think I don't have an idea who it is, because there's only two people on my blog list who could know about that part of my life.

One of them would never do this because she doesn't have the specificity of the details being used. So that only leaves the other person.

If anyone ever wants to make a comment about something I've written, email me.

OK, Joke's Over

Whoever is posting the fake comments under the guise of old friends can stop now. It's not funny, and I can tell by the timestamp -- and the fact that not only are they coming through together, the comments are similar -- it's from one person, and not them.

Musical Fairs

Okay, before I get truly started, I hae to say I had to fun things happen today via the way of two comments comments to my blog. One was from Pumkinhead, mentioned in my Free Range Broccoli blog who shall no longer be blank in my head and now be reverently remembered by his true name:

Horacio Karkaroff.

You can all see why I blanked on that name; it's the kind where you'd either forget it or remember it because of its nature.

Ha ha! Gotcha Mr. Robert Hart!

The other comment came from Chris "Drakester" Drake, who, I kid you not, I was just thinking of the other day, wondering what he was up to. I hear about you all sometimes through Larry, but not so much Mr. Drakester there (if that really was you who left the message --!)

You really surprised me! Made for a nice day, actually, having you two come out of the blue like that.

So what's up with the two of you?! I'd love to exchange a few emails with you -- leave me your addresses if you'd like in a comment. Or anyone -- I miss you guys!

And now, back to our regularly scheduled programming....

Every once in awhile, a weekend comes along that seems to be a nice turn around a bend – on top of being a nice reminder to give into the little kid in me.

It’s just that, sometimes, you have to hit a few bumps to get to that reminder.

Saturday day was fairly uneventful; I slept in. I vacuumed. I scrubbed down the kitchen counters. I had lunch and read for awhile on my terrace. Then it was time for me to shower and catch the train to the Zoo for an outdoor concert with my mother – the Gipsy Kings an utterly incredible, amazing group

They don’t sing in English; rather, they sing entirely in their native Gipsy tongue of Gitane. But, the thing is, it doesn’t mater that you can’t understand them – you can’t help but be swept away by all the amazing inter-weaving rhythms that seem nearly impossible to braid together. The richness comes from their common way of having all the guitarists strumming in the same manner; the lead singer’s ragged-dry hoarse – but still almost richly velvet – voice pulls it all together.

Occasionally, touches of other styles pop into their music – accordions slip in, giving the song a touch of spicy, foot-tapping Cajun Zydeco; the next song carries the distinct tang of Salsa. But all the while it’s still a sound that’s deeply uniquely they’re own.

I’m not certain how I came across them. I think a song of theirs was in a movie I saw several years ago, and, caught by it, and introduced them to my mother, who, being just as eclectic in her taste as I am (hmm; that sounds somewhat like she got her tastes from me...well, maybe she did!) who fell in love with them as well. Perhaps a year or so later, she found that the band was on tour, and she bought two tickets for the fourth row at the Arlene Schnitzer Concert Hall downtown.

So last night was our second time seeing them. Worth every penny, and all the effort it took for me to get there.

Let me explain. It’s truly another adventure from the Annals of Heather in trying to get to a musical performance.

Two days prior to the concert, my mother gave my brother an envelope with my ticket in it so that I’d have it to get into the Zoo and meet her there. I got to the transit center, right on time for when I wanted to hit the Zoo, and was first hit with the dismay that the ticket machine was glad to suck the money off of my debit card, and was just as glad not to spit out a ticket for me. Thinking the transaction had somehow been cancelled, I tried again.

Same thing.

I tried the other machine, which worked; but it meant my round-trip train ticket cost $10.50, instead of $3.50. I’m calling my bank when the charges come through to see about getting those other two tickets reversed.

But as soon as I stepped off the train at the tunnel stop for the Zoo – I realized I’d left my ticket sitting on the kitchen counter. So back I had to go to grab my ticket, thus losing my nice parking spot. The music, however, beautifully made up for the frustration.

Sunday, however, was the gathering of a few prior bumps to get to it. I have to back up a bit here – actually all the way back to May.

One Wednesday evening as I drove home after acupuncture, the clutch on my car burned up. My car reeked of sour, burned rubber, so much so it made my eyes water. I wasn’t terribly upset about it happening (it’s happened, so what can you do?) and, instead, sat laughing in my car as I waited for the tow truck to collect the car, and for Andrew to collect me. The only worry was that I had a ticket to see Joe Nichols (a country artist I like) in Napavine, Washington two days later, and I was, at that moment, without wheels.

The main reason it was so funny was that not three days before, a friend at work who knew how much the upcoming concert meant to me said, “Make sure your car’s totally safe – last thing you want is to have it break down and have you miss the show!”

Damn you, Keith. You jinxed my car!

The problem was solved – it got towed to the repair shop, and I wound up borrowing Andrew’s car for the weekend since he had alternate transportation.

Now roll forward to this weekend that just passed. I had another ticket to see the Joe Nichols in concert on Sunday; again in Washington. Thankfully, his time just outside Vancouver, not 90 minutes away in Napavine; a very nice outdoor venue, but that night was met with its own humor. The concert was part of a “Hot Summer Nights” concert series, for several days prior to the show in May it had rained, making the ground quite damp.

Despite the fact that’s technically late spring, nobody had bothered to let Mother Nature know. It was so cold that I had to buy a sweatshirt for another layer, and, during the show I started to admire -- well, was envious of, really -- the fact the band members were sweating. I had half a mind to turn into a groupie and throw myself onto the stage, just to get a few minutes’ warmth from the stage lights -- or perhaps a momentary grasp of a warm musician's body before security tore me away and tossed me tidily back outside. When I left, my legs were numb from cold from my feet to my knees....Some “hot summer night” that was!

On this past Tuesday or Wednesday, as I got into my car for work, my mind wandered to the coming weekend and the music that would fill it. I began to chuckle and thought, “Wouldn’t that be funny if my car died again, and I had to take Andrew’s car again to see Joe’s show again!”

Friday morning, already late, I hopped into my car to rush to work, turned the key over, had a flash of engine beginning, lights coming on, and --

Nothing.

It was totally dead. My car refused to utter even the tiniest squeak, wheeze, cough or sputter.

This time the jinx was on me.

Here’s the equation I believe came into play: Joe Nichols + Washington Venue + My Car = Dead Vehicle. Somehow that combination seems to cancel out the functionality of my car. I don’t particularly want to find out if that equation always rings true, so hopefully Joe will simply come to a Portland venue and I can just take the train and not even worry about my car having to work...or maybe the next time he swings through town, I ought to book a rental car the same time I buy my ticket, just to be on the safe side.

I called Andrew, who kindly lent me his car again for the weekend, as he would be away camping for the weekend. (I make it worth his while – not only do I fill up the tank, but I get it washed, vacuumed and I wipe down the interior surfaces.)

Joe Nichols’ show was set for the Clark County Fair, and, misjudging on the side of caution the time it would take me to get to the fairgrounds, I got there an hour and a half early; usually the drive takes a good two hours because of traffic as I always seem to head that direction at the tail end of a work day – and on a molasses traffic Friday.

After watching the tail end of Joe and his band doing their sound check, I meandered around the fair for a bit, drinking in the sounds of children’s screams induced by the delicious terror created by the rides, the wonderful too-sweet aroma of cotton candy, caramel apples, mixed with the scent of freshly-made corndogs and barbequed hamburgers. The air was full of the tangy scent of hot metal, oil, dust, all backed by the thumping bump of the requisite hard rock music that is clearly the mandatory soundtrack played by ride operators. I had every intention of ignoring the rides, and killing time by wandering through the displays. But after looking at a variety of fire engines – one as old as 1855 – I found myself plopping down money at a ticket booth for some tickets.

I nearly had a heart attack, though.

The sign at the ticket booth said “One Coupon $1.” Reasonable, I thought. But then I read that most rides took 3 or more tickets; likely the kiddie rides would be the 3-ticket rides. Unlimited rides were $50. That was the part that gave me the heart attack.

Granted, it’s been awhile since I’ve been to a county fair, but the last price I saw was $15 for unlimited rides, and even that seemed spendy. And, back then, rides were generally one or two tickets – maybe three for the harrier ones. Not four or five as these rides were priced.

I bought 12 tickets – enough for at least three rides, I figured – and threaded my way through the game booths run by tired, dusty, sun-dried vendors who seemed glad for finally having some shade (it’s been in the mildly-cool 90s here lately; yes, Larry, I realize that’s sweater weather compared to Baghdad, but that’s hot for Oregon – especially so many days in a row!) There were the standard rides – The Zipper, The Scrambler, plus the standard kiddie Bugmobiles and carousel.– and ones that were new to me, including one where the rider lies on his or her stomach on a little three-person deal with hang gliding wings above them.

I went for my old favorite – The Yo-Yo, a ride where you sit in swings that get spun faster and faster at intervals so that you get higher and higher; amazing what simple little centrifugal force will do to create all sorts of fun-induced nausea.

There was one ride I had my eye on, but wasn’t sure I wanted to try; it looked much like the old ride that looked much like a hammer that swung people around in a big circle to put you upside down. This one, however, kept you upright – but the spin seemed a bit faster than any ride like that I’d been on.

Instead, I went for a ride on the classic Ferris Wheel (the operator refused my tickets, so I wound up with a nice four rides for my tickets, instead of just three). It really was a pretty day for it – clear all the way to Oregon, not a cloud in the sky. But that ride seems best for nighttime, with all the fair lights blazing, and a dome of stars above you.

It’s also better when you’re with someone.

But it’s still fun to look out over the fairgrounds, dotted with all the brightly-colored t-shirts, rides tidily scattered over the ground. I closed my eyes, and let the momentum of the ride wash over me, the cool breeze blending with the laughter and screams, the smell of sun-hot metal, and the thrumming of the roller coaster motor next to me. It was clean, pure child-borne fun in the best sense. Even the sticky feel on the palms of my hands from the rides and the dust in the air was a reminder.

Since I had one set of tickets left, I braved the whirly ride I’d skeptically eyed (which is funny, because give me any madly cork-screwed roller coaster and I’ll be on it six times before you can blink). I’m glad I went on – it was good, stiff, spinning fun. It was hard not to grin, despite the decided whirliness of my stomach. I was ever so grateful for my early and decidedly light dinner of rice, fruit and a pork chop two hours earlier; I think fair food is designed to make that whirliness even punchier. I gave away my last three tickets (I could have bought one to go on one final ride, but the timing was perfect for the concert, and my stomach was clearly asking me politely not to do so) and went to my seat thinking, I have to remember to do this more often!

It was a good, solid reminder of how much fun acting like an adult kid is.

It was a great show. Joe was clearly in a much livelier, better mood – in May he’d seemed a bit closed and quiet behind his enjoyment of the show; he was much more interactive with the crowd, much bouncier – well, cockier, really; damnably good-looking to begin with, the guy clearly has a rather charming ego that peeks out quite attractively from under his rather classic down-home, polite demeanor. The summer weather and the months of practice between May (which was very early in his tour) and Sunday night made the whole performance feel much more mellow and humorous.

Plus it was a lot warmer.

I have to admit, I’m disappointed the weekend’s over. Bumps aside in getting to it, it was, overall, balmy and calm, and nicely relaxing with great music – and a re-introduction to a forgotten variety of fun, it means I’m back to my car. It’s a decent car, but Andrew’s is decidedly hipper and zippier. But the advent of Monday means it will need to remain tucked away under the car port and the relinquishment of the car keys. Andrew’s going to give my car a jump tonight, as it’s likely my battery. I think I need a new one; I haven’t replaced it since I got the car, and with the hot weather, I’ve been running the A/C a lot, which wears it down. At least I’m hoping that’s all it is.

It’s still extremely busy at work, and so this was a terrific wind-down weekend for me. In and around it all, though it got me thinking about some things – where I’m going personally, what my next step is in life. I don’t know why, but it’s like a curtain of sorts got tossed back by the evening breeze at the fair, or perhaps it was the fresh perspective from the top of the Ferris wheel that knitted it all together more firmly. I just know I woke up this morning feeling like some sort of internal cogs and gears had shifted into a new slot; I’d been feeling somewhat out of sync for a few weeks, now that I look back over time.

I have the odd feeling that there’s something really amazing just around the corner, and that it’s going to involve leaving where I am and heading someplace new; not just figuratively, but as in a new job, and even a new location. I’ve been thinking, lately, that I need a change of culture, but what that means I don’t know yet.

Whatever it is, I’m going to make sure I include at least a few whirly carnival rides on a more frequent schedule.