So I intended to keep this going at least daily during the week, but I keep failing miserably. You know, you intend to write something, but then something happens, and you just can't get back to it?
I picked her up the following day, which was Sunday, for ice cream. She dressed up for the occasion looking much better than I did, and I was happy to see her again. I was happy to be going out with her finally after what amounts to four years of waiting for it. We hit Braum's and got our ice cream, but of course, ice cream was not the point of the date. We talked. Non-stop we talked the whole time about a little of everything. While at present, I don't know everything we discussed, I know I was just enjoying her company. To me, she hadn't changed at all. She was just as cute as when I'd seen her in high school, but this time, there was no competition, perceived or otherwise, for her affections. It was just me and her, and a nearly empty restaurant.
That evening was completely respectable. After Braum's, I took her home and walked her to her door. We bid each other a farewell with a shy wave, and that was that. The amusing side of this was that just prior to this re-meeting, she'd been dating sporadically to the point of going out with someone once, deciding she didn't like him, and that was it after one date. So, her parents saw me as the flavor of the moment and likely not to see me again.
Imagine their surprise when I called on her again, and we decided to go out on a Tuesday and make a whole day of it. We went to the zoo, of all places, and just hung out. It was there that I worked up the courage to clasp her hand and hold it. She took it willingly.
As I recall, I think I did something cheesy and ran over to a door for some reason, taking her hand as I said "Come on." Neither of us wanted to let go after that, so we held hands the majority of the remainder of our time checking out the myriad of animals at the zoo.
Following the zoo, we went to dinner at Olive Garden, which became a signature place for us, and she wanted me to order for her. Little did I know I was being tested. I looked over the menu, and thought about what sh might want. Now, I hadn't seen her in four years, and I still barely knew her, so it was as blind a shot as anyone could take to pick something off of a menu for her. But took the shot...
"Fettucini Alfredo," said I. I passed the test. Turns out that Fettucini Alfredo is one of her favorite dishes at Olive Garden, and I could only have gotten extra credit by ordering chicken on it. I got the Tour of Italy, which is the dish for those who can't decide what they want as it has Lasagna, Fettucini Alfredo, and Chicken Parmigiana. It can be argued (especially by over-zealous Italians) that Olive Garden is merely a non-Italian pasta restaurant, but to those people I say, "Shut up and let me eat my pasta."
From there, we went to the elementary school near her parents' house that we both attended at one time or another (and that Rock Girl spent two grades in). I learned that the Queen was in the very first class to go there for all 6 years of elementary school, as it was finished during her kindergarden year and she was transferred in during that year. I only went there one year, in second grade (now there's another really long story I might tell one day, but not today), but was at another school my other years.
We talked a lot on the playground. We didn't play on the toys, though. Just sat on them as we talked. There was a lot of tension of the positive variety between us. I wanted to take her in my arms at that point, but that chicken side of me held me off. "What would she do," I wondered. I couldn't bring myself to break that barrier as much as I internally wanted to. With every move through the playground, I felt the temptation to hold her in some way, but I just couldn't.
Romance is a very difficult thing for introverts. We gain our personal energy from spending time alone, so finding someone we are willing to give up our precious aloneness for is such a rare thing, that we just don't know what to do with it. I hadn't had a lot of experience in the field anyway, as you'll learn from the Silent Years section, but I had felt that touch before, and deep down, I knew that everything I had gone through was in preparation for this time -- for her.
My mind reeled with the possibly of being close to her like I tried to be close to the others, but untimately failed for one reason or another. But she was different. There was a genuineness there that didn't exist in the others -- like finding a piece of me that I'd long misplaced and been trying to fit with pieces that don't fit right.
At the time, although we were both no longer minors, her parents did have a curfew, of sorts, that they asked her to follow. They asked her out of respect for them since they had to work the following days, and to be honest, I found this curfew refreshing, since it gave me a firm time to have her home, and allowed me to be responsible about my life too. That time was 10:30.
So 10:00 rolled around, and we headed back to her house. We walked to my car and I stood close to her as I opened the door. We looked in each other's eyes for a long moment, but I finally opened the door fully and let her in. When we got to her house, we stood on the porch a long time, looking at each, trying to find a close to our evening of what can only be described in the end as sexual tension.
We looked at each other. I was trying to decide what to do. I know what I wanted to do, but I was frozen. I didn't want to do anything to upset her, or make her go away. This final moment is said to be critical, since it defines how the evening went. Any move could seal my doom or lead to paradise.
I leaned forward and wrapped my arms around her. Se returned the gesture. We stood there like that for a long time, neither of us moving -- just holding each other as our second date came to a close.
Wednesday, February 20, 2008
Monday, February 18, 2008
It's Pink
People are funny when it comes to colors. Not only is there a man/woman divide between what a color is, but different people perceive colors different ways, and most of them are as insistent about color as they are about religion and politics.
Men are pretty simple when it comes to color. Pick up a box of 16 colors, and that's about it. We break down colors into three shades: light, regular, and dark. So we have red, light red, and dark red. Not maroon; dark red. Not burgundy; dark red. Sometimes, we have a "deep" version of a color, but it's still based on the base color. If you've ever read 1984, it's rather like dealing with Newspeak. Newspeak has single words that are appended with un- for the negative plus- and doubleplus- for comparative and superlative. They don't have "no". They have unyes. It's not "the worst"; it's doubleplusungood. I do describe a favorite color of mine as midnight blue, but it's the same deal; a description of the base color. Or in a more geek-ish sense, we are a late 80's VGA monitor.
Women are different. Crayons don't begin to decribe their palette. They are the most modern computer with a palette of 256,000,000 colors, and they have a name for every single one of them; and God forbid you use the wrong color. Me: it's kind of a pinkish-orange. Her: It's Fucia (or however it's spelled). Me: It's off white. Her: it's eggshell.
Now to the point of the whole discussion. We bought a house a couple years ago with a very...unique...color scheme. It's inspired. I don't know what drug inspired it, but it's truly inspired. She claimed to be a horticulturalist, so I'm sure some herb was involved in the inspiration. The outside is this wicked, kind of earthy, orange color. But the inside...the carpet...is where the fun is.
When we toured the house, we looked at the carpet. It looked kind of pinkish, and in girl talk, the Queen said it was Salmon. Yeah, the color. Pink, salmon, whatever. Well, come time for the official walkthrough and inspection with the former owner, we comment on the pink / salmon carpet, and she flips out. "IT'S TERRACOTTA," she informs us indignantly. She searched everywhere for that specific color, and it's terracotta. The idea that she actually tried to find this color was nothing short of shocking, but to insist on the specific color was hilarious. That's like insisting that "My car isn't blue. It's metallic mountain forest pearl aquamarine!"
Then again, I'm not entirely guilt-free of doing something like this. I'm into movies and moviemaking, and at one job I had, the trainer asked (rhetorically) if a movie from the 70's could be presented in HD (you know, the newer 1080 line resolution) format. The class dutifully replied "no." The trainer, proudly, said, "That's right." I responded, "well, it's actually possible."
She turned and looked at me, and said it wasn't. I explained that those movies would have been filmed on 35mm film and a digital transfer of that original 35mm print can yield a perfect HD picture because the film would have no restriction to the resolution it was made in. I even cited Star Wars Episode I as an example of this as it was filmed on 35mm, and then digitally transferred before the final print. I was apparently the only one in that room who had a clue as to what I was talking about, and she just said "no, it can't" and moved on. (Queue nose-thumbing routine)
Of course, there are colors I figure I can recognize accurately and even name correctly. My car, for example, is brown. It has a nice gloss to it, and isn't ugly by any stretch, but it's brown. However, the title says it's gold. Gold is one of my 16 colors. I can recognize gold. My car is not gold (which is a bright metallic yellowish-brown).
But gold or brown means little to me. I'm just glad it's not red. I never want to own another red car as long as I live. My first car was this little 3-cylinder Subaru Justy. Yup, three cylinders. I got that puppy up to 105 mph once (going downhill), and it continued to purr. But it didn't purr like my next car, a red Camaro. Eight, sweet, gas-gussling cylinders under that hood with T-tops. It was very nice...until I hit a log in the middle of the road in the middle of the night. That sucked...hard. It was totaled, and replaced by a...wait for it...red...Ford Probe. The Probe was cool except that it's a domestic car made by a foreign car maker (Mazda), so none of the parts were cheap when (not if) it broke. There it is: ten years of cars for me. The Probe lasted the longest until its engine blew, throwing two rods and cracking the head; apparently, oil is a necessity in modern cars.
So this is random, and part of me wants to move on to current events, but how so I begin to transition into something else? I know. End this one and start a new one. Ah, electronic data transfer is a sweet, sweet thing. Queue technolust.
Men are pretty simple when it comes to color. Pick up a box of 16 colors, and that's about it. We break down colors into three shades: light, regular, and dark. So we have red, light red, and dark red. Not maroon; dark red. Not burgundy; dark red. Sometimes, we have a "deep" version of a color, but it's still based on the base color. If you've ever read 1984, it's rather like dealing with Newspeak. Newspeak has single words that are appended with un- for the negative plus- and doubleplus- for comparative and superlative. They don't have "no". They have unyes. It's not "the worst"; it's doubleplusungood. I do describe a favorite color of mine as midnight blue, but it's the same deal; a description of the base color. Or in a more geek-ish sense, we are a late 80's VGA monitor.
Women are different. Crayons don't begin to decribe their palette. They are the most modern computer with a palette of 256,000,000 colors, and they have a name for every single one of them; and God forbid you use the wrong color. Me: it's kind of a pinkish-orange. Her: It's Fucia (or however it's spelled). Me: It's off white. Her: it's eggshell.
Now to the point of the whole discussion. We bought a house a couple years ago with a very...unique...color scheme. It's inspired. I don't know what drug inspired it, but it's truly inspired. She claimed to be a horticulturalist, so I'm sure some herb was involved in the inspiration. The outside is this wicked, kind of earthy, orange color. But the inside...the carpet...is where the fun is.
When we toured the house, we looked at the carpet. It looked kind of pinkish, and in girl talk, the Queen said it was Salmon. Yeah, the color. Pink, salmon, whatever. Well, come time for the official walkthrough and inspection with the former owner, we comment on the pink / salmon carpet, and she flips out. "IT'S TERRACOTTA," she informs us indignantly. She searched everywhere for that specific color, and it's terracotta. The idea that she actually tried to find this color was nothing short of shocking, but to insist on the specific color was hilarious. That's like insisting that "My car isn't blue. It's metallic mountain forest pearl aquamarine!"
Then again, I'm not entirely guilt-free of doing something like this. I'm into movies and moviemaking, and at one job I had, the trainer asked (rhetorically) if a movie from the 70's could be presented in HD (you know, the newer 1080 line resolution) format. The class dutifully replied "no." The trainer, proudly, said, "That's right." I responded, "well, it's actually possible."
She turned and looked at me, and said it wasn't. I explained that those movies would have been filmed on 35mm film and a digital transfer of that original 35mm print can yield a perfect HD picture because the film would have no restriction to the resolution it was made in. I even cited Star Wars Episode I as an example of this as it was filmed on 35mm, and then digitally transferred before the final print. I was apparently the only one in that room who had a clue as to what I was talking about, and she just said "no, it can't" and moved on. (Queue nose-thumbing routine)
Of course, there are colors I figure I can recognize accurately and even name correctly. My car, for example, is brown. It has a nice gloss to it, and isn't ugly by any stretch, but it's brown. However, the title says it's gold. Gold is one of my 16 colors. I can recognize gold. My car is not gold (which is a bright metallic yellowish-brown).
But gold or brown means little to me. I'm just glad it's not red. I never want to own another red car as long as I live. My first car was this little 3-cylinder Subaru Justy. Yup, three cylinders. I got that puppy up to 105 mph once (going downhill), and it continued to purr. But it didn't purr like my next car, a red Camaro. Eight, sweet, gas-gussling cylinders under that hood with T-tops. It was very nice...until I hit a log in the middle of the road in the middle of the night. That sucked...hard. It was totaled, and replaced by a...wait for it...red...Ford Probe. The Probe was cool except that it's a domestic car made by a foreign car maker (Mazda), so none of the parts were cheap when (not if) it broke. There it is: ten years of cars for me. The Probe lasted the longest until its engine blew, throwing two rods and cracking the head; apparently, oil is a necessity in modern cars.
So this is random, and part of me wants to move on to current events, but how so I begin to transition into something else? I know. End this one and start a new one. Ah, electronic data transfer is a sweet, sweet thing. Queue technolust.
Sunday, February 17, 2008
Fort Carson
I lived in Colorado. Colorado Springs, to be exact. Fort Carson is like a suburb of the city sitting right on the South end of town, but it emptied right onto your choice of the two roads that basically took you on either side of Colorado Springs: Academy Blvd on one side and Nevada Ave on the other. No, these aren't the outermost streets, but they join at both ends of the city so staying on one is like riding an artery -- where ever you're going, you'll get close with one or the other.
After my 6 month stint at the School of Music, I passed my final audition to graduate and move on to my permanent duty station at Fort Carson. I had very little to do once I arrived because the actual job was very, very easy. Show at 8 on most mornings, play a few gigs here and there, and get off between 3 and 4:30. Depending on what all was going on, there were days we came in later, some earlier, and some not at all. What's a guy to do in a town with no family and no friends?
I watched movies. Possibly this started my obsession that later grew into writing, but the base had a movie theatre that was $1 to watch a different movie every night. So, every night, I walked the mile from the barracks to the theatre and watched a movie. I saw some very good movies that had a reasonably sized audience, some like Cabin Boy which had an audience of maybe 5, and only one like House Party 3, which filled the theatre to the breaking point, standing room only (and I was one of maybe four or five white people -- not racist, mind you, that was just an observation).
It wasn't too long before my sponser, The Burgurmeister, took me to one of the car dealerships (from whom he had bought all his vehicles and trusted) to help me get a car. We went several times, as I was rather indecisive, until I finally just said I'd take something with two doors (after he'd tried to put me in a baby blue 4 door Escort that I hated). He came up with a 3 door hatchback Subaru Justy that was red. I didn't much care for red, but they said to start with this car and in a couple years, I could trade up for something better. Sounded good to me.
So I moved from walking to the movie theatre every day to driving all around town. I went everywhere and discovered the town in its entirety. There was even a day it snowed and ice was everywhere, but I decided to go out anyway. I drove all around town, slipping and sliding and learning how to drive on the snow and ice. The streets were quite deserted, so I was saved from much trouble as I slid all over.
However, I also had my first little car accident. While coming back on the base, I was following behind another new vehicle and the ice got the better of me. I slid right into the back of them, denting my hood, and busting my headlight. The vehicle I hit was a jeep-like vehicle with a dealer tag. I slightly bent his spare tire holder rim. I was going slow anyway, and may have hit at 5-10 mph at the most, so damage was minmal, and I never heard any more of it. Of course, I paid through the nose to replace my foreign headlight.
After a couple months of this, more people came in from the SOM, and one of them was a guy who was very, very good at the military thing. He kept his hair trimmed, his PT scores up, and even went to the training for NCO, and was a corporal prior to my leaving the Army. The Army term for someone who does the Army well is High Speed, so that's what we'll call him. We hung out together throughout most of my time in the Army, and went all over the place.
He was very much into Transformers (not unlike my current friend, Optimus Prime), and hunting for these toys was a pasttime we enjoyed, even making a trip to Denver to check out their Toys R Us up there. Another thing we did was visit every single McDonald's in Colorado Springs at the time. We liked to eat in a variety of places, and after hitting a few of the local McDonald's we saw a map in one that showed all of the local stores: the quest was born.
What was the job all about? Well, we played mostly pass-in-reviews for high ranking individuals incoming and outgoing. We saw more brass in the form of colonels and generals than most Army soldiers do thanks to what we do in playing those wonderful marches. We marched parades for local and surrounding communities and other bases; we played sit down concerts every where from Pueblo to Denver and beyond to Utah, Wyoming and Nebraska; I was in the jazz ensemble, a dixie band, and a brass quintet, and we were all over the state to venues some people would never have even heard of. I was only there for a year and a half, but I figure I played some 500 performances with the band, as there were time we played 2 or 3 gigs in a day.
And when it comes to gigs we took, sometimes we would give preference with a positive answer to one question: are you serving food? We got fed at multiple places with some very good chow and some that really left a lot to be desired. Being in a group that performed so extensively and so very well was a job experience I will never forget as long as I live. I loved every minute....of the band part.
The Army part was not my cup of tea. I hated PT. Hated it with a passion. If I could get out of running outside, I would, and after some time, one of the women did aerobics inside and we could do that instead of running (sometimes). I took every opportunity. This was one of those things, however, that got me into trouble because I would avoid running to such an extent, that I eventually got caught, and written up for it.
You see, what I know now that I didn't know then was that the Army Band was a total cake walk. Do what you're told and you'll be fine. I was lazy in a lot of regards which made me a target for the First Sergeant and Chief Warrant Officer of the band. But that wasn't my only folly with them...or more specifically, the Chief. You see, he was a trombone player like I was. He was a very good one that played with the best band in the Army, and when he was there, he had played a particular solo called the Blue Bells of Scotland. It's a difficult trombone solo, but I enjoyed playing it. I played it for my incoming audition...oh, bad idea.
Since the Chief knew this solo for more years than I'd played the instrument, he knew every nuance and every pitfall it had. He graded me harded than I'd ever been graded, and as a result, I failed the audition coming into the band. They wanted me to re-audition at a later date after practicing with the Burgurmeister. I was in shock. I thought the auditions were over and all they wanted to do was hear me play.
That incident along with my own lazy negligence served to kill me for the military. If only's abound with abundance out of that experience, but the band and military weren't the only experiences I gained. No, I managed to garner me 2 girlfriends out of the deal as well. One was short lived, but the other lingered for quite some time, even though we barely saw each other.
After my 6 month stint at the School of Music, I passed my final audition to graduate and move on to my permanent duty station at Fort Carson. I had very little to do once I arrived because the actual job was very, very easy. Show at 8 on most mornings, play a few gigs here and there, and get off between 3 and 4:30. Depending on what all was going on, there were days we came in later, some earlier, and some not at all. What's a guy to do in a town with no family and no friends?
I watched movies. Possibly this started my obsession that later grew into writing, but the base had a movie theatre that was $1 to watch a different movie every night. So, every night, I walked the mile from the barracks to the theatre and watched a movie. I saw some very good movies that had a reasonably sized audience, some like Cabin Boy which had an audience of maybe 5, and only one like House Party 3, which filled the theatre to the breaking point, standing room only (and I was one of maybe four or five white people -- not racist, mind you, that was just an observation).
It wasn't too long before my sponser, The Burgurmeister, took me to one of the car dealerships (from whom he had bought all his vehicles and trusted) to help me get a car. We went several times, as I was rather indecisive, until I finally just said I'd take something with two doors (after he'd tried to put me in a baby blue 4 door Escort that I hated). He came up with a 3 door hatchback Subaru Justy that was red. I didn't much care for red, but they said to start with this car and in a couple years, I could trade up for something better. Sounded good to me.
So I moved from walking to the movie theatre every day to driving all around town. I went everywhere and discovered the town in its entirety. There was even a day it snowed and ice was everywhere, but I decided to go out anyway. I drove all around town, slipping and sliding and learning how to drive on the snow and ice. The streets were quite deserted, so I was saved from much trouble as I slid all over.
However, I also had my first little car accident. While coming back on the base, I was following behind another new vehicle and the ice got the better of me. I slid right into the back of them, denting my hood, and busting my headlight. The vehicle I hit was a jeep-like vehicle with a dealer tag. I slightly bent his spare tire holder rim. I was going slow anyway, and may have hit at 5-10 mph at the most, so damage was minmal, and I never heard any more of it. Of course, I paid through the nose to replace my foreign headlight.
After a couple months of this, more people came in from the SOM, and one of them was a guy who was very, very good at the military thing. He kept his hair trimmed, his PT scores up, and even went to the training for NCO, and was a corporal prior to my leaving the Army. The Army term for someone who does the Army well is High Speed, so that's what we'll call him. We hung out together throughout most of my time in the Army, and went all over the place.
He was very much into Transformers (not unlike my current friend, Optimus Prime), and hunting for these toys was a pasttime we enjoyed, even making a trip to Denver to check out their Toys R Us up there. Another thing we did was visit every single McDonald's in Colorado Springs at the time. We liked to eat in a variety of places, and after hitting a few of the local McDonald's we saw a map in one that showed all of the local stores: the quest was born.
What was the job all about? Well, we played mostly pass-in-reviews for high ranking individuals incoming and outgoing. We saw more brass in the form of colonels and generals than most Army soldiers do thanks to what we do in playing those wonderful marches. We marched parades for local and surrounding communities and other bases; we played sit down concerts every where from Pueblo to Denver and beyond to Utah, Wyoming and Nebraska; I was in the jazz ensemble, a dixie band, and a brass quintet, and we were all over the state to venues some people would never have even heard of. I was only there for a year and a half, but I figure I played some 500 performances with the band, as there were time we played 2 or 3 gigs in a day.
And when it comes to gigs we took, sometimes we would give preference with a positive answer to one question: are you serving food? We got fed at multiple places with some very good chow and some that really left a lot to be desired. Being in a group that performed so extensively and so very well was a job experience I will never forget as long as I live. I loved every minute....of the band part.
The Army part was not my cup of tea. I hated PT. Hated it with a passion. If I could get out of running outside, I would, and after some time, one of the women did aerobics inside and we could do that instead of running (sometimes). I took every opportunity. This was one of those things, however, that got me into trouble because I would avoid running to such an extent, that I eventually got caught, and written up for it.
You see, what I know now that I didn't know then was that the Army Band was a total cake walk. Do what you're told and you'll be fine. I was lazy in a lot of regards which made me a target for the First Sergeant and Chief Warrant Officer of the band. But that wasn't my only folly with them...or more specifically, the Chief. You see, he was a trombone player like I was. He was a very good one that played with the best band in the Army, and when he was there, he had played a particular solo called the Blue Bells of Scotland. It's a difficult trombone solo, but I enjoyed playing it. I played it for my incoming audition...oh, bad idea.
Since the Chief knew this solo for more years than I'd played the instrument, he knew every nuance and every pitfall it had. He graded me harded than I'd ever been graded, and as a result, I failed the audition coming into the band. They wanted me to re-audition at a later date after practicing with the Burgurmeister. I was in shock. I thought the auditions were over and all they wanted to do was hear me play.
That incident along with my own lazy negligence served to kill me for the military. If only's abound with abundance out of that experience, but the band and military weren't the only experiences I gained. No, I managed to garner me 2 girlfriends out of the deal as well. One was short lived, but the other lingered for quite some time, even though we barely saw each other.
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