Some time ago I spent a few years in law school. I ended up dropping out without finishing that degree, and I didn't learn much jurisprudence, but my friends all later assured me that I had a pretty good time while I was at it. One of these friends from those days often hosted me at his house before we headed off to the golf course in lieu of studying. On one of these visits he introduced me to his cat; or at least he claimed it was a cat. This feline was ancient in Biblical proportions, and had grown enormously fat and mangy presumably through many years of lounging leisurely on the back of my friend's couch. I can't say that I recall ever seeing this cat move, so I am taking his word for it that it was an actual live cat.
One day as we returned from a round of drinks and a round of golf at the links, my friend impulsively pulled into a parking lot and announced that he wanted to go shopping in a pet store nearby. Since the only other thing I had to do was to read some cases on torts and contracts, I naturally agreed to accompany him.
The inside of the store was a virtual menagerie of various exotic animals. One little brute that caught the fancy of my friend was a ferret. Let me say here that I shun the company of ferrets ever since my senior year in college when one of my fraternity brothers assured me that his ferret would not bite, immediately before the bugger made him a liar by biting me on the hand. My golfing buddy seemed enchanted by the antics of the ferret as it crawled about his shoulders. Obviously he was considering buying this beast and taking it home; an unwise proposition in my opinion.
Then he said, "I would buy this ferret for a pet, but I'm afraid that my cat wouldn't leave it alone".
This last comment made me laugh out loud (and it still does today). I replied to my friend, "your cat will mess with that ferret once, and then I promise you he will leave it alone!"
He didn't buy the ferret.
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
En français s'il vous plaît...
I confess that my ability to speak and read French has grown rusty through disuse over the years. This is a shame considering all the time I spent studying the language throughout high school. I blame my college advisor for this, at least in part. During my freshman conference (my one and only conference with my college advisor) he noted that I had four years of French on my transcript and recommended that I try for a BA. This was good advice. Next he suggested that I should "broaden my horizons" by switching to study of a new language, German. As it turns out, I hated German; hated studying it; hated reading it; hated trying to twist my throat and tongue around speaking it; and not by any means the least consideration, hated the instructor who taught it and gave me 'Cs' and 'Ds' in retaliation for my rebellion against all things Teutonic. The only thing I acquired from my study of German was a lower GPA and a couple of handy phrases I memorized (I can order beer in German, ask where the tourist bureau is, and inquire whether a fraulein is game for some sex). German was a diversion from my first amour, French. In my sophomore year I abandoned plans for a BA settling instead for a BS and discontinued my studies in foreign languages in any formal sense.
Today I can still speak a little French, and I'm pretty good at ordering from a menu of a restaurant serving French cuisine (which is among my favorites). Over the years I have enjoyed the good fortune of having several French adventures, not the least of which was actually traveling to France in the summer after high school graduation and celebrating my 18th birthday in Paris. Let me relate two of those adventures.
The tour group to France of which I was a member spent a little over a week in Paris split into two separate stays. First we resided a few days at the Hotel Henri Quatre on the Ile de la Cité in central Paris, just a few yard from Notre Dame Cathedral. Next we toured various points of interest throughout the country (ask me later about missing the train to Tours) before returning to Paris for a few days more. On this second stay, the Henri Quatre was all booked up, so instead we found accommodations in the Hotel Chatelais located in the Place Chatelais. (Incidentally, this is a very nice hotel which I would readily recommend to anyone traveling to Paris). One night in mid June there was a festival of sorts along the Seine river which was a few blocks from our hotel. I strolled down to the river with a few of the young ladies from our tour group for a walk and to enjoy the sights and lingered rather late into the evening. Upon making our way back to the hotel, we found ourselves embarrassingly misdirected among the narrow confusing streets and darkness of night. I did not panic because I knew we could only be a few blocks from our hotel at most, and because I could speak the language rather well. Nearby I spied a man closing up a shop for the night, so I approached him for directions.
"Excusez moi monsieur, ou peut on trouver le Place du Chatelais?" I asked (excuse me sir, where can one find Chatelais Square?)
"Que vous cherche?" he replied (What are you looking for?)
"Le Place du Chatelais" I repeated (Chatelais square)
And then the shop keeper said to me, "go down this street two blocks, turn left and go another block, you can't miss it".
Not only did the shop keeper speak better French than me, he probably spoke better English too. "Merci" I said to him in parting.
My next little anecdote en français did not take place in France but rather in Cincinnati (a large midwest German city; and you know now how I feel about that). I was working for a manager who I liked pretty well because of his good nature, but this did not prevent me from plying my trade in notorious pranks from time to time. (One time I asked him if he wanted some coffee, and when he said "yes, I would" I held out my cup and asked if he would get me some coffee too). This particular manager was dating a woman that he really liked and wanted to impress. Knowing that I spoke a bit of French, he approached me and asked if I would teach him some French so that he could impress his new girlfriend. This opportunity for mischief was too good to pass up.
I taught my manager the phrase, "votre mère fait l'amour avec les soldats". I told him that it meant, "you are a wise and trusted friend". I made him repeat it several times to ensure that he had the pronunciation down, just so.
This of course is not a correct translation. For my friends that are francophone, try not to be too shocked and remember that I have a bit of a devious sense of humor. For those who don't understand French, well let's just say that this is not something one says in polite company.
Anyway, I know for a fact that the woman didn't understand French at all. After he used it on her, she married him.
Today I can still speak a little French, and I'm pretty good at ordering from a menu of a restaurant serving French cuisine (which is among my favorites). Over the years I have enjoyed the good fortune of having several French adventures, not the least of which was actually traveling to France in the summer after high school graduation and celebrating my 18th birthday in Paris. Let me relate two of those adventures.
The tour group to France of which I was a member spent a little over a week in Paris split into two separate stays. First we resided a few days at the Hotel Henri Quatre on the Ile de la Cité in central Paris, just a few yard from Notre Dame Cathedral. Next we toured various points of interest throughout the country (ask me later about missing the train to Tours) before returning to Paris for a few days more. On this second stay, the Henri Quatre was all booked up, so instead we found accommodations in the Hotel Chatelais located in the Place Chatelais. (Incidentally, this is a very nice hotel which I would readily recommend to anyone traveling to Paris). One night in mid June there was a festival of sorts along the Seine river which was a few blocks from our hotel. I strolled down to the river with a few of the young ladies from our tour group for a walk and to enjoy the sights and lingered rather late into the evening. Upon making our way back to the hotel, we found ourselves embarrassingly misdirected among the narrow confusing streets and darkness of night. I did not panic because I knew we could only be a few blocks from our hotel at most, and because I could speak the language rather well. Nearby I spied a man closing up a shop for the night, so I approached him for directions.
"Excusez moi monsieur, ou peut on trouver le Place du Chatelais?" I asked (excuse me sir, where can one find Chatelais Square?)
"Que vous cherche?" he replied (What are you looking for?)
"Le Place du Chatelais" I repeated (Chatelais square)
And then the shop keeper said to me, "go down this street two blocks, turn left and go another block, you can't miss it".
Not only did the shop keeper speak better French than me, he probably spoke better English too. "Merci" I said to him in parting.
My next little anecdote en français did not take place in France but rather in Cincinnati (a large midwest German city; and you know now how I feel about that). I was working for a manager who I liked pretty well because of his good nature, but this did not prevent me from plying my trade in notorious pranks from time to time. (One time I asked him if he wanted some coffee, and when he said "yes, I would" I held out my cup and asked if he would get me some coffee too). This particular manager was dating a woman that he really liked and wanted to impress. Knowing that I spoke a bit of French, he approached me and asked if I would teach him some French so that he could impress his new girlfriend. This opportunity for mischief was too good to pass up.
I taught my manager the phrase, "votre mère fait l'amour avec les soldats". I told him that it meant, "you are a wise and trusted friend". I made him repeat it several times to ensure that he had the pronunciation down, just so.
This of course is not a correct translation. For my friends that are francophone, try not to be too shocked and remember that I have a bit of a devious sense of humor. For those who don't understand French, well let's just say that this is not something one says in polite company.
Anyway, I know for a fact that the woman didn't understand French at all. After he used it on her, she married him.
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
The Ballad of Jackass and Jerk
Have you ever been in your home late at night thinking that you were alone, and suddenly become aware that you were quite mistaken; you are not alone? A stranger is lurking in your house somewhere in the dark. This happened to me once, and the consequences narrowly missed a tragedy.
There once was a time when I had a roommate whom I will call “Jackass” for the purposes of this blog. The reasons for the choice of pseudonym will become clearer later on. One Friday afternoon, Jackass informed me that he would be away for the entire weekend, and did not expect to return until late Sunday night. Jackass spent much of his time taking steroids and bumming about in the local gym and in the course of his workouts had met another body builder (I’ll call him “Jerk”) who made a living as a male stripper. Since Jackass owned a video camera, he would accompany Jerk to his stripping gigs and record the festivities. Later, when the performance was concluded and the bachelorette was well lubricated with adult beverages, Jackass would offer to sell her a copy of the tape as a memorial of the occasion. I suppose everyone must make a living somehow.
None of this particularly concerned me until about 2:00 the next morning when I awoke from a deep sleep to the sounds of someone moving around in the apartment. I knew it couldn’t be Jackass because he was supposed to be out of town. As quietly as I could, I retrieved the Colt .45 automatic that I kept on my nightstand and put on a pair of jeans. I carefully opened the bedroom door and peered out into the dark apartment, cocked pistol in my hand, by my side, at the ready to start shooting should the pending confrontation turn violent.
Directly across the hall from my door was the door to the bathroom which was closed (we never kept it closed) and the light was on (and we never kept the light on at night). Inside the bathroom I could clearly hear someone moving about. Soon the doorknob turned and I braced myself for a confrontation with the intruder as the door swung open.
Some people say that if a person breaks into your house that it is okay to shoot them, but I have never thought this was so. My philosophy is that an intruder must present more of a threat than simply coming uninvited into your home before one is justified in using deadly force, and on this occasion I held my fire. I am glad that I did.
Out of the bathroom walked a naked woman; completely bare-assed naked. I had never seen this stranger before in my life. She took little notice of me standing there holding a gun as she brushed past me and tried to climb into my bed. As she passed by I detected the distinct aroma of ethanol fumes trailing in her wake. Naturally I did not have the heart to shoot a drunk naked woman even if she was intruding in my house. But I wasn’t going to tolerate her gladly either.
“Wait a second! What are you doing!?! Why are you in my house?” I asked. “Jackass said I could stay here” she slurred. She could provide few details beyond this, but later inquiries revealed that this woman was one of the two hosts of the party where the stripper was performing. Jackass had picked her up and had sex with her in his car somewhere, and rather than take her back to the party he had brought her to our apartment and deposited her in his bed before returning to the party. Did I mention that I am glad I didn’t shoot her?
But the story gets better. The next day Jackass returned to the apartment to take the drunk naked woman (now fully dressed and sober) back to her own apartment. An intriguing little detail he overlooked mentioning to her at that point was that after he left her at our apartment, he returned to the party and had sex with the other host, the abandoned girl’s roommate. (Now is it clearer why I call him “Jackass”?). When the two women were reunited with Jackass there, his duplicity became obvious and a dispute arose between the two ladies. Jackass not wanting to be a party to their domestic issues (even though he was the proximate cause of them) immediately left to return to our apartment and brag about his exploits.
But the joke was on Jackass in the end. Soon after returning to our apartment and regaling me of his adventures, he realized that his video camera was not with him anymore. He left it at the women’s apartment. Ooops! (Now is it even more clear why I call him “Jackass”?).
Jackass brazenly returned to the women’s apartment to retrieve his camera, but by this time the two ladies had called a truce among themselves and directed their ire at its proper target. They refused to let him in to retrieve the camera. Next Jackass resorted to the local law enforcement community to recover his property. He called the sheriff’s office and a deputy met Jackass at the front door of the women’s apartment. The conversation went something like this:
Deputy: “Good day ladies. This fellow here says that he left a camera here last night. Do you have his camera?”
Cuckholded Roommates: “No, we haven’t seen it”.
Deputy: “Well Okay then. Thanks a lot and you have a good day”.
Jackass never got his camera back.
There once was a time when I had a roommate whom I will call “Jackass” for the purposes of this blog. The reasons for the choice of pseudonym will become clearer later on. One Friday afternoon, Jackass informed me that he would be away for the entire weekend, and did not expect to return until late Sunday night. Jackass spent much of his time taking steroids and bumming about in the local gym and in the course of his workouts had met another body builder (I’ll call him “Jerk”) who made a living as a male stripper. Since Jackass owned a video camera, he would accompany Jerk to his stripping gigs and record the festivities. Later, when the performance was concluded and the bachelorette was well lubricated with adult beverages, Jackass would offer to sell her a copy of the tape as a memorial of the occasion. I suppose everyone must make a living somehow.
None of this particularly concerned me until about 2:00 the next morning when I awoke from a deep sleep to the sounds of someone moving around in the apartment. I knew it couldn’t be Jackass because he was supposed to be out of town. As quietly as I could, I retrieved the Colt .45 automatic that I kept on my nightstand and put on a pair of jeans. I carefully opened the bedroom door and peered out into the dark apartment, cocked pistol in my hand, by my side, at the ready to start shooting should the pending confrontation turn violent.
Directly across the hall from my door was the door to the bathroom which was closed (we never kept it closed) and the light was on (and we never kept the light on at night). Inside the bathroom I could clearly hear someone moving about. Soon the doorknob turned and I braced myself for a confrontation with the intruder as the door swung open.
Some people say that if a person breaks into your house that it is okay to shoot them, but I have never thought this was so. My philosophy is that an intruder must present more of a threat than simply coming uninvited into your home before one is justified in using deadly force, and on this occasion I held my fire. I am glad that I did.
Out of the bathroom walked a naked woman; completely bare-assed naked. I had never seen this stranger before in my life. She took little notice of me standing there holding a gun as she brushed past me and tried to climb into my bed. As she passed by I detected the distinct aroma of ethanol fumes trailing in her wake. Naturally I did not have the heart to shoot a drunk naked woman even if she was intruding in my house. But I wasn’t going to tolerate her gladly either.
“Wait a second! What are you doing!?! Why are you in my house?” I asked. “Jackass said I could stay here” she slurred. She could provide few details beyond this, but later inquiries revealed that this woman was one of the two hosts of the party where the stripper was performing. Jackass had picked her up and had sex with her in his car somewhere, and rather than take her back to the party he had brought her to our apartment and deposited her in his bed before returning to the party. Did I mention that I am glad I didn’t shoot her?
But the story gets better. The next day Jackass returned to the apartment to take the drunk naked woman (now fully dressed and sober) back to her own apartment. An intriguing little detail he overlooked mentioning to her at that point was that after he left her at our apartment, he returned to the party and had sex with the other host, the abandoned girl’s roommate. (Now is it clearer why I call him “Jackass”?). When the two women were reunited with Jackass there, his duplicity became obvious and a dispute arose between the two ladies. Jackass not wanting to be a party to their domestic issues (even though he was the proximate cause of them) immediately left to return to our apartment and brag about his exploits.
But the joke was on Jackass in the end. Soon after returning to our apartment and regaling me of his adventures, he realized that his video camera was not with him anymore. He left it at the women’s apartment. Ooops! (Now is it even more clear why I call him “Jackass”?).
Jackass brazenly returned to the women’s apartment to retrieve his camera, but by this time the two ladies had called a truce among themselves and directed their ire at its proper target. They refused to let him in to retrieve the camera. Next Jackass resorted to the local law enforcement community to recover his property. He called the sheriff’s office and a deputy met Jackass at the front door of the women’s apartment. The conversation went something like this:
Deputy: “Good day ladies. This fellow here says that he left a camera here last night. Do you have his camera?”
Cuckholded Roommates: “No, we haven’t seen it”.
Deputy: “Well Okay then. Thanks a lot and you have a good day”.
Jackass never got his camera back.
Sunday, January 3, 2010
A New Year's Resolution
I am a beer drinker from way back. I fondly recall the first taste of cool barley and hops that I sipped from a paper cup at the officers club at Altus Airforce Base in Altus Oklahoma (offered to me by my pediatrician of all people, and during a Boy Scout trip to boot). Since then, I have drank beer on two continents, in four contries, and at least three dozen states. I have sipped pilsners on Waikiki and toasted the birth of a prince heir with pale ales in the shadows of Big Ben. I have sampled beers from exotic places around the world and even made my own from time to time. I am a big fan of beer.
My daughter knows this about me and loves to cultivate my happiness by fetching me a cold one from the refridgerator when she perceives I have a need. Recently when I asked her for the favor of getting me a Budweiser, my son perked up and asked, "can I have a beer too?" Since my son is just ten, this is a bit young for drinking beer even for my notoriously open minded views. Even though I'm sure he was asking in jest, his question prompted me to think about the example I have been setting for him. While he may be a bit young for drinking now, it occurs to me that it won't be too long before someone will offer him a draught of temptation. I have never presumed that I could control the choices my kids make in life; my strategy from day one has been to give them the tools they need to make good decisions on their own. With a new year arriving, my choice was clear.
My New Year's resolution for 2010 is to forego any alcoholic beverages for one year; no beer, no wine, no whiskey, nothing.
I announced this resolution on Facebook, and several of my friends offered their encouragement and asked me to keep them posted on my progress. While I appreciate their goodwill, I really think posting updates is not in keeping with the purpose of my little project. I want to show my son (and my daughter too, although she is probably still to young to be strongly impressed) that part of being an adult is having the capacity to make a commitment and to stick with it, and that it is okay to choose not to drink. Dwelling upon my resolution by making constant updates on progress would imply that giving up alcohol is difficult, and for me this is not true. Since it would undermine my intention to pine about how I might want a beer, I don't intend on doing that. I hope my friends understand that I won't be posting updates because there will be no news to update.
My daughter knows this about me and loves to cultivate my happiness by fetching me a cold one from the refridgerator when she perceives I have a need. Recently when I asked her for the favor of getting me a Budweiser, my son perked up and asked, "can I have a beer too?" Since my son is just ten, this is a bit young for drinking beer even for my notoriously open minded views. Even though I'm sure he was asking in jest, his question prompted me to think about the example I have been setting for him. While he may be a bit young for drinking now, it occurs to me that it won't be too long before someone will offer him a draught of temptation. I have never presumed that I could control the choices my kids make in life; my strategy from day one has been to give them the tools they need to make good decisions on their own. With a new year arriving, my choice was clear.
My New Year's resolution for 2010 is to forego any alcoholic beverages for one year; no beer, no wine, no whiskey, nothing.
I announced this resolution on Facebook, and several of my friends offered their encouragement and asked me to keep them posted on my progress. While I appreciate their goodwill, I really think posting updates is not in keeping with the purpose of my little project. I want to show my son (and my daughter too, although she is probably still to young to be strongly impressed) that part of being an adult is having the capacity to make a commitment and to stick with it, and that it is okay to choose not to drink. Dwelling upon my resolution by making constant updates on progress would imply that giving up alcohol is difficult, and for me this is not true. Since it would undermine my intention to pine about how I might want a beer, I don't intend on doing that. I hope my friends understand that I won't be posting updates because there will be no news to update.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
