Good grief

It's Valentine's Day...again, and the world is overrun with helium, long stems and cheap champagne. Shoot, even I donned my Victoria's Secret Pink undergarb today. Why? Because it's the only time of year it seems appropriate.

Actually, I have a feeling I'll be home watching Charlie Brown's Valentine's Special tonight, hoping he finally gets the little red-headed girl. Maybe Lucy's 5 cent advice will finally pan out...or not.

Man I love to root for old CB but the darned ABCTV website has already ruined it for me:

In this special, Charlie Brown finally works up the courage to call the little red-haired girl to ask her to the Valentine's Day dance. But once again he ends up broken-hearted and empty-handed when he dials the wrong number and reaches Peppermint Patty instead.

They need to update this timeless tale because if old gourd-head had a cell phone there is no way he would misdial and be stuck with a lesbian on Valentine's Day.

In case you have plans, or intend to hunker down with some ice cream and Simon Cowell for the night, here is a great review of the cartoon. Some of my favorite quotes:

More than 50 years on, Charlie Brown and the Peanuts gang are more miserable than ever.

In Valentine, as in Peanuts' classic Christmas, Thanksgiving, and Halloween outings, the kids approach the holiday with skepticism. Unrequited love abounds: Sally loves Linus, her "Sweet Baboo" who only has eyes for his security blanket; Lucy digs Schroeder, fervently devoted to his baby grand; Peppermint Patty and her four-eyed peon Marcie both pine for Charlie Brown , still head over heels for the Pretty Little Redhead.

Alone together, the masochistic crew is united by a shared inability to act on their desires. "I'd like to buy a box of candy for a girl who doesn't know I exist, please," Charlie Brown asks a store clerk (unseen, unintelligible, and uninvolved, like all Peanuts grownups). With the Valentine's Day Dance and card exchange looming, Charlie plummets into an existential crisis, and not even Lucy's five-cent "Psychiatric Help" can cure his "deep-down-black-bottom-of-the-well-no-hope-end-of-the-world-what's-the-use loneliness." When the girls ask Snoopy to ghostwrite love poems for their crushes, they reject his sarcastic verses ("Your eyes are like two supper dishes"). Nobody gets who they want when the dance rolls around, except for party crasher Snoopy, who effortlessly cuts a rug with the Pretty Little Redhead.

Funny how timeless the tale really is...

One more thing for someone special on this sacred commercial day:

Guitars, Cadillacs and Hillbilly Music you can't dance to...

So way back when I was all crushed out on the Cowboy I thought it would be a good idea to plan something special for Valentine's Day weekend. Turns out Dwight Yoakam, a country singer, was to be in town February 10. Perfect, I thought, so I bought two VIP orchestra seating, dinner tickets. That was back in December and I had forgotten about it until last week when the theatre called to ask about dinner preferences. Nope, the tickets were not refundable so I asked my old friend T, who is a cattle-driving tomato farmer that likes country music.

We met for a pre-concert beer at Dargan's around 6:00. VIP dinner folks were already lined up outside the theatre as we were told to arrive at 6:30. We had a beer then went down to the theatre to find the same folks still standing in line so we went across the street to the Sans Souci for another beer. Half an hour later, the line still hadn't moved and we had a third beer. By the time we finished it was almost 8 pm and the line was finally moving. We got inside, were squished into the last possible VIP dinner seats on the edge of the orchestra area and then within five minutes the concert started. Yep, before dinner was served.

So there I was, at a table, facing a wall, unable to move my chair because the lady seated behind me was so close, waiting for dinner while a concert went on 20 feet in front of me. And this wasn't dinner music. It was actually kind of rude to be eating while a concert is going on. And probably not good for the digestive system either.

Dwight was great. It was an awesome concert. Good energy, fun songs, altogether a great performer. I highly recommend going to see him under different circumstances.

Too bad I couldn't see him or move.

Dinner arrived and was sheer crap. A chunk of tasteless chicken, two slices of tri tip that was clearly leftover from somebody's Superbowl party, and half an ear of previously frozen corn that was mushy and tasteless. No worries about the food, though because I was filled up on beer and Dwight was jamming.

A few songs later I was feeling the music and tired of sitting with my back to it so I crawled under the table to the other side (yes, I had to crawl under because we were all in so tight). I went near a wall, not blocking an aisle or anything, and did the standing-dance thing. I wasn't in anybody's way, wasn't flailing around wildly or anything, just minding my own business, standing and rocking a bit.

Suddenly a bouncer tapped me on the shoulder and asked me to take my seat. I thought he was joking. Everyone in the place was on their feet, except the VIPs who I just thought were waiting for their tables to be cleared (which they never did clear so the VIPs had to sit with disgusting food in front of them for three hours). I was soon informed that VIPs are not allowed to stand or dance and must remain seated or go to the balcony (cheap seats) to stand and dance.

Huh? I paid $50 extra for crappy food and to be confined to a plastic yard chair with my back to the performer for three hours? I think not.

I asked to speak to a manager. Again, I was asked to sit down and enjoy the show or go to the balcony. I said I'd go to the balcony as soon as they refunded my $50 difference between a balcony ticket and the illustrious VIP area. I was escorted to the front to talk to someone who said I could stand at my seat. I went back and stood at my seat. Again, the bouncer asked me to sit. This went on a couple more times: Me being asked to sit down, then politely going back to the lobby, returning. They couldn't kick me out because I wasn't really doing anything wrong. It was just frustrating. I even kind of did it the last time just to piss the bouncer off because he was clearly agitated that I was ruining his Gestapo gig. Yeah, I'm beligerent that way. Don't act so surprised.

Finally, I gave up and went to the cheap seats and had a blast dancing and hanging with a few other disgruntled VIPs (I like to think I led the revolt). Of course, it was first-come-first serve up there so we ended up with the worst position in the place and couldn't see the performance at all. Still, it's about the experience and you can't let poor management ruin your two step.

In the end, Dwight was great but the Ventura Theater sucked. I mean sucked hard. Like chrome off a trailer hitch hard. And don't think I won't be sending in for my refund. I may even send a letter to the editor of the local paper. I'll let you know how it turns out...

G Squared

Just off the phone with my grandmother. We spent an hour remembering this guy, who passed away last week:That's my grandfather in about 1941, soon after he was commissioned as an officer in the Navy. He then married my grandmother, settled her in to a cottage in Florida, and headed off to war. Remember when people didn't question what was right? Me neither, but I wish I did.
That's him in pilot training, I think. He served as a fighter pilot on the U.S.S. Essex in the Pacific. Can you imagine the cajones it took to hop into a little plane and fly off the end of a hunk of metal into battle in 1942? To land a 1940's era airplane on an aircraft carrier? He was once shot down over the Pacific and MIA. He came out and went right back into battle. No counseling, no hazardous pay, no wanking, no suing the plane manufacturer. He never talked about the war, he just fought it.

These are some of the medals he earned in his years as a Navy pilot:
After the Navy he never flew a plane again. He went home to his sweetheart, made a good living, and raised three kids, then raised five grandchildren and two great grandchildren. He never caused a ruckus. Never lied, cheated or stole. Never complained. He had integrity and was an altogether great man.

He was the Little League coach who always let you play. The man who built a tree house in that big oak in the yard. Who made 12 pairs of stilts out of old lumber so all the grandkids could walk tall at once. Who helped get hundreds of fruit flies for an 8th grade science project. The man who never told a joke but was always tossing out dry one-liners that only the smart folks catch. Who imparted his love af nature and learning on me. Who called trash "rubbish" and talked with a funny New England accent.

Enough of the sentimental stuff. I just thought I should memorialize him and let a few people know that the world just lost another great one.

You asked for it...

...You got it.

First, me in 1988 with my prom date, Spencer:
Ah, the 80's. Note the trendy slash cut skirt that was all the rage. I simply glowed under the disco ball. And look at my hair, and the Lee Press On nails that matched my dress. I later ripped the acrylic nails off in a bathroom stall at Denny's. I have no idea how women survive with long nails. Yes, I was a bit nerdy in high school - builds character folks.

As for my date, Spencer was a classmate in my advanced placement classes. Very smart. If I remember right, he drove a maroon Yugo and was a very soft spoken and caring guy. He asked me to the prom and I said yes. We went with a group in a limo. Incidentally, I do remember that Spencer wrote in my yearbook, "I know you will become an international lawyer someday if you want to." That was back when everyone knew I was heading off to join the Navy to become a truck driver. Yes, he was smart, and thoughtful.

Before you scroll down to the hilarity that was last night's fitting room session, keep in mind that I was 5'2" and weighed 88 lbs when I joined the Navy at 17 - I remember because you had to weigh at least 92 lbs to get in and I had to gain 4 lbs before I could ship out. I'm now a little over 5'5" and 120 lbs...so here I am, stuffed into my prom dress last night:I know it's blurry. That's because I was laughing so hard at myself it was difficult to take the picture.

And the front view:
Of course, you know I Googled good old Spencer and guess what? He too is a marine biologist scientist type (remember Mark Marks?). In fact, Spencer is currently a visiting professor at Harvard University and will be giving a lecture on squid-bacteria stuff next month. Apparently some of his research is into how squid bacteria can help cure human ailments. Congrats to Spencer on all his success.

Finally, here's something to think about: I went to three proms. One with Spencer (above), one with Lazaro (a guy from the local movie theatre that I had a huge crush on and invited to my senior prom), and one with Scott (a friend and neighbor from high school who now works at the University of Texas Marine Science Institute).

Both Spencer and Scott asked me to the prom and are now productive members of society. Yes, I am a great influence...

I asked Lazaro to the prom. He ended up ditching me at an after party to hang with a girl who would put out. I can't remember his last name to Google him, but I'm fairly certain he isn't contributing much to society.

That about sums up my judgment when it comes to men.

The Irifro and other oddities

Last Wednesday I had one of those giant construction-sized dumpsters delivered to my house in anticipation of moving. The plan was to empty the garage, clean up the yard, and figure out exactly what was in all those boxes in my extra bedroom. Keep in mind that I've lived in my house almost eight years and had a total of six roommates along the way.

Going through your old crap can teach you a lot about yourself. Here are some of the artifacts of my life I found amidst the dirt, rubble and termite dust:

1. This old family picture of my mom, biodad, neighbor with her baby, and the four of the C kids circa 1976:Notice the man-perm/Irifro on biodad? He said it was great when he had it but didn't last long and took on a frayed look. Still, it is proof of my genetic disposition to an Irifro (Irish fro). To beauty on the left is my mom providing more proof of the Irifro gene through her massive mane. I'm the little one in front with the bad haircut, big belly, paisley bell bottoms, and box of Cracker Jacks.

2. The 1988 prom dress that my mom made for me. I think it speaks for itself, and fashion in 1988:Don't worry, it's much more scary on. I'll try to find the prom picture because it's got a tale of it's own to tell. Incidentally, why I still have this prom dress is beyond my imagination. If you are interested in it, it will be at a thrift store in Ventura soon.

3. My letterman's jacket: It's hard to believe I ever ran for anything other than beer. I'm not sure why I want to hang onto this, but I kind of do. After all, what exactly does one do with an old letterman's jacket? I'm thinking I'll start wearing it out on the town again.

4. My Seabee uniform and hardhat:Back when I was a Seabee, we still wore the old Army greens a la M*A*S*H*. Seabees get the bottom of the surplus barrel when it comes to supplies. And check out my old boot camp issue chukka boots. Those things weigh about 8 lbs each. Seriously, when I picked on up I thought there must be a giant dead rat it in because it was so heavy.

5. Speaking of giant, dead rats, this was my most bizarre find of all:It's my ponytail from when I went into the Navy. I had to cut my Irifro and for some strange reason decided to keep the ponytail. I do not recall bagging it or saving it but I obviously did. It actually frightened me when I came upon it - I thought it was some dead beast in a bag. Come to think of it, it still frightens me. It is kind of creepy to have 15 year old hair lying around in a plastic bag. Fortunately, I've found a good use for it. I'm going to send it off to Locks of Love so some kid (maybe two?) can have genuine Irifro wig.

Here's what I think archaeologists finding these items would say about me in 100 years: 1. She was either a basket case or leader of the free world due to extreme taunting as a child, 2. She never knew how to dress herself in a socially acceptable manner, 3. She likely spent too much time reliving the glory days of high school sports, 4. Although she would have been considered cool because she could drive a bulldozer, and 5. She was probably a serial killer who kept souvenirs, such as hair, from her victims.

In the end, there was a whole bunch more crap I found - 1980's neon ceramic earrings the size of a dinner plate, my old Cabbage Patch kids (all mysteriously naked), a lot of really hideous clothes, all my old journals, tons of pictures I have yet to peruse, and a whole heap of junk - about 640 cubic feet to be exact.

I'll post more pics if I get around to it. In the meantime I'll be cruising around Ventura in my letterman's jacket and chukka boots.

Speaking of lawyers and court...

I went to a continuing education seminar at the courthouse on Saturday. It was an all-day affair wherein about 50 lawyers sat in the jury room listening to various lectures on ethics, bias, and other legal mumbo jumbo. We are required to do it or, gasp, do pro bono (free) work for poor people. And you know lawyers don't do anything for free.

Anyhow, I was in the lecture and noticed that the defense lawyer from my recent jury service experience was one of the lecturers. He recognized me immediately so I went up to say hello. In our brief conversation, he said, "I wish I'd have kept you as a juror. Especially after I read your blog".

Huh? What? He read my blog?!?!?! I was a bit shocked that he had read my blog and that it would encourage anyone to select me for anything other than immediate residenciy in an insane asylum. When I asked how he got my blog he said, "Oh, the judge gave it to me." I thought he meant the judge I did an internship with (aka my crush. He said, no, not him, rather Judge C - the judge for the case on which I was in the jury pool.

This shocked the heck out of me because I knew neither the judge nor the defense attorney. Then I remembered that a local lawyer who has a real lawyer blog had linked to my blog about jury service. Then I got a little paranoid and thought, 'Shiite, I wonder how many judges know about the blog, and that it's mine.' Then I thought about some of the stuff I've put on here that the more conservative set might find offensive or outrageous. Then I considered deleting the blog to erase all evidence. Then I thought I should get more serious on the blog and write lawyer stuff and contribute something to society to redeem myself for all the antics I've participated in. Then I thought, 'Hell no, I won't cowtow to conformity and self-censorship.' Finally I remembered that judges have seen and heard it all and we lawyers are here for their entertainment anyhow.

So read on Honorable Ones, read on.