¡Órale, pues!

Thoughts, Comments, and Snippets from Today

Dude with a wonky eye I haven’t seen in months says: “I drive by your house often.”

Gabacha glances around the table nervously.

Wonky Eye Dude: “I’m not stalking you or anything.”

Patrick Swayze is not a very good actor.  And I’m embarrassed by how much I loved Dirty Dancing.

Kid stinking of weed pops up at my office window after my fourth time seeing him that day: “Hi, honey.  I’m home!”

I let him in and ask: “Do you guys spark a blunt and march directly over here?”

High kid: “No.  Well, yeah. Sometimes.”

It’s a delicious feeling to know that nobody has to be privy to the world inside your head unless you invite them.

Charming middle-aged job developer: “Honey, with those boots on, you could be down on X Street.” (area known for having a high concentration of ladies turning tricks for crack.)

Gabacha, deciding whether to be offended or not and going with the latter: “Uncle J, if I wanted to go whoring, I’d certainly be more high class than that.”

Line from a packet of Ramen Noodles: Not only do Ramen Noodles make all kinds of exciting soups, but are excellent when used in salads.

An Inquisitive Gabacha: “So your new project is making bongs and selling them.”

Slightly Tapped Unemployed Friend launches into an extremely detailed account of all the steps necessary to make bongs from looking for hardware at Lowe’s to lovingly placing the piece in his stoned friends’ hands.

Unemployed Friend’s Girlfriend: “Yep, he loves it.  He even brought one to a party as their housewarming gift.”

Piece of dialogue from The Mysterious Flame of Queen Loana, the book by Umberto Eco I’m reading: “I thought it was a real find.” “Do you know you’re the only man in the world, the only man on the face of the earth from Adam up to now, who when his wife sends him out to buy roses comes home with a pair of dog balls?”

This Shiny, Foreign Object

I may very well be one of the last of my generation to get a digital camera.  At first, I took the moral high road.  I claimed I wasn’t going to give in to technology and that my 35mm worked just fine, thank you very much.  But then I realized that I had amassed only about 45 pictures since 2002.  I envied my friends, who had close ups of wild flowers on their blogs and kooky self portraits sprucing up their Facebook pages.  And I had been deeply remiss in documenting my dog’s antics and quiet moments on the couch.  There was only that one picture of him wearing a pink tank top that I had put on a disc and a couple from one of those disposable cardboard things back during his puppyhood. 

The turning point was when I silenced a group of about 20 co-workers and management folks at a conference table when I said, “I don’t know how to use a digital camera.”  The whole room went dead quiet, and every single head turned my way.  My boss, who was at the other end of the table started giggling nervously.  I said, “No, really.  I don’t.”  He briefly looked startled, then just looked down at his hands. 

But objects with lots of shiny buttons and multiple cords tend to intimidate me.  I finally said “fuck it” and dragged my husband to Best Buy and randomly picked ths sporty, slate blue number based on some vague details I remembered about pixels and modes. 

I didn’t touch it for about a week although Homeboy claimed to have mastered it after 15 minutes of fiddling around.  I always read instruction manuals, and this time was no different.  But this little document confused me.  It had simple instructions like “press menu” and “turn camera on” in three languages, stacked one on top of the other.  I’d read and understand the English instruction, then my eye would catch the Spanish.  Not realizing that I was reading two different languages (sometimes my brain doesn’t differentiate between the two), I did everything twice.  But only with the most basic mechanics of the camera.  Nowhere does it teach me about the million different flash options the camera provides nor does it tell me with any hint of specificity exactly what is so “easy” about the “easy mode.”

I could probably research these things on the Internet.  I feel confident that I too can master an object that even toddlers (well, perhaps only the most precocious) can use. 

But actually snapping the shutter and taking a photo that isn’t all blurry seems to be beyond me.  Just about 97% of my photos look like I’ve taken them while experiencing a rather fierce episode of the DTs.  What in God’s name am I doing wrong?

The other 3% of the photos that actually look like they were taken by a sober person are all of my dog.  Leo’s coat has never looked so glossy and his countenance has never looked so noble as they do in my close ups. 

I hope that one day the rest of my photos don’t look like I took them while hanging out the window of a car doing 35 mph.

Who’s the Dumbass Now?

I was just teasing Homeboy the other day about how I’m surprised he’s held on to his wedding ring for so long.  He promised that he wouldn’t lose it as the only place he takes it off is in the bathroom. 

Guess who’s got a naked left ring finger now? 

Crap, crap, crap.

I realized it when I went to give a smoke to Home Confinement Boy across the street.  No way I would find it if I lost it crossing Payne Park.  Not if I accidentally flushed it down the toilet.

Crap, crap, crap.