Another business trip, another American Babylon.
I don't apply that title to Vegas with indignation. While on the trip, I wrote to my daughter that "90% of this place is awful. 10% is fantastic," and there's much of that awful 90% that is enticing to me (hint: the parts that don't involve booze, snort or poker), so enticing that I wrote to another friend, "Hate it here (except for the food) because it becomes strictly a question of willpower, not one of immediate availability, compelling attractiveness AND willpower."
But I will say that I did a little better on this trip than I did at my last Vegas convention.
Last time, I spent a couple of late nights wandering the Strip, sort of hoping, I think, to "accidentally" come across some kind of trouble, if it threw itself in my path. No, I didn't end up at the Bunny Ranch or Crazy Horse, but on the open casino floors of both Planet Hollywood (in the area called--surprise!--the Pleasure Pit) and Bellagio, I came across undie-clothed damsels poledancing on platforms hoisted above the slot machines. The arrangement was to a strip club what the Swimsuit Issue is to Playboy: No outright nudity, but fleshy gyrations a-plenty. So I lingered a while, until my rationalizing slowly waned, and I left.
This time, oogling was more or less limited to legwatching, and --relative to the abundant opportunities-- that was fairly bridled, as I would most often avoid The Second Glance with the crude-but-effective mental mantra, "Sure, they're nice, but my three children didn't enter the world from between them." Nevertheless, I admit to having cast many glances and several stares at the Carnevino hostess on my last night there -- maybe as a last, carnal hurrah indulgence-for-mediocre-behavior before flying out the next morning?
Thursday, February 12, 2009
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
Spoiler alert
Here are some movies to steer your wife clear of, if there are any burrs under the nuptial saddle and your wife is either smart enough or paranoid enough to make or imagine, respectively, some connections:
The Duchess with Keira Knightley. And not just because she's attractive (albeit anorexically waifish), which always creates awkwardness in a date night flick. I'll venture that most of us aren't over-the-top miscreants like this guy, but the stuff about not really talking, about the wife being a prisoner in her own home, etc. Ironically, she'd picked out the film hoping for an Austen-esque romantic picker-upper. Didn't quite fit the bill. It's a minefield, my friend, a Technicolor minefield.
The Stepford Wives, either version. Ugh.
The Story of Us, the Bruce Willis/Michelle Pfeiffer opus that effectively bans the phrase, "Hey, all couples go through this..." from your toolbox.
The Duchess with Keira Knightley. And not just because she's attractive (albeit anorexically waifish), which always creates awkwardness in a date night flick. I'll venture that most of us aren't over-the-top miscreants like this guy, but the stuff about not really talking, about the wife being a prisoner in her own home, etc. Ironically, she'd picked out the film hoping for an Austen-esque romantic picker-upper. Didn't quite fit the bill. It's a minefield, my friend, a Technicolor minefield.
The Stepford Wives, either version. Ugh.
The Story of Us, the Bruce Willis/Michelle Pfeiffer opus that effectively bans the phrase, "Hey, all couples go through this..." from your toolbox.
Thursday, January 22, 2009
Lecherous maximus
Several months ago, I read about a study (it may have been this one) that found--among other, less-intuitive things--that the likelihood of infidelity rises with the frequency of business travel. My work doesn't require that I travel much. But when I do, I find that my eyes and thoughts wander more than when I travel for leisure. The obvious explanation is that, duh, my wife's usually with me when I'm on vacation. But I wonder whether the fact that I'm on a business trip--which means that I'm in a suit instead of shorts and that I'm out "hunting the woolly mammoth"--makes me fancy myself a more appealing prospect, which, in turn, makes me imagine certain scenarios as being more likely, and so I play them out in my mind a little further than I would if I were wearing Birks and schlepping a backpack.
I just returned from a business trip to New Orleans. As I dozed off in my hotel room somewhere in the middle of Gladiator on the night of my arrival, I was hazily aware of the contrast between my thoughts about the cute stewardess on my flight there, and the longing of Russell Crowe's character for hearth/home/family. Both hold a strong appeal for me -- strong, almost to the point that one would think them to be almost compatible at some level.
I just returned from a business trip to New Orleans. As I dozed off in my hotel room somewhere in the middle of Gladiator on the night of my arrival, I was hazily aware of the contrast between my thoughts about the cute stewardess on my flight there, and the longing of Russell Crowe's character for hearth/home/family. Both hold a strong appeal for me -- strong, almost to the point that one would think them to be almost compatible at some level.
Thursday, January 8, 2009
Three cheers for cancer sticks!
Ossia, "That crush went up in a poof of smoke."
I'm not sure how to put this honestly while leaving the laughable bravado out of it, so I'll plow ahead: Since mid-adolescence, I've maintained a policy of approaching women to whom I was attracted. That is, I maintained that policy except when in a serious--albeit generally ephemeral--relationship, and until I got married.
There have only been a few times when these efforts (whether understated compliments or overt advances) weren't rewarded with a response falling generally into the "favorable" category, whether a blushed cheek, a demure thank-you, or even an acceptance of some sort. (One notable rejection being the Tuscan bartender who dismissed me with, "Nei tuoi sogni," which was warm ambrosia flowing from her lips. In my dreams indeed, lovely Lavigna.)
Exceptions to this policy were very rare in bachelorhood, and understandably more frequent since then. However, the drive has remained so strong--perhaps the continued impulse to 'hunt' now bolstered by The Thrill Of The Forbidden--that I finally reached a compromise with myself: A year or two ago, I began approaching beautiful strangers in restaurants, airports and convention halls, saying, "Please don't read anything into this, but you have beautiful eyes/a lovely smile/remarkable legs, and I hope that someone in your life really appreciates that about you," and then walking away. (Before you lose your lunch, I've only used the creepy "legs" one once, but WOW -- Her name was Anne, and they were remarkable.) As psycopathic as it sounds, I've found that this allows me to get the rush from her response--that quick gasp for air, the smile toward her girlfriend, the "that is so sweet, thank you"--and then move on with life, without wondering for the next several days what would have happened.
A handful of the exceptions grew to a magnitude that I'd call them Unexpressed and Unrequited Crushes -- a couple even took on characteristics that I'd openly associate with obsession. I'll address each of them at some point.
The most recent one was a girl at work. A woman, really, but she's at least ten years my junior, so "girl" seems to fit. Tall, brunette, slender yet proportionately curvaceous. Not particularly sophisticated--sort of bubble-gummy, in fact--but confident, in a head cheerleader kind of way. Big eyes, full lips.
For a long time, I wasn't sure whether she was married (I've learned subsequent to all of this that she is) but knew from a photo at her desk that she has a child, and I overheard her once on the phone saying, "Did you find the clothes that momma laid out on your bed this morning for Purple Day at school?"
I'd speak a little louder and a little wittier, if I thought she was within earshot. I interact with her very little, but she's good friends with the secretary of one of my colleagues, and I found myself playing the old "get the roommate sold on you first" angle with this secretary.
Our office has long corridors as well as inner walls primarily of glass, which makes for long sight lines, and if happened to spot her heading one way or other, I'd often interrupt whatever else I was doing--ostensibly to go to the copier or restroom--in order to pass her in the hallway. I tended to dress a little better in the morning if it occurred to me that I might see her that day.
Expectedly, I'd fantasized about her (more on that general topic in a future post), invariably playing out a sequence that took us in her white Corolla to lunch at Bambara and then the rest of the afternoon stress-testing springs at the Hotel Monaco. This recurring fantasy covered rational considerations ranging from my job security (which probably wasn't at risk, as my company has seen high-level cases of known-yet-unpunished infidelity among employees) to whether we'd use a condom to how I'd someday explain my divorce to my daughter.
Yes, we had quite the little covert op developing in my mind.
Then one day I saw her smoking, and I went cold turkey.
In lasting tribute, I need to create a bumper sticker that reads:
"Hotties who smoke make my spouse seem sexier."
(It's copyrighted here, so don't get any ideas.)
I'm not sure how to put this honestly while leaving the laughable bravado out of it, so I'll plow ahead: Since mid-adolescence, I've maintained a policy of approaching women to whom I was attracted. That is, I maintained that policy except when in a serious--albeit generally ephemeral--relationship, and until I got married.
There have only been a few times when these efforts (whether understated compliments or overt advances) weren't rewarded with a response falling generally into the "favorable" category, whether a blushed cheek, a demure thank-you, or even an acceptance of some sort. (One notable rejection being the Tuscan bartender who dismissed me with, "Nei tuoi sogni," which was warm ambrosia flowing from her lips. In my dreams indeed, lovely Lavigna.)
Exceptions to this policy were very rare in bachelorhood, and understandably more frequent since then. However, the drive has remained so strong--perhaps the continued impulse to 'hunt' now bolstered by The Thrill Of The Forbidden--that I finally reached a compromise with myself: A year or two ago, I began approaching beautiful strangers in restaurants, airports and convention halls, saying, "Please don't read anything into this, but you have beautiful eyes/a lovely smile/remarkable legs, and I hope that someone in your life really appreciates that about you," and then walking away. (Before you lose your lunch, I've only used the creepy "legs" one once, but WOW -- Her name was Anne, and they were remarkable.) As psycopathic as it sounds, I've found that this allows me to get the rush from her response--that quick gasp for air, the smile toward her girlfriend, the "that is so sweet, thank you"--and then move on with life, without wondering for the next several days what would have happened.
A handful of the exceptions grew to a magnitude that I'd call them Unexpressed and Unrequited Crushes -- a couple even took on characteristics that I'd openly associate with obsession. I'll address each of them at some point.
The most recent one was a girl at work. A woman, really, but she's at least ten years my junior, so "girl" seems to fit. Tall, brunette, slender yet proportionately curvaceous. Not particularly sophisticated--sort of bubble-gummy, in fact--but confident, in a head cheerleader kind of way. Big eyes, full lips.
For a long time, I wasn't sure whether she was married (I've learned subsequent to all of this that she is) but knew from a photo at her desk that she has a child, and I overheard her once on the phone saying, "Did you find the clothes that momma laid out on your bed this morning for Purple Day at school?"
I'd speak a little louder and a little wittier, if I thought she was within earshot. I interact with her very little, but she's good friends with the secretary of one of my colleagues, and I found myself playing the old "get the roommate sold on you first" angle with this secretary.
Our office has long corridors as well as inner walls primarily of glass, which makes for long sight lines, and if happened to spot her heading one way or other, I'd often interrupt whatever else I was doing--ostensibly to go to the copier or restroom--in order to pass her in the hallway. I tended to dress a little better in the morning if it occurred to me that I might see her that day.
Expectedly, I'd fantasized about her (more on that general topic in a future post), invariably playing out a sequence that took us in her white Corolla to lunch at Bambara and then the rest of the afternoon stress-testing springs at the Hotel Monaco. This recurring fantasy covered rational considerations ranging from my job security (which probably wasn't at risk, as my company has seen high-level cases of known-yet-unpunished infidelity among employees) to whether we'd use a condom to how I'd someday explain my divorce to my daughter.
Yes, we had quite the little covert op developing in my mind.
Then one day I saw her smoking, and I went cold turkey.
In lasting tribute, I need to create a bumper sticker that reads:
"Hotties who smoke make my spouse seem sexier."
(It's copyrighted here, so don't get any ideas.)
Sunday, December 14, 2008
Borderline
Last night I dreamt that I was in a hilly urban area. Big city, not a particularly posh part of town. It had a bit of a Latino feel to it, but may have been California. I was in a car--a big '50s or early '60s sedan, light pool green, lap belts, no headrests--with my daughter and another female (I don't know who she was, I don't recall whether she was young or old, but I had the sense that she was important), and the hired driver who was taking us to meet my wife somewhere.
But we weren't going straight there. Somehow, it had been arranged that en route to meeting my wife, the car was going to stop by Madonna's gated residence, where I was to quickly substitute for a gigolo who was scheduled to meet with and, er, service Ms. Ciccone-(probably hasn't changed her license back yet)Ritchie.
So we pulled up to the residence, the driver agreed--according to plan--to take a few laps around the block then return shortly, and I crossed the sidewalk to the entrance, leaving my daughter and the other female behind. Arriving at the gate, I found the security keypad, and in the dimming light of dusk, noticed that the buttons 2, 8 and 0 were more worn than were the others. I tried them in a few different combinations until I heard a ring through the speaker. The line connected, and at the other end, Madonna said, "Hello?" "Hi, I'm...here for you." "Oh good. Come on in and let's go for it." [buzz, click]
Immediately, almost with a whiplash, my mind raced and heart pounded. Not at the moral crisis of principles...covenants vs. the possibility of being with the woman who defined and continually redefined female sexuality for at least one generation, but at the logistical dilemma of how to buy time and hide the deed from my daughter, the other female in the car, and my wife.
After just a few moments, I left the gate ajar and ran back to the street. There was no car when I arrived, but after just a few seconds it appeared over the crest of a hill to my left (which had a sunsetting sky behind it, but I had the sense that I was looking to the east, while it was darkening to the west, and yet it was definitely late evening), speeding down the road toward me and, registering more silhouetted heads in it than jived with the three who had been in it when I saw it last, I knew something was wrong. The car skidded to a stop in front of me. When the interior lights flashed on, I saw several men, maybe half a dozen of them, all dressed in black, looking through the windows at me and holding pistols to the heads of my daughter and the other female.
The end.
But we weren't going straight there. Somehow, it had been arranged that en route to meeting my wife, the car was going to stop by Madonna's gated residence, where I was to quickly substitute for a gigolo who was scheduled to meet with and, er, service Ms. Ciccone-(probably hasn't changed her license back yet)Ritchie.
So we pulled up to the residence, the driver agreed--according to plan--to take a few laps around the block then return shortly, and I crossed the sidewalk to the entrance, leaving my daughter and the other female behind. Arriving at the gate, I found the security keypad, and in the dimming light of dusk, noticed that the buttons 2, 8 and 0 were more worn than were the others. I tried them in a few different combinations until I heard a ring through the speaker. The line connected, and at the other end, Madonna said, "Hello?" "Hi, I'm...here for you." "Oh good. Come on in and let's go for it." [buzz, click]
Immediately, almost with a whiplash, my mind raced and heart pounded. Not at the moral crisis of principles...covenants vs. the possibility of being with the woman who defined and continually redefined female sexuality for at least one generation, but at the logistical dilemma of how to buy time and hide the deed from my daughter, the other female in the car, and my wife.
After just a few moments, I left the gate ajar and ran back to the street. There was no car when I arrived, but after just a few seconds it appeared over the crest of a hill to my left (which had a sunsetting sky behind it, but I had the sense that I was looking to the east, while it was darkening to the west, and yet it was definitely late evening), speeding down the road toward me and, registering more silhouetted heads in it than jived with the three who had been in it when I saw it last, I knew something was wrong. The car skidded to a stop in front of me. When the interior lights flashed on, I saw several men, maybe half a dozen of them, all dressed in black, looking through the windows at me and holding pistols to the heads of my daughter and the other female.
The end.
Friday, December 12, 2008
"New Words"
This evening, I heard a song that left me aching to be a better dad. (I can already imagine the Ensign admonition, “The best way to be a better father to your kids is to be a better husband to their mother.”) It's called "New Words," by Maury Yeston:
Look up there, high above us
In a sky of blackest silk
See how round like a cookie
See how white, as white as milk
Call it the moon, my child
Say "moon."
Sounds like your spoon, my child
Can you say it?
New word today -- say "moon"
Near the moon brightly turning
See the shining sparks of light
Each one new, each one burning
Through the darkness of the night
We call them stars, my child
Say "stars."
That one is Mars, my child
Can you say it?
New word today -- say "stars"
As they blink all around us
Playing starry-eyed games,
Who would think it astounds us
Simply naming their names?
Turn your eyes from the skies now
Turn around and look at me
There's a light in my eyes now
And a word for what you see
We call it love, my child
Say "love."
So hard to say, my child -- It gets harder.
New words today, we'll work to say
Learn "moon," learn "stars," learn "love."
La la la la la la…
Learn moon, learn stars, learn happy
Learn peace, learn love, learn puppy
Learn friend, learn toy, learn sharing
Learn hope, learn joy, learn caring
Learn life is there for living
Learn love is there for giving
Learn merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily
Live and laugh and dream.Saturday, December 6, 2008
A Top Five Cause, so no surprise
Well, that was nice while it lasted. This morning's Tithing Settlement--full tithe, FYI--and a discussion about Christmas gifts for the extended family--she has six siblings--formed a perfect storm for a blow-up about household finances. (I would say "household budget," but to call our cash inflows and outflows a "budget" would be an insult to the word.)
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)