Something very strange is happening in East Phoenix. If I were a religious person or someone one who believes in fate, I'd think that an entity greater than you or I was trying to tell me something.
In 2003, I joined a gym called Basic Training. It was located on 36th Street and Indian School, and it met my requirements: decent equipment, flexible terms, cheap, not crowded, owned by a musclehead who flexed his biceps when holding paper. It did have an odd mural painted on the wall showing a depression-era kid (as evidenced by his shoes) being comforted by an old-timey coach type with a whistle around his neck. Aside from that weirdness, which made me a little uncomfortable whenever I looked at it, the place was a good fit and more than adequate for my needs. I don't think business was booming, unfortunately, and it closed within a year. Two more businesses came and went, some sort of kickboxing gym and a lame cantina with the most idiotic wait staff in the 85018 zip code. Zipps Sports Grill now occupies the spot and seems to be doing well. We've been there several times and invariably ended up getting trashed (I blame the Zipparitas, which are on special Friday night after 8). The food is mediocre, and Zipps isn't really good value unless you go during happy hour. At that point, it's a bargain.
After Basic Training closed, I had to find another gym. I decided on Fitness West, a venerable old place on Bethany Home and 16th Street. It was bigger than Basic Training and smelled like sweat, vinyl, and Pine Sol. It also had more cardio machines and a charming oddball who worked at the front desk. He kept calling me Karen, saying that I looked like a Karen. What do you say when someone says something like that? All I could think of was, "Well, I'm sorry my name's not Karen." He also said that I reminded him of his Aunt Karen. That the guy was about my age (32 at the time) made this comment kinda depressing. But he assured me that she was "totally awesome, and totally nice."
So, I was a Fitness West member for a good six months or so. I returned from a couple of months in the UK to discover that Fitness West closed because of a dispute with the landlord—it had been in the same location for more than 20 years—and sold its memberships to LA Fitness. I'm still disappointed.
Now, hold on to your hats: After sitting vacant for 5 years, what goes into Fitness West's old space? Another Zipps!
One might reach this conclusion: An otherworldly force wants me to stop working out and start watching more sports, eating more chicken wings, and drinking more beer. Usually I'm not prone to thinking this way, but it's hard to ignore the eerie coincidence.
Thoughts?
June 3, 2011
Evil Dogs
We have an idiot neighbor with an assortment of vicious small dogs. She has lived here for several years, at least as long as we have. She lacks basic dog-handling ability, and indeed social skills. Every day, twice a day, I hear her out walking her little darlings, the relative quiet destroyed by their barky shrieks--no doubt brought on by an elderly resident shuffling by to pick up his mail. I remember the first time I had the misfortune of passing this ditz-bag and her devil creatures; the aggressiveness of the barking was as violently startling as its earsplitting volume. I looked at their owner, a slim middle-aged lady with a gray helmetlike bowl cut, who gave me a pathetic look that was more "What can I do?" than "Sorry about these little terrors, I'll try to get it under control." I said, "Those dogs are going to give someone a heart attack." She shrugged.
I don't know how many dogs she has. Three? Five? Ten? I can't bring myself to look at them because the urge to grab one and chuck it over the wall, as a warning to the others, would be too great. I just keep hoping they'll go the way of Fifi (see Driverz n the Hood), making their escape at the exact moment that Nathan Barley and his spray-on-tan goddess zip by in their snooty red spaceship. That would take care of several problems simultaneously.
I don't know how many dogs she has. Three? Five? Ten? I can't bring myself to look at them because the urge to grab one and chuck it over the wall, as a warning to the others, would be too great. I just keep hoping they'll go the way of Fifi (see Driverz n the Hood), making their escape at the exact moment that Nathan Barley and his spray-on-tan goddess zip by in their snooty red spaceship. That would take care of several problems simultaneously.
June 1, 2011
Driverz n the Hood
A few weeks ago, I was out for a jog around the swanky 'hood near our penthouse condo. I'm still at the point where jogging is an exhausting, painful ordeal, but it's the only way I have a chance of getting rid of this baby belly blubber because eliminating beer and cheese from my diet is not an option. I was minding my own business, huffing and puffing, when an ultrafancy sparkly red sports car screeched to a desperate halt just ahead of me. The car was so fancy, in fact, that I didn't recognize its make. It looked like the offspring of a Corvette, a Porsche, and a Ferrari, but with a spacecraft quality to it. I'm pretty good with car identification, so perhaps it was one-of-a kind.
I've been taught that you really shouldn't stop a jogger unless it's very important. Because I'm not exactly a speedy runner, it's possible the driver thought I was just out for a leisurely stroll. I felt obligated to stop, figuring he wanted directions. Maybe he was attending a worthy fundraiser and was the keynote speaker?
"Have you seen a small dog?" he asked in an annoyed tone, as if I'd asked him to repeat himself three times. He was a young guy in a tight plaid short-sleeved shirt, the kind popular with today's frat boys, and looked a lot like Nathan Barley. His question was accompanied by some manic gesticulating. I think he was trying to indicate the dog's rough size, but he looked like a methed-up mime repeatedly constructing an invisible box.
"Why, no, I haven't," I said. Before I could say, "Do you live around here? How might I find you if I come upon the small dog?" he turned toward his passenger, a skinny chick with giant sunglasses, tossed up his hands in disgust, and sped off. Not even a thank you. Moments later, he flew by again, going at least 50 in a 25 mph residential zone. I couldn't help but think that little Fifi would make her appearance at that moment and end up flattened. What a colossal asshole.
I've been taught that you really shouldn't stop a jogger unless it's very important. Because I'm not exactly a speedy runner, it's possible the driver thought I was just out for a leisurely stroll. I felt obligated to stop, figuring he wanted directions. Maybe he was attending a worthy fundraiser and was the keynote speaker?
"Have you seen a small dog?" he asked in an annoyed tone, as if I'd asked him to repeat himself three times. He was a young guy in a tight plaid short-sleeved shirt, the kind popular with today's frat boys, and looked a lot like Nathan Barley. His question was accompanied by some manic gesticulating. I think he was trying to indicate the dog's rough size, but he looked like a methed-up mime repeatedly constructing an invisible box.
"Why, no, I haven't," I said. Before I could say, "Do you live around here? How might I find you if I come upon the small dog?" he turned toward his passenger, a skinny chick with giant sunglasses, tossed up his hands in disgust, and sped off. Not even a thank you. Moments later, he flew by again, going at least 50 in a 25 mph residential zone. I couldn't help but think that little Fifi would make her appearance at that moment and end up flattened. What a colossal asshole.
Focus: It's Overrated
When I originally conceived of this work of genius, I had a grand plan: I'd visit various oddball places* in the Phoenix area on a regular basis, from a fabulous bakery run by a toothless wack job, to a small museum devoted to the history of printer cartridges, and write pithy descriptions of my outings, complete with my own photos. My intention was to soften the blow of being stuck here, after we'd fantasized for a good three years about moving somewhere with water, green vegetation, proximity to the sea, and a somewhat civically engaged population. When circumstances conspired to keep us here for a while yet, authoring a local blog seemed like an effective sanity-retaining tool. Somehow, the number of followers would creep upward, and I'd get good press. I'd add unobtrusive advertisements and eventually earn a few bucks, or at least free beer and donuts. Unfortunately, I hadn't yet discovered that I'm just a lazy-ass. So, to make things easier on myself, I'm changing gears just a bit: I will update the blog more often, but it won't center entirely on Phoenix-area outings and experiences. Rather, I'll take a more free-form approach and see how that shakes out. To my seven followers, I thank you for your support! When I'm a rich and famous blogger, I'll host an IPA-and-cheddar party at the Phoenician, and you're all invited!
*I realize that most people wouldn't consider the Cardinals' stadium an oddball place, although it certainly is, especially at tailgating time. And God only knows what happens in the men's room, what with urinals and everything.
*I realize that most people wouldn't consider the Cardinals' stadium an oddball place, although it certainly is, especially at tailgating time. And God only knows what happens in the men's room, what with urinals and everything.
March 4, 2011
Impressive Credentials
March in Phoenix: a time when random memory kicks into high gear. It's one of the few times of year when you can sense an environmental change, and it smells different, almost moist, when you walk out the door. It's also allergy season, which contributes somehow to the memory garbage eating up space in my brain. Olfactory-eliciting something-or-other. As I scaled the stairs to our swanky penthouse apartment earlier, something triggered this:
About 10 years ago, I had a job at ASU. Our department was seeking a temporary proofreader for something like $10 an hour. The job would last a month at the most and did not include benefits. I was on the hiring committee, such as it was, and I helped to sift through the dozens of applications we received. This task was depressing on a number of levels. Numerous people clearly didn't understand what a proofreader should be able to do. Someone who emphasized her exceptional attention to detail neglected to update the cover letter salutation, which addressed Wild West Little Buckaroos Marketing Department. Actually, I was the only one who thought it was funny and that the applicant should have been removed from consideration then and there. The other members of the hiring committee graciously suggested that we contact her and request the correct cover letter. She never did resubmit it, perhaps because her destiny was with Wild West Little Buckaroos.
Several resumes featured egregious spelling and grammatical errors and horrific formatting (smiley-face bullets, for example). One applicant, a communications junior, sent a six-page resume that appeared to include every paid job she'd ever had, from raking leaves as a 10-year-old in Wisconsin to working as an exotic dancer at Miss Marjorie's Finishing School Gentleman's Club (awesome customer service skills!!!!!). She also was totally good at spotting typos, and like, all her friends asked her to read over their papers for them because she was like, awesome at that sort of thing. Another applicant--and this made me want to cry--was an adjunct professor with PhDs in English and Linguistics. And this was when the economy was pretty good.
The most memorable aspect of this farrago was the rejection letter that we sent out to all applicants. I was not responsible for composing it. It said, "Although your credentials are impressive, we have chosen a candidate whose skills and experience more closely match the requirements of the position." It was the word "impressive" that stayed with me. The letter was sent to everyone who applied, regardless of how irrelevant (or indeed nonexistent) his or her experience may have been. Some guy applied who had never worked in an office, never mind as a proofreader. In fact, he was a locksmith who was looking to change careers, and he didn't include a cover letter. (His desire to get out of the locksmith business was expressed on a Post-It note. ASU still accepted mailed applications in those days.) I'm sure his locksmith credentials were impressive, but Sweet Jessup. And I'm certain that if someone had applied whose only work experience was making sculptures of child celebrities out of horseshit, he would have received the same letter referencing his impressive credentials. Not that making sculptures out of horseshit isn't a skill, mind you.
I am now reaching for my Flonase. Spring's a comin', and more memory trips could follow.
About 10 years ago, I had a job at ASU. Our department was seeking a temporary proofreader for something like $10 an hour. The job would last a month at the most and did not include benefits. I was on the hiring committee, such as it was, and I helped to sift through the dozens of applications we received. This task was depressing on a number of levels. Numerous people clearly didn't understand what a proofreader should be able to do. Someone who emphasized her exceptional attention to detail neglected to update the cover letter salutation, which addressed Wild West Little Buckaroos Marketing Department. Actually, I was the only one who thought it was funny and that the applicant should have been removed from consideration then and there. The other members of the hiring committee graciously suggested that we contact her and request the correct cover letter. She never did resubmit it, perhaps because her destiny was with Wild West Little Buckaroos.
Several resumes featured egregious spelling and grammatical errors and horrific formatting (smiley-face bullets, for example). One applicant, a communications junior, sent a six-page resume that appeared to include every paid job she'd ever had, from raking leaves as a 10-year-old in Wisconsin to working as an exotic dancer at Miss Marjorie's Finishing School Gentleman's Club (awesome customer service skills!!!!!). She also was totally good at spotting typos, and like, all her friends asked her to read over their papers for them because she was like, awesome at that sort of thing. Another applicant--and this made me want to cry--was an adjunct professor with PhDs in English and Linguistics. And this was when the economy was pretty good.
The most memorable aspect of this farrago was the rejection letter that we sent out to all applicants. I was not responsible for composing it. It said, "Although your credentials are impressive, we have chosen a candidate whose skills and experience more closely match the requirements of the position." It was the word "impressive" that stayed with me. The letter was sent to everyone who applied, regardless of how irrelevant (or indeed nonexistent) his or her experience may have been. Some guy applied who had never worked in an office, never mind as a proofreader. In fact, he was a locksmith who was looking to change careers, and he didn't include a cover letter. (His desire to get out of the locksmith business was expressed on a Post-It note. ASU still accepted mailed applications in those days.) I'm sure his locksmith credentials were impressive, but Sweet Jessup. And I'm certain that if someone had applied whose only work experience was making sculptures of child celebrities out of horseshit, he would have received the same letter referencing his impressive credentials. Not that making sculptures out of horseshit isn't a skill, mind you.
I am now reaching for my Flonase. Spring's a comin', and more memory trips could follow.
February 4, 2011
Boys
Madeleine started daycare Monday. She'll be going three days a week to start. When we toured the place a few weeks ago, an older boy, Taylor, was clearly flirting with her (at the time, she was nine weeks old, and he was a worldly and sophisticated three-month-old). I expected Taylor to be enthusiastically rolling out the red carpet Monday morning to welcome the infant room's newest kid, but when I took Madeleine in, he was sleeping in his crib! Apparently Taylor is now playing hard to get. If he's not sleeping in his crib, he's fussing in the swing, or sitting in a boucy seat with his back to her. Fortunately, she seems unfazed by this mercurial behavior and has busied herself with her own groovy swing and playmat thingy.
It seems that Madeleine is learning an early lesson: Boys are often indecisive, they make no sense, and they sleep when they should be doing something else. I'm proud that she hasn't taken it to heart and is doing her own thang.
It seems that Madeleine is learning an early lesson: Boys are often indecisive, they make no sense, and they sleep when they should be doing something else. I'm proud that she hasn't taken it to heart and is doing her own thang.
January 29, 2011
Whoops! And sincere apologies
I hereby pledge that I will be better about updating this blog. After all, I have four (4!) followers who have been waiting for thrilling updates since September 2009! I guess having a kid could be used as an excuse, but she arrived a full year after my most recent post prior to this one. I'll try not to allow this work of genius to morph into a Mommy blog (that said, my kid's a genius and said "Hello"--L sound and all--at 10 weeks), although I suppose it's inevitable that I'll post something about her unbelievable volume of urine, or her cuteness, or her love/hate relationship with the carseat, or the fact that she's in the 75% percentile for length even though both of her parents are midgets.
She's holding the "I love you" teething bunny, who has a flair for the dramatic and says, every day, "I'M DOOOOMED!" And he is.
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