My blog will be silent for the next few days as I go into the weekend.
Saturday morning, if I can find parking, I will join friends and friends of friends on a University Avenue balcony to watch the Pride Parade go by. I'll be competing with about 150 THOUSAND drivers for a spot in a designated shuttle area (appropriately along Park Boulevard) and hoping the walk back to my car will not be too difficult after I've meandered down 5th Avenue, long after the shuttle stops running, to the coffee house where the 24-hour clock will begin ticking for Instant Theatre.
All of Sunday will be given to memorizing freshly-written lines and rehearsing for two off-book performances that night.
On Monday, I'll return to the doctor's office to pick up papers requesting outpatient tests from another facility. Yes, I've finally heard from Dr. AWOL, and the news wasn't all I'd hoped. However, I'm always up for a yummy cup o' radioactive barium and a good CT Scan! WHEE!
But if a tabby and a labrador start sniffing me over, I'm not paying one cent more!
Friday, July 29, 2005
Wednesday, July 27, 2005
Balboa Park... Again
Many museums in Balboa Park offer free admission on certain Tuesdays. On the fourth Tuesday of the month (yesterday) both the Aerospace and the Automotive museums were free, so off to Balboa Park I went.
I went to the Aerospace Museum first...
... and planned to catch the Automotive Museum second, but it turns out that it isn't actually open until 5, like the web promises, but rather closes at 4:30 and accepts its final guests at 3:45. Another time, I suppose. So, I took a long stroll through the park. Again.
... and ended up back at the zoo.
...where I finally got a picture of the camera-shy DiVine
... and watched an incredible Nighttime Zoo performance called "Jewels of the Rainforest" which featured World and National Acrobatic Champions.
Another great day in San Diego... for free.
I went to the Aerospace Museum first...
... and planned to catch the Automotive Museum second, but it turns out that it isn't actually open until 5, like the web promises, but rather closes at 4:30 and accepts its final guests at 3:45. Another time, I suppose. So, I took a long stroll through the park. Again.
... and ended up back at the zoo.
...where I finally got a picture of the camera-shy DiVine
... and watched an incredible Nighttime Zoo performance called "Jewels of the Rainforest" which featured World and National Acrobatic Champions.
Another great day in San Diego... for free.
A Google of a Chance Meeting
It all started earlier this week, when I was looking for directions to David’s Coffee House in Hillcrest. You see, that’s where Instant Theatre folk were told to meet – “David’s Coffee House” -- as if everyone should already know where that is. Except, I didn’t. So I Googled. And I found Mark.
The Google search took me to a blog posted last year, when a guy named Mark traveled from Dallas to San Diego to see his boyfriend Brian. As a San Diego traveler with a boyfriend named Brian, my interest was piqued. I read on. They’d been to Coronado Island and the Hotel Del, taken a bay cruise around the Midway and Star of India, and walked Balboa Park. I’d been there, too. I read on. They stopped to watch a glass fair. It turns out Mark is – or was – a glass blower. I’ve always been intrigued by that in that craft. I read on.
I hadn’t actually noticed at the time that I was reading last year’s entries. Mark had posted pictures of a Russian submarine at harbor that arrived here in April (it must have visited last year too), so I never bothered to notice the date on his posts. By the time I realized that I was a year behind, I’d come to enjoy Mark’s company. I enjoyed his writing and what he chose to write about. I enjoyed his sense of humor. And I enjoyed his pictures, most of them featuring him and Brian in front of various backdrops. It amused me that, despite the myriad of places these two had been, their pose was almost always the same. Mark on the right, Brian on the left, listing to port at an angle that suggests he’s holding the camera in front of them. They are always together. Always smiling.
Mark’s blog has a German title: “Zeitzeuge.” According to him, it is pronounced “ZITE-zoy-ga” and means “temporary witness to a specific time and place in history.” One of those wonderful German words. Although he never comments on the title’s significance, Mark is HIV positive. This is something he mentions only in passing, remembering pre-HIV times, but not something he dwells on. He is happy and active and fun.
Fast forward. August 2004 was a good time, but I decide to see what Mark is up to this year. The Sunday before last, he was tossed from a Sea Doo, on Monday he dodged a skin-head at the lunch counter, and on that Tuesday, he doubled over at work.
I’ve never met Mark. Never talked to him. He doesn’t know me, or know that I’m reading his blog. But when I read his entry on the 20th, my heart cinched. So for the rest of the week, I’ve been checking in. The pain he described last week sounded like kidney trouble, which is no fun for anyone, but there is a particular scare involved here as HIV meds have been known to cause kidney damage. So far, though, only kidney stones have been blamed. And I’m utterly relieved… for a complete stranger.
Oddly, though, I think Mark would get it. He’s a list maker and an over-thinker too. I think he’d appreciate that I was intrigued by the little things. His boyfriend named Brian. His trip to San Diego. His trip to Kansas City, where I went last year. His Texas to my Tennessee. His mother who won’t let him complete a sentence. His fondness for glass-making and photo taking and German words. Even his test results after peeing in a cup….
Get well, Mark. I’ll be reading.
The Google search took me to a blog posted last year, when a guy named Mark traveled from Dallas to San Diego to see his boyfriend Brian. As a San Diego traveler with a boyfriend named Brian, my interest was piqued. I read on. They’d been to Coronado Island and the Hotel Del, taken a bay cruise around the Midway and Star of India, and walked Balboa Park. I’d been there, too. I read on. They stopped to watch a glass fair. It turns out Mark is – or was – a glass blower. I’ve always been intrigued by that in that craft. I read on.
I hadn’t actually noticed at the time that I was reading last year’s entries. Mark had posted pictures of a Russian submarine at harbor that arrived here in April (it must have visited last year too), so I never bothered to notice the date on his posts. By the time I realized that I was a year behind, I’d come to enjoy Mark’s company. I enjoyed his writing and what he chose to write about. I enjoyed his sense of humor. And I enjoyed his pictures, most of them featuring him and Brian in front of various backdrops. It amused me that, despite the myriad of places these two had been, their pose was almost always the same. Mark on the right, Brian on the left, listing to port at an angle that suggests he’s holding the camera in front of them. They are always together. Always smiling.
Mark’s blog has a German title: “Zeitzeuge.” According to him, it is pronounced “ZITE-zoy-ga” and means “temporary witness to a specific time and place in history.” One of those wonderful German words. Although he never comments on the title’s significance, Mark is HIV positive. This is something he mentions only in passing, remembering pre-HIV times, but not something he dwells on. He is happy and active and fun.
Fast forward. August 2004 was a good time, but I decide to see what Mark is up to this year. The Sunday before last, he was tossed from a Sea Doo, on Monday he dodged a skin-head at the lunch counter, and on that Tuesday, he doubled over at work.
I’ve never met Mark. Never talked to him. He doesn’t know me, or know that I’m reading his blog. But when I read his entry on the 20th, my heart cinched. So for the rest of the week, I’ve been checking in. The pain he described last week sounded like kidney trouble, which is no fun for anyone, but there is a particular scare involved here as HIV meds have been known to cause kidney damage. So far, though, only kidney stones have been blamed. And I’m utterly relieved… for a complete stranger.
Oddly, though, I think Mark would get it. He’s a list maker and an over-thinker too. I think he’d appreciate that I was intrigued by the little things. His boyfriend named Brian. His trip to San Diego. His trip to Kansas City, where I went last year. His Texas to my Tennessee. His mother who won’t let him complete a sentence. His fondness for glass-making and photo taking and German words. Even his test results after peeing in a cup….
Get well, Mark. I’ll be reading.
Tuesday, July 26, 2005
Film, Stage, and Friends of Dorothy
I date an actor. A professional actor. The kind that actually makes his living by being paid to perform all over the country, not the kind that thinks that he's professional if he doesn’t do an “enjoyed-it” line in Podunk. Brian is the real deal. And, as such, he travels a lot – to wherever work is – and is usually absent Nashville. So it amuses me that every summer, when the 48Hour Film Project comes to town, Brian always happens to be home for it. I’m not suggesting that it’s planned that way, only that it is a remarkable coincidence with his schedule. Of course, the Film Project doesn’t require much planning around, really, because, as advertised, all creativity -- from writing the script to editing the film -- takes place in 48 hours. You’ve only got to catch him in town on the right weekend.
The Film Project is making its summer rounds, with filming in Nashville having wrapped up on Sunday and screenings at the Belcourt Theatre today and tomorrow. Brian was involved and will, I'm sure, be watching.
Although I've never been involved in the 48HFP myself, this weekend in San Diego, I will be involved in a something similar to it -- a 24-hour project called Instant Theatre. Actors, writers, and directors will meet at 6:00 on Saturday in Hillcrest to be grouped into 12 teams, given a subject, and let loose to create. On 6:00 Sunday, 12 fully-produced 5-7 minute original plays will be performed off-book and in front of an audience at Hillcrest’s 6th at Penn theatre.
It should be a great experience... but there's a twist. Hillcrest, the site of our initial meeting and final performances, is San Diego's largest gayborhood and host to LGBT PRIDE festivities this weekend. The Saturday morning parade to Balboa Park is expected to draw 150,000 participants and onlookers. Parking will be an adventure. Hell, walking through Hillcrest may be an adventure – and when you’ve only got 24 hours to write, rehearse, and perform a show, you don’t want to be late! Whoever planned this needs a smack upside the head.
Meanwhile, it looks like I’ll be getting a close and personal look at San Diego PRIDE this weekend. It will undoubtedly be a colorful affair. I’ll have my camera at the ready.
The Film Project is making its summer rounds, with filming in Nashville having wrapped up on Sunday and screenings at the Belcourt Theatre today and tomorrow. Brian was involved and will, I'm sure, be watching.
Although I've never been involved in the 48HFP myself, this weekend in San Diego, I will be involved in a something similar to it -- a 24-hour project called Instant Theatre. Actors, writers, and directors will meet at 6:00 on Saturday in Hillcrest to be grouped into 12 teams, given a subject, and let loose to create. On 6:00 Sunday, 12 fully-produced 5-7 minute original plays will be performed off-book and in front of an audience at Hillcrest’s 6th at Penn theatre.
It should be a great experience... but there's a twist. Hillcrest, the site of our initial meeting and final performances, is San Diego's largest gayborhood and host to LGBT PRIDE festivities this weekend. The Saturday morning parade to Balboa Park is expected to draw 150,000 participants and onlookers. Parking will be an adventure. Hell, walking through Hillcrest may be an adventure – and when you’ve only got 24 hours to write, rehearse, and perform a show, you don’t want to be late! Whoever planned this needs a smack upside the head.
Meanwhile, it looks like I’ll be getting a close and personal look at San Diego PRIDE this weekend. It will undoubtedly be a colorful affair. I’ll have my camera at the ready.
Monday, July 25, 2005
Just Happy to Be Here
In June, I wrote that there were reasons to believe that staying in San Diego through July was a wise decision. To avoid jinxing anything, I’d said, I was keeping a lid on some potentially exciting news. Yesterday, I intimated that my return to Nashville might be delayed. Well, now the lid can be lifted and the delay confirmed. At a ceremony last night in Chula Vista, rumors became official: I have been nominated for an acting award for my performance as Olive Madison in The Odd Couple (female version).
ACT San Diego, which has bestowed the honor, is a non-profit organization founded in 1964 to improve the quality of community theatres throughout San Diego County. Their annual Aubrey Awards represent the “best of the best” in San Diego community theatre and the winners are announced in a formal setting that has been called “San Diego’s hometown version of the Tony Awards.” This year, the 41st Annual Aubrey Awards will be presented at the Old Town Courtyard by Marriott in August.
Throughout each year, a panel of judges travels within the county, spanning theatres from the downtown area to those outside city limits -- north to Poway, south to Chula Vista -- to evaluate local productions. They grade each show using a standard form, rating actors, producers, directors, set and costume designers, and technical crews on a 10-point scale. Only those who achieved a score of 8.0 or better for their craft can be nominated for an award at the end of the season. Categories, then, can be either glutted with nominees or absent them.
As a nominee for Best Lead Actress in a Comedy, I am joined by 6 actresses who have also scored 8.0 or better this season. With seven nominations, ours is one of the most competitive categories. While in San Diego, I’ve read the biographies, seen the reviews, or watched the performances of these other nominees. It is an honor to be named in their company.
Whether the winner is determined by best overall score on the ratings sheet or by the votes of ACT judges, I do not know. But I’ll be there for the announcements, fancy dress and all, rooting for Jeffrey Gastauer to win the Best Director Aubrey, for Marge Hale to win for Best Production, and for Rett Becker or Joey Georges (our Costazuela brothers) to take home Best Actor, Minor Support. I’ll be rooting for friends: Chris Armour, Debbie David, Frank Remiatte, Teri Brown; and for acquaintances: Christopher Duzan, Michael Barnett, renee levine; and I’ll be clapping whole-heartedly for whoever wins Best Actress.
Unless it’s that over-the-top chick. Or the snob. Or the one who doesn’t deserve it. Or....
;)
ACT San Diego, which has bestowed the honor, is a non-profit organization founded in 1964 to improve the quality of community theatres throughout San Diego County. Their annual Aubrey Awards represent the “best of the best” in San Diego community theatre and the winners are announced in a formal setting that has been called “San Diego’s hometown version of the Tony Awards.” This year, the 41st Annual Aubrey Awards will be presented at the Old Town Courtyard by Marriott in August.
Throughout each year, a panel of judges travels within the county, spanning theatres from the downtown area to those outside city limits -- north to Poway, south to Chula Vista -- to evaluate local productions. They grade each show using a standard form, rating actors, producers, directors, set and costume designers, and technical crews on a 10-point scale. Only those who achieved a score of 8.0 or better for their craft can be nominated for an award at the end of the season. Categories, then, can be either glutted with nominees or absent them.
As a nominee for Best Lead Actress in a Comedy, I am joined by 6 actresses who have also scored 8.0 or better this season. With seven nominations, ours is one of the most competitive categories. While in San Diego, I’ve read the biographies, seen the reviews, or watched the performances of these other nominees. It is an honor to be named in their company.
Whether the winner is determined by best overall score on the ratings sheet or by the votes of ACT judges, I do not know. But I’ll be there for the announcements, fancy dress and all, rooting for Jeffrey Gastauer to win the Best Director Aubrey, for Marge Hale to win for Best Production, and for Rett Becker or Joey Georges (our Costazuela brothers) to take home Best Actor, Minor Support. I’ll be rooting for friends: Chris Armour, Debbie David, Frank Remiatte, Teri Brown; and for acquaintances: Christopher Duzan, Michael Barnett, renee levine; and I’ll be clapping whole-heartedly for whoever wins Best Actress.
Unless it’s that over-the-top chick. Or the snob. Or the one who doesn’t deserve it. Or....
;)
Sunday, July 24, 2005
Imminent Domain
My return to Nashville is imminent. Exactly how imminent will be determined later this evening, but the end of my stay in San Diego is near. So, I've packed the weekend with what may be the final theatre hurrah on this coast. For this visit.
On Friday, I ventured to a hole-in-the-wall theatre in North Park where friends from The Odd Couple (female version) would be performing An Evening of Christopher Durang. From the outset, the cast of 6 outnumbered the audience -- never a good sign on a Friday night, but seemingly forgivable for the small, unadvertised space hidden within a candy store. Forgivable until the program began. Dreadful. The bulk of the audience made its escape at the intermission, so that when Act II began, I was the alone in the theatre and an actress was threatening to quit. Honestly, it'd help the show if she did.
Now, to be fair, Durang is hard. He's quirky and satirical and, well... odd. It takes a certain talent, a twisted mind, and a damned fine director to pull his stuff off. I know precious few people I'd put up to the task -- none of them in North Park.
The producer/director was a nice man who admitted to being introduced to theatre by his wife (the suffering actress), for whom the Vaudeville and Candy Shoppe was undoubtedly created. After watching Friday's show, I assume the introduction was recent.
On Saturday, however, I witnessed the result of a much longer association with the craft and was star-struck by a performance in La Mesa, where Lamplighter's Community Theatre is producing Eat Your Heart Out by Nick Hall. This wonderful comedy following an actor's career (in restaurants) is so full of trite-but-true commentary on the business of acting that it would have been impossible for anyone involved in theatre not to have appreciated the script; but the proof is in the performance. Here, audiences were treated to a truly brilliant performance by the young lead. A recent State University grad, Christopher Buess is one to watch.
Tonight, I won't be attending a performance so much as a ceremony, but the evening will be full to brimming with the faces I've met in the last six months, spanning from northern Poway to southern Chula Vista, where we will be gathered. I'll be lunching with Odd Couplers before and drinking with Markham folk after and I couldn't imagine a better send off.
Unless my return to Nashville turns out not to be so imminent after all.
On Friday, I ventured to a hole-in-the-wall theatre in North Park where friends from The Odd Couple (female version) would be performing An Evening of Christopher Durang. From the outset, the cast of 6 outnumbered the audience -- never a good sign on a Friday night, but seemingly forgivable for the small, unadvertised space hidden within a candy store. Forgivable until the program began. Dreadful. The bulk of the audience made its escape at the intermission, so that when Act II began, I was the alone in the theatre and an actress was threatening to quit. Honestly, it'd help the show if she did.
Now, to be fair, Durang is hard. He's quirky and satirical and, well... odd. It takes a certain talent, a twisted mind, and a damned fine director to pull his stuff off. I know precious few people I'd put up to the task -- none of them in North Park.
The producer/director was a nice man who admitted to being introduced to theatre by his wife (the suffering actress), for whom the Vaudeville and Candy Shoppe was undoubtedly created. After watching Friday's show, I assume the introduction was recent.
On Saturday, however, I witnessed the result of a much longer association with the craft and was star-struck by a performance in La Mesa, where Lamplighter's Community Theatre is producing Eat Your Heart Out by Nick Hall. This wonderful comedy following an actor's career (in restaurants) is so full of trite-but-true commentary on the business of acting that it would have been impossible for anyone involved in theatre not to have appreciated the script; but the proof is in the performance. Here, audiences were treated to a truly brilliant performance by the young lead. A recent State University grad, Christopher Buess is one to watch.
Tonight, I won't be attending a performance so much as a ceremony, but the evening will be full to brimming with the faces I've met in the last six months, spanning from northern Poway to southern Chula Vista, where we will be gathered. I'll be lunching with Odd Couplers before and drinking with Markham folk after and I couldn't imagine a better send off.
Unless my return to Nashville turns out not to be so imminent after all.
Friday, July 22, 2005
Abbr-normal
Earlier this month, as you have heard, I decided to find an MD in San Diego. I found a GP who was part of my PPO and made an appointment.
He gave me a general check-up and, after a bit of Q&A, he declared my vital signs AOK. But for bloodwork and such, I'd have to return after a fast. No OJ, PBJ, or BLT.
After a weekend of R&R, I returned on Tuesday with a full bladder and PMS. I showed my ID, filled a cup with P, and wished for TLC when the nurse bruised my arm with her needle. Then I went home to wait, my results TBD.
As the week continued quietly, I wondered when I'd know my results. What's the ETA? And who calls who? What's the MO? Perhaps I should have signed my cup with an RSVP.
I waited a week before calling the office. When I did, I was greeted by a message: "you have reached a number that has been disconnected or is no longer in service..." Oh no! My doctor had gone AWOL!
I checked the phone book and then dialed 411. The number hadn't changed. I called again. The message was the same. But why would Dr. Dysart have taken a new patient if his office was closing? It must have been unexpected. I fear the worst.
Perhaps Doctor Dysart was a spy -- AKA DJ D -- caught by the FBI after a mission went PU. Or maybe he disappeared when inserting an IUD became a PR nightmare. Or maybe he was abducted by a UFO to administer space probes....
Maybe he put whiskey in his IV and is busy at the pokey, serving time for DUI.
Maybe I'm a carrier for something fatal that wiped out the office staff. RIP. Call the CDC!
Or maybe he forgot to write a check to SBC.
The only thing I know for sure is that I don't know my test results. And it seems unlikely that I ever will. TBA or not TBA, that is the question. Whether a strange and rare disease is threatening to abbreviate my life, I may nvr knw.
ACK! Perhaps I should call a PI.
He gave me a general check-up and, after a bit of Q&A, he declared my vital signs AOK. But for bloodwork and such, I'd have to return after a fast. No OJ, PBJ, or BLT.
After a weekend of R&R, I returned on Tuesday with a full bladder and PMS. I showed my ID, filled a cup with P, and wished for TLC when the nurse bruised my arm with her needle. Then I went home to wait, my results TBD.
As the week continued quietly, I wondered when I'd know my results. What's the ETA? And who calls who? What's the MO? Perhaps I should have signed my cup with an RSVP.
I waited a week before calling the office. When I did, I was greeted by a message: "you have reached a number that has been disconnected or is no longer in service..." Oh no! My doctor had gone AWOL!
I checked the phone book and then dialed 411. The number hadn't changed. I called again. The message was the same. But why would Dr. Dysart have taken a new patient if his office was closing? It must have been unexpected. I fear the worst.
Perhaps Doctor Dysart was a spy -- AKA DJ D -- caught by the FBI after a mission went PU. Or maybe he disappeared when inserting an IUD became a PR nightmare. Or maybe he was abducted by a UFO to administer space probes....
Maybe he put whiskey in his IV and is busy at the pokey, serving time for DUI.
Maybe I'm a carrier for something fatal that wiped out the office staff. RIP. Call the CDC!
Or maybe he forgot to write a check to SBC.
The only thing I know for sure is that I don't know my test results. And it seems unlikely that I ever will. TBA or not TBA, that is the question. Whether a strange and rare disease is threatening to abbreviate my life, I may nvr knw.
ACK! Perhaps I should call a PI.
Thursday, July 14, 2005
Updates from the Post
For those who are keeping track, my parents have returned to San Diego. Daily blogging is right out. However, here are a few of the balls in the air coming to rest:
- I have had the Sea World and San Diego Zoo film developed but have not posted shots because the shakes overcame my film. Either my subjects moved or I did and full rolls were lost to the blur. Given my history with vacation photos (bad), I'd blame the camera, but I've had extraordinary luck with this one (a Minolta)... so that reminds me...
- I had my fluids checked after a good day of shaking, but have not heard the results yet. I have no idea how long the processing should take or whether I am supposed to call for results or let the office call me, but I imagine that if it were anything serious there'd be no delay, so I'm willing to wait.
- The Ratmobile was returned with new wiring in short order and is back in service, delivering my mother and I to our daily destinations. A photo of the damage under the hood is one of the few that DID come out, but unless I hear a clamor from otherwise silent readers in the mechanics business, I'll spare you that shot.
- My show closes this weekend after a Sunday matinee complete with post-show strike and a kareoke cast party. An event the following weekend in which I have great interest will keep me here an additional week and then it will be time to wrap things up on the "left coast." After six months here, my things in Nashville -- my apartment, my job, my bed, and my car -- are nearly as foreign to me as this place once seemed. And I do not look at all forward to the heavy, drenching August heat. I'd cling to the bedpost screaming "don't make me go!" but there's this man I've got to see and something about a horse.... Oh, and I'm all out of bedposts.
- And the monthly smoke-free update is due on Saturday, but as I don't expect to post this weekend, allow me to jump the gun: the 16th will mark a full half-year without cigarettes. From my first full day in San Diego to the last performance of my second show here I'll have marked six months exactly. Pretty tidy, that. Particularly without all that ash around.
Saturday, July 09, 2005
You Rascal, You
It was a warm, sunny Thursday in San Diego when I hopped in the car, put on some shades, and turned on the AC for a tool around town. Much to my chagrin, the AC, usually reliable, wasn’t cooling anything. And worse, soon the engine started to buck a little bit. Now, any car that's just had its first 3,000 mile oil change shouldn’t be having those symptoms, but, figuring that the service might have jostled something loose, I made a note to have it looked at, parked downtown, and forgot about the problem for a few hours. Until I started to drive home and the Check Engine light came on.
Now, I’m no mechanic, but I’ve put several hundred thousand miles beneath me in any number of cars and have a few tricks up my sleeve. Or, at least, a few good suspicions. So when I got home, I popped the hood, looking for the belts or a loose cable. That I didn’t find one was not surprising -- a modern engine compartment has a lot in common with a packed can of sardines – but what was surprising was the amount of strange debris that I did find under there. I didn’t think too much of the twigs and leaves (I park right under a tree), but I hadn’t expected shells. Big shells. Snail shells. That's new. How the heck did those get there? I closed the hood without further investigation, thinking that some of that debris has gotten somewhere it shouldn’t have, then ran inside to shoot an e-mail to my good friend Kenny, a shade-tree mechanic.
Though Kenny agreed that debris damage and belt issues were certainly options, the clues weren’t quite adequate for a cross-country diagnosis. The engine light, he said, could be anything. To know the problem, one needs to know the engine’s error code. Fortunately, he said, Auto Zone will read that code for free. Most fatal systems have their own light, he assured me, so the odds were good that I could safely drive the car far enough to have the check done. Through sixteen years and as many cars, I’ve never known Kenny to blow an engine, so if he wouldn’t hesitate to drive it, neither would I.
There is an AutoZone conveniently near the doctor’s office where I’d made a Friday appointment, so I take the car for a quick check after I’ve had my own. A guy at the counter hands me a snappy little device that I can hook up under the dash to get the error code. It’s easy as pie. Or should be. But my car isn’t talking. The computer refuses to link up. I check the cable, the connection, my ignition switch, and the troubleshooting manual before giving up and asking the guys inside for opinions. They’re stumped. Every car made after a certain year is required to speak to this thing, but mine had clammed up. One of them asks me “Your car is a 2005 and the Check Engine light is on?!?” Yeah, I tell him. "Is it a Ford?” I nod, “Mercury.” Then we laugh and laugh. Good times.
I ask if the recent oil change could have anything to do with the warning light and they tell me it’s worth having the guys at Quiki Lube take a look. But as I'm driving across town to the Quiki Lube, I pass a bright banner that reads “Engine Light On? Let Us Fix It!” How can I resist? I turn around, pull in, and tell the guy behind the counter about the light. He tells me that there's an $88 diagnostic charge and asks if I can leave the car with him. Ah… no. I suspect the guy just wants to get rid of me so that I won’t notice that he’s about to use the same universal code-reader that AutoZone handed me for free and charge me $88 for the pleasure. I clutch my wallet, shielding it from the Midas touch, and turn on my heels. Then I send a quick mental “thank you” to Kenny for the heads-up and drive away.
At Quiki Lube, I pull out a two-week-old receipt and try to make it clear there are no accusations when I ask if my engine problem could be related to their lube job. The gentleman behind the counter is accommodating and has me pull the car inside. As I watch him in the driver’s seat, scratching his head, I assume he’s getting the same silent treatment from his code-reader that I got from AutoZone’s. When he steps out of the cockpit, I witness something amusing: mechanics gathering, surprised that they might have to (gasp!) pop the hood. (Just how computerized HAVE our cars become?)
It was the first time that anyone else had looked under there. The debris that had distracted me earlier was a dead giveaway to these guys. They call me over to have a look. I probably wouldn’t have noticed it on my own, but when it was pointed out to me, it was obvious. And horrifying. I was looking at the remains of my electrical system. No wonder the car was bucking! All six cylinders were firing, but only two leads hadn’t been severed.
Happiness, to a rat, is a warm engine compartment. The wires had been eaten through. The snails had been dessert.
So, on the heels of having one Mercury returned from the repair shop, I’m preparing to send the other one in. I’m sure my father’s company will be happy when I leave California, and their cars, behind. But… call me crazy… in Tennessee, I’ve never heard one single person complain that a rat ate their car. Not one.
Is it just me?
In the interest of fair play, it should be noted that, despite a good laugh at Mercury's expense, the Ford Motor Company had nothing to do with this early system failure. Also in the interest of fair play, I accept a certain number of girl-geek points for being able to share that laugh, knowing that Ford and Mercury were here synonymous.
Oh, and if you're curious about the doctor, he did speak English. Well, at that. As for me, the chassis is healthy, but the fluids must be checked after a fast. Next week.
Now, I’m no mechanic, but I’ve put several hundred thousand miles beneath me in any number of cars and have a few tricks up my sleeve. Or, at least, a few good suspicions. So when I got home, I popped the hood, looking for the belts or a loose cable. That I didn’t find one was not surprising -- a modern engine compartment has a lot in common with a packed can of sardines – but what was surprising was the amount of strange debris that I did find under there. I didn’t think too much of the twigs and leaves (I park right under a tree), but I hadn’t expected shells. Big shells. Snail shells. That's new. How the heck did those get there? I closed the hood without further investigation, thinking that some of that debris has gotten somewhere it shouldn’t have, then ran inside to shoot an e-mail to my good friend Kenny, a shade-tree mechanic.
Though Kenny agreed that debris damage and belt issues were certainly options, the clues weren’t quite adequate for a cross-country diagnosis. The engine light, he said, could be anything. To know the problem, one needs to know the engine’s error code. Fortunately, he said, Auto Zone will read that code for free. Most fatal systems have their own light, he assured me, so the odds were good that I could safely drive the car far enough to have the check done. Through sixteen years and as many cars, I’ve never known Kenny to blow an engine, so if he wouldn’t hesitate to drive it, neither would I.
There is an AutoZone conveniently near the doctor’s office where I’d made a Friday appointment, so I take the car for a quick check after I’ve had my own. A guy at the counter hands me a snappy little device that I can hook up under the dash to get the error code. It’s easy as pie. Or should be. But my car isn’t talking. The computer refuses to link up. I check the cable, the connection, my ignition switch, and the troubleshooting manual before giving up and asking the guys inside for opinions. They’re stumped. Every car made after a certain year is required to speak to this thing, but mine had clammed up. One of them asks me “Your car is a 2005 and the Check Engine light is on?!?” Yeah, I tell him. "Is it a Ford?” I nod, “Mercury.” Then we laugh and laugh. Good times.
I ask if the recent oil change could have anything to do with the warning light and they tell me it’s worth having the guys at Quiki Lube take a look. But as I'm driving across town to the Quiki Lube, I pass a bright banner that reads “Engine Light On? Let Us Fix It!” How can I resist? I turn around, pull in, and tell the guy behind the counter about the light. He tells me that there's an $88 diagnostic charge and asks if I can leave the car with him. Ah… no. I suspect the guy just wants to get rid of me so that I won’t notice that he’s about to use the same universal code-reader that AutoZone handed me for free and charge me $88 for the pleasure. I clutch my wallet, shielding it from the Midas touch, and turn on my heels. Then I send a quick mental “thank you” to Kenny for the heads-up and drive away.
At Quiki Lube, I pull out a two-week-old receipt and try to make it clear there are no accusations when I ask if my engine problem could be related to their lube job. The gentleman behind the counter is accommodating and has me pull the car inside. As I watch him in the driver’s seat, scratching his head, I assume he’s getting the same silent treatment from his code-reader that I got from AutoZone’s. When he steps out of the cockpit, I witness something amusing: mechanics gathering, surprised that they might have to (gasp!) pop the hood. (Just how computerized HAVE our cars become?)
It was the first time that anyone else had looked under there. The debris that had distracted me earlier was a dead giveaway to these guys. They call me over to have a look. I probably wouldn’t have noticed it on my own, but when it was pointed out to me, it was obvious. And horrifying. I was looking at the remains of my electrical system. No wonder the car was bucking! All six cylinders were firing, but only two leads hadn’t been severed.
Happiness, to a rat, is a warm engine compartment. The wires had been eaten through. The snails had been dessert.
So, on the heels of having one Mercury returned from the repair shop, I’m preparing to send the other one in. I’m sure my father’s company will be happy when I leave California, and their cars, behind. But… call me crazy… in Tennessee, I’ve never heard one single person complain that a rat ate their car. Not one.
Is it just me?
In the interest of fair play, it should be noted that, despite a good laugh at Mercury's expense, the Ford Motor Company had nothing to do with this early system failure. Also in the interest of fair play, I accept a certain number of girl-geek points for being able to share that laugh, knowing that Ford and Mercury were here synonymous.
Oh, and if you're curious about the doctor, he did speak English. Well, at that. As for me, the chassis is healthy, but the fluids must be checked after a fast. Next week.
Thursday, July 07, 2005
No Pill's Gonna Cure My Chill
In California, I've been putting off a visit to the doctor. A number of small clues have suggested that I should probably let someone take a look-see at me, but I'd convinced myself that I'd be home soon enough to see my own Tennessee doctor and that it could wait. However, after spending a 75-degree day bundled up in blankets and unable to shake a violent chill, I decided it was time. I would look for a doctor.
The closet full of San Diego Yellow Pages was daunting: how could one possibly choose from so many names? I abandoned that tack pretty quickly and referred myself to the internet. There, my insurance company's website could direct me to a provider in my area. One who would accept my coverage. Easy as pie, right? Well... maybe not. The web is a wonderful thing, but it has its limitations.
Blue Cross Blue Shield did, in fact, provide a list of San Diego doctors. All, reportedly, general practitioners.
The first, Marvin Benson, turned out to be an anesthesiologist. I'm pretty sure the girl in his office put me on hold so that she could laugh when I asked for an appointment.
The next, William Macmaster, could not be reached. The telephone number was either incorrect or had been disconnected, so I looked for an updated number in those daunting Yellow Pages. No dice. He didn't exist. Not under GP, anyway. When I found him online, I was glad I hadn't gotten through. The girl in his office would have died laughing when I called for a thyroid check at a psychiatrist's office. Odds are good, though, that such a request would have inspired her to make an appointment for me anyway.
The third time was the charm. With the Yellow Pages in hand to confirm that the doctor I chose would be a GP and not, say, a veterinarian, I called the office of Jeffrey Dysart and landed an appointment for tomorrow afternoon.
Now I just have to hope he speaks English.
The closet full of San Diego Yellow Pages was daunting: how could one possibly choose from so many names? I abandoned that tack pretty quickly and referred myself to the internet. There, my insurance company's website could direct me to a provider in my area. One who would accept my coverage. Easy as pie, right? Well... maybe not. The web is a wonderful thing, but it has its limitations.
Blue Cross Blue Shield did, in fact, provide a list of San Diego doctors. All, reportedly, general practitioners.
The first, Marvin Benson, turned out to be an anesthesiologist. I'm pretty sure the girl in his office put me on hold so that she could laugh when I asked for an appointment.
The next, William Macmaster, could not be reached. The telephone number was either incorrect or had been disconnected, so I looked for an updated number in those daunting Yellow Pages. No dice. He didn't exist. Not under GP, anyway. When I found him online, I was glad I hadn't gotten through. The girl in his office would have died laughing when I called for a thyroid check at a psychiatrist's office. Odds are good, though, that such a request would have inspired her to make an appointment for me anyway.
The third time was the charm. With the Yellow Pages in hand to confirm that the doctor I chose would be a GP and not, say, a veterinarian, I called the office of Jeffrey Dysart and landed an appointment for tomorrow afternoon.
Now I just have to hope he speaks English.
Tuesday, July 05, 2005
The Fifth of July
It took some time for friendships to start warming up within the Markham cast, but this holiday weekend gave us all a bit of quality time.
After our show Saturday night, my stage hubby Kirk and I threw a few rounds of darts at Patrick's Irish Pub, a small bar near the theatre which, like the Shakespeare downtown, has Guinness on tap. Having said that and knowing my readers, I'm now claiming that I wasn't thirsty. Just darts for me, thanks.
After our Sunday matinee, I joined cast mate Nadine and her boyfriend Brian for an evening movie in San Marcos, after a stop at her parents' weekend BBQ. If you've ever had an interest in Batman comics that was quashed by the films, get yourself out to see Batman Begins. This one was done right... and promises much better sequels than Joel "nipples" Schmuck-macher ever gave us.
On Monday, I attended a small pool party at the Poway home of another cast member -- the same Poway home that inspired the "I Did It, I Did It!" party post two weeks ago. This time the guest list would be limited and the territory familiar, so I agreed readily and arrived fashionably late.
Only two other cast members had been invited, but I'd met the bulk of the attendees, local actors, at one time or another. I enjoyed the company of one married couple in particular: wife Julie lent me an extra bathing suit when it became clear that I hadn't brought one and was the only one not swimming (hey, no one got in the pool at all last time!); husband Jonathan turned out to be a former Nashville resident, a Vanderbilt alumnus nostalgic for the Loveless Cafe and familiar with Chaffin's Barn Dinner Theatre. He'd seen a show there sometime around 1992 and the odds are exceptionally good that he saw any number of my current friends and co-workers performing in that year. Martha? Eric? Bobby? Maybe Brian! Small world.
After a bit of pool B-ball and a taste of grilled goodies, guests of the house on the hill were treated to a good evening view of two simultaneous and identical fireworks shows in the canyon below. One would have been the Poway display, and though I could not guess the second city, it was obvious both shared the skills of the same pyrotechnic artist. From any other view, no one would ever have noticed.
After a long weekend, I planned to be a house slug today, cooking something easy for dinner and settling in to the West Wing marathon on Bravo later this evening. And then it hit me: I'd lost track of the days -- Marathon Monday rarely gets a Tuesday showing. Of course, now that I own the first four seasons on DVD (sorry Chris), I can have a marathon any old time I want. Tonight, that's just what I may do.
Notes: Welcome back to America, Brian.... Tag! Anne-G, you're it -- enjoy your stay in Germany. I'll be reading along.... and Happy Birthday, Kenny!
After our show Saturday night, my stage hubby Kirk and I threw a few rounds of darts at Patrick's Irish Pub, a small bar near the theatre which, like the Shakespeare downtown, has Guinness on tap. Having said that and knowing my readers, I'm now claiming that I wasn't thirsty. Just darts for me, thanks.
After our Sunday matinee, I joined cast mate Nadine and her boyfriend Brian for an evening movie in San Marcos, after a stop at her parents' weekend BBQ. If you've ever had an interest in Batman comics that was quashed by the films, get yourself out to see Batman Begins. This one was done right... and promises much better sequels than Joel "nipples" Schmuck-macher ever gave us.
On Monday, I attended a small pool party at the Poway home of another cast member -- the same Poway home that inspired the "I Did It, I Did It!" party post two weeks ago. This time the guest list would be limited and the territory familiar, so I agreed readily and arrived fashionably late.
Only two other cast members had been invited, but I'd met the bulk of the attendees, local actors, at one time or another. I enjoyed the company of one married couple in particular: wife Julie lent me an extra bathing suit when it became clear that I hadn't brought one and was the only one not swimming (hey, no one got in the pool at all last time!); husband Jonathan turned out to be a former Nashville resident, a Vanderbilt alumnus nostalgic for the Loveless Cafe and familiar with Chaffin's Barn Dinner Theatre. He'd seen a show there sometime around 1992 and the odds are exceptionally good that he saw any number of my current friends and co-workers performing in that year. Martha? Eric? Bobby? Maybe Brian! Small world.
After a bit of pool B-ball and a taste of grilled goodies, guests of the house on the hill were treated to a good evening view of two simultaneous and identical fireworks shows in the canyon below. One would have been the Poway display, and though I could not guess the second city, it was obvious both shared the skills of the same pyrotechnic artist. From any other view, no one would ever have noticed.
After a long weekend, I planned to be a house slug today, cooking something easy for dinner and settling in to the West Wing marathon on Bravo later this evening. And then it hit me: I'd lost track of the days -- Marathon Monday rarely gets a Tuesday showing. Of course, now that I own the first four seasons on DVD (sorry Chris), I can have a marathon any old time I want. Tonight, that's just what I may do.
Notes: Welcome back to America, Brian.... Tag! Anne-G, you're it -- enjoy your stay in Germany. I'll be reading along.... and Happy Birthday, Kenny!
Friday, July 01, 2005
Pssst....
Pictures from Balboa Park have been requested and added. I placed them at the end of the "Your Review or Mine" post, where they seemed to make the most sense. I'll add pictures of The Fountain and DiVine once I've had that roll developed.
Fe Fi Fo Fum
Last night, I ventured to an area near downtown for a visit to the Shakespeare Pub and Grille, San Diego's Original British Pub. How could I resist a place with Willie's name on the outside; a good, old-fashioned non-electric dart board on the inside; and a full-force Trivia Night on the last Sunday of every month?
Without a darts partner, I enter to drink in the atmosphere, not the British Ales, Stouts, and Malts, but I notice that there is a fine selection on tap. I order a Miller Lite from a barmaid with a rather authentic accent and take a look at the board listing Specials. Now, any good American knock-off of a British pub offers "Shepherd's Pie", but it's not every one that lists "Bangers and Mash" or "Scotch Egg" among its specialties. Impressive. But not tempting.
After my drink, I saunter over to the Shakespeare Corner Shoppe in the courtyard, where I overhear another authentic accent getting misty over imported candies and jams. "I'm home now" I hear the fellow exclaim.
Outside the shoppe, I discover that the National Comedy Theatre amateur troupe will be performing in an attached space at 7:30 (the pros perform on Friday and Saturday nights). At just 6:30, it will be a good half hour before the box office opens, but for a $5 show, I'm willing to wait. I return to the Shakespeare to order another Miller Lite.
This time, seated at the bar, I catch a glimpse of the Union Jack, America's only national British newspaper. Interesting. You don't see that just any-old-where. Are enough Brits actually displaced to San Diego to warrant a paper? And is that guy really eating a Steak and Kidney pie? Suddenly it hits me: the barmaid, the jelly-lover, the paper, the kidney pie.... I smell the blood of an Englishman. Not one or two, but twelve... or twenty. Switching to aural radar, I beg the question: do they all have authentic accents? They do! Switching to visual: am I the only one not drinking a pint of Guinness? ACK! I am! Check please. And a souvenir T-Shirt.
Across the courtyard, I buy my ticket (a hand stamp) for the improv performance and wait for the show to start. Once underway, the show moves quickly with competitive games propelled by suggestions from the audience -- reminiscent of "Who's Line is it Anyway?" The players, barely college-aged, are quick and clever, but their adolescent male friends in the audience are obnoxious. During some of the faster games the bits aren't quite funny, but such is the nature of improv; the attempt is as important as the execution. All in all, it's a good show of some promising talent and it certainly whets the appetite for another weekend trip downtown to watch the pros at play.
Leaving the courtyard to head home, I decide that I will have to visit here again. One of the girls in my show is Brit-born and proud; perhaps she's a darts player -- we must find out. Unfortunately, I won't make it to Trivia Night at the Shakespeare this go round. I'll save that for my next trip!
Note: If you're like me, you've heard of "Bangers and Mash" and "Scotch Egg" (or maybe you haven't) but you have no clue what they actually are. So, here's the scoop.... Bangers and Mash are pork sausages served with mashed potatoes. Here, they were complimented with onions, gravy, and peas. A Scotch Egg is a hard-boiled egg wrapped in sausage meat, rolled in bread crumbs, baked, and served hot or cold. With a pickle. Now we know.
Without a darts partner, I enter to drink in the atmosphere, not the British Ales, Stouts, and Malts, but I notice that there is a fine selection on tap. I order a Miller Lite from a barmaid with a rather authentic accent and take a look at the board listing Specials. Now, any good American knock-off of a British pub offers "Shepherd's Pie", but it's not every one that lists "Bangers and Mash" or "Scotch Egg" among its specialties. Impressive. But not tempting.
After my drink, I saunter over to the Shakespeare Corner Shoppe in the courtyard, where I overhear another authentic accent getting misty over imported candies and jams. "I'm home now" I hear the fellow exclaim.
Outside the shoppe, I discover that the National Comedy Theatre amateur troupe will be performing in an attached space at 7:30 (the pros perform on Friday and Saturday nights). At just 6:30, it will be a good half hour before the box office opens, but for a $5 show, I'm willing to wait. I return to the Shakespeare to order another Miller Lite.
This time, seated at the bar, I catch a glimpse of the Union Jack, America's only national British newspaper. Interesting. You don't see that just any-old-where. Are enough Brits actually displaced to San Diego to warrant a paper? And is that guy really eating a Steak and Kidney pie? Suddenly it hits me: the barmaid, the jelly-lover, the paper, the kidney pie.... I smell the blood of an Englishman. Not one or two, but twelve... or twenty. Switching to aural radar, I beg the question: do they all have authentic accents? They do! Switching to visual: am I the only one not drinking a pint of Guinness? ACK! I am! Check please. And a souvenir T-Shirt.
Across the courtyard, I buy my ticket (a hand stamp) for the improv performance and wait for the show to start. Once underway, the show moves quickly with competitive games propelled by suggestions from the audience -- reminiscent of "Who's Line is it Anyway?" The players, barely college-aged, are quick and clever, but their adolescent male friends in the audience are obnoxious. During some of the faster games the bits aren't quite funny, but such is the nature of improv; the attempt is as important as the execution. All in all, it's a good show of some promising talent and it certainly whets the appetite for another weekend trip downtown to watch the pros at play.
Leaving the courtyard to head home, I decide that I will have to visit here again. One of the girls in my show is Brit-born and proud; perhaps she's a darts player -- we must find out. Unfortunately, I won't make it to Trivia Night at the Shakespeare this go round. I'll save that for my next trip!
Note: If you're like me, you've heard of "Bangers and Mash" and "Scotch Egg" (or maybe you haven't) but you have no clue what they actually are. So, here's the scoop.... Bangers and Mash are pork sausages served with mashed potatoes. Here, they were complimented with onions, gravy, and peas. A Scotch Egg is a hard-boiled egg wrapped in sausage meat, rolled in bread crumbs, baked, and served hot or cold. With a pickle. Now we know.