Today, we will be exploring the correct way to drive in the state of California. California is unique in its geography, weather, and demographic spectrum, and while we could spend an infinite amount of time exploring the equally infinite microcosms of Californian driverhood, for purposes of simplification we will be examining the driving conditions and stipulations of the Greater San Francisco Bay Area.
Firstly, you must evaluate your driving needs: Will you be commuting? Will you only do some occasional driving, like once or twice a week to work and the rest of the time for small, local errands? Are you shuttling kids around? Do you need towing capacity for your weekend activities? Once you have determined your ‘must-haves’ in a vehicle, scrap the entire list and buy a BMW (or equivalent Mercedes, Audi, Lexus, or other luxury automobile.)
Next, know your terrain. Whether you are driving on twisty mountain roads, long stretches of straightaway through agricultural fields, cramped, congested city streets, or eight-lane freeways, always remember: It’s your road, you are the most important motorist on it, and everyone else needs to get the fuck out of your way.
The rules of the road only apply if you’re going to get caught breaking them. Speed limits and red lights are more suggestions than hard-and-fast regulations. It doesn’t matter in what order you arrive at the four-way stop, the object is to be the first person to get to go. Pass on the right if you feel like it. If you can make it, make the U-turn. ‘Keep Clear’ zones just clog things up--go ahead and sit in the middle of them. Same goes for blocking intersections on red lights. And hey, if no one sees you doing it, why shouldn’t you use the carpool lane when you’re driving by yourself? Let the other drivers prove you don’t have an infant in the back seat!
Dealing with other drivers is a pain no matter where you are. If someone is going too slow for your liking, tailgating is absolutely acceptable. Flashing your lights and honking your horn should accompany any and all close-proximity driving, as it warns the offending driver that you are there and you mean business. This works the same in reverse, of course. If someone behind you is going too fast, apply your brakes liberally, and try to do so in such a way that the offending tailgater can’t change lanes to avoid you. Hey, if he rear ends you it’s automatically his fault!
And speaking of changing lanes, you have three options open to you. Option number one is the safe and sane way--checking your mirrors and blind spot, making sure there’s enough space for your vehicle, adjusting your speed accordingly, signaling, and making the transition in as smooth a manner as possible. Option number one is boring and to be avoided at all costs. Option number two is to find a break in traffic where your car fits, line yourself up, start signaling, and then promptly slow down so that your rear bumper and the front bumper of the car at the back of the space into which you wish to merge are in line with each other. Continue to signal, but do not make any attempt to speed up the little bit it would take to get you safely into the other lane. This is sure to make the driver of the vehicle in front of which you are trying to merge absolutely seethe with annoyance. Option number three is to leave the consequences to luck and zip in and out of traffic without looking or signaling, thus causing everyone else to have to make way for you. After all, it is your road. Conversely, if you see someone attempting to change lanes you must make it as difficult as possible for them to do this--just because.
It is your sacred duty to wait until the last possible second to exit any freeway.
Road hazards such as curves (no matter how slight), hills, irregularities in paving, cars pulled off to the shoulder (especially if accompanied by law enforcement), and construction zones should all be approached with the same technique--the sudden and forceful application of your brakes. Otherwise, who knows what might happen?
Of course, all of this is easy enough under normal driving conditions, but we do need to make mention of the biggest problem drivers face: the weather. While the San Francisco Bay Area usually enjoys mild temperatures, occasionally weather happens. Here are some common adverse weather conditions and how to deal with them.
Strong winds
Make sure to drift across lanes and then snap back into the one you were originally in. A half-assed ‘Sorry’ wave is customary in these situations to anyone you may have nearly broadsided.
Fog
Your high beams will simply reflect back at you in the fog, so ensure that you have them on to facilitate maximum annoyance to yourself and others. Also, any suggested speed should be decreased by approximately 30 miles per hour, and make sure to brake for no reason every so often.
Rain
Water falling from the sky is always cause for alarm. Apply your brakes frequently and liberally, and travel at a minimum of 10 miles per hour below the suggested speed. If you anticipate making any turns or changing lanes, make sure to make these transitions as slowly and painstakingly as possible while ensuring that you purposefully delay or cut off anyone behind you. If you come upon any of the road hazards mentioned above, apply your brakes earlier and harder than you would under normal driving conditions.
Snow
Call in sick to work.
I hope you have found these tips helpful and that you will consult this definitive article before embarking upon any future car journeys within the quadrant bordered by Santa Rosa to the north, Brentwood to the east, Gilroy to the south, and the Pacific Ocean to the west. Your fellow drivers will applaud your commitment to the Bay Area standards of automobile transport, and you will be safe in the knowledge that you’re absolutely the only person on the road who matters.
Thursday, October 11, 2018
Thursday, October 4, 2018
Green
Please, if you’ve been having a difficult time with all the news surrounding the Me Too movement/Why I Didn’t Report/the Kavanaugh farce, don’t read this post. Take care of yourself, and come on back next week. Really. The content herein is of a sensitive nature that may be distressing for certain individuals. So, off you pop, lovelies, and go engage in some self-care. You’re beautiful, amazing creatures, each and every one of you.
For those of you who have chosen to stay, well, here goes. What follows is true and accurate to the best of my memory.
***
I was ten. So was he. It was summertime, and we were out of school. We had known each other and played together for years, so the invitation to ‘camp out’ in his yard in his new tent wasn’t anything out of the ordinary--in fact, it sounded like a great new game! No one thought twice about it, and why should they have? We were ten, for goodness’ sake. And so two or three nights that summer I packed up my gear, climbed the fence, and we ‘camped’.
It’s just that camping included this...other thing. The other thing involved getting me on my back, shoving my extra-long t-shirt pajamas with Garfield’s giant, grinning face and my sports bra thing (whatever a ten-year-old girl wears when she’s not quite ready for the real thing yet but still needs something) up under my arms, yanking my underwear down, and keeping me still by holding the blade of a large Swiss Army knife against my neck while I stared at the ceiling of the tent and tried not to think about what was happening below that blade resting on my throat.
Now, generally speaking I was a fairly scrappy kid. I didn’t have too many qualms about making my opinions known, and was a serial shin-kicker/’Indian burn’ giver/back-of-the-head-thwacker. There had always been something about this particular boy, however, that had given me pause. He had a dangerous edge which, most of the time, made our games a lot more fun, but there had always been moments when even my own bull-headedness had been cowed by his sudden fits of aggression. The few times in the tent that summer were definitely among them. The terror overtook any capacity I had to fight back, and afterwards there was the overhanging worry of, “If he’ll do this now, what will he do if I tell?” I got stuck in a self-defeating cycle--I couldn’t fight him off, I was too scared to tell anyone in case he did something worse, and I was stuck going back a couple more times for ‘camp-outs’ because if I said, “No, thanks,” then someone would ask why and I couldn’t answer that question because I was afraid of him even thinking I’d told someone.
He wasn’t the only problem. As with any situation like this, there were the factors of shame and embarrassment and--being ten--the fear of getting in trouble myself.
So I didn’t say anything.
I didn’t say anything for the next couple of years, until (for some reason I can’t remember) I made an off-the-cuff remark about it and my 6th grade teacher heard it and dragged in the school district psychologist and called my parents and generally did all of the things a teacher is absolutely supposed to do in these circumstances but, being the cavalier sort of kid I was, I covered up the shame and terror at being found out with an attitude of, “What’s all the fuss about?”
At this point I should explain that, though my parents love me in their own way, they are Very Not Good at Feelings-with-a-Capital-F, and as a result, were just as uncomfortable as I was with the whole sordid affair. That evening at home there was an extremely awkward and uncomfortable half-hearted attempt at a discussion which, if I remember rightly, mostly consisted of me avoiding answering anything or just saying, “I don’t know,” and “I don’t remember.” None of us wanted to be there trying to have that conversation, and after that exercise ended a miserable failure, it was never brought up again.
But the trauma didn’t go away.
I mostly forgot about it--or at the very least tried not to think about it--for years afterwards. It didn’t occur to me until well into my twenties that my reactions to certain actions from my partners in intimate situations were a direct result of the manner in which I had been restrained in the tent that summer. It’s worth noting here that not one of my partners has ever held a knife to my throat--what I mean is that if I start to feel trapped I panic. It doesn’t matter how much trust there is in the relationship, if you put too much weight on me or I get tangled up in the sheets or a piece of clothing I go into fight-or-flight mode instantaneously. It doesn’t stay in the bedroom, either. I remember being at a party my senior year of undergrad and flirting with a guy I liked in the kitchen. I was leaning against the counter, and he put one hand on either side of me, effectively pinning me in, and I actually pushed him off when the adrenaline exploded into my system. I had no idea why at the time, but I do now.
I don’t like to talk about it--who does? Talking won’t change it. It happened. This is where it’s got me. It’s a part of me, and it will never go away. It’s still terrifying. It’s still shameful. I’ve actually spent time berating my ten-year-old self. “Why didn’t you do something? Why didn’t you tell someone? Why didn’t you just not go back?” It doesn’t help. Those are all obvious options to me now, but when you’re ten, you’re ten. The world is full of stuff that doesn’t make sense to you yet, and you deal with it however you can--which sometimes means not dealing with it at all.
So, dear Ten-Year-Old Me, it wasn’t your fault. You were doing the best you could with what you had. No one should have expected you to deal with that situation like an adult. Adult You knows that now, and she’s really sorry she spent so much time being angry at you for not doing things differently. You did fine. By some miracle, you’re still here. You pulled through despite the lack of recourse to support because you’re a scrappy little so-and-so and life can bend you, but it can’t break you. And no, you will never be rid of the vivid memory of that blade pressed against your neck while you looked upwards at the green ceiling of that tent and tried to will yourself dead from the shoulders down, but it will fade enough to be manageable. And you will finally be able to stand up and say “This happened to me, like it happened in different ways to so many other people, and that doesn’t make any of us any less worthwhile.”
For those of you who have chosen to stay, well, here goes. What follows is true and accurate to the best of my memory.
***
I was ten. So was he. It was summertime, and we were out of school. We had known each other and played together for years, so the invitation to ‘camp out’ in his yard in his new tent wasn’t anything out of the ordinary--in fact, it sounded like a great new game! No one thought twice about it, and why should they have? We were ten, for goodness’ sake. And so two or three nights that summer I packed up my gear, climbed the fence, and we ‘camped’.
It’s just that camping included this...other thing. The other thing involved getting me on my back, shoving my extra-long t-shirt pajamas with Garfield’s giant, grinning face and my sports bra thing (whatever a ten-year-old girl wears when she’s not quite ready for the real thing yet but still needs something) up under my arms, yanking my underwear down, and keeping me still by holding the blade of a large Swiss Army knife against my neck while I stared at the ceiling of the tent and tried not to think about what was happening below that blade resting on my throat.
Now, generally speaking I was a fairly scrappy kid. I didn’t have too many qualms about making my opinions known, and was a serial shin-kicker/’Indian burn’ giver/back-of-the-head-thwacker. There had always been something about this particular boy, however, that had given me pause. He had a dangerous edge which, most of the time, made our games a lot more fun, but there had always been moments when even my own bull-headedness had been cowed by his sudden fits of aggression. The few times in the tent that summer were definitely among them. The terror overtook any capacity I had to fight back, and afterwards there was the overhanging worry of, “If he’ll do this now, what will he do if I tell?” I got stuck in a self-defeating cycle--I couldn’t fight him off, I was too scared to tell anyone in case he did something worse, and I was stuck going back a couple more times for ‘camp-outs’ because if I said, “No, thanks,” then someone would ask why and I couldn’t answer that question because I was afraid of him even thinking I’d told someone.
He wasn’t the only problem. As with any situation like this, there were the factors of shame and embarrassment and--being ten--the fear of getting in trouble myself.
So I didn’t say anything.
I didn’t say anything for the next couple of years, until (for some reason I can’t remember) I made an off-the-cuff remark about it and my 6th grade teacher heard it and dragged in the school district psychologist and called my parents and generally did all of the things a teacher is absolutely supposed to do in these circumstances but, being the cavalier sort of kid I was, I covered up the shame and terror at being found out with an attitude of, “What’s all the fuss about?”
At this point I should explain that, though my parents love me in their own way, they are Very Not Good at Feelings-with-a-Capital-F, and as a result, were just as uncomfortable as I was with the whole sordid affair. That evening at home there was an extremely awkward and uncomfortable half-hearted attempt at a discussion which, if I remember rightly, mostly consisted of me avoiding answering anything or just saying, “I don’t know,” and “I don’t remember.” None of us wanted to be there trying to have that conversation, and after that exercise ended a miserable failure, it was never brought up again.
But the trauma didn’t go away.
I mostly forgot about it--or at the very least tried not to think about it--for years afterwards. It didn’t occur to me until well into my twenties that my reactions to certain actions from my partners in intimate situations were a direct result of the manner in which I had been restrained in the tent that summer. It’s worth noting here that not one of my partners has ever held a knife to my throat--what I mean is that if I start to feel trapped I panic. It doesn’t matter how much trust there is in the relationship, if you put too much weight on me or I get tangled up in the sheets or a piece of clothing I go into fight-or-flight mode instantaneously. It doesn’t stay in the bedroom, either. I remember being at a party my senior year of undergrad and flirting with a guy I liked in the kitchen. I was leaning against the counter, and he put one hand on either side of me, effectively pinning me in, and I actually pushed him off when the adrenaline exploded into my system. I had no idea why at the time, but I do now.
I don’t like to talk about it--who does? Talking won’t change it. It happened. This is where it’s got me. It’s a part of me, and it will never go away. It’s still terrifying. It’s still shameful. I’ve actually spent time berating my ten-year-old self. “Why didn’t you do something? Why didn’t you tell someone? Why didn’t you just not go back?” It doesn’t help. Those are all obvious options to me now, but when you’re ten, you’re ten. The world is full of stuff that doesn’t make sense to you yet, and you deal with it however you can--which sometimes means not dealing with it at all.
So, dear Ten-Year-Old Me, it wasn’t your fault. You were doing the best you could with what you had. No one should have expected you to deal with that situation like an adult. Adult You knows that now, and she’s really sorry she spent so much time being angry at you for not doing things differently. You did fine. By some miracle, you’re still here. You pulled through despite the lack of recourse to support because you’re a scrappy little so-and-so and life can bend you, but it can’t break you. And no, you will never be rid of the vivid memory of that blade pressed against your neck while you looked upwards at the green ceiling of that tent and tried to will yourself dead from the shoulders down, but it will fade enough to be manageable. And you will finally be able to stand up and say “This happened to me, like it happened in different ways to so many other people, and that doesn’t make any of us any less worthwhile.”
Thursday, September 27, 2018
Product Demos and the Third Circle of Hell
Because I work in the sheer heaven that is corporate America, I occasionally have to research and implement new productivity-boosting software and systems. This means spending hour upon hour on the phone and in web-based meetings and in real-life meetings having sales jargon shoved down my throat and having my questions regarding pricing artfully avoided.
Side note: Sales people can all take a long jump off a short pier.
Anyway, eventually the endless amount of data requested by the company intent upon supplying the product is magically compounded and manipulated into ‘What We Can Do For You’, and then comes the next, and in my opinion, the worst, wave of unpleasantness: The Demo.
Three or four snappily dressed salespeople grinning like a toothpaste commercial show up at your office—sometimes with snacks, which, okay, fine, everyone likes snacks—and waste an hour of your time explaining to you, in granular detail, what their platform does that is so stunningly spectacular. Odds are, you already have a decent idea of what you’re looking at so one or two things during the demo might be exciting and new. The vast majority of it, however, will be the equivalent of a remedial course in HR/Payroll/Project Management/Sales Integration/whatever the product is tailored to, and you’ll want to gouge your eyes out with a spork.
You can stare daggers at them all you want, but these salespeople are hardened professionals. They will go through every facet of their product in painstaking detail regardless of your chosen hurrying tactic. You can try to speed them up by asking questions about the possibility to integrate their product with others you already use or the intricacies of data output or possibilities for reporting, but you’ll always get the same answer, “That’s a great question, we’ll get to it in a minute when we move to the next section of the demo.” You can try the age-old, “Yes, fine, ours does something very similar so after a little practice we should be good to go,” but it’ll be the same story; they’ll just say, “Hey, great!” and pick right back up where they left off.
It’s infuriating.
And that, friends, is why I believe that product demos should be the primary form of torture in the Third Circle of Hell. I’d break it down this way: The First Circle would full of the souls of people who were relentless assholes, and I think the ideal punishment there would be an endless stream of minor annoyances. The Second Circle could be petty criminals, low-level tax-dodgers, that sort of jerk, and they could suffer permanent head colds. The Third Circle would be all the salespeople being forced to sit through product demo after product demo, each presented in painstaking clarity and at a pace most people would find maddeningly slow. Deputy devils with pitchforks could enforce a ‘no sleeping’ rule by poking any offenders sharply in the posterior.*
“But why are all salespeople automatically in the Third Circle?”
Face it, they’ve already got the qualifiers for circles One and Two in their vast portfolio of sleaze, and they’re definitely a special breed of terrible. There’s also a nice ‘the punishment fits the crime’ feeling to it. “Peter Jones, you spent your years on Earth being a horrifying sleazebag, selling unnecessary product upgrades to unsuspecting people, fooling them out of funds so that you could invade Aruba every July, get mind-blowingly drunk, pinch every passing waitress’s bottom, then go home and expense the entire trip with no regard to the laws of taxation in your area. You shall now spend eternity sitting through product demonstrations given by Gilbert Gottfried with no recourse to a fast-forward button!”
::cue evil, booming laughter, accompanied by thunderstorm effects::
“Hang on,” you say. “Not all salespeople are jerks. Some of them genuinely believe they’re selling a great product!”
Oh, my sweet, darling little cherub. Yes, those salespeople do exist, you’re right. So do the salespeople who do it because it’s a job and the money is good. But there is an overwhelming number of people who go into sales as a career who harbor a secret hatred for their fellow man, an unyielding sex drive, an iron liver, and an ego so enormous they have to buy a second seat on the plane for it. I can count on one hand the times I’ve met a salesperson who didn’t leave me feeling like I needed a shower—in 90% isopropyl alcohol. Their fake smiles do little to hide their greed and the fact that if they thought they could get away with it they’d do their entire demo with their hand up your skirt (or down your trousers, depending upon said salesperson’s proclivities.) Seriously. If you ever want to bed a salesperson, start spouting commission plan percentages at them—that’s their dirty talk.
Actually? An eternity of ear-splitting product demos might be too good for them...
*In case you’re curious about the other circles, 4-6 are up for debate but 7 is for people like Hitler, and they have to listen to ‘The Song that Doesn’t End’ on repeat. For eternity.
Side note: Sales people can all take a long jump off a short pier.
Anyway, eventually the endless amount of data requested by the company intent upon supplying the product is magically compounded and manipulated into ‘What We Can Do For You’, and then comes the next, and in my opinion, the worst, wave of unpleasantness: The Demo.
Three or four snappily dressed salespeople grinning like a toothpaste commercial show up at your office—sometimes with snacks, which, okay, fine, everyone likes snacks—and waste an hour of your time explaining to you, in granular detail, what their platform does that is so stunningly spectacular. Odds are, you already have a decent idea of what you’re looking at so one or two things during the demo might be exciting and new. The vast majority of it, however, will be the equivalent of a remedial course in HR/Payroll/Project Management/Sales Integration/whatever the product is tailored to, and you’ll want to gouge your eyes out with a spork.
You can stare daggers at them all you want, but these salespeople are hardened professionals. They will go through every facet of their product in painstaking detail regardless of your chosen hurrying tactic. You can try to speed them up by asking questions about the possibility to integrate their product with others you already use or the intricacies of data output or possibilities for reporting, but you’ll always get the same answer, “That’s a great question, we’ll get to it in a minute when we move to the next section of the demo.” You can try the age-old, “Yes, fine, ours does something very similar so after a little practice we should be good to go,” but it’ll be the same story; they’ll just say, “Hey, great!” and pick right back up where they left off.
It’s infuriating.
And that, friends, is why I believe that product demos should be the primary form of torture in the Third Circle of Hell. I’d break it down this way: The First Circle would full of the souls of people who were relentless assholes, and I think the ideal punishment there would be an endless stream of minor annoyances. The Second Circle could be petty criminals, low-level tax-dodgers, that sort of jerk, and they could suffer permanent head colds. The Third Circle would be all the salespeople being forced to sit through product demo after product demo, each presented in painstaking clarity and at a pace most people would find maddeningly slow. Deputy devils with pitchforks could enforce a ‘no sleeping’ rule by poking any offenders sharply in the posterior.*
“But why are all salespeople automatically in the Third Circle?”
Face it, they’ve already got the qualifiers for circles One and Two in their vast portfolio of sleaze, and they’re definitely a special breed of terrible. There’s also a nice ‘the punishment fits the crime’ feeling to it. “Peter Jones, you spent your years on Earth being a horrifying sleazebag, selling unnecessary product upgrades to unsuspecting people, fooling them out of funds so that you could invade Aruba every July, get mind-blowingly drunk, pinch every passing waitress’s bottom, then go home and expense the entire trip with no regard to the laws of taxation in your area. You shall now spend eternity sitting through product demonstrations given by Gilbert Gottfried with no recourse to a fast-forward button!”
::cue evil, booming laughter, accompanied by thunderstorm effects::
“Hang on,” you say. “Not all salespeople are jerks. Some of them genuinely believe they’re selling a great product!”
Oh, my sweet, darling little cherub. Yes, those salespeople do exist, you’re right. So do the salespeople who do it because it’s a job and the money is good. But there is an overwhelming number of people who go into sales as a career who harbor a secret hatred for their fellow man, an unyielding sex drive, an iron liver, and an ego so enormous they have to buy a second seat on the plane for it. I can count on one hand the times I’ve met a salesperson who didn’t leave me feeling like I needed a shower—in 90% isopropyl alcohol. Their fake smiles do little to hide their greed and the fact that if they thought they could get away with it they’d do their entire demo with their hand up your skirt (or down your trousers, depending upon said salesperson’s proclivities.) Seriously. If you ever want to bed a salesperson, start spouting commission plan percentages at them—that’s their dirty talk.
Actually? An eternity of ear-splitting product demos might be too good for them...
*In case you’re curious about the other circles, 4-6 are up for debate but 7 is for people like Hitler, and they have to listen to ‘The Song that Doesn’t End’ on repeat. For eternity.
Thursday, September 20, 2018
“What I Did on My Summer Vacation”
I have recently returned from a two-week whirlwind tour of England. I started in the north and worked my way south, finishing with a day and a bit in London before flying home. I was able to spend several days each with three friends I hadn’t seen in eons. I ate too much, I drank too much, and I had a wonderful time.
Of course, I now find myself in need of a ‘vacation from my vacation’, but never mind.
For those of you who are not aware (apologies to those who are,) I spent two non-consecutive years in England during my college career. Thanks to the internet, I still have relationships with several people over that side, and I decided it was high time to pay them a visit. It had been too long. They had all gotten married, and had babies who were now old enough to be left with a sitter if we wanted some grown-up time, and moved around the country to places I hadn’t been before.
Yeah, okay, I thought. Now seems like a pretty good time to do this.
‘Now’ being a year from when I had the original thought. Booking international flights needs to be done forever in advance, and when you’re planning to visit people you want to give them as much notice as possible, especially when they have small humans to be dealing with. Emails were sent. Dates were negotiated. Flights were booked.
And then I sat around for months with people asking me if I was excited to be going, and I would respond, “Oh, yeah, that. It’s months away. I’ll get excited later.”
And then suddenly it was a few weeks away and I realized I needed a raincoat. And a bunch of other stuff because I’m a girl and sometimes I like shiny things, okay? Anyway, a flurry of Amazon orders later, I was ready to go.
And go I did. For sixteen days.
I was as far north as Kendal and as far south as Staplehurst. I was in the Midlands. I covered a whole lot of ground in between — on trains. Lots and lots of trains. So many trains. Side note: trains in the UK are so much better than trains in the US. They actually get you to where you need to go in a reasonable amount of time. It’s amazing! It’s as though they were built just for that purpose! But I digress.
I just spent two weeks with people I don’t get to see, like, ever. It was awesome.
I miss a lot of things about England. I miss the ease of transportation and the junk food and spending time in the pub. I miss places and things, but mostly I miss the friends I made there. I didn’t have the funds or the time to make it to their weddings. Their babies were born without a visit from their American auntie. A lot can happen in a decade, and a lot got missed because there were a few thousand miles between them and me. It’s kind of a bummer when you think about it.
But, I was just able to spend two whole weeks there and I am thrilled about it.
I got to scramble up a hill in the Lake District before a quick change of venue which led me to tootling around the city of York where I was able to see the Minster that figured so heavily in my college art history textbooks, and the city walls, and The Shambles (the street they based Diagon Alley on in the Harry Potter films), with a little side trip to the beautifully kept grounds and gardens of Castle Howard.
I got to have tea at the restaurant in the newly rebuilt Royal Shakespeare Company theatre followed by a performance of the current RSC production of Macbeth on a standing-room-only ticket (which was super lucky because it’s pretty much sold out for the remainder of its run in Stratford-Upon-Avon before it transfers to the Barbican in London). I got to visit to a really stellar butterfly farm and wander around the Cotswolds.
I got to go for a really nice walk in the Kentish countryside with an impromptu visit to a farm shop, and to spend some time at Leeds Castle (which isn’t in Leeds at all), and then there was a brief meander around in a building housing over eight thousand teapots and a town full of shops selling goods made by UK-based artists and craftsmen.
But the best part of all was that I got to share all of those experiences with friends I cherish. I guess what I’m saying with all of this is that friendships take persistence, and sometimes they also take uncomfortably long airplane trips. But they’re worth it. I try to live by the mantra, “We make time for what’s important to us,” and this was me making time. I’m really glad I did. Who knows? If I hadn’t done it, maybe everything would have quietly drifted further and further apart until these friendships were nothing but memories. Happy ones, but memories nonetheless.
But instead I decided that memories weren’t good enough.
Next time, though? They can suffer through eleven hours of pretending to be an airborne sardine…
***You will probably get more thoughts from this trip in the future, so stay tuned. Unless you don’t care, in which case, whatever.***
Of course, I now find myself in need of a ‘vacation from my vacation’, but never mind.
For those of you who are not aware (apologies to those who are,) I spent two non-consecutive years in England during my college career. Thanks to the internet, I still have relationships with several people over that side, and I decided it was high time to pay them a visit. It had been too long. They had all gotten married, and had babies who were now old enough to be left with a sitter if we wanted some grown-up time, and moved around the country to places I hadn’t been before.
Yeah, okay, I thought. Now seems like a pretty good time to do this.
‘Now’ being a year from when I had the original thought. Booking international flights needs to be done forever in advance, and when you’re planning to visit people you want to give them as much notice as possible, especially when they have small humans to be dealing with. Emails were sent. Dates were negotiated. Flights were booked.
And then I sat around for months with people asking me if I was excited to be going, and I would respond, “Oh, yeah, that. It’s months away. I’ll get excited later.”
And then suddenly it was a few weeks away and I realized I needed a raincoat. And a bunch of other stuff because I’m a girl and sometimes I like shiny things, okay? Anyway, a flurry of Amazon orders later, I was ready to go.
And go I did. For sixteen days.
I was as far north as Kendal and as far south as Staplehurst. I was in the Midlands. I covered a whole lot of ground in between — on trains. Lots and lots of trains. So many trains. Side note: trains in the UK are so much better than trains in the US. They actually get you to where you need to go in a reasonable amount of time. It’s amazing! It’s as though they were built just for that purpose! But I digress.
I just spent two weeks with people I don’t get to see, like, ever. It was awesome.
I miss a lot of things about England. I miss the ease of transportation and the junk food and spending time in the pub. I miss places and things, but mostly I miss the friends I made there. I didn’t have the funds or the time to make it to their weddings. Their babies were born without a visit from their American auntie. A lot can happen in a decade, and a lot got missed because there were a few thousand miles between them and me. It’s kind of a bummer when you think about it.
But, I was just able to spend two whole weeks there and I am thrilled about it.
I got to scramble up a hill in the Lake District before a quick change of venue which led me to tootling around the city of York where I was able to see the Minster that figured so heavily in my college art history textbooks, and the city walls, and The Shambles (the street they based Diagon Alley on in the Harry Potter films), with a little side trip to the beautifully kept grounds and gardens of Castle Howard.
I got to have tea at the restaurant in the newly rebuilt Royal Shakespeare Company theatre followed by a performance of the current RSC production of Macbeth on a standing-room-only ticket (which was super lucky because it’s pretty much sold out for the remainder of its run in Stratford-Upon-Avon before it transfers to the Barbican in London). I got to visit to a really stellar butterfly farm and wander around the Cotswolds.
I got to go for a really nice walk in the Kentish countryside with an impromptu visit to a farm shop, and to spend some time at Leeds Castle (which isn’t in Leeds at all), and then there was a brief meander around in a building housing over eight thousand teapots and a town full of shops selling goods made by UK-based artists and craftsmen.
But the best part of all was that I got to share all of those experiences with friends I cherish. I guess what I’m saying with all of this is that friendships take persistence, and sometimes they also take uncomfortably long airplane trips. But they’re worth it. I try to live by the mantra, “We make time for what’s important to us,” and this was me making time. I’m really glad I did. Who knows? If I hadn’t done it, maybe everything would have quietly drifted further and further apart until these friendships were nothing but memories. Happy ones, but memories nonetheless.
But instead I decided that memories weren’t good enough.
Next time, though? They can suffer through eleven hours of pretending to be an airborne sardine…
***You will probably get more thoughts from this trip in the future, so stay tuned. Unless you don’t care, in which case, whatever.***
Thursday, September 13, 2018
Can somebody please explain to me why ‘live albums’ are a thing?
Seriously. They’re irritating.
It’s one thing if it’s one of those “An Evening With”-type things they do live from the Kennedy Center or whatever — those are broadcast on television and meant to be watched. I’m talking about when artists record live concerts from the Podunk County State Fair and Greased Pig Wrangling Competition and then release them as albums.
If you’re going to do that, at least give us the courtesy of a studio-recorded ‘Greatest Hits’ album. That’s what you’re giving us, but with all kinds of obnoxious stuff included. Obnoxious stuff like:
Crowd noise — Inevitably, at the beginning and end of each song on a live recording, there are several seconds of applause and shouting. This is always exponentially louder than the actual song in between, so you spend an inordinate amount of time jumping out of your seat being startled by the sudden ruckus and adjusting your stereo volume down and then up and then down again. Also, if you compiled all of those seconds of crowd noise and cut them out, you might have room for more than ten songs on the album. We know you sang more than ten songs at the concert. (Right? ‘Cause if you’re doing ten-song concerts for the price of tickets these days, you’re a grade-A douche canoe.) And speaking of grade-A douche canoes, there’s always that guy who decides to let out a whoop of extraordinary volume during the quiet and tense portion of a deep and meaningful song. I fucking hate that guy.
Terrible audio — While we’re on the subject of noise, let’s talk about the quality of recording you get at a large venue. It’s shit. The acoustics are wacky, if the performer turns their head just a little too much you can lose their voice altogether, and you can hear all the ambient noise about as well as you can hear the artist. If the recording was made at an outdoor venue, you get wind and airplane flyovers. If it was indoors, the sound of the crowd is amplified, and it’s more than just their voices; it’s their snacks and their moving around and their inability to be quiet during the music.
All that talking — I want to hear you sing, not yammer on for ten minutes about...I don’t know, pick a topic. Introducing the song and maybe giving a little blurb about why you wrote it or what it means to you is fine, it’s when you start into a monologue about something completely unrelated that it gets silly. I suppose the fault for some of this really falls on the record producers and editors because they allow these recordings to go to production with all that chatter, probably so they can:
Charge a bundle for the recording — “Oooh, it’s a live recording! We can charge double for that!” I can’t believe people fall for this, I really can’t. You get a scant handful of songs with a whole bunch of yammering in between and all of that excess noise, but it costs one-and-a-half times as much as any of the artist’s other albums simply because it was recorded live. It makes no sense.
And the final coffin nail, vocal fatigue — I sometimes wonder at artists managing to keep their fans after hearing some of their live recordings. Autotune and the confines of the recording booth keep their secrets. Being live on stage does not. I’m not slagging off anyone in particular, though I can think of a few people who seem to be heavily reliant on vocal tuning software. Mostly I’m talking about the fact that any vocalist, regardless of their natural abilities, gets tired. You’ve been singing and talking and having a good old time for an hour or so and you still have some songs left in your set, but the quality suffers because your body has had enough, thank you very much. I’ve heard some of the most amazing singers go astoundingly flat at the end of a concert. It’s not their fault, it’s just biology, but it shows them at less than their best and recording that and distributing it to the masses at an inflated cost with all the other crap I’ve already talked about is just dumb. Also, I know how suckful it is to miss your notes, so I feel bad for them, and they’re probably feeling bad about it standing up there with everyone listening, so sure, why not, let’s record it for posterity!
Now, I know that there have been some pretty amazing and unexpected live performances, and when recordings of those are played it’s kind of fun. Like times when some other artist randomly shows up to do a number with the performer whose concert it is? That can be neat. But most of the time, live albums are a complete waste.
...I’m realizing now that I’ve just written something akin to a Jerry Seinfeld stand-up routine.
“So what’s the deal with live albums?”
I’ll show myself out.
It’s one thing if it’s one of those “An Evening With”-type things they do live from the Kennedy Center or whatever — those are broadcast on television and meant to be watched. I’m talking about when artists record live concerts from the Podunk County State Fair and Greased Pig Wrangling Competition and then release them as albums.
If you’re going to do that, at least give us the courtesy of a studio-recorded ‘Greatest Hits’ album. That’s what you’re giving us, but with all kinds of obnoxious stuff included. Obnoxious stuff like:
Crowd noise — Inevitably, at the beginning and end of each song on a live recording, there are several seconds of applause and shouting. This is always exponentially louder than the actual song in between, so you spend an inordinate amount of time jumping out of your seat being startled by the sudden ruckus and adjusting your stereo volume down and then up and then down again. Also, if you compiled all of those seconds of crowd noise and cut them out, you might have room for more than ten songs on the album. We know you sang more than ten songs at the concert. (Right? ‘Cause if you’re doing ten-song concerts for the price of tickets these days, you’re a grade-A douche canoe.) And speaking of grade-A douche canoes, there’s always that guy who decides to let out a whoop of extraordinary volume during the quiet and tense portion of a deep and meaningful song. I fucking hate that guy.
Terrible audio — While we’re on the subject of noise, let’s talk about the quality of recording you get at a large venue. It’s shit. The acoustics are wacky, if the performer turns their head just a little too much you can lose their voice altogether, and you can hear all the ambient noise about as well as you can hear the artist. If the recording was made at an outdoor venue, you get wind and airplane flyovers. If it was indoors, the sound of the crowd is amplified, and it’s more than just their voices; it’s their snacks and their moving around and their inability to be quiet during the music.
All that talking — I want to hear you sing, not yammer on for ten minutes about...I don’t know, pick a topic. Introducing the song and maybe giving a little blurb about why you wrote it or what it means to you is fine, it’s when you start into a monologue about something completely unrelated that it gets silly. I suppose the fault for some of this really falls on the record producers and editors because they allow these recordings to go to production with all that chatter, probably so they can:
Charge a bundle for the recording — “Oooh, it’s a live recording! We can charge double for that!” I can’t believe people fall for this, I really can’t. You get a scant handful of songs with a whole bunch of yammering in between and all of that excess noise, but it costs one-and-a-half times as much as any of the artist’s other albums simply because it was recorded live. It makes no sense.
And the final coffin nail, vocal fatigue — I sometimes wonder at artists managing to keep their fans after hearing some of their live recordings. Autotune and the confines of the recording booth keep their secrets. Being live on stage does not. I’m not slagging off anyone in particular, though I can think of a few people who seem to be heavily reliant on vocal tuning software. Mostly I’m talking about the fact that any vocalist, regardless of their natural abilities, gets tired. You’ve been singing and talking and having a good old time for an hour or so and you still have some songs left in your set, but the quality suffers because your body has had enough, thank you very much. I’ve heard some of the most amazing singers go astoundingly flat at the end of a concert. It’s not their fault, it’s just biology, but it shows them at less than their best and recording that and distributing it to the masses at an inflated cost with all the other crap I’ve already talked about is just dumb. Also, I know how suckful it is to miss your notes, so I feel bad for them, and they’re probably feeling bad about it standing up there with everyone listening, so sure, why not, let’s record it for posterity!
Now, I know that there have been some pretty amazing and unexpected live performances, and when recordings of those are played it’s kind of fun. Like times when some other artist randomly shows up to do a number with the performer whose concert it is? That can be neat. But most of the time, live albums are a complete waste.
...I’m realizing now that I’ve just written something akin to a Jerry Seinfeld stand-up routine.
“So what’s the deal with live albums?”
I’ll show myself out.
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