May 25, 2006
I went to the Cafe Buenos Aires last night for tango dancing. They have a live band playing Argentine tango music every Wednesday night from 7ish until 10, and there’s recorded music after that.
When I got there, around 9:30, the restaurant was nearly full, with three couples dancing in front of the band. I wandered around to the back room, where I found a long table with several people I knew from the classes I’ve been taking, and sat down at the end. On my left was a woman in her thirties who I had danced with in the beginning class earlier and who had urged me to come. On my right was a younger woman who I didn’t know.
Further to my right, an olive skinned man with close cropped hair who I recognized as one of the higher-level dancers who occasionally helps in the beginning classes was being familiarly teased about the women soon to be throwing themselves at him, now that he’s a bartender. The woman on my left (unfortunately, I don’t remember her name) explained that Al, the guy to her left, owned a topless bar up on the Mesa.
I looked over at Al. He’s quite clean-cut, about my size, and wears large black Buddy Holly-style glasses. A few tatoos and a greedy glint short of my mental image of a strip club owner, but I suppose it takes all sorts.
“A few times,” she continued, “he’s done a tango night there. We called it ‘Topless Tango'”
“Neat,” I said. When at a loss for words, I revert to unthreatening retro slang.
I tried to imagine how that would work. Did the strippers know how to tango dance, or did the dancers let it all hang out? Or maybe the club was closed, and the space was just used.
“Topless.” She clarified.
Yep, I thought, I got it. Topless. As in without tops, titbare, light heart and funbag free.
“Tapas.” She enunciated. “A tapas bar. Tapas Tango. Sometimes it’s mistaken for ‘topless.'”
“Ah, yes,” I chuckled as we both pondered the humor of such a hypothetical situation.
May 21, 2006
I have recently come to a realization: the Tom Collins is the manifestation, in liquid form, of pure evil. Ask any bartender, and he’ll tell you to order something or get the hell out. He’s got a business to run. But, take my word for it, he thinks they’re evil too. An orange, a cherry, throw a few pomagranate seeds in, and you’ve got the recipe for damnation.
And the Collins glass, if not forged per se , was certainly inspired by Satan himself. Only the fires of Hades could mold such a damnable form. Furthermore, the narrow top was obviously designed to limit surface area and, by extension, evaporation in such a furnace.
Yet, they call to people mixing drinks. Like sirens. “Hey,” is what they say, “you could put that drink in an Old Fashioned glass, or a High Ball, but wouldn’t you rather raise this slim cylinder to your lips?”
Quaffing that loathsome liquor can only lead to ruin.
To avoid giving in to temptation, I’ve put my Collins glasses away. They will only be brought out for the Pope. And if he asks for a Collins, my worst suspicions about Catholicism will be confirmed.
May 18, 2006
So far, I’ve made it a full four days without buying a Macbook. I consider this to be quite the accomplishment. And I’ve already decided not to get the black one.
The thing is, when you look at the specs, the only upgrade between the good white one and the black one is 20 Gigs of drive. Even at 2.5″ drive prices, you’re looking at a solid $180 worth of black.
And I remain vigilant. I just can’t justify buying another computer. The ones I have work fine!
I have decided that I will wait a few weeks and see if I can get one refurbished for a bit less. And if I can’t, I’ll just buy one anyway. That’ll show ’em.
May 16, 2006
At first, Ryan didn't realize that the spider was real; he thought it was just some little playful application that would follow the mouse pointer around.
Spider Tracks Cursor
May 4, 2006
Phil and Joel came over tonight to play some DDR, and between games, I was preparing to boil some eggs. Jess had just finished mopping the floor, so I took my shoes and socks off–I wear dance shoes while DDRing–to keep from getting the soles wet. The eggs were boiling, so I turned them off and set the timer, then went back out to the living room.
Since I had taken my shoes off, and we were about to quit and order dinner, I just sat and watched. And tried to knit.
I decided a few weeks ago that I wanted to learn how to knit, so I got a video from the library and went out to the crafts store with Jess. She got supplies too, and decided to learn with me. Of course, weeks later, I've only barely watched the video (paid plenty of fines, though) and I've yet to finish an entire row while Jess is a few inches in. I'm making a scarf, or, more likely, a slightly oblong pot holder.
But I was nearing the end of my first row of casting on for the third or fourth time, and Jess told me that the timer had gone off. But I was busy, so I figured I'd get to it in a second. I got slightly entangled in my knitting, and Jess showed me what to do once I had a row all cast on. It's a thing with your thumb, in case you were wondering.
Phil had gone out for Thai food, and a few minutes later he came back with it. Jess told him to put it in the kitchen.
The kitchen. Something about the kitchen.
"Oh, crap! The eggs!"
I dropped my knitting and ran for the kitchen to cool them off.
I only broke one glass on my way down when I hit the wet floor at full speed.