Hola mis amiguitos, and welcome once more to this little slice of the internets that I call UOPTA. No no, that doesn't stand for, "Upside-down Onions Produce Tears Anyway," but I imagine both possible readings of that sentence are true. Without any punctuation, it refers to turning an onion upside-down, and since they're usually roundish, I can understand why that wouldn't make any difference. Put a comma before "onions" though, and I'm pretty glad to learn that that method doesn't work. Oh sure, I'd love to cut onions without crying, and I've tried a few things over the years with minimal success. If I found that cutting them while I was physically upside-down would stop the tears, I'd then have to figure out how to do that without seriously injuring myself. Forget the blood rushing to my head and the discomfort of being on my skull, I'm talking about logistically using a knife to cut onions while I'm upside-down. Any motion I think of is either very difficult due to a lack of leverage or would leave the floor strewn with chopped onion. In summation, even though it's not the name of this site, I'm still glad that Upside-down Onions Produce Tears Anyway. Instead, friends, this is just a place in which I write down some thoughts and stories. See how much simpler that is?
I was in Las Vegas earlier this week for two and a half days for work purposes. Normally, I don't come back with many things that make sense to write about in this space (since I generally avoid discussing my job), but I have a few isolated items that I thought were fit to pass on to you. First up, I was in the Paris Hotel, and I had a couple of hours before I was supposed to meet people in the late evening. My goal was to get some food to go and then sit in my room to relax and watch some football. I'm not a big football fan, but it was on, and I could take off my jacket and shoes and just chill for while. I walked around the hotel (without getting too lost) but didn't see anything but sit-down restaurants. I walked over to the concierge desk where I was greeted not very warmly by a middle-aged lady. "Hi, I was looking to get some food to go, but I didn't see anything like what I was looking for. I seem to remember some small food court maybe with a pizza place when you first opened - is that still here?" Ok folks, try to read her response as snottily and condescendingly as possible: "Um, sir, this is The Paris Hotel. All of our food is French, so clearly we wouldn't have anything like pizza here." There was even a hesitation before the word "pizza" as if it were too disgusting to even say. Instead of saying, "Well la-di-dah, your highness," I just smiled and nodded and went on my way. I ended up sitting in a little restaurant that had one of the games on in the attached Bally's Hotel, so it wasn't too bad. That said, I guess the Paris Hotel should be commended for being extremely authentic, from the sidewalk cafes to the rude natives. (Yes, that's a sweeping stereotype, but when my lovely wife and I visited Europe, there was a distinct difference in how we were treated in France versus some other countries. I'm just sayin'.)
I was in Las Vegas earlier this week for two and a half days for work purposes. Normally, I don't come back with many things that make sense to write about in this space (since I generally avoid discussing my job), but I have a few isolated items that I thought were fit to pass on to you. First up, I was in the Paris Hotel, and I had a couple of hours before I was supposed to meet people in the late evening. My goal was to get some food to go and then sit in my room to relax and watch some football. I'm not a big football fan, but it was on, and I could take off my jacket and shoes and just chill for while. I walked around the hotel (without getting too lost) but didn't see anything but sit-down restaurants. I walked over to the concierge desk where I was greeted not very warmly by a middle-aged lady. "Hi, I was looking to get some food to go, but I didn't see anything like what I was looking for. I seem to remember some small food court maybe with a pizza place when you first opened - is that still here?" Ok folks, try to read her response as snottily and condescendingly as possible: "Um, sir, this is The Paris Hotel. All of our food is French, so clearly we wouldn't have anything like pizza here." There was even a hesitation before the word "pizza" as if it were too disgusting to even say. Instead of saying, "Well la-di-dah, your highness," I just smiled and nodded and went on my way. I ended up sitting in a little restaurant that had one of the games on in the attached Bally's Hotel, so it wasn't too bad. That said, I guess the Paris Hotel should be commended for being extremely authentic, from the sidewalk cafes to the rude natives. (Yes, that's a sweeping stereotype, but when my lovely wife and I visited Europe, there was a distinct difference in how we were treated in France versus some other countries. I'm just sayin'.)
Next, I was speaking to a gentleman who was telling me about something that spanned a bunch of different categories, including self-help, weight loss, fitness, etc. While business-oriented, it was a light-hearted enough conversation that I felt comfortable making a pun. "I imagine that the weight loss one has the, um, widest demographic," I said with a smile. Nothing. So I added, "Pardon the pun, of course." Still nothing. He went right into his next point without ever picking up what I put down. I thought that was a good one, at least deserving a smile or something. But no, he just kept on going. Bastard.
The night before that, I went out to dinner with two...interesting gentlemen. They're both in their late 40s, and they've really lived those years, if you know what I mean. So when we sat down next to two obviously tipsy ladies, they were already programmed with how to talk in that situation. The women gave obviously fake names, and the two men did the same. "I'm Peter," I said, before adding, "Really." After a couple of minutes of chatting, I learned that one of them lived in Ventura, so I plugged Dusty and Dave's company and told her to check them out. She asked what we do for a living, and one of the guys said, "We're in the porn industry. We're stuntmen." They laughed a little, but it sadly seemed like they believed him. A couple more minutes went by, and the drunker of the two asked me, "So where do you do your stuntman work?" I thought to myself, "Alright, fine, I'll play along." So I said, "Well, they're actually the stuntmen. My job is to write the musical scores for the films. It's really not as impressive as it sounds, since it's really just a series of wocka-chicka wocka-chickas." She made face that said, "Yeah, I dig that" while nodding, and then went back to her drink.
The night before that, I went out to dinner with two...interesting gentlemen. They're both in their late 40s, and they've really lived those years, if you know what I mean. So when we sat down next to two obviously tipsy ladies, they were already programmed with how to talk in that situation. The women gave obviously fake names, and the two men did the same. "I'm Peter," I said, before adding, "Really." After a couple of minutes of chatting, I learned that one of them lived in Ventura, so I plugged Dusty and Dave's company and told her to check them out. She asked what we do for a living, and one of the guys said, "We're in the porn industry. We're stuntmen." They laughed a little, but it sadly seemed like they believed him. A couple more minutes went by, and the drunker of the two asked me, "So where do you do your stuntman work?" I thought to myself, "Alright, fine, I'll play along." So I said, "Well, they're actually the stuntmen. My job is to write the musical scores for the films. It's really not as impressive as it sounds, since it's really just a series of wocka-chicka wocka-chickas." She made face that said, "Yeah, I dig that" while nodding, and then went back to her drink.
One of the gentlemen asked the ladies what they liked to do while in Vegas. One said, "If I had my druthers, I'd just go from club to club all day long." The other chimed in with, "If I had my brothers, that would be illegal in most states." I thought that was a funny retort, but the friend had no idea in hell what she was talking about. "What about your brothers?" After some long-winded attempts at explaining her quip to no avail, she gave up. "I thought that was a good line," I said almost apologetically. We didn't end up chatting much more with the drunk ladies before they left, but that was more than fine with me.
After dinner, I went to a party at a club sponsored by another business in the industry. We got some drinks and did the requisite schmoozing for a while before my favorite interaction of the whole conference transpired. The same guys and I were talking to an attractive young woman about where she worked and what she did. "I mainly focus on non-profits and ministries," she said. Without missing a beat, one of the guys said, "I love God." If I had had liquid in my mouth at that moment, it would've ended up all over someone. Instead, I just laughed while he added, "And I love raising money for God." You can't teach classy, ladies and gentlemen.
Lastly, one woman with whom I've worked peripherally for a while made me bite my tongue so hard it almost bled...twice. The first time was two days before the conference when I was trying to find a time to meet up. After pulling up her schedule on the computer, she said, "Let's see...I've got some weird looking holes." Yes, I somehow managed to hold back from saying anything after that, which I know is a good thing. We did eventually set a meeting, and in that meeting, she asked a gentleman from another company, "Do you have a large staff?" Come on, lady! What are you trying to do to me? Geez, some people just don't care about the plight of the immature male.
And with that, it is my duty (tee hee) to bring us to the Car Watch.
My homey Rockabye sent me this license plate just yesterday: "GRRTFLL." I take issue with this plate, my homepeople, for I just don't think it works. Yes, I can see that the driver wants the word "grateful" to come across. However, the "Grr" sound never represents something positive or happy, but rather anger or frustration. Therefore, this sounds to me like a very begrudging gratefulness, and unless the driver wanted to capture that complex compound adjective, then I don't like it. So there.
My friend Greg (The Pigh) sent me a plate that you'll either really appreciate or not get at all: "TPS RPRT." His email to me was, "I'm gonna need you to go ahead and put this in the Car Watch." If you have no idea what he's talking about, then I guess you're not a big fan of the movie "Office Space." And frankly, that's a shame. Oh yeah, and you probably won't get it when I end this paragraph with, "Corporate accounts payable, Nina speaking, just a moment."
And last but not least, I saw a plate that read, "PWR SHRG." Over the course of the next ten seconds, I thought of a couple dozen ways in which one could "power shrug." And I think they were pretty funny too. Is it a way to REALLY not care about something? Is that how Robocop expresses his disinterest? I wanted to know, but sadly after those ten seconds, I saw something else on the car. The license plate frame said, "Power sharing." Then I was confused again. Did that mean sharing in some suped-up way or more than one person using the same energy source? I know, I know: I ask the tough questions.
That, my friends, is all I've got for you today. Fear not, I'll be back next Friday with more of whatever it is I do here. In the meantime, are you ready for a whole lotta happies? Here goes! First off, Happy Rosh Hashanah at sundown today to all my fellow Members of the Tribe. Happy birthday to two dear friends: Danielle tomorrow and Paul on Sunday. Happy 5 and a half year anniversary to my lovely wife on Monday. Wow, it seems like just six months ago that it was our full anniversary. On Wednesday, it's not only my Grandpa Harold's birthday, but also my little cousin Bailey's 2nd birthday as well, so please join me in wishing them happy ones. As always, feel free to email me at ptklein@gmail.com, and be healthy and happy. Shaloha.
3 comments:
I want to give a shout-out and wish a Happy 60th birthday to "The Boss" Bruce Springsteen on 9/23. Still rocking strong, Bruce!
If you are not a fan of his, on the 23rd just give his birthday one big power shrug.
Was the woman at the Paris Hotel French or did she have to undergo weeks of training to learn the haughty impolite attitude?
When we were in France, we actually encountered some very friendly natives in the southern part of the country. The ruder ones were found in Paris. How fitting.
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