Dance... it was never, as far as I can recall, a big part of my life growing up in El Paso. I do recall getting bored when it came on TV or in a movie, though it was fun to watch my parents dance. And I enjoyed watching ballet (sometimes), "Spanish dancing" of any sort, and a couple of other things. But if I danced at all, I don't recall it.
Until 7th grade in Augusta, GA. There was a dance, and my best friend, Claude, didn't refused to let me be a wallflower. The day before a dance, he put on a couple of records and taught me some basic dance moves. (I distinctly remember dancing to the Monkees' "Last Train to Clarkesville".) I might have danced a couple of dances, but not being Mr. Popularity (in fact, being both The Outsider and That Weirdo) it's amazing I danced at all.
In 7th grade in Augusta, if you lived On The Hill, you went to cotillion to learn manners, social graces, and ballroom dancing. (I can neither recall nor find on the web the name of the place nor its mistress). I, however, was told that two extracurricular activities would be one too many and had to choose between boy scouts and cotillion. Boy Scouts won and my pathetic social life went even deeper into the manure pile.
The next year, however, Patsy Brown's mother and Mom (possibly with Patsy's help) arranged for Patsy and me to attend cotillion together. She and I had never been especially friendly; between that and the ideas of wearing a suit every week and learning to behave like British aristocracy, I was mortified. I was very nearly determined not to enjoy it.
After the shock and strangeness of everything wore off (including holding girls, a fearful delight for most of us guys) I had a blast. Patsy and I got along great, and I found out that a bunch of other girls I'd never been able to talk to (including Jane, an amazingly sweet, pretty girl I'd always admired, but who had a boyfriend) were easy enough to get along with as well. We just needed some social structure. Under our amazing (if ancient) tutor's hand, we learned how to fill out dance cards (a skill I have used not once since graduating that class), to (among others) waltz, foxtrot and cha cha, the proper way to be seated at table, the proper use of various knives, forks and spoons, and-- in short-- all the basics we'd need if we ever had to take jobs as British aristocrats. I'm still waiting for that to happen, or at least an invitation to dine with an ex-president or something.
While I didn't get a chance to use any of these dance moves until long after my feet had forgotten them, it gave me the confidence to dance and ask girls to dance.
(Quick aside- the most dreaded thing for most of us boys was getting picked by the lady in charge to demonstrate the proper way to do something. She was about a hundred years old, had a rigid spine that would make a drill instructor jealous, was perfect at everything she did, and was one of the most imposing women I have met in my life. Her outfits were proper and beautiful antebellum. She was a lady of the sort who demands perfection in men, even 13 year old men. Just being picked to help show a new dance with her almost brought football players to tears. Nobody else could have taught us as she did. We loved her, we feared her. She was our royal monarch, ruling our lives for two hours a week.)
I went to a few more dances, mainly sock hops[1]. Then, in 9th grade, we had the Junior High Prom. It was Kind Of A Big Deal. Again, Claude came to the rescue. He and his date, Edith, took me with them. I think I might have danced 4 or 5 times that evening, and talked to actual girls a total of 20 minutes when not dancing. Life was looking up.
Since I didn't help put on the Junior-Senior Prom in 11th grade, I didn't go to it. A lot changed my senior year, and I actually had something of a social life. I went to quite a few dances, with dates even (mostly with a girlfriend, but also a couple when I didn't have one). But when prom hit the next year, I had neither a girlfriend nor a date.
The morning of prom, just before school started, I found out that Jane (yes, that Jane), our Homecoming Queen, one of the sweetest young ladies on the planet, had no date. Everyone assumed she had been first pick, so nobody asked. The bell rang. I rushed to homeroom, explained to Mr Alford (awesome math prof and good guy) what was up. He gave me a hall pass. I went to Jane's homeroom and got permission to speak with her. When I asked her, she gave me a really strange look. "Why are you asking me now?"
"Are you kidding? You're the homecoming queen. I couldn't imagine you'd not have 50 guys asking you out the day the prom was announced." ("All cooler than me,", I continued in my head.) "That's what everyone else thought, too. But as soon as I found out, I came to ask you."
Her expression was one of mingled delight and relief. "Wow. That's really sweet." Then she looked embarrassed. "Last night I called my cousin. He's driving down from Tennessee today to take me to the prom tonight."
"Oh. OK. Well, um... have a good time."
"You, too. Thanks!" (She didn't kiss me, but the look she gave me felt like one.)
At lunch, I found out that a friend, a junior working with me in the lunch line (let's call her Sadie), also didn't have a prom date. "Want to go? Just as friends?"
"Sure," she said. She and her twin sister had been planning to go dateless, so she had a dress. After school I went shopping and found a dark purple tux. It was a lot frillier than I wanted, but since it was 1973 and James Brown was cool (and lived there in Augusta), it worked out well. We had a good time at the prom. I danced quite a few dances (including a couple with Jane). It was a lot more fun than I had expected. Until..
I forget who we were riding with, but they dropped me off first. As I got ready to get out of the car, Sadie-- just a friend-- grabbed me and gave me a fairly serious goodnight kiss. I went inside in shock. I liked her as a friend, but that was it, and she'd said the same thing all along. The punch wasn't spiked, so I guess my good manners, spiffy purple frilly tux and dance moves won her over. Without my permission.
I think I saw her twice that summer, and we talked on the phone 2 or 3 times. But when I left for Georgia Tech that fall, she had our life together planned out (college, air force, marriage, open our own restaurant, kids...) Once off at college, I was all too happy to forget about all this. But when I came home at Thanksgiving, she called me (a HUGE deal, as in her world, only a floozy would call a guy). 'Why haven't you called me?"
"Um, I'm in college. It's super busy." (This was true, but sadly had far more to do with partying and goofing off than academics.) We talked for a while, and I had to go somewhere. I didn't call her back. Over Christmas, Sharon (my sister) got onto me. Sadie had been telling her how I'd done her dirty, leading her on, etc. I explained what had really happened. "Oh, I'm glad you didn't do all that then. But she's really mad. She said, 'I'm going to find some fat, rich, older, bald guy who smokes stinky cigars and marry him. That'll show him!'"
Later that year, Sadie dropped out of school. A few weeks later, Sharon said Sadie showed up at a pep rally, trophy husband in tow. He was fat, rich, older, bald, and smoked stinky cigars. Yep, she showed me. Imagine how bad I felt.
Despite the outcome of prom, I kept dancing. Various groups of friends and I went to Underground Atlanta a lot (at the time, it had at least a dozen clubs where dancing was big. I liked The Mad Hatter the best, with a psychedelic dance floor, lots of black lights, and a fun crowd-- not too rowdy, not too snooty, not too grubby). I seldom had a hard time finding gals to dance with, but the only time I ever got past a dance or two, I was rather drunk. I insisted on memorizing her phone number rather than letting her write it down, and of course by the next morning I forgot it. Brilliant.
One night at The Mad Hatter I couldn't find a partner fast enough for an unannounced dance contest. I jumped up on a table and danced solo. The DJ called me out and said that if I'd had a partner, I'd have won. But per the rules, only couples could play. On the other hand, I had all the dances I wanted the rest of the night.
Fast forward a couple of years. I met another Sharon and in short order we were married. While we both liked to dance, somehow we never did. She remembers me not wanting to, but I recall her not wanting to. I think I win, because at my 10 year HS reunion, Fran came over and asked Sharon if she could borrow me for a dance or two. "My husband won't dance, and I notice y'all aren't dancing, and I remember Miles could dance!" Sharon said yes, and Fran and I danced. I think Sharon and I only danced a slow dance or two all night. Either way, we almost never danced.
A few years later, I went with Nick (a best friend) down to Tampa for his brother Mark's wedding. The reception was from around dusk until dawn the next day. Apart from sitting down to eat and spend a few minutes with Nick's (extremely awesome, extremely Italian) family, I danced non-stop the entire time, up until about an hour before dawn. I danced with every woman in the place, because i was one of the few guys willing to dance who didn't have a jealous wife glaring at anyone who looked my way. (Sharon wasn't there, but she's the polar opposite of that sort of insecurity.) I danced with girls and women from 2 years old to 80 or more (she could jitterbug!) School girls, college girls, bar maids, housewives, moms, a couple of mildly drunk recent divorcees who were a little too friendly, grandmothers, cousins, aunts, nieces, you name it. I had a blast. Right up until the seat of my suit pants split. I sat down. I got asked at least a half dozen more times to dance.
Fast forward again, this time 10 to 12 years. Sharon and I were at Shawn and Tiffany's wedding. At the reception, a couple of decades worth of bottled up dancing exploded. Sharon danced non-stop for hours. Since then, if we go anywhere there's dancing, she's usually ready whether I am or not. I've had to learn how all over. Sometimes we just fake it. The best part is that we're having fun and look confident, so sometimes people watch us to try to figure out how to dance! The real dancers just smile and leave us in their dust. We don't care. We dance.
And when it's dancing time, we look for people who have nobody to dance with, the lonely ones or the ones afraid to try to dance- the people we were in school. We split up and ask them to dance. "I don't know how" is their inevitable response.
"It's OK, I don't either. We just fake it and look like confident."
"Seriously?"
"Yep."
And just as inevitably, we dance.
I hope you never lose your sense of wonder,
You get your fill to eat,
But always keep that hunger.
May you never take one single breath for granted;
God forbid love ever leave you empty handed...
I hope you still feel small
When you stand by the ocean.
Whenever one door closes, I hope one more opens.
Promise me you'll give faith a fighting chance...
And when you get the choice to sit it out or dance
I hope you dance.
I hope you dance...
-Lee Ann Womack, Copyright © 2000, Uni/Mca Nashville. All Rights Reserved.
[1] All gym floors were wood, and you were only allowed to wear clean tennis shoes on them. For dances, you dressed up, and you didn't want rubber soles, anyway, so you danced in your socks.
29 April 2011
27 April 2011
I Don't Get Lou Reed
A lot of my friends in college were Lou Reed and Velvet Underground fans. With a few exceptions I wasn't. ("Take a Walk on the Wild Side" was intriguing.) They said it was an acquired taste, like Andy Warhol. I wasn't a huge Warhol fan, but at least I got his art. Lou? Not so much.
Then I learned that Lou Reed wasn't as one dimensional as the softer music I kept hearing on the radio. Two of his albums woke me up, kicked me out of bed, and set my pants on fire.
First, of course, was _Rock 'n' Roll Animal_, a live album recorded at Howard Stein's Academy of Music in NYC in 1974. From the first, liquid notes of "Intro/Sweet Jane" to the butt kicking end of "Rock 'n; Roll", something leaped out of the speakers, grabbed hold and refused to let go. I don't tend to rank everything into lists the way some people (cough, Andy Whitman, cough) do, but this has to be one of my top ten favorite rock albums of all time. It's a party trapped in a disk (box, whatever). If nothing on this album makes you get up and dance, your legs were probably stolen while you weren't looking. I have a lot of guitar heroes, but this album put Steve Hunter and Dick Wagner near the top of the heap.
Next up, in 1975, was _Metal Machine Music_. This was as different from Animal as Animal was from any of Reed's early music you'd hear on the radio. MMM was essentially a wall of noise, either electronics going berserk per the original liner notes) or guitar feedback gone berserk (per Reed's later statements). The industrial scene and noise rock owe a lot to this album. It was originally released as a double vinyl album; the end of side four looped back on itself-- whether this was art or a joke is anyone's guess. But most people didn't even notice for quite some time. You either love or hate this one. I happen to love it. I have listened to it all the way through many, many times; I only know a handful of other people who have done so. In college, it nearly brought stoned peaceniks to blows on more than one occasion-- it grated on their ears too much.
So maybe I do get Lou Reed-- at least somewhat. Whether he would get me, I have no idea.
[The mix I currently listen to in my car includes soft to medium praise music, Rock 'n' Roll Animal, 90s punk, It's a Beautiful Day, the Allman Brothers Live at the Fillmore East, the 77s (rock), various incarnations of Daniel Amos (some of the weirdest music in all of Christendom), Skynyrd, Johnny Cash and many others. Pretty much everything but Nashville Country, bad rap... and soft Lou Reed.]
Then I learned that Lou Reed wasn't as one dimensional as the softer music I kept hearing on the radio. Two of his albums woke me up, kicked me out of bed, and set my pants on fire.
First, of course, was _Rock 'n' Roll Animal_, a live album recorded at Howard Stein's Academy of Music in NYC in 1974. From the first, liquid notes of "Intro/Sweet Jane" to the butt kicking end of "Rock 'n; Roll", something leaped out of the speakers, grabbed hold and refused to let go. I don't tend to rank everything into lists the way some people (cough, Andy Whitman, cough) do, but this has to be one of my top ten favorite rock albums of all time. It's a party trapped in a disk (box, whatever). If nothing on this album makes you get up and dance, your legs were probably stolen while you weren't looking. I have a lot of guitar heroes, but this album put Steve Hunter and Dick Wagner near the top of the heap.
Next up, in 1975, was _Metal Machine Music_. This was as different from Animal as Animal was from any of Reed's early music you'd hear on the radio. MMM was essentially a wall of noise, either electronics going berserk per the original liner notes) or guitar feedback gone berserk (per Reed's later statements). The industrial scene and noise rock owe a lot to this album. It was originally released as a double vinyl album; the end of side four looped back on itself-- whether this was art or a joke is anyone's guess. But most people didn't even notice for quite some time. You either love or hate this one. I happen to love it. I have listened to it all the way through many, many times; I only know a handful of other people who have done so. In college, it nearly brought stoned peaceniks to blows on more than one occasion-- it grated on their ears too much.
So maybe I do get Lou Reed-- at least somewhat. Whether he would get me, I have no idea.
[The mix I currently listen to in my car includes soft to medium praise music, Rock 'n' Roll Animal, 90s punk, It's a Beautiful Day, the Allman Brothers Live at the Fillmore East, the 77s (rock), various incarnations of Daniel Amos (some of the weirdest music in all of Christendom), Skynyrd, Johnny Cash and many others. Pretty much everything but Nashville Country, bad rap... and soft Lou Reed.]
24 April 2011
Is it Hot in Here, or is it Just You?
People disagree over what "hot" means. This is true regardless of context. I would like to offer my definition of "hot" as it pertains to spicy foods. There are four criteria:
- If it makes your forehead sweat and / or your eyes water, and
- if it clears your sinuses / makes your nose run, and
- if it burns going in, and
- if it burns coming out,
06 April 2011
Love Monster Meets Schrödinger's Cat
Almost a year ago, someone from another church noticed how many of their youth were hanging out with me. They expressed concern that I was building a "cult of Miles". I believe they meant this in terms of "cult of personality", but we didn't get much chance to discuss it, beyond my assuring them that wasn't the case, as they were busy.
But as I've pondered where this question came from, I realized what had happened. They were perhaps too busy, concentrating on teaching and programs. I was simply loving on the kids. Don't get me wrong, this leader is awesome and loves his students. But teenagers-- like pretty much everyone else-- respond to love. As Jeff Kyle used to say, "Teenagers spell love "T-I-M-E" and "M-O-N-E-Y". I throw in a third spelling: "F-O-O-D". Since I was hanging out with them, going to eat with them (sometimes buying), we built relationships. I not only earned the right to speak into their lives, many of them wanted me to.
I couldn't really help it if I wanted to; I just love people. Especially teens and young adults. As Pogo might have said, "It just come all over notchural." While it's an effective way to impact people, I don't focus on that as then I wouldn't really be loving anyone. I don't think much about it, I just do it.
And as it turns out, I have a pretty good role model. I read about this guy who spent a lot of time teaching and helping people but he did it in the context of just hanging out with them, living life with them, having fun with them, crying and hurting with them, meeting their needs-- in short, loving them. Eventually he died for them. Then, blowing their minds, he came back for them, setting them all free.
I can't do everything Jesus did, but I can do a lot of it..
If you're reading this, you should know that I think you're awesome and I love you. If you aren't reading this, you should know that I think you're awesome and I love you. If you can't tell if you're reading this or not, you are probably a cat; please say hello to Schrödinger for me.
But as I've pondered where this question came from, I realized what had happened. They were perhaps too busy, concentrating on teaching and programs. I was simply loving on the kids. Don't get me wrong, this leader is awesome and loves his students. But teenagers-- like pretty much everyone else-- respond to love. As Jeff Kyle used to say, "Teenagers spell love "T-I-M-E" and "M-O-N-E-Y". I throw in a third spelling: "F-O-O-D". Since I was hanging out with them, going to eat with them (sometimes buying), we built relationships. I not only earned the right to speak into their lives, many of them wanted me to.
I couldn't really help it if I wanted to; I just love people. Especially teens and young adults. As Pogo might have said, "It just come all over notchural." While it's an effective way to impact people, I don't focus on that as then I wouldn't really be loving anyone. I don't think much about it, I just do it.
And as it turns out, I have a pretty good role model. I read about this guy who spent a lot of time teaching and helping people but he did it in the context of just hanging out with them, living life with them, having fun with them, crying and hurting with them, meeting their needs-- in short, loving them. Eventually he died for them. Then, blowing their minds, he came back for them, setting them all free.
I can't do everything Jesus did, but I can do a lot of it..
If you're reading this, you should know that I think you're awesome and I love you. If you aren't reading this, you should know that I think you're awesome and I love you. If you can't tell if you're reading this or not, you are probably a cat; please say hello to Schrödinger for me.
15 March 2011
Currently reading: The Shaq
(256 pages, Willy Olds, Blowhard Media, 2007)
WARNING: This is in poor taste on several levels. You Have Been Warned.
Donald Macronald (Big Mack to his family, BM to his friends) is devastated when his toy poodle is brutally given a horrible haircut by an unknown assailant in a dog park. Determined to find the man and bring him to justice, he sends his family on vacation in Mosquito Bite, Wyoming. BM then borrows a friend's dirt bike and haunts the dog park, armed with duct tape, hedge clippers, a vile shade of hair dye, and mousse. Instead of the assailant, he runs into Shaquille O'Neal. Literally. Bouncing off Shaq, his bike a wreck, BM is thrown into the park's two ton pile of dog poo. While there, he encounters God, who to his astonishment looks and acts nothing like George Burns. After several amazing days BM limps home, but smells so bad nobody will go near him for a month. Eventually the odor washes off, and his changed life amazes everyone. Shaq goes on TV and tells funny stories about the man who bounced off him and flew into "the world's biggest pile of poo outside Washington, DC".
Ob note: I love _The Shack_. I just free associate a lot.
WARNING: This is in poor taste on several levels. You Have Been Warned.
Donald Macronald (Big Mack to his family, BM to his friends) is devastated when his toy poodle is brutally given a horrible haircut by an unknown assailant in a dog park. Determined to find the man and bring him to justice, he sends his family on vacation in Mosquito Bite, Wyoming. BM then borrows a friend's dirt bike and haunts the dog park, armed with duct tape, hedge clippers, a vile shade of hair dye, and mousse. Instead of the assailant, he runs into Shaquille O'Neal. Literally. Bouncing off Shaq, his bike a wreck, BM is thrown into the park's two ton pile of dog poo. While there, he encounters God, who to his astonishment looks and acts nothing like George Burns. After several amazing days BM limps home, but smells so bad nobody will go near him for a month. Eventually the odor washes off, and his changed life amazes everyone. Shaq goes on TV and tells funny stories about the man who bounced off him and flew into "the world's biggest pile of poo outside Washington, DC".
Ob note: I love _The Shack_. I just free associate a lot.
11 March 2011
The Great Chuys Dots War
(A diversion to the diversion. One of my favorite Chuys stories. This is all true.)
I'd only been in Austin 2-3 years when Teresa became my office mate. Some of use were together at lunch one day at Chuys (where else), when she started talking about how often she was at Chuys, A couple of friends who'd known me longer than she had assured he I was there way more than her. Back and forth they went, until she threw down a challenge. For a year, each of us would keep the sticky dot off our silverware wrapper each time we went to Chuys and bought a meal or drink; we'd stick each dot on the back of our drivers license. At the end of the year, whoever had the most dots would win and the other would buy them a lunch. Having no idea how it would turn out, but loving the idea, I accepted.
Over the next year, whenever people would see the dots on our licenses they'd ask what was up with that. We came up with a variety of stores, but our favorite (worked out together on the spot at Chuys when asked about the dots) went like this.
"APD (Austin Police Department) loves Chuys, too. They have this thing, it's not official or advertised, that if you have enough Chuys dots on your license and get pulled over, they'll let you off minor traffic violations and such. Not real crimes, but little stuff. But they take the dots off and you have to start over. It's kind of like a Get Out of Jail Free card in Monopoly."
The best part is that a lot of people really believed it. It was pretty funny. We really hoped one day someone would try this when they got pulled over. If it happened we never heard about it.
Eventually, the year was up. While I knew I'd eaten at Chuys a ridiculous amount that year, I had no idea just how ridiculous. We each counted our dots, then counted the others' dots as a sanity check. The tallies per license were within 1 or 2, and the spread was more than that.
I don't recall the exact numbers, but Teresa had around 190 or 200. I neat her by 10 or 20. We were both stunned, not so much at the outcome as the number of times we'd each eaten at Chuys. Actually, it was crazier than that. Some of hers were not even for meals, they were for celebrating after a soccer game with her team- a drink. Whereas all mine were for meals. that has to be my all time high count for eating at *any* restaurant in a year. That included just me, groups from work, family meals, meals with friends, etc. But only one dot per visit! (This was, IIRC, the year I ate 21 times during the 21 day Green Chile Festival.) That's a lot of Tex Mex. That's a lot of money. That's a lot of awesome.
I don't recall what my victory lunch was (probably chile rellenos, because I was ordering those a lot around then) but Teresa was the gracious loser. I offered her a rematch but she declined. Neither of us had eaten a lot more because of the contest, but we had both admittedly pushed it a little, and we figured at least some of that money ought to go somewhere besides Chuys, especially since we weren't getting stock.
But it gets better.
Teresa not only played soccer, she coached a young girls' team. Shortly before the contest ended, she had to coach her girls at a tournament in Houston on a weekend, She also had her own game to play in Sunday afternoon. Since it was her team's first year, they weren't all that good, so she knew she'd be home Saturday. Imagine her dual excitement and consternation when her team went to the finals. I don't recall if they made it to the very final game or not. I do know they did well, and that Teresa had two and a half hours or less to make a three hour trip. She was flying low, a good 15 or 20 over the speed limit when she crested a hill on 290 a half hour outside Austin and the flashing lights came on.
She pulled over and got out her license and insurance card. "I'm sorry, officer, I know I was speeding." The usual drill. Until.... "Ma'am, may I ask why you have all these... dots... on the back of your license?
Teresa toyed briefly with the idea of telling him the whole tale but (probably wisely) decided against it. She went for brevity. "A friend and I eat at Chuys a lot and we're having a contest to see who eats there the most. That's how we keep track."
"Chuys? The Tex Mex restaurant in Austin? I love that place!" They spent a few minutes discussing favorite dishes, their favorite waiters and waitresses, etc. All the while Teresa was trying not to bust out laughing, worried about being late to her game, and thinking how weird this was. Finally the policeman said, "Well. anyone who likes Chuys that much is all right by me. But please, keep it slow, OK?" He handed her the license, and walked back to his car. Not even a warning. She made the game.
Sometimes, life imitates art. It was so cool I bought her lunch. We were even. At Chuys, everybody wins.
I'd only been in Austin 2-3 years when Teresa became my office mate. Some of use were together at lunch one day at Chuys (where else), when she started talking about how often she was at Chuys, A couple of friends who'd known me longer than she had assured he I was there way more than her. Back and forth they went, until she threw down a challenge. For a year, each of us would keep the sticky dot off our silverware wrapper each time we went to Chuys and bought a meal or drink; we'd stick each dot on the back of our drivers license. At the end of the year, whoever had the most dots would win and the other would buy them a lunch. Having no idea how it would turn out, but loving the idea, I accepted.
Over the next year, whenever people would see the dots on our licenses they'd ask what was up with that. We came up with a variety of stores, but our favorite (worked out together on the spot at Chuys when asked about the dots) went like this.
"APD (Austin Police Department) loves Chuys, too. They have this thing, it's not official or advertised, that if you have enough Chuys dots on your license and get pulled over, they'll let you off minor traffic violations and such. Not real crimes, but little stuff. But they take the dots off and you have to start over. It's kind of like a Get Out of Jail Free card in Monopoly."
The best part is that a lot of people really believed it. It was pretty funny. We really hoped one day someone would try this when they got pulled over. If it happened we never heard about it.
Eventually, the year was up. While I knew I'd eaten at Chuys a ridiculous amount that year, I had no idea just how ridiculous. We each counted our dots, then counted the others' dots as a sanity check. The tallies per license were within 1 or 2, and the spread was more than that.
I don't recall the exact numbers, but Teresa had around 190 or 200. I neat her by 10 or 20. We were both stunned, not so much at the outcome as the number of times we'd each eaten at Chuys. Actually, it was crazier than that. Some of hers were not even for meals, they were for celebrating after a soccer game with her team- a drink. Whereas all mine were for meals. that has to be my all time high count for eating at *any* restaurant in a year. That included just me, groups from work, family meals, meals with friends, etc. But only one dot per visit! (This was, IIRC, the year I ate 21 times during the 21 day Green Chile Festival.) That's a lot of Tex Mex. That's a lot of money. That's a lot of awesome.
I don't recall what my victory lunch was (probably chile rellenos, because I was ordering those a lot around then) but Teresa was the gracious loser. I offered her a rematch but she declined. Neither of us had eaten a lot more because of the contest, but we had both admittedly pushed it a little, and we figured at least some of that money ought to go somewhere besides Chuys, especially since we weren't getting stock.
But it gets better.
Teresa not only played soccer, she coached a young girls' team. Shortly before the contest ended, she had to coach her girls at a tournament in Houston on a weekend, She also had her own game to play in Sunday afternoon. Since it was her team's first year, they weren't all that good, so she knew she'd be home Saturday. Imagine her dual excitement and consternation when her team went to the finals. I don't recall if they made it to the very final game or not. I do know they did well, and that Teresa had two and a half hours or less to make a three hour trip. She was flying low, a good 15 or 20 over the speed limit when she crested a hill on 290 a half hour outside Austin and the flashing lights came on.
She pulled over and got out her license and insurance card. "I'm sorry, officer, I know I was speeding." The usual drill. Until.... "Ma'am, may I ask why you have all these... dots... on the back of your license?
Teresa toyed briefly with the idea of telling him the whole tale but (probably wisely) decided against it. She went for brevity. "A friend and I eat at Chuys a lot and we're having a contest to see who eats there the most. That's how we keep track."
"Chuys? The Tex Mex restaurant in Austin? I love that place!" They spent a few minutes discussing favorite dishes, their favorite waiters and waitresses, etc. All the while Teresa was trying not to bust out laughing, worried about being late to her game, and thinking how weird this was. Finally the policeman said, "Well. anyone who likes Chuys that much is all right by me. But please, keep it slow, OK?" He handed her the license, and walked back to his car. Not even a warning. She made the game.
Sometimes, life imitates art. It was so cool I bought her lunch. We were even. At Chuys, everybody wins.
08 March 2011
The Roadkill Saga
(we interrupt our regularly scheduled series, "Growing Up Miles", for a word from our sponsor.)
Years ago, when the net was young, before Al Gore took credit for it, before the world wide web was more than a glimmer in someone's eye, when dinosaurs and usenet ruled the planet, I was working very long hours (80+ hour weeks). At lunch and dinner, if I weren't going anywhere, I'd eat something at my desk and write nonsense and throw it out into the ether as stress relief.
One night, out of nowhere, I came up with Roadkills-R-Us, recycling as high up the food chain as possible, turning roadkill into meals. I posted jobs for everything from Roadkill Removal Technician I all the way up to VP. I committed the unpardonable sin of posting this farce in the "help wanted" newsgroup rather than somewhere meant for silliness. It went over great.
Soon after, I posted an opening for a software engineer at RRU, with absurd requirements, based on some of the silly (but serious) job ads I was seeing. I received four (serious) resumes in the U. S. Mail.
From time to time I added to the company lore over the next few years. When the web was in its infancy, I wanted to explore the technology. I put together a throw away web site for RRU. Because there were is few sites out there, it got reasonable traffic. I moved it off the company server to one at home just ion time to get attacked by Toys-R-Us (true, and documented at http://www.rru.com/ ). When I gave up on trying to talk rationally with them and took it to the media, things really took off, and the site got well known.
Some friends started calling me Roadkill. I started using the name at restaurants when there was a waiting list (half the fun was when people had to announce us: "Roadkill, party of four, your table is ready.") Since we eat at Chuys a lot (1-2x a week for almost 20 years as of this writing), that's how they all know us-- as Mr. and Mrs. Roadkill.
When we have leftovers in take out boxes, we always label them as to whose they are and the date. On mine, I draw a roadkill fish. (Why a fish? Because it's absurd, of course! And because two of my best friends nicknamed me "Fish" years ago for no apparent reason.) Once, at a Chuys lunch with the Weier clan (no, they are not wolves), Rachel asked if she could add to my "artwork". The result was an instant classic.
Artists: Rachel Weier and Miles O'Neal
Medium: Pen and crayon on styrofoam
Date: Nov 26, 2010 A.D.
Years ago, when the net was young, before Al Gore took credit for it, before the world wide web was more than a glimmer in someone's eye, when dinosaurs and usenet ruled the planet, I was working very long hours (80+ hour weeks). At lunch and dinner, if I weren't going anywhere, I'd eat something at my desk and write nonsense and throw it out into the ether as stress relief.
One night, out of nowhere, I came up with Roadkills-R-Us, recycling as high up the food chain as possible, turning roadkill into meals. I posted jobs for everything from Roadkill Removal Technician I all the way up to VP. I committed the unpardonable sin of posting this farce in the "help wanted" newsgroup rather than somewhere meant for silliness. It went over great.
Soon after, I posted an opening for a software engineer at RRU, with absurd requirements, based on some of the silly (but serious) job ads I was seeing. I received four (serious) resumes in the U. S. Mail.
From time to time I added to the company lore over the next few years. When the web was in its infancy, I wanted to explore the technology. I put together a throw away web site for RRU. Because there were is few sites out there, it got reasonable traffic. I moved it off the company server to one at home just ion time to get attacked by Toys-R-Us (true, and documented at http://www.rru.com/ ). When I gave up on trying to talk rationally with them and took it to the media, things really took off, and the site got well known.
Some friends started calling me Roadkill. I started using the name at restaurants when there was a waiting list (half the fun was when people had to announce us: "Roadkill, party of four, your table is ready.") Since we eat at Chuys a lot (1-2x a week for almost 20 years as of this writing), that's how they all know us-- as Mr. and Mrs. Roadkill.
When we have leftovers in take out boxes, we always label them as to whose they are and the date. On mine, I draw a roadkill fish. (Why a fish? Because it's absurd, of course! And because two of my best friends nicknamed me "Fish" years ago for no apparent reason.) Once, at a Chuys lunch with the Weier clan (no, they are not wolves), Rachel asked if she could add to my "artwork". The result was an instant classic.
Artists: Rachel Weier and Miles O'Neal
Medium: Pen and crayon on styrofoam
Date: Nov 26, 2010 A.D.
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