If you are like me, you gain marginal enjoyment from spy movies. They aren’t the most exciting thing in the theater at the time, but you’re still willing to shell out the cash to actually go see it in the theater as long as you’re going with a group of friends who really want to see it. Plus sides to the outing top out at Brad Pitt (Spy Games, Mr. & Mrs. Smith) or Matt Damon (the Bourne series, of course) being more than pretty bodies running around with pretty faces while they dazzle you with important sounding words that leave you confused as to whether it’s a place, obscure terrorist organization, or some dude’s last name. Of course, with the thrilling plots and action sequences there are always the low moments in spy movie history (Steven Segal’s entire career, anything that Leslie Neilson spoofed). But what’s so great about spy movies is that even the terrible ones have some educational value.
I have only just recently come to this realization, and only because I have spent an extensive amount of time traveling outside of the US. I am ecstatic because I have always gained marginal enjoyment from them anyway, and now that I know how much of a treasure trove of useful information they are I will attend with much more vigor. Here are a few tidbits of gold for all you American tourists out there, all learned from spy movies.
1. Blend in. Assimilate, as it were. Or try really, really hard to. If you’re in a country where you can’t (you’re a 5’9” blonde with blue eyes in Thailand, for example) pick a nationality you could look like and go with that one – ie: stick a Canadian or Swedish flag on the backpack you take everywhere with you, and do your best to fake the Canadian/Swedish-English accent to the taxi driver. If you’re really paranoid, you could even go so far as to buy the Lonely Planet guide to fill-in-the-blank in said language and stick it conspicuously in the back mesh pocket.
2. When exchanging money, or paying for something at a window, like a subway ticket, don’t drop your change everywhere as you try to stuff it hurriedly into your wallet because you are embarrassed that you were the only one in line who didn’t know the exact change needed to pay. The sound of heavy coins bouncing every which way will only make you stick out more.
3. Carry an umbrella everywhere. Even if it’s 104 outside and there isn’t a cloud in sight. Everyone else in the world does it, so if you do it too it won’t be as easy to identify you as an American.
4. If you wake up from your nap in the sun on a remote, tropical island and find that the KGB has freaking relocated their operation to Ko Samet and decided to take every umbrella and seat around you for a 20 yard radius, and as you blink and stare groggily around one of them thrusts a cigarette in your face (not unlike a gesture of offering), what do you do?? That’s right, you take it. You take it, and you smoke it, and you smoke it gladly and gratefully… And then you go back to your room and hack up your lung.
Okay, so maybe these weren’t exactly like spy movies, but the part about blending is. Bottom line here: either learn some Svenska phrases or pick up social smoking so you don’t look like a complete douche-bag when the “cross cultural bonding” opportunity presents itself. There is nothing like turning purple and doing that little hack/wheeze/cough that could make you look like any less badass. Bourne never hacked. Bourne had ten different passports and perfect dialects to go with them all. What do I have? Well, I did hang out with the KGB on vacation.
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
Cliches, Pinoy Style
Just some little tidbits of brilliance from my Pinoy friends.
- What is it to me to you?
- When it rains its four
- Long leggedness legs (Miss Philippines at Miss Universe pageant, in response to prompter’s question, “what do you think is your attribute?”)
- We’ll burn that bridge when we cross it
- Looks can be deserving
- You can’t judge a book by each other
- Alma mother
- What’s up for that?
- I’m tell you no, you do, now look at!
- You want something drinks? Or Waiter – can you bring us something drinks?
- Come, let’s join us!
- Well, well, well, look do we have here?
- Because you can never can tell
- So far so good so far!
- That’s what I’m talking about it
- True good to be true
- Once in a new moon
- No holes barred
- Keep your mouth shocked
- Please don’t make fond of me
- The more you hate the more you laugh
- At’s if
- It’s just the tip of the icing
- Here’s more to come
- Connect me if I’m wrong
- I hope you don’t mine
- I want to portrait that role
- The nerd (instead of, ‘the nerve’)
- Give me alone
- I won’t stoop down to my level
- You are so questionable
- I don’t eat meat. I am not a carnival
- That is why I am successful, I don’t middle in other people’s lives
- You can fool me once, twice, even thrice but you can never fool me four
- Keyrec! (correct!)
- Are we fit? (will we all fit? – as in, getting around a dinner table or into an elevator)
- Starsbuck (yes, the coffee place)
Dedicated to Carol and Ms. J, who never judge a book with each other and don't mine the long leggedness legs American joining their daily Starsbuck runs to get something drinks. ;)
- What is it to me to you?
- When it rains its four
- Long leggedness legs (Miss Philippines at Miss Universe pageant, in response to prompter’s question, “what do you think is your attribute?”)
- We’ll burn that bridge when we cross it
- Looks can be deserving
- You can’t judge a book by each other
- Alma mother
- What’s up for that?
- I’m tell you no, you do, now look at!
- You want something drinks? Or Waiter – can you bring us something drinks?
- Come, let’s join us!
- Well, well, well, look do we have here?
- Because you can never can tell
- So far so good so far!
- That’s what I’m talking about it
- True good to be true
- Once in a new moon
- No holes barred
- Keep your mouth shocked
- Please don’t make fond of me
- The more you hate the more you laugh
- At’s if
- It’s just the tip of the icing
- Here’s more to come
- Connect me if I’m wrong
- I hope you don’t mine
- I want to portrait that role
- The nerd (instead of, ‘the nerve’)
- Give me alone
- I won’t stoop down to my level
- You are so questionable
- I don’t eat meat. I am not a carnival
- That is why I am successful, I don’t middle in other people’s lives
- You can fool me once, twice, even thrice but you can never fool me four
- Keyrec! (correct!)
- Are we fit? (will we all fit? – as in, getting around a dinner table or into an elevator)
- Starsbuck (yes, the coffee place)
Dedicated to Carol and Ms. J, who never judge a book with each other and don't mine the long leggedness legs American joining their daily Starsbuck runs to get something drinks. ;)
If You Can Play Mario Kart, You Can Drive In Manila
In fact, that might actually be the “simulator” they use when assessing driving skills and abilities – think naval aviators in zero gravity, G-force, virtual reality simulator machines, Filipino style. Which, of course, translates perfectly into being chased by Donkey Kong driving a rickshaw, honking madly while blindly changing lanes and throwing apples and mushrooms at whatever/whoever is in the way… It’s scary, to say the least.
The first thing I noticed was that the horn is more of a rite of passage on Philippine roads than it is in New York City. It often takes the place of blinkers, actually. Blinkers are way too proactive. No, it’s much easier for the 1982 Kia to just start merging in front of a city bus and then start honking madly as if to say, “you will let me iiiiiiinnnnn!”
It wasn’t long after the horns that I realized the ominous lack of traffic lights. This epiphany was brought on by the sheer terror that seized my mind and body when the hotel taxi driver picked me up from the airport on my first trip to Manila. Approximately 300 yards out of the airport gates he turned left into oncoming traffic without any hesitation or apparent fear whatsoever. I reached for the nonexistent Oh-Shit! handles thinking my death was imminent, and then watched in fascination as cars, busses, and Jeepneys just started slowing down as he honked his way across four lanes.
Another noteworthy observation is that the roads and “highways” in the Philippines are not at all unlike the windy, random, and hazardous roads of Mario Kart. For a third world country, Manila is a pretty prosperous and fast-growing city. As a result, buildings popped up everywhere with no plan or structure to the layout of the city, and as such there are tiny little byways that loop around in every which direction and somehow end up merging out into a major road. I’m telling you, this city is next to impossible to navigate as a foreigner. The taxi drivers we get around the city constantly amaze me. The other day I took one to the mall to go souvenir shopping and the guy squeezed between two cement road blocks to go on a basketball court-sized, completely open and unlined section under a highway ramp. Once we got to the other side I realized there was a tiny road leading out through two more giant cement road blocks that was basically an on ramp to another, bigger road. WTF. This was an actual, designated road! He didn’t just get creative and hope some barriers to get the Americans to their destination. Crazy.
My boss and I have decided that in an effort to maintain our sanity while on the roads of Manila, time in the car should either be spent talking on the cell phone or engaged in deeply heated debates so as to take our attention away from the dozens of death-defying maneuvers our drivers are pulling out of their asses. So far it has worked – all of the events have turned into hilarious story material rather than trips to hospitals. Most of the taxi drivers here just keep a rosary hanging from their rear view mirror, and rub it frantically every time they fly around a blind corner or thrust themselves within a centimeter of an on-coming bus. I thought they should be throwing the oil slicked rags or pineapple bombs out their windows, but then again, I was never very good at Mario Kart.
The first thing I noticed was that the horn is more of a rite of passage on Philippine roads than it is in New York City. It often takes the place of blinkers, actually. Blinkers are way too proactive. No, it’s much easier for the 1982 Kia to just start merging in front of a city bus and then start honking madly as if to say, “you will let me iiiiiiinnnnn!”
It wasn’t long after the horns that I realized the ominous lack of traffic lights. This epiphany was brought on by the sheer terror that seized my mind and body when the hotel taxi driver picked me up from the airport on my first trip to Manila. Approximately 300 yards out of the airport gates he turned left into oncoming traffic without any hesitation or apparent fear whatsoever. I reached for the nonexistent Oh-Shit! handles thinking my death was imminent, and then watched in fascination as cars, busses, and Jeepneys just started slowing down as he honked his way across four lanes.
Another noteworthy observation is that the roads and “highways” in the Philippines are not at all unlike the windy, random, and hazardous roads of Mario Kart. For a third world country, Manila is a pretty prosperous and fast-growing city. As a result, buildings popped up everywhere with no plan or structure to the layout of the city, and as such there are tiny little byways that loop around in every which direction and somehow end up merging out into a major road. I’m telling you, this city is next to impossible to navigate as a foreigner. The taxi drivers we get around the city constantly amaze me. The other day I took one to the mall to go souvenir shopping and the guy squeezed between two cement road blocks to go on a basketball court-sized, completely open and unlined section under a highway ramp. Once we got to the other side I realized there was a tiny road leading out through two more giant cement road blocks that was basically an on ramp to another, bigger road. WTF. This was an actual, designated road! He didn’t just get creative and hope some barriers to get the Americans to their destination. Crazy.
My boss and I have decided that in an effort to maintain our sanity while on the roads of Manila, time in the car should either be spent talking on the cell phone or engaged in deeply heated debates so as to take our attention away from the dozens of death-defying maneuvers our drivers are pulling out of their asses. So far it has worked – all of the events have turned into hilarious story material rather than trips to hospitals. Most of the taxi drivers here just keep a rosary hanging from their rear view mirror, and rub it frantically every time they fly around a blind corner or thrust themselves within a centimeter of an on-coming bus. I thought they should be throwing the oil slicked rags or pineapple bombs out their windows, but then again, I was never very good at Mario Kart.
Tuesday, April 8, 2008
An Open Letter to Bank of America
Dear Bank of America,
Where did we go wrong? When we met, so many years ago, we were a perfect match! I had just come off a bad relationship with Wells Fargo, and you were there. I was a high school kid, too broke to pay for a checking account and you, what did you do for me? You said ‘have your checking for free!’ So we started going together, and things were great. I was growing with you, becoming a better, more responsible person every day we spent together. You had a $5,000 spending limit, but I, in an extraordinary display of self-discipline, swore I'd only use two-thirds of it. And I never used more. I did that because I respected you. I respected the exclusivity of our relationship.
But I just can’t figure you out anymore. You have changed from the low maintenance, agreeable BofA I once knew into the multi-national, billion dollar corporation equivalent of an Upper East Side non-working wife – you are sucking me dry, BofA.
But I'm frustrated, BofA. I'm upset and I'm confused and I'm frustrated. Here we are, getting along just swimmingly, and then yesterday get an email from you saying you've increased my credit limit to $13,000.
Well, you know what? That's bullshit BofA. Are you trying to bankrupt me? What in our history together makes you think I can pay off $13,000 in purchases? You don’t know me at all if you think I need a credit line equivalent to that of a small country. Am I not good to you, BofA? Don't I pay your bill on time every month? Yes, yes I most certainly do. What more do you want from me? I give all I can to you, BofA – I just don’t have any more to give. We've known each other a long time, and I thought we trusted each other. I trusted you. You know me, BofA, but apparently you'd rather base your opinion of me on what your gossipy, soulless friends the credit bureaus have to say.
And what gets me even more is the e-mail you sent me today, not even 24 hours after I got your other message. It says you want to make sure I'm protected from identity theft. Oh, really? One minute you blindside me and throw our relationship in my face, and the next you want to protect me like my mother or something?! You should be thinking about protecting me from bankruptcy, BofA.
God, BofA. I just. Don't. Get you.
So what do we do now? Obviously, this changes things. I won't be able to use you now and not feel like a stupid, irresponsible child. From now on, every time you come out of my wallet, I'll hurt a little. Your deep-blue palate and zippy logo will no longer make me proud; it will make me feel small and useless.
But I want to stay with you, BofA. I guess it might be a matter of convenience, which I know isn't necessarily healthy, but somehow I feel like we might be able to salvage things. Maybe it’s the airline miles you give me for every dollar I spend. Things may have changed, but you do still have $8,000 on you since I called your ass and knocked that shit back down. And $8000 is better than nothing. Let's take some time to give each other room to breathe, and see where we are at the end of the next billing cycle.
Warm Regards,
ESK
Where did we go wrong? When we met, so many years ago, we were a perfect match! I had just come off a bad relationship with Wells Fargo, and you were there. I was a high school kid, too broke to pay for a checking account and you, what did you do for me? You said ‘have your checking for free!’ So we started going together, and things were great. I was growing with you, becoming a better, more responsible person every day we spent together. You had a $5,000 spending limit, but I, in an extraordinary display of self-discipline, swore I'd only use two-thirds of it. And I never used more. I did that because I respected you. I respected the exclusivity of our relationship.
But I just can’t figure you out anymore. You have changed from the low maintenance, agreeable BofA I once knew into the multi-national, billion dollar corporation equivalent of an Upper East Side non-working wife – you are sucking me dry, BofA.
But I'm frustrated, BofA. I'm upset and I'm confused and I'm frustrated. Here we are, getting along just swimmingly, and then yesterday get an email from you saying you've increased my credit limit to $13,000.
Well, you know what? That's bullshit BofA. Are you trying to bankrupt me? What in our history together makes you think I can pay off $13,000 in purchases? You don’t know me at all if you think I need a credit line equivalent to that of a small country. Am I not good to you, BofA? Don't I pay your bill on time every month? Yes, yes I most certainly do. What more do you want from me? I give all I can to you, BofA – I just don’t have any more to give. We've known each other a long time, and I thought we trusted each other. I trusted you. You know me, BofA, but apparently you'd rather base your opinion of me on what your gossipy, soulless friends the credit bureaus have to say.
And what gets me even more is the e-mail you sent me today, not even 24 hours after I got your other message. It says you want to make sure I'm protected from identity theft. Oh, really? One minute you blindside me and throw our relationship in my face, and the next you want to protect me like my mother or something?! You should be thinking about protecting me from bankruptcy, BofA.
God, BofA. I just. Don't. Get you.
So what do we do now? Obviously, this changes things. I won't be able to use you now and not feel like a stupid, irresponsible child. From now on, every time you come out of my wallet, I'll hurt a little. Your deep-blue palate and zippy logo will no longer make me proud; it will make me feel small and useless.
But I want to stay with you, BofA. I guess it might be a matter of convenience, which I know isn't necessarily healthy, but somehow I feel like we might be able to salvage things. Maybe it’s the airline miles you give me for every dollar I spend. Things may have changed, but you do still have $8,000 on you since I called your ass and knocked that shit back down. And $8000 is better than nothing. Let's take some time to give each other room to breathe, and see where we are at the end of the next billing cycle.
Warm Regards,
ESK
Thursday, February 21, 2008
Cafeteria Ladies
I can count the number of people who are allowed to call me “babe” or “sweetie” on one hand.
- Betty (my mom) – she spent like 30 years teaching preschool and just has the disposition. And she’s my mom. Mom’s pretty much get a free pass.
- My boyfriend – limited to “baby,” and only allowed because it is only used in private moments and my actual name is still used in 99% of all conversation.
- Pat and/or John – pseudo-grandparents who have known me since I was born, and raised 5 kids of their own before me
- Jesus – this one should be obvious
There is a certain type of person who never uses first names. I haven’t figured out what the reasoning behind it is, but they are usually older, and have enough of a matronly air about them that most everybody just lets it pass and considers it endearing. The cafeteria ladies at work are like this, but they are extra intriguing because they aren’t old, not even a little. I’d be shocked if they were over 30. But no matter who walks through their checkout counter there is never a sir, ma’am, or miss uttered. The CEO of the company, a man worth like $80 billion, could walk through and they’d still call him hon.
Every time I go get something from downstairs, they remind me of the Dane Cook bit where he’s talking about the time he cut somebody in line and got into a verbal sparring match with a horrendous douchebag. It’s the man-fight progression of fake sarcastic jeering until the heavy name calling cuts in: hey Pal…. I don’t think so, Buddy…. Not on your life, Chief…. Bring it Gaylord! For lots of women, the Sweetie --> Babe --> Hon progression is the same. Each time one of these women calls me sweetie I want to punch something. I have no idea why, but it’s the same ire that was invoked in me whenever, during warm-up for soccer games in high school or college, whenever a teammate would say, “let’s go ladies!” I would cringe. Maybe I have a problem with people who use such familiar terms of endearment on perfect strangers because I feel so misunderstood most of the time. Maybe it bugs me because I know people who call everybody babe or hon and they are incredibly shallow, narcissistic, and fake in nearly every way imaginable. In any case, it remains hilarious to see a 50-something year old man be called sweetie by a 25-year-old cashier when purchasing his proudly-brewed Starbucks – the universe seems to have reversed.
- Betty (my mom) – she spent like 30 years teaching preschool and just has the disposition. And she’s my mom. Mom’s pretty much get a free pass.
- My boyfriend – limited to “baby,” and only allowed because it is only used in private moments and my actual name is still used in 99% of all conversation.
- Pat and/or John – pseudo-grandparents who have known me since I was born, and raised 5 kids of their own before me
- Jesus – this one should be obvious
There is a certain type of person who never uses first names. I haven’t figured out what the reasoning behind it is, but they are usually older, and have enough of a matronly air about them that most everybody just lets it pass and considers it endearing. The cafeteria ladies at work are like this, but they are extra intriguing because they aren’t old, not even a little. I’d be shocked if they were over 30. But no matter who walks through their checkout counter there is never a sir, ma’am, or miss uttered. The CEO of the company, a man worth like $80 billion, could walk through and they’d still call him hon.
Every time I go get something from downstairs, they remind me of the Dane Cook bit where he’s talking about the time he cut somebody in line and got into a verbal sparring match with a horrendous douchebag. It’s the man-fight progression of fake sarcastic jeering until the heavy name calling cuts in: hey Pal…. I don’t think so, Buddy…. Not on your life, Chief…. Bring it Gaylord! For lots of women, the Sweetie --> Babe --> Hon progression is the same. Each time one of these women calls me sweetie I want to punch something. I have no idea why, but it’s the same ire that was invoked in me whenever, during warm-up for soccer games in high school or college, whenever a teammate would say, “let’s go ladies!” I would cringe. Maybe I have a problem with people who use such familiar terms of endearment on perfect strangers because I feel so misunderstood most of the time. Maybe it bugs me because I know people who call everybody babe or hon and they are incredibly shallow, narcissistic, and fake in nearly every way imaginable. In any case, it remains hilarious to see a 50-something year old man be called sweetie by a 25-year-old cashier when purchasing his proudly-brewed Starbucks – the universe seems to have reversed.
Monday, January 28, 2008
Fake Ice!
My life as I know it changed forever in a ground-breaking way over this past Thanksgiving weekend. During the last eight years I’ve spent in Texas, I’ve played this little game with myself to constantly be on the lookout for the most Texan or country thing I have ever seen. I’ve been unable to top two things since 2004: 1) the phrase, “I’ll tell yew whut…” and 2) chicken fried steak. These and many more of my outsider, “yankee” preconceptions were shattered in four small days.
It all started with the simple fact that our weekend of tryptophan induced Thanks was to be held in Mertens, Texas. You don’t know where that is? Don’t worry, neither does the rest of Texas. Mertens is a small dwelling (not really sure it’s actually large enough to be called a town) in central Texas that exists because farmers still exist. I can’t be quoted on this, but I would bet my right arm that there are more cattle in Mertens than people, hell, probably more tractors too. We were going there because that’s where Tim’s mother and her husband (yes, a farmer) live.
I digress – there is far too much to this weekend to capture succinctly if I get off track – so on Wednesday evening Tim and I pick up his girls and continue our drive out to Gammy and Gampie’s farm. The following day is spent jumping over, through, and on haystacks to keep ourselves entertained, piling in the four-wheelers and racing the pack of dogs for two miles to the creek bed to go exploring, and of course stuffing ourselves silly and watching football.
On Black Friday, our solution to avoiding the shopping crowds and spending craze was to go out to a town just north and visit the ice skating rink Tim’s mom had seen advertised in the paper. Should be fun! Hell, it was already in the high 30s and felt like the north pole, we might as well go ice skating. It was a 40 minute drive to the town, and of course one of the girls wanted to go and the other one didn’t. We overruled Negative Nancy, however, and were soon piled in the car to go. It was a cheerful drive – everybody cheered up and was happy to get out of the house and go skate. We had a little trouble finding the place, but soon turned a corner and saw a picket fence surrounding blinding white, and a lone skater tottering around out there. The girls instantly started chattering and wanted to get going. Tim and I exchanged knowing glances that were later explained to mean, respectively: “this shit is tiny - thank God, now I don’t have get out there and risk busting my ass,” and “an outdoor rink? In Texas? I know its cold but still just 40 degrees… how the hell do they keep that thing frozen?? Is it cooled from underground? A town like this can’t afford that kind of technology… what the hell.”
Tim had to chat with Negative Nancy back at the car, so I suggested to her sister that we go ask how much it costs and start trying on skates until they were ready to join. We get all our info and walk to the fence to watch the skaters… and it hits us at the same time: its fake fucking ice. I’m immediately horrified and can only think of the 10 year old beside me and how crushed she is going to be and what do I say to her? But I didn’t get anything out because as soon as I look down, her face is already turned up towards mine and she hisses out, “oh my god, it’s not even real ice!!” I could do nothing but try with all my energy to hold in a laugh. That didn’t work. We broke out in a dead sprint to Tim at the same exact time, me reaching him first only because of my longer legs. It took a solid minute for the look of comprehension to dawn on his face, even with both of us repeating our shocking finding in pause-less unison for 60 seconds. The next five minutes were spent catching our breath and quieting our laughter.
Don’t think that just because the ice was fake that the girls didn’t want to skate. Oh no. We paid their six dollars each and watched them march around that giant cutting board for nearly thirty minutes. The rink attendants watched people struggle and kept saying, “just rub your skates back and forth real quick, the warmer the blades are the faster you’ll glide!” No fucking shit – hot metal cuts through two inch thick plastic faster than cold metal? And notice they didn’t say “skate.” That entire establishment was a giant bumblefuck. When the younger one had to go to the bathroom, they told her that if she took off her skates she was done for the day, but then said she couldn’t leave the grounds to go to the bathroom, which was an outhouse in a dark alley across the street. I have a picture of Tim carrying his 8-year old in full onesie ski suit and ice skates across the street so he could set her in the porta-potty to pee. The trip was topped off when “Santa” came rolling down main street. I use quotation marks here because he looked more like a child molester in his faded red suit and jankety go-cart with radio-flyer duct taped to the back with unkempt children strewn about it, sort of waving and haphazardly tossing out candy. After all the shenanigans, we decided to call it a day, but not before gathering in front of the fake ice rink and posing for a picture, replacing the traditional “cheese!” with a hearty, “fake ice!” You can even see families marching in ice skates across the background. I have that photo framed.
It all started with the simple fact that our weekend of tryptophan induced Thanks was to be held in Mertens, Texas. You don’t know where that is? Don’t worry, neither does the rest of Texas. Mertens is a small dwelling (not really sure it’s actually large enough to be called a town) in central Texas that exists because farmers still exist. I can’t be quoted on this, but I would bet my right arm that there are more cattle in Mertens than people, hell, probably more tractors too. We were going there because that’s where Tim’s mother and her husband (yes, a farmer) live.
I digress – there is far too much to this weekend to capture succinctly if I get off track – so on Wednesday evening Tim and I pick up his girls and continue our drive out to Gammy and Gampie’s farm. The following day is spent jumping over, through, and on haystacks to keep ourselves entertained, piling in the four-wheelers and racing the pack of dogs for two miles to the creek bed to go exploring, and of course stuffing ourselves silly and watching football.
On Black Friday, our solution to avoiding the shopping crowds and spending craze was to go out to a town just north and visit the ice skating rink Tim’s mom had seen advertised in the paper. Should be fun! Hell, it was already in the high 30s and felt like the north pole, we might as well go ice skating. It was a 40 minute drive to the town, and of course one of the girls wanted to go and the other one didn’t. We overruled Negative Nancy, however, and were soon piled in the car to go. It was a cheerful drive – everybody cheered up and was happy to get out of the house and go skate. We had a little trouble finding the place, but soon turned a corner and saw a picket fence surrounding blinding white, and a lone skater tottering around out there. The girls instantly started chattering and wanted to get going. Tim and I exchanged knowing glances that were later explained to mean, respectively: “this shit is tiny - thank God, now I don’t have get out there and risk busting my ass,” and “an outdoor rink? In Texas? I know its cold but still just 40 degrees… how the hell do they keep that thing frozen?? Is it cooled from underground? A town like this can’t afford that kind of technology… what the hell.”
Tim had to chat with Negative Nancy back at the car, so I suggested to her sister that we go ask how much it costs and start trying on skates until they were ready to join. We get all our info and walk to the fence to watch the skaters… and it hits us at the same time: its fake fucking ice. I’m immediately horrified and can only think of the 10 year old beside me and how crushed she is going to be and what do I say to her? But I didn’t get anything out because as soon as I look down, her face is already turned up towards mine and she hisses out, “oh my god, it’s not even real ice!!” I could do nothing but try with all my energy to hold in a laugh. That didn’t work. We broke out in a dead sprint to Tim at the same exact time, me reaching him first only because of my longer legs. It took a solid minute for the look of comprehension to dawn on his face, even with both of us repeating our shocking finding in pause-less unison for 60 seconds. The next five minutes were spent catching our breath and quieting our laughter.
Don’t think that just because the ice was fake that the girls didn’t want to skate. Oh no. We paid their six dollars each and watched them march around that giant cutting board for nearly thirty minutes. The rink attendants watched people struggle and kept saying, “just rub your skates back and forth real quick, the warmer the blades are the faster you’ll glide!” No fucking shit – hot metal cuts through two inch thick plastic faster than cold metal? And notice they didn’t say “skate.” That entire establishment was a giant bumblefuck. When the younger one had to go to the bathroom, they told her that if she took off her skates she was done for the day, but then said she couldn’t leave the grounds to go to the bathroom, which was an outhouse in a dark alley across the street. I have a picture of Tim carrying his 8-year old in full onesie ski suit and ice skates across the street so he could set her in the porta-potty to pee. The trip was topped off when “Santa” came rolling down main street. I use quotation marks here because he looked more like a child molester in his faded red suit and jankety go-cart with radio-flyer duct taped to the back with unkempt children strewn about it, sort of waving and haphazardly tossing out candy. After all the shenanigans, we decided to call it a day, but not before gathering in front of the fake ice rink and posing for a picture, replacing the traditional “cheese!” with a hearty, “fake ice!” You can even see families marching in ice skates across the background. I have that photo framed.
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