Recently in adventures Category

We didn't really have concrete plans for my second night in LA, so we did what seemed most logical: to head down to the neighborhood of THE Church of Scientology International Celebrity Centre and snoop around.

1. We walked up to the center, fully knowing every move we made would be videotaped, and every word we uttered would be recorded. I took that opportunity to loudly reiterate my confusion between "dianetics" and "diuretics."
   
   
   
   
2. As we walked around to a dimly lit side street alongside the complex, a bicycle cop / security guard / Scientology Overlord stopped in his tracks, turned around, and started slowly trailing us.  I still managed to snap off this shot of both the parking dungeon and the castle where they keep the snails or Xenu's ashes or whatever.
   
   
   
   
3. There was a set of apartments directly next to (maybe even physically connected to) the compound.  We wondered if that was just an unfortunate location for some tenants...or if this was some sort of safehouse for wayward thetans.  Then we came across the most exciting find of the evening.  What appeared to be an actual E-meter machine sitting on a cart just inside the apartment gate!!
   
   
   
   
4. Then suddenly, a real, live Scientologist shuffled past us!  I'm not sure if I'm remembering correctly, but I think he had on a tuxedo.  (For some reason, in my mind all Scientologists always wear tuxedos.)  He hurried by, and did not offer to audit us although he was clearly making a beeline for that E-meter.
   
   
   

The next day we watched this documentary on a disillusioned (and highly vocal) ex-Scientologist, but...it put us to sleep.  No one could stay awake through this thing.  I looked over at Kris when we both woke up and realized we had both nodded off and she said, "Shit.  I think I'm a Scientologist now."

Remember this dumb idea?  Where my friend Kris and I were going to attempt the impossible and get me from LAX to the theatre downtown in about an hour, with the goal of making it in time to see the beginning of the "9 to 5" musical at 8pm?  Well....welcome to the exciting conclusion!

I flew on my first Virgin America flight ever, and I must say I'm pretty impressed with the airline.  The seats were roomy and comfortable, the aesthetic was really space-agey and clean-looking, the in-flight entertainment system (particularly the game Anagramarama) was truly entertaining, and the cherry on top was the fact that I was surrounded by about 25 twenty-something boys from Italy. But I was not impressed with their airspeed.  We were supposed to touch down at 6:20, and when Kris called me at 6:25 asking if I was on the shuttle yet, I had to sadly report that I was still on the tarmac.  My confidence level on a scale from 1 to 10 slipped to about a 6.5 that we would make it to 9 to 5 on time.

I finally got off the plane and speedwalked to the shuttle stop, hoping I would just catch the one going by since they start at Terminal 1 every half hour on the hour.  I figured since I was outside at about 6:35, there was no way they could make it from Terminal 1 to Terminal 6 in five minutes, and I'd be gold.  I was not gold.  I must have just missed the last one, because I ended up waiting/pacing there for 25 minutes.  Confidence level dropped to 5.0.

Once on the shuttle and on the freeway, I saw nothing but a sea of brake lights, and my confidence temporarily dropped to a 3.0, until I realized we were allowed in the HOV lane and were blowing past everyone and it returned to a 5.0.  I was on the phone with Kris, giving her a play-by-play of which exits I was passing so she could coordinate train timing.

I pulled up to Union Station at 7:50 or so, watching Kris sprint past the bus to the ticket counter to buy my tickets.  Once I was allowed to disembark, she and I took off running to the underground subway tunnels.  We breathlessly arrived on the platform, only to see that the next train didn't arrive until 7:57.   Confidence level 2.0.

But at 7:54, our train was inexplicably early!  We got on it and stood at the doorway as if we were in sprinter's blocks, ready to explode out of the train at our next stop and haul ass to the theatre.  It stopped.  We ran.

We didn't exactly know which way the theatre was, so we took a few gambles and ran up several flights of stairs.  After running so far with my heavy bag and Kris in heels, we started to slow down.  Confidence level and lung capacity sank to a 1.0, when we finally made it to the doors of the theatre, only to find it was a whole theatre COMPLEX and we were at the wrong one!  We still had about a block to go...fuck!  I was just ready to lay down and die and forget the whole caper.

We limped and stumbled to the right theatre, and surprisingly the front doors were still open and attended by ushers.  No music.  7.5.  We realized we had to walk up three flights of stairs to get to the balcony.  7.0.  We made it to the top and were greeted by a smiling usher who uttered these magic words...

"You just made it."

We were all wheezing and sweaty, and sank breathlessly into our seats at 8:10.  Literally one minute later, the lights dimmed and the curtains opened...

Today was the big Ballard Seafood Fest, which is kind of like a combination of a state fair, Groom Day, and a mall's food court with nothing but stall after stall of Long John Silver's.  I do not care for seafood.  Here is how I amused myself at Seafood Fest, despite my dislike for seafood:

1. Ate a huge ear of roasted corn that was dipped liberally into a vat of butter.
   
   
2. Nibbled on the elephant ear that Leslie bought, and in doing so, also became covered in a light dusting of powdered sugar just like the elephant ear.
   
   
3. Laughed at a bike pizza delivery guy trying to deliver a pizza IN THE MIDDLE OF SEAFOOD FEST.  (!?)
   
   
4. Followed a guy who was walking around in full-on corpse paint.  He did not eat any seafood.  But he did roll several cigarettes, and occasionally stopped to switch out the CD in his Walkman™.

This is a second in a series of posts where I document the various stereotypes I observe in weird situations.  Last time I focused on the various characters at adults-only skate night, today I would like to outline the various stereotypes I encountered at last week's tennis camp.  Matt and I signed up for this intense clinic, it was about 2 and a half hours every night for a week.  With a bunch of people who took it waaaaay too seriously:

1. Middle-aged balding guys with something to prove
   Quantity: 1
   Uniform: matching black official tennis™ shirt and shorts, paired with radioactively white shoes
   Specialties: serving as hard as he could against lower level girl players just to be a douche, cussing when missing shots in warmup or other times it really didn't matter
   
   
2. Middle-aged Asian lesbians
   Quantity: 2
   Uniform: baggy shirts and shorts, wrist guards, short hair, glasses
   Specialties: looking androgynous, volleying, grunting
   
   
3. Asian girl who thought she was starring in her own tennis manga
   Quantity: 1
   Uniform: pigtail buns, expensive tennis dress, spandex coverings on shins and upper arms (?)
   Specialties: giggling, nodding at everything the instructors said, giggling, standing behind the instructors to point and help reiterate the points they were making as if she were their own personal Vanna White, taking way too much pride when they used her in example scenarios...and then ruining the example scenarios by putting shots away unnecessarily
   
   
4. Asian girl who was terrified of everything
   Quantity: 1
   Uniform: aeropostale tracksuit
   Specialties: making a very concerned face, making a very confused face, making a very scared face
   
   
5. The guy who had no business being in an intermediate class
   Quantity: 1
   Uniform: head-to-toe lacoste
   Specialties: hitting the ball out of bounds, hitting the ball into the net, hitting himself with his racket
   
   
6. The girl who did not take it all that seriously, joked around too much, and smarted off to the instructors, especially the cute ones (ahem, I mean YOU Federico)
   Quantity: 1
   Uniform: "ridin' dirty" motorcross t-shirt with a tennis skirt from target, these rad shoes
   Specialties: managing to be in the bottom level despite taking tennis lessons for 3 consecutive years, choking on important shots, laughing at everything
   
   

Did you catch that?  Number six is ME!!!

1. Surprisingly coordinated chubby wiggers
   
   • Quantity: 2
   • Uniform: Baggy jeans, FUBU shirts, untied skates
   • Influences: Sweetness's gang on "Roll Bounce"
   • Specialties: Fancy footwork, shadow skating with one skating immediately behind the other and mirroring every move, suddenly "losing footing" when skating by a cute girl requiring them to put their hands on her waist to "steady themselves"
   
   
2. Former ice dancers
   
   • Quantity: 3
   • Uniform: Spandex, tight, form-hugging
   • Influences: Ekaterina Gordeeva and Sergei Grinkov
   • Specialties: Extending arms out like a bird while gaining speed around curves, pairs skating, twirling
   
   
3. Middle aged guidos reclaiming 1978 roller glory
   
   • Quantity: 3
   • Uniform: Tight tshirts tucked in, high belted jeans, moustaches, bald spots, blinking lights on skates
   • Influences: Sonny Malone, John Travolta
   • Specialties: Doing the weavy-leg in-out thing, skating on toes, leaping in air to change from skating forward to backward, skating as close to the wall as possible and kicking the wall with the outside skate while skating by it
   
   
4. Middle aged BFF reclaiming 1987 roller friendship
   
   • Quantity: 2
   • Uniform: Floral rompers, wrist guards
   • Influences: DJ Tanner and Kimmy Gibbler
   • Specialties:  Skating hand in hand, dramatically lifting the push-off leg in perfect unison with each other
   
   
5. Middle aged people in center of rink, doing the electric slide the entire time
   
   • Quantity: 2 - 25, depending on what song was playing
   • Uniform: Varied
     
   • Influences: Various
     
   • Specialties: Stamina? 
     

For whatever reason, when I have played recreational tennis in my adult life I have always played against boys.  This has made me pretty complacent about losing.  I've pretty much deciding that losing a set 6-3 to a boy is a triumph for me.  Their wings and legs are long and strong, where my wings and legs...well, let's just extend this into a complete chicken metaphor and say that my wings and legs are the ones that have been sitting under the heating lamp at Allsup's since the morning shift.

I played Matt for the first time ever on Memorial Day, and oh how I will remember it!  He hadn't played in 10 years, so I was just certain that I would obliterate him.  Much like hangman, I was going to take him out limb by limb.  I didn't want to make him cry, but I wanted him to be awe-struck with my polished 2.5 level playing.  Well, muscle memory is a fascinating/stupid thing, and he kicked my ass 6-2, 6-1.  Now we're going to go to tennis camp together at the end of this month!  We're going to ride over together, and get slurpees after if we play good!  Maybe we'll get matching Lacoste tennis whites, which we can also use to dress up as preppie tennis zombies for Halloween!

That was not the point of this post.  The point of today's post was to recap my match(es) last night with Wade, the first of many in a series of Tennis Tuesday Challenges.  Wade and I have played quite a few times, and of course he always wins. (See "Wings and Legs" chapter above.)  It was an exciting match, my best against him ever and I actually took him to a tiebreak!  (For one minute, I wanted to refused the tiebreak and make us play until someone won two consecutive games.  I love it when there are insane scores like 28-26.)  Neither of us really knew the proper way to score/switch ends on a tiebreak...in retrospect, I should have requested a draw.  Because that weasel beat me.  It was so close.  And I was so tired and sweaty, because a 7-6 set to someone who is used to 6-1 sets is like playing two sets!  We started picking up to leave when...

..."he" finally spoke up.  "He" was an older wirey little snakey man who had been practicing his serve alone in the court next to us.  He said, "Do you two mind hitting around with an old man for a little bit before you leave?"  Well, I had seen the way he hit the ball, and I was scared of him.  He hit it hard and low and mightily.  I felt bad for a second with Wade and me playing doubles against him playing singles, but the dude kept us on the run!  From his mouth came a fountain of wisdom, and he gave us all sorts of awesome tips, and I was able to hit it back to him almost as hard and low and mightily (although admittedly with a lot more squealing when I got excited).  I wanted to call him our tennis fairy godfather and thank him, but that felt wrong so instead I muttered under my breath to Wade "Thanks, Mr. Tennis Leprechaun."

Yesterday may have been the most perfectly delightful day of my life.  If not that extreme, at least the best day of the last 5 years.  And if you still think I'm overstating, it was definitely the best day since I moved to Seattle.  I must share with you the details of my day.  Let us celebrate and rejoice!  The sun has come out in Seattle!  Summer is here!!

1. My friends Jackie and Jeremy have scooters.  Cute little fake Euro-looking Honda and Yamaha scooters.  I have never ridden a motorized two-wheeled vehicle in my entire life.  After a brief 2 minute lesson in the driveway (1.5 minutes of which was explaining how to get the helmet on), we were off!  And you know what?  It was so FUN, and EASY!!  I don't think I ever topped 15 mph, but it was still completely exhilarating.  Needless to say, now I'm thinking about buying a damn scooter.
   
   
2. I'm coming up on my 9 month anniversary of living in Seattle, and there is still so much I haven't seen, and so much I should be ashamed I haven't seen.  One of these places is Golden Gardens, which is a beach up here in my neighborhood that opens up to Puget Sound.  I expected a "beach," meaning it was a spot where the land technically touched the water and was therefore a "beach," but really no other redeeming qualities.  No!  There is actual sand and it was actually hot!  There aren't any waves, but there is a retardedly stunning view of the Olympic mountains.  I will go back.  Probably today.  And every sunny day.
   
   
3. Datarock.  This is a band.  From Norway.  Who play fun-filled electro-rock whilst wearing red sweatsuits.  They opened for Ladytron last night, and to be honest, I bought my ticket to see Datarock and couldn't have cared less about Ladytron.  Their performance was very spastic and excellent, and afterwards my friend Kelly and I were at the merch table eyeing the red hoodies that matched theirs...when the Datarock drummer and bassist walked up and faked like they wanted to buy ALL the Datarock merchandise.
   
   That's all it took.  I was in love.  (Let me remind you that this is a band who has a song about falling in love at computer camp, so I was already pre-disposed.)
   
   My friend Kelly is much ballsier than me, and struck up a conversation with them.  They chatting with us while they were signing some guy's red hoodie, when I asked which part of Norway they were from.  When they said "Bergen," my mouth (which had been fueled with no less than 4 16oz beers that evening) started uncontrollably jabbering about Count Grishnack, the main black metal villain who burned lots of churches and killed the lead singer of Mayhem...and is from (and I think is currently incarcerated in) Bergen.
   
   Scandinavians are so funny.  They light up with joy and excitement when you start talking about their precious black metal...which itself has nothing to do with joy OR excitement.  The drummer was particularly animated.   And cute.  And he and the bass player gave me official Norwegian black metal tattoos/autographs:
   
    
   
   So needless to say, I'm in love with the drummer guy.  Note how his pentagram melts into inverted crosses with a few bonus 666 sprinkles.  Just like my heart melted and inverted and got all sprinkley/sparkley.  Thank you, Datarock. 
   
   

Dear Shelley Long,

You owe me $6.99 as a form of reimbursement for the accident that occurred on 11th Street between Pike and Union yesterday in Capitol Hill.  Although you were not present, the accident was entirely your fault.  Do you remember this scene from the 1989 movie "Troop Beverly Hills?"



If it weren't for your performance in this scene, the accident would have never happened.  Here is a breakdown of the events as they occurred:

• 8:30pm - Matt and I went to the grocery store to buy booze and materials for making banana pudding.  One of these materials was a box of Nila Wafers, which we found in the cookie aisle.  This prompted us to start singing variations of the "Cookie Time" song above, including one called "Cookie Aisle."
  
  
• 8:35pm - Matt and I embarked on the 1 mile walk back to his house.  I was carrying the plastic sack with two bottles of red wine, one box of instant banana creme pudding, one box of Mini Nila Wafers, and one Disney Princess chocolate bar.  Matt was carrying a 12 pack of Miller Lite in each hand, and prophetically alluded to the poor cardboard quality of the 12 pack boxes.
  
  
• 8:37pm - During this entire walk, Matt and I were very excited about the pudding and Nila Wafers, and continued to sing the chorus of "Cookie Time" repeatedly and loudly through the streets.
  
  
• 8:38pm - I began to lament that I could not remember anything but the chorus of the "Cookie Time" song, and wished that I could remember some of the actual verses.  Suddenly, I remembered when you, Shelley Long, ad-libbed during a break of the song in a deep baritone voice: "A box of them would be so ni-ii-ce..." 
  
  
• 8:38:10pm - I sang "A box of them would be so ni-ii-ce..." in MY deep baritone voice, and at that exact instant one of the 12 pack boxes of Miller Lite ripped and cans of Miller Lite began to roll all over the sidewalk.
  
  
• 8:38:15pm - It was at this point where everything was happening so fast that it all becomes a blur.  Matt and I were laughing hysterically, both at the baritone line about cookies being so nice, and at the fact that we just dropped beers all over the street. A group of well-dressed and rather intoxicated young people approached Matt to help him pick up the beer cans.  At the same time, I doubled over laughing and, intending to set the plastic bag on the sidewalk to either help pick up the cans or to catch my breath, I managed set the bag down with enough force that it CRACKED one of the bottles of wine.  Wine spilled into the gutter of the street AND all over my WHITE shoes.
  
  
• 8:38:20pm - Matt and I breathlessly tried to thank these young people for their help and explain what had happened, and we managed to say something about the accident being related to Troop Beverly Hills and implicating you, Shelley Long, in the accident.  One of the girls in the group immediately started chanting, "Beverly Hills...what a thrill!  Beverly Hills...what a thrill!" 
  

In conclusion, we managed to save all the beer but lost one bottle of wine, which has a street value of $6.99, which is the amount you, Shelley Long, now owe me.  Lucky for you, we ran my white shoes through the washing machine and all the wine came out, so that saved you from owing me another $50, although it could be argued that you owe Matt a pro-rated amount for the water and detergent used.  We are willing to cut you some slack on this, assuming of course you produce and star in a public service announcement about the dangers of "Cookie Time."

Thank you for your prompt attention in this matter,

Halee
cc: Matt
cc: Jenny Lewis

Last Thanksgiving when I was home in Texas, my sister Lindy and I got really silly (read: drunk) and went downstairs to play with all the toys my mom keeps around the house for my various nieces.  This includes about 5 hula hoops.  We decided to hula hoop as long as we could, which was for about 0.1 microseconds per turn.  But by God, we kept trying for 30 minutes or so...and the next day I was sore from my armpits to my hips.  I had an epiphany: hula hooping is way more fun and effective than my 1986 VHS copy of Denise Austin's "Rock Hard Tummies!"

So I bought a dinky plastic hula hoop at Archie McPhee's, and started practicing while I watched TV.  I don't have six pack abs or anything, but it's good clean fun and good clean exercise. 

About a month ago I was talking to my friend Joy who had simultaneously and randomly also started hula hooping in her adult life.  She had found a meetup group in Austin who congregate in parks and hula hoop together, and she got me way excited to find something similar in Seattle.  Three internet searches and one credit card transaction later, I found myself enrolled in a hula hoop class at Sonny Newman's Dance Hall on Friday nights.

I just got back from my second class and I have this to say:

• The secret to hula hooping as an adult is to get a hula hoop made for adults.  The reason those bratty kids are so much better at it is that those dinky light hoops are made for their dinky-ass bodies.  We need ones that are bigger around (both around our bodies and the actual tube itself) and are heavy enough to create adult-sized momentum.
  
  
• I bought one of these hoops, and it's obnoxiously purple and blue and neon green.  I chose it because it looks like a 1980s snake.  Remember Rude Dog and the Dweebs?  Kinda like that.
  
  
• Although the heavier hoop absolutely makes it easier to keep going, it also means my shins are covered in bruises.  And after trying to learn the "Wild West" move where you grab it from behind your back and twirl it up and around like a lasso...I might have a mild concussion, too.
  
  
• Beware of hula hoop instructors, as they tend to be crossovers from yoga and Pilates, and will potentially try to infuse new age bullshit into your decidedly 1950s exercise routine.  Examples:
  
  
• Flip flops and toe rings.  Fuck that.  We should all be wearing saddle oxfords and pleated skirts.
• Before every class, we have to state our "intentions."  The instructor's is always some hippie bullshit about connecting her body and spirit.  Mine is "to be able to hula hoop for 10 minutes straight so I can win the contest at the county jamboree, and then ask Buzz to the Sadie Hawkins dance!"
• Today at the end of class, she made us all stand together, placing our hoops together to create a tunnel.  Then one by one, she made us crawl through the hoop tunnel shouting out what our intention for that class had been.  All while 20 people anxious for Tango Night to begin were staring at us.

In conclusion, hula hooping is totally fun and totally good for building a strong tummy, but try to learn it on your own instead of from hippies, or next thing you know you're going to be doing a routine at Burning Man with a hoop made out of hemp.  Beware.

I went to the roller derby last night and saw the most amazing rendition of the national anthem that I've ever seen.  Performed entirely in the form of a bass guitar solo with a backup wheelchair go-go dancer:



Also, one of the teams was called the Sockit Wenches, and their gimmick was to be the little gearhead honeys.  They had a "greaser monkey" mascot named Cooter, who was a man-chimp, complete with giant chimp ears, monkey tail, buck teeth, horn-rimmed glasses, pompadour, a mechanic's shirt, and lots of tattoos of bananas.