Tuesday, 28 October 2008

Limo Irony

I am a fan of the ironic. Let's be clear that I am not a fan of the moronic. So here's some irony, as told to me by a close, personal friend.

Joe owns a limo company and is enjoying the spoils of a rapidly growing business.

Joe hires a 30-year veteran of city bus driving for the big Capital city just east of us. Joe is confident in his choice of new driver. Who better than a bus driving veteran of commuter traffic and hundreds of passengers?

Joe knows his new driver will enjoy a more relaxing, and definitely more fun gig with his limo business.

Joe no doubt enjoys a night off that is well-deserved and as been a long time coming. Just ask his wife. She'll tell ya.

The new driver, let's call him Eeyore, has his first night on the job.

And gets hopelessly lost with the clients in the car.

And backs into something hard enough to cause bodily injury to the limo - NOT the passengers.

Yes, they were in the car.

Still not sure if Eeyore is employed by Joe. Joe's a nice guy, so maybe Eeyore will just be given the benefit of the doubt - first day jitters and all that - because he's used to driving a BUS and a limo is just too small and confusing. . .

But Joe, like me, is not so much a fan of the moronic, so Eeyore's fate is yet unknown.

Writing Dilemma


So the editor of the newspaper I write for was laid off. Since her lay-off, the quality of the paper is really suffering. So I, as a weekly columnist *UNPAID* keep writing for the paper regardless of its reputation, or do I start to look for other ways to have my columns published?

I've had an almost 2.5 year run - weekly - so that's quite a portfolio of writing.

How do you know when its time to cut your ties?



Tuesday, 7 October 2008

I Voted

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Hip-hop Hooray

When I was a teenager I was really into dance. I was on the dance squad in high school, dancing, cheering, busting out some major choreography to Michael Jackson’s Beat It while the high school quarterback (of course, the object of my unrequited crush) watched me dance.

Unnerving much? Well, that wasn’t nearly as unnerving as practicing in the middle of the school squad and having my fabulous brown corduroy pants split down the back of my leg. The laughter and yells from my ‘friends’ about how I needed a tan were the perfect words to cement that moment in my adolescent mind.

Yes. Those great memories can almost make me cry.

Leg warmers and short skirts, permed hair and matching Converse sneakers for the whole squad. At one point, at cheer camp, Paula Abdul was even our dance teacher. This was way before she was anything but a Laker Girl, but still. Paula Abdul taught me how to grind my crotch to “Let It Whip”by the Dazz Band.

Can I add that to my resume?

Fast forward 25 years or so and my pal Jackie sends me a Facebook message, telling me she’s going to take an adult Hip-hop dance class and thinks it would be fun if I signed up, too.

Really? Like, totally bust out my 1980’s moves all over again (sans corduroy pants)? I am SO in.

Picture this: Thursday night. Local dance studio. Five women that are anything but professional dancers are waiting in the locker room. I sneak to the studio door and watch the advanced hip-hop class (all seemingly 17-year-olds) do their thing.

It doesn’t look so hard. I can roll my body and shake my booty and. . . Good LORD! What’s that move? How are they half on their shoulders, heads and arms? It’s like a half cartwheel frozen for the briefest of seconds in a bizarre diagonal pose before the dancers’ young, hard bodies writhe to a fully erect position to roll their way to an ending that’s worthy of any Kanye West video.

Um, I can do that? I comfort myself with the thought that I am taking a beginner class, and therefore no hip-hop contortions will be required of me.

Now our five brave beginner dancers are standing meekly at the back of the studio, avoiding their reflections in the wall-to-wall mirrors that are a staple in dance studios. Gotta see those moves, right? See how hot we look. Because you know that all of us 40-somethings are going to break a new hotness record when we bust out our hip-hop moves.

Oh yeah we are.

It certainly looks easy. Shake it, twirl it, kick it and cross over this foot over then roll my body and we’re so solid gold dancing.

Why am I sweating so much? What’s that weird feeling in my back? Why didn’t I bring water? I’d kill for water. So parched. So tired. Shake what? I just want to sit down.

Forty-five minutes of serious fun (no matter how we looked) and we are all exhausted. Sweaty, feeling old, and exhausted.

The next day I can barely walk with the muscles I’ve used in class. And you know what? I can’t wait for next week, because I know we’ll all be just a little bit less clumsy, and maybe look like the ladies we see in our heads – those perfectly lithe bodies, shaking and twirling and gangsta dancing with perfection.

In other words, the 17-year-olds.