Wardrobe Malfunction

Dear Wife bought me a new shirt the other day. At least it’s new to me; somebody else owned it previously. No complaints about that; a lot of my wardrobe comes from thrift stores including most of the stuff I really like. Even better, it saved me the trouble of going clothes shopping for myself, something which as far as I’m concerned, ranks right up there with drilling holes in my kneecaps and watching programs on the Lifetime Channel. It’s an all linen number which hangs beautifully, feels great and if I say so myself, makes me look something of a stud muffin.

One downside of thrift store clothing is that no matter how good it looks, you’re never entirely sure of its past history so I added it to the bag of other shirts and dropped it off at the dry cleaners for laundering. It was a small pile this week so I got something of a shock on my return, when the bill came to over $17. Turned out the cleaners had followed the instructions on the label and rather than simply laundering it as I had asked, had dry cleaned and hand finished it. As this extra service came to almost $10, it made my $5 shirt a little less of a bargain.

But as I said, it does look good so I simply resolved to be careful when and where I wore it. I always wear an undershirt so if I avoided smoky bars and sweaty environments I should be able to squeeze two or three wearings between laundering. As I dressed to wear it for the first time, I jokingly said to Dear Wife, “What do suppose I’ll spill on it?” “Don’t say things like that,” she replied, “you’re only tempting fate.”

She was right, of course. It was tartar sauce. I great big dollop of it, right down the front.

This didn’t really come as a surprise. Clean clothes and I never seem to get along too well and in fact I’ve often speculated at the mysterious forces that cause food, drink and other messy substances to be inexorably attracted to my outerwear. When I lived in Britain I wore a tie each day for work and for the longest time I thought the only purpose they served was to keep my shirts clean. When dressing for an important occasion, I often had to ask “Do you think soup stains or chili stains go better with this jacket?”

The bottom couple of inches were usually discolored after my tie had fallen onto my plate as I sat down so over the years I developed the habit of pressing it to my torso until I was seated. Even though I haven’t worn a tie on any regular basis for several years, the habit is apparently still with me as I learned quite recently while eating lunch with a co-worker. In an interested tone he asked, “Why do you always pat your stomach when you sit down?”

My office in Phoenix was located across the street from an excellent Italian restaurant. Their specialty dish was chicken cooked in a red wine sauce which tasted absolutely divine even though it was a rather unnatural grape color. I had lunch there one day and as I had a client presentation that afternoon, was impeccably dressed. Anxious to maintain the smart appearance of my snowy white shirt and crisp chinos, I made sure to use my napkin. I’m aware it’s not socially acceptable to tuck one’s napkin into the shirt collar so like a good little grown up; I had mine spread over my lap. Although I should have known what would happen, I ordered my usual chicken-in-purple-stuff and in a matter of moments; had dropped a piece.

Perhaps if I’d simply sat still, I might have got away with little more than a nasty stain or two where it landed. Instead, in my frantic attempts to get out of the way, I did a series of hip-hop style dance moves and as a result, managed to steer the chicken-in-toxic-sauce all the way across my chest, down one arm, over my (now napkin-less) crotch and the full length of one leg before it finally came to rest in the cuff of my pants. The waitress did her best to help but really, only made matters worse. There wasn’t enough time to go home and change so I made my presentation to the clients looking like an extra from a slasher flick. The sad thing was; nobody seemed overly surprised.

It hasn’t always been my fault. One time I was flying on a business trip. My fellow passengers and I were just settling down to the highlight of the flight, namely the plastic glass of soda and the bag of pretzels. I’d taken no more than a couple of sips when the lady next to me spilled her drink over my right leg. The flight attendant raced into action and using no more than a glass of club soda and a paper napkin, did a quite serviceable job of removing the stain while leaving the crease in my pants reasonably intact. My seat mate was mortified and full of apologies. No real harm was done, we had a joke about it and the flight attendant brought her another drink.

She reached for her fresh drink and as we both watched in horror, some malevolent force caused her to throw this one over my right leg too. Again the flight attendant did her routine with the soda and napkin but this time, my pants were beyond salvation. My left leg was still sporting a fresh-from-the-dry-cleaners razor sharp crease while the right looked as though I’d been swimming. My business trip was a fly out in the morning, give a presentation, fly home in the evening kind of deal and for this reason, I traveled light – just my laptop and my notes, no change of clothes or anything. Still, at least I had an opening anecdote.

Coffee, ketchup, red wine, baked beans, anything that can leave a mess has at some time or other graced my apparel. The cleaner the clothes, the messier the stain – it’s just a fact of life. I’ve never been known as a close follower of the fashion world but I keep hoping that one day I’ll turn on the news to see some anorexic model strutting down the runways of Paris or Milan wearing a white blouse with a big dollop of mustard on the front. When that trend finally arrives, I’ll definitely be ahead of the game.

The Natural

Although many of our neighbors own and ride horses, we're currently an equine-free household. At least in terms of living, breathing animals. The house is full of books, photos and other artworks of an equestrian theme. This is Dear Wife's passion rather than mine, and when we first met, she did in fact own a horse on which she competed in three-day events. Although I frequently tagged along to the stables it was more in the role of official photographer, dog minder and fetcher of things. But it's not as if I'm completely inexperienced when it comes to horse riding. I have sat on several horses in my time, occasionally even while moving and on one occasion the term "natural" was used to describe my horsemanship. Although admittedly, not for very long.

Several years ago a group of us were making our way up the West Coast of New Zealand's south island and decided to try our hand at this horse-riding lark. So, bright and ugly one morning we found ourselves yawning and stretching outside a stable among some breathtakingly pretty farm country. There were eleven of us altogether and Wendy the stable owner spent some time matching us to various horses depending upon our respective sizes and levels of experience. Jonathon, at 6'7" was assigned a 14-hand monster, while Helen, who barely reached his rib cage, was given something not much larger than a Shetland pony. I myself was paired with a gentle looking nag called Honey, which sounded just fine until I learned she had a penchant for rolling on her back in the middle of rivers. Hmm.

After bribing our way into the horses' good books with a slice of bread away we went. One of the downsides of most trekking schools is that the horses are conditioned to simply follow the one in front. The clients tend to do little more than sit on the back and it can be rather dull. Not so with this group apparently, who each had day jobs and only did service for the tourists on weekends. All well and good, but I was secretly hoping mine didn't become too independent.

As it turned out the first river crossing wasn't too traumatic and we made it across without mishap. The only snag so far was that my steed was becoming bored with my pedestrian pace and would occasionally break into a jog in order to catch the more experienced riders up ahead. I found that as long as we never went any faster than a canter, I was able to keep my balance quite easily and was really quite enjoying myself. That said, I was uncomfortably aware that Honey was paying very little attention to the signals I was attempting to send via rein and stirrup, but was instead operating on her own agenda. We ran when Honey wanted to run, we stopped when Honey wanted to stop.

Knowing I was out of my depth, I solicited Wendy's opinion. "Keep your elbows in. Shout 'whoa!' Pull on the reins like you mean it." was her advice and I'm sure it was perfectly sound even though it had no effect whatsoever. There were a handful of occasions where I thought I was running the show but I suspect this was simply indicative of my naivete. Still, we'd been going for some time, had crossed multiple rivers and cantered several times without mishap so my confidence was growing.

Even so, when the more experienced riders broke off and took a separate route to try some gallops, I elected to remain with the rookies, much to Honey's disgust. She fancied herself a thoroughbred and was becoming visibly frustrated at my reluctance to open the throttle. Nonetheless, once the others were out of sight, she resigned herself to being a wimp transport and plodded along sedately without complaint. For oh, about twenty minutes.

That was the point when we rounded a corner of the trail and saw way, way off in the distance, the departed members of our group racing across a meadow. Tails up, manes flying, legs stretched out it was a picture of primal athleticism. And Honey decided she wanted to tag along. I kept my elbows in; I shouted "Whoa”, I hauled back on the reins, I swore incoherently. Nothing. Honey was going to join those other horses, she was going to join them as soon as possible and if I wanted to come along or not, that was up to me. It didn't take long to realize my actions were not only futile, but were actively increasing the likelihood of a fall. So, I leaned over Honey's neck as I had seen the pros do, and concentrated on maintaining my balance.

Then I saw the log.

A good 3-4 feet high, it lay completely across our path. There was no room to ride around it, even if I'd had the skill. Stopping was out of the question. We were going over it. 3-4 feet doesn't sound that big if you're only familiar with watching the professionals in the show ring. But it's way higher than even many experienced horsemen would be expected to tackle. And I was no experienced horseman. I set my feet firmly in the stirrups, clutched the reins as if my life depended upon it (as perhaps it did) and gibbered helplessly as Honey set her feet, bunched her muscles and sailed out into the blue.

Horse and rider soared, as one, over the log and landed, safely, comfortably and beautifully on the far side. My compatriots were in raptures. "That was awesome", they yelled, "You did that perfectly" and so on. Even Wendy gushed admiration. "You did everything right." She told me, "Your posture, your balance, your technique. I couldn't have taught you that. You're a natural".

I sat back, and basked in the praise. Yep, Mr. Horseman that's me. I was finally getting the recognition I was due. Maybe I had a future in the equine field. Me being a natural and all. Although I had to admit, my butt was getting a touch tender, so I sat up on the back of the saddle to massage the muscles a little. It was at that point one of the other horses leaned forward playfully and nipped Honey on the flanks. She shot forward, I stayed momentarily in place. Then I was sitting bewildered on the ground, wondering what had just happened as my companions dissolved in peals of laughter.

Oh yeah, I can clear a 4 foot log with perfect style, but fall off my horse when it’s standing still. That's me. The natural.

Saturday Night at the Movies

So we went to see a movie last Saturday night. For those of you with active social lives, this probably doesn’t sound like such a big deal but for us, living over 30 miles from the nearest cinema, it was a special event. It’s not often I have much good to say about our time living in Phoenix, but as a movie fan I did enjoy having several theaters all within a few minutes drive of our house. Nowadays, it has to be a film we particularly want to see on the big screen before we can be bothered to traipse all the way down the hill.

I probably wouldn’t make a good movie critic for the simple fact that I enjoy almost every film I see in a theater. The big screen, the quality sound system, the atmosphere, I love it. It’s only years later when I see the film for a second time on television that I realize how bad it actually was. As yet, I haven’t been able to persuade the bank manager to let me buy a big screen TV and while our little Sony has seen good service, as it approaches the end of its second decade, it’s not exactly state of the art. So, when I do get the chance to enjoy a new release in the format for which it was intended, it’s something of a treat.

Except when, as in this case, I get stuck behind a talker. The elderly lady a couple of rows in front was of the type who felt the need to give a running commentary on the action taking place on the screen. Admiration for the lead actor’s physique, gasps of horror when something unpleasant happened, admonitions when he did something immoral, sniffles during the sad moments, we got them all. I’m not usually shy about correcting inconsiderate behavior from other movie-goers but I suspect this old girl was simply oblivious to the irritation she was causing. I seemed to be the only person who was really bothered so I just let her ramble.

After all, it’s not like I’ve never been an inconsiderate movie-goer myself.

The Kendal Palladium, where I was first introduced to the magical world of celluloid, will never be remembered as one of the world’s great movie palaces. Located in a small northern England town and familiarly known as “The Pictures” it was an enormous barn of a place with a sweeping curved staircase leading to the upper tier, but even in the late sixties it was obviously well past its prime. The paint hung from the walls in long, ragged strips, the carpet was more bare than thread and the framed photos of yesteryear’s stars were faded to the point of being unrecognizable. (Even assuming these people had been recognizable in the first place.)

In those days, a trip to the pictures meant seeing two films, the first being an insight into the whale fishermen of the South Atlantic, or the reproductive life of the fruit fly, or something equally enthralling before the main feature finally arrived. Being prior to the age of video, movies used to circulate around the country’s theaters for years after their releases, so it was common to see the same film repeatedly. I saw “The Magnificent Seven” at least five or six times before I was mature enough to follow the plot. Not that we really cared. The film itself was secondary to the experience of sitting in the dark of this vast, cavernous hall, in seats of red plush pseudo-velvet and, safe from the prying eyes of parents and teachers, behaving like the little animals we were.

I’m not talking about picking fights or slashing seats or anything; the wild and crazy days of “Rock Around the Clock” and “The Blackboard Jungle” were well before my time. No, just the simple pleasures of shouting advice to the actors, chasing one another along the aisles, flinging candy and popcorn at the kids in front and for the truly daring, sneaking a furtive smoke. I was a candy flinger myself and over the years became something of an artist.

I was partial to jelly babies (something similar to Gummy Bears) which were just the right weight and size to cover the required distance while retaining enough velocity to make their presence felt upon contact. Smarties (kinda like M&Ms) when fired from the little wooden spoon that came with the tiny tubs of ice cream on sale in the foyer, also made excellent trajectories. However, my personal favorites were Maltesers, which were a confection rather like Malted Milk Balls. Those held an aero-dynamic quality which in the hands of an experienced marksman like myself; meant a bull’s eye almost every time.

Sometimes somebody would have a birthday, which meant that not only would their parents shell out for the admission fee, they might, on very rare occasions, divvy up enough for us to visit the promised land, the hallowed ground, the ultimate in movie going experience...the balcony! Fifteen rows of seats in a curving upper deck, the balcony afforded not only a better view of the screen (no cricked necks from up here) but also allowed the candy flingers among us to inflict hours of torment on the poor souls in the cheap seats with virtually no fear of retaliation. Heaven indeed.

Sadly, like so many other movie theaters in the mid seventies, Kendal’s Palladium degenerated into a porn palace. Despite being carved up into two theaters, it was usual for both of them to be showing some soft core classic. Too old for the childrens’ matinees, too young for X rated features, my theater going career went on hiatus. Like many others I embraced the video revolution, but unlike most, was more than a little sad when The Palladium finally closed its doors for good and ultimately, succumbed to the developer’s wrecking ball. There’s an apartment building there today.

Most of the movie watching world has upgraded to DVDs by now; I’m one of the few still using a VCR. People tell me NetFlix, the online DVD rental service is the way to go and at some point, I’ll probably sign up. If we had a better quality TV I’m sure it would improve my movie watching experience but even with all today’s technology at my disposal, it will still never be quite the same as sitting in Kendal pictures, with my feet on the seat, talking back at the screen and flinging Maltesers at the folks in front.

Happy days.

"No, I don't ski"

For once the National Weather Service got it right and their threat of 10-20 inches of snow actually came true. My scientific snow measuring equipment (the table on the back deck and a long ruler) tells me that we received 19 inches of white stuff this weekend and the patches of ugly gray ice that have been sitting around the yard since before Thanksgiving are tidily buried beneath a blanket of fluffy fresh snow.

Fortuitously, my car Angus was fitted with a brand spanking new set of tires last week, with visible tread and everything, so the fresh onslaught of winter weather worries me not one whit. True, it was something of a challenge getting out of the driveway come Monday morning but that was mainly due to the four foot high drift left by the snow-plow driver which nearly barricaded me inside the property until the warm weather returned. However, in 4-wheel drive mode Angus can tackle most things and after making short work of that, the only real issue was avoiding the other boneheads on the road.

Being only about 15 miles from the coast, it didn’t snow too often in the North-West of England where I spent my formative years. Living in Phoenix of course, we had to get in the car and drive for ½ a day just to see snow at all so even though this is my third Colorado winter (I’m almost a native), snow is still something of a novelty for me. I love it.

The only downside is that whenever we receive a fresh fall, the conversation inevitably turns to winter sports and the perennial question “Do you ski?” And I have to admit that despite being in love with almost everything Coloradan, the sad fact is that no, I don’t. At least I haven’t in many years. And even in those days one would have to be generous to call what I did "skiing".

This wasn’t entirely my fault. I saved a bundle on lessons by having a friend teach me all he knew about the sport, which would have been fine if it wasn’t for the fact that he knew almost nothing and simply invented the rest. The techniques he taught me were hopelessly wrong and while they allowed me to make my way down the hillside, sometimes for several yards without falling, I was never able to develop my skills beyond the basic moves. Even worse, by the time people who actually knew what they were talking about tried to help, my bad habits were too entrenched and I too lazy to change them.

Another challenge for the British skier is that in order to participate in the sport, one inevitably has to travel to the continent, see above re: snow, the lack thereof. Skiing the Alps is a pretty fabulous experience but the limitations of cost and available vacation time mean the majority of people can only manage this for one week a year at the most. The usual routine was to fly to some major city, then clamber aboard a tour bus before being transported for several hours up near-vertical mountain roads before arriving at your resort of choice. This might be anything from an ultra-modern, purpose built resort to a quaint little mountain town straight out of a Dracula movie, with cuckoo clock houses and people in lederhosen. Well actually, I made that last bit up. If you ever see anyone in lederhosen you know you’ve fallen straight into tourist hell.

My first continental ski trip was to the Swiss Alps which are, as anyone who’s seen The Sound of Music will tell you, breathtakingly pretty. Which was good because for a rookie like me, they were also bloody difficult to ski. You might think I'm cowering here at the top of the slope, too afraid to make that first move over the abyss, but I'm merely admiring the view and will move when I’m good and ready.

In Switzerland, they don’t so much have “slopes” as “cliffs”. Great vertical drops disappearing into the distance like something from a Roadrunner cartoon. I spent many an anxious moment peering nervously over precipices wondering just how on earth I was going to down this one. Experienced skiers of course, know that the secret is simply to make constant turns. This repetitive slalom motion has the effect of reducing your speed to a (hopefully) manageable level. I on the other hand, was scared of turning. And with good cause, because I usually fell over.

So instead I would careen at breakneck speed diagonally across the slope, (apparently screaming quite loudly), until I reached the soft snow by the trees. Once there I would employ a shuffling, duck like motion until I was facing the other way before hurtling back the way I came. Lather, rinse, repeat, until painfully slowly, I made my way to the bottom where my friends would already be on their second pitcher of beer. Arguably, if it hadn’t been for the cafés in the valleys I might still be stuck there today.

And it’s not as if that system ever prevented me from falling anyway. I fell plenty and rarely in the graceful sideways topples that more elegant skiers employed. No, my tumbles tended to be the dramatic, cartwheeling, great clouds of powder, skis spinning off into space, people telling their grandchildren about them, wipeouts the like of which no stunt man could produce in a million camera takes. Looking back, it’s a wonder I never hurt myself as I’m sure limbs have been broken in much less spectacular circumstances than those. But, other than a nosebleed after I once punched myself in mid-air, I suffered nary a scratch. doG looks out for drunks and idiots right enough.

My final ski trip was a booked-at-the-last minute visit to Italy. It was late in the season, and realistically, there wasn’t enough remaining snow for skiing. Rocks and dirt aren’t kind to skis and in the process I trashed mine pretty extensively. They weren’t particularly expensive, but I had to make a decision. “Did I really enjoy skiing enough to make the kind of investment replacing them would require.” And the answer came back, “No, I didn’t.” I moved on to other sports and even living close to one of the world’s greatest winter playgrounds, have never really felt the urge to start up again.

If I ever do, I suspect it will be cross-country rather than downhill; that just seems more appealing to me now. But until that day, the answer to the eternal question will have to be “Yes, I live in Colorado. No, I don’t ski.”