Oddity

My parents left for vacation out west early this morning. I shuttled them to the airport. After my chauffeur assignment, I went to Clearwater Beach. As you can see above, if you get there at 8 a.m. you have the beach to yourself. It's not kayaking on Waikiki but my chair, towel and Michael Beschloss book on World War II kept me good company again today.

Came home to find an e-mail from a friend who detailed the nosedive of her sex life since she had a baby earlier this year. Is it the very definition of irony that someone who has not had a relationship in three years would be asked to counsel two people who sleep next to each other on how to have more sex?

Then, speaking of ending droughts, it rained hard for an hour. This has been the oddest day. But interesting.

Thespian

I got to pretend to be an actor again last night. We shot it in an Ybor City office building where the passing trolley interrupted us every 20 minutes.

The producers were the same people who made the film in which I appeared last year. They have the delusion that this project is going to wind up as a show on the f/x network. It is not going to become an actual television show on that or any other network. In the exceeding unlikely event that it does become an actual television show, the network will replace me with a real actor. I may have no shortage of my own delusions but being a Hollywood star is not one of them.

I did have a scene in which I had to stand in close proximity to an attractive young lady wearing. (Yes, had to. Forced, chained-to-the-chair, gun-to-the-head, child-held-for-ransom had to. It was tough going, lemme tell ya, but I made the sacrifice for the sake of my art.) She wore an outfit that showed off her bust as I encouraged her to use her, um, assets to close a deal. My character was a creep, which means I got a free pass to sexually harass someone. Only in a pretend world could I ever imagine looking at a girl and telling her, "You have tits. You know what to do." Her character was a creep, too, so she didn't feel harassed.

If she's a creep in real life, she's a better actress than I thought because I found her perfectly charming. Her real name is Jessica and she's a trained ballet dancer who wants to make it on Broadway. She's got an audition in Chicago next week, she said, for a musical based on Billy Joel's work.

She sure looked like a dancer, legs and all, which I promise I only noticed because it said so in the script. She explained that dancers have to be 5'5" or shorter and meet a certain weight for their height. She has to keep 108 pounds or less on her 5'3" frame. "Gee, that's not a recipe for anorexia," I said. She said it was tough, which I could understand since she had actual breasts -- again noticed only in the course of dutifully playing the role to which I had been assigned -- instead of the chest-less look you'd expect to see on a dancer.

The creators of the project earnestly believed they were making a comedy masterpiece. They also played characters and they'd ruin takes laughing at my dialogue. Maybe it's a generational thing (these guys were in their early-to-mid 20s) and the jokes went over my head. More likely, though, that the jokes just weren't that funny.

But I had fun doing it and they seemed happy with my effort again so maybe I'll get to do some more.

Come again?

In an NPR story today, Ivan Watson announced: "Suicide bombers have repeatedly targeted the city."

Really? How many suicide bombers get to repeat the feat?

Either my dear Watson needed to better phrase the thought or he has stumbled onto a much bigger story.

Swingers, Part Deux

A Girl from Texas was correct. Golfer girl did indeed answer my reply to her craigslist ad -- within hours, writing: "ok well...hands down, without question, this is the BEST reply EVER. i like your style. you appear to be relatively sane and you definitely satisfy the "handsome" requirement."

Hey!

We traded one more e-mail each in the next day or so in which we discovered that we live within a few miles from each other. Then nothing. My last e-mail went unanswered. It didn't have anything too revealing or suggestive in either literal or figurative imagery. It also didn't have anything as creative as my first effort. Maybe her junk mail filter snagged it and she was left wondering what she had done to earn a blow off from me.

Time to put the magic beanie back on to try one more time:

Hi!

I can only conclude from your delay in writing that you either (A) were kidnapped, tied up and taken away for ransom; (B) kidnapped, tied up and took away someone else for ransom so you could afford the greens fees at Saddlebrook; or (C) met someone who has played golf with me and told you some fantastical untruths about me and my game that I need to set straight.

I'm going to dismiss the possibility for the moment that you have lost interest. I mean, to go from "the best reply EVER" to one not worth responding to in only three e-mails would be a freefall a skydiver couldn't rival. Even the president didn't lose favor that fast!

It was Bill* wasn't it? You met Bill and he told you all kinds of horrible things about me, didn't he? Well, I know his game and I can guess what he said. So, as someone once said, "allow me to retort."**

It is true that I have a very high handicap. It is NOT true that last time we played I "accidently" practiced a backswing into Bill's knee so that if he couldn't stand up our handicaps would be about equal.

It is true that I own a left-handed 6-iron. It is NOT true that it doesn't matter whether I play right or left handed because the score will be the same. That's bowling where I once played against myself and my left hand beat my right hand.

It is true that I once ripped my shorts on a swing and finished the round largely sans pants. C'mon, we only had two holes left. It is NOT true that I was wearing lavender colored silk boxers at the time.

And about the noxious, potentially deadly B.O. Bill no doubt mentioned (he always does)... I smelled perfectly fine until I fell into the water trying to retrieve a ball out of the pond. That was nasty, I'll grant you. And what a pain it was to pull the cart out of that muck! The stench packed such a wallop in the ol' olfactory that we were left thinking that maybe that wasn't water in the pond. Whatever it was did do a great job removing body hair while leaving the skin mostly intact so perhaps it wasn't an entirely wasted effort.

Got a legend from the links to share?

John

*I don't know anyone named Bill. I made all of that stuff up. Except the stuff I said was true. It was.

**Line uttered in my favorite movie, "Pulp Fiction."

If that doesn't regain her interest at least I got a couple of blog entries out of her. Easily worth double what I paid.

Rush Hour

I don't know what that black stuff all over the road was. It wasn't pavement. The car fishtailing in the right-hand lane as it skidded through it told me that. My lane of I-75 southbound was mostly clear so a gentle tug on the wheel steered me around most of it. I'd see where it came from in a moment.

First I had to keep an eye on that car careening out of control in front of me. The had driver panicked and oversteered. The car veered right then made a sharp left, cut across the lanes and into the median. Once on the grass, the driver appeared to have given up trying to re-gain control. It might not have mattered anyway. The car smashed into the guardrail. I heard the impact as I passed but I was too occupied keeping my own car going straight to see it. It didn't sound like car wrecks on TV. This one made a dull, lifeless crunch.

I thought to pull over to help but a car in front of me got the idea first and I let him be the hero. Good. With my luck, I'd stop and become the target for the next car to slide off the road at highway speed.

Better I just stay out of the way, I thought. It wasn't far before I saw the source of the spill. A semi with a black open-topped trailer sat parked on the right-hand shoulder. What it once carried I still didn't know. Topsoil was my best guess. Whatever it was, it made a mess that would have caused a lot more damage had it happened a few miles north where traffic was much heavier.

New Look

I got a little fancy with the background. I planned to use the same background image as the one found on my my web site (JohnMcQuiston.com) but I couldn't get it to work. I think its because that one is only 1 pixel high and it probably got lost in transloading.

If this one is too distracting or if you simply can't stand looking at my pictures the entire time you're trying to read this, let me know.

Swingers

No one knows who posts ads on craigslist personal ads but it's highly likely that the future Mrs. John McQuiston is not among them. That doesn't mean it can't be fun to answer the ads.

I found one tonight titled "Must LOVE to play golf (part 2)." Apparently I missed the first one and was lucky to catch the sequel. It read:

I'm sure glad I put this out there...running the original "ad" again... thanks for all the responses so far :) Here's the deal....I'm very adorable for my age...which happens to be 36...don't look it, don't act it. SINGLE and looking for a handsome guy (single, white, over 30) to play golf with and/or help me improve my game. Whatever else happens happens. Not looking for a one-nighter, not looking for a sugar daddy, not looking for a broke, drunk, loser either.

Your pic MIGHT get mine - LOL!

That's what I'm working from. It was late; I was tired and more than a little goofy when I wrote my reply. Like you will have needed the preface after you read it:

Adorable for your age, yet humble too. That's what's so charming. ;-)

I'm glad you're not looking for a one-nighter because I have enough trouble hitting the ball straight in daylight. I can only imagine how terrible I'd play if we tried it at night.

I don't know how much help I can offer you on your game. Unlike my father, who routinely shoots in the 70s, I only score that low if I quit after 13 holes. Unfortunately for you, my father is married and he's not available. That leaves me. (OK, in reality you may have other options but you'll have to forgive me if I gloss over that fact for now.)

As for the rest of your ad (pasted below for convenient reference), let's see... not a drunk (don't drink at all, actually, but that's just by personal preference not because of religion or anything), not broke (not even after I pay for the townhouse I'm buying later this month) and not a loser (unless I'm dumb enough to challenge dad to golfing with money on the line, in which case I'll be a loser, broke and reconsidering the whole not drinking thing).

Look at the pictures! I'm in the one on the left. Oh, wait. I'm in both of them. I don't have the beard I had in the golfing shot any more. It was a phase. I got over it. Just don't ask me where the ball went that I hit in this picture. We never found it.

Forgive the horrible formatting here. It's even later now than when I wrote it and I'm not less tired or goofy. And, you wonder, how is that different than usual? I dunno. But you get the idea.

Internet Searches

What could they want? According to Statcounter.com, 39 people so far this month have come to my web site JohnMcQuiston.com from www.ourmedia.org/node/100756.

That's a page on the Internet Archive on which I have posted a story I did for WFLA-TV in 1998. It's called "Girl Weightlifters." I can only guess what the nearly 2,000 people who have downloaded the video thought they were going to see. What they did see was a feature story about the girls weightlifting team at Berkeley Preparatory School.

The statistics from the video page of my site show how some people discover my clips. Most are Google or Yahoo! searches for such things as "Girl Fight Clips," "girl fight video clips," "watch free fight video," and even "yeah babes clips."

I hate to disappoint them (OK, not really) but they're not going to find what they're seeking on my site. There is one clip of a boxing story I did and several high school girls sports stories so I can see how the keywords would point someone to my site.

But it proves that Google is not foolproof.

Doughnuts!

Why is it that as I get older things I crave are never as good as I imagined them when I craved them?

I bought doughnuts this morning. There's a Winn-Dixie right next to my office building. I had skipped breakfast and decided that once I got to the office, I'd run to the WD and pick up some low-fat yogurt to eat with the bagel I still had in the office refrigerator.

I turned on the computer at my desk and checked my e-mail. Nothing urgenly pressing to work on. I check my personal e-mail. Nothing from a woman from craigslist's personal ad with whom I've traded e-mails. I wonder if she liked the picture she requested. I wonder if I've heard the last of her. Oh, well. Time to grab some breakfast. Priorities.

When I walk into the store, I realize I'm closer to the bakery side of the store than the dairy aisle, which is at the opposite end of the place. I usually walk that way because the deli and bakery are in the same area and I often pick up lunch there. That's when it hits me. Doughnuts! I need to get some doughnuts. I love doughnuts. Or at least I used to. Now I seem to like the idea of doughnuts -- the sweetness, the softness, the decadence -- much more than I enjoy actually eating them. Maybe they would taste just as good as I remember if I weren't so concerned about the consequences. So much fat and sugar in one shot after so little exercise in my abbreviated workout this morning. Maybe that's guilt not a greasy gut-bomb sitting in the pit of my stomach after I eat them now.

Even simple pleasures aren't so simple any more.