Our trip to the Big City has come and gone. J and I went to New York City for a vacation, our first without the girly-girls. That was hard, leaving them, but we knew that we wouldn't get another chance to be alone, doing grown-up things, for a very long time, so we went for it.
What a town! NYC is as good as it's ever been, in my opinion, and this was J's first time there. He, we, had a ball. We walked from 45th St. to 4th St., stopping at Pete's Tavern for a drink in the oldest continuously running bar (and saw a horse race on TV), then had dinner with some friends at an Italian joint down in the Village. We walked through Central Park on our way to a Yankees vs. Royals game at Yankee Stadium, the 49th last game before the stadium is torn down in favor of a newer, albeit cool, stadium right next door. That stadium is STEEP and I got all tingly several times trying to wedge down the aisle to our near-nosebleed seats. Great view, just steep. We then meandered over to Lincoln Center, just in time to see some famous folks arrive for the James Beard Foundation awards (cooking), most notably Kim Cattrall, Bobby Flay, Ted Allen of Queer Eye for the Straight Guy fame and Katie Lee Joel. Then we had fondue at a cheese and wine bistro, walked around Soho/Tribeca/Greenwich Village, enjoyed lunch with two friends at a tasty cash-only eatery, had a private showing of Al Hirschfeld's work at Margo Feiden's home, saw the construction zone otherwise known as Ground Zero and had a drink at the White Horse Tavern (where Dylan Thomas purportedly had his last drink before going home and collapsing). We saw the city from the top of the Empire State Building (yes, you might think it's cheeseball, but it's a damned fine view and it's best to go up at the end of a trip so you know what you're looking at), had several Starbucks encounters (how come I only go to Starbucks while on vacation???), bought some fun stuff for the girly-girls and watched Woody Allen play clarinet with the Eddy Davis Band at Cafe Carlyle for the last show of the season. Wow. Now that was a cool night. And the most expensive either of us has ever experienced. We sat RIGHT next to the band (Eddy Davis on banjo) and I had a great profile view of Woody. And he of me, really, b/c after every song, he'd consult with Eddy about what to play next, and I could see his eyes shifting from Eddy to me and back again. Those eyes, through the dark-rimmed glasses that he is known for, looked at me several times. So naturally, I am waiting for my phone call that alerts me that Woody would like me to be in his next movie. Ha. Would that it were true. Then it was last-minute souvenir shopping and a cab ride back to LaGuardia. I get wistful just thinking about it.
There's our holiday in a nutshell. I asked J, if we had enough money to live there, would he be willing. Yes. Yes, he would. And that's just another in a long line of reasons why I love him. Now the question is, how the heck do we get that kind of cash?
Friday, June 13, 2008
Monday, March 24, 2008
Random notions
No lengthy blogging today, folks. Just brief observations/thoughts/ponderings.
I went to lunch with my husband today. We ate at a local Vietnamese restaurant that gets you in and out before you have time to get stuck to the vinyl seats. The food rocks. We paid and got our fortune cookies; mine was: You will be unusually successful in an entertainment career. Now, something you may or may not know about me: I have a theatre degree and went to Hollywood in the wee '90s to make it big. Only I never tried. Well, twice. I auditioned two times — got a callback for the one and walked out of the other. I had a great time in L.A. but just didn't put myself out there for the rejection, which is a huge part of acting. And now I'm living in Kansas and working as a writer/editor (and loving it) and am a wife and a mother of two fabulous girly-girls. So I tell my husband that we should pack up and move back to L.A. Fortune cookies are never wrong, correct? Yeah. So we both got a pretty good laugh out of that.
Next tidbit. We're going to get our wills done. Finally. So we better not get hit by the city bus before it's all legal. It's such a depressing thing to do, but we need to get our affairs settled. Two girly-girls need to be looked after, after all. And it'll prove, without a doubt, that we actually are grown-ups. Yikes. Scary-scary.
We're also in the process of fixing up our "master" bathroom. The thing is, there's nothing "master" about it. We're normal-sized folk, and the two of us in there at once taxes the space. But with what we've done to it, at least our view is updated. We didn't want to go the expense of a true renovation, so we've just done cosmetic stuff: new paint, new hardware, medicine cabinet for added storage, new floor (floor installed maybe next week???). The footprint's the same, but the ambiance is much improved. If I can get my act together, I'll post a pic or two when it's done. Of course, I completely forgot to take a "before" photo. Pthth.
What about Easter? Well, it's all about the kids now. Our oldest is 2 1/2 years old and thinks the huge bunny is interesting to look at — from afar. Very afar. But she got into the egg-hunting thing. Our youngest is on the verge of walking, so we had to help her a bit more. And she wasn't that excited by the eggs. But she didn't let the over-6-foot rabbit out of her sight. Fascinated. I tell you this: I NEVER thought girly-girls would be this much fun.
OK, that's enough for now. Especially since I'm probably the only one to read this crud. Ha!
Happy trails!
I went to lunch with my husband today. We ate at a local Vietnamese restaurant that gets you in and out before you have time to get stuck to the vinyl seats. The food rocks. We paid and got our fortune cookies; mine was: You will be unusually successful in an entertainment career. Now, something you may or may not know about me: I have a theatre degree and went to Hollywood in the wee '90s to make it big. Only I never tried. Well, twice. I auditioned two times — got a callback for the one and walked out of the other. I had a great time in L.A. but just didn't put myself out there for the rejection, which is a huge part of acting. And now I'm living in Kansas and working as a writer/editor (and loving it) and am a wife and a mother of two fabulous girly-girls. So I tell my husband that we should pack up and move back to L.A. Fortune cookies are never wrong, correct? Yeah. So we both got a pretty good laugh out of that.
Next tidbit. We're going to get our wills done. Finally. So we better not get hit by the city bus before it's all legal. It's such a depressing thing to do, but we need to get our affairs settled. Two girly-girls need to be looked after, after all. And it'll prove, without a doubt, that we actually are grown-ups. Yikes. Scary-scary.
We're also in the process of fixing up our "master" bathroom. The thing is, there's nothing "master" about it. We're normal-sized folk, and the two of us in there at once taxes the space. But with what we've done to it, at least our view is updated. We didn't want to go the expense of a true renovation, so we've just done cosmetic stuff: new paint, new hardware, medicine cabinet for added storage, new floor (floor installed maybe next week???). The footprint's the same, but the ambiance is much improved. If I can get my act together, I'll post a pic or two when it's done. Of course, I completely forgot to take a "before" photo. Pthth.
What about Easter? Well, it's all about the kids now. Our oldest is 2 1/2 years old and thinks the huge bunny is interesting to look at — from afar. Very afar. But she got into the egg-hunting thing. Our youngest is on the verge of walking, so we had to help her a bit more. And she wasn't that excited by the eggs. But she didn't let the over-6-foot rabbit out of her sight. Fascinated. I tell you this: I NEVER thought girly-girls would be this much fun.
OK, that's enough for now. Especially since I'm probably the only one to read this crud. Ha!
Happy trails!
Friday, December 7, 2007
Edit, schmedit
OK. So it's been a little while since I've posted my first blog. Here I am again, a sucker for learning new technology a beat behind the masses. Let it be noted that I didn't buy my first CD player (and thus my first CD) until a full 10 years after the technology was available b/c I thought for SURE that a newer, smaller form of music capture would make the shiny CD obsolete. I was wrong. Anyway, here I am taking another shot at the blogger thing, several years after blogging hit the Internet mother lode.
So I think I'll ramble about ... editing. That's what I do for a living, here in blustery Wichita, Kan. I work at a smallish but quite groovy ad agency as a copywriter and editor. The editor thing, while secondary on my biz card, is actually my main dealio. I've always had a knack for reading/writing/editing, so when I finally got my master's in English and was looking for a job ("they" say that you can do SO many things with an English degree, but really, who are they fooling?), I landed a proofing job. Not the most glamorous title, let's be brutally honest. I even campaigned to have my title changed. But it paid the proverbial and literal bills and taught me the art of proofreading. Since that first job, I've had a few other gigs that resembled proofing in some fashion. Then I got away from editing for about two months. And now I'm back at it. You know, writing — creating good work — is damned hard work unless you have that special spark. I'd like to think I have that spark, but I'd also like to think I can beautifully decorate a bookshelf (sounds easy enough) and I can't. My point is that writing well takes inspiration as well as perspiration. Editing, though a related animal to writing, is its own beast in my mind. I can look at something and know if it's crap or custard. I can do so because I have plenty of training and experience and find it infinitely easier to edit someone else's creativity than it is to create some of my own. Er, to create something good of my own.
Having this editing thing in my blood, then, makes life a different experience than what the average Joe or Joejette goes through. Take eating out: I would challenge just about any editor to go to a restaurant and read the menu without proofing the blasted thing. Asian restaurants tend to be leading offenders. One local favorite spells "shrimp" this way in several places on the menu: "shirmp." Broccoli often is all cattywompus ("brocolli"). You get the gist. And the local newspaper is a major offender, too. I guess the tight deadlines allow them space for mistakes. Whatever.
But what I think is pretty bad stuff is when magazines goof with misspellings, grammar blips or other issues. And a local mag here just printed a headline with a gross mispelling. A HEADLINE. And the subhead had issues, too. Good grief, folks. Check you work, then get someone else to check your work before it goes to print.
A professor once told me (in the days of Wite-Out — though it still applies) that, when applying for a job, never, ever hand over a resume with a mistake on it. Lots of employers (the ones worth working for) would see a mistake and immediately trash any resume with a goof, no matter how impressive the credentials or experience. I try to take this advice to heart in my work every day. Clients are paying for good creative that is pulled off flawlessly. Not flawlesly. Get it?
Mistakes happen every day across all mediums. But when a goof is in print, it's there for a very long time and is usually impossible to correct or at least quite expensive to correct. And it's my job to catch those mistakes. Now, I'm not claiming to be mistake-free, but I save anyone I work for a lot of embarrassment by catching errors that an underused spell-checking tool would catch and also those "mistakes" that even a computer wouldn't catch.
Gripe, gripe. Moan, moan. I'm done with that for today.
One word thing I suck eggs at is word jumbles. I just took an informal IQ test that had two jumbles, and one I'm pretty sure I botched well up. So don't take me for a word expert. No such thing as an expert, in my book. That's what another professor told me once. But that's for another blog, another day.
So I think I'll ramble about ... editing. That's what I do for a living, here in blustery Wichita, Kan. I work at a smallish but quite groovy ad agency as a copywriter and editor. The editor thing, while secondary on my biz card, is actually my main dealio. I've always had a knack for reading/writing/editing, so when I finally got my master's in English and was looking for a job ("they" say that you can do SO many things with an English degree, but really, who are they fooling?), I landed a proofing job. Not the most glamorous title, let's be brutally honest. I even campaigned to have my title changed. But it paid the proverbial and literal bills and taught me the art of proofreading. Since that first job, I've had a few other gigs that resembled proofing in some fashion. Then I got away from editing for about two months. And now I'm back at it. You know, writing — creating good work — is damned hard work unless you have that special spark. I'd like to think I have that spark, but I'd also like to think I can beautifully decorate a bookshelf (sounds easy enough) and I can't. My point is that writing well takes inspiration as well as perspiration. Editing, though a related animal to writing, is its own beast in my mind. I can look at something and know if it's crap or custard. I can do so because I have plenty of training and experience and find it infinitely easier to edit someone else's creativity than it is to create some of my own. Er, to create something good of my own.
Having this editing thing in my blood, then, makes life a different experience than what the average Joe or Joejette goes through. Take eating out: I would challenge just about any editor to go to a restaurant and read the menu without proofing the blasted thing. Asian restaurants tend to be leading offenders. One local favorite spells "shrimp" this way in several places on the menu: "shirmp." Broccoli often is all cattywompus ("brocolli"). You get the gist. And the local newspaper is a major offender, too. I guess the tight deadlines allow them space for mistakes. Whatever.
But what I think is pretty bad stuff is when magazines goof with misspellings, grammar blips or other issues. And a local mag here just printed a headline with a gross mispelling. A HEADLINE. And the subhead had issues, too. Good grief, folks. Check you work, then get someone else to check your work before it goes to print.
A professor once told me (in the days of Wite-Out — though it still applies) that, when applying for a job, never, ever hand over a resume with a mistake on it. Lots of employers (the ones worth working for) would see a mistake and immediately trash any resume with a goof, no matter how impressive the credentials or experience. I try to take this advice to heart in my work every day. Clients are paying for good creative that is pulled off flawlessly. Not flawlesly. Get it?
Mistakes happen every day across all mediums. But when a goof is in print, it's there for a very long time and is usually impossible to correct or at least quite expensive to correct. And it's my job to catch those mistakes. Now, I'm not claiming to be mistake-free, but I save anyone I work for a lot of embarrassment by catching errors that an underused spell-checking tool would catch and also those "mistakes" that even a computer wouldn't catch.
Gripe, gripe. Moan, moan. I'm done with that for today.
One word thing I suck eggs at is word jumbles. I just took an informal IQ test that had two jumbles, and one I'm pretty sure I botched well up. So don't take me for a word expert. No such thing as an expert, in my book. That's what another professor told me once. But that's for another blog, another day.
Friday, November 16, 2007
Wednesday, November 14, 2007
Welcome to the Blog World: 1st Post
So this is my first posting. Should be interesting — at least that's my aim. What's a new blogger to write about? What's hip, interesting, new, not been written about before? Who knows? I guess I'll just start writing and see where this road leads.
I suppose that I should address the title of this blog, as well as the URL. If you haven't guessed already, I'm a Doors and Jim Morrison fan. The blog title is a line from the epic song The End, and the URL is from the song Love Street. So ... Driver, where you takin' us? Driver's takin' us on Love Street. It's sort of a stretch, but coming up with an original or ultracool blog title isn't as easy as it might seem. Anyway, my proverbial hat's off to the Doors and, naturally, the Lizard King.
I'll begin with an obviously favorite topic: music. Growing up, music was always in my life, and in a big way. I played piano, dabbled with the flute (before getting quite angry at its output and banging it on the ground), taught myself limited guitar and sang as much as I could. And of course I listened to the radio when the CD was just a poof in some brilliant person's mind. Yes, I've been around to know what 8-track and cassette tapes are. I even held out from buying my first CD for 10 years after they became popular, deeply believing that something smaller/cooler would soon replace the shiny CD. Alas, that was a fruitless wait. My first CD was the Black Crowes. But I digress.
At the ad agency I work at, I sit next to this dude who is completely into music; he plays tunes loud enough for the entire office (or sometimes just a few of us) to enjoy. This environment has revived my new-music interest. I get to listen to a wide, wide variety of stuff, both old and new. And sometimes I get to plant a musical seed in his ear. For example, I introduced him to Michael Hedges, one of my all-time favorite musicians. The completely sucky thing is that Hedges died in a car accident almost a decade ago, so his genius writing and guitar playing can only be experienced via recordings or videos. Such a shame. I was fortunate to see him play live twice at Liberty Hall in Lawrence, Kan. What a flippin' killer show that man could put on — and completely by himself. He played the acoustic guitar like no other. If you read this blog and have yet to experience Michael Hedges, by all means RUN to your nearest computer and check him out. And then buy his CDs. You shan't be disappointed.
Now, I'll share a personal tidbit with you: I'm about to turn 40. Yikes. Many folks who are in my age range are losing or have already lost touch with the new music of the day. Having kids also does the same thing, as free time becomes a huge factor — mainly a missing one. And yes, that has definitely happened to me. In the last several years, the only "new" music I've actively enjoyed is The White Stripes, Split Lip Rayfield and Dave Matthews Band (and DMB's been around for a while). So I guess what I'm getting at is that sitting next to this guy at work, hearing lots of familiar work but also creations of new artists, is reviving my interest in what's groovy now. I still can't stomach most country music and rap, but I'm pretty open to just about anything else. One newer-to-me genre that's sparked my interest is bluegrass. And you can swear up and down and sideways that bluegrass is a close cousin to country, and I'll tell you that you can have lots of relatives and not be a cotton-pickin' thing like a lot of them.
I'm positive that I'll revisit this musical highway again, so for now I'll leave you with a quote from brilliant Bob Dylan's Subterranean Homesick Blues to ponder:
You don't need a weather man
To know which way the wind blows
Happy trails,
Keaton Quinn
I suppose that I should address the title of this blog, as well as the URL. If you haven't guessed already, I'm a Doors and Jim Morrison fan. The blog title is a line from the epic song The End, and the URL is from the song Love Street. So ... Driver, where you takin' us? Driver's takin' us on Love Street. It's sort of a stretch, but coming up with an original or ultracool blog title isn't as easy as it might seem. Anyway, my proverbial hat's off to the Doors and, naturally, the Lizard King.
I'll begin with an obviously favorite topic: music. Growing up, music was always in my life, and in a big way. I played piano, dabbled with the flute (before getting quite angry at its output and banging it on the ground), taught myself limited guitar and sang as much as I could. And of course I listened to the radio when the CD was just a poof in some brilliant person's mind. Yes, I've been around to know what 8-track and cassette tapes are. I even held out from buying my first CD for 10 years after they became popular, deeply believing that something smaller/cooler would soon replace the shiny CD. Alas, that was a fruitless wait. My first CD was the Black Crowes. But I digress.
At the ad agency I work at, I sit next to this dude who is completely into music; he plays tunes loud enough for the entire office (or sometimes just a few of us) to enjoy. This environment has revived my new-music interest. I get to listen to a wide, wide variety of stuff, both old and new. And sometimes I get to plant a musical seed in his ear. For example, I introduced him to Michael Hedges, one of my all-time favorite musicians. The completely sucky thing is that Hedges died in a car accident almost a decade ago, so his genius writing and guitar playing can only be experienced via recordings or videos. Such a shame. I was fortunate to see him play live twice at Liberty Hall in Lawrence, Kan. What a flippin' killer show that man could put on — and completely by himself. He played the acoustic guitar like no other. If you read this blog and have yet to experience Michael Hedges, by all means RUN to your nearest computer and check him out. And then buy his CDs. You shan't be disappointed.
Now, I'll share a personal tidbit with you: I'm about to turn 40. Yikes. Many folks who are in my age range are losing or have already lost touch with the new music of the day. Having kids also does the same thing, as free time becomes a huge factor — mainly a missing one. And yes, that has definitely happened to me. In the last several years, the only "new" music I've actively enjoyed is The White Stripes, Split Lip Rayfield and Dave Matthews Band (and DMB's been around for a while). So I guess what I'm getting at is that sitting next to this guy at work, hearing lots of familiar work but also creations of new artists, is reviving my interest in what's groovy now. I still can't stomach most country music and rap, but I'm pretty open to just about anything else. One newer-to-me genre that's sparked my interest is bluegrass. And you can swear up and down and sideways that bluegrass is a close cousin to country, and I'll tell you that you can have lots of relatives and not be a cotton-pickin' thing like a lot of them.
I'm positive that I'll revisit this musical highway again, so for now I'll leave you with a quote from brilliant Bob Dylan's Subterranean Homesick Blues to ponder:
You don't need a weather man
To know which way the wind blows
Happy trails,
Keaton Quinn
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