Most of you know my opinion of exercise. Exercise, in my humble and yet highly developed opinion, is a worthless exercise.
Just the same, I bought one of those fancy-schmancy pedometers to count my little footy-steps each day. Now, mainly I’ve been using it for what I call efficency testing. It’s 212 steps to the place where I pick up the laptop if I take this route, but 257 if I go this way. Obviously, the first is best.
Effectively, I’ve defeated the entire purpose. I love it when I do that.
Anyway, they keep drilling it into my head that I need 10,000 steps a day, which is approximately 9,975 more steps than I want to take each day. Well, maybe 9,928. If you figure in a run to the mailbox. But who needs that? If I want junk mail, I can read my spam. At least that features lots and lots of dirty pictures.
I digress. I usually do in these things.
Tonight, I decided to walk over to the State Fair Park and buy a new bike. (By the way, folks. Thanks for all the advice about what type of helmet I should get. Everyone seemed to emphasize that with me. I’m not so sure why.) They have the big Wheel & Sprocket Expo over there and I figure if I’m going to do this anyway–might as well.
So I start to hoof it. I’m exercising away so I decide to give myself a little treat. I order the big basket of onion rings with the double cheesebutterburger at Cream City Custard. Now this is exercise!
Hobbling out of my booth at the Custard place, I notice my pedometer hitting 5500 steps. This isn’t good. My little footies suffer from platar fascitis or fascitaris or some such nonsense. Anyway, after about 6000 steps (this has been figured out by some testing in various theme parks in Florida–the only reason to walk so far is a lift hill going clack-clack-clack and a good first drop), my little feetskers start to scream out a chorus.
Well, I’m halfway so I figure–may as well. So I go over to the Expo.
The frigging place is packed. I mean, seriously packed. Little fartmaster kids all over the place (though they better watch out–I did have onion rings and soon they will call ME master.) Lots of old farts, too, which scared me. These bicycle dealers just dealing out heart attacks to these poor old people–I warned a few that all that pedalling might kill–particularly with their advanced age–but most seemed not to appreciate my sage advice, so I decided to let them die.
Then, I nearly died. I saw a price tag.
$1,000! Are they smoking pot? Are they chasing the dragon? Put down the crack pipe, baby, because you be nutso. Not every bike was this ridiculous, but plenty were over $500.
I decided to put my purchasing background into play and scored some major savings with my favorite form of savings: the avoided purchase. I thought, “Okay, the WalMart special is destroyed at home, but that old Huffy one-speed is in fine condition. All I have to do is reattach the old big fat seat on that and I’m good to go.” Besides, now I can get that LCD monitor I wanted.
Stay tuned for that Catastrophe in the future.
So I run out of there. My mother continually tells me I have no sale resistance. Hogwash! Why, everytime I enter a grocery store, I avoid buying any sort of vegetable. Or anything organic. Now that’s will power!
So I’m hobbling out of there and the Sun has gone down. And it’s getting cold. I guess that simple Spring jacket that seemed like overkill earlier just wasn’t enough now. I’m walking along Greenfield and actually starting to shiver. It’s about 8:00 p.m. and my nose is growing cold. Seems to always affect my nose first.
I can’t afford a cold, so I decide I have to dive in some place to warm up. In West Allis, the only places open that late is the taverns about every five feet. But I hate taverns being a non-drinker. So where am I going to go?
How about that place with all the action up ahead there? Look at all the cars pulling in there… Nice sign, too. “Church and Chapel.”
It’s true that I’m perfectly comfortable in funeral homes. I’ve gone to plenty. Not as many as my father, though. When he was president of the German club, he seemed to go every other day. The funeral directors would shout out “Elmar!” like the bar patrons in Cheers! would yell out “Norm!”
But this is crashing a funeral. Something is wrong about that. So I went in, anyway.
The great thing about a funeral home is all the great furniture. I found a real big sofa and plunked myself down. I was probably the only guy there in blue jeans and grooving to tunes on his MP3 player (NOT AN IPOD! –Apple got enough of my money when I was a Mac user. Ever meet an ex-Machead? We’re like ex-smokers. We get all evangelical on your backside about the evils of the old habit. Meanwhile, we secretly still crave the old habit. We have a word for that in our family: Ernie.)
End of rant.
An old guy sits down next to me. I quickly look around the room. Okay, they are all white folks. I just thought, geez, at least they couldn’t tell I didn’t fit in so obviously this time. I’ve done enough Captain stories where that’s happened already.
He looks me over, “What are you listening to?”
I look at the MP3 player and it says “K.C. and the Sunshine Band.” So I look him in the eyes and say, “Maroon 5.”
He nods and turns to me again, “So how did you know him?” He said the name…but I’ve already forgot it. It some old guy name. Like Herb. Or Ralph. Or Elmar. Something like that. Not something young and hip. Like Tim.
So, I figure I could tell this nice gentleman I was just passing through–he sure as heck wouldn’t care–or I could do the usual and make up a story. “I grew up in his neighborhood. I’m visiting my parents and they brought me along.”
Good, hunh? You may want to remember that one when you crash a funeral. You may want to print this one out. I demand credit for that one!!
I’m warmed up by then and I decide to beat it out of there (to Michael Jackson’s “Beat It”–I’m going through another Disco phase. It will pass. I pray. Huey Lewis–I need you! Save me!)
I’m walking along and I’m passing that overpriced Owl Imports place when I see this huge guy in camouflage and a red and white bandana. His face is half covered in facial hair from a huge beard and he has a scar across his forehead.
He looked pretty darn tough. Now, me–tough isn’t usually a word used to describe me. Potential victim of a violent crime. Designated punching bag. These are words usually used for me.
My brother always tells me to look this sort of character in the eyes so they know you aren’t afraid of them. This is easy for him to do. He’s half a head taller than me, in shape and if he were to throw a punch it would feel more like a mule kicking than the tip-tapping of a sparrow that my punches would best be compared to.
So I divert my eyes. Well, this guy’s a head case, because he takes offense and says “What’s up with you?”
Now, I actually am scared.
So I point at the funeral home and say, “He’s gone. He’s gone.” And I turn and walk away. The guy didn’t say another word and just walked away.
Again, I deserve points.
But this wasn’t the weirdest person I met on my walk home. That is reserved for the guy with the megaphone dressed as Uncle Sam. He is spouting the gospel of Liberty Tax Service. Now, at least he isn’t the usual for them which is some overweight biker-type with a big beard dressed as Lady Liberty. That always freaks me out–say, I wonder if that other guy was coming off his shift???
Anyway, Uncle Sam is shouting into the megaphone, which frankly seems counterproductive to me, about getting to Liberty Tax Service and beat the April 15 deadline. By now, I’m in that weird place I get at this point in a day.
It always reminds me of a scene in “The Secret of My Success” with the pre-cancer version of Michael J. Fox and he’s on this ferryboat in New York Harbor and has learned he’s sleeping with the boss’s wife, which is his aunt, and his boss’s mistress and they are all about to spend the weekend at the same retreat. The line goes something like “There is a calm place you get to when you are completely screwed. And you stop worrying.”
I get to that place often. This was one of those times. I stuff my ear buds in a pocket and I approach the guy in the star-spangled cape. All I’ve got at this point, (remember I had some beauts earlier), is: “So, are you Captain Ameritax?”
Now, I expect kind of a chuckle, maybe a grin, a nod of the head and off we go. Ameritax, though, goes all pricky on me. “Whatever, guy. Get out of here.”
I could have left at that, but this guy was considerably smaller than the guy with the scars so I’m considerably braver. “Why are you even out here? Isn’t the tax place closed?”
He lowers the megaphone. “No, we’re open late. Aren’t you listening?”
“I was supposed to listen?”
Captain Ameritax sighs and walks away.
And I go to warm up in the tax preparation office. It’s still a long way home. 3,594 steps in fact.
Sincerely,
Captain Catastrophe
Month: April 2005
The Captain goes to the Beauty Pageant
A lot of you know I’ve been interviewing many beauty pageant titleholders on my radio program. I even judged one not long ago. Well, when it came time for the St. Francis pageant, I had to go. Nikki had come in to sing Stille Nacht special for the program and it will always be one of the highlights of our show in 2004.
You also know nothing ever comes easy for me. Simply getting to an event…on time…can be a major effort. There’s tires that go flat. Injuries that just freakishly manifest themselves upon me. Urges to go on vacation–well, I do tend to go on vacation frequently. You have to admit.
So I know what date the event is…but have no idea when it will happen. I e-mail Nikki. You’d figure she knows and she tells me “7:00 p.m., I think.” Okay, that wasn’t exactly authoritative. So now I’m picturing trying to sneak into the auditorium when it is underway. I figure 6:30 to be safe.
Yeah. Safety. All about the safety. That’s me.
So I have the time. I have the date. Where is it being held? “Thomas More Auditorium.” What the hell is that? Time to pull out all the research stops. So I google Thomas More Auditorium, St. Francis. Nothing definitive. I further find out this location is on the corner of KK & Warnimont. Great, so I look that up. But Warnimont changes name and splits a couple of places. Sweating now. MapQuest, GoogleMaps, MapBlast, YahooMaps…all open in separate browsers. Comparing, contrasting…looking for an actual address to input into my GPS in the car.
Nothing, but I had it narrowed down.
See, I figured out Warnimont becomes Lake Drive. And I found a St. Francis Seminary. I figured, “Thomas More was a famous religious type character. Must be the name of one of the buildings there.”
So I get in the car at 6:00 (to be safe) and dial in 3257 S Lake Dr.
It writes itself from there, don’t it.
The sun is setting and I’m following my GPS’s commands. For the most part. I kind of know where St. Francis is, but I don’t have much call to go out there, so I’m basically blindly following the GPS commands. Which hurts me in the Marquette. It considered going straight, toward the lake, an “exit” which threw me. I knew I did something wrong as I started going north on 43 when the GPS announced: “Off route. Recalculating.” I always thought they should allow you to download different voices. I would get the Homer Simpson model so when I’d pull a maneuver like that, it would just announce, “Doh!”
So now I’m the only Milwaukee native ever to go north from the Marquette in an attempt to find St. Francis.
This also explains why I bought a GPS in the first place.
Well, that and it’s electronics. We all know I love electronics. Unfortunately, they don’t love me back.
I somehow exit and get back on the freeway and give it another go. I’m driving along on the Hoan Bridge (which as a kid I always thought was the “Home Bridge” and the most embarrassing name of landmark ever. That was before the U.S. Bank company defaced my beloved First Wisconsin Building, but I digress.) I noticed the Port of Milwaukee, which I started thinking I should really go explore some time. I had read that the Port of Milwaukee is actually more active than the Chicago Port and thought that might be exciting . . .
Okay, missed another exit.
“Off route. Recalculating.” She kind of sounded like that female voice that announces how much time until the self-destruct of the bad guy’s lair sounds in all the James Bond movies. I really need Homer. Or like Moe from the Three Stooges. “Eh…wise guy, hunh?”
I somehow get myself on Oklahoma and I’m going straight for the lake. Stay on target, I murmur to myself in some sort of Star Wars flashback. Stay on target.
Oddly, I get to the lake and I turn right. I do not drive into the drink. Anyway, there were houses in the way. They would have stopped me.
I go past some beautiful church-like stuff on my right, but I figure this just didn’t look right. I keep driving. And driving. My GPS is saying, “Make a U – Turn.” So I figure it must have been that church looking place.
But there was no one in the parking lot. And it was ten to seven. Seems odd.
Wait a minute, I think. Nikki said 7:00 p.m., I think! If it were 7:30, I’d be 40 minutes early. I did it! I found the place. In fact, the approach was so gorgeous I decided to pull out my new digital camera and snap a shot of the exterior.
As I get out of the car, I see signs for the “Seminary Theater.” That’s got to be it, I think. Then I see a little sheet of paper taped below the sign. “This way to the Talent Show.” That’s odd, I thought. Usually, they call these pageants, but whatever.
I walk in and another sign says go in elevator to Talent show. Third floor for Talent Show. Well, I think, they certainly have enough signs.
The place is like a hundred years old. The lights are dim and I slowly step down the hallway under these unshielded bulbs of maybe 30 watts a piece. Prerecorded rap music is playing at the end of the hallway. This should be interesting, I think. Never saw someone “rap” for their talent.
No one is manning the ticket table. I pat myself on the back, again, for being so early. I seek out one of the ladies at the refreshments booth. They seemed very surprised to see me.
That’s when I look around and notice I’m the only white guy in the place. Heck, I’m the only guy.
It’s starting to sink in. This is why they call it being thick.
“Uh, is this the Thomas More Auditorium?”
“No.”
“Do you know where it is?”
“No. We could probably find somebody.”
I look at my watch. Five to seven.
“That won’t be necessary. Do you have a corner in which I can curl up and have a good cry?”
They just look as I quickly make for the door.
FIVE MINUTES! How am I going to find a place that I have no address for in FIVE MINUTES!
Can’t wait for the elevator. Gotta hurry. Here’s the steps. Wait a minute, no lights on in here. No, no, gotta hurry. Got to get moving. Steps are all the same. Don’t need lights. Even though this is building I’ve never been in before. And every floor seems to list to the left. And it’s excruciating dark already . . .
Ever try to walk down steps in the dark? Well, before you criticize me on this, you ought to try it. Particularly if the landings are unusually, well, shallow.
That’s right. Walked right into the wall. My response? Instead of the usual, “Owie!” or “Not the face!” was just, “Well, I guess I have some writing ahead of me.”
Rubbing my schnoz, I emerge from the building AND STILL NO ONE is in the parking lot. That talent show must be at eight or something. Why am I even wondering? I have like three minutes left. And at pageants, they don’t play coming attractions and Mountain Dew ads before the show.
I hop into the Red Rocket (yeah, that’s the car) and I just shake my head. Now what? Well, on the way here I went past KK. Why don’t I just drive the length of it in St. Francis? That was the best I could do at this point.
That’s what I did. One or two blocks from where I crossed KK, was a huge lit sign “Thomas More High School.” I’m swearing under my breath, “What’s up with Google not having that &@$! thing?” What’s more I’m following other cars back to a parking lot…this has GOT to be the place!
People are still arriving, so even if I’m late, I shouldn’t be too bad. It was only 7:05. I’d just sneak in the back . . .
Just bought my ticket. It reads 7:30 on the ticket face. Hmmm. Guess I didn’t need to rush quite so much, did I?
The lady selling the ticket asks, “Who are you here for?”
I look at her and mumble, “I guess the groom.” I think I’m preconditioned. She thought I was trying to be funny. In reality, I think I bonked my head more than I thought in that dark stairwell.
“And how many?”
I look around. There is no one within 20 feet of me. I hate this question. When I’m at the movies. When I go out to eat. Everytime, the admission question becomes a personal affront to my lifestyle. “One,” I say quietly. In today’s society, being a party of one is just a shave better than full on leprosy. I wonder if any of those pageant queens will ever adopt a platform of “Stop the persecution of the alone.” I’ve finally grown into being comfortable with always being alone and yet that persistent question.
Rant over.
I find my seat and I get the camera ready. It’s my new Canon PowerShot SD110 3.2MP Digital Elph with a 2x Optical Zoom with a 16Mb SD card standard–I upgraded to the 256Mb…I’m geeking out a little now, right? Sorry. Tell me to stop when that happens again.
Anyway, I figure this will be a great test for it. Dark auditorium and I’m back in the H row, so that’s a good 60-70 yards from the action I figure. Well, feet maybe. I dunno. I was getting all prepared for metric and we never went and now I can’t judge distances. Darn 70s. They should have never said that to us kids.
Rant over.
So I turn on the camera and note the “LOW BATTERY” icon. Oh, no! Not at the beginning. I figure I can sneak three or four shots, maybe. So I shoot two and notice it taking a while to recharge. Better save the battery.
I put the camera away and that’s when I hear the host announce the swimsuit competition. GADNABIT! My camera is out of commission!
By the way, the swimsuit competition is far too short. I just thought I’d mention this. I’m thinking you could budget, oh, let’s say 30 minutes or so for this. It would give the young ladies time to change into their outfits for the talent portion as it takes time to get through all the ladies in the suits.
Just thought I’d make the suggestion. I was enjoying the presentation immensely. The guy next to me had some sort of 500 power telescopic lens on his camera and ate up two rolls of film during the 20 seconds that competition seems to take.
During the talent, we had singers, dancers, a young lady played flute and then we had one young woman that was an art major and drew a picture of Jim Morrison to the Doors tune “Light my Fire.” They were all very talented young people.
During intermission, I met one of the young ladies that will be on my show in the near future and we took a few pictures that turned out just fine. This was good, because everything I took of action up on stage–what little I chanced–was pathetic. The flash just didn’t travel all that distance–traditional or metric.
We get to Nikki’s goodbye speech and she absolutely floors me by mentioning me by name. That was really something. She’s such a class act.
I attempt to take a photo as she’s taking off the crown, but the flash won’t recharge. Then when she takes it off, she holds the crown out for all to see. However, I’m messing around so much with the camera, I just see her move the crown out and I figure, “Holy Christmas! She’s going to throw the tiara into the crowd! Just like a Brewers game.” Luckily, Nikki’s relations with about 20 really large cousins is in front of me, so I’m not frightened I’ll get beamed with it. Either way, I flinched. The camera dude next to me snickers and continues snapping away.
I did squeeze off one more photo. I probably have juice for just one more. They are about to announce the new Miss St. Francis . . . and . . . my . . . battery . . . dies.
Okay. That just isn’t right.
Anyway, the night was great. I did find the place and saw some great entertainment. Nikki mentioned me in her farewell speech and she saw I was there. Sure, they sneaked the newly crowned Miss St. Francis out the back door like the President amid Secret Service so I couldn’t invite her on the show…but it was a great night as it was.
I figure, why try my luck?
Captain Catastrophe
P.S. I’m going to the Wheel & Sprocket bike show next week to get a new bike. Any suggestions? (And a helpful suggestion–not something like upping my insurance.)
You also know nothing ever comes easy for me. Simply getting to an event…on time…can be a major effort. There’s tires that go flat. Injuries that just freakishly manifest themselves upon me. Urges to go on vacation–well, I do tend to go on vacation frequently. You have to admit.
So I know what date the event is…but have no idea when it will happen. I e-mail Nikki. You’d figure she knows and she tells me “7:00 p.m., I think.” Okay, that wasn’t exactly authoritative. So now I’m picturing trying to sneak into the auditorium when it is underway. I figure 6:30 to be safe.
Yeah. Safety. All about the safety. That’s me.
So I have the time. I have the date. Where is it being held? “Thomas More Auditorium.” What the hell is that? Time to pull out all the research stops. So I google Thomas More Auditorium, St. Francis. Nothing definitive. I further find out this location is on the corner of KK & Warnimont. Great, so I look that up. But Warnimont changes name and splits a couple of places. Sweating now. MapQuest, GoogleMaps, MapBlast, YahooMaps…all open in separate browsers. Comparing, contrasting…looking for an actual address to input into my GPS in the car.
Nothing, but I had it narrowed down.
See, I figured out Warnimont becomes Lake Drive. And I found a St. Francis Seminary. I figured, “Thomas More was a famous religious type character. Must be the name of one of the buildings there.”
So I get in the car at 6:00 (to be safe) and dial in 3257 S Lake Dr.
It writes itself from there, don’t it.
The sun is setting and I’m following my GPS’s commands. For the most part. I kind of know where St. Francis is, but I don’t have much call to go out there, so I’m basically blindly following the GPS commands. Which hurts me in the Marquette. It considered going straight, toward the lake, an “exit” which threw me. I knew I did something wrong as I started going north on 43 when the GPS announced: “Off route. Recalculating.” I always thought they should allow you to download different voices. I would get the Homer Simpson model so when I’d pull a maneuver like that, it would just announce, “Doh!”
So now I’m the only Milwaukee native ever to go north from the Marquette in an attempt to find St. Francis.
This also explains why I bought a GPS in the first place.
Well, that and it’s electronics. We all know I love electronics. Unfortunately, they don’t love me back.
I somehow exit and get back on the freeway and give it another go. I’m driving along on the Hoan Bridge (which as a kid I always thought was the “Home Bridge” and the most embarrassing name of landmark ever. That was before the U.S. Bank company defaced my beloved First Wisconsin Building, but I digress.) I noticed the Port of Milwaukee, which I started thinking I should really go explore some time. I had read that the Port of Milwaukee is actually more active than the Chicago Port and thought that might be exciting . . .
Okay, missed another exit.
“Off route. Recalculating.” She kind of sounded like that female voice that announces how much time until the self-destruct of the bad guy’s lair sounds in all the James Bond movies. I really need Homer. Or like Moe from the Three Stooges. “Eh…wise guy, hunh?”
I somehow get myself on Oklahoma and I’m going straight for the lake. Stay on target, I murmur to myself in some sort of Star Wars flashback. Stay on target.
Oddly, I get to the lake and I turn right. I do not drive into the drink. Anyway, there were houses in the way. They would have stopped me.
I go past some beautiful church-like stuff on my right, but I figure this just didn’t look right. I keep driving. And driving. My GPS is saying, “Make a U – Turn.” So I figure it must have been that church looking place.
But there was no one in the parking lot. And it was ten to seven. Seems odd.
Wait a minute, I think. Nikki said 7:00 p.m., I think! If it were 7:30, I’d be 40 minutes early. I did it! I found the place. In fact, the approach was so gorgeous I decided to pull out my new digital camera and snap a shot of the exterior.
As I get out of the car, I see signs for the “Seminary Theater.” That’s got to be it, I think. Then I see a little sheet of paper taped below the sign. “This way to the Talent Show.” That’s odd, I thought. Usually, they call these pageants, but whatever.
I walk in and another sign says go in elevator to Talent show. Third floor for Talent Show. Well, I think, they certainly have enough signs.
The place is like a hundred years old. The lights are dim and I slowly step down the hallway under these unshielded bulbs of maybe 30 watts a piece. Prerecorded rap music is playing at the end of the hallway. This should be interesting, I think. Never saw someone “rap” for their talent.
No one is manning the ticket table. I pat myself on the back, again, for being so early. I seek out one of the ladies at the refreshments booth. They seemed very surprised to see me.
That’s when I look around and notice I’m the only white guy in the place. Heck, I’m the only guy.
It’s starting to sink in. This is why they call it being thick.
“Uh, is this the Thomas More Auditorium?”
“No.”
“Do you know where it is?”
“No. We could probably find somebody.”
I look at my watch. Five to seven.
“That won’t be necessary. Do you have a corner in which I can curl up and have a good cry?”
They just look as I quickly make for the door.
FIVE MINUTES! How am I going to find a place that I have no address for in FIVE MINUTES!
Can’t wait for the elevator. Gotta hurry. Here’s the steps. Wait a minute, no lights on in here. No, no, gotta hurry. Got to get moving. Steps are all the same. Don’t need lights. Even though this is building I’ve never been in before. And every floor seems to list to the left. And it’s excruciating dark already . . .
Ever try to walk down steps in the dark? Well, before you criticize me on this, you ought to try it. Particularly if the landings are unusually, well, shallow.
That’s right. Walked right into the wall. My response? Instead of the usual, “Owie!” or “Not the face!” was just, “Well, I guess I have some writing ahead of me.”
Rubbing my schnoz, I emerge from the building AND STILL NO ONE is in the parking lot. That talent show must be at eight or something. Why am I even wondering? I have like three minutes left. And at pageants, they don’t play coming attractions and Mountain Dew ads before the show.
I hop into the Red Rocket (yeah, that’s the car) and I just shake my head. Now what? Well, on the way here I went past KK. Why don’t I just drive the length of it in St. Francis? That was the best I could do at this point.
That’s what I did. One or two blocks from where I crossed KK, was a huge lit sign “Thomas More High School.” I’m swearing under my breath, “What’s up with Google not having that &@$! thing?” What’s more I’m following other cars back to a parking lot…this has GOT to be the place!
People are still arriving, so even if I’m late, I shouldn’t be too bad. It was only 7:05. I’d just sneak in the back . . .
Just bought my ticket. It reads 7:30 on the ticket face. Hmmm. Guess I didn’t need to rush quite so much, did I?
The lady selling the ticket asks, “Who are you here for?”
I look at her and mumble, “I guess the groom.” I think I’m preconditioned. She thought I was trying to be funny. In reality, I think I bonked my head more than I thought in that dark stairwell.
“And how many?”
I look around. There is no one within 20 feet of me. I hate this question. When I’m at the movies. When I go out to eat. Everytime, the admission question becomes a personal affront to my lifestyle. “One,” I say quietly. In today’s society, being a party of one is just a shave better than full on leprosy. I wonder if any of those pageant queens will ever adopt a platform of “Stop the persecution of the alone.” I’ve finally grown into being comfortable with always being alone and yet that persistent question.
Rant over.
I find my seat and I get the camera ready. It’s my new Canon PowerShot SD110 3.2MP Digital Elph with a 2x Optical Zoom with a 16Mb SD card standard–I upgraded to the 256Mb…I’m geeking out a little now, right? Sorry. Tell me to stop when that happens again.
Anyway, I figure this will be a great test for it. Dark auditorium and I’m back in the H row, so that’s a good 60-70 yards from the action I figure. Well, feet maybe. I dunno. I was getting all prepared for metric and we never went and now I can’t judge distances. Darn 70s. They should have never said that to us kids.
Rant over.
So I turn on the camera and note the “LOW BATTERY” icon. Oh, no! Not at the beginning. I figure I can sneak three or four shots, maybe. So I shoot two and notice it taking a while to recharge. Better save the battery.
I put the camera away and that’s when I hear the host announce the swimsuit competition. GADNABIT! My camera is out of commission!
By the way, the swimsuit competition is far too short. I just thought I’d mention this. I’m thinking you could budget, oh, let’s say 30 minutes or so for this. It would give the young ladies time to change into their outfits for the talent portion as it takes time to get through all the ladies in the suits.
Just thought I’d make the suggestion. I was enjoying the presentation immensely. The guy next to me had some sort of 500 power telescopic lens on his camera and ate up two rolls of film during the 20 seconds that competition seems to take.
During the talent, we had singers, dancers, a young lady played flute and then we had one young woman that was an art major and drew a picture of Jim Morrison to the Doors tune “Light my Fire.” They were all very talented young people.
During intermission, I met one of the young ladies that will be on my show in the near future and we took a few pictures that turned out just fine. This was good, because everything I took of action up on stage–what little I chanced–was pathetic. The flash just didn’t travel all that distance–traditional or metric.
We get to Nikki’s goodbye speech and she absolutely floors me by mentioning me by name. That was really something. She’s such a class act.
I attempt to take a photo as she’s taking off the crown, but the flash won’t recharge. Then when she takes it off, she holds the crown out for all to see. However, I’m messing around so much with the camera, I just see her move the crown out and I figure, “Holy Christmas! She’s going to throw the tiara into the crowd! Just like a Brewers game.” Luckily, Nikki’s relations with about 20 really large cousins is in front of me, so I’m not frightened I’ll get beamed with it. Either way, I flinched. The camera dude next to me snickers and continues snapping away.
I did squeeze off one more photo. I probably have juice for just one more. They are about to announce the new Miss St. Francis . . . and . . . my . . . battery . . . dies.
Okay. That just isn’t right.
Anyway, the night was great. I did find the place and saw some great entertainment. Nikki mentioned me in her farewell speech and she saw I was there. Sure, they sneaked the newly crowned Miss St. Francis out the back door like the President amid Secret Service so I couldn’t invite her on the show…but it was a great night as it was.
I figure, why try my luck?
Captain Catastrophe
P.S. I’m going to the Wheel & Sprocket bike show next week to get a new bike. Any suggestions? (And a helpful suggestion–not something like upping my insurance.)