Red Nose

Loving Learning

Lately I've been working on a project that started with because I read about how to use PowerPoint to create branched scenarios. I thought I might be able to apply the technique to a course I was developing, so I kind of jumped right in and explored and tried different things and finally learned how to do it.

Oh, I can already hear you snoring, but bear with me.

This was fun for me. I love figuring that stuff out.

Several years ago, I took the Strengths Finder test from Now, Discover Your Strengths by Marcus Buckingham. You answer a bunch of questions, click Submit, and receive your four main strengths. One of mine is Learner.

Huh. Makes sense.

I've always thought that if I ever won the lottery, if there was ever a time when I didn't have to earn a living, I'd go back to school.

Oh, I wouldn't go back to earn a specific degree or certification or anything like that. I'd go back to school to learn whatever struck my fancy. Courses in writing, or storytelling, or legends and myths. (One of my favorite courses in college was "Arthurian Legend.") I once took a course called "Cosmic Evolution" to fulfill a science requirement; it turned out to be pretty fascinating. I'd probably delve into history, or art, or even mechanical things -- wood shop!

I'd audit all these courses or take them pass/fail, because I don't want the pressure of exams hanging over my head. I just want to learn what interests me, to jump the rabbit hole and see where it takes me without having to worry about grades or GPAs or credits. In fact, if I started taking a course and didn't like it for whatever reason, I'd just drop the course and find another one.

If I managed to qualify for a degree, great. If not, no problem.

I want to be like a woman I met through STC. Lottie Applewhite (isn't that a fabulous name?) was old when I met her years ago. Lottie's from Chapel Hill, North Carolina, and has the most gorgeous southern accent. At the 1998 conference, I had breakfast with her; she must have been in her 70s at the time. I asked her what she had been up to lately.

"Well Mary, Ah just earned mah fifth mastuh's degree!"

"Fifth master's degree! How'd you do that, Lottie?" I replied in amazement.

"Well, Ah jest keep takin' courses at the universuhty, and every once in a while they give me anothuh degree!" she said.

I want to be her. Someday I will.

Condition Is Everything

I meant to write this last night, and then Gilda started up on TCM and I got distracted by Glen Ford and Rita Hayworth. Did people really dress like that? I suppose the rich did.

Anyway, here's what I started to tell you.

Back in the dark ages, I did a lot of community theater. (I was going to be a famous actress back then and it seemed like a good way to get some acting chops.) Because of my many important community theater connections, I happened to get a gig at a dinner theater. I landed the plum roles of the maid and the female dinner guest in Blithe Spirit. It was really fun -- a good cast, a fun play, a nice director.

Seeing as how this was dinner theater on the cheap, we pretty much supplied our own costumes. As the dinner guest, I wore a lovely red velvet, empire-waist gown that I had worn to a formal dance a couple years before. The director supplied a cool necklace: a large pocket watch hanging from a chain.

The show ran on weekends for three weeks or so, then I got a phone call. The dinner theater had abruptly shut down and the building closed up tight, so no more show. Everything associated with the show -- costumes, props, sets -- was left behind.

Except the pocket watch. The director told me to take it home every night because it was valuable, so I did. He never got in touch to ask for it back; I didn't have his phone number or address. I went away to college; I ran off to the circus. Life happened.

The watch rested in my jewelry box -- close to 40 years.

When I did the flea market a few weeks ago, I toyed with the idea of selling it, but decided not to. It really didn't seem like flea market material.

I thought I might try selling it on eBay. To do that, I figured I better do a little research. I found out a lot about Elgin antique pocket watches, the most important bit being that the serial number that matters is the one on the works, not the one on the case.

I managed to pop open the back and got the serial number. I found a web site where I could look up the number, so I did.

The watch dates from 1891. There was a lot of other info that meant nothing to me, but that date was kind of exciting. A little more googling led me to a DC auction house, Weschler and Sons. I found out that they offer free auction-value appraisals the first Thursday of each month. No appointment needed; just show up with your swag.

This was last Wednesday, so that seemed to be sign.

I headed over to the shop on Thursday. The storefront for the shop was full of furniture, so I asked the guy supervising where the appraisals were.

"Next entrance, third floor. Hope you get rich!"

Another sign? Perhaps.

Up to the third floor I went. A very nice lady asked if she could help me.

"I'd like to get a free appraisal," I said.

"What have you got?" she asked, somewhat skeptically.

"I have this," I said, pulling out the watch and handing it to her.

"Oh!" she exclaimed, sounding impressed. My heart did just a little flip. "Let me call John Weschler," she said, "wait just a moment."

As I waited, I thought about all the ways I could spend my new-found fortune.

A couple minutes later, a very businesslike gentleman came out and escorted me back to his office. I handed over the watch.

He was not nearly as impressed as the lady.

"It's gold-filled, not gold," he said. He popped open the cover.

"There's some damage to the face," he said. He popped open the back and looked up the serial number.

"1891," he said.

"Condition is everything with these pieces," he said.

"Auction value is $100." He handed back the watch.

"Thank you very much," I said.

Oh well. Not gonna be rich. But the vanilla bean cupcake I treated myself to was delicious!

Yeah, I Could Do That

I have decided that I really want to be a member of the idle rich.

I have not come to this decision lightly; no, I have given it a lot of thought and I have realized that I have all of the qualifications, to wit:

• I enjoy sitting on my ass.
• I am quite willing to let other people shampoo my hair, massage my back, and scrape the calluses off my feet.
• I float on rafts really well, especially if there is a cold sparkling beverage in my hand.
• I look great in big sunglasses.
• And expensive clothes.
• I could get used to being driven around in a big comfortable car quite easily.
• Or sedan chair, upholstered in silk with big poofy pillows.
• I am quite capable of telling other people how to clean my spacious house that is full of the Latest Things.
• Gourmet food? Love it. No problems there, especially since someone else would cook it for me, unless I wanted to make a BLT for myself.
• With artisan bacon and excellent bread and fabulous homegrown tomatoes.
• Grown in my extensive organic vegetable garden by my hot gardener.
• Which is behind the Olympic pool and hot tub.
• Next to the cabana.
• Which is maintained by the cabana boy(s).
• Anyway! I'm highly skilled at delegating and critiquing and demanding (but in a nice way), especially if it means that I don't have to do any of it, which seems to be main requirement for being idly rich.

Now I just need to figure out how to join...

I Want To Believe It's Magic

We saw The Illusionist yesterday, a new movie starring Edward Norton, Paul Giamatti, and Jessica Biel. It's a lost-love-found and bad-guys-subverted-in-clever-ways plot, with elements of The Shawshank Redemption and The Usual Suspects. The acting is excellent, the costumes gorgeous, the cinematography perfect.

But that's not why I loved it. I loved it for the magic.

I know a little bit about magic -- the magic of sleight-of-hand manipulation, the magic of big illusions. I can do a bad rendition of The French Drop, which is one of the most basic sleight-of-hand tricks you can do. I can pull a quarter out of your ear, but it works best on little kids who don't know what I'm doing.

When you go to a magic shop, you don't pay for the prop; you pay for the knowledge, the secret behind the trick. I bought a few little magic tricks to add to my clown repertoire -- a floating cane, a rope that changes color -- but I never got very good at doing them. And I was far too lazy to become a good sleight artist.

I never lost my love of magic, though. Sleight-of-hand is my favorite. Up close and personal, no machinery but the human hand and the art of misdirection. I love watching it. I love being amazed by it. I don't want to know the answer.

I love the great magicians. I wish I could have seen Houdini. I have seen David Copperfield and Ricky Jay and Penn and Teller live. David Copperfield did great, great illusions. During the finale of his show, he made it snow throughout the arena. Ricky Jay (and his 52 assistants) did mindboggling card manipulation, from guessing the card you had in your hand to completely controlling the outcome of a poker hand. Penn and Teller, although they do tell you how some things are done, keep enough unknown to send you away shaking your head.

So the illusions in the film grabbed me and didn't let me go. I don't even care if some were CGI and special effects. I loved it anyway.

Maybe because I prefer to believe in magic.

---

PS: The haircut's great! And I apologize to everyone who has the helmet cut or the triangular sideburns. It's not that I don't like them -- I don't like them on me. I love them on you!

Rush-Hour Fantasy

I was driving home from work this evening after a bad sort of day when I heard the train whistle, the siren song of getting away from it all, and I thought I just might park the car right there on Route 29 and get on the subway to Union Station and buy a ticket on the Capitol Limited to Chicago.

I'd definitely get sleeping accommodations, because I just want to have my own private little world on this train, my own escape. I'd gaze out the window as we roll right through my childhood neighborhood, west toward Harper's Ferry, over the Appalachian Mountains. Every time the whistle blows, I'd smile.

I'd have some dinner in the dining car, probably along about Cumberland. I'd get the steak, medium rare, and a glass of red wine, and a dish of vanilla ice cream. I'd chat with the other folks seated at my table, chat about where we were going and what we would do when we got there, what we did for a living and why we loved the train. Over coffee, I'd tell the tale of our cross-country train trip in 1994, when we flew to Seattle, and stopped in Essex, and stopped again in Chicago, and then rode back to Washington through the New River Gorge in West Virginia.

Back in my roomette I'd gaze out the window, shifted into neutral, watching the mountains go by in the fading light as we head out of Maryland and into Pennsylvania. The porter would come by and set up my bed, and then I'd stretch out, read a little, and doze off as the train rocked over the tracks.

I'd wake up right around midnight or so, as the train pulls into Pittsburgh for a long stop. I'd stretch, get ready for bed, and settle in for the rest of the ride. As we pull out of the station, I'd watch the lights of the city unfold and recede as we ride through western Pennsylvania and into Ohio, and then I'd fall asleep.

I'd wake early as we chug through Elkhart, Indiana, when the sleeping car attendant knocks on my door with coffee and the newspaper. I'd wash up and take my breakfast in the dining car, seeing familiar faces from the night before, wishing the attendants and conductors and my fellow travellers a good morning. By the time I got back to my nest, my berth would be transformed back into a seat, and I'd sit and watch the city of Chicago rise up to meet me in the morning light.

I'd get a cab at Penn Station, right to Garrett's Popcorn on North Michigan Avenue, and I'd take my caramel corn to the lakefront, where I'd sit in the sun (for of course it will be sunny) and watch the lake glitter until lunchtime. Then I'd have lunch at a diner -- maybe Cambridge House -- and I'd go to the Field Museum and I'd take a cab back to Penn Station and catch the Capitol Limited back to Washington.

Just the thought of doing that, just that one little fantasy, the result of the long, low sound of the train whistle, made me sigh.

And then the light turned green and I drove on home, home to my Joe, and that was just fine.

Powerball Fantasy

So the Powerball lottery is up to 300 million bucks.

I'm reminded of the old joke:

Every night Bob prays fervently to the Lord: "Lord, please let me win the lottery. Lord, please let me win the lottery. Lord, please let me win the lottery." Finally one night, Bob hears the celestial voice of the Lord: "Bob, meet me halfway. Buy a ticket."

The late, great comedian Robin Harris did a bit about getting rich:

His buddy asks, "Robin, if you get rich, are you gonna change?"

And he replies, "You're god-damn RIGHT I'm gonna change!"

Finally, I remember once (back in the misty past) when Howard Stern asked people if they'd quit their jobs if they won the lottery. Joe actually called in and said, "No, I won't quit my job. But I'll go into work with a whole new attitude."

Imagine. Three hundred million dollars. Well, not that much, given taxes. Let's cut it in half, just to be on the safe side.

Imagine. One hundred and fifty million dollars.

Where you gonna spend that kind of money?

Oh, let me see:

Pay off everything, and I mean everything (including mortgages), and I still have $149,700,000.

Donate 10 million to save New Orleans, because I just need to. I still have $139,700,000.

Donate 10 million to the Whitman-Walker clinic, because they're actually making a difference in the lives of AIDS sufferers. I still have $129,700,000.

Buy a swell condo in Cleveland Park. I still have $129,000,000.

Buy SonnyeBoy a swell house in Ocean City. I still have $128,500,000.

Make sure my Mom has whatever she wants, wherever she wants it. I still have $128,000,000.

Frittering cash for impulse buying. I still have $127,000,000.

Travel! I still have $126,000,000.

Stash one hundred million in a high-yield money market account -- gotta look out for retirement. I still have $26,000,000.

Season tickets -- box seats -- to the Capitals, Redskins, and Nationals. I don't know how much I still have, but it's probably enough for a few dinners out.

And so on.

Excuse me. I better go buy a ticket.