Wednesday, August 31, 2005

My local super market is running a sale on Mandarin Oranges (canned, not cupped.) Ten cans for Ten bucks. Actually, there are many dozens of items priced 10-for-10, and you can mix and match. Pick up some paper towels, some off-brand soup mix, and some Gatorade. However, when I see the 10-for-10 signs go up, I know only one thing: It's orange-picking season! WOOOO!

Therefore, this afternoon, on the way home from the litigation fiesta I call work, the tot and I stopped by Mr. Albertson's super market to gather more canned oranges for my horde. Having strapped the pig-tailed howler monkey into the kiddy seat of the shopping cart, I scarcely notice as other non-mandarin-orange 10-for-10 products fade past me. Like a pair hungry otters within sight of a pile of salmon carcasses, we dart straight to the canned fruit aisle, pushing aside gray-haired grandmothers and hopeless yokels. My eyes gape with wonder and awe at the tower of smartly stacked cases of of short peel-top cans with blue and orange labels. My girl lets loose a presciently-timed shriek of glee, and meets my smile with all six of her teeth gleaming.

My cart loaded with more mandarin oranges that was truly decent for me to buy at one time, yet not quite the store's complete supply, we made our way to the check stand. I'm not going to say how many cans I had in my cart, but let's just say that I couldn't honestly use the express lane... I'll also say that I detected a slight hint of surprise (or was it revulsion?) in the eye of the checker when he asked me how many there were. I suppose that I represented the risk that management worries about when they plan this 10-for-10 circus of citric delight, but that's their problem. Loss leaders taste good.

The woman behind me looked at my cart with indignation. My daughter looked back, lifted her chin and shrieked with contempt. I grinned, knowing that the woman has been put firmly in her place.

But now, (Yes Brenda, I know I'm not supposed to begin a sentence with a conjunction) we come to the point of this little tale. See, while we stood in line waiting to pay for the juicy orange treasure, I noticed that the guy in front of me had a not-quite-as-obscene pile of Coors Lite in his cart. Odd enough for Oregon, but what was truly odd were the cans. They were SMALL. Like Red Bull-sized cans of bad beer. I mean, what the hell is the point??

If it were good beer, I could imagine small cans for a taste without the buzz. I've been known to order a six-ounce glass of Hammerhead at McMinnamins just for a taste, but we're talking about Coors Lite, a beer that tastes like watered-down cat piss. (Or so I imagine, since I've never actually tasted Coors Lite...) It doesn't matter though because this guy wasn't just looking for a taste. He had enough tiny play-cans of Coors Lite to get himself and one other fishing buddy at least partially inebriated. That is, unless they passed out first from exhaustion after opening so many friggin little cans.

I don't know. Maybe they were 10-for-10 as well. It just seems that if you're going to subject yourself to bad beer, it would be easier and more efficient to buy the 24 case of grown-up sized cans. At least the case comes with a handle.

Tuesday, August 30, 2005

My dog is looking at me. I think maybe he knows something I don't. There are times when I think maybe he's not very smart, like when he eats bark, or is startled by the squeaking of his squeeze toy.

But then, there are the times that he strategically places himself under the the baby's high chair to catch falling Cheerios, or waits until we leave the room before stealing my dirty shorts, that make me think, maybe he's sort of smart. (for a dog at least.)

He's a big mix of stuff with Husky and Shepherd and Lab, and probably other things. He can't fetch to save his life, and if a burglar broke in, he'd roll over and wait for the meth-head to rub his tummy... But then , when the baby yanks his ears and pokes his eyes, he just sits there calmly and doesn't poke, yank, or bite back. So, generally a good dog.

And then... there are times, like right now, when I'm sitting pants-less at the computer, drinking Pepsi One, listening to bad 80's music, when he gives me a very knowing look, and I suddenly realize, all in all, he's probably smarter than me, and he refrains from gnawing on my juggler, for no other reason than I'm an easy and regular source of food.

I think I'll go find that rawhide that I bought earlier.

Monday, August 29, 2005

Oh, one more thing, just in case you're not keeping up with the Lee-Adama-Is-a-Cylon blog, the current thinking over there is:

Lee = Cylon
Cmdr. Adama = maybe a Cylon
Dr. Baltar = definitely a Cylon
the Sharons = Cylons
Six = Cylon, but maybe also something more...
Starbuck = not a Cylon, perhaps the chosen one, Servant of the Gods, or the Arrow of Apollo
Cally = Cylon
Ellen Tigh = Ironically not a Cylon
President Rosalyn = not a Cylon, just a loon
Lance Armstrong = Cylon (not kidding)
I could use a drink, which shouldn't surprise anyone. I worked all weekend. Not long hours, mind you, but I did put in office time both days this weekend. Now, I have that edgy foggy feeling you get from lack of sleep. Like I could punch some one in the head, or just as quickly, bake some cookies.

Part of the problem is that I had depositions scheduled for this afternoon. Which meant that I had to prepare for tomorrow's arbitration yesterday. This was the second setting for this depo. There are three parties, and therefore, there are three attorneys. The plaintiff requires an interpreter, so we got one of those too. Of course, we also had the court reporter.

Today was the second setting. We had to reset the first time because the defendants and the interpreter failed to show up. Today, we had the interpreter, three attorneys and the court reporter, but no witnesses. None of the parties ever showed up for their own depositions. SO, after several days of rushing around to get work done, I am left with a pause, and I feel a bit squirrelly. So a drink, I think, may be in order, to set things aright... Unfortunately, I still have two hours to go, so perhaps I'll settle for a Pepsi One, or maybe a Coke Two...

Sunday, August 28, 2005

Coke Zero. WTF?

Zero calorie Coke. Um, isn't that diet coke? No, see, uh, this has "real cola taste." Which means what, Diet Coke tastes like Yak-Ass?

I guess the problem started with the marketing jerk-offs over at Pepsi who discovered that they could accumulate 8% more of the world's wealth by selling a one-calorie per serving cola product and calling it, astonishingly, "One." Whereas, One used to be the loneliest number, it is now apparently the stuff marketing is made of. C'mon everyone is doing it: Pepsi One, Army of One, The One Campaign (Brad Pitt feeds the world...).

So, the folks at Pepsico spend five years and 20 million dollars to come up with "One" as their new product label. (I'm in the wrong business.) Then, as Cola wars go, Coke had to retaliate, but what could they do? They were caught by surprise. They had no time to act, low-calorie cola was flying off the shelves and Diet Coke was losing ground. Desperate times called for desperate measures, so the MacGuyvers over at Coke pulled out the stops. Relying on the suicide soda fountain tactics of their youth, they mixed Coke with Diet Coke for a half-calorie half-flavored product named, of all things, Coke 2. I mean if you can't use One, then Two is the next best thing, right? Well, apparently only one person in the entire country bothered to drink Coke 2, and that was me. Although, admittedly, it had a slightly metallic taste, and made my tongue a little numb.

Having failed to staunch Pepsi One's advance, Coke Officials have decided to just bracket the Pesi product by releasing Coke Zero. Their thought process, if we take Zero and Two, then there's no where for One to go...

But now I'm thirsty. If only Sapphire would make a low-calorie gin...

Saturday, August 27, 2005

Cage Match!

Bobby Brown v. An Ostrich = Ostrich wins
Ostrich v. Dick Cheney = Ostrich
Ostrich v. Russel Crow = Russel Crowe
Russel Crowe v. a Goat = Russel Crowe
Russel Crowe v. a Cheetah = Cheetah wins
Cheetah v. Dick Clark = Cheetah
Cheetah v. Lance Armstrong = Cheetah
Cheetah v. Mick Jagger = Cheetah
Cheetah v. Bruce Lee = Bruce Lee
Bruce Lee v. A Bear = Bear
Bear v. Steve McQueen = Steve McQueen
Steve McQueen v. Loch Ness Monster = Nessie
Nessie v. Santa Clause = Draw

Friday, August 26, 2005

I really wish that I had not seen this.

Thursday, August 25, 2005

Yesterday, I posted a comment on another blog. Or, well, the day before yesterday. (Damn international date line...) Anyway, I posted a comment. I was one of several commenters. However, the god-like blogger saw my comment and entered a whole new entry just to adress my comment. It was like being Courtney Cox, and getting pulled on stage by Bruce Springsteen. The sweaty blogger spotted me and we did our wiggly 80's dance together.

Want to know what I said? Well, I'm not going to tell you. I will, however, let you search for it yourself here.

And with that link, my friends, I have posted my first official Battlestar Galactica entry.

Ed, let's go to the tally board!!

Number of posts that reference TV shows: 2

Number of posts that reference Battlestar Galactica: 1

Number of posts which might offend my mother: 4

Number of sunflower seeds currently in my mouth: 7

Wednesday, August 24, 2005

Doc: A man being cared for and made comfortable until he expires... The girls, you put to the task. Deduct your time from my pay.
Al: I get the bag of shit.
Doc: You get to care for a human being in his last extremity.
Al: A Human Being in his last extremity IS a bag of shit.

Deadwood may be the greatest show ever...

Tuesday, August 23, 2005

I have mysterious blotches on my legs, all below the knees. You would not find them sexy. Trust me. Unless of course you have a fetish for leg blotches, in which case I suggest that you click here. That obviously was not my leg, nor do my splotches look like that. I just thought, perhaps, you would enjoy the pictures...

I believe the blotches came from my time in Vantage. The Vantage River Rock Resort, to be precise. Vantage is basically the out-of-town get-away destination for folks who live in George, WA, and that's saying something. They do have hot showers and a cool swimming pool, so it's not exactly the trenches of Galipoli.

We camped. I slept outside under the stars, or to be more precise, under the general debris blowing overhead in the currents of 70 MPH wind gusts. Ah, the high desert! But the showat the gorge was good, at least for those who enjoy Dave.

Well, something must have bitten me, or maybe I rubbed up against a strange plant. Regardless, I have blotches and one of them looks like Buddy Hackett. Is Buddy still alive? If so, is there anyway to get him to autograph my doppleganger blotch? And if I get it autographed, can I sell pictures of it on Ebay...?

Well, can I?

Thursday, August 18, 2005

OK, so after two posts, the tally is:

Number of posts referencing alcohol consumption: 2

Number of posts about Battlestar Galactica: 0

Rate of posts per week: 2

Number of readers other than me: 0
I am tired. I am so tired that I feel drunk. This drunken feeling clouds my judgment and my memory. So, maybe I'm wrong about being tired. Perhaps I'm actually drunk, which means that I am not tired at all. Woo Hoo! Fill'er up barkeep...

Saturday, August 13, 2005

Good evening. Welcome to the lounge. This is my little experiment in narcissistic self-importance. Everyone is blogging, so why can't I? For those who remember me from my WUCL days, I suppose this will be a continuation of the famed Ass-Page.

So, remember to tune-in frequently to read my startling epiphanies on such topics as Poker, Battlestar Galactica, Drinks made with gin, and why all Religion makes me sad.

May I pour you another?