Hwæt! We Gardena in geardagum,
þeodcyninga, þrym gefrunon,
hu ða æþelingas ellen fremedon.
Oft Scyld Scefing ceaþena þreatum,
monegum mægþum, meodosetla ofteah,
egsode eorlas. Syððan ærest wearð
feasceaft funden, he þæs frofre gebad,
weox under wolcnum, weorðmyndum þah,
oðþæt him æghwylc þara ymbsittendra
ofer hronrade hyran scolde,
gomban gyldan. þæt wæs god cyning!
Ðæm eafera wæs æfter cenned,
geong in geardum, þone god sende
folce to frofre;
"What the hell?" You say, "Why is the Lounge talkin' all foreign, like??"
It isn't foreign folks, not by a long shot. The text above is English, some of the oldest English ever recorded, and from which we receive through time great masters of the language, like William Shakespeare, Thomas Jefferson, and Keanu Reeves.
This is the Prologue to the earliest and possibly greatest epic saga of the English language. It is, you guessed it, Beowulf.
Look, if you can't work out the phonetic cookie crumbs yourself, here is a more-modern translation:
Lo ! the Spear-Danes' glory through splendid achievements
The folk-kings' former fame we have heard of,
How princes displayed then their prowess-in-battle.
Oft Scyld the Scefing from scathers in numbers
From many a people their mead-benches tore.
Since first he found him friendless and wretched,
The earl had had terror: comfort he got for it,
Waxed 'neath the welkin, world-honor gained,
Till all his neighbors o'er sea were compelled to
Bow to his bidding and bring him their tribute :
An excellent atheling ! After was borne him
A son and heir, young in his dwelling,
Whom God-Father sent to solace the people.
OK, so, with out any help, I suppose the Old-English text looses a little in the reading. No matter, this epic poem was meant to be told aloud, around a blazing fire and several flagons of Meade. It is always best when heard. So, here's a sample: (pardon the dramatic sunset intro...)
OK, so, by now, you may be well confused. You may be asking yourself, what in the world is Mr. Gin&Tonic talking about??
Well, obviously, I'm talking about Beowulf. But the reason is that Hollywood is making a heroic stab at bringing the tale to the big screen.
Sure, they have tried before. sometimes creatively, and sometimes less-so. Here, for instance, is one of the better attempts:
OK, so, the 13th Warrior wasn't a great film, but it was creative.. Still, I'm not sure how Spaniard, Antonio Banderas, was cast to play an Arab, who gets enlisted to help Vikings fight a shadowy army of Grendels... But still, it was a provocative interpretation. And if anyone asks Fred, she's sure to give this ensemble cast of burly men a thumbs-up...
But now, some one has seen fit to throw a bountiful budget and a cast with chops at this age-old tale. And, on November 16, the legend will arrive in theaters. Here my friends, is the trailer:
And yes, that is a fully digitized, fully-frontally nude Angelina Jolie as Grendel's Mother.
Seriously, the movie comes out in two weeks. Who wants to come with me?
Thursday, October 25, 2007
Spago's
There is, of course, no one named "Spago." Well, perhaps somewhere in the world there is, but the titular chain of over-priced under-proportioned celebrity-festooned restaurants is not owned by one.
Wolfgang Puck, as you should know, is the creator, owner and operator of the chain. And just for clarification, the chain's name is not actually "Spago's." No, it is "Spago," meaning "twine," and from which we get the word "Spaghetti, " or "little strings..."
Unfortunately, there are many who insist, beyond all curative attempts at correction, to stick a possessive "S" at the end, as if it were owned and operated by Mr. Italian Twine himself.
Spago.
No possessive "S."
But it does not stop there. No, frequently, I hear friendly folks announce their intention to go shopping someplace called "Nordstrom's." Sounds like a nice place. I suppose they might have nice things. Sadly, as far as I've seen, there is no such place as "Nordstom's." Now, two blocks from my office, there is a very large red-brick retail building with a sign outside that reads: "Nordstrom." However, I am quite certain there is no "S" attached to the end.
And while they still existed, you could buy a tie, or an entire set of bed linens, at the Meier & Frank just down the street. However, you could not possibly buy anything at any place called: "Meier & Frank's"
And for your one-stop-shopping needs (groceries, garden supplies, and a gallon of paint) in the Northwest, where do you go??
That's right, you go to Fred Meyer.
Where don't you go? "Fred Meyer's" There's just no such place.
And for pumpkins, this time of year, there is no better place in all the state of Oregon than the Pumpkin Patch on Sauvie Island.
Sauvie. Pronounced: "So-vee." While it has farms and hay rides and general stores and even a nude Columbia River beach, it does not have a possessive "S."
And after all of this running around, pumpkin picking and linen shopping, where might you want to go for dinner? Well, if you are over in Beaverton, there is a fabulous little Indian place called "Swagat." If you go looking for "Swagat's," however, you are not likely to find it.
Wolfgang Puck, as you should know, is the creator, owner and operator of the chain. And just for clarification, the chain's name is not actually "Spago's." No, it is "Spago," meaning "twine," and from which we get the word "Spaghetti, " or "little strings..."
Unfortunately, there are many who insist, beyond all curative attempts at correction, to stick a possessive "S" at the end, as if it were owned and operated by Mr. Italian Twine himself.
Spago.
No possessive "S."
But it does not stop there. No, frequently, I hear friendly folks announce their intention to go shopping someplace called "Nordstrom's." Sounds like a nice place. I suppose they might have nice things. Sadly, as far as I've seen, there is no such place as "Nordstom's." Now, two blocks from my office, there is a very large red-brick retail building with a sign outside that reads: "Nordstrom." However, I am quite certain there is no "S" attached to the end.
And while they still existed, you could buy a tie, or an entire set of bed linens, at the Meier & Frank just down the street. However, you could not possibly buy anything at any place called: "Meier & Frank's"
And for your one-stop-shopping needs (groceries, garden supplies, and a gallon of paint) in the Northwest, where do you go??
That's right, you go to Fred Meyer.
Where don't you go? "Fred Meyer's" There's just no such place.
And for pumpkins, this time of year, there is no better place in all the state of Oregon than the Pumpkin Patch on Sauvie Island.
Sauvie. Pronounced: "So-vee." While it has farms and hay rides and general stores and even a nude Columbia River beach, it does not have a possessive "S."
And after all of this running around, pumpkin picking and linen shopping, where might you want to go for dinner? Well, if you are over in Beaverton, there is a fabulous little Indian place called "Swagat." If you go looking for "Swagat's," however, you are not likely to find it.
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
Ballad of the Bedroom Surprise
It was dark as I crept down the hallway
My kids asleep soundly in bed
I was at the drunk-end of this long day
With beer farts that could wake the dead
With stealth I slunk slow in to felt sheets
But it struck me as if with a gong
Not four did I count there, but six feets!
I knew at once something was wrong
There was my wife, but also another
A girl, I found to my horror
Four sharp rib-poking inches, Oh Brother!
Of course, Dora the Explorer...
My kids asleep soundly in bed
I was at the drunk-end of this long day
With beer farts that could wake the dead
With stealth I slunk slow in to felt sheets
But it struck me as if with a gong
Not four did I count there, but six feets!
I knew at once something was wrong
There was my wife, but also another
A girl, I found to my horror
Four sharp rib-poking inches, Oh Brother!
Of course, Dora the Explorer...
Scarlett Says
You go away. You come back tomorrow. Di di Mao! You go!
No bloggy heer today fo you. Thay nothing you to see heer. Go now.
You not human!
You come back tomorrow.
Sunday, October 21, 2007
Suggestion
"Did you hear that? I think it came from within the wall..."
The kids had finally gone down, and I was slowly sliding toward an early bed. The TV was on, but I was only paying half attention. My chanel-flipping fingers had stopped on a horrible "supernatural" expose on the Travel Channel, called "Most Haunted."
A team of "experts" were gathered with a television crew, and were connected via satellite to a live studio anchor. Spooky graphics and expectant music set the scene. The cameras, set in night vision mode, filmed in eerie green darkness, and cast an unnatural glint off the eyes of the medium-in-charge.
She was a shrewish woman with a Hackney accent, her glinting green eyes darted back and forth as she made wild and unsubstantiated declarations about the "spirit activity" in the room.
She would suggest that she felt a sudden chill, and the others would instantly agree. She claimed that a particular corner of the room felt "spinney." Suddenly, everyone else felt "spinney" too. In silence, she would ask if "anyone heard that?"
"Oh yes," they would all say, though no one could pinpoint the direction of the noise.
Then came the Ouija table. Of course, once every one's hands were on the table it started to tilt, but for some reason it would not levitate. Likewise, the glass on the table would not move until everyone cast a finger upon it. Then, voila, the spirits moved it...
Essentially, there was a group of normal folks standing around an empty room in which nothing happened. However, through the powerful force of suggestion one woman was able to conjure up an spooky expectation of paranormal activity. Of course, the modern high-tech set dressings helped, but really, it was all about her.
Watching with my jaded skeptic's eye, it was fun to deconstruct the gimmickry and showmanship. But still and all, sitting here in the dark under house two days later, writing about and thinking about the show, I admit that I'm a little creeped out.
"Did you hear that noise?"
Now, I try to be resistant to suggestion. Living in 21st century America, you have to have a certain filter against the marketing masses. But still, sometimes, it seeps in.
Then, just yesterday, the girl and I were watching an informative documentary about the origins of canned food. One of the featured canners was James Dole, the founder of Dole Pineapple. The documentary went on to demonstrate the development of pineapple canning technology, and presented the current processing system.
Can by can of sweet fruit rolled by...
By the time we reached the end of the pineapple line, I was salivating. I immediately went to the pantry and pulled out a large can of Dole pineapple. I popped the lid, and devoured the golden yellow bits inside, with the help of the girl, of course...
Suggestion indeed.
The kids had finally gone down, and I was slowly sliding toward an early bed. The TV was on, but I was only paying half attention. My chanel-flipping fingers had stopped on a horrible "supernatural" expose on the Travel Channel, called "Most Haunted."
A team of "experts" were gathered with a television crew, and were connected via satellite to a live studio anchor. Spooky graphics and expectant music set the scene. The cameras, set in night vision mode, filmed in eerie green darkness, and cast an unnatural glint off the eyes of the medium-in-charge.
She was a shrewish woman with a Hackney accent, her glinting green eyes darted back and forth as she made wild and unsubstantiated declarations about the "spirit activity" in the room.
She would suggest that she felt a sudden chill, and the others would instantly agree. She claimed that a particular corner of the room felt "spinney." Suddenly, everyone else felt "spinney" too. In silence, she would ask if "anyone heard that?"
"Oh yes," they would all say, though no one could pinpoint the direction of the noise.
Then came the Ouija table. Of course, once every one's hands were on the table it started to tilt, but for some reason it would not levitate. Likewise, the glass on the table would not move until everyone cast a finger upon it. Then, voila, the spirits moved it...
Essentially, there was a group of normal folks standing around an empty room in which nothing happened. However, through the powerful force of suggestion one woman was able to conjure up an spooky expectation of paranormal activity. Of course, the modern high-tech set dressings helped, but really, it was all about her.
Watching with my jaded skeptic's eye, it was fun to deconstruct the gimmickry and showmanship. But still and all, sitting here in the dark under house two days later, writing about and thinking about the show, I admit that I'm a little creeped out.
"Did you hear that noise?"
Now, I try to be resistant to suggestion. Living in 21st century America, you have to have a certain filter against the marketing masses. But still, sometimes, it seeps in.
Then, just yesterday, the girl and I were watching an informative documentary about the origins of canned food. One of the featured canners was James Dole, the founder of Dole Pineapple. The documentary went on to demonstrate the development of pineapple canning technology, and presented the current processing system.
Can by can of sweet fruit rolled by...
By the time we reached the end of the pineapple line, I was salivating. I immediately went to the pantry and pulled out a large can of Dole pineapple. I popped the lid, and devoured the golden yellow bits inside, with the help of the girl, of course...
Suggestion indeed.
Thursday, October 18, 2007
Suck
[Scene 1] [Fade in] A dark alley, wet with recent rain. Blue neon light from an obscured source reflects in the puddles. A young woman in a short skirt and improbable heels enters, running in terror, darting glances quickly over her shoulder.
Her assailant, his back to the camera, descends from the sky directly into her path. He is dressed stylishly in a long black coat. [close up of his black Bruno Maglis dangling beneath his black Dolce & Gabbana pant legs]
The woman stops, gasping, paralyzed. The man floats toward her, fanged jaws open, head tilted, eyes black. Suddenly, he stops. Over the woman's shoulder he sees another man, also floating, also with fanged jaws open. [kung fu battle ensues]
I'm getting very weary of Vampires. More so, even, than pirates. They are beyond cliche. They are overused and over done. They are a used up, dried out, comically uncreative genre. Worse, even, than westerns.
Always brooding, vaguely androgynous, sensual, sexual, undead. And then, just for a twist, they hand us what? A vampire with a soul? A vampire with remorse? A vampire with love? Or what? Maybe a half vampire? Maybe a Vampire cop?
And then what, we get to know the protagonist vampire, and he (always a "he") doesn't want to feed on humans, so what does he do? Eat rats? Dogs? Takes donations from the morgue or the blood bank? Is his refrigerator filled with bags of blood? Wine bottles of blood? Tupperware?
Look, it's been done. Done to death. Even done to un-death. Yet the same generic, creatively retarded ideas get rehashed and rehashed.
And when the fuck did vampires learn Kung Fu? I don't recall Bram Stoker writing about round house kicks and fists of fury. Seriously, when the hell did that happen? It wasn't Anne Rice either. Her vamps were more likely to go antiquing and shopping for the perfect lamp shade than to lay down any Jiu Jitsu. Was it Blade? Was it Buffy?
I can't remember, did any of the lost boys throw any punches?
There has to be some other plausible device to tell the story of an immortal. Take Highlander, for instance, or Jesus, the Gorgons, certain Jedi, the Flying Dutchman, and the Boat of a Million Years...
After all, how immortal can you be if a well-placed toothpick can end your existence...
So, enough already. Enough sexy Gothy stories about black-clad melancholy blood suckers. Enough with the black leather dusters. Enough with the vampy Matrix ripoffs. Enough with the uber-hip vampire dance clubs. Enough staking. Enough biting. Enough slaying.
The genre has simply lost it's bite. Its sun has set. It's time to lay it in its grave. At least, for the time being.
Her assailant, his back to the camera, descends from the sky directly into her path. He is dressed stylishly in a long black coat. [close up of his black Bruno Maglis dangling beneath his black Dolce & Gabbana pant legs]
The woman stops, gasping, paralyzed. The man floats toward her, fanged jaws open, head tilted, eyes black. Suddenly, he stops. Over the woman's shoulder he sees another man, also floating, also with fanged jaws open. [kung fu battle ensues]
I'm getting very weary of Vampires. More so, even, than pirates. They are beyond cliche. They are overused and over done. They are a used up, dried out, comically uncreative genre. Worse, even, than westerns.Always brooding, vaguely androgynous, sensual, sexual, undead. And then, just for a twist, they hand us what? A vampire with a soul? A vampire with remorse? A vampire with love? Or what? Maybe a half vampire? Maybe a Vampire cop?
And then what, we get to know the protagonist vampire, and he (always a "he") doesn't want to feed on humans, so what does he do? Eat rats? Dogs? Takes donations from the morgue or the blood bank? Is his refrigerator filled with bags of blood? Wine bottles of blood? Tupperware?
Look, it's been done. Done to death. Even done to un-death. Yet the same generic, creatively retarded ideas get rehashed and rehashed.
And when the fuck did vampires learn Kung Fu? I don't recall Bram Stoker writing about round house kicks and fists of fury. Seriously, when the hell did that happen? It wasn't Anne Rice either. Her vamps were more likely to go antiquing and shopping for the perfect lamp shade than to lay down any Jiu Jitsu. Was it Blade? Was it Buffy?
I can't remember, did any of the lost boys throw any punches?
There has to be some other plausible device to tell the story of an immortal. Take Highlander, for instance, or Jesus, the Gorgons, certain Jedi, the Flying Dutchman, and the Boat of a Million Years...
After all, how immortal can you be if a well-placed toothpick can end your existence...
So, enough already. Enough sexy Gothy stories about black-clad melancholy blood suckers. Enough with the black leather dusters. Enough with the vampy Matrix ripoffs. Enough with the uber-hip vampire dance clubs. Enough staking. Enough biting. Enough slaying.
The genre has simply lost it's bite. Its sun has set. It's time to lay it in its grave. At least, for the time being.
Wednesday, October 17, 2007
Nuptuals
Authority, once reserved solely for those who believed in god, is now vested in the likes of me. I am an ordained minister, though lazily agnostic, and I am authorized by my congregation (real and actual, located in Modesto, California) to join couples in genuine legally-binding matrimony.
Perhaps I've joined some of you, who are reading this right now.
I love weddings. They are full of magic and potential. I love being involved, and I've been involved in nearly every capacity. Ring boy, groomsman, groom, guest, usher, photographer, videographer, and flower arranger.
I've never been a bride, nor have I been a caterer. However, the single best job in the entire wedding is Minister. If done right, you can make the mothers laugh and you can make them cry. And if you can think fast on your feet, you can cover the gaffes and make the bride look good...
So, I am up for another wedding this year, in just a couple of weeks. A co-worker is getting married, and I was asked to officiate. This will be wedding number 4, though no-less unique than the three before. The bride and groom are performers, and have a certain theatrical flair. Therefore, I will be in costume.
Beginning with:
The clergy shirt. Nothing says "Divine Authority" like a black shirt with white boxy collar. I haven't worn one before, but I am technically authorized. So, soon, there will be another addition to my wardrobe. Because, you know, chicks dig a man in a uniform...
Then, to complete the ensemble, I will be in my kilt from the waist down. Gordon Regimental, square cut, box pleats, sporran, belt, ghillie brogues, dirk and flashes. The whole 9 yards. (Well, 16 yards, actually).
And yes, as a matter of fact, it is true what a Scotsman wears under his kilt...
There are pictures of the meat and potatoes to prove it.
Now, as a final note, I should confess that there will be one additional fashion accessory. A sword. A big ass broad sword, which will be drawn at the end of the ceremony. You will remember what I said about theatrical...
Anyway, it should come as no surprise, seeing how the processional is a Metalica intro...
I Love Wedings!
Perhaps I've joined some of you, who are reading this right now.
I love weddings. They are full of magic and potential. I love being involved, and I've been involved in nearly every capacity. Ring boy, groomsman, groom, guest, usher, photographer, videographer, and flower arranger.
I've never been a bride, nor have I been a caterer. However, the single best job in the entire wedding is Minister. If done right, you can make the mothers laugh and you can make them cry. And if you can think fast on your feet, you can cover the gaffes and make the bride look good...
So, I am up for another wedding this year, in just a couple of weeks. A co-worker is getting married, and I was asked to officiate. This will be wedding number 4, though no-less unique than the three before. The bride and groom are performers, and have a certain theatrical flair. Therefore, I will be in costume.
Beginning with:
The clergy shirt. Nothing says "Divine Authority" like a black shirt with white boxy collar. I haven't worn one before, but I am technically authorized. So, soon, there will be another addition to my wardrobe. Because, you know, chicks dig a man in a uniform...
Then, to complete the ensemble, I will be in my kilt from the waist down. Gordon Regimental, square cut, box pleats, sporran, belt, ghillie brogues, dirk and flashes. The whole 9 yards. (Well, 16 yards, actually).
And yes, as a matter of fact, it is true what a Scotsman wears under his kilt...
There are pictures of the meat and potatoes to prove it.
Now, as a final note, I should confess that there will be one additional fashion accessory. A sword. A big ass broad sword, which will be drawn at the end of the ceremony. You will remember what I said about theatrical...
Anyway, it should come as no surprise, seeing how the processional is a Metalica intro...
I Love Wedings!
Tuesday, October 16, 2007
2:00 Confussion
The fabulous Vietnamese lunch was working its way through my GI tract, triggering whatever process typically gets triggered after lunch. About one hour had passed. It was time to take a walk down the hall.
I have followed this pattern enough times, thus far, that after five months, our semi-witty and mostly-wicked receptionist has figured it out. If it's two o'clock, and I'm walking down the hall, she knows exactly where I am going.
Which is fortunate, as today, there were client-like folks gathered about in the foyer, and I was not at liberty to announce my short-term excretory intentions.
As I passed the front desk, though, I discovered an attractive young woman in ironic hipster military wear standing there. She was quite tall and thin. Her lustrous curly hair obscuring the fine porcelain features of her face. Her tight jeans accentuated all of the important curves...
I walked out the door and down the hall. A few minutes later, and about five pounds lighter, I returned to the office. The young woman was still standing there talking to her attorney, but something was odd. It was her voice. It was very deep.
Deep, like Dennis Haysbert deep. It didn't fit. She was kinda hot, but sounded like a dude, a scary sounding dude.
I sent an electronic sticky note to the front desk, saying: "hey man, is that another tranny out there?"
(We've seen a few...)
"Why," came the response, "do you want some?"
(You'd think I'd get more respect...)
"No. Not this time. It's just that the voice doesn't match the rest of the package. She must be a tranny, right? A pretty good one?"
"Uh, no man," replied the surly receptionist, "He's a dude."
"Right," I said, " I get that, but he looks like a chick, right?"
"No, dude, he's all dude."
"But I though he was a hot chick. Does that make me gay?"
Well, you can guess what her response was. Anyway, apparently, I didn't really get a good look, and you know these crazy metrosexual guys these days... Well, hell, how about those Cowboys, huh? And the Rockies sweeping the National League...
And, wow, I really like to look at female boobs on women. Really. Hurray for boobs...
Ya, I'm gonna go turn some bolts on my car now. Chop some wood. Maybe I'll punch something too.
I have followed this pattern enough times, thus far, that after five months, our semi-witty and mostly-wicked receptionist has figured it out. If it's two o'clock, and I'm walking down the hall, she knows exactly where I am going.
Which is fortunate, as today, there were client-like folks gathered about in the foyer, and I was not at liberty to announce my short-term excretory intentions.
As I passed the front desk, though, I discovered an attractive young woman in ironic hipster military wear standing there. She was quite tall and thin. Her lustrous curly hair obscuring the fine porcelain features of her face. Her tight jeans accentuated all of the important curves...
I walked out the door and down the hall. A few minutes later, and about five pounds lighter, I returned to the office. The young woman was still standing there talking to her attorney, but something was odd. It was her voice. It was very deep.
Deep, like Dennis Haysbert deep. It didn't fit. She was kinda hot, but sounded like a dude, a scary sounding dude.I sent an electronic sticky note to the front desk, saying: "hey man, is that another tranny out there?"
(We've seen a few...)
"Why," came the response, "do you want some?"
(You'd think I'd get more respect...)
"No. Not this time. It's just that the voice doesn't match the rest of the package. She must be a tranny, right? A pretty good one?"
"Uh, no man," replied the surly receptionist, "He's a dude."
"Right," I said, " I get that, but he looks like a chick, right?"
"No, dude, he's all dude."
"But I though he was a hot chick. Does that make me gay?"
Well, you can guess what her response was. Anyway, apparently, I didn't really get a good look, and you know these crazy metrosexual guys these days... Well, hell, how about those Cowboys, huh? And the Rockies sweeping the National League...
And, wow, I really like to look at female boobs on women. Really. Hurray for boobs...
Ya, I'm gonna go turn some bolts on my car now. Chop some wood. Maybe I'll punch something too.
Uh Oh
I hate these little quizzes. I was just benig honest...
You Are 82% Evil |
 You're the most evil person you know. The devil is even a little scared of you! |
Monday, October 15, 2007
More Cartwheels
Mary has returned from her honeymoon, and has photos!
True to form, here she is, in front of Chapel de blah d'blah in France! Here, you can read all about it at Wikipedia
And, here is the cartwheel:
Monday Muster
It was a good weekend, but not one full of sleep. Not when I spent it with a near-three-year old. Not by a long shot.
But now it's Monday, and y'all are clicking here, hoping to fill two minutes of your dreary morning with some random ray of gin-and-tonic goodness. I am grateful for you coming. I take my duties seriously, but really, I'm just as wiped out as you. Perhaps more so.
I just want to go to bed.
Aw, fuck it.
Happy Monday...
Here are some girls with guns:
But now it's Monday, and y'all are clicking here, hoping to fill two minutes of your dreary morning with some random ray of gin-and-tonic goodness. I am grateful for you coming. I take my duties seriously, but really, I'm just as wiped out as you. Perhaps more so.
I just want to go to bed.
Aw, fuck it.
Happy Monday...
Here are some girls with guns:
My fingers smell like mustard.
Thursday, October 11, 2007
Father To Son
Let me be clear. I love my daughter, and I am amazed by her everyday. She and I go on weekend adventures. She helps me with complex tasks. There are many things that I look forward to teaching her and doing with her
This post, however, is not about her.
This post is about the other one. The boy
Having fully expected a second daughter, and therefore a houseful of women, I continue to be amazed that I have a son.
Big bright blue eyes (I still haven't ruled out Tom as the actual father) and a wide sly grin, the Boy is always happy. Even when he is crying, all I have to do is make eye-contact, and I get the big-eyed smile.
He seems to like me, which is good. I like him as well.
So, today, as I returned from a meeting at the courthouse, I walked back to the office in the company of an office mate, who also happens to be an openly gay black man. We discussed the meeting as we walked; I, dressed akin to Johnny Cash, while he was suited and dapper, as he always is.
For those Portlanders reading this, we were on Broadway, northbound, passing Nordstrom, when all of a sudden a woman crossed our path. Tall, maybe 5'10," long blond hair, trim, tan, with her business blouse open and fluttering in the breeze.
"So," said my friend, "what do you think about that?"
"Um, not my type really."
"Regardless," he pressed, "you weren't gawking at the display?"
I thought for a moment, scanning the instant replay in my mind. "No. I really wasn't."
He was perplexed. I mean, as guys, we like to look. It's a natural imperative. My gay friend likes to look, and generally, so do I. We just happen to like looking at different things.
"No," I said again. "I guess I generally don't gawk. My dad taught me at an early age to keep the gaze, in public, above the neckline. Or, at least, try to... Sometimes it catches you by surprise."
(This rule, of course, does not apply at nudy bars. Which is not a topic that was covered in my youth)
Anyway...
We both walked on, pondering the odd exchange. My mind wandered, though, away from the public display of cleavage, to the lessons learned from my dad. I began to wonder, now that I have a son, what will I teach him.
Here are some of the things I came up with.
1) Be vigilant with your Legos. The parts are small and the sets don't work unless you have all the pieces. This is good practice for life. I'm not sure what it is good life-practice for, though. All I know is, I'm anal about my Legos...
2) Clean your tools and put them away when you are finished using them. I learned this from my grandfather. He had a lot of well-cleaned and well-organized tools when he died.
3) Be generous. You may have talent. You may have brains. You may have good looks. However, all of that will amount to nothing if you can't be generous. If you want to have friends and meet girls, you have to be generous with your time, your money and your interest. If you can't be generous, at the very least, smile, and pretend that you care.
4) Know your drink. There are a lot of drink choices out there, and you should try most of them. However, once you've sampled your share, pick one, and be ready to order it. It is a sign of confidence. Whether you are in business lunch or on a date, knowing your drink and ordering it confidently, will give you a subtle subconscious edge. No one is impressed by a guy who waffles between which domestic light beer to order.
5) Do not spit in the wind. I dunno, this is a lesson that Daddy learned the hard way. maybe it's a lesson everyone has to learn for themselves.
6) Know the technical schematic of the human female. Simply stated, to avoid awkward humiliation, disappointment, frustration and resentment, take a few moments, in advance, to learn what all of the knobs, buttons and switches are, what they do and how to operate them. I'm willing to provide instructional reading material if necessary.
7) Know how to make a fire. Heat, fuel, oxygen. Our monkey-like ancestors figured it out. So should my son.
8) Know how to shoot a gun. More importantly, know how to be safe with one. Know how to hold it. Know how to store it. Know how to clean it. Really, though, learn how to shoot the damn thing. I want you to get them before they get you.
9) Know a joke, and how to tell it. You really only need one good one. Just don't fuck it up. Chicks dig funny guys. If you can't tell a joke, then at least know one good story. Preferably with a punchline.
10) Be good at Chess. You don't have to be Bobby Fischer. But you should be able to think ahead at least three moves, or more. This is true in all things. Chess is just a metaphor. Still though, be good at chess.
11) Likewise, be good at Poker. Don't just know how to play poker. Knowing how to play, but not knowing how to play well, is worse than not playing at all. Know the difference between a slow play and a bluff, know how to do both and when. Poker, like chess, is also a metaphor, but really a lot more fun.
12) Mind the three-dollar tip rule. When sitting at the rack, tip one dollar. This is the price you pay for your seat. The dancer doesn't really like you. She does not actually want to go home with you. She is taking her clothes off because it's her job. If you're sitting close enough to see her stubble, tip a buck.
If, within whatever confines exist in your jurisdiction, she provides some extra recognition or attention, tip a second dollar. This is true whether she hikes her leg over your shoulder, or simply wiggles her bits in your personal direction. That, my son, should cost you $2.
Then, if by some miracle, the DJ doesn't cut the song early, and she comes back for a third more-magnanimous gesture, that will cost you your third and final dollar for that song. No matter what else she can come up with from that point, you must stop at $3. Anything more implies that you want her to perform some act that would likely get her fired and you arrested. This creates a bad vibe for the whole table.
If you fold and stack your wad of ones into some towering magical dollar pagoda, then you are a chump and an ass.
13) Dress like a man. And by that I mean, know how men's clothes work, and don't be afraid to use them. First, the tie. Learn how to tie one. Don't worry, I will show you this one myself.
Second, If your shirt has buttons, iron it. Wrinkles are stupid. Cuff links are fun and can add character to your outfit. Also, always wear an undershirt. I don't care what Cary Grant did in that movie back in the 50s. No one wants to see your sweaty oily hairy flesh under your thin white cotton dress shirt.
Third, pants. Pleats and Cuffs are good. Always wear either a belt or braces. Never both. If you wear a belt, match it to your shoes. If you wear your pants in such a way that they hang half way down your ass, I will help you pull them up.
Shoes, tennis shoes are for tennis. When buying footwear, think leather.
14) Good and Evil. Know what it is to be good. Also, know what it is to be evil. Most of all, know when to be which.
This post, however, is not about her.
This post is about the other one. The boy
Having fully expected a second daughter, and therefore a houseful of women, I continue to be amazed that I have a son.
Big bright blue eyes (I still haven't ruled out Tom as the actual father) and a wide sly grin, the Boy is always happy. Even when he is crying, all I have to do is make eye-contact, and I get the big-eyed smile.
He seems to like me, which is good. I like him as well.
So, today, as I returned from a meeting at the courthouse, I walked back to the office in the company of an office mate, who also happens to be an openly gay black man. We discussed the meeting as we walked; I, dressed akin to Johnny Cash, while he was suited and dapper, as he always is.
For those Portlanders reading this, we were on Broadway, northbound, passing Nordstrom, when all of a sudden a woman crossed our path. Tall, maybe 5'10," long blond hair, trim, tan, with her business blouse open and fluttering in the breeze.
"So," said my friend, "what do you think about that?"
"Um, not my type really."
"Regardless," he pressed, "you weren't gawking at the display?"
I thought for a moment, scanning the instant replay in my mind. "No. I really wasn't."
He was perplexed. I mean, as guys, we like to look. It's a natural imperative. My gay friend likes to look, and generally, so do I. We just happen to like looking at different things.
"No," I said again. "I guess I generally don't gawk. My dad taught me at an early age to keep the gaze, in public, above the neckline. Or, at least, try to... Sometimes it catches you by surprise."
(This rule, of course, does not apply at nudy bars. Which is not a topic that was covered in my youth)
Anyway...
We both walked on, pondering the odd exchange. My mind wandered, though, away from the public display of cleavage, to the lessons learned from my dad. I began to wonder, now that I have a son, what will I teach him.
Here are some of the things I came up with.
1) Be vigilant with your Legos. The parts are small and the sets don't work unless you have all the pieces. This is good practice for life. I'm not sure what it is good life-practice for, though. All I know is, I'm anal about my Legos...
2) Clean your tools and put them away when you are finished using them. I learned this from my grandfather. He had a lot of well-cleaned and well-organized tools when he died.
3) Be generous. You may have talent. You may have brains. You may have good looks. However, all of that will amount to nothing if you can't be generous. If you want to have friends and meet girls, you have to be generous with your time, your money and your interest. If you can't be generous, at the very least, smile, and pretend that you care.
4) Know your drink. There are a lot of drink choices out there, and you should try most of them. However, once you've sampled your share, pick one, and be ready to order it. It is a sign of confidence. Whether you are in business lunch or on a date, knowing your drink and ordering it confidently, will give you a subtle subconscious edge. No one is impressed by a guy who waffles between which domestic light beer to order.
5) Do not spit in the wind. I dunno, this is a lesson that Daddy learned the hard way. maybe it's a lesson everyone has to learn for themselves.
6) Know the technical schematic of the human female. Simply stated, to avoid awkward humiliation, disappointment, frustration and resentment, take a few moments, in advance, to learn what all of the knobs, buttons and switches are, what they do and how to operate them. I'm willing to provide instructional reading material if necessary.7) Know how to make a fire. Heat, fuel, oxygen. Our monkey-like ancestors figured it out. So should my son.
8) Know how to shoot a gun. More importantly, know how to be safe with one. Know how to hold it. Know how to store it. Know how to clean it. Really, though, learn how to shoot the damn thing. I want you to get them before they get you.
9) Know a joke, and how to tell it. You really only need one good one. Just don't fuck it up. Chicks dig funny guys. If you can't tell a joke, then at least know one good story. Preferably with a punchline.
10) Be good at Chess. You don't have to be Bobby Fischer. But you should be able to think ahead at least three moves, or more. This is true in all things. Chess is just a metaphor. Still though, be good at chess.
11) Likewise, be good at Poker. Don't just know how to play poker. Knowing how to play, but not knowing how to play well, is worse than not playing at all. Know the difference between a slow play and a bluff, know how to do both and when. Poker, like chess, is also a metaphor, but really a lot more fun.
12) Mind the three-dollar tip rule. When sitting at the rack, tip one dollar. This is the price you pay for your seat. The dancer doesn't really like you. She does not actually want to go home with you. She is taking her clothes off because it's her job. If you're sitting close enough to see her stubble, tip a buck.
If, within whatever confines exist in your jurisdiction, she provides some extra recognition or attention, tip a second dollar. This is true whether she hikes her leg over your shoulder, or simply wiggles her bits in your personal direction. That, my son, should cost you $2.
Then, if by some miracle, the DJ doesn't cut the song early, and she comes back for a third more-magnanimous gesture, that will cost you your third and final dollar for that song. No matter what else she can come up with from that point, you must stop at $3. Anything more implies that you want her to perform some act that would likely get her fired and you arrested. This creates a bad vibe for the whole table.
If you fold and stack your wad of ones into some towering magical dollar pagoda, then you are a chump and an ass.
13) Dress like a man. And by that I mean, know how men's clothes work, and don't be afraid to use them. First, the tie. Learn how to tie one. Don't worry, I will show you this one myself.
Second, If your shirt has buttons, iron it. Wrinkles are stupid. Cuff links are fun and can add character to your outfit. Also, always wear an undershirt. I don't care what Cary Grant did in that movie back in the 50s. No one wants to see your sweaty oily hairy flesh under your thin white cotton dress shirt.
Third, pants. Pleats and Cuffs are good. Always wear either a belt or braces. Never both. If you wear a belt, match it to your shoes. If you wear your pants in such a way that they hang half way down your ass, I will help you pull them up.
Shoes, tennis shoes are for tennis. When buying footwear, think leather.
14) Good and Evil. Know what it is to be good. Also, know what it is to be evil. Most of all, know when to be which.
Tuesday, October 09, 2007
Update From O'Bryant Square
It was a good day. Productive. Easy.
It was a good day for a good lunch. Greek Cuisina. Two beers and fried calamari.
White clouds streaked across the cold blue October sky as we walked back up to the park across the street from the office. The air was crisp and the beer sat low in my stomach. We decided to indulge in a small post-lunch cigar.
Sitting on the red brick border, we chatted with the pigeon man, who resembles Nelix from Star Trek Voyager with his gray-blond cornrow dreadlocks. Pigeon man is homeless, but sports a new REI backpack, and and carries a cell phone that resembles mine. The backpack and phone are gifts from his daughter, who worries about and takes care of him. In turn, he cares for and feeds most of the pigeons in the city.
Being Portland, pigeon man could become mayor one day.
So, as we sat and puffed,and pigeon man fed the birds, a giant white police car careened over the curb, across the bricks, and skidded to a Starsky-and-Hutch halt in the midst of the startled and scattering gray birds. In full emergency-like fashion, the short black cop jumped out and began to run around the park for some unseen crisis.
My cigar buddy and I were the only men in the park wearing ties. So, naturally, he approached us first, and asked whether we had called in the complaint. Quite certainly, we hadn't.
Soon, more cruised screeched in around the park. Eventually, Portland's finest figured out that whatever they were looking for wasn't actually at the park. It was across the street from the park, lying down on the sidewalk in front of the Picomart.
Engaging finely-honed swarming skills, they converged upon the unsuspecting (and sleeping) miscreants, all of whom lazily stood at attention to the beckoning of the officers.
We lost ear shot of the state action, but watched with interest as the original short cop began to unroll a rather-lengthy swatch of violet industrial-grade carpet.
After several yards of rug were unrolled, we were able to catch a glimpse of a long shiny black object, which proved to be, quite unexpectedly, a six-foot long Samurai sword. Not exactly what one might expect from a street-kid roust in a city park.
The sword was apparently confiscated from the rather-displeased youth, as was a concealed 8-inch hunting knife. Soon, the scene cleared. The Loiterers were ushered away, the sword and knife were carted away, and we said our goodbyes to the pigeon man.
It's been four months now. The park has yet to disappoint.
It was a good day for a good lunch. Greek Cuisina. Two beers and fried calamari.
White clouds streaked across the cold blue October sky as we walked back up to the park across the street from the office. The air was crisp and the beer sat low in my stomach. We decided to indulge in a small post-lunch cigar.
Sitting on the red brick border, we chatted with the pigeon man, who resembles Nelix from Star Trek Voyager with his gray-blond cornrow dreadlocks. Pigeon man is homeless, but sports a new REI backpack, and and carries a cell phone that resembles mine. The backpack and phone are gifts from his daughter, who worries about and takes care of him. In turn, he cares for and feeds most of the pigeons in the city.
Being Portland, pigeon man could become mayor one day.
So, as we sat and puffed,and pigeon man fed the birds, a giant white police car careened over the curb, across the bricks, and skidded to a Starsky-and-Hutch halt in the midst of the startled and scattering gray birds. In full emergency-like fashion, the short black cop jumped out and began to run around the park for some unseen crisis.
My cigar buddy and I were the only men in the park wearing ties. So, naturally, he approached us first, and asked whether we had called in the complaint. Quite certainly, we hadn't.
Soon, more cruised screeched in around the park. Eventually, Portland's finest figured out that whatever they were looking for wasn't actually at the park. It was across the street from the park, lying down on the sidewalk in front of the Picomart.
Engaging finely-honed swarming skills, they converged upon the unsuspecting (and sleeping) miscreants, all of whom lazily stood at attention to the beckoning of the officers.
We lost ear shot of the state action, but watched with interest as the original short cop began to unroll a rather-lengthy swatch of violet industrial-grade carpet.
After several yards of rug were unrolled, we were able to catch a glimpse of a long shiny black object, which proved to be, quite unexpectedly, a six-foot long Samurai sword. Not exactly what one might expect from a street-kid roust in a city park.
The sword was apparently confiscated from the rather-displeased youth, as was a concealed 8-inch hunting knife. Soon, the scene cleared. The Loiterers were ushered away, the sword and knife were carted away, and we said our goodbyes to the pigeon man.
It's been four months now. The park has yet to disappoint.
Monday, October 08, 2007
Sunday, October 07, 2007
Looking Through the Curve
It took them three days to say it, but the real secret to riding a motorcycle, apparently, is to turn your head and look in the direction you want to go. Your bike will follow.
And really, isn't that the key to life?
Calendars full of days fly past. Recognized moments stream out of mind, blurred by habit and repetition. But the Universe or God or Karma throws up curves in your path. Forks in the road. Debris.
You can, I suppose, overcome these obstacles, but it usually requires action. You must look ahead, see where you want to go, make adjustments and then go. Sometimes you slow down. Sometimes you speed up. Some times you swerve. Sometimes you barrel through. But always, always keep your eyes up and look at where you want to go.
I passed the test, by the way. I'm street legal.
And really, isn't that the key to life?
Calendars full of days fly past. Recognized moments stream out of mind, blurred by habit and repetition. But the Universe or God or Karma throws up curves in your path. Forks in the road. Debris.
You can, I suppose, overcome these obstacles, but it usually requires action. You must look ahead, see where you want to go, make adjustments and then go. Sometimes you slow down. Sometimes you speed up. Some times you swerve. Sometimes you barrel through. But always, always keep your eyes up and look at where you want to go.
I passed the test, by the way. I'm street legal.
Blue Bike
Saturday, October 06, 2007
Thursday, October 04, 2007
World Travelers
By now, we all know that Carl does a lot of traveling. In fact, I think next week, he has a deposition planned for the Jovian moon, Io.
Now, we can't all be Carl.
So, for normal mortals, it is usually a big deal to travel abroad. Which leads me to the point: Two of our regular readers and frequent commenters are about to take great journeys.
Amanda, who sails the seas on big boats to begin with, is flying to Venice, Italy. I have asked her to bring me back a gondola.
And then there is Fred, who leaves in the morning for Africa. She's taking a two week safari in Kenya, which to me sounds pretty fantastic.
So Bon Voyage to our globe trotting friends. Be safe. Have fun. Oh, and Fred, I was kidding about that wildebeast. I don't think my dog would get along very well with it...
Now, we can't all be Carl.
So, for normal mortals, it is usually a big deal to travel abroad. Which leads me to the point: Two of our regular readers and frequent commenters are about to take great journeys.
Amanda, who sails the seas on big boats to begin with, is flying to Venice, Italy. I have asked her to bring me back a gondola.
And then there is Fred, who leaves in the morning for Africa. She's taking a two week safari in Kenya, which to me sounds pretty fantastic.
So Bon Voyage to our globe trotting friends. Be safe. Have fun. Oh, and Fred, I was kidding about that wildebeast. I don't think my dog would get along very well with it...
Wednesday, October 03, 2007
Superbad
(Sorry, this one has been sitting around in draft form all week. I figured I should probably wrap it up and get it out...)
The 5-story trapeze of escalators climbed higher and higher above the blue and green slate mosaic below. This is where the 20-screen multi-plex was. This is where I was going to see a movie.
Perched high atop the tall mall, I purchased my ticket. It was Friday night, and I was alone in an odd town. I wasn't really sure what was playing. I just walked up to the counter. A quick glance told me that 3:10 to Yuma was about to start. So was Superbad.
Now, I like a good western, and 3:10 had a strong cast. However, I recently received a strong recommendation from Amanda to see Superbad. Since Amanda and I share the same 14-year-old-boy sense of humor, I went for the comedy.
Hindsight being what it is, I can see now that I made the wrong choice. However, it did have its high points. Trust me though, save it for Netflix.
Anyway...
A major sub-plot of the film centers around a young boy with a very bad fake ID getting mugged while purchasing booze, only to be befriended by a bumbling duo of exceedingly bad police officers. The cops are dim-witted, but drunk on power (and beer). They are arrogant, belligerent and juvenile. They protect no one and serve only themselves. They oppress the weak. They never stop for red lights.
And this caricature, it seems, is closer to the truth than I originally thought.
All day Saturday, the next day, I sat quietly in a conference room. Where I had expected a raucous gathering of Klingon-like heathens, slogging ale and riding choppers up and down the hotel corridors, what I found was row after row of banquet chairs filled with serious inquisitive men (in dirty leather jackets) discussing politics, law and taxes. This was a business meeting, not the pagan rite I was hopeful/fearful of.
We were addressed by lobbyists, lawyers and an Idaho legislator. Guys with goatees and beer guts chimed in intelligently about Supreme Court rulings and NHTSA studies. The mood was sober. A generous collection was taken up for a fallen comrade.
As a side note, and counterpoint, the hotel scheduled a simultaneous Quilters convention in the banquet hall next to ours. The quilting ladies broke early to go drinking, while the bikers continued late into the day with their discussion of proposed Senate bills...
So anyway...
I developed a new respect for the organization and its members. While these guys looked intimidating, they were really just doing their own thing, while playing inside the rules.
Then we left for dinner.
We convened en masse upon a local bar and grill. The DJ, taken by surprise by the motley crew, was ill-prepared with his music library. The hip hop quickly stopped, and an odd assortment of altered classics began to play. Free Bird, for instance, with a disco beat. A heavily-sampled Devil Went Down to Georgia, interspersed with disjointed rap lyrics... You get the picture.
I sat at a table with my boss, his wife, and a few other coalition leaders. We drank beer (or gin) and told war stories of the bad old days. Service was slow, but the beer was cold.
Suddenly, a small commotion arose behind us and several folks darted out the front door. We didn't think much of it until, one by one, the bystanders started coming up to our table. While there were several lawyers at the meeting earlier in the day, my boss and I were the only two at the social. "The feds are here!" they said, "They're rousting our boys out in the parking lot. You gotta DO something."
So, we did.
They weren't lying. The parking lot was lit up like a Disney parade, with red and blue lights flashing and spinning. Spokane police in fine blue uniforms stood toe-to-toe with the dangerous old men from the local Christian Bikers club. The cops were fishing for contraband. The Christian Bikers were telling the cops about Jesus.
Behind this crowd, dodging in and out of shadows, were the others. Crew-cut dudes with team jackets bearing initials like "FBI" and "ATF," milled around looking for... something... who knows what. There was no reason for them to be there. The group inside was peaceful, just a bunch of burly guys quietly eating dinner.
Sure, the DJ was committing crimes against humanity, but that wasn't the group's fault...
A small group gathered on the porch behind the evangelicals. My boss and I waded out into the fray. We made our presence known, but maintained a respectable distance.
Now, it was probably all a matter of timing, but once we arrived on the scene, the storm troopers began to pack it in, their fishing expedition having resulted in nothing. I could see that it was a fortunate coincidence. However, to some observers, it had the appearance of the lawyers showing up and chasing the feds away.
Who knows? Who am I to argue over the perspective?
Having had enough adventure for one night, we headed back to the barn. I was actually in bed by a respectable time that night, alive, unharmed, but probably with a brand new FBI file being opened under my name.
The 5-story trapeze of escalators climbed higher and higher above the blue and green slate mosaic below. This is where the 20-screen multi-plex was. This is where I was going to see a movie.
Perched high atop the tall mall, I purchased my ticket. It was Friday night, and I was alone in an odd town. I wasn't really sure what was playing. I just walked up to the counter. A quick glance told me that 3:10 to Yuma was about to start. So was Superbad.
Now, I like a good western, and 3:10 had a strong cast. However, I recently received a strong recommendation from Amanda to see Superbad. Since Amanda and I share the same 14-year-old-boy sense of humor, I went for the comedy.
Hindsight being what it is, I can see now that I made the wrong choice. However, it did have its high points. Trust me though, save it for Netflix.
Anyway...
A major sub-plot of the film centers around a young boy with a very bad fake ID getting mugged while purchasing booze, only to be befriended by a bumbling duo of exceedingly bad police officers. The cops are dim-witted, but drunk on power (and beer). They are arrogant, belligerent and juvenile. They protect no one and serve only themselves. They oppress the weak. They never stop for red lights.
And this caricature, it seems, is closer to the truth than I originally thought.
All day Saturday, the next day, I sat quietly in a conference room. Where I had expected a raucous gathering of Klingon-like heathens, slogging ale and riding choppers up and down the hotel corridors, what I found was row after row of banquet chairs filled with serious inquisitive men (in dirty leather jackets) discussing politics, law and taxes. This was a business meeting, not the pagan rite I was hopeful/fearful of.
We were addressed by lobbyists, lawyers and an Idaho legislator. Guys with goatees and beer guts chimed in intelligently about Supreme Court rulings and NHTSA studies. The mood was sober. A generous collection was taken up for a fallen comrade.
As a side note, and counterpoint, the hotel scheduled a simultaneous Quilters convention in the banquet hall next to ours. The quilting ladies broke early to go drinking, while the bikers continued late into the day with their discussion of proposed Senate bills...
So anyway...
I developed a new respect for the organization and its members. While these guys looked intimidating, they were really just doing their own thing, while playing inside the rules.
Then we left for dinner.
We convened en masse upon a local bar and grill. The DJ, taken by surprise by the motley crew, was ill-prepared with his music library. The hip hop quickly stopped, and an odd assortment of altered classics began to play. Free Bird, for instance, with a disco beat. A heavily-sampled Devil Went Down to Georgia, interspersed with disjointed rap lyrics... You get the picture.
I sat at a table with my boss, his wife, and a few other coalition leaders. We drank beer (or gin) and told war stories of the bad old days. Service was slow, but the beer was cold.
Suddenly, a small commotion arose behind us and several folks darted out the front door. We didn't think much of it until, one by one, the bystanders started coming up to our table. While there were several lawyers at the meeting earlier in the day, my boss and I were the only two at the social. "The feds are here!" they said, "They're rousting our boys out in the parking lot. You gotta DO something."
So, we did.
They weren't lying. The parking lot was lit up like a Disney parade, with red and blue lights flashing and spinning. Spokane police in fine blue uniforms stood toe-to-toe with the dangerous old men from the local Christian Bikers club. The cops were fishing for contraband. The Christian Bikers were telling the cops about Jesus.
Behind this crowd, dodging in and out of shadows, were the others. Crew-cut dudes with team jackets bearing initials like "FBI" and "ATF," milled around looking for... something... who knows what. There was no reason for them to be there. The group inside was peaceful, just a bunch of burly guys quietly eating dinner.
Sure, the DJ was committing crimes against humanity, but that wasn't the group's fault...
A small group gathered on the porch behind the evangelicals. My boss and I waded out into the fray. We made our presence known, but maintained a respectable distance.
Now, it was probably all a matter of timing, but once we arrived on the scene, the storm troopers began to pack it in, their fishing expedition having resulted in nothing. I could see that it was a fortunate coincidence. However, to some observers, it had the appearance of the lawyers showing up and chasing the feds away.
Who knows? Who am I to argue over the perspective?
Having had enough adventure for one night, we headed back to the barn. I was actually in bed by a respectable time that night, alive, unharmed, but probably with a brand new FBI file being opened under my name.
Thrillbilly Death Match
I'm not really sure what I want to say about this. It sorta shook me a bit today, and I think I should say something. I'm just not sure what.
It was a long drive, nearly 4 hours from Portland out to Pendleton. I had a motion to argue, and we decided that it would be more affective if I were there in person, rather than on the phone.
I drove out Tuesday night, late, in the rain. I ate on the road. I listened to bad 80s music on the satellite radio.
The motel was basic and fine. No frills. No cockroaches. Coffee maker, but no coffee filters. I pulled in at 11:30 and quickly outlined my arguments for Wednesday morning.
I went to bed at 1:00 and got up at 6:45. I was in court by 8:00, and back on the road around 9:00.
The hearing went well. Opposing counsel seemed fixated on a single losing point. I look forward to the judge's decision.
The ride home was mostly uneventful, except for my choice for lunch, the small diner was called "Spooky's" and yes, I went there for the name. I mean, I used to be a big fan of Sambo's when I was a kid...
Anyway...
I was about 100 miles from home, when I changed the station to Howard 101, it was near noon, and time for that remarkable hillbilly radio moonshine called the Bubba the Love Sponge Show.
I've discussed this show before. It's a show made by smart guys to sound like they are dumb guys. They discuss everything that I am not: NASCAR, football, Professional Wrestling, and S&M... I do not fit at all into their demographic, yet I listen whenever I can. The show is remarkable.
And, it was no less remarkable today, although in ways I had not anticipated.
The caller had asked for protection, meaning that he wanted his voice disguised. I knew that much from the electronic twang when he spoke. The caller also seemed out of sorts, laughing first then crying.
Something was amiss. The crew was not its usual surly self.
As I drove, the story unfolded. the caller had lost his job, his wife and his daughter. He had large debts and little money. He was overweight, drunk and had a gun on his lap.
Of all the people to call, this nut called Bubba.
Now usually, when I tune in, I expect to hear an interview with a UFC fighter, a porn star, or Bubba using a tazer to "shock the puss." This however, was something different.
The caller was unhinged, and I expected to hear a loud bang and a thump at any moment. Rather than make light of the situation, though, Bubba surprisingly took the highroad. For nearly an hour and a half, without the assistance of caller ID to alert the police, Bubba and his crew pleaded, cajoled, and bargained with the man to put the gun down.
It was a struggle, and the man mad several despondent declarations along the way. He was determined. He wanted only to get drunk and then blow his brains out on Bubba's show. He had been planning it for 8 days.
Could the whole thing have been a hoax? Sure, the thought crossed my mind. However the sense of urgency, and barely-contained panic indicated that this was real.
They tried everything, but eventually, after a great deal of time, Bubba's argument that a suicide on his show would cause him a great deal of pain and misery finally carried the day. The man, whose daughter was a teenager, didn't care that his death might hurt her. H didn't care about the rest of his family or his friends. However, the thought of hurting Bubba, in the end, saved his life.
The final stretch of the drive flew by. I was nearly back at the office when the situation came to an end. I felt exhausted. Not for lack of sleep or the long drive. Rather, being caught up in this passionate struggle to save a life simply took the wind out of me.
So there it is. I'm not sure what to make of it. Maybe you all can figure it out for me.
It was a long drive, nearly 4 hours from Portland out to Pendleton. I had a motion to argue, and we decided that it would be more affective if I were there in person, rather than on the phone.
I drove out Tuesday night, late, in the rain. I ate on the road. I listened to bad 80s music on the satellite radio.
The motel was basic and fine. No frills. No cockroaches. Coffee maker, but no coffee filters. I pulled in at 11:30 and quickly outlined my arguments for Wednesday morning.
I went to bed at 1:00 and got up at 6:45. I was in court by 8:00, and back on the road around 9:00.
The hearing went well. Opposing counsel seemed fixated on a single losing point. I look forward to the judge's decision.
The ride home was mostly uneventful, except for my choice for lunch, the small diner was called "Spooky's" and yes, I went there for the name. I mean, I used to be a big fan of Sambo's when I was a kid...
Anyway...
I was about 100 miles from home, when I changed the station to Howard 101, it was near noon, and time for that remarkable hillbilly radio moonshine called the Bubba the Love Sponge Show.
I've discussed this show before. It's a show made by smart guys to sound like they are dumb guys. They discuss everything that I am not: NASCAR, football, Professional Wrestling, and S&M... I do not fit at all into their demographic, yet I listen whenever I can. The show is remarkable.
And, it was no less remarkable today, although in ways I had not anticipated.
The caller had asked for protection, meaning that he wanted his voice disguised. I knew that much from the electronic twang when he spoke. The caller also seemed out of sorts, laughing first then crying.
Something was amiss. The crew was not its usual surly self.
As I drove, the story unfolded. the caller had lost his job, his wife and his daughter. He had large debts and little money. He was overweight, drunk and had a gun on his lap.
Of all the people to call, this nut called Bubba.
Now usually, when I tune in, I expect to hear an interview with a UFC fighter, a porn star, or Bubba using a tazer to "shock the puss." This however, was something different.
The caller was unhinged, and I expected to hear a loud bang and a thump at any moment. Rather than make light of the situation, though, Bubba surprisingly took the highroad. For nearly an hour and a half, without the assistance of caller ID to alert the police, Bubba and his crew pleaded, cajoled, and bargained with the man to put the gun down.
It was a struggle, and the man mad several despondent declarations along the way. He was determined. He wanted only to get drunk and then blow his brains out on Bubba's show. He had been planning it for 8 days.
Could the whole thing have been a hoax? Sure, the thought crossed my mind. However the sense of urgency, and barely-contained panic indicated that this was real.
They tried everything, but eventually, after a great deal of time, Bubba's argument that a suicide on his show would cause him a great deal of pain and misery finally carried the day. The man, whose daughter was a teenager, didn't care that his death might hurt her. H didn't care about the rest of his family or his friends. However, the thought of hurting Bubba, in the end, saved his life.
The final stretch of the drive flew by. I was nearly back at the office when the situation came to an end. I felt exhausted. Not for lack of sleep or the long drive. Rather, being caught up in this passionate struggle to save a life simply took the wind out of me.
So there it is. I'm not sure what to make of it. Maybe you all can figure it out for me.
Tuesday, October 02, 2007
Congratulations Britney
Parenting is hard work. Very hard at times. I mean, you have to sit on the floor sometimes and play with blocks, or maybe put together a farm animal puzzle. I know how hard it is to tell the sheep from the cows...
And Parks! Don't get me started! What a hellish nightmare it is to sit on a park bench while the tots climb around on the jungle gym.
There are simply too many demands on parents these days. Everyone else is constantly telling you what to do. "Feed the baby!" "Dress the baby!" "Don't let the baby play with your cocaine!"
It's just not fair!
So, finally, Britney has found the relief she has been seeking. The nice judge has has finally lifted the burden from her weary shoulders, and is now making Kevin pick up the slack.
Congratulations Britney, You should go out and party, it's been so long since you've had a night to yourself.
And Parks! Don't get me started! What a hellish nightmare it is to sit on a park bench while the tots climb around on the jungle gym.
There are simply too many demands on parents these days. Everyone else is constantly telling you what to do. "Feed the baby!" "Dress the baby!" "Don't let the baby play with your cocaine!"
It's just not fair!
So, finally, Britney has found the relief she has been seeking. The nice judge has has finally lifted the burden from her weary shoulders, and is now making Kevin pick up the slack.
Congratulations Britney, You should go out and party, it's been so long since you've had a night to yourself.
Monday, October 01, 2007
Monday Filler
Hey kids, I'm working on a real whiz-bang wrap up of the weekend, but it's late and the kiddies keep waking up. So, here's some Dita to start this Monday off on the right foot. I'll post more tomorrow...
Friday, September 28, 2007
Sim City
Way back in the dark ages of computer gaming, I used to play a lot of Sim City. Of course, any of you who are familiar with it, know that "Play" is the wrong word. It's more like entire months of my life micro-managing a city that never existed, without keeping score, and without any ultimate goal. You just kept playing until either you were run out of office by your unhappy simulated minions or you simply got bored.
It just kept going and growing. All I had to do is balance growth against cost against revenues against livability against taxes against amenities against more growth against traffic, and so on.. One false step, the city would go broke, the Sims would rebel, and I would get the boot.
Driving around downtown Spokane this evening, I realized something. If I had built this town in Sim City, I would have lost the game a very log time ago.
The city fathers (or mothers) have chose to bulk up the tiny little patch in the woods with every single tid bit and bauble you might find in a big city, but without any apparent resource or need.
There' a university, a convention center, a river park, an airport, a sports stadium, a half dozen high rises, a five story shopping mall with a 20 screen AMC movie theater, and music theater district and an un-godly concentration of hotels. Seriously, this place seems to be nothing but hotels. They are everywhere. They are legion.
But no one else seems to live here. I have seen very little in the way of permanent housing. No big industry. No vast assortment of government facilities. I can't figure it out. Who needs all this stuff? Who pays for all this stuff?? What do folks do here for cash?
I guess there is probably a large farm community in the surrounding area, but it's a little unreal how many public assets they have piled into downtown.
Anyway, that's my take. Apart from the shortage of good restaurants.
It just kept going and growing. All I had to do is balance growth against cost against revenues against livability against taxes against amenities against more growth against traffic, and so on.. One false step, the city would go broke, the Sims would rebel, and I would get the boot.
Driving around downtown Spokane this evening, I realized something. If I had built this town in Sim City, I would have lost the game a very log time ago.
The city fathers (or mothers) have chose to bulk up the tiny little patch in the woods with every single tid bit and bauble you might find in a big city, but without any apparent resource or need.
There' a university, a convention center, a river park, an airport, a sports stadium, a half dozen high rises, a five story shopping mall with a 20 screen AMC movie theater, and music theater district and an un-godly concentration of hotels. Seriously, this place seems to be nothing but hotels. They are everywhere. They are legion.
But no one else seems to live here. I have seen very little in the way of permanent housing. No big industry. No vast assortment of government facilities. I can't figure it out. Who needs all this stuff? Who pays for all this stuff?? What do folks do here for cash?
I guess there is probably a large farm community in the surrounding area, but it's a little unreal how many public assets they have piled into downtown.
Anyway, that's my take. Apart from the shortage of good restaurants.
Spokane So Far
Thursday, September 27, 2007
Spokane
This must be where pies go when they die.
-Agent Dale Cooper
Spokane (spoh-CAN), Washington, near the eastern-most edge of Washington, is probably more a part of Idaho than its home state. Not only is it located smack-dab in the heart of Sasquatch country, but it is near the fictional setting of David Lynch's fantastically creepy Twin Peaks.
Tomorrow, I will hop on a plane and head for the heart of the deep Doug Fir forest.
No, I am not going there to investigate a body... dead... wrapped in plastic... No, my mission is far more mundane. I am going for a biker convention.
Stop laughing.
This, of course, is now part of my job, and will be followed next week with my Team Oregon motorcycle safety class.
This week, however, it's the bikers. Well, bikers and lawyers to be precise, which for most folks might be a nightmare. For me, though, having fought off menacing cowboys for the last two weeks, this should be a breeze.
While I have no loyal assistant named Diane, to whom I may send endless dictation, I have decided to bring my camera to record the event for posterity. We'll see what happens.
With luck, I may see Sasquatch.
-Agent Dale Cooper
Spokane (spoh-CAN), Washington, near the eastern-most edge of Washington, is probably more a part of Idaho than its home state. Not only is it located smack-dab in the heart of Sasquatch country, but it is near the fictional setting of David Lynch's fantastically creepy Twin Peaks.
Tomorrow, I will hop on a plane and head for the heart of the deep Doug Fir forest.
No, I am not going there to investigate a body... dead... wrapped in plastic... No, my mission is far more mundane. I am going for a biker convention.
Stop laughing.
This, of course, is now part of my job, and will be followed next week with my Team Oregon motorcycle safety class.
This week, however, it's the bikers. Well, bikers and lawyers to be precise, which for most folks might be a nightmare. For me, though, having fought off menacing cowboys for the last two weeks, this should be a breeze.
While I have no loyal assistant named Diane, to whom I may send endless dictation, I have decided to bring my camera to record the event for posterity. We'll see what happens.
With luck, I may see Sasquatch.
Thursday Night
It's Thursday, September 27. I'll give you one guess what I'll be doing tonight.
No, not THAT. Take your mind out of the gutter...
No, I'll be watching this:
No, not THAT. Take your mind out of the gutter...
No, I'll be watching this:
Wednesday, September 26, 2007
Google Earth: The Ultimate Peep Show
I knew Google Earth was good, but not this good. I suppose it was only a mtter of time before the great eye in the sky caught folks doin the Dirty in public...
So, here it is for your enjoyment... (Don't watch it it if you are offended by hot people having sex on the beach...)
So, here it is for your enjoyment... (Don't watch it it if you are offended by hot people having sex on the beach...)
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
Ahmedinejad
How bad does the American government have to be for me to start thinking that lunatic Iranian presidents have a good point?
Pretty bad, I suppose.
Pretty bad, I suppose.
My head hurts. I'm going to bed.
Monday, September 24, 2007
Baseline
I smelled of yeast and tomato sauce. I probably also smelled of garlic, a little basil, and plenty of stale beer. It was a warm spring night and the air outside was filled with the sweet smell of sage, which grew in abundance along the hillside.
My windows were down, and I had three empty delivery bags in the back of my pickup. It was post Rodney King, and my gun was was holstered illegally beneath my car seat.
I was heading back to pick up three more orders. As I left the shop 12 minutes earlier, I spied a known non-tipper going in to the oven. Not wanting to get stuck with that one, I slowed down and took a minor detour. I'd let the new guy hustle back ahead of me and snatch that one. That was the "pizza game." I was good at it.
I took a left off of Baseline and skirted up Bonnie Brae past my ex-girlfriend's house. Just curious, you know...
Anyway, the detour would burn three minutes, plenty of time to dodge the dud delivery.
The radio was on, but it bored me. Nirvana was still new and overplayed. As was Pearl Jam and the rest of the Seattle invasion. I was tired of pop music, and talk radio offered little in the way of evening entertainment. I had worn through my cassette tapes of the Smiths, the Cure, and REM.
I flipped around for something different. Not Jesus music. Not Country. Not Hip Hop.
The seeker stopped on the local college radio signal, limited but clear. The gentleman speaking had a deep liquid voice. He seemed dangerously intelligent, but kind. He was talking about music theory. Specifically, about Glenn Gould, that great kooky prodigy of the 20th century. I was lost in the erudition, left to swim in the murky waters of of my stunted musical education.
Then, in an apparent attempt to illustrate some arcane point long-since lost on my feeble little monkey brain, the host launched into some old recording of Glenn Gould hammering away in staccato fashion.
The piece caught my attention, and though a mere block from returning to Baseline, I pulled over to the side of the road. It was an old performance, and Gould, I later learned was a very young, but talented, young man. He was playing, what the wizened host had called, "the hardest piece of piano music to play." It was Bach's Keyboard Concerto No.1 in D Minor, and it stunned me. It side swiped me. It spoke to me.
I was late returning to the shop that evening. Too late. I wasn't in trouble, but I certainly lost the pizza game.
So, thanks to Youtube, in three parts, here is Glenn Gould performing that piece, or at least the best versions Youtube has to offer.
(Go find a good copy for yourself...)
Bach's Piano Concerto No. 1 in D Minor
I. Allegro
II. Adagio
III. Allegro
My windows were down, and I had three empty delivery bags in the back of my pickup. It was post Rodney King, and my gun was was holstered illegally beneath my car seat.
I was heading back to pick up three more orders. As I left the shop 12 minutes earlier, I spied a known non-tipper going in to the oven. Not wanting to get stuck with that one, I slowed down and took a minor detour. I'd let the new guy hustle back ahead of me and snatch that one. That was the "pizza game." I was good at it.
I took a left off of Baseline and skirted up Bonnie Brae past my ex-girlfriend's house. Just curious, you know...
Anyway, the detour would burn three minutes, plenty of time to dodge the dud delivery.
The radio was on, but it bored me. Nirvana was still new and overplayed. As was Pearl Jam and the rest of the Seattle invasion. I was tired of pop music, and talk radio offered little in the way of evening entertainment. I had worn through my cassette tapes of the Smiths, the Cure, and REM.
I flipped around for something different. Not Jesus music. Not Country. Not Hip Hop.
The seeker stopped on the local college radio signal, limited but clear. The gentleman speaking had a deep liquid voice. He seemed dangerously intelligent, but kind. He was talking about music theory. Specifically, about Glenn Gould, that great kooky prodigy of the 20th century. I was lost in the erudition, left to swim in the murky waters of of my stunted musical education.
Then, in an apparent attempt to illustrate some arcane point long-since lost on my feeble little monkey brain, the host launched into some old recording of Glenn Gould hammering away in staccato fashion.
The piece caught my attention, and though a mere block from returning to Baseline, I pulled over to the side of the road. It was an old performance, and Gould, I later learned was a very young, but talented, young man. He was playing, what the wizened host had called, "the hardest piece of piano music to play." It was Bach's Keyboard Concerto No.1 in D Minor, and it stunned me. It side swiped me. It spoke to me.
I was late returning to the shop that evening. Too late. I wasn't in trouble, but I certainly lost the pizza game.
So, thanks to Youtube, in three parts, here is Glenn Gould performing that piece, or at least the best versions Youtube has to offer.
(Go find a good copy for yourself...)
Bach's Piano Concerto No. 1 in D Minor
I. Allegro
II. Adagio
III. Allegro
Sunday, September 23, 2007
I Left My Liver in Boise
The whirring baggage carousel carried the lone bag round and around the slanted stainless steel oval. It was the last bag. It was my bag.
That was baggage carousel #4. I, unfortunately, was standing at baggage carousel #1.
I was confused why there were no other passengers from my plane standing with me. I was growing impatient. My short visit to Boise had already gone awry.
Eventually, having spied my bag from a great distance, and having sheepishly retrieved it, I schlepped off to stand in another long line to acquire my rental car. The line was quite long and there was only one very hard working, yet very solo, car-boy at the counter. The wait, coming on the heels of my baggage debacle, was torture. I felt myself grow old. I watched precious strands of hair, leaping to their death, fall tragically before my face. I counted dots on the carpet. I fantasized about sitting.
I needed a drink.
Finally, I found my way to the front, and rented my car. Granted, it was cheap. I didn't need much, but holy hell, what a total piece of shit!
It was a Dodge Caliber, and no offense to any Caliber owners out there, but I would have been happier with one of those go-carts at the Bullwinkle's Family Fun Center...
So, anyway, I got the car and asked the car-lot girl how to get to the freeway. The freeway in question was I-84. Really, essentially, the ONLY freeway in town. The airport itself is right next to the freeway, and I could see it from where I sat. In essence, I was asking how to get out of the labyrinth-like parking lot. I assumed this was a question she was equipped to handle.
It was not.
"Um.. uh.. You mean , uh, like I-84?? Um, well, you go, uh right, I think, then a left or something, maybe a right... uh..."
"Never mind," I said, and headed off to blaze my own trail, which worked out just fine.
Then, finally, I arrived at the hotel. Now, the hotel, like the airport, lay right next to a long straight highway, which is called "The Downtown Connector" by the locals. It is the primary artery into the downtown sector of the city. The hotel lay right next to it. Right along side. You could see the hotel from the DOWNTOWN CONNECTOR.
At that point, I had roughly an hour to shower (See "dick head" below) and get downtown. Now, I assumed that the Connector would get me there, but to be on the safe side, I asked the girl at the hotel counter about the best way to get to downtown.
"Um, uh, you mean downtown Boise?" she asked.
I knew I was in trouble.
"Uh, um, you know, I'm not really sure."
I trusted my gut, and in fact, the Connector connected me to downtown in about a minute and a half. Perhaps my problem was that I was asking over-simple questions, which should have been obvious to anyone.
ANYWAY...
I got to the Friday rehearsal dinner, although, apparently, there was no actual rehearsal. Having had another map mishap, and having relied upon the fanciful imagination of Google Maps, I still managed to find the secretly hidden wine shop, and found the dinner party.
I was a half hour late. The wait staff were taking orders. I didn't want to make a scene, so I took the first open chair I could find.
Having finally ordered the first of many Gin & Tonics, I decided to meet the people I'd be dining with.
"Hi," I said, "I'm Brian. I'm a friend of Mary's from law school. I was at the first wedding."
Now, I hadn't planned on saying that. Rather, I was simply feeling cheeky, and had a surprising need to stir the pot a little...
"Hi, Brian," said the woman to my right, "I'm the groom's mother."
Oops.
She continued, "The man with the hat to my right is my husband. The man across the table is the groom's father, my ex-husband."
Lovely.
"Well," said the man with the hat, "this table is just full of irony..."
In the end, this proved to be an excellent table choice. Conversation was lively. Dinner was good. Drinks were plentiful, and the company was quite enjoyable.
Many drinks later, the party broke up, and I hooked up with Mary's oldest and dearest friend and that friend's boyfriend, both also from Portland, and we hit the bars to see what we could see...
[drinking happened]
Now, this is where the real story begins...
After a very fine night of good drunken carousing, I parted ways with my newest pals, and headed back to my lodging. It was midnight, and I discovered as I passed that the hotel bar was still open.
This will come as no surprise, but I am a sucker for hotel bars. I love the sad scene. So, I walked in for one more G&T before bed.
The music was varied, but loud. An old man in white spats disco danced alone in the middle of the dance floor. He shuffled a bit, but the old boy had moves. He was also working a table with a couple of saucy broads. They humored him, but neither one was going home with him.
Various visitors were either drinking, playing, or trying to make time with whoever happened to be sitting nearby. I sat alone at the empty bar and ordered my night cap. A couple played pool behind me.
It was a spacious and comfortable bar. The browns, oranges and smoked glass would have been very popular back in 1979.
I sipped my drink, and watched the hustling octogenarian be-bop to Dr. Dre. I was well-buzzed and near sleep. My thoughts were slowing. The bustle of the day was fading away...
I noticed the man, who had been playing pool behind me, suddenly leave in what looked like a hurried fashion. I didn't pay much attention to it though.
Then SHE sat down. Right beside me. It was a long bar. There were many seats. She could have sat in any one of them, but no, she took the one right next to me.
Admittedly, it was odd. However, it wasn't the first odd thing to happen that night, so I took little notice.
"Hey baby," she said, with a slight Hispanic accent,"I can see you're a good person."
"Uh, Ok." I replied. I didn't feel the need to argue the point.
"So, why are you here?" she asked, in a sharp tone.
"I'm here for a wedding." I explained, although, I wasn't sure why I needed to explain. Perhaps I misunderstood the question."
"Don't lie to me!" She demanded, "Why are you really here??"
"I uh, really, I, there's a wedding..." She was starting to get more of my considerably-cloudy attention. I was having to think, which annoyed me because I didn't want to think. I took a closer look.
She was 40-ish. A hard-40. maybe 50, but not quite. She was short, and weighed probably about 180 to 200 pounds. She was missing the whole or a part of at least one tooth. Maybe two.
I was still confused.
"I can sense there is something very special about you," she said, "you need to branch out and try something different."
"Huh?? Different than what?"
"Oh baby, don't you like to try new things?" When she said, "baby" is sounded similar to a waitress calling you "Hon."
Now, the fact is, I do like to try new things, very generally speaking. But what did this very odd woman know about that? I tried to make sense of what she was saying with my gin-soaked slow-firing synapses. I assumed she was just being friendly, or she just wanted free beer. Either way, I was a bit fascinated with the freak show.
Just then the bartender arrived and gave me an alarmed look. Again, I was slow on the uptake. I ordered a beer, and my new friend asked whether I was going to buy her one too.
Aha!! I was right, she DID just want free beer. Fine, I'll by anyone a beer. So, I bought her a beer, hoping she would now go drink it and leave me alone.
I was wrong.
"So, are you a crazy man?" she asked, "Do you like to do crazy things?"
I found irony in the question. Considering that I looked like a refugee from the Republican clubhouse, I thought the answer was obvious.
She continued. "I think you need to take some chances. I think you need to try something new."
Then, she winked at me.
"Oh good lord," I thought to myself as the hazy alcoholic veil slowly parted, "I think she wants to go back to my room with me..."
I resisted the urge to leap to my feat and run away. Somehow, I thought that would be rude, yet I did begin to consider my escape options...
"You know baby, I'm poor." She announced, looking sad-like...
-Oh shit-
-Oh shit-
-Oh shit-
"This sort of thing only happens to Carl." I thought to myself.
The conversation had taken a turn. The pieces had finally added up. Before she could actually propose the business transaction, I stood up. I patted her on the back, thanking her for the conversation, and risking that rude appearance, I ran out the door.
I slept for 12 hours that night, waking only once to apologize to my angry liver. The wedding the next day was beautiful in its simplicity and elegance. The reception was a hoot as was the second night of bar hopping with a slightly larger gaggle of wedding guests.
Upon returning to the hotel at the end of round two, I passed by the smokey glass doors of the hotel bar. They were closed, and the lights were off. To my further relief, there was nary a Mexican hooker in sight.
I assume Mary will eventually read this. So, congratulation again to you and David. Thanks for inviting me. I had a great time. You really should move to Portland.
That was baggage carousel #4. I, unfortunately, was standing at baggage carousel #1.
I was confused why there were no other passengers from my plane standing with me. I was growing impatient. My short visit to Boise had already gone awry.
Eventually, having spied my bag from a great distance, and having sheepishly retrieved it, I schlepped off to stand in another long line to acquire my rental car. The line was quite long and there was only one very hard working, yet very solo, car-boy at the counter. The wait, coming on the heels of my baggage debacle, was torture. I felt myself grow old. I watched precious strands of hair, leaping to their death, fall tragically before my face. I counted dots on the carpet. I fantasized about sitting.
I needed a drink.
Finally, I found my way to the front, and rented my car. Granted, it was cheap. I didn't need much, but holy hell, what a total piece of shit!
It was a Dodge Caliber, and no offense to any Caliber owners out there, but I would have been happier with one of those go-carts at the Bullwinkle's Family Fun Center...
So, anyway, I got the car and asked the car-lot girl how to get to the freeway. The freeway in question was I-84. Really, essentially, the ONLY freeway in town. The airport itself is right next to the freeway, and I could see it from where I sat. In essence, I was asking how to get out of the labyrinth-like parking lot. I assumed this was a question she was equipped to handle.
It was not.
"Um.. uh.. You mean , uh, like I-84?? Um, well, you go, uh right, I think, then a left or something, maybe a right... uh..."
"Never mind," I said, and headed off to blaze my own trail, which worked out just fine.
Then, finally, I arrived at the hotel. Now, the hotel, like the airport, lay right next to a long straight highway, which is called "The Downtown Connector" by the locals. It is the primary artery into the downtown sector of the city. The hotel lay right next to it. Right along side. You could see the hotel from the DOWNTOWN CONNECTOR.
At that point, I had roughly an hour to shower (See "dick head" below) and get downtown. Now, I assumed that the Connector would get me there, but to be on the safe side, I asked the girl at the hotel counter about the best way to get to downtown.
"Um, uh, you mean downtown Boise?" she asked.
I knew I was in trouble.
"Uh, um, you know, I'm not really sure."
I trusted my gut, and in fact, the Connector connected me to downtown in about a minute and a half. Perhaps my problem was that I was asking over-simple questions, which should have been obvious to anyone.
ANYWAY...
I got to the Friday rehearsal dinner, although, apparently, there was no actual rehearsal. Having had another map mishap, and having relied upon the fanciful imagination of Google Maps, I still managed to find the secretly hidden wine shop, and found the dinner party.
I was a half hour late. The wait staff were taking orders. I didn't want to make a scene, so I took the first open chair I could find.
Having finally ordered the first of many Gin & Tonics, I decided to meet the people I'd be dining with.
"Hi," I said, "I'm Brian. I'm a friend of Mary's from law school. I was at the first wedding."
Now, I hadn't planned on saying that. Rather, I was simply feeling cheeky, and had a surprising need to stir the pot a little...
"Hi, Brian," said the woman to my right, "I'm the groom's mother."
Oops.
She continued, "The man with the hat to my right is my husband. The man across the table is the groom's father, my ex-husband."
Lovely.
"Well," said the man with the hat, "this table is just full of irony..."
In the end, this proved to be an excellent table choice. Conversation was lively. Dinner was good. Drinks were plentiful, and the company was quite enjoyable.
Many drinks later, the party broke up, and I hooked up with Mary's oldest and dearest friend and that friend's boyfriend, both also from Portland, and we hit the bars to see what we could see...
[drinking happened]
Now, this is where the real story begins...
After a very fine night of good drunken carousing, I parted ways with my newest pals, and headed back to my lodging. It was midnight, and I discovered as I passed that the hotel bar was still open.
This will come as no surprise, but I am a sucker for hotel bars. I love the sad scene. So, I walked in for one more G&T before bed.
The music was varied, but loud. An old man in white spats disco danced alone in the middle of the dance floor. He shuffled a bit, but the old boy had moves. He was also working a table with a couple of saucy broads. They humored him, but neither one was going home with him.
Various visitors were either drinking, playing, or trying to make time with whoever happened to be sitting nearby. I sat alone at the empty bar and ordered my night cap. A couple played pool behind me.
It was a spacious and comfortable bar. The browns, oranges and smoked glass would have been very popular back in 1979.
I sipped my drink, and watched the hustling octogenarian be-bop to Dr. Dre. I was well-buzzed and near sleep. My thoughts were slowing. The bustle of the day was fading away...
I noticed the man, who had been playing pool behind me, suddenly leave in what looked like a hurried fashion. I didn't pay much attention to it though.
Then SHE sat down. Right beside me. It was a long bar. There were many seats. She could have sat in any one of them, but no, she took the one right next to me.
Admittedly, it was odd. However, it wasn't the first odd thing to happen that night, so I took little notice.
"Hey baby," she said, with a slight Hispanic accent,"I can see you're a good person."
"Uh, Ok." I replied. I didn't feel the need to argue the point.
"So, why are you here?" she asked, in a sharp tone.
"I'm here for a wedding." I explained, although, I wasn't sure why I needed to explain. Perhaps I misunderstood the question."
"Don't lie to me!" She demanded, "Why are you really here??"
"I uh, really, I, there's a wedding..." She was starting to get more of my considerably-cloudy attention. I was having to think, which annoyed me because I didn't want to think. I took a closer look.
She was 40-ish. A hard-40. maybe 50, but not quite. She was short, and weighed probably about 180 to 200 pounds. She was missing the whole or a part of at least one tooth. Maybe two.
I was still confused.
"I can sense there is something very special about you," she said, "you need to branch out and try something different."
"Huh?? Different than what?"
"Oh baby, don't you like to try new things?" When she said, "baby" is sounded similar to a waitress calling you "Hon."
Now, the fact is, I do like to try new things, very generally speaking. But what did this very odd woman know about that? I tried to make sense of what she was saying with my gin-soaked slow-firing synapses. I assumed she was just being friendly, or she just wanted free beer. Either way, I was a bit fascinated with the freak show.
Just then the bartender arrived and gave me an alarmed look. Again, I was slow on the uptake. I ordered a beer, and my new friend asked whether I was going to buy her one too.
Aha!! I was right, she DID just want free beer. Fine, I'll by anyone a beer. So, I bought her a beer, hoping she would now go drink it and leave me alone.
I was wrong.
"So, are you a crazy man?" she asked, "Do you like to do crazy things?"
I found irony in the question. Considering that I looked like a refugee from the Republican clubhouse, I thought the answer was obvious.
She continued. "I think you need to take some chances. I think you need to try something new."
Then, she winked at me.
"Oh good lord," I thought to myself as the hazy alcoholic veil slowly parted, "I think she wants to go back to my room with me..."
I resisted the urge to leap to my feat and run away. Somehow, I thought that would be rude, yet I did begin to consider my escape options...
"You know baby, I'm poor." She announced, looking sad-like...
-Oh shit-
-Oh shit-
-Oh shit-
"This sort of thing only happens to Carl." I thought to myself.
The conversation had taken a turn. The pieces had finally added up. Before she could actually propose the business transaction, I stood up. I patted her on the back, thanking her for the conversation, and risking that rude appearance, I ran out the door.
I slept for 12 hours that night, waking only once to apologize to my angry liver. The wedding the next day was beautiful in its simplicity and elegance. The reception was a hoot as was the second night of bar hopping with a slightly larger gaggle of wedding guests.
Upon returning to the hotel at the end of round two, I passed by the smokey glass doors of the hotel bar. They were closed, and the lights were off. To my further relief, there was nary a Mexican hooker in sight.
I assume Mary will eventually read this. So, congratulation again to you and David. Thanks for inviting me. I had a great time. You really should move to Portland.
Saturday, September 22, 2007
Two heads are better than one
Thursday, September 20, 2007
Boobies
Alright, I've been entertaining your asses for free nearly everyday for the last two years. Now, it's time for you to give back.
We here at the Gin and Tonic Lounge are serious about boobs and boob-related health. This SUNDAY is the Race for the Cure. Mrs. Gin&Tonic and the two Ginletts are running/walking to raise money to fight breast cancer.
If you haven't already given, run, pledged, or in any other way supported the cause, then please click the tag below and support Team G&T.
We here at the Gin and Tonic Lounge are serious about boobs and boob-related health. This SUNDAY is the Race for the Cure. Mrs. Gin&Tonic and the two Ginletts are running/walking to raise money to fight breast cancer.
If you haven't already given, run, pledged, or in any other way supported the cause, then please click the tag below and support Team G&T.
Thanks for your support!
Remember, the boobies you save may be your own.
I Would Have Given Him a B+
It is sort of like a jazz riff, or an abstract painting. The basic elements are there. He displays a mastery of the subject. It's just that there's all that other stuff...
Here, I dunno, I thought it was funny.
Read it here.
Here, I dunno, I thought it was funny.
Read it here.
Wednesday, September 19, 2007
Hugging the Sofa
I stare with squinted eyes, trying to focus, trying to make sure that the two cards in my hand really are spades, and that at least one of them is an ace.
It can be difficult at times to think clearly and make the right play, especially when it is late, and doubly especially when you've lost count of the glasses of scotch you've enjoyed that evening. Inevitably, at this point in the game, you and/or everyone else at the table go all-in. Cards are burned, flopped and turned. Rivers come. Curses are sworn. Brightly colored chips move in a circuit around the table.
Once home, usually late, I may smell of sweat, or smoke, or booze. Likely, I will smell of all three, and may choose for the benefit of all to sleep on the sofa, the futon or the floor.
Eventually, however, the morning comes, the sun pops up, and the girl pops out of bed. If this happens to be the groggy morning after a poker game, then it is probably Sunday. And if it is Sunday, and as long as I'm already in the living room, I might as well let the missus sleep in, and entertain my daughter myself.
Now, as many of you may guess, I'm not what you would call a "morning person," less so with a hangover. So, naturally, and frequently, "morning entertainment" takes the form of me snoozing intermittently on the sofa, between taking sips of tepid water, and pushing the DVR "play" button to unleash yet another mind-numbing children's television program.
Not, however, Elmo. We've tried Elmo. I cannot abide the falsetto-voiced red shag puppet.
No, the choices are essentially down two two.
First, Dora.
Second, Blues Clues.
The choice is essentially mine, as she will willingly watch either. So, here is my dilemma...
When one is hung well over, following a bender, a cigar and unfortunate poker losses, the light of a candle and the buzz of a mosquito can prove to be unbearable at 7:00 in the morning. Dora, therefore, with the high-octave bilingual stage-voice projection, flashing colors and constant flurry of Nintendo-like activity is simply torturous.
Dora, however, is longer than Blues Clues, which means the chance to catch approximately 6 more minutes of precious sleep between episodes.
Sleep, that is, if I can shut out the multi-cultural din.
Then there is Steve (or Joe) and their dog, Blue. Short soft strains of lap steel guitar, soft muffled murmurs and squeaks from the animated cast, and the soft-spoken boyish host, all make the show very easy to sleep through. Problem is, Blues Clues episodes are short. Too short! No sooner have I fallen into REM, than I am awoken by a demanding daughter wishing to watch more...
On the balance, I think I have to go with Blue and Steve. Dora just hurts way too much at that time of day. And while I have to rouse myself to enough consciousness to flip the channel more frequently, at least Blue won't make my headache any worse.
It can be difficult at times to think clearly and make the right play, especially when it is late, and doubly especially when you've lost count of the glasses of scotch you've enjoyed that evening. Inevitably, at this point in the game, you and/or everyone else at the table go all-in. Cards are burned, flopped and turned. Rivers come. Curses are sworn. Brightly colored chips move in a circuit around the table.
Once home, usually late, I may smell of sweat, or smoke, or booze. Likely, I will smell of all three, and may choose for the benefit of all to sleep on the sofa, the futon or the floor.
Eventually, however, the morning comes, the sun pops up, and the girl pops out of bed. If this happens to be the groggy morning after a poker game, then it is probably Sunday. And if it is Sunday, and as long as I'm already in the living room, I might as well let the missus sleep in, and entertain my daughter myself.
Now, as many of you may guess, I'm not what you would call a "morning person," less so with a hangover. So, naturally, and frequently, "morning entertainment" takes the form of me snoozing intermittently on the sofa, between taking sips of tepid water, and pushing the DVR "play" button to unleash yet another mind-numbing children's television program.
Not, however, Elmo. We've tried Elmo. I cannot abide the falsetto-voiced red shag puppet.
No, the choices are essentially down two two.
First, Dora.
Second, Blues Clues. The choice is essentially mine, as she will willingly watch either. So, here is my dilemma...
When one is hung well over, following a bender, a cigar and unfortunate poker losses, the light of a candle and the buzz of a mosquito can prove to be unbearable at 7:00 in the morning. Dora, therefore, with the high-octave bilingual stage-voice projection, flashing colors and constant flurry of Nintendo-like activity is simply torturous.
Dora, however, is longer than Blues Clues, which means the chance to catch approximately 6 more minutes of precious sleep between episodes.
Sleep, that is, if I can shut out the multi-cultural din.
Then there is Steve (or Joe) and their dog, Blue. Short soft strains of lap steel guitar, soft muffled murmurs and squeaks from the animated cast, and the soft-spoken boyish host, all make the show very easy to sleep through. Problem is, Blues Clues episodes are short. Too short! No sooner have I fallen into REM, than I am awoken by a demanding daughter wishing to watch more...
On the balance, I think I have to go with Blue and Steve. Dora just hurts way too much at that time of day. And while I have to rouse myself to enough consciousness to flip the channel more frequently, at least Blue won't make my headache any worse.
Tuesday, September 18, 2007
Lightsaber
If I had a lightsaber, I would wear it proudly, prominently perched on my hip, as a warning to evildoers, and as a conversation piece at cocktail parties.
If I had a lightsaber, I would NOT wear layered burlap robes, speak in parables, or wander into seedy neighborhoods in search of danger, because frankly, owning a lightsaber does not make me a Jedi.
If I had a lightsaber, I would not make tea or coffee with it, no matter how fast it made the water boil. That seems undignified. I would, however, use it to heat up a cup-o-noodles in a pinch.
If I had a lightsaber, I would use it to kill cowboys, because, well, I fear and hate them. I would kill midgets too because it is obvious that God hates them. And, as long as I'm on it, I would kill actors who play "insane" characters because Fuck Them, that's why.
If I had a lightsaber, I would learn how to juggle with it, because chicks dig jugglers.
If I had a lightsaber, I would probably hurt myself with it.
If I had a lightsaber, I would make you call me Xanrok the Warrior Bull, because I could...
If I had a lightsaber, I would teach those downtown Portland retro urban anti-hipster bicycle fascists a thing or two about traffic laws.
If I had a lightsaber, I would make Dick Cheney give it back. ALL of it.
And finally, if I had a lightsaber, I would win next year's BBQ contest, because, well, who's voting against a guy with a lightsaber??
If I had a lightsaber, I would NOT wear layered burlap robes, speak in parables, or wander into seedy neighborhoods in search of danger, because frankly, owning a lightsaber does not make me a Jedi.If I had a lightsaber, I would not make tea or coffee with it, no matter how fast it made the water boil. That seems undignified. I would, however, use it to heat up a cup-o-noodles in a pinch.
If I had a lightsaber, I would use it to kill cowboys, because, well, I fear and hate them. I would kill midgets too because it is obvious that God hates them. And, as long as I'm on it, I would kill actors who play "insane" characters because Fuck Them, that's why.
If I had a lightsaber, I would learn how to juggle with it, because chicks dig jugglers.
If I had a lightsaber, I would probably hurt myself with it.
If I had a lightsaber, I would make you call me Xanrok the Warrior Bull, because I could...
If I had a lightsaber, I would teach those downtown Portland retro urban anti-hipster bicycle fascists a thing or two about traffic laws.
If I had a lightsaber, I would make Dick Cheney give it back. ALL of it.
And finally, if I had a lightsaber, I would win next year's BBQ contest, because, well, who's voting against a guy with a lightsaber??
Monday, September 17, 2007
Scranton
Sure, Heroes is coming back next week. Smallville too, although the 35-year-old teenage superhero should be put out to pasture. And hopefully, by January, we should see the beginning of the final season of our beloved Battlestar.
I'm looking forward to Journeyman, starring that hunky centurion from HBO's Rome, and the Bionic Woman, featuring the sassy Starbuck from BSG.
However, there is really only one show returning this season that excites me. It is the only show that I really feel passion for. And I find that there are others like me.
It's The Office. (The American version.)
While I've never met anyone who outwardly hates the show, I usually get one of two responses:
A) vague disinterest, or
B) wicked obsessive glee, bordering on infatuation
I myself am truly infatuated with this show, and it is an odd experience to make contact with others who share my experience.
You can see the vibrant gleam in the eye when you mention the title pf the show, followed by a wide grin and a rapid recollection of all the high points of every episode of the last three seasons... "Did you see when Michael said... But Jim didn't see the... And the CIA episode! And the Bobblehead! And the sensitivity training! And the kitchen Fire! And the Vampire episode! And the boat!! I can't believe Roy tried to... and poor Pam! poor poor Pam! Oh, the art show episode. Yes, the art show episode...."
Then, once every jot and tiddle has been spewed out and handed back and forth, both fans can sit and bask in the silence, recalling the same favorite segments silently once again as they grin stupidly to themselves. If it were sex, this would be the point where you would light the cigarette.
What's odd, or at least odd to me, is who this seems to occur with. Rarely have I had this conversational experience with strangers. It has mostly been with co-workers, friends and family members who I have known for many years. It is, sometimes, like meeting them again for the first time.
I know of no other show that has ever had this effect. I think they are hypnotizing us during the commercials.
I'm looking forward to Journeyman, starring that hunky centurion from HBO's Rome, and the Bionic Woman, featuring the sassy Starbuck from BSG.
However, there is really only one show returning this season that excites me. It is the only show that I really feel passion for. And I find that there are others like me.
It's The Office. (The American version.)
While I've never met anyone who outwardly hates the show, I usually get one of two responses:
A) vague disinterest, or
B) wicked obsessive glee, bordering on infatuation
I myself am truly infatuated with this show, and it is an odd experience to make contact with others who share my experience.
You can see the vibrant gleam in the eye when you mention the title pf the show, followed by a wide grin and a rapid recollection of all the high points of every episode of the last three seasons... "Did you see when Michael said... But Jim didn't see the... And the CIA episode! And the Bobblehead! And the sensitivity training! And the kitchen Fire! And the Vampire episode! And the boat!! I can't believe Roy tried to... and poor Pam! poor poor Pam! Oh, the art show episode. Yes, the art show episode...."
Then, once every jot and tiddle has been spewed out and handed back and forth, both fans can sit and bask in the silence, recalling the same favorite segments silently once again as they grin stupidly to themselves. If it were sex, this would be the point where you would light the cigarette.
What's odd, or at least odd to me, is who this seems to occur with. Rarely have I had this conversational experience with strangers. It has mostly been with co-workers, friends and family members who I have known for many years. It is, sometimes, like meeting them again for the first time.
I know of no other show that has ever had this effect. I think they are hypnotizing us during the commercials.
Morning Coffee
Waking with the sensation that I had been sleeping in snow, and my eyes feeling that they were spackled over with peanut butter, I felt it prudent to stop early for coffee.
Surprisingly, the quiet little bedroom community in which my bedroom is located had as over-abundance of coffee choices, including three Starbucks within a 1 mile radius, two of which are actually in the same shopping center.
I was in a hurry, and already feeling queasy, so I stopped at the closest one, located just inside the door at Albertsons.
Now , I appreciate good personal hygiene. and a subtle personal scent can be nice, but it is never appropriate to slather oneself with aromatic goo before going into public. Especially if you are going to work with the public and handle the public's things.
The coffee girl did a fine job of taking my order and pouring the brew into my paper cup. the problem came, however, when she put on the lid, smearing her lotion all over the top, right where my nose goes.
With every sip, now, I am taking a whiff of her crappy citric scented hand cream. I need the coffee, but the smell is going to make me sick.
Surprisingly, the quiet little bedroom community in which my bedroom is located had as over-abundance of coffee choices, including three Starbucks within a 1 mile radius, two of which are actually in the same shopping center.
I was in a hurry, and already feeling queasy, so I stopped at the closest one, located just inside the door at Albertsons.
Now , I appreciate good personal hygiene. and a subtle personal scent can be nice, but it is never appropriate to slather oneself with aromatic goo before going into public. Especially if you are going to work with the public and handle the public's things.
The coffee girl did a fine job of taking my order and pouring the brew into my paper cup. the problem came, however, when she put on the lid, smearing her lotion all over the top, right where my nose goes.
With every sip, now, I am taking a whiff of her crappy citric scented hand cream. I need the coffee, but the smell is going to make me sick.
Sunday, September 16, 2007
Thursday, September 13, 2007
2 Days In Hermiston
Carl may be a minor god in several small villages in Vietnam.
I, on the other hand, am a minor curiosity for the locals in Umatilla County.
Eastern Oregon is the Red side of the state. Western Oregon is the Blue side, together, we make a purplish sort of populist political hodgepodge. Two days I spent there, just down the road a spell from the Pendleton Round Up.
Here are my abbreviated observations:
1. Giant TV-tray-sized belt buckles make me very un-easy, which is to say, I fear cowboys. I don't understand them. They seem to be unnatural, and I don't trust them. They are like feral dogs, quiet and brooding, until you make a wrong move and they beat you to death, tied to a barbed-wire fence. I frequently found myself prominently toying with my wedding ring, hoping they wouldn't mistake me for a homosexual.
2. Dining at an A&W restaurant dressed in a button down shirt, pleated pants with cuffs and leather shoes, with another man dressed in similar fashion, is not a good way to convince the other giant-belt-buckle-clad diners that you are not, in fact, a homosexual.
3. Hermiston reminds me of all the bad parts of Boise, without any of the good parts.
4. When naming streets with a series of consecutive numbers, hillbillies are not necessarily good at counting, and/or direction.
5. If you are a white man, like me, and you sit down at an Indian-casino poker table for a poker tournament, and everyone else at the table (including the dealer) is an Indian, you are not going to win. However, the poker gods may intervene for a time, and you may hold out far longer than you are welcome.
6. I am far more comfortable with Indians than I am with cowboys.
7. Bad Karaoke is the common language that unifies us all.
8. There is always time for one more beer.
9. Hawaiian shirts do not "blend in" at a cowboy bar.
10. Cowboys are even scarier at night.
11. Cute strippers who use their uncanny resemblance to Heather Graham to cover up their meth habit should stay out of black light... (trust me on this one)
And finally,
12. When you stop for lunch at a renovated saloon in a small historic railroad town, and the walls are adorned with 19th century erotic oil paintings, the establishment was likely once a brothel. You can, and should, bet money on it.
I'm happy to be back, safe at last from the cowboys.
I, on the other hand, am a minor curiosity for the locals in Umatilla County.
Eastern Oregon is the Red side of the state. Western Oregon is the Blue side, together, we make a purplish sort of populist political hodgepodge. Two days I spent there, just down the road a spell from the Pendleton Round Up.
Here are my abbreviated observations:
1. Giant TV-tray-sized belt buckles make me very un-easy, which is to say, I fear cowboys. I don't understand them. They seem to be unnatural, and I don't trust them. They are like feral dogs, quiet and brooding, until you make a wrong move and they beat you to death, tied to a barbed-wire fence. I frequently found myself prominently toying with my wedding ring, hoping they wouldn't mistake me for a homosexual.
2. Dining at an A&W restaurant dressed in a button down shirt, pleated pants with cuffs and leather shoes, with another man dressed in similar fashion, is not a good way to convince the other giant-belt-buckle-clad diners that you are not, in fact, a homosexual.
3. Hermiston reminds me of all the bad parts of Boise, without any of the good parts.
4. When naming streets with a series of consecutive numbers, hillbillies are not necessarily good at counting, and/or direction.
5. If you are a white man, like me, and you sit down at an Indian-casino poker table for a poker tournament, and everyone else at the table (including the dealer) is an Indian, you are not going to win. However, the poker gods may intervene for a time, and you may hold out far longer than you are welcome.
6. I am far more comfortable with Indians than I am with cowboys.
7. Bad Karaoke is the common language that unifies us all.
8. There is always time for one more beer.
9. Hawaiian shirts do not "blend in" at a cowboy bar.
10. Cowboys are even scarier at night.
11. Cute strippers who use their uncanny resemblance to Heather Graham to cover up their meth habit should stay out of black light... (trust me on this one)
And finally,
12. When you stop for lunch at a renovated saloon in a small historic railroad town, and the walls are adorned with 19th century erotic oil paintings, the establishment was likely once a brothel. You can, and should, bet money on it.
I'm happy to be back, safe at last from the cowboys.
Monday, September 10, 2007
Good Tidings of Great Joy
Dr. B has cast his potent seed upon fertile soil, and has spawned once again. He and Mrs. Dr. B welcomed their second son, Baby-P, into the world over the weekend.
The baby weighed something like 37 pounds and was at least three feet long. From the pictures, it appears that he clawed his way out via mom's spleen. Dr. B was smiling, at least, so I guess all is well.
Congratulations to the Dr. B family!
The baby weighed something like 37 pounds and was at least three feet long. From the pictures, it appears that he clawed his way out via mom's spleen. Dr. B was smiling, at least, so I guess all is well.
Congratulations to the Dr. B family!
Sunday, September 09, 2007
Microfiber
A warm wind whipped its way over the hill above my house. Dry, from the East, returning to the sea from the high plains of Eastern Oregon.
The blue glint of the crystal sky reflected off the green paint of the pick up, as I slowly worked the wax off in circles. I polished the paint into a bright lustrous gloss, highlighting the metallic sparkle of the undercoat.
Working for hours on the sloping driveway, I washed and waxed and windexed my way around my wife's truck. It has been a great truck. Reliable. Capable. But it has to go.
With the addition of the boy, and our metro-commuting lifestyle, it is no longer feasible to have only one child-friendly car. So, IN with the Saab Wagon, OUT with the Toyota Tacoma.
Squatting for eye-level perspective, I crab-walked around and around, rubbing out minor scuffs and scratches from the clear coat. As I ground down on one particularly nasty streak of fossilized tree sap, I heard the not-un-expected drawl of "hey buuuuudy..." from the end of my driveway behind me.
It was my new, uh, friend from across the street. I knew he'd find his way over. He always does, cheap beer in one hand, perpetual cigarette in the other. He came over to express his gratitude for my having watched his dog last month. Sure, he ended up being gone for a month, and, sure, the dog was a cranky old pit bull, but really, after the first few dozen times, I got the point.
I mean, don't get me wrong, he's a nice guy, and smart too, with a working knowledge of spelunking, mineral deposits, mine operations, the international diamond trade, wild blueberries, astronomy, construction contracting, disability law, marine biology, geology and disc golf. He also knows everyone in a 12 block radius. Oh, and he's paranoid. Oh, and, he has ZERO short term memory.
The memory thing may be related to his near-death car accident from a couple of years ago, or it may be related to the full kahuna beat down he received on a beach in Hawaii earlier this year at the hands of a psychopath. Oh, and did I mention his wife died? Oh, and did I mention the Smithsonian was going to name a new mineral after him, a mineral he discovered in one of the three quartz mines he owns up in Washington?
I kept waxing.
Look, he's a nice guy, and I find him amusing. Having known our pal Carl for so long, I've learned to appreciate the occasional tall tale for what it is, and to just not question the details... (love ya Carl, be safe there at the end of the world..)
So he talked, and I cleaned. Eventually, he wheeled over his extensive and somewhat impressive shell collection from the islands. Literally thousands, and he claimed it was only the tip of the iceberg. I have no reason to disbelieve. He even let me keep a few.
The afternoon wore on, and he kept talking. I found my attention swaying now and then, often coming to rest on the cloth in my hand. There were ten of them, handy-sized rags, clean and new. The missus had purchased them earlier when she went to fetch truck detailing supplies.
They were rough, but soft, all at once. They were absorbent, and they left no lint or dust. They were perfect for drying, perfect for windows, perfect for cleaning the dash. They did not smear or blur the glass or other shiny surfaces! They were the perfect car cleaning rag, the best I'd ever used. They were made from the latest microfiber technology, able to absorb 7 times their own weight in water! HOW DID I EVER wash my car before these rags were invented???
My pal had stopped talking just long enough to light the next smoke. The silence distracted me, and I looked up. He then told me again about how he likes to make clocks out of coral and shells...
I gave up. I went in side and got a cigar and a beer. I came back out, and sat down on the lawn. "So," I said, holding the zippo flame to the business end of my stogy, "tell me more about those wild blueberries..."
The blue glint of the crystal sky reflected off the green paint of the pick up, as I slowly worked the wax off in circles. I polished the paint into a bright lustrous gloss, highlighting the metallic sparkle of the undercoat.
Working for hours on the sloping driveway, I washed and waxed and windexed my way around my wife's truck. It has been a great truck. Reliable. Capable. But it has to go.
With the addition of the boy, and our metro-commuting lifestyle, it is no longer feasible to have only one child-friendly car. So, IN with the Saab Wagon, OUT with the Toyota Tacoma.
Squatting for eye-level perspective, I crab-walked around and around, rubbing out minor scuffs and scratches from the clear coat. As I ground down on one particularly nasty streak of fossilized tree sap, I heard the not-un-expected drawl of "hey buuuuudy..." from the end of my driveway behind me.
It was my new, uh, friend from across the street. I knew he'd find his way over. He always does, cheap beer in one hand, perpetual cigarette in the other. He came over to express his gratitude for my having watched his dog last month. Sure, he ended up being gone for a month, and, sure, the dog was a cranky old pit bull, but really, after the first few dozen times, I got the point.
I mean, don't get me wrong, he's a nice guy, and smart too, with a working knowledge of spelunking, mineral deposits, mine operations, the international diamond trade, wild blueberries, astronomy, construction contracting, disability law, marine biology, geology and disc golf. He also knows everyone in a 12 block radius. Oh, and he's paranoid. Oh, and, he has ZERO short term memory.
The memory thing may be related to his near-death car accident from a couple of years ago, or it may be related to the full kahuna beat down he received on a beach in Hawaii earlier this year at the hands of a psychopath. Oh, and did I mention his wife died? Oh, and did I mention the Smithsonian was going to name a new mineral after him, a mineral he discovered in one of the three quartz mines he owns up in Washington?
I kept waxing.
Look, he's a nice guy, and I find him amusing. Having known our pal Carl for so long, I've learned to appreciate the occasional tall tale for what it is, and to just not question the details... (love ya Carl, be safe there at the end of the world..)
So he talked, and I cleaned. Eventually, he wheeled over his extensive and somewhat impressive shell collection from the islands. Literally thousands, and he claimed it was only the tip of the iceberg. I have no reason to disbelieve. He even let me keep a few.
The afternoon wore on, and he kept talking. I found my attention swaying now and then, often coming to rest on the cloth in my hand. There were ten of them, handy-sized rags, clean and new. The missus had purchased them earlier when she went to fetch truck detailing supplies.
They were rough, but soft, all at once. They were absorbent, and they left no lint or dust. They were perfect for drying, perfect for windows, perfect for cleaning the dash. They did not smear or blur the glass or other shiny surfaces! They were the perfect car cleaning rag, the best I'd ever used. They were made from the latest microfiber technology, able to absorb 7 times their own weight in water! HOW DID I EVER wash my car before these rags were invented???
My pal had stopped talking just long enough to light the next smoke. The silence distracted me, and I looked up. He then told me again about how he likes to make clocks out of coral and shells...
I gave up. I went in side and got a cigar and a beer. I came back out, and sat down on the lawn. "So," I said, holding the zippo flame to the business end of my stogy, "tell me more about those wild blueberries..."
Thursday, September 06, 2007
Constant State of Want
Long, black and hard, I have sought it out with a persistence akin to lust. It is perfect in every way. I have sought it out on the street, behind closed doors and exhaustively on the Internet.
I gaze at pictures of it, and troll Craigslist for it everyday. I have stood, staring at it in the window from the sidewalk. I fantasize about gripping it in my hand, feeling its weight, and twisting it gently into the smooth tight socket for the first time, until I hear the tell-tale click.
Obviously, I'm talking about the Canon 100mm EF f2.8 USM Macro lens, and I have placed my order. By the time most of you read this on Friday, it will have been shipped. Now the hard part begins. Now I must wait, refreshing frequently the UPS tracking page. Soon it will be here. Soon it will be mine.
Do not, however, be mistaken. This will not be the slaking of my material thirst. Material goods rarely satisfy completely, they only leave you wanting more. Certainly, I choose wisely, and research my acquisitions beyond all reasonable degree. (Our pre-purchase thoroughness having recently disturbed the seller of my wife's new car...)
But I digress, as so often I do.
The lens is on its way. Finally, but now I want something else. I want this:
Yes, a grill. Weber. Charcoal. Gas ignition.
It's called the Weber performer, and it will be mine, which may sound odd coming from a guy with four grills. But really, it makes sense. First, the main grill is gas. The second grill is really a smoker. the third is a portable propane camping grill. The fourth is a Brinkman charcoal grill that I inherited when I bought the house, and it sucks ass. Truly, it is a monumental piece of shit, and it needs to go.
Besides the fact that Weber makes the best charcoal grills anywhere, it also comes with this optional accessory:
Which I need to make things like this:
(I must always be mindful toward next years BBQ contest...) Want...
I gaze at pictures of it, and troll Craigslist for it everyday. I have stood, staring at it in the window from the sidewalk. I fantasize about gripping it in my hand, feeling its weight, and twisting it gently into the smooth tight socket for the first time, until I hear the tell-tale click.
Obviously, I'm talking about the Canon 100mm EF f2.8 USM Macro lens, and I have placed my order. By the time most of you read this on Friday, it will have been shipped. Now the hard part begins. Now I must wait, refreshing frequently the UPS tracking page. Soon it will be here. Soon it will be mine.
Do not, however, be mistaken. This will not be the slaking of my material thirst. Material goods rarely satisfy completely, they only leave you wanting more. Certainly, I choose wisely, and research my acquisitions beyond all reasonable degree. (Our pre-purchase thoroughness having recently disturbed the seller of my wife's new car...)
But I digress, as so often I do.
The lens is on its way. Finally, but now I want something else. I want this:
Yes, a grill. Weber. Charcoal. Gas ignition.
It's called the Weber performer, and it will be mine, which may sound odd coming from a guy with four grills. But really, it makes sense. First, the main grill is gas. The second grill is really a smoker. the third is a portable propane camping grill. The fourth is a Brinkman charcoal grill that I inherited when I bought the house, and it sucks ass. Truly, it is a monumental piece of shit, and it needs to go.
Besides the fact that Weber makes the best charcoal grills anywhere, it also comes with this optional accessory:
Which I need to make things like this:
(I must always be mindful toward next years BBQ contest...) Want...
Wednesday, September 05, 2007
Story of My Life
Death has run rampant in the glass-confined aquatic corner of my office. However, the latest family of finned friends seem to have taken. They are going on about four weeks now, with nary a sign of ich or rot.
As was discussed before, the breed, though vegan, is terribly aggressive, and one male is recommended for any collective group of females. So it was that I assembled this family, one bright yellow male Kenyi with bold black stripes and three deep blue females.
Much hay was made, as you may remember, concerning my fish and any number of theoretical aspirations I was accuse of harboring. And yes, I suppose, it must be nice to be king of the reef, the sole dominant male with three sexy swimming ladies all to oneself...
It's the way of nature. Who am I to argue with that. Besides, a tank full of polygamist trout is always a good conversation starter...
Now that the water is clearing and the biological filter is nearing equilibrium, a new problem seems to be arising. Apparently, the three blue girls are not necessarily what they originally appeared to be. Two of them, after a brief spell of odd behavior, have begun to change color, losing the blue hue, and developing a pale yellow glint. This does not mean that they are changing gender, rather, they were already male to begin with. Sub-dominant males, living life as females to avoid persecution and death.
I guess my alpha is just a little too beta to hold his title. As the blues turn yellow, the original yellow has started to fade and his stripes are nearly gone.
The one remaining blue female has, as any smart woman would do in this situation, gone into hiding.
Sure, I'm suppose to limit the population of this species to one male for three females, which I tried to do, but what I ended up with was a tank full of angry transvestites. Great. Just fucking great...
(Alright, I just tossed you vultures a softball. Have at it.)
As was discussed before, the breed, though vegan, is terribly aggressive, and one male is recommended for any collective group of females. So it was that I assembled this family, one bright yellow male Kenyi with bold black stripes and three deep blue females.
Much hay was made, as you may remember, concerning my fish and any number of theoretical aspirations I was accuse of harboring. And yes, I suppose, it must be nice to be king of the reef, the sole dominant male with three sexy swimming ladies all to oneself...
It's the way of nature. Who am I to argue with that. Besides, a tank full of polygamist trout is always a good conversation starter...
Now that the water is clearing and the biological filter is nearing equilibrium, a new problem seems to be arising. Apparently, the three blue girls are not necessarily what they originally appeared to be. Two of them, after a brief spell of odd behavior, have begun to change color, losing the blue hue, and developing a pale yellow glint. This does not mean that they are changing gender, rather, they were already male to begin with. Sub-dominant males, living life as females to avoid persecution and death.
I guess my alpha is just a little too beta to hold his title. As the blues turn yellow, the original yellow has started to fade and his stripes are nearly gone.
The one remaining blue female has, as any smart woman would do in this situation, gone into hiding.
Sure, I'm suppose to limit the population of this species to one male for three females, which I tried to do, but what I ended up with was a tank full of angry transvestites. Great. Just fucking great...
(Alright, I just tossed you vultures a softball. Have at it.)
Assimilation
It's been a while since I visited the old traffic meter for the Lounge. Truth be told, I lost a bit of interest. This morning, however, out of curiosity, I took a quick peek. I was shocked to discover that I had overlooked a recent three-day visit spike, about a week or so ago. While this is only interesting to me, and probably Abestis, I hit nearly 200 individual visitors on August 29, with nearly as many the day before and the day after.
Unfortunately, I am unable to go back and research the referrals that led those folks to the Lounge. However, recent trends reveal that the Lounge has become a major Google Images destination for people looking for pictures of Ass.
Whereas, once folks seeking the Proper Pronunciation of Pepperoncini came this way, we are now an ass-oriented roadside attraction along the information superhighway.
If you are indeed one of the many deviant folks (boy, girl, gay, straight, or otherwise...) pursuing prurient pleasure and quick ass-satisfaction: Welcome! We're glad you could stop by.
I try to be a good host. So, lest you be disappointed, here is your veritable buffet of butts:
Unfortunately, I am unable to go back and research the referrals that led those folks to the Lounge. However, recent trends reveal that the Lounge has become a major Google Images destination for people looking for pictures of Ass.
Whereas, once folks seeking the Proper Pronunciation of Pepperoncini came this way, we are now an ass-oriented roadside attraction along the information superhighway.
If you are indeed one of the many deviant folks (boy, girl, gay, straight, or otherwise...) pursuing prurient pleasure and quick ass-satisfaction: Welcome! We're glad you could stop by.
I try to be a good host. So, lest you be disappointed, here is your veritable buffet of butts:
Well, I hope you enjoyed your visit. Please be sure to come back and visit again sometime. I promise, some of the words are interesting too...
Tuesday, September 04, 2007
Devil's Point
I thought that I'd seen it all.
Fat girls. Tall girls. Girls on fire. Waify flat girls in ill-fitting fetish wear. Girls missing arms. Girls missing teeth. Girls covered in tattoos, vinyl, and yogurt.
I've seen girls with hairy pits. Girls with pregnant bellies. Girls with poor hygiene.
I've seen them swing on poles, hang from trapeze bars and bend backwards like a slinky. They have been slathered in whip cream, soaked in a hot tub and they have even glowed in the dark.
So, how is it that I could possibly never have seen this:
Oh, it's on baby. Karaoke. Strippers. Booze. It's like some mystical unholy trinity.
Three, they say, is a magic number.
So, I say we go. I'm going at the very least. You should go too. If enough of us go, it'll be like taking the Lounge to the Lounge, as it were. Who's in?
Fat girls. Tall girls. Girls on fire. Waify flat girls in ill-fitting fetish wear. Girls missing arms. Girls missing teeth. Girls covered in tattoos, vinyl, and yogurt.
I've seen girls with hairy pits. Girls with pregnant bellies. Girls with poor hygiene.
I've seen them swing on poles, hang from trapeze bars and bend backwards like a slinky. They have been slathered in whip cream, soaked in a hot tub and they have even glowed in the dark.
So, how is it that I could possibly never have seen this:
Oh, it's on baby. Karaoke. Strippers. Booze. It's like some mystical unholy trinity.
Three, they say, is a magic number.
So, I say we go. I'm going at the very least. You should go too. If enough of us go, it'll be like taking the Lounge to the Lounge, as it were. Who's in?
Monday, September 03, 2007
Labor Day
Summer's over; time to put away the seersucker suit, the cream-colored fedora, and the white linen slacks. Time to tuck away the camping gear and picnic flat wear. Time to hang up my red sequined Spedo until next swim season.
Well, OK, there is another 18 days left until the sun's vertical rays cross the Equator toward the Tropic of Capricorn, but by all social convention, the Summer is done.
It was a quickie to be sure. Not a tap-your-foot-in-the-bathroom-stall-type of quickie, but rushed, hurried and abridged to be sure. There were many weekends of experimental smoked lamb, camera safaris with the girl and a prodigious flow of drool from the boy. The dog made a friend or two.
The BBQ contest went as expected. I did not win, but placed near the top. I did, however, sit my ass in a chair on a driveway in the shade, drink ice-cold cheap beer and watch sweet smoke billow from the vents of my smoker for hour upon hour under a pure blue Oregon sky. It was a perfect day.
Next year, I may attempt a brisket. I will have to confer with Carl first. I may also attempt an apricot glazed rotisserie pork roast. We shall see how the coming year develops.
I didn't see nearly enough strippers this Summer. Barely any at all, and I completely missed the outdoor patio pool stage at The Safari Club. Damn!
I think maybe I played disc golf once. If that. Such a waste. Parenting is hard. Saturdays are short.
I drank a lot this Summer, especially with the new job. We pour drinks at 4:45 most days. If you're downtown, stop by for a quick one.
Fall is coming. Yes, it technically will start on September 21. However, around here, Fall really starts when you smell it. And everyone does. One day, probably early in October, we will all get up to go to work. We will walk out to our cars, bikes or buses, and it will hit us: "Hmmm, smells like Fall." Then, it will be Fall.
Until then, we will all just collectively ride out this seasonal limbo, usually called the Indian Summer. It's a nether-season that allows us to catch up on Summer's missed follies and prepare for the chilling realities of the approaching Autumn. It's a time to clean out the gutters, unpack the sweater vest collection, and generally batten down the hatches.
The rain is coming, that is certain, but for now, at least for a few weeks, the sky is still blue.
Well, OK, there is another 18 days left until the sun's vertical rays cross the Equator toward the Tropic of Capricorn, but by all social convention, the Summer is done.
It was a quickie to be sure. Not a tap-your-foot-in-the-bathroom-stall-type of quickie, but rushed, hurried and abridged to be sure. There were many weekends of experimental smoked lamb, camera safaris with the girl and a prodigious flow of drool from the boy. The dog made a friend or two.
The BBQ contest went as expected. I did not win, but placed near the top. I did, however, sit my ass in a chair on a driveway in the shade, drink ice-cold cheap beer and watch sweet smoke billow from the vents of my smoker for hour upon hour under a pure blue Oregon sky. It was a perfect day.
Next year, I may attempt a brisket. I will have to confer with Carl first. I may also attempt an apricot glazed rotisserie pork roast. We shall see how the coming year develops.
I didn't see nearly enough strippers this Summer. Barely any at all, and I completely missed the outdoor patio pool stage at The Safari Club. Damn!
I think maybe I played disc golf once. If that. Such a waste. Parenting is hard. Saturdays are short.
I drank a lot this Summer, especially with the new job. We pour drinks at 4:45 most days. If you're downtown, stop by for a quick one.
Fall is coming. Yes, it technically will start on September 21. However, around here, Fall really starts when you smell it. And everyone does. One day, probably early in October, we will all get up to go to work. We will walk out to our cars, bikes or buses, and it will hit us: "Hmmm, smells like Fall." Then, it will be Fall.
Until then, we will all just collectively ride out this seasonal limbo, usually called the Indian Summer. It's a nether-season that allows us to catch up on Summer's missed follies and prepare for the chilling realities of the approaching Autumn. It's a time to clean out the gutters, unpack the sweater vest collection, and generally batten down the hatches.
The rain is coming, that is certain, but for now, at least for a few weeks, the sky is still blue.
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