I saw a somewhat alarming decal on the back of a guy’s truck the other day. I’m sure you’ve seen it too. A search on google images brought up a lot of stuff I wasn't looking for, so I’ll explain it instead. It’s the one with the silhouette of the trucker chick, but with a male deer head with large antlers instead of her own head. Below this image, it says “Nice Rack.”
Perhaps I am the only one who thinks it’s odd. A woman’s body with prominent chest, but a male deer head? Nice rack? I know it’s a pun, but it’s a bad pun and shouldn’t be propagated. It gives me the impression that in a pinch, a sheep will do for the guy who buys this. That he may paste animal heads onto all the women in his stack of porn. Or maybe women’s breasts on all the animals in his stack of hunting magazines. Not a pretty picture, especially when you finally pass the guy on the road and get a gander at his grizzled visage.
Friday, September 28, 2007
Thursday, September 27, 2007
The adventures of V
Here’s a story relating to G’s friend V (for Vicodin). We three went to a concert at the Roseland year before last. The two guys, always interested in cheating the system, decided they were going to scope out someone who had a hand stamp and get us all in for free. The plan was that we would all be ushered through the security line, then mill about in the restrooms until we got a good look at the stamp for that concert. V brought a dozen black and blue pens of various ink types for this purpose, which I thought was overkill, but soon proved to be quite entertaining:
When he first went through the security line, V was told that he couldn’t bring the pens in, due to a problem they were having with graffiti. Rather than admit defeat, leave the pens, and buy a ticket, V threw a little hissy and stalked outside with pens in tow. G and I just looked at each other, shrugged, and went to buy tickets.
But soon, V was back, with a very pronounced limp. Quite, and I mean quite suspiciously, he hobbled back through the security line, brushing past the guards who had just moments before told him to lose the pens, with nary a word said to him. Once he was fifteen feet past the gate, he slipped his foot out of his shoe and withdrew six of the pens. V for Victory! They must have known what he was doing, it was soooo obvious, but perhaps they were as entertained as I was.
Quickly he procured someone’s hand for a view, announced that he’d got it, and ushered us into the bar for a quick drink and some pirating. The next hilarity ensued: one out of the six pens actually worked, and this one barely. V took it to do my stamp, proclaiming himself “really good at this.” Maybe it was the bad pen, because I saw no evidence of his skill. Instead, it looked like a five-year-old had scribbled “Hey Stamp Out of It” on the back of my hand.
I decided I was going to decline the whole thing and go buy a twenty dollar ticket, and rubbed some spit on my hand to get rid of the evidence while V set to work on G’s hand. Almost absent-mindedly, Vicodin withdrew from his pocket an intact ticket. “I found this on the floor, you can use it.”
I’m not sure if he did find it on the floor or what, but it appeared to be the real thing, so pacified, I sat back down.
G and V breezed through the entrance with their “hand stamps” but I, with my legitimate (if possibly stolen) ticket in hand, got noticed for the botched stamp job on my hand. “Looks like someone already got you,” the usher said as he went to stamp my hand. I could only nod in shame and say stoutly “yes, unfortunately.”
Sigh.
When he first went through the security line, V was told that he couldn’t bring the pens in, due to a problem they were having with graffiti. Rather than admit defeat, leave the pens, and buy a ticket, V threw a little hissy and stalked outside with pens in tow. G and I just looked at each other, shrugged, and went to buy tickets.
But soon, V was back, with a very pronounced limp. Quite, and I mean quite suspiciously, he hobbled back through the security line, brushing past the guards who had just moments before told him to lose the pens, with nary a word said to him. Once he was fifteen feet past the gate, he slipped his foot out of his shoe and withdrew six of the pens. V for Victory! They must have known what he was doing, it was soooo obvious, but perhaps they were as entertained as I was.
Quickly he procured someone’s hand for a view, announced that he’d got it, and ushered us into the bar for a quick drink and some pirating. The next hilarity ensued: one out of the six pens actually worked, and this one barely. V took it to do my stamp, proclaiming himself “really good at this.” Maybe it was the bad pen, because I saw no evidence of his skill. Instead, it looked like a five-year-old had scribbled “Hey Stamp Out of It” on the back of my hand.
I decided I was going to decline the whole thing and go buy a twenty dollar ticket, and rubbed some spit on my hand to get rid of the evidence while V set to work on G’s hand. Almost absent-mindedly, Vicodin withdrew from his pocket an intact ticket. “I found this on the floor, you can use it.”
I’m not sure if he did find it on the floor or what, but it appeared to be the real thing, so pacified, I sat back down.
G and V breezed through the entrance with their “hand stamps” but I, with my legitimate (if possibly stolen) ticket in hand, got noticed for the botched stamp job on my hand. “Looks like someone already got you,” the usher said as he went to stamp my hand. I could only nod in shame and say stoutly “yes, unfortunately.”
Sigh.
Packrats
In 1947 a couple of compulsive hoarders named the Collyer brothers were found dead in their NYC home. Apparently the younger brother, Langley, fell victim to his own booby trap, which caused a huge pile of junk to fall on him and crush him to death. His brother, Homer, was blind and unfortunately depended on Langley for care. Sadly, Homer died of starvation after Langley's accident. To recover the bodies, tons of debris had to be removed from the home.
Why did Langly have booby traps set up, especially if his brother was blind and could've stumbled into one unawares? Maybe it was a ploy to get rid of Homer, but backfired.
Why did Langly have booby traps set up, especially if his brother was blind and could've stumbled into one unawares? Maybe it was a ploy to get rid of Homer, but backfired.
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
Two things for today:
When I was five, my parents went to the beach for the weekend and came back with seashells as gifts for us. I received a freeze dried starfish, and erroneously thought that if I reconstituted it, I would have a live pet starfish. So I duly went to the bathroom sink, filled it up and put the starfish in, and watched it promptly fall apart.
~AND~
My brother and I once expended an entire tube of fake blood all over ourselves, and went to lay under a parked car for the afternoon. Later, we scratched our heads in wonderment as to why no one had stopped, or even paused. Perhaps it was because the car we'd selected had two flat tires and weeds growing out from under it, and hadn't moved in years.
Monday, September 24, 2007
Some Quotes
Mark Twain: "Last week I stated that this woman was the ugliest woman I had ever seen. I have since been visited by her sister and now wish to withdraw that statement."
Mike Tyson: "[He] called me a rapist and a recluse. I'm not a recluse."
Ned Kelly (on the scaffold): "Such is life."
Demetri Martin: "A dreamcatcher works...if your dream is to be gay."
General John Sedgewick (in the moments before he was hit and killed by enemy fire): "They couldn't hit an elephant at this distance."
John Hay: "Hectic! Spinach! Life is too short for such madness."
A 5 Pound Note: "Have you heard the mandrake scream?"
Mike Tyson: "[He] called me a rapist and a recluse. I'm not a recluse."
Yogi Berra: "When you come to a fork in the road ... Take it."
Groucho Marx: "From the moment I picked your book up until I laid it down I was convulsed with laughter. Someday I intend reading it."
Steven Spielberg: "Why pay a dollar for a bookmark? Why not use the dollar for a bookmark?"
Kelly Tolman: "I'm not going to kill you. I might tase you a little bit..."
Winston Churchill: "I am ready to meet my Maker. Whether my Maker is prepared for the ordeal of meeting me is another matter."
George Burns: "Actually, it only takes one drink to get me loaded. Trouble is, I can't remember if it's the thirteenth or fourteenth."
W.C. Fields (on Mae West): "A plumber's idea of Cleopatra."
Benjamin Franklin: "Most fools think they are only ignorant."
Paul Beatty: "If all the world's a stage, I want to operate the trap door."
Marty Feldman: "I won't eat anything that has intelligent life, but I'd gladly eat a network executive or a politician."
Howard Hughes: "I'm not a paranoid deranged millionaire. Goddamnit, I'm a billionaire."
Paul Beatty: "If all the world's a stage, I want to operate the trap door."
Marty Feldman: "I won't eat anything that has intelligent life, but I'd gladly eat a network executive or a politician."
Howard Hughes: "I'm not a paranoid deranged millionaire. Goddamnit, I'm a billionaire."
Some Drunken Child (or childlike person) on Hawthorne: "Wine is so good. It's true!"
Dame Margot Asquith (on Jean Harlow mispronouncing her first name): "No, my dear, the 'T' is silent, as in 'Harlow.'"
Did they meet at a spelling bee??
I saw these items written on the back of the car of a couple who had just gotten married -
"OUR TWO HEARTS HAVE MEAT"
"SOAL MIGHTS"
The hearts of these soal mights may have meat, but I sure hope they don't have kids.
"OUR TWO HEARTS HAVE MEAT"
"SOAL MIGHTS"
The hearts of these soal mights may have meat, but I sure hope they don't have kids.
Friday, September 21, 2007
Farts, Santa Claus, and Old Women
My friend Andy's grandmother likes farts and Santa Claus. So when Andy got her a farting Santa for Christmas, she was understandably excited. He was visiting her at the nursing home she lives in, along with his mother and his aunt at the time. His aunt kept punctuating everything she said with "but don't worry about me" in a really loud voice.
Finally another elderly lady turned her eyes away from watching the 700 Club and said "I'm sure not gonna worry about you, so shut the hell up!"
I love old women. Like this one: http://www.poetv.com/video.php?vid=10449
Finally another elderly lady turned her eyes away from watching the 700 Club and said "I'm sure not gonna worry about you, so shut the hell up!"
I love old women. Like this one: http://www.poetv.com/video.php?vid=10449
Thursday, September 20, 2007
Wellington Koooooooooo
This may or may not be true, but who cares? It's the best comeback line ever.
In the mid-twentieth century, an American diplomat found himself seated next to a Chinese man at a banquet. At a loss as to how to start a conversation with this gentleman, the American ventured with "Likee Soupee?" The Chinese man said nothing, only smiled and nodded in a polite manner. Nothing more was exchanged, and soon the Chinese man was called up to speak. After delivering an eloquent speech in impeccable English, the Chinese diplomat sat back down to a great round of applause, turned to the American (whose mouth was agape I'm sure), and said, "Likee Speechee?"
The Chinese guy was the preeminent and well-educated Chinese Ambassador Vi Kyuin Wellington Koo. He was the first Chinese representative in the newly formed League of Nations, and was one of the founding members of the United Nations. After retireing from the Chinese diplomatic service in 1956, he became a judge, and later moved to NYC, where he died in 1985.
In the mid-twentieth century, an American diplomat found himself seated next to a Chinese man at a banquet. At a loss as to how to start a conversation with this gentleman, the American ventured with "Likee Soupee?" The Chinese man said nothing, only smiled and nodded in a polite manner. Nothing more was exchanged, and soon the Chinese man was called up to speak. After delivering an eloquent speech in impeccable English, the Chinese diplomat sat back down to a great round of applause, turned to the American (whose mouth was agape I'm sure), and said, "Likee Speechee?"
The Chinese guy was the preeminent and well-educated Chinese Ambassador Vi Kyuin Wellington Koo. He was the first Chinese representative in the newly formed League of Nations, and was one of the founding members of the United Nations. After retireing from the Chinese diplomatic service in 1956, he became a judge, and later moved to NYC, where he died in 1985.
Wednesday, September 19, 2007
Deaths in the Navy
My ex-boss Jerry served in the Navy on an aircraft carrier for a while. During his stay on the ship, at least four crewmates died:
Two accidentally ejected from their aircraft into the ocean, never to be found.
One died in a storage room in the bowels of the ship by asphyxiation - apparently there was a buildup of carbon monoxide or dioxide down there, and generally men went there in pairs because they could get "sleepy."
One officer nobody liked turned up missing, and they never found him. Jerry thinks someone pushed him overboard.
Two accidentally ejected from their aircraft into the ocean, never to be found.
One died in a storage room in the bowels of the ship by asphyxiation - apparently there was a buildup of carbon monoxide or dioxide down there, and generally men went there in pairs because they could get "sleepy."
One officer nobody liked turned up missing, and they never found him. Jerry thinks someone pushed him overboard.
Tuesday, September 18, 2007
Coal for Christmas
There is a town in Pennsylvania that has been on fire for forty-five years. The fire in Centralia started in a coal vein in 1962. Numerous attempts to extinguish the fire failed, and though there were a few cases of carbon monoxide poisoning, the true scale of the problem wasn’t discovered until 1979 when a gas-station owner decided to check the petrol level in one of his tanks. His fuel gauge seemed hot when he withdrew it, so he checked the temperature – which was a whopping 172 degrees F. 
Then a 12-year-old kid fell into a 150-foot sink hole that suddenly developed under his feet. Fortunately someone in his family had lightning reflexes, because he was saved before it was too late. Folks started moving away. In 1992 the state claimed eminent domain on the city and condemned all buildings. Its postal code was revoked in 2002. Nowadays, the fire still rages on in the subterranean coal vein, tipped off only by the steam and smoke that escapes through various sink holes and cracks in the empty streets. Some say the coal runs in an eight-mile seam that could burn for 250 years. The seam runs dangerously close to the nearby town of Ashland.
Then a 12-year-old kid fell into a 150-foot sink hole that suddenly developed under his feet. Fortunately someone in his family had lightning reflexes, because he was saved before it was too late. Folks started moving away. In 1992 the state claimed eminent domain on the city and condemned all buildings. Its postal code was revoked in 2002. Nowadays, the fire still rages on in the subterranean coal vein, tipped off only by the steam and smoke that escapes through various sink holes and cracks in the empty streets. Some say the coal runs in an eight-mile seam that could burn for 250 years. The seam runs dangerously close to the nearby town of Ashland.
Are They Joking?
G and I were out for happy hour at our favorite steakhouse, and two whiskeys on the shelf caught our collective eye.
The first was called Dry Sack, and the second was called Cockburn's. Are they trying to tell us something?
Cockburns swears that you should pronounce their name COburn's, but who are they trying to kid? It's very clearly spelled COCKburn's.
And as for Dry Sack, there just aren't words.
The first was called Dry Sack, and the second was called Cockburn's. Are they trying to tell us something?
Cockburns swears that you should pronounce their name COburn's, but who are they trying to kid? It's very clearly spelled COCKburn's.
And as for Dry Sack, there just aren't words.
Monday, September 17, 2007
Ages of Me
When I was one: My room was yellow.
When I was two: My parents stuck me in my crib when there was company over and I could hear them all laughing out in the living room, so I screamed my lungs out.
When I was three: I thought the packets of flower seeds at the nursery looked nice, so I started stuffing them into my pockets. My mom caught me.
When I was four: I thought on the morning of my birthday that because I was now four, I had magically grown tall enough to see over the kitchen counter.
When I was five: My kindergarten class ordered those plates where the kids drew pictures on a piece of tissue paper, then the papers would be sent in to the company, which would laminate them to plastic plates. I was the only kid in the class whose parents declined to buy one, so I had to return to my seat with a flimsy tissue paper drawing of my family and tears in my eyes while all the other kids were showing off their plates.
When I was six: I went to a Catholic school until this age. My mom transferred me into public school after this time because I and this kid from England named Justin made loud pig noises during mass and our teacher kicked us out of the Our Lady of Saints parade. My mom's view was, "My daughter would never make pig noises during mass. If my daughter can't be in the parade, then she doesn't have to go to this school anymore."
When I was seven: I was hanging out with my dad in a pizza joint called Shakey’s. Westworld was on the TV monitor, and the part when Yul Brynner’s face melted scared the crap outta me.
When I was eight: I punched my best friend Josh repeatedly in the side at recess, perfecting the kidney punch, as I called it. I also embezzled money from the class treasury and got caught. It’s kind of a wonder I don’t have a record today, what with the stuff I did before I was ten!
When I was nine: I got surgery in my mouth to correct a receding gum-line, by way of grafting skin from the top of my mouth onto the gums along the bottom front. They used a weird chewing gum-like substance to cover the stitches on my hard palate. In my sleep, I swallowed the substance, commencing bleeding in my mouth. When I woke up, I couldn’t even speak because of a giant clot of blood in the back of my throat.
When I was ten: I ate a lot of Burger King onion rings with my sister. Later that evening, we sat in our room farting and laughing at the stench. Our mom came in to say good night, and physically reacted to the entity that was our farts, unable to cross the threshold of the room.
When I was eleven: my next best friend Krystal, her brother, and I entered this abandoned house nearby, reputed to be the illicit dwelling of this kid we went to school with’s family. There were what seemed like seventeen television sets and tons of porn. I think this part is my imagination, but I recall a scary looking guy with Graves disease lingering in the house when we were. We ran.
When I was twelve: Treating your bangs with a curling iron and shellacking them with AquaNet was quite popular. I sculpted my hair in such a manner and thought it was such perfection that I maintained it for like three days, liberally spraying it whenever it seemed like it would wilt (fat chance of that, I should have bought stock in AquaNet). My older cousin came to visit, and after much proselytizing, convinced me to wash it all out.
When I was thirteen: I had a crush on this kid named Brian, who I heard had a crush on me. Our crushes consisted of ignoring each other throughout the school year except to team up to surreptitiously throw staples in our classmates’ hair.
When I was fourteen: It was a hot summer day. My brother Zucchini, who was eight, and I were picking blackberries in the elementary school field near our house, while our sister Melon Head (eleven) was practicing soccer in the junior high field, also nearby. When we had had our fill of picking, we decided to go see what Melon Head was up to. When we arrived, we showed her Zucchini’s purple-stained hands, and in my best stricken voice, I said, “He can’t feel his hands!”
She took one look and flipped out. “You could have frostbite!” Never mind that it was eighty-plus degrees out in the middle of summer. We couldn’t take it any more, and started snickering. “This is not a laughing matter!” She continued, “you need to go home and show mom right NOW!” Finally, amidst our by this time very apparent giggles, she realized we had our picked blackberries with us, and that it was August.
When I was fifteen: I started taking ballet. I still occasionally choreograph dances in my apartment.
When I was sixteen: I started an underground magazine (later called the Back Wall after the favorite pop quiz torture instrument of our Current Events teacher) that by my senior year grew to include about thirty subscribers (including above teacher), a staff of writers, and regular features. I even got called into the counselor’s office to debate my freedom of speech. It’s fun to look through the old photo-copied issues now.
When I was seventeen: Sherri and I became obsessed with the ouija board my mom used to have when she was a kid. We started holding séances, replete with candles and a steady stream of teenagers climbing in and out my bedroom window at all hours. My parents were tolerant, to say the least.
When I was eighteen: On my last day of high school (before the graduation ceremony), my dad and I took the canoe out for a paddle around Lacamas Lake. We talked about life after school (which I had been somewhat afraid of), and what I wanted to do with my life. It was such a pleasant day, and my dad is phenomenal!
When I was nineteen: My bosses told me i had to start wearing a bra to work. I guess I'd finally hit puberty!!
When I was twenty: I lived in like three separate apartments all over southwest Washington that year. A bit of a whirlwind!
When I was twenty-one: I got married to the wrong person, only to divorce six years later.
When I was twenty-two: I learned how to ski. One of my co-workers was VERY patient.
When I was twenty-three: My sister gave me a tiny striped kitten someone had snuck into her car while she was at work. This kitten lived in a bird cage for a while at Ellen's friend's house, also, before she came to me. She never grew very big, so her name, Little Cat (which I used to yell at her as she played all over my while I tried to sleep), is very fitting. She is the best cat I have ever had.
When I was twenty-four: Sherri and I were driving around, going shopping for the day. We had just left this herb store in Beaverton (the stoner manning the cash register had announced to us, "hi ladies, I'm wearing pheromones today" which I think defeats the whole sneaky purpose of wearing the pheromones in the first place, and anyway, they didn't work as far as we were concerned.) and I was in my car already by the time Sherri started to get in. Suddenly this loud ripping sound filled the air. Sherri's pants had split! Dying of laughter, I unwisely started to pull the car out of the parking space, and promptly hit the rear quarter panel of the stoner's car. I have a nice little dent now, and his rear light cover fell to the ground. I wasn't too concerned about it though, because it was taped on, and also, he's a stoner who wears pheromones. I love chain reactions!
When I was twenty-five: I joined this crazy Wiccan coven and met several of the friends I have now. I still have the indelible image of our Appalachian, extremely obese “little high priestess” falling into the hole dug for the may pole and flashing us her very nasty bits.
When I was twenty-six: I took up Yoga. Unfortunately I have since ceased to do it, but am thinking of getting started again. I'd never been more fit in my life!
When I was twenty-seven: I divorced, and began dating G, my best friend! I also got an apartment by myself for the first time in my entire life, and love it!
When I was twenty-eight: I went to Peru with G. This was my first (and so far only) trip to South America. We took a bus to this town called Ica (it is very close to Pisco, which the recent earthquake decimated). In Peru, vendors sell foodstuffs on the long bus rides. It is not a matter of discretely selecting a sandwich from a basket at the back and getting on with your day, it is a woman who paces the aisle for more than an hour, mumbling "pollo pollo pollo…pollo sand-weech? Pollo pollo pollo…" while the large and heavy hook filled with bags of chips, nuts, pretzels, etc, slides up and down the rail at mach speeds every time the bus lurches to a halt or gets going again. This would only be a minor annoyance, if the bottom bags weren't at head level and didn't speedily slide directly into passengers' heads. Amusingly, Peruvian passengers let this happen, and some will finally decide they want a sandwich after forty-five minutes of in-your-face "pollo-ing."
When I was twenty-nine: We went to Maui and bought a van to live in for $900. After three weeks, we sold it for $1000. So, we had a set of wheels and a place to sleep, and received $100 for it. In Maui, if you leave your car overnight in any semi-vacant location (backs of stores count), in the morning you will find the axles resting on rocks or coconuts (or anything handy), and everything of importance stripped from the poor vehicle. Unless your van has made the circuit, been blessed by Princess Liluokalani of Kanaha Village, and spent four days in the broken down stall of the only U-Wash Car Wash on the island, having its nasty carpet ripped out much to the amusement of the locals. Then, they leave it alone – it's a local vehicle and not a Haole one. Yessirree, we travel in class! (But, I'd rather meet all the interesting, crazy, and/or homeless people wherever I go rather than who the resorts WANT us to see).
When I was thirty: G took me to Mexico for my birthday. We flew in to GDL for a few days, then drove to Puerto Vallarta. On the way there, we saw a guy sleeping on the storage box in the back of a glass truck. He slept through several winding corners that tossed him from side to side, and lots of screeching halts. Amazing. On the way back, I got the trots and spent time on the side of the road about every half hour. I have especially fond memories of the truckers flashing their brights on me.
When I was two: My parents stuck me in my crib when there was company over and I could hear them all laughing out in the living room, so I screamed my lungs out.
When I was three: I thought the packets of flower seeds at the nursery looked nice, so I started stuffing them into my pockets. My mom caught me.
When I was four: I thought on the morning of my birthday that because I was now four, I had magically grown tall enough to see over the kitchen counter.
When I was five: My kindergarten class ordered those plates where the kids drew pictures on a piece of tissue paper, then the papers would be sent in to the company, which would laminate them to plastic plates. I was the only kid in the class whose parents declined to buy one, so I had to return to my seat with a flimsy tissue paper drawing of my family and tears in my eyes while all the other kids were showing off their plates.
When I was six: I went to a Catholic school until this age. My mom transferred me into public school after this time because I and this kid from England named Justin made loud pig noises during mass and our teacher kicked us out of the Our Lady of Saints parade. My mom's view was, "My daughter would never make pig noises during mass. If my daughter can't be in the parade, then she doesn't have to go to this school anymore."
When I was seven: I was hanging out with my dad in a pizza joint called Shakey’s. Westworld was on the TV monitor, and the part when Yul Brynner’s face melted scared the crap outta me.
When I was eight: I punched my best friend Josh repeatedly in the side at recess, perfecting the kidney punch, as I called it. I also embezzled money from the class treasury and got caught. It’s kind of a wonder I don’t have a record today, what with the stuff I did before I was ten!
When I was nine: I got surgery in my mouth to correct a receding gum-line, by way of grafting skin from the top of my mouth onto the gums along the bottom front. They used a weird chewing gum-like substance to cover the stitches on my hard palate. In my sleep, I swallowed the substance, commencing bleeding in my mouth. When I woke up, I couldn’t even speak because of a giant clot of blood in the back of my throat.
When I was ten: I ate a lot of Burger King onion rings with my sister. Later that evening, we sat in our room farting and laughing at the stench. Our mom came in to say good night, and physically reacted to the entity that was our farts, unable to cross the threshold of the room.
When I was eleven: my next best friend Krystal, her brother, and I entered this abandoned house nearby, reputed to be the illicit dwelling of this kid we went to school with’s family. There were what seemed like seventeen television sets and tons of porn. I think this part is my imagination, but I recall a scary looking guy with Graves disease lingering in the house when we were. We ran.
When I was twelve: Treating your bangs with a curling iron and shellacking them with AquaNet was quite popular. I sculpted my hair in such a manner and thought it was such perfection that I maintained it for like three days, liberally spraying it whenever it seemed like it would wilt (fat chance of that, I should have bought stock in AquaNet). My older cousin came to visit, and after much proselytizing, convinced me to wash it all out.
When I was thirteen: I had a crush on this kid named Brian, who I heard had a crush on me. Our crushes consisted of ignoring each other throughout the school year except to team up to surreptitiously throw staples in our classmates’ hair.
When I was fourteen: It was a hot summer day. My brother Zucchini, who was eight, and I were picking blackberries in the elementary school field near our house, while our sister Melon Head (eleven) was practicing soccer in the junior high field, also nearby. When we had had our fill of picking, we decided to go see what Melon Head was up to. When we arrived, we showed her Zucchini’s purple-stained hands, and in my best stricken voice, I said, “He can’t feel his hands!”
She took one look and flipped out. “You could have frostbite!” Never mind that it was eighty-plus degrees out in the middle of summer. We couldn’t take it any more, and started snickering. “This is not a laughing matter!” She continued, “you need to go home and show mom right NOW!” Finally, amidst our by this time very apparent giggles, she realized we had our picked blackberries with us, and that it was August.
When I was fifteen: I started taking ballet. I still occasionally choreograph dances in my apartment.
When I was sixteen: I started an underground magazine (later called the Back Wall after the favorite pop quiz torture instrument of our Current Events teacher) that by my senior year grew to include about thirty subscribers (including above teacher), a staff of writers, and regular features. I even got called into the counselor’s office to debate my freedom of speech. It’s fun to look through the old photo-copied issues now.
When I was seventeen: Sherri and I became obsessed with the ouija board my mom used to have when she was a kid. We started holding séances, replete with candles and a steady stream of teenagers climbing in and out my bedroom window at all hours. My parents were tolerant, to say the least.
When I was eighteen: On my last day of high school (before the graduation ceremony), my dad and I took the canoe out for a paddle around Lacamas Lake. We talked about life after school (which I had been somewhat afraid of), and what I wanted to do with my life. It was such a pleasant day, and my dad is phenomenal!
When I was nineteen: My bosses told me i had to start wearing a bra to work. I guess I'd finally hit puberty!!
When I was twenty: I lived in like three separate apartments all over southwest Washington that year. A bit of a whirlwind!
When I was twenty-one: I got married to the wrong person, only to divorce six years later.
When I was twenty-two: I learned how to ski. One of my co-workers was VERY patient.
When I was twenty-three: My sister gave me a tiny striped kitten someone had snuck into her car while she was at work. This kitten lived in a bird cage for a while at Ellen's friend's house, also, before she came to me. She never grew very big, so her name, Little Cat (which I used to yell at her as she played all over my while I tried to sleep), is very fitting. She is the best cat I have ever had.
When I was twenty-four: Sherri and I were driving around, going shopping for the day. We had just left this herb store in Beaverton (the stoner manning the cash register had announced to us, "hi ladies, I'm wearing pheromones today" which I think defeats the whole sneaky purpose of wearing the pheromones in the first place, and anyway, they didn't work as far as we were concerned.) and I was in my car already by the time Sherri started to get in. Suddenly this loud ripping sound filled the air. Sherri's pants had split! Dying of laughter, I unwisely started to pull the car out of the parking space, and promptly hit the rear quarter panel of the stoner's car. I have a nice little dent now, and his rear light cover fell to the ground. I wasn't too concerned about it though, because it was taped on, and also, he's a stoner who wears pheromones. I love chain reactions!
When I was twenty-five: I joined this crazy Wiccan coven and met several of the friends I have now. I still have the indelible image of our Appalachian, extremely obese “little high priestess” falling into the hole dug for the may pole and flashing us her very nasty bits.
When I was twenty-six: I took up Yoga. Unfortunately I have since ceased to do it, but am thinking of getting started again. I'd never been more fit in my life!
When I was twenty-seven: I divorced, and began dating G, my best friend! I also got an apartment by myself for the first time in my entire life, and love it!
When I was twenty-eight: I went to Peru with G. This was my first (and so far only) trip to South America. We took a bus to this town called Ica (it is very close to Pisco, which the recent earthquake decimated). In Peru, vendors sell foodstuffs on the long bus rides. It is not a matter of discretely selecting a sandwich from a basket at the back and getting on with your day, it is a woman who paces the aisle for more than an hour, mumbling "pollo pollo pollo…pollo sand-weech? Pollo pollo pollo…" while the large and heavy hook filled with bags of chips, nuts, pretzels, etc, slides up and down the rail at mach speeds every time the bus lurches to a halt or gets going again. This would only be a minor annoyance, if the bottom bags weren't at head level and didn't speedily slide directly into passengers' heads. Amusingly, Peruvian passengers let this happen, and some will finally decide they want a sandwich after forty-five minutes of in-your-face "pollo-ing."
When I was twenty-nine: We went to Maui and bought a van to live in for $900. After three weeks, we sold it for $1000. So, we had a set of wheels and a place to sleep, and received $100 for it. In Maui, if you leave your car overnight in any semi-vacant location (backs of stores count), in the morning you will find the axles resting on rocks or coconuts (or anything handy), and everything of importance stripped from the poor vehicle. Unless your van has made the circuit, been blessed by Princess Liluokalani of Kanaha Village, and spent four days in the broken down stall of the only U-Wash Car Wash on the island, having its nasty carpet ripped out much to the amusement of the locals. Then, they leave it alone – it's a local vehicle and not a Haole one. Yessirree, we travel in class! (But, I'd rather meet all the interesting, crazy, and/or homeless people wherever I go rather than who the resorts WANT us to see).
When I was thirty: G took me to Mexico for my birthday. We flew in to GDL for a few days, then drove to Puerto Vallarta. On the way there, we saw a guy sleeping on the storage box in the back of a glass truck. He slept through several winding corners that tossed him from side to side, and lots of screeching halts. Amazing. On the way back, I got the trots and spent time on the side of the road about every half hour. I have especially fond memories of the truckers flashing their brights on me.
Friday, September 14, 2007
It's like a fortune cookie of sorts...
Some tool at my work (a temp) was recently dismissed in a somewhat amusing manner: he had gotten in trouble with the supervisor the day before for not bothering to look at his parts before they were boxed – thus we might have been shipping boxes of parts with two lefts, bad trims, etc. He decided to exact his revenge (revenge for getting in trouble for being a slacker?) by spending the next day happily practicing his cursive by spelling four letter words in hot glue on the boxes before sealing them. His remarkable display of penmanship was discovered only because our shipping guy had to open a box to check that the installation kit was included. Needless to say, he was let go. At least he didn’t pee in the hand soap – which has also happened. 
My co-worker Derek suggested we glue nice messages in the boxes, like "your hair looks great today" or "you're really something." I think this would be awesome!
My co-worker Derek suggested we glue nice messages in the boxes, like "your hair looks great today" or "you're really something." I think this would be awesome!Forget the Virgin Mary in the Toast...
Last night Little Cat was capering about on the floor, trying to get me to pet her. When finally I glanced in her direction, I did a double take, because there appeared to be a face in the blanket on the floor next to the couch.
At first I thought, "Steve Prefontaine" but upon staring at it more, it kind of looks like Edgar Allen Poe also. Excuse the grainy shot, it's the best my phone can do in half light. The white wiggly thing on his eyebrow is a piece of lint.Thursday, September 13, 2007
Movie Dreams
I have had three movie type dreams (where I was only watching and not involved) this week:
The first movie dream involved Kathleen Turner and Michael Douglas (I think this may have been influenced by the fact that I had watched Jewel of the Nile recently) as a couple who lived in an idealistic house in the woods. Somehow Michael Douglas got to thinking that Kathleen was responsible for all these killings that had been taking place around the town they lived near, so he killed her and buried her in a ravine near the house.
Well, of course, the murders kept happening, so Michael started to get paranoid and delusional. Every time someone new was killed, he had to go back to the ravine and dig her up to make sure she was still there and 'behaving' herself. What was really disturbing was that every time he'd uncover her face, her eyes would snap open and stare at him. They were starting to be that gross milky cataract white dead people's eyes are in the movies. And her eyes would move to wherever he went, staring accusingly at him. Pretty creepy! Finally I was able to wake up, but not before I got the impression that he had been killing people all along, as an alternate personality, and that he was now lonely and haunted by having killed his wife.
The next dream involved Jennifer Aniston and Bruce Willis. Well, Bruce was there in the second half. The first half involved Jennifer running around my parents' neighborhood trying to get away from zombies, until she finally was able to steal a car to get away. For some reason, she went to Portland, where she met up with Bruce, with whom she had had a previous relationship (in Friends, of course), as well as a toddler daughter from that relationship that was in his custody.
There were zombies in Portland too, so the three of them raced around trying to avoid getting killed and all that, and ended up at OHSU, where they believed the zombies hadn't infiltrated yet. This was apparent because all the doctors and nurses were bustling around, going about their day, as if they had never even heard of zombies. But wait, it turns out that ALL of the people Jennifer Aniston thought were normal were in fact very fresh and well-acted zombies, including Bruce Willis, who intended to turn her into a zombie as well so they could raise their daughter to teenage hood before turning her into a zombie too. But Jennifer got away, and made it to some other city that had no zombies. The end of the dream consisted of somewhat-rotted Bruce talking to his (few years older but still alive) daughter, telling her they were going to meet Mommy now, and Jennifer showing up in the doorway finally dead now too.
The last dream involved two characters from a story I have been writing off and on for several years. In the story, they are a forensic pathologist and a detective from Australia who have been working a serial killer case together and happen to have fallen in love. In my dream, however, they are young new parents who have somehow been blamed for some serious crime activity, like robbing a bank or something (of course they didn't do it though!).
So in the dream, the crime had already happened, and now they were on the run from the law, trying to be parents to their infant, and trying to survive (they now had no home, no money, no family to take them in, etc). They went to a pawnshop to pawn what items of value they did still have (their rings and some silverware, don't ask me); Dominic the father taking their daughter around to look at stuff in the pawnshop while Scarlett made the transaction. Unfortunately, the pawnbroker watches television and recognized them, and called the police when he went into the back room for a moment. The police showed up, and Scarlett had to get to the car while Dominic had to carefully get their baby to safety and meet her later. I woke up before finishing this dream, so who knows how it went.
Interesting, huh? I don't know what my problem is, or if I even have one.
The first movie dream involved Kathleen Turner and Michael Douglas (I think this may have been influenced by the fact that I had watched Jewel of the Nile recently) as a couple who lived in an idealistic house in the woods. Somehow Michael Douglas got to thinking that Kathleen was responsible for all these killings that had been taking place around the town they lived near, so he killed her and buried her in a ravine near the house.
Well, of course, the murders kept happening, so Michael started to get paranoid and delusional. Every time someone new was killed, he had to go back to the ravine and dig her up to make sure she was still there and 'behaving' herself. What was really disturbing was that every time he'd uncover her face, her eyes would snap open and stare at him. They were starting to be that gross milky cataract white dead people's eyes are in the movies. And her eyes would move to wherever he went, staring accusingly at him. Pretty creepy! Finally I was able to wake up, but not before I got the impression that he had been killing people all along, as an alternate personality, and that he was now lonely and haunted by having killed his wife.
The next dream involved Jennifer Aniston and Bruce Willis. Well, Bruce was there in the second half. The first half involved Jennifer running around my parents' neighborhood trying to get away from zombies, until she finally was able to steal a car to get away. For some reason, she went to Portland, where she met up with Bruce, with whom she had had a previous relationship (in Friends, of course), as well as a toddler daughter from that relationship that was in his custody.
There were zombies in Portland too, so the three of them raced around trying to avoid getting killed and all that, and ended up at OHSU, where they believed the zombies hadn't infiltrated yet. This was apparent because all the doctors and nurses were bustling around, going about their day, as if they had never even heard of zombies. But wait, it turns out that ALL of the people Jennifer Aniston thought were normal were in fact very fresh and well-acted zombies, including Bruce Willis, who intended to turn her into a zombie as well so they could raise their daughter to teenage hood before turning her into a zombie too. But Jennifer got away, and made it to some other city that had no zombies. The end of the dream consisted of somewhat-rotted Bruce talking to his (few years older but still alive) daughter, telling her they were going to meet Mommy now, and Jennifer showing up in the doorway finally dead now too.
The last dream involved two characters from a story I have been writing off and on for several years. In the story, they are a forensic pathologist and a detective from Australia who have been working a serial killer case together and happen to have fallen in love. In my dream, however, they are young new parents who have somehow been blamed for some serious crime activity, like robbing a bank or something (of course they didn't do it though!).
So in the dream, the crime had already happened, and now they were on the run from the law, trying to be parents to their infant, and trying to survive (they now had no home, no money, no family to take them in, etc). They went to a pawnshop to pawn what items of value they did still have (their rings and some silverware, don't ask me); Dominic the father taking their daughter around to look at stuff in the pawnshop while Scarlett made the transaction. Unfortunately, the pawnbroker watches television and recognized them, and called the police when he went into the back room for a moment. The police showed up, and Scarlett had to get to the car while Dominic had to carefully get their baby to safety and meet her later. I woke up before finishing this dream, so who knows how it went.
Interesting, huh? I don't know what my problem is, or if I even have one.
Catfight Tonight
I just love the look on Sophia Loren's face as she's eyeing Jayne Mansfield's excessive decolletage distastefully. I think Sophia Loren once said "A woman's dress should be like a barbed-wire fence: serving its purpose without obstructing the view." Evidently she did not mean Jayne Mansfield. She looks like she's about to toss her martini on her.
Wednesday, September 12, 2007
Longshoremen
We wanted to go see a movie last night, so of course we drove past the McMenamin's Mission Theatre on Glisan. G saw that something called "Eye of the Storm" was playing right then, so we decided to give it a shot.
Our first surprise was that the movie was free - when we inquired, the girl at the ticket counter said, "it's a longshoremen deal, the longshoremen got it." We looked at each other, shrugged, and went on in.
The place was more packed than I'd ever seen it - I swear we were the only non-longshoremen there. I still wasn't sure what the movie would be about, or even what the longshoremen were really about, but my interest was piqued.
The thing was a documentary on the history of the longshoremen, and also the 2002 ILWU contract struggle and PMA lockout. Quite interesting indeed. The most interesting part was that every person featured in the film, as well as every member in the audience, had an almost overwhelming pride in their jobs, their union, and their brethren. It was amazing to watch they cheering their on-screen friends and heroes, and booing their perceived enemies (large corporations, President Short Bus, etc).
The only thing I got indignant about was that whenever a longshoreman from another country, with a funny name, accent, or language, spoke about the same things these guys cared about, the guys in the audience would make fun of them. I was angered by their ignorance and/or racism. I mean really, Bjorn Borg was exactly like them, but he got made fun of simply because he wasn't American. Another example was this Spanish guy who was speaking eloquently of the cause and the fight to maintain, but all the guys in the audience were doing was saying things like "Andale, arriba, arriba." It was ridiculous, and pissed me off.
I left the theatre with improved knowledge of these workers the common consumer doesn't even think about, which was part of the filmmaker's intent. I also came away with a very good quote from one of the old-timers who'd been around the block a time or two, but unfortunately I didn't catch his name.
His quote goes thusly: "You gotta take a big bite and hold on. Because you're gonna be hungry down the road...we gotta keep our teeth sharp, that's for damn sure."
Our first surprise was that the movie was free - when we inquired, the girl at the ticket counter said, "it's a longshoremen deal, the longshoremen got it." We looked at each other, shrugged, and went on in.
The place was more packed than I'd ever seen it - I swear we were the only non-longshoremen there. I still wasn't sure what the movie would be about, or even what the longshoremen were really about, but my interest was piqued.
The thing was a documentary on the history of the longshoremen, and also the 2002 ILWU contract struggle and PMA lockout. Quite interesting indeed. The most interesting part was that every person featured in the film, as well as every member in the audience, had an almost overwhelming pride in their jobs, their union, and their brethren. It was amazing to watch they cheering their on-screen friends and heroes, and booing their perceived enemies (large corporations, President Short Bus, etc).
The only thing I got indignant about was that whenever a longshoreman from another country, with a funny name, accent, or language, spoke about the same things these guys cared about, the guys in the audience would make fun of them. I was angered by their ignorance and/or racism. I mean really, Bjorn Borg was exactly like them, but he got made fun of simply because he wasn't American. Another example was this Spanish guy who was speaking eloquently of the cause and the fight to maintain, but all the guys in the audience were doing was saying things like "Andale, arriba, arriba." It was ridiculous, and pissed me off.
I left the theatre with improved knowledge of these workers the common consumer doesn't even think about, which was part of the filmmaker's intent. I also came away with a very good quote from one of the old-timers who'd been around the block a time or two, but unfortunately I didn't catch his name.
His quote goes thusly: "You gotta take a big bite and hold on. Because you're gonna be hungry down the road...we gotta keep our teeth sharp, that's for damn sure."
Crab on Face, Crab in Eye
Speaking of crabs, I have two disgusting stories about pubic lice, so if you're eating, save this one for later. Strangely, these two stories, though they take place in very different times and locations, were related to me by a husband and his wife.
The first story involves the husband, Jerry, who used to be in the Navy. For a time he was stationed somewhere in Southeast Asia. I'm not exactly sure where, or when. All I remember is that the prostitutes used to say "Love you no shit Joe."
So anyway, he was out with his buddies on leave once, and this one friend of his met up with this extra-skanky hooker. The other guys were telling him they didn't think it was a good idea but of course he got drunk and left with her anyway.
The next day when he showed back up all nice and sober, he tried to deny that anything had happened. Which may have worked, except they all saw a crab crawling in his moustache.
Next, Jerry's wife was out with the girls at some male strip club somewhere (I think it was the Viewpoint). They were in the front row, enjoying the fact that some strange man was thrusting his package at them repetitively (I like going to female strip clubs with G, but can't imagine myself not laughing at male strippers, I'm sorry). Then, suddenly, Jerry's wife (I believe it was her, anyway, but it could have been her friends, and anyway, does it really matter, Sarah?) feels this sharp burning pain in her eye. This pain lasted through the night and the next day her eye was red and swollen, like she had conjunctivitis. Of course she went to the doctor, who found a...you bet...CRAB in her eye!!!!
Jerry also related several stories of freak deaths on the aircraft carrier he was on, I will relate these at a later date.
The first story involves the husband, Jerry, who used to be in the Navy. For a time he was stationed somewhere in Southeast Asia. I'm not exactly sure where, or when. All I remember is that the prostitutes used to say "Love you no shit Joe."
So anyway, he was out with his buddies on leave once, and this one friend of his met up with this extra-skanky hooker. The other guys were telling him they didn't think it was a good idea but of course he got drunk and left with her anyway.
The next day when he showed back up all nice and sober, he tried to deny that anything had happened. Which may have worked, except they all saw a crab crawling in his moustache.
Next, Jerry's wife was out with the girls at some male strip club somewhere (I think it was the Viewpoint). They were in the front row, enjoying the fact that some strange man was thrusting his package at them repetitively (I like going to female strip clubs with G, but can't imagine myself not laughing at male strippers, I'm sorry). Then, suddenly, Jerry's wife (I believe it was her, anyway, but it could have been her friends, and anyway, does it really matter, Sarah?) feels this sharp burning pain in her eye. This pain lasted through the night and the next day her eye was red and swollen, like she had conjunctivitis. Of course she went to the doctor, who found a...you bet...CRAB in her eye!!!!
Jerry also related several stories of freak deaths on the aircraft carrier he was on, I will relate these at a later date.
Monday, September 10, 2007
Crabs, pro-ball players, and disposable glasses.
G’s friend Mike turned thirty this weekend, and he celebrated by inviting a bunch of his friends to his mom’s beach house in Pacific City. On Saturday morning the guys went crabbing, and in the evening we celebrated. Some highlights:
G and I took the jet ski around Netarts Bay while the others were crabbing, taking occasional trips to the ocean, and around to the boats of our friends. The real fun began, though, when we decided to take the jet ski up inland, and got the intake grate of the ski so choked with weeds, G had to sink in up to his knees in muck to pry about eight dense handfuls of the crap out. Otherwise the motor would burn up, and we were four miles away from the boat ramp at this time. An earlier version of me would have gotten freaked out, but after two-and-a-half years with G, who has this kind of stuff happen all the time with great results, I just sat back and watched, my heart maintaining an even beat.
G’s friend Gaffi is generally a pretty mellow guy, a great cook, but prone to tumbling to the ground when he’s had a bit. This weekend, he fell twice, I heard: once out of the car onto the pavement, and then onto the carpeted floor on his way to bed. He got some pretty nasty rugburns all over his face, and all this happened before three p.m. He was down for the count that night.
Stretch, Mike’s older brother is 6’6”, and has a blow job story for every occasion. By the frequency of his stories, I am really surprised that I haven’t actually seen a girl do a face-plant into his lap and go to town. This weekend, he related the story of his guy friend from childhood trying to get in on the action. And also, during the crabbing portion of the day, there were four boats with guys on them – and only three crabs caught, or so we thought at the time. Stretch and his boating partners disappeared just before the rental boats were due back, and showed up hours later with seventeen more crabs. There’s sure to be a great blow job joke in there, but I’ll save it for another time.
A guy named Covington started the day out amicable and downright pleasant, but he turned out to be an Angry Steve. After a few drinks, he took to insulting everyone in his presence with what he thought were real zingers. For instance, the slight he directed at me was the simple, yet rancorous “teacup,” because I happened to be drinking out of one. Real scathing, folks. Apparently he used to be a pro ball player, though dubiously he was unable or unwilling to tell us what team he’d been on. A google search when I got back into the office turned up – you guessed it, nothing. After he fought with pretty much everyone in the house, Bureson finally slapped him, then punched him in the face, facilitating his departure.
Mike got pissed at everything, as I hear he usually does. During the crabbing jaunt in the bay G splashed him pretty good with the jet ski (he was actually trying to get Gaffi, but hey, Mike was in front of Gaffi). He was none too happy about that, understandably. But what I don’t understand follows - in the early stages of the party, when everyone was getting along and having a good time, he was wandering around in a state of irritability. Usually spending time with his brother culminates in the two of them beating the crap out of each other, but fortunately they both walked away still on speaking terms…this time.
G offered to give Mike’s mom, Francine, a back-cracking, which sent her into a prolonged fit of gasping and holding her back in pain.
Bureson and Malcolm were both attempting to catch the eye of Mike’s eighteen-year-old step-sister, and I think B won…though I’m not sure if he actually won, because by eight o’clock she was kneeling on the bathroom floor taking solace in the coolness of the toilet bowl.
Randy, Mike’s handyman at his home in Tumalo, showed up inexplicably and regaled us with his simple country boy comments. My favorite was this: He was in the kitchen with Francine
when she discovered that one of her expensive glasses had been broken. “You should throw it away,” he suggested.
“But it’s a hundred-dollar glass,” she said, dismayed.
“I wish I had a hundred dollars to throw away,” was his reply. So do I, Randy, so do I.
G and I took the jet ski around Netarts Bay while the others were crabbing, taking occasional trips to the ocean, and around to the boats of our friends. The real fun began, though, when we decided to take the jet ski up inland, and got the intake grate of the ski so choked with weeds, G had to sink in up to his knees in muck to pry about eight dense handfuls of the crap out. Otherwise the motor would burn up, and we were four miles away from the boat ramp at this time. An earlier version of me would have gotten freaked out, but after two-and-a-half years with G, who has this kind of stuff happen all the time with great results, I just sat back and watched, my heart maintaining an even beat.
G’s friend Gaffi is generally a pretty mellow guy, a great cook, but prone to tumbling to the ground when he’s had a bit. This weekend, he fell twice, I heard: once out of the car onto the pavement, and then onto the carpeted floor on his way to bed. He got some pretty nasty rugburns all over his face, and all this happened before three p.m. He was down for the count that night.
Stretch, Mike’s older brother is 6’6”, and has a blow job story for every occasion. By the frequency of his stories, I am really surprised that I haven’t actually seen a girl do a face-plant into his lap and go to town. This weekend, he related the story of his guy friend from childhood trying to get in on the action. And also, during the crabbing portion of the day, there were four boats with guys on them – and only three crabs caught, or so we thought at the time. Stretch and his boating partners disappeared just before the rental boats were due back, and showed up hours later with seventeen more crabs. There’s sure to be a great blow job joke in there, but I’ll save it for another time.
A guy named Covington started the day out amicable and downright pleasant, but he turned out to be an Angry Steve. After a few drinks, he took to insulting everyone in his presence with what he thought were real zingers. For instance, the slight he directed at me was the simple, yet rancorous “teacup,” because I happened to be drinking out of one. Real scathing, folks. Apparently he used to be a pro ball player, though dubiously he was unable or unwilling to tell us what team he’d been on. A google search when I got back into the office turned up – you guessed it, nothing. After he fought with pretty much everyone in the house, Bureson finally slapped him, then punched him in the face, facilitating his departure.
Mike got pissed at everything, as I hear he usually does. During the crabbing jaunt in the bay G splashed him pretty good with the jet ski (he was actually trying to get Gaffi, but hey, Mike was in front of Gaffi). He was none too happy about that, understandably. But what I don’t understand follows - in the early stages of the party, when everyone was getting along and having a good time, he was wandering around in a state of irritability. Usually spending time with his brother culminates in the two of them beating the crap out of each other, but fortunately they both walked away still on speaking terms…this time.
G offered to give Mike’s mom, Francine, a back-cracking, which sent her into a prolonged fit of gasping and holding her back in pain.
Bureson and Malcolm were both attempting to catch the eye of Mike’s eighteen-year-old step-sister, and I think B won…though I’m not sure if he actually won, because by eight o’clock she was kneeling on the bathroom floor taking solace in the coolness of the toilet bowl.
Randy, Mike’s handyman at his home in Tumalo, showed up inexplicably and regaled us with his simple country boy comments. My favorite was this: He was in the kitchen with Francine
when she discovered that one of her expensive glasses had been broken. “You should throw it away,” he suggested.
“But it’s a hundred-dollar glass,” she said, dismayed.
“I wish I had a hundred dollars to throw away,” was his reply. So do I, Randy, so do I.
Barflies
Every bar should have a set of stereotypical barflies.
To wit:
Barnacle Bob - a drunken, preferably older gentleman who showers unwanted attention (usually by way of buying drinks) on girls much younger than he is and way out of his league. Always sits in the same spot and is looked upon good-naturedly by the rest of the regulars. A good character to know if you are a broke young girl.
Wanda or Dee - a woman approximately forty-five years old with stock in Avon. She generally wears a purple tube top with either a leather mini skirt or stretch pants. There is ALWAYS a lit cigarette dangling from her lips. She has a voice made gravelly from years of straight bourbon and chain-smoking, bitches about her teenage kids who are always getting into trouble, and never goes home before closing time.
The Dancer - This guy (or girl) loves to dance, and when you get a couple of drinks into him, he's ready to put on a show. Usually he has the body type and dance moves of Mick Jagger and dances to songs like "Free Bird", "Jukebox Hero" and "Back in Black" with the same tempo and intensity. Very rarely interacts with anyone else; in fact, he sometimes appears to believe he is the only person in the bar. However, if there is a mirror, he will dance with his own reflection.
Angry Steve - Wrath is one of the seven deadly sins, and is embodied by our good friend Steve here. It doesn't matter what you are doing. Steve will be pissed at you. Perhaps that day his girl left him, or his truck (or Camaro) got a flat. You're minding your own business - haven't even noticed him. He glares at you for a long while from across the smoky room, nursing his beer. When the time is right, he will be in your face, his voice raised, the veins standing out on his neck. Most of the time you can't make sense of what he is saying. It won't matter what you say back to him, the result will be the same. If you encounter this guy, make sure your reflexes are honed, you may have to duck.
This list is for entertainment purposes only. If you feel you are similar to Bob, Dee, the Dancer, or Steve, any and all similarities are purely coincidental.
To wit:
Barnacle Bob - a drunken, preferably older gentleman who showers unwanted attention (usually by way of buying drinks) on girls much younger than he is and way out of his league. Always sits in the same spot and is looked upon good-naturedly by the rest of the regulars. A good character to know if you are a broke young girl.
Wanda or Dee - a woman approximately forty-five years old with stock in Avon. She generally wears a purple tube top with either a leather mini skirt or stretch pants. There is ALWAYS a lit cigarette dangling from her lips. She has a voice made gravelly from years of straight bourbon and chain-smoking, bitches about her teenage kids who are always getting into trouble, and never goes home before closing time.
The Dancer - This guy (or girl) loves to dance, and when you get a couple of drinks into him, he's ready to put on a show. Usually he has the body type and dance moves of Mick Jagger and dances to songs like "Free Bird", "Jukebox Hero" and "Back in Black" with the same tempo and intensity. Very rarely interacts with anyone else; in fact, he sometimes appears to believe he is the only person in the bar. However, if there is a mirror, he will dance with his own reflection.
Angry Steve - Wrath is one of the seven deadly sins, and is embodied by our good friend Steve here. It doesn't matter what you are doing. Steve will be pissed at you. Perhaps that day his girl left him, or his truck (or Camaro) got a flat. You're minding your own business - haven't even noticed him. He glares at you for a long while from across the smoky room, nursing his beer. When the time is right, he will be in your face, his voice raised, the veins standing out on his neck. Most of the time you can't make sense of what he is saying. It won't matter what you say back to him, the result will be the same. If you encounter this guy, make sure your reflexes are honed, you may have to duck.
This list is for entertainment purposes only. If you feel you are similar to Bob, Dee, the Dancer, or Steve, any and all similarities are purely coincidental.
Thursday, September 6, 2007
Chocolate Rain
When a song begins with "Chocolate Rain...Some stay dry and others feel the pain..." you know it's going to become a big internet hit.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EwTZ2xpQwpA
I vote that "Chocolate Rain" is like standing under a leaky sewage pipe, or the diarrhea resulting from last night's Indian food.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EwTZ2xpQwpA
I vote that "Chocolate Rain" is like standing under a leaky sewage pipe, or the diarrhea resulting from last night's Indian food.
Wednesday, September 5, 2007
Labor Day Shenanigans
My Labor Day weekend was divided into three very separate parts:
G returned from the Philippines a week ago with a nasty case of Bird Flu (or something similar, anyway), so all week he has been sleeping a lot and hacking up loogies the size of baseballs. Finally on Saturday I asked him gingerly if he wanted to go for a drive, just to get out of the house. Luckily he said yes, because this was the start of a wonderfully active weekend!
We drove out to Mosier in the gorge, which is about an hour east of Portland, and decided to go for a hike in the Twin Tunnels. One of the tunnels used to be part of the Historic Columbia River Gorge Highway, but due to the road being narrow and a lack of funds to upkeep it, they turned sections into easy day hikes. Some of the highway is still in use, but kind of peters out once you pass Cascade Locks.
The hike is 4.5 miles, and for the most part is pretty flat, with a very nice paved path which used to be the highway. So it was easy going. The important thing to note is that we started out at about six p.m., and dusk falls around eight. Also, the tunnels have a gate on them.
So we’re walking along, and it’s starting to get dark, but we keep on. With about a mile to go, we meet up with what G originally mistook for a deer or some other animal, because all we saw was this brown thing moving in the bushes. As we neared, we saw it was a woman with a huge gypsy skirt on. She had two small children with her, and appeared to be climbing into the bushes. There was a loud crashing in the bushes (there is a pretty steep embankment covered with trees), then a guy came out onto the road carrying a jogging stroller. I asked, “Did you just climb up?” and they shook their heads; apparently one of the children had decided to pilot the stroller over the edge and down the embankment. Luckily his brother wasn’t riding shotgun.
After exchanging pleasantries, we continued on, reaching the other end of the trail at nautical twilight (the twilight where the sky and the sea look the same, if you didn’t know). It had taken us an hour and a half to walk 4.5 miles, so yep, you guessed it, it got pitch dark as we were walking back. About three miles in, we entertained the very scary thought that perhaps the tunnel gate would be locked. I said I was probably going to sit down and cry for a few minutes at the gate if that was the case (I like to warn G of these things in advance), because my feet were beginning to feel like they had when we’d hiked 11 miles into Haleakala on Maui last year. Fortunately, it wasn’t locked. And it was pleasant seeing the Milky Way, a nice bonus.
We made it back to the car finally, after thinking every leaf falling in the dark forest was a cougar, and promptly went out to eat and then for drinks once we got back to Portland.
On Sunday, we went shooting up near Banks with three of G’s friends, Memo, Nick, and Gaffi. Memo and I both have Romanian-made AK47s, and Nick and Gaffi both have AR15s. G has a shotgun that I got him for Christmas.
So we pulled up to this disused rock quarry that is set aside specifically for shooting in this place called Brown’s Camp, which seems to be a haven for AVers and Meth heads alike (sometimes a little of both). We rolled up in two SUVs and came out with assault rifles, and started plugging away on clay pigeons, feeling like hot shit because the other people there only had .22s and pellet guns.
We weren’t hot shit for long, though, because soon rolls up a caravan of Mexican immigrants. Their duds were nice and their vehicles were top of the line, and I’m not saying anything, but you kind of got the feeling they might have been illegal drug traffickers, if you know what I mean (even their women looked like stereotypical drug hoochies). Not to say that all or very many Mexicans are into that, or are illegal aliens (I have known lots of upstanding Mexicans). But these felt like a crime operation. Especially since they had AKs and such too – but these were fully automatic. It’s easy to modify your AK to make it automatic, I’ve heard, but it’s also prison time. Add this to the fact that these were at best recent citizens of the US and you can imagine it’s a little interesting that they have automatic weapons. So we were very nice to them.
The sheriffs finally caught on to the fact that they were hearing spurts of firings, and quickly camped out at the shooting range. They didn’t mess with the Mexicans, who left totally outgunned them, and who left shortly thereafter. Memo took a picture of me with my AK, so as soon as he sends it, I’ll post it.
We once again ended up having drinks, then crashing out at my house with the cats and a bottle of wine.
On Sunday all the togetherness was taking its toll, but we gamely went to OMSI to see the BodyWorlds exhibit (the one where they have plasticized human cadavers arranged in interesting and artistic shapes, most of them skinless), then went driving around SE Portland. I finally saw Ladd’s Addition, a wonderful neighborhood, and we stopped at Tennessee Red’s for some southern BBQ. Then, the weekend ended on a mellow note with us sitting on the couch side by side using our laptops.
G returned from the Philippines a week ago with a nasty case of Bird Flu (or something similar, anyway), so all week he has been sleeping a lot and hacking up loogies the size of baseballs. Finally on Saturday I asked him gingerly if he wanted to go for a drive, just to get out of the house. Luckily he said yes, because this was the start of a wonderfully active weekend!
We drove out to Mosier in the gorge, which is about an hour east of Portland, and decided to go for a hike in the Twin Tunnels. One of the tunnels used to be part of the Historic Columbia River Gorge Highway, but due to the road being narrow and a lack of funds to upkeep it, they turned sections into easy day hikes. Some of the highway is still in use, but kind of peters out once you pass Cascade Locks.
The hike is 4.5 miles, and for the most part is pretty flat, with a very nice paved path which used to be the highway. So it was easy going. The important thing to note is that we started out at about six p.m., and dusk falls around eight. Also, the tunnels have a gate on them.
So we’re walking along, and it’s starting to get dark, but we keep on. With about a mile to go, we meet up with what G originally mistook for a deer or some other animal, because all we saw was this brown thing moving in the bushes. As we neared, we saw it was a woman with a huge gypsy skirt on. She had two small children with her, and appeared to be climbing into the bushes. There was a loud crashing in the bushes (there is a pretty steep embankment covered with trees), then a guy came out onto the road carrying a jogging stroller. I asked, “Did you just climb up?” and they shook their heads; apparently one of the children had decided to pilot the stroller over the edge and down the embankment. Luckily his brother wasn’t riding shotgun.
After exchanging pleasantries, we continued on, reaching the other end of the trail at nautical twilight (the twilight where the sky and the sea look the same, if you didn’t know). It had taken us an hour and a half to walk 4.5 miles, so yep, you guessed it, it got pitch dark as we were walking back. About three miles in, we entertained the very scary thought that perhaps the tunnel gate would be locked. I said I was probably going to sit down and cry for a few minutes at the gate if that was the case (I like to warn G of these things in advance), because my feet were beginning to feel like they had when we’d hiked 11 miles into Haleakala on Maui last year. Fortunately, it wasn’t locked. And it was pleasant seeing the Milky Way, a nice bonus.
We made it back to the car finally, after thinking every leaf falling in the dark forest was a cougar, and promptly went out to eat and then for drinks once we got back to Portland.
On Sunday, we went shooting up near Banks with three of G’s friends, Memo, Nick, and Gaffi. Memo and I both have Romanian-made AK47s, and Nick and Gaffi both have AR15s. G has a shotgun that I got him for Christmas.
So we pulled up to this disused rock quarry that is set aside specifically for shooting in this place called Brown’s Camp, which seems to be a haven for AVers and Meth heads alike (sometimes a little of both). We rolled up in two SUVs and came out with assault rifles, and started plugging away on clay pigeons, feeling like hot shit because the other people there only had .22s and pellet guns.
We weren’t hot shit for long, though, because soon rolls up a caravan of Mexican immigrants. Their duds were nice and their vehicles were top of the line, and I’m not saying anything, but you kind of got the feeling they might have been illegal drug traffickers, if you know what I mean (even their women looked like stereotypical drug hoochies). Not to say that all or very many Mexicans are into that, or are illegal aliens (I have known lots of upstanding Mexicans). But these felt like a crime operation. Especially since they had AKs and such too – but these were fully automatic. It’s easy to modify your AK to make it automatic, I’ve heard, but it’s also prison time. Add this to the fact that these were at best recent citizens of the US and you can imagine it’s a little interesting that they have automatic weapons. So we were very nice to them.
The sheriffs finally caught on to the fact that they were hearing spurts of firings, and quickly camped out at the shooting range. They didn’t mess with the Mexicans, who left totally outgunned them, and who left shortly thereafter. Memo took a picture of me with my AK, so as soon as he sends it, I’ll post it.
We once again ended up having drinks, then crashing out at my house with the cats and a bottle of wine.
On Sunday all the togetherness was taking its toll, but we gamely went to OMSI to see the BodyWorlds exhibit (the one where they have plasticized human cadavers arranged in interesting and artistic shapes, most of them skinless), then went driving around SE Portland. I finally saw Ladd’s Addition, a wonderful neighborhood, and we stopped at Tennessee Red’s for some southern BBQ. Then, the weekend ended on a mellow note with us sitting on the couch side by side using our laptops.
Where's Grandma?
My friend Julio related an amusing true tale once.
He lives in Guadalajara, and if you've ever been there, chaos reigns in some parts (though the Minerva Fountain area is quite nice). Like many traditional Mexican families, his mom, grandma, and sisters have lived together for ages. Julio himself lived with them until he married, and now lives blissfully I'm sure without all the riff-raff hanging about breathing down his neck, and that of Viviana.
Anyhoo, one day, his grandmother wasn't at home anymore. One of the sisters saw her leave the house to go on an errand, and, well, she just never returned. For a week (A WEEK!) the entire family combed the dusty streets of Guadalajara - which is Mexico's second largest city - to no avail. Of course, you can imagine the thoughts running through their heads. Is grandma in a ditch somewhere? Did she get kidnapped and sold in Tijuana to a guy that specializes in geriatric donkey shows? Is she hungry? Speaking of hungry, whos going to make the posole now?
Finally they found her. She had grown tired of living with them and had checked herself into a retirement home without mentioning it to anyone. Now that's a woman who knows how to get things done!
He lives in Guadalajara, and if you've ever been there, chaos reigns in some parts (though the Minerva Fountain area is quite nice). Like many traditional Mexican families, his mom, grandma, and sisters have lived together for ages. Julio himself lived with them until he married, and now lives blissfully I'm sure without all the riff-raff hanging about breathing down his neck, and that of Viviana.
Anyhoo, one day, his grandmother wasn't at home anymore. One of the sisters saw her leave the house to go on an errand, and, well, she just never returned. For a week (A WEEK!) the entire family combed the dusty streets of Guadalajara - which is Mexico's second largest city - to no avail. Of course, you can imagine the thoughts running through their heads. Is grandma in a ditch somewhere? Did she get kidnapped and sold in Tijuana to a guy that specializes in geriatric donkey shows? Is she hungry? Speaking of hungry, whos going to make the posole now?
Finally they found her. She had grown tired of living with them and had checked herself into a retirement home without mentioning it to anyone. Now that's a woman who knows how to get things done!
Chicken Pie
I was at a pet store, oh, like two years ago, and there was a middle-aged woman with the prerequisite tiny dog squashed into her hand bag or something equally stupid to me (I like malamutes, and there's no way in hell I'm lugging one around in a handbag) standing in line. The cashier was taking a long time, much like the crispy duck at Hunan's, so to make conversation, a guy next to the lady turned to her and inquired, "oh, what's your dog's name?"
"Sweetie Pie," came the reply.
"Chicken Pie?" the guy responded incredulously, screwing up his face in confusion. I about died, and earnestly began to think of how I could incorporate that exchange into the real world, so as to spread the amusement around.
I got my chance only a short time later. One night at the Green Room on Thurman, I had about three too many Jamesons on the rocks (for those of you who don't know, Jameson is a CATHOLIC whiskey, and Bushmills is a PROTESTANT one. Now, I consider myself pretty non-partisan generally, but I was raised Catholic, so goddamn it, if I am going to drink whiskey it's going to be the Catholic stuff. Though, if I had to take a taste test I probably wouldn't know the difference). I (with the help of G, who was similarly three sheets to the wind) began asking random strangers if they had a dog. Upon the affirmative reply, the stranger would be asked what said dog's name was. Regardless of the true answer, we responded with just the same inflection as the guy in the store, "Chicken Pie? What kind of name is that?" To which, the more lucid ones would say, "Sure, whatever." But the drunken ones would launch into a conversation straight out of an Abbot and Costello act. "No, it's Panzer." After more "yeah, Chicken Pie, that's really weird, I must say", they would begin to argue. "I said Panzer, not Chicken Pie!" We would nod knowingly and maybe get one more comment in before they simply turned away in disgust.
Hours of entertainment, let me tell you. It's those simple pleasures.
"Sweetie Pie," came the reply.
"Chicken Pie?" the guy responded incredulously, screwing up his face in confusion. I about died, and earnestly began to think of how I could incorporate that exchange into the real world, so as to spread the amusement around.
I got my chance only a short time later. One night at the Green Room on Thurman, I had about three too many Jamesons on the rocks (for those of you who don't know, Jameson is a CATHOLIC whiskey, and Bushmills is a PROTESTANT one. Now, I consider myself pretty non-partisan generally, but I was raised Catholic, so goddamn it, if I am going to drink whiskey it's going to be the Catholic stuff. Though, if I had to take a taste test I probably wouldn't know the difference). I (with the help of G, who was similarly three sheets to the wind) began asking random strangers if they had a dog. Upon the affirmative reply, the stranger would be asked what said dog's name was. Regardless of the true answer, we responded with just the same inflection as the guy in the store, "Chicken Pie? What kind of name is that?" To which, the more lucid ones would say, "Sure, whatever." But the drunken ones would launch into a conversation straight out of an Abbot and Costello act. "No, it's Panzer." After more "yeah, Chicken Pie, that's really weird, I must say", they would begin to argue. "I said Panzer, not Chicken Pie!" We would nod knowingly and maybe get one more comment in before they simply turned away in disgust.
Hours of entertainment, let me tell you. It's those simple pleasures.
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