Alas, my pets, I've returned to you. I went on the closest thing I ever get to a boondoggle, which is the annual conference for the Oregon District Attorney's Association, which this year was held in lovely Seaside, Oregon .
Before writing about more important topics, the highlights of the ODAA Conference were few. First, I had the joy of once again hanging out with my old pals from the Marion County DA's office, which I left solely for financial reasons and which I miss greatly (although I like where I am now). I once told them, jokingly, that if they'd pay me as well as I'm paid in Portland, I'd come back. They pointed at me and laughed to the point of tears, and I kept thinking I heard them saying "good riddance" or words like that, so I may not get that invite.
Second, our main class was on the art of speaking, designed to help prosecutors deal with the media, but the presenter promised the content of his message had wider application. The presenter's name was Arch Lustberg . Now, this guy is about 90 years and he walks around in a powder blue suit that looks like it's served through the better part of the last half-century. His main point is that while speaking we should say "uh" less and speak with what he calls "an open face."
During his presentation, he had us practice the open face so that he could show us how much better it made communication. The open face, so that you know, is accomplished by raising your eyebrows to the point that you create wrinkles in your forehead. By looking like this while you talk, you allegedly "open your soul" by exposing your eyes, and talking to someone while making this face is guaranteed to be more effective than talking to someone with, say, your back to them.
We practiced the open face on the person sitting next to us. Next to me was Briam, a lawyer from my old office, who first demonstrated the practice usage of the open face on me. After he started talking, I realized the open face really actually looks like the look someone makes when they are about to ask you about a cancerous growth or a third nipple or something, so you are captivated to the extent that you want to hear them when they ask you about some physical defect you don't know you have.
Apparently, my open face looks a little more ominous. "Stop that," Briam said, "you're pretty scary. You look like that serial killer...you know..." I didn't. "I'll think of his name. Just never, ever make that face again."
I did. Briam fainted.
So much for the open face.
Finally, Seaside was fun because at night we engaged in karaoke. If you've never taken part in karaoke, the basic concept is this. You go to the smokiest, trashiest local bar you can find. Inside, you will find a frustrated musician or stand-up comic with a microphone, a TV set, and a special DVD player designed to feed you the words to the world's most infamous songs, and your goal is to drink as much as it takes to get you singing in front of the other participants in the room, while still maintaining enough sobriety to read the screen and actually pronounce some of the words.
The first night, I'm not entirely clear on how my performance was. There had been substantial pre-func-ing (short for pre-functioning, this is what we did in college to save on the bar tab by drinking prior to the bar experience, because God forbid you actually wait to go to the bar to do your drinking), and by the time I got to the bar things were starting to get a little hazy. From what I'm told, I sang a version of "Piano Man" where I changed all the verses to mini-stories about old workmates, then sang another song which frankly escapes me at the moment prior to stumbling back to my motel. I think it may have been "Just a Gigolo," which was the song I sang the first time I ever did karaoke. On night two, I was still reeling from night one and therefore stayed entirely sober all night as I sang a rousing version of "Sweet Caroline", followed later by Poison's "Every Rose Has a Thorn," which truly is one of the more underrated songs of the late 20th century. I'm told that I did nicely on all songs, and I actually look forward to the release of my first CD in 2009.
So, that was my boondoggle. I suppose it doesn't really count as a "boondoggle" in the strict sense of the word. Per dictionary.com, "boondoggle" means "an unnecessary or wasteful project or activity." Now, in the classic sense of the word in the working world, the money you waste is your employer's. Wisely, my employer made me pay for my conference fees and my hotel room, so this only loosely qualifies as a boondoggle in my mind.
So Lance Armstrong won this Tour De France thing. I don't have much to say about that. It's simply awesome that anyone could win that thing 6 times, let alone that all 6 times happened consecutively. The sheer confluence of good training and good luck (no serious falls or equipment issues) which has to come together to get a man through several of these events is amazing.
I scoffed the other day as I listened to Rob Dibble on ESPN's Dan Patrick Showseriously claim that the TDF was not a sporting event, because it only involved a guy riding his bike. This guy will claim NASCAR qualifies as sports (where it's just a guy driving in circles), as well as golf (where it's just a guy driving a ball). Dibble claims that his career in baseball qualifies as a sporting career, although he was just a guy that came into a game for an inning every 5 days or so and threw the ball 15-20 times. What a wanker.
Anyway, the cool thing this year was to buy a yellow wristband to support Lance, but also to support (as Mrs. 12 says) "the cancer kids." The bands (called "Livestrong" bands because of the word molded into it) are essentially nice rubber bands that just fit around your wrist. They were available through Nike and through the Lance Armstrong Foundation website.
The first time I saw one of these was when my friend Hozay was wearing one. I scoffed at him. Hozay's a good guy, but he always makes a point to being fashionable, and sometimes trendiness must be mocked. The next person to have one was C-Mac. Then I stopped seeing them for awhile.
Then, while out to see the Bourne Supremacy, I became aware that I was the only person in my social circle not to have one of these cool rubber bands to wear. The Missus had one, Lady Lowe had one, JLowe had one (which he was stubbornly refusing to wear out of contempt for hipness), and the 12's had one. I was the only person without one, and at that point I broke.
I went out on Saturday and got one. On Sunday, the TDF was over. And on Monday C-Mac accosted me for still wearing the bracelet. Apparently, the bracelet is a limited duration item.
So now I can be un-trendy by wearing this thing until it breaks. My weakness in acquiescing to social pressures will turn into stubborn victory as everyone else wonders whether I got the memo about the deadline on my clothing item. I will, once again, be gloriously uncool.
Anyway, I'm glad to be back and it's always a pleasure to waste your time with non-stories and useless crap. Let's do it again tomorrow.
So, this weekend my church's college class had it's first annual Dodgeball Tourney.
Now, to be more accurate, my church's college class is more a "college-age class". Churches are notorious for not producing a whole lot of college students, and to have a college class only composed of college students would be problematic. Besides, churches are also notorious for just sort of dropping kids after they get out of high school. You have classes for everyone from 2 years to high school, college, married couples, old farts. Everyone. But the non-married 25 year old can have some trouble finding a place if they want an age-specific activity at church, and the college class in many churches has become that kind of squishy middle ground.
So, anyway, I spent Saturday morning officiating as people ranging from 19 to 30 were throwing balls at eachother. I have to say, it was beautiful to see the youth being recaptured.
So I guess I expect my blogue to mostly be a place for funny writing. However, during our college class (if you're wondering why I'm there, not being college-aged and being married and all, it's because I'm one of the staff) there was a discussion about fathers, and it got me thinking about mine.
I was born many, many (but not too, too many) years ago in Minnesota. Legend has it that I was conceived on my mother's birthday in International Falls, MN, and in keeping with the legend I was born nine months later in frosty Minneapolis.
My mom and my father had a lovely affair. They met in college at Luther in Decorah, IA. My mom remembers first seeing my father as he streaked the campus in an alcohol-induced frenzy on Halloween. Strangely, it was that experience that quickly drew her to him.
They both left college after two years and got hitched, moving to my father's home state of Minnesota. After two years, they had me. Two years after that, they got divorced. My father was an alcoholic, and a surly one at that. My mother has told two particularly frightening stories, one involving my dad throwing an iron at her head (and, fortunately, being too drunk to hit her) and one involving him holding her at gunpoint with a shotgun.
My mom moved us back out here to Oregon, and I saw my father for the occasional summer or Christmas. My mom re-married twice. Both men had their strengths and their weaknesses, but neither was really able to assume the mantle of fatherhood and neither lasted.
My dad did end up moving out here to Oregon when I was in fifth grade. That was one of the happiest times of my life. I got a ride with one of my adopted male role models, Richard, who was on his way to Chicago with his nephew for a fun road trip and who thought it would be fun to take me along (Chicago being relatively close to St. Paul when you consider that it's all really, really far from PDX). That was a fun trip. On the way back east, we saw the Oregon Caves, the redwood forests, the Dinosaur National Monument, and Richard's old uncle in Iowa who walked around naked at night, even when he had guests. Once in Minnesota, I spent a week with dad as he finished preparing to move, then my mom flew out and we all rode back to Oregon along a more norther route, stopping at Mt. Rushmore, Yellowstone, Wall Drug, and any other tourist destinations that readily presented themselves.
What followed were 6 of the better years in my life. My dad was in town, alcohol free (almost 'til the end), and available when I needed him. I spent every other weekend with him and we had a lot of fun.
He died when I was a junior in high school, though, and I was back to being fatherless.
Now, I'm not going to engage in any grand social theorizing. However, it is interesting to see how the lack of fathers (who are generally the absentee parent in most households) is affecting our society today. I think that it actually started farther back when you had absentee fathers in the same house. Last night the discussion dwelt on how The Depression affected our fathers' fathers. I don't know that I necessarily agree with the speaker's assertion that it made them want to make sure that their sons (our fathers) didn't have to go through the same thing. What I really think is that The Depression started the rift in families, because our fathers' fathers had to be home less and working harder to support their families, and in that unavailability they were the first generation that broke down in terms of providing the example of being there for your child. Our fathers didn't have fathers to learn how to be men from, to be husbands from, to be fathers from because their fathers were forced to work so hard to support their families. So when our fathers became husbands and fathers, they didn't know how to do it, and divorce started to rise, and homes started to break up, and boys stopped having available models of how to become men.
That's my theory, anyway. I think I'm somewhat correct. All of my mom's husbands had fathers who went through the depression, and none of them seemed comfortable spending time with their sons. I never sensed that my father, as fun as he was to be around, really had a handle on what being a dad meant. And I feel like my life is worse for that.
I don't have any point in all of this, except to write a bit and to reminisce. I should have warned you of that at the beginning. Sorry. My next post will be more chipper.
If you're one that notes the times I post, you'll see I should be at work. However, if you know my particular job, you'll remember that on Mondays, I don't have to be there until 9:00. So shut up.
This is one of those columns where your opinions would be interesting to me. If you write something (use the link below) I'll post it (unless you want it to be private) using your own handy-dandy code name to protect your identity (if you'd like).
Anyway, need to go. Work starts soon. Until we meet again,
The Bourne Supremacy, that is. More on that in a bit. I'm on night number 3 of sleep deprivation. Today we got over 100 in PDX, and it's getting to be just miserable. As we speak, I've just ventured into our upper chamber and found that my fans have melted, leaving my wife to pass out on the couch and me to type desperately in the hopes that expending this energy will slowly drain away my life force, and thus the heat within me. The coolest guy in the funeral home is the dead one.
Now, I wasn't always as cranky as I am right now. In fact, earlier today, all was well. Because today was BBQ day. JLowe, feeling magnanimous and all, decided to invite some chums over to throw a steak (or six) on the barbie. Now, between JLowe and I, we make one complete BBQ chef. He is the master ofmarinades. I am the grill guy. So, when I arrived at JLowe's, I found that he had our steaks brewing in a sauce that he created this very day, consisting of olive oil, liquid smoke, wochestershire, habanero tabasco, regular tabasco, cayenne pepper, and (if I know his mind) seasoned salt. Very, very tasty. Out of cost concerns, he opted for the New York strip, which is a very good steak, but isn't the greatest. The greatest, you see, is the bone-in rib-eye. Didn't know the cut had so much to do with the flava.
So, I grabbed those steaks and I cooked 'em. Actually, there were the strips for the fellas. The ladies, who don't like steak like we do, got the sirloin that Jeff had scored on sale. I stole a taste of one of them, and the extra fat in the meat really made a difference. But their's weren't as spicy, so it was kindof a wash.
Now, while standing by the grill, I realized (yet again) that it was just too darned hot out. And I silently swore to myself, realizing that this meant another day of sweaty suffering in my bedchamber. And that thought carried through to the movie hour. You see, my wife had the brilliant idea of seeing a movie tonight, knowing that our home and JLowe's (both sans A/C) would be miserable to sit around in. So, we went to Regal Cinema's Pioneer Place Stadium 6 theater to see, you guessed it, the B.S..
Good flick. Except for one thing. THE A/C DIDN'T WORK THERE, EITHER. I could have stayed home to be that uncomfortable, and saved about $89 in the process.
Not kidding. The movie was $17.50 for The Missus and I. The more expensive part was the shopping. Never, EVER, let your wife go to a movie in a shopping mall. Realizing that the movie was brand new, the ladies sent us up early to buy tickets, opting to pass the time down at The Gap. And my wife discovered many items that had to be bought.
I can't complain too much. First, she limited herself to sales items.
Second, everything she bought was for me. Sometimes my wife decides she hates my clothes. Though her tastes sometimes differ from mine, I can't complain too much about getting an updated wardrobe out of her.
So, after sitting through a sauna that happened to have a nice soundtrack, good action, and the delightful death of Franke Potente's characther (who I always hated), I'm here now venting to you as my house vents upstairs.
Enough. I think it's time to roll into bed and to see how absorbent my sheets are tonight.
Tomorrow I'll be entertaining. Tonight, I'm just grouchy. So, until we meet again,
Catch ya later. COMMENT: Per JLowe, I forgot some BBQ ingredients... "Paprika and black pepper were also used in the marinade. Very important. The spice is the life."
I remember back in college when I worked atGapKids/BabyGapduring my summer breaks, there was this song that said "I'm too darned hot, I'm gonna pitch the woo with my baby tonight." Now, I've never been able to really get a good idea of what "pitch the woo" means. If you Google it, you find that "pitch the woo" is prominent as a song lyric (Ella Fitzgerald sang the words that haunted my youth, but Erasure's hit it as well) but no quick link to a firm defninition.
With a little digging, though, I've found the answer. Of course, you may think it's obvious, but having a blogue means I can waste endless minutes engaging in the obvious for no other reason than to give me something to write about. Anyway, thanks to dictionary.com, I've been enlightened. If you look up "woo", you get a whole bunch of verb definitions. Doesn't work for "pitch the woo," of course, because the woo that's pitched appears to be a noun. Dictionary.com saw my conundrum coming, though, and gave me a definition for "pitch woo". It means "Court, make love to, flatter". Further, we learn that "This idiom, which may be obsolescent, uses pitch in the sense of "'talk'". So, thank God, having this questioned answered, perhaps I'll be able to sleep again.
That is, of course, if it weren't too darned hot. What, you think I'm just writing about a song? Silly. Indeed, here in PDX it is currently really hot, and tomorrow is supposed to be scalding. Really. They've spurned numbers in the weather report, due to excessive heat stroke, and are now using adjectives to tell you why it's so uncomfortable out.
Hot weather is okay, to an extent. I know I shouldn't complain. Here in Oregon, we have what's known as a dry heat. This means that the heat that hits you laps up your sweat as it rolls down your brow. Being originally from Minnesota, and having summered in the midwest, I am aware that there they have something called "f#!*ing hot" heat, which is the kind that sucks your juices out of you and leaves them pooling within your various undergarments as you struggle to maintain that fresh scent by hanging pine tree deodorizers under your armpits.
But just because I should be grateful doesn't mean I am. This is the time of year where I spend far too little time sleeping and far to much time trying to figure out if I've resumed my bed-wetting habit (which I think I finally beat at 16) or if I'm just ruining my mattress with good-ol' sweat-gland secretions. I'm pretty sure most of the time it's the latter.
Last night was no different. I finally had the opportunity to go to sleep at midnight-ish, and commenced to feel the sweat pouring off of me while at the same time concentrating intently on not paying heed to my discomfort. I fell asleep for about 25 minutes, during which time I had a dream involving a pet rat that lived in a giant bin of Cheerios. Not sure what Freud would do with that.
Of course, I woke up from my non-sleep feeling excited, because today was another chance for Hit & Run, my office softball team, to prove their superiority. I wasn't so excited once I got to the field this afternoon and realized that the other team had obviously heard the weatherman's description of the heat ("wretched") and opted to drink beer without having to pretend to run bases. We won by forfeit. Though Gray still found an excuse to say "duck's in the pond," and I still haven't seen any there (dictionary.com offers no help here).
Anyway, I'm about to see if having 15 fans pointing towards my bed at the same time will make sleeping possible. Of course, with the power bill I run up, I will no doubt go into default on my student loans, but anything for comfort, right?
Rock Paper Scissors for dummies (mark my words; Ben Stiller will find a way to make this movie...)
Am I the only one that surprised that Whitney Houston still has a full set of teeth? If you're 20-ish to 30-ish and bored on Saturday, my church's college class is having a dodgball tournament from 10-2. I'm the ref. Swing by and play (rules can be found at here) .
I continue to wonder at the lack of quality Japanese beer. I don't want you to think I'm beer-centric or anything, but this seems to be the topic that won't die. After last week's discovery that Kirin is nothing more than fancy Budweiser (see the July 13th "Hit & Run" article), I've been fairly depressed.
Tonight JLowe and I are both wifeless, so we arranged to engage in a night of debauchery and loose living (translation: sushi and a movie). So, off to Koji's for some grub. Now, after last week's debacle, I decided to read the menu carefully before selecting my sushi chaser. Sure 'nuff, Kirin is listed as a Japanese beer. So, I should have taken it with a grain of salt when I picked Sapporo off the same menu.
Now, you have to be a wily person to catch the intricacies of beer importing. It's not enough to simply read the bottle the beer comes in ("Imported") as well as the menu ("Japanese"). Doing this might actually lead you to believe that the beer is from Japan. In fact, going to the Sapporo USA website, you can read the claim that "Our Business Enterprise includes. . .importing Sapporo Beer to the U.S. from Sapporo Breweries, Ltd., Japan." But I've dug deeper. Although it isn't the easiest bit of info to find (unless you read the bottom of the bottle...), Sapporo is actually brewed in Canada.
If you're like me, you don't consider bringing something to the USA from Canada "importing". You consider it manifest destiny to have here what was created there, as they are just one step away from being our 51st state.
But I suppose it's technically accurate to say Sapporo is imported. Much like it may be technically accurate to say it's glorified Molson's Ice. Once again I've been disillusioned.
Anyways, other than the disappointment offered by the suds, dinner was great.
After dinner, we took in Anchorman, starring the great Will "You Don't Even Blink, Do Ya?" Ferrell. I wasn't expecting a great deal, based on the reviews I've heard for this movie. Much as Mrs. Bosco said last week, though (as we were discussing how funny Dodgeball was), going in with low expectations was the key. Now, JLowe and I disagree about this, but I thought Anchorman was the funniest film I've seen all year (and Dodgeball had me in tears). Yes, it was just that good. Breakout performance of the film? Good question. Although Christina Applegate was a pleasant surprise (I mean, really, who isn't pleasantly surprised to see Christina Applegate on the screen, even if you know she's going to be there), the brief cameo by Tim Robbins was pretty good in my book. Love him or hate him when he's spouting off for one of his causes, the guy is always money on screen.
Anyway, with the wife gone, I've got some quality time to spend with Playstation, who's been feeling neglected of late, what with my recent dalliance with the X-box and all. Playstation was pretty angry, but I sent it some flowers and I slipped it a mickey, so I expect I can play most any game I want on it tonight with a minimum of resistance. So, away I go. But first, as promised,
So, this weekend I went up to Yakima for the 30th birhtday of my college buddy, BLT. Although that was really what I was focussing on, I got more than I bargained for on my trip to the "Palm Springs of Washington".
By the way, I drove around looking for the sign that so-announces Yakima, but the only one I passed announced Yakima as "The All-American City." But, I swear, Yakima is Washington's Palm Springs. And it even felt like it.
Anyone ever use Mapquest for your travel directions? I've learned not to trust it at all. BLT and his wife, TJ, live in a beautiful, palatious, not-so-finished house overlooking Yakima on a private drive. On my way out of town, I made sure to run directions to their home on Mapquest so that I wouldn't get lost on the way there.
Mind you, last time I had to run directions through Mapquest for a Washington address, I ended up having more success finding where I was headed with a divining rod and the moss on the north side of the trees. It's just that bad.
So, directions in hand, I set out on my quest to go to the birthday party. By the time we hit the Yak, I was pooped from the drive from Portland, and despite having the air conditioner on full blast in my car, The Missus and I were sweltering. All I could think of was the lovely serenity of the BLT estate and a cold soda in my hand. So, I followed the directions to a T. I knew something was up when Mapquest described how East Yakima Drive becomes Terrace Hills Drive become Terrace Hills Road. All within a one mile stretch, and all in a straight line. What road truly does that? And what did it mean when (in real life) I came to where Terrace Hills Drive made a right turn into oblivion and the road that I was on (nice and wide) kept going straight? Oh, this wasn't going to bode well for me. I kept on, knowing that I was lost and wishing I'd grabbed the divining rod on my way out of P-town.
Finally, I blundered my way across one of the streets listed in Mapquest (not at all where it was supposed to appear) and followed it, hoping I wasn't really being sucked into an ambush by some internet investors trying to finally make a profit off of their site. Just as I was about to turn around, I found The Promised Land, (a.k.a."Terracotta Place"), which was listed as the last street to turn onto in order to get to Chez BLT. I turned onto what looked like a dead-end gravel road, and shortly thereafter confirmed that I was, in fact, on a dead-end gravel road.
Having to deny all that defines my manliness, I grabbed my cell and called TJ for directions. After first incredulously asking me if I was pulling her leg when I said I was on Terracotta Place, which (rightfully) didn't register with her as a local street (it's more like a big, long bumpy driveway), she looked down from the BLT mansion and was able to visually direct me to the drawbridge across the moat. And there I was. Free at last.
At BLT's I saw someone I thought I'd never, ever, ever see again. Since there are so many in the world, I'll actually use this guy's real name. It was my old roommate, Jack.
Jack's an interesting guy. He's a half-Chinese/half-German guy who has essentially disavowed Catholicism in favor of worshipping zombie comics and Buddha. On his leg he has a tattoo depicting his pug (what's with all my friends having these little rats?), except it's all Chinesed up so it actually looks like a frustrated mini-dragon with a broken nose. Interesting statement to the world.
Anyway, Jack holds several distinguished records. He is the loudest snorer known to man. He is more belligerent than anyone has a right to be. And he is the world's worst person at actually making it to a surprise birthday party. So, despite his RSVP to this event, I didn't really expect to see him.
But there he was. I noticed a couple things about him. First, he's exactly the same shape that he's always been, which is ample about the mid-section but sturdy-looking. That's not meant to be insulting. You can tell that he's not a good runner, but (unless you know him) you wouldn't probably decide to mess with him if you saw him in an alley.
Second, he was happier than he'd been in years. Now, Jack and I have a sordid history. In our first year of college, we became fast friends through mutual dislike of our roommates and our mutual interest in wishing we were funny as we talked to eachother on end, trying to get a reaction. You'll notice, even now, I'm (not-so-)subtly pulling your strings, looking to get a grin out of you. I don't suppose it's working, but I've got lots of time, folks. Anyway, we both joined the fraternity and, our sophomore year we became roommates.
This is where I learned just how devastating Jack's snore could be. This guy snores prolifically. He snores when he's awake. No, really. And whenever he snores, it's god-awfully lound. My worst grades in college occurred when Jack and I were roommates, and although I won't make any claims as to my skills as a student, I won't pull any punches when I say I was chronically sleep-deprived for at least 10 months.
Yet, Jack and I forged on and formed an unholy alliance that stood for a long, long time. We regarded eachother as brothers. We did most things together, and took turns being referred to as each-other's shadow.
However, as is always the case, the fairer sex slaughtered our friendship, as must always happen when you have hormonally-driven young men looking to meet the few liberal arts college students available who believe in make-up and leg-shaving. So it was that Jack found a girl of interest and, inexcusably, I attempted to take her to a dance. At our fraternity house. Where Jack would be. Stoopid.
This led to the only time I've been outright physically assaulted. I asked this girl out on a dry-erase board outside her room, while I was walking the dormitory buildings during a campus security shift. Later that night, Jack and a person I'll only refer to as El Diablo went walking past the same door and saw the note. Overwraught with displeasure, Jack and El Diablo came back to the fraternity house. Jack sought the comfort of seclusion. El Diablo saw an excuse to mug someone and engage in the old Ultra-Violence. Thus, he came to the room where I was hanging out. "Hey," El Diablo said, "can you come out into the hall? I have to ask you something." Being sleep-deprived from months of snoring, I walked out into the hall, forgetting about the horns and tail and stuff, and that bastard sucker-punched me right in the face.
I've always been proud of the fact that I didn't swing back (and, yes, I was still conscious). El Diablo has always accused me of being lucky, because he had the next four punches scripted. Kinda like a Choose-Your-Own-Adventure book. El Diablo had a series of punches planned for any swing I took. Either way, I stood there bleeding all over myself, cussing, and knowing I had screwed my friend over.
Jack never fully forgave me for all of that, but we did manage to re-kindle most of our friendship. I always regretted how things worked out, though.
Since I last saw Jack, he got married. And, now, for the first time in a long time, I felt like all was truly forgiven and that Jack and I were back where we had once been. Sorry, BLT, but the best part of my trip to Yakima was getting to hang with Jack again.
What wasn't the best part of my trip was seeing an old video-taped interview of me from my senior year of college. All I noticed was that I've lost alot of hair, put on alot of weight, and still feel the same insecurities that showed through back then.
And I was reminded of the girlfriend that broke up with me in a type-written note with her name typed at the end. The ultimate Dear Pieman letter.
But that's another story for another day.
On the way back, today, Sunday, one of my mistaken beliefs was disposed of. Believe it or not, there are still Sunday Drivers. Now, I thought in these days of inflated gas pricesthat people had finally stopped with the whole "Sunday Drive" thing. I mean, really, what's so great about hopping in a car on Sunday and driving, for no other reason than because someone once thought it was the thing to do?
This is the alpha male's bane. I'm generally a goal-oriented person, so I drive if (and only if) I'm going somewhere. For the Sunday Driver, it's all about process. It's a soft-minded retreat into tedium as you while away the miles, watching highway markers pass you and denying the instinctive need to be where you want to be (as opposed to enduring the process of getting there). Sure, there's something in enjoying the process, to a degree, but in the end the process is the means to the goal. Living in the process, and therefore Sunday Drives, are for simps and dummies.
So, anyway, on my way into town on I-84, I found the Sunday Drivers at last. Folks, please, 55 is a limit, not an insurmountable challenge...
Well, enough for today. Tomorrow I'll be funny (uh, right...) and give you a couple good links. For now, I've got other things to do before the week begins (again).
So I'm going out of town (as mentioned yesterday) this weekend to attend the surprise 30th B-day Bash celebrating the continued successful aging of my friend BT. Hmm...since I have a couple of BT's as friends, let me clarify. This is BLT (like the sandwich) and not BMT (like the guy I work with who looks nothing like me).
BLT and I met at college, and more specifically we met for the first time during the first pledge meeting for the Washington Beta chapter of Phi Delta Theta International Fraternity. He didn't like me at first (so he eventually confessed) and I don't think I liked him. Obviously, the foundations for a friendship that will span the ages.
BLT is an interesting fellow. From Yakima, Washington (The Palm Springs of Washington...I wish I could make up stuff that funny...can't find a picture of the sign, but a Google search reveals the pathetic truth). BLT grew up enjoying apples and being too smart for anyone's good. He is an avid fly-fisherman and hunter.
I'm not all that interesting. I like apples, but have never shot Bambi or fished for flies. I did fish at one time in my life, but haven't done it in a long time. My first memory of fishing is being out on a boat with my father and grandfather in Minnesota. This is kinda funny, considering at the time neither my father nor I could swim, and my grandpa isn't the sort of fellow you'd ever really want to entrust your life to. Anyhow, we were on a lake, in the sun, fishing for a tasty animal called the sunfish. My grandfather and father sat there all day, watching in horror as fish leapt at my line whenever I even looked at the water. It was a good-news/bad-news scenario, as they didn't catch anything that day, but I gathered enough vittles to feed most of the town of Pierz, MN for the next 14 months.
The reason I don't fish much anymore, therefore, is one of diminishing returns. Each time I go fishing, I'm less likely to enjoy success. As BF Skinner explained, I am the victim of the principle of extinction.
BLT and I went on for a year or so not being friends while hanging out in the same fraternity house, until our mutual affinity for power and control forced us to forge an uneasy alliance. We took part in a palace coup when our fraternity managed to get elected to nearly every office in the student government (BLT was Vice President of Committees, I was Secretary -- and I looked darn good in that skirt...). Eventually, we learned that we were a good team, and we seized control of the fraternity (BLT the Prez, me one heartbeat away from ultimate authority). We both majored in psychology (hence my easiness with the occasional Skinner reference) and eventualy both graduated (although I'd call my matriculation something more like "sneaking out before the psych department could lynch me to prevent showing the world that a dumb person could actually fake it so well").
BLT and I only took part in one joint venture in the psychological realm. In our senior year, while working our way through clinical psychology class, BLT and I decided to engage in our "practicum" experience by working with a local autistic child. To be honest, I'm givng BLT far too little credit here. When I say "we decided to..." I mean to say "BLT found a project and I begged into it so I wouldn't flunk out." Anyway, we worked with a delightful young boy named Brendan, who was profoundly affected by his autism. He was almost entirely withdrawn and our semester was spent in trying to use behavioral principles to encourage and reinforce interaction. I think we almost entirely failed.
Brendan had a freaky mom. I was not so keenly aware of drug issues then as I am now, but I'd be willing to bet, on reflection, that along with her obvious overuse of alcohol and tobacco (never done in our presence, but you could just tell by her raspy voice and the barely-veiled party-girl vibe), she was probably a user of more odious substances as well. And I think she had a thing for BLT, me, and probably more of a thing for both of us.
One day, it was my turn to go over alone. Mind you, we went over at the same time, on the same days, every week. There were no surprises. I was running about 10 minutes late, and when I got to Brendan's there was no answer the first time I knocked. I knocked again; no answer. I tried the handle, and the door came open. Brendan was in the living room, watching TV. I called out to his mother, but nothing. I made sure to clearly yell that I was there, so she wouldn't be frightened if she turned a corner to see a man in her living room. She must have heard me, because she came out of her bathroom, stark naked, and feined surprise at seeing me. So surprised she was that she grabbed a towel and wrapped it around her hair. I didn't stay long. And so it goes.
Other than psychology and politics, the main activity which bound BLT to any other male (sheer sexual curiosity drove all of his associations with the fairer sex) was beer pong. Beer pong is a modified game of ping pong. The players put a cup of beer on the beer pong table, and the goal is to hit a ping pong ball into an opposing player's cup. If you hit the cup and the ball is not returned, the opposing player takes one drink. If the opposing player can hit it back after it hits their cup, the ball is still alive, and once a team loses the point they drink for every hit that occurred while the point was played. If you "hoop" the other team (put the ball into the cup), the other team must drink it all.
Fun game. Responsible for my college-time struggle with potential alcoholism.
BLT, for whatever strengths or weaknesses he may otherwise possess, is a magnificent beast when it comes to pong. He is the successful fusion of high-tolerance and athletic grace. And so we were all drawn to his play; the need to challenge him drove us all to destruction.
That's my tribute to BLT. He is one of the smartest people I know (and he will make sure you are aware that he knows it, too) and I'm glad to call him my friend.
Anyway, BLT, Happy 30th. I hope you get hooped ALOT.
Not gonna bore you for too long tonight, but thanks to the temptation that is BV, I had to drop a quick note about everyone's favorite vegetable.
When I was accepted to college, and in return accepted my acceptance, and we all finally agreed that I might actually attend, I was sent a box full of goodies to welcome me to the Whitman Experience. Inside, there were booklets about campus life. There was a t-shirt. There was a static-cling window sticker. And, I'm not joking here, there were two Walla Walla Sweet onions.
You see, Whitman is in Washington. But not just anywhere in Washington, but in Walla Walla, the town so nice they named it twice.
Walla Walla has many appealing features. The Washington State Pen, Jacobi's, Lakum Duckum. But most appealing is what's around the town; the giant asparagus and wheat fields. However, the most famous of Walla Walla's features is the onion. The Sweet Onion.
Did you know that not all Walla Walla Sweets are actually Walla Walla Sweets? It's true. The real Walla Walla Sweet onions are born and raised within a relatively small 1200 acre area in the Walla Walla Valley in Washington. I remember while in college hearing a brewing controversy surrounding true Walla Walla Sweet onion growers preparing to sue the faux-sweet growers. The difference, it turns out, is in the soil. The mixture of the specialized seeds developed by the growers, and the soil of the Walla Walla Valley, creates these tasty onions, which cause my wife to wretch whenever I eat them.
Although it may not be kosher to call all onions Walla Walla Sweets, it is kosher to call Whitman's Ultimate frisbee team by that name (Note, if you look in the photo gallery at the old Sweets photos, the 1996 picture at the top is shot in front of the Phi House. Yours in the Bond, 1658). The Sweets weren't quite a formal arrangement when I got to Whitman, and nothing I did helped them to become a formal arrangement. However, by the time I'd left, the Sweets had established themselves as a regional ultimate powerhouse. Must've been the steady supply of onions.
This whole useless diatribe was inspired by tonight's foray to Burgerville. I'd planned on going to Taco Del Mar, but they closed earlier than I'd expected. So, to Burgerville for foods completely off my diet. And what did I see on the menu? The Walla Walla Sweet Onion Rings, available for only a short time each year.
Now, I know Walla Walla Sweets. Strangely, the best I've ever had came in that box from Whitman; all the rest have been a bit disappointing. Not sure whether it's the bitterness of nostalgia, or whether I'm just not getting true sweets. But, anyway, every year I have to get the Sweet Onion Rings at least (and usually only) once. And each year, they are a bit more disappointing.
Well played, BV. See you again in 2005.
Here's your links for the day:
My kind of people... Does Paul Mitchell make something for this? And speaking of strange toppers... As a warning, I may make it in to bore you some more tomorrow, but I'm outta town this weekend, so you'll just have to lose interest in me on your own time. But, either way,
Anyway, The Missus is out of town on assignment, which leaves me at home to engage in the shenanigans that I haven't taken part in since bachelor-hood.
So, how does The Pieman pass the time, if not already busy fishing for belly button lint? Glad you asked. Behold...
THE PIEMAN'S FUN-TIME ENTERTAINMENT GUIDE
The first thing a man must do before engaging in the shenanigans, or tom-foolery, or even (shudder) buffoonery, is to eat. And, for a single man on the run, nothing could be finer than tasty, yummy, delightful Du's Grill(you can google and find a more liberally-worded, but equally accurate review in the Portland Mercury). What do I love the best about Du's? Some might say the salad dressing (a thin white mist with poppy seeds and some kind of heroin derivative that leaves you in withdrawals for days on end), others would say the hearty portions of chicken. You would be close, but not close enough. What really draws me is the lovely front-counter chick, who whenever I call answers in a sing-song voice, proclaiming "Du's Gwiw" to whoever calls. I swear, this is accurate and not intended to be racist. In fact, if I'd met her a few years earlier, I'd have proposed marriage right next to the soda machine. She's just that nice to listen to. Her voice haunts me even as I type this.
Now, to pass the many hours of bachelor loneliness while successfully avoiding housework, some guys would tell you to go to a movie. Some would say that a bar is nice. I declare, here and now, that nothing beats good ol' fashioned video games. And, despite my allegiance to the PS2 (as portrayed in my family album on the mothership) I am a big, big fan of the X-Box.
I don't own an X-Box. I'm not permitted to (unless I let my wife throw out a bunch of my old clothes, but her definition of old and mine don't match. She wants to throw out the stuff that finally fits right, by virtue of the holes and such, and that just can't be permitted). Thanks, however, to the generosity of Mr. 12 (who has momentarily bored of his), I can play as much of 3 different games as I wish (which, at the moment, is little to none).
Now, here's what I love about X-Box. X-Box can be hooked to other X-Box's in a daisy-chain of joy, creating the opportunity for perfectly good friends to kill eachother until their hands cramp with delight. I first discovered this possiblity when one of my cohorts, Greggers, invited me over for Portland's first-ever HALO Tourney. Now, for those of you who haven't played HALO, I weep for you. HALO (when played alone) involves you running around and shooting aliens, all with the goal of getting to the end so the various characters will stop annoying you through various cut-sequences. Greggers has one of those big-screen TV's. And, just to make this clear, by big-screen TV I mean a movie projector pointing at a full wall which serves as a screen. I mean, this is AWESOME. So, when Greggers reached down from his ivory tower to invite me into his inner sanctum, I was honored. Not just politely honored, but honored in the same way as the kid who manages to score a $50 Pete Rose autograph for $10 because Charlie Hustle really likes the kid's moxie. That kind of honored.
So, HALO Tourney comes, and me and the boys hustle to la casa de Greggers to engage in some butchery. I remember the first time walking into this den of iniquity. To my right was the movie collection. Further up was the X-Box game collection. Then the surround sound stereo system, the signed sports jerseys on the wall, the dim lighting, and a giant video screen filled with digitized delight. There was Greggers, sprawled out on his psuedo-naugahyde (read "Corinthian leather") couch. Behind me, a group of anxious young boys walked up, looked down at my prostate mass, told me to stop drooling so much, stepped over, and began the preparations for HALO Tourney. I got up (after a few minutes of appropriate introspection and cursing my vile impoverished state), brushed myself off, and proceeded to play HALO.
Now, I've never owned an X-Box, and up until HALO Tourney 1, I'd only played HALO two or three (short) times. And most of the other contestants were tried and true HALO junkies. But I have distinguished myself (repeatedly now) as a killing machine. Nothing satisfies me more than to hear the cries of my cronies as another life slips away and they scream "AAAAARRRGHHHH!!!! PIEMAN!!!!!!" Oh, such sweet music.... Even Greggers, my munificent benefactor of joy and a wily demon of death himself, bows to me (once, of course, I've shot him into submission).
Man, I love HALO.
I may love HALO too much. I intentionally omitted part of last night's dinner-time conversation in yesterday's installment. While eating sushi and drinking Bu...er...Kirin, I discovered that Bosco had made an investment in HALO: The Collector's Edition. Apparently, although Bosco already owns HALO 1, he was suckered into buying the two-disc set (half of which is HALO 1) when he went in to inquire as to when his pre-paid copy of HALO 2: Electric Boogaloo would be showing up. For only $5 more, Bosco managed to buy the earth's greatest coaster. Which led to a truly geeky conversation about what The Collector's Edition may have in store. I suggested that there might be a HALO, The Director's Cut. Perhaps it was unrated. This sent BD and Bosco into a frenzy of discussing those cuts from the original which might move The Director's Cut from a PG-13 to an R rating.
We truly need lives.
But HALO is not what I'm doing tonight. No, other than writing the same blog article over and over (see my last quick note from earlier this evening), I am enjoying the fruits of Netflix.
Netflix, for those who don't know, is truly an awesome creation. For $20 a month, you can rent up to 3 movies at a time and keep them until you're blue in the face (although I don't see why you would) without ever being charged a late fee. And the collection is quite extensive. Sign up today. And, Mr. Netflix, you can make that check payable to "Mr. Pieman", thank you.
Netflix has come in truly handy in keeping The Missus happy of late. The Missus, much like all of us, loves TV. Which isn't bad. I love TV. You may, too. The Missus, however, has a knack for loving shows just as they're being cancelled. First was Buffy the Vampire Slayer (BTVS). Then, Friends. And, finally, Angel.
Angel is what will, eventually, get us to the end of today's rambling. But first, the appropriate introduction.
My wife loved BTVS, almost to the point of needing counseling for her addiction. When BTVS left the airwaves a year ago, my wife literally shed tears and went into a deep, deep funk for days. But, wait, she discovered that Angel still existed, if on a different channel, and despite Buffy's departure from Sunnydale, my wife's journey with the creations of Joss Whedon continued into another season (when The Missus wasn't reliving the old days, courtesy of Netflix's BTVS collection).
Little did we expect that Season 5 marked the end of Angel. You should have seen the tears well up when The Missus realized that the vampire with a soul would soon be leaving our screen forever. You should have heard her insistence that I not muck up the VCR when we recorded the last episode (if you need to see it, come on over...). You should have seen her delight when she found Angel on Netflix.
Being a supportive husband, I've been watching with her. Despite the fact that it's obviously written for chicks, Angel is a pretty good show. So imagine our horror when we watched the last of Season 3 last week, and discovered that Season 4 hasn't hit Netflix yet.
The Missus may never stop crying. Don't tell her, but I may not either...
And, as promised, Angel, the brooding vampire with a soul, leads us to tonight's last topic. Behold,
THE PIEMAN'S ULTIMATE VAMPIER MOVIE GUIDE
Here's the rules. I haven't necessarily seen all these movies. However, that doesn't mean I can't judge them.
Best:
Interview with the Vampire: The true inspiration for tonight's ramblings. Just got it from Netflix and watched it while eating my Du's. Couple things that struck me: Kirsten Dunst, who I generally regard as weird-looking and slightly vacuous, was awesome as the little evil blood-sucking fiend Claudia. For her age, she really captured the part well. However, the movie was stolen by the usually-horrible Antonio Banderas, playing Armand. Good stuff. Would give you a link, but the one I got off the special features part of the DVD is down, and I"m not inspired enough to find a newer one.
Blade (I & II): Wesley "Always Bet on Black" Snipes as a butt-kicking half-vampire. Plus, Kris Kristoferson dies in the second one, which always makes a movie worthwhile. Apparently, the third installment is coming out pretty soon.
Underworld: Kate Beckinsale plays the brooding ninja-type super vampire Selene. Also has a follow-up in the works.
Once Bitten: No, I'm not kidding. Jim Carrey's debut as a rubber-faced teen seduced by the evil Lauren Hutton. A must-see.
Worst:
Queen of the Damned: Another of Anne Rice's Vampire Chronicles books made into a movie. I didn't even need to see it to know it sucked.
From Dusk 'til Dawn: This is a tough one. Robert Rodriguez is like the Mexican Tarantino, and I generally like his work. But casting Tarantino in your films is always inexcusable, and George Clooney seems disinterested most of the time. Otherwise, not really all that bad.
Vampires: To borrow a phrase from the Simpson's comic book guy, "Worst...movie...ever."
No more links today. I'm fading fast, and The Natural just came in the mail as well. With the softball and yesterday's all-star game, I'm inspired.
Speaking of brewery-related horrors, did you hear that Guiness is now being brewed by our very own Coors Brewing Company? Read about it here (you'll have to poke around a bit) . At some point, this madness must come to an end.
What? Can't find the article? That's because I'm just kidding. Seeing if JLowe's really reading this drivel.
Perhaps the worst thing about blogging is when you get about 10 paragraphs into an update and then the window closes on you, destroying your work in a matter of moments....
Well, we'll try again....I hope I can recapture the magic....
One of my favorite parts about switching jobs from my old place was the fact that my new office has a softball team. Not that the ability to drink beer while lamely swinging at an oversized baseball is any reason to leave an employer, but it does certainly soften the blow.
This year's version of our office team is called ORS 811.705. For those of you who aren't total nerds, that's the Oregon statute for failure to perform the duties of a driver to an injured person, which is a Class C felony punishable in all sorts of bad ways. For the even denser, that is the statute known as "Hit & Run." Hence, the cleverness that is our team name.
Tonight was game 3 in the Hit & Run team's season.
I don't know if you've noticed or not, but throughout my website and Le Blogue I have a made an earnest attempt to change the names of people for their theoretical protection. Given my rarified means of making a buck (putting people in jail), it is entirely possible that, to borrow a phrase from Spiderman 2, "The Pieman will always have enemies." That being the case, I do what I can to keep innocents from exposure to the theoretical wrath of the guy who's theoretically plotting my demise even now.
However, Hit & Run, which is made up entirely of the staff of the office where I practice my rarified trade, is a not-so-secret entity of variously-abled batsmen and batswomen, and I assume by wearing a shirt that says "MCDA Softball" on the front, these people subject themselves to the very dangers I'd protect them from. So, not so much name-changing tonight.
Anyway, Hit & Run had a game against Evil Law Firm #3 tonight, and it was a doozy. Hit & Run has about eleventy-nine players, so we actually have an "A" squad and a "B" squad, which take turns on the field. I know that calling one an "A" squad will automatically denote in a person's mind that the "A" squad is superior (otherwise I'd use color coding or something). That is entirely alright. As a member of the "B" squad, I freely admit that my group shows less prowess and alacrity than do our counterparts in the "A" squad, and we're just happy to get some playing time.
The "A" squad (hereinafter referred to as "A") had several accomplished members tonight, none more important to the team in his own eyes than S.Gray. S.Gray is, for better or worse, about the most intensely competitive person you'll ever care to meet. Though my first sentence of this paragraph may fool you, I actually like S.Gray. His approach to life simply clashes with mine, which is alright.
What isn't alright is S.Gray's favorite softball phrase, which he'll freely shout from any position on the field whenever he deems it appropriate. I'm not joking here. S.Gray will yell, sometimes for no apparent reason, "THE DUCKS ARE IN THE POND!!!" And, by looking into his soulful eyes, you know he means it. Though I can't see them, the ducks are in the pond, and it's something I must acknowledge. He said it at least 96 times tonight, in the fifth inning of our game, and each time I was overcome with frustration at my inability to see the alleged waterfowl or the alleged pond. Out of this frustration sprouted my loud retorts. "The chicken's in the coop," I yelled, followed by "The pigeon's in the park." Not as beautiful as S.Gray's insights, but equally useless.
Hit & Run lost tonight, by one run. But it was a beautiful game, and I loved it.
After the game, JLowe and I decided to munch on tasty sushi at Koji's. We invited BD, another of our cronies, and he in turn invited Bosco, Mrs. Bosco, and sister-in-law Bosco. These are all people I enjoy, so it was all good.
What I didn't enjoy was the buzzkill of the evening. I've become a huge fan of Kirin when I have some tasty sushi out on the town. Kirin is a tasty Japanese beer. OR SO THEY'D HAVE YOU BELIEVE! BD, who used to be my friend, pointed out the fine print on the bottle. Kirin, the fine Japanese lager, is made under the strict guidance of the Kirin brewmaster in Los Angeles, courtesy of Anheuser Busch. UGH! Is nothing sacred anymore? (Don't wanna believe it either? Well, look here... and make your way to January, 1997). I know, isn't it sad?
So, I spent the rest of the night in sullen shock, pondering the meaninglessness of it all as I choked down my re-bottled Bud. What a jip. Er, gyp. Whatever.
Well, anyway, gotta go re-watch Charlie's Angels: Full Throttle. Borrowed it from J.Lowe. Bernie Mac is freaking hi-larious. If I don't fall asleep, I'll also be watching some of the Will Ferrell's Best SNL DVD, which is also quite delightful.
So, wife's outta town and I ended up going with JLowe, Lady Lowe, and Mr. 12 (also sans female) to a place called Pho Oregon. Now, despite what they taught you in school about "open O's at the end of a word are pronounced 'OH'," that's not the case at a Pho restaurant. Here, according to 12 (who knows these things because of his upbringing in lovely Rockwood), an open O at the end of a word equals "UH."
So, when it was time to go to dinner with good ol' XII, I knew that we would be engaging in voodoo language even before I got there.
Phuh, as 12 likes to state every hour on the hour, is the word for Vietnamese beef noodle soup. XII developed his fuh fetish long ago, and now inflicts his particular brand of hungriness on anyone that will oblige him. And, tonight my friends, I was feeling obligatory.
The night started a little late, because the day just wouldn't end. As anyone who's trying to be grown up and buy a house is aware, in order to buy a house you have to possess credit that's, at least, not so bad as to make your mortgage lender openly laugh at you. Up until a month ago, I had just such credit. I won't bore you with all of the details, but suffice it to say many years of college and law school pizza and beer have come back to haunt me IN SPADES. That, and some guy with my name (or at least pretending to have my name) keeps buying cars and leaving them on the roadside in Washington.
Now, here's a scam. I'm a tow-truck driver, and I see an abandoned car on a roadside. "Hmm," I say to myself through my booshy truck driver mustache and mullet bangs, "looks like business is good." I pull over and scoop up the poor vehicle before anyone has a chance to say anything. Now, I have this vehicle that isn't mine, without the consent of the owner, and without any real obligation to tell the owner I have the car, and during this whole time I get to charge the owner storage fees. Really, this is brilliant. Because, once the owner hasn't picked up the car he may or may not know that I have after a few weeks, it's now my car. I can scrap it, I can sell it at auction, I can turn it into a swing set....and whatever I decide to do, the owner still owes me for the storage fees. So, anyway, some Jack-O (not to be confused with the Jacko, who has his own problems) bought a car using my name, ditched it on the roadside, and some tow truck companies scooped 'em and sold 'em. And decided I was on the hook. Twice. UGH! My loan officer saw this and, suppressing the sick that rose up in her throat, dialed the number of the first place. After a few minutes of talking to them, lo and behold she talked them into clearing their collection action off my account. AMAZING! I had no idea things worked so nicely. So, we dialed the second place and I expected everything would be cleared up in moments. But, no, no, no, life just can't work out that way. As JLowe often says, I just couldn't win. According to the second collection agency, since they had established that someone with my name had once owned this car that had been scooped from the roadside, it was up to me to prove them wrong. Ugh.
So for a month I've been gathering proof. I've found that there is, indeed, someone else with my name in Washington (with a different DOB and SSN, even, so they might even be a real person...) Is that enough? NO! I have to prove that I never lived at that person's address (proving a negative has always been soooooo easy...)
Anyway, today I finally got all the ducks in a row, and that made my day go long.
So, having spent all this time getting my life in order, I looked at my watch and realized the time was over-ripe (almost bruised) for the sweet, sweet phuh, food of the gods. I picked up my very, very patient peeps over at Chez 12, and whisked them eastward to 62nd and Sandy to engage in the eating of Vietnamese beef noodle soup.
We sat down and I was instantly wowed by the selection on the menu. Not only was there fuh, but there was Vietnamese chicken noodle soup, Vietnamese tripe noodle soup, Vietnamese tendon noodle soup, and (for the truly adventuorous) Vietnamaese beef, tripe, and tendon noodle soup.
Or, you could have the pizzle soup. Lady Lowe looked up. "What is pizzle?" I didn't know. She asked Mr. 12. He claimed ignorance. The waitress came up and 12 asked her. "That's what the Vietnamese people eat. They like it." She looked Vietnamese, but I wasn't sure. Don't wanna make assumptions. I think she sensed my confusion. "I'm too scared to try it."
I suspected that JLowe would bite at the challenge, but at the end we all (well, all the guys) had the Thai Nam, or phuh with nearly-cooked, very fatty Veitnamese beef strips in it. Now, believe it or not, it was pretty good.
XII dropped the line of the night, by the way (when we weren't making pizzle jokes). "When I can, I'm gonna open a phuh restaurant." And he seemed perfectly serious to me, to this point. Then, the proverbial other shoe. "I'm gonna call it Pho King."
Someday, maybe, I'll have a shot at a line like that. Until then, I'll just have to keep going to Pho Oregon with 12 so he can make more funnies...
"Moreover, while humans and most species are divided into only two sexes, mushrooms contain over 36,000 sexes." Just one of the interesting parts of this article. http://www.infoplease.com/spot/fungus1.html
Okay, so last night JLowe and I had the hunger, the type that can only be soothed by tasty, tasty brisket. So, we grabbed our respective better-halves and went to what is rapidly emerging as our favorite nosh-pit, Big Daddy's. What ensued was hilarity.
BD's has on their menu (among other things) Buffalo Wings, with your option of spiciness. JLowe and I are not wing amateurs (yeah, the spelling looked weird to me, too, but I checked it here. We've had BD's wings at least twice now, and from the start we've taken them as hot as they'll come. Now, the first time we asked for them at maximum heat, the waitress looked at us like we were morons. "You sure," she asked, giving us the eye that said "no, really, you don't mean it, right?" "Yup" we said in unison, not knowing what we were getting into. Turns out, BD means hot when he says it, and we found out that first night that BD wanted us dead. He puts the sweet, sweet habanero (ground) into his hot hot sauce, and that first day we thought we might burst into flames. But we lived, and it became a badge of honor. The next time we took friends to BD's, we ordered the hot hot wings and what we got was a little disappointing, compared to our prior experience. Our wuss friend Mr. 12 was even able to down a couple, so we know BD was going easy on us, not recognizing us for the mighty mighty fellows we are.
Anyway, last night we ordered 'em again. The nice waitress asked us how hot, and JLowe said "as hot as you can make them." He then taunted her by saying "we're not afraid to cry." BD was listening, because he took this as a challenge. What was produced was a batch of extra-meaty wings with a thick brown paste on them. The Missus' eyes watered as the plate approached, which should have warned me of what was coming. "Hmm," I mused aloud, "these look strange." Then I grabbed one and went at it with fury, believing I might be in for another disappointment. Nibble number 1 went down smooth, but mid-bite on nibble number 2, I noticed something strange. My face was actually sliding off of my head. Kinda like in Indiana Jones, when they open that ark, except not so stylized. I broke into a fit of loud, uncontrollable hiccups ("Stop that," said The Missus, "people are watching and laughing"). Oh, BD, you evil man. After dinner, after drinking 2 glasses of soda and a glass of water,after going to the restroom to flush my eyes and hands and to ponder what had just happened to me, I went to the counter to pay. There, another patron said "did you like your wings?" "Yeah" I said with false bravado. "I saw BD behind the counter adding some extra stuff to them. He said it was more habanero. It was fun watching your face turn red." "Thanks," I said, and knew that BD had won this battle.
So, go to BD's when you get a chance and order the wings. But mind your P's and BBQ's, because as I've learned, hubris towards the BD will result in his unholy wrath...
Other good BBQ in P-town:
Cannon's Rib Express - Probably a tie in our book for best in town. The ribs are awesome, and JLowe says the brisket's better (they're always out when I go). However, The Missus prefers BD's.
Clay's Smokehouse - Very generous portions, but wasn't overly impressed. Good, but not what I expected based on word-of-mouth.
Housekeeping
So, I don't yet know how to allow comments on here. I'm still learning, folks. However, I've added a mail link below. If you want to make a comment, click there. It'll send me an e-mail and, if I like your comment, I'll post it. Sure, democracy rocks, but so does critical review.
Okay, so at this point I don't really have a point to this blog, er, blogue. As I understand it, blogues are a good place to have an opinion and share it, or to give out funny links, or whatever. I don't have opinions, or
humor, yet. So, ground rules:
1) No naughtiness. I'll rub you out if you make this a nasty place.
2) Be gracious. It's okay to make fun of eachother, but keep it tame. I don't want to have to put you in the corner.
3) If you disagree with me, that's okay. Democracy rocks.
So, assuming I ever figure out how to allow comments and stuff, maybe this will be fun.
Catch you later.
(And don't worry, Wymore, I'm on my lunch hour...)
