Caffeine-ochondriac

It happened again.

Two years ago, The Missus and I decided to spend a beautiful Saturday at The Oregon Garden with our friends JLowe and Lady Lowe.

To start off every Saturday (well, every Saturday back in the day, more like every other Saturday in this modern era), JLowe and I would meet up at a local coffee establishment to embue ourselves with the morning jolt needed to shake out the cobwebs and plan grandiose adventures.

On the Saturday in question, my jolt came in the form of not one, not two, but three 20-oz iced caramal latte's made with 5 parts cold toddy coffee, one part skim milk, and 1/2 part caramel (and a little ice for texture), gulped one after another with only a banana to adulterate the effects.

All was well, until 20 minutes into our time at The Garden, when I suddenly felt light-headed, sweaty, short of breath, and felt my heart beating rapidly. Given my family history of heart disease (my father, uncle on mom's side, grandmother on dad's side, and grandfather on mom's side all having succumbed to heart attacks), I feared the worst and forced JLowe to transport me to the hospital. Diagnosis: Caffeine overdose.

My wife hated me for at least a week. I noticed from that point forward that toddy always made my head swim a bit, so I quit it. I also became very sensitive to the idea of caffeine with no food to cut it, and have been quite careful since.

That is, until today. This morning, I woke up and joined my friends from the office for breakfast downtown. I had typical cafeteria fare: an omellette, two slices of toast, and some peaches. To wash it down, a tasty cup of Diet Coke, which always hits the spot.

After breakfast, I drove out to Gresham to work. On the way to my office, a cup of Starbuck's, which isn't as good as Portland's own City Coffee (there's your family's plug, JLowe, now I expect royalties or something), but it'll do in a pinch.

Whiling away my time at work, I had a slice of pizza, some turkey slices, and a couple more tasty Diet Cokes. When the day ended, I started my drive home and, upon arriving at the gym, realized I didn't feel quite right. So, back into my car to finish the commute home. I started feeling faint about six blocks from my house, and stopped at Plaid Pantry for something sugary, thinking my fixation with diet products might be to blame. Quickly ate a Snickers Bar during the last leg of my commute, and as I pulled into my driveway realized I felt like passing out.

Now, at this point I didn't suspect caffeine even for a moment. Why should I? I have coffee with Diet Coke chasers all the time. I hadn't touched the toddy in years, and I'd eaten sufficiently, I thought, to battle any ill effects of the vile stimulant.

As I sat at home, I decided to feel my pulse. And then I freaked. My pulse raced to three beats per second, then dropped suddenly to one beat per three seconds. This was so wrong. I hobbled out to my car, feeling a bit woozy but not wanting to die on my lawn. I held my cell phone in one hand, ready to consult the paramedics if I couldn't make it all the way to safety, and rushed myself to the hospital. I described my symptoms, surpassed some truly sick people, got hooked up to an ECG, alarmed my whole family, and two hours later learned, essentially, that I'd OD'd on sweet caffeine yet again.

The moral of the story for me? No more caffeine, of course. It seems to cause more problems than it solves. I can't seem to consume it in moderation, so I guess I just won't consume it at all.

Well, I think I'll have to allow myself some tea to get past the headaches. But, in the end, I should save a ton of money for my anniversary holiday, thanks to my physical limitations.

I'm off to bed now. For tomorrow, I'll be meeting JLowe for a decaf soy caramel latte, compliments of City Coffee. Did I mention they have the best java on earth? That'll be double my usual commission, sir...

Catch ya later.

Busiest shopping day of the year

Of course, you won't catch me out there. I hate busy-time shopping.

Because I care so much about each and every one of you, I've set up a section of good Christmas/Chanukah/Kwanzaa/Just because shopping links on the right. Join me in avoiding the crowds and shopping in your PJ's.

Catch ya later.

On this Thanksgiving Day...

What I'm thankful for:

The people at the grocery stores, gas stations, and coffee shops who are there to help because I'm too dumb to plan ahead.

My wife, who is the best thing to ever happen to me.

All of the people in my life who nod and laugh and make me feel funny.

My family, who love me not just because they have to, but also because they want to.

My job, because paying bills is much easier with an income.

JLowe, my hetero life-mate and the brother I never had.

TV, which takes up a little too much time but makes just enough pass pleasantly.

E-mail, without which too many people would never hear from me.

Burgerville; where you go when you know.

And, last but without a doubt not least, God, who provided each of these things to me, plus many more which I take for granted.

Catch ya later.

Random picture of the day #1

No idea what it is, but I like it...

Courtesy foundphotos

Random picture of the day #2

Courtesy foundphotos

Happy Turkey Day(?)

[a.k.a. somewhat substantive lunchtime rant]

Anyone said this to you lately? I’ve heard it a lot, and frankly it bugs the crap out of me.

That’s not to say anything bad about my friends who’ve made this statement in the last couple of days. I’ll let it slide, if only because I genuinely like them.

This morning, listening to my usual sports talk radio at the gym, it was “Happy Turkey Eve!”. In an e-mail at Gresham Police Department, it was “have a great Turkey Day.” My mom and her significant other are even in on it, when during our early Thanksgiving dinner on Monday (mom works on the holiday) I was told to have a good Turkey Day.

What gives? Why are we so fixated on avoiding the correct reference?

According to dictionary.com, “thanksgiving” has several definitions. Two can be applied to the normal holiday for which so many of us get a day off.

1: fourth Thursday in November in the United States; second Monday in October in Canada; commemorates a feast held in 1621 by the Pilgrims and the Wampanoag [syn: Thanksgiving, Thanksgiving Day] (from the Princeton University Wordnet 2.0);

2. A public acknowledgment or celebration of divine goodness; also, a day set apart for religious services, specially to acknowledge the goodness of God, either in any remarkable deliverance from calamities or danger, or in the ordinary dispensation of his bounties.

Note: In the United States it is now customary for the President by proclamation to appoint annually a day (usually the last Thursday in November) of thanksgiving and praise to God for the mercies of the past year. This is an extension of the custom long prevailing in several States in which an annual Thanksgiving day has been appointed by proclamation of the governor. (from the Websters Revised Unabridged Dictionary)

Now, the first definition seems to identify exactly what the secular society of the United States means when they say “Happy Thanksgiving”. Generally speaking, it is understood by most people, thanks to the benefits of our public school educations, that our country was founded by Pilgrims from Europe who sailed across the Atlantic Ocean to escape the religious oppression of the British Crown (sorry, JLowe, I cannot join you in your monarchophilia). After settling near what’s now known as Plymouth Rock, the Pilgrims had a tough winter, reducing their numbers drastically. After the winter passed, the local natives befriended the Pilgrims and offered them assistance. As the year progressed, the Pilgrims prospered, and at the end of the year the colonists’ governor organized a feast to thank God for His provision through the year. The colonists and their Indian friends joined together and had a wonderful time. And that was the first Thanksgiving. (you can get more info here).

As time went on, the meaning of Thanksgiving changed. It was, at times, a celebration of the Pilgrims’ victory over the “heathen natives,” a celebration of the colonists’ victory over the British, and finally was ordained by Congress in 1941 as a national holiday (go here for more info). Today, our children are taught that Thanksgiving is a holiday set aside to recognize what we have, appreciate the fact that we have it, and (often) to consider how we might help others.

Now, I can see that some may have objections to the origins of Thanksgiving. Certainly, the treatment of American Indians throughout history by the people who stole their land and their heritage has been (to put it politely) objectionable. Further, people differ on religious viewpoints, and some are so violently areligous that they will go out of their way to deny the existence of holidays that have any basis in religion.

But I am of the opinion that Thanksgiving needs to be embraced. Different people with different viewpoints can look at whence their blessings came in different ways, but the fact is that everyone in America is blessed to some degree, whether it be with opportunities to achieve their dreams, or whether their dreams have, in fact, been actualized. I believe that I’ve been blessed by God, but others may just believe that they’ve taken advantage of a set of contingencies that rewards hard work. Either way, the fact is that any of us could be in a worse position than we are, and we need to take time to acknowledge that and to appreciate it and, if we believe it is appropriate, to thank God for it (never mind the fact that in many countries, the last option is no option at all). That’s what Thanksgiving is: a time to count our blessings, to not take things for granted, and to ponder the great gifts that life in America affords us. And, perhaps, to count the costs that got us here.

As a corollary, I was listening to Colin Cowherd today on ESPN Radio talking about how the NBA is drifting away from its fan-base. As an example, he cited Latrell Sprewell, who apparently told someone that the $14,000,000 he gets paid simply to dribble a ball around and shoot it into a hole wasn’t enough. And it made me consider the fact that so many people take prosperity so much for granted that we feel entitled to it, and don’t appreciate what goes right for us (instead focusing solely on how we’re getting screwed by someone, somewhere, for some reason).

Thanksgiving is essential. And I’ll be damned if I’m going to call it Turkey Day.

I mean, half the time I end up eating ham, anyway.

So, on this Thanksgiving, take a minute to acknowledge how great your life is in comparison to how it could be. Consider your blessings, regardless of derivation. And, even if just quietly in your mind, to noone in particular, say a word of thanks for the life you have.

And, finally, Happy Thanksgiving, everyone.

(Of course, maybe I’m just being a jerk… Just wait until “X-mas” rears its ugly head again…)

BasketBrawl

So, by now you've probably seen it. The brawl between the Pistons, the Pacers, and the Fans was something to behold (if you haven't seen it, you can get it here).

To borrow a thought from Jack, it really is amazing how our sports culture has changed. Ten years ago, a brawl like this couldn't even be comprehended. The hoops world still shook from Kermit Washington's pummeling of Rudy T. so many years ago. Sure, we saw the occasional scrum in baseball, football, basketball... But the scrums were usually short and sweet, were efforts by players to resolve issues with eachother, and never involved fans.

The last few years has seen a change in this sort of thing. Here in Portland, we've seen Bonzi spitting on fans, Bonzi flipping fans off, Bonzi insinuating that everyone in Portland belongs in the KKK. But Bonzi wasn't the only problem in town, he's just the only one that's coming to mind.

What's causing this shift in our sports culture? Is it that players are ushered into professional sports without being asked to mature their minds with their bodies? Is it that fans are sick of the egos that take all that money and grouse at giving anything back? Is it that the lowest common denominator is prevailing on both sides? Is it all these things, and more?

This is part of why I'm trying not to throw my money into the system (although, sadly, I still lack the moral fiber to turn down a free ticket...I suck). It's broken, and sadly that seems to be the case at every level where money is involved.

The college system recruits using fast and loose methods to bring in talent, without regard to character, and then smooths the road for players so that studies come a distant second to athletics (anyone really think Maurice Clarett isn't telling at least part of the true story?)

It's broken on the professional level, because unless you have a full-scale fan revolt (Portland hasn't quite had it yet, but if things don't get better it might finally happen), and unless sponsors also start pulling their support, there's really no real incentive to change. Face it, if Paul Allen weren't bleeding red ink, it would still be Trader Bob looking for the next statistical giant, without regard to his off-court persona. Don't believe me? How about that not-quite-unnoticed try-out former Nets Center and chauffer-blaster Jayson Williams had with The Blazers recently? Fear of fans is all that's keeping the team away from him...

Anyway, join me in strongly supporting Portland's Public Schools' sports programs (or those in whatever town you're in). I think I'm going to start sending donations to my old school to help support high school sports, because I never saw one of my fellow wrestlers, footballers, track-and-fielders, or cross-country runners getting let off easy, and they don't get paid to perform. It's the only pure sport left, or as pure as they come (other than little league, but I can't bring myself to watch that level of performance unless I'm associated with a kid playing it, sorry).

By the way, this is a funny picture, courtesy of Fark.


Catch ya later.

Yes, I'm still alive

One of the things I've noticed about blogging is the tremendous mental burden it can become. Not that I don't like to write; I do. Hence the blog.

But after awhile you feel a duty to blog. You feel guilty when you don't do it. You feel like you're letting someone down.

But who? That's the question I've confronted of late.

I know, because I've been told, that some people enjoy reading my blog. However, I certainly don't feel a responsibility toward them. Readers are a point of my blog, I guess (otherwise I'd just keep a diary), but they're also in a sense simply a benefit of this medium. A blog is a diary you can share; if noone reads it, that doesn't diminish its value to me (although I admit a silent satisfaction in the fact that the hit counter keeps on spinning).

So I guess I feel like I have a responsibility to myself to write. But I have a responsibility to myself to do so many things (go to the gym, eat healthy food, shave every morning, floss) that I don't successfully perform that, if I kept track of them all, I'd drown under the weight of my own crapulence. So I have to sometimes willingly refuse to accept my own self-flogging and just roll with whatever I'm doing (or not doing) and accept that I'm failing to meet some stated objective. Like blogging four times a week. I've obviously failed on that front several times in the past, and will fail again promptly, I'm sure.

Where have I been the last few days? Around. I've been reading all my favorite blogs, but I've also been chillin' like a villain. I blame this laziness, mostly, on the fact that there is absolutely nothing blogworthy happening in my feeble existence of late.

Want proof? Okay.
Sunday: Got up. Went to church. Went home. Went to gym with wife. Went to church again. Watched Shrek 2 w/ wife and her friends.
Monday: Got up. Went to work. Took wife to work during lunch hour. Came home. Played X-Box. Picked wife up from work (car was in the shop most of the week). Ate late dinner with wife. Went to bed.
Tuesday: Got up. Went to work. Went to eye doctor, got my new contacts. Went back to work. Took wife to work during lunch hour. Went to gym. Came home. Played X-Box. Picked wife up from work. Ate late dinner with wife. Went to bed.
Wednesday: Got up. Spent 45 minutes trying to get contacts in. Successful. Went to work. Took wife to work during lunch hour. Came home. Picked up wife from work. Went to grocery store. Picked up car from garage. Recorded Smallville on one TV while watching Elf on another with wife and JLowe. Went to bed.
Thursday: Got up. Tore one of the contact lenses, cussed. Went to work. Went to meeting after work. Came home, recorded The O.C. for wife. When she got home, we watched Smallville and then E.R. Wife got a call from a family friend after first five minutes of E.R., which occupied the whole hour, so she came down and watched the rest of the show, which I had just watched, and I fell asleep on the couch as she did. (Eventually) went to bed.
Friday: Got up. Went to breakfast with friends (JLowe included). Drank coffee. Called eye doctor and attempted to get a new lens. Didn't work. Went to work. Spent the whole afternoon working on a powerpoint presentation for a series of classes I'm teaching for Troutdale Police Department. Went to TPD for an hour, accomplishing little. Went to gym. Came home. Got a funny e-mail from JLowe directing me here. Drank a beer while typing on my computer.

And so it goes. Nothing interesting to discuss. Hence, no real reason to blog.

Rest assured, if anything interesting happens, I'll report it instantly.

Until then,

Catch ya later.

Mr. 12's Adventure

Meet Mr. 12.



As I've reported previously, 12 is on his way to fight the good fight in Iraq. Which is to say, he's in Texas awaiting the day of his shipping-off, which as I understand it is set to be in the new year.

Mr. 12 is an interesting cat. As a youth, he was what you might call "troubled," engaging in lawlessness and shenanigans. However, he's shaped up nicely.

When he's not off being an army guy, he's an employee at a local medical center, spends his nights DJ-ing around town under the tag "DJ Twelvizm," and enjoying his new wife, the aptly-named Mrs. 12 (aka "The Little Dutch Boy"). He loves taking pictures of sunsets and waxing poetic on his version of the meaning of life. He is intellectually curious and, between opinionated outbursts, pretty engaging in conversation.

Anyway, I just got this picture of 12 today, and wanted to post it. So, here he is, in all his glory. He's coming home around Christmas-time, and I know that we're all looking forward to it. Then off for a short jaunt in the dessert. We wish him only the best.

Catch ya later.

What can I say?

Sometimes a man just needs to write.

I find that, from time to time, I lose focus on what I blog for.

There are all kinds of blogs, after all.

Some blogs are designed for people to share intimate thoughts. Some are designed exclusively as a collection of links to other blogs. Some blogs are designed to make the writer seem something they're not.

My blog is none of those. I don't pretend my blog is special. I do, however, realize it has a place.

My blog's place is that of my outlet. The primary reason for me to blog is to write. Alot of people seem to follow that vein. The main person popping to mind is Rozanne, who seems (like me) to be looking for a way to voice the writer she wants to be. Although it seems that, since she's in publishing, she at least has one foot in the writing world. I'm a lawyer, which means any writing I do get to do is forced to be boring and intellectual to the point of tedium, which therefore robs me of whatever joy I might obtain from it.

Don't get me wrong. I actually quite enjoy legal writing. The thing I think I like the most about lawyering is the argument. Not the confronting another person part of the argument, but the persuasion element. And the purest persuasion is that which appeals most to the logical part of a person, because you know that you aren't scoring points off of cheap plays at emotion or what-not. So I enjoy it when my legal writing is rewarded by a judge being persuaded to my viewpoint.

When I first started lawyer, in Marion County, I wrote much more than I do now. As a prosecutor in Marion County, you have the luxury of some element of time prior to arguing points before a court. When you commence a case, you schedule a time a month or so into the future for motions to be argued, and after that (assuming you win) you schedule a new date for a trial. Since there's all that time, you are able to pour yourself into your writing. I often feel that the judges in Marion County made better decisions on a more consistent basis regarding legal issues, if only because they were better briefed on the law in question, and had time to read what was written for them and to research whether the points made were legitimate.

I came to Multnomah County and was shocked to see that, as a misdemeanor attorney, I was assigned a case two or three days prior to trial, and further that motion arguments were held on the trial day. There was no great opportunity to receive a motion, consider it, research it, and respond. Hell, you often didn't get the motion until the day prior to the trial.

I recall how astounded my co-workers were to see that, despite this disturbing state of affairs, I still managed to write responses to the vast majority of motions presented. I pretended like it was a great bother, but, really, it was my chance to engage in one of my favorite lawyering bits. I love writing. I also love the crutch that a prepared memo represents, because I (unlike most lawyers I've met) am terrible at remembering the law, and being able to direct a judge to my written material takes off a fair amount of pressure.

And I've always loved to write. I credit my enjoyment of writing with the perception my teachers had that I was smart. Really, I'm not that smart. Writing is great in that you can take an idea, write it down, realize how half-baked it is, erase part of it, and refine it (rinse and repeat) until you've made it into something at-least-cohesive.

But the best writing is the last-minute stuff, because if you can write well, it can be clever without being contrived. One day, in my senior honors english class in high school, I was shocked to find that I'd forgotten to do a writing assignment. It wasn't anything major, just a page or so (handwritten) on a hero in our life and how they fit into the Beowulf hero-archetype (whatever that meant). I was 3/4 of the way around the room from where Mrs. Schwabe, our teacher, began collecting the assignments. Luckily for me, some of my fellow students engaged her in small-talk as she came around the room, buying me the extra two or three minutes I needed to really get the assignment done nicely. By the time she got to me, I had a complete writing assignment, and I don't even think she realized how hastily it was put together.

I didn't like Schwabe. I remember my least favorite writing assignment. We were to read, digest, and respond to a poem called "Venus and the New Ark" or some drivel like that (I'd link you, but Google even thinks my search is ludicrous...). I didn't take kindly to this assignment. Essentially, the poem discussed a group of astronauts assigned to develop a greenhouse on Venus, and while they were gone a war broke out on earth, and their home was destroyed, requiring the two men and two women of the New Ark to begin again, like Michael Finnegan. Seeing as I was growing into my own in high school, and wasn't about to be Schwabe's yes-man, I wrote something like the following: "This is stupid. I don't understand why we are required to imply meaning into a straight-forward story like this. I object to being asked for deeper meaning in the discussion of a science experiment, looking for the secret significance of a dirt experiment in a spaceship. This is a waste of our time." Mrs. Schwabe's snappy come-back? "Obviously, I disagree." Well, I guess I was put in my place.

Now I don't have to worry about Schwabe approving of my work, and I don't have editors to worry about. Indeed, my blog is for me, to the greatest extent, and if you get a kick out of it, that's a bonus. I am aware of only four or five people that regularly read it fully (JLowe, Frodo, Mak, Burnsy, and occasionally C-Mac) and the occasional stops-by by the likes of Krime-Dog Kerry, Roxanne, Jack Bog, and my boss. Otherwise, I'm free to put whatever here.

Last week, my friend Hozay (who ended up not buying the Element, thank you) e-mailed me out of confusion regarding my blog. Mainly, he was confused because the voice he reads in my blog is not the same as the voice he hears when we talk. And that got me thinking. Which voice is the true one? The voice in my blog, I think, represents the voice I wish I could speak in all the time. The sentences are coherent, they come to a rational (though not always agreeable) conclusion, they are self-referential and deprecating, and they always are laced with some bitter-sweet humor. In my daily life, I am a silly person who spouts off half-baked pontifications and cusses too much. What I told Hozay is what is true -- "With regard to the blog, much of what is written is a twist on life where I'm trying to let out the frustrated writer. Some things are cast in a way designed to be funny to the reader, or to make the reader think. They are not always exactly how I feel (although I suspect, in some places, you can tell exactly when I'm just being straight)." But, I guess, this is only mostly true. While I do consciously consider that what I'm writing here is being read by somebody, it's mostly just me trying to write.

What's the point of what I'm saying? Well, I guess it's me trying to work through my own frustration at not understanding why I keep on blogging. I spend alot of time thinking that I should stop this blog, because it serves no purpose and will, I suppose, eventually be my doom (just like Queen of Sky's blog was for her...). But, at the same time, I can't let it go. And I think this is because, if I don't blog, I won't write, and all semblance of ambition will dissolve from my life.

Our secret? Between you and me? I think I'd eventually like to be a writer, though I really have nothing to write about that the masses would likely enjoy consuming. But, Krime-Dog, if you're reading this, whenever you get to doing your children's book, I'd like to help if you need it.

And so, enough of my blog's existential quandry. It will survive another day, to the delight of just about noone.

A couple of random topics:

C-Mac and the Blazer game. If any of you know C-Mac, you know he's an evil, evil man. Which I've dealt with well by mostly just shrugging my shoulders and watching for the other shoe to drop. I hadn't been affected by his crapulence until recently. As I've reported, I was supposedly going to the Blazers-Pistons game in March. This was with C-Mac, who caved and bought a ten-pack of tickets, which is a misnomer, as it's actually 20 tickets for ten games. Anywho, after promising the ticket to me (the exact words were "Okay, it's yours," C-Mac has supposedly retracted the guarantee and placed me on a contingency basis, assuming his daddy doesn't want to go with him. To which I say "BULL-PUCKY". A promise is a promise. I'll sue for that ticket, so you'd better hand it over!

Halo 2. Like every other geek in the world, I've eagerly anticipated the release of X-Box's latest shooting game, Halo 2. For those who don't speak nerd, Halo was a game where you shot up lots of other people in an effort to achieve mildly noble aims. The main point was destruction. The game's value, though, lay in multi-player mode, where you can host epic battles posing up to 32 players against eachother in an orgy of death and mayhem. Tonight, I went to Shro's to try out the new version, and (like New Coke) it is good in a different way. There are definite improvements, and yet things I'm not sure I like. Reminds me of the first time I heard U2's Zooropa. At first I said "what the hell is this?" But, eventually, it grew on my. Anyway, the first multiplayer death extravaganza is Thursday (in celebration of some obscure government holiday), and if my thumbs aren't calloused and numb at the end, I'll know I didn't do good enough.

Herpes. As with about 98% of the population (according to my doctor), I am a carrier of herpes. Not the gross kind, mind you, but the kind that result in ugly blights on your lip from time to time (strangely called cold sores, despite the fact that I often get them in the summer time...). Of course, not all of those 98% ever exhibit symptoms. That's left to poor bastards like me. Hozay takes great joy in my despair, as he likes to refer to the ugly growths on my face as Quato, in recognition of the Total Recall character that grows forth from the body of its host, looking entirely gross yet enthralling you instead of totally repelling you. I've noticed, as time has gone on, these fiendish sores take longer to heal. I've had the current iteration of this issue for almost a week now, and though it is nearly gone, I keep on bumping my lip, causing a new gush of blood. I hate these things. I blame my mother. BAH!

My car. So, I know you're all concerned. Turns out a drainage cap on my rear differential was not entirely screwed on, which caused a leak, which caused dryness in my differential, which caused damage. Imagine my delight when my auto shop called today to report that repairs were immediately necessary (grrrrr...) but that they should be covered by my 60,000 mile powertrain warrantee (yay!). I simply needed to take my car to a dealership and pretend I'd never foolishly let my car bleed its vital juices away. So, I await the dealership's realization that I should have a repaired vehicle on their dime. I love this country.

I'm sleepy. I've been listening to a playlist I put together on my computer called "Sleepy Time Music". Contains great stuff: 10,000 Maniacs, Joe Cocker, Blind Melon, U2, Alanis, Dire Straits, Blues Traveler, Sheryl Crow, Van Morrison, Sade. A veritable cornucopia of joy, all slow and sleep-inducing. 'Fraid it's working. So, I guess I'll just have to...

Catch ya later.

TV and other transmissions

So, where was I?

Oh, yeah, it was JLowe's birthday on Friday. Saturday was Shro-dude's birthday. That was an interesting day.

Shro-dude invited me to a birthday party at his place on Saturday night, which contradicted a planned birthday dinner for JLowe at about the same time. What to do? Glean every last moment out of both, of course.

So, as Saturday began, my wife and I planned our day out to allow maximum time at Chez Shro-dude prior to leaving for dinner. Got up at a certain time, dressed by a certain time, out to the gym by a certain time, all designed to get us where we needed to be.

On the way to the gym, we noticed a strange noise in our car. Only occurred over 60mph, and only while accelerating. The noise had disappeared by the time we got to the gym, and didn't recur on the way home.

So we go to Shro's. JLowe went, as well. It was good we couldn't stay long, because as much as I love Shro, it was a menagerie of babies and corresponding parents, none of whom I was even remotely acquainted with. Not that I don't like meeting new people, but I'd rather not on most occasions, and this was one.

JLowe's dinner was at Chez Jose (East), a local Mexican place with several not-so-admirable qualities, at least during this visit. No free refills on soda (a large black mark in my book), no splitting checks (though, admittedly, we had a 10-person group and not enough places accomodate you in that size a menagerie), slow service...but I kept a stiff upper lip. The salsa is good, the chips warm, and my burrito was sublime. And me and The Missus escaped for under $20, so I can't complain too strenuously (I mean, I could, but what would it get me?)

After, The Missus and I decided to ditch JLowe's extravaganza in favor of a return to Chez Shro, both because there was a keg that needed attending to, and also because we had heard some of my work chums would be there.

On the way, though, the strange car noise returned, and with a vengeance at that. By the time we were near the 33rd Ave. Eastbound Exit from I-84, it was time to get off the road and find a safe place to ditch the car.

God had spoken. I was bad for ditching JLowe. My penance will be (I'm guessing from the sounds I heard) the purchase of a new transmission.

Ugh.

By the way, speaking of transmissions, this TV season is quite good. Here is a run-down of...

THE PIEMAN'S MUST-SEE TV '04.

Sunday
Sunday night is all about one show, Desperate Housewives. In this show, three-and-a-half gorgeous women (Nicollette Sheridan is actually old-and-busted, and doesn't count for a whole) cavort around their idyllic neighborhood, getting involved in highjinx and often wearing lingerie. Good stuff. Followed by Boston Public, where William Shatner glowers deliciously while James Spader woos multiple women, all too hot for him. Captivating.

Monday
Sadly, The Missus has me watching 7th Heaven, which is about the worst show ever made (especially those two damn kids who always finish eachother's sentences...yuk!) and Everwood, which is actually entertaining. Two rival doctors work together against a new rival doctor who admires them, who is trying to woo the women who loves the main rival doctor, who's son is dating the daughter of his rival-cum-partner. Delicious confusion!

Tuesday
Total sausage-fest. Nothing good to see here folks, go home and come back later. Actually, I love Scrubs, but always forget that it's on. Drats!

Wednesday
Smallville is the name of Wednesday night. Superman's teenage years, updated for our millenium millieu and filled with creepy storylines where, whilst discovering his own limits, Superman also must join his band of inquistive friends to solve supernatural crimes galore. X-Files meets the X-Men. Good stuff. Law and Order is also on, but not any good now that Lenny's gone. Sabrina needs to get sick of Jack and become a defense attorney, then wage some epic battles. That might be good.

Thursday
No longer the home of Must-See hits like Friends, NBC has become mostly forgettable. Thank God for FOX, which has moved the delightful O.C. to this night, much to the delight of both myself and my wife. See Ryan brood. See Seth be smart. See Sandy impress Kristin with his glib approach to life. See a soap opera that even your kids would love. E.R. fills out the initialized night of TV fun, although not as impressively as it once did. Why not bring Dr. Green back from the grave, or have George Clooney do a guest stint where he puts Carter back in his place?

Friday
Really, if you're at home watching TV on Friday, I weep for you.

Saturday
Though it continues to disappoint, the only reason to watch TV on Saturday continues to be SNL. Tina Fey is hot. Once Weekend Update is over, kill your television. The week is through.

There you have it.

It's wicked late, and I needs my sleep. Have a good night, chums.

Catch ya later.

Lest we forget

Happy 31st Birthday, JLowe.


Better late than never, I always say...

Taking a couple of days off...

However, I did want to mention perhaps the most disgusting for-sale item in the world. Thanks to Rozanne for finding this one (or, I guess, to B).

Still not finished...

Man, I hate elections. I mean, it's fun to watch in terms of the suspense. But it's a killer.

If I'd only known about this election night drinking game, perhaps it might not have been so bad. Even Bogdanski might've enjoyed the evening this way.

So, assuming things continue as they're trending, and Bush wins both the electoral and the popular vote, does that change how anyone feels?

On PBS, they pointed out that, as soon as he wins, he's a lame-duck and things'll change. Perhaps that'll be a good thing. Change, however, isn't always good.

Anyway, the I-Tax repeal failed, so my career can continue for another 12 months until someone decides to challenge it again. Unless, of course, Measure 37 collapses our government's financial solvency....

Nothing cute tonight

Just remember, where ever you are and whoever you are, vote you conscience. Too many people have died to protect your right to vote to throw that right away.

Happy Election Day!

Assuming it's true...

Here's more proof the Blazers don't read Le Blogue.

And, despite my boycott, I'll be at the Pistons game on March 1st.

How do I justify that? First, I didn't have to pay for the ticket. And, judging by soda/beer/popcorn prices, I won't be buying anything else. As long as I'm not lining Paul Allen's already-well-too-lined pockets, it's all good.

Second, Rasheed won't hear my booing from outside, so I'll have to give in this one time for sheer practicality.

Hammerhead (aka "Pimpin' Ain't Easy")

Saturday night was our long-awaited Pimps and Hoes party.

By the way, how do you spell "hoes"? Is it H-O-E-S? H-O-S? H-O-S-E? Since ho is short for whore, should it be W-H-O? Tonight, we'll settle on hoes with an E.

Where was I? Oh, yeah. The party. Thank God we only host something that epic once a year.

Which is a lie. This is actually our second epic party of the year. In February, I turned 30, so my wife and I decided it would be fun to host a 30th Birthday Bash. I also called for it to be a toga party. Really, I was hoping a lot of chicks would show up in togas. In the end it was me and three other guys in togas (Hozay, Frodo, and Travis Vo), which was a bit of a disappointment.

For that party, I got two kegs of beer from Rock Bottom Brewery. A friend of a friend manages the local installment of that fine establishment, so we got a good deal. Now, given that 60 or more of my closest friends had intimated that they'd be celebrating my 30th birthday with me, that should have been just enough. But the turn-out didn't reach expected levels, and I ended up having over a keg worth of beer left in the end.

This time around, I planned for disappointment. First, I decided to look for cheap beer. However, since I get kegs rarely (this was my second time shopping for one in my short-ish life), I found that the best deal I could swing was a keg of Miller Lite for $71. A friend of mine told me that was steep, and referred me to a place I couldn't find in the phone book, which didn't help at all. However, he did inspire me to look harder, and because of that I learned that it is McMenamin's discount season.

So, I scored a keg of the Old School House Pale Ale for $75, which worked just fine for me. Only one keg this time, because I was not in the mood to pour that much beer out again. I tried to score my favorite McMenamin's brew, called Hammerhead, but was not able, as (apparently) it is everyone else's favorite as well.

Further, to ensure that all the beer would get guzzled, I attacked the keg voraciously, courtesy of the one-liter stein that JLowe bought me a few Christmasses back.

So, my party began in earnest. About 45 of my greatest acquaintances and their significant others arrived, and (this time) almost all adhered to the party guidelines, which were that you must come dressed as either a pimp or a hoe. Asthetically, this party was much more satisfying than my toga one. It was a virtual cornucopia of scant cladding and I, for one, was quite pleased.

In fact, people came from as far as Salem, where I used to work, to enjoy the warmth of my heart and my hearth. And to watch me drink. They were rewarded in all of these endevours, although they left before I truly got out-of-hand.

It was around my fifth time through the liter stein that I learned that I would not be making it to the end of my party. I don't remember when it was, but I do remember a moment of clarity, when I realized I was hovering at the brink of oblivion. I knew then that there was no way to avoid "assing out", as I've heard it called. And so I did what any sane drunkard would do. Knowing that losing consciousness in the warmth of my bed was infinitely preferable to doing the same on my back patio, I gathered what strength and wits I had about me and lumbered through my home and to my room, where I fell into the arms of Morpheus before my head hit the pillow.

Apparently, my buffoonery did not go unnoticed. Caroline in the city came to my room and attempted to roust me, but was sent away entirely rebuffed -- even entirely unnoticed, given my stupor, despite a lovely costume. I didn't even notice when one of my chums, MarineMan, came to my room with friends and, apparently, took part in some unflattering photography with me as the butt of the joke. I haven't seen the pictures, but all I know is that, at one point last night, someone told me I'd better not ever run for office. I suppose they must be bad.

Now, to get to the essential points for my blog entry title.

First, I was quite proud that I was actually able to assemble a CD called "The Pimps and Hoes Mix" from songs on my computer. All of the songs on the disc had the word "Pimp" or "Hoe" in the title. Songs like "Pimp Juice" and "Can't Control those Hoes". Actually, one song didn't have those words. It was "Good Day" by Ice Cube. But that song does contain the word "Pimp," so I'm vindicated.

Second, and more important, was the feeling I had when I woke up. I could have sworn that the keg did, in fact, contain Hammerhead, because the pounding within my cranium rivalled any I've ever experienced. I woke up at 10:30 in the morning and worked on cleaning for 45 minutes, or so, before realizing that I really shouldn't be up yet. I didn't feel normal, really, until 1:30, when I finally rolled out of bed for good.

The party was, for lack of a better word, epic. I know for a fact that all involved enjoyed themselves, despite some genuinely boorish and embarassing behavior on my part. To anyone The Pieman offended, apologies. Come to the next party and I'll either a) make it up to you, or b) do something more boorish and offensive to make this encounter seem pleasant. But, as proof that the party was great, two testimonials.

First, from Mr. Schnacky: "That was a fantastic party. However, I wanted to take my own life this morning."

And, second, from a lady named Nick: "We had a blast at your party - we were still laughing about all the great costumes the next day and I have to say that I think that is THE FUNNIEST party I have ever been to. Thanks for having it!"

So, I guess it was alright. Now I have to go to work, where alot of the partiers came from, and see if those I offended are still talking to me. I'm sure they are. Especially the MarineMan, who was apparently rather affectionate during picture time.

Catch ya later.