Tales from Stumptown

Some stories from Portland that you've probably already heard...

--So we're at BrewFest on Friday...And every five-to-ten minutes someone in the increasingly drunk crowd will start a loud "Wooooooooo" that other people will join in with until it builds into a full crowd crescendo of Wooooo's. Once we get wise to this, we, of course, vow to start one ourselves by day's end. Fast forward a few hours and many many spent tokens later. We start our Woo with great, expectantly contagious enthusiasm and ample volume...and nothing happens. A few charity woos but nothing more. Flummoxed, we try again a few minutes later and again, we are collectively shunned. What the hell, fellow BrewFesters?

--Early Sunday evening, Nicole and I took a short walk up to Multnomah Village, a charming small-town-ish main street just a block or so from Sarah and Bill's place. It was after 5 so just about everything was closed. Even though it was in the upper nineties with 'Nam-like humidity, it was nice to be out for a bit and just window shop this quiet little village. On our way back just ten minutes or so after arriving, we were about to turn down a side street when my compulsion pulled me into what appeared to be the only open store in town. Even though it was not the least bit visually enticing from the street and the name of the store left me a little confused as to what we might find inside, I did not fight the tractor beam pulling me towards Post Hip CDs. Once inside, I quickly realized the dusty stuffed animals that filled the front window display (wtf?) were not a fluke. The place had the feel of a thrift store. CDs loosely grouped into genre but otherwise totally unorganized. No artsy end caps or featured albums. The listening stations were two ratty old chairs with a couple of discmans. Fingerprints, it was not, but I was loving it anyway. A middle-aged guy with Harry Potter-ish think, very round frames seemed to be the owner. He was talking to two older gentlemen seated on a couch. They weren't shopping or working; they were apparently there just to talk. It felt like an old barbershop at that point. I found a huge stack of old, used Jackson Browne, James Taylor, Rolling Stones, and Chet Baker, and I sat down to give them a listen (as if I didn't know I was going to get them). Wow, I had forgotten how great a CD sounds. A CD on a CD player with any decent pair of earphones is pretty tough to beat. Eat your heart out, IPod (and I love my IPod). Another couple came in as I was sitting there, and somehow I deduced that they were fellow merchants from another store down the street. They visited for a few minutes and I was really taken by the whole experience of this small town, very low maintenance, no frills music store that seemed to double as a local piazza just 15 minutes from downtown Portland. When I went to check out, the proprietor (I really should have known his name) stepped around several stacks of CDs piled on the floor, behind the short counter that was really nothing more than a formality. There was no cash register, just a spiral notebook where he wrote down by hand the albums I was buying on an otherwise blank page. He did the math in his head(!) and I handed him the cash (I wasn't going to dare hand a debit card). He handed me my discs in a plastic bag I would later notice was being reused from a drugstore. On the way out, I pointed out the vintage typewriters by the door and we ended up talking for another ten minutes. It was really cool. I left with a renewed faith in humanity and six great albums to boot. Viva Portland.

Mooooooon River!

In the last two weeks, I have come to relate to this scene in a very direct way. I don't know yet whether these real life vignettes of violation have made this scene more or less funny.

As promised!

Little Wednesday

--Looking like I will be blessed with a four-day weekend next week. My mind spins with the possibilities. Paris? Tuscany? Anaheim? A man with a couple days off is a terrible thing to waste. It couldn't come at a better time actually. It's been a busy string of months and it's frustrating to not be able to keep up with normal life things like keeping the house clean and getting birthday gifts on time, not to mention the leisurely pleasure of having time to think.

--Had a great time in Portland last weekend. Sarah and Bill Brasky were incredible hosts. I'll post some pics and stories later, just wanted to mention it now.

--Viva El Doug! Poor guy ate shit on his bike and hurt himself pretty badly. I tell you what, this has been a bitch of a year, hasn't it? I won't list them for the sake of it appearing as if I am comparing one hardship with another, but it seems like most people I know have had something really difficult happen in their lives this year. And we're only in July! Still, there have been some really amazing, beautiful, positive things, many of which have come by way of the negative so there you have it. Let's just cease and desist with the bad news until after New Year's, okay Universe? I think that's fair.

--On that same note, with everything Wayne has been going through, who do you think texted me this morning to ask me how I was feeling? The guy was barely home from the hospital and he was asking me how I was (I have been having some severe stomach pains for the past two weeks). He's fighting cancer and he's asking me about my stomach ache. Amazing guy, wouldn't you say? By the way, I'll be shutting up about my health right about....now.

--Also derived from the list of shit....We lost Callie yesterday. If you've ever been to my dad's, you would remember Callie as the sweet little calico that fell over when you scratched her back and was widely regarded as one of the sweeter cats of all time. There was nothing specifically wrong with her in the way of a disease or anything like that. She was just so old (19) and had nothing left in the tank. She couldn't walk more than a few steps without falling over to rest, couldn't make it to the litter box before she had to go, couldn't make it up onto her favorite couch. So, difficult as it was, it was time.

Well, that's all for today.

yikes

--I just saw footage of myself sprinting. Wow, that was an eye-opener. I run like a friggin' goofball! I run like Johnny Damon throws. Come to think of it, my running form reminds me a lot of Bengie Molina. At least it seems to generate more speed for me than it does for Bengie. Still, poetry in motion, I'm not.

--The Pottery Barn catalog is no longer allowed in my home. All it does is make me feel inadequate, reminding me of the house (and life) I will never have. And actually, I'm okay with that part. It's having the wife look at it and then look to me longingly for the same reasons. That's where we gotta nip it in the bud.

--"Even a broken clock is right twice a day..." So I am browsing the Nordstrom Anniversary sale for potential Christmas gifts (I swear) when I came across the summer suit of my dreams (okay so maybe i diverted momentarily), twinkling like the Griswold Family Christmas Tree. Based on the size, I thought for sure it was too small, but since size ain't nothing but a number, I figured I would just make sure. It fit. Like a glove. At least I thought so. But I thought I might be convincing myself it fit since I had instantly become smitten. So I waited for some help from the salesmen. And waited. And waited. There were only two of them and both were tied up with a couple of high maintenance guys. One of these customers was looking at the exact type of suit I am talking about and was smaller than me. He hadn't seen it yet so I walked back to the rack and picked it up, straight away. I saw he and his ladyfriend eyeing it in my hands, but I would not relent. So I stood around pretending to browse for a while. Then I made Nicole, with bad back, wait even longer. Finally, the troll gave up and moved on and his salesman was free. He agreed that it fit like a glove (and this is Nordstrom where I trust the suit salemen to be honest). After another half hour of fretting, we called the tailor, marked the pants and took care of the paperwork. It occurs to me I have been babbling on without yet telling you the best part, the only real point to the story....I got this summer suit of my dreams, this friggin' beauty, for--are you ready?--sixty-seven percent off. SIX-SEVEN. After getting absolutely abused on the airfare to Portland, this little retail miracle at least gives me hope that maybe there is a lucky yin to the cursed yang.

--I think I might have somehow become lactose intolerant. I'll spare you the details. This is upsetting because ever since I was a kid, there's been few things more satisfying than a taaaall glass of milk. If it's true, if I have crossed to the other side, I can only begin to grasp the reaches of the domino effect. Not gonna eat a brownie with soy milk. Not gonna eat a brownie, period. Cookies? Mac & Cheese? Say it ain't so!

--Anybody heard anything about what caused that Southwest plane to tear a hole in itself last week? Just curious since we're flying Southwest in a couple days. I'm sure it's fine. Uh huh, right.

--I need to post more cat pictures. I've got two of the cuter, more interesting cats in the continental US and yet what kind of proud father am I that I never post pictures?

The $18 DVD Rental

The only problem with Netflix is that the no-late-fee thing can encourage movie-watching laziness. One movie can sit unwatched for weeks on end. Before you know it, you've paid two months worth of membership for one movie that you still haven't seen. This was the case for me with "Flash of Genius," starring Greg Kinnear. Last night, we drew a line in the sand. Watched the movie and suspended the account thereafter.

Let me tell you, this movie might have been worth the eighteen bucks. It's a thought-provoking, inspiring story of integrity, perserverance, and truth. I recommend renting it and watching it within the first two months of bringing it home.

THE TUMORS ARE SHRINKING! THE TUMORS ARE SHRINKING!

That's all I know at this point, but that's clearly the big good news of the day. I am sure Val will most more info on her blog. And until then, cause for celebration, I'd say! Wine and grilled pizza for all!

--In other news, I have another piece of sage advice...avoid expired yogurt. Avoid it like the plague. Actually, you should avoid the plague like expired yogurt. Moaning in agony for hours at a time is no way to spend a morning. Went out for Evie's birthday last night and didn't eat a thing because I was still recovering. And the food looked really good. Unfortunately, it took me eating another of the tainted yogurt this morning before I figured out the culprit. I thought a baby alien was gonna pop out of stomach and sing showtunes.

--In the last ten minutes, someone has come through here with In and Out Burger and another with freshly popped popcorn. Sensory torture! Unfair, unacceptable working conditions! Where's my union?!

--I am going to stuff so much Portland coffee in my suitcase, the dogs are going to think I am smuggling drugs. I have been suffering through this artificial-tasting, plastic Dunkin' Donuts shit for far too long. Stumptown, here I come! If there are any coffee lovers who want me to pick them up some of the good shit, let me know.

--Why does Pandora throw in Jack Johnson no matter which (or is it correct to use "what?") station I create? Does Jack Johnson sound the least bit like Bruce Springsteen, Wilco, or Ray LaMontagne to you? Enough with the Jack friggin' Johnson! Then again, maybe this is proof of the blandness of Mr. Johnson. He's like the chicken of music, he tastes like nothing and everything all at once.

--Facebook has been a major disappointment thus far. Other than the poker application and a lot of asinine messages and quizzes, there's just not that much going on on a daily basis. I think I could log in once a month and get everything valuable out of it. All this time, much ado about nothing.

--Just when I thought I was top beard around here, the new guy starts and I'm second billing. The Beard Wars will not be won this easily, I assure you. I have an arsenal of tricks and I intend to exhaust them all.

7 days 'til P-Town

The Pizza Report

It shows definite potential.

Some things I learned after the maiden voyage:

--The dough rises like a son of a bitch. What appeared to be quite thin made for a very thick dough when it cookes. I was going for thin and crispy and I ended up with Chicago style, less the grease. I think it will be much better when I correct this.

--I think I need to remove it from the grill to add the toppings after the first side is cooked. The dough cooks so quickly, you really have no time to add the toppings with it still on the grill. The cheese wasn't melted yet and the crust was already starting to burn. I'll, of course, lower the heat too.

--I made margherita pizzas last night which, you know, call for the big slices of mozzarella. Given the conditions I described above, I think next time I will go for something with shredded cheese. It will melt faster.

--The flavor of the dough was okay. I think I will try the Trader Joe's Garlic Herb dough next time before venturing into making my own. Kick it up a notch!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

--The lesson of the day is never wait any longer than you absolutely have to when buying plane tickets. I just got slammed paying to go to Portland what should have gotten me to London, all due to waiting 'til the nearly last minute. If I were taking the same trip next month, it would be about 60% cheaper. Shit, this is gonna hurt.

The good news is I am headed for P-Town. The wedding is the cake and The Oregon Brewfest on the waterfront is the very fortunately timed icing. Delicious. I am going to make this trip worth the choke-inducing cost of the travel to get there.

I figured how much it would cost me to drive there. Based on LA gas prices, my little Prius would deliver us there and back for a total of $125. Now if only I had 28 hours to spare behind the wheel.

Ah well.

When the moon hits your eye...

Tonight, I make pizza on the grill. Yes, you heard it right, on the friggin' GRILL. I am very excited about this. It sounds crazy, right? From what I've been reading, short of installing a brick oven in your house, the grill is the ONLY way to cook pizza. I've been reading tips and tricks, watching videos, doing all my homework. Tonight is time to put it to the test. Wish me luck.

TRAGIC BUT TRUE

This exists 5 hours from where I live and breathe...

...a mere 2 hours further than Vegas, closer than San Francisco...

...And I have never been there. Not once.

8/15/2023

Mark it down. For it is on that fateful day just over fourteen years from now that I will finally be free of my student loans. Isn't that something? I seriously want to plan a nice dinner or a party or a trip of some kind to celebrate. Mark your calendars, folks. If I should call on you, I'm not going to be accepting any excuses seeing as how I am giving you fourteen years advance notice. I wonder if home prices will still be at all-time low then. Might be about ready to buy! Woo hoo!

I did it.

I feel like I have been in a nuclear bunker for thirty years and just stepped outside and found myself in modern day Tokyo. Or like Brooks Hatlen when he gets released from Shawshank. "The world went and got itself in a big damned hurry."

I'm overwhelmed to say the least.

The Facebook Conundrum or Joe, you might not be able to hide from me anymore

I am a long standing member of the Anti-Facebook Society. I may as well be a founding father of the club. I know you've all heard my rants/reasons for this opposition so I won't go into it too much here. Basically, I feel that Facebook is a lazy shortcut to maintaining personal relationships. It's frustrated me to no end how my supposed best friends had important things going in their lives that they would announce on Facebook, but never personally to me. In this month's GQ, David Amsden writes that "our 'connected' culture is breeding a pandemic of isolation. That succinctly explains my larger, conceptual hatred for Facebook. I feel like, while we may be communicating more, we are simultaneously drawing back further and further into our own personal pods, with less and less reason to leave our couches or even pick up a phone. I am a big proponent of both. But, to quote the DeNiro character in Heat, there's a flipside to that coin (I think I have used this quote roughly 459 times on this blog in the past).

Two things happened. I was down visiting the fam a few weeks back and my aunt Lisa had her laptop logged in to Facebook. Most of my family have accounts. She was showing my grandma and my cousins photos of my wedding, my mom and uncle's drive to get there, and old family photos from when they were kids. For the first five minutes or so, I sat in a recliner, uninterested. Then I pulled the stick out of my ass and joined in. We scrolled through all kinds of photos, most of which my mom, aunt, or uncle had posted humorous comments on. Lisa and my grandma told stories as the old photos stirred up the old memories. It was a lot of fun.

The second thing was this morning. I was laying in bed and I was just thinking how disappointed I was in myself in terms of the kind of friend, son, nephew, etc. that I am. All I could think about was all the people that are so important to me that I had not called in so long. I realized while I so often think about these people and what they're going through in their lives, I don't go the distance to let them know it hardly as much as I should. And it was overwhelming to think of where to begin. I get up in the morning, I do my exercise, I go to work, I blog (gulp), I come home, take out the trash, cook dinner, do the dishes, maybe watch an hour or so of TV, maybe write, then I go to bed. This is the typical day and there is not a lot of wiggle room in there to be all that I wish I could be to everyone that I care about. I'm not Mother Teresa, of course. I do still require some time to work on my own stuff.

It was around this time that I began to reconsider my anti-Facebook feelings. Ideologically, I still felt I was right about the whole concept. But I was also faced with the guilt that I was out of touch with my friends and family and overwhelmed by the task of making it right, especially when so many of them live so far away. Which was more important to me, to be true to my ideology or to be current and more involved with my loved ones (Joe, you are a "loved one," fyi)? My mom was on Facebook and wanted to see photos of her son for crying out loud! Was it maybe time to get off my high horse a little and sacrifice some pride? It might just be.

After all, I can shape my experience to be exactly as I want it. I don't have to turn into a junkie; I do have the will power to use it and not become enslaved by it. Therefore, if I do decide to join, I vow to go by a certain code of Facebook conduct:

I vow to never update my lame-ass "status message," much less do it every five minutes with the most asinine reports imaginable.

I vow to not take drunken photos every time I go out with thought of how they will make me look on Facebook.

I vow to not devote 56 hours to creating a profile so detailed and nuanced that it could serve as my clone. If you know me, you know me. Don't come to my profile to learn about my deepest fears and favorite pizza toppings.

I vow to not stalk or be stalked by every person I had a class with in high school. Long lost friends, sure. Lab partners from sophomore year, no.

I vow to never take one of those childish, brain-squishing quizzes that ask me "Who was the last person you texted with?" or "do people say you're pretty?"

I vow to not make important, life-altering announcements on Facebook. The big stuff is still for phone calls and face-to-face.

Above all, I vow to not revert into being a teenager. I vow to not let Facebook lure me into thinking that my life is my own personal reality show or that people look to me for entertainment.

I'm not saying I'm ready. I still need to sleep on it. But I think we both know where this is heading. By the way, I am fully aware that the arguments stated above in favor of Facebook are arguments very similar to those made to me by some of you enthusiasts in the past.

To quote Fletch Lives, "It takes a big man to admit when he's wrong. I am not a big man."

Sunday Night pt. II

--My friggin' eyelids have been twitching for two weeks now. What does this mean?

--For about the same stretch of time, I have had a constant craving that alternates between Mexican food and pizza. Coincidence? And it's insatiable too. I have one, I want the other. Scratch one itch, the other kicks in.

Wow, last night was a redeeming night for the new Largo. Even though it's still a great venue, I felt like it lacked the intimacy and freeflowing, you-never-know-who-might-show-up-to-play spirit of the original. And then last night.....the old magic.

We went to see Punch Brothers, Bernie and I. We must have some sort of strange, good concert mojo because the previous time we went to a show, it was also an all-timer. So anyway, we're there. Second row. Chris Thile and company put on a show that was simply mesmerizing. They played a few new songs that sounded quite sweet. They need to record them and release them as soon as possible. Fiona Apple came out and sang "Walkin' After Midnight" like Patsy Cline, Ella Fitzgerald, and Janis Joplin fused into one soulful voice. The Watkins came out and jammed and, being the Nickel Creek lover that I am, the reunion was emotionally fulfilling. Just a really fun, surprising show. And that was only the first half.

Prior to the show, it was announced that Sara and Sean (Watkins) were coming down and would be playing in The Little Room following the Punch Brothers' show. It would be free and first come, first served. Luckily, our primo seat location allowed us to get a good position in line. This second show was just really special. It felt like the old Largo family that I used to love to see coming together again (sans Glen Phillips) playing more as fun in somebody's living room than a "show." I felt like they were just jamming and having fun and I was a fly on the wall, almost like I wasn't supposed to be there and could booted at any second. Chris, Fiona and Fiona came in and played again. Benmont Tench joined on piano. Greg Leisz emerged from a dark corner and played the steel guitar. They had a drummer(don't recall his name) keeping rhythm by slapping on--no joke--a yellow legal pad. There was no set list. They would discuss amongst themselves what to play next, sometimes even quietly reviewing how it went before they actually started it. We, the audience, just watched and waited and drank it all in. This was all in a small corner of the room no bigger than 6x6. And did I mention they have finally started serving beer again?

All together, we were there for about five hours. Five hours on a Sunday night after a long weekend and yet when we walked over there, I was giddy with excitement. I was pumped. I could have gone all night, but, alas, there was work to attend in the morning.

I dropped Bernie off and elected to get back to the 10 by way of Fairfax. As I drove past the old Largo, I still got a little nostalgic, but the tinge of sadness was finally gone. One good night.

On the take

This is an interesting break from the talking heads, half-truths, scare tactics, and general propaganda.

http://www.fivethirtyeight.com/2009/06/special-interest-money-means-longer.html

Toto, eat your heart out

JUST when I was afraid I would not have a single thing worth posting today, somebody sends me this and restores my faith in the goodness and ingenuity of humankind.

I'm On A Boat

I don't need to tell any of you how much I love James Taylor, right? Good, moving on. As much as I love the man, I can't explain why it was only just recently that I signed up for the fan club/newsletter/whathaveyou on his official website. Last week, I got my first newsletter from the site containing an essay JT wrote for the recent National Geographic publication, "My Favorite Place on Earth" written by Jerry Camarillo Dunn, Jr. Beyond James' music, my appreciation for him has always extended to my stranger's impression of him as a really nice, grounded, intelligent, interesting person. I really loved his essay and I felt like it definitely supported my image of him. Nice when that happens. I can definitely relate to many of the feelings he describes below. I hope you enjoy it as much as I did.

"The Center of the Atlantic Ocean" By James Taylor

Once I made a passage up the center of the Atlantic, from the Caribbean to Martha's Vineyard, with a good sailor on a beautiful boat. It was an old wooden sailboat made of teak, strong and seaworthy. The masts were tall, and we operated the sails by hand. I was part of the crew.

Our captain, Nat Benjamin, who is a boat builder on Martha's Vineyard, is an expert at deep ocean sailing. We didn't have satellite navigation. He simply knew when weather was coming. We would shorten sail for a storm, the storm would hit, and we were ready for it. We went through one thrilling night with seas the size of huge houses passing under us. We just ran before the storm, feeling complete trust in our captain.

We had started our trip from the island of St. Martin and after about five days got to the Sargasso Sea. The surface was a floating mat of sargasso weed, which has a unique variety of flora and fauna within it, with eels breeding and other animals living there - a sort of ecosystem to itself.

The Sargasso Sea is in the Bermuda Triangle. We were becalmed there, as is often the case in the Doldrums, so we let down the sails, stopped the motor, and just sat on these oily, calm swells. And to while away the time, we went swimming in the center of the Atlantic Ocean. The depth of the water beneath us was something like three miles. To think that if you stood on the boat and flipped a quarter overboard, it would be falling and falling and falling for a day and a half before it hit bottom that gave me an amazing feeling.

On a boat, everyone takes turn standing watches around the clock. At night, you watch the polestar and see the entire cosmos revolve around it. It's a remarkable awareness you get of being on this planet in space. I know that as astronauts look back at Earth, they get a great sense of what it is. On our boat, I could feel myself on the surface of this water planet.

In a way, it was similar to two trips I've taken down the Grand Canyon in wooden dories. It takes 19 days to get through the canyon, and it really takes you away from ordinary experience and timetables. The fact that you're drifting with the river, and not motoring down or powering through it, also has an effect on you. You're in this great geological picture book, which goes back in time as you get deeper and deeper. It gives you a profound experience of the planet to be at the bottom of this great slice through time and into the depths of Earth. You pass a layer that was once the floor of a sea and eventually get down to the Vishnu Schist, which is two billion years old, some of the oldest rock on the planet. To see this stuff, to drift past it, to live with it, changes you - just like being in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean.

I was never taught a particular religion growing up. My father was a scientist, and I think, being from the South, he had an aversion to the available organized religious forms. So I was never given a strong religious connection. But I have a very strong spiritual need. And getting into nature is going to church for me. It's my way of surrendering to the bigger picture, to the whole.

I feel the skin of life on the planet as a sort of coevolved life form. It has a type of consciousness that we humans - with individuated consciousness and an ego-based world view - see as alien. But it's my own belief that it is alive, a single organism on this amazing, rare, and perhaps unique planet. I really need to feel that connection.

California Dreamin'

I am wearing a shirt today that I have not worn or washed since the honeymoon. It still smells like a wonderful potpourri of sea breeze, sunscreen, and massage oil. It is taking me back, I tell ya. I wish I could be there right now. Been doing that a lot lately, daydreaming about all the trips I'd like to take. I'm not talking pie-in-the-sky dreaming or anything, just reasonable summer trips that I could realistically take if I had such a thing as vacation days.

Portland, OR - Actually going on this one for Zach's wedding, but I'd love to stay a week instead of a quick 2.5 days. Brewfest on the waterfront, Powell's books, McMenamins' many brewpub movie theatres, The Tex-ass Challenge at Voo Doo Donuts. It's too much! Then again, Bill Brasky won't talk to me since the Lakers won, so I might not have as many friends up there as I thought.

Atlanta, GA - Conradical! The Dirty South! What more do I need to say?

Austin, TX - I have heard nothing but great things about Austin and, as a music, food and film lover, I have wanted to go for years. Lindsay, Austin native, was talking recently about rafting and whatnot in one of the rivers nearby. Sounds like good late summer fun.

Houston, TX - I never would have guessed there would be two places in Texas that I ever actually wanted to go to, but Wayne is there for treatment at MD Anderson and I wish I could go visit.

Rapid City, SD - Good ol' fashioned family trip in the fall would be a lot of fun. Test my hot streak in Deadwood. See if I can't reclaim my manhood by testing my luck against Val at beer pong. Our last trip there was only the second time I've been when it was NOT the dead of winter. I had forgotten how beautiful it really is when there's green on the hills, leaves on the trees.

Beach near Oxnard, CA - Renting a beach house for the Fantasy Football Draft. Inspired by the cabin experience in South Dakota, this was a great idea that Kissen came up with. Fifteen people (mostly guys) in a beach house with a boatload of booze for a football draft. What could go wrong?

Camping, some other beach in CA - I haven't been camping in a loooong time and the last time was not one I want to leave as the lasting impression. I would love to just be sitting by a campfire, looking out to sun setting on the Pacific with a skyful of stars overhead. Nothing for days but swimming, reading, drinking, and playing board/card games.

Sonoma/Napa, CA - Ever since we went with Wayne and Val, what was it--2 years ago, I have fantasized about going back.

Buenos Aires, Argentina - Charles says he's going for his 40th birthday in January. This would be unfunkinbelievable. Argentina is very high on my list of places to go and when there is an actual occasion to target it just makes it all the more tempting. If only I were rich or tickets weren't over a grand. So maybe this one stretches my promise of realism, but there is an actual invitation to consider so I say it's okay.

San Luis Obispo/Big Sur/Monterey/Carmel/Pacific Grove - Just a relaxing road trip up the coast with Redwoods, ocean bluffs, small coffeehouses, PCH seafood dives, wine, and a kickass road trip soundtrack.

Las Vegas, NV - Both Jackson Browne and Counting Crows have shows at this oasis just outside of town. I've only done it once, but seeing a concert in Vegas is pretty awesome and seeing one at a small venue at an isolated casino would be....fun.

Some part of Japan - Adam, if you're reading this, I haven't forgotten about you, buddy! (He's stationed there for the next couple years)

If only this antiquated notion of work didn't always get in the way. I know this makes me a lazy, unmotivated drip. But a fella can dream, can't he?

The Price is Right?

I've just spent the last two hours shopping for health insurance as my employer doth not provide and I am somewhat perturbed by my recently discovered high cholesterol and the chest discomfort I've had for almost forty-eight hours.

My findings: what a complete fucking joke.

$5000 deductible with 40% coinsurance after the deductible? How can you still call that insurance?

Are you familiar with this concept of coinsurance by the way? Maybe I have lived a sheltered life until now, but I had never heard of it until today. The word itself sounds ridiculous to me. If you don't know:

"Having a health plan that requires you to pay a coinsurance, or percentage participation, rate means that you’ll essentially be splitting the cost of your healthcare with your insurance carrier."

Pardon my French, but since when are we expected to go Dutch with our insurance companies? That's the whole reason they exist. Their sole purpose is to pick up the check.

The problem is I would like to go see a doctor, but I don't have a gajillion dollars to pay for it. So I figure I should look into health insurance. Now explain something to me, insurance companies....If I have to pay for the first $5,000 of my tab, how is that any different than having no coverage at all?

Not to beat a dead horse, but let's run through this one more time because I just don't get it....Let's say I pick one of these plans. I pay $200 a month as my monthly premium. Then I get sick and I want to go to the doctor. That costs me $30 in co-pay. Let's say they need to run a couple tests, an x-ray or some mild lab work. The bill for this little visit comes to $4,000. I now pay 100% of that too because my deductible has not been met (despite the $1,200 I have sent in as premium payments for the last six months). So let's say I need some sort of outpatient procedure done and that cost is gonna come to.....$5,000. I'll have to pay the first $1,000 which finally fulfills my deductible, but I'm not done yet! According to the co-insurance, I am still responsible for 20% of the remaining $4,000 which comes to $800. But I am now, thankfully, healthy. Let's summarize those numbers:

$1,200 = 6 months of premium payments
$30 = Office visit co-pay
$4,000 = Office visit bill including x-rays, tests
$1,000 = Outpatient surgery portion to reach deductible total
$800 = 20% coinsurance amount of remaining surgery bill
_________________________________________
$7,030 = Total paid by me for this medical issue whatever it may be

$3,200 = Amount paid by my "insurance" company for this issue (80% of the surgery subtotal)

Somebody, please, I impore you, tell me I am wrong and explain to me how it is not as royally fucked as it seems to me right now!

To be fair, I was able to find one or two plans that gave me the coverage I was looking for, $0 deductible, reasonable office-visit and ER copay, no coinsurance, and a small copay for generic prescriptions (I'm not even looking at vision or dental for fuck's sake!). They do exist....for a mere $445 a month. Somebody hand me a pen, I've got money to burn!

(Un) Learning to Fly

We got to talking about air travel again today at lunch, specifically the fear of air travel. It seems like I am coming across an increasing number of people who are afraid to fly and need Xanax or copious booze in order to get through it without having a breakdown. A lot of these people are like me in that they have only developed this fear in their adulthood. I wonder why that is.

Is it as simple as attributing it to 9/11 and TV shows and movies like "Lost" and "Cast Away" that graphically depict air disasters? I guess it could be, but if that were the main factor, it seems to me that our fears would gradually decrease over time, but I feel like the opposite is true. I am more afraid of flying now than I was flying to New York two weeks after 9/11 and I saw "Lost" and "Cast Away" years ago.

There have, of course, been real life crashes to inspire fear, but they are few and far between and we've all heard the statistics that say it is dramatically safer to travel by plane than it is by car.

Is it a natural increasing sense of our own mortality as we get older? I am sure that is some part of it, but that doesn't explain the specificity of this fear.

So what is it then?

My apologies to Twitter.

Objects in photo are as close as they appear.

No zoom necessary

So I'm sitting on my couch watching my Lakers celebrate, wondering if I should head downtown and join in the looting of a discount shoe store, when my doorbell (text message alert ringtone) rings. It's T-Bone. He says John Mayer just posted on Twitter that he's doing an impromptu show at the Hotel Cafe at 11:30, five bucks. Five minutes later, I am in my car. Even coming from the west side, I beat the crowds, slipped in before the line had begun to form. If you haven't been there, The Hotel Cafe is about the size of a large coffeehouse. We abandoned prime wall position for the sake of proximity, shuffling to within 7 feet of the stage. And wouldn't you know it, a mere 12 minutes after he had said he'd be there, in strolls Mr. Mayer right behind us and up onto the stage. For a solid hour and a half, it was just JM, his electric guitar, and a hundred or so of his most attentive local fans. It was just awesome. He played mostly new stuff from his upcoming album, mixing in some old stuff here and there. He did do "Free Fallin'" and, I wanna tell you, he owned it. He was funny, frank, and surprisingly candid, admitting at one point that for a long time he had been an "arrogant douchebag," but now had a better perspective on life. At one point, he picked up a cell phone from a guy right in front, said hi to the stranger on the other end and then excused himself to go play another song. Just a funny, playful, relaxed vibe. When a girl shouted "I wanna be inside you" between songs, no one laughed like they might at a larger show where such things waft around without identity like a fog of marijuana smoke. It was as awkward as if she'd said it at a dinner party. When the show was over, he signed whatever anybody asked him to sign, he posed for seemingly every photo he was asked to take.

From the moment I stepped inside, I was already realizing this was perhaps a once in a lifetime experience. Nights like this are the stories I hear people tell of times they saw somebody play before they were famous or just happened to be at the right place at the right time. This time, I was a part of it and I knew right away how lucky I was to be there. T-Bone has dragged his roommate along with him, a guy who was not a JM fan at all. This guy was giddy with glee at the end of the night, an instant convert succumbed to the power of the experience and to one of the finest living guitar players. Say what you will about this city, but nights like this don't happen in too many places. The Lakers win their 15th championship, morons set cars on fire, and John Mayer slips into a quiet club to give a hundred people a show they'll be talking about for years. Just a Sunday night in Los Angeles.

Back in the High Life Again

I'll be back in the high life again...

All the doors I closed one time will open up again...

I'll be back in the high life again...

All the eyes that watched me once will smile and take me in...

Yes, I am quoting Steve Winwood in regards to a Laker game. So what? After years of Laker-hating raining down and "idiotic criticism," it's a beautiful morning in Los Angeles once again. Unless, of course, you're a cop who was injured by low-lifes "celebrating" or you had your car turned over and set on fire. I didn't realize there were that many Michigan State alums here in town. Seriously though, it is an absolute shame that something as joyous and pure as the Lakers' accomplishment is marred by the incomprehensible actions of a small percentage of mindless, lazy, barbaric sleazebags.

But back to the beauty of it all. From the top to the bottom to getting smacked in the mouth to getting right back up and climbing back to the top all over again. It's just sports, yes, but it is an amazing story, I think. Who would have believed this was possible when Phil was trashing Kobe in his book, when the Lakers were missing the playoffs or getting schooled in the first round? It was less than two years ago that I wrote a melancholy entry here lamenting what I thought was the imminent trade of Kobe and the plummeting fate of the franchise. And yet today the Lakers are champions once more, with Phil at the rudder and Kobe smiling and holding a Finals MVP trophy. If that's not redemption, I don't know what is.

Crank up the Randy Newman. I Love L.A.

P.S. I am 3 days deep in The Post-Title Pau Gasol Tribute Beard.

"Thank you, Vinny. That's very deep."

Sometimes in my dreams I see people (let's call them characters, actually) whom do not at all recognize. These characters are not anyone I have ever met or known in my life. They are not celebrities or people I might have seen on TV. They are complete and total strangers to me. This happens to you, right? I just wonder, since most things in dreams can be traced to some place in your subconscious mind, where do the strangers come from? How does the mind create them? I wonder if they are, coincidentally, real people that exist somewhere in the world.

Not to get all "Waking Life" on you, but do you think dreams really mean anything? Obviously, some are fairly clear in their apparent meaning. If you dream about accidentally showing up naked for the first day of school the night before the first day of school, it's not hard to figure out you are nervous about the first day of school. But what about the weirdest, most random dreams? Do those have meaning?

No, I did not smoke out at lunch today. I'm just reeeeeeeally bored at work.

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Quote of the Day from Christine:

On why I strike her as Canadian:

"Because he's very nice and puts things in Tupperware."

The Way I See It #76

From the side of a recent Starbucks cup:

The irony of commitment is that it's deeply liberating--in work, in play, in love. The act frees you from the tyranny of your internal critic, from the fear that likes to dress itself up and parade around as rational hesitation. To commit is to remove your head as the barrier to your life.

--Anne Morriss, Starbucks customer from New York City


I really like that quote and I absolutely agree with it. To me, that is always a huge challenge, to make that commitment and "remove my head as the barrier" to my goals or aspirtations.

Back in the saddle

It occurs to me that I never seem to go to shows anymore. It used to be I would frequently comb the sites of my favorite small venues and when I found an artist I liked playing, boom, I was on it. It didn't matter if it was at 10 p.m. on a Tuesday on the other side of the worst traffic imaginable at a place that didn't serve food and had expensive parking. I went. And I loved it. It wasn't just entertaining, it was enriching and enlightening. Perhaps most importantly, it was inspirational. I don't really like to talk about writing, but I will say that, for me, there is no better way to light a fire than with a couple glasses of wine and an intimate concert. God bless the old Largo. I don't think it's a stretch to connect my lack of authorial spirit with my sharp drop in concert attendance. Why do we sometimes stray from the things that make us so happy? Granted, part of it is a financial sacrifice. With all the weddings and what not over the course these spring and summer months, I had to shy away from the big shows with the big ticket prices. No matter, those were not the shows most important to me anyway. It was the little shows with the $10 cash only at the door and the standing room only and I don't know why I got so lazy about them. I liken it to taking a loved one for granted. It's not that you lose interest or love, you just get complacent even if you're denying yourself happiness in the process. You could also compare it to gaining weight after moving in with a girlfriend/boyfriend. You don't mean for it to happen or notice as it's happening, but one day, there you are twenty pounds heavier. Laziness is addictive. Until you catch yourself and stop it, damn it. Stop the insanity! Tomorrow night, I declare I shall attend either the Hotel Cafe for Patrick Park or The Little Room at Largo for Peter Salett and Larry Goldings. It's time to get it going again, in more ways than one.

Gone Green

Oil companies, the buck stops here!

"Ed, this is not the car I ordered. I had the sportswagon with the optional rally fun pack."

After 4 hours of test drives, furrowed brows, long pauses, walk-out threats, and the requisite fascade of honest dealing, I am the proud owner of a new automobile.

"You think you hate it now, but wait 'til you drive it."

Did I go higher on my monthly payment than I said I would when I left the house that morning? Yeah, I did. But I was also talking about a lesser car with a fraction of the mpg. At the end of the day (literally), I got the car I really wanted at a fantastic price. I feel good about this.

"Believe me Honey, if you're gonna drive the whole tribe cross country, this is your automobile."

For a guy who hems and haws over the most insignificant decisions, you can imagine the weight of my agony in making such a substantial commitment. If I had walked out of there with a brand new Porsche for $10,000, interest free, I would still be going gray with second guessing. Getting married was easier than this.

It's over now. It's me, my Jetson-mobile and the open (or traffic jammed) road. Damn it, I feel like driving to San Francisco right now. Make that San Francisco and back....on 1.1 tanks of gas?



P.S. Also still mourning the loss of Big Erv. I can't shake the last image of him sitting there, naked without all my personal junk he had been needlessly holding for all those years. Stripped of his Angels Baseball license plate frame. Sold for pennies on the dollar to a collection of strangers intending to do God knows what with him. It pains me. Okay, I really need to get a hold of myself with this kind of talk. It's just a car...it's just a car...it's just a car...

P.P.S. Despite the now apparent danger of personifying one's automobile, I think this new ride needs a name. The license plate letters are no help there so it's going to be more work to come up with something.

How about (Pri) Fontaine?

Steak Dinner Series

Lakers vs. Magic. For the NBA Title. Kobe Bryant playing for his legacy. The Lakers playing for redemption. The Magic playing for respect. But it's so much more than that...there's steak on the line.

The Bet: The Lakers vs. The Eastern Conference Field
The Setting: 2009 NBA Finals, Best of 7 starting tonight in Los Angeles

The Stakes: Steaks. Loser treats the winner to a steak dinner at the venue of his choosing.

Bill Brasky got the better of me last year when his beloved Celtics crushed my Lakers. I can't eat crowe two years in a row. This year, I eat steak. If I have to go Jeff Gillooly on somebody to win this thing, I am prepared to do it.

Let's Go Lakers! I implore you, don't let me down.

P.S. New, low-degree pet peeve: people that say "pitchers" instead of "pictures."

Also....For the second time this week I have encountered a misunderstanding about the meaning of the saying "It's all downhill from here." To me, this saying means that the hard work is done, that it's all coasting from here, the fun part of the rollercoaster ride is beginning, etc. I see it as a good thing. To say it's all uphill from here, to me, would imply that the hardest work is still to come. Both times I have used the phrase in this way this week, the other person has understood it to have meant the exact opposite. It makes no sense the other way. I understand that "down" can often have negative connotations, but "downhill" is a different word and a different story. Am I right or am I wrong?

Ailing Erv

So Big Erv (my car) is at the doctor's and it doesn't look good. We're talking timing belt, bare minimum. I could commit to do the timing belt for $1,100 only to have him get in there and find the problem is something else that would then jack the cost up to $3,500. That is obviously too much to pay in repairs for a 1995 car no matter how much you have bonded with it. But I wouldn't be able to find out without committing to the $1,100. So I could pay $1,100 and still have to get a new car. Also, given his advanced age and mileage, I could do all these repairs and some other major thing could go bad two months down the line. Conrad said it best, I am basically playing Russian Roulette, automotivally speaking.

So this day, all day, has been spent weighing my options and looking at cars online. Good thing I didn't have any work to do today.

Man oh man, it was nice not having a car payment for.....a whole year? One-point-five? (Sigh).

UPDATE:

So the decision has been made to let Big Erv go. This is tough to do. I realize it sounds ridiculous to be emotionally attached to a machine, but tell me you didn't get misty when they lowered Arnold into the molten metal at the end of Terminator 2. It happens, folks. I would venture it's even more likely to happen here in Southern California where we spend half our lives in our cars. A bond forms, damn it. Big Erv was the first car I ever bought on my own. I made for every cent of him with my own hard-earned dollars. I washed him. I changed his oil. I took him to Vegas. We're carpool buddies. I know this is temporary. I haven't thought about my car previous to Erv in ages. I know when I get the new car, whatever it may be, I will be swept up in the romance of new car love all over again. But right now, it hurts.

Color Me Grounded

How scary is this story about the Air France flight that went down? Excuse me, how absolutely fucking horrifically petrifying is this story? I can't seem to get it out of my head. I imagine myself on board as it's all going down and it gives me the chills and a pain in my chest. I think I am a little hypersensitive to it in light of our experiences flying into and out of Miami two weeks ago.

Flying in, it was lightly raining when we landed. We connected to our next plane and were waiting to pull away from the terminal when they told us there was a mechanical problem and that we would have to unload and reload aboard a new plane. Better to do it while we're on the ground, I say. So an hour or so later we get on the new plane, but by this time the light rain has become frequent lightning and rattling thunder. They have to call in the grounds crew that was transferring the baggage. We sit on the plane for three hours as I look out the window at the lighting, wondering if I will be spending the first night of my honeymoon in the Miami Airport. When we do finally take off, the lightning is not completely gone and I begin wondering if the plane can withstand a strike. The flight is bumpy and rough, but it does land safely. Luckily, the Jack Daniels was free because I might have blown my wad on that tab. Throughout the week, we met a couple that had flown in from New York and had the same problem. Also in Miami, also on American Airlines.

On the way home, the weather was fine. After a three hour layover, we took off on schedule. About three or four minutes after takeoff, we noticed we had already leveled off in altitude. Sure enough, the pilot came on and informed us we would have to turn back and land again in Miami. The windshield was overheating and possibly cracking*. At this point, I am losing it inside. When we touch down back in Miami, the emergency trucks are all there on the runway waiting for us, following us with sirens blazing as we move toward the terminal. Having not used any fuel, we were overweight and they were concerned about the gear. After some inspection, they decided to get us off that plane and onto a new one. Thank God. Another three hours later, we took off again, this time for keeps. My friend John Daniels was there again to ease my anxiety and fear of death. Again, it thankfully free. This time, the flight attendant gave me two bottles at once. My desperation must have showed.

Three AA planes in one airport inside of a week. Is it time to update the fleet, ya think?

Anyway, I don't meant to compare my experience with those who died tragically on Flight 447. What I am able to imagine about their experience makes me sick with horror. I connect the two only to better explain why I am done flying for a while.

Maybe their future is too bright?

In the last couple months, I have developed a new pet peeve. Great news, right? I really needed another one, I'm sure you'll agree. So the latest thing that I can't stand, that makes me want to slap somebody are these people that wear their sunglasses indoors. Maybe it's just me noticing it more, but it seems like it's getting to be a lot more prevalent. I go to Whole Foods for lunch and there will undoubtedly be some hispter sporting his neon pink Ray-Bans in the fresh buffet. Go home and watch TV and I can't escape the designated driver public service announcement with the guy in the back seat singing along with Biz Markie....and wearing sunglasses in the dead of night. On the plane to my honeymoon destination, there was a douche who did not take his sunglasses off the entire flight--an evening flight in the thick of a nasty thunderstorm, mind you. Could a person be any more gratuitous and pathetically grasping if they wore a t-shirt that said "I am trying SO hard to be cool." Actually, no because such a t-shirt would be seen as sarcastic and we all know the sarcastic t-shirt is a whole other battle in itself. If achieving "coolness" is something these people are so earnestly striving for, you would at least think that they would understand that the coolest of the cool, i.e. George Clooney, do it without looking like they're trying so hard. Maybe it's the difference between Classic Cool and Hipster Cool. Come to think of it, wasn't Joe wearing his sunglasses on the plane on the flight home? Did he take them off when he woke up? I don't recall. My policy is, if you are wearing sunglasses at night or indoors, you had better be Jack Nicholson.

Back.

I have been meaning to get back on the blogging horse for a couple days now, but the last two weeks were so incredible, to know where to begin was overwhelming.

So my solution is to skip the reporting. Chances are, you were there for the Old Guy Beer Challenge, Rocky Mountain Oysters, an epic Flip Cup collapse, Conrad struggling to open the salsa jar while completely nude, sawdust angels in Deadwood, my shocking disarmament as Beer chugging champion at the hands of my new sister-in-law, the wheelchair dance, The Gambler, and, oh yeah, my wedding. No point in recounting a whirlwind of good times that you were most likely present for. If not, at least we will still have something to talk about in person. That and the honeymoon (hey oh!). Now that that's out of the way, there are some things I would like to say...

--Before it all started, my married friend Bernie told me, "Enjoy the ride." That's exactly what it was, a ride. As we pull back into the station of real life, I truly wish I could signal the operator and go through it all over again right now. (Sorry, I am a sucker for metaphors, even the cheesy ones)

--Everyone has their own lives, of course. Some were a week away from proposing marriage themselves in New York. Some came straight from their last final in Washington State. Some were pregnant and traveling alone. Some drove for two weeks to get there and back. One even scheduled his friggin' chemotherapy so that he could make it. It was not an easy trip for anyone. To say, "Thanks for coming" just doesn't even scratch the surface. I could not be more humbled or more grateful to all who made such huge sacrifices and effort just to be there, for us. And the same goes for those who truly wanted to make it, but simply just could not do it. I know you felt bad, but I am here to tell you there are no hard feelings and I'll use you folks as an opportunity to relive the whole thing again in pictures and stories.

--Back to Val demolishing me in the chug race...Wasn't that just astounding? You would think my manly pride would be shredded, but it's like losing to Michael Jordan or Tiger Woods, there's no shame in it. You're just thankful that you can tell your grand kids the story of how you once went up against the greatest. Seriously...I was in a chugging contest but Val was in a pouring contest. Nuff said.

--I consider my toilet-papered work station to be a badge of honor. I'm touched, guys.

--In the spirit of the great Bob Weily, I proud to announce that I am now a Scuba diver. I dive. With sharks.

--As evidence of my admitted status as a complete dork, the song I could not stop singing after said diving was "Under the Sea" from Disney's "The Little Mermaid."

--Music recommendation: Belgian singer-songwriter Milow, a.k.a. Jonathan Vandenbroeck. I don't recall whether I was lead to him by Pandora or Itunes Genius, but aren't they both Godsend technological devices anyway. I would compare him to a stripped down Joshua Radin. By stripped down, I mean less production...his voice sounds unfiltered or duplicated. Is that what they call that, duplicating? Probably not. I mean when it's two separate tracks of the same guy singing the same thing in the same key that exist only for, I'm guessing, texture. Anyway, Milow uses none of that, not that there's anything wrong with it. It's light, mellow (yuk yuk yuk), acoustic, singer-songwriter, pop rock with some nice writing and a voice that is not American Idol calibur (thankfully), but earns points for its seeming sincerity. It's probably not "fun" enough to earn my label of "CD of The Summer," but would definitely garner consideration.

--I have mowed my first lawn. That is in no way a metaphor. So it wasn't a push mower. So what. 'Twas still a vast green that I cut down to size, my friends. I had my red Joe Jost's hat, my Springsteen on the Ipod, my manhood claimed.

--Another first, and possibly last...I have flown 1st Class! Waiting in line to board in Denver, Nicole hears her name called on the PA. She gets out of line to get the scoop and returns with two 1st class seat upgrades, courtesy of the wonderful Charles (though we would not figure that out right away). Upon boarding, we were immediately asked what we would like to drink. I asked what the choices were and the very kind gentleman replied "Anything you want." Wow. So I had some wine for starters. And get this--I crossed my legs, resting the side of my foot on my other knee. On a plane, I did this!! I also reclined without the slightest hint of guilt. The whole experience was something I could definitely get used to. In fact, on all subsequent flights, I did inquire about an upgrade, but all flights were full so, luckily, the bubble of possibility was not burst by the reality of cost. Maybe next time? Maybe? No? Okay, but just maybe? One thing I noticed was that upon receiving the tickets, we didn't get back in line. We went straight to the front of the line in the priority line thingy and we didn't even think about it. What does that say about us, I fear. Ah screw it, bless you, Charles!

--First time it hit me that I am really, truly, completely married: On the plane en route to honeymoon. Getting up to ask the flight attendant (I started typing "steward...") for a Diet Coke, I explained that "My wife feels a migraine coming on." Ding! "My Wife." That was me saying that. The thing about the term "wife" is that it's so general. "Girlfriend" most likely means you have been seeing each other for 1 month-4 years, give or take. Obviously, there are exceptions. "Fiance" clearly implies where you are in the relationship and more or less when too, 7-18 months from tying the know. "Wife," however, could mean you're on your honeymoon or your 50th anniversary. I think there should be another term used for the early stages of marriage. There's "newlywed," of course, but you don't address someone as "my newlywed." One term I know I am going to get a lot of mileage out of......."Wifey."

"What's going on?"

"Nothing much, just sittin' here wif my wifey."

You can imagine the possibilities.

I Hath Failed

Mark Thursday, May 7th as the day I cracked. With my impending absence from work, I had a full day of clearing my desk before heading out for the Angels game. Why not use Conrad's Iphone to throw up a quickie post from the game? Two reasons:

1) We had the finest seats of my life and it would not have been advisable, from a safety standpoint, to take my eyes off the field for the risk of a right-handed hitter spraying a liner foul into my grill.

2) I'm not that serious about the whole thing.

It was a great game with the seats, the buddies, the retro 1980 uniforms, the first career complete game by Jered Weaver, two home runs by my fantasy players, and approximately 9,000 calories consumed. Not to mention, "Just Another Halo Victory!"

Someday when life allows, I would love to get season tickets to the Angels with the guys. And I'm not talking about going in on a couple seats and going to 30 games or so when we can and selling or giving away the extras. I'm talking about setting aside that summer and literally attending every single home game. Taking the journey with the team. Making the commitment to the team and with your bestest buds. It probably won't happen and if it does, I doubt it would be before we're all retired and the kids have all moved out (and they haven't even been conceived yet). What can I say, it's a dream of mine.

It bothers me when I am out running and a fellow runner passes me going the opposite way on the sidewalk and shuns me when I nod or smile at them. Now given the crazies in this world, I can fully understand why sometimes people might be wary of greeting a stranger on the street. Sometimes you feel it, sometimes you don't. I get that. But it's friggin' seven in the morning, folks. It's a proven fact that psychos sleep well past seven. Not to mention that they normally don't put on gym clothes and go jogging (soft J). I don't know about you stiffs, but I am rather proud if I am able to drag my ass out of bed and hit the streets for some stone cold sweatin'. Are you so pro that you feel not the pride? If you do feel it, are you too cool or tough to share it? I'm running, you're running; how about some sign of solidarity, guys? It reminds me of those rare times when you run into somebody wearing the exact same shirt as you. Some people smile and nod. Others are humorless dimwits or are simply above such frivolities. Same principle here, I guess. Color me a smiler.

Heading back to the heartland manana. We're gonna go for it. See most of you there next week! Hooooooooooooooooooooo!

I leave you with this great song by Glen Phillips.

The Grudge

One of my favorite parts of the movie "Diner," is where the guys are coming out of the movie theater when Tim Daley goes up and punches some guy seemingly out of the blue. Then his friends see who it was...Willard Bruxton(!), the last of a baseball team that had beaten up Daley's character as a kid and to whom he had sworn revenge. Even as he's a late-2o-something who's dealing with much more adult issues, he still settles the score with this childhood foe, standing over him and saying, "Now we're even." Is it immature and foolish? Sure, but it's so true. Though it's not necessarily a man thing, I think a lot of us guys have one or two people we'd still like to clock if we could. I know I do, and I'm not even a fighter. Far from it.

I hadn't thought about the guy in years when the other night as I tried to sleep, my mind in its own roundabout way led me back to this son of a bitch. His name was Brian and he was a counselor at the YMCA where I went to summer day camp. I had this friend named Ryan that I had known since pre-school. I was more quiet and shy than most of the kids and I think I was definitely a little clingy in regards to Ryan. He was actually kind of a little shit too now that I think about it, but only in a little kid kind of way, nothing serious. Anywho, we were in a church gymnasium that day, complete with carpeted basketball court, and I must have been following my friend Ryan around. He didn't like this I guess so he went and told Counselor Brian that I was following him. Before I describe what happened next, let me tell you about Brian. He was like a punk-rock, losery kind of guy. Not a guy who had this job because he enjoyed or worked well with children. I'm pretty sure he was there because he was involved with another one of the counselors. Half his head was buzzed short with the other half long, bleached and spiked out to its fullest. He wore studded bracelets and had a small voice he used to grumble out sentences with. In other words, to us 9-year-olds, he was really really cool. So there we were, Ryan, Brian, and I, with some other kids in the periphery, absorbing Brian's cool detachment when Brian hears Ryan's complaint (I should have changed one of their names). His deft, professional reply?

"Leave him alone, Fat Boy."

Motherfuckinweaselworthlesspieceofshit. I retreated to the least populated area of the gym, embarrassed like no other, emotionally devastated. I was a sensitive little guy with a complex about my weight. Hearing those words from an authority figure, albeit a dipshit version of one, and in front of all the other kids...it was rough. I told my mom about it, but I wouldn't let her call to complain, luckily for Brian.

Now I know what you might be thinking...Sure, that sucked, but grow up, get over it. And I have, I assure you. I haven't wasted a moment of my life thinking about it or fretting over it (with the obvious exception of this post, but, hey, I was gonna write something anyway). Not to mention, I am a big believer in the old adage, "The best revenge is a life well-lived." This is just one of those Willard Bruxton things, ya know?

I will go on whistling a happy tune, but Punker Brian, formerly of the Lakewood-Weingart Family YMCA, just know that should I ever see you in a crowd outside a movie theater, you are going down, buddy.

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YOU MAKE THE CALL:

Is it acceptable to talk somewhat loudly or on one's cell phone, or both simultaneously, while in a book store?

You know my answer. No. Friggin. Way. True, it's not a library and I'm not saying it should be dead silent. They've got the cafe with the whistling milk steamers and the jingle of the register. There's even music playing throughout the store, of course. But it's a still a merchant of books, dammit, and thus is a designated place of peace, quiet, and reflection.

Rain, rain go away...

Visualize success...If you will it, it is no dream.

I have been beating the drum for rain for years. I have looked to the sky begging for rain, praising it when it delivered, cursing it when it did not. My every step has been in time with a lifelong rain dance. And now, my friends, it's all about to bite me in the ass.

While the 10-day forecast doesn't quite reach to the big day yet, the weather all this week is rain, t-storms, and rain. Perhaps my impending arrival is causing an electromagnetic disturbance in the atmosphere like The Terminator arriving from the future, crouched nude. Perhaps I am destined to fall on my knees and beg the weather gods for a mere thirty minutes of well-timed mercy so that I may marry outdoors as planned.

How's the honeymoon forecast you ask? Again, can't quite see that far ahead yet, but they are also expecting t-storms next week, granted amid 85-degree temps. I am less concerned about this one, but I am still begging for a reprieve.

Please, give me sunshine. I implore you. I offer as sacrifice my annual blog post complaining about 90 degree, sunny days in late October...plus a helluva nice watch.

Also...

Happy Cinco De Mayo, mis amigos! !Cervesas y margaritas para todos! Unfortunately, I shant be partaking as tonight marks a crucial step in my vacation preparation. Back Wax Night, everybody!

Get a hold of yourself, man!

This picture is from Cruiser's wedding. That's me and Joe on the right, wiping tears away before the first words have even been said. I'm in trouble.

We stopped by my grandparents for a visit Saturday night and I started to realize what's in store for me. We were just sitting there talking and I was fighting back tears thinking about the big day to come, how happy I was that they were going to be there, and how touched I was that they were going to be driving cross-country to be there. Come wedding time, I might have to ask somebody to punch me in the arm to save me from becoming a slobbering, cry-sloppy fool.

These are the days, aren't they?

In this last week before we skip town, one of the many last minute preparations I'm working on is to find a good book to take on the honeymoon. No politics, nothing depressing, upsetting, or very heavy. Beach reading, light but not frivolous, a quick read that leaves a lasting impression. Ya know, a good, solid summer read. I have one or two finalists on my shelf right now, but I always like to have a backup should my appetite shift once I get there. Anyone out there have any recommendations?

Went to a First Communion Saturday before my grandparents'. Saw actor Robert Davi. Also known as.....the white Special Agent Johnson from a little movie called "Die Hard" or Jake Fratelli from "The Goonies!" This was very exciting for me. At least I think it was him. I'm 90% sure. Let's just say it was, okay? Don't ruin it for me.

Got the drugs, on the mend

The sinus pressure is mostly relieved. However, now I am quite punchy. Dizzy and loopy, feeling like I just got punched very very hard or suplexed. Since it's a sinus thing, I can't really tell if the drugs are working overtime or not working at all. But it's kind of fun. I should avoid driving, I think.

Well, the big day is rapidly approaching. One way I know this, other than by the calendar, is that I had my first wedding anxiety dream last night. The ceremony was indoors for some reason, hopefully not a harbinger of things to come (damn you, rain and snow). It was just about go time, but the bulk of the best men were nowhere to be found. I came out of the bathroom and found they had arrived. However, Conrad and Adam were in a very conspicuous shouting match and Bill and Cruiser were raising hell too. I drew them outside and asked what their damn problem was. Then we realized they hadn't been at the rehearsal dinner the night before and didn't know where to go, what to do, or who to do it with. I then realized I had no idea either. I looked at my watch and we were a full ten minutes behind schedule. The End.

In terms of wedding anxiety dreams, that's a pretty benign one, I think. No offense to the groomsmen. If you put any stock in the affairs of my subconscious, I would have been stashed away in Arkham Asylum long ago.

I don't usually get into box office rankings, but this weekend's movie openings provide a battle of the demographics like no other. "Wolverine" vs. "Ghosts of Girlfriends Past," i.e. guy movie vs. chick flick. Hugh Jackman with adamantium claws that come out of his friggin' hands vs. Matthew McConaughey visited by all the women he's wronged. Could be the ultimate battle royale of who wears the pants in your relationship.

I, of course, will be seeing "Wolverine." Hell, I might make it a double feature with "State of Play" just for shits and giggles. "Prognosis Negative!!!!"

(Nevermind, that Nicole has no interest in "Ghosts" or that she has to go shopping anyway.)

State or Wolverine? Fact or Crap?

And to El Doctor I shall go!

I caved this morning and had some coffee. At this point, the conventional methods of healing aren't working anyway so I might as well enjoy a tasty cup o' joe.

Has anyone seen "State of Play?" I want to see it, but there is also "Wolverine" to contend with.

Going to a Kentucky Derby party this weekend. I shall be slurping a mint julep and betting on horses I have never heard of. I watched "Seabiscuit" yesterday to get in the spirit. Now I just wish I had a fedora to wear.

Andrea The Receptionist has a tear-off daily calendar on her desk that has become a company favorite. It's called "Fact or Crap" which pretty much explains it. Today's Fact-or-Crap tidbit:

John Lennon and Yoko Ono once staged a month-long "bed-in" to raise awareness for world peace. (see below for answer)
















Answer: CRAP! The couple did stage two "bed-ins," one in Amsterdam and one in Montreal, but they lasted one week each.

A bed-in. How very radical. Raise your hand if you've ever staged a bed-in on the fly. Raise your hand if it raised awareness about anything but your own lazy delight.

Still F'in Sick

Came home early again. This son of a bitch has been sinuses in a vise. I fear this is no common cold, but rather the insidious sinus infection by which I have so many times been afflicted. So my mucus isn't green. So what. I have flushed my system with fluids. I have rested like a bear in winter. I have had my damn chicken soup, and I am still feeling like I'm thirty feet underwater. If another night of Nyquil sleep doesn't bring me some relief, I am off to see the doctor. If the only way this thing will free me is if I eradicate it with antibiotics, then so be it. My conscience will be clear.

One thing that bemused me yesterday: my unconscious ability to type. I never had a class and I never tried to teach myself. Through years of e-mailing and IMing, my fingers have just learned where the keys are on the board. For example, if you asked me where the "Y" key was, I couldn't tell you beyond a shot in the dark. Yet as I start this sentence with that very key, I do so (and throughout the post) without once looking down to guide my fingers. They know even though I do not. I am sure a lot of us "learned" typing this way, but isn't that just weird? I wonder what else I know how to do that I don't know about.

Home sick.

So the Swine Flu it's not. Just your average cold. Had some matzo ball soup for lunch. Watched "The Natural" with a long intermission for a nap. It would have been longer had my phone not woken me up. I should have learned by now to turn it off because I swear every single time I am sick and napping, somebody calls right smack dab in the heart of the thing. And I don't usually get calls during the day. Ah well. "If at first you don't succeed, try, try again."

For the Record...

The whole daily post pledge thing obviously does not include weekends. I was going to post that on Saturday but I didn't want to send mixed signals. Not to mention that when you're walking around like Phil Jackson on his old hip, you pick your spots.

So that Avon Mock Walk training thing was no joke. I was surprised. When we ran that Nike 10K thing, that was 6+ miles and I cruised through that with plenty left in the tank so you would think 8 miles of non-running would be--you ready?--a walk in the park (yuk yuk yuk). So not so. My hips ached. My feet burned. Now that's all in the lower back and high ankle. And this was after less than 1/4 of what the actual Avon Walk course will be in September. Looks like some sort of training might be in order. Before you scoff or chalk it up to old age, go out and walk 8 miles for me. I didn't even mention the chaffing.

I am really due for some good dreams. For the past two or three weeks, I have had nothing but unsettling, if not downright sick and twisted dreams. Even the otherwise normal dreams have had some gross image spliced in as if by Tyler Derden himself. I remember waking up in the middle of the night after one particularly bad one ready to check myself into an asylum or chain myself to the radiator. Luckily, we don't have a radiator. This happens to everybody, right?

Hey, how 'bout those Lakers?

Dangerous? Sure, all you can handle bro

Had our usual lunch at The Richmond today. The special? A burger with bacon, cheddar, and--get this--peanut butter. Peanut butter on a burger. They really did it. I wasn't brave enough to try it and I have been thinking about it ever since. What if that was my one chance and I blew it? This was a carpe diem type of burger, I fear. In fact, that is what they should have called it, The Carpe Diem. I really need to start living more dangerously.

I spent last Friday night at Costco, wandering like a lost soul in a forgotten world. I was there for about two hours, browsing and having intense internal debates about what to get for when, what was worth it and what wasn't. It was only the second time I had used the membership since I got the card last May and I hadn't decided whether to renew at that point so I was combing every aisle making sure I wasn't overlooking the Holy Grail of bulk food and home products. I tell you this only because it appears tonight I shall return to finish what I started last Friday. Oh God, I am having a seemingly meaningful, emotional conversation with myself about another Friday night spent at Costco. Is this like being married by common law? Should I just start wearing the ring now?

After that, I imagine I'll compensate by doing something a little more...crazy. Watch me as I walk all around the house...with my shoes on! Hear me burp with nary an "excuse me" to follow. Hell, I might even go for that extra slice of pizza, that one more glass of wine, chugging furiously towards 11 p.m. like a runaway locomotive driven by a band of outlaws.

And that's just tonight. What's on tap for tomorrow night? Ha!..........You don't wanna know.

Watching the clock

Ah the challenge of Day 3.

I have been sitting her wondering what the hell to say and that hasn't gotten me anywhere so I'm just going to ramble.

Highlights of the day thus far include:

--Me slamming my finger in the paper drawer of the printer (still recovering)

--Me calling out my coworker Tommy as one of those people that always flakes. Two days ago when I asked him if he wanted to go to H&M with me tonight, he was all for it. This morning he had downgraded to a Maybe. By the time I finished lunch, a solid No. Classic flake.

--A heated argument about whether the rice from the local Mexican restaurant are, in fact, vegetarian or whether they must be cooked in chicken stock and Tommy's confidence in their veggibility is all a farce based on a miscommunication. This one has calmed down at the moment, but the instigator had to run out to UPS which just happens to be right next door to the restaurant in question. I am looking forward to this sparking up again by day's end.

Here's a little piece of trivia for you...Can you name the first compact disc pressed and released for sale in the U.S.? (see bottom for answer)

Ya know every day beyond Monday has felt like Friday to me. And now, finally, tomorrow brings the real thing. Should be a nice little weekend. Angels game, Avon training walk w/Joe The Pro, Meghan's improv show, take some engagement photos (better late than never, right?), and sushi at Katsu-ya! I am ready for it, lemme tell ya.

Alright, that's all I got.

Trivia answer: The aptly titled "Born in the U.S.A." by one Bruce Springsteen. BRUCE!

That's An Interesting Bouquet, Or How I Learned I Have a Finely Tuned Palette

So I am sitting at the dining room table with Nicole last night, going over wedding ceremony specifics, when my bride-to-be rips her fourth fart of the night. To which I respond, "Oh God that smells like stale Pringles."

And the kicker? I was right. Hit the can right on the lid.