A Sabbatical of Sorts....

I'm taking some time off from this blog.... so I can work on a different blog. So I guess it's not really a sabbatical at all.

Anyone who knows me knows that my favorite TV show of all time is The Twilight Zone. No, not that cheesy 80's version, and definitely no, not that more recent piece of shit on UPN. I'm talking about the original series, which ran from 1959 to 1964 on CBS, and has been perpetually airing in syndication around the world ever since. The show celebrates its 50th anniversary THIS Friday, October 2nd. Needless to say, I'm excited as hell. I've already taken the day off from work, and I'll be immersing myself in various Zone-related activities all day long, culminating with a screening of the first episode ("Where Is Everybody?") promptly at 7:00 p.m. (technically I should be watching it at 10:00 pm, since that's the time it originally aired, but my good friend Bill Huelbig is watching it at 10:00 pm in New York, so I decided to watch it at the exact same time, adjusted for Pacific Standard Time).


What does this have to do with my blog? Well, The Twilight Zone is more than just a TV show to me. In fact, I love it so much that I've started a new blog in its honor:

My Life in the Shadow of The Twilight Zone

So that's where I'll be posting for now, since I'm pretty much consumed with All Things Zone these days. This does not spell the end for Craig's Cul-de-sac, however. After the 50th anniversary buzz wears off, I'm sure I'll have other topics to blog about... at which point I'll find my way back here.

Zac Attack!

Anyone who knows me knows that I’m a film lover. I lean toward the classics, particularly noir and sci-fi, as well as foreign (Bergman, Kurosawa, etc). I can't deny the fact that I’m a bit of a movie snob…. That is to say, I pretty much eschew most of the crap that gets churned out these days (I liken modern Hollywood to an overgrown retarded gorilla, gleefully tossing its feces around). I have a pretty big movie collection (over 600 DVDs and Blu-rays), which I suppose indicates some level of passion for the medium.

I’ve toyed with the idea of writing/posting movie reviews for a while now, and I’ve finally decided to give it a whirl. If nothing else, it’ll help pad out the blog, since I can’t seem to write on a consistent basis. I’m not a professional reviewer, and I don’t claim to be. I won’t be grading based on stars, or thumbs, or any other celestial objects or body parts. I think I’ll go with something simple… maybe a traffic light. Green means good, great, maybe even excellent. Yellow means somewhat good, but flawed. Red means awful, horrendous, don’t waste your time.

For my inaugural review, I’ll be taking a look at a film that falls into none of the preferred categories listed above. In fact, the film in question is, at a surface glance, exactly the type of movie I’d normally avoid like the plague. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you….

Wait! Before you run away screaming, just hear me out. You might be glad you did.

On the surface, 17 Again appears to be yet another empty-headed Disneyized teen comedy, a sugar-laden third-rate piece of shit. Au contraire, I say. It’s got a great cast, it’s consistently entertaining, frequently hilarious, and it manages a seemingly impossible feat: it makes Zac Efron likeable.

The plot concerns Mike O’Donnell (Matthew Perry), an unhappy guy in his late-30’s who, on the cusp of losing his wife and his career, is magically transformed into a teenaged version of himself (Zac Efron). I won’t reveal anything further. The less you know, the better.

The cast is uniformly marvelous. Matthew Perry, still (unfortunately) known best as Chandler Bing from Friends, is excellent (though his screen time is criminally short; more on this later). Thomas Lennon (you’ve probably seen him on Reno 911 or, more recently, as “Gay Doug” from I Love You, Man) literally steals every second of every scene he appears in. Melora Hardin, better known as the mega-bitch Jan from TV’s The Office, is quite good (the chemistry between she and Lennon is probably the single best thing in the entire film, particularly the dinner scene).

But these three are generally great in everything they do. Let’s talk about the big surprise of the film: Zac Efron. Yes, THAT Zac Efron (from the High School Musical… uh, movies. Yeah, I guess they’re technically movies). You know, the guy whose face adorns every pre-pubescent girl’s walls, clothes, and lunchboxes (my pre-pubescent girl included). In all honesty, had a less toxic young actor been cast, I probably wouldn’t have been so (initially) averse to seeing the film. But you know what? The kid’s a revelation in this role. In my second viewing (yes, I watched it twice), I noticed several occurrences of Efron mimicking Perry’s mannerisms (maybe not quite on the level of, say, Ewan McGregor mimicking Sir Alec Guinness as Obi-wan Kenobi, but you get my point). And damn it, Efron is just plain appealing to watch. He’s in almost every scene in the film, and I never got tired of watching him. I expected to hate the film, and hate Efron even more, and now I’m forced to reexamine my entire view of this guy. The cafeteria scene in particular is nothing short of brilliant, and Efron positively radiates confident cool.

Happily, the film’s humor is fairly mature and refreshingly unsanitized (this is probably not appropriate for young children, which might just devastate them because there’s no new High School Musical movie this year). Nothing really vulgar to report, but expect a number of “douche bags” in the dialogue, not to mention some mild sexual content. Oh, and if you’re at all into Star Wars or Lord of the Rings…. well, there are some pretty hilarious sight gags and references. The aforementioned dinner scene, in which Lennon and Hardin’s characters discover a common bond… oh my god, it’s hysterical, and executed perfectly.

I have one relatively minor complaint: I really wish Matthew Perry’s role was larger. He’s in the first fifteen minutes of the film, then completely disappears until the very end. It makes sense in context, since the majority of the story concerns his teenaged counterpart, but they could’ve done some sort of Quantum Leap effect, where we glimpse Matthew Perry here and there (reflected in mirrors, etc). As it stands, Matthew Perry’s role amounts to little more than a cameo, which is a shame. He’s a great actor who isn’t utilized nearly enough (probably the Friends curse).

Bottom line? 17 Again is a very funny film, not at all what I expected, and I’m happy to endorse it. Green light!

Blog Hard with a Vengeance

Ah, that wicked scoundrel Procrastination hath reared its ugly, acromegalic head once again. It’s been over a month since I wrote. Much has happened, so I’ll get right to it…

We Be Jammin'

Sierra and I used to make strawberry jam every summer when she was younger, but somehow the twisted tapestry of time has tripped us up for the last few years (wow, say that fast three times). But as spring gave way to summer, we vowed that this year would be different. This year, we’d return to our jam-making tradition and, on June 28, we did just that.

Predictably, the jam is delicious. Five batches! We’re planning to do a few more batches (including a strawberry-blueberry hybrid), and I really hope we do. The girl’s almost grown, so traditions like this may fall by the wayside, especially since she’ll be VERY busy after she graduates next spring. Which leads into my next topic….

Chef Sierra!

Sierra has been “conditionally accepted” into the Portland Art Institute’s culinary program, which is the same as being accepted, but since she applied early, she’s required to graduate high school first (well, duh). She’ll start her first term THREE WEEKS after graduation (June 2010), so this is her last full-on summer. She is absolutely thrilled, and I couldn’t be prouder of her. I can’t wait to see her in her chef’s outfit…

Moose Boy… or Moose Man?

In Isaac news… well, the (not so) little man turned 16 on July 20. And per household tradition, the big day was capped off by the world premiere of his birthday video: Isaac: Memoirs of a Moose Boy. It’s basically the same format as Logan’s video from April… two-plus hours of video clips and photo slideshows celebrating his first 16 years. And I’ve gotta say…. I’ve outdone myself once again as a video-production maestro. Hell, I should be doing this kinda shit for a living. Instead, I’m stuck chasing down deadbeats from behind a desk.

You Say Tomato, I Say…

Our Topsy Turvys have literally exploded with tomatoes. The heat wave a couple of weeks back definitely helped. I actually had to move them up to the top of the deck last night because they’d grown so long that the mongrel Bijou could reach them…. And yes, she was pulling tomatoes off the vines and playing with them. Damn dog. She also throws rocks into our swimming pool, but that’s another story for another time.

Change

I’m not who I imagined I’d be when I grew up. In all honesty, I never really had a clear vision for my future, but I knew I wanted to do something creative. I have a fairly decent command of the language, so I figured maybe I’d be a writer. A writer of what? Books, short stories, screenplays, songs, I dunno (I’ve dabbled in all of them, with zero success). I also wanted to act, and did quite a bit of it in high school (I was voted “Best Actor” by my class, so I guess I wasn’t too terrible), but I pretty much lost interest after graduation. I wanted to make movies (I did make a few short films, and I still plan to make an independent feature film at some point).

I guess I’m a dabbler. I’ve never been able to commit to a singular goal and see it through. I imagine it’s a chronic fear of failure, coupled with a rampant inferiority complex. So I dabble. And I go nowhere. I achieve nothing. But that’s not what this blog entry is about. It’s about who I am physically, and it’s damned hard to write. I never imagined that I’d be fat and unhealthy.

Truth be told, I’ve never been skinny. Well, I was a pretty skinny kid (I started getting a bit pudgy in high school). I slowly gained weight over the fifteen-odd years following graduation, and then I’ve gained a lot more in the past five years. In all brutal honesty, I’ve never even tried to take care of myself. I eat whatever I want, however much I want, with little regard for the eventual consequence. It was different when I was young. I could abuse the hell out of my body and it didn’t seem to mind. These days, as I approach forty years old, it’s a very different story. I’m heavier now than I’ve ever been. I feel like crap much of the time. I don’t sleep well. I actually have trouble tying my shoes, or climbing lots of stairs. I am severely out of shape, and I look awful. My back hurts. My feet hurt.

I don’t want to be this person I’ve become. I don’t want to die young, but I fear I will. I fear that even admitting these things publicly won’t be enough to break me out of this cycle. I feel silly, like I’m auditioning for The Biggest Loser or something.

A cursory look over my last two years of blogging tells the tale. I almost always write about food. Food has somehow become central to my life. I think about it, I write about it. I sit passively, fork in hand, while it completely enslaves me and drags me to an early grave.

I have no illusions about what the solution entails. There is no special diet, no magic pill. I need to eat smarter (and less!), and become more active. It will suck. I will hate it. I will rage against my own cravings, and likely succumb to them at times.

I’ve already started (sort of). I gave up caffeine two weeks ago. I’m drinking lots more water. But this only a meager beginning. The task ahead is nothing short of a complete change of life for me. But I have to do it. If I want to live, I’ll need to. No doctor has advised me. I haven’t taken any BMI index tests, or whatever the hell they’re called. I just know that I’m fat, I feel lousy, and I have a family history that includes diabetes and heart disease. The writing is on the wall, and it’s (finally) beginning to scare the hell out of me.

There are places I want to go. There are things I want to achieve. I need time. Lots more time.

And I have kids who need me.

I have to change, before it’s too late.

Death: The Busiest Man in Hollywood?

So Ed McMahon died a couple of weeks ago. Then, last week, Farrah Fawcett and Michael Jackson died. Then, this week, Billy Mays and Karl Malden died.

And the week’s only half over.

Death, that rascal spectre of the infinite, that black-cloaked grinning skull, that scythe-swinging collector of eternity-bound souls, is clearly the busiest man in Hollywood. If I were a celebrity (which I should be, but that’s a topic for another time), I’d be seriously watching my back right about now. Clearly Death is on a roll, and Lady Luck is on His side.

At least the rumor about Jeff Goldblum’s death appears to be false. See? There’s always a silver lining.

Food as Comedy (or Tragedy)

So it seems Wendy’s has some new stuff on their menu. As a connesieur of All Things Designed To Kill Me, I figured it was my duty to check ‘em out. So yesterday at lunch time, I headed over there to do just that.

First up, the Sweet & Spicy Asian boneless chicken wings.

Okay, these things suck. No, that’s being charitable. These things suck ass. They suck pimples on ass. Eeewwwww. I don’t mind a bit of crispiness on a boneless wing, but crunchy? They overcooked the shit out of these things. The sauce is just…. well, boring. Sweet, I guess. Spicy, maybe a bit. I can’t recommend this, and I sure as hell won’t ever get it again.

Next, the Bacon and Bleu burger.

Looks decent enough. Lots of crumbly bleu cheese in there, and I love bacon more than I love puppies and Jesus. Unfortunately, the bleu cheese is pretty weak. Still, it’s not a bad burger overall. I probably wouldn’t make a special trip for it in the future, but it might serve as a nice departure for someone about to order their 913th Baconator burger. Still, I can’t help but feel underwhelmed. This should have been a knockout, and instead it’s just… kinda… there.

Wendy’s, what the hell? You just don’t wow me like you used to.

In other Absurdly Unhealthy Food news, I spied a sign at McDonald’s this morning: Coming Soon: Angus. I actually laughed out loud (yes, it’s true, I LOL’d). First, McD’s is a few years late to the Angus party, and second… hell, does anybody go there for quality meat? We all know that McD’s is the absolute bottom of the fast food chain when it comes to edibility (and we still eat it because Life In These United States is basically a race to see who can eat themselves to death the fastest). And they’re gonna sell Angus burgers? Ha. Double ha.

Yes, I’ll try it. I’m in the race too. Oh, the shame.

Stop the Presses!!!

I was polishing up a blog entry about the double-whammy celebrity deaths yesterday (Farrah Fawcett and Michael Jackson), but something far more important has come up.

There’s a new Chinese restaurant in Oregon City.

(pause for effect)

I’m a huge fan of Chinese food. Out of all the food options available to me in these modern times, nothing excites me quite like good Chinese food. I live in Tualatin, so I have several Chinese options (my favorites are Wong’s and Wu’s Open Kitchen). However, I work in Oregon City, so my options are much more limited: there’s Panda Express (which, let’s face it, doesn’t really qualify), and there’s the little Chinese deli inside Danielson’s grocery store (which is far from great, but their hot & sour soup is actually quite good). There used be a place up the street called Leong’s, but it’s been gone for a few years now. There are a couple of places down the hill, on the opposite end of town, but they’re both average at best, and not worth the (lunch)time spent driving there and back. I’d pretty much resigned myself to the sad fact that Chinese food was not a luxury I’d be enjoying for lunch during the week.

And then I saw it on my way to work this morning: Pine Garden Chinese Restaurant and Lounge. I turned around and pulled up for a closer look. It was closed, naturally (it was 7:45 am), but I vowed to return for lunch. I then remembered that I’d brought leftovers from PF Chang’s, where Teresa and I dined last night (it was our 4th anniversary). So… Chinese for breakfast AND lunch? Seemed unlikely. I figured I’d try it next week.

As I (barely) worked through the morning, my thoughts kept returning to Pine Garden. My mind reeled at the possibilities. What if it’s truly great? What if it’s the best Chinese food ever? Could I really wait until next week? Of course not. I had to know. At 11:15, I took a (late) morning break and ran over to Pine Garden and picked up a to-go menu. Phase one, complete.


I studied the menu. Lots of choices, very reasonable prices. I hoped fervently that the food would be good.

At 12:30, halfway through my lunch hour, I called and placed my order (you might be wondering why I waited so long, since my lunch starts at noon. Well, dear readers, it’s like this: my lunch hour is my ME time, and I’m not gonna waste it on something as mundane as eating. I dine while I work. I’m a staunch supporter of eating on the clock). As I’ve mentioned in previous entries, my initial quality check for Chinese food consists of three items: General Tsao Chicken, Hot and Sour Soup, and Pot Stickers. These were the three items I ordered. I drove back, picked up my food, and returned to work.

And…. And…

It was okay. Just okay. The General Tsao Chicken was pretty unremarkable. The pork fried rice wasn’t nearly porky enough. The pot stickers were okay, but nothing special (the dipping sauce was straight up soy sauce, which is NOT cool. I gotta have garlic and ginger in there, not to mention onions and rice wine vinegar). The best part of the meal was the hot and sour soup, which I’d rate a solid 7 (by contrast, PF Chang’s version is a 9.5).

Will I go back? Um… yeah, I’ll give ‘em another try sometime. I saw a few other dishes on the menu that might be promising. But my expectations are much lower now. Sad.

Hard Three

Farrah Fawcett died today. I was never really a fan, so I’m not particularly affected. In fact, the only thing that comes to mind is a classic bit from Steve Martin:

“Farrah Fawcett is so conceited. She has never called me once. And after all those hours I spent holding up her poster with one hand…”

That’s terrible. I should be more sympathetic. I know she suffered through her illness, so I hope she rests in peace.

Michael Jackson died today. I was a fan, back around 1983 (I owned Thriller on vinyl, so I must’ve been). I got over him pretty quickly when I discovered the glory of 80’s metal (Judas Priest, Iron Maiden, etc). However, like everybody on the planet, I always managed to keep up with him, thanks to the tireless efforts of the tabloid media. If even half of what they reported is true…. well, I won’t go on a tirade. I hope he wasn’t really a child molester. He clearly suffered from mental health issues his entire adult life. I think his was a deeply troubled soul. I hope he’s at peace now. In any case, the world is less weird now.

My coworker Michelle left work early today, but called our receptionist with a message for me: Jeff Goldblum died today too. I haven’t been able to confirm this, but I hope it’s not true. I wouldn’t call myself a fan, but I certainly appreciated his work in The Fly.

I always say death comes in threes. I don’t need the universe proving me right today. It’s my fourth anniversary, for God’s sake. Can we stop all the death please?

Hard Nine

I counted the loose change in my desk just now, which is usually a sure sign that I have absolutely nothing to do. I’m frequently bored at work, but when I get ultra, mega, über bored… well, the change gets counted. I’m proud to announce that I have exactly $9.00: 32 quarters, 6 dimes, 6 nickels, and 10 pennies.

What are the odds that I’d end up with an even dollar amount? Math nerds, feel free to chime in with some statistics. Seems pretty improbable. Maybe my luck’s in full bloom. Maybe I should be playing the lottery right about now.

Ha, the lottery. I don’t go near it anymore. For about a year and a half, I was the lottery guy here at work. Ten of us played, twice a week, $2.00 per person per drawing. So twice a week, I’d go around the office with my eager envelope, upon which I’d written a checklist of all ten participates, marking them off as I collected from them. Then I’d go, on my own time, and purchase the tickets the day of the drawing, then check them the following morning. Sometimes we’d win a few bucks, a couple of times we scored a bit more (our biggest take was $100.00), but most of the time we didn’t win anything. Like I said, I did this for a year and a half, and then I’d had enough.

Enough of what, you ask? The twice-weekly disappointment? The constant wasting of money in uncertain economic times? Well sure, those were valid concerns, but there was one primary motivating factor: I’d had enough of being completely taken for granted by my coworkers.

These people were just fucking ridiculous. They’d pay me in change. Yeah, quarters and dimes, usually. All 9 of them, at one time or another, pulled this shit on me. Thing is, the Lotto machine doesn’t take change! So I’d have to front them the bills, then periodically cash in the change at the Coinstar Machine, which charges something like 8%. So I was actually losing money!

They’d take a few days off, or go on vacation, and expect me to cover them. One of them had the gall to imply (on a fairly regular basis) that it was somehow my fault that we weren’t millionaires, as if I had any control over what numbers were being drawn.

When I first got involved, there was system in place in which the participants took turns collecting the money and buying the tickets. Being the new guy, I volunteered my services more often that I probably needed to. Somehow, this turned into me doing it ALL BY MY FUCKING SELF for a year and a half straight. So yeah, I finally got fed up this past March and sent out an email announcing my retirement from the lottery game. None of them responded. Not even one. Ingrates.

Know what’s funny? Since I stopped doing it, they don’t play the lottery anymore. No wait, they did it one time, when the jackpot was really huge, like in April or May. They asked if I wanted in, and I did. We didn’t win. They haven’t played since.

…unless they’re playing behind my back. Watch, they’ll hit the jackpot and leave me high and dry. Seriously, I wouldn’t be surprised.

Who's Your Daddy?

Yesterday was Father’s Day. Sierra was born 17 years ago, which makes this my seventeenth Father’s Day so far. Yikes.

It started with breakfast: Thick-cut bacon, eggs, English muffin… oh, and a large Bloody Mary (thankfully made with regular vodka, NOT that vile Bakon Vodka (see previous entry).

Then came the gifts. First up, Kendyl gave me a cute handmade booklet filled with poems. Next, Sierra gave me a framed black-and-white picture of she and I, circa 1992. Then, Isaac tugged on the ol’ heartstrings with bottles of Coke and Mountain Dew (he knows me so well). As for Logan… well, I’m sure he felt his presence alone was enough of a gift (yeah, that was a jab, punk-ass). Thanks kids!

Next came the family gifts (which means they were from Teresa): first, the coveted Big City Slider Station, which you’ve probably seen commercials for (pitched by the one and only Billy Mays). If not, check it out:

Big City Slider Station

I frequently make fun of Billy Mays, so I was delighted to receive this. Oddly, the box says “Billy Maze” on it.

I asked for one thing, and one thing only, this year: Ingmar Bergman’s The Seventh Seal, on blu-ray from the Criterion Collection, just released last week. It’s one of my top-five favorite films of all time, so needless to say, I wanted it BAD. Teresa didn’t let me down. Thanks Bunny!

After the gifts, the six of us adjourned to the McMenamins Kennedy School in NE Portland for some lunch and a movie (Goldfinger!). If you’ve never been there…. well, your life is simply not complete. It’s a former elementary school that McMenamins has converted into a hotel/restaurant/movie theater. The former classrooms are now hotel rooms (the chalkboards are still there!), and there are multiple pubs on site (my favorite is the tiny little Detention Bar, which used to be…. you guessed it, the detention room). Concerts, weddings and other events are held frequently in the gymnasium. The movie theater, which usually screens not-quite-new movies (usually on the verge of coming out on DVD; Goldfinger was a special engagement specifically for Father’s Day), used to be the school cafeteria (or so I believe; I might be wrong about that). The restaurant is top notch (Teresa says their corned beef is the best she’s ever had), and there’s a gigantic outdoor seating area with an oversized outdoor fireplace.

Anyway--- it’s an awesome place, filled with odd pieces of eclectic art and fascinating décor and, since it’s a McMenamins establishment, they offer some of the best microbrews around (brewed on site!). It’s tucked right in the middle of a busy residential neighborhood, and I find myself really envious of the locals. If I lived in that area, I’d be hitting the Detention Bar every single night after work... it would be my Cheers. Just call me Norm (not Cliff Clavin, dammit).

We then returned home for an afternoon/evening of lounging, dozing off, and general inactivity. I could’ve squeezed in some quality hammock time, but in all honesty, I was too lazy to get up off the couch.

Pathetic, you say? Aw, piss off. Father’s Day was invented for laziness!

When the Eyes are Bigger than the Brain...

…things like this end up in my house. Seriously, what the hell was I thinking?

Okay, back up. There have been rumblings on the internet for the past few months about this supposed bacon-flavored vodka that was soon to hit liquor store shelves. My immediate reaction, along with (I presume) most other semi-discriminating imbibers, was a resounding “WTF?” I’ve seen a lot of crazy shit over the years, but this? BACON-FLAVORED VODKA? Huh? Seriously, HUH? I was pretty sure such weirdness would never come anywhere near my lips (kinda like Stevie Nicks, but that’s another story for another time, sigh).

On the flipside, the thirst for new and exciting frontiers is the very thing that propels drinkers like me forward. If my alcohol-soaked mind weren’t open, I’d have never ventured beyond Coors Light and Miller Genuine Draft all those years ago and developed a passion for microbrews. On that same note, I might never have tried that first Bloody Mary (Christmas Eve ’99 at Outback Steakhouse; thanks Donovan!). Further still, I might never have ascended the tequila ladder and discovered the soothing glory of Jose Cuervo’s Reserva de la Familia. My point? To discover new and delicious libations, one must step outside of one’s comfort zone every once in a while.

And hey, the concept of bacon-flavored vodka is so crazy… well, it just might work (I fondly recalled Yazi, the ginger-infused vodka that captured my heart and liver a couple of years back). You see? I was already rationalizing it. The accursed bacon-flavored vodka (“Bakon Vodka”) wasted little time forcing its greasy way into my consciousness. I could not, would not rest until I had tried it. God help me.

A week ago last Friday, I checked the Oregon Liquor Commission website. There was one bottle available within ten miles of me. I ventured out into traffic and rain to the West Linn Liquor Store to acquire it, to plum its porcine depths, to find out once and for all if it was utter bliss, or utter shit.

Hey kids, guess what? It’s utter shit. I am a drooling moron for ever hoping otherwise.

I tried it straight first, in my favorite shot glass. The pungent scent almost made me gag (ever tried Bacon Salt? It smells kinda like that…. artificial, as if harvested from a ninth-generation pig clone in an evil scientist’s lab). Pressing on, I sipped from the shot glass. I shuddered, then swallowed the rest. Words can’t accurately describe the taste, but believe me… it’s awful. Imagine a rancid pork tenderloin marinated in lighter fluid.

Realizing that I was now stuck with an entire bottle of the heinous stuff, I tried it in a Bloody Caesar (basically a Bloody Mary, with Clamato instead of tomato juice). Nope, no dice. Still gross.

The only conceivable application I can come up with for this hideous, villianous concoction is as a gag gift. Or hey, maybe it could serve as a punishment for losing a drinking game at a party. In a pinch, I suppose PITA could use it to make molotov cocktails to protest the mistreatment of pigs. Otherwise…. There is no good reason for this monstrosity to exist at all. It’s like a practical joke against well-meaning vodka enthusiasts, and I fell for it, hook, line and fatback.

I’d like to think I’ve learned something from this experience, but like my sick fascination with dirty martinis (I keep going back to them every few months, and they make me sick each time)… well, I’ve probably learned nothing. The next time some bizarre new alcoholic product appears, I’ll likely jump in to try it.

Got a flame? I’m your moth.

A Eulogy of Sorts, Belated.

It’s taken me a month to finally write this. I’ve been avoiding it, not because of my usual procrastinative tendencies, nor out of fear of expressing sorrow in a public forum. I’ve been avoiding it because no matter how eloquent my words are composed, no matter how gently and beautifully I portray the subject, I won’t do her justice.

Anita Rae Morgan, my mother-in-law, passed away on May 18.

She’d been battling liver cancer for two years. She was diagnosed in mid-2007 and was given six months to live. She outlived that grim prognosis by four hundred percent and, while she certainly experienced varying degrees of discomfort during that time, she more or less maintained her daily routine up until a few days before the end. She cooked and cleaned, she took care of her husband (who suffers from a host of medical issues himself), and babysat Kendyl for us almost every day. Even when the end was imminent, and she was more or less uncommunicative, she still managed to hold on long enough for her son Terry to make it home from Korea to see her one last time. She’d promised Teresa that, no matter what, she wouldn’t die during that weekend. And, true to her word, she held on till early Monday morning. Everyone had the opportunity to see her, to say their goodbyes, me included.

I was asked to write the obituary:

Anita Rae Morgan, 62, passed away on May 18, 2009, at Providence St. Vincent Medical Center in Portland, Oregon. She was born on September 17, 1946 in Tacoma Washington, the oldest of three children.

She graduated from Grants Pass High School in 1964 and, the following year, she married Dwight Calvin Morgan. She attended the University of Oregon, where she became a lifelong Ducks fan. She taught Sunday school for 27 years; additionally, she worked in human resources for Asante Health Systems and later, Regence BlueCross BlueShield of Oregon in Portland.

She was a devout Christian and a devoted wife and mother. She lived in Grants Pass for most of her life; however, she relocated to the Portland Area in 2007. In 2007 she fulfilled her lifelong dream of visiting both Disneyland and Disney World.

She is survived by her mother, Jewel Allene Dino, her husband of forty-four years, Dwight Calvin Morgan, her siblings Donna L. Proctor and Michael D. King, her sons Dwight Terry Morgan and Jerry Calvin Morgan, her daughter Teresa Anne Beam, nine grandchildren, and many nieces and nephews. She was preceded in death by her father, Charles Terry Miller, and her granddaughter Jordan Brooke Quinton-Morgan.

Memorial services will be held on May 22 at Parkway Christian Center in Grants Pass.

Very dry, matter of fact, black and white (like the newsprint it was published in), evocative of the facts but in no way illustrative of the soul behind the name.

Anita was kind, gentle, selfless. She worried about others; more than that, she denied herself in deference to others. She was the type of person who somehow enriched the lives of everyone she knew. She had a heart of gold, the demeanor of an angel. She leaves a hole behind, in our lives, in our hearts. It’s a hole that cannot be filled by time, or surrogates, or the endless distractions that life in these modern times offers. I could throw in more clichés, but clichés are clichés because they’re true. And if nothing else, she was most certainly true.

I’m sermonizing. I don’t mean to. I’m just not good at this. I don’t know how to deal with people dying, nor do I know how to encapsulate my feelings on the subject.

I’m sad. But more than that, I’m angry. Angry that she had to suffer, when she so clearly deserved a life without suffering. Angry that she was cursed with the indignity of dying on a hospital bed with tubes sticking out of her. Angry that somehow, for reasons that continue to elude me, I was apparently never once photographed with her. There are family pictures, sure, but not a single shot of just she and I. How the hell is that possible? We’ve taken literally thousands of pictures over the years! Here’s the best one I could find:

...at least I'm standing near her...

Anyway, I’m mostly angry with myself, for criminally squandering the eight years that I knew her. I could’ve learned so much from her, simple things that have somehow eluded me my whole life: how to be selfless, putting the needs of others ahead of my own selfish wants. How to suffer with grace, instead of complaining and taking my frustrations out on others. Simple lessons, there for the learning, if I’d only pulled my head out of my ass long enough to realize it.

Now it’s too late. I’ll never know the secret. She was a Christian, so other Christians would undoubtedly say that the answer is Christ, and that His light radiated through her (which was also said about my grandmother, who Anita reminded me of in many ways). I’m a blasphemous agnostic bastard, so I don’t buy that explanation. I do believe that she was a rare, pure soul, one of only a few that I’ll ever be lucky enough to encounter, and hopefully will again someday, perhaps in another life, in another time.

She was amazing. And the gifts! She gave me Hitchcock’s To Catch A Thief on DVD one year for my birthday, and another year, the ultra-deluxe DVD set of Forbidden Planet. She gave me a giant margarita glass one Christmas, filled with lemons and limes. She sewed a cat comforter for Sierra because she knew Sierra loves cats. She took Teresa and Kendyl to Disneyland. The list goes on. And on. But gifts are just things. The real treasures are the memories, bursting with color but paradoxically tinged with gray, gleaming like sunshine but moistened by tears.

The hole she leaves behind is incalculably deep. Bottomless, I imagine.

She deserves a better eulogy than this. It took me a month to finally write this, and this is how it turned out? I hope she understands.

I love you, Anita Rae. And I miss you.

Blog Hard 2: Blog Harder

Wow, another month-and-a-half has breezed by without a single blog entry. My laziness knows no bounds. I guess this’ll be another big catch-up entry with several random topics….

First off: We’re growing tomatoes. Yeah, we’re regular farmers now. Teresa asked for Topsy Turvys (you’ve seen the commercials, right?) for Mother’s Day, and by golly, she got ‘em.

It’s been about a month since we “planted” them. No tomatoes yet, but the vines are definitely growing. Funny, now that we have these Topsy Turvey things, I see them all over the place. Even my ex-wife and father-in-law have them. And my own Dad was eyeballing them just the other day, so maybe he’ll get some as well….

***

Several months back, Kendyl and I stopped by Quizno’s. I ordered the Chicken Carbonara, which I believe to be the finest sandwich they offer. As we stood at the checkout counter, Kendyl read the little screen on the cash register and looked at me questioningly.

“Chicken crab turtle?” she asked innocently.

I burst into laughter. She glared at me (as usual). A moment later, the girl behind the counter handed me my food and smiled.

“Here’s your chicken crab turtle,” she said.

Ah, the birth of a new catchphrase. To this day, whenever Kendyl is cranky (which is often), I tease her about it. As you can imagine, it only enhances her crankiness. Ah, the joy of parenting.

***

Bijou, our resident mongrel and family mascot, is hilarious. She howls when the phone rings, she wiggles her butt and walks sideways when she’s excited, and incessantly licks herself (yeah, down there) with no hesitation or shame. Sometimes, the hilarity is much less obvious, but no less funny:

After this picture was taken, she acquired a new nickname: Platypooch.

***

Sierra (aka Mouzse) turned 17 on May 24. That’s right, my oldest child will be an adult in ONE YEAR. She kept it pretty low key this year (so there’s no big party story to report), but she did have an odd request: she wanted a stuffed giraffe. Not just any stuffed giraffe, either… she had very specific requirements: It couldn’t look too real, nor could it look too cartoonish. It needed to be big, but not too big (“about the size of a fat cat”). My initial searches were unsuccessful, but a suitable giraffe was finally found at Toys R Us (which makes sense, since their spokesmascot or whatever the hell it is happens to be a giraffe).

In any case, she was happy with it. She also wanted a giraffe cake. Teresa obliged, with great success:

So my baby girl is one year closer to adulthood. By association, her old man is one year closer to a heart attack or a stroke, quite possibly both. Pretty soon she’ll be married, having babies, and I’ll be completely gray and downing Prozacs like Tic-Tacs.

***

Saw the new Star Trek movie. Loved it. Well, maybe “love” is too strong a word. I liked it a lot. My complaints are few and relatively minor. The good far outweighed the bad. I’m eagerly looking forward to the next one. If anything, the new film rekindled my love of Star Trek in general. “Rekindled” is putting it mildly. Maybe it’s time I came out of the closet once and for all: Ladies and gentlemen, I’m a Trekkie. I’m a fanboy. I’m a geek. You want proof? I’ve been hitting eBay and buying Star Trek action figures. Classic series figures only, ‘cuz this geek likes to kick it old school. My favorite (by far) is this item:

All seven of the original crew in one box! You probably can’t tell from the picture, but the facial likenesses are amazing. Here’s a closeup of Kirk:

God damn it, that IS William Shatner, shrunk down to 5” tall. Playmates really knows how to make action figures (or at least they used to; the ones I’m collecting were made in the mid-90’s; their figures for the new movie kinda suck, unfortunately). Sweet Boneless Christ, I’m 39 years old and I’m collecting toys. What will I do with them, you ask? I don’t even know yet. I used to have a few dozen Star Wars figures on display in my home office, but the space was conquered long ago by McMenamins beer bottles and DVDs/Blu-rays. So far I’m not even opening the Trek figures yet…. But I’m sure I will soon. They’ll make me. They call to me, you know, in the wee hours of the morning, in those surreal moments between sleep and half-sleep. I hear their pleading little whispers, muffled by their cardboard and plastic prisons. Open us… Set us free….

***

So I got this weird envelope in the mail. Inside was a document indicating that I was being ticketed for running a red light. Apparently I’d been tagged by one of those godforsaken photo radar things. A closer examination of the documentation revealed the truth:

That’s right, it wasn’t even me! It was Logan, that rapscallion (note how Teresa's been conveniently blanked out of the picture). I filled out the required paperwork, indicating that I was most certainly NOT the driver who committed the heinous crime, and sent it back. It’s been about a month now, and I haven’t heard anything further, so I guess I’m in the clear.

Or at least I was. A few days ago, I was taking Bijou to the vet (she had some kinda eye infection), and I was running late, and (according to the cop) I was speeding. In a school zone. During school hours. So yeah, I got a ticket. Two hundred bucks! Thank you very fucking much, officer.

Oh well. Could've been worse. The photo ticket would've cost me $336.00!