The Book (Update)

Since a reader (wow, people actually read this shit?) asked, I'll post an update. Shockingly, my book was NOT rejected in the Amazon contest. Now I'm officially one of 5,000 qualified entrants. I won't find out if I make it to the semi-finals till January... hey great, three months of agonizing.

The Hammerhead Diaries, Chapter 2

11 November 2007, 4:17 p.m.
McMenamins John Barleycorns (Tigard, OR)

It's Sunday afternoon, a brisk autumn day. Teresa's off getting groceries, so she dropped me off here at the glorious John Barleycorns for a few well-deserved beers and some much-needed me-time. I'm starting with the Sleepy Hollow Nut Brown Ale. Quite good.

So you're asking yourself, "Self, why are his beers well-deserved, and why is his me-time much-needed?" Strap in, dear reader, and I'll fill you in. Teresa's mom has liver cancer, and she's been living with us for a few months. For the past three weeks or so, her dad has also been living with us. They're selling their house in Grants Pass, and they just scored an apartment right down the street from us (in Martinazzi Village, where my kids and I lived before Teresa and I bought our house (three years ago on the 27^th, which is also my birthday). They just moved out three days ago. It's been tough, if I'm being honest (and I am being honest, because what's the point of blogging if you're bullshitting?). Not because her parents are especially horrible to have around, but tough because I'm notoriously private and antisocial. Yeah, I'm the problem here, not them. But hey, I work a full-time job, I'm raising four kids, I'm under crazy amounts of financial pressure, and I just wanna come home and chill without having guests underfoot. I know, I sound like a complete asshole. A few days is one thing. We're talking weeks and months, and it's just worn on me. It's almost anti-climatic getting my house back, because I'm so tired that I'm not fully capable of enjoying it. So I took Friday off (they moved out on Thursday), plus I have tomorrow off due to Veteran's Day. Trouble is--- no school both days. So my much-needed day (or two) of solitude didn't happen. So here I am, stealing a couple o' hours at the JB. Unfortunately, it ain't nearly enough. I don't say that to be a bastard, but damn. I put up with a lot, I really do. I probably sound like a total whiner. Damn it, I put up with a lot! I'm a pretty selfless guy, all things considered, even though I bitch about it.

Ugh. That was unpleasant. These have been hard times. I think things are about to return to normal, and brighter times await. I hope, I hope, I hope. We all need it, not just me. Teresa's been under enormous amounts of stress (dealing with her mom's illness, her own MS symptoms, work-related crap, etc). I'm sure she feels a sense of disconnectedness from everything, just as I do. And hey, it's the fucking HOLIDAY SEASON now. Weeeeeeeee.

Okay, where was I? Oh yes. Enjoying the seasonal beers at my local McMenamins. Second beer: Seasonal Scarecrow ESB. Golden, kinda like Hammerhead. Haven't tasted it yet. I'm letting the anticipation build.

It's been seven months (almost to the day) since my first (and only) Hammerhead Diary entry. It was intended to be a regular thing, like every week or two. Funny how life so cavalierly tosses its monkey wrenches in our paths. So seven months later… well, this place is the same. Darkly lit, warm without being stuffy. Cute waitresses, good music in the background. They brew their own beers here, you know (and if you didn't know that, then you need to get educated. Put down that nasty Coors Light piss-water and check out mcmenamins.com.

The Scarecrow ESB… bitter, but not overpoweringly so (not that I mind overpowering bitterness). If I didn't know better, I'd suspect it has its roots in the Hammerhead Ale recipe (but more bitter). It's good.

I'd order something to eat, but we're having Panini sandwiches tonight, so I'm saving myself. We also got some gourmet salsas at Harry & David yesterday, so we'll be digging into those.

What else is new? I finally (sorta) submitted my novel for publication. Lisa the ex (of all people) alerted me to a contest on Amazon.com (the Amazon Breakthrough Award or somesuch). You basically e-submit your novel, and if you win, you get it published (plus a book deal with Penguin Publishing with a tasty $25,000 advance). Granted, there's no way in hell that I'll win (my novel has way too many f-words, methinks), but at least I finally submitted the damn thing. I'm expecting the NO WAY email any day now; in fact, they're supposed to notify me "no later than 11/12/07" if my entry is valid, so I guess tomorrow's the big day. After my official rejection, I'll send it to a different publisher. Can't stop now. I finally finished the fucking thing (see, another f-word!), so I've at least gotta try to make it pay off. We could use the cash. Daddy wants a BluRay player and a trip to San Francisco.

Next up: the Russian Lullaby Imperial Stout. It's really dark (especially in this lighting), with a nice brown head (sounds like some kinda 70's blaxploitation porn film; I'll bet Quentin Tarantino's got it in his private collection). Oh damn, that's good. Chocolately, with a hint of butterscotch. This is a dessert beer for discriminating dudes who wear their nuts outside their pantaloons. Oh shit, I'm clearly buzzing here.

Fuck, there's an annoying kid at the next booth over. If I had a complaint about McMenamins, it's that it's family-friendly (up to a certain time, I believe). Damn it, I'm getting my drink on, and I don't need to listen to some fucking brat singing and carrying on, being all precocious and me-centric. Fucking kid. I'd stab him with a fork, but then I'd be looking at jail time, and Daddy ain't about to get sent up the river. Man, I'm clenching my butt cheeks just thinking about it. Yikes.

My 20-year high school reunion is coming up next spring. I was adamant that I would NOT be attending, but suddenly I find myself back in touch with my three best friends from that period in my life (Nacho, Dave and Donovan, take a bow), so now I don't know. Just the thought of the four of us together in a room is enticing, not to mention the promise of free-flowin' alcohol and hours of hazy reminiscing. Okay, I'll say it here officially: if they go, I'll go. There, I said it. The gauntlet has been thrown down.

I don't want an iPod Touch anymore. Wait, let me explain. 16 measly gigabytes is BULLSHIT. Steve Jobs, if you're reading this (and let's face it, you totally aren't), you need to stop pissing me off and put AT LEAST 60 GB in that bitch. You will then get my money, and maybe even a handJOB. Heh, get it? Ah, never mind. Damn, I'm feeling these beers. Apparently grazing on snack mix for lunch five hours ago wasn't adequate, so it's all going straight to my head. Hah, get it? Head! Oh man.

Beer 4: Purple Haze. Um, it's made with boysenberries. I'm a bit apprehensive, but I'll drink anything (hey, it's true, ask anyone). If the serving wench would get her cute curvy butt over here, I'd order the damn thing and state an opinion.

Watched Blade Runner the other night. It was the Director's Cut, since that's the only option available at this point (the critically-acclaimed Final Cut played in Portland for two weeks, and wouldn't you know it, I missed it). A new multi-disc DVD set will be released next month, so the existing DVD had to tide me over. It didn't. Blade Runner has somehow become one of my favorite films over the years, so I'm dying to see Ridley Scott's final cut of it. One more month…. Maybe when I get it (because holy fucking hell, I WILL get it), I'll have Donovan over. It's his favorite movie, after all. He hasn't seen our 50" plasma TV yet. Yeah, I'm bragging. Sue me.

Wait, the serving wench's butt wasn't curvy AT ALL. Man. Okay, so the Purple Haze is before me, awaiting my judgment. It's kinda fizzy, and sorta fruity. Fuck, I'll never order this again. Ugh. Teresa would probably like it. She's a girl, you know. I miss the Workingman's Red, which is my favorite McMenamins beer that's NOT available year-round. I didn't drink nearly enough of it while it was available. Well, there's always next year…..

Fifth and final beer: the legendary Hammerhead Ale. Yeah, the old standby. I tend to focus on the seasonals, but ultimately I always come back home to this. Glorious. If you like beer and you've never tried it, you haven't lived.

Halloween *Yawn* 2007

It's Halloween. Yay. I can hardly contain my excitement.

Thing is, I SHOULD be thrilled. Halloween, of all holidays, should be right up my alley. I'm not religious, so the usual holidays don't do much for me. Halloween is the ONE holiday that I should look forward to, plan for, revel in. But I don't. This year especially… man, I just don't give a shit. I even watched "It's the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown" last night to try to force myself into the right mood, and it didn't work (I actually fell asleep watching it).

Earlier this year I decided, come Halloween, I'd dress up as the McMenamins Hammerhead Ale guy:

White shirt, overalls, and boots. Easy. The only tricky part would be the head, but I was determined to figure it out (foam rubber, or maybe papier-mâché). Fast forward to now, and I haven't done shit. Furthermore, I have no plans tonight anyway, so what would be the point?

Am I old? Lazy? Both, I guess. But there's more to it… I suppose everything going on in our lives right now factors in somewhere (home appraisal in two days, in-laws staying with us, etc). Maybe I'm depressed. Maybe it's as simple as that.

Shellee and her husband are dressing up as a pirate and wench this year. Oh, and I'm back in touch with Dave, an old childhood friend, and on his page there's a picture of him dressed as a fucking whoopee cushion. See? Others are enjoying the Halloween spirit. Meanwhile, I'm…. not. I'm a sad old man. Tonight I'll watch TV and hand out candy while the rest of world lives it up. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Maybe next year I'll go all out and REALLY celebrate Halloween. You know, if I'm still alive and shit.

Bijou Update

Ah, the mongrel Bijou. We've had her for about three months… wait, is that all? Seems like longer… let's see, she was born on Memorial Day (5/28), and she was about eight weeks old when we got her… So yeah, I guess that's about three months. Well, she's enormous now, and quite hilarious. She's generally pretty well-behaved, though we certainly have our rough moments (usually when she gets too excited and starts rampaging through the house and jumping on people; she was spayed a few weeks ago, which hasn't mellowed her out at all). She's just freakin' adorable (see pictures below), so it's hard to stay mad at her when she misbehaves.

My Achin' Bones...

I've been workin' like a dog lately. We've been in our house for almost three years, so it's re-fi time, which means an appraisal is looming. A bit o' history here: November 2004, T and I were naïve renters, looking to buy our first house. Our credit wasn't great, so we ended up with a crappy loan in which we'd pay predominantly interest-only at a low rate for the first three years, and then get stuck with an adjustable rate starting in December 2007. This generally means that one's mortgage payments will likely skyrocket; many people in similar situations have ended up losing their homes (you've probably heard about all the foreclosures on the news). Naturally I feared we'd be among them, but apparently we've managed to improve our credit scores enough to qualify for a fixed-rate loan with no ARM bullshit… we'll be paying more than we were before (I think we can afford it, fingers and toes crossed), but at least we won't be out on the street. Hence the looming appraisal, and hence me workin' like a dog trying to get the place looking as good as possible in order to maximize the perceived value.

The thing is… I'm a renter by nature. I don't enjoy cleaning the gutters, or trimming the trees, or laying new bark dust, or whacking the fucking weeds, or cleaning the garage, or any of the hundreds of other chores that owning a home entails. Some people get off on such tasks (the OCD freak across the street, for example, who actually measures the length of his grass with a ruler), but I don't. It's just not my thing. I worked my ass off as a kid (thanks, Dad), so I'd rather not do it now (I already work a full-time job, fer Chrissakes). *Sigh* I wanna lay in my hammock, have a few beers, watch some DVDs, and enjoy myself. I wanna come home FROM work, not come home TO work.

So is it all worth it? I dunno. I suppose if nothing else the new loan will buy us some time to figure it all out. With the new loan, the house will cost us HALF our total income each month. Wouldn't it make more sense to sell the house and RENT a house for a lot less? Three of our four kids will be out of high school in a few years, so we won't need such a big place. We could rent a big house for a few years (for way less than we're paying now), then buy a smaller house later. Not being broke all the time would be nice. Not lying awake at night stressing about money would be nice. Taking a fucking trip once in a while would be nice. Makes perfect sense to me. Teresa…. Well, she has other ideas. Don't get me wrong… I love our house. But in all honestly, I don't love it as much as I did three years ago. Three years of stress has really worn on me. Believe me, I have aged a LOT in the last three years.

Plus the market sucks right now. I'm not convinced we could even sell the house, at least not for the price we'd want (we'd need to pay off the mortgage completely, plus have some left over for hookers and tequila, ha ha). The stress continues. Being a responsible adult sucks. I think about my apartment at Martinazzi Village, with my quaintly hilarious papason furniture and the tiny storage closet, and I miss it. Life was so easy then.

I Want It, But I Can't Have It...

Yeah, it's the glorious iPod Touch. Played with one at the Apple Store a couple of weeks ago, hoping to hate it. I don't hate it. I covet it like a Bloody Mary on Sunday morning. My only complaint is the tiny hard drive (16 gb? Are you fucking kidding?), but it's a thing of beauty. Lots of Wow Factor. Sexy beast, this is. *Sigh* Can't afford it. Story of my life.

Gettin' Jiggy with the Piggy...

So I like (scratch that, LOVE) pork rinds. I understand that many people are repulsed by this particular culinary item, and I must confess that I'm perplexed by their passionate aversion to it. Vegetarians hate them, and I undertand and respect that. However, fellow meat-eaters who decry pork rinds are just plain hypocritical. You'll eat the ass of a pig, but not the skin? The texture of pork rinds is probably most similar to Funyuns, which are light and crispy and not at all disgusting (they cannot, however, replace a really good onion ring). I'd wager that most dissenters haven't even actually tried pork rinds, so their opinions are uninformed and therefore invalid. I encourage everyone to get a bag of pork rinds (also known as chicharrones, also known as fried pork skins) and open your mind (and your mouth). They're actually quite healthy (zero carbs!). They come in plain, spicy, and barbecue (my favorite; I can handle the spicy ones, but I usually dip 'em in sour cream to minimize the burn). I've even seen a microwavable kind, which I find hilarious. Anyway, I can't explain my love of them. I crave them fortnightly. I love pork of all kinds (especially sausage and bacon), so it kinda makes sense. Damn, no wonder I'm such a fatty.

The Arrival of... Bijou!

Today is a grand day in the Beam household. After the crushing disappointment of the Squeaker Saga (see previous blog entry), we were blessed with an opportunity that we just couldn't pass up. An 8 week-old female boxer practically fell from the sky, and we happily caught her.

So our family of 6 is now a family of 7. Her name is Bijou, and she's awesome.

The Bleeding Edge

I make a mean bloody mary. Oh yes I do. And you know what? Yours will NEVER be as good.

So suck it, poser. Serious challenges welcomed. I will Bobby Flay your weak ass.

I love beer.

I do. I love it. Love it, love it, love it. Beer fucking rules. Hooray for beer!

The four bottles shown above are the four beers offered as "to go" items from McMenamins. They offer many other fine hand-crafted microbrews, but those must be enjoyed at one of their many fine establishments. Of the above, I like Hammerhead Ale and Terminator Stout the best. Sunflower IPA is pretty decent, but Ruby Ale is strictly for chicks and lightweights.

*Sigh* I wish I could have a beer RIGHT NOW.

Hammock Man is Back!

So after dwelling on the hammock theft for almost a week, I decided I'd just buy another one and move on. The store where Teresa bought the first hammock (Cost Plus World Market) was having a 20% off sale, so it was clearly time to take the plunge.... which I did yesterday (7/03).Ah, life is good again. I am Hammock Man... reborn!

The Beatles? Really?

I'm 37 years old, and I've never been a Beatles fan. I mean, I've always been aware of them, and I've always appreciated (from afar) their contribution to rock 'n roll. I've always liked "Twist and Shout," but only because it was used (to great effect) in Ferris Bueller's Day Off. Oh, and it's also worth mentioning that one of my all-time favorite songs is "Watching the Wheels" by John Lennon. Other than those two things, The Beatles have never really blipped on my radar. A few years back, my good friend Bill Huelbig hooked me up with a strings-only instrumental recording of "Strawberry Fields Forever," which just blew me away. However, I remained relatively unmoved when it came to the ol' Fab Four.

Something's changed. I can't even begin to explain how or why. About a week ago I inexplicably borrowed a copy of their second album With the Beatles from the library and listened to it on the drive home from work. And yep, I was hooked. My OCD tendencies kicked in, and I embarked on a mission: I would collect everything they ever recorded for the ultimate mp3 archive (I've done this many times with many other recording artists, which explains why my poor iPod is just about busting at the seams). In one week's time, I've amassed eight of their albums. The library appears to carry their entire catalogue, so it shouldn't take too terribly long to complete the mission. The process is simple: I borrow the CD, rip it to my computer, and put it on my iPod.

So sue me, I'm a total music pirate. But wait, it's not like I'm making any money, so I guess I'm not a pirate… a common thief, I guess. But in all fairness to me, it's rare that I've ever ripped a CD instead of purchasing it. If it's something I want to own, I buy it (and I've got the iTunes receipts to prove it). And hey, music is ART, damn it. It should be enjoyed by the masses for free, especially when it comes to past artists (like The Beatles) who aren't producing new material anymore. John and George don't need money where they are now, and hell, Paul and Ringo are billionaires anyway, right? I ain't hurting anybody, fer Chrissakes.

My favorite song (so far)? It's a tie between "Taxman" and "Eleanor Rigby," but I'm sure that'll change as I delve deeper into the Beatles goldmine. Wow, I can't believe I lived 37 ½ years without loving them. I guess it's never too late to wake up….

The upcoming movie Across the Universe, which didn't interest me before, is now suddenly piquing my interest. Probably the OCD rearing its ugly (cat)head….

"Cat Head"...explained!

I was once called "Cat Head." Fear not, I'll explain. I am cursed with an incredibly bushy, kinky, thick head of hair. A high school friend of mine (who shall remain nameless… oh fuck it, it's Jason Ulven), upon observing my unfortunate hair, stated that it looked a cat was curled up on top of my head. Thus, "Cat Head" was born.

I must point out that, as I've aged, my hair has thinned out somewhat and, when properly trimmed, looks nothing like a cat. However, the Cat Head legacy lives on in my unfortunate son Isaac. I keep telling him that it'll be more manageable in 20 years or so, but he remains inconsolable. Poor guy. At least he keeps it short.

I'll actually be seeing Jason next week (7/03) for the first time in almost 3 years, so it'll be interesting to see what HIS hair looks like now. I'm hoping he's balding like a motherfucker and has a bad comb-over.

Holy @$#%!!!!

So the worst possible thing has happened. Okay, maybe it's not the absolute worst. But it's shitty. Oh hell, is it ever shitty. You know that wonderful hammock that my wife 'n kids gave me for Father's Day?

Stolen.

Yeah, that's right. Stolen. Some heartless, dickless fuck walked onto my property in the middle of the night Wednesday (6/27), cut the rope, and walked off with it. Naturally we have no money to replace it right now, but even if we did, it wouldn't be the same. That hammock meant a great deal to me... and poof, it's gone.

I've only had things stolen from me twice before. Back in the 7th grade, my locker partner Brian Reymore stole my Creepshow comic. He swore he didn't do it, but he magically had his own copy a few days later. Then, in college, I had a shoebox fulls of tapes stolen out of my VW bug. That's it. I guess I've been lucky in the theft department, all things considered. Maybe I was overdue. But... aw, fuck. This sucks. I got to use it a total of ONE time (on Father's Day, see previous blog entry). I've been depressed ever since.

Father's Day '07

So the Sunday before last was Father's Day (6/17). I usually get DVDs or something, but this year Teresa said she was getting me something different, something she knew I wanted, but not something I'd specifically asked for. I started getting worried that I wouldn't like it, because I'm usually pretty good at asking for EXACTLY what I want. As the day approached, I attempted to gather clues with a series of subtle (and some not-so-subtle) questions, but the woman refused to crack. What a meanie.

I'd pretty much decided that I would probably like the gift but not quite love it. So imagine my shock and surprise when the day arrived and she gives me a larger-than-life honest-to-Christ HAMMOCK. And not one of those newfangled canvas things with some big-ass support structure underneath either… we're talking old-school ropey goodness that you gotta tie between two trees. Well, I just happen to have two trees and a strong desire to sway gently in the breeze, so I was happy. Yeah, it was undoubtedly the best Father's Day gift I've ever received. I should also mention that I also got Scrubs season five (see, I got a DVD after all) and an assortment of beer glasses.

Later that day I spent a couple of hours in the hammock, listening to my iPod, chilling out and enjoying hand-delivered beers (speaking of which, rope hammocks are perfect for beer bottles… an endless supply of holes tight enough to hold 'em!). Pure bliss. Thanks, baby… you rock (as usual). Easily my best Father's Day so far (15 and counting….).

I should probably talk about the kids a bit, since they're the reason the holiday exists in the first place. Sierra (15) and Isaac (13) are my biological offspring, and they are awesome. Logan (14) and Kendyl (6), who are equally awesome, are technically my stepkids, but I consider them my own flesh and blood. The four of them are a true blessing…. They each have their own ways of cracking me up and driving me crazy, oftentimes in the same moment. Each has their own unique talents, and each makes me indescribably proud. To say "I love them" doesn't even begin to cover it.

2nd Anniversary

Monday (6/25) was our second anniversary. Pretty low key this year, especially since it fell on a friggin' Monday of all days. We did manage to have a night without kids the previous Saturday (6/23), so we went out for dinner at Chili's (yes, I had the Presidential Margarita in case you were wondering) and caught a movie (Knocked Up, which I heartily recommend… FYI, any movie with the line "Steely Dan gargles my balls" gets an automatic thumbs up from me). After the movie, we imbibed a healthy amount of alcohol under the stars on our back deck with No Doubt blaring from inside. A nice evening… hell, any evening when all four kids are gone is nice. Nicer than nice. Here's how fine she was looking that night:

So yeah, we've survived two years being married. Any honest person will tell you that marriage is hard work, and all that "eternal wedded bliss" crap is just that… crap. It's damn hard sometimes, especially when you're combining two families. It's been uphill and rocky, but we're still together. I absolutely adore Teresa, and I cherish the family we share. I'm not going anywhere. I love you, baby.

The Hammerhead Diaries, Chapter 1

13 April 2007, 1:40 p.m.
McMenamins John Barleycorns (Tigard, OR)

Beer. It's what's for lunch. And here's why: because the only fucking table they could find for me is a tiny bistro affair that's literally the size of a large pizza pan. It can accommodate my laptop and a glass of beer and NOTHING ELSE. The waitress (or whatever they call them here in McMenaminsland) asked me when she first seated me if I wanted some food.

"I do, actually," I replied, "but where would I put it?"

"Let me know if you change your mind," she said as she walked away to fetch my glass of Workingman's Red (it's seasonal, you know, so I've gotta drink as much as I can before May 31st).

But yes, I'm hungry. I've been here for about an hour, I'm almost done with my second beer (Irish Stout, also seasonal), and some fish and chips would really be the cat's pajamas right about now. I keep waiting for a booth to open up, so I can meekly ask to be moved, but so far it ain't happening. It's a Friday afternoon, though, so maybe it'll just stay busy until closing. It is Friday the 13th, after all.

Holy shit, Adam Ant's behind the bar, and he's got a mohawk. Not judging, not hating. Peace and love… and yes, beer a'plenty.

There's a lady sitting in a booth across from me. She had a beer (from the color it looked like a Hammerhead Ale, which is like drool from the Almighty), and now she's flossing her teeth at the table. Flossing… her… teeth. I mean, I realize microbrews sometimes have a bit of sediment at the bottom, but surely it couldn't have lodged itself between her teeth….? Is that even possible? The mind reels.

It's actually calmed down quite a bit in here since I first arrived. I called in sick to work with the sole intention of having a few beers, eating some fish and chips (saw Bobby Flay lose a fish 'n chips Throwdown to some cat in New York on the Food Network last night, so I've been craving it ever since), and getting some writing done. Beers, check. Writing, check (the proof is before your eyes). But the fish and chips has thus far eluded me, since I can't fit any food on this fucking half-dollar-sized table. But it has calmed down somewhat in here, so maybe I can con 'em into moving me to a booth. And as fate would have it, flossing lady and her date (who hopefully was her dad, or an uncle or something, because he was WAY too old for her) have cleared out, and I don't see anybody waiting for a table.

I hate bugging waitresses (or whatever they're called here), but dammit, I want some chow. And thirty seconds later, I'm in the booth, and she's bringing me a Belgian IPA (which is brand new, she tells me), with fish and chips to follow. I liken this moment to the day I moved from my apartment to my house. I can actually move around here! Suck it, tiny table.

The Belgian IPA is good. Got a bitter little bite at the end, which I like. Looks like Hammerhead. I've gotta get the Picasso Moon Pale Ale before I leave. I know I've had it before, but I'll be damned if I can remember it.

I've gotta ask her what her title is. It's gonna bug me now.

2:15 now, and I'm sharing my table with a gorgeous basket of fish and chips. The Belgian Ale is actually darker than the fish, which is impressive. Wait a minute…. What, no vinegar? Oh hell, that's just harsh.

Some guy just walked in and was greeted by another guy:

"Hey, what's up?"

"Not much."

That's kinda sad, isn't it? Not much? It's Friday afternoon, and you're about to have a beer, and that's the best you can do? Jesus God, man! But you know, it occurs to me that a lot of people say that. "Not much." Well, pal, you woke up today, you're breathing, nobody shot you today (well, so far), your heart didn't fail you (well, so far), and at this moment your country of origin isn't embroiled in World War III. These are the basics. Fill in all the other blanks with spouses, kids, jobs, favorite books and movies, what you ate for breakfast, what you're driving, your favorite sexual position, and a million other details, and I'd say you and everybody else has a helluva lot going on. "Not much," my ass.

We're too generic in our responses to courtesy questions. The next time somebody asks me how I'm doing, I'm gonna tell him (or her, whatever the case may be). In detail. In depth. Maybe then people will learn to ask yes-or-no questions. "Are you having a good day?", for example. Or maybe "are you gonna eat the rest of those fries?" Yes or no. Otherwise, I'm gonna tell you my life story. Proceed at your own risk.

Two big chunks of deep-fried halibut later, my fish and chips lust has finally been sated. It was good, but I'm sure it pales in comparison to the goodness thrown down (pun most certainly intended) by Bobby Flay and his opponent last night (can't remember the name, but the smack talk hurled out by his cronies was hysterical). The waitress (or serving wench, or whatever) should be here any second with my fourth and final beer: the Picasso Moon Pale Ale. What a great name. And yes, it's wonderful, just like every single beer these bastards serve. McMenamins never lets me down.

Let me take this opportunity to put down in print for the first time MY idea for a drink. It's a Bearded Cactus, and it's essentially a Bloody Mary with tequila and beer instead of vodka, and finadini instead of Worcestershire sauce. Oh, and pickled asparagus spears instead of celery (but the celery is still represented with a healthy amount of celery salt). Four green olives on one of those cute little plastic swords and a straw. Big glass (probably twice the size of the usual Bloody Mary size). Salted rim. Pepper, chopped garlic, pepperoncini juice, lime juice, V-8 (regular or spicy), and hot pepper sauce (I can't for the life of me remember the name of it, even though it's a common household item. It's probably the four (delicious) McMenamins beers I've had, fucking with my memory.

I don't need my memory, damn it. I need my taste buds, and as long as they keep working, I'll have a reason to live.

Okay, my waitress (or whatever) is behind the bar now, mixing a drink. So she's clearly more than a waitress. She's gotta be a full-on bartender. You go, girl.

Tabasco! It's called Tabasco. See? There's hope for me yet.

Oatmeal Pretty Much Rules

It's a sunny Friday. I'm cruising around town during my lunch hour running various errands, top down, sunglasses on, enjoying the gorgeous autumn and feeling generally good. Not even the reflection of my man boobs in the window of the local grocery store can faze me as I head inside to grab some cookies.

Strawberry-filled oatmeal. Mmmm. Yeah, that'll work.

So I'm feeling good. The cashier, an attractive young blonde, is chatting happily with the guy in front of me, and then it's my turn. I step forward, prepared to be utterly friendly and charming in keeping with my mood.

She doesn't say a word to me. No eye contact. No "Did you find everything okay?" or "Will that be all for you?" She mutters the total, but it's more of an indirect observation than a message specifically intended for me. I pay with my debit card.

Some totally skanky greaseballs come up behind me in line. She smiles at them and starts chatting, not even looking at me while she hands me my receipt. I wouldn't even say she handed it TO me; rather, she just sorta held it out in my general vicinity.

Bitch! I mean seriously, what the fuck? What did I do to this person? I scan back through the hazy memories of decadence past, but she doesn't look familiar. Nope, she's not on "The List." A complete stranger.

So why? Why, why, why, why? Why did she choose to deprive me of even the most basic level of customer service? Is it....

No, it couldn't be.

Is it my man boobs? Could it be?

I'm eating the last cookie as I type this. Yeah, I ate the whole package. Oatmeal pretty much rules. God, what a fat fuck I am.

I-5 South

Tumbleweeds. Not blowing in the wind, as if to shake the dust from their prickly bodies, but stacked in very neat, very human rows along the side of the freeway. They remain in place because those fuckers are like Velcro all around, so once they touch, they're mates for life. Jesus, I'm looking at a tumbleweed orgy.

They look kept, enslaved and predestined, like mute cows soon to be slaughtered. It's not right, I think to myself. They should be rolling across the street mindlessly, throwing a scare into passing motorists, occasionally getting squashed beneath tires pressed for time. Instead they're lined up in plain sight as if on display, as if to demonstrate yet another triumph of man over nature, and the whole thing has a tragic air about it. Being stacked and immobilized has somehow imbibed these things with souls.

I'm still on the lookout for cacti. I wonder what inhuman torture they're enduring.

Along the endless vertical stretch of Interstate 5, one is faced with the enormity of the absolute emptiness that Mama Nature has to offer. Nothing against the old girl, but Christ! There's NOTHING OUT HERE. A bunch of dust, some rocks, some nondescript shrubbery, and a healthy supply of wind gusts. There's also a series of rest stops and gas stations that line the freeway like teeth on a gigantic zipper, but these aren't really products of nature. In fact, this may be the one time that man's presence on the earth has actually resulted in something positive: he's made it more interesting to look at, in the case of California anyway. Those neon signs are like beacons of hope and solace on this desolate journey.

Maybe Mother Nature meant to do something spectacular with California and just never got around to it. Maybe she saw mankind rising up too quickly and thought to herself, "Aw, screw it. They're just gonna lay some concrete over it anyway." It's a big irony, then, that the only thing we've done with it is drive across it billions of times, which requires only a road and a bright yellow line that keeps us from crashing head-on into one another.

I'm driving this eternal slab of pavement, thinking to myself: "Shit, L.A.'s not big enough. They need to expand northward and do something constructive with this desert." I can't believe I'm thinking that, but there it is.

Oh look, there's another deer carcass on the side of the road. That's the third one I've seen since crossing the border. They probably rush the cars, hoping to hitch a ride to someplace interesting. You know, that poor bastard might be better off.


Kids, cross out the word "hell" in your Bibles and write the word "Kerman" instead. Those of you who've never made this particular trip won't know what the hell I'm talking about, and even some of those who have might be confused. Well, if you've driven past it, you may have smelled it without knowing its name. I made the mistake (God, I'll never forgive myself, despite my ignorance before the fact) of noticing a few gas stations near an exit marked with the "Kerman" sign, and since my tank was about three-quarters spent, I pulled off.

Now I know why sailors used to get so scared when they heard the ethereal, mythological sirens calling to them at sea, beckoning them nearer only to smash their ships against jagged rocks. I'll never look at a gas station the same way again, for these gas stations were the sirens that beckoned me to spend a few moments breathing the most wretched odor I've ever encountered.

Kerman.

It's probably just the high number of cows that populate the area, coupled with the inevitable (not to mention prodigious, my nose tells me) slaughter of those cows, but I can't help but wonder if the very mouth of hell is located somewhere nearby, compounding the problem considerably. I'm not exaggerating, people. This place reeks. I thought Longview, Washington was bad because of its numerous factories and mills, but Christ Almighty, it doesn't even come close.

I spray some cologne in the car, but it doesn't work. The wicked odor permeates the vehicle almost immediately, like a plague of odiferous insects hell-bent on tormenting me, an ersatz Pharaoh. "Whoever's playing Moses with my nose is gonna pay," I'm groaning to myself. I sit in the car for a few moments, waiting impatiently for someone to come out and pump me some gas, then realize with dread that I'm in California. I'll have to get out of the car and pump my own.
You know what? Even in such a dire circumstance, I can only hold my breath for so long.



Where is this Grapevine that everyone's so scared of? The horizon is shrouded in haze, so I assume it's up there somewhere, looming invisibly at this safe distance, about 150 miles north of L.A.

"Don't run your air while you're on the Grapevine," my dad's voice echoes in my head, "You’ll overheat for sure." Visions of murdered cars strewn across the landscape fill my thoughts, steam pouring from their chrome mouths, and I shudder at the thought of being stranded in this horrible place.


You know that earthquake they keep promising, the one that's supposed to make California sink into the ocean? What the hell is keeping that thing?