An Unfortunate Truth

I learned an unfortunate truth today. When it comes to Chinese food, this tragic truth is as follows:

It ain’t always good.


Case in point: Panda Buffet on SE McLoughlin in Milwaukie. It used to be the Apple Peddler years ago, which was actually a pretty decent place to get breakfast (in fact, we went there on Christmas morning in 1994). Anyway, I was driving around today on my lunch hour looking for a pawn shop (I’ve gotta find a cheap used cell phone for Isaac, since he magically kills every cell phone he touches; he’s been through four or five of them in the past year). I didn’t find a pawn shop (which is odd, since I remember Milwaukie being full of them), but I did find Panda Buffet, which offers buffet-style food with a to-go option.

“Chinese food by the pound?” I exclaimed. “Hell, count me in!”

$2.50 per pound was the going rate, so I stuffed a little over two pounds of food into my Styrofoam container. My selections were: Mandarin chicken, General Tso chicken, deep fried chicken chunks (basically sweet and sour chicken, minus the sweet and sour sauce), one egg roll, two pot stickers, teriyaki chicken, fried rice, and chow mien. Oh, and some barbecue pork. They did have hot and sour soup, but there were no to-go containers in sight. A minor setback, but oh well. I was still gonna eat like a king.

As I drove back to work, my mouth watered with anticipation. I could smell it, sitting there on the passenger seat, promising deliciousness.


Looks good, doesn’t it? Well, guess what? It sucked. Not just certain items…. All of it. ALL OF IT. There wasn’t one thing that didn’t taste like ass. It astounds me that every single item could be this bad. Wouldn’t the odds dictate that at least ONE thing would be good, or at least passable? This, uh, place (I hesitate to call it a “restaurant”) has somehow managed to buck the odds and provide 100% absolute and unequivocal suckiness. In a twisted way, it’s kinda impressive, like scoring a perfect zero on your SATs.


I’ve had lots of Chinese food over the years, from lots of different places. At worst, I’ve had “okay” Chinese food. Most of it has been decent, and sometimes it’s been great (Wu’s Open Kitchen in Lake Grove and Wong’s in Tualatin are generally excellent. Oh, and P.F. Chang’s, while not traditional Chinese, is awe-inspiring). This is the first time I’ve ever had truly awful Chinese food. I imagine nations have gone to war over smaller insults than the one this place is perpetrating against the ancient and noble China. Needless to say, I won’t be back. I’m actually hoping the place gets struck by lightning and burns to the ground.

Their menu promises “No Waiting.” Gee, I wonder why?

Panfraffle.

Panfraffle. It sounds like a Tolkien character, some dwarf or elf or something, perhaps a witty guide to show you the way to the mythical land of Skankendale, east of Buttmunchshire. It's not. What then, you ask, is Panfraffle? Why, it's what we had for dinner last night.

You've heard of a turducken? A chicken, stuffed inside a duck, stuffed inside a turkey? Well, a Panfraffle is essentially a waffle, wrapped in a pancake, dipped in egg batter and fried like French toast. Logan came up with the idea, refined the concept and gave it the name.



The lid is to trap enough heat to cook any egg batter that seeps inside. Can't have the kids collapsing from salmonella poisoning, now can we?


Were they good? I can't say one way or the other, because I didn't have any. See, I've mostly lost my sweet tooth in my old age, so I generally avoid pancakes, waffles, and French toast. Naturally I'd be averse to eating an unholy combination of all three. Instead, I had leftover king crab sweet corn chowder from Saturday night. Divine.

However, that damned Panfraffle still haunts me. Perhaps I should have at least tried a bite…

Best... Dinner... Ever!

Let me preface this by saying that I love food. Past blog entries will confirm this (as will my ever-growing gut and, sadly, my blossoming man boobs). Some of my favorite culinary items include:

* General Tso chicken with shrimp fried rice from Wu’s Open Kitchen.
* Hot and sour soup from well, pretty much any Chinese place.
* Original recipe Kentucky Fried Chicken.
* Dragon rolls at Sushi Train.
* Chicken tortilla soup at Chevy’s.
* Most pork products. If it’s pig, I dig. Oink, baby.

I love these things. A lot. I want to buy them Christmas gifts and cuddle with them by the fireside. It’s a bit sick, I know.

Ahem. Anyway --- I love food. So when I’m presented with a dish that I’ve never had before…. well, even if I like it or even love it, the odds are it won’t impress me enough to earn itself a place among my hallowed hall of beloved entries. It’s like my favorite foods are Iron Chefs, and they’re pretty much unbeatable.

This, dear reader, is the tale of a meal that knocked my socks off, smacked my ass, and somehow managed to surpass every morsel I’ve ever consumed. And it did it by candlelight, no less.

We had a kidless evening Saturday night, which is pretty rare. So what did my lovely wife Teresa do? She sent me out of the house for a couple of hours and, while I was gone, put together the single best meal I’ve ever had. Ever. In my entire life. No kidding.


The feast began with a bowl of king crab sweet corn chowder (not pictured), which was beyond delicious (pick some up at your local CostCo!). Then came a huge shrimp cocktail, complete with Bloody Mary cocktail sauce. The main course consisted of a pepper-crusted steak, cooked to pink-center perfection, drizzled with a sauce made from Pendleton whiskey *, sliced and fanned out atop a decadent roasted shallot aioli, flanked by plump, juicy asparagus spears. Oh yeah, there was wine too. Everything was perfect. The meal had a transcendent, once-in-a-lifetime quality. That’s not to say she’ll never make it again, but even if she does… well, it’s like that Sade song: “It’s never as good as the first time.”


But every silver lining has its cloud. I’m now wondering if my enjoyment of my go-to favorites will be a bit diminished in the future. I can see it now: I’ll take a bite of a Dragon Roll at Sushi Train, and as I chew, I’ll think to myself: “Yeah, this is pretty good, but it can’t touch that Pendleton whiskey steak Teresa made for me back in ’08.”

Anyway: best meal ever, thanks to my awesome wife. I think I’m still glowing a bit. You know, that woman is too good for me sometimes. Wait, I mean ALL the time! Honey, put down that frying pan….!


*if you’ve never had Pendleton Whiskey, you’re really missing out. I’ve tried a lot of whiskeys over the years (surprise, surprise), and this is by far the best. And it’s made right here in Oregon!

Randomonium

I cannot resist the sweet siren song of the Burgerville double-beef cheeseburger. It calls to me from across town, its warm soothing voice floating atop the brisk autumn breeze. Comforting images of melted cheese and that glorious secret sauce fill my mind, sending my stomach into a fit of ravenous growling not unlike that of an underfed dog, making it impossible to concentrate. Nothing can stand in my way. I must have it. And, ten minutes later, I do. Oh heavenly burger, you never disappoint. I should say burgerS, since I bought three. I will die a fat, fat man, but there will be a smile upon my face. A greasy smile.

My birthday is on Thanksgiving this year. I was actually born on Thanksgiving, so every six or seven years, my birthday and the holiday fall on the same day. As it turns out, several people I know share my birthday: my cousin Alexa, my brother-in-law Jon, the deadbeat father of my stepkids (whose name I won’t mention, because frankly he’s not worth the effort it would take to type it), plus a few celebrities: “Buffalo Bob” Smith (host of Howdy Doody Time), country legend Eddie Rabbit, Caroline Kennedy, actress Brooke Langton, Bruce Lee and…. Jimi Fuckin’ Hendrix! You might think it sucks, sharing a birthday with a holiday. I must point out that I’m guaranteed a big tasty feast (turkey is one of my favorite foods), so how bad can it really be? My sister Karin, meanwhile, has a reason to complain about her birthday: she was born the day after Christmas. Ha!

There are, um, a couple of celebrities who share my birthday that I’m less proud to mention: Robin Givens (come on, she was married to Mike Tyson, so she’s pretty much a total skanketta roast) and Jaleel White (Urkel? I have the same birthday as fucking Urkel???).


On the subject of Thanksgiving: we’re having it at our house this year. It seems that last Thanksgiving, in what I can only assume was a drunken attempt to win the favor of my wife’s extended family, I loudly volunteered to host this year’s festivities. My memory of this event has somewhat dimmed, but my wife’s memory is sharp as a tack. So yeah, we’re stuck. Happy… birthday… to… me….. (I’m actually taking the Friday after off from work, so I’ll still get my “me” day, so it’s all good).

I’m finding it difficult to keep up with my must-see TV shows. I’m two weeks behind on both Boston Legal and Fringe, and worse, I only saw one episode of the most recent season of Anthony Bourdain’s No Reservations. I have managed to keep up on my sitcoms (Big Bang Theory, How I Met Your Mother, Two and a Half Men, and The Office), though. Could it be that I’m so chronically unhappy that my brain will only accept funny shows in a sad attempt to create inner cheer? Or is my attention span so tragically small that anything longer than half an hour gets pushed aside?

As I’ve lamented many times in this blog, I have way too much time on my hands here at work. To pass the time this afternoon, I read back through the entirety of my blog so far. Here’s an excerpt from my 10/31/07 entry:

“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.”

This Halloween (next Friday night), Teresa will be out trick-or-treating with Kendyl. Sierra’s going to a party. Logan and Isaac will undoubtedly be out spreading their unique brand of juvenile delinquency all around town. And me? Little old me? Why, I’ll be alone at home, handing out candy. Again. I seem to be “still alive and shit,” but apparently another year of life hasn’t made one damn bit of difference when it comes to All Hallows Eve.

The one bright spot? I’ll be playing Disney’s Chilling, Thrilling Sounds of the Haunted House album (detailed in my 10/10/08 blog entry) as background ambience for the trick-or-treaters. Muwahahahahahaha…

Family Movie Night

Friday night marked the triumphant return of Family Movie Night at our house. We made popcorn, turned off all the lights, and watched the classic short Rikki-Tikki Tavi, followed by A.I. – Artificial Intelligence. Things have been busy and hectic for several months, so my goal was to simply get all six of us together for a low-key activity. Unfortunately, Isaac opted to go out with friends instead, so my plan didn't quite come to fruition as I'd hoped. We trudged on regardless, and the drooling mongrel Bijou was happy to take the vacant spot on the couch.


I must acknowledge that Sierra was more or less responsible for both selections. She asked me to Netflix Rikki-Tikki Tavi a few weeks back, and as for A.I., it's one of her favorites. I was happy to accommodate both. What none of us could have anticipated, however, was that Teresa, upon viewing Rikki-Tikki Tavi for the first time since her childhood, was able to decode her puzzling lifelong fear of snakes (hell, "fear" doesn't even cover it; she can't even look at a picture of a snake!). She's never been able to figure out why she has such a strong aversion to the slithering things, but after viewing Rikki-Tikki Tavi, she was able to determine that her paralyzing fear originated after seeing the film in grade school. Understanding fear is the first step toward conquering it, so I view this as a positive first step in curing her. Just watch, before long we'll have pet snakes all over the house.

I want to keep doing Family Movie Night every two weeks, which was my original intent a few years back. My plan is to always start with a short subject, followed by the main feature. Our next screening is scheduled to take place on Saturday, November 1st: Frankenweenie and The Nightmare before Christmas. Here's hoping everyone will be there this time (you hear that, Isaac? I'm talking to YOU).

Crackle, Pop, Bliss

Sometimes I think that the universe is totally random, senseless and without order. No god, no master plan, no grand design, no intricate pattern weaving destiny and chance into a harmonious tapestry that surrounds all Life like a warm quilt. And then there are days like today, in which I am made to wonder if every little fucking detail in life is somehow interconnected.



When I was a kid (probably 8 or 9), my mom brought home a vinyl LP called (deep breath) Walt Disney's Chilling, Thrilling Sounds of the Haunted House. It was basically a sound effects record designed for use in haunted houses, and maybe to scare trick-or-treaters at one's front door. It had it all: wind, rain, creaking doors, angry cats, ferocious dogs, tortured screams, and pretty much anything else you could ever want in such an album. I adored it, cherished it, played it to death. It, along with my 2-LP Star Wars soundtrack, was the crown jewel of my tiny record collection.

My sister and I used to record audio dramas (similar to those old radio shows like Suspense! or Inner Sanctum; ours was called "Beyond Locked Doors"), which I would script and she would act in, and this record came in handy for various background sound effects. Oh, how I wish I still had the tapes we made back then. Where did they go…?

Anyway, time marched on and technology rendered the vinyl album more or less obsolete in an increasingly digital age. I found myself without a record player, but I was a teenager, so I didn't really have a need for sound effects records anymore (or records at all, since cassettes and CDs were all the rage). The Haunted House record ended up in a box in my closet (along with such vinyl gems as Queen's Flash Gordon soundtrack and Led Zeppelin IV) and was essentially forgotten. I grew up, became a man and moved several times, and at some unknown point in time that precious box of vinyl disappeared. I probably tossed it into a dumpster, assuming I'd never want (or need) those old records again. Funny how things come around, isn't it? But we'll get to that a bit later.

Two interesting things happened in mid-2007. First, a coworker of mine, a friendly chap named Mike Lewis, upon hearing that I was a huge Frank Sinatra fan, brought me several Sinatra albums on vinyl (he apparently has quite a large collection, with many duplicates). I told him that I didn't have a turntable, but he insisted that I keep them regardless (it was a cool gift, I've gotta admit). Second, my brother-in-law Terry visited from Thailand and, upon retrieving a bunch of his stuff from his parents' garage, gave us a stack of vinyl albums from the 70's and 80's (including Synchronicity by The Police, one of my all-time favorite albums, and Steve Martin's A Wild and Crazy Guy, a stand-up album that I grew up with, courtesy of my Uncle Greg). So I had a small vinyl collection given to me, just sitting there silently.

Last October (2007), I stumbled across a blurb on some website about the Haunted House album, and I found myself desperately wanting to hear it again. However, even if my old copy was still in my possession, the lack of a turntable would have rendered it useless. I should note that the album had never --- and to this date, has never--- been released on CD.

Fast forward one year. With Halloween a few weeks away, my thoughts began to return to the Haunted House album again. I found myself checking eBay, where several copies were being sold (all between five and twenty dollars). But again, the absence of a turntable in the house would make such a purchase ridiculous.

Yesterday, my above-mentioned coworker Mike told me that he had an extra turntable that he was planning to donate to Goodwill. He asked if I'd be interested in it.

I was. Hell yes, I was.

Today, he brought it for me. It appeared to be in pretty good shape, and the composite (RCA) jacks on the back promised an easy connection to the surround sound system in my home office. I spent the day watching the clock, waiting to get home and hook it up.

On my lunch hour, I busted out my laptop and hit eBay again, looking for a copy of the Haunted House album. I found myself a bit paranoid about buying a record over the internet, since I couldn't examine the record in person to make sure it wouldn't be all scratched to hell. I decided to wait till I'd hooked up the turntable, to make sure it worked and all, before making any purchases. Just for the hell of it, I did a Google search on the Haunted House album, and found the following link:

http://www.haunteddimensions.raykeim.com/index361.html

The blurb at the bottom of the page, dated 10/04/08, caught my eye:

"BIG NEWS! Chilling, Thrilling Sounds of the Haunted House has been released on iTunes!!!"

Dear God, was it possible? I opened iTunes and, sure enough, there it was. A couple of mouse clicks and $9.99 later, it was mine. I'm still cracking up, several hours later, that I stumbled across the information less than a week after it was announced. Synchronicity, indeed. I sampled a few of the tracks before my lunch hour was over, and I was surprised at the clarity of the sound. No pops, no crackles, none of the audio anomalies we usually associate with vinyl. It sounded pristine. Refreshing, but a little odd at the same time. The pops and crackles are indelibly part of my memory of this album.

I went back to the above-linked page, and noticed a link within that I hadn't noticed before:

http://forbiddencrypts.250free.com/DisneyChillingSounds.html

Following the link, I found that the entire album could be downloaded, in mp3 form, for free! But the best part? These mp3s were clearly transferred from vinyl, so they've got all those wonderful pops and crackles. It just sounds… I dunno, right this way.



I got home after work and immediately hooked up the turntable. I pulled out those Sinatra records from Mike and put one on (Sinatra & Jobim). My God, it sounded glorious. You know how people say that vinyl records sound better than CDs? They're right. There's a deep, full-bodied warmth to vinyl that digital recordings can't touch. The occasional pops and crackles somehow enhance the experience; it must be some kind of nostalgia trigger or something. I then changed the record (never thought I'd do that again!) to Synchronicity by The Police, and was doubly stunned by the depth and clarity of the sound.

Vinyl, baby. You can't play it in the car, you can't listen to it on the go, but DAMN. It makes listening to music an event. You dim the lights, light a candle, and play a record. Vinyl restores music to the forefront, where it belongs, elevating it above mere background noise while you work out at the gym or drive home. It captures your attention. It leaves an impression. It soothes the soul.

I'm gonna head downtown tomorrow and hit a record store or two. I've gotta get me a copy of Pink Floyd's Dark Side of the Moon on vinyl, not to mention Disintegration by The Cure, and if I can find it: Chilling, Thrilling Sounds of the Haunted House. Yeah, I know, I just scored it earlier today (twice). But those were digital versions, and I want a physical copy of it to gaze lovingly at. Call me crazy.

The Light at the End of the Tunnel.....

No matter what happens with the current Presidential race.... we can all be assured of one happy fact: GeeDub is on his way OUT!




Can I get a HELL YES???

Waiting for a Gull like You...

I swung by McDonalds today (Yeah, I know… don't start with me), and here's what I spied in the parking lot:

It appears that seagulls, no longer content to merely shit on our cars from a safe distance, are now using them as furniture. This particular seagull didn't even blink when I approached to take its picture. I almost got the impression that it wanted me to come closer, wanted me to snap photos and share them with the world, as if it had some dark and sinister message to convey.

Should we as a species be concerned? Could this be the first step in an imminent avian uprising? Could this lone seagull be the airborne equivalent of The Day the Earth Stood Still's Klaatu, the solitary vanguard of a potential invasion force?

If you keep birds as pets (I'm opposed to the practice myself), maybe this would be a good time to cut your losses and set them free. You know, as a gesture of goodwill to our fine feathered friends. In doing so, you may just avert a worldwide disaster. Think about it.

My Weekend Adventure in Rainier... (REVISED and EXPANDED)

My weekend adventure in Rainier started out with a phone call from my dad last Thursday night. He was in Nashville, about to leave for Louisiana, not due back in Oregon till Monday night. It seems my mom had taken a pretty bad spill on their front porch while attempting to water some hanging plants, and my uncle Greg, her brother, had taken her to the hospital. Dad was understandably freaking out, scrambling to change his plans to get back home as soon as possible. I told him to try to stay calm, and that we’d know more after she’d been checked out, and there was no reason to do anything until then. He called back an hour or so later with an update: her shoulder had been dislocated in the fall. They’d successfully popped it back into place, drugged her up pretty good, and sent her home. Another uncle, Tim, was spending the night keeping an eye on her. Dad was still determined to come home early.

After a fairly sleepless night in which I wrestled with my conscience, I decided en route to work that I should probably be a good son and get my ass to Rainier. Karin lives in Nashville and Jill lives in Louisiana, so I’m the only kid around. About half a mile from work, I turned the car around and headed back home. I threw a few things into a bag, called my mom to let her know I was on my way (she protested… weakly), and headed out. I stopped for a few groceries on the way: 7-Up per mom’s request, miscellaneous snacks, and a DVD (The X-files: Revelations, a collection of eight episodes that supposedly connect to the new movie somehow; it was only $14.99 and it came with a free ticket to the movie).

Upon my arrival, I discovered that my uncle Tim had left something of a mess in the kitchen, which I dutifully cleaned. Mom was in bed, still fairly loopy, so I let her rest. I did a bit of laundry, and then watched a couple X-files episodes (“The Post-Modern Prometheus” and “Milagro”). A new Chinese place had evidently opened up in town called Jiu Chang, and mom wanted some, so off I went for take-out. And I must admit, it was pretty good, especially for a town like Rainier (I judge my Chinese on three criteria: house fried rice, General Tso chicken, and Hot & Sour soup. All three, happily, were above average). I discovered half a bottle of wine in the kitchen (apparently left over from Karin’s recent visit), which I took the liberty of finishing (I also spied three unopened bottles of wine, which I found myself eyeballing periodically). Mom offered to call around to see if anyone local (uncles, cousins, friends, whatever) could come relieve me, but I said no… I’d spend the night. Once she was tucked in for the night, I headed across the river to Longview to use my free ticket for the X-files movie (I Want to Believe). It was…. um, okay (I’ll review it in more detail in a separate blog entry). Back at the house, I helped myself to a bottle of wine as I watched another X-files episode (“Bad Blood”), then headed off to bed.

The next morning I made breakfast (fried ham, eggs, toast), then went to do some more laundry…only to discover that their dryer had died! I flipped the breaker switch a few times, checked the connections, etc. Nothing (sorry mom, but those stacks of laundry will still be waiting for you once you’re up and around again). Mom left my uncle Tim a voicemail message, hoping he’d come to relieve me so I could get back home. A few hours later, I watched a couple more X-files episodes (“The Host” and “Beyond the Sea”) while she slept some more. Uncle Tim called back at some point, and here’s (more or less verbatim) how the conversation went:

Tim: Hey, this is Tim.
Me: Hey Tim, how are you?
Tim: Oh, not bad… for being sick.
Me: Oh, are you sick?
Tim: Yeah, I'm not feeling too good.
Me: Oh, I'm sorry.
Tim: I'm sure glad you came down.
Me: Oh?
Tim: Yeah, you know me, I was never very good with responsibility.
Me: Uh-huh….?
Tim: Your mom called and left a message.
Me: Right.
Tim: I'm sure she was just calling to let me know she was fine.
Me: Uh, yeah, she's doing okay.
Tim: Okay, well, I'll talk to you later.

Yeah. Good ol’ Tim. Let me tell you a little bit about Tim. Tim smoked way too much pot in the 60’s, apparently frying enough of his brain to make him more or less useless in a societal context. He’s spent the last thirty years living out in the woods, in various trailers and other hovel-like dwellings, occasionally working for cash (helping Uncle Greg with construction projects or whatever), and basically living off the grid in a perpetual hermitlike state. Anyway, he was tossing up every conceivable roadblock to prevent me from even asking him to come over to watch Mom, so maybe he’s craftier than I realized. In any case, it became clear that I’d be spending another night.

So I headed over to Longview again to get a few things. At the local Safeway, a big hulking denim-clad caveman in huge hiking boots (his shoppin’ boots, I’m guessing?) approached me on the snack aisle. “Hey,” he asked, “didn’t you used ta work at the cannery in Astoria?” His head was cocked strangely to one side, presumably due to neck strain from bearing the weight of his acromegalic cranium. I shook my head slowly no. He looked confused for a moment, then smiled, showing all five of his teeth. “Guess I gotchya confused wif someone else.” He then walked away, muttering something unintelligible. After I checked out, I headed straight to a nearby bar for a Bloody Mary. I needed it.

Just down the straight from my parents’ house, some yokel was working on his truck on the side of the road, and his wife/cousin/whatever was standing in the center of the street, in her robe and slippers, smoking a cigarette. She stood there, staring at me as my car approached. I slowed down, but she didn’t seem interested in moving. In fact, there was a strange defiance in her eyes. Christ, was this lady really gonna play chicken with a moving car? As I got close, she finally meandered slowly out of the way. Both of them glared at me as I passed. It’s a fucking STREET, you inbred gophers. Go stand on the sidewalk (or better yet, in that dead appliance graveyard you call a lawn) where you belong. I swear, Rainier must have originally been part of Arkansas, but some unimaginable geological catastrophe moved it to Oregon. Maybe God, fed up with all the inbreeding and miscellaneous other soulless debauchery, threw it toward the ocean in disgust, but underestimated the distance. I dunno.

Back at the house, I made mom a sandwich, heated up some Chinese leftovers for myself, and watched another X-files episode (“Clyde Bruckman’s Final Repose”). I then set about the daunting task of uploading a copious amount of pictures taken at Long Beach the previous weekend (199 in all!), which can be viewed here. I then baked some chocolate chip cookies, which mom ate for dinner along with a big bowl of peppermint ice cream (hey, the poor lady’s laid up, so she can have whatever she wants, right?). Once she was in bed for the night, I watched another X-files episode (“Memento Mori”) and popped open another bottle of wine. I stood outside on the front porch as I drank, looking out over the town, the river, and Longview beyond. The opposite shore was lined with blinking lights and factories, columns of smoke rising up into the darkness. I looked down the street in the direction of the yokels’ place and wondered what they were up to (probably working on the next generation of inbreds behind closed doors, cans of Hamm’s littered all around, Jerry Springer flickering on the TV). In the darkness I took a bad step and almost tumbled down the stairs. I figured it was time to turn in for the night.

The next morning, mom was up before me, watching the news out in the living room. After I made some coffee, she sent me out to get breakfast-to-go from The Cornerstone, a little diner nearby, and the Sunday paper. We ate and chatted, and she was clearly feeling quite a bit better. She talked to a few cousins, and relief was on the way. I left around 11:30, and arrived back at home around 1:00, more tired than I should’ve been (maybe I was crashing after the three cups of coffee I’d had with breakfast, I dunno). I spent the afternoon on the couch, fading in and out. Mom called at some point to let me know that her best friend Janice was there with her, and that her cousin Becky would soon be there to spend the night. She was covered. The torch had been passed.

I’m a good son, damn it.

ID4... IDK...

Friday was the 4^th of July. The six of us went on a picnic at a local…. uh, wastewater treatment facility. Yeah, you read that right. Near Tigard High School is a lovely area of rolling well-manicured grass, decorative fountains and rosebushes. Perfect place for a picnic, right? We thought so. We spread out a couple of blankets and ate our lunch (cold fried chicken and potato salad), after which we clowned around and took lots of pictures. I then proceeded to roam around with the new camcorder in search of some interesting HD footage. I came upon a sign that warned, in no uncertain terms, against drinking the water, and that the facility was in fact designed to treat wastewater. Now, I was aware beforehand that the place had something to with water, but I wasn’t aware of the specifics.

When I informed the group, my son Isaac pointed to the nearest fountain and asked, “So, um, that’s shit water?”

“Yes, son,” I replied, “at least it used to be.” Glad we’d already eaten.

One more note: there was a drinking fountain there, but it wasn’t turned on. I wasn’t surprised… I’ll bet they shut that thing off pretty much right after the place opened, whenever that was, due to non-use. I’ll bet even the employees wouldn’t go near it. Hell, would YOU drink from it? I mean, I realize that modern technology allows for marvelous, near-miraculous things (like the purification of wastewater), but even if the end result is as sparkling clear as a bottle of ice cold Evian… well, I’m sure as hell not going near it. Eeeew.

That evening, we road the Max to downtown Portland to watch fireworks on the Waterfront, which is purportedly the biggest fireworks show in Oregon. And yes, it was pretty big, but bigger still was the ridiculously large crowd of fellow rubberneckers who showed up. Wall to wall bodies. Thousands of people swarming around, screaming babies, shirtless scumbags and slimy skanks, and the occasional scent of a newly-sparked blunt wafting by on the summer breeze. It was like the fucking State Fair, only without the rides.

So after a few hours of waiting and walking around, it got dark enough for the festivities to truly begin. Thirty minutes of spectacular explosions and chest-thudding booms. Some idiot behind me giggled every time one of ‘em went off. That’s a lot of giggles. There were gigantic speakers set up, but there was no music. Huh? No patriotic songs? No “God Bless the U.S.A.”? Nope. Sheesh, even Tigard High School has music at their cheeseball show every year (a live orchestra, of sorts). But here, only the sounds of the fireworks filled the air. I swear to God I was having ‘Nam flashbacks, despite the obvious fact that I never served in Vietnam (or anywhere else, for that matter).

The Max ride home was crazy. I didn’t know you could cram so many people into such a small space. I can now confidently say that I know what a sardine feels like. We all celebrated the reclamation of our respective personal space when we finally climbed out. It felt like freedom. Where were our fireworks then?

Vertigo: The Circle Is Now Complete

Anyone who knows me, even on a casual basis, knows that my favorite movie of all time is Alfred Hitchcock's Vertigo.  I first saw it around the age of 15, when I ordered it sight unseen from the Columbia House Video Club to complete my subscription obligation.

The tape was pan-and-scanned and probably mono, and likely offered no benefit over a television airing except the lack of commercials (oh, and the ability to fast-forwarded, rewind, or just plain stop… an ancient precursor to the joys of Tivo). In short, it looked and sounded like shit.

However….

I was transfixed, utterly mesmerized by the convoluted (perhaps even fractured) narrative, the atmospheric blend of romance and dread, the tragic undoing of an innocent man. I doubt that I fully absorbed the various subtexts, and I certainly had no clue about the extreme level of soul-baring Hitchcock was hurling at the public in what amounted to his masterpiece.  But I didn't need to thoroughly understand the film to love it.    I think my favorite movie before it was the original Night of the Living Dead, so this was quite a step up.

Vertigo wasn't well received when it was originally released.  However, in the 50 years since, it has grown in stature, routinely making critics' top ten lists alongside venerable classics like Citizen Kane and Casablanca.  In fact, just the other day the AFI named it the number one mystery film of all time.

From left: VHS re-release (1997), first DVD release (1998), most recent DVD release (2005).

I've bought Vertigo on home video three more times since that first fateful VHS tape, and have seen it countless times. Every time I get a new TV, the first movie I watch on it is Vertigo. However, one experience has always eluded me: the pleasure of seeing it as originally intended, in a movie theater. When the film's 50th anniversary came around last month, I was disappointed that a theatrical re-release didn't happen. Several newspapers (including The New York Times and, locally, The Oregonian) ran stories on the film, its troubled history and its incalculable influence on the film industry, so why wasn't it back in theaters? Well, imagine my surprise when Portland's own Cinema 21 scheduled a week's worth of screenings, from May 30th through June 5th (better late than never, I always say). Finally, I'd see it on the big screen, closing a circle that first opened some 23 years ago. The ad in the paper even touted a "new, pristine 35mm print," so I was doubly excited.

Teresa and I made plans to see it on Saturday night (we'd already planned a date night, so this would be perfect). We dined at the Claim Jumper, which is always a treat, and then made our way to downtown Portland.  It took longer than expected to get there, since the fucking Rose Festival Parade just happened to be on the same night.   People everywhere, roads being blocked off all around, etc. We eventually made it, however.  Teresa parked the car while I stood outside the theater, gazing up at the marquee I'd waited so long to see:

Once inside, I actually went up and down the stairs two different times, scoping out the seating options, trying to determine the best viewing angle, and opted for the balcony.  We sat down.  The lights dimmed.  For the next two hours, I watched intently as my favorite movie of all time flickered before my eyes, bigger than ever, transfixing me just as it has every other time I've seen it.

However, I've gotta point something out: the print they screened was most certainly NOT "pristine." It popped, jumped, and crackled, and every so often a series of ugly horizontal scratch marks would appear (it looked like a cat had gotten ahold of it and sharpened its claws on it).  My DVD, by contrast, is practically flawless.  But was the experience diminished by this?  Not at all. What DID diminish it (at least a little) was some fucking idiot in a nearby section who gasped loudly, clearly for comedic effect, right at the climatic moment at the end. I feel sorry for anyone in that theater who'd never seen the film before.    I was THIS close to bitching her out, let me tell ya.

I briefly thought about going back for a second screening on Sunday, but I decided against it.  I'd had the experience.  The circle was now complete.

When we got home, I went downstairs to my office, and gazed for a moment at the Vertigo shrine on my wall:

The circle may be closed, but my love affair with Vertigo continues.  If you've never seen it…. Well honestly, what the hell are you waiting for?

Father's Day 2008

So last Sunday was Father's Day. And as expected, it was awesome. My wife and kids really spoiled me (once again). First off, I was the happy recipient of a tasty breakfast of bacon and eggs. Sierra made me a very good Bloody Mary (actually a whole carafe, which I thirstily devoured)....

And then it was time for gifts....

Yeah, it was basically an Anthony Bourdain Father's Day. Both No Reservations DVD sets, plus the eponymous book. Teresa even made me a custom Anthony Bourdain card, "signed" by Tony, wishing me a "Happy F@$%ing Father's Day" (in true Bourdain spirit). Kendyl also painted me a very cute picture, which is now hanging up in my cubicle at work…

Is it a frog? A lizard? A chameleon? All of the above, none of the above… who cares? It's cute, and the little goofus is a sweetie for painting it for me.

I crashed around 11:30 or so, thanks to a full belly and the sedative powers of Sierra's Bloody Mary. I slept for about an hour or so....

I'd love to say I the spent the afternoon in my hammock (which I got last year for Father's Day), but I didn't. I tried to, I really did. I've found that the best time of day for hammocking is between the hours of 11:00 and 2:00 (any later and the trees can't adequately block the sun). We took Bijou to the dog park in Tigard around 1:00, and by the time we got back… well, it was too late. I figured I'd go out later, after dinner maybe, when the sun might be low enough, but it just didn't happen. Life, man. Stuff comes up. In any case, no hammock time for Daddy this Father's Day. I did, however, spend about four hours in it the weekend before, and I'm planning on doing so again tomorrow (Saturday), so it's all good. No bitterness here.

Oh, and I got a tasty dinner too. Steak (topped with grilled mushrooms and gorgonzola cheese), grilled asparagus, baked potato, croissants. Yum.

(Wow, that's a lot of sour cream on that potato. No wonder I'm so chubocious!)

All in all, a pretty fucking fine Father's Day. My family rocks.

Fucking Punks.

Fucking punks. Yeah, that's right. You heard me. FUCKING PUNKS.

We woke up this morning to a nasty surprise on our front window. Yeah, that's right.... paintballed!

Who did it? I dunno. I suppose it could've been worse... much worse. Still, it sucks. Not a fan of vandals. Is this even technically vandalism? Nothing was damaged. I dunno. Still pisses me off. Teresa took the garden hose to it, which got rid of it... mostly. There's still a trace outline on the glass. A reminder, I suppose, that we don't live in a bubble.

Stupid punks.

Father & Daughter

I suck. Oh, it's true. I do indeed. I've been extremely lax in my writing. Significant things have happened, events have flown by at faster-than-light speeds, and I haven't even attempted to document them, much less explore their impact on me. The most important of which is as follows….

My daughter, my firstborn, the adorable and wicked Sierra Joy, turned 16 on May 24th. She had what amounted to a three-straight-weekend party, culminating with a full-on tea party at the Sherwood Tea House on May 31^st with her closest friends.

(that's her on the far left)

After the festivities, I unveiled my final gift to her: a video compilation of footage and still pictures of her entire life. Let's just say everyone who saw it thought it was amazing. I had originally planned to upload it on YouTube so distant family members could see it, but it ended up being nearly an hour long! I'll likely upload at least the Father & Daughter section, set to the Paul Simon song of the same name (which is kinda our song), to bring tears to the eyes of viewers everywhere.

Speaking of tears, anyone who knows me (well enough) knows that I am an absolute crybaby. Jesus, even those damned Goodwill commercials make me tear up. And don't even get me started on Armageddon, which is a movie that I loathe (as any serious film fan would), but am nonetheless choked up by its overwrought ending. But nothing in the world even comes close to the effect Sierra has on me. Seriously, I can make myself cry at the drop of a hat just by thinking about her. I am unspeakably proud of her, and I've been at her mercy since the day she was born. Two years ago, on Christmas morning, she presented me with a handmade scrapbook detailing our relationship (which, naturally, was the inspiration for the video discussed above), and I cried like a fucking baby (which was, of course, captured on video by Teresa for future blackmailing).

The scrapbook.

I've often tried to figure out why I'm so quick to shed tears when it comes to her…. Nothing hits me so immediately, so viscerally, so deep in the gut. Is it some kind of chemical imbalance? The shadow of a slow-blooming mental illness?

Nah. I just adore my little girl. Inside every father's heart lives a treasured little girl. I'll bet I'm not the only daddy who is moved to tears by the overpowering magic of the father-daughter bond. But if I am… then I'm the luckiest man alive, and the rest of you guys don't know what you're missing.

(Sierra, probably about six months old or so, 1992)

Hey, come to think of it…. Armageddon's weepy ending centers around a daughter losing her father. Damn it, no wonder it makes me cry! See, maybe I'm not such a woman after all.

(Sierra and I on her birthday, May 24, 2008)

The Hammerhead Diaries, Chapter 4

The Hammerhead Diaries
07 June 2008 6:33 p.m.
McMenamins John Barleycorn (Tigard, OR)

Where to begin? First of all, they’re fucking OUT of Workingman’s Red. My favorite seasonal beer of all time and they’re…. uh, just plain out. Funny, the little printed list at my table lists it proudly at the top, so my natural presumption is that they HAVE it. They don’t, it seems. Nor do they have any Purple Haze, but since it’s made with boysenberries, I’m okay with it. I wonder if anybody, even girls in pink skirts, would want it. Are they out, or are they just too ashamed to serve it?

So… first beer, the ol’ standby: Hammerhead Ale. There is none finer.

The list (which I’m loathe to look at again) looks the same as last time. It’s been… what, three months since my last entry? One of the benefits of only coming here every few months is the ever-changing list, which provides me with new beers to critique right here, in this very column. If the list is the same as last time… well shit, I’ve got nothin’.

I’ll still drink. I’ll still write. But it won’t be the same. Damn you, McMenamins!

No Sunflower IPA either. WTF, mate? While they do carry it in bottled form (as the mini-fridge in my home office will attest), it seems they don’t generally offer it on tap, since it’s brewed at their Edgefield establishment and not there. They’re currently offering a Spring Trainer IPA, which is on its way courtesy of the somewhat-frumpy waitress assigned to my mini-table (is it too much to ask for the hottie with the slammin’ hips and the bubble butt? Oh hell, one beer and the pig comes out!).

So…. Spring Trainer IPA. Mmm, very clean finish. Almost sharp, like a drop-off, leaving only a subtle bitterness behind. I say “subtle” because when it comes to IPAs, I’m all about the bitter, baby, and this one packs a bite, but it’s a pretty small one. Teresa may be able to drink this. The Sunflower Ale has a fairly strong bitter profile, so I’ve kinda come to expect it in an IPA. This particular McMenamins also offers a Nebraska Bitter, which I’ll be trying next.

Side note: as long as we’re discoursing on bitterness, I’ve gotta throw in a mad shout-out to my daughter Sierra, who recently turned 16, who is the reigning Bitter Bitch in my crib. She accompanied Teresa and I to a beer-and-cheese tasting last summer, and one of the microbreweries represented (Astoria Brewing Co.) was selling T-shirts advertising their Bitter Bitch IPA. Naturally, she just HAD to have one. I bought her one. I haven’t seen her wear it lately, but rest assured, she remains one seriously bitter bitch. Happy birthday, sweetie!

So what else is new? Well, I got my hair cut short today. REALLY short. Like, shorter than I’ve worn it in a few years. I’ve been growing it out for a while now, and it was starting to get (un)respectably long, but… well, summer’s fast approaching. Daddy don’t want no sweaty head. Thus, the hair had to go. And go it did. My hairdresser, Angie, seemed happy with my decision (and since she’s the one with the sharp objects, I’m inclined to go along with whatever she says). Speaking of Angie, she’s getting married two weeks from today, just a short walk from the spot where Teresa and I took the plunge almost three years ago (Canon Beach). Here’s hoping she gets decent weather. We certainly did… in fact, I got fucking barbecued on my wedding day, and spent the honeymoon beet-red and glistening (not as kinky as it sounds).

Other new stuff: finally pulled the trigger on an HD camcorder (the Canon HF-10, in case you were curious). This marks the first meaningful step towards a dream of mine becoming a reality: making an independent film. Screenplay’s already written… now I’ve got a camera good enough to shoot it. I still need a decent boom mike, some lights… oh, and some actors willing to work for free.

Speaking of which, I may have found my female lead. I was at CostCo today, buying a package of pre-cooked bacon (yeah, I’m that lame), and the boxgirl (or whatever the hell they’re called) caught my eye. Young, brunette, very animated. Her name was Mary (if her nametag was being honest). I overheard her talking to the customer in front of me about wines, so I assume she’s at least 21. She looks a bit young, but I could totally see her as Chloe (the main female character in my screenplay). I may have to hit CostCo again real soon and ask her if she’s done any acting. With my luck she’ll expect to get paid or something, especially when she hears that she’ll have to do sex scenes with two different guys (and maybe a girl too, if I ever add that extra scene that I’ve been thinking about).

Okay, beer #3: Nebraska Bitter. I’ve had this before. Have I written about it before? I dunno. A quick scan through my three previous Hammerhead Diaries entries says no (Christ, I started this endeavor 14 months ago, and I’m only one my FOURTH entry? I should get some kind of award for procrastination). Um… it’s pretty bland. There’s almost a citrusy quality, which IMHO shouldn’t exist in a bitter. And it’s not bitter at all. Jesus, I shouldn’t have to turn to an IPA for my bitter fix when there’s an actual BITTER beer on the menu. McMenamins, you’re starting to piss me off.

Stevie Nicks is sitting at the bar. Okay, not the current incarnation, but the chunky drug-addled version from the early 90’s. She’s talking to the bartender and nodding a lot. Maybe he’s telling her to go back to Fleetwood Mac before it’s too late. Oh shit, she just caught me looking at her. Heh, she sucked in her gut. I love that.

Speaking of guts…. Yeah, I’ve got one. I’ve gotta do something about that. It would be nice to hit 40 and not be a fatty. I’ve got a year and a half to lose the gut. Will he do it? Will this unfortunate sad sack drop the pounds in time for the big 4-0? Stay tuned!

Up next: the Royce Porter, apparently named after an employee here. This better be fucking awesome, otherwise I’m tracking this Royce character down and stepping on his throat.

Wouldn’t that be cool, having a beer named after yourself? I wonder what type of beer I’d want named after me… and what would it be called? Craig’s IPA? Bitter Beam? Mack Dizzle Ale? One of these days I’m gonna get one of those home-brewing kits and make my own, just you watch. The beer obsession grows with age.

A beer I’d buy: Alec Baldwin’s Schwetty Balls Ale. Just to display the bottle in my office. If you don’t know what I’m talking about, you haven’t watched enough Saturday Night Live. If that’s the case, shame on you.

Okay, the Royce Porter: looks like iced coffee, tastes like iced coffee. Sierra would like this. Honestly, I’m expecting to find grounds at the bottom of the glass. Not loving this… but hell, it’s beer, so I’m gonna drink it. If there’s air, you breathe it. If there’s chips, you eat them. So it is with beer. Christ, I’m the guy who actually bought that hideous Budweiser and Clamato atrocity, if for no other reason than the fact that it contained alcohol.

Does that make me a drunk? Inquiring minds want to know!

It's a Pisser....

…and I mean that quite literally. Let me explain: I work in a fairly small office: sixteen employees, thirteen women, three men. There’s an ongoing bathroom etiquette problem that never gets talked about, never addressed, and most certainly never resolved.

Somebody keeps pissing all over the toilet. Yeah, you heard me. Not just on the rim around the bowl, either. It’s on the floor and everything. Every day, several times a day.

It’s pretty obviously a male culprit. And there are only three of us. My fear is that the female majority may think I’m to blame. But what am I supposed to do? Approach each of them and proclaim proudly that I am not the reckless urinator? It already sucks being one of the only guys in this estrogen fishbowl, but this just makes it ten times worse.

So almost every day I saunter into the bathroom for my morning wee, and find myself faced with splotches of dark yellow piss sprinkled around like fucking fairy dust. Naaaaasty. So what do I do? I clean it up, naturally, because if somebody hits the bathroom right after me, they’re gonna think I did it, which is unacceptable. Talk about a rock and hard place.

I finally went to my supervisor about it, who basically laughed it and has no intention of doing anything about it. I even designed a sign we could hang above the toilets:

PLEASE REMEMBER….

ACCURACY
IS NEXT TO GODLINESS!

The answer was NO. I’m wondering if filing a hostile-work-environment grievance is the way to go. Somebody’s gotta do something. I’m not a janitor, fer chrissakes!

It’s one of the other two guys here. It could be either of them. It could be both, I dunno. But either way… it sucks. It’s most definitely a pisser of epic proportions.

Sounds like an episode of The Office just waiting to happen, doesn’t it? I’d write it myself, but I’m pretty sure they have a closed circle of writers on staff. And now that the writer’s strike is over, I imagine they’re writing like crazy over there.

Back in Black (and White and Red All Over)

Seriously, what the hell? It was friggin’ SNOWING this morning as I drove to work. Yeah, it’s almost April, and it’s snowing. Big wet flakes, probably went on for at least half an hour. And just a few minutes ago, we got hit with a big sideways blast of hail. And I’ve just been informed that it’s supposed to snow tonight. Should I bust out some Christmas songs? I think I still have some on my iPod….

Eccentric weather aside, it’s a typical boring-ass Friday afternoon here at work. On epic endless days like this, I find myself realizing things that normally wouldn’t occur to me. Example: I’ve worn black shirts three days out of five this week. Black polo, black button-up, and now black pullover. I have at least two other black shirts that are at least semi-work-appropriate, so I could’ve gone five for five. Damn, now I kinda wish I would have. Would they notice? They sure as hell didn’t notice early last year when I dyed my hair blonde. Seriously, how could they miss THAT? Fuckers. Yeah, okay, I get that I’m the only guy on a team of seven women. I get that the seven of them are best buddies and I’m the odd man out (literally). But Christ, a simple “hey, your hair looks different” would’ve been nice. I didn’t even need a compliment necessarily… just an acknowledgment would’ve sufficed. I swear I’m invisible around here.

Yeah, I hate my job. If I haven’t made that abundantly clear by now, there it is.

I don’t read enough. I don’t read the paper, I don’t read books. I do read stuff on the internet… does that count? I’d love to be one of those people who plows through one or two books a week, who are well-versed in multiple literary genres and are always voraciously devouring more books. I’m mean, I almost feel obligated to be that kinda guy. But damn it, I don’t wanna. I’d rather watch a movie. I will point out that my taste in films is quite eclectic and varied, and I generally don’t waste my time on the mindless dreck that comprises most modern cinema. But if you bookworms out there feel compelled to brand me a rube, so be it. Believe me, nobody knows more than I do that I probably should read more, if for no other reason than to inspire me to write more regularly.

Since my book was unceremoniously kicked out of the Amazon contest before the final rounds (just call me the William Hung of the literary world), I haven’t written a damn thing. Well, except blog entries. I haven’t touched any of the short stories I was working on. I haven’t done any further editing on my book. I haven’t even glanced at my many screenplays in development. It seems I’ve completely forsaken my writing and focused on my home theater instead….

…speaking of which, I got a Playstation 3 the other day. I ordered it on Saturday, and it arrived on Tuesday (way earlier than expected; thanks Dell!). I’d moved my existing Blu-ray player (Sony BDP-S300) from the office upstairs to the living room, so I needed something to replace it. The Playstation 3 is widely considered the best Blu-ray player currently on the market, so it made sense to go that route, even though I have zero (less than zero, actually) interest in videogames. The fact that it connects wirelessly to our network and can stream audio/video/pictures from our PCs is cool too (I haven’t even explored this yet). For my immediate purposes, it’s WAY faster than the other Blu-ray player, which typically takes a full minute or more just to load up a disc (I know, waiting one minute to watch a movie is hardly worth getting upset over; war in Iraq, starving kids in China, etc). And damn, the thing just looks sexy sitting there on my desk. Yeah, I’m really liking it. When Teresa heard about its web-browsing capabilities, and realized how cool it would be to sit on the couch and do internet stuff (with a Bluetooth keyboard), her eyes lit up. I hope she’s not expecting me put it upstairs and move the other Blu-ray player (aka the Molasses Machine) back into my office. See, that would just make me sad. The Bunny giveth… and the Bunny taketh away. Don’t make me do it, honey!

Heh, get it? Molasses Machine? ‘Cos it’s so slow! Oh man, I crack myself up.

The Hammerhead Diaries, Chapter 3

The Hammerhead Diaries
21 March 2008, 3:29 p.m.
McMenamins John Barleycorns (Tigard, OR)

Yesterday was the first day of Spring. Today brings another annual milestone: my beloved McMenamins makes available their sublime Workingman’s Red, a beer that’s only available during the Spring. I think this is the first time I’ve actually had it on "release day." I wonder if next year I’ll be camped outside the night before. Honestly, it’s delicious. And Teresa, who is most certainly not a beer lover, is quite enamored of it too. She’s probably a bit pissed that I’m enjoying it without her. I’ll also mention that this is something of a departure in these Hammerhead Diaries: this is the first time (so far) that I’ve had two glasses of the same thing. That’s right, folks: I’m already on my second glass. But I see from their handy list of Featured Ales that there are a few other items I’ve never tried, so I’ll be trying them before I’m done here.

*Sigh* I only wish that they’d bottle the Workingman’s Red and sell it year-round, like they do with their Hammerhead Ale, Sunflower IPA, Terminator Stout, and Ruby Ale. Christ, they could certainly ditch the Ruby Ale (which is clearly designed for little girls). Is that so much to ask?

I took today off (in fact, as I recall, I did the same thing almost a year ago, when I wrote the first Hammerhead Diaries entry; it’s a sad reflection of my unending laziness that this is only the third installment in eleven months). It’s Easter weekend, which means my Sunday is basically shot (going to Rainier for dinner with my parents), so the only way to attain a proper weekend is to take an extra day off. And since next week is Spring Break (which means the damn kids’ll be home), it had to be today. So here I am.

I woke up, took the kids to school, and started the laundry. See, I’m the laundry guy. I always have been. It’s a deal between Teresa and I: she cooks, and I do the laundry. So my weekends are generally filled with switching loads of clothes and folding like there’s no tomorrow. So any time I take a Friday off, I try to get a jump on the weekend laundry, and today was no exception. I got most of it done already, which should make the rest of the weekend fairly breezy. And hey, the weather’s supposed to be decent tomorrow, so maybe I’ll actually get some pre-summer hammock time in (hey, it’s Oregon; I’ll just dress warm and sway comfortably in the breeze despite the chilly early-spring air).

Anyway---- after I started the laundry, I made breakfast for myself. Three eggs, two pieces of toast, and ten slices of bacon. Yeah, ten. It was the cheap pre-cooked shit, so you’ve gotta eat a lot just to sate the bacon monkey. You know what I mean. That was about 8:30 this morning, and I haven’t eaten since. So yeah, two beers and I’m feelin’ ’em.

Next up: The Irish Stout. I know, St. Patrick’s Day is over. I still had to try it (actually, I think I DID try it, last St. Patrick’s Day, when Teresa and I spent the night at McMenamins’ Kennedy School Pub/Hotel. I dunno, it’s a pretty big blur. We drank a LOT that night). It’s, um…. Not bad, but not great. Unfortunate second cousin to the marvelous Terminator Stout.

Next up: Private IPA. What’s so private about it? I dunno… let’s find out together, shall we? Oh wait, you can’t taste it. Sucks to be you. Even at its worst (Ruby Ale, fer chrissakes), McMenamins trounces all challengers. In the vernacular of these modern times: McMenamins pawns noobs. God, I can’t believe I just typed that. Chalk it up to having three teenagers in the house, not to mention a brain that simply refuses to acknowledge that it’s approaching 40 years old. Parts of me still think they’re 17 (I’ll leave it to your imagination to decide which parts). Anyway--- the Private IPA. Oooh, not bad. Got some bite, which I like. My instinct is to compare it to their Sunflower IPA. It doesn’t win, sadly. It’s certainly not bad, but it’s nothing to get excited over.

Heh, an older lady just sat down near me, ordered a glass of water (!), then promptly moved to a different table. Apparently the sight of a mildly intoxicated fat guy typing furiously on a laptop made her uncomfortable. Oh well.

Tonight is family dinner night, and we’re going to Sushi Train. That’s right. What are YOU having? Something boring at home? You sad bastard. I’ll be cold-kickin’ it raw-fish style with my wife and shorties.

Oh look, the lady came back to the nearby table with a friend. I’m too disinterested to figure it out. I can see that they’re engaged in some inane conversation, which makes me doubly thankful that I’m wearing headphones and enjoying the new Radiohead album instead of listening to their post-menopausal nonsense. Christ, I am not a nice guy. Fuck, two more of ’em just showed up. They talk with their hands. I can’t hear them. I’m not a religious man, but THANK YOU JESUS for headphones. Oh, here comes #5. Holy hell, she’s got teeth like the Alien Queen in Aliens. And oh shit, I can hear her OVER my headphones. Why, Lord, why???

Hey, this new Radiohead album is really good. Hell, everything they do is really good.

What’s that, four beers? Can I still drive? I’ve gotta have one more. The Aces & Eights Porter sounds promising. I always like to end on a dark note. Wow, if that’s not a metaphor for my personality, I don’t know what is.

Here come the drinks at the Table of Ancient Women. Looks like two beers, a glass of wine, and a glass of water. Oh, and a toast. I wonder what they’re toasting. Botox?

Four beers in. I’m totally dissing these women. Why? Am I jealous of them? Maybe. I’m sitting here alone. Oh wait, my cell is vibrating. It’s my daughter Sierra. Oh, she wants to go see a movie with her new boyfriend tonight. Screeeeeeech! Left turn. Let’s talk about this.

I haven’t met this guy. Sierra knows that she can’t go out on dates unless I meet the guy. And she wants to go to a movie with him?

I told her yes. Hell, I even told her she could have an advance on her allowance, plus ten bucks. What the fuck is wrong with me? Is it the beer(s)? I’m fiercely protective of my girls. What did I just do? I just flashed the green light at her. Christ, I’m gonna be a grandparent before I know it.

Anyway, back to the Aces & Eights Porter. Um, not bad, but not great. It’s too mild. Not very interesting. Boo, McMenamins, boo.

The party of five next door is pigging out on appetizers. They smell good. I see hummus, and what appear to be deep fried chicken bites. And fuck, this place is loud now. I’m still headphonin’, but it can’t drown out the noise. I’m lucky I scored a roomy spot when I did. As I recall, my first Hammerhead Diaries visit found me stuck at a tiny table. Hard to believe it’s almost been a year since then. How does it happen? How does time pass so quickly, so stealthily?

I’ll be 40 next year. How the fuck did this happen? Aren’t I still 17? Aren’t I still a kid?

The mirror says no. The gray hairs say no.

This must be one of the darkest moments I’ve ever endured. I’m old, and getting older. My initial impulse is to drink more, but I can’t. I’ve gotta drive home. Any more and I won’t be able to.