Blog Hard

Oh yeah, that’s right! I have a blog. It’s like I completely forgot about it for five months. I think my last entry involved a family trip to Giant Burger right after Thanksgiving. Good God, that’s gotta be the biggest gap since I started this thing. I hope my loyal fans (all 3 of you, possibly 4) aren’t too upset. I tend to procrastinate, which has been well documented, so this shouldn’t be a huge surprise. In fact, in a previous blog that I (barely) maintained several years back, I had this to say about it:

I'm such a lazy fuck. I go to all the trouble of creating my very own personal self-serving blog, and then I can't summon the energy to post a goddamn update once in a while. No entries for two whole months. Jesus. Um... let's see. Well, I FINALLY hooked up my rear speakers today, so my surround sound system is at last complete. It only took me nine fucking months to get around to it. I'm the Dali Fucking Lama when it comes to procrastination. Antisocial narcoleptics and couch potatoes probably pray to me at night, but sadly their prayers fall on deaf ears. I'm too busy seeing how far up my ass my head can reach.

Score? Self-loathing 1, self-love zero. As I approach the big 4-0, I’m amused (and a bit disturbed) that I’ve lost none of my edge when it comes to dissing myself.

Speaking of procrastination, I have only to gaze out my back door (I mean the back door of my house, not my… oh, never mind) to see a shining (glaring?) example of my habitual inaction: my convertible, which died a dramatic and tragic death last August, is still sitting at the edge of my property, lying quietly dormant beneath a layer of dust and pollen. I finally put an ad on Craigslist last weekend. That’s right, it only took NINE FUCKING MONTHS for me to finally spend the five minutes it took to place the ad (which includes upload times for the photos and the three times I had to edit it due to spelling errors). In fact, I’ve got a guy coming over after work to look at it. Two people have flaked on me so far, so my fingers are crossed (which makes typing kinda difficult).

In any case --- I guess I need to do some catch-up here. The five month gap in my life story needs filling.

Let’s see (looking through my folder full o’ blog entries)… Well well well, what a surprise. Turns out I did write a few entries in December and one in January, but never got around to actually publishing them. So I’ll get those uploaded ASAP (update: already done. For continuity’s sake, it made sense to go ahead and put those up first. Since this particular website runs from newest to oldest, you’ll find them below. When you get to the Giant Burger entry, you’re caught up. But Christ, it’s been so long, you’ve probably forgotten the earlier entries anyway. So go ahead and keep reading. Have a glass of wine and make an evening of it).

Heh, one of my “lost” entries turns out to be a blank document titled “Wii Love Christmas, Oh Yes Wii Do.” I evidently never got past the title, but my intended topic is fairly obvious: we bought a Nintendo Wii for the kids for Christmas. And yeah, I must admit, it’s pretty awesome.

Now, Logan is a teenager, not to mention an avid gamer, so I suppose it was a foregone conclusion that I would lose to him at Wii Boxing. I will say, however, that in an actual fight, I could totally kick his punk ass. I’m sure he would disagree (since he tends to disagree with EVERYTHING I say). Anyway, li’l Kendyl does the bulk of the Wii playing these days (a scant four months later). I personally haven’t touched the thing since January. I just don’t do video games. Yeah, I know, the Wii is more than just a game machine. I could use it for exercise, drop some pounds, get in better shape, etc. I’m aware of this. I’ll get around to it. Really. No, I mean it. I do.

What else has happened lately…? Um…. Well, Sierra got “promoted” from Treble Choir to Concert Choir without the formality of an audition. She has a beautiful voice, so this was a nice validation for her.

(It seems I don't have a picture of Sierra in her choir robe. This hilarious picture will have to suffice for now.)

What else…? Logan made the tennis team. In fact, he won his first match just a few days ago, which was a nice validation for him.

Isaac has continued practicing the guitar every chance he gets, and he’s turned out to be quite a talented player. He’s been in two bands so far, but right now he’s laying low in between gigs (not much validation there, I imagine, but hopefully the fact that his dad is mega-impressed helps).

Girl Scout Kendyl managed to outsell the other girls in her troupe (by a wide margin) on the recent Girl Scout cookie sale. In fact, they made her wear the Thin Mint costume (likely some form of retaliation; who says 8 year-olds can’t be bitter?).

Otherwise, it’s been a pretty quiet few months. Until April, that is, when two pretty significant things happened. First and foremost, Logan turned 16. In keeping with the tradition established last year when Sierra turned 16, I put together a video presentation for him, basically an encapsulation of his life so far using both video footage and slideshows. There was an initial concern that there wouldn’t be enough video (Teresa wasn’t as vigilant with the camcorder as I was with Sierra and Isaac), so my intent was to pad things out with lots of pictures. As I got further into the project, well…. the damned thing got longer and longer. And since I’d procrastinated my way into a frenzied last-minute marathon of video editing, there wasn’t time to go back and trim stuff out. The project (titled Evil Boy Genius: The Logan Story) ended up with a running time of well over two hours (it’s so long, in fact, that it takes TWO DVDs to hold it all!). As tradition dictates, the video had its “world premiere” on his birthday (4/08). At the end, he called it “epic.” And I’ve gotta admit, it turned out pretty fucking great. So great, in fact, that Sierra’s video from last year looks somewhat primitive by comparison (I should point out that I have much better equipment and software at my disposal now, which makes a huge difference). After Isaac’s video is finished (he turns 16 in July), I’m planning to go back and redo Sierra’s, to bring it up to the same level. I know, it’s kind of a George Lucas-y thing to do, but I left a ton of stuff out the first time around, so I’m really looking forward to revisiting it.

But anyway, back to Logan’s birthday: Teresa and I pulled a surprise Silly String attack on him, in front of all his friends no less.

The other significant thing that happened in April requires a bit of backstory.

When I was young (eight, nine years old) and living in Aloha (a suburb of Beaverton), my best friend was a kid named Jeff Morton. We met in the second grade and totally hit it off. We had the same interests (Star Wars, GI Joe, comic books, etc), so we were a natural match. His family had more money than mine, so he always had the cooler toys (he had the coveted Millennium Falcon, while I was stuck with a lousy Snowspeeder). He also had a hot older sister, which didn’t hurt (at least she seemed hot to my pre-pubescent eyes; I think her name was Donna, but my memory isn’t exactly reliable).

After two years of friendship, my parents dropped the equivalent of a nuclear bomb on my skinny young ass: we were moving. I was devastated. I should mention that we were moving to Aurora, which is only about 23 miles away, but I was a third grader, and we didn’t have computers or cell phones back then, so it may as well have been the other side of the world. Jeff and I managed to maintain the friendship for a few more years, getting together as often as possible, but as we approached high school…. Well, we just kinda lost touch.

Fast forward to around 1997. I was married to my first wife, Sierra and Isaac were little kids, and the internet had completely changed my life. Suddenly the entire world was at my disposal. I found myself wondering whatever happened to Jeff, and set out on a mission to find him. I Alta Vista’d him (the 1997 equivalent of Googling) and sent emails to every Jeff Morton I could find. I got a few replies, but none of them were the right Jeff Morton. My search went nowhere. In the ensuing years, I looked again, but never found him. A couple of years ago, the appearance of MySpace gave me a new avenue, but again, nothing came of my search. As MySpace gave way to Facebook, I continued my search, always coming up empty.

Until about the first of April, that is. I was at the library, killing yet another lunch hour online, and I plugged his name into Facebook yet again. And there he was. He’d just recently created his profile, so there wasn’t much information, but the picture was unmistakable. It was him. And as fate would have it, he lives in Portland. FUCKING PORTLAND, a scant 12 miles from me!

So we’ve exchanged a few messages, nothing big. I imagine at some point we’ll get together. But honestly, and I can’t stress this enough, finding Jeff Morton was one of the five things I wanted to accomplish before I die. So yeah, it’s pretty cool.

I dug through my box of old pictures, hoping to find a shot of Jeff and I, but came up empty. I know I've got a few someplace....

The KFC Rumination

I love KFC. Always have, and probably always will. The Colonel’s Original Recipe, whatever the hell it is, never fails to delight and amaze me. I want it, and at times, I even need it. To illustrate my point, I cite the following passage from the brilliantly hilarious So I Married An Axe Murderer:

CHARLIE:
Dad, how can you hate The Colonel?

CHARLIE's DAD:
Because he puts an addictive chemical in his chicken that makes you crave it fortnightly, smartass!

My earliest memories of KFC involve summer family reunions, in which someone would invariably take the lazy route and bring a bucket of chicken. I never minded; in fact, I greatly preferred it over many of the dishes available (three-bean casserole, which I loathe, along with predictable standbys like jello salad and baked beans). I also have an early memory of going to KFC with my grandparents: we had just sat down with our food, and my grandma had forgotten to get some honey for her biscuit. I jumped up and went to the counter, eager to assist, only to be brusquely informed that honey packets were ten cents each. I returned to the table and relayed the information. My grandma looked a bit dismayed, and then replied, “Oh, I don’t need it that much.” It didn’t occur to me until many years later just how limited their income actually was, and that even a dime might have caused them a financial twinge. Funny how oblivious kids can be.

Anyway (sorry for that sad little memory)… a few years ago, I told my wife that, if KFC ever offered a boneless version of their Original Recipe chicken, I’d basically live there. I’m sure she didn’t take me seriously (she rarely does).

And then it happened a few months ago: KFC added boneless chicken strips to their menu…. Original Recipe style.

Holy shit. Could it be? I saw the commercial one evening, and the very next day I set out to get my hands on some. And I did. And…. and….

Well, it wasn’t that great, truth be told. Oh, that unmistakable Original Recipe flavor was there, but it didn’t work for me in that context. I dunno, there was just something missing. Plus, the strips themselves were skinny and kinda dry. Disappointing.

Fast forward to today. I was in court all morning, on my way back to the office, and saw the KFC/A&W sign looming before me. I thought about those chicken strips, and decided to give them another try. Which I did.

Same thing. The flavor is there, but the strips are flat and skinny and the meat is dry. The dipping sauces don’t really help; in fact, they detract from that wonderful Original Recipe flavor. So… still a disappointment. But you know what? I think I’ve figured out a solution.

Whenever I eat KFC, I have the same thing: Original Recipe chicken breast and mashed potatoes with gravy. That’s all I need. I eat the chicken skin, that crispy salty manna from poultry heaven, then dip chunks of the meat into the gravy. And therein lies the answer.

It’s the damn gravy, folks. KFC needs to offer their fabulous gravy as a dipping sauce for these chicken strips. If they do that… well honey, I’m gonna live there. You’ve been forewarned.

Arctic Blast 2008!!!

Holy shit. Where did all this snow and ice come from?

Snow on top of ice on top of snow. The whole Portland-Metro area is totally paralyzed. Hardly any stores or restaurants are open (including my beloved Sushi Train, sniff), nobody’s at work, and we’re glued to the TV watching the endless news coverage (and hoping our power doesn’t go out). Apparently the last time Portland got hit like this was 1968, the year before I was born, so I can accurately state that I’ve never seen weather this severe in my entire life.

I repeat, holy shit.

Walking in a Winter Wonderland

It snowed today. Like, a lot. I know, I can’t believe it either, but it’s true. The mongrel Bijou gazed out the window, confused and awed by the transformation of the outside world from green to white. She’s seen snow once before (Christmas day, last year), but it didn’t last long, and there wasn’t much of it. She began to whine and mope, and it became clear that we’d have to take her out for a walk. Teresa and I, along with both girls (Isaac was out with friends, and Logan didn’t want to go) bundled up tight, leashed up the hound, and set out for some frosty adventures.

Later on, we managed to get all four kids outside for a group shot:

I’m a bit concerned about the commute to work tomorrow, but I can’t deny the magic of this weather. It’s probably unrealistic to think that it’ll hang around till Christmas, but one never knows…. *

* Note from the future: Be careful what you wish for…

It's Beginning To Sound A Lot Like....

...Christmas (duh). I’m far from religious, but I can’t deny that I possess a deep love for Christmas music. Well, most Christmas music (I can’t stand that idiotic Feliz Navidad song, for example, and the Chipmunks make me wanna kick something). But yeah, I love Christmas music. Uh-oh…. Sounds like a Top 10 list brewing.

TOP TEN ALL-TIME FAVORITE CHRISTMAS ALBUMS:

01. Merry Christmas (aka White Christmas) – Bing Crosby

02. A Jolly Christmas from Frank Sinatra – Frank Sinatra

03. Ella Wishes You a Merry Christmas – Ella Fitzgerald

04. The Christmas Song – Nat “King” Cole

05. A Charlie Brown Christmas (soundtrack) – Vince Guaraldi Trio

06. Elvis’ Christmas Album – Elvis Presley

07. Snowfall – Tony Bennett

08. Making Spirits Bright – Dean Martin

09. Christmas Classics – Bing Crosby

10. A Holly Jolly Christmas – Burl Ives

Every year I get myself one new Christmas CD. Last year it was An Oscar Peterson Christmas. This year…? I dunno yet. I’ve heard Sarah McLachlan’s Christmas album is really good. Yeah, maybe I’ll get that. My list needs more females. I really wish Pink Martini would do a Christmas album. THAT would be awesome (and would undoubtedly break into my top ten… it’s probably time for Burl Ives to exit gracefully).

Big D Strikes Again!

Last month I shared a couple of wicked Photoshop jobs my old pal Donovan did, on pictures of both himself and yours truly. Well, he’s gone and done it again, this time working his digital magic on the shot of me at yummying down at Giant Burger (from my previous blog entry):

I forwarded the picture to Teresa, who responded with a single word: Ewwwww.

I particularly appreciate the use of black and white, which not only evokes the George Romero’s original Night of the Living Dead, but also makes that green brain pop brilliantly. Truly something to behold.

Hey, anybody hungry?

My God, It's Huge!!!

So what’s a hungry family to do when everyone’s sick of Thanksgiving leftovers? Why, they go to Giant Burger in Lake Oswego, of course.


I’ve extolled the virtues of Giant before in this very blog, but I’ll do it again. Giant is something of a local legend in these parts, mostly because of their fucking huge burgers which, by the way, are delicious. That’s um, pretty much it. Ain’t nothin’ fancy here. Just big, tasty burgers. What more does one need?


While we were there some photographer was taking pictures for an upcoming feature in Mix, a new magazine spotlighting local food and drink establishments. When our huge-ass tray was ready for pickup, he swooped down like a vulture and snapped a few shots of it. Plus, I’m pretty sure he got a shot of Teresa and I waiting in line to order (here’s hoping we show up in the magazine). I thought about taking a picture of him taking pictures but, fearing a possible photographic infinity loop, I held that particular impulse in check. He then ordered a milkshake, took it outside, and proceeded to snap literally dozens of pictures of it. Puzzling as this was, my attention was soon commanded by the enormous Filler burger. Grease ran down my chin, and I swooned.







Haven’t been there, you say? Well, what are you waiting for? Sheesh, you only live once.

So Long, and Thanks for All the Turkey

Thanksgiving went well. Our turkey turned out great, despite taking over an hour longer than we’d anticipated (the Big Easy is awesome, but slow): crispy on the outside, moist and juicy on the inside. The brining approach is clearly the way to go. This may have been the best turkey I’ve ever had.


Our guests had a good time, nothing got destroyed (I guess we had our share of destruction last night, thanks to the mongrel Bijou; see previous entry), and we have a ton of leftovers. Yeah, things went well.

Today is also my birthday (I was born on Thanksgiving, so every so many years my birthday falls on the same day as the holiday; this was one of those years). I’m a whopping 39 (and dear God, I sure do look it). I made Teresa promise NOT to plan any surprises, and for once she honored my wishes. There was a brief interlude after the feast involving a birthday cake, but that was it.

A couple of weeks ago, Teresa asked me what I wanted for my birthday. “A pony,” I replied. Well, guess what Princess Kendyl got for me?


I can’t ride it, and I can’t brush its hair, but I can grin like an idiot every time I look at it. And I do.

I also got the last remaining James Bond books from Teresa, so my collection is complete. Oh, wait. Cue the backstory!

I’ve been on a big James Bond kick lately. I remember watching most of the earlier films when I was younger (I’d ride my bike to nearby Hubbard to rent them on VHS, probably around 7th grade or so), and I recall buying a few used paperbacks from the Canby Book Exchange (but I’m not sure if I actually read them). Anyway --- I really enjoyed 2006’s Casino Royale, and I totally dug Daniel Craig as the new Bond (however, Sean Connery will always be the only true James Bond), and Quantum of Solace looked promising. Three of the Connery Bond films came out on Blu-ray, and I snagged ‘em…. And then my OCD tendencies kicked in. I decided that I would read all the original Ian Fleming novels (all 15 of ‘em) AND watch every Bond movie (all 22 of ‘em).

I initially tried to find the first book (Casino Royale) at the library, but came up empty. Of course by now I was on a mission: I HAD to get my hands on the damn book. I left work early one early November day and hit Barnes and Noble, and what I found there was truly amazing: the entire collection, 15 books in all, in gorgeous retro-style paperbacks.


I had to have them. To hell with borrowing tattered old hardback copies from the library! These editions were things of beauty, and I longed to possess them. However, money being tight and the holidays fast approaching, I held off ($14.00 times 15…. well, that’s way more than I had any right to spend). I decided to head downtown to Powell’s to see if I could score some used copies, to at least sate the new addiction that was gnawing at my insides like a gopher in heat. And, surprise of surprises, Powell’s had marked down several of the new editions to $5.98 (that’s new, not used!). Now there was no stopping me. I grabbed a copy of every marked-down title, which amounted to 8 books. I devoured Casino Royale in two days, and hungrily reached for the next one… and realized with horror that I didn’t have it. See, in my feverish rush to acquire the books cheaply, I didn’t keep track of which books I was getting. I’d bought the first book… and the final seven. There was a 7-book gap in my collection, staring back at me like a starving Ethiopian kid, evil flies buzzing about its head, cruel sun beating down like sucker-punches from God. I ponied up and bought the next two (Live and Let Die and Moonraker) at full price (I had to do it, you see; by now I was a trembling junkie in need of a fix), and read them both in a week. Teresa graciously bought the fourth book for me (Diamonds are Forever), and then gave me the remaining four books for my birthday. I’m now halfway through #5, From Russia with Love, and I’ve gotta say, I am enjoying the hell out of these books. While the rest of the world (Sierra included) is obsessed with the Twilight series, I’m kicking it old school with 007.

I am almost 40, after all. Old school is kinda appropriate, don’tcha think?


Oh, and as for the movies: I watched the first seven. All the Connerys are done, and I’m not in a big hurry to move on to the Roger Moores. I never really liked him as Bond.

The Scene of the Crime

Thanksgiving is tomorrow and, as I’ve previously mentioned, we’re hosting it this year. In preparation, our dining room table/chairs have been moved into the garage, and we’ve rearranged the living room furniture to create what amounts to a giant empty space, which will be filled by rented tables and chairs to accommodate the six of us and our fourteen guests.

This morning was like every other morning. Teresa left for work first, and then I took the kids to school on my way to work. Everything seemed normal; nothing seemed amiss. But folks, something was most definitely amiss. Maybe we were all distracted by thoughts of tomorrow’s feast, I dunno. A critical detail was missed as we raced through our morning routine.

Bijou didn’t get locked up. She spent the entire day in the house, unsupervised, on the loose. Ladies and gentlemen, I call your attention to what used to be the living and dining room area of our house.


Teresa had a large stash of Partylite candles, still in their boxes, which Bijou chewed into oblivion (in fact, we’re expecting her to shit a giant candle any time now). Six large decorative grapevine balls (I don’t know what else to call them) were reduced to countless sad little brown twigs. She dragged a 2-liter bottle of 7-Up from the kitchen into the living room and chewed a hole in it, creating a large puddle (at least it was colorless). Surprisingly, she only destroyed one DVD (out of the hundreds at her disposal): Teresa’s copy of Young Guns. Blaze of glory, indeed.

It could have been worse. She could have pissed all over the place (she’s clearly house trained). She could have destroyed the furniture, but she didn’t (I guess she’s spent enough time on the couch to respect it). Hell, she could have torn up the carpet, but it seems perfectly intact (well, except for the giant wet spot, which will hopefully be dry by tomorrow). So yeah, it could’ve definitely been worse. But hell, the day before our big holiday gathering? Really?

Thanks to Logan for cleaning it up. That dog is DAMN lucky I wasn’t the first one home.

Little Girl, Big Truck

Cute little girl
Big, big truck
You can’t be more than five feet high
Why do you need such a huge rig?
Do you long to touch the sky?
Do you feel yourself growing taller
as you climb up those heavy steel steps?
Do you feel mighty and strong
as you slide into that big cab?
You’d fit into a Fiat or a Miata, easy
But hell, that truck is huge!
You could run me off the road in that thing
And you might,
since you can’t see over the fucking steering wheel.

Pre-Thanksgiving

As mentioned in a previous entry, we’re having Thanksgiving at our house (thanks to my big mouth last year). The plan was to do our standard deep-fried turkey, since it’s always a hit and makes people think we’re really hip (culinarily speaking), and god knows we need all the help we can get in the public perception department. But as we got closer to the holiday, we began to dread to inevitable messy pain the ass that deep-frying a turkey brings.

And then we went to CostCo, and there was a light at the end of that peanut oil-soaked tunnel.

Ladies and gentlemen, may I present the Char-Broil Big Easy.



Deep frying… without oil? We looked at one another and, in that solitary suspended-in-time moment, a mutual decision was made, without words, without hesitation.


Yesterday (Sunday 11/23) we test-drove the beast, so to speak (and, since our reputations; nay, our very honor was riding on this, a pre-holiday attempt seemed wise). We injected the turkey with a healthy amount of garlic and herb-infused liquefied butter and, after resolving a propane tank issue (a frosty regulator, which we deduced was caused by the square-headed dope at the gas station overfilling the tank), we fired it up on the back porch and dropped the turkey in.



We waited. And waited. Our digital meat thermometer crept slowly up toward that magic number (165 degrees). We decided to take it out a bit early, since it would continue to cook as it rested (you can typically go up about 10 more degrees during the resting process if you cover the turkey with tin foil). We brought the turkey inside, thermometer still in place, covered it in tin foil, and whipped up the side dishes (mashed potatoes, gravy, green beans, and rolls). We kept an eye on the thermometer, waiting to see 165 appear.

It didn’t. It never did.

What went wrong? We couldn’t figure it out. As panic blossomed like a rose in a warm room, we decided to put the turkey back in the fryer and cook it some more. We fired up the Big Easy again, dropped the turkey back in, and waited for the thermometer to creep its way up to 165.

It didn’t. It never did.

We got frustrated. Hell, we got mad. We gave up on the turkey fryer, brought the bird back inside, and started pre-heating the oven in defeat. I then suggested that maybe we should cut into it, just to see. Teresa pulled out her sharpest knife (no, not from her purse) and commenced carving. The meat inside was beautiful, apparently fully cooked. It was then that we realized that the fryer hadn’t failed us at all…. the digital thermometer had. The turkey was fully cooked and mostly moist (the outermost meat was a bit dry, undoubtedly from being in the fryer too long) and delicious. The dark meat was perfect. Absolutely amazing, especially since it spent well over an extra hour in the fryer.



The verdict? The Char-Broil Big Easy is awesome. Just make sure your meat thermometer doesn’t suck.

Cattywampus!

I was needing a change. I was getting that unsettled, shifting feeling. Call it an itch. Call it a longing. We had a good thing going for a while, but the magic had worn off. Things had gotten stale at home, and I needed something new, something fresh and exciting to sweep me off my feet.

That’s right. Comcast had to go.

And yesterday, in what must be the longest installation in recorded history, Comcast got booted out and Verizon FIOS took its place. I wasn’t home to witness it (Teresa had the honor), but I can report that Keith, the installation guy, arrived at 9:00 in the morning, and by 5:30 when I got home…. Well, he was still there. In fact, he didn’t leave till 7:30, which means it took this moron TEN AND A HALF HOURS to install the same basic thing that Comcast did in less than half the time three years ago (when I got bored with Dish Network, and needed something new and exciting to sweep me off my… oh, you get the idea). Funny thing is, he didn’t even do everything right, and some stuff he didn’t do at all.

First of all, he couldn’t get our wireless network to, well, WORK. After much hand-wringing and perplexed facial gestures (in my imagination, anyway), Teresa stepped in and fixed the problem. That’s right, the CUSTOMER is smarter than the INSTALLER. Aaaaaawesome. He then had trouble connecting the new DVR to the TV in the master bedroom, even though the appropriate cables were RIGHT THERE (my own cables, incidentally, since apparently Verizon doesn’t provide its customers with cabling; interestingly, Comcast actually gave us extra sets!). So, when I got home from work, I had to hook it up myself.

Around 6:15 he ventured downstairs to do his “final programming,” which would only take “about fifteen minutes” and then he’d be “done.” Forty-five minutes later, he was most certainly not done. He finally came upstairs and subjected us to the weirdest half hour of our lives (at least my life; I can’t really speak for Teresa, but she does come from Southern Oregon, so she may have seen weirder things). Keith attempted to show us the various onscreen menus of our new service, how to use the remote (really?), and how to operate the multi-room DVR. He talked to us as if we were children for much of the time as he fumbled his way through his presentation, and you know what? That guy DIDN’T HAVE A FUCKING CLUE what he was talking about. For example:

“See, Comcast doesn’t have as much high definition juice, so they dumb it down during the day and bump it up at night, when more people are watching. But Verizon bumps it up 24/7!”

*Sigh* I could easily list a dozen other moronic things that came out of his mouth, but my favorite occurred when, in Sierra’s room, the remote was (at cross purposes) turning the cable box on and turning the TV off simultaneously.

“It’s cattywampus!” he exclaimed. My blank stare must have betrayed my complete and utter confusion, because he followed it up with, “You know, like when things are backwards, so they bump heads and don’t work. It’s cattywampus!”

Ladies and gentlemen, I think a new word has been introduced into our family vocabulary. As appalled as I was by Keith’s rampant incompetence, I can’t thank him enough for this wonderful word. I can’t believe I’ve lived almost 39 years without it.

About an hour after he left (and much jolly ridiculing behind his back), we came to the sobering realization that he never bothered to set up our email for us. Well, shit. That, my friends, is just plain cattywampus.

The Horror! The Horror!!

Predictably, I spent Halloween handing out candy to grubby little kids, most of whom couldn’t be bothered to utter a simple “thank you” upon receiving handfuls of inorganic, chemically-preserved mini-chocolate bars. The radiant Sierra was on hand to assist. Neither of us dressed up or otherwise immersed ourselves in the spirit of the night (which is strange, since we are of similar temperaments and this is exactly the kind of holiday we should relish). We ran out of candy a bit early, which means we either underestimated the number of trick-or-treaters or we were giving out too much. I think it was the latter (hence the “handfuls” mentioned above).

Kendyl, meanwhile, amassed a giant bag of candy. Props to her for kicking it old school versus dressing up as Hannah Montana like every other eight year-old girl:


Cute, huh? Now we segue into the not-so-cute. My friend Donovan, apparently reveling in the spirit of the season, sent me the following picture of himself, digitally manipulated for maximum ghoulishness:


Not to be outdone, I sent him the following, which was NOT manipulated at all (because I really am one ugly sumbitch):


“Heh heh heh,” I snickered to myself. “Anything he can do, I can do better.”

Oh, how wrong I was. In response (or retaliation), he applied his digital manipulation skills to my picture and came up with the following:


He wins. Hands down. I can’t compete with this. There is nothing uglier or scarier on the face of this earth (except maybe Sarah Palin’s dead moose collection). Happy (ack) belated (ugh) Halloween.

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?