Look Lefty

A Proper Introduction

2011-09-16T10:54:00.000-07:00

I'd like to add you to my professional network on LinkedIn.

I may not know you, even though it says I've indicated you as a "Friend." And I cant be bothered to tell you how I found your name, or why I'd like to be connected to you. But hey, why can't you just give me access to all your professional information and contacts. I've indicated you as a Friend. Remember.

How the fuck is this professionally acceptable?

I am not your friend. I'm a crusty old bastard, who uses the social networks like everyone else, but expects a little social etiquette in return. A networking rub, if you will.

So this blog goes out to the Sxxxx Serlings, Jxxxxx Collinses, Nxxxxxx Nelsons and Cxxxxx Mendezes of the world. You seem like nice people and all. You work in fields related to mine. And it might even be mutually beneficial for us to be connected.

Just tell me why.

The Not-So Happy Meal

2011-07-22T16:08:00.000-07:00

It's been said that Larry David is an exaggerated caricature of his true personality - his on-screen persona says all the things he wishes he could say in real life. And yet, with very little effort, I'm often accused of behaving just like him, and not by people who know what he's like in real life.

I get multiple emails a week to the tune of, "I just watched Curb and totally thought of you." But what they they're really saying is, "you're an abrasive asshole who's behavior is socially unacceptable. Hah!"

I'm bald, Jewish and perturbed. And I don't live in New York, where this type of description is not only acceptable, it's the master race.

Now for those who know the wife, they just feel sorry for her. Poor girl, as charming and lovely as she is, having to live with a social pariah like myself. But what most people don't realize, is that the wife is a closeted Larry David hereself, as evidenced by two recent visits to Laughing Planet Burritos.

As frequent customers, we are very familiar with their menu and typically order our five-year-old the "kid's bean and cheese burrito." It's a lot smaller and a little cheaper than their standard fare.

But on a recent solo visit, the wife was feeling only moderately hungry and decided to order the kid's burrito for herself. As she sat in the restaurant enjoying the diminutive wrap, the cashier publicly humiliated my dear, sweet wife, letting her know that in the future, kids burritos could only be ordered for kids.

Well, the future came yesterday. The wife went back to the same Laughing Planet and ordered a kid's burrito from the same cashier, who responded with a dubious look. The wife, always quick on her feet said, "It's for my kid. I going to pick her up now from camp and she'll need something to eat. So I'll just take it to go."

Left with no option, the cashier sold my wife the burrito. But she did it with hate.

It probably comes as no surprise, but I whole-heartedly side with the wife on this one. The burrito joint wins by charging only marginally less money for significantly less food and they should support the notion that uneaten beans and cheese won't be thrown away. They should be ashamed of themselves for even instituting such a policy.

Perhaps one day, we can all channel our inner-LD, without shame or indignation. And we'll all be kept a little more honest for it.

Nothing to Complain About

2011-07-15T07:38:00.000-07:00

Do you know what the title of this blog post means to a guy like me?

It means, I've got nothing.

Complaining is my life blood. It's what gets me out of the bed in the morning. It's what fills my awkward moments around the water cooler. It's fueled the majority of these less and less frequent blog posts.

That's because these days, I really have nothing to complain about.

I've started a new job that I actually like (and involuntarily lost 10 lbs since I started).

The wife hasn't had any chemical meltdowns of late.

And I don't have time to hate on any coffee shops at the moment (I'm actually writing this from an old favorite and I sort of wonder why I ever left - oh yeah).

Anyway, therein lies the problem. Complaining is my Yoko. Without complaining, I'm a fucking mute. I know, I know. I sound like a real joy to be around. But this, sadly is just how it is.

And then last night, after a particularly enjoyable company outing, while driving the boss back to his hotel, I found myself complaining about something. Something minor and forgettable actually. But complaining just enough to trigger the boss' reaction: "My goal is to see if you can go three days without complaining," admitting that he'd just gotten two for setting me up in a swank hotel.

Apparently, this man, who has only known me on and off for the last three months, deftly identified my entire M.O.

Does this mean I've got it back? Or maybe it never went away. Either way, I hope this renewed sense of general displeasure has some legs. I've been a little lost without it.

Coffee Shop Saga (Cont.)

2011-04-13T07:44:00.000-07:00

When we last left off, nearly two years ago, I had found a coffee shop that met my early morning criteria - on the way to work, $2 Americano's, decent atmosphere/music/staff. Prior to that, it was just an endless barrage of me bitching about one proprietor getting too personal about my bathroom time (pre-dating the genius Curb Your Enthusiasm episode covering the same topic below), or my disgust for another shop's music selection.

The last place had a nice long run. But the owners got complacent, went on an extended vacation and hired Portlandia cast-offs to run the joint. It was all downhill from there.

But, like the move that brought me there, I wasn't willing to completely forsake my morning ritual, until I found a viable substitute. And just when I least expected it, along came Water Avenue Coffee Company.

They roast their beans on site, and damn well, I must say. They kill it on the Americano, charging an equitable $2, though they call my version (very little water) an "Italiano" - a little contrived, but I'm not judging. And like all roastaries worth their metal, these guys serve up the array of pour-over brewing methods that bring out some crazy flavors if you're totally committed to the "experience."

Cool space (if not a touch "precious" - a descriptor to be discussed in greater length with the following post - coming soon ). Close to work. Nice staff. The music's never great, but it's certainly, no Paul Simon Graceland. More trance-y electronica. Fine for my purposes. This appeared to be a relationship that could last.

And then, without even consulting my pre-work-self - with complete disregard for the fragile balance that is my morning refuge - my work-day-self accepted a new job on the other side of town. And just like that, my new-found morning paramour, would be ripped from my loving embrace.

I sit here now, soaking in my final days with Water Ave., recounting our short, but passionate lives together. We had a real good thing going, and yet, we may never see each other again.

So to this sweet little shop, tucked under the east side industrial bridges, you'll be in my heart forever. And maybe, just maybe, our paths will cross again in this crazy, mixed-up world.

Adieu.

The Chemicals May Just Kill You - A Love Story (Part 7)

2011-03-14T07:56:00.000-07:00

A Tale of Two Dressers

Yes readers, it has been a while. But not for lack of material. Only a lack of time. So much has happened with the wife's sniffer these last four months that I can only share with you the best and most recent episode now.

For the last five years, the wife has been pleading with me to buy her a dresser, as her clothes are strewn across our bedroom floor, occasionally making it to a laundry receptacle. This may come as a surprise to anyone who has been reading, but the wife is, how shall I say...a fucking slob.

Crazy, right? One would assume that with all her sensitivities to noxious odors, she would in turn also be a neat freak. Not the case.

Our house looks like an episode of Hoarders, but instead of garbage bags full of soup cans or feral cats cluttering the house, our place is wall-to-wall hairballs and dust bunnies. It's all organic, locally-grown dust, though, so it's fine.

Anyway, the wife wanted a dresser. And I was all too happy to provide. I took pictures of dressers I found in antique stores. I offered to order one from Crate & Barrel. But nothing was good enough. Either the drawers didn't open smoothly. Or The style wasn't right for our room. You know, that early-mission-I-just-don't-give-a-shit-style.

And of course, there was the smell issue. Anything new would be treated with chemicals and anything used would have someone else's smell on it.

Now, I am sympathetic to my wife's affliction, but every once in a while, I demand that logic come into play. She may not like other people's smells, and I'm with her there. But other people's smells should not cause the same reaction that say, a wood stain, might. Body odor is not chemically engineered.

My attitude was, buy someone else's dresser, give it a nice healthy scrub (with non-toxic cleansers) and deal with it until it takes on a smell of our own.

The wife went and bought an IKEA dresser. Obviously.

To be expected, the nondescript box with drawers smelled distinctly like new IKEA furniture - a mix of freshly pressed particle board and Swedish meatballs. And while the wife wouldn't dare bring the toxins into our home, she had no problem leaving it in the back of our car for the next couple days. Somehow, she's unaffected by glues and dyes when she's in motion.

So I brought the box directly into our garage and unpacked all 497 pieces. Never mind the fact that this would take up a ridiculous amount of space in our already cluttered garage. That thing had some off-gassing to do. At least two months worth.

In the meantime, with clothes piling up in every corner of our bedroom, the wife surprised me one day as I returned home from work. She's purchased a lovely, mid-century modern dresser that she found on craigslist and had it delivered to our home - already assembled. I loved it.

All I had to do was repackage the IKEA dresser, drive it back to the burbs and reclaim my $100. And with the help of our neighbor, I carried the pre-owned dresser upstairs and found a nice spot between her just laundered jeans and slightly soiled jog bras that littered the floor. Perfect.

Perfect until we opened up a drawer. Yes, it smelled. Kind of perfume-y. Kind of moth-ball-y. But according to the wife, all deal-breaker-y.

She gave each drawer a once-over with our highly ineffective non-toxic cleaners but it still smelled. And yet, as if the smells inside the drawers were hermetically sealed in this wobbly mid-century modern design, the wife closed the drawers up and went on about her business, leaving the dresser where it sat, mere inches from where we sleep at night.

That was two months ago. The used, mid-century modern dresser still sits empty in our bedroom. The new, unassembled, IKEA, off-gassing dresser still sits in pieces in our garage. And the woman's clothes still take up every square inch of usable floor space in our bedroom. She refuses to put her clothes in the used dresser. And we can't assemble the new dresser until we sell the vintage one.

So, anyone in the market?

Do It For Your Prostate - 2010

2010-11-16T07:34:00.000-08:00

I like to grow mustaches. Plural. I just can't keep them.

The growth is rich and thick, sure. But short, bald and oddly groomed facial hair don't mix. No matter how hard I try.

So I grow them for as long as I can bear to be laughed at, and then the inevitable shave.

It drives the wife bonkers. Which is kind of my way of getting payback. Besides, it's a super cheap thrill.

So for the last two Novembers, I've used Movember, a fund raising effort that seeks an end to prostate cancer, as my excuse to 'stache out.

I don't know anyone who's ever had prostate cancer, so this is not a personal mission for me. And, as I mentioned here last November, I'm not much of a "giver," so this is not just another altrustic hobby I've jumped on.

This is about me and mustache. And without this blessed annual event, there is absolutely no reason for me to look this absurd.

Last year, I didn't raise a dime. I didn't even donate to myself. Nor did I inted to. I set up a Movember page just to keep up my shaky charade. And to be fair, I started growing the mustache about a week into November and shaved it right before Thanksgiving dinner. Fails on both counts.

But this year, I'm all in. I've had this bad boy growing since day one. And I'm taking it on the road, to spend Thanksgiving with the in-laws. The wife couldn't be more thrilled.

I've even raised some money. $160 to date. And I'm only about half way through the month. And yes, I plan to make a financial contribution myself, this year.

If you'd like to contribute to my mustache, and other people's prostates, you can make your donation here.

Or just grow your own mustaches.

The Chemicals May Just Kill You - A Love Story (Part 6)

2010-10-25T07:53:00.000-07:00

The wife and I don't get out much. At least not with each other. Our lack of babysitters and the cost associated with them have conspired to keep us socially irrelevant.

But when our good friend invited us to the opening of his new bar, we made a thrice-annual night out of it. Not only did we want to support our friend, this particular bar opening was slated to be a real big deal, based on said friend's past endeavors (I'd mention the friend and the bar, but we have a very strict, no real names policy here at Look Lefty).

Parking was a challenge and we found ourselves walking, hand-in-hand through a bizarre stretch of road framed by Dennys restaurants and cheap convention center hotels.

About a block away, my wife quickly veered off the sidewalk and through some bushes into a random parking lot, pulling me with her. "What's going on?" I asked, only with a super annoyed tone. Disgusted, she replied, "smokers!"

I hadn't even noticed, but sure enough, right in our path was a plume of hot, steamy carcinogens. I acquiesced and joined her through the bushes.

I think it's important to note here, that this woman who claims to experience such volatile reactions to all things chemical, was actually a smoker herself when we first met. And the really weird part - while many people claim to be social smokers, only opting for the fashionable little cancer wands when out with friends, my dear sweet wife, was a closeted smoker. She would only puff in the privacy of her own home (where she all but chain-smoked), extinguishing any sign of them when people (including myself) came around. Nowadays, she can't lick a stamp without getting chest pains.

Now back to the bar.

As we rounded the corner, we ran into two more smokers standing right outside the door. There was no getting inside without walking right past them. And the best part was, one of the two smokers was a partner in the bar. The wife had never met him, but I had on several occasions, so an introduction was not only in order, it would have been terribly rude to enter his bar without doing so.

The wife extended a tentative hand like a little mouse about to get batted around by feral cat. The friend took her hand and smiled graciously, not knowing anything of my wife's afflictions, all while his cigarette continued to burn just inches away.

I reveled in the moment, watching my wife squirm before finally entering the bar. Not nice, but that was my only entertainment for the evening.

As expected, the place was incredible and packed to the gills. The food looked amazing and the space was styled out beautifully. Surely, a place I will frequent.

And like any new establishment, the air was thick with the lingering aroma of fresh paint and toxic adhesives.

We said hello to our friend, congratulated him on the opening and promptly left.

All in all, a night to remember.

The Chemicals May Just Kill You - A Love Story (Part 5)

2010-10-13T07:44:00.000-07:00

I have officially found my muse.

Cassavettes had his Rowlands.

Woody had his Farrow. And his Keaton. And his Soon Yi.
(I don't know about you, but I still don't like looking at his stepdaughter's cleavage, even though she did just turn 40).

My muse, and I love her for it, is my wife's central nervous system.

I worried that such a niche subject simply couldn't sustain itself. I mean, how many disruptions to her environment could I expect to write about in a given year? And make a good story out of it? One? Maybe two?

I am here to tell you, that my dear, sweet, afflicted wife is providing an endless cannon of material. A bottomless treasure trove of absurdity. If the Chilean miners dug into this one, they might never make it out.

Last week I was tempted to write a post, applauding the hyper-sensitive receptors built into this woman, rather than ridiculing them. While strolling through our otherwise sleepy little neighborhood, she sniffed out not one, but two gas leaks coming from separate houses. The gas company was called on both occasions. Leaks were found and repaired. And everyone lived happily ever after.

Incredible. Imagine what might have been without that uncanny sense of smell. Explosions. Lifeless bodies on kitchen floors. To think, my wife - a modern day Toxic hero.

I just couldn't find a good hook.

But like any proper muse, that good wife of mine came back with all new material. This week's episode: Don't Turn On The New Furnace.

Most people will only succumb to purchasing a new furnace after the old one completely shits the bed, and even then, only after the temperatures drop below 55F.

Not us.

Our furnace was operating pretty much just fine, save for an irregular filter space. Which meant we were never getting 100% filter coverage. And that meant, the basement smells wafting up through our vents were a chronic issue for my wife. When the furnace experienced an operational hiccup last April, repaired with only a q-tip and some olive oil, a decision was forced - the Cadillac of furnaces with the uber-hepa-filter system, to be installed during summer's warmest months.

The installation itself posed a bit of a threat. What with all the industrial tape and epoxies required. In fact, my wife worried so much that she made plans to sleep at a friends house for that entire week. As it turns out, she stayed home and was only mildly affected with a bit of an itchy throat. Huge progress.*

Inching our way through the gauntlet of this home improvement project, we were feeling pretty good. All that was left was to turn that baby on. Crank it up. Find out exactly what Melba Toast was packing down there.

But the smells! Yes, we were told, there would be some initial smells. Internal coatings or what have you would need to burn off within the first couple of hours of use. Which meant, we'd wait.

The wife wanted to wait until she left town for the Thanksgiving holidays. Through all of October and most of November. No heat.

Until then, the plan was to just double sock it and throw on an extra afghan. Think of the money we'd save not using the $4000 dollar furnace we just bought.

Were it not for our neighbor - one of the two gas leak victims discovered - coming over to watch our kid this week, we'd still be living in a meat locker. She looked so sad and cold when we came home, bundled up under every blanket we own and maybe even a few bath towels. Empathy took over and my wife decided it was only right to apply the heat and suffer the consequences.

There was a smell. It was chemical-born for sure. And yet, here we all are, on the other side, warm, breathing easily and blogging about it.

Thanks honey. Keep up the good fodder. We'll all just wait for whatever comes next.

*Addendum: After reading the post above, the wife reminded me that she did in fact spend one night sleeping out of the house. Still, not an entire week. And by my measure, still a great stride forward.

The Chemicals May Just Kill You - A Love Story (Part 4)

2010-09-17T13:44:00.000-07:00

It's my wife's birthday today, September 17. For those unfamiliar with the back story on this wonderfully complex creature, please see Part 1, Part 2 and Part 3.

So anyways, I was coming up blank on what to buy the woman who wants nothing, and fears everything that off-gases. There were some suggestions bandied about the office including a gas-mask, a HEPA-one-piece, and a hyperbolic chamber. All good ideas.

If you recall my last post, I am happy to report that the case of the off-gassing phone has been resolved and the wife no longer speaks to people through a BPA-free plastic bag. She is braving it, placing that little plastic cancer vessel directly up against her face. And barely complaining.

So I thought, perhaps, what this woman needs is a head set (wired of course), that would keep her head a nice safe distance from her radio frequencies. Only problem, this nearly new phone of hers only accepts a head set through one of those mini-usb ports - not the traditional ear phone jacks everyone else in the world has. And because no one else in the world uses such a ridiculous item, they are not sold in any physical retail space.

Hence, my recent purchase on Amazon.

The wife is absolutely thrilled and the whole thing (S&H included) only cost me $15.

All birthdays should be this sweet.

The Chemicals May Just Kill You - A Love Story (Part 3)

2010-08-19T08:00:00.000-07:00

I should probably just rename the blog, focusing on this theme as it is by far my most compelling. In any event, we've got a real doozy.

As was briefly noted in my last post, the wife, subject of both T.C.M.J.K.Y-A.L.S (Parts 1 & 2), was none too happy with my recent purchase of the iCancer. In fact, I've already received a litany of emails from her detailing the SAR levels, or Specific Absortion Rates in all phones. While she may be right (I looked it up, and subsequently, I turn the wifi off and the Airplane mode on, anytime I put the phone in my pocket), the wife is certifiably insane.

exhibit a:
No, my wife isn't so insane as to believe that the radiation will be stopped by a flimsy little ziplock. That would be far to simple a problem.

After extensive research on the SAR levels of every make and model of phone, my wife settled on this hot little number, a LG CF360, knowing that I would be switching us from Sprint to AT&T with my far more fantastic, tumor phone.

As rudimentary and absurd as the phone she wanted may be, it was light years ahead of her former free phone (and way less cancer-causing), so she seemed excited about that.

But as soon as the small mass of plastic and silicone emerged from the box, a wave of noxious chemicals hit my dear sweet wife in the kisser with all the force of a Nazi gas chamber.

The tongue and throat started to swell. The chest palpitated. And the brain throbbed.

That evil little communication device would have to go to the garage, where it would be left to off-gas. This lasted about a week. That's how long my wife went without a cell phone. A week. Because the chemicals were off-gassing.

Finally, she gave it another go, with similar results. But she needs a phone. So, like any rational person might do, my wife put the off-gassing plastic phone, inside an off-gassing plastic bag. And while it doesn't seem to be quite as offensive to her highly sensitive nervous system, she has ultimately decided to trade this one in for another, plastic, off-gassing phone.

This is currently how she takes her calls, so if it sounds like she's wrapped in plastic the next time you speak to her, rest assured. It's just her phone.

Procuring the iPhone

2010-07-28T16:07:00.000-07:00

After three years of working in an industry that labels you a professional pariah if you can't "bump" phones or shoot grainy, faded looking photos with your hipstamatic, I finally gave in. But man, it wasn't easy.

My wife didn't make it easy. Besides not wanting to spend the money, she claimed that the games on this new device would stunt our child's brain development and that we'd all be exposed to Silkwood amounts of radiation.

Apple didn't make it easy. Despite making $200 off of me, plus all the kickbacks they get from the app purchases, three separate stores in my state were completely sold out of the iPhone4, one full month after the product's release date. I could either order the device and wait 7-14 days, or I could check back daily, as they receive sporadic deliveries and sell whatever shows up on a first come basis. How is that a business plan?

AT&T didn't make it easy. Even though they're gonna take me for $114 per month over the next two years, every one of their locations in the greater Portland area also "claimed" to be sold out. The last store I tried gave me the same story, until I disclosed the part about me switching over from Sprint. Once I uttered those magic words, the clerk looked both ways to make sure no one saw him, and pulled the holy grail of modern communication out from under his register. He said it was his only one. That motherfucker!

And yet, here I go, diving into an abyss of chemotherapy, poor customer service and apps that help me geo-track my TV remote. Ah, iPhone. How did I get by without you?

Living With The Gout

2010-07-05T16:20:00.000-07:00

(And how the American medical system failed me)

4 am. July 5th. I sat alone, tired, and in excruciating pain under the bright emergency room lights at Providence Medical Center.

I don't mean alone like, no one came with me. I mean I was the only human in the waiting area of the emergency room. Weird, given that these were the wee hours following a long night of young children playing with illegal explosives and residential neighborhoods sounding like the streets of Kabul.

If there had been just one severed extremity or any searing flesh in line before me, I might just have hobbled back outside, pointed a roman candle straight into my own eye, and prayed for a distraction from the pain in my foot.

I was ankle-deep in throes of a gout attack.

If you don't know what the gout is, or you think it's the same thing as gangrene or hand, foot and mouth disease, then let me quickly clarify.

Gout is an acute form of arthritis that typically affects the big toe, though it can show up in any joint. I get it in the ankles, too. It feels like getting your foot caught in a bear trap. If it was on fire. And you had to give birth, while getting kicked in the nuts. And shot. In the face.

When people talk about this horrid affliction, it's never just "gout." It's always, "the gout." Like "The Hague." Or "The Fonz." Why the superfluous "the?" Because pain of this magnitude just demands that kind of respect.

It's also known as the "rich man's disease," which is either because of the rich foods rich people eat, or because it only affect 1% of the population (mostly male).

Ironically, I spent much of my childhood fearing that I would suffer through the unimaginable pain of a kidney stone - a close cousin of the gout in that they both result from high uric acid levels. Those dreaded little calcium deposits were things of lore in my family, passed down from (and through) my father and grandfather before me. The mere thought of having to pee stones out my...well, my legs are tightly crossed as I sit here typing.

But I digress. Back to that big, lonely emergency room. This was my saving grace. Maybe this would be quick. Get in, shoot me up with some pain meds, and get out.

Nope. I waited two hours, writhing in pain every minute of it. When the doctor finally did show up, he hurried me through a diagnosis (sore ankle) and a suggested treatment (anti-inflammatory), and handed me a prescription. Oh, and he gave me two Percoset to get me through the current attack.

Before I could limp out of the hospital, the front desk stopped me for my copay on the visit - $125.00. ONE FUCKING HUNDRED AND TWENTY FUCKING FIVE FUCKING DOLLARS. My copay! Presumably, the insurance company would owe the hospital more on top of that.

Two-hours and $125.00 later, and all I got was a band-aid to a problem the doctor didn't even suggest fixing. Yes folks. This is your American medical system (if you have insurance).

I've been plagued by the gout for about eight years now, the first three of which went improperly diagnosed.

The first time I had an attack, I woke up feeling like I'd sprained my ankle. My primary care physician told me I had a blood clot.

The next time it came up, an orthopedic surgeon thought I might have misshapen bones in my feet, but he wanted to inject me with dye to find out for sure. Dye! The opposite of "live."

What the fuck is wrong with these people?

Finally, my wife convinced me during an attack on my big toe to see a Chinese acupuncturist who spoke no English - Dr. Chan. Limping through the sketchiest part of Seattle's Chinatown, I wasn't sure if I was gonna get rolled, or offered a hit off the communal crack pipe. Instead, I left the oddly sterile offices still in pain, but with a used, brown, paper bag full of roots to boil and soak my foot into. Needless to say, I was not super convinced.

Yet, despite all that skepticism, this was my first "gout" diagnosis (Dr. Chan had a translator).

It was like the veil had been lifted. The great wizard, with the fancy prefix on his name that only doctors get, is really just one of your father's drunk fraternity brothers with a nice car.

Still, I wasn't ready to give up on western medicine. Not after all the wonderful vaccines and inflated insurance premiums they've given me all these years. Not because one wise, old medicine man proposed an ailment that sounded a lot like what I might have.

I went back to the "traditional" doctors to get some second and third opinions. And what do you know? I had the gout. Well, at least as far as they could tell. The only true diagnosis for gout, according to Quincy, was to take a fluid sample from my affected joints during the height of an attack. Translation: They have to stick a needle in my toe and pull stuff out when the pain is at its most unbearable.

Here's the crazy part. Every one these traditional doctors wants me to take a pill everyday for the rest of my life to prevent any more attacks from coming. The rheumatologists, the orthopods, the podiatrist, the family doctor - all of them. The boilerplate line has been, "if you don't want to take the pills, don't complain about the pain."

The pills in question, are called Allopurinol. And it's true. The pills do help reduce the production of uric acid in your system (my grandfather also suffered from gout and was on Allopurinol most of his life - he also died of a heart attack after beating Hotchkins Lymphoma).

Now I'm no doctor, but the notion that a 38-year-old, otherwise healthy man needs to take a chemically engineered substance for the next 50 or so years was kind of preposterous to me. I might rid myself of the gout but at what cost? A golf ball sized tumor on my liver?

So, despite the pain, which was coming more frequently and with greater force, I began searching for an alternative cure.

As wise as old Dr. Chan was, he admitted that acupuncture doesn't always help the gout. And in my case, he was right. What I did learn from him though is that gout is highly affected by diet. No organ meats, shellfish or heavy creams. Done. Oh, and no alcohol.

Now I'm not a big drinker anyway, but they can't mean "no," right? Less, maybe. But "no?"

Actually, "no" really does mean "no." A few sips of beer, and I feel it. That goes for wine and whisky, too. The only social lubricant I've found gout will allow is small amount of the clear stuff - gin and vodka. So that's fun.

Then I started looking into the natural treatments. Black cherry extract is probably the most well-known, though the traditional doctors claim to know nothing about it. Unfortunately, it's an incredibly expensive habit to keep up, and I seemed to grow immune to the sweet little capsules.

I made it through the last winter with a mild amount of pain and was pleased with that. But as the weather warmed, I noticed the inflammation building again like a hemorrhoid on the backside of Mount Vesuvius.

Then I discovered "the Mother." Part of the miracle treatment known as Bragg Organic Apple Cider Vinnegar. I found it online as a natural prevention for the gout, among other things. But it has to have "the Mother."

The more I asked people what they knew about Bragg, the more I found out that it was being touted as the natural cure-all (much like the Dr. Bronner's, complete with quasi-religious text on the label).

It's cheap. Easy to find. And while a little unpleasant to the taste, it has no harmful side effects, other than possibly removing the enamel from your teeth. Fuck it. I was in.

I took two, one-tablespoon doses daily, cut with a little distilled water, and after one week, I was already feeling the effects. Not only was I not having any attacks, all the tenderness in my big toes had vanished completely. This was the best my feet had felt in five years.

And just to be sure this wasn't some weird placebo effect, I held off on buying another bottle after I drained the first one. Within three days, my toes started hurting again. I was back suckling at the restorative teet of the Mother.

So you may be wondering (if you've made it this far), if this stuff works so well, what was I doing in the hospital early Monday morning?

Well, it was fourth of July weekend. And while I've never been capable of a true bender, I did let the beer flow a bit more freely than usual. I had gotten drunk on my feet's new freedom and I paid the price.

What then is the point of this absurdly long post? I've really proved nothing. I hate the western medical community and yet, I found myself begging them for mercy just a couple days ago. I love the Mother and all of it's healing benefits, but I still can't knock back a couple of cold ones without a reaction. What's a guy with the gout supposed to do?

My plan: Make all my cocktails with two parts apple cider vinegar and let Dr. Chan handle everything from the rectal exams up.

The Huffington Enquirer

2010-06-24T16:20:00.000-07:00

According to the Huffington Post, back on June 5 "Mom finds (my) missing kid after 15 years using Facebook." I say "my" kid, because it was my kid, pictured alongside this headline.

Mind you, my kid is only four years old. And other than that one time back in Nam, she's never really gone missing.

Now despite that little subtlety, a photograph - not a screen-grab, a photograph - of my Facebook page was featured with this story about a woman who's kids were taken by her husband 15 years ago and she just found them through Facebook. On the front page! Mid-way down, but on the front-friggin page of the Huffington Post. (This screen grab is my only proof, as the picture has since been removed from the story).

I read "HuffPo," as the loyalists call it, from time to time. I've always considered it a reputable news source, if not just a little too entertain-y to be considered "real news."

So why this photo? Well, if you've stuck with this sorry excuse for a blog for any length of time (and I can't imagine why you would), you might remember a little story that was published by the Associated Press, also a fairly well-repsected news source. It featured yours truly and largely referenced an earlier post from this very blog. The original story can still be found at various respectable online news outlets, like msnbc.

I authorized the AP photo. I even posed like a self-satisfied grinning schmuck next to a glowing monitor featuring my little princess. But never did I imagine such a brazen act of journalistic vandalism would result.

I contacted the AP and learned that this was an isolated incident (the story about the missing kids appeared all over the Net, but only the Huffington Post used my Facebook page as an accompanying photo). So I sent the Huffington Post a letter expressing my displeasure with the situation.

After five days, they removed the photo. No apology. No response at all, actually. But hey, now they're practicing real, legitimate journalism.

I kind of wanted to get a little more out of the deal. Like a half-million dollar settlement or something. What's my case? Well, who's to say, the next headline to accompany my Facebook page won't read "Child impersonator uses Facebook to find best birthday clowns?"

Scary stuff, people.

Don't you LOL me.

2010-04-05T09:35:00.000-07:00

This morning I received an email from one of my oldest friends, who will remain nameless as he is no doubt reading this to keep up with his blogosphere. Yes, he is one of those. You know the type. Always tweeting and tagging friends while he virtually "Checks In" to his off-line destinations. I understand that it's critical in his career that he stay current. But the trend has now led us into knowing way more about these people's lives than you'd ever need to. And it's just annoying as hell.

It should also be noted that he didn't simply send this email to one of my three primary addresses. He emailed my facebook page.

We chatted back and forth a bit before I asked for his take on the latest internet sensation, Combination Pizza Hut and Taco Bell. Just in case you haven't heard the Das Racist buzz, here it is. And it's wonderful.

Somehow, this darling of SXSW had escaped his RSS feed. He replied, "I actually don't know the Das Racist meme - but sounds right up my alley."

Meme. Come on. Don't talk to me like one of your chat room buddies. I'm a human being and that thing I asked him about is a song - not a meme.

Yes. I know what a meme is. For those of you who do not, it is defined on wikipedia as "a postulated unit of cultural ideas, symbols or practices, which can be transmitted from one mind to another through writing, speech, gestures, rituals or other imitable phenomena."

That's not the point.

I've known this guy since 1987. I went to high school and college with him. He was at my wedding (I was not at his, because he got married in Puerto Rico and I wasn't on any cruise ships that week). But I've known this guy long before there were online memes or tweets. Or emails for that matter. He can't just casually throw meme into a conversation with me and not expect me to devote an entire blog post to it (don't think the blogger who calls the kettle black is lost on me).

Which all brings me to a larger discussion. As a rule, emoticons and online acronyms are the work of barely literate teenagers, too jacked up on Monster energy drinks and chatroulette masturbators to actually write their own thoughts, because it might tip their character count. Don't try and charm me with a tongue-out, winking smily face. It ain't happening.

Just to illustrate how bad the problem has gotten, I was watching a television show the other night where one character said out loud to another, "TTYL." They were standing face to face. Is this what we've come to, people? If we go out to dinner, in a real restaurant, and you tell me a good story, am I simply to check a box that reads, "Lefty likes this"?

And just for the record, I have never so much as typed the letters LOL (until now). I don't believe anyone who says they are LMAO. These terms barely have relevance in the online world. But please, if you must communicate like this, keep it online and directed at someone other than me.

B.O. vs. Cancer

2010-01-06T07:47:00.000-08:00

So, I smelled. Pretty fucking bad.

In the last year or so, I developed an odor so profound, some kind of weird, old man overactive pheromone stink so distinct, that I almost have trouble going to bed with myself. I can only imagine how tough it is for my wife.

It all started when I decided it was time to forsake the aluminum-filled Old Spice for something a little less Alzheimers-y.

Mmmm, Old Spice. Before the new ad campaign featuring LL Cool J and showering Centaurs, aiming squarely at the Axe Body Spray market, this was a scent you could only inherit from a father. In fact, I did inherit from my father.

I loved that smell. It was strong. You could smell an Old Spice man, whistling a mile away. Back in the 90s, one of my work colleagues quietly advised me to "ease up on the cologne," refusing to believe that such a mellifluous scent could come from a single off-yellow stick, applied generously to my underarms.

I started rubbing all that muskiness on my tender 13-year old pits well before I even had an odor. All 79 pounds of me, with a thick pair of glasses and an unruly Jew-Fro, trying to smell like a grizzled old sailor, as he returns home from sea.

Now, with 24 years of Johnson and Johnson lab work seeping deep into my pores, I'm probably already mutating cells like a 3-mile island resident. So I started seeking an alternative. Problem is, the natural stuff doesn't work. I was going through deodorants like other people go through breath mints. I had long talks with the natural grocers about my desire to smell ok and not get weird diseases from my hygiene. One of them steered me toward a Tea Tree Oil based stick from JASON natural body care products.

It seemed to work so I stuck with it, despite the fact that my wife told me she has bad reactions to Tea Tree Oil and a new work colleague told me that Tea Tree has high levels of estrogen that will soon cause me to grow breasts. Fuck it. It smells ok and it probably won't give me cancer. My wife and my man breasts would have to suffer.

But then I made a fatal flaw. I went and messed with my then harmonious pH balance.

Up until this point, I had been very happy with my natural bath soap - the bar version of Dr. Bronners soap. Yes, the same Dr. Bronner's soap you hippies use while touring with Phish and cleaning your dishes in a nearby stream - if you clean your dishes. But the bar version doesn't come with all that baggage. Because it's a bar and it lives in your shower, it's indistinguishable from the chemical laden Coast or Ivory I had lived without for years. In fact, I didn't even realize that I had been using that Dr. Bronners.

Then one night, my wife told me she rented a documentary called "Dr. Bronner's Magic Soap Box." A movie about soap.

It was fascinating. Truly. I recommend it highly. Seriously.

I decided to switch from Dr. Bronner's bar soaps, to his liquid bottles, just like the one hippie campers use. It would be like taking a little camping trip in my shower every morning. It smelled way mint-ier and it makes your balls tingle. No joke. I have discussed this phenomenon with other users and they agree, the Dr. Bronner ball tingle is great way to start your day.

And then it started. The stink. It was huge. Powerful. And it literally started the moment I got out of the shower - even before I could apply my new natural tea tree oil deodorant. It made no sense. How something so sweet and minty, could make me smell so foul? And it was unlike any body odor I had ever encountered. I could smell it in meetings at work. I could smell it while eating meals. You can only imagine what a smell like that evolved into by day's end.

So I went off the Dr. Bronner's liquid. Back on the Dr. Bronner's bar soap. I think I'm smelling better everyday and I'm keeping it natural.

But this whole thing really made me wonder; could hippies earn more respect if they just used Bronner's bar soap over that stink-filled liquid?

Do It For Your Prostate

2009-11-14T21:32:00.001-08:00

I don't pretend to be someone who gets behind causes. I hate anything-a-thons. And I hate asking people for money. Sort of rules me out of most fund-raising endeavors.

But it's November. And that means it's Movember. What's Movember, you ask.

Basically, men all over the world get to indulge their weird displays of virility all in the name of prostate and testicular cancer. Here here!

Truth told, raising money for prostate cancer was never my intention. I was just sick and I didn't shave for a week. And I just happened to carve out this slick little number on November 1.

Not just a mustache, but a mustache with the flavor saver (a term I had never heard before and which everyone tells me has perverse connotations - if I've offended, I apologize but I just thought it was a good expression for all the flavors that go in your mouth and get caught in that thing on the way in). The whole reason for the flavor saver in the first place was to distinguish me, a poseur hipster, from the guy without the flavor saver who rapes young boys.

The wife hasn't been very impressed with my sweet new look. She says she's not sure if she's attracted to me with this thing. I'm not sure she was all that attracted to me without it, so I figure, no loss there. I probably would have shaved it by now, but it is Movember, and if I hold out til Thanksgiving, I can fuck up some serious family photos. So I'm keeping it.

I am by no means asking you to donate money. I'm not even sure I'm going to. But I might. And if you felt like you might want to support these nastly little pubes growing all over my upper lip, or just the fate of balls everywhere, please do. You can make a contribution on my mustache's behalf here:

http://us.movember.com/mospace/468637/

Weekend Downtown Users borrowed my cell phone

2009-09-20T22:06:00.000-07:00

I don’t spend a lot of time in downtown on weekends. It’s a very different place than it is on weekdays.

Weekday downtown users (WDDUs) stream in to the parking garages and tall glass buildings five mornings a week, only to return to their quiet little neighborhoods in the late afternoons and on weekends. It’s organized, rhythmic for the most part, well-kempt.

On weekends, my pleasant little city becomes Attack of the Bodysnatchers, but the only bodies being snatched are covered in scabs and tattoos. The place is fucking gross. I was mostly amazed that they keep this alternate slice of Portlandia so well hidden from us WDDUs.

Where do all these Weekend Downtown Users (WEDU) go? I should have never asked that question – they’re obviously looting the WDDUs neighborhoods on weekdays. Or maybe once downtown fills up with all us WDDUs, the WEDUs just blend in. Yeah, ok. We’ll go with that.

So I rode into downtown today (Sunday) to meet a friend and check out a movie. The WEDUs were in full junkie-fucking effect. I nearly ran over a few on my bike.

As we walked out of the theater after the show, my friend and I talking about the flick, we were asked by a tweaked out twenty-something couple (mind you, the worst looking twenties you’ve ever seen) if they could borrow a cell phone. They added some sob story about trying to get a ride back to Texas.

I had about a split second for the following thought - Don’t be “The Man.” Lend em the phone. Aww, man, I don’t want them touching my phone. That shit is personal. I understand if you’re a young lost kid, or an elderly person, or someone in real trouble that they didn’t create themselves. But not this bullshit... Don’t be “The Man.”

So I handed over the phone. One of their scabby claws grabbed it. The guy’s actually. He dialed a number with his back to me, hung up and dialed another.

I tried to continue a natural conversation with my friend about the movie we just saw, but it was useless. I was way too busy stressing over the Hep D he was leaving on my phone, which I will now never use again.

I know I shouldn't be surprised by all of this. It happens in major metropolitan areas all across the country - the seedy side exposed once the worker bees evacuate (a phenomenon, by the way, worthy of a documentary). I just thought my town was different.

So if you’re reading this, and you ooze something infected anywhere on your body that’s visible, let’s just play our respective roles. You be the disgusting junkie messing up my nice little city. And I’ll be “The Man.”

My Inner-Hippie

2009-08-11T09:47:00.000-07:00

Back in my college days, I did the whole hippie thing. Not very original, I know. Especially going to college in Madison, Wisconsin. That’s like saying, I went to Vassar and did the lesbian thing. Or I went to Florida State and did the date rape thing. Totally cliché.

Perhaps even more embarrassing, there was no altruistic motive behind my peace, love and happiness. I wasn't saving baby seals or feeding the world. It was just me, a pair of Birkenstocks, and an unruly Jew-fro experimenting with recreational drugs, while driving an old VW all over the country to see jam bands like the Grateful Dead and Phish.

The natural progression for this post-college wannabe was to head west. Portland Oregon to be exact. But what happened next was completely unexpected. No sooner had I unpacked my Guatemalan backpack, than I shed the whole youthful facade, starting with my hair, shaved down to a quarter of an inch. And with my new cop-like buzz cut, I quickly adopted an uptight behavioral pattern, which completely belied my previous "don't harsh on my mellow" vibe.

At the time, I was neither proud, nor ashamed of my former identity. I saw the humor in my fickle transformation, but at the same time, I had no real interest in returning to that free-spirit lifestyle. That was the old me and the new me had a new rep to establish.

Years passed and I pretty much settled into the persona I formed in those early Portland days. I moved around a bit for my career, met a nice girl, got married and had a baby. We moved back to Portland, bought a nice house, in a nice neighborhood and own a nice car. I went from “hippie” to “yuppie," carrying on the great American cliché.

But this summer marked 17 years since my last brush with the patchouli crowd, and I was finally ready to relive a little slice of my dirty past. Phish announced they were playing the Gorge Amphitheater, just a scant 4.5 hour road trip away, and it seemed I had found my venue. With a couple of hall-passes from the wives, an old friend and I set out on our own 24-hour summer tour.

We arrived at the campground about four hours before show time and all the old memories came wafting in through the car windows. Kind veggie burritos. Errant Frisbees. And yes, an obscene amount of freshly burned cannabis. The nostalgia felt warm and refreshing but through the dense fog of dried up desert dust, cigarette smoke and body odor, I could see that this place was filthy. Garbage strewn about. Aimless slobs casually invading your space. And a line-up of gas-guzzling, luxury RVs as far as the eye could see.

These weren’t the merry pranksters or the Abbie Hoffmans I aspired to all those years ago. These weren’t the young and the free. These people looked old and rough. They needed more than a shower. They needed a blood transfusion.

My traveling companion reminded me that back in the day there were plenty of cracked out punks, who would rip off their own bro’ for another nitrous balloon. The shows never were about hippies, he said. Just a bunch of bums who want to dress up in funny outfits and take drugs. He was absolutely right. I was disillusioned.

The music started and I was able to relax a bit, actually enjoying what I had come all this way to see in the first place. And then it occurred to me, as my head involuntarily bobbed up and down to newer songs I never heard before - I had inadvertently become the hippie I mistook myself for all those years prior. Only with less hair, a button down shirt and a bad attitude. Here's how I figure it:

I ride my bike to work everyday, part of our whole one-car family plan to keep the fuel consumption low.
We are a staunchly organic household (mostly due to the wife and her chemical objections).
Our summer veggies come straight out of the backyard compost garden.
My kid starts summer camp today at a farm called Mother Earth, where she’ll be stomping barefoot on locally grown berries to make jelly.

I’m not complaining. I just thought I was going through a phase.

(P.S. Sorry to leave you with the maggot post all this time - I really had nothing of consequence to say).

Internet-1, My Garbage Can-0

2009-07-23T07:58:00.000-07:00

I had never seen a maggot in real life. Until two nights ago, when I opened the outside garbage can only to find hundreds of the little buggers crawling all over my shit. Truly, the creepiest, non-threatening things put on this earth.

My father always used the expression, "that (something he had just scarfed down) could gag a maggot," the sound of which always caused me to gag slightly, myself, but made me think a lot about what a maggot eats.

And there was that scene in Poltergeist, where the dude reaches for the piece of steak and maggots scurry out, which scared the crap out of me. So I went searching for the clip online. I didn't find it. Instead, I found something far more horrible. In fact, what I saw in my trash can, were just adorable, little, organic, prepubescent flies, by comparison.

I urge you not to watch this.

The Chemicals May Just Kill You - A Love Story (Part 2)

2009-07-15T10:13:00.000-07:00

Now that the character of my wife has been firmly established, we'll just pick up where we left off, only to say again, the woman has some intense sensitivities to the world in which we live.

One sensitivity that's been rearing it ugly rear lately, is her aversion to the WIFI waves that are passing around us, specifically when we use or get close to the laptop. Here's the first article that comes up in google on the matter.

This rules out all sharing of funny youtube videos, or picking out new house furnishings online. There will be no quick looking up of movie times. And if you want to stream in some music, you best be doing that on the desktop computer upstairs - the same desktop that gives off the signal my laptop receives. Shhh, don't tell her.

Last night we were discussing ways to save money and the topic of cancelling cable came up. I was all for it. We could get Apple TV (can anyone recommend?), kaibosh cable and netflix, and only buy the shows and movies we want to watch.
This would force us to choose our television viewing wisely, not just grow numb to the nightly channel surf, hoping tonight we land on something, anything other than House Hunters International and the 11 pm Chelsea Lately or Jon Stewart debate. We might even start reading and listening to music more. We were giddy with the possibilities. So much so, that my wife leaned over my shoulder to read about Apple TV on the evil laptop.

And then she saw it. Big, bold lettering. "Wireless to the Extreme."

The waves! The waves would be all around us everytime we watched tv.

Bye, bye Apple TV. The moment was fleeting but the love was real.

Suck one, Twitter

2009-07-14T08:55:00.000-07:00

In past posts, I've bemoaned the popularity of twitter. Like here, here and here.

I've since tried to open my mind to the social network and learn to use it for the good of my career. I've tried to find the insightful and the relevant among all those shameless tweets.

And then this showed up in my email.

I'd like to thank my coworker for passing this along, and reminding me why I was right all along.

The Coffee Shop Saga, Part 5

2009-07-08T08:19:00.000-07:00

If you've been paying any attention at all, you'd know that I'm forever searching for a proper coffee shop.

Somewhere in between my house and my office, where I can sit down with a decent Americano and write.

Somewhere that won't tack on an extra dime to my $2 drink, forcing me to bust up another bill, or worse yet, go into debit.

Somewhere without an owner that calls attention to my doody time whenever I ask for the bathroom key. Actually, fuck that. Somewhere that doesn't require a bathroom key at all.

(Ed. Note: Playing attached video provides recommended soundtrack for the remainder of this post and is referenced below - the music is incredible but watching people dance to it, not so incredible).

I thought the last place was it. And while I haven't completely given up on them, they are a block and a half off my direct route to work and they tack on the extra dime to my Americano. I've also grown increasingly unhappy with my co-clientelle there. But without a viable substitute, my move was all talk.

Last night, some friends in the neighborhood told me about Cartola Coffeehouse on NE 7th. The same block as the neighborhood dry cleaners that no one actually uses and right next door to ghetto quickie mart, where 40-oz bottles of Old English outsell all other items combined, 10-1. The same block where my wife and I witnessed two old friends greet each other with a hug and the motto "once a 7th street gang member, always a 7th street gang member."

I couldn't imagine it. Trendy, bourgeois coffeeshop? There? Nah-ah.

And here I am. Sitting on a plush, cushioned bench, working on a white marble-topped table, under cool, low lighting, listening to my newly heavily rotated, Menahan Street Band on the cafe speakers and drinking a $2 Americano, made with Stumptown coffee. And I haven't strayed one foot off of my direct route to work.

If I had any complaint at all, it would be that the place is a bit intimate for me to sit down and work comfortably. But the Americano is only $2.

For now, this will do.

Panic at the Dentist's Office

2009-07-04T15:44:00.000-07:00

I pried my sweaty body off the pleather recliner and bolted upright. The hygienist stood behind me making copious notes in my permanent file.

"Do you really have to write all that down?," I asked pathetically, the color just now returning to my face. "I'm fine, now. Seriously. Let's just do the cleaning."

"Oh, this? It's nothing," she told me with that bullshit cheeriness that all dental hygienists have mastered. "I'll be done in just a second, here."

What she was writing, in that permanent file of mine, was how I had just completely lost my marbles, right there in her chair. Not because I'm scared of dental work, mind you. I've had root canals and gum grafts and really had no problem with it. I just lost my fucking shit. And while she chalked it up to a possible heart condition, which really isn't any better on my permanent record if I were to ever apply for new insurance policies, the truth is, I just lost my fucking shit.

It all began with a set of lost keys, which caused me to run late for my appointment.

Then came my ride in. The route to my dentist's office combined with the ornery behavior of that morning's motorists, made for an absolutely harrowing commute. I spent the last few minutes before locking up the bike, reflecting on how close I came to becoming road kill.

That had me all freaked out, and then I began to worry about my blood pressure. A few weeks ago, I saw a new doctor who told me my blood pressure was a little high. That makes perfect sense given my make-up, but remarkably, I typically test low. I knew I was going to the dentist soon, and I know they test my blood pressure before every cleaning, so I figured I'd just check in again, once I got there. But now I was heading into this test with a heart rate that could jump-start a Boeing 727.

As I entered the office, I asked the receptionist for a glass of water. It was cold. Delicious. I was about to blow a blood vessel.

They led me back to my room, sat me down in the reclining pleather chair and took my arm.

"So, I just had a pretty gnarly bike ride in and I'm afraid my blood pressure is gonna be high."

"Oh, you'll be fine," she said all bullshitty as she slid the sleeve over my bicep. "Let's just see here."

Pwsshh, pwsshh, pwsshh.

"Oh my! You are high."

My heart hammered away at the inside of my chest. "Like how high?" I stuttered.

"Oh, about twice as high as last time. It's fine." All bullshitty. "We'll test it again in a few minutes. What'd you eat last night? Or for breakfast this morning? Something salty?"

"I eat super healthy," I pleaded with this woman, hoping she would give me a better prognosis. "My wife's a food nazi. We eat kale and whole grains and shit. And everything's organic." But then I started thinking, if I am having a heart attack, this may be the last woman I speak to before I'm unconscious, so I better 'fess up, now.

"I love cheese!" I blurted out, full of shame. "It's my only weakness. "I love cheese and I like butter, too, but I rarely indulge in butter." My dental hygienist nodded. "What's high blood pressure mean exactly, anyway?," I wimpered.

My hygienist, a former emergency medical technician, felt it her job to tell me all the gory details about what happens to the human blood stream when all systems are not go. I would share them here, but that was the part where everything went out of focus.

The color had completely left my skin. I could tell from the tip of my now grey nose. Sweat poured in a steady stream down either side of my face and into my ears. And my heart was fucking killing me. I kind of thought I was about to pass out, but my mind raced to think of anything else I might want to tell my dental hygienist before I went into in a coma.

I jumped out of the pleather dentist chair and moved to a more upright seat facing the hygienist. "Could I get another cup of water?" Wait no! She had just told me that the water in your body puts pressure on the outside of your veins and capillaries making it hard for them to push the blood stream along.

The bullshitty hygienist finally went and did me a solid. She got a wet towel for me to cool myself off. And that was all I needed. She tested my blood pressure again. I was making my way down. Things were sharpening up. I had a sip of water - just a sip - and gathered my composure that had spewed across the room.

"Thanks for the towel. I think I just had a bit of a panic attack. You started telling me all about blood vessels and I just got a little wooz-"

"Well, it's important to know those things," she barked back.

"Ok, ok. Whatever. Can we just clean my teeth, now."

"Sure," she said. "I just need to make a little note."

In that cheery, bullshitty voice.

I've got followers

2009-06-23T16:00:00.000-07:00

Dear Alyssa (Alyssa46cn) and DoloresBarrera (Barrera667) -

Thanks for deciding to follow me on twitter. I'm flattered by the sudden attention. And though I never post anything for you to actually follow, I get the sense you're interested in more than just my tweets.

Apparently, Dolores "needs an older man who knows how to fuck (her) right." Now I don't know you Dolores, so I'm not sure what makes you think I'm older than you. From your profile picture, I would guess, that yes, I am a bit older. However, not knowing you makes it difficult to know if I could satisfy your needs.

And Alyssa just wants to share "pics from last weekend" - pics that are strangely blocked by my office firewall for nudity and adult content. Awwww...

I'm just shocked you both chose me. I mean, you're both very attractive and obviously, very friendly. But as tech-savvy as you both are, what with your web cams and your tiny urls, there must be all sorts of users out there who can stimulate your need for tweets. And you picked me. Lucky lucky me.

So I'll try to keep things interesting for you guys, now that I have followers and all. And just to be a good sport, I'll follow you, too. I totally need to see some pics from that party, Alyssa.

Support Twitter Spam

Nooooooooooooo!

2009-06-22T07:19:00.000-07:00

Not exactly sure what's happened here, but that perfect coffee shop I found about six months ago for my pre-workday, "Lefty time," ... ate a big turd.

I admit, I haven't been as ardent a patron for the last month or so (times is tough). But I never imagined that my short departure would result in such a monumental breakdown.

I'm currently writing to you from that once-sweet little NoPo coffee shop with the perfect not-too-hipster-but-still-intriguing clientele and a mix of tunes that never fail to please, now overrun with senior citizens cracking sudoku puzzles in their morning papers to the easy-listening strains of Paul Simon's Graceland. And let me just say, you have never hated an album that you once foolishly enjoyed, as much as I do right now.

Anyone know a decent coffee shop in inner-Portland?

(Not quite sure why there are english subtitles translating english lyrics, but thank god for the sub-titled "ooh-ooh-ooh-ooh-ooh." Would've been totally lost without them).

Written off as a crank

2009-06-18T11:22:00.000-07:00

The AP story about my Facebook etiquette post broke today. I'm gonna be huge in Billings, Montana.

Once again, folks, you read it here first.

Go Winnipeg!

2009-06-16T08:53:00.000-07:00

I just got back from visiting my in-laws in Winnipeg. This statement is usually met with, "Why would anyone live in Winnipeg?" or more commonly "Ummm, where's Winnipeg?" (Due north of Fargo, North Dakota in the Canadian province of Manitoba).

(Ed. Note - Even if you don't watch this four-minute video, please at least hit play to hear this post's accompanying soundtrack).

Despite an intolerable climate and bleak landscape, Winnipeg is strangely compelling. Here's why:

1. I was there this year during Game 7 of the Stanley Cup Finals. I expected nothing short of a Super Bowl party on New years Eve while the Molsons runneth over to celebrate this blessed event. Instead, I went to Game 6 of the American Hockey League's (AHL) Calder Cup, in which, the hometown Manitoba Moose lost 4-1 to perennial champs, the Hershey Bears (that's Hershey, Pennsylvania). The sold out crowd at the MTS Centre came out to support their second rate team while hockey's biggest show was taking place at that same exact time on television screens everywhere. Everywhere but the MTS Centre. So while the live, albeit mediocre hockey game took place right before our eyes, a crowd of 15,003, mostly clad in Jets jerseys (the NHL franchise that left Winnipeg in 1996 to become the Phoenix coyotes), transfixed their collective gaze on handheld communication devices, awaiting updates from Joe Louis arena.

2. Many notable talents have come out of Winnipeg. Most notably Neil Young. Which alone, is pretty notable. The town also gave birth to the Guess Who, which later spawned, BTO (Bachman Turner Overdrive), First-Blood-shirt-shirking-actress, Anna Paquin, art-house filmmaker, Guy Madden, Lilith Fair-ian singer/songwriter Chantal Kreviazuk, Let's Make a Deal host, Monty Hall, and the Disney character's namesake, Winnie the Pooh.

3. There's a Canadian television show called "Less Than Kind" about a dysfunctional Jewish family in Winnipeg that operates a driving school. It's basically the Canadian version of "Arrested Development." But the city plays an integral role in the story. The story was written by the uncle of my wife's childhood friend, who taught everyone how to drive and smoke a cigarette at the same time. Coincidentally, we spent the weekend hanging out with my in-law's neighbor, who also happens to star in this show, filmed on location. So we watched. It was great. Really, it was.

4. I learned this weekend, that "According to Environment Canada, Winnipeg is the coldest city in the world with a population of over 600,000." IN THE WORLD!! The city's record low reached -57 degrees. Fahrenheit.

5. Winnipeg is the Slurpee capitol of the word, as my wife often reminds me. It's also the Bingo capitol of Canada, which my wife does not know. I've enjoyed both on past visits.

So what am I getting at with all this useless Winnipeg trivia, and why should you care?

It's nice to see people take so much pride in a town that could easily be written off.

It's nice to know the local celebrities, and even have a connection to them.

It's a nice place to live. But I wouldn't want to visit.

The Chemicals May Just Kill You - A Love Story

2009-06-02T08:28:00.000-07:00

Last Thursday, around 4 pm, at my desk, the phone rings.

“Hello?”

My wife: (voice tinged with panic) “We’ve got a problem.”

I ask her what’s wrong (my own voice trembling a bit, now).

My wife: (More panic – can’t get words out fast enough) Mike and Melanie (our neighbors three doors down - names changed) are blow torching the paint off their house.

I know these calls. They happen often. Not blow torches specifically. But some other panic-strewn response to chemical exposure. And yet, after nine blissful years of this, I still have no idea how to handle it.

My wife has an extremely rare disorder. So rare that no doctor has yet to diagnose it properly. We’ve heard everything from fibromyalgia to your common clinical anxiety case. The best we can ascertain is that it’s something akin to what’s known as Multiple Chemical Sensitivity (MCS).

In lay terms, the woman runs screaming at the sight of a Sharpee.

She smells things you and I would never smell. Paint smells. Glue smells. Gas smells. Plastic smells. Cleaning supply smells. If it doesn’t come from the earth, my wife doesn’t like the way it smells.

The way she describes it, these smells cause her throat and tongue to swell up and she feels shooting pains in her chest.

You could say one of two things in response.
1. That’s awful, god, I feel horrible for her.
2. That woman is bat shit crazy. Run, man. Run.

I’ll admit, the first time she complained of the duct tape in the house bothering her and asked me to take it out to the garage, I thought she was out of her goddamned mind. I resisted the urge to just say “no” – actually force her to consume all that rich, silvery plastic and adhesive to prove there’s nothing wrong with it.

But I went the other route. I decided to stick it out for the woman I love. Through thick and thin as they say. And it’s been pretty thin.

We’ve considered moving three separate times because of smells in our house, including our current one.

We’ve purchased new furniture that needed to “off-gas” at a friend’s house for a few months before we could take it in. Because of the smells.

We leave restaurants and friends houses that have been painted or remodeled in previous months. Because of the smells.

Since having a kid, the severity of this disorder increased monumentally. Part of that was chalked up to weird hormonal shit that happens during pregnancy. The other part is absolutely her fierce lioness-like protection of our daughter from all that is evil in the world (sic. chemicals).

So there’s your background. I'd like to break up this ridiculously long post with a glimpse into my life - this awesome trailer for the movie Safe.

Based on this trailer, the subject matter and the talent, I should have loved this movie. But it sucked.

So back to that phone call last week from my wife about the blow torches. My only viable response at that point was, "Are you sure?"

My wife: (More panic. More rushed speech) I just drove by. There are guys in haz-mat suits doing the work! We’re heading to Sellwood (the neighborhood farthest from our home, while still in Portland, where friends will provide a safe house).

Blow torching paint? Haz mat suits? What?

I actually knew exactly what. We once looked at a house that had been stripped down to the foundation and rebuilt with all natural materials – even the soil was replaced around the home – because their painters had used blow torches to remove old paint from their home and it was lead-based paint. Subsequently, at least one of their three kids, maybe two, has developed autism, thought to be caused by the lead paint that was burned off. Meanwhile, it was happening three doors down from my house.

Needless to say, we really did have a problem.

I started by trying to call the home owners, people we really like, and ask them if we could stop the blow torching and find another way. No answer.

Next the CDC. Gone for the day. The DEQ. Nothing.

FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK!

If I didn’t get those blow torches turned off, my wife would never go back to that house. I had no choice. I called the cops. I pleaded with them to send a car over and try to stop the madness while I biked home to meet them.

They passed me off to the fire department. The fire department said they would send a truck, but I could tell from her voice, the dispatcher clearly thought I was out of my mind.

I hopped on my bike and raced home, fully prepared to throw myself in front of the blow torches, ala Mel Gibson taking a bullet for Danny Glover, Lethal Weapon style. The wind was blowing south. FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK! We live south of Mike and Melanie.

When I got there, the blow torches were thankfully off. I got Mike on the phone who was thankfully open to idea of not blowtorching anymore (he later decided to continue). Even more thankfully, he told me that they had the boards on their home stripped down to the wood and repainted 15 years ago, which would suggest there wasn’t any lead in the paint – or at least not much.

And the fire truck never showed up. Thankfully.

My wife and kid stayed at the safe house one more night while the last of the blow torching of the lead-free paint took place. I stood there watching the process from a safe distance, and I couldn’t help but look at these guys, still in their haz-mat suits, blow torching latex (still a chemical) off of a house, with kids, right across the street, riding their bikes not wearing haz-mat suits, and thought to myself "why is this all perfectly normal?"

Maybe my wife is right. Beware of the chemicals.

***UPDATE*** I just got a call from an environmental health specialist with the State of Oregon, Dept. of Human Services, who tells me that according to the EPA, it is in fact illegal to blow torch paint off a house in Oregon. I provided the name of the outfit responsible for the blow torching, Ed Bell & Sons, and apparently, there is a mounting case against them. Our story was added to the mounting.

(Ed. note: I've wanted to write all this about my wife's disorder each time another one of these ridiculous situations come up. I worried about how I would capture it all without throwing my dear sweet wife under the proverbial bus. But with fodder this good, my wife knew she couldn't deny me the pleasure of sharing, and if you have any information about this disorder, we're always looking for a new perspective. All subsequent posts about our chemical run-ins will be much shorter, with links to this post serving as the subtext).

Carry on.

Not Anonymous

2009-05-28T07:45:00.000-07:00

Yes friends, my ship has come in.

The words of this otherwise anonymous blogger graced the hallowed pantheon of the "I, Anonymous" column today.

I just picked up a copy of this week's Portland Mercury, still hot off 'em, and turned immediately to the back page. Much to my delight, there I found last week's rant about the paper towel chucker in the bathroom at work. They changed the title and a few words. And the illustration (right) is pathetic, but that's ok. I've finally made it.

Just remember - you heard it here, first.

Carry on.

All the ads fit to print

2009-05-26T11:06:00.001-07:00

With the daily edition of your local fishwrap getting thinner, fluffier or just stopping the presses once and for all, it's not exactly news to say, content is suffering.

I don't pretend to be one of these newspaper purists who believes we must protect the printed edition of every major periodical at all costs, including those that only affect the shareholders. I say, if the online edition has a growing audience, while printed subscription rates drop, the newspapers ought to figure out a new business model. One that compensates journalists for solid reporting, regardless of how it appears - ink or pixelated form. In fact, I tend to favor a move toward digital news, if for no other reason than to save a few trees, but that's an entirely different conversation.

Online or traditional newsprint, the great dailies of this country - The New York Times, The Washington Post, The Wall Street Journal - must remain credible and reputable sources of news. At all costs.

It pains me to log into any of these pillars of printed word and find anything Brittany-Octomom-Jon-and-Kate-plus-eight-related. And yet, the only chance these organizations have at survival, the only way for them to compete with the trash that really moves product, like the people magazines and the Perez Hiltons, is to enter the gossip game. I've come to terms with the idea that if I really want to know who Jennifer Aniston is fucking these days, or what Amy Winehouse is sniffing, I'm just as likely to find that out from the Cincinnati Enquirer as I am, The National Enquirer.

As someone who makes their livliehood from the advertising industry, I'm especially ok with the idea of more ads. It's just the price of doing business. Especially if they're entertaining ads. Let's face it. Newspapers have gone into, as we all know, the business of entertainment.

Boards >> Screening Room >> Apple - Second Opinion

Sure, it brings into question how objectively a newspaper might report on one of their larger corporate sponsors, but you gotta do what you gotta do.

Where I draw the line is at the New York Times and what they've sacrificed in return for the almighty Apple dollar.

For anyone who reads the New York Times online, the ultimate media whores have given up approximately 2/3 of their front page (the majority of it, for all you math-letes out there) to feature the humorous stylings of Apple's bumbling PC man and his foil, the young, hip mac guy. Entertaining? Perhaps. But two fucking thirds. That's no longer news. That's just a few headlines squished between a big, fat, corporate shill. What happened to America's most trusted (albeit liberal) rag?

And the newspaper industry wonders why nobody cares about them anymore.

I, Anonymous (Part 2)

2009-05-21T10:58:00.000-07:00

A while back, I posted a rant which I had also sent into the local alternative weekly, The Portland Mercury, in hopes of making it to their column, I, Anonymous. It never did get published in the paper - just on their site. Their loss.

I'm at it again. And rather than wait to see if it ever get's posted, I'll simply share it with you, my loyalists, in this exclusive preview to what will hopefully be coming soon to an I, Anonymous column near you.

Bathroom Savages
Hey Germ Freak working on the second floor of my office building - I feel ya. I don’t like touching bathroom door handles, either. And though you waste an obscene amount of paper managing this disorder, I’ll even forgive you that, too. But after you use the paper towel to open the door, so that you’re precious little hands never make indirect contact with some other dude’s dirty dong, could you please stop throwing crumpled wads of paper on the floor. Besides, don’t you have to open the door to your office after you leave the bathroom? The same door all those filthy cock fondlers also handle? This is a place of business, but where is it ok to drop your detritus into a mounting pile on the floor? Apparently where only people with very clean penises live.
- Anonymous

Nike retread

2009-05-12T20:51:00.000-07:00

I love Nike hoops ads. I look forward to them with every NBA playoffs.
The original, Mars Blackman with his main man Michael Jordan.
Barber shop smack talk between C. Webb and Spree.
The LeBrons.
I love what Nike and their ad agency, Wieden and Kennedy have done together. But I gotta say, this...this is disappointing, if not incredibly annoying.

Some jackass (SNL's Keenan Thompson?) making Bron look like a tool:

OR

Chris Rock making Penny Hardaway look smooth:

Really?

**UPDATE**
The other jackass (Kobe's voice) is David Allen Grier, just confirmed by ESPN announcers as the puppets were trotted out for more on-air hijinx. And the charade soldiers on with three, new, equally uninspired, flat falling spots. Perhaps the most interesting part of it all, is the director, Stacy Wall, an old Wieden vet, most likely had a hand in the little Penny campaign that got so egregiously bit.

Have an opinion, please

2009-05-10T21:21:00.000-07:00

You know why I love Miss California, Carrie Prejean? Not because she's a walking hypocrisy - playing the family values card while naked photos of her pop up all over the internet. But that is all fantastic.

No, I love Miss Prejean because she has an opinion. And as unpopular as her opinion may have been (probably not very among Miss USA audiences), she stood by it.

A couple nights ago, I went out for dinner and asked my server whether he preferred the berry cobbler or the bread pudding. Without skipping a beat, he answered "berry cobbler." I ordered it and I realized at that moment just how much I loathe a server who won't indulge me in this simple exercise.

Invariably, when I go out to eat, I engage in this little ritual while ordering, regardless of how dissimilar the two menu items I'm deliberating on may be. The discourse has become some kind of subconscious habit for me and while it drives my less confrontational co-diners to cringe, I really don't really care. I figure nobody at my table knows the kitchen better than our server and I want to hear what they have to say.

Too often, the response is "it depends on what you're in the mood for." I'm not a fucking moron. I understand that the bacon-wrapped pork loin is very different than the tofu sprout salad and that someone who may be in the mood for one, probably isn't in the mood for the other. But if I'm asking which you prefer, than I care to know your opinion. Take that as a compliment. You, my server, strike me as someone who I can trust, and, unless you have non-functioning taste buds, I'm pretty sure you have an opinion to give.

You either like cilantro or you don't. You either prefer chocolate over vanilla, or you're a frigid, angry person. And if you spend a decent part of your life working in a kitchen, you most certainly have some idea of what you'd order from it.*

Today's workplace is full of answers like "it depends on what you're in the mood for." That's the safe answer. That's the answer that gets you invited to lots of meetings and slapped on the back. That's the answer that keeps you firmly rooted in middle management with no where to go but down. That's not the answer that gained a Miss USA contestant 15 minutes of national hoopla.

Mind you, I don't ask everyone what they think. And frankly, I have no interest in what Miss Prejean has to say about same sex marriage. But, if I do ask for your opinion, whether you're serving me dinner or selling me insurance, make sure you have one. I might just buy it.

*If the server is a vegetarian, or has some other dietary restrictions, their response comes with inherent limitations. I can live with that and even account for it in making my decision. But to not have an opinion at all is complete and utter bullshit.

Is Ashton Kutcher The Messiah?

2009-04-29T09:46:00.000-07:00

He does have over 1.5 million followers. On twitter (1,504,175 at the time of this post).

You've probably heard the breaking news all week that Mr. Kutcher arrived at this astounding number while publicly challenging CNN to a twitter race - first one to a million followers. Now, all of those followers wait anxiously to hear what Ashton will say next. Things like:

@cnnbrk isn't much better. Trust me.

Maybe this is just what the world needs right now. The economy is in the shitter. The arms race is about to go up like a tinder box. And a bunch of Mexican pigs just pushed us into the next great pandemic. Who better to lead us toward salvation, than a hunky kid who has a thing for mommy figures and punkin' his friends.

The thing that's cool about this new avenue for self-fulfilling prophets, like Ashton, is that it's never too late to join the masses, become a disciple and proselytize yourself. Many of these false idols you may be following even follow other false idols themselves, which all makes for a very egalitarian second coming.

So? Who's ready to play God?

The show that nobody's talking about

2009-04-10T15:56:00.000-07:00

Either no one actually watched this year's "revealing new TNT series" Trust Me, starring Will, from Will and Grace and Ed, from Ed, or no one is man enough to admit that they watched it. Well, this is one guy who not only watched every episode this season, but bears no shame admitting it.

It's a show about life in an ad agency. I work in an ad agency. I had to watch it. Only, this isn't really how things are in an ad agency. At least not my ad agency. The show draws on industry cliches to form its plot lines, then executes them with ham-fisted dialogue that real agency folks would get laughed at, or fired for even thinking.

What I find most interesting is that this show, is little more than a modern take on AMC's hugely popular, Mad Men. Only, with crappier writing, acting, directing, set design and wardrobe. Don't take my word for it - see the Golden Globes 2009 Best Television Series - Drama. And yet, I've never been able to watch an entire episode of Mad Men (except for that one where Don Draper is led away from his meetings in L.A. by some little tramp to frolic in Palm Springs at someone's super dope, mid-century modern home).

So what about Trust Me did I find so arresting? I don't know. Perhaps it was Griffen Dunne as the aging Group Creative Director. That guy can do no wrong since the mid-80s flick, After Hours. Maybe it was the fact that the Ed guy played an A&R guy in a short lived series called Love Monkey that I thought had potential. Or maybe I'm just so narcissistic that I imagined I was watching my life with a whole lot more drama.

Whatever the reason, please watch the reruns this summer so I can find out what happens next in the exciting, fast-paced lives of advertising creatives, Mason and Connor next season on Trust Me, only on TNT.

Let's Keep Facebook Fun, People

2009-03-25T16:54:00.000-07:00

(Written as a guest blog for yaffetidbits.com)

You’ve seen it before.

You’re a little bored, you log into Facebook and your social networking buzz is quickly killed by the inevitable bad news update. Some examples:

Molly Jenkinson is hoping her hubby has better luck this week on the job hunt. Can’t take much more of him being home.

John Quimby is hello Monday. You sure look a lot like Saturday and Sunday.

Paul Hatfield is sad.

I’ve changed the names to protect the pathetic, but these are real posts I’ve seen along with countless other layoff laden updates that practically beg you for a condolence, or even to pry for more information.

That may be what’s on their mind, as Facebook so politely asks its users with every log in. But that query should be treated like someone asking how you’re doing. They don’t really want to know how you’re doing. It’s a courtesy. And the courteous response should be, “fine thanks,” or in the case of a Facebook status update, some witty variation thereof (I can even live with the non-witty updates, which are aplenty – those people just don’t know any better).

I understand that what I am witnessing is a sign of the times. In real time. I can even imagine these downtrodden folks thinking, “hey, I have a lot of friends in here. Maybe one of them can get me a job.” But nothing is less attractive than desperation. And nothing sounds more desperate to a potential employer, or several hundred of the people you’ve come to know throughout your life, than bemoaning your out-of-work status on Facebook.

As someone who recently lost their job, if only temporarily, I can tell you that the last thing I wanted all 356 of my “friends” to know is that I was laid off. Most of those people don’t even know what I do. It would be like putting on 60 pounds before my high school reunion and telling everyone I still live in my parents’ basement. "So, ah, if you want to come over and hang out later…"

Facebook is where I go to look up old girlfriends (or more accurately, girls I wished were girlfriends but they just wanted to be “friends”). It’s where I go to relive bad college haircuts, which may be why I could never get those girls. And occasionally, it’s where I go to see the odd status update from someone who never struck me as all that odd.

Facebook is also a great resource. And it should be used to your advantage when times are tough. But be tactical about it. Find the folks in your network who are in a similar field. Find out what they’re up to, who they know or what they can suggest. Better yet, sign up for LinkedIn where everyone’s looking for a new job.

And for the love of all that’s sacred, most especially your own personal dignity, please don’t tell me your troubles if we haven’t spoken in 15 years. I just don’t want to know.

Tropicana’s Strangely Arousing Redesign

2009-03-17T08:27:00.000-07:00

**UPDATE** Tropicana has reversed streams and is back to the old package. NPR caught on to the story. At least they're gonna use the little boob caps.

I promised myself I would never post on the topic of marketing/advertising/media. It’s a pretty crowded space and frankly I get enough of it during the day. But my connection to this particular piece of communication is bigger than that. This isn’t a relationship built on a brand seducing me with enticing images. This long-standing relationship has been built on pure, unadulterated taste.

For the better part of my life, I’ve been a daily drinker of Tropicana Pure Premium Orange Juice – I became partial to the “Some Pulp” variety shortly after it was introduced. There was a dark period in the late 70s when my mother and I opted for Minute Maid. It was purely experimental. Not only does Tropicana taste far superior to Minute Maid, Tropicana always had a much more appealing package (I can’t find any record of the old black Minute Maid cartons online, but to a near-sighted 8-year-old at seven in the morning, that thing was an ominous sight on the top shelf of your fridge).

Like every giant brand, Tropicana worries that if they don’t update their image every so often, they're gonna go the way of aging Gen-Xers who die off from excessive tattoo-ing, losing all market share to some synthetic liquid that screams energy and genetic enhancements. This is a hip, bold new world we live in. No time for oranges pierced with candy-striped straws. Tropicana needed something that said… “oh, well.”

I get the whole minimalist thing. At first, I actually kind of liked it. But upon further inspection, this thing stands off the shelf like a package of Fleets Enemas.

But here’s the best part. I’ve been getting the new cartons for the last couple weeks, with the same old, flat orange twisty cap as before. But this week’s carton featured a bulbous, boob-like* twisty cap, meant to represent a real orange. Somebody in marketing screwed up and didn’t have his little plastic boobs ready in time for the big redesign launch. I would have loved to have been a fly on the wall for that meeting...

“Johnson! Where are my 12 million little orange boobies?”

“Um, they were supposed to be shipped two months ago sir. I don-“

“How the hell can we launch a major new redesign that would lull a screaming child to sleep, without our little plastic boobie caps!?”

“Um, I don-“

“You’re fired Johnson!”

Despite all that, I’ll keep suckling at the newly introduced Tropicana teet. Everyday.

*The wife thought the new cap resembled more of the tip of a penis. Gender thing?

The Weird Week That Was

2009-03-15T21:27:00.000-07:00

It all started with jury duty. 8 am. Tuesday morning.

Never done it, so I really had no idea what to expect. But since I have been on city buses, in public libraries and to the DMV, I should have known. I was in for a cross-section of humanity that explains just how someone like George W. Bush gets elected, twice, and the Home Shopping Network is perennially a ratings bonanza.

Somehow I was whittled down from a jury pool of about 300 to a presiding jury of six - I owe this to my not being a public racist and my never having been involved in a domestic violence case. Throughout the selection process, I was amazed to learn just how many of my fellow Multnomah-countyians have no formal education beyond high-school, currently have no job and were involved in domestic violence cases. And willing to discuss it all with perfect strangers.

The gist of the case was that the accused, a woman of about 55, allegedly hurled a piggy bank, which was really more of a clown bank, at her biological daughter - a woman who had been absent from her life for 30-some years - hitting her in the face. Seems like an extreme reunion, but I am leaving out some details.

The real drama happened in the cozy confines of our jury room, where we were routinely sent while the attorneys tried to get their shit together. Back there, the six of us got to know each other real well over the day and a half of proceedings. It was kinda like the Breakfast Club, but everyone was some variation of the freaky Ally Sheedy character.

We had the recent college grad. who works with special needs kids, the 40-something ex-Nike shoe modeler who's been out of work for three years, the 50-something bull-dyke with a haircut that could stab you to death, the preppy housewife who brought her side-job stuffing envelops into our jury room, a small Turkish man who's name could not be pronounced no matter how hard you tried, and me.

It was back in this tiny room that I learned more than I ever would want to know about the small Turkish man. He moved to the U.S. for a woman he loved. They got married, he got a good job, and together they had a child. Wife leaves the man. He loses his job. And he has no family or friends anywhere in this country. But since he still has partial custody of his kid, he can't go anywhere.

The man began crying. I shit you not. Right there, in the jury room. As we tried to determine the fate of some Jerry Springer cast-offs (what the hell happened to that show), I had to watch a grown man cry about his broken heart. So fucking brutal.

The evening after my first day in court, my boss asked me to meet her for a drink. That was strange but since I was already fired, rehired temporarily, and had an end date coming soon, I figured whatever she had to tell me couldn't possibly bring me down. She informed me, that despite the five layoffs we saw last week, all of which took effect immediately, I was being offered my job back.

The only sense I can make of it all, is that my agency was on a parrallel path with the stock market. Lots of panic. Everybody selling off everything they had. Then we reached a point that was so low, you couldn't afford not to buy in. And now, anyone left treading water, is getting rescued by a big, slow-moving barge called Recovery.

Speaking of the market, the interview with Jim Madden (correction - Jim Cramer. Thanks anonymous. Not sure where I got Madden.) on the Daily Show last Thursday was pure genius. I urge you to watch all three parts. And thank you, John Stewart for having the brass set you have to castigate these people in front of millions. They truly deserve it.

This weird week came to a close straight out of Seinfeld's bizzaro-world, where the complete opposite of what should happen, happens.

We've been working feverishly for a client who seems to show no appreciation and instead, talks to us as if we are trained monkeys. I took offense and stood up for myself during one late afternoon meeting. In most cases of this nature, I reflect on my behavior and while I'm happy I said what I did, I offer a written apology to friends, coworkers, the wife, or whoever fell victim to my latest offense. This seemed like it was gonna be another one of those times. And then something totally crazy happened. Something bizarro. The client sent me an apology for her behavior. Totally unprecedented.

I only hope the week that starts in a few short hours is equally entertaining.

Bad Idea Advertising

2009-03-09T09:43:00.000-07:00

What could be dumber than quitting your job and starting an ad agency in this wretched economy?

And yet, I am embarking on just such a pipe dream. The only difference being, I may soon have no job, and my partner doesn't have to quit his, so we figured, what the hell. Starting an ad agency right now just may be the smartest thing we ever do.

Maybe a little independent shop with low overhead, a big rolodex, smart, strategic thinking, a fresh take on how marketers can use social media for good, not mediocrity and an outside roster of award-winning creative talent, hand-picked for each specific job is just what this wretched economy needs. Specifically, this partner of mine and I propose the creation of an agency based largely on the ideals I've recently spoken about in this blog - keeping things simple. Perhaps, all of us, even marketers, can live more productively if we strip away the unnecessary elements that only seem to add time, costs and confusion.

Then again, maybe not.

But we're going for it, damnit. We just haven't settled on a name, yet. A few contenders, but nothing set in letterhead. And so, in the spirit of embracing social media, I invite you, my readers to contribute any names or thoughts you think best represent this type venture in the comments section below.

And just remember, there are plenty of bad ideas. We're open to all of them.

Guest Post: The Blargument

2009-02-26T09:26:00.000-08:00

Note: This is a guest post by Ian Sohn. It represents Ian's POV alone and not those of his employer or me [Lefty]. You can find my [Lefty's] counter argument at Ian's blog.

So here we go ...

A few days ago @LenKendall tagged me to participate in a Blargument. A what? A Blargument of course:

Two Tweeples decide they want to fight it out in more then 140 characters. [This is a particularly interesting bullet given the nature of this particular blargument]
They communicate with each other and agree to a formal blargument/topic(s).
Blarguing parties write a guest post on respective blogs making their case.
Two blarguars then choose two other tweeples to select “opponents” to battle it out.
So it’s kind of like a duel only with way less Aaron Burr.

Lefty and I agreed to argue about Twitter - total waste of time or effective communication vehicle?

First off, Lefty isn't even on Twitter, so I'm not sure how he can make a strong argument either way [I look forward to seeing his post]. If you aren't familiar with this "microblogging" service, I encourage you to visit the "about us" section at http://twitter.com/about#about. Trust me, it'll make this post a lot more relevant.

Second, when Lefty proposed the topic I was a bit turned off. It seems like everywhere I look I'm seeing one argument or another for or against Twitter. Then I thought about the fact that far more people are not on Twitter than are, and that I live in a tiny little social media bubble. Maybe beyond that bubble it's still a relatively interesting topic. So rather than try to make some faux heady argument, I'll give you seven simple considerations:

1. If you are a publisher of any kind, Twitter is a great distribution vehicle. I find it a very effective way to distribute the content I create (i.e. blog posts).

2. Twitter is a great way to meet interesting people. The example that immediately comes to mind is @Bogusky, Alex Bogusky of Crispin Porter + Bogusky. Alex is a guy I wouldn't normally have the chance to meet, let alone debate. Yet just last week Alex tweeted: CNN and NYT are already corrupted by popularity as a substitute for truth. There is no such thing as traditional news anymore. The following conversation ensued:

3. Twitter is a way of staying in ambient touch with old friends & colleagues. I can think of a former boss, a former colleague and a girl I grew up with - all of whom I am in touch with via Twitter. Do we have the deepest of connections? No. But at least we're still connected.

4. Twitter gives you a different perspective from interesting people. Sign up for Twitter and immediately start following @TerryMoran from Nightline. These are some of my favorites Tweets from Terry during President Obama's speech to congress [remember folks, he's limited to 140 characaters, and I think he still manages to engage, entertain and provoke]

5. Twitter can make you money. The most famous case study is Dell driving real revenue via Twitter, which you can read all about here

6. Zappos has famously demonstrated how effective Twitter is as a consumer relations medium. Trust me, just Google "Zappos Twitter Case Study." It's been written about ad nauseum.

7. Quite simply, Twitter is a delightful diversion. And that's not such a horrible thing, is it?

At the end of the day, Twitter is simply a communication tool [one of many that exist]. Tool-du-jour? Perhaps. Annoying name? Arguable. But what's wrong with all that? Rather than tear it down - as seems to be a popular sport of late - jump in. The water's warm and the conversation is good.

And with that I [Ian] tag @catchuplady, @kaimac and @stevenoverman. If any of you dare, challenge a friend to a blargument and pass it along.

You may not be born to succeed

2009-02-24T11:16:00.000-08:00

I've just started reading Malcom Gladwell's latest page-turner, the Outliers. I don't mention this to feign intellect or to appear well-read at all. I'm not. I mention it because the guy tells a helluva good yarn.

In typical Gladwell fashion, he makes some ludicrous assertions, then backs them up with countless examples that support his crazy claims. And usually in a pretty fascinating manner. In this particular case, The Outliers dissects how the most successful people in the world get where they are. Raw talent? Determination? Or just dumb luck?

He makes a case for the idea that often times, it is the latter. The book begins with an example about the Canadian youth hockey leagues. He figures out that the players who reach the height of this national pastime are most often born in January, February and March. He attributes this to the January 1st cut-off date for the junior level leagues. Thus, kids born in those first few months of the year are held back, so when they are ready to play, they are the biggest, strongest and most coordinated. They then get the most attention and the best coaching in those first few years, and they quickly move up into more competitive ranks. Of course, they don't go on to become the Jagrs and the Prongers of the world without a fair amount of talent. But as Gladwell contends, it doesn't have to be extraordinary talent if they're born in the right month and the system takes over.

As it happens, my wife is from Canada. Winnipeg actually. During a recent visit back, our 7-year-old nephew (born in October, mind you) was told that he didn't make the A or B squad. He made the C squad. We knew he was disappointed, so we were prepared to commiserate when we picked him up from school that day.

Apparently, our nephew wasn't the only one who felt wronged. In the parking lot of his school, I overheard a large, barrel-chested father screaming into his phone, reminiscent of a younger Harvey Weinstein, that his kid may be a little slow on the ice, but his stick-handling skills far surpassed some of those other punks that made the A squad. He plead to have his 7-year-old reconsidered, as if the poor kid's very future hinged on this critical decision. I still don't know the outcome.

While reading this excerpt from the Outliers, I couldn't help but wonder, did Mr. Gladwell ever consider the difference a whiny parent can make?

WARNING: May not be cool to listen to out loud. Anywhere.

Simplicity May Be Making My Kid Dumb

2009-02-18T10:39:00.000-08:00

Last week I waxed naive about man's need to simplify. I dropped a lot of shit about how those who live simply would be best suited to navigate this re-depression. Basically, a bunch of blabber I really didn't know a whole lot about.

But I like the theme. I'm fascinated by the musical artist who bucks the big labels, and makes a name for him or herself online.

I love that I know people with a remodeling business geared toward reusing and recycling whatever they can find for the project, and they promote it as Roosevelt era, post-depression rebuilding. It's just fuckin' smart.

So I'm gonna continue the theme here in the blog for a bit. I'll throw out some examples of simple stuff I like - film, music, lifestyles, etc. Of course not all that is simple is good.

My 3-year-old kid and I are mesmerized by this show. Simple and cool, or just simple and making us dumb?

Keep it Simple, Stupid

2009-02-05T07:31:00.000-08:00

Simplicity is not my strong suit. Never has been.

I tend to elaborate, complicate and confound. But I'm determined to change. You know, like Obama says.

A couple nights ago, I decided to join an old friend for a drink. This friend has a voracious appetite for news and an uncanny ability to retain the most minute details, effortlessly jumping from Carlton Fiske's 1982 batting average to the last Presidential appointee to go down in flames, Daschle style (some guy I never heard of from the Reagan administration who got caught with a bunch of whores). And he's intensely cynical - a trait I truly admired in him but one that was truly bumming me out the other night.

Among other things, we discussed our newly appointed, first gay mayor's indiscretions, the ramifications of Tom Daschle's ouster, the foreshadowing of the DOW Jones going as low as 6500 points and the LNG (liquefied natural gas) trade that's threatening the Oregon coast line for no apparent gain and the dangerous pipelines that will surely follow.

My second Jamesons started loosening the synapses as I took in all this doom and gloom and my mind couldn't help but wander, thinking I had done a horrible thing by bringing a child into this hopeless place. I wondered if it was unfair to leave her here without a sibling, or if it's just best to leave unwell enough alone.

A stranger at the other end of the bar, a local building contractor, listening intently to my friend's diatribe, chimed in. Turns out, he was equally well-read. He spoke to the issues with a similar fluidity and agreed with my friend's general malaise.

I finally stopped them both - mostly because I couldn't even begin to contribute to the conversation - but under the guise of not wanting to go home miserable and to please allow me to just enjoy the rest of my drink.

And then this man at the end of the bar said something so poignant and wonderful. He said, "The world will go on. It will just do so with fewer resources and those who can adapt to a simpler lifestyle will be the best prepared for what's to come."

So right now, I'm gonna hop on my bike and ride into work (oh, for those paying attention, my job has been restored. For the time being), and just try to keep it simple. Stupid.

A Choppy Foreshadowing of “Change”

2009-01-20T11:03:00.000-08:00

Where were you when Obama was sworn in? That will be the question asked for the next 50 years. My kid will ask me. My grandkid will ask me. (I so badly want to post the Saturday Night Live sketch with Tim Kazurinsky and Jim Belushi talking about where they were when Kennedy was shot – brilliant, but impossible to find).

My answer: I saw the first Black man to become President of the United States of America on a mismatched audio/visual feed streaming in from Fox News Online.
In the lobby of an ad agency, under whose employment I will no longer be after next week.
On a flat screen that was hooked up to the streaming connection, because said AD AGENCY DOESN’T GET CABLE!

Don’t get me wrong. I love these people and we will part ways in fine company. That said, is this not just fucking caked with irony?
An ad agency. That makes ads. Ads that go on TV. And while they have big, beautiful TV screens in the lobby and boardroom, you can’t actually watch TV on them.

So it’s just me and a bunch of my soon to be former co-workers, (and not and African American in sight, which by the way, felt very wrong in the moment), sucked of all energy and excitement, trying to feel something, anything, from the fragmented speech and halting video.

Oh, and as fascinating as it was that so many people turned to the Internet to bear witness to this historic moment, jamming up all the lines to something altogether unwatchable, the feed happened to come from friggin’ Fox dot com so I had to stare at that goddamed symbol of greed in the bottom right corner throughout, and imagine all the hate they were gonna spew later in their post-inaugaration analysis.

So with Yo Yo Ma crushing it out on the cello, and a simultaneous audio feed of Obama telling the bad guys that "we will extend our hand, if you’ll unclench yours,*" I had no idea if I was truly witnessing history, something I would remember forever and retell generations to come, or had it already happened?

*Credit due to my former Creative Director for first quoting that quote.

The U.S Unemployment Rate: 7.2%. Plus One.

2009-01-13T11:54:00.000-08:00

Yes, friends. The recession has finally hit home, making me just another statistic in this grim economy. I lost my job yesterday.

I should be fucking pissed. I worked hard. I liked my job. Most of the people at my office even liked me (bizarre). And the layoffs seem to have come with much regret and disappointment on both sides of the coin.

But who am I gonna get pissed at? My bosses, who got choked up delivering me a very fair severance package? The shitty clients who were too scared to spend their money reasonably and now have nothing left to spend? Henry Paulson and Alan Greenspan for their greedy fucking ways that got us into this mess?

Nah. I’m not really pissed at anyone. I’m actually fairly optimistic, which is highly uncharacteristic of me.

I really see this as the next chapter. I get a little antsy when I stay in one place too long, anyway. So what’s next?

The obvious choice is to stay in the shitty, ebb and flow ad industry and keep rolling with it. Knock on some fancy brushed steel doors. Pick up some freelance work. Maybe even lock myself into another full-time gig with business cards, a new boss’ ego to negotiate and a decent 401K match.

All of which sounds pretty depressing.

The other route is to go it on my own. Seek out some clients in need of some painfully bland communication pieces and sacrifice whatever last bit of passion I ever had for this business in hopes of eking out some kind of financial reward.

Which sounds just barely better than depressing.

The last option is to pursue a whole new career path. Really find myself. Do something that I love, like hang out with my 3-year old, ride my bike around Portland, or sit in coffee shops and write, all very lucrative options.

The truth is, I have no idea what’s next and the responsibilities loom. But despite all that, I remain more hopeful than I ever did when I was gainfully employed. This might just take some getting used to.

A new ritual begins

2008-12-28T15:37:00.000-08:00

It's Sunday afternoon in Portland. Overcast. High 40s. The coffee shop I'm in is a third full and the lighting is perfectly low. Beck's Mutations plays at a nice, side-conversation-deafening level.

This folks, is my special place. It's what I've sought oh so desperately for the last year and a half. It's where my morning routine will live on. I predict, big things will happen here,

For one, my correspondence in this online space will improve - don't think I didn't know my shit's been stinking, lately. Horrible. Embarrassing. And all very uninspired by the lady who kept calling me out on using her can's place, which has only worsened since I last checked in. But yes, I really hope the new environs kick this column up a notch. Or many.

Second, and far more important to me now, is that I will complete a screenplay I've spent the last year working on. Again, I just couldn't relax in that last place and was too often forcing the issue. But here, I almost feel like I could bang the rest out tomorrow.

Third, I think I may just be a happier person. A strike against any upcoming content, sure. But a big plus for my social life which seems to be deteriorating along with any modicum of wit that came along with my general displeasure toward the world.

It is a few blocks off-route to work, but I always said I was willing to go a few extra blocks for the right place. And they do charge $2.10 for a drink that is always $2.00, which is just a pain in the ass cause then you have to have three bills, if you don't have any change, to complete the transaction, or break out the debit card. And I still don't give a fuck. I'll carry around a roll of dimes with me.

It's a little surreal to look around at the black, leather, Barcelona chairs, against a roll-up glass garage door, both of which are features I have special fondness for, but have never actually seen together, and instantly know that many good hours of my life will be spent here.

Colon Blow

2008-11-13T17:07:00.000-08:00

Day 11 (of a two-week cleanse): Oh, what I wouldn’t give for an egg. An egg over a bowl of ice cream. With a piece of cheddar melted on top. And maybe some soy sauce.

I realize that taking part in a cleanse may not sound very “me,” however, with a history of colon cancer in the family and a colonoscopy looming, I’ve got an inherent need to keep the pipes clean. If my liver and kidneys pink'en up as a result, even better. But mostly it’s the colon, and all the impacted fecal matter that comes with it. I want it flushed out so when it's all over, I have intestines clean enough to eat off of.

I looked into the high-colonic, also known as colon hydrotherapy. But ultimately, the price – two sessions at about $100 each - and the idea of pumping solution up where things only ought to go down, deterred me (that said, this crapper, pictured at the high colonic web site looks pretty fuckin' incredible).

So that, and the fact that my wife was just prescribed this particular cleanse by her naturopath to rid her of toxins (another post that I’ve just been given the green light to write and will soon) made this a nice act of solidarity.

Unlike the master cleanse which recently replaced fixie bikes and plastic Japanese toys as the hipster status symbol du jour, our cleanse actually allows us to eat food. An incredibly restrictive diet of food, but solid bits to chew on nonetheless, which definitely helps kill time.

Here’s what’s on my do not eat list:
Dairy, egg, soy, gluten, legumes, pork, beef, tomatoes, corn, grapefruit, sugars, alcohol, and caffeine.

I’ve subsisted on little other than chicken and brown rice for the last nine business days, thanks to the conveniently located bento joint down the road. Mind you, any flavors one might add to that, such as sweet chili sauce or peanut curry are off limits. Just a nice big plate of dry, hot food. Breakfasts are some kind of millet grain prepared as hot cereal with raisins and maple syrup. And for dinner, I’m lucky to have a wife who can make lemonade out of what we’ve been given so things get slightly more experimental. Add to that a steady stream of supplements in both capsule and gaggable powders mixed into a glass of water form, to be taken each morning and night, and you got yourself a cleanse.

I can’t say as I've felt any profound affects and frankly, what’s been coming out of me is perplexingly inconsistent (when what goes in is a constant, what comes out should follow, no?).

Above all else, I’ve grown to appreciate the gastronomical variety we humans normally enjoy, as opposed to say, dogs who are mired in the same goddamned kibble day after day. Although, at this point I would gladly get on all fours and eat Egg McSundaes out of a plastic bowl on the floor for a while.

Hey Direct TV, Suck One

2008-10-29T16:57:00.000-07:00

I have never been, nor will I ever be, a subscriber of Direct TV or Dish Network or any other satellite-driven home entertainment service. Unfortunately, I bought a home with one of those horrible receivers left behind by previous owners to hover over our backyard bbqs like some Orwellian cod piece (that's my trying to be all intellectual about the affront to my personal aesthetics. For the layman's version, ie better, see video below).

I called Direct TV, the provider of said dish to have them come haul it away - I even did them the courtesy of removing it from the house.

The first operator curtly told me to throw it away and then hung up on me before I could tell her that I didn't want to be responsible for taking up landfill space and I didn’t want to spend the extra money with my trash removal service since this was never mine to begin with.

Surely they must have new customers in the area in need of the hardware. So I called again.

I asked to speak with a supervisor. I was put on hold for 20 minutes, then asked what the problem was, and was promptly disconnected a second time.

I decided to email Direct TV my request to save everyone some trouble. Here's the response I received later that day:

Subject
---------------------------------------------------------------
Take away my dish

Response (Heherson RM. - 100131190) - 10/28/2008 03:36 PM
Dear Mr. Wahl,

Thank you for writing in to us. I understand that a customer that lived in your house has moved out and longer is using the dishes that have been mounted on your property. This equipment is considered the property of the customer and DIRECTV does not remove dishes. Since this dish was left on your property, you may dispose of these as you see fit. I apologize for the frustration you have experienced with this situation.

Sincerely,

Romeo M.
Employee ID 100131190
DIRECTV Customer Service

What a fucking waste.

Seeking Proper Coffee Shop

2008-10-21T11:44:00.000-07:00

If you've been here before, you may have heard me gripe about my search for the perfect coffee shop before work. I've held off on committing an entire post to this because I've got a lot to say on the subject and I don't imagine it's all that interesting to the rest of you. But some recent run-ins with the lady who owns my current go-to spot has finally warranted a full-blown purge.

I know. I live in Portland, Oregon. Aren't there coffee shops percolating and frothing on every corner? Yes. There are a lot. Some that I love very much. But I have a few essential criteria to my morning ritual and unfortunately, none of my preferred spots fit the very first one:

It must be on my bike route to work. I'm willing to detour a block or two but anything beyond that is tough without a motor. With four miles of urban riding, you'd think I'd be sorted. You'd think. And one more thing on that point. I sort of prefer it coming toward the latter part of my commute, rather than earlier, just so I can be a quick ride from the office.
They have to make a decent cup of coffee. Americano actually. Which is pretty much a given and in this town there aren't too many places that can fuck that up. But alas, there are some and those are simply out of the question.
Good music. I really don't hear much when I get into the 7:30am laptop brain, and sometimes I'm even carrying headphones to regulate my sound. But if this is gonna be my daily spot, I don't want any easy listening bullshit when I come without my gear. Again, something that should be easily attainable in Portland coffee shops and yet, there are a few who just don't get it.
Free wi-fi. If you don't offer it (Starbucks), please close up shop and go home. You have no business playing.

That's it. Nothing crazy. Oh, yeah, I refuse to wait in line for more than 3 minutes, but only the Stumptown on SW third - which, by the way, meets all other criteria - consistently fails me in that one regard.

Now at my last gig, which was in the super trendy Pearl district, there were two, not one, but two great places that met my every wish. Cafe Allora and the Urban Bean. I had to stop going to Allora (the better one) because of some freak coincidence where every morning I would see the parents of an old friend who has since ignored all my attempts to get in touch with her. Despite our estranged friendship, I was forced into small talk every morning with these old people who offer me daily updates on their three daughters' pregnancies. I had nothing against these folks really. They were nice enough for Portland bourgie, but I don't like to talk to anyone during my sacred coffee shop time. That and the fact that there was a bizarre, off-white elephant hanging over every conversation which forced me to go elsewhere for my morning cup. Now I work in a different part of town and the one good shop in the Pearl is way out of the way.

And just one more shout out to the Albina Press. I do so wish you were on my route but sadly, you're not even close.

I've tried alternate, east side routes. I've spent mornings trolling unfamiliar neighborhoods hoping to find a hidden jewel, but I come up disappointed every time.

So it's finally come down to one little hole in the wall shop that is exactly two blocks off course, but relatively close to my final destination. The coffee is great. Ily. The music can be hit or miss. I've heard everything from Eliot Smith (great) to Cyndi Lauper (which, at 7:30 am is enough to make you peroxide your pubes pink and get in the ring with a greased up Captain Lou Albana to go at it all greco-roman style) there. The wi-fi is free. And there's hardly any wait. So I know what you're thinking. Keep bringing your headphones and call this done.

Here's the problem. I hate the owner. I don't just dislike her. I've made up hateful stories in my head about her. I'm convinced she cheats her employees out of their rightful tips, employees I actually like alright. And I'm pretty sure she'd have some sexual harrassment claims against her if her staff weren't so embarrassed that someone that grotesque would hit on them.

What wrong has she done to me personally?

First of all, she's a winker. She should be gutted for that alone.

But my hate campaign started in earnest within the first two weeks. After coming in and ordering the same thing at the same time, everyday, an 8 oz. Americano with a little room for here, she continued to act like she didn't recognize me. She kept asking for my order, and kept serving it in to-go cups, filling it to the brim or just going with a 16 oz. cup and filling it with water.

On the one hand, this was a good thing. No recognition means no small talk. On the other hand, I'm a fucking regular by this point. Treat me like one, damnit!

Well, she did. It happened one day after I had a nasty fall off my bike. With bloodied palms, I asked her for the bathroom key but explained that I would be right back for my coffee so she wouldn't think I was some vagrant just there to use her bathroom. (Bathroom keys also fuckin' kill me by the way. Like I need someone monitoring my bathroom habits). Before she would release the key to me, she asked me what I would be ordering. I'm fucking bleeding. She takes my exact same drink order everyday. And she wants to know what I'll be ordering, suggesting I'm gonna use her crapper and take off without buying anything even though I had been coming in regularly for at least three weeks.

I responded with the obligatory, "8 oz. americano with room for here." "Great" she said with big, happy to help out smile. "It'll be here when you get back. $2 please." Umm, did she want me to pay before I went into the can? Yes. Yes she did.

Now I knew I was gonna be up there for a while, cleaning out my wounds. I thought about showing her what I'd be tending to, but instead just asked if she could wait to make it until I got back so it didn't get cold.

She winked at me, with a wink that said she knew what I needed the bathroom key for and assured me she would wait. This chick was trying to bust me taking a dump in her commode, even though I wasn't.

The next day was the first day she remembered me. Guess how she let me know she remembered me. "Good morning! Americano? Bathroom key? (Wink)"

I should have turned around and walked out right then. Scratch that. I should have bought the coffee, tossed that shit in her one open eye and walked out.

But I didn't. Like some leather-clad sub, I just smiled and took the lumps. From a person to whom I'd been a loyal customer. I've continued taking those lumps for at least five months, but I've made it very clear that I have no interest in their bathroom, their winks or any of their contrived small talk.

She asks me what I'm writing. I pretend not to hear her.

She tells me it's a nice day. I stare off into space.

Monday through Friday. Every morning. And this is the best option I have.

Two days ago, I really needed to use their restroom. It would be a quick one, but I debated it nonetheless. Could I handle the shame of going through the bathroom key deal with this lady again? Until I couldn't stand it anymore. I approached the owner, with two people in line right beside me, and asked her for the bathroom key.

She handed over the key and with a big, fat, smirky, wink-face, she mock-whispered, "just don't go shooting up in there." What the fuck does that even mean?

I really need to find a new coffee shop. One that meets all my criteria. But in the meantime, I've decided to go ahead and use the bathroom at this one to conduct my daily masturbation habit.

Just in case anyone's wondering.

Poo-Chucka

2008-10-14T11:38:00.000-07:00

It's been a while since my last post, mostly because there's been a real dearth of bitter material in my life. But at the request of an old friend, and in the original spirit of this blog, I'll share some truly inspired venom from the archives.

Back in 2002, I was just an angry ex-pat, living in Vancouver, BC. For the most part, Canadians are a real friendly bunch, but I had a way of bringing out the worst in them and in this particular case, I believe I was dealing with someone of the eastern European persuasion.

I was walking my beloved, Lula, who made this whole wonderful story possible, God rest her soul. We were cutting through the grocery store parking lot directly across the street from my little hovel of an underground apartment. It was late afternoon, just before the Christmas holidays and I was in no mood for cheer. I was in even less of a mood for some motherfucker who didn't like pedestrians clogging up his parking spot and let me know with some aggressive driving.

I did what I do and got right up in his window asking him, rhetorically, what exactly he was thinking. He decided to answer me and emerged from his car, all 300 lbs of him, screaming, in his broken Canadian accent, "You want to fuck with me? I will fucking kill you!" My meek little mutt and I backed away in terror, hoping there were just enough witnesses around that he wouldn't actually kill us.

He finally turned to go into the store and from the edge of the parking lot, I felt the need to get one last jab in, uttering back, "I don't want to fuck with you. I just want to walk through a parking lot without douchebags like you trying to run me over." He turned back in my direction. We jetted.

Now at this point, I was pretty worked up. The adrenaline was flowing. The things I wish I would have said were all spouting from my lips. I was only taken out of the moment by dear sweet Lula who was pulling on the leash because she really needed to pinch one off.

And then I looked down at her glorious little turd, something I may have otherwise left on the sidewalk, pretending not to notice. I grabbed that shit with the only thing I could find nearby, a large leaf, and I probably even got a little of it on my hand, gladly. I marched back into the parking lot and plopped the loaf on the broad side of that motherfucker's hood, beaming with pride as I walked back to my house.

My wife, a Canadian, wasn't super impressed with my tale of fecal justice. In fact, she was convinced the large Ruskie would hunt me down across the street, eat me and shit me out on my own car hood. Which was not the glory I was looking for.

Thankfully, I was on my way to a work related holiday party, where, after a few drinks I was able to recount the story to a few associates who honored me with the hero's triumph I was seeking. As I pumped my fists in victory, one coworker deemed me "The Poo-Chucka" and it is he to whom I dedicate this post.

The Fix is In

2008-09-04T09:06:00.000-07:00

There have been many well-documented fixes in history.

The 1919 World Series, when the Chicago White (Black) Sox were paid off by the Chicago mob to throw the World Series, losing to a clearly inferior Cincinnati Reds team.

WrestleMania 1, when Roddy Piper and "Mr. Wonderful" Paul Orndorff were paid their salaries by legendary showman, Vince McMahon to throw the main event, losing to fan favorites Hulk Hogan and Mr. T. along with a surprise appearance from Jimmy "Superfly" Snuka.

The NBA '07 Season, when commissioner David Stern paid off referees Tim Donaghy (ok, so that was never proven) and who knows who else to keep the big market teams in championship games.

And Election '08, when John McCain took on Governer Sarah Palin of Alaska as his running mate to effectively hand over the presidency to his formidable opponents, Barack Obama and Joe Biden.

Now I don't pretend to know why John McCain would take a fall. Perhaps he was payed off by those deep-pocketed environmental special interest groups. Maybe he was feeling the heat from Obama's Biden pick and and just needed a good scapegoat on which to blame a possible loss. Or, maybe he just got tired. He is 72 for god's sake. I'm 37 and I get cranky if I don't get an afternoon nap.

I do know that with any good fix, there are usually some significant wagers at stake. I myself had three separate bets of $20 each, made over a few whiskeys back in January of this year, when McCain had just secured the GOP nomination and Barack and Hilary were still duking it out. Don't get me wrong. I hoped to lose those bets for the betterment of this country. But I never bet with my heart.

It was a sure thing at the time. I know my countrymen. The unenlightened, McDonalds-eating, SUV-driving, debt-incurring, gun-toting Republicans. These people aren't going to sit by to watch a "neee-gro" named "Barack Hussein Osama," I mean "Obama" or that loud-mouthed bitch from the Washington establishment who threatened them as first lady with her "commie health care plans," beat out a good ol' white boy, who served his country and has a name everyone can pronounce. Shit no!

But now, with Sarah Palin as a running mate, all bets are off. I watched her speech in St. Paul last night and I wept for all the peope who have donated their time and money to this campaign. Shrewd, passionate and outspoken - she is all those things. But a viable commander in chief, that these lunkheads can count on in the unfortunate event of McCain keeling over from a P.O.W. flashback-induced stroke. Not a chance.

I have yet to find any bookie picks online. But if anyone wants to take McCain/Palin, I'm personally offering 7 to 1 odds.

MUXTAPE R.I.P. 2008-2008

2008-08-21T14:33:00.000-07:00

Anyone who's come within a mouse length of me and a computer in the last four or five months has heard me proselytize the miracle of Muxtape. The icon to the left of your screen, which used to link you to my muxtape, now leads you to the image on the right.

For the uninitiated, muxtape.com was a free website that allowed users to upload 12 of their favorite MP3s at any one time to create your own personal soundtracks and share them with the world wide web. Likewise, any mux-maker could stream in other mixes and listen to their hearts content, without actually owning anyone else's music. Unless of course you clicked the "Buy MP3" link located beneath every track on every muxtape, which led you to amazon.com, bringing the necessary evil into the mux and allowing for the song's purchase.

The real beauty of this site wasn't all the obscure music I discovered. It wasn't all the muxtapes I tagged as my favorites or the like-minded sensibilities I found through that feature. It wasn't even the four users who became fans of my muxtape, although I checked frequently, always hoping that number would go up.

No, the real beauty was its simplicity. From the looks of it, you'd never know there was corporate involvement. Large, graphic song titles and the color of your mux label. That's all there was. It was Internet Bauhaus .

Now of course, the RIAA has put an end to all this harmless fun that could actually boost record sales for artists who might otherwise go undiscovered. And why not? Users found a way to share music legally, so the powers that be just went ahead and made it illegal.

I really hate people a lot.

Cell phones cause cancer

2008-08-13T14:51:00.000-07:00

There. I said it.

It may not be true. There is no conclusive evidence to support the claim. But after what I went through today at the Sprint store, I hope they all suffer financial ruin (I would wish cancer on the these people, but if they all got it, then I'd be worried it really is the phone and then I'd have to stop using them and my life would become more complicated). So if any of you four readers happen to be Sprint customers and decide to opt out of your contracts, that would be great.

I'm not a gadget guy and I'm super cheap. So when I signed up for my most recent two year Sprint rectal (I've been on the receiving end of Sprint's fist for the last five years), I took the cheapest possible phone with the plan - the free one. They asked me if I wanted the seven dollar per month insurance on my free phone, to which I responded, "Insurance? The phone was free."

I've had this free phone for less than a year. This morning, on my way into work, I received the message, "Looking for Service" accompanied by a spinning satellite dish, but my service was never found.

I called Sprint, who, after 20 minutes of being on hold, instructed me to remove the battery and reinsert it. I did as they said. The message then changed to "Offline Mode." That's when I was informed that the phone had been rendered inoperable and I would have to visit a store. And then the lady had the gall to ask if there was anything else she could help me with. Well, my foot feels pretty good today, but maybe you could go ahead and arrange to have a city bus run over it so it no longer works, either.

I go into the store, which is never conveniently located near my office even though there are three clustered in a one block radius near my home, and I explained the problem. The employee removed my battery cover and noticed a big, fresh droplet of water sitting on the battery. "Uh-oh" he said. "Looks like water damage. You don't have insurance on ths phone, do you?" Nope. He smiled his big fat fucking corporate smile and continued, "we can take this in the back and see if the motherboard is corroded from water damage, but if so, there's nothing we can do. You just have to buy a new phone. I'll tell you what, though - with the new phone, I'll let you get the insurance if you want it. And if there is no water damage, we'll just replace the phone but you'll have to pay us $35 for opening it up and looking at the device because you don't currently have insurance."

Thanks sport. You'll let me replace my free phone for $35. And you'll even tack on $7 a month for insurance. Because that's the kind of guy you are. Well aren't I the fucking luckiest guy on earth then. How about I just buy that shiny new phone over there. The one with the $50 sign over it.

"Oh, ummm" he replied with that tone of me being totally shit out of luck. "That phone is actually $250. It's only $50 if you've had your current phone for 22 months or if you sign up for a whole new contract."

I started to get a little annoyed by this. He sensed my disappointment and tried making me feel better by asking me if I knew how much Sprint pays for those phones. Because they're way more than $50. I asked him if he understood why Sprint would do something like that - pay more for a phone and lose money on what they charge me. He responded, "because we want your monthly contract."

DING - DING - DING - DING - DING!

I then went on to explain that Sprint has gotten 5 years of monthly payments out of me already and I will absolutely end it at that if I couldn't have those stipulations on the $50 phone waived. He gave me all the corporate jargon to explain why that couldn't work, at which point I told him to quit acting like a fucking shill and listen to how ludicrous this all is. He was incapable of that until I told him to end my absurd contract, which I would gladly pay to be freed of. Now I know the other companies are no better, but he doesn't know I know that and that seemed to help things move along.

My phone came back from the repair guys and I was told there was no water damage, so I could get my free phone replaced with one of equal or even crappier value. I just needed to pay the $35 fee for opening the phone up. And I'd get my new one in just 24-48 hours.

Can anyone recommend a better rectal?

The Cancer

2008-07-30T08:00:00.000-07:00

I've been fretting about the big “C" since I was four years old. My Granddad picked it up through a steady diet of bacon, scotch, cigarettes and cigars. I watched it kill the man. It wasn’t pretty.

As a result, I was the only 12-year-old scared to sneak smokes because my oncologist advised against it. I load up on antioxidants, even if that is just marketing speak, whenever they're around. And, I generally fear the worst.

Short of moving into a bubble, I am hyper-aware of my environment and do my best to avoid cancer-causing agents (my wife argues the build-up of creosote in our chimney is causing us cancer, but I'm gonna roll those dice).

And besides, our bodies will do what they are pre-disposed to do. There's no fighting genetics.

In the last week, I've heard of two people I know indirectly, who have both contracted terminal cancer. Both women in their early 40s and mothers of young children. Pancreatic, lung and brain cancer between them. Another friend died last year at the age of 36 to ovarian cancer.

I'm not gonna lie to you - I'm totally freaking out.

I know the precautionary CAT scan for an otherwise healthy adult won’t be covered, (those insurance bastards probably figure what you don’t know, you won’t treat, and thusly, they won’t have to cover). So I’ve gone and run the numbers. $3470 for a whole body scan.

Anyone wanna go half-sies?

Slow Down Obama

2008-07-22T11:16:00.000-07:00

You're not president yet. And while I truly hope you will be soon, I don't quite have the same faith in my fellow Americans that you do to make it happen (I currently have $60 in wagers that McCain will win in November - any takers?). You see, most people that share this great nationality of ours think you're a lot like the guy in the picture to the right. Complete with flags burning in the fireplace and portraits of Bin Laden mounted on the wall.

Which was the point.

I'm not morally aghast that this cover was published, like all the of the uppity liberals who think this will only feed the fears of many Americans (the Americans we need to be worried aren't exactly reading Hendrik Hertzberg's skewering of the Bush administration or checking in on David Denby's movie reviews - sorry. Do they even sell this magazine south of the Mason Dixon line?)

No the Americans we need to be worried about are the ones who barely even know how to pronounce your name, Senator, or that you just edged out Hilary in the primaries. The ones who will learn that there is a presidential election coming up from all the tv ads they will see in late October and will pull the lever 100 times for a white, war hero named McCain over a young black man named Obama, if they could. And I think they can in Florida.

They're the same Americans who complain about the rising cost of fuel but drive SUVs they can't afford and believe that it is their inalienable right to do so.

The same Americans who think 2nd cousins are plenty removed enough.

Sadly, they're the same Americans who might just catch enough of the nightly news to see your tour of the Middle East and question your association with Afghanistan's president, Hamid Karzai, because you're not the president yet.

Slate.com sort of beat me to the punch on this one, but it does seem odd that a man who has a lot of work to do before becoming America's first black president is behaving like one in a part of world that would like nothing better.

A bit presumptuous some might say, even if some don't really know what presumptuous means.

It's Official - Your Taste in Movies Sucks

2008-07-21T12:06:00.000-07:00

The box office numbers are in and The Dark Knight is apparently the best movie ever created.

Top grossing opening day.
Top grossing opening weekend.
I heard somewhere the movie made $62 Million in one minute with the midnight showing, last Thursday.
And it's expected to break first week numbers as well.

Don't you people know that comic books on the big screen aren't good?

Iron Man, despite all it's hype was only ok and only because Robert Downey Jr. is cool. The first Spider Man installment, which previously held all these records, casts Tobey "Sea Biscuit" Maguire as the hero for chrissakes. The first X-Men may be the only flick to debunk my comic book movie theory but that's only because it started with a decent story.

Now, the only good thing people are saying about Christopher Nolan's latest addition to the Batman franchise is Heath Ledger's performance as the Joker. And that guy's dead.

You'd think after DC and Marvel trot out their big-budget circus acts summer after summer, the movie-going public would get hip to them and go for something a little more... oh, I don't know, entertaining.

I don't imagine Gonzo: The Life and Work of Hunter S. Thompson will break any summer movie records but we all need our heroes.

More Insecurity. Less Anger.

2008-07-18T10:38:00.000-07:00

As you can see, this space is no longer titled "Anger Becomes Me."

I fucking hated that name. Here's why:

1. The name pigeon-holed me into recounting stories focused solely on my own hate and personal misfortune. I figure I can always hate, but sometimes I just want to love a little too.

2. The whole "angry man" thing is played out (and no one does it better than Larry David).

3. It just sounded a little fruity, like "Color me Angry" or "Does Anger Make My Butt Look Big?"

All very self-conscious motivators. But as a coworker put it the other day, the whole idea of a blog is pretty narcissistic. I argued that point, making up some crap about how I only do this to get in the habit of writing regularly and I don't care if anyone else is reading. But in retrospect, he's right. I'm just a vain motherfucker.

So enjoy the new title (a nod to the point of view of an alter-ego I hide behind when I don't want people to think I really think these things), and the content to follow. Hopefully it makes my butt look a little smaller.

Bike Rage

2008-07-10T14:39:00.000-07:00

This story, published in today's Oregonian is too good not to share with those unaffected by "quintessentially Portland thing(s)."

The basic gist: Biker runs a red light. Driver of nearby car, who is also a big bike advocate in town, tells biker that he's giving all bikers a bad name. Biker, who is drunk and happens to work for the city's dept. of transportation begins beating man and his car with the bike. Random passerby sees this and knocks biker out with one punch, then leaves the scene. Other bikers ride up to find downed biker on ground in front of car. Angry biker mob attacks innocent motorist.

Ed. Note: I was nowhere near SE Belmont and 20th on the night of July 6th.

Perhaps us Portland riders just need a few less rules.

Musings of a Self-Riteous Cyclist

2008-07-03T10:09:00.000-07:00

I don't know if I live in Portland because I bike. Or, if I bike because I live in Portland.

Frankly, I'm not very good at it. I had four crashes in a seven-day-span last month, which merely capped a lifetime of bike accidents that started with a car knocking me off my Huffy dirt bike and the two front teeth out of my mouff on the way to school back in 7th grade.

I've stuck with it, though and currently ride my wife's 15-year-old Trek mountain bike almost everyday to work (my sweet ride was stolen a couple years ago out of my garage, which to Portland riders is considered some kind of f-u rite of passage). And the city of Portland, often likened to Amsterdam, is embracing the effort, holding bike fests, enacting traffic laws to protect the biker and hopefully, with enough critical mass, will move toward bike only thoroughfares. (Bikeportland.org with it's 40 or so blogs related to biking in the area and links to proper legal counsel, sort of confirms Portland as Bike Town).

So what does all this bike love create? A happy little village where drivers and bikers co-exist in commuter harmony?

Not quite.

People who drive are typically in a hurry, talking on their cell phones and they just paid good money for gas so they don't really want anyone telling them what to do with it.

We bikers think we own the roads and every last SUV, bus and wheelchair must yield to us. We get off on cars making an illegal motion so we can chase after them dangerously, and teach those drivers a thing or two about "sharing the road." We delude ourselves into thinking that if everyone got out of their cars and onto their bikes, the world would be a better place, when in fact, the current riders would just be pissed about all the bandwagon bikers that are clogging up our narrow little bike lanes.

Since this blog is essentially a forum to discuss all the venom I spew and the hate that is subsequently directed toward me, I will share my recent run-in with a driver who I am clearly superior to because his vehicle is motorized and mine is not.

I was heading south on NE 16th around Lloyd Center at my usual 7:15 am ride time. As I started to merge out of the bike lane and into the right turn lane (which bikers use when making a right turn and not going straight), I extended an arm to let the oncoming Ford Explorer know I was coming over. I heard the SUV gun it's engine to cut me off and speed ahead in the right turn lane and so held off on merging to save my neck. I then followed the driver through the right turn and up to the first traffic light which was red. In my favor.

His windows were up so I exaggerated my lip movement to say, "Yield to bikes, dude!" He waved his hand at me, in his scoffing way and tells me I should have been in the bike lane. Which was just about the worst answer this pinhead in a suit driving an SUV could have given. Because now it's time for some driver's fuckin' ed.

I leaned up against his car and unloaded - "Listen you mutherfucker - I was making a right turn, so I had to get in the right turn lane. I was ahead of you when I put my arm out, so I had the right of way. And I'm on a bike so you gotta yield to my ass whether you like the previous two rules or not, you fuckin' SUV oil-hog bitch."

I watched the man shrink into his seat throughout my rant with great delight. But just as the last "fuck" emerged from my lips, I noticed the young child strapped into the car seat in back, terrified that the angry biker man was going to eat his daddy. As a father of a young girl, I felt some shame and left the incident at that. However, faced with a similar situation next time, I'll probably do it all over again and exonerate myself here.

In the meantime...

The Apple Genius

2008-06-30T10:44:00.001-07:00

The word "genius" is thrown around a little too willie-nillie, diminishing any real value behind it. I use the term a bit much myself. Usually in reference to a new Wilco album or Sophia Coppola film when it fact, these pop culture passers-by hardly compare to the life-altering contributions brought to us by Da Vinci, Einstein or Galileo.

But even in my most egregious hyperbole, I don't suck the meaning out of this word quite like the Apple corporation does with their hugely over-promising "Genius Bar."

The over-stylized punk who leans up to you from the Apple store counter, with his smug sense of self-importance, seems to have neither graduated from high school nor realize that before phones and MP3 players, Apple actually made computers. But hey. We're dealing with geniuses here.

Recently I took a 9-month old lap-top in to have the plastic casing replaced since it's been stripping away on the sides. And it's only 9 months old. Which is fucking ridiculous (but that's another issue).

On each of my three visits to the store to get this repair underway (genius), I noticed the work order they wanted me to sign listed an old address of mine from an entirely different city and the corresponding phone number. I alerted the geniuses to this problem on my previous two visits and was assured that they would correct that, no problem.

When it came time for me to actually turn over my $1500 computer for repair, the address and number were still listed incorrectly. I pointed it out to the young, female genius, who took it over to her genius manager. After a few minutes of genius conferencing, she returned to report that this group of geniuses could not make the changes at the store and I would have to call Apple Care to update that information.

I took a moment to look around and reflect.

I was surrounded by at least 30 computers in a retail environment that sells machines designed to create, store and distribute information, all of which were connected to the Internet. And, lest we not forget, three of these computers were manned by self-proclaimed geniuses.

I've never left a sweater at a dry-cleaners without the store proprietor, usually an old Chinese man who doesn't speak a lick of English, taking an accurate address. I've rarely made a dinner reservation without the host taking a current phone number. These aren't computer companies. And they're not staffed with geniuses. Just your average, everyday morons. And somehow, in their charmingly inferior minded way, they developed a system that allows them to take current contact information.

I explained this to the team of Apple geniuses and got an unwelcome, albeit genius, response: "Sorry, dude, that's how our system works - just call Apple Care."

Before I could grab my laptop and shove it down the throat of this pretentious faux-hawked genius before me, an unassuming techie emerged from the back. He heard about the guy in front freaking out about an address correction (me) and was in the back making the necessary adjustments. Seems it was really no problem at all. You just enter the correct information into the computer.

Luckily, Apple makes a pretty good product that you don't have to be a genius to figure out. And even more luckily, I wasn't there to solve any software issues. God help me if anything goes wrong with my OS - I'm pretty sure Apple geniuses think that's an acronym for "Old School."

And while he's no Picasso, I think there's something just a little bit genius, or at least clever and insightful about Mike Judge's take on the degradation of human intellect.

Take notes, Apple Geniuses. The future is yours.

The Poo Lady Cometh

2008-06-27T08:40:00.000-07:00

I am a married man with a 2-year-old daughter and a full time job. There are very few moments in my life that are exclusively and unequivocally mine.

Sad as this may be, those moments typically occur behind a stainless steel, institutional type door, sometimes with a half naked man only inches away. Nonetheless, I savor these moments.

When I feel a moment like this coming on, usually about an hour and a half after my first cup of coffee, I prepare some light reading material - the sports guy’s column off of espn.com, or, if I’ve already read it, whatever I can find on Slate. And just so that no one in the office asks why I’m printing online magazines, rather than reading them straight from the screen, I cut and paste the content into a word document so it appears as if I’m simply reviewing my own hard work (any coworkers reading this should know that I use the black and white printer and reduce the font size to 9 pt. so as to keep the whole article under three pages. And I’m a pretty fast reader so we’re only talking 6-7 minutes total). I then sneak said article into my pocket so the receptionist, who I pass with every trip, won’t notice me carrying papers into the can.

This is all very premeditated and has become a natural part of my daily routine. Don’t take that away from me.

But for whatever reason, the building in which I work has hired a female custodian to clean the men’s bathrooms. I like a clean bathroom as much as the next guy, and frankly, I don’t care who cleans it. It seems to me that if a woman is going to be cleaning a men’s room and doesn’t want to be exposed to the inherent maleness that exists in there, they should take care of their custodial duties after hours.

Yet, every day, just as I reach that critical point of the article, where Dana Stevens explains to me why any guy who bashes Sex in the City, The Movie must be a misogynist wife-beater, or as Bill Simmons waxes poetic on the similarities between Red Sox Nation and the chosen people, in walks the Poo Lady.

Every fucking day. Regardless of the time.

She knocks first. But she enters as she knocks. And the only thing you can blurt out fast enough to avoid through-the-stall confrontation is a castrated sounding “I’m in here!”

She promptly retreats, but the damage is done. You know she’s out there. Just waiting to disinfect the foulness I’m in here creating. And she’s no more happy about it than I am.

No more Dana Stevens. No more sacred moment to myself. It’s just finish up and get out. And if all that weren’t enough, now I have to walk out past this woman and suffer the indignity of giving her my post-crap “all clear in there” thumbs up.

Maybe next time I’ll just let her come in and we’ll both go about our respective businesses.

Lefty and John McCain are now friends

2008-06-19T09:21:00.000-07:00

I received a new friend request this morning (the friend followed all the rules from my previous post and I'm happy to have received it), but as I responded, it all became very clear what's going on here.

Facebook is the GOP's vehicle to take control of our minds and in one fell swoop - or poke as the case may be - program all the facebook friends to vote for John McCain. Yes, yes, I know there's Obama propoganda everywhere you look on the social networking site, but hear me out.

The right wing media moguls (not naming names. Rupert Murdoch.), put out this milk toast site that somehow, no one can resist. We check in daily to find out who's friends with who and watch precocious little bastard children playing guitar on our funwalls. And when we least expect it, say around October 28, a transmission goes out across the network and quietly enters into all of our subconscious.

We don't notice it. We hardly even talk about it. But somehow, come Super Tuesday, John McCain doesn't seem like such a bad option after all. I mean, he's not Bush, right? Bush is from Texas. This guy's from Arizona. And Arizona is cool. They have Sedona. And he's a war hero, so he knows how to kick some ass. Except for that time he was a P.O.W., at which point he probably got his ass kicked pretty bad. But that just shows the guy can take some licks.

I'm not endorsing McCain. Now. I'm just saying, when you're in that polling booth and a swarthy man with white hair, who's rhetoric could single-handily put Lunestra out of business seems like the right choice, but you're not sure why, just remember. Facebook.

Who the F- are you?

2008-06-12T14:34:00.000-07:00

Yes, we all hate the phenomenon of Facebook. And no, I don't use the word phenomenon lightly. I know you kids have been hip to this shit for the past 6 years or so, but seriously, what happened 12 months ago that made it a mandatory for anyone under the age of 60 to have a page, much less a widget, fun-wall and all the other crap that comes with social networking 2.0? It's like some Borg that came out of nowhere with its brain-sucking virus and took complete control of all of our remaining dignity. But that's not why we hate it. The real reason we all hate it, is because it no longer belongs to the young, cool kids. It's everyone's now.

And yet, without a facebook page you are a social and professional leper, quickly fading off into obscurity. I went and drank from the FB cooler and like everyone else, I find myself checking up on old friends, in almost compulsive, stalker-like fashion. I realized the other night that this site had transcended critical mass when one of my closest friends, who lives a scant 4 blocks away, told me he had a link he wanted me to check out later, and while I looked over his shoulder, he sent it to me via our facebook's accounts. How that's easier than good old fashioned email, I still can't comprehend, but apparently, this is now the norm.

So here we all are, all of us, linked together by a pretty rudimentary online interface. There's only like 3 degrees of separation between most of us and with enough friend searches, you soon find that we're all part of this big, happy incestuous popularity contest. But with anything of this magnitude, I believe in some ground rules:

#1. When you contact that old bud you haven't seen in over 10 years, remind us who the fuck you are.

I'm not saying I'm so popular I can't keep track of the many friends I've had over the years (I'm up to 185 at the moment), but if you got married and are no longer Betty Maiden Name, chances are, I've not followed your life so closely that I'm privy to you and your husband's shared surname.

It's pretty simple - when you send a friend request to someone you knew before you changed your name, sex, appearance, etc., drop a short note explaining as much. I'll probably accept your friend request either way, because I'm very shallow and feel the number of friends I have speaks to the kind of person I am. And if I don't accept your friend request, or I tell you I don't recall anyone by the name of Betty Married Name, then all of the sudden I'm the prick who got too big for his britches. If the point is to reconnect, just tell me who you are. Which takes me to ground rule number 2.

#2. If we've never met before, and I wouldn't know you even if you did introduce yourself via Facebook, do we really need to be Facebook friends? Yes, I know I said I want as many friends as I can get, but aren't there better ways to introduce ourselves whether for professional or for personal reasons? Otherwise, the future of our relationship will be reduced to something akin to what I have with the other 180 people with whom I have nothing left to say post-"How you been?".

#3. Just because someone posted a heartwarming video on your page about a kitten that was rescued from near death, and there's a forward button at the bottom, use some discretion as to where that forward goes. We may be Facebook friends, but I hate kittens and I hate heartwarming stories. I will delete 99% of your silly little videos from my page almost immediately and I don't want to feel like you're checking up on me to see if I still have it proudly displayed.

#4. (And lastly for now) Facebook has this great little tool that tells me when it's one of my friends' birthdays. Keep in mind, this is the same friend I haven't spoken to since 1989 and probably won't speak to again anytime soon. But I feel guilty that they know that I know it's their birthday and I'm not wishing them a good one. So just for the record, unless we've wished each other a happy birthday in the last few years, please do not take the time to wish me one. I'm good.

I'm sure I will have lots to add to this list of Facebook faux pas-s, but for now, please, just tell me who the fuck you are.

Pox in Socks

2008-06-09T10:33:00.000-07:00

Perhaps I deserved it. Maybe it was those bearded ladies who wished this upon me (I never considered the fact that they might be witches, or that they'd even know my lambaste against them existed, but it just goes to show, you can't underestimate the will of a woman who carefully grooms out her facial follicles.)

Then again, it may have just been that I have a 2-year-old who picks up these filthy little diseases in her daily routine of being a 2-year-old, and this particular virus, which only crops up in May and November, can only be spread through feces when there are no visible blisters, and the sweet little angel of mine decided to crap in the tub, something she hasn't done since she was two weeks old, during her most contagious state, unbeknownst to my wife and I because her only symptom was a short-lived fever.

Or it could have been the bearded witches. F- them, anyway.

Whatever the cause, I was stricken last week with hand, foot and mouth disease.

For the uninitiated, there was no livestock involved - this is not hoof and mouth disease. It's totally different. Well, the "mouth" and the "disease" part are the same, but otherwise, totally different.

It all began a good week after my daughter had spent a few hours just slightly off her game. My wife and I both felt like shit on a Thursday night, crawled into bed around 9pm and didn't wake up 'til 10 the next morning. I dragged my flu-feeling ass into work, but complained to anyone who would stand close enough to listen and scooted out early.

The next night, my wife said that swallowing felt like daggers going down her throat. Now I'm no doctor, but I looked at her throat, and unless daggers look like little blistery white sores all over her tongue, these were no daggers.

As my wife is prone to do, she went to the Internet for a diagnosis. The conclusion: tongue cancer. It just so happened that I discovered red sores near my big toe around the same time and I thought I had a bad case of athlete's foot. Neither the tongue cancer nor the athlete's foot seemed too related to our mutual fevers just 24 hours earlier, but the dueling diagnoses seemed right at the moment and we went to sleep.

The next day, a Sunday, I was working at a remote location with about five people from my office and an extra 20-30 people I had never met before. Before my very eyes, about 30 blisters popped up across my hands. With no cell coverage and no Internet access and a bunch of folks who probably didn't want to know that someone in their vicinity had blisters inexplicably popping up all over their hands, I came to the conclusion that I must have the dreaded hand, foot and mouth disease I had only just heard about last November when the toddler circuit spread it last.

The athlete's feet I noticed the night before was now consuming my thoughts, with the feeling spreading across all my toes, but well disguised in both socks and shoes. The only thing that took my mind off them were the blisters that continued to surface on my palms in plain view of anyone looking. As the day concluded, several handshakes were offered up to me, and not wanting to explain my predicament, I simply accepted and silently wished them the best.

That night, my wife and I practiced medicine some more by searching HF&M online. Seems we had a textbook case (all except for the part about not being kids) and we were politely asked by everyone we knew to stay home until all signs passed.

It was a long week of feeling perfectly fine, but being so contagious we were quarantined to our own little family of filth. The blisters did not go away gradually and I soon wondered, would these be with me forever. I love my family, but I was worried I wouldn't last alone with them for much longer.

And then they all just disappeared. Except for the two big ones (one pictured above). Those popped and scabbed over, just like the Internet told us they would. So here I am, back at work and feeling perfectly hand, foot and mouth free.

Anyone want to share a soda?

Northwest Style (Part 2)

2008-05-05T09:04:00.000-07:00

In today’s episode of Northwest style, we head south to Portland, OR and feature bearded ladies.

These are not the women you see at the checkout stand with an excess amount of unwanted facial hair under their chin if they have a couple of those. That's just mean. These are also not the stuck up little waif bitches with fuzz on their cheek bones because they don’t eat enough (by the way, I did check up on that and it is in fact true that women with eating disorders develop facial hair as their bodies revert to some Neanderthal means of protection. So for all you ladies out there thinking about taking up a nasty bulimia habit, this is one guy who prefers his women facial hair free even if that means a little on the chubby side. If you're not really a stuck-up bitch, just an insecure woman with an eating disorder, may I just suggest, cheeseburgers. Super delicious. Extra fattening). Oh, and this is not about pre-op trannies, either. They are clearly tortured souls who have to endure a lot more than my snickers.

No, these ladies have gone to great lengths to develop these sexy facial locks while remaining otherwise true to their estrogen. They are women who appear to have shaved certain parts in an effort to groom out a goatee or perhaps a wispy little fu man chu. Women who seem to feel entitled to experience the male-dominated, yet drone-like morning ritual of having to shave. And at the risk of sounding presumptuous, these are women who always show up alongside other, more feminine looking women – psst, I think they may be lesbians.

Mostly and for no apparent reason, I see these women at the New Seasons on 33rd and Killingsworth. And much like the aforementioned utilikilt, I have never spotted this phenomenon outside the city limits from whence they come. Which is weird, as this trend requires no store of any convenience, other than one that sells razors.

My only real negative run in with the lez-beard happened at synagogue. Now I’m not a religious man, and I sort of dread going to temple all together, but once a year, tremendous guilt takes over and we convince ourselves that we should at least try something Jewish. This particular sect is very progressive (sic. hippies), geared to young families, minimal religious services and just a nice place for young Jewish kids to run around with each other. If these are the faith-based dues I must pay, I can handle that.

We took my mother-in-law with us on our last religious outing, which gave her great nachus (sp? - yiddish for pride). But my mother-in-law comes from a pretty traditional background and we had to prepare her for the hippie schtetle she was about to enter. She’s been to the Northwest before and even had her own run in with a utilikilt so there isn’t much that can put this woman off, but we offered some fair warning nonetheless.

Being the communal congregation that this is, everyone is encouraged to bring a dish to share, and following a short service, a potluck dinner is served. I just need to say here that eating a bunch stranger’s Jewish cuisine gives me great nausea (English for vomit) and I refuse to partake. But I sat with my wife, daughter and mother-in-law who scarfed down the kugle like it was their last supper.

And then the bearded lesbian approached. There was one vacant seat right next to my mother-in-law and of course, hairy-face headed right for it. Her beard was more of a goatee, but a nice thick-ish one and all gray to match her gray head of hair. And she was a friendly sort. So much so that she immediately engaged my mother-in-law in a long, close-talking conversation.

My mother-in-law didn’t flinch. It was incredible. 50-some years of honing her polite allowed this woman to stare in the face of a circus freak and carry on a natural conversation. I watched in wide-eyed wonder as this follicular female ate blintzes and talked, while bits of cheese and batter flew sporadically through her whiskers which, thankfully acted as a mini-barrier. The whole thing was truly horrifying.

I don't so much judge these women for choosing to grow out their beards. They are entitled. But by the same token, the rest of our non-female-bearded society is entitled to stare, point and shout the occasional "oh, my god, look - that woman has a beard." It's only fair.

Postscript: As fascinating as I find this cultural trend, there is a real dearth of information online about it. The only photo and discussion I could find on topic came from the lady pictured above, Jennifer Miller and she is a professor at Indiana University, which totally debunks my whole Portland-centric thesis. She seems to have been afflicted by unwanted facial hair and chose to embrace the situation, rather than cultivate it as some kind of alternative style. Horrible example all around.

Oh, and if any bearded women stumble onto this blog and decide to go back to your silky smooth, feminine face, I encourage you to do so and even included this link for your convenience.

Northwest Style (Part 1)

2008-04-30T09:33:00.000-07:00

An oxymoron, you say? Those Capilene-clad jam-band groupies wouldn’t know style if it bit ‘em in their Birkenstocks.

Having lived all over the Pacific Northwest for the last 14 years and being very proud of that fact, I should take umbrage with this preconception.

But you’re dead fuckin’ on.

It’s as if someone decreed Portland, Seattle the “why bother” fashion capital of the world.

Huge rubber toed shoes that look clownish and uncomfortable – a Northwest staple. Hair that hasn’t been washed in far too long and exists in places it shouldn’t – right next to me, right now at the coffee shop.

For the most part, I’m ok with this. I’m no Pierre Cardin myself, and I appreciate the lack of pressure in that regard.

But there are a couple things going on out here that just aren’t right. They are desperate attempts at creating a style that’s not stylish. They are completely isolated to their city of origin, failing even to catch on in the other major cities of the Northwest. And they irritate me so much, I’ve had to cut ties as a result.

Today we’ll start with Seattle and the utilikilt.

A heavily pleated, durable fabric skirt with pockets, the utilikilt is worn primarily by men – I have spotted women wearing these atrocities, but that is not what we’re talking about. The men who wear utilikilts are not exclusively gay – I have spotted gay men in them, too but they’re only part of what I’m talking about.

The real demographic of note is the burly, usually quite stocky, and always thickly bearded, straight Seattle man who wears them as some kind of Northwest badge of honor.

This is not some miniscule segment of Seattle society. This shit is rampant. You see them all over town, but more frequently performing manual labor like when there’s heavy lifting to do or sawing wood. They can be worn to go out on the town, but this is not their common habitat. They’re most often accompanied by a sturdy pair of work boots. And they’re not cheap. They start at about $150 and go up to the mid-$600 range, if you're one of those dudes who likes your pleated skirts to come in leather. And they are so popular in Seattle that they necessitate not one, but two retail outlets (please click this link for the user-generated Utilikilt mock-umercials - they are fantastic) devoted exclusively to the waist-to-knee eyesore. After your third or fourth sighting, you start to get desensitized.

In 2004, we moved to the Fremont neighborhood, a veritable bastion of dreadlocks and patchouli - seemingly a very different subculture than the utilikilt lover but you still see 'em everywhere. The former owner of our house was putting some finishing touches on the place. In his utilikilt. And let me just say, this guy could totally kick my ass.

Despite this introduction to Fremont and the neighbors with their chicken coops, I loved living there. There was a park two blocks away where I walked my dog daily and chatted it up with neighbors who did the same - a few of us hung out pretty much every night shooting the shit while our dogs took some laps.

One guy was particularly nice, a middle school teacher who rented a room in a house across the street from the park and often invited me to sit on his front porch for beers. We talked about all kinds of things in life and I probably told him more about my day-to-day issues than most members of my family. My wife and I went out with him a few times socially and for a while, felt like he was one of our better friends in town. He had a big bushy beard.

And then the weather warmed up. I show up to the park one fine May evening for my regular session only to find this dude all skirted up. I was duped. He wasn’t the type and he never let on that he wore that shit. He could have told me months earlier that he was a skirt wearer and it never would have gotten this far. After that, it got awkward. He was somebody else in that pleated skirt and I couldn’t shake it.

I didn’t write the guy off completely. I gave him the benefit of the doubt. Maybe he was just experimenting. Not turning totally skirt or anything. Just taking this $150 garment out for a spin. But the nice weather got nicer, the skirt got more play and I got more uncomfortable. It totally ruined the whole nightly hang for me and I had to start taking my dog to other parks. Eventually he moved and we never saw or heard from his skirt again.

Postscript: Apparently, there are utilikilts now residing outside of Seattle. This guy from San Francisco loves 'em. But I've never had a sighting beyond the 2-0-6. Please let me know if you see one so I can issue a retraction of my Seattle-centric critique. The city does have two big stores, though.

Ah, regrets

2008-04-25T11:40:00.000-07:00

This post is mostly just an excuse to bury the last entry. Yes, I diverted from my angry ways. But I was angry when I wrote it damn it, even if it did just sound like I was a big pussy. One reader went so far as to call me a hyper-sensitive fag. And that was a chick.

Rather than defend myself anymore on this one, I'd just like to point out some stupid shit other people do, too. And in this case, the ramifications are a bit larger than five readers not being entertained enough by my random disillusionment with the world. So piss off.

I guess no one in the marketing department at London's Office of Government Commerce caught the self-indulgent logo (right) before it made it's way to some corporate swag.

It was soon turned on it's side to appear less, umm, wanker-ish.

So on behalf of London's Office of Governement Commerce and this blog, please excuse all former masturbatory materials. It shan't happen again.

For the full story, check the UK's Daily Telegraph report here.

I love me a good couple's fight, Part 2

2008-04-21T08:14:00.000-07:00

Other than the loose tie back to a previous post (Love Me a Good Couple Fight), this next story does an awful job of staying true to any form devised by this blog. But it weighs on me, so I air it. If you’re one of those purist types who feels I’ve diverged, lost my way, “jumped the shark” perhaps, just skip this post.

4.21.08 Approx. 7:32 am

I ride my bike to work. Just not in the rain, which probably doesn’t sound like very often in Portland, but you’d be surprised. And the only relevance my bike has to this story is that I find by passing things slower than I would in a car or on a bus, and by not having steel doors around me, I become almost an active participant to the events around me.

Anyway, there are a couple different routes I’ll take, depending on the coffee shop I want to stop at on the way – today I chose Grendels on East Burnside and 7th. It’s fine. Nothing special but one of the few tolerable places (decent music, not too sterile,) on my way into the office – please, if nothing else is gained from this blog, someone just open a cool coffee shop between Burnside and SW Harrison, or at least notify me of one I’m missing.

I specifically chose Grendels on this particular morning because I had a free coffee coming to me and I was running a little light. The route between my house and Grendels takes me through some fairly industrial areas right before I hit my destination. This morning, I came across a parking lot full of big rigs. It’s one of those things that you never pay attention to, and you would have no idea if the trucks are for sale or just parked there for the night, or anything else about them – I normally just ride by.

But on this particular morning, I happened to ride up to this parking lot, just as a man in his 20s, and woman who was most certainly in her teens, and the low ones at that, emerged from behind a truck. The man did the ol’ look both ways and go for it. And the girl, dressed in way too short a dress for this early in the wedding season, wandered aimlessly and confused as if she just had her very innocence violently ripped away from her.

The whole thing was horrible. And since there was absolutely nothing I could say or do, I tried to justify what I just saw.

Maybe she was a whore getting in her last licks of the night (definitely in the right part of town for that).

Maybe she was his coworker and they just had a disagreement about how to run the business.

Maybe that was the most loved she’ll ever be.

I will never know. But since I now have to live with the image of those two walking away from each other in utter disgrace, I figure someone else should at least share it with me.

The restaurants I hate (And why they probably hate me back)

2008-04-13T13:39:00.000-07:00

What good are restaurant recommendations? From anyone? I have specific tastes (good). You probably have specific tastes, too. And if someone recommends a restaurant to me and I don’t particularly like it, you would think my giving them an honest opinion was akin to me wishing cancer on them.
So I think we’d all get a lot more out of knowing which restaurants I emphatically urge you to avoid.

My ultimate goal, through this blog, is to single-handedly put these restaurants (all in Portland) out of business - or at least convince a few less people to support them.

It wasn't necessarily the food. Or the service. Or the atmosphere. And truthfully, you could very easily have a wonderful experience at one of these places.
But they wronged me. And for that, they should pay.

These are listed in no particular order, except for the first, which was just the most recent event and impetus for this post.

1. Mississippi Station
This place has all the makings of a great restaurant/bar, but fuck them. Last Thursday night, at around 9:30, I met a friend there for a drink. He was initially opposed to the spot due to an equally shitty experience there, just the night before. I chalked it up to an off night on their part. I arrived first. The room was lit up like a high-school cafeteria and despite the three or four parties still comfortably settled in, the bartender and waitress appeared to be tidying up for the night. I ordered a whisky for myself, a beer for the friend and handed them my Visa, asking them to start a tab. They rejected my tab and told me it was almost last call. AT 9:30 PM! So I asked what time they closed on a Thursday night. They responded together, "11." Umm, I checked the watch I don't wear and reminded them it was ONLY 9:30 PM! They stumbled over each other like a bad Abbot and Costello routine and told me they were actually closing at 10:30 but they would start a tab for me, like they were some patron saints of inebriation. And with my tab, I received the annoyingly attentive service of a acne-laden waitress, who looked much better, much further away, but hovered over anyway, hurrying our second drink on us and placing the bill down with them, all but holding our jackets open. We left promptly at 10:30, just short of involuntarily – geez, I'd hate to see them make any more money before closing.

2. Sweet Basil
Sadly, this may be Portland's best Thai food. I won't mention its location because I wouldn't want you to be tempted and there are plenty of other good ones, so just deal with it. Because the first thing you’ll find there is the wait. We typically order the food to go and no matter how long they tell you it will take, or how long you actually give them, they invariably make you stand by the cash register for no less than 18 minutes. It’s like you serve penance for the delicacies about to be bestowed upon you. You could easily watch a group come in, get seated, order, get served, eat, pay and leave in the time it takes for them to put your take-out order together. My last pick-up was with a buddy so I have witnesses and he’s a much more patient person than I. We waited and when it finally came time to pay the $35 tab, both my friend and I each laid a $20 bill on the counter. They asked us if we wanted any change. First of all, it's take out. Not delivery. Not eat in, and mess up your place. It’s TAKE-OUT!. Second of all, don't ever ask me if I want change. Yes, I always want change, even if I am eating in your stinking joint and then I will decide how much of it you get. We responded “yes, we would like our change” and graciously left her a dollar each. We got home and unpacked the food. They had forgotten two orders of spring rolls and one order of Pad See Ewe. I called and asked them what they intended to do about it. They defensively argued that they had no order for Pad See Ewe and we were not charged for it. What about the spring rolls? Oh yes, they did forget those. So, ummm... Yeah, ok, they'll deliver those. But not the Pad See Ewe unless we wanted to put that on our card. Should be at our house in 15 minutes (sic. 1 hour). The driver showed up and held his hand out for a tip, which I refused but felt bad cause it really wasn't his fault. Until he left. He only brought one order of the spring rolls. Goddamn them! My wife suggested we call the restaurant again and tell them to give the money we were charged for the spring rolls that will never belong to us, to the driver, since we didn't tip him. I suggested we never call them again and blog about how much we hate them.

3. Any Small Plates Restaurant
Clark Lewis. Toro Bravo. That place on NE 28th that everyone loves so much. I haven't even been to the last two and I hear Toro Bravo is the best place to wait 2 hours for a table in the city. But fuck them anyway. I hate this new small plates dining movement that's taken the pretentious foodies by storm. It's bullshit. If there are four people in your party, they bring three of whatever you ordered. If there are 20, they'll bring 19. It's the small plates Russian Roulette mind fuck to see who is the most selfless person at the table. Who will politely bow out of each dish, just because they won’ t bring your table enough to go around? You know who? Me. You guys loved the place because you ate. I starved so I could blog about it.

4. Stumptown Coffee
Yes, it's still better than Starbucks. And I’m all for supporting local business. But if you’re waiting 12 minutes in line for your morning latte, just to soak in that gritty yet hip bike messenger vibe, then you're just a big sucker. Wait a minute....

5. Park Kitchen
Everbody loves Park Kitchen. It’s so eclectic and inventive and the atmosphere is admittedly warm and lively. But get outta here with your crazy meat concoctions. Duck ham, preserved strawberries and goat cheese fondue. Carpaccio of halibut, oil cured cardoons and chervil. Savory rhubarb, big woods blue and oat crisps. Freshly marinated anchovies with preserved lemons and fennel. Yes, you’ve wowed me with your inventive spirit and love for the epicurean. Too bad everything tastes like I threw up in my mouth.
Ed. Note: The restaurant Rocket falls into this same category of hate for me. They have Grilled Spencer and Scrapple on their menu and when I asked what these items were, the server responded as if I were rubbing feces all over myself. Who doesn’t know what Spencer and Scrapple is? With that warm reception, my party and I stood up and walked out. So I didn’t actually eat there. But the view from their balcony may be the best Portland has to offer. Too bad you should never go see it.

Why does my office smell like body odor?

2008-03-26T12:49:00.000-07:00

Yes, I know the obvious answer.

But why just at my office? Why not in my home or in my car? Why do I smell myself when I finish a physically strenuous exercise but not when I'm sedentary - like at my office. Most importantly, why did I start finding the funk immediately upon returning from a vacation I took in November, along with a half-drunk cup of half milk, half coffee (I never take milk) at my desk.

I'll tell you why. Someone else sat at my desk and left the beast. And there is no recourse.

No one else seems to notice, or they are simply too polite to say anything. My boss was gracious enough to wipe down all the surfaces, but that didn't work. I lit a match. Nothing. I've even thought about trading offices at this point, but the only trading power I have is a window and I'm not sure what's worse - drywall or or some stranger's secretions seeping into my nervous system every m-f.

Oooh, look at the concrete building outside.

Ed. note: I realize all this banter comes in the immediate wake of my dog dying and that I should be mourning, not writing about 4 month-old body odor, but this is how I grieve. Leave me alone.

I can totally beat your 5-year-old down

2008-03-26T09:30:00.000-07:00

I have to kill my dog today

2008-03-25T09:05:00.000-07:00

It's sad, but setting that date has definitely been the worst part of it.

Yeah, I'll miss her. She's been the one single constant for me in the last 15 years. But let's be frank, I can buy rugs now. Nice rugs. Rugs I won’t have to scrub the feces out of – dab, don’t scrub! - within 6.5 hours of purchase.

And I'll get 20 minutes of my morning back everyday.

And I won't have to deal with what to do with her every time we travel.

I hate to be crass - well, not "hate" so much as, I know it's inappropriate to be crass - but there are parts of my dog's passing that I'm really friggin' psyched about.

No, the worst part of this experience, by far, is consciously making the decision to end the life of a friend, another living thing w - (ed note. I just had to get up from typing this to pick her up and carry her out side) - ith a real personality. And with just a single phone call to the neighborhood vet, that is exactly what I did.

Here’s how it will go:
• I called the vet last week and we worked out a convenient time to kill my dog, that fits both his schedule and mine.
• The vet will come into my home at approximately 4:47 pm on March 25.
• I’ll let him in the front door and point him toward Lula.
• He’ll take out his syringe of murder juice and stick it in my dog.
• Once she goes limp, the vet will take the body out of my home and back to his clinic (probably in the trunk) and cremate her (I can have her ashes/evidence if I want it).

People have been very supportive. They say things like, “this is the right thing to do” and “it’s her time.” But no one really knows. I mean, she definitely isn't loving life these days, but she also doesn't get to weigh in on her own demise.

I just hope, when it comes time to put me down, no one has to negotiate with the doctor whether or not it works for them to stop and do it on their way home from the office.

The clip below references the ol' girl's namesake - the polish subtitles are just a bonus.

Heyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy!

2008-03-13T09:32:00.000-07:00

I was just informed in a comment from the last post that my blog has now "Jumped the Shark."

I didn't know what that meant, until about five minutes ago. But it was followed by "Step it up" so even I, could easily infer the slight.

According to Wikipedia, "Jumping the Shark" is used "to denote the point at which the characters or plot of a tv series veer into a ridiculous, out-of-the-ordinary storyline." Which I always thought was the whole point of this silly exercise. In fact, I'm almost tempted to rename this blog "Jumping the Shark."

I am only disappointed in myself for not knowing the source of this expression - my boyhood hero, Arthur Herbert "Fonzi" Fonzarelli.

Please enjoy this colloquialism-defining TV moment.

I love me a good couple's fight

2008-03-12T09:22:00.000-07:00

Especially over really petty shit, like forgetting to pick up the milk or clogging the drain with hair. Or making your partner attend "disgusting sex clubs." It makes me feel so much better about my own dysfunctional relationship. I found some examples on youtube and I think you'll agree - it's very watchable stuff.

But I draw the line when the fight breaks out right in front of a house I just poured my life-savings into. I have a property value to protect here. So when you classy couples pull your white Chevy Malibu not quite over to the side of the road, leaving the passenger door swinging wide and have at each other like some Jerry Springer stalwarts in full view of my home, well, that's when I step in.

Such was the scene I rode up to upon returning home from work yesterday. There was no, "gee, I wish you could respect my feelings..." It was more, "I hope your testicles rot with cancer you motherfucker!"

I needed to choose my words wisely, maybe even suggest a decent couples counselor before they go and do something stupid like split up. So I decided to pass the adorable little love birds and park my bike in the garage while I thought this through. But just as I returned to the sidewalk, it seemed my services were no longer required - the man was walking away from the woman while she shouted out after him, "I was never into your disgusting sex clubs, either! You're totally gonna get STDs. If you don't already have them!" (Wouldn't she have them, too?)

And off she went, screeching away in her Chevy Malibu way, while her disgraced man shook his head at the entire scene.

I hope they can refrain from choosing our street to air out their dirties in the future. But if anyone does see this couple going at it again, please let me know where. I'll bring the Raisinets.

My roommate slept with this guy's friend so he pissed in my closet (Part 2)

2008-03-07T15:29:00.000-08:00

So now a little context before I continue onto part deux.

The man pictured below (Part 1), who shall remain nameless even though all five of my readers know that his name rhymes with "Randy Loopen," came to a large party at my house, sophomore year in college. I didn't know this Loopen at the time. He came with a friend. The same friend who my roommate slept with and who I wanted to sleep with but was never given the chance.

So it turns out, this friend was unhappy with the way my roommate was treating her at this party (after having slept with him) and she told her friend (Loopen) as much. He decided the best way to deal with the situation was to pee in my closet and not tell anyone. Now this was our sophomore year in college so what might smell like human urine coming from a closet to most people, just smelled like home to us, and said urine went undiscovered throughout the remainder of the year. We moved out and the urine stayed behind.

In the course of the next year, I'd become good friends with Loopen - through another friend all together - and enjoyed hearing about the frequent pranks he would pull of this nature. So when we were having a laugh at another friends party one night during our junior year, he felt a certain obligation to come clean with me - he peed in my closet.

And you know what? I didn't care. I thought it was pretty funny actually and our friendship endured.

Cut to senior year. I was living in yet another house, which surely had someone's urine on it somewhere unbeknownst to us, and coincidentally was directly across the street from the house with the peed-in closet. Another roommate of mine decided to order himself a delicious sub sandwich from Madison's favorite, Big Mikes (sadly, Big Mike's is now defunct and no logo was readily available to post here). He placed the order at around 11 pm and hoped it would arrive soon so that he wouldn't be eating it past midnight. No such luck. In fact, this roommate began calling Big Mike himself at around 12:30 am, demanding a sandwich to be delivered immediately.

At around that time, I had the urge to urinate and headed toward where people usually go to do that sort of thing. But this roommate of mine was so incensed, (he even had me a little fired up), that together, we decided I should hold my pee and release it into the Big Mike's delivery driver's car. The plan was that I would wait by the back door, while another roommate stood watch on the balcony overlooking the street. When the driver pulled up to the front of the house, I would run around to the car, relieve myself and run back to the rear entry with the driver being none the wiser.

The car finally pulled up shortly before one, at which point my bladder had my urethra in a headlock. I walked out the back door and listened patiently for the driver to walk up our front steps. That noise didn't come like it should have. And in listening for that recognizable sound of winter boots on a wood porch, I missed the sound of winter boots crunching ground along the side of the house. I looked up and the driver was about two feet in front of me asking if I knew where 508 W. Washington was. I replied no, and ran back into the house to pee. Of course, he eventually figured it out and noticed that I was inside the very address of which I claimed not to know the whereabouts. The plan was foiled and what was going to be a very exciting story, quickly turned very anti-climatic with the flush of a toilet.

About three months after this event took place, we hosted another party and one of our guests happened to be the aforementioned Loopen. We had a few drinks and I started to recount the Big Mikes story, thinking I would really impress him. But as I started to near the end of the story, I realized there was nothing impressive about what I had done. I just pissed in a toilet like everyone else. So I did what anyone with a few drinks and a captive audience would do. I ended the story with, "so the guy went up to the door... and I pissed in the back seat of his car!"

Just as those words were uttered, and my audience was howling with delight, the roommate who was supposed to keep watch that night from the balcony walked by and called me out. "No you didn't," he said and kept walking.

"You're right - I just totally lied." I was busted. For pissing into my toilet and not some dude's car.

And you know what? The guy who pissed in my closet liked me even better for lying to him.

My roomate slept with this guy's friend so he pissed in my closet (Part 1)

2008-03-07T14:45:00.001-08:00

Wasted Material

2008-02-28T13:20:00.000-08:00

The Portland Mercury, a free alternative weekly paper, comes out every Thursday. It's mostly full of trivial, vapid and useless information, but I dig it and I especially like the column titled "I Anonymous" found on the last page of paper, right next to the comics. Basically, this space is reserved for people to mouth off about somewhat common, yet obnoxious behavior that the writer has experienced and that hopefully the rest of us can relate to. And it can all be done in complete anonymity, of course.

It's a lot like my blog. But people actually read it.

A recent incident I endured last week was so perfect for the paper's column that I refrained from recounting it here, and instead, submitted it to the Anonymous editor. My plan was to wait for it to be published and then post a link to it here. Well, today is Thursday and my rant wasn't published. And since I'm way too impatient to see if it ever gets published, I'm just going to post the entry here.

"To the dude who sat next to me at the Stumptown coffee bar on Southwest 3rd avenue the other morning and proceeded to sing along to every word of Beck's "Mutations" playing over the cafe's stereo system, are you fucking kidding me? Were you trying to demonstrate your mastery of having committed these very catchy lyrics to memory. Or perhaps you thought the rest of us would be so taken with your glorious rendition of "Bottle of Blues" that we would hang on each mellifluous note to emerge from your mouth? I know you think you were singing quietly and to yourself, but this is neither your car nor your shower and when I come to the coffee shop and sit alone with my computer to get some work done, the last thing I want to be distracted by is some pretentious douche butchering what used to be one of my favorite albums."

For more I Anonymous rants, click http://forums.portlandmercury.com/forumdisplay.php?f=14 or just pick up the paper - it's free.

(Hey, what do you know - my submission was posted on their site under the title, "Public Singing Ban," but the version above is modified and better).

Jodeci hates me

2008-02-21T14:41:00.000-08:00

Another oldie, but goodie that was specifically requested by a reader (see comments under the iLife post).

Back in the day, before I had a mortgage and a kid's college fund to feed, I wrote music reviews for the free weekly rag. It was cool. I got into all the shows, I knew some cool people who seemed like they were mildly famous and I could work in my skivvies from my home office. Making ten cents a word wasn't that cool and ultimately, I felt hollow criticizing other people's creativity rather than developing my own. So I quit.

As a weekly music reviewer, I mostly wrote previews for upcoming concerts, rather than reviews, which almost always got coverage by the big daily newspaper in town. Without having seen the current tour somewhere else first, previews are forced to rely upon the album said artists may be promoting and what you know about their past performances.

So when the Notorious B.I.G. came through Portland to play the Coliseum (yes, this happened a while back), he was billed to perform with six or seven other acts, all of the "urban" persuasion, most of whom I didn't know much about. I'm a huge Biggie Smalls fan and while the other acts didn't quite appeal (Junior M.A.F.I.A, Mary J. Blige...) I was just psyched to pimp Big Poppa's visit.

And then I learned he wouldn't even be headlining. Instead, some new school R&B act, called Jodeci would hold court. Biggie playing second fiddle? It made no sense.

I did my job and gave Jodeci's CD a listen. They were horrible. They were everything that's wrong with hip-hop - overproduced, synthesized poop with dudes harmonizing about "bitches" and their "gats". This was an injustice to pop music at the time. And I said as much in my column. I criticized the promoters for not understanding their audience and for not spotlighting the true talent of the night.

The article was submitted to my editor, the paper came out a week later and the show didn't take place for another five nights after that. I had all but forgotten what I wrote.

I came home late the night before the show and ran to answer a ringing phone.

"Hello," I said.
"Is this Geoff Abraham?" The man barked from the other end.
"Ummm, yes"
"I said, is this Geoff Abraham, motherfucker!"
"Not sure."
"Yo, bitch! You ever seen a Jodeci show?"
"Uhh, no."
"Well then, what the fuck are you talking all this shit about when you don't know shit about it?"

At this point in the conversation I tried to explain the bit about how we're a weekly publication and so we write previews instead of...

"I don't give a fuck about none of that."
"Well, what would you like from me," I asked.
"We know where you live."
"Are you coming here?"
"I said I know where you live motherfucker."
"I'm sure you do - I'm listed in the phone book. Are you coming here? Because I'm leaving if you are."

And then the nice man hung up.

I went downstairs and checked my caller I.D. (high-tech at the time) and it read "The Mallory Hotel." I called the Mallory and asked if they had a band called Jodeci staying there. They refused to give out that information and then I explained my predicament. They still wouldn't give me the name of the group, but they did admit that a musical act, made up primarily of African Americans with a very large entourage was staying at the hotel.

I called the police who took my information. As I provided it, the other line rang. I clicked over.
"Yo, you get the cops involved and we're gonna beat yo ass down."

I clicked back over to the police.
"Thanks. I got it all settled, no need to bother."

My roomate and his girlfriend walked in the door right about then and I told them the whole story. They didn't believe me. And then the phone rang again. It was another call from the Mallory hotel. My roommate answered.
"Uh-huh. Uh-huh. No Geoff's not here. I'll let him know."

My roommate hung up the phone, grabbed his girlfriend and headed for the door.
"We're gonna crash at her house tonight. We'll leave the dogs with you. You should be fine."

I followed them out the door, with the dogs, and spent the night at a friends house.

Nothing ever came of all this excitement. But about a week after the show, which I sadly could not attend, a friend who did go, ran over to me at a local club.
"Dude, were you at that Biggie show last week?"
"Nah, was it any good?"
"You weren't there? Dude! Jodeci took the stage after Biggie rocked it. They took the mic and in front of a packed house, opened with, 'Yo! Fuck Geoff Abraham! And fuck Willamette Week!'"

I must admit, I was touched.

Ed. Note: My roommate at the time just reminded me, and would like it to be included here, that shortly before we evacuated the house, we all crouched down below the window line, hoping that the trajectory of potential gun fire would simply pass over our heads. I'm pretty sure that's standard operating procedure in a drive-by.

Not living the iLife

2008-02-18T11:28:00.000-08:00

I bought my first Apple product, an LCIII in 1987. Ever since, I've been a staunch supporter of the brand. User-friendly interface. Kick-ass design. A hipster status symbol for nerds. And while these products might require a greater financial commitment from users, we all know, cool will cost you.

I'm ok with this. So much so that those early iPhone buyers who complained of getting ripped off to the tune of $200 ($100 after the good faith rebate) simply for purchasing the device in the first two months of it's release, never got my sympathy vote. There's a premium on being the first kid on the street with the fresh new toy, which may be easier for me to say, as I was not a victim.

Here's where I believe the apple went rotten, and I'm surprised there isn't more talk about this:

My brand new MacBook came with the iLife suite pre-installed and a 2-month free trial of a ".mac account," which plays so nicely with the software. Dot mac makes it so you can share personal photos, videos, and all other kinds of media online with some very simple, intuitive clicks. Awesome, right?

Wrong. First, Apple pretty much won't let you start up your new computer without registering a .mac account - the two months of free service are just enough to whet your appetite before they stick you with the $90 annual bill to keep things running (they constantly remind me how many days I have left before it's not free anymore). Remember, this is a web site, that allows you to use APPLE products, which you've just purchased from APPLE.

I could begrudge a fee for this service if I didn't own a mac (.mac accounts would work with PCs, just not as fluidly). I could even forgive them a few bucks if I needed more online space than the introductory amount allotted. But if they want me to continue buying their iTunes, and iPhotos and all the other iCrap that I've long been a disciple of, then give me some iSpace so I can spread the gospel.

Until such time, my blogs will appear here - not at .mac - and my online photo galleries will have to be posted to rival, Snapfish, who will host my pictures for free, in hopes that friends and family will purchase a few images while they're there.

I recently likened this greedy corporate behavior to Starbucks. The coffee giant sees themself so vital to the world wide cafe-goer, that they can charge customers a per minute fee to use wi-fi in their stores, a practice virtually unheard of elsewhere in the industry. If you've taken a gander at Starbucks stock in the last year or so, this is just one business model that is not working for them. And from what I hear, it's about to change.

Mac seems to think that customer rewards are simply the release of more life-changing products for us to spend more life-changing disposable income on. Why should they actually "reward" us with incentives for buying their glorious things? Oh, and curiously, Apple shareholders aren't exactly going ahead with that second home or 40-ft. sea cruiser at the moment, either.

Note: It has not been lost on me that this post deviates from my blog's theme in that, my opinions/ actions haven't actually pissed anyone off, inadvertently. Quite the opposite. The intent of this rant is to totally and, advertently piss the apple executives off.

I'm not holding my breath.

I don't heart today

2008-02-14T15:10:00.000-08:00

I don't heart the greeting card industry.
I don't heart those chalky heart candies.
I don't heart the patron saint of love.

I don't heart the little old lady at the gift shop that just conned me out of $10 for a crappy balloon.

I do heart my kid, though. And she digs the balloons. So I'll be the butt of this stupid joke they call a holiday.
But I won't heart it.

Don't txt me

2008-02-12T11:30:00.000-08:00

It has not yet been stated here, but I'm a cheap bastard. Not cheap like the guy who won't throw in enough when you're out for dinner with a big group - I tend to overcompensate in those situations. But cheap like, I wasn't about to add text messaging to my phone plan for $5 a month.

It was explained to me by the very helpful service provider that I would be charged a quarter every time someone sends me a text if I don't sign up for the plan. I could block texts from coming in, but I kinda figured, as a 30-something, married guy, with child, I wouldn't be tapping out "where r u"s and emoticoms to find out what my "BFF"s were up to, and most people I know would feel the same.

Apparently somebody's missed the High School Musical express and there's hefty tariff on becoming obsolete.

First it was the occasional text. I wasn't about to change my plan over a quarter. Then I started getting 4 successive texts from a single person, which caused my sphincter to inadvertently clench every time I heard the text tone from my phone.

Then I did something stupid. I voiced my resentment to anyone who would listen. The result: a barrage of text messages from everyone I knew, including a few who were sitting right next to me, just to see what it would take to get me a plan. The messages ranged from "what r u listening to?" to "pls pass the remote."

The quarters turned to dollars and in a matter of hours, that five dollar upgrade to my plan would become a $30 dollar value.

I got a plan - so don't bother texting me because I'll never hit my 500 limit. But I got it at no benefit to me.

$60 a year to feed an industry I've unwittingly entered. Ain't technology awesome?

Death By Baby Grand

2008-02-11T11:09:00.000-08:00

Digging into archives again, this one was recounted over dinner last night with friends who thought it worthy of this hateful blog. And somehow I avoided being demonized this weekend so this will have to suffice.

About six months into our new home search my wife, daughter, real estate agent and I enter a home that was almost ours - for some unknown reason, the owner, who had never even met me, refused our full-price offer.

As we make our way up the front steps, we pass two less than capable looking piano movers. One guy is pushing his mid-90s. The other appears to be on a steady diet of Big Macs and Tivo. The truck outside is emblazoned with the name of the company, something like "Barely Capable Piano Movers" and a caricature of two guys struggling with an oversized piano.

The house was empty, minus the baby grand just inside the entrance. Somehow, my agent, wife and daughter proceed to the rest of the house while I stay behind, checking out the main room. The two men grunt and heave under the instrument, uncomfortably nearby.

As the elder gentleman complains of a bad back, they ask if I wouldn't mind giving them a hand hoisting the piano onto a roller. It seemed simple enough. I didn't want to be a jerk. And before I know it, I'm pinned against a wall with the weight of the piano against my chest.

As my realtor and wife walk by, I look to my realtor, a strapping man of 6'2 for some help getting me out of the situation. I went so far as to ask him if I should even be there from a liability standpoint, to which he simply shrugged and walked to another room. I can understand how frustrated he was with us as clients - we'd been incredibly indecisive with him - but that should have been my cue to find alternate representation.

Luckily, my lovely and very charming wife bails me out with a simple, "what the fuck are doing? Get out of there!" I look at the piano movers, push my way out and give the same shrug/walk away that my agent had just given me. They respond with a very sincere, "thanks, dick." And just so we're clear at this point, my name is not Dick. So I'm the bad guy.

A few moments later, from down in the basement, we all hear a large crash. We give each other some furtive looks and quietly escape out the back door with my agent making the "call me" sign holding his pinky and thumb up to his mouth and ear, as we split for our respective cars. We drive away with the windows down, and I'm pretty sure I heard something about a punctured lung through the wails of the two grown men.

Don't you hate when you refuse to help piano movers and one of them perishes as a result? And, we didn't get the house.

Hate the fist bump

2008-02-08T08:49:00.000-08:00

What ever happened to the high-five?

It wasn't pretty. There was a lot of room for error. But it never tried to be anything it wasn't.

Then, sometime around the mid-90s, every suburban white kid was throwing knuckles around like they were Sammy Friggin' Sosa rounding third.

Well I ain't having it. And I'm not afraid to leave someone hanging when I see it coming, either.

So last night I got roped into playing for the company bowling team due to a shortage of players (not because I'm super awesome on the lanes). And after showing up 10 minutes late - which didn't win me a whole bunch of favor to start - I was quickly instructed on the team's celebration moves. Strikes or spares get high-fives all around and anything else gets fist bumps, which was explained to me as our team's way of saying, "better luck next time."

So not only is this gesture being bandied about by non-professional athletes and non-hip-hop artists alike, but now I'm supposed to do it even when nothing good happens. When I get a 7-10 split, I'm supposed to fist bump. When I get gutter ball, I'm supposed to fist bump. I just got pink eye. Let's fist bump!

Honestly, I'd prefer a light pat on the ass, a head nod in my direction, or this

So I told my team as much.

I don't think they truly understood my stance. But I think they were just so happy to have enough players to make up a team that they humored me, and offered up elbows after every bad ball, instead.

For more on the history of looking like an idiot in public:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fist_pound

My bitter introduction

2008-02-07T12:04:00.000-08:00

Why blog about being angry? Frankly, I have nothing better to offer the blabber-sphere. And if Larry David can make millions pissing people off, I should at least get a little social therapy out of it.

The funny part is, I have no reason to be angry, really.

I grew up in a nice home. I met a nice girl. She agreed to marry me and now we have a real nice little daughter. I even have a nice job.

But for some reason, I can hardly leave the house without developing some kind of rift. I never instigate the problem, but before I know it, things start pouring out of my hate-hole and that really cheeses people off.

And for whatever reason, when I recount the stories to those few I can still call my friends - people who know my crustiness all too well - I somehow provide as much amusement (my wife withstanding) as I do scorn, created by the incident itself.

A few recent examples:

I tried to procure the services of a handyman who came highly recommended. He seemed to have a tough time scheduling me in so I said, "if you're too busy, I can try to find another handyman." He replied, "go ahead and find one then," and hung up on me. I clearly upset him, but how? I was trying to be sensitive to his time. Was he upset that I thought someone else might be capable of drilling some holes in my wall? Or did he feel that I wasn't patient enough with his very busy handyman schedule? What I came to learn later from the person who recommended him, is that handymen, don't appreciate being called "handymen." Who knew?
My coworkers and I decided to go out for some "team-building" drinks. The head of our department started a tab and it was mutually understood that all cocktails ordered would be covered by the company. Very nice. However, the drinks were being poured like it was the great depression and after three thimblefuls which left me sober and thirsty, I asked the bartender if that was her typical pour. She grabbed the drink out of my hand. I thought she was going to pour more in. Instead, she poured the contents back into the little stainless steel shot measuring device to demonstrate the accuracy of her pour. It still didn't measure up, even with the freshly melted ice contributing to the booze. I pointed that out as nicely as possible, and she asked me if I was complaining about drinks that someone else was buying for me. I replied "yes, as a matter of principle, I was." She didn't 86 me, but she didn't pour me another one of her shitty drinks, either.
This last one happened a while back, but it seemed to define this era of discontent. I was in New York City on the first hot day of summer. I was only in town for a few more hours and craved a slice of pizza, so my buddy and I walked down to his corner Rays. A large, hairy man, wearing a white wife-beater tossed dough in the front of the shop. So you knew it was good. The young gal behind the counter flirted with the pizza-maker while she took my order - a slice of plain cheese and a bottle of coke. She threw my slice in the oven to warm up (unnecessary, but thoughtful) and grabbed my coke out of the fridge, glistening with drops of refreshing condensation. She walked up behind the big, hairy pizza maker and wiped my bottle of coke across the nape of his neck to cool him off. She proceeded to place the bottle and slice in front of me and ring me up for the three dollars and 75 cents. I in turn, asked her for a bottle of coke that didn't have dude's sweat on it. Both the bottle and the slice were removed from the counter and I was asked to leave the establishment with a look that clearly said, "if that pizza maker's sweat isn't good enough for me, then neither is his pizza."

So I often ask myself, why me?

Is it because I'm an only child and the whole, "doesn't play well with others" thing? Or maybe it's because I moved around a lot and never learned the importance of relationship building. Or did I just listen to way too much Billy Joel as a kid?

I'm just the guy who says out loud what everyone else thinks in their head. Which is just another way of saying I have no tact. But instead of having one big nervous breakdown at middle-age, I figure, I'll experience a whole bunch of mini-breakdowns everyday, entertaining a few friends along the way.

So in this vein, I will post each cringe-worthy incident as it comes up.
I imagine you'll be hearing from me again soon.