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.
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
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
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
