The Prettiest Denny's Waitress

This Blog Has Moved

2010-11-16T16:47:00.003-05:00

Do me a favor, please: Forget all about this Blogger bullcrap and go to my new, hopefully more functional and prettier version of The Prettiest Denny's Waitress. And update your readers, links, bookmarks and what-not so that together we can continue filling the internet with our witty musings. See you there.

Feelin' Kinda Funky

2010-11-15T14:27:00.003-05:00

Some say Sunday is the Lord's day; that's fine with me, just so long as the Lord wants to rock out a bit. Either way, rock will be had, seven days a week. Or eight, if you're a Beatles fan.

So it was that the lady and I, along with four friends (sure, two of them we were meeting for the first time, but I found them wholly agreeable, so I'll be loose with the "friends" tag) found ourselves at the Buckhead Theatre on a drizzly Sunday evening. It was only 5 o'clock and the doors weren't scheduled to open until 8, so we went around the corner to a tiny Greek place for dinner. The owner of the joint was the real thing and had either no concept of or no interest in following the pacing that accompanies a typical restaurant experience in America, which was fine by me. Upon pushing together some tables for us he deduced, with no input from anyone in our group, that we wanted an appetizer and a round of waters. Out came a platter full of hummus, tabbouleh, baba ganoush and an assortment of other spreads and random vegetables, accompanied by a pile of sliced up pita on a paper plate (?), all of it delicious. And then... nothing. We hadn't seen a menu and no one bothered us for a good 15 minutes after we had eaten up our paper-plate's worth of pita. When the owner eventually came over again, we asked him if there were menus or if we just order off the pictures of food above the counter.

"Oh, you want menus?"

Um, yes please.

And then after we had looked over the menu, he tried to talk the second person who ordered the falafel gyro into getting something else. His English, I should add, was enthusiastic but broken, spoken in the way of an immigrant who has lived here probably for decades but who became confident in his language skills far sooner than he should have and makes up for it with volume and frequent laughter. We did end up getting what we ordered (which was surprising,) and it was all fantastic. It was definitely a strange dining experience, but I will absolutely go back there (Cafe Agora) next time we're in the area looking for food. Just not if we're in a hurry (although they do have takeout.)

So back around the corner through the drizzle to the Buckhead Theatre we went. Recently reopened after extensive renovation, the theater was formerly The Roxy and I'd seen three shows in that incarnation: the Verve (my first real concert, freshman year of college,) Drivin' n' Cryin' (for the second time,) and Frank Black (for the fourth time.) It's basically just been snazzied-up: new carpet throughout, fresh paint, uniformed staff (friendly,too,) and big, gleaming restrooms. Every time I end up in a place like that for a concert (meaning a place with a little class,) I think back to what I came to expect in my youth from a rock venue: surly staff, sticky floors, a thick fog of cigarette smoke, decrepit bathrooms and a sense of impending violence.

None of this was to be found at the Buckhead Theatre last night, although I doubt violence has ever accompanied the band we were there to see: Better Than Ezra. If you're like me, your memory of Better Than Ezra begins and ends sometime in the mid-90s with their radio hits Good, Desperately Wanting, and In the Blood. Actually, I do have a little more history with them, as Courtney and I caught the very end of their set at Voodoo Music Fest in New Orleans in 2001, which was the college trip from which we came home a couple. Courtney's a fan and our friends are fans (and I do know much of their first two albums by heart), so we made sure to park ourselves right in front of the stage.

Better Than Ezra were good, playing all the crowd favorites, but I honestly didn't get into it until relatively late in the set, when they broke out their fantastic cover of James' "Laid." The sound could've been a lot better, but that's a common complaint and I've heard much, much worse. All in all it was a good time and I managed to let loose with some singing along from time to time.

The highlight for me, though, was the opening act, Big Sam's Funky Nation. If I had a band, I would not want to follow them, a compliment Better Than Ezra's Kevin Griffin actually articulated on stage. It was the best opening set I've ever seen: an opening band only gets so much time to impress the audience and these five guys hardly paused between songs, ripping from one funk jam right into the next. The two guys up front on trombone and trumpet also handled vocal duties and danced almost non-stop. On top of the ridiculous level of energy, they were also amazing players, the guitarist shredding hard enough to break a string and the bass player bringing that fat-bottom sound right to the forefront. The trombone player, Big Sam himself, had some wicked dance moves and had himself soaked in a combination of sweat and the output of his horn's spit valve in the span of just a few songs: that guy really worked for his audience.

Big Sam, being from New Orleans, threw in a few rounds of Who dat say dey gonna beat dem Saints?, a question to which I never considered a response until I found myself shouting "THE FALCONS!" They also threw in a rip-roaring cover of Hard to Handle, a shrewd move as a sure-fire way to get the crowd to sing along. I don't own a single funk album, but that kind of big-band funk never disappoints when you catch it live.

At one point during one of the many call-and-response parts of the act, Courtney found the microphone in her face as Big Sam leaned down from the stage. She had no idea (I later learned) what the repetitive three-word line was he'd been singing and so she shrank back from it, leaving me to lean in from behind and try to pick up the slack. Until she reads this, she still doesn't know what she was supposed to sing. At least one of us was feelin' kinda funky.

(And this I have to share: Blogger spellcheck doesn't like "Buckhead" as one word [or "spellcheck," for that matter.] What does it suggest I replace it with? "Fuckhead." Seriously.)

NaBloPoOhWell

2010-11-11T13:26:00.004-05:00

Eh, so I missed an entire week of NaBlo. NaBlo me.

("Umm," you may ask, "isn't that the kind of crudeness you should start backspacing since your mom reads your blog?" My answer: Probably, but she's a librarian, and librarians are historic foes of censorship. Also, making this blog entirely parent-appropriate would be much less fun for my many readers, who would miss out on witty, hilarious wordplay such as "NaBlo me." On a related note, email me if you want to hear about the time I tried to buy heroin from a Taiwanese prostitute.)

(Kidding about the heroin and the prostitute, Mom. If I had a kick-ass story like that, I'd totally put it on my blog, mom or no mom. Also, I never check my blog email, so that entire sentence was a lie.)

Where were we before my mother so rudely interrupted? Oh, right- NaBloPoMo, or more specifically my failure to make it past day 3. Did I really think I could more or less ignore my blog for a year and a half and then suddenly flip the switch and start posting every day? Apparently, yes. But then Thursday rolled around, I didn't feel like writing anything and I had to bank another three or four posts because I was going away for the weekend, and, well, bleh.

So I'm a failure.

But I did spend a long weekend in the mountains with my friend John at his family's cabin. I actually camped out in the back of my truck the first night and experienced the first snow of the season because John couldn't make it until Saturday. I sleep incredibly well when the temperature is in the upper twenties. My sleeping bag is rated to 20 degrees, but somewhere around 30 seems to be the real sweet spot.

John and I did some light hiking, found some of the largest trees in the state, briefly lost his dog, also caught said dog eating a discarded deer stomach (totally gross), burned through a bunch of firewood and generally enjoyed the crisp, clear, fragrant fall air of North Georgia. And I didn't write about it until now; I refer you back to my opening sentence.

As best we could figure (following the hiking guide,) this poplar is the thickest tree in the Chattahoochee National Forest at about 18 feet in circumference. If trees could talk, this one might say, "Dude, at least buy me dinner first."

This is me admiring (respectfully this time) another behemoth in the so-called Valley of the Giants. To get here you drive several miles off the main highway beyond where the pavement ends, park in an unmarked pull-out and hike an unofficial and unsigned trail. Needless to say, we were the only ones there. My kind of place.

In rural backwoods Georgia, graffiti gets to the point. Bonus points for correct spelling! I have to ask though: Is this a phenomenon found in other states? In Minnesota, do they spray-paint "fuck north dakota" on abandoned silos? It's a thinker.

There's Always Room For Jello

2010-11-03T20:57:00.003-04:00

All day long I've had the Dead Kennedys' "California Uber Alles" stuck in my head. Do you think that in 1979, when Jello Biafra sang the words

I am Governor Jerry Brown
My aura smiles
And never frowns
Soon I will be president...

that he had any idea that 32 years later the same dude would be back in the California governor's mansion? Shit, that was the year I was born, and Jerry Brown had already been in office for four years! Of course Jello was wrong; Brown never did ascend to the presidency (neither did Biafra, losing the 2000 Green Party nomination to Ralph Nader.) "California Uber Alles" isn't exactly a glowing ode to Brown's leadership, so I'm guessing Jello has not been silent on the subject. My guess is he's already updating the song for 2011, having already changed it once for Governor Schwarzenegger.

Among Many Other Things...

2010-11-02T20:06:00.000-04:00

Are you?

As long as we're talking stickers, here's the one you get if you go to perhaps the most inspired roadside attraction in all of Georgia:

And where does one become a Goat Ranger?

Duh. Goats on the Roof! Where they feature... (drum roll, please)... GOATS!... on the ROOF!

Yeah, it's pretty much the best thing ever. Of course the buildings beneath the goats provide you with many ways to part with your money, the best of which are coin operated goat-food dispensers for loading up the hand or pedal crank goat feeders. How else would you feed goats on the roof?

These two were showing off with some full-on head-banging, horn-locking goat shenanigans. But don't worry about the goats; they have access to the ground and (thanks to Courtney) are very well fed.

And as long as we're talking roadside attractions, here's my favorite: Carhenge, western Nebraska.

In summation, election day = rooftop goats = half-buried Detroit steel. Any questions?

This Was the Lead Story Today on AJC.com

2010-11-01T17:34:00.003-04:00

More dangerous: Alcohol or heroin?

A new study says drinking alcohol is deadly for you than even heroin or crack cocaine.

[sic]

And just for kicks, here's the photo illustration that went along with it, in case you needed some help picturing which one is the alcohol and which is the heroin (the one with the citrus wedge is not the heroin, although fruity cocktails taken intravenously may not be a bad idea.)

AJC file photos

The reason I'm sharing this little piece of journalism FAIL from the website of the Atlanta Journal-Constitution is not my outrage over the missing modifier in the subhead (this sort of typo is all too common) or the lack of imagination evident in the illustration (I would have gone with Ewan McGregor done up like Renton in Trainspotting with a needle hanging out of one arm while he hoists a bottle of Glenfiddich with the other, because if there's one thing that movie taught me, it's that Scottish people know their narcotics and their alcohol. And also to choose life, or something.)

Nay, the reason I find this moderately infuriating is this: THIS IS NOT AT ALL WHAT THE STUDY FOUND. The study they are referring to looked at the varying effects of drugs on both the individual and society at large. Not surprisingly, it found (among other things) that while drugs like heroin and crack are incredibly damaging to individual users, their cost to the rest of society pales in comparison to that of alcohol. Duh. That's because far more people consume alcohol than heroin and overconsumption of it generally kills you slowly (with all the medical costs, traffic accidents, and idiot streakers interrupting sporting events that entails.)

But again, that's not my point, although I do find any scholarly work that furthers our understanding of substance abuse generally interesting, especially as it relates to our ongoing failure to address the issue with logic or compassion. What bothers me today is the simple and obvious misreporting of facts, right there in a headline. Of course alcohol is not more deadly than heroin! I had two beers just last night, and I feel great!

There are three possible reasons why the AJC would run an erroneous headline like this:

A) The writer and/or editor who wrote the head is stupid.

B) The writer and/or editor who wrote the head didn't really read the study, which is irresponsible and stupid.

C) The writer and/or editor who wrote the head knows what the study findings are and decided to mash up the facts a bit to get a juicier headline, which is stupid, irresponsible and maybe a little bit evil.

I didn't even read the AJC article because I'd already read one that covered the same study on Salon, where they managed to be both accurate and devoid of sensationalism, which is all I want out of my news, which reminds me of another plea I've been dying to make, and this is aimed at every single media outlet there is: Can we please stop reporting the findings of polls as news? Every day I see splashed across the internet the latest numbers indicating the Democrats are in trouble, or they're not, or the president's approval ratings are up or down, or 9 out of 10 dentists recommend Oral-B. At best, a well-conducted, comprehensive poll can give you an idea; at worst, they give you the wrong idea. The questions asked of respondents can be and often are worded in such a way as to guarantee the outcome the pollster is seeking. They are never definitive and should not be reported as such, and because of this I don't think they should be reported by mainstream media at all because I don't believe most of us know the difference. Also, I have never been contacted for a poll. This is suspicious.

And with this rant I begin NaBloPoMo. I keep meaning to get back to the blog and what better way than to post every day for a month.

Nucking Futs

2010-10-13T16:46:00.004-04:00

You know how people like us, that is to say "earthbound" folks, tend to view skydiving as maybe the scariest thing we can think of this side of a Tea Party rally? Apparently there are people very much not like us (and I don't just mean neo-cons,) people who derive no thrill from simply jumping off of or out of something and plunging rapidly toward the hard earth and certain death, with only the hope of being saved at the last second by a carefully folded sheet of nylon, people who have decided that skydiving is not enough- that they want to skydive really, really close to stuff.

Just watch this short video, and then call your mom and promise her you'll never do anything like this.

No Visit to Roanoke is Complete Without a Side-Trip to New England

2010-09-24T13:07:00.006-04:00

Yeah, it's been awhile. Weird, too, because I've had plenty to write about, starting with our big trip to New England, which I built up in my last post two months ago and then left you hanging. Two months ago. Damn.

So we did in fact take our long-planned trip, or as I kept referring to it "Our Vacation to Roanoke" which only happened to include one night in that mid-size Virginia city. Of course I was kidding, because nobody plans an entire vacation around Roanoke (although it does seem like a lovely place to live), but Roanoke had the last laugh, providing me with the most photo-worthy scene of the whole nine-day journey:

It looked like a pretty nice hotel room (by my loose standards) even before I peeked in the bathroom (which I always do before I settle in just to make sure there isn't an organ-harvested body in the bathtub.) Apparently the "quality" in Quality Inn means being able to order a pizza while simultaneously making a delivery of your own. Amenities indeed.

This isn't to say that the rest of the trip was downhill, but the toilet phone did set the bar high. Luckily, New England was up to the challenge, thanks in no small part to NPW, who graciously (which is an understatement) lent us some real estate in her living room (okay, all of her living room) and a high-end air mattress for four days and nights in Massachusetts. She also drove us around the whole time, paid our subway fare, acted as tour guide for much of Greater Boston, and bought us cannoli from Mike's Pastry in the North End. See what I mean by understatement? Oh, and she's cool and makes good coffee.

Things to do in Boston when NPW is showing you around:

-Climb the Bunker Hill Monument on your first evening in town, ensuring cramped quadriceps for the next few days.

-See every single thing you can think of that dates from the Revolution. This is Boston after all.

-Eat a sausage from the Sausage Guy at the Boston Food Truck Festival.

-Pee on the Bucky Dent-shaped urinal mints in Quincy Market. (Not really. I didn't actually even use the restroom at Quincy Market but this is what I daydreamed about while waiting on my companions who did. No word on whether girls get things to pee on, or if they are shaped like former Yankees players. Also, I watched the pigeons.)

-Visit Harvard Yard and wonder if you really are as smart as you think you are.

-If you are a lady, drink a Boston Cream Pie Martini. If you are a dude, drink a beer and watch the ladies drink Boston Cream Pie Martinis.

-Have dinner with Aaron (who may be even funnier in person than he is in writing) and his fiance Mara (who is equally charming but has more hair), who are obviously in league with NPW in trying to prove that the term "Northern hospitality" is not an oxymoron, as people from the overrated South would have you believe.

And when you've had your fill of Boston (for now), visit historic Salem, where NPW will treat you to the Salem Witch Museum, which she assured us would be the cheesiest, lamest, most low-rent Hall of Presidents-style musem ever, and an absolute must-see. (She was right: it was either gloriously stupefying or stupefyingly glorious, I'm not sure which.) Also, when riding the historic tour trolley, do not get off at the first stop. It will not be coming back around shortly as they claim and the cooler stuff is still to come. When you are done with witches, clean your palate with a drive up to Newburyport, an absolutely charming seaside town with no known history of crushing people to death with stones.

Eventually, you will wear out your welcome in Massachusetts or NPW will have a plane to catch to Denver, one of the two. That's your cue to take the scenic route up to Portland, Maine and spend a few days there drinking local brews, eating lobster as often as possible, strolling the cobblestone streets and kayaking the island-studded coastline. Now that you've laid low in the most eastern of states, sneak back into Massachusetts for some more history in the charming village (there is no shortage of these) of Concord, where not only were the first shots of the American revolution fired, but a suspicious number of famous authors put pen to page. (I'd say it must be something in the water, but I had an iced coffee there and didn't write jack shit for two months.)

By now you're probably sick of all this damn New England charm that seems to be in such abundance, so spend the night in Worcester, where you'll drive around for an hour before finding an area that even seems safe enough to stop the car, let alone actually get out and find some dinner. That's sometimes the price you pay for avoiding the Crapplebee's by the interstate.

That's one scenario, anyway. The first step is cozying up to NPW, internet-style, so she invites you up in the first place. After that the rest takes care of itself. On our particular version of this vacation to Roanoke (the rest was just gravy,) Courtney and I also spent a night in New Haven, Connecticut where we walked around Yale University and ate a pizza on New Haven Green, attracting the attention of just one of the alarming number of homeless people there. If you have six hundred dollars you want to invest in a revolutionary new exercise machine (or maybe just some pizza you're not going to finish,) I know the guy you need to see.

For more amazing photos of our trip, none of which are from the inside of a bathroom, click here.

Good Thing We Don't Get Our Lobsters From the Gulf

2010-07-30T09:54:00.003-04:00

It's taken three months, but someone (in this case in an article for The New York Times) finally asked where our outrage over pollution in the Gulf of Mexico was before the Deepwater Horizon catastrophe. In the time that the broken-off well has been gushing oil into the sea, no one (at least among the publications that I read) had made the comparison to that other, infinitely larger horizontal pipeline, the Mississippi River, that's been discharging its filth ever since we first began fouling it up a century or more ago. The Mississippi constitutes the largest drainage basin on the continent, meaning that every bit of runoff - the fertilizers and pesticides from farms and golf courses, every drop of oil that drips from a car onto a parking lot, and even the pharmaceuticals (human-filtered and otherwise) that get flushed down the toilets - between the Rockies and the Appalachians ends up discharged straight into the Gulf, creating, according to the NYT article "a zone of lifeless water the size of Lake Ontario just off the coast of Louisiana." You know the saying- "Every time someone pees into a storm drain in Pittsburgh, a fish dies in the Gulf." Okay, you've never heard it before, but it happens to be true. We've capped the oil leak (for now), but as of yet nobody has suggested we plug the mouth of the Mighty Mississippi with shredded tires and golf balls. Boy, that would sure ruin Mardi Gras next year.

---

In other news, the lady and I are taking a trip to New England about a week from now and it may include some camping on the Maine coast. Knowing that we'll have to feed ourselves at some point, and not being too excited about the idea of eating the same old camp fare, I came up with another possibility: Since most camp food involves a boiling pot of water anyway, and since we'll be in Maine, why not... and you're probably way ahead of me on this one... go ahead and shout it out if you know it... think Maine, the cold waters of the Atlantic, dinnertime... LOBSTAH!

Courtney thinks this is a terrible idea.

I just figured since cooking a lobster is no different than boiling a hot dog (except the hot dog died long before it hit the water, and probably in a much more gruesome, unsanitary fashion), it would make less sense to not take advantage of the fresh, local (and oh so delicious) catch. One of the campgrounds I've been looking at even sells the large crustaceans in its camp store, along with bug spray, postcards and marshmallows. Sure, it has the potential to be a tad messier than the average hot dog, but that's part of the fun.

And no, this is not one of my patented schemes to save money and deprive my lady friend of a romantic dinner. On the contrary, what could be more romantic than watching the sunset from a rocky outcrop over the sea with a bottle of wine or a bucket of cold local brews while tugging the meat from the steaming, splayed-open carcass of a crustacean while it looks up at you with its beady, lifeless eyes?

Yeah, that's what I thought, too.

By the way, if any of you have been to Boston or Maine or really any part of New England aside from Vermont (we won't be making it there on this trip unfortunately), now would be the time to tell me about anything that we absolutely must see while we're there. NPW can abstain from this part of the discussion (or not, if her enthusiasm simply can't be contained), since she will be sharing her local expertise in person.

Go West, Young Man! And Then Go Northeast.

2010-07-14T11:32:00.006-04:00

Have you ever seen an RV with one of those maps of the USA on the back with all the states filled in that the RVer has visited? You'll find it just below the sweet airbrushed panorama of a dolphin jumping over a sea turtle or a wolf howling plaintively at the moon as a giant comet streaks by, unless it's a rental, and then you'll just see 1-800-GO-RVING and a back-up camera. You'll know they're full-timers if they're showing off both their map of interstate conquest and appreciation for soft-focus animal portraiture.

I've always wanted an RV (Because what's better than owning your own home and being able to park it wherever you want?), but so far I've had to make do with my compact pickup truck. I know what you're thinking- "What better canvas for a mural of a wolf fighting a grizzly bear or a galloping herd of wild mustangs than the back window of a pickup?!" Believe me, I've thought about it, but my truck has a sliding window, which is good for breezes but bad for murals- it would break up the flow, you see. Yeah, there's plenty of room back there for Calvin to be pissing on random shit for sure, but that's not my style either. Actually, my ride is devoid of all personal expression, unless you count the gigantic dent on the side which clearly implies "Yep, I'd rather pocket the insurance money than have a dent-free car." I'm waiting for someone to run into the other side so I can buy a kayak.

While I don't have an RV on which to display my intracontinental travel tick-list, I do have a blog. So here's my map, graded in color. In blue are the states I've both driven and slept in. In purple are the states I've only driven through, not stopping long enough to sleep. Red states are the ones I've visited only from the inside of the airport. White states have yet to feel the tread of my shoes or tires, along with Alaska and Hawaii.*

The reason I was thinking about this is that I should be filling in a few more states with blue or purple before long, because the lady and I are planning a trip to New England in August that could see us knocking off perhaps five more. Exciting, no? That would only leave eight states entirely unvisited for me, but I have no reasonable expectation of ever seeing North Dakota. Who does, really?

*Also, my truck and I have both been to Canada, but not at the same time.

The furthest I've ever been from home (even though we were homeless at the time), Redwood National Park, California.

I also have a post up today at the Greenists, if anyone's interested.

For My Viewing Pleasure

2010-07-12T10:41:00.002-04:00

But I'll give you the opportunity, as well.

As promised several weeks ago, I put together a video of the trip Jacob and I took on the Chattooga River Trail. It features waterfalls, a bit of wildlife and, as usual, too many shots of people walking. Also, music.

Chattooga River Trail from dennyswaitress on Vimeo.

Things I've Done (and Eaten) Over the Past Week

2010-07-08T16:28:00.003-04:00

-Realized it's July.

-Ate three different kinds of tacos with Traveling Em: pork, goat and beef tongue. Both the goat and the tongue were firsts for me. Goats are cute and it's a bit unsettling putting something that was in another creature's mouth into my own (except for the Dutchie, whatever that is, which should always be passed on the left hand side), but the tacos were excellent. I highly recommend Mr. Taco in Roswell, although I couldn't tell you why they went with Mr. instead of Sr., since the menu was in Spanish and the TVs were tuned to Univision.

-Watched some soccer. Turns out it's not so bad once you make peace with the fact that there is only marginally less chaos on a pitch (that's soccer for "field") full of international stars than one with a bunch of grass-stained eight-year-olds. The difference is subtle, but it's there. Actually, I've watched damn near every match (that's soccer for "game") of the World Cup and my appreciation of the sport has grown considerably, from "Maybe if they could use their hands they'd actually score a goal now and then" to "This would actually be a decent way to spend two hours if the players didn't act like such pussies every time they got kicked in the shins, the matches didn't so frequently end in a draw, and the officiating wasn't so random and inconsistent." A game that can end in a tie? Really?*

-Spent the 4th of July (also known as the day we asserted our right to call football soccer, the ultimate middle finger to those limey bastards**) at a cabin in the woods, where I ate meat, drank beer and climbed a waterfall. In that order. Photos here.

-Cleaned the apartment in anticipation of Courtney's return from D.C. I like to give the lady occasional reasons to keep me around (see also the sweet potato waffles I'm about to make her for dinner.)

-Drank beer, ate wangs (which of course is a typo for "wings," but I'm leaving it) and watched more soccer with Traveling Em and Courtney at Taco Mac, where the tacos are nothing like the authentic little tongue-stuffed gems at Mr. Taco but the draught list is incredible.

-Wrote a blog post in list form. Just what is it that you want from me? Narrative? Structure? Write your own damn blog then! (I did manage to include the descriptor "tongue-stuffed." That's got to be worth something.)

*Actually, I was totally digging the World Cup and the game itself, but being critical of soccer is the American way. And the players really are total pussies.

**Actually, soccer is a term coined by the English themselves; we stuck with it once a different variation of the game was created that involved use of the hands, an oblong ball, Don Knotts and a mule.

Ned Beatty Was NOT Invited

2010-06-25T14:19:00.003-04:00

Although Burt Reynolds would have been more than welcome to come along.

My friend and fellow blogger Jacob and I took a little three day backpacking trip this week down the Chattooga River Trail. Although for many people it's a running gag to invoke the first few notes of "Dueling Banjos" when entering the woods or venturing into a particularly rural part of the country, a trip along the banks of the Chattooga makes it a little less funny because this is where the classic 1972 film Deliverance was actually shot.

While it would have made for a more interesting blog post, I'm happy to report that nobody squealed like a pig nor were we forced to kill any toothless hillbillies with a bow and arrow. But we also didn't get to enjoy the company of a cocky and strangely bare-lipped Burt Reynolds either, so I guess there's always room for improvement.

What we did enjoy was a trail that follows one of the most beautiful rivers in the southeast, if not the country. And I'm not the only one who feels this way: The Chattooga was designated a national Wild and Scenic River in 1974. It is well known among whitewater enthusiasts for it's wild, roadless nature and imposing rapids, and I'm sure this is well-deserved. For now I'll have to take their word for it, though, because the lower half of the 30-mile trail kept us well away from the river, up on the ridges among the impenetrable forests. We could hear what sounded like some serious cataracts down on the river and the occasional whoops and hollers from exhilarated rafters, but the action was well out of view.

The upper half was a different story: the trail spent long stretches winding beside the river and we encountered a slew of waterfalls and trout-filled pools. Our campsite the first night was actually located on a tributary between two scenic waterfalls, the lower of the two cascading directly into the river, creating a nice deep pool that was perfect for a pre-dinner swim. Not too shabby as campsites go.

Other highlights included a close encounter with a copperhead snake, Mark Doucette's left-behind fuel canister (writing your name on your litter must be worth a merit badge), a spirited thunderstorm that drove us to seek shelter in a conveniently located and temporarily unoccupied camp kitchen (probably saved my camera) and innumerable downed trees and a washed-out bridge resulting from the deluge.

You can see some pictures of our journey here. I highly recommend it. And coming soon, I should have another shaky video set to music you've never heard of. I can feel the anticipation building already.

Greetings From Nordstrand!

2010-06-14T16:46:00.003-04:00

Not really, but this morning's World Cup match between Denmark and the Netherlands, besides proving once again that I will watch anything competitive, even when accompanied by an incessant buzzing that probably hints at what it's like to have kazoo-blowing wood nymphs infest your inner ear, reminded me to take another look at my family history.

See, I had a source that possibly put my paternal lineage in Nordstrand, a peninsula in northern Germany near both Holland and Denmark. I just hadn't bothered to connect me to it. Through the magic of the internet and thanks entirely to someone far more driven than I who happens to share my last name, I now know who my great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-grandfather was and where he came from: Nordstrand, when it was a part of Denmark. I'm a Dane (or at least part Dane,) which means I'm retroactively pissed that my guys went down 1-0 to the Netherlands. Damned orange-clad tulip-sniffers. Legos rule, windmills drool.

Arguably more interesting, I also learned some cool stuff about all 10x great-grandpas. Some high(and low)lights:

-9x shipped to America in 1638 with a Swedish fellow named Bronck, whom he also leased farmland from. Bronck's name was attached to a river that ran beside the farm and was eventually misspelled as Bronx.

-9x also was convicted of selling his wife (my 9x great-grandmother,) resulting in his banishment from New Netherland, which I believe is how most people end up settling in New Jersey.

-4x was murdered by his wife and a minister, the two of whom were alleged to be intimately related.

-3x met a similarly violent end to his father's, bringing a pistol to a shotgun fight. He took one barrel's worth in the stomach, expiring several hours later. He apparently had it coming and was known to have previously killed two men himself.

And those are just my direct ancestors. Along the line there were also soldiers (Revolutionary War, Civil War- both sides,- and one guy who fought in the "Mormon War" in Nauvoo, Illinois,) scalpings by indians and a stolen keg of gin. Pretty cool, if you ask me.

Obviously, the genes for violence and adultery have skipped me entirely, although I did recently attend a seminar on the marketing and selling of wives. Couple that hobby with my blue eyes and Lego skillz to rival any Zack (He's a Lego maniac!), and my connection to the motherland is clear. Now all that's left is for me to spearhead a revolt that wrests the state of Schleswig-Holstein from Germany and returns it rightfully to Danish rule, inspiring statues in my Scandinavian image and songs celebrating my name. That way when I visit I'll never have to pay for a beer. But the gin's on me.

STAY

2010-06-10T12:58:00.005-04:00

Famous by association. Or maybe reflected glory. Either way, I know a real, published author. I just finished a wonderful new book by our dear friend- fellow blogger, founder of theGreenists.com, famous novelist- Allie Larkin. And none of that has anything to do with my review of her work (Okay, it might- I'm only human. But I tried to set that aside when reading the book.)

Honestly, Stay is not the sort of book I'd normally pick up off the shelf. It's about relationships. Love. Heartbreak. There's an adorable dog on the cover. The last book I read before Stay featured triple-homicide, prostitution and lots of unpronounceable Swedish place-names. Stay doesn't offer any of that, although some consonant-heavy Slovak does pop up from time to time.

What Stay does have plenty of are remarkably well-drawn characters. Every one of Allie's players could have easily been one-dimensional caricatures, the kind we see time after time in books and movies, but she manages to give every one of them the complexity that both the characters and the readers deserve. It's not so much that the characters aren't what you think they are at first, it's that that's not all they are. Except the dog. The dog is exactly what you think.

Altogether, I'm really impressed with the book. Allie has a gift for details and dialogue, both of which she uses to build an entirely believable world that brings the reader into the story. And it's funny. Really funny. You should read it. I'm already looking forward to the stories Allie will be sharing with us in the future.

A Free Man has an interview with Allie over on his site. Check it.

Black Helicopters Put Me On Edge

2010-06-08T12:08:00.003-04:00

I haven't made a movie since last fall, so I took my camera with me yesterday on a hike up Mt. Yonah in the north Georgia mountains. It was a perfect day and I'm happy to report that the new (to me) trail is fantastic and a huge improvement over the old arrangement. Previously, access up the mountain was via a gated private road that is maintained with public funds (through the Army) but closed to all vehicles with the exception of the people who own cabins along the road- another raw deal for the taxpayer. It's nice to now have a dedicated parking area and trail maintained by the Forest Service (although secured through a purchase by the Access Fund)- a use of public funds that can actually be enjoyed by the public.

The mountain is used by the Army Rangers for training in climbing and rope technique and a helicopter was buzzing around the peak yesterday, even landing once at the lower LZ. Next time I go back, I'm definitely taking some ropes and gear to take advantage of some of the low-angle and heavily bolted routes found all over the main face.

I had plenty to shoot video of and it was an easy decision to put all that Georgia scenery to a Georgia soundtrack. Take your shakey-cam motion sickness pills and enjoy.

Mt. Yonah from dennyswaitress on Vimeo.

Stop. This. Now.

2010-06-05T18:39:00.003-04:00

Seriously. Enough with the word(period) word(period) word(period) bullcrap. It's done. And I'm sure I've just offended someone, because I think it's that sort of cutesy syntax that starts with bloggers and I know we've all done it or are still doing it. But enough already. It wasn't all that clever the first time and now it's all over billboards and magazine ads. I even saw it used in the middle of a direct quote in Sports Illustrated today. I assume the guy being quoted just slowed down his speech for emphasis, but lately we've been throwing periods around like we all have a good friend who owns a punctuation factory and he's got a warehouse full of periods he needs to unload.

The unfortunate truth, however, is that punctuation marks are unlimited in supply, so it's up to us to show some restraint. Give the period a rest. Please.

Also, if anyone has a dependable (read: Mac) laptop they're trying to get rid of, let me know. I'm not spending another dime getting this Compaq fixed and I'm sure not buying another. It has once again decided to disavow all knowledge of its own wireless capability and I'm considering that the last straw. And that's also why I haven't been around the internet much lately.

How about radicchio-stuffed pizza rolls? Would that help?

2010-05-24T10:05:00.005-04:00

Like many of you, I'm completely fascinated by our society's ongoing confusion over just what we should eat, despite a million years of evolution driven largely by our need to do just that. That's why I always click on news articles with headlines like Pricey Grocery Stores Attract Skinniest Shoppers. That particular piece on MSNBC.com, detailing a study in Seattle that found that only 4 percent of Whole Foods shoppers are obese versus 40 percent for lower-cost Albertson's, includes the following explanation for the discrepancy:

[It's] likely because people willing to pay $6 for a pound of radicchio are more able to afford healthy diets than people stocking up on $1.88 packs of pizza rolls to feed their kids.
Bullshit. BullSHIT. BULLSHIT. Just in case we're not clear, I'm calling bullshit on this one, and let me tell you why: It's not radicchio that makes people skinny, it's lack of pizza rolls, and not buying pizza rolls costs no money at all. It's not the $6 that keeps a person out of the obese column, it's that they know better than to spend it on pizza rolls. I've been to Whole Foods and seen a cornucopia of cheese puffs, sugary sodas and bacon-wrapped filets on display. And Albertson's has piles of fresh spinach and reasonably-priced radicchio for sale.

Every grocery store in America, or the world for that matter, offers much healthier and cheaper options than pizza rolls. I'm tired of being told that poor people in this country have higher rates of obesity and its associated diseases because they can't afford or don't have access to good, healthy food. Has anyone priced rice and beans lately? They're about as cheap as it gets. In fact, the cheapest foods are probably the healthiest: rice, beans, flour- heck, most vegetables are pretty damn cheap.

And all of it can be prepared with little effort or expertise. All you need is the smarts to avoid the pizza rolls. It's not income that is the key to eating healthy, it's awareness. I'm poor, but I know what to eat (or rather what not to eat) and it's a simple matter of following through when I'm at the store. Black beans good, pizza rolls bad. It's that easy.

Besides, if poor=fat, how do you explain all the skinny people in third-world countries?

Stand Up and Be Counted

2010-05-03T21:09:00.002-04:00

Interesting turn of events: I went to work today (the title of this post is a clue as to my new-found occupation.) Yay, me.

On a completely unrelated note, if someone knocks on your door, leash your pitbull and put away the shotgun. Please.

Gesundheit!

2010-04-29T10:02:00.003-04:00

Lady Friend: "ahh-CHOOO!"

Me: "Bless you."

LF: "Thank you."

Every once in a while the preceding exchange, which occurs several times a day with the roles reversed on fully half the occasions, strikes me as exceedingly weird. My lady friend sneezes, I give her my blessing, she thanks me. The strange part is the gravity with which we undertake our respective roles: I speak with a seriousness that implies an absolute confidence in my ability to bestow blessings, like a high priest of holy sinus ejection, and Courtney thanks me for my largesse, as if a sneeze gone unblessed would be truly bad fortune.

Of course, the more proper, formal dialogue would precede "bless you" with "God," passing the authority for the actual blessing further up the line and it would probably be more of a request than an assumption of immediate blessing. But most of us have dropped that formality in the service of brevity, in the process taking the mantle of official blessor of violently aspirated mucous onto ourselves.

And woe be to anyone not participating in this back-and-forth of divine implication. At one point during college, in one of my periodic fits of rebellion, I decided that the whole blessings-for-sneezes program was ridiculous and I would henceforth not be taking part. Who was I to go around tossing blessings at every a-hole with allergies? Sure, I knew that my silence in the face of a sneeze would make me the a-hole, but any good revolution requires sacrifice.

About a month after I kicked off my uprising, I was having an argument with my roommate, who was like Comic Book Guy but without the social skills, genial demeanor or hygiene. At the peak of the heated and definitely non-friendly debate he reminded me, as if laying down his trump card, that he had sneezed, weeks before, and I never said "Bless you." He was completely serious, having held on to this point of contention all that time knowing he could hold it against me when the situation demanded it. I conceded the point and refrained from reminding him that he smelled perpetually like pizza and body odor and would never enjoy the touch of a woman, because I may be an a-hole, but I'm not that big an a-hole. No sense destroying the poor guy, right?

Point is, people notice when you don't play your part in the sneezing game. I eventually gave up my non-blessing crusade, redirecting my revolutionary energies toward more important goals, like making Toby Keith feel unwelcome in continental North America by way of my unrelenting, if subtle, ridicule (Seriously, Toby: You can have the Aleutians. Really. You'll be safe there and then we can both go on with our lives. Just don't infect the local salmon population with your greasy Country-dickwad shtick, because I like my wild-caught Alaskan salmon dickwad-free.)

On second thought, that's too big a risk. Does St. Helena have any vacancies? Or Mars?

Nope, no apron

2010-04-27T20:07:00.007-04:00

I bake.

Bread.

Transitional Country Hearth Bread, to be exact. It's transitional because the flour is a 50/50 mix, rather than 100% whole wheat, which is what I usually try to work with. I've been trying to get the bread a little airier, which is why I'm including some all-purpose flour. That's how it's been going for my pizza doughs, too; I want to go with 100% whole wheat, but the texture just isn't there.

In the background you may have spotted some cookies. Your eyes do not deceive.

They're Oatmeal Raisin Chocolate Chip. They were in before the bread. And before the cookies I did crackers of the whole wheat sesame and flax seed variety. It was an ambitious morning of baking, but I started the doughs last night and the timing worked out well, with the bread ready to go in just after the cookies finished. It's nice to get a bunch of stuff baked while the oven is hot. Everything turned out great, except Courtney doesn't like raisins. So everything turned out great! Ha!

(Seriously though, I meant to make half raisin and half raisin-free, but I, um, forgot.)

MSG Is Good For Me!

2010-04-26T10:57:00.003-04:00

Last Thursday, in the spirit of the day intended to honor our favorite planet (also known as _____ Day, a title I'm reluctant to utter, as explained here), I posted the following sign on our apartment door:

It took just a few days before the following response was carefully pushed between the door and its frame by some mysterious never-seen messenger from the other side:

Allow me to explain:

Yup, 7 Star II made it an even 24 Chinese menus today, our posted assurances be damned. This represents only about three months of unsolicited menus. I had a feeling the sign would go unheeded, and I probably should have written it in four or five different languages, just to be safe, but I will admit to getting a kick, like any connoisseur of spoons, shot glasses, or Hard Rock Cafe t-shirts can relate, to my growing collection, useless though it may be. And useless is right: we have never ordered from or visited a single one of these establishments. Off the top of my head, I don't even know where any of them are, although I suspect any of you blog-stalkers could triangulate the exact location of our apartment, Krumholtz-style, by plotting the restaurants on a map and applying (along with a complex algorithm) a dash of common sense. After Judd Hirsch inspires you with some folksy Jewish wisdom, that is.

That's a reference to the hit Friday night television program Numb3rs, by the way. And if you got it, you should probably have a serious talk with yourself about why you're watching crappy police procedurals on a Friday night. And then you should have another serious talk with yourself about why you have serious talks with yourself, because seriously: You're talking to yourself.

I have both of those talks frequently. And then I buy myself a drink, just to show that there are no hard feelings.

I'm only trying to help, after all.

Suck it, Sunnyvale, California!

2010-02-24T11:46:00.005-05:00

I went for a long run yesterday, as I frequently do, but this time it felt a little different. Things sort of looked a little different, too. I took a route that I've run several times before, so I wasn't seeing anything new, but I suppose the context had changed. See, I read yesterday morning that the city I live in is, according to Portfolio.com, the ninth wealthiest city in America. I had no idea. They certainly got those numbers before I moved in, that's for sure, because I tend to be a statistical outlier, and not on the same side of the spectrum as those who "own a fancy sports car" or "charter private jets" or "receive a paycheck" (unless you're talking about wealth of character, of course, in which case you want me in your city.)

Then again, maybe I do have something to do with those numbers. Sure, I'm not contributing much to the statistics, except to drag them down, but perhaps there's something else going on here. After all, the last place I lived before moving here in November just happens to be in the richest county in America, as measured by per capita income. Maybe my proximity inspires others to industry. It should, if for no other reason than to pick up the slack.

My run yesterday actually included a few miles outside the city and county limits in a neighboring census-designated place, itself noted for producing one Ryan Seacrest, and also identified as the third (pshh) richest town in the state. Naturally I picked up the pace a bit through there, because poor people frighten me.

Side note: And lest my new feelings of statistically-supported superiority of place actually cause my head to swell to unhealthy proportions, the toilet seat broke today while I was sitting on it. That'll bring anybody's self-image back down to earth. You see, kids, even the rich and fabulous sit bare-assed on over-matched toilet seats in one-bedroom apartments.

Here's an idea I can hang my coat on

2010-01-28T09:42:00.003-05:00

Many of you may recall, back in the good ol' rip-roaring 1990s, or what I like to call "The Brandon Walsh Era," much attention was paid to precipitously declining crime rates across the country. Heck, careers were made out of it. Bill Clinton got some credit. Rudy Giuliani made his name by cracking down on turnstile jumpers, graffiti artists and pot smokers and soaking in the praise. Our enthusiastic back-slapping was somewhat tempered, however, when a correlation was made between the legalization of abortion after Roe v. Wade and the reported drop in crime statistics, which began precisely 18 years later (a study popularized by the book Freakonomics.) Turns out a whole mess of future ne'er-do-wells must have been aborted in the years following Roe's victory for the common uterus. Or so some people think.

If true, the "abort a felon today, ruin an episode of COPS eighteen years from now" movement certainly makes a compelling case. But, lower crime rates aside, there appears to be a deep cost to this "choice" we were suddenly presented with all those years ago, one that was quite unexpected. It's affected us all in ways we haven't even begun to fathom and the repercussions of which will probably be felt for years, if not decades, until the slaughter ends. You probably already know what I'm talking about and have felt it for years, deep down, gnawing away at your soul. I'm talking specifically to you, anti-lifers. You don't want to admit it, but I think it's time to face up to the true toll of abortion: Not only were we aborting unwanted fetuses and potential future criminals, we were aborting QUARTERBACKS!

Which is why exhibits A through Z in support of the exception that proves the rule all begin with the words Tim and Tebow, a fact that is about to be bludgeoned into that softest, most absorbent part of your brain, the region reserved for kitten-themed greeting cards and Super Bowl commercials. It seems that in 1987, or as you probably remember it, "The Year Twisted Sister Broke Up," Mother Tebow was advised by her doctors to terminate little Timmy. She didn't, in August a child was born unto her, and the world now collectively thanks her for her courageous, globe-altering decision.

And just imagine what we've been through because so many women were allowed to make choices regarding their own reproduction, flushing all the good, God-given QBs like so many unwanted turds, leaving us with the unholy chaff: Joey Harrington! J.P. Losman! RYAN LEAF! (Those are quarterbacks, by the way, of the "much maligned" variety.) Decades of interceptions and fumbles and bible verse-free eye black! No world peace! No universal salvation for humankind! Aaaaagh! No Tim Tebows.

Except the Tim Tebow, of course. And thank his Mom for that. Tim sure does.

(Wouldn't it be funny if Tebow really were the second coming? If so, this post ensures that I will not be joining you all for the rapture. Send me a postcard.)

Best Picture I Took All Year

2009-12-10T10:06:00.003-05:00

Apparently such things are not self-evident in Moran, Wyoming.

Speaking of which, I thought maybe some of you are wondering just what I was doing over the past six months while absent from this blog. Obviously I wasn't writing about it, but I did take plenty of pictures. Before we left Wyoming, I spent two days cobbling together a video that covers the whole adventure. It's only 11 minutes long and I worked really hard on it, so if you need something to distract you while the pasta cooks or the coffee brews or it's 7:49 p.m. and you're feeling ansty waiting for Extreme Makeover: Home Edition to come on, give it a look. If nothing else, it will be 11 minutes free of any Christmas music or teary-eyed plugs for Sears, a respite we all could use these days, I'm sure.

I'd put the video right here on the blog, but I didn't spend two days editing and picking out music just so it could be reproduced in a 1 inch by 1 inch square in the middle of the screen. Go to my Vimeo page and check it out there in a more presentable format. And crank up the volume. And leave a comment.

What time is it in China right now?

2009-12-08T15:14:00.010-05:00

Back on June 19th, I decided that I wouldn't add so much as a single lowercase letter of new content to The Prettiest Denny's Waitress until I received a comment from China. I just got completely fed up with the silence my blog was being met with in east Asia. A guy can only take that kind of indifference for so long, am I right? There are a billion people in China. Couldn't at least one of them hack through the communist firewall and send me some love?

Finally, I can break my blog-fast and get on with things: We have gotten a message from our friends across the sea (see comments on the previous post.) I'm sure they are words of peace and cross-cultural understanding, something along the lines of "Old friends and new acquaintance bring much thankful 5-17-65-4-2-98-12," or perhaps "We love your Grand Slam breakfast."

Whatever it says, I'll never know, both because I don't read Chinese characters and I'm afraid to click on it. But it's the thought that counts.

And now I can get back to my blog.

In an effort to recapture what the approximate tone was around here before my long, Chinese-induced absence, I've decided to share with you something completely trivial and try to express just how hilarious I find it. That's pretty much all I did before, right?

And so I give you the Vox Clock 2, a talking clock from the 1980s.

That's right... a talking clock. This is the way-ahead-of-its-time precursor to all those talking clocks you take for granted and are now surrounded by in your 21st-century life. Can you even imagine a time when we didn't have robotic voices telling us the time on demand?

What's that you say? You don't have any talking clocks in your house? What is this, 1981?

Okay, so the talking clock caught on about as well as the dancing Coke can and the DeLorean, but you have to smile at the spirit behind such semi-futuristic gadgets. And the emphasis here is on the semi- because my favorite part about that clock, along with its lifeless, countdown-to-ignition robotic voice and the promise of a future where we don't have to use our eyes to tell time, is the classy faux-wood paneling! Because what better way to tie your future-is-now timepiece into your 80s yuppie decor, all track lighting and black laminate furniture, than to disguise it as a block of wood! So perfect.

And how did I come to possess this wonder of Cold War technology? Same place I got that 12-pack of Guiness in the fridge: My grandmother gave it to me. For most of my life, the hourly intonations of that clock (doo-doo-DOO... it's Four a m ...ding!) were the background of any visit to Cape May. That clock was almost a part of the family. Aside from announcing the hour, it was known, on very rare occasion, to announce random times between the hour (it's eeleven-Oh-thlree p m), and once, just once, with several witnesses, myself and my grandmother included, it said "Two dolla and a TOOT-sie roll." I swear to god.

My grandmother just moved to Georgia to be closer to my parents. Before she started packing up her stuff in New Jersey, she asked my cousins and I if there was anything we wanted out of her house so she'd be sure not to throw it away. Duffy took the little fisherman that sat atop the hutch in the dining room. Danny wanted the duck that held open the bathroom door. The giant jar full of beachglass was already spoken for, so I immediately thought of the clock that sat on a shelf just above where the duck did his work.

So now the Vox Clock 2 mechanically recites the hour in our new apartment in Atlanta. I'm a light sleeper, so I had to put it inside the bench by our dining room table, but you can still hear it loud and clear. Of course, you can't push the button to get the time with it in there, but we have some of those old-fashioned non-talking clocks to fill in the gaps.

At least I wrote something

2009-06-18T19:39:00.003-04:00

Hey, strangers. I have a short, humorless post over at Allie's Answers today, where I should be contributing occasionally but regularly. Allie's site is undergoing some changes of late to become even bigger and badder, so be sure to check it out.

I have not entirely forgotten about my own blog, but the combination of severely limited internet access and out-of-town visitors (and my discovery of Facebook), has meant very little time for the Waitress. I'll get back to it before long, but probably not before the second round of guests, my parents, vacate the valley next week.

And thus concludes my fifteen-minute break. Time to put the hat back on and go gently extract money from foreigners.

But they don't sell condoms, which doesn't seem right

2009-06-02T12:05:00.004-04:00

It’s not often that I find myself in the dollar store, but when I do my cost-value (read: cheap bastard) antennae rise up to twice their usual height and sharpen to twice their usual sensitivity. I have to duck getting through the door. The dollar store might seem like the sort of place a frugal fellow (tightwad) like me could relax, but I see it more as the perfect proving ground for the value-conscious shopper (penny-pinching dumpster diver.)

Everything’s a dollar. The playing field is level. Comparisons are a cinch, and quite ridiculous. Look over there! A broom for a buck! And check that out- one dollar for a can of Vienna sausages!

Broom = Vienna sausages. Value abounds.

But of course at the grocery store the same broom would cost at least a few dollars and that can of processed eyeballs and assholes would set you back only fifty cents. And thus the game is on. Dollar Tree sets the hard line for comparison and it’s up to you to decide on which side each item falls. And it’ll only cost you a buck.

And so it went recently as I picked myself up a mother’s day card (never sent) and a Rubbermaid container, the perfect size for taking soup to work. And at the check-out line, feeling like I had made two excellent and well-informed value-based decisions, feeling victorious, the dollar store turned over its trump card:

A pregnancy test. For one dollar.

Check mate.

My antennae are sending out sparks. There just may be some things in life that are worth spending a little extra cash on in exchange for quality assurance. Like parachutes, for example. And space capsules. Submarine hatches also come to mind.

And pregnancy tests. If I thought I might be knocked up, I’d want the frickin’ gold-plated Rolls-Royce of pee sticks, all burled walnut and chrome, optional in-dash navigation system and DVD player included. Or a doctor. Some things you want to be sure of.

Not to mention if you're picking up your pregnancy tests at the dollar store (or your potted meat, for that matter), we all fervently pray to Allah, Buddha, Jesus and Shiva the Destroyer that that little plastic urine tester turns up negative.

But value is value, so touché, Dollar Tree.

Pregnancy test = Vienna sausages.

No, it did not throw down a two-handed dunk or try to surf on top of my van.

2009-05-26T23:22:00.004-04:00

I typed this post about a month ago, just before my computer's wireless capability crapped out on me, consigning what you see below to the prison of my hard drive. But for all you know, the events described happened yesterday, so just go along with it. On a related note, I'm posting this using our (Courtney has joined me here in the wilds as of two days ago) newly enabled Verizon Mobile Broadband. That's not an endorsement. Yet. We'll see how it goes.

Where I live right now, there are lots of big animals wandering around chewing on things, causing traffic jams and, occasionally, offering rides on their backs to Japanese kids who are experiencing the world beyond Nintendo for the very first time. Be they elk, bison, moose, bighorn sheep, mule deer, pronghorn or the somewhat toothier black and grizzly bears, if you spend any time around here at all you’ll see something large and/or scary on a regular basis. And I’ve seen all of those, many times. Having spent at least part of the year in seven out of the last twelve somewhere in the Yellowstone-Grand Teton region, I’ve had ample opportunities for wildlife sightings. I’ve even seen a wolverine, a reclusive animal that is only spotted, on average, three or four times a year in this area.

The one animal that has consistently eluded me, however, is the wolf. Sure, everyone visiting from out of state wants to see a moose, and if they’re only going to be around for a day or two, they may go home disappointed, but moose generally aren’t too tough to find. Second to the moose in popularity, by my unofficial poll, would be the bears. Most people don’t care either way and couldn’t tell the difference even if they did, but to the discerning the grizz is where it’s at. Maybe it’s because there aren’t as many of them and they tend to avoid areas with lots of people, but probably the attraction with the grizzly is that they are substantially larger than the black bear and dine on humans with much greater frequency. As with our women, we like our wildlife big, bloodthirsty and variably moody.

And bears are cool, to be sure. The true connoisseur, though, is looking for a wolf. In the US there is no more controversial animal than the wolf, and, in the lower 48 at least, it is still a rare sight. Hunted and trapped to near-extinction, wolves were reintroduced to Yellowstone from Canadian stock in the 1990s and have been slowly re-establishing their place in the ecosystem ever since, with much political wrangling over their fate before then, since and presumably well into the future. In the past few years, several wolf packs have established residence in and around Grand Teton National Park, increasing both the species’ range and the possibility of spotting one.

Which brings us nearly to the present. The other night, as I was leaving the town of Jackson heading home, I saw a light-colored shape about 200 yards (or 8,124.2 metres to someone with an accent) up the slope of East Gros Ventre Butte that seemed to have a definite canine profile. It appeared to be sitting at the edge of a bench of land, surveying the Elk Refuge below. Certain of what I had just seen, I sped to the next available turnaround, whipped back the way I had come and pulled off on the side of the road, fumbling for my camera all the while.

Utilizing my 10x zoom, I was all too happy to discover, sitting right in the crosshairs of my Canon…

…the ass-end of some plant-eater. I was too disgusted at my own misplaced exuberance to even notice what it actually was. Probably a bighorn or a deer. Maybe an elk. Ho-hum.

That’s what I get for hoping. The North American wolf is a myth.

The next morning dawned clear and cold, with a fresh dusting of snow on the sage that blankets the valley floor. Driving to work on Highway 89, I was as always wary of the animals that never learned to look both ways before crossing the street.

I’ve heard that humans, predators that we are, have eyes that are attuned to movement. If you want to see an animal, don’t look for it; you’ll catch the movement. Thus it was that I found myself looking at a dark shape, several inches higher than the sage, moving away from the road. I suppose my brain ran down the list of mammals native to this area, checking them off one by one, eliminating them by size or color or shape. In real time, however, I instantly knew it was canine: coyote or wolf. No question.

Any time a visitor to the park tells me they just saw a wolf, I feign excitement and let them tell me the whole story, while in the back of my mind I’m chuckling, saying, “It was a coyote.” No reason to spoil their fun. Everyone wants it to be a wolf.

Now I want it to be a wolf. But it can’t be a wolf. I’ve been hoping for a wolf since 1998. It’s never been a wolf. Plenty of coyotes, and coyotes are pretty cool. Hell, coyotes never needed to be reintroduced to anything, and we did our best to eliminate them, too.

But coyotes don’t come in black. This thing in the sage is near-black and taller than a coyote.

It’s a wolf.

I stop the truck, half on the shoulder, half in the road, digging for my camera once again. The wolf will not wait. It is now at the base of the next bench, a black silhouette against a pure white snow slope. It trots up the incline, pausing right in the middle of this ideal background as if to give me my shot. I’m too slow. I catch it just as it crests the hill back into the mottled green and white of the sage. No matter. I saw a wolf.

UPDATE: After typing this up and leaving work, I saw a beautiful, well-fed coyote trotting down the bicycle path next to the road. I then went and contributed to the traffic jam at Jackson Lake Junction that a grizzly had been causing all day as he dug along the shoulder of the highway. If you show up here mid-summer complaining that there aren’t any animals, I’ll tell you that you should have been here in the spring.

Did I really leave a post about Rage Against the Machine up for two weeks?

2009-05-17T14:09:00.007-04:00

Okay, folks- the Gods of Blog are conspiring against me. It's hard enough to post (and read) regularly when you live in a cabin in Wyoming that isn't wired for telephone or cable, but lately I haven't even had much internet time at work. On top of that, my laptop decided quite out of the blue that it no longer has any interest in connecting wirelessly to anything at all. It's as if I'm suddenly back in my dorm room, circa 1997, staring at the monitor of my unconnected Gateway, a cut-off island in the nascent World Wide Web, dividing my time between Microsoft Works and SimCity2000. Of course my laptop is far more portable than that old dinosaur was, but I would have had just as much luck hauling that monster into the library the other week as I did with my lightweight year-old Compaq. That is to say none, although at least carrying a mid-90s desktop around would have given me some real exercise.

And it really sucks because I actually have been writing posts and I even made another (completely awesome) video. I can't upload any of it, though, until I can get my computer to once again realize its own wireless potential. And the government prohibits me from plugging a flash drive into the unit I'm currently typing on, so I'm not left with many options. This is the first shift I've had in two weeks in which I've had the luxury of an hour here or there to sit down and bang out this sorry excuse for a post about making sorry excuses. Damn it!

But Courtney has been pushing me to explore our internet options at our rather remote residence because once she arrives (one week!), chica's gonna want some net. There are options, the primary one being mobile broadband from Verizon, but I'm not a big fan of signing a two- or even one-year contract, and not a cheap one at that, for something we'll only need for five months. And it probably wouldn't even work all that great.

But hey- I've been getting into the mountains a little bit and the weather is finally looking up. It stopped snowing! I'm in short sleeves at work! The sun glints blindingly off the highest snowfields with the brilliant fluorescence of a thousand angels!

Sorry. It got away from me a bit there.

Point is, I miss reading all of you and I'm doing everything in my power to get the situation under control. Until then, I'm going climbing.

Your anger is a gift

2009-04-28T06:03:00.000-04:00

I think a lot about music. In my mind, that’s the difference between someone who merely enjoys music and someone who loves music- thinking about it when you’re not even hearing it. I’m jealous of people who have the ability to actually make music because they almost certainly get more out of music than even I do. And I really love music.

That’s why I’m so disappointed in people who, to my ears, have such vanilla music collections. Sure, there’s nothing wrong with specializing or simply knowing what you like; I’m actually a little embarrassed about the genre column in my own iTunes, straying as little as it does from the words alternative and rock (the only dissidents being metal and the occasional blues and folk; not exactly the United Colors of Benetton here.)

No, what I mean by a vanilla collection of music is that there’s something vital, something virile, missing from it. Their playlist stands on its own, for sure, and is even frequently enjoyable. What’s missing, however, amidst all the Jack Johnson or Norah Jones or Jason Mraz is a certain something, a crucial ingredient, I don’t know, help me out here, maybe, for lack of a better term…

Zack de la Rocha.

That’s right: Zack de la Rocha. And I don’t mean literally, although it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world to once again hear Mr. de la Rocha’s vicious scream tearing asunder some pillar of capitalist greed. For the unaware, Zack de la Rocha is the lead singer for Rage Against the Machine, the band with the most transparent name in the history of bands, and the background music to my teenage days of smoking illicit (every kid’s favorite brand) cigarettes and lighting things on fire. What I miss when I’m inadvertently falling asleep to someone else’s novocain CD collection, or listening to the radio for that matter, is that occasional injection of teenage angst, the abject anger of our youth that sure as hell better be bubbling right beneath the surface in all of us, the spirit of outward rebellion that we seem to abandon the very second we get our first real job or begin dreaming about owning our own home or thinking in concrete terms about “the future.”

I feel like people just aren’t pissed off enough, and it shows in the music they listen to. That’s cool if you just want to chill on the beach with your dog and a six pack of Corona Light and wait for the next set of stellar waves, but don’t you want to get up off the sand every once in a while and kick a white person in the nuts? I know I sure as shit do.

Of course I don’t actually do it, but that’s where listening to the kind of music that causes car wrecks comes in. It’s a release. Maybe all you Norah Jones fans have really good drugs or a secret underground fight club that gets the job done for you (or maybe your everyday life is raging enough without your music fueling it further,) but I need music to help me get it all out. Plus, if I’m ever feeling a little too good about things I have Zack de la Rocha or Phil Anselmo* or Jello Biafra** or pre-1990 James Hetfield*** to set me straight by reminding me that there’s a whole lot of shit out there to be pissed off over, so let’s scream about it together.
But no more cigarettes. They’re bad for you.

*Pantera, **Dead Kennedys and ***Metallica.

Wild America: Where YOU are on the menu!

2009-04-26T17:53:00.003-04:00

How many of you dodged five moose* and two herds of elk on the way to work this morning?

Oh, really? Well… um… so did I. (I’ll admit I wasn’t expecting any answers in the affirmative there. Kind of took the wind out of my sails. I had no idea Boston or the Hudson Valley or Brooklyn or South Georgia or North Georgia or the Twin Cities or Southwestern Kentucky or Knoxville or Rochester or Adelaide or Capetown had such an abundance of large ungulates.) (And I’m clearly counting on someone in each of those localities to actually be reading this - wishful thinking, I’m sure.) (And I apologize if I left anyone out. Tell me about it in the comments. De-lurk, if you must.)

You might expect a photo of a moose or an elk at this point, but I wasn’t about to stop on the shoulder of the highway in my full park service regalia and whip out a camera like a giddy German** tourist. Besides, there will be plenty of time for wildlife photography when I’m dressed more anonymously.

Speaking of wildlife, I keep talking myself out of an evening run due to all the grizzly bear activity around where I live. Normally when a person is jogging down a designated US highway with a posted speed limit of 55, they are primarily concerned with four-wheeled traffic. Last week when I hit the pavement for a short out-and-back I was instead scanning side to side for traffic of the four-legged variety, which tends to weigh slightly less than the wheeled kind (but not by much,) although the ones with wheels don’t possess free will and seldom view a guy in Adidas runners as an hors d’oeuvre.

But bears come with the territory, so if I’m going to keep up the running, I’ll have to take my turn, sprinting down the roadway like it’s a human buffet line while ursus horribilis waits in the trees, sharpening his claws, ready to spring on me from some dark place before I can clear the gauntlet.

Or I could buy a treadmill.

Actually, just an hour or so ago there was a bear about a mile from my residence that attracted a crowd and ended up bluff-charging someone. Probably a German tourist. Or maybe some Quebecois. They can’t drive either.

*Anyone who uses the non-word meese in the comments will be immediately and unceremoniously kicked off my sidebar. And if you’re not in my sidebar I will instead put a voodoo hex on you, malady to be determined (but probably involving parasitic infestation of the small intestine and/or an eruption of coarse, uncontrollable ear hair.)

**I’m giving the Japanese a break. At least the Germans know how to drive. Stereotype? Yes. Racism? No. Residents of Tokyo are just like Manhattanites: they don’t know how to drive because they don’t own a car. Hertz and Avis don’t seem to care either way.

Moving Pictures (actual moving pictures, not the Rush album of the same name)

2009-04-20T22:05:00.006-04:00

Behold my latest and greatest video creation! The last of the Utah trinity (see my Vimeo page for the rest)!

White Rim Trail from dennyswaitress on Vimeo.

Remember when I used to write in this space? Me neither.

Tomorrow, I'm going to cover myself in GoreTex and employ lots of pointy metal things (along with some legs and lungs) to try to get up some snowy mountains. We'll see how that goes.

In the meantime, here's what the entirety of my drive to work looks like:

I'm working on it, I promise

2009-04-17T21:44:00.002-04:00

This whole blogging from the wilds of Wyoming, that is.

I'm sitting in someone's house right now where a friend is house-sitting. It sits on the edge of the National Elk Refuge and if I bothered right now I could probably count elk and bison in the hundreds just by looking out the front window. More importantly, there's internet here.

So I post, sort of. I don't really have the time to compose anything of substance, but I am uploading some videos to my Vimeo page right now, so that's something. Hopefully I'll fugure out the whole internet-in-the-boonies thing before too long and I can get plugged back in. If I can get a good enough signal from Verizon, that may work out.

To explain my isolation a little better, I just got myself a PO box so I can get mail because there is no local delivery. The Post Office is just a fifty-yard walk away, right across from a single-bay fire station and an elementary school that has about 12 students. Other than that, there are a few other homes and nothing else.

Well I should head back up that way because it's getting dark now and dodging large animals in the gloaming is always a treat. In the meantime, my Vimeo page should be shortly updated with a couple of things I put together from my time in Utah last week. There's more to come (Oh boy!), but it'll have to wait until my next encounter with reliable internet.

We're there!

2009-04-12T16:33:00.002-04:00

I have to breathlessly utter that phrase upon any sort of arrival, a la Lloyd Christmas in one of the greatest road trip movies there is.

But I am there. Or here, rather. It's snowy. I got in last night and spent the morning sweeping and mopping out the mouse poop and a winter's worth of dust. They never clean these places. We'll see how clean I leave it when my season here is over. Also, last year's tenant apparently had a dog.

The only sorts of outlets piercing the logs that form my new digs are the electrical variety, so it looks like the dream of internet is out. I'm not surprised, having lived this sort of twentieth-century monastic existence a few times before. We'll just have to see how I manage to keep up with the intertubes between work and trips into town (about 35 miles.) At least I get cell phone reception out there, so I'm not totally cut off.

As soon as I finish stirring up all the hantavirus from the corners of my cabin, I'll put together a comprehensive written tale of my recent travels and edit together the hours and hours of video footage I gathered. Kidding; it's probably only one hour, but I promise to condense it to four minutes or less.

Until then, carry on without me as best you can. Shit, I'm surprised this whole internet dealy hasn't just collapsed without my constant presence. Yet, at least.

Adios, SoKno

2009-04-02T17:38:00.003-04:00

Well, kids- this is it for me and Knoxville. Tomorrow morning I'm shoving off for the wide-open wastes of the American west. I actually have a job lined up that starts 11 days from now and it's in Wyoming, so I've got an apartment full of plastic boxes that need only be loaded into the back of my pickup and hopefully the whole mess of us- me, my well-traveled truck and all my ridiculous shit- will make it one more time across this great big country of ours. The truck better make it because I just sank more than a thousand bucks into her this week. She'll be hitting 200,000 miles right about the time I'm rolling through Moab, Utah Sunday afternoon, so keep your fingers crossed.

That's right- I'm going to Wyoming by way of Utah this time. I have a friend who's rangering in Canyonlands National Park, and I'm spending a week with him and his wife getting into whatever trouble we can find. Monday and Tuesday should find us canyoneering, climbing and/or rafting. Wednesday through Friday we'll be bicycling the 100-mile White Rim Trail. I've never done an overnighter on my bike, but it should be fun. The soreness of my ass after that will be nothing short of epic.

Then I'll be meandering my way up to snowy Wyoming to earn a paycheck for a change. I'll be rangering, but don't let that fool you- I'll really just be a glorified toll collector in a funny hat. The weekends will kick ass, though. Courtney will be joining me there eventually, which will be a first for us, and my climbing partner from my previous stint at the same place is coming back again, so I've already begun plotting our climbing objectives for the season. Fun will be had.

The lady and I just had drinks with a majority of the illustrious Wigshop bloggers, and I think that was a proper Knoxville send-off, ensconced high above the city in that golden disco ball enjoying $3 stouts. I will miss this town, and to that end I have assisted Courtney in the creation of an ode to K-Town, of sorts, another video presentation that I'm sure you will find amusing:

Viva Knox Vegas from dennyswaitress on Vimeo.

Thus concludes the Knoxville run of The Prettiest Denny's Waitress. I'll be on the road for the next week and, when we resume (hopefully I will find blogging time at my new/old job), I'll still be me, just slightly more western. And with a better view out my window.

Tune in then, kiddos, and drive safe. I'll try to do the same.

Like Donny, I'm out of my element

2009-04-01T09:47:00.003-04:00

I'm fairly secure in my masculinity, or as secure as someone who grinds his own coffee, has an enduring man-crush on Eddie Vedder, and has never fired a real gun can be. To offset these minor transgressions, none of which warrant revocation of my Man Card, I do things like climb mountains and eat lots of beans. Sometimes, I even scratch my balls. This is what men do. My membership is secure.

And yet.... I'm still confronted from time to time with that most emasculating of endeavours: entering an auto-parts store. If you can walk into an Auto Zone and not feel like half a man, ladies included, then I envy you. The second I walk through those doors and see those racks of batteries and belts and thingamadoohickeys, I am both retarded and apparently sporting a vagina where my man bits used to be.

Which is not to say that actual ladies, who may very well know how to rebuild a transmission and change a timing belt, don't know their way around a tool box. Rather, I merely employ the analogy because in our sexist society the auto-parts store is still very much the perceived domain of manly men. I mean no offense to vaginas.

And no matter what I'm in there for, be it a new battery or an air filter (both of which I can install all by myself!), I have to approach the Man behind the counter (and it is always a Man; he probably wears camo when he's not at work and enjoys Slim Jims) to ask for the item in question. This wouldn't be a big deal except, as he's asking me the particulars of my vehicle, we always get to the question of which engine I have, my vehicle type having the option of two different V-6 engines, one smaller, one larger.

Now, it might be the slightest bit unmanly at this point to have to admit to having the smaller V-6. In the Man Club, bigger is invariably better. But you know what is even better than bigger?

Actually knowing what kind of engine is in your truck!

I have no idea. Never have. The thing was purchased used eleven years ago and the owner's manual was stolen in a break-in a few years later. And it's not like I can pop the hood, eyeball the engine block and accurately guess its cubic inch displacement.

So I have to tell the guy, the manly man with his first name embroidered on his uniform shirt (probably Chuck, or Tom, or Bill, or some other manly name), that I have no friggin' clue.

Which gets me the look. That fleeting look that says, "If I, Chuck, were on the membership committee, you'd lose your Man Card for this."

So be it, Chuck. I happen to like my coffee fresh-ground and I'm not afraid to say I think Eddie Vedder is a good looking man and a compelling personality.

And one other thing, Chuck: Thanks for the windshield wiper blades, but what in the hell does my engine size have to do with them?

So much for sitting around in my pajamas

2009-03-27T10:02:00.002-04:00

Ugh. So much shit rattling around in my brains.

I've been busy, busy enough to completely neglect you, my faithful readers. Granted, this is still likely far less busy than the average person, but for me it's meant a sacrifice in blogging, which I generally dedicate several hours of my day to. I'm pleased, however, to see that in my absence we've managed to push the comments on my last post to damn-near 20. You really love me.

Since we last gathered around these (poorly) strung together letters and words, I installed a brand-new stereo receiver in my truck (surprisingly not difficult), took a long bike ride to get my ass used to the sensation (I don't think it ever will), went to a housewarming party in Georgia's Rome (almost as good as the original, although they both have a language barrier for me) where the lady drank too much punch (turns out there is such a thing), made a solo return trip to the Peach State the very next day (not as many peaches as you might think; mostly pine trees and tire stores) to see my parents one last time before I shove west, planned a little five day Utah extravaganza with a friend that works in Canyonlands that I'll build into my journey, and generally found creative ways to put off all the stuff that I have to do in the next week to get ready before I leave.

Like make sure my truck is going to make it.

Re-build a bicycle.

Close one of my bank accounts.

Clean the fish tank.

Fashion anti-balling plates for my crampons from a plastic jug.

Pack.

Get my shit in order.

And I also want to leave you with some posts that are actually worth reading in the next week. I would have written one today, but nobody reads my blog on Fridays anyway. Hopefully come Monday I'll be inspired and have the time to sit down and make some funny.

Running Free

2009-03-19T11:33:00.003-04:00

Eventually my focus around here will shift back to writing, but I've been consumed over the past week with the possibilities of moving pictures. When summer rolls around and I'm actually doing something interesting on a weekly basis, I'd really like to make short videos about it. I promise I'll never do it more than once a week, and hopefully I'll figure out how to make them entertaining.

In anticipation of leaving Knoxville soon, this time for good, I've been documenting the places around town that I'd like to have a record of, mostly in still photographs. Yesterday, though, I went to Ijams Nature Center with my new mini tripod and collected a bucketful of funny looks from people as I ran back and forth like an OCD idiot if front of the camera. I've found that my impending move to the other side of the continent has seriously curtailed my generally over-active self-consciousness. These people, strangers to begin with, will never see me again. Free at last, free at last...

Running at Ijams Nature Center from dennyswaitress on Vimeo.

Isn't that song great? It's The Shaded Forests by Deastro.

Really the point to the exercise (the movie-making, not the running) is figuring the whole process out, mainly editing, formatting, and compression. If you click the link to my Vimeo page, I also redid that bouldering video from last week and added music.

In the future these video posts (again, I swear I will afflict you with them at most once a week) should even feature dialog and other people. Wouldn't that be something?

And in trying to think of a title for this post, I was reminded of the Kids in the Hall sketch Running Faggot. All time classic. Probably not okay for work, but then videos of any kind generally aren't.

Maybe telemarketers aren't so bad after all

2009-03-17T12:46:00.004-04:00

I've been lucky in my life. I've never worked in a fast food restaurant. I've never slogged through a shift at a grocery store, either. And I've never, nor will I ever, go door to door with some made-up bullshit story that takes five minutes to tell you while you're standing there in a bathrobe with crazy bed-hair letting all the heat out of the house in the middle of the day all in the name of selling you a magazine subscription.

This is my promise.

Once a week (okay, maybe twice a month), I get these people, sometimes they're solo, sometimes they team up, knocking on my door, usually employing some variation of "Shave and a Haircut," as if to suggest it's just some good buddy of mine on the other side dropping by to see if I want to go have a few beers and maybe buy a lap dance or two. What they don't know is that, if I had any friends, they wouldn't be the kinds of assholes who knock with "Shave and a Haircut," so the jig is up before I even open the door.

And for some reason I actually do open the door, despite this foreknowledge. I always regret it.

I let them say a few words and I even shake their hand when it's offered because that's the kind of guy I am. Within about five seconds my suspicions are confirmed by the laminated card folded in their other hand and the reek of cigarettes on their breath. They are definitely selling magazine subscriptions. It's been a while since I let one of them go all the way through their spiel, but I seem to recall from the last time I did that they like to wait until you are shifting your weight uncomfortably because your foot has fallen asleep before they get to the point. Or maybe they never do, just filibustering until you collapse right there in the doorway, at which point they rifle your pockets and steal your fuzzy slippers.

Today's offender wanted to collect X dollars so he could win a trip to Italy to find his inheritage (sic.) I didn't let him get any further than that before I pulled my own trump card, pointing out that it's 11 a.m. on a Tuesday and I'm at home in flannel pajama pants sporting a disheveled pillowhawk and three-day whiskers. Do I look like I was just sitting around counting my piles of disposable income, trying to decide which I'd rather blow it on, a year of Teen People or Cat Fancy? Because god knows I love both teens and cats.

The poor guy actually said, "How did you know I was selling magazines?" and then held the laminated card up close for my inspection in a last-ditch hail mary effort to sway my position, as if I was just waiting for a creased and dog-eared piece of colored paper to tip the balance. He seemed truly surprised that I might have played this game before.

I wished him luck and then listened through the door as he played "Shave and a Haircut" with his knuckles for the Indian family across the way. I'm pretty sure the wife is under orders not to open the door for anyone she doesn't know, though, so that trip to Italy may have to wait.

Why can't I get any Mormon missionaries? At least them I could have a conversation with.

Throw another guest post on the barbie!

2009-03-16T11:32:00.003-04:00

I'm posting today over at A Free Man while he and his clan are off enjoying a beachside Australian summer holiday. I hope he gets a wicked Southern Hemisphere upside-down sunburn. Do they use negative SPF there?

Nah, I kid. He's a nice guy and I hope he and his family have a great time and return home cancer-free and entirely unmolested by sharks, dingos and the like.

Go read my post.

And I got my tax refund today! Real money!

2009-03-13T10:45:00.003-04:00

How great was that comment from Anonymous yesterday? At the outset I figured it was somebody from the state tourism board making a pitch. I was invited for a visit! How neighborly! Then it took a weird passive-aggressive turn and I believe at one point it was inferred that I am a "misinformed greenie." Aren't "greenies" slang for amphetamines? Or maybe Martian invaders?

And wasn't the purpose of my post to trumpet how great Wyoming is and how much I'm looking forward to moving there? Something must have gotten lost in translation. I guess I need to brush up on my English to Wyoming dictionary. And get myself some leather chaps. (That last sentence has multiple layers of meaning. Think about it and I'm sure my genius will reveal itself.)

Julie actually made a good (and grammatically correct) point when she agreed with Anonymous about my assessment of the energy industry as "recession proof." Of course nothing is really recession proof, so I shouldn't have exaggerated, but I should have specified the energy extraction industry, which is what much of the local Wyoming economy is based upon. That seems to be going gangbusters, which is a word I like to use but which makes no sense to me at all.

Did I just get duped into discussing the economy? Shit. Sorry.

Last night the lady and I met the Modern Gal at the Pilot Light here in K-Town for some rock'n'roll music. The show was supposed to start at 10, but the first band, Deastro, had van trouble and was late, starting their short set around 11. We had plenty of time to sit around the tiny venue and drink beer and chat with Jon Burr, the lead singer of the second act, How I Became the Bomb. After I got his attention I was shocked when he immediately remembered my name from having met him last summer in Chattanooga (although Courtney suggested that a mutual friend of ours may have told him I'd be there.) Whatever, I don't remember what I had for lunch yesterday, let alone someone's name from nine months ago. Later, he impressed further when he handed the Modern Gal and I each a beer. Nice guy.

Deastro was good and apparently came all the way from Detroit without anywhere to stay as they asked the small crowd if anyone could give them a place to roll out their sleeping bags for the night. This made me feel good about giving them five bucks for a CD. Detroit needs our help. I should have asked them what the make of their broken-down van was.

How I Became the Bomb was great, again. Completely unlike any of the other music I listen to. Maybe that's why I like them. Or maybe it's the personal connection. These guys play tight, hook-laden pop tunes heavy on the keyboards and outer-space metaphors. And they clearly enjoy it.

HIBTB's music is available for free on their website. You have no reason not to check it out.

Coal is so gay

2009-03-12T10:06:00.003-04:00

Forgive me if I'm getting all prematurely Wyoming-y on you these days, but yesterday I found the following facts on the news wire:

1. The state currently holding the title of lowest unemployment rate in the nation: yup, the Cowboy State, although I think it has less to do with cowboys (Wasn't that gay cowboy movie set in Wyoming? No, not that one, this one.) and more to do with the massive amounts of low-sulphur coal they're unceremoniously ripping out of the ground in the Powder River Basin and the bajillion natural gas wells they've drilled in the upper Green River Basin. While I obviously have serious concerns about both of these activities, the energy industry is (so far) recession-proof. In fact, taking in the electronic, coal-powered glow of these letters from your computer screen is keeping some Wyomingite in Cheetos and beer, so good for you.

2. A Gallup survey of Americans' well-being ranked Wyoming third, behind Utah and Hawaii. MSNBC spun it as a "happiness" poll, and I'd like to think that any state where the cowboys can be gay is a state where we can all be gay. I intend to be quite gay there, gayer than a singing nun on a hilltop.

Add to that Wyoming's enduring title as the least populated state in the union, and I'd say I'm looking forward to going back. Unfortunately I've still got several weeks left before I even need to start packing and I'm having a hard time thinking of ways to occupy myself. Check that- constructive ways to occupy myself. There's just not a lot to be done at this point. Sure, tonight the lady and I are planning on seeing How I Became the Bomb at the Pilot Light (any Knoxvillian readers who like 80's-style synth-pop should come on down), but then what?

Does Spielberg make movies using Windows software?

2009-03-11T09:32:00.006-04:00

Yesterday, to celebrate the near 80-degree high temperature, I took a trip out to the Obed for a little bouldering and trail running. I haven't climbed a thing (other than one unfortunate table) since last summer when I took one $7 trip to the local (plastic) rock gym, so I took it easy and just did a few simple problems for about an hour until my hands were good and raw and I had trouble closing them. Then I changed clothes and, water bottle in one hand and camera in the other, I jogged out the 1.9 mile Point Trail to take in the views and play with my camera a little more.

I'm hoping to start posting the occasional video here, especially when I'm in Wyoming and there are scenes worth sharing, so to that end I recorded a whole bunch of crap yesterday and then spent the entire evening fooling around with Windows Movie Maker editing out the chaff and adding a soundtrack.

But it was all for nothing. Maybe I got ahead of myself, but I couldn't seem to get the whole thing in a format that I could get Blogger, YouTube, or Vimeo to recognize, so the video below is just an unedited clip. It's a shame, too, because I had it all synched up to where the Bob Mould song started right as my foot touched the rock and I had transitions and everything. I was actually amazed at how easy the whole process was, at least until I tried to actually do anything with it. If you want to come over to my apartment, I'd be happy to show you the finished product. Until then, I'll keep working with it, and any advice would be greatly appreciated.

UPDATE: Five days later, I figured the whole thing out, so now what you see below is the finished product.

Here's me getting my Narcissus on at the Lilly Boulders:

Lilly Boulders from dennyswaitress on Vimeo.

Sorry about that last thirty seconds or so. I need someone to man the camera. I think they call that a camera man. And I know what you're thinking- "Dude, you're thirty years old. Should you be wearing your hat backwards? Or using the word 'dude'?" I won't dignify the latter, but as for the former, all I have to say is this: It's like turning on a switch.

And if you didn't get that reference, shame on you. Over the Top is, hands down (pun!), the greatest arm wrestling movie ever made. Stallone at his Stalloniest.

Clear Creek from the Point, just before its confluence with the Obed River.

Doing my duty

2009-03-09T09:06:00.002-04:00

Which is to say I'm whoring my blog out for my girlfriend.

Courtney has a new anyony-blog that she's put together for our enjoyment. It's called They Took My Stapler and it's a clearing house for all the wacky work-related stories you're too afraid to share on your own blog. This retribution-free zone promises to provide us all not only with an outlet, but with a place we can reliably go to laugh at the misfortunes that other people's career choices have brought them. Suckers.

I admit to having penned the first entry, under duress, while Courtney stood over me and watched. She was quite insistent and even suggested the subject, one I believe I may have already shared on this blog. Today, however, marks the first anonymous, e-mail submitted contribution and I strongly suggest you all go check it out and consider adding your own tales of workplace woe to what Courtney promises will be a consistent dose of hilarity, five days a week.

Be there or be square.

You are what you eat, and I've obviously been eating submissive housewives. Yum.

2009-03-06T08:26:00.004-05:00

I think between writing about tabling, mountain climbing and trashing my lats doing pull-ups, I actually do a pretty good job of emasculating myself on these pages more than occasionally. At least I hope so. I'm looking for a balance.

This is one of those emasculating posts, although it may throw that balance completely off.

The other night, of all nights, Courtney, mimicking a scene from Six Feet Under that we had just finished watching, asked if I'd be her wife.

I said "of all nights," and this struck me after about her third or fourth query regarding my potential wifedom, and my third or fourth reply of absolutely not, because it had occurred to me that, in a classical, non-feminist sense, I actually was her wife, minus the vagina.

See, we had just finished eating the delicious meal I had begun preparing before she even got home from work, before which, in a fit of domesticity, I had washed the sheets, remade the bed, and even sewed a patch on a pair of torn shorts. I freakin' sewed, man!

And she had the gall to ask me if I'd be her wife! I got news for you, honey, you got a wife- and this one doesn't menstruate, holds doors for you and can fix a leaky toilet to boot!

(Did I just write that? Can I tell you how happy I am to have a job lined up right now? And one that carries the masculine-sounding title of Park Ranger, no less? Because if I keep this up I may very well begin menstruating one of these days, and I'm moody enough as it is so we don't need that.)

Here's a picture of me and my bunnywabbit husband:

And here's a belated photo from our Guitar Hero jam session, photo courtesy of Julie (and goddamn that lead singer is hot; it's a shame he's such a woman):

Homeboy likes to rock

2009-03-03T09:35:00.004-05:00

Quick addendum to Friday's post about Little Umi, the most incredibly lifelike [fake] baby monkey ever: I got an envelope from my mother in the mail on Saturday. Inside was a short note stapled to the Little Umi advertisement! I am my mother's son. The post-script at the bottom of her note said, "It's collector-quality silicone!"

Maybe I should finally tell Mom I have a blog and invite her to join us. We would all benefit, I'm sure, but I'd have to tone down the foul language and godlessness. So I probably won't. (Actually, the real reason is because Courtney doesn't want my parents reading her blog. Fair enough.)

But back to rocking. It turns out I missed my calling as Billy Idol's understudy. Oh, I'm not saying I'm a particularly good singer, but I sure as shit enjoy it.

I'm getting ahead of myself, though. Commenter Julie invited us to go to an Atlanta Thrashers game Saturday night, something neither the Lady nor I were particularly excited about, our only other experience with professional hockey (the Knoxville Ice Bears of the Southern Professional Hockey League) being decidedly underwhelming aside from the wiener dog races held between periods (and not when the Zamboni was on the ice, although that would have made it the greatest sporting event of all time. Picture it: A hundred tiny over-fed dachshunds, their little legs spinning on the slippery surface, getting run down and hoovered up in bunches by the menacing machine. It'd be a bloodbath. Hey, Knoxville's municipal arena isn't called the Coliseum for nothing, after all.)

But the Thrashers game was actually a lot of fun, it turned out. The venue didn't patronize us with an overabundance of crappy music and unnecessary sound effects, our seats were cushioned, and the game was well-played and exciting, with the home team coming back from a 3-1 deficit in the third period for the win. Go hockey.

Oh, but the rocking; I'm getting there, I promise.

First, the tabling. That's right: tabling. I've talked much about the fabled sport here on this blog and even provided (alleged) photographic evidence, but, until Saturday night, none of my readers (Courtney included) had ever witnessed the feat. Returning to Julie's house after the game, Jacob immediately pointed out the sturdy-looking kitchen table and the challenge was extended. Marty McFly and I have much in common, not the least of which are the ability to travel through time and the unwillingness to turn down a challenge (although in my case there is no need to utter the magic word, "Chicken?"), so we pulled away the chairs and I began stretching and fortifying myself with beer as quickly as I could.

It's just like riding a bike. The last time I made a table my bitch was three or four years ago, but the movement came back to me after just one false start, although I ran out of steam fairly fast. No one else in the room wanted anything to do with it, which was disappointing, but we made up for it with the rocking.

So on to the rocking, finally. Julie and her husband Matt have Guitar Hero with the full band set-up. And we had a full band's worth of hard-rocking people. One thing led to another and, before you know it, we were rocking hard. I deferred the vocals to Jacob for the first set of songs, which he promptly rocked, allowing me to get over my bashfulness by his example. Why I should be bashful in this particular group of friends that go back to college, I have no idea, but I was soon rocking with abandon, completely trashing my vocal chords to the shrieking lyrical stylings of Bon Jovi, the aforementioned Idol, and yes, even Pat Benatar.

In short, it was a dream come true. I tend to wail like a banshee when listening to music by myself, but I've almost never unleashed my vocal talents on anyone else's ears. Thanks to everyone there for allowing me to hog the microphone. Let me know when we're getting the band back together and I'll start warming up the pipes.

And she'll never grow up to bite your face off

2009-02-27T08:33:00.005-05:00

Oh, wait- that was a chimp. But I'm sure orangutans are just as vicious.

This lovely reminder of the depths of human ridiculousness was tucked inside last Sunday's newspaper. This is why the terrorists hate us:

In case it doesn't jump out at you from the image above (or you are too distracted by the hideously creepy fake baby monkey face), the obvious is stated across the top of the page: The most incredibly lifelike baby monkey ever!

We've finally done it. We have achieved. Forget about that real baby monkey you've been saving up for. It is now obsolete.

But for those of you wondering if, for your five easy payments of only $27.99, you're getting one of those crappy vinyl monkeys that are always falling apart and fade to albino the first time you leave it in the sun, set those fears aside:

And believe me, you will be touching. And how. Because fake baby monkeys don't bruise and they won't be telling their day-care provider anything.

(shivers)

Why, god?

Interview 2009: Part Three and Out

2009-02-26T09:57:00.004-05:00

Here is the final installment of Mongoliangirl's interview of me. I could have broken it up even more and gotten a fourth day out of it, but I got on a roll this morning and just decided to wrap it up. My sincerest thanks again to Mongoliangirl for really turning the screws on me with these questions and to A Free Man for pairing us up as a part of his interview experiment. I really did enjoy the process and I hope everyone else has at least tolerated the results. To the finish:

Other than me singing Amazing Grace [see previous post], what gets on your nerves to the point of making you want to hit something?

One of my biggest pet peeves: People unable to shake the delusion that parking in a parking lot is a contest in which balloons and money will fall from the sky for the person who manages to discover the one available spot that is closer to the building than all the others. Actually, this only applies if I’m riding in the car with them, but it drives me freakin’ nuts. I’m the only person I’ve ever met who tends to just pull into the first available space, even if (gasp!) it’s not the closest to the door. In the time it takes you to cruise three or four aisles of the lot for that magical winning spot, I’ve already covered my forty extra feet of asphalt and am inside the store where I will have to walk a mile and a half anyway just to find that bag of Funyuns I’ve been lusting after.

Ever literally had the shit scared out of you? Yes? Describe. No? Tell me about a time that you were scared shitless.

Literally? No, although my brother and I were once jumped by some n’er-do-wells in downtown Wilmington, DE when we were both very young. He shat himself; I just pissed my pants. Is it wrong to share something like that about a person when they are dead and can no longer defend themselves? Nah, dead or not, he’s still my brother so I can still give him crap about it. He tormented me enough while on this earth (in a brotherly way, of course) that I think I’ve earned that right.

There was one time when I didn’t have time to be scared shitless, though. I almost rapelled off the end of the rope while descending Mt. Moran in the Tetons. Anytime you rappel you should tie a knot in the end of the rope, especially when the end does not touch the ground; that way, it’s impossible to rappel off the end. Actually, I was doing a tandem rappel (not recommended, for many reasons) in which the guy I was climbing with was rapping the other half of the rope right next to me. He landed on a ledge just as the knotless rope zipped through his belay device. We both saw it happening and he grabbed the rope with his top hand and I grabbed a flake of rock. One or the other reaction prevented me from falling about two thousand feet to the glacier below. Dumb, dumb, dumb mistake. Got lucky that time. There's actually a picture on my living room wall that would be the last photo of me alive had things not gone so well.

That little Courtney you're all in love with seems like a real cutie-pie-smarty-pants. What's the dumbest thing you and cutie-pie-smarty-pants have ever fought over?

You know the basket in the dishwasher that holds all the utensils? I say everything should go handle-down (except for sharp knives.) Courtney goes handle-up. I recently volunteered (in the presence of others, no less) the fact that I usually go behind her and flip everything over to my liking. What I had intended as an example of my own ridiculousness quickly devolved into in argument over why it should even matter (For the record, I think it gets too crowded if you put everything business-side down.) I’d say the vast majority of our dumb-ass arguments stem from my territoriality over the kitchen. How many times do I have to say it? Women have no business being in the kitchen. Not my kitchen, at least. (Actually, Courtney cooks dinner sometimes, and after many years of conflict I’ve finally learned to just stay out of the kitchen when she’s there.)

On your profile under 'Favorite Books' you have a nice list (mostly because, in my opinion, you include Hunter S. Thompson). What I like most about your list, however, is that you also say, "...and most every other book I've read." But seriously, Mickey, there has to be at least one book you've read that you thought was complete shit. What is that book and where is it now? Sold in a garage sale? Burned in an illegal fire in your front yard? Where?

You know how we all have a list a mile long of all the books we want to read and all the music we want to buy, more than a person could possibly fit into a lifetime? And then you can never think of a single item off that list when you’re actually in a library or music store? Unless of course you actually have a hard copy of your list rather than just storing it in your undependable brain, in which case you are smarter than I. Well several years ago I was in the library and couldn’t think of any of the books I wanted to read, so I browsed until I found The Descent, by Jeff Long. Sounded like a fun, sci-fi adventure kind of book.

Terrible book. Just completely stupid. I only read a few chapters before giving up. Hopefully it’s back on the fiction shelves at the Teton County Library growing stale and dusty from non-use.

Being the shallow bitch that I am, I am going to judge a book by its cover for a minute here. This photo of you

makes me think you have a very tender heart. Even though I've got a big mouth and would probably tell you anything, I admit I might find myself holding back from telling you things I've done that might affect that tender heart of yours. Out of all the things people have share with you about themselves, what is the one that made your heart hurt the most?

I guess I should refer you to this post. And this one. Same person. Pretty heart-wrenching.

You have a post titled 'Songs That Make My Soul Hurt'. You seem to struggle with the idea of blogging about things that make your soul hurt. What's up with that?

I had to look that post up. That was just a way of saying they’re the worst songs of all time, in my opinion. As far as writing about things that truly cause me pain on a soul-ular level, I don’t think I’ve shied away from that. No, I haven’t shared my deepest, scariest emotions here on this blog, but that’s because people I know actually read it. Also, I try to keep the dial here tuned to funny as much as possible, rather than middle school diary.

Give me a list of at least three things that make your soul hurt that you will commit to blogging about within the next three months. It better be some seriously painful shit Mickey, or I'm going to have to sing Amazing Grace again.

You like to bring the pain, don’t you? Is this a dare? I don’t really have a whole lot of pain in my life, to be honest. I already nonchalantly tossed off a reference to having lost my shitty-pantsed brother in this interview, so you can see I’m not really someone who dwells on stuff too much. But, if I had to come up with three painful episodes that I might consider writing about if I felt like my readers would find them at all interesting, maybe these would be them (notice the heavy lack of commitment):

1. Nope. Changed my mind. If I feel like sharing, I’ll share. So sing away.

If I had the ability to do that table hanging thing you do

I would make it my life's mission to do it on a table at the Vatican. I mean, it could be a really offensive thing to do in certain locations. Ever thrown yourself into a table hang in a completely inappropriate place? If not, would you take money to do it in the middle of someone's funeral service or something like that?

I swear I don't always wear that shirt! (But I do quite a bit; thanks, Julie.)

To my knowledge, the sport of tabling was invented in the library at UC Boulder. Or in a cabin in Yosemite Valley. Either place is likely, but I like the idea of pulling off a full table traverse in the quiet of a university library. My own tabling experience is limited to three different tables, all in private settings, two of which were broken in the process, though not by me, although I may have contributed (I sould be meeting that exact table once again this year, actually.) The problem with tabling is that it’s difficult to find a sturdy enough table, but I’d be willing to bet that the Vatican has some kick-ass 300-year-old solid oak tables that would just be asking for it and wouldn’t even flinch.

To answer the final question, yes, I would take money to do it in a completely inappropriate situation. Are you offering? Let’s talk numbers.

Interview 2009: Part Two, Mofos

2009-02-25T10:23:00.004-05:00

Cripes. This is turning into a week-long project. I'm not one to complain about free blog material, however, and I think my exuberance is self-evident. Today I'm only posting one question and answer because I think that's all you can handle. Or maybe that's all I can handle. And how about that Mongoliangirl, huh? She sure does her research (Why is it called research? Shouldn't it be called presearch? You're not doing it again, after all.)

I think that post about generating a coup against the Mexican government and using Sammy Hagar as your sidekick is a blast! If you were going to generate a coup against an organization local to where you live, what organization would it be? And, most importantly, would you let me show up as your Sammy Hagar sidekick and sing Amazing Grace?

That is my favorite post! I’m glad you found it. Strangely, that’s probably the only piece like that I’ve done on this blog. I think maybe the fact that it only garnered five unique comments has something to do with it.

If, rather than leading the mop-haired former Van Halen lead singer and a gang of dishwashers south to topple Mexico, I instead had to head up a coup against a local entity, I’d naturally want to choose the biggest, most important and powerful target there is. The TVA must be stopped. The largest public utility in the nation, the Tennessee Valley Authority has lorded over parts of seven states since 1933. As described by Wikipedia, “It is a political entity with a territory the size of a major state, and with some state powers (such as eminent domain), but unlike a state, it has no citizenry or elected officials.” Sounds ripe for the picking.

I and a ragtag bunch of well-armed blue-collar South Knoxvillians will storm across the Henley and Gay Street bridges, first securing and barricading the government buildings and police station to minimize any potential opposition. Then, our forces swelling with the galvanized additions of the yuppie occupants of downtown condos (our version of the cavalry, they’ll be mounted on high-end carbon fiber road bikes, infants strapped in baby carriers on their backs wielding in their tiny hands a lethal assortment of never-used German cutlery pressed into service after years of sitting idly on granite countertops), we will stream through Market Square as a mob unified in our anger over the status quo and surround the twin ivory towers of the TVA, the seat of power, where Mongoliangirl will bolster our confidence with a moving a cappella rendition of Amazing Grace.

Our determination will be such that the suits can do little to resist and we will quickly overrun each and every floor of the two buildings. Removing the bigwigs from their corner offices, we will install in their places the hippie kids that work at the Tomato Head down on Market Square, because if we’re going to trust any non-elected official with eminent domain, I’d rather it be someone who shops at a co-op than a guy who gets his clothes at Brooks Brothers. So the kids in ironic t-shirts will be calling the shots from now on and, sitting down for a beer and a vegetarian burrito at Tomato Head, don’t be surprised if your server is an older gentleman who doesn’t look altogether comfortable in his Chuck Taylors and skinny jeans. If you’re looking for any investment tips, though, he’s the guy to ask.

And when I get back to my apartment on the other side of the river after our fun day of semi-violent overthrow (we threatened, but there was no bloodshed), I will be surprised that the lights no longer work. Maybe I didn’t think this through.

To be continued...

Interview 2009: Mongoliangirl asks me some questions

2009-02-24T09:12:00.002-05:00

This is the first installment of Mongoliangirl's interview of me. She really did her homework and asked me some fantastic questions and, me being me, I answered them at great length because I find myself so damn fascinating. I'm breaking it up for you though, because it's far too much to post at one time and actually expect people to read it. I may actually get three days out of it. So thanks again to A Free Man for organizing this and to Mongoliangirl for making me feel interesting. Take it away Mongoliangirl!

I am composing your interview questions while at the tail end of being infested with a flu that has caused me to shove a Q-tip into my right nostril and give advice that may have resulted in the death of another human being. Are you sure you are up for this?

Darn tootin’, lady. And here's hoping your flu isn't a strain that has mutated to spread via electronic message. Asian Blog Flu, we'd call it, and you'd be patient zero.

In the very first post of your blog you write this about what you hope to do as a blogger: "...make it as hugely hilarious and enlightening as will be expected of me." You don't seem like one of those blogging whores who simply wants page loads and lots of readers, so I'm guessing that quote was about the expectations you had of yourself at the time. How's that going? Have you made yourself laugh? Have you found yourself enlightened?

So you’re looking for a State of the Blog Address here? At least I won’t have to preempt According to Jim to deliver it. Oh, come on - somebody must watch that show. Don’t pretend it’s not you. I think when I first thought about starting this blog I was angry about a lot of things (as I generally am at all times) and felt like it would be a good place to get my frustrations down in writing and maybe start a revolution, one reader at a time. I realized pretty quickly however that a) I feel like a dick when I’m just whining about stuff all the time and b) Nobody likes to read the ramblings of a whiny dick.

This blog is about 16 months old now (it finally sleeps through the night, usually), but I still feel like I haven’t found my voice. Or maybe I just haven’t found the voice I want to have. Either way, I settled on the fact long ago that people, myself included, like to laugh. If I write a post and it hasn’t made me laugh out loud, it feels like a waste of time. I’ll still post it, but I’m not happy about it. Somewhat less important is the sense that a commenter has at least chuckled quietly into their coffee; I know the only reason anyone will come back to my blog time after time is if they are entertained. What is incredibly important is that people comment at all. In that regard I am absolutely a whore. In fact, things in this corner of communist Blogustan seem to be in decline of late, with many of the writers in my blogroll mysteriously going on permanent or semi-permanent hiatus. My comments have taken a hit. I think I need to draft my own gazillion dollar stimulus plan and get things rolling again.

You may not be a blogging whore, but I'm guessing there are a few things you would stand on the corner for. I think you should enlighten me about just one thing you would completely whore yourself out for.

Literally? Like stand outside in hot pants and heels and offer strangers access to my bodily orifices in exchange for something I want or need? If I was starving, maybe, but then I like to think that I could employ violence in order to feed myself or my family long before I’d have to resort to prostitution. Why earn a living on your knees when you can just smack somebody with a 2x4 and take what you need? I’m not saying I like the idea, but it’s better than the alternative.

But if we’re being a little more loose with the term “whore,” I think most of us whore ourselves out on a daily basis just to earn a living. I actually have a record of voluntary unemployment that proves I’m less willing to do this than the average person (and dumber and more stubborn than the average person.) In just about six weeks, however, I should be taking up a new job whoring myself out to the National Park Service in order to be where I want to be: Somewhere with a backyard thousands of square miles big with tall, pointy mountains and things that can eat you. That’s what I’m willing to whore for.

A.A. Milne's character Winnie the Pooh says, "If people were superior to animals, they'd take better care of the world." Since you're a forest ranger and everything, I'm thinking you should come up offa some good websites for me and my readers about small ways we can add to the big picture of taking better care of the world. Give me your top three.

First I have to take issue with one thing: It’s a common mistake and completely understandable and excusable, but I’m not a “forest ranger.” I have been, and will be again soon, a Park Ranger. “Forest rangers” work for the US Forest Service, Department of Agriculture, which is responsible for managing our woodlands for commercial harvest. There is a protection factor to what they do, for sure, but the Forest Service bows far too much, at taxpayer expense, to the logging industry for me to want to be associated with it.

The US National Park Service, Department of the Interior, is primarily concerned with the protection of natural resources to ensure their enjoyment by future generations. I like to tell people, “We protect the trees, they sell the trees.” Now you know.

But you wanted some websites. There must be a thousand websites out there that would suit your requirements, but these are the ones I use to keep me honest:

1. Allie’s Answers- Of course I have to give Allie credit since she’s on my blogroll and everything. Her site is one I check daily and it reminds me of the ways we can all, on a personal level, make a difference. She also constantly links to other sites and blogs that focus on environmental issues, making it a great jumping-off point for anyone curious about the latest ways we are trying to destroy ourselves and what we can do to fix it.

2. Salon- I know it’s not an environmentalist website, but as my primary source of information with a liberal slant, it puts everything in the perspective I prefer. In other words, it’s the opposite of Fox News. If Fox isn’t going to pretend to be objective, then neither am I, and neither does Salon. They do cover environmental issues in depth when other sources might just give them a passing mention, though, so that’s why I include it here.

3. SummitPost.org- Not an environmental site at all. Okay, maybe there are occasionally articles about environmental issues, but this site is one way I remind myself of what it is that I’m interested in saving, which is wilderness. Its focus is on mountains around the world and the people who like to climb them, but it’s not strictly a “climbing” site. Really, I just like the pictures. I’ve posted a few myself, along with one article so far (one that was originally posted here), and I hope to contribute more.

To be continued...

Interview 2009

2009-02-19T21:05:00.004-05:00

A Free Man has put together Interview 2009 and I was extraordinarily lucky to draw Strange, Dark Gypsy Girl as my interviewee. All I gave her were three little questions but, as expected, she really delivered some thoughtful, creative and ultimately hilarious answers. I like to think it had something to do with my excellent, if little practiced, journalistic skills, but I think she would have worked some gypsy magic even if I had just asked her for her favorite color.

So thanks to AFM for putting the whole thing together and to Gypsy for knocking it out of the park. Click on the link and go read the interview! I will be on the answer end eventually, so stay tuned.

And you thought birds were inconsiderate

2009-02-19T14:23:00.004-05:00

Here's an excerpt from an email I recently received from a friend I haven't seen in four years:

I do have another proposition for you:
A) It involves granite
B) It involves several days of granite
C) You need a PVC tube to poop in
D) The Nose
E) Early May
What do you think? Do you have the time? Still interested in climbing big stuff?

And that, friends, is why I went out last Friday and worked three sets of ill-advised pull-ups into my run. I say ill-advised because even though my chin only surmounted the crossbar at Duff Park a measly 30 times total, it's taken me a full week to be able to comfortably raise my arms above my head again. I had to ask Courtney to pass me things from the coffee table because I couldn't reach across my body. Even now there's still some tightness. Weak.

As was disclosed in a post here last week, I in fact won't be free in May to hang out in Yosemite (I recently wrote about The Nose here) and poop in any tubes because I should by then be employed in a different, no less scenic playground. The unfortunate timing of the above proposition did not diminish its motivational quality, though, which explains the flailing pull-ups, because while May may not work for me, I will certainly be climbing something this year. And I'm way out of climbing shape, obviously.

It occurs to me: Is anyone confused by all the talk of pooping in tubes? I'll explain: In the old days on long, multi-pitch climbs, people would just crap in a bag and then toss it. I'm guessing tourists didn't want to hike too close to the base of walls in Yosemite in those days because shit was literally raining down from above. Nowadays the Park Service mandates that you pack it out, hence the resealable PVC poop tubes.

I've never pooped in a tube. I have pooped in a bag before, also at the behest of the Park Service, and carried it out. If I ever get around to doing the "100 Things" list for this blog, I'll start with "I've shat in a bag and then carried it down a mountain."

This ends today's session of Scatology 101. Thank you.

The scatological emailer. Poop tubes not required on cabin climbs.

Noise for the nose

2009-02-18T10:19:00.003-05:00

I've got a complaint in the form of a question. Or a question in the form of a complaint.

Why does everything have to smell like something else?

You get up in the morning and lift your head from your Mountain Breeze-scented pillowcase, shuffle in the dark across the Febrezed carpet (Spring & Renewal scent), down the hall past the Fresh Cut Flowers plug-in, stare through foggy eyes at your tired reflection in the bathroom mirror while brushing your molars with zesty Peppermint paste, and then step into the shower, where you suds your hair up with Pomegranate Soy shampoo, follow that with some Tea Tree and Balm Mint conditioner and then rub your whole self with Almond Flower body wash.

Drying off after the shower (Mountain Breeze making another appearance with the towel), you smear some Aqua Sport-flavored antiperspirant under your arms before donning a fresh set of clothes (Mountain Breeze fresh, to be exact.) After perhaps spraying your head with some sort of foul-smelling glue-like substance, working some White Linen moisturizer into your hands and maybe dousing a little designer odor about your person (the one item employed solely for it's smell), you grab a cup of coffee, which smells precisely like coffee, causing you to think to yourself "Goddamn I love the smell of coffee" before heading out the door.

Sliding into your car with its stale Vanilla Bean cardboard air "freshener" dangling from the mirror, you head to work, where you will be surrounded by scores of other people, all of whom have absorbed just as many competing smells as you this morning, but different ones, all of them having one thing in common: They are completely unrepresentative of the objects they are attached to. At no point in the morning will any of you come into contact with a Mountain or it's accompanying Breeze, you wouldn't know an Almond Flower if it sprouted from your ass, and Fresh Cut Flowers would be nice, but everyone knows we only get to see them during funerals and Valentine's Day. If we're lucky.

Thank god (Ethiopia) for coffee.

It's like watching COPS, but with heavier sponsorship and without the drama and not as funny

2009-02-17T10:08:00.006-05:00

Shit. Now I feel the need to defend myself, at least to the readers I have in common with Malfeasance.

It's true: I tuned into portions of the Daytona 500 on Sunday. Sue me.

It's also true that every four years I pour over TV schedules to find when curling will be televised during the Winter Olympics. This does not make me a curling fan.

What it does make me is a fan of the novelty of sporting spectacle. I've said many times that I'll watch any sort of contest at least once. Given the proper backstory and a certain amount of put-on pageantry, competitive paint-drying could be made to appear compelling (See "Masters, The" for all the evidence you need. That's golf, people.)

Let me give you four (good) reasons I watch a NASCAR race:

1. I enjoy it. I don't know very much about it, but I can appreciate some of the strategy that goes into a race. Much like my favorite thing about baseball is a well-executed double play, or maybe the 2-2 changeup that induced a ground ball into that double play, I enjoy hearing about how a team calculates and gambles on when they need to stop for gas or a how much longer they can go on a set of tires. Also, while crashes are kind of cool, what's even cooler is seeing what small mistake, or ballsy, ill-timed move, caused it. It's kind of like watching a fumble in that it changes the whole game in a few short seconds.

2. Despite what I said above, it's really pretty dumb. And yet there's something about watching a couple hundred thousand people gather to get drunk and watch something that's completely pointless, sort of like the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade, which coincidentally also holds the allure of potential crashes.

3. As Courtney said, "the redneckitude of it all." This should not be played down. There is something about watching an event that captivates millions when those millions have almost nothing in common with you. It's like an anthropological study, observing a tribe of people who speak a different language, worship a false god, dress in bizarre costumes, and drink shitty beer. Why National Geographic has not done a cover story on NASCAR, I couldn't tell you. They could easily find more than enough saggy, shirtless, tribally-tattooed women to fill their pages.

4. I watch for all the reasons listed below. It's like a car wreck: You know it's horrible, you wish it hadn't happened, but you can't look away.

And these are the three indefensible reasons NASCAR sucks and should just disappear:

1. Waste. Let's take 43 cars with humongous engines and drive them at 190 miles per hour for 500 miles. In a circle. And then do it again next week and the week after, all year long. I've written here about my personal efforts to minimize my fuel consumption and carbon emissions, but I can only imagine that a lifetime's worth of my driving slower and eliminating unnecessary trips is completely negated by four or five laps of the Daytona 500. And the tires! Jeff Gordon's car goes through more rubber in one race than my truck has used in its entire 14-year life.

2. It's boring. Kind of like bowling. I see the strategy, I see the difficulty- heck, I even see the athleticism. But for 500 miles? Isn't it a bit repetitive? Sunday's 500 was called for rain 48 laps from the finish. They just called it and whoever was leading at the time was declared the winner, sort of like if they had just called it the "Daytona ?" and not told the drivers how long it was or where the finish line was. All of a sudden it's just over and the guy in front gets a million bucks or so. So couldn't we have gotten the same effect over just 200 miles? Or 100? Because it's that last lap that really counts anyway.

3. I'm a snob. But apparently less of one than Courtney and some of her readers. Speaking of Courtney, she should know that I'd much rather watch any NASCAR event or lawn mower race or watermelon seed spitting or paint drying contest than "Dancing with the Stars," which makes me want to rip out one of my toenails and then use it to scoop my eyeballs out of my head just so I will never have to suffer the pain in twenty years of watching a fat, elderly, emotionally shattered, but no less insufferable Toby Keith attempt the Paso Doble.

Yeah, I'm way behind on my Toby Keith quota around here.

It doesn't mean I'm gay, right? Right?

2009-02-16T03:02:00.000-05:00

I was commenting on a post from the Modern Gal today when I decided to cut myself off and just write my own post on the subject.

It is fairly well known, and no surprise to anyone, that the best selling single magazine issue, year after year, is the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Issue. It is the Super Bowl of magazines, anticipated like no other and pulling in the advertising dollars, and news stand sales, to match. The timing of the thing is no coincidence, coming as it does in the doldrums of the sporting calendar, February, in the middle of the NBA and NHL seasons, two sports most of us don't pay any attention to anyway. Football is over. Baseball has yet to begin. Clearly, America needs some tits with paint on them.

But not me, folks. I've been an SI subscriber for five years, and this year I finally remembered to decline the Swimsuit Issue in favor of receiving an extra week on my subscription. Don't get me wrong- when I was fourteen years old I looked forward to that glossy tome of bikini-clad sex almost as much as Christmas and my birthday, and the three of them are spaced evenly apart, making it a wintertime holy trinity of egg nog, birthday candles and sand-covered naughty bits, all just a few weeks apart.

I'm so over that now, though. The last few years I've spent about as much time with the SISI as I do Courtney's issues of Entertainment Weekly: I flip through the pages, maybe read a photo caption or two, squint really hard to see if I can make out the nipples through somebody's fishnet top, then go make a sandwich. Seven minutes, tops, including sandwich making. And the sandwich is far more memorable.

Maybe it's another sign I'm getting old. Maybe I've been desensitized by internet porn (Who hasn't?) Or maybe, and this is a stretch, I read Sports Illustrated for the sports writing. If I want overly stylized portraits of naked or nearly naked women, I'll get myself a subscription to Playboy. Or better yet, Penthouse. They at least commit themselves to the subject year-round. And they don't consider body paint risque. (Sort of like I don't watch football for the cheerleaders; if that were the case I'd just go to a strip club and get it over with.)

A lot of people, year after year, decry the sexism and unrealistic body image that the SISI purportedly embodies and promotes. Bullshit. It's girls in bikinis. Or paint. Anything else is just what you read into it, nothing more. And that's why these days they give you the choice to decline it- everybody's happy. The Issue is a huge Time-Warner moneymaker, so I don't begrudge them their cash cow. I just think it's a waste of paper. Besides, they put all the photos they print and all the ones they don't, plus videos and behind-the-scenes footage, online.

And have you ever tried to look at pictures of girls in bikinis online? In bikinis? On the internet? Who does that? It's kind of like looking at Victorian ankle porn, if the Victorians had ever thought to paint a water-soluble mural over the woman's exposed ankles. It's just not the turn-on I suppose it used to be.

Submitted for your approval:

2009-02-13T09:30:00.003-05:00

A plan is coming together. Slowly. Like most big plans, the picture gets much more muddled before it ever becomes clear. As many of you know by now, the lady friend is pursuing her education to the fullest, and this time it is likely to take us into the inter mountain west or beyond. It is no secret that I've always wanted to live out west anyway, and to that end I've accepted an offer to resume my old job in a national park whose name causes French people to snicker.

It seems like the best option at this point anyway since I can't seem to get a job around here and, even if I did, I'd just have to leave it when lady friend heads off to school, me in tow, in August, wherever that may be. And besides, my old boss contacted me out of the blue with the job offer. It's nice to be wanted for a change. So I will be donning the funny hat in Wyoming come April, the only question being how to bring lady friend along, which is a housing issue. Park housing is limited and I've been told they no longer offer couples housing. That's a problem.

We had envisioned me leaving in April with her following a month or two later and spending the summer together in one of the most beautiful places in the world. That image, however, did not include a third roommate. There's still a chance that a different job in the same place could open up, and maybe the housing options related to it would be different.

At this point, though, a job's a job, so we're sticking to the plan.

Yesterday I went to the police department and had two sets of fingerprints made and mailed them to the park service along with an incredibly exhausting and frustrating set of forms for a background check that required me to detail every place of residence and employment for the past seven years, with personal references for each. If you know me you are aware that that is no easy task. I have been a nomad.

And if you've ever worked for the federal government, you know that these background investigations feel more like a test to see if you can handle the bureaucratic quagmire your life is about to become. My last season in the park (third in a row, 2006), I still had to do the whole fingerprinting/background thing, except they called me on the phone while I was already on my way out there to tell me that the process was not complete and I would not be able to start for another two weeks or so until I was cleared.

I was on I-70 in Middle-of-Nowhere Missouri at the time.

In my indecision I continued for another two hours until I crossed into Kansas where, sitting in a parking lot chewing on a Grilled Stuffed Burrito, I decided they could go fuck themselves and I got back on the interstate headed back east, toward home. Back in the middle of The Show Me State, I camped for the night and had a message on my phone in the morning telling me they'd come up with a solution to the problem wherein I could start work immediately (as planned) and they could tack my hours onto the previous season. So, goddamnit, I pointed the old Ford west once again, in effect driving the state of Missouri twice in one trip.

Ahh, government work. Hey, at least they're hiring.

(And don't get me wrong. I bitch about the process, but I'm a pig in shit out there. I've already started getting myself in shape for the mountains and have been dreaming of the potential climbing objectives since before I accepted the job. So shed not a tear.)

I feel XCVIII times better now

2009-02-09T10:45:00.003-05:00

What a week. What a crazy-long, time-bending week. The death of a loved one keeps you busy, for real. For once, though, my chronically unstructured lifestyle came in handy and I was very glad I could take ten days to go to Maryland and help out.

And how about that lady friend of mine? Taking time off work and buying a plane ticket to come support me and my family? What a gal.

The visitation Thursday night brought out not only friends and family of my grandparents, but also some people from the local pharmacy, the florist, and the dental hygienist. Small-town life is really impressive at times like that. I was also surprised to see some of our old neighbors from when we lived in Delaware twenty years ago, who drove an hour and a half just to be there for my dad. I hadn't seen some of them since we packed up the moving van two decades ago. Good people.

The memorial service on Friday was just as moving, with my mother making me as proud as a son can be when she delivered a lengthy remembrance of her mother in law that spoke for the whole family. Also speaking when the floor was opened were the next door neighbors, a pair of young teachers with an infant son who seemed genuinely affected by having lived in close proximity to my grandparents for the past couple years. I'm glad people like that are around now to keep an eye on my grandfather as he transitions into a life of doing his own laundry and cooking his own meals.

Speaking of meals: my digestive system will thank me for getting back into a routine of eating less meat and more plants after a week of chowing down on the kind of stuff people like to make for the bereaved. And when we weren't eating fried chicken, meatloaf and potatoes, we were eating out. Insanity. I was going out of my way just to get some fiber into my diet.

And while I'm on a tangent, and in the interest of transitioning the tone of this blog back to where it belongs, does anyone else wish the NFL would quit using those self-important roman numerals for the Super Bowl? I know I'm over a week late on this, and I had planned on writing and ranting about it back before the event took place, but it's still pissing me off as I catch up on my sports reading, as it does every year. I know I can't be alone when, coming across the symbols XLIII, I read it in my head as "Exity-flibbity-flabbity," or whatever other gibberish my mind interprets it to be. Yes, I can figure out what those numerals translate to, but, much like reading the hands on a clock, I can't do it at a glance. Nor should I have to. That's why we have Arabic numerals, the standard in the western world. Give me a simple 4 and 3, because I'm watching and reading about football precisely as a diversion from the things in life that require focus. And doesn't Wrestlemania also use roman numerals? Enough said.

Update

2009-02-02T08:34:00.002-05:00

I just posted last night, but life, much like the internet, waits for no one.

My grandmother died this morning at 4:38. I know the time because I keep hearing my grandfather repeat it to every person he has had to call this morning. My dad and I were already well on the other side of D.C. when he called us, almost two hours out, so we turned around and came back, thus managing to hit the Beltway at rush hour twice in one weekend.

I think we all made our peace the last couple of days and now it's just a matter of executing her wishes. She had all of her funeral arrangements made and paid for, so this week will just be a matter of seeing it all through. Really the only question is which blue dress she was talking about. Apparently there's a closet full of the things and right now it's just us guys here. Maybe when my mom gets here she can throw us a line on that one.

You guys are cool, after all

2009-02-01T18:23:00.003-05:00

After I wrote that last post about my grandmother, I considered disabling comments, not wanting people to feel obligated. Boy would that have been dumb. I was, and continue to be, genuinely touched by all of your thoughts. When I started this blog, I knew it would be useful as an emotional outlet, but I never imagined it could flow back the other way in the form of all your positive energy. Along with all my regular commenters, I was amazed at the unintended de-lurking that occurred, not to mention the appearance of one M. Lou. I'm making a guess here, but an extra Mumsie is always good at times like this.

As you can imagine, it's been a somewhat difficult weekend. My grandmother is in a very nice hospice where they do everything they can to make her comfortable, light years from a hospital environment and even a big step up from the nursing home she was briefly in. She had a good day Saturday. She was aware of all of us around her and managed to speak a little from time to time, even making a few jokes. The nurses actually got her to eat some ice cream and soup.

Today she only opened her eyes a few times and mostly seemed to be in a fitful sleep. She wouldn't open her mouth for any food or water. It's hard to see her that way, but I just keep remembering the meaningful moments we all had with her yesterday. I'm glad my dad and I got here Friday so we could experience that. Of course she could have some better days like that yet to come, but maybe not.

I'm not going to keep it gloomy around here all week, though. That's what compartmentalizing is for. Hopefully I'll get the inspiration to try my hand at some funny in a couple of days. Pops and I are hitting the highway at 4 a.m. tomorrow and heading back south (he has some work stuff that needs tending; also, I don't actually call him Pops, but maybe I'll start.) So I'll be back in my old couch cushion dent by the afternoon, happy that I won't have to miss a day of any of your blogs.

Sorry about the downer, truly

2009-01-28T10:30:00.004-05:00

Not that I've really been on top of the blogging recently anyway, but I've had some weighty things on my mind this week. I just haven't been feeling very bloggy.

But maybe it'll be good to get it out there.

My grandmother is dying. She's had cancer for most of the past year. Actually, she beat cancer, breast cancer, once already, back in the eighties, which was the same decade she lost her daughter, my dad's sister, to cancer. I was very young; I don't remember my aunt before she became sick. In fact, I don't have any memory of her being able to speak because she was already too far gone. So for my grandmother, cancer's never been far from her mind in the years since.

And last spring a strange bump appeared on her head. The doctors were convinced she was just a batty old lady who hit her head and didn't remember it. The thing was, though, she was as sharp as any eighty-year-old can be and would have known if she'd hit her head hard enough to cause a nearly golf ball-sized lump. A month or two later, they finally decided it was a lymphoma. She had surgery to remove it and we all had a good time cracking jokes about the ghastly, stapled wound running like railroad tracks all the way across the left side of her scalp, not to mention her half-shaven head. Hey, if you can't laugh...

The follow-up radiation seemed to be successful and she was in good spirits most of the summer, worrying primarily about the cost of a decent wig. Further tests, however, showed that although the excised lump on her head didn't appear to be coming back, there was a troublesome spot on her liver. More radiation followed, then chemo, and it's been downhill ever since. She was experiencing pretty severe nerve pain all through the fall but didn't like taking the pain killers because they made her foggy. She started saying that she just wanted to make it until November 4 so she could vote. And she did. Like most of us, she'd had enough. I hope she was lucid enough last week to enjoy the inauguration.

Thanksgiving was the first time I talked to her that she was no longer herself. The painkillers were taking their toll and, always a nearly unstoppable talker with a brain that moved at hyper speed, she was even more manic and scattershot than usual. After that, I stopped calling as much, I guess not wanting to confirm the reality that things were probably not getting any better. Two weeks ago, when I called her hospital room, her speech was very slow and slurred, but you could still call it a conversation. Last night I called her (she's now in a nursing home in their small town in Maryland) and she was there on the other end of the line, but all she could manage were unintelligible mumbles. I could tell she understood most of what I was saying, though, but only because the syllable-count in "I love you too" is unmistakable.

I called my grandfather right after that and that's when I finally lost it. I don't remember ever hearing him cry before. Their house is less than a mile from the nursing home, but he knows he'll never bring her home again (and here I am losing it again.) Poppop spends all day, every day by her side but goes to sleep alone at night, something he hasn't done in sixty years. He told me she's decided not to pursue any further treatment, a decision it's difficult to argue with. Only she knows what she's been through.

My parents made plane tickets to go visit two weekends from now and I was going to drive up at the same time, but my dad called me this morning and asked if I wanted to drive up with him this weekend. We all get the feeling that sooner is better than later. So on Friday my father will pick me up and the two of us will drive north, presumably to say goodbye to his mother.

Sure, you never know with these things. She could hang on for another few months for all anybody really knows, because it's not really up to anybody in the end. They'll be moving her to a hospice care facility by the end of this week and, just as much as we'd like to see her before she goes, I think we'd like to be there for my grandfather. My heart breaks for the poor guy. Always a stoic, I've had two conversations with him in the past 24 hours and both times he cried. I think he's doing a lot of that lately.

Beware: Self-indulgent music post (that's why I'm posting it at the end of the week)

2009-01-23T11:04:00.000-05:00

I was born in 1979, which means I became aware of music in the eighties. At that age I was lucky just to be able to enjoy the light fare of Michael Jackson and Lionel Ritchie. I had a 45 of the J. Geils Band that saw heavy play on my Fisher-Price record player, and the first album I actually bought (a cassette tape) was Crowded House. From there it seemed my musical tastes devolved in the latter part of my first decade as I acquired a taste for tripe like the New Kids on the Block and Poison; for a time I was certain that the latter would be the music I would enjoy for the rest of my life. At least as certain as an eleven-year-old can be about anything.

Then, in 1992, I turned thirteen. Like everybody else sitting around mindlessly enjoying the latest MTV offerings of Warrant and MC Hammer, I was yanked out of my stupor by all those masochists in flannel from the left coast. Granted, at that age I was likely to absorb whatever new musical fad came along, but I was lucky to have an older brother whose nascent CD collection still informs my own. Just as I was hitting the age where I began to see the world as mine, I was blessed to hear bands like Pearl Jam, Faith No More, Screaming Trees, and The Lemonheads (east coast, I know.) And we were off and running.

It wasn't until years later that I became aware that 1992 just happened to be the year that this "good" music overtook all the aforementioned tripe in popular culture. It was actually there all along, just waiting for MTV to cherry-pick it. First, I discovered the Pixies after being a fan of Frank Black's post-Pixies solo work for several years. Then, I went waaaay back to the sixties and started listening to the Velvet Underground. More recently, and somewhat ironically, I've settled back into the eighties, that decade of popular tripe, as the apparent wheelhouse of my musical tastes. You can have your Winger and your Ratt, I'll take the Pixies, Dinosaur Jr., Sonic Youth, The Jesus and Mary Chain, and Husker Du. I'll even take the Cure and REM long before any of that Culture Club bullshit, although Robert Smith and Boy George could probably trade tips on make-up application.

I know there is plenty of good music being made right now, and I do listen to some of it. As always, the good stuff is out there if you're willing to find it. But I've always benefited from being way behind the times and right now I'm enjoying going back twenty years and hearing the songs that people were making that would sound ahead of their time if they came out today. I missed it the first time around, after all. I still don't think anyone really "gets" Sonic Youth, but it sure is fun trying.

In other words, all those nostalgic people currently proclaiming the eighties as the greatest era in music may be right, but it was the stuff the radio wasn't playing that made the decade such a goldmine.

Furthering the self-indulgence in an attempt to illustrate the point to no one but myself (since I'm certain I'm the only one still reading this rubbish), here's a video of the Pixies covering a Jesus and Mary Chain song:

Have a nice weekend, children.

Older, not wiser

2009-01-22T10:25:00.002-05:00

Yup, it's true: I turned thirty since we last got together around here. No big deal. I don't feel any different. Yes, I may look older thanks to the fluffy bathrobe my parents gave me for the occasion, but it's not like I've accessorized it with a burled walnut pipe, a pair of reading glasses, and a Costco-sized bottle of Levitra. Yet. Give me a couple more years on that. And get the hell off my lawn.

I had a nice quiet birthday, though, just me and some of the people I love and some 2,000-year-old Chinese warriors, the latter of which were absolutely no help when it came to eating the cake. Come to think of it, Courtney wasn't either; crazy woman doesn't like carrot cake.

My parents took us to the High Museum of Art in Atlanta to see the terra cotta warriors exhibit, which I thought was completely lame. They had a few of the actual warriors there, but the exhibit was otherwise just reproductions and text; in other words, I could have stayed home and read the Wikipedia entry and gotten the same effect. If I'm ever in China, I'd love to see them in situ, but as an art museum piece, it was pretty uninspiring.

Luckily, the High also had the third and final installment of the Louvre series, which was fantastic, so that saved the trip for me.

Wanting to kill some time before dinner, we then went to see an uplifting movie about a frequently naked pedophile Nazi war criminal, a theme that should probably be introduced into all birthday celebrations, I think. So gleeful.

Chase the happy thoughts with a bottle of red and some top-notch Italian and you've successfully kicked off a fourth decade.

Now where did I leave my slippers?

'Bout thirty years ago

2009-01-17T07:03:00.000-05:00

That's me in the onesie.

F-you, Canada

2009-01-16T10:06:00.006-05:00

There's a serious issue I'd like to tackle today, people. This may not be the most popular stance here in liberal-happy love-thy-neighbor communist Blogustan, but somebody needs to say it: We need to secure our fucking borders.

I'm not kidding. We keep hearing about all the illegal immigrants streaming across the southern border from Mexico. On top of that, China has been sending all their coal-dust polluted air all the way across the Pacific on the jet stream, right on past the unprotected west coast. And on the east side, we're still letting Elton John come and go as he pleases. Hasn't he done enough damage already?

But on those three fronts we're coping, so far at least. What I'm really concerned about is the top side, that wide open 5,500 mile imaginary line ineffectively separating us from them. And I think you know who I mean by them. Canadians. Canucks. Hockey players. Goddamned curlers.

Yeah, I know: they look just like us (Well, except for their big noses and dark complexions. What? Wrong stereotype? Sorry, eh.) So how are we to stop them? Actually it's not an influx of beskated, ear-flap wearing, Molson-swilling subjects of the Queen I'm concerned about, but rather all that frigid arctic air they keep sending south into our formerly warm green land of liquid water and fat guys in tank tops.

This is no joke. If air pollution is a health risk and we're creating laws in an attempt to limit it, what about these annual blasts of sub-zero air those puckheads are more than happy to let drift across the border? Isn't cold air just as unpleasant and downright dangerous as dirty air? People are freezing to death out there! We don't have the ear flaps to handle this kind of cold around here!

What do we do about this unwanted atmospheric incursion from the north? Here it is: You know those things that blast air down across an open doorway in some stores to act as a barrier between the outside and the inside? Yup. But bigger. Much bigger. We're going to need a 5,500-mile suspension system in geostationary orbit to hold the whole thing up and about 86 trillion dollars. In seed money. The remaining hundred trillion will come from private investment and public bonds. But it will save lives, people, so let's get on it.

Because you can bet the Canadians aren't going to pitch in. They're too busy slathering maple syrup on their whale blubber. And getting drunk on tequila under a cactus.

Huh? Wrong stereotype again? My bad.

The frost on the inside of our doors and windows. Thanks, Canada. Now go fuck yourselves.

Not as snowy, or painful, as November, but still a good time

2009-01-15T15:06:00.005-05:00

We don't get to do our twenties over again, as far as I know, so I figured this week I better make one more poor decision before I turn thirty.

Instead I just went for a pleasant walk in the mountains. I had every intention of fucking it up; really, that was the plan. I had an insane Smoky Mountains bushwhack all mapped out, one with plenty of potential for extreme fatigue, wet feet, hypothermia and stumbling around in the freezing woods after dark, cursing loudly at the emptiness and at myself for being such an idiot to undertake such foolishness. But I guess I'm mellowing in my old age, and I quit while it was still just a nice walk in the snow.

Weak, I know, but I'd forgotten that the notion of a "Smoky Mountains bushwhack" is pure fantasy. The woods here, especially the rhododendron- and laurel-choked ridge lines of my chosen route, are essentially impassable. Any attempt at fighting through them reduces you to a thrashing crawl as your flailing limbs and backpack become snagged and tangled on every twisted branch.

Pulling into the trailhead parking lot at eight in the morning, I hurriedly grabbed my pack and trekking poles from my truck in order to keep from getting stuck walking behind the group of twenty hikers assembled there for departure. Being a sub-freezing Wednesday, I had hoped I'd have the area to myself, but it appeared I'd just have to be glad I was going somewhere surely no group outing would follow.

After a mile and a half or so on the wide, well-traveled main trail, I found the unmarked, unmaintained dead-end path that would carry me for the next few miles and two-thousand vertical feet to the top of a mountain called Greenbrier Pinnacle. The walking was surprisingly easy. Like most trails in the Smokies, this one followed a former logging grade, which ensured that it never got terribly steep. Aside from the fallen trees across the path that would never see a chainsaw, this trail wasn't much different from the park's maintained and signed trails. It wasn't a bushwhack, but knowing that it also wasn't a destination that would be sought out by the RV set made it feel like a bit more of an adventure.

Hiking in the snow is nice. It's quieter. Plus, you can see the tracks of any animals that have passed your way. I didn't see any bears this time out, but then I figure they're all probably sleeping off 2008, as we all should be, really. Keeping up the pace and gaining altitude quickly, I came to some rock outcrops that created openings for some views. Not happy with these branch-restricted vistas, I endeavoured to scramble to the top of an outcrop. This is when I was reminded of the difficulty of off-trail travel in the region. Just getting up through forty feet of trees cost me about fifteen minutes, several scratches and much cursing of the foliage. This is when I decided to just have a pleasant day instead of a hallucinatory death march. I think my intended route could be done, but it would probably be a multi-day excursion rather than a day hike.

The view near the top of the trail was as good as the internet message boards had boasted, and I lingered there, taking pictures and resting, until I thought I heard, carried up on the cold wind, the sound of voices. Voices! On my trail of solitude! How dare they?!

The trail, now more overgrown, continued away from the precipice and into the trees behind me, so I grabbed my pack and took off into the concealment of the rhododendron before the source of the offending noise made an appearance. The trail terminated after another mile at the site of a former fire lookout tower, the foundations of which gave me a good spot to sit and eat some lunch (peanut butter and banana on some kick-ass multigrain bread, along with leftover Christmas cookies.)

After some time on the top, I went back down to the scenic overlook to find the snow had been trampled by many, many feet. That group from the parking lot! Damnit! I again lingered at the overlook, this time hoping that I'd give them enough of a headstart going down that I wouldn't overtake them, because actually seeing a group of people would completely ruin the illusion of solitude I always build up in my head when I'm in the mountains. Unfortunately, however, I am fast and groups of people are necessarily slow, so I caught them about twenty minutes down the trail, all strung out single file. Luckily, they were stopped for some reason, so I was able to step around them, one by one, tossing back a "Thanks for letting me by" when I'd put the leader of the group behind me. Really, the wilderness is no place for people traveling in packs. Did we learn nothing from the Donner Party?

Swift and solo, I dropped back down the switchbacks to the main trail in the bottom of the drainage, cruising back to the parking lot before 3 o'clock, plenty of time to get home and take a shower before dinnertime.

A trailside stream.

The first decent view of the day.

The view from the overlook near the top of Greenbrier Pinnacle, looking northwest. The contour lines are very close together here.

Part of the foundations for the former fire tower. It looks like a well, except it's on the top of a mountain. A cistern maybe? The shitter? I wish the forest service still employed fire lookouts. Sitting on top of a mountain for months at a stretch with no job but to keep an eye out for smoke is something I would have excelled at.

Had I carried out the original plan, my bushwhack would have begun here. Not happening.

In lieu of flowers, I give you snow settled on the mossy side of a tree.

All-over-the-place Friday

2009-01-09T09:36:00.003-05:00

Before too many of you scan ahead and see the word football and immediately click away from here and go back to your beloved eastern-European porn site (Seriously, why are eastern Europeans so hot? Is it because they don't have enough to eat?) (I joke, people, and tastelessly... don't go and get an eating disorder on my account.) (End parentheticals.), I promise there is more to come after this brief sports diversion.

So the final college football game of the season was played last night and purportedly left the winner, Florida, as the national champion. This is incorrect. As pointed out by King Kaufman of Salon.com, the true national champ is not Florida, or the snubbed Texas Longhorns, or even undefeated Utah. The team that truly deserves to hoist that crystal trophy is the squad from Tulane University. Kaufman explains:

The Green Wave went 2-10 this year, but they made those wins count. One of them was over Louisiana-Monroe, so I think you see my point.
No? OK: Tulane beat Louisiana-Monroe, who beat Troy, who beat Middle Tennessee, who beat Maryland, who beat Wake Forest, who beat Mississippi.
Aha! Mississippi!
What do you mean, so what? Ole Miss beat Florida. But that's not all. The Rebels also beat Texas Tech, who beat Texas, who beat Oklahoma. There's a direct line of losing from both teams in the BCS Championship Game to Tulane.
That's what makes Tulane, last seen losing 45-6 to Memphis, your 2008 national champion.

It makes as much sense as anything else.

And here's my bit for the football-averse among you:

Is anyone else like me in that, despite the firing of every neuron in your brain telling you to change the channel to something, anything less nauseatingly crass, commercial and base, you cannot, even if your life depended on it, turn away from those TV advertisements selling compilation CD sets of old, shitty music? You know, the ones that seem to go on for hours in an endless loop?

In particular, that one with Bowser from Sha Na Na (who, incidentally, eats at the Carnegie Deli, occasionally with Arthur Fonzarelli) for the "Oldies but Goodies" collection is absolutely captivating. In this one, it's not that the music is so bad (it's just old), but Bowser's incessant hamming to the camera that keeps me enthralled. He's dressed in black jeans, high tops, and a black tee with the sleeves rolled up like he's about to jump into his '48 Chevy convertible and challenge James Dean to a drag race. Except that Bowser is old and paunchy and James Dean has been dead for fifty years. It's sad and hilarious.

The other one that nearly diverted my attention from the football game entirely last night is called "Romancing the '70s", pitched by an aged, bewigged Tony Orlando. The effect of this one is sort of like eating those snot- and puke-flavored jelly beans, where your curiosity about how much worse it can get keeps you involved beyond all reason. I used to be regularly enraptured by the commercial for the soft rock compilation featuring those two guys from Air Supply, but "Romancing" collects the music that is even softer, slower and more gonad-shriveling. Truly, despite the title, I doubt anyone ever got laid while listening to Anne Murray or Neil Sedaka. Watching the clips of these feathery-haired singers of the seventies singing their cheesy Top Forty hits one after another is like watching a never-ending string of car crashes, if the car crashes were all introduced faux-enthusiastically by Tony Orlando, who clearly needs the money to keep himself in high-end hair pieces.

If I'm lucky, however, I know that one day, thirty years from now, I will be flipping through the channels only to find, at the extreme end of the dial, a fat, wrinkly and balding Lance Bass selling us "The Insufferable Millennial Dance Hits Collection." It won't be on CDs, of course (music files being primarily transferred through thought waves on the Steve Jobs-created MindWeb), and it'll cost $8,000 (inflation's a bitch.) Lance will need the money, though, since the Republicans are back in power and have finally, after decades of trying, instituted the Gay Tax.

Did an asteroid really do in the dinosaurs?

2009-01-07T10:36:00.003-05:00

The economy.

The economy is about as poor a blog subject as the weather, isn't it?

So be it, and here's a thought: If matter can neither be created nor destroyed and, aside from a few deep-space probes and some Martian landers, nothing has ever left the grasp of earth's gravity, where does all this economic fluctuation come from?

Still with me? My point is that nothing in the world has materially changed, and yet the whole planet is feeling the effects of the slowing economy. But why? We all still need to eat and clothe ourselves. We all still want someplace warm and dry to live. We all still like to play video games and watch movies and surf internet porn.

Wait.... did I just figure this whole thing out? Could it be that free internet porn has finally crossed that threshold from being a massively wasteful time-sink (not to mention being sinfully deviant) and has now actually achieved a sort of gridlock on the once-productive human populace? Seems plausible to me, given the lack of any other readily observed inputs. It's like a mass extinction, the only other phenomenon that could cause this kind of global effect on humanity, the difference being that there was no ice sheet, volcano or asteroid setting this one off and the casualties are still walking, breathing and consuming Doritos, like Zombies except instead of a single-minded urge to eat brains these walking dead are driven to seek the flat-screen glow of digitized genitalia.

Hey, if you've got a better idea, let's hear it. I guess you could argue that the whole economy is predicated upon the consumption of unnecessary goods that are ultimately harmful to both the people who produce them and those who buy them, and that such a foundation-less system is bound to collapse, but is that really a more likely culprit than porn?

Of course not. Now quit looking at boobies and go buy a car.

It's not supposed to rain all year, right?

2009-01-06T17:29:00.003-05:00

I just took my second shower of this spankin' new year (way ahead of the curve) and now I think I'm ready to get back to blogging. I feel clean enough for it. You didn't wait for me, I hope?

So here we are, another calendar year closer to our deaths. What?! Don't roll your eyes at me. You know it's coming too, and every year in the books is another one less to live. It's not morbid; it's just something to keep in mind, that's all. Who knows- this could be the year...

Okay, you should probably roll your eyes at that last part. That's morbid.

So how 'bout those holidays? I hope you celebrated something, at least. I'm not a religious person either (except about breakfast; I will have my breakfast and it will be accompanied by something good to read, so help me god, amen), but you never need an excuse to celebrate. They tell me it's the holidays, so goddamnit let's have a holiday.

My holiday time (we call ours Christmas) was pretty cool. I got stuff (a new camera.) I gave stuff (mostly socks.) I'd say it worked out in my favor if we're keeping score. Which we're not. My grandmother (the one from New Jersey who buys me malt liquor) bought a condo near my parents, which is kinda sad for me because her current residence is the only place left from my childhood. It won't be the same without summers in Cape May. But that's selfish, because while I have nostalgia, her whole life is there. I hope she knows there's no beach in Atlanta.

New Year's Eve found the lady and I with her parents at the Georgia Dome to watch Tech get the crap beat out of them in the Chick-fil-a Bowl, and not only did they not have free chicken sandwiches there, but they were charging more for them than they do in the stores (but never on Sunday.) Rip! So basically the highlight of the evening was when the crowd, disgusted with the underwhelming performance of the hometown team, turned the flyers attached to every seat (Who would have guessed that BB&T offered free checking? Everyone, that's who!) into actual flyers as paper airplanes rained down onto the playing surface.

Leaving early in the fourth quarter (Courtney's dad, a Tech alum, was ready to claw his eyes out by halftime), we stopped at Waffle House on the way home for some waffles and decaf, making it back just in time to ring in 2009 like all good Americans, right in front of the TV, which is exactly where most of us will spend far too much of the year ahead.

If we're lucky. Because this could be the year. So watch out.

Happy Holidays, by the way

2008-12-23T21:25:00.003-05:00

Why is it that no matter how many days I go without shaving and no matter which of my fraying, threadbare pants I choose to wear, I still can't walk down Gay Street (that's an actual street here, not a euphemism) without getting a long, drawn-out story from a homeless person about exactly why they need money from me for a cup of coffee? And why is it always a story? If they'd just be direct, maybe they'd get something from me. If I had anything to give, of course. Which I don't. In case you hadn't heard, I spent the rest of my cash on the cover charge getting into the Clermont Lounge to see AARP-eligible strippers this weekend, so I've met my quota on charitable donations for the month.

Really, is it the way my eyes just radiate kindness and unfettered generosity, even as I squint into a 34-degree downtown headwind? Is that why I always get the story? As far as I could tell, the only thing that really differentiated my own unkempt disposition from that of today's story guy was that he smelled like he'd been rolling around in a dumpster full of half-smoked Kools, whereas I just smelled like a guy who hasn't showered for a few days.

I know, I know- It's not just me. That guy probably hit up every person in sight for spare change, but it seems like I can never get two blocks down Gay without hearing somebody's tale of woe. Which is fine, really. Everybody has to pay for their cigarettes somehow, even the homeless. Especially the homeless. But out of all the happy holiday shoppers with their freshly minted bags full of scented candles and other thoughtful and pointless economy-boosting Made in China bric-a-brac destined for gift bags and a spot under the Christmas tree before being consigned to someone's shelf somewhere to collect dust for several years until they are pushed aside in favor of newer, better smelling economy-boosting Made in China dust collectors, why would you peg the guy with the neckbeard carrying the giveaway backpack with "Arby's" stitched across it as your meal ticket?

Damn my kind eyes.

Hangin' with the cool kids

2008-12-22T14:15:00.004-05:00

There has been much lamenting around these parts lately about my advancing age and all the signs piling up in favor of early admission into AARP, i.e. going to bed before eleven, banging on the ceiling to get our neighbors to shut the hell up, bemoaning kids these days with their sideways baseball caps and crazy rocknroll music.

God damn them and that horrible noise.

Truth is, though, apply liberal amounts of alcohol and a healthy dose of peer pressure, and even the stodgiest old stodge pushing thirty can party like a twenty-five-year-old. So put down that shovel, cancel the flowers and call off the memorial service; I'm not done just yet.

Okay, that introduction was a little overblown, but the lady and I found ourselves in Atlanta Saturday night acting like people who still know how to have a good time. We met up with a couple of friends of mine from college (you may recall a story I shared last month that involved them both) along with their wives and some other friends and relations. After stopping at someone's house to gather our crew and begin the process of liquid fortification, we walked the few blocks to a local institution, the Clermont Lounge. Featured on Insomniac with Dave Attell and listed by several publications as one of the best dive bars in America, the Clermont is Atlanta's oldest strip club, although except for the few aging (to put it politely) and generally overweight women walking around with various body parts on display (one of my companions described them as "National Geographic boobs"), you could hardly pigeonhole the place as a "strip club." Located in the basement of an old hotel (the Clermont), the joint is dark, dingy, sticky, looks every bit its age, sells beer in cans and is generally packed all night long.

Not that I'm a frequent patron of adult establishments, but this was the only such place I've visited where the ladies plying their trade seemed to be genuinely enjoying themselves. One proudly identified herself as sixty-two years old. Another crushes beer cans between her gravity-enhanced breasts. The whole thing comes off as a big joke, or maybe just a seedy good time, rather than a place for skeevy men who can't find a date. For a strip club, there was hardly a whiff of sex about the place.

Lucky for me, the beer had taken hold by the time Courtney grabbed me by the hand and our group took to the dance floor en masse, so I was able to fake it. I stupidly left my empty PBR can behind and was therefore forced to invent things for both my hands to do while moving awkwardly to the beat, but I gave it my all.

After a few songs and a healthy sheen of sweat, someone made the executive decision to bail on the Clermont and we headed across the street to a much more upscale, gentrified bar, one with wood paneling (the real kind) and Guiness on tap. It didn't have the ambience or the history of the Clermont, but the music was just low enough to carry a conversation and so it was a nice place to wind down a bit with some pricier libations.

Sometime around 2 a.m., the lady and I decided to call it a night and head back to her parents' house, feeling satisfied with our evening. True, it was mostly the lady's call (I was still feeling strong, damnit), but she was my DD and sobriety can be tiring. I thank her very much for voluntarily taking on the duty.

Now if you'll excuse me there are some kids on my lawn that need a good yellin' at.

(If you are interested in the clip of Dave Attell at the Clermont, click here. It is absolutely not safe for work, although it's okay for late night cable TV.)

Why are the jobs you could do perfectly well while intoxicated always the ones worried so much about it?

2008-12-17T19:24:00.000-05:00

I was just completing an online questionnaire for a crappy job with an inventory service when I was confronted with a rather complicated question concerning morality and social responsibility. Right after blindsiding me with counting exercises (How many circles are pictured below?) and complex math (If a case contains four boxes and there are eight cases, how many boxes are there?), they really jumped into quite the ethical debate with the following:

Which of the following statements would you most agree with:

A. An employee who abuses illegal drugs should be dealt with to the strictest letter of the law.
B. An employee who abuses illegal drugs should only be disciplined if it negatively affects their job performance.
C. Whether a person chooses to use drugs is their own choice and they should be free to do so.

Obviously, the "correct" answer (if you want a job) is A, right? Of course it is, until you get to option D:

D. Drug abuse negatively affects both the individual as well as society as a whole and it is an illness that needs to be treated clinically.

Holy curveballs! Am I supposed to divine the politics of this particular company before answering this questionnaire? The other questions got no more controversial than "How often do you miss work due to illness?" and now we're going to debate the argument at the core of the War on Drugs?

Jesus Harold Christ.

I'm still thinking the answer they were looking for here was A, but I went with D to keep my conscience clear. Sure, I lied on the rest of them ("How hard would your coworkers say you work?" B. Harder than most), but I had to play this one straight.

For that $8 an hour they're offering, I'll be more than happy to debate the usefulness of the War on Drugs.

Miracle Whip Clear was a total flop; it was just like smearing Vaseline on your sandwich

2008-12-16T17:24:00.007-05:00

While eating lunch today I was reading National Geographic (I'd already read Teen People cover to cover and NG was all I had left) trying to decide if this latest monthly issue came last week or the week before. Checking the mail later on, however, there was the yellow border of the January 2009 edition staring up at me from beneath a couple of red Netflix envelopes. The point here is two-fold: First, I'm losing time. Months are clicking by like blurry high-speed trains, with the difference being that trains are usually going somewhere whereas my months are not, their passage apparently marked only by the stacks of outdated National Geographic magazines. Second... 2009, yo! It may yet only be 2009 in the pre-dated world of monthly publications, but they are almost always right in their prognostications as to the passage of time. Last month's boldly stated "December 2008" on the cover, and look what happened. If the course holds true, by the time my next issue of NG arrives, it will in fact be two-thousand and mother-truckin' nine. Time will tell.

Weird how that happens.

You guys remember Crystal Pepsi, right? You know, that groundbreaking early-nineties product entirely designed around the principle that people will buy anything, as long as it's clear? And they did, too, at least once or twice out of curiosity. Crystal Pepsi was really just the pack leader during "The Year of the Clear," aka 1992. Strangely, 1992 was also the year of grunge, and for reasons unknown, American marketers decided that all those people laboring to slit their wrists through the sleeves of their flannel shirts on a chilly, wet Seattle evening really just wanted some refreshment they could see through.

I was reminded about Crystal Pepsi and all the other crap that suddenly came out in transparent versions around that time (Tab Clear was another one, along with those goopy clear gel deodorants, which coincidentally tasted a lot like Tab) while reading a Slate article about the death of Zima. I know you remember Zima, because it existed until just two months ago. I never realized that it too was a product of the anti-opacity revolution, originally a misguided attempt to create clear beer. Apparently all Zima was was beer with all the color and offending flavors filtered out and some citrus flavorings thrown in for drinkability. Yes, I just used drinkability in a sentence.

I'll be honest: nobody's going to miss Zima. Smirnoff Ice replaced it in the hearts of sorority girls a decade ago, which pretty much leaves 15-year-old me as the potential market, and 15-year-old me wasn't paying for it then, either. It may be true that Zima was the first drink I ever consumed in sufficient quantity (two, maybe) to feel the effects, but when your best friend's part-time male-model half-brother takes you out on the lake with all his cool grown-up friends and they let you drink their Zima, you take what you can get.

I won't be missing Zima, though, even if I may be a little nostalgic. That pontoon boat on Chickamauga Lake in 1994 was probably the last time I had the stuff, but I'll have to find some other shitty malt beverage to laugh at every time I take a trip down the beer aisle in the grocery store. Southpaw Light, perhaps?

The weird thing is, couldn't they have found a way to keep Zima going? There has to be a market for that crap in Mexico, at least. Mexico is always down for zomething different. They do still drink Pepsi Clear there after all...

(As an aside, let's take a look at a Zima ad from 1994 and compare it to another ad for a similar product from just a few years before. First, the Zima ad:

Second, tell it like it is, Cube:

Which leads me to the following question: Does your TV know if you're black? I've never seen a St. Ides commercial.)

(Wait a sec- I didn't hear it the first few times, but doesn't Cube claim St. Ides will make "your jimmy thicker"? That's how you sell beer.)

(Also, isn't he the star of the fine family comedy "Are We There Yet"?)

But I like The Mars Volta! (For the first twelve minutes of a song, at least.)

2008-12-12T10:45:00.004-05:00

Okay, so I took a week off. Kill me already. (As if you, or I, care that much.)

I'm going to ease back in with a link, since it's Friday and nobody ever reads my blog on Fridays anyway. It's the funniest thing I've ever read on msnbc.com, which isn't saying much, since the biggest laughs they usually give me are over the utter uselessness of some of their stories, but the level of biting snark in this piece makes it worth sharing.

Seriously, click the link. It's just a short slide show titled "Gadgets that make you look like a jerk." It'll take two minutes to read. Of course the Bluetooth has always looked ridiculous and if wearing your cell phone or anything else on your belt was ever cool (I'm guessing not), it definitely hasn't been since the beeper days of the early '90s, when it just meant you were a drug dealer or a doctor (which in turn meant you either had a gun or lots of money elsewhere on your person, both of which would put you beyond reproach.)

Aside from a comment about the too-cool-for-it's-own-good band mentioned in my title above, I'm thankfully not victimized by any of this. I've never even taken my iPod out in public. Shit, I didn't even pay for the thing. I don't really do gadgets until they're not considered gadgets anymore. I've only had the hand-me-down iPod for a few months and I first got a cell phone in 2004. In other words, I swing the other way by being an out-of-touch jerk rather than a cutting-edge jerk. (How many more hyphenates can I squeeze into this paragraph?) I do listen to some pretty pretentious music from time to time, though.

What else is there to do in the Gobi Desert?

2008-12-04T13:15:00.003-05:00

Who else saw the news about the 2,700-year-old stash of marijuana found in a grave in the Gobi Desert? Two pounds of it!

And who else had the immediate reaction: Is anybody gonna smoke it?

You know you did, closet stoner.

Unfortunately, knowing what is on every reader's mind, the article goes on to basically say that the THC in the weed would have degraded over the past couple of millenia to the point where it would get you about as high as rolling up some lawn clippings. And anyone who has ever smoked lawn clippings (don't lie) knows that the buzz is totally weak. It's a shame, too, because you know they'd never criminalize blue fescue or bermuda grass.

The interesting thing, however, is that the amount of THC that would have been present in that dead guy's pot the day they buried it along with him means that it was almost certainly cultivated specifically for its psychoactive properties, as opposed to the weaker strains grown solely for the hemp fibers.

The ancients were getting high.

And for some reason this amuses me. I think it's because we tend to view stoners through the prism of Cheech and Chong and Jeff Spicoli, a perspective that is certainly valid, but definitely doesn't show the whole picture. Weed can be hilarious and produces hilarious characters, and as such our depictions of it (including in this blog post) tend to portray it only for comedic effect. That's why it's even funnier when we see it as it so often can be in the real world, and as it apparently was over 2,000 years ago: completely normal.

As in so many ancient civilizations, the dead were often buried with items that they might need in the afterlife. Maybe some food, maybe some weapons or some extra clothing, or maybe 32 ounces of central Asia's finest bud.

Then again, that dude might have just been his generation's Willie Nelson and his pals thought he'd like to smoke up a little on his trip through the hereafter. You know, for the glaucoma. Or maybe that was just what was left after they threw him the mellowest wake of all time.

What the article doesn't mention, however, is if there were any food items found along with the body, like some bronze-age HoHos or Funyuns, which doesn't make sense because with two pounds to smoke, that guy was going to need a lot of snacks.

A LOT of snacks.

And some water.

But maybe that was the point, some sort of torment in the after life. Like sending him off with a box full of brownies and no milk. An everlasting torture.

Ancient assholes.

Hooray for the disabled!

2008-12-03T10:38:00.002-05:00

Oh, that's not how it goes? It's not really a celebration? Whatever, I'm partying anyway.

Today is International Day of Disabled Persons, and I'm guessing it's intended more as an opportunity to recognize important issues affecting people with disabilities than it is a chance to shout "Let's hear it for people with one leg! They only have to buy one shoe! Lucky!"

Because being handicapped is no joke.

But it sure can be funny.

For example: Have you ever seen those glass hands that are meant to go next to the kitchen sink so you can put any rings you might be wearing onto its fingers while you're washing dishes? Doesn't matter; you can imagine. A few years ago my aunt, who was born without a right hand, got one of those ring keepers for Christmas. As soon as she opened it and realized it was a righty and also hollow, she slipped it onto her arm and said "Oh, thanks Mom!" I haven't laughed that hard since.

My mother, on the other hand (ba-dum, ching!), has all her extremities but suffers from arthritis. She gets to park up front, which is merely helpful most of the time, but freakin' rocks when we go with her to a sporting event. Not only do we get to park right next to the stadium, but they don't even charge for it! It seems they're confusing disability with poverty, though. Their loss, because my mom's a librarian, and librarians are rolling in it.

Being handicapped can be awesome. Oh sure, there's all the pain and inconvenience, but I bet the parking privileges make up for that and then some. And you can't tell me you don't occasionally see someone in one of those motorized wheel chairs (the Hoveround! the Rascal!)and feel a little jealous, watching them zipping effortlessly around the grocery store, running down fat kids and simply banging through any shopping carts with the audacity to get in their way. That is freedom, and apparently it actually is free if you can get Medicare to pay for it.

Of course, it's not all fun and games accompanied by a lovely electronic beeping every time you go backwards. They sure make it sound great (and the one-shoe people- so lucky!), but I bet there's a darker side to being disabled. Take my aunt: She has never driven a stick shift and never will. It's automatic transmission or nothing for Lefty. Unless she moves to England. (We don't actually call her Lefty, but that would be funny if we did.)

But forget missing or mangled limbs: Some people don't have the ability to speak. Can you imagine all those times you see a girl with a lower-back tattoo and not being able to mutter to the person next to you, "Girl with a lower-back tattoo?! She sure is making her own way in the world." It would drive me nuts. I suppose there's sign language, but does sign language have a mechanism to convey heavy sarcasm?

Speaking of nuts, there are mental disabilities, too. I really can't say much about them because I've always wondered if I have one. Isn't it the nature of some mental disabilities that you don't know you have them? Kind of like stupid people don't know they're stupid. I think I'm pretty sane, but maybe I'm just delusional. Probably.

But nobody's offered me a parking sticker yet, so I must hide it well.

It's about time I did a list anyway

2008-12-02T17:01:00.003-05:00

I swear I'm not trying to keep the streak alive. December is National Post-Whenever-the-Hell-I-Want month, and I aim to stick to that.

But I got tagged. Allie hit me with the Seven Things meme. (By the way, can someone tell me in the comments how we pronounce "meme?" I know we don't converse through vocalization around here, so pronunciation is unimportant, but I read aloud in my head, so it matters. Is it "me-me" or "meem?" I feel like an idiot saying it "me-me," but I've been told in the past that's how it goes. I really do prefer the sound of "meem.")

I'm supposed to post the rules to the meme and then tag seven other people for it. I like doing memes, if only because it's lazy and I get to act like somebody cares what I have to say since it wasn't my idea in the first place. I don't like tagging others for them, though, because I think that's presumptuous. Then again, I don't like calling people on the telephone because I feel like it's awfully presumptuous of me to assume they want to talk to me. Because who would want to talk to me? And without fair warning? This is why nothing gets done in my life.

Anyway, I'm not calling Allie presumptuous, nor the people who tagged her, either. Rules is rules. I guess I'm just trying to absolve myself of the guilt of the tagging that I am about to commit.

Here are the rules for the 'social-networking' tag:
1. Link to the person who tagged you.
2. Post the rules on your blog.
3. Share seven things about yourself - some random, some weird.
4. Tag seven people at the end of your post and link to them.
5. Let each person know they’ve been tagged and leave a comment on their blog and/or Twitter. 6. Let the tagger know when your entry is posted.

And here are seven things, Mickey-style:

1. In high school psychology class, my personality test came back "androgynous." I've always figured this means I like to watch sports but I'm also a good listener.
2. I have a thing for shoes.
3. I am fastidious about keeping my nose presentable. This means no visible boogers, from any angle, and no protruding hairs. Unless it's running, in which case I have an excuse.
4. I prefer to wear a beard, both because I hate shaving and because it telegraphs my personality (it says, "This dude has a beard. He knows how to tie knots.")
5. Oddly, I don't know many knots. I usually find myself just looping things around until it gets good and tangled.
6. I hate the woman who lives above us, although I've never met her.
7. In third grade, I wore a batting glove to school a couple of times because I thought it looked cool. As I recall, it was paired with my jean jacket, which said "Turbo" across the inside of the back, and I kept the sleeves pushed up at all times.

The following people have been tagged:

1. Daily Newsie
2. Jacob's Land of Bliss and Blisters
3. Whatever Happened to School House Rock?
4. Malfeasance
5. Another Way to Waste Time Online
6. Average20Something
7. Verbal Diarrhoea

If you don't get around to it, I won't be offended, especially if you happen to be eight months pregnant.

Welcome to December, kiddos

2008-12-01T17:03:00.007-05:00

NaBloNoMo is exactly that: no mo'. So why am I here? That's a good question. I should be taking the day off, but the truth is I haven't actually blogged since Wednesday, so I feel pretty well rested and ready to tell you about my Thanksgiving vacation. Then we can get back to posting sporadically in a half-assed and barely literate nature.

Actually, I'm hoping that by putting NaBloFoSho (one more for the road!) behind us, I can stop posting stupid shit like that series on the old shoes rotting in my closet. Really, NaBlo kind of takes it out of you and you just end up writing for the sake of having something to post. I feel like the month was basically taken up with remembrances of days gone by that could interest no one but me and book report-style writing about trips to the movies and relatively uneventful walks in the woods.

It's time to get back to the heart of this blog, which is subverting the current status quo through barely researched, barely amusing rants with barely discernible subjects that entirely betray my lack of focus and commitment to the idea I'm trying to convey. But always with that one good keeper sentence that makes me smile and makes the whole exercise worth it.

But not today, because today I've got pictures. We went to coastal North Carolina for the long holiday weekend where it has become a tradition over the past three years for my parents and two of their friends to rent some condos and gather whatever family members they could for a low-stress good time. My folks managed to bring along my mom's mom, along with me and my lady friend, while their friends Nick and Diane chipped in their two sons, a daughter-in-law and Diane's parents. A better showing than we've had in the past, which made for much more interesting Pictionary marathons. For the record, The Guys annihilated The Girls 4-nil. Guys rule, girls drool. And watching old people try to communicate using only a dry erase board and no words is frickin' hilarious.

We spent one day at the beach, where I think the ladies faired much better at bocce than they did with Pictionary, although we can conveniently blame that on the fact that the men all threw their arms out tossing around a football beforehand. The weather was beyond perfect, allowing for not only bare feet and short sleeves, but also some beach blanket napping by the senior set.

On with the illustrations.

I take a mean portrait of a dinner roll. Delicious, but a waste of space in light of the other offerings on the table.

My grandmother peering through Courtney's glass of wine.

Over the shoulder. I count five bottles of wine visible in this photo. Did I mention this group drinks? We do.

Totally demolished. I rocked that shit and then went back for more. Note the plastic disposable plate. This was not a green Thanksgiving, but you do not complain when someone else has purchased all the food and is paying for your room.

Nick preparing to unleash a wicked spiral. This is a good bike-riding beach, not to mention a good bocce beach. Shit'll roll for days.

Courtney putting one close.

A boy and his shoes: Vol. IV

2008-11-30T01:59:00.000-05:00

This is it, folks, the final day of shoe posts. I know you're going to miss them. We all will. But as much as I want to keep on writing about the pile of old cowhide and rubber sitting in my closet, I can't let my footwear take this blog over. I must remain in control.

There's one pair of kicks in that pile that almost never get worn, yet account for more of the cowhide than anything else in the closet (aside from perhaps Courtney's black, knee-high bitch boots.) These Ariat work boots were bought in 2004 specifically to fit the footwear requirements for wildland firefighting, which they only sort of do*. As a park ranger at the time, I was able to take classes and qualify as a wildland firefighter (it got me out of work for a whole week, so why not), which in turn gave me the opportunity to work in wildfire fighting and suppression if needed. This was made out to sound like the ultimate in cool by the full-time firefighters that worked in the park, not only for the awesomeness of watching a 150-foot pine tree being consumed by flame, but also for things like helicopter rides and massive overtime pay on top of hazard pay.

And of course there was the risk of being burned alive in a flash-over.

But I never went on a fire. That first season the call simply never came, and my second season I took the class to get re-certified (just to miss work) but decided not to bother with the physical fitness test because I didn't want any fires to mess with my weekends, since my weekends were the whole point of being out there. The third year I just ignored the idea entirely, but ironically ended up earning some overtime one day helping to transport materials back from a firefighters' basecamp nearby. That was fun.

The closest I came to being a firefighter was on a training day they called "Fire Days" even though it was just one day. Since the best practice is doing, the firefighting crew set some spot fires in the woods near the park superintendent's house and had us go out in our Nomex outfits and dig line around all the fires. They also drilled us on the worst-case scenario, which is having to deploy emergency fire shelters. A fire shelter is essentially a personal tinfoil pup tent, only slightly more effective than a prayer. The whole drill was pretty realistic, aside from the absence of a quickly advancing wall of flame, and they first notified us by radio that the imaginary wind had switched around and the fire was now coming our way. We started off at a trot, Pulaskis in hand, heading for the predetermined safe zone. Then they told us to drop our tools and flat out sprint or die. When we got to the deployment area, where they had big fans set up to make getting in the shelters more difficult and realistic, we threw open our shelters (kept at all times on a firefighter's person; rule #1) and dove for safety on the wet, cold earth.

So now I've got this nice, blue-collar pair of boots that I can wear if I ever want to go drink a Budweiser with the common man.

*Basically, the boots had to be at least 8 inches high and could not have a steel shank or steel toes, as metal tends to get really hot in a fire, or anything that would melt. I got mine off the clearance rack for $75. If you knew you were going to spend some time around a wildfire, you'd instead drop $400 on these beauties.

A boy and his shoes: Vol. III

2008-11-29T01:13:00.001-05:00

Are we loving the shoe theme yet? Yeah, it's pretty awesome. I'm thinking maybe I'll just go ahead and make this whole blog entirely about my old shoes. It'll just be all shoes, all the time. I got a closet full, people. I can go for weeks.

Today we're going to cover my longest-tenured shoes, Airwalks straight outta the first half of the nineties. I rarely wear them anymore, but they date back to high school. They're the only pair I own that don't make my feet go numb on long car trips, which explains, aside from nostalgia, why I still keep them around despite the holes that have opened in the uppers and the dry-rotted, dangerously smooth soles. Come to think of it, the soles were always pretty slick. I remember being able to slide across our church parking lot whenever the pavement was wet.

I never climbed any mountains in my Airwalks, but chances are I had them on my feet for more than a few teenage milestones, most of which will not be discussed in this particularly open forum. They keep plugging along and are there for me whenever I need something to put on my feet for some long-distance driving. Chances are I'll have them on for our trip home tomorrow.

Self-portrait wearing the 'Walks in front of Carhenge, western Nebraska, in '06.

A boy and his shoes: Vol. II

2008-11-28T01:45:00.002-05:00

Yesterday we covered my government issue boots. They certainly saw a lot of action kicking steps up steep snowfields and glissading back down again and sometimes found themselves torqued into a crack or edging on a steep slab, but today's featured footwear were purchased, by me this time, solely for action. Solely? Are we counting that as a pun? Shit yeah, we are.

Coincidentally, these now-retired kicks are, like the boots, also of the Vasque brand. I bought them in 2005 at Moosely Seconds in Moose, WY, my residence at the time. I'd been knocking around in some worn out pairs of New Balance and Nike running shoes for quite a while, climbing mountains and backpacking in them but never, ever running in them. It hasn't been until the last few years that I've decided to actually use running shoes for their intended purpose.

These Vasque Velocitys turned out to be running shoes as well, trail runners to be specific, but all I knew was they were light, had aggressive treads and were on sale. And I needed a new pair. I'd begun to suspect that wearing a pair of shoes until my toes poked through was not the healthiest choice for my feet or my knees, long term. I was one good night's sleep away from the most ambitious day of my life, so I figured I'd go ahead and take care of my feet.

I knew it would be a good idea to break some new shoes in a bit before committing to wearing them for what my friend Brian and I were gunning for, but they felt good in the store, so I just decided to go for it. Oddly, they ended up working just fine straight out of the box.

Brian and I attempted what is called the Cathedral traverse. Our climb began in the middle of the night and we intended to climb the three peaks pictured at the top of this blog (known as the Cathedral group when viewed from the northeast) in succession, right to left. We knocked off the first one, Teewinot, just at sunrise and after some downclimbing, two rappels and several hours, arrived at the Koven Col beneath the second peak, Mt. Owen.

By now we were getting the idea that continuing on to the North Ridge of the Grand Teton, which certainly would have been the most committing thing I'd ever climbed, would be foolish given the late hour. We settled for two out of three and dropped our technical gear for the scramble up Owen. The descent down to Teton Glacier proved to be a total bitch from there, but worth it just for the chance to walk across a melting glacier.

Our decision turned out to be more right than we could have known, as we later found out that the North Ridge was iced up anyway. Despite having to alter our original plan, it was a heck of a way to break in a new pair of shoes. The next two years saw me climbing many more peaks in them and subtracting many more miles off the soles. For that, they've gained entrance into the rarefied pantheon of my Shoe Hall of Fame.

My shoes during that inaugural voyage, trying to emulate this well-known photograph on the East Prong below Mt. Owen.

Trusting my feet, and thus my shoes, on Upper Exum Ridge on the Grand Teton.

Shoes at rest, Moran Canyon. Now retired, they patiently await the day they will be ground up and recycled into something useful once again.

A boy and his shoes: Vol. I

2008-11-27T01:04:00.000-05:00

If you're reading this, Blogger has come through for me and my posts are publishing automatically and I am still in the running for NaBloHoMo (this configuration had to come up eventually.) Yahoo. If not, then I blew it.

The bad news, if you're still reading this, is that you have chosen to read blogs, this one in particular, during a holiday. Holidays are like weekends in that, if we're writing anything at all, we're totally just mailing it in.

Ah, but not so fast. It may be a holiday for you right now, but I am a time traveller from the past, bringing you this Thanksgiving greeting from five days ago! So it stands to reason that right now (five days ago) I will be able to take the time and put forth the effort to create for you a post worthy of your attention on this, the day of the turkey holocaust.

Fooled you, then. What follows is the first in a series of odes to footwear past. I can not think of a dumber idea, but one I am strangely looking forward to writing. I even spent some time the other day posing shoes for photographs. It is therefore my great pleasure now (five days ago) to give you MY... OLD... SHOES!

For this first edition and in honor of this uniquely American holiday, I am commemorating the Vasque Sundowner boots provided to me four years ago by the United States federal government, and since the US is a nation governed by its people, that means you (yes you!), Mr. and Mrs. Taxpayer, bought these boots for me. So thank you. I've gotten your money's worth.

They are the only pair of GoreTex footwear I've ever owned and served me well not only as a front line representative of the National Park Service, but also kicking around in the mountains on my weekends. While I'm at it, I'd also like to thank you for the GoreTex pants you bought me (never worn) and the 15 or so pairs of Thor-Lo socks I've been enjoying over the years, some still in their original packaging. It's the gift that keeps on giving.

My shoes in their intended usage. I suppose this photo is technically public domain, since it was taken while on the clock for the government. I think that's how it goes. Maybe my next job will buy me shoes. I don't want a health insurance plan or paid vacation, just give me shoes.

My shoes in their private usage. This was my first and only experience with backcountry skiing. The skis were borrowed and I barely knew how to use them. Good thing it wasn't avalanche season, especially since I went by myself.

They definitely look best paired with purple socks and a red swim suit. This was outside Yellowstone just before a soak in Huckleberry hot spring.

Unfortunately for me, the folks at Vasque subsequently downgraded the Sundowner, giving it a crappier sole and taking out the GoreTex, otherwise I would have gotten another (free) pair and saved them for when my first pair wore out. I guess I'll just have to buy the next pair of boots myself (gasp!)

And we're off (soon)!

2008-11-26T12:12:00.003-05:00

Don't worry, kids- You'll be taken care of. I've prepared a full slate of posts for the next four days for those of you who will still be reading blogs. Me, I'll be in NC for some reason I still can't figure out. I really don't see why we can't just have Thanksgiving at my parents' house, or at least somewhere a little closer than a seven-hour drive. It's a fun time and all, but it doesn't make a whole lot of sense.

I still need to pack and put those double chocolate chip cashew cookies I was going to make last weekend in the oven to bake. Other than that and picking up all the wet gear from my backpacking trip that I laid out all over the apartment to dry, I'm pretty much ready to go.

Oh, and I've still got to try to get caught up on your blogs if I have time before we leave. No promises.

In parting, here's a funny little clip that played on the Philadelphia news stations a few weeks ago after the World Series, brought to my attention by my grandmother. It shows one way that all the cheery people waiting for the victory parade amused themselves.

Glutton for punishment, now with company

2008-11-25T20:15:00.006-05:00

No bears this time. Just lots of wet and cold.

Jacob and I went for an overnighter on the Benton Mackaye Trail in north Georgia yesterday. From the time we left our cars to sometime during the night, it rained constantly. This was fine, if a little annoying, when we were hiking, but really sucked when it came time to set up camp and cook some dinner. It didn't help that it was just above freezing at the time.

Also, Jacob didn't bring any gloves, so I gave him my extra pair. Problem was, I gave him the warmer ones.

He brought a couple beers along, not to mention the tent, so I guess that makes up for it.

The night was damp and cold, we woke up to find our boots frozen stiff, but at least the new day was dry and sunny, if still a little windy.

Yet another trip to make me appreciate my warm, dry bed.

Jacob breaking camp this morning. Note the toasty-looking mittens.

Hiking into the warmth of the sun.

Long Creek Falls, almost home.

In lieu of flowers, I give you the Hemlock Woolly Adelgid, evidenced by the tiny white things at the base of the needles. I had mentioned to Jacob how it was good to see so many apparently healthy hemlock trees in the area, as opposed to the Smokies, where they are being killed wholesale by this non-native invasive pest, and then we took a closer look. It was on every hemlock we saw. So sad.

Origin, by way of confession

2008-11-24T01:02:00.001-05:00

I've been meaning to get around to explaining the origin for the title of this blog for some time now. I have never waited tables at Denny's, although if I had I have no doubt that I would have been the prettiest. I am just so pretty. But that still wouldn't make me a waitress, because I'm a dude. Actually, I think I've only ever been in a Denny's once in my life, and that was somewhere in south Florida many springs ago. I probably had the Grand Slam Breakfast. Damn that sounds good right now.

I wish I could say that the phrase is completely made up, but it's not. It would have been a pretty good bit of random inspiration from someone who is a devoted fan of randomness, but not this time.

Nope, like all my best ideas, this one is lifted straight from someone much more clever (and drunker) than I, in this case comedian Doug Stanhope. I believe I already told the story of when I saw him perform live. I've been trying to find the clip on YouTube featuring the line I'm making famous here, and every bit of that act can be found except for the few seconds during which he utters the line. That figures. So I put my copy of the DVD in and recorded the TV screen with my camera. Does it still constitute copyright infringement if Stanhope signed the DVD cover with a personal message?

I suppose he was thanking me for the twenty bucks I had just handed him. Little did he know that that money was also purchasing the rights to rebroadcast the contents with no further permission in perpetuity.

(I'm actually out backpacking in Georgia today, so I'll see all you crazy kids tomorrow if Jacob or the bears don't eat me.)

I'm a poor excuse for a banana. Sing us out, Mr. Belafonte.

2008-11-23T11:40:00.004-05:00

Aw shit. You know what I just realized? I completely blew it for the grand finale of Banana Week. How could I forget? I guess I had a lot on my mind yesterday, what with writing all my posts for the days I'll be gone this week and doing the things I need to do to get ready to go.

But no excuses. I fucked up Banana Week on the final day. I know, I'm disappointed in myself too.

And the two people who read my blog yesterday didn't even call me on it. Enablers.

Whatever. Here's the big wrap-up to Banana Week, the moment I've been building to over seven days, a day late.

Double chocolate chip cashew cookies? Not just yet

2008-11-22T16:29:00.003-05:00

Today's "A Thought" on the editorial page our local paper comes from Erma Bombeck: If a man watches three football games in a row, he should be declared legally dead.

By Erma's reckoning, tonight I will be enjoying my last meal, legally, so I better make it good. Can I help it if I happen to have a lot of business to take care of today from my couch, I happen to like football, and there happens to be a full slate of games on TV? Hardly, I should think.

Does it count if I haven't been paying complete attention to any of the games so far? I was going to make some cookies this afternoon until I discovered that we're out of vanilla extract. It really confused me, because a couple years ago I bought a bunch of the little bottles of it because they were BOGO and I figured it would last forever. It just goes to show: there is no such thing as forever when it comes to baking ingredients. What I want to know is who has been doing all the baking around here and spiriting the delicious results out of the house without my knowledge?

Hmmph.

Cookies will just have to wait until tomorrow.

Except I'll be legally dead by then, of course.

This Wet Banana is not a euphemism, so knock it off

2008-11-21T13:03:00.003-05:00

On a day like today, when it's cold enough that my laundry froze solid before I was even done hanging it to dry on the railing outside, it becomes difficult to remember the steamy days of summer, even though they are less than two months behind us. Although the temperature outside has just now climbed above freezing, barely, and the temp inside this unheated (by choice) apartment hasn't hit 60 in days, it makes me feel just the slightest bit warmer to think of hotter, happier times as a kid, running barefoot in the spotty grass of the front yard, gaining speed, my mind singularly focused on executing the perfect flying headfirst dive down that long piece of yellow plastic unfurled down the gentle slope. The Wet Banana.

Oh? You say you had a Slip 'n Slide? Loser. Wet Banana was exactly like the Slip 'n Slide except the sprinkler that you hooked the hose to to keep the whole thing lubricated was a plastic banana with holes in it. I don't recall a single banana-shaped feature of the S 'n S. And completely awesome as the wet banana feature of the Wet Banana was, it never did manage to keep the whole thing wet. There were always those dry spots that would grab you as you slid by, simultaneously giving you a good friction burn and sending you into an uncontrollable tumble. And if the dry spot didn't get you, that stick or rock underneath that you missed when preparing the yard for Wet Banana time would.

But nobody cared. Danger came with the territory. If you want the freedom of flying, you have to be prepared to crash from time to time, and the Wet Banana let us fly.

Of course, after a few runs and some head to toe scratches accrued from either that offending stick poking through or the inevitable overshoot off the end of the runway, it got old and we just ended up chasing each other around with the hose. Ahh, summertime and short attention spans.

The last time I had a Wet Banana-like experience was in college (That's what she said; now get your mind out of the gutter!) I was visiting a friend at UGA who's frat was having a beach-themed party, complete with Jimmy Buffet cover band. This was a novelty for me because I attended a quiet, frat-free college. A long roll of plastic had been laid out, hosed down and covered in dish soap. For hours nobody went near it until, sometime after midnight and many beers, my friend and I did the honors, paving the way for the more reluctant. Details are hazy, but it seems reasonable in retrospect that something like that be done in underwear. I can't say for sure.

Just as when I was a kid, though, after two or three runs and some scrapes and bruises, the novelty wore off, and we went off in search of a towel and some dry clothes. And probably another beer.

Today I think back to those carefree times in warmer climes and wonder: Do kids still roll out sheets of plastic in the yard and hurl themselves recklessly down them in the name of keeping cool and having fun? Are the suburbs still striped with those tell-tale swaths of dead or dying grass where the Wet Banana/Slip 'n Slide was left for too long? Do children today proudly bear those body-length scratches like a badge of summertime honor?

I guess I'll have to wait another six months to find out.

(And I don't want to hear any holier-than-thou comments about Crocodile Mile. That was for rich kids.)

Bananas can't drive cars. Or maybe they just won't. Either way, they don't.

2008-11-20T13:57:00.003-05:00

I think I've got my proverbial thumb on the proverbial pulse of my proverbial readership, and I just know that you kids are the type who get hot for do-gooders in chest waders. That's why I've decided to link to some pics of last week's Second Creek clean-up here, here and... wait for it... here. Thanks to Big B and Max for getting the posts up.

My own photo-less account can be found here.

Damn, I've gotten so desperate around here for post ideas that I'm rehashing week-old events. And writing about Guns 'N Roses. What the hell?

Actually, it might have something to do with the fact that I'll be gone most of next week and, in order to satisfy my NaBloHoJo (the hotel/restaurant chain or the former Mets third baseman, take your pick) obligations, I've been trying to sock away enough posts to get me through the week. Two-a-days are tough. It's even tougher to resist just going ahead and posting what's already in the can rather than coming up with something more timely.

But then timely has never been my forte. Stealing ideas from others has. Aaron provided me with inspiration today with a description of some classic driver's education films from his high school days, which was a long, long, oh-so-long time ago. My golden years (kidding; high school blew chunks) are not quite so far behind me as old man Aaron's, and I have my own driver's ed tale to tell.

The state of Georgia unfortunately does not mandate driver's ed in schools, just another indication that we as a society are more or less okay with 40,000+ traffic fatalities every year in this nation. My parents are good parents, though, and they enrolled me, along with two of my good friends, in a private driver's ed program. Our parents took turns picking the three of us up from school once a week to drive us into Marietta for incredibly boring sessions with our distinguished and apparently ancient instructor, Mr. E.M. Funderburk. Normally I would consider changing a person's name here, but that guy's name is just too good not to share.

The classes were held in a school cafeteria and there were probably 15 people taking Funderburk's lessons with us. I clearly recall one girl who was Russian because she was extremely hot and pronounced vodka "bobka." I guess when you're in conversation with a Russian, the talk inevitably turns to strong drink. Aside from that, I recall almost nothing about the cafeteria sessions other than they were very long and boring, Funderburk was a mean old codger with a low tolerance for teenage behavior, and I dig chicks with foreign accents.

The real fun was to be had on the road. We each had multiple weekend appointments where we would meet Funderburk for a one-on-one real-world driving session in one of those cars with an extra brake pedal on the passenger side. I remember the first one when he took me to Greenbriar Mall to do laps around the parking lot. I'd never even heard of Greenbriar Mall before that day. Years later, incidentally, I applied for some scholarship money intended for "residents of the Greenbriar Mall area." Unfortunately for me, I think that was code for "people who aren't white." I didn't get that, or any, of the random scholarships I applied for.

My most memorable trip with Funderburk was when he took me on the interstate. We got on I-75 north, he had me execute a few lane changes and then, somewhere around Acworth, the dude fell asleep! I suppose that meant I was going to pass the course if he trusted me enough to nod off. He woke up again before we got to Cartersville and had me stop at McDonald's, where he went in and bought some coffee while I waited in the Cavalier with that big sign on top identifying me as a student driver.

My friends and I would compare stories of Funderburk's stodginess and occasional outbursts, and we really grew to hate the guy over the course of his program. Today, though, I still remember some of the key lessons he imparted to me, like getting off the gas as soon as a light turns red, no matter how far away it is; no sense wasting gas driving up to a stop when you can drift. He also drilled into me the importance of being aware of what is going on around the vehicle at all times. No, my driving record is not perfect, but for all I know, the guy may have saved my life several times over by now.

Too many people view driver's education as non-essential. It may be true that most of what goes into driving a car is common sense, but it's the parts that aren't that make the difference. Those people that try to merge onto the interstate at 40 mph? They never had driver's ed. Drivers that slow down when changing lanes? No driver's ed. Jackrabbit stops and starts? Wrong-o. Funderburk would kick their ass.

I just did a Google search. Funderburk is still out there making the streets a little safer. I don't know about you, but that makes me smile. I wonder how that Russian broad is doing?

----------------------

Today's banana fix was provided by TravelingEm, who calls this the f'd up version of the song. I don't know why she also bothered to send me the non-f'd up version. Does she not know me at all? Anyway, thanks TravelingEm. NSFW.

Please Axl, don't hurt 'em (that dude is bananas)

2008-11-19T17:17:00.004-05:00

I've heard it said that Guns 'N Roses was the last real rock band. That's stupid, but I see the point. Maybe that's why after 17 years without putting out a single album of original material, somebody still cares that Axl is going to drop some new music on us in ten days.

No, I won't be buying, but that's not going to stop me from waxing nostalgic, either. The other day in the car (my lady friend's car, because the radio in mine hasn't seen any use for most of a decade), we heard the new G 'N f'n R song and I immediately knew what it was. Axl is unmistakable. He's also a one-namer. Forgetting the fictional Axel Foley, he's the only Axl there is, even if his band these days is only G 'N R by name.

But back to that whole "last real rock band" comment. Obviously that can't mean that no one is producing good rock music anymore, because that would be bullcock (my new curse word; try it out, you might like it.) Rock music just isn't the same without Axl picking fights with everyone in sight. Don't get me wrong; I'm really into bands like Radiohead, whose music I will pay for whether they ask me to or not, but how many riots has Radiohead caused? Zero. And what fun is that? Shit, those guys even went to college. Losers. Axl never went to no college. Axl was too busy rockin'.

Guns N' Roses were dangerous. People died at their concerts. Somehow, all the band members survived. The band itself did not. No Slash, no G 'N R. Axl may own the name, but those days are past. But he's still Axl. The one and only.

If you feel like rockin' with Axl, below is G 'N R doing "Knockin' on Heaven's Door" at the Ritz in 1988. At the risk of pissing off Bob Dylan fans and rational people everywhere, this particular performance is, to me, the definitive version of the song. Also, painted-on leather pants with suspenders is really hot. No, make that hott (the extraneous "t" means business.)

Since that song does not even have a single mention of bananas (Dylan never was fond of the fruit), I've turned to The Muppets to fill today's potassium quota.

That was frickin' bananas rolled up in nuts

2008-11-18T19:23:00.009-05:00

Yup, I made it out alive. I did run into some bears, but bears can't catch me because I pop wheelies. Sorry, haven't used the wheelies line in a while. Or maybe ever.

Yeah, so I went for a hike today. It's been a while since I've gone on one of my patented death marches that are the reason people don't want to hike with me (so I've been told), so I picked myself out a nice 33-mile loop and got out the door this morning at 6:30.

Problem is, it gets dark at 5:30. It doesn't matter how many wheelies I pop; I can't walk 33 miles in 10 hours (it took an hour to get there.) So I'd have to stumble the last few hours in the dark, no biggie. That's why I carry a flashlight.

It didn't really work out that way, though. These things rarely do. I had to abort the mission at around the half way point because it was already 4 p.m. Luckily, half way on this hike was Newfound Gap, where Hwy 441 crosses the Smokies. I threw up my thumb and hitched back down.

Ahh, but there is so much more to this story, and if you guessed that I'm going to share it, with photos, then you deserve a Bluth Frozen Banana, because you are absolutely correct.

I hit the woods at 7:30 in the a.m., trekking poles a-blazin'. The first leg of my trip was cross-country, as I parked at the end of the trail I intended to finish on and had to bushwack at the start until I hit the trail I needed. I dropped down off the roadway and, after finding a spot I could safely rock hop, crossed the West Prong of the Little Pigeon River. From there I just had to contour at one elevation until I hit the trail. In theory.

In practice, once I hit the trail, a former road bed that couldn't have been more obvious, and took the prescribed right-turn, I was going the wrong way. I failed to account for trails that aren't on the map. I followed the unknown trail for maybe a mile before it ran into a stream at what was formerly a bridge and came to an end. The misdirection wasn't for nothing, however, because right after I turned and started heading back, I came over a rise and saw Ursus americanus coming my way, about 50 yards off. She had a cub with her and we both froze, regarding each other with that mixture of suspicion and respect that all interactions between two animals should probably begin with.

I think I need to have a run-in with an aggressive bear one of these days, just to keep me on my toes. Every bear I've ever encountered has done exactly what I expected. I fear I'm becoming complacent. Today's bear kept the streak alive by changing course and, cub in tow, headed up and away from the trail. It occurred to me that maybe the best offense is a good defense, but the best defense is total avoidance. The natural world appears to bear this out. Oh, shit! Did you catch that! Bear this out! I didn't even see that coming, honest.

After seeing the bears on their way, I backtracked until I found the right trail and was on my way. My little wrong turn cost most of an hour. On the right path, I started putting some vertical feet beneath me, heading for the summit of Mt. LeConte at 6,593 feet. At this point in the story, I'd like to take a moment to ask Bob Becker, Matt Hinkin and the other two local weather people what exactly they mean when they say "some snow for the higher elevations." I knew I'd see "some snow" as I went higher up, but I figured that meant just enough to make things pretty.

Then again, Bob Becker doesn't strike me as a guy who laces up a pair of running shoes for a thirty mile hike. Maybe that's why nobody told me there was close to a foot of snow up there.

At first, the snow made me giddy. I'm one of those people who gets excited about frozen precipitation, but that's easy when you live somewhere that doesn't see a whole lot of it. Eventually, though, the extra effort required to move through it started adding up, and yet more time was slipping by.

I stopped for lunch just after noon at the LeConte shelter, but had to rush through my PB and J (I'd like to lie and say I had a PB and B, but I won't, though I do prefer them) because my hands were exhibiting a numbness that I've never quite experienced before. It was really, really cold. And windy, to boot. Speaking of boots, I wasn't wearing any. It is an indication of how cold it was that after many hours of slogging through snow in light-weight running shoes, my feet never got wet. The snow caking them wasn't melting at all.

I put on all my layers and left the shelter in a power-walk, trying to regenerate some body heat. I crossed the summit and headed across the Boulevard trail, my new favorite in the park. Lots of views. And today, lots of snow.

By that time I was already thinking of bailing on the second half of the loop, the mathematical contest of miles remaining vs. hours of daylight becoming ever more lopsided. I passed four guys, all dressed in Carhart and construction boots, heading for the LeConte Lodge, the highest inn in the eastern US and only accessible on foot. Miles later I finally intersected the Appalachian Trail and hung a right to Newfound Gap.

At the Gap the wind was howling and I once again layered up. A bunch of people had me take a group picture of them. It turned out that two of them had just gotten married on the spot (I'm guessing the girl with the flowers was one half of the lucky couple.) Nothing like a freezing, windy parking lot for a wedding. Seriously, it was like twenty degrees with a thirty mile an hour wind. I figure if they stood up there together and made their vows in those conditions, they just might make it. One of the wedding party (to help your imagination along, everyone was dressed appropriately for the elements, so they weren't that crazy), pointed out that I had ice frozen to my beard. My response: "Ice, snot, I've got all sorts of stuff frozen to my face right now."

With that I went and stood by the road, thumb in the air, staring down every car headed my way. I'd never hitchhiked before, but I couldn't think of a better time to start. It was either that or spend the next five hours tripping along another 16 miles of trail. The road was busy, and maybe fifteen cars passed me by, but it was only about five minutes or so before someone took pity on me, a van full of former missionaries from Florida. Okay, just the husband and wife were former African missionaries, but maybe some of those kids went along too. There had to be seven kids, plus a dog. Nice people, even if families that require full-size vans to get around freak me out a little.

And that is the story of 17 miles and 4,900 vertical feet in the snow. A good day, all told.

Looking for a way across the Little Pigeon River.

Looks like the kind of trail that would be on a map, right? That's what I thought, too.

I promise that black thing is a bear.

Looking up to the peak of LeConte before I really got into it.

Why didn't you warn me about this, Bob and Matt?

You can tell I'm a sensitive person because I take close-up pictures of nature. None of those flower thingys on this trip. They're out of season.

You can't see it in the photo, but along with my breath condensing on my beard my snot was frozen to my 'stache. Apparently the snow had an affinity for my hat, as well.

Looking south from the AT into North Carolina. Didn't they end up for Obama? Goddamn right they did.

Looking back at the Le Conte massif, biggest mountain in the east from bottom to top.

Newfound Gap. Incidentally, what you see is the spot where FDR gave a speech upon the dedication of the park.

And no (for those still reading for some inexplicable reason), I have not forgotten today's banana song. This one is not funny. Or about bananas. But it comes from an iconic album that features a rendering of a banana by Andy Warhol on the cover, and that's good enough for me. Also, it's about something that could do more for my sore legs than those wussy ibuprofen tablets I took tonight, if I was into that sort of thing.

There were bananas

2008-11-17T20:09:00.003-05:00

They were on a shelf right next to our table. Actually, they looked a little lonely, just one small bunch sitting in the middle of a busy restaurant.

Oh, I'm sorry- Did I mention we (the lady and I) met the Modern Gal tonight for dinner and drinks? We did. We actually had planned on meeting her Saturday, but her job selfishly kept her away from us that time and we had to reschedule.

So tonight we hit La Costa for happy hour(s) and did it right. One of these days I'm going to go in that place and not order the sweet potato burrito. It's just so damn tasty and wholesome. Tonight I started it off with some shrimp chowder, at least. It was definitely a good night for soup.

And that Modern Gal is thoroughly modern, for those who have been dying to know. I think I used that line after the other time we met in person. At this point I figure I've probably been repeating myself for the past six months or more on this blog anyway, so screw it. Recycled jokes on my part or not, it was a pleasure to see another blogger aside from Courtney in the real world. I know most of you guys really do exist, but sometimes I wonder.

Speaking of repeating, you may have noticed that this makes two post titles in a row dealing with bananas. Well, I decided after yesterday's post that this week may as well have a theme, and it is bananas. This is not just because I'm reading a book about bananas or because bananas are both delicious and nutritious but also because there is just so much great banana-centric content to be found on YouTube and I want the world to know. All right, really there are just a few great videos about bananas and the rest will be filler. But stay tuned for the grand finale clip on Saturday. I'm sure that at least one of my readers will love it.

This one is just weird.

I think I already know what tomorrow's title will be: I'm frickin' bananas or some variation. That is if the bears don't get me. I'm getting out of the house in a big way. Tune in to see if I survive.

Do you want a banana?

2008-11-16T19:46:00.003-05:00

It's Sunday, which means not only are few people going to read this today, but also that I don't much feel like writing. Actually, since I've gotten myself on a schedule of posting late I guess most people are going to read this on Monday. Which means someone will read it after all.

Oh well. That doesn't change the fact that I don't really have much to say. Sunday lazy Sunday.

In the interest of attempting to entertain, however, I'll leave you with a song. I'm reading a book right now called Bananas: How the United Fruit Company Shaped the World, and every time I pick it up I hear the following song in my head:

Quantum of Daniel Craig's Pecs

2008-11-15T20:12:00.003-05:00

Yup, we saw a movie. Yup, that one. Eh, I've pretty much seen that movie a few times before. Let's call it Mission Ultimatum On Her Majesty's Secret Die Hard. Entertaining, I guess.

I went for a run today. I did a loop, and somehow the wind was never behind me. That's just God having a laugh. I have a sense of humor, so it was still a good run.

Cops is on right now. Quit struggling, Ruby. You already know how this ends. Felony warrant means you're going to jail tonight, no matter how much you fight it. And next time you break the law, wear clothing that won't make them have to go back and blur your chest in post-production. Better yet, quit breaking the law.

Remember that $30 Courtney got in the mail from Nielsen? She took me to dinner tonight. Yeah, my pad thai was pretty tasty. That Courtney is something else, huh? Actually, she paid for the movie too, come to think of it. Not a bad deal.

We're supposed to go have a drink later on tonight with the Modern Gal, as soon as she's done work. That's not much of a story, I know, but I just thought I'd name drop a bit to try to keep up with all these other lucky people having blogger meet-ups.

Hey, it's Saturday. This is what we got.

Forget the black box, they should make airplanes out of underwear elastic

2008-11-14T15:05:00.005-05:00

You guys are awesome. Really, the response to yesterday's post about the wolves was fantastic. Thanks again to Allie for her original post. I'm glad I could snag some of my own readers who don't make it over to her blog. The Department of the Interior is required by law to account for all public comments before making their decision and your simple act could very well make the difference.

A special thanks is also in order for "Anonymous," who left a thoughtful comment opposing my own viewpoint. This person is rightfully concerned about the health of the ungulate populations in wolf country, but I'd like to remind Anonymous that wolves had been a part of a balanced ecosystem long before we came along to muck things up. The prey need their predators as much as the predators need their prey. I'll admit I don't know all there is to know about this, or any, issue, and that's why it's always nice for a commenter to leave a name or some way of continuing the dialog. I welcome contrary views and it would be nice to be able to follow them up. I may just learn something that way.

Unless, of course, Anonymous has one of those bumper stickers I mentioned (it turns out it's actually "Save 100 elk, Kill a wolf"), in which case be careful tonight while you're taking potshots from the tailgate of your pickup at all those Milwaukee's Best cans you just emptied. I'd hate for you to shoot yourself in the foot or something. That would make line-dancing with your cousin/wife that much more difficult.

Onward.

Continuing my heroic efforts to save the planet and every living thing on it that at least resembles somebody's cute little pet (fuck the sea slugs; they're not huggable), I took part in a trash clean-up this morning along Second Creek in downtown Knoxville. I don't know what it is about picking up garbage piece by piece, but it's always a good time. I think it's the treasure hunt feel of the whole thing. Of course you never find treasure, but you never know what sort of junk you'll pick up next. It's exciting. Aside from the incredible volume of plastic and glass bottles (very few aluminum or steel cans; they have value) we found 39 one liter propane canisters (must have been someone's camp), two golf balls(one Titleist, one Wilson), a child-size boogie board with palm trees and the word "Hawaii" printed on it, a broiler pan, a submerged mattress and pillow (that must have been a rough night), a cooling fan for some sort of machinery, a plethora (si, El Guapo, a plethora) of plastic bags tangled in the foliage, and many wardrobes' worth of clothing, including hats, shirts, pants, sweatshirts and (sorry, just one, a left) shoe. You might be interested to know that the elastic waistband of men's underwear survives intact long after the rest of the garment has disappeared. I can't imagine how a person's underpants end up in an urban creek in such large quantities (scores of them, I say), but they do.

Thanks to Big B at the Wigshop and the Fort Loudon Lake Association for putting the clean-up together. I can't think of a better place to find trash than in a stream lined with homeless camps under an interstate highway interchange at the core of a large urban area. And they told us to try to avoid touching the water or splashing any on our faces if we could help it. One guy said he got an eye infection that way. And they gave us hip waders to wear and grabby things to pick stuff up with. It's a recipe for fun, I tell ya.

Canis lupus needs your help

2008-11-13T19:48:00.004-05:00

I'm taking today's post for a little public service announcement that I'm stealing straight from Allie's Answers. Allie highlighted an issue today that is up for review by my former employer, the Department of the Interior. The DOI, in what is being described as a "parting shot" by the Bush administration, is once again proposing the removal of the gray wolf from the endangered species list.

If you can tell me the last time you saw a wolf in the wild, then by all means support the delisting. Otherwise consider that wolf populations in the greater Yellowstone region are still establishing themselves and should continue being protected from hunting and trapping by all those assholes in Wyoming with those "Save an elk- Kill a wolf" bumper stickers. I used to live there and I never once laid eyes on a wolf. They formerly ranged over much of North America before they were completely exterminated from the lower 48. When we undertook their reintroduction in the '90s in Yellowstone and sites in Idaho we had to import them from Canada.

They still need our help. Public comment on this issue ends November 28 and the Natural Resources Defense Council has a form letter all ready to go that you just need to add your name to. The recipient of your letter will be Dirk Kempthorne, Secretary of the Interior, a guy I had the pleasure of meeting one time. He's very handsome. I can't wait for our next president to replace him.

Seriously, go send him a letter voicing your opposition to delisting the wolf. It just takes a few seconds, tops. I'm not kidding, go right now. Ol' Dirk will love to hear from you, I'm sure.

Geek alert!

2008-11-12T09:28:00.005-05:00

I was sitting comfortably in the smallest room in the apartment reading a magazine this morning, as I am wont to do any given morning, when I realized that yesterday was the 50th anniversary of the first ascent of the Nose route on El Capitan. Okay, this "realization" came because the article I was reading was about that very event, not because I know the date of such an arcane anniversary off the top of my head. It's significant because El Cap, with its 3,000 feet of vertical granite reigning supreme over Yosemite Valley in California, is probably the most famous chunk of rock to climbers around the world. The epicenter of climbing, if you will. And the Nose is the most famous climb on that chunk of rock. Therefore, the Nose is likely the most well-known and sought-after climb in the known universe.

The Nose follows the red line, approximately. This marks the first time I've ever taken someone else's photo and altered it for my own purposes. For the record, it was submitted by someone named Deb to the site SummitPost.org.

No, I've never climbed it. Never even been to Yosemite.

The Nose was also the sight of what many consider to be, along with its first ascent in 1958, one of the single greatest achievements in climbing: Lynn Hill's first free ascent in 1994. "Free ascent" means using only your hands or feet to make progress up the rock, never pulling on gear to make headway. She upped the ante the following year by doing it free in a single day. It took another 10 years for anyone to follow her lead, despite the efforts over that period of many of the strongest climbers in the world. Name another "sport" (I hate to apply the term to climbing) where not only do men and women "compete" (again, the word doesn't quite fit) on equal footing, but a woman actually sets the bar so high that it would take another decade for anyone, man or woman, to match her. Below is the tail end of a documentary made about her climb.

On a sad note, in researching this post I learned that the issue of the magazine I was reading this morning that started all this was the final issue of that publication, ever. Alpinist has closed its doors. I really am bummed about this. It was far and away the finest climbing magazine in the world, publishing quarterly on archival-quality stock featuring writing and photography of the highest caliber with limited advertisements. Their offices were in Jackson, WY and I had the chance to meet some of the editorial staff and contributing writers when I lived there. It was the rare content-driven publication created by people who not only had a passion for the subject, but a passion for writing and design as well, bringing it all together in what can only be called a work of art. After only 25 issues, it will be missed.

Phil, if you're gonna spew, spew into this

2008-11-11T17:38:00.005-05:00

Today's post was inspired by the ninja photography tactics of Chris from Surviving Myself, who shared with us (picture included) the joy he experiences laughing at drunk people while they hurl in public. (Actually, he used the word "ralph," which I agree is the funniest synonym for upping some chuck.)

Anyway, his post on puking made me think of my own favorite experience watching someone spew in a public place and since I know you guys like hearing stories about vomit, here we go:

Courtney is familiar with this tale, as I believe I've shared it with her every time we've ever driven through Alpharetta, Georgia and past the location where the events primarily transpired. It must have been summertime toward the end of my college years because I was at my parents' house and they were out of town. I got a call around 9 o'clock or so from a friend who was with some other guys I know at a bar in Alpharetta, about twenty minutes away. They had driven two hours from the town we went to school in in a car that had been "borrowed" from a campus community service organization. A girl they knew was working at the bar and supposedly promised to feed them free booze all night if they made the trip.

I'm not really a bar kind of guy. Actually, I pretty much hate going to noisy, smoky, crowded bars and usually avoid them if I can. However, I also make the effort from time to time to hang out with actual, physical human beings and this was one of those instances where, despite the exciting night I probably had planned of drinking alone in an empty house, I decided to take them up on the invite and broaden my horizons.

So I show up at the bar, find my friends and they find me a free beer. And then they promptly go off and find people more interesting than I to talk to. All except Paul, that is, who I was told had already downed somewhere north of seven Long Island iced teas. Paul is now sitting with his head down on the table of the booth we're both occupying and is no longer responsive (to those who know me, yep, that Paul). It's not long before Paul is returning all those drinks by, you guessed it, ralphing copiously onto the floor under the table.

I could have bailed at that point, seeing as the rest of the guys were nowhere to be found and Paul seemed to be working through his ordeal just fine on his own, but I'm a stand-up guy and I refuse to leave a fallen comrade behind. With vomit comes odor, though, so I grabbed Paul's near-empty pack of cigarettes and finished them off. I don't smoke, but I'll do what the situation calls for, and I was bored anyway sitting there babysitting a drunk.

Whether someone noticed the comatose guy who hadn't picked his head up off the table for most of an hour or the stench of stomach bile and regurgitated liquor finally fought its way through the cigarette smoke I couldn't say, but the manager came over and told me I had to get Paul out of there. Unsure if the manager or his minions knew of the mess that awaited them under the table, I wasted no time in finding the rest of my douchebag friends and hauling Paul outside.

No sooner had we hit the parking lot when Paul mounts a miraculous recovery (the guy did have lots of experience abusing his body with various substances, after all) and everyone decides now would be the perfect time to go visit the Pink Pony in Atlanta. I'm the only one who hasn't been forcing down free drinks all night, so I slide behind the wheel of the "borrowed" vehicle, in part because I felt like if I didn't someone else would. And also because there would be boobies.

So there's me driving four (pretty entertaining) drunk dudes down to one of the ATL's finer gentlemen's clubs. It was my first time in such an amoral establishment and it taught me a lot about human nature. For example, strippers don't like it when you take up space in their club and don't buy any lap dances. Actually, they really, really don't like it. And they don't get any less adamant about it either as the night progresses. I, for one, had already paid the twenty dollar cover to get in the place and certainly didn't feel the need to shell out any more just to see someone's C-section scar up close.

After we had seen (more than) our share of silicone enhanced products of child abuse, and tired of being yelled at by them, we left the Pink Pony and I drove us back to Alpharetta to my own (not borrowed) vehicle, where we parted ways. It was the first time I'd ever been berated by a stripper and been asked to leave a restaurant on the same night. Okay, so it was the only time for either of those things. I'm just not that punk.

Okay, so it was more a story that just happened to include public puking, but that's the jumping-off point of any good story.

(I apologize to any strippers who delivered their children naturally and had idyllic childhoods. All three of you.)

I have a raging semi

2008-11-10T21:01:00.004-05:00

I;d like to share something with you. Are you ready? Pay attention.

;

Did you catch that? Here it is again:

;

Do you know what that is? A what? A semicolon? I thought you might say that, but you;re only half right. It also happens to be the Mark of the Beast, QWERTY edition, and it will in all likelihood one day very soon drive me to go completely penguinshit crazy and throw my laptop off the balcony onto the street, followed by everything in this apartment that isn;t nailed down and eventually myself as well, ending this keyboard-induced madness once and for all with the sharp thwack of my skull on the asphalt below.

I;m sorry, did I lose you somewhere? I didn;t mean to get all descriptively suicidal on you (or perhaps suicidally descriptive?) It's just that the fucking (;) key is driving me nuts. Not the punctuation mark itself, mind you, but the key that creates it. I;m actually a huge fan of the semicolon, using them like crazy ever since one of you (I can;t recall who exactly) mentioned your extreme disapproval of their usage. I just hadn;t really thought about them much at all before, and since then I find exciting uses for them all over the place.

That, however, doesn;t include inserting them into contractions in place of an apostrophe, and that;s the rub. I;m not sure if the engineers at Compaq are playing a cruel trick on me by shifting the keys on my keyboard just slightly to the right enough to cause me to hurl myself to a messy death, or maybe the fingers of my right hand have shrunk a fraction of an inch, or possibly I;m just a terribly inaccurate typist with only myself to blame. Whatever the case, whenever my hand stabs out to the right on the keyboard in search of a good, wholesome apostrophe, it comes up with naught but that evil, uninvited semicolon. What;s worse, it;s winking at me.

And I;ve had this computer for over ten months now, thus my impending insanity. I don;t now how I;ve lasted this long, to be honest, since almost every single apostrophe I;ve typed in that time has been preceded by a semicolon and a backspace. It really is monumentally frustrating.

This post has been therapeutic, though. It;s nice to finally have an excuse to just let all those semicolons lay where they fall, rules of punctuation and my own pickiness be damned. It really feels good. Maybe I;ll just go with it from now on. You guys;ll get used to it, right? Hey, if nothing else today;s catharsis may keep me off the balcony just a little while longer.

Throwin' down on K-town

2008-11-09T19:42:00.010-05:00

First off, I have a bit of business to take care of. I promised I would call out and thoroughly shame anyone who committed to NaBloYoMoFo only to fail in their half-assed effort. That has unfortunately occurred. Our first casualty didn't even take a week. TravelingEm, surrounded by over 12 million Muscovites drunk on vodka and capitalism, can't even be bothered to share with us her daily adventures in that most cosmopolitan of Russian cities. Weak. So weak. TravelingEm, consider yourself shamed. It pains me deeply and I'm sorry you put me in this position, but a promise is a promise. Keep writing anyway, please.

Enough about her. I'm still posting and that's why you're here.

The lady and I had one of those rare "damn Knoxville can be an interesting place" afternoons. This usually occurs when we decide to actually get out and do stuff, which is the rare part. I'm sure Knoxville on the weekends is normally interesting, just not from the inside of our apartment.

Reading the paper this morning, I read that a Civil War "roundtable" had been going on since Friday at Fort Dickerson, an earthworks fort on the hill opposite the one we live on. That explains the several concussive blasts I hear midday Friday that had me a little freaked out. It was still going on today, with a battle reenactment scheduled for 2:00, so we put on our walking shoes and headed over.

Despite the steep terrain and in the face of small arms fire and at least one cannon volley (I'm actually not kidding about this), we made it to the top of the hill where we found a bunch of soldiers, Union and Confederate both, encamped for the duration of the fake siege. Civil War buffs are weird, which probably goes without saying. Then again, when you live somewhere surrounded by the battlefields from one of your nation's pivotal crises, which is basically everywhere south of Gettysburg, I suppose taking part in events that preserve this history and help to educate others about it isn't the worst way to spend a Sunday. And it's not like they all insisted on dressing in gray, which is good considering much of east Tennessee was sympathetic to the Union.

It was still kind of funny, though, because amidst the people giving interpretive talks to interested groups of civilians (like us) were other soldiers staying in character even when no one else was around. Courtney and I overheard a couple of Yanks who crossed paths discussing their state of readiness for the skirmish to come. These people are into it. I'll let Courtney tell you about the one she caught with a cell phone.

I think they should have added the word "Reenactment" between Civil War and Event. Ya know, just to avoid any confusion. And because some folks around here would probably welcome another shot at the real thing.

This guy, a surgeon, was a little too proud of his period speculum, seen at front right, next to the baby forceps. The thing on top of the brown box on the left side of the table is a display of an arm bone shattered by a musket ball. Nice.

Johnny Reb in camp, preparing for the assault.

We bailed before the start of the actual reenactment, neither one of us fond of fake (or real) gunfire and already having survived our share on the approach. Besides, art awaited. We hoofed it up Chapman Highway to the Knoxville Museum of Art for one of their no admission fee days. Nothing like free art. Oh sure, I support the arts, but I prefer to do so more with my presence than with my dollars. I have far more time than I have money, after all. They had some really cool exhibits, too, mainly consisting of works by regional artists, which is what a museum like KMA should do. Leave it to the High in Atlanta to worry about Picasso.

The Knoxville Museum of Art is watching you.

After getting our art on we took a trip up to the observation deck of the Sunsphere just because we were there and it's always fun to look down on things, literally and figuratively. There's a bar up there now, but it's unfortunately closed on Sundays, so we trekked another several blocks over to Coffee and Chocolate, where we had some of both. Delicious.

Hypercolor tree next to the Candy Factory Lofts, Sunsphere in the background. We checked out the open house they were having to see what a $350,000 one-bedroom loft looked like. Not too shabby.

View from inside gold-tinted windows of the wig shop, aka the Sunsphere.

Good stuff. We'd been meaning to try this place.

Heavily sugared and caffeinated we traipsed on down to the library to pick up some media. My lady friend found herself a book and we each also picked up three CDs apiece, now comfortably loaded into iTunes. More free art, I suppose. I mentioned I support the arts, right? I probably wasn't going to get around to actually paying for anything by Husker Du (I don't know how to type umlauts), Les Savy Fav or Mission of Burma anytime soon. Like Courtney pointed out, though, our taxes have it covered in this case.

To those of you in Knoxville: Do you remember just a few years ago when Gay Street on a Sunday looked like the day after the Rapture? Look at us now!

And that was our afternoon: the war between the states, a little oil on canvas, cappuccino and midwestern punk rock. In other words a typical Sunday in a midsize city in the American south. We came back over the bridge, the lady fixed her Caribbean Jerk Grouper and now we're both typing away in front of the TV, probably covering remarkably similar events in our posts, although I left some things out to give you guys a little different taste.