And Visions of Sugarplums Lying Passed Out On The Couch

The lovely Lindsay recently caused a nostalgic stir amongst KPTV alum by sharing some vintage pics of a particularly besotted night at a certain Ms. Wilson's Northwest Portand condo.

Unfortunately for the dignity of all those involved (not to mention Ms. Wilson's neighbors), the night was dedicated to the time-honored tradition of Century Club induction.

For those of you not familiar with the game, I have no idea how you're reading my blog; if you spent more than twenty consecutive minutes with me between the years 1996 and 2007 I have begged you to attempt the Century Club at least seven times. Most of you caved at least twice.

Regardless, How Join the Club:

1. Find the shittiest domestic beer available and purchse enough of it to kill one grizzly bear per Century Club participant. Now purchase one more 12-pack.

2. Invite only those persons who won't let you (A) drunk dial your girlfriend from 8th grade and talk about feelings, (B) take a cab into the city and get that sweet tattoo you just thought of, or (C) shop on eBay again. And from personal experience, be sure to deny entry to any "friend of a friend."

3. Pop one of DJ Fat Gallant's patented Century Club mixes into the tape deck.

4. Admonish DJ Fat Gallant for being one of six living people to still make mixtapes.

5. Take a shot of ever-warmer beer every 60 seconds (each song change) for the next hour and 40 minutes. As per the house rules, bathroom breaks are strictly forbidden until song #50 and any skipped shots are punishable by an extra shot or, if you're Shannyn Sossamon, the removal of an article of clothing.

6. At song #100 collect your trophy.

7. Cancel any plans you may have for the next 72 hours that would require a functioning brainstem.

My "now stick your tongue out" pose is unconvincing;

I think I may actually be preparing to harf on Lindsay.

Absent from the above photo is Audio Aaron who, in a stupifying bit of irony, had something wrong with his liver and couldn't make it out.

To right that wrong, I spent the last two days holed up in my Oakland apartment drinking bootleg eggnog and bringing the afore-mentioned Century Club Mix into the 21st century [barely]. There are even some subtle shifts in the track listing since the last go round in honor of Audio and, specifically, his stint at NESN.

Of course, you'll have make it to #100 to appreciate it, and by then you'd be lucky if you can still spell NESN.

So Happy Holidays, bitches:

DJ BumperSmash (!) Presents:

A Very Special Century Club Reunion Tour Mix

(CLICK ABOVE TO DOWNLOAD)

Either we're deep in the game or a ghost is punching Angelo in the face.

BONUS: On the KPTV alum page see if you can spot the asshole who thought picture day was tomorrow. Hint: it's me.

29 Words For Dipping Sauce

Welcome to winter in the Midwest, where breakfast starts at beer o'clock sharp, women aren't afraid to show a little skin, late-night snacks do not fuck around, and (at the risk of burying the lede) this man is straight.

Let that sink in: this man... is straight.

All due respect, but with that haircut he could be wearing Austin Scarlett as a hat and look less gay. Yet, according to all my sources [my brother and my girlfriend, respectively], he is married and may or may not be something of "a playboy."

Mmm-hmm. Me too.

Regardless, I had to share that with you because laughing at that photo accounted for a startlingly large portion of my trip. Back to what matters: visiting the fam and the friends and the apple of my eye in the sun-drenched Midwest.

This is a good place. It's a place of values. Of substance. It's a place I will always call home. It's also a place that gets a bit nippy from time to time. Unfortunately, as I currently live in California (where inclement weather requires a two thirds majority vote in the state senate), I was without my usual Wisconsin winter outfit for this trip.

No matter. The secret is to layer. Then layer again. Now once more. Good... there you go. Now, isn't that more comfortable? And for you ladies out there, no more worrying about those unsightly panty lines.

ABOVE: An unidentifiable woman, or, possibly,
man, stands in front of an unidentifiable
part of some Midwestern state.

Of course, some of the more enterprising locals have found a way around spending all that time and money purchasing goose down mittens and flannel-lined jeans and fleece-insulated parkas; oh yes... there are other ways to add layers.

To illustrate the point, let us go out for brunch with Brother Andrew and his lovely fiancee Sommer. After studying the menu, Sommer opts for a modest bagel and lox platter. According to its description, the platter includes a side salad. It is about $7. Also, it is the size and shape of a fucking river barge. Look at this thing. Sommer seems unfazed as the table groans under weight of the healthy, healthy vegetables. Forty-five minutes and two hernias later, we asked our waitress for a doggie bag and an industrial-grade wheelbarrow to cart home the leftovers.

I could wax interminably about the spectacular portions and magical golden-colored awesomeness of Midwestern foodstuffs, but the good people of Palomino's went ahead and neatly summed it up for me.

Besides, there are other ways to stay toasty. In case you can't tell, that bloody contains not only the standard fare but also mushrooms and a booze-soaked brussel sprout. And taking into account how desperately I craved another round, it may or may not have contained actual mammal blood.

Then there's our ubiquitous and foamy friend, barley juice. Smooth, delicious, and handy for beer-battering anything within arm's distance and sticking it in a deep fryer. But despite the fact that at least two respectable breweries are visible from any vantage point in the greater Milwaukee area, including bomb shelters, I think it's best to leave your liver in the hands of professionals.

Shitcanned? Good. Time to unwind. You've been working hard.

Me? I like to take the edge off in the private 16-foot pool then hit the jacuzzi. Then repeat for 21 straight hours.

Go to Sybaris. Let no one talk you out of it. I won't get into details for fear of retaliation at the hands of the Fair Briana, but having that special someone with you is advisable. I took a lot of grief from certain interested parties, but when it's 10 below outside and you're wearing white robes and doing regrettable sultan impersonations, you'll thank me.* Also, it was our birthday. So there's that.

Time for some exercise. Limber up and head to Koz's for some miniature bowling. As I have an obligation to my New England roots (not to mention Audio Aaron), I should point out that this is not duckpin bowling. However, the object of the game remains the same. Namely, drink several pitchers of lukewarm domestic beer and invent elaborate strike celebrations. Amanda Joy's apparently requires rolling up one of her sleeves and dancing right in the face of the competition. Well played. Good times had by all, including the manual pinsetters. This vocation almost certainly requires a working knowledge of gravity bongs and quaaludes.

Next and final stop: Wolski's, provided you can (A) find the place and (B) not wrap your car around a telephone poll locating a parking spot. Holy shit their website is easily the lamest thing I've ever seen.** They get everything else right, though. You know a bar believes in a stiff pour when, in their dart room, there are holes in the wall at least 6 feet from the nearest dart board. Throw in a (gasp) cigarette machine and some bawdy video poker, and next thing you know it's closing time.

And time to go home. But I'd be remiss if I didn't share the comment card from my dad's room at Red Roof Inn. Perhaps Nellie should revisit her cutesy signature.

Non sequitor there. Sorry.

Okay, I'm done.

*You're welcome in advance.
**And I used to work on MDA telethons.***
***I'm going to hell.

Still More Doppelganger

A quick deflection, as the Celebration Of All Things Midwest post will take a while:

I can no longer watch Six Feet Under without thinking that Brenda (Rachel Griffiths) is a true-to-life version of a William Haefeli cartoon.

Anybody? Am I way off on this one?

Oh. And somebody teach me how to do Dave Elsewhere's strobe move (@ 1:16 here).

Watch For Freeze Back

It's 5:15am in Chicago; I am in a Midway-bound cab.
Road signs are reminding me that it is cold.
Expect a megapost ASAP.

Et tu, Brute?

The universe continues to conspire against your humble BumperSmasher. Well, not "the universe" exactly, and not "against me" exactly, but something, as they say, is up. Strings are being pulled. Higher powers' fingers are being pulled.

After going without the interweb for two weeks (see previous post) I spent 75 non-consecutive minutes with a friendly AT&T representative ordering the works... I say non-consecutive minutes because the customer service specialist was forced to call me back three separate times due to "slight flooding in the building." An inauspicious beginning to the AT&T-Me&B marriage, but they can do no worse than Comcast; or, as I experienced for exactly 730 days, the length of their standard "Now Grab Your Ankles" contract, Sprint.

Once settling on a date that my modem and cable box and bonus equipment would be installed (January 16th... Dear AT&T: Maybe, um, hire some more guys?) I hung up my phone and returned to listening to something or other on my trusty VAIO.

Exactly ten seconds later this happened.

I proceeded to calmly voice my displeasure.

Mere minutes later, while navigating the television listings, I noticed Presumed Innocent started in less than half an hour on Encore. At that very moment, Presumed Innocent was being burned on my computer, as only a day prior I rented it after concluding that (1) I had somehow never seen it before, (2) I wanted to, and (3) "it's never on TV."

I had some prior experience with this phenomenon when, years ago in Portland, the mood struck and I rented A Christmas Story in the middle of July. Then, at work the following day, I walked into the KPTV control room and said "I watched A Christmas Story last night," and four other people said, "Me too." The mood had apparantly also struck the powers-that-be at TBS.

Speaking of the holidays, I leave Thursday for the pristine climes of the Midwest.

I'll be sure to check the top of my Netflix queue to see what the in-flight movie will be.

Actual photo from my last trip to O'Hare.

Perfectly Cromulent Writing

While I applaud The New Yorker's steadfast adherence to the tenants of responsible journalism, I must grudgingly submit that I quite often don't have the foggiest fucking idea what it is that their reporters are talking about. Take this gem from the December 8th issue, which I was perusing whilst BARTing to work this fine sunny afternoon:

[In reference to Timothy Geithner being Obama's choice for Secretary of the Treasury]

"...there was also something weird about the spectacle of the Street’s once fearless free marketeers exulting over a government appointment, as if they were nomenklatura members cheering a new Politburo chief."

A vivid image to be sure... I know I'll never forget the hysterics surrounding the appointment of Hamas politiburo chief Khaled Marshaal.

Oh wait, yes I will. There. I just did.

Fortunately, whenever The New Yorker makes me feel like Leon Spinks at a nuclear arms proliferation summit, I can count on the vaunted ABC7 Production Team to restore journalistic equilibrium. Yesterday, in an edited, scripted, and producer-approved story, we used the word "majestical."

In other news, if CBS Sports doesn't kindly remove its mouth from the dick of Tim Tebow, I'm going to blow up a building.

p.s. - Seriously?

Help Me Help You

Seven comments on Night Terrors but no Very Short Fiction to speak of? I was looking forward to your collective creativity shining through like a ray of sunshine in the otherwise-dark night that is the blogosphere.

Also, click on that "FOLLOW" thingamajig over there on the BumperSmash menu and tell the world you were among the first to join what will soon be considered the internet's hottest new site. And some topless fan pics in my in-box would be appreciated, too.

Not you, Audio. Put the camera down.

Interweb? No. Night Terrors? Oh yes.

After months of my taking advantage of the unsecured wireless network known as "WENUS," Casa du Nathiana is without access to the web, severely crippling my fantasy-sporting, blogging, Skyping, emailing, music downloading, Amazon.com-ing, and celebrity nip-slip perusing. I refuse to give Comcast any more of Briana's money, so until I find an alternative (or Jim "The Wenus" Wenuczowski returns from Thanksgiving break) my posting frequency will most likely flag.

Somehow you'll get by.

Update: two nights ago I had a nightmare of the 1st order, meaning that it was so intense that I both (1) woke up Dom-DeLuise-sweaty and (2) was too shaken up to go to the bathroom for 15 minutes for fear of the killer waiting in my closet even though I really had to go. In the hellish chimera, a killer known as The Wolfer was slicing up women with a bowie knife, collecting exactly 45 pounds of blood in a giant bag and resupplying their corpses with said blood via I.V. so that he could practice tearing into their flesh (hence the Wolfer), then writing songs about the killings and sending the recordings to local radio stations to mock the public.

Mr. Sandman, send me a dream!

Do you people have nightmares like these? Additionally, I have one or two plane crash death dreams per month. Surely this gets me a prescription to Valium or medical weed or something equally awesome that I don't know about.

For the record, the worst nightmare I ever had featured Ray Combs throwing me to the floor from the top of an unmattressed bunk bed and carving Satanic symbols into my chest with a giant carving knife before ultimately stabbing me through the heart with it. Two weeks later, back in reality, Ray-Ray hung himself with his bedding.

You know what that means.

Also for the record, I often dream about normal things like talking dogs and cars that can fly!

Warm Milk Didn't Work; Pontification Perhaps?

One of the more underrated thrills of having the flu is the insomniatic onset of dementia.

A certain macabre calm sets in late at night when, after thousands of minute body adjustments result only in different regions of your head becoming alternatively solid/liquid, you make peace with the fact that sleep will not come any time soon.

It's 4:54 in the ante meridiem. Embrace it. (The situation, that is. Too tired for the other.)

For this morning's TheraFlu-induced revelries, I found myself recalling an article heralding the merits of Very Short Stories, an old concept that [kinda sorta] recently reemerged in [kinda sorta] meme form and even more recently became a mental exercise for the Generation Me to summarize themselves.

Basically, one has six words to conjure up a story. The most famous and, probably, best, is courtesy Hemingway: "For Sale: Baby shoes. Never used."*

I think the concept is far more fun/effective in narrative form, and besides, had I been in an autobiographical mood this morning, any memoir in my debilitated condition would be something to the effect of "Exhaustion and phlegm reign eternal, internal."

That being the case, here's what I found scribbled on the back of an envelope next to the bed this morning, which I share with you in hopes of myriad new submissions from you, left in the COMMENTS section.

Six Word Fictions:

Now to hide the bloodstained uniforms.

Repent, dear husband; I survived you.

Turns out expiration dates are important.

Their marriage left their passions unresolved.

My prison penpal hadn't mentioned probation.

"What college fund?" lamented the gambler.

But his guide dog could swim.

The obituary downplayed the prostitution aspect.

*Often quoted as "For Sale: Baby shoes. Never worn."

Of Flora and Fatalism

Gladys (in the bowl on the left) and Darnell swim beneath

the skeletal remains of our once proud house plant.

One of the standing orders Briana left me was to take good care of our modest plant collection. I would have stood a better chance had she told me to grow a second dick while she was away. And, let's face it, I'd have fun trying. And there'd be minimal repotting.

Mine is not a green thumb.

This is not for lack of trying. In fact, I have to remind myself not to over-water the plants. I prune, I pamper, I feed them exotic plant foods whilst singing smooth jazz standards to them. In turn, the plants stay awake at night trying to set themselves on fire rather than spend one more day in my care.

If vegetation can scowl, this plant is almost certainly doing so. It looks like we planted the fucking thing upside-down.

Now, animals I'm cool with. Those fish love me, and eat freeze-dried bloodworms from my hands. Even cats, which I loathe, love nothing more than to lay atop me all day enjoying the gentle rhythm of my breathing, siliently plotting the deaths of all things decent and holy. If the cat happens to belong to Ingrid, there's a good chance that said cat feels sufficiently comfortable in my presence to sleep on my chest with its twisted little ass resting mere inches from my chin.

So what the eff am I doing to these plants? Something is clearly very, very wrong. I fear that if someone ever introduces me to a dog named "Fern," I'll pet it and it will instantly develop heartworm and bolt for the nearest interstate.

Briana, come home soon, and kindly ignore the dead leaves strewn about the kitchen floor.

Cooooooostanza

Working in the field of (and therefore watching copious amounts of) television has rarely been this unbearable.

Make It Stop
Please God Make It Stop
We Are Alone In The Universe

Not since this debacle have I been less able to shake annoying jingles.

An NC-17 Doppelganger-palooza

As an attempt to assuage the Tampa Bay Rays' profound disappointment in coming up short at the World Series, I submit to you, my humble reader, the Phillies' covert use of psychological warfare.

To be brief [debriefed?], it is not easy to defeat an opponent into whose chin you want to stick your Johnson.

The Executive

The Faux Naturale

The Playboy

The Penthouse

The Cougar's Secret Shame

The Jailbait

The Asymmetricooze

The Hirsute Hebrew

The Landing Strip

The Eurotrash
The Brazilian

Family Circus Meets BumperSmash (?)

To anybody who takes the time to go through this whole post: congratulations... I assure you that you are the only one to do so. This post seemed like a good idea at the time (specifically, a couple of hours ago). I thought it would take about 5 pictures and about half an hour.

It did not.

Obviously, I had myriad idle time today. So, here's the route I take to BART after work... thanks to my cheap-ass-yet-much-beloved longboard I can leave work at 11:35ish and still catch the 11:41 train.

So, without further ado, here's an incredibly boring slice of life, which is rendered even more boring because when you are taking in the scenery, you are not riding a skateboard in the middle of the night without a helmet.

The Epic Journey*: Part I, Part II, Part III, Part IV, Part V, Part VI, Part VII, Part VIII, Part IX, Part X, Part XI, Part XII, Part XIII, Part XIV, Fin.

*In no way epic.

Nerd Alert

New phone.*
Bought a Wii.
Telling you about it via a blog.
Oh, and Top Chef on DVR after work.

In other news, Happy Belated, Dougie.
Love to the fam.

In the meantime: here's a nifty (or, fancy pants) flash game.

wOOt!

[LATE EDITION: SPECIAL HOLA TO MELISSA.]

*Courtesy Krumboltz the Impaler

Unnecessary Update (!)

Post-Election State of the Nathan

Almost done reading: Nobody's Fool, by Richard Russo
Marinating in the fridge: Chicken
Legally betting at: ESPN Streak For The Cash
Watching until football starts: Magnum Force
Determined to remember: Doug's birthday
Pajama pants: Comfortable

One month from seeing my baby and my family and the snowy hell that is Chicago, Illinois.

Today I Am Remided Of...

"Shibboleth."

As part of the whole, this clip may register as saccharine; 'tis not to be interpreted as a clumsy election day analogy (much less a race-based one) but rather a reminder that, today, it is history we'll be writing.

Tails and Feathers

Peevishness

Many are my pet peeves.

For one thing, Blogger is making everything italicized right now for some reason. This was not where this post was going, which should be obvious because how would I know until I started typing, Silly?

Instead, I thought I'd share a recent example of one of my [numerous] work-related annoyances. Specifically, both our esteemed anchors and producers take great pride in the fine art of the segue, which is all well and good until one realizes that, sometimes, attempting to connect two stories makes you (and, by extension, our entire newscast) look and sound ridiculous. Here's a copy-and-pasted gem from last night's 9pm:

NUCLEAR POWERED AIRPLANES MAY COME TOO LATE TO SAVE THE FROGS AND SALAMANDERS IN YELLOWSTONE NATIONAL PARK.

I coul... Hey! No more italics.

Anywho, I could go on for several paragraphs regarding my newsroom's incompetencies (how does one work in a field of journalism when one regularly spells quote as "quoat"?*), but it's my day off and I'd rather not get my blood a boilin'. I'm already missing my lady terribly, thank you kindly.

So, without further ado, here are two exquisite shows with which you may want to familiarize yourself**:

*Seriously
**Not ending a sentence with a preposition = journalism!

Because Sometimes You Have To Treat Yourself

Oven-baked Bosc pear with cinnamon, nutmeg, and Maker's Mark, atop Vanilla Bean ice cream, drizzled with a reduced balsamic and flakes of dark Ghirardelli chocolate. Served with a glass of port.

Breakfast was imitation Cap'n Crunch served upon 10-day-old skim milk.

An Action-Packed Day Thus Far

I'm not proud of myself; I owe L-Dub an apology.

She was innocently watching Oprah whilst sitting next to me at the Teleprompter station, and unfortunately for her (and, in my opinion, for Oprah) the Olsen Twins were being interviewed. Then, they were interviewing one another. Subjects included their frantic schedules, how they felt about each other's dating life, and wanting to be taller.

Hair was discussed.

Then one of them revealed that she had a hollowed-out bagel for breakfast and before I even knew it was happening I snapped.

"If I have to listen to any more of this I swear to God I am going to shoot myself."

Sorry, Lauren, and thanks for the ride home last night. Send me a link to "Dance if You're Horny" so I can share your song with the world (consisting here of 4 people).

In unrelated news, here's an excerpt from tonight's 5pm newscast, copied and pasted directly from the script. I mean, c'mon, people.

NEW AT SIX: AMERICA'S PICKLE PACKERS EXPLAIN WHY THEIR INDUSTRY ISN'T OVER A BARREL.

Briana Gets Pwn3d!

Mike & Celeste Contemplate How to Spend Our Money

One of the last orders of business before Briana's departure (see previous entries) was for us to establish a college fund for any future Krumboltz. We did so slowly, but surely, by hosting a game of In-Between.

The game would have been much more out of hand, or, as the case may be, out of pocket, had the minimum bet been the customary 5 cents as opposed to the 2 cents we opted for. Nevertheless, here's an [unstaged] example of how much it can hurt to see an ace come up after an ill-advised "Pot it!"

Let's See... I'll Take the Love Seat for $225

As the polls show McCain gaining ground and a tonight's TV listings allude to my beloved Red Sox golfing, I think I'll turn my ire towards Wheel of Fortune.

Whatever happened to the showcases in which contestants were forced to spend their winnings on unfortunate patio sets and trips to Orlando? There was nothing better than watching the color drain out of a winner's face upon realizing he/she had to spend his/her remaining 800 bucks on a lime green barcalounger.

Speaking of Boredom...

Briana's driving Nebraska Interstate 80 today.

Before crossing the border into Nebraska, I would always had to pull over my car and make sure I wasn't carrying any firearms for fear that I would shoot myself in the face upon realizing I still had half the state left to cross.

Even Interstate 80's own website seems to detest that stretch of highway, implying that the best part of I-80 is getting the fuck off I-80. And I quote: "Interstate 80 in Nebraska is notable for its 25 safety rest areas, which are spaced about 35-50 miles apart and often offer tourist information."

So while I do have you in my thoughts today, sweet baby, I assure you that, in those thoughts, you are nowhere near North Platte.

I'll leave you with the crown jewel of I-80, The Great Platte River Road Archway Monument.


Somehow a photograph can't capture the sheer splendor of a prefabricated giftshop hovering over 4 lanes of blacktop.

Idling Mind

Downtime is a big part of this gig.

Fortunately, having a verdant and industrious brain, I spend that downtime constructively. Namely, I watch sports and, during commercial breaks, play online games.

Sometimes I chew gum.

Regardless, the gauntlet is thrown, people: I encourage you to check out Bookworm and/or Gems Swap 2 and walk (well, sit) an 8-hour shift in my shoes.

King Midas himself couldn't get more gold bricks than this:



And if you're a glutton for punishment, feast your eyes on GS2 level 19.

If you can hit level 20 and prove it with a screen shot, I'll mail you a check for $100.*

Better still, suggest a game that you think I'm missing out on... God knows I have time to give it a trial run.

*Made out to Brawny Smurf

Witty Reporte

A Steve Greenberg cartoon.

*frown*

Briana left this morning for 4 months of sunshine and boat drinks.

That's right, she's headed to Milwaukee.

So I'm sad.

Luckily, I'll soon have something constructive to do to help pass the time: this thing.

Drive safely, Milady... I'll be getting ripped abs and eating the best sushi on earth and pining for you in the meantime.

Final Fantasy Baseball Standings

You've been waiting 162 games for this post... come get some.

A Film by Brett Ratner
5th of 9

Pasqual's Headhunters*
2nd** of 12

Bay Area Hitters
2nd of 16

Big Time Keeper League
11th of 20


ADDED BONUS:

Least appropriate team names, 2008:
5 In The Pink
Urine For A Treat
Suspicious Bulge
Nice ( . ) . )
I Meant Caulk
Silent Flacidity
Ripe For Pipe
Slippery Shillelagh
Love Stains Eternal
Prof. Slipperyfinger

Dirty team names are a point of pride for any serious fantasy player, and can really take the sting out of a losing week, month, or, as is often the case for poor moi, year.

P.S. - If you can offer any suggestions for future namesakes, please deposit them in the COMMENTS section below, which I read biannually.

How's that for interactive?

*2nd consecutive league in which I've overtaken Audio Aaron on the final day of the season... last year's hockey championship being the coup de grâce, of course.

**Read it and weep, Georgie... thats $20 for my finishing in the top 3, and another $20 for beating your litigious Michigan ass.

Makisupa News, Dude

Uh oh.

Phish is reuniting next year?

Somewhere in yonder Rocky Mountains, a certain phan is beeming. Beeming I tells ya.

Keep her away from sugar for a while, Dougie Boy.

I would normally relate the tale of seeing Phish from the 2nd row at Alpine Valley at this point, but (A) certain squares who declined to go always get peeved, and (B) I'm fairly certain blog entries can be submitted in courts of law, and neither Kaukauna nor I would welcome any jailtime.

Truth be told, though, listen to that show and see why being a hippie can be worth all the dating of hirsute women and the building of elaborate gravity bongs.

So, my friends*, let us rejoice...

*Fuck you McCain

An Emasculatory Development For Yours Truly

Having already been soundly throttled by the fair Briana at both billiards and tennis (in consecutive days no less), I tactfully suggested a trip to my latest backyard find, the Par 3 wonderland that is the Montclair Golf Course.

Average hole length? I'm haven't the foggiest clue. However, it's farcically short. I'm fairly certain that you could spit a three over par.

Alas, since Briana hadn't held a golf club since 7th grade*, we opted for the adjacent driving range, which was essentially a double decker sports bar with artificial turf mats strewn sporadically about. The yardage markers (decrepit, hand-painted oil drums) were hilariously inaccurate and the target area was military-grade scorched earth.

Yet despite these handicaps, and one nuclear strength bloody mary, Briana put on a display of mental and athletic fortitude worthy of my praise and, ultimately, envy.

Her inner dialogue: "Steady head. Knees stay bendy. Easy now... keep the eyes and head down. Slowwww back swing... don't turn those hips yet. Accelerate through the ball. Oh fuck yes that was sweet. Strike a pose. Now strut. Shit yeah... where's that bloody mary?"

I've unwittingly stumbled upon yet another pastime at which my beloved Briana Jo will keep me perpetually humble.

Also, pissed.

*7th grade gym requirement. Memorable golf tip? When swinging, pretend you're in a pickle barrel.

As Opposed To A Flat Ravine

As promised, some vistas from our excursion to the pristine chunk of rock and seashore known as Steep Ravine, right off Highway 1.




Not pictured: The raccoon[s?] that was/were brave enough to trot into our camp in search of our yummy camping stew, made yummier still after I rediscovered my favorite condiment ever, MSG, known in European circles as Aromat.

Sidebar: Ladybugs in the Muir Woods are, um, plentiful:

From Steep Ravine

Sidebar II, "Revenge of the Sidebar": We watched Bulworth last night, Briana for the first time and I for the first time in years. This movie has been severely re-edited for DVD, and, now, borderline sucks. Briana thinks I am making all this up. Furthermore, as I can't find any online evidence of said conspiratorial re-editing (seriously, this film used to be pretty interesting, if not downright inspired), George is getting upset. If any of you loyal readers can bring forth proof of the massive chop-job done upon the once-great Bulworth, I will mail you an autographed photograph of Barack Obama.*

Fortunately, the evening was salvaged by one of the more fun-to-watch films of all time, Dead Again. Cozy Carlisle, baby.

That reminds me of two movies that Douglas and I rewatched whilst living in Portland... movies we went from remembering fondly to hating with the white hot passion of a thousand suns and, accoringly, loathing ourselves for ever thinking were decent in the first place: The Abyss, and Glory.

Both of them horrible.

*Autographed by my neighbor Carol.

Getzan Getz Some

This should have been posted a couple of days ago, but in my hurried (and, it should be noted, lackluster) preparation for camping at Steep Ravine (a devine time had by all... more on that soon), I didn't find the time to say:

CONGRATULATIONS

DOUG & ING

The news made my day, week, and year.

At present, however, my day is on the verge of being ruined because I can't place a quote that's running through my head. I think its from a TV show, but perhaps 'twas a flick. All I know is that our protagonist (a nephyte politician?) does something stupid in front of a lot of people (at an interview?) and turns to an advisor of some sort (who is sitting down... I don't know why I know that) and says, "Uh oh. Was that bad?" and the advisor, trying to stay upbeat, admits, reluctantly, "It wasn't great."

I recall it being quite funny.

Help me. These things torture me for days.

Anywho, stay tuned for epic tales of bravery and resourcefulness regarding last night's battle with the elements and, more fantastically, Godless Raccoons of Death.

Special Double Feature

Hold your collective breath, bitches... BumperSmash (!) proudly presents the first-ever DoppleYahoo!ganger-Mug-a-Palooza:




Wes Littleton

AND

Jiff Ramsey




That film had its moments by the way, and is one of three known Eddie Murphy films not to feature a fatsuit.

Some Of My Finer Moments

As part of my exhaustive research for this post (typing "TYME" into google), I discovered that the Automated Teller Machine of choice during my formative years was actually an acronym for "Take Your Money Everywhere".

Huh. Who knew?

Moving on:

I suppose the thought process of TYME's crack naming committee had something to do with the "time is money" adage.

However, what the naming committee somehow did not foresee was a certain Wisconsin student's penchant for getting fall-down drunk his junior year abroad in London, England and frightening local shopowners by asking to be pointed in the direction of the nearest time machine.

Or maybe they did foresee that and I'm just not giving them enough credit.

Must Miss

So I was taking in some college football on the boob tube and, in between Michigan Wolverines' fumbles, I saw saw a preview for "My Best Friend's Girl."

It begs the question: can you think of a less appealing comedic duo than Dane Cook and Jason Biggs? I can think of only one.

Speaking of which: here's a great book in which the author explains how Bio-Dome was part of God's plan.

No, really.

State of the Gallimaufry...

..."gallimaufry" being a word [derived from Gallant] I discovered whilst revisiting the columns of Digby Anderson... required reading from my all-time favorite college course, Plants and Man, which, despite being a ludicrously-difficult course test-wise (multiple choices from hell*... average scores were often well below 50%), did allow us to brew beer in lieu of a mid-term.

But I digress.

gal·li·mau·fry means medly or hodgepodge, so with the title of this post I am inferring that there are any number of things about which I might update you, my discerning reader[s?]. Sadly, most of the afore-mentioned things are rather boring unless they are happening to you. This phenomenon is intrinsic to all blogs and other people's stories about other people's cats.

Disclaimer aside:

1. I'm getting a new bed! Whoopity-Poo! It's from Keetsa and it is ultra-firm**.

2. Some idiot cleaned one of our betta's tanks with the slightest amount of dish soap only to find out that doing so is advisable only if you want your fish to sleep with the fishes.

3. Camping at the Steep Ravine in a couple weeks; rumour has it that one can actually dig one's own hot springs on the beach at low tide. This will provide at least one humorous anecdote (and/or horrible burn) I assure you.

4. Briana just got up so I'm going to go make coffee before she... oh she just did it.

5. I'm going to go anyway. There are several other little components of the gallimaufry but they'll have to wait.

*ACTUAL EXCERPT FROM UW-MADISON's BOTANY 240: PLANTS & MAN MULTIPLE CHOICE TEST:

"Warning: some of the multiple choice answers may be true statements in themselves but do not address the opening statement. I have used that strategy as a standard maneuver to select between those who understand the question vs those who only know that an irrelevant statement is true. Make sure your option is not only true, but also that it addresses the point raised by the opening statement for the question. The form requires numbered options as well as numbered questions, so to avoid confusion, the option numbers are preceded by a letter eg. j9. If you fill in two blanks you get no credit like a wrong answer. Do fill in something for each question, because a blank gets no credit just like a wrong guess."

**I'm sorry, but that is what she said.

For Goodness' Sake

Watching McCain/Palin overtaking Obama/Biden in the polls is crushing my spirits.

I can not blog "funny" until I see some sign that this coutry isn't doomed to willingly deal [yet another] crippling blow to our own economic/diplomatic/moral/educational/etc. future.

It's "Fight Club" on a grand socio-political scale. Hopefully we'll knock ourselves unconscious before we do too much more damage.

We are being milked.

Fuck.

It's Just Been Rainin' On My Face

I'm Not Cryin'

FADE IN:

INT. - 2pm - A LIVING ROOM IN PORTLAND, OREGON

Three 20-somethings, NATHAN GALLANT, DOUG SHEFLIN, and JOSH CINELLI, enter the room and plop exhaustedly upon a dilapidated couch. Doug carries with him a basketball, and it is clear from the boys' sweat-stained clothing that they were very recently playing a game of pickup.

DOUG

(TO NO ONE IN PARTICULAR)

So hot.

Josh grabs a remote control from the cluttered coffee table and points it at the television. TBS' afternoon presentation of "Field of Dreams" flickers to life.

INSERT: SCENE FROM "FIELD OF DREAMS" - THE DAUGHTER OF KEVIN COSTNER'S CHARACTER HAS FALLEN OFF A RICKETY GRANDSTAND AND AS A RESULT IS CHOKING ON A HOT DOG. AN OLD-TIME BALLPLAYER RUNS TOWARDS HER, BUT STOPS JUST SHORT OF THE CHALK ALONG THE FIRST BASE LINE.

DISSOLVE TO:

SAME LIVING ROOM - 31 SECONDS LATER

The boys sit in apparent discomfort. While each continues to wipe sweat from his brow, a CLOSE UP OF THEIR EYES reveals that much of the wiping is actually of the corners of the eyes. Nathan sniffles audibly.

FADE OUT

THE END

True story.

An eerily-similar scene transpired years later in a [dilapidated] Providence, Rhode Island living room whilst watching "Big Fish" with Ingrid and, again, Doug. That particular time I was so embarrassed by my girlish blubbering that, by the time I noticed that my respective roomies were also waterworks (thereby officially making it OK to wipe), a veritable reservoir of sadness had accumulated in the little bowl at the base of my neck.

Dare I suggest that these are particularly difficult situations for guys?

Yes, dare I do.

Man etiquette dictates that (1) the stronger sex must hide any evidence of film-related bawling, especially from other men, and (2) a man must not purposely see any other man cry. This is why, invariably, there is an extraordinarily largely amount of airborne particulates in a room when a movie gets sad; moreover, sad parts prove a perfect time for the refilling of drinks and/or the checking of voicemail and/or remembering you have to get up early so you should head straight to bed without saying goodnight because you don't want to ruin the end and besides you just remembered you've seen this movie anyways.

If these options are not available (or if getting up from the couch would cause the pool of tears from your neck to soak through the top of your gray and therefore moisture-sensitive t-shirt), man etiquette decrees a Stare-Straight-Ahead-At-The-Television-Under-Any-And-All-Circumstances posture. In either the "Big Fish" or "Field of Dreams" scenario, Doug could have been on fire and I would not have noticed.

Uh oh. This post got all long on me.* I'll end it by imploring you, my faithful reader[s?], to respond to this post with your tales of lachrymose movie-going, or at least those films that proved to be a fountainhead of your shameful whimpering. And before you hesitate to do so for fear of ruining your street cred, I'll admit that I cried at the end of "The Iron Giant," so nothing you write could possibly trump that.

*That's what she said.

Doppelganger-palooza

If there's one thing people wish they could alter about my personality, it would be my smell. When I explain that personalities don't smell, they say they were just trying to broach the subject politely.

If there's a second thing people wish they could change about me, it's my penchant for thinking that somebody "looks exactly like" somebody else. Actually, just thinking that wouldn't be a problem; I tend to point it out. Repeatedly. But now, thanks to the interweb, I can share with you, my loyal readers [Ingrid and Audio] some of my favorite examples of the phenomenon.

For my premiere Doppleganger-palooza, you get a double doozy! Kenny, of La Rocca's fame, always reminded me of a young Bruce Bochy, but then it came to my attention (over several vodka tonics with friends) that his true likeness is that of Mark Loretta. I grudgingly concede to the Lorettaphiles, but I'm not too far off.

Behold!

Kenny and an unidentified ho-bag.

Mark Loretta prepares to throw wide to 1st.

I remind Kenny that he looks like Bruce Bochy.

Bruce Bochy weighs his options. (SpoilerAlert! He has none.)

Briana's Subtle Shifts

Hooray! It's Art Day!

Courtesy Vinnie and, to a lesser extent, Yours Truly.

Tanuja finds inner peace in my old North Beach apartment...

Fish In A Barrel

I vowed "No more Yahoo! Sports mugshot posts."

Then Jamie Walker came into my life.


Remember that kid who ate paste
in 8th grade? He's on the Orioles.

Guitar Hero For Those Of Us Without A Video Game System

1. Go HERE. The first random Wikipedia article you get is the name of your band.

2. Go to Random quotations. The last four words of the very last quote of the page is the title of your first album. If you want to do this again, you'll hit refresh to generate new quotes, because clicking the quotes link again will just give you the same quotes over and over again.

3. Go to flickr's Explore the Last Seven Days. Third picture, no matter what it is, will be your album cover.

4. Put it all together, that's your debut album.

5. If you're cool, you'll get into intravenous drug use.

My first attempt ruled, though I think we may be Icelandic or something:

My band, Nokdumuk, released our first album, thing to be acheived, with this album cover (which is a video, so we, as a band, are breaking all kinds of ground here; I think the cover will be made like those old "motion" stickers that moved when you tilted your viewing angle).

UPDATE: I just spent an hour trying to find those stickers somewhere online. Surely somebody out there knows what I'm talking about. When scratched they made that zipper sound.

There's a dong joke there somewhere, but I'm above it. Someone get me those stickers.

Still Bitter

It's been well over three years since Threadless rejected my t-shirt submission due to copyright infringement concerns:

Click for larger version. Is the text extraneous?

This was, of course, well before I met Andy Dick in La Rocca's. But really, Crispin was a far bigger trainwreck than Andy methinks. Let's go to the tape.

I remember watching that show live. 'Twas jaw-dropping.

As an aside, Briana thinks, nay, knows, that I have something of a problem with t-shirts. I covet them... ache for them. Many of them are too tight according to Doug. Many actually are too tight.
But dem's the breaks says I.



This post got away from me.

Well, here's my new favorite shirt from GirlAndRhino:




Their site seems to be down, but come get some when you're in my hoodie.

Important Update

This is fast becoming an Installment.

I proudly present the Yahoo! Sports Mugshot du Jour:




Cody Ross...
Holding it in til this photo shoot is over.

Kitty Butler's Dresser

If you had any idea what this entry's title is a reference to (and be thankful that you hadn't), you would have somehow been duped into seeing Tipping the Velvet, a magical BBC mini-series with all the subtlety of a flame-throwing day-glo Visigoth on methamphetamines.

Within the first 15 minutes of the show [the title of which is a euphemism for cunnilingus] our virginal Victorian protagonist goes from shucking clams (spoiler alert!) to becoming the personal dresser for a male impersonator with a penchant for changing outifts in rooms with many, many sexily-placed mirrors.

The dialogue and narrative arc was very believable, provided you are riding a unicorn through the golden streets of Atlantis whilst reading this.

In Tipping's honor, I offer one of my favorite all-time movie quotes which, in 4 glorious seconds, conjures up more dramatic resonance and better underscores a character's guarded vulnerability than those hacks from the BBC could possibly fathom:*

"I love the PowerGlove... it's so bad." - Lucas

*I actually love the BBC** but, let's just face it,

they don't know Ninja Gaiden.

**The BBC was also the name of a pizza from

a restaurant I worked at in high school;

the Bacon Broccoli and Cheddar used

mayonnaise*** in lieu of tomato sauce.

***Spelling mayonnaise is a motherfucker.

This Shant Become Habit

This is the easy way out; posting videos musn't be a regular feature of such a discerning, socially-gemane, highbrow blog such as mine. My fish are not interesting to you. I know this. But Gladys was trying to eat Briana and I'm going to pretend that her doing so was an astute (albeit cute) comentary upon the current offshore drilling conundrum.

But this one I just like:


So.... fake? Anybody?

Gladys' Love Tap

An Extended Period Of Time

It's been forever and a day since I've been to a food court. Normally, this would prove an altogether awesome thing, as it would suggest that I haven't been forced to go shopping in a mall recently and became so emaciated and muddle-headed that "Panda King" or "The Great Steak & Potato Co." or "Sbarro's" somehow sound palatable.

However, on the way to work today my nose picked up something that triggered a "Cinnabon" synapse deep within my grey matter, and I wanted nothing more than to bury my clean-shaven face in a cinnamon swirl.

I settled for a bagel with turkey and cream cheese from "Cafe Insalata."

Briana's reading Skinny Bitch, so this may be the last occasion I ever eat meat with a clean conscious. Through her, I will no doubt discover that turkeys can compose simple poetry and play Chutes & Ladders, provided we love them better.

Me. Tired. Beer. Too. Much.

As my brain has atrophied due to three days' exposure to Madison and, accordingly, my debonair and ascetic peers, I offer you my favorite Yahoo! Sports baseball mugshots.

Kobayashi, Francisco, and Laird.

I mean, seriously, Kobayashi is clearly an assassin.

As for the other two, let's just say that they look like two McDonald's employees who aren't allowed near the fryers.

Sconnie Tomorrow Mornie

Kaukauna's wedding beckons.

Off to Madison.

I've spent the better part of two days standing in place spinning in circles preparing for Friday morning, hoping that I can cancel out the hangover spin.

It will not likely work, but Mikey and Becky will still get my very best on Saturday afternoon, as those two lovebirds deserve no less. On the contrary, they deserve much, much more.

I love ya, Cowboy:

Desert Island Installment #1

As I have posited this exercise to every living thing I have ever met, I have a handy response to virtually any desert island querie. I still can't decide which breakfast cereal I'd take along (Life, Cinnamon Toast Crunch, and Peanut Butter Cap'n Crunch are all heavy hitters in that particular debate), but I have thought about such questions with staggering regularity. So often, in fact, that I should probably avoid traveling to any desert islands for fear of an ironic death.

That being the case, we'll forge into the Great Known with the requisite "Three Desert Island Albums, No Mixtapes Allowed, In Any Order."

Beatles - White Album

Pixies - Doolittle

Public Enemy - Fear of a Black Planet

I am suddenly reminded of an enormous 100 disc CD player I had in college. When put in shuffle mode, there were certain songs that would get played far more often than the would "random" would ordinarily suggest. We (the roomies and I) realized that the thing clearly had a personality, and began to look for signs of intelligence. And while I never caught my CD player playing chess or reading Seneca, you could tell who was sitting in the room by which songs it chose.

Now I'm wondering what the rest of my top ten desert island albums would look like. Hmmm... more to come indubitably.

Hey! Look! I'm a wunderkind.

If you're reading this, I can blog from my phone.
If you can not, this has been a waste of 40 seconds.

Muss Dis Mana

No Way That Just Happened

As promised, here's my abbreviated axiom regarding the existence of alternate universes as proven by Game 4 of the 2004 ALCS, specifically Dave Roberts' 9th inning theft of 2nd base and the subsequent game-tying single courtesy Bill Mueller off of Mariano Rivera (the first of many strange goings on that resulted in Boston winning 4 straight games over the hated Yankees.)

Quite simply, I still don't believe the base-burgle (and the subsequent 7-game Sox victory over the then-invincible Yankees) ever took place. Here's what makes more sense:

It didn't happen.

I haven't decided what exactly did happen, but Occam's Razor and the history of the American League East would suggest that Dave Roberts stole 2nd, then Bill Mueller popped up to 3rd. I, however, would like to advance that Dave Roberts stole 2nd but was somehow called out in yet another Yankee gift . This not only seems possible, it seems probable.

This must be what happened.

I didn't realize it at the time, but when Roberts was called safe I had slipped into a traversable wormhole into what I must now consider to be My Reality. This, of course, is only one of many realities that the fleet-footed Roberts forged that evening. When Roberts was called out (in what I can only refer to as the Probable Reality), I must have flipped the fuck out. Flipped. The fuck. Out.

As I was in New York City at the time watching at The Riv, I probably had a lot of company in spewing vitriolic verbal venom in the general direction of the T.V.

Dozens of half-full $9 Budweisers were made airborne.

But here's the best part: were it not for the wormhole, I, for the rest of my life, along with millions of like-minded Boston fans, would have to argue that the series "might have" "turned out differently" had Roberts been awarded 2nd base. Everyone else, in particular millions of smug Yankee "fans" would guffaw loudly at any such theories and speak of Yankee Magic and 1918 and blah blah blah.

But guess the fuck what, Billy? I'm in the universe where the Yankees choked harder than anyone had ever choked before in the history of organized sport. I can prove that the Roberts steal mattered. It mattered. It wiped the smirks off the collective pin-striped face of the sense of entitlement. There's nothing else I can say about what happened; I haven't sufficient knowledge concerning the intricacies of the spacetime continuum. Surely, though, logic dictates it should have never happened.

But it did happen.

Any Objections?

I believe I'll start posting actual "personal" photos over there in the "Never Learned to Read?" section. Nothing too personal though.

Not that I'm doing anything worthy of such documentation, but I don't recall where I found half of those pictures and I believe in doling out credit when said credit is due. That being the case, props to my gal pal Stacy because hers are the absolute tops, babe.

Coming later tonight: a postulation upon the existence of parallel universes as suggested by Dave Roberts stealing 2nd base in Game 4 of the 2004 ALCS. If that doensn't have you pressing Refresh on your browser of choice, nothing will.

That, but more likely you'll be busy looking up "pr0n."

Football Tent Pole

I may well be imbuing a different brand of nostalgia than you're used to, but I think I speak for all sports fans of discerning taste when I applaud NBC for bringing back the greatest SportsCenter duo of all time. Nights of the Sabbath just got hella hilarious.

Also, NBC: way to go on 30 Rock. That science is tight.

An Ideal [Excuse to Drink w/ Oscar Wilde]

A couple of quick notes:

(1.) For those of you lucky enough to live in this sweltering tinderbox of scorched earth we call Northern California, I encourage, nay, decree, you to do your grey matter a favor and check out An Ideal Husband at the staggeringly-gorgeous Bruns Amphitheater.

And for all you lushes out there, it's BYOBB.

Also, the ingenuous, fair, and literate Briana is stage managing the production, so anything that goes wrong can be directly attributed to her; lightning strikes and/or locusts are somehow her fault in my book. Mine is an awesome book.

(2.) Shifting gears and updating a previous post, the funky handyman Hajji, a.k.a. Rodger Collins, gave me a sneak preview of his new CD, and I don't mind telling you that it kicks your ass and the ass of anything you have hidden inside your ass, pervert.

You'll be hearing a lot of track #2 in the future if I have anything to say about things. Which I of course I do not; but I wish I did, especially if I could throw my voice.