Pee Papparazzo

After skateboarding to work on this beautiful Friday afternoon, I decided a trip to the men's room was in order. The KGO restrooms are the standard fare; the men's is a urine-soaked purgatory covered in plaque-colored tiling, while the lady's is a richly carpeted Xanadu, scented with a potpourri of extinct flowers and attended by towel-and-mint-wielding attendants.

I opted for the bathroom on the main floor, as it is located near the worker's lounge where I could warm up a bowl of my latest crock pot stew ("I Can't Believe It's Not Poison") whilst I was hosing the porcelain. So as I was tending to my business, somebody took up residence at the adjoining urinal.
As per the time-honored Code of Men, I did the standard half glance over and half nod, which is a gesture meant to convey "Hey there... I hope you have an enjoyable time pissing next to me for the next 15 seconds but don't get any ideas" through one manly bit of body language.

This is what I saw.

I have to stop using this restroom. There are far too many strange guests of our afternoon show running happily about. Two weeks ago I peed next to Jimmy Carter.

Perhaps I could author a coffee table book consisting solely of close-ups of the sides of celebrities' faces, all of whom are taking a leak and trying to ignore me. "Pissing Greatness: My Career In Television"

Did The Airbag Go Off Or Are You Just Glad To See Me?

Whilst watching the first of 8 consecutive hours of the NCAA tournament, I took an opportunity during a commercial break to grab a healthful snack in the form of a 3-day old fish burrito.

Upon reentering the living/loving room, mine eyes fell upon the television at the following, rather unfortunate, moment... I'm going to suggest that the new Chevy Traverse advertisement could stand to lose this portion of the sales pitch:

"Hey! Aren't you Howie Long?"

I could not eat the burrito.

What Dreams May Come or: How I Learned To Stop Worrying and Love the Giant Penguin

Presently it is 5:45 in the ante meridiem and, mere moments ago, I was hiding out from the mob in a clothing/aquarium store that featured a six-foot-tall free-roaming penguin, some scattered electronics, and hundreds upon hundreds of thick, long-sleeve shirts (only available color: dark red).

Were one to consult a dream dictionary, a cursory interpretation of my nightly meanderings through the netherworld would tout an unprecedented window into my repressed fears, desires, and unholy marriages of the two. But such theorizing can only go so far methinks; if you dream of getting an epic blowjob from a woman named Burrito, you went to bed horny and hungry... you are not wrestling with some sort of important career decision. Unless you're currently boning your day-shift manager at Señor Sancho's.

But this morning, as I awoke startled and smelly, I made a stunning revelation regarding my most recent dream; I could trace even my most fanciful hallucinations to the events of the previous day, a day spent in and around Berkeley with the Fair Briana as we awaited her car windows being fixed. Long story.

So I present to you a laundry list of a few of the dream's more prominent characters and props along with what sparked them.

1) Who/What/WTF: Towards the beginning of the dream, Gary Oldman (dressed as Commisioner Gordon) was shot in the chest for being an informant. That's how all good dreams start out. What planted the seed: Briana and I went to see a matinee of "Coraline" and three of the thater's five screens were showing "Watchmen," which sent me on a diatribe about how ridiculous it is when people say things like "Finally, a serious comic book movie." The new Batman flicks are no exception, nerd.

2) Who/What/WTF: Vincent Pastore, a.k.a. Salvatore "Big Pussy" Bonpensiero, was the guy doing the shooting. What planted the seed: after deciding that we are no longer into "Tell Me You Love Me," the better half and I thought it's time to check back in with Tony and Carmella, season four. Alternatively, I'm terrified of pussies.

3) Who/What/WTF: Gary Oldman's body falling onto an enormous cutting board. What planted the seed: cutting up carrots for Briana's tofu Thai feast, which stood as my only contribution apart from moral support.

4) Who/What/WTF: A vaguely Scandinavian family, all wearing dark Ray Ban sunglasses. What planted the seed: the family was an obvious amalgam of the many inconspicuous tourists that were roaming the streets, but the glasses were spurred by my astute observation that there was "some sort of blind person convention in town or something."

5) Who/What/WTF: A 20-feet-tall woman wearing rain boots. What planted the seed: Mr. Bobinsky, from "Coraline."

6) Who/What/WTF: The afore-mentioned giant penguin, who was looking at an aquarium and, in a comedic moment I can not hope to do justice in writing, gave a passing female shopper a condescending look. What planted the seed: I walked by a credit union on Shattuck Avenue and took a few seconds to figure out what their logo was supposed to be.

7) Who/What/WTF: The store I was hiding out in (Gary Oldman had survived the attempt on his life) had a huge display of eggs for sale. They were labeled Mackerel, Herring, "Fish", and Baby Penguin [?!]. What planted the seed: this one's a two-fer. The eggs themselves were a conversation point over brunch at La Note, where we took great pleasure in ordering, and subsequently consuming, our "oeufs." The contents of the dream oeufs were courtesy our pre-dinner run to the the local soon-to-be-its-own-zip-code Safeway, where I inexplicably felt compelled to buy fish sauce despite reading the list of ingredients.

Okay that's enough of that.

But while on the subject, a party who wishes to remain nameless is offering a handsome reward for anyone who can get her significant other to stop snoring. Handguns are to be considered a last resort, unless you know a guy.

Frippery

As my daily interweb regimen has been devoted almost exclusively to a potent time-wasting cocktail of Scrabble, exhaustive fantasy baseball research, and laughing at this guy's before/after photo, BumperSmashing has proven to be a low priority.

However, a desultory instant message from one Nicholas Desbiens, a dear pal from the Marshy Fields of central Wisconsin*, has rekindled my blogging fire via a fond reminiscence of a particularly miraculous card trick we performed one sweltering summer's day at a Minneapolis journalism camp.**

But I'm not going to write about that yet.

To bide the time, I'll share with you an entirely infantile chestnut from the vault courtesy the online yearbook I somehow stumbled upon, most likely whilst google-stalking ex-girlfriends.***

In yon high school days, the acme of hilarity was the fact that Chris D. and Sean B. were, for lack of a better term, inseparable.

There you have it.

SIDE NOTE: Our assistant principal was named Harley Davison.

*Please note that Marshfield is home
to both the world's largest round barn
and the world's largest urinal.
Suck on that, Europe.

**Holy fuck I was dorky.

***Only kidding, honey.

Of Tubed Wasabi and Other Goings On

Given that the only newsworthy event of the previous week[s] was The Fair Briana's Triumphant Return, the editing staff here at BumperSmash have had a galling time forging a post worthy of our collective approval, and, moreover, one that adheres to the unique blend of journalistic integrity and entertainment you the reader expects but rarely deserves.

I am now, however, happy to report that contemporaneous with Briana's return were a series of minor happenings that, en masse, are mildly entertaining.

(1 : 100,000 Scale)

1. "So, Round Eyes Thinks He Can Make Sushi"
High on my list of Least Well-Thought-Out Gifts was my lavishing upon Briana a pseudo-gourmet sushi set. Taking into account the fact that I bestowed said gift while she was still living in Wisconsin, where access to sushi-grade ahi is not exactly the point of fishing, I suspect that by this holiday season I'll streamline the process by doling out Glenn Beck Studio Store gift certificates to loved ones and explaining where hamburgers come from to random children I pass on the street.

Sensitivity in the field of gift-giving notwithstanding, Briana and I decided to try out the new set by treating Krumbo and Celeste to a delightful evening of authentic Japanese cooking and/or traditional food poisoning. After preparing just the right amount of rice, we took our neatly portioned ingredients over to Chateau Celeste and soon set up a dedicated spilling-shit station. The floor and counter space newly rich in nutritional content, we eventually put together what could technically be called sushi in that it contained raw fish and was cut into roughly bite-sized pieces.

Unfortunately for all those involved, Chez Gallant was in charge of the nigiri, for which the ingredient list included delicately sliced ahi tuna, a shoebox-sized brick of gluey rice, and just a scintilla of scarily-labeled tubed wasabi, henceforth known as the bottled hellfire of a million lost souls.

I can safely say that the only reason Mike and Celeste are still on speaking terms with yours truly is because I sampled the nigiri first. Upon placing the roll in my mouth, I almost immediately noticed a mild sensation of heat. My next ten minutes were spent with lips upon the refrigerator's water dispenser as the other dinner guests expressed amusement at the lingering effects of my spice miscalculation.

2. "Your Wii BMI Rating Is: Whale Shark"
Another exciting [see: spirit-crushing] development since Briana's return was our unveiling of the Wii Fit, which was designed to help the American gaming public gain the same healthy body image of Nintendo's Japanese programmers.

As you have no doubt guessed, I was absolutely thrilled with Wii's assessment of my athletic prowess. Upon taking the preliminary Body Mass Index test, my meticulously-crafted "Mii" morphed from a cartoon likeness of myself to a cartoon likeness of a flesh-colored 6'5" bowling pin and I was promptly given a week to live. Then, grainy footage of Pearl Harbor newly crisp in my mind's eye, I was told that I am not only morbidly obese but also have the body of a 51-year-old.

3. "Honey, In This Economy, We Can't Afford Not To Buy These 3-Pound Bags Of Imitation Cinnamon Toast Crunch"
At the risk of being crass, I'm just going to come right out and say it: I want to get in Target's pants. It's not that I love Target; it's that I want to get it into the back seat of my old car and get it pregnant.

Probably Not The High Point Of Tony Bennett's Career

And thanks to Briana (and, more to the point, her car) I was recently able to get to my local Target location and do some shopping with just me, my best gal, and a bargain-induced bulge in my trousers. Bless her heart, Briana still makes a shopping list, but luckily I was able to do some solo exploring (two floors worth of big big savings) and came away with an industrial strength crock pot, six pairs of tiny tiny boxer briefs, a very haute shower curtain rod, enough sugary cereal to reanimate the recently dead, and, in a daring bit of last second mid-checkout-line bravado, a junior-sized box of Junior Mints.

The purchase that got away, I'm sad to report, was a cheap braided area rug that I was talked out of after a series of "We can find something better"s despite, admittedly, some tearful begging on my part. Truth be told, it wasn't the perfect fit for the look we're going for in our apartment ("Fuck, is everything we fucking own from fucking Ikea" chic), but when I'm on a roll at Le Targét, almost any rug will do.

Lo The Floods They Did A' Cometh

Over the past three days I've noticed some subtle changes in the view from my kitchen window. Whereas I once had a view of your typical California parking lot, this morning I couldn't help but find the vista somewhat less serene.

The good thing about torrential rain is that it provides an excuse for my doing what I do best, namely sit on the couch in various states of undress and illegally download music in front of televised women's volleyball. If I'm really feeling motivated, I'll clean out Gladys' fish bowl or even do some spring cleaning.

But not this weekend; thanks to The Merry Krumbster, I spent 9 hours frying up various incarnations of turkey-based meat products.

You see, after graciously accepting a slightly used cast-iron skillet from Mike, I scoured the interweb for tips and tricks on how to restore and re-season my newly-acquired cookware. After concluding that most of the precedures described online were devised as a joke by teenagers on acid ("Now, use a halved potato to scrub off any excess wheat germ") I opted to take things into my own hands.

Step One: Removal of Toxic Oxidation

For reasons I can not hope to explain, I poured day-old coffee grounds and kosher salt into the pan and attacked the skillet with both great prejudice and a heavy-duty sponge. About ten minutes into the process, I looked up from the sink and realized that anybody who had bothered to glance into my window during this time had witnessed a large pasty bald man from the waist up, vigorously pumping his right arm up and down. Given that I was also shirtless, I decided that I would wait for the police to arrive while moving on to:

Step Two: Seasoning & Scorched Earth

If the online resources are to be trusted, seasoning requires only some food with a high fat content, a stove top or oven, and a doctorate in Advanced Thermodynamics. As for the food portion of the equation, Briana is not yet back from her Midwest Odyssey, so my kitchen pantry left very few seasoning options outiside of Bisquick, two types of hot sauce, and expired Toaster Strudel. Since venturing out-of-doors to Trader Joe's was not a viable option, I prayed my bachelor freezer might provide some inspiration.

Six turkey burgers, a pound of turkey bacon, and two pints of canola oil later, I was making some progress, as evidenced by my having to disable the smoke detector in the living room. When my eyes began to sting from airborne bacon, I concluded that any further "seasoning" would be foolish without consulting somebody with more experience working under these conditions. I finished the skillet in the oven set at broil and spent the rest of the night lying on the floor below the noxious blue haze and breathing through a wet towel.

Step Three: The Making of Toxic Egg Dishes

By the next day the skillet was no longer in gaseous form, but was, amzingly, still hot to the touch. In the name of metallurgy-based fine cuisine, I talked myself into formulating a breakfast menu worthy of my new cookware. Completely unable/unwilling to do that, I opted for the predictable menu of Turkey & Spinach & Mushroom Frittata with Turkey Bacon and a side of turkey bacon. Though the iron content of the meal was probably a tad on the high side, the results were surprisingly delicious.

Enjoy your meal.

I just have to avoid magnets for a few weeks.

In a related story, perhaps iron poisoning helps explain my dream last night in which I was in a plane crash with a George W. Bush look-a-like and about 100 girls all dressed like the daughters in "Little House on the Prairie."

And oh, going all the way back to the downloading of music in my skivvies, somebody please help me figure out the organ sample used in this song. Since I'm probably violating several copyright laws, I can only tell you that the band's name rhymes with Fortishead. Anyways, it isn't the theme song to "Taxi," as I originally posited.

This post really changed direction there in the end.

AT&T Is Just Not That Into You

How to Lose A Customer in 10 [non-consecutive] Days:

December 3, 2008:

Field a phone call from well-heeled prospective customer (henceforth referred to as The Mark) who is interested in having life-affirming U-verse cable/internet package installed in his apartment at big, big savings. Before allowing him to speak to a customer service expert, be sure your speech recognition phone menu system can not tell the difference between "YES" and "NO" and that your on-hold music was selected by insane Belgian octogenarians. Secure the first available (see: arbitrary) installation date, which is supposedly a goddam month and a half from now.

January 16, 2009*:

Given that The Mark expects you between the hours of noon and 2:00pm, call him [at work] at 3:55pm to let him know that you've been "ringing the bell over and over but nobody's answering."

Optional: that morning, deploy covert observation expert to laugh at The Mark unplugging current cable box and TV and DVD Player and pulling the entertainment center away from the wall and cleaning up dust bunnies/tumbleweed in anticipation of imaginary AT&T installation appointment.

Later That Day (Revenge of January 16, 2009):

After upping the on-hold musical ante, inform The Mark that you are unable to reschedule until the installation expert calls dispatch to confirm that the appointment was indeed missed. When The Mark offers to put his goldfish on the phone to help explain how stupid that statement sounds, assure him that you understand his frustration and will call back within the hour with a new appointment time. Under no circumstance should you call back.

January 17, 2009:

Make sure you staff your phone lines exclusively with Eastern Bloc customer service experts who exhibit only the most tenuous of grasps upon the English language. Offer a bonus to the operator who can get The Mark off the phone the quickest by promising to call back within the hour with a new installation date. Under no circumstance should you call back.

After not calling back three separate times in a 10 hour timespan, return from happy hour and reward The Mark's fourth phone call that day by allowing him to speak to a supervisor. Tell him that all the supervisors are busy and that you'll have a supervisor call him back. Refrain from laughting when he threatens the lives of your loved ones. Grudgingly give in, but first put him on hold.

Contrary to what you might expect, it is okay to employ a helpful supervisor. This allows you to inform The Mark that he has somehow been scheduled for a March 28 installation. Make sure you record the inevitable "You have got to be fucking kidding me" for playback at the next AT&T Holiday Party. Agree to bend the rules and dispatch an installer on the 19th, MLK Day. Go home, but be sure to call taxis for those who have been drinking.

How can I crush your will to live today?

January 18, 2009
Deploy two service vans to the street The Mark bikes en route to play tennis. Be sure that one driver is asleep and his coworker is smoking with his eyes closed.

January 19, 2009
Have a young-ish looking technician arrive late, but not too late; remember, you want to beat the AT&T record for lengthiest chain yank. Have the technician thank The Mark for unplugging everything (again) and moving the furniture (again) and accept a cup of joe from the gracious host. Now have the technician tell him that he can't install anything because the outlets aren't grounded. Finish the coffee whilst explaining that somebody on the phone should have warned him about that. Leave.

January 20-24, 2009
See January 17, 2009

January 25, 2009
Have the supervisor apologize for the slight misunderstanding. Reschedule for January 31. Take this opportunity to mock The Mark by sending him several "Start enjoying your new service‏" emails.

January 30, 2009
Call The Mark at 8:30am and leave a message saying he somehow already missed tomorrow's appointment and ask if he'd like to reschedule. When he calls later that day to speak to the supervisor's supervisor, you know what to do. Tell him tomorrow's appointment is still a go and that the morning's phone call was just a glitch. Give the automated phone system a raise.

January 31, 2009
Be sure the installation team is only 5 minutes late. Thank The Mark for making coffee and unplugging everything (again) and moving the furniture (jinx!) and assure him that the outlets look up to code. Now ask to be let into the locked basement.

Fucking run for it.

*70 degrees and sunny... bonus points.

Breaking Breaking News

You will know I have won the lottery when I do this.

Homework Assignment

Someone help figure out which writer for the kinda-good "Psych" went to the University of Wisconsin. He very subtly gave a shot out to the alma mater by giving football players in the latest episode names of Bevell, Fletcher, Dayne and Bollinger.

I assume the character of Bucky was written out.

Mad Libs Gone Awry

If one could somehow condense the six months Dougie and Ingie and I spent in Providence down to thirteen seconds, I daresay it would look something like this.