Muffled Shrieks from the Platypussary

RIP, Buddy

2008-09-27T09:32:00.000-07:00

Thanks for everything, Mr. Newman.

The VP who says "Ni"

2008-08-29T16:08:00.001-07:00

WOW! What a headline!! "McCain picks Palin for VP" I didn't think that anything in the universe could make me vote Republican this year, but McCain, you crafty old Muppet-lookin' buzzard, you've sold me. Michael Palin for VP? Are you kidding me? One of the Python boys a heartbeat away from the presidency? Sure, the Dems will hit you hard on the constitutionality of a UK citizen as VP, but stand your ground- this is the coolest thing ever! The debates this year will be about African vs. European swallows. Foreign policy will be determined by not expecting the Spanish Inquisition. Hey, maybe you could show up to your inauguration clapping coconut halves together and riding imaginary horses! That would be so aweso....what? SARAH?!?!? Um..... nevermind.

I'm a dork

2008-08-27T17:30:00.000-07:00

I'm no diehard political junkie, but I've always enjoyed checking out the party conventions every four years. I don't have the patience or interest for watching every minute or listening to every speech, but I'm really glad that today I got to see my favorite part of any convention: the roll call of state votes. Yes, I know it's weird that I'm into that, but I've loved it all my life. It's so damn silly and hilarious that it just fills me with glee. Giddy delegates who just came from the bar across the street, having a big party on the convention floor, delivering self-conscious soliloquies like, "Madame Secretary, the great state of Podunkia, home of the world's largest hairball, birthplace of Paul Lynde, realm of the richest deposits of sandy loam in the Western Hemisphere, where the sky hits the horizon and the horizon likes it, home of the only state capitol built entirely underground, creators of the swivel chair, the long-handled duster, and the creamiest of creamy nougats, proudly casts its votes...." God, I love that crap. I want to be a delegate someday just so I can do that.

I lived in Bruce Wayne's penthouse

2008-08-19T21:15:00.000-07:00

Okay, not exactly. Here's the deal:

I finally got around to seeing "The Dark Knight" a couple days ago. Good movie, but that's not what this is about. Chicago again plays the role of Gotham City, but it seems to be more prominent in this one. More locations that are obviously Chicago, except they mostly avoid lingering shots of the Sears Tower or John Hancock Building or whatever that would make it REALLY obvious (though they do linger on the twin cylindrical towers of Marina City, which I thought was kind of odd since it's a pretty famous Chicago landmark).

I'm no Chicago expert, but I've spent several years going to tradeshows there and getting very familiar with the hookers and drug dealersI MEAN familiar with a, say, six-block area in the heart of downtown. It seems about half of the location shooting for the movie was exactly in that area, so I was intrigued (and kind of distracted) by seeing something I recognized in every other shot. They even shot some stuff at McCormick Place, the bigass convention center I've been to about a shflagillion times.

They're building a new Trump Tower (because there aren't enough of THOSE in the world) right on the Chicago River, and this past April I stayed in a place called Hotel 71- okay, it's not just a "place", it is in fact a hotel- that is directly across the river from it. I had a terrific view from my room, which was on, I think, the second floor from the top. I saw this in one direction (sorry, the white balance went all blue on these shots):

And the Trump building directly ahead:

And some other cool stuff the other direction, but we're not talking about that right now. Anyway, early on in the movie I realized that some interior scenes had a view that could only be from one of the completed lower floors of the Trump building. A little while later, I realized that another building they were zooming in on was Hotel 71. Then, we were in Bruce Wayne's luxurious penthouse, and from the view, it also had to be Hotel 71, right about where my room was!

Anyway- it turned out that half the movie seems to have been shot in or on the Trump building and Hotel 71. The whole climactic scene with the Joker and the hostages and yadda yadda yadda, that was inside Trump and the cops were spotting it from the top of the hotel. Just to confirm I wasn't crazy or stupid- on this point anyway- I checked Reputable Online Sources and discovered that indeed, both buildings were used, and that yes, Mr. Wayne's penthouse was built on the top floor of the hotel, in what I think is a kind of bar/reception hall.

So.....no real point to this, except that it was cool to watch a movie and realize it was practically shot in my hotel room!

How I Became a Film Director

2008-08-06T23:02:00.000-07:00

I thought of something today that hasn't crossed my mind in a while. It amused me. So I'm foisting it upon you, dear readers.

Cast your minds back- those who can go back that far- to the long-ago days of the early 80s. Back then, if you wanted to watch a movie on demand in your home, you had to go to something called a "store" and get a magical item known as a "videotape". Bringing anything back yet?

Okay, let that concept digest a bit, and let's go on to something else. In, oh say about 1984-ish, when I was a young buck still full of piss and vinegar and creativity, my dad bought a top-of-the-line Panasonic VCR with attachable camcorder, a real rarity then. The full VCR unit was actually two connected units, the tuner and the recorder. The recorder unit was portable- you just unplugged it from the tuner, put in a battery unit the size of a '67 Impala, attached the shoulder strap and camera, then slung the assembly over your shoulder and went off to shoot, in theory, videos of the grandchildren. Except that I immediately got hold of it and started shooting my own silly video productions, and even a few wedding tapes on the side.

Okay, back to the rental tapes- you know how if you let the tape run to the end of the credits and beyond, eventually there would be some completely blank tape left before it ran out completely? Well, it occurred to me one day that that tape was just going to waste...

So, a bit of Scotch tape on the "no record" hole on the back of the cassette, and presto! Recordable cassette! My friends and I only did this a couple times- we didn't destroy anything already on the tape, just anonymously stuck a little extra surprise onto the end for anybody that let the tape run too long, and dutifully returned it to the store.

The only ones I remember (maybe the only ones we actually did) were on the Tower Video copies of "The Producers" and "Magical Mystery Tour". One was just a clip of us driving around in somebody's car (faces turned away from the camera), but the other had a bit more production value- we actually made signs, wore paper bags over our heads, and ran around the back parking lot of Fresno State.

That's really all there is to the story. Just hadn't thought about it in a long time, and it made me laugh. I wonder if those tapes still exist somewhere, stuck in somebody's closet after being bought out of the bargain used bin at Tower.

Don't skimp on the Foreplay

2008-07-27T00:58:00.000-07:00

Twenty years ago this month, I was a student at Fresno State, with a double major in Geography and Radio-TV Broadcasting (no, I was in no hurry to graduate, and no, I've never really done anything with either one, career-wise). I was also having fun as a DJ at KFSR, the campus radio station.

My old high school buddy Don- along with some scary Malaysian friend of his who was one of those morning Jazz DJs that we late night Alternative DJs didn't mingle with much- had an idea to get a group together and do a live weekly sketch comedy show. They managed to get four guys together, so they decided to call it Fourplay. Get it?!?!?

I wasn't a part of the first show. Or the second one. But I listened to them, and thought, "I wish they'd call me. I want to do it too! It sounds like fun!"

The call came before the third show. Ron was going to be out of town- so would I come in and help that week? They let me stick around, and the name spelling got changed to Foreplay.

What started as semi-adlibbed live shows with pre-recorded bits eventually morphed into fully produced recorded shows. The quality of writing, performance, and production could be....inconsistent. Along the way, many talented people- often whoever we could grab in the hallway of the Speech Arts building- contributed to the 13 episodes of tarnished splendor that were Foreplay.

It's not overstating it to say that the experience changed my life. That scary Malaysian is almost solely responsible for getting me into theatre. Everything my life is now, for better or worse, can be directly traced back to that moment in time. And yes, to this day, I still enjoy telling people that I met Marcel while doing foreplay together.

The other night, we had a twenty-year reunion. I think it was Don's idea. Good idea, Don.

Marcel's blog here gives a far better take on this than I ever could. In the meantime, enjoy the dulcet tones of one of our hit songs blaring from my profile page.

The Freedom to be Stupid, and Other Stuff

2008-07-04T14:12:00.000-07:00

Look! I'm writing a blog! I've barely been paying attention to Cyberland (there's a theme park idea in there somewhere) for a while- been too distracted and just plain tired to pay it much heed. But here it is, Independence Day, and as I have attained a temporary independence from other obligations, here I sit at the computer. Is it really such an improvement over what I would otherwise be doing? That's for a later debate. For now, I have a few topics that have been bubbling in my head and need to be vented. Yes, I'm backed up- I have Blue Blog.

So, herewith just a few tidbits, as it were- starting with the HANDSFREE LAW.

As all of you in California already know- or most of you anyway- as of July 1st, you can get a ticket for driving with a cell phone held up to your ear. If you want to yak on the road, you have to use a handsfree headset. Fine, in theory, that makes sense and I'm in favor of it. Too many idiots driving with one hand and yammering away instead of paying attention to their driving. Getting that phone out of their hand improves the safety of everyone on the road. OR SO IT WOULD SEEM.

I don't know about you, but my experience with my own so-called handsfree device has proven far more distracting than my phone ever was by itself. I bought my Bluetooth thingy a year or so ago, long before the law, so I could use it on long drives and such- but it's such a pain in the ass that I've never bothered with it around town. Maybe I just need a better headset, but in any event, the whole process sucks.

No matter how thoroughly you've checked your phone settings and Bluetooth connection, it seems that each incoming or outgoing call becomes a savage ballet of confusion and failure. What's that noise in the headset? Oh, I'm getting a call. How do I answer with this thing? Oh yeah, it's this button here. Hello? Hello? Dammit- where's the phone? I'll just answer it on there- hello? HELLO? It says "Transfer sound to headset?" Well, YES you piece of shit, I already connected the headset and was just talking to someone five minutes ago. Why the hell would I suddenly NOT want it in the headset? Hello? SHIT! Lost the call. Okay, call back- YES I want to transfer to the headset, you- hello? HELLO? SHIT!!! Five minutes of this kind of crap is far more distracting than the old school ear-holding ever was, and requires spending more time looking away from the road and occasionally a TWO-handed operation- in the old days, somebody called, I answered, held it up to my ear until done, then hung up. If I needed to for safety, I put the phone down during a call. Dangerously distracting at times? Perhaps, which is why in theory I'm in favor of the law. But if they really want us safer, they should force us to wear the nasty old wired headsets that were so much easier to deal with. Or better yet, outlaw phone-driving completely- and while you're at it, outlaw food-driving, makeup-driving, and all the other things we all do from time to time on the road. I've never been much of a phone-driver anyway, so at least in my case the new law is working, in that in most cases I will probably just wait and talk on the phone later, or park somewhere, rather than facing the teardrop-shaped bud of evil that is my Bluetooth headset.

Next topic- although the above rant is nominally about the Freedom to be Stupid, in that our stupidity on the road is being legislated away, I don't have a big problem with laws that restrict the ability of other people's stupidity to affect me- or vice versa. But the title comes from this: the other day I had to set up a new voicemail system at work, and at one point the pleasant cybervoice on the other end asked me to come up with a PIN code for security, RIGHT NOW. I wasn't prepared to do that, and didn't have time to come up with something clever and memorable for everyone to use. I just wanted to finish setting up the voicemail and get on with my life, and then change the PIN later if it was decided that our voicemail was in grave danger of being compromised by the forces of evil. So, I just picked the last four digits of our phone number. But NO. It wouldn't let me do that. It also wouldn't let me do sequential numbers or four of the same number. It didn't just advise against it, it wouldn't allow it, period. Yes, I know it's for security. But whose? Why is it the phone company's business if I want to pick a stupid PIN? And that got me thinking about all the other institutions that do the same thing- "your password MUST contain both letters and numbers", "your password CANNOT be your email", etc. These private companies are telling us, their customers, that we are not allowed to give in to our own stupidity. Listen, Mister Big Moneypants, I pay you enough every month that if I want my password to be "password", you should let it happen.

Next topic- my belated tribute to George Carlin. I was very sad to hear of his death the other day- we've lost a comic genius. Yes, he made much of his early fame out of a reputation being one of "those 'dirty' comedians", and there are still people who pigeonhole him into that category. But he was never just a guy who told dirty jokes, or who used profanity just to get a cheap laugh. He was one of the most intelligent people ever to set foot on a stage, and was the embodiment of the old cliche about "you laugh, and then you think". Sure, not all his material was "deep"- much of the time, he was just plain funny. And that's probably his most remarkable trait- unlike many famous comedians, George Carlin was innately funny! And he got even sharper, and arguably better, as he got older. That graying old brain of his ran rings around younger performers right up until the end- and he was still damn funny.

Next topic- since giving myself a Christmas present of a handheld GPS unit, I've been kinda getting into geocaching. It's fun. Rather than try to explain it here, I'll just let you go to the link if you don't know what it is.

Next topic- the platypus rant. Okay, so what's the deal with me and the platypus? Many of you know I have a thing for platypi (my preferred plural form), but why? Well, the story isn't much. My friend Alan, through a jokey-nicknamey process, became Badger and then was all about badgers. We were sitting around one day a few years ago and I decided I needed an animal too. I always thought the platypus was an odd and interesting beast, rather like myself, so I picked it. The thing is, it was destiny- the more I learn about platypi, the more I realize my oneness with them: a strange mix of various creatures in one, reclusive and solitary, and even a bit venomous. And now people have started to give me platypus items, I've semi-considered getting one inked on me, and I seriously want to go to Australia specifically so I can see one in person. Crazy.

But the point here is that the name for a baby platypus is one of the cutest things ever: a "puggle". OR SO I THOUGHT. It turns out, as I recently read on an official Australian government wildlife site or something like that, that while many people think baby platypi are called puggles, there really is no official name- it's just "baby platypus". Meanwhile, the infant echidna, the platypus' ugly cousin, is called a puggle. I was shocked by this horrible revelation, as I'm sure you are as well. I knew that the term "puggle" had already been appropriated by the purveyors of that perversion of nature that is a Pug/Beagle cross, and if you Google "puggle" (try saying "Google puggle" ten times fast), that's mostly what you get. Damn their canine hides, they stole our name! Which we didn't even have!

Okay, so if the echidna's a puggle, why not the platypus? Who is in charge of the "official" names for these things? Who are these Zoology Nazis? How do we petition them? Power to the Platypi! Platypus=Puggle forever!

That's it for today. Whew! I feel relieved.

Observations, IL

2008-05-06T00:49:00.000-07:00

I've been meaning to write a little blog about my recent trip to Chicago, but it's clear I'm not really going to do it. There isn't much to say, really- I love the city as usual, the weather was bizarre as usual, the view from my room was much better than usual. Got to see a couple friends, that was cool. Got a sinus infection that's still knocking me on my ass, that's not so cool.

Let's just boil it down to a few observations I made in my travels- there were more, but I can't think of them at the moment.

1. Northwest Airlines planes have a big "NWA" on the side. That's kinda funny.

2. If you're flying to Fresno via Phoenix, your luggage tags say "FAT PHX". That's pretty funny too.

3. No offense to anybody, but let's be honest- of all the military services, the Navy has the gayest uniforms (not that there's anything wrong with that). I mean seriously, what's the deal with that neckerchief thing, anyway? That said, Navy uniforms also look to be the most comfortable.

Eh, that's all I got right now.

Monday appetizer plate

2008-03-31T14:17:00.000-07:00

Two tasty hors d’oeuvres from my life:

1. Many of you know my home, some have even lived in it. It’s a duplex with a tiny front yard and an even tinier back one. But for years I’ve noticed these strange insects that only seem to live here- maybe a few in neighboring yards, but as far as I can tell, most of them are right here on our little plot of land.

They always come out around this time of year, when the weather starts getting warm and sunny. Little holes and mounds pop up all over the yard and these blackish flying things come out and buzz around for about two weeks, then disappear for another year. For a long time I thought they might be termites (they live in the ground and have a flying phase, right?) or something like that- I pretty much assume that the entire foundation of this old house is probably a sea of termites, ants, black widows and roaches, but they mostly have left me alone and I intend to do the same to them.

But these flying things weren’t around at first, then there were a few of them, then more every year, and all they do is buzz around, too quickly for me to get a good look at them. For some reason, they are particularly fascinated by the rusty parts of the old metal posts in the back that hold up an ancient clothesline. Finally, a couple years ago, my curiosity became too much to bear and I caught one in a bottle to see if I could figure out what it was. Once it stopped flying around and finally sat for a moment wondering what the hell happened, I could see it was kind of fuzzy and striped, like a bee, but in darker colors of black and grey.

I went on Ye Olde Internet and went to some insect ID-type sites, and voila! Turns out I had me a Plasterer Bee. Don’t worry, I let it go.

They build little nests in the ground with reinforced walls- hence the name. They tend to live in groups because they’re drawn by the particular conditions of the location, but they’re solitary, non-hive-living bees. They’re docile and rarely sting- if I’m in the yard, they just buzz around and avoid me. After figuring out what they are, I now love my plasterer bees! I actually look forward to them coming out each Spring and it cheers me up when they do, like a good omen for the coming year. They showed up last week, so things are looking good so far!

2. If you can, I highly recommend watching the new "John Adams" miniseries on HBO. If you have any interest in history, human drama, sumptuous production design or rich, nuanced acting, you will find something to like here. It’s a wonderful warts-and-all look at the early years of the US and the man who was perhaps the single most important driving force behind its creation, yet he has often been pushed to the side in our general vision of the Founding Fathers because he was uncharismatic, abrasive, and unattractive.

Paul Giamatti is my new acting hero. Sure, he’s been in a lot of things before, and I think I’m probably the only person on the planet who thought that "Sideways" was highly overrated. But here he’s carrying the whole show- with invaluable help from the lovely Laura Linney as his beloved Abigail- and keeps knocking me on my ass with his understated, powerful performance. It’s refreshing to see something that portrays the Founding Fathers as the flawed, bickering human beings that they really were, fraught with passion and uncertainty about the unknown road they were taking. It also makes me wonder what they would think of the current state of our society and the perception of America around the world. I doubt they would be pleased.

Anyway, just watch the show. It’s really good.

And the winner is....

2008-02-01T15:40:00.000-08:00

As rare as my blog postings are, it's even rarer that I wade into the morass of politics, but with Super Tuesday coming up (and Mardi Gras the same day so everyone can have an excuse to get hammered depending on the outcome), I'm going to make a prediction. I have no idea if I'm right, but this is what my gut tells me: our next president will be John "I'm storing nuts in my cheeks for the winter" McCain. Not saying that's good or bad or what I want, just that I think it will come to pass.

Why? Well first, let's look at the Republican field. Just like the Democrats, candidates are dropping faster than economic health indicators. And of the ones that are left, Romney appears to be the only other serious contender left. Huckabee? I think even most Republicans are going to think twice before producing something called "President Huckabee". Ron Paul? Sure, he's the darling of many with his dismantle-everything philosophy, but it ain't gonna happen- although, he could certainly be a spoiler if he decides to run as an independent. More about that later.

So, it's McCain or Romney. To a degree, they're both centrists trying their best to look Conservative, but Romney looks a lot more wishy-washy doing it. Still, die-hard conservatives will probably choose Romney over McCain. After all, Rush Limbaugh and Ann "The Bride of Satan" Coulter are calling for McCain's head because of his maverick ways and refusal to toe the party line or stick purely to traditional conservative dogma- but that is exactly the sort of thing that will endear him to many. And Romney has "the Mormon thing" around his neck- a lot of people just think Mormons are way too weird and won't be able to get past that. And he's kinda boring. Plus, McCain spent the Sixties hanging by his thumbs in a Vietnamese prison, and that's tough to beat.

Now, the Democrats- Hillary or Obama. Whichever one gets it, this will be an amazing occurrence. We are virtually assured that the actual, official, viable Democratic candidate for the Presidency of the United States will be either a woman or a black man. That's really something, and I think it's way cool. Unfortunately I don't think either one would win.

I'm not even going to try to call the candidacy, because I think it's still way too close to call, and the extraordinary, JFK-like appeal of Obama has so far made things unpredictable. That golden-boy appeal has dimmed a bit in the wake of all the petty bickering with Hillary, but it's still very much there. Plus, Hillary is way too divisive a figure even in her own party, and even more so on the national stage- which is why I don't think she's electable. When the idea was first being floated about her running, I thought, no way, shouldn't go there, she won't win. And I still feel that way. When her hubby was President- and even before- there were so many people who HATED her, and they still do. It isn't just your standard political loathing; they really flat-out despise the woman. Obama is another story. Sure, there will be idiots who hate him for the color of his skin or for his unfortunate middle name, but I think he could still really give McCain or Romney a run for their money. Before losing, that is.

And why would Obama- or Hillary- ultimately lose? For one thing, I think it's tougher for a Democrat to get elected President, for a number of reasons, so Republicans have a natural advantage. I think McCain will be the Republican candidate, and his maverick ways will appeal to moderates, while the Republican faithful will vote for him in any case. Plus, Americans have shown, in the elections of Dubya and Reagan and even Bill Clinton, that they like to elect bulldogs as President. Yes, I know Hillary also counts as a bulldog (shut up, I said bullDOG... I said shut up!), but in a face-off, McCain is by far the bulldoggiest. If Ron Paul acts as a spoiler, he'll draw from both sides- but I think he'll draw more from the left, really. And now Ralph "Apparently I have absolutely nothing better to do" Nader is talking about doing his thing again, which would be another hit to the left. In any case, HillBama will make a good run of it, but lose to Chipmunk Cheeks.

Anyway, there it is- Zonthar's call for the 2008 election, whatever it's worth. If I were you, I wouldn't go placing any large bets based on it.

Yeah, I'm an angry weather nerd

2008-01-05T16:30:00.001-08:00

Okay, some people have already heard me complain about this, and now you get to as well. I'm pissed off at this "monster storm" that's hitting California. Not because of the damage it's done to my home, or the inconvenience it's caused me. No, it's because it hasn't done a damn thing in Fresno! I know I'm weird with the "thing" I have about weather- hey, I'm a storm chaser at heart. It's the same trait that makes me love roller coasters and spicy food. And I live in Fresno, which gets about 24,000 days a year of boring weather (meaning sunny and warm- yes, it can be nice when it's not too hot, but it is boring), four days of rain, three days of fog, and two of frost. So I loves me some weather on the rare occasion that we actually get it. All week they've been touting this monster storm and all the wind and heavy rain and yadda yadda yadda, getting me all excited. And then it never showed up. Oh sure, in San Francisco trucks are blowing over on bridges, in Sacramento trees are destroying homes and power lines, in Malibu people are evacuating canyons- but Fresno? Nothing! Mind you, I don't want my power to go out or a tree to fall on my home, but come on! As I was watching the Doppler radar on the Weather Channel yesterday, there was literally a hole right over Fresno- there was rain all around us, even the pretty reds and yellows of severe downpours as close as Madera- but a big old hole of nothin' over Fresno. Even the weather doesn't want to come here. Oh sure, we eventually got some rain and wind and a couple flooded gutters, but seriously, nothing to write a blog about. On my street, some of the garbage bin lids blew open. Woohoo. I'm so scared of the Monster Storm.

Awww...dew point.... sniff

2007-12-23T10:32:00.000-08:00

Yay! It's foggy today! Yeah, I know the fog is dangerous and a pain in the ass- just like snow- but for someone who grew up in Fresno, this is Christmas weather. Doesn't mean I like driving in it, but it does make things feel holiday-ey. *cue music*

I'm dreaming of a grey Christmas,

The visibility's so low,

Where the fog lights glisten,

And drivers listen,

To hear truck horns ere they go....

"Blow into this device and sign here."

2007-11-20T15:10:00.000-08:00

The woman I work for is a member of some Wine-of-the-Month club or something like that, so a box containing a couple bottles of wine gets delivered to our office every month, and I'm usually the one who ends up signing for it. There's always been a label on it saying "Adult Signature Required- Over 21". Okay, that makes sense. But today for the first time I noticed it also says "Alcoholic Beverage- Do Not Deliver To Intoxicated Persons". What?

Is this a law, or just a policy of the shipping company? Either way.... what? If I'm over 21, stationary, and have had a few drinks, I can't have more delivered? Is this a common problem, drunks obtaining more booze within 10 to 14 business days? If I'm in a bar and already drunk, I can get another drink. But if I'm in the bar long enough for the bartender to ship my drink to me, I can't have it then? Or do they assume I'm going to be driving when the package arrives? What if I refuse to submit to a test of my blood, breath, and/or urine- do I lose my mail privileges? And here I spent all this time planning, tracking the package, timing the party just right so that when everybody was drunk enough, then more alcohol would magically appear at the door. So much for that. Anybody want to volunteer to be the designated signer?

Thrive, Schmive

2007-11-15T00:08:00.000-08:00

Okay, Badger's wondering why I don't do funny blogs anymore, and I've been thinking of writing something anyway, so here's a little rant for y'all- don't know how "funny" it'll be....

Insurance companies are evil. I've had some great experiences with insurance companies and been treated well on a number of occasions, but they're still inherently evil. It's like the devil giving you a sandwich. Sure it's good, with extra peppers and a really nice slice of tomato, but he's still going to take your soul.

I have Kaiser. I've had some not-so-great experiences with them, but mostly I can't complain too much and there's things I really like about their system. But I am so damn sick of their insulting "thrive" ad campaign. Why insulting, you say? Zonthar, aren't they just a nice little series of commercials and billboards that encourage people to live healthier lives? Isn't that a good thing? Well, every time I see one of those slickly produced pieces, I see my already exorbitant premiums paying for them. Sure, my work helps pay for it, but I still pay plenty out of pocket, and it irks me to see where it goes.

Look! It's the happy old man jogging and eating an apple! Look! It's somebody riding a bike and having a salad! Thank you, Kaiser! Thank you SO MUCH! If it weren't for you spending millions on those ads, I would never be aware of the fact that exercising and eating healthier results in BETTER HEALTH! Now I finally see the light! Hey, you want to improve my health? How about not spending so much money on ads that are specifically designed to keep you from having to pay for people annoying you with their health problems? How about taking the shitload of money I give you every fucking month and every time I walk in your door, and using that to, say, actually pay for my prescribed medicine that works, instead of only paying for the cheaper alternative that doesn't, forcing me to choose between bankruptcy and feeling like shit? How about that? "Thrive" this, you selfish bastards. That said, I rather enjoy the bilingual TV spot. I kinda like the whole Latina aerobics instructor voice thing they got going in that one.

TV observations- Warning: Nerd Alert

2007-09-24T11:52:00.001-07:00

1. Last night, the music during the local forecast on the Weather Channel was "Shine On You Crazy Diamond". Not sure how to feel about that, my teenage music over the weather. At least it wasn't a Muzak version. Then again, sometimes during Christmas they'll play "Linus and Lucy"- maybe they've just got somebody cool working in music programming.

2. It's about damn time "Heroes" came back. Now, if only we didn't have to wait until January for the new season of "Battlestar Galactica".

Whine, whine, whine

2007-09-16T19:46:00.000-07:00

I don't like getting into personal issues in my blog- or in real life. Not anything serious, anyway, cuz that's just not me. I'm an intensely private person. Most who know me would say...well, that they don't really know me. So this is a change of pace- don't know why I'm doing it. Part of the "Look at me!! LOVE ME!!!" aspect of blogging, I guess.

It's dawned on me that I've spent the last several years of my life severing myself from the things I care about. I'm not talking about rejecting the wonderful people I have in my life or anything like that; I'm talking about endeavors and activities that bring me fulfillment. When I look back at my life and think of my accomplishments, short list that it is, there's really only a couple categories that I really seem to give a shit about: where I've been and what I've created. Travel and Creation. Haven't done enough of either. At least in (one of) my current jobs, I do get to travel occasionally, and that's my favorite part, even if it is for work. But the creative side....really, right now, I got nothin'. Maybe a blog here or there.

I'm no artist, but my dreams always went that way. What did I want to be when I grew up? Animator, cartoonist, musician, graphic artist, photographer, actor- there were a few other things thrown in there like veterinarian or computer programmer (like THAT should surprise anyone), but mostly it was all about the artistic things that I had little talent for and would bring me no money in the real world.

Two of the biggest dreams were being part of a comedy troupe like Monty Python or the SNL gang, and the REALLY big one, the dream that consumed me throughout my teens and young adulthood- I wanted with all my heart to be a filmmaker. As I watched my favorite movies I would pretend I made them, I bored my friends with talk of Kubrick's mise en scene, I framed shots in my head everywhere I went. But I also knew full well that I didn't have the drive, stamina, or talent to actually, seriously, for reals-y be a film director. Even if I had the talent, the pressure would kill me. And the primary motivating emotion in every life decision I've ever made has been Fear. So I never did anything about pursuing that dream. "Amadeus" is a special film for me for a number of reasons- it just speaks to me. Salieri's belief that God had given him the burning desire to create music and then denied him the talent- it was like it was taken directly from my own brain, and placed in a frame that I consider to be an amazing example of the filmmaker's craft. The perfect metaphor for my own relationship with my cruel muse.

Then, at the end of my college years, I found theatre. Unlike most people I know, I never really was involved in Drama classes at any school- my association came after. Sure, I would always ham it up for my friends, but didn't seriously set foot on a stage until I was supposed to be setting off into my "real" life (still haven't gotten around to that....). Stage acting- and all the other stuff I was doing along with it- finally seemed to satisfy my muse. I've actually never felt the same strong desire to be a film director since. I'd found something that made me happy, made me fulfilled, made me friends, and people seemed to think I didn't completely suck at it. Plus, it mostly didn't involve creating things from whole cloth out of my own mind- never my best talent. Really, I've never had a truly original thought in my life- it's always a reinterpretation of someone else's original thought. Anyway, theatre changed my life. For better or worse, everything my life is now- friends, jobs, everything- is somehow connected to my involvement in theatre beginning in 1989.

This is not just about acting, though. When I look back and smile about something I've done, it can be something I wrote, or the sound design I did for such-and-such show, or that really cool photo I took. And yes, the acting.

However, one thing that I hate- and love- about live theatre is....that it's live. It's so transitory. The immediacy and interaction of a live performance is such a wonderful, magical, terrifying, exhilarating experience, one that I wouldn't have traded for anything else. But I've found over the years that I miss having something tangible to show for it. Unlike a movie or TV show, it simply no longer exists. There's no way for you or anyone else to truly re-live that moment in time (and yes, I do understand and appreciate the beauty of that as well). And videos of stage shows don't ever begin to do them justice. It's all very well for you to have done a decent job playing so-and-so in such-and-thus, but there's no way to really prove it ever happened the way you remember or that you were any good. Being someone who has always lived too much in the past anyway, it's probably why I tend to cling to the evidence I do have of my own past- recordings of my radio shows, those stupid little school videos I posted here a while ago, what few poor-quality show tapes I actually possess- whatever. None of the above are great examples of anything, but at least they're something that I created and can visit once in a while.

Well, boo hoo hoo, enough of that tangent- back to the point: my life as it is. I have my reasons for not having acted in quite a while, most of which I won't bother getting into here. But a lot of it is about 1. always having to be out of town for work during a run, and to a lesser degree, 2. I frankly just don't handle the stress as well as I used to. I've always been the kind of actor that puts too much pressure on my own shoulders and suffers my way through a run- it's not that I don't have any fun or satisfaction- I think a lot of you can at least somewhat identify. "I can't wait to get back on stage!" transforms to "Why do I keep doing this to myself?" and back again. So anyway, one of my reasons for taking an extended break was to regain some sanity (and some evenings and weekends to boot). Now I'm starting to feel that if I don't do something, be it acting or whatever, I'll be losing that sanity anyway. I honestly don't know that I'm quite ready or even logistically able yet to get back up on a stage. But whatever I do, it's about time I made a few life changes and started doing something fulfilling. Whatever that means. And I'm going to get around to it....sometime.

Very classy spam

2007-09-13T14:25:00.000-07:00

So if you get as much spam as I do, you are familiar with that magical wonderland of half-English subject lines and random "sent from" names. Well, today I was surprised to receive some porn spam from famed Shakespearean actor Derek Jacobi. How sad. If Sir Derek has to supplement his income by sending me emails about busty coeds, the state of live theatre is sorry indeed. Or maybe he just likes busty coeds. I can respect that.

Just in case I wasn’t feeling old enough...

2007-08-17T13:48:00.000-07:00

The compact disc turns 25 years old today. *sigh* Anyone wanna go shopping for a cemetery plot?

Edit: Along those lines, thanks to everyone who sounded off on my midlife crisis. It was all in fun of course, but I was a bit taken aback by the overwhelming number of people- online and off- who seriously want me to get inked. That would be so weird. I dunno, maybe I should bow to the voice of the masses.....

Chatting Postal

2007-08-14T17:00:00.000-07:00

An imaginary conversation with today's mail, perhaps a delayed hallucination brought on by the birthday absinthe Marcel fed me last night:

"Hello, mail."

"Hello."

"You look familiar today."

"Do I?"

"Yup. No bills, though?"

"No, not today."

"What's this?"

"A Save the Date card."

"How nice, a benefit for Children's Hospital. A worthy cause."

"Yes, it is."

"So I'm invited to this thing?"

"No, I'm a Save the Date card. See on the bottom here? It says 'Invitation to follow.'"

"Well, am I invited or not?"

"I don't know. They just stamp and send me. You're supposed to save the date."

"Save it for what? The possibility that I might get invited?"

"Hey, I don't care what you do. I'm just supposed to tell you to save the date."

"So what's the deal with these things?

"What do you mean?"

"I mean everybody sends 'Save the Date' cards now, for weddings, fundraisers, whatever. Wouldn't it be easier, and save more trees, if you just sent the invitation in the first place? That's what this card means, right? 'Get ready, you're about to be invited!' What, like maybe I might save the date and then not get invited? And then I'm just lonely and have nothing to do? What kind of system is that?"

"Look pal, I didn't ask to be sent here to your decrepit hovel with the hand-me-down furniture. You can save the fucking date or not, I really don't give a shit."

"Yeah? Save this."

"What? Hey, wait a sgszzgzgzgzgzzgszz..." *sounds of shredding*

Vote for my crisis! Make your voice heard!

2007-07-31T17:52:00.000-07:00

Okay, in honor of my impending officially-getting-even-older, I've decided it's time to finally commit to a full-bore midlife crisis. Yes, I know the case could be made that I've never advanced beyond adolescence anyway, but we're talking chronologically here. Problem is, I can't decide what exactly I should do in my vain attempt to stave off the aging process, so I'm looking for public input.

I've made a list of some ideas- place your votes for any or all of them, or give me your own suggestions. With your help, we can make this the bestest crisis ever!

-Tattoo(s)

-Piercing(s)

-Dye hair

-Mohawk

-Six-figure sportscar

-Hot and cold running starlets

-Hallucinogenic voyage of self-discovery

-Cool hip-hop name

-Sail around world w/ basset hound

-Sail around world w/ Christopher Walken

-Disappear without a trace, make new life in Seattle as "David St. Borland", tech industry entrepreneur and club promoter

-Sullen, bitter alcoholism, profound self-loathing

Help me out, people!

WARNING: UPTIGHT LANGUAGE NAZI RANT AHEAD (but not that bad)

2007-07-23T14:48:00.000-07:00

The proper use of the English language is dying. Wait, don't leave yet- I'm not referring to some arcane crisis like the rampant misuse of gerunds, or hordes of dangling participles menacing the children. More specifically, I should probably say that proper writing of the English language is dying. No really, don't go, it gets better...

I'm no writing or grammar expert; I make my share of mistakes and sometimes my own rules. I'm sure I couldn't properly dissect a preposition for you, but I like to think I can construct a decent sentence while negotiating the intricacies of spelling and punctuation. All of the above seem to be vanishing skills, but they're a debate for another time and a billion other people's blogs. No, what I'm on about is the apparent loss of the simple art of proofreading.

What's been getting my linguistic goat lately is the increasing occurrence of blatant mistakes committed by people who should know better: professional journalists. They write for a living. It's what they're paid to do. And yet every day I see more stupid, obvious blunders, especially in online news. These are from the biggies: CNN, AP, Reuters, doesn't matter. It's obvious that too many deadlines and the pressure to get that important piece out about Barack Obama's cat have turned them all into once-through-the-spell-check automatons. People, here's a clue: spell check sucks! Plus, it won't fix a misspelled word that became another word- and let's not even get into it's/its/their/they're/your/you're/who's/whose- all of which scream out of the page at me like a banshee of ignorance, but they're not the worst of it.

No, I'll tell you what I'm REALLY sick of...you wanna know, don't you? It's when something is obviously missing, like, "Smith said the bear became angry after the campers ran out of lime jello," but nowhere else in the article has there been anything about Smith. Smith who? Apparently an important character introduced in a paragraph that got axed from the final draft. I see this kind of shit in probably 25% of the articles I read- or even more obvious, you get the same paragraph twice. Aren't there editors anymore? Look, you're the one who wanted a job writing essays the whole world will see, with your name on the top- take a minute and read the damn thing before you post it. Sheesh.

Okay, rant over- go about your business.

London Tales, Parte the Laste

2007-07-03T00:02:00.000-07:00

Yes, you read correctly. I'm going to attempt to squeeze the last 2 1/2 days into one blog. It's going to be epic and probably even longer than usual- but this final chapter has more Vader and less Jar Jar. So, I'm going for it. I think. One more time- say it with me now- click on the photos to see a larger image.

Friday, Sep. 22, 2006. I awoke- God knows when, after the night we had- to see this through my bedroom window!

With only two more days left in London, we finally had some real English weather- appropriately on the first day of autumn. I was ecstatic, or at least as close to it as I could be while feeling like I was swimming through oatmeal. Yep, it had been a long night, after a long week, and that day it was really taking its toll on us. I think I may have even been driven to drink coffee that morning- for those who don't know, I'm just not a big coffee man. I'm nervous enough as it is. I actually think this photo was taken another day, but it properly expresses the shock of my coffee consumption, even as it undermines it my pointing out that I drank it more than once. So what, shut up.

Did I point out that we were right next to elevated Tube tracks and a freeway (or whatever they call it)? And that our rooms looked right over it? Really didn't notice the noise after the first night...

If you remove the aerials and IKEA furnishings, doesn't this look ripe for dancing stereotypical chimney sweeps? Okay, maybe not- but it does look deliciously British...

And this one even more so-

Look at that! The buildings, the bus, the umbrellas, the glistening street- this is the classic London I wanted to see at least once.

Where are we going, you may ask? Well, I'll answer even if you didn't, because I'm running this blog. Friday's plan contained two items: first, visit the British Museum, second, visit yet another London friend of Jeff's whose name- again- escapes me completely. She had generously offered to make us dinner one night during our stay, and Friday ended up being it.

So, we were on our way to the museum- which despite being very large, well-known, and only like two blocks from the Tube station, proved surprisingly hard to find.

The fountain is nice, but please- we don't need more water right now.

Maps, street signs saying "British Museum" with big arrows- we still got turned around about three times, the rain coming down harder every minute, until we finally managed to find the back door. I think Jeff went in there while Alan and I continued, soaked, around to the front because I wanted the full experience of the grand entrance- or I may be full of shit and we all went in the back door. I'm going with the first version because it's somehow more ridiculous and therefore believable. In either case, I know these shots were taken later when we left, and it had stopped raining.

The flag proves the museum is really British:

Under the benevolence of the Union Jack, love blooms:

And poor Jeff is left lonely again. But nevermind him, who's that walking by?

Inside the museum, you find this recently fixed-up grand courtyard area- help me out, those who were there before 2000- did it used to be open-air? Anybody? Bueller?

The new round building in the center contains some kind of reference library- and the gift shop. Here I am, soaked and looking in awe at something- or maybe just still waking up.

The British Museum is enormous and has many exhibits, but is particularly famous for its amazing collection of antiquities from around the world, particularly Egypt. It's a matter of some debate what the hell all these things are doing in the "British Museum", but let's not get into that just now... Didn't have time to even begin to do the place justice (didn't get there until mid-afternoon) but luckily the exhibits we were focusing on- the really popular ones, like Egypt- stayed open late on Friday.

One of the most significant items in the museum is the Rosetta Stone- and this was my view of it.

If you look closely you can see annoying schoolkids rudely- somewhat dangerously even- leaning on the worksheets they're holding up to the glass, filling out the questions their teacher gave them for their trip to the museum. A pain in the ass, really. Finally made my way to the front, and snapped this incredible bit of photographic art to prove it- the elbow which is the only thing that's even a little bit in focus belongs, of course, to some brat filling out his worksheet.

I think it's pretty obvious this guy got shot in the chest, but that's just me.

The composition of this shot makes it look like the "choreographer in a museum" scene in a Kubrick film.

Hmmm, let's see... It says, "Kekshepset slowly removed her tunic, revealing her twin mounds of Isis...."

Okay, so there was some kind of a temporary exhibit about the pharmaceutical industry or something, which stood out by its unexpectedness- I turn around at one point and AAAAHHHH!!! IT'S A PICTURE OF ERNIE WHITE!!!!!

These pretty much sum up how we were feeling that day:

Amazing and cool as it all was, we eventually got to the point where we could barely move or think. Plus, we were on a schedule to make it for our free dinner, so off we went- I love the buildings across the street in this shot:

Onto the Tube and off to the home of- why can't I remember ANY of these people's names?- which was way off in North London somewhere, farther than we'd ever been before on the Underground. I don't know what the area was called or how far it was- let's just say it was definitely out of the normal tourist zone, and felt like it took a long time to get there, which was fine by me. That was one of the wonderful things about this trip- it was a perfect balance of the tourist London and the real, everyday London (complete with real Londoners).

We pop up out of the Tube and see this..... some-body lost a fran-chise, naah naah naah naah naah naah....

For the next part of the story, we're going to have to go to the map:

Note the purple dot in the top left corner. That's where the Tube station and the Tennessee Fried Chicken are. We had directions to the house, based on us starting with Green Lanes, the main N/S street running by the station. Well, there's yer first problem. Sure there was a sign pointing toward "Green Lanes", but we're just idiot Americans- in our minds, that's a bowling alley, not a street name. Plus, it wasn't really clear what street we were already on- which happened to be Green Lanes.

Anyway, we headed down the street, accidentally in the right direction, still looking for this mysterious Green Lanes, until we came to the intersection of West Green Road- well, there you go! THAT must be the street she meant! Look at the map again. Can you make up the story from here? BAM! We were off in the completely wrong direction. As we went along, soaking up the local flavor, passing by hole-in-the-wall pubs, "off-licences" (liquor stores), and I think two different odd social clubs full of old men silently watching TV, the streets seemed wrong and we began to suspect that... maybe this wasn't the right...way... But then we spotted a street name that matched the directions, although it was on the wrong side of the road- turns out that luckily, the house we were looking for was in the neighborhood between the two Greens (Lanes and Road) and we were able to find it without too much trouble because of a street that had the same name at both ends. For the second night in a row, a God-knows-where-we-might-have-ended-up story.

Made it to the right place and met Jeff's friend what's-her-name and her roommate what's-his-face. Very nice folks. He was from Colombia, but any accent was gone- to my ears he sounded every bit the native Londoner. Had a nice relaxing visit and a delicious homemade dinner- vegetarian Mediterranean, including something with eggplant in it. Trying to make conversation, I said, "Oh, is that eggplant?" The two of them shared a quick "Silly Yank" kind of look, and informed me that, yes, it was eggplant, but there they call it by its French name, "aubergine". So, I learned something that night. If you Brits want to be like the Frogs, that's none of my business...

After dinner we went round the corner and had a pint in a cool little pub- okay, it was actually quite large, popular and more like a full restaurant. I learned more fresh produce info there- on the wall was a handwritten menu board with the current specials and such. Sandwiches, salads- look, there's something with aubergine in it, that's ironic- and something else with "rocket". It was the second time that week I'd encountered that word on a menu. At the Italian place we found after our day at Stonehenge, I had pasta that was served with "rocket salad"- I thought I was going to get some sort of futuristic wedge-style construction that was all about form over function, but it ended up just being a bunch of leaves, and I never questioned it. But now I was being faced with this "rocket" thing again, and I just had to know what was going on. So I asked what's-his-face about it, and he just explained it as the name of a leafy green- ah, so it was a salad MADE OF rocket! Now it made sense. Turns out it's their name for arugula- more education for me.

Two photos to show everybody who was there. I honestly don't know how the hell I ended up next to the girl. Looks a bit suspicious, I know.

Our hosts were very good about walking us down the street and getting us on the Tube in time (maybe they just wanted us to leave after too many questions about food). They knew when the last train left and exactly how long it took to get there, so we had it right down to the minute. I think Jeff would have been happy to have missed the train and stayed in the pub longer, but Alan and I were in no mood to repeat the previous night.

The next day was bright and sunny and I for one felt invigorated after a decent night's sleep. The first thing we did was walk right outside our door to one of the world's most famous street markets, which happens every Saturday on Portobello Road. It's impossible to fully describe. It's huge, for one thing, going on and on forever- or maybe it just seems like it on that narrow street- but it's cool and so much fun. Thousands of people, locals and tourists both. Tons of booths selling antiques, music, clothing, jewelry, food, anything and everything. Wandered up and down, shopping for souvenirs and gifts, and never saw either end of it.

The arrow indicates my bedroom window.

Yep, there's a lot of people here. Look further down the street to really get the picture.

You can get ANYTHING in this place!

Yes, in the middle of all this, a garbage truck pushing its way through. Shouldn't they just not do Saturday pickup here? Note that it's actual people picking up actual cans or bags that have been left on the street, just like when I was a kid- no big California-style bins in the tight streets of central London.

This street band was fun. At first I couldn't figure out why the YouTube stats showed six times as many views for this one as any other of these stupid little London videos- who could possibly be watching it? Friends of the band? Then I realized- duh, the still image happens to be of a passing blonde that's in the video for about half a second. Guys are so damn predictable.

The market was a great way to start off our final day in London- or I should say the final day for me and Alan, since Jeff had decided to stay a while longer, hang out with some friends, and hit the continent. So for him, it was simply the last day that he would have to put up with our annoying presence.

The rest of the day held- whatever. We were going to meet Jeff's friend again- the first one, the one from Wednesday- later that night to have dinner, but that was the only plan of any sort. So, we ended up doing a bit of exploring- which pretty much meant marking the last couple things off my own personal list while I dragged poor A and J along. Really, I ended up selfishly setting the agenda for much of this trip- I chose the place to stay, I chose the Stonehenge tour, and an awful lot of our daily itinerary seems to have been where I wanted to go. Sorry guys. Thanks for putting up with it and tagging along.

First, we had to do it. Just had to. It wasn't that far away, and... well, we just had to.

Yep, Abbey Road. Jeff didn't care so much, so he took the shots. And no, you can't entirely replicate the original by taking the photo from the same exact spot, because you'd get hit by a car and die. But yes, that is THE crosswalk, and where you see the white wall in the middle, that's Abbey Road Studios. And yes, there were other people there doing the exact same dorky thing. There are other shots that show the scene better, but at least in this one we're in step. Another interesting thing to note is that my prominently protruding belly in this photo has given rise to a "Zonthar Is Dead" rumor, based on the fact that the Sanskrit characters meaning "stomach sticking out on crosswalk" bear a striking resemblance to the ancient Hebrew words for "tall guy" and "underground". But I'm here to tell you that no, it's all just a rumor: I'm not dead, just fat.

Check out these cars.

Check out this poor crosswalk, probably the most-used in the world.

Check out the walls in front of the studios, with decades of graffiti under decades of white paint under decades of more graffiti and white paint. Note that all the dates are within the previous couple days- they probably paint it at least once a week.

These entries around the side on the bricks might last a bit longer.

Awwww, our own graffiti- Alan wrote it, then I added our initials- *sniff* I'm sure it's got many layers of paint over it now.

And finally, the most amusing bit of graffiti- I read later that U2 had just been recording in there recently, so that explains that-

The studio itself. Much larger than it looks, it goes back farther from the street. Yes, famous for the Beatles, but it's amazing how much of our shared popular culture has been created in this building. Hell, "Dark Side of the Moon" was recorded here for instance, as well as iconic film scores like Star Wars, Raiders of the Lost Ark- gee, most of my adolescence was influenced here. I wonder if they did that Farrah poster here, too?

We then wandered over to Regents Park and the neighboring Primrose Hill Park- Jeff had been over here on "Get Out of My Face Day" and said there was a great view. Well, this is exactly one of the places I had been hoping to make it to, this view of the city that I'd seen in many movies and such but didn't know where it was. Thanks, Jeff.

And we bought ice cream, too!

Smile, Jeff. We'll be gone soon.

Love these houseboats on a canal next to the park. The big Chinese style one is a floating reastaurant. This is also right by the London Zoo.

Love this funky little car. Saw a few interesting automotive creations in London...

The next- and last- place I wanted to go to was Harrod's. Yes, it's just a department store. But it's one of those London things- it's THE department store. And I wanted to see it. So back onto the Tube.

When we pop up, we see these people,

looking in horror at these guys!

Yep, a band performing on top of their car. Sweet. They weren't that bad- or that great- but check out their website anyway. They do this shit everywhere.

Harrod's is huge, and yes, it's just a department store, and an expensive one at that. Still, I'm glad I got to see it- and this is the ONLY photo I bothered to take.

By this time, we were ready to go back to the flat, freshen up a bit, and head out for our last night on the town. It had been decided that he-whose-name-I-cannot-recall would take us to get some really, really good Indian food- this was London after all, and the place we went was one of the oldest Indian restaurants in town. So it was back to the Covent Garden area to meet up and oh my GOD the food was SO GOOD. And Nameless, who has lived in London and Europe for years, seemed pretty happy to be spending an evening with some stupid Americans for a change ("It's nice to talk to somebody who sounds normal!" he said- or something like that). And the food was SO GOOD.

I know this looks like I was purposely trying to get the girl's butt in the shot, but I swear it was just fortuitous happenstance.

After dinner... do you understand? It was SO GOOD...we cabbed it over to a pub near where whoever-he-is used to live, a centuries-old place called the Prospect of Whitby. Charles Dickens used to hang out here, for God's sake. At the time, I thought it was just some spot that locals knew about, but it turns out it's one of the most famous pubs in the world, with all kinds of history attached to it. If you Google it, it comes up like a rash- it's even got its own Wikipedia page- but I like this page a little better- more pictures. Learning of its fame doesn't ruin it for me- it was a great night with great friends in a great city, capping off a great trip.

I really like this shot, other than the look on my face. Homosexual black shirt convention, anyone? The windows behind us look right onto the Thames.

After a very relaxing, perfectly low-key evening, we caught what was again the final train of the night and headed back to our comfy flat one last time.

Sunday, departure day. Got some packing out of the way the night before, so the morning was about last-minute tidying and such. It was goodbye to the flat for all of us, since Jeff would be staying with friends. And no huge rush- we didn't need to leave until late morning to catch our flight. But eventually it was time to part ways with Jeff and with London- bittersweet, but it was also nice to be heading home after an exhilarating, exhausting week.

Goodbye, Cambridge Gardens-

Alan and I tottered off down to the Tube with luggage in tow. Now, people who really know me know I'm a worrier. I'm one of those who often thinks of all the possible scenarios in which something will go wrong (except the really important things I should worry about more- those I don't). Long before leaving for London, I'd considered how we were going to get to and from the airport- what would be easiest? Cheapest? Best for dealing with luggage? I'd thought about what would happen if I tried to go through a Tube turnstile with luggage. Would it work? Would it be big enough? Would I get stuck? Yes, perhaps these are the same questions I ask before sex. Shut up. Who are you, Freud?

Anyway, our plan was to take the Tube to Paddington Station, then get on the Heathrow Express nonstop train that gets you there in 15 minutes. But first I had to get through that damn turnstile, and I didn't know what to expect. It's those stupid plastic barriers that stick out from either side- they part just long enough for you to sprint through, then ka-CHUNK! Back out again, pummeling old ladies and small children. Well, since I'm spending so damn much time on this setup, you already know what happened- card goes in the slot, barriers part, and I lunge forward dragging my big-ass suitcase as fast as I can, when ka-CHUNK! Barriers out, suitcase caught, fears realized, dignity destroyed. *sigh* A brief struggle ensues, which I seemed destined to lose, and a big hearty THANK YOU goes out to the guy behind me who didn't lift a finger to help- but finally a bit of brute force vanquished the turnstile beast. Okay, so the whole thing probably lasted about five seconds, but it was still an embarrassing pain in the ass.

Got to Paddington, got on the Express (built for luggage, that one is) and whoosh- 15 minutes as promised. Checked in, no cancelled flights or other problems this time, but a looong security line. Heathrow is kind of a depressing airport. The departure gate waiting areas aren't open to the rest of the terminal like in most airports- they're closed off by themselves, connected to lonely, "Brazil"-like corridors. At least that's how it felt to me.

As we sat waiting in our departure cubicle,

we were visited by a couple dour-faced gentlemen who looked something like this-

and had bomb-sniffing dogs in tow. We were boarding a US-bound flight, so it was standard procedure. They sent the dogs up and down every row of seats until we all passed muster. Glad they were doing it, but it was a tad surreal. One of the dogs seemed to be a rookie and still a bit distracted by all the people. A couple passengers tried to pet it, but were rightly discouraged by the dour-faced gentlemen. What are these people thinking? Yeah, the dog is cute, but do you really want to 1.Distract the dog from its job and/or 2.Attract too much of its attention to YOU?

The flight home on United was a mere shadow of the wonderful experience we had on Air New Zealand, but at least it was uneventful. I watched "Over the Hedge". Or maybe it was "Madagascar". No wait, it was "The Wild". Yep, it was that memorable.

One of my last views of British soil.

MACRO LENS!!!

A glimpse of the fjorded coastline of Greenland through a break in the clouds. I was very excited by this. I'm such a nerd.

The coastline of Hudson Bay. Again, nerd.

Admitting me into the confines of these here United States, the customs agent in LA said "Welcome back." And as much as I hated leaving London, I admit it was nice to be home, even if it was LA.

Well, there it is. Zonthar and his buddies went to London and you got to hear about it in six epic chapters. Now I never have to blog again. Oh, and I forgot to mention that my twin sister went off to be raised by Jimmy Smits.

For good measure, one last video: the classic "plane taking off" shot, in flagrant violation of the "no electronic devices during takeoff" rule. Goodbye, London.

THUS ENDETH THE TALES OF LONDON

London Tales, Parte the Fyfthe

2007-06-19T16:21:00.000-07:00

Apparently, something I said in the previous post caused a few of you to believe it was the final installment. Please. Have I said anything about going back to the airport? Have I yet gone into excruciating detail about how many steps I took from the security gate to the plane, the angle of my seat, or the declination of the sun at the time of departure? I say nay! Your wishful thinking has brought you to naught. There's still more to come, my children. Live with it.

Thursday, Sep. 21, 2006. John, Jeff and Alan sure got a lot done in three busy days. In fact, most of the important and/or obligatory sights and tasks have been accomplished:

Big Ben, check.
Buckingham Palace, check.
Stonehenge, check.
Getting Sick to Death of Each Other After Being Together 24/7, check.

Perhaps that's overstating it a bit- or maybe not.... Suffice it to say that when Thursday arrived, it was obvious we all were in the mood to do our own thing, which was just fine. I had the itch to go exploring around a bit on my own and looking at things that I didn't necessarily want to drag my poor friends to. Jeff had a similar itch (though not from any intimate contact between us, I just want to clarify that), and Alan decided to spend a quiet day in the flat and conserve his energy- after all, he did have a performance that night. So off went Jeff and I, and Alan stayed in with the satellite TV.

Speaking of, British TV- what little we watched- felt a lot more familiar than I thought it would (and not just from watching plenty of it all my life). For that matter, it all felt very familiar. Beyond the obvious differences- older buildings, different money, steering wheels on the wrong side- I was struck by the fact that I never truly felt like I was in a foreign place. I'm sure language was the major factor- I could read all the signs and pretty much understand everyone- but there was a deeper commonality that I didn't quite expect. It was all so... comfortable. Notable exceptions (as in things I never quite got used to): 1. Tipping. Okay, we finally figured out you don't tip the bartender, and you do tip the waiter, or...no wait, the tip is included in the bill... or is it? Aw hell, just give them a couple pounds and let's go.... 2. How early things closed. You're telling me I'm in one of the great cities of the world, and just because it's midnight, I can't get a beer OR a train home? 3. The street system. Oh my GOD.

I've been to Europe before. I know what the streets are like. I knew what they would be like in London. I looked at enough maps of them. They're part of the charm of the city. I know that there are worse cities. And yet.... oh my GOD. For someone who not only prides himself on having a good sense of direction, but also has an emotional need to at least have some idea of where he is and where he's going (geographically speaking, of course. Anyone who knows me realizes that has nothing to do with how I run any other part of my life), the streets of London can be maddening. The seemingly random layout is bad enough- in almost any spot in the US, for example (okay, maybe not Boston), I know that if I turn right enough times, I'll probably get back to where I started. In London, that might happen, or you might end up in Wales. Hard to say. But the street names make it worse- or rather, the proliferation of them. When even the major thoroughfares sometimes change names every block, it can be a bit disorienting. It's historically fascinating that in 1116, King Norbert the Addled decreed that a road would be built in a straight line from the tip of his nose to the far end of his peacock aviary, and that it would be forever known as Great Pimpsnell Acre, but it's a pain in the ass when you're trying to find the Tube station. And yes, the street signs are quaint and beautiful, but you'd never know because you can't find them. What street are we on? I don't know, is there a sign? Might be on a wall, might be on the curb- see anything? Oh wait.. *squint* I think I see something on the second floor over there- but is that for THIS street? Don't get me wrong, I also love London's streets, names, and signs for all their idiosyncrasies, much in the way I love a heavy downpour or a thick fog- wonderful if I'm not out in it trying to get someplace. That said, I'd go back and face them again in a heartbeat.

Well enough of that rambling, I say. Let's get on with other ramblings, shall we? Again, as always, click the photos for larger images.

The first destination I had in mind was Greenwich, which had a two-pronged appeal for me: my geography nerd needed to go to the Royal Observatory and visit the Prime Meridian, and my mass transit nerd needed to ride the Docklands Light Railway to get there, one of several transit entities that our travel cards were good for. I knew it would take a while to get out there, one of the reasons I didn't drag the other guys along.

Checked the map pile,

and headed down our street, Cambridge Gardens, on a lovely last day of summer.

Thursday was probably the sunniest and warmest of all the days we were there- which also made it the stickiest. Never stopped sweating that day. Never.

Made my way via Tube to Canary Wharf, which along with the rest of the Docklands area is a major urban redevelopment scheme. You know, old derelict warehouses make way for shiny office towers and condos, that sort of thing. Got on the DLR, went under the Thames, and popped up in old town Greenwich.

Apparently there's a problem with itinerant ice cream.

The original Cutty Sark, now a tourist attraction. Yes, the same one as on the Scotch. Unfortunately damaged by fire only last month.

Note the Starbucks on the left, about as close as you can get to the Cutty Sark.

I'm not sure I even want to know what this sign means.

Looking up at the Royal Observatory. The hike is steeper than it looks.

Looking back to where I was. Canary Wharf towering in the background, including the three tallest buildings in the UK.

The Millennium Dome! There it is! I thought maybe they tore it down or something! It was never mentioned in any of the literature, and it turns out it's because it really isn't used for anything these days.

Looking back toward central London and the Glass Vibrator.

The Courtyard of the Royal Observatory museum. For those of you who aren't dorks, the Prime Meridian is the line which indicates zero degrees longitude, dividing the Western and Eastern Hemispheres. Being an arbitrary line (unlike the Equator), Prime Meridians used to grow like weeds, but in 1884 the Brits won at an international conference (the French abstained and continued to use their own for decades). The grand legacy of this monumental decision is that in 2006, the old guy walking through the gate would come to visit wearing that hat.

The clock that doesn't photograph well shows Greenwich Mean Time, the worldwide standard based on the Meridian. Up until 1909, it was known as Greenwich Nice Time. Again, the French abstained.

The red line which marks the Meridian continues through the courtyard and divides me by the crotch. I've positioned myself for the "I'm in two hemispheres" shot using proper directional orientation, with North being up- but I still can't manage to hold the camera straight.

Took a look around the grounds, the free museum full of cool old astronomical devices (got a single blurry shot off before being told "no photos"), and visited the gift shop to purchase the obligatory Prime Meridian fridge magnet.

Hail Britannia!!

My geography jones satiated, I left Greenwich and went back toward the center of town. Got a good look at the Globe Theatre, a replica of the one from Shakespeare's day, built near the site of the original. Didn't see the show, though.

Crossed the Millennium Bridge toward St. Paul's Cathedral.

The Tate Modern art gallery. The barge says, "I Eat Rubbish!"

Went into St. Paul's and marveled- but no pictures allowed. Here's a couple so-so ones from the outside.

Went to Hyde Park to seek out Speaker's Corner. Oh, the madness and chaos, the sweet, sweet flowing mead of pure freedom! The guy in the middle- damn, he was a real firebrand.

Yeah, what I didn't know is that the action only happens on Sundays or something. Oh well, you can still get ice cream. But it better not be itinerant, you young punks!

Walked through Hyde Park where there were plenty of folks out enjoying the warm sunshine.

Saw the Royal Albert Hall. You know, as in how many holes it takes to fill.

Looking directly across from the entrance, you see this:

I think it's another Starbuck's or something.

At this point, I had pretty much run out of time. We had all agreed to meet at 6:00 in front of the Mediterranean place across from the Freddie Mercury Statue, so we could find some dinner and then head over together to The Wheatsheaf, the pub where the "impro" was happening. I had hoped to go back home to take a shower and change, which I now desperately needed after a lot of hiking around on a hot, sticky London day. But no time, so anyone near me was just going to have to suffer. After a cramped and stuffy Tube ride which included sitting stalled underground somewhere for a good ten minutes, I finally popped up by Jeff, Alan, and Freddie, only a few minutes late. We found an Indian restaurant that hit the spot, and off we went to The Wheatsheaf.

We were greeted by a cool little pub downstairs and a- well, a rather warm little performance space upstairs with a few rows of chairs set up. Met the guys from Grand Theft Impro, and then left Alan to prepare while we had a pint. The room started to fill (okay, it only took like 16 people) and eventually it was standing room only.

Neat windows- note they are open in a vain attempt to cool down the room.

The blonde in this photo is named Pippa- a friend of the group who I met later. I thought she said "Pepper"- with appropriate accent- until I saw her on Alan's friends list. I'm dumb.

The show was fun, the guys were talented, and Alan definitely held his own. A couple of the best moments came out of his American-Not-Quite-Being-Familiar-Enough-With-the-Local-References-ness. I was proud of our boy! I wish I'd gotten more photos or some video, but I didn't want to be obnoxious for the people behind us (who were sitting on a table).

After the show we knocked back a couple with the boys and their friends downstairs, then the guy who seemed to be in charge of the group (the bald one in the photo who isn't Alan) invited us to join them as his guests at a private club he belonged to- apparently these are common in the UK as traditionally being the places to go for legal after-hours drinking. This particular club was an actors' club, underneath a nearby theatre. The walls were covered with decades worth of playbooks, photos, and autographs of well-known stage actors- very cool. Didn't see anyone famous, but there was a bizarre moment when one of the waiters started doing an impromptu drag show or something to the great glee of the regulars- my memory is surprisingly fuzzy on that particular event.

Anyway, enjoyed the comfy confines of the club until 2 AM or so, and then came the challenge of getting home. Tube's closed, cabs are expensive- although I think I would have been perfectly willing to pony up the dough at that point, but then somebody suggested the bus.

The bus? We hadn't attempted a bus yet. Our passes were good for them, and I was curious- after all, these were the REAL modern London double-deckers, not the tour buses we'd been on. But we didn't know the routes or the schedules, and it's 2:30 AM, and... well, it was kinda scary! Where would we end up? But that's the kind of thing we were in London for, right? The adventure of riding a bus in a strange city in the middle of the night? Well okay then...

Off to the nearest bus stop to join the other late night stragglers and examine the daunting route map, trying to make sense of where we were going. I think we picked a route that looked reasonable and was supposedly running, but after waiting for what seemed like forever, we decided on the spur of the moment to get on a bus that- well, I swear it said "Notting Hill Gate" on it, but two buses came at the same time and maybe we got on the wrong one... Anyway, I knew where Notting Hill Gate was, and although it wasn't quite where we needed to go, I figured it was at least in the right part of town and we could make our way from there- better than nothing. Got on the bus, headed upstairs- gotta go upstairs! (it's enclosed) Hung out and enjoyed the ride, but kept an eye on where were going as best I could with the tiny bit of tourist knowledge in my brain. Okay, doing fine, having a good time- okay, here we go around Marble Arch, and... um.... why did we turn this way? Okay, we're okay, it's fine... um... maybe....hmm... This is about the time I began to realize that we were going... someplace else. Maybe we would have eventually made our way back to Notting Hill Gate, after all that's what it said on the front... didn't it? Oh God, this is not the right direction and we're not turning.....

"Guys?"

Sleepy looks of delayed interest.

"I think we need to get off this bus."

Slightly more interest.

"Now."

Heightened interest, tinged with concern, followed by action.

Off the bus we go, to- where? We find our spot on the pocket map- sort of- we're not that far from home, but it's not quite clear how to get there. At least it's the sort of neighborhood that- well, let's just say that if you're going to pick a spot in a foreign city to be lost at 3 AM, you could do a lot worse. You could also do a lot livelier- not much action, as in obvious ways of getting the hell out of there. So we started hoofing it in the general direction of what looked like more action, debating what we were going to do. We finally decided to just grab a cab- easier said than done in this damnably quiet upscale area. So we kept walking. Eventually we found a stray cab- making three new forms of London transport I could cross off my list in one day. Turned out we were no more than a five-minute ride from home, so we actually did okay in picking that bus- but God only knows what remote Scottish fishing village we would have found ourselves in if we hadn't jumped ship.

The following video is NOT how this particular night ended, but so many others did- Ladbroke Grove station, our local stop which was the alpha and omega of almost every adventure. Nicely capped off by a clairvoyant Alan moment.

THUS ENDETH PARTE THE FYFTHE

London Tales, Parte the Fourthe

2007-06-14T00:17:00.000-07:00

Okay, so now I'm actually getting harassed about finishing my London blogs, so here we go. If you want to see how it's REALLY done, check out Blake's Liverpool blogs. They're entertaining, concise, and he got them all done quickly- you'll never come back to my blog again!

All right, let's get down to it. As always, click the pictures for larger images. Wednesday, Sep. 20, 2006. London, England. You might think that we would get more acclimated to London time as the days went by, and maybe we were- but the fact is we were exhausted and sleeping later each day. Good thing we got most of the heavy-duty touristy stuff out of the way in the first couple days, and we were able to start relaxing a bit. There were only three things on Wednesday's agenda: the Tower of London, seeing a show, and meeting up with a friend of Jeff's for a quick dinner in between. So, eventually we got going, and hopped on the Tube in the general direction of Leicester Square, which is near Piccadilly Circus, which is near the previously mentioned metal boobies.

Why Leicester Square, you say? Because that's where the discount theatre ticket booth is, just like the one in Times Square NYC- we knew we wanted to see some kind of stage show that night, we just didn't know what. Sure, we'd looked at the literature, thought this or that looked interesting- got to the booth and decided on that most quintessentially British piece of theatre, "The Producers". Hey, it was cheap, we hadn't seen it, and it wouldn't tax our tired brains- plus it was playing at the Drury Lane Theatre! (Okay, the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane- and it's actually like half a block from Drury Lane). I've spent my life hearing about that theatre, and Drury Lane- you know, muffin man and all that. Tickets in hand and our evening plans set, off we went in the direction of the Tower.

I mentioned previously that the Tower of London was one of my favorite sights on the trip because it was unexpected. I'd heard from various people- including Alan, the only one of us who'd actually been to London before- that the Tower was a must-see, and I did want to see it, but the only things I really knew about it were that it had a lot of historical significance, a lot of people had been executed there, and it contained the Crown Jewels. We'd already been by it several times during the trip, and it looked cool. But I wasn't prepared for the real thing.

The direction we came, the first thing you see is a piece of the original Roman wall of Londinium.

Coming from a town where the historical sites are often along the lines of, say, the bus stop bench where William Saroyan used to sit and throw things at hapless newsboys, I found that wall pretty impressive. Then you see the moat. Note the workman in funny white overalls.

Sure, it's all just grass now, but it's a damn moat. That's just plain cool.

We walked around and got some shots along the river side of the Tower:

Tower Bridge.

London City Hall. The Mayor himself called it a glass testicle.

And then if you turn 180 degrees, you see the Glass Vibrator. I like this photo because you see so many centuries in one shot.

Rarrr!!

As you cross the little bridge where the ticket booth is, you see your first Beefeaters hanging around. This is touristy as hell, but great. Gotta get the photo:

We happened to get there right when one of the free guided tours was about to start, so we figured we might as well go along- the deciding word being "free". This was our guide (no, not the same Beefeater as in the last photo):

He was bloody hilarious. You could tell he'd done this a thousand times and had his schtick down pat, but it was still fresh and entertaining. His delivery and timing were so good, I assumed that this was just a typical actor's costumed day job (the kind where you might get a call from Jon Budd saying "Anyone wanna make 40 bucks at the Tower of London tomorrow?"), and that at night he probably performed with an improv troupe in some dive called "The Giggle Shack". But no, it turns out the Beefeaters are the real deal- they are all British military (our guide told us he fought in the Gulf War, although presumably not in this uniform), and this is their assignment- the Queen's guard detachment at the Tower. And they live there on the grounds, with their families. Yes, the Tower of today is mostly a tourist attraction, but it is still a royal castle and functioning military installation, subject to hundreds of years of tradition and still-standing royal decrees. Such as: from 10:00 every night until um... I don't know when in the morning, the gates are locked and nobody- nobody- goes in or out. I don't know how thoroughly that is observed in emergencies, and perhaps it's all a bit overplayed for the tourists, but they do have an onsite doctor that lives there in order to take care of problems at night, because the residents can't leave. It was hearing that kind of thing and realizing that this place was a living, working community in its own little world that really started to hook me.

When you first walk inside the outer walls, it still looks like a fortress- albeit with employee parking lot.

But then you pass into an open common area that, frankly, is surprising and even charming.

Green grass, quaint residences, a beautiful old chapel, the enormous and scary ravens that are kept there for good luck, and in the center is the White Tower, the original castle that dominates the complex.

The tour was just a quick overview and then we wandered on our own- oh, and if you're wondering, our guide never said why they're called Beefeaters, so Jeff and I asked him- and he said they really don't know.

We went into the building that houses the Crown Jewels, and that was pretty amazing and cool- literally cool, being conspicuous as the only building there with air conditioning. There's an imperial shitload of priceless items in there, but to see the really good stuff, like the actual crowns, they stick you on a conveyor belt like at the airport, so you don't stand in a clump and gawk- and no photos, please. That was all well and good, but I loved just wandering around the rest of the grounds exploring- Alan and I found a little staircase where you go up inside the outer wall and then walk around on the top, seeing such brilliant sights as people's actual laundry hanging out to dry (I guess there was never any Royal Decree for dryer hookups).

I just thought it was the coolest thing that I was seeing the wet socks of the people who really lived in the Tower of London- totally unexpected. Every nook and darkened cranny had a sign telling what happened there, who was imprisoned in this room, etc. The White Tower itself is mostly filled with a massively cool collection of weapons and armor, and then on the bottom floor you can get ice cream.

The only drawback of our visit was that we were kinda pressed for time- we didn't get there until the afternoon, it closed at 5:00 (the guard shooed us out by jingling his keys and saying, "Time for the ghosts to come out and play"), and we still had to meet Jeff's friend (I can't remember his name) in time to have dinner and then make the show. So, we bid our reluctant goodbyes to the Tower (I could have kept wandering around there all day) and off we went to Covent Garden.

Figuring out how the hell to get to Covent Garden.

I still haven't quite figured out what Covent Garden actually is. I guess it refers to the district/neighborhood, but seems to have more meaning than that. Someone can explain it to me later. Anyway, that's where we were meeting Jeff's friend (God, what was his name?)- it's near the theatre and where he works. We popped up out of the Tube into a narrow warren of crowded pedestrian streets, filled with tourists, shoppers, and after-work pubbers.

While Jeff went to call what's-his-name, Alan and I grabbed a pint at the nearest pub. Just as with every other pub on the block, the crowd spilled well out the door. I've never quite understood the big deal about being able to drink in the street- I'm perfectly fine drinking inside, where my pain and shame is hidden from the prying eyes of passersby- but Alan was giggling like a schoolgirl, he was so happy. Okay, maybe he didn't actually giggle, but I'm telling you, inside he was a slumber party.

We met the Nameless One, joined by a coworker. But this is Jeff, not the coworker. The coworker was female. Jeff is not.

For the sake of convenience and time, we ended up eating in the second floor (or first floor, if you're a Brit) dining room of the same pub we were already patronizing. And as everywhere else, our traditional English pub food was served by traditional Eastern Europeans with thick accents. Most everyone went with the fish and chips, but for some reason I went with the bangers and mash- again. It was like the third time in as many days that I went with the sausages. Freudian? You tell me. All I know is that they kept sounding good- and they were good, but after that night I was so done with the bangers. Never did get around to having fish and chips while I was there, either.

Anyway, finished my banging and off we went down the street to the theatre. What an amazing feeling to be in one of the premier theatres of London- and watching gay Nazis, no less.

I don't have any photos to contribute here, so I'm infringing on some copyrights instead. Here's the theatre:

Here's a photo which absolutely does not do justice to the inside of the theatre, but you can kinda see about where we were sitting at the bottom of the shot:

The show was fun- wasn't familiar with either of the leads, but the guy who played Max was Cory English (an American, ironically) who was Nathan Lane's original understudy, and Reece Shearsmith of the British comedy troupe The League of Gentlemen was playing Leo. We laughed a lot, along with the rest of the audience who seemed to mostly be American tourists.

These are the guys we saw:

Two major drawbacks to the theatre experience- one was the floor that raises about an inch as you go into the Gents, calling to your toes like sirens beckoning sailors to their doom upon the rocks. Despite the enormous "Watch Your Step" sign, I neglected to do just that, and paid with voluminous pain and embarrassment. The other was the lack of Royal Air Conditioning in the Royal Theatre. It wasn't unbearable, but it was certainly warm.

This is a good spot to talk about the weather, don't you think? It was sunny almost the entire time we were in London, sometimes without a cloud in the sky and very warm. Even when it got kind of cloudy and cool, the rain kept avoiding us. Perfect for touring around, but by the end of the week, I was getting a bit antsy- I'm in England, for God's sake, maybe the only time I'll ever get here, and I'm not even going to get a little rain to make the experience authentic? Well, it finally rained on Friday to my relief- but we haven't gotten that far yet. However, the most important thing to say about the London weather is that I felt like I never really stopped sweating. I knew it would be humid, and I've traveled in many humid climes- I wasn't miserable, but dude, I'm from Fresno. It just didn't feel right. Add that to a crowded Tube train during rush hour, and I was a walking deodorant commercial half the time. Anyway-

So, show's over, it's about 10:00 or so, and now what? Time for some phone booth fun, of course! Oh, the wacky hilarity! We were brilliant that night, my friends- a true work of street art. But this is the only shot I have- Alan has the rest, so you'll just have to imagine it for now.

We found a pub around the corner and had a pint or two. For a country that likes to drink as much as the UK does, they sure close their pubs early. Like 11 or 12:00 early. Used to be the law, now it seems to be loosened, but as far as I could tell, most of them close then anyway. So, we closed down that pub.

Now here's a tiny twist in the story: through buddies back home, Alan had been put in contact with some London improv troupes (or "impro" as they call it there- apparently too busy to bother with the "v"), the idea being to maybe see a show or something. Well, the first or second day we were there, somebody from one of these groups got in touch with Alan and said, "You wanna perform with us Thursday night?" After we picked Alan up off the floor and put his soiled pants in the wash, he heartily accepted and then had it exciting/terrifying him for the next several days (at least that's my take on it- maybe not terrifying, but you know). The reason I bring this up is that the pub where the impro was happening the next night was not far from where we were, so we decided to go find it to be sure we'd know where we were going when the time came.

So off we went down Oxford Street, counting two Subways in one block- did I mention the English obsession with Subway? As in sandwiches? In our travels, we quickly observed that everywhere you look in London is 1. a Subway or 2. a KFC. I saw more of both in my few days there than in the rest of my life combined. Anyway, we were in a two Subway block, found the pub, and as each moment passed, my desire to call it a night grew ever stronger. I was exhausted, it was late, everything was closed- I can't speak for Alan, but Jeff could obviously have stayed out all night. I was just about ready to head back by myself, but somebody brought up the idea of food, which sounded like a decent idea- found an all-night Mediterranean-ish walkup where, if you looked across the street, you saw this:

I know you can't tell, but it's a big-ass statue of Freddie Mercury. Sweet. Anyway, somehow we went home after that. I think. Whatever. I'm done with this post now. I'm going home.

The thing I love about this photo is that we're each thinking exactly what you think we're thinking.

THUS ENDETH PARTE THE FOURTHE

Okay, this is tech-geek heaven...

2007-05-25T13:54:00.000-07:00

Holy Mother of God.

mms://station.streaming-tv.net/sonypr/OLED070524_750kbps.wmv

My random thought for today

2007-05-19T12:21:00.001-07:00

Okay, so I have cell phones on the mind lately since I pulled the classic hick move of leaving mine in a cab in Chicago. Got a new one now, and it makes one think. Cell phones are now capable of absolutely everything this side of wiping your ass (and there's a Bluetooth device for that). You can conduct a corporate merger with your cell phone. You can launch a preemptive missile strike. You can travel through time, listening to mp3s and looking stylish while doing it. But the one thing they still can't seem to handle is the gunk from your face.

Sure, the screen is all gleamy and clear- for the first 1.3 seconds of use. Then it's all about the facial oils, makeup, and various other digusting viscous substances that collect on one's cheeky-eary area. Don't phone designers realize these things are going to be used by excreting beings? Forget the wireless earbud- the one accessory you truly need for your phone is a handy piece of clothing to wipe it on. Am I alone in this? Am I just excessively oily?

Really, they should come up with something to deal with this important issue. Perhaps a micro-thin squeegee that automatically cleans the screen after you hang up. Or a revolutionary plastic that repels face gunk, always keeping your skin at least one mm from contact with the screen. Maybe we could add a reservoir that collects the gunk, then you leave it by the curb to be picked up, refined, and used to reduce our dependence on foreign oil. We've got to get to work on this, people!

That's my hometown....

2007-05-13T13:05:00.000-07:00

I'm getting really sick of having to justify where I live. Most of you who read my blog are current or former Fresno residents, so I probably don't have to explain that sentiment to you. Look, we all know what's wrong with Fresno. We know it's flat, hot, dusty, ineptly run, crime-ridden, contains a lot of backward-thinking people, and is not the most exciting of places to be. Fine, all of that is true in varying degrees. But is Fresno alone in this? Of course not. Many cities- I dare say every city- can also lay claim to at least one if not all of the above faults. But for some reason, Fresno's reputation for general suckiness is so pervasive and far-reaching that it takes on a life of its own and exists out in the stratosphere, feeding off gossip and disgust like some twirly Star Trek emotion-beast.

I bring this up because I just came back from one of my tradeshow trips to Chicago. The last night we were there, Eric and I went to a wonderful world-class restaurant and ended up chatting with some people at the table next to us. The inevitable question of "Where do you live?" reared its ugly head. When we said "Fresno", one of the women, without missing a beat, said, "Isn't it really gross there?" I couldn't believe it. WTF???? Eric played it off by joking, "Not when I'm there it isn't!" This was followed by laughter, but the guy in their party turned to the woman next to him and audibly said, "It's still gross."

Again, WTF??? You're probably laughing right now, and yeah, it is kinda funny. But this little incident just really got to me, in a final-straw sorta way. Yeah, in some ways Fresno can be a shithole, but seriously, what has this town done to deserve that kind of treatment? These people didn't know us at all. The woman who made the comment had obviously never been here. What the hell could justify saying something like that to a complete stranger about their hometown? It's just fucking rude. And while the first woman could possibly be forgiven for having an honest, immediate response, her smarmy, second-rate-wanna-be-art-critic-looking friend who made the followup comment was just being an asshole. And why? Because we made the mistake of saying we were from Fresno. Apparently, that makes us fair game.

And this incident is not isolated at all- I'm sure you all have your own stories to tell. Another classic was on a trip to Vegas years ago. Stopped for a bite in this 50s-themed diner in the Stratosphere. Turned out that partway through dinner, the experience became interactive, with this 20-year-old kid in Buddy Holly glasses going around sticking a mic in the customers' faces and chatting with them, where are you from, etc. Not making fun of them, that wasn't his schtick- until he got to us. As soon as he heard "Fresno", he literally dropped his head and began to laugh like he'd just been handed hicks on a platter. I don't even remember what was said after that; we smiled and laughed it off as everyone in the restaurant watched. It actually was pretty humiliating and unpleasant, but this guy felt it was okay to do that to us. It's not like we should have expected it- we weren't walking into the Don Rickles show, for God's sake, we were just trying to get some food.

So what makes that guy feel so superior? What, because he lives in Vegas of all places? Yeah, I like the occasional trip to Vegas and I don't mean to dis it, but let's do a little honest comparison here: other than casinos and naked boobies, waddya got? Hotter, drier, and yes, in some ways uglier than Fresno, the very picture of uncontrolled suburban sprawl, a disproportionately high population of sun-dried, prematurely aging desert rats in frayed black tube tops and reeking of unfiltered cigarettes- oh yeah, it's a paradise all right. For that matter, let's talk about Palm Springs, which is basically Vegas without the casinos- blisteringly hot and nestled in a valley which in almost every way is the equivalent of the Central Valley, except even more so- flat farming communities, tractors on every road, plus the grossly polluted Salton Sea, that man-made blotch of pesticide runoff visible from space. Yeah, the mountains there are scenic, but so are ours, when you can see them anyway... point is, that Palm Springs pretty much embodies all the complaints about Fresno, but some combination of location, promotion, attitude and fate have made it a sought-after playground of the rich while those of us from Fresno get harassed in restaurants.

So what's my point? I'm not saying Fresno is the most wonderful place to live. I do like it here, but I also hate it here. There's plenty of other places I could happily live, and probably discover how much better they were than Fresno. There's also plenty of places I could live that would turn out to be worse. My point is that Fresno, for all its faults, gets a bad rap. There's lots of things I'd like to change about this town, but it doesn't deserve the amount and intensity of the scorn that's piled on it. Remember back in the 80s when some book rated us the worst of 277 mid-to-large U.S. cities, based on things like the number of bowling alleys per capita? The day that news came out, I walked out of my classes at Fresno State to a beautiful spring afternoon, a perfect breeze, green trees and flowers in bloom, and I thought, "THIS is the worst place in the country?"

I will say there's one major exception to all this: in my job, I've learned that the one place where Fresno's rep doesn't suffer is in the ag business. People's eyes actually light up when you mention Fresno. It's so refreshing.

But for the rest of the world, where does the problem come from about Fresno? Is it years of TV jokes? Is it the funny name? Is it the neverending lack of self-esteem from its inhabitants? And was that self-esteem caused by the perceptions, or vice versa, in chicken-and-egg fashion? People grumbling about their hometown, even the really popular ones, is not that unusual. But in all my travels over the years, I've never encountered a town with so little civic pride from its natives. And that includes every town that surrounds us. Hell, Bakersfield and Tulare blow us away in the self-esteem department.

I have no answers to the problem. I'm just sick of it. I'm tired of cringing whenever someone asks me where I'm from. I'm tired of setting my jaw and waiting for the jokes to come. The only solutions? Lie or move.

London Tales, Parte the Thyrde

2007-04-29T00:08:00.000-07:00

Okay, I've taken two blogs and several months to get through essentially one day's worth of London trip. I'll try to pick up the pace a bit.

Monday- still jet-lagged after the hot night with Tiger Man, we took our sweet time getting up our first morning in London. Cobbled together a bit of brekky prepared in our cute little kitchen.

Partly by design, partly by chance, our week ended up having a nice little two-tone balance to it. More touristy things at the beginning, more local flavor and less structure toward the end. Monday was the most intense touristy day of all, with several "must-sees" crossed off the list in an amazingly short amount of time, especially considering that we didn't really get going until early afternoon. There are a couple companies in London that do "hop on, hop off" bus tours. The buses have regular routes and stops just like a city bus, and your ticket is good for 24 hours. Ride all the way around, or get off where you want to look at something for a while, then get back on another bus later. It's a very cool way to see the major sights while getting oriented in the maddening labyrinth of London. Plus, it's on the old-style open top double deckers, which was very cool!

We find there's a ticketing point for the hop-on buses right outside Baker Street tube station. By the Tube configuration, getting on at our local Ladbroke Grove station, Baker Street was our connecting point for most of the other lines, so we went through this behemoth station many times. But Baker Street is also significant for being where Sherlock Holmes lived. 221-B Baker Street, to be specific. Considering the man and his home never existed, he gets an awful lot of attention. This is a wall in the station:

This is what you see when you walk outside (yes, including me, I'm there every single day, trying to make a living as "Eyebrow Man"):

And here is the Sherlock Holmes Museum, which we didn't go into or even cross the street for:

Its address is 221-B, except not really. The actual location would be a few doors down, about here:

It's silly, but I have to say it's also cool to be able to put a place to the stories, even if you have to mentally remove all of the modern accoutrements.

Anyway, we got our bus tickets, and the bored counter girl told us that we could also get discount tickets for the London Eye (the big ferris wheel) and a free hour-long boat tour on the Thames. "Okay." Done.

The bus was fun, with recorded commentary including corny jokes which would do the Jungle Cruise proud. Around every turn and with each new landmark, the amazement kept growing inside me (or maybe it was the sauages from breakfast...). I have been a lifelong Anglophile- but then, my sexual orientation has nothing to do with this story. Let's just say I've always loved things British, and have always wanted to go there. For me, seeing all of this for real, in person, FINALLY, was just mind-boggling.

People have asked me what my favorite part of the trip was, or what sight impressed me the most- it's a three-part answer (of course). I loved it when I would see things and places that were exactly what I expected, the best example being Big Ben (yes, I know that's actually the name of the bell, not the clock- just shut the f up, okay?)- the moment when we were standing half a block away and suddenly Big Ben started chiming- that was the moment that really sent a chill up my spine and said, I'm really here, in London! That would have to be my favorite single moment, and it was exactly what I would have always expected. On the other hand, my two favorite places we visited were Bath and the Tower of London, for exactly the opposite reason- they were completely unexpected. But more about that later.

Yes, my nipples are going to town in this shot, and not just because it's kinda chilly:

So, we zipped around and saw a lot of things at high speed, and stopped a few places for walking around. Here's some pictures. One was taken specifically for Marcel. See if you can figure out which one.

I have no idea what the sheep is about, but it makes me laugh.

This building is lovingly/scornfully referred to as "The Gherkin". That would be one of the more polite metaphors that come to mind. A gherkin with batteries, more like. At one point I saw a group of German girls pointing and laughing, and my high school German let me figure out they were not talking about pickles.

Where's Sullivan?

I took this picture because if you look closely, you'll see that "Dirty Dancing" and "Footloose" are playing in the same block.

Downing Street.

We first saw this sculpture that day, on top of a building near Picadilly Circus. We would pass it many times through the course of that week, and every time- EVERY SINGLE TIME, mind you- we'd comment on the boobs. Yes, the fake, sculpted, metal boobs. Ladies, the Y chromosome is a very powerful force which cannot be controlled. We honestly can't help it. You have no idea.

Went on the Eye, which was very cool. I know a big Ferris wheel doesn't sound all that exciting, but it's well worth it. Amazing views. Painted people in the neighboring park. I might give money to a musician or somebody who is showing some talent, but I draw the line at paying someone to paint themself blue and sit motionless. Hell, that's just any Saturday night at my place. Note the shot (not that great) of painted people taking a break together, which means they move.

I like this because you can see the whole car and view in Alan's glasses.

In front of a nearby museum. I like the juxtaposition of melting Dali watch with Parliament.

Went on the free cruise- neat to go under bridges and see things from the water side. And we were pretty beat by that time, too. Which brings us to today's video, which I like to call, "Still Life With Safety Announcement".

Eventually, the day wound down, the tour buses stopped, and we found ourselves in Picadilly Circus- yes, near the boobs. It's like 9 or 10 PM and we're starving. We wandered around a bit and suddenly found ourselves in Chinatown. I had no idea London even had a Chinatown, and what they do have seems to be a block long. We found a restaurant that served what has got to be the worst, most tasteless Chinese food I have ever had, but it was cheap and all you can eat, and really hit the spot. I think we just called it a night and made our way home after that.

I think that was also the first night of the ritual we called the Flying Laptop. Usually didn't work very well, forcing us to visit hotspots or the hourly rental Internet shops that scatter the city.

Tuesday- only one major plan that day. We had decided to take one day to get out of the city and see a little English countryside. Found a tour that would take us to Bath and Stonehenge. Had our reservations, tour was leaving from near Victoria Station at noon, went downtown to find the place, had some time to kill, so we walked down the street to look at this little shack that some old broad named Elizabeth lives in.

This would be such a great shot if Alan and Jeff weren't out of focus.

Construction workers and police in body armor- ah, the royal life.

Heh, it says "balls".....

Anyway, got on our comfy bus with a pleasant but somewhat long-winded tour guide, and off we went.

You can't see it, but the plaque on this building says Alfred Hitchcock used to live there.

Took this shot of a rest stop parking sign when we stopped for a break. I'm such a geek and so stupid, that I took it purely because I liked the eighty billion languages on it. It took APJ to point out the obvious "P free" joke. Always taking it into the gutter, eh J?

I was so happy to see the countryside look more or less like I imagined it based on such BBC shows as "All Creatures Great and Small". This wasn't Yorkshire, but it was full of green hills and stone fences and I loved it.

First stop, Bath. The town, not the act of watery cleansing. What an incredibly cool surprise this place was. I knew about the Roman Baths, I knew it was kind of a resort city, but really didn't know much about the town at all, which made for such a feeling of intrigued discovery. I'm sure some of its look and appeal are because of its tourist credentials, but this little town with ancient bathhouses rubbing shoulders with medieval churches and 18th-century homes, a beautiful river setting, an imposing cathedral- the kind of place you go for, say, a honeymoon. We only had a couple hours there, much of which was spent in the Baths with our magic Commentary Wands, but I so want to go back there someday and really explore the town.

I'm a tree.

His name was Nigel. I sat next to him on the tour bus. He was alone, a daytripper from Manchester. I told him I liked his accent. He giggled sweetly. He said he'd always wanted to go to the States. I said I'd show him Florida. The next morning, he walked out of the room wearing my bedsheet. He looked so adorable, I had to take this picture. Sadly, it was the last I'd ever see of him. Sweet, sweet Nigel.

Where was I? Oh, Bath. Anyway, thumbs up on the Bath thing. Go there. Back on the bus, and off we went to Stonehenge. On the way, a duck flew right in front of the bus and smacked the windshield loud enough to scare the shit out of everybody. The bus won. Poor duck.

Finally pulled up to Stonehenge, which is just bloody amazing. Mind you, we weren't just your average visitors- anybody can visit Stonehenge, but you can only get so close. The actual stones and inner circle are off limits without special permission, but there are a limited number of tours, on a limited number of days, that are allowed in either before or after public opening hours. You pay extra to do this, but not only do you get to go wander among the stones and touch them, it's also timed so you're there to witness either sunrise or sunset. This is why our tour didn't leave until noon- we were scheduled for sunset at Stonehenge, and it was worth all the extra pence. They let us wander around for like 45 minutes to an hour, with very little restriction (like we couldn't climb on them). The stones look big from anywhere, but you don't really appreciate their massive size until you're standing right next to them. One thing that surprised me was that the location wasn't quite as desolate as it's always portrayed- sure, if you photograph it from one direction, it looks as if it's on a neverending empty plain. But turn around, and you see that it's RIGHT NEXT to a small highway, and a couple hundred yards from a big highway. At one point, some obnoxious German teenagers pulled up in their car, hopped the fence, and noisily ran up to the stones, only to get promptly booted out by the park warden. If they'd kept their mouths shut, they'd probably have mixed into our group without getting noticed.

Pictures.

"No Admittance"? I LAUGH at your pathetic sign! It is powerless to stop me!

My "2001" moment.

Awwww. This will go on the Christmas cards this year.

Back on the bus for a sleepy ride home. Not half a mile from Stonehenge, on the edge of some town, there was a brand new shopping or office complex called something like- wait for it- "Solstice Plaza". Seeing that the British could reduce the majesty and mystery of Stonehenge to a ridiculously tacky shopping center name made me slightly less embarrassed to be a visiting American.

Got back home, then a 10 PM visit to some Italian place down the street from the flat, and the Flying Laptop. Another amazing day in London comes to a close.

One of my favorite pictures of the whole trip.

THUS ENDETH PARTE THE THYRDE

London Tales - Parte the Seconde

2007-03-19T22:52:00.000-07:00

So I went to London. You may know that already. I wrote a blog about it here. You may know that too. I promised more to come, blogwise, about said trip. There has been nothing. Some of you may want this "more" that I promised. Some of you may actively oppose it. My hunch, however, is that the vast majority of you- whoever "you" are- don't give a shit either way. Meanwhile, my life provides me with plenty of inner turmoil as it is, and I don't need to be plagued by my own laziness and guilt re: lack of action on the London blog. So this is mostly for me. All you who want it, or don't care, this is for you too. As to the people who don't want to buy what I'm selling, go over here instead. I'm sure he can give you what you're looking for.

Since the trip- and since the first blog installment- time has, as is its wont, marched inexorably onward. About six months' worth, actually- as I write this, we were in the UK six months ago exactly. Memories grow hazy at this point, which will probably turn out to be a good thing. I won't write as much about the excruciating details, and you won't have to read them. Then again, this is already longer than most people's entire blog entries, and I haven't even said anything yet. Ah, verbosity is a cruel mistress.

By way of a bit of explanation, I will cut and paste a paragraph from the last blog:

For those who haven't seen them already or who want a return trip to two dimensions of someone else's memories, my complete, unedited, no-commentary London photo gallery is here and Alan's is here. Jeff has no photos, as far as I know. If you get really desperate, Alan inexplicably posted all my dopey little videos to YouTube here. They're not exciting, but they entertain me in a back-of-the-brain kind of way. Apologies for the ads on my gallery- they keep it free. It seems that Alan takes more pictures of people and I take more pictures of things. Does that make me bad?

Well, on we go.....

So, we had our airline misadventures, and finally made it to London. Got to the apartment- sorry, the "flat"- and Alan and Jeff instantly crashed. Despite nearly 24 hours with no sleep to speak of, I was still way too wired- so I unpacked my important stuff, got settled, explored the apartment, took some pictures. I have an odd habit of taking pictures of hotel rooms and such when I travel. I want to remember the way the room looked, the view- it's a strange little compulsion. But here we were in London, in a two-bedroom two-bath flat on the top 1 1/2 floors of a converted house (most of the apartment on one level, then step-down to the kitchen) and it was so bloody cool that I went a little nuts with the documentation. You can see it in the gallery. I also took compromising photos of Jeff and Alan sleeping, which I will discreetly NOT post on this blog out of consideration for those involved- however, if you go to the gallery, they would be the first two pics on page 3. But I didn't tell you that.

This is my room.

This would be the hallway.

Across the table and down into the kitchen.

A bit about the flat- I was kinda nervous, because the flat was pretty much all my doing. I had seen a lot of websites about short-term apartment rentals, and it sounded like the way to go for us- less expensive than a hotel, more comfortable than a hostel, we could make some of our own meals and save a bit of money. So, I pushed the idea on the others, did all the research, picked and booked the flat. I found a place that seemed to have everything- good price, plenty of room and comfort, not too close or too far from the heart of the city, Tube station right around the corner, interesting neighborhood that seemed not too dodgy to the people I consulted with, and it was literally a few steps from Portobello Road, which I'd at least heard of and knew there was supposed to be something special about it. If it turned out that the place sucked hard, or we were in grave physical danger every time we stepped out the door, I felt it was going to be entirely my fault. Luckily, the place was (in my opinion) perfect or nearly so- maybe just a bit too much night noise from the nearby freeway, and the stair climb got old after a while- but Pshaw!!! Mere annoyances! For what we needed and wanted, it was just right, and I was very relieved.

And now a short break from our action-packed tale to introduce today's video clip. In a courtyard behind our flat was this tree:

We could see it had fruit on it, but weren't close enough to tell what kind. Looked like pears or something. It's probably 400 years old and is so tall, we were wondering how you'd ever get the fruit off of it. Well, God heard our query, and one morning we saw this:

Yup, an old babushka woman whacking the tree with a long-ass stick and picking up the fruit. I love this video on so many levels, including: 1.If you haven't already, you will probably watch a video of an old woman whacking a tree with a stick, and 2. She has no idea there's a video on the web of her whacking a tree with a stick. I only wish the quality was better, so you could really, really see her whack that tree with that stick.

Anyway- after properly inspecting and archiving the flat, I was still wired- London, for God's sake!- so I decided to take a walk and explore the immediate neighborhood that would be our home for a week. There's the Tube station, that's good, here's where the restaurants and pubs are- ooh! Thai food! Good to know- eventually went back to the flat and fell into a confused slumber.....

Woke up a couple hours later to twilight, two lively and hungry friends, and a pounding headache. Sunday night, things seem quiet, not much open- we make our way to a nearby place I'd spotted earlier with the romantic and accurate name of "Sausage and Mash". There are a lot of immigrants in London, from all over the world. Many cultures and cuisines are on display. For some reason, at least judging from this trip, all the places that serve the wonderful heart-busting stuff that would be considered "traditional" English food are staffed entirely by Eastern Europeans with very strong accents. I tried the Toad in the Hole. Yes, I know it sounds painful, but it was damn good at that moment.

Then we wandered down the street until we found a pub with the promising name of the Duke of Wellington. After getting our pints from the friendly Eastern European gentleman behind the bar, we settled at a table to drink our English beer in an English pub and contemplate the mere wonder of being in fucking London (which is incidentally a lot more exciting than regular London). At a nearby table sat an old man who, if he was in the U.S., would be a completely disenfranchised homeless person, but in the UK, was probably a comfortable neighborhood eccentric. Chest-length white beard, long stringy white hair, and a generally kooky air about him- if I had been asked to pick the crazy person in the pub, I would have picked him. I would have been wrong.

We'd been sitting there for a few minutes in jet-lagged conversation when suddenly, we weren't alone. A man- who also had a kooky air about him but I wouldn't have put him top of the crazy list- carrying a freshly filled pint sat silently and uninvited at our table, bringing our conversation to a screeching halt and eliciting three confused stares. After a few eternal seconds, Jeff finally broke the silence with something like, "Can we help you?"

"Oh, just wanted to see what you're talking about," he said, or something like that. I don't know if he was drawn to us because we were Yanks, or just didn't fit in, or were new victims, or all of the above- but he just decided to join us. Okay, fine- it's cool to meet people, and it'll probably make for a good story.... Meanwhile, Long Beard Guy, who is directly in my line of sight and behind New Guy, catches my eye, grins, and points at New Guy then taps his head, indicating, "He's crazy." I grin slightly and nod acknowledgement, careful to not anger New Guy. Okay, what now......

Well, not surprisingly, New Guy doesn't really care about whatever we were talking about, and quickly steers the conversation to his own agenda, which happens to be The Imminent and Terrible Extinction of the Human Race. Okay, he had some good points about global warming and our destruction of the planet, but it was mixed with a rant about the muticultural iconography of tigers (including the impassioned cry, "Seriously, can you live in a world without tigers?!?") and something about how we should be educating 18-year-old girls to not bother having children because the next generation is all going to die anyway, "But you can't tell them that. They don't understand. But we're older and we know better, don't we?" There was a lot of polite, noncommittal nodding going on in the Duke of Wellington that night, my friends. Eventually, Alan pulled something out of his ass like, "Hey Jeff, we'd better get moving if we're going to, you know, meet that guy," we said our fond goodbyes to Tiger Man, and wandered our way back home.

Before Tiger Man.

During Tiger Man. Note my look of intense interest.

Although we weren't exactly in the mood to talk about the end of the world, I sure am glad I met Tiger Man. Welcome to London, indeed.

THUS ENDETH PARTE THE SECONDE

Parental Advisory: Not-So Explicit Content

2007-01-09T19:27:00.000-08:00

So this is a scary view into the things that occupy my mind, but what the hell. I was driving home from work today and it occurred to me that the "proper" words for things sexual are pretty much all wrong. They fail to convey the essence of what they describe, and for the most part, they're also just strange or silly sounding words. It's not that they're too clinical- that would make too much sense. Really, they should be much more clinical, if they're going to be the "official" words. But they're all just.... wrong. The dirtier words that we all know and love are more visceral because that's what they're about- the theatre of sex. Powerful and naked, stripped of pretense, pure and passionate. You expect and want the dirty words during sex or when you hit your head on a towel rack- or both. But the publicly acceptable words don't even feel right when you say them. It seems to me that if things were as they should be, you'd be able to speak the "clean" words without feeling like an idiot.

One of the best is "masturbation". What the hell is that? It sounds like an unpleasant growth you'd get on your leg. "The infected masturbation was successfully removed." Yuck. It doesn't sound fun at all. Plus, it sounds too much like it's made up of other, more common words- "master" and "bait". Too many other possible meanings and images cross one's mind. Wrong, just wrong.

"Intercourse". Technically descriptive, to be sure, but sounds odd and can also be used to describe mere conversation. Me chatting with, say, the guy at the Jiffy Lube is not the same as making the beast with two backs with the lady or gentleman- or both- of my choice.

"Prophylactic". Great word, really. But funny. Just try to say it with a straight face, I dare you. And it certainly doesn't sound like something that you would fit on Mr. Happy. Actually, it sounds like a Protestant denomination. "No, we don't celebrate the Feast of St. Swithens, thank you. We're Prophylactic."

"Vagina". Don't really know what to think about this word. Doesn't sound sexy, doesn't sound clinical. More than anything, it sounds like some sort of vacation rental. "We stayed in a lovely little vagina with a view of the Mediterranean."

And now my favorite- the symbol of masculinity, the essence of what it is to feel the power of manhood burning in your loins: the "penis". Oh come ON! Is there a less masculine word in the English language? Maybe "flutter" or "snuggle"- why don't we call it one of those? "Penis"? Who thought of that? It sounds like the exact opposite of power and virility. Say "penis" out loud. Go on, do it. Hear how strange it sounds? How you have to get all nasally to say it? All modern attitudes about gender equality aside, you'd think that millennia of male-centric society would have produced a better term for the pillar of all that is Man. Almost anything would be better- I don't care if it's descriptive or clinical or just sounds cool. "Circumference". "Lifestaff". Whatever. But "penis"? Please.

Those are just a few examples, but I'm sure you can think of more. In fact, I encourage you to. Meanwhile, I will go back to the ebb and flow of my mind to think meaningful thoughts about other important topics. Like cereal.

So I bought an iPod.......Aw, screw it.

2006-12-11T18:17:00.000-08:00

Wow!! Somebody bought an iPod- and wrote a blog about it!!! The blogosphere has never witnessed an essay so richly endowed with significance and grandeur! Hot damn skippy, Ma! Zonthar done went and got hisself one a' them Hi-Pawds!

Yeah well, if anyone else bought an iPod and blogged about it, they might be accused of excessive navel-gazing- which is exactly what I'm doing- but as with most of my blogs, this tale involves a grand and glorious bout with institutional ineptness. Okay, maybe not glorious.

My dad is doing his usual Christmas bit of giving my brother and I each a lump sum of money with the stipulation that we pick out something we want, buy it before Christmas, wrap it, and put it under the tree at his house so there will be something to open. He does none of the work and we get what we want. Brilliant. I've been thinking of getting an iPod for a while, as part of my continuing effort to appear cool so girls will like me. Sure, I don't really have the need for one, but that hasn't stopped anyone else. And there are other and even better mp3 players out there perhaps, but you know, we all gotta have the iPod. What am I gonna buy, a Zune? Please.

So, I decided I would get an iPod for Christmas- but I didn't really want one of the video ones. They're nice and everything, but I'm just not that interested in watching big movies on a tiny screen. Or TV shows. Or internet video. I never go anywhere anyway. I can easily watch what I want on my actual TV or computer. To get my money's worth out of a video iPod, I'd have to start visiting random vacant lots around town so I can sit and watch movies. Besides, judging by the promotional materials, it appears to now be a federal law that upon buying your iPod, you must immediately watch "Pirates of the Caribbean", and I just didn't want to deal with that.

So I chose the Nano. Portable music might be nice. You likely won't be seeing me sporting earbuds everywhere I go, but hey, I can get one of those little transmitter things and listen in my car. Or something. But now the 8 GB model Nano is the same price as the 30 GB full size iPod, which I already decided I don't want, and I'd feel stupid paying the same price to get the "lesser" device. So, I decide on the 4 GB.

Now, I'm pissed. I mean right now, as I'm writing this. This is as far as I had saved this blog. I finished the whole exciting story, but then I just accidentally deleted it a few minutes ago before posting it. It was a work of beauty, filled with sparkling wit and biting satire, but now it's gone, and I'm too pissed off to rewrite it. Suffice it to say I wanted a red one, which you can't get anywhere, so I ordered it from Apple, and then FedEx misplaced it. At least it was here in town, but if I hadn't taken the initiative to go to the warehouse myself, it never would have made it into my greedy little hands. If my blog hadn't been deleted, you would have heard all the gory details, all the amusing asides, all the mythological refences, and all about the scary guy from Chowchilla and his Metallica shirt, but nope, you won't hear it now. I shall write no more. The gist is that I finally got the damn thing. First song I loaded onto it was "Memorial" by Michael Nyman. So much for being cool.

I'm not like other boys....

2006-12-03T13:35:00.000-08:00

Taking a cue from Lecram, I'm posting this to keep everyone entertained while they breathlessly await the second installment of my London trip. In the meantime, maybe I'll do some shopping. What does everyone want for Christmas?

Apologies to those who may have seen this already. So how do you say "copyright infringement" in Hindi?

Welcome Gamers!!

2006-11-19T12:04:00.000-08:00

Okay, so I was checking my blog stats to see if actually posting something after months of inactivity had made any significant difference in site traffic. It did, and it shows me there are actually folks out there who care (*sniff*). I also noticed something strange- a couple visits from people who had Googled "Zonthar" (and I liked it). Now, I have been Zonthar ever since my KFSR days. Thought then that I made it up entirely, but in recent years I've realized I probably subconsciously ripped it off from the thrilling 1966 classic "Zontar, Thing From Venus". SCTV- of which I was a huge fan- even did a whole 90-minute episode based on "Zontar". So, I've been forced to admit that I actually have zero creativity, except that the "h" is all mine. Anyway, I've held onto "Zonthar" because it's fun, easy to remember, and I've only ever found a couple other people on the web who also use it. So, I was surprised when not one but two people, from different countries, had specifically typed "Zonthar" into Google recently and visited my blog. That didn't seem to be a random misspelling. Was someone searching for me? Was my meager, unexciting blog quietly gathering a worldwide following? Considering that these visitors had spent a total time of 0:00 viewing the page, I thought it unlikely. Then, I saw more "Zonthar" searches in the following days. What the hell was going on here? I Googled myself- mmmmmmmmmmmmmmm, that's good.........- and discovered that apparently this new PC game has some sort of puzzle sequence that has to do with something called Zonthar, and people are looking for hints. I feel rather violated by all this, quite frankly. I seriously thought about posting some sort of joke link on here for gamers to follow, but then I decided maybe it would be best to not bring the rage of multiple geeks down upon my humble blog.

London Tales - Parte the Firste

2006-11-12T14:51:00.000-08:00

Well, you've done it. Yes, I'm actually writing a blog entry. The deafening silence as you all haven't been screaming at me, haven't constantly harassed me, in fact not once have asked me to blog about my London trip- stop it already!! I'll write it, I'll write it!!!! Geez Louise!!

First off, for those who haven't seen them already or who want a return trip to two dimensions of someone else's memories, my complete, unedited, no-commentary London photo gallery is here and Alan's is here. Jeff has no photos, as far as I know. If you get really desperate, Alan inexplicably posted all my dopey little videos to YouTube. They're not exciting, but they entertain me in a back-of-the-brain kind of way. Apologies for the ads on my gallery- they keep it free. It seems that Alan takes more pictures of people and I take more pictures of things. Does that make me bad?

The journey starts, as most of mine do, with many wacky misadventures at the hands of Lucifer Airlines, known in this Earthly realm as United. Did I say Lucifer Airlines? Really, I should say Three Stooges Airlines- perhaps Air Moe? Three of the last four times I've flown anywhere, mind you that's three times within a year and a half, I've been treated to a zany "will we ever get there" experience courtesy of the apparently boundless ineptitude of United Airlines. So why do I keep flying with them? It's generally because I wasn't the one who chose the airline, or because they're cheapest, or because I have a voucher from the LAST time something happened. Plus, they make for good stories.

Saturday morning, September 16, 2006, 6:30 AM, Los Angeles, CA. Jeff and I drove to LA the night before, crashed at Alan's place, and now Alan's generous-but-sleepy neighbor is driving us to LAX.

Our flight to Chicago leaves at 8:55, then about a 1 1/2 hour layover at O'Hare and off to London to arrive at 5:55 AM Sunday, London time. We didn't choose this particular itinerary, just requested dates and this is what we got. Long story, but for those who don't already know, we flew to London on free round-trip vouchers. That's right, didn't pay a dime. So, I guess we can't complain too much. No, wait- yes we can. My major concern at this point of the story is that our flight will be on time and we-and our luggage- won't have any trouble making the connection in Chicago. Past experience with Air Moe has made me wary of anything less than a two-hour connection buffer. I look back on this petty concern now and I laugh, a hearty Phil Ken Sebben laugh- ha HA!- but I digress.

We arrive at the airport, two hours early as suggested. Excitement fills our drowsy minds. This is the day! We're on our way to London!! There's the United check-in counter- hold on a second, guys- I want to just check this departures monitor real quick. I scan down the cities and times- yup, there's our flight. Says "cancelled". Blink. Blink. "Cancelled"....... wha...... um..... SHIT!!! Cancelled!! THE FLIGHT IS CANCELLED!!!! Who the... what the.... no other flights are cancelled, just ours! Sure, there's a 7:55 Chicago flight, but it's 7:00 now, so it's too late for that one.... how can our flight be cancelled? I checked yesterday to confirm. I have automatic notification- they're supposed to email me and call my cell if there's any changes! Check my cell- no messages. Discovered later that they did send me an email- at 11:30 the night before. The flight had been cancelled and we had been rebooked.... to the 7:55 flight. Thanks for the notice, assholes. If I'm getting up at 5:30 the next morning so I can get to the airport on time, I'm not thinking to check my email at 11:30 to find out whether I have to be there an hour earlier!!

We ask someone about our dilemma, and are pointed to the "other" counter. Of course, at this point, we're a bit freaked and pissed, but I still have a sense of humor about it. I'm thinking, "Here we go. It's starting already. Whatever ends up happening, it'll make a good story." Then we get to the counter, explain ourselves, and the ticket agent starts right in with, "You're late. We tell everyone to be here 2 1/2 hours early. We could have gotten you on the 7:55, but it's too late now." I can't believe my ears. What, this is our fault now? We're here 2 hours early- every piece of United literature says 2 hours, not 2 1/2- but more importantly, it seems to me they have a certain responsibility to provide us with the FUCKING PLANE THEY PROMISED!!!! This woman is looking for something to put us on, with no luck- and keeps going back to "You should have gotten here earlier." I'm exercising every bit of will power to not throttle her. Don't want to make anyone mad until we at least have tickets. Oh, and the explanation for why the flight was cancelled? "There was no crew." WTF?!?!?!?!? No crew? For a flight that's been scheduled for months? You knew this last night and still couldn't find anyone by morning? Obviously something is missing from this explanation, but at this point, any additional info is, in a word, moot.

Meanwhile, a long line of equally disenfranchised and disgruntled passengers is forming behind us. It seems that not only are many other people from our flight as surprised as we are, but also, we got there EARLIER than everyone else. Must....not....kill....ticket....agent..... Plus, some of those other people are being much less tolerant of the circumstances. One German family was particularly irate. As the crush descended on the unsuspecting counter people- I really don't think they had any idea what they were in for, since they didn't even seem to know about the cancelled flight- our still-unthrottled and unsuccessful agent finally sent us to someone else a counter over, a much more fun and pleasant woman whose nametag actually said- no lie- "Ms. January".

After much searching on multiple airlines, and much talking to God-knows-who on the phone, Ms. January finally got us booked on Lufthansa, connecting through Frankfurt and getting us to London at 4 PM Sunday, a mere 10 hours late. Whatever, fine. We were on vacation and not stuck to a timetable. Just getting to London at all was the goal. Besides, now we get to spend a couple hours in Germany! Fine. Problem is, the flight leaves at 3:45 PM, and it's now all of 7:30 AM. Our ride is long gone, and it's pointless to call anyone to come and get us, or leave the airport laden with luggage. Might as well go trudge over to the Tom Bradley International Terminal (hereafter referred to as the TBIT), check in, and find a comfortable place to wait out an entire wasted Saturday at LAX. Incidentally, this is also about the time that the cell message from United comes through, informing me of the flight change. Bastards.

We find the Lufthansa counter- they don't even open until 11:00. Luckily, unlike the rest of LAX, the TBIT has plenty of food and rest options outside the secure zone. So, we settle in and grab some food.

Another complication is that we have rented a short-term apartment in London, and they're sending someone to pick us up at the airport and give us the key. So, I call and give them the message that we won't be there until 4:00. Everything seems to be in order- I'm not looking forward to spending the whole day at the airport, but hey, it's already an adventure- and we're going to Germany!

Finally, the Lufthansa counter opens, and we confidently step up with our confirmation vouchers. The counter man, a perfect and prissy Aryan specimen with the requisite German accent- we'll just call him Dieter- punches us into the computer, and informs us that they have zero record of us. Despite our printed confirmations to the contrary, we do not exist. Dieter disappears into the back room- amazing how every place has a mysterious "back room" where all important things reside- and comes back a few minutes later to confirm that yes, indeed, we do not exist. Despite the personal phone call from Ms. January, despite the confirmed reservations, we have not been ticketed, there is no room on the flight, and we will have to go back to United- back across the airport to Terminal 7 again- to straighten it out. Dieter couldn't get rid of us fast enough.

Now, we're pissed. The day's half over and we haven't even been able to check our bags yet, much less get off the ground. We schlep back to United, and even they are flabbergasted that Lufthansa wouldn't take us. It's a different shift of folks now, and our agent gets right on the phone and gives Lufthansa an earful for confirming us without issuing tickets, which is supposed to be impossible. So much for German efficiency. At least it has spread some of the blame- SOME- off of United's back. Well, much key-punching and phone-calling later, we find ourselves booked on Air New Zealand, leaving at 4:40 - but it's a direct flight so it gets us there at 11:00. No connections, five hours earlier- better than Lufthansa. The United agent gives us her name, the name of the person she spoke to at ANZ and all pertinent numbers and info- very helpful. We ask if they're open now for us to check in, and are told yes, she just got off the phone with them so they're there. In Terminal 2. Sigh.

Back across the airport, to the ANZ counter, to discover.... they're closed until 1:30. It's noon now. Well, shit. They probably just went to lunch or something, but now we have to wait another hour and a half to find out if we're going to get screwed again. There's nothing there- no food court, no lounge- but we're not leaving until we get checked in.

We chat with a very nice couple from Newcastle who are on their way home.

Eventually, the counter opens. With fingers crossed, we approach- and are accepted! A bit of security, and then we are finally allowed into the inner sanctum- the Concourse at Terminal 2, lair of the ticketed and checked! Look! A restaurant! Look! An ATM! Look! The men's room! So many wondrous things that only passengers are allowed to see! We're already exhausted and drained, and we haven't even started our 10-plus hours on the plane. And now I have to make another cell call to the UK to change the pickup time. Not cheap.

Finally, we board the prettiest metal cylinder I ever saw- and I am here to tell you, if you ever get a chance to fly Air New Zealand, TAKE IT. The staff are friendly, good-looking, and unusually perky in a good way, as if they actually enjoy their jobs. You know, like In-N-Out Burger employees. The food is good. The wine is free. EVERY seat has its private viewscreen, with multiple channels of on-demand, pausable movies, TV shows, video games- it's beautiful! Being Air New Zealand, included in the fairly numerous entertainment options is the entire LOTR trilogy. I didn't watch it- not much of it anyway- but I could have watched every minute on that flight if I'd wanted to. Sweet. Thumbs up on Air New Zealand!

Wanted to sleep to beat the jet lag, but couldn't- not much anyway. Can't sleep on a plane.

Saw the sunrise somewhere over Iceland.

Landed in London without incident. Was allowed into the UK by the nicest customs agent I've ever encountered. First sight of British soil: the carpet in Heathrow Terminal 3 Arrivals.

Walked out into the sea of waiting family, friends, and limo drivers with hand-drawn signs. I was rather looking forward to seeing one of those signs with my name on it, as if I was someone important, like..... um.... oh let's say.... John Stamos. But nothing. Nowhere. No driver. No John Stamos sign. The message hadn't gotten to the right person- even though I had actually spoken to a real person- and we had to phone them and wait for a driver to be sent out. Apparently they had still been expecting us at 6 AM, when of course we didn't show. So much for my expensive international cell calls. Shee-it. Just want to get there, people!

Finally got the driver, who immediately proceeded to drive on the wrong side of the road!

He was also driving some kind of crazy backward car that had the steering wheel on the wrong side- we tried to tell him, but he insisted he knew what he was doing, and we were too tired to fight.

Somehow we survived the Bizarro World drive into town, and happily set foot- after a significant luggage-laden stair climb- into our fabulous top-floor two-bedroom flat just off the Portobello Road. 22 1/2 hours after we left Alan's place, we had arrived. We were in London!

THUS ENDETH PARTE THE FIRSTE

2006-05-20T16:10:00.000-07:00

Welcome to the Kiln

2006-05-19T12:55:00.000-07:00

Well, Lecram wants us all to blog about SSM's welcome home party, which occurred without the inconvenience of having to wait for SSM to actually come home.
Sure, I'd like to write about it, but I can't remember it. The only thing I know is what I see in the photos here- I vaguely recall my platypus message,
and I do distinctly remember that was before the "You were gone?" sign even showed up, giving me a continuing motif for the event. But the next thing I knew, it was late last night, and I woke up drenched with sweat. Sure, it's been recored-breakingly hot here lately (101 yesterday!! May 18th!! It's absolutely insane!!!!), but this was the sweat of a sticky, continuous, tropical heat. The moon shone through a heavy haze, dimly illuminating my surroundings as my bleary eyes reluctantly went back to work. As it turns out, I was laying in a fetal position on the deck of an ocean freighter near Singapore, wearing a bowling shirt which sported the name "Cuban Pete". Next to me was a large man named Ibrahim, who smiled and said, "Looks like Mr. 7-10 Split's finally awake." Without going into more details, let's just say I'm posting this from an internet cafe on Bali, and I really want to come home.

Snakes!

2006-04-05T14:32:00.000-07:00

Reposted for my Blogger-only friends, after I posted on MySpace:

Samuel L. Jackson's new mile-high thriller Snakes On A Plane has created such a buzz among internet film fans, movie bosses have called for re-shoots - to give the film a tougher rating. The film, which stars Jackson as an FBI agent trying to keep a federal witness alive onboard a plane full of snakes, wrapped last September - but went back before the cameras earlier this month for five days of additional shooting. Film bosses at distributor New Line Cinema opted to add new scenes to the film to take the movie from PG-13 into R-rated territory, according to industry magazine The Hollywood Reporter. They claim the second round of filming became necessary after intense and growing fan interest in the film, which is scheduled to be released this summer. Among the reported additions to the film is a foul-mouthed rant from Jackson in which his agent character bellows, "I want these motherf**king snakes off the motherf**king plane!" The line is expected to take on cult status. The film-makers have reportedly added more gore, more deaths, more nudity and more snakes to the finished product.

Okay, the followup to "Snakes on a Plane"-

For any movie geeks or fans of true comedy who are registered(or are willing to register for free) at IMDB, go to the "Snakes on a Plane" page here, and click on just about any of the forum threads for flat-out (in this platypus' opinion) the funniest damn web forum discussions ever. "Dude, Seriously" and "1000 reasons this movie will kick ass" are good ones. Holy crap, the buzz works- I now NEED to see this movie!!

One State, Two State, Red State, Blue State

2006-04-03T16:52:00.000-07:00

Okay, I usually leave the political ranting to SSM, but I've been wondering- when the hell did Republicans become red and Democrats blue? Yes, I know it refers to the color of the states on the big scary TV maps on election night, but I don't remember when anyone was consulted on who would be what color. In the past, it's even been different depending on which network you were watching- it wasn't until after the 2004 election that I ever even heard the term "(insert color) state" with regard to the parties. Why now? Why is it suddenly agreed by everyone that they are red and we are blue? And why are Republicans now so proud to be Red, when it used to be what was better dead than?

Besides, I remember noticing even as a kid that the predominant color scheme of campaign materials used to favor a nice conservative blue for Republicans and a vibrant, progressive red for Democrats. If it was obvious enough for even my hormone-addled twelve-year-old mind to notice, what happened? I think it's yet another example of the GOP co-opting the former strengths and positive perceptions of the Democratic Party and liberals in general. They've even stolen our color! Now, THEY look progressive and WE look stodgy. Nobody asked me what color I wanted to be! That said, I personally look a lot better in blue.

Along that line, I just want to say that it was nice to recently get out of the jurisdiction of Dubya (technically) for a while- had a tradeshow in Vancouver. I've always liked Canada for a number of reasons- as long as you're not in Quebec, it's all very familiar to an American, but with enough differences to make it interesting. The standard of living is the same (or better), the culture is essentially the same (or better), the people are the same (or nicer), the language is the same, but a little dorkier, eh? (it's a compliment) Actually, while they do say "eh?", it seems to have been largely supplanted by the equivalent verbal punctuation "right?", which kept me a little on edge, because at first I thought they were asking me a question for which I had no answer.

But there's these cool differences that remind you that you are, indeed, in a foreign country, despite being only a three hour drive from SSM: colorful money with a picture of the Queen on it, "er" becoming "re" and "or" becoming "our", mph becoming kph, and the weather forecast calls for 12 degrees tomorrow??!?!?!?!??? Oh, yes, that's not 12 REAL degrees....

But in the modern era, I've been given a lot more reasons for appreciating Canada. They essentially share a culture, a history and a continent with us, but somewhere along the line, they figured out how to do it right. I love my country, but despite what many would tell you, patriotism demands facing up to the nation's faults as well as its strengths. While certainly not perfect or without its drawbacks- I'm sure many a Canadian would have plenty to bitch about- their system just seems to work better than ours. Maybe it comes from not having the pressure of being a superpower all the time. Laws make more sense. Social policies make more sense. Urban planning makes more sense. Although, their show during the closing ceremonies of the recent Olympics didn't make much sense. And the logo for the upcoming Vancouver Olympics is ugly. At least it's better than that stupid-ass character from the Atlanta games.

And yet, despite all these advantages, Canadians still seem to have an inferiority complex stemming from always being in the shadow of their boisterous big brother. I've never seen anyone- even someone from Clovis- so in love with their nation's flag. There's flags EVERYWHERE, and the maple leaf is on EVERYTHING. Businesses and products are prominently pronounced to be "100% Canadian!!", the press gets gushy whenever some Canadian actor has two lines in a Hollywood movie, and there's a general feeling that, while they may appreciate their big brother and his money, they're NOT Americans, they're Canadians, dammit!! (However, this brings up the whole issue of whether or not Canadians- and Mexicans and Belizeans and whoeverians- can call themselves Americans. I maintain they are indeed North Americans and may call themselves thus, but since their founders had the foresight to give the country an actual name, they can use that. Since "United States" is hardly a proper placename and "America" is the closest we have, we get to use "Americans". They've got their name; they don't get to use both. So there.)

One cool thing was the ethnic diversity- it's been a long time since I made it to Vancouver, and I was surprised at how much the look of the population has changed. Sure, there's still lots of pasty-faced goobers like myself, but also many other races and nationalities represented, particularly a LOT of Asians. Yes, that did include many hot Asian women, for those who would want to know such things.

Anyway, despite their having recently voted a Conservative government into office, it was nice to spend a few days in the land of people that never ever cast a vote for Dubya. I thought about using nationalized health care, getting a gay marriage, and legally smoking some chronic while I was there, but I settled for some beautiful scenery and a nicely seared albacore steak.

Here's a couple views from my hotel room:

R.I.P.

2006-02-25T19:52:00.000-08:00

1924-2006

It's not personal

2006-02-21T12:33:00.000-08:00

General letter to any and all who may try to contact me-

Apologies if I don't respond so quickly in the near future- my Internet connection at home seems to be dying, and I'm not yet entirely sure what the problem is, but it seems to lie somewhere within the evil triumvirate of computer, ethernet card, and modem, ruling out the quick solution of a bitchy call to SBC or ATT or whatever the hell it is now that's supposed to make our world a better place by making it easier for reindeer herders in Lapland to download "Ass Like That" to their cell phones. So, until I figure that out, my contact with the world may be sporadic, and I'll be forced to waste valuable work time, reducing productive man-hours and endangering our fragile economy, in order to conduct my already feeble online correspondence.

Thank you. Carry on.

Free Stamps, Part II

2006-02-06T17:51:00.000-08:00

I think the USPS got wise to my free stamp racket and is clamping down. The other day I got somebody else's mail. Mind you, this isn't unusual, particularly with the junk mail I still get for former residents of my apartment. My favorite is the special offers I get from Camel cigarettes- almost good enough to make me take up smoking. But this was to the wrong address entirely- rather, the right address but the wrong street. I won't give out my address here in a medium where I don't even use my real name- wait! No, Zonthar is my real name! I, uh.... screw it. Anyway, let's just say that my street and this other person's street are only about a mile apart, both start with V, have the same number of letters, and end with S. The printing on the letter is kinda small, so I can understand mistaking one street for the other. Fine. And I figured this was something this person would need, so I'd be nice and send it to him. I wrote "Delivered to wrong address" and dropped it in a mailbox. Couple days later- yup, it was delivered right back to me, with my handwritten note and all. Dumbasses. Gave me a good laugh, though. "Ha Ha", I laughed heartily, then added "TWICE" to my note, circled the address, wrote the right street name in big letters, and sent it off again. It hasn't come back yet, but I wonder if the Man is trying to send me a message.......

TiVo + Evil = TiVil

2006-01-25T15:01:00.000-08:00

I understand that TiVo has financial problems, that they've never shown a profit. The innovation they started continues to be cannibalized by rival DVR systems and plans from cable and satellite providers. Well, that may all be true, but I know that TiVo has achieved impressive profits by one particular estimation: in the harvesting of souls.

I got a TiVo for Christmas- or should I say, it got me. My dad has found a deviously clever way of dealing with Christmas for my brother and me- for the past two years, he's given a lump of money to both of us and announced that we have to buy something for ourselves that we have to wrap and put under the tree to be opened on Christmas. All work for us, none for him, and we get something we want. Brilliant. My dad is retired and lives alone and has little to do but spend our inheritance, so he does, and sometimes it's spent on us.

My brother's gift to himself last year was a TiVo, and he's been touting it all year, so this year I bought myself one. It's evil. My friend Badger put it best, something along the lines of, "If I had a TiVo and everything on TV was something I wanted to watch, my ass would be a mile wide." That's it exactly. With TiVo, everything on TV is something I want to watch, when I want to watch it, and it can be hard to break away. I always have a list of choices, and there's almost a feeling of obligation to get through the list so there's always room for more.

Sometimes I let the TiVo select shows to record, sometimes I don't. When I do let it take charge, it's gotten pretty good at figuring out what kind of things I like, although sometimes it still records the oddest things, like the Catholic News or Mexican sitcoms. Mind you, I have a healthy appreciation of big-boobed, scantily clad Latinas and the bug-eyed clowns that ogle them- and that's just the Catholic News- but that sort of thing usually gets the axe in favor of the good stuff. Cheesy UFO conspiracy shows, the history of aluminum foil, Harvey Birdman. Gotta love it. I don't know when this stuff is on, but the TiVo does.... it knows everything.... good TiVo..... is TiVo happy?.... Zonthar make TiVo happy...... Zonthar good servant, TiVo will see.... TiVo will be good to Zonthar and bring more Harvey Birdman......

Free Stamps!

2006-01-18T19:02:00.000-08:00

I went to my neighborhood post office today to 1.Send "Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas" back to Netflix, and 2.Buy some 39-cent stamps (Notice how nobody uses the "c" with a line through it anymore to signify "cents"? Didn't it used to be on a standard typewriter up there on top of the numbers with the dollar sign and the ampersand? It's sure not on my keyboard now. I'm sure I could do some "Insert symbol" thing and stick it in here, but that's a pain in the ass).

A book of 20 stamps is $7.80, but I have six $1s and a 20. I only need a couple in the near future and I don't want a bunch of dollar coins in change, so I put in a dollar, buy two stamps, and then reach into the change slot, where..... somebody walked off and left their change and a whole book of stamps! Wow! Who would do that? The only other people there were a woman who was waiting for me to finish (the story of my life with women), and another one who had been doing something at the counter near the machine, but left before I started (also a typical experience). My natural overdeveloped guilt instinct kicked in after I walked out- maybe I should have tracked down the woman who just left, maybe I should have tried to figure out who they belonged to- but really, whoever it was had walked away and I got over my guilt pretty quickly. Free stamps! Huzzah! The odd thing is, the stamps all have little electronic chips on them, marked "Property of NSA". What could that mean?

A Christmas Bob and Ted and Alice

2005-12-19T08:51:00.000-08:00

(If you truly get the reference in the title, you're old!)

Well, my buddy Lecram stole my idea without knowing it, and he's doing a series of blogs on his favorite holiday movies. Really, I was only going to talk about one, but still, as usual, he goes and makes me look bad. Damn curry-eating Malaysians. That's okay, nobody will ever mistake my arcane, wordy blogs for the charming, creative, sexy, popular musings of Mr. Lecram. I just like to talk about the details, dammit!

This weekend, I completed my yearly viewing of the 1951 British version of A Christmas Carol, featuring Alastair Sim as Scrooge. For some reason, despite the several billion times it's been done, I still never tire of this old chestnut of a story, and the Sim film is widely considered the definitive screen version.

It struck me how pervasive this story has become. In our modern Christmas culture, Scrooge is probably the third most important character along with Christ and Santa (not necessarily in that order). It's actually a bit strange that this, of all stories, is the definitive Christmas tale- it's so incredibly dark, for one thing. I've heard people say that even "It's a Wonderful Life" is too sad and depressing as a Christmas story, but come on! The very first words of "Carol" are, "Marley was dead," and it goes on from there: bitterness, cruelty, poverty, disease, more death, and the message that if you're not generous with your fellow man then you're going to suffer for eternity. Now THAT'S Christmas, baby! But perhaps everything it seems to have going against it is exactly what it has going for it- it's not just a frothy marshmallow-covered candy cane of a story; it's got some meat to it. It's not even really about Christmas when you look at it- it's about 1.The Victorian class system and 2.Dickens feeling guilty about getting rich. Even so, Dickens is sometimes credited with having revived the widespread observance of a holiday that had become mostly a rural tradition. Whether or not that's true, it's a bit amazing that to this day, nothing seems to say "Christmas" like a touch of Victorian/Dickensian ambience.

As for the movie, why is it the definitive version? Well, it's just so damn good. Alastair Sim, while truly being a bit too young for the role, delivers the performance of his career. His Scrooge is cruel but human, sour but funny, and ultimately likable. Most of the other performances (aside from a few melodramatic or syrupy moments that still don't go too over-the-top) are also pitch-perfect, down to the smallest supporting roles. Even the impossibly perfect Cratchit family- the Bradys of the 19th century- are sugary but still believable. It's remarkable how much of this film has stood the test of time, with very few details seeming dated (the very 40s/50s style "wailing spirits" choir arrangement is definitely one of them). The liberties taken with the original story by screenwriter Noel Langley work to enhance the characters nicely, and it all seems genuine- Dickens himself is said to have changed this story around in different retellings, so it's fair. I love certain touches, like we get to see some history of Scrooge and Marley's business association, including them buying out Fezziwig's company. And hey, it's got Patrick Macnee in it, from the original "Avengers", as young Marley! You can't go wrong! (Extra points if you can tell me the seventies sci-fi series Macnee was a voice in, and what character- no fair looking at IMDB) Oh, and this movie MUST be viewed in the original black-and-white. None of that colorized version crap.

Perhaps the only unfortunate thing about the story- and we're not just talking about the movie here- is the lame title. At the time Dickens wrote it, it was probably a perfectly descriptive and enticing title for an unknown story and an audience that wasn't constantly bombarded with things like "The American Chopper Kick-Ass Christmas Special", but now the title is so generic that many people don't know what it is. I can attest to this, because one of my many jobs and tasks in the "real" world is to work part-time in the box office of a theater company where we are currently showing "A Christmas Carol" and next year will be showing the equally-lamely-titled "A Christmas Story". Believe me, our job would be easier if they were called "Scrooge" and "BB Gun". Interestingly enough (okay, I know I'm the only one who finds this stuff interesting), the British title of the 1951 film was "Scrooge", while it was released in the U.S. as "A Christmas Carol". Usually, it's Hollywood that screws with the title.

Anyway, that's enough about that. I have to go take advantage of this day off to go do some shopping- yes, I haven't even started my Christmas shopping yet. Luckily, I don't have that many friends, and the ones I do have are as poor as me, so they understand when I give them a single sock and a handful of unmatched buttons from the Dollar Tree.

Sweet German Angel

2005-12-12T09:10:00.000-08:00

Following up to the previous Fritz post- my brilliant friend Badger put this together for me.... *sniff*....

Goodbye, Fritz

2005-12-09T10:21:00.000-08:00

Fritz was always a good guy- we had our ups and downs, but I loved him and I like to think he loved me, though he didn't always show it. He could be cantankerous at times, to say the least. Sometimes I'd politely ask him to do something and he wouldn't even acknowledge me. Or everything would be going along perfectly in our relationship, and suddenly some stupid little thing would get in the cogs and the machinery would come to a screeching halt. But for the most part, he was a great pal, always ready to help. That was a long time ago, though. As Fritz got older,he grew weaker and more distant, and it put a lot of strain on our friendship. Ultimately, I was forced to move on to other, younger friends, but the transition was an emotional one. It wasn't easy to forget Fritz and all he'd done for me.

So, my first new friend was a younger, feistier member of Fritz's family. The resemblance was remarkable. Except for a lighter complexion, this new friend- Udo by name- was the spitting image of Fritz. Udo and I frolicked together aplenty, but Fritz never left. He just kept waiting for me. He wouldn't- or couldn't- leave, and I didn't have the heart to send him away. Even as I brazenly would take bits of clothing and accessories literally off Fritz's back to give to Udo- they were the same size, after all- Fritz would just sit there and take it. Sometimes it almost felt as if I was actually taking pieces of Fritz's body and soul, and inserting them into Udo, but Fritz still never said a word about it. He just sat and sat, getting worn around the edges, as I continued to degrade him.

Eventually my fling with Udo came to an end, and I succumbed to the beguiling Asian charms of my current companion, Sosumi. Udo didn't take well to the new state of things, and pointedly left to live with another family. I heard they didn't treat him well, which saddens me greatly. But through it all, Fritz never left, becoming a forlorn, neglected hulk of a creature, but still by my side, waiting, waiting..... It's been almost ten years now that he's been sitting there, first being stripped for Udo's enhancement, then losing even that contact. Out of sight, out of mind- but when I would see him, it forcefully reminded me that his glory days were long gone and I would have to turn him over to someone else who could care for him in the way that he needed. I'd stopped visiting him entirely, and I'd put off the inevitable for years- finally, this week, I decided it was time to do something. I made some inquiries and found a home for Fritz to live out his days.

It was bittersweet to see them take Fritz away, but I knew it was for the best. I couldn't take care of him, and nobody else wanted to, so it was something that needed to be done. As he disappeared down my street, my thoughts went to all the good times- the awkward first dates when he went along to help, the daily tasks, the holiday shopping, the many road trips in the U.S. and beyond.

Goodbye, Fritz. I hope they treat you well in the Home. And nevermind those awful stories of vital organs being harvested and sold- I'm sure they're not true.

The Burning of Atlanta

2005-12-04T14:31:00.000-08:00

Really, this post isn't about Atlanta. It's about getting to Atlanta. Yessirree my friends, it's another of Zonthar's "ADVENTURES IN AIR TRAVEL!!!" But to break up the monotony, I will throw in the occasional photo from Atlanta.

Here's a view from our hotel room.

Wow! Now if THAT doesn't intrigue you, then you're just not... um... intriguable! So, here we go:

Once again, Chef Eric DeGroot and I are sitting in the Fresno airport early in the AM, waiting for our flight. We're flying to San Francisco and then direct to Atlanta. With memories still fresh from the last time we flew- and we're taking United again (check my previous blogs if you want a reminder of our journey to Chicago)- we're hoping for a smooth day of travel this time. I also believe in the Tooth Fairy and I plan to get rich through a pyramid scheme.

Suddenly, breaking the calm of the terminal, a voice: "Passenger DeGroot, please report to the customer service counter." We look at each other with an unspoken but definite communication of, "You gotta be shittin' me. What now?" Well, I don't know if they picked Eric's name at random or what, but we're told that one of our flights is overbooked, and would we be willing to be rerouted through L.A., get to Atlanta a mere one hour later than planned, and get free round-trip vouchers for our trouble? Okay, I've been offered the voucher thing before, but never a whole free round trip (good only in the 48 contiguous states, but still, that's pretty damn good). Eric was a little wary, but my reaction was, "Wow! Free ticket!" So, I talk Eric into it, we say, "Sure!"- and with that, Eric and I proceeded to bend over and allow United Airlines to have its way with our respective anuses. But I digress.

It turns out we had to do this transaction immediately, because our flight to L.A. was already boarding. She booked us on a flight- a Delta flight- that was leaving L.A. at 12:30 and arriving in Atlanta at 7:30. She printed our trip vouchers, new flight info, rerouted our baggage, we were good to go.

Flew to L.A. with no problem. We look at our new flight cards- all they had was flight number and times, no gate number, no seat number- and it obviously wasn't a boarding pass. So, we figured we should go find a Delta service counter and find out what the deal was. We find one, ask the guy about it, he looks at our flight info quizzically for a moment, and tells us, "This says A.M."

Blink....blink....what? Yup. Following in the grand tradition of United Airlines desk agents, specifically the ones in Fresno (see previous post), she wasn't paying close enough attention to the flight times. But since the date was correct... yes, do the math.... we are booked on LAST NIGHT'S FLIGHT. In fact, according to our itinerary, we are already in Atlanta!!!

Here's a view from our hotel room at night. Or during a total eclipse. Or in the sunless world of "The Matrix". Naaah, I think it's just at night.

This is the point where my brain does a 180 degree turn and tap dances inside my skull. We're booked on a flight that no longer exists. At the time she reserved us for it, our flight had already landed 2 1/2 hours earlier. HOW THE HELL did it even come up in the system as being an available flight? I suppose I can understand- if not entirely forgive- that she just didn't notice the "A" as she was rushing to rebook us, but again, WHY DOES THE FLIGHT COME UP AT ALL?

Well, now we're in the proverbial pickle. Not only do we have to travel backward in time to catch our flight- which admittedly would be way cool- but Delta Man also tells us that our names are not in their system AT ALL. Apparently our bags are- but as Rod would say, they've been rerouted... to The Twilight Zone. He apologizes and says, rightly so, that it's United's mistake so we're going to have to talk to them. So, we trudge over to the United counter, wait and watch as they reduce some poor woman to tears because they have to send her to Baltimore instead of her reserved flight to Washington, and then we get to plead our case. The girl- and I use that term literally- found us an 11:00 flight, a Delta one again since United wasn't available. I decided to take a chance- it couldn't hurt, I figured: I asked, since we were already given free trip vouchers for the relatively small inconvenience of being an hour late, and since booking us on a non-existent flight is a much more egregious error, could we possibly get additional vouchers so we can take a friend on this theoretical trip somewhere? She said, "Well no, I can't give you that- but I can give you meal vouchers." Meal vouchers. Again with the meal vouchers. Only $7.50 this time, and only good inside that specific terminal. Hmph. Well, we took them. And Eric pleasantly declares that since we have two hours at this point, we can go find our gate, then come back and eat. The girl says, "Um... I don't think you'll have time." "Why not?" say we. "This is a Delta flight." "Yeah....?" "You have to go to another terminal." "Okay....." "You have to go through security again." Blink....blink.... WHAT?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?

This derelict building has a swastika painted on the top, along with the words "White Power". Lovely. I think it's just graffiti, but I guess it could be the old "White Power" main headquarters building. In which case, I'm glad it's derelict.

Fucking LAX. Every other modern airport is designed so you can somehow move between the terminals without leaving the "secure" zone. Not LAX. It grew so haphazardly and is designed so poorly that you can't get to the whole airport from wherever you are. And now we're getting royally screwed because of it. I can't believe we're being sent through security. Plus, we STILL have to talk to Delta to get boarding passes. Holy crap.

So, off we go, past the big yellow line into the unsecured world that's crawling with terrorists, find the Delta checkin counter- at least we don't have bags to check- and discover that, surprise!!!!!- we are STILL not in the system. At all. But, the nice Delta lady says she can get us on that flight- good thing, since we were just booked on it- and assures us that our bags will be fine. Hmmmm. Well, at least we now have actual boarding passes, and our gate is.... back in the terminal we JUST CAME FROM. As a matter of fact, it's exactly where we talked to the Delta guy the first time. We probably could have taken care of it with him, and would never have had to leave and face security, but we took the word of United Girl. Fuck. Well at least we'll be able to use the terminal-specific meal vouchers that United so generously coughed up (which we wouldn't even have been offered if I hadn't asked).

This is the view down through the "world's largest atrium" from the balcony right outside our room door.

Security line. Not that long, really. But they end up treating us a little differently, and I didn't realize why until later- we are now in the category of Same-Day Reservations, which thanks to 9/11 means Security Threat. Somehow, there's an indication on our boarding passes which they're supposed to see, especially since you now have to hold your pass for them to see as you go through the metal detector. To give you some confidence about the current state of airport security, the guy didn't even catch Eric's and almost didn't catch mine- he waved me through, then said "Wait a sec-" called me back, looked again, and said, "Oh, you have to stand over here," motioning me to a little fenced-off area that might as well have been marked, "Please laugh at my pain." A very serious-looking gentleman came over and politely but firmly gave me the full treatment- including a pat-down and yes, The Wand. After being satisfied that I wasn't a danger to National Security, he sent me on my way. I joined Eric and the meal vouchers almost paid for our breakfast burritos.

This is the kind of thing you see when your hotel is full of conventioneers. Did the wine not make it onto the elevator, or just barely make it off? Hmmmm.

So, boarding time eventually arrives, and we're standing in line to finally get on this damn plane. Eric hands the woman his boarding pass. She pauses and speaks apologetically.

"Oh...um.... this isn't your fault....."

You have got to be FUCKING KIDDING.... NOW WHAT???

"It's security's fault...."

Oh. My. God......

"This pass needs to be stamped by them."

Have you ever seen "Brazil"? That's what I'm living at this point.

"You're going to have to go back there and get a stamp before we can let you on the plane."

FUCK!!!

And of course this is true of both of us, because we are both Security Threats. They didn't even search Eric the first time, but although I did get searched, they forgot to stamp mine as well. So, the gate agent, who really was very helpful, escorted us to security, which luckily was only about 100 feet away, and we didn't have to stand in line. They took us aside, searched us, and after almost forgetting to stamp it again- that's what we came over here for, dammit!- they sent us on our way, they let us on the plane, and all was good.

Here's a view from the Centennial Olympic Park, which is where the bombing happened during the 1996 Olympics, but it's still a nice park. If you were to turn 90 degrees to the right of this view, you'd be looking at CNN headquarters and the enormous convention hall where our show was.

The flight to Atlanta was fine. I had good airline movies on this trip for a change- "Charlie and the Chocolate Factory" going there, and "Batman Begins" coming back. They also showed "Bewitched" coming back, but we won't really talk about that one. We landed at ATL and went to face the dragon- would we have any baggage? If you've never been to the airport in Atlanta- or even if you have- it's one of the world's largest. It's huge, and the baggage claim alone goes on forever with many baggage carousels. We track down the carousel with our flight flashing on it, and wait...... you guessed it. Nothing, and the board is flashing "LAST BAG" next to our flight number. Well, shit. Off we trudge to the baggage service counter.

This is Eric's reaction when I won't stop asking for snuggle time.

They find Eric's bag in the system, and it's coming in on flight so-and-so from L.A. in about an hour. They can't find mine at all, but it's probably on the same flight. "Probably?" They can deliver them to our hotel when they arrive- would we like that? No, we decide that we'd much rather have baggage in hand when we leave, so we'll wait. At least we have an actual flight number for Eric's bag.

So, we have a couple beers at the airport "piano" bar, where there's a guy with a Yamaha keyboard playing a very bizarre collection of songs, including Eminem's "8 Mile"- which, if you're wondering, does not translate well to a solo Yamaha keyboard. When the time comes, we head off down the row of baggage carousels toward the appointed one for Eric's bag's flight- and then I see something out of the corner of my eye..... can it be?.... it is!! It's MY bag, on some other carousel, and I just so happened to spot it! I have no idea how long it's been there, going around, making friends, hitting on the cute little pink daypack from Germany- it came in on some other flight, and I may never have seen it again if I hadn't been looking at just the right spot at the right time! On the tag, there was a hand-written flight number. I looked it up later out of curiosity- it was a flight from Cincinnati!! How did it get routed through Cincinnati? I've never even been there- but my suitcase has!! How many other cities did it go to? Anyway, one down, one to go.... We make it to the right spot for Eric's bag, and.... and.... "LAST BAG". Nothing. Well, shit. Back to the counter. After searching the computer for a bit, the girl actually sighed and said, "This is the third time today I've had to go look for a bag," and left. She didn't even go to the "lost bag" room or whatever- she went off toward the carousels. I think she literally had to do the same thing I did by accident- go look at all the carousels until she found the right bag. Eventually she did, and we left for the hotel. In the final count, we landed about 6:00, but left the airport about 9:00. And ultimately, it was because people in Fresno can't tell time.

The rest of the Atlanta experiences really weren't that interesting, so I won't bore you any further. You got some pictures anyway. But here's a postscript: I figured our experience was worth a mention to United Customer Service to see- again- if they would be willing to give us a couple more vouchers. I sent a polite but firm email, and just the other day I finally got a friendly response- they still couldn't give us free tix, but we now each have a $50 credit toward another seat. Not all that bad, considering we already have a free one.

And that's all I have to say about that.

I'm a lousy friend

2005-12-02T14:09:00.000-08:00

No really, I am. I suck as a friend. I love my friends and am blessed to have them, but I've never been very good at showing it. Oh, I hug them and say affectionate things, and I mean it when I say it- but that's only when I actually see them, and that's the thing. I'm really a loner at heart. I'm rather shy and unsociable (one of the reasons I identify with the platypus), and going out and being social can be an intimidating effort for me. It doesn't mean I won't enjoy it, but it does take work on my part, and I usually choose to sit on my ass at home instead of going out and having to attempt being interesting. It also all depends on the situation. Some people probably think I'm Mr. Gregarious Laugh-It-Up Boy, while others have rarely heard me speak. It's all about the specific setting, the people, and my comfort level. But in any case, my natural tendency has always been to crawl into my platypussary, where the only one I have to impress is myself, and that's a long-lost cause anyway. I've also always been known to get cranky over unexpected calls or visits, because it requires a mental shift from whatever solitary activity I had planned. I allow very few to get to know me well, and those who do will attest to the truth of everything I'm saying here. I think it comes from a combination of low self-esteem, growing up essentially as an only child, and being my father's son (compared to my dad, I'm Paris Hilton- take that however you like). I always find it amusing that many people- who aren't actors- think that actors must be very outgoing, while my experience is the opposite- most of us are shy, although I dare say few are as anti-social as I am. I like to think that it has something to do with the acting world (as opposed to the "real" world) being scripted and you always know what's going to happen and what you're supposed to do about it- unless you're one of those mentally-questionable improv types... ;) Love you, Badger!!!

Anyway, enough about me- all that blathering about myself simply proves my thesis. Yes, I am a lousy friend. I'm prompted to say this by the fact that an old friend just moved two states away this week, I knew it was happening, and I didn't even seek him out or drop an email until after the fact. For those in the know, I am talking of course about, oh, let's call him ScarySquirrelMan. I did impulsively walk the entire one block to his house the other afternoon to see if he was there- he wasn't- and as it turned out, the next day, he was gone for good. Granted, we've never been the closest of buddies who see each other every day; in fact I haven't set eyes on him in months, but I still feel kinda shitty for not seeing him off. I don't know why I didn't- I only knew he was leaving because of various blogs, wasn't sure when he would be gone, and I never went out much or thought about it when I did, but I should have, dammit. Maybe I was avoiding him because he's only a month younger than me and makes it look SO much better than I do.....

I was thinking the other day that, for someone who has moved in and out of the edges of my world over the years, SSM has been involved in quite a few of the defining experiences of my life. I first met him when we did Foreplay together. (I never get tired of that line!) Yes, it was the so-called "comedy" show that I, SSM, another huge life influence that let's refer to as, say, Lecram, and others created back in our college days at the Fresno State radio station, the mighty KFSR FM. That was the fateful experience that, for better or worse, changed my life and led me to become an actor. A couple years later, I found myself dating the girl he'd recently dumped. I thought she was the love of my life at the time- it burned hot and fast and I haven't seen her in years- but still, SSM was there to influence the course of my life. At some point in the 90s, SSM took off for Seattle, lucky bastard- don't know why, don't really care, I just know he did it. A couple years later, he suddenly, impulsively flew down here and appeared at some gig that our mutual friend Fingers B was doing. It was there, standing in front of Club Fred, that he gave me the wisest and most useful advice I have ever received: Buy Relaxed-Fit Jeans. That way, you can wear a waist size smaller, and remain in denial about your true belly dimensions! To this day, I bless his name whenever I put on pants.

A couple years after that, when Fingers B was getting married, a familiar form walked on the stage to officiate, and an audible gasp went through the room. Could it be? Naaahh, he's in Seattle... holy shit, it is! It seemed that few people knew he was doing the ceremony, or even that he had actually moved back and had apparently been here for QUITE SOME TIME. At this point, I like to think I can take some credit for influencing his life in some small way: I berated him that night, insisting that he needed to get back on the stage and talk to Lecram about doing Theatre J'Nerique stuff. He acted uninterested, so I gave him more shit. I love watching this man on stage- even more, I love being on stage with him. He is enormously talented and damn funny. I hate him for that, of course.

So anyway, I like to think I played some tiny part in pushing SSM toward Lecram, which 1.Created everyone's favorite dysfunctional couple, and 2.Eventually caused the remnants of SSM's soul to be sucked dry by the spiritual maelstrom called Rogue. Along the way, he continued to show up in the middle of some of my most important experiences- or at least most memorable and fun. And now he's gone back to Seattle again. Fucker.

I'm not sure why I felt compelled to post this- I guess I was feeling like I don't show enough appreciation for the people in my life, as well as just feeling stupid for not buying SSM a drink and sending him off with an affectionate, slightly lingering pat on the ass for old times' sake. Besides, even I was surprised when I considered how long I've known him and how often he's kept popping up in my world.

So here's to you, SSM- give the Pacific Northwest what's what. I'll leave with a photo of us in "A Christmas Carol"- I'm the one who looks like Tommy Chong at an S&M club. I'm supposed to look fierce and he's supposed to look terrified, but the brilliant minds at the Fresno Bee chose the shot where we're laughing at some stupid dick joke.

A Holiday Rant

2005-11-22T18:42:00.000-08:00

Well, it's that time of year again. Or almost, anyway. I don't really like to think of it as officially the "holiday season" until the actual day of Thanksgiving, but I've loosened up on that point over the years. As a kid, I was adamant that the Christmas season did NOT start until December 1, which could be really, really tough when I was DYING for it to be Christmastime. But now I accept that Christmastime starts the day after T-Day, and the "holiday season" could be said to start with Halloween, but I still do NOT accept stores decorated with wreaths and trees and playing Bing Crosby in October! I love the holidays and Christmas in particular- and I also hate them a little- but I'm a bit of a traditionalist on these matters. Besides, it merely dilutes all that is good and unique about Christmastime when it lasts for half of the year.

Mind you, I'm not one of those who rails against the so-called commercialization of Christmas. One of the grand traditions of the season, as much a part of it as tinsel, egg nog, and awkward conversations with relatives, is people bitching about how it's not what it used to be, it's too commercial, we've lost sight of the true meaning, whatever. Valid opinions all, and I won't argue that the merchandising is more in-your-face than ever, but as far as I'm concerned, that's simply true of our society and culture, not just Christmas. When people bemoan the loss of a pre-commercial Christmas, I always kind of wonder, when are they talking about? When they were young? Before they were born? I'm 41 and it's been very commercial all of my life. Far as I can tell, it was commercial for my parents' generation, and their parents' generation, and the one before that. I don't deny that there's certainly a higher ratio of commerce vs. religion than there used to be, but since the giving of presents during a winter solstice celebration goes back at least as far as the ancient Roman Saturnalia, I'd say the commercialization has existed at least for most of the history of European civilization. Considering that many of the traditional aspects of Christmas- indeed, much of Christianity itself- was taken from various ancient pagan sources, the aspects of the holiday that are now seen as secular or just plain crass actually existed long before the celebration of Christ's birth was arbitrarily inserted into this time of year because that's when people were going to whoop it up anyway. The "reason for the season" is a combination of the 23.5 degree tilt of the Earth's axis and the natural inclination of human beings to find any excuse for a party. If we were to celebrate a truly traditional Christmas that got back to the "true meaning" of it all, we'd all be getting drunk, laid, and bathing in ram's blood. Um..... well, I guess maybe a lot of people DO get back to the true meaning of it all........

Don't get me wrong- I'm not dissing Christianity here, I'm just disagreeing with the notion that there was once a "pure" holiday to celebrate the birth of Christ (or at least a non-commercial winter holiday for those not so religiously inclined) and that we've lost sight of that in the face of rampant consumerism. Or perhaps I should say that we haven't specifically lost sight of Christmas; it's just a symptom of our modern society as a whole, and there are plenty of things we've lost sight of. As far as the holiday being stripped of much of its religious significance, that again is symptomatic of societal things- but it's also a personal choice. The holiday is as religious or secular as you want it to be. After all, aside from the fact that scripturally it's the wrong time of year, why not celebrate the birth of Christ on December 25? My feeling is that Christmas is what you make of it- or don't make of it. That's one of the reasons it's so unique- there is truly something for everyone. It can be a deeply spiritual experience focusing on the birth of the Lord. It can be an excuse to indulge your most decadently materialistic fantasies. It can be a time for good fellowship with the ones you love. It can be all of the above. Plus, it's a whole season, not just a day- it's at least a month's worth of whatever you want it to be. It has something to satisfy everyone- perhaps with the exception of the person who just wants it to go away. For that person, it is something that nothing can be done about, which must be endured until it is finally over, much like the Bush administration.

Like many people, I have a love/hate relationship with the holidays. Obviously, this time of year can be one big ball of neverending stress, crowds, responsibility and obligation, not to mention near-bankruptcy. But I've never completely lost that childhood exhilaration about anything and everything Christmas. Oh sure, it's not a 24/7 ache for Christmas to arrive, like when I was 8 (now it's more of a dread of how little time is left), but feeling that crisp bite in the air still takes me back and reminds me that, however man-made it all may be, this time of year is just special. The friendship, the lights, the extra something everywhere- the guy at Starbuck's asking you AGAIN if you want to try the gingerbread syrup, the 1000th watching of Alistair Sim in "A Christmas Carol" (a story I admit I never get tired of, hoary chestnut though it is), even the cranky crowds and nightmarish traffic point to something unique, even exciting, going on- as Patton would say, "God help me- I love it so." And despite all the strain, I'm always let down when it's over, like finishing the run of a show (a metaphor for all my actor friends). Sure, you don't feel as nervous and your nights and weekends are free, but now what?

A lovely young friend of mine- who may actually read this- once told me, as we stood and looked at one of the gaudiest diplays of Christmas decorating overkill that ever graced the face of this misbegotten planet, that she hated Christmas because of all the waste. Point well taken, but I have to disagree with that assessment of the holiday. I guarantee, that person who puts on that godawful (but kinda fun) display every year blows that cash the other 11 months as well. It's just that at Christmastime, all the waste is on display for everyone to see. Ironically, since everything about the season is so obvious and in-your-face, the positive message also gets through more than at any other time of year. Goodwill and fellowship, charitable donations from people that don't even give lip service the rest of the year- even if it's all out of guilt or PR, it's certainly a welcome side effect of the holiday. Sure, the positive effects are certainly not universal, and I would never try to claim that Christmas doesn't produce plenty of waste, but I feel it's an oversimplification to dismiss the holiday as a meaningless exercise in excess. Even that gaudy display brings happiness to a lot of hearts, particularly very young ones, so in the end, is that really a waste?

In my opinion, if there's a holiday that's lost it's meaning, it's Thanksgiving. I love turkey, pumpkin pie and inflatable cartoon characters on the streets of New York as much as the next person, but ultimately, I find it to be a rather odd holiday. I know the idea ostensibly is to give thanks for what you have, or so we're told- but in practice it's a highly ritualized day of conspicuous consumption, far more even than Christmas. Not complaining, really- I just think it's odd, when you get down to it.

That said, I have specific traditionalist attitudes about Thanksgiving too, one of them being that it should not be as warm as it is right now around here! Yes, it's Fresno, and yes, it's not THAT warm, but come on! Record high temperatures at Thanksgiving? 77 degrees? That's just not right! Yes, I am more of a winter weather person, although growing up in Fresno, it's fog (rather than snow) that gets me in a holiday mood. It's a bit early now for fog, but it could at LEAST cool down to the sixties! Oh I know all the warm weather types will start acting like it's the end of the world as soon as the mercury drops below 70 or a wisp of cloud shades the sun- it's Fresno, people! You get your weather 362 days a year! Let me enjoy my three! I know perfectly well I'd be far too much of a wimp to ever make it through a REAL winter, like a Chicago winter, but still, as the forecast keeps calling for record highs, I almost envy the Northeast's nasty cold snap that's supposed to tie up all the holiday traffic. At least they'll have interesting weather for Thanksgiving.

Well, I certainly have written a lot. Congratulations to anyone who's made it this far. I will now end my screed about the holidays and set about the task of alternately enjoying and dreading them. Happy Thanksgiving, Merry Christmas, Happy Hannukah/Chanukah, Happy Festivus, and I love you all!

Adventures in Chi-Town, The Lost Episodes

2005-11-21T18:20:00.000-08:00

Okay, I think I'm going to start blogging just a bit more, and then probably stop again for months, as is my wont- but I still have this damn Chicago saga hanging over my head, and I really don't feel inclined to finish it. I already told you (yes you, Edmund P. Montmorency of Shakers Falls, Wisconsin, the only reader of my blog) most of the good stuff, and besides, I now have another trip to talk about, complete with all-new airline misadventures. As far as Chicago is concerned, we had a successful and busy show, got around the city a little bit, ate some good food, went to an enormous and amazing McDonald's, met a waitress who has a drink named after her in a famous piano bar frequented by Billy Joel, had another waitress buy me and my busines buddies Jager shots, went to a place called Funk where I truly didn't belong, watched a gross guy in at least his fifties (older than me!) try- and I think ultimately succeed- to get into the pants of a drunk 21-year-old girl, went to a show at Second City, met a couple who may have been swingers and the woman was hitting on both me and my married companion- okay, maybe I didn't actually tell you all of the good stuff after all, but now you get the gist of it. Also, here's the (not that exciting) photos I set aside months ago for the remainder of the story- I'll let you make up your own stories to go with them. More blogs later on other topics, and I am officially done with the Chicago story.

Slowly, Timidly, My Bill Sees the Light of Day....

2005-09-27T01:02:00.000-07:00

I've not told many people about this blog. If you scan to the bottom you'll see that so far it's all reruns from MySpace anyway, and I think the most personal statement I've made is about pants. The platypus is a solitary creature, and I don't like revealing my secrets- but perhaps I should at least lead a few more people here to read my rants of minutiae. If you're one of them, welcome.

Adventures in Chi-town, Part II

2005-08-12T14:36:00.000-07:00

From 7/12/05-

Okay okay, due to practically no demand whatsoever, I'm going to attempt to complete the daring tale of my tradeshow-related adventures in that toddlin' town, one Chicago, Illinois. Really, I kinda feel like I'm obligated to get this over with, out of the way, feh, before I can move on to making the kind of blogs I really want to make, the experimental, less commercial kind. Oh sure, there will be those who will say I've been out of the writer's chair too long, that I've lost my touch, that Part II isn't as good as the first trilogy, and that it's all about special effects and merchandising rather than character relationships and love of the craft. Well, I say that Part II is 100 percent digital, so all you haters can kiss my ass, dammit!

ADVENTURES IN CHI-TOWN, PART II

A New Flight

It is a period of civil transportation unrest. John and Eric, special envoys of the Well-Pict alliance, have been repeatedly thwarted in their attempts to reach the great city of Chi Cago. Held against their will in the evil aerodrome at D'En Ver, time running out, the two await word of their fate.......

(Scroll out to blank grey sky, snow swirling about. Pan down to aerial shot of Denver Airport, revealing somewhat swastika-shaped runway configuration. Seriously, it kinda does look like one. It's one of the "clues" that cause die-hard conspiracy nutjob types to claim it's the sinister base of the New World Order. For those of you with Keyhole- okay, Google Earth now, and they've taken all the fun out of it- check out the swastika. Anyway- a United Airlines jet enters from above and behind camera, screen R. Somehow we know it's the plane to which our heroes have been reassigned.) Cut to:

INT. AIRPORT, DAY

JOHN and ERIC sit glumly in a soulless terminal waiting area.

Okay, enough of the screenplay bullshit. On with the blog, and I warn you, it is long, but hey, I tell it like it was, baby. To recap, Eric and I are in Evil Masonic International Airport in Denver, our flight from Fresno had to turn around, we've been bumped twice to later flights, been given $9 meal vouchers, and are now waiting for our reassigned flight to Chicago. I've had my turkey sandwich from Wolfgang Puck's, Eric's had a quick beer and smoke in the lounge with a MickeyD chaser,

and I'm still finding the whole ridiculous experience amusing. I'm also wondering if I have time to go look for some of the supposed Masonic/demonic/psychotronic symbology I've seen on the "DIA is Evil" websites, which aren't nearly as funny as the "Bert is Evil" site, but that's neither here nor there.

I wander idly to the window and look at the majestic vessel I assume will be our sky chariot to Chicago, seeing as how it's like 45 minutes before the flight and it's parked at our gate. I watch with scorn the alien drones posing as "baggage handlers", doing the bidding of their evil masters.

Eventually, as such things do, boarding time arrives. We settle comfily in our seats. This flight is packed, and everyone has now boarded. I fish my headphones from the seat pocket and scan the audio channels for some appropriate amusement. Hmm, a salute to Disney music narrated by somebody trying desperately to not sound gay. This should be good. But wait, what's this? A barely audible announcement.... from a crew member....holy shit... an ANNOUNCEMENT FROM A CREW MEMBER......

They're very sorry, but there's some sort of "problem" with the plane..hee hee...this is getting too...ha!...fucking ABSURD NOW!... heh... and everyone...yes, EVERYONE.... is going to have to disembark....good word, disembark....and they have to get ANOTHER PLANE. What, from Plane Mart? They have to get another goddamn plane, and we'll have to wait for however long it takes to GET that other plane! Oh, this is beyond absurd now. I hope- we never did find out for sure- but I hope it was a problem with the air pressurization system, just like the first flight from Fresno. That would have been too sweet, and what are the odds? I should have bought a Lotto ticket that day.

So, off the plane, back to the terminal. Hello, terminal. It's been so long, and I've missed you. "Please stay in this area until we announce the next flight time." You got it. Nice, womb-like terminal. Terrrmminnnalllll........

15 minutes or so of limbo, then we find out it will be another hour. Fine. The hour passes, we board the new Plane Mart plane, an exact duplicate of the first. All the same people in the same seats. Maybe it was the same plane. Eerie. Got to watch a de-icing procedure for the first time. Interesting. Find not-gay Disney guy. Fly to Chicago without incident.

We land in Chicago, about 4 1/2 hours late, which is not that bad, considering that we've been rescheduled three times for a two-flight trip. It's only about 8:30 PM, but we still have to get downtown to the hotel. Everything is still funny to me.... as long as we get our luggage..... Naaah! That's not going to be a problem!!!!!!

Do you think luggage has fun riding on the carousel? It sure looks fun. Round and round it goes, as everyone happily claims their bags with a sigh of relief. Round and round.... getting kind of picked-over, isn't it? Oh well, I guess they're not done unloading yet.... round and round... there's not much left, is there?..... Round...um, it's empty now. Um...... fuck. Fuck! What the.... who the.... BOTH of our bags are nowhere to be seen. Okay, THIS is not funny anymore.

So, what now? Who do we talk to? There seems to be a podium of some sort nearby, with harried-looking employees and annoyed-looking passengers. That's the place! We wait our turn and speak to a 50-ish gentleman with a mustache that was fashionable circa 1892. He punches our info into a keyboard, looks quizzical for a moment, then says offhandedly, "Oh, your bags are in the cage." Wha-? Have they been bad? Did they go on a cross-country crime spree? Fast zippers, leather moisturizer, picking up some cheap pink handbags for a quick good time- my luggage leads a more exciting life than me. Well, it seems our bags got put on some other flight, an earlier one. When people get rescheduled, their luggage will sometimes be put on the earliest flight to their destination to make sure, blah blah blah. I'm quite sure the airline has a good reason for all this, but my feeling is, you place that much trust in the system that's already screwed me over? I'd just as soon that my bags be on the same plane as me, just as God intended, so that when we have to stay overnight in Minneapolis because of the airplane equivalent of a hangnail, I'll be able to change my chonies! Ah well, all is now as it should be....

Off to the shuttle. These things crack me up. You will ALWAYS be lulled into the sense that you'll get a private ride downtown, but they will eventually pack as many passengers as physically possible. The ride is uneventful. We chat a bit with a somewhat mousey woman who's staying in our hotel and going to some other conference. One of the last passengers to get on berates some unfortunate underling on the cell phone the entire time, in some amusing Southern accent. We laugh unobtrusively.

Get to the hotel. It's about 10:00 on a Thursday night. Check in at the less-used desk, the one in the "other" tower, which is where our room turns out to be anyway. Say goodbye to mousey woman. She doesn't even acknowledge me. Fine. The night desk girl chats amiably with us, we find the room, it's okay except the beds are doubles instead of queen size and my feet stick off the end. Damn my freakish height! Call night girl, no other rooms, okay fine. Hungry. So hungry. Go down to see night girl, and ask what there is around there that's good, close, and open.

A couple of suggestions. The Billy Goat Tavern sounds interesting. For those of you that remember such things, it's the place that inspired the old "cheezborger, cheezborger" sketches on Saturday Night Live when it was still good. Well, that sounds like fun, and we're starving anyway, so we'll take anything.

Try to follow the directions Night Girl gave us, and BAM! We're in the scary subterranean lair of the Morlocks. If you don't know, downtown Chicago has a few double-decker streets, where the "ground floors" of the buildings are actually significantly above ground. You've seen the lower levels of these streets in many movies, from "The Fugitive" to "The Blues Brothers": "This is definitely Lower Wacker Drive." Well, it IS definitely Lower Wacker Drive, and even after recent improvements and lots of lighting, it's still a surreal place to be, and a scary one after dark when you're lost. We scamper like roaches back to the surface, find a friendly security guard with better directions, and off we go to the Billy Goat.

This photo was taken in the middle of the afternoon. Yes, the Billy Goat is on the lower level, Morlock land, perpetual night. One floor up is a Walgreen's on Michigan Ave., one of the busiest streets in Chicago. Weird. This is what it looks like right above:

Inside, we don't get a lot of the SNL vibe, but we do get a history-soaked piece of Chicago. The guy behind the bar looks like he was born there and has never left for fifty years. The walls are covered with yellowed pictures of long-dead local celebrities and barely readable sports clippings. The 70s-era TV is showing the NBA playoffs. There's not many people in there, but they range from the old guys to the young couple to the two tired travelers from Fresno to the guy...in the suit? As we munch our cheezborgers (they weren't that great, but oh man did they hit the spot right then) and down our beers, Suit starts chatting with us. It turns out that in Chicago, people actually want to talk to you. Now I admit I'm not much for the chatting myself, but luckily I've got Eric to handle that, which will come in handy numerous times on the trip. Suit is an ad executive for Fox. Suit buys us drinks. Suit recommends restaurants in Chicago. Suit sets us up right, and doesn't even ask us to put out.

Fat and happy, Eric and John say goodbye to Suit and the Billy Goat, off to the Hyatt to dream little dreams of the Windy City. Awwwwwww........

Next: pathetic old guys in bars, the Shrine of Improv, Red Bull, and the swinger couple.

Adventures in Chi-town, Part I

2005-08-12T14:23:00.000-07:00

From 5/9/05

Chicago. The Windy City. The Second City. Bustling, brawling City of the Big Shoulders. Great architecture, lousy weather. Da Cubs, Da Bulls, Da Bears. Food that will kill you but you'll have a smile on your face as you go. I love Chicago. My name's John. I'm from Fresno. I work in produce.

Oh yeah, laugh it up, fuzzball. Fresno's a flat, dusty town with a serious self-esteem problem, stuck right in between its overachieving siblings, LA and SF. But chances are that whoever and wherever you are, you ate a sandwich or a salad or a spicy mediterranean chicken wrap today that had ingredients grown around here. We're feeding your ass. And I make money because of it. I work for a marketing firm that represents produce companies, and I get to go to tradeshows. One of them is in Chicago every year. I just got back a few days ago. Had a great time. Ate some great food. Didn't get laid.

Herewith, some of my Chicago adventures, for whatever it's worth. Enjoy.

The best part was just getting there.

Thursday morning. My friend Eric- who for this trip has the official title of "Executive Chef"- and I are sitting in the newly expanded, ambitiously-named, yet somehow still boring, Fresno-Yosemite International Airport. For those of you who may not know, you can pretty much fly anywhere from Fresno, but your journey will start with some crappy commuter or "regional" flight to LA, SF, or a handful of other "real" airports. In our case, we are waiting for our flight to Denver, thence Chicago. I'm a little excited, not only because I love to travel and still like to fly despite having gotten rather jaded about it over the last few years, but also because I've never been to the new Denver airport. It's a new place to go, and I'm a nerd, so I'm looking forward to visiting the facility that the hardcore conspiracy dorks consider to be one of the most evil places on Earth, packed with sinister Masonic symbolism, the detention center of the New World Order, with multiple sublevels in which abducted children are enslaved and put to work for aliens. I am not making this up. There are whole websites devoted to this shit. So of course, I want to go there.

We're waiting patiently to board our plane. Suddenly, an alarm pierces the sleepy air of the terminal, and a recorded voice tells us that the fire alarm has been activated and we need to evacuate the terminal. Well, shit. This doesn't bode well. As we- the various passengers- slowly look around at each other for clues on how to react, I notice the gift shop/snack bar employees don't seem to be paying much attention. Hmm. Perhaps this happens all the time? Meanwhile, if everyone else is thinking the way I do- and I believe they are- they're wondering if this is going to mean we have to go through security again. So, we all reluctantly start moving, not toward any emergency exit, but back to where we came in, in hopes of escaping certain death from the conflagration while not being too inconvenienced. After all, we have places to be.

We get to the bottom of the escalator to the only non-emergency route available, only to find a big fire door blocking our path. Well, shit. At least there are some bored-looking security types with walkie-talkies, so we'll probably be okay if we stay close to them, right? After a couple minutes, they absently motion us to go back with an "It's okay." Terror in Fresno, averted at the last moment! We schlep back to our waiting area, joking that now the trip has been pre-disastered. If there had been some wood in our new stainless steel terminal, I should have knocked on it.

Eventually, we board our plane. At least it's a small jet, not just one of the rickety little prop planes- gotta get all the way to Denver, after all. We take off, meet our motherly flight attendant Marty, and despite the poor woman in the row behind us who is practically hyperventilating from fear, all seems fine. Until.... well, Marty's on the phone with the cockpit. And she doesn't look happy. The captain's voice, godlike, speaks to us for the first time- it turns out that the air pressurization system is not working, so we can't go to altitude. Some silly thing about being able to breathe, I think. And now that he mentions it, the little air nozzles haven't been blowing, and my ears have been popping. We're about a half hour out of Fresno, and we have to turn around. Well, shit. This will guarantee that we'll miss our connecting flight, since we only had about 40 minutes in Denver. And now it's just turning into an adventure. Honestly, I'm kind of giddy about it, and not just for lack of oxygen- now the future is unclear! Who the hell knows if we're going to make it today at all? Maybe we'll be stuck in, say Des Moines for the night! Anyway, we've got all day to get to Chicago, and even if we don't make it that day, it's not the end of the world. So now I'm just laughing as we make a perfect landing- in Fresno. It's already gotten ridiculous.

The mechanics are working on the plane, with no estimate of when it will be ready. Since just about everyone on the flight is going somewhere that's not Denver, they call us up by name to reschedule. The nice woman at the counter puts us on a flight that's only an hour later than our original connecting flight, but our plane is going to be at least an hour and a half late. Little question marks dot about my head, but I don't argue- whatever, maybe they're taking some shortcut through the center of the Earth. In retrospect, I think she wasn't considering that it is an hour later in Denver.

The plane is reportedly fixed. We leave. Again. Two hours late. Scared woman is hyperventilating again. Marty gets on the phone. She doesn't look happy. Again. I hear her say to the people in front, "It's the same problem." I look out the window and see that we're flying pretty damn low for being this far into the flight. Well, shit. A couple minutes later, the air starts blowing, Marty looks surprised and relieved, and the ground moves farther away. We made it to Denver, but the pilot never spoke again. My question is, at what point do you decide to just not go for it, and you get another plane? Eh, I didn't die.

We land at the most evil airport in the world. I look eagerly around for aliens or Nazis or members of the Masonic Elite, but all I see is baggage handlers- or what APPEAR to be baggage handlers..... And it's snowing. Not very hard, but it's snowing. Not being an important enough plane to go to the Big Boys' Terminal, we have to walk outside to get to the gate, so now we're getting snowed on. The weather is grey and oppressive, and nothing is visible of the world beyond the aiport. Very surreal, and perfect for the center of power of the Dark Millennium, but really, I don't see anything very unusual or sinister about the place. The Food Court's a little lame, but that's hardly call for such badmouthing. Poor Denver Airport. Anyway, we have of coure already missed our connecting flight, so off we go to United Customer Service. They promptly reschedule us, assure us that our baggage will go to the right place, and for our trouble they hand us- oh my God, I can't believe it- meal vouchers for $9 each!!!! Holy Mother of God! Thank you, United Airlines! For all you know, I'm trying to get to Chicago to see my sick wife one more time before she dies, but now it's all okay because I can pay for an overpriced turkey sandwich at Wolfgang Puck's! Well, I took the voucher, and the sandwich was actually pretty good. And there was a statue of Apollo 13 astronaut Jack Swigert, which I took a picture of for you, Alan. (I'll send it later)

To be continued- we're not out of Denver yet.....

I just want pants! Is that so much to ask?

2005-08-12T14:21:00.000-07:00

From 4/26/05-

Okay, what is the deal with pants these days? Huh? I bought pants tonight. Need some new ones for my rapidly approaching Chicago trip. Nothing exciting, just a pair of black Dockers. As simple as you can get. Same length as I've been buying since my last growth spurt some twenty years ago. The waist- well, we won't discuss that. Well, they were too short, almost by an inch. Should have tried them on at the store, but they're just the same size as always, and I thought no, they'll be fine- good thing I thought better of that when I got home! Out of the last four pairs of pants I've bought, all the same length, jeans and slacks, three of them have been too short. Three of them!! This is not just a fluke. Are highwaters "in" all of a sudden? Are the measurements in a Honduran sweatshop slightly different because of the proximity to the Equator? Or am I actually adding more to my already freakish height, and one pair was just too long? All I know is, the Masons are behind this, acting at the behest of their alien overlords. Now I have to make another trip to Mervyn's. Goddammit. Fucking alien overlords.

Who did the what now?

2005-08-12T14:20:00.000-07:00

From 4/15/05-

It's nearly 1:30 AM and I'm groggily posting the first blog I've ever written in my life, in a vain attempt to participate in the trendy activities of cyberyouth. I don't have to work in the morning- my eccentric work schedule is both blessing and curse, and now it's led to this. John wrote a blog. The universe is, indeed, very close to total collapse. Thanks a lot, Alan. Do me a favor- before billions of worlds die in one massive cosmic scream, could I finally get my blue shirt back? Thanks.

And thus it begins

2005-08-12T13:47:00.000-07:00

Ah! My first post to Blogspot- or Blogger, or The Realm of Google, or whatever the hell it is. Welcome. Right off the top, I need to explain that I don't blog. This is the blog of a non-blogger. I also don't do MySpace, but I do it so much I'm sick of it. So, I'm starting my non-blog out here in the wider world. My first couple posts will be imported from my MySpace non-blog. A very short greatest hits collection, as it were. For whatever it's worth. So here goes. *ahem*.......