Oh cool. A blog.

Oh, hello. Apparently I have a blog. I would have completely forgotten this if it weren’t for the pleasant reminder / “why the fuck aren’t you blogging?” email from my one and only consistent reader.

Sorry, Mr. Sugar.

On this day, one year ago, I awoke in my bed at the Stanley house and put the final strokes on loading my car, ready to embark on whatever the world had in store for me. I was done in LA, as a resident.

The trip included driving, lots of it (1,036 miles), a visit with Chase, too much junk food, snow tires, mountain passes, my trusty co-pilot falling ill and eventually puking inside the car, silly nonsense and a brief thought of “what if I just planted my roots in Reno?” and my eventual arrival back in Idaho, to spend the holidays with my family before heading to Seattle.

In my first year, out of LA … I must say that I feel incredibly happy with my decision. True, I miss my friends dearly … But for me, Nick Stoolman … LA was not the place for me to live. Whereas I wouldn’t say that I’m “thriving” (I try not to exaggerate), I’m doing well and am happy with what I’ve established in the 11 months that I’ve been here. Now, it’s time to build on the foundation that I’ve built.

///

Today, I opened some of Jill’s mail because I’m nosy and was hoping there’d be something for me to forge her signature on.

Jokes. She asked me to open said mail, as it was from the post office and may have required attention that was sensitive to her changing her address.

It didn’t. No attention was required.

Why am I telling this story? Well, take this into account … I’ve haven’t blogged in 2 months, I’m fucking rusty. LAY OFF ME!

Before opening the envelope, I could tell that it contained a good deal of contents. Whatever could it be? The main piece of information, a single piece of paper … and (I shit you not) 22 direct advertising inserts. Sure, I can understand taking advantage of the opportunity to reach individuals who are changing their address because they’ve just moved, because I’m bed bath and beyond. Hey, you’re gonna need some new shit, for your new house! But answer me this, why are there ads for auto supply stores, cell phone plans and a fish hatchery advertising this year’s crop of salmon?

See, this another example of how I can’t write worth a lick right now … that was a perfect lead in to say something funny. But what did I do … I talked about a fish hatchery. Oh well, baby steps back into the swing of things.
//

Gotta go now, as Seattle’s storm of the century, which has yet to show signs of arriving … is lurking. Waiting for me. Waiting for us.

Smelling me some TLC.

They (you know, "they") say that smell is the most effective sensory trigger of memory. A whiff of cinnamon magically transporting you back to your grandmother's kitchen as she preps he family-famous apple crisp. Your nose catching wind of something that reminds you of a former lover, bringing back a world of beautiful or painful memories.

Science will tell you that this is because your olfactory bulb is part of your brain's limbic system which is an area that is closely tied to memory and often called the "emotional brain"... This emotional brain calls up memories and powerful responses, nearly instantaneously, when triggered by a sense. When, that sense is smell, you know which is in the olfactory bulb, it's neighbor, smell ends up being the most effective trigger.

That's what science says. It's mostly right, because it's true.

To me, I think that sound, that song recognition is a stronger trigger of memory. Hearing a single chorus can remove me from my current place in time, to a vivid reliving of a time or times that I've heard that song.

The more I get of you,
The stranger it feels, yeah.


Wham, there I am ... 1994, traveling to Florence, OR in a rented RV, rocking to some Seal on my Sony Discman. Ready to embark on another family vacation where I would listen to that song, and the rest of the Batman Forever soundtrack at least 34 more times.

Here's another example, as the tunes of the following song drifted up (notes rise, like hot air, you know)within my earshot, I was magically placed back in the year of 1994. It's summer time and I'm stuck at home watching a lot of MTV, or VH1, depending on who was showing more videos (at this point in time, MTV showed videos, kids. I promise) learning some of life's important lessons through said videos.

That all forlorn young women, writhe in their pity, while hanging out in their apartment wearing soon-to-be chic glasses. I'm talking to you, Lisa Loeb.

Or, the fact that you can fit like 30 black guys, barbecue equipment and some basketballs in the trunk of a car (if I really wanted to draw a strong connection here, I'd go watch me some Fantastic Voyage and determine what kind of car it was. But, whatevs). On a side note, I found this to be incredibly not true, whilst in college. Oops.

And, lastly ... That all black women are super sexy, horny gamblers who may or may not be gay, if not definitely bisexual. Those tunes that I spoke about above, the ones that floated their way to my ears:


TLC - Red Light Special
Music Videos at www.blastro.com

Pizza-Vendo-Fun Time

"What do you want on YOUR Tombstone?" rattles throughout the halls of my memory, a cheesy undertakerish cowboy asking the question not of what I want my eternal epitaph but what kind of topping I want on my freezer-burnt, thin-crusted over-cooked pizza.

Let's get somethings straight, Slim, I'm a fucking Tony's Pizza kid. Always have been, always will be.

At the time I was viewing these commercials (I know they still have money behind broadcast spots, but this particle campaign might have fizzled in the mid-90s), the only way you could get yourself a Tombstone was to go to the poor kid's house, next door and convince him to throw that sucker in the oven while his mom was out "getting her hair done," (which I later found out meant "banging some dude who worked at Albertson's") forfeiting at least one night's dinner for my curiosity as to what these Tombstones were all about. After a bite, maybe two, I'm certain he was not pleased with my decision to throw the rest out. Seriously, I'd rather slather some ketchup on an air-filter. Of course, you could retrieve one of these ghastly things from the grocery store and prepare it yourself, thus allowing shitbag neighbor to have more food in his belly and less grumblings for county-paid lunch at school the next day.

Well kids... those days are over. The wizards and cash behind the Kraft Foods Pizza Department have taken the next step in providing poor, stoned, college freshman kids with their product. Drive-by Tombstonings? No. Welfare? Nuh-uh. Like the availability for a Japanese kid to get his dong tickled while he eats a big mac, out of the same machine ... Tombstone has entered the vending age:



The story can be found here.

Yum!

Hair on my face.

I drove my car to work today. It was the first time in, I think, 2 weeks. This is the longest streak that I’ve had, riding the bus on consecutive days, since I’ve lived here. Not bad, I don’t think.

Last night, I made the decision that I was going to drive my car to work today on account of needing to run errands (going to the gym, going to the grocery store… both failed missions) and the fact that I had parked it in a place that I needed to move it from.

En route, a bit sleepy (my usual state) thanks to a long nap and trip to sugar town and the resulting inability to fall asleep at a quality hour… I reached up to scratch my face, only to find a decent amount of weekend stubble still residing on my mug. I had 100% planned on shaving this morning, as I do on all Mondays, to enter the work week with a smooth approach. Instead, here I am … unkempt beard-face, rolling in after a weekend. Tired and hairy.

Whelp, see ya.

Go Hawks?

Oooh silliness.

Dear Facebook,

Thank you for allowing me to casually peer into people's lives. Whether it's seeing music reviews from former classmate's who are now, themselves, teachers or viewing the evidence of paths people I grew up with have taken into drunkiness and debauchery. All of this amuses me.

I'm addicted to the status updates... reading others, updating my own. With this said, I don't like twitter, I ain't gay or nothing.

-steezington

///

That Usain Bolt fella ... he's hiiiiiiiiigh as hell on them steroids.

///

OJ, aka Nordberg, may be the baddest man on the face of the earth.

///

Tomorrow is Friday and I am grateful for this fact.

///

Peace, bitches.

Jayhawks Please.

"Those NBA players... year in and year out, they are the model image of class and responsibility."

"I have a steel pole protruding from my anus, the north end of it pressing against my kidney or some shit, wearing my large intestine as a sock ... and it feels good."

Two statements that are rarely, if ever spoken by anyone. Anyone aside from Mr. Slave or the family member, suckling the teat of an NBA player.

If you didn't see this, today, here it is: Former KU Superstars turned NBA 1st Picks - TOO FUCKING STUPID to stop getting high, if only for 4 days while they're at Rookie Transition Camp.

The Rookie Transition Camp is designed to teach those young, 19+ kids who have left their respective schools / foreign countries, now earning an ungodly amount that it's not okay to bang 4 hookers at a time, while railing lines of Bolivian cooking flour the size of your forearm. Also not acceptable: gambling, beating fans, so on and so forth.

Each year this event is held, it is fair to assume that SOME stuff is swept under the "oh, you kids ... you'll get it straight soon. Have fun with your SUVs and white women" rug... This event, the Chalmers/Arthur event is simply too bad to be excused / brushed under a rug. Whereas these two young men have College Championships and oodles of dough, they lack a simple protein that allows one to make the most rudimentary of choices that rooted in responsibility.

Good luck, you fucks.

Apples and such.

There are those moments, they happen nearly every day, that cause you to pause for a moment or so and process the seemingly random events that occurred for that single moment to happen.

Tonight, I stayed at the office late enough that the Northbound-Tunnel travel was no longer available... Leaving my only option to ride those buses that operate on the surface (stupid, inefficient surface routes, with their lights and their other cars).

I could've taken any bus that came by as I stood at the stop, taking a brief moment to lower my sunglasses, veiling my stare and fervor for weirdos (crackheads, hobos, stinkies, you name it)... But I did not, I stood and conversed with a friend / coworker until his bus arrived.

Upon exiting the bus, not knowing which route I want to take (mainly it was a matter of whether or not I wanted to walk to the gym or take the train), I did not take the most direct path of travel.

Headphones in, mid-voice mail (that I was leaving for someone), I encounter 2 friends who have recently moved to the Seattle (a fact that leaves me tickled with joy, as I enjoy these 2 individuals immensely) on their way back from dinner.

They invite me up to their apartment (and fucking great view), we chat and end up using their gym facilities in the building. Afterward, I toss my pack over my shoulder, throw my headphones on and continue on my trip to the bus.

Just the slightest difference in timing, in route, in occurrence would have led me to not run into my friends. Sure this would not have had any particular consequence or significance, but it is just a small example of lines of travel, lines of life often intersect. Whether it's fate, math, coincidence or chaos (that... that right there, is chaos) this shit happens. It amazes, entertains and frightens me.

...

I like green apples WAAAAAAY more than any other kind of apple.

Let's give this a shot.

Ah yes, Labor day … The National Holiday devoted to the recognition of working people’s contribution to our society.

I slept till 1 in the afternoon, did some walking of the neighborhood, stopped by the grocery store, suffered through some laundry (and the loathsome folding part too), participated in my third and final fantasy football draft of the season, whipped up some dinner andddddd have decided (just like I do, for a little bit, every month) that I want to attempt to write a blog entry every day, for a month.

Doesn’t matter what the content is. A story, a poem, a review, a typed vomit-session, perhaps some criticism of something in the press or found on the internet. I tell myself that it shouldn’t be hard, but then I always underestimate my ability to be lazy and near-flawless success-rate in talking myself out of things.

This entry, the words you see above this line that you’re reading now (and, most likely the words that you’ll read after this line) are a cheap excuse for content.

But you know what, it’s content.

And it’s blog post #1, for the month.

48 hours.

48 hours from now, I'll be standing in the pit dancing and singing my ass off, completely awestruck at my favorite band (maybe ever):



Yup, I wouldn't be surprised if I ended up kickin' it with Thom and the boys afterward.

So awesome.

Steez at the Movies

Watching a couple make out at the coffee shop. Now that’s a way to spend a Saturday night. Oh, cute! They just took a sip out of the other’s coffee! Oh, wait… she doesn’t like his as much as her. Budding love.

It’s been quite some time since the last installment of Steez at the Movies and per usual, you can thank my lacking commitment to write anything. I haven’t had a drought of movie viewing experiences. In fact, this might be one of my more active movie watching stretches of the year. In the time since I last wrote a review, I’ve witnessed: My favorite movie of the year (In Bruges), Aliens (helping me further understand and admire the ascent of James Cameron, the quality action based blockbuster pioneer he was/is), The Dark Knight (I think I’m still processing my thoughts on this one. Just too damn much to the about), the most failed attempt to tell a story in an odd, compelling way (I’m Not There, which boasted a brilliant OST. Of course, duh.), a “think it’s going to be decent because of its cast but turns out being atrocious” movie (The United States of Leland,) and most recently Pineapple Express.

God, I love back-story, recaps and lead-in.

Pineapple Express is latest brutally funny, accurate presentation of a movie to a smart (yet, crude, yet, sophomoric as shit), easily disinterested and/or bored audience churned out by the Apatow Machine (is it just me, or is Apatow’s and his gang’s brand of humor is the closest marriage of Family Guy and South Park humor that’s present in the current landscape of comedy. THAT, is a blog post. But first, must finish this). It is also the first stoner movie to be certified and endorsed by yours truly, since Half Baked (Half Baked was in 1997. Think about it. Fuck you, Harold and Kumar).

I believe I would’ve enjoyed this movie even if I’d bought into the hype, the viral campaigns, the stoned James Franco interviews. It’s that of that quality, I assure you.

It’s not the better than anticipated box office receipts its going to register, the next progression of a red-hot team, the sure-to-be-great DVD extras or source of the latest craze of movie line spewing that sticks in my mind about this flick.

What makes me ultimately enjoy and respect this movie is that it’s the culmination (to this point) of a shitload of hard work, failed projects and growing prowess for a group of actors who have been in this game since their early childhood. A dream mixture of the cheesy action-plots from the 80’s, an accurate depiction of stoners and a budget (for some pretty cool fx, all things considered). Whereas I did not laugh as heartily as the masses at some points and think that there were some definite “trying too fucking hard to make someone, anyone laugh” moments… there were a few moments (none of which I can remember right now. Go figure.) where I chuckled to a quiet theater.

Also, I find it is important to inform you that perhaps the best element of this movie is the casting/acting/costumes of the secondary characters (the bad guys, namely the henchmen). Danny McBride, Craig Robinson (who, I guarantee you will either squander his upcoming fame-burst or ride it to embarrassment ala Ice Cube) and the ALWAYS amazing Kevin Corrigan.

I’ve yet to establish and don’t plan to stick to any sort of scoring system but I award this movie a B+. Oh and yeah, I’d like to meet that Seth Rogen. There, I said it.

Poop post, poop mouth?

‘Ello, ‘ello, urrbody. Going to jump around here a bit, so uh, buckle up.

So there’s this guy, right? Most people may say he’s the most talented, gritty, America encapsulating player to ever play professional football (which brings to my curiosity, is Harrison Ford too old to play #4 in the Brett Favre story? I think not). Yes, yes, Brett Favre. I’ve always thought of him as a selfish, short-sighted, too quick to try a tough pass, gunslinging hick. This is not to say that he’s not incredibly talent and easily one of the greatest to ever lace up his cleats. Whereas I do not participate, I do, for the most part, understand the love affair with #4.

//

What better way than to prove that your show is not a super-produced sham, with aids just outside the reach of the camera, than to drink your own urine out of a snake’s hide posing as a crude canteen. Good work, Bear Grylls, I believe. However, you’re nothing but a two-bit, limey knock-off of (Canada’s beloved) Les Stroud. Here’s a side note, do you think Gregory House, from Fox’s House, could survive in the wild? I’m sure the cane probably wouldn’t provide much assistance (but then again, he probably wouldn’t make it too far seeing as how it’s proven that limping while surviving increases the chances of death by no more than 65%).

//

Do you know of the world of cleansing, or more specifically, colon cleansing? In certain circles, it’s even more cool than bleaching your anus (very few circles, because let’s face it, turning your brown-eye, blonde is so, so hot). There are many physical and psychological benefits to ridding your body of “unwanted waste,” the most important being the feeling of “being more energized” (with a general feeling of being lighter, coming in second).

Much like similar movements, the colon cleansing revolution has a leader. That man’s name is Klee Irwin. He has, or desires to have, more intimate knowledge of your large intestine and bowel movements than you’d ever care to be aware of. Aside from his (makeup caked) visible acne scars, suspiciously fake facial hair, the man has one of the creepiest overall look and demeanor that you’ve ever encountered (yes, even in the beautiful medium of informercials. Please, take a minute to examine exhibit A:

klee irwin and his 4 year old daughter
by kickmeitalk

That’s right, babies who poop human arms are frightening. And so are you, Klee. And so are you.

Pray for Detective Somerset.

Unless you live under a rock, or for some reason, don’t have the internet but indeed do live out from underneath a rock (one large enough for a human to live under)… Morgan Freeman, and some woman who was not his wife, flipped, rolled and destroyed a 1997 Nissan Maxima (her car, it has to be, right?). This accident left both of them in serious (or was it critical? I’m sure that if it was critical, it has been downgraded to serious) condition.

Shawshank’s Red.

The voice of the Olympics.

Mr. American Express.

March of the Penguins.

God (you know, via Evan / Bruce Almighty)

America’s new, preferred voiceover go-to in situations of emotion and comfort.

This accident. The spinning Maxima. Could it be that our beloved Morgan Freeman’s near meeting with death was the result of actions and events plotted by this man:



That’s right, I’ve just insinuated that James Earl Jones is the mastermind behind a narrowly unsuccessful attempt on the life of the man who has replaced him on the mantle as America’s-favorite-deep-voiced-black-guy-who-they-really-like-hearing.

I’m not terribly surprised. It’s fucking Dark Vader, for Christ’s sake.

Vidz.

We created a site for work, to be used in biz-pitches and such. Part of the site was to create a profile, part of the profile was to film a video about yourself that would be edited.

I had an idea.

And embarked on some shoddy editing, first attempt, yo.

Civic Duty, 3.

Across the Washington border, 30+ minutes outside of Seattle and freshly awake from nap that was much longer than I had anticipated.

The morning started in my favor, as I found out I had an additional 15 minutes to spending not wanting to give up the warm, Ramada-nest I had made for myself in the night.

One: breakfast (that I don’t think was complimentary but I was ninja-enough to consume without trouble) and a trip through 405N traffic with a pleasant but (super) chatty (and Hawaiian clad) investigator, I was at the courthouse. On time.

Over the phone I’d been told by the D.A. that the trial was to begin @ 9:00am and that I would be one of the first witnesses to climb the stand… Upon my arrival, this was adjusted (SURPRISE!) to 10:30. D’oh.

I introduced myself to the D.A. (who had expressed personal interest in meeting me, “the nicest, most accommodating witness” as she had ingratiated the week before… after the 4th rescheduling of my trip down) and quickly became aware of some familiar faces. Little did I know this was just the opening of quirky encounters & experiences held within the next few hours.

Quirky Item # 1 – The Date:

I knew that it had been awhile since I’d been at the courthouse. Turns out, it had been a lick over a year. Some 367 days since my last appearance.

Quirky Item #2 – The Characters Present:

The cop who had responded (who was the older brother of my mugging-mate’s friend), the investigating officers, a woman who I learned was the girlfriend of the defendant and the goofball dog-walking-witness (a man, who without … every victim, of the case, would have never received (potential) justice, and would have only led to a growing population of Muggsville).

In a way, with these people present, the familiarity of the courthouse (god, the heat), the foul lukewarm water fountain… In a way, it’s like I had never left. Like I’d spent the entire last year there, living and sleeping. And waiting.

Quirky Item #3 – The fix-it ticket / fine line.

It yielded the comical observation of a madder-than-hell-and-not-gonna-take-it-anymore-yet-in-tears-and-very-emotionally upset-and-louder-than-shit woman in sweats and a tank top.

Through sobs, “I’m not going to be disrespected by someone who works at the country. IN fact, I am educated (her anger stems from a courthouse employee more or less insulting her intelligence). I’m a teacher, I’m probably 100% more educated than her (not possible. Not at all.).

Reiterating the same point, now donning shades to hide her puffed, red sockets “It’s fucking outrageous & unfair.”

At this point, well into mine & a few others’ snicker-fest, her actions had attracted the attention of one of the uniforms. His effort to calm / quiet her down was received, just not entirely.

“Do you work with the Sheriff’s department (as if his badge, gun and green LA County Sheriff’s department jacket did not provide enough evidence)? Because if you do, maybe you should help me fix this terrible, unfair system.”

“Ma’am I’m saying to tone it down or have your conversation elsewhere.”

“Well someone should fix it.”

“That’s not my problem.”

The fine-line also allowed a random encounter with a friend who had not been able to attend dinner the night before.

Quirky Item #4 – The Case & Those Impacted:

I’m not going to discuss case details but rather just the dynamics of the situation at hand, the further discovery of facts & impact (you know, what I was touching upon last night.)

I was inconvenienced with: the testimonies / court appearances, having to replace the contents of my wallet, being punched in the face. I also was given the opportunity to experience a story yielding adventure.

Another man was beaten (punched, kicked) and robbed.

A woman who thought she was helping someone by bringing them into her life, can no longer trust anyone or herself to be intimately involved with people.

A father loses his son.

2 young children lose their father.

A man that couldn’t learn his lesson, loses his last chance.

Lives intersected, ripples rippled (and continue to ripple) and after my testimony was given I wrapped it all up with lunch at one of my favorite spots.

Civic Duty, 2.

Sitting on the bed, at the Ramada, that I thought was going to be too hard and a bit uncomfortable but ended up being quite nice for sleeping.

Belly full of delectable meats.

Within 45 minutes of landing I was standing on the beach, dripping ocean. 72-75 degrees of pure LA beauty; it was good to be back.

Fast forward to a wonderful meat carnival with a table full of thoroughly enjoyed friends that I see far too little; a nice Sunday.

Now I’m in my D.A. office arranged room @ the Ramada (LA County tax dollars at their finest, y’all) … and I’m feeling a little (check that, a good deal) nervous to sit on the stand and testify against a man who is going away for the rest of his days.

Part of me wants to dive into the analysis of the potential impact (of a guilty verdict) and how many lives will be affected when someone goes to prison forever. But … that’s neither here nor there. It just so happened that some of me, some of my particles intersected him, him and his particles.

These things happen and you deal. What else is there to do?

Honestly.

Civic Duty, 1.

Seat 25A, back of the plane, after spying from my window the crown jewels of the Cascade range.

Consecutive Sundays have been spent on an Alaska Airlines flight between Seattle and Los Angeles. Whereas I was returning to Seattle from what I like to call an “LA Weekend,” last week … this week, I’m flying to LA for a (very) brief trip. A trip with a purpose.

Tomorrow, after I will have spent some time @ the beach and have dined on some of my favorite cuisine with good friends the night before (this night, the one directly ahead of me)… I will be testifying in court, in trial (none of that pre-trial child’s play), the big leagues. Before a jury, as a victim.

The Beverly Hills D.A. is flying me out, not because of my sterling personality but rather to bolster their case to convict a man on this third strike. Life, folks. We’re talking life for the man who mugged me (and some others) some 18 months ago.

Do I want to do this? Be there, all sworn in and shit and testify, moving toward an end result of placing someone in jail for the rest of their waking life? No. No, I do not.

But I am. Civic duty, it’s a bitch.

Steez at the Movies

I’m one for my last 5, when it comes to seeing a quality film at the theater. I was becoming a tad turned-off to an activity that I love. Half determined to increase the number of movies I was venturing out to see, hoping that probability would, you know, “do its thing.” Half discouraged, wondering when this terrible streak would end.

Thankfully, I did not have to wait long to end said streak. And, the movie that did so … is my YTD Best Movie of 2008.

Disney / Pixar’s Wall-E.

My interest in Wall-E had been building for some time. Partially thanks to: I love mimicking his voice “wallllll-eeeee,” the advertisements were fun and clever, and I’m a sucker for adorable robots(?). For days, even weeks leading up to my opening night viewing, I could be heard doing my best Wall-E impression, my Facebook status often reflected my interest (and growing obsession), etc.

Fear was present, in my head, that I was going to be bit and bit hard for falling (before viewing) for a movie, pledging faith that I was going to see a quality piece of cinema. It was a fear founded not only in the fact that I’ve seen so many poor movies lately but also the fact that I’m not exactly your typically “animated movie” fan and do be completely honest, Pixar and Disney haven’t come too close to impressing me for a good amount of time.

Now with my typical background building / prefacing out of the way, I’ll jump right in.

Wall-E is the best film, in my eyes, of 2008. The preliminary Box Office report indicates a haul of 62mm, which is a solid 13mm under my (presumably) modest estimate. Apparently, glossy action films with Angelina Jolie DO have a great appeal (actually, no that’s not surprising in the least) and Wanted raked in over 50mm. And yes, I will see that soon (I hope). This number, is a bit of a disappoint me to me, seeing as how from an objective standpoint (not my newly establish Wall-E fan boy existence) I figured that it would do more than 2mm better than Kung Fu Panda / Jack Blacks Jack-Assery.

Why did I like this film so much? Well, to begin … My attention span is horrific, to put it bluntly (I think I was tested for ADD, as a child … Maybe my doctor was incompetent, maybe I should be tested for the adult variety). Any movie that can snare my attention, engage me for over 80% of the runtime … is a good movie, in my eyes (as an essential criterion for my extensive, always-changing checklist on what makes a good movie, for me).

Wall-E locked me down for 100% of the time (well, 97ish, if you count my awkward trip from the center of the isle, to the bathroom. Fuck, I hate that.) with a brilliant story of romance, discovery, dedication and hope … against a backdrop of a strong, but far from preachy message (though also definitely a bit more than a tongue-in-cheek treatment) against the inherent evils of consumerism and the need for environmental consciousness.

Can an animated robot be nominated for an Academy Award?

I’m not ashamed that I now have a thing for Eve (eve-a?), despite my initial judgment that she was frigid bitch.

Make time, very soon, to go see this film. Please.

Peel back the lid, take a peek.

Harrison Ford, for a good stretch of time has been more notably revered actors of his era. He’s grossed oodles of dough playing some of the box office’s most recognizable, macho-yet-cerebral, shining-image-of-American-Ideology characters.

Sure, as Han Solo he’s the cool ying to Luke’s awkward yang. I’d make a Patriot Games / Jack Ryan comment, if I’d ever seen any of those movies. He’s fucking Henry Jones Jr. (“we named the dog Indiana. Indiana is a dog’s name”). Being Ridley Scott’s vision of (Philip K. Dicks) Rick Deckard must have been cool as shit too.

He is … GET OFFFFF MY…PLANE!

I don’t like Harrison Ford. Never have. An over-actor, someone who never explored much range; old balls. Then, to boot he dates Calista Flockhart (is that still going on?), dons a single earring, and does Indy 4 (see: my glowing review)!

My favorite Harrison Ford movie, for as long as I can remember, is Regarding Henry.

…

You know who likes to where golf/polo shirts and cargo shorts?

And backwards hats?

And smoke cigs?

Frat guys? No. Your douche-bag, kinda-older-than-you cousin who never went to college? Nazzir.

I’ll save us both some time … the answer is lesbians. Butch lesbians. Their number in ranks is fucking staggering and on one hand they irritate the living hell out of me (see: forthcoming blog post on Lesbian Karoake night… what y’all call Wednesday), but on the other … they tickle my funny bone. What, with their “Friends don’t let friends take home ugly girls” T-Shirts (thanks lesbian version Snorg) and their much-thicker-than-mine legs.

Do you think this particular path they’ve chosen, means they’re more likely to enjoy / be knowledgeable in sports? Or do they do typical woman stuff … just in a cut-off t-shirt?

I think I’ve found a social experiment. Fire up the bunson burners, dust off my lab coat, kids!

…

I like the idea of super-smart cats who are sent into space as contributing, respected astronauts.

day of fathers.

Father’s Day, the day for saying “hey pops, thanks… you know, for being my dad/grandpa.” It’s a good thing we have such days set aside to honor 50% of the parties responsible for your existence. Thanks greeting card, tie, and Tommy Bahama manufacturers, for putting this whole thing together. I’m not a Dad, but I’m sure that if I were, I’d tell you that I appreciate it.

My Father’s Day consists of precisely 5 must-have telephone conversations. No, it’s not because I am the product of an early 80’s gang-bang in which none of the participants wanted to find out who I really belonged to, because not only were DNA testing solutions ridiculously expensive at that point-in-time, but also because they shared the bond of friendship and could not bare to think of a sole-fathership for their darling, bouncing baby Nicholas. (Now, THAT’s the premise for a TV show. Fuck “My TWO Dads,” I gots 5.)

No, no… That is not the reason for my phone calls.

Both of my parents (sharp, glowing, sound people) were the products of broken homes, in most cases (3 out of 4) their parents remarried and established their second marriages before I was born. With this in mind, I’ve always had 4 sets of Grandparents. Big thumbs up to multiple Christmases and such.

After making the rounds, having conversations no shorter than 5 minutes, I realized what’s been true for a good amount of time, and certainly my entire adult life. I’m not as close to some grandparents, as I am others, but that doesn’t mean that I don’t love those I have less frequent interactions with… It just means I have more to learn about them, sadly in a limited time frame (how limited? You never know.).

Okay, this post is about Father’s Day, not my Grandparents. My Dad, is the single most influential person in my life. My Grandfathers, they bring their own unique qualities to the table of our relationship, always in a positive way. What is it like for those individuals out there that don’t have that? That have abusive, neglecting, or terrible excuses for men as fathers … as Grandfathers. I have no scientific backing to this, nor am I a statistician but I believe my situation is, sadly, more unique than that experienced by most children out there.

My Dad taught me to be fair, in all that I do. Other children experience the act known as “the bad touch,” the feeling of a father’s fist of frustration and anger and so on.

There’s an opportunity to further dive into the psychological affects of abusive fathers, but I’m not after that. Driving around, enjoying the Sun today (yes, having the majority of the aforementioned conversations), I thought about how grateful I am to have the family that I do.

That is all.

Steez at the Movies

My calendar says it is June. I don’t believe my calendar. And it’s not just the weather. Shit just doesn’t feel an ounce like summer. Well, to me that is.

With another wet and (fairly) cold hand dealt to the greater Seattle area today, some friends and I decided that a Saturday-Rainy-Afternoon-Double-Show-Day-at-the-Movies Day was more than in order. It’s been, no shit, probably 8 (if not 9) years since I’ve done that last. If my memory serves me correctly, the films were first Boiler Room and second Pitch Black.

I would’ve killed to have been viewing those films today in exchange for the 2 movies we did select. First: The Strangers. The Strangers is the latest horror film to successfully not be as cool as its trailer. Most horror movie trailers look like trash, and you wonder “who watches those movies?” But others will sport a great preview and then utterly fail to follow through (a small number has the great trailer / film combo. Like “The Descent”). Whereas I didn’t like the movie, at all, I have been pretty intrigued with the story behind it, the director’s inspiration. Part real life experience, part Manson Family murders, part grisly random stabbing-crime from the 80’s. Hands down, the best part of the film was the music.

With some time to kill before the second movie, thanks in part to The Strangers having (I shit you not) a 79min run time, we ducked into a variety of theaters (after scaring children waiting in line for Kung Fu Panda). Sex and the City, 2 different theaters, 2 different points in the movie … Same result, us giggling at the fact we were there.

With the second movie still a ways in the future, we bit the bullet and subjected ourselves to 20 rounds of the same ads and movie trivia (I guess you can call it that). Thanks again, The Strangers.

20 minutes.

Showtime… Indiana Jones and the Crytstal Skull Thing That’s Actually an Alien Cranium!!!! With Shia LeBeouf AND that lady who was in the other Indy, because *oh dear, spoiler* it turns out that Indy is his dad! Whaaat!

Honestly, this movie was the biggest pile of steaming, gleaming Hollywood bullshit that I’ve cared to even look at in a long, long time. That’s really all I have to say about it.

In other, more hopeful movie news… I’m checking out M. Night Shyamalan’s “The Happening.” Don’t you let me down, Marky Mark. After that, we have some Hellboy II and most importantly… the summer’s true (sorry RDJ and Iron Man) heavyweight, “The Dark Knight.”

(So the movie Gods, in fear that I was angry with today’s events have decided to throw me a bone … “Silence of the Lambs”, starting on A&E…NOW).

And that, is Steez at the Movies.

Oh Spare Me!

Okay, NBA. Okay, David Stern. Okay, media.

YOU GOT WHAT YOU WANTED!

Giant Media Market #1 vs. Giant Media Market #2.

The history, the renewed rivalry. The rapist, the stabbing victim.

And just think, all it took was creating an environment in which the home team was victorious 85% of the time. Bad calls, no calls, timely bad calls, technicals… with Tim Donaghy nowhere close to any arenas. Joey Crawford? Well, that of course, is a different story.

By no means am I saying that neither of the finals teams don’t deserve to be where they are (The Celtics had the luxury of coming through the oh-so-competitive East). They may have been assisted along the way, but the Lakers are the most talented team in the NBA. The Celtics? Well, the Finals only marks another round they’ve advanced to without the wheels falling off.

So where does all of these leave me? Changing the channel at the first sight of Lakers/Celtics related promotion, or ESPN segment? I thought that was the case, but it turns out the mute button helps me escape the audible Kobe-blowing heard coming from Stewart Scott’s direction at any given point in time. (However, I fear this is only as effect because I have my head down, typing. Motivation to write more? Wouldn’t that be a strange blessing.)

It leaves me boycotting basketball, dedicated to not having any hoops shown on my TV again until the Olympics.

It leaves you … with the NBA Conspiracy Finals.

(By the way, Lakers in 5.)

Island-Shift.

After 4 seasons of twist, turns, dedicated writers, bored writers and for a moment striking writers … LOST has concluded, for another Summer.

To say that my interest in the show, the story has been renewed would indicate that at some point, I was disengaged. This is not, nor do I think will ever be the case.

From the introduction / initial explanation (finally!) of time travel, to the continued faith vs. reason conversation, to the development of Benjamin Linus as one of TV’s baddest-of-asses (albeit, just a semi-normal guy following the island; like the rest of them)… It is apparent to me that whereas it may have lost its crown as “best on TV,” the show still proudly boast the title of “coolest shit currently broadcasted.”

And what is there to thank for a rejuvenated entertainment juggernaut?

One, I say, is the shortening of episodes/season from 24 to 16. This allows for more focus, more attention to detail, as paid by the writing staff. Most importantly, it is a filter for those fans who couldn’t cut it. A show, for some viewers, that cuts its episodes can be seen as declining in quality… rendering it a target to be replaced in viewing schedules (hey what’s that Billy Ray Cyrus doin’ on TV!?).

The next reason is represented by the writer’s strike. Again, it was an indication that the show could continue an already perceived slide… thus turning off more viewers. What both of these factors have contributed to are dedicated production / writing / acting units, determined to provide a solid, oft-bat-shit-crazy and always gripping (save the uber-lame Jack and Kate bullshit) product. Fuck the storylines intended to rope in new fans, or retain those on the fence …

We’re behind the fence now and the gate won’t be opening.

We’re too far down the rabbit-hole, if you will. The fans who have stuck with it (the researchers, the forum posters, people like myself, and whoever else watches the show) will now be rewarded. Greatly.

Answers? A few were offered in the S04 Finale.

Questions? More new ones than answers, per usual.

I am satisfied with this season, my hunger for new episodes subsided for at least the Summer.

I’ll see you next Fall, brother.

Netflix.

I have Netflix.

Who doesn’t have Netflix?

Each and every month, to me, is viewed as a battle. A battle of who wins the value out of the membership I have for this service. There are months, where yes, I take (not full) advantage and can exchange a DVD every other day, running to my inbox like a child to a stocking. These are times of rich movie / documentary / general DVD viewing.

Then, there are the times that a single DVD will sit on the coffee table for 2 weeks, staring me down each time I pass by. Said DVD is not returned because if it were, without viewing, I feel more than a stroke of guilt for not viewing an item that I personally placed in my queue, expressing interest in viewing. Two weeks become 4 and the disc is further relegated to the end-table, with my thinking of “out of site, hopefully a little less out of mind.” This yields one of two situations: 1) forcing yourself to view the dvd, whether you want to or not or 2) succumbing to the fact that you do not wish to view something that you originally found important enough to not only put on your list, but bump to the top.

I’d say I win 35% of the months.

And it’s a damn good thing you have your “auto-withdrawl” hooks in me, Netflix, otherwise I may be forced to think harder on the benefits of our relationship.

But instead, you’re there. Always.

Bus writing.

With the second morning delivery the K7 Hyer Gaskets had arrived. Finally. Of course the piping and system-lock orders had arrived some 2, 2-and-a-quarter days ago. Flexing the schedule, bending the reqs and allocating the time to other, thirsty projects had been a task, and a hard one at that. The progress of this particular job, this specific effort, was the only thing that was suffering.

Well, that and my back, thought Brims.

The throbbing felt from the well placed shiner─ compliments of Hark Felton’s left hook─ from the night before… was not included in his thought of ailments.

Attention turned, a glimmer that appeared to leap, or spark, shone off one of those classic, handled metal lunch pails─ the type seen carried by the men who had constructed America’s original roster of skyscrapers. Or bridge suspenders. It was a replica, still new, still sharp in its condition; the prize of a single bidder eBay auction… turned birthday present.

“Ya gotta take your lunch in something,” she’d said with her stupid smile.

Wiping the smile clean was as easy as: that’s what paper sacks are for Darlene. Ya idiot… How much was this thing?

Hey life, check this one off the list.

If we each went through life with a giant, comprehensive check list of things that we want to achieve or realize in our life, we’d probably live a considerably more depressed life on account of seeing all those unrealized aspirations. (wow, that was bleak)

Aside from that … If said list existed, I would have just checked off one, very line-item. Earlier this week I (with the much needed and appreciated help from my parents, who saved me from having this opportunity fall victim to the dolts at Bank of America-Washington) put down a deposit on two Seahawks season tickets! That’s right, I did not stutter.

I HAVE 2 SEAHAWKS SEASON TICKETS! 100 Level, by the home-team tunnel. It was a strike of lucky lightening for me, a stroke of luck that always misses me. One of my co-workers was kind enough to introduce me to the opportunity, foregoing the waiting list, getting sweet seats for a low price.

(The season tickets will not be in my name… which means I will be getting on the waiting list, with my name… to ensure future season ticket purchase.)

I am a pretty big sports fan, more so in my youth, but primed for a revitalization. The Seahawks are and always have been my favorite franchise. If you think about it, you may gather that it explains a lot about me. They’re frustrating to watch, usually under-perform, loving mediocrity.

When moving to Seattle, these tickets were something I was aiming to achieve.

I cried when I lost my Curt Warner signed hat.

Still, in my possession (but somewhere in storage, in Idaho), I have possibly the largest Dan McGwire card collection.

At one point I had a one jersey, at least 2 framed posters and a reluctant dedication (that lasted too long) of Rick Mirer.

I’ve met, shaken hands with Steve Largent (also: stared at with admiration) and still believe he is the greatest white WR in the game’s history.

I currently alternate my viewings, wearing a Matt Hasselbeck or Chris Warren jersey. I’m working on a Cortez Kennedy and will be purchasing a new, current player jersey (J. Peterson, Lofa… TJ Duckett!?!?!?).

I will be at each and every home game for the 2008 season, with a different comrade, soaking it in.

I’m happy as happy can be, about this.

Years of training.

For, more or less the entirety of my life (save the last 3 weeks and any time before the age of 5)I have been a pleased and efficient user of PCs. The microsoft environment and I have grown up together. You know what I'm sayin' Windows, you too MSFT suite!

Now, in a move to not bring myself further along in a quest to be hip or more cutting edge, I have become, for the most part, a mac user. I was just thrown into this situation, never given a chance and just assigned a new mac upon my first day of my new job. The programs, the applications, they're more or less the same and the OS is easy enough to understand ... the biggest component is learning hot keys, introducing yourself to a brand new landscape of buttons. Sure, its not like Apple is building a product without QWERTY, I mean, jesus ... that's unspeakable.

I'm on my laptop for the first time since I started work. That's right, I haven't touched ol' faithful in a matter of three weeks. That's beside the point.

I'm already reaching for that silly apple key to initiate hot-keys sequences ... and finding my most pointless ALT button not performing the way my hands have adapted, have become conditioned in such a short amount of time.

Other than that ... we cool.

Btw, I'm sitting in my favorite Tullys right now. Or "my office" as I liked to call it before my attainment of employment a few weeks back. These two men, who are sitting next to me, appear to be in their late 40's and the best way that I can sum them up is that they were the guys portrayed in 80's ski movies. Let's paint this one with the broad stroke of a single brush ... douchebaggery.

A basket of development.

What is life… without development? A series of non-valued occurrences that have all the taste of wet cardboard.

For a significant amount of time, in my life, I’ve looked at the need for development to occur from each and every experience that I have in life. Whether it’s as insignificant as eating a type of JELLY (on my shooooes) that you don’t like or as significant as being fired from your job … there’s development to be had, that will aid you in the future…. You don’t eat that jelly on your toast, you don’t do the things that led to your dismissal.

See what I mean? Nothing remarkable to wrap your head around.

An experience can affect you on either side of the positive / negative spectrum, and anywhere in-between. From the tingling sensation that courses through your veins, wrapping itself around your spine… blossoming flowers of joy throughout you to those of the vile nature that you’d rather have an internal organ crudely removed, than deal with.

If you will, picture each and every experience that you have … as a piece of fruit. An edible, tangible good, complete with seeds. Whether it's sweet and succulent or horned and taste of non-bathed taint… you eat it down, eat it to receive the seeds. As the seeds, they bear the essence of the experience, the knowledge, the component that leads development.

With the seeds of the experience in hand, it is time to plant, it is time to develop. You plant the seeds of each and every experience in what I refer to as your “field of knowledge,” an expansive landscape that stretches beyond your eye, to infinity. The planted seeds sprout their roots, growing into plants of knowledge … their size depending on your assignment of significance. Most plants are small and offer little progress… but when combined with other small, blades of development … they become a meadow of awareness, helping you develop for life’s next experience(s).

Just some food for thought.

The Choo-Choo.

One beer before leaving the office, one cig on the way to the station and I was ready to go. Ready to go on my first of many train rides to the City of Roses, during my years that I will spend in Seattle. Due to its nature of being my first ride, it was bound to be one of incredible education.

After checking in and receiving my ticket it was time to stand in line, awaiting seat assignment. Standing silently, with my bags and right before I was to receive my seat I hear one of the two girls standing behind me ask “who smells like beer?” Next thing you know, we’re assigned seats together (sitting at one of the tables, with four seats) along with a literal choir-boy. Let’s make this a long story short … these girls were obnoxious (one more than the other), loud, punk-music loving hooligans that were hell bent on getting wasted on the train. They offered me booze, I accepted.

After roughly a pint of vodka, a few hands of spades and suffering through looks of a nasty nature from everyone in our car (thanks, incredibly loud and annoying punk girl)… I accepted the fact that I was a) not going to get watch last week’s episode of LOST that I had just put on my iPhone b) read c) be able to write and combined with my increasing buzz, I decided that it was time to see what the lounge/bistro car was all about.

Much to my surprise not only did the lounge car offer cheap brews but they also had sundries, including my FAVORITE sundry … pepcid AC. Which, was a big deal seeing as how I had forgot mine and I knew that the night would hold many heartburn inducing activities. Whilst in this car, I met an elderly fellow by the name of Ed. Ed was retired military and had a mighty illustrious career that spanned over 35 years, seeing action in: Vietnam, Panama, Kosovo, Iraq, Afghanistan, and so on. We talked about his kids (all talented from the sounds of it), we talked about where I was going and the fact that he was going to visit a friend, a lady friend, who had known for years and had grown increasingly close to, most of it culminating in the weekend that he was about to have. This exact topic is what struck me as amazing, something that filled my head with wonderment that circle around a simple, central theme … it doesn’t matter how old you are that when you have a new romance in your life, it feels as if it’s the first time something like that has ever happened to you, a new/blank slate that is ready to be drawn upon. Ed complimented me on my approach and general outlook on life, I thanked him.

The train arrived a few minutes late, but I had no problem with that.

Bussing.

For whatever reason (actually I know, or at least, can theorize a few of them; but won’t) I have never looked highly upon public transit. My bus riding years, as a child, were incredibly limited and outside of my Freshman year in Eugene, I’ve probably utilized public transit enough times to be counted on one hand.

Upon moving back to the great Pacific Northwest, to Seattle, one of the things that I was wanting was that of an urban (or at least more than LA) vibe. A component of such living is that of being a patron of public transit.

Now nearly two months into living up here, 1 flex pass I received as part of my new job, later … I find myself aboard the 255 bus to Seattle, headed to work.

(Stating the obvious) The seats of the bus fill one-by-one, stop-by-stop. Lifting my head, from my spot near the back, I eye the new riders, feeling like an ass for using my eyes and body language to convey that I do not wish to be sat next to.

“Seat’s taken,” I unfold with a southern drawl, Greenbow, AL style.

If it weren’t for the fact that I have two bags with me, my looks and eyebrow raises would prove fruitless. With that said, I’ll stop.

(Side note: I am listening to the 06 Radiohead – Greek Theater performance, and… my iPhone has already skidded across the floor once. Eep.)

My non-car traveling does not end with my bus ride to work and it will not end with a bus ride home. Rather, I will be boarding the 5:30 Amtrak destined for Portland, for the weekend. This, my friends will be only my second time on a choo-choo0, for the first time the train I am on will be non-stationary.

3.5 hours of rail-gliding fun.

At this moment, I have an incredibly romanticized picture of how this train ride will be. Drinks in the lounge care, witty banter with strangers, maybe a little book reading, some time for writing and if I’m lucky … perhaps a murder mystery! (I’d settle for a horse aided train robbery)

Until later. Like when I’m train commuting.

It's Tuesday.

And work has come to a stop... I believe that I'm going to hit the mountain for some night skiing tonight, see if that yields a wonderful time.

As of late, I haven't been posting with much regularity to the blog ... it's a good thing that there's virtually an audience of one. That being me. Nevertheless, I vow to stay up to date.

Tomorrow I will post an intro to a new story. That's right, it's anticipation.

Yarp.

The trip to LA was exactly what the doctor called for, if I had a doctor that had prescribed said trip. My time was used efficiently and I was able to see all those that I wanted and had a good time doing so. For those of you who are reading this, thank you.

Back in Seattle, I am now sitting at the desk of my new job as an Interactive Producer for the advertising Draft/FCB. Let me say: so far, so good. I'm in what I like to call "sponge mode" currently as I am taking in everything, soaking it through each and every pore. From what I can tell, I'm going to like it here.

I've been in the Seattle area since the beginning of January but I honestly don't believe that I've been able to plant my uplifted roots. Now, with the job and hopefully (soon) a new domicile, the roots of Steez will soon enter the ground and complete the transplant process.

Here's to it.

Fortuna Smiles.

There are those days, weeks, periods of time in which it is clear to an individual that things aren't "going their way" or "they can't catch a break," etc ...

The time that I am in now, the present (some would call it)... is not one of those periods of the aforementioned.

Fortuna smiles, full stretch, not only on myself but the others of the Stoolman clan.

That is all.

Internutz

The life of the unemployed is an interesting one, one that I’ve become far too familiar with in the last year (or so) of my life. When in a position that I current am, an individual needs to keep themselves busy. Dedicating hours a day to the job search, sending emails, starting and not finishing stories, staying on top of opportunities, keeping track of the actions of your recruiters (and staffing agencies), starting a blog, writing in a journal, downloading music, etc… If you can coordinate to do some (if not all) of these things outside the confinements of the house that you’re crashing, then I believe you’re bound to keep your sanity intact, for the time being.

With this in mind, your livelihood can be directly connected to the strength of your internet connection. Living a one-bar connection? You’re living a one-bar life.

I’m currently in a new coffee house (mind you, I have relocated to Seattle and I’m fitting nicely into this stereotype). It is called Kahili and evidently their coffee is “a taste of paradise.” Whereas yes, they did serve me a mighty fine Americano… I always thought paradise would have a hint of coconut. Kahili’s atmosphere is much more contemporary, spacious and sporting a plethora of wall outlets… however MY FUCKING INTERNET CONNECTION is far from stable and I’ve been rendered nearly paralyzed, in a no-bar life.

Give me the stares of judgment from the crotchety bastards at Tullys across the street.
Give me the ability to listen to their elderly book club discussions.
Give me my damn, stable internet connection.

That is all.

Peep this hole.

The thing about a blog is that there is always a plethora of topics of which one could write on. This means a particular subject should and will always be picked by the blogger (I’m not writing anything but the obvious here) whether it’s something that their interested in or, perhaps selected at random; an arbitrary choice.

Today, I think that I’m going to go with a free write. No particular subject, just whatever synapse fires for me, at that moment.



Feeling deep will only take you to the depth that you didn’t want to reach. That’s the thing about curiosity, about probing… even when you discover something positive, a wonderful sensation, it’s not enough to stop (well, unless you have a designated set of parameters with a defined goal. You know, like a science project). With this in mind, please picture a hole in the ground. It’s not even all that enticing of a hole but the fact that your arm knows no defined stretch (keeps on and on. Extending. Shit, even snaking to the hidden infrastructure of the hole, below surface) is enough of a reason to see what this hole holds.

Pulling out morsel after morsel, gem after gem, warm feeling after warm feeling… Is and will not be enough for the individual. It’s not until the first sign of a negative that the hole will begin to lose its luster. The proverbial hand on the stove, a critter bite, excavation of a human skull, an ugly look, a hurt feeling. Dig long enough and pain will be yielded. The stretched arm is withdrawn and the hole left to the ground.

So then, where is the line drawn? Is there such thing as a safe journey of discovery? One could say that if you’re not willing to deal with negatives of discovery, journey you should not. Who knows?

Speaking of holes… Who has seen a “glory hole”? (Disclaimer: Seeing a glory hole and an resulting jokes, laughter or vomit is not the same as being a patron of said hole of glory) I’ve seen two, one easily more disgusting than the other, thanks to a seemingly recent use.

I think that it’s something that everyone should encounter, at least once, while visiting a highway rest stop (you know, the gay bath houses of the 90s). But, when I think about it, that might not be that easy of an achievement. I’m going to go ahead and guess that there are significantly less female restroom glory holes, it just kind of defeats the whole purpose of (maybe) gay truckers and sneaky dentists and their anonymous activities.

You know what, I’m going to stop speculating on this subject. Thanks to not eating breakfast, 16 oz. of an Americano and this particular subject … my stomach is not feeling all that solid. At least I didn’t eat some vitamins.

Final thought is this, curious or not … don’t confuse a hole of curiosity for one of anonymous sexual deviance. Well, I guess, unless you want to make the two the same.

Womp.

Where is Rory? An intro.

"Where is Rory?" is a story that I began writing toward the end of November. I think that it's safe to say that I haven't touched it in just over 2 months. While going through my writings folder I saw that I had transcribed a little bit of it and have decided to give it a little air and see if I can rekindle my initial vision for it. More of this story exists but it is in a notebook that is not currently in my possession (My first step, in writing, is hand writing in (usually) a Steno Notepad). In it's finished (or at least further fleshed) form this story will tell a tale of parallel universes, set in a time-frame of the late 19th Century.

Where is Rory?

The wind blew. The wind blew enough that it made that curtains flap, flap just a little. The candles on the nightstand flickered, tempting to extinguished by the same wind. Darkness had fallen a handful of hours before and all the house’s occupants, aside from Rory, were sleeping.

“I wonder if the candlelight bothers her,” he thought to himself after Ingrid stirred.

“Maybes she’s cold.”

Climbing out of bed, careful not to disturb, Rory discovered how cold the late-night floor was. Fumbling for his robe, in the dancing light, he tripped over Hermes. The old dog’s abrupt wake-up call was enough to force a soft “boof” past his whiskers. Frozen in his tracks, now without his nightcap, Rory waited to see if the dog’s noise had been enough to awaken Ingrid. He knew she had a terrible time sleeping these days and the sleep she did have was certainly not that of high quality, as she often awoke, terrified and asking for Harold.

“mwuaahh…” she fumbled out her mouth. “mmwuahaaa” came again and then she was silent.

Still frozen, Rory could hear her deep breaths return. She was asleep, most likely never awoke. Now with his an increased heart rate, Rory did not like his chances of sleep upon returning to his spot in the bed.

“I need sleep, the sun will rise soon and there are chores to be done before heading to the shop” he reminded himself, making way across the room to the open window, to the waving curtains.

“Jesus it’s cold” he thought as he tightened the tie of his robe. “Why the hell did I leave the window open in the first place?” Rory quizzed as he latched the window closed.

He shivered and turned for the return trip to bed. After carefully hurdling Hermes and placing his robe on the rocking chair beside the bed, Rory climbed back into his now not-so-warm spot in bed. Leaning over he blew out one candle of the two candles and reached for the second. It wasn’t until the breath traveled from his mouth to the flame that the room became dark. The dancing little man of fire was still visible to Rory when he closed his eyes. Lids shut, the fading image gave way to an explosion of light. The entire room lit up as if it were neighbors with the sun.

The light pierced Rory’s eyes and seemed to penetrate him to his core. Hot, searing, focused pain.

“Ahhh!” he screamed aloud. The light and pain relinquishing their hold as he breathed the last breath of the scream. Darkness returned in a pure form.

“Rory? What is wrong?” asked a panicked and awakened Ingrid.

When Rory opened his eyes, the dancing fireman had returned only this time he was held by a frightened Ingrid. The flame all but licked her face, not revealing it all but enough to see how startled she was.

“Rory, are you ok? Rory?” asked Ingrid.

“Yes, yes. I think so.” He answered.

The house remained silent. Either the children were not awakened because they are used to startling sounds coming from their parent’s bedroom during the night, or they now lie in their beds, frightened.

Failed Communication.

Growing up, even before I knew that I had a love for advertising, Super Bowl ads were a much anticipated part of each and every Super Bowl for me. The 90’s did not disappoint and even the first four years of the new millennium were entertaining and well executed. Correct me if I’m wrong, but in the last few years, as the price for airtime increased at an astronomical rate… the quality of ads has decreased a great deal. I know this isn’t groundbreaking analysis but you know, I have been watching.

Last year, for the Colts victory, I don’t remember much. Game and ads alike. Doesn’t mean they didn’t suck.

In my eyes, the victor of a compelling, thought provoking communication was the GMC, "Mountain Top," Hybrid Yukon spot. It’s depiction of a Sisyphus like character and his grueling, rocking rolling pursuit of meaning has a hopeful and bright end that the Greek myth did not. As humans, our pursuit of a green life isn’t in vain and the effort not feigned, as GMC told me … There’s hope, yo.



I liked Career Builder's message to "follow your heart," but maybe that's because I'm unemployed. The boss's plate of Lobster was a nice touch.

(By the way, I just searched the above ad on YouTube to find this comment gem:

ignoresxk1 (3 hours ago)
LOL I THOUGHT HER TITTY FELL OFF )

Excellent.

Any and all Sales Genie efforts made my stomach turn.

Pepsi should be (and I’m sure they are) very ashamed of themselves.

In the end, I like to think that the worst commercial belonged to Sobe's Life Water or whatever their knockoff vitamin water, attempt at product extension, bullshit thing is…



Hands down, if you’re going to be spending the dough to a) buy an ad space during the Super Bowl and b) the music rights to Michael Jackson’s thriller … Don’t fill the commercial with a variety of CGI lizards. (Notice: I'm not even addressing the inexplicable placement of Naomi Cambpell) It’s not even the complete ineffectiveness of this ad or the poor use of their budget that gets to me here … it’s the fact that the talking lizard market is more than well covered by my man, the Geico Gecko (fuck those cavemen).

Are those clams? I love clams.

Hater Nation

If you had asked me as little as two weeks ago how I’d respond, how I would convey my thought and emotion following a Patriots loss and I would tell you that… In the event of this outcome, I would pour seething comments, unbridled hate towards each and every member of Belichick’s brood. Now that it has happened, this is all I have:

Fans of the South Park franchise know of the relationship between Satan and his lover Saddam Hussein. Satan as the effeminate leader of the underworld and Saddam as his surly lover who certainly wears the pants. It’s not my doing, other than making this discovery, that the two most important men in the New England franchise bare more than a striking resemblance to aforementioned characters:

I give you:

[Robert Kraft]

=


[Bill "I Spy" Belichick]

=


In related news:

- I will be purchasing a NY Giants hat for the sole purpose of wearing to Mariner’s games vs. the Red Sox, providing me ammunition to throw in the face of each and every member of Red Sox nation that I encounter.

Boat Show Extravaganza

Today has definitely been spent in “recovery mode,” thanks to my day full of the Seattle Boat Show (and roughly 25-30 drinks over the course of the day). I’ll select a broad brush to paint this picture, seeing as how I’m certain a more detailed recall is out of my abilities.

I had arranged for limo service to pick me up at the hotel and then later go to the airport for the 8am arrival of my Dad, Uncle and 5 of their amigos. I was late but thankfully Vladamir, the limo driver (and presumed extra from the 2007 release, “Eastern Promises”), had no problem waiting for me. I arrive at the hotel, load the bloody mary essentials requested by my guests and headed to the airport. After spending roughly an hour and a half in the limo, post pick up, the half gallon of Skyy was taxed and it was time to move on, maybe get some food to complement the 3-5 bloody marys consumed by each member of our party. (Thank Christ I decided to up my usual Pepcid intake). After eating, more drinks and a brisk walk it was time venture into the Boat Show. (As background, my Uncle was looking for a new boat to keep in Alaska. Everyone else was moral support / drinking mates)

The following 8 hours went a little something like this: beer, boats, beer, beer, boats, fishing rods, “a break” to get something to eat and a drink, bathroom, hiccups, hiccups, beer, hiccups, boat, boat, boat. I’m not someone who gets the hiccups easily and this is more than okay with me considering the fact that I absolutely loathe the hiccups and my inability to avoid them, once they’ve set their eyes on me. Starting at about 2pm, spanning all the way until I was finally able to sleep… I counted 7 different cases of the bastards. Scare me. Make me drink water upside down (which I can’t). How about a shot of lemon juice/salt/bitters? Hold my breath. How about a swift kick to the balls? You name it, it was tried.

Point of the story is this … these guys are machines and run marathons at a sprints pace. They started their boozing expedition before they boarded their plane in Idaho, at 6am and stretched it until our last drink, in the bar and post dinner at 10:30. Now, I’m not as big of drinker now as I have been at other points in my life but I can still get it done… but this was a true trial of endurance and courage. I’m sad that they couldn’t have stayed longer than one night, but at the rate we did the first day … I don’t know if I could’ve survived an entire weekend with the boys.

There was no boat purchased.

In other news ...

- I can’t decide who has the better set of “life skills,” Britney Spears or Adam Pacman Jones.

- Johan Santana passed his physical and will received $25mm a year to hurl baseballs for the New York Metropolitans. Good for him. Gooood. For. Him.

- Gordon B. Hinckley, grand poobah of the LDS Church passed away and you can tune into the 8 hour coverage of his funeral… RIGHT NOW. It’s riveting. It’s a sad day in Momo nation. Say what you will about the crazy bastards, anytime a leader goes down it’s a sad moment.

- The Ducks snapped their 4 game conference game losing streak. And it was against the dirty, dirty Beavs. Have I ever told you that any and all OSU students or supporters enjoy sex with four legged creatures. The barnyard variety are #1.

- As you know, the Super Bowl is tomorrow. It occurred to me the other day, when asked “who do you want to win?” that even after a moment’s thought I couldn’t come up with an answer. The last time I felt so indifferent about the Super Bowl was the Bucs v. Raiders (yawwwn) game. Here’s my problem, I genuinely dislike the Giants but mostly because of their evil imp of a coach… And I hate the soulless machine that is Bill Bellicheck’s hell circus.

- On a related note, it tickles me to see the reappearance of “Spygate” and the possibility that the Pats cheated, on top of many other times, in preparation for their Super Bowl match up vs. the Rams in ought-3.

To go completely against my comment made above about the Mormon church, allow me to mock them, as a whole:

Ahem. An Intro.

No time like the present...

Sitting in this meeting cavern, within a Tullys, I am venturing into something that is waaay overdue. Blogging. I've stood at the threshold of this world of free thought and internet submission many times. Poking around, but not too hard (as is my usual means of prodding), my aspirations of writing something consistently, in a public forum, have never come to fruition.

Why is that?

Long story, short: because.

Do blogs need to have a consistent theme to be compelling? Oh, how about snide commentary on celebrity happenings, or maybe just pop-culture? A direct portal to inner happenings and thoughts of an individual, a public diary? I suppose you could post stories, or articles, pictures, links, a conglomeration of all that an individual finds interesting.

Musings?! Gotta have those.

The audience, do they have to be accounted for? At this stage, I think not.

(rac)coons n 'crete

Here's a situation, for thought:

You awake to find yourself in the confinements of a drained pool. It looks clean and aside from a well used push-broom, you're definitely the only resident of the deep end. 10 feet of sloped concrete does not make for an easy exit. In fact, without rope or a minimum 40" vertical (and a running start), shit's impossible. The only exit is to go from deep to shallow and climb the ladder to steady ground. It's dark, with a dash of light and from your spot below the surface dawn vs. dusk isn't exactly distinguishable. What IS (at least) semi-distinguishable, in your line of sight, is a stirring group of critters. Milling about, the unidentified creatures's territory lies just before the point of the pool you've decided you could climb out at. Vision adjusted, the unidentified have been identified as a pack of not-so-happy-to-be-in-the-empty-pool raccoons. Two look to be the size of well fed housecats, three others look as if they've dined on the finest of fine trash for the better part of their lives and could register 30 pounds, if a scale were on hand. Rounding out the group are what you presume are young ones, maybe adolescents; three of them.

Snarl, snarl, gnash, gnash.

They're angry, hell maybe even thirsty for man blood (fuck if you know). Point is… this group of 8 raccoons will not allow you passage.

How do you escape and how long will it take?

My man cBase, when in this situation, quoted a raccoon massacre that took no longer than 7 seconds, thanks to the expert like wielding of a skewerin' pole that had once been a push-broom. Not to mention a good deal of fortune. My personal approach includes a brutal dispatching of the raccoon I've deemed the biggest and nastiest bugger of the bunch… followed by intimidation and finger pointing. Depending on the effectiveness of this plan, I'd say I need no longer than 3 minutes.

Moving along...

In other news:

- Do yourself a favor and get wrapped up in the 4^th season of Lost, it starts tonight. There should be a recap show that will paint a nice, neat picture of what you need to know.

- If I'm not watching it live, it will because I'm at Key Arena being a witness of King James for the first time.

- Mull this over, maybe I'm out of line, but I don't think that two grown men should both order hot chocolates from the coffee merchant, at 1:30 in the afternoon. Whipped cream included? You sure as hell betcha.