deity_inc

losing my job may lead to more meetings..............................

Fri, 20 Mar 2009 10:18:39 GMT

It seems that the only time I post is when I am at least 3 glasses of wine into the world. Funnily enough most of what I do in my life occurs after 3 glasses of wine. Realistically I am under the assumption that until I have consumed a bottle of wine I should not get out of bed and take a shower. Sometime in the future I am going to need a liver transplant or perhaps a mechanical liver. I am hoping that by the time my liver decides to call it a day and sets off towards easier pastures (Charlie Sheen, Robert Downey Jnr, or Mickey Rourke all spring to mind) that medical science will need a donor body for a prototype cyborg liver with bells, whistles, and a small glowing LED light. Definitely needs a glowing LED light. Green to start, red to show overload, and maybe some sort of mauve or umber color to indicate usage. It could almost be like an alcohol powered internet hub. Where in the hell was I going with this?...........Something about drinking, more drinking, and …..ah! I remember! So recently or at least for the past 5 years I have avoided (quite shrewdly might I add) going to any of those meetings, standing up and announcing that indeed I am a raging womanizer with a problem I cannot contro………wait wait wait. Wrong meeting. Still something about drinking. My pen chance for faking a British accent and wearing a nice suit to impress the ladies does not need to be addressed. At least that sort of a meeting is just going to lead to a major relapse.

Ah yes it was the drinking we were addressing. Technically up until Friday March 20^th I am a Sommelier and therefore a paid professional. On Saturday I will officially be gone from the Wild Ginger and therefore will be reduced to the ranks of blithe amateur. (Also known as sociable drunk, or poignant pisshead, or homeless bum.)

This turns a corner for me. I am leaving Wild Ginger at a time when the economy is not the greatest for employment and yet I actually smile every time I think about it. I have joined 3 different soccer teams and look forward to rock climbing on a daily basis. I may actually develop a social life. (Although anyone who would be social with me is not the type of person I actually want to hang out with!!)

It is funny that I never realized how much of myself I left by the wayside to pursue the goals of others. I am not actually actively looking for a job. I have a little in savings and a part time job teaching. I can easily pick up 2 shifts per week at another restaurant, or 1 more day a week teaching and still make ends meet. I think it is time to do what I want to do for a bit, and actually figure out what it is I want to do. I need to see what it is that I enjoy again and then think about what I am willing to give up and what I am willing to add.

Tonight, my penultimate night, I sold $5,600 of wine to a couple. Quite a way to go out. I sold 2 bottles of wine for a healthy packet and made the server very happy as a bonus. I enjoy the wine business, but I think it is time for change.

I think I should write more later this week when I have not worked a 12 hour day and still haven’t cooked dinner…………………

And now a word from the red states

Fri, 31 Oct 2008 05:18:50 GMT

~~Copy this sentence into your livejournal if you're in a heterosexual marriage and you don't want it "protected" by the bigots who think that gay marriage hurts it somehow.~~

I just cannot bring myself in all good conscience to copy that sentence into my LJ. I am not married and remain staunchly single. In fact it is my belief that divine enrichment stems from singlehood and that a lasting union is the work of the Devil. With that in mind I am imposing my beliefs on everyone else and am banning marriage altogether. This unholy union created by Beelzebub himself to subject mankind to dishes, laundry, mowing the grass, and of course brunch with neighbors. Oh those endless brunches with the neighbors. I mean what is to become of our society if we allow any unions to persist? Hmmmm?? I’ll tell you what these monogamous unions lead to: Procreation! A slump in Sunday football ratings!! Tucking in your shirt!! Why next we’ll being giving women the vote……..(I have been informed that women do have the right to vote.) You see!!! I did tell you this would happen. If only there were more sane individuals like Britney Spears who saw the folly of her ways less than an hour into marriage. She, like any sane individual, exercised a divorce to split asunder this most holy union which no man shall ~~tear apart~~ blah blah blah blah blah. It is the very work of the Devil.
Great leaders lead by example. Christ was single. In fact I am pretty sure he had his eyes on several ~~groupies~~ followers. Many of his priests today exercise great restraint in staying single by ~~raping young boys~~ refusing to form relationships with women.
This is America Dammit!!! My voice must be heard. It is my right ~~to trample on others beliefs in the name of religious freedom~~ to believe what I want to believe. ~~And then impose it on other regardless of their own beliefs~~ We need to rally now and stop these people marrying around us single people. They just do it to whittle our numbers down. If everyone was married there would be no more single people left. Where do we draw the line? ~~persecuting minorities in the name of smug religious satisfaction~~ Next these married people and homosexuals will be able to vote and use the front of the bus………(again I have been informed that married people and homosexuals can use the front of the bus and vote.) This still only proves the point further. We must live as Jesus did. We must read the bible ~~out of date text written mostly from hearsay and oral tradition~~ and believe in it fully. It’s message is clear and poignant. ~~as mud~~

ISG Diploma program.....

Thu, 28 Jun 2007 04:54:54 GMT

Finally after waitng for 2 months the results of my wine class were posted. 178 credit hours jammed into 6 months and a nasty 2 weekend final has resulted in............a bigger and better pin for my lapel. So shiny!!!!!! I passed!!!!!!! Wheeeeee!!!!!!! Time to go out buy wine, drink and eat cheese.

Domaine Chantal Lescure. Vosne-Romanee 1er Cru "les suchots" 1999

Sun, 24 Jun 2007 13:03:40 GMT

It has been a very surreal month. I passed my next level for the Court of Master Sommeliers, and with a bit of luck passed the ISG Diploma course. Suddenly A few people at work were fired or left. So all of a sudden I am launched into 3 Sommelier shifts per week and am in charge of the staff education program. Go figure.

I now wander around in a suit and tie, drink wine, schmooze with guests, sell wine, drink more wine, show up to tastings at all hours, organize commercial tastings, drink even more wine, help organize wine events, hand out business cards like Doritos, and of course get paid to drink even more wine. Hmmmmmm……. Perhaps I should go back a bit and describe the typical night I actually get paid to do.

I roll into work somewhere close to 2:30pm. If it is a Monday or Tuesday then I will come in at 1pm because we meet with the wine reps for tastings those afternoons. Except for the days when there are commercial or warehouse tastings, in which case I clock in and then head off to the tasting. Usually these are well sponsored with excellent cheese and meat side dishes. I have to restock both restaurants from the business the night before. Damn physical labor. Should be outlawed. Happy happy hand truck!! :)

Around 5pm I show up for the staff pre-shift meeting and explain any anomalies with the wine list that night. (Lows, 86’s, specials, new tie pin, shiny cuff links etc)

For the first part of the evening I am mainly downstairs at our sister restaurant the Triple Door. I open wine for the servers, sell wine to the tables who need to have questions answered, and of course schmooze with any winemakers/reps/VIPs who come in. At some point during the evening I eventually find my way upstairs to the Wild Ginger. A little more formal, three times as expensive, and half as likely to find a denim jacket. However you can find quite a few people willing to lay down upwards of $400 for a bottle of wine.

My job now becomes the stuff of legend for the occasional lucky server. I appear at the table with my cellar list in hand, chat for a while, leave, come back with new posh glasses, and old expensive wine. Suddenly the night for that server has been transformed from a regular hum-drum night to “Holy shit I’ve got a $700 deuce”

10pm is my signal to head off the floor and take care of the administrative duties for the evening. Each evening is assigned different tasks. With a little luck I am done by 11pm. Sometimes I have to stay late. For example 2 weeks ago I stuck around until 1:30am because a rather well off regular was ploughing through our cellar list like movie theatre popcorn. Two hours work, a generous tasting of each bottle and $2300 in wine sales later…. I felt justified in my choice of the purple tie and matching shirt as the attire for the evening.

I have helped to organize a few wine events recently and in the process have met some great people and tasted some stellar wine which I would never have had the opportunity to taste otherwise. Ask L_stboy about the Triple Sip. I believe he did several years worth of liver damage in one evening. At the same time he did get to sample Abreu, Staglin, Torbreck, and Switchback. My liver hasn’t been the same since the Torbreck “Descendent”. A huge beast of an Australian Shiraz best used for hand to hand combat then left outside and away from young children and small pets.

So I sit here drinking a pleasant wine, (I cooked copper river salmon tonight with fresh shitakes and raspberries to be accompanied with broccoli and parsnips) trying to answer just one simple question…………..WHAT IN THE FUCK TOOK ME SO LONG TO LEAVE MY LAST JOB??????!!!!!!!
Of cousre this line of thinking has also entered into my relationships:
"What in the world took me so long to cheat on my ex/current/soon to be ex/brief fling/bit of fluff who followed me home more than once?"

I am currently trying to figure out when the shoe will drop. They will figure out that I am having way too much fun and quit paying me for doing what I am doing. Or figure out some way to actually make me merit the money I am supposedly earning.
That would be very unfair. If I had to work where would I find the time for all these tastings??? I should probably go to bed, but I have no work tomorrow and this wine is rather delicious. I must remember to hide the bottle once I am done. If my girlfriend Danae finds out I drank such a tasty wine without her she would be very upset.

On the down side of my job I will be unable to come to OTP this year because I am visiting my Dad in San Diego on July 10^th. Unfortunately with new responsibilities comes less people able to cover your shift. I do have the last week in August blocked out though. Some weird art festival out in the desert filled with stoners, geeks, sex maniacs, drunks and unwashed feral hippies calls to me.

Studying. Or the resultant mess....

Sat, 28 Apr 2007 09:28:25 GMT

I have spent the last 8 months learning more about wine and wine regions than 99.99934% of the general population deems necessary to conduct a meaningful life. I have spent the past 4 hours sharing 8 bottles of wine among new friends; I should be studying, the second half of my finals is this Sunday. Currently I am ploughed, broken woodpecker typing so slowly everything that is garbled in my brain. I should back up and explain some of the past few months. Nah. I am thinking most people who know me will know my schedule and alcoholic tendencies, those who don’t won’t give a shit.
Anyhow back to the wine. Last Sunday was the first half of the Diploma program I have been taking. 178 credit hours crammed into 6 months. The final is split over two weekends. The first weekend consists of 10 essays, 7 cellar management questions, two 5 course menu matchings, and the obligatory service practical. I think I did enough to pass. 10 essays in 3 hours is 18 mins per essay 1-2 pages per essay.

Describe the production of a red wine from harvest to bottle.
Compare and contrast the regions of Rioja, Penedes, and Ribera del Duero. Include varietals grown and influential winemakers for each region.
In the past 15 years the aging requirements for Tuscan DOCG wines has been lowered. Please explain the reasons behind this law change.
Name the 3 main acids found in grapes. Describe their flavor profile and whether they occur naturally or are winemaker induced.
Compare and contrast Bordeaux and Burgundy. Historically, geographically, and politically.
Describe the differences between the Central Coast and Central Valley areas of California and the effects seen on the resultant wine.
Give a brief history on the wine making in Chile. Please explain where the industry stands today and where you see it heading in the future.
Define the laws of Cava. Its production, method and allowable grape types.
Describe the Spanish Solera system and how it affects oloruso and fino sherry.
Explain the differences in viticultural techniques between the Mittlemosel and the Rheinhessen. Describe the styles of wine produced.

It is 8am and this is what we were greeted with. Next up 3 hours on cellar management and 2 menus to be paired with classic matches listed by producer, region and vintage with an explanation for each choice. Lastly a quick service test. Champagne opening and red wine decantation. (No. Not Incantation.)

Overall not very nice. This Sunday is 22 blind tastings, Multiple choice (500) and a brief interview.

Wednesday is the Court of Master Sommeliers next level which should be a little more beastly. Deep down inside I know I should be studying, but I had to work. Damn rent and cat food!

However, tonight was good. One of my tables was a restaurant owner from Sacramento. I got off early and joined him, his wife, his brother, brother’s wife etc. There were 7 of us at the table and we bought a boat load of good wine and he opened up even more good stuff he had brought form his own cellar. I love my job.

Of course this leaves me pretty blasted finishing off a Frank Family Vineyards Cabernet Sauvignon. I should be studying, but my fingertips are numb and my girlfriend is inert on the sofa. The cat keeps trying to wake her up, but she is having none of it.

Luckily I have tomorrow off and will attempt to stuff useless facts, about the DOCG system of Italy, obscure ACs of France, and other factoids which are of little use to anyone, into my tiny little brain. FUCK IT! Must drink more.

Ghemme, Berkastel, Madiran, and other regions which are of no use to anyone.

Tue, 06 Feb 2007 11:55:58 GMT

I am still wasting my life. Actually just wasted could perhaps sum it all up. You see I actually drink professionally. I technically get paid to drink, therefore all of the wine I but could actually be written off on my taxes. If I really wanted to push the envelope I could write off every meal I eat out as R and D. 10 hours every Sunday I learn about regions, methods, grape types, producers, residual sugar levels, and of course the consequence of the diurnal shift with respect to the rain shadow effect. All of which is just fancy speak for…”Could talk the legs off a dead donkey when it comes to wine.”

Of course the question is: Am I actually going to do anything useful with this? I mean besides living in denial about needing a 12 step program.

“Mr Ord that is your 3^rd bottle of wine this week.”

“Your point?”

“Today is Tuesday.”

“You’re right. I am slipping I’ll go back and get another one for this evening. By the way do you have a light red to go with my Rice Krispies?”

All of the things that seem to come naturally to other people my age: Family, house, 401k, children, spending time with family, and vacations in Florida. These all seem to be far away, actually kinda unnatural. I seem to be spending my life stuck at 25. It is not a bad thing for me. But the world around me seems to be growing older, accelerating almost into the inevitable horizon, dropping off the edge into stability, growing old with someone and eventually mourned by progeny. I’m not sure what it is about me that does not seem to get it. I can see it and recognize it now. I am much better at being sensitive to it and actually giving a damn about somebody else’s family. Heck I have enough problem calling my mother more than once every two months. (Not joking.) It is just not for me. I mean I have always gravitated towards the aspects of instability in my life. Recently I have stayed in one place for a long time, I thought I had put down roots.

I had a table tonight who loved me. They chatted with me about their travels, my travels, different places and exotic times.

I have coached the same soccer team for 6 years running. The parents and girls love me.

We got chatting briefly about how difficult it is to settle down

I have a nice apartment with a cat who dutifully ignores me when I walk through the door.

I told them that it wasn’t too bad. Always something new to see in the same place.

I work at a job that is, for all it’s political frustrations, easy and lucrative.

They kept asking me if I missed traveling and seeing new places.

I’m in school studying wine. I really enjoy it.

They wanted to know which country I would like to visit and where I would go next.

I am in a relationship which is fun and exciting.

I lied. I want to stand up and walk away from this. Find a new place, new country, new adventure and challenge myself over again.

Methods for confusing your cat and other feats of nonsensical amusement………

Tue, 12 Sep 2006 08:46:22 GMT

So it is now officially Tuesday, the day after Monday and the day after the day after my Birthday. So far the slow easy drift down from the thrill of Burning Man has been more of a screaming plummet hoping that my cushion really is a floatation device.

I have to admit that I enjoy BM for a lot more than the wanton exposure of flesh. There are lots of things to admire, cool artwork….which is usually on fire or set on fire at some point, cool camp mates with a magnificent camp…..which through liberal use of kerosene was almost set on fire, really attractive young ladies dancing to loud hypnotic drum beats while whirling all manner of flaming devices around their person, huge sculptures in the desert which breathe or spit great gouts of fire, a wonderful temple built to help you gain some release from the trials that burden you….it is of course set on fire at the end of the week. Pretty much if it is not actively metabolizing it is or can be immolated at some point during the week. What is not to like? More things are flaming here than a Gay Pride march through San Francisco.

It is the decompression that is difficult. I think everybody in the camp of Levitating Plywood got a lot out of BM and consequently left some part of themselves back there in the Playa. When you get back to the real world it takes a little bit of time to adjust to normal society again. Imagine one week with no cell phone, no email, no job, no money, no news, and never a deadline. It is a shock to come back to an arena where these are all huge parts of the game. I have no idea how people can do hallucinogenic drugs and come down off those as well as the 30mph crash of reality. I wanted to take a few days to slowly acclimatize myself back into what I consider a normal existence.

“The Captain has turned on the fasten seatbelt signs as we are experiencing a little turbulence.”

I turned my cell phone on at the airport in Reno and discovered 3 messages from the girls soccer team I coach to try to verify practice times and fields. 3 more messages from work asking if I could cover some shifts because they are short staffed this week. I arrived home to a note from my land lord to inform me that my rent is being raised as of next month.

“Due to a sudden loss in cabin pressure the oxygen masks have been dropped in front of you. The bag will not inflate fully as you breathe, but feel free to scream normally and attempt to pull the armrest from its normal non-upright position.”

My car had a slight flat front tire on the driver side. The wine degree class I signed up for all day on Tuesdays had been switched to all day on Sundays instead. Therefore negating the schedule request I had carefully placed two weeks previous.

“We have indeed lost cabin pressure and also our futile battle with gravity. The Captain will be attempting a water landing.” Excellent 647mph into the ocean in a flimsy aluminium, thin steel, and fiberglass craft made for atmospheric flight. Where is Captain bloody Nemo when you need him?

My mother also left an email to confirm her arrival in 6 days. I love my mother, don’t get me wrong, but a visit from a parent involves cleaning, planning, time off work, and financial outlay. BUGGER!!!!!!!!!

“The Captain has advised that the undercarriage is not functioning properly.” Who gives a shit? We are going to hit the water at nigh on the speed of sound; wheels at this point are completely beside the point. Unless that fat bastard the Michelin Man himself is underneath treading water to keep the small mangled pieces of wreckage afloat I could not care less.

Cleaning an apartment that has never really seen the backside of a paper napkin, let alone the front side of a scrubbing brush requires tact, patience, lemon scented bleach, and 3 (Yes count them!!!!!) 3 bottles of wine. My poor cat, who at this point was recovering from being ditched with an almost stranger for 10 days, sat in the corner trying to figure out what the citrus smelling drunk was doing with a green scrubbie, a bucket of water, and 4 rolls of paper towels.

“The Captain would like to apologize for not staying in a Holiday Inn last night. He would also like to hold an open confessional in the cockpit. It’s been great flying with you. Thank you for choosing to fly the friendly skies and careen haphazardly into the inhospitable murky depths.”

So, after working 38 hours in the past 3 and a bit days, my mother is asleep in the next room, I am adrift clinging onto my seat cushion, and my cat (who is as useful as a paper weight and twice as inert) is asleep on the sofa.

Of course the email I opened tonight had yet another change to the wine class. I didn’t read it…..I will deal with the sharks nipping at my legs tomorrow.

Tue, 11 Jul 2006 11:06:46 GMT

Life is filled with disappointment. Waking up and realizing the young lady from the intoxicated night before is actually a moustache bearing man named Phil could indeed be the start of a very disturbing day. Possibly even more disturbing if your name was Phil as well, or perhaps that he was also your 3^rd grade math teacher. All of these things slowly dawning on you as the alcohol induced fog is slowly lifted could indeed coax some disappointment, Nay some vile revulsion and the thought of emigrating to a non-english speaking country.

Thankfully this scenario has not happened to me. Difficult…… my name is not Phil, although the other parts theoretically could crop up at some point in time if my alcohol consumption remains on its current exponential rise. This rather dark and disconcerting scenario is what it is like to sit through the movie “Ultraviolet”.

You bumble into your local blockbuster, slightly worse for the wine I’ll admit, and begin surveying the selection of single DVD’s. Perhaps if I’m feeling really energetic I could take two of them home. Nope! Tonight was to be a one movie stand. Which wanton tart of a movie should I select and whisper sweet nothings at. Something classy like Gone with the Wind., or maybe a younger, firmer, riper, more colourful film, one with a sense of humor, or depth or intelligence. Absolutely not! Tonight was not the time for Saving Private Ryan or even a classic Indiana Jones. A real harlot is desired, some shiny box wearing, tight plastic wrap jezzabel. One of those movies that just can’t wait to get out of it’s box and into your warm inviting player, with your remote control in your hand it would scream:

“Play Me! Yes! Push my buttons!”

Ah! A truly cheap action chick flick. A curvy predatory hussy. Tonight I was drunk enough to finally have the courage to give the sultry minx in the corner a quick fondle, take her back to my place, have another drink, and then let her show me everything in the comfort of my own living room. The movie stars Milla Jovovich. Yes the same Milla from such glorious classics as: Resident Evil and The 5^th Element. Cute, Tall, Flat stomach that looks as comfortable as a Tempur-Pedic pillow.

Generally she doesn’t get to say much and really has nothing to do with the plot. It needs to go back to being that way. I did not pick up this movie for attempted dialogue, or the hint of something deeper. All I wanted was action, old fashioned action…..bloody maiming and killing, with the occasional gratuitous inner thigh neck break move thrown in for good measure.

BUT NO!. She wanted to talk, she wanted to care about children, she wanted to hint at philosophy. Damn it Woman! What about my needs! Go back to the tight plastic outfits and slow motion acrobatic fight scenes that were discussed in the previews. Stop trying to grow a moustache and act like a 3^rd grade teacher. If I wanted complication, conversation afterward, or even a quick look back at the better scenes the next day then I would have rented out Usual Suspects.
I have seen better plot devices in third rate porn movies, and more convincing acting from the Italian soccer team. How can you tell a movie that she is moving away from her best assets and into territory that is really not meant for a film of her stock and caliber? I tried to plead with her, valiantly searched through her deleted scenes, even gently probed her director’s commentary, but it got me nowhere.

Closed up in the box now. Both of us feeling rejected and betrayed. How did this happen? Why? The night was young and started off so well. Shiny cover with tight plastic pants and a long sword. Why? Maybe it’s me? Perhaps I should set my goals higher than the sirens lure of the trampy succubus. To what end though? What sort of life is this for a drunken film addict? A movie that I compare all other rentals too? To endlessly search the film aisles and 2^nd hand DVD piles for the one lost movie that I fondly remember from High School. Ach! It is hopeless no movie will ever compare to…………..

Hollywood needs more Nazis.

Thu, 20 Apr 2006 13:04:24 GMT

And with that the King of inflammatory statements, a veritable hemorrhoidal blight on the backside of social gatherings everywhere, has struck again. This may be why I find myself invited to less and less parties, and even fewer “Oh we must do this again.” open invitations. However I wish to explain, and as I am writing this into my journal there shall be no “If you don’t leave we shall call the police.” statements that seem to get in the way of most of my explanations. In my defense the last time that sentence was uttered I did indeed have a very good explanation for my naked jello soaked appearance. Although the noticeable presence of a can of whipped cream, a large melon, and a dead otter would have required a degree of dishonesty and fantasy even I am not altogether capable of .

Anyway back to the whole Nazi thing. I have been very disillusioned with the bad guys in recent movies. I haven’t really been able to believe that they are really bad. I can see that they are evil, or twisted, or malicious, or just plain British, (Most of the bad guys recently have had the most charming British accents.) but I don’t find myself rooting against them. In fact disturbingly I either find myself empathizing with them or rooting for them to kill the dozy heroine and immolate the hero. This does not make for satisfying bad guy movie watching.

Take for example “Silence of the Lambs.” A very good movie, no doubt about it, but not so good for rooting against the bad guy. The main villain is Hannibal Lector, who is evil, twisted, malicious, and delightfully British. How exactly are we meant to root against him? He has too many motivating factors that people can see and make excuses for. The supposed main baddie from “Saw” was an intelligent, well thought sociopath who was only missing a British accent to be a truly iconic sex symbol of the horror genre. So tonight I hunkered down with my bottle of wine and a movie done with proper bad guys who you can seriously root against: “Raiders of the Lost Ark.”

When it comes to movie bad guys you cannot beat Nazis. Who cares about their motivating factors? They are Nazis!!! Do they have children? Who cares they’re Nazis!!!

Perhaps they are really nice people deep down inside who made bad choices. LIKE I GIVE A SHIT. They’re Nazis and they must lose and our hero must save the damsel and win. It is a simple equation that Hollywood seems to have forgotten.
I had got to the point in the movie when the main Gestapo baddie makes his appearance in Tibet and is just about to torture poor Marion with a hot poker. It struck me that this is the common element in all good bad guy movies, stories and games. Here is a man who obviously enjoys his profession…torture, pillage and burning. What a great guy! But, I have no sympathy for him, no inkling of a thought of where he came from or what his childhood was like or any of the other parts that seem to make up other bad guys. Nope just a simple clad in a long leather coat, red arm band, swastika bearing, jack boot Gestapo baddie. You just can’t wait to see how he gets it in the end. In fact all the Nazis seem to have this aura of guilt free death about them. Sometimes you watch a movie and you wonder whether the henchmen are actually just doing a job to feed their families. They may not enjoy all of the violence, and smashing, and maiming, and killing as much as they would like. Perhaps the pay is good and the benefits are not too bad. If I was a top villain I would make sure that I had a good dental plan for my henchmen, I think it would definitely improve moral and boost loyalty.

Nazis are different they don’t care about a dental plan.

“401K? Vee do not need a Vor Oh Vone kay. Ve enjoy killing und being bad just vor ze sake of it.”

They also come in various flavors. There is your basic peon who runs around in either canvas brown or grey. There is the commandant who has a stiff hat and a monocle. My personal favorite is the Gestapo agent who has the black leather coat, poor personal hygiene and a physical deformity of some description. As he limps onto the screen all the women tend to have this terrible confusion of emotion. Half of their being is repulsed by his limping black evilness, the other half is turned on by his awe inspiring evil presence which inspires fear throughout all within a 10 yard radius of his terrible lisp.

Last but not least is the blonde female Nazi who seems to have a thing for our hero, the Gestapo baddie, and very tight clothing at the same time.

I think I shall start a petition to Hollywood Exec’s to have the mandatory inclusion of at least three Nazi baddies in all movies. if nothing else it would perk up some of those boring romantic comedies. For example “Notting Hill” done with a Nazi as an enemy in one of the scenes would be priceless. Hugh Grant battles some leather clad Gestapo agent in the middle of London while Julia Roberts looks on from her bound position on a wooden bench…….. well okay maybe not.

Remove the crocodile clips from the melon and step away from the car battery.........

Thu, 30 Mar 2006 12:46:38 GMT

It’s been a while since I’ve posted. I would like to say that it is because I have been busy looking for another job, or perhaps volunteering my time to help people less fortunate than me, or best of all I won the lottery and have spent the past month lying naked and drunk in the back room of some exotic strip club loosening the restrictions on self debauchery that only an obscene amount of money can lubricate. However, it is none of these. (Although I will be taking a collection later on to help me facilitate the last one.) Alas pure procrastination, idle time wasting, and some outdated societal idea that I must work to actually make a living. I could begin this post with small observances on coaching my girls, their collective attention span of a milk dud and the fact that most of them are better rock climbers than me. I was almost thinking of alluding to the sense of smug satisfaction I get every time a regular customer of mine comes in and finds out I’m leaving. They have this appalling look of abandonment and some deep seeded fear of what is to pass at St.Clouds. But, No. There is no time for these stories. These are obvious you can see them coming like the drunk frat boy in a quiet bar. Nope. Tonight we shall investigate the small innocuous itch. A brown package delivery from an unknown person in Montana.

I have a gift. Actually I have several gifts. Most are illegal in all states, many unbelievable, and the few that are neither require several hours of washing and cleaning the general area afterwards and are therefore rarely seen. This gift I speak of is the ability to spot trouble. (Without a doubt most of the time I choose to ignore it, but that is what makes my life so much more entertaining.)

I am a shit magnet. If it is to go wrong, head south, or just disintegrate into violence then it will unerring do it around me. TRUE I have never shied away from this catalystic ability and in some cases have helped spur it along, but I can always spot trouble.

Today was different. Go into work, taste wine (Alsace Grand Cru from Lucien Albrecht. The Riesling and Gewurtztraminer were exceptional), set up the bar and prepare for an uneventful Wednesday. Somewhere around 5:30pm an older gentleman approached the front door dressed like an Arthur Conan Doyle reject. A twill jacket with shoulder flaps, matching pants, and a small bow tie. All that was missing was the deer stalker hat and big opium pipe. (Probably sold them to support the opium habit.) After three minutes of shaky deduction he finally realized that the shiny gold round thing on the front of the large wooden plank was in fact a door knob, and so entered slowly. Usually I get small twinges or erect hairs when trouble is close. I swear it’s like a spider sense without that cute cat woman hanging around. He wanted to sit in the bar.

JOY! Just what I need. He sat and proceeded to question me about the menu, the specials, the sauces, the type of fish in the seafood risotto, do we use organic vegetables? New Zealand Beef? Are the chickens home range?

I returned with water and the interrogation continued.

Do you know where Osama bin Laden is? What is the air speed velocity of an unladen swallow?

Sorry. That was last week.

However, after the entire menu had been dissected more thoroughly than a dead rat on a plague ship, he finally settled on a hot fudge sundae. No question as to whether the fudge sauce is free range might I add.

He tucked himself into a corner and over the course of the next hour proceeded to slowly nudge all of the nuts on the sundae to one side, pushed the whipped cream to the other side and quietly ate the ice cream. Mind you by this point the bar was full. We were closing in on 7pm, my attention was otherwise occupied by some very attractive young ladies at the bar, a four top of business men on table #17, two older ladies at table #20, and a younger couple at table #18. Everything was going along quite nicely, the kitchen was getting all the food out quickly, the men on 17 were getting blasted and laughing at a few of the slightly cruder jokes that their state allowed me to tell, and the young ladies were quite tipsy and laughing at some of the more risqué comments that my accent allows me to get away with.

When suddenly out of nowhere the ex-sleuth opium addict goes bat shit.

“THE NUTS ARE TOO BIG!”

“THEY MOVE! THEY MOVE!”

In a blur of brown twill and whipped cream this deranged lunatic descended on the hapless couple at table 18 and started poking at the gentleman’s steak complaining that the green beans are dangerous and part of a mass government conspiracy.

I have sympathy with this guy. I am a big believer in certain conspiracy theories, none of them involve green beans though. In fact not a single legume has ever entered any conspiracy theory that I would entertain to believe. The remains of the sundae were now strewn over my bar and on he continued.

“THEY’LL FIND YOU. THEY TRAIN THEM TO STAY WITH YOU.”

By this time I am already round the bar and standing behind table 18, only to be met by rather large green bean that thudded into my chest.

“I TOLD YOU. THEY ALWAYS KNOW.”

Wow! I never even saw this. I mean tinfoil streamers, a few false pings and this guy flew unnoticed under my radar. I actually watched the green bean drop off my chest and land on table 18 in disbelief. (Me in disbelief. Not the green bean.) Good sized green bean too. I could have been seriously wounded?!? As I looked up off he went. Shuffled out the front door and up the street. By this time the host had come by to figure out what all the fuss was about. I picked up the gentleman’s dinner and told the host I needed a refire on medium rare steak. I apologized to table 18 and told them that their drinks were on me tonight. The great thing was they both were smiling and laughing it off. It apparently was a first date and at that point very memorable. How many people can say they were attacked by a crazed loon on their first date? Realistically I should have gone after the guy, but he was easily pushing 70 if not 80, and almost no harm no foul. Actually he is the sort of guy who needs his own live cable show to discuss the variables involved with the governments’ training of certain vegetables to follow you and report back to the shadowy vegetable rack that is the NSA.

“Report Agent Turnip. What news do you have of the whereabouts of Al Queda?”

“Well, we interrogated a particularly stubborn kumquat from Indonesia. Had to partially peel and juice him to get what we needed. However, I can report that Osama has authorized the use of malicious mangos that may infiltrate the US via the Texas-Mexico border.”

I can almost imagine the CNN reports of Geneva convention violations:

“A dark day indeed for US foreign policy as more photos from the infamous Agoo Dive prison sully the reputation of US doctrine. These disturbing images show the use of a juicer, peeling devices and of course dipping in yogurt. All of these methods are banned under articles 23 and 24 of the Geneva fruit and vegetable convention.”

In fact just the thought of many naked malicious mangos being dipped in plain yogurt while people question them for hours on end fills me with an awful imbalance of dread and glee.

more inane drunken ramblings.......

Mon, 06 Feb 2006 13:35:05 GMT

Ah! The great American tradition that is Superbowl. Beer drinking, festivity, restaurant closing, the bars are packed, a hushed silence of expectation descends on the land. Oh yeah and some sort of football game is played in between commercials. I love this country, and mostly for the wrong reasons.

I worked a shift as a waiter tonight for one of my co-workers who is an avid Seattle Seahawks fan, as such he is probably drinking heavily in the bathtub with sharp instruments as I write. Just remember to cut down the street and not across the tracks is the only useful advice I can give him. Anyhow, back to football, I got to watch only a little of the game. I did however get to see the half time show. Holy Shit the Rolling Stones are old!!!!! 5 decades! 5 Fuckin’decades!!!!! is how long they have been performing. Keith Richards has track marks older than most Baby Boomers! I sat watching these icons of the past in awe. For a start Mick Jagger seems to date younger than I do and recently that is saying something. But, for all the pomp, hand waving, and fanfare all I could think was:

“ Go on Mick. Show us your nipple.”

After the whole Janet Jackson pastie debacle from last year I must admit that I felt cheated not getting a gander at Mick Jagger’s tits. For a man his age he seems to keep in shape, although his choice of clothing could have been more flattering. But, Dammit America wants…..NO! NEEDS! To see some of Mick Jagger’s breast flashed across live network television. I for one feel cheated. The game was a sham, the commercials boring, I had to work so I couldn’t drink and eat pretzels, at least I could have a good laugh about sensitive people being offended at the sight of Mick’s redundant male body part. Last year the only thing that kept me sane was the mass offensive that some of the country took at the 3 frame exposure of a pastie covered nipple. This during a game where grown men attempt to beat three shades of tar out of each other, and the cheerleaders are dressed like Victoria’s Secret models. I will have to create a petition for more of Mick Jagger’s cleavage on live network television. (“I have a fever, and the only cure is more cowbell.”)

I am firmly entrenched in a bottle of wine at this time. The sad thing is all of this thought process occurred when I was sober.

Art appreciation........

Wed, 28 Dec 2005 14:06:50 GMT

Sometimes, when I’m sitting listening to the drivel of conversation that leaks out of some of my regular customer’s mouths, I have to wonder:

“How did these people end up on such a different path than mine.?”

What choices did I make or perhaps not make that have made my life so fundamentally different from theirs? I know that some of the people who know me will be smiling, nodding, and reaching into the distant past to pull forward various episodes from my life that are perhaps best left buried. Although they should be made available to impressionable young children, generally starting off with the statement:

“I once knew a guy…….”

Ending with the statement

“And look how he has turned out.”

So, recently I started to analyze some of the forks in the road that have separated me from my fellow traveler. To be honest most of the time I have indeed taken the path less traveled. Not always because it was the more interesting, sometimes because she was really cute, but a lot of times just out of pure stubbornness. With some people it is easy, they got married, had kids, doing the career track, two cars, big house, 3 affairs, divorce impending. The typical American Dream. I never chose this form of sleep walking. To most of these people I am the unenlightened insomniac who will find the right girl and poof, like valium, I will be transported to the land of Nod and start to dream my way along to my first trial separation and custody battle.

BUT. (I will abuse the English syntax and grammar rules for a second to make a point.)

BUT, there are a few of my regulars whose paths began off the beaten trail and only occasionally do they wander across the horizon of the mainstream society. Enough time to scare the kids and pilfer a few sandwiches before heading back off into the brush. Only a blurry photograph remains, as out of focus as their life, and an eyewitness to say:

“I heard a noise like a shuffling and there he was. I tried to get the camera, but it was out of film and batteries. He was fast and looked like a man, but moved like an ape.”

Scott (The names are the same as these people need no protection from the like of you or me.) is a perfect example. At some point he was brilliant. He worked for Boeing, did defense contracts, actually had a clearance, was very successful, and was possibly a worthwhile member of society. The sun has set for Scott, the nights are dark and the undergrowth is thick. His current foray into the world of working for a living uses some of his engineering skills, a little machine shop which he has built in his house, and 20 gallons of rubber latex a day. Scott manufactures dildos. I use the word manufacture instead of make because make is to create one or two. Manufacture is a grand scale operation capable of injecting 40 or 50 phallic molds a day and processing orders for different rubber densities and aspects of vibrational shift that would perplex and horrify even the most hardened wavelength scientist. So once every week the conversation at the bar turns to the inevitable:

“How was your week?”

“Not good. Two of the pressure molds developed holes and started spraying partially congealed rubber latex across the basement.”

I am no stranger to sex toy discussions at the bar, I have many young ladies who come to the bar and get ensnared in some hideous conversation that they would sooner forget. This is different. Sitting enjoying a conversation with Scott as we dissect the scientific principles and assembly problems related to the construction of soft slightly knobbled penises and I begin to realize that this man was only two steps away from me on my path. However, there is no visible intersection point. All of my morbid scientific curiosity will not let me back away from this conversation until we have analyzed every last feature that it is possible to put into a battery powered art piece. Yes, I said art piece. In this country there is a massive problem with liability and religion. Funnily enough one seems to have very little to do with the other. Two months we were embroiled in a conversation concerning the distribution of the pleasure pieces. My idea of air dropping a thousand gross to some of the more religious counties in Texas was considered for a good 5 minutes before profit margins began to rear their ugly heads. Texas aside, the major problems that sex toy manufacturers face are the issues of religion and liability. No God fearing woman would ever buy a:

“Guaranteed to please life like reproduction of John the Baptist’s shaft. Complete with inter-changeable heads.”

She would buy a nice simple personal massager shaped somewhat like a shaft that could have belonged to somebody whose head ended up on a platter.

Most school districts and town councils are not comfortable with the idea of the rampant rise of rodgering replicas around their kids. However, art pieces are strongly encouraged and sold at quite a profit. Therein lies the loop-hole to the second problem. Liability. Unfortunately it would appear that the court of your peers in this country is filled with morons. Moron A puts a cup of hot coffee in their lap and proceeds to drive away. Morons 1 through 12 agree that without a warning label on the cup they would never have forseen the disastrous scalding consequences that may occur.

Dildos are no exception and are the hot coffee in people’s laps that the lawyers are waiting for. Without a warning label, to indicate to people the possible risks involved with the multitude of permutations that are possible with a AA battery powered, slightly ridged purple dildo, the manufacturer is held liable.

“Do not insert sideways while riding backwards on a camel in the Gobi Desert. Also Sahara.”

“Do not use upside down in a vat of green jello while being spanked by midget eunuchs dressed as Santa Claus.”

“Not to be used as a striking device.”

“Do not use a car battery to power the device. Use only AA batteries.”

These examples are just from my past weekend alone. Imagine the disaster for the liability lawyers if these things were unleashed on an unsuspecting populace without warning labels. I mean we would have mass panic in the streets, people inserting battery powered watermelons. The list is endless. However, if they are listed as art pieces then all of this is avoidable, because what you do with your own art piece, other than look at it, is your own business and problem.

So the long, the tall, and the short of it is that I have a regular who sells floppy rubber art pieces for quite a profit and to an ever expanding audience of admirers. I don’t think I will ever see him have a piece commissioned for display in the Louvre, but his current art lovers keep the roof over his head, the latex flowing into the molds, and the dollars in my tip jar.

Wed, 21 Dec 2005 10:03:52 GMT

I hate Christmas. Actually let me rephrase that, I am indifferent to Christmas. What I have come to despise is the automatic assumption from at least 8 people a day that I should be enjoying Christmas.

“But it’s Christmas. How can you not be having fun?”

This question, which seems to occur more often than a fart at a bean factory, is the source of my abject loathing. Christmas has meant nothing to me since I was 8 years old. I still believed in a big fat jolly fat man with the lactose tolerance of a 3 week old hippo who would somehow squeeze his huge bulbous body down the chimney, drink a glass of milk, eat some cookies, leave a bunch of presents, and just disappear. What a SHAM!!! Not since the tooth-fairy (And let’s not get started on that bitch.) have children been fed such a huge steaming plate of shit. However now that I am older and no longer believe in flying reindeer, virgin births, and holy babies who get nailed to dead trees later on in life, I do not wish to be overwhelmed with an abundance of red and green tripe. Unlike other holidays there is no escaping Christmas, it lurks around every corner, dominates every shop window, and is heard on every radio station. One more bloody carol and I will snap.

“A bartender in Seattle is under arrest today for the murder of 7 Christmas carolers, one catholic choir, two mall santas, and three people standing near a nativity scene. Witnesses describe the man as a drunken loon who yelled out: “That’s it!” and proceeded to go on a berserk killing rampage using only a stick of wet celery and a cup of lukewarm coffee.”

Christmas is unlike other holidays in that it seems to last for ever. The lights, angels and trees go up somewhere around Thanksgiving and are still around after New Years. At least the other holidays know when they have out stayed their welcome and disappear like a well paid hooker. Christmas sticks around like your girlfriend’s father. Never enough time alone to unwrap any presents.

So with that slightly drunken rant out of my system I shall go back to cleaning my rifle and looking for an appropriate clock tower.

more insanity.......

Mon, 28 Nov 2005 11:26:02 GMT

So having returned home after attending the OTT in Arizona I have worked 23 hours in two days and magnified the effects of the sore throat and general cold shit that I picked up traveling. I have the next two days off however, and barring any unforeseen wine tastings lurking on the horizon, will spend them recouperating and thinking about ditching my current life. Not that that is a bad thing, just a little unexpected. I will post some more on the reasons for the slight change in environment and living conditions once I have made up my mind. But, let's be honest about it when it comes to decisions affecting one's life that are bizarre, illogical, and generally downright stupid I do indeed own the gold medal. It's a nice shiny one with a pseudo crest, small olive leaf wreath and large cup of coffee in the middle. I opened up a nice bottle of California Viognier tonight figuring I would need something floral to combat the congestion and general malaise that has infected my body like the ex-girlfriend you wish you could get back. It's tasty and has, in conjunction with the chicken soup, made me feel 100% better. Only 600% to go. Hope everyone had fun at OTT it was great to see everyone there.

Voodoo Mathematics and other quandaries in the service industry.

Thu, 20 Oct 2005 11:53:42 GMT

One of the most tedious and pointless aspects of my job is the accounting. I do the “books” for the servers. I make sure that what they turn in is correct and that the money they owe us or we owe them all balances out. I have this task because I am decent at math. I would like to say I am good at math, but I dated someone who is good at math and I am not in her league. Therefore I am decent and nothing more. Although only decent at math, as to be honest I am rarely decent at the best of times.

The general principle is rather simple 2+2=4, 3+3=6, a big negative number when added to a small positive number leaves a negative number that is slightly smaller than the first one. I swear it really is that simple. However most of the people I work with seem to have the addition and subtraction capabilities of brightly colored sea slugs found near coral reefs and occasionally at nice city Aquariums. They believe that math is some combination of dental torture and higher magic; the numbers seem to float aimlessly in the void until some old wizened prophet can wave a gnarled stick and summon them to do his bidding. My job is complicated further by the owner who insists on taking money, to pay vendors and such, and leaving notes that even the enigma machine would have been proud to create. Given enough time all the great works of literature and meaning could be typed by an infinite number of monkeys on an infinite number of typewriters. Most of John’s notes can be described as having been written by 3 monkeys in 10 minutes.

So with this small background in mind I am currently giving birth to a migraine the size of South Dakota that is forcing it’s way out of my left eyeball to remind me how much I hate my co-workers when it comes to correcting their seemingly random numerical evaluations of what money they made and how much cash is due to them. Only my prowess with run on sentences is of greater fame.

I have discovered that the basic flaw with accounting is that there is no method for off-setting the human variable. Mathematics is rigid, there are rules and the numbers stay the same no matter how you twist the piece of paper to the left or right. Once the human variable has been introduced then a whole new game is afoot. Not only must the ledger balance, but at the same time the meaning of what the person intended to do with the numbers must be deciphered and, in the case of hand written notes, their intentions divined. I have found that the best method for achieving results within an acceptable margin of error (i.e.: It’s probably wrong, but I can explain why it will be the most correct answer that we seek.) is the standard chicken bone rune technique.

Most practitioners of the dark arts and accounting seem to favor the bowl of blood and pentagram method. Personally I have found that a small circle of salt on the office floor, 3 or 4 larger drumstick bones, the juice from a fresh cut of flank steak, and a large glass of red wine seem to give desirable results within the limitations described above. The general idea is to proceed with the basic accounting until you encounter one of John’s indecipherable notes. At this point the adept will pause, take a large drink of wine, define the circle in salt, dip the bones in the flank steak juice and drop them from a comfortable height. Any markings on the floor are then used to formulate numbers that may work to make the ledger balance. Of course the novice proceeds to spend a good half hour or so trying to make sense of the Sanskrit etchings that the owner has left and eventually is reduced to tears in the corner of the office only to be found by the kitchen staff in the morning. A high level Adept, a level I am slowly working towards, cooks the flank steak with some potatoes and green beans, drinks the wine, and leaves a note to the owner explaining that the accounting has not been done due to the fact that somebody took money to pay for something and didn’t specify how much, too whom, or even which day the money is supposed to have been removed.

So, here I sit at home alone, drinking the migraine out through my eye socket and removing the salt and flank steak juice that spilt on my shirt, basking in the magical aura of yet another week with the ledgers balanced.

Thu, 30 Jun 2005 12:07:35 GMT

I swear there is some weird bent to the universe that has allowed me to continue living life the way I lead it. Well, not so much lead....more of floating aimlessly with the occasional poke here and there. I have spent a good part of my life doing things that should have cost me limbs or a darned sight more blood and scar tissue than they did. (See Bridge Jumping, Car Swapping in Ellicott City. Traveling Europe with little to no money and even less of a plan. etc. etc.) Recently I have slowed down a little, yet still seem to get away with unseasonably rude comments to young ladies at my bar. Then they come back the next night and bring one of their female friends to meet the "charming british bartender." I can live with this, the power of a foreign accent is well documented. If you do not posses one I suggest cultivating (faking) one, or moving to another country where your accent is indeed different (charming/seductive). However, the most recent aspect of the universe's blithe ignorance or general acceptance of my habits (evil machinations) concerns my coaching (brainwashing) techniques. I coach a girls under 15 soccer team and am still amazed that nobody has realized that I have less sense than the entire team put together. The last practice began with one of the parents locking her keys in the car, so being such a nice and caring individual (malicious, evil, twisted, conniving bastard) I decided to help. I carry a slim jim (among other items) in my car. For those of you who know me this comes as no shock, and you can probably take a good stab (another great pun) at the list of other items concealed in the various disorganized wreckage that is the inside of my vehicle. So I surreptitiously remove the long piece of metal, at this point all 12 of my hyperactive munchkins (actually much bigger than munchkins, but a small pack can still strip the flesh off a .....nope sorry that's piranhas.) are off whacking soccer balls all over the field and terrorizing any unfortunate mite baseball player that comes within kicking range. I sidle delicately up to the passenger side door of the car, insert the slim jim and hear the curious chorus of 12 voices...
"What you doing?"
I have learned that you can lie to your parents, try to tell as little of the truth as possible to your Boss, and under no circumstance tell the truth to your girlfriend. She will only expect this to become a regular occurrence. However, never lie to children...they know.
"I am breaking into Allison's Mother's car."
A brief silence, a rare oddity when dealing with a gaggle of teenage girls, followed by..
"Where did YOU learn how to do this?"
Well, there goes my Mother Theresa plaque for this season. Must move this along, not long before one of the horrid little urchins puts it together and........
"Why do you carry one of those things?"
Too late! At this point we shall pause the scene and dissect the incident. Normally in most peoples lives this is the end of the coaching career and it's back to drunk reminiscing in bars about the days when you were trusted with that which is most precious and other such sentimental clap trap. For some odd reason that doesn't happen here. Instead of vilification, a quick trial and execution that might make Cardinal Ximenez and his men seem like very reasonable and likable men. Instead we run with.....
"I work as a bartender and sometimes have to help people get into their cars." (Save the watch it's too late for the boots!)
"It's not that difficult, you are just bypassing the key and tripping the locking mechanism without turning the cylinder."
Suddenly I have a sea of attentive faces. It's like sea lions at feeding time. I would kill to get this level of attention at practice. So for the next 20 minutes I taught a brief clinic in the finer art of using a slim jim to get into a car and then finished with a small demonstration of how to change a tire. (One of the mothers insisted.) 12 children and 5 or so parents stood around and watched the coach break into the car, close the door and repeat the process a couple of times to allow two parents and one kid to understand the placement of the unlocking mechanism in relation to the keyhole and handle. Then off to practice where the attention span returned to normal and I ran around feeling like I was herding hamsters.
So I continue to float along wondering how the hell I continue to get away with these humongous lapses in judgment.

not quite what i was going to post....

Sat, 11 Dec 2004 14:53:33 GMT

Today stank. Really stank. A horrid day that should have been slept through. Almost got T-boned on the way to work. It's amazing....it rains two thirds of the year in Seattle and still very few peple have figured out how to drive in the rain. The bar fridge was down when i got in, an extra hour to set up, cool beer and wine with ice biuckets and chuck things out that have sat at 68 degrees for too long, followed by an hour or so after close to clean, bleach and restock. So i finally get home to my apartment which to add inslult to injuryt decided to flood. I was going to post a lovely excerpt from thre journal of l_stboy and my travels, but insteasd decided that..... after ripping up carpets, moving furniture, and sulking moving the bookcases that I had just reorganised....., the only reasonable course of action was to open up mthe bottle of 1986 tempranillo I had lying on the floor. It's label damaged by the damp carpet anfd heaven fordid I should leave a wounded soldier on the floor. So like a good trooper it's going down weell. Although I'm not syre that troopers go down at all.

Anyway I should like to thank Tim and Sharon for the kind invitation at Thanksgiving. It was a blast, the company was good, the food magnificent and the hot tub warm. I have learned a few things about travelling with an excessive amount of wine.

1. Make sure you are travelling with an inordinantly huge amount of wine. About 9L per person makes it seem horrendous.

2. Pack very little clothing. Security will not know what to make of someone packing a bag ewith 5L of wine, a Playstation, several games, 2 pairs of underwear, and carrying a 4L bottle of wine in the right hand.

3. When asked what all the wine is for. Afix the nearest TSA twit with a firm, but not too overbearing stare, and confidently exclaim that it's for personal consumption.

4. None of these idiots, no mattter how trained or how many classses thayv'e taken or films they've seen will ever give Mister Johnson a wiggle in the pat down. Remember to hide all ilicit items, (including but not limited to....small tweezers, plastic explosive, nuclear warheads, and toenail clippers.) in the groin area.

5. Try hard toi resist the temptation to scream :"JIHAD!" or" Allah Akbar!" loudly at the top of voice.

6. Don't giggle.

Following all of these rules will result in the normal disorganised, boring and slow trip through security. Disobeying rules 5 or 6 will result in a longer, but much more entertianing evening filled with questions, uniforms, badges, and a lenghty prostate exam. What more could one hope for on a Friday night?

Anyway enough drunken silllyness. The keyboard keeps moving anf ny habds are not fast enough to catch up. I must load ip a nice incredibly violent computer game and try not to park cars in the water.,
The only advice to offer from the book of "You know you're going to hell if......." is
If you are making out and can taste Watermelon bubblicious you know you are going to hell.

Birthdays and other nefarious plots to make your knees ache.......

Tue, 07 Sep 2004 11:30:34 GMT

How come whenever the counter of my lifespan is about to tickover yet another digit my knees decide to crumble sympathetically? Currently I am attempting to coach 15 highly energetic 13 year old girls who wonder as to why my knees sound like a bowl of Rice Krispies when I squat down. It's not right, I should not have to explain the ravages of old age and undue stubbornness about injured hamstrings to little girls. Although some of them aren't so little any more. In fact three of them are taller than I am. One is 5 foot 11 and only 12 years old. I am avidly encouraging volleyball to her as well as soccer. So as is a burgeoning tradition (at least the last couple of years) I went out and spent money I don't have on a pseudo gift. Last year was this wonderous computer that I am currently abusing, and have almost paid off. This year a new pool cue. I guess I could bore everyone silly with the technical aspects of why one months rent was spent on a small piece of firewood, I could talk about the advances in technology, I could explain the physics of tip deflection and applied english when lining up shots, or i could just say this....it's pretty and really shiny. However, if you really want them low down on the stick, and are as geeky about pool as I am then email me and I will regale you with all the facts about my shaft and the size of the tip. How inflexible and solid it is; with it's fine European taper of wood. Of course I shall try my darndest to leave out all of the entendres. Nah! It's long, hard and puts just the right amount of spin on my balls.
Anyhow I had a reason, or at least a subject for posting, but it eludes me for right now. Needless to say I am currently not in jail, not unemployed, and definitely not moralistically unchallenged. Of course Lost_boy would definitely be able to attest to some of those. Hopefully he has made it back from the desert in mostly one piece.

More insundry rants and useless bits of bogus revelry.....

Sat, 21 Aug 2004 13:24:46 GMT

"I've had better days." This statement of itself brings serious doubt to the credibility of English as an efficient medium for effective communication. I mean if we break it down the day could have been a bronze medal winner (which according to NBC and their Olympic coverage would mean a lot of digging into one's personal life to discover the many hardships and obstacles that one has endured.) or perhaps it was the penultimate worst days of your life. Not listing the best day of your life, the second best day of your life and the worst day of your life, multiply 365 by about 30 odd years add in a dash or two of leap year and you end up with just over 10950 bloody days. Almost 11,000 days and of course the odds are that you may have had more similar days than better or worse days. English, while not as poetic as French, appears to mask it's meaning in murky words and diction. All in an effort to leave a lot of wiggle room when it comes down to the meaning and intention of the speaker.
Tonights contender for: "Sentence most likely to be mistranslated by a third year English as a second language student." was unwittingly used by two ladies at my bar.

"But, he's the cat's meow. I could be head over heels for him and not know it."

Head over heels is too easy to pick apart. I want to know where the hell did the cat's meow come from? What about the dog's bark? the duck's quack? the sheep's baa? or the ever popular the cow's fart. I swear Pharaoh had less problems with Moses than non-english speakers have attempting to understand english. BUT, the major frustration for tonight is the fact that the best description for my day at work is: "I've had better days."

Monday is the 4 year anniversary of St.Clouds. Amazing I've actually managed to hold the same job for 4 years. It's not a good thing to get thinking about that when you have been drinking the better part of a nice Rioja. Although after 15 years in the bottle all of the bottle (except the cork) is the better part of this wine. So, with plenty of wine and an open diary I shall transcribe the events as written down 10 years ago.

"21 August 1994 1pm 2 miles NE? of Mazan 6km E? of Carpentras. LOST?
Lost is such a vulgar term, i prefer unsure of my position. I know where I was, I know how I got here, but I'm not sure where here is. I should recap....
This little hive of villainy away from home happens to be a community centre with showers, caravans, gypsies, little sun-burned kids and half tamed dogs. (Remember them for they are important) So we chose our own little patch of ant infested ground, threw down our ground-sheets and laid the packs on top. We decided it would be best to cook in the car park next to a rusted VW bus. You see within 5 minutes of our packs hitting the plastic they were infested with ants. We cooked up our standard kings feast of pasta, soup and beef stock cubes. At about 9pm we headed up to our crawling camp, brushed off the ants and locked our packs together between us. We lay in our sweat soaked sleeping bags reeking of Deet and attempted to go to sleep.
Cue Dog: WOOF......etc.
Bloody dog didn't shut up until 3am. Well, so much for a restful night. Ants bite, dogs bark and Deet stinks! At 5am I regained consciousness from my haggard sleep and looked at my watch: 5:01am. I blinked and it was 5:25am the alarm was still going off. This was a bad sign, I tried to wake Terry up and we finally crawled off our little ant's nest around 6am. We packed our stuff, after brushing off 5,000 ants, then headed to to the Marche Gare. My pack has increased in weight, dust from Avignon, ants I missed or both. We got to the farmer's market at 8am just as it ended. We ask 4 farmers about work and got 4 No's. Excellent a perfect record.
We sat down on empty stomachs after our futile 5km march and tried to form a plan. So much for that idea. I buggered off to get breakfast at a Hypermarket. We ate breakfast and Terry comes up with a plan of action. He heads off east to look for farms and ask farmers. No arguments here, I was tired and still had orange juice left. 5hours and 12 km later Terry reappears with bad news: 1. He's about to die of heat exhaustion.
2.No work. Perhaps something further East.
The next day I would head off east and ask around."

The lesson learned looking back at these travels is that Europe is only romantic if you have the money for food, accommodation and non-smelling insect repellent.

Not quite drunk.....

Thu, 22 Jul 2004 10:28:52 GMT

Strange day, but then that is not unusual. In fact I believe that a string of two or three plainly ordinary days without an injection of weirdness would probably confuse the heck out of me. So the all wise and mostly all knowing Smith dropped in for a visit to celebrate the 10 year anniversary of our trip to Europe. And so here are the long promised pages from the journals. The names have been changed to protect the guilty.

"Friday July 22nd 1994 21:30 EST
Well here I am on a charter flight to Charles de Gaulle airport, Paris. It's been a hectic day, managed to get packed with only 30 mins to spare. Arrived at Terry's house to find him in the middle of a clusterfuck. Not quite enough space in his backpack to fit everything. A little coaxing, swearing and stuffing required; but then again I never figured we'd be organised. Cashed my paycheck and have $257, Terry has $200 in travelers cheques. The flight was due to leave at 5:45pm, we arrived at 5pm. Relying on our usual blend of skill, unnerving luck and raw stupidity the light was delayed until 7pm. Now that the rush and stress of packing is over I really feel relieved and want to bounce around the plane for a while.
No idea what we're going to do once we hit Paris, but as usual winging it seems to be the best (and possibly only) way we get anything done right."

European History somewhere around 1936-1939 and why it is merrily tromping all over my life....

Sat, 17 Apr 2004 14:27:09 GMT

My life is currently a series of events that can be best described as appeasement. As most people know appeasement was the policy of Britain toward Hitler before WWII. It was done because nobody wanted another war, nobody wanted more death and mayhem, and most of all nobody had the bus fare to ship a large army to the nearest battlefield. Currently I have enough bus fare to be able to ship myself, and a good stock of wine, to Salma Hayeks' Bedroom. But enough of my fantasies and back to the harsh reality of Appeasement. Having recently ended my almost 3 year relationship, but at the same time attempting to maintain a friendship, people have noticed an increase in my alcohol consumption, an increase in my spare time, and an increase in my young lady consumption. Appeasement is maintaining the illusion that I am still adrift at sea when my Ex is at the bar, never letting her know that I have sailed by many different lands, and/or islands, since our Bon Voyage. It's not fair when an intriguingly shaped peninsula (That appears unexplored might I add) suddenly disappears off the horizon when the Ex steams into view. Don't get me wrong, I like her (A lot to be honest.) But I believe Neville Chamberlain did not have the right idea when he confidently stated: "I have in my hand a piece of paper."
I am currently holding that piece of paper and it states: "Trying to hide your womanizing ways from an Ex is futile and stupid. Why not give her part of your apartment as lebensraum to keep her happy." I know I only seem to write in this journal when I am drunk, yabbering on about my love life, or both. Currently it's both. One of my wine reps had a deal on some really nice Napa Merlot, so I am nicely smashed with a firm oaky tannin coating to my cheeks. Anyway back to the failing appeasement policy. At some point she must be confronted with the truth about my avid exploration of foreign petite archipelagos, but from a long way away and before she invades Poland.
On an unrelated note, I have decided that should I ever attempt to conquer the world by force I will never fight a Russian land war in winter. There was a conclusion to all of this rambling, but damned if I can remember what it was. Something about having Ex's not visiting you at work, or not working to visit your Ex. Either way, I've done both and recommend neither. So onto the easy part of the entry....
1. Grab the nearest book.
2. Open the book to page 23.
3. Find the fifth sentence.
4. Post the text of the sentence in your journal along with these instructions.

"Once you've tried it in front of an audience a couple of times you'll realize that it's perfectly safe."- Scams and Fantasies with Cards by Darwin Ortiz.

Although it could just as easily have been "Liontaming for Dummies."
"A circus gang-bang with the midget eunuchs."
"Public Speaking for the exceedingly shy."
"How to discreetly light your farts in a public elevator."
"Naked Urban Hangliding for beginners."

sick.......

Wed, 10 Mar 2004 11:08:02 GMT

And so the 3am hour rolls around and I am awake and coughing. When I find the bastard that gave me the flu, I am going to sit them down and force them to watch Battlefield Earth and Gigli in one evening. Not being a religious type I need to pose a question to anyone who believes in any deities, major or minor. If, when buying a paper, the girl behind the counter looks you dead in the eye and with much conviction says "Jesus loves you." Should this be considered as a compliment or a warning? She did not tell the person in front of me that Jesus loved him. Nor did she point out to the very attractive young lady behind me that Jesus had his designs on her. Although I would like to point out that Buddha, Set, Krishna, and the Arch-Duke Theopolis would all have lined up just to get her phone number. So how come Jesus is suddenly taking an awful big interest in what I'm doing down here. This is not a theological question, more of ..... is it a warning of impending doom, or a compliment. Or perhaps even a blatant miscommunication.....the cute woman behind me was named jesus and was tipping her the wink to let me know. Highly doubtful, but hey if Buddha and company can put their all important god matters on hold for five minutes just to get this ladies phone number, then I'm reckoning that a good 4 or 5 years of my ordinary mortal life would be wasted if I did not strive to attain this deity attracting ladies' name and cell number. (Arch-Duke Theopolis has better things to do with his time, and the large gentleman in front of me would be more to his taste.)
Sorry, had to pause for a brief coughing fit. Completely lost where I was, and rereading it really doesn't help. So I think we shall wrap up this latest ramble with the lesson I have learned from this entry. You can lead a horse to water, but it may never gather any moss.