Satan's Bloodline

Okay, so maybe he's not quite that wicked, but man is my father a real grumpy asshole with a sick sense of humor...and fortunately, some of it rubbed off on me during my more easily influenced younger years. So as a tribute to the man, here's a few photos of my Pops and I from a recent visit to Portland from his home in Northern Cali.

He's always had this weird pointing fixation in pictures....(Cannon Beach).

Checking out the new Portland Pork Barrel Project that is the Tram.

See, there's that pointing finger again. Told you he's batshit crazy.

Much love, Pops.

Viddy the Pixels, my Droogs.

'Tis Spring, so I thought it a ripe ol' time to share a photo of the snow "storm" earlier this year that dusted my hood, "The Gulch," and lingered for a few days. Poor frozen Destro. People freaked out like Jesus was coming back for another round.
Frisco and I taking a break from "Claw and Chew Cheney" bootcamp. I'm pretty pissed off, as this little koshka has been getting increasingly mellow and stranger-friendly. Hit me up with any suggestions on how to ramp up the kill-factor ASAP.

The Bicyclist

Some local cats have started an independently produced, and fairly amateur, online sitcom that deals with Portland's "Bike Culture." There's only two brief episodes posted (with a new show promised every two weeks), but there's some great shots of Portland locales, such as the Steel Bridge (our favorite), and a good feel for the wet grayness that plagues our souls.

Stalk it at:

http://thebicyclist.blip.tv

Varioso

Random spitter on lock.

-I have a multitude of notes on potential blog-worthy items...the most baffling item so far would have to be this drunkenly scrawled napkin note:

Lower Alabama Jukebox/Goblin Book...WEED, BUD

I seriously don't know what the hell that means. I'll let you imagine your own story on that one...

-I'm the type of individual who'll notice that they've been overcharged by a buck on a bill and follow-up with the restaurant to tell them what's up...imagine my surprise when I actually learned something from a recent $1.40 additional charge call to Halibuts II in the NE Stump. The owner/manager informed me that it wasn't his fault, that he gets calls like mine a few times a week wondering why they've been overcharged a seemingly insignificant amount...upon further investigation, the owner discovered that these "random" charges were in fact instigated by the banks of the cardholders themselves. You see, it's apparently common practice for banks to boost the bills of customers by $1-2, then refund that amount to the customers accounts a day or two later (which the majority of folks wouldn't even notice). The reason? Well, they take that temporary free cash, pocket it, and turn around and invest it in short-term stocks and bonds, which they cash out, making a few extra bucks in the process. It's only when you imagine the grand scale of this scheme that one sees the immense amount of fucking money we're talking about. Tens of millions of card-users getting overcharged by each individual bank, even every few months, adds up extremely quickly to a nice "little" bonus to the tune of millions of dollars. "Free Checking" my ass...it appears nothing is really free; we're just capital to be invested at their leisure. Suckers of cock.

-Just a few things to add to Jeff's post about our trip to Ground Kontrol:

1) I don't know about the first impression being that of an 80's dance club (Jeff is extremely obsessed with these for some pathological reason I haven't yet discovered), but I do know that I flashed back to the best cinematic part of said generation and era. Yes, that means Corey Feldman and Corey Haim were in full effect, jean jackets concealing vampire stakes, with Ferris Beuller chillin' with his whiny bitch of a friend, Fred Savage getting beat by some little girl at Super Mario Bros. 3, and Tom Hanks straight looking BIG at the bar. HELL yeah.

2)I came in rocking an old-school bag of quarters, not because I'm cool, or radical, but because I'm a piner narc skeezer. And the controllers were so sticky, I had horrific flashbacks of the quarter-enabled porn booths in the Tenderloin of my youth. I can't believe I just wrote that.

3)My playlist: TMNT (of course, you know I smoked the game's homage to b-boys and jazz, Rocksteady and Bebop). Ghosts & Goblins (holy shit, this game is still disgustingly hard despite decades of further video game experience). Metal Slug 3 (never played this as a kid, but it was surprisingly dope). Dr. Mario (a favorite of mine and I killed it). Gauntlet (I'm a total nerd for fantasy characters...shut that trap or I'll banish you with a Level-12 Fireball of Burning Fury). You know I had to finish shit off by bringing it back to the roots with some pinball...I've heard rumors of a Portland-based pinball gang, complete with matching tattoos, colors, and jewelry. Weird, but where to I sign up?

Giggle-snorting in Wine Country

Almost a year ago, I went to a wine party that, I thought, was to transform me into a mature, sophisticated member of society's upper crust. I'm not sure what made me connect the two (wine and social standing), but I was certainly well off the mark. In fact, to this day I'm still drinking the cheapest beer available and feeling, well, not very mature and upstanding.

I thought I'd give the whole wine thing another shot, though. My friend Gretchen recently decided to celebrate her 30th birthday tasting wines in the famed Willamette Valley. Her significant other (who is a guy), offered to rent two ginormous SUVs that would allow Gretchen to bring her friends along. Mark also volunteered to be the designated driver and convinced his friend to do so, too. So, we had two vehicles, two designated drivers, and 12 drinkers.

We started the morning at 10:00, where we all met at Gretchen's for mimosas (some added less orange juice to theirs than others). We sat and argued over Juan's, Mark's friend and the other driver, ethnic background. Not that it mattered, but it was amusing how, as more drinks were had, his ethnic background changed from Hispanic to Ecuadorean (which according to one, can't be Hispanic), and from Mexican to Puerto Rican and back to Ecuadorean. As people got a proper buzz, and the time neared to leave, it was now time to pick our nuts. This was to determine who drove in which car, so as not to get separate cliques among the 14 people. Thus, our nut sack contained (an even amount of) nuts with holes or nuts without holes. We would dig into the same nut sack after visiting each winery, allowing for different passenger combinations each time. After initially digging into our nut sack and grabbing our respective nuts, our seating arrangements for departure were determined...and we were off.

When we hit the freeway, Gretchen broke out a paper that gave a run-down of wine tasting basics. She proceeded to read the paper aloud, quizzing us about acidity, astringency, fruitiness, and volume along the way. This was our "now you're in the know" primer. Hate overcame me immediately. I began to loathe wine, as well as the connoisseurs that actually can distinguish between the acid content of a pinot grape grown at higher elevations and those grown in a valley. It's a good thing Gretchen jokingly read this paper, because she almost lost a friend.

Anyway, it wasn't long after our wine primer that the fun started and the giggle-snorting began.

I was lucky enough to pick the same nut as Gretchen every time. As a result, we shared the same van for the day's entirety. Because Gretchen is such a good planner, and just knows how to have a good time, she thoughtfully brought MadLibs along. So, as we drove from winery to winery, we filled the partial sentences with words like "choad," creating the sentence "choad and fancy free." Some of the other words and phrases we used to complete the MadLibs were: ball licking doves (for plural noun), poop, nugget, necrophiliacking (for verb), Jeff's left testicle, and Jeff's first poop. The chain of absurd sentences, and the awkward stories they created, resulted in a series of giggle-snorting laughs from Gretchen (these are the laughs that are so intense that, seemingly, the only way to get oxygen to your lungs is by snorting through your nose). The MadLibs were great fun, but they only filled the time in between our tastings.

The first winery we went to, August Cellars, was probably the best. I say this, not because it was the nicest property or had the tastiest wine, rather they had the most free tastings and poured the biggest glasses. See folks, the whole sniffing prior to sipping and letting the taste linger philosophy was lost on me, as well as most in our party. Yes, some of the wines did taste OK, but with the amount of wine they gave you, the only way you could get a buzz (that's why some of us went, right?) was to drink your sample quickly and move on to the next wine (unless you're name is Bobby and were nursing a hangover from the previous night). However, I must admit my embarrassment when usually being the first to put their empty wine glass on the counter for a refill (remember, this was a first for me).

We stayed at August Cellars for about 20 minutes. After picking our nuts, getting back into the car, and doing a few more MadLibs, we headed to the next winery, Duck Pond. All I can remember from this place was Gretchen and Nate struggling to pronounce this winery's signature wine, Clos d'pond. I'm not sure I care how to pronounce it, because Gretchen and Nate's attempt to use a French accent sounded much better than the actual pronunciation. The other thing I remember about Duck Pond was the wine bottle Mark broke in the parking lot. While loading it into his car, it fell out the back and shattered on the ground. For some reason, I ended up being blamed for it, and was reminded of the fact all day by Gretchen.

As we continued our tour of wineries, I can think of a few more highlights, as they eventually meshed together. First, the cheese at the Maresh winery was awesome. Nate and I attacked the cheese plate, or, as wine people would say, we cleared our palates, allowing for our taste buds to fully appreciate the next wine. Speaking of appreciating wine, you must really have a strong appreciation for fermented grape juice if you go to Erath Winery. Here, they tease you with a free flight (a round of samples) and then entice you with their premier wines, which will cost about $7.00 a flight. You'd think at this price, you'd get a full glass or two. Nope, not at Erath. The skimpy bastard barely poured an ounce of the good stuff, causing a serious distaste in the mouths of those that forked over the cash in hopes of more alcohol. At another winery, Nate (out loud) compared one of the wines to watered down tequila. I thought the comparison was accurate, and quite hilarious, but I can see how a wine snob would look down on such a comment. I think it was also at this winery where I discussed with Maggie the momentary appeal of spliffing it up to some Pink Floyd, while petting the owners dog, Dino (or, Filipino, as I first thought).

In the end, my appreciation for wine did not grow, although I do not hate it as much. I can't even say I learned that much. However, it was fun seeing 14 people celebrate Gretchen's birthday while also getting a little drunk.

Occupational Hazards

I experienced a "first" this week: testifying on the witness stand. No, I didn't break the code of omerta and turn mob-informant. Nor did assume a new identity under the witness protection program in exchange for being exonerated of crimes against humanity. I did, however, take an oath and swear the truth, and nothing but, that one of my former clients assaulted me and other coworkers while on the job. Yes, a couple months ago, a client that was under the care of my facility became assaultive toward staff and sent some people to the hospital. Subsequently, as the acts of aggression were so severe and unprovoked, charges were pressed and a case was brought to trial. Sounds weird, I know. Such is the life of an employee at a treatment facility for emotionally disturbed kids, though. My job involves, among other things, trying to deescalate kids while in fits of rage and, on occasion, failing....thus leading to blunt blows to the head, bites to the arms, and other various bumps and bruises. It's not a glorious job, nor does it tickle my feet in the least. I do, however, get a giddy feeling when I can leave at night without suffering any injuries, however minor they may be. Here are a couple pics of some recent scrapes and bruises.

No, I do not have a skin disease, as the pic on the left would indicate. But, some kid decided to act like a cat and use my arm and wrist like a scratching pad. Gross, isn't it?

The weird spot on the right isn't where aliens probed me the night of October 12th, 1992. That's in another location. The pic is of a scar on my ankle where I was either bit, kicked, had a door slammed on me, or all three. I thought it was a bruise, but it never went away.

Pandora Is Amazing

If you haven't heard of Pandora Internet Radio, stop fucking around and immediately leave this page for:
http://www.pandora.com
Some geniuses (or genii?) figured out a way to allow users to select their favorite song/artist, and the program then analyzes that particular track according to close to 400 musical attributes ranging from melody bells, instrumentationality, tonal harmony aspect ratio, rhythm beat funks, and...well, I don't know anything about musical terms, but needless to say, your mind is already blown. From there, the program begins to select music that it thinks you might enjoy, and you have the option of ignoring the track or selecting whether you like it or not, further building onto your musical style of choice to develop a personalized, ever-evolving radio station. Booyakasha.

Surrounding Sighters

I've still got a lot of photos to share with you folks, so here's a few taken from around the area...most of these were taken by Kes, to give credit where it's due.

Jeff posing with his trusty steed, the Salmon-tinted Champ. It recently was involved in an accident, and alas, may never be the same again. This is taken from outside the parking lot of our apartment complex in the historic neighborhood of Sullivan's Gulch (no, I did not make that name up).

A shot of Multnomah Falls, located in the Columbia River Gorge a few miles east of the Stump. This is the second tallest year-round waterfall in the U. S. and A. As good as Yosemite Falls, without all the flocks of little tourists.

This was actually taken in Washington on our way back from visiting Mike and Pork (Jeff's parents). That's our version of the Matterhorn, Mount Hood. It's the tallest mountain in Oregon, considered an "active" volcano, and is home to the Timberline Lodge, made famous in the amazingly creepy-good Stanley Kubrick/Stephen King classic film, The Shining. I know, the photo sucks...I promise a better one at some point.

Haystack Rock, outside of Cannon Beach, a few hours southwest of Portland. For all of you nerds out there who like to drink a 40, smoke a Jackie Jointer-Kersee, and rent Goonies (yes you, Jeff), this imposing monument to coolness was featured several times in the timeless fun-fest we know as The Goonies. Watch out for booby-twaps. It also made a brief appearance in the dismal Kindergarten Cop. Dillon, you set us up! Wait, wrong Ahnold movie.

The wreck of the "Peter Iredale", located at the mouth of the Columbia River (on the Oregon side), at Fort Stevens State Park. The park contains a fort called...ummm...Fort Stevens, which earns the distinction of being the only military installation in the lower 48 to be directly fired upon by enemies during WWII...On June 21st, 1942, a Japanese sub snuck up, fired 17 rounds, caused no damage, then turned around and went home. Too bad they didn't attempt to destroy Gresham while they were at it.

Man, from these pictures alone, one would think it either always rains in Oregon, or is eternally dark and dreary. Oh wait, it does rain all the time, and really, it is DARK AND FUCKING DREARY. What I wouldn't give for some summer already...or even a bit of that accelerated global warming everyone's talking about.

niblets

I'm not sure they're interchangeable, but for the time being I'm pretending niblet and tidbit are synonymous. As such, I'd like to fill you all in on a few niblets from the last week and a half.

-- This week the world celebrated the greatness that is Irish culture. St. Paddy's Day came and went with your typical revelry and celebration of everything green. Unfortunately I worked, but I was still able to get out for a few hours after. I met up with another fellow Irish-American and, ironically, went to a Brittish pub. This wasn't by choice, so to speak, as neither of us were fit to drive (due to our warming up prior to leaving the house) and had to walk to the only local bar. Anyway, Bobby and I threw back some Jameson and Guinness, bitched about work, talked about our ancestry, and did our best to ignore the fact we were in an English establishment.

-- Speaking of English, I just found out that some of my Irish relatives are, well, actually from England...sort of. As it turns out, my mom's grandfather (McCready), who is from Ireland, moved to England with his brother as a young adult to find work. Later on, my mom's grandpa's family eventually emigrated accross the pond and settled in the States. He left his brother and family behind in England. Anyway, my mom's uncle in England had a daughter named Rosemary McCready. We didn't know any of this until when, the other day, Rosemary McCready found my mom online and emailed her. They did the math and discovered they shared grandparents, or something like that, and are indeed cousins. They have now been corresponding and trading pictures of each other's families (see our cousins here).

-- Skiing in the rain is no fun. I found this out the hard way. Last week I went up to Mt. Hood to get some skiing in before the snow melted. Little did I know that the melting had already started, and to make matters worse, the rain (it wasn't cold enough to snow) was speeding up this process. So, instead of the fluffy white powder we all dream about skiing on, I got more of a dirty-blonde sludge. If it were only aesthetically displeasing, fine, but the sludgey goo that I skied on made it difficult to remain upright, and I had a hard time staying on my skis. For about four hours, I got to practice my tumbling skills as I rolled, head over heals, down slope after slope. With arms, poles, legs, and skis flailing, I did my best tumbling while chancing life on black diamond, or expert, runs: the steeper, the better. It wouldn't have been so bad, as I can handle a couple bumps and bruises, but I did this while in plain sight of those riding the ski lifts above. In other words, I was providing a great laugh for those making their way to the top of the mountain. What's more satisfying, I got to pay $20 for the ski rentals and $40 for the lift tickets. Yay!!!

-- Ice blocking is fun. Never heard of ice blocking? Me neither...until last Wednesday. Apparently it's a country thing, but if I can do anything about it, it will soon be the rage in a major city near you. My friend Stacey, who grew up on a farm, introduced this sport to me a couple days ago...and I'm hooked. Here's how it works: go to a supermarket and buy a big ice block (at least 12 by 18 inches, preferably larger), find a steep hill, put a blanket over the top of the ice block, sit on it, and hang on for dear life. Stacey and her friend, Jessica, showed me the ropes late Wednesday night, while providing a show for the homeless folk who reside at Brooklyn Park. In fact, we actually had passersby ask if they could give it a shot. While it sounds like a winter-time activity, as long as you have a hill, you can do this in any season. It's joyous! Wear your grubbies, though, because if you're anywhere near as uncordinated as me, you'll be doing a bit of rolling as you figure out how to remain on the ice block.

--My car was the victim of a reckless assault the other day. As I was sitting in my apartment, reading the paper, I heard a loud banging noise outside on the street. I peeked out my window to see if North Korea finally unleashed one of its long-range Taepodong-2 missiles on the West Coast, but instead found that there was a car accident. As I surveyed the situation, I figured it wasn't a major accident and quickly returned to my paper. Then, my conscience got the best of me and I decided to see if anybody needed a hand (call the police, act as a witness, etc.). When I got outside, I saw an SUV blocking the street and a couple passersby helping to direct traffic around the oversized vehicle. I noticed there weren't any other cars nearby, so was confused as to what took place and what created the loud noise that distracted me from my newspaper. As I looked up and down the street to see if any other cars were involved, I noticed in the distance a small Honda Civic smased into the back of a car that was parked on the curb. After realizing the scene of the accident was farther down the street, I walked there to see if anybody was injured and/or needed help. When I got to ground zero, I was amazed to find that the car nestled underneath the parked vehicle was also perched in front of my paked car. And, as I got even closer, I noticed that there was a broken head light, dented fender, and scraped siding that didn't previously exist on my car. What the fuck? As it turns out, my innocent champion of a car was sitting peacefully in its parking spot, when an out of control driver side-swiped my vehicle just before lodging itself underneath the car in front of me. For those that don't know, my car has seen its better days. While once a very dependable vehicle, it has now become a salmon-pink shell of itself, fully intact with a cracked windshield, windows that no longer roll up or down (instead stuck with an open-inch gap that allows the Northwest rain to hit me in my face when I drive), a cracked headgasket, and a "check engine" light that won't go away. Now, to add to the suffering of my trusty companion, it now is missing a headlight, has a dented, inverted fender, and has scrapes along the side of it. While I was initially sad and angry for what was becoming the dreary fate of my car, I was soon overcome with pride. Yes, it may look like it came from the wrecking yard, but the Champ still drives and has more character than Eddie Murphy in The Nutty Professor (I believe he played like 8 different roles in this movie). I've had this car for 10 years now. In that time, it has seen almost half the country twice, it has witnessed coming of age adventures, and handled multiple break-ins (don't ever park your car in Hunter's Point). What's more, because of it being conveniently parked in the path of a reckless driver, I've reeled in $862.00 in insurance money that went straight to the bank (my car still runs and won't be getting a trip to the shop). Yes, my car is a cash cow...I'm rich bitch.

The Silence of the Mice

Been a real busy week...

To tid you over, here's a picture I took of the results of Frisco's murderous tendencies...she dressed up one of her mice in the skinned carcass of her (previously) favorite chew toy.

It rubs the lotion on its fur...

Pabst and Paperboy

How does one recover from a 50-hour work week, in which you are responsible for managing a unit of emotionally disturbed teenagers at a residential treatment facility? Actually, it's not a very profound question, as I just thought of about 20 ways. However, only a couple of those wouldn't destroy my liver, kill my brain cells and/or result in at least one night of incarceration and deep regret. So, as I seek active recuperation from the emotional toll of being a social worker, the question remains: how does one cope with the rigors of social service in a non self-destructive manner?

I think I may have figured it out: Donkey Kong and Paperboy, mixed with a little Pabst Blue Ribbon to take the edge off. Yes, it's a great combination indeed. And as you think to yourself, "How boring, drinking and playing Nintendo at home!!," let me correct you; this can all be done in a public place, and amongst other PBR drinking eightiesphiles (not sure that's a word, but if it were, it would mean someone who has an affinity for the eighties) nonetheless. Before I get into that, though, let me rewind a bit and start the story from when I got off work.

As midnight neared, and I'm just preparing to finish up my work week (they tend to feel like two wrapped in one), I give Oldie a call to see if he's still up. As it turns out, he is awake and he's training his cat, Frisco (see this ferocious cat's picture in post below), how to kill on demand while also watching some obscure, B-rated (that's generous) Japanese film he checked out from the library. Naturally, he's willing to go out, and being sympathetic to my end-of-the-work-week-blues, he's up for a little adventure. So, I leave work and head to his place to pick him up.

Because of my long work day, I tend to get a severe pang of hunger around 11 pm. To satisfy this urge to stuff my face, we stop at Burger King (this is taboo in Portland, as it is corporate, not local, and nowhere near being organic) on the way downtown. As I pull up to the drivethrough window after ordering, I notice an advertisement for BK's newest sensation, the Frypod. For some reason the word "frypod" intrigued both Old and I, and we quickly decided to incorporate this into our vernacular. So, as the window opened and I was greeted by the BK employee, I muttered to her, "How's your frypod tonight?" With a confused look, she responded, "huh?"

"Oh, I said how are you doing tonight."

With a look of embarrassment, she says, "Good, thanks. That'll be $2.42."

After receiving my two Whopper Jrs with cheese and change, just before closing my car door (I have to open the door for such transactions because my window doesn't roll down), Oldie yells, "Frypodddd!" As his uttering clarifies the BK employees earlier suspicion, I get ready to pull forward to avoid the embarrassment of having just yelled "Frypod" at someone. Well, this was not possible, because the big SUV in front of us, despite having already paid for and received their food, did not pull completely out of the drive through. I was now stuck in the drive through, with the lady in the window at my side looking at us very curiously. As any normal road-raging driver would do, I honked my horn at the guy in front of us. Gave him a few seconds. No response. Honk again. No response. Try again. Awesome, the older gentleman wakes up and pulls forward about two inches. With no room to drive around him, Old rolls down his window (I can't roll down mine) and asks him politely to move forward some more. No response. I honk again. Either being very unaware of what's going on, or just plain oppositional, he scoots forward about one more inch. Still not an acceptable amount of room, I grow impatient and drive over the curb around him. I pull out of the parking lot and up to a red light at the intersection. As I look back toward the drive through, I notice the next car in line suffering the same frustration with the SUV, as he still had not pulled forward enough for people to drive around. The cars are honking, people in the parking lot are staring, and Old's harassing him from the passenger-side window. Next, the guy gets out of his SUV and amazingly walks away, leaving his idling car blocking the drive through. He walks up to a couple of thugs hanging out in the parking lot, says something, then continues walking toward the inside of the restaurant. He looks in the glass door, turns around, and heads back to his car. As he does this, he starts swearing at all the people honking and staring at him.

By this time, my light turned green and I continued on my way downtown, albeit against my urge to see what was to unravel in the parking lot. As we approached our destination, I searched for a parking spot in Oldtown. Finally on foot, Oldie and I navigated the streets through homeless encampments, drug dealers, and lost suburbanites looking for a night on the town. Old led us aimlessly around the block about six times (it's ironic that while we were getting ourselves lost, tourists were asking us for various directions) before he finally remembered the exact location of Ground Control. Yes folks, this is where I unravelled after 50 hours of playing dad/cop to depressed, angry, and confused teenagers the past week: Ground Control.

When you enter Ground Kontrol, you get the feeling you're entering an eighties dance club. As we walked through the door, overwhelmed by the loud electronica records being spun by a DJ, we were greeted by a bouncer who asked for our IDs. This dude was straight out of the 80s, but not in a cool, retro, or rad way. Rather he was a creepy 30-something with long hair, tight jeans, and a fruity air about him. The guy was creepy. No matter, though, because behind the gay-80s guy were arcade games aplenty. There was Donkey Kong, Pac Man, and even Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. It was an instant time trip to my 10th birthday...with a twist, though, because I couldn't drink then. Now, because of the genius of some local entrepreneur, one can drink beer while slaying ghouls in the game Ghosts and Goblins. Yes, it sounds like a dream, but drinking PBR and taking jabs at Glass Joe's glass jaw (from Mike Tyson's punchout), while listening to a DJ play 80s tunes is indeed a reality. Maybe our world is not as fucked up as it seems. Yes, the polar ice caps are melting and the terrorists are trying to take away our freedoms, but at least we can now get a proper buzz alongside other folks who appreciate 80s music and a good game of Rampage (you know, the one where you get to be King Kong and destroy all of the skyscrapers in New York).

This place even serves locally crafted micro brews (another Portland tradition) for those with refined palates. What's more, if you don't feel like wasting your quarters on antiquated arcade games, you can chill at the bar and cozy up to a large screen TV that is fully equipped with the original Nintendo Entertainment System. In other words, if Tetris and Street Fighter aren't your thing, you can play Super Mario Brothers or Duck Hunt at the bar....for free, mind you. Does it get better than this? I'm not sure. You can see for yourself at 5th and NW Couch street in Oldtown Portland.

Tre Plural

"Threes"...it's the dice gambling sensation currently sweeping the Western Seaboard, and just happened to catch up a few cats chillaxin' in Berzerkeley at the beginning of the year. A few of the resulting flickers...

The Rat making magic happen...

Hey guys, want some worms?

This fucked up dice roll (and my accompanying guttabutta face) brought to you by our sponsors, the SF Giants and Keystone Light, bitches.

No words...in existence...can...describe...my terror.

Frisco Cat

Here are a few photos of our feline terrorist, Frisco Cat. These are a bit outdated by now by at least a few months, so close your eyes and imagine her a bit older and meaner looking.

She's a straight murderer.


Or we can get all Stevie Wonder and say, isn't she lovely?

Frisco and Pops lounging, rotting our collective brain stems with those flashing lights joystick game things.

Horn Tootin'

Back patting is in order.
The company Kes and I get energy through, Pacific Power, allows it's users to fork over a few extra bucks each month to get all their energy through renewable energy sources (well, technically, they use that money to purchase power from windfarms, etc. then add it to their overall wattage stockpile...it doesn't come directly to my home). Well awhile back, I recieved a letter from the Blue Sky program thanking me for purchasing 3,426 kilowatt-hours of alternative energy in 2006. This helped reduce carbon dioxide emissions by 6,852 pounds, the equivalent of not driving 7,332 miles. Who knew that you could feel like a gangsta just by saving the earth.
http://www.pacificpower.net/Homepage/Homepage35754.html

News Blues

I'm an avid reader of the newspaper (well, actually an avid reader of anything with print on it...won't go anywhere without something to absorb), and while I generally disagree with most of what I read, think 98.47% of it is utter bullshit, and never pay for it (think free AOL service cancellation scams and you get the idea), there's not much else I'd rather do than curl up on the couch with the daily news and a cup o' joe in a nap-inducing sunbeam. Where else can you find gems like these:

-Recently in Prague, "more than 500 gallons of radioactive water leaked at a nuclear power plant but did not contaminate the environment..." I'm not going to ask how the fuck that's even possible, simply because the sentence is so amazing. Maybe those crazy Czechers should patent and market whatever new eco-friendly technology they've obviously utilized in preventing catastrophe and take over the world with the proceeds. I bet my boy Al Gore is in on this...

-A man named Martin Strel from Slovenia (again, those Eastern European maniacs) is currently in Brazil swimming the entire length of the Amazon River. He's made it halfway so far. He started Feb. 1st, and has been averaging 56 miles each day. Yes, I realize that starting in Peru at the river's source, he's been swimming with the current, but that's still fucking nuts. Most Americans have a hard time pulling together the motivation to walk the six feet from their couch to their TV to change the channel, opting instead to be swallowed by their own self-created lard sacks, and this dude is swimming more miles in a day than the average worker's commute by car, fighting blistering sunburns, dodging alligators, and, I imagine, holding one hand over his dick the whole time to block toothpick fish from swimming up his urethra. Oh wait, it gets more savage...this guy has already swum the entire lengths of the Danube, the Yangtze, and the Mississippi. For the geographically challenged these are all, what are scientifically labeled as, BIG FUCKING RIVERS. Kinda makes you want to go to the gym more often. Or get a life, you non-Slovenly Slovak.

-A blogger in Egypt was recently sentenced to four years in prison for lashing out at Egypt's government and religious institutions on his personal blog. All I can say in response is that Bush is a great president, and the Christian Right is doing a terrific job! God Bless Freedom!

-Last one, and I'm going to type this one out in it's entirety, it's that good:

The U.S. Navy says it is considering the use of dozens of trained dolphins and sea lions to patrol a key military base in coastal Washington state from underwater enemy intruders. The Navy published a notice in the Federal Register that it needs to beef up security at the Puget Sound near Seattle. The notice said the use of marine mammals is the most effective way to do it. Because of their extraordinary sonar abilities, dolphins are excellent at patrolling for swimmers and divers, said Tom Lapuzza, a spokesman for the Navy's San Diego-based Marine Mammal Program. One plan is for the dolphins to drop a tag near any discovered intruder. Another is for trained seals to clamp a tethered cuff around any invader's leg or arm so the individual can be reeled in for questioning.

You can't even make up shit that awesome.

Christmas Photos

I know, a little late, but just thought I'd share with you some flicks from my visit to the Yay Area over Christmas...

Creepy stalking into other's houses to steal their milk and cookies...


My brudda Dan and I bringing a whole new meaning to the term, "Brotherly Love."


Post-coitus.


Dan thinks I'm listening to him play. I'm totally sleeping.


It's mystifying how I look more bitter and grumpy than Matt does...Oh, how appearances deceive.


Reid's 'stache is solid fucking gold.
Props to the Three Cooks Cafe in Petaluma, Killa Kali.

A few changes...

As you've probably noticed, we've mucked around with the layout of this blog a bit...nothing's really changed, mostly a few aesthetic upgrades and the addition of a simplified archival system.

Don't worry, we'll still be bringing you the hard hitting journalism you've come to count on and hold your breath for.

Oh, and I recently purchased Kes a digital camera, so expect to see more pictures of Jeff and I's ugly mugs in the near future.

Like this one of us cold chillin' at a Blazers game: