Man, I am losing all track of time and date today. Purpose seems to be staying strong with confusing the living bejeezus out of people, that and quick impressions of what I would be like as a deranged street person. But for some reason I can’t keep an accurate tally in my head of what day we’re on, and this day has gone by in a blur of angry customers and philly cheese steak dreams.
Almost as if the idea were a communicable disease of sorts, things started to get a little loose with a complaint about hallucinogenic water. Yeah, allegations that someone’s ice water was dosed. And, by the by, not the first time I have dealt with this sort of fraudulent complaint.
It made me think that there was a time in my life that I would not have considered complaining about having a hallucinogen put in my beverage; I would have thanked the universe and found the nearest playground for an 8 hour swing-a-thon.
On top of consistently forgetting where in the week we are exactly, I feel like there was a lot of stuff I was to get done today that did not, in fact, get done. I can say that I laughed for an inappropriately long time at a web banner that read:
“Isn’t it time you did something about your severe underarm sweating?”
That’s pretty effing direct. Plus I’m oddly entertained that they make the point of pointing out something should be done about your SEVERE underarm sweating. Your piddling underarm sweating is of no concern. Is this a new medical condition? Is severe underarm sweating the new restless leg syndrome? Will it get shortened down to SUA for easier digestion?
There will undoubtedly be some severe underarm sweating when I walk home in the 90 degree plus heat today, and frankly I’m not sure it’s time I did something about it. The severe neck sweating that shall occur by the time I reach the summit of Pine Street is another story though.
I don’t want to complain about the weather, ‘cause man that’s annoying and boring, but I do wish there was a cold pool and a bottle of ouzo waiting at the end of that hike.
There’s not.
I’m hoping for a fresher start tomorrow, less time slippage and more hustle.
Song Stuck In My Head Right Now: “Stray Dog And The Chocolate Shake” by Grandaddy. Okay, mostly the high pitched, “supervisor” at the beginning. And okay, mostly the thought of Harpoon, in a high pitched voice saying, “supervisor”.
Wednesday, July 11, 2007
Tuesday, July 10, 2007
Makes Scents
So I was throwing a whiz after a morning glut of coffee and water when I caught a whiff of evergreen trees. Bathroom cleaner thought I, before it slowly occurred to me that the cleaner they use in the bathroom here is not scented as such. I’m pretty sure I was pissing pine.
I don’t know what combination of what caused this to happen. Asparagus pee I’ve had, ditto penicillin, but this one was new. I began a quick catalogue of dinner items, fluids that I had ingested, possible clouds of industrial waste I had walked through.
I chalked it up to some weird combination of Colombian coffee, hummus and stress and let it be. And then I thought about Gorgeous’ encounter with turning garlic a brilliant blue. This, naturally, led to my thinking about the ability to purposefully change the scent of your urine.
Hear me out.
Say there’s a combination of ingredients that you could ingest, let’s say they’re natural ingredients, heck let’s even say it’s in a pill form, that if you take it makes your pee pee smell like something else. Pop a pill and your bathroom is filled with a subtle hint of gardenia, you walk into a truck stop restroom to the arresting smell of Fettuccini Alfredo, you awake from a drunken stupor to find your jeans bathed in the scent of an ocean breeze.
I see these pills being sold in tins like mints, of a commercial with two plowed sports fans standing in an alley near a dome, one with his arm up on the neighboring wall, the other with his hands at his waste. Sports fan #1 looks over at the other and says simply, “Fresh cut grass?” Sports fan #2 reaches into his pocket and pulls out a tin of pee pills, and flashing an inebriated smile tosses them over to his buddy.
I dream of walking past alleys and being hit with the smell of kettle corn brought on by the same good people who save us from Restless Leg Syndrome.
Wow, this is the sort of thing that happens to my mind when I get a little too much sugar. Should’ve passed on the scone…
I don’t know what combination of what caused this to happen. Asparagus pee I’ve had, ditto penicillin, but this one was new. I began a quick catalogue of dinner items, fluids that I had ingested, possible clouds of industrial waste I had walked through.
I chalked it up to some weird combination of Colombian coffee, hummus and stress and let it be. And then I thought about Gorgeous’ encounter with turning garlic a brilliant blue. This, naturally, led to my thinking about the ability to purposefully change the scent of your urine.
Hear me out.
Say there’s a combination of ingredients that you could ingest, let’s say they’re natural ingredients, heck let’s even say it’s in a pill form, that if you take it makes your pee pee smell like something else. Pop a pill and your bathroom is filled with a subtle hint of gardenia, you walk into a truck stop restroom to the arresting smell of Fettuccini Alfredo, you awake from a drunken stupor to find your jeans bathed in the scent of an ocean breeze.
I see these pills being sold in tins like mints, of a commercial with two plowed sports fans standing in an alley near a dome, one with his arm up on the neighboring wall, the other with his hands at his waste. Sports fan #1 looks over at the other and says simply, “Fresh cut grass?” Sports fan #2 reaches into his pocket and pulls out a tin of pee pills, and flashing an inebriated smile tosses them over to his buddy.
I dream of walking past alleys and being hit with the smell of kettle corn brought on by the same good people who save us from Restless Leg Syndrome.
Wow, this is the sort of thing that happens to my mind when I get a little too much sugar. Should’ve passed on the scone…
Monday, July 09, 2007
The Secret Lives Of Flowers
I was about five minutes into my walk this morning, when I smelled them. It seemed strange that they would be here outside of Southern California, a smell that I thought I had left behind with the omnipresent eucalyptus. But oh yes, there they are by the church there, the shrub with little white flowers that smell of queasiness. I don’t know the real name of the plant or flowers, but I used to call them the Nervous Flowers.
You see, outside of the house of my high school girlfriend there grew a bush of Nervous Flowers. The evening that they got that name was when I arrived to take her to prom. I rang the doorbell and waited for her mother, or her Marine Corps father, to let me inside the house I had never been in. My heart was pumping adrenaline out of my pores so hard, practically all I could hear was the pumping, the rest of the world taking on a muffled sound as if after a concert. I felt as though there were a real threat of vomiting right there. I could barely breathe, and what little breath came in was coated with the sharp smell of those little, white flowers.
The connection was so strong, that for years following that night, anytime I stood at the threshold of the door I would smell those flowers and immediately begin to feel a little loose in the stomach. Over this time the flowers began to smell like other things to me. They smelled of defeat, of resignation, of youthful idealism, but mostly they just smelled of nervousness.
It reminded me of something that Bif had said when we were almost to Mandy and Jason’s the other day. She pointed out the smell of some phantom flower on the air and asked if I knew what sort of tree or bush it came from. I said I didn’t, and she stated that it, “smells like sex.”
She’s absolutely right, and it is something I’ve noticed before but perhaps out of some sort of puritan bashfulness, I never put it in those words. There is this slight semen smell to them, this sort of flat and mushroomy smell, but more than that there lingers this sex funk that tangs up the air. It’s not a necessarily great smell, but that could just be that you yourself are not manufacturing it, that you don’t expect to encounter it outside of wherever it is you tend to get freaky. I imagine people of delicate constitutions being made very uncomfortable when this flower blooms.
Yesterday, we went for a short hike through the arboretum in Washington Park. It was a fantastic, bright and warm day, and it felt great to be roaming along trails in the midst of all of this greenery, itself in the midst of a city. I had Riley strapped to me and he seemed to be enjoying himself where all you could see were the woods. I was pointing out to him the dandelions and the daisies and the buttercups knowing full well that he didn’t know what the hell I was talking about, but hoping that down the road he would have the reinforcement of a great day filled with laughter when he was out among the trees.
You see, outside of the house of my high school girlfriend there grew a bush of Nervous Flowers. The evening that they got that name was when I arrived to take her to prom. I rang the doorbell and waited for her mother, or her Marine Corps father, to let me inside the house I had never been in. My heart was pumping adrenaline out of my pores so hard, practically all I could hear was the pumping, the rest of the world taking on a muffled sound as if after a concert. I felt as though there were a real threat of vomiting right there. I could barely breathe, and what little breath came in was coated with the sharp smell of those little, white flowers.
The connection was so strong, that for years following that night, anytime I stood at the threshold of the door I would smell those flowers and immediately begin to feel a little loose in the stomach. Over this time the flowers began to smell like other things to me. They smelled of defeat, of resignation, of youthful idealism, but mostly they just smelled of nervousness.
It reminded me of something that Bif had said when we were almost to Mandy and Jason’s the other day. She pointed out the smell of some phantom flower on the air and asked if I knew what sort of tree or bush it came from. I said I didn’t, and she stated that it, “smells like sex.”
She’s absolutely right, and it is something I’ve noticed before but perhaps out of some sort of puritan bashfulness, I never put it in those words. There is this slight semen smell to them, this sort of flat and mushroomy smell, but more than that there lingers this sex funk that tangs up the air. It’s not a necessarily great smell, but that could just be that you yourself are not manufacturing it, that you don’t expect to encounter it outside of wherever it is you tend to get freaky. I imagine people of delicate constitutions being made very uncomfortable when this flower blooms.
Yesterday, we went for a short hike through the arboretum in Washington Park. It was a fantastic, bright and warm day, and it felt great to be roaming along trails in the midst of all of this greenery, itself in the midst of a city. I had Riley strapped to me and he seemed to be enjoying himself where all you could see were the woods. I was pointing out to him the dandelions and the daisies and the buttercups knowing full well that he didn’t know what the hell I was talking about, but hoping that down the road he would have the reinforcement of a great day filled with laughter when he was out among the trees.
Friday, July 06, 2007
We Should Be Together Babe, But We're Not
I can’t remember how that idea got rolling, but I would guess that it was simply the lineup that beckoned.
This Ain’t No Picnic was an indie kid festival show being held out in an undeveloped part of Orange County. I started hearing about some bands that would be interesting to see, but probably not worth the drive in from San Francisco. But then there was Grandaddy, and on top of Grandaddy there was Modest Mouse. Good enough, certainly.
You throw in the magic words Built To Spill, and I’m drooling on myself. Even a little now, all these years later… But wait, take that mighty cake of a lineup and add a healthy dollop of Yo La Tengo ice cream, and I’m messing up my pants and bloody loving it. It’s like porn, indie band porn.
So yeah, it had to happen. C&G came down and we planned a weekend on Bif’s parent’s boat in Long Beach. The four of us drove into the dry grasslands of south Orange County, listening to Modest Mouse’s brand spanking new The Moon And Antarctica, and twitching with excitement.
We were sort of moseying around and checking out the first smaller bands of the lineup when I saw the unassuming form of Built To Spill’s Doug Martsch walking around. He walked past, smiling, and I sort of nodded. Not long after, he walked past again carrying boxes. I said to myself that if I saw him again I would say something to him, but when he came by again a third time I chickened out.
I don’t get star struck easily, but this guy had moved me in ways that seldom happen at shows, and thus seemed empowered with a magic that I didn’t feel strong enough to mingle with. A bit later, we saw him sitting alone under a tent, selling his own T-Shirts. The four of us sort of stood agog for a minute before he smiled and waved us in. We bought shirts and took a quick minute to thank him for his music.
The promoters had done a brilliant thing in having two stages set up so that while one band was playing, the next could set up and start immediately. Grandaddy took the stage and waited for a couple minutes as the prior band ate into their time slot. After awhile, front man Jason Lytle began motioning to the soundboard to cut the band off. When that didn’t happen, Grandaddy just started playing over them. They could have been a little cranky, having learned some years later that they had woken up that morning covered with ants after sleeping in a nearby ditch.
I had seen Modest Mouse before, and while I loved their albums I was not a fan of them live. I was basing that on one show, but here they had me from note one; they seemed energized and happy to be there. Bif holds onto this memory of lead singer Isaac Brock singing in front of a cottonwood that positively sparkled in the hot wind as one of her favorites. But for me, there is the memory of watching Doug Martsch leaning against an amp he had just set up on his stage and watching Modest Mouse play their hearts out. It’s that image of musician as everyday music fan that makes me smile somethin’ fierce.
Built To Spill began just as the last notes of Modest Mouse faded into the cottonwoods and charged through a great set that included a knock out version of Macy Gray’s “I Try.” Tears, laughter and plenty of released gusts of breath that felt like you had been reverently holding it. And just when you thought you had been left alone, along comes Yo La Tengo to sucker punch you into the stratosphere.
I was not ready for the sly silliness, the dance moves, I was not ready for the rocking that Yo La Tengo brought. I knew that as part of a festival show that their set would be short, but I could have stood in that sun and watched them play for hours.
The four of us circled up as the band left the stage. Beck was coming up soon to finish off the day, but the four of us were of the same mind that this was simply not going to get any damn better. It was unanimous that we return to the boat, indulge in cold cocktails and take some high flying jumps off the deck and into the water. And of course there would be some more giddy yelps remembering the portions of the amazing day we had had. On our way out, we passed a flood of people only now coming to see Beck and shook our heads at trying to figure out how you explain what had been missed in the power triumvirate that just finished up, the quirky deliciousness of Grandaddy earlier.
One of the top five best shows I’ve been to, hands down.
Song Stuck In My Head Right Now: “A Perfect Day Elise” by PJ Harvey.
This Ain’t No Picnic was an indie kid festival show being held out in an undeveloped part of Orange County. I started hearing about some bands that would be interesting to see, but probably not worth the drive in from San Francisco. But then there was Grandaddy, and on top of Grandaddy there was Modest Mouse. Good enough, certainly.
You throw in the magic words Built To Spill, and I’m drooling on myself. Even a little now, all these years later… But wait, take that mighty cake of a lineup and add a healthy dollop of Yo La Tengo ice cream, and I’m messing up my pants and bloody loving it. It’s like porn, indie band porn.
So yeah, it had to happen. C&G came down and we planned a weekend on Bif’s parent’s boat in Long Beach. The four of us drove into the dry grasslands of south Orange County, listening to Modest Mouse’s brand spanking new The Moon And Antarctica, and twitching with excitement.
We were sort of moseying around and checking out the first smaller bands of the lineup when I saw the unassuming form of Built To Spill’s Doug Martsch walking around. He walked past, smiling, and I sort of nodded. Not long after, he walked past again carrying boxes. I said to myself that if I saw him again I would say something to him, but when he came by again a third time I chickened out.
I don’t get star struck easily, but this guy had moved me in ways that seldom happen at shows, and thus seemed empowered with a magic that I didn’t feel strong enough to mingle with. A bit later, we saw him sitting alone under a tent, selling his own T-Shirts. The four of us sort of stood agog for a minute before he smiled and waved us in. We bought shirts and took a quick minute to thank him for his music.
The promoters had done a brilliant thing in having two stages set up so that while one band was playing, the next could set up and start immediately. Grandaddy took the stage and waited for a couple minutes as the prior band ate into their time slot. After awhile, front man Jason Lytle began motioning to the soundboard to cut the band off. When that didn’t happen, Grandaddy just started playing over them. They could have been a little cranky, having learned some years later that they had woken up that morning covered with ants after sleeping in a nearby ditch.
I had seen Modest Mouse before, and while I loved their albums I was not a fan of them live. I was basing that on one show, but here they had me from note one; they seemed energized and happy to be there. Bif holds onto this memory of lead singer Isaac Brock singing in front of a cottonwood that positively sparkled in the hot wind as one of her favorites. But for me, there is the memory of watching Doug Martsch leaning against an amp he had just set up on his stage and watching Modest Mouse play their hearts out. It’s that image of musician as everyday music fan that makes me smile somethin’ fierce.
Built To Spill began just as the last notes of Modest Mouse faded into the cottonwoods and charged through a great set that included a knock out version of Macy Gray’s “I Try.” Tears, laughter and plenty of released gusts of breath that felt like you had been reverently holding it. And just when you thought you had been left alone, along comes Yo La Tengo to sucker punch you into the stratosphere.
I was not ready for the sly silliness, the dance moves, I was not ready for the rocking that Yo La Tengo brought. I knew that as part of a festival show that their set would be short, but I could have stood in that sun and watched them play for hours.
The four of us circled up as the band left the stage. Beck was coming up soon to finish off the day, but the four of us were of the same mind that this was simply not going to get any damn better. It was unanimous that we return to the boat, indulge in cold cocktails and take some high flying jumps off the deck and into the water. And of course there would be some more giddy yelps remembering the portions of the amazing day we had had. On our way out, we passed a flood of people only now coming to see Beck and shook our heads at trying to figure out how you explain what had been missed in the power triumvirate that just finished up, the quirky deliciousness of Grandaddy earlier.
One of the top five best shows I’ve been to, hands down.
Song Stuck In My Head Right Now: “A Perfect Day Elise” by PJ Harvey.
Thursday, July 05, 2007
It's Funny, But I AM That Yankee Doodle Boy
Well, I celebrated America Day, celebrated the hell out of it.
Tuesday night began as an after rehearsal meeting for drinks, not really a celebration of the U.S of A., but more a “we don’t have to work on a Wednesday, let’s drink like it was a Friday.” This was all fine and well until people started producing Jaeger shots for me.
Side note 1: There’s this personality trait that I have where if someone is buying me a drink, I must drink it. And it doesn’t matter what sort of important events are happening the next day; i.e. getting married.
Side note 2: Jaeger, in the past, has made me forget large chunks of an evening where I have broken people’s furniture and repeatedly accosted a friend as if they were a tackling dummy.
So the evening did eventually involve me dropping my pants at the request of a fellow drinker. This would have happened without the Jaeger, but for some reason I decided to announce quite loudly that I was doing so for America which got a robust amount of cheering and applause from the patrons on the patio. I’m assuming they thought it was ironic, but much like anything I write here, I really didn’t have a point.
The actual day of America Day was spent in a sun dappled lawn (I never thought I would get to use the term “sun dappled”. I can now die complete.) drinking beers and playing Cornhole, which deserves a posting all its own (including a page full of documented innuendo around the name Cornhole). But for a brief overview: teams toss corn filled, hand sewn bags at a board with a hole in it. If you get your bag to land on the board it’s worth a point, in the hole it’s worth 3.
I don’t know, apparently it’s something they do in Ohio.
The fireworks arrived after a spectacular sunset, and they exploded so close that you could practically taste them. These fireworks tasted like churros, which is good if you’re a churro fan. As I watched all of these shimmering sparks rain down on Lake Union, I began to think about a July 4th past.
This was back when my first roommate, Captain M.I.A., was moving from his “something fun to do on a Saturday night” drug habit to his “I need something just to get through the day” drug habit. We were meeting up with some friends to watch fireworks on the beach in San Clemente, CA. He showed up at the meeting place with someone I’ll call Lawrence. This is the same someone I’ll call Lawrence who I later found making crack at my kitchen table after coming home from work.
Well the two of them proceeded to get crazy high under a beach blanket which gave Captain M.I.A. the impulse to hold a lighter flame to a rock for going on twenty minutes. “What are you doing?” I would ask. “Trying to heat up this rock,” he would reply. Of course. Some minutes later, awed by the fireworks exploding over his head, he put the superheated rock to his lips, burning them quite badly.
I had at one time thought that watching a fireworks display on acid would a pretty nifty experience. At the time I thought almost anything save a visit to a slaughterhouse or watching Pink Floyd The Wall would be nifty on acid, so I was interested in hearing what the fireworks were like to someone high enough to put a sauna rock on their mouth. “I don’t know,” was the response. “My lip hurts.”
This 4th beat the living crap out of that one, not that it was much of a contest.
Confidential to Mo Money Mandy: I hope the presentation went well.
Tuesday night began as an after rehearsal meeting for drinks, not really a celebration of the U.S of A., but more a “we don’t have to work on a Wednesday, let’s drink like it was a Friday.” This was all fine and well until people started producing Jaeger shots for me.
Side note 1: There’s this personality trait that I have where if someone is buying me a drink, I must drink it. And it doesn’t matter what sort of important events are happening the next day; i.e. getting married.
Side note 2: Jaeger, in the past, has made me forget large chunks of an evening where I have broken people’s furniture and repeatedly accosted a friend as if they were a tackling dummy.
So the evening did eventually involve me dropping my pants at the request of a fellow drinker. This would have happened without the Jaeger, but for some reason I decided to announce quite loudly that I was doing so for America which got a robust amount of cheering and applause from the patrons on the patio. I’m assuming they thought it was ironic, but much like anything I write here, I really didn’t have a point.
The actual day of America Day was spent in a sun dappled lawn (I never thought I would get to use the term “sun dappled”. I can now die complete.) drinking beers and playing Cornhole, which deserves a posting all its own (including a page full of documented innuendo around the name Cornhole). But for a brief overview: teams toss corn filled, hand sewn bags at a board with a hole in it. If you get your bag to land on the board it’s worth a point, in the hole it’s worth 3.
I don’t know, apparently it’s something they do in Ohio.
The fireworks arrived after a spectacular sunset, and they exploded so close that you could practically taste them. These fireworks tasted like churros, which is good if you’re a churro fan. As I watched all of these shimmering sparks rain down on Lake Union, I began to think about a July 4th past.
This was back when my first roommate, Captain M.I.A., was moving from his “something fun to do on a Saturday night” drug habit to his “I need something just to get through the day” drug habit. We were meeting up with some friends to watch fireworks on the beach in San Clemente, CA. He showed up at the meeting place with someone I’ll call Lawrence. This is the same someone I’ll call Lawrence who I later found making crack at my kitchen table after coming home from work.
Well the two of them proceeded to get crazy high under a beach blanket which gave Captain M.I.A. the impulse to hold a lighter flame to a rock for going on twenty minutes. “What are you doing?” I would ask. “Trying to heat up this rock,” he would reply. Of course. Some minutes later, awed by the fireworks exploding over his head, he put the superheated rock to his lips, burning them quite badly.
I had at one time thought that watching a fireworks display on acid would a pretty nifty experience. At the time I thought almost anything save a visit to a slaughterhouse or watching Pink Floyd The Wall would be nifty on acid, so I was interested in hearing what the fireworks were like to someone high enough to put a sauna rock on their mouth. “I don’t know,” was the response. “My lip hurts.”
This 4th beat the living crap out of that one, not that it was much of a contest.
Confidential to Mo Money Mandy: I hope the presentation went well.
Tuesday, July 03, 2007
Results May Vary
I was going to do something about the inevitability of Scooter being set free, how at least the newscasters had the good sense to not act surprised, and how for quite some time Bush will be the punchline for any joke needing someone ignorant, corrupt or grossly incompetent. But then I realized that I’m feeling good, I’m feeling fine, and I would like to stay a little bit positive before the meeting I have scheduled this afternoon saps every bit of good will I have.
Plus, I’m feeling the call of tapping into my lust for lists. And so, for this fine and sunny day, I present you My Favorite Things as of July 3rd:
1) The briny smell of the Puget Sound as I walked past Pike Place market this morning and through the shady room temperature air.
2) Cold beer.
3) The idea of sitting on Mandy and Jason’s porch tomorrow, drinking said cold beer.
4) Doing something that made the entire cast laugh during rehearsal last night.
5) Having a son who, barring the usual dirty diapers/out of sweet potatoes fuss fest, smiles a lot. I’d like to think I have something to do with it, but in actuality I think I’m just lucky.
6) “2+2 = 5” by Radiohead. Gets me pumped up big time.
7) The memories of a festival show called This Ain’t No Picnic that have been floating around my head for the last few days.
8) I want to give someone the knick name “Captain Dynamite”
9) The embryonic plans for a south bound road trip in the coming months.
10) Lots of deep blue water under a sky that stays lit for twilight past 10.
Plus, I’m feeling the call of tapping into my lust for lists. And so, for this fine and sunny day, I present you My Favorite Things as of July 3rd:
1) The briny smell of the Puget Sound as I walked past Pike Place market this morning and through the shady room temperature air.
2) Cold beer.
3) The idea of sitting on Mandy and Jason’s porch tomorrow, drinking said cold beer.
4) Doing something that made the entire cast laugh during rehearsal last night.
5) Having a son who, barring the usual dirty diapers/out of sweet potatoes fuss fest, smiles a lot. I’d like to think I have something to do with it, but in actuality I think I’m just lucky.
6) “2+2 = 5” by Radiohead. Gets me pumped up big time.
7) The memories of a festival show called This Ain’t No Picnic that have been floating around my head for the last few days.
8) I want to give someone the knick name “Captain Dynamite”
9) The embryonic plans for a south bound road trip in the coming months.
10) Lots of deep blue water under a sky that stays lit for twilight past 10.
Monday, July 02, 2007
Annie Oakley In Tomorrowland
Hey, welcome to July everyone!
We’re getting into the sunny and warm part of Seattle’s summer, but just as a final sort of “F you” to the old man, we got a nice dose of humid rain on Friday. I was telling a coworker that the all that sort of tropical and close air, the low, dark ceiling of clouds and fat drops of rain that seem to have been heated before making their money shot on your face reminded me of my first misspent weekend in New Orleans. He stated that it reminded him of his misspent youth in Southern California.
I cursed him for taking my fond memories of dampened French Quarter sidewalks, fried okra and blackened catfish nuggets, and the sort of drunk that seems to have been gifted to you from Dionysus himself, and sullying them with images of strip malls and smog, bored housewives with more plastic injected into them than soul…
And then of course the conversation turned towards Disneyland, as all conversations eventually will. Disneyland or Ethel Merman…
I stated that one of the downfalls to having a child was the inevitable visit back to Disneyland. Having lived in Orange County, I have been to Disneyland a few too many times. Some family member is there to visit and what do they wanna do? Yup, Anaheim’s version of Xanadu – and not the roller skating movie complete with ELO soundtrack. This coworker had not overdone it on Disneyland on his sentence in SoCal, so didn’t quite understand my discomfort. We did discuss the old Universal Studios tour, which I can get behind completely.
The Universal Studios tour, back in the days of yore, contained no sort of roller coastery rides, but was a delightful tram trip through corny attractions that sort of related to Universal films. There was a flash flood that threatened the mysteriously stalled tram, also a runaway train which threatened the mysteriously stalled tram. There was a house on fire, there was the Psycho house and there was an ice tunnel that rotated so that it looked like you were in a rotating ice tunnel. There was also this B rate television show version of the parting of the Red Sea that I’m almost positive was never used in a film, however I think I did see it in an episode of “The A-Team”.
And, my friends and neighbors, there was the Jaws pond. This was the thing for which I had a hard on at Universal Studios – well that and the oversized telephone from The Incredible Shrinking Woman. The tram would pull up to a body of water where a fisherman sat serenely with his line cast. Up comes a ginormous shark fin, and soon the fisherman is yanked from the boat and replaced with an expanding pool of blood. Then, oh hell yeah, then a really fake looking shark jumps out of the water and towards the tram:
Pretty much the definition of awesome.
Come Sunday, on a shopping trip to Costco, Riley was apparently having the time of his life. He would not stop giggling and it definitely took the sting out of gas huffers waiting on line for artery hardening snacks prepared by surly retirees. I realized that if I was going to get that sort of soul stirring sound by a trip to the Happiest Place on Earth, I’d put up with a few days in Disneyland.
I'd put up with it but good.
We’re getting into the sunny and warm part of Seattle’s summer, but just as a final sort of “F you” to the old man, we got a nice dose of humid rain on Friday. I was telling a coworker that the all that sort of tropical and close air, the low, dark ceiling of clouds and fat drops of rain that seem to have been heated before making their money shot on your face reminded me of my first misspent weekend in New Orleans. He stated that it reminded him of his misspent youth in Southern California.
I cursed him for taking my fond memories of dampened French Quarter sidewalks, fried okra and blackened catfish nuggets, and the sort of drunk that seems to have been gifted to you from Dionysus himself, and sullying them with images of strip malls and smog, bored housewives with more plastic injected into them than soul…
And then of course the conversation turned towards Disneyland, as all conversations eventually will. Disneyland or Ethel Merman…
I stated that one of the downfalls to having a child was the inevitable visit back to Disneyland. Having lived in Orange County, I have been to Disneyland a few too many times. Some family member is there to visit and what do they wanna do? Yup, Anaheim’s version of Xanadu – and not the roller skating movie complete with ELO soundtrack. This coworker had not overdone it on Disneyland on his sentence in SoCal, so didn’t quite understand my discomfort. We did discuss the old Universal Studios tour, which I can get behind completely.
The Universal Studios tour, back in the days of yore, contained no sort of roller coastery rides, but was a delightful tram trip through corny attractions that sort of related to Universal films. There was a flash flood that threatened the mysteriously stalled tram, also a runaway train which threatened the mysteriously stalled tram. There was a house on fire, there was the Psycho house and there was an ice tunnel that rotated so that it looked like you were in a rotating ice tunnel. There was also this B rate television show version of the parting of the Red Sea that I’m almost positive was never used in a film, however I think I did see it in an episode of “The A-Team”.
And, my friends and neighbors, there was the Jaws pond. This was the thing for which I had a hard on at Universal Studios – well that and the oversized telephone from The Incredible Shrinking Woman. The tram would pull up to a body of water where a fisherman sat serenely with his line cast. Up comes a ginormous shark fin, and soon the fisherman is yanked from the boat and replaced with an expanding pool of blood. Then, oh hell yeah, then a really fake looking shark jumps out of the water and towards the tram:
Pretty much the definition of awesome.
Come Sunday, on a shopping trip to Costco, Riley was apparently having the time of his life. He would not stop giggling and it definitely took the sting out of gas huffers waiting on line for artery hardening snacks prepared by surly retirees. I realized that if I was going to get that sort of soul stirring sound by a trip to the Happiest Place on Earth, I’d put up with a few days in Disneyland.
I'd put up with it but good.
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