So, I’m home. I’m not entirely deTexasified yet, thought, so we all get to put up with one last post of random thoughts inspired during a week in the Lone Star State. Sorry.

I feel bad for people living in the Central Time Zone. I mean, it’s bad enough that you don’t get the pleasure of living anywhere near one of the coasts, but you also have to deal with the fact that the networks don’t consider you important enough to change the TV broadcasts for you.
See, when I see a commercial for the next episode of Battlestar Galactica, I know that “ten o’clock” really is the starting time. Those poor bastards have to do math and shit, otherwise they end up watching some lame ass Sci Fi original movie when they really just want to know where the Hell Roslin, Baltar, and that Basestar ended up.

Of course, there’s a plus side: they don’t have to stay up as late to see new episodes of Cathouse 3 and Taxi Cab Confessions.

The choices were somewhat limited. Sounded pretty much like this as you scanned across the spectrum:

• Country
• Country
• Jesus
• Jesus
• Old Country
• Jesus
• Pop Country
• Jesus
• Jesus
• 80s Rock
• Jesus
• Country
• Jesus
• New Country

And God fucking help you if missed the 80s Rock station on your way through. JBJ might have given love a bad name, but he saved my sanity.

I ran to the local Wal-Mart during my trip to pick up a couple of the essentials I’d left behind… some soap, a comb, and a six-pack of Negra Modelo (closest thing to Real Beer you can find in an east Texan Wal-Mart).

Now imagine how I felt when, after peeling off the foil on that first bottle, I realized I didn’t have an opener.

And that the front desk didn’t have one.

And that I’d have to put my pants back on and go to Wal-Mart… again… if I wanted to purchase one.

I tried the hit-the-bottle-with-the-cap-against-the-counter trick, but failed miserably (still hoping I don’t get charged for that chunk that’s missing now…).

I tried the rolled-dollar-bill trick. Not only did I fail to get to the bottled frothy goodness, but I shredded the cash in the effort.

I beat the bottle against every hard object in the room. Nothing.

Then it hit me. I used to be a pro at using a Bic to open beer bottles, but since I quit smoking years ago I don’t carry a cigarette lighter these days. Surely, though, I must have packed something that could fit the bill.

I looked up and there it was, glowing like the fucking Holy Grail in the shabby Best Western potty: my razor. I popped off the blade, turned the bastard around, and jammed the end of the handle under the corrugated cap. A little pressure and some lever-action later and voila! God bless you, Gillette!

And eat it, Bear Grylls. You might know which parts of a rotten camel make the most comfortable bedding, but will that little skill get you drunk, alone in a Texas hotel? I think not.

See, last night, the Boy and I caught the 8pm Iron Man at the local cinamegaplex and here I am, twelve hours later, still geeking the fuck out.

Oh, quick sidebar? Odds are, this here post’ll probably* be full of spoilers from the movie. At the very least, I’ll have to bring up the short sequence that rolls after the credits.

Ok, so first thought? Robert Downey, Jr. IS Tony Stark. I don’t mean “is” as in “plays the part of,” either. I mean is is.

He’s brilliant in the role. You know how they always talk about how difficult it is to act in a CGI-heavy movie, that even “good” actors (talking to you, Portman and Christensen) have a hard time working in front of a green screen and/or exchanging witty banter with something that won’t be added until post-production? RDJr has debunked that theory for good.

Half of the man’s scenes involve working with inanimate objects, with shit ILM will add later, and/or at an extreme closeup with the suit’s heads-up display projected onto his grill. And he pulls it all off smashingly.

(Which is all the better for me, because I rarely get to use the word “smashingly.”)

Sure, there are a couple little plot holes (um, the Afghan guerrillas watching him day and night in his make-shift cave lab don’t know something’s amiss when his “missile” includes a faceplate?), but who cares? Everything else about the flick is so good that you can easily overlook those little problems.

My only real problem with that movie doesn’t really have anything to do with the money itself…

After the credits roll, there’s a brief (like one minuteish) sequence in which Tony, having just announced to the world that he IS Iron Man, returns to his fancy pants Malibu home to find a stranger waiting. Of course, we recognize the voice right away (even if there’s no mention of muthafuckin’ snakes on muthafuckin’ planes) and, sure enough, see Samuel L. Jackson step out of the shadows and introduces himself as…

Oh, fuck, I can hardly say it…

Samuel L. Jackson is Nick Fury?!? WTF??

Mace Windu aside, I dig Jackson. I like the man and I generally like his movies. But what jackass decided that this guy:

Should play this guy:

Yes, I know that the Marvel people already bastardized the man in their Ultimate Universe, but something tells me that they did it specifically so SLJ could be cast in the role down the line. It’s a travesty, much worse that Starbuck getting the estrogen treatment.

Seriously. Hasselhoff made a more believable Nick Fury than Jackson will. Then again, doesn’t Hasselhoff make just about anything better?

One last, quasi-related side note…

The Boy’s education continued this weekend with a double-feature. Silja made him watch Billy Elliott in the morning, and I forced him to sit through Die Hard Sunday night. Have to admit that the latter doesn’t hold up as well as I’d hoped. Still essential viewing (if for no other reason than to make sure I don’t have to explain why I want this sweatshirt), though.

By the way, I should clarify my “education” of the Boy… Aaron mentioned in the comments of another post something about me making the Boy ‘watch man movies,’ which made me realize that I might not have been very clear about my intent.

Yes, some of the movies that I’ve thrown at him have included more than their fare share of testosterone, but that’s not really what I’m going for here. Not trying to “toughen him up” or anything like that. It’s just that, at his age, the action-oriented flicks will be more interesting for him. In a year or two, we’ll move to the Casablancas, Godfathers, and Annie Halls of the world.

Up next? One word: KHhhhhhhhhhhhhhaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaannnnnnnnnnnnnnnn!

*As with all the crap I throw at you folks, this is pretty much unedited stream-of-consciousness. I don’t know where we’re going until we get there, either.

Yes, you’re hearing it here first: gas is expensive. And rightfully so. How else would you expect to keep those poor oil company execs and investors off the streets if they can’t make an honest buck or two at the pumps?

Still, though, I feel like it’s my obligation as a man of the people to let you know about your options, about the other perhaps more beneficial ways you can spend your money. More specifically, how you can spend your money on me.

Ok, so let’s say your ride has a 15-gallon tank and gets about 25 miles-per-gallon. And let’s say you’re paying four bucks per, just to make the math easier. That means you’d pay $60 to fill your tank.

Or….

You can use that $60 to buy me one of these fabulous items:

Four 12-packs of Fat Tire or Mirror Pond
Safeway: 4@12.99 = $51.96.

At the rate I consume alcohol these days, that would last me nearly two months. If you selfishly wasted it on gas, you’ll probably just need to do it all over again in a week or so. Are you really telling me you’ll choose one week of driving for you over 8 weeks of intoxication for me? You selfish prick.Note:You’ll need to add another $2.40 for the deposit if you buy them in Oregon, or about $4.05 if you pick them up in Washington (sales tax). Still leaves you enough left over to pay for the gas you’d need to deliver them to my house.

Mario Cart Wii and an extra Wii Wheel.
Amazon.com: $49.99 and $9.99, respectively

Yeah, I know. Everyone’s talking about GTA 4 right now, but give me break. I’ve got young kids around, and I don’t want my thirteen-year-old learning about beating hookers to death with golf clubs until I’m ready to teach him myself.

Seventeen pints of Phish Food
Safeway: 17@$3.50 = $59.50

Don’t get me wrong here, I can’t stand hippies. But when you make them into an ice cream? Mmm… That’s some good shit.

Four Bratz Dolls
About $15 each

I despise these things. All of you who think Barbies give girls a negative body image? Head through the toy aisle some time and see if you don’t feel unclean looking at these things. They should start coming with better, more realistic accessories, too… like a dose of Plan B or a shot of penicillin.

If you buy me these things, I’ll make sure they’re destroyed before they corrupt another young girl.

Shogun
Amazon.com: $58.99

Back in the ’80s, the miniseries was King Shit of Fuck Mountain, ruling the airways like no force before or since (fuck Dancing With American Idol’s Funniest Videos). Some were better than others, of course, but one thing guaranteed success: casting Richard Chamberlain. Sure, most people know him better from that other miniseries a few people seemed to tolerate, but don’t let them fool you. Shogun = shiznit.

Plus, unlike The Thorn Birds, it’s not gay.

Unfortunately, I still have a few last minute preparations I need to take care of today, plus meetings and an appointment to sign all the closing papers. Again… All of which means that I won’t have time to put together the usual character-driven, intricately-detailed masterpieces I normally write.

Or, rather, that I would write. If I cared. Which I don’t. Just so we’re clear.

No, folks, today you just get a potpourri (which, thanks to years of Jeopardy!, I know means ‘random shit we’re using as filler but that isn’t good enough to have a category of its own’) of random thoughts and observations that probably don’t amount to anything.

Or that could very well lead you to the Holy Grail. So pay attention.

1. Beer at kids’ shows
They served beer at the Dan Zanes show last week at the Aladdin, something that caught me a little off guard. I know I said that DZ isn’t like most other kids crap and that parents could actually enjoy his stuff, too, but I didn’t think that included having a pint at the gig. Just kinda threw me off.

Don’t get me wrong, being surrounded by other people’s kids makes me want to drink, too, but this dangerous ground. After all, how many of those kids were conceived by drunk parents to begin with? 95, 96 percent? So now they’re drinking more because they’re surrounded by other kids, which will lead to them making a stupid mistake and having MORE children… Which means more kids around to drive other parents to drink…

It’s a vicious cycle that needs to be stopped.

2. His was the most… human.
If I can’t convince Silja and the kids to snort my ashes with Keith Richards after my impending death, I want to spend eternity in the casket on the bottom of this page. I’d hate for future civilizations to confuse me with someone who wasn’t a big fucking dork when they eventually unearth my body from deep within the tomb my followers will undoubtedly construct for me in the near future. Get to work, minions. I ain’t gettin’ any younger here.

3. One Hundred Years of Kite Running With a Thousand Splendid Lives of Pi
I’m always so damn shocked to find out that ‘good’ books are exactly that. I started reading One Hundred Years of Solitude this week and fell in love with it* after just a couple of pages.

Same thing happened to me with Kite Runner and Life of Pi. I heard all about how wonderful they were from various pretentious assholian sources, so I naturally thought they’d be crap. Then I ended up picking them up and finding out that even pretentious assholes are right sometimes. Rarely.

Side note: Khaled Hosseini is fantastic. I heart him now. His books are the only reason I’ll continue to give new fiction a chance, especially when there are so many older books I haven’t read yet, even if that means potentially missing out on another Lolita**.

4. Hazard Light Lady
When she did it yesterday, I was annoyed but sympathetic. After all, most people don’t drive on the freeway at 5 mph while chatting on their cell phones and with their hazard lights on if they aren’t having a problem.

But when I saw her doing the same thing today, I was pissed.

Quick geography lesson for those of you outside the Portland area. Portland is right on the northern border between Oregon and Washington, a border that, in this area, is marked by the mighty Columbia River.

Vancouver, Washington is just on the other side of the border and, while it’s in a different state, is practically a suburb of the larger metropolitan city. As such, many people live in one place and work in the other (including Our Hero).

Obviously, with a big fucking river separating the two places, the only way to drive from one to the other is by crossing a bridge (there are two that span the Columbia in the vicinity). I’m sure you can imagine the kinds of traffic bottlenecks those two crossings represent during rush hour.

Now imagine some dumb skank who insists on driving her car across said bridge, even though it isn’t equipped for the task. Her car is practically stalled on the freeway every morning, single-handedly cutting the capacity of the bridge by 33% because she’s blocking one of the three available lanes. And she’s apparently doing it every morning.

Right now, the two states are gearing up for a new big river crossing project to relieve this congestion problem. Might eventually lead to the construction of another bridge and the extension of light-rail into Vancouver, but will take decades and cost many millions (if not billions). I have a cheaper, faster plan: shoot this chick and feed her to the homeless.

5. New BSG Tonight
And papa got a brand new DVR from Comcast a few days ago, so guess who won’t have to stay up past his bedtime any more? Here’s hoping something actually happens this time around.

And the Boy’s education will continue this weekend, with Terminator 2 scheduled for Saturday. I’d make him watch it sooner, but he’s had rehearsals for his school’s production of The Sound of Music pretty much every day until 9 or 10ish lately. If you just can’t get enough of that Von Trapp wackiness, the show opens on May 8th.

When I’m in Texas…

*The damn-this-is-a-great-book kind of love, not the I-want-to-make-sweet-sweet-love-to-it-paper-cuts-be-damned kind. Perv.

**The book, not actual nymphettes. Seriously, you have a problem.

So after Ani went to bed last night, we tackled our woes the American way: with booze. Oh, alcohol! Is there any problem you can’t solve? After a wee dram of Scotch, things started looking up in the world.

(And Chris, to answer your question from last week? No, I hadn’t tried The Macallan. Not until last night, anyway. Very nice.)

I finally had a chance to sit the Boy down and force him to watch one of the best scifi movies ever, and, as I’d hoped, he seemed to give it the props it deserves. Always love it when 20+ year old movies manager to live up to expectations. Sure, the hair, music, and some of the effects look a little dated, but you seriously can’t go wrong with lines like this:

REESE
Listen. And understand. That terminator is out there. It can’t be bargained with. It can’t be reasoned with. It doesn’t feel pity, or remorse, or fear. And it absolutely will not stop, ever, until you are dead.

Ok, so that’s a great example of “lines that suck on the page but that kick hard fucking ass when delivered.” Whatever. Point is, Ren seemed to enjoy it for the most part, which means that I shouldn’t have any problems getting him primed for T2 (which I’ve totally been jonesing for ever since I mentioned it the other day).

Quick sidebar… How is it that the biggest action heroes of the 80s had the pussiest names ever? Would you really be afraid if someone in high school told you that “Arnold” was looking for you, or that “Sylvester” was totally going to kick your ass later?

And “Bruce?” Big fat ‘mo name.

But even The Macallan and The Terminator can’t compete with the call we got this morning.

Quick background for those of you out of the loop…

Anikka, our four-year-old daughter and the sweetest thing EVER, was born with a fairly large congenital nevus on her left cheek. Basically, the thing is like a birthmarky-mole hybrid that, in addition to the looks/comments, comes with a slightly increased risk for melanoma.*

For the last several years, we’ve debated what to do about it. We considered “nothing,” but the cancer risk coupled with the reactions from other kids (and ass-hat adults)* convinced us that wasn’t the best route.

So we tried various laser therapies with a great doctor in Sacramento, but, after about a half dozen or so procedures, we gave up. The costs were adding up pretty quickly (airfare for 3 to Sacramento + rental car + missed day of work every month + $500 per procedure for each zappin’), and the whole process was just plain exhausting. Imagine walking everyone up at 4am, flying to California, driving directly to the doctor, drugging your toddler, restraining her as strangers come at her face with lasers, driving back to the airport, and flying home with a little girl who’s had a really rough day and missed her nap… Now imagine doing that every month. See? Pooped.

Plus, the results just weren’t all that encouraging.

Now we’re at the final option: surgery. Or, rather, surgeries. Probably 3-6 out-patient procedures up in Seattle, during which they’ll knock our princess out, cut out small sections of the nevus, sew her back together, and wait six months for things to heal before repeating the process. That starts May 20.

Let’s just pretend that we’re not completely freaked the fuck out about the whole surgery idea, we still had to worry about the monetary angle. See, the insurance companies’ default positions on this is that “Until it turns into cancer, it’s considered ‘cosmetic.’ And we don’t cover cosmetic procedures. Come back to us when she’s dying.”

Fuckwads.

But… here’s where we finally get back to that call I mentioned:

We found out this morning that our insurance company WILL actually cover it. Furthermore, the hospital in Seattle and the doctor we met are considered part of the insurance company’s network.

You can’t see me right now, but I smile just thinking about that.

We’ve been sweating that for a few years now, having read all sorts of horror stories from others who’ve gone through this and having received less-than-optimistic answers from a couple of doctors we stalked. To officially hear that they’re coming through? Fucking rocks.

That pretty much means that the insurance company will pay for 90% of the costs, outside of our $500 deductible and $1000 annual max. Now compare that to the $20-30k we were expecting to have to cover out of our own pockets. Hot fucking damn.

Of course, it’s not all sunshines and rainbows. We still have to actually drive our daughter up to Seattle and hand her over to strangers in masks who plan to knock her unconscious and cut out pieces of her face…

And that idea makes me piddle.

*Some kids are rotten, but the adults are the worst. One actually came up to her in a Safeway once, got up in her face, and screamed “What’s wrong with your face!?!” Fucking douche bags.

I’m devastated.

I mean, you hear about this kind of thing all the time but you never think it could happen to someone you love.

I really don’t even want to write about it. The wound’s just too fresh, still too… real.

But I can’t just sit idly by and let this travesty continue. Someone needs to stand up and speak for those who can’t speak for themselves. Someone needs to educate the masses. And if not me, who? If not now, when?

Ok. I think I’m ready to share. After the jump, you’ll see what’s tearing me up so. I just couldn’t put the image on the front page. Too risky. Children might see, might have nightmares.

What lies ahead isn’t for the faint of heart. If I could, I’d have you sign some kind of waiver before continuing on. But you’ve been warned.

The horror… the horror.

That, friends, is exactly what it looks like: an EMPTY bottle of Scotch.

After the kids went to bed last night, we turned on TNT and watched the Jazz beat up on the Rockets. I went in to the kitchen and poured myself what turned out to be the last few drops of this bottle, a gift from Silja last Valentine’s Day. Now, this empty bottle is all that remains. It’s probably sitting out on top of the recycling bin right now, waiting for some gruff man to take it off to its final resting place.

I know, I know. I tried to warn you, tried to tell you that this tale of woe would hit hard. You simply can’t be prepared for this kind of gruesome scene.

But all is not lost. This bottle wasn’t our last hope. No. There is another.

Clearly, we can’t replace this bottle. It’s gone, and we just have to move forward. Bringing home another bottle of The Glenlivet 18 Year Old would just remind us of the one that’s gone. Gone, gone, gone. We have to move on, to find someone new.

And that’s exactly what we’ve done. We went out and found a new bottle of Scotch we’d like to bring into our home. Oh, you’d love him. Granted, he’s a little older than most, but with his superb blend of spices, hazelnut, sweet orange marmalade and other fruits? How could we let him stay out on the streets, selling himself to Gods only know who?

Thing is, though, that we can’t bring him home yet. Not without your help.

For just pennies a day, you can sponsor The Glenlivet Cellar Collection 1969 and help make him part of the family. With your generous contribution, you’ll receive:

• Photos of The Glenlivet Cellar Collection 1969
• Personalized letters from The Glenlivet Cellar Collection 1969
• Regular updates to help you monitor The Glenlivet Cellar Collection 1969’s progress
• And, if you live in the Portland area, the chance to visit The Glenlivet Cellar Collection 1969 in person

Won’t you help make The Glenlivet Cellar Collection 1969 part of our family? Together, we can make a difference.