Anyway.

In Portland, the littlest bit of sunlight brings out all sorts of wackiness. People start coming out from under the rocks, staring at the strange, warm, glowing object hovering in the sky until it burns holes in their retinas. They congregate in the parks and on the waterfront wearing clothes they have no business donning in public (the sight of which can, like the sun, burn holes in retinas).

And they fucking smell. Badly. Like someone used a thousand dead, wet dogs to mop up the runners’ sweat and puke after the Boston Marathon, left the infested corpses out to bake in the sun for a week, squeezed every drop of putrid liquid out of what remained, added a hint of sulfur and a dab of cat piss, then bathed in it for a month.

And they ride my train.

Say hello to my train buddy from last night:

No, he’s not wearing a sweater under that muscle shirt.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I don’t fault a guy for being on the furry side. Sure, I don’t think that’s the best fashion choice for someone who looks like they could have played the starring role in Son of Chewie, but I could tolerate the view.

The stench, on the other hand… Sweet Zombie Jesus. At every stop, I prayed that a dozen wet, drunk, homeless guys might step on the train to drown out the smell.

Oh, and to add to the fun? This was my view during the first 15 minutes of our time together:

Yes… And every time the door opened, what normally would have been a delightful summer breeze instead became the noble steed for the fifth horseman of the apocalypse that raced from dude’s pit straight into my brain.

In conclusion, I hate summer. The end.

Can’t remember if I mentioned this before and I’m too lazy to look through the posts from earlier in the week, but this last weekend was the first one I’ve had completely off in about a month or so. Didn’t even have to think about work.

Except that I did. Kinda. Have to think about it, I mean.

We went to the Oregon Zoo on Saturday before The Boy’s Sound of Music performance. A very well-known software company had a Customer Appreciation Day and, since my company happens to be a customer, they footed the bill for us chumps to bring our families in for the day. As Aaron mentioned when I told him about it:

Aaron: So that must be why a single-user license is like $8.2 billion.

me: That’s right. So I can watch monkeys throw poo. Part of the circle of life.

So, yeah, I mean I wasn’t working, didn’t even have to sit through any vendor-related shit, but there was still that association in the back of my head… that I was at the zoo because of work. But they did cover admission, lunch, goody bags for the kids, and zoo train tickets, so it was still a pretty good day.

And here’s the requisite Picture of Her Highness at the Zoo:

Probably can’t tell from the grumpy look on her face, but she did have fun.  And this particular picture was her idea.  Like we were walking by when she ran back to the bench and insisted I take her picture.

And I did.

Because I do everything she asks.  Because she’s sweet.  And because I want her to put me in a good home some day instead of just shipping me off to the same glue factory I’m sending my own mum to in the not so distant future.

Which totally doesn’t lead at all into zombies.  (Segues and me are like metaphors and me.  And similes and me.  And clear prose that makes any kind of sense whatsoever and me.  Whatever.)

Not just zombies, no…  Zombies Fighting Sharks!  As in, ZombieFightsShark.blogspot.com, Our Hero’s newest favorite blog.  I know precisely two things about the guy who runs it (Clinton):  he escaped from Texas and he writes funny, funny stuff.  You should go there now.

Seriously.  Go.  Fly, my pretties, fly!

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.

Clearly, it’s too late to help him. He’s back in Texas now, probably now the replacement love-toy of some cowboy whose favorite steer ran away and who tries to hide his homosexual urges by acting all muy macho. But for anyone else planning a trip or move to the Rose City, may I present…

Justin’s Guide to Driving In and Around Portland

1. Gas (or Petrol, for those of you who don’t speak ‘Merican)

You might think you’re down on oil companies and cartels, but nobody walks the walk like Oregonians. The Oregonian aversion to Big Oil runs so deep that they simply refuse to sully themselves through physical contact with gas pumps. Rather than pump their own gas, they instead employ thousands of Petroleum Relocation Engineers to do this dirty job for them. Should you attempt to pump your own gas in Oregon, you can expect to be beaten about the face and neck by the on-duty gas huffer.

2. Pedestrians

One of two protected species found within the Portland City Limits (cyclists being the other), Pedestrians are guarded at all costs. Failure to yield the right away to Pedestrians under any of the following circumstances will result in a Rodney King-like beating at the hands of Portland’s Finest.

• A Pedestrian in a marked crosswalk.
• A Pedestrian in an unmarked crosswalk.
• A Pedestrian on the sidewalk considering the possibility of becoming a Pedestrian in a crosswalk (marked or unmarked).
• A Pedestrian in a house.
• A Pedestrian with a mouse.
• A Pedestrian in a box.
• A Pedestrian with a fox.

You may also be forced to remove your non-prescription hipster glasses for up to 60 days, depending on the severity of the offense.

3. Multitasking

With Seattle so close by, people often forget that Portland and its suburbs are home to numerous computer and technology companies. It’s a haven for the Open Source community, with luminaries like Linus Torvalds calling the place ‘home.’

With such a technology presence, it should be no surprise that the ability to multitask is essential to driving in Oregon. This gentleman, for instance, is a true Oregon Driver:

Driving should not get in the way of enjoying a good book.

4. Turn Signals are for Pussies.

While driving in Oregon, never EVER attempt to signal before turning, changing lanes, etc. By alerting other drivers of your intentions, you give them the chance to counteract before you make your move. It’s like having an obvious tell in poker, or telegraphing your left hook. The results? The gap in the lane next to you will close instantly and Anarchists will spontaneously begin to demonstrate in the street you thought you were going to turn into. Turn signals are yellowish for a reason: they’re for pussies.

5. Cyclists

As mentioned above, Cyclists are the other protected species in Oregon. In fact, there are more free-range wild Cyclists in Portland than in any other city found in Multnomah County.

Despite their erratic behavior and characteristic odor, most Cyclists are harmless. They can be a bit aggressive, however, so you should always be cautious and aware of your surroundings, especially while driving through downtown. Thankfully, the city has posted signs that not only warn you of potential free-range Cyclists in the area, but that also remind you that they are, indeed, retarded:

Free-range Cyclists are Dumb

Sadly, not all Cyclists remain free, with some of the wealthy, trendier Portlanders attempting to domesticate Cyclists caught in the wild. While you do need to obtain special permits to purchase or import a domesticated Cyclist, the number of privately owned Cyclists is growing at an alarming rate.

You’ll see hints of this spreading fad all over Portland, as illustrated by this traffic sign warning motorists to be aware of people walking their Cyclists:

Pedestrian walking a Cyclist

In general, the same leash laws that govern dogs apply to domesticated Cyclists. Owners are also expected to clean up after their Cyclists but, sadly, few do so.

6. Bridges

The Willamette River cuts through the center of Portland, necessitating a number of bridges (8.6 million at last count). Most are drawbridges, so be prepared for the occasional lift. They’re few and far between, however, and generally announced well in advance to avoid major traffic mishaps.

Drivers from other areas are generally able to handle bridge lifts, but seldom are visitors prepared by the situation symbolized in this other Portland traffic sign:

Warning: Evel Knievel Crossing

Unless you’re from Vegas and used to seeing the legendary daredevil in action, it’s imperative that you heed this warning and be prepared to get the holy fuck out of the way.

Welcome to Portland.

Don’t tell anybody, but sometimes? When I’m at work? I’m not actually working. Because not working at work makes work soooo much more tolerable. Having a job that doesn’t actually involve work? Like acting or writing or prostitution? That would totally kick ass.

So while I wasn’t working yesterday, during my reintroduction to coffee, I ended up over on the AFI website, looking at one of their little lists. Because I LOVE not having to think about anything. Just give me a list and I know what I’m supposed to do. NEVER deviate from the lists.

Except their 100 Best Movie Quotes one. That one, they fucked up.

Not only did they not list the true Greatest Movie Line EVER in the number one position, but they completely snubbed it. Wasn’t even on their list of 400 nominees. Stupid, stupid people.

The line? Like you didn’t already know:

LUKE SKYWALKER
But I was going into Toshi Station to pick up some power converters!

Oh, wait… That’s number one on the Gayest Lines That Nearly Ruined the Best Movie Franchise Twenty-Two Years Before Jar Jar, Hayden Christensen, and the Piece of Plywood Painted to Look Like Natalie Portman Fucked It All Up list. My mistake.

Ok, the REAL Best Line Ever that didn’t even make their stupid list? Clint Eastwood in Unforgiven:

LITTLE BILL
You’d be William Munny out of Missouri. Killer of women and children.

WILL MUNNY
That’s right. I’ve killed women and children. I’ve killed just about everything that walks or crawled at one time or another. And I’m here to kill you, Little Bill, for what you did to Ned.

So I’m going to assume that you’ve all seen Unforgiven numerous times, and that I don’t have to remind you that this is the scene at the saloon toward the end of the movie where, after they beat the shit out of Munny and posted Ned’s (Morgan Freeman) body outside the saloon as a warning to other would-be bounty hunters, Clint finally gets his bad ass on and confronts Little Bill (Gene Hackman).

If you haven’t seen it? Go out and watch it within the next week, or don’t bother coming back. You’re no minion of mine.

And it doesn’t matter if you don’t like Westerns. This is one of those films that transcends genre. Yeah, it happens to take place in the Wild West, but that’s pretty much where the similarities end. It’s certainly not the clear cut John Wayne white hat/black hat story your pappy used to watch. It’s more like the other cheery fare Clint’s given us since (think Mystic River and Million Dollar Baby, not Space Cowboys).

As for the line itself, it’s SOOO much more effective when you read it aloud in your best Clint Eastwood voice, throwing in JamesTKirkian pauses throughout. And imagine you just shot the owner of the bar for decorating it with your pal, with your back to the lightning and downpour goin’ down just beyond the swinging saloon doors.

Also helps if you can run the line with Gene Hackman, something that was much easier to do before he starting shilling lawn mowers and shower massagers for Lowe’s. Now he’s apparently too busy counting his dirty money to help a stalker fan out. Jerk.

Now, before we get into exactly what brought Our Hero to this state of weakness, a quick word to the Starbucks haters:

Suck It.

Fine. Two words. Whatever.

Point is that I don’t care about why you hate them. Sorry if you feel like their dominance put your favorite joint out of business or if you’re sure they sacrifice baby seals to maintain that market share.

Fact is that:

a)They make decent coffee that you can find anywhere and always know what you’re getting, and

b)Well, there isn’t really a “b.” I just don’t care about your opinions.

I lied. There is a second one. The whole Howard Schultz-suing-to-regain-ownership-of-the-Sonics-and-keep -them-in-Seattle thing. Sure, he might just be grandstanding and milking the public for some goodwill, but if he can pull it off, I’ll not only start drinking coffee regularly again, but it’ll only be Starbucks. And every person I know will receive Starbucks gift cards for their birthdays, etc. And I’ll get that logo of their’s tatooed on my arse.

Ok, maybe not that last one. I will, though, help with the harvest and cultivation of those baby seals.

So this morning…

Started off with me combining Kashi GoLEAN Crunch with Trader Joe’s SuperMegaUltraFiber O’s. NOT A GOOD COMBINATION.

Remember those old SNL “Colon Blow” commercials? Yeah. So a 20-30 minute ride on the train after eating more fiber in one sitting than most people consume in a week? Not very comfortable.

So I was already feeling cranky (and pained, and hoping to the Lords of Cobol that I could make it to the office) when another guy squeezed himself into the seat next to me. A guy at least my size. All up in my bubble while I’m trying my damnedest to concentrate on Sula and not shitting myself.

To give you some perspective…

I’m not certain exactly how wide the seats on the MAX are, but I’d assume they’re roughly the same size (if not smaller) than most domestic coach airline seats. A little bit o’ Googlin’ turns up a site called SeatGuru with a handy little chart showing that most of those seats are around 17-18 inches wide on most airlines.

I measured myself (my width, perv) when I got to the office. Turns out I’m about 21 inches wide, shoulder-to-shoulder. For you non-math types, that means I’m about 3-4 inches wider than the space I’m in. (And while I can certainly stand to lose a couple of pounds, I keep that in my gut. We’re just talking about general body frame here.)

It also means that, unless you’re <14-15 inches wide, you SHOULDN’T FUCKING SIT NEXT TO ME.

Or rather, on me. Because that’s really all there’s room for. If you’re the same size as me or wider, and you aren’t willing to spill out into the aisle, you will not fit without crushing me against the wall or sitting my lap. And either of those will likely make me wanna shank a bitch.

Especially if he’s trying to focus on not pooing. I eventually just got up and stood for the remainder of the trip, trying to light him on fire with the power of my mind until my stop. Didn’t work… yet.

(Quick aside… this is the kind of post that coffee leads to. A rambling, herky-jerky stream of consciousness that might very well induce vomiting. I’m totally quitting again after this post.)

Finally got off the train, power walked to the office, and, um, took care of business.*

Sweet, yet short-lived, relief.

As I was walking to my desk, I was ambushed by a coworker who needed techy help.** Normally not my job, but being the only nerd in the office for the rest of the week, I have to cover for the whole group.

After I took care of her and walked back to my desk, another one came over. With another stupid non-existent problem. One that wouldn’t be any of my business if it wasn’t for the other people being out of the office.

And that was all before 8am.

Couple that with the knowledge of my impending Texas trip and the fact that I’ll probably have to work both of the next two weekends in preparation? Let’s just say that, if I’d had a flask on me, I’d have skipped that foofoo drink and Irished up some regular coffee instead. Instead? Mocha-y goodness.

But the day wasn’t completely lost. That picture? Taken with my new Canon SD1100.*** This one here:

Ain’t she purty? Of course, I had to take that picture with my camera phone, so the quality isn’t so great.

But since I know those food blogs are all the rage, here’s my lunch for the day:

Give me a break. I just dropped $300 on a camera, SD card, and a case. Didn’t feel like kicking down the three bucks for a sandwich after that.

It’s your fault, anyway. I told you all to buy that camera for me. Now if I die from malnutrition, it’s totally on you. Bad minions! Bad!

*Quick question of etiquette…

At the office, we have two stalls (in addition to the two urinals). One’s the big, cushy handicapped number, the other’s the normal-sized one.

So under normal circumstance, I think the right thing to do is to take the larger one (unless you have people in your office with a legitimate need for the extra space and you give a shit about that person). You get the extra room and don’t feel cramped in.

However, I also think you’re supposed to take the stall furthest away from the door. People don’t hear/smell your business that much, and you’re less likely to accidentally see who enters/leaves the other stall, thus creating awkward hand-washing conversation.

So I never know which to take: the one that’s bigger but closer to the rest of the action, or the one that’s smaller but less likely to lead to an uncomfortable post-poo experience? Curious to know what my fellow men think.

Oh, and I know Laurie Notaro covered this topic in one of her books, but I’m not sure her rules apply for men. Besides, as a Man, I shouldn’t acknowledge that I know anything about her.

**A public service announcement for you non-tech types out there:

NEVER jump the IT guy before he has a chance to settle in. Unless something is on fire, let him get a chance to take off his coat, put down his bag, and, maybe, grab a cup of something before you start bombarding him with whatever self-imposed travesty you’ve managed to create this time.

Just remember: the IT guy has access to all your files and email. And your browser history. He usually doesn’t give a fuck what you’re doing, but if you piss him off? You can count on your collection of animal-on-midget porn finding its way to HR.

And don’t think you’re safe because you don’t have such a collection. Won’t take him long to change that.

***Normally, I’d save a little cash by buying something like this online or, if I wanted instant gratification, go over to smaller mom-n-pop place. Instead, I picked this up at Office Depot.

Why? Because the last time I was there, I left Anikka’s new flower mouse pad at the counter and one of the sales people ran me down (3-4 blocks, in the rain) to give it to me. I figured I owed a karmic debt to the store that would chase a customer down just to give them their five-buck mouse pad.

And the mouse pad made Ani very happy.

And it goes with her ladybug mouse (which I hope Jacob’s daddy won’t mistakenly shoot on site).

Behold, the Best Headline Ever:

Penis theft panic hits city

In case you’re afraid to click, here’s a taste:

Police in Congo have arrested 13 suspected sorcerers accused of using black magic to steal or shrink men’s penises after a wave of panic and attempted lynchings triggered by the alleged witchcraft.

“Shrink men’s penises?”  That totally happened to, um, this one guy I knew…