Category Archives: Pop Culture

May 6 2013

How Shellfish of Us

Let me preface this by stating, I do not like oysters. 

Clams? Yes. And shrimp and crab and scallops and lobster and geoduck and most other types of seafood. But oysters are nasty, slimy, disgusting little gobs of flesh. That was my impression as Tara and I parked ourselves at a table at a trendy little bar called Interurban on Friday evening. It was the tail end of a long work week, and summer was in full swing in the Pacific Northwest, with sunshine and 80 degree temperatures.* So we headed out back to a cozy outdoor patio with an arbor and plants and tiny flickering candles on the tables, and ordered cocktails. We were in Portland to catch a show at Mississippi Studios, a birthday gift from Tara: a Johnny Cash tribute band called Cash’d Out. We ordered our usual – gin and tonic for me, vodka and 7-Up for her – and, when I spied oysters on the menu for $2 a pop, I went ahead and asked for a couple of those, too.

“What are you doing?” Tara asked.
“I thought we might want an appetizer,” I explained.
“I was thinking a cheese plate.”
“That’s too easy. We should try oysters.”
“I don’t like oysters.”
“Neither do I. This should be interesting.”

I honestly don’t know what possessed me to order them. The last time I’d eaten oysters, maybe ten years ago, black goo squirted out when I bit into them. And those were fried. I’d refused to so much as look at one ever since. I think maybe it’s because our food challenge is opening our eyes to new experiences and making us more culinarily adventurous.

Or maybe we’re just suckers for punishment.

In any case, the oysters arrived, glistening and raw on the half shell. They were served with mignonette sauce, a traditional accompaniment consisting of diced shallots, cracked black pepper, and vinegar. We both just sort of stared at them for awhile before mustering up the courage to try them. We squeezed a wedge of lemon over top, spooned a little of the sauce on them, and toasted to new adventures.

“Bottoms up!” we said, and swallowed.

Oysters with mignonette sauce.

Oysters with mignonette sauce.

To our utter surprise, they were delicious. So much so that we ordered another round. Our server explained the origin of each oyster – they were harvested at different locations off the Oregon coast – but I wasn’t interested in their pedigree so much as slurping another one down. Man, they were good! Even Tara, picky eater that she is, loved them. Go figure.

“Did they put you and Tara in a frisky mood?” my sis-in-law Esther asked over Facebook, when I posted the above pic.

“I don’t know what she’s talking about,” I said to Tara, and removed my hand from beneath her bra in order to type a reply to Esther.

But it wasn’t the alleged aphrodisiac qualities that appealed to us. Those oysters were just pretty damn good, period. I guess we’ll have to experiment some more with different types whenever we come across them on a dinner menu. Hell, we may even check out an actual oyster bar now.

The rest of the evening was equally enjoyable. Right up until the part where I collapsed on the floor. Cash’d Out was amazing, reeling off Johnny Cash hit after Johnny Cash hit. “Folsom Prison Blues.” “Get Rhythm.” “I’ve Been Everywhere.” “A Boy Named Sue.” “I Walk The Line.” “I Got Stripes.” They had the whole place singing the chorus to “Ring Of Fire.” It was a really enjoyable performance, and the lead singer nailed The Man In Black. (Yes, mom, I like Johnny Cash. Have for years!).

We were right down in front, next to the stage, surrounded by a sold-out crowd, and everything was going great. And then, I started to feel funny. Just sort of “off.” My skin turned pale and cool. I felt lightheaded. My vision blurred. Tara asked if I was okay. I said yes. She asked me what was wrong. I said, “nothing.” I kept insisting nothing was wrong until I nearly fainted, and ended up losing my balance and falling to the floor.

OK. Fine. Something was wrong.

She helped me to my feet, and there were a lot of concerned faces in the crowd. One woman kept asking if I was alright. I nodded, and Tara helped me walk outside. The moment the fresh, cool air hit me, I felt immediately better. She grabbed me some water, and the panic on her face almost made me cry. I think it took me a while to convince her that I truly was okay. We went back inside for a couple more songs, but I was feeling a little woozy in there again, so we left for good. It was nearly midnight, and the band had been playing for almost two hours nonstop. I guess they had more stamina than me.

Later, I self-diagnosed myself as suffering from a combination of dehydration and heat exhaustion. I had four gin and tonics before the show, with only a brief sip of water. I realized later, that whole day, the only other beverage I had consumed was coffee in the morning. And getting back to the (*) above, I know it’s not technically summer for another month and a half, but don’t tell Portland that. It’s been sunny and hot for days now. So, the combination of me drinking only liquids that cause dehydration and inhibit cooling, coupled with the heat and the packed crowd and the sold-out show and being on my feet for two hours straight, did me in. Lesson learned. I’ll be sure to drink plenty of water now whenever we go out and alcohol is in the picture. Which is to say, whenever we go out. Heat exhaustion leads to syncope (fainting) which leads to heat stroke, and that is serious business. It can kill you. So, I’ve been scared straight. Water is my new best friend.

Well, water and oysters. Can’t wait to try some more of those bad boys!

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May 1 2013
Image

Spin The Black Circle

Vinyl Heaven

See this needle…a see my hand…
Drop, drop, dropping it down…oh, so gently…
Well here it comes…I touch the plane…
Turn me up…won’t turn you away…
Spin, spin…spin the black circle
Spin, spin…spin the black, spin the black…
Spin, spin…spin the black circle

Inspired by the following comment left on yesterday’s entry: “Do you still have vinyl to play on the turntable? I didn’t think people even kept LP’s anymore.” Anybody who knows me or Tara is well aware of the answer to that. :)

Apr 1 2013

Old Time Rock and Roll

Pardon me if you’ve heard this story before…

It was a warm summer night in 1980. My brother and I were sleeping over our friend Jimmy’s house. His parents had put up a tent for us in the backyard, so it was almost like a campout. The night was dark, the heat oppressive, and I could not sleep, so I crawled out of the tent as quietly as possible, being careful not to wake the others, and laid in a hammock on the back porch, a tiny blue transistor radio pressed to my ear. Bob Seger’s “Against The Wind” came on, and the lyrics filled my 11-year-old head with ideas. This was a song about an older man looking back on his youth with regret, and not only did the words seem to perfectly fit that very moment - there in the darkness with the radio playing low - they made me realize that I was young and carefree, but this would not always be so. I didn’t want to one day look back and lament paths not taken, and I wanted very much to feel alive. Right then and there. So I switched off the radio and took off, running against the wind. I ran until my legs ached and my breath came in sharp little gasps, through an empty field of knee-high grass teeming with fireflies, beneath a dark and starry sky, all the way to the edge of the woods that served as a playground for us back then, Seger’s lyrics tumbling through my brain the entire way.

Things changed after that. We left Ohio a couple of months later, and I felt like an important part of my youth disappeared then. Decades later I would return, to the same field and those same woods, older and wiser. That eleven-year-old boy had been naive, because it’s impossible not to lament paths not taken. But hopefully we can learn from those choices we have made. I thought of that night when I strolled through my old stomping grounds, an evening that has since taken on almost mythic proportions in my mind. I thought of Bob Seger. I thought of running against the wind.

Saturday night, Tara and I saw Bob Seger & The Silver Bullet Band live in concert at the Rose Garden Arena. The second rock ‘n roll legend we have seen in four months. And I got goosebumps when he launched into “Against The Wind” to start his first encore. Once again, I thought of that summer night in Ohio, and how surreal it was that the voice once coming through my little transistor radio was now filling an arena, and I was there to witness it live. It was a special moment for me, and filled me with melancholy. And also happiness. I never dreamed I would see Bob Seger play live. The guy is 67 years old, and the window of opportunity to see such a legendary performer is inevitably narrowing with each passing year. Seger himself says, “I’m definitely nearing the end.” But he’s still got it, and the show was terrific – even if Tara and I were among the youngest people there. There were guys with canes and walkers. A wheelchair or two. The hipsters who so often fill the little clubs where we go to see our favorite up-and-coming indie rock acts were replaced by geriatric folk, balding and gray, and I guess that makes sense. I may have been 11 when “Against The Wind” came out, but these folks were doubtless in their 20s and 30s then, or older. I’m not making fun of them; I think it’s great that these old fogies were big enough fans that they would go out and see their idol perform a live rock ‘n roll show. I’m sure when we’re their age we’ll still be doing the same thing.

Joe Walsh was the opening act, and that in itself was a great performance. We both love Joe Walsh. He’s an old guy too, and he seemed a little “fried” for lack of a better word, but he was funny and cool and played an electric set that included his biggest hits (“Rocky Mountain Way,” “Funk #49,” “Life’s Been Good”). He even updated the lyrics to that last one; I’m making records/my fans they can’t wait/they write me letters/tell me I’m great became they write me e-mails. We enjoyed Joe’s performance, even if we did miss the beginning. We had gone into Portland early to grab a bite to eat at Little Big Burger and, since we still had time to kill, stopped in Peet’s Coffee for a latte, where we lounged around for a while. Too long, it turns out, because when we made our way to the Rose Garden, every one of the parking lots was filled. We had to backtrack into downtown and hop on the light rail, finally arriving a few minutes after the show began at 8:00.

The highlight, of course, was Bob Seger. He took the stage and played for a solid two hours, running through a string of hits that everybody in the crowd knew and loved. “Tryin’ To Live My Life Without You,” “The Fire Down Below,” “Mainstreet,” “Old Time Rock and Roll,” “Turn The Page,” “Beautiful Loser,” “We’ve Got Tonight,” “Roll Me Away,” “Katmandu,” “Like A Rock” (which they’re playing on tour for the first time in 26 years). He introduced a new song, “All The Roads,” from an album they hope to release in August. It sounded great! And we were treated to not one, but two encores: “Against The Wind,” “Hollywood Nights,” “Night Moves,” and “Rock ‘n Roll Never Forgets.” Bob Seger may look like an old man, and he’s not quite as energetic as Springsteen was – he didn’t leap off any pianos or crowd-surf, and was mostly content to sit at a stool while strumming his guitar – but he was humble and genuinely seemed to enjoy the whole experience. And his familiar, gravelly voice has aged well. Great show, one that Tara and I will long remember.

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Mar 20 2013

When Jerry Met Harry

Sometimes, life imitates art. I was reminded of this the other day when Tara and I went out to dinner. We were at Red Lobster, taking advantage of a Facebook coupon that gave us $10 off two Lobster Fest entrees (hurry – this is a limited time offer), when we encountered a character straight out of a Seinfeld episode.

Our waiter was a Low Talker.

You remember the episode, right? Jerry and Elaine are having dinner with Kramer and his new girlfriend Leslie, whom they dub a Low Talker because they can’t understand a word she is saying. Jerry mentions that he is making a guest appearance on The Today Show to promote a benefit for Goodwill, and inadvertently agrees to wear the Puffy Shirt that Leslie has designed. “You can’t wear that,” Elaine says. “You look like the Count of Monte Cristo.” Here’s a clip.

God, I miss Seinfeld. Pure comic brilliance, I tell you.

Anyway. That was our waiter Monday night. He introduced himself and might have talked about the daily specials. Or perhaps he was mentioning the weather, or telling us to kindly go $%#@ ourselves. We couldn’t tell, because we had no idea what the hell he was saying. Just like in the Seinfeld episode, we were all “What?” and “Excuse me?” And also, just like in the Seinfeld episode, we got to a point where we just nodded our heads and agreed with him. “Mmm-hmm,” we said, regardless of the fact that we didn’t have the faintest clue what he was saying or asking or suggesting. Fortunately, our food was delivered correctly, though he did initially overlook applying the coupon.

And then, to make matters worse, there was a lady in the booth across from us who was a character straight out of a Rob Reiner film. Specifically, she was the title character played by Meg Ryan in When Harry Met Sally. The female title character, of course, a real-life version of Sally Albright. Remember how particular Sally was when ordering food in a restaurant? She was notorious for ordering in the most complicated manner possible, and liked things “on the side.” Here’s a clip from that movie.

Hilarious stuff. But fake. Not so on Monday night.

“I want the shrimp,” this lady told the waiter (who fortunately was not the Low Talker; there’s no telling what would have happened if those two worlds had collided). “But I want exactly four ounces, no more and no less. And I want the broccoli, but I also want four ounces. That’s a total of eight ounces. And I would like a salad with ranch dressing, but I want the dressing on the side.”

I kid you not.

The poor, frazzled waiter had to check with his manager to see if this was even possible. He came back and told her the shrimp weighed something like 4.3 ounces before cooking, but would shrink down to 4 ounces by the time it hit the plate. She was apparently satisfied, but if you ask me, I wouldn’t be surprised if the chef hawked a loogie in her clarified butter. There’s picky, and there’s picky verging on ridiculous. This woman was way beyond both. So, after we paid our bill, I told Tara I was going to walk right by her table on the way out and call her Sally. Sure enough, I made a detour, passing by their booth. I looked at her, she looked back, and I said, “Bye, Sally!” 

That was immensely gratifying. I have no idea if she made the connection – I high-tailed it out of there right after – but, come on. She had it coming. If you’re that particular about the food you eat, don’t go out. And if you do go out, don’t sit across from me. I am not afraid to call you out on it.

Joie de Vivre, folks.

Nothing To Crow About

Last week I was reading a blog by The Paranormalist – Renae Rude, in which she sang the praises of crows. I replied that I have a love/hate relationship with the creepy black birds, only minus the “love” part. She then challenged me to write about my hatred of crows while she would take the opposite approach and talk about her love for crows.

Does he look evil, or what?

Does he look evil, or what?

Don’t get me wrong: there are some crows I can stomach. Like Counting Crows. (But mainly their early stuff, “Omaha” and such, not the Shrek dreck). But the birds? No way. I can’t stand them. Ms. Rude calls them “smart” and “mischievous” and that is precisely what I hate about them! I am creeped out by the idea of a smart bird plotting ways to mischievously take a dump on my just-washed car (or worse, my just-washed hair). Most annoying of all is the fact that crows are loud. And they’re not just loud, they’re loud at inconvenient times, like 5:00 in the morning. Many a time I have been awakened by their godawful caw caw caw caterwauling outside my window. Once, I even sat up, pulled back the curtains, and yelled, “Shut up!!!” at a bunch of crows making a racket, but they didn’t listen to me. Because crows are so smart, I am convinced they are completely aware that they are bothering sleeping humans with their cries, and take great pleasure in doing so. Which makes them smart and mischievous AND ALSO evil. Oh, and I think they’re ugly. Please don’t pull the race card and say it’s a black thing either, because I love ravens. But ravens are not crows. How do I know this? Well, have you ever heard a crow say, “Nevermore?”

Didn’t think so.

(Please note that I like ravens, but not the Baltimore Ravens, because they beat my Denver Broncos in the playoffs last year and can go take a flying $&^# as far as I’m concerned).

Often, I’ll be driving down the road, and will see a crow or two digging into somebody’s discarded fast food bag. This actually happens a lot, which makes me wonder if tossing your not-quite-empty fast food bag out the window when finished, instead of finding a proper trash receptacle, is a “thing.” Who knows. Anyway, whenever I see crows in the road eating cold french fries instead of worms, I always step on the gas and try to swerve and hit ‘em. Oh yes, I do. I’ve never been successful – they always fly away at the last possible second – but one of these days, I will be responsible for “a murder of crows.” And I’ll probably feel good about it, too.

In summation: Seinfeld good. Real-life Low Talkers bad. When Harry Met Sally good. Real-life picky-as-hell Sallys bad. Crows: the devil’s spawn.

Feel free to comment on any or all of the above.

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3nrpodcast1
Mar 12 2013

For My Listening Pleasure

My newest obsession is podcasts.

Which is kind of funny, because Tara listens to a podcast version of The Opie & Anthony Show, and has been singing its praises for the past year. She played it for me on the drive up to Seattle one time last year, and I was not at all impressed. First off, I like music when I’m driving, particularly on long road trips. Second, these guys are rude and crass, which in itself isn’t so bad, but they are rude and crass Republicans, and their anti-Obama monologue a few months before the election made my stomach turn. And they had Ann Coulter on the show, which really sealed the deal. I’m a pretty easygoing person and get along well with almost everybody, but I absolutely loathe that woman. If the devil is walking among us, I’m convinced he doesn’t have horns and a forked tail but is, instead, a blatant racist with long blonde hair and a face like a hawk. The same woman who insulted the entire Special Olympics by calling the President “a retard” before one of the debates.

Shudder.

Now that election season is over and Ann has crawled back into her dark little hole, the Opie & Anthony podcast Tara played on Friday’s trip north was considerably less annoying. In fact, with all the talk about sex and current events, I found it quite entertaining. It made the three-hour trip fly by, in fact. Hmm, I thought to myself. I could really get into podcasts. So I scouted the internet for suggestions, posted on Facebook that I was looking for recommendations, and came away with a list of podcasts to check out. Things like WTF with Marc Moran, The Nerdist, Comedy Bang Bang, and Pop Culture Happy Hour. I’ve listened to a couple of them already and, sure enough, I’m hooked. They’re an entertaining alternative to music, which I will always love, but could stand a break from every now and then.

And, in typical over-the-top Mark fashion, I quickly decided that if all these guys can have successful podcasts, well gosh darn it, so can I! So when Tara came home last night, I said, “I have a great idea, babe.”

“What?” she asked, but she said it all slow-like, drawing it out so that it was actually a “whhhhaaaatttt?” that, to make matters worse, practically dripped with an accusatory mixture of doubt and disbelief. My own fiance! The future Missus! What had I ever done to deserve such preordained scorn?

“We should record a weekly podcast!” I declared, ignoring her obvious skepticism and plunging forth enthusiastically. “The Mark & Tara Show!”

“No way,” she replied.

“But. But. Why not?”

“What would we talk about?”

“Anything. Everything. Breaking Bad. Restaurants we like. Music. It’ll be lots of fun.”

“Honey, you’re going to spazz out.”

“What?” I asked, but I said it all slow-like and high-pitched, drawing it out so that it was actually a “whhhhaaaatttt?” that indicated I had No Idea What She Was Talking About. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I said.

“The video stream,” she answered.

Oh. That.

Remember how I recently wrote that I had no desire whatsoever to be a reality TV star? Funny thing about that. The very next day, I found myself broadcasting to the entire world (or at least the four people who tuned in) a cooking challenge for our food blog. It was National Chocolate Souffle Day, and Tara and I thought it would be fun to come up with a bake-off to see who could make the best chocolate souffle. Then one of our Facebook friends suggested we stream the challenge live over the internet, and I was all over that idea, so we set up the laptop and for the next hour I mugged for the camera, cracking jokes and doing horrible impressions, while Tara actually concentrated on making a souffle. As a result, I was funny, but my dessert fell flat – literally – while hers turned out amazing. “It’s because you were busy spazzing out on camera while I was actually cooking,” she said, and I had to admit, she had a point there.

Which means, she probably has a point with the whole podcast thing. Sigh. Get me in front of an audience – even if I can’t see them – and I tend to act a little over-the-top, I suppose. Which means I should amend my earlier post because it turns out I’d make a great reality TV star! But yeah, I’d probably come across as a total spazz on a weekly audio version of Mark My Words, as fun as that would be.

Oh to the well.

Speaking of Seattle, our weekend trip was lots of fun. Tara’s nephew is walking now, and he’s a real blast. Those few years when kids don’t talk back to you yet are the best ever!! We drove into downtown Saturday evening and strolled around Pike Place Market for a while before meeting up with a blogger Tara had known for many years – longer than she and I have read each other, as a matter of fact – but had never before met. We had a few drinks in a brewpub before heading across the street to a little hole-in-the-wall Chinese place we discovered a year and a half ago for a late dinner. It was a great visit, too short as usual, but a nice respite from the norm.

Here are a few pics, but before I go, if there is a particular podcast you’d like to recommend for my listening pleasure, please let me know!

"What'cha lookin' at, Uncle Mark?"

“What’cha lookin’ at, Uncle Mark?”

Pike Place Market at sunset.

Pike Place Market at sunset.

Feeling crabby?

Feeling crabby?

Colorful chile peppers.

Colorful chile peppers.

Pike Place Market at dusk.

Pike Place Market at dusk.

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Salt and pepper here...
Mar 8 2013

Owl’s Well That Ends Well

I have a confession to make: I am obsessed with hooters.

Have been, ever since I was a boy growing up in the 70s. I found them exotic, big and beautiful, something I thought about but never glimpsed. When they came out, they usually did so at night, long after I was asleep. I took to filling notebooks with drawings of them, page after page. Oh, how I longed to see them in person, up close and real. Maybe I could touch one. Pet it. Caress it.

I’m talking about owls, people!! Jesus. Get your minds out of the gutter.

Boobs are nice, too…

But I digress. For some reason, as a kid, I liked owls. I thought, as far as birds go, owls were pretty cool. Large and powerful nocturnal hunters that could scoop up an unsuspecting mouse in their talons and devour it mid-flight…how badass is that? Plus, they can swivel their heads as much as 270 degrees. That’s a pretty awesome parlor trick, you have to admit.

One of several recent owl-themed purchases, now proudly displayed in our living room.

One of several recent owl-themed purchases, now proudly displayed in our living room.

I guess my fascination with owls as a child is simply a sign of the times. The 70s were definitely the decade of the owl, a symbol of the environmental movement of the 60s. They became cultural icons thanks to Mr. Owl (“How many licks does it take to get to the center of a Tootsie Pop?”) and Woodsy The Owl (“Give a hoot, don’t pollute”), both popular cartoon characters of the 1970s. Owls were everywhere back then, icons of fashion and home decor. Their color combinations – brown, orange, and gold – were wildly popular, giving avocado green a run for its money. It’s no wonder I liked them so much: I couldn’t escape them!

Given my penchant for all things retro, it should come as no surprise that I’ve rediscovered the owl. Every time we stop by the vintage stores on Hawthorne Boulevard, I come back with something owl-related, it seems. Salt and pepper shakers. Wall hangings. You name it, I’ve bought it. Some people might think this is a silly little retro craze, but I don’t give a hoot. I like owls, and I like the 70s. It all fits in with my lava lamps and beaded curtains and record albums and peace signs. I am very much a child of the 70s, and it shows.

Thank god Tara likes that stuff, too. You might say she and I are birds of a feather.

Quit groaning. I never met a pun I didn’t like.

So, when my parents announced recently that there isn’t a bat in the belfry, but an owl, I was understandably excited. Only, they aren’t so much. This owl has taken up residence near their house, and awakens them in the dead of night with its plaintive hooting. I say they’re lucky, they say, “we’re calling an exterminator.” Clearly, they do not share my enthusiasm for the wisest of creatures.

Salt and pepper here...

Salt and pepper here…

In other news, spring has definitely sprung here, after a very disappointing (in my opinion, because there was no snow) winter. Tara marvels over our lack of temperature swings (low of 45, high of 53 is common this time of year) and buds on the trees already, while Ely is gearing up for a snowstorm this weekend. Not us. It’ll be sunny and close to 60, perfect weather for a weekend jaunt to Seattle. We’ve averaged a trip north every 4-6 weeks, but everybody has been busy lately with work and other obligations, so it’s actually been a couple of months since we’ve gotten up there. We’ll rectify that wrong tonight. I’m looking forward to seeing the family, and equally excited over a trip to Pike Place Market tomorrow evening. I love the hustle and bustle of that place, not to mention the excellent seafood. It’ll be the perfect way to celebrate National Crabmeat Day.

Just four more hours ’til we fly the coop!

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Reality TV
Feb 27 2013

Meet Your Next Reality TV Star…

…me!

Or at least I could be, based on the email I received this morning.

Hey Mark!

Bray Entertainment, the Co-Creators of Pawn Stars, is casting and developing a new documentary TV series about the real life Clark Griswold from National Lampoon’s Vacation Movies. We are looking for an entertaining and charismatic dad, like you, who is always trying to go over the top on cool projects for his kids. If you or anyone you know would be interested in this opportunity, please give me a call at blah, blah, blah…

How cool is that?! Obviously they found me through my blog. I’m forever going on about how I’m like a real-life version of Clark Griswold. I titled my series of road-trip posts Gettin’ My Griswold On (and stopped at offbeat places along the way, like the Spam Museum in Minnesota). Hell, I even nicknamed my kids Rusty and Audrey here. So, it’s not entirely surprising that I have been plucked from obscurity and given the opportunity to become a bona-fide reality television star.

This is a really exciting development that is sure to change my life! I’m going to have so many new experiences. Things like:

  1. Talking to the camera to summarize everything that has just happened or is about to happen while wearing the same damn outfit in every single episode, all season long. 
  2. Speaking in cliches. “I’m not here to make friends,” “I’m going to bring my A game,” and “I have worked so hard to get here” will all become part of my vocabulary.
  3. A teary phone call home on a brand new state-of-the-art HTC/Samsung/LG video-equipped cell phone.
  4. Lingering product placement shots. I’ll probably drink a lot more Coca-Cola® and eat a ton of Doritos® now.
  5. Black-and-white slow-motion recaps of things that have happened to me on previous episodes.
  6. A surprise visit from a family member or loved one.
  7. A. HUGE. TWIST!!
  8. An “I overcame adversity!” video montage of my past, set to a sappy pop song.
  9. Shenanigans in a hot tub.
  10. An opportunity to win a brand new 2014 Toyota Avalon that I will then have to drive all over the damn place (a minimum of two trips will be required each episode).

There’s only one downside to all this: I have no desire to live my life in front of a camera. I value my privacy too much! Besides, I’m not seeking fame. Fortune, on the other hand, would be nice. I figure if I’m ever going to get rich (or famous), I’ll do so the old-fashioned way.

By robbing a bank.

Reality TV

Time to prep my “You haven’t seen the last of me!” speech. (Courtesy of technorati.com).

I kid, I kid. By working hard, is what I meant to say. Selling a bunch of books. Something along those lines. Granted, this Clark Griswold-themed reality show seems a tad better than most of the crap out there. A little less backstabby than the others. Centered more around kids than angry black women or gay men with chips on their shoulders. It doesn’t even sound like a contest, but more of a let’s-follow-this-guy-around ala The Osbournes type of deal, which means no “You’re fired!” or “The tribe has spoken” or “Please pack your knives and go.” In other words, a kinder, gentler reality show. But still, not for me.

Speaking of my book, No Time For Kings has been out a year and a half now, and I’m still playing around with promotional ideas and trying to get sales when and where I can. Every once in awhile I’ll get a check for $11 from Amazon, which is nice. A few months ago I dropped the price to $2.99 for the Kindle version, and I just recently added a whole slew of Book Extras to the Kindle version. This is a great feature that gives you the opportunity to add bonus content to your e-book. Honestly, I don’t know why more self-published authors aren’t doing this, or why more readers aren’t clamoring for it. If you’re reading my book, for instance, and want more information on the IWC (International Whaling Commission) mentioned briefly in passing in Chapter 1, you just have to click on a link and you’ll learn all about the organization – what it does, when it was founded, etc. Same holds true if you’re wondering what, exactly, “molybdenum” is or if you’d like the background on characters like Trey or Rachel or Drake. There’s even a section that talks about the themes and symbolism in the book. I’m working on an idea that would give readers a link to what happens to some of the characters after the book ends, as a way to bridge the gap between NTFK and the next book in the series, which will be released…someday. It’s tough when you write all day long for your job, and then you do freelance writing in your spare time. But eventually, I’ll get to it. In the meantime, if you’ve got the Kindle version of No Time For Kings and would like to access the Book Extras, click here for a great primer from Amazon on how to do so. It’s really cool, trust me.

And if you haven’t bought my book yet – what are you waiting for? Seriously. Go. Right now. Right here. Please? (It’s good, I promise).

But enough groveling. I’ve got a reality show to plan for! First order of business? A trip to Walley World! Just gotta gas up the Family Truckster…

Our first photo ever as an engaged couple.
Feb 6 2013

We’re Such Groupies

Last weekend, when I wasn’t busy proposing to my girlfriend or chatting with rock stars,* I was buying peanuts from WinCo. A handful of peanuts makes a perfect mid-morning snack, and eating an ounce a day, in fact, can cut your risk of heart disease in half, and decrease your diabetes risk by 25%. At least according to the Peanut Institute, and they wouldn’t lie, right? So peanuts are my new obsession. They can get expensive, though, so I decided to buy them in bulk. The only problem was, when I got home, I discovered there were an awful lot of empty shells mixed in. Which meant I was essentially paying for a whole lot of nothing, and that bugged me. Short of sifting through the bag every time, I’m just going to have to accept the fact that some empty shells are inevitable. This is why I hate paying for food by weight, unless you’re going to eat every single bit of said food. When you buy an ear of corn, it’s usually “2 for $1.00″ or something like that, which is fair since the husks are discarded. But what about shiitake mushrooms, where the stems are inedible? Or bananas, for that matter. Is it fair to pay for the peels? How about oranges? Or apples, with their damn cores? Grapes, when you have to spit the seeds out? I’m paying for those seeds, and a whole lot of good they’re doing me!

Where does the madness end, people?!

* In the excitement of talking about Tara and I getting hitched, I forgot to mention the encounters we had with Built To Spill on Friday night. Yes, that’s plural. When we first arrived at the hotel, we were searching for parking in the underground garage. A van pulled up, bearing Idaho plates. Well, the band is based in Boise, so we jokingly said that was them. Only, it really was them! Doug Martsch, the lead singer, was sitting in the passenger seat with the window rolled down, and we waved to each other when we passed. So cool. And then later, after the show – it was approaching 1 AM by this point – we were walking to our room, and passed the stairs to the garage. “The band is probably down there,” Tara said, so we decided to check it out. Sure enough, four of them were milling around, talking. I tried to play it cool and pretend like I was returning to the car for something (even though our car wasn’t even parked down there), but my fiancee (!) threw me under the bus. “He’s just pretending to get something,” she told them. “We were really just hoping to catch you down here.” God, we’re such groupies. We ended up chatting with the guys for a few minutes. Real cool bunch of people, very down to earth and mellow. Very Idaho, if you will.

Anyhoo.

Now that we’re engaged, we’re calling each other “fiancee” and “future husband” and “bride-to-be” all the time. Hey, it’s a novelty (and still feels surreal). I wonder if all newly-engaged couples act this way? We picked a date, too. September 14, as you can see on my countdown timer over there to the left. That’s our second anniversary, and pays homage to our lucky number, 14. It’s too perfect not to get married on that day! We’re looking at a small ceremony on the Oregon coast, immediate family only (parents, siblings, and kids). When I say on the coast, I literally mean, ON THE BEACH. Maybe we’ll fly kites while reciting our vows. Hey, we were going to elope, but both our moms were all “don’t you dare elope,” so that put the kibosh on those plans. This wedding planning stuff is a lot of work, even when it’s a simple little ceremony! This weekend we’re shopping for rings. Wow! (Still surreal. But in the best way possible).

That’s all I’ve got for now. Here are a few pics from Friday night.

Marilyn Monroe, Jupiter Hotel

Marilyn watched over us as we slept.

champagne

Chilled prosecco for the happy occasion!

Our first photo ever as an engaged couple.

Our first photo ever as an engaged couple.

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Ayyy...this is so not cool. (Courtesy of tvguide.com)
Feb 1 2013

Jumping The Shark

A few days ago, I diagnosed a case of tonsillitis over Facebook. I don’t know whether to laugh about this or consider enrolling in medical school, but it did make me feel all smart and doctor-y. One of my friends messaged me looking for advice because her daughter had a white spot on her tonsil. Well, that’s a classic sign of a tonsil infection, so I gave her some medical advice and forwarded one of the articles I’d written on tonsillitis. Playing doctor is a pretty rewarding feeling, it turns out, even without the Mercedes in the driveway to show for my efforts.

This continues to be a very fun place to work. Where else will you find your boss blasting Lily Allen’s “Fu*k You” loud enough to make the walls shake on a Wednesday afternoon? I worked for a music distribution company, for crying out loud, and it was quiet as a church in there. I’ve never worked for a company like this before, one with a philosophy that stresses fun over work. Most Fridays everybody gathers at a pub down the street for drinks after work, and the friendships definitely extend outside the office. My boss texted me his condolences after my football team lost their playoff game a couple of weeks ago, and I was touched by that. I love the small family vibe of the organization, though some people are fretting because in the past month we have added a conference room and a 401K plan, and are looking into a coffee service now. They’re afraid of growing too big and becoming too corporate. I don’t think that’ll happen for awhile yet, but we are in the process of interviewing for another marketing position, which means we’ll be up to 22 employees and I won’t be the new guy anymore. Although, on the negative side, I found out I’m the second oldest person here, only a year younger than my boss. Even the two founders of the company are in their 30s. Gulp. I’m not used to being one of the older people at work, but I guess when you’ve got a small staff and most of them are young, eager go-getters, it’s inevitable. It’s not like I’m the Creed to their Andy, but still, I cringe when I hear Jenny in Design talk about how she does not remember the OJ Simpson slow-speed car chase because she was all of five years old at the time.

Shut up, bitch.

(I kid. She’s pretty cool. They all are, this group of young whippersnappers). Besides, I’m the one going to a rock concert tonight and staying at a cool, retro hotel in Portland, so I can hold my own with any of ‘em.

Ayyy...this is so not cool. (Courtesy of tvguide.com)

Ayyy…this is so not cool. (Courtesy of tvguide.com)

Speaking of Creed and Andy, my daughter Audrey has been watching old episodes of The Office every morning before school, and it makes me sad. It’s hard to see how brilliant and consistently uproarious that show once was. The Office was a favorite of mine for many years, the very definition of Must See TV in my book, but nowadays it’s a hollow shell of what it used to be. I cringe about as often as I laugh now, as the plots have grown increasingly outlandish and the characters, more unlikeable. Jim and Pam would NEVER fight! Come on, guys. And why spend so much time getting Andy and Erin together, only to ship him off (literally) on a boat early in the season? Maybe Ed Helms is filming a movie somewhere. There’s not enough Tobey – there never is – and I miss Ryan and Kelly. Once Steve Carell left, the show spiraled downhill, and I hate when that happens. It’s tough to see a once-great show turn mediocre. The same thing happened with Scrubs and Cheers and Happy Days, plus countless others. You’ve got to know when to bow out gracefully before you’ve become a parody of yourself, and few sitcoms manage to achieve this. Friends was the rare exception. I’m afraid How I Met Your Mother is getting close to jumping the shark (coined for an infamous Happy Days episode in which the Fonz literally jumps a shark and the show spirals into an inescapable whirlpool of corniness), too. Hurry up and meet the mother already, while your show’s pulse is still beating. This has already been the longest bedtime story in the world!

Have a great weekend, y’all. Enjoy the Super Bowl. Go, team!!

Our fancy new Keurig. Ain't she a beaut?
Jan 21 2013

Not The Regular Grind

I learned a few lessons after last week’s post on gun control. Namely, hot-button issues garner a lot of attention, regardless of your stance. And the more passionate people are about a topic, the more discourse you’re going to receive. I rarely stray from the humorous slice-of-daily-life stuff, but maybe I should do so more often. It felt good to take a stand and ruffle a few feathers along the way. And it was a nice change of pace from writing about hot buttered rum and curried chicken.

But too much politics can grow weary, so it’s back to the regular grind today.

Only, it’s not the regular grind, because as I am writing this post Tara is enjoying a one-hour massage, while I’m stuck at work toiling away. It’s tough when your significant other has a holiday and you don’t. She was quick to point out that I had a couple of days off around Christmas when she had to work, and that is true, but there’s a big difference: I was the one relaxing at home then. This time the opposite is occurring, and I gotta say, it’s not nearly as much fun when the shoe is on the other foot. Then again, I’ve never had Martin Luther King Jr. Day off, so it’s hardly surprising. (Look for more whining next month, when I’m working on President’s Day and she is off). The massage was a Christmas gift, and I’m glad she’s getting to enjoy it, but I’d be happier if she were engaging in an activity slightly less pleasurable, like scooping the litter box or cleaning the bathroom.

Wait. She likes cleaning. Strike that.

Our fancy new Keurig. Ain't she a beaut?

Our fancy new Keurig. Ain’t she a beaut?

It’s also not the regular grind because yesterday, we broke down and bought a Keurig coffeemaker. (Ha-ha, get it, “grind”? Gotta love coffee puns). This was huge. Not only was it our first big-ticket joint purchase, but the Keurig is amazeballs! Years ago, my employer brought one in, and those little K-cups were the hit of the office. They’re convenient, tasty, brew quickly, and eliminate wasted coffee. The one thing holding me back was the fact that the coffee itself is expensive, but Tara’s mom bought one last year that included a permanent filter you can use with your own regular coffee, and that was enough to convince me we should take the plunge. OK, it’s not like buying a couch together, or a house, but I was still pretty excited as we wheeled that baby out of Costco. Partly because it was new and shiny, and partly because it is OURS. And my Green Mountain roast this morning took all of ten seconds to brew. We may end up seriously hopped up on caffeine now. Only time will tell.

It turned out to be a pretty fun weekend. Earlier in the day we were in Powell’s Books, and I actually bought a book on existentialism that examines the works of philosophers like Nietzsche, Sartre and Kierkegaard. I have no idea if I’ll ever actually read the thing, but I wanted to look smart while walking out of there. Plus, the Calvin & Hobbes collection I really wanted was sold out.

The evening before, we took the kids out to dinner at Boppin’ Bo’s Malt Shoppe, and then went to see The Hobbit in 3D. Not only was it Tara’s first 3D movie ever, but also her first experience with anything Middle Earth. I’m a huge Tolkien fan, so I was nervous throughout, hoping she would like it and not find the references to “Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thor” too tedious, or laugh over Bilbo’s gigantic hairy feet. As soon as the end credits rolled I asked her what she thought, and she was pretty much blown away. In fact, the first thing she said was, “Now I want to see Lord of the Rings.”

Be still my heart, sweet music to my ears! Honey, that can be arranged. I’m already proposing a marathon of the trilogy, maybe next weekend. I did it once before on my own, and that was a mammoth undertaking that took twelve hours. Afterwards I swore I would never attempt the feat again, but I would do it for my girlfriend. Anything to encourage her appreciation of LOTR. After all, there are two more Hobbit films coming out, and it would be nice if she knew about the events that took place 60 years down the road.

Enough for now. Work beckons. For some of us, anyway.

Grumble.

Bilbo, you're a hard Hobbit to break.

Bilbo, you’re a hard Hobbit to break.

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