Category Archives: Ripped From The Headlines

Where’s My Thrift Store Picasso?

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Did you hear about the guy in Ohio who bought a Picasso print from a thrift store for $14, then discovered it wasn’t a reproduction after all but a genuine, original poster signed by the artist himself and turned around and resold it for $7000?

This pisses me off.

Because if anybody appreciates a good thrift store bargain, it’s me. I frequently scour the aisles of my local Value Village in search of inexpensive treasures, but do you have any idea how many times I’ve found a work of art by a famous artist and made a 500% profit? I’ll tell you how many: ZERO. Sure, I’ve found my share of warped records and dogeared paperbacks and chipped drinking glasses and faded flannel shirts, but an undiscovered Monet or Van Gogh has never once found its way into my shopping cart. Don’t get me wrong, I’m happy for the dude. He’s unemployed, and can use the money. But, hello – same here! I don’t ask for much in life. Just a roof over my head and food on my table and a priceless work of art that I can resell for a huge return on my investment.

C’mon, Universe. Help a brother out here!

Why can’t I find one of these for fourteen bucks at Value Village?

I’m also irritated that I can wander through a vintage store and find really cool things like dogs playing poker tapestries and glass milk bottles and classic rock albums and metal lunch boxes and posters from World’s Fairs gone by and yet my local neighborhood garage sale has nothing but cracked Tupperware canisters and tacky Christmas figurines. Obviously I’m shopping in the wrong ‘hood.

Oh, well. Guess I’ll just have to make my fortune the old-fashioned way and work for it. Grr.

Speaking of garage sales, Tara and I had one on Saturday morning. Our goal wasn’t to make a lot of money but merely to get rid of some of the really cool things my girlfriend made me get rid of when she moved in duplicates we had between us. And it’s a good thing too, because lemme tell ya, customers weren’t exactly flocking in off the street. We were “open” an entire hour before the first person even stopped, and when he walked away after spending a whopping $2 I figured the writing was pretty much on the wall. Luckily business picked up a little after that, but we still only managed to pull in $60, which is fine – it’s seed money for our Broncos fund (we’re hoping to fly to Denver to catch a game this October). We stopped the sale at noon and then donated everything that didn’t sell to the Value Village mentioned above. You know, the place that has never once sold me a rare Pablo Picasso print. Not that I’m bitter or anything.

Much.

The rest of the weekend was pretty awesome (except for the heat – we seem to have skipped from winter to summer with a vengeance). After the garage sale, we headed to the Hawthorne District in Portland for a few hours. The highlight? Sitting at a sidewalk table outside the Bagdad Theater sipping cocktails and watching all the strangely funky Portland people walking by. Hipsters and homeless people and every imaginable type of human being in between. Sunday we strolled around the farmer’s market in Vancouver and even though there still isn’t much in the way of fresh produce available, we came away with hummus and pita chips and mango salsa and kettle corn and olives. Then we walked around a couple of our local parks before coming home to veg in front of the TV with season one of Breaking Bad (which Tara has never seen but happily decided to check out after listening to me rave over this incredible show (see?) constantly). We ended the day with margaritas and, now that I have my patio back again and the grill is hooked up, the most delicious dinner consisting of barbecued chicken, grilled corn on the cob, baked beans and french bread. I even let Tara do the cooking, which might not seem like a big deal except for the fact that nothing comes between a man and his grill. The bond between the two is sacred. It was tough relinquishing the reins, believe me, but my girlfriend did me proud and the food turned out fantastic. I was so impressed, I think I’ll let her do it again sometime.

Until then, if anybody’s got a hot lead on a hidden Matisse gathering dust in a thrift store somewhere, hit me up!

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Peaches for Tebow. Let’s Get This Done.

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It’s been an amazing couple of weeks if you’re an NFL fan. Especially if you’re a Denver Broncos fan. And this is only the offseason.

What a wondrous sight to behold.

First came Manningwatch 2012. I haven’t seen the media this obsessed with somebody’s every move since a certain white Ford Bronco sped down a certain Los Angeles freeway lo these many years ago. It was kind of like a real-life version of Where’s Waldo?, only everybody knew exactly where Peyton Manning was at every second of the day. The “breaking news” reports bordered on silly after awhile. Peyton’s plane has just landed at Denver International Airport. Peyton is eating dinner at a country club with John Elway. Peyton is accidentally using his salad fork to eat his steak. Peyton ordered a side of asparagus and when he went to the bathroom his pee smelled funny. 

You gotta feel sorry for the guy. I mean, as sorry as you can possibly feel for somebody who just signed a $96 million contract despite the fact that he’s got a bum neck and is considered “old” by football standards.

My neck is perfectly fine, and I’d be content with fifteen bucks an hour at this point. Employers, take note.

The guy I really feel sorry for, though, is Tim Tebow. A scant few months ago he was the Second Coming of Christ. Or at least had a direct hotline to J.C.’s daddy. I’m a little sketchy on the details. The point is, the guy was being revered for his late-game heroics and miraculous comeback victories. And then, in the blink of an eye, was unceremoniously dumped in the New York Jets’ laps for a couple of low draft picks. I’m pretty sure when he was praying for his team to find  success, trading him away for next to nothing isn’t what he had in mind. But it’s a business, and as a diehard Broncos fan, I can’t fault the organization for making the moves they did. Bringing Peyton aboard is a huge coup and, while some might argue otherwise, makes the team instant Super Bowl contenders.

I just wish their top brass had contacted me before the Jets. I’d have liked to put in an offer for Tim myself. He wouldn’t be my starting quarterback seeing that I don’t own an NFL team or anything – details, details – but I could use some help around the house. Sometimes I pray that the dishes in the sink will clean themselves, and yet, that almost never happens. OK, never happens. And, despite my most fervent wishes, the dirty litter box only gets dirtier the longer I go without scooping it. And, grocery shopping. I hate dealing with crowds. Mr. Tebow is used to playing in sold-out stadiums surrounded by 60,000 screaming fans. He orchestrated an 80-yard touchdown pass 11 seconds into overtime to beat the heavily favored Pittsburgh Steelers in the playoffs. Certainly a trip to Safeway for a can of tuna and a box of Zatarain’s where there’s a screaming three-year-old kid and a checkout aisle four deep is nothin’. Sure, it ain’t glamorous work, but is being a backup QB for a crappy team really any better? Besides, in the glare of the Big Apple spotlight, any tiny mistake Tim makes is going to be examined and debated and thrust down the throats of New Yorkers ad nauseum. I can promise Tim that if my wine glass has a few water spots on it after washing, I won’t make a big deal of the fact. I think I would have had a real shot at the guy, too. If the Broncos were willing to settle for two measly draft picks, they might have been willing to entertain my offer. I’ve got a bread machine I hardly use and a couple of lava lamps just gathering dust. Oh, and some peaches in light syrup that have been sitting in the back of the pantry forever.

Alas, it is Tebow Time no more in Denver.

You know what would be cool? If we could trade real people the way we trade athletes. Take my newspaper delivery guy, for instance. Maybe he’s no longer at the top of his game. Sure, sometimes he shows flashes of his former brilliance, depositing the paper right next to my door and making sure it’s wrapped tightly in plastic to protect it from the rain. But more often than not, the paper is strewn haphazardly several feet from the front door, forcing me to take two or three steps across the cold, dirty concrete – in my bare feet, no less – in order to retrieve it. Maybe there’s some really awesome newspaper guy in Cincinnati or Miami, one who lays that sucker neatly by the door every single morning. That’s the guy I want delivering my paper, so I make a few calls, and suddenly they’re switching routes! I might have to add in another person or two to sweeten the pot, say the coworker in the adjoining cubicle who wears too much damn perfume but always brings in the best desserts for potlucks. I’m sure we could come to a consensus. Plus, if a relationship isn’t working out, you’ve got an easy way to solve that particular dilemma. Hell, I’d have traded in my last three girlfriends – plus cash – for Tara. She has vastly improved the quality of my life, after all. I only wish it had happened sooner.

And while we’re on the subject of football, I am still sore over that $20 I lost to my dad two years ago when he bet me the New Orleans Saints would go all the way and win the Super Bowl. They did…but it turns out, they kinda cheated, putting out incentive-laden bounties on opposing players. That’s just wrong, on so many levels.

I’m coming over for dinner tonight, and I gotta warn you, dad – I want my money back.

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Walmart Therapy: I’d Rather Deal With Terrorists

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While reading the newspaper yesterday, I came across a rather disturbing article. The Pentagon is turning to “Walmart therapy” to treat soldiers affected with PTSD (Post Traumatic Stress Disorder). PTSD is an anxiety disorder that occurs in people who experience traumatic events that involve the threat of injury or death. Like natural disasters, accidents, and war. According to the medical experts, symptoms fall into three main categories.

1. “Reliving” the event, which disturbs day-to-day activity

  • Flashback episodes, where the event seems to be happening again and again
  • Repeated upsetting memories of the event
  • Repeated nightmares of the event
  • Strong, uncomfortable reactions to situations that remind you of the event

2. Avoidance

  • Emotional “numbing,” or feeling as though you don’t care about anything
  • Feeling detached
  • Being unable to remember important aspects of the trauma
  • Having a lack of interest in normal activities
  • Showing less of your moods
  • Avoiding places, people, or thoughts that remind you of the event
  • Feeling like you have no future

3. Arousal

  • Difficulty concentrating
  • Startling easily
  • Having an exaggerated response to things that startle you
  • Feeling more aware (hypervigilance)
  • Feeling irritable or having outbursts of anger
  • Having trouble falling or staying asleep

In an effort to help veterans returning from Iraq and Afghanistan, the military is pursuing the most natural and logical course of action: prescribing a shopping trip to Walmart! Their reasoning is that big-box retailers are often busy and noisy, and people may be hidden behind things. In other words, the situation is similar to what these folks would encounter in a combat situation.

Personally, I’d rather take my chances against Al-Qaeda.

I am not a fan of Walmart. In fact, I flat-out refuse to shop there. Call it a one-man boycott, a crusade against a corporation whose business practices leave much to be desired. They monopolize the marketplace, lowering their prices initially in order to drive local retailers out of business; once the competition is gone, prices creep up. They buy enough of a product to become the major source of income for that supplier, and then use their clout to force the supplier to lower their prices, leading to a push for overseas labor in order to remain competitive. This has happened to companies like Heinz, Vlasic and Levi’s. They mistreat their employees, in particular discriminating against women, and have penalized those who have attempted to unionize. At least they’re making a valiant effort to go green – I’ll give them credit there. But it’s still not enough to get me in the front door.

Plus, People Of Walmart dot com. ‘Nuff said.

And the award for Mother Of The Year goes to... (Courtesy of peopleofwalmart.com).

Which is not to say I have an issue with anybody else shopping at Walmart. My parents go there. Tara does, too. And a lot of my friends. Much like politics and religion, those are individual choices and I’m all about having the freedom to decide for yourself who to patronize. My mom has, on occasion, served me dinner, only to announce midway through the meal in a conspiratorial whisper, “Sorry, Mark. These rolls are from Walmart.” My reply is usually something along the lines of, “They’re delicious!” And then she’ll mention how cheap they were. I get that and I respect that, and I ask her to pass me another one, please. Which I spread with butter that also came from Walmart. I am not one of those self-righteous do-gooders who will pester people to join the cause or like this or dislike that. I am content in knowing that I didn’t contribute any money toward them, so the overseas yeast manufacturer earning thirty cents an hour can’t blame me for his poor working conditions, at least. I am an idealist, but also a realist. People are going to shop there because the prices are low, and in this sputtering economy, I really can’t blame them.

Plus, it would be rude to turn down a roll.

So, the idea of this PTSD Walmart therapy is pretty unnerving. If I suddenly found myself smack dab in Aisle 6, I think I’d be even jumpier than usual.

And quite possibly end up with the very first documented case of WSD – Walmart Stress Disorder.

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ET Phone Home…and Bet on the Packers in ’67

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I came across a news story the other day that talked about how these 47-year old television signals we had beamed into space are suddenly and mysteriously bouncing back to earth now. A group of astronomers in Puerto Rico made the discovery while searching for signs of intelligent life. Pretty cool, huh?

The whole thing got me to thinking. If there are aliens on some distant planet – let’s call it Vega, which happens to be the fifth-brightest star in the sky and is a mere twenty-five light years from earth – then, think of all the fun shows they’re catching on TV right now! The Beatles on Ed Sullivan. Bewitched and The Addams Family are brand new, and they’re showing Rudolph The Red-Nosed Reindeer for the first time (I’m sure it’ll become a holiday classic on Vega, as well). There’s The Andy Griffith Show and Gilligan’s Island and My Three Sons. American Bandstand and Gunsmoke and the last original episodes of The Twilight Zone. Those lucky extraterrestrials are in for a real treat!

Just wait 'til Jerry Springer hits the air. (Courtesy of scifiward.com).

Of course, not everything will be rosy as the years roll by. I feel like we should apologize in advance for The Clapper and Chia pets and Joanie Loves Chachi. On the plus side, they’ll get to see Mean Joe Green and Where’s The Beef? and that really bitchin’ Apple Macintosh commercial from 1984 that only aired once. Sure, they may scoff at the technology (and laugh outright over our cute little moon landing), but they’re sure to admire All In The Family and The Cosby Show and Seinfeld. Someday, there will be a bunch of ETs wandering around debating over Who Shot JR. Plus, all those awesome Super Bowls will be brand new! They have no idea that the Green Bay Packers will come out strong, the Pittsburgh Steelers will dominate for awhile, the 49ers and Cowboys will kick a little ass, and the Buffalo Bills will choke four years in a row. Man, I could make a killing gambling on these games if I could just hitch a ride to Vega.

Come to think of it, Tara did promise me a trip down the Extraterrestrial Highway in January. Hmm. Then again, the guys on their currency might have tentacles and three heads. Might be tough passing off those bills at Target.

On A More Serious But No Less Far-Out Note…

My doctor’s bills have started to roll in.

Keep in mind, I am still unemployed. Which means I’ve got no health insurance. My parents warned me when I lost my job that the one thing I wouldn’t want to do is end up in the hospital. Naturally, being the rebellious sort, I didn’t listen to them.

You know what’s guaranteed to produce a good laugh? Opening up a hospital bill for $47,000. Seriously, I was practically Rolling On The Floor Laughing My Ass Off when I tore into that particular envelope.

The good news is, if I pay it before the due date – twelve days away – they’ll knock off five grand!

Actually, the gooder news is, they had me fill out a charity application while there. Given my (lack of) income and the fact that I claim one dependent on my taxes, there’s a fairly good chance most of my medical bills will be paid by the state. I sure hope so. You can’t get blood from a stone, after all. (Maybe on Vega you can. Could be part of their advanced technology. One more reason to visit).

Speaking of blood, I had a doctor’s appointment last week, and the nursing assistant who drew my blood said it was particularly dark. She joked that I must be descended from royalty. I’m not really sure what the one thing has to do with the other, but I told her my ancestors were all pretty much poor peasants. Sheep and goat herders in Communist block countries. I’m pretty sure there are no kings or queens in the family line, though I am dating a Leo so there’s a chance that has rubbed off on me.

I also had a follow-up surgical visit the other day, and the doctor said everything looked great and I am healing well. I actually feel like I’m pretty much back to normal now, and I celebrated that with a long-overdue Bloody Mary a few nights ago. Believe me when I say that was one tasty beverage.

It’s good that I’m feeling normal again, because in just ten more days I’ll be stepping onto an airplane for the first time in more than a decade! My girlfriend and I have to make up for our last visit, which didn’t go quite as we had anticipated.

It’s going to be a blast!

Apple Juice With a Bacon Swizzle Stick

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I miss apple juice.

Or maybe it’s the idea of apple juice I miss. I just had a cup last week in the hospital. It was the first beverage I drank that actually had flavor following my surgery. After days of being hooked up to an IV and subsisting on nothing more than ice water, it tasted like a nectar from the gods. Sweet and succulent and oh, so delicious. Paired with chicken broth, I felt like I was dining on lobster and champagne that evening.

Arsenic? Lead? Sugar? Yummy! (Courtesy of inhabitots.com).

But then, the very next day, I started hearing news reports about how apple juice is no good for you. How this study showed that dangerous levels of arsenic were found in samples of apple juice. Damn you, Dr. Oz and FOX News. You’re both nothing but a bunch of killjoys! If I want to ingest poison, I should be able to do so without feeling guilty about it. The FDA is saying hey, relax, arsenic is naturally present in water, air, food and soil, and we need to stop getting our panties in a bunch because the levels found in apple juice are well within accepted safety standards. Consumer Reports says those standards are much too high and need to be lowered, and the whole thing has turned into one big pissing match. The loser? Me! Because now I’m going to think twice before drinking apple juice, and that’s just sad. Even without worrying about arsenic (and lead, too – when it rains, it pours), they say apple juice contains too much sugar, is high in calories, etc. They’re vilifying it like the poor ol’, much-maligned Big Mac.

That ain’t right.

You know what else I miss? Bacon. Ever since I landed in the hospital, I’ve had to contend with well-meaning friends who keep telling me to “lay off the bacon” now. For some reason, over the years I have developed a reputation as a person who loves bacon. Well, okay…I do love bacon. Fair enough. But I don’t eat any more of it than the average person! It’s an occasional treat and nothing more. Boy, you write one blog post about the maple bacon bar at Voodoo Doughnut and you’re branded for life. And okay, I suppose in retrospect buying that bottle of bacon vodka a couple of months ago didn’t help. Nor did posting a picture of the chicken fried bacon Tara, the kids and I enjoyed  at Slappy Cakes the day before Thanksgiving…which, coincidentally, happened to be two days before I ended up in the hospital. In my defense – in all of our defenses – we split two pieces four ways. It was merely a decadent taste. But oh, how everybody latched onto that when I was suddenly near death hooked up to an IV in great pain. The truth is, I first started feeling sick after eating leftover turkey that morning, a food that is generally considered to be healthy. There’s no rhyme or reason for what happened to me. Was it related to diet? Perhaps, or it may have been the trigger, or none of the above. Even the doctors don’t know. Now, I am not complaining about my friends’ admonitions or warnings. It just means they care about me and want to see me healthy, and I appreciate that very much. I intend to take care of myself, and have already made adjustments toward a lower-fat, less-sodium diet. I am also stubborn – that would be the Taurus in me – and maintain a philosophy that life is too short to give up everything that makes you happy, and practicing moderation is key. I believe in long-term goals and short-term indulgences, and intend to partake in both.

At least I didn't cook my turkey like this! (Courtesy of madville.com).

In fact, I’m kinda feeling like a nice, tall glass of apple juice right now. With a crispy strip of bacon for stirring.

And then there’s alcohol. I haven’t had a sip in fourteen days, which is some kind of record for me. Am I a teetotaler now? Ha! Fat chance. I am way too addicted to Bloody Marys to ever give them up, and I’ve even started liking beer now. It’s just that I haven’t felt like having a drink since getting sick. Every doctor and nurse in the hospital asked me if I was a drinker, and I said socially, which by my definition was 1-2 drinks a day, five days a week. Nobody ever looked alarmed when I said that, but the news wasn’t exactly met with approving glances, either. One nurse suggested my sweaty brow might have been a reaction to booze withdrawal, but in reality the thermostat was simply too freakin’ high in the room. I was actually offended by her comment – can’t a guy perspire without getting the second degree?! –  and the moment she left I snuck a few shots of whiskey in order to forget the sting of her words.

I kid, I kid.

And I will be the first to admit that a near-daily Happy Hour was more of a ritual or a habit for me than anything else. Tsk, tsk – I know. I considered it almost a birthright; I’m a writer, after all, and we stereotypically have a long and prosperous association with alcohol. I have come to realize, since returning home, that the slight buzz does not make up for all those empty calories. I will still enjoy the occasional drink – but it’ll be when I feel like it, not because it’s 3:55 5:00. Once again, it’s all about moderation.

Love the concern, appreciate the advice, but don’t you worry – I don’t intend on going anywhere (and by that, I mean dying) anytime soon.

A trip to Ely, on the other hand, is right around the corner. In seventeen more days!

And if you think I’m stepping onto an airplane without a drink or two to calm my nerves, you’re out of your mind.

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Where’s That King Arthur Dude?

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I think there’s something weird in the air up here. The past couple of days, the news has been full of some very bizarre goings-on that are a wee bit too close to home for comfort.

It all started when some guy in Portland got into an argument with his stepson. The kid invited a few friends over for the night, and they were being loud –  as teenagers often are – so the stepdad kicked them out. The boys came back the next morning and started beating on the stepdad’s truck with sticks and pipes. Realizing that even the always-perky Flo from Progressive couldn’t prevent his insurance premiums from skyrocketing now, the dude hopped in the truck and chased after the boys, hitting two of them “at a slow speed.”

This, in turn, angered the kids. Apparently being sort-of run over is a sign of disrespect in the ‘hood, so they turned around and chased after him, again beating on his truck. Question number one: how’d they catch him? He was in a vehicle, they were on foot, and he doesn’t strike me as being the law-abiding type, what with the whole hitting-kids-with-his-pickup thing. Speed limit, schmeed limit. Question number two: if attacking his truck the first time led him to go all Mad Max on them, did they think doing it again would result in a less-hostile outcome?! I think there was plenty of stupidity all around here.

You scratched my truck. Now you must pay!

Really peeved now, the stepdad ran inside the house and grabbed a machete. That’s right, one of those long, sharp swords that are useful for cutting trails through the rainforest. What, you don’t have one stashed away in the hall closet? Haven’t you ever heard the saying “it’s a jungle out there?” Reminds me of that scene in Pulp Fiction where Bruce Willis is choosing a weapon to deal with his Deliverance-style attackers and settles on the machete. Sort of a case of life imitating art right here in P-Town! The boys, staring down the business end of a very wicked blade, decided to fight back with weapons of their own.

Garden rakes.

Which are perfectly fine for scooping autumn leaves into neat little piles, but as defense against a machete-wielding nutjob? Not so good. Fortunately, the whole ruckus ended with a few minor injuries, and some jail time for the dude with the really big knife.

Not to be outdone, a stepdad in Washington (hey, mom – thanks for staying married to dad all these years, by the way! I’m beginning to feel like I dodged a bullet here) forced his sixteen-year old stepdaughter to dress in armor and fight him with a wooden sword in a medieval-style duel.

You can’t make this stuff up, folks.

The girl did something terrible, committing an offense that no other teenager in the history of time has ever dared to partake in: she disobeyed her parents. That’s right: she went to a party – without their permission.

{Insert gasps of outrage}.

Her mother and stepfather, after gasping outrageously over this blatant transgression, decided to dole out punishment. Nerds to the core Renaissance enthusiasts who often recreate medieval-era battles (hey, everybody needs a hobby, right?), and clearly confused over the fact that the Round Table down the street was actually a pizza restaurant and not home to King Arthur’s court, they made the girl fight them with a sword for two hours, until she collapsed from exhaustion. As opposed to grounding her or revoking her driving privileges or something more mundane (yawn). And just to ensure the fight was fair, they beat her with a tree branch first. Which reminds me of another scene in a different movie: remember how Commudus stabbed Maximus in Gladiator just before their big fight? What ever happened to playing fair?

You ordered a large supreme, m'lord?

Also in my beloved state-that-was-named-after-a-President, a woman attacked her sleeping husband with an electric saw over the weekend. When the cops arrived she claimed an intruder had entered the home through a window and attacked her slumbering sweetie, but in her haste to make this farfetched story sound believable, forgot to remove the child lock – a device that prevented the window from opening more than a few inches.

They would have doubted her story anyway, since her husband was quoted as shouting, “You tried to cut my head off!” while gesturing wildly at the woman he had exchanged I dos with.

I’d reckon that once you awaken to a power saw slicing into your neck and shoulder, you’re beginning to rethink all that “til-death-do-us-part” stuff.

So, what’s the deal? Has the whole world gone crazy…or is it just the Pacific Northwest?

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4 Reasons Why William Blew It

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Apparently there was some big wedding in the news a couple of weeks ago. I wasn’t really following along, for the same reason I’ll never watch Steel Magnolias or gush over The Bachelor: because I’ve got testosterone. It’s the very presence of this hormone that compels me to offer a few choice words to the future kind of England:

William, you chose the wrong girl.

Sure, Kate’s pretty. I have no doubt she’s a swell gal and will make a fine queen. But her biggest downside? She’s not Pippa.

Up until a few days ago, I had no idea who this “Pippa” that I kept hearing about even was. I assumed at first, it turns out erroneously, that the entire internet was suddenly interested in either:

  1. An ingredient used to season food,
  2. A Swedish girl with pigtails who is featured in a series of books and movies,
  3. One-half of a female rap duo best known for songs like “Push It” and “Let’s Talk About Sex.”

Turns out it was none of the above, but rather, Kate Middleton’s younger sister, Pippa. Once I figured this out, curiosity got the better of me and I decided to do a little research on Pippa. Before long, it became clear to me that Prince William had made a huge mistake.

Allow me to state my case, and offer up the following as evidence.

Pippa is an environmentalist who cares deeply about the earth's diminishing natural resources. Witness the dress handcrafted from 100% natural and biodegradable toilet paper, and the liquor bottle made from environmentally-friendly glass rather than plastic.

Pippa draws attention to the issue of global warming by demonstrating the consequences of a planet plagued by greenhouse gases: a warming climate will spell the end of clothing as we know it! "Stop carbon monoxide emissions!" this daring topless photo screams. Our young princess-in-law even enlisted the help of another individual to spread her message.

Here, Pippa bares her soul - and body - to warn us all about the dangers of overexposure to the sun. Bravely putting herself in harm's way to demonstrate how unglamorous a taut, tan and nubile young female body is, the world's second most famous Middleton tirelessly continues her crusade while quickly becoming a worldwide role model.

That booty. 'Nuff said.

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Gotham Would Burn To The Ground

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You know what really impresses me? The guys in Japan who continue to work on stabilizing the nuclear reactors. They’re being labeled as “national heroes,” and rightly so.

Think about it. These guys are knowingly exposing themselves to dangerous levels of radiation in order to make the repairs necessary to protect their nation’s citizens from catastrophe. Sure, they’re dressed in hazmat suits, but you know those don’t offer complete protection. Yesterday three men were working near the number three reactor at the Fukushima Daiichi plant and stepped into a puddle of water containing 10,000 times the amount of radiation normally found outside a nuclear plant. They were then hospitalized with “beta burns” that authorities claim are no worse than a bad sunburn.

First off, I question that assessment. Wading around in highly contaminated water for 40 or 50 minutes, some of it sloshing around inside your boots, is not akin to a day at the beach. The spin doctors are out in full force trying to downplay that little incident.

Secondly, I’ve come to the conclusion that I am not the heroic type at all. If I were a nuclear worker and the reactors went into partial meltdown, spewing tons of radioactive materials into the atmosphere and contaminating the local food and water supplies, and my boss said, “Hey, Mark – we’re going to need you to help us out here,” and I replied “How so, boss?” and he answered, “Knowingly expose yourself to harmful doses of radiation for the next few weeks and pray you don’t develop cancer or your wife doesn’t give birth to a three-headed baby,” my response would be pretty direct: “I quit.”

I’m sorry I’m not more rah-rah let me help out my fellow countrymen by putting my own life at risk, but I gotta draw the line somewhere, and for me, “beta burns” and exposure to potentially lethal radiation is where I draw a line in the sand. But that’s just me.

It’s a good thing I’m not Bruce Wayne. I can just see the conversation now.

"You know what? HAVE Gotham City. You can't find a decent slice of pizza in this town anyway." (Courtesy of dc.wikia.com).

Alfred The Butler: “Sir, The Joker is up to his old antics again. He appears to be terrorizing Gotham City.”
Me: “Fetch me my Bat Suit, Alfred! Err…hang on a sec. Does he have any weapons?”
Alfred The Butler: “The usual arsenal, Master Wayne. Razor-sharp playing cards that can slice through your jugular. Electric joy buzzers. Acid flowers. Shall I gas up the Batmobile?”
Me: “Umm, yeah. About that…on second thought, tonight’s not so good for me. Cougartown is on. It’s a repeat, but it’s a particularly good one…”

Poor ol’ Gotham would burn to the ground.

And while I don’t believe there’s any real danger here, it still freaks me out a little that slightly elevated levels of radiation have been detected in Portland and elsewhere along the West Coast. Authorities keep saying they’re trace amounts, no more than you’d receive from an x-ray or from toasting a slice of bread or some other analogy that is supposed to make us feel better. There’s still extra radiation in the air, and while that might not be too bad, it certainly isn’t good. Hats off to those brave Japanese nuclear workers, I say. Get them all Oakley sunglasses when this ordeal is over.

I used to have a bit of a Hero Complex. In junior high (or what today’s kids call “middle school”) when I was living in Hawaii, a friend of mine was getting bullied, so I stepped in and told the aggressor – a large, thick-shouldered ogre of a kid – to knock it off. He did, alright – and focused his attention on me. For the next two years, I had to put up with this idiot threatening me. Fortunately, it never got physical. One time he showed up on my front door with a few friends. It was a summer afternoon, and both my parents were at work.

“I’m here to kick your ass,” he said.
“No, thanks,” I replied. “My schedule’s a bit full today. Maybe we can do this another time?”

We never did. More than twenty-five years later, I found him on Facebook. This was an exciting day for me. It isn’t often that you have a chance to reconnect with your old junior high school bully! I actually debated sending him a friend request – all in the spirit of letting bygones be bygones – but he lives in Seattle now, which is a little too close for comfort. I mean, he could have turned into a homicidal maniac or a serial killer, for all I know, and if that’s the case, we’re only separated by a two and a half hour drive on the interstate. I’d rather not take my chances.

Then, in my freshman year of high school (or what today’s kids call…oh, wait…it’s still “high school”), we were living in South Dakota. I was walking home from school one day and crossed paths with two kids who were pushing around a younger middle schooler. “Hey, knock it off,” I told them. “Pick on somebody your own size!” They walked away and then, a few days later, ambushed me as I was walking home. There were five or six of them this time, and they jumped me from behind a building. I took off running with all the speed and determination of Forrest Gump‘s mad dash for the end zone, but eventually ran out of steam and they caught up to me. A locked door was my downfall. Suddenly I was on the ground, and they were pummeling me. Kicking me in the ribs and the head. If not for a good samaritan passing by in his car who chased them off, I shudder to think what might have happened.

Ever since, my attitude has always been, let somebody else be the hero. I mean, I’m proud of myself for standing up for other people – one a friend, the other a complete stranger – but I paid the price. Ouch.

Let’s just say I hope they get those nuclear reactors under control very soon.

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Why There’s a Bee in Egypt’s Bonnet

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I try to keep on top of current events. I’m one of the few people I know who still subscribes to a daily newspaper. I don’t read it every day – sometimes I’m too busy with other things – and I often skim the stories. As a result, I am sometimes clueless about what is going on in the outside world. Often, I won’t catch up on a story until Seth Myers pokes fun at it during his Weekend Update segment on Saturday Night Live. That’s the true bellwether of a newsworthy story, in my opinion – if it makes the SNL cut, then it’s worth investing in. Until Seth cracks a joke, I’m just not interested. The Chilean miners? Took me a good four or five days to realize there were a bunch of guys trapped underground. And then Seth made a comment about how his cat was trapped beneath his house and had to be heroically rescued, and suddenly I was all over the story.

Seth Myers Weekend Update

Forget Tom Brokaw; this is the guy I want delivering the news! (Courtesy of tvmedia.ign.com)

So it should come as no surprise that two days after Seth interviewed Egyptian President Hosni Mubarak (portrayed by Fred Armisen) on Weekend Update, I figured it was time I learned what was really going on over in Egypt, since it’s been on the front page for a few days now. After all, my knowledge of Egypt is woefully inadequate – limited to just a few facts, really.

  • It’s located in Africa. Up north somewheres.
  • It’s home to a bunch of pyramids, which were either built by hard-working ancient Egyptians to serve as tombs and monuments for the dead, or by aliens for use as intergalactic beacons.
  • King Tut once ruled the country a long time ago. He was not, as Steve Martin alleges, “born in Arizona,” nor did he get “a condo made of stone-a.” Factual inaccuracies continue – he wasn’t “buried in his jammies,” either. But he could’ve won a Grammy, I suppose, had such awards existed in ancient times, and assuming he had a pleasant singing voice.
  • The Bangles wrote a song about walking like one of the country’s people, and demonstrated the technique on the accompanying music video. The song hit #1 on the Billboard charts in 1986. “Slide your feet up the street bend your back, shift your arm then you pull it back.” That’s how it’s done.
  • Angry women are always mockingly referring to the big river there when confronting their cheating husbands, or their friends whose husbands are cheating on them, by saying, “Denial ain’t just a river in Egypt.”

And, that’s about it. Clearly, some research was in order, so I read up on the story this morning.

During the SNL sketch, the fake Mubarak attributed the unrest in Egypt to the fact that “the internet is down” and said he was taking steps to alleviate the situation by firing, and then rehiring, his Cabinet. Funny stuff – and, it turns out, not so far from the truth, after all. The people of Egypt – and across the Mideast – are ticked off over poor or banned internet service: they want access to websites and international cable channels. The government, which controls the media – and thus, the flow of information – apparently does not want its nation’s people watching funny cat videos on YouTube. Maybe because cats were revered as gods in ancient Egypt? Who knows. But to deny them the late-night pleasure of the ShamWow is just unconscionable. And ol’ Hosni really did try to pull a fast one by firing his Cabinet members, but then appointing two of those guys to new positions as Vice President and Prime Minister. Really, Mubarak? Did you think nobody would notice? Those aren’t exactly blend-into-the-background types of positions.

Unrest in Egypt

Who's up for a little harmless camel tipping? (Courtesy of travel.nationalgeographic.com).

The chief source of concern in Egypt is the lack of jobs. Turns out the people are unhappy over the economic imbalances over there; they disdain the wealthy politicians because half the people in the country survive on less than $2.00 a day. There are 18 million people in Cairo, and many of them can’t find work or have to settle for something menial. So these people have taken to the streets en masse and are protesting. Hence the angry mobs and fighter jets. While once upon a time the average Egyptian youth might have been content with a harmless little prank like camel-tipping, such is not the case these days. Now they’ve got guns and sticks and are smashing up cars and robbing people and descending on the jails and freeing criminals and Muslim militants. It’s like they’re trying to create a new Australia! Yikes.

I feel silly complaining about the measly $360 a week in unemployment benefits I am currently receiving.

I understand their frustration. Our own country’s job situation is pretty bleak – I’m living proof of that. But instead of taking to the streets with a sawed-off broom handle and demanding the Ridgefield Rapist go free, I’m writing how-to articles at $15/pop and trying to grow this venture into a self-supporting success. There really is a huge disconnect between the Western world and the Mideast, huh?

At least now I feel all informed and stuff. And, you’re welcome for today’s current events lesson.

I hope Seth Myers mentions some funny tidbit involving Côte d’Ivoire next Saturday, because I’ve seen references to it in the news but have no idea what is going on or where the place even is…

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Have Yourself A Merry Little Car Bomb

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Portland's official 2010 Christmas tree

I didn’t realize when I decided, on a whim, to take the kids to Portland’s 26th annual Christmas tree lighting ceremony, I’d nearly end up the victim of a terrorist attack. That would have been a real bummer; imagine if I’d been blown to bits during my first-ever tree-lighting experience. Talk about putting a damper on the holidays. Thank God for the FBI, that’s all I’ve got to say.

The Portland terrorist plot is serious stuff. We’re making national news, and not in a good way. The “mastermind” behind this, Mohamed Osman Mohamud, said, “I want whoever is attending that event to leave dead or injured.”

Not to nitpick the finer details, you Somali-born whacko, but if you’re dead, you aren’t leaving, except in a body bag.

I’m pretty surprised humble little Portland, Oregon would be the target for a terrorist attack in the first place. As far as big cities go, it’s pretty safe. I’ve walked the streets at night, alone, before and never given it a second thought. The worst that ever happened? I had to step around some guy on a street corner who was playing the theme from Star Wars on his saxophone for spare change. More “charming” than “alarming” in my opinion. And it’s exactly what I love about the city in the first place.

I suppose if he had pulled off this Portland terrorist plot, I would have ended up a victim, one way or another. Turns out we were sitting just a few hundred yards from where the van was parked, at the corner of Sixth and Yamhill. Had those explosives in there been real, we’d have been in a world of hurt. At the very least, I might have had that holiday eggnog pouring out all the shrapnel holes in my body, cartoon-style, whenever I went to take a sip.

I’d been warned in advance about going, but for a different reason. On Thanksgiving, my parents mentioned the tree-lighting ceremony here in Vancouver, Washington. “I’d rather go to Portland,” I proclaimed.

“Why?” my mom asked. “There are weird people there.”

I tried to explain how I’m a Portlander at heart, but I don’t think they got it. On Friday, when I told my kids the plan, they said, “Why? There are weird people there.”

OK, for the record, there are weird people everywhere. Mayberry Vancouver is no exception. And you know what? I like the weird people in Portland. I’m dead serious. A few months ago I was walking downtown one afternoon and ended up literally in the middle of an argument between two homeless people. I smiled as I listened to them hurl insults back and forth. It was kind of cute, the way they were competing for that particular street corner as their “home turf.” And last year, while waiting in line for a maple bacon bar at the incredible Voodoo Doughnut, I was serenaded by a flash-mob type of rap group while watching a guy in a cape walk by. I’m telling you, you can’t find entertainment that good on TV. These people are simply marching to the beat of their own drummers, and that’s something I both admire and respect. Then again, I’m a writer, so I’m a bit mad myself. Besides, our unofficial slogan is, Keep Portland Weird. I’m all for that! Sure, I could have gone to the Vancouver tree-lighting ceremony instead, but…yawn. It would have paled in comparison. Portland is in my blood. I go downtown all the time. I love the big-city vibe, the flanneled and bearded and pierced masses, the urban hipness and funkiness that defines the Rose City. The fact that I live in Washington is a moot point. Portland is just across the river, and I feel an affinity for the place that is impossible to describe to the outsider. Or even the insider, for that matter. A while ago, I was telling a friend and former coworker about a weekend adventure I’d had in Portland, and his response? “I never go to Portland. There are weird people there.”

Really? You don’t say…

Anyway, I was stoked to head downtown and check out the tree-lighting thingamajig. I’d never done it before, even though I’ve lived here for 16 years now. In the past, I let laziness get the better of me. I didn’t want to deal with the notoriously fickle late-November weather (typically rainy and cold). Or the traffic. Or the parking. Or the crowds. This year, I decided to suck it up and go for it. Being unemployed, I’ve spent way too much time sitting around the house, staring at the walls. If ever there was a year to get out there and check it out, 2010 was it, I figured.

The ceremony was scheduled to start at 5:30, but because “thousands of people” would be in attendance, the website online suggested arriving around 4:00. (The website did not make any distinction about “weird” people and “normal” people. I figured there’d be a good mix). So we set out about 3:40. Normally traffic would be a bitch at that time of day, but it was apparent most people had the day off, because we never even slowed down. I found a parking garage just a few blocks from Pioneer Courthouse Square, and the kids and I arrived there about 4:15. There was already a decent-sized crowd, but we staked out a good spot with a great view, and settled in. It was about 45 degrees and overcast, but luckily, the rain that had been falling earlier in the day had ceased. There was entertainment, courtesy of the Pacific Youth Choir and local band Pink Martini, who were performing Christmas songs. It didn’t take long to get into the spirit of the occasion.

A bunch of people around me were drinking Starbucks, and there was a bit of a nip in the air, so I asked the kids if they’d be kind enough to fetch dear ol’ dad a vanilla latte. I slipped them $10 and told them to “get something good for yourselves, too.” They were then gone thirty minutes, during which time I veered perilously close to panicking, as darkness descended and the crowd multiplied. I questioned the wisdom of letting them wander off downtown on their own, imagining worst-case scenarios galore (although my imagination isn’t quite as wild as it could have been, because none of those scenarios involved explosives-packed vans), but the Starbucks is right there in Pioneer Courthouse Square, so I reasoned they couldn’t get into too much trouble. Finally, they showed up with my hot coffee in hand. Whew. And did it hit the spot.

While we were waiting, volunteers passed out holiday songbooks for the “community sing-along.” The kids unceremoniously declared that they would not be caught dead singing. I guess they’re “too cool” for that kind of thing. I rolled my eyes and, when the ceremony started at 5:30, belted out “fa la la la la’s” with the rest of the assembled masses, while my kids pretended they did not know me. Whatever. It’s called getting into the Christmas spirit, guys! Portland’s mayor, Sam Adams, talked to the crowd for a bit, and then – at 6:10 PM – he flipped the switch, officially lighting the Portland Christmas tree. It was a spectacular sight – a 75′ Douglas fir festooned with cheery holiday lights.

Portland is in my blood!

There was more singing, but the crowd was already dispersing, so we decided to leave, too. After all, we’d been sitting there on the brick steps of the courthouse square for over two hours. We crossed Sixth Avenue, which was roped off and teeming with police officers. There was also a white van parked there, which at the time I barely gave a second glance. I just figured they’d closed the street to allow the massive crowd to cross without waiting for traffic. We took a detour back to the car, because I wanted to get a picture of the iconic Portland sign outside the Arlene Schnitzer Concert Hall at night. Plus, we were looking for someplace to grab a bite to eat, but there wasn’t anything kid-friendly or, more importantly, cheap nearby, so we wandered back to the car and stopped at Boppin’ Bo’s – a 50s-style malt shop a few minutes from home – for burgers and fries. I figured, after working my ass off cooking up a Thanksgiving feast the day before, that I deserved a break. (The exploding turkey, by the way, turned out delicious – moist and flavorful. I guess brining really does make a difference!).

Ironically, during the car ride home, K1 – who had refused to sing a note during the festival – suddenly lost his shyness and began belting out Christmas tunes. Why he wouldn’t do this while in the midst of a crowd of 10,000 is beyond me. I turned the music up, because seriously, I was caroled out by that point.

All in all, we had a great time downtown, and I’ve already vowed to make the Christmas tree lighting ceremony a new, annual tradition. That’s my “screw you” to Mohamud and his failed Portland terrorist plot. Nobody can take Portland away from me.

Normal “weird” people (ha – there’s an oxymoron) are more than welcome, though.

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