Tag Archives: Breaking Bad

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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Mr. DeMille, I’m Ready for My Closeup

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My life has been unusually balanced lately.

In the past, it has seemed like there were hardly enough hours in the day to get everything accomplished – even being out of work. I’d felt like I was too busy online to watch any TV, too busy watching TV to read a book, too busy reading a book to sleep, too busy sleeping to get online. It was a vicious circle from which there was seemingly no escape. This dates back years, and it was worse when I had a job, because then I was too busy working to get anything done. For whatever reason though, lately it feels like I’ve been branching out and getting lots of things done without spreading myself too thin, leading to a strange but welcome sense of harmony. I feel all Zen-like and at peace, like no goal is too distant or out of reach. Like I can take on the world, even.

I feel like there is nothing I can’t try. Never heard the word “impossible.” This time, there’s no stopping me. I’m gonna do it!

Good lord, did I just channel the spirit of Laverne & Shirley?! Schlemeel, schlamazel indeed.

Anyway…..

Take yesterday, for example. I woke up after a solid eight hours of sleep. Brewed a pot of coffee, read the paper. Watched some TV. Made a killer sandwich for lunch. Applied for a whole bunch of jobs while listening to music. Put away dishes, cleaned the kitchen, topped off the aquarium, scooped the litterbox, watched a little more TV, headed to my parents’ house for dinner, came home, chatted with my girlfriend for more than two hours, read a couple of chapters of The Hunger Games (which I finally picked up and started the other day, and became instantly infatuated with), and then went to bed. That, my friends, is a full day. And very balanced.

Oh, and I also applied to be an extra on a TV show. That came right after dinner with my parents but before the phone call with my girlfriend, if you’re keeping track.

Earlier in the day, I’d checked out Grimm for the first time. It’s a drama on NBC centered around a homicide detective who learns he is a descendant of the brothers Grimm, whose dark and sinister fairy tale characters weren’t just figments of the imagination, but real-life creatures who have preyed on humanity for centuries. This guy can see through their disguises and must protect the citizens of present day Portland, Oregon from their maniacal plots. Pretty cool concept, though in truth I was drawn to it mainly because it is set in Portland. I enjoyed the first episode very much, and intend to get caught up since the rest of the season is available for viewing On Demand. My tastes in television have definitely evolved over the years; I’ve dropped a lot of reality TV and standard issue procedurals (like C.S.I.) in favor of darker and quirkier programming. Think The Walking Dead and Dexter and Breaking Bad and ABC’s new drama The River. So in that regard, Grimm is right up my alley.

Hey, I could be Random Dead Body #3! (Courtesy of poptower.com).

After finishing the show I got on Facebook and, coincidentally, there was a link from one of the local news stations – a story about how Grimm was putting out a casting call and looking for extras. They’re shooting episodes around Portland from now until April and are looking for a good mix of people to fill a variety of different roles, including stand-in, speaking, and non-speaking extras. The article went on to state that “ALL ages are welcome; ALL body types; ALL experience levels; and ALL roles are paid.” Well hell, I thought. Why not throw my hat in the ring? Might as well take advantage of this still-unemployed situation while I can.

Maybe it’ll lead to bigger and better things. Question: do they hand out Emmy awards for Random Guy Walking Down The Street? What if I’m a really convincing stroller?! I’m willing to practice, you know. I’m a firm believer in “method acting.” I’ll spend all day walking down the street if I have to, just so I can really nail the role. I can mix things up a little, too. Have a newspaper tucked beneath my arm in one scene. Maybe hold a Starbucks cup in another. And I’m willing to improvise. Whip out my phone and hold a fake conversation. Pretend to hail a taxi. Jump away from the curb in order to avoid being splashed by a bicyclist careening through a puddle. I can’t wait ’til they seat me next to Bryan Cranston at the awards ceremonies (I won’t let fame go to my head, I promise, but I’m going to insist on this arrangement; he is so fantastic on Breaking Bad that I’d like to pick his brain on future walking-down-the street ideas, like for instance, could I get away with skipping if the scene was in need of a little levity? What about impromptu hop-scotching?). I’ll do whatever I need to, because we actors take our craft very seriously.

I draw the line at nudity, though.

Unless it’s tastefully done and central to the plot, of course.

So, we’ll see what comes of this! The application process was straightforward and simple. I had to answer a few questions (height, weight, shoe size, make and  model of my car, do I own a dog and would I be willing to bring him on the set (okay, that one was a little odd, but aren’t those Hollywood folk a strange lot to begin with?)) and submit a couple of photos. Done, and done. Now I’ll just wait for the president of NBC to call me personally and tell me I’m hired.

Or, you know. Some assistant of an assistant to an assistant.

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Impatience Isn’t A Virtue

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Patience may be a virtue, but it has never been one of my strong suits.

Given the fact that my girlfriend is coming up for a visit in just five more days, you’d think I’d be able to deal with that. After all, when we parted ways in Ely on September 11th, we had 38 days to go before seeing each other again. That seemed like an eternity. In comparison, 5 is nothing! It’s a skiff! A mere cosmic blink!

…so why am I bouncing off the walls, impatient as hell?

Probably because we’re going to have an awesome time. She’s flying into PDX Wednesday night, and after a leisurely morning here, we’re headed up to Seattle on Thursday (after a detour through Aberdeen to pay tribute to the late, great Kurt Cobain). We’re attending City Arts Fest, a three-night music festival chock full of some awesome indie rock bands, and staying with her mom. Can’t wait to finally meet you, Tracy! We’ve got a bunch of other fun things planned, too. I don’t want to divulge too much information at this point, but I’m sure I’ll have a really great blog entry to post afterwards. The whole trip will be a blast.

And also because when I left, I didn’t know what “we” were. I knew we’d had an amazing time together, but we weren’t officially a couple. One month ago today, we became one. So, yeah – I’m dying to see my girlfriend, and won’t have to stress over the whole what-are-we-and-where-is-this-going? thing. I can just relax and enjoy her company. And boy, will I.

Hurry up, already!!

See? Impatient as hell. In order to take my mind off Tara’s impending-but-still-five-damn-days-away arrival, I’m going to change the subject and write about a few random things that are on my mind right now.

Honey, I Shrunk The Shopping Carts

Like these miniature shopping carts that have popped up in Fred Meyer.

Looks like a couple of grownup shopping carts mated and produced this cute little guy!

The first time I saw one, I was like, “Holy Honey, I Shrunk The Shopping Carts!! How cute is this little fella?!” Which was a tad embarrassing because I always shop alone, but whatever. I half expected to see Rick Moranis pushing one around. Adorable, aren’t they? Kind of look like the offspring of a couple of grownup shopping carts. What kind of weird business takes place in grocery stores after hours, anyway??

I have quickly grown to love these guys. Typically when I go shopping I’m there for a handful of items – no more than seven or eight, tops. And sometimes they’re heavy. I mean, check out that bag of mushrooms I’ve got in there. They weighed a ton!! Lugging a bunch of stuff around in a basket may be a good way of building up your biceps, but oww. Which is why these little shopping carts are the greatest invention since the last really good invention, whatever that was.

Plus, not only are they versatile – small, easy to maneuver, with three individual compartments for a variety of grocery items – but they are FUN to drive! I mean, push around. And they corner very well. Trust me.

I was at the store the other day, and asked the cashier what sort of feedback they were getting on these things. She said everybody loves ‘em! I, for one, am not surprised. They’re always hard to find, as the store only has about a dozen at the moment. I’ve had to bum rush little old ladies to get my hot little hands on them.

Not really.

But I would. 

Got A Whole Lotta Loaf

I’ve always wanted a bread maker.

Well, not always. I wasn’t yearning for one back when I was in diapers, for instance. Plus, they didn’t even exist until 1986, according to the link. Let’s just say I’ve thought it would be cool to own one for years now, Mr. Foodie that I am. A coworker brought one in to the office one time, and for hours tortured us with the smell of freshly baking bread. It was delicious, too. I’ve always remembered that.

I never bought one because I was suspicious. Bread machines are for sale at practically every garage sale you stumble upon – and they’re usually really cheap. I figured, they must not be worth the trouble…why else would everybody be so eager to get rid of them? And sure enough, any time I’d ask about their bread maker, they’d say something like “I only used it once or twice…seemed like too much work.”

Too much work?! On the contrary, bread makers couldn’t be easier to use! All you do is measure out a few ingredients, put them in the pan, and press start. Seriously, it’s that easy. You sit back and, three hours later, end up with a perfect loaf of bread. I know this, because I finally broke down and bought one last week. Off Craigslist. Cheap.

And it works like a charm! I grabbed a few ingredients from Freddy’s last week (flour, yeast, etc.), placed them in my baby cart, brought ‘em home, and a few hours later had a loaf of hot cheddar chive bread to serve to my dinner guests. And then last night, I made banana macadamia nut bread, which I turned into probably the best French toast of my life this morning. I’d say this bread maker will pay for itself in no time!

Between “Breaking Bad” and “Dexter”…

The past two Sunday nights have been the best TV nights ever.

I love both shows. I’d have to give the edge to Breaking Bad, though. It’s the story of a former high school chemistry teacher who was diagnosed with cancer and ends up cooking meth to provide for his family. He was once a good and noble guy, but has since transformed into a truly heartless and just plain bad son of a bitch. It makes for riveting drama. Dexter centers on a serial killer who only victimizes other people who have committed murder. Great concept, especially watching him deal with his “Dark Passenger” while trying to raise a toddler on his own. Both Michael C. Hall and Bryan Cranston are phenomenal in their roles, and those two shows represent my ideal block of Must See TV.

Unfortunately, Breaking Bad‘s season just ended, and it won’t return until next summer. This does not bode well for me. Impatient as hell, remember?

Speaking of…is it Wednesday yet?!?!?!?!

The Peanut Butter Predicament

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Peanut butter and grasshopper sandwich with a ...

Image via Wikipedia

I have a personal motto that starts out, “Life is too short.”

Really, though, it’s just an excuse to justify whatever behavior I feel like engaging in at the moment.  For example, if I’m on my way to work and decide to swing by Starbucks and drop $4.50 on a pumpkin spice latte, I’ll reason it away by saying, “Life is too short for crappy coffee.”  Or if I’m debating between a $10 bottle of wine and two-buck chuck, I’ll shell out the extra cash because – you guessed it – “Life is too short for bad wine.”  I have trotted out this mantra for all sorts of occasions, involving purchases as diverse as tennis shoes (“Life is too short for laces that must be double-knotted”), electric can openers (“Life is too short to risk slicing my thumb and spilling chicken noodle soup all over the counter while trying to figure out whether I turn the lever clockwise or counter-clockwise”), and iPods (“Life is too short for repeatedly pushing buttons to bring up that Wang Chung track I really want to hear (long live the 80s!), plus, I shouldn’t be without a virtual Zippo lighter app another minute”).  Turns out the more expensive the purchase, the longer the rationale behind it.  I have even, I am embarrassed to admit, used this approach when it comes to women (“Life is too short for putting up with clingy, insecure gold diggers”).  I have walked out of movies long before the closing credits roll, put down books three chapters in never to open them again, and bolted from restaurants having consumed nothing more than ice water if service is not up to par.  Am I a connoisseur of the finer things in life, or merely impatient?  The jury’s out on that one.

Be that as it may, it’s my motto, and it’s here to stay.  One of my recent (and simpler) additions is, “Life is too short to eat plain bread.”  I usually pack a lunch and bring it to work during the week, and typically, it consists of a sandwich.  After awhile, those two slices of bread become dull and tired.  No offense to the Earl Of Sandwich – great invention, buddy, it ranks right up there with the light bulb, the automobile, and Breaking Bad – but after awhile, it becomes rather humdrum.  I’ll vary the lunchmeat, and the cheese, and even the bread itself, but it doesn’t matter if I’ve got ham and Swiss on twelve-grain wheat or turkey and provolone on honey oat, it all starts to get old.  So I decided, on a whim, to start using rolls instead of bread, and that has made a world of difference!  Kaiser, ciabatta, you name it – rolls elevate an ordinary sandwich to extraordinary status.  This discovery made me giddy with excitement.  I knew now how Christopher Columbus must have felt, upon spotting new and previously unconquered horizons.  Granted, he was seeking a passage to India while I was merely in search of a really bitchin’ tuna salad sandwich, but my elation surely matched his.  The next time I bought groceries, I scoffed at the clueless folks filling their carts with loaves of Wonder Bread and headed straight for the roll aisle (which was, umm, the same aisle as the bread aisle, but I didn’t let my newfound snobbery get in the way of my quest).

Things worked out really well at first.  My sandwiches were fresh and tasty.  I was one happy camper.  (Purely as an aside, have you ever wondered about the origins of this phrase?  Are campers an especially happy lot?  I’d think, after a night spent alternately freezing your ass off and sweating to death in a sleeping bag that does little to disguise the fact that you are lying on the ground and there are rocks poking you in the groin and abdomen, and mosquitoes buzzing around the tent, and weird noises in the pitch black darkness that you hope are leaves rustling in the wind and not bears coming to maul you to death, that you would be anything but happy, but then again, I’ve always been a cabin (or better yet, a Comfort Suites) kind of guy).  I began to look forward to my daily sandwich ritual again, rather than dread it.  Life was perfect!  I felt like Tom in (500) Days Of Summer, in that scene where he’s dancing joyfully through the park to a Hall & Oates song while the sun is shining brightly, and a fluttering bluebird lands on his hand.  I guess in my version, though, it’s a fluttering slice of pastrami.

Then, the fates conspired cruelly against me.  Craving that ol’ standby PB&J one day, I reached into the cupboard for the peanut butter, and took a jar of grape jelly out of the fridge.  Licking my lips in eager anticipation, I opened the pantry, and grabbed… a bag of poppy seed-studded Kaiser rolls.

Uh-oh.

My face fell in dismay.  Just like that, I realized the fallacy of my not-so-perfect plan.  While rolls make most sandwiches taste better, you can’t very well make a proper peanut butter and jelly sandwich on a hamburger bun or a hoagie.  The bread-to-filling ratio is much too high, and the consistency is all wrong.  It’s okay if the peanut butter is crunchy (I much prefer that over creamy, anyway), but when the bread itself is crunchy, that’s another story.  Don’t even get me started on the poppy seeds.   Turns out the Wonder Bread masses were right all along.

So now, I’m back to buying regular old bread.   I can’t anticipate when the next PB&J craving will hit, but I need to be ready for it nevertheless.

Life is too short to settle for bologna when you really want peanut butter and jelly, after all.