Hey, Chochachos!

I'm Sorry.

2008-05-11T17:30:00.000-07:00

I'm sorry, but I just been havin' the greatest time lately. I been goin' to what they call Super School, you heard of it? It's like a school, you know, like we all had to go to, but it's for adults. Instead of teachers sayin' what's important, you decide what you want to study, and the teacher has to make it fun. The teacher also has to be flexible, though, 'cause you're essentially a customer. (Yeah, it costs some pretty serious scratch, and materials can be expensive, but keep reading.)

I was like, "I know basically nothin' about France, except that Napoleon got shot at Waterloo (not true), and then things started to go downhill for him, since in those days doctors were like, 'Bullets? What are those? Is that kind of a new thing?'" That made me decide to learn French history, but regular school never floated my boat too hard, so I remembered that some of the guys at the club do Super School once in a while, like to learn machine gun theory or how planes work and stuff. I made some calls and pretty soon I was enrolled.

French history really ain't nothin' to get too worked up about. Basically they're like everybody else, but their homeless people wear fingerless gloves. Anyhow. After a few lessons the teacher, Mr. Fluét, was like,

MR FLUÉT: Ray, I can tell that you are not really into this.

ME: What?

MR FLUÉT: Can you turn down your iPod for a minute?

ME: Oh! Uh...Louie the Sun King. Lewey?

MR FLUÉT: TURN DOWN YOUR IPOD

ME: [turns down iPod] Sorry, 'teach. 'Sup?

We decided that my class in French history should turn into one of those classes where you train your nose and palate to identify the tastes in wine, and it got much more interesting after that. He tried to break out that chart of the different wine-producin' areas of France (Champagne, Bordeaux, etc) but pretty soon it was clear that I wanted to focus on the flavor "profiles," and not a bunch of map stuff that I'd forget or consider boring.

He FedEx'd us up a Nez du Vin kit, that thing with all the different major aromas in little bottles, and we picked up a few cases of primo vino down at Cask'n'Bladder (that's what I call Provini's, the high-end liquor store over by the meat place, south of the stadium). Here are my notes from our first tasting:

Pomerol - kinda black and raw, wine + cherries, invisible splash of pepper (v. faint)
Vouvray - dry/wet, sweet, "outdoor" wine
Amarone - wow. totally good
'81 Chateau Mouton Rothschild - DAAMN this wine did a handstand in my mouth (mouth went up + down 3X while open)
Gewurtztraminer - crisp apples with deprecated rapeseed
Ketel One (my idea)
Gulden Draak - belgian beer hella flavorful all 10.5%'n it
Woodbridge Sauvignon Blanc - how did this get in here was what the hell leave it for the janitor's wedding or some shit
Pinot Noir - where'd fluééééét go that lightweight
Viognier - oh he was at his car getting batteries (?)
Lambrusco - fluét he threw a battery at me but we were hlla. laughin all silly
Nachos alla Meeting - nachos that cn. be prepared quietly during a meeting usin MRE technology

Damn. I don't even remember leavin' school for home that night...musta' walked, 'cause I had to go back and pick up the Escalade the next afternoon. Ain't heard from Mr. Fluét, I think he got kind of a head on from the Ketel. I'll call him in a week after I decide what I want to learn next.

The Story of My Hair.

2008-04-27T15:43:00.000-07:00

Man, what a log ride it's been with this bald spot of mine. Last time I wrote I had just started with Silas Dong, that random hair and skin doctor I found in Chinatown, and I was all jazzed about his acupuncture-type therapy and immense personal calmness. Remember that sign I told you about in his window, the one with the three pictures of the top of a dude's head, goin' from totally empty of hair to totally covered again? I read it wrong.

See, I figured that Chinese stuff got read right-to-left, you know, the opposite from our way. Turns out I basically read the sign backwards, because it was written left-to-right, with the full-head-of-hair guy gradually gettin' balder in each panel. Silas Dong was a hair loss specialist, alright. A SPECIALIST IN MAKING YOU LOSE YOUR HAIR.

I almost had a heart attack when I went in for my second session and he proudly showed me a clear template with rings on it. On a small center ring was the date of my first visit, and he beamed when he showed me I had "grown" two full rings since then. He got really confused when I started yellin', "No, I...naw, man! What did you DO?! What have I DONE?!" I even knelt on the floor for a second, covering my dime with my hands and wonderin' if I was gonna cry.

He sized up the situation pretty quick. In about six seconds he had handed me his sister's card, Phyllis Dong. (I guess a lot of honkeys mess up when choosin' Chinese therapies, so they have these things at the ready.) Phyllis is a hair re-GROWTH specialist (I even wrote down the word re-GROWTH? on a note pad and underlined it and she smiled and nodded). Phew, man. I tried to hand Silas the three hundred I owed him, but he was all wise and smilin' about it, pushin' my hand back, so when he turned around to get me a copy of his card "in case I should ever reconsider," I slipped the cash under a legal pad on his desk. I know he knew I did that, so I just shook his hand and headed a few doors down to his sister's office.

Her technique is basically the same, and I've already grown back the two rings I lost. Re-growing the stuff that went before Silas is takin' more time, but I'm confident somethin' will come of it. I figure, I'll be happy if my dime gets small enough so that Thaddeus can style it like a super-intense cowlick. I seen some large cowlicks in my time, and I never think the dude is baldin' or dodgin'. I wonder if Clooney has a cowlick in the back...time to get on Google Images.

See you later, Chochachos, and thanks for all the letters of support in my dark time.

The deal with my hair.

2008-01-16T10:40:00.000-08:00

Like I was sayin' last time, it's been rough. I been monk dimin' for over a month now, and my mind has been all over the place. I even uninstalled the 3-way mirror in the bathroom so I wouldn't be tempted to stare at the bald spot and obsess or fret over it. I can't remember the last time I did home improvement — look what I'm driven to.

Western medicine is pretty much useless when it comes to hair-regrowth technology, so I decided to go lookin' east. Just 'cause it's a little weird and different don't mean they ain't figured a few things out over there in China, you know. I cold turkeyed it, just walkin' into the first place I saw in Chinatown that seemed to have anything to do with hair — in fact, this particular place showed a three-panel set of drawings where the top of a guy's head goes from totally empty of hair to completely covered again. On the classic old-school frosted glass door panel, underneath the Asian writing, little letters said Silas Dong, Hair and Skin. I was sold.

I was a little nervous goin' in, since I ain't know the first thing about this kind of medicine, but right away the place had a real calm vibe. Feng-schway? That what they call it? Anyhow, this place had it in spades. Silas was sittin' in the corner of the small front room, at his desk, just Chinesin' around, you know, lookin' at Internet and stuff. He didn't greet me right away, but when he did, I could tell he greeted me at the perfect time to make me feel at home. A second sooner would have seemed anxious, a second later would have seemed rude. He played the hello to a T. Very few men can really say hello, if you think about it.

I didn't even say my name or anything, he just welcomed me into this real comfy chair, kind of like a recliner with the top half of the back missing, and started examining and massaging my scalp. It was nice — he wasn't into all kinds of insurance papers and stuff, all like havin' me with a clipboard for half an hour checkin' "no" in every single disease column (except glasses). We got down to tacks immediately, just two men with no nonsense between them. He made some thoughtful noises while he was examinin' my dime, and pretty soon he seemed to have satisfied himself.

"Three hundred dolla," he said in a professional, calm way. I could tell by his confidence, and the careful way he had examined my head, that three hundred dollars was EXACTLY what he knew to charge for my precise condition. It was really relieving, because if he could set a price to it so clearly, then he must have had a solution in mind.

I nodded, and he had me take my shirt off and go into a back room where I got on my tummy on a regular sort of doctor's examination table. He also had me take my shoes off.

I sat in there for a few minutes and relaxed. He must have been consulting charts or something, because right before I went in he asked me my birthday. When he did come in, he had all these lit candles on a cafeteria tray, and a little jar of needles. He'd heat a needle up, stick it real delicately into a part of my foot or back, and get on to the next needle. He said the different candles burned at different temperatures, and that the particular heat of the needles was important to where he stuck them. Sounded good to me, and it didn't actually hurt like you'd think it would. Each needle brought almost a welcome release from wherever he stuck it.

After about fifteen or so pricks I started to feel—I don't know how to say it—like my juices were alive. Like my body had gotten an important phone call it had forgotten to expect? I don't want to sound like a crazy man but I even feel like my dime tingled a little bit.

Dong wouldn't let me pay him after the first visit — I always like that. It's one of those business features you ain't see too much any more: trust. Faith. Respect. We'll see what happens. I'm pretty blissed on the dude and his services so far, so I'm sure I'll have some updates soon. God, what if seein' Dong solves my problem? What if I don't have to monk dime?

crazy bad news. can't even capitalize

2007-12-04T01:55:00.001-08:00

Doggs,

Man. This was a gravestone of a day. A tombstone. I walked down the sidewalk of life, and a tombstone popped up outta the ground in front of me. Like the numbers in one of those old-timey cash registers. I got an ice cream, but I couldn't like it. I got a pistachio macaroon, but it was pretty dried out. I wanted to want spaghetti bolognese, but I knew that wouldn't help me. I had to deal.

Here's the story. I was in Thaddeus's chair. My guy. My hairstylist extraordinaire. So we start the 'do, and he's kind of stiff the whole time, kind of distant, and when he spins me around with the mirror so I can approve the back of my new haircut, I see it plain as day. I got a damn bald spot the size of a damn dime. I'm straight-up monk dimin'.

Maybe you didn't hear me. I'm monk dimin'.

My thoughts are crazy.

I'm like, "This ain't nothin'. I can comb it here and there, the spot's small, I can cover it no problem." But that's denial.

Then I'm like, "I'll shave my whole head. That's the obvious thing." But that's over-reaction.

After that comes the appeal to science. "I'll get some 'a that Rogaine," you think. But you read the warnings on the side of the box and you quickly learn that it has hella dubious side effects:

1. You won't remember math (not a deal breaker)

2. You can no longer smell artichokes (I love artichokes)

3. Nine out of ten men experienced aggressive hair loss after using this product, including on people they were merely shaking hands with

Also, I can't imagine hair pluggin', doggs. I mean, if you pluggin', you always chasin' the border from the inside out, you know. Plus, I've seen lots of pluggin' photos on the internet, and the hair plugs are spaced so far apart they look like buck teeth...they look like buck hair. So obvious.

I'm sorry, this was way too personal. I got to regroup. Some of the guys at the club are monk dimin' or worse, so I'll work it in at some 19th hole and see what the done thing is.

Queensland On My Mind

2007-11-14T22:36:00.000-08:00

Alright, so as soon as I could make out that the grumpy guy who I hit with the Marmold bottle had taken off, I skedaddled from Sydney. Locked my hotel door, avoided Harold, and rented an Enzo to scoot me on up to Queensland. Bought some Dinkie Dots and Gatorade at a “petrol,” set my sights on Cunnamulla, and let ‘er rip.

Once I passed the border into Queensland I felt like stoppin’ for some proper steak and potatoes, but there wasn’t a lot goin’ on. I pulled into a pretty rural petrol station (the Enzo eats gas like you wouldn’t believe) and started at the pump. This younger dude in overalls and no shirt sat on the porch dippin’ what looked like a chicken thigh bone into a baggie that had somethin’ like soft aspic in it (aspic is that sort of clear chicken Jell-O that happens around a roast chicken carcass if you put it on a plate in the fridge overnight). He’d suck the aspic off the bone and dip it again, starin’ at me the whole time. Hell of uncomfortable, and I could swear I heard a didgeridoo playin’ “Dueling Banjos.” I pumped exactly twenty bucks, tucked that much cash into the handle, and zoomed off.

The next problem came when I got to Bodge Cranny Township, a little one-dog map dot maybe an hour outside ‘a Charleville. The guys runnin’ the outdated pump were gassed to the nines, sittin’ around in lawn chairs on the asphalt, and just givin’ me decades of sass. One guy even said it was likely that I was an idiot, based on my shoes and head, but on reflection he was definitely in his cups and meant nothing by it.

I finally topped off the Enzo, but I was outta cash, so I had to mix with them to pay. The main attendant, this dude with a sleeveless Chevron oxford under his overalls, spat and waved me into the office. To be cool, I bought a pack of smokes and a sixer of somethin’ called “XXXX.” I guess it’s dumb that they have beer with more X’s than Japanese porn, but maybe that makes them think that they’re having an incredible amount of fun. The dude let me off after just a couple more insults and I screeched away. I saw some of the smoke from my tires go into the nose of their dog, so I hope the dog got sick from that.

From here I’m headed to Barcaldine, which is a place on the map. I’ll check in with you soon, if I can. Things feel weird up here.

Problem at the Hotel.

2007-11-08T21:09:00.000-08:00

Man, you ain't gonna believe this. Remember those jars of Marmold, the artisan Marmite I got talked into buying last time? Well, after I bought 'em and put 'em in my room, I strutted around in town for a while, but it was kind of quiet, so I went back to the hotel to chill with a gimlet and gaze over the beach until everyone got off work.

Like I said, I had made a contest with myself to see if I could chuck the jars all the way to the water, which is about thirty yards from my balcony. I set my gimlet on the railing, wound up, and let the first one fly.

Pretty close -- it hit the sand about five yards shy of the foam line and sent up a nice little plume of fine-grained sand. It was kind of beautiful, in a way -- like the sort of thing a National Geographic photographer would shoot with an ultra-fast exposure: a corona of sand rising up in an amazing pattern as the shiny brown jar, in perfect focus, touches down.

The second jar landed about the same distance, so I did a couple push-ups (bad idea - hella tomato sauce burnin' in the throat) before goin' for the third and final throw. For some reason, I really wanted this one to hit the water -- I guess it was my own small way of conquerin' Australia. I leaned hard into the third pitch, visualized it landin' in the surf, and let 'er rip.

I guess there was a little ledge in the sand that I couldn't see, because as soon as I let go, the grumpy guy from the toast room stood up from nowhere, shirtless, and yawned. My screamin' jar of Marmold smacked right into the side of his body, between the love handle and the armpit, and I could hear the slap all the way from the balcony. Damn did it look like it stung. Before I could figure out what was happening, he turned, fixed his eyes on me, sneered, and started to walk real slow and angry back toward the hotel. I had to think quick.

I ran into town and ducked into a bar, where I ordered a beer real quick and sat in a bathroom stall with my feet on the seat. Unbelievably, the toast dude stormed in and started knockin' open the door to each can. I was trapped.

When he kicked my door and it didn't open he yelled, "CORR! MUST BE BROKEN!" and continued on down the line, kicking the rest of the doors. I nipped on my beer for a while (in my hurry, I had ordered Export Gold, which is horrible) and then eventually poured it directly into the loo, savin' my body the trouble.

It's totally bad that I already have an enemy in Australia, but it's a big place. Maybe tomorrow I'll rent a Caddie and go to Queensland -- since it's their northeast, it's probably more sophisticated, like our New England and Boston and all that. The dude I hit with the jar probably wouldn't go to a place like that.

At the Hotel in Sydney!

2007-10-31T15:39:00.000-07:00

Alright mates, I'm all checked in to the Harold Holt Surf-Inn and Lodge, and I got to tell you, the clerk bugged me from the second I walked into the place. He's this real scrawny guy in actual prescription aviators, and he had his nose buried in this little novelty-size Bible when I pulled on up to the counter.

RAY: Whoah, dude! Tiny Bible you got there!

CLERK: Excuse me? I think it's a perfectly fine size for a Bible.

RAY: Oh, sorry. I thought you were gonna come back at me with somethin' like, "It ain't the size of the Bible, it's the way you apply its lessons." I mean, I put that one on a tee for you, dude.

CLERK: [reluctantly sets down Bible] Are you checking in, then?

RAY: Hey, your name tag says Harold! You the guy this place is named after?

HAROLD: It's a coincidence.

RAY: Must bug you, all these folks comin' in askin' if you're Harold Holt, huh?

HAROLD: No one in Australia would ever think that I am Harold Holt. They chalk it up to coincidence and then typically get on with checking in.

RAY: I get you, I get you. [Unsuccessfully fishes around for ID and credit cards.] Huh, can't find anything. I called from the airport?

HAROLD: ID and credit card, please.

RAY: Yeah, uh, I can't find that stuff. [Offers handshake] Gentleman's bond?

HAROLD: It is not my job to tell you this, but those things appear to be tucked beneath the arm of your glasses.

RAY: [feels] Oh! Dang. I must have done that. Here you go.

HAROLD: [picks up the cards resentfully, using just the tips of two fingers] You'll be staying for our toast breakfast, I take it? It's highly suggested.

RAY: Yeah, uh, about that. No.

HAROLD: Toast breakfast is served from seven AM until noon. Please bring your identification.

RAY: You know, you're the first guy I've met in Australia who never says "mate." Even Hoshi was sayin' mate, and the dude's from Honshu.

HAROLD: Here is your room key. You're in 29b, up the stairs, overlooking the beach, as you requested.

RAY: Okay, then! [Pause] I'll just carry these bags myself?

HAROLD: Unless you'd like to revisit the lobby every time you need a clean shirt or socks, that is probably the wisest course of action.

Clearly I didn't like the guy too much, and I was pretty sure he didn't like me, so why was he tryin' to keep me around for toast breakfast so bad? Anyhow, I set up my room the way I like it, with all the clothes put in the drawers, the toiletries fanned out all nice on the bathroom counter, and the pen layin' crosswise on the writin' pad on the desk. Classes up a hotel room to act like a traveler of yore, you dig?

Next thing I knew I woke up on the floor and it was sixteen hours later — nine in the damn morning! Man, jet lag hit me like a beast! I felt great, havin' slept so hard, and realized that I did NOT want to sit in the hotel room until noon just to avoid the toast breakfast. "To hell with it," I thought to myself, "I'll just say no thanks. People do that all the time." I spruced up for a walk around town, dabbed some Obsession on my wrists, and headed through the lobby. Harold leaned out of a doorway and waved me over.

HAROLD: You're just in time for our toast breakfast. Come, come.

RAY: Oh, man. Dang. Forgot my identification, dude. Tomorrow, for sure.

HAROLD: It's alright, I remember you. Come, come.

RAY: Oh, jeez. Uh, okay. Cut me off if I start in with the sea shanties, will you?

I went into the little dining-type room and sat down. There wasn't any food out, and there was just one big grumpy-lookin' guy hunched over with his back to me (I don't know how I could tell his mood, but it seemed obvious). I could hear him crunching away, so I sat and waited. Harold came in pretty quick with a big plate of dry toast, maybe sixteen pieces, and set it down in front of me.

RAY: Wow, that's a lot of toast. I usually just have two pieces. You got any main dishes?

HAROLD: We sell a very special product for your toast here. Have you looked over by the fireplace?

RAY: [Looks] Huh! A little pyramid of three small jars that ain't got no labels! If I'd known THAT was gonna be there, I'd have looked sooner!

HAROLD: It is a sustainable, single-origin, organic, artisan, Marmite-type product. I collect and package it myself.

RAY: Marmite-type product?

HAROLD: Sixteen dollars eighty. You'll be amazed. It's a revolution that's going to set the toast world on its ear. My particular product's name is Marmold. As in, Harold's Marmite-type Product.

RAY: [thinks to self] Well, I'm gonna be here for a week, I basically have to buy this idiot's stuff. [Aloud] Okay, put a few of 'em on my tab.

HAROLD: You won't be disappointed. [Unscrews one for me] Just spread this on your toast, and ring the bell when you're out of either. [Leaves.]

RAY: [Sniffs contents of jar] Whoah, who peeled out on a bottle of soy sauce!

GRUMPY MAN: This stuff is bleedin' ambrosia. Don't knock it or I'll tin your cock, I will.

Okay, so now I got three jars of Marmold sittin' in my room. Maybe after my walk around town I'll see if I can chuck 'em as far as the ocean. I'm headin' out now for some steaks and Fosters and probably gonna set up shop on the beach after I make some friends.

Beef's Bachelor Party - HARD PLANS.

2007-10-31T00:31:00.000-07:00

I wrote much plans for Roast Beef's bachelor party in this cool retro-lookin' leather bound notebook I picked up at Restoration Hardware today. I even wrote 'em all out with a fountain pen, usin' my best scrawl, in case it might be a thing I can present to him like on their fiftieth wedding anniversary. Here are some of the party ideas I scritted down:

THE DUDE FLUSHES THE TOILET
This is kind of advanced, and it ain't for the Emily Post crowd.
The idea is this: when a toilet gets filled to a certain point, it will automatically "flush" itself, because of the water levels and the siphon at the base and stuff — you ain't need to pull the handle. Ergo, if a dude voids enough liquid into the toilet to make it flush itself, he will cause his friends great glee. This being the case, if we can fill Beef up with so much beer that he can "flush the toilet" without touching the handle, everyone will feel great glee and carry him around the house on their shoulders. (Incidentally, I learned this trick at junior college one night.)

THE MAN IN THE IRON MASK
This one is best done to metal, like Hell Bent For Leather, or the hip hop single Fuck Tha Police.
This one's kind of rough on the gums. You take Fritos — those rectangle corn chips half the size of a stick of gum — and tuck them vertically inside his lips, in front of his teeth, so that he gets a toasty yellow grill like a boxer's mouth guard. Then, one by one, each friend at the party tucks five bucks into the guy's shirt pocket, steps back, and takes a hard open-handed slap at the dude's mouth. It's a good way to raise money for the honeymoon, and the PERFECT thing to do to this music. Replace chips as they break.

COOKING LESSONS WITH NICK LEFABRE
At the Community Center.
Nick LeFabre has carved out a profitable local business by teaching dudes how to cook food that wives like to eat. In this class Nick says that wives like to watch fat and calories while still feeling special, and shows some signature dishes: cranberry preserve on lemon-rubbed toast; summer pea spoonfuls with thrice-blanched black pepper. (This would be more like one that me and the guys wouldn't go to, kind of a morning thing for Beef only.)

Daaamn. Lookin' over this thing, seems all we need is a pony, a shotgun, and a place to hide the body. Bachelor party, we COMIN' FOR YA!

On the Ground in Ozzieland!

2007-10-17T22:08:00.000-07:00

I’m on the ground in Australia, and I’m totally outta my mind! Everything is mad different here, and I think I’m gonna rent out my place back in the States asap so I can go local indefinitely!

First of all, the airline chick who greeted me as I came up the gangway was HELL of tight, and I almost went down on one knee when she clasped her hands and gave me that “G’day! Weyww-k’m tew ausstray-weeyah!” line. She was hella gorgeous, doggs! All blonde hair pulled back real simple into a hot bun, all tanned face, and you could TOTALLY tell what her dad looked like! That’s a neat thing about Australian chicks, although it can be weird at first.

Anyhow, I’m plopped down in the airport computer area now, lookin’ around for limos and hotels and stuff. I didn’t want to plan any of this, in case somethin’ came up, you know. For example, I was gonna give it all up to the airport greeter chick just now, but she went on some kind of break and I got to tell you, when I saw her lame-ass black nurse shoes and uneven-opacity black hose, I actually fell out of love a little bit. I know she just wears ‘em for her function, but damn, if you’re gonna be fine, get a different job. Those shoes hell of put me in a bad Minnesota bedroom, like with a humidifier and a fifty year-old career waitress named Bladge.

BALONEY! I am NOT losin’ interest in Australia already! That was a bogus blip. Looks like I’m bookin’ a room in the Harold Holt Surf-Inn and Lodge...says it’s right on the beach, they got a “highly suggested” toast breakfast ‘til noon each day...alright, not too swank, but it’s on some prime water, and I got much designs on breakin’ out the board. Plus, I figure if I get up late enough, I can skip the toast breakfast and sneak past the little guy in the office. I’ll be spendin’ at least forty five minutes gettin’ my hair all tousled in the local manner, especially the first day...that can definitely buy me a ticket past noon. At that point, it’s just a nice leisurely lunch of steaks and crispy cold ones at a local café, and then I’m off to the surf! I am hell of stoked about sittin’ in the sand, crackin’ lagers with some of the local blokes, and pissin’ in areas which are behind large storm wreckage (but still pretty close to the main beach).

Alright, my guy Mr. Hoshi from Hoshi’s Bonzer Limo just texted that he’s outside with the livery vehicle. Just got to make a few stops to pick up a board, some Sex Wax, and some steaks for the hotel room, and he’ll drop me at the Inn. I’m tellin’ you, the air here alone has just got me all kinds of jammed. It is SO not America. I feel like anything can happen! In America, things usually can’t happen, but down here, I get a way different vibe. Maybe it’s because the police cars look like something your cheap uncle would rent in Hawaii.

Seriously, Australia, get decent police cars and a national anthem that didn’t come programmed as the demo on the keyboard. I can help with this. I am at the Harold Holt Surf-Inn and Lodge for the next month, paid in advance.

Finally Airborne!

2007-10-11T10:47:00.001-07:00

Daaaamn, people! We actually airborne and on the way to bad old Australia! United Airlines, I’m gonna write a letter when I get back. This level of service is high-steppin’, and I am hella plussed. I got two plus signs for eyes. Here’s how the flight’s gone so far:

DAY ONE

Took off from San Francisco International Airport. At altitude I started cruisin’ around the passenger area, meetin’ people. Since it’s such a long flight, folks loosen up, break out the guitars and straw-bottle chianti and stuff. Turns out I’m sittin’ next to one of the main chicks in Australia (a model? can’t tell), and also this top race car driver they got named Angus Walliams. He’s totally what you’d expect — little, wiry, way energetic, and full of pranks. When I went to shake the dude’s hand he spun around and mooned me so hard I almost passed out from laughter! That thing was like less than a foot from my face, and it had an intensity! I thought about gettin’ another moon goin’ on right back at him, but then I was like, better not have two moons dukin’ it out near the hot chick. Basic manners, you know. I’m pourin’ one out for Emily Post, here.

After that they announced it was time for dinner, so all of us up in first class scrambled back to our seats and hella feasted on filets mignon and whole grilled pompano on the bone. Definitely nice, and they were pourin’ the ’93 Pétrus, so we got much classed and ended up in a circle on the floor singin’ a folk song. Somethin’ about a little Koala who goes to the store but can’t produce the right change and he gets booted. I think it’s one of their traditionals, everyone seemed to know it but me.

Fell asleep with my leg over the chick’s leg but we didn’t talk much. When I woke up, it was...

DAY TWO

The captain said we were well over the Pacific by this point, and that it was time for stereo music. (“Ladies and Gentlemen in our first class accommodations, it is time for Stereo Music.”) For about an hour and a half the first class cabin was filled with really nice stereo music while we brunched on prawn cocktail, omelettes, waffles and champagne. There was also this rad side dish of potatoes.

Later in the day a couple of the guys and I started talkin’ about US/Australia business relations, and we came up with some bomb trade ideas. For example, Americans love the phrase “shrimp on the barbie,” but no one’s ever capitalized on it in the US, especially where specialty grilling utensils are concerned. We blueprinted some proprietary shrimp grilling skewer/baskets, and I got to tell you, these are gonna put MAXIMUM flavor on the shrimp. After we got the sketches done and discussed the legal angles for a while, I ended up just hangin’ with this one guy Corwin and shootin’ the breeze about golf. Turns out he’s in real estate and wants to open the world’s longest golf course! Australia’s definitely the place. Texas people think they like big, but imagine havin’ an empty United States to yourself...Corwin’s got plans for a par-9 hole! Almost half a mile of fairway woods. I ask you, why can’t golf have longer holes? To hear him tell it, there’s no reason aside from limited imagination.

Fell asleep before the chick got back to her seat. She was on the phone a lot, but I’m hopin’ she saw me conductin’ business and was swayed by my manly authority. Am I buzzed? Should I say that?

DAY THREE

Pilot says we’re within sixteen hours of landin’. Seriously, I’m startin’ to get cabin fever up here. We havin’ fun, but how many times can you say the same thing to the same guy who’s goin’ to the same bathroom for the thirty-eighth time? It’s like we basically know each other at this point, and it’s kind of awkward.

I guess I’ll start gatherin’ up all my laundry, Flash memory sticks, and earbuds. Time to start gettin’ serious about Australia. The printers onboard just started shootin’ out the cover stories from the Daily Telegraph, so I'm gonna get current on shark attacks and parliament and stuff.

What the hell, brochitches?

2007-09-18T23:50:00.000-07:00

Dudes, my boy Roast Beef has got to get action-style on a wedding plan, 'cause he stone cold blew this year's weddin' season. I know it takes time to plan and all, but if that cat had lucubrated (yeah, I'm still subscribin' to Martin Song's Word-a-la-Daaay site) a little more they could of at LEAST done some quick thing out on the beach. Waves and sand ain't so dear as pews and a band, my old man once said.

What else is new...I'm hella rockin' some tennis elbow lately. I been workin' on it with Przepošc down at the club. He thinks I been servin' way too hard, and variatin' between too many serve techniques. He's sayin' all this stuff about how my serve was never properly molded in its early stages, and he may be right. I been servin' hard and loose since the first few years of my game—I'm talkin' kid ages—when I had my own ideas about how to wallop a mofo. Toss, wait, hop, twist, and SLAM. Or...toss, slam, wait, and jump. Sometimes: SLAM, wait, think, and pivot. Ray Smuckles could bring the heat, three times out of ten. And that's just enough to keep you alive...until your body gives. It's a hard lesson, but it can and will happen. Look at me. My wild technique finally caught up with my elbow. With my damn arm. Proof enough: don't wale unless you can assail. (Don't use that line - I may need it for an album. I call ™ on that shit.)

Other than that...gettin' damn good at cookin' eggs. I kind of made it a priority this summer. On just a basic day I'll get the griddle nice and warm and rock some sunny-side up under a — get this — pan lid! You put like a spoonful of water under the lid with some cookin' eggs and voila, they steam so that the top cooks real nice as well. People even been commenting. Hell of makes me happy. I ain't even know why.

Whoah, almost forgot Beef was comin' over to watch some Sopranos with me. That is a stone chill we ain't get to often enough now that he's tucked in with Molly. Got to run - we havin' spaghetti and meatballs from Spiedore's and I got a phone to find.

On the plane to Australia!

2007-09-02T10:22:00.000-07:00

I'm writin' this to you on the plane to Australia! We left the gate at San Francisco around four hours ago, and we're just about taxiin' for takeoff, so I am all kinds of jazzed. I'm six gin and tonics deep, people! They say the flight will be somethin' like three days, so I'm gettin' all set up for a nice long nap, maybe a couple hangovers, and possibly a birthday or a discreet fling. There's no tellin' when you're flyin' to the land down under.

Wow, we're takin' off! That's gotta be a first for United.

Oops. Bad news. The plane got to the runway but the pilots noticed they didn't have readings from their "Hackmer-Preda valve monitors," so it's back to the hangar. Gin and tonic, please!

Whoah, I just had a thought about Australians. Their reputation is that in, like, the eighteenth century, England sent all their "criminals" to live in Australia, and that's who Australians are based on now. Crooks. That's a rough one. I have a theory, though. You know how Australians are all about a big fat-ass crazy time, always havin' fun and crackin' twelve-inch lagers and just shootin' a gun at a big dirt hill? England exported all of its fun people! Stay with me, here.

That's right - the Church of England was hella powerful at the time, and they wanted everyone to be quiet and sit down and read that poem about roses. Future Australians were havin' none of it! They were like, "Awright, mate, if I 'ave to keep me arse planted through one more go of that poem about the bleedin' red rose, I'm gonna nick that copper's 'elmet and catch me the next dinghy t' perdition. This England 'ere's a right dud geezer."

Just like that, just like the Pied Piper, Australians got themselves taken outta' England and put where the sun does shine — and you know what? Australians have never produced a single poem. It's a point of national pride. England's loss? You bet. English people are sitting around eating cold trout dishes in a room where every single surface has a different flower print on it, and Australians are barbecuing whole lambs over the fossilized bones of a fifteen hundred pound paleolithic ant. The keg? An ice silo of lager. Back in the motherland, England is runnin' outta poems, and their pasty youth are dyin' of Jamie Oliver School Dinners starvation. (That information was on TV.)

Alright, Australia, here I come. I'm divin' in. I'm stoked. I got a book about drivin' with the steerin' wheel on the wrong side, and a computer keyboard that has that special key that prints out ", mate." When this 747 lands, I'm gonna open my arms during the whole descent! That's how much I'm already lovin' you, Australia. We gonna cuddle-scrum 'til the night is cashed.

Uh oh...the hangar ain't got no replacement Hackmer-Preda valve monitor cable. I may be writin' to you from this plane for another twelve hours, they say! That's...they gonna need to get more gin from SkyMeal or whatever that white truck with the lift is.

Australian Culture Lessons #1

2007-07-24T15:42:00.000-07:00

Like I've said before, the main problem a person can have (other than bone marrow disease) is thinking they know it all. Sure, I've painted a pretty clear general picture of Australia, what with my rugby shirts and mentions of slightly unkempt, devilishly wavy hair; with dudes always crackin' lagers the size of tennis ball canisters; with girls who punch horses in the side of the head when they don't behave. That's just the basics of what Americans know about this great country, though, so I hired on this Australian guy, Roger Barnaby, to teach me the real nuances of the place. I want to enter the country with grace and graciousness, all. That's the only way a player should *ever* act as a guest.

Here's how my first call with Roger went:

- - -

ROGER: [answers phone] Crikey, there's a big 'un!

ME: I...Hey man! This is Ray Smuckles! I emailed you? From the thing?

ROGER: Roight, roight! RAH'-dja BAAH'-nuby hea'! [Hard to represent his accent, and i won't keep doing it, but it was cool.] Listen mate, I've got a pod 'a meal wasps settin' up shop in me kitchen alcove, can I ring you right back?

ME: It would be better if we just went on speakerphone. That way I could see how a real Australian handles a pod of meal wasps. Start the lesson early, you know!

ROGER: Bloody good idea. Awright, I'll set me handset down, and you can listen while I work these bastards into a right paste. COME 'ERE, YOU LOT!

ME: Awesome. Just do what you gotta do. It's all gold to me, man.

ROGER: [handset clanks on table] Aye, this main bloke here's the size of a lager, he is. I've got me knife through one 'a 'is wings, and he's mad as a cut snake, I tell you. I'll be gone a minute, got to fetch me shotgun. You'll keep an eye on 'im, will you?

ME: I'm on the phone, man.

ROGER: Right, right. You don't hear back from me in five, call the Koolaburra Station antidote unit, will you?

ME: Definitely, man. I'm Googling it right now.

ROGER: [boots clomp off, huge buzzing sounds in the room]

ME: [gets distracted, starts looking at a website about women]

ROGER: [BLAM!]

ME: Oooh! Ooh! You get him? The big guy?

ROGER: Nahhh, I were just blowin' a wallaby off me mailbox.

ME: You blew away a wallaby? They're hella cute, dude!

ROGER: Bastard were munchin' on me mail, he was.

ME: Well, I guess that's acceptable. He'd probably die from magazine cologne samples anyway. So — what's up with the wasps?

ROGER: They're right cranky, now. But I've got old Bonnie Busket full 'a rock salt and that'll be the end of it.

ME: You shoot them with salt?

ROGER: It's easier on the wallpaper. Me wife loves the stuff, hates when she's got to paste a new patch up. I can go two, three infestations and it's still fit for Christmas.

ME: Dang. Alright, I'll wait while you take care of business.

ROGER: Good on you, mate. [BLAM! BLAM! BLAM! BLAM! BLAM BLAM BLAMBLAMBLAMBLAM! CRASH! POOSH! BLAM! BZZZRRRR! SPLAT! SPLOT! SPLOOT! STOMP STOMP STOMP STOMP *STOOMP!*]

ME: Dang, dude! You get 'em all?

ROGER: Aw, blast it. I've put a hole in the damned wedding photo.

ME: Just put new glass on the front of it and smooth the paper out with your finger, man.

ROGER: Naw, it's worse than that. Her 'ole 'ead's blowed off. Stands out like a shag on a rock.

ME: That's tough, man. I ain't even think Photoshop can fix that one.

ROGER: Eh, what can you do. Got time for a lager?

ME: Yeah, I picked up a couple before the call. [Cracks a lager]

ROGER: [Sound of a lager cracking]

ME: So, how's the economy down there?

ROGER: Bloody good, mate. Exports steady as ever. Life's beautiful.

ME: What's for dinner tonight?

ROGER: It's six in the bloody morning, I dunno. Steak, likely. It's Friday here.

ME: Wow, it's only Tuesday here.

ROGER: Big planet, innit, mate.

Gettin' ready to go to Australia.

2007-07-12T23:27:00.000-07:00

I tell you, man, I am seven kinds of beamed over my upcomin' trip to Australia. I got me some thick-ass cotton rugby shirts, you know, with the wide horizontal stripin', and Thaddeus is even teasin' my short hair out so it's a little tousled, like an Australian dude's. Got me a puka shell necklace and some chunky-punk Blundstone "Blunnie" boots, like all true Aussies wear. Hell, I ain't be surprised if people pull up alongside me on the road and ask for directions!

DRIVER: Say, mate, 's the Berra Borra petrol 'round this way? We're just out from Adelaide on a driveabout!

ME: Heh! I'm from America!

DRIVER: [cracks a lager, hands it out the window] Crikey! After you, mate!

The important thing to remember about Australia, though, is that it is some tough-as-nails country. It's, like, where all the nasty stuff from evolution went to go and live in a trailer with a shotgun. They got ants that are literally on fire, like a pilot light, all the time, and they got a kind of shark that actually says runes when it jumps out of the water. They got a type of bush there that will rustle all night when you're sleeping near it and drive you nuts. (You're not near it? It's silent. They've done tests.) Oh, and did I mention the spider that can mimic the tones of you keying your PIN number into a telephone keypad? Okay, so I made that up, but in Australia, that would be the LEAST treacherous animal.

One nice thing about Australia is all the solid music they contributed to the scene in the '80s. (Before that, their radio was mostly news about light aircraft failure.) You can joke me for playin' outside 'a my hip-hop comfort zone, but Aussies claim much coin on Midnight Oil, INXS, AC/DC, all that proper pop/rock stuff. They even turned out Men at Work! You definitely know "I Come From a Land Down Under" — they play that song at inaugurations, when the bride walks down the aisle, when they lower the casket, just any old chance they get. It's a catchy tune, I can see why. Hope they didn't waste too much money on some national anthem, all locked up in the basement of some library somewhere.

Whoah, I just YouTubed the Australian national anthem! No wonder they use Men at Work instead. Hello, winner of the high school project. Your dad came, he's in the car queue outside.

Damn. Maybe I can talk them into some new anthem action. I see they were actually considerin' "Waltzing Matilda" instead of this jerked-up Muzak thing. Jesus, if a drinkin' song is your anthem then you're a Parrothead, not a nation. I may bring a little lagerproof keyboard to demo some ideas to them.

Goin' to Australia.

2007-07-10T22:14:00.000-07:00

I'm thinkin' bout goin' to Australia for a spell. Maybe a month or so. Strap on some rude external-frame pack from REI, some hella cush tennies, and a bedroll. I been watchin' all this Aussie TV on YouTube and I got to tell you, Australian people put the damn mack on. The dudes are all like the friendliest jocks you ever met, totally slapping your back the first moment they meet you, and if they've had enough lager, they'll moon you until you both god damn pass out on the floor. In the morning you'll both wake up with a bad head on, and they'll crack you a lager and go, "Aagh, crikey! After you, mate."

The chicks? Man, they are harder than any American chick, even a switchblade chicaloca from raw angles. First of all, any Australian chick would shoot a goat in the side with a rifle. That's number one. I don't mean they'd do it out of spite; hell no. I mean they'd do it to kill the goat in a real quick way, just hitting the heart, and before you knew it they'd have that bad boy strung up and bleedin' for Sunday dinner. Ask some raw angles chicaloca to blow a goat away, you'll see what I mean. You can't put question marks on the table, chica. They're tough down there — they all intern on farms and ranches, I think, instead of military duty (Australia has no military that I've heard of — who's going to invade them, Princess Cruise Lines?).

But not only are the chicks super-hard, they get up to even more good fun than the dudes. And I mean DUDE fun, not some Steel Magnolias french-braid-a-thon. All chicks there play paintball, even the quiet ones (and there ain't many of those), and they all will arm-wrestle you. Sit next to some real-estate lookin' middle-aged lady at a cafe table, plant your elbow, and you're on. She'll beat you with a beer in her hand. A cold Foster's. Then she'll get back to her niçoise salad and cell phone call.

Yeah, I'm goin' to Australia. They got this resistance swimmin' pool at the club — I'ma get a surfboard and go see how well I can cut water. Build up the old triceps and delts. Been a while.

I had to put the push on the guy

2007-05-25T11:59:00.000-07:00

Man, you know how Roast Beef is. Dude has talent ten ways from Tuesday, plus he cleans up real good since he walks all the time. He's got old-wired manners in all areas and that World War-style ethic where he just does not quit until he has got it right. Main Sentence: my boy Roast Beef needs to get with his long-abidin' girl Molly.

You know me, I kruck down money on escorts and chicks and basically play it single. It's my groove, and nobody bugs. I'm flappin' it that way for now. Sure, I may want the Thanksgiving table and beamin' pearl-earring wife sooner or later — probably later — but to each at his own pace, dig? It's different with Beef. Dude never had a Place to be from, never had a swell situation. He hella wants to nest, you can tell, but since he is who he is he can't allow himself the right. Problematic. Some types need pushin'. It ain't a Discovery Channel thing where you ain't supposed to interfere with the animals and watch as they starve to death — we all wound up in each others' lives for some reason. I guess the dude's got me around at least a little 'cause he likes that I'll give him a push here and there when he needs it. Ain't nobody no dummy when it comes to their root selves, be honest.

New Paragraph

Anyhow, I think it's happenin' this time. Molly is stone sick for the dude...alright, maybe not the best way to say it. Molly ain't goin' nowhere, she is gone on him. Beef ain't one to play the market, and he's lucky the right thing landed in his bag on the first try. It's a match. Mega-bitter ancient Chinese dudes on blankets, all lookin' at Zodiac charts and stuff, they'd probably grin at this one. Just some time now. Ain't like people half their age in worse situations ain't been makin' it happen since before time began. Dude, just put the symbolic ring on. The real ring went on basically when you met.

See you all at the ceremony/party. Should be big. I'm gonna insist he does it at my place — I got mad plans for the catering and traffic flow. Gonna be the best Friday ever!

I went to a museum, doggs!

2007-04-14T17:38:00.000-07:00

At first, it didn't seem like I was gonna go to a museum today. I got up at like 5am so dehydrated that my eyelids took literally three seconds to open or close (the eyelid pulled slowly across the gummy eyeball like a slug), then I went down to the kitchen and guzzled at least a pint of ice cold Pellegrino. Man, never do that. I nearly fell over as all of my blood dropped like fifty degrees and my organs started lookin' around on medical websites to see if they could find someone who would take better care of them. I swear, I think I almost bit the dust.

After that I played it cool in bed for about six hours, just on-and-off sleepin' and tryin' to mentally plan my Saturday brunch feast. The usual calamari and bloody, of course (fish is mad-good for the brain), but maybe English chip-cut fries this time, along with my Eggs B. Nice, right? Little newspaper goin' on, some French jazz on the Bose...heaven. I got up, zipped into my dope new Fila coveralls (they even got slipper feet sewn in), and padded on down to the kitchen.

I cooked that action up BY MYSELF, HELLLOOOO FOOD NETWORK, and, on a whim, picked up this cheese-ass local paper that I never read. While flippin' around in all the ads about sleep dentistry, Pink Floyd-enhanced LASIK, and eight dollar halibut specials at 3pm, I found this little "local interest" article about a general store from the 1850s that had been preserved in its original state and turned into a museum. It hit me, you know? I was like, I had this sense of if I went there, I would get an idea of how similar folks always been. They wouldn't have iPods, or even disco roller-sluts headin' south on ten kinds of Marky-Mark, but they'd have their own kind of fun. Pretty soon I was in the Escalade, and I even used my XM satellite to tune in the 1850s channel (Millard Fillmore, reprahZZZent!)

First up, the building was in this hilly, pretty dense area with a ton of ancient oak trees, and not a lot of folks were around. It seemed very 1850s, except for this one, like, two story Lexus LX (ugliest SUV on the market, all) with a Vuitton-sportin' mom wrestlin' a half dozen brats into various types of kiddie seats. Already, just in the presence of this old structure, I thought of how it would have been in the day, some pioneer mom named like Clarabelle shovin' twenty-six kids into their two story CUS (Catholic-Utility Stagecoach) and lashin' wooden crates of groceries onto the roof.

I stepped up onto the walkway that skirted the building, and it creaked in this mad-dusty Clint Eastwood kind of way. It was large, and I felt like I was there to shoot whoever was running the museum. Amazing how powerful squeaking wood can be. Eventually I found the front door (back then, front doors of shops were just like regular house doors, so to the modern eye they seem like you should not just open them at random), and it squeaked as I walked inside. That ancient smell of varnish and dusty wood filled my nose as I walked across the squeaking floorboards to the nearest display, which was a tray of old extracted teeth that the town dentist-grocer had removed for a dollar each. Not even a glass case over them! Very cool.

I looked around the empty place to see who was in charge, and there was this young dude with like a real forced smile on his face, a real tight squint, standing behind some kind of counter. I smiled at him, his own tight smile intensified, and he nodded like a half-millimeter. Real strange energy from that dude. I looked at a display of old lumberjack saws (again - just mounted bare on the wall, not even any ropes keepin' you out of arms' reach), and some ancient pictures of handlebar mustache dudes cutting down a tree twenty feet wide. I could feel the guy squinting from the other side of the room, so I went into another room, floorboards squeaking like crazy, where there were all these ancient bottles of whisky and local wine on open display, not even behind a glass shield. There, I thought. Even before the transcontinental railroad, when San Francisco was just a few muddy streets thirty miles north, you could buy at least ten varieties of booze in this small room in the middle of nowhere, a spot that was on the way to nowhere. History, you're just like me.

I perused a set of framed ledgers, but I could still feel the dude squinting, and kind of squeaking in place on a noisy floorboard.

It was starting to get on my nerves, so I briefly looked at a display of historical pants, slipped a fiver into the old wooden barrel that said "donations," and squeaked my way across the threshold. I looked back and said "thanks" to the dude, and he just shot me the most intensely squinty-eyed smile I have ever seen. Really confusing. Why would anyone hire a guy like that? A museum should be a mellow place.

I walked around the building, since there were more outdoor displays, and real delicately the dude came out a side door and kind of wince-walked a few steps before noticin' me. When he saw me he pretended to check the axle of this old ox wagon that probably hadn't moved in a hundred years, and then carefully let himself back inside.

It hit me. The dude, workin' alone, had been in there for hours with all those bratty kids and dangerous displays, and hadn't taken a leak since god knows when. Every second I had been in there had been agony for him. There was only one right thing to do.

I squeaked my way back up the front walkway, squeaked the front door open, and stood in front of his counter, arms crossed.

"I've been thinking," I said. "I want you to tell me everything there is to know about this building. We can go room by room, piece by piece."

This broke him. His squinty grin melted into a pleading, begging face, one he couldn't control.

"First," I said, "let's start with the pisser."

I smiled, and let myself out again.

He got me, and as I was headin' to the Escalade I saw him walkin'—with his knees essentially together—to a modern outbuilding. I'll imitate it for you sometime if I ever see you at a Friday party.

As I was drivin' away I saw that his car, the only other one in the lot, was a pretty bad ten year-old fake Pontiac sports sedan, all havin' some stickers about the government holding a bake sale to buy a bomber, so I slipped another fiver under his windshield wiper. I wronged the dude—didn't read the signs—and even though I was kind of interested in the museum, basic protocol always comes first. Any Smuckles will tell you that.

That chump.

2007-03-19T22:41:00.000-07:00

Yeah, Bacon of the Month Club, whatever. It's like Onstad just discovered the post office. That amateur.

I'm sorry, I ain't all about hatin'. It's nice to see the guy spread his wings a bit. I say this with a tummy fulla' echidna banh mi, of course. Had my boy Vi Hao air drop 'em out by the bridge; I was coolin' it in the Caddy, watchin' for his long-short-long tailsmoke. Player even threw in some salt dung-cured Shetland short ribs. Love that guy. I know he takes a loss on those, what with all the trimming, so the gesture was super-large. Gesture was krackety. Dude has pride in those ribs. All dungy. So tasty.

Good luck with your bacon, Onstad. Good luck mattering, that is. Bacon ain't exactly news in recent centuries. Whoops, there I go again. Why I so crotchety? Oh yeah, it's 'cause Onstad's frontin'. Dude has some new bacon the way a kid joins the cub scouts: just weird circumstances, no real passion.

NOTHIN'!

2007-03-06T22:38:00.000-08:00

Man, today was TOTALLY unimportant! I just did COMPLETELY regular stuff. Here, let me lay it out for you -- it's so boring, it's almost hilarious:

1) Got up. Didn't want to, but sometimes a player just has to roll with the punches. Tried to be humorous about it, all makin' a pile of shavin' cream and then throwin' Tylenols into it. Kind of made a mess.

2) Had to throw away my new talkin' pedometer durin' a round of golf at Seven Pines. Just as I was drawin' up into my backswing, the thing busted out with all this calorie analysis chitchat, and Mayor C sprayed me with his Coors. Honestly, this was my bad.

3) Saw a dude farmer-snottin' behind the bank. You know, pushin' one nostril shut while blowin' the payload outta the other one? Anyhow, I saw that.

That's about it. Hope you had a good day, or are havin' a good day, or whatever (I know some people in Australia read this).

-=Ray=-

I had a rad-ass day, m'buches!

2007-02-23T01:25:00.000-08:00

Hey, you dig how I did that little African thing there, callin' you all "m'buches"? Yeah, that's a thing I been feelin' like sayin' lately. "M'buches." Rhymes with smooches, but is still just a tiny bit hard. Don't worry, you're all still my chochacho(a)s.

So, why was today rad? Well, I been on a lessons kick lately. Like, I'll want to learn how to do something, and I'll stone cold ring up a private teacher and they'll come over and teach me. It's really that easy.

Here's who came over today ALONE! Like I tell you, I been packin' lessons into nearly every daytime hour lately, so don't act like I'm not telling the truth.

1) Muffin lesson. Thought it made sense to start the morning off with a muffin lesson, since people always nibblin' on muffins in the morning. I asked the guy if we could work some bacon and cheese cubes into our muffins, and pretty soon we had a rockin' breakfast muffin. I made us some doubles from the Jura and we chatted about how hard it is to quit smokin' (out of politeness, I didn't have a cig until after he rolled).

2) Dumpling lesson. You know how good dim sum is, right? Well, so do I. A couple days ago I called up this guy Wayne Shoy and slotted him in for 11am-noon. We did up some rude soup dumplings, and some pork buns, and even some real tender beggars-purse type action. He was hella fun and we even grilled up some dogs before he left.

3) Calzone lesson. Ain't nothin' worse than a homemade calzone by some lousy friend who thinks they can cook just cause they bought a pizza stone. I had the guys from Pizza Bel Forno come on down and give me a real thorough demo of everything from makin' the dough to bakin' the show. As we were samplin' the finished product I could tell they wanted some Sambucas, so that was chill. They finally pulled out around four, which was cool because my evening tamale lesson guy needed the driveway space to set up his steamer cart.

Anyhow, I'm totally blissed on education, you know. At my age, it's pretty good to think that I still got a whole lifetime of lessons ahead of me. I ain't so arrogant as to think that I already know it all. That is the main problem that a person can have.

I am proud of that little man.

2007-01-31T15:41:00.000-08:00

You know what? I am proud of Little Nephew. He got himself a job drivin' pizzas around (for delivery), and he has been making a good little income from it. Most importantly, though, is that he's been at it for a couple months now, and has never even gone in late, let alone missed a day of work. That's the kind of values that our grandparents used to have. Sometimes it's good when a kid goes retro in a way that doesn't involve wearing your old clothes in order to look hilarious to his friends.

He's down at Colonel Luigi's, this fusion pizza place that's actually pretty all right. Couple times a year I golf with Luigi Wong (he's half Italian and half Chinese) down at the club, and he's got a real smart operation going. Clean, books are good, and damn but if it don't run like a clock. Guess that's the Chinese half. Anyhow, his pies are killer. You can order a half pepperoni and mushroom, half "ginger bee" (his ginger bees are little fried popcorn chicken in a garlic/ginger sauce) and green onion, or just a straight up fusion pie, like hot sausage and spicy kimchee (you would think this is terrible, but it's not). He even has this "crust two ways" deal, where half the pie is a regular pizza, like bell pepper and ham, and after cooking they fuse a half made outta that steamed pork bun rice dough to it. On the fusion half they got that sweet and sour pork bun filling, and they sprinkle over some sesame seeds and chives. Damn but if that ain't some tender, delicate, springy pizza. I got to talk to him about franchisin'.

Anyhow, I just wanted to say that I am proud of Little Nephew. I rarely get the chance, you know, what with him always snappin' pictures of his crotch for MySpace, or lyin' about drinkin' from the Chivas I use to clean the rims on the Escalade. It's like, if I see him doin' somethin' actually good, I got to jump in there immediately before he starts drunkenly snappin' pics of his crotch while loggin' on to MySpace. Feel a man's pain, America. Feel a man's pain, the world. This is the situation.

-=RAY=-

smallest party ever

2006-12-05T01:16:00.000-08:00

Yo, so I'm still, in a way, gettin' over the failure of the ENORMOUS BY RAY SMUCKLES party that I threw in July. I swung so big and took nothin' but air?! Yeah, it messed a dude up. For a while I was havin' actual issues, settin' up parties that I knew were less than I was capable of. One time, a single fondue bar for three hundred people. Another, a pony keg of Mickey's and Doritos as the only food. Beer lines snaking around the property like a new ride at a goddamned non-Disney amusement park, and crap for them at the end. I was ashamed, I was low, and I did not mingle much. It was a dark time, and I think every dude has those. Every dude I care to talk to, anyway. Yeah, that's right — old Ray been takin' himself through the wringer these days. But I think I worked it out last Friday night.

Yeah, I threw no bash on Friday. Not for anyone else, anyway. Gates locked, put out a few calls, had Mayor C plant a few utility crews around the sidewalks of my place to look like electrical or sewer was goin' on. I was in my room, a little puffed, tryin' somethin' new.

Yeah, I threw the smallest party ever. Absolutely the smallest. SMALL-N-TINY BY RAY SMUCKLES (original type was 3pt Times). I had some of those small dancing stick-figure pixel animations open in different browser windows on my monitor (no stick figure more than eight pixels tall), and I was at my desk with earbuds in (smallest way of listening to music). I had dialed in a band I found that played only one piano note every five seconds. Some college thing. So little music. So little to listen to.

For food I put a cashew, a Goldfish cracker, and a Frito on a small white coaster. To drink, I had that thimble from Monopoly and I used an eyedropper to squeeze in Ketel One from a little airplane bottle. My one decoration was a single chili-pepper light, powered off my USB. I did not move from my chair for the duration of the party, although at certain points I would quietly let out a little "woo-hoo" or "uh huh" under my breath.

The party lasted exactly one minute, which is the shortest measurable time a party can be said to last. In that stripped-down space I gained a huge new perspective on just how little it takes to have a good time. I ain't even get to the Frito or cracker, because I was cold focused on how nice the cashew tasted, all by his lonesome, with just one single piano note fadin' away in my ear. It was so...Japanese Nihongo. Minimalist. It sounds lame when I say it, but that cashew was really nice to eat, sitting at my desk with the tiny computer pictures and drop of Ketel.

So I got some ideas for my next party, which will be real, real subtle, but not so subtle that it surprises you. Even the way you get told about it will be subtle. I may hire a street team to personally tail each invitee for a day or two, discover like a urinal or park bench they always use, and then, like, write "Party at Ray's, 12/15" in the grout, or Sharpie it on a scrap of paper taped to the bench. Then, when they show up, this one older Asian man each of them will have seen walk by immediately after they saw the note will greet them warmly by first and last name. Yeah, keepin' with the Asian theme. Nice. The staff will all wear white, and little islands of flowers and candles will float in the pool. Ooh, this is just too good. This is like The Game good. I am SO not giving any more away on my blog right now.

I forgot everything I knew about computers!

2006-11-16T03:46:00.000-08:00

Yo, peppers! I finally did it! A little while back, I learned a ton about computers. I'm talkin' from parity bits to the delicious seven layers of a TCP/IP stack. I even was gonna meet with a guy who taught introductory compilin', a secretive master from the old school, flew by the handle of 01100001-A. I was a super-fly "houndy-ass root boy," totally setting the permissions for all kinds of stuff—even starting to pwn on some users who had gotten out of hand on my IRC. (And getting results, I might add.)

One day I was buggin' on some l00p3r who'd been spazzin' out about god knows what, and I kind of had an awakening. I was like, "Hey! I ain't need no guff from some fools in this improvised fake-scape! What the?! I got to get into my yard and bust a fat jay and grill a pork medallion so tender it trembles when a butterfly flaps its wings in Japan!" (a chaos chop). I realized what a waste of time my "virtual" life was, when I saw that I was getting all my pleasure from changing "permissions" on a typing line.

I could see the appeal of computer worlds, for sure. I'd got in that far. You just learn a few words and ideas, and all of a sudden you're, like, fast-tracked to a corner office where a kid named @kr0n_12 wants to repeat everything you say to everyone he knows (three guys from the WHATS-YOUR-WPM boards). Hard to ignore that kind of easy ass-jockeying. Shame on old Ray for fallin' into another easy vice.

Anyhow, I been workin' with a hypnotherapist, and we got me to the point where I no longer desire punchin' in and batch-glockin' a bunch of eight-character goons with some vengeful kill -9 action. You get me down in front of a command line terminal, the hell I want a ham sandwich and a stroll 'round the pool. I find the whole concept distasteful, but I do not condescend. My guy is good, he has finesse. He keeps me gracious even in the face of my ghosts.

Have a good weekend, everyone! It's great to be free of computers again. I may hit the links, or drive a thousand miles in a direction, or try to buy one of those golden ducks with the hanged neck like they got in Chinatown. Either way, you can bet that I will not be aware if Internet avatars of Super Mario and Rivet Soldier Masobungyi are mad at each other over "religion" in the General Discussion channel.

-=RAY=-

Butter, where have you been all my life?

2006-11-08T00:17:00.000-08:00

No, I ain't met some sex club worker named Butter, though you could believe that. I'm talkin' 'bout fat little old mister butter—spread him on toast, melt him on noodles, drizzle him the hell on popcorn. You know what I'm on at, and you afraid to listen, ain't you!

You see, what with the health craze of the last couple decades, butter totally got shoved aside while people pretended to eat baked potato chips and olive oil. Don't get me wrong—olive oil has its place. That place is at the store, while you are buying butter. Remember how for a while people were sayin' you shouldn't eat eggs? And now they say you should constantly eat eggs or you'll die? Yeah, it's like that. You should eat what makes you happy (except fatties, who should the hell take a damn walk), and let the health press duke it out on the newsstands, which you don't patronize, 'cause newspapers and magazines have to say bad and scary stuff about everything or they'll get bought out by Reader's Digest Large Type Edition.

Anyhow. Man, I been thrillin' in the kitchen with butter. And I ain't took it too hard on the waistline, either. It's like, the whiny newspapers and celebrity diet books have us all in constant confusion about food, but once in a while you get that 2001: A Space Odyssey moment, like the ape with the bone who beats the ass of an ape who had no bone, and you go...BUTTER! BUUUUTTTTTERRRRRR!

I'm picturin' this: I'm an Amazonian tribesman, all in some loincloth with a snake necklace, and I'm runnin' through the jungle with this fresh grilled whole snapper in my hand. I stumble into a clearing, and rising up into the sky before me is a ten-foot tall stick of butter, the size of a fridge. I drag the sizzling-hot fish across the butter, then devour one side of it. As the melted butter and fish juices run down my face, I fall to my knees and scream to the heavens: "BUUUUTTTTTERRR!"

You know, that sounds like a good opening to a movie. The rest of the movie could be in the present day, about this guy who believes in butter but keeps getting doors slammed in his face. At the end of the movie, he lowers his vegan nemesis into melted butter, then laughs as the hours pass and the fat sets and the vegan's body is slowly crushed.

My friend made a sex magazine! Read it!

2006-08-26T00:28:00.000-07:00

Man, I am pretty happy for Roast Beef today. Dude is makin' big strides in the publishing world, good first steps. Dude just released the second copy of his 'zine! Here's some backstory on how my crazy computer programmin' friend actually has a first love of printin' sass by the pound.

First, in early days, he was always makin' small booklets of our times, like maybe just a page folded over and a fake cover with a title like "CRUDDY CHRONICLES" that had a decent drawing of him sticking his hand about halfway into a rain gutter spout and making a shocked expression.

After that he did THE PRIVATE EYE in high school, and that actually got a lotta people talkin'. He would break stories the main school paper wouldn't carry, like about how the social studies teacher jacked off. He always had a flair for that stuff.

Then for a while he just sent pretty funny emails to everyone, like for years, and you could tell he still liked to tap-and-sass. Me and the fellows would even talk sometimes, when he wasn't around, about his funny lines or the certain way he had used an uncommon but normal word, like "scrounge." He would use a word like this against a backdrop of incredibly simple language, kind of like the word was a lovely red hat or screaming blue policeman in the center of a pure white gymnasium. You could tell the dude liked to type and trot out words like they were unexpected steaks in a communist building. Anyhow.

Now he's got his 'zine thing goin' strong and I am proud of the dude. I don't agree with the scope of his vision, but I can certainly appreciate a player poundin' it out even when nobody cares. Dude keeps it real, and doesn't risk much money. Dude plays it tight. That's my boy. My boy is Roast Beef, and he has so much sense he can barely get outta bed each day.