tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-75118362024-02-20T05:31:15.669-08:00Hey, Chochachos!Unknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger135125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7511836.post-35569832068343078762016-12-25T00:07:00.000-08:002016-12-25T00:07:39.144-08:00Holiday Shoppin' All DoneMmmmmmBillyJoelllll!<br />
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Hey everybody! I'm comin' at you like a Christmas Carol on fire! Santa's numbers are in, the reindeer are all gassed up, and the friends are ticked off! On the old shopping list, that is. Here is what I got everybody:<br />
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1. Philippe. Never forget a kid and his magical sense of hope in the world. Kids give a lot of credit to the world and expect beauty, which is a pretty rad position that our DNA takes, and we all got to help that feeling as long as we can and hope some of it stays alive til adulthood. For Philippe, I picked up a VERY smooshy-cooshy pair of UGG moccasins! <i>Shearling for my dearling, yo. </i>Also, a beanbag chair the size of a hot tub.<br />
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2. Pat. I got him one of those heavy bases that dispenses Scotch tape. It was cheap at Dollar Tree. He never called me for my birthday. No, tape was not included.<br />
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3. Téodor. I bought T one hundred pounds of meat. 80/20 beef, chicken thighs, chicken breast, veal, lamb chops, ALL the news you can use. Waiting in his garage is a stand-up freezer with a red bow on it, plugged in and hungry. Osso Buco me, T!<br />
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4. Nice Pete. It's always hard to shop for a ...he is a good guy. He has done me right at many turns. I bought him a really nice hickory-shaft hammer from Restoration. I thought he might like the craftsmanship or something. I thought he would owning such a fine, honest gentleman's tool. I hope he likes it. He is a good guy. He has honor. Peter H. Cropes is a fantastic individual.<br />
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5. Little Nephew. He's been kind of distant lately, kind of wrapped up in his own extracurriculars, but I know the dude always appreciates some thick white tube socks and a Taco Bell gift card. I maxed up $250 on that thing so he can have some memorable trips through with his boys and dates. It was a while ago but Beef and I once spent $40 on a trip through the Bell, and it will always be a laughin' matter with me (especially the part where Beef made me hospitalize him for a stomach pumping after he freaked out about all the sodium searin' his urethra and veins or whatever). I also taped my cell # to the gift card so neff can text me a thanks if he gets around to it, or ever needs my help in a fix.<br />
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6. Molly. Molly is the bomb. When she ain't book scratchin' for her MBA or shinin' brass tacks, she is patient as <i>hell</i> with my Beefy-boy. I think some day he will actually be a better full man, and it will mainly owe to her horse-breakin. Anyhow, I know she's been wantin' to learn oil paints, and that stuff is goddamn impossible to figure out on your own ("fat over lean?" Each stroke takes a month to dry? What what?) so I got her a year of weeklies with Cardamonio Angelo-Lautenburg Mantiquetti, this bomb-ass oil painter who does lots of Pebble Beach and Scotland-type stuff. He's hit Seven Pines a few times with me and Mayor C., real nice guy. <br />
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7. Emeril and Spongebath. Got them a combined salt and pepper grinder at Marshall's, where the salt and pepper are in the same chamber and come out together. I figure guys like that probably like salt the same amount as they like pepper.<br />
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8. Cornelius. What do you get for the guy who has done everything? Keith Richards. I bought Keith Richards for Connie. <i>I'm completely serious.</i> To make things way easier on everybody, neither guy has to see each other, but as part of the deal Keith is obliged to chat on the phone with Connie at least once a week, for twenty minutes, and he can't act like a dick. I know Connie actually has some questions regarding blues key modulation and foreign organ transplant logistics, so this could be fun for him. And Keith gets a huge tax break as a "Brexited consulting foreign export," or whatever it is that my boy at the State Department called it, which encourages Keith not to mess with the "no-dick" part of my contract.<br />
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9. Lyle. I got Lyle a carton of Reds, a handle of Jim Beam, and an Old Spaghetti Factory gift certificate that he can use for dinner with some of his buddies. I have been real down on Old Spaghetti Factory ever since their waiter treated me poor on a date a couple years back, and kind of wanted to send them a little somethin' in return.<br />
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10. Chris. Chris is always into nerd-assed books about biographies or autobiographies. I just wrote him out a piece of paper that said TOM PETTY - HOPE HE PRODUCES ONE and taped it to his car. That is his present. Frankly, I ain't too into Chris these days. Always coming and going. Mostly going. Never includes a player. Talks big on old business guys with money who crave his ideas. Always wearing that quilted puffer vest with the sheepskin collar. Guy's buffing a move and shading an OG. Screw that man. NO GIFT.<br />
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Obvious as all hell is Beef not bein' on this list. I always do him and Molly up with some fragrance dinner out and new shoes and trip to Taos, but this year was different. He played at real balance with that Golden Tabloid, and I liked what I saw. So I got the squabble a week in Kauai, Princeville edition. Room staff cued to leave GT on the nightstand, fresh screens and clean glass each night.<br />
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Alright, everybody! I smell my prime rib cracklin' in the oven, and it's time to sazzle up them Yorkshire puddings. I got a tight little group of the gang over for gift distro tonight, so I can't be late! Love to you all, wide open.<br />
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<i>One hundred, One Thousand, One Million Times,</i><br />
<i>-=Rays=-</i>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7511836.post-2433047888377892312016-09-02T00:43:00.000-07:002016-09-02T00:43:25.181-07:00Watch Out, I'm Doin' a Grateful!I'm doin' a Grateful! I'm doin' a Grateful! <i>Watch out, everybody! You know it's a thing! </i><br />
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MOST IMPORTANT NOTE OF THIS BLOG: This ain't some deal where I have anything to do with the Grateful Dead. I just got to clear that up at the front of it. (No offense to anyone in the band or to anyone who has devoted a big part of their public armpit schedule to that band, but I hate that damn band. To me their music is like if your car doesn't start when you're on your way to go buy a melody but instead of worry about it, you go lie face down under a hedge and smile.)<br />
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(Except for Box of Rain. Box of Rain fully captures the loose textural honesty of the California folk-rock land-run that the sonic tin and other unchecked aggression of Dr. Byrds failed to achieve. The ghost of Clarence White weeps for the gently pulled strings here, which bleed into soft focus like orange light drawn across the Painted Desert, yours truly under serape and sedation.)<br />
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No, indeed! This is all about that positive energy that cats like my boy "be-ful-ness coach and buttered coffee pioneer" Tim Ferris be dumpin' up the web. I probably rap on energy styling so much y'all be like, "Ray! Hey! Hey! Shut the fuck up! Be the oak, not the damn branch on the wind!" I know, I know. I'm the oak, like, real, but y'all can suck my Aston Martin if you can't be the branch sometimes. Now...Let's Get Positive!<br />
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What I am <i>damn</i> grateful for at this present moment:<br />
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<b>1. <span style="font-family: "roboto" , "arial" , sans-serif;">НЕ ДЕТСКИЕ ПРИКОЛЫ (18+)</span><span style="font-family: "roboto" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 20px;"> </span></b><br />
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I got no idea what this means. My guess is, "He Was Attacked by the Acetone Baby in Public." Look this action up on YouTube. Just paste that Russian right in there, in that YouTube search box. Russians have such a classic idea of what is funny. Russian "funniest home videos" make Bob Saget look like a fiberglass horse hitched to a cement mixer on cinder blocks. You are gonna see some old-school thonged-out ass cheek, but also a dog costume guy who "pees" thirty feet at rich people. (Spoiler alert)<br />
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<b>2. Manicotti</b><br />
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Okay, so the age of fetishizin' micro-regional Italian food has pretty much come to a close. Remember back in the '00s, when the latest craze was some Ligurian barnacle that grew on the <i>left</i> side of this one rock, and everybody with two Riedels to clink together set aside $250 for whatever specially-designed copper cooking vessel Williams-Sonoma was schleppin' for it? Yeah, that's done. We back to the "careful, the plate is very hot" era of Italian gustatin', and I couldn't be too much more thrilled. Red gravy, garlic butter on sourdough, ground meat, soft noodle, and browned cheese. Rock me, Italy, but I am <i>so</i> down to tug your granny-panties.<br />
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<b>3. Home Cologne Lessons</b><br />
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I had come to see cologne as somethin' I had to do myself. It came down to a pretty primal feeling: <i>why let some other creature wet up my crannies and mark me his own?!</i> No gene-set with a few bucks and dignity to match should ever flash another tribe's stank! That's when I knew I needed to call Guerlain. French stank-house since the 19th century, these are the roundest-ball players. I had current G-poppa Thierry W. and his local fix Anpromimoué up for cantaloupe and day-six cream with basil (my own favorite cold-infused herbal extraction method), and we ended up talkin' aged leathers and Tunisian patchouli-trafficking way into their boarding pass. Nice thing about players like them though is that nothin' matters but the ideas at hand. A first-class plane ticket goin' gray is just another neat phone call to an agent who wants to make the world perfect 'cause you're the best.<br />
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All that said, I'm still drivin' my own style hard on my first fragrance product. Base notes of Meyer lemon, middle notes of organic lemon, and top notes of Kanye West's <i>@Oblivious</i>.<br />
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Whew! It is so good to share some of my many <i>vitalities</i> with you. You remember when you were a kid on the playground, and you had a red pocket knife, and you met a kid who never saw one before, and the kick you felt gettin' to share that piece with him had you feelin' like a million bucks plus genius and god? That's this, but a million readers over.*<br />
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<i>-=Poppa Ray=-</i><br />
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<i>*I don't know if it's a million. I don't like lookin' at website stats. Truth be told, if it takes a password, Ray ain't play. Maybe only two people read this. Maybe I don't even hit "publish" in a way that sends the typing out to the world. Can't care, won't care. Peace and love <b>in ya fleshdom</b>.</i><br />
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7511836.post-2755105093710816222015-12-24T21:34:00.001-08:002015-12-24T21:34:51.406-08:00Back in the silk saddle!<i>Daaang, you ain't too bad at fillin' out some briefs, Ray Smuckles—</i><br />
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Oh! Hey there! Merry Christmas! Caught me in my <i>reverie,</i> you know? For those of you unfamiliar with my reverie—which is hopefully all of you— that's when I do the full-length in the morning and check my complete regalement before I step out for the day. Brushed, shined, tucked and peaked. Brushed, shined, tucked, and peaked. Don't know what peaked means? Check out a photo of me. <i>That's peaked. I'm always peakin'. </i></div>
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Oh dang, there's the phone. It's gotta be Roast Beef. Hey, Roast Beef! (I'm gonna take this call. He probably wants to know when he can drop off my portion of Christmas moussaka. Damn does he do it up creamy and lamby, and I KNOW he smokes that eggplant all gentle, subtle, American Greek boy makin' moussaka his own, dig.)<br />
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(It was actually Pat, reminding me not to park across the sidewalk when I drop off his present this year. Reminds me, I got to get him a present. Hm. What do you get for a <i>ass hole?</i> Answer that. I need help. Every year. Set your calendar. Don't say toilet paper. Tried that once. He didn't get it, and said he didn't use the kind I got anyway cause of bleach or whatever. If you ask me, Pat's like the one dude ever who needs an anal bleaching...<i>of the soul</i>.)<br />
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Hey, I'm back. Now I'm sittin' here with a tusky mochacchino, blissed on a Razzberry jammer scone and slice of chive and ham frittata, finally writin' this blog again after a few little while.* Sharp chilled strained OJ and still Perrier at the side. Don't do bubbles in the morning. Bad for the lining.<br />
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Phew. Whew. Here goes. </div>
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So at first I was like, how do I tell my story of where I been? I feel like I should relate all that has passed, since much people got their hay up askin'. Problem is, it was all big and heavy and shit and every time I wanted to write it out and get it all off my chest like my therapist said to—be all honest and dispel my tensions and move on and all that—I felt bad about draggin' everybody down. Couldn't do it. Too much to relate, and all of it too pity-party soundin'. It ain't Smuckles to crybaby on stage. So I was stuck not sayin' anything, and you were stuck not readin' my blog. It was hopeless for us all. A vacuum. <i>I left the world blogless, and without form, and darkness was on the face of my MacBook Pro.</i><br />
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Then a miracle happened. Stone cold. Completely unexpected, like all the most classic miracles.<br />
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The miracle was that I saw a YouTube interview with my boy Dicky Valentine. (You know Dicky, right? Lead singer of Electric Six? They do that <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-XNFokmDKrE">Down At The Gay Bar</a> song? Best band ever, probably, and that song is up there with The Star Spangled Banner and Fuck Tha Police**. Love those guys, love me that Dicky Valentine.) Anyhow. I was lookin' at a YouTube interview with him (he even had a Santa hat on! True story!) and he was all like, "I don't know what I'm singin' about most the time. I'm just havin' fun." And you know what? I heard him say that, and I was like, <i>that's me!</i> I ain't a main dude of suck times. I'm just bein' Ray to have fun, you know? If you want to read some tear-jerker of a blog about a dude who almost died and lost it all and had to learn how to walk again and tell people he didn't remember what they did together in recent years, and eat all his pride on dry grain toast, well, google most of that sentence. It ain't gonna lead you to <i>this</i> blog. </div>
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What am I talkin' about with all these bad-times references? Okay, real brief. As you may remember, I basically keeled over dead when I tried to quit boozin'. Disappeared blank from my own mind a couple weeks, then went all inpatient for a good long while, then hit the road and met some characters. MANY characters. I'll get to those stories here, 'cause they fun some of 'em (except Altimeter Tim, that guy was just goddamned brain dead from bein' on acid and weed his whole life, and I have NO idea how he paid for that little apartment of his, or any of those dumb Japanese figurines that were always showin' up in the mail). But not today. Today's about movin' on, bein' in the present, and bein' damn happy that of all the molecules in all the gin joints in all the infinite universe, I got a set to call my own. (They teach you how to think this way at inpatient, minus gin references.) I'm seein' the silver lining of everything, and I'm thinkin' of havin' a signature coat made this way besides. Could be a thing, like how Prince wears purple, or Donatella Versace looks like she could eat Hell and shit raisins. </div>
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So this is me breakin' the silence. I hope you ain't been worried. I'm off the trouble shrub now, and stayin' that way. When you were on the donk 24/7/365/20+, you don't get to go back, or it's curtains. Yellin' and cryin' at bus stops, filth in the hair, huge Reeboks popped from shufflin'. Ain't judgin, just sayin'. I get all blissed on some early wake-ups now, or fine red chili and a handshake down at Curtis Smallfield's, or even just installin' a Hollywood smoke cannon where the tailpipe on a Tesla would be and drivin' around while the boys GoPro that action and we do up kind of a viral thing with a four-figure targeted social media ad spend and closed-loop ROI tracking. Group trip to Cabo with the proceeds. The simple things. </div>
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Okay, I'm off to do some last minute Christmas stuff. Thaddeus gonna just <i>puddin'</i> up my hair today, for the group photos I'm havin' done tonight, and I'ma treat myself to a sick Purple Label black cashmere turtleneck I had my eye on down at the Hidden Hills Ralph. It's gonna look ill as the devil on film with my Bally camel hair 2-button. </div>
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Merry Christmas, one more time! </div>
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-=RAY=-</div>
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<i>* Seven years</i></div>
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<i>** If anyone ever needs to remind me who I am—like if I get hit on the head real bad—I just need these three songs on a mix, and a glass of (still) water.</i></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7511836.post-24816981152019622152008-12-12T00:30:00.000-08:002008-12-12T16:05:24.137-08:00I hella like this basic Italian dude.There's a new basic Italian dude in town! I hella love the guy. His name's Vito, he runs this kitchen at this place Tre Otto, and he rocks some nacky gold nugs -- maybe three chains and a piece on each pinkie. Hilarious, but way committed to quality. He does me up some real light-quality lasagna at lunch, you know, not that white sauce freezer crap that gets broiled under a jet engine in the servin' dish, but some real family tomato -- the sauce almost so light you want to put it in a champagne glass with some voddy D and a horseradish kiss and a staff-o-celery. You know what I mean. Dude has a touch. Dude has gentle fingers, if I can say that about a man.<br /><br />I ain't know the guy too close yet, but I bet I get in on tight with him. I ain't like me nothin' more than an Italian who knows you're in for the game. That's when you really eat right, when they invite you back into the kitchen, when they always doin' this and that and gettin' you a Negroni and the chef fries you up some calamari and it ain't on your tab. Next thing you know you're chillin' while they close, havin' a cig in the back door and helpin' them lose some wine that's gonna go bad before they open again.<br /><br />You know what I'm gonna do? I'm gonna go there for dinner tonight, even though I been there the last four days in a row. There's a point where you're a groupie, but there's also a point where you're a made regular, and I got to bring hard game so I don't just come off like some half-cocked hokey American suck-up who watches too much Godfather and thinks goombahs are the best. It'll be recon: I got to pay attention tonight and figure out Italian man-huggin' behavior. That shit is probably more complicated than Japanese bowin'. I really don't want to screw it up. That's like what Larry David would do, and that dude gives me a damn ulcer.Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7511836.post-77776641640447058252008-11-28T23:40:00.000-08:002009-04-05T17:07:45.359-07:00Thanksgiving 2008. Sorry if this goes on.Man, I had it large on Thanksgiving. The actual deal itself was small, just me and T and Beef and Molly and Lyle and lil' old Philippe. Connie was off with his dang old new somethin', and when I saw Pat and Rod at Andronico's and invited them, Pat turned to me and started explainin' their own plans while behind him Rod pretended to hang himself with a baguette. He didn't need to use the baguette, because usually the hand motion of hangin' one's self is enough. It seemed pretty amateur for a dude who is pretty much an actor.<br /><br />Anyhow, this is what I am thankful for this year:<br /><br />1. My own awareness that most taco places ain't "green," and use tons of styrofoam, plastic cups, foil, and plastic bags for every takeout order. It helps me not go to taco places, which in turn keeps me from rockin' a sick bubble-chub at the waistline.<br /><br />2. I am thankful that I have an appreciation of good, simmered-up black-eyed peas with nothing more than salt and butter.<br /><br />3. I am thankful that my mom ain't been callin' too much lately. I love the old gal, but try havin' somethin' new to say every day when the only thing you been doin' is chuckin' empties into the pool and hittin' golf balls into a lawn shed ("Raymond! Do not DO that!").<br /><br />4. I am thankful that stereos have gotten smaller. Mine hasn't, but I know this helps a lot of people in apartments.<br /><br />5. I am thankful that I seem to care about Prime Time again. For a while I was just lost in the woods, signing some pretty lame acts, doubting my taste. I'm glad to say that this morning at 9am I called VeePee An' Tha Psickeninn' Psocciety and told them that their contract had expired due to inactivity. The call actually went pretty well, and I'm going to play tennis with their graphic designer next week.<br /><br />6. I am thankful that there have been no news stories about kittens bein' harmed lately. I ain't so into kids, but when you think about it, the most they should get is yelled at — NEVER harmed.<br /><br />7. Lastly, I am thankful that my boy Beef is comin' over for some stick in about...oh, there's the knock on the sliding glass door. Dude needs to feel comfortable just comin' in. Jesus, Beef.<br /><br />I am thankful that you read this! And <span style="font-weight: bold;">this</span>.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">-=Ray=-</span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7511836.post-6554920050593438722008-07-30T12:34:00.000-07:002008-07-30T13:18:44.872-07:00The Beef is back in town!Man, it was good to see Beef and Molly kickin' around the pool again today after that long-ass honeymoon. Looks like they got a thirst on for piña coladas! They are out sittin' in my trick teak chaise lounges, still in relax mode and gettin' some rays. Maybe I'll whip up a little crostini platter lunch for all of us...I been watchin' this bald guy Mark Bittman on TV, he flies to Spain and eats really small pieces of food, and it looks <span style="font-style: italic;">damn</span> good. I'ma do a...I'ma do...garlic shrimp on toasted rounds with olive purée and feta. They say no cheese with seafood, but <span style="font-style: italic;">they</span> do a lotta talkin', so it's bust-out time. I will also do a thing with some three-ballin' white anchovies, hearts of romaine, and GROSS caesar dressing. "Gross" means the illest new form of kindness, all.<br /><br />[an hour passes]<br /><br />Damn, I just got back from havin' crostinis with the new couple, and Beef is hella in place! Witness:<br /><br />-+-<br /><br />RAY: Check out these GROSS crostini I whipped up for us! Even did some little prosciutto roses, can you dig it?<br /><br />MOLLY: Wow! Thanks, Ray! This is totally nice! I love the little cocktail swords!<br /><br />BEEF: [has Yankees baseball cap and sunglasses on, plus no shirt] Man that is a fine plate. You are a good dogg, Mr. Smuckles.<br /><br />RAY: [notices that Beef is in a calm, confident place] Eat up, didgeridoo! Nice hat, by the way.<br /><br />BEEF: I been wearin' hats. It suits a man.<br /><br />MOLLY: I couldn't believe it. We pulled the RV into this big mall and he went right into this "Lids" baseball hat store and bought a Yankees cap.<br /><br />BEEF: The Yankees got much money, all.<br /><br />RAY: Valued at $1.2 billion, dogg!<br /><br />BEEF: Yep. This an anchovy?<br /><br />RAY: White anchovy. Not the nasty stuff. Mild as hell. Delicate. You got to try it.<br /><br />BEEF: [bites, chews] Damn now that is a mild anchovy. That is fine, I can see what the fuss is about with these creatures. I bite into a regular anchovy, all oily and rancid, I go into a <span style="font-style: italic;">state.</span> Not this time.<br /><br />MOLLY: Oh, these are wonderful. And what's on those little watermelon cubes? Is that...tomato pulp?<br /><br />-+-<br /><br />See? See? The dude is changed up a bit. His talk came from a place of calmness. It's like he found this one disc he can stand on in the universe, a place where he has some balance. Good for him. It's gonna be fun talkin' with the new Beef.Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7511836.post-40802769145774252432008-05-11T17:30:00.000-07:002008-05-11T21:41:44.121-07:00I'm Sorry.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.)<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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,<br /><br />MR FLUÉT: Ray, I can tell that you are not really into this.<br /><br />ME: What?<br /><br />MR FLUÉT: Can you turn down your iPod for a minute?<br /><br />ME: Oh! Uh...Louie the Sun King. Lewey?<br /><br />MR FLUÉT: TURN DOWN YOUR IPOD<br /><br />ME: [turns down iPod] Sorry, 'teach. 'Sup?<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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:<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Pomerol</span> - kinda black and raw, wine + cherries, invisible splash of pepper (v. faint)<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Vouvray</span> - dry/wet, sweet, "outdoor" wine<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Amarone</span> - wow. totally good<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">'81 Chateau Mouton Rothschild</span> - DAAMN this wine did a handstand in my mouth (mouth went up + down 3X while open)<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Gewurtztraminer</span> - crisp apples with deprecated rapeseed<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Ketel One</span> (my idea)<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Gulden Draak</span> - belgian beer hella flavorful all 10.5%'n it<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Woodbridge Sauvignon Blanc</span> - how did this get in here was what the hell leave it for the janitor's wedding or some shit<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Pinot Noir</span> - where'd fluééééét go that lightweight<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Viognier</span> - oh he was at his car getting batteries (?)<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Lambrusco</span> - fluét he threw a battery at me but we were hlla. laughin all <span style="font-style: italic;">silly</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Nachos alla Meeting</span> - nachos that cn. be prepared quietly during a meeting usin MRE technology<br /><br />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.Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7511836.post-53634010951293271872008-04-27T15:43:00.000-07:002008-04-27T19:01:36.089-07:00The Story of My Hair.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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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...<span style="font-style: italic;">naw</span>, 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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />See you later, Chochachos, and thanks for all the letters of support in my dark time.Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7511836.post-69238147146669199452008-01-16T10:40:00.000-08:002008-01-16T20:16:13.965-08:00The deal with my hair.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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />"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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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?Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7511836.post-50289497424600588422007-12-04T01:55:00.001-08:002007-12-04T02:59:29.684-08:00crazy bad news. can't even capitalizeDoggs,<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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>I got a damn bald spot the size of a damn dime. I'm straight-up monk dimin'.</i> <br /><br />Maybe you didn't hear me. I'm <span style="font-style: italic;">monk dimin'</span>.<br /><br />My thoughts are crazy.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />Then I'm like, "I'll shave my whole head. That's the obvious thing." But that's over-reaction.<br /><br />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:<br /><br />1. You won't remember math (not a deal breaker)<br /><br />2. You can no longer smell artichokes (I love artichokes)<br /><br />3. Nine out of ten men experienced aggressive hair loss after using this product, including on people they were merely shaking hands with<br /><br />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 <span style="font-style: italic;">buck hair.</span> So obvious.<br /><br />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.Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7511836.post-77143106204714011432007-11-14T22:36:00.000-08:002007-11-26T15:37:23.361-08:00Queensland On My Mind<p class="MsoNormal">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. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">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. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">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 <i style="">decades</i> 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.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">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. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">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. </p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7511836.post-58580733443721122742007-11-08T21:09:00.000-08:002007-11-08T21:39:14.321-08:00Problem at the Hotel.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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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. <span style="font-style: italic;">Damn</span> 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.<br /><br />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 <span style="font-style: italic;">trapped.</span><br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7511836.post-78308857031801509902007-10-31T15:39:00.000-07:002007-11-08T21:28:01.270-08:00At the Hotel in Sydney!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.<br /><br />RAY: Whoah, dude! Tiny Bible you got there!<br /><br />CLERK: Excuse me? I think it's a perfectly fine size for a Bible.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />CLERK: [reluctantly sets down Bible] Are you checking in, then?<br /><br />RAY: Hey, your name tag says Harold! You the guy this place is named after?<br /><br />HAROLD: It's a coincidence.<br /><br />RAY: Must bug you, all these folks comin' in askin' if you're Harold Holt, huh?<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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?<br /><br />HAROLD: ID and credit card, please.<br /><br />RAY: Yeah, uh, I can't find that stuff. [Offers handshake] Gentleman's bond?<br /><br />HAROLD: It is not my job to tell you this, but those things appear to be tucked beneath the arm of your glasses.<br /><br />RAY: [feels] Oh! Dang. I must have done that. Here you go.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />RAY: Yeah, uh, about that. No. <br /><br />HAROLD: Toast breakfast is served from seven AM until noon. Please bring your identification.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />HAROLD: Here is your room key. You're in 29b, up the stairs, overlooking the beach, as you requested.<br /><br />RAY: Okay, then! [Pause] I'll just carry these bags myself?<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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?<br /><br />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.<br /><br />HAROLD: You're just in time for our toast breakfast. Come, come.<br /><br />RAY: Oh, man. Dang. Forgot my identification, dude. Tomorrow, for sure.<br /><br />HAROLD: It's alright, I remember you. Come, come.<br /><br />RAY: Oh, jeez. Uh, okay. Cut me off if I start in with the sea shanties, will you?<br /><br />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.<br /><br />RAY: Wow, that's a lot of toast. I usually just have two pieces. You got any main dishes?<br /><br />HAROLD: We sell a very special product for your toast here. Have you looked over by the fireplace?<br /><br />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!<br /><br />HAROLD: It is a sustainable, single-origin, organic, artisan, Marmite-type product. I collect and package it myself.<br /><br />RAY: Marmite-type product?<br /><br />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.<br /><br />RAY: [thinks to self] <span style="font-style: italic;">Well, I'm gonna be here for a week, I basically have to buy this idiot's stuff. </span>[Aloud] Okay, put a few of 'em on my tab.<br /><br />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.]<br /><br />RAY: [Sniffs contents of jar] Whoah, who peeled out on a bottle of soy sauce! <br /><br />GRUMPY MAN: This stuff is bleedin' ambrosia. Don't knock it or I'll tin your cock, I will.<br /><br />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.Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7511836.post-61169594494207571932007-10-31T00:31:00.000-07:002007-10-31T00:31:02.313-07:00Beef's Bachelor Party - HARD PLANS.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:<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">THE DUDE FLUSHES THE TOILET</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">This is kind of advanced, and it ain't for the Emily Post crowd.</span><br />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 <span style="font-style: italic;">voids</span> 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.)<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">THE MAN IN THE IRON MASK<br /></span><span style="font-style: italic;">This one is best done to metal, like Hell Bent For Leather, or the hip hop single Fuck Tha Police. </span><br />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.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">COOKING LESSONS WITH NICK LEFABRE</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">At the Community Center.</span><br />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. <span style="font-style: italic;">(This would be more like one that me and the guys wouldn't go to, kind of a morning thing for Beef only.)</span><br /><br />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!Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7511836.post-91858637274574298102007-10-17T22:08:00.000-07:002007-10-23T11:27:37.367-07:00On the Ground in Ozzieland!<p class="MsoNormal">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!</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">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 <span style=""> </span>tew auss<i style="">tray</i>-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. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">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. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">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 <i style="">least</i> 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). <span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Alright, my guy Mr. Hoshi from Hoshi’s Bonzer Limo just texted that he’s outside with the <i style="">livery vehicle</i>. 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.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i style="">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. <span style=""> </span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7511836.post-81361049989860932922007-10-11T10:47:00.001-07:002007-10-11T10:56:50.007-07:00Finally Airborne!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:<br /><br /><p style="font-weight: bold;" class="MsoNormal">DAY ONE</p> <p class="MsoNormal">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 <i style="">intensity!</i> 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. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>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. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>Fell asleep with my leg over the chick’s leg but we didn’t talk much. When I woke up, it was...</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p><span style="font-weight: bold;">DAY TWO</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">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.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>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. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>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? <span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">DAY THREE </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>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. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>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.<br /></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7511836.post-50052078203867069122007-09-18T23:50:00.000-07:002007-09-19T00:21:16.873-07:00What the hell, brochitches?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 <span style="font-style: italic;">lucubrated</span> (yeah, I'm still subscribin' to Martin Song's <span style="font-weight: bold;">Word-a-la-Daaay</span> 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.<br /><br />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: <span style="font-style: italic;">don't wale unless you can assail</span>. (Don't use that line - I may need it for an album. I call ™ on that shit.)<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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. <span style="font-style: italic;"></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7511836.post-13090604034918254502007-09-02T10:22:00.000-07:002007-10-11T10:47:12.021-07:00On the plane to Australia!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.<br /><br />Wow, we're takin' off! That's gotta be a first for United.<br /><br />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!<br /><br />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? <span style="font-style: italic;">England exported all of its fun people!</span> Stay with me, here.<br /><br />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."<br /><br />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.)<br /><br />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 <span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:courier new;" >", mate."</span> 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.<br /><br />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.Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7511836.post-74630269468331658682007-07-24T15:42:00.000-07:002007-07-26T21:51:16.624-07:00Australian Culture Lessons #1<p class="MsoNormal">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.<br /><br />Here's how my first call with Roger went:<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">- - -<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">ROGER: [answers phone] Crikey, there's a big 'un!<br /><br />ME: I...Hey man! This is Ray Smuckles! I emailed you? From the thing?<br /><br />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?<br /><br />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!<br /><br />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!<br /><br />ME: Awesome. Just do what you gotta do. It's all gold to me, man.<br /><br />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?<br /><br />ME: I'm on the phone, man.<br /><br />ROGER: Right, right. You don't hear back from me in five, call the Koolaburra Station antidote unit, will you?<br /><br />ME: Definitely, man. I'm Googling it right now.<br /><br />ROGER: [boots clomp off, huge buzzing sounds in the room]<br /><br />ME: [gets distracted, starts looking at a website about women]<br /><br />ROGER: [BLAM!]<br /><br />ME: Oooh! Ooh! You get him? The big guy?<br /><br />ROGER: Nahhh, I were just blowin' a wallaby off me mailbox.<br /><br />ME: You blew away a wallaby? They're hella cute, dude!<br /><br />ROGER: Bastard were munchin' on me mail, he was.<br /><br />ME: Well, I guess that's acceptable. He'd probably die from magazine cologne samples anyway. So — what's up with the wasps?<br /><br />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.<br /><br />ME: You shoot them with salt?<br /><br />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.<br /><br />ME: Dang. Alright, I'll wait while you take care of business.<br /><br />ROGER: Good on you, mate. [BLAM! BLAM! BLAM! BLAM! BLAM BLAM BLAMBLAMBLAMBLAM! CRASH! POOSH! BLAM! BZZZRRRR! SPLAT! SPLOT! SPLOOT! STOMP STOMP STOMP STOMP *STOOMP!*]<br /><br />ME: Dang, dude! You get 'em all?<br /><br />ROGER: Aw, blast it. I've put a hole in the damned wedding photo.<br /><br />ME: Just put new glass on the front of it and smooth the paper out with your finger, man.<br /><br />ROGER: Naw, it's worse than that. Her 'ole 'ead's blowed off. Stands out like a shag on a rock.<br /><br />ME: That's tough, man. I ain't even think Photoshop can fix that one.<br /><br />ROGER: Eh, what can you do. Got time for a lager?<br /><br />ME: Yeah, I picked up a couple before the call. [Cracks a lager]<br /><br />ROGER: [Sound of a lager cracking]<br /><br />ME: So, how's the economy down there?<br /><br />ROGER: Bloody good, mate. Exports steady as ever. Life's beautiful.<br /><br />ME: What's for dinner tonight?<br /><br />ROGER: It's six in the bloody morning, I dunno. Steak, likely. It's Friday here.<br /><br />ME: Wow, it's only Tuesday here.<br /><br />ROGER: Big planet, innit, mate. <!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--> <!--[endif]--><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:10;color:navy;" ><o:p></o:p></span></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7511836.post-25659881409878968262007-07-12T23:27:00.000-07:002007-07-26T21:50:12.302-07:00Gettin' ready to go to Australia.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!<br /><br />DRIVER: Say, mate, 's the Berra Borra petrol 'round this way? We're just out from Adelaide on a driveabout!<br /><br />ME: Heh! I'm from America!<br /><br />DRIVER: [cracks a lager, hands it out the window] Crikey! After you, mate!<br /><br />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.<br /><br />One <span style="font-style: italic;">nice</span> 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.<br /><br />Whoah, I just YouTubed the Australian national anthem! No wonder they use Men at Work instead. <span style="font-style: italic;">Hello, winner of the high school project. Your dad came, he's in the car queue outside. </span><br /><br />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.Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7511836.post-14497245795024758782007-07-10T22:14:00.000-07:002007-07-10T23:24:03.729-07:00Goin' to Australia.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 <span style="font-style: italic;">mack</span> 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." <br /><br />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?).<br /><br />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 <span style="font-style: italic;">niçoise salad</span> and cell phone call. <br /><br />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.Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7511836.post-15385846706163915742007-05-25T11:59:00.000-07:002007-05-26T01:24:12.680-07:00I had to put the push on the guyMan, 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. <br /><br />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. <br /><br />New Paragraph<br /><br />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. <br /><br />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!Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7511836.post-36918452176931099192007-04-14T17:38:00.000-07:002007-04-20T02:48:32.911-07:00I went to a museum, doggs!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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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 (<span style="font-style: italic;">Millard Fillmore, reprahZZZent!</span>)<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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. <span style="font-style: italic;">History, you're just like me.</span><br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />I squeaked my way back up the front walkway, squeaked the front door open, and stood in front of his counter, arms crossed.<br /><br />"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."<br /><br />This broke him. His squinty grin melted into a pleading, begging face, one he couldn't control.<br /><br />"First," I said, "let's start with the pisser."<br /><br />I smiled, and let myself out again.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7511836.post-70567922987998593882007-03-19T22:41:00.000-07:002007-03-19T23:58:09.465-07:00That chump.Yeah, Bacon of the Month Club, whatever. It's like Onstad just discovered the post office. That amateur.<br /><br />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 <span style="font-style: italic;">krackety</span>. Dude has pride in those ribs. All dungy. So tasty.<br /><br />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.Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7511836.post-61490272635606707932007-03-06T22:38:00.000-08:002007-03-07T10:01:18.950-08:00NOTHIN'!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:<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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).<br /><br />-=Ray=-Unknownnoreply@blogger.com