2.4.2017 (first posted this week 2007)
Sticky,
icky, black tar. That's what is commonly thought to be contained in the
La Brea tar pits. (Spanish for "tar" happens to be "brea." Sooo ...
saying, "the La Brea tar pits" is like saying "the the tar tar pits."
YAY!) In fact, the "tar" is actually oil. It's just sticky and icky
and black like tar so they called it tar. Whatevs.
My little
wife and I went to the museo at the the tar tar pits and it was
fascinating. Learned about the saber-toothed cats (NOT TIGERS, yo) and
that there were lions once in America. And camels, if you can believe
it. American camels. No lie.
These tidbits of info came from
the docent tour-guide, a short, stocky, fiftyish man w/ a fu manchu.
He was very personable and encouraged the crowd to guess the answers to
questions he would pose. e.g., "Only about one species within one
million species has left a fossil for us to find. That means millions
upon millions of species have disappeared without a trace! What must
one DO to become a fossil in the first place?" The people in the
smallish crowd looked back blankly. "Die," I said to the crowd, and the
guide said, "Exactly!" I'd answered his question while suggesting an
activity for the people in the tour. "What else?" asked the guide.
Again nothing from the groop. "Remain undisturbed," I suggested. The
guide gave me a wink, a wink that meant: You and me, brother, we work
together or this will be a long day. I motioned to my little wife. He
looked at her and said, wordlessly, "okay, she's in too." I nodded,
"Agreed." It went on for a while.
Turns out that he didn't need me
the whole time: A couple of little kids that at first appeared cute but
rapidly became annoying took the majority of the next questions. I
really dig fossils and geology and, well, science, so I asked the guide a
few questions of my own. This inspired a few others to ask questions,
mostly ones that he'd previously answered, which the might have noticed
if they had been paying attention. One man asked a question that I'll
never forget.
We had just left the mastodon skeleton and came to
the mammoth's. It was easily three times bigger than the mastodon and
the guide said it was a JUNIOR mammoth. Holy shit, indeed. Aptly
named, this beast.
Closely related as species, it's not only the
mammoth's size that differentiates the two: Their tusks serve different
purposes. The mastodon's tusks were straight and were likely used to
bend back tree limbs, dig into rotten logs and earth to search for
grubs, and other such practical uses. The mammoth's, on the other hand
were curved in incredible arcs, resembling a pretzel in their curviness.
Scholars think that the mammoth's tusks were likely cosmetic and
ornamental. A big twisty show to attract a mate. This nugget - a
mammoth attracting a mate - inspired the father of one of the little
brats to cough up the question that will remain with me forever:
"How did those mammoths make love?"
I
swear that I heard a grown man say that. Those exact words. I'm one
to anthromorphize everything from a toaster to a vine, but never have I
had the illusion that animals "make love." I saw the guide blanch and
decided I didn't want to hear his answer or the idiot-man's likely
follow-up: Where did they go to the bathroom?
Tonight (a little change from the month-end routine:
Gino and Carlo
Epic North Beach bar. ** CASH ONLY **
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
Thursday, February 23, 2017
Thursday, February 16, 2017
Hit and Run TNSC (REDUX)
2.3.2017 (first posted this week 2003)
Ya ever hear the expression, "Always crashing the same car?" If you don't get its meaning, it means that you make the same mistake again and again. There are several dumbshit maneuvers I repeat but there's one in particular I'll delineate here in anecdotal form:
I was sittin' around jawing with a pal a few weeks back. We were at her apartment drinking a few beers, watchin' some TV. As we're both fans of that genius Alton Brown, and his show, Good Eats, was on, we were watching it. As I mentioned, Alton Brown is a genius, and as usual, his show was interesting, informative and captivating, so our attention was glued to the show and stayed put through the transition to a commercial break. What jarred me out of my Good Eats stupor was a spot for that annoying, no-talent jackass, Bobby Flay, and his stupid show. God that fool pisses me off. He doesn't tell you anything you don't already know and he treats the chefs he profiles like wannabes. This is the same Bobby Flay that got his ass soundly handed to him by the Iron Chef on that show's special "celebrity" series. I think that Bobby Flay even ran off the set because he was getting whooped so bad.
Anyhoo, I started off on a rant about, well, what I just mentioned. To my pal I said I didn't care much for Bobby Flay or his show or his talent or how he treated the other chefs. I think I threw in some made-up crimes against cooking just for hyperbole. I was working myself into a lather when my friend interrupted and said, "Um ... you know that Bobby Flay is my sister's husband's brother, right?" I, of course, did NOT know this. I sensed that she didn't appreciate my comments. She continued with, "And you can get your goddang beer can off the arm of my new sofa, okay?" Sheesh. I took a quick moment to assess how important to me our friendship was. Then I said, "Have you ever met that jer ... uh ... Bobby Flay? Was he a total prick to you? Did he cook for you? Had you had better MacDonald's? Oh, and, this beer can's empty. I guess that means that you could get me another." I don't think she cottoned to that kind of talk. I didn't wait around to hear how she finished the phrase "... big-mouth, spastic, jerkweed, geek-boy ..." The door closed behind me at "geek-boy."
That's the kind of crap I do a lot: Insult someone or yell at them only to find they're closer to me than I thought. How was I supposed to know that my friend's sister's husband's brother was Bobby Flay? Or that that hog that almost ran me over on the way to work was actually my client that morning. (Man was that a tension-filled edit!) I can answer my own question: There's no way to know. I figure I'll take the risk, though, because no one likes a guy who doesn't talk. A lot. Or have opinions. About everything. Or creatively swears. Constantly. Et cetera.
Tonight - Latin American Club
**CASH ONLY**
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
Ya ever hear the expression, "Always crashing the same car?" If you don't get its meaning, it means that you make the same mistake again and again. There are several dumbshit maneuvers I repeat but there's one in particular I'll delineate here in anecdotal form:
I was sittin' around jawing with a pal a few weeks back. We were at her apartment drinking a few beers, watchin' some TV. As we're both fans of that genius Alton Brown, and his show, Good Eats, was on, we were watching it. As I mentioned, Alton Brown is a genius, and as usual, his show was interesting, informative and captivating, so our attention was glued to the show and stayed put through the transition to a commercial break. What jarred me out of my Good Eats stupor was a spot for that annoying, no-talent jackass, Bobby Flay, and his stupid show. God that fool pisses me off. He doesn't tell you anything you don't already know and he treats the chefs he profiles like wannabes. This is the same Bobby Flay that got his ass soundly handed to him by the Iron Chef on that show's special "celebrity" series. I think that Bobby Flay even ran off the set because he was getting whooped so bad.
Anyhoo, I started off on a rant about, well, what I just mentioned. To my pal I said I didn't care much for Bobby Flay or his show or his talent or how he treated the other chefs. I think I threw in some made-up crimes against cooking just for hyperbole. I was working myself into a lather when my friend interrupted and said, "Um ... you know that Bobby Flay is my sister's husband's brother, right?" I, of course, did NOT know this. I sensed that she didn't appreciate my comments. She continued with, "And you can get your goddang beer can off the arm of my new sofa, okay?" Sheesh. I took a quick moment to assess how important to me our friendship was. Then I said, "Have you ever met that jer ... uh ... Bobby Flay? Was he a total prick to you? Did he cook for you? Had you had better MacDonald's? Oh, and, this beer can's empty. I guess that means that you could get me another." I don't think she cottoned to that kind of talk. I didn't wait around to hear how she finished the phrase "... big-mouth, spastic, jerkweed, geek-boy ..." The door closed behind me at "geek-boy."
That's the kind of crap I do a lot: Insult someone or yell at them only to find they're closer to me than I thought. How was I supposed to know that my friend's sister's husband's brother was Bobby Flay? Or that that hog that almost ran me over on the way to work was actually my client that morning. (Man was that a tension-filled edit!) I can answer my own question: There's no way to know. I figure I'll take the risk, though, because no one likes a guy who doesn't talk. A lot. Or have opinions. About everything. Or creatively swears. Constantly. Et cetera.
Tonight - Latin American Club
**CASH ONLY**
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
Thursday, February 09, 2017
Thunderball
2.2.2017
I used to say that I'd never again attend a pro football game in person, then I got a ticket to the "Cadillac" section of a then newly renovated Soldier Field in Chicago. I've described the section, seats and amenities found there in this forum before, so I won't go into them again, except to say the experience reminded me to never say never.
Ahem. "I'm never going to Disney again."
History may prove me wrong, but after going to Disneyland a few times in the past and just recently returning from Disneyworld, I declare with as much certainty as I can muster that I won't be visiting the Mouse again, ever.
Yes, the churros were good, but the rides were tired, the parks were crowded, the Mouse-related T shirts, headgear and other equipment worn and wielded by the crowd were insufferable and I got bit by a swarm of mosquitoes and caught Zika Virus. Now my head is all shunk, my bug bites itch and I'm now disqualified from donating at the tissue bank.
Plus side of the Zika-related small head: Regular 12-oz beers are fuckin' HUGE now.
Tonight - Phone Booth **CASH ONLY**
It's wet... be safe out there...
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
I used to say that I'd never again attend a pro football game in person, then I got a ticket to the "Cadillac" section of a then newly renovated Soldier Field in Chicago. I've described the section, seats and amenities found there in this forum before, so I won't go into them again, except to say the experience reminded me to never say never.
Ahem. "I'm never going to Disney again."
History may prove me wrong, but after going to Disneyland a few times in the past and just recently returning from Disneyworld, I declare with as much certainty as I can muster that I won't be visiting the Mouse again, ever.
Yes, the churros were good, but the rides were tired, the parks were crowded, the Mouse-related T shirts, headgear and other equipment worn and wielded by the crowd were insufferable and I got bit by a swarm of mosquitoes and caught Zika Virus. Now my head is all shunk, my bug bites itch and I'm now disqualified from donating at the tissue bank.
Plus side of the Zika-related small head: Regular 12-oz beers are fuckin' HUGE now.
Tonight - Phone Booth **CASH ONLY**
It's wet... be safe out there...
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
Thursday, February 02, 2017
Johnson (REDUX)
2.1.2017 (first published this week 2004)
Little known about moi is that I spent a year away from home as a lad, attending a magnet school that drew me ha-way across this great nation of ours to that once-proud burg known as Columbus, Ohio. I musta scored the magic number on one them tests they give high school kids 'cause the postman brought the invite to the Our Lady of Blessed Last Fair Deals Gone Down and I was Greyhounded to Columbus later that afternoon. Turns out I was able to leave so quickly because my now-departed-but-then-dear-ol Aunt Etyhl lived only a hitchhike outta downtown Columbus and she was delighted to have me for a few semesters.
Aunt Ethyl was somekinda beauty queen-turned-racecar driver back in her day. Shirley Muldowney had nothin' on her looks or her lead foot. Auntie also had a terrific wit. And she could and DID drink Wally Parks, editor of Hot Rod Magazine and NHRA Founder, under the shop workbench. I was a mere infant in my domestic light beer drinking and a year with Aunt Ethyl was all it took to turn a hobby into a favorite hobby. Soon, though, a problem surfaced. America wasn't yet Recycle Crazy as it is now and the Columbus city trash men refused to take away our bins and bins of empty cans. We started squishing the cans but even squished their sheer number was a dumpster full.
One day before being overwhelmed by the cans, Auntie's pal and Top Fuel Icon Don "Big Daddy" Garlits stopped by for a visit. He took a look at us and said, "Sheeeooooot, Eth, I been here before. I'll be right back with yr solution." He peeled out of the drive and before Auntie and I could ask each other, "what the ... " Garlits was back with a goat. That goat was untethered and took at once to chowin' down on that mountain of cans. We all had a good laugh at that.
And that goat was smart too! Instead of fouling the carpet he used Auntie's cat Snorkles' litter box. Auntie reminded me to send a nice Christmas card to Mr.. Big Daddy wishing him yuletide greetings and thanks for solving the can problem. I said I would. I did.
The thing I remember most about the whole episode, though is cleaning the cat/goat box. I cleverly used one of the magnets I got at the magnet school and bang! The box was clean of goat droppings. True story.
Tonight - Lucky 13 (by request)
Just like old times... **CASH ONLY**
Bring yr pals. Party. I will.
See you there!
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
Little known about moi is that I spent a year away from home as a lad, attending a magnet school that drew me ha-way across this great nation of ours to that once-proud burg known as Columbus, Ohio. I musta scored the magic number on one them tests they give high school kids 'cause the postman brought the invite to the Our Lady of Blessed Last Fair Deals Gone Down and I was Greyhounded to Columbus later that afternoon. Turns out I was able to leave so quickly because my now-departed-but-then-dear-ol Aunt Etyhl lived only a hitchhike outta downtown Columbus and she was delighted to have me for a few semesters.
Aunt Ethyl was somekinda beauty queen-turned-racecar driver back in her day. Shirley Muldowney had nothin' on her looks or her lead foot. Auntie also had a terrific wit. And she could and DID drink Wally Parks, editor of Hot Rod Magazine and NHRA Founder, under the shop workbench. I was a mere infant in my domestic light beer drinking and a year with Aunt Ethyl was all it took to turn a hobby into a favorite hobby. Soon, though, a problem surfaced. America wasn't yet Recycle Crazy as it is now and the Columbus city trash men refused to take away our bins and bins of empty cans. We started squishing the cans but even squished their sheer number was a dumpster full.
One day before being overwhelmed by the cans, Auntie's pal and Top Fuel Icon Don "Big Daddy" Garlits stopped by for a visit. He took a look at us and said, "Sheeeooooot, Eth, I been here before. I'll be right back with yr solution." He peeled out of the drive and before Auntie and I could ask each other, "what the ... " Garlits was back with a goat. That goat was untethered and took at once to chowin' down on that mountain of cans. We all had a good laugh at that.
And that goat was smart too! Instead of fouling the carpet he used Auntie's cat Snorkles' litter box. Auntie reminded me to send a nice Christmas card to Mr.. Big Daddy wishing him yuletide greetings and thanks for solving the can problem. I said I would. I did.
The thing I remember most about the whole episode, though is cleaning the cat/goat box. I cleverly used one of the magnets I got at the magnet school and bang! The box was clean of goat droppings. True story.
Tonight - Lucky 13 (by request)
Just like old times... **CASH ONLY**
Bring yr pals. Party. I will.
See you there!
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
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