A Journey Into Reason

Rod isn't sleeping well.

2009-04-06T22:30:00.000-07:00

He's been going to cider and fry bars after work lately, and it's becoming a trend with him. He and the "grips" and "gaffers" will retire to one of those late-night places that specializes in chicken fingers, gravy fries, poppers, and all other manner of golden brown grease-o-lator foods. They wash it all down with pitchers of hard cider, ordered three at a time. Sure, they love it, and it keeps them from being dizzy on cigarettes, but the toll it takes on his health is non-trivial.

When he finally got home last night, he didn't even touch the cup of cranberry water I had set out for him. He came straight to bed, snored like an apneating didgeridoo, and reeked of cigarettes and grease. It was like sleeping next to a great big farting pile of college. I don't like being so crass, but welcome to my hell.

I need to guide him away from this habit naturally. It all comes down to the production crew. The cardigan and corduroy bunch are a hedonistic culture by nature; it might serve us well if I got him involved with more of an "historical obesity" crowd. Reality shows are the bane of our existence in some ways, but I can appreciate their isolated effectiveness.

Sensibilly

2008-11-26T23:55:00.001-08:00

Yes, you read that right. I'm not surprised you've never heard of Sensibilly. It'd be way off your radar, most likely, but lately it's been a real focus of my evolution as a dancer.

First, though, I have to tell you about something Rod's been up to. He's been working with Max Planter. Yes, THE Max Planter. Max is an energy healer, and in addition to being gorgeously physically fit, his on-set chemistry with Rod is extraordinary. You really need to check out the first volume of their maiden series, Proof of Exit, even if you aren't into same-sex male adult features. Believe me, you'll be amazed at how truly blurry the line can be between where one man ends and another begins. ($24.99, Hattokiri-Hydra Films)

Okay, back to Sensibilly. You've no doubt been subjected to the cacophony that is "Rockabilly" — kids having fun dressing up like cowboys and greasers and going outside. They drink, they do anatomically incorrect joint-destroying dances from the 1950s, and have horseshoes on their clothing. Nonsense. I've never had the patience for a second of it. But along comes Sensibilly.

Rudolfo Bucharini, the visionary founder of Sensibilly, wanted to create a "welcome mat" movement for kids who had grown up and grown out of the Rockabilly thing. Costumes and outlandishly masculine cars are discouraged; most arrive by bicycle or gravity-sensible skitter-cart in something comfortable and sustainably grown. We don't smoke, and we certainly don't drink alcohol. Dancing is encouraged, but those who don't wish to socialize can lounge together in the reading area — a large blanket Rudolfo spreads out a couple dozen yards from the designated "dance floor" (usually a Tiki torch-delimited square about the size of a badminton court). You wear your own iPod, so as not to disturb the other dancers, or you just feel your own way around the space's energy. The vibe turns out to be tremendous, and experimental. I find myself slipping out a new stutter-shuffle or flying heel variation in an environment of total, non-judgmental freedom. It's incredible.

The Rockabilly-disaffected are trickling in here and there, largely thanks to Rudolfo's heavy flyering around the community college. We have a low retention rate, which I'm actually really proud of, because I know this group isn't for every dunderhead ex-costume cowboy. I'm realistic. And that's why I'm underwriting our next county-wide flyering campaign. It's an angel-phase thing. You'll thank me when Sensibilly finally comes to your town. You'll owe me a big one.

How ABSOLUTELY INSENSITIVE.

2008-04-25T22:42:00.000-07:00

As you know, one of Cornelius's many embarrassing "jobs" is transcribing adult videos. I guess it was just a matter of time before he came across some of my partner Rod Huggins' work. Let me just say that he spared no acidic, over-wrought insult in his flaying of Rod, and although Rod is taking it well enough (he is in the family room eating Christopher Elbow ganache and reading heavily-scented fan letters), I'm as mad as a lathering hornet.

Here's how my phone call to that senseless old fool went.

- - -

PAT: Cornelius! Are you responsible for subtitling Chuck Wagon Chubbies Eight: Blowdown at the Bunslinger Corral?

CORNELIUS: I...it sounds familiar. Patrick, you sound angry.

PAT: Rod is DEVASTATED by your descriptions of him and his acting!

CORNELIUS: Rod? Rod...your partner? Goodness no! Patrick, if I had known that was—

PAT: Ahem. “The goateed chap with the accordion-like love handles and picnicky shoulders hoists his bilious girth over the corral’s top-most beam, severely testing the workmanship of the anonymous cowpoke carpenter who long ago labored to build a containment device with a far nobler—and nimbler—animal in mind...”

CORNELIUS: Goodness, that is a bit astringent. I am so—

PAT: AHEM. “...As the two suet pots bumble artlessly with one another, the viewer feels the urge to stir seeds and bits of chopped raisin into the deep, unctuous folds of their jobbly midriffs, thereby creating a nutritious place for birds to eat."

CORNELIUS: Oh dear. I regret I cannot take it all back, as I believe it is committed to a special track on all distributed copies of the title. Is Rod much distraught?

PAT: Never you mind Rod's feelings! I'm just calling to let you know that you've really screwed up THIS time!

CORNELIUS: Patrick, please let me come over and offer a proper apology to—

- - -

Too late. I'd made my point, and I didn't want to let him come over and hem and haw and pretend like this wasn't his fault. Because it was. He did that, he was rude and nasty, and now he's going to have to pay. Rod and I are going to have a dinner party for all our closest friends soon, and he's DEFINITELY off the guest list. Just his luck, because I'm breaking out my latest, labor-of-love recipe for cashew bean "cassoulet" with sumac tofuouille and Rhodac pine extract.

Soytopia.

2007-11-08T19:47:00.000-08:00

Well, you're probably wondering what happened to Soytopia: An Ecological and Sociopolitical Clarity Bar. It's been a few months since the opening, and I've been so busy an update is long overdue.

After the first disastrous morning, I shuttered the place for good. I have no patience for the sort of social organism that can't immediately respond to a literal gem in its politiculinary landscape, and I didn't want to waste another dollar on Spuni grass that would never get eaten, so I did the smart thing and cut my losses. I feel great about it -- makes me feel superior to this stupid-ass town and all its wannabe thinkers. I heaved all the food into the dumpster out back but locked it so the freegan dickheads wouldn't get a gram of my investment. I'd rather bacteria and seagulls ate it than a bunch of free-loaders with perfectly functional wallets.

What have I been so busy with since then? I've been watching a lot of documentaries about South America and the damage the chocolate industry has wreaked down there. I'm getting my notes together for a project that will hopefully destroy the entire cacao production system from the ground up. You won't get chocolate any more, but you'll live in a better world.

There is no "you're welcome" on the front lines. It's not why we do what we do. So I don't expect to hear it, and I don't need my inbox filled with it. I'll fix things, you just sit and watch. That's how the system works.

Soytopia: Opening Morning!

2007-08-31T10:12:00.000-07:00

I had started to think it would never happen! Soytopia: An Ecological and Sociopolitical Clarity Bar finally opened its doors last Thursday. Whew. I could write a book. Actually, once we get in the black, I think I will. It should be a scandalous exposé of the joke that is the private contracting industry. God, those grease-labes.

I clicked the latest, most expensive, code-compliant brass locks open at 6:59.59 AM on Thursday, and gently propped the doors into an open position (it is my opinion that my "bar" should always be room temperature, so my doors stay open all day). Things were quiet for a bit, when all of a sudden a bird of some sort dove in and started attacking the granola bar! I shooed him away with a broom, but not after he had defiled the contents of every single ingredient tray. That invasion cost me over $39.78 in product, not to mention valuable time. Fortunately, no one was in yet.

Around about noon I noticed that word had still not gotten out, so I began to hang my pièce de résistance above the bar: a recumbent penny-farthing, antiqued to look like a relic from the 1920s. I suspended the bike with twine and temper cable and I have to say it looks awfully damned fine where it hangs. Reminds me of that U2 stage with the small car, only more intelligent and provocative. Once that was done, I began to prepare a few of the various live sandwiches and lavoshes -- the ones I knew would be highest in demand during the lunch rush.

By one o'clock the town's enlightened had still failed to arrive, so I stuck my head outside to see if there had been an air raid warning or police cordon at the end of the street. The idiotic customers of the Dude and Catastrophe were spilling out onto the sidewalk, arm in arm and singing bawdy songs about maids named Mary whose nether regions could kill a canary, so I slammed the door. Room temperature be damned, I didn't want them to think they could ramble into MY establishment having that kind of time. Just to be safe, I put the CLOSED sign in the window, dropped the blinds, and turned the chairs up on the tables.

All in all, not the best opening day, but not the worst. Some time around six PM a wanderer named Michael started playing guitar on the sidewalk out front, which I took to be a good omen. He's asleep out there now - I may slip some live lavosh under the front door so that he has a snack. It would be a shame to waste it.

Soytopia a few steps closer to opening.

2007-07-10T17:31:00.000-07:00

Soytopia: A Sociopolitical and Ecological Clarity Bar! (I'm thinking of keeping the exclamation point in the title) is three months closer to opening, and you'd think that'd mean a lot, but you'd be wrong. First, here's what's been holding off progress on the space itself:

1) Is it possible to find a contractor who won't pass judgment on a socio-homopolitical lifestyle? Every time these clowns get a clue that I'm of a certain persuasion, they start playing pranks. They whistle when I walk by, pretend to pull down their tool belts, and in some cases call me "Lucy." I've had to fire three crews so far, and every single time someone manages to quickly draw a penis on the wall before they clear out. I swear I've got my eyes peeled, but they always sneak this past me. I have to paint over it myself, naturally, so the next group doesn't get a head start.

2) What is "FOX" motorcycle racing? Is that something that people who have not heard of falafel or Europe enjoy? I swear, every one of these goons has a FOX sticker on his truck, and one dope's ice cream-shaped girlfriend ("BODY BY ICE CREAM," I laughed to myself) even had the FOX tattoo across her shoulders. Unless they have their wedding on a big dirt jump ramp, that's going to look pretty stupid come the big day. I mean, as opposed to the rest of the time, when it's a lovely statement of what she believes in (noisy machines piloted by twitchy valley trash named Jamie-Kye). When I saw that girl, I told the crew they were off the job.

I was primering the wall by the counter until 3am.

3) With forward-thinking food products, you unfortunately see a lot of brands folding before the market makes time to understand them. Daffy Dave, Pablo Ingrèsu, even Tim Fadone's "Breath of a Healer" Wicksocks™ are gone (poor Tim - I emailed him, don't worry). I've got to line up at LEAST a dozen new foods to stock, and keep a close eye on them. I hear good things about the "LiveWire" living baby kombu "papardelle" - still has the root in sand and everything. Brilliant.

4) Admittedly, my informal poll on the bar's concept resulted in a less than red-hot response. I'm clearly going to have to host some workshops and "theme nights," to keep things going during the critical first six months. It'll just be the usual suspects from around town - Tantric SkyFucking, with Melody Rain and Dan; Dr. Bert's Banjo Tuning Seminars; Tumbling for Tots with Teacher Steve. I wish I had a back room for this stuff. I'll have to close completely on those nights, draw the blinds, and hope they all come back on regular business days.

Wheesh. This is a lot of work. I'm not saying I respect other bar/restaurant owners, because I know they cut corners every chance they get, but I do at least "get" why so many of them throw in the towel before they've tried even HALF as hard as I have.

Pat.

SOYTOPIA: A SOCIOPOLITICAL AND ECOLOGICAL CLARITY BAR!

2007-04-11T14:51:00.000-07:00

You thought I was full of it, didn't you? Well, once again, you've managed to be wrong. Just like I said, my uncle Bradley has a vacant shopfront not thirty yards away from the Dude and Catastrophe, and he said I could turn it into a competing establishment. Get ready to eat your own asses into the dirt, Ray and Cornelius. Business is war, and you just met the Harry Truman of sustainable, zero-impact veganism. I'm going to drop a V-bomb and your business will go up in an eco-friendly, smokeless pyre fueled by organically ruined dreams.

Whew. I'm a little giddy after that last sentence. That was good, even for me.

Aside from the usual stupid carpenters and motorcycle-weekend idiots with white trucks, things have been going AWESOME. Check out these additions to our menu (some of which are based on my chats with people from the local boards and cafés):

1) Lever Bee's Bananas Thermidor (a sweet banana substitute for an unsavory old lobster monstrosity - imported from England)

2) Pablo Ingrèsu's "Disproportionate Snack" (rough translation). This is the first Hispanic fortune cookie I've ever seen, and the fortunes are enormous. The three I've tried each ran to over five hundred words. One was even some important Central American poetry.

3) "Punk Slake." Everybody knows how committed the punk rock movement is to the Straight Edge philosophy of purity and responsibility, and now they've got a vitamin drink processed by machines that run on northeastern energy grid overstock! (One of their dads works for a company that hedges against this particular grid — it's complicated, but it WORKS.)

4) Tim Fadone's "Breath of a Healer" Wicksocks™. Wear these dense gauze packs on your feet, forehead, and wrists while you eat, and they'll normalize the temperature imbalances caused by normal mealtime pulmonary-thermal release. I plan to have a coin-operated dispenser by the front booth. If you order enough, Tim will print your company's logo on them, so I need to come up with a logo asap. Some quick thoughts are...circles, spheres...globe...carrot piercing the globe...no, too violent. More on this later.

5) Tofupia. What's Tofupia? Only the tastiest "nIce cream" sandwich around. Best part? They're raw. Yeah, good luck finding one of those at the crappy Dude and Catastrophe.

It's a little too early to set an opening date, what with all these moronic contractors who can't seem to find their rear ends with both hands, let alone their calendars (perhaps their calendars are up their asses! Hah! There's a thought). Anyhow, just bookmark this page and check back once or twice a day to see what's new.

Pat.

Cornelius's new pub absolutely disgusts me.

2007-03-03T20:33:00.000-08:00

We have a new pub—which, by the way, is short for "public house"—in town. Unfortunately, I am not invited to this "public" place. The fact that they don't even have the guts to say it to my face has me spitting mad. What's worse is that the pub, the "Dude and Catastrophe," is run by two "friends" of mine: Cornelius and Ray.

It comes down to this: there is not a single item at this public house which I can consume or enjoy, either physically, artistically, or intellectually. I am quite simply not welcome, as nothing is offered for me. It's as though the whole place was designed to keep me, and specifically me, out.

Proof #1: the jukebox. The jukebox only contains stupid English "pop" music from recent decades. Who can have an intelligent conversation while Mick Jagger is in the room? Who can take themselves seriously with the stupid Beatles yabbering away about trite boy-girl situations in the background? Sure, as a concession to reason they have a little U2 featuring Bono, but none of the ones that I like. They only have the older macho stuff.

Proof #2: the food. There is not a single eco-friendly dish in the place. Pies? Fries? Burgers? Wings? Their menu is essentially a mass grave of barnyard animals. Would it kill them to place little complimentary bowls of chickpeas or edamame on the bar? They don't even serve organically-produced beer — not that I'd drink it.

Proof #3: the restroom door gendercators are simultaneously vague and horribly sexist: "COXSWAINS," for men, I think, and "MUFFETS," I think, for women.

You know what I'm going to do? I'm going to open up a competing establishment, right across the street. You heard me, and you know I'm serious. My uncle has a vacant shopfront not thirty yards away, and he'd let me do whatever I want with the place. I'm going to open an all-vegan, emissions-free pleasure utopia. Oh—this just came to me! I'm going to call it—get ready for this—"SOYTOPIA: A SOCIOPOLITICAL AND ECOLOGICAL CLARITY BAR"! How GENIUS! We'll serve all my personal bestitute favorites: "air-fried" Vegus chips, Dotty Dan's Double-Xanthan Chewy Chowder, Okra River's oversized "whole pickled okra not-dogs," and Legion of the Leaf brown rice and raisin dolmas. On the radio? There's a free college jazz station that comes in downtown — perfect. Bathroom doors? MEN and WOMEN will probably work, call me crazy. Although, in an effort to be sensitive, I might have accommodating modern spellings, such as, "WOMYN," "MYN" (the Y indicating the male's Y chromosome), and "MXCN" (a nod of the head to the M2F Cross-gendered community whose second chromosome more closely resembles an X than a Y). Hm. I may need to have a third bathroom for transsexuals. I need to get on the phone. I'm sorry, I have to go. That's how serious I am about this.

That BITCH.

2006-12-19T22:52:00.000-08:00

That piece of shit! That lousy BITCH! That CUNT!

I'll explain, but I'm not happy about it. You're going to find out something about me that will have you rolling in the aisles. Whatever. I couldn't cash a check for a shit and two peanuts with what I think of you.

First, I'd been particularly vulnerable to colds for the last several months or so, and so on the advice of Ray's doctor (he is reviewed as the best in the area) I agreed to consume beef once again. ONLY IN SMALL DOSES. For medical purposes. It's not like I was deep-throating skirt steak at Chili's, like the rest of you schlubs who clean your ears with System Of A Down and get nervous if you take a shit smaller than a baked potato.

So there I was, my tightly-tied baggie with the styrofoam container of beef sukiyaki ("Ohayooo!" - $6.95) harnessed carefully against the passenger door of the Insight, trying to back out of my parking spot on the busy main street downtown. As it is the Christmas season, the street was jam-packed, and I knew that waiting for a person of decency to let me out could be quite a while.

Finally my window of opportunity came. A small black Mercedes held position when traffic moved forward, and I backed slowly out.

To my horror, the driver began to honk and advance! I was aghast. What was this betrayal? Then I SAW it! She had been typing on a phone! She hadn't been trying to let me in at all!

With a haste of rage she pulled into oncoming traffic to get around me. Oh, she succeeded, alright (the Insight isn't the fastest rocket ship in the universe), but you can be sure I yelled out of my window at her ("WHAT THE FUCK IS YOUR FUCKING PROBLEM YOU BITCH YOUR CUNT IS REAL ESTATE AND ITALIANS THROW FRUIT AT YOUR MIND!").

Man, did that juice me. I hadn't felt that good in ages. The fellow behind her was watching it unfold and I was able to pull into traffic right behind her. I laid on some pretty hard stares but she kept pretending to text on her cell phone. I wrote her license plate # in my dashbook and if I ever see her here again I'll give her a few miles of Pat Time. Did I mention I've hooked the Insight up with a dash cam? I'm sure she'll fuck up again. I may go back to that stretch tomorrow at the same time to see if it's an area she regularly uses. Usually it is.

Car ride idiot

2006-06-20T00:02:00.000-07:00

I do not live on a busy street, so usually I am able to back my car out without having to wait long or accommodate active drivers. I check the sidewalk in both directions (damned Raz'r scooters), check the traffic, and bop out. I've never had an incident. Until today, that is.

There I was, 360-degree window sight and mirrors clear, bopping quickly out into the street before shifting fluidly into first gear and getting on my way. What do I spy out of the corner of my rear-view mirror as I finish my entry to the roadway, but a large truck advancing. No big deal, I think. He'll slow.

I shifted into first and applied the accelerator, when what do I see but the big truck trying to pass me in the other lane! He's honking at me! It's some weird type of 80s "dually" American truck, with an extended cab and the small orange lights across the front of the roof!

I was furious. How dare this asshole disregard my vehicle—my life—like that.

At the stop light, the truck and I were parked next to each other — he turning right and I turning left. It took a moment of thought, but I finally looked over: there he was, cheap gold watch, blue tank top, gold necklace, mustache...and once he saw that I was looking, he flipped me off.

Yes, he looked at me with a serious face and flipped me off. I did the smartest thing you can do in those circumstances, which is to hold up a map, slap it repeatedly while looking at the aggressor, and then point back at the aggressor, as though you were blaming them for the map. It's one of the best ways to make sure they make no connection between the incident and the driveway you just left.

Back to Trader Joe's.

2006-05-25T22:15:00.000-07:00

I'm not going to get into why I stopped shopping at Trader Joe's, but I will just say that I could never show my face back there again and feel safe. Hence my predicament of late.

Trader Joe's produces a wide variety of proprietary frozen foodstuffs, and a few of them are quite remarkable (despite the jelly-bloods who hock them). You know I do not toss the term "remarkable" around lightly. Their Ratatouille Provencal is a vegan's dream, plump with luscious zucchini and eggplant, and their "Trader Jose's" charred tomatillo tamales are pregnant little corn-flavored dream tubes. There's quite simply no other way to put it.

Long story short, I've been desperately missing those two particular items lately, and had to have them again. At long last, I decided that a disguise was my best course of action.

On any given day, I am trim, sharp, and lean. No muss, no fuss. I exist, and I get the job done. I don't have asinine sideburns. I don't care about famous smells. My clothing does not have writing on it. So what do I choose as the perfect disguise? That's right: Donny the Weightlifter. Donny is dopey, musclebound, covered in tight name-brand clothing, drenched in cologne, listening to an MP3 player, hair pulled back in a smother-handle (a pony tail — a smother-handle is a pony tail), and has a "Jersey thug" accent. Nothing could be further from my own natural deportment.

Pete loaned me the appropriate costume pieces from the wardrobe he has in the Tuff Shed out in the yard, and helped consult as I tried on various accents and accessories. Say what you want, but Nice Pete is a damn fine judge of character. He sees to the quick of a person, like a scalpel. If something isn't working, he'll know it instinctively. That's how he helped me whip my Donny into shape. Before an hour was up, I was the epitome of the 80 IQ weight room fireplug, effortlessly dropping lines like, "Yoo got any assss, bay-bee?" and "I tink I buss'id my spine."

So, decked out in tight white bicycle shorts (the text "OAKLEY" ran up the side of either leg, in very fast-looking lettering), a baby blue tank top with a "Bad Boy Club" muscle guy on it, puffy white high-top muscle shoes, iPod (the screen was cracked, but no one would see that), single-lens sunglasses, and a ponytailed wig, I had him drop me off in front of Trader Joe's. He was to circle the parking lot and watch for me constantly.

I walked into the store like nothing was wrong, and to my tremendous relief no one seemed to notice me. I picked up a basket (well, I fumbled the first few, my hands were shaking so badly) and went straight to the frozen foods aisle. A warm feeling washed over me as I saw all the old familiar packages beaming up at me from their little bins. The stir-fry vegetables, the microwave quinoa, the tomatillo tamales...I picked them up one by one and read their nutritional information the way one might read a yearbook entry from an old friend. It was truly gratifying, I will admit that.

I must have been lost in dream-land a little bit too long, because the next thing I knew there was a panic in the store, and huge shotgun blasts were erupting in the parking lot. It sounded like Pete's 12-gauge, so I went to peek out the window. Women and children were falling into terrified piles to the left and right of me.

Indeed, that fool had set up a line of organic watermelons in the parking lot, and was blasting them with his rifle. I swear, you can take the boy out of the country, but you cannot take the country out of the boy. I ran and jumped into the van, which gave him the cue to skedaddle. We left a pretty nice snake of tread on the lot, and made it home well ahead of the patrol sirens. Oh, and the best part? I had unwittingly left the store with a basket full of ratatouille and tamales!

All in all, a pretty good day, I guess. No one can finger me, because I was in disguise, and Pete is going to drive his new sports car for a while, so his van can lay low.

— Pat.

I, for one, am GLAD gas costs so much these days!

2006-05-04T00:49:00.000-07:00

I can't turn my head without seeing some headline about the high price of gas these days. You know what I say? Hah! B.S.! The price of gas hasn't gone up, the appeal of owning a gas-slurping SUV has gone down! Natural corrective forces are at work, here.

Seriously, 99% of our daily trips can be taken via flyweight recumbent bicycle or gravity-sensible skitter-carts. These machines not only exercise the body, but they take no fossil fuels and create virtually no meaningful wear on the terrain (skitter-cart brake levers do scrape the ground, but as the brake pad is composed entirely of a pumice-fortified soap, the net effect is one of overall environmental cleansing). Imagine a system where nutrients that fortify your body are obtained on a trip that exercises that very same body, and creates no harmful pollutants to hurt the body. Welcome to my world. The vegetables cost a little bit more, and require more rinsing, and often have to be discarded or hit with a can of Raid, but that is a small price to pay.

My way of life may be slightly more expensive in some areas, but when you see the massive savings I have in the categories of meat, liquor, name-brand "hygiene" products, gasoline, cable television, and Internet access (good old 56k dialup is all the sensible Internet user needs, so long as images are turned off, as they should be in pretty much all cases), it won't be long before you come around to my way of living. You can't afford not to.

Pat Reynolds
preynolds1@well.com

What a F+*KING DISASTER.

2006-04-11T23:41:00.000-07:00

I could not see more red than I am seeing right now.

"Veat." VEAT?! Is that what they called it? Agrarian Nation, the largest vegan food manufacturer in the world, has totally, TOTALLY dropped the ball on their mainstream vegan offerings.

First of all, they're calling their product "Veat." Yeah, like "meat." Right. Because we all want to think about meat all the time. We wish we were eating meat. Oh, how we wish we had meat. NO. WRONG. JESUS H KABAL OF ASSHOLES WHAT IS GOING ON HERE.

Secondly, their sub-categorization is crass. Their poultry breast bestitute is called, simply, "BREAST." It's a lump of processed soyfu pressed into a mold. I know a room full of A.N. MBAs were laughing as they imagined us eating this stuff, but did they have to name the product just, "BREAST"? Not even "Turkey Breastitute" or "Chicken Breast Finger Betters"? I feel so insulted just buying a frozen container of "Breast." It's just, just...transparently insulting.

Oh, and if that wasn't bad enough, Daylight Savings Time has totally thrown off my digestion. I wish to hell they didn't arbitrarily gerrymander the clock every time a politician needed to stir up dust on a slow newsday.

PAT.

Great new game.

2006-02-25T23:20:00.000-08:00

Those of you not familiar with the FalconLore™ RPGs and Character Developer Kits may finally have a reason to cross over into FL. They just released their most powerful, versatile solution of all time, HeroCrafter. I've never seen anything like it. I am absolutely floored by the reasoning that went into this product.

First of all, it's easier than ever before to create a realistic hero. The intuitive, balanced flowcharts that get you going, plus the weighting systems that help you generate an Idealized Model (Stamina, Motivation, Training, Respect, Weaknesses) are absolutely, technically brilliant.

Oh, and I'd be completely remiss if I didn't mention the real gem of this product: The Tragedie, a large, translucent, fifteen-sided die that lists a different Life-Tragedy on each face. These range from Death of Father, to Sibling Betrayal, to Travellers' Betrayal, to Caul-veil Birth (positive, add 10). The Tragedie is the "wild card" that takes the hero you design and assigns a completely arbitrary, secondary weakness. This is the master-stroke. It helps take a consciously-designed character and give him that unpredictable element of life that you just don't get from most systems.

I've been going crazy with HeroCrafter all night. I even missed dinner — tempeh with "crazy mold," a dish I've been perfecting over time. Well, I guess I didn't technically miss it, since I went down and ate it a little later than I should have, but you get my point: HeroCrafter. Awesome.

Shopping cart incident.

2006-01-26T23:18:00.000-08:00

I'll make no secret of it: I do not return shopping carts to the cart-yard when I am done shopping. I've always said that leaving the carts out on the lot equals job security for the poor lowest-rung dolts who work for the store. However, I have no problem with letting someone who is just about to *enter* the store take my cart once I have unloaded my groceries. I'm done with it — what do I care? This coincidence is so rare that it can hardly cost any lot-dolt his job.

Today, however, made me reconsider my likelihood of handing off a recently-unladen cart. There I was, closing the trunk of my car, when an older gentleman with a white beard asked if I was done with it. I communicated a very unmisinterpretable "She's all yours," and he nodded and took the thing away. I got into the car and thought very little of the transaction.

While I was readying the controls for driving, I noticed the man walk up to the entrance of the store. He pushed the cart into the cart-yard, walked into the store, and picked up a hand-basket.

I shoved my keys back into my pocket and strode directly into the store. How DARE he. I found him around the gourmet packaged snacks area and made no disguise of my anger. "How DARE you insinuate that I am too lazy to return the cart to its proper area!" I said. "How DARE you carry out such an insult right before me!"

He played the chicken and tried to back away from me, upsetting a small display of breadsticks and cheese. I saw my chance and pounced.

Thinking quickly, I pulled a cold salami out of a refrigerated deli display and shoved it down the front of his pants. "I hope it's expensive, because you can't return salami you put in your PANTS!" I yelled. With that, I quickly strode out the door and sped off for home. I hate getting tangled up with idiots and the way they solve unusual problems. So much standing around.

New Year's Resolutions: 2006

2006-01-01T23:28:00.000-08:00

Before I get to the fun stuff, I will just conclude the CheatLoaf saga by saying that Ray got wind of the whole thing and persuaded his friend at the police station to "lose" the charges against me. Huh. Maybe he can be of some use after all. I guess that's his good deed for the year. Lord knows he'll just fritter the rest of it away sittin' on some fancy pool chair drinkin' eight dollar liquor.

Speaking of new years, here are my resolutions for the twelve months ahead! See if you can keep up — maybe print this out as a goal sheet. I may make a contest out of this, if I can figure out the web-based input fields and SQL back-end that would allow you to post your own results and compare them to mine.

PAT REYNOLDS' NEW YEAR'S RESOLUTIONS

1. Hold breath for greater than one minute (fully submerged)

2. Get typing WPM up over 100. Really need to focus on this one, been slipping a little.

3. Stop watching South Park while waiting for The O'Reilly Factor. They do this stupid little overlap timing thing between various stations and I had found myself watching entire minutes of that deplorable cartoon show. God, is it crass. I've been watching more and more, just wondering what awful thing they'll say next.

OH CRAP oh dammit NetZero's dialup connections are flaking out during this storm we're having

CRAP oh CRAP will have to finish this later

DAMMMNNN ITTTTT
atdt 866-8176
%
%
% hello?
%
%oh CRAP
%
% hello?
% damn this hissing modem
%
% atm0

Loaf-off!

2005-12-09T21:24:00.000-08:00

With a cooler full of freshly-unmolded CheatLoaf and a straining backpack laden with cooking utensils, sauces, and service-ware, I trundled through the rear loading dock doors of Mollie Stone's at 4am this morning. I had scored a prime Saturday slot in which to purvey my wares, and even though they do not open until 7am, I wasn't going to disrespect their generous offer by breezing in dangerously close to opening. I aimed to prove that I was every bit as serious as anyone who has ever been in business.

No one was around except for a few stockers and a foreign man running a floor-waxer, so I was able to set up camp in peace. I took my designated spot in the little corridor which leads from the produce department to the meat department, which I thought was fitting, as my product is basically the Cerberus that will keep all meat-eaters from passing through into that "underworld" (this is a reference to Greek Mythology). I set up a loaner table, draped my "CheatLoaf! No Meat, No Wheat, No Bleat!" banner across the front, and began warming the paprika-cardamom scallion "soap"-glaze that I would be using on sample preparation A.

Truth be told, I had invested a little of my personal savings in some promotional gear for the event. Normally I am against such tit-headed nonsense as clothing with writing on it, but in this case I made an exception. I wanted to give my product full support, so I had a nice forest green fleece turtleneck embroidered with the words "Cheat" across the chest, and "Loaf!" on the back. I thought this was rather ingenious, as it made the viewer curious to see what the back of the shirt said. Once you have them hooked like that, they're all yours.

Additionally, I had bought a pair of matching green fleece sweatpants with the same "Cheat," "Loaf!" back/front embroidery. It underscored the turtleneck wonderfully, and when I tried the complete ensemble on in the mirror while quickly turning from front to back, the effect was magical. I don't toss that word around easily, by the way.

Around 6:45am who did I see wander in with a Peet's and a hand-truck full of his own samples but Roger, the Trader Joe's free sample circuit man! I guess he whores himself out to other stores, as well! The bastard set up camp directly across from me, in the area between the front doors and the produce. He had the better spot! By the time everyone finished sampling his product, they'd be tired of the experience and have less patience with me! I guess that's the dues you pay when you're new. I knew my product was better than whatever lifeless crap he was hocking, and I knew that time would favor the superior salesman, so I patted the hair on the back of my neck down and took a breath. I stood and looked his direction for several moments at a time, but the son of a bitch never so much as glanced my way. I guess he knew he'd slighted me back in September and was too ashamed to make eye contact. Figures. That just fueled my flames for the long day ahead.

Right at 7am shoppers started pouring in, and I saw pretty much every single one pick something up off his table. I couldn't tell what he was offering, but everyone sure seemed to be into it. I hung behind my table, patiently waiting for them to make their way to me.

Drawing upon my extensive experience with free sample counters, I tried to appear busy, so that shoppers would not feel put upon by eye contact and unwanted barking. I glazed slices of CheatLoaf, stirred my marinara, chopped butter pickles (these are delicious with CL), and placed small portions in sample cups. When I no longer needed to do that, I balanced my checkbook, made sure both my shoes were tied, pretended to count the sample cups with an index finger, scribbled on a clipboard...nobody was coming to my table.

Nearly insane with confusion, I all but grabbed a woman who was passing by and asked what Roger was offering. I may have said, "What does Roger have that I don't," I can't remember. She looked scared, but then I pointed at him and said, "the other free sample guy." Her answer hit me like a ton of bricks: he was pitching Hoffmueller AG BeatLoaf (aka Rübekäse), a German import meatloaf best-stitute made from riced Affenklotz beets, soy, and just insane amounts of sodium.

HOW IN THE HELL OF SHIT COULD MOLLIE STONE'S BOOK TWO MEATLOAF BEST-STITUTE SALESMEN TO COMPETE ON THE SAME DAY!?

BeatLoaf dominates the market, and I was more than put out by this discovery. It was like an independent cola salesman trying to take on Coke. I began to overheat, and when I overheat, I start to get dizzy and nauseated, so I had to take off my turtleneck then and there, lack of undershirt notwithstanding (I keep in good shape, my upper body is inoffensive—in fact, if anything, it is exemplary—but I digress). I took several gulps of water from my Nalgene bottle, poured a little on my head like a boxer, and jogged in place for a few invigorating moments. Never had I felt so ready to defeat an enemy. I vowed then and there that if I did not move more samples than Roger, I would quite simply tear his head off in the parking lot once evening came. Hands only. No mechanical advantage or levers. Step on his foot, cup the base of the skull, and pull up. My rule.

Abandoning all I knew about the soft sell, I tied a length of produce bags around my forehead and began to put on an incredible act. "Hey now, hey now!" I barked, juggling entire loaves of CheatLoaf. People started to notice. Every so often I would grab a loaf and take a bite, which is always a good trick. As I juggled I rattled off facts about my product: "'Wheat Free! Gluten Free! Meat Free! Please your friends on a Sunday night! CheatLoaf is a murder-free meal!" I was on fire. I began to ask the gathering audience questions: "So, anyone from out of town?" One man raised his hand. "Where from?" I asked. "Boston," he said. "Then try my product!" I yelled, while carefully lowering myself into a splits and then rising back up again, juggling all the while. Amazing.

A few clerks and managers had started to gather around my display at this point. "That's right, folks," I bantered. "Welcome to Mollie Stone's, the only store to feature CheatLoaf! Mollie Stone's, everybody! A murder-free store! Except for THOSE assholes!" (I turned and pointed back at the butchers, who had also stopped to watch.) I was no longer a man—I was living, breathing art. I was a challenge. I was history. I half expected to win some sort of grant from the store for this.

Instead, the clerks and managers began to close in on me, their hands at the ready, fingers up, palms out. I'd seen this position in countless videos of overthrown public demonstrations — the bastards were about to tackle me! What the hell?! I grabbed a spatula and turned to run. No dice - the meat department was there forming an impenetrable wall, and I don't need to tell you what kind of visions I had of their blood-stained justice.

I faked left, burst through a vulnerability at their right front, and made for the rear exit. Along the way I was broadsided into the homeopathic remedies aisle by a cow and her cart, where I briefly tried to hide behind the pitch-man for CatheterWish Continence Convenience Systems (a home catheter system for those who are continent but work long hours and don't want to suffer the inconvenience of regular bathroom visits) but the smell was unbearable and I darted out again...into the arms of a heavily padded thug in a baker's toque.

Long story short, I wasn't put through the meat grinder and sold as frankfurters, but I was booked into police custody on charges of creating a public disturbance, and also for creating an "unhygienic food environment" (by not wearing a shirt in the produce department). Needless to say, once I cool down I will begin outlining the many aspects of my lawsuit against Mollie Stone's, particular employees thereof, the Achewood police department, and, get this—Roger! I'm getting him on anti-trust charges, for distributing a product which enjoys an unlawful monopoly. I may also get the guy from CatheterWish, but only if I have time.

I'm going to be the next Dr. Mohid Prasham!

2005-11-19T16:00:00.000-08:00

Don't know who Dr. Mohid Prasham is? Then you're an idiot. He's the genius behind Dr. P's Victim of a Conscience C-Food, maybe the world's best line of seafood best-stitutes. Where the vision behind "Cam's Pickled Pinto Khlams" left off, Dr. P picked up. Yes, he advised on the Phake Mushels line of hominy-based mussel best-stitutes, but his true genius (christ, why do I keep trying to type that word as "genious"?@!) lies in more complex seafood recipes. He makes a vegetal cioppino that will quite literally take the top of your head off. You never knew fennel could dance on your tongue that way. You never knew that Yukon Gold potatoes could crap all over shrimp, in the flavor category. The list of things you do not know about butter beans versus bay scallops quite frankly pisses me off.

Anyhow, I've got a recipe going that I think will be every bit as popular as anything Dr. P has created. What did I do? I took a popular meat-based dish and veganized it. That's the only way to get the message out to a wider audience. Show them that what they enjoy is wrong, and that it needs to be changed. Infiltrate. That's right, I took on the grand-daddy of them all. The Meat Mothership. I took Old Man Meatloaf to task, and I kicked his ass to the dirt. I came up with a food product that is so superior in Ethics, Earth-footprint, and production-Emissions, that I'm just trembling as I finalize the recipe.

Look for me in your eco-telligent grocery store soon. I blew the lid off the meatloaf lie, and I am applying for permits as you read this. Once you taste my CheatLoaf, that's all she wrote.

On to Mollie Stone's.

2005-11-12T22:14:00.000-08:00

For the last several weeks, if not months, I have had nothing but trouble trying to patronize eco-telligent grocery stores. Trader Joe's finally wore out my patience with their insane free-sample men, and Whole Foods...well, you can read what happened at Whole Foods. That was about two posts ago.

My pantry has steadily been growing bare since the Whole Foods incident, and today, as I was consuming my last precious slices of What Are You In-Ham-U-Ating? cured avocado ham, I knew I had to get out there and find a new damned place to shop. The assurance that my foray would almost certainly end in utter disappointment was with me from the onset.

Here in the San Francisco Bay Area there is a chain of grocery stores nearly identical to Whole Foods, except with lower ceilings and a penchant for low-budget animatronic displays in the produce and bakery departments. It is called Mollie Stone's, and in their Palo Alto produce department, a trio of deranged 3' tall corn cobs (they do not even have eyes) does a crummy, jerky dance to "Old MacDonald Had a Farm" while a chubby, recently-sated radish blinks and rubs its tummy (oh, so the RADISH gets eyes?!). It makes no sense to me at all.

That aside, it is one of my last options in terms of earth-friendly grocery shopping, and so I had to give it its fair shake.

I didn't mess around, and immediately headed to the bulk aisle. This is the true litmus test of an intelligent grocery store, and Mollie Stone's fared pretty well. Quinoa, true couscous, yab, smoked mace, even imported gummi Shinto gates. Their bulk buyer knew his business, and I inwardly respected him. I even went so far as to nibble on a Nogurt-covered dehydrated parsnip ring (technically, an "extroodle," made from extruded, flash-baked parsnip foam) and silently nod, should he be watching from the closed circuit anti-theft camera.

Smooth sailing, so far. I made my way through the canned goods, restocking many familiar staples, such as Amy's Organic One-Bean Soup (finally, a company that isn't trying to appeal to my baser instincts with an overwhelming variety of beans), Franklin W. Chong's water chestnuts (great on long car trips), and AAA-Service crackers, the only canned crackers available on the American market. Excellent. All items which would serve well in any respectable disaster-preparedness pack.

Heh. You were probably waiting for this part. Yes, I did finally run across a free-sample table, somewhere around the endcap of the home goods aisle. It offered a kalamata olive-based salsa called "Soulsa," and, after checking the ingredients on the opened jar, I scooped some onto a pita chip and took a bite. Truth be told, the olives made for a heavy, almost leaden flavor, not like what you'd want from a salsa, and it lacked zing. It was really more of a tapenade, if anything, and did not successfully enter the realm of Mexican condimentry.

The host of the table was a curious specimen. She was stout, and wore baggy carpenter's jeans, with a punk person studded belt, and much too small of a striped polo-type shirt. A sizable band of her midriff was exposed, which I fortunately didn't see until after I tasted the product. Perhaps the strangest thing about her was her short spiky hair and the way she seemed to stare straight ahead at the top of the wall she was facing. The whole time I was tasting I don't think she so much as flinched. When I finally finished sampling the product and began to describe its shortcomings to her, I noticed that tears were running silently down her cheeks, and she was fighting to hold back what seemed like a sea of blubbering.

I can always tell when someone's going to lose it and just blubber like there was no tomorrow. This was one of those times. She had no business trying to hock a product in that state of mind, so I took control and told her she was dismissed. She immediately turned and headed off for the black rubber employee double-doors, and I, feeling some sense of interim duty, took up her post. For the better part of half an hour I stood and described the leaden, unpleasant qualities of the Soulsa product, and encouraged customers to look elsewhere for their salsa needs. When it became apparent that the girl was not coming back, I waited for a lull in the crowd, took off the Soulsa apron, and wheeled off to the checkstand with my cart.

I kind of liked the Mollie Stone's experience. Call me unusual, but I very much enjoyed the feeling of standing on the other side of the free sample table. I think I will be back. I think I may even develop my own food product, and evangelize it in eco-telligent grocery stores. Time to hit the drawing board.

Hallowe'en!

2005-11-01T00:47:00.000-08:00

You can say whatever you want about Hallowe'en, but I'm all for it. It's one of the rare occasions where I get to don my Sir Gwaið falconer's raiment and show the trick-or-treaters what it really means to assume the responsibility of representing another time or land!

I don't keep a true falcon on Hallowe'en, but rather a simulacrum which will not attack children (in their majestic and far-sweeping wisdom, true falcons will attack children). As they ring the doorbell, I greet the tots first by poking my head out, peering at each one of them, and scarily asking "WHOO-OO-OOOO would like to know the truth about falcons!"

Invariably, at least one among them will raise a trepidatious hand. I then yell GOOD! and slam the door shut. At this point I quickly slip on my falcon sock-puppet, open the door just a nidge, and stick his head out there. I then "make" him say, "A falcon is a noble bird! We are servants, yet we are not to be mocked! Do you mock me, children?!"

The children nearly never mock him, and are sent on their merry way with a package of oyster crackers or ketchup. Only once did I have an incident, when an asshole father kicked the door shut on my wrist after his little group of fairy-princess totlings started to cry. If I ever see him again, I'm going to cut his throat open with a Garden Weasel.

Bye, bye Trader Joe's!

2005-10-17T19:59:00.000-07:00

As you know, I have been having a pretty horrible time trying to shop at Trader Joe's lately, and today I came to the realization that I should just cut my losses and find a new chain of eco-telligent grocery stores. Fortunately, there is a Whole Foods nearby. Or, at least, I thought that was fortunate. This afternoon changed my opinion pretty radically.

My trip started out pretty well, as I cruised their organic produce and gamely tucked a few zucchini and Swiss chard bundles into my cart. Fresh Mandell beans, medium-grind sorghum on the bulk aisle (non-perquaalus shell, of course)...things were looking up. I was impressed to see that they carried "¿B-Eer," a yeastless beer which ferments with the help of baking soda and nasturtium pollen, so I picked up a six-pack. Heck, I was feeling like I might even have one! I dared to allow myself to enjoy "Summer of 69," which played at a sensible volume over the loudspeakers.

Then came the first of many gauntlets: the free sample man. Unlike Trader Joe's, the Whole Foods free sample tables are sponsored by outside vendors, so there is a greater chance that they will annoy you with their pushiness. This particular vendor was hocking chive crackers, and truth be told, he was enormously skilled. He chatted casually with another patron as I wheeled up to take the sample, and as I reached for the tray he gently pushed it forward just a millimeter so as to imply that he knew I was there, should I have any questions, but he wasn't going to bug me. Brilliant. I have yet to see a free sample man as talented as him, anywhere. Simply amazing.

After that, I took a quick tour of their vegan aisle and cooler. Phake Mushels' Brand hominy mussels: check. Burlington Bob's Cedar Soda: check. Souvlaki With a Conscience "Slaveless Universe" Souvlaki: check. Wow. Three for three. They even had a special note about pre-ordering Toflourkens for the holidays!

At this point, Whole Foods was looking pretty good, I have to say. I was ready to put a few more items in the cart, when all of a sudden IT happened. You know what I mean. The thing that always and forever will ruin an otherwise perfect shopping experience.

That's right: a woman's armpit hair. I'm not mincing words here, that's what I saw. A woman's armpit hair. And it was on an EMPLOYEE, no less.

There I was, rounding the corner by the Odwalla cooler, when I saw her stacking canned beans onto a high shelf. There was no mistaking it. It was brown and curly. I want to vomit just thinking of it.

I immediately abandoned my cart and made for the entrance. The place seemed to be closing in around me, and I was having trouble breathing. Only when I had gotten to my car did I notice that not only had I sweated through my shirt, but I had also pulled so hard on my left ear that my nail-marks had drawn blood.

Well, it's just simple pasta with flax oil and garlic tonight, I'm afraid. I guess it's for the best, as the History Channel is showing a special on Henry Ford and I don't want to be stuck in the kitchen doing a bunch of dishes when the messageboards light up.

Computer Software.

2005-10-13T22:43:00.000-07:00

Do you ever have problems using computer software? Not me. I find that at this point in software's evolution, it has generally been through a rigorous QA/usability evaluation, and if the user will simply take the calm, sober, and SINCERE time to assess the product's purposes and limitations, all will be well. I am sick to death of overhearing nitwits whining about the latest version of this-or-that, either in public or on the various usability boards I peruse.

Take this morning, for example. I was having an Espresso at Greg's Uptown Diner, trying to shake off the sleepies after a late, frenzied night on the History channel messageboards, when in wandered a couple of crisply-dressed, sharply-coiffed executive women. Each wore a cellular telephone on her belt, and expensive jewelry. To my amusement, they sat at the table next to mine and began to chatter this way and that about FormatMaker 7, a freeware spreadsheet program in which I am especially well-versed.

Most FM7 newbies will first have trouble with the GUI, which does not waste screen real estate on graphical icons, and instead has a row of numbers, representing command categories, which, when moused over while pressing Shift, drop down into sub-command columns, represented by single letters. One can blitz through this program using keyboard-based power-shortkeycuts. If you want visual proof, I have several .avi files of me doing just that, available via my members-only ftp site.

Apparently their CTO was trying to save the company money by using freeware, (smart move, definitely) but his users (these two nincompoops, for example) were simply unwilling to spend even one hour familiarizing themselves with the software they would more than likely be using for the rest of their lives. Imagine a Colonial wheelwright who refused to learn the settings of his lathe, or an ancient Greek baker who simply would not let other bakers tell him the ingredients of bread. Ludicrous.

Espresso is, fortunately, a small drink, so I was able to finish on my own time and leave before I had to sit through any more gut-wrenching, ignorant disparaging of this brilliant program. ("Where's the SAVE button?" "How do you freaking PRINT?" "How come I have to launch it from the COMMAND LINE?!" Boo-hoo-tardoo and good riddance to you!)

HUGE breakthrough at swing class. HUGE.

2005-10-08T21:18:00.000-07:00

I have been getting back into swing dancing, a little faster than the doctors would like, after the incident last July where I hyperextended both my knees while executing a New Paltz Punch (freestanding backflip with full-splits landing and razzle-dazzle hands). I know when my body's ready, and no insurance company recommendation is going to come between me and my skill.

During tonight's swing class I had a zip-top bag of orange juice in the pocket of my lined, loose dance pants, and as we warmed up I began to notice the strangest sensation. I would take a step, and the juice would follow along a beat later, creating a sort of wave-like timing or metronome with my movements. If I moved in a precise pattern, the juice bag would be right there with me, complementing my every motion. THEN it struck me!

The reason that women tend to be better dancers than men is obvious: BREASTS. Simple, easy-to-have breasts. They provide a natural swaying counterpoint which helps a woman establish impeccable time. The next time you see a woman dancing, don't think that she's any good at it. Know that she's just using her breasts. Women with smaller breasts will tend to dance better to faster music (quicker breast reaction/"snap" time), and women with larger/longer breasts will tend to hit the dance floor during ballads or dirges. It's all so simple. In a way, it's shameless that women have never admitted this in any of their media outlets. Sorry, women, it's over. Pat blew the whistle, loud and clear. You suck.

Heretic. Asshole! MORON!

2005-09-29T21:53:00.000-07:00

Well, if you've been reading my blog then you know I have had no end of trouble with the Trader Joe's chain of "intelligent" grocery stores. I have taken issue with their practice of hiring deformed employees (July 20, 2004), and also with the people they hire to hand out free samples (July 8, 2004). There have been other issues, of course, but I have not bothered to make the time to chronicle them. One has to make time for one's self.

Today's entry also concerns their free sample people, but it is not the complaint I have registered in the past. Previously, their "barkers" were quite simply TOO pushy, to the point of getting themselves fired (via my insistence). In this instance, the barker was unforthcoming to the point of extreme exasperation. Even now, I find myself unreasonably angry. I will explain.

If you live in some blighted area without a Trader Joe's, then it is up to me to point out that a primary feature of this chain is their "free sample" counter, a permanent fixture where they combine two or three of their products in an appealing way and offer them to the shopper. Samples may include little cups of Nosausage Floo-roni (a meatless macaroni and cheese with Greek hermaphrodite peas and flour sausage), or a quinoa-raisin salad with dried mangoes and rape nuts. They also offer free coffee for those so addicted.

Today's sample was "Spaghetti and Wheatballs," a meatball best-stitute, which they served in a reconstituted cup with their organic durum spaghetti, hydroponic marinara, and powdered milkweed "pecorino." I took a sample from Roger, their circuit man, and was impressed with what I tasted. After I took my initial bite and let the flavors settle on my tongue for a while, I asked him politely if the Wheatballs were made in a facility that also processed nuts and dairy.

That god damned bitch-shit did not fucking do or say a thing.

I was QUITE CLEAR! I did NOT MUMBLE! I KNOW WHO HE IS! HE WORKS THERE ALMOST EVERY F-MOTHER WEEK!

He just stood there in his easygoing shirt and kept scooping Wheatballs into cups...I'm shaking as I write this.

Once I was sure no one had seen this asinine non-repartee, I furiously wheeled my cart back over to the juice area, abandoned it, and drove home. I don't care if my freezer items melted and leaked on the floor! I don't care if someone had to put my Luna bars back into their display boxes! FUCK, FUCK ALL OF YOU AT TRADER JOE'S!

Siccio, the IDIOT, has died.

2005-09-05T15:35:00.000-07:00

The damned fool took his own life with a disposable safety scalpel when the nurse wasn't looking, leaving me with a shambles of a lawsuit on my hands. I'll be a monkey's uncle if I can make sense of any of his notes, which mainly consist of misspellings of various peoples' names and a lot of extremely complex doodles of spirals and doors.

In one dense and cryptic section he apparently left all his worldly assets to me, so I've got to go down to his attorney's office and sort out what I want and what's going in the garbage. I hope his attorney's garbage can is ready to contain a lot of Italian wool suits, because I have NO PATIENCE for Italian people and the cocky way they dress. If I see any sunglasses, they are also going in the garbage. I hate sunglasses.

In the meanwhile, I guess I have to put my lawsuit against Hair Have You Been? and its employees on hold. Whatever. I was kind of losing interest in it anyway, since it was such a formality of a slam-dunk. I don't really need the money, I more just wanted them to be put out of business. Maybe later tonight I will throw a rock through their window.

Trial Gone Awry. Jesus.

2005-08-27T00:17:00.000-07:00

Last I wrote I had chosen Siccio as my personal defense attorney, and the case was looking good. We went to trial this morning, facts in hand, and I was a sure thing to collect my damages from the salon and the ridiculous women who work there. Little did it matter that Siccio's command of the English language was loose; we had run through countless courtroom scenarious wherein fine grammar was immaterial. He always made our case in a compelling manner.

In the car on the way to the courthouse Siccio was not being himself, and seemed completely preoccupied. He kept using his right-hand index finger to tap the pads of his left-hand fingertips in ordered succession, and during opening arguments he stumbled several times. Well, I say stumbled, but facts be plain, he was completely batshit. There was something wrong with the man.

The judge caught onto this before too long and asked him if he was feeling alright. He responded by muttering in Italian and falling to his knees. He then pressed his forehead to the floor and began weeping in unconstrained high tones.

Just my luck my attorney would get Manic Depression coupled with Sahrazen's Ture during my trial and be deemed Unfit to Represent. I accompanied Siccio to the hospital where he was dressed in a simple patterned paper gown and trundled off to Observation, but that was about it. I'm at home now, trying to figure on what to do next.

I am now represented by Siccio.

2005-08-16T20:59:00.000-07:00

That J. Preston Norwood character turned out to be a hack ambulance chaser who ought to spend a little more time practicing law and a little less time filling the airwaves with his warbly local cable TV ads. That asshole: I stand to make millions from this god-damned assault and he has the gall to say to me, in the most blasé of voices, that he "...really [doesn't] specialize in people who get beat up at barber shops." I got the point pretty quick that if I wasn't his carbon-copy, insurance-fraud-in-a-neck-brace, he didn't want anything to do with me, so I hung up right in his corny god-damned face. I'll be launching an investigation into his cases later, on my own, in order to bring down his greasy practice.

Long story short, I am now represented by Siccio, who seems like he has carry-through. I had actually preferred him from the beginning, despite the language barrier, because he exudes a swarthy, stoic confidence, and juries are subject to that just like the rest of us. If Siccio says I am innocent, then I dare the average jurybox-filling nitwit to tell him otherwise. If Siccio says that the barberess and her salon have to give me 1.6 million dollars, and he slaps his right fist into his left palm, I am going to get 1.6 million dollars. If I don't, Siccio says, "all the barbershop and the barber lady they have for sure a accident."

Faggot!

2005-07-25T19:21:00.000-07:00

Jesus, Onstad is such an ass. Now it turns out he's NOT paying anyone for their poems anymore! Well, if he's out of the game then there's really not any point in me wasting my precious works slamming down his RIDICULOUS ego. I'll save them for submission to my regular roster. Check the pages of Mother Jones, The New Yorker, and Chomskript in the coming months to find more of my works.

Alright, alright, I'll get to my search for a personal injury attorney. Hold your horses. As you know, I like to interview my attorneys extensively before hiring, because you can really get some lemons. I've narrowed my search down to two at this point: J. Preston Norwood, who specializes in MVAs, and Siccio, who mainly handles labor mediation, but had a little time on his hands inbetween strikes. I get the sense that if Siccio sees the case not going our way, he'll just take a midnight drive in his jogging suit and whack everybody involved with a lead pipe. I have no problems with the ethics of this, as long as I am protected. I am NOT paying fifty dollars for that terrible haircut.

There's a REASON barbers shouldn't make much money!

2005-07-08T20:28:00.000-07:00

Oh boy, am I seeing red today. You're about to find out why.

I have always hated barbers, and have never gone to the same one twice. This is because they invariably butcher my hair and tickle my scalp beyond belief during the shampoo. I cannot stand this, but I also cannot go around looking like a member of the disreputable band Phish. I'm over a barrel on this one, and looking forward to the day when I am entirely bald. There is a nobility in baldness, I have always thought.

Regardless of that, I needed a haircut today if I was going to continue to show myself in public, so I ducked into an as-yet-untried barber shop in the Hidden Hills Annex, "Hair Have You Been?" I guess there is a reason no one had recommended it to me: all of the barbers there were HORRIBLE, BUTCHERING MORONS WITHOUT SO MUCH AS A GRAIN OF SENSE.

First of all, it was a mixed-gender barber shop, more of a "salon," really, and all of the haircutters were women. They made me wait over twenty minutes for a turn, and by then I was livid. My barberess, "Patricia," was a despicably average person in tight blue pants and white platform shoes. She led me to the bowl, where the scalp-torture began and lasted a full five minutes while she chattered on and on with the barberess at the next bowl about god knows what. I could have drowned down there, or had a tickle-induced coronary, for all she knew.

Then it was on to the cut. She was more than a little incredulous when I simply told her I wanted a "good, simple men's haircut." She jabbered at my face using terms like "finger-wave," "tousle," "buzz," "fade," "texture," etc. I just wanted a damn haircut, not a beauty school education, so I dismissed her with a wave of the hand and said, "just start cutting. I'll tell you when you're done."

I don't know what she thought that meant, because she started putting various sections of my hair in all these mortifying pink barrettes. I looked like a damned fruity samurai is what I looked like. Then she laid into another barrage of babble about prime-time television, a subject in which I have not a SHRED of interest. Apparently a man named Kirk or Jason won or did not win a contest held by a celebrity executive, if you see what I'm driving at.

When she was done and handed me my glasses, I just about fell down dead. I looked like a god-damned magazine person. She beamed and fluffed my horrific hair around with her fingers, and said the names of actors I am sure I don't know. I had been transformed from fruity samurai to "alston kootcher," or whatever she kept saying, which the neighboring barberess echoed gleefully. I removed the smock and headed to the reception to settle the bill.

I took out my checkbook (I would naturally stop payment on the check as soon as I got home) and asked how much for the men's trim. The fucking bitch receptionist said "fifty-five dollars." I said "don't quit your day job" and readied my pen to scribble down a more reasonable sum, such as zero dollars or as much as six.

She did that thing where an idiot laughs, and then repeated "fifty-five," reminding me to tip the barberess. I don't need to tell you I wasn't about to stand for that kind of extortion so I closed my checkbook and strode towards the door.

I hadn't noticed the security guard (I guess a lot of people leave without paying for these terrible haircuts!), who promptly tackled me and pinned me to the ground. All my tai-chi training was useless against this Boston butt of a man and so I lay there gasping, planning my litigation.

Things escalated from there and I was manhandled off to jail (or, as I like to think of it, "pre-trial"). I was released on my own recognizance, as well as $10,000 bail, and am at home now looking for a personal injury attorney. I want the nastiest snake in the book, the kind of attorney who will go after each and every barberess's family assets. The coldest of the cold. I want a man who will stop at nothing to destroy the life of every last person on earth besides me (and, to a lesser extent, himself). I am livid. The world needs to be taught a lesson.

—Pat.

Poem Four, you moron.

2005-07-07T00:23:00.000-07:00

Alley of Sickening Riches

Ten twenty-one.
The sewage runs down
Nob Hill.
The Bentleys and Bugatti run down
Nob Hill.
They take the shortest route
to the freeway.
The diners, doors locked,
look straight ahead.
The Tenderloin.
The worst of this city.
Hidden in an alley
off Larkin and Ellis
Black tar mother
Her legs, her arms,
hanging, curdled flesh
Her two dead children
Sleeping bag mummies
in her stolen Safeway cart.
The Tenderloin.
It's below Nob Hill.
Come say hi.

- - -

See you in your nightmares, Onstad. I wrote this one from LIFE. Took the train up to the city a couple weeks ago, opened my notebook and WIPED it across the blighted Tenderloin like the toilet paper that I know you are.

More soon; did you really think I'd give up?

— Pat.

Poem Number Three.

2005-06-15T22:40:00.000-07:00

Yeah, I said it, and I meant it. This is the tip of the iceberg, Onstad, you fool, and I am unleashing HUNDREDS of these poems on you in the coming months. You know you screwed up this time.

- - -

The Dust Bowl (Untitled)

With Auntie Mae
We wash the dishes in the
tin tub.

Supper was corn cakes;
we traded the
map of Albuquerque
for the frying
lard.

Hard lines in her face;
if she were a car; ...rusted.

She joined us, shaken,
having lost everything , — ,
her children perished
at her dry teat

She can never
make it up
to her God.

- - -

Good luck sleeping tonight, Onstad, you clown. Yeah, you picked the wrong guy to fuck over a barrel. I'll be destroying you again in a couple days.

From,
Pat.

Poem Number Two.

2005-06-11T12:41:00.000-07:00

Alright, Onstad, you pudknocker. I know you've been checking this site every hour waiting for my next poem to drop. Here it is, dirtcrap. Boy, you really need to learn how to pick your battles, don't you? --> :) <--

- - -

Even In Michigan

Tamara calls to her mother
across the room.
The air
the reek
filthy carpet
cigarettes
humid.

Tamara is five.
Her mother
nineteen.
Nineteen.
The girl has no clue
Across the room;
dead;
her mother.

The poison from the hand
of the corner crack man.
Threw a clot;
lost a lot.
Thrombosis
is a cruel
Mistress.

- - -

This poem is EXTREMELY moving and another example of my devastating work using mother/child imagery. Do you think you can keep up, Onstad? You DUMBASS?!

Oh, there's more where this came from. My journal is as deep as the waters of the disenfranchised. I won't be letting up anytime soon.

Pick your battles, dirtcrap.

Screw You!

2005-06-04T22:03:00.000-07:00

Apparently Chris Onstad has been paying everyone but me to write poetry lately! Well, when I found out about this I saw red and rang that moron up. He knows PERFECTLY WELL that I am a published poet with reams of material that deserves further exposure. Too good for my poetry? Well, The New Burlington Old River Review certainly wasn't!

I called him up and read him my latest, most impactful piece — a piece that has just devastated everyone at Support Group. I didn't even say hello when he picked up, I just launched right into it:

- - -

Hunger (Untitled)

K'elato,
Ethiopia.
Famine.
The mother nurses the child;
Only dust
Comes from her teat.
He will die soon
(the child),
And then
The mother
From grief.

- - -

This poem is an incredible statement on starvation and the mother/child bond. The imagery is terrifyingly imaginable, and the mother's grief universal. That bastard had the nerve to tell me he'd pay me $2.48 not to publish it in my blog (I actually heard him rummaging in his pockets as he decided the amount, and heard coins jingling while he sorted them and verbally counted them out). I don't need to tell you that I hung up on him so hard that small cracks formed in places on the base of the cordless phone receiver.

Here you go, you piece of crap. Here is my poem, and hundreds more are to follow. Never mess with me, not ever. I will crush you.

Why do I carry a dry-erase marker? I'll tell you why.

2005-05-01T09:03:00.000-07:00

It's because I like to help businesses. I'm not joking, though you may think I am (immaturity, incredulity, inability to grasp the basic sensibility of the act). For example, whenever I go to a restaurant and something about my dish falls up short, I leave a note around the rim of the plate. This is a more clear message than simply leaving an offending piece of food uneaten. The busboy is sure to point it out to his manager.

Today I went to Greg's Uptown Diner for a vegan scramble. I saw that their chef was new, and though I did consider leaving, I knew from experience that the other joints in town do a much worse breakfast. The devil you know is better than the devil you don't, as I say. Although in this case Greg's new chef turned out to be the worst devil you can imagine.

As I was saying, I like to get the vegan scramble with Tofeggy™, harissa, and brown nut bean paste. Tofeggy isn't something you can screw around with, and I guess you might say I was putting the new chef (just a cook, really) to the test.

I cannot begin to describe the failure of his vegan scramble. First of all, he used egg whites, which he burned into a thin brown "pancake" before wiping on a pathetic amount of harissa and a spoonful of brown nut bean paste. Then he folded it into an offensive, greasy burrito. On the side was the appropriate scoop of fenugreek-steeped quinoa, which I was able to eat, but on the whole I was just disgusted with the affair. That's when my marker came out.

Around the rim of the plate I carefully inscribed the following message, which I first wrote drafts of in my journal so that I could be as concise as possible:

VEGAN SCRAMBLE CANNOT CONTAIN EGG WHITES. FILLING PATHETIC IN QUANTITY. EXPECT COMPED MEAL ON NEXT VISIT. FIRE CHEF IMMDTLY. PAT.

We'll see how that goes. Greg is a pretty sensible guy, and I'm sure he'll be having words with the offending fellow. In fact, I saw the cook and busboy watching me after my dishes were cleared and I started to walk out (no tip, of course, not after a shenanigan like that). I frowned and pointed them out to Greg as we did our usual curt wave goodbye.

Garbagemen.

2005-04-19T14:31:00.000-07:00

I think the MAIN problem in our town right now is the garbagemen. That's right, garbagemen, I'm not afraid to speak out against you even though you have a powerful union and could "potentially" cut off my service even though I pay your exhorbitant fees and have placed this preventative salvo into the river of public discussion. The date of this posting: April 19, 2005. 2:31PM. Google will postmark this within the hour.

Garbagemen, as everyone knows, are highly overpaid button pushers whose actual labor is done by truck-mounted hydraulic devices. In days past this may have been an honest trade (though I strongly doubt it) but these days their work is no more demanding than that of a simple receptionist. I challenge any garbageman to defend his honor and occupational dignity. He simply won't be able to. He has become lazy and complacent. He deserves a pension no more than the hamburger cooking teenager.

On my particular route, the garbagemen come around 6am. This wouldn't be so bad if their truck machinery didn't make so much noise while hoisting the various cans and recycling bins (the resultant trash-crash around the insides of the truck seems to last an eternity. I can hear every single bottle or can slide down its respective guide chute).

My current idea is to lobby the city to have garbage personnel lift all trash receptacles onto a flatbed, then transport them to an unpopulated/commercial area, where they could be dumped into a trash truck. Then the receptacles could be placed back at the corresponding properties. If the city could see how much more productive its populace would be if it wasn't rudely awakened by thugs and "noise polluters" at all hours of the morning, it might take my suggestions seriously to heart. Mine is the sort of thinking that trickles UPWARD to a Nobel Prize in economics. The broad thought, applied locally, proven, and spread out over innumerable civic programs, is where the real power lies.

I can't wait to see the look on the Nobel Prize committee's face when I refuse their political whore of a medal.

I've had it with people who think that looking sloppy is fantastic.

2005-04-10T18:57:00.000-07:00

Not far from my house is a small industrial park, and in it resides a discount sporting goods outlet. Recently they advertised an extremely good sale on all of their stock, so I was compelled to go and see if they had any hiking boots which could replace my current pair, which I have literally worn into the ground. Literally: the ground has eaten away almost the entire sole, and I am in danger of suffering foot damage.

Yesterday afternoon just before dinnertime I walked over to the outlet (don't worry, not in my old dilapidated boots) and was rather enthused. The ad had inspired me to start dreaming of a crisp new pair of solid, supportive, new-car-smell hikers, and I was in high spirits.

I should have known better.

The problem with a sale is that it just attracts the absolute gutter of society. Far and away the most represented bunch were sloppily-dressed teenagers, smugly flaunting their family-supported indolence as they dropped platinum cards on everything from snowboards to the most expensive downhill skis and boots in the store. Every last one of them, upon completing their purchase, loaded their spoils into an oversized SUV and motored off. One thing I really hated was their hair. They tended to cultivate sloppy overly-long curls that made them look just unbearably arrogant. If youth are born into this world with curly hair, it should NEVER be longer than one inch.

Needless to say, I never got so far as the shoe counter before self-ousting and hoofing it angrily for home. I don't need a damned sale if I'm going to have to hang out with curly-haired idiots. I can spend the money someplace decent that doesn't have to have sales simply in order to rely on the teenage dollar.

I'm back.

2005-04-02T00:27:00.000-08:00

Earlier this month I was attacked but now I am better. I will not go into the details of the abduction as I have several lawsuits pending. I may update on this subject if they begin to bear fruit, but until that time I am under a personally-administered gag order. I do not wish to endanger the purity of my litigation.

What I really want to talk about is the low quality of clerks these days. No matter where you go, you constantly run into morons who have the mental acuity of a potato clock. Just this afternoon I called Walgreen's pharmacy to ask if they carried a certain homeopathic burn ointment, and the woman who answered the phone had the presence of mind of a dandelion. When she answered, she shrieked the name of the store in a thick accent ("WahGrin!"), and then had me repeat my question THREE times before exclaiming exasperatedly, "well, *I* doh' know!"

I let her off with a curt "Well, I bet that's not all you don't know!" and hung up in her ear. I ended up ordering the ointment online, and will just put up with the discomfort until it shows up. There is no way Walgreens is getting a dime of my money, not after a spectacle like that. I also will no longer go there to purchase any other things, including their 25-cent ice cream cones. They are out of my life. With people like that representing the public-facing side of the company, who knows what sort of mucous-vomiting, mathless maniac is working in the back, touching all the products?

Screw Walgreens, and screw the low quality of workers today. America is going down the tubes.

Why do fat women always think they have a chance with me?

2005-03-02T21:12:00.000-08:00

I was having the avocado salad at the outside tables at Greg's Uptown Diner this afternoon, and casually ticking off typos on their menu (I always do this at restaurants, for the edification of the management), when an unadvisably large woman approached me and asked if I had the time.

I immediately saw this for the disingenuous ruse that it was. Her eager smile said it all. She did not care what time it was; she was simply doing what every other oversized femme has always done when I am around: feeling me out for romance.

Well, I have had damned enough of it. What makes women think I am the nice, wimpy guy whose standards are so low that he thinks he only has a chance with non-standard specimens? The nerve of those fatsoes! I am absolutely outraged. I would get contact lenses and dress in the ignorant fashions of the day, but I do not feel that *I* should be the one having to change myself!

Anyhow, I told her it was time to get a watch, and she got the picture pretty quick.

Radio stations are horrible.

2005-02-25T01:28:00.000-08:00

Have you noticed this? In our area, radio stations have been playing what they have the gall to call "A.D.D. Hour" mixes of songs. What does this mean? Why, it means they play the popular parts of songs and then blend them into other songs which have the same time signature. It is a way of assuaging the surplus of damaged teenagers who cannot listen to even a three-minute bit without losing track of reality and stealing a hood ornament or breaking a bay window out of horny anger.

I'm not going to stop there. I'm just going to come out and say it. All teenagers are fucking idiots. You know who you are. You are fucking disgusting. I hate you so much. I laugh when you run out of money in front of me a the corner store.

Pat.

Nice Pete's physical recovery technique. Jury's out.

2005-02-17T17:48:00.000-08:00

I have been having more problems with my acid reflux condition since last I wrote, and my newly adopted natto-only diet hasn't been as effective as I thought it would. To add insult to injury, Nice Pete has been eating only tomato-based, highly acidic foods around me, and drinking large quantities of grapefruit juice, while staring directly into my eyes. His reasoning is that by taunting me with the things I can't have, my body will subconsciously adjust itself so that it will really want those things again. He says he's used the technique on a number of folks before, but he just went silent when I asked what the results were. Maybe he doesn't want to influence my progress. I can see how expectations might guide results.

Well, I've got to go, as Pete has announced the arrival of a pepperoni pizza and the thawing of another can of Minute Maid. Truth be told, I hope his technique does work, and fast, because I'm getting pretty sore from the way he holds my neck against the wall while he eats all this stuff.

SCREW heartburn!

2005-02-04T02:29:00.000-08:00

I am no supporter of chain-style dinner restaurants, but Arthur was famished after Support Group tonight and insisted we stop at Sizzler. He claimed that it was his birthday. Normally, I abhor restaurants with such convoluted systems of signing in and taking plastic trays, but I was somewhat peckish as well and did not press the point.

The dish of the day was an option which enabled you to eat all of the fried shrimp that you cared to, and I took them up on that offer. I figured that all seafood carries Omega-3 fatty acids, and that it would be brain food. Plus, I could scrape the breading off and remove most of the oils and salt. That would leave me with seafood protein and vegetable-based marinara dipping sauce.

Woe is the consumer who tries to make gold where there is only betrayal. The dipping sauce proved enormously acidic, and left me with a case of acid reflux the likes of which you might only see on medical school horror video clip websites. I am ashamed to admit it but shortly after leaving the restaurant I had to pull over and ask Arthur, who seemed unaffected and in far too jovial of spirits, to man the wheel. Although he is an absolutely abysmal driver we did manage to finally screech and jerk our way to my abode, at which point I told him he could phone a cab and carried myself inside. I am only writing this now because the Bromo needs 15 minutes to settle before I lie down.

Goodnight. Pat.

Do not EVER approach me when I am entering or exiting the grocery store.

2005-01-16T18:26:00.000-08:00

Or any store, for that matter. You have no right to bother me when I am obviously task-oriented and particularly when I am carrying things.

Today's perpetrator was someone representing the so-called "Stars and Stripes Committee," a woman in a man's grey suit wearing an offensive American flag-resembling ball cap. I have no idea what this committee represents, other than new lows in women's fashion, and nor do I want to discuss politics as I am exiting Albertson's Supermarket (I normally do not shop at this terrible chain, but they have the lowest prices on detergent). This absolutely horrible woman called to me as I walked out of the store, but I was having none of it. As her repeated entreaties for "a moment of my time" grew louder, so grew my fury at her importunations. It is enormously insulting for a person like that to assume that my mind is so weak as to be changed by someone with a card table and access to stencils. She was obviously insane. My hate for her burned white-hot, and I will do everything in my power to make sure that groups are no longer allowed to pitch tables at the entrances to stores. Civic Law must have a provision of this sort. That is all. Do NOT email me on this subject.

Jehovah's Witnesses

2005-01-01T13:04:00.000-08:00

Boy do these clowns need to work on their act. I was in the kitchen taking my vitamin E this morning (I usually take it with a handful of walnuts, so the fats from the nuts help the body to digest the oligosaccharides, you can read more at VitaSource) when the doorbell rang. This really drives me crazy - I'm thinking of having it uninstalled. Anyhow, that is not the point. The point is that I opened the door and was immediately confronted by two dumpy old women who wanted to talk about "friendship." First I thought Cornelius had had them sent over, since he's probably still secretly steamed about the shooting, but their rap quickly proved to be the straight pointless bullshit.

After a little while of talking, the main woman pointed out that I was eating nuts. I don't need someone to tell me what I am eating. That really irks me. Then she launched back into her rambling half-thought-out monologue on "friendship." I mentioned that I already had friends. She smiled at this, like she was doubting me, and prattled on. I started to see red.

Although I knew they were some kind of religious whackos, I went ahead and interrupted by asking if they were affiliated with a church, just to release her from the self-imposed prison of her chain of thought. She smiled and handed me some crappy 4-color newsprint magazine called Awake! that immediately started rubbing foul ink off all over my hands. The cover story was "How to make Real Friends."

I said I would read it at my earliest convenience and wished them both a good day. They smiled like a couple of retards and trundled off. I really need to get a No Solicitors sign. Anyhow, if you want to read Awake! magazine, you can dig through my trash, except you can't, because I'll shoot you with rock salt.

Happy new year from Pat.

Reflections on the Holiday Season.

2004-12-23T18:48:00.000-08:00

1. Don't you just hate when you wind up in a store with people who are in a socioeconomic class that is pretty obviously about two levels lower than your own? Heh! I swear, If I get stuck in another Toys'R'Us behind a non-English speaking family of eight, or skinny goateed white trash boys with FOX motorcycle sweatshirts and insubstantial brain pans, or women with feathered hair from the 70s who are wearing garish 49ers jerseys and white high-top tennis shoes, I just might decide against shopping at all. Unfortunately, I really needed to get myself the latest Trivial Pursuit, and they had it at $3 off so I was pretty much forced to buy it there.

2. I finally managed to come up with a nonfat eggnog recipe that really nails the classic eggnog flavor, and you're never going to believe what the secret ingredient is. That's right: roasted garlic. Roasted garlic is a great thickening agent, and its mellow flavor is easily sweetened by nonfat half-and-half, nonfat sour cream, low-sodium chicken stock and Splenda-brand sweetener. I grate in a modest amount of nutmeg, which does have some natural oils and fat, but I figure that we all can afford to loosen up a little bit during the holidays. Try my recipe, it's 1 part of each ingredient, plus nutmeg to taste. This is really going to knock 'em dead tomorrow night.

Well, that's about it. I've got to get to packing - I'm giving everyone I know bags of my excellent new trail mix for Christmas. In addition to peanuts, dried banana chips, raisins, and flax balls, I've gone the extra mile and stirred in about twenty dollars' worth of Vitamin E gel caps.

Happy holidays from Pat.

Women are Stupid.

2004-12-18T14:14:00.000-08:00

Not only are women stupid, but they are crass. I'm sure you have noticed the trend lately of women wearing low-rise pants. Well, this has got to stop. There is a reason that the original pants went up to where they did: SO YOUR CRACK DOESN'T SHOW WHEN YOU SIT DOWN. I was about to enjoy a delicious (and expensive) avocado salad at Greg's Uptown Diner this afternoon, but when I looked out the window there was a row of women sitting on a planter box having their lunch, and one of them had a good inch of crack showing. Disgusted, I pushed my salad away and walked out of the restaurant. The manager tried to flag me down about the bill, but I told him in no uncertain terms what I had just seen out of his window, and was considering reporting the incident to the papers. That put him in his place just fine. If I could have borne to get within ten feet of that crack-displaying, shameless female, I would certainly have asked for a full refund for my lunch, but the idea of seeing even more of her was simply too appalling. Plus, I had not paid for the lunch.

Last Warning.

2004-12-10T21:46:00.000-08:00

Okay, this is my final warning to ALL of you: do NOT e-mail me to tell me to update my blog. I have compiled a list of all your IP addresses and you will be blocked from reading my blog a little later tonight.

Let's see, what is new with me...Cornelius tried to play "the bigger man" by forgiving me for the shooting accident, and did not press charges. I still say it's all his own damn fault for not tellin' me what was in that glass that made me cough so hard. Besides, it'll give him more to write about. He's a writer, he needs ideas. I probably did him a favor. Hell, he'll probably write a million-seller after the experience I gave him. Maybe we should talk about me gettin' a cut. I'll do some work later tonight lookin' up intellectual property law...but first I need to check on my lentils (I'm perfecting my green lentil and quinoa salad). If you haven't had quinoa, then you don't know a damn thing about Incan food.

Fantasies are Ridiculous.

2004-10-19T10:58:00.000-07:00

I've about had it. You know what I'm talking about. Unicorns, specialty erotica, "wicca," D&D, all of that nonsense. I do not think it is healthy for a photoset to feature a woman wearing a clingy white fairy dress in the shower, or a big rabbit costume, or a diaper - that is unrealistic and likely to create antisocial "wants" in the viewer. Do you think Thoreau wanted to see a topless woman in a diaper? You would be insane if you tried to make that case.

If you regularly indulge in fantasies, try to stop. Next time you want to be a horse, or Japanese, just stop it. You'll thank me.

I am sick of Olestra.

2004-10-14T01:20:00.000-07:00

I don't know if you know this, but "Olestra" is the fat-free oil that a number of snack chips are fried in these days. The chips come out perfect, virtually indiscernible from regular chips. Therein lies the problem.

I have not eaten snack chips for a good long while, due to health concerns. They are high in sodium, and high in fat. In short, they fan the flames of high blood pressure. I have high blood pressure. I have no problem with revealing that.

The new Olestra chips pack none of the fat, but they still have the high sodium. So, the "silent killer" still stalks us, in the aisles of our "friendly" supermarkets, hidden beneath the badge of the "non-fat" label. And we are likely to eat more of these same-sodium chips because we think we are "healthying-up."

This blog entry is an open invitation for the Frito-Lay corporation to begin to undo the massive damage they have wreaked upon the American snacking public. I am considering legal action if F-L is not proactive on this one.

Do NOT eat crab unless it is the DAY before trash pickup!

2004-10-10T16:26:00.000-07:00

We need to draft some new city ordinances around here. Some fool next door disposed of crab shells in his trash FIVE DAYS before trash pickup, and the odor is unbearable. I am fully considering renting a hotel room and sending him the bill. I've got a call in to the police and I'm searching www.nolo.com to see what exactly my options are.

Chinese people are keeping secrets from us.

2004-10-06T15:02:00.000-07:00

I have two ways of proving this:

1. I was having a nice lunch by myself at Amazing Wok this afternoon, and I noticed that a Chinese customer was eating an item that did not appear to be on the menu: a large bowl full of soup noodles, broth, stewed beef, and vegetables. A non-Chinese patron stopped the waiter and asked what the dish was, and he said it was not on the menu, but that she could order it if she wanted. He strongly cautioned her, though, that the dish was "very very spicy," obviously by way of dissuading her. Point one: there are some things the Chinese keep to themselves.

2. Have you ever tried to cook Chinese food at home? It is impossible to recreate what you find in even the most humble of Chinese restaurants, even if you have a recipe written by a Chinese person. Point two: there is something going on in Chinese kitchens that we are simply not allowed to know.

I know that simply by publishing this information I will probably wind up with long, black tinted-window Mercedes-Benz cars driving past my house at odd hours, but so be it. Someone has to defend the truth in this country. No more Chinese food for me until the Chinese fess up. I'm waiting.

This is MY blog, NOT yours!

2004-09-28T13:37:00.000-07:00

How dare you e-mail me and ask when I'm going to update my blog! I'll update my blog whenever in the fucking hell I feel like it, you slavering, puckered assholes!

Let's see, what have I been up to...due to a massive failure of the legal system, none of my lawsuits ever saw the inside of a courtroom. I swear it, when I see those news stories about Montana Freemen I get a little pang of sympathy. I guess eventually the only recourse for me will be to buy a large expanse of property up north, fence it all off 16' high, grow my own beans and print my own newspaper. If I have a wife, she will assist me.

Physical therapy is about all wrapped up. I am walking unassisted now, though the doctor has warned me against performing in any swing dance competitions for at least a year while the tendons heal. In the meanwhile, I have a video of me performing a medal-winning solo routine at the '98 Swinger's Ball, which I keep by the VCR for when the urge strikes me.

Oop, there's the timer. I am boiling some eggs to have for lunch throughout the week.

Warning: do not e-mail me to tell me to update my blog. I will search the header information, find your IP address, and BLOCK it.

SCREW the Dream Team!

2004-08-21T22:22:00.000-07:00

I, for one, am GLAD the United States "Dream Team" is faltering in the Olympics. American athletes can be a TRUE EMBARRASSMENT. From opening ceremony swagger, to showboat antics in the 100-meter dash qualifying, to putting gold medals in their mouths like pacifiers while the national anthem plays, they just show no class. You know who I'm talking about, Justin Gatlin. You know who I'm talking about, Allen Iverson. You think I don't know you read my blog? Well, take it from me: shape up. True Olympians do it with Humility. I oughta get a bumper sticker made up that says that same exact expression, and send it to you clowns.

Physical therapy's going well. I expect to be using my walker by the end of next week.

I thought I respected Robert; I guess I do not.

2004-08-13T23:51:00.000-07:00

It so arose that I needed to mail a package via Registered Mail today (Registered mail is a signature confirmation service offered by the US Post Office). It does not concern you what the nature of my package was.

I had boxed the item securely in corrugate and taped it closed. I had also filled out all relevant Registered Mail paperwork. When my turn at the PO came, I wheeled to the counter and handed the parcel to Robert, a generally sensible and genial clerk. He, knowing his way around the regulations, immediately pointed out that non-porous clear tape is not allowed on Registered Mail packages (one must use paper tape so that tamper-evident postmarks can be stamped about the perimeter of the thing). I could see the reason in this and asked him for a length of said paper tape, which clerk Darryl had supplied me with on occasions past. He squarely refused to supply me with the tape, which I could clearly see sitting on a shelf behind him. He even went so far as to summon the postmaster, an obese woman with horribly splayed tuberous breasts, to confirm his assertion that the post office does not supply this sort of tape to its customers, "no matter what [I had] experienced in the past."

Darryl, whose counter was open, called me over and handed me a length of the contested tape. Robert, who could not show a regular customer this simple act of humanity, marched back and forth like an indignant child whose balls had been bitten off. He then pussied off into the recesses of the building to re-summon the postmaster, who came out and reprimanded Darryl. There was not a good humor about any of this; these dismantled crotches were genuinely indignant over the issue of 18" of tape.

Long story short, the package went out, and from now on I will post my parcels between 12 and 1, when I know Robert to be out on the loading dock. Screw you, Robert.

Back in the Saddle!

2004-08-11T14:49:00.000-07:00

Well, I'm back from physical therapy, but I'm in a wheelchair for the time being so Nice Pete has agreed to hang around and help me with little things. In return I have given him a small allowance, of which he spends 100% on chickens. He sits at the dinner table with a carving knife, meticulously dissecting them, hour after hour, before burying the parts in the yard. I want to alert him to the wastefulness of this behavior, but it's his money, and it is probably good for the soil.

Doc Andretti says I should be walking with crutches pretty soon, so as soon as I can get around I will continue documenting my lawsuit against the post office, the police department, and Ray's party. I may be setting a new precedent here in suing a party, kind of exciting.

Swinging.

2004-07-31T22:41:00.000-07:00

It has been over a week since the attacks, and on Friday I finally felt capable of leaving the house without pain. Just my luck that Ray would be having a swing dance. I was very seriously involved in swing dance competitions throughout junior high, high school, and college, and I do not boast when I say that I have an album full of ribbons and awards.

The temptation proved too great, and those dancing were misrepresenting the form so horribly that I felt compelled to clear the floor with my cane and show how good swing is done. Taking the nearest lady, who happened to be a somewhat portly femme, as my partner, I yelled to the band to start up again. They launched into some lively time, and I felt the old rhythm start to pump within me. Soon I was leading the female around the floor, only to discover that she was as cooperative as an angry couch, and about as wieldy. Disgusted with her esprit de corps, I spun her off into the audience, and then embarked upon a familiar old solo swing routine I used to do back in my peak.

I suppose the strains of the recent attacks, as well as all the time it's been since I was in top shape, were working against me. I executed a perfect backflip which was meant to go directly into the splits, but as I landed I felt myself go into a blinding pain.

Several hours later I awoke in the hospital, with both my legs in traction. Dr. Andretti informed me that both of my knees had been hyperextended, and that it would be a period of several weeks before I could attempt unassisted ambulation again. I don't need to tell you that in my down time, I will be preparing an iron-clad legal case against the post office, the police department, and all who were in attendance at Ray's party this Friday.

Oh, this is TOTAL bullshit.

2004-07-26T21:48:00.000-07:00

First of all, since my attack, I have been having trouble focusing my left eye. Add that to the list of lawsuit paperwork I already have to file...I'll be in court until the holidays! I'm going to see if there isn't some sort of government grant that folks can use to live on while they're suing people full-time.

Secondly, the post office has stopped delivering my mail. I don't know if that Samoan oaf is deliberately dumping it down a storm drain, or if mail cannot be delivered to those who are suing the post office, or what. So now I have to use UPS for all of my legal paperwork, and the expenses are quickly adding up.

The thing that absolutely has me seeing red, though, is that the day after the accident the police officer FINALLY showed up to take my report, and he had the damn nerve to chuckle as I was explaining why I consider junk mail to be littering, and why a littering mailman is a trespasser. When I told him how I had placed the mailman under citizen's arrest, he actually let out a loud, braying laugh, and I couldn't take it any more. I grabbed him by the shoulder, looked him straight in the eye, and, quite clearly, I told him that he was under citizen's arrest.

The son of a bitch had the nerve to radio for backup, which at that point he had no right to. I mirandized him and attempted to cuff him. Resisting arrest, he knocked me down and held me under his boot until his backup units arrived, at which point I placed them all under citizen's arrest.

It makes me too furious to recount the rest of the events, especially the part where they went out for pizza while I waited in the police car, and then teased me with a cold slice of pepperoni, so I guess you'll have to wait until my story breaks in the papers.

I am going to use ALL my money to fight this!

2004-07-23T02:57:00.000-07:00

So, if you read my blog yesterday, you will know that today I planned on putting the mailman under citizen's arrest for putting junk mail in my mailbox. I made good on my part of the deal, you can bet on that. As soon as that son of a bitch stuck his fistful of grocery circulars and misleadingly-labeled credit card offers into my mailbox, I walked swiftly up to him and grabbed him by the collar.

"You're under citizen's arrest," I said, "For the felony of class-A littering and dissemination of hazardous materials." (based on my research I had learned that some of the bleaches used in the preparation of low-cost paper remain toxic well after processing).

At that point he, being larger than me (of Pacific Islander descent, I surmised), threw me across the yard and into the side of a car. As I lay on the driveway, struggling for breath, he lurched over to me and pulled out a bunch of my hair. Then, adding insult to injury, he stuffed all the hair into my mouth and made me chew it up. He then kicked me switftly in the temple and I lost consciousness for a good while. I was only brought to when the evening sprinklers went off and began splashing my face.

I have spent a goodly part of the evening looking for a pro bono attorney to handle the case, which should be pretty much a slam dunk. If the USPS closes up shop next week, you'll know who to thank.

Junk Mail.

2004-07-22T02:25:00.000-07:00

I probably shouldn't be sharing this with everybody on Sam's green earth, but I keep a P.O. Box in addition to my regular mailing address (No, I'm not going to tell you the number!). I use it to communicate with companies that do not seem at first glance to be entirely trustworthy. Once a company proves itself to me, I often switch it over to my home mailing address.

But this isn't about trust. This is about garbage. Pure, unadulterated garbage. This is about the environment's number one scourge.Yes, if you've been following me then you already know what I'm talking about:

Junk Mail.

Who in the blue is letting advertisers get away with the volume of crap paper they push into our P.O. Boxes and home mailboxes every day? It's like, instead of looking forward to the daily post, I should just sit around and become angry when a stranger comes by to put a bunch of crap on my property. Why is junk mail not considered littering? Why is the mailman not considered a litterer? He puts crap on my property, which I do not want. He puts crap on my property which says "Resident," and clearly is not intended for me.

This gives me an idea. Tomorrow, I am going to put the mailman under citizen's arrest. Tomorrow, it is a new day for the rights of a new age. The unforgivable cycle of forest-rape and mailbox-rape shall be dealt a bellwether knell, tomorrow. Tomorrow. Tomorrow.

People allow the worst things about themselves to show.

2004-07-20T02:34:00.000-07:00

I pick up a lot of macrobiotic nutrients at Trader Joe's, a chain of socially-conscious grocery stores which carry a more enlightened line of product than your average Safeway or Albertson's. Today as I was waiting in the checkout line I noticed that one of their checkers, an older biker-looking man with a full pot belly, had on bizarrely large and rounded black shoes, as though he had cartoon feet. He also wore tight, thick grey socks which went exactly halfway up each calf and seemed to cover some sort of bracing. They were obviously therapeutic, and my analysis was that the man's true feet had been amputated due to a car accident or diabetes. These bizarre housings hid, according to my assessment, prosthetic machinery.

Now, if I were in charge of Trader Joe's, I would have to enforce some sort of decorum in uniform. I would not allow my customers to be distracted by the physical tragedies of my employees. For who would want to stock their larders at a shop with sad war stories loping about? I say this only for the good of the economy and of that particular chain. I suggest that that man either be (a) fired, or (b) repurposed to some sort of back stockroom position, where he would not scare off the buying dollar.

I am damn glad I bought these Earth Shoes

2004-07-16T18:33:00.000-07:00

So I went online earlier in the week and got an excellent new pair of Earth sandals. I liked the style mainly, but as soon as I put them on I could feel all the muscles in my body fall into alignment. Simply amazing. I immediately went on a long walk along the creek, and can barely sit still to type this for wanting to go out again. I guess I'll walk myself over to Ray's and see how much hell I catch for wearing something that doesn't have a swoosh or a cosmetic buckle on the side. I heard he was having Mongolian Barbecue tonight, which I always enjoy as I have finally perfected my sauce ("two parts salty, one part sweet, two parts spicy brings the heat").

The way they sell celery is RIDICULOUS.

2004-07-15T03:24:00.000-07:00

I am absolutely serious. Celery is sold in naturally-occurring bundles of approximately 10 stalks, yet the average consumer, by my estimate, uses a mere 2 stalks of said bunch before it rots and gets thrown away. The way that celery is sold is ASININE. There needs to be a system where you can buy a stalk at a time. Come on, people. The amount of celery we throw away every week is DISGUSTING.

Free music on the Internet.

2004-07-14T03:37:00.000-07:00

I got MP3s on my computer just like anybody else, don't get me wrong. Unlike other people, though, I only download 100% legitimate music, the kind that is approved for Internet download. You may not be familiar with this concept. You probably e-mail entire albums to your friends using g-mail, and other such high-capacity data technologies. You won't find me screwing the music industry over a barrel like that, though. Here is a list of the songs I downloaded and enjoyed today, completely on the up-and-up.

Merryweather Spitbugs
Preston Cloche
Fingerstyle guitar

Party of Rain
Spencer Westwood
Fingerstyle guitar

Bodicea's Lair
Imagination
Fingerstyle guitar

Water Balloons are NOT Funny.

2004-07-11T16:30:00.000-07:00

They are a form of physical violence just like any other, and YES I do intend to press charges once the police show up. There must be a lot of miscreants out this afternoon, because they're certainly taking a while. I've already gone through my calendar twice to see what dates I am free to testify at the juvenile court hearing. That reminds me, I need to get a haircut.

Kleenex has just lost a customer.

2004-07-10T14:08:00.000-07:00

My nasal passages tend to clog easily, so I rely on tissues several times throughout the day in order to maintain good respiration. Well, today I was sorely let down by what I had thought of as a good, responsible brand. I went to pull out a sheet of tissue from the cardboard dispensing box, and do you know what happened? The machine that cuts and folds the paper had apparently been malfunctioning out of control back at the factory, because about three sheets of Kleenex came out together, just making a huge mess and leaving me standing there looking like a damn fool. It's a good thing no one was around to witness this send-up, because I was livid enough as it is. I immediately threw the box of tissue straight onto the ground and crushed it beneath my feet. When I had cooled down a bit I filled out a FLAMING complaint form on the Kleenex website, so I expect to hear back from them first thing Monday morning. In the meanwhile, it's back to cloth handkerchiefs and lotion until I find a suitable replacement brand.

What is it with people who offer free samples at the store.

2004-07-08T22:18:00.000-07:00

Sometimes it's some little old lady who leaves you alone as you walk by, but sometimes it's a guy who has to be like the Richard Pryor of handing out small cups of Snapple, all making the hardest sell in the world, like you wronged him in another life and his only vengeance will be if you try his stuff.

Today I was simply trying to buy some of that frozen ratatouille at the new Trader Joe's, and there was this fool inside, sitting at a card table, handing out samples of some kind of new cracker. I don't know why, but he decided he was going to latch onto me like a dog to an ankle. He called out to me as I walked by, and I politely nodded and moved on. He started calling after me, "No, really! Try some!" "It'll change your life!" "You'll be sorry!" Then when I had gotten down by the corner he started to lay into me at the top of his voice, to all those in attendance.

"Looks like that guy doesn't like crackers!" and "Oh well, can't please 'em all, I guess!"

I was burning red at this point. For this bastard to impugn me publicly in the name of selling crackers was too much. It was all I could do not to pick a bottle of Tejava off the shelf and crush it in my hand. Instead, however, I calmly paced to the manager's office, told him of the offense, and left without buying anything. I waited out in the bushes for a while, to see the son of a bitch escorted off the premises, but I guess the manager made him leave out of the back entrance. I hope that rat dies penniless and diseased with his skull crushed under a rock.

DMV.

2004-07-06T12:51:00.000-07:00

I don't know how this happened but my Driver's License expired. I was expecting the renewal forms 30-60 days before the expiration, and even had the check made out, but I guess someone at the main office just completely dropped the ball. The end result: you guessed it, old Pat had to walk down to the DMV. I don't need to tell you that I was pretty hot under the collar.

I was completely prepared for a 3-4 hour wait (brought my favorite paperback copy of Sense and Sensibility), but things did end up going pretty quickly and the only hitch was that the written test was far more ridiculous than should have been allowed. Very convoluted writing, such as:

When you want to change lanes, do you:
a. Look over your shoulder
b. Check your mirrors and look over your shoulder
c. Look over your right shoulder

How in the damn hell do you choose just one of those? I do all that plus I ask my passenger if they see anything I didn't, plus I turn off the radio, signal for at least 100 yards, honk twice and use the arm signals in case the blinker's out. I tried to impress this upon the man who scored the test but apparently my choice (b) was correct and he didn't want to hear my reasoning. Long story short I scored 100% and had my photo taken and left a bit charged that the whole thing had gone so easily. I hadn't taken any kind of written test in a long time, so it was a nice feeling to know that I can drop back in and whip out 100%s just like that. Good old Pat.

Hellish Creatures

2004-07-06T02:32:00.000-07:00

For a long time the house next to ours was rented to what I will kindly describe as a village of highly irresponsible and inconsiderate foreigners. In addition to an expansive fleet of non-functional vehicles (many of which had been totaled and were apparently just kept around as conversation pieces) there were at any given moment at least three grease-mouthed children peering over the fence onto my property, giggling like loons. Along with that Filthy Kilroy revue was a particularly hellish set of fur-matted miniature Collies who yelped like stuck porpoises incessantly throughout the night and day. It does not take much of a man to convincingly convey the sort of torture this equals. Let me just say that I called the police on several occasions and did manage to get animal control to remove the dogs more than once.

So just my luck that the very day this troupe of gypsies moves out, another long-tatted National Geographic pulls into the drive with not two but five congenitally agitated mongrels. And these are the mature variety, the sort which can whoof with full voices all day long without rest, sunup to sundown. Imagine five full-grown men screaming in unison at a telephone pole for sixteen hours a day outside of your window and you will begin to approximate the sonic conditions of my neighborhood.

What a bust

2004-07-05T01:44:00.000-07:00

So I went on up over to the coast this weekend and hiked some pretty decent terrain, really secluded, and mostly spent time by myself. It was swept and blown and Lord knows that the sea air lowers my blood pressure by a good twenty percent. I spent several hours just parked on the sand, taking it in as the wind blew and slowly rearranged the face of it all, before heading up to C-21, my favorite campsite on the Drake trailhead.

Wouldn't you know it but several kids were camped out in C-21, completely oblivious to the noon checkout time. I hiked around the basin a while, so they could see me, but they didn't catch on. They kept playing cards and guitars and chattering and wearing their pants down low and pretty soon I was ready to foot it back to the ranger station but then lo and behold the ranger pulled into the clearing. Relieved, I watched and waited for him to escort the delinquents past the perimeter.

After a while of bumping around in his truck and inspecting the water spigot and outhouses, the ranger finally rolled up to their campsite. I was ready for the sparks to really fly, for the kids to start stuffing their pots and pans into their sleeping bags and high-tail it for the horizon, but no such justice awaited me. He didn't so much as compare their site ticket to the carbon of their check-in before they were offering him can beers and cigarettes. I do not doubt that one of the proffers was a joint. In fact, there is probably some sort of criminal cohesion going on between that covey of youth and the obviously corrupt ranger team, whereby marijuana contraband and psilocybin mushrooms are traded in exchange for lenience in campground tickets.

Needless to say I attempted no deal with that foul corruption and struck a simple shelter in a crevasse off the beaten path. In the morning I observed several Heronus Parlaticus and happened across a small bed of Preaching Clams. Such is the majesty of the outdoors, and even though the experience is continually blighted by thugs, I shall proceed with my explorations.

Well this was a lousy week!

2004-07-02T14:28:00.000-07:00

And next week's not looking much better. I'm gonna head out of town for the weekend, maybe to the mountains to do some camping and hiking. Don't expect to hear anything from me before Monday.

Even Spam can't get Spam right!

2004-07-02T03:17:00.000-07:00

Alright, this is ridiculous. These days Spam email has to be so convoluted to get past Spam blockers that is just ends up being complete gibberish. It looks like randomized entries from the encyclopaedia most times, with a link here and there to "cialis.gif" or "cialis.jpg." Maybe this looks a little more reasonable in Outlook or some such nitwit HTML-rendering email client, but I use ELM for my mail and it's all just crap. It's all just crap. This is all just crap. I don't need this shit.

I Guess Some Friends Don't Remember When You Are Supposed To Do Things Together.

2004-07-02T00:24:00.000-07:00

Well, I should have known better. Ray was stinking drunk last night and made all kinds of motions about wanting to go on a hike up around the Skyline area AGAIN. Like a fool, I believed him.

Needless to say he sent his maid to the door at 9am today when I showed up, telling me that "Señor Ray" would not be available because he had "hurt his arms." That's Ray's code language, I suppose. Anyhow, I had gotten up at 7 to go to the Royal Robbins outlet and pick up some new gear (I even got some bottled water for Ray, because I knew he would forget to bring some for himself) so I was extremely angry that Ray flaked out on our hike. I went on the hike myself but was extremely angry the whole time, and didn't notice until later that the acacia vulgaris had been in bloom (I read this afterwards on the ba.parksandtrails.rec newsgroup while cooling off with some sun tea).

Thanks for nothing, Ray. Maybe next time I'll CALL first.