BoyJake Was Here...

BoyJake's Breakfast Way

2008-09-05T04:01:00.000-07:00

In that I am not that excited about anything else it seems to be perfectly reasonable to continue organizing all of my thoughts around breakfast. This will end badly in that I almost never eat breakfast when I'm at home -- not a proper breakfast anyway. I usually choke down a granola bar first thing in the morning, ride my bike to work and find that I'm hungry again around 11 AM. Then I usually go to the supermarket across the street for an early lunch.

I only eat a proper breakfast on the weekends when Anna and I go to one of our two favorite cafes. At one (the Saturday cafe) I enjoy what they call the "Bagel & Eggs" and it's exactly what it sounds like. I usually go for a toasted whole wheat bagel which they will top with two eggs (fried hard -- I hate runny egg yolk) and both jack and cheddar cheeses. I usually dump a fair amount of hot sauce on it and try to fold the whole thing into kind of a clumsy sandwich. The variable shape of the egg and cheese combination has a lot do with how successful the sandwich is, but I'm always successful at eating it. Oh yeah, in the summer months I always wash it down with iced tea. In cooler months I wash it down with hot tea.

At the other cafe (the Sunday cafe) Anna and I both order cinnamon rolls from the bakery case. I opt for a roll with icing. Anna opts for a roll without icing. My beverage habits (cold or hot tea depending on the weather) are the same at the Sunday cafe.

Are you still awake? I thought not.

Thanks for playing.

BoyJake's Breakfast Blog

2008-09-04T02:24:00.000-07:00

After my Wendy's encounter the other day it occurred to me that I've been thinking about breakfast a lot. I haven't been thinking about breakfast in terms of breakfast the meal, breakfast the broad concept or even "What the fuck do I want for breakfast?" It's more like many of my most recent and random thoughts seem to be somehow breakfast related and in that I don't feel like writing about anything else, I'm wondering if I shouldn't just change this into a full time Breakfast Blog.

Before I change the name of this weblog to BoyJake's Breakfast Blog, I'm going to try a couple of entries and see how it goes.

All I Wanna Eat/ Is Cap'N Crunch

The supermarket that I frequent in the university town where I live has satellite radio and the music played on that satellite radio is responsible for much of what gets stuck in my head. Sheryl Crowe's 1993 hit "All I Wanna Do" is a recent plague to my aural memory. But one morning I decided that it could easily be a jingle for Cap'N Crunch cereal. Now the lyrics "All I Wanna Eat/ Is Cap'N Crunch" run through my head to the tune of Ms. Crowe's melody. The bad news is that I can't think of any other lyrics. I imagine they would have to involve cutting the roof of one's mouth, but that concept never seems to translate itself into the proper rhyme scheme or syllable count for the melody. For me anyway. But I'm not a songwriter. Feel free to take a crack at it yourself. If you can convince Ms. Crowe to sell her rights and the good folks at Quaker to buy your idea maybe you could take me out for a beer or somethin'.

Thanks for playing.

Wendy's at the Houston Airport -- Yes - I Went There

2008-09-01T04:05:00.000-07:00

I just arrived in Houston for a somewhat long layover at the beginning of my latest work trip. I left the plane with that wrong feeling that comes from about two hours sleep after two Jim Beam and ginger ales. I decided that food was my best bet and knowing that my next flight would depart from gate E19 I headed in that general direction. I arrived at a familiar George HW Bush Intercontinental Airport alcove that contains a Wendy's franchise. The food available here seemed like almost the exactly perfect thing to put in my belly given the condition that I found myself in.

So I guess part of this might be a bit like a restaurant review. My contact with the staff was so brief I almost couldn't believe that it had actually occurred. The person in line ahead of me (at 5:45 AM on Labor Day there was only one) gave me just enough time to choose an item from the menu. I decided that a fried chunk of chicken on a biscuit would be ideal to soak up the bourbon and ginger ale poison that I had consumed only a few hours earlier.

When my turn came I asked for the number 7 with hash browns and orange juice. I had just barely placed my money on the counter when each item of my order lay in front of me, most of it (all except the small carton of orange juice) neatly concealed in a small paper bag. The food actually beat my change. Some supernatural connection between the register and the cooking station must exist. It's either that or the young woman preparing the food could hear me. The young woman who brought out the food asked me if I'd like any ketchup. I said yes and in that I had noticed that one of the bins behind the counter contained hot sauce, I asked for some of that as well. Less than two seconds later several packets of each condiment had joined my food in the bag and I was on my way, chugging the orange juice as I walked. The water and sugar made me feel better immediately and by the time I found a seat in the gate area (where I type now) I found myself ready to eat.

I rarely eat fast food now, but there was a time when food like this made up a significant portion of my diet. Comparing how I felt then (sluggish - yeah - that's the word) to how I feel now, I think I made the right choice when I decided that I would avoid it most of the time. This experience did nothing to change my mind.

I pulled the top of the biscuit off of the chicken chunk, tore a corner off the hot sauce packet, squirted a couple of drops and took a bite. The first word that comes to mind is DRY. The difference in mouth feel between the chicken and the biscuit was barely discernible. Both were DRY. One was slightly more dense and chewy -- I'm guessing it was the chicken. I could be wrong, but almost everything about this experience was wrong. In an effort to improve my experience I removed the top of the biscuit once more and squirted some more hot sauce onto the chicken chunk (I couldn't taste it at all before). I took another bite and experienced the exact same dryness punctuated by a bit of very weak hot sauce flavor (I use the word flavor generously). I choked the rest of the little sandwich down as quick as I could and moved on to the hash browns.

Wendy's serves it's hash browns in little coins. I must say that I prefer the honest large ovals of McDonald's. The large ovals seem to be more crisp and they definitely have more flavor. They also seem to hold heat better. In my attempts to improve my chicken biscuit experience I had allowed my hash brown coins to cool to the point where they held very little heat at all. If they were warm, at least I could say they were warm. I cannot even say that. I didn't even bother with the ketchup. I just choked them down.

That's really all I have to say about eating at the Houston Airport Wendy's. I deserve exactly what I got and no more. I really need to stop drinking on airplanes and allowing myself to make nutrition choices in the unfortunate condition that follows such behavior.

Part II

A Random Thought About Wendy's

My recent breakfast experience has caused me to think a bit about the concept of Wendy's in general.

Thought 1: What's it like to work at the airport Wendy's as opposed to a Wendy's location out in the world?

The airport Wendy's is not a destination. I can't imagine that many people, departing a plane in Houston are thinking "Wow - I can't wait to get to that Wendy's". I imagine that most patrons of this particular Wendy's are like me: in some sort of ill-health (physical, mental or both) due to their recent or impending air travel and they stumble toward the Wendy's line without putting much thought into it at all. The Wendy's locations out in the world, however are destinations. People go there on purpose. They plan it. They say "I'm going to Wendy's." They say that. They say it out loud in front of people.

I wonder if airport Wendy's employees ever meet up with out in the world Wendy's employees and discuss the differences in the two ways of life. I bet they each think there own location is a harder place to work.

"You don't even have a drive-thru!"

"Oh yeah? You ever had to feed the entire Lithuanian national soccer team that just got off flight 3737?"

This is the type of argument I imagine them having.

This is the type of crap I type when I've slept two hours and am waiting to fly some more.

Thanks for playing.

I Made This!

2008-05-25T14:05:00.001-07:00

And Then Some Ratfucking Wads of Monkey Spunk Stole It!
(may they get flesh eating virus on their tender parts and die the slowest of painful deaths)

I fell in love with bicycles about a year and a half ago when I purchased a great three-speed cruiser. The joy I experienced on this bike was profound and I wanted to learn how to work on it myself and I thought building my own bike would be a great way to accomplish this.

I encountered a group of like-minded folks online and read what they had to say very carefully, planned the project and slowly began to acquire the necessary parts. By November 2007 I had everything I needed, but it was too cold and wet to paint. The first weekend in May I was home, I had the time and the weather was favorable. I primed and painted the frame and fork and the next weekend my good friend Tom helped me assemble in time to ride it to our fair town's local hippy festival.

It was way too small for me and certainly wouldn't win any races, but I made it from parts that I had gathered; parts that never would have become this particular bicycle without my time, effort and vision (such as it was) and I was proud of it.

Yesterday I finally got around to taking pictures of it and my lovely wife took pictures of me with it. I posted them to my Flickr account and I couldn't wait to share them with the friends and family.

This morning I went out to the bike rack to find that the cable lock tethering my creation to its larger cousin (a big cruiser that was to be a future project) had been cut and both bikes had been stolen.

Thieves should be made to experience significant pain. I wish the thieves of my bicycles could know the sick feeling of violation that comes with having their hard-earned work taken away. I guess that's the difference. Thieves don't work for anything so they don't care. I guess that's why slow bodily disfigurement is the only real punishment for theft. Watch your asses, douchebags. It may not be me, but I have to believe the Universe has some true pain in store for you pig-licking shit munchers.

die die die

(I apologize in advance for making any ill-informed generalizations about the laziness of thieves. It's always possible I could be wrong. If you're a thief and I've offended you, you can still go fuck yourself. Fuck yourself in the ass with a chainsaw, you fucking fuck.)

Thanks for playing.

Tommy Lee and I are Not Pals

2008-03-17T12:23:00.001-07:00

Still catching up...

Last month I had a work think in Vega$ at the Mandalay Bay. The Mandalay Bay has a new tattoo joint called Starlight Tattoo. They also have a House of Blues. One evening I stood in line for the elevator after our Internet Cafe setup and I saw that Starlight Tattoo was holding their grand opening party at the House of Blues. In the elevator bank there is an entrance to the "House of Blues Foundation Room" which I can only assume is a special lounge the the House of Blues makes available to VIPs.

The long line for the elevator kept me standing there for some time and along came Tommy Lee of Motley Crue fame with a small entourage consisting of a hot little brunette and a bunch of dudes with make up, highlights and rock star clothes that I can only assume were in his band. One of the dudes, the one in a suit who was probably a personal assistant or road manager or something (but he still had make up and highlights - or not, I don't remember, but it's my story so shut up) went to the suited guy who manned the velvet rope in front of the foundation room and they chatted a bit while Tommy Lee stood there looking around.

Even though I've never been a huge fan of the Crue or Mr. Lee's projects since then I always enjoy being in proximity to celebrity and say what you want about him, Tommy Lee is a celebrity. So I watched him looking around and he made eye contact with me. My intention was not to have a staring contest with Tommy Lee, but I couldn't help but be curious as to how long he would hold eye contact before he either got pissed enough to swing at me or look away. He probably held eye contact for three seconds before the little brunette said something to him and he looked away to talk to her.

I wonder what went through his mind during those three seconds. I wonder if I looked familiar to him and maybe he thought he should know who I am. Nope, Mr. Lee, even though I have long hair and earrings, you don't know me and there's no reason you should remember me from somewhere. We're not pals. We're not homies. Rock on, Tommy Lee.

That is all.

Thanks for playing.

Overheard in the Supermarket Right Before Valentine's Day

2008-03-16T12:13:00.000-07:00

It's been a while since I last posted and it seems like there are quite a few things that I should get caught up on. I'm more than a month late on this, but I wanted to share a conversation I overheard in the supermarket (names are changed because I don't remember them):

Woman: I heard the cutest thing at the pre-school today.

Man: Oh yeah?

Woman: Jimmy was making a valentine with the rest of the kids, so I asked him "What'cha got there?" He said "A valentine." "Who's it for?" I asked. "Billy! He's my boyfriend." It was so precious.

Man: I don't approve of homosexuality among small children.

I don't know if there was more said as these people were behind me and I was almost out of the building with my purchases, but I just want to go on record as being absolutely one-hundred percent in favor of "homosexuality among small children" -- if you get all bent out of shape about it when they're four then things are really gonna suck when they're fourteen. Kids should be able to say what's true about them in any given moment and trying to stifle that truthfulness (about anything) only leads to self-loathing, secrecy, suicide, murder, rape of small animals and things even more ridiculous and terrible. Be good parents: leave your children the hell alone.

That is all.

Thanks for playing.

Swingers in the Cyber Cafe - Ft. Lauderdale, Florida

2007-11-03T07:24:00.000-07:00

I haven't written here in some time so I could write about many many incredible things that are going on in my life, but instead, I'll just share a bit about a couple of very recent encounters I had in the Cyber Cafe I am running on this current work trip.

Yesterday I sat here reading silly Internet cartoon web logs and arranging travel for out of town associates who are coming to my town for one of my boss's big meetings in December. An unusual looking couple (they really seemed to be a couple, but I have no real evidence to back up my assumptions, so you'll just have to trust me) came in and sat at terminals next to each other. The man was in his mid to late fifties and had a very European look. What was left of his hair was cut in a severe buzz cut, fancy glasses, big fancy watch, dressed in black shorts and a black tank top that revealed all kinds of muscles and ink. He also had stretched earlobe piercings with small (probably 8-6 gauge) tunnels in them.

The woman, in her mid-late thirties was tall and fit with short blonde hair also dressed in a black tank top and black shorts. She also had her share of ink. She reminded me a little of Brigitte Nielsen.

I noticed that one of the machines near them showed the blue screen of death, so I got up to reboot it and I noticed that the guy was looking at nasca.com (I'm omitting the URL because it's probably not safe for work, school or your mom's house -- if you really want to go there, I trust that you know how your browser's address bar works). NASCA, I have since discovered is "an Association of Clubs, Events, Services and others related to the Swinger/Lifestyle Community." At the time it just looked a little sexual and it made me curious enough to go to the site myself and find out why this guy was doing so much scrolling and making so many notes.

This morning he returned, went to the same page (my company is no longer using those little speak and spell machines, so the computers are now attached to large flat screen displays that show me (and anyone else in the room) exactly what people are looking at -- I usually mind my own business, but certain things catch my eye -- I can't help it) and this time he must have noticed that I have a printer because he printed out quite a few pages before leaving.

It doesn't bother me that this man and his partner engage in this sort of activity, nor does it really bother me that he was looking for places to engage in it at the Cyber Cafe that my company provides for his professional association. However, it absolutely makes me curious about how somebody can feel so free to let total strangers (and professional colleagues) have access to such information about them. I guess that's all I wanted to share - my own curiosity. Maybe I'm just boring and if I were less boring I would want to share every twisted part of my being with the entire universe.

Maybe I need to remember to roll my clock back tonight so I don't show up at the airport tomorrow morning for my ass o' clock AM flight an hour before the stupid ticket counter staff even shows up. Maybe you need to do that too because you want to be a good citizen. Maybe I need to work on my tendency toward digression...

That is all.

Thanks for playing.

Just Try to Pee in Downtown Seattle. I Dare You.

2007-08-16T16:45:00.000-07:00

So a few months ago, I was in Seattle at another work thing and one evening I spent some time at SEATTLE's BEST COFFEE where I read a book and drank some of Seattle's most mediocre iced tea. When I got hungry and tired of sitting there I noticed a sign indicating that restrooms were located down a little hallway. I walked down this little hallway and found that the men's room was locked and the only way in seemed to involve this little keypad that (if I remember correctly) had only digits 0-5 on it. I thought about going to speak to the Seattle's Best Coffee Barista that had just served me Seattle's Most Mediocre Iced Tea, but I decided I didn't need to go that bad and I was headed off to find something to eat anyway.

I made my way to this indoor shopping plaza - not really a mall but it had a couple of restaurants and a few office suites and a couple of retail establishments. I wanted to try Seattle's version of the Rock Bottom brew pub in that I like the one in San Diego so much. I stepped in and noticed that the location of the Rock Bottom was not apparent, but I continued to need to urinate. I saw a sign indicating that restuarants were located down a little hallway so I followed it to the men's rooms where I encountered another locked door and another key pad. I said profane words and punched a few keys at random. The door remained closed so I left the little hallway in search of the Rock Bottom. I found it on the top floor of the shopping plaza and I noticed the restrooms near it right away. Once again the men's room was locked and I was confronted by that silly little keypad. I made my way into the Rock Bottom, got seated, looked over the menu quickly and asked my young watron how the whole restroom thing worked. He gave me the code. If I could remember it now, I would type it here. I went to urinate and that's all I remember about my time in Seattle.

Thanks for playing.

Reflections on Melbourne - May 2007

2007-06-23T08:53:00.000-07:00

My job took me to Melbourne in May and the thing I remember the most is the boredom. Australia is very like the United States. Flying fifteen hours to get to a place the reminds me of a cross between Baltimore and Las Vegas makes me cranky.

I stayed at this big hotel casino very like any big Las Vegas hotel casino with lots of gaming, fancy shops and restaurants. The first day, my business associate did the first of two non-boring things in Melbourne. We saw the Collingwood v. Carlton Aussie rules football match at the Melbourne Cricket Grounds.

Australian football is weird. They play on a round field with no pads – just shorts and tanktops. Each quarter is thirty minutes long and each quarter seems to begin and end with opposing team members beating the crap out of each other. They just punch each other while the umpires blow their whistles without intervening in any way. Eventually the guys get tired of punching each other and the game resumes. I wonder what would happen if they didn’t get tired of punching each other. I didn’t understand the game at all. It was more like soccer than football but they ran with the ball in their hands and they could stop and kick it any time they wanted.

One night my business associate wanted to go walk around and take some photographs so we did. A couple of young guys were teaching par cours to a lot of young people. They took a running jump at this big fake Aztec pyramid looking thing and attempted to vault over it. Most of them ended up planting their hands at the top of the wall and climbing over, but the fact they were doing it was cool enough.

After the par cours kids left we sat at the bottom of the pyramid and watched the Worst Juggler in the Universe create a ladder of crates upon which he stood and dropped juggling objects (bowling pins, balls of various sizes) down to his assistant below. I think the idea was that he would be juggling from the great and treacherous height, but it's hard to juggle when one can only throw and not catch. My business associate took some pictures of these guys. I thought about telling him not to, knowing that street performers usually expect compensation for being photographed, but ultimately I decided that it was not my problem. I had forgotten about the Worst Juggler in the Universe until much later when we were on a very different part of the river, heading back to the hotel when the Worst Juggler in the Universe accosted Michael and the crosswalk.

"Hi mate, I noticed you were taking some video of my show back there."

"It was just some stills."

"Well, you see, mate, I'm usually compensated for my image. I have a business. I can get you a card. My attorney..."

"I'll delete them."

"But..."

My associate turned his back on the Worst Juggler in the Universe and didn't look back. I was ready to jump in just in case the skinny hippy looking kid took a swing, but he didn't. Not that my associate couldn't have handled him anyway.

The rest of the trip seemed to consist of me sitting in the Internet Cafe, wandering around looking for things to do that did not involve alcohol and not finding them. Not finding them, I ended up sitting in my room a lot eating room service, watching television and drinking alcohol.

The last day we took a play day in the Yarra Valley wine region. Our driver and guide was an old lady named Anne Marie who wasn't afraid to cuss and needed a cigarette every time we stopped. I liked Anne Marie. She took us to Chandon first. Chandon specializes in sparkling wines. I don't usually care for sparkling wines. The next stop was more agreeable and I ended up buying a nice bottle of merlot. The third stop was the Healesville Sanctuary, a wild animal park where we saw a very short (as it was raining) birds of prey show and jogged through half an hour of whatever animals we could see. We saw dingoes, platypi, kangaroos, wallabies and wombats. I stood about six feet from a koala that ignored me completely while chowing down on eucalyptis.

After two more wineries Anne Marie brought us back to the hotel and I flew home the next day.

A two-year-old kicked me the entire sixteen hour flight from Sidney. Wow.

Thanks for playing.

Random Reflections on Amsterdam: April 2007

2007-06-23T08:28:00.000-07:00

I'm flipping through my notebook, bored out of my mind in Garden Grove, CA and this is what I found from my recent time in Amsterdam:

4.24.07

This morning, the man at the porter's desk at the hotel asked me if I wanted a Playboy or a Hustler when I presented my newspaper voucher. I must have been a bit groggy having just woken up even though it was just after 10 AM, because I couldn't think of a response to pornography humor. Then again, I always find discussing pornography with strangers to be uncomfortable.

I sat in Amsterdam's Vondelpark, on a bench near the water, enjoying the shade and the birdsong. I should just make a list of everything I have seen today. I saw several high school kids around the train station. I saw two that appeared to be twins, girls wearing identical flowing red tops. They wore matching white hijabs.

I saw a pet store. The call them BEESTEBOLs here and in its window was a pretty, young, brown tabby cat.

I found my way to the Museumplein and stopped at the Albert Heijn supermarket where I bought water, an orange drink, an apple and a box of matches because I liked the swallow design on the box. Thus provisioned, I wandered onto the Vondelpark where I saw saw plenty of dogs; dachsunds and hounds and min-pins and rotties. The Dutch seem to love their dogs as much as their bicycles.

5.2.07 (after I returned home)

I'm now remembering early Saturday evening when outside many of the cafes I passed, I saw their staffs enjoying a meal together. This seemed to mean that the cafes were closed, so I went on up to a bar on the corner, a block from the cafe where I wanted to dine later.

I ordered a large Amstel and enjoyed it while reading the New Yorker. I had not been sitting there terribly long when I finished the Amstel and thought i should try another beer. I noticed that the bartender, a very tall, very pale Dutch kid with a bush of almost white hair, was pouring a lot of Wiekse, a light beer, and almost no Amstel. I asked him for a glass, noting that it seemed popular.

"Just because it's popular doesn't mean it's good," the bartender said. I asked him if any of his other beers were good. He said that the Le Chouffle was good, but that I would not be allowed to have a large glass. I presumed that this was due to a high alcohol content, but I thought it was funny that in a city where I could buy mushrooms for hallucinating and any number of cannabis products, I couldn't have a large glass of strong beer. The beer was light and fruity but with enough body to make one feel that one was drinking a beer rather than champagne.

I worked on a sudoku puzzle while I drank it, but it did not take long and soon I had settled up and moved on to the La Brace restaurant where I enjoyed a wonderful meal (except for the salad that was dressed with what I could only describe as exactly like my mother's potato salad dressing.

My last night in Amsterdam, I decided to try to a meal at the Cafe on the Corner, a place that I remember quite well from my first trip to Amsterdam back in September. It was always packed each time I walked by, so I never tried it. This trip was no exception so when on Sunday evening I passed it, finding it (the outdoor seating area) empty, but for three guys drinking beer, I took a seat and ordered a glass of beer, a large glass of beer.

A note on sitting outside in Amsterdam cafes: I was really intimidated by this at first. I didn't do it at all during my 2006 trip. It seemed like only the coolest local people were sitting outside. This year I started out by asking if I could sit outside. When the servers looked at me like I was from Mars (or the U.S.) and said "Of course," I decided to just walk up and sit down. Everywhere that I did this, eventually a cafe employee would come up and take my order. So my advice: when you're in Amsterdam and you want to sit outside, just sit the hell down. It's okay.

So this server at the Cafe on the Corner says "Do you want the big one? The REALLY big one?" I asked her to bring me the really big one and looked at the menu behind my head. When the server returned, I ordered the half roasted chicken. Later, it was brought to me with a large pile of french fries, which, to my horror, lay beneath a large dollop of mayonaise. I thought I might vomit. So yeah, I don't understand the Dutch and their need for frietsausse.

Thanks for playing.

BoyJake Types From the UK

2007-04-12T04:12:00.000-07:00

I arrived in Birmingham, UK for a work thing on Monday morning, at least a day too early, but when I was booking the tickets I got really frustrated trying to coordinate the best price with the best itinerary and the schedule of my work thing and I finally just pushed the button on a bad itinerary (two layovers, one in Houston and one really LONG one in Newark) that had very little to do with the work thing schedule just because it was the cheapest and I was tired of looking.

Arriving at my fancy boutique hotel in Birmingham's City Centre at 8AM I found the staff a bit perplexed. It took two well-dressed, well-spoken Brits to punch away at the computer and try to find me a room. I could have been nice and dropped my bags off and went for a walk, but I knew it was Easter Monday and nothing but pubs would be open and I knew I smelled bad and I very much wanted to take a shower and change clothes.

I excused myself to use the gents and when I returned they had found me a temporary solution. One of the Brits seemed very keen to help me upstairs with my bag, but I told him I could manage and asked him to direct me to the room. He told me it was on the third floor (which would be the fourth in the USA) and gave me a key with a large metal and leather fob on it. Say what you want about those little plastic key cards they give you in big chain modern hotels -- they lack character but they're pretty damn portable. He advised me to make a right when the lift opened and told me that we could arrange for me to move to the room I was originally booked into later in the day.

I found my room, named for a winery I had never heard of -- all of the rooms in this hotel are named for wineries and all the art on the walls is wine-themed. Once I had the door open I found that the bed was just far enough from the door to allow it to open. I had to lift my suitcase and move into the room sideways in order to close the door behind me -- a very small room indeed. I stayed at this hotel for this particular work thing last year and I remember my room being much larger. I disrobed and started looking for something to put my dirty clothes in, but I didn't find a single drawer or even a laundry bag. I stuffed them into a spare compartment in my suitcase and headed to the shower. The showers in this place are delightful. The shower head is the size of a dinner plate and standing under its stream makes me feel like I'm standing under a warm waterfall. I washed my hair and everything else before emerging to dress again.

I plugged in the computer and did some work stuff. I called down to the front desk to find out when MY room would be ready and they said after two. Whenever I travel to Europe I always tell myself that THIS will be the time that I beat jet lag. I never beat jet lag. I never beat jetlag because I ALWAYS go to sleep when I shouldn't. I went to sleep. I woke up at 5 PM. I called down to reception to see if my room was ready. It was. The manager, a nice woman that I don't remember very much about now came up to swap keys and get my signature on a registration card. I don't remember much about her because I was groggy from almost eight hours of sleep that I shouldn't have indulged in. Somehow I ended up in a gigantic room with a gigantic bathroom containing a huge shower and a completely separate freestanding bathtub. I couldn't believe it. Once I had my stuff where I wanted it, I grabbed my camera and a notebook and headed out to find some dinner.

The Figure of Eight pub on Broad Street is my favorite in Birmingham. I ate fish and chips washed down with a pint of John Smith's Extra Smooth, one of my favorite English ales. Then I went to see a movie. Danny Boyle's Sunshine won't be out in the US until September, but it's out here. I saw and it's awesome. So neener neener neener. I slept very little that night because I slept when I shouldn't have. The next day my partner in crime arrived and we had breakfast in a pub before walking to our event venue. They weren't ready for us. We would have to come back tomorrow to set up the Cyber Cafe. We walked around a mall and had dinner at another pub. I had steak and ale pie with mashed potatoes and gray peas (I didn't eat the gray peas) washed down with a pint of Old Speckled Hen, one of my favorite English Ales. I slept very little that night because I slept when I shouldn't have. The next day (yesterday) we set up the Cyber Cafe before going on a little pub crawl. I found a small smoky pub full of locals where we drank beers before moving on to another small smoky pub full of locals where we drank beers before repeating the process. We finally landed at and Australian themed place where I ate a steak and washed it down with another pint of John Smith's.

Now I'm sitting in the Cyber cafe bored out of my mind. I'm sure Birmingham has all sorts of wonderful opportunities for educational cultural experiences, but all I seem to do is drink and eat fatty food. I still haven't really slept. I miss Anna and I'm ready to come home.

That is all.

Thanks for playing.

Never Help Dirty Hippies

2007-03-21T16:45:00.000-07:00

I wrote a check yesterday. I wrote a check for one-hundred sixty-four dollars to my local county superior court. I wrote this check to pay a ticket that I received while in aid of dirty hippies.

It all happened a few weeks ago...

My buddy Vic is a bicycle nut and he helped me pick out my own brand new bicycle as a Christmas present to myself back in December. Since then I have been a sort of bicycle nut in training. I love my bicycle. I love riding my bicycle. I love lubing my bicycle's chain. I love rubbing my bicycle down with lemon-scented furniture polish to remove the grime from it and leave it smelling like citrus.

One Saturday Vic called me and asked if I would like to join him on a little ride out to our local university campus to a hippy commune where they keep the Bike Church. Vic made friends with some of the local bike nuts late last summer at a Critical Mass event and they turned him on to their Bike Church - an organization that promotes bicycling as transportation by empowering people to fix their own bikes and providing access to inexpensive parts and knowledgeable ministers. Anyway, these Bike Church people were having a work party on this particular Saturday to clean up and organize their space and Vic was going to lend a hand. He asked if I would like to go along. I agreed.

We met at my place and agreed that there was absolutely no reason why we would want to show up at the Bike Church work party completely sober so I poured us my last two extra big shots of Revoluccion Tequila (the bottle is wicked cool -- two revolver pistols mirrored against each other in glass relief on the back) and we sipped on them leisurely in the living room until they were gone and we were both feeling a bit tingly. We mounted our bikes and rode to the hippy commune on campus, a place I had never been.

We found a little community of geodesic domes near which was a huge metal recycling bin overflowing with old bent bicycle frames. One whole area of lawn was devoted to a huge pile of other, slightly more usable frames and parts. We wandered past this pile, up
to the tarp draped over tent stakes that constituted the sanctuary of the Bike Church.

Several people, mostly young, mostly male, mostly unkempt sat on folding chairs in a circle under the tarp. A couple of them held clipboards. Many of them drank from open bottles of Pabst Blue Ribbon. A couple of them passed around a bottle of cheap pink wine. They discussed a list of tasks. Some of them greeted us. Some of them introduced themselves. Some of them offered us libation. We declined. We volunteered for a job as soon as it seemed to make sense. We were ignored for a moment when an argument broke out over the accessibility of the Bike Church logo (it features a pedal wrench and somebody was concerned that not everybody would recognize a pedal wrench).

The argument ended quickly and we were given our choice of jobs: moving bike pods.

For those of you that may not be aware, a bike pod is a large, heavy, concrete object that is sloped on its sides and holds at its center a space roughly the size and shape of an average bicycle tire. The idea is that a cyclist can park her bicycle by placing
a wheel of the bicycle in the space -- the pod will hold the bicycle upright and in line with other bicycles until the cyclist returns to claim it.

Our local university campus is doing away with bike pods. They are unsightly and the slightest pressure on bicycle in a pod can cause serious wheel damage. I soon learned why the Bike Church wanted the bike pods. Apparently the local police department decided that the pile (most of which I had seen in the recycling bin) was hazardous.

The Bike Church was told that if they didn't get rid of everything not usable and organize what was left, everything would taken away. The campus transportation authority turned the Bike Church clergy onto a big pile of bike pods that had been stacked up for removal and said that they may have them to use in their organization effort.

A young hippy named Owen piped up and said that he could provide his station wagon as a vehicle to move bike pods. Owen and a young Bike Church minister named Lyle said they would meet me and Vic at the site and the loading would begin. Vic and I rode our bikes to the site and sat waiting near the stack of bike pods for almost forty-five minutes. We discussed all the scenarios that could have caused the delay but settled on the following:

"Hey - we've got time to smoke a joint before we meet those guys... Hey - I'm hungry - that chick I shagged last night was making some killer soup before I left... I bet she'd give us some... I bet we have time before we meet those guys..."

That's how hippies are: short attention spans.

We had just about given up figuring out what happened when they rolled up. After much wrestling, scraping of knuckles, pinching of thumbs and general profane frustration we managed to get seven bike pods into Owen's station wagon. That left only forty-three more.

We let Owen and Lyle drive back to the hippy commune and we followed on our bikes.

When we arrived, we rode into a very passionate discussion among the clergy as to what should be done with this batch of bikes pods (figuring it out beforehand would have been very un-hippy). It was finally decided that they would be used for a donation area with the thought that people would gladly donate their gently-used old bicycles to the church to be reborn and returned to the streets under a worthy previously bike-less person. It's a nice dream. I'm not sure how it's working out, but dammit, those bike pods were in the donation area when I left them.

Phase two of the bike pod operation came about when a hippy called Frederick mentioned that he had a pickup truck. I recognized Frederick from the circle at the beginning of this madness and wished faintly, to myself, that he had mentioned the pickup truck when we were first planning the bike pod operation. I breathed deeply and waited patiently... probably another twenty minutes while Frederick went to retrieve his pickup truck. When Frederick returned with his pickup truck I found myself not at all surprised to find its bed full of rectangular red bricks.

"Hey, guys. I was thinking that before we go get those pods you might ride over to Hippy Commune #2 with me to unload these bricks."

Hippy Commune #2 was located in another part of campus. This is where I got stupid. I followed Vic and two other hippies into the bed of the truck. Lyle rode up front with Frederick. I knew riding in the bed of the pickup truck was illegal. I just couldn't fathom getting pulled over on a college campus on a Saturday afternoon for it. If I were a character in a novel, there would be some foreshadowing right here.

We rode to Hippy Commune #2 where we hopped out and assessed the situation.

"Where's the wheelbarrow?" I asked.

"There isn't one," Frederick replied, as if I were a little slow and he felt the need to be polite to me even though he found it to be a bit tiresome.

I stacked up about seven or eight bricks in my arms and the rest followed and about thirty minutes later we had the whole bed clear and a big pile of bricks in the garden of Hippy Commune #2.

I jumped back in the bed of the pickup truck with two of the hippies but this time Vic rode up front and Lyle jumped in the back with us. We made it over to the pile. I stayed in the bed of the truck with Frederick and we stacked the pods handed to us by the other three dudes. We managed to get thirty of them in the bed before the tires scraped the wheel wells.

For the ride back to the Bike Church, Vic took the front seat again and everything went pretty smoothly, those of us in the back chatting about very little and enjoying the pleasant weather, until the siren sounded. We had just turned the corner. I could see the Bike Church from the spot where Frederick pulled over. We were fucked. Caught by the Man in an illegal act.

The cop rode a motorcycle. The cop made a point of speaking to us in a rude manner.

He told us to get out of the bed of the truck and stand on the passenger side of the truck. He called for backup. Two more cops in a sqaud car showed up. Only two of us would admit to having identification on us. This made things take longer. Vic was the
only one not committing a crime from his place on the passenger side, so his claiming not to have his ID (because he didn't want his little marijuana pipe to fall out while retrieving it) caused no problems for the officers. We all received citations (except for Vic) -- Frederick got it the worst for driving with expired tags as well as a bed full of dirty hippies (and me).

We walked back to the bike church. I helped unload the bike pods. When it began to grow dark I realized that I had left my bike light at the apartment. I told everybody that I needed to leave in that I was having bad luck with the law on this day and I wasn't willing to risk any more traffic violations. The only flaw in my plan was a flat front tire.

I had not patched a flat bicycle tire since I was thirteen and then I had a lot of help from my old man. The good news was that the Bike Church was well-stocked with patch kits and in that I had sacrificed myself for their cause, they would waive the normal donation -- quite sporting of them really. Vic helped me patch the tire and I got the hell out of there.

Now I'm one-hundred sixty-four dollars poorer.

Never help dirty hippies.

Thanks for playing.

(Just so you know, I found all those that I met on this day to be swell people and if you're one of them and I hurt your feelings, that's what you get for being a dirty hippy and you should learn to laugh at yourself.)

BoyJake's IKEA Adventures

2007-03-19T20:31:00.000-07:00

Several weekends ago Anna and I decided it was time for us to purchase a dinette set for our new apartment home. We both drive small automobiles and neither one of us wanted to spend a lot of money, so we decided to try that great Swedish retailer: IKEA.

Fuck IKEA.

We took a little ride on the freeway (our little college town has no IKEA) and parked several miles from the front of the store (I think you could fit the entire nation of Sweden in our local Ikea's parking lot - seriously - the whole fucking nation) and entered, excited at the prospect of choosing the center piece of our dining area.

Fuck IKEA.

Momentarily disoriented by the vast mob of furniture shoppers we grabbed a cart -- a cart like the ones they have at supermarkets only larger and plunged into the fray. I'll confess to noticing all the people going up the escalator to a higher level, but dismissed them. Many of them were breeders with screaming children and I avoid following breeders with screaming children (sorry breeders with screaming children). I had a feeling that the cafeteria was up there, but we didn't need the cafeteria. If I were a character in a novel this would have been foreshadowing.

Fuck IKEA.

The bottom level of IKEA is much like a warehouse with tall shelves full of cardboard boxes. On the edges of the shelves we found a lot of basic line drawings of dinette sets, but very few display models were visible. We asked a guy in an IKEA uniform where we would find dining tables and chairs. He told us we would need a flat cart and said we should look at aisles 27-29.

Fuck IKEA.

Anna found the fancy machine that shoots out a fresh flat cart every time somebody chose one and we marvelled at that for a minute. But only for a minute. We wandered up and down aisles 27-29 staring at the line drawings, scratching our heads wondering how we would know if we wanted to purchase any of this stuff without really knowing what it would look like set up. Then Anna remembered her previous trip to IKEA almost eight years before. We should have gone upstairs.

Fuck IKEA.

I felt profound fear on the upper level of IKEA. Lots of people of all descriptions hurried around the show room trying out display models on every type of home furnishing item imaginable. Some of them looked confident, but most of them seeming every bit as confused as us. Many of them were breeders with screaming children. We wandered around for quite some time until we found the dining room tables. We found one we liked, determined what sort of wood finish we wanted (we had a choice of three) and went over to choose a chair that would go with it. We found one and tried to find our way out. We stumbled across another set of dining room tables and I noticed that one of them had the exact same name as the one we had chosen for ourselves but the table was nothing like the one we had chosen for ourselves.

Fuck IKEA

I stalked over to the place where we found OUR table and on the way a short chubby old guy with glasses and a yellow Ikea shirt called out to me.

"Do you need some help?"

"I may come see you in a moment," I said, barely looking at him, focused on getting the information from the table.

"Am I supposed to follow him?" he asked Anna.

I'm not sure how she responded. I was focused on another woman was standing over our table, busily copying down every character from the literature fixed to the table's surface. I attempted to wait patiently, but the old Ikea guy came over and addressed me. I explained my confusion over the tables and I'm sure some of my frustration came through.

"Forgive me," I said. "It's just that this is my first visit to Ikea and I'm finding it a bit intimidating."

"Lots of people say that to me," he said, trying to be reassuring. He jumped on his little computer and I noticed that his nametag said "HAL". He confirmed that our table was in stock, reserved one for us and gave us a piece of paper explaining that we would hand that to the cashier downstairs once we retrieved our chairs from the warehouse portion of the store. Once we paid for it, some guys in another part of the store would retrieve our table and we could load it up to take home. This was starting to sound better but I was hungry. Hal looked Anna up and down. "Is your mother named Vivian by any chance?"

"No," Anna said.

"I only ask because you look JUST like an old girlfriend of mine." Hal's vibe creeped me out so I began to move away in the direction we had come from. Anna followed. "I mean JUST like her!" Hal called after us. We got out of sight as quick as we could and wandered around in circles for a bit until we found the way toward the cafeteria.

Fuck IKEA

We ate Swedish meatballs. The orange-gray sauce frightened us a bit, but hunger defeated fear.

Fuck IKEA

We made it downstairs, but one cannot simply take an escalator down to the front and easily move toward the warehouse section to get chairs. We had follow some more idiotic arrows through all sorts of knicknacks, vases, textiles, cookware, baskets, glassware, framing supplies and artwork. We didn't find any placemats, but we did make it to the warehouse section where we grabbed another flat cart, found the chairs, piled them up and lined up at a checkstand.

Fuck IKEA

The guy took our money, printed out another piece of paper for us and pointed us toward two guys in yellow shirts stationed in front of a long corridor that ended at a wall where it branched off in two directions. Several television monitors hung from the ceiling in this area flashing random numbers. We approached the guys in the yellow shirts and gave them our new piece of paper. They gave us a number and told us to watch the monitor. Anna left to move the car into one of the loading zones up front. I watched the nearest monitor. The numbers did not change very quickly at all. Anna arrived with the car and we loaded up the chairs. We returned to the waiting area and watched the monitors. Fifteen minutes passed and our number did not come up. Anna took our piece of paper back to the guy and he confirmed that we were watching for the right number and said he would look into why we had not received our table yet. He disappeared down the corridor and down the left passageway. He did not return for some time, but when he returned he said that we would only have to wait a few more minutes. We waited fifteen more minutes before the other yellow-shirted guy came out rolling a cart with a large flat box on it. This box contained our disassembled table.

Fuck IKEA

We loaded the table into the car, pleased that it fit. The possibility that it would not fit caused some apprehension for me. I did not want to rent a truck by the hour to get a disassembled table home. I did not want to pay another $75 for IKEA to deliver a disassembled table. We drove our new dinette set home.

Fuck IKEA

Once we had our seven joyful boxes in the dining area, Anna put on some music and set about assembling the table while I went to work on a chair. I am not a visual person. I perform better with a carefully prepared set of printed verbal instructions than with a bunch of little cartoons. IKEA provides only a bunch of little cartoons. I miss the subtle changes in a bunch of little cartoons. When putting two parts together, I missed the subtle little cartoon spacer. I drove a bolt right through the back of the wooden chair. I cried out in rage, dropped the parts and left for a little bike ride.

Fuck IKEA.

When I returned to the apartment, Anna was almost done with the table and I returned to my chair assembly. After much profanity, wrestling and a little wine I had one together. Anna finished the table and started a chair of her own. I started on chair number two only to discover that it required different wrestling and a lot more profanity. We went on like this through chair five. Fuck chair five. Chair five just would not go together. I called Vic as Vic is an older family man with significantly more furniture assembly experience than me. Vic said to come on over with chair five.

Fuck IKEA

I drove us to Vic's house where we found Vic stoned and happy as we usually find Vic. Vic sat down with chair five and employing a technique that Anna and I had already employed several times, made the two parts join as one. Behold the power of marijuana.
I finished the assembly of chair five and we returned home to assemble chair six.

Fuck IKEA.

Fuck chair six. I didn't make it very far with chair six. One bolt just would not seat correctly no matter how much I cursed, wrestled and drank wine. I gave up and went to bed. I went to bed angry.

I woke up early the next morning, Sunday, still angry. I went out and took another look at the offending parts of chair six. I discovered that the little barrel-shaped thingy that was supposed to hold the bolt was machined only half correctly - the other half showed only mangled metal where precise threads should have turned. Fuck chair six.

Fuck IKEA

I drove back out to IKEA, parked pretty near the front as they had not been open very long and walked through the loading zone straight to the long corridor where I found one of the yellow-shirted dudes from the previous day. I unscrewed the bolt from the mangled part and said "I need one of these that's machined properly."

The yellow-shirted dude came back with a couple different little barrel-shaped thingies. "Did you want one that's bigger or smaller?"

I frowned. "I want one exactly the same, but with threads instead of mangled metal."

The yellow-shirted dude looked puzzled and tentatively held out one of the little barrel-shaped thingies. I took it from him. I screwed the bolt into it. The bolt fit and it would screw all the way through. I had what I needed.

I thanked the yellow-shirted dude and turned toward the door. I smelled cinnammon. IKEA sells cinnammon buns for one dollar. I had not eaten anything that morning. I bought a cinnammon bun for one dollar. I ate it. I loved it. I wanted another.

I think this whole mangled metal little part thing is a strategy on the part of IKEA. Let's say that an average IKEA store sells one thousand pieces of unassembled furniture each day. Let's say they include one mangled metal thingy in every ten boxes. That's one hundred poor fuckers that must return to IKEA to get a properly machined metal thingy before they can have their furniture. I bet every one of those poor fuckers that has to return to IKEA to replace a mangled metal thingy buys AT LEAST a cinnammon roll and more likely a table cloth, a vase, a set of wine glasses and a lampshade. IKEA probably makes several billion dollars a year shoving crappy mangled metal thingies in one in every ten boxes.

Fuck IKEA

I drove home, finished assembling chair six and enjoyed the rest of my Sunday.

Fuck IKEA

Anna and I returned to IKEA a couple of weekends ago for shelving in the living room. We found ourselves overwhelmed, but less overwhelmed than the first time. We found a couple of inexpensive bookcases for the living room and brought them home, pleased that they sat in the self-service area where we didn't have to wait on the whims of a dude in a yellow shirt.

Once home I found that my aversion to little cartoon instructions had not waned and we determined that Anna should lead the project. The bookcases went together quite easily and now our DVDs and VHS tapes have a home that is not on the floor next to the entertainment center. Life is swell. But I still say...

Fuck IKEA.

Thanks for playing.

BoyJake's Florida Adventure - Directed by David Lynch

2007-01-16T07:43:00.000-08:00

I'm in Orlando, Florida at a work thing and life has taken a surreal turn.

Part I: The Company VIP Dinner

Saturday night I attended a company VIP dinner with those lovely medical professionals that fill my heart with such joy . Many of them are great people that I enjoy seeing at these functions, but none of those people were there. The only one that I ever actually came close to punching (I hadn't been in therapy very long then) showed up with his notebook computer, dropping it in the middle of the dinner table and demanding that I fix it. I clicked around a bit, came up with nothing, shrugged at him and shoved it aside. It was a similar incident that almost got him punched three years ago. The boss took over and I was free of that, but it got worse...

The storms in the midwest and a big conference opening ceremony kept a lot of our VIPs from showing up so we were at two-thirds capacity for our reservation.

One of the VIPs, an older guy that I don't know well, showed up with the biggest, geekiest looking camera I've ever seen around his neck. "My whole family's out in the dining room getting ready to order. I sure feel sorry for them."

"Bring them in," I said. "We've got a minimum to meet. There's no reason why they shouldn't join us." The guy left and came back explaining that they had already ordered. The server came around and asked us for more drink orders (I was already well into a second or third glass of wine, or maybe I had already lost count at that point).

Dr. Camera Guy pipes up "Well, since we have a minimum to meet, I guess I should have some FRESH-SQUEEZED ORANGE JUICE!" He said FRESH-SQUEEZED ORANGE JUICE like it were some magic, exotic, orgasm-inducing fluid that sold for a thousand dollars an ounce. The server brought the juice in a big water goblet with the longest straw in the universe sticking out of it. "That's FRESH-SQUEEZED orange juice isn't it?"

"Yes, sir. I squeezed it myself." The server seemed like a cool woman, used to dorks like Dr. Camera Guy.

"That's great!" he said before regaling us with tales of his midwest college football glory. We made it through the salad, mostly without incident - lots of football stories and lip-smacking comments from Dr. Camera Guy about his FRESH-SQUEEZED ORANGE JUICE. When the primi patti (bow tie pasta with tomato sauce or pesto risotto with shrimp) came out Dr. Camera Guy piped up "Hey! We've got a MINIMUM TO MEET. Bring out a couple extras of each of those!"

The server did and he proceeded to pass the dishes around the table. Dr. Camera Guy and Dr. Yellow Shirt (has NO personality - I wondered if it were possible for a comatose person to walk around and answer simple questions) dished some extra into their bowls but the rest of us just kept passing. "Isn't this fun! It's just like ITALIAN FAMILY STYLE!"

I continued to breathe deeply, knowing that I wouldn't be the least little bit surprised if a midget (sorry, little people) rode in on a goat to serve pigs' feet for dessert. I kept drinking the wine poured for me and I smiled for Dr. Camera Guy's photographs. I was a good company boy and I earned the 5% raise I learned about this week.

Part II: The Family Dinner

My mother has four brothers and two sisters. One of her sisters lives in Orlando. I get out here once a year for this work thing and when I do, I usually end up having dinner with her immediate family, which now consists of her second husband (she was widowed by her first husband years ago) her granddaughter (my cousin, Prison Guy is doing state time for probation violations he committed after being convicted of DWI, Driving on a Suspended License and Statutory Rape - my little cousin is Prison Guy's six-year-old daughter and the reasons my aunt is raising her are numerous) and Daisy, a little Yorkshire Terrier Shi Tzu hybrid.

My uncle picked me up at the resort and drove me toward their comfortable home somewhere on the other side of the Disney property (I don't know Orlando geography and I don't intend to learn). We stopped at the Publix super market to get eighteen bottles of Killian's Irish Red (my uncle LOVES Killian's Irish Red) and I arrived to find a table laid out with a good old-fashioned southern meal of fried chicken, mashed potatoes, cream corn and green beans. I also found a very agitated Daisy barking and growling at me like she might take a chunk out of my ankle if I got close enough.

Eventually Daisy was imprisoned in the bedroom and we had a quiet meal until Horny Tennis Gal came over. HTG is my aunt's fifty-five-year-old neighbor whose father was a professional tennis instructor/trainer. Arthur Ashe was apparently one of his protégés and HTG seemed to have an overwhelming enthusiasm for all things tennis. She also had an enthusiasm for white wine which she poured liberally from a big double fifth. Her husband is a commercial painter who was away on an out of town job. "Oh! Do you know who you look like?" she asked.

"No," I said.

"Roger Federer," she blushed and smiled real big and it was a little unnerving how intent her focus on me was. I shrugged, not knowing who Roger Federer is. The conversation continued, mostly about HTG's hair and how my cousin, Baby Mama (my aunt's daughter) had dyed it the bold burgundy color we were experiencing. "I'm not sure I like it," she said, combing through her short curls with her fingers.

"It looks fine," my uncle said. "Of course, I don't care. I went gray at twenty-five, it was good enough for me," he laughed.

"My hair isn't gray," HTG said. "But my PUBES are gray."

I would like to think that I'm not easily embarrassed, but I definitely felt a certain amount of discomfort now that I had intimate information about HTG's groin region. I smiled, trying not to show my discomfort.

"I'm so sorry!" she said, holding her hand over her mouth and giggling.

"Don't be, I'm fine." I said.

"OH! When you smile...the way you talk! You're just like Roger." She said Roger as if it were honey dripping from her mouth. My discomfort intensified.

Baby Mama showed up with her Baby Daddy -- they both might be twenty-one, but I doubt it. Baby Daddy looked about fifteen, the sort of kid I usually see hanging out in front of convenience stores asking me if I'll buy him a pack of cigarettes or a forty. They had my aunt's granddaughter with them and she immediately let Daisy out of the bedroom so she could growl at me some more. The six-year-old looked at me and said "WHO ARE YOU!?"

"I'm your cousin, BoyJake," I replied.

"DO YOU KNOW ME?" she screamed.

"Yes," I said, continuing to describe the last time we dined together at the Rainforest Cafe and how much fun she had laughing at the animatronic gorilla when she was four.

"I LAUGHED AT A GORILLA!?"

It was now painfully apparent to me that this child was not capable of speaking in an indoor voice.

Baby Mama and Baby Daddy also had Baby with them, a one-month old little girl - pretty, but sleeping as infants do.

Tragedy struck when Bill opened the last beer.

"HTG, have you got any beer over there?" he asked.

"I've got three Killians, but I don't want to walk over there by myself," she said.

"BoyJake will go with you," he said.

I frowned at my uncle. He smirked at me, knowing that he was throwing me to this she-wolf who wanted to believe that I looked like her tennis idol, Roger Federer, whoever he is.

I followed HTG to her house across the street and felt salvation when I saw the Domino's driver pulling into her drive (at some point during the chaos HTG had ordered pizza because Baby Daddy was hungry). The Pizza Guy and I followed HTG through the garage into the house where I encountered HTG's happy little maltese. I had learned over dinner that HTG and her husband had paid $1600 for the little beast. It could jump up to about my waist and I caught it in mid-air, holding it close to me while it stretched out in an attempt at licking my face. I figured that if I kept the dog close HTG might not try anything on me -- the little fuzzball was my canine shield.

Right after the pizza guy left Baby Mama and Baby Daddy arrived to eat pizza. HTG told me that the Killian's was in the refrigerator in the garage so I dropped the dog and made a break for it.

"Did she have you posing in your underwear with a tennis racket?" my uncle asked. I threw him a hard look and gave him a beer.

The six-year-old sang Old MacDonald in a forced gravelly voice, kind of like Tom Waites. She did this several times until Baby Mama and Baby Daddy arrived to drive me back to the resort.

If a goat had ridden in on a midget (sorry, little people) to serve sardines for dessert I don't think I would have been the least bit surprised.

I don’t think I look like Roger Federer.

Thanks for playing.

The Last Meal of 2006

2007-01-04T16:55:00.000-08:00

I'm totally stuck for something to write about today, so I thought I'd share the recipe for the bolognese sauce I made for the people on New Year's Eve. Here it is:

BoyJake's Bolognese Sauce

Serves 4 - 6

Ingredients:

Olive Oil
Red Wine
1 bulb garlic
1 medium yellow onion
1 pound Hot Italian Sausage (I prefer chicken but pork works quite well)
1 pound lean ground beef
1 15 oz can of tomato sauce
3 large pinches of chili powder
3 large pinches of dry oregano or equivalent fresh
1 pinch of salt
1 bunch of fresh basil or equivalent dry

Directions:

1) Finely chop onion

2) Cover bottom of skillet (I prefer stainless steel) w/ olive oil and place over medium heat

3) Add onion to skillet

4) Peel and coarsely chop garlic; add to skillet

5) Heat oil, onion and garlic together until onion is at least translucent -- you may go so far as to carmelize the onion if you appreciate that sweet/smoky flavor (not everybody does)

6) Add sausage and beef - turn up the heat and stir until well-cooked

7) Drain if necessary (chicken sausage and lean beef often don't leave much grease)

8) Add tomato sauce and a splash of water

8) Add red wine -- I usually start pouring and count to three (glug glug glug)

9) Add salt, chili powder, oregano and salt

10) Simmer until bubbling, turn down heat

11) Add basil -- I usually try to cover the top of the skillet/sauce with whole basil leaves, but my baby likes basil a lot -- if you want to tear the leaves or use less, go ahead, it's your sauce!

12) Serve w/ al dente pasta and enjoy

Thanks for playing.

BoyJake Saw Wild Urban Turkeys

2007-01-03T15:12:00.000-08:00

The other morning I was leaving the new apartment early to go to the old apartment to get another load of stuff. I pulled up to the first large intersection and crossing in front of me were a dozen wild turkeys. They were wild allright, not the big breasted white things that usually end up on your Thanksgiving dinner table. These were the sort of turkeys that the pilgrims ate, only they were in my reasonably urban neighborhood. I took off my glasses, wiped my eyes and looked again. They were still there. That shit is more random than the chicken in the Target parking lot. I don't know what else to say except that I remembered it and thought the world should know. There might be turkeys out there. Wild ones. In your urban environment. Stay sharp, people. Stay sharp.

Thanks for playing.

Five Paragraphs As Fast As I Can

2007-01-02T17:01:00.000-08:00

I haven't posted in a while and though a lot has happened, I can't seem to think of anything worthy of its own post. So this is five random paragraphs, stream of consiousness, as fast as I can.
End Paragraph 1.

I bought a bicycle; a beautiful positively beastly matte-black three speed cruiser. I'll need it in order to join my lovely lady at the coffee house in the mornings as our new place is not within walking distance.
End Paragraph 2.

I took Anna down to my place of origin in the southern California desert. We saw big cats at this place that is trying to breed them in order to keep them from extinction. They're beautiful but bored out of their minds. We saw drunk people. We met a special one named Jerry at this bar that didn't exist last time I was down there. Jerry, an old guy wearing a pink shiny baseball cap could barely stand. He tried to grope the server (interesting in her own right for her tattoo-covered arms and ear stretches that could hold Oreo cookies) but couldn't really reach her for holding onto our booth (he would have fallen down otherwise). He asked me if we (Anna and I) were in love (he was slurring like mad, but I think that's what he said). "Yes, very much so," I said. My family stayed on good behavior and Anna enjoyed her time in the place that I am from. This makes me happy.
End Paragraph 3.

We returned from the desert and I began to pack up the old apartment. I moved everything I could in my little Japanese car on Friday and the first half of Saturday. My parents showed up in their big truck on Saturday afternoon and we moved the big stuff. Anna brought her cats over on Saturday night after we had dinner at our local German style beer garden (the menu changed though and it's not nearly as German as it used to be). After breakfast Sunday morning, the parents returned to the desert. Only after they were four hours gone did we realize that Anna's cell phone fell out on their back seat. My mother mailed it today and she will have it on Thursday, but stil... MOTHER PUS BUCKET. New Year's Eve consisted of my bolognese sauce and lots of wine. Vic, his lovely wife (I won't even make up a name for her -- she won't appear here much and I'm sure she's fine with that) and a good friend of Anna's joined us to ring in the new year. Vic drank almost a fifth of rum by himself and I loaned him my gloves as he didn't have any for the cold ride home. I regretted this today when I made my own cold bike ride to the office. We spent New Year's Day in the East Bay with Anna's family. My oldest friend showed up for a bit and the whole day proved to be a great way to start the year.
End Paragraph 4.

Today was my first day back at work after more than a week of vacation and it kicked my ass. Now I'm going home to Anna and the kitties. I will cook dinner and maybe get to relax a bit.
End Paragraph 5.

Thanks for playing.

This Was on the Sidewalk and BoyJake is Thirty-One Years Old

2006-12-10T14:23:00.000-08:00

Anna and I were walking downtown on Friday to get me a birthday haircut (I turned thirty-one and I have noticed recently that I've been looking a bit more like a roadie for Lynard Skynard than I would have liked) and we saw an old-fashioned fifties era chair hair dryer like the type that Lucille Ball would sit under after getting her roots dyed and a permanent wave. I thought that was absolutely fantastic and had to photograph it.

I had the best birthday ever. My hair is now in a more mid-nineties Johnny Depp place -- the sort of thing you might expect to see on a pretentious coffehouse poet, but not really so MySpace emo that I can't stand myself. I actually dig it quite a bit.
Anna took me to breakfast after the haircut and I ate a big ham & cheese omelet with yummy fried potatoes and wheat toast. I washed it down with highly caffeinated Earl Grey tea from a cute little copper pot.

After breakfast, Anna went to school and I went back to the apartment to wash dishes and read (no work for me that day, thank you very much) until it was time to go bicycle shopping with Vic (I need a bicycle as the new place we're moving into is much too far from our coffeehouse to make morning visits on foot feasible). I called Vic at the appointed time and it turned out that he was ill and would have to give re-schedule at a later date.
I called Soundbomb to see if he wanted to get tea at the place near our office and he said yes, so I wandered over there for a pleasant bit of tea-drinking and people watching.

Later Anna came home and gave me my gifts: a wonderful bottle of Rosenblum Zinfandel (Carla's Vineyard from the SF Bay - we drank it last night - YUMMY) and a beautiful burgundy steel Cross pen. It takes smooth writing rollerball refills that glide across the page and it feels awesome in my hand. I wrote ten pages with it last night. I can't remember the last time I sat down and filled ten pages.

After the gift giving, Anna took me to a local German themed restaurant for sausage and beer. Words fail me.

So yeah, I had the best birthday ever. Life is good. I am lucky.

Thanks for playing.

This Bull Makes Me Sad

2006-12-05T11:13:00.000-08:00

Junior will likely live out the bulk of his life in a dusty little pen outside of a cowboy-themed steakhouse on a big resort in Tucson, Arizona with only a red rubber tetherball for amusement. Junior should bust out of that pen and try out those horns. That's what I think anyway.

My grandfather is a cattle man in Northwest Arkansas and his bulls have lots of green pasture to roam around on, big ponds to soak in, and a bunch of cows to shag. I bet Junior would like it there.

So yeah, much like Junior I'm stuck on this resort for a work trip without a car and very little to amuse myself but television, alcohol and the book I brought with me. The good news is that I get to leave on Thursday and I don't have big horns.

Anna and I found out yesterday that we get to move into the apartment we want on 12.29, so we'll ring in the new year in our new place. I'll be the father of three felines. Life is good.

Thanks for playing.

Catching Up Part 4

2006-12-03T10:19:00.000-08:00

The Target Chicken

Anna and I recently went on a little shopping trip to Target in the nearby farm town that actually has a Target (our liberal little college down has a thing against large discount retailers).  We were driving through the parking lot, congested with holiday shopping traffic, looking for a space when we saw a chicken.  I do not usually see chickens in the parking lots of large discount retailer stores, but Anna confirmed that yes, she saw it too.  Either we were sharing identical hallucinations, or there was, in fact, a chicken in the Target parking lot.  We laughed as we found this funny and decided that it must be photographed.  I parked the car and retrieved the camera from my man purse.  We headed off to find the chicken in the next lane over where we had last seen it.

A woman in a large sport utility vehicle stopped next to us.  "Are you gonna catch that chicken?"

I didn't take my eyes off the chicken -- it was moving away from us and I didn't want to lose it -- I found it difficult to line up a shot on a moving chicken, but I'm not the most experienced photographer in the world.  "No, but I'm going to photograph it."  I replied out of the side of my mouth.

"There's a chicken over there!"  The woman replied.

I'm not sure where this woman learned to communicate, but I'm led to believe that she could have been taught better.  Let's review the exchange:

1) The woman inquired as to whether we were going to attempt to capture the chicken
2) I replied that no, we were not going to attempt to capture the chicken, but rather to photograph it -- nowhere during this exchange did I say "What chicken?" or anything else to indicate that I was not aware of the presence of the chicken.
3) Despite providing the woman with serious reason to believe that I was aware of the presence of the chicken she still cries out: "There's a chicken over there!"

My goodness.

That is all.

Thanks for playing.

Catching Up Part 3

2006-11-01T14:56:00.000-08:00

The Last Guy to Get on the Plane

I recently flew to Atlanta for yet another business trip.

I am a man with long hair. I possess a fair amount of pride and vanity about my hair. I don’t appreciate it when my hair is threatened. This is a story about my flight to Atlanta and how my hair came to be threatened.

I was recently granted some sort of metallic elite status on a certain major airline. This metallic elite status provides me with certain privileges such as standing in the shorter metallic elite lines, getting on the plane first and free upgrades to business or first class when they are available.

On this particular trip to Atlanta, I was upgraded to first class, but alas, my second leg found me in steerage class with the rest of my ilk (I actually don’t mind this so much – I feel a little like an imposter in First Class – like they’re going to throw me out any second). My first leg was a redeye during which I slept almost the entire time.

Apparently I had not slept enough as when I sat in my steerage class seat on the aisle I fell immediately asleep. I was woken up some time later by The Last Guy to Get on the Plane. He had apparently been assigned to the middle seat in my row. I could tell that he was The Last Guy to Get on the Plane because nobody else was getting on the plane. I stood, groggily, to let him sit down and just as I did this, he reached up to check the overhead bin to see if there was room for his carry-on – the fact that all the overhead bins were closed clued me in to the fact that The Last Guy to Get on the Plane had been late – I have a problem with tardiness – especially when it wakes me up. I have a problem with tardiness – especially when it threatens my hair. His reaching past my head to open the overhead bin caused a draft that caused my hair to fly up in the back. He must have noticed that the bin was full because he slammed it down quickly, catching my hair in the overhead bin. I knew it had happened. I tilted my head forward slightly and confirmed that yes, my hair was indeed caught in the overhead bin. I looked at the man and he was looking at me – “Oh – I’m sorry…,” he said, reaching up to open the bin. I held up a hand, indicating that he should stop. “Don’t,” I said. “Just don’t.” I reached up behind me, opened the bin and released my hair.

The Last Guy to Get on the Plane put his carry-on in the bin opposite and moved quickly past me to take his middle seat. I sat down and went right back to sleep. I had not been out very long when the The Last Guy to Get on the Plane tapped me on the shoulder. I opened my eyes. We were flying. If looks could kill I’m sure mine would have eviscerated this poor man where he sat, causing a river of blood to fill the plane. “Hey,” he said, pointing over my shoulder. “There’s a whole row of empty seats over there! I’m gonna move.” I did not speak. My look did not soften. I stood and watched him move, ready to commit air rage at the slightest threat to my hair. He completed the move without incident. I sat down and returned to sleep.

Thanks for playing.

Catching Up Part 2

2006-10-30T11:07:00.000-08:00

Reno, NV: Land of Used Car Lots and Fat People Who Smoke

I had the recent misfortune to work a conference in Reno, NV, the Biggest Little City in the World. Once I had set up the Cyber Cafe, I took a little hike toward a coffee place I found online that was not a Starbucks and not inside one of the casinos. It took me about fifteen minutes of walking past many used car lots to get there. I arrived at 3:30 PM. They closed at 4. I did not see trying to order a drink, write something, and get out of there in thirty minutes. I turned around, walking back by most of the used car lots that I had passed on the way.

One used car lot had a bunch of people, sales people, men and women, young and old, but mostly young men. I heard one of them - he seemed the least like a salesperson - more like some random guy who hangs out at a used car lot - maybe the neighbor of one of the salespeople who hangs around hoping for an odd job to make some quick cash - he drank from an enormous convenience store cup - maybe purchased with money earned from some odd job given to him by his neighbor the salesperson - maybe he washed a bunch of windshields and used the money to purchase an enormous convenience store cup full of convenience store beverage. I was just walking by, so I can only speculate.

This guy looked out at the intersection to see that a woman waiting at the red light drove a red Ferrari convertible. "Damn," he said. "You know that bitch got money! With that Ferrari and shit!" He jumped and ran several steps in a semi-circle as he said this. He was younger than me, possibly younger than twenty-five, but certainly older than twenty-one. He wore bright, clean, white, expensive-looking sneakers, pressed, sharply-creased khaki pants and a sky blue polo shirt, its collar standing straight up. He had spiky hair. Maybe he had a meth habit. Maybe I should mind my own business and not write about the random people I see on Reno used car lots.

Very near this used car lot was a dive bar called Floyd's Fireside Chat. If any regulars at Floyd's are reading this, please know that I use the term dive bar with much affection. I love dive bars and seek them out in any town I travel to. Floyd's was totally my kind of place; dark and quiet, where people go to drink, but they're friendly and they don't take themselves too seriously.

Three guys sat along one end of the bar, all drinking light-colored beers. Two were long-hairs, one just slightly older than me. The third guy had a full goatee and a widow's peak. He wore navy blue coveralls with a company logo embroidered over the left breast pocket - I couldn't make out the logo from where I sat around the corner and several stools down on the bar. All three of them seemed like smart, working-class guys. I suspect at least two of them were electricians. The guys were trading work war stories. "The day I catch somebody's house on fire is the day I get out of the electricity business," the older long-hair started. He went on to tell about the experience of another acquaintance, who was not in the bar, who had set somebody's roof on fire while doing some wiring work. Apparently he had slid down the ladder and gone running. "It looked like a cartoon!" The man said this while pumping his arms in the manner of his cartoonish, fleeing acquaintance. I smiled at this, enjoying the story.

I ordered a shot of Jim Beam and a pint of Michelob Amber Bock. Apparently they just changed the keg and the pint came out extra foamy, so rather than mess around with it, the bartender gave me the foamy pint with half a pitcher of foamy Michelob Amber Bock. I sipped the whiskey while the beer settled and then the association manager called to tell me that the Internet Cafe was all fucked up - the stupid Speak & Spell machines had struck again. I chugged the rest of the beer and went running back to the resort.

Anna showed up later and we had a fun weekend, both sincerely and ironically, in the Biggest Little City in the World.

Thanks for playing.

Catching Up Part 1

2006-10-21T05:17:00.000-07:00

I haven't posted in a while, so I thought I would dig around in some email and some paper notebooks for some stuff I'd like to share about my recent travels and such. Here you go...

BoyJake's Slightly Less Than Gay Experience in Portland

I found this in an email I sent to a friend. I don't think she'll mind if I use it here...

I am in Portland now and it’s okay. Today was the first day I really had to work. I’ve been bumming around downtown Portland, mostly eating at restaurants and sitting the Black Rooster café reading, writing and doing sudoku puzzles. I ate at a gay bar and grill the other night. I didn’t know it was a gay place until I sat down – I just thought the techno was a little loud. Then I noticed that everybody else in the place was young, male, fit, fashionable and very well groomed. I was the chubbiest, most unkempt person in the place. The kid behind the bar shook his ass the whole time he was pouring my shot and beer.

I wasn’t positive the place was gay until I saw following three things:

1) Rainbow Bud Light beer tap handle

2) Chalkboard that said “COME BLOW your WAD on cheap booze!”

3) Video monitors with constant running loop of commercials for gaydarguys.com featuring scantily-glad boys dancing in clubs.

Everybody was really nice to me and the chicken strips weren’t bad. I felt a little guilty feeling uncomfortable – mostly hating the idea that anybody might hit on me and having to explain that I’m straight, yet am hanging out in a gay place – I don’t want to seem deceptive. Then again, after I left, I was a little disappointed that I didn’t get hit on. I guess I’m just impossible to please.

The photo is some public art that I saw in Portland and liked. That is all for now. Thanks for playing.

Boyjake's Last Day in Amsterdam

2006-09-27T16:22:00.000-07:00

I've been home for a couple of days now and I'm ready to share stories of my recent travels.

After breakfast with the the Boss I walked to the Rijksmuseum where I paid for the artistic (as opposed to historic) audio tour narrated by the prolific Dutch character actor Jeroen Krabbé and wandered through the maze of Dutch masters, all the way through the Rembrandts and Vermeers. I actually got a little teary looking at Vermeer's Street in Delft (see photo) but I don't know why. It may have been a combination of jetlag and missing my woman. After my tour of the Rijksmuseum I jumped on a tram heading toward Centraal Station, paid my 1,60 Euro and road to Dam Square where I bummed around for a while just trying to get my bearings.

I ducked into the first little coffee shop I found. A young blonde woman sat behind the counter smoking a regular old tobacco cigarette. She pointed at the cannabis menu sitting on the counter. I saw a large airtight plastic cake box on the counter in front of which was a sign that read: SLICE CAKE: 5 Euro. I suppose I should have confirmed that there was hash in the cake, but I figured there must be at 5 Euro a slice so I ordered one with a cup of tea and sat watching the Middle Eastern youths at the table nearby rolling regular tobacco cigarettes (all cannabis smoking seemed to take place in a room upstairs).

A couple came in - a young black man and a short, thin, attractive olive-skinned woman. It did not take them long to choose a bag of weed, grab some rolling papers and head upstairs. A guy and two girls (I suspect they were Dutch) came in, reviewed the menu and discussed what to buy. They knew what they wanted, but were disappointed to find out that it only came in 2.5 gram bags as they didn't need that much. They eventually grabbed it up anyway with some rolling papers and went upstairs. One girl stopped on the way and bought a slice of cake.

When I finished my tea I left in search of the Red Light District. I got a little lost, but eventually found my way. I walked up one prostitute alley and down another, noticing that most of the windows were empty (it was Sunday afternoon after all), but there were still plenty of women to choose from if that's what one was there for. I was not. Satisfied that I could say that I strolled in Amsterdam's Red Light District, I jumped on the tram back to the hotel where I noticed that my face felt a little numb and I caught myself wondering in a mildly paranoid way if everybody on the tram knew I was stoned. That's how I knew I was stoned. I reminded myself that I was in Amsterdam and it didn't matter in the least. I giggled.

Thanks for playing.

Bored in Amsterdam

2006-09-15T07:19:00.000-07:00

I know it must be difficult to believe, but I am bored in Amsterdam. This happens on all work trips. I get stuck sitting in the Internet Café doing my best to make sure that the conference attendees can get to their email, while life in one of the coolest cities in the world continues outside.

Wednesday night I set up the Internet Café in the middle of the night, not getting back to my room until 2:30 AM. I was restless and didn’t get to sleep until 4:30. I rose at 6 in order to get some breakfast before I needed to be back at the venue to make sure the computers were ready for the first day of the conference. I don’t usually run around on only ninety minutes of sleep and there are several reasons why that is a good thing.

The first major reason is that I lose all sense of humor and become really difficult to get along with – especially if you are a stranger – more especially if you are a stranger who wants something from me and are trying to get it in a manner that is less than polite.

This one lady sat in the café for two hours bitching about how slow the computers are. I will admit it. My company sends me out in the world with a bunch of clunky machines with the processing power of your average Speak and Spell and they are slow. I have been instrumental in the movement to change this and we are purchasing new machines soon. This is not helpful to me now and I must endure the bitching. I can almost sort of see complaining quickly, acknowledging that I either cannot, or will not improve the situation and moving on with one’s life. I don’t understand sitting there, continuing to live with the source of that which makes you bitch and continuing to bitch for two solid hours. Or maybe I can. I continued to live with the woman I am legally married to for far longer than I really should have…but I digress.

So this woman bitched for two solid hours and several times it occurred to me that I wanted to invite her out for Thai food just for the opportunity to plunge a chopstick into her eye. I’m thinking the left one. I’m thinking I would hear a satisfying POP followed by some squishy sort of sound.

When 4 PM rolled around I was thinking I was about free and began to pick up my stuff. One of the boss’s pals came around and asked if he could use my machine to show a friend something on his USB drive (the Speak and Spell machines won’t recognize a USB drive). As it was one of the boss’s pals I acquiesced and hoped it would be short. It was not short. It was long. It was vacation photos from Guatemala. I almost invited the man out for Thai food. Get a fucking Flickr account, you savage.

When I finally got back to the room I realized that I have only a few nights left in Amsterdam and that my plan to catch an early dinner at the hotel and go straight to bed was a bad one. I pulled out one of my guidebooks and tried to find a cool restaurant. I began to nod off almost immediately. I changed my clothes and went downstairs to the hotel restaurant where I found a bar full of the dudes from the European Forklift Convention. I saw no host type person who could seat me quickly and there was no getting anywhere near the bar. My internal processor couldn’t move as fast as a Speak and Spell so I needed to pause and think for a bit about what options I had. I was considering muscling up to the bar, ordering a glass of wine and asking what one had to do to get some food when I saw a short, round man sitting on the edge of a stool to my left. He had his back to the bar, putting himself on display. This man gave off a vibe that told me he wanted people to look at him. He smoked like people in French movies - I’ve never been to France so I don’t know if people actually smoke this way there – cigarette clutched between thumb and forefinger, palm up. He smoked with the face of a man getting a really good blowjob. He was ecstatic. I knew that if stood there and watched the man much longer I would end up hurting him. I returned to my room.

I gathered my things into my man purse (camera, notebook, something to read) and ventured out, past the convention center, up Ferdinand Bol Street until I found another little Italian-type café. The women that helped me were Dutch. I had mediocre lamb chops washed down with a couple of glasses of mediocre red wine. I ate outside, watching all of the shiny happy Dutch people ride by on their bicycles and I loved every second of it – except the woozy drowsiness that set in after the salad before the lamb came. I had to catch my head before it crashed into the tabletop.

After dinner I walked back to the hotel, stopping at the Night Store for a candy bar and a fizzy citrus drink. A pretty black and orange cat lounged around by the candy bars and I squatted down to pet her. She rubbed herself against my hand and legs, seemingly enjoying our little encounter as much as I did. She (Anna told me that all cats with that sort of coloring are female – I didn’t investigate further) wore a little red string for a collar and I wonder if she isn’t some sort of Kabala Kitty. I don’t even know what that would mean.

Back at the room I read three lines and fell asleep. It was 7 PM. I woke at 10:30, read for an hour and went back to sleep, rising at 5:00 to shower and call Anna. I’ve endured another day in the Internet Café and am about to leave to prepare for dinner at Café Cobra near the Rijksmuseum. Afterwards maybe I can take the tram into the city proper to find a coffee shop and perhaps stroll around the Red Light District for some proper Amsterdam people watching. I think I’m done being bored in Amsterdam.

Thanks for playing.

Photo Credit: I stole this from The Personal Web Site of Heidi Valtonen -- apparently she took it in Amsterdam (Ms. Valtonen: If you stumble upon this and would prefer that I not use your work here, please let me know and I will remove it promptly. Thanks!)

BoyJake Types from Amsterdam

2006-09-13T13:42:00.000-07:00

I arrived in Amsterdam yesterday after an eight-hour flight during which I watched The Da Vinci Code (boring but not nearly as bad as I expected) and slept. I was disappointed to find out that Amsterdam keeps its convention center and its Holiday Inn at the far southern end of town and I couldn't even find myself on any of the tourist maps I brought with me. I mostly worked and slept this first day, waking up to call Anna (Brenda's name is Anna and I don't care if this gives me away - even if anybody I don't want to read this comes across this forum they're going to figure out who I am anyway and Anna dislikes being known as Brenda, so there) -- I miss her terribly and it was good to talk to her as always.

I eventually showered, changed and wandered out, knowing only which way was North and that was the way I wanted to go. I knew I was hungry and the Holiday Inn restaurant looked a little fancy for my mood so I took a brief detour south to the nearby Novotel where I had some mediocre pasta washed down with a mediocre glass of red wine. I headed North and marched past the convention center into a hip little neighborhood with lots of restaurants -- just the sort of area I should have waited to dine in. I photographed a canal and kept walking until I was about three miles from the hotel. My stomach cramped up a bit as the pasta did not agree with me and I decided to head home. As I passed a "Night Store" I remembered that I needed a toothbrush. I picked out a fizzy orange drink of the type that I always enjoy while in Europe and a candy bar. The Night Store kept the toothbrushes behind the counter, displayed in packs of two or six, available in three levels of bristle firmness: soft, medium, and hard. I asked if it would be possible to purchase one medium bristle toothbrush and the proprietor stared at the display. He eventually decided that he would be happy to sell me one hard bristle toothbrush as it was available in a package of six and he had no problem opening a package of six, but all of soft and medium brushes were available only in packages of two. I paid for my hard bristle brush and the other items and returned to my room to sleep.

Today I got up, had breakfast in the hotel restaurant, lingering over a sudoku puzzle before returning to the room to read my email and tie up a few more loose ends at work. My boss arrived this morning and he called after a bit inviting me to go see the city with him. I explained that I wanted to shop for Anna's birthday present and he was fine with that.

The Boss had already figured out how the Tram system around here works, so we hopped on one and rode to the Central Station which is very near Kalverstraat, a big shopping district. We walked all the way down Kalverstraat and I found nothing appropriate for Anna, so we moved onto a canal boat tour. This city is beautiful. I don't know what else to say.

After the boat tour we returned to the hotel. I took a long nap after which I went out for dinner at a nearby pizza place. I was the only one sitting inside as the outside scene consisted of painfully hip Dutch kids with all of their inherent blondeness and cigarettes -- I just didn't feel comfortable out there. I think the family that runs the place are Sicilian transplants, but they all spoke Dutch to each other. When I asked for the bill, the young English-speaking girl that had been waiting on me was not available and her older brother ended up bringing it to me. He set it down on the table and threw a big stream of Dutch my way, ending with the subtle uplift at the end indicating that he was asking a question. I, of course, had no idea what the hell he said and there was a time this would have worried me. "I'm sorry, I don't speak Dutch," I said. "It's okay," he said, nodding and walking away. It's good that it was okay, because I'm not sure how I would have learned Dutch in time to pay the bill properly. I somehow managed.

Now I'm back in my room killing some time until I can set up the Internet cafe. They won't let me in until 11:30 PM and I find that to be particularly savage. Oh well.

Thanks for playing.

BoyJake Feels Much Better Today

2006-09-07T17:16:00.000-07:00

I'm finding that I'm feeling much better to day and it doesn't seem to have anything to do with bowling or beer in that I've experienced neither today. But I like the picture so there it is.

My buddy Vic had me over for his wife's birthday party last night. It was all about good friends and good food; definitely a swell way to forget about a crappy day.

I was reasonably productive at work today and Brenda returns home tonight. So yeah, I feel much better. So there.

I'm going away to see about making some dinner for my woman.

Thanks for playing.

BoyJake’s Overwhelming, Raw and Angry Day

2006-09-06T17:00:00.000-07:00

Now that my time in the desert is over, I have returned to the office to find that there is much more work than I think I can realistically complete before leaving for Amsterdam on Monday without a complete mental collapse.

Yesterday I found out that my direct supervisor asked one of my co-workers some questions about me that I really would have preferred he just ask me directly. It doesn’t really matter what it was about – I’m just questioning whether or not I should continue to trust him. I once trusted him as much as I’ve ever trusted anybody so this stings pretty fuckin’ bad. I tried to call him about it today (he works remote from the Midwest) but he didn’t answer his phone and his instant messenger away note has been up all day.

I woke up raw about this today, but didn’t think it was all that big a deal. I drove to work only to get there and find that I left my computer at home and would need to drive all the way back to retrieve it.

When I got back to work, computer in tow, I found that the office had no Internet connection and the tech dorks couldn’t figure out what was wrong with it. The office had no Internet connection for a big chunk of the morning. This made it difficult for me to do my job, causing me to feel even rawer than before.

Last night I left a phone message for the woman I am still legally married to requesting that she call me back to discuss the possibility of us moving forward with divorce proceedings. The woman I am legally married to does not like to talk to me. She does not like to talk to me in person. She does not like to talk to me by phone. I can’t imagine that she really likes to communicate with me by email, but it seems that whenever (not very damn often) I leave her a voice mail message, she responds by email. This infuriates me. It takes forever to take care of the simplest thing when communicating with her by email. In my voicemail message of last night, I expressly requested that she return my phone call even though I know that she prefers to communicate by email. She responded with an email saying that she’s really glad that I want to communicate by email. This makes me want to bludgeon baby seals in a very raw way.

I got hungry around 11 AM and decided that some Redneck Bob’s tacos would cheer me up. I got in my car and promptly backed into the driver’s side fender of some old lady’s big gold Ford. She has a gigantic dent. My bumper is a bit scraped and not attached as well as it once was, but it’s an old car and I’m finding it hard to give a shit. I gave the old lady my insurance information and left to get my tacos. Today there was a different Taco Man and he didn’t think he was funny. He also had no baby seals. This was good for him. This was good for the baby seals.

The tacos didn’t do much to cheer me up so I continued to pound away at my work stuff until it was time to go to my massage appointment. I had ninety minutes of good, caring touching and stretching. I should have gone straight the fuck home after that and called in sick for the afternoon, but I fucked up and went back. I got to the office and I had a bunch of stupid voicemail from a bunch of retarded fuckheads and all of the tension returned to my body. Every bit of it. And probably some tension that wasn’t there before. I think I might break my keyboard from typing too hard. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

I feel a bit better having vented here. I think I might return home now to write a bit, do some laundry, pine for Brenda (she’s away on a school retreat) and sip on some beer, or whiskey, or both. Just in case, you might want to lock up your baby seals. Lock them the fuck up.

Thanks for playing.

BoyJake Went to the Desert

2006-09-05T17:10:00.000-07:00

I went on a writing retreat in the desert of southern Utah last week. This is one of the things I wrote:

Yesterday this land made me feel small; all of the space I coul never hope to fill seemed more than anything like something that wanted to swallow me whole, to absorb me, to strip me of any individuality or worth, to take away everything I have and could ever hope to have.

I have trouble with smallness these days, with that scared little boy inside me. I have spent a lot of time growing into myself, fighting for what I have, taking up the space I need for myself and refusing to let it go. I never thought a place, even a place as vast as this one could feel like my father, threatening me with size and power that I do not possess, my only survival choice to be to fit into the space allotted for me.

As I drove through this place yesterday, the tears obscured my vision and I pulled over at the first turnout I found, stepping to the edge of the sand where I saw the bleached ribcages of two dog-sized animals and I wondered how small they felt in their last moments. I took a few steps forward, thinking that I might touch the bones, to feel them and learn something maybe, but the slope, steep and sandy, seemed unforgiving and I wasn't ready to risk, even a little bit, giving myself up to the desert, so I stayed, wiping my eyes and breathing deeply as possible, trying to be as big as I could be.

Enough with the Humor, Taco Man

2006-08-25T11:52:00.000-07:00

I got hungry around 11 this morning. This did not surprise me as I had eaten only a granola bar and an apple for breakfast. I was at a good stopping place in the work I get paid for, so I got in the car and drove in a direction I don’t normally drive in search of food. I was vaguely aware of a new set of eating establishments that opened recently on the edge of my little college town. I wanted to see what was available. I found a new outlet of a local taco chain – nothing Mexican at all about the name; I’ll just call them Redneck Bob’s as they are not paying me for advertising. When I worked in the nearby industrial town I would often frequent this chain and though I don’t normally consider myself a real fast food kind of guy, I will admit that they’ve got some pretty darn good tacos – nice and basic, heavy on the grease.

I rolled up to their drive through speaker box and some Redneck Bob’s employee’s voice mumbled something unintelligible. I told the yellow speaker box that I would like to purchase three of their basic greasy tacos. The Redneck Bob’s employee in the yellow speaker box mumbled something unintelligible that I took to be the amount of money I would owe after driving to the next window. I drove to the next window. A middle-aged man in a Redneck Bob’s polo shirt waited for me, framed by the little glass windows that I knew would swing shut after he took my money.

“How much did you say it was?”

“Ten ninety-nine,” he said completely straight-faced.

“For three tacos?” I did not raise my voice, but I raised an eyebrow, allowing a bit of annoyance to creep through.

The Taco Man smiled a gigantic funny Taco Man smile. “How about four forty-nine?”

I handed him a twenty dollar bill. He gave me change. I counted the change.

Maybe my sense of humor was off because I was hungry. That could very well be. But when I’m sitting in a fast food drive through I want quick, efficient, courteous service with a smile. I don’t need comedy. I really don’t need bad comedy. I just need tacos. That is all. Thanks for playing.

(Not that I update this forum very frequently at all under the best of circumstances, but I feel the need to say that it is unlikely there will be any posting of any sort during the week of August 28, 2006 as I will be on a writing retreat in the Middle of Nowhere, USA.)

BoyJake Is a Novelist

2006-08-15T16:47:00.000-07:00

While still in Vancouver, I completed the first draft of my novel. I returned home and over the course of a couple of days typed the last five chapters and printed everything out so I could hold it and gaze upon it. The manuscript weighs in at 217 8.5" X 11" pages. It feels good. Now I get to take a break from the thing and get back on some short stories and screenplays.

Thanks for playing.

Please Don’t Take the Chairs, You Savages

2006-08-08T08:20:00.000-07:00

My company sponsors Internet cafés for a very specific group of medical professionals. Internet cafés require tables and chairs – preferably one chair for each Internet station. Yesterday I found that my fellow exhibitors are savages who are too lazy to go find their own chairs – and they are shameless about it. Did I mention that they’re savages? They are. Savages, that is.

I came down early to finish setting up and I found a very helpful hotel worker who got me the chairs I needed. I did what I needed to do and I went upstairs to put on proper work attire (as opposed jeans and a t-shirt) and my game face. I came down to find that I was missing two chairs. I wandered around until I found another uniformed gentleman who was happy to bring me some more chairs. I had barely sat one down when the guy in the booth next to mine grabbed it and took it to his booth.

“Excuse me, sir!” I said, loud enough for him to hear, but trying to be polite.

“Don’t worry, I’ll bring it right back,” he said in a thick Jersey accent.

He didn’t bring it right back. He didn’t bring it back at all. I found another uniformed gentleman who brought me another chair.

I overheard another exhibitor, a woman, ask another exhibitor about where she might acquire a chair. I saw him point over to where I sat at the Internet café. The woman walked over and grabbed a chair.

“Excuse me, ma’am. We need those for the Internet café,” I said, as politely as I could.

“Well, somebody suggested that I get my chair from here,” she said, like I was some sort of asshole who should honor the suggestions of everybody no matter how asinine.

“I wish he hadn’t,” I said, no longer trying to disguise my frustration.

I always think of the cool thing to say too late. I should have said: “So if I suggest that you fellate me in the mens room, that’s gonna happen too?” I didn’t say that. I’m not that quick.

Thanks for playing.

BoyJake Types from Vancouver

2006-08-07T08:21:00.000-07:00

This is me recommending Canada - Vancouver anyway. I've been here less than forty-eight hours and I'm already in love with this place. It's like Minneapolis, but it feels bigger to me - it's not - Vancouver is only 44 square miles to Minneapolis's 58.4 (thanks, Wikipedia). It's cleaner than any U.S. city I've ever been in (sorry, Minneapolis) and everybody up here seems to be in a good mood. For once I'm glad that a people are living up to their stereotype - these Canadians are pretty damn polite. The assholes up here are really nice people and even the ugly people are beautiful. I may never leave.

I got up, got some Canadian cash out of the hotel's machine and wandered out in search of a coffee house where I might work on my novel. I didn't get far before I found a diner and my stomach usurped my literary intentions in favor of French toast - but truth and beauty on the page must be fueled by something - it might as well be fried egg bread and maple syrup. Sufficiently nourished I took a long walk down Georgia street where the only independent (i.e. not Starbucks) coffee outlet I found was closed...so I kept walking. I walked until I found a Starbucks. I learned about the existence of Canada's two dollar coin when I thoughtlessly tossed my coins in the tip cube and realized that I gave my sweet Starbucks barista a 100% tip. The good news is that it's just Canadian money.

I finished Chapter 22 and started Chapter 23. When I found myself with writer's cramp I decided to move on back toward to the hotel. I stopped at a Canadian chain drugstore (the name escapes me, but signs all over the place said "Proud to be a Canadian company!") where I bought some pens (I was running out of ink) and three KitKat Dark bars - I don't know if they even still sell KitKat Dark in the states - I haven't seen it if they do - I'll pretend I'm treating myself to something special.

On the way back I took a different route along the harbor where I found a few non-Starbucks cafes that I may try out before I leave. I took a nap and Brenda called to chat for a bit. That's always a swell way to wake up.

I'm supposed to set up our tradeshow booth in about an hour, but that won't take long.

The photo is a public art bear statue - there are different themed ones all over Vancouver and I like them.

Thanks for playing.

Living Room Picnic

2006-08-01T16:16:00.000-07:00

Today I'm finding life to be good and pleasingly uneventful. The recent highlight was a swell European style living room picnic with Brenda Sunday night after I returned from Chi-town (I never got into the city proper - just ended up stuck out by the airport with the company people). I came up with the idea on the plane. I would go to our local fancy grocery store and get the best bread, cheeses, meats, berries, grapes, wine and chocolate they had to offer and spread it out for us on the floor of my living room.

Brenda was headed to the lab when I landed and would be hard at work for several hours. She liked my idea so when I got to town I headed straight for the fancy grocery store and stocked up on what I would need. Brenda brought over one of her favorite movies, Moulin Rouge. I'm not normally a musical sort of guy, but I dug this movie a lot. The colors, visuals, music and story stirred me and experiencing this with all of the great food and the company of this beautiful woman that I love made for a very special evening.

So yeah, I was thinking that not enough had happened for me to make a whole post out of recent events, so I was going to write about my recent trip to Ireland. I'm not going to do that now. Instead I'm going to head out to meet my writing group (they're critiquing chapter 21 of my novel tonight). The photograph is one I took on the Antrim coast of Northern Ireland in April.

Thanks for playing.

Brenda Has Chosen Me

2006-07-28T12:08:00.000-07:00

"Follow me reader! Who ever told you there is no such thing in the world as real, true, everlasting love? May the liar have his despicable tongue cut out!

Follow me, my reader, and only me and I'll show you that kind of love!

No! The Master was mistaken that night in the hospital when just after midnight, he told Ivan bitterly that she had forgotten him. That could never be. Of course she hadn't forgotten him."

-From The Master and Margarita by Mikhail Bulgakov

Brenda didn't forget about me. She called last night and she's figured out the things she needed to figure out and we are together. Well, technically I am in Chicago and she is in California where I left her for this work thing, but we were together last night and I have every confidence that we will be together again when I return. I don't know what this will do to my journey toward self-actualization, but I suppose I can take that up with MHP (my mental health professional) on Monday. Besides, if you compare Maslow's pyramid with the USDA food pyramid, self-actualization is just that little triangle at the top - like the little sliver devoted to fats. Most people should do without it. How's that for a rationalization?

The photograph is one that I took on New Year's eve a couple of years ago from the window of an apartment overlooking the Borgo San Lorenzo in Florence, Italy. I celebrated that night. I celebrate now.

This is me hoping for a swell Chi-town adventure tonight involving deep-dish pizza and good blues.

Thanks for playing.

I Wrote to Brenda

2006-07-27T14:19:00.000-07:00

I wrote an email to Brenda today, mostly just letting her know that I will be in Chicago for a work thing over the weekend, but that I will be back Sunday afternoon. I also mentioned that I still love her and that I hope it still matters.

That was more than five hours ago. Brenda has not responded. I am not surprised, but I am disappointed. Brenda's job as a research assistant at the university does not keep her chained to a computer like mine does and she almost never checks her email.

I think I saw her riding her bike toward downtown this morning. But it was earlier than she is usually awake. And she wouldn't normally be taking that route. And I'm probably obsessed right now.

So I'm going to leave work and go work on my novel. Then I'll go home and do laundry. Then I will sleep. Then I will fly to Chicago in a plane as I am not capable of flying without benefit of an airline ticket.

(The photograph is one I took last year. It is Exit Glacier near Seward, AK. It has nothing to do with anything.)

Thanks for playing.

Slightly Less Pathetic Than Yesterday

2006-07-26T16:43:00.000-07:00

In the slightly less than six months since I left my wife, I have managed to fall in love and get my heart broken. Brenda (not her real name) is a woman I met at the coffee house where I used to (but might again someday) hang out. We started spending time together as friends in that she had (has?) a boyfriend but quickly found ourselves in bed together. I had never planned to be the "other man", but I guess since it happened I can cross it off the list.

I was out of town on business last week and Brenda's man (a jealous psychopath) decided to check her phone records and he found out that we have been talking even though she promised him that she would stay away from me. (I realize I'm leaving a lot out here - sorry.) Things got ugly and Brenda has asked me not to call or seek contact with her while she "figures some things out." I've complied with her wishes but I hate it a lot.

Saturday was the worst. I spent most of the evening lying on my bed listening to sad music and crying. I would normally consider myself to be reasonably masculine and not too emo, but nothing about this scene was the least little bit dignified or male.

Last night I cleaned up my place and invited my neighbors, a cool young couple over to watch a movie. We picked Where the Buffalo Roam, featuring Bill Murray as Hunter S. Thompson. We laughed a ton and drank three bottles of red between us.

I woke up with a minor hangover but without the major Brenda ache that I've been walking around with since she asked for some space. I still miss her and if she were to call today I can't imagine not welcoming her back into my life, but for now most of the sting seems to be gone.

I got to work and ate some ibuprofen and sucked down a couple of real Cokes with real sugar (I never drink real Coke). Just when my stomach was ready for some food Natalie (a wicked cool woman that I work with) showed up with a big sack of Arby's junior roast beef sandwiches. I ate three of those bad boys. They were my salvation.

So yeah, I'm slightly less pathetic than yesterday and that's a nice place to be. I'm writing a novel. I think I'm gonna go work on that now.

Thanks for playing.