5/31/07
5/24/07
5/20/07
The Colonel
Have you ever thought you knew something, then out of the blue that knowledge turned out to be false? For the longest time Jess has told a story about when she was eight years old and would go to the dog track in New Hampshire. At this track the lure that the dogs chased was called “The Colonel”. So since this was the only dog racing track she had ever been to she thought that all lures at all dog tracks were called “The Colonel”. I have never been to a dog race, so when she relayed this story to me the idea of all dog racing lures being called “The Colonel” seemed reasonable to me. For seven years I have lived with this notion. When ever we would be following someone we would say, “There goes The Colonel!” During the last visit with the friends that would take Jessie to the dog track, the subject came up in conversation. They asked what a Colonel was and Jessie said that is what the dog racing lures were called. Our friends laughed and said that is what that particular track's lure was called, not all dog racing lures.
I'm EXTREMELY anti dog racing. In researching for the proper name for the thing the dogs chase I found this gem on the Greyhound Racing Association of America website.
Oh yeah, I'm sure they just absolutely love it. Idiots.
I'm EXTREMELY anti dog racing. In researching for the proper name for the thing the dogs chase I found this gem on the Greyhound Racing Association of America website.
The Most Exciting Dogs in the World:
Look at the muscles and see the excitement in their eyes! You don’t get that kind of power by sitting around in a crate or being a “couch potato.” You get muscles like that from exercise. You get the energy to run from good nourishment provided by a good trainer. You get a shiny coat from being washed and groomed.
Remember: Nobody forces Greyhounds to run. As anyone who raises them can tell you, that’s impossible. Greyhounds are as opinionated and different from each other as we are – and if there was a way to make them run like we want them to, we would have figured it out long ago!
Greyhounds aren’t horses with riders on their backs telling them what to do. They are not African cheetahs running after gazelles because they are starving. Greyhounds are running for the sheer love of it!
Oh yeah, I'm sure they just absolutely love it. Idiots.
5/18/07
Yeah, I want it thin. You got a problem with that?
When you think of the deli counter at a supermarket, what do you think of? Glorious rows of meat, cheese and fried delicacies? If your a vegetarian maybe you see a farm animal funeral home with cheese as the finger food for the wakes of the dead animals. I see one thing, grumpy deli counter workers.
What is is about these people? Why are they so pissed? I must admit, it would suck to have their job, but does it require a almost universal attitude of fuck you? Each deli has it own variant of this attitude.
My favorite deli is at the Fred Meyer in Ballard. These guys take it to another level. If you are not prepared to ask for one of the pre-sliced items, you are in for some fun. First you order, “I would like 3/4 of a pound of the Private Selections Oven Roasted Turkey Breast please.” They then look down at the array of pre-sliced items and once realizing that it was not there you would get the “Look.” The Look means “Great, I've got another slicer!” You also get the Look from the rest of the workers at the same time. Deli workers seem to be able to communicate telepathically, “Warning, we have a Slicer in our midst.”
Once you are pegged as a Slicer you are completely screwed. They must have the security cam people print out photos of Slicers and post them up in the prep area out of sight. Mine would say, “Generally likes, Thinly sliced turkey. Sometimes orders roast beef and black forest ham. Beware likes to have cheese sliced very thin.”
As you walk up to the counter you will first encounter what I call the “Ignore.” Suddenly things need to get done in the prep area away from the counter. Acting like you are not there, they will refuse to make eye contact while acting super busy. Then once you have waited the union mandated “Slicer wait time” they come to the counter. If there are other people waiting they will always try to help them first. So after you have spoken up for yourself you get the “Stare”, the “Stare” is all about trying to intimidate you into not having your order sliced.
So you place your order, “1/2 a pound of the roast beef please, thinly sliced.” After placing your order they will always try to sell you something that is pre-sliced. What follows after declining the pre-sliced item is a long pause, then a sigh and finally they relent. Now you might think that once you have ordered you are safe. Oh no my friend, this is the time that you have to be the most alert. There is only one way they have to get back at “Slicers” in a deli workers mind and that is cutting your order so thin, that you can see through it. What they do is position their bodies so you can not see how thin they are cutting it. So what you end up doing is running up and down the counter trying to find the best angle. Once you nicely say, “please, not that thin” you will get it the way you want.
That my friends is what it is like at the deli counters of the Seattle.
What is is about these people? Why are they so pissed? I must admit, it would suck to have their job, but does it require a almost universal attitude of fuck you? Each deli has it own variant of this attitude.
My favorite deli is at the Fred Meyer in Ballard. These guys take it to another level. If you are not prepared to ask for one of the pre-sliced items, you are in for some fun. First you order, “I would like 3/4 of a pound of the Private Selections Oven Roasted Turkey Breast please.” They then look down at the array of pre-sliced items and once realizing that it was not there you would get the “Look.” The Look means “Great, I've got another slicer!” You also get the Look from the rest of the workers at the same time. Deli workers seem to be able to communicate telepathically, “Warning, we have a Slicer in our midst.”
Once you are pegged as a Slicer you are completely screwed. They must have the security cam people print out photos of Slicers and post them up in the prep area out of sight. Mine would say, “Generally likes, Thinly sliced turkey. Sometimes orders roast beef and black forest ham. Beware likes to have cheese sliced very thin.”
As you walk up to the counter you will first encounter what I call the “Ignore.” Suddenly things need to get done in the prep area away from the counter. Acting like you are not there, they will refuse to make eye contact while acting super busy. Then once you have waited the union mandated “Slicer wait time” they come to the counter. If there are other people waiting they will always try to help them first. So after you have spoken up for yourself you get the “Stare”, the “Stare” is all about trying to intimidate you into not having your order sliced.
So you place your order, “1/2 a pound of the roast beef please, thinly sliced.” After placing your order they will always try to sell you something that is pre-sliced. What follows after declining the pre-sliced item is a long pause, then a sigh and finally they relent. Now you might think that once you have ordered you are safe. Oh no my friend, this is the time that you have to be the most alert. There is only one way they have to get back at “Slicers” in a deli workers mind and that is cutting your order so thin, that you can see through it. What they do is position their bodies so you can not see how thin they are cutting it. So what you end up doing is running up and down the counter trying to find the best angle. Once you nicely say, “please, not that thin” you will get it the way you want.
That my friends is what it is like at the deli counters of the Seattle.
5/16/07
5/15/07
The 3
This is the first edition of The 3. It can be 3 of anything.
Today I recount my 3 favorite traffic experiences of the day.
1. The Acura SUV that blew through the stop sign without looking while on a cell phone.
Surprise!. The phone call you were having must of been really important, because you did not look while rolling through that stop sign. Yep, I'm right here, in the white Ford. What? You didn't see me? How could that be? Maybe because you are on the phone? Just maybe?
2. The Subaru Forester on Juanita Drive going 25 miles an hour.
HELLO!? The Speed limit is 35!! Could we please go the speed limit? Please!?
3. The bike rider riding in the right lane on Lake City Way during rush hour.
Okay, I'm all for commuting to work on your bike. Soon I will be doing it myself, but why do you choose to ride on a busy road, that has no bike lane, during rush hour? What makes it even worse is that there is one of the greatest bike trails in Seattle running parallel to the road only 4 blocks to your right. Dude, use the trail. You'll love it, cars will love you and everyone will be lovely.
Today I recount my 3 favorite traffic experiences of the day.
1. The Acura SUV that blew through the stop sign without looking while on a cell phone.
Surprise!. The phone call you were having must of been really important, because you did not look while rolling through that stop sign. Yep, I'm right here, in the white Ford. What? You didn't see me? How could that be? Maybe because you are on the phone? Just maybe?
2. The Subaru Forester on Juanita Drive going 25 miles an hour.
HELLO!? The Speed limit is 35!! Could we please go the speed limit? Please!?
3. The bike rider riding in the right lane on Lake City Way during rush hour.
Okay, I'm all for commuting to work on your bike. Soon I will be doing it myself, but why do you choose to ride on a busy road, that has no bike lane, during rush hour? What makes it even worse is that there is one of the greatest bike trails in Seattle running parallel to the road only 4 blocks to your right. Dude, use the trail. You'll love it, cars will love you and everyone will be lovely.
5/13/07
5/9/07
Donald the lecherous
Almost forgot to post this. What you are looking at is a World War II Australian Army poster. If you are wondering what “Pro” stands for, look at the figure in the background. This is one of coolest things I have ever seen. I want to make this into a shirt and wear it at Disneyland, just to see how fast they throw me out of the place.
Muse, where are you?
This is my third try at writing a blog post tonight and every idea has sucked. I'm unplugging for the night. Later.
5/5/07
"Why is everyone so unhappy?" "Because this is the post office son."
I recently completed selling a bunch of stuff on Ebay, which resulted in going to the post office four days in row. Everyday was a fifteen to thirty minute wait, but what made the wait absolutely unbearable was that out of three people working the counter, only two would deal with paying customers. The other postal employee only dealt with non-monetary transactions. Sometimes the employee would just be standing there doing nothing. Can someone explain to me how this is effective customer service? Why not have all three deal with all the customers? Then there are the customers that just completely screw the people behind them. “Hey lady, how about addressing your fifteen packages before you get to the counter? Do you think that might be considerate for the rest of us?” Better yet, was the man who brought all his EBay packages to the post office just to have them weighed. He was not even sending them yet. “Dude, did you at anytime think about buying a cheap scale!” Here endeth the rant. Sorry about that, I needed to get that out of my system. More happy, sunny and pretty posts to follow. Cheers!!
5/4/07
Breaking through the pain
One summer, when I was 13, I was spending the summer with my grandmother in Southern California. It was Saturday in July, I had just returned home from a day of surfing with my uncles and sat down to see what was on television. While flipping through the channels I stumble upon a bike race. I was utterly entranced by what I was seeing. Two hundred athletes riding so close together that from afar the group looked like a swarm of bees. They were riding up these enormous hills, descending down switch backs and sprinting at speeds that I thought was unbelievable at the time. “What is this?”, I said to myself. It was the 1984 Tour de France, which was won by the frenchman Laurent Fignon.
I had to do this. I had to race bikes! I walked out to the kitchen where my Uncles and grandmother were talking. “I'm going to race the Tour de France!”, I proclaimed to my relatives with utter confidence as only a teenager could. One of uncles started laughing. My grandmother asked, “What is it?” “It's a bike race and I am going to race in it someday,” I said. My uncle kept chuckling to himself. For the rest of the summer that was all I could talk about. That was the day I fell in love with cycling and especially bicycle racing.
The following Christmas what does my Grandmother get me? A Italian racing bike. I was completely over the moon. The bike was a little big for me, but I couldn't care less. I loved it. Every minute I could I spend on that red bike I did. The absolute freedom and joy riding that machine brought me was indescribable. As a teenager growing up in a small costal southern Oregon lumber town, falling for cycling was definitely not the norm. Two sports existed were I lived football and basketball. That did not stop me.
Every summer my home town had a weekend festival. At that festival they had a bike race, called a criterium. Soon I was bugging my parents to let me race in it. Fortunately they let me. I will never forget that first race. I absolutely had no idea what I was doing. I led every lap of the race except the last one. I was supper disappointed, but if I had the bug before the race, it was now a hundred times more intense. This is what I was meant to do, race bikes.
After the race, one of the older racer, the president of the local bike club, came over to me and invited me to go out on a training ride with him and the other members. When I showed up for the ride there were twenty other riders gathered. “Awesome,” I said. There were others like me in Coos Bay. I could hardly believe it! I learned so much that first ride and I loved it. There was something called drafting, riding behind other riders to conserve energy. There were actually tactics during racing. What I really learned that day was that I was really out shape. I kept falling behind, I learned that was called going “off the back,” but the man who invited me stayed with me.
Soon, I was racing in regional races. I did well in some races, poorly in others. At this time, I also secured a job at a local bike shop to help my mechanical knowledge. As high school was winding down, my plans were to forgo college, move to Southern California because of its vibrant racing scene to pursue my dream of racing in the Tour de France.
I quickly found out that I had a ways to go. As a backup plan, I enrolled in the local community college to pursue my AA. Unbeknownst to me the school had a collegiate cycling team. It was there I learned I had true potential. I was a very fast sprinter. Not so fast on hills. When I sprinted during training rides I felt that same freedom and joy I felt as a youngster. Soon, I was winning races and making my way up the the Untied States Cycling Federation categories. Once I reached Cat 2, the only level left was reserved for the national team riders. I decided I needed to go to Europe. I needed to go there to race, to see if I was good enough. I had to try.
I soon found myself in Gent, Belgium racing the bullrings, called Kermesses, of West and East Flanders. Holy crap! I thought I was pretty good. In my first race I was off the back in two laps. After some time I began to see some results, but the joy and passion that I once had for the sport began to wane. Very quickly I had begun to see truth in the rumors I had heard about the sport. Performance enhancing drugs were rampant. My first year there, five dutch amateur cyclist died from using EPO, a synthetic blood doping drug.
Although I was starting to see some results I was discouraged by the doping in the sport. I was also questioning whether racing was what I was meant to do with my life. The love I had for racing was gone. So after much thought, I decided to come home. As I write this, the sport I fell in love with is being torn to pieces by constant drug scandals. At times I wonder why I still follow the sport. I still love its beauty. The sport can be hard. At its core it is about suffering and fighting through pain. When you reach down and find that part of you, the part you did not know you had and break through the pain, that is beauty.
I had to do this. I had to race bikes! I walked out to the kitchen where my Uncles and grandmother were talking. “I'm going to race the Tour de France!”, I proclaimed to my relatives with utter confidence as only a teenager could. One of uncles started laughing. My grandmother asked, “What is it?” “It's a bike race and I am going to race in it someday,” I said. My uncle kept chuckling to himself. For the rest of the summer that was all I could talk about. That was the day I fell in love with cycling and especially bicycle racing.
The following Christmas what does my Grandmother get me? A Italian racing bike. I was completely over the moon. The bike was a little big for me, but I couldn't care less. I loved it. Every minute I could I spend on that red bike I did. The absolute freedom and joy riding that machine brought me was indescribable. As a teenager growing up in a small costal southern Oregon lumber town, falling for cycling was definitely not the norm. Two sports existed were I lived football and basketball. That did not stop me.
Every summer my home town had a weekend festival. At that festival they had a bike race, called a criterium. Soon I was bugging my parents to let me race in it. Fortunately they let me. I will never forget that first race. I absolutely had no idea what I was doing. I led every lap of the race except the last one. I was supper disappointed, but if I had the bug before the race, it was now a hundred times more intense. This is what I was meant to do, race bikes.
After the race, one of the older racer, the president of the local bike club, came over to me and invited me to go out on a training ride with him and the other members. When I showed up for the ride there were twenty other riders gathered. “Awesome,” I said. There were others like me in Coos Bay. I could hardly believe it! I learned so much that first ride and I loved it. There was something called drafting, riding behind other riders to conserve energy. There were actually tactics during racing. What I really learned that day was that I was really out shape. I kept falling behind, I learned that was called going “off the back,” but the man who invited me stayed with me.
Soon, I was racing in regional races. I did well in some races, poorly in others. At this time, I also secured a job at a local bike shop to help my mechanical knowledge. As high school was winding down, my plans were to forgo college, move to Southern California because of its vibrant racing scene to pursue my dream of racing in the Tour de France.
I quickly found out that I had a ways to go. As a backup plan, I enrolled in the local community college to pursue my AA. Unbeknownst to me the school had a collegiate cycling team. It was there I learned I had true potential. I was a very fast sprinter. Not so fast on hills. When I sprinted during training rides I felt that same freedom and joy I felt as a youngster. Soon, I was winning races and making my way up the the Untied States Cycling Federation categories. Once I reached Cat 2, the only level left was reserved for the national team riders. I decided I needed to go to Europe. I needed to go there to race, to see if I was good enough. I had to try.
I soon found myself in Gent, Belgium racing the bullrings, called Kermesses, of West and East Flanders. Holy crap! I thought I was pretty good. In my first race I was off the back in two laps. After some time I began to see some results, but the joy and passion that I once had for the sport began to wane. Very quickly I had begun to see truth in the rumors I had heard about the sport. Performance enhancing drugs were rampant. My first year there, five dutch amateur cyclist died from using EPO, a synthetic blood doping drug.
Although I was starting to see some results I was discouraged by the doping in the sport. I was also questioning whether racing was what I was meant to do with my life. The love I had for racing was gone. So after much thought, I decided to come home. As I write this, the sport I fell in love with is being torn to pieces by constant drug scandals. At times I wonder why I still follow the sport. I still love its beauty. The sport can be hard. At its core it is about suffering and fighting through pain. When you reach down and find that part of you, the part you did not know you had and break through the pain, that is beauty.
5/1/07
Save me
As I'm writing this the most painful visual and sonic torture is being inflicted upon me. This torture has a name and it is called The Gilmore Girls. The show happens to be one of my wife's favorite shows and we have one television. Every Tuesday for the past few years I have half watched this show and I still don't know what it's about. There is this mother who can never decide what man to be with. The mother has this spoiled daughter who gets everything she every wanted without actually having to work for it. Then there are the supporting characters, every single one of them is SO FREAKING WITTY. According to Jessie ALL NEW ENGLANDERS ARE WITTY, yeah right. Fear not friends there might be hope for me. Rumors are amok that the show will be cancelled this season. Please, oh please cancel this steaming pile of saccharin. OMG Jessie just asked when I'm going to buy her the DVD sets! There are seven freaking season. WILL SOMEONE PLEASE PUT ME OUT OF MY MISERY?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
