Okay, Okay....

I know I haven't posted since I met Mr T. Even though it's easy to jump to conclusions, I assure you that Mr. T has little or nothing to do with Oldy Foldy failing to produce.

The real reason I haven't posted is that I've tricked my employer into letting me blog professionally.

They have assigned me to the grueling task of being "Nick on the Town" which means I have to go to events, bars and other fun night-lifey type things and write about it.

So feel free to check it out, www.nickonthetown.com, and I'll try to post to Oldy Foldy when I get a chance.

The Happiest I've Ever Been

I don't even know where to start telling you how jealous you are.

My Favorite Baseball Cards

I wasted much of my childhood sorting, resorting, alphabetizing and re-alphabetizing baseball cards. Sure, that seems like a waste of time but it was actually quite fulfilling. Also, I was a loser.

Some kids were only interested in collecting the cards of "superstars" (e.g. Jerome Walton, Chris Sabo) but for me and others like me there was much fun to be had with the lesser known players as well.

A lot of people, even baseball fans, have no idea who Urbano Lugo is, but those of us who were "collectors" know that he pitched for the Angels for at least one year (1987). His card was worth nothing just like hundreds of other players' cards from that year - a proud group known as "commons."

The only reason anybody remembers Urbano's short stint in the majors was the fact that his card was in practically every pack of 1987 Topps which, for my money, is the best card ever made with it's classy woodgrain borders.

I must have had 15 Urbano Lugo cards. The name itself was funny enough, but line up 15 of those suckers in a row and it becomes HILARIOUS. This is the kind of joy collecting cards gave me.

Non-collectors will never experience the joy of knowing no-names like Urbano Lugo. Nor will they get the satisfaction of cards featuring guys with funny haircuts, big glasses or dirty words written on their bats (thank you, Billy Ripken). They've long forgotten about Odibe McDowell, Billy Joe Robidoux and Johnny Lemaster (or Johnny "Disaster" as my dad used to call him).

Perhaps the best example of what they're missing out on is this:

For many years I thought this card was just a bad dream I had. It's Glenn Hubbard with a snake fer crissakes!

How did this happen? What is going on behind him? Why did the Braves allow this? I don't know the answers to these questions, but I do know an awesome baseball card when I see one.

Hubbard's beard is awesome enough, but combine it with a gigantic snake and you've got baseball card magic! Not to mention the fact that the Philly Phanatic and other mascots are having some kind of drunken party in the background. It's gotta be the best card of all time.

The only card I can think of right now that even comes close is the Mickey Hatcher "big glove" card from 1986:

Hooboy, that's a big glove!

Upon seeing these cards, I know all you non-collectors are pissed that you wasted your childhoods with "friends" and "playing outside." Yup, you sure screwed up.

Well, if I remember more funny cards I'll post them here.

IMDB STARmeter up 135% since last week!

It's not easy to become a major motion picture star.

First, you have to go to high school with a guy that makes movies. Then, ten years later, you have to go drink beer with him and accept when he offers you a movie role. Next, you receive something called a "script" which makes a great coaster. Then you spend up to 12 non-consecutive days drinking in basements and hotels while ad-libbing fat jokes and the next thing you know your "STARmeter" on the Internet Movie Database is up 135% in one week!

Sure, "Better Than Crazy" hasn't been released yet, but who cares when your STARmeter is skyrocketing like that?

Just for comparison, here are the current STARmeter readings for some of my peers:

Tom Cruise: up 20%
Cary Grant: down 19%
Brad Pitt: down 12%
Halle Berry: down 25%
Mr. T: down 24%
Carrot Top: down 27%
Phyllis Diller: no change
Bea Arthur: up 9%
Gary Coleman: up 112%
Dude who played Max Headroom: up 17%
Edward James Olmos: up 211%
Lassie from the original tv show: up 19%
Lassie from the 1994 remake: down 50%

So, out of the people (and dogs) who matter, Gary Coleman is nippin' at my heels and Edward James Olmos has me beat. Not too shabby if you ask me.

Now, I just need to wait for the movie to be released and find a place to put all those Oscars.

It should also be noted that I have no idea how the STARmeter works or exactly what it measures.

R.I.P. Dad Moustache

Nothing gives a man confidence and instant respectability like a strong moustache. Wyatt Earp had one, Albert Einstein had one, Waylon Jennings had one, Magnum PI had one; the list goes on and on. Sure there are some stinkers out there (i.e. Hitler, John Waters), but for the most part I'm a fan of all moustaches. I'd like to take this time to apologize to John Waters for grouping him with Hitler, but he brought it on himself.

Anyhow, if you were born any time between 1965 and 1983, before the whole world went soft, your dad had a moustache...and it was an AWESOME moustache. The Dad Moustache is the best kind of moustache because it exists for no other reason than to put fear into children. Of course by "fear" I mean "respect."

My dad's Dad Moustache was a true national treasure. Here it is, not too long ago, pushing my nephew in a wheelbarrow.

A closer look.

I'll see if I can track down a photo of it's late 70's prime.

I remember how the moustache and I used to play catch in the yard and how it used to drive me to school in the morning. And I definitely remember the way the moustache moved slowly back and forth as the dad-head it was attached to shook in disappointment as I struggled to start the lawnmower, chop firewood or identify the alternator while staring blankly under the hood of my car.

Now, my dad's moustache is gone. After 30-something years of sporting a museum worthy cookie-duster, all that's under my dad's nose is his big gleaming, joe-schmo upper lip.

Here it is in all it's horror.

Remind you of anyone?

It's like looking at the bare wall after the Mona Lisa got torn down.

Perhaps the worst part of the whole thing is that when the old man drinks a beer all the foam will go directly into his mouth instead of making a pitstop in the stache before being vaccuumed out by an extended bottom lip. What's the point of even drinking a beer?

Also, moustache's friend, big burly beard, preceded him in death 20 years ago and, frankly, I was just getting over that.

Of course, I'm taking action. I've instructed my lawyer to find out if it's even legal to simultaneously have a bare lip and a closest full Jimmy Buffet records. I just don't know what else to do.

RIP, Dad Moustache, you will be missed.

European Adventure #7 - Dublin

After visiting places like Paris, Venice and Vienna, coming into Dublin felt a lot like coming home...except the cars were on the wrong side of the road and the food was a lot worse.

The language barrier was gone. No longer was I "danke schoening" when I should've been "auf weidersehening." No longer was I randomly pointing at a menu and getting something strange and delicious in return. No, in Ireland it's the opposite. I knew exactly what I was ordering..and that it would be bad.

Maybe coming straight from the land of perfect sausage was unfair to the sad plate of bangers and mash I ordered at the Quays Pub, but that "banger" was just onions wrapped in sheep gut.

But I'm getting off track. I'll get back to food later.

My point is that Dublin felt a lot more like America than the other places we had been. Please don't take that as me saying I didn't enjoy Dublin...I do, after all, enjoy America.

One thing that makes Dublin like America is all the Americans. Of course, there's the requisite bunch of spoiled American teenagers who are touring Europe to "find themselves" through binge drinking and sexual promiscuity, but there are other Americans as well. Even our waiter at the restaurant where we had our one delicious Irish meal was from Chicago.

Speaking of that meal, and I guess I might as well just keep talking about food, not only was it the best meal we had in Ireland it was also the cheapest as Amber ex-boyfriend, Philip who happens to be Irish, paid for it.

The thing about going to dinner with your girlfriend and her ex when the ex is treating is that you can pretty much order whatever you want no matter how much it costs. Philip was cool and all, but this was a rare situation and I knew I had a free pass. Therefore, I had the mallard, a game pie, a goat cheese appetizer and a delicious dessert. Also, lots of beer. Somehow though, we found the one restaurant in Dublin that did not have Guinness on tap. Instead I got a Guinness from a can poured into a small glass. Sad.

The food was delicious though.

Anyhow, dinner was fantastic and Philip was solid...not just because he paid like 200 Euros ($1,000,000 USD) for dinner but because he also bought drinks at the pub later. Okay, he was a nice guy too.

Here's me and Phil, partying.

The next night's dinner was much different, as we decided to just go to the grocery store instead of risking another bland banger. This is what our hotel room bed looked like after our grocery store trip.

Of course, it was raining the whole time we were there, but I would've felt gypped (no offense, Gypsies) if it hadn't been.

We also visited the Guinness factory where you get to learn all about the beer making process. My experience with Guinness up to this point had been rocky. Sometimes it would go down easy and make me happy and other times it was a rough ride. Unlike the bubbly, watery beers that treat me so consistently well, Guinness was always a sip of the unexpected.

However, at the Guinness factory, and there's a good chance I was just caught up in the moment, it went down like water. Smooth, creamy and delicious.

Even this racially insensitive ad couldn't keep me from enjoying it.

Also, we learned how to pour the "perfect pint" and even earned certificates for our pouring prowess.

For the record, this is how it's done.

1. Use the right glass. It's got to be the official Guinness pint glass with it's curvy sides and the strategically placed harp logo.

2. Hold the glass at a 45 degree angle to the tap with the strategically placed harp logo directly under the nozzle.

3. Pull tap forward to release nitrogen infused beer into the glass.

4. As it fills, turn the glass upright.

5. When the beer reaches the level of the strategically placed harp logo (about 3/4 full) stop filling the glass. Set it on the counter and wait.

If you happen to be at the factory taking the "perfect pint" lesson, feel free to zone out, mesmerized by the beer bubbles, while your instructor is telling you how long it needs to sit.

This is also a good time to dispense some beer directly from the tap into your mouth.

6. Finally, finish filling the glass by pushing back on the tap to release non-nitrogenated beer.

Even though, the beer tasted delicious at the factory, I'm still convinced that the whole process is for show and doesn't really make a difference. It's much too late for them to take my certificate away from me now though. Seriously though, why go through all that effort when you can just pop the top off a High Life?

Here's a little video of me downing a Guinness at a pub much to the delight of Phil who can be heard cheering me on in the background.

But Dublin is about more than drinking beer. It's also about drinking whiskey.

For the record, an Irish Coffee is still called an Irish Coffee even in Ireland. I was kinda hoping that if you just ordered "coffee" it would automatically come with whiskey in it, but I suppose that was unrealistic. It should also be noted that, in Ireland, an Irish Car Bomb is not a cocktail, but a device that blows up a car and, man, are they sensitive about it. Don't order one.

Outside of alcohol, rain and crappy food Dublin is actually a cool place. It looks pretty much how you would expect it to look: Grey and green with pubs everywhere. The River Liffey, St. Stephen's Green, the Ha'penny Bridge, a bunch of James Joyce stuff, plenty of those double decker tour buses, it's all there.

I'd be lying if I said we didn't spend most of our time in the various pubs...which, it turns out, are the same as bars. Here's a picture of some of the beers we drank...and some of the glasses we stole. Gotta make up for that exchange rate somehow.

So we ate our last meal on the bed in the hotel, watched a little Irish reality tv, drank a bottle of Lodi wine we found at the Irish market and Aer Lingus took us home the next day.

Speaking of Aer Lingus, this whole trip would not have been possible if they didn't sell us round-trip direct flight tickets from SF to Dublin for $516 including all taxes and charges and everything. Check into it.

Welp, that's about it. Catch you on later down the trail or, as the say in Dublin, bye.

European Adventure #6 - Dream Sponsorship

Before I move on to the Dublin leg of our trip, there's some unfinsihed business in Vienna.

There must be something in the water in Vienna (hops, barley, etc.) because I usually have fairly unremarkable dreams, but there I had crazy things happen in my sleep.

There I was, sleeping and dreaming a respectably entertianing dream in which I rode a slow moving roller coaster in teh clouds above a major US city, possibly Chicago, while on a business trip that I was using to legitimize golfing at some really nice golf course. Of course, in real life, I've never been to Chicago, I rarely have business trips and I don't golf, but that's why they call'm dreams, kids.

Anyhow, the dream wasn't really anything all that special until the slow roller coaster came back down to Chicago and dropped me off at what appeared to be a college campus. At his point I notice an interesting assortment of celebrities walking around with backpacks on as if they are going to class. And they were sports celebrities I don't really care about. Mostly just sports stars who are pretty popular in comercials: Ladanian Tomlinson, Shuan White etc.

So I'm standing there watching these sports celebrities walk to class and that's where things took a turn.

The dream switches cameras on me. Instead of me seeing things through my eyes, the "camera" is behind me. It slowly pulls back and up to reveal that each sports celebrity who is walking to class is being followed by a pack of clones that are all walking with them in perfect formation. Then the camera takes off, as if on a helicopter, to reveal that the campus is just filled with these pods of sport celebrity clones all walking to class with their backpacks over one shoulder.

Then it happened...and this could change dreams forever. The "tv screen" of my dream faded to black and then, just like I were sitting on the couch watching an A's game or Hannah Montana, the Toyota logo flashed up and immediately triggered me awake.

The thought that a company could buy ad space in people's dreams is a sci-fi plot waiting to happen...and if you're a budding sci-fi writer I encourage you to take my idea and run with it. Of course, I will expect 50% of all profits.

Now, on to Dublin!

European Adventure #5 - The Time We Missed Our Stop

The train system in Austria is fairly easy to navigate and pleasingly efficient. We found the trains to be on time and the transit maps easy to decipher.

Of course, none of this matters when you've been pounding Zipfers at the Anker for the 2 hours leading up to your train trip.

So Dr. Bob, our friendly host, guided us to the proper train, told us to get off at the easily identifiable airport stop, and hugged us good bye.

To make a long story short, I'm sure we were engrossed in conversation about something very important and intellectual when we zipped, obliviously, past the airport stop.

The next time the train stopped I believed I said something like "Well, we must be getting close" as I glanced up at the train map. Then I glanced at the station sign. Then I glanced at the map. Then the station sign. Then the map. Then the station sign.

Not wanting to accept the fact that we missed our stop, I figured I must be reading the map backwards. Was I upside down? Unfortunately, no.

We ran off the train, panicked and ran back on.

The train started up once again and we assessed our situation.

We had 30 minutes to get the airport for check-in. We decided that we should get off at the next stop and then catch the next train going back the other direction.

Of course, the next stop was way, way, way outside the city. It looked like this:

We waited there. And waited. And waited.

It doesn't get much better than hanging out in cold, dark, rural Austria.

There wasn't anything we could do about it at this point though. I was 75% sure I could find my way back to Dr. Bob's and we could just find another way to Dublin the next day...that was, assuming that we didn't die at this sketchy middle-of-nowhere train station.

We waited a while longer. We waited long enough for to have to relieve myself behind the station twice. I'm not proud, but again, I had a lot of beer in me at this point.

Anyhow, the train eventually came. To celebrate, I did my rings routine.

After a sprint through the Vienna airport, we made it to the Aer Lingus check-in desk with 2 minutes to spare. And, really, it was the nicest airport trip ever. No waiting and our bags were the first ones out the chute in Dublin. Screw showing up early.

Worst Cartoons Ever

I was thinking back to my childhood. Specifically, I was thinking about all the cartoons I watched. Even more specifically, I was thinking about all the time I wasted watching really, really crappy cartoons.

Some of these shows were so poorly written, drawn and produced that I couldn't help but feel ripped off. As a kid, I never really had any path of recourse. But now, in our Internet age, it's easy to track people down and find those accountable for wasting my precious childhood years. Also, with a blog, I can at least feel like my voice is being heard by somebody.

For every GI Joe there was a Popples. For every Voltron, a Lazer Tag Academy. For every Jem, a Lady Lovely Locks and so on. So now, after 30 years of feeling screwed over by animation, I'd like to call out the following shows and their makers.

1. Kissyfur
Are you kdding me? How did this show get ok'd by anyone. This touchy feely show was about a little boy bear and his dad. If I remember correctly, Kissyfur and his old man escaped from the circus and decided to run a tour boat company.

Seriously.

Mostly, I just remember a lot of sappy positive messages and A LOT of hugging. The whole thing was stomach-churning and not at all how I wanted to start my Saturdays. Not surprisingly, this was produced by the always 3rd-rate DIC company which also laid such eggs as Captain Planet, The Littles and the legendary Hammerman.

Of course they also produced #2 on my list:

2. The Get Along Gang
Another super-sappy crapfest with plenty of hugging and huge helpings of heavy-handed politically correct messages conceived to brainwash children into being mindless robots...at least, that what sticks with me from the one time I watched it when I was 8. First off, I think the Get Along Gang was created by an inferior greeting card company that was trying to keep up with the "cartoons based on greeting cards" trend that was started by Hallmark's "Shirt Tales" and never really took off.

The Get Along Gang was led by a moose in a sweater...I believe the sweater had an "M" on it which I can only assume was for "Moose" but it could just as accurately have been for "Moron."

The gist of the show was that all these animals in clothes liked to hang out together. They liked to do things as a group and if one member dissented the rest of the gang would force the offender into submission. Like if Mr. Moose wanted to go rollerskating, the rest of the posse would say "Yay, let's go rollerskating." Then one of the other animals, perhaps the turtle with the headband, would say "I'd rather go to the mall" and then the rest of the gang would say that the turtle was bad person (turtle) for disagreeing with the group. In the end, he'd give in and they'd all go rollerskating as a happy, mindless group. Thanks for encouraging my individualism, DIC!

3. Rude Dog & the Dweebs
If the Get Along Gang taught us anything it's that cartoons should not be based on greeting cards. Perhaps just as bad of an idea is basing a cartoon on a clothing line...especially and inferior clothing line like Rude Dog.

For those who don't know, Rude Dog was a surf/skate t-shirt company that featured a little Spud's Mackenzie type rip-off dog. This was a time when every clothes company had to make surf clothes. And even though clothes are a dumb thing on which to base a tv show, there were plenty of better options.

The most obvious example is T&C Surf. Their shirts had all kinds of cool characters like a surfing gorilla and a guy in a witch doctor mask. That's the kind of thing that would make a good show! Nintendo saw the potential of T&C and made a video game based on them, but the tv folks, even the losers at DIC, let this ship sail on by them.

I seem to remember Gotcha having some half-man half-fish that probably would've made an ok cartoon. Or maybe Maui & Sons could've done something along the lines of Muppet Babies or Captain Caveman & Son. Hell, I'd even rather just watch the car from Jimmy'Z t-shirts drivin' around for half an hour. Or maybe the O and the P from OP could just walk around having alphabet adventures. Hobie, PCH, Catchit, RipCurl - all better than Rude Dog.

Anyhow, I can't remember anything about the show except that all the dogs (the "Dweebs" being Rude Dog's buddies) had bad accents and I think they worked as auto mechanics. I could probably go on wikipedia and refresh my memory, but it's just not worth it.

4. Snorks
Quite possibly the most-obvious knock-off ever, the Snorks were basically the Smurfs with snorkels built into their heads so they could live underwater. They looked like the Smurfs, they talked like the Smurfs, they had the same personalities as the Smurfs. The girl was probably named Snork-ette and they probably ate Snorkberries while being chased by Snorkamel. Screw the Snorks!

5. Turbo Teen
This one is just ridiculous. The "hero" of this show was a teenager who could turn into a car. I mean, it's not like Superman changing into his cape or Bruce Banner getting mad and getting big and green. Heck, it's not even like a Transformer turning from a robot into a car. This is a real and actual human turning into an automobile...but only when he gets hot.

I have no idea how this works. I don't remember anything about the backstory. I just know that dude would turn into a car when he got hot.

He used this ability to fight crime, but it was a ludicrous premise that even little 6 year-old me couldn't get into.

The show worked as any normal show only at some point "Turbo Teen" would have to chase a really fast bad guy. Other than hauling groceries and bathing at the car wash, this is where turning into a car would really come in handy. Of course, the problem is that in order to chase the bad guy as a car, he would have to get hot. This generally resulted in him having an exchange like this:

Stranger: He stole my purse! Please catch him!
Turbo Teen: No sweat...errr lots of sweat.

Then he'd start running until he turned into car.

Lame.

6. Give me some time. I'm sure I'll think of more.

The Banjo Project - Update #3

My banjo skills continue to progress...at a snail's pace. Here's a little number called "Cripple Creek."

European Adventure #4 - Vienna

Our overnight train from Venice to Vienna departed over 45 minutes late, but thanks to some trademark Austrian efficiency, we rolled in to the Westbanhoff station a mere 5 minutes late.

There, we were greeted by this man.

He is Dr. Bob, an old friend that I won in a break up. She got my dignity, but I got Dr. Bob and that's a trade I'd make any day...since, really, I never had much dignity to begin with.

Anyhow, Dr. Bob is a supergenius professor who is doing a year of research at the University of Vienna. His office is filled to overflowing with formula-filled notepads and other things my simple mind cannot make any sense of...especially while doing this:

Vienna was a breath of fresh air. After being easily identified as tourists in Paris and Venice, we were treated as regular nobodies in Vienna. It was nice to finally experience some real language barriers when trying to order a cup of coffee.

Vienna is a magical land filled with sausages (but not those tiny ones in the cans), beer and jelly donuts. It was just like my dreams only I didn't rescue any bikini girls from a volcano. Oh, and Mozart and Strauss are eveywhere...and, to a lesser extent, Beethoven.

We started our Vienna adventure by eating sausages and going to the Belvedere Museum which, unfortunately, had little or nothing to do with Mr. Belvedere. On the plus side, Klimt's "The Kiss" was there and it was spectacular, but I still would've like at least a mention of Bob Uecker.

Then we went shopping.

There were like a dozen H&M's on one street which helped me quickly make up for the fact that I had never been to one previously. H&M is kinda like the Gap only people like it more and they are more selective about where they put there stores...well, if you count putting a dozen of them on one street in Vienna "selective." I didn't buy anything.

Eveything in Vienna is like 800 years old and covered in gold. Take a look at this church:

And you can kinda see an old building behind us in this smoochy shot:

Here's a gilded Strauss:

Anyhow, Dr. Bob doesn't actually live in Vienna true. He is slightly outside of the city in a cool little town known as Klosterneuburg. He has a view of a castle right from his balcony!

Also, there were bakeries and a wine shop in walking distance...which is pretty much the most important thing in the world.

We went to a bar called....hmmm, ok I forget what it was called. I do remember drinking a lot, buying used bar glasses off the waitress and trying to keep up with Amber as she ran all the way home to Dr. Bob's stating that, after pounding a bottle of wine, she said she simply had to "jog it out." Here we are at the bar doing an impersonation of our livers:

Upon getting home, I felt it necessary to stack things:The day we left, we resumed the drinking. This time it was large beers at a quaint little joint called the "Anker Hotel" where they served the best thing I have ever eaten. This:It's goulash with a flower carved out of a sausage! Does it get any better? That big white thing is The Most Amazing Dumpling in the World.

With some time left before we had to catch our train to the airport, we decided to have a couple more over-sized novelty beers and follow that up with a trip to the wine store. This leads in to the next post titled "The Time we Missed our Stop." Stay tuned.

The Smartest Thing I've Ever Done

They call it Instant Pussycat, but for me it took 40 years.

What am I talking about? Well, let me start from the beginning.

One day while shooting a movie in my friend Mike's grandma's basement....wait, that's not really the beginning.

The true beginning was the 1960s. This was a time of turmoil. A time of change. A time of protest. Also, for those who weren't so socially and/or politically active, it was a time of swingin' parties and, apparently, powdered instant cocktail mixes.

Now, I'm not saying Mike's grandparents weren't concerned with what was going on in the world, I'm just saying they knew a good drink when they saw one. Grandma Max's basement bar is a testament to their cocktail prowess. The bar appears to have remained untouched since 1975. It's fully stocked with 40 year old liquor bottles, logo glasses, swizzle sticks and various unidentifiable cocktail accessories from the 60s. It's a true museum to the cocktail world and it sat, untampered with, for decades before the movie crew piled into Grandma's Basement.

According to the date on the box (copyright, not expiration which couldn't be found), it was 1969 when Early Times produced the Instant Pussycat cocktail mix and proudly printed the slogan "I thought I saw a pussy cat. You did. You did" on the box.

On the set of the movie, we joked about cracking into the packets and mixing up a few cocktails. The recipe was simple enough - 1 part Early Times, 3 parts water, 1 packet of Instant Pussycat drink mix - shake, pour and garnish with a lime wedge and cherry. Luckily, we decided against creating 40 year old cocktails that night.

Unluckily, we changed our minds a few months later.

But a few months later, we had to change our minds. Mike showed up at my door with 3 gorgeous Instant Pussycat cocktail glasses. They were perfect. The shape of a lava lamp, but with just enough stem to slide your fingers around it as if holding a baby bird in your hand. If held properly, not only did you look cool, but the Pussycat logo with it's little wagging tail could be read by all.

With the combination of Instant Pussycat mix and Pussycat glasses pressuring us, how could we resist this drinking challenge?

But if we were gonna do it, we were gonna do it right. This meant a walk to the Tallac Bottle Shop for maraschino cherries...and maybe a couple pocket shots for good measure. Pocket Shots are little plastic bags filled with liquor that they sell, like chips, at the liquor store register. Surprisingly legal (for now), they are probably worthy of their own blog post, but for the time being, enjoy this picture of pocket shots in a canoe.

After giving the glasses a rigorous washing, it was time to bring the Instant Pussycat back to life.

Upon opening the first packet, I was pleased to learn that not only was the powder not clumpy, it was white as snow. However, upon meeting the whiskey and water, it turned a bright orange.

The glasses were filled. A toast was made. Photos were taken to show the doctors later.

Before I continue, let me tell you about a few of the more interesting ingredients in Instant Pussycat drink mix. First, "dried egg whites." How bad can 40 year old eggs be for you? Probably pretty bad, but luckily for us there was a second ingredient that I'm positive made the eggs safe. This was BHT. According to wikipedia, BHT was a popular preservative in the 50s and 60s. Since then, it has been removed from most foods. It's even banned in Japan and a few other countries. Here, in the US, it's just banned from baby food, but no one really uses it anymore because people are afraid it will give them cancer.

Now back to the story.

The glasses were filled. A toast was made. The photos were taken. Then, in one of the most monumental highlights in history of cocktails, the glasses were raised to our eager lips.

To experience a resurrection like this - to bring a cocktail back from the dead - is to experience how Howard Carter felt upon discovery King Tut's tomb or the way Robert Ballard felt when he located the Titanic...and, really, the Instant Pussycat revival is just as culturally significant. Perhaps we've created a new field of science: Archeological Cocktailing.

And as a pioneering Archeological Cocktailer, I felt the tingle of discovery. I was Thomas Edison about to flip the switch on my first lightbulb. I was Neil Armstrong opening the lunar module door. I was a young Orville Redenbacher applying corn to heat for the first time.

As the liquid touched my lips, I was pleasantly surprised...not just because I didn't drop dead instantly, but because the drink had a pleasing citrus taste. We had won. The naysayers, nay-said that it couldn't be done. But BHT had preserved the deliciousness of the Instant Pussycat, dried egg whites and all. It was a true victory for Archeological Cocktailers everywhere.

That was, until the aftertaste.Before I continue, I want you to find a pile of old records. This may require a trip to your parents or grandparents house, but it will be worth it. Now find the record with the dustiest cover - it's probably something by Pablo Cruise or Three Dog Night. If you're lucky it will have gotten wet a little at some point and now has the corresponding mildew. The important thing is that it's just been sitting there, its cardboard absorbing all the smells and flavors of 40 years of neglect. Now find a dozen more just like it and start licking.

I couldn't believe that a drink that started off bringing me such joy, ended by bringing me such pain and suffering. It was the equivalent of drinking a cup full of liquid dust.

When the aftertaste hit, I looked towards Mike. He looked back. Alarmingly, we had both retained our eyesight. Of course, neither one of us will ever have children, but it was worth it. And, really, odds were pretty low to start with. Also, my tongue is itchy now.

Still, we had history to make, so we were dedicated to finishing one full glass apiece. It didn't take to long to realize that the aftertaste was just as bad if you took a little sip as it was if you took a fat gulp, so we both quickly downed the drink. Then I chased it with the Pocket Shot...which usually needs a pretty quick chaser itself, but in this case, it went down like smooth Sunny D.

The suffering lasted only moments, but the taste will never fully leave me. Neither will the pride. The pride of having put my life on the line for science, for America and, of course, for no good reason at all. And for all the terrible taste, there was no questioning how cool the cocktail looked...especially with that Tallac Bottle Shop cherry floating around in there.

So, now that Mike and I have broken the seal, will the Instant Pussycat make a comeback? Will "Pussycat parties" - as the box suggests we should hold- once again be all the rage? Probably not...unless for some reason humans start to develop a craving for dust flavored beverages. And, really, as far as dust flavored beverages go, the Instant Pussycat is right at the top of the list. And, hey, it's no worse than Mr. Pibb.

And that's the story of the smartest thing I've ever done.

Viva la Pussycat!

European Adventure #3 - Venice

If it weren't for the occassional waft of urine, you wouldn't believe that the city of Venice was any more real than the fabricated version in The Venetian in Vegas.

Seriously, it's like walking through Disneyland during a custodian strike.

First off, it's completely ridiculous to build a city where Venice is. I'm not even sure there is any actual land there. It just appears to be a cobblestone labyrinth floating right on top of the water. And when I say labyrinth, I mean labyrinth. I, personally, didn't see any goblins, talking door knockers or David Bowies, but none would have seemed out of place.

You cannot make a right turn here. No matter how good your sense of direction, Venice will eff you up. And I don't care how many times you won the soapbox derby while earning your Eagle Scout badge, you will get lost here.

Luckily, you don't care if you get lost because you are lost in a magical wonderland of Italian meats, cheeses, coffees and adult beverages. It's pretty fantastic.

We arrived in Venice in the middle of night with no clue where our hotel was. Minutes before leaving home, I received an email from Hotel Al Gazzetino that said, even though I had booked a room 4 months prior, that they would be unable to accommodate my reservation. Quickly, I booked the first hotel I could afford and hopped on a plane.

This left us wandering around the darkened Venice maze in the rain in the middle of the night. Our new hotel was called the Royal San Marco Hotel and we new it was close to the Piazza San Marco (You've seen this place in painful jewelry commercials. It is filled with pigeons and a gigantic church). Luckily, we found a group of Italian police officers. Unluckily, our conversation went like this:

Us: We are looking for the Royal San Marco Hotel

Them: This is San Marco.

Us: Yeah, we know that part. We're looking for the Royal San Marco Hotel.

Them: This is San Marco.
Us: Arrivderci!

Eventually, we walked into a different hotel and asked them where our hotel was. The concierge actual walked us, through what appeared to be a secret passageway, all the way to the lobby of our hotel.

The Royal San Marco Hotel turned out to be fantastic. On a side note, I tracked down the Hotel Al Gazzetino. Upon finding it, I quickly realized that by "unable to accommodate (my) reservation" they meant "our building has been condemned."

It was totally dark with no signs of activity. As an added bonus there were three print-outs taped to the front door. The first was an email to me, saying they could not accomodate me. The second was a similar email to someone named "Jenna Brooks." The third was a map to a different hotel.

Anyhow, I spent our first night in Venice pounding $18 hot chocolates at the bar across the street. They were called "Hot Choco Nuts" and they were worth evey penny.

The next night I returned to the same bar and chased out a whole group of folks by switching a tv to the Colts/Chargers game. Good ol' American football.

I can't believe people actually live in Venice. It really looks more like a painting than it does a place anybody could actually live. Yet, you see little old ladies walkign around and, if you make a wrong turn (and you will) you will end up in the residential area where there are actual families living. Unlike the French, who are all architects and flower girls, the Venetians all work as glass blowers and pizza chefs.

Venice is filled with old churches that are huge, dark, scary and don't even allow you to wear hats, tank tops and/or cut-offs. Since that is all I brought with me, I was S.O.L. for the majority of my time there.

I should also note that I didn't see a single Venetian blind in Venice. They just has curtains like eveyone else. And shutters. Lots of shutters. However, I feel it can be safely assumed that if they did have Venetian blinds, they would have just called them "blinds."

Yup, we ate well in Venice.

There were Ferraris.

I made friends with Signore Kitty.

And that's Venice.

Unbelievable

I'm not sure if this is real or some eleaborate hoax, but if it is real, someone at the California Association of Marriage and Family Therapists should really have asked for a second opinion before naming their website http://www.therapistfinder.com/

Also check out which actor is represented by which agent at http://www.whorepresents.com/

Good day.

Super Tuesday

In celebration of Election Day and the crazy world of politics, I recommend you read this really nice piece by Mark Sundeen which was published in the October issue of The Believer.

And if you're interesested, I voted for Obama.

European Adventure #2 - Why I Hate Flying

Paris to Venice

Don't fly Ryan Air! They are evil. They lure you in with extremely low fares and then they charge you for EVERYTHING! They charge you to check a bag, they charge you to carry on a bag, they charge you to pick a seat, they charge you for every little thing they can of. In the end, you don't end up saving any money and you're stuck with a lot of extra hassle.

Also, they don't fly to big airports. Their "Paris" airport is actually over an hour long bus ride away in the farm town of Beauvais. It is tiny and it smells of cows. And, of course, our flight was late.

Once on the plane, I attempted to nap. Shortly thereafter, I was rudely awakened by some pretty rough turbulance followed by the pilot apologizing for both the severity of the bumps and the lack of notice.

Turbulance and I do not get along. All my life I've been easy prey for motion sickness, so this rough spot immediately sent me downhill. Just like a squeezed sponge, the sweat started to soak everything. My face went pale. My heart was racing.

I don't like planes in the first place, but I defintely don't like being sick on one. Also, with the turbulance, I had to stay in my seat and couldn't get up to use the bathroom. Another thing about planes: you can't roll down the window and, boy, did I need some fresh air.

I was face to face with one of my worst fears - throwing up on a plane...and with no privacy. So I looked to the back of my seat for the complimentary motion sickness bag. Apparently, Ryan Air doesn't supply those.

So I made Amber ask the stewardess for a bag. The stewardess acted as if this were the oddest request ever. Like she had never heard of someone getting sick on a plane before. She returned a little later with not a bag, but a handful of napkins. With no other option, I accepted them and figured I'd work out the puke logistics as I needed to.

Also at this point, the rest of the folks on the plane began to take notice. The fella in front me turned all the way around and stopped just short of opening a bag a popcorn to better enjoy the show.

Then the stewardess returned with good news. She had found a bag. To be more accurate, she had found a clear, plastic bag not unlike a large sandwich bag. On the list of good things in which to puke, a clear plastic bag is only a small step up from a pile of napkins.

Much to the dissappoint of the fella in front of me, I did not end up puking. I held it together just long enough, to land in in Italy where we faced yet another hour long bus ride to get to Venice even though, according to Ryan Air, we had just landed in Venice.

I was still all shaky and pale and gross, so we opted to pay the 75 Euros ($1,000,000 USD) for a taxi instead.

Thanks for the savings, Ryan Air!

European Adventure #1

After mis-reading a currency conversion chart, I decided that now was the time to visit Europe. Ok, ok, I know the exchange was rough, but I decided to go anyhow because flights were cheap and I like to party.

Of course, prior to my trip, people would always ask me why I had never been to Europe. The short answer is that it was just too far away.

It costs money to travel a long distance and my relationship with money is rocky at best. Also, time was a factor. Even with ducking out a bit early on Friday afternoon, it's a bit hard to squeeze France into a 3-day weekend. So, with time & money joining forces to work against me, I never went to Europe. Besides, I had a job. It's not like those cases of beer were going to put themselves on a shelf at 5 in the morning. However, had Europe been closer, say, in Nevada or in my spare bedroom, I probably would've made the trip sooner.

Anyhow, after 30 years, I finally made it "across the pond" and, yes, I still hate people who say "across the pond." And now you get to read all my adventure...or you could stop reading now. No biggie to me.

Over the years, I've seen many of my peers visit Europe and return drinking nothing but Guinness and listening only to Blur. Not that I have anything against Blur and/or Guinness, but I always found it odd that these vacations made people change their lives to reflect the places they had been. As if their biggest joy in life is drinking a Guinness and having someone say "You drink Guinness?" To which they can gleefully and proudly reply "Well, I did spend some time in Ireland...." Or perhaps they like the satisfaction of making eye contact with another Guinness drinker across the bar with whom they can share a special "I've been to Ireland too" head nod. Personally, I'm going to start purposefully "accidentally" referring to soccer as football and then laughing as I correct myself "Sorry, I just got so used to the customs on the other side of the pond."

The scary thing is, and this is 100% true, I've only been back a week and I've already made crepes twice.

Anyhow, without further ado, here is the first of many European Adventure posts.

Paris

I don't know if you've heard this, but Paris is a pretty nice place. It's put together quite nicely, has a river running through it, has lots of pretty things at which to look and the lighting is excellent. It is also a very old place. There are all these buildings that are hundreds and hundreds of years old. And nothing is up to code. Being a building inspector in Paris has got to be the cushiest gig in the world.

"Let's see... unlevel, slippery cobblestone stairs, poor ventilation, nothing wide enough for a wheelchair, no fire escape. Yup, everything appears to be in order. Let's drink wine."

We've pretty much ruined all our old timey buildings here in the US with codes, regulations and lawsuits. Besides we don't have anything as old as these old places in Paris. Well, we do, but they were built by Indians, not rich white folks, so most of us don't care. In general, we pretty much suck at caring.

Another thing you see a lot of in Paris is French people. They are everywhere! And, boy, do they think they own the place. All the streets that are wide enough for cars are filled with drivers honking and disregarding the safety of others. It's entertaining to watch.

You also see a lot of nicely dressed French couples. You see them walking down the street, in the middle of the day, and you wonder about their lives. Somehow, these Parisians seem to live romanticized lives in my mind. These are not people who force themselves out of bed at 6am to go to their menial clerk jobs. These are fancy French people with fancy french lives. He's an architect that makes his own hours and works in a loft office with plenty of natural light and she works at a flower shop, not to help make ends meet, but because she best expresses herself through floral arrangements. It's quite the life.

Another thing that separates Paris and other huge cities from the rest of the world are the gigantic advertisements. The entire side of a building will just be wallpapered with a huge perfume ad. Somehow, these gigantic ads make people like the city more. I'm not sure what it is. Usually advertisements are cheap and ruin the appearance of things, but these big boys in Paris act sort of like pop art and somehow actually class the place up. I don't get. It's just a big stupid ad for Dolce & Gabbana perfume, so I'm not sure how it works.

Speaking of Dolce & Gabbana - who I think are Italian and not French, I think they pretty much make the absolute stupidest clothes ever. Everything is black and gold. It's a very "Solid Gold Dancer" look. Even if I could afford their stuff, I'd still think it's stupid. Do I need a solid gold D&G belt buckle? Does anyone? Sheesh.

And another thing, isn't it awfully convenient that all these fancy fashion designers are equally gifted at developing perfume? Every expensive fashion line has a corresponding fragrance. Perhaps fashion colleges also offer extensive chemistry courses.

I like to picture Gabbana in front of the sewing machine all day while Dolce slaves away in the chemical laboratory.

But don't let my Dolce & Gabbana bashing suggest that I didn't enjoy myself in Paris. I loved Paris. The baguette with bacon baked right into was probably my second favorite meal of the trip...and there were like 10,000 meals, so that's pretty good.

Our hotel was an adorable little number in the Latin Quarter. A plaque on the wall suggested that Arthur Rimbaud stayed/lived in the building at some point. Apparently, the moody poet didn't mind a bathroom the size of a small coat closet...luckily, neither did we. Actually, I recommend taking it one step further and actually putting the commode right inside the shower. Talk about relaxation.

We ate pretty much all of our meals in the Latin Quarter as well. Fondue, crepes, French onion soup (which is just called "onion soup" there). It's kind of an interesting place to eat because the shop owners just stand out in front of their bistros barking you down like French carnies. Again, somehow this doesn't come off as sleazy, but charming. I dunno how they do it.

Of course, we also took the obligatory trip to the Louvre which is approximately the size of Utah. And, man, do they love Jesus in there! There must be thousands of masterfully done Jesus paintings in there. Of course, I walked up to each one and proclaimed "Jesus Christ!" - a joke which I never get tired of no matter how much it pains those around me. Also, Spinal Tap-esque "Intra-Venus De Milo" jokes did not go over well with those admiring the armless masterpiece.

For those who have never seen it, the Mona Lisa looks exactly how you've seen it on a million postcards and magnets and not much bigger. Perhaps, I've just become desensitized to its brilliance, but I was underwhelmed due to its overexposure throughout my life. It's like seeing a pristine dollar bill under glass. Nice, but too common. I preferred seeing the teensy tinsy lil "Lacemaker" from Vermeer.

Also of note, there's a Starbucks in Louvre. Just thought you should know.

Our hotel also featured a tiny movie theatre right across the street which advertised a Saturday, midnight showing of Daft Punk's "Electroma." Intrigued by this I went to the theatre as the clock turned from Friday 11:59pm to Saturday 12am. Of course, I was there on the wrong day. Apparently midnight on Saturday is actually midnight on Sunday. Luckily, it was a short walk back to the hotel and there was a place to get a cocktail in between. I blame Daft Punk and electronic music as a whole for the mix up.

Welp, I've typed way too much so I'm gonna take a break. Next up: "The Flight from Paris to Venice" or "Why I Hate Flying."

And I'm back

I'm working on my full report of our Europe adventure. First, I have about 50 episodes of Jeopardy and the Twilight Zone on the DVR that I need to tend to. But, in the meantime, this picture pretty much sums up the whole trip.

Hello 2008!

Haven't posted in a while so let's just get caught up here.

1) I turned 30. More specifically, I turned 30 while doing a shot of Goldschlager and dancing to "This is how We do It." I wouldn't have accepted anything less.

2) I went ahead and instructed the DVR to record Jeopardy on a regular basis. I enjoy the fast-paced trivia, but mostly I like the painfully awkward nerds with their painfully awkward personal stories when Alex introduces them. The stories are usually about something "wacky" that happened while travelling (i.e. ""they lost my luggage" or a "monkey took my hat"). One lady completely ran out of stories after four days as champ and chose to simply let everyone know she has diabetes. To be fair, if I'm ever on, I will just as painfully awkward.

3) Saw the Sweeney Todd and I'm torn because I love Tim Burton and Johnny Depp, but I can't stand all those boring Steven Sondheim songs. Burton shoulda let Danny Elfman redo the whole thing.

5) I played about 100 games of Scrabble. Maybe, when I'm on Jeopardy, my story will be about the time I spelled "boner."

6) Logged a lot of time with the 90's music channel on the "Music Choice" selections available from Comcast. This is the channel that gives you fun facts about the artist as the songs plays. You can tell that the Music Choice folks sent a survey out to a bunch of artists and only got replies from the ones who aren't very busy anymore.

Like when Prince is on they don't have any personal facts and it's all stuff like "Price sold a bunch of albums" or "Prince changed his name to a symbol once." Or sometimes they've got so little that they just go with stuff like "Columbia records stopped making 78s in 1961" and other generic recording industry stuff.

This brings me to Nuno Bettencourt, the once proud lead guitarist of Extreme.

Nuno must have been the most excited guy ever to receive the Music Choice fun facts survey. This is no joke, after a Tom Petty song filled with generic recording industry facts, and Extreme song (alarmingly not "More than Words") came on and all the list of trivia went like this:

* Nuno Bettencourt was the lead guitarist of Extreme
* Nuno Bettencourt loves Kentucky Fried Chicken
* Nuno Bettencourt prefers baths to showers
* Nuno Bettencourt likes his sandwiches cut diagonally
* Nuno Bettencourt practices the yo-yo all day long and can almost "Walk the Dog"
* Nuno Bettencourt didn't sleep real well last night
* Nuno Bettencourt mixed his whites and colors and totally ruined his favorite shirt
* Nuno Bettencourt spends his days watching Music Choice and waiting for his songs to play
* Nuno Bettencourt isn't sure why it burns when he pees
* Nuno Bettencourt is very lonely
* Nuno Bettencourt sometimes eats relish packets for dinner
* Nuno Bettencourt can be reached at 555-XTRM and hopes you'll call...soon.

No joke.

7) Welp, I'm going globetrotting for a bit, so I might not update for a while as I'm pretty sure the Internet hasn't made it to Europe yet. Don't worry, I'm sure I'll have all kinds of nerdy stories to tell when/if I get back.

Happy New Year!

A Christmas Carol

I watched the George C. Scott version of A Christmas Carol the other day and it's a real winner.

I feel that it is, by far, the creepiest version and that's gotta be worth something. The kids that play Ignorance and Want are pretty much the scariest thing I've ever seen - all malnourished and boney. I have no doubt that those roles effectively killed their young careers as they did such a great job that they were type-cast as malnourished boney kids and, really, there's very little demand for that. This must have been such a disappointment to their annoying over-aggressive mothers who, undoubtedly, could have shoved them down the path to fame and fortune, and thereby made up for the failures in their own lives, by choosing to put them in adorable paper towel commercials instead. Live and learn, annoying over-aggressive moms.

This version is also notable for having a Ghost of Christmas Past who - and this has to be because it was made in 1984- looks just like Lita Ford.

It should also be noted that the Ghost of Christmas Present, in any version, is pretty much the most badass guy ever. Dude is like 10 feet tall, has an awesome beard and walks around town wearing nothing but a green velvet robe and carrying a torch. A lighted torch too! Just awesome. Like pro wrestler awesome. I'd like to see Christmas Present go up against someone like Andre the Giant or King Kong Bundy in a no holds barred cage match. Heck, I'd even take a match against Big John Studd or the Iron Sheik, whatever. Maybe Lita Ford...errr the Ghost of Christmas Past can hook that up.

Also, A Christmas Carol really suggests that there is some bizarre ghost world out there where ghosts have jobs with very specific assignments. I mean, there are three ghosts just for Christmas. Are there enough crotchety old misers out there to keep them busy all year round? Are there seasonal layoffs? Or is torturing old people only part of their job description? Perhaps the rest of the year they hang drywall or something. Gotta supplement the ol' ghost income somehow. Gotta put ghost food on your ghost family's table.

And if there are three ghosts specifically assigned to torture crotchety old men and shove goodwill and socialism down their throats, there must be like a billion other ghosts out there with equally ridiculous jobs. When I die, which could be any day now, I just want to take it easy and enjoy death with a nice cocktail, some burgers and few laughs. I don't wanna be put work torturing old men. Of course, maybe there are some good ghost jobs too.

Maybe there's a Ghost of Candy Past because I could sure go for a PB Maxx. But, I bet for every sweet gig like that there's some real downer job like Ghost of Paint Drying or Ghost of Mowing the Lawn Even Though the Game's On. Whatever the specific assignments there sure must be a lot of ghosts doing an awful lot of work.

One thing's for sure though, every other ghost in the ghost world hates that Casper... even the Ghost of Underpants Past...who, by the way, doesn't have any friends at all.

And God bless us, everyone.