Step 1:Get a Kitten

Upon walking into his building’s parking lot, one evening after working late, Ralph heard a noise coming from a Jeep parked in the center of the mostly empty lot. It was a very loud and insistent meowing. Approaching the vehicle, Ralph realized quickly that the pitiful cries were not coming from the passenger section but from the engine compartment! Apparently, a kitten had crawled up into the Jeep.

Ralph got on his back and stuck his head under the engine compartment but could not see where the kitten was. But he sure could hear the little guy... it was going nuts in there!

Feeling a little presumptuous about screwing with someone else’s car, Ralph opened up the Jeep’s hood anyway because his was a lofty goal: the rescue of a life in need of help. Visions of shredded kitty ran through his mind as he absolved himself of any wrongdoing.

The cries were emanating from the section just behind the radiator but in front of the fan... just the place where the kitten would get diced should the motor be engaged. By pulling aside a section of the housing, Ralph managed to spot the kitten who looked up at him with giant, round eyes. It was a small black kitten.

But it was a small black kitten that didn’t quite want to be saved. Ralph grabbed and pulled through various spots all around the housing, at various times on his back or halfway under the hood, trying to get that damn kitten who’s cries continued unabated strengthened by its fear of Ralph’s clutching hand.

Finally, Ralph managed to get his fingers on the kitten and yanked it free. The kitten sat in his hand calmly and purred as it gazed at Ralph’s face.

Happy Memorial Day

Like yesterday, today I sat in the pool watching my kids swim, drank a few cheap beers, ate some chow off the grill, and felt glad that I live in the best country in the world.

OTTWTTO

The acronym above is a common introduction to the typical entry in my journal… the written one that I’ve been keeping for about 8 years. It stands for “On the tarmac waiting to take off” and when I use it I’m sitting in a plane on the way to Sweden or Mexico or Wisconsin… someplace where something is in desperate need of being glued.

This time, however, I’m at the starting line for a 5k run on the new runway at Hartsfield, by most accounts the busiest airport in the world. It’s a gorgeous breezy morning, Mayor Jackson is speaking (although I can’t hear a word she’s saying), and all around is miles and miles of giant lanes of concrete… I feel like an ant on a sidewalk.

It’s about 7:30am and since the instructions said that we had to be at the shuttle pick-up at 5:30, I’ve been up since before 4. Which sucks irony because I was here at the airport at 8:45pm last night after flying in from Cleveland. Blah! But I wasn’t going to miss this… how often does one get to actually stand on one of the busiest runways in the post-911 world? Plus it was free and I loooove free.

I’m very impressed by how organized everything is but the day before, my hopes were dismal. Our instructions were e-mailed at the last minute, the website wasn’t helpful at all, and I have a strong lack of faith in the efficiency of anything put on by the government. One of my running partners at work likes to bet a Coke with me roughly once a week and this time, I had bet the whole 5k would be a disaster. But it isn’t at all… they have pulled it off beautifully.

A shot goes off and we’re off. We run probably about 3 or 4 thousand feet down the taxiway then make a long turn onto the runway. Now we are heading roughly with the sun in our faces, shining over the terminal, with planes coming down landing on the runways parallel to us. It it is absolute immensity of concrete… very cool. Everyone is huddled along the inner edge and I want to check out the runway from the view of the planes coming down so I make my way out to the middle where the super-industrial marker lights are. I can see guards stationed at various places along the outer edge so I do not stray any further from the group.

I run in the middle for a bit then make may back into the group. I’m making ok time but probably not my best especially considering we’re on a flat, straight route. At this point, I do not realize until later that we’re running over the section of 285 that crosses under the runway. I had never heard that this was how they managed things and amazingly, had no idea I was running over a highway at the time… no sound, no difference in the concrete, nothing.

We turn back off the runway and head back to where the starting line was. I push hard until the end but even though I can see the clock ticking up to the 22 minute mark, I don’t strive to make it under since my last 5k was 21 something. Turns out I was wrong… my last 5k time was 22:15. My time of 22:00 on the runway is my best 5k so far. Considering the route, it’s going to tough to beat this one on my next 5k which should be the Strut.

I drink two PowerAdes while I wait for the medium shirts to show up, eat a muffin, chat with Susie, then race (again!) to get home in time for my son’s last soccer game. Go Dogs!!!

Erdman struggles to muster the enthusiasm he once had

Behind me, Kerry and her brother are getting a kick out of some inane end of the world thing on TV. Understandably, they are trying to get me away from this stupid screen (if not only for another) but all I can think of is this old classic from a source of many.

Ichiean For Some Sushi

Last Wed, a cow orker and I flew up to Detroit. First time for me but not much to blog about. Drove to Cleveland the next weekend. Stayed at a Holiday Inn, an old relic of a hotel that I used to like staying at because of the 70’s disco lounge. Now it’s been turned into some convention room so forget that popsicle joint.

We had been talking about getting sushi but I should’ve abandoned the search when the only place I could find in the phonebook that might possibly be Japanese was misspelled “Ichiean Restaurant”. On the outside, it looked like the typical cheap bar found in sad towns: a blinking neon Bud sign in the window, a laundromat connected next door, one old van in the refuse-littered parking lot. Never one to judge a book by it’s cover and feelin’ frisky, I was game.

Unfortunately, the faux wood-paneled interior looked much the same and the clear view of the kitchen looked even worse but since I had proclaimed my adventurousness when we drove up, I was committed. There was one patron at the hibachi staring at a TV on the wall along with the chef and another guy sitting at a table reading a newspaper. They all looked up as we walked in and the chef and his up-on-current-events comrade seemed shocked when we said we were there for the sushi. I settled in at the bar with a Sapporo while the sushi chef explained to the patron that we were actually going to eat raw fish. “The girls like sushi,” he said winking at us… whatever that meant.

Anyone that knows me will agree when I say I am not picky about food. In fact, I don’t know anyone who has as nonchoosy a palate as mine. I have eaten turtle in China, grubs in Mexico, and liver and onions at the Majestic. A greasy spoon or a Chinese joint that is not pristine is no concern of mine. I laugh at the 2-second rule and gross as it may seem, I basically have no statute of limitations for dropped food. What doesn’t kill me makes me stronger.

But when a place prepares and serves raw flesh, I feel comforted by the trappings of efficiency and sanitation found in most sushi joints: gleaming chrome, clear glass displays showcasing the fresh fish, and a general aura of neatness and cleanliness. A dive that might look like a great neighborhood place for a juicy hamburger or awesome wings does not inspire confidence for enjoyable sashimi.

Turns out it wasn’t bad sushi but I can’t really say it was good because I was too troubled by visions of a long early morning on my knees in my hotel room’s bathroom. Oh well, I am now strong!

R-A-M-B-L-I-N apostrophe

Egypt... big whoop! Kat's got nothing on me. In two nights, I'll be soaring to Detroit Rock City followed by a drive to the Land of Cleves. And if that wasn't enough globetrotting, next week I may be off to Dillon, South Carolina! But, to be honest, I can't be sarcastic about Dillon. When I Googled it looking for some bucolic shot, I discovered it's the home of South of the Border... SCORE!!!!

Reach out and touch Dave's

Way back in the Florida days, Matt, Mark, and I used to get together for wings. When we all ended up here in Atlanta, we started meeting at Taco Mac in Va-Hi on Sunday evenings and it became a tradition. At one point, the crowd became large enough that Matt came up with the Wing Bridge, a wood section that fit perfectly between the cemented-in tables on the porch of Taco Mac, turning two tables into one long free-for-all. The waitresses kept it in the basement of the place and brought it out for us on Sundays. I've probably been to easily over a hundred wing nights at Taco Mac and I've never had anything on the menu but wings and fries. Well, that is, except for beer of course.

One night, Dave, Mark, Matt, and myself... basically the old school Florida crew... were enjoyin' the heat of some a-spicy wings and Dave decided he wasn't fond of everyone casually dunking celery sticks and wings into whichever bleu cheese cup was handy. So, of course, although it was a fairly reasonable request, we had to rag him mercilessly. The beautiful thing... the jewel that stays in my head through the years... was Matt coming up with the Depeche Mode parody "Your own... personal... bleu cheese."

Slays me.

Tonight, I was going through the list on our phone trying to find my sister's number and came upon a friend I hadn't talked to in a while so dialed him up. I caught him at a sushi place in Brooklyn trying to calm his wife who was very riled up over the fact that they might not see Depeche Mode. Fate seemed to be working against them. They had mixed up the date on a previous show and had missed them and now the singer was complaining of laryngitis. They had purchased tickets for a show tomorrow night but she was worried that they would cancel. We ended the phone conversation with them downing rounds of saki and trying to find a way to get into tonight's show.... an $85 + tip cab ride away.

Twenty minutes ago, they called me from the show with "Personal Jesus" playing in the background.

Folding Action!

Originally, I bought the Sven-Saw for camping but I find that it is the best saw I have for cutting up branches and even felling small trees. Plus it has a wing nut... and I love wing nuts!!!

Eternity

When I was a kid, there was a mangy abandoned cat that used to roam our neighborhood. He loved to get attention from my sister and me but all of the animals were scared of him… including my Lab. One day he showed up with his throat partially ripped out and even though he had purple strands exposed to all the world he was still purring, asking for pets. I think his name was originally “Fluffy” but from then on, my Dad called him “Eternity”.

I bought a beat-up 86 Isuzu P’up from a cow-orker for $500. Unless you count the Hummer 2’s, it‘s by far, the ugliest thing on the roads around here. The missing side paneling, the dangling wires, the many dents… it’s a real beauty! There isn’t a single interior light anywhere including the entire dash save for the turn indicators and I won’t (willingly) drive in the rain because I can’t find the electrical short preventing the wipers (well, wiper… I removed one) from working. No tunes… I couldn’t stand fiddling with the memory-less rotary dial on the radio so I pulled it.

However, other than three oil changes, I’ve put almost zero into it… no tires, no belts… even the busted water line I replaced was given to me for free by the guy at AutoZone. Pretty soon after I bought it I did put a new battery in it and felt stupid for doing so since I figured the truck wouldn’t be running in another six months. That was three years ago.

I now believe that financially the best car a person can buy is a tiny beat-up pickup truck. 95% of the time, all the big, rumbling behemoths that hide my truck from view in the parking lot are doing the same thing my truck is doing… driving to work! Even when they are hauling, most of the time they are doing something my truck could do… portering furniture and wood and bulk crap from Home Depot. I’ve had tractors dump giant shovelfuls of rocks into my bed… something that the Titan-owners would cringe at. My precious bedliner will be dulled! And my entire truck costs about as much as a monthly payment for one of these.

Word.

Nothing to Rave About

In college and for a while after, I hated techno. To me, it seemed like talentless quirps and monotonous beats. I don't know what happened, whether the music improved or my range of taste grew, but I began to like it. I have a feeling it was both plus the fact that I was hearing more and more as techno became much more mainstream in the late 90's... Chemical Brothers, Crystal Method, etc.

Remember Battlestar Galactica and Buck Rogers and how they had to occasionally provide an opportunity for the "dagget" or for Tweeky to boogie down? It'd be some disco of the future and Buck would be infiltrating the teen scene for some inane reason that didn't matter but involved hoops, neck collars with swirling lights, and sparkly white bodysuits. I'd love to hear the music that was being portrayed as the "in sound of the future" and see how close it was to techno or, more likely, how close it was to pop 80's crap.

The Flower of Gower Gulch

Classic scene from Drip-Along Daffy, one of the three great cartoons on the tape we watched with Duck Amuck:

Daffy dramatically enters saloon and pulls his guns. In the process he removes his pants. "Hmmm... a bit breezy in here." He notices the absence and clutches himself. "Slight pause while I adjust my accoutrements."

Speaking of drip along, we tented in the backyard last nght... dogs and s'mores to the sounds of the neighbor kid's band (he's 15 but all they play is AC/DC, Led Zep, and GNR), followed by a marathon Crazy 8's session. We were on the 4th deck when he finally won!

Today, cleaned up the house then, to the shock of the locals, played some chess at the 3$ Cafe whilst trying to keep Sunday Wings alive.

A catch phrase that Liam came up with somewhere said in a southern drawl but in the spirit of "What a bummer":

"You ruined the party, man!"

Oh frabjious day!

Good morning, world!

To Pitch a Tent, Part 3

Well, gotta rap this up…gotta have closure, ya know.
The wedding was very nice, the reception was a lot of fun, many songs taking me back… we walked back to the campsite, Erin on my back and the pack broke as I was letting her down by the tent. Cooked some hot dogs and s’mores (you know, for the kids). Tented in peaceful slumber. Cereal for b’fast. Then Kat and Mango were kind enough to share their brats and a tiny keg of Heineken for lunch. Yum!

Royal Flush?

Although not nearly as serious a crisis as the dilution of “rape”, “Holocaust”, “disease”, and "blow the roof off this sucka", I am dismayed by yet another watering-down of a phrase. Typically at sporting events, bars, and especially movie theaters, the phrase “Full House!” can often be heard in any men’s restroom where all the spots are taken. By all the spots, I mean the urinals and the stalls. However, recently I have heard the exclamation used when only the urinals were occupied and I simply must protest this gross exaggeration.

There are perfectly good stalls free for the taking, my good sir! Kindly avail yourself. If you simply must hear yourself speaking loudly in a restroom, at least come up with something mildly original.

Guys Amuck

Kerry is going to a shower out of town and will bring Erin so for Liam and me, it’ll be a weekend of camping in the backyard, cartoons, hot dogs over the fire, bike riding, and robot movies. Awww yeeeeah.