Campaign Canuck

I touched upon our impending trip below but now must elaborate.

LEG 1: Kerry’s Dad drives his truck down from Syracuse, NY, to leave it with his son at Emory then drives with my wife and kids in the minivan back up.

LEG2: After a few days at the in-laws, everyone piles into the Odyssey and heads to Boston.

LEG 3: I fly out on a 7am Saturday flight and meet up with the crew in Beantown where we promptly head on up to Bah Hahbah, Maine, home of the lobster roll… or, at least, that’s where I first tried one on my last expedition this way. We’ll check out Acadia then head up through New Brunswick to the northeastern tip of Nova Scotia.

LEG 4: There we will hop on to a ferry at 7am and on da sea we will be… and without a room FOR FOURTEEN HOURS!!! This, to get to Newfoundland… home of “chips and gravy” which is French fries with “stuffing” (kind of like turkey stuffing bot looser and drier) and gravy… it’s awesome. The way to say “ok” or “hello” or a lot of things I guess is “yes by” which originally was probably “yes, boy” but it doesn’t matter who you’re saying it to. I suppose Newfoundland is kind of the Alabama of Canada but all Canadian’s are friendly and a lot of fun to hang around with and Newfs even more so.

Then we’ll traipse around the Argentia peninsula for a week visiting family (I'm 1/2 Newf!), lounging at my aunt’s cabin, and seeing a few sites in St. John’s… the oldest city in North America that’s still around… including Cabot Tower and a whale watching cruise where I’m sure I’ll down a shot of Screech and kiss a cod.

I get back before the rest of the family and just like my last trip, my flight comes in the night before a run… the Peachtree. For some reason, I have yet to get my number so, although I planned to stay intown, I’ll have to make the trek up to the homestead.

Oh well… should be a blast. It’s past midnight now and I’ve got to get up in a little over 3 hours to catch my flight. See you around, yes by.

Featured in a park-like setting

I can’t even remember exactly how I started mountain biking. In 1996, I moved into an awesome apartment right at the corner of 14th and Piedmont… and I mean right at the corner. We had two patios overlooking the park and other than the miniscule kitchen, the place was huge and very cool. I still miss it. And it was cheap to boot… the big drawback was that, save for what you could scrounge on the street, there was no parking. And with the park across the street and POW right around the corner, the scraps were few. Actually, given all the pluses, I never minded the parking situation. I commuted from Duluth in the evening so I didn’t mind a little walk. Keith, my roommate hated it. He had this boat of car… a 65 Impala that we all loved to cruise in but was a bitch for Keith to find a spot for. Sometimes we’d both get home around the same time and find each other orbiting the apartment in ever-widening circles then the race would be on to get the closest place. A race I always won because my Nissan SE-R was a helluva lot more nimble than his yacht. Fun for me, teeth-grating rage for Keith.

But that’s another story. Among a few other things (funk music, the Posse, disdain for TV), Keith got me into mountain biking. I’m definitely not one to run out and buy an expensive toy on a whim so I suppose I tried Keith’s bike a few times. I can’t recall but somehow I ended up with a $400 Giant Iguana from Intown Bicycles off the park.

We rode many places around the southeast… Chicopee (the best), Bull Mountain (tough but worth it), Sope Creek (don’t bother), and many others plus a few in North Carolina. But the trail that saw my jackhammering, no front-suspension bike the most was the 6-mile loop immediately next to my office. It was rutty… it was rooty… and there was only two decent downhills (I wish! They’ve been gone for 6 or 7 years… damn those new and gleaming office buildings… except for the one I work in, of course!) but it was oh so convenient. In my prime, I was riding 4 or 5 times a week… oh mother McCree were those the days. In 99, there was even an official race on it. I was a slug next to all these voracious kids but I got a nice jersey and a pair of hundred-dollar Revo’s out of it. Not because of anything I could do but because of the charity money put up by my company.

I invested in my current bike… a $600 Kona Lava Dome, a nice zippy little bike from REI… back when I actually BOUGHT outdoor equipment. Can you imagine?!

But that was then. Over the years, development edged in… snipping away bits and chunks of the trail. Also, it was declared off-limits… for liability reasons I presume. We always found ways around the missing sections and new parts evolved. To much glee, we even discovered a huge 2-3 mile spur which included an extremely steep climb dubbed Mt. Bitch that over weeks and weeks we managed to get closer and closer to its peak without coming off our bikes…you see it was so steep that you had to lean way back to keep any traction but then you’d tend to lose control as your front tire lost its grip… and all this on a precarious knife-edge of red earth. And then just as we were within a few days of finally one of us making it, this gigantic tree… likely one of the biggest in the entire area… fell smack-damn onto it the middle of it. And then a few months later, fences were put up cordoning off this entire part of the trail so we stopped going on it.

REAL-TIME: Since the wife and kids have started leg one of Campaign Canuck without me (I’m meeting up with them in Boston for leg three), I’m free to listen to my old CD’s… Mudhoney’s “Every Good Boy Deserves Fudge” takin’ me back to those grunge day of the Beach Club in downtown Orlando…Gish is up next!

Also competing with sprawl in the destruction of the trail was its diminishing users. We did a little maintenance here and there but the ruts got ruttier and rockier and the stream crossings worsened. Every fall only instinct guided us along the leaf-blanketed route and ever summer, tangles of thorns choked the way and bloodied our limbs.

So even before its ultimate death… the trail had fallen into disuse. And so wenteth my bike. Since I took up running, I only ride about a half-dozen times a year and that’s including anything… not just trail. I did take to running it though. Trail running is much more interactive than road. You can’t zone out, can’t get bored dodging rocks and roots, hoofin’ it up steep hills and ever mindful of running into an invisible web and getting a faceful of garden spider.

Now I must eschew the winding tree-lined paths and take to the powerline alleys which are either a mud-soaked monster trucker’s dream or a dry and dusty gasping run through a sunbaked Mojave for now the trail is under piles of piles of shredded trees, the cloying smell of massive amounts of exposed pine sap and diesel fumes from heavy equipment suffocating the now-barren area.

But all is not lost.

Coming soon an exclusive gated neighborhood centered in the heart of a prestigious business area! Extensive shopping and dining are nearby! Distinct townhome and single-family floorplans are featured in a park-like setting!

Beautifully Landscaped. Cabana. Close to Dining. Close to Shopping. Community Pool. Lighted Sidewalks. Tennis Courts.

Coming Soon! Call agent for details!

Step 3: Take Kitten Home

Ralph’s lunch bag was one of those flexible box-type affairs that zipped up. It was the perfect size to hold the wily kitten and the insulation would provide padding so it wouldn’t get hurt trying to escape. He felt bad sticking it in the lunch box...it would be a pretty scary half-hour for the kitten but didn’t know what else he could do.

Again, he thought of just leaving the kitten. But it was sitting there in his hand purring and he knew he couldn’t just leave it to fend for itself in an industrial complex. Plus it had a penchant for snuggling up to fan belts!

Lulled by his gentle handling, the kitten plopped easily into the bag and before it realized its predicament, Ralph had zippered it close to shut, leaving a gap for air. The kitten immediately began yowling and soon poked his head out the gap and began pushing back the zipper, widening its avenue of escape. Ralph pushed it’s head back in gingerly to escape being bit and closed the zipper up more. He wasn’t too worried about the kitten getting enough air. It was a fairly short trip and he would open it a little briefly at the stoplights. Also, thought Ralph, zippers are hardly airtight. He was a lot more worried about the kitten getting out while the Jeep was hauling down the freeway at 75 mph.

For the trip home, the kitten kept up a steady series of loud meowing and the bag would shake as the kitten tried to escape. Ralph wasn’t worried about the kitten hurting itself because the bag was soft and padded. At the traffic stops, he would open the bag a little but not enough to let the frantic kitten get out. Ralph was a little worried about the air supply in the bag but figured the kitten would hardly be able to meow so much if it was slowly suffocating.

As he neared his home, Ralph planned where to place the kitten. He knew he couldn’t keep him inside his apartment, he and his fiancé already had a cat and he didn’t want the kitten to pass along any germs to it. But more importantly, his fiancé was very pregnant with their son and Ralph knew there was some crazy disease or something that came from cats and could harm unborn babies so he would insure that the kitten would not come into contact with the inside of his apartment. He would keep it on the balcony with some water and food. Ralph worried a little about the 3-story drop but figured the kitten would have enough instinct not to jump such a height.
Then, just as he pulled his Jeep into the garage, the meowing stopped and when he picked up the bag, did not continue. Ralph ran as fast as he could up the stars to his apartment, ran through it, and out to the porch.

Attention Surplus Disorder

This weekend I took my son up to visit my Dad at his cabin in North Carolina. We sat on the porch looking out over a small lake, played some cards, went fishing, a little hiking, and Liam schooled me at Battleship.

This was the first time fishing for Liam (and only my 2nd, an angler I ain’t) . We could only find 2 worms so mostly we stuck with cheese and needless to say, caught nothing. Even so, Liam loved it and kept wanting to fish. My Dad went in after about 45 min and Liam stuck with it for another hour and we probably would’ve fished longer except we lost all the cheese. I can’t imagine how much he’s gonna freak when he actually hauls one in.

I was impressed with Liam’s patience and how he can keep himself entertained. There was a TV up there but Liam never asked to watch it. As long as he had a pad to draw on (and I set him up with the occasional connect-the-dots), he was happy.

A few months ago, he wanted another GeoTrax piece… more on that later… so I said if he’d pick up all the pinecones in the front yard, we’d go get it. I gave him a time limit that I did have to extend a few times but he ended up amassing 800 pinecones.

Speaking of GeoTrax, trains have been an obsession of Liam since he was 18 months. It started with Thomas the Train… one of the few shows for toddlers I actually like. George Carlin does the voices for many of them and they have a dry English wit to them. Ringo Star and Alec Baldwin also do a lot but Carlin’s the best. Videos progressed to the wooden train set with all the characters. I remember the Christmas when he was two and he got Gordon and he did the sporto fist downpull thing with a “Gordon!” instead of the “Yes!”

Although I’m constantly battling the deluge of toys from the loving and generous relatives, we didn’t mind slowly but surely turning our living room into a Thomas the Train showroom. Liam would play with them for hours… constantly re-organizing them into different routes and making stories with the trains.

Then, Thomas faded and we wondered what would be next. Then, Christmas of 2004, Uncle Mike got him a little train with a few pieces of track. With a little remote, you could make the train go around the track. Well, that and the batteries that I had to run down to the Kwikie-Mart on Christmas morning to get. I actually didn’t think he’d get into it… but he did and in a big way.

All the trains and pieces of GeoTrax can barely fit into a 37 and a 16 gallon bin. When it’s out, our living room floor becomes a vision of Gwinnetian sprawl in miniature. And he knows every detail of every piece… every building, every support, every switch. I’ve lied with him in bed as he goes over the brochures that come with the sets talking about which piece goes with what set… and by “piece” I don’t just mean a bridge or tunnel but even a tiny road sign. He even points out the tiny manufacturing differences between the toys in the photos and what version he’s got. Freak!!!

Days and days would go by with Liam constantly rearranging the various sets into different configurations. And the funny thing is, only a small percentage of the time does he actually mess with the now four remotely-controlled trains… it’s all track, track, TRACK!!!!

And though once again, the sun seems to be setting on the empire of GeoTrax, I’ll still come home probably once every two weeks to find the whole shebang spread out in some new arrangement. Transformers are a big thing right now but his next big next passion will likely be something else… Legos have always been there but only time will tell.

It's that time again!

Remember, kids, tomorrow is the National Day of Slayer.

Step 2: Try to Find Kitten’s Owner

Ralph looked at the kitten in his hand. What was he supposed to do now? He wanted to do the easy thing and let the kitten go in the parking lot. He put the kitten down and it immediately ran and tried to get back up into the Jeep. He collected it again and thought. He had initially assumed the kitten was some stray who had wandered into the lot but maybe it had been IN the Jeep and had gotten out...the windows were open...and then had crawled up into it. Ralph decided to find the owner of the Jeep and question him about the kitten.

He carried the kitten to the front of the building and left it in the small vestibule that separated the two entrance doors. It would be fine in there and couldn’t run away. Ralph went to his desk. He knew the name of the Jeep’s owner and called him...not there. He paged him over the building’s intercom... nothing.

He returned to the vestibule and found the kitten and the Jeep gone. The owner must have left while Ralph had been at his desk! Ralph’s lunch bag was by the curb... it had been in front of the Jeep where he had left it while crawling all over the place after the kitten.

Ralph exited the vestibule and immediately heard meowing issuing from the spiny bushes flanking the building’s entrance. That asshole had let the kitten out and had run off! Ralph had been away only 3 or 4 minutes.

The kitten was screaming bloody murder from the bushes and when Ralph tried to get it, it ran off and again tried to get up into the underside of a car. As Ralph grabbed it, he decided to take the cat to an animal shelter...otherwise it would die in some car or at the very least, starve in the godforsaken industrial complex his company was located in.

Ralph knew of a shelter that tried to find homes for the animals but he would have to take it home first... it was late and the shelter would be closed. Taking it home would not be easy. Ralph owned a Jeep as well and, right now, its top was down. He could easily imagine the kitten hurtling from the Jeep as it sped down the highway. Even with the top up, the manic kitten would likely be a menace under the gas and brake pedals.

His eyes fell upon the lunch bag.

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.