An Eventful Christmas...

I hope everyone had a spectacular Christmas. Mine turned out to be pretty eventful. On Christmas Eve my family decided at the spur of the moment to go ice skating at Granite Park in Fresno. Of course, I was too big of a chicken so I stayed by the sidelines. But my grandma was especially excited as she hadn't been ice skating since she was a young girl growing up in Pennsylvania. Afterward, nearly the whole family jumped on a (kiddie) rollercoaster and round and round we went. Unfortunately, we broke the ride and had to hope off the side of the coaster. Some nice mechanics helped push the coaster so my grandma and aunt could dismount safely. Here's my uncle's dog who was recently shaved to look like a lion. (silliness does run in the family)

What Crappy Christmas Gift Are You?

Take the quiz and find out what crappy Christmas gift you are by clicking the link below. If anything it's worth it for the lousy questions (I thought there should be a "none of the above" for most of them). Also, nearly every question has a spelling error. See how many you can find.

You Are Socks!

Cozy and warm... but easily lost.You make a good puppet.

WhatCrappyChristmasGiftAreYou?

Thanks KEP for the link.

L'herbe est plus verte...

Everyone has that memorable summer...or that perfect vacation that stirs deep emotion upon reflection. A lot of times these memories are ushered to the forefront through song, smell or a glimpse of something that inexplicably conjures up the memory and makes us long to be living that experience again.

For me, that memorable period was sometime in the late nineties--1995 or 1996. Whenever I hear an old Doors song like Summer's Almost Gone, or a live version of anything from Crosby, Stills, and Nash, I'm transported to the days that I lived in the Mirage Apartments in Fresno. I see myself setting a Jim Beam whiskey bottle on the wooden coffee table beside several shot glasses, a Rummy Cube board game, and a Nintendo 64 game console.

A knock at the door pushes the endorphin button within and I rush to the door, knowing that it will be the first of a group of close friends whose company will ensure a night of laughter and intriguing conversation. Maki and Yas show up with their own brand of alcohol--their smiles make me wonder how it was ever possible that America and Japan were at one time bitter foes.

Jack and his brother Patrick were never far behind, and Marc and Makoto, my roommates, were already there. For some reason we always gathered around that small coffee table as if it were some reverent altar on which our blood must spill before the memorable night could begin--only it was never blood but whisky and tequila and Sapporo that filled the wooden crevices.

Good natured arguments always ensued as the night progressed. Patrick always passed out early. Makoto was guaranteed to unleash that rare but hilarious laugh that made the hangover next day completely worth it. Jack was sure to come up with some logical explanation to neutralize an argument that reached the ridiculous stage.

Yas was sure to ask an insightful question prompting me to ponder whether he wasn't an inquisitive deity in human form. Maki never let a shot glass stand empty for long and could drink us all under the table--unbelievable! And Marc was sure to get the blood pumping in everyone with his incredible knack for inciting heated discussion.

Everyone was an indispensable piece of a perfect puzzle that formed one of the best periods of my life. A small apartment that collected a group of people from different nations and made them the best of friends.

When people ask me what I would do if I won the lottery, I tell them I would buy a new house, a car, travel, etc. But what I would really love to do is to recreate the Mirage Apartment. I would send roundtrip plane tickets to Jack & Patrick (in Morro Bay), Makoto (in L.A.), Yas & Maki (in Japan), and Marc (in France). And we would pretend it was 1995 or 1996.

P.S. Subsequent spouses, children, and loveable pets will also receive paid airfare and eligibility to be members in our live studio audience. Hors d'oeuvres will be served on the patio upon successful completion of said memory.


Written to Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young:

Might as Well Have a Good Time

There are windows on the water
Lighting up the silver strand
Shining on the sea
Shining on the sea

And the ocean's just a player
On an old piano
Who repeats one melody
Who repeats one melody

I belong on the shore
Hustlin' nickels and dimes
'Cause it ain't long
Before it's gone
You might as well have a good time

Well the elbows of his jacket
Are blue and shiny
He's drunk and gone to seed
Drunk and gone to seed

And he mumbles as he plays
The only song he knows
It's the only song he knows
It's the only song he needs

I belong on the shore
Hustlin' nickels and dimes
'Cause it ain't long
Before it's gone
You might as well have a good time

All his restless music
Don't mean a damn thing to me
The shallow or the deep
Said, the shallow or the deep

So if you're free this evening
We'll go out together
And party 'til we sleep
Party 'til we sleep

I belong on the shore
Hustlin' nickels and dimes
'Cause it ain't long
Before it's gone
You might as well have a good time.

Eucalyptus, Honey, & Grape Jelly...

My allergies are kicking my butt right now. My throat is itchy and at any given time one of my nostrils is completely plugged. I think it's the eucalyptus tree outside my window. Do they make screens that filter out pollen? Because I really don't want to shut my window at night; I love the cool breeze on my face. But the enjoyment factor decreases by multitudes when you've got a wad of Kleenex stuffed in one nostril.

I read somewhere that eating several spoonfuls of local honey each day will decrease the effects of allergies. Supposedly honeybees collect the pollen from eucalyptus trees and so ingesting the pollen in small doses acts as a natural immune booster. Interesting. I'm not a big fan of honey but, hell, I'd shove it up my nose if it meant I'd get a good night's sleep.

Speaking of condiments, the picture below is my finger dipped in grape jelly. Yeah, I know, it's strange. But I wanted to show my solidarity with the Iraqis who voted today and I didn't have a jar of purple ink. I guess I could've destroyed an ink pen for the occasion but...well, I'm smarter than that!

Movie Theater Madness...

Crunch...Crunch....Crunch... Waaa...Waaa...Waaa... Crinkle...Crinkle...Crinkle...

I swear, sometimes I wonder why I even bother going to the movies. It never fails that someone sits behind me with a) the largest barrel of the loudest crunching popcorn b) a candy wrapper that refuses to be silent c) a crying baby that recently swallowed a microphone or d) three gallons of funeral parlor perfume.

Well my latest excursion to the movies was graced by Mr. Smelly Old Man Shoe. This thoughtless creature thought it would be just hunky-dory to wedge his stinky sneakers between my seat and the handrail.

At first it was merely a distraction--my left eye was eclipsed by a pair of dark Reeboks. But then the smell came. Imagine being locked in a breadbox with a sweaty, wrinkly eighty year old foot for two hours. Yeah, that was me during The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe.

Normally when I find myself in these sorts of circumstances I get up and move somewhere else. Like last week when I was watching Aeon Flux and some loser stood behind my seat filming the damn movie. (I hope my head bobbing across the screen ruined his attempt at piracy.) Unfortunately the theater was full this time, so I had to stick it out. I spent the rest of the movie leaning forward and breathing through my beanie.

When I get rich I'm going to install my very own movie theater in my house. Then I'm going to place dummies in various seats cleverly rigged to meet the annoying criteria mentioned above. But instead of playing musical chairs when irritated, I'm going to pull out my bow and arrow and get out some aggression. What fun!

Crunch...Crunch...Crunch...

Thwop! Wooosh... Splat!


p.s. Ollie might claim the topic of this blog was his idea ;)

The day I made a fat kid cry...

Taka and I were sitting with our backs against the chain link fence which bordered the tennis court in my apartment complex. Marc and Tobias were whacking the tennis ball back and forth with skill nearing that of Agassi and Sampras. Marc and Tobias were both excellent tennis players. This was due, no doubt, to the professional tennis lessons of their youth (spoiled European kids).

Taka flicked me one of his Kool Menthol cigarettes and we proceeded to watch Marc run Tobias all over the court. Soon Marc would show Tobias who his daddy was and then it would be mine and Taka's turn. Though Taka and I weren't hotshots like Marc and Tobias, more like Rosanne Barr in a match against Christopher Reeve (God, I'm awful!).

I took a long drag off my cigarette and glanced at my pathetic racket with peeling handle grip tape. Taka cringed as Tobias ran into the fence, the tennis ball bouncing under the fence and rolling into the parking lot.

Tobias cursed in a thick German accent and headed toward the gate to fetch the ball. But just as Tobias rounded the corner, a chubby kid, soaked from pool water, splashed over and scooped the ball up. After several failed attempts to toss the ball over the fence, the kid clumped over and handed the ball to Tobias, a large grin on his pumpkin face. I'm horrible at deciding a kid's age but he was somewhere between too-young-to-smoke and too-old-to-wear-diapers. But what I do remember is that he was big--like double D Kool-Aid big. And instead of heading back to the pool, the kid slapped down on the pavement between Taka and I. Hanging with the older kids now.

There were lots of pebbles on the edge of the court, kicked in from the flowerbed. Taka was tossing them up into the air, then catching them again, cigarette dangling from his mouth. Soon the fat kid made a game of snatching the pebbles out of the air before they could be recaptured by Taka.

I joined in the tossing game, and the fat kid giggled as he bounced between Taka and I, fists clasping airborne pebbles, while Marc made a mockery of Tobias in the background. The smoke from my cigarette was getting in my eye and the ash fell from the shrinking butt.

That's when I got the idea. The horrible and nasty spur of the moment trick to toss my dying cigarette into the air with a handful of pebbles. Of course, I did. And of course the fat kid caught it.

It took a good half second before the kid grasped why the palm of his hand felt like a burning coal; but when he did he tossed the pebbles, with cigarette butt, at the fence and shot me the foulest, most hurt-filled glare.

"I hate you!" were the only words that stumbled from his trembling mouth as he blubbered and stomped away.

Taka gave me a wide-eyed stare and then laughed in his squeaky, too-many-beers-in-one-lifetime laugh. I laughed too. But I felt like a big jerk. I stopped smoking six years later. But I still feel sort of bad for making a fat kid cry.

Where are you Grant?

Hello my peeps. It's been a while since I last blogged. In fact, the day after Thanksgiving I took a wee bit of a trip to Portland, Oregon and schmoozed with some cool Oregonians. Ever since my return I've been in a persistent lazy mood--still on vacation, I suppose. But, anyway, the trip was exactly what I needed: Fresh (freezing) air, great coffee, beautiful scenery, friendly people, great coffee, yeah...

One of the things I really enjoy about traveling is the traveling part--you know, the trains, planes, automobiles. Well, this journey was all about trains and planes. And so I had lots of time to relax and read and people watch, without actually having to pay attention to where I was going. That's the best way to travel. No driving.

But at one point I decided to call my old Swatch store in Glendale, California to see who was working and do a bit of catching up. I found Tracy at the store and she told me about her recent trip to Europe and how she'd scored the store manager position at Swatch. I was thrilled; she totally deserves it. And then we got to talking about John McCampbell--another employee who went on to become a rock star. Read this for background.

Tracy reminded me that John's CD was released on Vagrant Records and so when I got back to Fresno I decided to check the local Borders Books--if you could find it in Fresno, then you could find it anywhere. And sure enough, there it was, on sale for $13.99. Wow! Success! Totally tubular, to the max!

So, allow me to throw the goat to John and the rest of the gang of Down To Earth Approach. \m/ You guys rock. You did it!

Now, here's my challenge for all you out there (Mom, Grandma, stalker from Boise) who reads this blog. Remember those scavenger hunts you used to go on in your church youth group? Yeah, you know what I'm talking about. Your challenge is to find John's CD and buy the damn thing. If you don't have the money then just take a picture of it and put the picture in your CD player...no I'm just kidding...but do take a picture and flaunt it to all your friends.

Scroll down for a picture of me and John (the rock star) at Swatch and some of his drawings of all of us at Swatch. Note: John liked to depict me as a decrepit old man, which only goes to show you that rock stars can be real assholes. \m/

Drawings & Pix...

Guess which one is me!
Yeah, I was a mosquito once.

Too cool for words.