Saturday, December 23, 2006
Thursday, December 21, 2006
Family Survival Kit
I bought Leech-B-Gone last year, the powder that repels money grubbing fake-o friends
Tag! I'm It?
Apparently I have been blog-tagged and am now "it". I did not know that such a thing existed until yesterday. Usually I have a tendency to simply ignore this type of pressure to perform, but since I was tagged by The Lovely Jacqueline (an altogether pleasant experience I might add) I will succumb to the peer pressure - this time. The task before us is to name the ten books we would never get rid of, not for any reason. Okay, here goes.
1) The Stand by Stephen King (unabridged edition - all ten million pages)
2) The More Than Complete Hitch Hiker's Guide To the Galaxy by the late Douglas Adams (including So Long and Thanks For All The Fish)
3) On The Road by Jack Kerouac - a bible I based my life around before I even read it
4) Rush Limbaugh Is A Big, Fat, Idiot by Al Franken
5) The Complete History Of World War II by various assorted contributors
6) The Diary Of Anne Frank - for mostly the same reasons Jacq listed
7) Passionate Purpose, Awakening the Inner Fire - A little book for Life's Big Questions by Reed Daugherity (whom I was lucky enough to have as a professor in college)
8) The Hobbit. The Lord of the Rings: Fellowship of the Ring. The Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers. The Lord of the Rings: Return of the King
9) The Magic of Xanth by Piers Anthony. One volume of what was supposed to be a trilogy, but ended up having so many titles added that I eventually lost track. In this book the main character lived in a land where every person had one, just one, magic power. Everyone was required to demonstrate their power to the world at large by the time of their thirteenth birthday or face banishment. Our hero could not find his magical talent and after a perilous quest discovered that his power was the ability to negate any magic anyone tried to use against him. I love that.
10) Inside the Vatican by Cardinal James A. Vanderveldt - hey, he's a relative.
1) The Stand by Stephen King (unabridged edition - all ten million pages)
2) The More Than Complete Hitch Hiker's Guide To the Galaxy by the late Douglas Adams (including So Long and Thanks For All The Fish)
3) On The Road by Jack Kerouac - a bible I based my life around before I even read it
4) Rush Limbaugh Is A Big, Fat, Idiot by Al Franken
5) The Complete History Of World War II by various assorted contributors
6) The Diary Of Anne Frank - for mostly the same reasons Jacq listed
7) Passionate Purpose, Awakening the Inner Fire - A little book for Life's Big Questions by Reed Daugherity (whom I was lucky enough to have as a professor in college)
8) The Hobbit. The Lord of the Rings: Fellowship of the Ring. The Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers. The Lord of the Rings: Return of the King
9) The Magic of Xanth by Piers Anthony. One volume of what was supposed to be a trilogy, but ended up having so many titles added that I eventually lost track. In this book the main character lived in a land where every person had one, just one, magic power. Everyone was required to demonstrate their power to the world at large by the time of their thirteenth birthday or face banishment. Our hero could not find his magical talent and after a perilous quest discovered that his power was the ability to negate any magic anyone tried to use against him. I love that.
10) Inside the Vatican by Cardinal James A. Vanderveldt - hey, he's a relative.
Friday, December 15, 2006
Teen Age Girls Are Hilarious!
Allanah is a 16 year old girl who is quite adept at using American Sign Language for the deaf. She is rightfully proud of her ability and is passionate about learning new ways to communicate in that vein. Recently she learned how to sign several Christmas carols.
She excitedly told her younger sister Brenna about it, and how her very favorite thing was having learned to sign Silent Night in Spanish. Brenna, the future comedic actor in the family, gives her a slow look and says, "That's stupid, Allanah. What are you gonna do, wander all over town looking for a deaf Mexican to sing to?"
Driving home via I-5 at 75 mph, in pitch black and 100 mph winds was not the best time to hear this. I almost drove off the damn road three times.
She excitedly told her younger sister Brenna about it, and how her very favorite thing was having learned to sign Silent Night in Spanish. Brenna, the future comedic actor in the family, gives her a slow look and says, "That's stupid, Allanah. What are you gonna do, wander all over town looking for a deaf Mexican to sing to?"
Driving home via I-5 at 75 mph, in pitch black and 100 mph winds was not the best time to hear this. I almost drove off the damn road three times.
Friday, December 8, 2006
Vietnam / John Lennon
Sometime in 1968 or ’69, I remember riding to town with my parents in their early 60’s hot metallic pink Buick Wildcat. I can still feel the cold of the immaculate white leather seat on my bare legs as the newscaster on AM radio station KVAS talked about the war. The peace talks between North and South Vietnam had broken down and President Nixon had stepped up the bombing of Hanoi.
The main sticking point in the negotiation process seemed to be about whose flag went up the flagpole first. My only thought was “My God. All they need to do is put up dual flagpoles and fly each flag at equal height. If a seven year old can figure that out and they can’t, this war is doomed to go on forever!”
It was at that exact moment that I saw my own fate. I was going to turn 18, get drafted into the army, be sent to Vietnam, and get shot and die. Period. I knew with absolute certainty that I would not see my 19th birthday.
I watched Walter Cronkite every weeknight at 6:00 and counted down the months I had left to live. Some time later, the announcement that the war was over had no effect on me. I had heard it all too many times before and had become a very jaded pre-teen.
It wasn’t until another car ride into town, at the same exact spot near the bottom of 7th street where my fate had been sealed, that something changed. John Lennon came on the radio this time. “And so this is Christmas… and what have we done…another year over, and a new one just begun…”
The overwhelming part of the song was actually performed by Yoko Ono and a choir of children. “War is over…War is over…War is over…” So far I’ve had the gift of more than eight thousand days beyond my 19th birthday.
If you have ever wondered why I am the way I am, or why I love Christmas so dearly, or why I sobbed the day John died.
The main sticking point in the negotiation process seemed to be about whose flag went up the flagpole first. My only thought was “My God. All they need to do is put up dual flagpoles and fly each flag at equal height. If a seven year old can figure that out and they can’t, this war is doomed to go on forever!”
It was at that exact moment that I saw my own fate. I was going to turn 18, get drafted into the army, be sent to Vietnam, and get shot and die. Period. I knew with absolute certainty that I would not see my 19th birthday.
I watched Walter Cronkite every weeknight at 6:00 and counted down the months I had left to live. Some time later, the announcement that the war was over had no effect on me. I had heard it all too many times before and had become a very jaded pre-teen.
It wasn’t until another car ride into town, at the same exact spot near the bottom of 7th street where my fate had been sealed, that something changed. John Lennon came on the radio this time. “And so this is Christmas… and what have we done…another year over, and a new one just begun…”
The overwhelming part of the song was actually performed by Yoko Ono and a choir of children. “War is over…War is over…War is over…” So far I’ve had the gift of more than eight thousand days beyond my 19th birthday.
If you have ever wondered why I am the way I am, or why I love Christmas so dearly, or why I sobbed the day John died.
Origin of the Hollander
I've had many inquiries as to the origin of my name. My attempt to address this in the post "The Hollander" turned into a strange musical interlude. So I will try to answer here instead.
Back in those days, Mr. McCartney and I were living in the infamous House Of Beds, living it up during what we called Fuck-Fest '91. The couple next door had decided to try a temporary separation and rented out their house to these nice, young, girls. April was one of those rare redheads, neither drop dead gorgeous nor hideous. She was the bi-sexual of the household. Ursula was a tall, black haired, blue eyed, pale skinned, truly drop dead gorgeous, German girl. We were dismayed, at first, to find out she was the out and out committed lesbian of the group. Our fears were allayed when Ursula announced that she had broken up with her long time girlfriend and that it had been too damn long since she had been with a man.
CUT TO POKER SCENE:
Since I had already taken most everyone's money at the table, the bulk of the group decided to make the long trek to the Kenton Liquor Store. Colin and Angela were broke and consoling each other next door at the House Of Beds. April, Ursula, and I were the only remaining players and I was holding a straight flush. While I don't believe in censorship, even self censorship, I won't go into the details of what happened when the only stake the girls had left were their clothes. It will have to suffice to say that I won the poker game hands down and enjoyed a rollicking afternoon with the two neighbor girls.
Once Colin and Angela were sufficiently consoled, Colin burst into Ursula's bedroom to announce that we had to go meet some associates of his, right now. These associates were waiting for us down under the St. John's Bridge and it was a matter of some urgency that we find them before the cops did. I couldn't tell if Colin was excited, scared, or both. April had to jump on him and pin him to the bed to keep him still. Even then I barely had time enough to finish up my tryst with Ursula before he was dragging me out the patio door with my shoes and shirt still in my arms.
"What the hell is so important you had to interrupt me and two beautiful lesbians for?"
"The Irishmen are here, and they're in trouble..."
THE IRISHMEN ARRIVE IN TOWN
We never did know what the Irishmen's business in town was. All we were told is that it had gone horribly wrong. The contact who was supposed to meet them at the Sauvie Island Ship Yards hadn't shown and a suspicious dock security guard had called the Portland police when the group couldn't produce any I.D. or explain their presence in the high security area. Whether that guard survived the blow to the head he received is still a mystery to us. Seamus and the other three Irishmen, being the calm, cool, collected, professionals that they were, knew exactly what to do next. They ran like hell. Armed only with .357 handguns and no knowledge of the local area, they found themselves scattered about the downtown St. John's neighborhood. Someone in ops planning was going to answer for this stupidity.
Down by the decrepit St. John's movie palace sat the lone functioning payphone in town. Seamus used the last two-bits in his surplus army coat to call the emergency agent for this job. Shit, man, how did such a simple operation turn into this fucking circle jerk? The emergency contact told Seamus to get to the maintenance bunker under the bridge and wait there for help. A local supporter would be there shortly. If he had been able to find his three partners, this might have been a workable plan. In the meantime, he still had the local cops to worry about. Fuck!
CONSOLATION
Colin and Angela were laid back, enjoying a post consolation cigarette when the bedside phone rang.
"Mr. McCartney?..."
Two minutes later Colin burst into Ursula's bedroom and began our newest adventure. Not to say that the afternoon spent with my two new friends was exactly uneventful. Flush with recent coitus, and several hundred dollars cash from my poker winnings, I was almost as excited about meeting the Irishmen as he was. We probably ran ten blocks before we realized that we had enough money for a cab. A half hour later we arrived at the base of the grand St. John's Bridge. Our soon to be new associates were not in sight and several Portland police cruisers filled the usually quiet park.
"Sir, you're going to have to get this taxi out of here."
It was a uniformed cop sticking his head inside the driver's window. Colin slowly waved the Tricolour outside his door. While the cabbie argued with the cop, Colin slipped out of the car and headed straight for the concrete and steel maintenance bunker. Officer Press caught sight of him before he made it ten feet from the vehicle.
"Hey buddy! Get the hell back in before I slap the 'cuffs on ya!"
It was enough though. Seamus had seen the signal and knew who to look for. We both stared back at the bunker as the driver slowly turned down onto the narrow, one-lane service road. We got one glimpse of the surplus army coat running around the corner of the concrete pier as we pulled up behind the public lavatory. We chain smoked for awhile, trying to keep away from the cops, but staying close enough to rescue the crew.
Seamus desperately looked for something, anything, that would help him. The green metal door had only one rusty padlock holding it shut. He resisted the urge to shoot the damn thing off and used the butt of his pistol to break it instead. Good, much less noise and fuss. Inside it was dark and his eyes couldn't adjust after the bright Portland sunlight. The concrete room was cluttered and cool. Piles of tools and equipment blocked his way in. Something in here will work, but what?
Colin tried to look nonchalant, standing there in the entry to the men's room. I slipped another twenty to the cabbie to placate the man who had become a nervous wreck. It seemed as if several hours passed but it was really only five long ass minutes before we saw a park maintenance man heading our way. "Shit, what does this guy want?" The park official stopped briefly to talk with a Portland cop and we were sure we were gonna get kicked out of the park, at least. As he approached he rasped out "Mr. McCartney?" Holy crap it was the Irishman!
"Thank you for your assistance, gentleman. Now, may I suggest we get the hell out of here?"
The cabbie managed to pull himself together and drive slowly up the service road out to the main streets of St. John's. As soon as we were far enough away from the cop filled park he pulled over and insisted on taking his leave of us, and another of my twenties.
"We should get off the streets, I have a safe place nearby" Colin said.
"Not without my mates."
"So where do we look for three Irish guys who are running from the cops in Portland? I asked.
Colin and Seamus just smiled.
THE COWBOY WAY
American ATM's were almost too easy to pilfer. In less than a minute he had five hundred dollars worth of twenties in his hands. Next thing on the list was to find a store front filled with typical American clothing. Five doors down from the bank he saw his target. Destry's Urban Ranch looked like just the place. The Korean shop keep had considerable difficulty deciphering his thick Irish brogue but he managed to make his wishes known by using hand signs and flashing a wad of bills. He was quietly trying on his new duds in the changing room as the small army of Portland police flashed by.
"I believe we need some whiskey!" Seamus grinned at Colin and me.
So we quick-stepped it to the second nearest hard liquor bar and ordered a round of doubles, neat. I stood there, belly pressed to the bar, wondering what on earth we were doing. As it was a Saturday afternoon in August and this was the blue collar town of St. John's, the bar was quite crowded. We saw all of the usual characters there. The toothless barfly at the end of the bar chortled over some dirty joke. The Harley riders shot pool and kept a slightly nervous eye on their babies parked outside. The crystal meth dealers huddled in a corner boothe trying desperately to not look like crystal meth dealers.
The bartender knew us. It was our dear friend Brandy, a semi-regular at the House of Beds. I'd tell you Brandy's real name but I have an aversion to getting shot (not to mention getting cursed, the woman is a bonafide witch).
"Hey guys, you still want me to tend bar at your party this weekend?" Brandy asked us in her sexiest Stevie Nicks voice.
Not only did she have the voice but she also had the Stevie looks. How could we help but have our attention diverted from our task of finding errant Irishmen? As I said Brandy was a friend of ours, so it was easy for us to get over served in her establishment. If we ever got too drunk to drive she simply made us wait till closing and brought us home herself. A situation which came with its own fringe benefits. Along about our seventh double whiskey we found our attention momentarily pulled away from our beautiful bartender friend and shifted to the stage. Karaoke night was in full swing and the latest victim was heading for the spotlight. There he stood, or wobbled rather, decked out in tight-ass spangled Wrangler jeans, fringed western shirt and lizard skin shit kickers. The whole outfit was topped off with the biggest damn black cowboy hat I ever saw.
"Oh, I got friennddds in lowww placess"
It was one of our missing Irishmen, drunk off his ass hiding from the cops in a whiskey bar. Seamus looked as if he was gonna pass out right then and there. Brandy made a disgusted snort. We let him finish his song then hustled him out the back door to Brandy's car. The other two Irishmen were out there sitting on top of the dumpster, drinking their own giant bottle of booze. And singing. Were they scared about the cops possibly finding them? No. They were angry that we interupted their back alley concert. Brandy had to come out and threaten them with witchcraft before they acquiesced and let us pour them into the car. Next stop - Danny Foster's bachelor pad condo.
THE HOLLANDER
Danny didn't seem too upset when the six of us burst into his place. He was used to it because it happened there almost as much as it did at our house. As a matter of fact he didn't even slow down his love making to the ebullient Erin McCartney. They just got louder about it when they realized they had an audience. At first we tried to ignore their passion, figuring it wouldn't last that much longer anyway. After the first hour we decided we had better do something to mask the noise. Whiskey, we need more whiskey!!
Will you still need me, will you still feed me
When I'm sixty-four?...
Colin drained the last half of his bottle in one giant slurp and proceeded to drop face first on the kitchen linoleum. He became a bit disconcerted listening to his childhood friend making very loud love to his sister. Three of the Irishmen joined colin in his catotonic state, while Seamus and I discussed everything in the known universe. Still after five hours of drinking and yelling we could not quite drown out Erin and Danny. So, naturally, we cranked up the Beatles tape that we were playing for the fifth time and sang along, loud and bad. It was then that I decided I was drunk enough to ask him just what exactly their "business" in town was. The inebriated smile dropped from his face and he pulled his arm off from around my shoulders where it had sat for the last several hours.
"Now why would cha be wantin' ta know dat? How da I know ya ain't a federal agent lad? Colin here is a fine, upstanding Irish Catholic boy, but we really don' know shite about you do we now?"
"Me? I'm a friend of Colin's, and Erin's too. Although maybe not as good a friend as Danny seems to be to her"
"Shore, but what be yer background lad, what be yore faith un family?"
"I'm Dutch and come from a long line of committed Dutch Catholics."
"Ahh, so ye be a Hollander den? I have no truck agin the Hollanders."
Next morning when Colin and the three Irishmen awoke , and Erin finally exhausted Danny, Seamus and I were still up drinking whiskey and belting out Beatles tunes. The hungover Irishmen glared at me with suspicion and Seamus said, "Wake up ya drunkin sots, get over here and meet a new friend of ours - Lad's, I'd like ya ta meet The Hollander!"
Back in those days, Mr. McCartney and I were living in the infamous House Of Beds, living it up during what we called Fuck-Fest '91. The couple next door had decided to try a temporary separation and rented out their house to these nice, young, girls. April was one of those rare redheads, neither drop dead gorgeous nor hideous. She was the bi-sexual of the household. Ursula was a tall, black haired, blue eyed, pale skinned, truly drop dead gorgeous, German girl. We were dismayed, at first, to find out she was the out and out committed lesbian of the group. Our fears were allayed when Ursula announced that she had broken up with her long time girlfriend and that it had been too damn long since she had been with a man.
CUT TO POKER SCENE:
Since I had already taken most everyone's money at the table, the bulk of the group decided to make the long trek to the Kenton Liquor Store. Colin and Angela were broke and consoling each other next door at the House Of Beds. April, Ursula, and I were the only remaining players and I was holding a straight flush. While I don't believe in censorship, even self censorship, I won't go into the details of what happened when the only stake the girls had left were their clothes. It will have to suffice to say that I won the poker game hands down and enjoyed a rollicking afternoon with the two neighbor girls.
Once Colin and Angela were sufficiently consoled, Colin burst into Ursula's bedroom to announce that we had to go meet some associates of his, right now. These associates were waiting for us down under the St. John's Bridge and it was a matter of some urgency that we find them before the cops did. I couldn't tell if Colin was excited, scared, or both. April had to jump on him and pin him to the bed to keep him still. Even then I barely had time enough to finish up my tryst with Ursula before he was dragging me out the patio door with my shoes and shirt still in my arms.
"What the hell is so important you had to interrupt me and two beautiful lesbians for?"
"The Irishmen are here, and they're in trouble..."
THE IRISHMEN ARRIVE IN TOWN
We never did know what the Irishmen's business in town was. All we were told is that it had gone horribly wrong. The contact who was supposed to meet them at the Sauvie Island Ship Yards hadn't shown and a suspicious dock security guard had called the Portland police when the group couldn't produce any I.D. or explain their presence in the high security area. Whether that guard survived the blow to the head he received is still a mystery to us. Seamus and the other three Irishmen, being the calm, cool, collected, professionals that they were, knew exactly what to do next. They ran like hell. Armed only with .357 handguns and no knowledge of the local area, they found themselves scattered about the downtown St. John's neighborhood. Someone in ops planning was going to answer for this stupidity.
Down by the decrepit St. John's movie palace sat the lone functioning payphone in town. Seamus used the last two-bits in his surplus army coat to call the emergency agent for this job. Shit, man, how did such a simple operation turn into this fucking circle jerk? The emergency contact told Seamus to get to the maintenance bunker under the bridge and wait there for help. A local supporter would be there shortly. If he had been able to find his three partners, this might have been a workable plan. In the meantime, he still had the local cops to worry about. Fuck!
CONSOLATION
Colin and Angela were laid back, enjoying a post consolation cigarette when the bedside phone rang.
"Mr. McCartney?..."
Two minutes later Colin burst into Ursula's bedroom and began our newest adventure. Not to say that the afternoon spent with my two new friends was exactly uneventful. Flush with recent coitus, and several hundred dollars cash from my poker winnings, I was almost as excited about meeting the Irishmen as he was. We probably ran ten blocks before we realized that we had enough money for a cab. A half hour later we arrived at the base of the grand St. John's Bridge. Our soon to be new associates were not in sight and several Portland police cruisers filled the usually quiet park.
"Sir, you're going to have to get this taxi out of here."
It was a uniformed cop sticking his head inside the driver's window. Colin slowly waved the Tricolour outside his door. While the cabbie argued with the cop, Colin slipped out of the car and headed straight for the concrete and steel maintenance bunker. Officer Press caught sight of him before he made it ten feet from the vehicle.
"Hey buddy! Get the hell back in before I slap the 'cuffs on ya!"
It was enough though. Seamus had seen the signal and knew who to look for. We both stared back at the bunker as the driver slowly turned down onto the narrow, one-lane service road. We got one glimpse of the surplus army coat running around the corner of the concrete pier as we pulled up behind the public lavatory. We chain smoked for awhile, trying to keep away from the cops, but staying close enough to rescue the crew.
Seamus desperately looked for something, anything, that would help him. The green metal door had only one rusty padlock holding it shut. He resisted the urge to shoot the damn thing off and used the butt of his pistol to break it instead. Good, much less noise and fuss. Inside it was dark and his eyes couldn't adjust after the bright Portland sunlight. The concrete room was cluttered and cool. Piles of tools and equipment blocked his way in. Something in here will work, but what?
Colin tried to look nonchalant, standing there in the entry to the men's room. I slipped another twenty to the cabbie to placate the man who had become a nervous wreck. It seemed as if several hours passed but it was really only five long ass minutes before we saw a park maintenance man heading our way. "Shit, what does this guy want?" The park official stopped briefly to talk with a Portland cop and we were sure we were gonna get kicked out of the park, at least. As he approached he rasped out "Mr. McCartney?" Holy crap it was the Irishman!
"Thank you for your assistance, gentleman. Now, may I suggest we get the hell out of here?"
The cabbie managed to pull himself together and drive slowly up the service road out to the main streets of St. John's. As soon as we were far enough away from the cop filled park he pulled over and insisted on taking his leave of us, and another of my twenties.
"We should get off the streets, I have a safe place nearby" Colin said.
"Not without my mates."
"So where do we look for three Irish guys who are running from the cops in Portland? I asked.
Colin and Seamus just smiled.
THE COWBOY WAY
American ATM's were almost too easy to pilfer. In less than a minute he had five hundred dollars worth of twenties in his hands. Next thing on the list was to find a store front filled with typical American clothing. Five doors down from the bank he saw his target. Destry's Urban Ranch looked like just the place. The Korean shop keep had considerable difficulty deciphering his thick Irish brogue but he managed to make his wishes known by using hand signs and flashing a wad of bills. He was quietly trying on his new duds in the changing room as the small army of Portland police flashed by.
"I believe we need some whiskey!" Seamus grinned at Colin and me.
So we quick-stepped it to the second nearest hard liquor bar and ordered a round of doubles, neat. I stood there, belly pressed to the bar, wondering what on earth we were doing. As it was a Saturday afternoon in August and this was the blue collar town of St. John's, the bar was quite crowded. We saw all of the usual characters there. The toothless barfly at the end of the bar chortled over some dirty joke. The Harley riders shot pool and kept a slightly nervous eye on their babies parked outside. The crystal meth dealers huddled in a corner boothe trying desperately to not look like crystal meth dealers.
The bartender knew us. It was our dear friend Brandy, a semi-regular at the House of Beds. I'd tell you Brandy's real name but I have an aversion to getting shot (not to mention getting cursed, the woman is a bonafide witch).
"Hey guys, you still want me to tend bar at your party this weekend?" Brandy asked us in her sexiest Stevie Nicks voice.
Not only did she have the voice but she also had the Stevie looks. How could we help but have our attention diverted from our task of finding errant Irishmen? As I said Brandy was a friend of ours, so it was easy for us to get over served in her establishment. If we ever got too drunk to drive she simply made us wait till closing and brought us home herself. A situation which came with its own fringe benefits. Along about our seventh double whiskey we found our attention momentarily pulled away from our beautiful bartender friend and shifted to the stage. Karaoke night was in full swing and the latest victim was heading for the spotlight. There he stood, or wobbled rather, decked out in tight-ass spangled Wrangler jeans, fringed western shirt and lizard skin shit kickers. The whole outfit was topped off with the biggest damn black cowboy hat I ever saw.
"Oh, I got friennddds in lowww placess"
It was one of our missing Irishmen, drunk off his ass hiding from the cops in a whiskey bar. Seamus looked as if he was gonna pass out right then and there. Brandy made a disgusted snort. We let him finish his song then hustled him out the back door to Brandy's car. The other two Irishmen were out there sitting on top of the dumpster, drinking their own giant bottle of booze. And singing. Were they scared about the cops possibly finding them? No. They were angry that we interupted their back alley concert. Brandy had to come out and threaten them with witchcraft before they acquiesced and let us pour them into the car. Next stop - Danny Foster's bachelor pad condo.
THE HOLLANDER
Danny didn't seem too upset when the six of us burst into his place. He was used to it because it happened there almost as much as it did at our house. As a matter of fact he didn't even slow down his love making to the ebullient Erin McCartney. They just got louder about it when they realized they had an audience. At first we tried to ignore their passion, figuring it wouldn't last that much longer anyway. After the first hour we decided we had better do something to mask the noise. Whiskey, we need more whiskey!!
Will you still need me, will you still feed me
When I'm sixty-four?...
Colin drained the last half of his bottle in one giant slurp and proceeded to drop face first on the kitchen linoleum. He became a bit disconcerted listening to his childhood friend making very loud love to his sister. Three of the Irishmen joined colin in his catotonic state, while Seamus and I discussed everything in the known universe. Still after five hours of drinking and yelling we could not quite drown out Erin and Danny. So, naturally, we cranked up the Beatles tape that we were playing for the fifth time and sang along, loud and bad. It was then that I decided I was drunk enough to ask him just what exactly their "business" in town was. The inebriated smile dropped from his face and he pulled his arm off from around my shoulders where it had sat for the last several hours.
"Now why would cha be wantin' ta know dat? How da I know ya ain't a federal agent lad? Colin here is a fine, upstanding Irish Catholic boy, but we really don' know shite about you do we now?"
"Me? I'm a friend of Colin's, and Erin's too. Although maybe not as good a friend as Danny seems to be to her"
"Shore, but what be yer background lad, what be yore faith un family?"
"I'm Dutch and come from a long line of committed Dutch Catholics."
"Ahh, so ye be a Hollander den? I have no truck agin the Hollanders."
Next morning when Colin and the three Irishmen awoke , and Erin finally exhausted Danny, Seamus and I were still up drinking whiskey and belting out Beatles tunes. The hungover Irishmen glared at me with suspicion and Seamus said, "Wake up ya drunkin sots, get over here and meet a new friend of ours - Lad's, I'd like ya ta meet The Hollander!"
Tuesday, December 5, 2006
Damn Frenchie's
We (meaning Monk, Rich and me) took our usual bus through the usual square grid of downtown Dream City. We got off at the subway station at the corner of Broadway (Portland, Oregon version) and Marine Drive ( Astoria, Oregon version). It's bus # 222 Downtown, if you care to look for it.
The platform had hundreds of downward sliding escalators, all but one leading down to empty air. You two yahoos plopped down at a small table which was somehow both inside the station and al fresco in Paris simultaneously. This was only natural, I thought, as you were both wearing matching shirts with horizontal black & white stripes and little French Berets. Your waiter, an obviously dead and rotting Sterling, was sneaking shots of Vile Brand whiskey into your tiny little espresso cups.
I took the only accessible escalator down to the lower levels of the station. Once I arrived I found that I could hear thousands of trains running overhead, all leading to different destinations directly in my head. The place I was standing was no longer a subway though. It morphed into a giant department store. The sign over the entrance said Welcome to Cat's Subterranean Subconscious Superstore. The goods displayed were all bits of previous dreams. A fully working model of the High-Rise Fancy Hotel, complete with lawyers office and Flavel house was on display. The staff was made up of all the various bus drivers from Dream City Bus Lines.
Fire breathing dragons sat calmly next to Portraits of Previously Promiscuous Prom Queens. For some reason, probably due to a conversation with the Monk yesterday, almost everything in the store was written in alliteration. Aisle after aisle of old girlfriends, dead buddies, half finished school projects, bits of poetry and long forgotten ideas led me to the Corner Coffee Caffe. The obligatory overly-enthusiastic coffee pouring chick from Havacupajava was there. She suggested inviting you "gents" down for a cuppa-duppa-do. You guys promptly appeared, berets, dead waiter and all, at the bar.
We had a swell time drinking little tiny cups of espresso filled with Vile Brand, even as all the famous dead guys drifted into the joint. Elvis arm wrestled Hemingway. Bogey beat-up Bacall. Jim Morrison crawled up on the stage, drunk as hell, and recited a poem titled Clapton Called A Callous Cacophony (by Cats). The Monk, who was sickened by the shitty whiskey and over abundance of alliteration, demanded that we reboard the bus. As we took the up staircase, we heard Jim from far below belting out "C'mon, c'mon, c'mon, now touch me babbbbbbe...
Then the fucking alarm clock went off at 5 AM and sent me off to work with just a touch of Vile Brand hang over. Worth the price of admission.
The platform had hundreds of downward sliding escalators, all but one leading down to empty air. You two yahoos plopped down at a small table which was somehow both inside the station and al fresco in Paris simultaneously. This was only natural, I thought, as you were both wearing matching shirts with horizontal black & white stripes and little French Berets. Your waiter, an obviously dead and rotting Sterling, was sneaking shots of Vile Brand whiskey into your tiny little espresso cups.
I took the only accessible escalator down to the lower levels of the station. Once I arrived I found that I could hear thousands of trains running overhead, all leading to different destinations directly in my head. The place I was standing was no longer a subway though. It morphed into a giant department store. The sign over the entrance said Welcome to Cat's Subterranean Subconscious Superstore. The goods displayed were all bits of previous dreams. A fully working model of the High-Rise Fancy Hotel, complete with lawyers office and Flavel house was on display. The staff was made up of all the various bus drivers from Dream City Bus Lines.
Fire breathing dragons sat calmly next to Portraits of Previously Promiscuous Prom Queens. For some reason, probably due to a conversation with the Monk yesterday, almost everything in the store was written in alliteration. Aisle after aisle of old girlfriends, dead buddies, half finished school projects, bits of poetry and long forgotten ideas led me to the Corner Coffee Caffe. The obligatory overly-enthusiastic coffee pouring chick from Havacupajava was there. She suggested inviting you "gents" down for a cuppa-duppa-do. You guys promptly appeared, berets, dead waiter and all, at the bar.
We had a swell time drinking little tiny cups of espresso filled with Vile Brand, even as all the famous dead guys drifted into the joint. Elvis arm wrestled Hemingway. Bogey beat-up Bacall. Jim Morrison crawled up on the stage, drunk as hell, and recited a poem titled Clapton Called A Callous Cacophony (by Cats). The Monk, who was sickened by the shitty whiskey and over abundance of alliteration, demanded that we reboard the bus. As we took the up staircase, we heard Jim from far below belting out "C'mon, c'mon, c'mon, now touch me babbbbbbe...
Then the fucking alarm clock went off at 5 AM and sent me off to work with just a touch of Vile Brand hang over. Worth the price of admission.
Listomania Returns
Don't forget my favorite list (something to piss off most everyone)
The most highly overrated pieces of shit in Rock 'n Roll
1. Eric Clapton
2. The indecipherable symbol that used to call itself Prince
3. Sting and / or The Police
4. Jimi Hendrix
5. Bob Dylan
6. The Grateful Dead
7. The Beach Boys
8. Tom Petty (along with every band he's been in)
9. The Who
10. Boston
Admittedly, this is a personalized list and subject to much argument.
The most highly overrated pieces of shit in Rock 'n Roll
1. Eric Clapton
2. The indecipherable symbol that used to call itself Prince
3. Sting and / or The Police
4. Jimi Hendrix
5. Bob Dylan
6. The Grateful Dead
7. The Beach Boys
8. Tom Petty (along with every band he's been in)
9. The Who
10. Boston
Admittedly, this is a personalized list and subject to much argument.
Saturday, December 2, 2006
A few cursory thoughts on modern human sexuality
Things have changed, yet remain remarkably constant. I recall that back in the cave man days (I believe they called me Og), there was a dire need for us cave-dudes to spread our seed as far across the plains as possible. Now, at this time, that made perfect sense as the population was low and there was always an immenent danger of being eaten by a carnivorous dinosaur. Okay I don't want to hear anything from you scientific-historian types as to why this is not true. The point is that clear back from ancient times males have always felt an innate urge to Uggh-uhgh as many females as we could. The female cave'ettas always thought this behaviour to be reprehensible. Their position was more along the lines of finding it most desirable to attract that one perfect (yah,right! the cave'ette snorted) male and keep him around to pump that marvelous seed into her every nine months or so.
This mind set went on, and in fact florished, for many centuries. With all of the wars, disease, and carnivorous dinosaurs, there was a continual need to replenish the population. Now lets fast forward to more modern times. Since the dawn of the 20th century, we have had WWII, women's liberation, the sexual revolution, and stunning advances in medical technology, not to mention a dramatic decline in the rate of death by carnivorous dinosaur. The population of the planet hasn't reached its zenith, but is already at an unsustainable level. I'm afraid, fellow guys, that we no longer have a built-in excuse for spreading Ugh-uhgh all throughout the tribe. The good news for women is that they no longer have to pitter-pat around the cave barefoot (okay - so we were ALL barefoot) and pregnant, spending all day skinning the sabre toothed tiger that cave-hubby brought home. This has opened up some rather intriguing possibilities for recreational and casual sex. It has also changed the way many people view romantic relationships.
Now to the real meat of this post, uh well, you know what I mean. I believe that the traditional marriage, while still prevalent in western society, is on the decline and alternative arrangements are becoming a bigger part of our collective lives. Obviously there are gay and lesbian relationships, there always has been (seen any ancient Greeks around lately? Of course not, they never propogated - heh). Now we are seeing many instances where one or both of the two people in a couple are bi-sexual to one extent or another. Many choose to live together sans marriage license, that's no surprise news either. Others get involved in a platonic marriage, as is the case with a lot of elderly people. There are room-mates who have sexual relations periodically, couples who maintain separate residences, a hold-over from the 80's where a woman will take on a "sex friend" or two, and lets not forget swingers. Yes, they are still around, the 70's didnt kill them off. The woman I am currently the closest with lives 3000 miles across the country from me, and our relationship is conducted primarily via cell phone and email, although we have met face-to-face. It seems to be working for us. The modern day "relationship" is ever evolving into something unique for each set of people involved in it.
As for me personally, I like to believe that we can all have the best of both worlds. It is natural for both sexes, now that women are also more free, to be physically attracted to people other than their mate. Perhaps if all couples were more open the divorce rate would drop as the internal pressure reduced. It is refreshing to know women who don't get crazy jealous when I look at a pretty girl on the beach or glance at some cocktail waitress's breasts for a nano-second too long. I, of course, afford them the same courtesy. It doesnt hurt my feelings any if the woman I am with tells me that the hot carpenter on some home improvement show turns her on. It just fuels my desire for her even more. Each couple must decide the parameters that work for them. I know one couple in Reno who live their lives completely open, even to the point of falling in love with others while remaining together. I know another couple who are sexually monogamous all but one time per year when they each strike out in search of some "strange" for a single weekend. Others have a deal where each person has a "side dish" lover to scratch that occasional sexual itch. The key seems to be that they always must be open and honest with each other, and to treat each other with respect and love. What I always look for involves a little modern sexuality combined with a little traditional romanticism. I like the idea of remaining emotionally, intellectually, and spiritually monogamous with my special woman while we allow each other a certain amount of physical and sexual freedom in whatever form we agree to.
This mind set went on, and in fact florished, for many centuries. With all of the wars, disease, and carnivorous dinosaurs, there was a continual need to replenish the population. Now lets fast forward to more modern times. Since the dawn of the 20th century, we have had WWII, women's liberation, the sexual revolution, and stunning advances in medical technology, not to mention a dramatic decline in the rate of death by carnivorous dinosaur. The population of the planet hasn't reached its zenith, but is already at an unsustainable level. I'm afraid, fellow guys, that we no longer have a built-in excuse for spreading Ugh-uhgh all throughout the tribe. The good news for women is that they no longer have to pitter-pat around the cave barefoot (okay - so we were ALL barefoot) and pregnant, spending all day skinning the sabre toothed tiger that cave-hubby brought home. This has opened up some rather intriguing possibilities for recreational and casual sex. It has also changed the way many people view romantic relationships.
Now to the real meat of this post, uh well, you know what I mean. I believe that the traditional marriage, while still prevalent in western society, is on the decline and alternative arrangements are becoming a bigger part of our collective lives. Obviously there are gay and lesbian relationships, there always has been (seen any ancient Greeks around lately? Of course not, they never propogated - heh). Now we are seeing many instances where one or both of the two people in a couple are bi-sexual to one extent or another. Many choose to live together sans marriage license, that's no surprise news either. Others get involved in a platonic marriage, as is the case with a lot of elderly people. There are room-mates who have sexual relations periodically, couples who maintain separate residences, a hold-over from the 80's where a woman will take on a "sex friend" or two, and lets not forget swingers. Yes, they are still around, the 70's didnt kill them off. The woman I am currently the closest with lives 3000 miles across the country from me, and our relationship is conducted primarily via cell phone and email, although we have met face-to-face. It seems to be working for us. The modern day "relationship" is ever evolving into something unique for each set of people involved in it.
As for me personally, I like to believe that we can all have the best of both worlds. It is natural for both sexes, now that women are also more free, to be physically attracted to people other than their mate. Perhaps if all couples were more open the divorce rate would drop as the internal pressure reduced. It is refreshing to know women who don't get crazy jealous when I look at a pretty girl on the beach or glance at some cocktail waitress's breasts for a nano-second too long. I, of course, afford them the same courtesy. It doesnt hurt my feelings any if the woman I am with tells me that the hot carpenter on some home improvement show turns her on. It just fuels my desire for her even more. Each couple must decide the parameters that work for them. I know one couple in Reno who live their lives completely open, even to the point of falling in love with others while remaining together. I know another couple who are sexually monogamous all but one time per year when they each strike out in search of some "strange" for a single weekend. Others have a deal where each person has a "side dish" lover to scratch that occasional sexual itch. The key seems to be that they always must be open and honest with each other, and to treat each other with respect and love. What I always look for involves a little modern sexuality combined with a little traditional romanticism. I like the idea of remaining emotionally, intellectually, and spiritually monogamous with my special woman while we allow each other a certain amount of physical and sexual freedom in whatever form we agree to.
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