This photo was attached to a Craigslist posting that is sadly not available anymore.
Now I can't stop saying, "Tars" in a Southern Ohio accent.
Thanks to @jeffisbiking from Twitter!
Free Tars
This photo was attached to a Craigslist posting that is sadly not available anymore.
Now I can't stop saying, "Tars" in a Southern Ohio accent.
Thanks to @jeffisbiking from Twitter!
Ask HolyJuan: Neighbors Park on Our Side of the Street
Dear Holy Juan,
I have a little dilemma that needs to be handled with tact.
Our new neighbors keep parking their car in front of our house. We both have garages. We both have driveways. We both have the same amount of curb space. But they put their car in front of our house. They park in such a way that it takes up the space where two cars could fit. Of course, it also blocks our view, and our guests are forced to park far away.
Well, of course, our guests could park in front of their house. I've told a few friends to do this. They said our neighbors were outside at the time and glared at them as they got out of the car and walked over to our house.
I don't know what action to take. I thought of leaving a note, but I don't know what to say.
These neighbors are new to this country, and they kind of keep to themselves. I don't want to cause offense. I just want them to move their car!
--- Kristen
Dear --- Kristen,
I have a plan.
I’m assuming that your new neighbors are French because they sound like real assholes.
You may want a pen to write this down. Or I guess you could just print it.
First, you will need to get a cat. If you have one, great. If you do not, even better because cats are horrible pets. I have two and I would give you both of them for this if I had the chance. So if you do not have a cat, borrow one.
Now, you are going to need to find a dead cat that looks like your cat / your borrowed cat. They are all over the place so just get a cooler, some dry ice and put the dead cat in the cooler for transportation back to your freezer. Make sure it’s really dead or you’ll be really mad at yourself when that little fucker leaps out of the cooler and tears your eyes out.
Next, you’ll want to go to the neighbor’s house with the live cat in hand. Knock on the door and tell them that you saw them almost run over your cat when they parked in front of your house. Ask them if they would park on their side to avoid killing your cat. At this point, if they truly are French, they will ignore you.
The next time they park in your spot, thaw out the dead cat in the microwave (you may want to put some paper towels down) and then put the dead cat under their front wheel. Make sure you take lots of photos. Then go to their door and accuse them of killing your cat.
When they go to examine the dead cat, hit the red button on the remote control that detonates the explosive charge that you hid inside the dead cat’s body. Hopefully you’ll have used enough C4 to both kill the car owner and blow the car over on to their side of the street.
My work here is done.
Best of luck with the Frenchies!
HJ
I have a little dilemma that needs to be handled with tact.
Our new neighbors keep parking their car in front of our house. We both have garages. We both have driveways. We both have the same amount of curb space. But they put their car in front of our house. They park in such a way that it takes up the space where two cars could fit. Of course, it also blocks our view, and our guests are forced to park far away.
Well, of course, our guests could park in front of their house. I've told a few friends to do this. They said our neighbors were outside at the time and glared at them as they got out of the car and walked over to our house.
I don't know what action to take. I thought of leaving a note, but I don't know what to say.
These neighbors are new to this country, and they kind of keep to themselves. I don't want to cause offense. I just want them to move their car!
--- Kristen
Dear --- Kristen,
I have a plan.
I’m assuming that your new neighbors are French because they sound like real assholes.
You may want a pen to write this down. Or I guess you could just print it.
First, you will need to get a cat. If you have one, great. If you do not, even better because cats are horrible pets. I have two and I would give you both of them for this if I had the chance. So if you do not have a cat, borrow one.
Now, you are going to need to find a dead cat that looks like your cat / your borrowed cat. They are all over the place so just get a cooler, some dry ice and put the dead cat in the cooler for transportation back to your freezer. Make sure it’s really dead or you’ll be really mad at yourself when that little fucker leaps out of the cooler and tears your eyes out.
Next, you’ll want to go to the neighbor’s house with the live cat in hand. Knock on the door and tell them that you saw them almost run over your cat when they parked in front of your house. Ask them if they would park on their side to avoid killing your cat. At this point, if they truly are French, they will ignore you.
The next time they park in your spot, thaw out the dead cat in the microwave (you may want to put some paper towels down) and then put the dead cat under their front wheel. Make sure you take lots of photos. Then go to their door and accuse them of killing your cat.
When they go to examine the dead cat, hit the red button on the remote control that detonates the explosive charge that you hid inside the dead cat’s body. Hopefully you’ll have used enough C4 to both kill the car owner and blow the car over on to their side of the street.
My work here is done.
Best of luck with the Frenchies!
HJ
Erik Eats: Whistle Candy - The Sound and the Tasty
This week, Erik delves into both music and deliciousness. This edition of Erik Eats presents the holiness that is CORIS Whistle Candy.
It looks like a bunch of Life Savers with a box, but we have been fooled before, so we'll take this step by step.
Erik asks, how do I open it?
.JPG)
Use the easy open corner tab!
.JPG)
Erik uses to easy open corner tab and reveals the white roundness inside.
.JPG)
There is a box inside and so Erik opens it to reveal...
.JPG)
A Ring! A real plastic fake ring!
.JPG)
Erik is overcome with emotion and decides in the spur of the moment to propose to Josh.
.JPG)
While Josh was also overtaken by emotion, he had to turn Erik down as Josh is married to the stage and the stage is already screwing Josh and she does not take kindly to cheaters.
Erik found poor Kim and pretended like she was actually his first pick.
.JPG)
She shot him down and Erik was sad.
But then Erik realized there was only one other person out there in the big empty that was good enough for Erik.
.jpg)
He said YES!
After they consummated the moment, we got back to the candy.
The candy is a bit lighter in weight and fatter in size than life savers. There must be something going on inside.
.JPG)
We got out the blade and started choppin'.
.JPG)
They are hollow! Maybe this is what the whistle part of whistle candy is all about.
.JPG)
Before consuming this hollow treat, Erik tries to get it to whistle.
What this doesn't show is that five minutes later I tried one of the candies and whistled loudly enough to have the marketing folks crawl out of their Luxury Suite Cubicles and ask us what the fuck we were doing.
And then it was time for the tasting. Erik eats...
.JPG)
And...
.JPG)
It's good!
Next week: boiled goat num num nums.
It looks like a bunch of Life Savers with a box, but we have been fooled before, so we'll take this step by step.
Erik asks, how do I open it?
.JPG)
Use the easy open corner tab!
.JPG)
Erik uses to easy open corner tab and reveals the white roundness inside.
.JPG)
There is a box inside and so Erik opens it to reveal...
.JPG)
A Ring! A real plastic fake ring!
.JPG)
Erik is overcome with emotion and decides in the spur of the moment to propose to Josh.
.JPG)
While Josh was also overtaken by emotion, he had to turn Erik down as Josh is married to the stage and the stage is already screwing Josh and she does not take kindly to cheaters.
Erik found poor Kim and pretended like she was actually his first pick.
.JPG)
She shot him down and Erik was sad.
But then Erik realized there was only one other person out there in the big empty that was good enough for Erik.
.jpg)
He said YES!
After they consummated the moment, we got back to the candy.
The candy is a bit lighter in weight and fatter in size than life savers. There must be something going on inside.
.JPG)
We got out the blade and started choppin'.
.JPG)
They are hollow! Maybe this is what the whistle part of whistle candy is all about.
.JPG)
Before consuming this hollow treat, Erik tries to get it to whistle.
What this doesn't show is that five minutes later I tried one of the candies and whistled loudly enough to have the marketing folks crawl out of their Luxury Suite Cubicles and ask us what the fuck we were doing.
And then it was time for the tasting. Erik eats...
.JPG)
And...
.JPG)
It's good!
Next week: boiled goat num num nums.
Zesty
Years ago, Taco Bell ran a series of commercials in which two guys would say "Zesty!" back and forth to each other in various, different inflections. There were only two people on Earth (besides the two actors this ad employed) that enjoyed these commercials.
Those two people were Dave and me.
With the advent of YouTube, we thought that someday we'd be able to watch these videos at our leisure. But since we are the only two people who liked the commercials, no one has bothered to post them.
And so we wait.
But until then, whenever someone in a conversation says the word "zesty," I immediately step all over the rest of their sentence, jump in and say "ZESTY!!"
Dave sent me this photo because he, too, waits.
If you have seen the video on-line, please let us know.
Those two people were Dave and me.
With the advent of YouTube, we thought that someday we'd be able to watch these videos at our leisure. But since we are the only two people who liked the commercials, no one has bothered to post them.
And so we wait.
But until then, whenever someone in a conversation says the word "zesty," I immediately step all over the rest of their sentence, jump in and say "ZESTY!!"
Dave sent me this photo because he, too, waits.
If you have seen the video on-line, please let us know.
Hidden Word
Can you find the hidden word in this color blind test pattern?
(scroll down for answer)
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The hidden word is GULLIBLE.
(scroll down for answer)
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The hidden word is GULLIBLE.
The washer that is 2/2 times better than the leading brand
I had to look twice to figure out where the 1/2" washers were in the parts list.
Top Ten Most Stupid Conflicts
While the United States Invasion of Iraq was pretty stupid, it is not in the Top Ten of Most Stupid Conflicts. They are:
10. The Salisbury Steak War of 1949
9. Fredrickson and Lewis Picket Fence Property Line Dispute of 2003
8. Kramer v Kramer 1979
7. Ohio University Panty Raid, Martzolf House, September 24th – October 8th 1990
6. The Franchise War 2015 – 2030 (Taco Bell victorious)
5. The British Invasion 1964 to 1966
4. Coke v Pepsi 1903 – ongoing
3. The Four Day Invasion of Bob’s Bar
2. War on Drugs 1971 – 2009
1. Boxers v Briefs (Death toll: 16,345,398)
10. The Salisbury Steak War of 1949
9. Fredrickson and Lewis Picket Fence Property Line Dispute of 2003
8. Kramer v Kramer 1979
7. Ohio University Panty Raid, Martzolf House, September 24th – October 8th 1990
6. The Franchise War 2015 – 2030 (Taco Bell victorious)
5. The British Invasion 1964 to 1966
4. Coke v Pepsi 1903 – ongoing
3. The Four Day Invasion of Bob’s Bar
2. War on Drugs 1971 – 2009
1. Boxers v Briefs (Death toll: 16,345,398)
The Last Bolt
For years, I have kept a backlog of stories and anecdotes in the steel reinforced folds of the back of my brain. It is the place where my beliefs and certain truths hang out along with the fog of bad memories that can’t or shouldn’t be forgotten. Many of these sayings were put there by my father. Whenever I come upon and instance that cannot be undone or a tough problem that needs solved, I reach back there and pull one out to explain the situation away or to get me working on the task. Sayings like, “You can’t get all the oil out of an oil can,” and “Make potato salad chunky so that people can pick out what they don’t like.”
One of these certain truths is “It’s the last bolt that always sticks.” It is a saying that is part Murphy’s Law and part Bad Luck that has cursed my family for years. Or at least it did until a few weeks ago.
The summer break before my junior year of college had me living at home, roofing during the weekdays and going out just about every night. On this particular Saturday morning, I woke up from four hours of sleep with a bit of a hangover. Dad was calling for me to get dressed and ready to go. Sitting mostly up in bed, I remembered that Dad’s 1987 Reliant wagon had broken down on the 270 outer belt in Columbus and we needed to go up and fix it. I was needed as monkey boy and to drive the second car back.
As we drove up to Columbus, Dad explained that the alternator had been going out and it finally gave up on his way home from work on Friday afternoon. After he called mom to pick him up, he called the Columbus City Police to tell them he’d be back up the next morning to get the station wagon. They said they would not tow it.
To get to the station wagon, we had to drive past it on the opposite side of the road and loop back around at an exit. We parked and got the tools out. I stood around and half listened as Dad spoke of car engines in Korea and how back in World War 2 “the Japanese were awful bastards” and “they were smaller and would shoot you in the knees.” It was then that the family curse snuck up on us again. There were four bolts that held the alternator in place. And just like the last bolt or last screw or the last nut from times before, the last bolt was stuck. Dad applied force and more force. He Liquid Wrenched and tapped. He bruised the back of his hands and split his knuckles open. He pleaded and cursed. He went so far as to have me try to remove it. The last bolt was stuck. So we stood on the side of the road, taking turns at giving it one more try with dad lamenting, “Why does it always have to be the last bolt?”
And then, with a crack , Dad freed the stubborn last bolt.
And in that split second, the world was good and everything was going to be all right.
We took the part to a dealership and Dad asked how much a replacement would be. He laughed at the lady though the window, “You’ve got to be kidding?” The dealership cost was four times what it cost at the parts store in Lancaster. Dad was outraged! Dad was also not in a place to bargain. He paid for it and we left. In the car he said that he would install the new alternator, go back to Lancaster and buy a cheaper replacement and then return the expensive one back to the dealership. Clever!
As we drove past the broken down car for the second time that day, we couldn’t help but notice that this time the car’s front end was elevated and attached to a City of Columbus tow truck. Dad tried to roll down the window and yell, “No! No! No!” but at 65 mph it was impossible. We zoomed up and over the exit with dad’s incredulous mutterings filling the car with rage. By the time we reached the spot, all of the tow truck and most the station wagon were gone. We had left the nuts, bolts and tools sitting on top of the engine and some escaped through the bottom of the engine with the help of gravity when the tow truck pulled away. The parts lie there on the side of the road like a police outline of a dead body. The others were probably leaving a trail, like bread crumbs, around 270 and to the impound lot.
Dad was so enraged that he could not speak or yell. I didn’t say anything for fear of giving his anger purchase. Without a word he drove to a phone booth and called the police. They said there was nothing they could do, pick your car up from the impound lot and have a nice day.
We drove to the impound lot and paid for the car’s release and several fees. Dad mentioned that we needed to put a part in the car and the lady said that no work was allowed to be done on the lot and that we would have to pay to have the car towed off the lot and to the side of the road. Dad said, “Oh… no thanks. We’ll just drive it off and repair it.” As we walked out, I said that couldn’t drive it without repairing it. Dad flatly smiled, “We’ll see about that.”
Dad marched alone into the lot with a wrench and the new alternator, his pockets clunking with the escaped nuts and bolts.
And somehow, in less than eight minutes, he drove the mostly functional station wagon around to the parking lot. By some means, using the remaining parts and tools that had remained in cracks and crevices of the engine, he got the alternator partially installed, slapped on the belt and tightened it enough to get to the lot.
He spent a few minutes tightening the existing bolts and re-adjusting the belt. “That will be enough to get us home. Follow me.” And then we drove off separately together.
Fast forward (or go back in time) to three weeks ago. In a conversation with my sister concerning the welfare of my father and the deteriorating state of the home we grew up in, I had a revelation. The fourth bolt is NOT the one that always sticks. Sure it’s got a 1 in 4 chance of being the stickiest, but it’s usually not. What happens is that when I come upon something that creates a road block, I save it for last and do the easy things first. It might be subconscious, but in this case, if the first bolt sticks, I’d move on to the second. When I get back around to the first bolt, it is no longer the sticky first, but The Last Bolt.
And the curse was lifted.
There will still be sticky bolts in my future, but I cannot allow myself to think that it’s The Last Bolt or there by fate. When I come upon something difficult, I need to face it head on instead of moving on to the easier tasks.
These writings are not a backlash upon my father or his faults. He has taught us valuable lessons and shared with us endless stories (not all of them involving war and death) that have crafted me into the person I am today. But he has faults and it is time that I started to recognize these. By recognizing them, I can see them in myself and correct them before my children become engrained with them. From this story alone, there are several instances:
If you know a car part is going bad, don’t wait until it breaks before you fix it. The same goes for teeth and internal organs.
Get all the necessary parts together before you start a project. If you don’t know what parts, ask.
Be patient and follow directions. (That can of Liquid Wrench said to wait twenty minutes to allow it to work. Just about the same amount of time we hopelessly worked on the bolt.)
Cockamamie schemes cost time and money (Dad never returned to the dealership to return the high priced alternator.)
So before you leave these writings with a heavy heart, let me remind you that Dad never gave up. As much as it is a fault, he wanted to take care of his problems himself. When he was told he couldn’t work on the car at the impound lot, he bucked the system and fixed it. Proud and stubborn are strengths as much as they are flaws.
I still keep a backlog of sayings. My new one is, “Do your difficult homework first,” which I will impress upon my son and daughter through word and by deed. It sits right in front of “Last Bolt” which has since been un-fogged and reclassified as a good memory.
One of these certain truths is “It’s the last bolt that always sticks.” It is a saying that is part Murphy’s Law and part Bad Luck that has cursed my family for years. Or at least it did until a few weeks ago.
The summer break before my junior year of college had me living at home, roofing during the weekdays and going out just about every night. On this particular Saturday morning, I woke up from four hours of sleep with a bit of a hangover. Dad was calling for me to get dressed and ready to go. Sitting mostly up in bed, I remembered that Dad’s 1987 Reliant wagon had broken down on the 270 outer belt in Columbus and we needed to go up and fix it. I was needed as monkey boy and to drive the second car back.
As we drove up to Columbus, Dad explained that the alternator had been going out and it finally gave up on his way home from work on Friday afternoon. After he called mom to pick him up, he called the Columbus City Police to tell them he’d be back up the next morning to get the station wagon. They said they would not tow it.
To get to the station wagon, we had to drive past it on the opposite side of the road and loop back around at an exit. We parked and got the tools out. I stood around and half listened as Dad spoke of car engines in Korea and how back in World War 2 “the Japanese were awful bastards” and “they were smaller and would shoot you in the knees.” It was then that the family curse snuck up on us again. There were four bolts that held the alternator in place. And just like the last bolt or last screw or the last nut from times before, the last bolt was stuck. Dad applied force and more force. He Liquid Wrenched and tapped. He bruised the back of his hands and split his knuckles open. He pleaded and cursed. He went so far as to have me try to remove it. The last bolt was stuck. So we stood on the side of the road, taking turns at giving it one more try with dad lamenting, “Why does it always have to be the last bolt?”
And then, with a crack , Dad freed the stubborn last bolt.
And in that split second, the world was good and everything was going to be all right.
We took the part to a dealership and Dad asked how much a replacement would be. He laughed at the lady though the window, “You’ve got to be kidding?” The dealership cost was four times what it cost at the parts store in Lancaster. Dad was outraged! Dad was also not in a place to bargain. He paid for it and we left. In the car he said that he would install the new alternator, go back to Lancaster and buy a cheaper replacement and then return the expensive one back to the dealership. Clever!
As we drove past the broken down car for the second time that day, we couldn’t help but notice that this time the car’s front end was elevated and attached to a City of Columbus tow truck. Dad tried to roll down the window and yell, “No! No! No!” but at 65 mph it was impossible. We zoomed up and over the exit with dad’s incredulous mutterings filling the car with rage. By the time we reached the spot, all of the tow truck and most the station wagon were gone. We had left the nuts, bolts and tools sitting on top of the engine and some escaped through the bottom of the engine with the help of gravity when the tow truck pulled away. The parts lie there on the side of the road like a police outline of a dead body. The others were probably leaving a trail, like bread crumbs, around 270 and to the impound lot.
Dad was so enraged that he could not speak or yell. I didn’t say anything for fear of giving his anger purchase. Without a word he drove to a phone booth and called the police. They said there was nothing they could do, pick your car up from the impound lot and have a nice day.
We drove to the impound lot and paid for the car’s release and several fees. Dad mentioned that we needed to put a part in the car and the lady said that no work was allowed to be done on the lot and that we would have to pay to have the car towed off the lot and to the side of the road. Dad said, “Oh… no thanks. We’ll just drive it off and repair it.” As we walked out, I said that couldn’t drive it without repairing it. Dad flatly smiled, “We’ll see about that.”
Dad marched alone into the lot with a wrench and the new alternator, his pockets clunking with the escaped nuts and bolts.
And somehow, in less than eight minutes, he drove the mostly functional station wagon around to the parking lot. By some means, using the remaining parts and tools that had remained in cracks and crevices of the engine, he got the alternator partially installed, slapped on the belt and tightened it enough to get to the lot.
He spent a few minutes tightening the existing bolts and re-adjusting the belt. “That will be enough to get us home. Follow me.” And then we drove off separately together.
Fast forward (or go back in time) to three weeks ago. In a conversation with my sister concerning the welfare of my father and the deteriorating state of the home we grew up in, I had a revelation. The fourth bolt is NOT the one that always sticks. Sure it’s got a 1 in 4 chance of being the stickiest, but it’s usually not. What happens is that when I come upon something that creates a road block, I save it for last and do the easy things first. It might be subconscious, but in this case, if the first bolt sticks, I’d move on to the second. When I get back around to the first bolt, it is no longer the sticky first, but The Last Bolt.
And the curse was lifted.
There will still be sticky bolts in my future, but I cannot allow myself to think that it’s The Last Bolt or there by fate. When I come upon something difficult, I need to face it head on instead of moving on to the easier tasks.
These writings are not a backlash upon my father or his faults. He has taught us valuable lessons and shared with us endless stories (not all of them involving war and death) that have crafted me into the person I am today. But he has faults and it is time that I started to recognize these. By recognizing them, I can see them in myself and correct them before my children become engrained with them. From this story alone, there are several instances:
If you know a car part is going bad, don’t wait until it breaks before you fix it. The same goes for teeth and internal organs.
Get all the necessary parts together before you start a project. If you don’t know what parts, ask.
Be patient and follow directions. (That can of Liquid Wrench said to wait twenty minutes to allow it to work. Just about the same amount of time we hopelessly worked on the bolt.)
Cockamamie schemes cost time and money (Dad never returned to the dealership to return the high priced alternator.)
So before you leave these writings with a heavy heart, let me remind you that Dad never gave up. As much as it is a fault, he wanted to take care of his problems himself. When he was told he couldn’t work on the car at the impound lot, he bucked the system and fixed it. Proud and stubborn are strengths as much as they are flaws.
I still keep a backlog of sayings. My new one is, “Do your difficult homework first,” which I will impress upon my son and daughter through word and by deed. It sits right in front of “Last Bolt” which has since been un-fogged and reclassified as a good memory.
Greg and Dad
I didn't notice until we got to the game that Miss Sally had picked out the Homestar Runner t-shirt for Greg. With me in my Midnight Mountain Club t-shirt, we make a good pair.
WTF: Dude at Panera with desktop computer
Either that dude couldn't wait to get home for the unboxing or he was Jonesin' for some wi-fi.
Photo courtesy of @tgoodnight
Photo courtesy of @tgoodnight
Phertatradon
The Phertatradon is the most feared dinosaur in the world. If you take its photo, it will charge and more than likely kill the photographer.
Fear the Phertatradon.
Fear the Phertatradon.
Transcript of the Patton Oswalt "Black Angus" stand-up
Patton Oswalt - Black Angus
I am getting a st… I'm gonin’.. when I fly back to LA tomorrow I am going to the Buggy Whip restaurant and getting a giant fucking steak. You heard me! I enjoy steak too much because I hate hippies so much. You know what I mean. I enjoy it more than I think I actually enjoy it. Every time you eat a steak, like a hippy’s hacky sack goes down the gutter, you know, “Oh man, oh dude, what the fuck man.” Every time you eat a steak a hippy’s hacky sack goes into the sewer. Always remember that.
And I like the… I mean I’ll go to Lawrys and Ruth’s Chris, the really high end steak houses. But I’ll go to the shitball steak house, I don’t care. Outback. Blank Angus. I’m there, it’s steak. Not so much Black Angus, thought. Cause do you remember how friendly the ads for Black Angus use to be? They like, Come on in! Have a steak. How about a baked potato? You’re like, how bout yeah! I’ll see you tomorrow night. Table for two, 7:15.
Now the ads for Black Angus, have you noticed how it’s turned into this gauntlet of angry food? It’s almost like they’re like challenging you?
“At Black Angus, we’ll start you off with our appetizer platter, featuring five jumbo deep fried gulf shrimp, served on a disk of salted butter, with 15 of our potato bacon bombs and a big bowl of pork cracklins with our cheese and butter dippin’ sauce. “
Your like, um we’re all gonna split that…
“Awe, you’ll each get your own!”
“Then well take you to our mile long soup and salad bar featuring bacon and cheese cream soup and our five head of ice burg lettuce He-Man salad, served in a punch bowl with 18 pounds of ranch dressing, pork stuff deep fried croutons and, what the hell, a couple of corn dogs.”
Uh, hey man, I tell you what, I’ll just get like a mixed green salad.
“Hey, I’ll suck a cock on the Golden Gate Bridge before I bring you a mixed green buddy.”
I.. what? I?
“Then we’ll wheel out our bottomless trough of friend dough.”
Wait a minute, am I getting a steak?
“Oh you’ll get a fucking steak. Cause then we’ll bring out our 55 ounce Lost Mesa, He-Man steak slab, served with a deep fried pumpkin, stuffed with buttered scallops and 53 of our potato bacon bombs.”
Oh dude, I don’t think…
“And then bend over Abigail May cause here comes the gravy pipe.”
What?
“Black Angus, door are locked from the outside, faggot!”
But, no. What, when did I?
“At Black Angus, your name is Peaches.”
I am getting a st… I'm gonin’.. when I fly back to LA tomorrow I am going to the Buggy Whip restaurant and getting a giant fucking steak. You heard me! I enjoy steak too much because I hate hippies so much. You know what I mean. I enjoy it more than I think I actually enjoy it. Every time you eat a steak, like a hippy’s hacky sack goes down the gutter, you know, “Oh man, oh dude, what the fuck man.” Every time you eat a steak a hippy’s hacky sack goes into the sewer. Always remember that.
And I like the… I mean I’ll go to Lawrys and Ruth’s Chris, the really high end steak houses. But I’ll go to the shitball steak house, I don’t care. Outback. Blank Angus. I’m there, it’s steak. Not so much Black Angus, thought. Cause do you remember how friendly the ads for Black Angus use to be? They like, Come on in! Have a steak. How about a baked potato? You’re like, how bout yeah! I’ll see you tomorrow night. Table for two, 7:15.
Now the ads for Black Angus, have you noticed how it’s turned into this gauntlet of angry food? It’s almost like they’re like challenging you?
“At Black Angus, we’ll start you off with our appetizer platter, featuring five jumbo deep fried gulf shrimp, served on a disk of salted butter, with 15 of our potato bacon bombs and a big bowl of pork cracklins with our cheese and butter dippin’ sauce. “
Your like, um we’re all gonna split that…
“Awe, you’ll each get your own!”
“Then well take you to our mile long soup and salad bar featuring bacon and cheese cream soup and our five head of ice burg lettuce He-Man salad, served in a punch bowl with 18 pounds of ranch dressing, pork stuff deep fried croutons and, what the hell, a couple of corn dogs.”
Uh, hey man, I tell you what, I’ll just get like a mixed green salad.
“Hey, I’ll suck a cock on the Golden Gate Bridge before I bring you a mixed green buddy.”
I.. what? I?
“Then we’ll wheel out our bottomless trough of friend dough.”
Wait a minute, am I getting a steak?
“Oh you’ll get a fucking steak. Cause then we’ll bring out our 55 ounce Lost Mesa, He-Man steak slab, served with a deep fried pumpkin, stuffed with buttered scallops and 53 of our potato bacon bombs.”
Oh dude, I don’t think…
“And then bend over Abigail May cause here comes the gravy pipe.”
What?
“Black Angus, door are locked from the outside, faggot!”
But, no. What, when did I?
“At Black Angus, your name is Peaches.”
Lollapalooza iTunes Card
The official program of the 2010 Lollapalooza came with an iTunes card glued in the back. Upon inspection, it read that the card was good for 40 free songs. 40 FREE SONGS! And they were handing out the programs like candy!
The process in my head, which I call math, started to ask for additional processing resources, so I stopped in my tracks and started to figure out how many of these cards I would need to break even on my ticket price.
Greg saw me come to a complete stop and noticed the tell tale signs that I was thinking. He knew what was going on in my head.
"The card is good for only 40 specific songs. You can't use it to buy anything else."
"Oh, that sucks."
So I stuffed the card in my wallet for when I got home.
Later that day, we saw a dude going through a recycling bin, pulling out programs and looking for the iTunes card in the back. We didn't say anything to him, but I assume that he figured it out on his own once he got home.
On our last day of Lollapalooza, Kit and I were standing at the Blogger stage when three very good looking, blind girls approached us. We thought it odd that the blind girls didn't have guide dogs or walking sticks. It took us a moment to figure out that the three very good looking girls were actually NOT blind and were asking us where the Adidas Stage was. Kit said he thought it was at the other end of the park and pulled out his Program to confirm it. Their destination was at the other end of the park and I would have thought their next move would have been to run from us post-haste. But instead they began chatting with us. One of the girls pointed at Kit's program and said, "Did you know that there is a iTunes card in there that gives you 40 dollars worth of free songs?"
I, in my 40 year old know-it-all-voice, said, "The card is good for only 40 specific songs. You can't use it to buy anything else."
"Oh, that sucks."
And with that, the imaginary, shimmering bubble that surround us burst and they said thanks and walked off.
I downloaded the 40 songs and it turned out there were 45. They should edited the graphic on the card to read, "4 songs you will like and a shitload of others that suck balls and make you wonder why you dug through the recycling for hours to collect these fucking things."
The process in my head, which I call math, started to ask for additional processing resources, so I stopped in my tracks and started to figure out how many of these cards I would need to break even on my ticket price.
Greg saw me come to a complete stop and noticed the tell tale signs that I was thinking. He knew what was going on in my head.
"The card is good for only 40 specific songs. You can't use it to buy anything else."
"Oh, that sucks."
So I stuffed the card in my wallet for when I got home.
Later that day, we saw a dude going through a recycling bin, pulling out programs and looking for the iTunes card in the back. We didn't say anything to him, but I assume that he figured it out on his own once he got home.
On our last day of Lollapalooza, Kit and I were standing at the Blogger stage when three very good looking, blind girls approached us. We thought it odd that the blind girls didn't have guide dogs or walking sticks. It took us a moment to figure out that the three very good looking girls were actually NOT blind and were asking us where the Adidas Stage was. Kit said he thought it was at the other end of the park and pulled out his Program to confirm it. Their destination was at the other end of the park and I would have thought their next move would have been to run from us post-haste. But instead they began chatting with us. One of the girls pointed at Kit's program and said, "Did you know that there is a iTunes card in there that gives you 40 dollars worth of free songs?"
I, in my 40 year old know-it-all-voice, said, "The card is good for only 40 specific songs. You can't use it to buy anything else."
"Oh, that sucks."
And with that, the imaginary, shimmering bubble that surround us burst and they said thanks and walked off.
I downloaded the 40 songs and it turned out there were 45. They should edited the graphic on the card to read, "4 songs you will like and a shitload of others that suck balls and make you wonder why you dug through the recycling for hours to collect these fucking things."
How to Disable Facebook's "Places."
"Places" might be a wonderful option for some people, but I'd rather not let my entire collection of "friends" or the whole of the internet know where I am at. "Places" also allows other people to 'check you in' so that they can tattle on me when I am at the nudie bar seeing my favorite dancer act, Doris.
Here is how to disable places:
1. Go to Account > Privacy Settings on top right.
2. Click on ‘Customize Settings‘ link at the bottom of that page.
3. Next to “Places I check in” use the drop down box to select ‘Only Me‘.
4. Make sure to ‘uncheck” the ‘Include me in “People Here Now” after I check in’ box.
5. Further down under “Things others share” select ‘Disabled’ next to “Friends can check me in to places.”
Here is how to disable places:
1. Go to Account > Privacy Settings on top right.
2. Click on ‘Customize Settings‘ link at the bottom of that page.
3. Next to “Places I check in” use the drop down box to select ‘Only Me‘.
4. Make sure to ‘uncheck” the ‘Include me in “People Here Now” after I check in’ box.
5. Further down under “Things others share” select ‘Disabled’ next to “Friends can check me in to places.”
Allow me to explain
I created a list yesterday of the Top Ten Worst Stripper Names. Not my best work by far. In that list, amongst the wretched and disgusting names, was my grandmother's unique name. My thinking was that it would be awful to have the memory of one's grandmother tarnished by being a stripper's name. Funny, right?
Wrong.
My relatives did not find that humorous and to quote my cousin, I should, "die of shame for even having her name in this listing you unholy maggot."
So while my intent was for the sake of humor it did not come across that way. I can't really say that I'm sorry except that I'm sorry I didn't explain the joke the right way and that perhaps it was a bit unholy and maggoty.
So I edited my post and changed it to "satin peach" which is the nickname we gave a co-worker's shirt.
I hope this will not ruin our relationship.
Love,
HolyJuan
Wrong.
My relatives did not find that humorous and to quote my cousin, I should, "die of shame for even having her name in this listing you unholy maggot."
So while my intent was for the sake of humor it did not come across that way. I can't really say that I'm sorry except that I'm sorry I didn't explain the joke the right way and that perhaps it was a bit unholy and maggoty.
So I edited my post and changed it to "satin peach" which is the nickname we gave a co-worker's shirt.
I hope this will not ruin our relationship.
Love,
HolyJuan
Top Ten Worst Stripper Names
It’s best if you read these prefaced by saying, “And now welcome to the main stage the lovely…”
1. Smegma
2. Androgyny
3. Infectious
4. Satin Peach
5. Cesarean
6. Garlic
7. Mrs. Henderson
8. Ted
9. Carbon
10. Crustina
1. Smegma
2. Androgyny
3. Infectious
4. Satin Peach
5. Cesarean
6. Garlic
7. Mrs. Henderson
8. Ted
9. Carbon
10. Crustina
Bag o' Money winner!
We finally got a winner in the Bag o' Money contest. John from North Carolina correctly guessed $16.91.
Here's the goods before they were sent out. (The cash was in my car. I did actually send it.)
Here is the letter I sent along:
Dear John,
Thank you for entering and winning the “How Much Money is in the Bag” contest on holyjuan.com. While I almost had to spoon feed my readers the answer, you were the one with the wherewithal and the quickest correct guess of $16.91.
While you are taking food from the mouths of my children with this win, I do want you to spend this money appropriately. May I suggest one of the following:
16.9 condoms (use the .9 condom if you are planning on reproducing)
1 really, really cheap hooker
1/10 of a more expensive hooker
67 games of Donkey Kong at the retro arcade
33 games of Dragon’s Lair at the retro arcade
5 bags of Swedish Fish (Damn, they are addictive)
4 Happy Meals that my children will not be eating
Best of luck!
HolyJuan, Esquire
PS. Please use the included HolyJuan refrigerator magnet at your discretion. Your friends may actually find out what you have been up to.
---
And after spending $45.56 on postage, here is John with the goods!
"I always wanted a sack with $$ on it. Thanks Holy Juan!"
Here's the goods before they were sent out. (The cash was in my car. I did actually send it.)
Here is the letter I sent along:
Dear John,
Thank you for entering and winning the “How Much Money is in the Bag” contest on holyjuan.com. While I almost had to spoon feed my readers the answer, you were the one with the wherewithal and the quickest correct guess of $16.91.
While you are taking food from the mouths of my children with this win, I do want you to spend this money appropriately. May I suggest one of the following:
16.9 condoms (use the .9 condom if you are planning on reproducing)
1 really, really cheap hooker
1/10 of a more expensive hooker
67 games of Donkey Kong at the retro arcade
33 games of Dragon’s Lair at the retro arcade
5 bags of Swedish Fish (Damn, they are addictive)
4 Happy Meals that my children will not be eating
Best of luck!
HolyJuan, Esquire
PS. Please use the included HolyJuan refrigerator magnet at your discretion. Your friends may actually find out what you have been up to.
---
And after spending $45.56 on postage, here is John with the goods!
"I always wanted a sack with $$ on it. Thanks Holy Juan!"
Leah Lou
Billy invited us up to Cleveland to go see a few bands at the Beachland Ballroom. Billy has very good taste in music and has yet to let us down. While we actually went to see the headliner, Marc Broussard, I was much more intrigued by the opener Leah Lou.
WARNING! You will either dig this chick's music or not. I like her. If you do not, you obviously have crappy taste in music.
Check her out at http://www.myspace.com/leahlou12.
And while I am not a starfucker, the opportunity did arise and I got a photo with my new girlfriend.
WARNING! You will either dig this chick's music or not. I like her. If you do not, you obviously have crappy taste in music.
Check her out at http://www.myspace.com/leahlou12.
And while I am not a starfucker, the opportunity did arise and I got a photo with my new girlfriend.
Stoned Stoneder Stonederiest
Oddly enough, we thought of these t-shirts while we were at Lollapalooza.
If you and your two stoned friends want t-shirts, you can buy them here:
STONED
STONEDER
STONDERIEST
If you and your two stoned friends want t-shirts, you can buy them here:
STONED
STONEDER
STONDERIEST
The Invitation and Then What We Did Once We Realized We Actually Weren't Invited
One plugged flat tire and 250 miles later we were within 20 minutes of Eric’s place in Chicago. We texted back and forth to coordinate when we would be arriving. Eric said that he would be at a party and that we should come over to the party. In Ohio, we call that an invitation.
Greg’s TomTom was re-programmed and we were on our way. There was parking right in front of the apartment and we jumped out and stretched. We called Eric and he came out of the party and warmly greeted us as only Eric can.
“Hey guys. The party is breaking up.”
That’s fine.
“Just a minute.”
Eric went back in.
We waited about five minutes standing outside the car. A couple walked out and then went down the street. Eric came out about three minutes after that.
“Things are still breaking up. Let me grab some folks and we’ll head back to my place.”
Should we come in?
“Um, no. Wait just a minute.”
Eric went back in. About two minutes later he emerged with a girl who was very fun and a guy with a football. The girl laughed and talked to us and we threw the ball back and forth with football guy. At some point, a guy stuck his head out the door, eyed us up and went back in. I assume that was the host of the party that was breaking up.
Eric admitted that there had been a bit of a mix up. He told the people at the party that he was having a few high school friends over. The host of the party thought that Eric was bringing over people that were in high school and not happy about that. Eric went back in.
So we stood outside and waited for a total of about twenty-five minutes for the party that was breaking up to break up.
The party broke up. Several piled into Eric’s car. If I was better with names, I would tell the name of the one guy who got into Greg’s. He was a cool dude. We chatted on the way over to Eric's.
We arrived at Eric place. He’s got an awesome house. His awesome house has an even more awesome deck that we sat on under the hazy stars, drank beer, talked and laughed with Eric and his friends. We mocked Eric for inviting us to a party we were not allowed to enter. We talked of our past transgressions. Eric played music from his computer. We discussed Lollapalooza. We laughed.
Kit went to bed. I took a group shot a little while later.
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Other Photos
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Greg’s TomTom was re-programmed and we were on our way. There was parking right in front of the apartment and we jumped out and stretched. We called Eric and he came out of the party and warmly greeted us as only Eric can.
“Hey guys. The party is breaking up.”
That’s fine.
“Just a minute.”
Eric went back in.
We waited about five minutes standing outside the car. A couple walked out and then went down the street. Eric came out about three minutes after that.
“Things are still breaking up. Let me grab some folks and we’ll head back to my place.”
Should we come in?
“Um, no. Wait just a minute.”
Eric went back in. About two minutes later he emerged with a girl who was very fun and a guy with a football. The girl laughed and talked to us and we threw the ball back and forth with football guy. At some point, a guy stuck his head out the door, eyed us up and went back in. I assume that was the host of the party that was breaking up.
Eric admitted that there had been a bit of a mix up. He told the people at the party that he was having a few high school friends over. The host of the party thought that Eric was bringing over people that were in high school and not happy about that. Eric went back in.
So we stood outside and waited for a total of about twenty-five minutes for the party that was breaking up to break up.
The party broke up. Several piled into Eric’s car. If I was better with names, I would tell the name of the one guy who got into Greg’s. He was a cool dude. We chatted on the way over to Eric's.
We arrived at Eric place. He’s got an awesome house. His awesome house has an even more awesome deck that we sat on under the hazy stars, drank beer, talked and laughed with Eric and his friends. We mocked Eric for inviting us to a party we were not allowed to enter. We talked of our past transgressions. Eric played music from his computer. We discussed Lollapalooza. We laughed.
Kit went to bed. I took a group shot a little while later.
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Other Photos
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A Rough Start *or* When Open 24 Hours Means Something Else
Thursday at 5:30pm, Kit called to say he was in the parking lot. I had just finished changing clothes and making sure that I was only forgetting two or three things. Greg arrived a few minutes later and we filled his already full trunk with our bags.
We were off to Chicago.
Traffic out of Columbus was for crap and construction had us slowed to a crawl. Slow enough so that a car next to us had the time and opportunity to make the necessary jestures to explain that we had a flat tire. We waved a thanks and pulled off.
We had the aspirations of a pit crew as we simultaneously leapt from the car to change the tire, but the ballet of clumbsiness that followed was laughable.
The fully packed trunk was evacuated of our bags and a soccer coach's collection of stuff. Greg was on the jack and Kit and I we responsible for extracting the spare tire from the bottom of the trunk.
But the spare tire had other plans. The plastic cap holding down the spare would not relent. Not to my girly grip nor Kit's steely grasp could unscrew that cap. Kit whipped out his trusty Leatherman and he applied leverage. Leverage did its job and broke off half of the plastic cap. With only half the cap left, we used Greg's wide array of truck tools to ensure we would break off the other half. With a rusty phillips screw driver and a piece of metal that looked like it once had a purpose in life, we applied a different kind of leverage that broke the other tab off.
With no intelligent choice left, we used brute force and over then next ten minutes we bloodied nuckles and bent tools. We realized that if we chipped away enough of the plastic, we could pull the tire up and off of the stuck cap. With 75% of it chipped away, we used the spare to pull up ad break that mother fucking thing off.
Greg applied the spare.
We loaded everything back in the truck and drove to the next exit. With the approval of the gods, that exit had a business called "24 Hour Tire Repair" right off the exit.
The 24 Hour Tire Repair shop was closed.
We had two scenarios. One scenario is that we drive through to Chicago on a 50 MPH spare tire. This was dangerous and would slow our drive to a crawl. The other scenario is that we call AAA to have the car towed to a shop that was actually open to have the tire fixed or replaced. This would take hours.
But Greg saw a Third Scenario.
We drove to the Pilot gas station across the street. Greg said, "When you are in the store, look for a tire plug kit." I thought he was joking because no manufacturer would create a product that regular idiots like me might use that could result in exploding tires and car accidents. So I didn't even look for a tie patching kit. I looked for Swedish Fish instead. Kit got the number for a different repair shop from the nice lady at the counter. I called and left a message for Bruce that we were in dire need of help. Kit and I watched Greg emerge from the gas station holding a tire plug kit. They actually sell them.
We moved the car to a lonely spot in the parking lot and empied the trunk again. Kit pulled out the flat and Greg redied the kit. We found the most likely spot where the hole might be. Greg used the shiv looking device to ream out the hole location. It was tearing the crap out of the tire and bits and chunks of rubber crumbled to the ground. I feared the worse. The next step involved threading a strip of rubber that looked like licorice through something that looked like a cross between a needle and a wine bottle opener. He applied a pungant adhesive from a tube to the licorice.
The whole lot was then shoved into the now gaping tire hole.
When Greg pulled the needle device from the hole, a sharpe edge cut the licorice strip in half, leaving it behind in the hole. A nub of patch and gooey adhesive stuck out of the tire.
Kit rolled the tire to the air station and filled it. It held. While they were filling I jacked the car up. Greg and Kit applied the patched tire.
Ten seconds after this photo was taken, the car rocked back off of the jack and came slamming down. Luckily the tire was completely on and we all had time to back away to watch it fall off the jack at a distance. Safety Tip #103: Always put your parking brake on while changing a tire.
We loaded the trunk and piled in. Greg took a test drive down the road and back again. We stopped at the 24 hour tire repair parking lot (still closed) and checked out the tire. It was holding. We got back on the highway.
The tire held and we made it to Chicago with enough time to go to a party that we were not allowed to enter. But that's a story for another time.
Here's a photo of Kit taking his turn at the wheel, driving up 65 with a patched tire and three very excited boys on their way to Lollapalooza 2010.
We were off to Chicago.
Traffic out of Columbus was for crap and construction had us slowed to a crawl. Slow enough so that a car next to us had the time and opportunity to make the necessary jestures to explain that we had a flat tire. We waved a thanks and pulled off.
We had the aspirations of a pit crew as we simultaneously leapt from the car to change the tire, but the ballet of clumbsiness that followed was laughable.
The fully packed trunk was evacuated of our bags and a soccer coach's collection of stuff. Greg was on the jack and Kit and I we responsible for extracting the spare tire from the bottom of the trunk.
But the spare tire had other plans. The plastic cap holding down the spare would not relent. Not to my girly grip nor Kit's steely grasp could unscrew that cap. Kit whipped out his trusty Leatherman and he applied leverage. Leverage did its job and broke off half of the plastic cap. With only half the cap left, we used Greg's wide array of truck tools to ensure we would break off the other half. With a rusty phillips screw driver and a piece of metal that looked like it once had a purpose in life, we applied a different kind of leverage that broke the other tab off.
With no intelligent choice left, we used brute force and over then next ten minutes we bloodied nuckles and bent tools. We realized that if we chipped away enough of the plastic, we could pull the tire up and off of the stuck cap. With 75% of it chipped away, we used the spare to pull up ad break that mother fucking thing off.
Greg applied the spare.
We loaded everything back in the truck and drove to the next exit. With the approval of the gods, that exit had a business called "24 Hour Tire Repair" right off the exit.
The 24 Hour Tire Repair shop was closed.
We had two scenarios. One scenario is that we drive through to Chicago on a 50 MPH spare tire. This was dangerous and would slow our drive to a crawl. The other scenario is that we call AAA to have the car towed to a shop that was actually open to have the tire fixed or replaced. This would take hours.
But Greg saw a Third Scenario.
We drove to the Pilot gas station across the street. Greg said, "When you are in the store, look for a tire plug kit." I thought he was joking because no manufacturer would create a product that regular idiots like me might use that could result in exploding tires and car accidents. So I didn't even look for a tie patching kit. I looked for Swedish Fish instead. Kit got the number for a different repair shop from the nice lady at the counter. I called and left a message for Bruce that we were in dire need of help. Kit and I watched Greg emerge from the gas station holding a tire plug kit. They actually sell them.
We moved the car to a lonely spot in the parking lot and empied the trunk again. Kit pulled out the flat and Greg redied the kit. We found the most likely spot where the hole might be. Greg used the shiv looking device to ream out the hole location. It was tearing the crap out of the tire and bits and chunks of rubber crumbled to the ground. I feared the worse. The next step involved threading a strip of rubber that looked like licorice through something that looked like a cross between a needle and a wine bottle opener. He applied a pungant adhesive from a tube to the licorice.
The whole lot was then shoved into the now gaping tire hole.
When Greg pulled the needle device from the hole, a sharpe edge cut the licorice strip in half, leaving it behind in the hole. A nub of patch and gooey adhesive stuck out of the tire.
Kit rolled the tire to the air station and filled it. It held. While they were filling I jacked the car up. Greg and Kit applied the patched tire.
Ten seconds after this photo was taken, the car rocked back off of the jack and came slamming down. Luckily the tire was completely on and we all had time to back away to watch it fall off the jack at a distance. Safety Tip #103: Always put your parking brake on while changing a tire.
We loaded the trunk and piled in. Greg took a test drive down the road and back again. We stopped at the 24 hour tire repair parking lot (still closed) and checked out the tire. It was holding. We got back on the highway.
The tire held and we made it to Chicago with enough time to go to a party that we were not allowed to enter. But that's a story for another time.
Here's a photo of Kit taking his turn at the wheel, driving up 65 with a patched tire and three very excited boys on their way to Lollapalooza 2010.
Archived HolyJuan Stories and Thanks
In January of 2006, I started HolyJuan. It was Lia that said, “You should start a blog,” and I did.
My first story was a work related trip to Chicago and how I ended up spending the night at somewhere that was not my hotel room.
Since that story I’ve created 1,289 posts. Some stories. Some lies. Some rants. Some terrible cartoons. More lies.
Sadly, I am a much better story teller than a webpage person. Many of the wonderful HolyJuan stories are buried deep within the tubes of the internet. Someday, when I am famous and I thank all of you for getting me there, I’ll find a way to make the archives a bit more accessible. Until then I am going to begin dredging some of them up and reposting them at the top of the website. While many might call me lazy for reposting old stuff, I hope a few of you might appreciate some of my dustier memories.
I’d like to thank you for your continued readership. You e-mails and comments let me know that you all love me almost as much as I love myself. I’m always accessible by e-mail at holyjuan@gmail.com. I usually reply within a few days. Some of my best posts are Ask HolyJuan e-mails. Try me sometime.
Thanks again.
HolyJuan
My first story was a work related trip to Chicago and how I ended up spending the night at somewhere that was not my hotel room.
Since that story I’ve created 1,289 posts. Some stories. Some lies. Some rants. Some terrible cartoons. More lies.
Sadly, I am a much better story teller than a webpage person. Many of the wonderful HolyJuan stories are buried deep within the tubes of the internet. Someday, when I am famous and I thank all of you for getting me there, I’ll find a way to make the archives a bit more accessible. Until then I am going to begin dredging some of them up and reposting them at the top of the website. While many might call me lazy for reposting old stuff, I hope a few of you might appreciate some of my dustier memories.
I’d like to thank you for your continued readership. You e-mails and comments let me know that you all love me almost as much as I love myself. I’m always accessible by e-mail at holyjuan@gmail.com. I usually reply within a few days. Some of my best posts are Ask HolyJuan e-mails. Try me sometime.
Thanks again.
HolyJuan
Storm about to take a bite out of Columbus
If you look really hard, you can see Jesus' nose and eye.
Gold Bond Pancake
I'm leaving for Chicago tomorrow with Greg and Kit. We'll be staying at Doob's over the weekend for Lollapalooza. I have never had the opportunity to go and am very excited, knowing full well that most of the fun and memorable bits will happen outside the venue and on the trip there and back again.
Greg is a Lollapalooza veteran and I asked him for tips on what I should bring. He, knowing that there's a bit of chafing with all the walking that happens during the weekend, suggested Gold Bond and I took him at his word. A few days ago while we were finalizing the details for the trip, he laughed about his Gold Bond suggestion saying, "I really don't think you'll want to be putting Gold Bond in your shorts. With all the sweat mixed in, you'll have a Gold Bond pancake."
I had a good laugh at that.
I'll post what I can from Chicago over the weekend. Let me know if you'll be there.
Greg is a Lollapalooza veteran and I asked him for tips on what I should bring. He, knowing that there's a bit of chafing with all the walking that happens during the weekend, suggested Gold Bond and I took him at his word. A few days ago while we were finalizing the details for the trip, he laughed about his Gold Bond suggestion saying, "I really don't think you'll want to be putting Gold Bond in your shorts. With all the sweat mixed in, you'll have a Gold Bond pancake."
I had a good laugh at that.
I'll post what I can from Chicago over the weekend. Let me know if you'll be there.
The Midnight Mountain Club
After John's wedding, we decided we would climb the mountain. Greg found his Midnight Mountain Club T-shirt in a box when they moved and he wore it that night. Eric had his buddy draw the design and we had about 10 of them silk screened in 1990. I think Greg's is the only one exists (and still fits.)
Greg scanned the shirt and sent it to me. I was able to clean it up in photoshop and made a shirt at Skreened.
I am so happy.
Greg scanned the shirt and sent it to me. I was able to clean it up in photoshop and made a shirt at Skreened.
I am so happy.
Columbus, OH - Main Street Bridge - video and fun facts
I've received a few e-mails for details on the bridge:
1.7 miles in length
3200 feet above the river
Only single arch, wire suspension bridge in the tri-county area
First "living" bridge; interior is wheat, grasses and microbes for strength
The bridge lifts 75 feet to allow the heavy boat traffic to pass
Once open, the toll will only be $1.00 heading west and $5.00 east
Bono, from U2, described the bridge as "A 22nd century accomplishment; I dig the dangle."
The bridge can hold over 18 cargo containers of mayonnaise (NOT Miracle Whip.)
The Bridge is named after Sylvia T. Main, a Columbus inventor and markswoman
Birthing Advice to Anne
My good friend Anne is about to have a baby in the next few days. Here was my advice to her:
Have a plan for the stuff you cannot plan for. My experience is that shit happens very quickly and the doctors are going to want you to do what they say. You need to know if you want the epidural and that they need to stick you not too early but not too late. You want pitocin? We didn't know we did with Anne, but they said, we are going to give you this to help with the labor and we said, "Duh, sure." If things go south, you need your husband to be able to side with you on what you'd like to do, like keep trying to push or bail and C section. We had two very good experiences, except with the epidural that freaked miss sally out worse the second time.
It will all go too quickly. Take photos. Not of the event but leading up to and at the hospital. Let both sets of parents know ahead of time if you want them around in the room or whatever. They will understand, but you should lay that crap out now just so everyone knows if they are welcome to stare at your vagina.
Just remember that people have been having babies for a very, very long time and that means absolutely nothing when it's you.
Take care and best of luck.
I think this is a HolyJuan post. Sorry. Love you.
Doug
PS If you are breast feeding, it is the single most frustrating thing in the world. Keep at it. Don't feel bad if it doesn't work out but don't give up too quickly. You should send me a photo of your boobs so that I can see if everything looks right.
Have a plan for the stuff you cannot plan for. My experience is that shit happens very quickly and the doctors are going to want you to do what they say. You need to know if you want the epidural and that they need to stick you not too early but not too late. You want pitocin? We didn't know we did with Anne, but they said, we are going to give you this to help with the labor and we said, "Duh, sure." If things go south, you need your husband to be able to side with you on what you'd like to do, like keep trying to push or bail and C section. We had two very good experiences, except with the epidural that freaked miss sally out worse the second time.
It will all go too quickly. Take photos. Not of the event but leading up to and at the hospital. Let both sets of parents know ahead of time if you want them around in the room or whatever. They will understand, but you should lay that crap out now just so everyone knows if they are welcome to stare at your vagina.
Just remember that people have been having babies for a very, very long time and that means absolutely nothing when it's you.
Take care and best of luck.
I think this is a HolyJuan post. Sorry. Love you.
Doug
PS If you are breast feeding, it is the single most frustrating thing in the world. Keep at it. Don't feel bad if it doesn't work out but don't give up too quickly. You should send me a photo of your boobs so that I can see if everything looks right.
Corporate Dress Policy
My friend sent me this memo from their company concerning dress code:
Good afternoon everyone,
There seems to be a lack of understanding regarding the (XXX Company) dress code. This email is to reiterate the policy and remind everyone you will be asked to go home on your first offense and not be a part of the Company for the second offense. You should re-read the handbook which prescribes the following:
Appearance and Grooming
The people-oriented nature of our business lends great importance to the professional image (XXX Company) presents to customers, vendors, and other visitors. Therefore, it is important that you present a professional impression in your dress and grooming.
Staff based or working in (XXX Company) office:
(XXX Company) expects you to maintain a clean and polished yet professionally casual appearance. Generally speaking, (XXX Company) has adopted a relaxed dress code as follows:
For men:
Shirts: Dress or sport, knit or woven, must have a collar. Tee shirts, v-necks, henleys or other collarless shirts are not acceptable.
Pants: Dress slacks, chinos, or dockers
Suits: Suits, sports jackets, and/or ties are optional.
Sweaters: Crewnecks, v-necks, cardigans or turtlenecks are acceptable.
For women:
Slacks or skirts; jeans are permitted on Fridays and on days when employees are scheduled to embark on midday travel. Torn jeans are not allowed at any time for any reason.
Business suits
Dresses
Leggings, skimpy tank tops and shorts, and midriff blouses are considered inappropriate at any time. Shoulders and backs must be covered.
You are expected to use good judgment.
________________________________________________________
NOTE THE FOLLOWING BEING ADDED REGARDING FOOTWEAR:
No flip flops or flimsy sandals (i.e., ones more appropriate for the beach or BBQ than the office)
No sneakers (even if they are "hip")
We are lucky to have a relaxed dress code and need everyone to adhere so as not to risk losing it for all of us.
If you have any questions, or are unsure what's appropriate, contact either XXXXXXXXX or me.
Thank you for your cooperation.
Good afternoon everyone,
There seems to be a lack of understanding regarding the (XXX Company) dress code. This email is to reiterate the policy and remind everyone you will be asked to go home on your first offense and not be a part of the Company for the second offense. You should re-read the handbook which prescribes the following:
Appearance and Grooming
The people-oriented nature of our business lends great importance to the professional image (XXX Company) presents to customers, vendors, and other visitors. Therefore, it is important that you present a professional impression in your dress and grooming.
Staff based or working in (XXX Company) office:
(XXX Company) expects you to maintain a clean and polished yet professionally casual appearance. Generally speaking, (XXX Company) has adopted a relaxed dress code as follows:
For men:
Shirts: Dress or sport, knit or woven, must have a collar. Tee shirts, v-necks, henleys or other collarless shirts are not acceptable.
Pants: Dress slacks, chinos, or dockers
Suits: Suits, sports jackets, and/or ties are optional.
Sweaters: Crewnecks, v-necks, cardigans or turtlenecks are acceptable.
For women:
Slacks or skirts; jeans are permitted on Fridays and on days when employees are scheduled to embark on midday travel. Torn jeans are not allowed at any time for any reason.
Business suits
Dresses
Leggings, skimpy tank tops and shorts, and midriff blouses are considered inappropriate at any time. Shoulders and backs must be covered.
You are expected to use good judgment.
________________________________________________________
NOTE THE FOLLOWING BEING ADDED REGARDING FOOTWEAR:
No flip flops or flimsy sandals (i.e., ones more appropriate for the beach or BBQ than the office)
No sneakers (even if they are "hip")
We are lucky to have a relaxed dress code and need everyone to adhere so as not to risk losing it for all of us.
If you have any questions, or are unsure what's appropriate, contact either XXXXXXXXX or me.
Thank you for your cooperation.
Homestar and a Haircut
In 2004, Greg was a one years old boy and Homestarrunner.com only sold shirts for little boys and not for babies. But I bought Greg a shirt anyways, knowing that someday he would grow into it.
And he did.
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