October 04, 2005
His only crime was being born delicious!
Phin has bbq'd Frank.
Mmmmm....North Carolina pulled pork. I bet if we ask real nice, and offer him a case of beer, Phin'd give us his vinegar sauce recipe.
Posted by: Victor at
11:30 AM
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October 03, 2005
Gone Fishin'
As if the world needed it, here's yet another reason to hate the French. Here in the South, that kind of behavior is reprehensible, consider most of us prefer the company of a Black Lab or a Redbone Hound to that of just about any person. But damn, those French fishermen are fucked up.
Posted by: shank at
04:31 PM
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When Good Bathrooms Go Bad.
I spent most of Friday night and the wee hours of Saturday morning sitting on the porch with a beer in hand, telling stories with friends while Ray Charles did his thing in the background. It was a helluva time, but it left me a little worse for the wear when I got up the next morning.
Usually, a crisp shower helps me regain something resembling composure, so I headed off towards the bathroom. Eyes barely open, I hobble in to the tub, pull the curtain, and start the water. I reached up to tilt the showerhead and point the stream of water further towards the back of the shower. Apparently, I am in such awesome physical condition, that with a mere flick of my wrist I can snap shit in two - because that's exactly what the shower head did. The collar that twists onto the pipe coming out of the wall just cracked from end to end. I muster the kind of garbled, incoherent swearing stereotypically attributed to someone suffering from a hangover.
Water begins spraying all over the place - on the walls and ceiling over the showerhead, in my face, over the curtain rod, everywhere. I'm still swearing, something like "Shitshitshitahhhfuckshitshit etc., and I've got my hands wrapped around the threaded collar to prevent it from spraying everywhere, but I realize immediately that it's exacerbating the situation. Not only can I NOT turn off the water (since both hands are on the leaking head) but the tiny gaps between my fingers and palms are only providing more holes for the damn water to spray out of. Good thing for me, this morning my brain is working as deftly as my rippling, PVC plastic wrending muscles. I lift my right foot up to the shower knob on the wall and try to push the nob down into the 'Off' position. I get my foot up there, and apply gentle pressure to the knob while my hands are wrapped over the shower head above. My left foot slips on the wet bathtub floor and I go airborne.
I guess the pressure I was applying to the knob couldn't be countered by the single foot I was standing on at the time. My left foot slipped forward, and the right foot that was pushing against the shower wall propels me backwards. My grip on the shower head turns the crack in the collar into a shatter, and the entire assembly comes off. We have one of those massage showerheads on a length of hose, so there's quite a lot of debris flying around at this point. When I realize I'm about to knock myself out on the tub floor and drown in my own bathwater, I do what only comes naturally - I reach out for the shower curtain to my left.
I'd like to take a moment here and just say: Yes, I know that was dumb. The second I reached out for the damn thing, I knew it was a dumb move. But I figured it was better than just enjoying the ride.
The curtain rod holds for a split second, my decent stalls, and the curtain in my fist swings just a little further left. Before it snaps. You know how shower curtain rods are - they're held in place by friction basically, braced against the bathroom wall. Well, I guess that slight swing to the left was enough to pull one of the ends out, and I finish the homestretch of my little morning decent. The rod comes clanging down, my ribcage its the rim of the tub, and I damn near knock my gord on the toilet seat. The pipe where the showerhead used to be is still spraying cold water, and the showerhead itself is wrapped around my arm. I groan. I just wanted a shower.
Usually, a crisp shower helps me regain something resembling composure, so I headed off towards the bathroom. Eyes barely open, I hobble in to the tub, pull the curtain, and start the water. I reached up to tilt the showerhead and point the stream of water further towards the back of the shower. Apparently, I am in such awesome physical condition, that with a mere flick of my wrist I can snap shit in two - because that's exactly what the shower head did. The collar that twists onto the pipe coming out of the wall just cracked from end to end. I muster the kind of garbled, incoherent swearing stereotypically attributed to someone suffering from a hangover.
Water begins spraying all over the place - on the walls and ceiling over the showerhead, in my face, over the curtain rod, everywhere. I'm still swearing, something like "Shitshitshitahhhfuckshitshit etc., and I've got my hands wrapped around the threaded collar to prevent it from spraying everywhere, but I realize immediately that it's exacerbating the situation. Not only can I NOT turn off the water (since both hands are on the leaking head) but the tiny gaps between my fingers and palms are only providing more holes for the damn water to spray out of. Good thing for me, this morning my brain is working as deftly as my rippling, PVC plastic wrending muscles. I lift my right foot up to the shower knob on the wall and try to push the nob down into the 'Off' position. I get my foot up there, and apply gentle pressure to the knob while my hands are wrapped over the shower head above. My left foot slips on the wet bathtub floor and I go airborne.
I guess the pressure I was applying to the knob couldn't be countered by the single foot I was standing on at the time. My left foot slipped forward, and the right foot that was pushing against the shower wall propels me backwards. My grip on the shower head turns the crack in the collar into a shatter, and the entire assembly comes off. We have one of those massage showerheads on a length of hose, so there's quite a lot of debris flying around at this point. When I realize I'm about to knock myself out on the tub floor and drown in my own bathwater, I do what only comes naturally - I reach out for the shower curtain to my left.
I'd like to take a moment here and just say: Yes, I know that was dumb. The second I reached out for the damn thing, I knew it was a dumb move. But I figured it was better than just enjoying the ride.
The curtain rod holds for a split second, my decent stalls, and the curtain in my fist swings just a little further left. Before it snaps. You know how shower curtain rods are - they're held in place by friction basically, braced against the bathroom wall. Well, I guess that slight swing to the left was enough to pull one of the ends out, and I finish the homestretch of my little morning decent. The rod comes clanging down, my ribcage its the rim of the tub, and I damn near knock my gord on the toilet seat. The pipe where the showerhead used to be is still spraying cold water, and the showerhead itself is wrapped around my arm. I groan. I just wanted a shower.
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You wouldnÂ’t have believed it
Saturday morning I took the kid to play in her first soccer game. It was much worse than I ever imagined.
First of all sheÂ’s only five. Neither she nor I had any great expectations. I never cared for the sport, personally. The kid has no clue about the game at all, but insisted she join a team anyway. SheÂ’s a social creature.
So we get there and itÂ’s worse than I expect by a long shot. Every caricature of a sports parent that you could ever imagine was incarnated on this field. So I tell the kid to go have fun and I sit down away from the other parents. As the kids are warming up I notice that most parents arenÂ’t speaking English. Portuguese and Spanish are dominant. Some of the fathers are kicking a ball around off to the side, completely overdoing it, hamming it up and causing a general scene by yelping loudly in their native tongues. They are all grossly overweight and out of shape. Within minutes it comes to a grinding halt, with one guy holding his hand over his heart and panting like a dog. Adios Mio! This guyÂ’s going to die here in the grass, I thought. I donÂ’t have time for this today.
Instead he slowly got up and walked back to the rest of his family and collapsed on a bench. His family consisted of at least nine adults and a passel of poorly-mannered kids of all ages. Their normal speaking voices were deafening. They all yelled at each other for the entire game.
Meanwhile I turned my attention back to my kid. The game was about to start and I was fairly certain she didnÂ’t even know the basic rules of the game. The whistle blows and the game begins. Every player from both teams swarm the ball and it resembles a rugby scrum. No one plays defense. Even the goalies are in the scrum. Eventually the ball squirts out of the clump with a child or two chasing it while the rest of them just stand there watching. Less than a minute in, most of the kids have already had enough. Two of them were crying.
To make a long story short, it works like this. The kids chase the ball in a big clump. If one of them actually manages to kick it, it goes out of bounds. This continues until itÂ’s time to go home, or enough children are crying that they have to call a time out. Within the first ten minutes most of the parents were chasing their kids around the field yelling instructions at them. The coach sees the hopelessness of all this and bans the parents from the field.
Meanwhile, I realize that the fat bastard who thought he was having a heart attack stole my two bottles of water. Now my kid’s got nothing to drink and it’s hot out. I went over to the guy and pointed out his error, but one bottle was already gone and he was drinking out of the other one. As I’m talking to him I hear a great commotion coming from his family. They’re all screaming, “Carlos! Carlos! Carlos!”
The guy I’m talking to dashes off to the sideline along with his giant extended family. On the field there’s a kid that looks a lot older than the others. These kids are supposed to be between three and five years old and this kid looks like he’s ten. He’s dribbling the ball downfield all by himself, the rest of both teams either crying or sitting down on the field. The big kid is approaching the net and there is no goalie in sight. With a flourish the kid kicks the ball into the open goal and throws his hands into the air. Instantly, the giant family of Portuguese people run onto the field and lift the kid up onto their shoulders cheering, “Carlos! Carlos! Carlos!”
It was surreal. The coach, who had had quite enough, was trying to restore order, but it was hopeless. I looked around trying to find my kid and saw her and another little girl sitting in the grass chatting. They were nonplussed.
When the whole ordeal was over and we were walking to our car through the sea of minivans, I asked if she had fun.
“It’s too hot out.”
“I know, Sweetie, but did you like it?”
“I would like it better if it was inside.”
“You don’t want to come anymore?”
“Not really.”
“Well, I don’t blame you. “
As I buckled her into the car I could still hear little CarlosÂ’s family going at it. I looked up just in time to see the fat father kick a soccer ball into the side of someoneÂ’s van.
First of all sheÂ’s only five. Neither she nor I had any great expectations. I never cared for the sport, personally. The kid has no clue about the game at all, but insisted she join a team anyway. SheÂ’s a social creature.
So we get there and itÂ’s worse than I expect by a long shot. Every caricature of a sports parent that you could ever imagine was incarnated on this field. So I tell the kid to go have fun and I sit down away from the other parents. As the kids are warming up I notice that most parents arenÂ’t speaking English. Portuguese and Spanish are dominant. Some of the fathers are kicking a ball around off to the side, completely overdoing it, hamming it up and causing a general scene by yelping loudly in their native tongues. They are all grossly overweight and out of shape. Within minutes it comes to a grinding halt, with one guy holding his hand over his heart and panting like a dog. Adios Mio! This guyÂ’s going to die here in the grass, I thought. I donÂ’t have time for this today.
Instead he slowly got up and walked back to the rest of his family and collapsed on a bench. His family consisted of at least nine adults and a passel of poorly-mannered kids of all ages. Their normal speaking voices were deafening. They all yelled at each other for the entire game.
Meanwhile I turned my attention back to my kid. The game was about to start and I was fairly certain she didnÂ’t even know the basic rules of the game. The whistle blows and the game begins. Every player from both teams swarm the ball and it resembles a rugby scrum. No one plays defense. Even the goalies are in the scrum. Eventually the ball squirts out of the clump with a child or two chasing it while the rest of them just stand there watching. Less than a minute in, most of the kids have already had enough. Two of them were crying.
To make a long story short, it works like this. The kids chase the ball in a big clump. If one of them actually manages to kick it, it goes out of bounds. This continues until itÂ’s time to go home, or enough children are crying that they have to call a time out. Within the first ten minutes most of the parents were chasing their kids around the field yelling instructions at them. The coach sees the hopelessness of all this and bans the parents from the field.
Meanwhile, I realize that the fat bastard who thought he was having a heart attack stole my two bottles of water. Now my kid’s got nothing to drink and it’s hot out. I went over to the guy and pointed out his error, but one bottle was already gone and he was drinking out of the other one. As I’m talking to him I hear a great commotion coming from his family. They’re all screaming, “Carlos! Carlos! Carlos!”
The guy I’m talking to dashes off to the sideline along with his giant extended family. On the field there’s a kid that looks a lot older than the others. These kids are supposed to be between three and five years old and this kid looks like he’s ten. He’s dribbling the ball downfield all by himself, the rest of both teams either crying or sitting down on the field. The big kid is approaching the net and there is no goalie in sight. With a flourish the kid kicks the ball into the open goal and throws his hands into the air. Instantly, the giant family of Portuguese people run onto the field and lift the kid up onto their shoulders cheering, “Carlos! Carlos! Carlos!”
It was surreal. The coach, who had had quite enough, was trying to restore order, but it was hopeless. I looked around trying to find my kid and saw her and another little girl sitting in the grass chatting. They were nonplussed.
When the whole ordeal was over and we were walking to our car through the sea of minivans, I asked if she had fun.
“It’s too hot out.”
“I know, Sweetie, but did you like it?”
“I would like it better if it was inside.”
“You don’t want to come anymore?”
“Not really.”
“Well, I don’t blame you. “
As I buckled her into the car I could still hear little CarlosÂ’s family going at it. I looked up just in time to see the fat father kick a soccer ball into the side of someoneÂ’s van.
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