afrojet

The Problem’s Plain to See: Too Much Technology
What things annoy you when dining out at your favorite chow house? Bad service? Bad food, or worse the wrong food? A dirty bathroom? That screaming baby three tables away that’s up way past her bedtime? Perhaps you hate getting seated near the kitchen. All of these, at one time or another, have irked me. But all of them combined don’t come close to my greatest dining pet peeve. My biggest irritant is getting seated next to that odd couple that doesn’t talk during their entire dinner. They just sit there, facing each other, each one gazing just over the shoulder of the other one, trying painfully to avoid eye-contact. With each passing minute of silence their awkwardness expands like an invisible balloon until you feel it physically pushing against you in your own seat. Oh man, it kills me. I just want to pick up my fork, pop that silence balloon and demand, “Say something, goddammit!”. Honestly, I think I’d rather sit next to a party of loud talkers and cell phone squawkers than endure the pain of another couples lifeless social grace. Just to be clear, I’m not talking about lovebirds here, these aren’t newlyweds gazing longingly into each others eyes. This isn’t a warm soft rock candlelight ballad. No, this is pure, unflinching, raw sadness; the kind that can turn your food cold in the short time it takes the waiter to bring it from the kitchen to your table.

I got another pet peeve that I have to get off my chest. This one’s a bit more irrational but it bugs me all the same. And I ran into it several times last night. It bugs me when business storefronts, that have light-up signs displaying their name, have the bulbs burnt out in one or more of their letters. You know what I’m talking about. Like when a ‘Baskin Robbins’ reduces itself to ‘ask Rob’, or ‘Shoe Repairs’ breaks down to ‘ho ears’. I’m not exactly sure why this bugs me so much but it does. I mean, if I were the manager of such an establishment and an employee or a customer pointed out that my sign was deficient. I wouldn’t be able to sleep until I got that sucker fixed. Shit, I would probably keep a whole back-stock of extra letters incase one got maimed. Oh, and you know what bugs me even more(!), when the letters do get replaced but with a different shade of plastic, or *shudder* a different typeface!

The horror.

Ok. On the positive tip, on our way home from the restaurant last night, the song Mr. Roboto by Styx came over the radio. The misses called it after about two bars of the opening synth washes. We were like school girls bouncing in our seats, each taking turns turning up the volume when the song reached another one of its epic changes. Hot damn is that a fucking huge song. Huge song.

I’m currently investigating how I can get that song as my ringtone. Domo on your Friday.

The Illustrated Mustache
Any designer worth their salt and Sharpie has used a Dover Clip Art Book at one time or another. Over the years I’ve amassed a nice healthy collection of the Dover type books. Yesterday, the Good Doctor brought his collection over. He uses the clip art illustration books in his classroom. Of all the titles, ‘Illustrations of Men’s Heads’ is probably my favorite. Published in the early 80’s, most of the men in the collection look like they walked right off the stage of a Village People’s concert. The proliferation of mustache power is totally unsettling. The bearded guy in the top right corner, whom I have named “Gary”, has an equally disturbing Hannibal Lecter vibe to him. Gary loves his Pinot Gris but he’ll eat your fucking liver if you don’t play up to his ego by compliment either his beard or his bow tie.

Suspenders and Handplanes
The MVP Tool Of The Weekend Award goes to the vintage wise old Handplane. I began building a platform bed this weekend and the handplane was essential in shaping the wood with deadly accuracy. I reached for the handplane out of desperation when I wasn’t getting the results I wanted from my sander. Who knew that this tool, which until yesterday had been patiently collecting dust – watching all its modern electric replacements get all the attention, was all business. Poised and solid, it removed only what was asked and left an edge so clean that I immediately turned to all the lesser tools in the garage and scolded them for not being more like the handplane. My new woodworking mantra is: if it was good enough for the Romans then it’s good enough for me.

For awhile the effect of the handplane was dizzying. I thought about selling all the modern tools and becoming more like that crazy Roy Underhill guy from PBS. I’d even rock those suspenders and grow the stash! Or maybe I had to go Japanese and get really zen with my woodworking. Walk around the workshop in my bare feet and get into insanely intricate joinery projects that required Jackie Chan style flexibility and hyper dovetail lunacy.

Perhaps that’s still a far off dream and probably not very realistic or smart. But the lesson I’m taking away from this is that sometimes the traditional technologies can be the best tools. Even if you don’t own a pair of suspenders.

Hunting The Queen
Security breach! Alert Donald Rumsfeld, the exterior perimeter of the Skelton Ranch has been compromised. SUV sized black ants have come in from the cold and are foraging in the upstairs bathroom. Fucking yuck. My fear is that we are being overtaken by terrorist Carpenter Ants. If this is the case, we got problems. These guys are big and black, which unfortunately for them makes ’em easy targets against the white walls and white tile of our bathroom. The vacuum cleaner has been working overtime to suck up these little devils. The cats sit transfixed watching them meander about. Last night, I located a small hole tucked in the corner between a ceiling beam and the interior wall. I stuck a Johnson & Johnson mint flavored toothpick in their portal and haven’t seen an ant in the bathroom since. My theory is, if they chew through the tooth pick then they are definitely carpenter ants.

My preliminary intelligence gathering on Carpenter Ants tells me I should abandon any DIY strategies for their total annihilation. Bummer really, as I had imagined I would take a similar approach to our campaign in Iraq – use the 870 Remington shotgun and just start indiscriminately blasting holes in the walls. ‘Learn from our leaders’ is my motto. Nope, I think we’re going to have to hire professional assassins for this job. Apparently, you have to hunt down and silently take out the queen. Anything less just aggravates the drones and leads to more splinter cells and satellite nests. Currently my top contender, my bug-Rambo if you will, is this guy. His web site alone makes me want to hire him. I’ll keep you posted with detailed combat diagrams and body count totals.

Bonus: Democracy: a free and open source internet TV platform.

Also, Urban Gymnastics. Amazing video. This would be a sweet addition to the Summer Olympics.

And, a Flickr set from Space Patrol (1966), the first German science fiction television series.

Wolves, Dogs, Cats, & Bats
“I loathe people who keep dogs. They are cowards who haven’t got the guts to bite people themselves.” – Author Unknown

An interesting tidbit from the ‘Police Blotter’ of the Southwest Community Connection (our neighborly news rag):

Jan 14. 9:30 a.m.: A caller reported seeing a large wolf in Gabriel Park, eating a cat. Police arrived within a few minutes but the animal had already left. Park employees said that they have seen no wolves in Gabriel Park.

Now, if you replace wolf with dog and substitute cat for squirrel, then the story is quite believable. Gabriel Park has a large off-leash area and is a haven for dogs and the humans they own. In the words of the legendary Ted Nugget, ‘It’s a free for all’. From my epic Wimbledon-type tennis matches last week in Gabriel Park, I observed this chaos first hand. Basically, it seems, every dog owner believes that their canine is: a) gods gift to its breed, b) a blue ribbon winner for obedience and discipline and lastly, c) not really an animal at all but rather a being that can be reasoned with and can understand the logic of the english language perfectly. It is this arrogance that seems to be the cause of most of the chaos at the dog park. Having the fenced in tennis courts so close to the dog park doesn’t help matters either. You can tell the truly smart dogs from the dumber ones by counting how many times they run at full sprint into the chain link fence attempting to retrieve an arrant tennis ball.

Also, and I don’t mean to bash on dogs and their owners…but…what’s the deal with dog owners bringing their dog(s) to the pet store? I mean I know you can, and the pet stores encourage it, but why? It seems like a huge production. And I don’t appreciate having to defend myself with five pound buckets of Kitty Litter every time another dog decides to charge down aisle six. I don’t know, maybe I give off some kind of dog pheromone but I’m getting sick and tired of hearing the phrase, “Sorry, I don’t know what’s gotten into him, he usually doesn’t act like this”. I usually hear this statement when I have my back pressed up against the fish aquariums and I’m trying to make the dog go away by shaking a cat dancer in its face.

In other news…the amount of minutes I’ve spent watching the Olympics so far equals exactly zero. And it’s these smarmy human interest stories like, Dawson goes from abandoned baby to Olympic hero that will continue to keep that number very low.

Also, when the entire American Armed Forces fails to find and bring to justice Osama Bin Laden, who can we turn to? Ladies and Gentleman, I give you Batman. Now I’m a huge fan of Frank Miller’s Batman series, but if some folks are troubled by some lame ill-conceived Dutch cartoons, I’m guessing they ain’t going to take too kindly when this whole Batman thing drops. Do you suppose they will try and burn the Bat-signal?

Bobentine
I hope everyone had a swell Valentines Day. I couldn’t think of a better way to spend the day then to be serenaded by Bob Mould at the Doug Fir. Playing songs from his entire catalog, the misses and I were deeply moved. That man knows how to write songs. He played the final half dozen songs (a mix of Husker tracks and two tracks off the last record) on electric guitar, making the hearts of everyone in attendance go pitter patter. He also played a few new unreleased songs that were crushing. One of the songs was decidedly a ‘break up’ song and had Bob commenting after the song. “Hide the Knives”. I’m guessing someone forgot to give Bob a valentine.

I had one of those foot-in-mouth moments as soon as we walked downstairs into the Doug Fir. As we walked off the final step, there is Mr. Mould standing by himself. He looks at me. I’m about two feet away from him. Here’s my chance to say something to him, to thank him for all the joy he has brought me over a lifetime of music listening. Fuck. I totally punted. I opened my mouth but couldn’t manage one word. Fiddlesticks and Balderdash. I was totally unprepared.

Also, am I the only one who thinks this dog Rufus, who one Best in Show, just doesn’t look quite right. He looks like he’s got a football for a head.

Beach Hazards with Moxie
I’m hesitant to start any work this morning. I spent the better part of last night organizing and straightening up my office. The shredder got a real workout. Now I’m enjoying the clean look of my desk too much to sully it with the detritus that work brings about.

The misses and I got out to the beach this Saturday. It was gorgeous day for it, no wind and plenty of sun. Watched a bunch of people surfing – or rather – watched a lot of people gear up, play with their boards, talk surf talk and paddle around a bit in the water but there wasn’t any real good surfing. I clocked the longest run at about three and a half seconds. The misses missed most of the surf runs as she was too distracted by some girl’s ass crack that was hanging out of her ill-fitting jeans. All that nature and surf action but the ass crack fashion faux-paus was like an eyeball tractor beam and you couldn’t look away from.

Along the beach there’s plenty of Tsunami warning signage posted, which got the misses thinking about all kinds of scenarios and emergency getaways. She has a flair for the dramatic when it comes to these hypothetical Jerry Bruckheimer apocalyptic scenarios. It runs in her family. She once told her father we were heading to the coast and he pleaded that when we park our car we park it so the trunk faces the ocean. That way we would be able to make the quickest getaway. Survival of the paranoid.

Turns out that a trip to the beach lasts exactly two Ricky Gervais podcasts. Which means we were able to get through the last four episodes and now we’re all caught up.

Yesterday, the Good Doctor and I set out to finally solve the mystery of how to digitize my vinyl collection. Of course this product would help, but I don’t have fifteen large to throw at the problem right now. The solution we are experimenting with now involves the Griffin iMic and the software Final Vinyl. This set up allows us to run the turntable through a pre-amp, with the pre-amp output feeding into the iMic. So far so good. We are starting with LP’s that currently can’t be found on CD. First up is Jeremy Steig’s Legwork which features the blowin’ track Howling for Judy (the opening flute riff was sampled by the Beasties for Sure Shot).

Congratulations are NOT in Order
I can think of a number of accomplishments that people should be congratulated for: a job promotion, the birth of a child, a graduation, winning a Skee Ball tournament at the local Chuck E Cheese, Bill Murray hitting an eagle on 18 yesterday at the Pebble Beach Pro-Am. Those are all major life achievements that deserve applause and praise.
And yet, last night after purchasing a very ordinary kitchen knife from Williams-Sonoma, the retail lady closed the transaction by handing me my bagged good while offering “Congratulations”.

I was stunned folks. I half turned my head and stole an upward glance at the ceiling half expecting a cascade of balloons to be dropping. Had I won a prize, a shopping spree perhaps? Was I the one millionth customer? God, I’ve never won anything before. I returned my gaze to the sales lady who continued to stare at me with a frozen smile. “Um, congratulations for what?”, I asked.

“Ah, for the knife”, she replied quickly. (Awkward silence, pause, uncomfortable awkward silence).

“I see, yes, well thank you…I suppose.” I said as I retreated slowly on my heals.

Perhaps buying a home or a yacht or say you bought a whole island, something with large coconut trees on it…yeah, now that’s something that might deserve a high five and a congratulatory remark. But a knife? Congratulations on the purchase of your knife?!? No! That just doesn’t work. “Thank you for making a purchase at our store.” That works. I’m hoping that this was a one time fluke and not the company policy. It’s probably safe to say the sales lady was a bit daunted by my winning smile and stylish taste in cutlery. I suppose after I left she slapped her forward and cursed herself under her breath, “Jill. You. Are. An. Idiot!” Yup, I’m sure that’s how it went down.

Bonus: The Occasional Diary Entries of German Director Werner Herzog

Must Have Spring Fashions
I’m kinda feeling this Keith Jarrett inspired wig on Amazon. Unfortunately they’re all sold out for now. I had no idea Amazon sold such treasures.

I submit these two, for creepiest product images on Amazon. But really, Costume Accessory – Hairy Chest will make you question everything you think is right and decent in the world.

What Is That Big Burning Globe In The Sky?
Portland has me to thank, and only me to thank, for the sunshine we are experiencing these days. In 9th grade drama class, I learned the yogi art of morning sun salutations, which I have been practicing for weeks now. Finally, the solar star has felt my energies and delivered upon us its warm yellow polish. Yesterday, I took my lunch outside and soaked up the radiance while I threw bits of english muffins to the Blue Jays. We are supposed to have several days of this weather and I’m looking forward to a little tennis this afternoon to celebrate.

Friday, the misses and I went to the Crystal Ballroom to see the Jeff Tweedy Solo Project. The place was massively sold out and was a completely worthless venue for Tweedy. His quite folk stylings deserve a much more intimate setting and although he probably made good money by selling that place out, he was in a terrible mood due to the fact that the decibel levels of the crowd chatter eclipsed his quiet strumming heartbreak. He stopped the show a few times to lambast the crowd for drinking and being much too social. AND, at one point, as I was trying to nudge my way through the tightly packed crowd I accidently nudged some girl, who acted as if I had punched her square in the solar plexus. Of course, her Andre the Giant boyfriend went ballistic on me and there was much pushing and shoving. Leave it to a Folk concert for someone to go all aggro on me. I’m sticking to the Metal and Hardcore shows, where the crowds are way more polite.

Saturday, the Good Doctor and I went and saw the Albert Ayler documentary, “My Name is Alber Ayler“. The film was part of the NW Film Center’s Reel Music Festival. They had some great films in the series. Sadly the Ayler doc was the only one I got down to see. Next year I’m going to all of them. The Ayler documentary had some mind blowing archival footage including Albert playing at John Coltrane’s funeral.

Superbowl Sunday was a blur of cheese, sour cream, good friends, guacamole, Ghost Recon, spinach dip, singing pepsi cans, Halo, and no-good-referees who ruined the actual game.

Last night I watched the original Nordic flavored film, Insomnia. It was a thousand times better than the American version. It was a good companion to this Icelandic mystery I’m reading called Jar City by Arnaldur Indridason. Currently, my favorite literature genre is Nordic Noir. If only Raymond Chandler had lived in Sweden…

Also, Afrojet quietly turned four years old this weekend. Next year? Kindergarden!