My Thoughts

Drinking It All In

Tue, 30 Jun 2009 15:48:34 -0700

One thing I have learned in my travels is that no matter what city you end up in, you can always find an Irish bar. Or rather, an Irish pub.

Be it Boston, which I have to admit isn’t much of a stretch, Vienna, Osaka, Melbourne, Seattle or Seoul, I have never failed in my search for the only true place where a person should drink a pint of Guinness. The Irish, or wannabe Irish, are everywhere, and they’ve taken their drinking establishments with them.

So it was on Friday night, June 26 that I found myself on a perch at Beckett’s in Berkeley, California. For those not well-versed in either literature or drinking, Beckett’s is named after Samuel Beckett, the Nobel Prizewinning Irish playwright best-known for his play “Waiting For Godot”, which to this day I think everyone has heard of, but no one has actually read or seen.

It was my first time here at Beckett’s. I try to avoid this particular area of Berkeley because it is close to the Cal-Berkeley campus and is thus usually teeming with insufferably young college kids who think the best way to get an education is to not shower for weeks at a time while sleeping on the street to protest things such as the U.S. Marines and McDonald’s use of meat in their hamburgers. But as it was an Irish pub, I was more than happy to meet my friend Rich there and engage in some swilling of ales as we commiserated over both being new fathers.

I passed on the Guinness and dove into the Smithwick’s [pronounced SMITH-icks] Irish Ale. Smithwick’s isn’t as strong as some of my favorite India Pale Ales and goes down very smooth. Then again, maybe it is stronger than I think because Rich told me a tale about how he drank at Beckett’s one time, calling Smithwick’s “Smithers”, all night. I guess the bartender knew what he meant every time he ordered because the drinks never stopped flowing.

ANYWAY…I was into my third Smithwick’s when I noticed her out of the corner of my eye. She was the hostess and wearing a pink top, black skirt and leopard print jacket. I wasn’t checking her out, but I couldn’t help but look at her.

She was doing one of the typical hostess duties of wiping off menus, but that wasn’t what got my attention. What did that was how she was ever so slightly swaying her hips back and forth along with the music playing over the bar’s sound system. She wouldn’t move with every beat, but she moved enough to know that the music was getting into her rhythm, and getting her into a rhythm, too.

And that’s when I first paid attention to what was being played. It was Michael Jackson’s “Billie Jean,” undoubtedly one of the three most-important pop/rock songs of the last three decades [The other two being Nirvana’s “Smells Like Teen Spirit” and Guns N’ Roses’ “Welcome To The Jungle” and I will brook no argument on this matter]. And it was then that it hit me that I just realized this Irish bar in the heart of one of the most hippie-liberal areas of the country had been playing NOTHING BUT Michael Jackson all evening.

I can’t remember the last time I heard an MJ song in public, much less more than two-straight hours of “Wanna Be Startin’ Something”, “Dirty Diana” and “Don’t Stop Til You Get Enough,” and listening to that soundtrack in an Irish pub would probably fall between “Going Vegan” and “Taking Out A Lease In The Castro District” on the list of Things I Would Least Likely Ever Experience In My Life. More than a decade of out-and-out weirdness by Michael completely overshadowed the incredible talent and astounding hold that he had over all of pop music, and culture, that had turned him into the biggest cultural icon of my generation.

But since it was just one day after Jackson’s stunning death, it really wasn’t that surprising that even this Irish pub would pay its own tribute to Michael in the simplest and best way possible: by just playing the music, letting it hover in the air, and work its way into the hips of that hostess and the memories of us drinkers. There was a time when EVERYONE not only knew, but liked the music of MJ. “Billie Jean” made it OK for white kids to boogie in public. Metalheads would fight to be the first to say, “Dude! That’s Eddie Van Halen playing on “Beat It!” Even by 1991, when Michael was about to head into the weirdest and saddest period of his public life, he was able to turn the premiere of the “Black Or White” into a national TV event. He was there and we wanted to see him.

Maybe my thoughts were clouded after I finished my sixth and final Smithwick’s and climbed into a cab home, but quickly, “Smooth Criminal” started playing in my head. And like I have done for 22 years, I wondered if Annie is, indeed, OK. The hook was still there.

Salmon, Clams and Beer...Oh My!

Tue, 23 Jun 2009 16:00:15 -0700

I don’t eat wild salmon that often. Most of the time, what I find in the stores is farm-raised chum with color added that could be Red Dye #5 for all I know. I don’t like my salmon to be the same color of red M&Ms.

But when there was wild Alaskan salmon available as a special on the menu at the Ledford House restaurant near the Pacific Ocean in Albion, Calif., I knew what I was going to have for dinner.

What I didn’t know was that dinner was soon to end up all over my shirt. That’s what you get when you order wild Alaskan salmon in some sort of tomato sauce, and as you are offering a bite of it to your wife, that piece of salmon does a half-gainer into the pool of red on your plate, splattering your front and making you look like you just took a 12-gauge in the chest.

Did I mention I was wearing a white shirt, too?

“I look like a victim in a Sam Peckinpah movie,” I said to Megan as she cracked up across from me. I don’t know if she even knows who Sam was, but I can say I came close to looking like Bill Holden at the end of “The Wild Bunch.”

Give ‘em Hell, Bill.

Dinner that night was at Bones BBQ in Gualala, Calif., population: about the size of your average high school class. Madeline was in her car seat, which was placed on top of an upside down high chair so she could sit up and watch Megan. This is important to note, because the following happened when we were at the restaurant and not in our truck.

After a few minutes of eating our ribs…Not quite the Texas Style that Bones claimed, but decent enough, I noticed that Madeline had dropped her pacifier out of her mouth and was starting to stir with that familiar baby whine that means an explosion of trauma could be on the way. If only Madeline knew.

I reached over to put her pacifier back in her mouth. I also did this with all the aplomb of Patton charging with his army across Europe in World War II because as I reached for the pacifier, I completely bashed into my bottle of beer, spilling nearly all of it onto little Maddo.

Even before Maddo could get her first scream out, Megan swooped in, grabbed the car seat, and said to me, “Get the check and meet me outside.”

I don’t have a post-beer
pictures of Madeline, so
here’s one of her after eating
peas for the first time.

I finished what was left of my beer…Like I was going to let it go to waste, found the waitress, paid the bill, and got outside in time to see Megan cradling Madeline, who was now wearing a clean, non-beer stained outfit. We put some paper towels down in the car seat, stuck Maddo in, and headed to our cabin in Point Arena, about 20 minutes north.

We made it into the laundry room just ahead of a frazzled looking woman bearing a Hefty bag load of dirty clothes from the five kids that she and her sister were traveling with. We learned all of this after she spent 10 minutes telling us all about how traveling with kids is an adventure. Like we didn’t already know.

Just after I put Madeline’s clothes and car seat cover into the washer I looked up to see the following sign on the wall.

Yes, that is a warning about the possible dangers of eating clams and mussels. I looked around as if someone else there would be laughing along at the joke. I mean, I hadn’t seen anything on the nearby café’s menu that was even close to clams or mussels, hadn’t heard about any red tide scares in the area, and yet here, in a laundry room of all places, was a warning about eating shellfish that looked like it was printed in about 1962.

I never found out about the clams and mussels, but I do know to be wary of the salmon. And the beer when it’s near the baby, too.

Drop As Soon As I Shop

Sun, 7 Jun 2009 20:51:44 -0700

I was with my wife, mom and daughter today at TJ Maxx. I love them all, but five minutes inside this store was enough to make me want to light myself on fire.

You’ve been to TJ Maxx before, and even if you haven’t, you have. That’s because you’ve probably been to a Ross store or a Marshall’s and they all have the same inventory: Marked down and closeout clothes, most of which is for women. There is also the odd assortment of men’s shirts and pants that were deemed not good enough for the Goodwill or one of those charities that sends Super Bowl Losers t-shirts to Africa, a few semi-decent pieces of luggage and the crap food/condiments aisle. Seriously, if you ever need a bag of multi-colored , off-brand pasta or a jar of oddly spiced olives, this is your place to go. All three of these places should just merge into a joint called TJ Marshall’s Ross Maxx Emporium.

ANYWAY...I was staggering my way around the store when an announcement came over the intercom promoting all the good deals you could find for Father’s Day at TJ’s. Or, as the message said, “Just like you can find at men’s favorite department stores.”

This caught me off guard because there was nothing in TJ Maxx that came from any department store for me. This is because men only go to the following department stores by their own volition:

--Home Depot
--Barbeques Galore
--The hardware section of Sears
--Bars

By the way, for Father’s Day, I’d like a Canon SLR digital camera, the Weber Performer Grill or a cast iron Dutch over from Lodge.

Ahead of the Count? Maybe.

Thu, 28 May 2009 21:05:08 -0700

It is now 9:47 a.m., Thursday morning, and my seven weeks as Mr. Mom are about to come to an end. Maddo and I went out with a bit of a bang yesterday when we went to the Mariners-A’s afternoon game, which my Beloved Seattle Mariners won 6-1. I had three $8.25 beers and six $1 hot dogs. Madeline was actually pretty cool through the whole thing, and as you can see from the photo above, was more into the game and her Beloved Seattle Mariners than even I could have hoped for.

Still, I don't think I have been as exhausted since Madeline was born. Of course, part of this exhaustion is a result of the actions of my Sweet Adorable Daughter that I will get into more in a moment.

Our trip back to Oakland from Seattle began innocently enough as Megan, Madeline and I got to Sea-Tac with no problems and plenty of time to turn in our rental car and get me an iced coffee at one of the approximately 35 Starbucks at Sea-Tac. I wanted to get there early so that we could see if we could get the dude sitting between us to change seats so that Megan and I wouldn't have to keep handing a screaming and drooling Maddo across this poor sot's lap.

Well, my day got just a little better when Gay Evan (and I say this only because he was obviously gay by his demeanor), the gate agent for Alaska Airlines, worked his magic across his keyboard, and not only moved the Middle Seat Guy over, but completely out from our row. "Happy Birthday!" Evan said as he handed me our boarding passes. I'm not sure if "Happy Birthday" was some secret Gay Code, but a moment later I surprisingly found myself wanting a Cosmo. Go figure.

We hauled Maddo down the jetway (there's a term from the 60s that I'm sure no one else uses) and got into our seats. One of the benefits of traveling with an infant is that you get to jump ahead of the rest of the cattle during the boarding period when the gate agent calls for "parents with small children who may need more time." This little kid is already paying for herself. After getting into our seats, we waited cautiously, certain that someone would end up taking that open seat next to us.

I guess Gay Evan really did work his magic, because no one ever took that seat, which ended up being the only open seat left on the plan. This was a Big Thing, as it allowed Megan some extra room to breastfeed Maddo...who by this point was caterwauling louder than a distraught Palestinian woman after the Israeli's bomb her hapless excuse of a village...and needed to eat.

And then something amazing happened...Madeline went quiet. Actually, not just quiet, but to sleep. For what would be the entire flight. She didn't even wake up during our descent into Oakland, which I was expecting to be louder than her just before takeoff, based on how she screamed during our landing at Sea-Tac on Friday.

She got to miss some real fun, courtesy of me, who managed to knock over and spill about half a bottle of Alaskan Amber beer on the plane. As usual, I was doing something stupid, like reaching for a magazine, when I clipped the top of the bottle, knocking it over and sending some of Juneau's finest brew all over the floor. Luckily, I somehow managed to not get any of the beer onto the Sunday-paper reading guy sitting in front of me. Even more luckily, the flight attendant who had just put the bottle in front of me saw the unfolding disaster, handed me a stack of towels, and also gave me another bottle of beer. And since I didn't have to pay another $6 for it, I decided that Things Were Starting To Happen For Me, At Last.

Jim met us at the airport, our bags came out in one piece, and we swung by In-N-Out Burger (aka, The Happiest Place On Earth) on the way home. And then the Good Times Ended.

You probably haven’the had the honor of meeting Bella, one of our three cats. She's built like an Aussie Rules football, has no tail and can't use the litter box on a regular basis to save her life. This is why since just before Maddo was born, we put Bella on a prison-like work release program...During the day, she stays outside, roaming around the deck, trying to catch birds, and at night she is brought back inside in the cage that is her evening home.

Well, even we couldn't just leave Bella in the cage for three-straight days, so we opened the thing up on Friday afternoon, as Jim said he would come by a couple of times to check on things and clean up any gifts Bella left on the floor. Jim is a good guy, and bails us out numerous times, and is about the handiest guy I know. seriously, he can fix anything.

But Bella was beyond his powers...Because as soon as I opened the door I thought I was going to die. It was like a cross between Revelations and a house owned by a crazy lady with 43 cats. The place smelled like a troop of hobos had moved in.

Before I go any further, I should let you all know that I nearly pulled an Elvis and shot my computer after Jason Giambi hit a two-run single to give the A's a 4-3 lead over the Mariners here in the bottom of the 7th when I started writing this on Tuesday night. The M's were up 3-1 until Miguel "Banjo Arm" Batista and Mark "Cheney Stadium Looks Good" Lowe came in from the bullpen to send me into a fury of anger.

ANYWAY...Megan went on the warpath and nearly killed Bella. We cleaned up as best we could, but since we didn't have any meth-lab strength bleach, the best we could really do was mop and leave the doors open for a while. Today the Real Fun took place.

I got up early along with Megan after Maddo's 6:30 a.m. feeding and after playing with the little one for a while, got on the phone with Stanley Steemer to have Ol' Stan there come over and clean three rugs, our sofa and cushions, our big chair and ottoman and all of our stairs. Juan and Pancho arrived at noon, and 90 minutes and $250 later, all was clean and drying.

While that may sound simple, it was highlighted by a day-long attempt by Madeline to break the World's Longest Ongoing Hysterical Scream By A Five Month Old. Honestly, God must hate me for some reason because that little angel of a daughter did nothing by cry continuously throughout today...Taking breaks only when she was eating every two hours and during her one, one-hour nap. One nap does not a happy baby make, and teething like she is doesn't help, either.

And as I am finishing this screed, the screaming continues. I love that little girl, but where are my earplugs?

Five Down, Two To Go

Tue, 12 May 2009 09:55:07 -0700

I am now on Week Five of my Mr. Mom/Daddy Day Care Experience. As you can see by the photo above, I have decided to let nature take its course with my face for a while. Madeline shows how excited she is with a smile and a drop of drool.

Two more weeks to go and I go back to work. For better and worse.

Worse, because it is work, and no matter how much I utilize my work day to improve my online Scrabble game and catch up on my Beloved Seattle Mariners, it is work.

Better would be because I would start to get paid again. It has been two weeks since I last got paid from work, and that check was about $350 short of what it would normally be because of when I went on this leave and that I lost two days of the pay period. I am supposed to be getting 55% of my regular pay through the State of California and its somewhat-Socialist Family Medical Leave Program, however, not one penny has shown up, yet. The automated information line says my form was received April 23, and it could take up to two weeks for it to be processed. Two weeks will be tomorrow, May 7. Does that mean I could find a check in the mailbox any day now? Who the hell knows.

What I do know is that my life revolves around two-to-three-hour segments that include the following activities:

Feeding Madeline
Changing Madeline
Playing with Madeline for a little while
Putting Madeline down for a nap.

After this round of daddy-daughter time is done, it is time for me to get things accomplished. However, instead of keeping up with this blog, I have used much of my down time to fold laundry, wash dishes, sweep and sweep some more, and watch TV. Not that I have a problem with the TV part...There has been about six weeks worth of stuff on the DVR that I keep working my way through (although I have yet to get to those eight episodes of "Man Vs. Wild") and I have also rediscovered the joys of Netflix...Turns out Penn and Teller's "Bullshit" is a great show and I don't know of any other time I would have been able to get through much of director Sam Peckinpah's celluloid catalog.

Still haven't gotten around to getting MLB Extra Innings through Comcast...I have missed much of the Mariners unexpected rise to the top of the American League West. Despite losing two in a row to the Awful Texas Rangers. Once I get paid for real, I'll probably get on board with that bonus. I just read today that the BBC is going to broadcast some horrid poem that Bono wrote about Elvis. And I am vaguely aware that there is some sort of "special election" here in California for which I may or may not have already sent in my absentee ballot.

I also have been making a lot of gravy with dinner lately. I have nothing really to say here, except that I like gravy.

The mind wanders when you work in two-to-three-hour increments. Pass that gravy.

Eds. Note: I originally wrote this last week, but got sidetracked by changing diapers for 5 straight days and playing the role of Good Husband on Mother’s Day. I was also in a fit of anger after my Beloved Mariners dropped six in a row. Oh, and the State finally came through with the dough. And now, back to Little Maddo.