Raisin’ The Bar
Ether you’re with me or you’re a’gin me.
So you want to swim upstream and spawn. Good for you. What business is that of mine? None, I’ll admit, unless the government decides to subsidize your reproduction of yourself with credits and tax rates and/or you ever try to bring them around me.
It turns out there’s something more trendy than microbrew, fedoras, bicycling, beards, tattoos and North Face jackets. What could it possibly be?
Oh, yeah. It’s bringing your wee young ones to restaurants or, inconceivably allowed, bars and pubs. What could possibly go wrong?
The other night my wife and I were at a BBQ trendspot in PDX. As always, any place that is half-way edible means that there will be a 45-minute wait. That’s life in the big city. But that also means we had time to be treated to the floor show.
Two women were standing around holding their drinks while three small children accompanying them ran hog wild. (It was a BBQ place, after all.) They ordered another round. Every once in a while they’d yap something at the kids which was promptly ignored, had no effect, and they returned to nursing their drinks.
Meanwhile, I wondered what it would take for a restaurant to actually ask them to leave. Maybe if they set off a small nuclear device? Maybe, I figured, but probably not.
We were seated and, of course, we were only two tables away. We watched them order two more rounds of daiquiris. Apparently they and the restaurant were teaming up for Set A Good Example night. I couldn’t help but wonder how they were all going to get home.
Earlier we went to a place on the Columbia River for happy hour but the lounge was full. We opted to sit on the deck. No doubt it was a beautiful view. On the other hand, we had to order from the dinner menu, there were no happy hour prices, and, through the lounge windows, we saw lots of wee small children. Some were sticking their tongues out at us.
What the fuck.
After School Special: Booze Lotto Parenting
World’s greatest mom.
Sure, you love kids, so you gleefully punched out one, two or even octo-quantities of them. (Hint: Almost as many as a nine-round ammo clip.) But then, like a baby chick a few days after Easter Sunday, they stick around and are always underfoot, demanding attention and care.
What then?
It’s not like you can make a chicken-and-egg scrambled omelet with them and viola! Problem deliciously solved! (Although an amazing number of parents do find a way to carry out filicide but that’s decidedly outside the scope of this post.)
Like the vast majority of my blog posts, it all started when I decided to set foot out of my house…
Looking for some dinner my wife and I drove into the parking lot of the divey Chinese restaurant. The lot was amazingly full. What gives? The food must be awesome here, eh?
But when we walked into the dining area, only two tables were occupied. Huh?
That’s when I slapped my head and yelled, “D’oh!” I almost forgot I live in Oregon. That’s where they have a state-run lottery and run a continuous stream of commercials urging the citizenry to go out and gamble because doing so accomplishes “good things.” (Like increasing revenue into state coffers.)
Sure, they simultaneously run anti-gambling ads but that’s only because they like a mixed-up, dazed and confused populace. Let’s blast ’em with a hot mix of pro-gambling and anti-gambling messages … at the same time, they seem to be saying whilst rubbing their hands together in glee. That’ll learn ’em a lesson!
Indeed. What’s not good for the individual is apparently good for the state.
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iLife’s an iBeach
Not too long ago I took a wee trip to an old-growth forest where I frolicked in a shady glen with frisky elves. (See: Forest Grump.)
But that’s not the only place I went. Driven as a lemming I set off on a quest to find where America ended. (And I got the answer I was seeking in more ways than one.) But, alas, there weren’t any cliffs from which to jump onto craggy rocks. Only a beach. A remarkably flat and wet piece of transitionary property where if one tried to throw himself down people would only laugh and children would point and ask, “Mommy? I thought whales swam in the water?”
As always I had to settle. Dammit. I can’t blame the children, though. It’s not their fault I was born with a blowhole.
And yet it turns out that I given the gift of photogenic scenery for a travelogue pictorial post. And this is that very post. If the subject line didn’t provide enough iClues see the inset image for a preview of the journey that awaits.
When he arrived in the New World, Cortez burned his ships. As a result, his men were “motivated.” If you click the link to make the jump you’ll be doing exactly the same damn thing. Beyond here there be iDragons.
Continue reading →
The non-smoking cloud
Some time back our state banned smoking in bars. It was day full of optimism for me. Then this week we were in the mood for a burger so we decided to try one of these bars that we never would have visited back when smoking was still allowed.
We’d been to this particular establishment a few times before only because they were hosting certain charitable events. The smoky atmosphere was a serious gross out and we’d coming home coughing and our clothes reeked. It was disgusting.
This time when we walked in we noticed the air was noticeably fresher. How nice!
We placed our order and enjoyed a few minutes of the regional football team on the plethora of TVs.
Soon I noticed, however, that I was coughing again. I looked around but no one was smoking. It took me a minute to figure out the problem, then it dawned on me. A lot of people in there still reeked of cigarettes. The disgusting smell that clung to them was affecting me, just like the smoky cloud used to, only to a lesser degree. Amazing. “That’s just fantastic,” I thought. “Even when the place is non-smoking they still find a way to fuck it over.”
There was the one guy walking around who always had an unlit cigarette in his mouth. I imagined it was his little form of protest over the goddamn law that made the bar non-smoking in the first place. His quivering lips and tongue would fidget with his little unlit phallic symbol incessantly. Then he’d dart out to the patio for about 60 seconds and be back inside with a fresh batch of smell and another unlit ciggy back between his lips. Talk about an oral fixation.
The “outdoor” patio itself was visible through a big plate-glass window so thoughtfully provided. The patio was a section of former parking lot converted into a smoking area with walls that made it a tightly enclosed space. From where I sat I had a clear view of the people out there smoking away within the thick lingering clouds of their own toxic wastes. Such a lovely site to enjoy while dining on your burger, enjoying a cold one and watching the game. An understated elegance of ambiance to be sure.
Behind our table was the bank of state-run gambling machines that was a constant hive of bustle and activity. We could smell everyone as they walked by and frantically plugged their money in. Alcohol, smoking and gambling – three things that seem to meld into the perfect storm of civility. The earnest gamblers would hop from their seats and walk with urgency to the patio door, much like someone who needed to use the potty but had held it too long. Within minutes they’d be back pounding the “gimmie money” buttons on those stupid machines.
All in all it was a thoroughly disgusting experience. I could only laugh at the inanity of the “no smoking in bars” law. Like always humans had found a way to taint and destroy that which should have been good. Later while getting undressed and pulling my tshirt over my head, I noticed that my clothes still had that reeking smell. Just lovely.
We need more guns in bars
I can just imagine it.
The legislator leaned back in his chair, taking a much needed break from porking energy industry “lobbyists” and exclaimed, “what a good job I’ve been doing” and wondered, “what’s the next problem that needs fixin’.”
“I know,” he exclaimed. “We need more guns in bars. That is what I’ll work on next.”
That’s sort of what happened in Arizona recently when a new law went into effect allowing people with concealed weapons permits to take their guns into bars. (I assume they can already open carry.)
Hmm. Guns and bars. One song immediately leaped to mind.
I rode into town on a crippled horse
Got fired from a cattle drive up north
The ropes of the gallows were swingin’ in the breeze
All the Wanted posters had pictures of meI got my Colt Forty Five, right by my side
I’m the California Kid, I hope you’re quite prepared to dieTied what was left of my horse to a hitch
Walked into a saloon, they called the ‘Busted Bitch’
I ordered up a whiskey, he asked me for my bread
I paid him two bits and then I pumped him full of leadI got my Colt Forty Five, right by my side
I’m the California Kid, I hope you’re quite prepared to die
Source: The song California Kid by the Beat Farmers featuring Country Dick Montana.
Shouts from the Abyss 
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