A Midnight Train to Anywhere

My wife and I attended a wedding this weekend in San Diego, the highlight of which was a tray of miniature Kobe beef burgers that went largely unnoticed by the other guests. As they frolicked on the dance floor to the sweet siren song of Journey's Don't Stop Believing, I abandoned social decorum altogether and gorged myself as if tomorrow were the end of days, when such forbidden delights would be fodder for grandfather's firelight reminisces as the klaxons in the distance warn of our robot overlords' approach. Actually, I only ate three, but I felt as if I had drawn them from the very table of Zeus himself. And Zeus loved him some Kobe beef burgers. And impregnating virtually anything he could shower in gold or accost in the form of a swan. But he was married to his older sister Hera, goddess of women and marriage...

And we're back to the wedding, which was absolutely terrifying, seeing as how I forget people's names when I haven't seen them in a few months; imagine walking through a reception filled with people who you haven't spoken to in a decade, many of whom you didn't particularly go out of your way to speak to when you knew them in college. Be that as it may, I still wanted to stay at that reception for as long as I could. Why? Because I had this waiting for me in my hotel room:



What exactly is that, you might ask? Well unless you just suffered a stroke or some other significant medical event that would cause a largely unused portion of your brain to suddenly misfire a few million neurons, chances are you didn't just blurt out "That's a painting of a miniature doorway at the top of a tiny stairway to nowhere inside a hotel walk-in closet." But that's exactly what it is.

Upon first seeing this carnival horror, I immediately thought of Poe's "The Black Cat." Was there a dead woman bricked up behind that wall, one whom the murderer couldn't help but taunt in perpetuity by painting her means of escape on the other side? The fact that it was a full-fledged door, rather than a clumsily scrawled rectangle made in chalk, was some consolation, though. Had it been the latter, I would have been forced to conclude it was either a portal to some waiting room for the recently deceased or a sumptuous banquet, table laden with every imaginable delight as a pallid form with no eyes sits at the head of that feast (and by the by, if you are told by the creepy giant faun not to touch anything in some magical in-between locale, and when you get to that place, there's a fucking eyeless monster sitting at the table, you keep your emaciated fingers to yourself). Glancing out the window of our hotel room, I saw neither sand worms nor fascist Spain, so the door remained a mystery.

If anything came out of that door during the night, it made not a sound, but instead stood over our sleeping forms silently, perhaps pondering what to do with these interlopers, these intruders in its sacred domain. All I can tell you is that in the morning as we prepared to leave, I noticed the paint of the keyhole in that door was chipped.

Not really spooky, I know. But if you want to see something truly frightening, watch that Journey video I linked above. Tell me if lead singer Steve Perry's penis isn't looking stage right.

Victory in Defeat

To quote the esteemed Danny Glover from the Citizen Cane of buddy cop action movies, Lethal Weapon: I'm getting too old for this shit.

The weekend started off with a bang, metaphorically speaking. In fact, any such sound whatsoever must have been confined to the Elysian fields of metaphor, because when I turned the key in my ignition on Friday, nothing happened at all. I may as well have had a zucchini plugged into wires where my engine was. Thankfully Debbie saved the day by picking me up and taking me to rent a car; I didn't have time to get it towed, you all know I'm fairly inept with repairing mechanical devices, and since Debbie offered me the use of a screwdriver from an eyeglass repair kit for my car, I thought it might be best to leave the Jeep where it was.

But you don't care about my car. You want to hear about the pub golf. Well, it was glorious. As the first place was a somewhat swanky wine bar, we got our first attack of giggles at the fact that Brock, who was dressed up in his dorkiest golf attire, actually fit in perfectly with the douches already there; we counted three different iterations of his exact outfit, in fact. From there we went to the Galley, where the owner asked to have a picture taken with Ray, the mastermind behind our round of alcoholic golf. At stop three, Finn McCools, we ran into Emerson and Nick, two good friends from college we haven't talked to in way too long, and they decided to join the round and stick with us for the rest of the night. Truly, truly delightful to see them.

I only wish I could remember more of it. I do know that we started gathering disciples in each bar we entered, and like the man from Galilee, soon we had our own devout congregation--only ours were worshiping at the altar of alcoholic self-flagellation. Our initial band of intrepid eleven hit somewhere around twenty five by the end of the night, I'm told. I say "I'm told" because I have no firm recollection of those later stages, but rather like a mere acquaintance who looks at the picture slide show on your laptop, I must construct the night from a few scattered moments, frozen in time. They are, in no particular order:

Being pretty gung-ho about demolishing a soft taco in one bite, choking on it, and having to settle for three.

Hating the Cadillac margarita, ordering a basket of chips to help wash it down--for every individual in the group--and then leaving the place just as our 10 baskets of chips arrived.

Delicious nut-brown Newcastle ale up my nose.

The rest has been pieced together by others, but apparently we had to attend a different bar for the 9th, one that didn't serve Irish Car Bombs, so some genius ordered Jager Bombs instead. I don't remember it at all, but my score card says I drank it, so I'll believe that.



Yes, you're reading that correctly: I shot a 19, a full twelve strokes under par. I decided to pull the trigger later that night (classic Colonel Gentleman, I know) and I was still a wreck the next day, but it was worth it. Of course, I didn't even come close to placing, as the organizer Ray won with an 11. He's a classy man, and thus I can't think of a better set of shoulders from which to hang this equally classy green jacket.



Oh yes, he made a jacket for the winner.

Speaking of winners, the crown for our own little contest has to go to Debbie. Not only did she guess the lowest score (amidst a truly staggering number of entries, I might add), but she also single-handedly ensured I was able to even make it to LA in the first place, so she could have guessed I'd score "Rhubarb" and she'd still have won this. Thanks to her, to everyone else who played along, and to my liver, for not quitting on me just yet.

A Game of Honor and Diplomacy

No, not midget tossing. Not the choreographed dance that is a Bat Fight, either. I'm talking Pub Golf.

"But Colonel Gentleman, is it possible to merge the sophistication and white privilege of golf with the esteemed literary tradition of semi-functional alcoholism, topped off with a dash of 'Play Hard' to give its some balls?"

"Well, barring the racism and misogyny, Billy, you bet it is!"

You know, I think I'll revert back to a prose description, as my dramatic dialogue was already taking a turn that could only have ended with Billy choking on an ether rag and being hastily shoved into the cramped trunk of a modestly priced American sedan.

Anyway, if Scotland and Ireland had a baby, it would be Pub Golf [surprisingly, there is no documented instance of the Irish and Scots interbreeding, due chiefly to 1) the staggering "awesome" that would be said progeny, and 2), neither the Irish or Scots are good swimmers and have nonexistent navies, so they didn't really have opportunity until last century, and by then tradition had already sunk its roots too deeply to be ignored]. The rules look a little something like this:


If you had to describe those babies in one word, I bet I know what it would be: "small." Allow me to help. The general rules for this most sacred of games are as follows:
1. Girls are allowed a 4 stroke handicap
2. Everyone gets one Mulligan (a "do over," for the uninitiated), but you are penalized 2 strokes on that hole
3. Water hazard - no going to the bathroom while you're on the green (i.e. while mid-drink)
4. A stroke counts as every time you stop drinking; for food, a stroke counts as a bite
5. 1 stroke penalties: poor drinking form (to be voted on by a majority of the group); improper scoring; party fouls
6. at the 9th hole, each successive hole-in-one (i.e. each Irish car bomb) after the first drink will reduce your score by one stroke
7. lowest score wins (you are disqualified if you puke at any point during the round)

If you're anything like me, you wept for joy at the sight of this, as if hearing Maria Callas sing "La Mamma Morta" for the first time or seeing a dolphin leap out of the water as a unicorn hurtles over a rainbow. Sure, it may seem like I'm exaggerating there, but as I typically only associate with people who enjoy abusing their livers as much as I do...let's just say I know my audience.

The list on the left is the specific round for this Friday night. Eight bars and one eatery, eight drinks and one snack. In case you can't read that one either, I've reproduced it below:

Hole--------------------------Club----------------------------Par
Salute Wine Bar----------Glass of Wine-------------------------3
The Galley---------------Vodka Tonic--------------------------3
Finn McCool's-----------Pint of Guiness------------------------6
Lula's Cocina----------Cadillac Margarita-----------------------4
World Cafe------------------Mojito-----------------------------3
Holy Guacamole-----------1 soft taco---------------------------3
Rick's Tavern-----------Pint of B- or C- ------------------------3
Library Ale House--------Pint of Ale----------------------------4
O'Briens----------------Irish Car Bomb-------------------------1
Par for the Course: --------------------------------------------31

On behalf of the hard-hitting journalism I always bring to bear on this blog, I'll post a detailed account of as much as I can remember of the night, along with any apocrypha that may account for the lost time. In the meantime, dearest reader, I propose a gentleman's wager: How do you think I'll score at Pub Golf this weekend? As with any thesis statement, don't forget to support your general claim with justification to convince any potentially unsympathetic reader. Whoever guesses the right score, or comes closest, wins (ties go to the most accurate justification/reasoning).

If I die of alcohol poisoning this weekend...I guess that makes my wife the winner.

Damn You, Thermodynamics!

To quote the caveman with the boom mic when Geico first explained just how easy their insurance is: NOT COOL!


Really? A second time? Because I swore this happened about two years ago, and you'd think the replacement hardware they send you wouldn't succumb to the identical malfunction of the aforementioned console/paperweight, but who am I to question their hardware engineers or their business model? After all, I didn't go to ITT Tech, nor am I mandated by state or federal law to wear a helmet when I ride in a car. I similarly lack the distinct, sloping brow or the trademark vacant stare as I gaze across the plains looking for predators only to realize it's my computer wallpaper. I have never attempted to impress anyone by smashing anything on my head, nor do I grope the air with my hairless paw while watching a 3D movie. In short, I'm not a fucking Microsoft engineer, so obviously I wouldn't know anything about putting out a product that's suffered from the same fundamental problem for going on four years now. No, those fellers are much, much too smart for the likes o' me. I just run Chrysler.

Stockholm Syndrome

Please forgive my extended absence, dearest reader, but tonight I sat down to do some more work, saw this headline, and thought of you. Indeed, this short news post from MSNBC contains perhaps one of the strangest paragraphs I've read in some time:

"Police say a Japanese pop star dressed up as a pineapple has been robbed while shooting a music video in southern Sweden."

Is it Sweden's frigid northern clime that makes them detest tropical fruit so, or conversely, did the young men who committed the assault so love pineapples that their conscious minds disintegrated in a red wash of fury when they saw their beloved fruit impersonated by a Japanese pop idol? Either way, it involved a grown man in a foam suit getting punched in the face, and if you're a fan of major league mascot death-matches like I am, you know any man vs. costume violence is the good stuff, especially since bum fights are currently in the off season.

The truly sad part, though, is that the man wasn't actually "shooting a music video" at the moment. In truth, "the pineapple-clad artist had been left alone with the equipment while the camera crew went for a break." The poor guy was just sitting there, so small-time that when the camera crew needs to take a break, he's literally the only person around to watch their stuff. I bet the poor bastard was wearing a fanny-pack, too. Not sure why - I just get that feeling.

Come on, now. Who could want to attack this guy?