911.

I went to see Reno 911!:Miami this afternoon.

Two thoughts.

1. If you enjoy the show, the movie is just like the show; it doesn't pretend to be something it's not. There are many plot lines taken from the show, so you'll enjoy it.

2. I can't get over how much Kermit looks like Junior. Yikes.


On a separate note, I tried Leinenkugel's Summer Wheat beer tonight. Dee-lish. Give it a shot, all.

Innocence lost.

The wife and I went to see The Breach this afternoon. It was a great movie, but a wierd experience. Sitting in a movie theater in DC, watching a movie based in DC, I realized how little I know about politics. As events unfolded in the movie, pockets of chatter blossomed in the theater regarding the veracity of the event. And not just a comment or two, but many; "that building isn't located there", "the FBI would NEVER do that", "that's not standard procedure", and so on. Impressive and annoying at the same time, I guess. It made me acknowledge my inferiority where matters of government are concerned. And then came the second acknowledgement...

I don't care to understand it.

I don't need to know how laws or sausages are made. No matter. I understand what the operational parameters of laws and sausages are, and am content to abide by them; obeying laws while eating sausages. I don't feel lesser for it, despite the suffocating expectation of this berg imposed on its constituents.

The majority of the comments were made in the spirit of, "even I know that, the movie makers wouldn't last a minute in this town if they can't even correctly elaborate on surveillance protocols. Pshaw!" People were using the story and it's details to deem themselves superior because they work in that building, or they know so-an-so, and blah blah blah. This town trades on who you know, and how can I benefit from that connection. Period. It's so bad, it has even pervaded seeing a flick with yer chick on a holiday afternoon.

So, DC, I ask that you keep your opnions of everything to yourself, lest I utter one or two of my own.


(p.s., it really was a good talkie. I suggest seeing it. Also, we went to a restaurant called "Matchbox" afterwards. I'll do a Nibble Note on it at my chow-site, www.mysplendidtable.blogspot.com, should anyone find themselves for want of a good gourmet pizza joint in Washington.)

"List 5 books that played and important role in your childhood and explain why."

Ugh. It's amazing how just one simple sentence can wreak havoc on your soul and make you feel all old and shite. Thanks a bunch, Fox.

Well, time to 'Cowboy up,' I suppose. (Incidentally, I heard a rumor of signing Juan Gone? Huh?)


The Five Most Influential Books of my Childhood

Rikki-Tikki-Tavi, Rudyard Kipling

Mr. Kipling taught me to love mongooses and hate cobras. Years later, these lessons still serve me, having befriended several mongooses (the most notable, Oscar, a good friend of Nipples), and laid the smack down on a cobra or two when called for (I had to dispose of one just the other day. Carmen and I were having a cocktail at a spot downtown. I went to the can, and when I returned, there was this cobra in a blue gabardine suit makin' moves on my lady! He's sittin' on the barstool all cool-like, drinking a vodka gibson and saying things like, "oooh, baby, if I had hands I'd sex you up real good." Well, I put a stop to that toot-sweet! I went up and told him there was a mongoose outside spreading a rumor that his mother was a whore. By the time he figured out my ruse, we had left. F*cking cobras; they fall for that every time.)

The Hobbit, J.R.R. Tolkien

Anyone who read this when they were young and deny any influence on their reading habits going forward is simply out of thier mind. This epic changed everything for everyone everywhere forever. Superlatives aside, I was one of three classmates in high school who passed notes to each other in Sindarin. Dîn broniant, estathar aen Tolkien!

The Amityville Horror, Jay Anson.

Yeah, I know. It explains a lot, doesn't it? I first read Amityville when I was around seven, and it did absolutely nothing for me. I read it again at age nine, and it scared the crap out of me for years to come. (I'm not kidding, either. I didn't drop another deuce until I was 11. It's documented.) But I loved it. I loved being scared in that reading kind of way; where you know you're safe, but you don't really know. I think it was reading this book, coupled with convincing my parents to let me stay up one night to watch The Birds that sent me off on my path of loving horror.
4. The Lion, The Witch, and the Wardrobe, C.S. Lewis

The whole series did it for me, but Wardrobe is the special one for me. As a kid, my mom would take me to the bookstore and get me books whenever I wanted. The only requirement was that I had to finish the book she bought before I could get another one. I remember getting this book, starting in the car, and finishing it right after supper. I read all seven books in a week and a half or so. I devoured them. Aslan was such a regal character. I later read The Screwtape Letters, and while it is completely a worthwhile read, it's a bit much at age seven.

5. The Cricket In Times Square, George Selden

I call every mouse I see Tucker. Those that have read the book know why.

Other considerations...

There are almost too many to list. I partially self-taught myself to read at age three or so, and have never stopped (my mom has a great story of my using her bedroom's bathroom, and coming out asking what a "menstrual cycle" was, having read all the boxes in her basket next to the bathroom. tee hee hee.)

Here are a few.

How To Eat Fried Worms, The Outsiders, The Pushcart War, Charlotte's Web, all Dr. Seuss (even though my favorite was a book showing the artwork that didn't make his books. Messed up, he was!), Animal Farm, Cujo, The Catcher In The Rye, and a children's book about a turtle who started walking aroud the world. He eventually got up so much speed, he hit a ramp and went into orbit. I cannot, for the life of me, remember the title. Any help would be GREATLY appreciated!

Those were the days...

So there I was on the treadmill at the gym tonight (yeah! the gym! Me! WHOOP! WHOOP! Tee hee hee! HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!)

...

(ahem.)

So I was on the treadmill, schlocking through the 5k run I do thrice a week, and I was jamming to my iPod. Earlier, I had uploaded several of my favorite Ozzy, Megadeth, and Iron Maiden discs. I wanted a serious stream of energy whilst killing myself.

God, I didn't realize how much I missed that music, nor how far from it I had strayed.

I miss all of it; Van Halen, Dokken, Iron Maiden, Led Zepplin, Judas Priest, Slayer, Megadeth, old Metallica, et cetera.

And, gosh darn it, I'ma gonna listen to more of it. Searing guitars, massive hair, non-sensical lyrics (Were heading for venus /and still we stand tall/Cause maybe theyve seen us and welcome us all/With so many light years to go/ and things to be found/I'm sure that well all miss her so) and all the wonderful trappings that go with it. I'm going for it all.

Let the metal renaissance begin.

All skate!

Not so sorry...

Yep. I gave it to a completely unsuspecting Starschmuck's "barista" who tried to tell me their espresso was 100% decaffinated. (For those in the know, it's impossible to completely decaf a bean. Just can't do it. Someday, ask me how I know this.)

Way I figure it, he had it comin' to him.

Apologia.

What, exactly, do you do with a five-spot that has spent almost 35 minutes next to your naked arse?

I found myself in just this predicament this afternoon when I stood, face-to-face, with the intended recipient of this ass-cash...and realized I wasn't going to give it to him.

It's true; the purported jerk was, upon further investigation, simply a curmudgeon.

And I owe him an apology.

You know who I speak of; book store jerkface-turned-authentic-curmudgeon. Here's how it went down.

I went to Eastern Market specifically for this evil deed. And to shop for some paperbacks I couldn't find at any other used bookstore. I felt ok about this because, after all, I needed some reason to give him the dirty, dirty money, right?

So I entered the shop, steeling my nerves for another brusque 'greeting.' What I got was,

"hello."

???

???

???

hello? Shit!

"uh, hi."

"Welcome. Fiction is upstairs; non-fiction, downstairs."

"uh...thanks." (my resolve was cracking.)

I went upstairs to re-group. Forty minutes later, I had a pile of seven or eight novels. Time to move downstairs to look at their cooking reference and baseball books. I tempered my resolve; we were to cross paths again. I walked past his desk.

"Find everything ok?"

"What the f*ck happened to you?" I asked. (Well, no. I didn't say that. I wanted to, but I decided not to show him all my cards yet.)

"uh...yeah, thanks. Where are the baseball books?" I was setting him up for a trap! I knew precisely where the baseball books were. I was simply goading him into acting like a jerk again. Genius!

"Downstairs to the right."

I went downstairs to the right. Sure enough, the baseball books were there. (Wait, I knew that already! Why was he being so nice?) Enough thought. Enough talk. Time to execute Operation "Give Jerk Ass-Cash." I retrieved the now-cursed money. We had spent the last half-hour getting "real close" if you catch my drift. My butt now had a 2 7/8" x 6" chilly spot where Lincoln was just moments ago. No worries, though; it was off to wield a unique jihad on he who would insult the bill's master.

I grabbed The Longest Slump Ever, and headed upstairs, prepared for the endgame. We came face-to-face.

"See the game last night?"

"uh...yeah" (God! What was happening here?)

"That Manning, he sure is a good one, huh?"

"uh...yeah." (This is bad.)

"Well, one good thing, though. Now we can move on to baseball, right?"

"uh...yeah." (Aw, shit...)

"Hopefully we'll get to see the yankees fall again, huh?"

"uh...yeah." (ABORT! ABORT! ABORT! He hates the yanks! Operation GJAC is a NO-GO!)

"Will that be cash?"

"uh..." (I was at the fail-safe point, the moment of truth, the true event-horizon of the mission.)

"uh..." (I knew what had to be done.)

"uh..no, thanks. Do you take American Express?"

"Sure do."

I handed him my card, and let my adreneline level lower. I tucked the money in a back pocket.

"Have a great day. Stay warm!"

Yeah. Sure, pal. I'll stay warm.

I wished him the same as I left the building.



So, there it is. I couldn't do it. I was wrong and I knew it. So, Mr. Man, I apologize for mis-judging you. And, at least, I cemented my opinion that Capitol City Books is the best of the bunch out there in DC.

And as for the stinky money resting in my back pocket?

Well...I think I'll get a latte at Starschmucks tomorrow morning before work.

Excellent ideas...

Thanks to all who responded to my last post regarding how to mitigate a bookstore turd. There were many excellent ideas, but Heather's was the best.

I quote, "Take $5, rub it across your ass a few times (before you leave the house, please) and pay him with that. Or, better yet, rim it!"

Thy will be done, Heather.

A full report to follow.