A video in honor of my sister's 29th birthday...

Labels: holidays

I saw this sign outside of a Laughing Planet during last month's snow storm. The annual "Worst Day of the Year" ride has been around for a while but I don't think it's ever been scheduled for Valentine's Day. Is someone out there trying to make a comment about the holiday?

Labels: bicycles, holidays

I went to the Festival of Lights at the Grotto the other night with my family. This semi-annual tradition goes back to at least the early '90s. The festival seems perpetually stuck in time. Nothing ever changes and everything's always in the same spot. There's the light displays recounting Mary and Joseph's trip to Bethlehem, the nativity scene, the choirs in the church and the bored llama in the petting zoo. These visits to the Grotto may as well be interchangeable. We walk up to the Grotto, listen to the choirs in the church, feed the baby goats and make a quick stop at the gift shop.

This year though, as we were heading back to the car, we saw a gentleman being led off the property in handcuffs by PPD. He was fairly-well dressed and clean cut. He looked like a young father. As we headed down to Gustav's for dinner, we theorized about his crime. My guess: he was involved in a drunken punch-up in the petting zoo. Those goats are the very definition of "tripping hazard" and perhaps a bumped elbow led to fisticuffs. Or maybe he got caught pilfering holy water.

Labels: holidays

This clip of my sister's cat singing "Jingle Bells" may not have the production values of similar internet videos but I think the little fur ball has some impressive singing chops. This was shot with a Blackberry camera, which isn't the best at capturing cats. Her glowing eyes add a weird element to the video. I wonder how many views this one will get on YouTube...

Labels: holidays

I'm sure this is the same snowman that local dairy Alpenrose has used on their eggnog cartons since at least the mid-'50s. Somehow I never noticed it before. There's something about the design that seems sort of "off."

The snowman's expression seems to say "Yeah, pal, I know you can't drink this stuff without tossing in at least one shot of Seagram's 7. Better hit the liquor store on the way home." His knowing wink comes across as snarky and more than a little patronizing. I get the feeling that this Frosty is a total teetotaler.

Here's hoping they never change the design.

Labels: holidays

I was downtown last Sunday when I stumbled upon a Day of the Dead procession headed along SW 4th.

I think it's great that Portland has begun adopting the holidays of other countries. Now if only someone would get around to throwing a Guy Fawkes Day celebration. As far as I know, there wasn't a single effigy lit ablaze within the urban growth boundary last night. C'mon, people. Remember, remember, the fifth of November...

Labels: holidays

Is this old Harrison Ford beer ad creepier than the Alexander poster over at the Opposable Thumb Gallery and Cafe? I report, you decide.

This one can be found in the bathroom at Binks.

Labels: holidays

A few photos from last night's Day of the Dead celebration over on Alberta Street.

I missed the procession but I made it over there in time to snag a few alien-themed cupcakes. The street was still lined with people in costumes strolling along to the beats pouring out of a drum circle. One bloke was totting around his toddler in a small coffin welded to the front of his bike, both of them done up as skeletons. A few blocks down, an angel of death was walking around on stilts attached to both her arms and legs. She nearly knocked me over when she threw open her wings to pose for a photo.

Also: one of the galleries was giving out free pumpkin candy. Swank.

Labels: holidays

I found myself in the middle of a debate about this other night. What's the correct recipe for one of the most offensively-titled drinks of all time? Or at least one of the most politically-themed, offensively-titled drinks of all time?

Here's the recipe for all of the "Irish Car Bombs" I've enjoyed on various St. Patrick's Days in the past. First, fill a pint glass 2/3s of the way full of stout. Then find a shot glass, put in a little cream, fill it to the top with whiskey, set the whiskey on fire, drop the shot glass in the pint glass and then chug the whole mess quickly before the cream curdles.

Now I'm told that this isn't the correct way and that fire shouldn't be incorporated at all. The internet confirms this, stating that a proper Irish Car Bomb should be made with Baileys instead of cream and that a flame should come nowhere near the whiskey. WTF? Where's the fun in that? I say that the lack of fire takes the "bomb" right out of the mix. Call this concoction what you will but, in my book, no fire = no Irish Car Bomb. This version might be better dubbed the "Wussy Wuss Bailey Wannabe Irish Car Bomb Wuss Fest That Isn't Actually an Irish Car Bomb."

Your thoughts?

Anyway, happy St. Patrick's Day, everybody. I'll conclude this post with my favorite Irish toast: "may the best of your yesterdays be the worst of your tomorrows."

Labels: beer, Booze, holidays

I spent Thanksgiving on a farm in the outskirts of the little town of Marcola, Oregon. My sister's boyfriend's parents raise reindeer and Guinea hens on their farm. It's an odd combination. The hens are incredibly neurotic and flip out whenever anyway comes within 30 yards of the house whereas the reindeer will only acknowledge your existence if they suspect you've brought them food. They like apples in particular but only certain kinds and they can't be mushy.

I spent a good portion of the afternoon asking his mother a million stupid questions about reindeer. What does their main diet consist of? Purina Reindeer Chow. Apparently there is such a thing (or, more likely, she was just messing with me). Why reindeer? There's a market for their antlers when they fall off in the spring, provided they don't break them by plowing into one another. These reindeer also spend every November and December touring the Willamette Valley. They're slated to make an appearance at Beaverton Town Square on December 6th. Further information can be found here.

They stick with female reindeer because they aren't as aggressive and territorial as their male counterparts. A few years ago, a member of their pack named Jingle Bells grew an impressive "rack" and landed herself on the cover of a magazine devoted to reindeer. Yes, there is such a thing. Sadly, that reindeer has since passed away but two new babies have been brought into the fold. Pictured above is Sugar Plum, who accidentally broke a horn earlier this season.

Here's a few photos of Frosty, the cranky, self-professed leader. Another reindeer, Dasher, has a problem with traveling and tends to faint the second a lead rope is attached to her harness. Maybe it's stage-fright or perhaps she's just a huge prima madonna. Reindeer can be tough to read.

Of course, as you're probably wondering yourself, I asked what they taste like. While they don't harvest their pack for anything beyond antlers, they have eaten reindeer meat at an annual reindeer convention. Do such things apparently exist? Apparently, you betcha.

So what does reindeer meat taste like? Roast beef. And now you know. Merry Christmas!

Labels: holidays

OK, neither of us got all that drunk in Disney World but I had to come up with some kind of a riff on that Cory Doctrow book. Time for a slide show...

Say what you will about the Disney parks. That if you've seen one, you've seen 'em all. That they're overpriced and filled with the worst examples of American humanity imaginable. That they, perhaps even more so than the Circus Circus casino circa 1972 best exemplify the death of the American Dream or whatever Hunter S. Thompson was babbling about in Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. Despite all of that, the people running these places know their way around explosives. This photo was taken from a restaurant at the Japanese Pavilion during EPCOT's nightly fireworks extravaganza. The show beings with a four-story tall fireball in the middle of the park's lagoon. Why? I have no idea and I don't think the pyromaniacs running the show do either. It just looks cool and from the window of that restaurant it looked like the end of the world at the Itsukushima Shrine.

This is also pretty creepy. Feel free to mock them but, after few days of 90% humidity and a constant onslaught of singing robots in a paved-over swamp, Dale hats start to make a lot of sense in a Stockholm Syndrome-kind of way. Now why would I or the person I was traveling with subject ourselves to a week of this? Because, somehow, for reasons I can't explain, we consider this sort of thing fun. Or at least a lot more interesting than lounging around on a beach somewhere.

And did I mention the explosions?

Ok, on second thought I cold probably give you a thousand rambling words praising the merits of roller coasters like Expedition Everest or why I consider the Haunted Mansion one of the finest creations of the western world but, instead, here's a photo of an indoor drive-in movie theater/restaurant at Disney's Hollywood Studios. Diners sit at tables that look like old Chevys and some of the waitresses zoom around on roller skates. Brilliant!

This is from a mural in the queue line for the dinosaur ride at Animal Kingdom. Isn't that a subversive bit of something else? I'm sure it's led to at least 1/10th as many awkward conversations between parents and their frightened kids as the death of Bambi's mother. Imagine being four years old and, after this uncomfortable reminder of your parents' mortality, your mother leads you onto a three-minute jeep ride through a fake jungle filled with screaming animatronic lizards that leap out of the dark? The stuff of childhood nightmares? Sure.

One thing that sets the Disney parks aside from the likes of the Six Flags chain is the attention to detail. I've never set foot in a small village in the foothills of the Himalayas but after wandering through the recreation at Animal Kingdom I feel like I may as well have. Small Himalayan villages sell $8.00 kids meals and have people in Safari Mickey costumes wandering the streets, don't they?

If you ever feel up to spending a week at Disney World, for whatever reason, I recommend traveling in October. The heat isn't quite as unbearable as August, the crowds are lighter and off-season airfare and hotel rates are obviously cheaper. EPCOT also hosts an excellent Food and Wine Festival. If not for that, I probably would have gone the rest of my life without ever trying escargot or eating anything from New Zealand. I didn't even know people in New Zealand ate food until last week.

There's also the annual series of "Mickey's Not So Scary Halloween Parties." During these events full-grown adults run around grabbing handfuls of candy from barrels in Jack Sparrow outfits. We spotted no less than four families dressed as The Incredibles. Outside the resort, the presidential election was in full force and the Dow Jones was jumping up and down like a rabid bear on a trampoline. I guess that's a good part of the appeal of a place like this. It's incredibly easy to turn your brain off at Disney World, a refuge of overpriced PG-rated fun surrounded by a few thousand acres of untapped swampland. I'd like to think my week-long theme park lobotomy did my blood pressure some good.

Labels: holidays, off-topic

New advances in greeting card technology have been achieved since the last time I set foot in a Hallmark. During a recent trip to the Washington Square location I discovered that half of the chain's racks are now filled with cards that play songs and/or yell at you. Take this one featuring Chris Rock. Yes, apparently Chris Rock now has his own line of greeting cards.

I wonder if P-Diddy is jealous that he didn't think of this a long time ago. Say what you will about selling out, but if Hallmark offered me a garbage bag filled with hundred dollar bills to have one of my comedy tirades blast out of a million greeting cards on Father's Day I would smoother my sense of common decency and take said big bag of cash. Opening this card activates a digital speaker buried in the greeting card that unleashes a very loud Rock bit about husbands being patronized by their wives. The f-bombs are, of course, edited out.

Hallmark now has talking cards with themes based on just about every popular tv show and blockbuster in existence. I'm not joking when I say there's at least five different talking cards based on characters from the US version of The Office. There's also at least a dozen cards based on The Simpsons. I was pretty impressed with one that folds out into three sections, the opposites sides of which feature Marge and Homer yelling across the card at one another.

But maybe the most disturbing was one with John McCain in a section devoted to 2008 election-themed cards. The inside features Cartoon McCain running for a toilet stall while holding his crotch. A word bubble over his head contains the words "AND RUN FOR THE BATHROOM!"

Ha? Er, no. The ones featuring Obama and Hilary are even lamer.

The cards also allow customers to record a personalized message that plays before the rest of the recording. My attempts at leaving an obnoxious message for a future customer were thwarted by a pull-tab on each card that prevents a recording from playing more than once until it's removed after purchase.

I went with a nice, safe Indiana Jones-themed Father's Day card for my own dad. One that doesn't talk or sing because he would probably throw it at my head.

Labels: holidays, politics

One of the great things about living in Portland is the wide array of outdoor activities one can engage in. This is a place where it's possible to go skiing on Mt. Hood in the morning, hike through a rainforest in the mid-afternoon and walk along a picturesque coastline at dusk. The possibilities are endless.

As such, if you live here you may one day find yourself pointing a bolt action rifle at a chocolate bunny in a forest outside of Manning.

Let me explain.

I have friends who own guns. Having grown up within the uber-liberal enclaves of Portland I still find this incredibly weird. Once upon a time, I was a proponent of strict gun control. Then one day I went skeet shooting. What can I say, a strong, albeit naive, political argument buckled and collapsed immediately after I managed to hit my first clay pigeon. I'll never own a gun, my friends aren't hunters and none of us are members of the NRA. Amazing as it might sound, even a liberal wuss like me enjoys the opportunity to work on my shotgun skills. After all, there's no telling when a zombie and/or a zombie pirate uprising could break out. We've all seen those Pirates of the Caribbean movies. Zombie pirates are mean bastards.

A few weeks ago, I found myself heading out to the country for target practice and, afterwards, a St Patrick's Day celebration/film festival. I was debating the merits of canned Guinness versus bottled when I realized I wouldn't have time to pick up clay pigeons. The chances that anyone else would have thought to buy them was unlikely. The clock was ticking so I tried to think fast. What could I find in the aisles of Fred Meyers that could work as targets but also become a tasty snack if the whole thing was rained out?

The choice was obvious. Discount Easter candy.

And so off I headed to the checkout with a shopping cart full of beer, chocolate bunnies and marshmallow Peeps. Behind the counter, a gruff clerk who looked like a certain character from Deadwood, looked over my purchases with a scowl on his unshaven mug.

"You got some little ones at home," he asked as I fumbled with the debit card machine.

These are the last words a young man wants to hear in the year 2008 in a crowded grocery store when he's buying large quantities of chocolate bunnies and alcohol. How could I possibly answer a question like that? I stuttered and stammered. I was so rushed I hadn't stop to consider that buying all of this might be considered a little unusual or even alarming to someone not full aware of what was going on. Then I said the following:

"They're for a party. Of sorts."

Oh. Dear. God. I'd tried to come up with a safe answer but had completely blown it. A party? Of sorts. At best, the clerk and everyone within earshot was now convinced I was a pervert with a twisted bunny/beer sexual fetish or, at worst, a child-predator with hang-ups that would make Michael Jackson blush.

Without another word, the clerk bagged my groceries and handed me my receipt. A Lewis and Clark undergrad behind me shot me a glare that could pierce steel. I rushed out of the store filled with a level of shame that samurais must have once felt before committing sepuku.

Most people would try to forget a story like this but I'm not most people. I told everyone later on that day what had happened at the checkout stand. "They're for a party. Of sorts" is now an in-joke I'll be hearing for who knows how long. And now here it is on the internet for your enjoyment.

Let this be a lesson to you all: if your shopping basket is full of stuff that can paint you as a probable felon, head to the automated check-out. I should have learned this valuable life lesson years ago. A while back, a colleague told me a story about the time he found himself in a Rite Aid buying doggy biscuits, wine and a box of condoms.

All things considered, if I was a chocolate bunny I guess I'd rather head to the giant Easter basket in the sky after getting hit with buckshot instead of being slowly consumed by a small child. The trip to Fred Meyers had been humiliating but I guess it was worth it to see what a "Honey Bunny" looks like when viewed through a rifle scope. FYI: when a bullet from a bolt action rifle hits the ear of a chocolate bunny, it can apparently blast out the back-end of its box. Also, Peeps vaporize when hit by a shotgun shell. And now you know. More also: apparently I'm not the first person on the internet to dream up unique ways to dispose of Easter candy.

Urban Growth Boundary, I thank for helping make this all possible. I think I'll go put one of those "I [heart] Oregon" stickers in my car's back window now.

Labels: holidays, probable sociopathy

The Irish Shepard's Pie turned out well. It's a St. Patrick's Day miracle!

The green-dyed ale, uh, that's another story. 12 drops of dye a pint is about 9 drops too many. I may have green teeth for the rest of my life, as may any future children and/or grandchildren. That must have been industrial-strength food dye that we found in the pantry.

Labels: food, holidays

I write these words from my parents' kitchen.

I'm covered from head to toe in Bisquick, mashed potatoes and hamburger meat. Moments ago, I discovered a small carrot in my shoe. I'm beaten and bruised but my enemy is fairing far worse than I. It's currently 15 minutes into a 35 minute ride in a 350 degree oven.

Do you hear that, Irish Shepard's Pie?!!! I BEAT YOU! AND IN 20 MINUTES I'M GOING TO FEED TO YOU TO MY FAMILY! WE WILL SING SONGS AND TELL TALES OF OUR EMERALD ISLE FOREFATHERS! YES, INDEED, WE ARE AS IRISH AS IRISH CAN BE! Er...uh...I think my great-grandfather may have been Irish BUT NEVER MIND THAT! ERIN GO BRAUGH, BEEEOTCH!

I'm supposed to be enjoying a laid-back St. Patrick's Day this evening. That went out the window when my sister suggsted that we can a simple chicken meal and try something more elaborate. Of course, she left me do the cooking while she went out shopping for dessert with her boyfriend.

At one point, I was boiling potatoes, browning meat, mixing a biscuit topping and dancing an improvised jig to the Dropkick Murphys at the same time. Needless to say, this level of intense culinary multi-tasking created the Irish Shepard Pie equivalent of Frankenstein. And not the Boris Karloff version. I'm talking about the Robert de Niro one. The recipe produced too much pie for my mother's largest casserole dish, which led me to frantically try scooping out hamburger mix to make room for the biscuit mix. The stuff went everywhere. When the pie finally went in the oven the thing looked like something out of H.P. Lovecraft's nightmares.

In 17 minutes we'll know if it was all worth the effort. HAPPY ST. PATRICK'S DAY, er, NIGHT!

Labels: food, holidays

Even if they all got together and collaborated. Lazy bastards.

Labels: cats, holidays

Another New Year's Eve/Day, another round of valuable life lessons learned the hard way. This year's batch includes...

Never plan a New Year's Eve party in Oregon when the temperature drops below 32 and the streets are icy.

If you return $40 worth of NYE stuff three hours before midnight on the 31st, you're gonna get glared at no less than ten times by whatever clerk is working the customer service desk at Fred Meyers.

No good ever came of $4.50 bottles of Champagne.

Spending any amount of time at the Starbucks at Cedar Hills Crossing on New Years Day: bad idea.

Taking a shot of old chicken broth on a dare: not nearly as bad as taking a shot of Everclear on a dare. Not even close.

One minute in the microwave for spiced holiday wine means one minute. No more, no less.

Labels: 2008, holidays

Some December I may actually be downtown on the same annual Saturday hundreds of Santas take to the streets to get drunk, harass shoppers and get arrested. This December was not that December. Oh, well. I can still watch the highlights on the internet.

Labels: holidays, Vices

Nearly a week between blog posts? Yeah, it happens. Things have been both boring and busy 'round these parts. Here are some cell phone photos from my recent travels:

A display in the Side Street Gallery down the street from Holman's Bar off Burnside.

I've seen a lot of cars driving around town with menorahs on their roofs this holiday season. A caravan was rolling down NW 21st on Saturday night with the occupants honking their horns and shouting out the windows. Hey, it beats staying home to play with a dreidel.

And here's a photo of the clock tower at Beaverton Town Square. I think. If you're in the market for buildings for a Dickens-esque Christmas display, I recommend a shop called The Mole Hole located next door to the square's Trader Joe's. They've probably got the largest selection of tiny plastic street lights in the Portland metro area. There's also a large village display up for grabs complete with a miniature ski lift.

Labels: cell, holidays, phone, photos

What am I thankful for on this most glutenous of American holidays? Not for getting suckered into going into work today, that's for sure. As of right this second, I'd have to say I'm thankful for X-Entertainment. Recent updates to the site include an article on the 1991 Macy's Thanksgiving Parade and another full of excerpts from a 1985 toy catalog (wow, I remember that He-Man playset with the weird snake puppet). Hooray for childhood nostalgia and its ability to help me kill time during an incredibly depressing workday.

I'm also thankful that Bono isn't building this in downtown Portland.

Merry Thanksgiving, everybody.

Labels: holidays