Not as unbearable now

I hate it when blogs that no one reads apologize for not posting on a regular basis, so I shall offer no apologies. I should say, though, that it was for a good reason. Long story short: 31st birthday, stolen traffic cones, next day kidnapped to Portland and made to endure all manner of sin, tail-between-legs train ride back to Seattle. That's the Reader's Digest version. It was good times.

Fortunately, my scurvey crew of friends and my lovely wife footed most of the bill for the trip, so all I had to supply was a steady stream of one-dollar bills for nefarious purposes. Use your imagination.

As an extra birthday gift, I got a part-time job with Flexcar as a sort of contract local marketing wallah. I preach the gospel of car sharing to the masses and they pay me for it. If you aren't familiar with Flexcar, check out the site (http://www.flexcar.com) and see if we're in your area. The only problem is it makes me feel fantastically guilty about still owning my POS '85 Mazda RX-7. Looks like it's time to put ol' Trigger down.

On a completely unrelated note, that mellow-toned Midwesterner Garrison Keillor sends me an e-mail everyday (because we're such great pals, not because I signed up for it) with a link to NPRs "Writer's Almanac" for the day. Today's reminded me it's Robert Lowell's birthday. Why should you care? Well, when I was a young buck of an English major, I thought poets had to have serious drug addictions and at least tried to kill their wives before they made their bones.

But Mr. Lowell showed me you could be from a good home and merely be bat-shit crazy to be a good poet. Happy birthday, Robert. Go read my favorite poem of his, For the Union Dead, and wish him a happy birthday.

Thursday night's alright for fightin'!

It's been a while since there was a seriously good night of television to actually make plans to watch. Now, my friends, we have Thursday night on NBC. Not to sound too much like a shill, but what's wrong with Earl, The Office, Scrubs, and 30 Rock? That's just good television.

Oh, and it's my birthday tomorrow and I was able to talk my wife out of giving me a present early. Yep, it's a home brew kit. So now I've got a bunch of time on my hands, and the ability to make my own beer. Outstanding.

Can't go on because Steve Carell is about to do something embarrassing that makes me feel awkward. Adios.

Old Time Religion

Yep, I'm a pretty crappy Catholic. My Ash Wednesday fasting lasting just until I realized ther was a McDonald's Double Cheesburger leftover in the fridge from yesterday. Fourty-five seconds in the microwave later, and I was a heathen again. I didn't even make it to Mass to get the obligatory ashes on my forehead. Morning time is a lonely, hungry time when you're unemployed.

On the up side, I was able to add bacon to the bean soup I made for dinner tonight. To justifiy my actions, I look to Christopher Moore's Lamb: The Gospel According to Biff, Christ's Childhood Pal. The Reader's Digest version is, there's nothing wrong with bacon on a holy day. But still read the book. It's a hoot.

To balance out my troubles today, the SciFi channel decided to play The Beastmaster tonight, so I'm going to have a glass of wine and some soup, and watch a classic of my youth.

Good luck and God bless, y'all.

The Great Steak Sandwich Hunt of '07

A few months ago, I heard that one of my favorite haunts, Daly's Drive-In on Eastlake, was going to be demolished at some undetermined point in the future. I used to eat at Daly's a couple times a week when I was a swinging bachelor in my rat hole apartment a few blocks up the street, but I hadn't been there in years.

I'd been meaning to go back for one of their fantastic steak sandwiches or some greasy fish n' chips, but hadn't found the time. But hey, look! I'm unemployed! Perfect.

It also worked out well that today is Fat Tuesday. As a C&E Catholic (that's Christmas and Easter to you heathens), it is my responsibility to make a visible, token effort to celebrate the Christian mysteries, so that means no meat on Ash Wednesday. As such, I figured today was the perfect time to have a final steak sandwich before Daly's makes way for some damn condos.

I schleped down to Daly's this afternoon through some pretty impressive winds and ordered my former usual: steak sandwich, onion rings, and a vanilla shake. I've gotten a little rusty, apparently, and forgot to have them take off the tomatoes (an ungodly fruit), but otherwise my order was just as it should have been.

And that first bite...oh yes, the memories came rushing back. The sweet dribbling juices of the late 90s came rushing back. If anything, the food had gotten better. The onion rings were crispy and the shake was thick. All in all, a satisfactory lunch.

I highly recommend anyone in the area to head down to Daly's before the wrecking ball strikes. And play a game of Pole Position for me.

Lots of clouds for a silver lining

Despite running short on time before I join the other 40 million uninsured Americans, my unemployment has had its benefits. Most important of them is my new ability to spend more time with my family. Don't worry, I'm not going to get all mushy and sentimental, but I have found a new respect for family time. And in my family, that's saying something.

My semi-retirement from the wage-earning class has come at an especially useful time for my aunt and uncle. For some reason, my elderly uncle's red blood cell production has been on hiatus and he's been getting anemic. While a normal, healthy adult has a blood "score" of 39-50, my uncle's has been flirting with single digits. My science may be off, but you get the idea.

To help with this problem, Unc (as he's known to everyone I know) has been receiving weekly treatments and the occasional transfusion. Unc is 85 and has lived through a Depression (not just some pussy-ass recession but the big D), and fought in two wars so he's not of the complaining type. So, when Unc starts saying he feels a little under the weather, it's time to call in the specialists.

With my uncle in a weakened state, he hasn't been able to drive, and my aunt - to whom he's been married 51 years - never bothered to learn. With their only child living out of town (but not far enough to justify her absence in my opinion), my aunt and uncle have to rely on their wayward nephew for the weekly sojourn to the hospital. That's not to say that they were begging for my help. I had to insist that they not take a taxi. I mean, if I've learned anything from dozens of viewings of the Godfather, is that family is everything.

The coincidence of my uncle's revolt of the red blood cells and my unemployment has left me driving a very sick, very cranky member of the Greatest Generation and his very worried wife to and from the hospital every week. I've also added in periodic trips with my aunt to the grocery store for the weekly shopping. And please don't think I'm complaining at all. My aunt and uncle have done more for me over the years than I could possibly pay back, so it is my privilege to do anything that could help them. I'm glad my unemployment has come in handy.

After today's trip (just blood testing and a doctor's visit, no transfusion), we had some good news. That pesky blood count number is back up out of the basement and my uncle has gone from cranky and sick to cranky and feisty, his default setting. I swear I'm going to take cranky lessons from that man. He does it so well.

They say the Lord loves a working man, but I'm pretty sure my aunt is glad I'm not one right now.

And in other news, I've started my search for the best happy hour in the city. Today's wasn't that happy, but it will do for a start. If you've ever spent much time in a tourist part of any city in the Western Hemisphere, you've probably seen an Elephant and Castle Pub. The "E&C" as I'm sure they'd like travelers to think the non-existent locals call it, goes for a little bit of merry olde England right in the ground floor of a major hotel in a city near you. The decor aims for some cross between a Dickens novel and Orwell's idea of a prol bar and succeeds in expressing the hopelessness of both. The menu is similarly depressing. Why anyone would try to export the cuisine of England is beyond me, but if you really want bangers and mash or soggy fish and chips in downtown Seattle, the Elephant is for you.

From 3:30 to 6:30 and from 10:30 til close each day, part of this menu of questionable value is half price. Today I had the nachos, normally $9 but $4.50 at happy hour. Plentiful and serviceable, they were the most appetizing offer on the menu. I washed them down with a pint of Old Seattle lager, my new favorite beer. It's brewed by the Maritime Pacific Brewing Company here in town and supposedly uses the original recipe from the Rainier brewery. Nice and malty, it strangely reminds me of beer from India. Anyway, pints were $1 off so it was a little more affordable than usual at happy hour.

But don't let the name Happy Hour confuse you. I was one of the only customers in the place at 3:30. And even though staff outnumbered customers 2:1, the service was still lackluster. Oh well, at least I didn't pay full price.

Let's try this again...

This is my second try. My first blog lasted about two posts. It turns out that I might actually have something to add now, other than bad 13-year-old poetry and poorly thought out politics (though I make no promises that you won't find either in this blog).

As it turns out, I find myself unemployed and looking for work. Looking for work doesn't take nearly as much time as I expected, so now I'm trying to find new ways to pass the time. The passtimes I've undertaken are of varying moral worth, but hell, I figure I'll share them all.

So stay tuned. Hopefully I'll have some fascinating President's Day insights tomorrow. But for today, I have a day of the History Channel to watch. They're doing biographies of all the presidents today. My bet is that I don't make it to Pierce (our 14th president), but let's find out.