Brasil Files 1: No Fear Island

It's time to bust out the travel journals and take a trip back to 2001. I've told a couple stories about Brasil, as I remembered them, here and here. But now we're going to start a new series: typing verbatim from the journals as they were written 9 years ago. I was not any more concise then (notice I said "journals" not "journal") ... so I'm just going to advise against wasting your time right off the bat. Especially if, say, this was written three years before I met you, and we're now married. I do want to preserve some of this information online, so I'm posting anyway. You've been warned.

I like this first excerpt, two weeks after I arrived in Brasil, because it captures some of the uncertainty and randomness of moving to another country. I have no idea what I'm doing, but of course it always goes well. Because I lived in frig'n Brasil.

Context: I had my first vacation from the English Academy and I've left my hometown of Joinville. I've taken a bus North to Paranagua, then a train to Morretes. I've discovered a tropical tubing paradise on the Rio Nhundiaquara and had a good float the day before. Now I've got to figure out what the hell to do next.

I will place any necessary clarifications or translations in brackets. I also apologize that I had apparently forgotten how to use the past tense back then.

02-17-01

 Slept through my alarm, and the free breakfast. Oops. I decide that I should not stay another night here [actual hotel pictured above] just to have a place to keep my stuff for the day. Instead I arrange to leave my pack here and cram everything I need for hiking in the man purse. At the tourist office a man gives me directions to a certain bus stop using a Hotel Nhundiaquara brochure. I find it easily and await an 11:15 bus to Sao Joao de Graciosa, and entry point to Morumbi State Parque.

At around 12:30 I give up. I don't think this bus runs on Sundays. Disappointed at not being able to do some jungle exploration, I pick up my pack and head to the Rodoviaria [bus station] for a change of plans. Things do not look good for buses. Only two buses a day to Paranagua? Next one at 7 PM? The only other viable option is Guaraquesaba at 4 PM, from which you should be able to hire a boat to Parque Nacional Superagui - a mangrove island thing.

As I ponder the numerous possibilities a bus that says "Paranagua" pulls up and people are boarding. I grab my stuff and get on ... and excellent R$1,25 solution.

Things are not that simple in Paranagua. I stumble in the rain from the bus station down to the waterfront - they have boats there that can take you out to Ilha do Mel [Honey Island]. After some consternation I find a nice gal and two little boys (she takes pains to explain they're not hers) who say their boat leaves at three. Excellent. Ilha do Mel it is.

When the boat comes it's a beautiful 40-50 foot wooden yacht. Me, another guy, and a couple are the only passengers. It's Sunday so the boats are full coming back from the island. The trip is nice ... winding through the mangrove swamps in the bay. On board I meet Aramis, who speaks broken English, and like everybody else in Brasil wants to know if I'm solzinho [alone], and if so, why.

Turns out he's doing a neurosurgery residency in Curitiba ... and in 10 days traveling to Little Rock, AR for a year-long fellowship. We talk about ourselves and the island while we drink a couple beers. He has a house on the island and he'll show me the good spots - or at least a good pousada [guest house] to stay in. When we reach Nova Brasilia ... some shacks and a dock ... the lay out of the island is clear: [refers to hand drawn map]. On the way to his house he suggests that maybe I could stay with him. His "house" turns out to be a compound with his father's, sister's, cousin's and his houses. He stays in his father's while I stay in his nice little house to the side with bedroom and bathroom. This island is great. "Main street" [pictured below] is a trail that winds among trees, swamps, and bars across the width of the island.

We meet his cousin Lucio, two houses down, a 40-year-old travel agent who works in Orlando most of the year. He is funny, honest, and apparently quite a womanizer. You can't help but like the guy, despite his off-color remarks - any guy who tells strangers about his foot fetish in the first couple minutes has some redeeming value, right?

We chat on the porch, mainly about sexual exploits, before heading "across the street" to some friends or relatives of theirs. One of them is completely wasted. He had disappeared for most of the day and came back plowed. He tells me in Portuguese, with help, about how he had millions of dollars until his ex-wife took everything. Now he has one shirt, his business, and the car he stole back. Aramis tells me later the story is true.

Later drunky gives me an unsolicited lesson on how to pick up women, using Aramis as the woman. Brasilians may think of getting laid first, but their second priority is getting you laid too. He does the lesson in "English" - asking his friends for new words to shout now and again: "First! Look! Then! (he struts to his mark) Oh, how are you? Fine. Kissy kissy! Mais Importan-chee! [Very Important] NO FEAR! NO FEAR DE WOMANS! Look! Direct! Swing-swing! (his hips), Tranquilly! Tranquilly!"  

He repeats this routine more than 20 times ... honestly ... each time more emphatic than the last. It doesn't help that I goad him on, asking "Tem Medo? [Should I fear them?]" ... "NO! NO FEAR DE WOMAN!"

Finally the actual woman of the house helps him collect his things - he's about to miss the last boat out. Drunky's short friend is also quite a character ... calling to his housekeeper who doesn't understand english: "I want to fuck-fuck with you!" over and over. Weeeee. Let's leave soon.

Finally we do [Aramis, Lucio and I], heading to da Fora beach ... a wonderful place. We climb up to a light house and then back down for dinner. I make a small repayment for their hospitality by picking up the tab. Fish, shrimp, stuffed crabs and all the things that come with it usually, I'm now discovering: potato salad, rice, fries, etc. We return to the compound for showers - and Lucio heads to bed tired and hungover. He was heading back to Curitiba today but now that he has company he's going to stick around.

Aramis and I walk back to the 'hub' of Nova Brasilia - the cluster of bars. Everyone left on the island has chosen one bar, so we do too. A guy is playing the guitar, singing, and doing some harmonica work quite well. All this talk about picking up women ... our intention here is clear.

A tall woman with a bright smile, dark, dark skin and long hair in cornrows sits at a table next to us. She wears a nice white sun dress and what this? She has an attractive friend for Aramis. The expert Aramis starts talking to the short, white friend - Daniella. Immediately my "date" gets up and starts talking to another guy  - oh well. We join their table anyway and chat with Daniella - in business administration school in Londrina.

Things move quickly in Brasil. Daniella invites us for a walk on the beach. After a quick conference, Aramis and I determine that since my "date" is already talking to another guy that I should stay rather than be the 5th wheel. Until ... my "date" ... who I have not even met yet ... comes over to me and says let's go. So we're five, I guess. Whatever - my only goal is to treat Aramis and Daniella like a mother grizzly and her cub. Don't want to interfere.

But wait - my new friend "needs help" crossing the various puddles and muddy places. Soon I am escorting her arm in arm. And it's quite a night for love. No moon - all stars. Some meteors, the Southern Cross, Orion, sparkling plankton in the ocean waters ... except for our newly elected 5th wheel. Who is this guy?

We climb back up to the light house for the scenic views, and climb back down the other side to Praia Farol [Lighthouse beach]. I realize that, although we are giving communication our best shot - with my stupid, stupid Portuguese and her propensity for really fast speech, that we haven't really met. Her name is Priscilla. I call her "Queen of the Beach". Yes, she's seen the movie. No, she's not a man.

I establish the following facts: She has an extreme fear of frogs. Less than her fear of snakes, although frogs seem to be her big concern tonight. Her and Daniella met working at McDonald's. I proceed to follow my drunken master's advice. I am tranquilly tranquilly. I go for the kissy-kissy, but get the cheek instead.

Back in Nova Brasilia I find out that our fifth wheel doesn't know any of them at all. He was just following us around in case Aramis or I failed. I love this country. Good to know he'll be there to pick up the pieces. This discovery made some of his questions ("Do you like Priscilla? She's nice, eh?") extra creepy.

The night is over, basically, after some wandering and confusion. As we walk home I ask Aramis how he started talking to Daniella originally. He said he asked "Don't I know you from somewhere?"

Classic.

02-18-01

Aramis and I eat a late breakfast, then wake up Lucio and sit on his porch in the heat. Today we're off to the other end of the island, Encantadas. It's about an hour walk down the length of Praia Grande, and then over a pass where folks are paragliding, and then around some rocks and you're there.

We hang out on the seaward side drinking beer and eating fish fingers. Lucio is a pick-up master. He spots three women (three old women, albeit) and as they pass by he picks them right up. He gets the name of their pousada [guest house] ... see y'all later. 

I swim a bit and as the afternoon wears on we head for the caves. They are actually dikes which are much less resistant than the bedrock - the sea has cut them back 50 meters or so. The second one is tough to get to - Lucio and I wade around the corner with the surf pounding the rocks, reflecting, and then ripping the next wave. Half way there it strikes me as quite dangerous - but at least we avoided the famous mermaids or sirens that live here. 

Located on the bay side, Encantadas is the other village on the island. We stopped by the retirement home, I mean pousada, of the three ladies, in order to flirt with them and touch them a lot. I am really amused that Aramis, the young neurosurgeon who didn't have much trouble with age-appropriate women last night, is pursuing ladies 30 years his senior. We invite them for a beer in Encantadas - they are suspicious of me. They say I have the face of a detective. Probably because I'm trying to figure what the hell is going on all the time. 

Down at the bar Lucio gets impatient and picks up two more ladies to sit with us. We also meet three Aussies on a round-the-world plane ticket originating in London. They are weary of travel and will head home after Carnaval in Rio.  Lucio tries to pick up the female Australian too, even though her boyfriend is 10 feet away. Then the three original ladies join us and Lucio is in over his head. We all debate which country is the best in the world - Australia or Brasil. Whatever the outcome, it's definitely not the U.S. I gather.

We also acquire and old salty sea captain who will take us back to Nova Brasilia after he drinks a bit more. Collectively we are quite a gang - but all good times must come to an end. Lucio gets the digits from one of the gals from Curitiba - who says she is not satisfied with her current boyfriend. He also gets the e-mail address of the Australian gal. This guy cannot be stopped.

The ride back to Brasilia in the dark is breath-taking. A large, 180-degree thunderstorm is building up off the coast and lightening illuminates the entire island for brief moments. It is so frequent it appears there is a war nearby. The bioluminescence is also out in force. For a short time we are trapped in the bay - and have to get out and push. The captain of the "Ilha do Sol" puts the prop just below the surface and you can hear the bottom scrape sand. We are eventually able to retrace our steps and cross the right bar. At Brasilia we help him park the boat on the beach with his cart / trailer.

After some showers and a snack the three amigos return downtown - this time to a different bar. We pick up a fourth amigo - a cute, marbled-coat boxer. Lucio is pretty drunk at this point, playing "astronaut"  with his flashlight. He repeats "Houston, we have a problem" over and over. Soon it's "Houston, we have a dog", and upon further investigation, "Houston, we have a boxer". Houston joins us for some beers at the bar, in between roaming and fighting other strays.

Priscilla and Daniella sit across the bar. I have no fear. I'm direct. I swing my hips. Tranquilly-tranquilly. Conversation is still tough, however. I no speaky the language.

The thunderstorm arrives suddenly and all hell breaks loose. In a tranquilly tranquilly way. The thatch roofs over the deck are not so waterproof, and running in between them is like running under a waterfall. The bar clears out, the guitarist stops in the middle of "Girl from Ipanema" [I'm not making that up, he was actually playing that] and the waiters are going home.

Aramis and Lucio are not concerned - they are staying. They've found a French-Canadian and a Dutchman (who, believe it or not, don't like Americans) to shoot the shit with. Priscilla and I take advantage of a rain break to escape down to the docks. Once there she has only one question for me: "Do you have a spouse?" (Perhaps the word means girlfriend in this context?). It's funny to me that now is the time to ask this question, but - hey, we're learning.

I do not. "e voce?" [Do you?]. No? O.K. Then it's make out time.

Brasilians take their making out seriously. No fooling around. No talking. No breathing for the next 45 minutes. Seriously - in my mind I was subconsciously humming a tune I couldn't place. Then the words came to me: "So kiss a little longer, make it last a little longer, make your breath long-lasting freshness with Big Red!" Damn those insidious advertisers!

At the end we attempted verbal communication again - mostly about whether I could return Friday. I tried to compliment her in Portuguese, but later figure out that I had said "You are beauty". Close enough. She tried for quite a bit to explain something that seemed important to her - but I was totally lost. She said she'd explain later.

We said our goodbyes, see you Friday if I can make it back, and Aramis and I walked home. I was curious why Aramis wasn't interested in Daniella anymore. He said Daniella had told him that she was a virgin, and that Priscilla was too. Man these Brasilians get to the point fast. It dawned on me that that was what Priscilla had been trying to explain to me.

We're slowly learning the customs of Brasil. Be direct. Swing your hips. Tranquilly tranquilly, kissy kissy. Establish marital status and any virginity up front. But most importantly, no fear de womans.

Malt O' Nomics

It's finally over. Those of you that hate football can breathe a sigh of relief. You've got seven months of football-free sailing in front of you. The Ocean Beach Anti-Football League is probably throwing a party in celebration (I always smile when they refer to themselves as the AFL. Football historians always refer to the AFL-NFL merger, and I would like to see the NFL merge with the likes of Ms. Moshizzle, Da4ve or Karate Kid II. I feel like Troy Polamalu would make a pretty good Dungeon Master.)

Silly Circles is so fed up with football that she decided to skip the playoffs altogether. She told me to go back down to San Diego, watch all the football I wanted, and eat sugar cereals for every meal. At least I think that's what she said. Either way, like a good husband, that's what I did. And let me tell you - those giant sacks of Malt O' Meal cereal are a good fucking deal. Let's work out the Malt O' Nomics:

One giant sack of Berry Crackles: $2.99 (doesn't have to be that one - if you prefer the Silly Circles, Cocoa Nuggets, Cinnamon Toasters, Marshmallow Mateys, Honey Nut Scooters or Frosted Mini-Spooners you can have those instead. Just make sure the bag/box has a cartoon character on the front that appears to be completely losing its shit.)
+ One gallon of milk: $3.19
= $6.18

Divided by 16 meals (it's a big bag) = just under 39 cents a meal, before any applicable taxes. Now that's value. And if you're questioning whether or not a bowl of "cereal" is an entire meal ... you clearly have not tasted Berry Crackles. The body does not crave food after a bowl of the crackles. The body wants to take a break and think about things for awhile.

Sadly, Berry Crackles has not yet been inducted into the cheap-ass cereals hall of fame.

The point is my wife should report home as soon as possible. Let's just say me and that squirrel on the front of the bag have a lot in common.

If you've been boycotting the bucket because of my tedious football and booze gambling pieces - you can come back now. It's over. I need to get used to that. Time to fold up the juvenile jerseys and put them in the drawer. Stack up the $5.99 bandwagon caps and put them on the shelf. Take a drink of your beer because you're thirsty, not because you saw the Manning Face. At some point in a few weeks they will play the super bowl, I guess, but that's always been an afterthought. That's more of a time to eat, and play beach football, and watch commercials, and gamble on which bone Pete Townshend will break first during the halftime show (C'mon pelvis!). The spectacle overtakes and discolors the sport so much that it is unrecognizable, much like milk leftover from a bowl of Berry Crackles. So I don't count it as football.

What am I going to do with myself now that I'm not thinking about football for 16 hours a week? (that's a conservative estimate) Just off the top of my head:

(1) Physical exercise
(2) Start planning a Great American Trolley Race
(3) Find a job
(4) Take up the guitar
(5) Work more at work
(6) Write more / longer blogs, with more exclamation points.
(7) Make the world a better place

(1) But I just did a triathlon in November! That was only three months ago. I can't be active yet.

(2) As you may recall, earlier I was under the impression that someone might want to hire me as a college professor. On the off chance that that someone was not in San Diego, I put together a transition team to ensure a smooth and autocratic transfer of power. Sketchie took over the Halloween Party. Da4ve, Karate Kid II, and Ween took over the Trolleys. I am still searching for the right team to run the tour - but I don't need to worry about the GATR. It's taken care of.

(3) As you may recall, earlier I was under the impression that someone might want to hire me as a college professor. I was wrong. I think it had to do with getting three campus interview invitations my first three applications. It gave the whole thing an air of inevitability. That was before I followed those three interviews with (a) not getting any of those jobs and (b) going on an 0 - 8 streak with subsequent applications. Not even a phone call. Just a form letter rejection, or worse, nothing at all.

I have given up on the professor dream (for 2010, but I'll be back) and now need to find someone who will pay me to do anything. I haven't started looking outside marine science / biology, but that day may come soon. For now I'm clinging to the belief that a PhD +2 years post-doctoral experience is a relevant job qualification for something.

So (3) is an early front-runner. The depressing part about this graph is that it's 14 years old. It's only gotten worse.

(4) Man I've been wanting to get back into the six-string for a while. I should schedule a bonfire / concert as a motivational tool. We can party like it's 2007. Remember that?

(5) That would really help with (3).

(6) and (7) are mutually exclusive, so I'm going to have to consider that choice more carefully.

I'll keep you updated. Until then I'll most likely spend most of my time going to MONSTER JAMS!

The monster jam on Saturday was so awesome that I now dedicate my first EVER youtube mashup to it! Press play and play. Behold:

YouTube Doubler

Thanks to the Bard for putting me on to this site which allows you to make the mashups. I can't think of seven things that would be better uses of one's time.

The first thing one should do to participate in a monster jam is to pick one's truck. Well, right after one picks up beer, and bikes to Old Town with Sketchie and MyCDfriend, and takes the trolley to Qualcomm, and meets the Wolverine in the parking lot, and drinks all the beer, and rips off one's outer clothes to reveal a secret MONSTER JAM outfit while screaming 'MONSTER JAM!', and has an Australian rules football "drop-crush" can smashing contest, and MONSTER JAMs Sketchie while she's in a Porta-John, and then wonders holy shit could this thing actually sell out?, and scalps some tickets, and finds one's seat, and then one picks one's truck.

Don't be hasty. Wait for them all to come out before screaming, "Ninja Turtle! I pick Ninja Turtle!" You might also want to pick:

Grave Digger: Since Bigfoot retired, the biggest name in Monster Trucks.
Tropical Thunder: Just two letters away from copyright infringement!
Blue Thunder: Strangely, covered in pictures of lightening, not thunder.
Iron Outlaw: Woman driver! Look out!
The Patriot: Root for something called "the Patriot" to do doughnuts in the middle of Qualcomm Stadium?Hmmmm ... where have I seen this before? Too bad you can't make a truck mock the lights-out dance (and while we're on the topic...when they scheduled this how did they know the Chargers wouldn't be hosting a home playoff game this weekend? I mean, besides the obvious. Sports hate relapse!)
El Toro Loco: Four-foot-long horns. Yes.
The Avenger: In the shape of a pickup!
Bounty Hunter: has come to collect!
Terminator: not officially licensed, I don't think.
Iron Man: officially licensed!
Obsessed: Is the least monster-trucky name of the bunch. More like a perfume than a truck. It would be like hearing Ricky Martin playing in the parking lot of a monster jam. Which we did.
The Shocker: But if you pick this truck, what hand gesture could you possibly throw up in salute?

See, if you were hasty you might have missed the chance to root for the only truck with a tail and floppy ears. That's right, here's comes Monster Mutt! Turn up the Mutt's sound all the way!

YouTube Doubler

Yes! OR, if you were really shrewd you would know to pick the one I did. I took a good look at the field and selected McGruff, the crime truck. It had lights and sirens that it turned on during the runs! It took a bite out of crime! It was officially licensed! Its driver was named Rod Wood! I am not making this up!

AND ... it was BY FAR the worst monster truck of the bunch. Like, empirically the worst. This isn't just about smashing short buses and doing doughnuts. They have timers. They have judges. They keep score. According to those metrics, McGruff SUCKS at all the things that are considered "good" in the world of Monster Jams. I was glad I had smuggled in whiskey.

What's this? Is this the actual McGruff freestyle video from last weekend? Yes it is. I'm pretty sure that if you took an alien to monster jam on his first day on earth, and this was the first thing he saw, without any context whatsoever, that the alien would give this performance a two out of ten. I think it would figure out that monster trucks have the capability to, I don't know, catch air off jumps, and do sweet-ass shit, almost all of which McGruff fails to do when given the opportunity:



Side note about unintentional comedy: The whole "jam" is sponsored by, and heavily affiliated with, the Universal Technical Institute, apparently abbreviated "U.T.I.". Anyway, they say that abbreviation over the public address A LOT during a monster jam, in a variety of sentences and contexts. Did anyone else hang out with the same kind of people in college that I did? The kind that weren't really up on hygiene quite as much? Also, the slutty kind? What do you think of when you hear the letters U.T.I.?

In between the jams they have other competitions, such as Nevada vs. California in team quad-runner racing (Nevada kicked our ass - Qualcomm is cursed this week). My favorite was the demo-cross, a delightful mix of demolition derby and motorcross. Who ever finishes the race wins! My pick, the bipolar express, had the best kill of the race (a head-on collision while going over a jump - with immediate and explosive radiator results to the other car) but didn't make it to the checkered flag. Maybe I should stick to booze gambling.

Grave Digger won the freestyle of course - because that's who we all came to see. I felt like El Toro Loco got robbed, but I am not a member of U.T.I. so I don't know what I'm talking about. Nor have I had one.

Wolverine gave us a ride back to our bikes at Old Town, and Sketchie and I decided to go for the icing and meet Ween, Breakfast-cereals-we-don't-think-are-as-economical, Country Roads, Ippi, and Texas Toast at the Sandbar in Mission Beach. The bouncers liked my dress code violations so much they didn't kick me out. It may not have sleeves, but it's got fancy snaps! Watch me rip it off and yell 'Monster Jam'! We did some dancin', had some Shots-shots-sha-sha-sha-shots, and had the Mission Beach version of Regrettos before pedaling home. If I weren't out of Berry Crackles, and away from my Silly Circles, it would have been the perfect evening.



Yes. That just happened.

Who wants some?

Most media release their "best of" features long before the year, or in this case the decade, are over. How do you know something game-changing won't happen before the new year? How can you have perspective on the year's events until a little time has passed?

I'm not going to make the same mistake. I've let a month or so pass before putting together the nominees for this decade's 1st annual Bucket O' Awards show, coming soon to an internet near you. The people, things, and concepts that stood out the most from 2000 - 2009. I've followed each nominee list with a handy rebuttal from you - so you don't even have to! But if you are really offended by my egregious omissions, the comments section is open as always. All entries will be considered for an award. Vote today!

Unfortunately I only had space to put a picture of one of the nominees. But here they are, in no particular order...

The nominees for album of the decade are:

Drive-by Truckers: Brighter than Creation's Dark

Beck: Sea Change

Britney Spears: In the Zone

Brad Paisley: Mud on the Tires

Elliot Smith: From a Basement on the Hill
Flaming Lips: Yoshimi Battles the Pink Robots
Gillian Welch: Soul Journey
Wilco: Yankee Hotel Foxtrot
Hank Williams III: Lovesick, Broke, and Driftin'
The Hives: Tyrannosaurus Hives






WHAT? No Radiohead? A sacrilege! No Arcade Fire? They had TWO albums this decade that should be on that list. No Jay-Z? You are WAY out of touch, man. Have you ever heard of a little band called THE WHITE STRIPES? Fuck you, buddy! To top it off, you picked the WRONG ALBUMS from the Drive-by Truckers, Gillian Welch, and the Hives, not to mention Elliot Smith. Or do you have your head so far up you ass that you can't pull it out far enough to google when "Figure 8" was released? April 2000! That's this decade, motherfucker!

Did I get that rant about right?

The nominees for movie of the decade are:

Donnie Darko
Kill Bill (Vol. 1 and 2)
O Brother Where Art Thou
The Royal Tennenbaums
Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind
Adaptation
The Hangover
Bowling For Columbine
Shaun of the Dead
Being John Malkovich
Tears of the Black Tiger



How cliché, Mr. Wanna-Be Indy Film guy. You like Wes Anderson, do you, hmmm? I can't fucking believe it. Hey guys, look over here, I actually found ONE GUY ON THIS WHOLE FUCKING PLANET that likes Wes Anderson movies, and Tarentino movies, and ... what's this? Get out! He likes the Coen Brothers, too?! He defines cutting edge! You know what...go see "City of God" and then we'll talk.

It's fun to pretend to be you.

The nominees for Person of the Decade are:

George W. Bush + Osama Bin Ladin

and, um .... ?

Before you start into your rant, I'm not even going to go through the trouble of thinking up nine more people. Steve Jobs? Please. Barack? Give me a ba-reak. Your mom? Maybe. This category is locked up.

The nominees for "most overused word or phrase" of the decade are:

Voted off the island
It is what it is
Outside the box
Terror
Oh no you di-int
Getting your _____ on
Bling
Due to the economy
______ is the new ______
the letter i as a prefix



WTF!? You, like, virtually missed so many phrases, you literally don't have a brain, you wardrobe malfunctioning, lamp-loving shenanigan. Child, please - that's so 1999, beyotch. More cowbell is so hot right now, Blanky McBlankerton. That's what she said! Whatevs, what's the sitch with your vacay? My subprime WMDs are kind of a big deal, dude. Dude! Don't misunderestimate my strategeric sexting abilities on your blog, dawg. Do the google, which is part of the internets, which are a giant series of tubes, and I'm Rick James, earmuffs! I never learned to read, but your mother's a whore, Trebek! Giggity! Hug it out! Very nice! High five!

The nominees for athlete of the decade are:

Lance Armstrong
Tiger Woods
Tim Duncan
Martin Broudeur
Peyton Manning
Joe Sakic
Ray Lewis
Michael Phelps
Ronaldinho
The Williamses



But! BUT! I can't ... You just ... What about ....? ! [your head explodes]

The nominees for worst trainwreck of the decade are:

Britney Spears (now nominated for two bucket o's!)
Tiger Woods (now nominated for two bucket o's!)
Tom Cruise
Lindsay Lohan (mentioned in four posts in a row!)
Battlefield Earth
Michael Jackson (too soon?)
Fukuchiyama Line, Amagasaki, Japan, April 29, 2005
Mel Gibson
Sarah Palin
Michael Vick






Number of females nominated for Album: 2, Movies (director): 0, Person: 0, Athlete: 1, and now you get to trainwreck and there are magically 3? Wow. If you hadn't already mocked this construction during the overused phrases portion, I would call you Chauvy McDoublestandard.

The nominees for city of the decade are:

San Diego, California
Joinville, Brasil
Seattle, Washington
Davis, California
Lisbon, Portugal
Walla Walla, Washington
Ulaan Baatar, Mongolia
Bodega Bay, California
Phoenix, Arizona
La Bufadora, Mexico






I can see that you obviously didn't go to Cochabamba this decade. As such I find it preposterous that you even attempt to judge this category. Harrumph.

The nominees for pet of the decade are:



Francesca
Bailey
Mr. Bitey
Spike
No!
Spiderman
Tetanus
Out of the kitchen!
Squishy
Schtewart


At this point I've really lost interest. Keep on with this as long as you like.

The nominees for most improved thing this decade are:

Our ability to map a genome
The Cleveland Cavaliers
China
The amount of easily accessible independent music
Light Bulbs
The quality of widely available beer
Premium channel programming
The ability to see extrasolar planets
Free porn
Partisan Rancor



Sigh.

The nominees for best commercial this the decade are:



And while we're nominating one-entrant categories...

The nominees for best musical artist engaged to my godsister of the decade are:

Rodney Outlaw

One-nominee categories really take the suspense out of it. But you should make an informed decision when you fill out your ballots anyway:

Website is here.

Music available on itunes here.

I recommend Juke Joint, Juke Joint pt. 2, and Attention. Love the flutes.

Only music video I could find here:


Come and get it.

Luxury Pleasure Object

Why all the Favre all of the sudden?

You were expecting 18,000 words on how much I love it when the Chargers lose. I mean, that post does pretty much write itself. Some talk of karma,

and how douchey Philip Rivers is,

a little Nate Kaeding epic fail,

Lawrence Taylor getting his rightful nickname back (the side of the package actually reads: "Choking Hazard") ,

Shawne Merriman finally located hiding in a supply closet during the game,

Norval Turner adds another dazzling story to his towering monument to playoff collapses, 

and gets a three year contract extension.


But here's the thing. If there's one thing this game did to me, aside from making me really, really happy, it made me realize just how full my heart is with sports hate. It started with the early-90s Chicago Bulls teams, then had to expand to accommodate every past, current and future Detroit Redwings team. Now living down here my heart is bursting with ire for the Chula Vista Super Chokers. You can see Legadu Naanee's cleat poking through on x-rays.

(Just kidding, I just wanted to write his name. How could anyone hate anybody named Legadu? I like Billy Volek, too. Assumption Elementary School Soccer Rules!)

Much like the dark side of the force, sports hate is all-consuming. Soon you don't care how your team does, you just want the other team to get its heart ripped out. You want to hold it in your hand, blood streaming down your forearm, to feel that numbing euphoria again. When the Jets took the lead in the fourth quarter, the entire booze gambling team was shaking with excitement. It was a rush that can't even compare to your team's playoff victory.

Or maybe that feeling is from all the beer, I don't know.

Also like the dark side of the force, sports hate is a more powerful than sports love. All the blue and yellow body paint in the world was no match for the Prodigal's Ryan Leaf Jersey, my $5.99 bandwagon Jets cap, or my super-jinx of putting the LT Electric Glide video on my blog last week. Too much power for all those poor people in Qualcomm to overcome with their light switch signs.

Well, this kind of addiction just isn't healthy. I don't want to turn into that crazy dude in the robe that can shoot lightening bolts out of his hands. Sure, he was all-powerful, but he looked like hell. I'm going to set myself on the path to sports hate rehabilitation.

Some of the work has already been done for me. It's now clear that Michael Jordan is a sad, petty man, more deserving of pity than hate. It sounds like it sucks to live in Detroit - maybe the redwings are all that they have. But I have to take steps myself to rid my body of this toxic energy. And it's going to start this weekend.

Now, I don't hate Brett Fav-re. But I do hate the volume and content of what is said about him in the media. So instead of seething every time the announcers starting getting on their knees and unzipping Brett's fly, I'm going to take a deep breath. I'm going to embrace the hype. I'm going to enjoy the wrangler commercials. Brett does look like he's just having fun out there. So let's just relent, relax, bend over, and allow them to perform the Favroscopy on us. I might even wager a pitcher of light beer drank straight from the pitcher on him.

I'm not sure you're aware of the sheer volume of Brett Favre parody/tribute videos there are out there. It is staggering. I have limited space* so I'll just show you the worst one:



* No I don't.

Wow. Epic. In other news, booze gambling might be the death of me. And I'm "dead" even at 4 wins 4 losses. I don't even want to think about how things would be if I sucked at picking games more.

Or maybe it's not the booze gambling. Maybe it's the all the other stuff. Since summer is here again it was time to grease up the beach cruiser chain, pump up the tires, hook up my crappy mobile speakers and go workin' on a night tour.



Team Wrench Face was up at the red neck yacht club, burning old Christmas trees and threatening to bust out the karaoke machine. Sketchie, Ween and Jonboy joined me in joining them, via the mission bay bike path.

I love that bar so much. Very reasonable prices, no over-crowding - both because it's a private club. That status might also have something to do with their can-do attitude. Thinking of sharing pitchers but not feeling like drinking beer? How about a pitcher of whiskey coke? The bartender had never done that before - but why not? I don't suppose you can sell me some unopened to-go beers for the long cruise home can you? Yes you can!

I just love it when people or organizations understand that life doesn't have to be more difficult than it is. Tedious liquor / zoning laws aren't nearly as important as the simple truth that I have money, you have beer, and let's trade.

Saturday was time to pay the piper for last-weekend's indiscretions. I made a trip to BevMo, the happiest place on earth, to get some Cherry Brandy and, since I was there, a bottle of Becherovka. No offense to Indianapolis, I just didn't want to have to make a second trip. Sadly, they were out of cherry brandy, but happily they sell 30 other cherry-flavored things you've never heard of. I ended up settling on Cherry Kijafa, a Scandinavian cherry liqueur. I think it was the beet juice that gave the Kijafa the edge over the Ginja and all the others.

It actually isn't that bad. It has the consistency of reindeer blood, but tastes kind of like mad-dog flavored cough syrup. I also owed an incredible hulk, but the Black Hole didn't have a lot of the ingredients (who the fuck orders something that needs Blue Curacao at the Black Hole anyway?) so we settled on a shot of Midori dropped into Rock Star. Mmmmmmm. It did turn green and make me angry, so I think it counts.

I was all paid up on my bets for about 1 hour, before New Orleans "brought the wood" and used it to knock Kurt Warner the fuck out. I have that kind of luck. The first time I get sick of losing to Arizona and decide to try winning with them for a change, they play exactly like I thought they would all along, and I'm back at the Black Hole ordering a white wine spritzer.

I put some yacht rock on the juke box and wore a captains hat to really get into the role, but none of that changed the fact that horrible white wine with a splash of soda and cranberry juice tastes awful. By far the hardest pay-up I've had so far. Seriously.

Let's pause for some serious ass-slappin':



I love the part where Brett taunts the defensive lineman, who's not supposed to be on the goal line defense, right before a touchdown run right at him. That and I love the part where he treats his head coach like a child. I also love ... wait, maybe I just love Brett Favre! Say it with me! I love Brett Favre! I feels so right! All you need is sports love!

Sunday went well, all things considered. Just one shot of Southern Comfort due in the morning, which was easy to take because I was still drunk from the last 48 hours. And then you know what happened with the Jets, and I'm trying to cut back on my use of the term "Suck it, Chargers". It aggravates my sports-hate condition. From there it was right on to Ween's sandwich party. I was unclear whether he meant sandwich like the food item, or like the three-person sexy dance. I picked up a $5 footlong just in case. He did mean the food item, they were delicious, and we did make time for the dance as well. You put this song on:



and it's hard not to respond in some way.

Man I love that song.

It was a great party.

Bring on the brackets! Bring on the love! BrettFavreBrettFavreBrettFavre!

What about Lindsay? Three words: luxury pleasure object.

Om Nom Nom Nom

What a lop-sided wildcard weekend. First, New York did to the Bengals' season what this pelican does to that pigeon:



Then Dallas came along and did to Philadelphia what this baby hamster does to that broccoli:



Then the Ravens pounced on the Patriots like this Arctic Fox does to whatever was hiding in the snow there:



and then burned them like Megan Fox likes to do with her tongue:



And then twisted them into a ballon animal like Vladimir Putin:



Wait ... what? I don't know. Did I forget to mention that it's birds n' mammals gif day on the bucket?

Yaaaaaaaaaaaaayyyyyyyyyyy! Let's get crazy! Fuck it! All vertebrates are fair game!



Where was I? Oh, yeah. The Patriots were getting treated like this Ostrich:



and ejected from the playoffs much like this squirrel:



So you probably thought that in the last game of the weekend, one of the teams would treat the other like this cow treats that man:



But no! Although both defenses welcomed both offenses into their end zones like Jessica Alba:



in the end Arizona were the ones removing their bra into the 2nd round:



What!? O.K. I'm not sure what that means either. But it does appear that Jessica Alba is indeed a mammal.
Anyway, which of these four wildcard winners has the best chance of gunning down a top seed?



Scaring away a team that is clearly bigger and badder?



And dancing its way into the conference finals?



Now I'm pushing it. Anyway, I'd have to go with this Dirty Sanchises, of course! San Diego can't run, and the Sanchises defend the pass well. The Sanchises can run, and the Gins can't defend the run. And you can't forget Norv Turner, who always seems a little bit deer-in-the-headlights during playoff games, like, I don't know, maybe:



Yeah, like that.

Of course, it won't be easy for the other road teams, like the Ravens, trying to do the impossible in Indianapolis:



The between-the-legs touchdown spike.

I think they are going to get the proverbial knee in the proverbial groin by the Colts.



The Cardinals are going to have a rough time in New Orleans, especially with that atrocious defense, but I kept betting against god and puppies last year, and lost everytime except the super bowl. And don't try to tell me that Jesus didn't step in during overtime to give the Cards that weird touchdown. I've learned my lesson, I'm taking the wine spritzers, hoping that New Orleans' magical season ultimately leads to a swing and a miss in the playoffs.



Speaking of New Orleans, we have a winner in the booze gambling coloring contest! 30-something year old "The Bard" from Seattle, Washington submitted the winning entry, called "NO Shockey LA Bush":

1.5oz Aftershock
1.5oz Cherry Kool-Aid Mix

Mmmmmm! Easy to swallow! Kind of like:



Although I'm not sure about the name. You can tell by the pictures that this is a family blog, with balloon animals, after all, and although that name contains the letters "NO" and "LA", which stands for the city and state, I prefer pronouncing Bush with more of a Boosh sound. I think I'm going to call it "Ferme La Bush" which is French for "Shut your mouth". That way you can scream at the person in French for being such a stupid football booze gambler, all while they take a nasty shot. Although it does have Aftershock, which kind of sounds like Jeremy Shockey. How do you get Reggie Bush out of the Kool-Aid, though? Maybe cause he's soooo Kool? Whatever. You call it what you want.

That leaves the Southern Comforts at Minnesota. That's a tough call, but I think I'm going to ride the Southern Comforts throughout the NFC playoffs. They look Southern. And they comfort me.

Unlike this creepy Lindsay Lohan gif:




Worked her in there! Yes!



Now all that's left is come up with some family-oriented booze gambling brackets for everyone to print and use this weekend.

Then just make sure you take your drinks.



I went two-for-four last weekend (swept Saturday, got swept Sunday)-  I can't wait to start off my Saturday morning with some cherry brandy and an Incredible Hulk. If all goes well I can follow that up with a big, fat nothing! Four-for-four this weekend! I feel it! Then maybe I can forcibly doe-see-doe with people OTHER than complete strangers, NOT force the same non-strangers to repeatedly do the limbo under my outstretched arm, and NOT wake up having pulled something doing a jig. Wouldn't that be fun? God only knows what I SAID, for some reason I have only visual memory from that evening.

Have fun this weekend.