In Between a Attled Sea and a Port.

All good things must eventually come to an end. I don't know who invented that phrase, but it has long since passed into the cliché bargain bin. If it were a movie, it would be Beastmaster 3. And I still can't resist picking it up and using it myself. Also like Beastmaster 3.

Our last meal in Seattle was I think one of the beast breaking of fast that I've ever had. I went with a roast beef hash that was the special for the morning. It was either that, or the Chorizo biscuits and gravy. For me, this was my Sophie's Choice moment, and that is without a bit of hyperbole. Not a jot. Big decision.

As a rule of life, if it sounds good, always go with the special.

We checked out of our hotel and I was reacquainted with how hill-infested the region actually is. And as I lugged my 50 pound bag the two miles between us and our destination at King Street Station,I kicked myself along the way for not bringing along a backpack. Nope. I had to opt for the duffel bag. Stupid. Fortunately my arms are big and muscular. Unfortunately the previous statement is a lie.

The train was late. Go Amtrak! Nothing else to add to that. We just got/had to hang around the train station for a couple hours longer than we had planned. Alls well, the décor was worth an extra gander and I got some good pics before they called us to board the train.

I had been looking forward to the train ride since booking the trip. A train seemed like an easy way to get out and enjoy the scenery, as it passed your window at 60 miles per hour. I was facing backwards, and the weather was overcast and foggy. Foggy and overcast. I don't need to make that tire ass Seattle joke do I? Because I will. No joke is too tired for me.

The very first thing I noticed as we made our final approach into Portland were the garbage streams. Not literal rivers of garbage, but streams of refuse that seemed to be flowing down hill. As if a landfill got all biblically gone done pulled a flood and then just projectile vomited its inner secrets unto the world. That was what the road to Portland looked like. Trashslides and rubbivulets.

Behold the beauty of the Pacific North West in all of its splendor!

The station we arrived at lacked the grandeur of the one we had left behind, it was much more utilitarian and pedestrian. Which in retrospect seems fitting and an apt metaphor for a comparison between the two cities. Odd, as Portland has somewhat of a reputation for being a wild and weird frontier city. You would expect their public buildings to reflect that more.

To be honest, Oregon as a whole struck me with a similar vibe. Like they had been a meeting point between hippie and cowboy and created some sort of self-hating mutant hybrid. Or maybe a pair of siblings that both thought that they alone should inherit the estate. Oregon is a weird place. I liked it.

The weather was sunny and beautiful. Which is exactly how I remembered Portland. The one time I visited. Three years ago. For about 1 day, before I shuffled off to Eugene to hang out with the one person I really wanted to fly across the country to see. Didn't see her again this time. I made missteps and things seemed awkward. I don't seem to have the social wherewithal necessary to unawkward the whole mess.

I am pretty good at regret though. And revisiting embarrassing memories. I'm tops at that. Shit, I should get a medal.

So yeah. Portland.

We didn't spend much time wandering around down town.  Only stopping briefly to pose for a photo near a giant eye sculpture.  A giant eye sculpture with a steering wheel and captain's chair.  Eye Eye Captain.

 Because fuck that. Remember the whole “I'm carrying a bag thing from earlier”? Yeah, touristing can wait. Once again, we hopped the train and rode the rails. All the way up to the hotel that I stayed at during my last visit. I recalled it was clean, near the airport, and a half block away from the Red Line.

The rest of the evening was going to be spent unwinding. Unwinding, on a vacation. It sounds stupid when I read aloud my words to myself. But that was what we did. We hung out in the room and watched Rifftrax on my phone, until we ventured out to eat.

The discussion followed the form of: “What about?” “No”. For a distressing amount of time. Until we chanced upon El Sombrero. What is El Sombrero you ask? Well that is a stupid question. But I'm really good at answering stupid questions, and usually with only a limited amount of condescension and sarcasm.

El Sombrero is a Mexican joint that serves “Basic no frills Mexican fare.” What I consider standard Mexican food. Combo plates that automatically come with sides of Beans and Rice.

Dude, I live in a city with a sizable Latin population. There are numerous taquerias. So I suppose that I can be argued that visiting a foodie Mecca like Portland to eat at a basic Mexican joint probably as blaspheme against some minor hipster foodie deity. And fuck that tight pants bearded asshole. Lets get us some Mexican! And not even fancy Mexican Fusion made from exotic blends of unexpected ingredients that elevates the meal from simple sustenance to an art form. An experience.

Nope. Just tacos and beans and rice.

And goddamnit was it phenomenal. If El Sombrero was here, it would be on my “Visit this place more often” list, as we bookended the day with amazing eats.

Foreshadowing and spoilers, but this was the best meal I had in Portland.

Small change pimpin'

Ah the Wisdom Teeth Saga.  It's over now.  Here's the Finale.

I re-worked/revised/reviled the other two posts and then added my last visit.

Dry Socket to Me!

Princess Kitten here.

Ah the dentist. I am making up for time lost to their tender embrace.

The last week has lead me to an uncomfortable bit of self-knowledge.

I appear to love having masked women prod my mouth with metal instruments.

I must. I've been back to the dentist office twice since last friday. And that is what dentists, and hygienists and dental assistants appear to do. Maybe they have off hours where they aren't jabbing folk with do-hickies that they have lying about the office. There are 24 hours in a day after all? How long can the jiggery-pokery keep one entertained? Long enough to fill 20 or 30 year long careers it seems.

No clue what path this new found understanding will force me down, but I expect it will end with “Getting A Face Tattoo”. I really wonder if the more artistically inclined subset of humanity, who enjoy the whole jabby-jabby activities on the whole, go into tattooing instead of dentistry.

I felt that I was doing fantastically well the weekend after my extractions. And maybe I was. The bleeding was lessening, and I wasn't in tremendous pain. In fact, I managed to get a couple of long hikes in over the course of two really beautiful days(seriously, sunny and 50 degrees in Febuary?). So all was well.

All I had to look forward to, was getting my sutures removed on the following Friday, and I was home free. And then the pain didn't stop. In fact, it got worse. Imagine someone slowly pressing a screw-driver into your temple. And then just leaving it there for hours upon hours.

The experience is frightening, or it was to me. I worried about having an infection that the Amoxicillin wasn't prepared for. And after 2 days of discomfort, I called my dentist office again and requested an early visit to their kind and stabby domicile. They assented, and I found myself once again leaning back in a chair as another masked women poked at my teeth and asked me if I felt any pain.

Nope. None there. Just the impending implosion of my maxilla as it all burst inwards.

They said my gums appeared to be a bit agitated, but looked to be healing well. But decided to up my anti-biotic to ten day regimen of augmentin. The sister informed me that I am in line for a nice case of Thrush. A fungal infection that is often suffered by people who take heavy doses of anti-biotics.

I thanked her kindly for setting another anxiety in my path. Just what I needed.

But, they placed a medicated pack into my wounded gum and placed more gauze over the newest edition to my jaw. Really, there was room, as now there were 2 holes just sitting there. Waiting to be filled. Don't read anything into that.

The effect was rather quick. The pain went away. And then they packed my face with some more gauze. Really, I think that I'm developing a pathological fear of gauze, soft as it may be. Gauze seems to manufacture saliva, and as I was driving back to work about a gallon seemed to materialize in my mouth. And there it sat, as spitting is impossible as you try to keep a wad of gauze clenched between your teeth. All you can do is open the flood gates and release a tsunami of drool.

When I returned to work, I felt fantastic. The lack of pain left me feeling energetic and happy. That lasted until the following morning. After yet another night of rough sleep, the pain returned. Thursday was a eternal.

I was noticing a rather large hole in the back of my jaw, were the wisdom tooth usta been. A gap in the gums through which you could see all the way to the bone. That folks, is dry socket. The cause of my pain. To paraphrase the eloquence of The Iron Sheik – THE DRY SOCKET IS A JABRONI, FUCK THE DRY SOCKET LIKE THE MONDAY!

Friday seemed longer. Felt crappy. Even though the pain receded. Only had to make it until that evening for endgame(probably not, the way my luck runs). I returned to the dentist office for hopefully for the last time, to finally have my sutures removed.

The Dr. wasn't about for the sutures. But one of the 4 Hygienists I've seen over the course of the week was able to step up. Which is how I found myself in yet another chair, being poked by a new set of tools.

She found a sliver of bone sticking out of my gum and plucked that, before removing the sutures proper. And then re-packing my face with a syringe full of gel called Sockit! Sockit! Is wonderful. I don't know how well it works. But I love puns. And it seems to be keeping my pain at bay.

Hopefully this is all over soon.

I don't think that I have the fortitude to live with chronic pain. I wonder how people manage to live like that, and don't know if they inspire me or not. I think I might be inclined to take the easier way out, as all Princess' must. That is, picking a knife-fight against a biker gang in some Mexican dive, giving a good account of myself, before finally going down for good.

It's our way.

In Greece, people use large wooden horse to get into Troy. In Michigan they use horse to get out.

The world of Detroit is akin to a planetary nebula. That's where a star about the size of our sun goes through its final death throws, expands to the size of a red giant, kicks off a ring of gas and dust and then finally collapses into its final form, a white dwarf. White dwarfs are cold and dim(relatively) remnants of extremely dense matter (they're the size of the earth with the mass of the sun) that no longer work as nuclear furnace. For all intents and purposes they're corpses that have retained some body heat. Detroit is like this. I think. Detroit, burned bright for most of the last century and now it's a remnant. While the suburbs seem to expand outwards forever. But it all looks about the same. Cookie cutter extruded mass of suburbia. It is a strange thing, we in America consider ours to be a melting pot culture. We are a microcosm of humanity. But when you get down to it, any city built in the last fifty years looks exactly the same as all of the others. Block after block, this maze runs. If you were to fall asleep in one of the suburbs of Detroit and awake in the outskirts of Indianapolis, I doubt that you would notice. We are diverse homogeneity, and I hate it. Our cities tend to grow more and more uninteresting with each passing decade. What brings this on? I got to spend the weekend in Troy Michigan, doing Data Entry for a pharmacy that was switching software. I spent 17 hours transferring patient records by hand from the old system to the new. Then afterwards I got to see a little of Troy. Worst Vacation Ever. The Onion has a wonderful story titled something like 'College Senior hopes she can turn love of Data Entry into Career in Data Entry.' Wonderful Satire. But for anyone who doesn't know, data entry is simply taking information from one source and inputing it into a computer database. It can be described in a word, Tedious. If I had to look forward to a future of Data Entry, I think I would open my own veins. If I had to The pharmacy was an interesting place, as these things go. They seem to have moved recently and were in a rather disorganized state. Fine, that makes the environs that much more interesting. A bit of clutter is nice and homey. Even if such isn't the ideal way to run a business. But as the weekend passed, the crew got things slowly squared away. It is a strange thing to drive two hundred miles and find things are similar to my own corner of the state. The Pharmacy in Troy seems to use the same distributor as does the two I've worked at here in town. So they have the same stickers on the same medication bottles. The drugs arrive from the distributor in the same dark blue, light blue, green and grey bins. One difference was somewhat cultural. On the west side of the state, it's a haven for Conservative Religious folk endemic in our nation. Christians mostly. Where they have religion at all, most are protestant. Black, white and brown seem to be the most prominent groups. The Troy Pharmacy was mostly, as was implied earlier, of folks who hailed form the Mid East. English and Arabic seemed to flow together, just like with Spanglish. Evil made the statement that it is disconcerting to hear a sentence almost entirely of one language that seems to flow around a single word from the other. They are like tantalizing scraps for an outsider to try to piece together the conversation from the bits and pieces that you understand. But anyone has heard Spanglish is familiar with the concept. Fascinating how two languages seem to inhabit the mind together. As someone who is unilingual, I wonder how multi-lingual folk engaged in the exchange decide when to flit back and forth. When do you decide that the German word for Panties isn't good enough, so you have to drudge up the Swahili equivalent? I would love to know how these choices are made and how conscious they are. But as someone who absolutely sucks at memorizing (I'm lazy and a language is made up of tons of sounds and their meanings that need to be memorized), I doubt I shall ever have the experience myself. Back to the office. It was a basement, a dungeon. Large and spacious, but lacking windows. I do love having natural light, it makes me feel human. I was lead to a cubical, mostly empty except for a chair and a computer. With a brief description of what I needed to do, I was left alone with a stack of papers. Behind me was a fellow who was listening to what seemed to be a religious broadcast. About Jesus and Islam. I'm not sure if it was pro-Christian, or trying to get Christians and Muslims to work together. From what I heard, it sounded like a little of A, while maybe trying to convert Muslims. The Preacher was performing a monologue about how important the prophet Jesus is to Islam, and how many Muslim kids are named after him, and maybe how the grass is greener over in Christianity. Has anyone else had an experience like this? Luckily I had my iPod. Oh iPod, you are one of the greatest inventions that humanity has yet devised! So, Data entry is how I spent my days in Troy. With a bit of religiosity and Metallica smattered within. How about the evening? We had a fine dinner of Olive Garden. I forswore the never ending pasta bowl, or whatever they call it. The food is of course tasty. But you can get it anywhere. According to Google there are at least three in the city where I reside. It'd be like visiting New York and patronizing Pizza Hut. Just get out, walk down the block, and find a good local restaurant! Though, I have no clue what sort of food Troy/Detroit might be famous for. There are a lot of Middle-Eastern folk, so Mediterranean food and Indian are my best guesses. - In our defense though, We're cheap and we had a gift card for Olive Garden. Free food isn't something Evil or I often turn down. Evil and I stayed at a place called the Candlewood Suites. Which was both awesome and lame. It's a hotel aimed at long term guests, and comes with a full kitchen, living area, and bedroom in each suite. Pretty damn cool, if somewhat old. Our suite had an aged television and a video-dvd player, which I expect is about par for the course. The kitchen is fully stocked with utensils and the inn offers a washing service gratis, as well as the free video lending library. But at the same time they seem to be rather laid back. Kind of how I would imagine a youth Hostel to be. I visited the video library, an eclectic collection of dvds and vhs tapes. I don't know who put it together, but they REALLY liked Steven Seagal. Vern has nothing on these folks, Though mostly it was Golden Era Steven Seagal. And I had already seen all the movies. Then there were the mysterious Bollywood tapes. They were encased in a plain white cardboard slip-case and had equally plain text on some tape denoting the name of the film and the major players. Tempting as these mysteries were to explore, I ended up folding to my inner historian and choosing The Assassination of Jesse James ETCETERA, a historical docudrama about said man and event. Three hours long it was, so I never got to the part about the assassination. Only that James and the people around him were fucking dicks. That was enough for me to hope that the Yankees would come back through and put a torch to that part of Missouri. Sunday saw more data entry – followed by pay and release. Freedom to leave Detroit. Judging by the traffic flowing out from the city, I am not alone in that sentiment. Most people were flying out of the city, like it was infested with zombies and on fire to boot. 80MPH+. Swerving like mad. One fellow we saw barely slowed down when they got off the highway and onto a ramp. It was good to be free of the city and on our way back home. Next week, Travers City Michigan.

My half-assed adventure in Agriculture.

An update! How exciting!

The problem with writing an adventure blog, even ones that are rather lame, is that you need to actually go on adventures for material. Obviously, my definition of 'adventure' is rather broad in that I write about any experience that is new or at least unusual for me. Which is why I've been holding off on my half-assed adventure in going to the super-market, as that would sink into the realm of no-assed. If you've been reading along and paying any attention, it is likely that you've come to the conclusion that I am an exceedingly boring person.

Congratulations Captain Obvious.

Well, back to the adventures, and the general lack there of. Back in January of 2010, I quit a job that I hated and proceeded to delve into the ranks of the unemployed. I did this during a recession, with no other prospects lined up. Dumb, I know. I usually don't leap like that, and my reasons were stupid. But I still feel it was one of my best decisions.

August of 2010 saw me re-employed but worrying about the age of my car and replenishing some of my spent savings. March 2011 saw my job disappear once more. Yep, no more driving to Ann Arbor to drug mule for the ungrateful crazies, or the patients. Amid a steep incline in gas prices(currently up over $4.00 a gallon) All in all, it's been a light year for traveling and adventures.

So, I've not done much and I've traveled less. Not too much different from when times are good!

In short, to summarize my motives in a couple sentences: The apocalypse is coming. When it does I'm pretty sure that grocery stores will have long lines. I hate waiting in line.

I am fascinated by the self-sustained and self-reliant lifestyle. I would like to experiment with growing my own food and generally living off the land. Ideally, I would set up a studio to work making pottery. I'd like to take up black-smithing. And then sell my creations. All with my beautiful wives Rosario Dawson, Emma Watson and Cristina Hendricks. I'd like. I'd like. I'd like. Problem here is that I don't see a way to make this sustainable. Unless I went the hot robot wife route.

I call this Kicking it Thoreau Style. (The hooking up with three exceedingly hot movie stars aspect of the Walden Experiment was in one of the lost appendixes).

Anyhow, all of that rambling is to set up this simple statement. I planted a garden. This combines steps 1 through 3 in my mind. Step three isn't big profit. Actually, 'big profit' and 'farming' seem to be mutually exclusive. 'Bankruptcy and despair' seem to fall in line more with 'Farming' these days.

I've never grown vegetables before on my own initiative. My folks have put in a couple gardens when I was growing up(Between ten and fifteen years ago). My grand-parents grow their own vegetables. And supposedly I come from farming roots on my Mother's side. So, I've been exposed. But sitting back and watching is different than setting off on your own.

The first problem is of course, my lack of experience. Secondly, we live on the second floor of our house and don't have any land. That means the garden has gone into planters(buckets that came full of cat litter) and hiding behind windows. Great, we don't have to worry about wild birds and animals ganking our bounty. We just have the tame cats instead.
I've been contemplating this for a few months now actually. So hopefully it works out. If not? Well, then I've learned something along the way.

Step 1: Getting the supplies.



We went to Home Depot and spent at least an hour wandering around as I only had a rather fuzzy idea of what I wanted to 'accomplish' with this entire mess. Thus the Underpant Gnome reference. First there are the basics: Pots, soil and the like. The common denominator that every gardener needs to grow plants. We grabbed a 2.5 cubic foot bag of potting soil, which is a lot of dirt. We already had some containers that would work as pots.

All this leaves was deciding what kinds of food we wanted to attempt and grow. First on the list was a handful of herbs. Basil, Oregano, Thyme, Sage and Rosemary. Just a bit of Parsley short of a grand day at Scarborough Faire. For the actual veggies, we rocked with pole beans, snap peas, tomatoes, peppers, and finally lettuce. Yep, we're rocking for salad. Might make us healthier in the end. Or we'll have a lot of dead plants on our hands.

Step 2: Bringing all that shit home and hauling it upstairs. This is a step by itself.

Step 3: Plant garden. We opted for a mix of seeds and seedlings. Seedlings when we could get them, and pure seeds when we couldn't. I spent the morning transferring soil to the 'pots' and trying to recall what I remembered about transferring seedlings and planting seeds. It doesn't help that the instructions on the seed-packets were less than helpful. Or I TLDRed it before I got to the helpful part. What? The packets are bright and colorful and very distracting. And I got to play in the dirt, something I've been missing since graduating.

since we're indoors, and we have cats, we've needed to devise a way to keep the plants off the floor and get them closer to what little sunlight gets through the windows(eves really kill direct sunlight). This is my biggest worry, killing the plants with shade. Right now I've opted for an old bookshelf. Will need to modify it later. Good thing I have tools and little sense.

So ends part 1. According to the packets, There should be some movement on part of the sedds within two weeks.

The hardcore life of a drug mule.

I got to do some drug-muling this week. Boy was it fun.

Wait, that sounds like an actual adventure, and not a twisted half-mirror image of one. I work for a pharmacy that specializes In supplying long term care facilities. Most facilities are on a 30 day cycle for their medications, meaning that they generally get one large shipment every 30 days. With exceptions being made for emergencies and new prescriptions. But all in all days are spent packing tens of thousands of dollars of medication for one delivery. All your eggs in one basket indeed.

Let me explain something about the facility in question. First, it is a depressing place to visit as they take care of and house car accident victims. I don't mean people who broke an arm in a car crash, I mean the folks who have come away permanently changed. Or just aren't there any more. One of the most depressing set of instructions ever seen on a script is probably "Apply to stumps." Really, when it comes to a place like this, those what die are the lucky ones. The rest are just vegetables and shells. Which is why, that if I get into an accident, I hope to buy the farm immediately.

I think that 16 year old kids, and people on DUI charges should be forced to visit... no, work at a place like the Facility. Videos and brochures and slogans are all nice, but you need to be able to experience in all visceral sensual detail what their decisions could lead to, either for themselves or for others. Let them apply ointments to the stumps of a vegetable for a few weeks. Let them interact with the brain-scrambled denizens that poke and prod and generally go on crazy.

And if they fail to learn the lesson, shoot them, as anyone that thick shouldn't be allowed to breed.

In seven months, this is the third time I've taken cycle to the Facility. The first time was because our driver decided to take a day off right as cycle was due. This was about two weeks after I started. I got to drive across the state and deliver the cycle. Which is for our little company a very big deal. Almost like, oh I don't know, some asshole captain of an oil tanker in say Alaska skiving off to get drunk and handing the job over to the peon who washes dishes. Except that I avoided grounding on any reefs.

This is all just to say, muling isn't my usual job, I just step in when needed.

Our driver promoted himself to the head of the delivery department. This happened when one of our competitors imploded and our business quadrupled in like a week. So they brought in a ton of new people and a half-dozen new drivers. Here's where my confusion begins, they have a load of drivers who are fully capable of taking an object from point a and leaving it at point b and then returning home. They have one woman who is dedicated to this route. Plus the self-styled manager of the delivery department carried cycle to this very Facility at least ten times in the past year, plus near daily visits in between.

When he stepped up, he gave his job to an older woman. One who has yet to win the confidence of some of management in her ability to take an object from point a and point b and then return. She's pissed off the goblin that works at the Facility, who just happens unpleasant creature who doesn't seem to like anyone or anything. So I was asked to go along to make things smoother.

Which brings me back...

It turns out that I wasn't just along as extra muscle, I was the actual driver and delivery monkey. This is a one person job, and I would have preferred to do it alone. Or better have our main driver take over.

If one of his hand picked followers is incapable of doing the job, shouldn't the head of the shipping department be the one who steps in? It's not like the man is busy, his days are spent chatting on the phone and taking two hour lunch breaks at Hooters. Yeah, this is great. I'm doing his job. I hope I get paid extra for it. I would like to be the head driver for a day. Hang out at Hooters. Wreck the company bathroom. Take an hour to fill one car up with gas. Creep out the female members of the staff and get away with it.

The drive over went quietly and smooth. How I like it.

There was yelling when we arrived, or so I heard tell of later. The warthog wasn't too pleased to see my copilot. She came out of the South Building and yelled "Don't you know where South is?" I pointed at the building and responded "Yeah, It's right there!" Had I wanted to see a real explosion, I could have said "Do you need directions?" But I like having my testicles whole and attached to my person, so I kept my mouth shut.

Beyond this, the delivery went rather smoothly. Dropped off meds, saw pretty girls. That's the one reason for a Facility visit for me, they have a lot of pretty girls working there. My company is sadly lacking on that front. Gotta go out and visit other companies to see natural beauties in their wild habitats. With luck, maybe I'll bring one home one day.

During the second to the last stop, one of the more mobile patients approached my copilot and asked a simple question "Did it hurt?" Now there are two possible reasons that I can think of for this question, and sadly he didn't opt for the first and instead finished with one of the classic pick-up lines. Only to immediately dive into a second, followed by a third. My copilot giggled the whole time. We don't think she usually gets that sort of attention.

A second high-point, if it can be considered so, involved an idiot man-child. Now, when you stand in the center of a group of angry women, and then make what can be considered sexist statements to them, you should expect to get a beating. He didn't seem to make that connection as they slapped him. He even asked why I didn't man up and help him. I called him a moron. That got a laugh.

Then the return trip. The trip out was quiet, the one back not so much so. I got to hear about the yelling, and autistic grand children and about a dozen other topics of less interest. I thought about the pretty girls.

My favorite quote from the entire experience was "Animals are alive." This wasn't from a head-paitent or a random crazy hobo, but my copilot just after we narrowly missed turning a living breathing turkey into something that could be squeezed through a feeding tube. I don't know what she meant by it - I think that this was my "If it weren't for my horse" moment. I've tried to dissect the statement, and the best I can come up with was that it was a philosophical observation about the changing of the weather and how animals seem to just re-appear again.

Or maybe she's just dumb.

Hercules Two: Clamation Boogaloo.

Adventures of Hercules
Lou Ferrigino

They made a sequel? Sweet Zombie Jesus, you have to be
kidding? Did they even watch the first movie before they slammed
down their cash to make the second? I thought not. Well
It's been two whole months, and then some, since I finished the Lou
Ferrigno Hercules movie. It took that long for the effects to
wear off and for me to recover from the shock. Unlike the first
movie, I managed to watch the entire thing without using the fast
forward button once. Like the first one, I had to turn the beast
off for a day and come back to it. It made my brain hurt.

Where to start. Well this movie seems to have been made by the
exact same people in the exact same style as the last. Same
cheesy 'special effects', same crap-tastic costuming, hell it even had
the same actors and the same freaking villain! I kid thee not,
the same actor playing the same villain. They resurrected the bad
guy, because he was oh so tough, you know with all the dieing he
managed to do in the end, and they used him again. Yeah, be
afraid Herc, be very afraid.

That's right. They resurrected King Minos, the evil user of
science, to fight against the power of the vaguely benevolent Gods and
the natural order of the universe. Was this movie funded by the
Roman Catholic church? I mean really, evil science? Science
the cause of chaos? In the end Minos didn't get any wicked ass
gizmos in which to battle the other bad guys with, he gets magic eye
beams, and a magic flaming sword. Make up your minds damn
it. is he supposed to be using a kick ass orbital death-ray
launched by the evil United States, or is he using the evil black
magic, invented by the United States? One or the other please.

Well the second movie actually seems to follow a plot that is at times
nearly makes sense. Well the story goes that Zeus' six magic
thunderbolts of something or other were stolen by some rebellious
goddesses led by Hera. These disaffected Hippies, thought to
gain, I'm not quite sure why they did it, but they did it anyway.
Well, yeah that's great, the thunderbolts are missing, the world is in
danger, send the Hercster to the rescue!

Well first of all, before all that started, some evil priests were
sacrificing a scantily clad babe to some god or demon of fire.
Two other scantily clad babes watch the goings on, and decide that they
don't like what they see, so they go for help. They consult a
pair psychedelic butterfly women, who tell them they need the help of
Hercules, and they'll find him in the forbidden valley. Just a
note, there's always a forbidden valley it seems in fantasy movies, and
the valley is forbidden for a very good reason. People in these
movies never seem to remember this fact.

Well The Herc gets to earth. The first thing he runs into is a
creature that I suppose is a werewolf, only it looks more like a
Greying cousin It from the Adams family, who happens to be wearing a
cheap baboon mask, with some dog-like sound effects added on top.
I'm not making this up, nor do I wish I were capable of making
something like this up. Brain Damage! Sadly the rest of the
movie doesn't get any better.

Once again to the so called special effects. The costumes are
cheap, both for the main human characters and for the monsters that
they fight. Some of the monsters use animation techniques.
Not that fancy-schmancy computer stuff, but the old fashioned
way. So old fashioned it seems, that they felt that they were
making it up as they went along. The stop-motion claymation that
they made use of, was out-done by such 1950s and 1960s fare as the
Sinbad films and Jason and the Argonots, not to mention Clash of the
Titians. No, it seemed more like a bad Gumby short at
times. The rest of the animation was just simplistic color,
bright primary hues mostly. Flat and boring.

Oh, I can't forget my favorite part of the movie, the Amazons fight
scene. Chicks with guns kick ass. It is a proven
fact. Much ass is kicked by chicks with guns. I cannot
reiterate this enough. Imagine my surprise and delight when the
Amazons were about to attack. And then disappointment when I
discovered it was just a bunch of men in drag. That's right kids,
rather than getting real amazon like women, they just dressed men up in
drag, gave them fake breasts and everything, and then dubbed it all
over with womens voices. No wonder the Amazons lost, not only
were they poseurs, they were also a group of confused young men.

Then there were the absolutely confusing aspects of the movie.
Zeus, at one point, confronts his arch nemesis chaos. I shall now
recreate the scene for you...

Chaos-chick: We're a lot alike you know, we balance things
between us?

Zeus: Oh yeah? Well poopy head, I gots me the time on my
side baby!

*A giant animated skull comes down and zaps her with a death-ray*

Zeus: Eat it clown!

I don't get it either. It seemed random, like it was added simply
for the chance to let their effects crew draw a giant skull and then
have it attack someone. The entire movie was like that. It
also went along with the first flick in it's blatant attempts to
butcher the original classical mythology. Though at least this time
there weren't any giant robots to fight against. The movie did
make a fair attempt at destroying my sanity and giving me epileptic
seizures. Why did I pay money for this crap?

The worst part is, I have failed to learn my lesson and keep watching crappy movies.

Round and round they go.

The general theme to this blog, at least in the beginning was that I would visit a place with my camera and take pictures along the way. Pretty damn simple. Except that I've been writing about adventures that don't really require photos, and I've not been bringing my camera since most of the events have arrived on short notice. It doesn't help that I went from having a lot of free time but no money to some extra money but little free-time. Paradoxes are a bitch. Growing up sucks. Here we are. Thus, I don't update too often. Only when something new and vaguely interesting comes into my life.

I live a dull life, as these pages will attest.

We kicked off the evening with BBQ at Sandmanns. If you ever visit town, be sure to give them a whirl. The food is inexpensive, plentiful and delicious. To the point that I feel the need to pimp them here to people who live across the far corners of the world.

I really don't enjoy spectator sports. Before I got lazy, I used to love playing games like soccer (football for the rest of the world) and badminton. I was reasonably decent at baseball, I even liked to run. Then, I graduated high school and drifted more towards geek culture and the computer gaming and general nerdiness. Yeah, I've played Dungeons and Dragons, and despite that I do one day entertain hopes that I will actually get to kiss a girl. It'll happen. Maybe. If I'm really lucky.

Anyhow, I just don't excited about watching other people play games. I don't gamble, and I'm not playing. I have nothing invested in whether or not a team wins are loses. I've lived in too many places to be attached to a club just by the fact that they 'represent' my home school/city/state. I've always been like that. I just take no pride in something that arbitrary and lame. Somebody else won a game that I wasn't playing. Meh.

But then, I watched Blood on the Flat Track: Rat City Roller Girls over that wonderful service that is Netflix. I found a new sport to appreciate.

Roller Derby has been around in one form or another since the 1930s. It's popularity waxes and wanes over the years and has been experiencing a resurgence over the last decade or so as leagues pop up all over the country. I hear it's really quite popular over on the west coast. But here in the midwest we have managed to cobble together a few teams. Which is cool, since It means that I didn't have to go far to experience this new delight.

Let me describe Roller Derby. Imagine one of those ancient Roman Chariot races where the chariots try to speed around the course and pass each other while beating the crap out of their . Roller Derby is kind of the same, in the fact that wheeled competitors are going around in circles around a track while inflicting harm. That's about where the comparison ends. Derby is a team sport where the opposing teams wear roller skates. The basic gist is as follows, there are about six players from each team on the floor. They're broken into two groups. The pack is made up of the majority of the players. They skate around in circles together as a big group, elbowing one another and generally carrying on in good fun.

Now for the scoring of points. Each team has a player called a Jammer. They start well behind the pack a moment or so after each round begins. The Jammer's job is to try and pass as many of the opposing players as possible. For each player they pass, they are awarded one point. There's some strategy here. The first Jammer to pass the entire pack is given the title of lead Jammer. It is in their power to call off the round whenever they please. Thus the strategic element to the game.

Then you have the coach, whose job it is to stand on the sidelines and yell “Skate faster!” and “Keep Skating.” The dude must be somebody's retarded brother. The special guy that wears a bike helmet and swim floaties wherever he goes, and he was just given the job to shut him up and make him feel special. Really, a coach on the sidelines is nearly completely useless in this sport. But hey, I love how the absurdity adds to the color. Don't change a thing.

Honestly, the spectacle gets repetitive quick for people like me. Roller Derby is rather linear and simple in nature. The players always go in the same direction. They always have the same goals. It's about like NASCAR, but with more intentional violence and far less deadly crashes. Yeah, they're really not allowed to get too physical out on the floor.

Where does it get interesting then? Well, here abouts anyway, the Roller Derby teams are almost entirely made up of female members. That's right. Girls on skates. Wait, it gets better. Girls in skimpy outfits on skates. Glee! Sex and violence. All the aspects that make for good entertainment. Women in hotpants and stockings bouncing off one-another.

That's about it. But what more does anyone need?

So, I had several weeks heads-up with the derby. I knew it was coming. I could have brought my camera. But I didn't. Why? Well, for the same reasons I don't often get pics at conventions of girls. I just feel like an utter perv. I am a perv. I know this. Known it for a while. But I don't like to draw attention to the fact.

But, should you ever get a chance, take in a match and make sure you experience this great sport live. Girls in skimpy outfits grinding and colliding with one another. Life is good.

The local league has two teams, and they import other teams to play against from such places as Chicago, Kalamazoo and Stepford CT. After watching Blood on the Flat Track, I looked up Roller Derby on my old friend Google and found our local league. I mentioned it to the Fat Man, who had also seen the documentary, and we made plans to hit it for my birthday celebration this year. Last year it was the Art Institute in Chicago. God, I'm a dork.

I'm waiting for the day that Derby gets the international attention that it disturbs. When it replaces soccer/football as the world's sport. Not likely to happen, since flat tracks and rollerskates are a lot more expensive than a ball and a field. But hey, it can at least make a showing in the Olympics. If Synchronized Swimming is recognized, Roller Derby is desperately under represented.

On The mean streets of GR.

Today, while walking the streets of Grand Rapids, I met Tony. Tony Indoctrinated me on the Secret Handshake in the midst of informing me that he liked me and that I had nice shoes. Tony Is from GR and I should tell them that. Yes Tony, my folks are doing just fine.

It was, needless to say, a strange experience. And one that I quickly moved away from, before Tony decided he wanted my shoes, or that I would make the prefect sex zombie to keep in his closet. What I'm really hoping though that Tony isn't actually a member of the resistance. A soldier dedicated to fighting the alien invasion. That might prove awkward, especially after the big attack when I decide to join the underground to avenge my slain parents.

Now don't get me wrong. I appreciate Captain Tony's dedication to freeing us from the oppressive yoke of the Glort Collective. But why couldn't it have been the cute blond with the bodonkadonk who introduced herself, groped me and pointed out my finer qualities?

Needless to say, I'm avoiding that street from here on out. Don't want to give Tony any ideas. Like that I'm stalking him. Or that I'm gathering intelligence for the High Inquisitor Gr'lvlclh'gnt to crush the resistance.

So I plan to survive the apocalypse. Despite all the odds against me making it. But I've been a fan of the genre in general for far too long to believe myself anything other than woefully ignorant of the mundane tasks of day to day life after the end. I mean really, I'm totally out of it when it comes to building a McGyver like trap to take out the last of those bastard biker nomads who just murdered my beloved wife and child. I'll need a wife first. Any takers?

I'd like to take up sailing. Windpower is unlimited, if a bit unpredictable. And the world's surface is covered with water, at around 70%. Plus, and this is important, frakking zombies can't swim. Ok, the buggery tradition of the open ocean isn't so overly appealing, but then sometimes you just need to live by the unwritten book of the sea. Not just the sailing, but the entire survival at sea class of skills, from navigation to gathering food and facing storms.

Next, I'll need to learn how to enjoy fish and other seafood. I hate fish. And I'll probably be living off it for a while. Unless there's some genetic revolution in the meantime and seacows are created. In that case, fuck the Tuna Surprise Jeeves, I'll have the steak. Scientific establishment, get on that would you?

There will probably be other survivors, and life on the move is rather lonely so I really need to work on some better pickup lines. Though accurate(hopefully), I imagine that "I'm neither radioactive or undead! Do me!" Will fail to bring in the honeys for very long. Specially after the other male survivors pick up on those magic words. Eventually I'll need to admit that I just can't compete with the three eyed mutant who can say (and prove) I've got a six inch tongue and can breathe through my ears.

I'm not going for some McGyveresque feat of "I've taken this box of rubber bands, this ballpoint pen and a bag full of baking soda and built a nuclear powered air craft carrier. What'd you do?" No, I'd settle with being able to open the hood of a vehicle and not saying "Gee-willikers, there are a lot of hoses and stuff. looks Like we're walking buddy."

Run a still and make a decent vintage(one that doesn't make the imbiber blind). I don't touch the stuff, and will likely be less interested when I see what goes into the process. But folks do like their liquor and they might be willing to trade. Keep that eye on the brass ring. Remember on you way out to try some Suttonstein's 3 hour special brew - It probably won't make you crazy.

Blacksmithing. Not so much for the weapons/tools/art, but more for the bulging muscles. It'll also give me some affinity for the warhammer.

Land navigation and wilderness survival. If I don't take to the sea I'm hitting the mountains. Which means I have to get to the mountains. And then not die of gross stupidity (I'm betting against myself on this one). It's unlikely that I'll stumble on a goodwilled ole'timey trapper type who will take me under his wing and teach me everything I need after the fact. Nope, gotta be proactive here. I plan to spend the next week or so watching and re-watching Jeremiah Johnson.

Aikido. Nuff said.

Playing gameboy without throwing it when I lose my temper after the fiftieth time in a row where the damn game cheats and I magically get hit and die right before I beat the last boss again, fucking god damn it why does that happen every time who the hell programmed this shit-fest they call a game. Best Buys might be few and far between.

Gardening. Assuming that I live to a ripe old age. Gardening is what old retired people do. I like to leave my options open. Besides how freaky would it be to one day happen on a random plot of land out in the middle of nowhere where a crazy old dude is growing petunias?

Free-style running/parkour. What the hell would be cooler than a post apocalyptic event with a parkour style chase? Imagine my bad self, clad in football shoulder pads and chaps, running through what's left of Paris as a gang of biker nomad mimes try and hunt me down after brutally killing my wife and child. of course there are too many to Aikido and I have no ammunition left (wasted it on the first gang of biker nomads - fuckers) so I have to parkour my ass out of there to lick my wounds and come back and get them with my pointed stick of vengance.

Skill 16, manufacture of kickass pointed sticks.

Knitting. So, after I broke my leg from a misstep whilst parkouring away from some rather savage looking midgets, I'll really need to be able to form a rope and climb the hell down the rest of the cliff so that I don't have to go over the waterfall. I'll just need to remember to keep a pair of long needles with me.

Exotic dance. You never know when it might come in handy.

There are probably more. But I think I have all the major ones.