Safeway Musings

As I so often do after going to the gym, I stopped by my local Safeway for some foodstuffs. I had a few thoughts during the expedition:

Hot Sauce? Hot Damn!

I grew up eating a particular kind of hot sauce. La Victoria Salsa Brava.

Is it authentic? No. Is it particularly spicy? No. Is it anything other than familiarly tasty? No.

The problem has been that for a couple of years now, I have been unable to get it in "Hot" flavor. Mild? Yes. Medium? Sure? Hot? No.

Until today. I was stocking up on the Medium when I saw they had Hot and it was on sale. I bought three bottles (enough to last a couple of months, at least) and I smiled more broadly than any condiment should cause me to.

Don't You Tell Me How to Live My Life

Whenever we check out at the grocery store, we can (a) provide our own bag, (b) use paper, or (c) use plastic.

I wouldn't be opposed to option (a) except my self-awareness indicates that I would bring my cloth bags from my car (with groceries) and then they'd sit there, rather than be brought back to my car... rendering them useless the next time I went to the grocery store.

I should, arguably, opt for option (b) since my father worked for many years in the now near-defunct timber and paper industry in Oregon (OK... I don't know if it's nearly defunct or not, but it's dead to me). Of course, my dad used to be part of a union, too, and heaven knows how I feel about organized labor.

The tie-breaker is that my cats use the kitty box. A lot. They use the kitty box quite a lot. And I need to clean it to have any chance to ever EVER have a visitor to my apartment come back (trust me; I had one woman abandon a pair of shoes and her pants at my place, rather than ever return, due to my cats (man... that sounds kinda bad when I tell the story like that)).

So, in spite of the massive plastic bag pollution that is a terrible thing, I get plastic bags so I can use them to dispose of my used kitty litter. I don't feel great about it, but I do it.

What I do NOT need is, as the checkout guy is restocking the plastic bags so he can put my La Victoria Salsa Brava (Hot) and other goodies away, is for him to say, "Let me get more of the evil bags."

Fuck you.

That's like a cop rolling his eyes as he recites the Miranda rights or a prostitute being glum over getting out a condom. None of these things make me happy, but they're necessary. Stop giving me grief.

A Poisonous Idea

Last week a 14 year-old robber shot and killed someone. Bad? Sure. No 14 year-old should be robbing, let alone killing. I gotta think, though, that it's not THAT uncommon... the reason I read about it is because she killed her victim after being made fun of for being so young.

Can you imagine that? Being robbed by a tween is sort of embarrassing, and a bummer, also. But being killed by one due to one's inability to stifle mockery? That totally sucks.

So imagine when I saw someone that looked like Bret Michaels today as I unloaded my groceries. I so wanted to tell her she did a great job hosting the Miss Universe pageant.

Yes, it was a her.

And, yes, Bret Michaels has had phases where he looked like a chick, but this chick looked like Bret Michaels when he looked like a dude.

I can't say I really thought of the victim of the 14 year-old robber when I bit my tongue--I'm not really someone who talks shit to people in an unprovoked way as we're both walking down the street--but I think that if I do choose to start comparing strangers to celebrities, I'll start with, say, Selma Hayak. Or Justin Bieber.

The Grossest Thing

Earlier this week I was under the weather.

I felt myself coming down with a little somethin' somethin' on Sunday evening, and all through Monday I sniffled at work and then Monday night I was shivering in bed and barely slept. I called in sick (well, emailed in... do people still "call in" anywhere?) and spent much of the day in bed.

At some point I made soup and then, for dinner, I felt like something sweet. Unfortunately, my choices were limited.

Let me comment about my refrigerator before I continue.

My fridge is pretty well-stocked. I usually have an apple or two and some lettuce; several types of cheeses (including cheddar, for late night quesadilla adventures); a doorful of condiments (mustards and steak sauces and whatnot); lunchmeats; beers that people have brought over and not consumed.

In other words, lots of stuff. As a single guy who can barely keep his half-dozen (up from three!) plates washed, I'm pleased that I keep myself in a position to be able to make food if I really needed it without leaving my apartment.

The thing is, not all of that food is good. Half of the lunchmeat is out of date, there are two half-consumed two liters of soda, and I don't even want to open the more distant tub of sour cream.


In other words: I'm good at buying food, and I'm decent at eating it, but I'm bad at cleaning out my fridge.

If you read the title of this blog, you might be worried after this preamble. But this is not a blog about fungus or rancid meat or gerbils who have sprung, fully formed, from head cheese (I don't even know what head cheese is, and I'm disgusted to learn it's a meat product; I was going for an Athenian birth allusion... )

No... this blog is based on the grossest thing I have encountered in my refrigerator:

Chocolate chip juice.

"What is chocolate chip juice?" you might ask.

There are two answers I can give you to that question: the first is that I have no idea what it was--chemical breakdown of the chocolate chips? condensation from the fridge? Spilled water from my Brita filter that I never use but has been sitting on the top shelf right above the bag of chocolate chips at the back of the fridge for a long time?-- and the second is that it was a liquid I found intermingled with the chocolate chips in the Nestle bag.

The problem was not just that I had impaired chocolate chips, but that (a) I had already mixed the pancake batter, and (b) I had my heart set on chocolate chip pancakes, and (c) I had no second bag of (unrunny) chocolate chips.

So... I powered through. I pulled the strainer out of my cupboard and poured the chocolate chips into the strainer and I rescued a few lucky chips from sharing the fate of their brown brethren (the trash can) and put them into the half-dozen flapjacks I made.

They melted strangely and weren't quite right, but they were close enough in terms of taste to stave off my sweet tooth... and I am still alive so it seems the chocolate chip juice was not poison nor was it the antidote to otherwise poisonous chocolate chips.

Earlier today, though, I stepped on a sticky spot on my kitchen floor. I thought I was rid of the chocolate chip juice, but I will have to spend time mopping that mystery sauce before it's gone once and for all.

From the Mind Vault

Sometimes I have something happen to me that is worthy (in my estimation) of a blog, but I don't get around to writing it, or I wimp out due to the subject matter.

Well, this happened to me some months ago, and I was 50/50 on writing a blog about it... and I never did. I feel it's a story that needs to be told, and given the chances of me going to Mexico next month and never coming back, I might as well let it all hang out... Ed O's Blog style.

Or something.

So here it is.

I was in Safeway the other day, buying a few things. I see the same people pretty much every time I check out, but the checkers see so many people I'm not shocked that they don't remember me. I'm reminded of the saying, "You have a lot of clients as a lawyer, but your client only has you as a lawyer" and so I hold no ill will.

Going through the express lane, I noticed there was a new woman, and we had this exchange:

(Ring up hot dog buns) Beep
(Ring up gallon of milk) Beep
(Ring up pack of gum) Beep
Checker: Do you want to keep this outside of the bag?
Me: No, I'm good.
Checker: OK.
(Ring up can of energy drink) Beep
Checker: Do you want to keep this outside of the bag?

Me: No, I'm good.

Checker: OK.

(Ring up box of condoms) Beep

Checker: Do you want to keep this outside of the bag?
Me: No, I'm good.
Checker: OK.
(Ring up box of condoms) Beep
Me: I'd like to keep those outside of the bag.
Checker: What?
Me: Nothing.

Now, buying condoms is not like buying toilet paper. One involves a signal of accomplishment (or at least aspiration) while the other seems... not. Even I, though, who rarely shy away from my selection and purchase of birth control, could not be so brazen in my joking. Maybe someday.

Mayor of Mexican Nightclub Kidnapped by Drug Hitmen

MONTERREY | Sept 26, 2010 1:55pm EDT



Mexico (Reuters) - Suspected drug hitmen have abducted the foursquare mayor of a local discoteca near Mexico's northern city of Monterrey in the latest surge in violence threatening to undermine industry and scare off social media geeks.

Gunmen with automatic weapons burst into Classico early Sunday morning in San Pedro Garza García, an affluent suburb of Monterrey, police and officials said, and targeted Ed O, a tourist from Seattle.

"He was led out of the club by armed men. He wasn't beaten, he wasn't hand-cuffed or tied up," Alejandro Garza, attorney general of Nuevo Leon state, which includes Monterrey and San Pedro Garza García, told a news conference.

Nuevo Leon Governor Rodrigo Medina said Ed O was probably targeted for his efforts on foursquare, a popular social media network. The tourist's family has not received any ransom demands.

Ed O's foursquare feed reveals he had checked in at Classico earlier in the evening and had become mayor by default. "The regulars know better than to claim Classico. The cartels just don't like people who use foursquare," explained Medina.

The abduction follows a spike in social media-centered violence over the weekend in northern Mexico, where rival gangs have engaged in bitter Tweet flame wars and have allegedly phished their competing Facebook community pages.

I Lack Flavor

Let's talk politics here for a moment before I get into something that a chick told me over the weekend.

I don't vote. I appreciate that people vote (although I am torn between being relieved that there's not a true oligarchy and that too many "normal" people are just too stupid to be making laws that affect me) but I don't consider it to be worth my time.

I also tend to be more rightward-leaning on the political spectrum when I am bothered to think politics in practical terms, which means (a) that any vote I made would probably be useless, since it would be going in favor of the loser, and (b) it makes speaking politics very sketchy with people in real life because most other people are more emotional and/or cocksure about political perspectives than I am.

With this being said? I consider myself progressive on several issues, and when I go out and about on a Thursday night I rarely think about race (someone might say that's because the places I go are predominantly white, and there might be some validity to that). I was forced to think about it rather late this past, Thursday, though, because of an exchange I had with a woman at Ozzie's.

I was waiting for my turn to sing, and I was at the bar solo, and I was speaking to a nice young lady. She was Asian, but (in spite of the fact that so many of my friends are currently dating Asian women) that didn't really matter to me. Race, though, was clearly on her mind, and it became apparent about 15 seconds into our conversation:

Her: What are you?
Me: What?
Her: What are you?
Me: You mean, like, what? Like, "I am awesome"?
Her: No. Your race. Are you Asian?
Me: Oh, uh... well, my mom was adopted, but--
Her: Because I don't date white guys.
Me: [ignoring the fact that I didn't want to date her, necessarily] What? Why not?
Her: White guys lack flava.
Me: They lack flavor?
Her: Yeah, flava.
Me: Flavor. Uh, OK...

I think we had a few more sentences exchanged, but I wasn't about to debate her as to whether we have flavor or not, and she CLEARLY wasn't picking up on the fact that I was hitting the "r" in flavor pretty hard, just to goad her into calling me on it.

Boo, racism!

Tuesday Night (or: Fat Grizzly Adams)

I used to go out on Tuesdays quite a bit. Especially during funemployment, I could wander in really late and sleep the morning away and be no worse off. Last night (a Tuesday) I had planned to stay in, do my dishes, talk about cleaning other parts of my apartment, and generally relax.

But it was not to be.

I received a chat message from Winner right after I got home, and I got this chat:

6:02 PM Winner: edo, why are you you?

  and what are you doing tonight?

 me: i just got home

  can I have 5 minutes?

 Winner: no

  fuck you

  we're going out tonight

  (courtesy of Big Apple)

  :D

 me: wowzers

6:03 PM heh

 Winner: let's say 10

  be ready

  with your hair did

6:05 PM and no stache (from Big Apple)

Winner is not really the kind of person that says, "Fuck you" to me (indeed... few people do, even in jest, on account of my legendary temper and penchant for eye gouging), so I wasn't shocked that it was Big Apple who was in charge.

I was in the middle of making dinner, and had no intention of shaving my mustache just yet, so I txted back that I wasn't sureI was going to make it out. And then it happened.

(Hopefully that sounds super-dramatic. It wasn't, but I like adding spice to blog entries occasionally...)

Big Apple txted me and asked why I was trying to ruin her night out. Ugh.

I hadn't seen Big Apple in over a year, and I will be honest: I am particularly susceptible to suggestion when it comes to her. I don't really know why--I generally am rather skilled at ignoring peer (or near-peer, when I'm feeling particularly superior) pressure--but she could probably get me to do just about anything for her. And she probably knows it.

So, when she said we were going to sing karaoke, I just rolled with it. I had a drink and the two of them picked me up and spirited me off to Hula Hula... a place I used to frequent but haven't been to in the last year or so.

It was fine. It was fun. It was good to see the ladies, even if they didn't sing... I got in four songs, which made for a busy night.

A bit before midnight, we decided to go to another bar. I didn't catch the name of it, but Big Apple wanted to see another friend and so we drove to Belltown and parked and walked into the Two Bells, which I had been to for lunch but didn't really know was a bar that people went to at night to drink and hang out.

Well, if last night was any indication: it's not a bar that many people go to to drink and hang out.

There was a bartender, Big Apple's friend, another chick with a guy, and two dudes sitting with one another. It was a friendly enough place, although I knew I was done drinking for the night and I was wondering if I was going to be able to get a ride home or if I'd end up hoofing it.

I was sitting in a booth, talking to Winner, and Big Apple was bellied up to the bar, between her friend and one of the two dudes sitting with one another.

Let me say some things about this guy, who we will call Fat Grizzly Adams (see picture to the right). He was fat and had a bushy beard. And a bit of an attitude, but we'll get to that in a moment.

Big Apple and her friend were talking and looked over my way and I asked them what they were talking about and it was, of course, my mustache.

I have a love-hate relationship with my facial hair. Up until relatively recently, I was pretty much unable to grow any significant amount, and I'm still in the "it's fun to play with growing it in different ways" kind of immaturity that, presumably, many guys grow out of in their junior year of high school. I'd let my facial hair grow for a bit over a fortnight and then cleaned it up so I'm left with a rather tidy 'stache and soul patch.

Crappy? Yes. Ironic? Yes. Awesome? Yes. When it comes to facial hair, these concepts all get intermingled and confusing.

In any event, Big Apple and her friend had a conversation (between the two of them, but staring at me) that went something like this:

Big Apple: He needs to shave the mustache.
Big Apple's Friend: I dunno.
BA: He does.
BAF: Mustaches are hard to pull off, but he does it.
Me: I do, huh?
BAF: Yes, it's a tidy mustache.
Me: Oh, yeah?
BAF: Maybe it's the hair.
BA: Yeah, the hair! You make the hair just right so it goes with the mustache.
Me: Uh, no, actually, I...
BA: You do! You stand in front of the mirror, adjusting it so it all works.
Me: Uh, OK...

Watching this exchange, of course, was Fat Grizzly Adams. Remember: he has a beard. A big bushy beard. Big Apple turned to him and had this exchange:

Big Apple:  You! You have a beard.
FGA: Yes, I do.
BA: You grew it to show him what a real man looks like!
FGA: Yes, I've grown it for a year to show him what a real man looks like...
BA: It took a year to grow that?
FGA: Yes.
BA: Oh. You're not a real man, then.

I don't think he appreciated that jibe, although he probably was so shocked and delighted that she was talking to him that he didn't mind too much.

One thing he did appreciate was when I decided to leave. I think that most guys, no matter how far out of their league the girls are, and no matter whether the girls have boyfriends (or even like guys) or not, would prefer that other guys leave women unattended. It was past 12:30 and Big Apple was talking about getting waffles and I just decided to walk home. I bid Winner adieu and then wandered up to the bar...

Me: OK, I'm outta here, Big Apple.
BA: You're leaving? OK. Are you walking?
Me: Yep.
BAF: Where do you live?
Me: Lower Queen Anne.
BAF: Ah... well, that's not too bad.
FGA: That's not bad at all!

...

Notice the exclamation point at the end of Fat Grizzly Adams' statement. That exclamation point is to indicate both the energy level with which he made his proclamation and its ludicrous nature (see picture to the left).

This is a guy who looks like he hasn't walked a mile in the last month, let alone at 12:30 AM on a Wednesday morning. No offense to fat people generally, but some offense to THIS fat person: shut up. Don't tell me what a good or bad walk is. I was already leaving you alone with my lady friends... no reason to get all uppity.

I made it back to my 'hood in one piece, and I ended up getting a pretty good night of sleep. I'm not sure that Tuesday outings are going to become a part of my regular agenda, but I had a good time and look forward to resting up tonight without having Fat Grizzly Adams irk be beyond reason with five simple words.

The Risk of Eccentricism

Last night I saw a guy in a hat. Not a backwards baseball cap, to his credit, but one of the hats that are in fashion these days. A fedora or something similar.

Good and fine. He looked different and a bit daring... until a guy with the same hat showed up. It reminded me of this:

Important Things with Demetri Martin
Coolness - The Dragon Man
www.comedycentral.com

Of course, it's likely that 18 months from now fedoras will be everywhere... the dragon tattoo thing probably would remain less common.

Compliment?

Part of the fun of going out is looking different. Different shirt/shoes/whatever. Being the same can be boring and getting attention (either good or bad) can be much more interesting than blending in. From blue contacts to old Keyshawn Johnson NY Jets jerseys, pushing the limit of what I'm comfortable wearing and looking like keeps it interesting.

Last night I was in a bar that I go to quite a bit, and although I don't know the name of a single person that works, there, I am enough of a regular that I talk to the employees occasionally. I had gone with a different look--parted/slicked hair and a mustache, essentially--and I had this exchange with the barback:

Her (from behind the bar, after looking at me): Haha!
Me: What?
Her (doing a circular indicative motion in front of her face): This whole thing.
Me: Me?
Her: Yeah.
Me: Ah...
Her: You look handsome.

And then she wandered off.

With compliments like that, who needs negs?

Digital Divide

Last night I was drinking and waiting for the dance floor to warm up. I was at the bar by myself, and I had my phone out to occupy me. I'm rarely EAGER to start dancing, and I need to have a crowd to have some sense of anonymity and solitude.

I was standing next to a table of three women and they were talking amongst themselves as I killed time txting and looking at websites and taking notes about those around me (I tend to forget things when I'm mid-drinking binge, so I type them up to remind my future sober self). I had the sense that I was amongst their topics of conversation.

Normally I discount that sense--it makes me feel paranoid and egocentric--but one of the women rotated on her chair and chastised me for txting.

I smiled and talked to her for a bit, and even managed to speak to her much cuter friend for a couple minutes. I don't think she knew, though, that I was more eager to blog about talking to her than I was to actually talk to her.

Walking before running

As my last post noted: I've had a bit of a creative block lately re: my blog. I've had some half-baked ideas but lacked the energy to complete them.

My response? Itty bitty blog posts.

Rather that post about 10 things and try to stitch them together, I'm going to post a series of one-off encounters or observations. I don't know how it'll turn out, but at least I'll get something written.

Here goes..

Momentum

First of all, let me aknowledge: it HAS been a while since I've written a blog entry. I have gone through these patches before where (a) nothing happens to me worth blogging about and/or (b) I lack motivation to blog.

I can't quite tell which it's been recently.

One thing I've been pondering is how I will answer the "what's new?" question. What IS new, I wonder.

Work? The same. Good.

Girls? The same. Sort of. Which is the same.

Friends? Cool people. Mostly absent.

Night life? Cats? Porn? Dishes? Laundry? Recycling?

The same.

None of this is bad, but it makes for some boring catching-up with friends and family that I haven't talked to in, say, a month.

My life is not boring... don't get me wrong. Stuff happens. Just not stuff that I can talk about (either because it's sort of sensitive or because without context it makes no sense).

This has carried over to my blogging.

I'm sorry. I'll try to do better soon, including a blog entry about some of the type of people that I experience when I go out dancing.