I'm not the manufacturer. I'm not the distributor. I'm not even the first level of consumer. Someone else buys it before it gets to me. So why is it my fault the use is so widespread? Why should I be penalized for that use?
     I am not behind America's addiction to disposable plastic shopping bags. But, Seattle and other places, think all the responsibility of stopping their use lies with me and you. We're going to offer you plastic bags, but don't do it! That's ten cents a bag if you do, tsk tsk! Well, if that's the way you want it, lets do this thing right. Why limit the penalty to the bags provided by the stores. I say there should be a scale of charges based on exactly what kind of bag you have. Reusable, non-recyclable plastic, eight cents a bag. Reusable, recyclable plastic, six cents. Cloth bags made from synthetics or blends, four cents. Cloth from natural fibers, two cents. Bags made of organic, unbleached, ethically harvested cotton, well we're going to slap a penny on you. After all, the bag exists. It took resources to make it. Someday it will need to be dealt with as waste. It's only fair.
     Oh, by the way. Guess who, according to Seattle, should get the money you are charged for using their bags? The stores. That's right. They keep all or part of that money, depending how much they otherwise profit in a year. What? Why should the store be profiting from this.  Isn't that an incentive for them to encourage the use of disposable bags they provide? They aren't paying ten cents each to purchase them. That's going to be a lot of extra money in their pockets. I have a better idea. Lets charge the stores ten cents for every bag they provide. See how long it takes those bags to disappear.

    I was watching an episode of Cash Cab. In the cab are a couple and their daughter, her approximate age rage nine to twelve years old. She has a ventriloquist puppet. I call it a puppet, rather then dummy, being of a new school Muppet-like variety as opposed to a nightmare inducing piece of carved wood. I will however call the parents dummies. Are they crazy? Why not just embroider "kick my ass" on the back of all her clothes. Nothing good can come of this. It's a one way express to Looserville. It's not like she had a violin, cello, or her advanced piano technique books with her. These are the sort of talents that are worth the childhood harassment. Talking through your teeth with your hand up a doll is not. Someday when she pulls out the cello or seats herself at the baby grand and skillfully rends a classical masterpiece, it will be followed by applause and sounds like oooo! and ah!. They'll clamor for more! On the other hand, when she pulls out the puppet, it's going to clear the place like a grenade in a foxhole. Faces will morph into looks of sympathetic embarrassment. People will bolt for the door, crushing each other along the way. The survivors never to be seen again.
   I'm begging you. But her a tambourine or something. Anything but the puppet. Please.

Latest show at Local Music Emporium did not disappoint. My only criticism would be the second opener didn't match the energy level of the first and the headlining act. J-Roddy Walston and The Business nearly vibrated off the stage. That was some awesome rock 'n' roll keyboarding. You really don't get enough of that these days. Where has the rock piano gone?
But, ladies and gentlemen, the very best part of all, worth the price of admission all by himself, was their bass player. Never have your eyes feasted on such old school rock glory. As if the long mane of wavy hair and beefy mustache the size of a grinder role weren't enough. His platter like belt buckle glinted in the stage lights as he thrashed to and fro. All of it capped off by his jingly  jangly spurs. I would like to say to him, 1977 called and they said rock on you glorious bastard! Rock on my wayward son! Don't ever change.
William Elliot Whitmore was good. I'm not going to say he wasn't good. It was just that one of these things was not like the others. It was like a musical intermission.
Then it was time for the headliners. Oh boy! The moment I'd been waiting for. I was ready. From the beginning little bro and I were planted front and center. I mean close enough to critique minuscule personal grooming of the band, not that there was anything to critique. Oh man. They rocked. Rocked hard.
I was endlessly amused by the headbanger who played through between bro and I. It started with a bobbing in my peripheral vision. It was like one of those glass birds that "drinks". On and on he bobbed. 'Scuse me, pardon me, may I bang through? We each stepped aside and let the man rock.

I've had a lot of guys say weird things to me, but this has got to be one of the strangest episodes I have ever experienced.
I was checking out of the grocery store when the bag boy started to postulate the reasons why people hate monkeys. Now, to fully appreciate the strangeness and hilarity of this spontaneous expulsion, here is a little background on said bag boy. He is frequently the bagger when I am in the checkout line. It seems in fact, a disproportionate number of times. But, he has never spoken to me. Nary a peep has escaped his lips. He is indeed a very odd boy that always seems to be functioning in slow motion. He's not the sharpest tool in the shed.
His sudden animation and babbling was like a scene from "Awakenings". He stated that he was pretty good at making animal noises, but when people visit animal reserves, they always hate the monkeys. Because, he said, they fling poo, have large teeth and will bite, and they are smart. I personally believe smarter than some humans. One human in particular in close proximity was coming to mind at that moment. At one point he just stopped, as thought someone had turned off the crazy juice. The teenage cashier had hissed between his teeth "shut up and just bag". It was only effective for a few seconds pause after which he declared monkeys to also be thieves. When I glanced at the cashier, he had the distinct pallor of morbid fear and my mother, who was with me, was all but openly laughing. I nearly completely lost it at that point. I narrowly avoided literally laughing in his face before getting the cart turned around and running for the exit.

It's scary really. How he nailed it. If I kept a diary, I'd swear he'd been reading it. It went like this. I was innocently watching The Soup when after a clip from Dr. 90210 he said, "I would personally make introspective penises with tendencies toward melancholy. That way they wouldn't expect too much, but would be pleasantly surprised when good things happened. However, then take a moment to reflect and realize the good moments are fleeting and lucky and then retreat back to a state of not expecting good things at all."
Holy crap! What, is there a camera in my bedroom?! That is me he's talking about. OK, except for the glaring exception that I am not and do not have a penis. But isn't that just a fungible detail? Frankly it was rather disturbing to have the host of The Soup nutshell my psyche. Doesn't feel right that a clip show on basic cable should be able to do that. It's one thing to see yourself in a surrealist movie as you watch in an art house theater or a piece of abstract art on display off the beaten path. But on basic cable? How depressing. You should at least get to the level of an HBO movie for this sort of thing. Sheesh.
Oh, and Joel, I'm going to need you to get out of my head. There's only room for one smart ass in here.

What am I supposed to do now! The Dunkin Donuts closest my house has closed. They were my weekend breakfast place. Every Saturday and Sunday was egg and cheese bagel time. A hot cup of Earl Grey to wash it down. I am a creature of abnormal habit. I need to rely on going to the same places and getting sometimes, but not always, the same thing. Where is my security?! So what if the physical plant was in a state of advanced and rapid decay. Just because a portion of the eat-in area had to be cordoned off due to roof and ceiling damage and you always wondered if today would be the day you were decapitated by the rickety ceiling fan. And sure, the fact that it was originally built as a Dairy Queen and closed during the winter meant it had insanely inefficient single pane windows and no insulation causing the glass to shed water like Niagara Falls. Certainly the crater filled parking lot alone was worthy of condemnation by the city. Only one Sunday without it gone by and already I wander the streets lost and aimless in search of weekend breakfast food. How will workday Saturday feel like a real day if I eat breakfast at home and don't have a third location for the day. What about leisurely Sunday mornings? The next closest DD location is too far from the grocery store for apres bagel Sunday shopping and kinda seedy. I would rather not consume my bagel nestled in between drug dealers and jibbering crazy people.
Oh well. I hope they put in a Starbucks

OK, I would like to preface this rant by saying Back Door Slam was really good and I love that this is a town that can put on a show like that without stage barriers or a riot breaking out (well, almost).

The show was nearly ruined by oldapahlooza sitting in front of me. Is there anything more pathetic than forty five trying to be nineteen? It all started when Mrs. Trying-to-be-cool decided to stand up when the headliner took the stage. I mistakenly thought she was just getting a good look and would sit down when they started to play. She's front and center at a show with lawn only seating. Three times she was asked to sit down. Each time, Mr. Trying-to-be-cool would jump up and flail. One incident nearly coming to blows. Various items flew through the air, presumably aimed at her head. People really need to work on their aim. Of course they were over aged too. The old arm's not what it used to be. Her turning around to jeer and take pics of the rival geriatric gang was awesomely mature as well. Mr. TTBC was feeling the immaturity buzz later on as he "sneaked" his prohibited beer from the cooler he probably got free for joining AARP. Excuse me, how old are we again? At least the "I was in a band in 1984" dad in front of me was reliving the glory days instead of trying to still live them.

It's a sad day when the blues wailing, barely post teen, band on stage is a thousand times more mature then the forty-plusers duking it out in the crowd.

So there was this boy at third place. He liked a girl so much, he couldn't wait on her at the counter. Girl hadn't really noticed boy before this. Then she saw he was always stealing looks at her. For months this went on, but he could never bring himself to actually talk to her. Girl was too shy to talk to anybody. Then one day in January girl's brother got back to town, she hadn't seen him in two years. The boy made a big mistake and assumed the brother was girl's boyfriend. Girl could see boy was very upset. Brother didn't do anything to help fix the problem, even though she asked him to. It wasn't his problem, after all. Girl didn't want to hurt brother's feelings, so she didn't tell him he couldn't go there with her. She tried to make it obvious that brother was not her boyfriend, but it didn't work. By now, boy wouldn't even look at girl. It made girl very sad. She tried to fix it with boy, but he didn't want to talk to her and would run away. When girl finally tried to get boy to talk, he made lots of excuses and told girl he was "sort of seeing someone right now". Girl didn't think much of what boy said. Boy doesn't want to deal with his feelings or he would have talked to girl in the first place. Boy found it easier to go with second choice. Now boy won't acknowledge girl unless he has to. Girl is left with a broken heart because of a boy she hadn't even noticed. Girl wishes boy had never looked at her.

Well, my favorite stilettos lived up to their moniker. I was wrapping it up this afternoon at third place and attempting to disembark from the bar stool I was sitting on. As I pushed off, the heel of my shoe hooked onto the bottom bar of the stool and instead of my feet hitting the ground, I launched myself backward, landing more or less under the piano and on top of the power bar conveniently placed for laptop users. I managed to break the fall with the heel of my hand and the entire right side of my body. To the best of my knowledge, not a single person moved out of the seat they were sitting in. Granted, I couldn't actually see everybody, but geez. Man down, people! Man down! The young woman at whose feet I landed did show a good deal of concern, so she's off the hook.

I have to admit, my first thought after "Hey, this is the floor." was "Shit! That shoe better not be broken!". Luckily the Monkeys were made for action and came out unscathed. Phew. My new glasses, favorite summer sweater and best jeans also survived the great fall of '08. The incident reminded me of a near identical fall from a step stool. Also the time I tripped on my sock running for the phone, or when I fell on the steps in the garage. Lets not forget falling entirely on my knee in an icy campus parking lot with some jackass feeling obligated enough to say "You OK?" but not enough to actually slow his pace or look at me. Similarly, my prat-like fall in the ice slicked driveway of the guest house I was staying in while working an "internship" (slave labor) shortly after graduating from college. I swear those people could see me from the main house.

You may have sensed a trend. The most painful incident surely was the sock induced full body slam onto linoleum. The most public when I was in high school and whacked my face with the heavy door into the main stairwell of "C" building. Not one of the publicly witnessed incidents included anyone doing more than looking. Thanks. Remind me to return the favor.

"Why would he", my brother says to me in reference to guys with girlfriends talking to me. My brothers comment would imply that no woman is worth getting to know as a friend if you are already getting, or potentially will get, sex from one already. Wow, what a sexist and shallow thing to say and way to behave. I can understand not wanting to get in trouble with the GF, but grow up. Lots of guys have friends that are female. Yes, they probably do think about sex with them, given that they are men and prone to such things. But yet, some do manage to maintain friendships with the opposite sex. Some of us she-folk are actually funny, smart, and worth getting to know as friends. I know. it sounds crazy. True it can be difficult. Guys don't talk to me unless they are hitting on me. But, to discount me because you have a GF or because I don't want to be your's for a night or more, well, that makes you a turd.

I think it must. Surely there are enough blogs out there going blah to prove it true. Think of all that digital blather floating around the world wide web. Occasionally something floats to the surface and makes the news. A rare display of insight from the masses or the more common grand example of idiocy. Why do we do it? Why can't the human species shut up? Is it just the personal diary in a current age of self worship? An ode to me, myself and I?

I suppose you loose the good with the bad if we did shut up. Much of the wisdom of the world might not have been heard. But then again, how many of the deep thinkers were blabbermouths and attention seeking blow hards? Sure some of them were prolific writer or orators, but in an age when fewer were literate and no web around the world existed. Is modern access and availability to the population causing more cream to rise to the top? I don't think it is. The flotsam of daily life can be interesting, but it isn't usually comparable to "I Have a Dream" or the Gettysburg Address. You don't see Stephen Hawking keeping a daily lunch diary on his web site. Pope John Paul II didn't send alerts to all his "friends" when someone was canonized.

It's that dang human condition again. Causing us to produce quantity with the occasional quality offering while we attempt to be heard above the din of a million plebes blogging.

OK, so on some people's scale of partying, it was a Tuesday night. Of course if that's true, you need to go to AA. But that's a different post. It's been a long time since I've been out to have a good time. My two friends (Yes, I mean the two friends I have) decided I needed a night out for the big "34". Oh, how right they were. I had literally not had a drink in seven years. Alkie? No. Tea totaler? No. Just didn't have a good reason to tie one on. The night started at quirky local restaurant. (Just so you know, you can consider virtually every local establishment in this town "quirky".) The peanut butter chocolate chip cheesecake was wedged shaped sin and the chocolate martini very drinkable. On the kick scale, this martini came in right in the middle. We moved on from there to local hipster club. I had a terrible urge to bang my head to one side repeatedly the whole time, the music just a wee bit stereotypically clubby. But, it wouldn't keep you from going there again. Martinis there brought up the low end of the nights kick scale. The flirtini was just sad, a fruity disappointment. Like a clown that isn't funny or a gay guy with no fashion sense. The Lady Godiva, on the other hand, was a tasty elixir of happiness. The average, though, really hurt the overall score. A shame. We rounded out the night with a visit to third place. Finally! A drink worth it's salt, and at half the price. By that time third place was just about empty, last call revelers not really the scene there. The lesson learned of course was include third place earlier when the party is as strong as the drinks.

The Mona Lisa has the flu
Janice, Jack and the man on the moon
Bed on the wall, painted and made
Venus in Rebus, the story starts now
You show Minutiae is no small thing and
Pelican can fly with only one wing
Monogram bleats history, Revolver turns
and is new again
The 1/4 mile is run, no furlong to go
Welcome to The Show

The 80's are back. For some people, they never left. What do you make of a dude driving a florescent and black 1980's pick-up, jacked up of course. The dude is a perfect match for his truck. Coordinating florescent tank top with huge arm holes and some lightning bolt graphic. I'm sure there were some acid washed jeans riding in that truck, too, I just couldn't see them. Sporting the "ape drape" hair style of course. For those who don't know, an "ape drape" is a mullet on crack. It briefly enjoyed non-redneck popularity during this horrifying decade. I'm pretty sure this guy has probably owned his 80's accoutrement since the decade itself, his high school heyday. How is it possible that this guy's brain never graduated? Seems like it would be a lot of work to keep this up. Day in and day out of resisting every subsequent decade. The 90's must have been tough on this guy. Where did my decade go?!, he cried. But, he did it. He managed to power through two more decades, his age the only actual change! I wonder if he realizes what year it is? Does he plan on going to the prom? What will his senior prank be this year! Maybe he plans on pantsing the principal or filling the football coach's car with marshmallows.

Does he hear his alarm and still think it's time for class? How does this guy see the world? It must ultimately be sad to choose to let the world leave you behind. Is it possible to get married and or have kids you live with and still be that guy? You wouldn't think it was. How could it last. You feel bad for this guy. He bought into "the best time of your life" and has tried desperately to keep it. Someone at some point should have told him it wasn't true! Life sucks, but if you leave the homeroom behind, life after high school sucks less. A little, anyway.

Took a "vacation" to the Seattle area. Aren't these things supposed to be refreshing and rejuvenating? You're supposed to forget all the things you left behind, come back and make a fresh start. I don't feel fresh. I suppose in a manner of speaking, I did for a while forget about my life at home, but not really in a good way. I spent ten long days on airplanes and trapped in the suburbs with two crazed children, my brother and his wife. Now, don't get me wrong, I love my family. I just don't want to be that close to them. I know I'm not a "kid person", but I didn't know to what extent until I was trapped in a house with them. I'm surprised humans don't have a dozen children considering the likelihood of all of them making it to adulthood. I'm also surprised Gerry doesn't make a "Hannibal" model of carrier for older children. I truly thought my head might explode. Note to self: No Kids.

One evening after dinner, we made smores over the hot grill with the kids. Actually we used chocolate, marshmallows and chocolate graham crackers. Chocolate graham crackers. My sister-in-law kept saying "I don't know about chocolate graham crackers." Are you kidding?! Do they make marshmallows in chocolate too?! The more things made of or with chocolate, the better. If it wouldn't melt, I would toast the marshmallows on a chocolate stick. Mmmmm.

I have heard it said frequently that the Seattle area resembles the area I live in. True, there is rolling green flora aplenty and absolutely nothing is flat. In fact, it's this place times ten. But the idea that it is the same liberal, dirty hippie infested, alternative lifestyle mecca, not exactly accurate. Oh sure, you see bumper stickers for Ron Paul and Obama. Pike Place Market was full of the same hippie crafty whatnot you find in every craft fair here. But, when it comes to dirt lined streets, rotting old buildings filled with fair trade-organic-shade grown-sustainably harvested goods sold in independently owned shops, they got nothin' on us. Where are the unwashed, hemp wearing, weed smoking, dreadlocked, BO reeking college and life dropouts? Huh? Huh? I only saw a couple. Perhaps we have most of them? Surely not. The only place I saw that you could drop unnoticed and instantly assimilated into this town was Left Bank Books. No one would even notice. I suppose Java Bean coffee shop could easily Tardis it's way in as well.

What I did notice was that the greater Seattle area has more coffee than Columbia. At least three countries must be growing beans just to support them. There is a Starbucks on every street corner and one in between them. I believe this may be the law. Lets not forget Tulley's and Peet's. Because they needed a couple more coffee chains. Just in case some poor coffee addict fell between the cracks and was at a loss as to where to find a cup, there are drive-up coffee huts. Everywhere. They cram them in between the Starbucks, Tulley's and Peet's. If there is a spare ten square feet near a parking lot, gas station or shopping center, a coffee hut will soon materialize in that space. As it tuns out, these huts are home to the "adult lattes" I took to be a satirical fictional portrayal of our society in the movie The Idiocracy. They're real. As exemplified by Java Jane and others of the like serving cheesecake and coffee on every other street corner. Ba-da-bing, ba-da buck fifty.

Another place I passed many times as I was ferried to and fro was the ladies formal attire emporium by the name of Proms and Promises. The sheen of pastel satin and glitter of rhinestones gleam out from the somewhat dingy storefront, beckoning to school dance bound girls and alter bound brides. Proms and Promises. How about Ruined Lives and Broken Dreams? Poor suckers squeezing into binding undergarments and ankle breaking shoes thinking it the highlight of their lives. Don't they know those things are for empty nights drinking in clubs and bitter mornings after when you peel off the binding underwear, if it isn't already, and search for the other one of those shoes? That reminds me, my birthday is coming up.

An interesting vignette on one of the flights home. The flight attendant wheels up with her refreshment cart and the man next to me in the window seat asks what she has in diet. Even with diet offerings, a full can is too much and he requests just the little cup, more ice than soda. As he folds down his trey and places his drink, he pulls out a plastic bag and proceeds to remove a very large chocolate cookie and a large brownie. Each big bite is washed down with a little sip of Sierra Mist Free. I marveled at the man who orders two ounces of diet soda to drink alongside 1000 calories worth of baked goods. Maybe he prefers his sugar soft and chewy instead of liquid. He had a venti cafe latte before boarding? Weak bladder? I don't know, but it was the most amusing thing I saw all day.

Oh, but travel fun time did not end with the arrival home. Eleven o'clock at night I stood watching the luggage carousel go round and round, but my bag did not appear. The baggage handler at the Northwest kiosk pulls out a duffel with a rainbow luggage strap, wands the barcode and declares it mine. No, it's not, I say. Yes, it is, he says. No, it's not, I say. It just thought it was. Just like my bag thought it belonged to a nice looking older couple traveling to Aberdeen Scotland. So, my suitcase blissfully trailed after them only to face the same rejection upon it's arrival. It took them five days to locate and return my bag to me. Five grueling days of not knowing where a good chunk of my life was and if it would be coming back to me. Days spending money I don't have on things I already owned. Days wondering if the money I spent on the trip was as good as down the drain, because everything was in that suitcase. I don't think I will ever check a bag like that again.

That combined with the unfortunate sighting of a person I didn't want to see in the middle of a Tuesday night on the way home from the airport was a great big welcome back to your life.