The Fountains - 01 Pilot

The following is my first attempt at a serial. Later I will hopefully add many installments and introduce many characters. All of it is true and occurred at my first place of employment. I hope it's as entertaining now as it was nearly 20 years ago when most of happened...

She was older than me. Quite a bit older.

 

I was 15 and it was my first day joining the wonderful American workforce. I had gangled my way down the long corridor to the employee lounge where the time clock was bolted to a wall and punched in. For the first time in my life I was on the clock and something about that felt powerful. Every moment I spent that first evening in my short-sleeved light blue striped shirt and navy shorts felt like a million bucks...that's because it was a million bucks, or at least it would have been after 200,000 hours. Now it's illegal to pay a $5 wage in Oregon, or anywhere in the US for that matter, but on that day in that place when I was 15 and she was much older than me it was empowering and wonderful and I felt alive.

Her name was Francis...but let me back up a bit here...

Adam McKenzie was one of my best friends in middle school and high school. He was one of those guys that was good at everything. He ALWAYS made straight A's. He was tall and good looking. He was a solid athlete. He came from an amazing family. And he was the first of my friends to get an actual, real life, paying job. You see, his brother was a food server and was able to put in a good word with Rosalie who hired Adam in a snap. When you're paying $5/hour and you find a good employee, you take his word when he recommends another person eager to serve.

Despite being in the same grade Adam was a year older than me, so it was natural for him to find employment first. And it was after he was hired that I began to notice something different about him. It seemed that every time he wanted to do something such as “eat lunch” or “go to the movies” he could. Why? Because he had these strange little green rectangles in his wallet that he told me were called “money” and he could actually trade these slips of paper for pretty much anything he wanted if he had enough of them.

Well, the style in the early 90's didn't include any tailed coats, but I'm here to tell you that didn't stop me from instantly riding Adam McKenzie's coattails right to his boss for an interview. Now what was it I was saying about Adam? Oh right, he was good at everything and, fortunately for me, that included being a model employee. So like his brother before him, his word to Rosalie was as good as gold for the beneficiary and in this particular instance that beneficiary was me.

After filling out my very first application, having my very first interview and completing my very first W-2 I was ready to make my very first taxable income. I nervously walked my skinny legs into the kitchen that first day, worried to death because Adam wasn't working that shift. I was told to ask for Toby.

“I'm Toby. Put on a hairnet,” said a small, mid-20's, possibly recovering drug addict, certainly living in a trailer, GIRL. (Years later I would have a similar situation come up on my first day working at Oswego Lake Country Club...the day I sought out my now very good male friend Jade to issue me my uniform). The thing about Toby was that if life hadn't aged her so prematurely she probably would have been pretty.

Wait...did she say “hairnet”?

So Toby was the Assistant Dining Room Manager, or perhaps The Assistant to the Dining Room Manager or maybe she was the Dining Room Manager who was the understudy to the Kitchen Manager. In any case, Toby quickly showed me how to line up cups and fill them with the correct beverages. Then it was time to hit the floor.

You see, there were two sides to the food service business. There was the back of the house (the kitchen) where the food was prepared. And there was the front of the house (the dining room) where it was my job to put a smiling face on the establishment. After being learning some menial tasks in the back of the house, it was time to walk through that understated doorway from the heat of the industrial kitchen onto The Floor where the real action took place.

And that's when I met her. “Francis, this is Keith” said Toby rather loudly. “What?”. “This is KEITH!”. “What?” “KEITH!” Me: “Yes, I'm KEITH!” Francis: “Oh, Keith...rhymes with teeth.” I laughed. “Don't laugh, now I'm serious. Now I will never forget your name.” And, by God, from that day for the next 5 years that 90 year old woman, Francis, never did forget my name. I told you she was older than me.

 

And thus began my adventures working at The Fountains at Town Center Village. I was about to find out just how much fun assisted living could be.

 

It's what's on the inside (of the tortilla) that counts

A few years ago I found a small monthly tear-off calendar at work and put it on my desk. On it I taped this picture:

 

 

Each time I ate a burrito I would mark it on the calendar. I called it my Burrito Calendar. I love burritos.

In light of this I have decided to bring you my Top 5 Burritos in Portland list. There are many, many possible criteria for a list like this, but I have simplified the process. I have simply ranked these stuffed tortillas of goodness in the order of how much happiness they give me while I am eating them. So, without further ado, because prior to this statement there was so much ado, I give you...drum roll...the list.

Trivia: "Burrito" is Spanish for "little donkey". Also, "Boca Raton"...as in Boca Raton, Florida...is Spanish for "Rat Mouth".

Honorable Mention: King Burrito

Ingredients: Unknown

Listen, I have never been to King Burrito. I don’t even know where it is. But one time I attended a networking luncheon put on the Portland Business Alliance and everyone had to go around the room and tell their name and where they worked. I stood up and said “I’m Keith, I work at such and such and, sadly, I’m a huge Chicago Cubs fan which means I’m basically a loser all the time.” You probably think that has nothing to do with King Burrito. Well, it kind of doesn’t and you’re a know-it-all. Pipe down and let me explain. The next time I had to give my name, rank and serial number I was at a South Portland Business Alliance meeting and when it came to me I said “I’m Keith, I work at such and such and I LOVE to eat burritos. I’ve eaten 34 of them this year (this was in March).” After that people came up to me and told me all sorts of things about burritos. A recurring theme was a food cart called King Burrito. If that young, eager Farmers insurance agent is this worked up about a burrito served out of a wagon then I’m all in and you, King Burrito, have just narrowly missed my top 5.

 

Note: See, I told you I've never been there. I just checked the website and it turns out it's not a cart at all, it's a hole in the wall taqueria!

5. Chipotle Mexican Grill

Ingredients: Carnitas
White or Brown Rice
Black Beans, but the Pinto Beans w/ Bacon are equally good
Corn Salsa
A little Sour Cream
A TON of Cheese

I know, I know…I’m choosing a huge corporation with a major ownership stake by McDonald’s as my #5 burrito. So what, you hoity toity snobby food critic? It’s freaking delicious and it’s big enough to make me full. The employees are great because, as corporate (as opposed to franchised) employees they have to do pretty much anything you say. They are friendly and helpful and, hey, owner Jim isn’t breathing down their neck about food portions like Jen does over at every Subway shop in the Milwaukie/Clackamas area.

At Chipotle you are basically on an assembly line of delicious tortilla stuffings. The key here is you can never have too much cheese, so you order like this: “Put on a ton of cheese. Just when you think you’ve put on too much add one more handful.” It has taken years to perfect this request because they are trained to put on small sprinkles thereby making you ask for more countless times like the girl giving free haircuts at the beauty school who is too scared to cut anything off. BUT…they HAVE to give you as much as you want despite however many fingerfuls it takes. Tell them to keep going until you say “stop” and you’re golden…or white, since the cheese is an amazing blend that looks the color of a Wisconsin girl in winter.

4. Muchas Gracias

Ingredients: Refried Beans
A Chile Relleno
Cheese

I know I know…you’ve been to Muchas Gracias and you love the Oregon Burrito. Good for you. Go write your own blog. As for me, I too have had the Oregon Burrito and it’s decent. I happen to think the potatoes take away from the flavor instead of soaking up the flavor, but maybe I caught the OB on a bad day. Here’s my take on burritos: if you can put a relleno in the middle of it, it’s good. I first encountered this in a crappy hole in the wall down in LA with my dad, stepmom and sister. My dad took us to the most likely place to get shot in the entire city so we could have some authentic LA Mexican food. People don’t smile in that place…that is until I bit into my chile relleno burrito! Then I was smiling and I think my obvious lack of gold teeth targeted me as an outsider.

That said, I brought that mentality back to Oregon with me. So, screw you Oregon Burrito, I’ll take the Mexican Burrito. Oh…you can’t find the above item on the menu at Muchas Gracias, you have to ask for it special. Just say “Give me the KeenKeith special”. They will look at you like either a) they don’t speak English well enough to know what you’re saying or b) you’re an idiot. After you get past that embarrassment you simply say “can you squirt some of your lardy lard lardy beans onto a tortilla, smother it in cheese then add a relleno?” They will say “yes, that will be $4” and you’ll be the fattest, happiest person on the block.

1c. Cha! Cha! Cha!

Ingredients: Seasoned Ground Beef
Rice
Cheese
Potatoes
Peas
Almonds
Raisins

Thought I was kidding, didn’t you? Well I’m not. They cook up the meat with all this crazy crap in it that doesn’t seem to go together at all, then they serve it to you in this yellow wax paper as if to say “no, we really are Latino”. I have yet to meet anyone who loves this burrito the way I do. It’s tied for number one for me and I struggled with this because it’s on an equal plane with my numbers 1b and 1a.

So you get this burrito, you unwrap it and wad up the yellow wax paper and set that aside. You then grab the green sauce and just drench the tortilla with it and dig in with a fork and knife. No regrets…no regrets.

1b. Super Torta

Ingedients: Chile Relleno
Rice
Refried Beans
Guacamole

The above is a description of the Super Burrito. Running a close second is the Chile Relleno Burrito which is just as wonderful as the dangerous Los Angeles burrito my dad risked all our lives for. Honestly, the only way you can do wrong with Super Torta is by not going there. They have tongue on the menu which in and of itself makes it an authentic experience. You can also buy rock candy out of their quarter machine. Rock candy? Yes, rock candy. I have always assumed that's because there's so much poverty in Mexico that people have to eat rocks there.

1a. Bajio Grill

Ingredients:
Interior: Shredded Beef
Sweet Rice
Refried Beans
Exterior: Cheese
Sour Cream
Sweet Vinaigrette Salad Dressing

“What?!?!!!??!! Salad Dressing? Grosssssssssss!” Shaaaaaaadup. It’s awesome. So this is another assembly line burrito. They have a location in Clackamas in the Home Depot parking lot on 82^nd. They are opening a new west side location, I think it will be in Beaverton.

So the shredded beef is amazing. It tastes like Yankee Pot Roast…which is weird because Yankees are Northeast and this place is definitely shooting for Southwest. I don’t care about that. What I care about is how mouth wateringly good the meat is. How sweet and soft the rice is…and most importantly how tangy delicious that salad dressing is. It’s literally the best salad dressing I’ve ever tasted and I don’t even bother with the salad anymore. I could drink that stuff straight from the container. Instead I have them soak the burrito with it.

The Latino workers look at me like I’m nuts when I ask for the salad dressing, but the white guy knows us and doesn’t even ask. He doesn’t eat his burrito that way, but he can identify with our American urge to smother everything with sweetness. The only think that would make this place better is if I could find a way to actually bathe in the sweet vinaigrette. I’m sure it would make my skin soft, smooth and scrumptious.

Well, I hope you're able to visit all of the above fine establishments. Also, visit this place just north of SE 92^nd and Foster.

 

 

I have never been there but the following is a list of reasons you should patronize this establishment, which also happen to be reasons I will soon be trying it out:

 

1. The interior walls are bright green which makes it light up like lime sherbet at night.

2. Check out the police car. Ever gone to a crappy restaurant with police officers eating there?

3. Note the nutty yellow bird on the sign...it's practically screaming "I'm delicious!"

4. Some dude apparently likes to mess with his bicycle in the alley.

5. Look at orange shirt guy. Any Mexican food place in a neighborhood where you have to constantly be looking over your shoulder MUST have great food. I'll bet they even serve tongue.

If you have yet to develop your burrito pallet I suggest you get on that right away. The burrito craze has grown so wildly that there is a section on Weidler over near Lloyd Center that has a Muchas Gracias, a Chipotle, a Taco Bell and a Q'Doba Mexican Grill within a half block of each other.

Oh, disclaimer: burritos will make you fart.

The Fresh Prince of Happy Valley

Every day I grow more disgusted with our culture's idol worship of celebrities. For whatever reason we are fascinated by the people we know most about...because every piece of their love life and career moves are published in gossip rags. We have blurred the line between entertainment and reality to such a degree that people no longer want to know where one ends and the other begins.

As celebrities grow to accept their own importance and the roles they play in the sad lives of their adoring fans, many come to the conclusion that they need to write a book about their adventures. Never mind that most of their life has been an open book pasted on the pages of countless magazines. Never mind that they're not good writers so someone else will actually pen the “autobiography”. There is a demand, so it must be done. If you have someone else write it, they will buy it.

Well, I have a suggestion. In an age of soundbites and the brevity of Twitter...at a time in history when we have moved from telephone conversations to texting instead, I believe that we need a new format for biographies. Anyone writing an autobiography should adhere to a new set of rules. If your life is worth writing about, someone who actually knows how to write will take care of that after you're dead. If you're looking to write a book about yourself while you're still living then I believe you have a duty to your readers to keep within the confines of the new autobiography. The format is called ABoBA which stands for “Auto Biography of Bel Air”.

ABoBA-

The rules of ABoBA are simple. You must write the highlights of your life story into the context of the theme song for The Fresh Prince of Bel Air. Go ahead and listen just in case you haven't had this song stuck in your head for the past decade and a half. After that you you can find my first shot at an ABoBA. When you've finished reading mine please write one for yourself and post it in the comment section below.

Remember, I'm the one who told you that Spider Yelling would sweep the nation (it did even better than that by going international). Soon everyone will be writing ABoBAs of their own. We should probably start the #ABoBA now as well. Remember, much like all good resumes fit on one page, all good life stories fit the Fresh Prince of Bel Air theme song!
 

ABoBA by KeenKeith

This is a story all about how

I grew up and life turned out.
I'd like to take a moment, no time to dilly dalley
I'll tell you how I came to rule a small castle in Happy Valley.

In the SouthEast Portland suburbs, born and raised!

Milwaukie was where I spent most of my days.
Chillin' out playin' Backyard baseball like a fool.
Shootin' some b-ball at Hector Campbell School.
When some skater guys, they were up to no good
Started making trouble in my neighborhood.
Got shot with one little beebee, my Momma freaked out!
She said, “We're calling the police man to take them down”.

Applied to several colleges, and chose one that was near.

Met a girl who's fresh and the future's lookin' clear.
If anything I could see no if, buts or maybe's
So I ringed up her finger and we had ourselves three babies.

I pulled outta waiting tables, then campaigns into insurance.

Caleb, Tenley, Micah help me keep up my endurance.
Wrote an early 90's rap song now it's time for the final tally.
I can sit on my throne as a king in Happy Valley.

Ok...now it's your turn. Post yours below.

An Open Letter to Red Box

Dear Red Box,

I am forever glad to have met your acquaintance. You probably didn't notice me, but I certainly remember the first time I saw you. You were so new and so different. Like the video game console in The Last Starfighter, you seem to have been dropped into the dirtiest, crappiest place in our society (McDonald's) yet you had a magnetism stronger than my ability to resist.

I approached you, or you pulled me near...I'm not sure which. I touched your screen. I scrolled through your movies. It was foreign and strange and I didn't exactly know what to expect or how to react to your ease of use. Eventually I found a movie I was interested in watching. That was when you said those two sweet little words. “One dollar” you whispered in my ear. One dollar? Are you out of your mind? Of course not. You don't have a mind. You're a box that happens to be painted red. And you are wonderful.

You see, oh dear Red (pause for dramatic effect) Box, I had long ago terminated my relationship with Blockbuster and Hollywood. The thoughts of the local independent movie rental shops were but a fleeting memory. Even having mentioned these, your competitors from times past, should imply that my grooming in movie rental selection was borne of stores with open floor space and racks upon racks of films categorized as “Drama” or “Comedy” or “Horror” or, along the much coveted exterior wall, “New Releases”. My habit was shared universally with all of America. I would enter the store, turn left, find the wall 'o new releases and browse the up to year-old releases that I had pored over probably just a few nights before. Much like the common “so many channels and nothing on” I would search through the endless alphabetized boxes looking for that gold nugget I had somehow missed each and every other time I had combed this same spot.

And I remember the last time I ever walked into a movie rental store. It was a Hollywood near my house. I was looking for “The Nativity”. Hollywood had it for rent. The cost was $4.99 for a five night rental. This was a full two dollars per night higher than my previous rental which had been a couple of years prior. The clerk was kind enough to point out that I could purchase the DVD for the same price from the used movie bin. Really? I can rent it or buy it for the same price? Have you considered adjusting your pricing model to compete with this spaceship from the future called The Red Box? “No,” she assured me. She had it on good authority that you, The Red Box, were nothing but a mere fad and that your financials were suffering. You were but a fleeting mistress and would fade into oblivion akin to the LaserDisk. As I said, that was the final time I set foot in a movie rental store. As far as I know that rotund and brawny gal died in the great Hollywood implosion of a few years ago clinging to the idea that I somehow wanted to spend $5 to borrow a movie for a few nights.

So, Red Box, you win. I have a Netflix account and it's great, but it can't satisfy my completely. We watch the occasional streamed movie that the rating matrix swears we will judge 4.5 stars out of 5. But when we are itching to see a new release we drive up to the local Albertsons (thank you for not limiting yourself to the golden arches!) where there are not one, but two kiosks. For impromptu movie night, you are always there for me. And your ease of access is amazing. Your app allows me to choose and reserve a movie from my phone! I know you care for me as I do you because you hold the movie for me personally. All I have to do is swipe my credit card...wait...credit card? All love comes with a price. $1.20? What's twenty cents between friends? I need you Red Box...I need you.

All that said, I have a grievance to air. You see, I used to feel special. I felt chosen. I was “in the know” because of our relationship. But do you know who now knows you and utilizes your comforts? Everyone. Oh, and also Everyone's brother. Am I greedy? Am I jealous? Do I fear being lost amongst the crowd of your admirers? Hardly. You think too highly of yourself. Don't forget that you are nothing but a large red container filled with usually disappointing “entertainment” created by large corporations whose political agendas typically clash with my moral compass.

My problem, dear box, is that when you make yourself available to the masses you invite the lowest common denominator to frequent your services. What I ask for is a clear instruction manual on a flashing, brightly lit marquee above each kiosk. And I ask for severe consequences struck upon those who choose to disregard these rules.

Rule #1

No one under the age of 16 is allowed to browse movies without an adult present. Multiple times I have stood in line behind 12 year old girls who browse their way through each and every movie. In the old brick and mortar stores this would have been perfectly acceptable. It wouldn't have bothered anyone because we could simply walk around her and search through the wall of entertainment at out own paces. However, considering the necessity of your screen, oh Red (pause for dramatic effect) Box, I am completely paralyzed by the indecision of the adolescent dingbat standing between me and your glory. What's more is that this girl, no matter how many times it happens or which little girl it is, HAS NO CREDIT CARD! Why? Why is it, you ask, that she is standing here reading the description of Men in Black III? Seriously? Men in Black III???? Here's a description: The unwatchable threequel to a marginal movie made before you were born regarding ridiculous aliens and subpar dialogue. Has anyone, in the history of Earth, ever...EVER read the full description of Men in Black III? Yes. The girl in front of me at Kiosk B. And why was she there alone? Because her father has become so annoyed by her insistence on inserting the word “like” into each sentence three times that he couldn't stand grocery shopping with her. So he walked in, sent his offspring to annoy The Red Box and checked off the list his wife made him in peaceful solitude. Shame on you Crappy Father. Shame on you.

Rule #2

Where there are two kiosks, there is one line. I don't care that some people have reservations on one box and one on another. People can sort that out from the front of the line. What I'm saying is this: if I arrive first, Billy don't get togo in front of me simply because Billy be standing to my right. There is one line or there will be martial law. Perhaps the rule should be “if you feel like you're getting away with something then you shouldn't be doing it.”

Rule #3

You can read no more than 3 descriptions in one visit. Here's the deal...if you're looking to watch a movie how much do you want to know about it anyway? In life there used to be a thing called a “pleasant surprise”. I fear that with today's 24 hour news cycle we feel the need to process so much surface level information that we have lost that splendid satisfaction from having been blind-sided by a good story. The description, or what used to be the back of the box, tells you nothing about the quality of the acting, the dialogue, the cinematography...it tells you a brief synopsis of the story which isn't going to tell you if you'll enjoy it anyway. Do you think the back of the box on Sideways will make you want to follow the romantic journey of a down on his luck wine enthusiast as he rediscovers his spirit in a tale of frolicking in the beauty of the California wine country? Come on.

Rule #4

If you spend more than 3 minutes on your turn you are required by law to rent something. The penalty for breaking this law is death.

And now, fair Red Box, I bid you adieu. If you will kindly implement the above rules if use immediately I will remain your most obedient and loyal servant. Thank you for finding a business model that allows me minimal contact with humans as we continue to evolve into a society with our eyes glued to screens instead of one anothers'.

Your affectionately,

Keith

PS – The Dark Knight Rises was really good.

Youth Soccer (or Get out of the way, my girl's better than you)

The following story is true. Names (and, to a degree, pictures) have been changed to protect me from being identified by the participants as a real prick who can’t deal with their kids.

My daughter plays soccer. She is six years old and loves playing the game. Last year was her first year playing on a team and she was fantastic. On average she scored 3 goals per game and made as many as 6 in one game. It was a lot of fun to watch.

This year my daughter is playing on a completely different team. Unfortunately this team has 8 kids on it that actually want to play all the time. Because they play 4 on 4, only half the team can play at any given time. The coach has decided the best way to divide up playing time is to come up with two teams of four and play them in alternating quarters. The teams are not always the same.

Cast:



Awesome Girl (my daughter) 

Awesome Girl



Other Girl (not my daughter, the only other girl on the team, once wore a tank top that looked exactly like a wife-beater ribbed sleeveless t-shirt to practice



Other Girl



 Little Dude (little islander kid who goes to my daughter’s school and has a hilarious little sister)



Little Dude



Blondie (little blonde kid who can play well but has a short attention span and tends to cry easily)

Blondie

Beaker (skinny little guy who is a little slower to develop than the rest of the players, the coach’s kid called him a stupid idiot at the first practice)

Beaker



Coach’s Kid (good player, not what you might call sensitive to the feelings of others)

Coach's Kid

Big Kid (he’s as big as my 8 year old, faster than any other kid in the league and has some real soccer skills)

Big Kid



Wrong Way (close friends with Big Kid, whines when Big Kid has the ball and doesn’t pass to him, doesn’t know which goal is which, kicks the ball out of bounds more often than in bounds, yells at other kids when they are in the right)

Wrong Way

So, as I said the team is split into equal halves each game. Tonight Awesome Girl was put on a team with Beaker, Big Kid and Wrong Way. The only consistency so far with team selection is that Coach’s Kid and Big Kid have never been on the same team and Big Kid is always on the same team with Wrong Way. The truth is that most parents don’t want their kid playing at the same time as Big Kid because he’s so good. He has actually started passing recently, but he’s so much better and faster than the other kids that it’s hard for any of the rest of them to touch the ball when he’s in there. The exception is that Wrong Way’s parents always want he and Big Kid together because they’re friends. Their families are close  and there seems to be some kind of family agreement that Big Kid will pass to Wrong Way whenever he can.

Well, now think of this from my perspective tonight. Big Kid has an agreement to pass the ball to Wrong Way. When he’s unable to, he’s so fast that he’s dominating the ball anyway. Poor Beaker doesn’t really stand a chance out there and my little Awesome Girl is kind of lost in the mix trying to get to the ball, but being constantly out-raced to it by Big Kid.

Understand that we only get one game per week and it’s 40 minutes long. This means that I have exactly 20 minutes per week to watch Awesome Girl in action. The first thing that goes wrong tonight is when Beaker is taking a goal kick. This is when you stand by your own goal and pass to a teammate. Well, Wrong Way decided he would make a hard charge at Beaker right as he was kicking the ball, presumably because he was jealous Beaker got to kick it. He was succesful in his aggressive charge at his teammate and had the ball bounce right off his leg and into the other team’s goal. Wrong Way jumped up and down and looked over to his enormous mom. “I made it!” Well, Wrong Way has been instructed about a thousand times which way he’s supposed to be going, but he doesn’t care. A goal is a goal, no matter which end of the field it’s on. His mom tries to tell him that his goal doesn’t count, but he doesn’t get it. Because he doesn’t listen…ever. If I were coach I would tell him it’s not that the goal doesn’t count, it’s that you’ve just hurt your team and scored for your opponent. But I’m not the coach and that’s certianly for the best.

Well, after that Wrong Way’s parents decided to correct the problem by telling him to stand by the other goal. Which he did. Literally. He stood in the middle of the other goal like a goal keeper (there are no goalies at this age level). He was standing in the way of the goal so if any of his teammates were going to score he could stop the ball, turn and try to kick it in for his own glory. Imagine a waiter standing up against the bar to take drink order only to then turn and ask the bartender for the drink simply so he can steal the tips. Same thing. Oh, and the goals they use are about 4 feet wide, so he’s taking up most of the goal. It’s not like it’s a regulation size goal and it would be easy to score around him.

So the first quarter ends and Awesome Girl has played pretty hard, but hasn’t had the chance to score yet. She really wants to score because she hasn’t at all this year (mostly because of the way this team is set up). She is used to scoring every game but the parents think it’s cute when she comes close because she’s a girl. They don’t understand that she actually is a good soccer player. A few nights a week she has me set up obstacle course drills for her to navigate with her soccer ball. She runs these courses for upwards of an hour nonstop getting better and better. She’s talented, but she also works hard at it. I’m not just being a dad here, she’s actually a good player with skills that the other kids don’t have because she practices her butt off.

The last quarter begins and I have told Awesome Girl it’s her time to take that ball on her own and score no matter what. The first thing that happens is she has a shot at a breakaway at midfield. Well, she had a shot at a breakaway. It ended when Wrong Way jumped in front of her, bent over and picked up the ball right from in front of her foot. Thanks Wrong Way…it would be nice if your parents would tell you not to do that. I yell “No Wrong Way! What are you doing?!!??!?!?”

The next thing that happened was Awesome Girl came in from the side and was about to take a shot at a wide open goal. She was DEFINITELY going to score. That’s when Wrong Way came out of nowhere and stole the ball from her kicking it the wrong way back up the field. The ball came bounding back and Awesome Girl kicked it toward the goal, but there was Wrong Way standing right in the middle like a goal keeper and he succesfully took another goal away from my daughter. It was driving me INSANE!



Then Awesome Girl had yet another chance. I had just yelled “Get the ball and take it in yourself! Don’t let your teammate steal it from you! Score!” She did exactly that. She took it from the other team, dribbled in from the side, turned a tough angle shot into a more makeable one and kicked it hard at the middle of the goal. Problem was, there was Wrong Way standing there in the middle of the goal…like a goalie. And again he succesfully blocked the goal like he was Hope Solo in the World Cup.

Almost immediately the whistle blew and the game was over.

Maybe it was the caffeine in the Excedrin I took before the game. Maybe it was the smoke in the air from the forest fires. Maybe it was a paternal instinct to want the best for my daughter. But I can’t take this anymore! I’m losing my mind! I get to watch my amazing daughter play for 20 minutes of game action per week and without fail there is one single kid out there crapping all over her glory. I just want to shake his huge mother. Just shake her and ask her why she keeps allowing this to happen. Why? WHY? I want to shake the coach and shame him into making his own kid play with Big Kid and Wrong Way. I want to scream and yell at Wrong Way until I am the first person he has ever obeyed in his entire 6 years on this planet.

But instead I will continue to do what I always do…make comments under my breath on the sideline making the other parents think (realize) I’m a jerk. Listen, all I want is for my daughter to taste the success she derserves. Your kid doesn’t work for it. Your kid doesn’t give a crap. Your kid doesn’t even know what success is. He doesn’t know which way he’s going. He doesn’t care about anything except kicking the ball. It doesn’t matter which direction. It doesn’t matter if it’s in bounds or out of bounds. He doesn’t know the difference and you haven’t taken the time to teach him the difference. Please just tell him to get out of the way. Please!?!?!??!!?

Who knew being a parent was going to mean having to deal with other people’s kids? Bleh!

Baseball, rage and a cheating umpire



Lori Chipman

 Growing up I always wanted to be a baseball player. In fact…sorry Lori Chipman, not to minimize what you and I had in second grade – it was real…baseball was my first love. What’s great about baseball is that it’s a slow moving game which teaches you how to constantly fail. Come to think of it I don’t know what I like about baseball, but I loved the hell out of it none-the-less.

The reason I’m telling you this is that as I was driving around Springfield a few months ago I was reminded of something that happened on a baseball field 18 years ago. It was the only moment in my life I can say I completely, without a doubt, lost every measure of control. That’s not to say I don’t fly off the handle from time to time. When it comes to driving and sports I step into combative confrontation constantly, compadre. What I’m telling you is this particular time I didn’t lose my cool, I lost my flippin’ mind.

I was 15 years old and we had a baseball tournament down in Springfield. Being the extremely responsible adolescent I was, I couldn’t go down and stay with the team the first night because I had to work at the crack of dawn the second morning of the trip. My mom was gracious enough to drive me the nearly 2 hour drive down to game 1 (which I pitched, took a no-hitter into the 6^th inning and won) then turn around and drive me back home.

Saturday morning came and I rode my bike to work at 6:00 am, served two meals (breakfast and lunch) to a bunch of elderly people who had trouble remembering their own names and rode my bike home at 2:45 as quickly as possible. My mom then again loaded my skinny butt into the stretched black Ford Aerostar (which would later be the ‘limo’ I took to Sr. Prom) and headed back down to Springfield.

My team had won early in the day and I was playing with them in the nightcap. We were facing a solid team that had also won its first two games. Their pitcher was a kid they had brought in from another team just for this tournament. He was a big ole’ horse. He threw hard…there was a reason they had invited him to play. We were getting their best…actually better than their best.

Shaun Vodka

Well, the game was going along like any other game. Very little scoring, both teams playing hard and playing well. We had Shaun Vodka on the mound so you know the other team wasn’t hitting well. Vodka’s fastball and curve both looked like they were shooting straight out of his ear. He could gas it up there in the low to mid 80’s. He was usually, and this night was no exception, very difficult to hit.

Then it happened. I was at bat and Luke Parker was on second base. The pitcher wheeled around and threw a dart to second. The shortstop slapped down the tag as both players fell to the ground. “SAFE!” yelled the umpire. I continued watching. The shortstop had fallen on Luke and he wasn’t making an effort to get up. After 2 or 3 seconds of being used like a couch cushion Luke stood up. When he stood it caused the other player to fall off of him (he wasn’t hurt, he was just resting there I guess). The guy didn’t want to fall to the ground so he kind of clung on to Luke’s jersey so Luke shoved him away...not violently. The field umpire closest to the play said nothing. The umpire behind the plate yelled “you’re outta here!!!!” Huh?

Oh no you di-ent. Oh yes, he di-id! The umpire standing more than 120 feet away decided he had observed enough malice to kick Luke out of the game! All of the parents, including Luke’s dad and Dan Nelson’s dad (from this point Dave and Ron), started yelling at the umpire. It was a horrible call. It was confounding really.  But what are you going to do? This guy is making 10 bucks to stand there in 85 degree heat umpiring a bunch of testosterone filled  little pricks so you’re not exactly getting a guy with a helluva lotta astute judgment.

Luke was a good ball player, so it was going to hurt not having him in the game. Coach Hoppel called me over after the inning said “Keith, you’re at short”. I wasn’t really an infielder at that point in my ‘career’, but I was a competitor. I ended up playing a very good shortstop for the rest of the game. But that’s not what I’m trying to tell you about. What I’m trying to tell you about is Dave and Ron…first. You see, Dave and Ron are still yelling at the umpire. Sometimes loudly, sometimes with quieter condescending remarks. Sometimes with personal insults. The umpire wasn’t liking it too much. Dave was a fiery guy, but he was also a fair guy. He knew his kid had been wronged and he had some paternal instinct kicking in. Ron was an understated fireball. He could softly tear you apart through his mustache and with Dave going crazy next to him it gave him license to belittle this skinny douche of an umpire all the more. It was on.

Now a good umpire would have taken an authoritative course of action that included a verbal warning to the fans followed by an ejection with the possible warning that they risked forfeiting the game for their kids. That’s what a good umpire would have done. But a good umpire wouldn’t have overstepped his partner’s call on the field and thrown a kid out of a game for pushing a body off of himself. A good umpire wouldn’t have had to buy a child’s catcher chest protector to fit his wussy-esque frame. A good umpire wouldn’t have whispered in Coach Hoppel’s ear “if your parents don’t quiet down you’re going to lose this game.” Wait…what?

Oh…that happened. And then so did the calls. I came up to bat with a runner on base. I had doubled off the wall in my first at-bat so I knew I could hit this guy. I fouled off the first pitch. Strike one. Second pitch came in. A curve that had slipped out of the pitcher’s hand a little. It came across at eye level. I stepped out of the batter’s box and heard “Strike Two!” I turned and looked at him and said “What the hell?” Maybe that’s what I said. Maybe I said “are you serious?” Maybe I said “are you f*@%ing joking?” I’m not really sure, but I said something. The next pitch was in the dirt, but I swung…and missed…badly. I figured I had to swing at anything at that point. But one of the odd rules in baseball is you can get to first on a strikeout if the catcher misses it. So I ran, I ran like all hell had broken loose. And I made it. Safe at first. And the moment my foot hit first base the umpire yelled “Foul Ball!” I think it was then I pointed my finger at him. “I didn’t foul that and you know it!” I was yelling as I came back to the batter’s box. Not a word from this 40 year old twerp. The next pitch I swung (again, I didn’t really have a choice) and I foul tipped it. The ball deflected off the catcher and fell to the ground. I stepped out of the box to get my composure a bit and the umpire said quietly to the catcher “pick it up and tag him.” I looked back at the umpire, confused. My mind started trying to connect the dots. None of this was computing…foul ball, tag me and I’m out…wait a second…was he? Was he claiming I hadn’t fouled it and that I had just struck out? Oh Sh9t! I started running to first again, this time I was literally yelling as I ran…”Thaaaaaaaaaat’s the ooooonnnneeee ---- I Fooooooouleddddddddd youuuuuu moroooooonnnnnnn!” The catcher picked up the ball and easily threw me out at first. I turned and started to make my way back to home plate to give the umpire a piece of my mind when coach stopped me and pushed me back toward the dugout. Fine.

Well, the rest of the game went exactly the same way for all of us. Balls were called strikes. Safes were called outs. But Shaun Vodka was mowing down the other team despite the lying, cheating, dirty condom of an umpire. So the score was tied 2-2 in the bottom of the last inning. There was one out and a runner had made it to second base. He was the winning run. Shaun stood on the mound and came set. He stood there motionless and all of a sudden the spineless gimp behind the plate yells “Balk!” When I think about it now it was actually pretty brilliant. You see, for those of you who don’t know baseball, pitchers are not allowed to make flinching or deceptive motions once they come set just before they start their pitching motion. If they do it’s called a “balk” and any runners on base get to advance one base. This diarrhea-faced umpire was getting creative with his spiteful cheating. So the winning run just moved up to third base with only one out.

A few pitches later Shaun threw a pitch that landed in the dirt. The catcher missed the ball and Shaun ran home to take the throw trying to tag out the runner who was attempting to score. The play was incredibly close. When I replay it in my head I think he was out, but you obviously know by now that it didn’t really matter whether the kid was safe or not…he didn’t have to get within 10 feet of home plate and the run would have counted. I heard the umpire yell “Safe!” and the next thing I know I’m sprinting.

Now remember, I’m playing shortstop. And I’m running as fast as my 15 year old legs can carry me. At this point things get a little fuzzy. I know I was running in the general direction of the umpire. The other team was mobbing the kid who had just scored in a celebration around home plate, so when I arrived there was a sea of blue uniforms in my way. I remember looking around quickly and not seeing the douche in black anywhere. Then I saw him…he was 30 feet beyond the backstop and he was walking briskly away. I remember pushing through the other team and basically flying the remaining 20 feet to the backstop fence and hitting it at top speed…in the air. My fingers latched on and I was a few feet off the ground stuck to that chain link like Spider Man. And I started yelling. And I wasn’t yelling things you yell in front of crowds of your mom…although I did use the word “mother” a few times. I distinctly remember screaming from the top of my lungs that he was, to quote Naughty by Nature, “another way to call a cat a kitty”. I used every word I could think of. And I yelled for a good, long time. Then I said something I had never said before and have never said since:  “Come back here! I’ll kill you!” I’ll kill you? What the hell? Who am I?

But it’s not the words that have really stuck with me all these years later. What really shook me was the adrenaline coursing through me like electricity. It was a frightening high. To this day, I honestly believe that had the umpire not fled (and after I started yelling his walk turned into a dead sprint toward his car) I would have leapt on him like a Chimpanzee and beaten him until multiple people had pulled me off. I remember seeing him run away and feeling both a sense of exhilaration from the off my handle rage and deep regret that I wasn’t going to be able to bludgeon him. Honestly, the only reason I can think of that I didn’t chase after him was that I was too enraged to think about going through the dugout 15 feet to my right to get behind the fence. I was out of my mind. I don’t really know how to convey it even now. Because as I’m typing this there is still a part of me that wishes he would have stayed just to see what I was capable of. Yet, having been to that place of unbridled fury, I know I can’t let myself get there ever again.

Here is what he looked like running away:



So you’re probably thinking that I eventually let go of the fence and calmed down and started laughing about the absurdity of it all. You’re probably thinking I finally came to my senses and realized that it was just a game and it didn’t really matter. Wrong. What actually happened is that Coach Hoppel’s brother, Coach Hoppel, grabbed me from behind and yanked me down off the fence. He got in my face and said something along the lines of “this is why we lose games because we’re always blaming umpires and not ourselves.” To which I replied with what I can only imagine was the coldest, darkest, deepest stare back into his eyes that Doug Hoppel ever received. I nearly punched him in the face. And, quite frankly, he deserved it. I played my ass off in that game and I played my heart out too and none of us deserved to have that tournament cheated away from us. If Doug didn’t see it that way then he was a fool.

After things had settled down Coach Jim Hoppel took us down the right field line and gave us the post game talk. During the talk, I was still so lost in anger that I didn’t hear a single word despite being right there in the thick of the huddle. I was doing everything I could to calm down, but it was a slow process. It was like trying to digest liquid hate and it was going to take longer than 20 minutes for me to ‘let it go’. Later Jim pulled me aside at the motel and apologized for “saying that”. I quickly accepted his apology without asking what the hell he was sorry for. Later on I asked some of the other players and they filled me in. It turned out our coach was so angry about how we had been wronged out of the game that in front of me, his half-Japanese player, he said he “wanted to Jap-slap that umpire as much as anybody.” I thought it was big of Coach Hoppel to apologize, but the truth is I never would have known he said it.

There really isn’t a moral to the story, but I do feel compelled to point out that I learned something about my temper that day. I learned that there are limits you can’t let yourself surpass. I realize that other people have stories about actual fights they were in, but this story isn’t so much about the heat of the battle as it is uncontrolled hatred. I literally would have beaten that defenseless twig until someone stopped me or until my knuckles couldn’t bear it any further. So I guess the moral of the story is sometimes you just need to walk away and hope that someday you have the opportunity to piss all over their grave.

I bought a Prius

Last weekend I finally did it. I found the Prius I was looking for and I pulled the trigger and bought it. I had been searching craigslist for months in cities from Portland to Seattle to Missoula to San Antonio and everywhere in between. After a few dead ends including a fantastic plan that had my dad and step-mom buying the car for me in Missoula and the bizarre correspondence with self declared "Bomb Wife and Loving Mother" Whitley Evans, I was finally able to find a 2006 Prius with only 80,000 miles on it in great shape (it has a few scratches and dings, but nothing I’m concerned about) for the price I wanted! It’s great. The lady I bought it from is a physician who works in The Dalles (why The Dalles is special enough to get a “The” in front it as though it’s as important as “the flu” or “the clap” or “the herpes” or "The Oprah" I don’t know, but it could be because it is home to the world famous Spooky’s Pizza). She was selling the car so that she could buy a motorcycle. She was going to be hitting the gym this year to build up enough strength to manhandle a Harley around. Whatever, it’s a goal.

She wanted to sell the car TODAY when I met her Saturday and she wanted the money in cash. Yeah, no red flags here…but I happen to be one of those idiots who thinks “I’m a pretty good judge of character” and I trusted her story so we drove to the credit union. At the credit union I made her show me her ID to match up the name on the title with some photographic evidence that she is who she said she is. She again insisted on cash instead of a cashier’s check because she thought it would be fun if this was as close to a drug deal as possible. It was pretty fun…watching all those hard earned $100 bills get laid out on the table one by one and knowing they were going from me to someone else. She remarked “isn’t it funny that this (pointing to the stacks of paper money being slid into an envelope very drug-dealesquely) equals that (pointing to the north wall of the credit union beyond which the car was sitting)”. Yeah, hilarious.

If I’m being completely honest, Alison was a very very very nice woman and I couldn’t have been happier with her as a seller. She said she would be willing to make right anything that turned up in the inspection I would have later in the week and again I believed her because I’m such a great judge of character and I had judged her character as strong. I hate it when I realize I’m “that guy” but when it comes to “good judge of character guy” I’m pretty sure I am him. What a jerk.

So I took the Prius down to Wentworth to check it out. Why Wentworth? Because I don’t trust mechanics but I know a Wentworth. For the fantastic price of $89.95 (I have no idea if that was a good price since I called nobody else) I found out that I wasted my $89.95. The car is in perfect shape. The brakes are good. The battery is strong. It’s a great car. I didn’t really waste the money…I bought peace of mind blah blah blah. Some might say “I WENT and it was WORTH it!”

As a bonus, when the mechanic was doing the inspection I walked around the streets of beautiful inner SE Portland. I came around a corner after admiring endless gutters full of litter. Lo and behold, in front of me was a small fat man in a tiny three wheeled vehicle. Who be you, sir? Who do you think it was? If I told you his first name was Douche would you know? That’s right, fresh from writing two parking tickets it was Meter Maid Douche Thoreson making yet another appearance in my life. He had already altered my life negatively by putting in motion the events that led to me to quitting Meals on Wheels. Here he was, looking me in the eye without an ounce of recognition. So I followed him on foot, trying desperately to keep up with the ice-cream-man-motorized-tricycle the good citizens of Portland had bought for his use. About block three of what I now refer to as “the chase” I watched him write a ticket then he stopped at another car and was radioing it in to headquarters. I can’t imagine the poor depraved soul who has to answer this idiot’s questions all day: “Yes, Thoreson, that car is registered and has just as much a right to park on the city street as anyone else” day after day after day. Anyway, as he was radioing I just stood there 10 feet away and stared at him. He stopped radioing. “Hey, remember me?” No. “You wrote me a couple of tickets a few months ago.” Oh, around here? “No. I’m the Meals on Wheels guy.” Oh yeah. “I wanted you to know that for the last ticket you gave me when I called you a 'Meter Maid B**ch' I drew a picture of you calling you a douche, wrote that you were everything that’s wrong with the city of Portland and they gave me nearly all my money back.” Oh yeah? “Yeah…I guess that’s how you beat the rap. You make fun of the Meter Maid.” Huh.

That was it, that was all. It wasn’t much, but it was enough for me. I was able to let him know just how little his job is worth. Despite the fact that he makes legitimate money for the budget, the way he uses no discretion when issuing tickets has led to the courts giving back fines to people who draw pictures of him as a fat idiot in a bicycle helmet.

But I digress…the Prius is so great. I drove it for 8 days before I had to fill up the gas tank. That was over 375 miles. It cost me $27.49 to fill the tank. Much of that driving has been with the entire family of 5 in it because the back seat is big enough to fit the three kids. What I have noticed, however, is that because there is a real-time fuel-efficiency meter and I know exactly how much gas I’m using at any given moment I now drive like a grandma (no offense to the grandmas out there). I never want to use the gas because the electric is free. I’m quickly turning into an old Asian woman behind the wheel…but for $27.49 I’m okay with that.

Then Sunday I went and bought this putter.

Now I’m an old man on the golf course who can’t bring himself to bend over a regular putter. Essentially I’ve become a senior citizen in a week’s time which wouldn’t be so great if it didn’t get me discounts at Sayler's Old Country Kitchen with their weather-beaten sign that’s nothing more than a revolving picture of a 40 year old sun-bleached t-bone steak. I don’t know what color to call it, but I wouldn’t say it’s “steak color” at this point.

Anyway, I’ll see you on the roadway…probably in my rearview mirror yelling at me because I’m going 8 mph under the posted speed limit while I’m laughing about how I’m currently getting 75 miles to the gallon which is pushing up my 45 mpg average for this particular tank of gas. Fred Flinstone didn't get this kind of gas mileage!