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.

D. Thoreson: Meter Maid, The Final Chapter

I never expected that there would be a part three to the Meter Maid Douche Thoreson story. If you haven’t read Part 1 and Part 2 yet you should do so now by clicking on them here:

D. Thoreson Meter Maid

D. Thoreson Meter Maid Number 2

In fact, if it’s been a while since you read them it’s probably a good idea to skim them before reading on. I had little need to do so prior to writing this final installment because the emotional trauma I endured loathing this public payroll leach is now seared into my memory like the fish you ate that gave you food poisoning. Now every time I have to feed a meter in the City of Portland I taste the vomit all over again.

In “D. Thoreson Meter Maid Number 2”, my less-than-subtle title intended to make you associate Douche’s name with poop, I told you all about my experience in the court room. As it turned out, going to parking ticket court is about as far from television courtroom drama as anything you could imagine. It’s just a judge hating his assignment and time after time reducing fines by 50% regardless of any other factors. It’s a gigantic waste of time…and money since you have to pay to park downtown where court is held.

As you probably remember, I made myself the bad guy back in “D. Thoreson Meter Maid” when I used an expletive in reference to The Douche on the parking receipt I left in the window as I delivered Meals on Wheels. What you may or may not have realized is that my trip to court was for the original parking ticket. The ticket I received after taunting Douche with my note was still in process at the time of the last writing. That was by design because I wanted to see how court went the first time to determine if it was worth my time to waste Douche’s and Multnomah County’s time by again pleading not guilty and demanding a trial. Well, after my experience I realized that I had done about all I could do and reaped basically no reward.

So, reluctantly, I decided to plead “no contest” and kiss my $39 check goodbye instead of demanding to be heard by someone who wasn’t interested in listening. Here is a copy of the letter I sent to the court:

If I’m being completely honest, time has healed some of the wounds from this experience. I don’t have much pent up malice left in my heart for ole’ Douche anymore. This is despite the fact that the City of Portland has now issued me 3 parking citations in the past 6 months while the person who smashed out my window and stole two GPS units from me walks free. Priorities…

I will say that I do feel a sense of loss after having quit the Meals on Wheels route. When I quit it prompted John to quit which prompted Peggy to quit which shut down our company’s participation with Meals on Wheels altogether. Since that time Francis passed away. She was 94 and had outlived two husbands and a daughter. It was her time to go, but I was still sad to hear the news. Last I heard, Ron was still up on the 6^th floor in his wheel chair telling stories. I think about him sometimes. He’s the kind of guy who leaves an impression on you.

Well, back to my third and (hopefully) final ticket. Imagine my surprise after sending THAT letter in my defense when an envelope arrived at my home this week. I took it inside and opened it up. At first I thought the court had decided to charge me MORE after reading through my case. My blood was beginning to boil again, but alas the court wasn’t charging me more. The court was cutting me a check in the amount of $33.

I was still found guilty, but ultimately my fine ran to a net total of $6. That means all in all it cost me the price of a burrito to have a 10 minute heated conversation with Douche Thoreson after calling him a female dog. If it were a Mastercard commercial it would look like this:

One undeserved parking ticket and subsequent afternoon in court: $24.50.

One parking ticket received in retaliation for calling a man a “B---H”: $6.00.

Being able to loudly tell a meter maid his true contribution to society in front of a handful of random strangers and now the entire world through the magic of the internet: PRICELESS.

One final message to you, D. Thoreson, spelled out with my fine money:

Cheap-O-Air

Well, we just got back from Disneyland. What an experience! But that’s not the part of the trip I’m going to tell you about. Be honest, you weren’t really looking forward to me telling you about which of the girls pretending to be Disney Princesses were the best looking anyway, were you? The most bloggable portion of the trip was the time we spent on the airplanes.

What I should say first and foremost is I’m cheap. I hate spending money I don’t have to. I’m famous for it in some circles. That said, my wife thinks I’m a frivolous spender which tells you something about her frugality. Having established all that you won’t be surprised to learn that we planned everything for our vacation on the cheap. How cheap? Well, I booked the flights on Spirit Airlines. What’s Spirit Airlines? It’s the airline that has absurdly low fares but then charges a fee for anything and everything you can think of. Oh…and which travel website did I use to book the flight? Cheap-o-air.com. Seriously.

This was our first experience with Spirit so we didn’t really know what to expect. We knew that we would have to pay for any checked baggage…and any carry-ons. Fortunately we were actually allowed one “personal item” for free. After much thought and debate I decided my personal item should be a change of underwear (in case the plane were to go down I didn’t want the news cameras to arrive to find me in soiled undies). Kidding. I was able to bring my laptop bag and Taela was able to bring a backpack that she referred to as her “purse”.

Next I had to call the airline to determine what it was going to cost to bring car seats and a stroller. I found the 800 number and dialed it. I got through to a lady with some kind of indeterminate accent. She asked for my “confirmation number”. Uh-oh. I was looking at the email from Cheap-O-Air and I gave her the “booking number”. Nope, wrong number. Ok…how about this one, the “reference number”. Nope. Crap. Then…silence… “Hello? Hello? Hello?” Nothing. Well, let’s hope the planes at Spirit are more reliable than the phone system.

I called back and got through to a man with a similarly mysterious accent. For no reason other than to make myself feel irrationally better I let him know that I had been cut off when I had called moments before. He either didn’t understand or didn’t care about that as he asked how he could help me. I said I had seen on the website there is a “nominal fee” for requesting particular seats on the plane. What would it cost to get all 4 of us sitting together? “Oh, sir, it is only $10 per ticket per flight.” Understand that we’re making a connection in Las Vegas on the way down and the way back. That’s 4 legs on this trip times 4 tickets times $10. That’s $160. We’ll pass on this one and assume that common sense will prevail when we board the flight. I mean they can’t possibly seat a 5 year old girl by herself, right? I rolled the dice and it worked out just fine.

Then I asked him if there was a fee for the stroller. “No there isn’t, you will have to leave it at the gate and it will fly for free.” How about the baby car seat that fits into the stroller? “If there is a baby for it then it too flies free.” Great! What about the booster seats for the other two kids? “Pardon me, sir?” You know, the booster seats. “Sir? I don’t understand.” You don’t know what a booster seat is? “No sir.” You know, the plastic seat a kid sits on in a car. If we rent one from the car rental place it’s $10/day and they only cost $18 brand new. Can we bring them as the kids’ personal item? “I don’t understand sir, please hold while I check on this information for you.” For the next 6 minutes I sat there and tried to think of a way to describe a booster seat to someone who has never seen or heard of a one. “I’m sorry sir, I cannot answer your question but here is the phone number for TSA.” TSA? “Yes, TSA, sir. The number is…” Well, at least the guy tried to help. I didn’t bother calling TSA since that would have been useless, but it turned out they checked the booster seats at the gate just like the stroller for no charge. Couple that with Taela’s family’s willingness to check our bags on their Southwest flight and this plan is set to save us $300!

Three hundred bucks…sounds worth it, doesn’t it? Well, the first flight was pretty routine. We had 4 seats in a row. The kids were excited for their first flight. It was great. Then we caught our connection in Vegas. Our seats were close but not right next to one another. I was able to get a lady to trade her seat so we sat two and two. We were in the same row but had the window and middle seat on either side. It appeared that nobody would sit in either aisle seat so we would be next to each other again but at the last minute a guy that must have weighed 350 lbs. sat down next to Taela. That was the last time I saw she and Tenley until we landed in LA. I think you’re still sitting over there and I miss you.

Then we went to Disneyland for five days. Yay!

For the trip home I got us back to the airport a little rushed for time. We were at the front of the check in line. Then a greasy looking guy with a gold chain tangled in his chest hair came up and stood beside us as if he were ahead of us. I used my shoulder to step in front of him and he moved uncomfortably close behind me. I looked at him and said “What are you doing?” He answer: “I’m on the 4:00 to Vegas”. “Me too.” After that I never remember seeing the guy again, but that’s the kind of class you get on Spirit. We made it through the security checkpoint quickly. We made our way to the dumpiest terminal gate I’ve ever seen. It was under construction and there were exhausted looking people everywhere. I couldn’t find an airline employee to save my life. When I finally found one I couldn’t tell if it was a man dressed like a woman or just an overweight, over made-up, over-shaped-eyebrow woman. There was no intercom so they just started shouting for us to board.

We were able to get 4 seats together again on this flight. Fantastic. We made our way on and quickly realized that this flight was damn near empty. There were probably 30 people on board flying from LA to Vegas. Of the 30 there were definitely 3 strippers. The lady sitting directly in front of Tenley was on the phone during boarding: “Yeah, it was busy last night. I gave 5 dances, but I’m not complaining about the money.” There was a young black woman in leopard print 6 inch heels. I don’t know if it was because of her lack of leverage balanced atop those stilts or just her lack of upper body strength but she was literally incapable of lifting her designer bag up into the overhead bin. Someone had to help her.

Just before take-off a flight attendant got on the intercom to address the 30 of us. “Is there an Allie Whozane onboard? Allie Whozane?” It took me 5 seconds to realize she was looking for “Ali Hussein”. Oh great. Ali Hussein went to the front and spoke with the pilot for a moment. Now every single person on the plane is trying not to let their inner racist out. The lady sitting in front of Taela turned around and started laughing about the look on my face. That would have been awkward except that we had already established that she was the lady who talks incessantly about nothing.

Some examples:
- She loves grape licorice. She bought it at CVS Family Foods…no, Ralph’s Supermarkets.
- She suggested to the stripper in front of Tenley that she go to a specific talent agency she highly recommended
- Her son is in the entertainment industry. He was the 8 year old kid in “Don’t Be a Menace to South Central When You’re Drinking Your Juice in the Hood.” He’s now 23.
- Also to the stripper in front of Tenley: "If you believe in yourself and your dream you'll go far." It's nice to know that Disney's "dream" message is permeating society at all levels. No, I promise you're not a walking cliche. Most strippers in LA and Vegas make the big time.

Well, Allie Whozane didn’t forcibly overtake the pilot and we landed just fine in Vegas once more. We had a nearly 4 hour layover and then crammed into the flight to Portland. I’m not a particularly tall guy…we’ll say I’m 5’10” which is, for all intents and purposes, true. My knees were smashed against the seat in front of me. How they fit us into this tiny little space I will never know. During boarding a man said to his wife “why is that overhead bin closed, is it full?” She didn’t know any more than he did and she told him so. I said “there’s a fee if you ask them to open it.” “Ha ha ha ha ha ha,” he laughed.

I kept nearly mercifully falling asleep and then something would inevitably wake me up. Between the lady behind me hacking and hacking as hard and loud as humanly possible, the person behind Taela who raised and lowered the screeching arm to their seat over and over, the two young black women in the row in front of us loudly rehashing their drunken trip to Vegas and my attempts to keep from cutting a huge fart all over the nice lady from San Diego I was seated next to I just couldn’t nod off for more than 30 seconds.
Would I recommend Spirit? I suppose it depends how much you value the money. The 5 of us including our 10 month old were able to fly round-trip from Portland to Los Angeles for less than $600. However I will also say I heard all of the following on our various flights:
“If you want to move forward to the empty seat with more room there is a $25 fee.”
“Next time I’m going back to Southwest.”
When I asked what on the drink cart was free the answer was “I can give you a cup of ice.” I accepted.
“What’s that smell?” At some point I just couldn’t hold it any longer. Sorry, nice lady from San Diego.

Arachnoscreamia!

Behold, the all-important 10th blog entry! Yes, we've reached double digits and if you haven't read them all then you have some serious laughs left in the chuckle bank!...

There has been much debate in recent years over the “National Pastime”. Baseball was the national pastime for a century before yielding to “America’s Game” …American football. American football is not to be confused with “The World’s Game” which we call soccer and everybody else calls football. It’s all very confusing and there’s much to be said on the subject. Baseball happens to have been my first love, but the word “pastime” seems appropriate because true baseball fanatics are hard to find anymore. Football has taken over the national consciousness from high school to college to the NFL. Soccer has taken over the city of Portland in a way I never would have thought possible. But here’s what they’re all missing and I can’t think of a way any of them can close this glaring hole: none of these sports involve yelling at the top of your lungs at spiders.

Let me tell you a little story. My wife’s family has a long tradition of meeting at a park in Oregon City every 4th of July. Nearly every year the extended family (cousins and second cousins and first cousins once removed and great-great-great aunts and ladies named things like “Doris” and “Betty” and men with names like “Dick” because that wasn’t a funny thing to call people back then) gets together for cheap hot dogs and too much chocolate and old stories. Well, when I married into this family I began attending this every year and there was one common theme at each: I know 10 people out of 60 and I’ve seen all 10 recently so I really don’t have any catching up to do. Thank God Andy married Tara so I can have somebody to throw things at, whether that be a baseball or a football or a Frisbee or an insult or a stick. At least I’m not sitting on a bench pretending I’m interested in the grass I’m staring at.

Well, a couple of years ago during this picnic the kids were finally old enough to run around. They weren’t yet old enough to run off and do their own unsupervised thing, but they were old enough to circle the party making quirky noises and occasionally run into something hard/sharp/hot and start crying. That’s not the worst thing in the world because then you have the opportunity to hold them and console them and kill time all the while looking like a compassionate parent who didn’t just send your wild and crazy offspring running around to bash their face into a piping hot barbeque. Well, someone had the idea that it would be a good idea to send the kids off to go play in the tree next to the structure the party is held in. Before you go and judge “someone” who did this you have to understand that this tree is some sort of hemlock tree that isn’t really climbable. It’s not pokey like a spruce so the kids could go into it kind of like a tent and run around it kind of like little Indians (I don’t know why I wrote that but I’m not a racist…except when I’m trying to outpace my opponent).

Anyway…the kids are playing in and around this tree and I decide it will be funny to scare them. So I go up to the tree and I get behind where my son is and I yell at the top of my lungs. The 50 strangers probably looked at me like I was half nuts and looked at my wife pitying her for marrying this idiot but I didn’t see any of that.What I saw was the spider in the web in front of me flinch. By “flinch” I mean it raised a couple of legs in the air and flailed them around. “RAAAAH!”. I tried it again. Flail! “RAAAAAAAAAAH!!!!!!!” FLLLLAAAAIIIILLL!!!!!

I was onto something…I was onto something BIG. So I found another spider and I yelled at it too. Flail! In fact, I found out, the louder I yelled, the more the spider would flailed around. This was great. Pretty soon the kids are yelling at the spiders. From a distance I’m sure we looked like idiots, but like I’ve always said “it’s better to look like an idiot from afar than be far from an idiot.”

So for the rest of the summer my son would find spiders in the backyard and as long as they were in their web we could go right up to them, bark loudly and watch them freak out. We started rating our Spider Yells by the number of legs that made it into the air. A 2-legger is a pretty weak effort. A 4-legger is about what you’d expect a girl to be able to do – sidebar: I’m not being sexist and saying that girls are worse spider yellers than guys…I’m simply saying that calling someone a girl is the same as calling someone a wus. Now when you can get a 6-legger you’re really making progress because now you’re talking about only 2 legs sticking to the web with a full 75% waving in the air. I’ve yet to see the holy grail of spider yelling, the 8-legger, which I would imagine means the spider full on falling from its own web. Maybe I should buy an air horn to see if this can truly be accomplished.

Here is the link to the YouTube video of some Spider Yelling…or if I’m really technical maybe I learned how to embed it after writing this. Please forward this blog and/or the video links to Spider Yelling to everyone you know. People will love you just as you now love me.

Spider Yelling 1


Spider Yelling 2: Extreme Spider Yelling!


My charge to you is to go out while there are still a few straggling spiders in the yard. Find one in a web and scare the hell out of it. Yell at the top of your lungs. Your neighbors will think you’ve lost your mind, but the joke’s on them because you will know you are enjoying the emerging movement of people who enjoy screaming not because of, but AT arachnids. You’re a pioneer in the sport of Spider Yelling. Yell loudly and yell proudly.

You're out!!!...or you'rein?

I don’t watch the news on TV. I don’t often read the paper. I do, however, read the news online typically on KATU.com. I do this in part because it keeps me up to date on current events and local happenings and in part because I love to leave absurd and sometimes inciting comments after the story. It’s amazing the enjoyment I can get out of saying something inflammatory to a group of out of balance message board nerds and then watching the wrath come down because I’m not sensitive enough about the plight of pit bulls. It’s fantastic.

Recently I read an article on KATU.com about a man who worked at a high profile castle in Vienna which housed a “major art collection”. So now you have to get an image of this guy in your head. You see, Alfred Zoppelt is 57 years old and had been working at this castle for 23 years. Like you, I’m picturing an astute gentleman in an outdated top hat with some too-formal suit who looks directly down the length of his nose when he speaks to you. He’s probably come to believe that he owns the castle over the decades, right?

Now, with that picture in mind, you have to wonder why this man was fired. I’ll tell you. He regularly rubs his own piss into his face and his hands. He does this for undisclosed “medical and cosmetic benefits”. Apparently it’s called “urine therapy” and it has all the confirmed scientific benefits of the late night infomercial-driven colon cleansing products on the market that claim you have poop spackled to the walls of your colon which drain your energy every day. Honestly, if you haven't seen this guy talking about your colon you need to click the link before this sentence, scroll to the bottom of the page and watch a couple of clips.

It turns out Mr. Zoppelt is not the only disciple of the pee-pee wash down. After further research I stumbled upon the fact that this phenomenon apparently infiltrated the clubhouse of my favorite sports team. You see, former Cub outfielder Moises Alou believed that peeing on his hands toughened up the skin. Toughens up the skin? Tell that so someone who has passed a kidney stone. I’m pretty sure the “skin” of the urethra is about as tender as it gets.

Listen, I kind of backed myself into a corner with my first post about the guy pulling his own giant turd out of the toilet. I want you to know that not everything is about human waste, but seriously, you need to know that people are out there right now peeing on their hands and rubbing it into their face. If you see someone with a yellow complexion they’re not jaundiced, they just need someone to politely suggest they take a wad of toilet paper and wipe their face.

Below is a picture of Alfred Zoppelt extolling the virtues of his treatments.

The only problem with public school is they'll let anybody in

So last night was open house at my son, Caleb’s, school. He’s in second grade and showing us around his class was apparently a pretty big deal for him. He was excited which was exciting to see so we were excited and everything was exciting for this excitable family of five.

The first moment of excitement came when we were walking toward the school and found the mass of bodies packed into the small courtyard in front of the cafeteria. HOT DOGS! Nothing says “your children are getting a premium education” quite like an unlimited supply of charred Bar-S mixed meat franks! If you think I’m complaining you’re wrong. I ate three.

During “dinner” one of Caleb’s friends came and sat with us. He seemed like a good kid and I know Caleb really likes him. I gave a friendly “hello” to his parents but there was no conversation to be had and the three of them rushed away before Taela was even back from the water line.

Next Caleb took us to his classroom. There was some kind of mass Exodus as we were trying to maneuver our bulky stroller in so we waited and watched the interesting array of parents make their way out. If you think I’m kidding when I say that one mom has certainly lost some battles with meth and one dad looked like he came directly from Jersey Shore then you’re just wrong. Exciting!

We entered the classroom…or should I say sauna? Turns out that the environmental control unit runs during school, but not after hours. The window (singular, not plural) doesn’t open. We were in an oven…and Caleb was STOKED to show us EVERYTHING! Soon Micah wants to be held so I’m walking around inside this furnace holding a little mass of heat and I’m sweating and I realize there are 36 desks in this inferno. They have 36 kids packed in like sardines. Tangent: sardines are not a kind of fish…sardines are herring that are called sardines because of the way they are packaged (thank you Uncle John’s Bathroom Reader!). At this point the excitement was nearly unbearable and I needed a couple Extra Strength Excedrin.

Well the reason I attended the open house in the first place is that Caleb told me there would be a box full of Smarties. If we guessed the closest to the actual amount we would win a BOX FULL OF SMARTIES! I mean who doesn’t need hundreds of packages of pressed sugar pills to chase their third “meat” frank? Here is a picture of the parent guesses:




See there in the blue? See it? I can’t quite make out the name so I’ll just guess that it reads “Derrick Colon”. He guessed “420”. Nice one Derrick…make a pot reference at your second grader’s open house for everyone to see. No wonder your last name’s Colon because you’re a real ass hat.

That aside, Caleb’s teacher is great and she recognizes that he will need to be challenged because he’s super smart and blah blah blah and he’s a delight and yadda yadda yadda. Good kids make boring blogs, but they make proud parents and I’m stoked.

Hillbilly Hand-Fishin'

Today seems like as good a day as any to start a blog. In fact today might be the best day in my life to date to start a blog dedicated to sharing the things that happen to me from time to time.

I should begin by telling you that once every three weeks I deliver for meals on wheels. I have been doing this for 4 1/2 years now. It is sometimes rewarding and sometimes depressing, but the people I meet are appreciative and it's well worth doing. Today I delivered for the second consecutive week on account of my having played golf a couple of Mondays last month, so I was fresh in the minds of the people on the route which apparently made me more personable.

My last stop of the day is always the 6th floor of a condominium building in Portland. Instead of paying for parking I place my homemade "Meals on Wheels Delivery Driver" sign on the dashboard, park in the 15 minute only spot and head into the building. The young guy who works the front desk always buzzes me in before I get to the door and it's up the the 6th floor for me. I take a left out of the elevator and head toward the smell of cigarette smoke. You see, the gentleman I'm taking food to is a Vietnam Vet who has a rare terminal disease. He spends most of his day in either his recliner or his wheel chair and he smokes like a chimney.

I ring the doorbell and he yells "come in!" as usual but the door is locked today so I try yelling back, but he isn't wearing his hearing aid (hearing loss is part of his disease) and he has the TV blaring so I may as well be a fart in the wind. After some time (I assume he's hoisting himself into his motorized chair) he answers the door and we go into our typical sarcastic banter. This is good because last week he was pretty down about the progression of his disease and I left thinking there wasn't much time left.

We talk for a while and somehow we start talking about mundane world records and he says "have I ever told you this story before?"
Me: "How the hell should I know? What story?"
Him: "Before my brother died we went on a ferry to Alaska. I had to use the john pretty bad but when I went in there some backpacking kid was in the handicapped stall...the little bastard. I tried the other stalls but they were all filthy and I was in my chair so I waited. When the kid had finished I went into the stall and what do you think I saw?"
Me: "I don't know and I'm probably better off not guessing."
Him: "It was the longest turd I had ever seen."
Me: "..."
Him: "No, I'm telling you this was the longest turd I'd ever seen. I don't know how this kid saved up for it, but he really did something special there."
Me: "uhh"
Him: "So I had to tell my brother but I knew he wouldn't believe me so I had to take a picture of it."
Me: (blink...blink)
Him: "So I take a picture of this thing and show it to my brother and we had a helluva laugh over it. The toilets on that ferry reminded us of being on the submarines in 'Nam. It's no wonder he never wanted to crap in there."
Me: "Yeah, no wonder."
Him: "So later on when my brother was living with me (his brother lived with him for 2 years and 4 months after being given 5 days to live by his oncologist) I went into the bathroom and I really had to go. After I was done I looked down and I couldn't believe what I had created. It must have been the medication they had me on because this was more impressive than the backpacker on the ferry."
Me: "We should make you a plaque."
Him: "So I wanted to show my brother but I knew he wouldn't come in from the other room to see so I went and got my camera..."
Me: "Well of course, you gotta document something that monumental."
Him: "...and my rubber gloves. And slowly and carefully I started to pull that thing out of the toilet."
Me: (jaw dropping open)
Him: "Inch by inch I rested it up higher and higher on my arm, careful not to break it. I laid it down on the paper towels I'd put on the floor..."
Me: "Oh my God."
Him: "...and I ever so gently stretched it out next to a tape measure making sure not to touch the thousand dollar camera to it."
Me: "Oh my God."
Him: "And I'm tellin' ya this thing was 18 inches long. So I go and take the camera over to my brother to show him and he won't look. So I just hold it there and finally he gives in and looks at it and he goes from 'I'm not gonna look you sick bastard' to 'holy sh*t! how did you do that?'."
Me: "That's the strangest story I've ever heard. Once my step-brother saw not a long turd, but a thick one in a toilet at Embassy Suites and called me in to look at it. It was as big around as a big burrito (holding up my hands and makeing a circle the size of a Chipotle carnitas burrito with extra cheese)."
Him: "Oh, I hadn't told you that part. Mine was thick like that too. I have the picture over there on that camera if you don't believe me."
Me: "I believe you"
Him: "It's just over there. I oughtta show you."
Me: "That's amazing."
Him: "In fact I will show you...hold on."
So he drives his chair over to the corner desk and grabs his camera and starts skipping through pictures on it. There are 683 pictures on this camera and I'm seeing shots of his brother's wake and his brother's dead dog that also died of cancer. I'm seeing Tom, the guy who owned the bar where the wake was. There's a shot of a white Christmas. Then all of a sudden there is this thing that looks like a dark-skinned man's forearm laying there next to a tape measure. It absolutely measured 13 inches long and there's no way my hand could have come close to wrapping all the way around it.
Him: "You can see I didn't form it at all or put any two pieces back together or anything. It was just one solid turd."
Me: "Yeah, that thing is smooth and uniform. No doubt about it."
Him: "So now you know when I tell you something it's the truth and I can back it up."
Me: "So...uhh...how long does it take to push something like that out? 10 seconds or...?"
Him: "Oh hell no. 10 seconds? It took at least 3 or 4 minutes. I had to keep working to push it out of there. Most turds are self lubricating and slide out easy if you've noticed. Because of the meds, this one wasn't. You can see on the end where it tapers a bit that I just couldn't relax the muscles any more and finally had to squeeze it off."
Me: "Oh my God."

Listen...not all my writing will be about dying men talking about giant pieces of crap.

Keep it Keen,
Keith