Jeffery, the face cancer

Feel my rage, gratuitously

2010-06-25T16:04:00.000-07:00

See this delightful video?

If you pretend you are the various professionals in this video: waiter, chef, hairstylist, record store clerk (owner?), you can experience exactly what it's like to be a translator who has just been low balled by a translation agency. Exciting, no? If you are anything like me, deep down inside you will wish that the guy who says, "This is a great opportunity!" would get punched in the nose with a fist made from the deadly amalgam of bricks, angry bees and lasers.

To fully appreciate the subtle flavors of the icing on this cake of pure rage is to remember that you spent a decade learning a foreign language, lived abroad for a time, finished a bachelor's degree, a master's degree and then took every small, low paying translation gig that came along (maybe even while working another job full time). You then toiled for years building up a client base and honing your specialty skills all the while being ripped off on occasion by unscrupulous translation agencies. Fun!

The makers of this video deserve to be feasted with unicorn meat and served barrels of ale in Odin's hall for this brave and important contribution to the universe. I would serve them myself but my hands are covered in mortar, my jar of bees has tipped over and I may have just blinded myself with these lasers.

Mystical laundry balls

2010-06-21T09:01:00.000-07:00

I made my annual trip back to the folks place in Iowa a few weeks ago. It felt good to breathe the humid air and watch the green countryside fly past while barreling down old highway 30 in a rental car. The wife and I were excited to show off her 6-month baby bump to my parents, who have been anxiously awaiting my procreation since, I don't know, forever maybe.

It was a fun trip overall but there were some disappointments here and there. The fishing pond where I learned to fish as a boy is all choked up with weeds and is probably barren. The nitrogen-rich farm chemicals that flow into it have caused significant weed growth this year, heating up the water and pushing out available oxygen. This same phenomenon happened about 5 years ago but the pond recovered. I hope it can turn around again.

The parents are facing health problems that I think they should be paying more attention to. My mom has some kind of chronic throat infection where every third time I call I am startled by her raspy, wheezing voice. Dad has some kind of grotesque calcium deposit on his knee that makes walking or bending his leg difficult. He was complaining that the doc said he needed total knee replacement but I took that as a good sign since something could actually be done about it. Get that damn thing replaced, Dad! Surgery blows but get it done when you're still somewhat healthy and recovery will be much easier. Neither of them seem to be trying as hard as they should at keeping healthy. To be fair, they've been busy traveling and taking care of my grandparent's 130-year-old house. Also, they have 5 cats.

The cat issue caused a bit of a sore spot during the trip. Don't get me wrong: I love cats and dogs and everything cuddly, but 5 cats take a lot of work, especially when they don't get along and need to be sequestered in their own rooms throughout the house. This means that my wife, my pregnant wife, mind you, and I have to sleep on a futon in the upstairs den instead of having one of the other upstairs bedrooms to ourselves. One bedroom is occupied by an old kitty named Winny, who was owned by my grandma until we had to take the kitty away because grandma kept feeding Winny french fries. Anyway, Winny is old and grouchy and can't get along with the four other cats who live downstairs. Thus, grouchy kitty gets an entire room to herself whereas I, the only child and standard bearer of the family name, has to toss and turn on a cramped futon in a smallish room packed with two desks (TWO!), a hutch full of kitsch and a giant TV stand packed with porcelain doll thingies. Not that I'm bitter or anything.

Another bedroom is similarly rendered useless as it has become some kind of mysterious shrine of Victorian revival antiques and no one is allowed in there, not even cats. I should mention that this single-room prohibition is not that weird in our family. In our old house our front living room was treated like an old-timey parlor: we weren't allowed to hang out in there unless we had company or we were celebrating a holiday of some sort. Anyway, it's their house and if they want to shut off a room and fill it with dusty-ass antiques who am I to criticize that? The cat situation needs to be better organized though and I brought this up to Mom and she got a little offended. She thought I wanted her to get rid of the cats and that's not what I meant at all. I just think they need to build a large shed or even a fancy "Catio" to house the felines. They just acquired the lot next door so there would be plenty of room for it. Some sort of exterior cat enclosure would free up much needed space in the house and make more room for us and the grandbaby when we visit. Fewer cats inside would also help with my Mom's throat problems since breathing in cat pee all the time can't be helping. Mom won't budge though.

Oh yeah, I almost forgot: laundry balls! On the way back to California I kept smelling a slight hint of what scientists call B.O. on the plane. "Dude, someone smells," I thought to myself. Smelly people are just one of the many reasons I hate flying. I reached my arm up to turn up the air vent in hopes of creating a force field of air to insulate myself from the funk and I came to the horrifying conclusion that the someone who smells was, well, me. Astonished at this turn of events, I did a quick mental review of my hygiene for the day: shower, deodorant, clean shirt, no significant physical activity prior to boarding. What the hell was going on? I racked my brain and kept coming back to "clean shirt" and then it hit me. Balls!

My parents are two of the smartest and nicest people I know. They worked tough jobs and saved up for retirement and are doing very well for themselves. Yet in the last few years they have been suckered into buying some dumb shit, the most egregious of which are these dumb "mystical" laundry balls. If you are lucky enough to be unfamiliar with this particular form of modern-day snake oil, laundry balls are these plastic balls that when added to your washer and dryer will allegedly "deionized" the water and clean your clothes with little or no detergent. When I first saw them in the washer when attempting to wash a load of clothes I thought they were cat toys. I asked Mom if they were upstairs kitty or downstairs kitty toys and where I should put them but she told me they were detergent. "Oh, like they're full of detergent or something?" I asked. No, they were the detergent, Mom said. I tried to wrap my head around that one and asked again if they somehow melted into detergent, like an Alka Seltzer for your wash, my foolish optimism still desperately trying to find the science of surfactants in there somewhere. No dice.

"It's the newest thing invented by this local lady," Mom noted enthusiastically, "They really work!"And thus Mom and Dad have thrown out all of the laundry detergent in the house because of these stupid balls.

So on the way home at 35,000 feet I realized that my "clean" shirt had not been washed but rather gently rinsed in water with some pseudo-scientific hokum about deionized water.

BALLS!

Guts

2010-05-02T15:16:00.000-07:00

Any of you who have read this blog for any length of time know that my body likes to break down in hilarious ways. Sometimes it's a quick bout of face cancer, which took root right on my cheek and gave rise to this eponymous blog. At other times I regale you with tales of my exploding knee or crippling fear of dentists to bring joy to an internet otherwise clogged with pornography and pictures of cats. As of late I have had more triumphs than failures: the wife and I are expecting our first baby in September, the move and house repairs have gone well and I've been getting a fair amount of work. (That last one is a big deal for a freelancer and oh yeah the kid thing is important too.) With all the hustle and bustle we needed a break and so we decided to take a final vacation in Hawaii before the baby is born. We were supposed to leave last Monday, but my frail and hilarious mortal coil had other ideas.

As usual, on Sunday evening I was feeling a bit panicky about all the air travel the next day. It has been well documented that I hate air travel. I paced around that evening trying to keep my mind occupied with last minute packing duties. At bedtime the butterflies started fluttering in my belly, gracefully throwing around m-80s and playing demolition derby with my pancreas, as is their wont. "Man, I don't know why I'm so nervous," I thought to myself, "it's not that long of a flight and we're going to have a good time." Nothing like a positive attitude to push back against the looming darkness of a panic attack.

I laid down in bed and tried to ignore the jitters and increasing discomfort in my stomach. I tossed and turned for a solid hour before I turned to the wife and said, "Honey, I think something's wrong."

The wife and I have been together for about 1,000 years, including the time before we were married. She has seen my pre-travel jitters a million times and rightly thought that this was just another one of those instances. She asked me to describe my symptoms and oddly enough "eviscerating-like pain" is not usually on my list of complaints when I'm freaking out about sitting on a plane for several hours. She went to the internet and navigated past the ungrammatical felines and naked ladies to double check my symptoms. As we all know, interweb diagnosis can be a tricky endeavor, because every symptom you tap in to the navigation bar ultimately leads to a long, painful and expensive death. According to the internet, abdominal pain is either very minor (bad sushi, anything from Taco Bell, 11 beers) or deadly (appendicitis, cancer, host for chest-bursting alien species). Based on the range of things it could be, the wife decided that perhaps we should go to the hospital and get things checked out just in case. They'll probably just send us on our way and we can still make our flight in the morning. I agreed and we hopped in the car.

Since we just moved to a delightful farming town a few weeks back, we have about a 17 mile drive to the hospital. En route I started feeling really terrible: shaking, rocking back and forth and dry heaving, all the while pleading with the wife to step on it. When we arrived at the hospital, I could barely get out of the car. I was doubled over, holding a Target bag to my face and retching while the wife checked me in. The front desk lady gave me one of those plastic barf tubs they have at hospitals and said "sometimes those bags have little holes in them." Man, that lady knows her business, I tell you what.

They finally get me in the emergency room and by then I was groaning and thrashing around like I'm gut shot. The nurse tried to pry important medical info out of me but I was useless at that point. They hooked me up to an IV and gave me some pain meds. "You're going to feel a warm sensation Mr. Wilkins," said the nurse. And indeed the pain melted away as soon as the syringe plunged downward. The hospital staff began taking blood in earnest and hooking up various tubes, stopping only to push hither and thither on my abdomen. "Ouch," I said dreamily. They took me for a quick x-ray but afterward said I was going to need a CAT scan.

For a CAT scan to work, you have to drink a contrast solution to make your innards light up so the doctors can differentiate the bag of spaghetti that is the human digestive tract . Although I'm glad that science has given us magical ways to look at the ooky parts inside our bodies, I believe they have failed in certain respects to realize that people with abdominal pain may have a hard time choking down a tall glass of bitter-ass contrast solution. "Try not to throw it up," the nurse said flatly.

I managed to keep down the half gallon of contrast solution and then the CAT scan tech came and wheeled me into the scan room. I had been breaking out into a sweat every 10 minutes so the trip down the cool hallway felt nice. I fumbled clumsily to keep that pathetic gown they make you wear from blowing up and giving everyone a show. The tech gave me some instructions before helping me switch to the gurney that rolls you into the CAT scan. I had never had a CAT scan before. The calming robot voice telling you when to breathe, the persistent whirring of the machine and the pain meds I was on made it a not unpleasant experience. The last part where I had to hold my breath for 25 seconds sucked though. Even on the meds any pressure on my abdomen was tortuous.

After the scan, the tech wheeled me back to the emergency room. I laid there for about an hour while the nurses alternatively pumped me full of pain and anti-nausea medication. The doctors expressed some concern about what they saw on the scan-my spleen looked a bit dodgy and my appendix was definitely enlarged. Plus, my white cell count had jumped since they last took a blood sample. It was now 4 in the morning and it looked like we weren't going to Hawaii after all.

A few hours later, a surgeon came down to speak with us. They confirmed what we had already feared: my appendix was swollen and pushing up against other squiggly bits. Also, some sort of mysterious fluid was leaking into my belly. They were going to operate at noon.

It may have been the pain meds, but I wasn't that scared of the operation, which is significant given my general phobia of all things medical related. I even put on my serious tone and asked my wife before the surgery if we needed to do a will or anything. She just laughed and gently reminded me that my assets, such as they are, were not significant enough to warrant a fancy legal document at this stage. Indeed, my grandest possessions amount to beer brewing equipment, some Chinese dictionaries, fly fishing gear and an assortment of Lord of the Rings memorabilia. The Wilkins fortune would be safe, for now.

At high noon they wheeled me into the operating room. They gave me some more meds and I was out like a light. I woke up in what seemed like just a few moments later in the recovery room, sans appendix. The wife stood by the bed and explained that everything went well. They even took pictures of the surgery, which looked like this:

Ha ha, gross.

Recovery has been slow. It's been about a week and I'm still having a hard time getting up and around. I've been sleeping on the couch most nights because it's only a short hobble to the bathroom from there. I also can't stretch out properly on a bed on account of my bloated and bruised tummy. The kind of surgery is known as laproscopic, where they fill you up with carbon dioxide like a horrible anthropomorphic balloon before carving out your offending organs with robot hands. You only need three small puncture holes instead of a giant scar like normal surgery. Awesome.

So in short, my body chose one hell of a time to try and explode a small useless organ and fill me up with toxic gloop and kill me. Jesus I wish I was in Maui right now. God damn it so much.

Also, I have to go in for another CAT scan in 6 months so they can take a gander at my spleen. Seems there's some spots that they need to check out. Awesome.

The Town

2010-04-06T13:37:00.000-07:00

We just moved from a small, wealthy college town in Central California to a tiny, scrappy farm town just 15 miles north of our previous place of residence. It features a wide variety of intriguing small-town fauna such as roving bands of chihuahuas, numerous mangy cats, chickens all over the damn place and crazy, crazy local people. At the post office a few weeks back I met a retired teacher who is also a member of the prestigious local rifle club. He told me a story about how he met a former student of his when he accidentally crashed some weird hippy outdoors nature fest thingy when he was fishing one time. The former student was "totally smoking hot" and she came up and hugged him while she was naked.

Cool story bro!

We are also helping my mother-in-law with some repairs around her house. The previous owners of the house performed several remodels with all the care and precision of a chimpanzee with brain damage. I realize I shouldn't make fun of brain damage and whatnot but I am convinced they let loose a dimwitted monkey to do renovations around here. For example, they built an addition on the rear of the house but they didn't get a permit so the county made them tear it down. They had already connected the main part of the house with the addition so when they tore down their scofflaw enclosed porch they had to replace the roof and re-stucco the wall. Of course, they were terrible people and did the most half-assed job, ever. It leaked, got moldy and we had to tear out a bunch of shit and replace it. I got to learn about the magical world of drywall, so, uh, silver lining?

Until yesterday I had only a tenuous connection to the outside world save for a very dodgy internet connection. We have no land line phone and my old cell phone would only get a signal long enough to take a call and then immediately drop it. Awesome. To make (and sustain) a phone call I had to go down the block, climb the levee and walk around looking for a signal with my phone held in front of me like a Star Trek character trying to explore an alien planet. Speaking of space, I seem to remember seeing footage of astronauts communicating with earth from the moon like, 40 years ago, so I'm a little unclear how cell service in the state boasting the WORLD'S 8TH LARGEST ECONOMY is so spotty. I won't tell you which major phone service couldn't do the job that was somehow done in 1969 with vacuum tubes and slide rules, but it rhymes with "Tea Crow bill".

Zany repair adventures notwithstanding, I like the new town. It's no weirder than the small town where my grandparents lived (and where my parents now call home) in rural northwest Iowa. The people are friendly and neighbors seem to look out for one another. The river rolls gently through town just a stone's throw away so canoeing and fishing will be on the agenda in the coming weeks. I will post some pics when I can.

Ignore this post. Everything is fine.

2010-02-25T20:31:00.000-08:00

Everything is fine. Just keep doing what you were doing...

"Though the income gap in the United States has slowly decreased over the last few decades, there still remains a significant disparity in income between genders and across races. The earnings of Black women are much closer to the US average than those of their male counterparts, and the trend is similar for those of Hispanic descent. It is also notable that on average, Asian females earn more than both Black and Hispanic males, while Asian males have the highest income among all groups." -Mint.com

personal finance software – Mint.com

Stupid Knee

2010-01-17T13:04:00.000-08:00

I recently had a conversation with my left knee that went like this:

Me: "Hello old chap, I should like very much to increase forthwith my weekly mileage in ye olde sport of running. What sayest thou?"

Left Knee: "No."

Me: "Tough titties. I will now run three 10k runs per week with an additional two 5ks betwixt."

Left Knee: *EXPLODE*

So my knee exploded about three weeks ago and I'm now limping around like a pirate but without all the fun of a talking parrot, eye patch or barrel of rum. Here is what a knee looks like according to science:

The areas aptly designated OUCHIES! and AAARRRRGH WHYYYYY! are giving me the most trouble. According to the always accurate and reassuring internet diagnosis, I either have deadly knee cancer with one week to live or I have a mild case of tendonitis and I need to quit running for a bit until it feels better.

Unfortunately, running is the one activity that keeps me sane after staring at a computer all day so the last week of no running has got me kind of stabby. For example, I drove to the grocery store last week and, as usual, some idiot had left a shopping cart in the middle of a parking space in a busy lot instead of walking 18 feet to the cart receptacle. This was the only spot open that wasn't located in the next county so I stopped the car, moved the cart to the small grassy island to the left, got back in the car and parked in the spot. While getting out of the car the second time I was fumbling for the grocery list in my jeans pocket and unwittingly opened the car door into the cart. Hard.

This is one of those times when you're supposed to go to your happy place, count to ten or pray to baby Jesus for strength, but since I am a terrible human being, I got angry instead and let the rage flow through me like what happens to the bad guys on Star Wars, sans lighting bolts. I got out of the car, picked up the shopping cart and carried it in front of me as if it were a large box. I waddled over to the line of carts queued up in front of the store and slammed the cart into the pile as loudly and curmudgeonly a possible. Why didn't I push the cart as designed? Because anger demands that you do not use things as they are intended. For example, if your are trying to remove a stuck bolt and you strip it with a wrench, you are required to use the wrench as a hammer to smash the bolt while swearing. It's the law. Anyway, I think I showed some restraint since my original plan had been to lift the cart over my head and skulk around the lot until some subhuman abandoned another cart and then beam them, but good.

So, uh, I guess I'm a little on edge without the whole running thing. Maybe I need to take up yoga or knitting or something. On second thought though, I might abuse those giant knitting needles if Joann's Fabrics runs out of #304 Astrakhan Persimmon.

Yoga it is then.

Turkey Trot Part Deux: This time it's personal!

2009-12-07T15:07:00.000-08:00

I ran the annual Turkey Trot again this year. Last year I was plagued by nerves, a sleepless night and terrifying doppelgangers. This year, I destroyed the 10k Turkey Trot with a devastating combination of training, heavy metal music, ~~blood sacrifices to ancient pagan gods~~ and good old fashioned American moxie and or grit. I finished 4 minutes under my previous time, rated 17th out of 54 for my age group and 179th out of about 1,200 total participants. In the pic below, you can see me here on mile 5, inexplicably wearing sunglasses on a foggy day.

The secret to laying waste to your opponents on race day is to have a motivational play list on your ipod. As I mentioned above, heavy metal is crucial to powering through "the wall," which is that part in the race, usually three quarters of the way through, where you want to barf. Sufficient medical-grade quantities of bands like Bible of the Devil and TYR will quickly purge your system of weakness while your body gains vital sustenance from the thrashing guitar solos and epic vocals. To round out the metal, I included some folk by Fairport Convention, some Chinese rock by Cui Jian, a little French jazz a la Les Nubians and some 90's alternative from the Gin Blossoms, which just so happens to have a drum rhythm that matches my 7:30 per mile pace. For good measure I added some early recordings of war dances from several Native American tribes. My full play list was as follows:

Song: By:

Hey Jealousy	Gin Blossoms
Oh Comely	Neutral Milk Hotel
Kashmir	Led Zeppelin
Still Alive	Lisa Miskovsky
The Turning Stone	Bible of the Devil
Holland, 1945	Neutral Milk Hotel
Iron University	Bible Of The Devil
Fast Sioux War Dance	Authentic Native American Music
Warrior'S Chant	Red Road Crossing
(A) Sinklars Vísa	Tyr
The Beginning	Týr
500 More	Bible of the Devil
The Battle of Evermore	Led Zeppelin
Shine a Light	Wolf Parade
Rewind	Stereophonics
Learn to Fly	Foo Fighters
My Hero	Foo Fighters
Legions of the Oriflamme	Bible of the Devil
For You (Greg's Lament)	Night Horse
Don't Need Your Lovin'	Night Horse
Hide and Seek	Imogen Heap
Powerman	The Kinks
Demain (Jazz)	Les Nubians
Mad World	Michael Andrews & Gary Jules
Nothing to My Name	Cui Jian
The Ballad of Easy Rider	Fairport Convention
Nothing Gives Me Pleasure	Josh Rouse
Carry On Wayward Son	Kansas

Awesome.
So, that's what I listened to while running around on a cold November morn.

Boo, Winter

A few weeks ago everything looked like this:

But now we are going to have a ~~snowstorm~~ hard frost, something that we almost never get here in the Sacramento valley. I spent the morning stashing outdoor potted plants in the garage and covering the larger immobile ones in sheets and garbage bags. Now they skulk around our yard like sad arboreal ghosts.

The landlord told me to put rags and plastic bags over the faucet taps around the house to prevent the pipes from breaking in the freeze. I laughed a little bit while following those instructions because my juvenile sense of humor likened it to, uh... heh heh, using prophylactics. Anyway, I guess icy faucets are the plumbing equivalent of catching the clap so, safety first!:

Our house will be STD free for Christmas! So we got that going for us, which is nice.

Stuff my dog ate

2009-11-13T10:22:00.001-08:00

Stuff my dog ate:

1. New pair of jeans (chewed a hole in them when he was 2 months old).

2. Various socks.

3. Fifteen to 20 stuffed animals, I've lost count.

4. About a thousand of those little hair band thingies:

5. The actual hair band Dokken:

6. These little red berries from the the bushes out front. They are probably toxic but he has built up an immunity.

7. An entire loaf of French bread 2 years ago.

8. A giant movie theater-size box of Milk Duds. Luckily they use cheap chocolate so Davey lived to chew another day.

9. The edges of several strategy guides to video games.

10. At least two pairs of slippers.

11. The thing you use to throw tennis balls to dogs.

12. Multiple full Kleenex™ boxes. Doesn't really eat them, just pulls the tissues out one by one, leaving them strewn about the bed.

13. A tube of skin lotion.

14. Dental floss.

15. Rubber bands. One time these, uh, got stuck when we were out on a walk. We were right by this park bench where two old Ukrainian ladies were sitting. I don't speak Ukrainian, but you could tell they were horrified while watching me try to dislodge a butt embedded rubber band from the dog with a plastic bag over my hand. Welcome to America.

16. Ate a giant glittery Christmas candle last year, pooped sparkly wax for a week.

17. Ate a glass Christmas ornament. Pooped glass for two days.

18. Ate 2 pairs of my wife's glasses several months ago. One pair right after the other.

19. Ate my glasses (two days ago).

20. The wooden lid to a candle.

21. A bunch of tomatoes from the garden. Again, these are toxic and probably taste terrible but he was fine.

22. A dead baby squirrel, which I had to pry out of his maw with my bare hands.

23. Cat poop.

24. Some doo doo that was by the sidewalk, origin unknown. I wanted to shower in bleach after this one.

25. A bunch of sand at Carmel Beach.

26. A bee when we went camping. His face got a little swollen.

27. The odd moth now and again.

28. Leaves. Just because.

29. Hair.

30. ?

Why do you keep eating and chewing things? Is it because they have flavor? Are you acting out? If you weren't so darn cute I'd sell you to the monkey house. Well, looking at your history, you might like that given the monkey's habit of flinging that kind of thing around. I guess we'll keep you. Try not to eat anything deadly. Or expensive. I'm already out $180 bucks for the glasses.

Fall

2009-10-20T10:10:00.001-07:00

Ah, fall! That time of year when the air becomes crisp and the leaves blaze red before crackling in the wind and drifting gently to the ground. A time when autumn storms tear through the valley and leave the yard strewn with debris. A time when our dog Davey protests my shoddy lawn maintenance and begins, uh, doing number twos on the concrete patio because he does not like stepping on the wet leaves and sticks that now cover the grass. Stupid dog.

So yeah, fall is just great around here.

I do welcome the drop in temperature though. The changing seasons here are more subtle than the Midwestern clime where I ~~mis~~spent my youth. Although we did endure a heat wave about a month ago where the mercury climbed into the 100s for a few days, the last throes of a parching summer. Our California autumn is like a miniature spring, bringing green hills and new blooms for a few months before the grey, wet winter sets in. The new rain has coaxed some narcissus from the soil around the neighborhood and new rose blossoms in the front garden. Also, patio poop, as previously mentioned.

On the work front, I get a bit busier this time of year. The small to medium-size jobs roll in consistently, leaving just enough time for important things like canoeing, fishing and golfing. The fancy pants job I did over the summer will be published in early 2010, which will hopefully bring in more work of its kind. I have translated numerous academic papers and have discovered I enjoy it and I'm not completely terrible at it either. My biggest challenge with the Chinese to English language pair is that Chinese is grammatically, intellectually, and culturally organized in a fundamentally different way than English, making precision and fluency difficult in many contexts. Academic pieces, at least in my experience, tend to use standardized and scientifically-accepted terminology, making word searches for obscure diseases and mysterious biological processes a walk in the park (Thanks internets!). The structure in academic texts is also more straight forward, at least for Chinese authors who have been educated in the U.S. or Britain, making it easier for me to repackage the top-heavy sentences found in Chinese into smooth, readable English. Perhaps the culture creep of English-speaking academia can influence one's native language. There's a PhD thesis in there somewhere.

Meantime, I've got some bachelor time coming up while the wife travels for work. I'm thinking of exploring some smaller lakes in the area, doing some fishing and maybe fit in a few rounds of solo golf. I'll take some pics while I'm out.

Also, watch your step on our pat...NO! BAD DOG! BAD DOG! YOU DO THAT ON THE LAWN! ON THE LAWN!

What a bad dog might look like:

-Glen

Busy translator is finished being busy and will now commence complaining about pop culture and political figures of note

2009-09-14T10:15:00.000-07:00

Two weeks ago I finished the large freelance job I had been hammering away at for two months. I ended up taking on a second article because one of the other translators bailed, which I can't really understand because this project represented an incredible opportunity to get paid and get published (free advertising, essentially). I can't really get my head around why people do things. The older I get the less I understand people.

Speaking of people behaving badly: is it just me or has there been a spate of professionals acting unprofessional lately? Here is a list of jerks and their various offenses:

1. Joe Wilson: Senator and retired effing COLONEL in the South Carolina National Guard decided to heckle the Prez during his speech to a joint session of congress. I really don't care what his view on health care is because everyone is entitled to his or her opinion but interrupting to call the president a liar is a tremendous violation of decorum and I would expect a retired COLONEL to understand how to behave towards his comander-in-chief, regardless of political affiliation. Yeah sure, in England, Ye Olde House of Parliamente doth become quite the unpleasant tumult indeed when they hassle that Optimus Prime Minister guy or whoever, but we beat them in World War I and the Spanish-American War or something so we won the right to clam up when our King (the President) gives a speech. You, sir, are a first class jerkface.

2. Mike Duvall: Ugh. This guy is just gross. This may be too local for any non-California readers, but this legislative clown bragged about various affairs near an open mic using terminology more shocking and disgusting than typical high school locker room chatter. I will go ahead and mention that he is a married, family-values Republican. In a state where we won't let the gays marry. Because that will harm the institution of marriage, what with the gays marrying and such, because they are gay. Ugh. You, sir, are an oathbreaking jerkface.

3. Michael Jordan: This one broke my heart a little. I am not a sports guy, but I grew up watching the Chicago Bulls dominate the NBA championships in the 1990's. My grandma (requiescat in pace) used to love watching the games with me as Michael "Air" Jordan effortlessly pulled off one incredible play after another. "That Michael is some player," she would say, shaking her head in disbelief and awe. I always thought he showed class on the court, but during his induction ceremony for the Hall of Fame he took the podium and proceeded to settle old scores. There is no question that his rambling outburst was petty (also, he couldn't be bothered to bring a few note cards and make a proper speech?), but even in the interest of preserving your own legacy, why go out of your way to crush people when they assemble in your honor? What a terrible lesson to teach young people. His father (requiescat in pace), would be very disappointed. You, sir, are a thoughtless and cruel jerk.

4. Serena Williams: I'm kind of on the fence about this one because I can empathize with her situation. When you're playing tennis at that level, a bad call can make or break a career. I have read that good officials will let small errors or questionable calls slide to prevent a match from being decided on a single call. Unfortunately, Serena set herself up by slamming her racket down (twice) early in her match against Clijsters. I understand why the foot fault call near the end of the match would be infuriating-Williams was behind and it was a questionable decision by the line judge. However, her language and gestures were the very definition of unsportsmanlike conudct. Being a professional means eating a bad call now and again. It's not fair but being an adult and a professional means showing grace under pressure. I think I am bothered too by her allegiance to a very conservative religious sect, the Jehovah's Witnesses, who limit their contact with non-adherents and who will shun followers who exhibit "immoral behavior." If you align yourself with a conservative belief system you will be subject to those rules and you must "practice what you preach" at all times, forever. Otherwise, get out. You, madam, are not really a jerk, but you could use some anger management and should perhaps convert to Buddhism.

5. Kanye West: Sigh. I don't even have the rage-born fortitude to type this one out because it's so incredibly dumb. Dumb, dumb, dumb. Let me ask the youth of today something: America's youth? Hi, increasingly cantankerous 30-year-old here. Do you think this Kanye West is a hep cat? I admit, I have enjoyed a few of the hip hop tunes he has dropped or released or whatever you young'uns are calling it these days. They are catchy and breezy, to be sure. But what about how he acts? Are you guys cool with that? Really? That doesn't come off as kind of stupid, grandstanding and shallow? What? Rockers in the 70's used to bite the heads off of bats you say? That's true, you got me there. But bloodlust and mayhem were integral to the identity of 70's metal bands and perhaps served as a criticism of and a counterbalance to the sugary pop garbage that polluted the pop charts of the time. Wait, what was I talking about? Oh yeah: you, sir, are a jerk and I simply do not care for your behavior. Good day!

Having said that, I'm off to watch Matlock and write angry letters to the editor on my mechanical type-writing interweb device.

America's birthday, canoeing and other hijinx

2009-07-13T11:29:00.000-07:00

Our friends J and L visited us to celebrate America's 233rd birthday. Patriotic rituals are important for cementing nationalist sentiment but they also serve as an ideal occasion to eat various grilled meats, drink beer and play around with fireworks. We ate this:

And some of this:
L brought some veggies to cancel out the carcinogenic animal protein pictured above. The cheerful colors foreshadowed the pyromanical mayhem that would commence at nightfall.

I have cherished memories of the summers of my youth, full of charred fingers from quick fuses and the dull reek of smoldering sawdust punks. My dear home state of Iowa saw it proper to ban fireworks in its Health, Safety and Welfare Code, Section 727.2. This has left generations of proud Iowans no choice but to sneak down to Missouri or up to South Dakota like common criminals to smuggle in the requisite firecrackers and bottle rockets for the 4th of July. California, where I now live, has also gone the nanny state route and banned most of the fireworks that explode, fly into the air, or shoot out massive amounts of deadly sparks. You know, all the cool stuff a firework is supposed to do. Fortunately, the largest state on the left coast hasn't completely banned consumer fireworks. You can still get a few little spinners and fountains at the roadside stands that dot the parking lots around this time of year. I made sure to buy a bag to complete the Independence Day trifecta of beer, bbq and pyrotechnics.

Here I am contemplating ~~colonial grievances against King George III~~ FIRE!:

The women nag at us to wait for cars to pass before throwing fireworks into the street. Killjoys.

Sparklers. YAY!

I lit a bunch of these little strobe thingies that are bright enough to give you corneal damage. Here we frolic in the shadows cast by them:

L discovers the joys of pyromania:

Is that all it does?

Don't ever give those snap-n-pops to J. He will chase you around with a wild look in his eyes while chucking them at your flip-flop shod feet. It's terrifying.

All out of snap-n-pops, J stands ready with the lighter as I fumble for another pack of camelias.

I perform a dainty ballet move to escape the soon-to-be raging inferno of the strobe firework.

Happy Birthday America. You don't look a day over 225!

Now for some water sports! (giggle)

This is the canoe I bought from my beardy Alaskan pal Jack. He won't be needing it anymore since he'll be too busy wrangling babies and fighting grizzly bears in Alaska: the Florida of the North! I named the vessel Skidbladnir, after the legendary ship in Norse mythology. I scrawled the letters in runic to let everyone know that I am a nerd. That anchor looking thing underneath is Mjolnir, Thor's hammer.

You have to let the dog in first before tying the boat down. Get in there Davey!

Davey was pretty excited:

The wife helps move the mighty ship from it's proud abode (our dirty garage).

Tyin' her down. Good thing we have this little hippy Outback. Our old car didn't have a roof rack.

We finally arrive at the lake, which is actually an old cooling pond for a decommisioned nuclear power plant. Awesome.

Get in the boat Davey!

Davey wasn't so sure about this...

We plied him with treats. He kept lookout for any radioactive monsters while we paddled around and fished for a few hours.

I am glad to live in a country where I can shoot off fireworks and paddle around a potentially radioactive lake. Thank you president Benjamin Franklin!

-Glen

Busy translator is busy

2009-06-21T17:30:00.000-07:00

I'm in the midst of a large and important translation project, which may get me A: published, and B: more work. So I've been too preoccupied lately to write anything funny or insightful or embarrassing for a little while. Alas, you will have to find other ways to ~~feel better about yourself by reveling in my humorous tragedies~~ entertain yourself on the internets.

Might I suggest typing a few words into Google and seeing where it takes you. The internet is like a magical gnome, beckoning you to explore new vistas of joy and sometimes, terror. If you're feeling brave, try switching off the safesearch filter and type in a phrase or two bursting with innuendo. Let me know how it goes.

See you in a few weeks.

-Glen

Going Away Party/Baby Shower/Open House

2009-05-12T16:08:00.000-07:00

My friend Jack is having a baby and moving back to Alaska, a combination of events which is sure to inspire joy and trepidation in equal measures since they are happening at the same time. We threw a little shindig at our place a few weeks back in celebration of Jack's virility and to give him a final chance to enjoy the warm California sunshine before retreating back to the icy north. The party went a little something like this: (Photos courtesy of Gene Kwon)

There was hugging...

And guessing games. One game required estimating the baby's due date, weight and length. Most of the men had no idea how large a baby is at birth and so were hilariously off the mark. I was most concerned about the prospect of the 36-inch 22-lb. newborn behemoth suggested by one clueless contestant. Another contest involved guessing the retail price of a product that is called, and I'm not making this up, "butt paste." Think about it: Paste. For your butt.

Hilarious.

Party tip: you can make any cupcake more festive by adorning it with a small plastic baby placed on a dollop of pink frosting. Please note that the hostess will frown on your referring to such delicacies as "placenta cakes," even in jest.

Davey was pretty stoked to have everyone over. He spent most of the time running around, trying to eat things and doing that wookie-like whining/growling thing he does when he gets excited (he doesn't bark often).

I had to stand sentry over the good whiskey to guard against the shady characters we call friends.

I distracted potential booze thieves with a long-winded description of my refinishing project.
The booze thieves lost interest and shuffled back to the backyard for some ping pong.

Ping pong.

Here I try to eat a sandwich using only the power of my mind. It was delicious.

So as not to belittle my guests, I ate another sandwich using the conventional take-a-bite, sip-a-beer, take-another-bite method. A spectral baby carriage floats by overhead. Creepy.

Artsy.

A curious gnome watches on.

What's Jack thinking about? Another tri-tip sandwich? Another beer? Diapers? Butt paste?

Our house also doubles as a space ship as evidenced by the triangular protrusion pictured here.

Here I discuss the merits of a gnome-based home security system. J and L listen politely.

Davey tries to muscle in on Scott's beer. Bad dog.

The audience is enthralled and terrified by my wife's cautionary tale about the guests who kept feeding the dog random food. Spoiler: He turns into a terrible, gassy monster not unlike a gremlin.

I think her message was ignored.

Davey will feign good behavior, if bribed.

Hey guys, team huddle. Let's give Jack a bunch of baby-themed gifts! Also, how can we best use that butt paste to humorous effect?

Jack is showered with gifts.

Someone mentions butt paste again. Hilarity ensues. Will that joke ever get old? Maybe just for Scott, who has a subtle and refined sense of humor. He is also good at ping pong.

The Irish indoctrination begins early.

I got this shirt for Jack in hopes of spurring his future progeny to acts of derring-do. Actually, knowing Jack, his kids won't need any encouragement.

To show his appreciation for our gifts, Jack sings a touching ballad about fatherhood. Our friend L, in red, dances a jig. Merriment ensues.

All that dancing and merrymaking wiped everyone out.

The wife palms a mysterious orb as Davey performs his patented pancake maneuver.

Sufficiently bribed with plastic babies, steak and the promise of tummy rubs. Davey sits still for .02 seconds so Gene can take this picture.

Who's a good boy? Do you like a tummy rub? Who likes a tummy rub? Davey, that's who.

Everyone had a blast celebrating Jack's success at fulfilling his biological imperative to reproduce. He is going to be an excellent Dad seeing as he led a bunch of us California wussies through the Alaskan wilderness without anyone getting eaten by grizzly bears. Congrats Jack and best wishes from all of us!

On a final note, here's an adorable puppy:

-Glen

30

2009-04-15T13:25:00.000-07:00

I am 30 years old today. The wife made me a delicious chocolate cake last night and we will hang out with friends and drink beer and eat steak later tonight.

Among our group of friends we have a saying that on your thirtieth birthday you are beyond reproach. That is to say, any misbehavior, shenanigans or faux pas are completely inadmissible in the court of "quit being a jerk in front of everyone." I still have to get revenge on a good friend of mine for hiding everyone's cell phone batteries while hammered during his 30th b-day bash at our house.

Hide your cell phones.

-Glen

I hate antioxidants

2009-04-01T11:19:00.000-07:00

A blog about Glen, the face cancer host, and my exciting adventure while I try to eradicate him. I am ahead so far.

4/01/2009

Good god has it been a terrible day to be pre-malignant neoplasm. I bust my butt using my malformed DNA to grow uncontrollably and what does my idiot host do? He eats healthy, exercises, and uses sunscreen. This job sucks.

Without those precious free radicals bouncing around and mutating DNA, all I can do is sit here as a mildly unpleasant spot on my host's face rather than become the metastasized agent of biological doom that I was born to be.

I quit.

Signed,

Jeffery

Happy, happy, joy, joy

2009-03-13T16:26:00.000-07:00

I spend a lot of time on this here world wide information superhighway weblog thingamajig complaining about things I don't like: face cancer, airplanes, the dentist, other people, etc. It's getting to the point that the ~~person~~ thousands of avid fans who read this are beginning to think I'm a grouchy, misanthropic shut-in. In reality I like sunshine, rainbows and kittens as much as the next guy and it's important to remember the things that make you happy since it's so easy to dwell on those that bring you down. Kurt Vonnegut Jr. (requiescat in pace) once mentioned a simple piece of advice that is very applicable here.

But I had a good uncle, my late Uncle Alex. He was my father’s kid brother, a childless graduate of Harvard who was an honest life-insurance salesman in Indianapolis. He was well-read and wise. And his principal complaint about other human beings was that they so seldom noticed it when they were happy. So when we were drinking lemonade under an apple tree in the summer, say, and talking lazily about this and that, almost buzzing like honeybees, Uncle Alex would suddenly interrupt the agreeable blather to exclaim, “If this isn’t nice, I don’t know what is.”

So I do the same now, and so do my kids and grandkids. And I urge you to please notice when you are happy, and exclaim or murmur or think at some point, “If this isn’t nice, I don’t know what is.”

I'll go ahead and take a few minutes to write down some things that really make me happy. Here goes nothing (in no particular order):

Sunny days in the low to mid 70's (like today, woot!)
The smell of barbecue (especially steaks. I don't eat a lot of red meat but holy smokes does it smell good cookin'.)
Waking up early to go fishing, hike or travel someplace fun
Meeting a loved one at the airport after not seeing them for awhile (also, getting off that dang plane)
Trees in bloom (especially crab apple, plum trees and Jasmine)
Runner's high (stay off drugs kids)
Sunshine, rainbows and puppies (as previously mentioned)
Taking a nap
Eating when I am really hungry (like 10 mile hike hungry)
Sleeping when I am very tired (like 10 mile hike tired)
Breaking apart a difficult sentence in Chinese to make the perfect translation in English (immensely gratifying)
Getting large amounts of freelance work on a Monday (contrasted with getting it on a Friday afternoon for a Monday morning deadline. Boo.)
When your favorite song comes on during a low point on a long road trip
When your favorite song comes on during a low point on a long run (cheesy rock ballads from the 80's and 90's do it for me)
A cold beer on a hot day outside in the shade with good friends
Science and nature shows on TV narrated by people with British accents
A really good pear
Clean socks (I am a man of simple pleasures)
Finding a secret Popsicle in the freezer you didn't know you had (this also goes for bonus beer in the fridge)
That first splash and pull on the line when you get a good strike from a rising trout
Sandwiches
The smell of cut grass, sunscreen and fresh air (if they could put a summer's day in a bottle, I would buy it by the case.)
When the dog is really happy and playful (so adorable)
My wife's chocolate cake (she's a very talented baker. I am the luckiest man ever)
Opening presents
The french fries from Jack's Urban Eats that have blue cheese and red chili flakes on them
Driving with the windows rolled down
The heavy quiet that settles in the forest at sunset
When a hangover goes away
Walking up a hill to get a better view
Looking and looking and looking for a word in a dictionary and finally finding it
The smell of tobacco (pipe tobacco smells so good. It's a shame smoking is so bad for you and the people around you)
When a plan comes together (thanks A-Team)
A tidy yard
Barack Hussein Obama (In your face red state haters!)
Hay rack rides, golf carts and open-air shuttle buses at the zoo (small vehicles are terribly fun)
When someone else does the dishes
Fresh strawberries

If these things aren't nice, I don’t know what is

-Glen

Nitrous oxide and Buddhism

2009-03-09T13:28:00.000-07:00

Everyone who knows me knows that I hate going to the dentist more than anything else in the world and possibly outer space. Nothing spoils my day like having a stranger dredge around in my mouth with a screeching drill and then steal my wallet, which is pretty much my impression of modern dentistry. Last week I got to enjoy just such an experience, my fourth appointment in as many months.

Oddly enough, I have pretty good teeth. A decent genetic hand out from Mom and Pop has allowed me to dodge some of the more comical and tragic orthodontic paraphernalia such as retainers, braces and the dreaded head gear. I take some measure of comfort in having straight teeth, although I am forever cursed with an enamel as brittle as chipping house paint, which leaves me vulnerable to numerous cavities. It probably didn't help that I hated milk as a child and that as a teenager living in China (really!), I survived on a strict diet of bean paste buns, Snickers bars and Coca-Cola.

My drive to the dentist is a long one - around 30 minutes. This is ample time to imagine the tortures I will soon endure. The anticipation is probably the worst part of the appointment. The inane chatter on the radio coupled with the traffic makes me equal parts angry and emotionally sensitive. I am like a roid-raging meathead who is about to cry at the end of Brian's Song; a total mess. Part of my routine is to call my wife as soon as I reach the parking lot to whine about how life is unfair and reiterate with gusto my distaste for dentistry. Bless her heart, she is very patient as always. She gives me a few words of encouragement and then I'm on my own. I turn off my phone in accordance with the office rules. God forbid a cell phone should ring and somehow disturb the other patients above the din of drills and the sound of metal explorers scraping teeth.

Walking into the office, I get that first whiff of the hideous vapor that pervades all medical establishments. That acrid, antiseptic smell triggers a fear response deep in the dark reptilian reaches of my brain. I have the sudden urge to hide under a rock and my complexion fades to an appropriate shade of green. The receptionist smiles and waves me back to room #3.

I have only ever been in rooms 2 and 3 during the numerous appointments I've had with this dentist. Maybe these rooms are reserved for the anxiety-ridden basket cases such as myself. Each room has a cheerful picture festooned on the ceiling and back lit by the fluorescent lights. Room 2 has hot air balloons floating in a gentle breeze and room 3 shows an under water scene with swimming fish, leaping dolphins and brightly colored coral. I make a mental note that the ocean picture is a bit disturbing. As you lay back in the squeaky dentist's chair and look up, it appears that you are drowning at the bottom of the sea while marine animals play above you, almost mockingly. Reflecting on the interior decorating choices of rooms 2 and 3, I imagine the only person having a worse day than I am would have to be afraid of heights, water and the dentist. "Maybe this won't be so bad," I think to myself. Oh foolish optimism, you bastard cousin of hope!

Nope. It's going to be much, much worse. The appointment lasts a grueling 2 and a half hours due to the excavation of two fillings that were rooted deep in another geological epoch. Many people hate the dentist because they are afraid of needles or pain or they are anxious about being judged. None of that stuff really bothers me. My beef with this form of oral hygiene is that it's a blatant invasion of my precious personal space. I long for the day when we can get robots to do this foul business. Maybe something like this:

OH GOD that's the worst idea ever. Let's try this again:

GAAAAAH! Well, look... maybe this isn't going to work out. I haven't really thought this all the way through.

Killer automatons and metal-wrought Japanese monsters aside, my fear of the dentist goes back a long way, probably because I've had approximately 3,000 fillings in my 29 short years. All that time spent helpless and supine at the mercy of someone in a profession with a high suicide rate has made me approach the whole affair with a certain amount of trepidation. This appointment proves no different.

Luckily for me, science has realized that the whole terrifying dental experience can be mitigated with the proper application of nitrous oxide, an anesthetic also known as laughing gas. The hygienist hooks me up to the tank as soon as I sit in the chair. It is to be the only act of mercy I receive on this day. My wife, who is a normal person and who has never required the sweet oblivion of nitrous at the dentist has asked me what it feels like. The most concise description I can come up with is that it's like slamming three beers, turning a somersault and then hyperventilating for 30 seconds (try it sometime!); sort of a giddy dizziness with a smack of hazy serenity. It's certainly a pleasant feeling but I find it a bit unsettling, maybe because I have never been a big user of recreational chemicals. Perhaps my uneasiness is some sort of vestigial guilt from gleaning a tiny modium of pleasure, or more precisely, faint relief, from an activity that would be illegal in another context. Thanks 'War on Drugs' for imbuing America with a sense of cultural abhorrence to all forms of altered consciousness! Legitimate medicinal use be damned!

Anyway, being a lightweight, the effects of nitrous always seem to hit me pretty hard. The dentist's 2 hour spelunking adventure in my jaw provided plenty of time for me to engage in dopey internal conversations with myself. Several of the topics I covered in my rambling monologues were:

Can one attain complete spiritual awareness under the influence? Does it count? What if, like, the temporary high caused by most drugs is symbolic of the transient nature of all things and that any notion of a permanent state of higher consciousness is ultimately antithetical to the belief system to which it belongs? Also, would Jesus cheat at rock, paper, scissors? If so, that shit is totally unfair.

I am able to comprehend everything that is happening right now and understand all the logic chains of how my current reality came to be. I am thinking about my dentist getting her education, the manufacture of the dental equipment grinding away in my gaping maw, the neuropharmacology of the nitrous oxide surging in my bloodstream and how, right at this very moment, my dog is sitting at home blissfully unaware of all this.

Mentally counting and recounting the pictures of fish and mammals in the ocean scene above me. I daydream about what it feels like to be the fish swimming above a dude getting his teeth drilled. This is somewhat akin to Zhuangzi's dream of a butterfly only I am entirely unoriginal because Zhuangzi thought of this, like, 2,400 years ago.

The dentist, satisfied that I have sufficiently hated the experience and that my wooziness and pain are enough to make me pay whatever she asks just so I can get the hell out of there, finally lets me leave. She jokes about how the old fillings were so deep she thought she might find treasure. "Ha ha in a way you did," I think to myself sarcastically as I stumble up to the receptionist and fork over my co-pay. I drool a bit on my way back to the car.

When you're on nitrous, all of your thoughts seems terribly important and profound, but as you sober up you start to realize that every idiot with access to marijuana and a bag of Doritos has had this exact internal conversation a thousand times. As I steered through early afternoon traffic, still rubbing my aching jaw with my right hand, I took a mental tally of all the goofy crap I thought about while in the chair. The fun thing about nitrous is that you can actually remember what happened to you and jot it down on the internets so people can ~~laugh at you~~ marvel at your bravery and insight.

I can't wait for my next appointment in June. Perhaps I will wear tie-dye, soak myself in patchouli start listening to Phish. Anything to take my mind of those terrible robots.

-glen

Hooray Beer!

2009-02-02T15:56:00.000-08:00

Today I performed an ancient ritual going back as far as the Egyptians: brewing beer. It is a simple process for the most part. You combine the ingredients in a big pot, maintain cleanliness and the yeast will do most of the heavy lifting. Brewing is really nothing more than the proper stewardship of alcohol-producing microorganisms. However, being an ancient ritual, certain protocol must be followed to ensure that the gods favor your creation.

You need the proper attire:

A Tiger beer shirt that was a gift from your sister-in-law? Perfect.

A jaunty hat? Meh, OK, but not necessary.

Some thrashing Chicago guitar metal from the fine band "Bible of the Devil?" Ideal. Keep the volume high to piss off the neighbors. Their wrath will add a delightful bitter finish to your brew.

A kitchen brimming with scientific instruments that would be the envy of any mad scientist? Yes. An astonishing array of tubes and vessels are necessary to convert sugar into delicious ethanol.

Looks like it's all there. Wait, you will also need an adorable dog.

Sit. Stay. Don't chew anything sciencey. Good boy.

Another one of the important unwritten rules is to drink beer while you brew. It helps you focus, allowing you to internalize the magic that will spring forth from the womb of creation. The womb of creation is a large glass bottle called a carboy.

If you are a doofus like me, you have to label your ingredients in the order that they will be poured into the brew pot. That little blue packet with the green post-it is the packet of yeast. If any brewers are reading this, don't worry, I'm not going to boil it. That would kill the yeast and nobody wants that. It's in the queue there to remind me I have to rehydrate it before I pitch it. Pitching is the fancy brewing term for putting the yeast in the wort. Wort is the sugary pre-beer liquid on which the yeast will gorge themselves to produce alcohol, carbon dioxide, poor decision making and regret.

The first batch of bittering hops is in the pot and I'm waiting for it to come to a boil.

This is taking forever. Heh heh, I don't really have a watch.

Boil damn you!

Hmm, getting kind of hungry. Let's eat some lunch.

Since most of your kitchen and stove will be occupied with brewing tasks, you must make a lunch that does not require the use of your range. It's a tradition at my house that you eat something like leftover pizza or some terrible microwave abomination on brewing day. It is a hardship one must endure, much like Catholic lent. I dug these weird microwave "pad thai" noodles out of the dark reaches of the cupboard. This is a bad idea.

This questionable delight contained an unrefrigerated mushy bag of noodles that was to be mixed with a bag of sauce, microwaved for 2 minutes and then, wait for it...actually consumed by a human being.

Oh god these are gross but I'm so hungry and the gods demand sacrifice.

Ugh.

I'm getting the feeling that I'm the sacrifice.

To make matters worse, my beer was getting dangerously low.

The only solution: More beer!

That's more like it. Let's check on the brew.

This went on for an hour.

Concentrate. Concentrate.

Success!

While you're waiting for the wort to cool before pitching the yeast, you can do some science experiments.

Experiment 1. Do dogs like malt syrup?

The subject appears interested.

Something is happening.

This is getting out of control! Subject's licking velocity is increasing exponentially. What have I done!?

GAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH!

Experiment 1. Results: Yes, dogs like malt syrup. However, subject is likely to be driven to a blurry canine frenzy. Also, your wife is going to be pissed when she finds out you were feeding the dog malt syrup in the kitchen. That's enough science for now.

Once the wort cools you can siphon it into the carboy and pitch the yeast. Then you have to shake it, in the words of Outkast, "like a polaroid picture." This helps distribute oxygen into the wort to get the yeast going. Strangely enough, this is the only time you want oxygen in your beer. After this stage any oxygen introduced to the beer will create off flavors. I channel the power of Davey the canine blur to jolt the yeast to life.

Here I am adding the most important ingredient: love. Be sure to hug your beer. It is your friend.

Lastly, I wrapped my beer in towels and hid it in a dark corner to keep out light. I stashed it near some officially licensed nerd memorabilia to ward off evil spirits. In addition to my Tiger beer shirt, my sister-in-law also gave me that light saber. I married into a sweet family.

In 7-10 days I will bottle the beer. A bit of sugar added before bottling will get the yeast going again and create carbonation. In another 2 weeks I will have a delicious American style ale...

Or five gallons of undrinkable sludge. Stay tuned!

-glen

A light from the shadows shall spring...

2009-01-20T09:40:00.000-08:00

Good.

An Open Letter to Random People Who Approach Me

2008-12-29T12:09:00.000-08:00

Let's get this out in the open: I hate it when people I don't know approach me. Call me paranoid, but ~~the little voices in my head~~ common sense tells me I should remain wary. Any myriad of horrors can befall you when John Q Public sidles up and starts yammering away. Here are just a few:

1. Getting stabbed

2. Being robbed

3. Enduring shabby attempts at religious conversion

4. Having to face a crazy person

5. Enduring shabby attempts to sell you something

These are by no means mutually exclusive. You may one day find yourself bleeding, penniless, apostatized and clasping a Oxycleanginsuknifefooddehydrator, all from an unfortunate encounter with a batshit insane Hare Krishna. It could happen.

Well, yesterday evening the mischievous Norse god Loki decided to play a few tricks on me by simultaneously presenting me with numbers 3, 4 and possibly 5 listed above, if you view religion as a fungible commodity. Loki's treachery came in the form of a bespectacled man with a southern accent lurking in the religious section of the local Borders bookstore. He was absolutely convinced that I was desperate to hear about his favorite book about our lord Jesus Christ. Surprisingly, it was not the Bible, but a leather bound book inscribed with the word "grace" in gilt letters. The terrible little man asked me if I had ever read the book as he edged deeper into my precious personal space. His chubby fingers traced the letters of the book as he expounded the fact that the letters g.r.a.c.e stand for Glorious Realities As Christ Empowers or God Really Abhors "Common Era" (ha!) or some such nonsense. He continued with the usual "it changed my life" spiel. I needed to get out of Dodge.

Now, most normal people who read this are thinking to themselves, "Why not tell him to 'fuck off, douchebag' or some delightful variation thereof?" That is a fine question, gentle readers. The problem is, most normal people are accustomed to chasing away the various booze-soaked crazies that haunt the public transportation systems of our great nation on a daily basis. Many normal people live in large cities instead of small, idyllic college towns like where I live, allowing them to develop a thick, Kevlar-like skin. I, on the other hand, am afflicted with a condition where I am terribly afraid of embarrassing myself or offending others and thus, avoid all forms of confrontation unless I am critical mass, super-duper angry. This is because I was born and raised in Iowa, where being obtrusive is a felony, so basically I let this idiot keep blabbering away, my feeble protest amounting to nothing more than crossed arms and terse, single syllable responses.

My purpose in the religious section was to find a book on Germanic Neopaganism, not our lord Jesus. What I should have done, come to think of it, was ask him if he knew the proper way to slaughter a goat to Odin or how to hold the symbel cup when swearing oaths to other warrior elites. Ha ha! Hilarity would ensue! Hmmm...then again that may have painted me as a serious target for conversion, so that could have meant more preaching and further encroachment in my personal space. No thanks.

You know, it's entirely possible that this guy was just an over-enthusiastic Christian thinking I was one of his brethren looking for a good read about an old timey Jewish carpenter. Nonetheless, that doesn't excuse bugging people in public. Keep it to yourself next time, religious dude. Also, maybe take a communications class. Perhaps you can learn about closed body language and social GRACE and its profound secular meaning. Feel free to come up with some goofy acronym mnemonic devices, if that helps.

-Glen

Ants are assholes

2008-12-08T09:56:00.000-08:00

I was awakened from sweetest slumber this Monday morning when my wife whispered gently in my ear, "Honey, the bathroom is covered in ants."

At first I thought I was hearing the echo from some terrible dream; those hazy, disjointed thoughts that haunt the mind as it enters the waking world. My wife repeated herself and, with my brain teetering on the brink of rational thought, I embraced a foolish hope that maybe "oh my God the bathroom is covered in ants" was a metaphor for something rather than an actual situation. "Yeah, that's it," I thought to myself. "We're all a little bit like ants man, scurrying around, like, life."

"Hey! Wake up!" the wife said sternly. "The bathroom is covered in ants and I need to shower and get to work."

I stumbled out of bed and headed down the hall and into the bathroom. Indeed, the wall across from the toilet was covered in approximately a million tiny writhing ants. Thousands marched in a thin line around the base of the tub and up the toilet bowl. My gaze followed the wriggling masses to their source: a small gap in the molding that surrounded the door to the side room.

"Holy shit," I said. "This is totally gross."

The wife and I got down to the dirty business of ant killin', arming ourselves with bug spray and wads of paper towels. My wife wielded the bug spray like a viking champion, slaying great swathes of the enemy with broad strokes from the chemical spray. I smooshed and wiped away the twitching bodies of the soon-to-be-dead with the paper towels. My papery weapons of death were adorned with cheerful floral prints, much like the bejeweled swords of yore. The wife rinsed what she could down the tub drain while I carefully searched all the rooms that share a wall with the bathroom. I found a few scouts in the room adjacent and I dispatched them with towels soaked in bug spray. We were victorious.

I have endured various plagues from the gods before: mice in my efficiency apartment during college, creepy flying termites in my garden at our old house and minor ant invasions from time to time. But this most recent insect incursion was notable for the sheer number of ants involved as well as the sneaky and underhanded way they ambushed us in the privy. I'm usually pretty tolerant of bugs I find in the house most of the time. I'll catch and release the odd spider or moth that wanders in rather than squish them outright. If all that horrible Buddhism is correct, that could very well be a relative skittering across the floor, so I'm not taking any chances. Ants, on the other hand, are known terrorists. If not for their absence of prehensile thumbs and their lack of a stalwart devotion to an ultraconservative monotheistic religion, we would be viewing Al Qaeda-style videos on the internet of ant pirates attacking sugar tankers on the high seas and other indescribable horrors. Just trust me on this.

So that was my Monday morning. Later in the day I would learn from my optometrist that my eyesight is actually improving (I went down .5 diopter in each eye!). Combined with the phenomenon of my torn meniscus in my left knee healing without surgery, my supernumerary tooth growing above a crown and the rapid defeat of Jeffery the face cancer, I may in fact be some kind of super-healing space mutant. Apparently my first battle was with the ant hordes of Northern California, so after that victory I'm definitely moving up the super hero ladder. Besides fast healing, my other powers include:

1. Fidgeting.
2. The power to forget people's names immediately after meeting them while being able to remember insignificant minutiae about their personalities such as their speech patterns, life story, etc.
3. The power to raise and lower my cholesterol at will.

These super powers are a work in progress and let's be honest, we can't all fly and leap tall buildings in a single bound. Some of us have to bear the burdens of super power mundanity. It is our kryptonite.

Glen

Turkey Trot: why I paid good money to run 6 miles on a Saturday morning

2008-11-24T09:43:00.000-08:00

So on a foggy morn not but two days ago, I participated in the 2008 Davis Turkey Trot. This annual race is a veritable buffet of running events featuring a 5K, a 10K and various kid's events designed to appeal to the tastes of both the slackers and the overachievers of the running world. As a representative of the former group, I was not disappointed.

It had been 10 years since I ran in any race, and boy did it show. Sure, I actually run on a regular basis now and take better care of myself (in general) than in those halcyon days of yore, but 29 is a hell of a long way from 19. I would also argue that in the 25-29 age division of the Turkey Trot, 25 is, by my special reckoning, at least 10 years away from 29. My calculations here are based on sound scientific principles including: comparing how much alcohol I could drink at 25 and not feel hung over as opposed to the age-mandated throbbing headache I get now after 3 drinks; noting that pain and suffering at 25 usually led to tangible increases in strength and endurance whereas now I just suffer, in pain; and, factoring in that I have a torn meniscus in my left knee (currently asymptomatic), so "crippled" can now be officially added to the comically long list of maladies that befall me such as having a possibly cancerous face as well as being nerdy, anxious and misanthropic. Don't forget my supernumerary tooth!

All things considered, the race went fine and I actually performed better than average for my gender (sex?) and age. I would have been faster if I had slept at all the night before (anxious) and if I tolerated crowds (misanthrope). My strategy for this race involved listening to weird Icelandic post-rock music (Sigur Rós) while trying not to barf. Here are some pics the wife took:
Note the speed lines behind me. See that dude in the white shirt? Also me, but from an alternate universe. My speed tore a hole in the space-time continuum and Nelg, my doppelganger in bizarro world, appeared for a few seconds.

A few frames later I leave Nelg in the dust, yet I am unable to overtake the runners in front of me despite my tremendous velocity. After I saw these pictures I asked the wife, "Hey sweetie, how come you made every picture look like the women are always way ahead of me?"

"Because the women are always way ahead of you," she quipped.

Touché.

Well, like the saying goes, behind every good woman is a tired and sweaty man on mile 5 who wants to throw up a little bit.

Davey kept wondering why Daddy was running away. He was very confused.

Here's me after the race posing at the starting line with Davey the wonder dog. The event volunteers did a great job and I'm extremely grateful for all of their hard work. My only complaint was that the Cytomax sports drink they handed out tasted like watered-down Pepto with a twist of vomit; totally undrinkable. I don't care if it's full of science, it tastes terrible and there are way better alternatives, like Gatorade or even bat urine. Ugh.

I look forward to running in other races and maybe someday, after all my broken parts are replaced with cybernetic implants, I will run a marathon. Yikes.

-Glen

Childhood

2008-11-07T10:03:00.001-08:00

I spent many happy hours whiling away my time on the 8-bit wonder known as the Nintendo Entertainment System. The pic above is a re-creation of the character from "Dragon Warrior," a Nintendo game for kids who weren't quite nerdy enough to play "Dungeons and Dragons" in their Mom's basement, but also not normal enough to be out playing football and kissing girls.

Ah, misspent youth! More stories of adventure are coming soon!

-Glen

Passing the Bar

2008-10-28T13:37:00.000-07:00

So here is the bar I refinished in all its boozy glory:

I think I spent a total of $48.00 (including the new mirror on which the delicious alkyhall rests above). I still need to re-felt the drawers but it's basically done.

After finishing the bar, the little elf who runs the garbage disposal, sensing my rare victory, decided to up and quit, leaving me with a clogged drain and broken dreams. Note that we had a pile of dishes from the housewarming party held the night before, so his timing was awesome. I thought about calling "Joe the Plumber," but then I remembered he doesn't have an actual license and that he's a lame and irrelevant gimmick for the Republican't Party. It would be up to me, the nerdy mechanophobe, to save the day. I could very well lose some fingers.

After opening the u-shaped part of the drain pipe under the sink, I learned that popsicle sticks and egg shells are bad for the overall draining ability of your sink. Who knew? I cleared the drain, dry heaved a few times (there were some bad smells involved) and called my wife to brag about my plumbing prowess. A good time was had by all.

-Glen

A Furniture Fable

2008-10-17T10:51:00.000-07:00

So the wife and I have been spending most of our free time lately buying furniture. I hate furniture shopping because: 1. furniture is so boring and 2. shopping for it is so boring. You see, as a member of the male gender, I typically do my shopping very quickly and efficiently. Say for instance I need a pair of blue jeans or a screwdriver, I will go to the nearest purveyor of blue jeans or screwdrivers (or both!), make my selection and return home with a minimum of fuss or hand-wringing over my decision. Apparently it's not so easy with furniture.

To her credit, my wife is a good shopper; she knows what she wants and has done most of the footwork and research for our recent purchases. The main difference between our consumer philosophies is that she actually cares about what our friends and guests will think of our home decor, whereas I think they should be glad that they're not sitting on cardboard boxes soaked in hobo urine. I am an awesome host, by the way.

Our recent quest for the perfect living room chair took us to a magical land called the outlet mall, a place where dreams of a carefree weekend go to die. These places are always crowded and because the stores are second rate by design, the service is inevitably crummy. While we were deciding whether to throw away an astonishing amount of money on either a light brown or a dark brown leather chair, we noticed this:

Ha! Ha! Someone had decided to use those giant wooden craft letters to convey a humorous, if somewhat sophomoric, scatological message. My day was starting to look up!

We finally decided on the dark brown chair and queued up behind the throngs of mouth breathers buying suburban kitsch. We waited and waited as two cashiers out of a possible seven worked at a pace that can only be described as too goddamn slow. Sensing the growing agitation of the crowd, they apologized profusely and told us that only two people were available because everyone else was at lunch. Hey, here's an idea: on weekends when people are buying things, ROTATE YOUR LUNCHES! Here we were dropping a sizable chunk of change on a piece of dead animal skin stretched over a wooden frame and they couldn't be bothered to line up a few more cashiers to take our money in a reasonable amount of time. I now see what the mischievous letter goblin was trying to say: your customer service is POOP.

Besides trading legal tender for things to sit on, we are also in the middle of a refinishing project for an old bar we bought a few years ago. I've spent the last few weeks breathing in toxic fumes from the stripping fluid and then sanding it so those chemicals can be better absorbed into my lungs to kill me. At this rate Jeffery (the face cancer) is going to be out of a job, or at the very least, redundant.

First I slathered on the chemicals (safety first!):

The magic of chemistry turned the old lacquer into a toxic gloop.

Then I sanded and sanded:

Davey helped:

Ta Da!

I still need to do some more fine grit sanding before we seal it. Hopefully, I'll finish this up before the weekend, when we have to go shopping for dining room chairs.

POOP.

-Glen

The Woodchuck Incident and Other Adventures

2008-09-22T09:32:00.000-07:00

The wife and I made a trip to Iowa to see my parents last weekend. She stayed two days and I lingered about for the whole week. We flew into Omaha and drove north in our rental car through the hilly farmland of western Iowa. I have always enjoyed that drive and I've made it many times. We arrived in the afternoon, and the first thing Dad says to us is, "I'm in a parade in Schleswig tomorrow, want to go?" Travel weary and a little dazed, we nod as the significance of this bombshell sets in.

Dad fills us in that he and his VFW buddies have a float shaped like the dome of Mt. Suribachi and they regularly re-enact the February, 1945 raising of the flag on Iwo Jima for parades and on certain holidays. This is what the original flag raising looked like:

Joe Rosenthal / The Associated Press

The next day, Mom, the wife and I head down to Schleswig, population 833. Dad had gotten there much earlier. As the three of us wandered around, we found the small town packed with throngs of kids, parents and old timers, all clutching plastic shopping bags in anticipation of parade candy. Remember parade candy? It's like enjoying the bounty of a piñata without the risk of a head injury. In Schleswig, they're generous with the candy, tossing it out by the bucketful. In addition, a contentious race for county sheriff made for a particularly lucrative take as each candidate tried to outdo the other in an orgy of sugar-based pandering.

Amidst a shower of candy, Dad's float rolled by and we snapped these pictures from a cell phone (sorry about the quality):

Dad is usually pretty serious, but he broke character and waved when Mom, the wife and I yelled our support. Also, they got to carry real guns on the float. I asked Dad if they were welded shut like the ones ROTC drill teams use.

"Nope," Dad said, "they're real."

Awesome.

I got ~~a little misty~~ something in my eye thinking about how this little town took the time to remember those who have served and are serving in the armed forces. My moment of sentimentality was broken by a shriek of terror coming from a little boy just in front of us. Was his horror born of clowns or pilfered candy? But nay, a feisty group of Masons known as Shriners wrought fear into the hearts of the tiny hamlet. Turns out, when the Shriners aren't wearing funny hats and hiding the Holy Grail, they drive around in suped up go karts to frighten children. I guess it's one of their secret rituals, like when they take a live weasel and 53f 3f f@ 3@ D~ <*CARRIER LOST

What just happened? Oh yeah, so the benevolent and totally not secretive Shriners did 'Blue Angel' type routines down Main Street, the lead driver used a whistle to tweet commands over the terrifying din of Hemi-powered go karts.

They tore up and down the parade route, ripping donuts and screeching tires until every last child had tears, or at the very least, hearing damage.

There were also some totally boss muscle cars:

And the furry contingent of western Iowa made an appearance, high fiving and haunting dreams as only they can.:

After the parade, we went back to the homestead and investigated a large sinkhole that had appeared in the backyard. Dad fell into it up to his thigh while doing yard work the previous day. I hoped to do a little exploring before we filled it in with dirt.

If you look real close you can see...

Holy shit, orcs!! Fill that thing in!

So we filled it in.

I took the wife back to the airport on Sunday. After she left, I spent most of my time sleeping in, fishing and generally living the life of a lazy teenager. I did most of my fishing in a little pond at a park just north of town. This is where gramps taught me to fish 20 years ago.

I caught ~~about a million of these~~ precisely the limit stipulated by Iowa fish and game laws:

I was a little sleepy and wrinkly-looking that morning. I think the wife deserves a medal for waking up to that every day. Ugh.

This was my first crack at using my new 8-piece collapsible fly rod. It casts a little differently compared to my other rods, but I eventually got the hang of it and caught the following species:

-Bluegill
-Crappie
-Largemouth Bass
-Blue catfish (Really! I was using a minnow pattern.)

At the end of one of my little fishing jaunts, Mom and Dad unexpectedly showed up at the lake. I was on the phone with the wife relaying my fishing success (I have to do this because I have terrible fishing luck in California and I have to prove that, yes, I am a competent fisherman) and I see Mom storming out of the car over to me.

"THOSE A-HOLES ARE GOING TO DROWN IT!!!! THEY'RE GOING TO KILL THE GODDAMN THING!!!" Mom yelled.

"Sugarbean, I've got to let you go." and I hung up the phone.

Curious as to why my usually docile Mom burned with the rage of a thousand suns, I asked her to gently explain who these a-holes are and what it is they plan to kill.

'It' just so happens to be a woodchuck caught in a trap at a historical building inside the park. The little guy had been chewing through the walls of the local landmark and was now snared in a live trap set by the caretaker of the property. Historical buffs that my folks are, they make frequent trips to the site. On this day however, Dad made the mistake of asking the caretaker what they planned to do with the incarcerated marmot while Mom was within earshot. Apparently "drown it in the lake" was not the answer animal-loving Mom wanted to hear. Admittedly, drowning it does seem pretty awful in any context.

You see, my Mom is 5'4'' and is as kind and gentle as Jesus riding a pony while petting baby rabbits. But mention killing an animal or hunting of any kind, and she will display the black wrath of an ancient pagan war god. Even my fishing hobby, which is 99% catch and release, is accepted only grudgingly. So, just as Mom was fixing to do some killin' of her own to save the woodchuck, Dad says, "Just a minute, Honey. Just a minute. Maybe we can go up there and let it loose."

Let. It. Loose. Let that sink in for a moment and enjoy the surreal turn of events that my morning was taking. I'll wait.

Operation Woodchuck Freedom was about to begin and with approximately the same amount of careful planning and deliberation as our current ~~debacle~~ sweeping victory in Iraq. Mom had calmed down a bit, but she still uttered terrible oaths of mayhem under her breath as we drove to the building. As we got out of our cars and approached the trap, we all wondered aloud how we were going to pull this off. We knew we couldn't just open the trap on the spot, because the frightened woodchuck would probably just run back inside the building. Dad was apprehensive about taking the trap anywhere, because that was technically theft. I noted that we could release him somewhere else and return the trap undamaged, no harm no foul. Mom made the helpful suggestion of repurposing the trap as a proctological instrument for the people who were going to drown the woodchuck. We decided to take the trap some miles away and release the woodchuck in a secluded area.

Let me tell you, trapped woodchucks are angry and surprisingly fast. My hand shook as I reached for the handle and I flinched when he darted at me, teeth chattering and beady eyes blazing. We covered the trap with a blanket, tossed it in the trunk and drove west. Once we found a good spot, Dad and I struggled to open the trap. I had never really monkeyed with anything like this, let alone with a pissed off animal the size of a large cat thrashing around inside. Dad and I glanced at one another, each quietly afraid that we would end up on the front page of the local paper as petty thieves, or worse, rabies victims.

After some desperate fumbling and cursing, the trap finally opened with a clang. With a little coaxing, the woodchuck scurried away to freedom in his new woodland kingdom. We returned the trap to the park and went home. Dad made Mom swear to never tell anyone in town what we had done for fear of reprisal, or more likely, mockery. I'm pretty confident about regaling the interwebs with this story because I don't think there's a big crossover of woodchuck drowners and blog readers. Or is there?

-Glen

Livin' la Vida Bachelor

2008-08-25T09:26:00.000-07:00

The wife had a sudden business trip last week so I had the chance to relive my glorious bachelor days. I decided to take Davey with me on a fishing/camping trip to Donner Memorial State Park, a lovely recreation area devoted to remembering a group of people who didn't fair so well on their adventure in the Sierras. And by "a group of people" I mean "the Donner Party" and by "didn't fair so well" I mean "ate one another." Obviously an ideal place for a campsite.

I staked my claim at campsite 84, shown above, which came with an impressive assortment of amenities. I got my $25 worth for sure.

Each campsite comes with a Bear-proof food locker, an amenity that you are required to use on pain of a $1000.00 fine. The idea is that bears won't associate people with the tasty comestibles left around campsites. Hmmm, what if the bears get angry that all the good stuff is stashed away and instead start associating people AS food? Think about that, outdoor science dudes!

Also, each site is equipped with a cheerful yellow plastic can o' bees. This device can be used to ward off intruders or as a key component in a practical joke. Unfortunately, it was just me and Davey and he has a poor sense of humor when it comes to pranks involving bees.

Look at those sunglasses. Sexy. Also, delicious beer makes an appearance.

Unlike the ill-fated Donner Party, I packed a lunch. It has all of the essential camping food groups: your dried meat group, your canned malted beverage group... What the? Is that an apple and a banana? And is that...?

Fancy $6 cheese?! "Mimolette," eh? What is that, French? Hey Pierre, you call yourself a man camping out there with your sissy cheese and your nutritious fruit? I'll have you know that I am a sensitive modern man who is quite comfortable with his masculinity, thankyouverymuch.

I made up for my temporary lapse of red-blooded American manliness by reading books about war and fly fishing as well as a California atlas. I also brought a pad an paper to jot down a few words regarding ~~my inner most feelings about being in the warm bosom of mother nature~~ guns and naked ladies.

Heh, heh, "bosom."

Davey helped me spot rising fish at Michel's Pond. This little body of water held a surprisingly large amount of trout, none of which were interested in any of my flies. I had two good strikes but I didn't set the hook fast enough.

Davey and I roll our eyes at one another while some idiot Dad lets his kids hurl rocks in the tiny pond I'm fishing in. Get this: he even hollers to the little miscreants, "Look guys! That man is fly fishing!" He was totally oblivious to the fact that successful fly fishing and rock throwing are mutually exclusive activities. I gave him the death stare and contemplated putting the can o' bees to use on his ill-behaved progeny. Jesus, I hate stupid, inconsiderate people.

Despite the poor fishing, Davey was pretty stoked about camping. He loves being outdoors and there were loads of squirrels scampering about the area. He's got a bead on one in the picture above.

Donner Memorial State Park is one of the better maintained sites I have stayed at in California. My only complaint besides crummy parenting is that it's fairly close to I-80, so the sounds of nature are drowned out by the growling of engine brakes on semi trucks. Not exactly relaxing.

Later on in the evening the beer, the $6 cheese, the approximately 1 pound of beef jerky and some scorched beans and rice I consumed all conspired to mount a rebellion in my tummy. I wasn't feeling so hot come sundown. Just prior to this, I noticed my arms were sun burned, placing a mortality point firmly in Jeffery's (the face cancer) column. Then, one of the bees escaped the can and stung Davey in the nose (really!). I had originally intended to fish the next morning but I decided to pack it in and head home early in the morning. As you can see, Davey was exhausted:

-Glen

Putting around the house

2008-08-07T09:04:00.000-07:00

Long ago ~~in a galaxy far, far away~~, the list of activities I was least likely to engage in would have looked like this:

1. Golf
2. Sky diving
3. Competitive knitting
4. Jihad
5. Rodeo clown

Well, the world is a funny place and I started golfing about a month and a half ago. My grandparents on my Dad's side (requiescant in pace) had always encouraged me to take up golfing but I always shrugged it off as an activity too slow to occupy my already short attention span. They kept at it through the years, exerting a more heavy-handed pressure on me one Christmas. I was visibly disappointed that year when the long, heavy box I opened did not contain the telescope I wanted, but instead revealed a junior driver and putter. Gramps did persuade me to hit the links with him that Spring, but I was much more excited about driving the little cart than hacking away at the grass with my new clubs. I do feel a twinge of guilt for not taking up their beloved activity until after they passed on. Better late than never, right?

The wife and I got a set of beginner clubs and two golf bags and have been hitting the driving range at the local public course. We are both graced with a general athletic ability and in most cases can pick up new physical activities with ease. That's not to say I'm an expert golfer or prodigy of some type. On the contrary, I regularly slice my drives to the right with such spectacular force that they land in the fairway on the other side of that gigantic Cthulhu-sized net they hang around the range. All safety measures are rendered futile by my special brand of incompetence.

Much to the wife's chagrin, I bought an indoor putting green the other day. It's one of those fancy models that you plug in and it shoots the ball back to you. On a side note: man, is there ever a proliferation of golf accessories! There's more unnecessary gadgets and trinkets for golf than there is for fly fishing, one of the more notorious gear-centric hobbies. The wife is lucky I didn't buy more.

My dog Davey hates the putting green, believing that in lieu of electricity there is a small, nefarious demon hurling the ball back at his beloved master. He (Davey) gets jumpy every time I set the green up in the living room. I tried explaining alternating current and electrically controlled actuators to him but he remains a dubious and hopelessly superstitious canine. You know, I think Davey abandoned reason for good when the evil water sprites in the backyard sprinkler system doused him one morning a few months ago. I don't agree with him, but at least I can see where he's coming from.

Where was I? Oh yeah, golf. So I golf now and some of my friends have been giving me a hard time about it. One of my middle school chums, who shall remain nameless, remarked that I was getting wrinkly and thought it was hilarious that I was taking up golf. Ha! Ha! I'm old! That is an original observation! I got her back by giving her a guilt trip about my face cancer and how maybe the topical CHEMOTHERAPY was perhaps making my skin a bit dry and thus prone to appearing less youthful than before. I then told her that I had to go because Matlock was on the teevee and dinner was just around the corner at 4:30 pm. Jeffery is finally beginning to pull his wait around here.

Here is a picture of me showing off my youthful vigor:

Note how I resemble the Sixth Patriarch of Chan buddhism, Hui Neng 慧能:

Zen.

-Glen

Alaska, the blog entry

2008-07-15T11:13:00.000-07:00

The wife and I met up with some friends who live in America's 49th state: ~~Canada!~~ Alaska! We had an incredibly fun time camping and fishing our way through the penultimate frontier (the final frontier is space, dummy).

Alright, here are the highlights of awesome:

1. Saw 7 bears, including a close encounter (under 100 yards) with a sow and cub at Upper Russian Lake

2. Didn't get eaten, mauled or maimed by aforementioned sow and cub

3. Saw lots of moose

4. Totally surprised myself by surviving a 8.5 mile hike, twice

5. Camped like a champ though it was damp

6. Enjoyed the most civilized and pleasant form of transportation in the world: a ferry ride through Prince William Sound

7. Drank lots of beers and had great food with tons of pals

8. Was so absorbed in the breathtaking scenery that I routinely ignored what everyone else was saying. This lead to a hilarious non sequitur by yours truly when I asked, "Who's Steve?" at a completely random moment in the conversation.

9. Repeat ad infinitum.

Here is digital proof that someone, maybe even me, was in Alaska at one time or another:

This was near the beginning of our 8.5 mile hike to the cabin at Aspen Flats on the Kenai Peninsula. My wife takes the vanguard while I remain poised with what appears to be bangalores, or explosive charges used during World War 2 to clear beach obstacles. (That's actually our fishing gear.)

Look! A bear! 1,000 yards that way! Oh what a joy to observe dangerous wildlife at such safe distances. There's no way that 2 grizzly bears will later scare the crap out of us while we're fishing!

Moments later, a lovable prankster performed that Lord of the Rings magic spell where a torrent of horse-shaped water thunders down the stream. This is the kind of thing that happens when you put a bunch of Tolkien dorks out in mother nature.

We saw this moose carcass on the trail in. It was gone on the way back. Spooky.

This is Kyra. She is quite possibly the best dog ever. She carried her own gear and kept alert for all manner of fell beasts as we hiked. She also killed a mouse by the cabin. She enjoys cuddling, grilled trout and almost getting washed away in glacial streams.

We arrive tired and bug-bitten. For the next 20 minutes we sat quietly and absorbed precious calories from the deli sandwiches we packed.

Kelly and I wore matching outfits to thwart bear attacks. The theory was that we would appear as one freakishly giant Caucasian reeking of deet and marshmallows. It must have worked.

Callie pumps water from the stream by our cabin. The cabin was completely free from that modern distraction known as plumbing, which, let's be honest, only gets in the way of a good time. Note the bug mask Callie is wearing. Laugh if you must, but you will gladly cut out your right kidney for this device when you are swarmed by approximately 6 trillion mosquitoes.

This is Jack. He is a jovial, beardy mountain man. He, Callie and Lila were kind enough to let us California rabble crash at their place in Anchorage. Thanks again guys! Here Jack is serving as our guide through the Alaskan wilderness. He also took most of these kick-ass pictures.

Jack appears smug as I try to get a fire going. Note the blood on my forehead and the small specks on my pants at the right of the picture. MOSQUITOES!!!

My wife prepares to sacrifice a sweaty t-shirt to the gods in order to gain the Wisdom of Ages. The Wisdom of Ages shot back: "Don't wear pink fleece!" Ha ha, just kidding, dear. I love that color on you.

Jack performs a lewd gesture known as the "Alaskan camp stove button." It gets lonely up there.

This is Eric. He makes a delightful Mickey Mouse-shaped chocolate chip pancake.

Moose! We saw this moose lumbering around our cabin one night. Yes, I said night. This picture was taken at around 1:00 am. The whole lack-of-night thing took some getting used to. On the plus side, you get extra daylight to run around and play in the woods.

On day two of the Aspen flats cabin trip, the men folk decided to hike 3 miles to Upper Russian lake to catch some fish while the ladies made the arguably much wiser decision to hang back at the cabin to avoid being eaten alive by mosquitoes.

On the way, we did some fishing in the Russian River that runs between Upper and Lower Russian lakes.

Eric charms the wily trout with his jaunty hat and the sweet, sweet aroma of pancakes.

I tease our piscine quarry with a PG-rated crotch shot.

We kept seeing bear tracks and scat on the way to the lake. "This obviously bodes well," we said to one another.

Claw marks on trees: foreboding.

A resounding "yes" to the age-old question: "does a bear shit in the woods?" Right on the trail, in fact.

We ate lunch and fished at this little inlet where Upper Russian Lake empties into the Russian River.

On the other side of the inlet where the river flows out there were some downed trees you could walk on. We relied on the trees to get a better position on the river; I didn't bring waders because they would have been too heavy. A few lazy salmon were spawning in the water below. A large rainbow trout swam through the submerged branches and scoffed at my meager attempts to catch it.

I went back to fishing on the peninsula on the left side of this picture. I caught one rainbow but it shook the hook just as I was bringing him in. I cast again quickly and I heard a sound I shall never forget...

I heard a terrible low growl and tremendous splashing coming through the trees that obscured the other side of the inlet. I pushed through the saplings to get a better view and saw:

Oh. Shit.

I was about 75 yards away from the sow Grizzly pictured above. Jack and Eric were about 50 yards away standing on the fallen tree, snapping away. The sow saw us and growled. The cub, which I had not seen at first, took off into the brush.

Mama, though wary, kept fishing.

Then she went over to the cub on the small island.

Mama reared up on her hind legs to get a better look at us. I think I peed a little bit.

Grizzly Bears sound a little bit like a Wookie combined with that cave troll from Lord of the Rings. On a side note, what a world we live in when my references to an actual sound in nature are from imaginary creatures in sci-fi/fantasy movies. Next I'll explain how the Chugach mountain range reminds me of the ice planet Hoth or the frosty environs of Angmar.

Throughout the bear encounter, I went to my happy place of sunshine and eagles and America to take my mind off the grim death that surely awaited. Luckily, mama bear decided that we weren't a threat and retreated, with loud protests, to the other side of the river. We suddenly remembered that we all suffer from acute bear allergies and made the decision to fish the river section closer to our cabin, lest we get the sniffles.

On the trail back we saw a kitty. He was poky and mean.

Fishin'.

Jack caught a nice rainbow trout, shown above after I gutted it. My qualification as senior fish gutter was due to the fact that a.) I brought a knife, and b.) I watched a Youtube video on how to field dress a trout in 30 seconds. We now had food and stories of derring-do with which to regale the ladies.

To celebrate that our bellies would soon be full of trout and some wine Jack smuggled in, we sang lusty battle songs in praise of Thor. We washed our war wounds and the deet from our bodies in the icy cold stream outside our cabin. Shortly thereafter, a person fitting my description may or may not have tea-bagged the river. Fortunately, no photographic evidence exists of this unpleasant little incident.

Mmmm.

Jack and his catch. In order to stay true to the woodsy theme of our dinner, we used a split log for a plate. Also, we neglected to bring real plates. As the Boy Scouts say, ~~"Keep out the gays!"~~ "Be Prepared!"

We prepared a viking funeral for the remains of the trout so that he may feast with the other sword-dead warriors and Odin in Valhalla. Also, we hoped that a proper burial would quell the blood lust of the forest creatures. It did.

Our journey back began the next morning. No bears or moose, but I stood sentry with the bangalores nonetheless. It was a long hike out but we made it back safe, if a little weary. We stopped in Girdwood on the way back to Anchorage for some much needed coffee and pastries.

A good time was had by all.

-Glen

Disconcertingly Oily

2008-06-24T13:16:00.000-07:00

Ugh. Why is day-old Fettuccine alfredo so terrible and why do I always eat it? How come the oil separates from the cream like that? And when you eat it, all that gross noodle gore splatters all over your pants (assuming you're wearing pants) and each greasy bite is an encouragement for your belly to mount a rebellion a few hours later. Someone should do some science on that, maybe write a paper titled: The Deterioration of Edibility in Prepared Durum Flour Comestibles Due to Lipid and Milk Protein Separation After a 24 Hour Period in Refrigeration. It practically writes itself.

The fetidccine in question (Ha ha, fetidccine! I am hilarious!):

Davey trying to take one for the team:

He had to lie down afterwards:

The pasta meal that caused me such physical trauma this noon was actually from a somewhat celebratory take-out dinner last night. Yesterday morning, the nice lady in the white coat said that Jeffery is responding well to treatment, meaning I've got at least a two-month reprieve from the knife-wielding mad scientist who may biopsy my face. So that's the good biopsy news. The bad biopsy news is that if I do end up needing a biopsy, I'll have to undergo a procedure called a skin puncture biopsy, which is precisely as charming and delightful as it sounds. Biopsy.

But all's well that ends well, because she could have just as easily told me I have squamous cell carcinoma, which is Latin for "holy shit, you gonna die." Let me tell you, that 1/2 hour wait in the exam room was the longest 1,800 seconds of my life, surpassing both the time I had metal flakes removed from my eyeball and the time I had a panic attack at the dentist. I know, I know, I'm a giant puss in medical situations. Luckily I'm brave and heroic in every other aspect of my life.

In other news, I stayed up super late to watch UFC live in Las Vegas a few nights back. The next day I was so out of it I forgot what the word "apostrophe" meant while I was reading something on the internets. Seriously, I had to look it up. Anyway, the fight card was great because it featured my favorite fighter, 155-pound scrappy slugger Spencer Fisher. Man, that guy has the best stand up and striking defense in his weight class. I was stoked that he won (he has coming off of a loss and so far he has never lost twice in a row). Go Spencer!

I know what you're all thinking: "Dude stays up late to watch sporting event, blah, blah," who cares, right? I should explain that I've never been a sports guy until recently. And by sports I mean only mixed martial arts (MMA) because I still hate everything else. My friends and family detest the stuff due to the overt violence, but I believe MMA events are the purest, most honest form of physical competition. They hearken back to a simpler time when we enjoyed the spectacle of two dudes kicking the crap out of each other, whereas now we enjoy ogling fat dudes in tight pants squatting over an oblong ball made of pig skin (i.e. American football). Look, I'm not trying to cast aspersions of homoeroticism on American football (NTTAWWT), but I think we can all agree that crack, from a 300-pound defensive lineman's derrière, just like the kind made from cocaine, kills. Unless you're into that, which is fine. And you can get married in California now, so there you go.

Where was I? Oh, yeah, MMA. The only thing I don't like about it is the UFC's over-emphasis on and rule bias in favor of wrestling/jujitsu. I can't believe the only allowable defense to a take down is to widen your stance (heh heh, "widen your stance") lean your hips forward and hope for the best. You should be able to kick or knee someone in the face when they shoot for a take down. Also, I have a beef with wrestling/jujitsu guys that just lay about in guard during a fight. It's lame and everybody hates it when you do that. I know some meathead will defend it claiming that’s what would happen in a “real” fight, but you try that crap on the street and your going to get eye gouged, strangled or endure a variation of the dreaded “monkey steals the peach,” and you’ll deserve it. All the uma platas and purple belts in the world aren't gonna save your ass then.

As a disclaimer to this rant: technical jujitsu matches are a joy to watch. Just keep moving for chrissakes.

再见！慢慢儿走！

-Glen

Oh the Humanity

2008-06-12T11:25:00.000-07:00

I'm a binge reader. I'll devour a pile of books all at once and then swear them off like a repentant alcoholic. We're in the middle of a move so the floor of the new place is littered with books I haven't seen in awhile, most of which belong to the wife. She has managed to squirrel away a staggering number of college texts and other novels intended to enrich the liberal arts experience without imparting any applicable knowledge. My books, on the other hand, consist of Chinese lexicographical works, trout fishing tomes, cartoon anthologies and Bernard Cornwell novels; an eclectic treasure trove of manly adventure and useful knowledge to be sure.

Having burned through most of my material, during a lull in the lifting and packing I decided to flip through some of my wife's books. I wasn't really planning on reading anything heavy, but I got hooked on The Comfort Women, by George L. Hicks. As you may know, this is an historical account of the forced sexual slavery of women, known as comfort women, by the Empire of Japan (and to a lesser extent, Allied occupation forces) during World War II. I had heard about comfort women in other materials about WWII, but before now I hadn't really internalized the brutality and cruelty of the treatment these women endured. It was a tough read but I was glad to have stumbled upon it. I can only hope that more people happen upon the book and remember the suffering of the comfort women, lest history repeat itself. And to think I had been wondering if my pessimistic view of human nature was a tad unwarranted. That'll learn me.

On to lighter, less historically significant things... The move is going well. The new office is set up and we have all of our appliances and furniture. I've got another Ikea piece to put together later, an activity that to some people might seem like a delightful break from the humdrum of work but to me is always a chore that features loads of swearing, pinched fingers and a plunge in the old self esteem. What the hell is wrong with me? It's Ikea furniture for chrissakes. That shit is designed to be easy-to-assemble for the average dumb ass. Well, apparently I am not your average dumb ass. I'm not particularly mechanically inclined and I need to have very clear, step-by-step instructions. Since Ikea instructions are notoriously crummy as well as cartoonish, you have a pretty good template for an internet video of a guy hitting his thumb with a hammer while a shelf falls out and hits him in the balls. Note that Ikea furniture rarely requires a hammer for assembly. So you can start to understand what kind of an afternoon I have ahead of me. Hmm, maybe I should wear a cup.

In other news: Jeffery is much diminished, but on close inspection you can observe vestiges of his former precancerous glory. I had hoped that he would disappear entirely because if he doesn't by next Monday, I have to have a biopsy. I believe this entails cutting off a nugget of my face and submitting it to science to see if I'm fixing to croak. Fortunately, the odds of croaking are fairly low, but I have harbored a secret hope that if Jeffery goes awry and crawls up into my eye or head that I could enjoy a few super powers for awhile. Like maybe my brain would go haywire and all of my synapses would fire at once giving me the temporary power to explode things with my mind or do long division. Hope springs eternal.

Anyway, I'm off to swear and smash Swedish furniture with a hammer.

糟糕！

-Glen

Plagued by the plague

2008-06-04T15:31:00.000-07:00

Dammit, I just can't shake this cold. I've been boogeriffic and groggy for two weeks. I'm probably fine, but I get sick so rarely that when I do, I'm a huge wimp about it. I also refuse to take any medicine, which pisses off the wife to no end. Much like me, she has a low tolerance for just about all behaviors perpetrated by other people, such as sniffling, coughing, existing in three dimensional space, etc. I should also mention that I'm a champion fidgeter, so throw in a mucus filled, possibly cancer-ridden husband tossing and turning in bed and you have a recipe for whatever the opposite of empathy is.

Maybe enmity.

Anyway, after enduring a few shitty nights of sleep, my better half finally convinced me to take some Nyquil. I'll tell you what, those little green brain hammers will give you terrible, terrible dreams. I say dreams rather than nightmares, because the word nightmare has connotations of tangible fears, like getting chased by witches and vampires or getting the clap. Most of the time you can wake up from a nightmare and chuckle to yourself while quietly reflecting that you shouldn't have chased those four beers with pepperoni pizza at 3 am.

A Nyquil dream, on the other hand, is a little tougher to shake off. I awoke three nights ago completely disoriented (I took it three nights ago you see, as far as I know that shit doesn't have the power to send you back in time). The inside of my mouth felt numb and the worst flavor ever permeated every taste bud. It was sort of bitter and spicy and terrible. You know, I can't really describe it. It was like tasting...pain. I hobbled out of bed, experiencing a lack of coordination I have previously only experienced ~~when huffing glue~~ after a few beers. The part of my brain that controls logic hadn't quite kicked in yet but in the haze I felt a vague desire to check that I still had my teeth. From what I can piece together, I faintly recall that my teeth were crumbling away for some reason and I happily crunched away at them, like a dog with a biscuit. Crunch, crunch, crunch.

I clumsily made my way to the bathroom and as I stood staring at myself in the mirror, I wondered why in the hell I had felt so happy about destroying one of the few body parts I have that hasn't turned cancerous or goofy looking or otherwise malignant. How could I have found such glee in smacking away at a gritty mouthful of bloody horror? I fumbled my drooling maw with both hands for a few moments just to make sure everything was as it should be. I started to slowly reason through it, reminding myself that among the many irrational fears and petty phobias that haunt me, going to the dentist is #1. My nocturnal chomping was nothing more than a rebellious screw you to the dental profession. Also, I was tripping balls on Nyquil.

Just say no to Nyquil and stay in school, kids. Eat your veggies and don't wiz on the electric fence. Uncle Glen has had to learn things the hard way.

Cancer Update:
Jeffery: Flaky, occasionally scabby
Glen: Groggy, concerned about teeth

-Glen

I hate airplanes

2008-05-27T17:56:00.000-07:00

For my first day back to the grindstone after vacation I've been spending most of my time wrangling boogers and nursing a sore throat instead of making a dent in the pile of work in front of me (fortunately, I have plenty of time to make smart ass comments on the intertubes). My current malady is undoubtedly born of the modern transportation dynamo known as the airplane. If you don't know what an airplane is because you've been living in a cave or if you haven't flown in one because you're one of those insufferable hippies whining about carbon footprints, allow me to explain: an airplane is a cylindrical aluminum petri dish of vile germs that flies through the air at incredible speeds. Science has shown that the filthy goblins who occupy the seats around you (also known as fellow passengers) are the primary sources of influenza, toilet seat herpes and chagrin in the United States today. These terrible monsters exist to emit fell vapors, talk incessantly at high volume and steal your elbow room by being fat. It probably doesn't help that I'm ~~a raging misanthrope~~ somewhat introverted, so being around people in a confined space while rebreathing stale air makes me a little more antsy than your average person. Nonetheless, the destination was awesome though the journey sucked. Feel free to punch the idiot that tells you it should be the other way around. Here are some pics and notes from my trip back East to the old West:

I saw this guy at the airport in Omaha. You may recognize him as superstar wrassler Nick Foley, and for a guy who hits people with folding chairs for a living, he seems a remarkably nice fellow.

The fam and I took a road trip from the unnamed town in Western Iowa where my parents live to the named town in Western South Dakota called Custer. We stayed in the old timey log cabins near the game lodge at Custer State Park. You can't throw a rock in that park without hitting wildlife of some kind. I don't suggest trying that though because most of the wildlife will kill you. Just like...

OMG a snake! Dad said it wasn't poisonous. We threw it at Mom just to be sure.

It is actually illegal to refer to this animal, the American Bison, as a "buffalo." If you do, the elves and sprites of the forest will riddle you through with tiny arrows for your epic fail at taxonomy. There is an European equivalent to the American bison, known as the Wisent, but it is near extinction due to corruption, poverty in the southern regions and an obsession with soccer and small scooters. You know what, I think I'm getting the Wisent confused with Italy. Anyway, you can find them in zoos.

We saw this tiny goat at a horse ranch. We named him "kitty."

Those are my fishin' waders hanging there on the left hand side. I told the children that it was the bottom half of a man who kept saying "buffalo."

Our two-room cabin was well furnished. Being the youngest, I got to sleep on a device known as a hide-a-bed, an uncomfortable mockery of a real bed that is often disgorged from a smelly couch. My back still hurts.

My finger serves a lighthearted reminder that this is a down home, Joe-six-pack snapshot and not one of those artsy fartsy black and white photographs that sometimes has naked ladies.

Here I am trying to push over what appears to be a giant wiener. It didn't look like a wiener from my perspective, but it sure does in profile. It's an important rite of passage in my family to embarrass yourself on film so that the rest of us can all laugh and laugh while the victim cries himself to sleep and plots revenge.

I did all of my fishing in the stream that flows through the park and didn't really get a chance to try the lakes in the area. I wanted to fly fish for some Smallmouth bass in Stockade lake but I'm happy with the 20 odd Rainbow and Brook trout I caught in Coolidge creek.

This picture didn't turn out so good. Apparently a tear appeared in the space-time continuum right above my favorite trout stream. I climbed inside to find a magical world where I didn't have face cancer (remember my face cancer?) and everyone is from Lord of the Rings and I didn't have to wear glasses and I was popular and well-liked. Also, Nick Foley was president and everybody tap danced while screaming "whoop de doo" instead of saying hello. It was very Vonnegutesque. So it goes, er... went.

All in all it was a great trip and I thoroughly enjoyed seeing good old Mom and Dad. The only bummer during the trip (besides airplanes and angry forest sprites) was that my face cancer medication was really starting to kick in and Jeffery looked like an inflamed, crusty leprosy scab. Let's check in with that epic battle between good and evil, shall we?

Magnified 1000 times

Looks like I'm holding my own for now.

今者吾喪我汝知之乎？

-Glen

Caution: Escaping steam may burn you

2008-05-15T10:49:00.000-07:00

I am on day 3 of the topical treatment. So far so good. I was told it would burn like the fires of hell, but it's more like your microwave on the "popcorn" setting: it gets hot, but only for a few minutes.

I have decided I need to purchase a jaunty hat, one that will protect my apparently wimpy face from the evils of Mr. Sun as well as make me look dapper, spiffy and not-too-much-like-a-dork. This shall be a quest of tall order because: 1. I am not a hat person (hey, maybe that's why I got this shit in the first place.) and 2. hats that actually protect you from the sun generally look stupid. I want something sort of Indiana Jonesish:

and not too cowboyish:

I'm headed to the Midwest this weekend to see the fam and do some fishing. That may be prime hat-finding territory. I'll let you know how it goes. Rest assured, the ~~disastrous~~ humorous results will be posted here.

下次再聊！

Later!

-Glen

So it begins...

2008-05-13T07:53:00.000-07:00

For the last few years an ominous dark spot has been growing on my left cheek (face cheek not butt cheek). It's rather small, no bigger than your pinky nail, but a little bit dry and sometimes itchy. Yesterday, I finally got around to having a nice lady in a white coat take a look at it. And a good thing too, because that little spot turned out to be a precancerous condition called actinic keratosis, or as I like to call it: almost fucking cancer.

Ever since that little spot took up residency on my face I have jokingly referred to it as my "face cancer." While looking in the mirror before a wedding or some other public event I'd remark aloud that the ol' face cancer was looking kind of dark and sinister. I also noted that after a day in the sun my face cancer would kind of itch a little. "Should this thing be itchy?" I'd think to myself. "No, it should not," is what future Glen would sternly say to blissfully ignorant Glen of the past. After the diagnosis yesterday I said to my wife, "Ha ha, hey honey, remember when we used to call it my face cancer because it was funny and there was no way it could actually be face cancer? Good times."

My wife and I named it Jeffery, an unlikely homage to Eddie Izzard's "Jeff Jeffty Jeff" bit. I know you're all wondering, so here is what Jeffery looks like:

Handsome polyglot or cancer-ridden shell of a man?

As you can see, it's somewhat noticeable. Left untreated, I would look like this:

Artists rendering of theoretical progression

Fortunately for me, actinic keratosis (A.F.C.) is treatable, so for the next several weeks I'll be applying a chemotherapy cream to my face. The special lotion the doctor prescribed supposedly targets only the bad cells, leaving the good cells intact and healthy. I won't go into the technicalities of how the medication works on the cellular level, but suffice it to say there will be an epic battle between good and evil happening right on my face every night. Here is what it will look like magnified 1,000 times:

"You shall not metastasize!"

This little brush with mortality, as minor as it is, has helped put things in perspective as I begin my 29th year. First of all, I have a renewed crush on science because of all of the cool, lifesaving shit it can do. I once thought Mentos and Coke explosions were the apex of human endeavor, but now I'm smitten anew by what the fruits of rational thought can do for me, my lifespan and my face. Finally, I have a much deeper respect for preventative maintenance. My advice to fair-skinned people everywhere is to wear sunscreen and wear it often. Don't make me bring this guy into it:

If you are fortunate enough to have darker skin, you may continue enjoying solar radiation as you have previously. I'll be the guy in the goofy hat.

On a side note, I realize there are folks out there fighting the good fight against real cancer with a capital "C" and not just whining about some sissy little spot on his or her face. My meager attempts at humor here on the intertubes are not meant to belittle the seriousness of the afflictions some people face every day.

-Glen