Funny

Camptathalon 2024

Holy crap. Camptathalon 2025 is less than a month away and I haven’t even posted 2024 yet? What the hell? I wrote the damn thing in July. It then took me ten months to upload a few pictures from my phone.

Anyway…

Father’s Day weekend, 2024, six total campers, only five competitors, descended upon Wolf Creek Campground on Union Valley Reservoir for the thirteenth annual Camptathalon. John was a second-time attendee, making his first appearance since 2017, although he couldn’t stay for the  competition on Saturday. Meanwhile, Thomas was a noob who somehow survived the experience.

The first campsite we reserved was on the other side of the lake, but the Forest Service canceled those reservations on account of some eagle babies hatching in the campsite. It’s not Camptathalon unless we’re scrambling to find an ancillary site at the last minute. Usually it’s a fire or snow or a Coronavirus, but I guess the propagation of our national mascot is worth camping a mile the other direction. Unless they were regular, full-haired eagles. Fuck those guys. Us balding types need to stick together.

When we first got the notification that we might have to move spots because of some Eagles, our text thread erupted with phrases like if Camptahtalon was canceled, it would be a “Heartache Tonight” when the Forest Service told us “You Belong to the City.” Fortunately, we made back-up reservations so we could “Take It Easy” with the “New Kid in Town.”

But since those texts occurred before Camptathalon, they didn’t make it in the official Camptathalon journal. So you don’t get to read them. What you get is:

Thursday
4:41 Chris arrives, making three. Camptathalon begins.
4:57 Next year, pina coladas
4:58 Tony already beat Sparky in Backgammon and chess. Too late to add them as Camptathalon events?
4:59 Dammit, forgot my sleeping bag
5:05 I’m gonna go get wood before I get drunk
5:47 Chores are done. Time to drink.
5:59 I don’t have any flour. It’s stickier than I thought it would be.
6:19 How’d you get a coal hole under your ass?

6:36 Dutch oven pizzas, cause nobody said we were roughing it.
7:42 No fish
8:07 First broken chair of the weekend
8:45 Switched off of baseball game, found angry preacher radio.
9:24 Bear lockers are complicated. There’s not much difference between the smartest bear and the dumbest human.
11:13 Same damn problem as last year. It wouldn’t stay up.

Friday
5:05 Some asshole’s car alarm goes off
6:15 Some other asshole starts chainsawing
7:00 Still motherfucking chainsawing
7:18 Frank Sinatra Friday
7:42 Sorry, when they typed in dirty bomb, I just assumed they were looking up porn.
7:48 Text to Rick: “Bring Syrup. Don’t ask why.”
9:48 “Going to rain this morning.”
    “You’re about four hours too late.”
9:58 Camphost: “Hey, I’ve got to ask you to leave. I won’t, but you can’t use your chainsaw in camp.”
9:59 Someone should tell him PG&E’s been chainsawing all goddamn morning.
11:06 Sparky pegs to 120 in cribbage, but loses to Chris
11:32 Yeah, the Beaver usually comes out fast
11:47 Can’t tell if the neighbors are Russian or Mormon
1:24 Second car in last half-hour driving the wrong goddamn way. It’s one thing to miss the fine print about chainsawing, but the One Way is pretty well marked.
1:57 Two injuries while constructing the child-safe axe throwing stand. Haven’t even got to the axes yet.
2:21 Who the hell ordered the wind?
2:39 Rick arrives. And then there were four.
3:02 Thank God you’re here. This dude just showed up with a chainsaw.
3:05 “I got a growler at Cool Beerwerks.”
     “I got a growler at Moonraker.”
     “I’m gonna drop a growler pretty soon here.”

3:12 I think that’s a cult moving in next door. All tents in a row, put up in less than ten minutes.
3:21 It’s not too big. It’s a little big
3:25 He’s backing that big ass up
3:26 Is it going to fit?
3:36 In fact, it does fit.
3:45 I am an equal opportunity sausage man
4:35 That reminded me of a terrible joke
4:36 Where’s my whiskey?
4:57 Everything at camping is community property. That part of the Red Menace we’re fine with.
5:22 John arrives. Five down, one to go.
5:31 I just stuck my last one in, and I think I will retire there.
6:21 Thomas arrives. Camptathalon can start with a record six people.
6:54 Chili is served
6:55 How do I turn this thing off?
7:23 “Correct me if I’m wrong.”
    “You’re wrong.”
    “Fuck you.”
7:35 Opening Toast of Old Fashioned
7:36 Oh, I lost my cherry long ago.
7:41 But then it’s just going to hang there.
7:44 Flag is up.

8:24 Trophy out, Rimmer reading
8:29 Blender isn’t working
8:35 While attempting to fix a full blender, don’t unscrew the bottom
8:36 I need to clean up like a fucking bitch.
8:39 Hey, the blender’s working!
9:03 “Here, let me clean up your fucking chips for you.”
    “Lick my ass.”
9:08 The poker game is like a peep show. It keeps showing me something cute and makes me pay to see more.
9:09 Hey, that reminds me of this one time in Tijuana
9:10 I kinda wish I was the rooster
9:14 Nobody calls you the Gangster of Love
9:17 John goes all in. Loser Libation reveal: Wisconsin Lunchbox (but no peanut butter sandwich)
9:25 Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. How familiar are you with Urban Dictionary?
9:28 Taking a Smoke Break (pausing poker to avoid the fire smoke)
9:53 “Just shut up and smoke your cigar!”
     “Okay, Dad.”
9:54 REDACTED
10:05 We talk Chaucer and Moby Dick
10:07 Thomas “wins” Loser Libation
10:10 Isn’t there supposed to be a woman with a vagina?
10:11 REDACTED
10:14 There would only be two people in that circle jerk. Not much of a circle.
10:20 Who here is a Chuck Mangione fan?
10:35 Chris Out
10:39 John Out
10:47 After coloring up chips, they all tip over in the dirt
11:11 Sparky Out
11:15 Camptathalon Standings after One Event: Rick: 5, Tony: 4, Sparky: 3, Chris: 2, Thomas: 0 (John withdraws)

SATURDAY
12:01 The cult next door starts singing Happy Birthday
12:44 John gives Thomas pointers on proper Butter Toss technique
2:01 First vomit of the weekend
3:40 Oh, good. Another car alarm
4:25 Visited by a bear because Rick left his nuts out

6:00 The chainsawers showed up late today
6:52 “Did the bear eat my nuts?”
7:11 He left me half a cashew
7:13 “Did we split the pot?”
     “Yeah, cause I was beating your ass.”
     “You were also winning at poker.”
7:25 I wasn’t wearing my glasses. It might not have been a bear at all. It might’ve just been a cult member
7:50 Where’s Thomas? If he dies, I will stop inviting new people.
8:03 Signs/sounds of life from Thomas’s tent 
8:58 First Saturday beer opened
9:46 The butter has been removed from the cooler
10:03 Sparky’s attempt at alphabetization: Chris, Tony, Thomas, Rick
10:06 I have hydration tablets if you want to put them in your water or beer.
10:22 Prep for HR Derby with lake as backstop

10:28 Robbed by the Tiny Green Monster
10:45 First Round: Rick 4, Thomas 9, Chris 3, Sparky 5, Tony 2
10:58 Round Two: Rick 0, Chris 1, Sparky 3, Thomas 4
11:05 I need more balls
11:10 Round Three: Chris 7, Thomas 4, Sparky 4 – First Jack-Off of 2024
11:14 Worst. Jack-Off. Ever. (Thomas 2, Sparky 1)
11:23 Final Round: Chris 7, Thomas 3
11:24 Standings after Two Events: Chris 7, Rick 7, Sparky 6, Thomas 4, Tony 4
11:55 The Godfather of the Wisconsin Lunchbox
12:08 First Round of Cornhole
12:28 You paid good money to watch two cats fucking
1:19 Final Cornhole Standings: Chris, Sparky, Rick, Thomas, Tony
1:20 Standings after Three Events: Chris 12, Sparky 10, Rick 10, Thomas 6, Tony 4
1:45 Sausages and burgers for lunch
2:05 Will this fit in there?
2:44 I’ll break off in a moment and tell you about the grandma flashing us from the 7th floor
3:01 Inaugural Camptathalon Axe-Throwing Event. Objective: Get to 21 Points.

3:10 Do you get bonus points for lodging it in somebody else’s ass?
3:20 Sparky & Tony both finish in second round. Sparky wins the Toss-Off
3:23 Chris takes third place in Round 3
3:26 Thomas 4th, Rick 5th
3:27 Standings after Four Events: Sparky 15, Chris 15, Rick 10, Thomas 8, Tony 8
3:46 Adventure Bocce. But first, cookies.
4:40 Adventure Bocce results: Chris, Rick, Sparky, Tony, Thomas
4:41 Standings going in to final event: Chris 20, Sparky 18, Rick 14, Tony 10, Thomas 8
4:45 Butter Toss target: Boston Celtics logo


4:52 Rick wins Jon Goudreau Memorial Butter Toss, followed by Chris, Sparky, Tony, Thomas
4:53 Chris wins his first Camptathalon with 24 points.
4:54 Chris jumps in the lake in celebration

5:21 Draft: Teams we hate. (Snake draft: Pick order goes down in round one, up in round two, etc.)
Thomas: Patriots, Cowboys, 49ers, Phillies, 76ers
Sparky: Red Sox, Alabama, Miami Hurricanes, Seahawks, White Sox
Chris: Chiefs, Broncos, Florida State, Blackhawks, Dolphins
Rick: Celtics, BYU, Philadelphia Eagles, St. Louis Cardinals, New Mexico State
Tony: Yankees, Nebraska, Astros, S.F. Giants, Chelsea

5:33 Draft: Favorite Sports Moments
Sparky: Kordell Stewart Hail Mary, Montana to Taylor in Super Bowl, Nolan Ryan 6th no-hitter, Game 7 of ’02 World Series, Montana returns after injury in ’92
Chris: Marcus Allen Super Bowl revers, Bo Jackson into tunnel, Bo Jackson TD through Bosworth, ’89 Earthquake Series, 1980 Lakers final (Magic’s first year)
Rick: Robert Horry game 4 shot vs Kings, Stefon Diggs winning catch vs Saints, Rockies winning NLCS, ’97 UTEP upsets BYU (take down goalposts), ’92 UTEP beats #1 Kansas
Tony: Spiezio Game 6 HR, Music City Miracle, Boise State Statue of Liberty, Kerry Wood 18 strikeouts 1 hit, Ipswich promotion goal
Thomas: David Tyree Helmet Catch, Cavaliers beating Warriors, Johann Santana no-hitter, Giants over Patriots in ’08, Knicks over Pacers in ’01
Honorable Mentions: Chris coaching high school soccer, Robin Ventura fucking around and finding out, Miracle on Ice, Jadaveon Clowney hit, Angels combo no-hitter after Tyler Skaggs died, Garrison Hearst overtime run vs Jets

6:50 The cult next door breaks out a pinata. It is a Pokemon.
7:30 Meatball subs for dinner

Sunday
6:35 Flag comes down.
7:07 Wheels up

You Get a Proposition and You Get a Proposition

You know what I thought would be a super funsy post here in the first week of November of a quadrennial year? Hey, how about a political post!

Wait, where are you going? 

Don’t worry, I’m not going to disparage your favored candidate. Besides, living in California, my vote in that particular election doesn’t mean shit.

But for those of you who just suffered through two months of presidential ads, I figured I’d give you a bit of schadenfreude delving into the crap we actually DO have to vote for in this dystopia: Ballot Measures.

Sometimes we get fun propositions, like if we can eat horse meat or if porn should have condoms. Unfortunately, this year there isn’t anything exciting. At least two of them seem to do absolutely nothing. Then there’s Prop. 34, which I’ve read about ten times and still can’t make heads or tails of. So if I need to suffer through this crap, how’s about we have a little fun?

We’ve got ten propositions this year, numbered, are you ready for this? 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 32, 33, 34, 35, 36.

How the fuck did we come up with this numbering system? There are two ways a proposition can get on the ballot: regular people (meaning special interests) can collect signatures on initiatives or the legislature can put it there.

For most of our history, all of those various initiatives and legislative proposals were mixed together and numbered based on when they made it to the Secretary of State’s office. The numbers used to keep going up for 20 or 30 years, then reset, but they changed it to starting over once per decade because having propositions in the triple digits might “confuse voters.”

But ten non-sequential numbers are perfectly fine and not in any way intended to be confusing.

A couple decades ago, the legislature decided to designate some of its “most important” measures as Prop 1, or sometimes Prop 1A, to signal to us rubes “Hey, I’m super serial! This is important. Don’t bother reading it, just vote yes.”

The first “special” proposition I remember was Prop 1A that allowed Indian casinos. If it was just plopped in the middle of other propositions, the stupid voters might… forget they like gambling?

Later, in 2008, we had another Prop 1A that funded the high-speed rail. It was going to connect San Francisco and Los Angeles by 2020 at a price of less than $10 billion. As of this writing, the plan is to connect Merced and Bakersfield by 2035 at a price of more than $30 billion. 

Of course, once they’d established this idea of the legislature’s favorite projects getting special ballot designation, it was bound to get out of hand. How can a bunch of politicians determine which of their brilliant ideas is the MOST brilliant? Especially in the home of virtue signaling.

So we have finally reached maximum skullduggery and clustfuckery. The five single-digit propositions were all put on by the legislature. The double-digit propositions are all the voter-signature ones. In a state that allegedly believes in the power of the people, we’re gonna segregate the chosen propositions from those of the riffraff. 

It’s like every English teacher I’ve ever met, who can simultaneously believe that a) the masses have more validity than the elite and b) Wikipedia is the devil’s tool. 

So anyway, here’s my convoluted attempt to figure out our convoluted ballot.

Propositions 2 and 4. Bonds for schools (2) and a whole bunch of other shit (4). 

Ah, good ol’ bonds. The legislature’s always adding bonds. If you don’t know what a bond is, it’s debt. California loves them, because they pretend it’s free money. Unlike the federal government, the state government allegedly has a balanced budget. Passing bonds is like getting a mortgage. Get the fun stuff now, pay it off over the next thirty years, and your current budget is balanced! No drawbacks!

Unless you’re getting three new mortgages every November. That might not be sound financial advice.

They claim that bonds don’t raise taxes. In the short run, technically, that’s true. But the money needs to be paid back, which, follow me here, will require taxes. Or cuts to other areas of the budget. If you get a loan, it might not increase your costs this month or next month, but you eventually have to pay it back. 

My favorite bond debate of all time was in 1998, when the California government had a surplus of over $4 billion, but also “needed to” pass a $9 billion bond. When you figured the cost of interest and inflation, that $4 billion surplus could’ve bought pretty much everything that was in the bond. But why spend a one-time surplus on one-time expenditures?

I mean, if you’ve got a $5 bill in your hand and want to buy a candy bar, you’re not going to actually spend that $5 bill, are you? It’s MUCH smarter to charge that candy bar, prefereably on a credit card that’ll charges 20% interest or so. Then make the minimum payments for twenty years.

That 1998 bond was scheduled to be paid off over 25 years which, if my math is correct, means it just finished being paid off last year. So that would mean it’s a perfect time to pass a new bond. Except we also passed school bonds in 2002, 2004, 2006, and 2014. Which means my math probably isn’t correct, because obviously our schools are terrible. 

We’ve also passed over twenty other statewide bonds in the same timeframe. I thought schools were #1, but a little research shows that “Clean Water” is the clear winner, with SEVEN bonds being passed in the last twenty-five years. And if Proposition 4 passes, that’ll grow to eight, because one of the “whole bunch of other shit” I referenced above is water.

Holy crap, how bad is our water? And why is it that, after those seven bonds, I still am advised to use a filter?

Proposition 5. Lowering the bond vote for affordable housing and public infrastructure to 55. 

Woo-Hoo, more bonds! This is for local bonds, not statewide bonds. Historically, those required a 2/3 vote because, unlike the statewide bonds which magically have no affect on taxes or budgeting, local bonds are specifically paid for by property taxes. In theory, property taxes are predominantly paid by homeowners. Technically, many landlords will pass some of those tax increases on to renters, but probably not all of it. So to prevent the majority of voters from imposing a tax on a minority of voters, they required a supermajority threshold.

Ah, the good old days.

Nowadays we LOVE taxing small subsets of the population. Any time there’s a tax on smokers or small business owners or solar panel users, we pass it. But not boozers or porn watchers, because they’re probably in the majority. Taxes for thee, not for me.

I think we need a “Tax Someone Else” poo-bah who would ensure that nothing you get “free” from the government comes out of your own taxes. Gas tax collected in S.F. fixes roads in L.A. and vice versa. Because we love, love, love raising other people’s taxes.

That Grand Poo-Bah, of course, would get a million-dollar salary. And if I write the proposition, I should get the job.

I thought we had already lowered the vote threshold on local bonds down to 55, but I guess that was only for school bonds. I remember when that proposition was being debated, it was hilarious because both sides used the same argument. 

PRO: If this passes, eighty percent of ALL BONDS would pass.

CON: If this passes, EIGHTY PERCENT of all bonds would pass!!!

Proposition 3 (Right to Marriage) and Proposition 6 (Involuntary Solitude).

I’m putting these two together because they both seem to be virtue signals that won’t actually accomplish anything.

Proposition 3 would allow for gay marriage. Last time I checked, that was already legal across the country. And yes, I know Roe v Wade shows us that the Supreme Court might occasionally reverse itself, but most of the Supreme Court watchers I follow claim that Obergefell v. Hodges, which established gay marriage, is on much more solid ground than Roe was. Roe was always argued as a privacy issue, not an equal protection or unenumerated rights issue. I kinda feel it always should’ve been argued using the ninth amendment, not the fourteenth. 

Plus, guess what? Abortion is still legal in California. Just like, I assume, gay marriage will be if the Supreme Court reverses Obergefell. Yes, technically we have an old proposition on the books that defined marriage as between a man and a woman, but that was already being ignored long before the Supreme Court got involved. Herr Kommandant Newsom first made a name for himself when, as mayor of San Francisco, he proctored the wedding of some gay couples. Neither he nor they were arrested. Quite the opposite, he used it as a springboard to run for state office. 

Proposition 6 seems even more pointless by ending slavery in California.

Finally!

I can’t tell you how sad it is to see all the slaves wandering around downtown unaware that manumission was won after their state lost the War between the States a scant century and a half ag… wait a second, wasn’t California on the Union side? We never had any slaves here.

Shh… don’t tell the people who are working on California’s slavery reparations…

Oh, wait, our state constitution says that prisoners can work without pay. Back in the 1950s, they cleaned up highways and made license plates. Now the latter is done by machine and the former pretty much never happens. 

Are prisons still using slave labor? No. 

But because the constitution lists this as “involuntary solitude,” someone decided we ought to have a whole fucking proposition. Oh, it also says they can’t be punished for refusing to work. Can I get that to apply to my work, too?

The “For” argument claims they’ll still be able to work for “time credit,” but we’ll see. A similar “For” argument said we’d have a high-speed rail by now.

The voter’s guide says that no “No” argument was submitted. Of course not. Who’s going to make the argument for slavery? 

I will. Here: It’s an utterly pointless proposition. Prisoners aren’t being organized into slave crews. The only things you are voting for is to a) maybe make some “good time” work have to pass through more loopholes, and b) allowing some politician to pat themself on the back. 

Scratch that. Reverse them. The politician is the primary purpose here. The prisoners are merely props. 

Proposition 32. Minimum Wage

Okay, now we’re into the voter-originated measures. Starting with minimum wage.

In California, we raised minimum wage from $10 an hour to $15 an hour over the course of the late 2010s. Every January 1, it went up a dollar, finishing in 2022 when it finally hit the mandated $15.

Then it went up to $15.50, then $16.00. Because it’s now tied to inflation. 

This proposition would raise it to $17 this coming January, then $18 by the following January. Considering 18 is only a little more than 5% higher than 17, I kinda feel like there’s a really good chance the minimum wage would be up to $18 by 2026 anyway? 2027 at the latest?

Not to mention that we now pay fast food employees a minimum wage of $20. They probably wanted to “punish” the fast food companies, but they actually ended up making those job more desirable. I know our school has had trouble hiring cafeteria workers because it’s more or less the same job as fast food, but makes four dollars less per hour. 

Come to think of it, the fast food minimum wage was passed by the legislature, not the voters. They could raise the regular minimum wage, too.. Maybe this bill is attempting to return a level of parity to fast food/non-fast-food jobs.

Nah, ballot measures rarely go beyond the knee-jerk reaction.

Proposition 33. Rent Control

Great. Another proposition to make an amateur economist’s head explode.

This proposition won’t implement rent control, but it will make it easier for local governments to enact rent control.

They tried to pass this two years ago and we voted no. In fact, this might be the third time they’ve tried it. Those of us that remember the 1970s and 1980s will keep voting no, so they’re pretty much going to keep trying until enough of us die off. Then there’ll be a whole new generation that learns about how bad of an idea rent control is.

When San Francisco had rent control, there was a waiting list to rent. Which meant landlords had no incentive to make their rental unit livable. They also didn’t make enough in rent to cover the exorbitant price of pretty much everything in SF. 

It’s called supply and demand. Maybe you’ve heard of it.

So it would be a long string of “Toilet’s broken? Call a plumber. Heater broke? Fix it or freeze, what do I care? If you move out, I’ve got a three-year list of tenants ready to move in.”

I know free markets aren’t always the solution, but they do serve a purpose. Rent in San Francisco can’t cost the same as rent in Oakland, because people would rather live in San Francisco. 

Proposition 34 Prescription Drugs/What the Hell?

This one’s a beaut. I used to work at the state Capitol. I’ve followed California politics my whole life. If you write up a proposition that confuses even me, you’ve earned your pay. Good job!

Okay, so this measure will force certain companies who receive prescription drug funding from the federal government to spend 98% of that funding on the actual prescription drugs. 

I understand the sentiment. Most entities that deal with what are supposed to be “pass-through” funds end up taking a sizable chunk as “administrative costs.” (SEE: Bob, Proposition 35)

But this isn’t requiring every entity to pass on 98% of their funds. It only affects entities that:
a) Spent over $100,000,000 in a ten-year span on anything other than patient care, and
b) operated multifamily housing with over 500 health and safety violations.

What the fuck??? How many pharmaceutical companies run apartment complexes?

Only one. But we can’t make laws that target one company. Way to hide your true intentions, Prop 34!

A measure to limit the capacity of ALL operating systems*.
*Only affects OS’s that rhyme with Bandroid.
*Measure sponsored by Apple.

So you might be wondering what this entity is that gets over $100 million in prescription money from the federal government, but that also are slum lords?

Turns out it’s the AIDS Healthcare Foundation. Maybe their apartments are for terminally ill patients? Is that why they’re spending less than 98% of their money on prescriptions? Are the health violations because people with AIDS sometimes die?

I don’t know the answers to any of those questions. All I know is the AIDS foundation seriously pissed off some people with deep enough pockets to fund a multi-million dollar proposition against them.

Reading through the entities on both sides will make you rethink all your priors about political bedfellows.

On the pro-side (so against the AIDS foundation) is the LGBT Legislative Chair, the Firefighters union, seniors and Latinos. On the anti-side are the National Organization of Women and some consumer watchdog groups. I did not have Women vs Seniors on this year’s Ballot Bingo.

Well, nature abhors a vacuum, and when you live in a one-party state, you’re going to run into some internecine battles. It’s no longer about electing a certain party, but about controlling that party once it’s in power. 

Unfortunately, I don’t know which of these is the in group or the out group right now. I assume the National Organization of Women is on the outs, because they’re working with consumer groups, which used to lean Republican back when there were Republicans in California. 

Plus I don’t think a measure like this gets on the ballot unless it has unofficial support from those in power. 

I can’t imagine Herr Kommandant wants people focusing on whether pass-through funds actually get passed through.

Proposition 35. Medi-Cal funding.

Medi-Cal is a bit like Medicare except that it doesn’t go to old people. It only goes to poor people. Plus a whole bunch of people who can totally afford their own insurance but fudge the numbers so they can get it for free.

This proposition makes a temporary tax that we previously imposed upon ourselves permanent. That tax was placed on insurance plans of all those evil rich people. Rich being defined as having insurance.

This is pretty much how every California tax and program works. They tell us it’s only temporary, then they say, “See, that tax wasn’t so bad.” 

I mean, we’re already paying the tax. So nothing would change from our financial perspective. Just keep the status quo. Because everything’s working great! Except for slavery and gay marriage and our disgusting water.

Does Prop. 35 actually do jack shit to improve Medi-Cal? Who knows. That’s not the point.

Some bureaucrat has a job funded by this tax. You don’t want Bob to lose his job, do you? Think of all those fun water cooler talks. Remember that Halloween he dressed up as a sexy chipmunk? 

Tell you what, if you agree to just keep paying the same amount you’ve already been paying, Bob promises to bring that seven-layer dip to work next Friday. Deal?

Oh, and maybe some poor people will get some aspirin. But again, that’s beside the point.

Proposition 36. Felony charges.

Many moons ago, we passed a proposition decriminalizing a bunch of minor “victimless” crimes, like drug possession and shoplifting. We were on the “Defund the Police” and “Laws are Mean” bandwagon way before the rest of the country.

The criminals responded by doing more drugs and shoplifting. Sorry, I guess they’re not criminals anymore.

Now we’re not quite so sure that stealing $950 from every Walgreens in the state is really “victimless.” Nor minor, really.

You’ve seen the videos of all the smash and grabs. Of everything from booze and makeup to toothpaste and deodorant being locked behind Plexiglass. Sure, it’s fun having a personal shopping assistant follow you around the store unlocking cases to get you your Snickers bar. But most of those workers can make more money working at McDonalds because of our bifurcated minimum wage. 

Of course, those smash and grab videos appear to be taking a hell of a lot more than $950 worth of merchandise, and have more to do with our inability, or lack of desire, to arrest and prosecute the perpetrators. I don’t know that either of those are going away, regardless of the definitions of misdemeanors and felonies.

But let’s vote on it anyway!

Do people want their toothpaste back? What about their booze?

We’ll have to see.

I know I, for one, am going to be needing some of that booze on election night. You with me?

Camptathalon 2022

Just under the (self-imposed) deadline of posting last year’s Camptathalon results within 365 days…

Every year since, I don’t know, ‘Nam, we’ve kept a running log of all the shenanigans, mostly out of context. 

I usually begin the retelling  with a tongue in cheek “I’m just the scribe, I offer no context or comment.”

This year, that comment is, in fact, accurate. My bout with Covid hit me a week before the annual trip. One of the guys has a granddaughter who is too young for vaccination, so we opted for caution.

The lads, however, took the journal and did their due diligence. But that means, for once, I’m as much in the dark as all of you.

Friday
11:30 Rick arrives, completing the foursome.
11:45 First beer of the day
12:00 Lunch and beer
12:40 Cribbage
12:47 $30 in Dick’s money
12:49 “I lost two beers in the lake.”
1:15 Flag raised, trophy brought out
1:16 “Loser Libation? Oh shit, I can’t play poker.”
1:26 Chris spills his beer
2:19 “Concrete, the most fun you can have with your clothes on.”
2:20 The Champagne of Beers makes an appearance.
2:41 “I don’t like it, but I’ll do it.”
3:15 Garrett uses the word “jalopy” in a sentence
4:05 “That friend of mine who got married in the firehouse.”
     “I thought he wasn’t that good a friend.”
     “He isn’t.”
4:35 Garrett: “I can’t wait for the butter toss.”
    Everyone else: “You’ll learn.”
4:42 “Do you have our squeegee sharpener?”
4:45 Tony did not sanitize his balls. Thanks a lot, asshole.
4:55 “Just close your eyes and enjoy it.”
4:56 Fire has been lit.
5:00 Yeah, I like my liver
5:05 Possible rain between 8:00 and midnight. Time will tell.
5:10 Regarding the Pam & Tommy movie, if you hate blondes with big jugs, don’t watch it.
5:22 “You’re not a cockstar?”
     “Not anymore. I’m retired.”
6:11 “What’s better than tossing butter in the rain?”
6:30 “Couldn’t be any worse than who he got pregnant.”
6:40 Event #1: Poker
6:49 Garrett can’t shuffle or deal for shit.
6:50 We got the Rockies game. Nice.
7:08 The Loser Libation is almost in play.
7:14 Fucking Sparky! Goddammit!
7:20 Moonshine time, baby! “Burns the nostrils.”
7:35 Chris calls Rick a fucking dirty whore.
7:37 “Hold on, my ass just un-puckered.”
7:38 Man, the Covidian’s gonna be pissed when he tries to transpose this.
7:39 Transcribe or transpose?
7:45 Cookie Break
7:50 “I’m in halfway, I may as well go ALL IN!”
8:10 Sparky is pissed he can’t get the Angels game on XM Radio
8:14 Garrett “wins” the Loser Libation – coffee liqueur
8:20 No Sparky is a dirty little whore
8:25 WRONG!
8:36 Sparky wins poker, Rick second w/ better hand than Chris
Standings after one event: Sparky 5, Rick 3, Chris 2, Garrett 0
8:54 Garrett looks up the definition of “Wisconsin Lunchbox.”
9:01 Boontling has a lot of words for masturbation
9:08 There are children around. Shut up.
10:00 Another Mervyn’s Mark?
?? Did you take her Solo + the Wookie?

Sarturday

5:30 Sparky arises, makes coffee
6:00 Rick arises
6:10 Coffee liqueur + donuts = Yum
7:30 Chris joins the party
7:50 Garrett makes it a foursome
8:00 Sandwiches for breakfast, a little whiskey in the coffee, HR Derby location finalized
8:02 Chris makes biscuits w/ ham & cheddar
8:22 “I have a Florida Gators jersey.”
    “Fucking Tim Tebow. Eat my ass.”
8:23 “People in Florida don’t like Florida.”
9:30 Butter Toss target selected: Picture from an old Playboy Chris “happened to” have.
9:38 Dinner plans. Sparky makes a great tri-tip. I brought mashed potatoes, too, but no gravy. We can all stand around the Playboy and make some gravy.
9:42 First beer of the day opened.
9:56 Can somebody help with a reach around?
10:00 Butter Toss results: Chris 5, Rick 3, Garrett 2, Sparky 0
    Standings after two events: Chris 7, Rick 6, Sparky 5, Garrett 2
10:30 Home Run Derby: Chris beats Rick 3-2 in a jack-off
10:33 Sparky beats Chris 6-5 in the finals. Two jack-offs in a row would take some stamina.
10:35 Home Run Derby results: Sparky 5, Chris 3, Rick 2, Garrett 0
   Standings after three events: Sparky 10, Chris 10, Rick 8, Garrett 0
11:32 Cornhole
11:53 Results: Rick 5, Sparky 3, Chris 2, Garrett 0
   Standings after four events: Sparky 15, Rick 13, Chris 11, Garrett 2
12:36 “Take this how you like, but I have never turned down a sausage.”
12:50 Lunch: Sammiches and Garrett’s wife’s great potato salad
1:10 Thunder. Then hail. Gentle, but a lot of it. Angels at Mariners on XM. All tents have been covered. Wine in my cup. Good thing we got three games in early. No more Angels game.
1:19 “I have never had a conversation with a drunk guy and said ‘You sound like a young Isaac Newton.'”
1:20 More hail
1:25 More thunder
1:30 Light rain
1:40 More thunder, but dry for now
1:55 More hail
2:45 Thunder and steady rain
3:26 Observing a way, way, WAY overloaded pickup truck with camping gear and canoe tied on top.
   “They have been parked for quite a while.”
   “Someone’s pissed.”
   “All I wanted for Father’s Day was to take my family camping and make love in a canoe.”
3:30 Garrett has been in his tent for over an hour at this time.
3:31 “The mood is a little bit wet on the outside.”
3:33 The overloaded truck has started again. Should I stay or should I go?
3:38 Go!
4:10 Rain has (mainly) stopped. 
4:48 Event 5: Cards Against Humanity. Plague infested missing members are control group.
5:30 Garrett wins his first event
5:42 Control group finishes in second place. Random placement of cards is funnier than us.
5:43 Sparky finishes (official) second, thus winning Camptathalon 2022. First win since 2013. 
Final Standings: Sparky 16, Rick 15, Chris 12, Garrett 7
  First time everybody won an event? Maybe?
5:50 Tri-tip on. Tortilla tacos!
6:04 “The best part is the half glass of vodka”
6:11 The pickup truck returns

Draft: Best Sequel (Snake draft: Pick order goes down in round one, up in round two, etc.)
Sparky  1.  Star Trek 2: Wrath of Khan,  2.  Star Trek 6: Undiscovered Country,  3. Pitch Perfect 2,  4. Top Gun: Maverick
Garrett:  1. Anchorman 2,  2. Revenge of the Sith,   3. The Dark Knight,  4. Goldmember
Chris:  1. Godfather 2,  2. Return of the Jedi,  3. For a Few Dollars More,  4. Temple of Doom
Rick: 1. Aliens,  Empire Strikes Back,  3. The Good, the Bad, & the Ugly,  4. Superman 2

Draft #2: Disliked Sports Teams
Rick:  1. Boston Celtics,  2. Dallas Cowboys,  3. St. Louis Cardinals,  4.  BYU
Chris:  1. Pittsburgh Steelers,  2. Denver Broncos,  3. San Diego Chargers,  4.  L.A. Dodgers
Garrett:  1. S.F. Giants,  2. San Jose Sharks,  3. Cleveland Browns,  4. Seattle Kraken
Sparky: 1.  Boston Red Sox,  2. N.Y. Yankees,  3. Houston Astros,  4. Nebraska Cornhuskers

Draft #3: Favorite Bands
Garrett: 1. Tool,  2. AC/DC,  3. Korn,  4. System of a Down
Chris: 1. Metallica,  2. Perfect Circle,  3. Van Halen,  4. Duran Duran
Rick:  1. Van Hagar,  2. Motley Crue,  3. Hall & Oates,  4. Charlie Daniels
Sparky:  1. Counting Crows,  2. Airborne Toxic Event,  3. O.A.R.  4. Led Zeppelin


Draft #4: Most Hated/Overrated Bands
Sparky:  1. Pink Floyd,  2. Grateful Dead,  3. Michael Jackson  4. Police
Rick:  1. Red Hot Chili Peppers,  2. U2,  3. Madonna,  4. Eagles
Chris: 1. Beatles,  2. Nirvana,  3. KISS,  4. Milli Vanilli
Garrett: 1. Taylor Swift,  2. Nine Ince Nails,  3. Primus,  4. Mylie Cyrus

Draft #5: Favorite Albums
Chris: 1. Master of Puppets,  2. 1984,  3. And Justice For All,  4. Parabola
Garrett: 1. Undertow,  2. Follow the Leader,  3. Hybrid Theory,  4. Mesmerize
Rick:  1. 5150,  2. Hysteria,  3. Back in Black,  4. License to Ill
Sparky:  1. Recovering the Satellites,  2. 10,  3. Yourself or Someone Like You,  4. Appetite for Destruction

Schrodinger’s Sink

There’s a sink outside my classroom. Or maybe there isn’t. 

Depends on how you define a “sink.”

And that’s just how my district wants it.

My school was built when small learning communities and “academies” were all the rage. My school wasn’t built to house any of those academies, mind you, but the cheapest option was probably to let the construction company use the same plans they’d built elsewhere, so welcome to pod-land. 

Each set of classrooms surrounds a meeting area where teachers can congregate to talk shit about students and other departments. My social science department uses it as a makeshift lunch room in lieu of the mythical “teacher’s lounge.” Those don’t really exist at the high school level because, you know, if they let teachers congregate together, we might realize we have stuff in common with each other. Camaraderie begets humanization. Classic anti-Marxist strategizing there. Let the history and English departments fight over precious copy paper lest we realize we have more in common with each other than not. Before long we’ll, I don’t know, band together and ask for raises. Or copier codes.

The pod has our printer and a couple cabinets where we keep the few supplies we’re granted. Red pens, Expo markers, and whatnot. Number two pencils. Other extravagances, like mechanical pencils or black and blue pens, we’ve gotta purchase ourselves. The good news is we can deduct them from our taxes. But only up to $500 a year, a number that hasn’t changed in the twenty years I’ve been teaching despite inflation roughly doubling the price of most goods and services. Don’t start buying books or a Netflix subscription for use in school and expect to deduct those.

We did get electronic hole punchers, despite not asking for them, from Covid funds. Because we all know that hole punchers are the number one transmitters of disease. I assume the porn industry will start requiring its actors to electronically hole punch any day now.

We also have a mini refrigerator in our pod. It’s against code. We’re only allowed to have Star Authorized appliances, which means they use less of the district’s energy. I mean, technically the mini refrigerator uses less energy than a full-sized refrigerator, but it uses more per cubic inch. The district doesn’t care about wasting money, they care about making things difficult. Because mini fridges cannot be designated efficient. So yes, if you’re following the logic, we can only have an appliance that doesn’t exist. At least the district isn’t being unreasonable.

We also have a microwave, similarly unapproved. Again, if teachers start thinking they’re worthy of heating up their lunches, what’s next? Getting paid for running clubs after school? I mean, if Mr. Scopes Monkey Trial taught without a microwave, we can, too. But no using chalk like in those days, as the chalk dust is hazardous. Oh, and the Expo pens need to be non-toxic. No getting high in front of class! Gotta wait till we’re proctoring those clubs for free before you get lit.

Our pod also contains a kettle for brewing coffee pour-overs. I think an actual Mr. Coffee might be against code. Damn, us teachers are rebels. Good thing the district never follows through with any of its initiatives. We might as well throw a keg in there. At least it wouldn’t catch fire.

There’s also a sink. 

Sort of.

Not sure why there’s a sink in the pod. We are a social science pod. Maybe they’re hoping it’ll form the basis of an epic history vs science conflagration. Unfortunately for our future science department warlords, the sink doesn’t work.

Technically, I suppose, it works. Depends on your definition of what a sink is for. If we turn on the spigot, water comes out. We’re just not allowed to.

The sink leaks. After some contemplation, we alerted custodial. It wasn’t an easy choice. They don’t take kindly to being notified that something needs custodializing. They’re busy emptying our trash cans once a week and sweeping our floors once a month. And really, teachers, you need ANOTHER roll of toilet paper? That’ll come out of your pay raise. 

So something along the lines of “There’s a puddle forming under the sink here” gets met with a hefty round of “Well, what the fuck do you expect us to do about it?”

We should be happy they responded at all. Even if it was just placing a bucket underneath the s-curve that was leaking. Problem solved?

This was back in the Obama administration.

Sometime during the Trump administration, that bucket overflowed.

The water was nastier this time. Brackish, miasmatic, the attack of the black mold! So glad I’m eating my unrefrigerated, unmicrowaved leftovers in here. 

Perhaps we shoulder some of the blame for round two. We could’ve stopped using the sink. Anyone who thinks a bucket is a permanent solution to a leak has never sang any kids’ songs. We could claim ignorance about what happens after five years of standing water. It’s not like we let the science department this close to our supply rations. But we are government teachers, so we should’ve known with perfect certainty that the custodial staff would never return to fix the problem after hours or anything. 

This time, fortunately, they came up with a more long-term solution. 

Let’s see how many of you can play “school upkeep” properly.

We could a) empty out and replace the bucket. Or b)…

Actually, a is pretty much out only option. If you thought a $5 run to Home Depot to get a new s-bend was an option, then you aren’t playing the school repair game. A new pipe today and those rascally teachers might ask to control their own thermostats next. So emptied bucket it is! 

Unless… unless…

The pipe only leaks when there is water going down it. If we could prevent water from descending the pipe, then the problem might solve itself. Like fixing the glitch in Office Space. 

Et voila…

For a while, we thought this was temporary. Until the work order got fixed or something. Escalator out of order, please use stairs. 

Then again, the sign doesn’t mention anything about a timeframe. It just says to not use the sink. The only thing that leads us to doubt its veracity or longevity is that it’s written on a flimsy sheet of paper, adhered via Scotch tape. But what other option did they have? A permanent sign might require a trip to Home Depot. On the aisle next to the sink pipes.

Note, however, that the sink is not “out of order.” We are simply instructed not to use it. 

And you know what? It’s worked. For five-plus years, we haven’t used the sink. And the bucket is almost dry. How’s that for government efficiency?

After a few months, we put money on it. Over/under when will the sink be fixed? We’re well past Price is Right rules. Even the guy who humorously picked a date four years out was wrong. There are no students at this high school who has ever attended while the sink “worked.”

Although maybe we’ve been looking at this the wrong way. We keep waiting for the problem to be fixed. But it already has been. The problem wasn’t the sink not working, it was the pipe leaking. And that pipe hasn’t leaked in close to six years! Mission accomplished. We assumed some work ticket was hanging in the district office stamped with “Waiting for part” hanging in the district office. In reality, it’s was stamped “Completed” and stabbed on the little rod back when the senior class was still in elementary school.

All it took was a piece of paper and tape. Even better, those supplies came from our cabinet, so it comes out of the social science budget. That’ll teach us to complain. My globe’s so groovy it’s got TWO Germanies for the price of one. 

Who says schools can’t think outside the box and find edgy, twenty-first century solutions to problems? It’s like the new SAT policy. Too many students are failing the SAT? How about we stop taking the SAT. Problem, solution.

Shit howdy, that custodian deserves a medal. I think you can find some at Home Depot.

If we wanted to rebellious, we could turn that sink on and to hell with the consequences. Except the consequences will be more black mold creeping across our linoleum floors. And we all know what the district’s response will be if we complain about the bucket being full again. “You didn’t follow directions. We aren’t liable for your medical bills. And is that a non-Star-compliant refrigerator I see?” 

So now we’re faced with a dilemma. The problem is fixed. The pipe is not. As long as we never use the sink, the sink is no longer broken.

We are now faced with Schrodinger’s Sink. 

I never really understood the whole Schrodinger’s Cat thing. Something to do with some fourth dimensional, Quantum Leap shit, where Jesus and Hitler are still alive, sipping Mai Tais in a secret plane on the moon. Or maybe that was a Weekly World News headline.

While I know it’s a physics experiment, it is usually explained as a philosophical question. The cat is both alive and dead until the door is opened. Cause it was alive when the door was closed? It’s what happens when you invoke Einstein to answer the old “Does a falling tree make a sound?” 

But now, I think I finally understand Schrodinger. While the water is turned off, our sink is both fixed and broken.

Turns out the poison that killed the cat was slimy water.

Man Grooming as Nature Intended

Despite being a lifelong suburbanite, my wife has a few granola-crunchy tendencies. Her uncle isn’t quite aware the 1960s ever ended and splits his time between espousing the benefits of a government-based economy and deriding said government for controlling our minds through chemtrails or flouride or blah, blah, blah, because by this time I’m on my seventh glass of wine at Thanksgiving dinner (Thank you, 2020!). He also thinks cats are spying on us and reporting back to aliens keeping tabs on us. And I’m dead serious on that last one.

Wife doesn’t go that far. She’s way too consumerist. But for somebody who thinks camping is an abomination, you can certainly grab her attention by calling your product all-natural or organic or hormone free. So if you want her to buy your bacon, you might put on the packaging that it comes from pigs not treated with vaginal testosterone.  Even though there’s no such thing, so technically every pig in existence. But if you wanna get sold at Whole Foods, you gotta say every madeup bullshit thing isn’t in it.

I’m looking in your direction, rBST.

Occasionally, Wife gets stuck on conference calls at work and orders me some all-natural self-grooming shit. It’ll show up on our doorstep one day and she’ll kinda, sorta remember seeing something, like a Vietnam Vet trying to recall the fogs of war. Amazon told her that people who ordered Tom’s Toothpaste might also like toilet paper with the consistency of poison oak. 

But whatever. As long as she isn’t going paleo or anything, I guess I can splash some essential oils on my nether regions. It turns out I actually like some of them. Others are nothing more than snake oil.

So here are my reviews of products you might be pondering at the next Ren Faire.

Dr. Squatch Soap. 

Of the three products she bought me, this is the only one I’d heard of beforehand. It would seem to be a product custom made for me. Its name alludes to Bigfoot and they cuss in the commercials that my robot overlords at Google and Facebook show me. 

Maybe you’ve seen the ads. They tell guys that the soap you’ve been washing with is bullshit. Okay, you’ve got my attention. The commercials also imply that our junk, which smells horrific, yet is dainty, ain’t never gonna be cleaned by some industrial soap that’s half comprised of something pussy like, I don’t know, lotion or aloe or smurf handjobs.

Personally, my soap of choice is Irish Spring. The dude in the Dr. Squatch commercial calls it mass-produced and docile and bovine excrementy. But I’m assured by its mid-1980s advertisements that Irish Spring is made beside a bucolic river outside of Kilkenny, and if I use it, I’ll be whistled at by the comely lass also seen dancing in that Men Without Hats music video. 

“Manly, yes, but I like it, too!”

But Dr. Squatch Dude has a well-groomed beard, ergo I must pay attention. And they sell such manly flavors of soap, like Grapefruit IPA and Pine Tar and… Aloe. I guess ya can’t make a rub-over-skin product without the base aloe model. 

Come to think of it, pine tar? Isn’t that the stuff they put on baseball bats to make them sticky? I don’t know if I want that on my giblets. Is the ghost of Billy Martin going to come measure my cock to make sure I didn’t add too much pine tar? The last thing I need is a scruffy looking, powder-blue wearing George Brett screaming out of the dugout like a whirling dervish.

The first one I tried was the aloe bar. Baby steps, people. I’ve been trained by years of consumer culture and if it ain’t green, it shouldn’t even call itself soap. The Dr. Squatch was fine, I guess. Nothing really to write home about. Other than its clunky square shape, the clarion call of all “natural” products, it pretty much felt like soap. It didn’t quite get the lather up that I like. Wouldn’t want to shave with it, that’s for sure. 

That square shape also makes it hard to get into some of my nooks and crannies. In fact, it feels a little like being bludgeoned. I didn’t know I was supposed to be in pain while showering. And that was before I tried their second “flavor,” Chinese Water Torture.

No, it’s not named Chinese Water Torture soap, but it might as well be. It’s called Cold Brew Coffee soap. Should be perfect for me. I already smell like coffee all day. Or at least until 2:00, after which I smell like a distillery. 

What’s that? Dr. Squatch has a rum soap, too? Maybe I’ll have to investigate. 

Or I can just have some rum. Because if the rum is anything like the cold brew, I’ll pass. 

Sure, the coffee bar smelled nice, even if I had to adjust to the unnatural brownness of it. 

The problem came in its consistency. I’m not sure if Bigfoot’s ever had coffee, but when I get an iced coffee from Starbucks, I don’t have to take the coffee grounds out of my mouth. At home, I occasionally have a filter catastrophe that results in a crunchy cup o’ joe, but that’s not supposed to be the norm. And I know the hipster in the commercials doesn’t brew his own.

The coffee soap, however, is inundated with scratchy coffee grounds. And not the Folgers or Maxwell House ground coffee variety. More like whole beans thrown for ten seconds into a hand grinder cranked by an arthritic octogenarian. 

The first time I used it, I thought maybe it was just an outer layer authenticity thing that would go away as I used it. I once splurged on an Irish Spring “Sport” bar that had little bubble things on the bottom, but they only lasted a couple of washes. Surely, once I got past the outer layer of this cold brew, it would work like normal soap. Or like fancy, all-natural, doesn’t-really-wash-you soap.

But no! That shit stayed through the whole bar. I get the whole “exfoliating” concept, but this wasn’t some John Cougar “Hurt So Good.” It was just straight-up jagged-ass scratching. I suppose I could’ve used a wash cloth, but c’mon, Bigfoot. Your commercials talk about being a manly-man and now you want me to use a wash cloth?

Eventually, I found that it worked best if I lathered up in my hand, then went to the body. 

That felt more like a little bit of gritty exfoliating, similar to the little grains inside some of those soft soaps. Speaking of which, did you know that Bath & Body Works has “manly man” soaps, too? They’re usually hidden amongst the cinnamons and lilacs and Lakeside Estrogens. You can usually tell which ones they are because they’re blue. My favorite also had a fox wearing a blue sweater on the front and had a smell named “musk.” That’s the manly triumvirate right there.

But the blocky coffee soap wasn’t the same as a granulated soft soap. Like its aloe brethren, the cold brew block couldn’t lather worth a shit. So lots and lots and of scrubbing the hands meant the bar didn’t last longer than a week or so. At seven bucks a pop, I feel like the soap should last, I don’t know, a year or so. It’s kinda like paying for a single beer at the ballgame that costs more than a 12-pack of that same beer at home.

And for seven bucks, you get the added benefit of doing a twice over before exiting the shower to make sure you don’t look like a damned leper when you step out. The soap’s supposed to clean me, not leave me looking like I missed the trash can when dumping the coffee filter. Took me so long to shower, I was late to work. Good thing we live in a patriarchy and I can just ask for a raise to make up for the time lost.

Ha ha, just kidding. I’m a teacher. We don’t get raises.

Still, maybe I should stick with the rum bar. Although maybe not on the day I ask my principal for a raise.

Somerset English Shaving Oil.

What the hell is an essential oil anyway? Are there non-essential oils? Do the essential oils tease them? Like the Catholics who say Protestants go to Purgatory, which they think is heaven, but isn’t really heaven. I assume the Catholics spend all of eternity mocking those Protestants in their fake heaven. Something to look forward to.

Although if this is English shaving oil, it probably isn’t Catholic. They leave that for the Irish Spring next door.

Come to think of it, I don’t know if English is really the operative adjective for olde tyme rituals. Sure, compared to us young pups in America, England’s been around forever. But if I really want to be shaving like I’m some grizzly middle ager, how about some Saxon Shaving Oil. Or Mercian. Although that’s too close to ‘Merican. And we all know ‘Merican shaving oil would be buffalo chicken sauce with ranch.

But I’m getting ahead of myself. Or behind myself. Where the fuck was I? Oh right, shaving.

I’m fortunate enough to not have much facial hair. It takes me a month to go from clean-shaven to something approximating a goatee or beard. 

It’s the perfect amount of hair growth, because I don’t have to shave every day. If I shave Monday and Wednesday mornings, nobody will be any the wiser. If I then let it go the rest of the week, I might get some comments around closing time Friday afternoon that I’ve got a couple gristles. Not a five o’clock shadow yet, just some noticeable follicles. Actually, I never get a five o’clock shadow. Even if I let it go a week, it comes in scraggly and splotchy like I sent my cheek through chemotherapy. 

So when it comes to the best options for shaving, I never really established a consistent ritual. Through most of my thirties, I gravitated toward the gel that magically turns into foam on your skin. Unfortunately, anything that defies the laws of nature that much wreaks havoc on your pipes. 

And no, that’s not a reference to either my penis or my asshole. There’s a first time for everything.

It was literally my pipes. That gel ends up sticking to everything and clogging the shit out of my drain. It certainly wasn’t the millimetres of follicles going down there. So I switched to shaving in the shower, but the gel doesn’t do well in the wet steam. 

Enter Somerset’s Essential Whatnot and So-forth. You massage it into your skin at the beginning of the shower, then let it work its way in. It starts tingling, feels  like a zesty aftershave, except it’s a slick pre-shave. When the time comes, you lather up a little soap, just not the Dr. Squatch type. I said lather, not leather.

What can I say? The shit works. It’s a weird feeling for someone who thought shaving required a force-field of white goop. It also helps that soap lather is more see through. Who woulda thunk that it would be beneficial to actually see the face while shaving? 

Again, your mileage may vary, especially if you actually grow hair between your neck and ear. But the Somerset’s worked even after No-Shave November when I had an unruly weed-patch growing there, so long as I trim it first.

It doesn’t seem to help after No-Nut November. Although if I needed help with that, I’d feel safer using this than Dr. Squatch’s pine tar. Plus, it tingles!

Lume Deodorant.

Before even trying this product, I was predisposed to hate it.

First of all, it’s named Lume with a fancy little accent on the e. That means it’s either made by a French person or someone who thinks adding random accents to a product make it sound fancier. Like whatever asshole threw that “olde tyme” into his description of shaving oil.

Even worse than its name, this deodorant is goopy, a viscosity reminiscent of snot. When it smudges through three little slivers on top like vomit through your fingers as that last-second dash toward the toilet comes up woefully short. And they expect me to put that on my underarms? Gross. I’m trying to make that area LESS moist, why the fuck would I rub a used handkerchief there.

Handkerchiefs don’t seem to exist anymore, and that’s a good thing. My grandpa always used one. I’ve never understood why we should want to deposit our snots into our pocket for removal later. I’m sure it’s better for the environment than Kleenex, but if I promise to recycle my beer bottles, can I keep the Kleenex? Do earth-hugging communes allow tissue paper? What about toilet paper? I know way too much of our modern society is disposable, but I hope we never have to debate the trade-offs of those two paper products.

Anyway, for ninety percent of my life, I’ve liked precisely one style of substance under my arms: Bone-ass dry. Don’t give me those sprays. Don’t give me those roll-ons. If the process of applying deodorant doesn’t remove some hairs and skin, it’s probably not doing its work.

I also can’t abide by deodorants with smells. I don’t want fresh scent or forest morning or scorched earth. Not even “evergreen musk,” which was the magical manly smell that Bath and Body Works put into my sweater-wearing fox soap. Again, the purpose of deodorant is to remove smell. Replacing it with a different smell doesn’t make sense to me. I’m not fooled by the taxicab air freshener, either.

In fact, most of those scented ones give me a rash before long. Maybe I’ve got sensitive skin. Maybe I’m allergic. For a good portion of my teens and twenties, I used Ladies’ Speed Stick. It’s okay, you can judge. But maybe that’s where my hatred of smells come from, because trust me, the types of scents assigned to most of the Ladies’ Speed Stick varietals aren’t smells a nineteen-year-old dude wants wafting out of his pores. What the fuck is a Pampered Lilac, anyway? Does that mean the flower’s living a cush life? Or is it wearing diapers?

In my adult years, I settled on Arm n’ Hammer. It fits my desire for both lack of smell and dryness. If I could rub actual baking soda on my armpits and be done with it, I would. Preferably with a sweater-clad fox on the front.

Then along came Lume.

“It’s organic,” my wife told me. “It’s hypoallergenically designed by medical professionals.”

“Did they design it to have all the comfort of the Sahara desert?”

“No, but it’s professional OB-GYNs.”

Ummm…. What?

Look, I’m not the manliest man ever. The closest I ever come to standard toxic masculinity is when we’re drafting fantasy football. I prefer mini golf to real golf. When I visited Minneapolis, I took my picture throwing my hat into the air right next to the Mary Tyler Moore statue. I like my beer more nutty than hoppy. I can’t figure out whose ass was more impressive in Demolition Man– Sandra Bullock’s or Sylvester Stallone’s.

Seriously, in those tight-fitting pants, that movie is a monument to two of the best-sculpted asses on the planet. 

With all those facts in her corner, maybe Wife didn’t think I’d blink an eye at a deodorant developed by a gynecologist. The left side of my brain gets it. There are a lot of similarities between the armpit and the crotch. Dank. Moist. Hair for no damned reason. A man’s taint is the only body part that smells worse than his armpit. 

And yet…

There’s a reason things it’s called feminine hygiene. I don’t think I need to give my armpit a morning-after pill.

Although, in all honesty, I’m only showering three times a week during the quarantine. So maybe my armpit DOES need a morning-after pill.

Let’s see, goopy substance with the consistency of snot, designed for vaginas, in my armpits? Sorry, Wife. I tried your all-natural soap with poor results. I tried your olde tyme shaving oil with mixed results. But I think I have to draw the line at…

Whoa, what’s that comfortable tingle? And that pleasant smell? Why are my pits feeling so fresh? And… dry?

Holy crap, y’all. This Lume shit is as pleasant as… okay, maybe not pie, because that wouldn’t really be appetizing. But the goop rubs in as simply as my Arm n’ Hammer, especially if I’ve just gotten out of the shower. Even on day two, it rubs in seamlessly. Sure, in these COVID times, you also might wonder what happens on showerless days three and four? Truthfully, I hit a limit around day three, when I switch back to the baking soda. Lume works great at preventing the funk from happening. When it’s already there, it’s not quite as effective. Sure, I could shower more often, but this is Quarantine Time, baby!

So I guess I stand corrected. The KY works great on my manly-man armpits. But the manly-man soap was unfulfilling. Meanwhile the nonessential but quintessentially British oils are workable and don’t clog my drains. 

Snotty lube is a good deodorant, but coffee grounds should keep their asses in the kitchen. Bare foot and pregnant, yo!

While I’m at it, I’d like to admit one other earlier mistake. 

Sly’s ass is far better than Sandra Bullock’s. 

A Rose by Any Other (Same) Name

From what I hear, Chrissy Teigen has struggled with her pregnancy. In fact, I think she miscarried. A number of media types and people I know were super chagrined. 

Me, I kinda shrugged my shoulders.

I mean, any time a pregnant woman loses her baby is a tragedy. But on the flip side, what are we to expect when a woman her age tries to have a child? I think she’s in her fifties, at least. The very fact they could conceive, I assume through some in vitro test tube, is a miracle of science. Am I supposed to be shocked that it didn’t take?

Her husband, John Legend, we are told, sat by her hospital bed as complications took hold. A harrowing experience, to be sure.

Wait, John Legend? The guy that butchered a John Lennon Christmas song? He’s married Chrissy Teigen? Cougar much, Chrissy? 

But then I saw a picture of John Legend standing next to some young African American woman in a hospital bed. Is this a stock pohoto? Because that woman looks nothing likethe actress/model I remember from my youth. 

Wait a second… 

After weeks of hearing the story, I finally realized that Chrissy Teigen is NOT Cheryl Tiegs. Two ENTIRELY different people. 

Chrissy Teigen is only 34 years old, which makes a lost pregnancy all the more ghastly.

Cheryl Tiegs, it turns out, is actually 73 years old. So yeah, medical science or no, she ain’t getting knocked up by a wanna-Beatle any time soon.

I’m really bad at the whole “spot the celebrity” game. It bothers Wife incessantly. I can identify a Phil Collins drumfill in a random one-hit wonder from 1987, but ask me to find the similarities in pictures of Jane Foster and Queen Amidala and I’m at a loss. There’s no way it’s the same actress in each role. I mean, the one next to Hayden Christensen is the second coming of Katherine Hepburn, while the one in the MCU is being out-acted by Kat Dennings.

At least Natalie Portman kept the same hair style in those two movies. Nobody will ever convince me that the Laura Prepon who starred in “That 70’s Show” is the same Laura Prepon who has starred in… well, pretty much everything since “That 70’s Show.” After all, the former was a redhead, while the latter has been, predominantly, a blonde. East is east and west is west and never the twain shall meet. It’s not like L’Oreal makes a compass.

But obviously visuals weren’t my main issue with Chrissy Teigen and Cheryl Tiegs. Their names are way too close together. If this was a book, it would be the mark of a bad author. For instance, I made it 80,000 words into a WIP before realizing that two of the main characters are named Richard and Robbie. It wasn’t until they were in the same scene together that I realized how annoying it will be to read sentences in which they both appear. But unlike Chrissy and Cheryl, I’ll fix that in the second draft, where I’m pretty sure Robbie will become a Willie or a Billy. What are Chrissy Teigen and Cheryl Tiegs’ excuse for not fixing that shit in post-write?

I had a similar problem the first thousand or so times Daughter watched various installments of the “Hotel Transylvania” franchise. Selena Gomez voices the daughter, Mavis, which initially made no sense to me. She seems too professional an actress to be doing cartoon voiceovers, to say nothing of slumming around with Adam Sandler and his ilk. Aside from the fact that Mavis sounds like a legitimate twenty-something. And cartoons have done a good job of making the characters have similar visual characteristics as the actors that play them. Drac’s facial expressions totally match Adam Sandler, and Johnny has Andy Samberg’s weird sideways mouth.

Speaking of which, Andy Samberg and Adam Sandler in the same movie? Was Adam Goldberg unavailable? Fortunately, I’ve watched enough “Brooklyn 99” (and “The Goldbergs”) to know the difference between them, but only because Adam Sandler is about as distinctive as it gets for a guy who went to college in the early 1990s. Bob Barker once called when I was working in the state Capitol to ask my boss to vote for a spay/neuter bill and my first response was that I loved him in “Happy Gilmore.” He said he expected “Price is Right,” because, I guess, he he figured grandmas were the primary demographic for legislative aides. Who did he think I was, Chrissy Teigen?

I’m sure it shouldn’t shock you to know that, whoever I was thinking played the voice of Mavis, it sure as hell wasn’t Selena Gomez. I finally saw a behind-the-scenes video showing the actors do the voicework and Selena Gomez, would you believe it, is actually a twenty-something who looks a bit like Mavis, her character.

The problem is that I have no idea who I thought “Selena Gomez” was referring to. I’m pretty sure this was the first time I realized Selena Gomez existed as a human being. I never explicitly thought of anyone in particular, but had the general sense of a middle-aged Latina. Perhaps Salma Hayek, because their first names have a lot of the same letters, but I kinda got a Jennifer Lopez visual in my head, which of course looks nothing like Mavis. Or Selena Gomez.

Obviously I know who J-Lo is, and her name is nowhere close to Selena Gomez. But hear me out. She played the original Selena in her biopic. 

Okay, maybe you didn’t need to hear me out, cause that’s all I’ve got.

Obviously Selena Gomez isn’t that Selena, because she died long before “Hotel Transylvania.” But that at least gets me over the “Jennifer Lopez is Selena” hurdle. Add in the fact that Selena Gomez dated Justin Bieber, while J-Lo dated Alex Rodriguez, and I hate both of them. Incidentally, I thought it was Tom Brady that J-Lo dated, but a Google search told me it was the other overrated sports figure in the northeast that I stopped watching ESPN because of. And no, Salma Hayek never dated Tom Brady, either.

To be fair, unlike C. Teigen and C. Tiegs, I never explicitly thought Selena Gomez was Jennifer Lopez. I just had a general idea in my head that Selena Gomez was a fifty-something singer/actress who had been around since the mid-1990s. So maybe I really did just think she was the dead Selena.

Finally, let me head off the potential woke response of me being a typical white male who can’t distinguish between individual members of other ethnicities. Because I can’t tell white dudes apart, either.

Harry Styles is, allegedly, yet another singer and actor. Does anybody do one or the other anymore? I guess most actors stay in their lane, at least since the glory that was Eddie Murphy’s “Party All the Time,” but singers, it appears, must now become actors. I blame it on Justin Timberlake. Or Frank Sinatra. They might as well be the same person. 

Not that I get them confused.

For some reason, Harry Styles pops up in my news feed from time to time. Maybe he’s dating someone? Or has some political view that he needs to inform everybody about? I’m not sure and I don’t want to google it lest I get MORE headlines about Harry Styles – I’m already suffering from a slew of Selena Gomez info since I wrote the first part of this blog post yesterday.

If I had to guess, though, I think Harry Styles is some sort of fashionista. I don’t know if that’s a gendered word. A fashionister? Or maybe fashionisto? fashionistx? As an aside, I heard someone refer to a number of major league baseball players as Latinx, which confused me because I thought we were only supposed to use Latinx to refer to a group with both Latinos and Latinas. Is Latino offensive even if it’s a group of males of Latin American origin? Of course, I’m only asking the white people this, because no person of Latin American origin uses the phrase Latinx because it makes absolutely no fucking sense in Spanish.

Sorry, where was I? Right. Harry Styles. I couldn’t figure out why Harry Styles was making headlines for things like who he was dating or his new hairstyle. I mean, even when the dude was relevant, what, twenty years ago, I would never have called him hip. Hilarious, sure, but he’s tall and lanky, a goofy body frame perfect for physical comedy and not much else.

Have you spotted my train track yet? I was thinking of Ryan Stiles, the improv actor most notable for being on every single episode of “Whose Line is it, Anyway?”, both the English (good) and Drew Carey (bad) iterations. From this mid-40s perspective, he’s the far more important and influential of the Stileses, but I’m slowly coming to realize that he isn’t the ONLY of the Stileses.

It’s tough being me sometimes. Probably even tougher being my wife.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to research the subtle distinction between Jimmy Dean and James Dean.

Camptathalon 2019

Veering away from the ‘Rona Madness to finally get around to posting the Camptathalon results from last year.

Unlike 2018, no natural disasters ruined our festivities. Unless you count “snow in May” as a natural disaster, because that did put a little hitch in our giddyup this time around. Our campsite was set to open on the Friday of our camping weekend, three to four weeks later than usual. We had reservations for that night. But a couple of us headed up a night early, figuring if the snow wasn’t going to be a problem Friday, how bad could Thursday be? Turns out the campsite needed the official blessing of the Forest Service to be opened. And we all know that nothing expedites a process like a federal bureaucracy.

But hey, I got to see a tree fall in a forest. It makes sound.

For those of you reading your first Camptathalon Blog, we keep a running log of things said and did. Most are intentionally out of context.

What is Camptathalon? Find out here.

Enjoy.

Thursday.
1:00 Campsite closed. Fuck you.
20190614_094949.jpg
1:15 Find some random remote spot. Free. That’s $24 the Forest Service will never see.
20190613_133659.jpg
2:49 First sighting of other human beings since we arrived at spot – PG & E Truck
3:20 Water’s fucking cold. Add Polar Bear Competition to Camptathalon? Sparky lasted 37 seconds.
5:30 Relocate to a second site because it has a picnic table and a shitter.
5:50 We fixed your fire pit for you, Forest Service. Is that worth $24?
20190613_181853.jpg6:20 Dinner: Burger & Chips
7:45 “Probably shouldn’t pee in front of that camera.”
“That’s not a camera.”
“What is it, then?”
“I don’t know.”
“We should totally zipline that motherfucker.”
20190613_194628.jpg

Friday
6:45 “I brought the coffee grinder because last year you brought good beans and we couldn’t grind them.”
“Oh, I brought ground coffee, because last year I brought good beans and we couldn’t grind them.”
7:40 Shitter’s closed. But the picnic table is nice.
7:50 “I just did something I haven’t done in twenty years.”
“Did you just dig a hole?”
“Nope. I didn’t have a shovel.”
8:40 Pack up camp again. Moving to third site in last twenty hours
9:00 Campsite’s still closed. But the “Road Closed” sign’s moved to the side. Hope?
9:12 Ranger: “It’s still going to be a few hours. I need to look at each campsite. Hopefully I’m done by noon. Please move your cars so I don’t have to come out and explain this to others.
9:22 Filling up ice chests with snow. Saving money left and right.
9:50 Setting up chairs across the street from campsite, like Black Friday shoppers.
9:59 Camp host drives by. “You guys waiting to get in?”
“What gave you that idea?”
10:05 “Hey, Mr. Forest Guy, I’ll give you a Dirty Wookie if you open this place.”
“Which kind of Dirty Wookie?”
(Transcriber’s Note: Dirty Wookie is the name of a beer. On Urban Dictionary, it has a rather different definition. I’ll politely not provide a link.)
10:15 Host and Forest Guy are talking loudly just to fuck with those assholes sitting across the street.
10:22 Host and Forest Guy leave. Sign’s still up.
10:40 Tree chopper arrives.
10:42 “It’s still going to be a while. You guys want to go fish or swim or something?”
“We got nowhere to be, and this is what we’d be doing if we were in our campsite. Except with beer instead of soda.”
10:49 Rick arrives. Now there’s three camp chairs sitting patiently across the street.
10:58 “I won’t reveal the Loser Libation yet, but it is much worse than Bud Ice.”
11:08 Rick has to move his car because it’s in the fall zone. Then they ask him to just block the road.
20190614_110910.jpg11:09 We’re helping. That’s worth more than a Dirty Wookie.
11:12 “You can stop blocking the road now.”
“No way. Now I’ve had the taste of power.”
11:15 Any way we can turn tree chopping into a Camptathalon event?
11:16 Camp Host takes “Road Closed” sign out to road, singing “Signs, Signs, everywhere there’s signs. Do you know what that means? Get the FUCK out of my road!”
(Transcriber’s Note: Camp Host is a late-60’s female hippie, looks like a grandma)
11:21 Did I hear that right? “We’re Open?”
11:31 I must not have heard that right.
11:41 Rick busts out the Fireball on the side of the road.
11:50 Fuck this. Let’s go have lunch at the resort.
12:42 “I’ve heard in religious places like Utah, it’s not good to be a ‘stone’s throw’ from anything.”
12:51 Campsite is OPEN! The watched pot thing came true.
1:24 First beer of the weekend cracked open. Not counting the ten or so last night.
1:52 Cocks flag is up. Wisconsin Lunchbox is hung.
20190614_135346.jpg
2:01 Rick christened the campsite. With urine.
2:45 It’s a quarter to three and I’m drinking whiskey.
3:13 “I’ll warm up your chili for you.”
3:42 Eternal point-distribution debate. 4, 3, 2, 0? 4, 2, 1, 0? 5, 3, 2, 0? Rick says “it’s easy,” wants 2nd and 3rd place to get 3.5 and 2.5. Fuck half points.
3:47 First Score 1989 Baseball Card Pack opened by Sparky. Best Player: Bobby Thigpen, Relief Pitcher, Chicago White Sox
3:48 People move in next door. Hope they’re cool. Confidence is high.
3:52 C-17 Starlifter buzzes the camp.
4:01 Reading 1940 Baseball review. Hank Greenberg. “I believe he was a Jew.”
5:29 Chris arrives.
5:41 “I’m going to pitch a tent. Then maybe I’ll put up where I’m sleeping tonight.”
5:50 The Pube Mixe and the cheese Balls. Still undefeated after three years.
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6:09 Concerned that Chris is the favorite for the poker tournament because he hasn’t been drinking since 2:00.
6:10 Official Opening Toast

6:17 “That’s the best Dirty Wookie I’ve ever had.”
6:21 “I would give Bea Arthur a Dirty Wookie.”
6:26 Chili dinner is served. With beans this time, so it’s proper chili.
7:07 Preparations for poker.
7:15 Chris casts deciding vote to not to reward winner. First place will receive 4 points, second place: 3, third place: 2, loser: 0.
7:20 Loser Libation is…. 32 oz. Coors Banquet Beer.
7:21 Debate over which is worse Coors vs. Bud Ice.
7:22 Toast of Fireball to commemorate fire winning Camptathalon 2018.
7:42 Neighbors left. Couldn’t handle the heat. Or the stink. Buh Bye.
7:43 Blinds raise. An intermission reading from Rimmer.
(Transcriber’s Note: We bought a signed copy of a smut book by Christine Rimmer many years ago for 50 cents. It has no rimmers.)
7:55 The Cheese Balls and Pube Mixe have been open for two hours. Do your fucking job!
8:30 Rick: “I have nothing to live for.” Wins next hand.
8:43 Sparky “wins” the Loser Libation.
9:05 How can I not be betting after the flop? I’m dealing!
9:09 Things have devolved.
9:20 Rick too tossed to play better.
9:30 Rick escorted to bed, still in poker game.
9:31 Sparky: “At least he didn’t do the Loser Libation.”
9:35 First Camptathalon disqualification ever. Does DQ drop to fourth place or still get third place?
9:47 WORST. POKER GAME. EVER.
9:50 Have we ever even raised the blinds?
10:46 Sparky didn’t finish Loser Libation. Party Foul! But he did play Rick’s hands after DQ. Party win?
11:07 Tony bets big and loses.
11:16 Standings after one event: Chris 4, Tony 3, Rick 2, Sparky 0
1:31 Chris and Tony still awake. Sparky stumbles out of his hammock to take a piss. Can’t get back in.
1:34 “You okay, Sparky?” “Yeah, I’m fine.”
1:35 Sparky goes to sleep in back of truck.
1:41 Nighty Night.

Saturday
6:15 Tony: First vomit of the weekend? No. Sparky did last night.
6:16 Black vomit. That’s a new one.
6:30 Sparky jumps in the lake.
7:46 Rick attempts to read what happened last night. WTF is all this??
8:28 Hangover competition: Tony, Chris, Rick, Sparky.
8:40 Chris reveals he’s never seen any Friday the 13th or Halloween movies. His Camptathalon Pass is now provisional.
8:42 Not even 9:00 AM and we’re already talking about jizz.
9:08 Oregon Trail
9:33 Our Oregon Trail names are: Brigham, Ezekiel, Hiram, and Doug.
9:34 First beer of the day.
9:55 Chris dies on 49th card. Outskirts of Willamette and some douchebag hipster probably could’ve helped him but his oxen weren’t organic enough.
10:10 Fuck you.
10:45 Cribbage!
11:00 Travel to the Big Fucking Rock.
12:27 Back from BFR. Growler open.
12:30 “I played with your slingshot while you were gone.”

12:35 Preparation for the Jonny Goudreau Memorial Butter Toss. We forgot a target, so it’ll be Little Debbie’s face on the Nutty Buddy box.
12:45 Sparky butters directly onto Little Debbie’s face.

12:46 Standings after second event: Tony with 6 points, everyone else in a 3-way at 4 points.
12:52 We forgot the golf clubs and bocce balls, too, so this might be a very abbreviated Camptathalon.
12:55 Event three: Home Run Derby.
20190615_130456.jpg1:12 Round One: Tony 3, Chris 2, Sparky 6, Rick 2. Rick and Chris headed to a jack-off.
1:17 First jack-off tied 2-2. They have to jack-off again, just minutes after the first.
1:21 Rick wins 3-2 to advance to second round.
1:29 Second round: Rick 0, Tony 0, Sparky 1 (retired after second out). Rick was tired after two consecutive jack-offs. Not sure Tony’s excuse.
1:31 Sparky explaining the rules of a jack-off while his dick’s in his hand. (Peeing).
1:35 Tony wins jack-off 4-1.
1:41 Sparky wins H.R. Derby 3-2 (with four outs left)
1:42 After three events: Tony 9, Sparky 8, Rick 6, Chris 4
2:04 “Can I mustard you?”
2:22 Draft 80s & 90s hotties:
Draft Order: Rick, Sparky, Tony, Chris
1st rd.  Phoebe Cates, Jennifer Anniston, Bo Derek, Denise Richards
2nd rd.  Rose McGowan, Jessica Biel, Alicia Silverston, Kathy Ireland
3rd rd.  Christina Aguilera, Britney Spears, Heather Graham, Catherine Zeta Jones
4th rd.  Joan Jett, Christina Applegate, Mia Sara, Selma Hayek
5th rd. Debbie Gibson, Lucy Diekens, Sarah Jessica Parker, Mila Kunis
2:34 “Is Bea Arthur taken yet?”
“It’s the 1980s, not the 1880s.”
2:41 Potential draft topics: Overrated bands, Greatest Sports Seasons (team), cocktails, Fast Food/Fast Casual, Comedies
2:55 Attempting to add Coop to Camptathalon as first-ever team competition. Winners get 4 pts, losers 2 pts.
3:22 Rick and Chris win, tightening standings. Going into final event: Tony 11, Sparky 10, Rick 10, Chris 8
3:38 Comedies Draft
Draft Order: Chris, Tony, Mark, Rick
1st Rd.  Idiocracy, Airplane!, Real Genius, Animal House
2nd Rd.  Office Space, There’s Something About Mary, Police Academy, Caddyshack
3rd Rd.  Mony Python & Holy Grail, Happy Gilmore, Billy Madison, Young Frankenstein
4th Rd.   UHF, Fletch, Major League, Blazing Saddles
5th Rd.  Team America, PCU, Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World, Beverly Hills Cop
3:55 Discussion of honorable mentions: all Vacation movies, American Pie, South Park Movie, Blues Brothers, Waiting
4:07 Final Event: Cards Against Humanity
4:08 But first, another reading from Rimmer
4:52 Chris wins event with “The shambling corpse of Larry King.”
4:53 Chris complains that he won three events, won’t win Camptathalon. Is reminded that he voted to not give an extra point to event winner.
5:03 Tony takes second place in Cards Against Humanity with “Not Wearing Pants.” Wins Camptathalon despite never winning an event.
5:04 Final Standings: Tony 14, Chris 12, Sparky 11, Rick 11
20190615_170844.jpg
5:56 Tri-tip dinner
9:00 Rick is the unofficial Fartathalon winner.
9:30 Made it past sunset. Calling it an early night.

Sunday
6:21 The flag comes down.
6:27 The Cheese Balls used to mock us when they emerged victorious. Now they just pity us.
20190616_063613.jpg7:27 Leave campsite behind.
8:00 Greasy spoon diner has WiFi!
Fin

***No Wookies were dirtied in the course of this Camptathalon***

 

 

Coronavirus Quaran-geddon Part III

I’ve got a shirt that reads “It’s all fun and games until the beer runs out.”

I usually wear it when I’m man camping or doing some other weekend-style, fun-time activities.

When I threw it on the other day, however, it took on quite a different meaning. The beer running out seems far more imminent a threat now than when I’m out golfing or rafting. And when it runs out, it won’t just be a temporary message that maybe I need to cut back.

That’s a lot scarier than the toilet paper situation, if you ask me.

We’ve shut down all of society to stop the spread of a disease that might kill one percent of the people who catch it,. But it probably kills substantially less because that one percent relates only to those showing enough symptoms to warrant a test. When they started testing more people in South Korea, it seems a lot of people have it but show no symptoms and probably aren’t dying. So maybe the death rate is closer to, I don’t know, one-tenth of one percent? One-hundredth of one percent? That sounds like a good estimate. That would mean that only one out of one hundred who have the virus fit enough of the tick boxes to get tested, and of those, one in one hundred die.

It isn’t so much the death rate, the experts say, as the contagion rate. Each person infects three people, whether they’re on quarantine or washing their hands or whatever. You could lock yourself in your house and that virus will jump out your window and knock on your neighbor’s door. Then those three people will infect three other people. Whereas the flu, which only infects 1.3 people, will grow to something like 14 people, the exponential rate of Coronavirus, they say, means that one infected person will infect 59,000 people by the time you’re done reading this blog post.

At least that’s how it’s being reported.

We’ve had just over 6,000 cases in California, so I guess we only started with 10% of one infected person? We’ve also had 33 deaths, in a state with some 40,000,000 people. Am I prepared to have that number double? Triple? Quadruple? When all it takes to stop that death toll is by shutting down the entire state. I mean, who cares about an extra 5,000,000 unemployed if it can save 20 lives? It’s not like being unemployed and homeless has a high mortality rate or anything.

Although, to hear those in charge, those people are losing their jobs and it’s not even helping. Nothing we’re doing is working. Otherwise why would they continue to change the rules every day? Closing all the bars and restaurants didn’t seem to work, because the next day, we were stay at home and the day after that we were shelter in place. It couldn’t just be that Newsom and Trump love nothing more than seeing themselves on tv, and people might stop tuning in to their press conferences if they aren’t making up some cockamamie new rules. f they’re we’re need to have a new press conference every day. To get eyeballs, they gotta ban something new. Gotta double down on what we did yesterday, regardless of its effectiveness.

Maybe I’m coming at this from a different angle because of where I work. In California education (and I assume education across the country, but California education burns through a lot more money), we continually jaunt and jump from one “fix du jour” to the next. Somebody at the district or county office finds somebody who’s written a book or has a website about how education can be fixed and they pay him or her $10-20,000 to come present to teachers at a specific school or district. One year we had some lady from Georgia who yelled at us about using academic language. I don’t think she intended to yell, but maybe volume modulation isn’t part of academic language. Then we had a principal from a Newsweek article who raised test scores up 100 points. At the end of his presentation, he said maybe if we followed all of his directives (and paid him an extra $100,000 to visit more often), we could be on the cover of Newsweek, too. Of course, after raising his school’s test scores 100 points, they were still 60 behind us. And since he’d started spending more time promoting himself than them, they’d dropped back down, so we were about 100 ahead of them. But tell me again how we can get on the cover of a news magazine? Another time it was a woman who said that she felt sorry for her daughter’s teachers when she goes into parent-teacher conferences, because she knows that teacher already knows who she is and that she’s such a better teacher than they are. It must be daunting. Shocking that the room full of teachers that she said this to didn’t all jump up and applaud, huh?

But I’ve sat through all of them. Sometimes we pretend to follow the new directive for a whole year. Most of the time it’s forgotten by Winter Break, because somebody at the district office has found the next manna from heaven. Or, more realistically, has found the next kickback from the next dude who’s getting $100,000 from us. Sometimes they still give lip service to the previous fix, but usually they don’t even bother. After all, this new thing is a panacea, so who gives a shit about academic language?

We never see any of these things through, even if the presenters themselves say it’ll take a few years to see quantifiable results. So at the end of the year, our test scores go up or they go down or they stay the same. But what caused that change or non-change? Who can know? Ten things changed and maybe one of them had an effect or, meh, maybe it’s just a good/bad batch of kids this year and next year, it’ll be completely different. And if it’s not necessarily a good batch, but rather something we tried for a year back when they were in third grade, then who the fuck cares? We’ll change something again next year to even it out.

That’s what this Coronavirus shut-down has felt like. Every day they come out with new things that they’re shutting down. But there’s never any data to back it up. There’s never any discussion about if anything we’ve done has been effective so far. And how can there be? We barely test anybody, and if we did, it would take too long to get the results. Any numbers they give us now are the people who felt sick two weeks ago and got tested a week ago. They were probably sick before we even started washing our hands. But who needs data?

“We shut all the schools, but there’ve been ten new cases, so now you can’t go to restaurants. We shut the restaurants, but there’ve been five new cases, so now you have to stay at home. Goddammit, people, you’re not listening to us. We’re up to one hundred sick people! Fire every single person from every single job!”

The governor actually took the nicer approach. He commended us for doing what we’re supposed to be doing before saying that it isn’t working, so we’re going to do more of it.

At least we’ve determined that education isn’t “essential.” I guaran-fucking-tee my district will use that as their opening salvo the next time we’re negotiating a raise.

I assume the reason they did this piecemeal was because they couldn’t go for the whole pinata at the beginning. If they told us to shut down on day one, we would’ve said no. So instead they told us to wash our hands and then told us that wasn’t enough, despite no evidence to back that up. The real reason we’re on lockdown now is because Newsom and Trump saw that everybody went along with it, no questions asked, then took the next step.

Great and all, if you buy their rationale, but that’s kinda what Hitler did before World War II, too.

Newsom said if we don’t follow his orders, 25,500,000 Californians will contract the virus. Despite the fact that only 500,000 people worldwide have had it. Think about that. For every one person worldwide, an extra fifty-plus people in California will catch it. And that’s evidenced by the 3,000 or so in the state who already have it.

Now he needs another 50,000 hospital beds for “the surge in cases.” What surge? Where is the evidence of this surge? The few times I drive out, isolated in my car, nobody is out anywhere. Airplanes are flying with seven passengers aboard.

Every day we’re being bombarded by reports of who has it now. Two players from a hockey team. A senator. An actor. A member of a rock band. And each one of them is treated like an HIV diagnosis in the mid-1980s. It’s a surefire death sentence. If the NHL ever comes back, how will the Ottawa Senators field a team with two dearly departed, and I’m sure the rest of the team will have it soon, too. And poor Tom Hanks will never be able to make a movie again. And the Senate… Meh, fuck the politicians. But how dare he go to work when he didn’t know he had the virus? Talk about non-essential…

My local Kaiser has stopped taking non-emergency medical conditions, so I can’t get allergy shots anymore. The last time I went in (the day before shots got shut down like I was Indiana Fucking Jones grabbing his hat as the door dropped) they greeted me at the door with soap and asked me what I was there for, then sent me around to avoid any contact with anyone. But that wasn’t enough, so they shut the shit down. My primary care physician sent a mass e-mailed saying don’t come it unless it’s an emergency. And chances are, any non-COVID emergency will be told to shelter in place. We don’t give a shit about your terminal cancer, fuckface, this county has 50 Coronavirus cases.

Wait, did I read that right? My county currently has 50 cases. Two deaths. So they shut down the entire medical facility for 50 people? How big is this hospital? The good news is that I know of a doctor and a facility that’s more than ready for Gavin Newsom’s 50,000 phantom victims.

Flatten the curve. I get it. But are we really flattening the curve? It seems to me that if we’re just pushing pause on life for three to six weeks. Then we’ll go back to giving hugs and everyone will catch the virus anew. We’re delaying the curve, not flattening it. Okay, maybe the curve will have 50 fewer people in my county.

Unless washing our hands works. Too bad we didn’t bother doing our due diligence to find out.

Maybe we’ll reopen society in stages. We could do some businesses, then the others. But how would we decide who opens first? There doesn’t seem to be gradation in essentiality. You’re either essential, in which case you’re still open, or you’re not. So then maybe we should have every business reopen with only 25% of their staff. We can have a lottery. Then, once those 25% all turn into zombies, we send them home, wait a week, and pick the next unfortunate saps. That would flatten the curve. And it worked really well in World War I. I mean, aside from the whole 60,000 British casualties on a single day of battle.

I know, I know. Y’all don’t come here for the vitriol. You come for the pithy. So let me put away my tinfoil hat and come up with some of my more run-of-the-mill observations. To wit:

– We’ve been doing some spring cleaning. What the hell else are we supposed to do with all of our time? Get to know our family? So I did a really good job of going through some of my old books to clear some space on the bookshelf. So did Wife, and even Daughter okayed a few hand-me-downs.

But what the hell were we supposed to do with these books now? All of the used bookstores are closed and something inside me cringes if I have to throw a book away. It seems so wasteful. And it takes up vital trash space for all the plastics.

Fortunately, we have a Free Little Library. If you aren’t aware of these, people build little wooden mailbox-sized houses with clear doors out where people walk. If there’s a book in there you want, you just take it, and if you have a book that you are done with, you can leave it there. Great. I can just dump all of these books there. Except its got limited real estate, and I notice that it’s filled up recently, probably because every other household in the neighborhood’s doing the same thing as me.

So now I’m like Andy Dufresne taking rubble out to the prison yard in his pants. I’m taking one or two books each day and trying to slip them in. At last check, seven of the thirty or so books came from this house. And I’ve still got a stack ready and waiting. Come on, neighbors, read the shit I’m putting out there.

That might be the motto for this blog, too.

– We’re trying our best to support places that are still open. We’re doing takeout. We’re doing drive-throughs and curbside. I keep going to my favorite brewery to refill my growler. On one trip last weekend, I ran into the Sprouts (a grocery store that doesn’t have the same foot traffic as the behemoths) while Wife did curbside pickup at Joann’s. Then she did curbside at Target, which is super fancy. You don’t have to call them or anything. Just open your app when you’re in the parking lot and Big Brother heads right out. Then I went to the BevMo to pickup my online alcohol order. They’re not quite as high-tech – I had to call somebody to meet me at the front door with my booze – but really, I was picking up booze that I had ordered online, so who the hell cares that they weren’t to Amazon Prime delivery yet. I keep wondering to myself if those in charge would’ve been so ready to shut the whole shit down if we weren’t already living in the future.

But there are other businesses that I want around after the shitshow who aren’t quite as conducive to supporting while in quarantine. There’s an Indian place with a wonderful lunch buffet. Sure, I could order from them a la carte, but that just seems wrong. Why pay for one entree when I’m used to having ALL the entrees. Plus I probably should’ve been paying closer attention to which dishes I like all those times I partook. But then, what’s the point of a buffet if not mindless scooping?

Another favorite that doesn’t have a to-go option is Mongolian BBQ. Perhaps I’m being obstinate with the Indian food, but with Mongolian, I really don’t see how it’s feasible. You have to stand in line and put your grubby paws on the same food that other paws have already grubbed. Even if I could put that into a Doordash order, there’s no way the chef’s going to know the proper number of spicy versus sweet versus salty sauce scoops. I don’t even know. It’s a touchy-feely things, like those old grandma recipes that said q.b., short for quanto basta, meaning “How much is enough” or “as much as needed.” But I don’t think Doordash has a q.b. option.

We need restaurants or businesses like this to establish Patreon accounts. I’d be willing to send them some money to keep them around. And if they want to make it good for a meal when this thing is done, great. But if not, consider it a much better pay-it-forward than buying that fat fuck behind me’s Frappuccino.

Sure, I could get gift cards in the meantime, but if the business doesn’t have an updated website (and let’s be honest, the Mongolian and the Indian restaurants aren’t likely to be the most technologically savvy), that means I have to go in. But are they even open?

So they just need to establish a Patreon. If it’s good enough for podcasts, which don’t even give me an egg roll on the side, it should be good enough for brick-and-mortars.

-The grocery stores seem to be restocking some of the staples. Bread and ramen still seem a little sparse. Meat is still hit or miss, but it’s better than all-miss, as it was a week ago. It’s almost like, follow me here, our economy produces enough for us to consume, as long as we don’t freak out and try to buy the whole goddamned store.

I’m reminded of FDR’s first Fireside Chat, after he’d closed all the banks. Well, he didn’t close all the banks, he only declared a bank holiday that ended up lasting the better part of a week. Back then, can you imagine, presidents and the government actually thought there were limits to what they could do, who and what they could command to stay indoors and close their doors. So when the banks were about to reopen, he got on the airwaves to tell the people to not be numbnuts the next day. Banks, he explained, only keep enough cash on hand to cover normal withdrawals and the rest is tied up in mortgages and shit like that. “[A]n amount which in normal times is wholly sufficient to cover the cash needs of the average citizen.” But if all ya numbnuts go and try to get your money at the same time, it won’t be there.

The same could be said for tortillas and ground beef and pasta. If we had all bought what we needed for, say, one or two weeks worth of isolation, instead of six months, there’d be plenty to go around. Unfortunately, our current commander-in-chief doesn’t seem quite as concerned with calming and quelling the populace. His fireside tweet would probably go something along the lines of, “Go Fuck yourself. Pull my Finger!”

-Somebody posited that the run on flour wasn’t so much hoarding as it was a byproduct of most Americans baking at home for once. Makes sense, since the flour that goes to bakers and restaurants is probably direct from suppliers. I don’t think Krispy Kreme is heading the the Piggly Wiggly each day.

But what does this say about the toilet paper? Are we finally shitting at home instead of work?

-Has everyone else lost track of what day it is? Holy crap!

I was thinking about buying a Nintendo Switch to introduce Daughter to the joy of video games, and possibly Wife and I to the joys of a moment of goddamn peace. Sure, Daughter’s watched me murder some nasty Brits in Assassin’s Creed III on my fancy, high-tech PlayStation 3, but maybe it’s time for her to learn of the existence of non-violent games.

Turns out there are no Nintendo Switches for sale, like, anywhere. Not available on Amazon, no Target or Best Buy or GameStop (before they closed) within 200 miles of me had one in stock. I did a little research and discovered that this shortage was coming even before people were going to be shut in for months. It was just sped along by the Quaran-geddon.

All is not lost, though. Amazon might be able to get some once they end their moratorium on non-essential restocking. The article I read suggested mid-April. No problem, I thought. Why, mid-April must be coming any day now.

What? It’s still March?

Fuck!

Expletive Deleted

She kneed him in the guts and called him braggart in front of everyone.

The first part seems physically difficult. The latter part lacks punch.

Of course, this isn’t the original line. The original line, from Weird Science, was “She kneed him in the nuts and called him faggot in front of everyone.” The first part is a much more natural assault and the latter half was an insult used often in the mid-eighties despite being out of vogue these days. Although I teach at a high school, and it’s not quite as taboo as polite society would have you believe.

But the line about the guts and the braggart comes from the censored version, the “edited for content” television broadcast, of Weird Science. And I love me some edited for television shit.

Sorry, “some edited for television [shucks.]”

Why do I love them so? Because they do shit like changing shit to “shucks” instead of “crap,” a word that means the same thing but is substantially less offensive. Crap would probably fit the context of shit about ninety percent of the time. But who gives a flying [fruit] about context? Not those TV censors! Instead, they find a word that sounds similar. Grammar be [dimed.] Because lip-readers are the only ones who deserve to understand a character’s motivation.

So motherfucker becomes mother trucker, which I don’t mind. Or mother father, as in, “You tell that mother father what’s going to happen if he tries to pull that shucks again!” Which makes no [mango friday] sense.

The most famous editing was probably Smokey and the Bandit, where the cop often mutters “Son of a bitch” under his breath. It was turned into “Scumbum.” So then people started calling people “Scumbum,” because let’s face it, that’s a pretty [fruitin’] cool pseudo-insult. Heck, it’s probably a better putdown than son of a bitch. Who the hell cares if they’re called a son of a bitch? It’s an insult against your mother, not you.

I remember when “Devil Went Down to Georgia” came out, it was a big deal which radio stations would broadcast the actual lyric, son of a bitch, and which ones would sanitize it to son of a gun. Most took the latter. Nowadays I can’t imagine bitch being an issue. If anything, gun is the more offensive word these days.

But scumbum? Them’s some fighting words, mother trucker.

I think mother trucker should be used more often. It rolls off the tongue. And if you think about it long enough, it is a bit of an insult. It brings to mind Large Marge from Pee Wee’s Big Adventure. As opposed to mother fucker, which is an accurate describer of every father in the world, as well as a large swath of the fatherless set.

One time in the late 1990s, I saw that Pulp Fiction was going to be playing on broadcast television on a Saturday afternoon. Needless to say, I cleared out my entire weekend for that Must-See event. Think about it. How many words in Pulp Fiction WON’T be bleeped out? Half?

My favorite part of the edited version is when Samuel L. Jackson and John Travolta are debating religion. Jules, Samuel L. Jackson’s character, has just “seen the light” after surviving being shot at and, while he’s sitting there eating his non-pork breakfast, he has what alcoholics refer to as a “moment of clarity.”

Vincent, played by John Travolta, is not impressed, to which Jules responds, “Look, if you want to play blind man, go walk with the shepherds. But me? My eyes are wide-fucking-open.”

Except on Channel 8, his eyes were “wide, focused open.”

Not bad. The cadence works and I’ll give an extra point to the bureaucrat in charge. It almost makes sense. Odd context, a natural speech might reverse those two adjectives. And really, wouldn’t you narrow your eyes to focus? But I’m nitpicking. A solid effort on that one.

The next few make a little less sense. Here’s what it sounds like in the real movie:

“Jesus Christ.”

“Don’t blaspheme.”

“God damn it!”

“I said don’t blaspheme. Don’t do that!”

Totally works. It’s a strong indication of Jules’s newfound faith that he’s offended by two phrases that are so commonplace as to be far removed from their blasphemous roots. In fact, these phrases seem so tame that I’m surprised they felt the need to edit them out in the late 1990s. Heck, Mr. Furley was saying “Damn” on Three’s Company as early as fifteen years prior. Sure, putting the “God” in front adds some extra gravity, but this is Pulp Fiction we’re talking about. Is there some 90-year-old sufferin’ from the vapors tuning in to this broadcast?

Well, if they are, they aren’t going to hear “Jesus Christ” or “God Damn it.” Instead, they’re going to hear “Jeez, oh mighty!” and “Gosh dang it.”

But Jules is still going to respond to each with “Don’t blaspheme.”

Of course, both of those phrases have their origins in blasphemy. Jeez is short for Jesus, and throwing in the “Oh, mighty” probably just makes it moreso. And we all know “gosh darn it” is just a poor man’s curse. Kinda makes me wonder about “Gee” and “Gosh” by themselves. Am I breaking one of the commandments and taking my savior’s name in vain when I say, “Gosh, I never thought of that? Golly gee!” Because if so, then the next time a student or my daughter asks a question I don’t know the answer to, I might as well answer, “Fuck a cunt-bubble with a shit-stained twat cock if I know.” At least then I’ve kept the religion out of it.

Now that I think about it, what about the word “good?” The etymology of that word’s gotta be God. As in, God is good. Ergo good must come from God. So if someone asks how I’m doing and I say good, am I breaking more than just grammatical rules? Thou shalt have no gods before me and thou shalt not modify a verb with an adjective! Although to all the grammar nazis out there who try to correct people who respond, “I’m good,” you’re the one who’s wrong, not the utterer. “To be” is a transitive verb, not an action verb. Meaning what follows it pertains to the subject. So the “good” in “I am good” is modifying I, a noun, not am, a verb. So quit trying to sound smart when you’re not, scumbum.

But unlike good, which is so far from its roots that even Mormons don’t find it offensive, most people know what they mean when they say “Jeez” and “Gosh.” And what they mean to do is to AVOID being blasphemous. And if you then jump down their throat about it, then you’re kinda being a prick. Even as a very new born again, Jules’s reaction is a tad excessive. He could just politely explain to Vincent the origin of those two phrases. To just scream “Don’t blaspheme!” makes me think he wasn’t really paying attention to what his close accomplice was actually saying. How rude! The mother trucker.

One other edited movie jumps out at me for all the wrong reasons. Not so much for the words they used as a replacement, but because of which words they chose to replace in the first place. And by extension, which words were perfectly fine.

One of the best movies of the late 1970s, or really of all time, is The Jerk. If you haven’t seen it (shame on you!), it stars Steve Martin as Navin Johnson, who was born a poor black child. Trust me, it makes sense.

Large swaths of the film needed to be edited. For instance, he names his dog “Shithead,” which the TV version changes to “Stupid.” It works either way, as the dog got his name as a result of Navin waking up an entire hotel because he thought the dog was warning him of a fire. So props to the censors for picking a word that sounds similar but also fills the original purpose of the dialogue. If the guy at the hotel told him he should name the dog Simon, the joke would’ve been lost.

Later on in the movie, however, they make a choice that is not quite as laudable. Did you know that the n-word was perfectly fine for broadcast television in the early 1980s?

In a scene near the end, after Navin’s become a multi-millionaire (don’t ask), he’s approached by a businessman about keeping his product from the riff-raff. Only he doesn’t use the word riff-raff. The word he uses starts with an n. To which Navin responds, “Did you say [riff-raff]? You are talking to a [riff-raff].” GEt it? Because he was born a poor black child. He then tries to kick the guy in the nuts, but there’s a clanging sound, causing Navin to pass out.

On the TV version of that scene, there were no edits. Every time the n-word was used in the movie, it was said on the screen. Because who could possibly be offended by it?

But in the following scene, it is revealed that the reason Navin passed out after kicking the dude in the nuts was because the guy was “Iron Balls” McGinty. There was no explanation as to how or why Mr. McGinty had come by his metallic testicles. I’m sure there was an extensive backstory that got cut in the post-edit. Perhaps there were plans for a spinoff Iron Balls trilogy, if only The Jerk hadn’t been such a flop. It was only the… holy crap! The Jerk was the eighth-highest grossing movie of 1979? Wow. Y’all didn’t have much going for you in the late 1970s, did you? Don’t get me wrong, I love the movie. But its sophomoric humor is far from cinematic gold. Last week, I wrote about UHF, a sophomoric film that came out precisely one decade later, and it came in at #113 for the year. Behind such masterpieces as Coccoon: The Return and Halloween 5 and Police Academy 6 and Friday the 13th, Part VIII. (And people think it’s only recently that Hollywood lost its ability to come up with anything new). It was even two spots behind Die Hard, which had already been in the theaters for six months before 1989 even started.

Clearly, Weird Al needed to put more n-bombs and testicle jokes in his movie. Or he needed a time machine to get back to 1979.

Not that the TV version made any testicle jokes. Like the dog, whose name changed to Stupid, Iron Balls was christened Iron Bill for the masses. Not sure why there was a clanging sound when Iron Bill got kicked in the nuts. Two totally unrelated items. Like Samuel L. Jackson screaming “Don’t blaspheme!” at someone who had done no such thing.

But “balls,” you must understand, is vulgar. It might be considered offensive. Some parent might have to turn to their child and engage in an awkward conversation about biology and anatomy and what or what is not appropriate nomenclature for the complexities of human nature and society. Balls aren’t some easy, diminutive word with a straight-forward history of hierarchy in society like… like… Hoo boy, how many times did they drop the n-bomb in the scene right before?

That wasn’t the only film with questionable censoring decisions. Blazing Saddles  was famous for cutting the farting scene. Well, they didn’t cut the scene, they just cut the audio on all the farts. So what viewers saw was a bunch of guys eating beans around a campfire with a substantial lack of ambient background noise.

But, once again, Blazing Saddles says the n-word a lot. Seventeen times, in fact. And each one made it past the censors, who must’ve just been too exhausted after silencing all the flatulence to turn their attention to a minor racial epithet.

Of course, we see a lot less creative censoring than we used to. Most media outlets don’t face the same restrictions they did in the twentieth century. There’s a good chance you’re watching something on YouTube or Hulu or even TBS, none of which are required to bleep out anything. I’m always shocked when I’m listening to Sirius/XM and a song from college comes on. Whoa, so that’s what the lyrics are? It flows do much better than blank air every other word.

Did you know that Alannis Morisette was not,  in fact, asking if you think of her while you flick someone else?

And holy crap, “Semi-Charmed Life” has this whole other verse about… um… what rhymes with safety word?

We’ve also become more lenient as a society about what does and what does not constitute a word of curse. Hence, balls.

When we do bleep things out, we don’t even bleep them anymore. Thanks to some of those 1990s alternative and hip hop artists, we’ve become accustomed to blank air replacing cuss words. If The Jerk came out today, we wouldn’t hear about Iron Balls or Iron Bill. He’d just be Iron (Dead Air) McGinty. And the dog would be named ”      .”

And if Pulp Fiction came out today, I wouldn’t have to devote a full afternoon to the viewing. With all the dead air, the edited version that aired on broadcast tv would be about twenty minutes long.

Going to the Reno of Love

I went to Reno a few weeks ago. Nothing much to note. Reno is pretty much always Reno. It ain’t like a box a chocolates. You always know precisely what you’re gonna get.

Although I did find out that you shouldn’t attend a minor league baseball stadium on the final weekend of the season unless you want them to be out of everything. I understand not having all the beers in stock. Don’t want to have half a keg that has to last through to next April. But the mini helmets for the ice cream? Come on, those will be perfectly fine next year.

But I’m not here to talk about minor league baseball or the cockamamie drink-ticket policy that the casinos are starting to implement. Really? You’re going to charge me for a Grey Goose? That’s probably a blog post for another time.

No, for some reason, this trip to Reno reminded me of another trip to Reno many years ago. Before I blogged. Scary to think that time ever happened. I think we used pagers and wore Day-glo parachute pants. And maybe the Challenger ran into the World Trade Center. I’m not sure. The older I get, everything more than a week old just fuses all together into one large morass that is “Youth.”

Although this story involves having a regular bartender, so it was probably after the age of twelve. Let’s hope.

My regular bartender, you see, served happy hour at a bar that had NTN/Buzztime trivia. For those of us who preferred to exercise some brain cells while killing the others. I spent many an afternoon there grading papers, because when a student writes a term paper comparing the military draft to the NFL draft, his teacher just might need a cold one.

The bartender had been in an on-again, off-again relationship with a guy. The relationship tended to be “off” at the times she was pregnant with his child and then “on” when whoever he was banging in his off-time got pregnant. Quality relationship, I assure you.

One time whilst not pregnant, she realized he was a flight risk lifelong catch, and decided that if she liked it, she ought to put a ring on it. Like, right quick! Because no better person to enter into a legally-binding life-partnership with than someone who might or might not be around next week.

She asked some of us regulars what we were doing that Sunday because, if we wanted, we could come to their wedding in Reno. It turns out I wasn’t doing anything. Heck, my bartender wasn’t going to be working, so there was little chance of scoring free drinks in town. Is there anywhere else I might find some free drinks? Reno, you say? Well, that sounds like some synergy right there!

As I said, this was a long time ago, when Nevada casinos offered free drinks. These days, they require $100 worth of bets and a Maruader’s-Map-style oath solemnly swearing that there is more money where that came from as long as they continue to ply me with alcohol. And that I won’t lose that money in any of their competitors’ establishments. And, naturally, that I am up to no good.

When Sunday rolled around, we loaded up in a couple of cars and caravaned to the most romantic place on Earth. Sorry, I meant the most romantic spot in Nevada. Make that northwestern Nevada. Not counting the Tahoe vicinity. Or maybe Burning Man. Or, I don’t know, the Mustang Ranch?

You know what? I’ll just say it. Reno’s a shithole. And thank God for that, because if it were a place people might want to go, I wouldn’t be able to find $5 tables anymore.

We stopped off at Boomtown, the first casino you come to along I-80.

Boomtown’s super classy. If you aren’t familiar with it, it’s similar to Primm along I-15, being the stateline between California and Nevada, ie the first place you can gamble en route to your gambling destination. Except that, whereas Primm has three or four casinos, Boomtown only has one. Primm also has roller coasters. And the Bonnie and Clyde death car. And shows. Boomtown has none of those.

Now that I think about it, Boomrown’s nothing like Primm. Primm is still about an hour away from Vegas, so maybe you need to take a leak or you’re not going to make it to The Strip in enough time to bet on the Super Bowl coin flip. But Boomtown’s only about five miles from Reno. There’s no viable reason to stop there on the way into Reno. There’s reason to stop there on the way out, because you can pay Nevada prices for gas instead of California prices for your drive back. But on the way there, it only serves people with poor planning abilities or no impulse control. Kinda like a couple deciding on a whim that they should get married this weekend.

I don’t remember why we stopped. Gas? Smokes? Regardless, they got in a fight about something. Not sure what. Gas? Smokes? Anyway, we all decided to hit the buffet here on the way back to commemorate the occasion, and it was onward to the drive-thru chapel.

Except it wasn’t a drive-thru. That’s the fancy Vegas shit. These Reno rat-bastards made us get out of the car to negotiate the ceremony details! They haggled over prices and pictures and, I don’t know, whether the deluxe marriage package comes with large fries or if they have to be ordered separately. I didn’t inquire about the primae noctis add-on.

Although to be fair, I don’t know all of the privies of the negotiation because I was stuck outside watching the five kids they share via various previous relationships and what George Washington referred to as “foreign entanglements.”

Also, I might’ve been a bit twitchy, because I have a general rule about being outside in Reno. And the general rule is: under no circumstances should one ever be outside in Reno.

If you’ve never been to Reno, I’ll paint you a picture. Pull up a mental picture of Las Vegas. Now take away all the fountains and Sphinxes. And rides and shows. And attractive people. And any building built after 1980. You can keep the weather, though. Oh, and maybe ass a little dilapidated infrastructure and a few homeless people passed out on the sidewalk. Now you’ve got Reno.

Oh wait, did I say the weather is the same as Vegas? I only meant in the summer. The winter weather is way worse in Reno.

But that’s all on the outside. Inside, they have these wonderful, climate-controlled resorts with neon and free alcohol.  There’s a reason three of the Reno casinos decided their best bet was to combine into one three-block long structure so that people can move from one to the other without breathing legitimate air.

But whatever, Bartender, for you I’ll travel all the way to my Mecca, able to see the Great Mosque, my religious fervor gambling addiction quivering in my bones. Ignore the Silver Legacy! I’m here to celebrate a friend’s most blessed day, a day she’s been looking forward to since at least last Thursday. So I’ll suck it up and get ready to throw some rice or confetti or… wait, was somebody supposed to bring the rice?

Although it doesn’t matter, because here come Bride and Groom and, oh no, they don’t look too terribly happy. Did someone forget the Smokes? Gas?

“I fucking told you,” Bride was saying.

Groom was mumbling something or other.

“They won’t marry us unless we get a marriage license.”

Wait, what? This is Nevada, home of the quickie wedding. Don’t they issue the marriage certificate AT the wedding facility? All you should have to do is prove your identity as an adult and sign on the dotted…

Wait, what’s that? Groom didn’t bring his ID? Was that his super secret way of avoiding this date with destiny? If I “accidentally”  leave my driver’s license at home, I’ll escape scot free! 

Except Bride said she told him this would happen. Clearly she knew he didn’t bring proper identification to his own wedding. I would be intrigued if I could get over my sweating scrotum and quivering gambling glands.

Awe, what the hell. Inquiring minds want to know.

Turns out Groom didn’t have his driver’s license with him because he was no longer in possession of said license. It’s a temporary thing. He’s supposed to get it back soon.

Why was Groom temporarily identification-less? Had he perhaps left it at a bar the night before? Maybe it went through the laundry in his gym shorts. Or the cops took it away. Do cops take your ID away? I always assumed that, if the courts suspend your license, you still get the card back. In case you need to get married in Reno or something.

No, it turns out Groom had recently been involved in a car crash. And, as a dutiful driver, he got out of the car and exchanged information with the other driver.

By literally giving his driver’s license to the dude.

I’m going to let that one sink in for a bit. I think I went into a daze when I heard it.

Look, I know I have a tendency to get a little bit snooty in my middle-class upbringing. I understand that other people’s experiences and worldviews can’t always match my own and maybe some people are raised to think that “giving the other driver your information” means something different than I think it does.

Then again, I’ve been in a fair number of accidents in my life, and was capable of jotting down the other driver’s license number and insurance info perfectly fine, even in the times before cell phones could immediately take pictures of that information. And never once have I offered to give away my primary form of identification. Nor have I asked for said in return. Nor has anyone I’ve ever gotten into an accident with offered their identification nor requested possession of my identification, except for the temporary purpose of copying down the information.

Taking the other person’s identification is indicative of human trafficking, not a minor rear-ender.

Who the hell gets in an accident and immediately says, “Hey, here’s my driver’s license. You can send it back to me whenever you’re ready. Want me to buy you a stamp?”

Well, maybe a guy who is trying to avoid hitchin’ his old lady that weekend.

Now you might think that, a time when one of the two signatories to a legal contract isn’t able to prove their identity isn’t the best time to plan a last minute trip to said document signing, but whatever. Who can argue with True Love?

Regardless, I guess this trip to Reno is wasted. Whatever shall we do? And I’m only asking because the glistening dome of the Silver Legacy is just a few blocks away and it may or may not be speaking through my subconscious, begging me to come visit. She’s letting me know in no uncertain terms that she knows I’m in her neighborhood and that I better not be thinking about turning tail and skipping town before giving her a little laugh and a tickle. I’m just sayin’, y’all, ain’t no scorned lover like a scorned lover with more money than the Pope and more secret recording devices than… the Pope. The Silver Legacy knows what I’m doing all day, every day, and most of the time, she approves. But some of the time…

Do we have to caravan back together if they didn’t even tie the knot? I know they were talking about a celebratory buffet at Boomtown, but that’s only if there’s something to celebrate, right? Do we still need to go to the buffet at Boomtown if we’re just calling it lunch?

But wait, Bride has a plan. Of course she has a plan, because she was just telling Groom that she told him this would happen. So she’s prepared. Not prepared enough to, like, pick a different date for the wedding. Or a new fiance. But she’s prepared.

Groom brought other forms of identification. Nothing official, mind you. Not a social security card. Not a military i.d. Groom’s never been in the military, so that would be tough. But I’m guessing he’s been arrested before. Would a mug shot would count as an official government document?

He brought mail from home. Um, okay. I know it’s often used as proof of residency, but that’s not really what they’re going for here. They don’t need to prove that Joe Schmoe lives at 123 Main Street, but rather, WHO IS Joe Schmoe.

He also brought his work i.d. Good news is it has picture of him. Bad news is it’s not terribly official. I mean, the liquor store that you’re rent-a-copping at might be comforted by the fact that ABC Security is capable of color printing a badge, but if you give me a five-minute crash course in Photoshop and point me toward a Kinko’s, I could get a homeless guy standing in for Groom in this ceremony.

So this is why Weddings n’ Chips isn’t willing to marry these two. They have to prove that the state of Nevada will issue them a marriage license. They can go to the Superior Court and see if someone more official than an Elvis impersonator will sign off on the Crayola stick figure that their 4-year old wrote “Daddy” under.

Just kidding. There are no Elvis impersonators in Reno. Way too upbeat. If Reno had any impersonators, it’d probably be Phil Collins. Or Falco.

“I don’t know how the hell we’re supposed to find City Hall,” Bride says.

At this point, one of the guys I drove up with, one of the other lushes who not only has a regular, daytime bartender, but who has a regular, daytime bartender who saw fit to invite him to her drive-thru Falco wedding, looks into the Reno skyline and says, “Um, maybe it’s that square building with the American flag that says ‘RENO’ across the top?”

Well spotted, Dude. So much for lushes not having great observational skills. I might’ve noticed that giant building if it hadn’t been in the vicinity of casinos. His vice is not currently in sight, so maybe it’s easier to focus on minor details like thirty-story square buildings with flags on top. My vice is beckoning me, telling me to ignore those other buildings. Those other buildings are skanks who don’t understand what I really need.

So Bride and Groom are heading to the government building on a Sunday to see if they’ll accept Groom’s t-shirt tag as formal identification. Who knows how long that’s going to take? Whatever shall the rest of us do whilst waiting for a rush judgment from the government?

“Saaaaaaay,” I posit. “Would you mind if we maybe… I don’t know… found some air conditioning and maybe a…”

I can’t finish on account of the shakes and the salivations, but my message is clear enough by the single tear forming in the corner of my eye.

“Yeah, that’s fine,” says Bride, whose focused elsewhere right now. “I’ll text you when we find out and, if we can get married, you can meet us-,”

I didn’t hear the rest of what she said, as I was suddenly moving at the speed of light toward yon distant Heaven. The other lushes came with me. It’s vice o’clock!

I dropped the lushes off at the casino bar, despite the fact that it went against every fiber of my being. Don’t they know they can just walk an extra five feet and camp out at a slot machine and then wait fifteen minutes or so for the septuagenarian cocktail waitress to maneuver her walker over in their direction? And then they can get a well drink! Sure, they might’ve lost $50 by the time she gets back with that free drink, but then they can say they didn’t lose $50, they just purchased a $50 watered-down Jack & Coke.

So I sat down at the slot machine and had just ordered my “free” drink when my phone buzzes. It’s my bartender telling us that they made it to the “justice of the peace” and were granted a “marriage license” and were heading back to the “chapel.” She’ll meet us back there.

Well, shit.

I tell my friends to drink up. Those bastards were already been on their second drink. Not that we’d been there for long, but let’s be honest, we all met in a bar and have a regular bartender who invited us to her wedding, so we can down the drinks pretty quick.

I return to my slot machine to wait for my drink. Time slows as I wait for my cocktail. Or “Cock Drink,” as one of my favorite casino servers of all time once referred to them. I think she was about two hours off the boat from Russia. They don’t hire these women for their conversational abilities. They hire them for their ability to bend time like the Matrix and keep our sorry asses glued to our seats donating more capital into the gaping maws of their reverse-ATMs for as long as possible. They are hired to ensure that people continue flocking to the middle of an unlivable desert to visit wonderful nirvanas of neon.

“Chug, chug, chug!” my friends chanted as we headed back to the car. Not that I needed to chug. It was a long way up to the car on level “Luck You Can Find a Spot at All on a Sunday” of the parking structure. Plus, this is Nevada. We can have booze outdoors. Probably in the back seat of a car. Hell, probably while driving, although please don’t take those last two suppositions as legal advice.

Nonetheless, I chugged all the same and we made it to the car and we drove back to the wedding spot and what did we see when we got there?

Our bartender walking out the front door. With her new Husband. Family members cheering on the steps. Throwing hands in the air with illusionary rice.

That’s right. We missed the wedding. The very reason we had gotten up early and driven to this Hellblight place.

Now, I might’ve exaggerated for storytelling purposes about how long it took me to get my drink. I really don’t think we were in the casino for more than about ten minutes before we got the text. And we busted our ass to the car and were outbound within five minutes of that. And we told her we were on our way.

But here we were, having completely missed the 60-second wedding we were here to watch.

The good news was that Bride wasn’t pissed. Heck, this wedding was happening because Groom was a flight risk, and after coming perilously close to driving all the way to Reno to NOT get married, I’m guessing she wanted to get this shit done. Who knows, maybe the government clerk was about to have a change of heart and call Weddings R Us to tell them to rescind the document. When the armored guard bends down in “Groundhog Day,” you take that fucking money and you walk away. Ain’t no time for equivocation.

(That last analogy was going to be about a prisoner during the Storming of the Bastille, but I thought that might be a bit obtuse for a post with tags about Reno and Quickie Weddings.)

The bad news was that the wedding had happened. Meaning we had to celebrate. So it was back to Boomtown for their majestic $7.99 buffet.

At least Boomtown has a casino. Those hour-old mashed potatoes will hold in the chaffing dish a little bit longer. After the shit-show of this day, I’ve got a hankering to bet it all on double-zero.