Wednesday, December 21, 2005
Happy birthday B-Funk!
Well, it's my beloved wayward younger brother's birthday and, as usual, he's either lost his phone or forgot his charger because I can't get ahold of him. I figure he's probably more likely to check this than his messages so, in order to wish him a timely happy, birthday, here it is: happy 21st, Bryce. Just remember, without out the criminal aspect, the beer won't taste as good from here on out.
Please pass on your own birthday wishes and drink one for Druz Jr.
Please pass on your own birthday wishes and drink one for Druz Jr.
Monday, December 19, 2005
32 and raining
A shift of a few degrees can mean the difference between winter wonderland and depressing slog.
I awoke at the ungodly hour of 9:45 a.m. to my roommate singing loudly in Hindi (he usually confines it to the shower but his chirpiness made it past the bathroom door today).
Taking this as an opportunity to avoid my daily morning guilt for sleeping in until 11 a.m., I got up and peeked outside to see fat flakes falling on a two inch blanket of snow in my front yard and heard an unfamiliar metal on concrete scrape as my neighbor shoveled his front pathway (we rarely get this much snow in the valley). I felt invigorated and thought of heading up to the slopes for a second day in a row to poach the new powder.
Soon, though, the temperature rose to freezing and flakes started bouncing of my car as they turned to ice and later rain. The city went from sparkling and fluffy to a soupy brown muck and Boiseans ran for their happy lamps while I scrapped my mountain plans for a game of pool with Joeja and a boringly productive day of errands.
I awoke at the ungodly hour of 9:45 a.m. to my roommate singing loudly in Hindi (he usually confines it to the shower but his chirpiness made it past the bathroom door today).
Taking this as an opportunity to avoid my daily morning guilt for sleeping in until 11 a.m., I got up and peeked outside to see fat flakes falling on a two inch blanket of snow in my front yard and heard an unfamiliar metal on concrete scrape as my neighbor shoveled his front pathway (we rarely get this much snow in the valley). I felt invigorated and thought of heading up to the slopes for a second day in a row to poach the new powder.
Soon, though, the temperature rose to freezing and flakes started bouncing of my car as they turned to ice and later rain. The city went from sparkling and fluffy to a soupy brown muck and Boiseans ran for their happy lamps while I scrapped my mountain plans for a game of pool with Joeja and a boringly productive day of errands.
Wednesday, December 14, 2005
Reno 911
The green felt was awash in a smoky neon glow, poorly dressed people were pissing away their paychecks around us and watered down drinks were flowing. Joeja and I were home.
After a lovely 7-hour drive across the Nevada scrub, during which we saw a herd of pronghorn antelope (The lone member of the family Antilocapra americana or American goat-antelope and the fastest land animal in North America, reaching speeds of up to 60 mph. Oh, and it's tied with the moose for my favorite ungulate.), Joeja, h-bomb jr., Melissa, Will and I arrived in beautiful Reno this weekend.
Our rag-tag group of unwashed journalists dove into a weekend of revelry, gambling and an aborted karaoke attempt. In brief, we started by emptying a fifth of Jack in the hotel room, in between I nearly got in a fight in a karaoke bar while loudly singing U2's "In the Name of Love" much to the displeasure of a heavily muscled frat guy, and the trip ended with a dark, hazy hungover drive back (my wallet lighter by 30 dollars and my belly heavier by an In and Out Double Double).
As Joeja negotiated a lonely I-80 around midnight and I regaled the group with stories of the mighty pronghorn we saw flashing lights ahead. "Shit, it's a cop," Joeja said as he slammed on the brakes and accidentally smashed his palm into his horn, loudly honking his horn at the Sheriff's Deputy, waking both him and the other two people in Orovada and causing me to shit myself laughing (He got a ticket for 60 in a 45, which is only speeding if your an asshole Humboldt County Deputy with nothing better to do).
After a lovely 7-hour drive across the Nevada scrub, during which we saw a herd of pronghorn antelope (The lone member of the family Antilocapra americana or American goat-antelope and the fastest land animal in North America, reaching speeds of up to 60 mph. Oh, and it's tied with the moose for my favorite ungulate.), Joeja, h-bomb jr., Melissa, Will and I arrived in beautiful Reno this weekend.
Our rag-tag group of unwashed journalists dove into a weekend of revelry, gambling and an aborted karaoke attempt. In brief, we started by emptying a fifth of Jack in the hotel room, in between I nearly got in a fight in a karaoke bar while loudly singing U2's "In the Name of Love" much to the displeasure of a heavily muscled frat guy, and the trip ended with a dark, hazy hungover drive back (my wallet lighter by 30 dollars and my belly heavier by an In and Out Double Double).
As Joeja negotiated a lonely I-80 around midnight and I regaled the group with stories of the mighty pronghorn we saw flashing lights ahead. "Shit, it's a cop," Joeja said as he slammed on the brakes and accidentally smashed his palm into his horn, loudly honking his horn at the Sheriff's Deputy, waking both him and the other two people in Orovada and causing me to shit myself laughing (He got a ticket for 60 in a 45, which is only speeding if your an asshole Humboldt County Deputy with nothing better to do).
