A Very Mature Decision

So this weekend's wine getaway has been canceled in exchange for a much needed new refrigerator – my first new fridge in since, well, ever. This is also The Lovely Girlfriend's first ever brand new refrigerator. I believe this somehow makes us an official grown-up couple. Some would say it's a wedding. We've both been married before and yet neither of us ever managed to buy a brand new fridge so I'll argue this is a far more important step.

Our old fridge had previously been my outdoor beer fridge in North Hollywood. I paid fifty bucks for it at the end of a film shoot. It was at least a decade old when I got it. It kept anything in it icy cold and never got that awful ice build up that old freezers tend to get. It's demise came in the form of a broken hinge. I'm sure with searching parts are available for it somewhere. However, since the name brand, make and model had all worn off the various parts of the fridge it would have taken a little more effort than I was willing to put in on a three year old fifty dollar purchase.

So I went on craigslist. The land of call girls, roommate scams and job postings that have been flagged by assholes that already applied and didn't want anyone else to get the chance. Found a relatively new fridge for free. The girl warned me that the door didn't always close shut without some help but otherwise it was tip top. I took it home and plugged it in. In the week since no dairy product has made it longer than twenty four hours inside the fridge. Either it broke in transit, the chick was lactose intolerant so there never was any dairy in the fridge to being with or she liked her milk chunky. So after a week of the free fridge we determined a change had to be made. We've got two weeks until the new one gets delivered. That's two weeks without half and half for our coffee. Our Starbucks runs have increased dramatically.

On top of all of this, our decision not to take a weekend getaway was a fiscally responsible one! Yeah, we are officially an adult couple now. It's just a matter of time before I dress in St. John's Bay clothing from JC Penny's and the LG starts scrap booking. Ah, just think of how mechanical and infrequent the sex will become!

Drink Up!

Somewhere around the age of thirty-two I started getting hangovers. Terrible, crippling hangovers. It didn't matter if I had one drink or one hundred. If I drank it became a total crap shoot. I could be fine or I could be so sick I could barely make it out of bed. My tolerance completely disappeared, my nearly two decades of seasoning myself with strong drink evaporated seemingly over night. To my credit this did not stop me from drinking.

Also, around that time, I started to have trouble sleeping flat on my back. Having slept that way most of my life suddenly I started to feel as if I was not getting enough oxygen while on my back. I chalked it up to a recent weight gain as I was on the down side of my yo-yo dieting (or maybe it's upside, either way I was fat at the time). On their own these two physical changes don't mean much. Everybody reaches a point where they can't whip it on like they did in their prime. Not everybody blows up to the point their own body weight is suffocating them but, hey - fuck you, skinny.

What makes this an important discovery is I now believe they are/were connected to me having cancer. Thanks to the prednisone I was on while undergoing chemo I'm a fatty boomba-latty now and while it took some getting used to after six years away from it, I can once again sleep soundly on my back. Like a beached fuckin whale. Also, after undergoing six months of treatments that broke down my immune system and generally made me feel like complete shit, I'm back to enjoying a drink without worrying how I'll feel in the morning. I can once again drink irresponsibly without repercussions! Physical that is. Legal repercussions can still rear their ugly head on occasion. You'd be surprised how little interest police have in celebrating with cancer survivors. Even after informing them the reason for being pantless on a roof is your first “all clear” three month check-up. If it had been my own roof maybe it wouldn't have been as big of a problem. We'll never know. Until next time that is.

This leads me to one conclusion. I think I've figured out around when it was I first got cancer. One of the early symptoms of Hodgkin's Lymphoma is a strong/bad reaction to alcohol. I assumed this referred to how I reacted to the actual drinking of alcohol not the after effects but now I'm thinking otherwise. On top of that, wouldn't it stand to reason I was having trouble breathing while laying on my back due to the massive cancer filled lymph gland in the middle of my chest that pushed against my lungs when I laid flat? It makes sense to me. When I told my Oncologist about my recent findings he looked at me sceptically and then had the gall to question my medical training! So I put it to you, blog readers. Has anyone else had similar issues before their diagnosis only to see them disappear once treatment was over? Or am I the only one foolish enough to attempt a return to imbibing like a college student. Perhaps with a larger sampling my Oncologist will give me the credit I'm due for this remarkable discovery.

The Wino and I Know

It occurred to me that I have yet to provide reviews for the last two wine country trips that the Lovely Girlfriend and I have gone on over the last few months. With another trip just eight days away I've decided to condense the two trips into one post as they are both kind of a blur anyway. I know there is a significant portion of my readers that couldn't care less about our hoity-toity wine tastings and subsequent reviews. I understand if you stop reading now. I also understand that you're a mouth breathing Philistine with about as much culture as a backyard wrestling video. But by all means, don't feel obligated to actually learn something that could add a bit of class to your otherwise strip-mall existence. Go back to your big gulp and Cheetos and let us adults talk. We'll nudge you when we get to a topic you can contribute to, like taco farts or late night skin-o-max programming. Okay, now that their gone, let's get down to brass tacks. The LG and I have been sucking down some pretty amazing grape juice lately. Our last two trips yielded at least three of the most spectacular wines (and vineyards) that we've ever tried. At the risk of exposing these wineries to a larger audience (an audience of dozens at last count) that whittles down their supply while driving up their prices, I cannot keep my big mouth (gaping yaw, really) shut about them no matter the personal cost. These private little gold strikes have to be shared with fellow wine lovers around the world. Again, the couple dozen of you that read this on a semi-regular basis – some as far away as Norway!!

Let's start with Sarzotti Vineyards in Templeton. Make this an early stop on your next tour of Paso and don't plan on leaving until closing time. This place is run by two of the nicest, most interesting people you will ever have the good fortune to meet. The Sarzotti's treat everyone that steps into their tasting room like family. And good, close family too. Not like your sweaty, drunk uncle that nobody wants to sit next to because he smells like gym socks even though you know he hasn't seen the inside of a gym in at least a decade and hasn't worn socks with his boat shoes for nearly as long. No, these folks either don't have those kind of family members or are too sweet to notice when one like them shows up. The LG and I got there around 1pm and spent a solid two hours plus tasting. The Barrel Reserve Cab's (both an 06 and an 07) were the absolute stand outs but in all seriousness there was not a bad sip in the bunch. They've got a 07 Syrah that will blow your mind, hell, even their table wine (aptly named Vin Tavola) is out of this world. We took the guided tour, got a blow by blow from the winemaker as to how and why he makes the wines he does, even got a couple of tastes from two vats of Cab that won't be out until the end of this year – just spectacular. Go. Go. Go. Then send me a picture to let me know you did and how right I was.

Bedford Winery in Los Alamos is an absolute, hands down, don't care how long it takes to get there even if it's out of the way, stop on any wine tour. Possibly the best part of the Bedford tasting experience was when the owner, Stephan, greeted us with a “What do you want? Don't you know it's too early for this shit?” look then a grunt in response to our asking if he was in fact open or if he'd just forgotten to close and lock the door. Normally, that would have put us off for the rest of the tasting but as it turns out Stephan Bedford is a treasure trove of wine-making and local knowledge. Once we got past his gruff exterior we found ourselves in a veritable viticulture 101 class in the middle of his tasting room. I can't blame him really, it was 10am on a Sunday afternoon. A time for repentance not revelry. Plus my recollection is the LG said something to the effect of “I'm not driving, what do I care, let's get hammered.” It also didn't hurt that everything he poured us was delicious. I can highly recommend the 07 Archive Syrah as well as the 08 Arroyo Grande Pinot but really it's all so good it will make it nearly impossible to choose. Also, and it kills me to say this because I just know someone out there will wind up buying the last case before we can – the 2000 and 2001 Cabernet Franc's are some of the most stupendous wines my giant tongue has ever been lucky enough to have splash across it. Yet another reason to stop here, they sell library wines at half off the case! Incredible. And if any of you snag the last case I swear I'll hunt you down, crash on your couch and drink it all with you one weekend.

Finally, Star Lane Dierberg Vineyards. Wow. Just... WOW. Simply stupendous wines from top to bottom. Wine so good that the everyday supermarket wine they make under the label Three Saints we recently passed off as high end gourmet vino at a party. It's tough to say which of their wines we were most impressed with, probably the Star Lane Merlot but their Dierberg Pinot and the Estate Blend were in a close tie for second. My only criticism of this winery (and it's hardly a criticism) is that they strike me as so high end that I almost feel uncomfortable drinking them. Just as I wouldn't feel natural behind the wheel of a Benz (unless it was about thirty years old and a diesel), I feel like the Star Lane Dierberg wines that we brought home are almost too precious to handle. They weren't terribly expensive – mostly because I didn't buy them, the LG did – the tasting room wasn't uber-fancy and the staff certainly didn't come off with that obnoxious I-just-got-my-sommelier certification attitude but there is just something about the wine that makes me feel like it needs to be coddled. I'm sure I'll get past it shortly into my second glass but it's worth mentioning simply because I'm not a fancy guy and this wine feels fancy.

Okay. That's it for Part I of our wine trip. Part II to come shortly.

DIY Matchmaking

Having been in a committed, loving relationship for three years and counting it is not often that I find myself thinking “damn, this is a great place to meet girls.” As a matter of fact, it's probably been three years and counting since I've had that thought – I swear, Darlin. A few days ago that exact thought passed through my brain and I feel compelled to share it with all my devoted, single male readers. All eleven of you. Are you ready to have your mind blown? You can thank me for this early Christmas present after you've found your new girlfriend at this completely untapped babe hang-out.

Two words, one of them hyphenated. So, maybe it's three words. I don't know. I'm no English major but if you've been a regular reader you already know that. Okay, okay, two and a half words - Jo-Ann's Fabrics. FUCKIN BOOM! Did I just blow your mind? Cause it blew my mind when it happened to me. Jo-Ann's Freakin Fabrics. It is a hot bed of hot ladies. And every one of them is tickled pink to see a masculine fella shopping for bolts. You'd get less attention if you walked into an empty peeler club during the day shift with a wad of hundos. I was immediately under a barrage of women that wanted to know if I needed any help – almost none of them were actual employees of Jo-Ann's. What was I looking for? What did I need? Yeah, sure, it was my fabric needs and my color choice wants that they were so interested in attending to. After I informed them that I was trying to figure out how to darken the curtains in my bedroom so my Lovely Girlfriend and I could sleep in on the weekends they relented on the full court press for male attention but not before one of them threw herself to my feet and exclaimed “She can't give you the carnal pleasures that I can.” Alright, that last moment may not have actually happened. They all then commented on how sweet I was, what a wonderful boyfriend I must be and that I was probably a kind and generous lover. Okay, again, the last of those statements didn't occur. But in all seriousness, my mere presence in this fabric store was like cat-nip to these girls. They wanted to know every aspect of my proposed project plans for the bedroom curtains as well as everything about the LG and I's relationship. Either I came across a clandestine meeting of a lonely hearts club or fabric stores are some kind of magical doorway to available attractive women in the Los Angeles area.

Here's where an asterisk comes. Is Jo-Ann's Fabrics a great place to meet girls anywhere in the country or is this one of those Los Angeles phenomenons, like how a Ten from the Heartlands becomes a Six at the Nightclub because everyone here is ridiculously good looking? Are there attractive single women making their own clothes all across this country or is it just a LA thing? I don't know. I could not tell you if and when I was in a fabric store prior to last Thursday. My money would be on this being an Southern California Exception. I would expect most arts and craft stores to be filled with crazy cat ladies and women with large collection of Cabbage Patch Kids that they treat them like real children. So, if you are a male reader anywhere else in the country this post probably doesn't help you. If you are single, male and in LA (I think I've narrowed this post audience down to about three now) you need to stop by Jo-Ann's on Lincoln Blvd in Santa Monica. You don't even need to be in the market for any of that squirrelly arts and crafts nonsense just make sure you've got a good story about what you want, what you need and what you're looking for. I'm sure an available lady will be more than happy to help you with the rest.

Climb Every Mountain

If you've ever tried running up hill with a plastic bag over your head then you would understand what it's like to drive with a badly clogged catalytic converter. At least that's what I thought was wrong with my truck when I tried to summit the Rocky Mountain Pass on my way across country. Also, I didn't have my vision obscured by a plastic bag, that would be dangerous. I was talking on my cell phone for a lot of the drive but since I'm not an idiot that was perfectly safe. I get the whole no text messaging while driving. It makes sense, you shouldn't try to write a note or read the paper while driving either so be it hard copy or digital it's best to avoid dropping your head into your lap while zooming along at 75. But the whole no talking on the phone thing is just a load of bullshit. If the person on the other end of the line was in the vehicle with me, I could have that conversation without worrying about being pulled over. So what if it happens on my cell? Oh, right, hands free, that's why. Because police are constantly stopping motorists for not utilizing the 10&2 hand positioning on the steering wheel. I rarely drive with two hands on the wheel. How would I hold my beer? Excuse me, I mean my road soda. No, we're all not allowed to talk on the phone while driving due to the terrible drivers who shouldn't have been on the road to begin with that wound up with a phone in their hands while in the accidents they were destined to be in because they drove like shit to begin with. If that made any sense.

It wasn't the cell phone conversation that made me a danger the day I drove across the Rocky's. No, it was the fact that I couldn't get up to a speed greater than 25mph while traffic was cruising by me at around 65. Fully loaded eighteen wheelers were passing me on the upside of steep inclines blaring on their horns as they rumbled by. At one point we had lost so much forward momentum I was afraid we would start rolling backwards. Eleven thousand feet and change is no place for a pick-up with air flow problems. I would not have even attempted the drive had I known just how bad the problem would become at elevation. On our drive across country up to that point their had been a few moments that the engine did not respond to the gas pedal, through the hills of PA and again while driving across the flatland’s of Kansas but on both occasions the recovery that resulted from a new tank of gas and a bottle of fuel injector cleaner convinced SugarDust and I that we had been the victim of bad gas. As it turned out I would be the victim of bad gas a number of times during the trip. Once SugarDust started hitting the sauce he really let them fly. I can't blame him entirely, when you are crippled by a hangover on each days drive and constantly fighting the urge to vomit it's tough to hold it in on both ends. To his credit, as annihilated as he would get the night before he never missed the 5am and 6am call times to mount up and hit the road. SugarDust always took the first shift behind the wheel (he said it helped him sober up) and I got a little shut eye. I'm assuming he was telling the truth as I never once woke up in the middle of a car accident. Kidding, kidding. I never let him anywhere near the drivers seat, morning, noon or night.

Anyway, we made the climb. Slowly. Very fucking slowly. Pull your hair out, convinced you're about to be rear-ended by a Maximum Overdrive long-hauler, slowly. At the Continental Divide I knew we had made it. It was, quite literally, all down hill from here. I tried to get SugarDust to take a leak with me on the Divide so half our urine would wind up in the Pacific and half in the Atlantic. He said he was far to dehydrated to produce any on demand and was concerned that we may never get out of the Rocky's if we stopped now. We crested the Divide, passed through the Eisenhower tunnel (I could have the order wrong, it has been a couple months since the trip) and let gravity take hold. We had beaten the clogged catalytic converter and we were just two days away from Los Angeles. We were also about ten hours from Las Vegas and a visit that SugarDust was certain to never remember but some lucky dancer would never forget.

Also, as a side note, it wasn't the catalytic converter it was the air mass flow sensor or something like that. Basically, the difference between a two hundred dollar fix and a two thousand dollar fix, in my favor. I will, one day, straight pipe my truck and throw a cherry bomb or a purple hooter on the back so when I rumble by fancy foreign cars and rev the engine their anti-theft systems go crazy. Cause I'm a hillbilly and that's how we do it.

Radio Silence

In case you hadn't noticed and by the lack of website attendance it looks like you hadn't (thanks, Bob Ueker) I shut it down about three weeks ago. It was a brief self-induced hiatus. In the weeks leading up to my first of what I'm sure will be many post treatment check-ups I became convinced that I was going to jinx myself by bragging all about kicking cancer's scrawny ass. I'm not a superstitious person. Far from it. One of my favorite all time phrases is "People say you should not tempt fate, I say fate should not tempt me." Hubris. It's one of my strongest qualities. Bravado aside, I became convinced that I would wind up sitting in my Oncologists office, days after the CT Scan and hearing I had to go through all of this fucking nonsense again. The next logical step, of course, was to convince myself that if I just stopped writing about it then that moment wouldn't happen. I recognize exactly how ridiculous this line of thinking is. Writing can't give you cancer, if that was the case then we would all have been spared the Twilight series.

So I shut it down. Not knowing what to say online or even what to say to the Lovely Girlfriend or anyone else when they asked why no posts lately. Why no posts? Because I'm convinced God will smite me. Doesn't sound like a terribly reasonable response. How would they handle hearing that? Sure, in Biblical times you heard about people getting smitten left and right. It was probably a common conversation around the watering hole.

"Did you hear about Jedediah?"
"Heard he got fired by Caesar."
"Word is it was a smiting. God got all up in there."
"Smote?"
"Smote."
"Shit."

No, far better to keep my crazy to myself. At least until the coast is clear. Last week, I got the three month all clear I was hoping for. No one even mentioned that my neck appeared to be covered in ligature marks from the near constant self examinations I was giving my lymph glands. I realized a few days after the round of visits that I hadn't checked my neck a single time since. As I see it, I've got a solid two and a half months of braggadocio before I start freaking out again. I'm alright with that. I couple weeks of feeling humble and recognizing how little control we all have over our lives never hurt anybody.

But for now... Take that Cancer. I kicked your fucking ass!

A Line in the Sand

I recently caused a scene. This isn't any kind of headline news. I'm well known for my scenes. Sadly, not in the world of acting, just in the world of acting-out. They're really more like spectacles. When my Dad used to cause them I called it a Fatty Freak-Out. I'd call mine Husky Havoc but with a few more months of weight loss maybe Slender Psychosis or (with some additional weight training thrown in) A Well Defined Debacle. My ability to create absurd alliteration aside and in defense of my actions, I was being asked to violate one of my long held life rules. Do not stand in line for anything unless you absolutely have no choice. You'd be amazed by how much free time you wind up with if you live by this rule. Also, you will never ever feel ripped off by whatever it is you receive after you've waited so patiently in line for it. I like to call it the Pink's Hot Dog Rule. For those of you that have never lived or vacationed in Los Angeles Pink's is a well known hot dog stand in Hollywood that typically has lines twenty plus people deep in front of it. Having eaten there once I'm assuming these people are all first time diners at Pinks. Otherwise they would know that waiting in this line for the hot dog that comes in the end is a lot like waiting in line to get kicked in the nuts. The best way to avoid the Pink's Hot Dogs in life is to never get suckered into waiting in the line. I have lived by this rule for as long as I can remember. This rule does come with one small caveat - the people you are dinning, drinking, traveling, vacationing, working or living with also have to live by this rule. And that's where we introduce the Husky Havoc.

The Lovely Girlfriend and I were up in the Bay Area visiting my Eventual In-Laws when we all realized I had never been to the world famous Tonga Room and Hurricane Bar in the Fairmont Hotel. The LG and I are big fans of all things Tiki so this seemed like an obvious place to stop before our dinner in the city. What we didn't know is that even though the bar opens at 5pm they don't just "open the bar." No, they make everyone line up outside and seat groups one at a time. When we arrived it was about 5:15 and there were around a dozen people waiting in line. I was immediately wary of stepping into that line. However the Lovely Girlfriend and the Eventual In-Laws assured me that it would only be a few moments before we were seated. Those assurances were uttered just seconds before the couple waiting in front of us heard from their friend who's been sent to scout out the situation the following "it's a forty-five minute wait and it's empty inside." I immediately tried to leave. The LG and the EIL's either didn't hear the comment or wanted to pretend that they didn't hear it. They continued to insist that we would be seated in a matter of minutes. Finally, after many not so hushed deliberations I walked to the front. Sure enough, this famous tiki bar was all but empty. When I asked how long to get seated I was told that if we were at the back of the line it would take about an hour. Well lucky for us we were not at the back of the line! We were two whole groups removed from the back of the line! What a bunch of Rubes bring up the rear. We would be looking at the menu, maybe even ready to place our order by the time they even saw the inside of the place. Lucky us!

I left. The moment the hostess said an hour, I was planning my escape. I walked back to the LG and the EIL's and told them it'd be an hour. I was leaving, they were free to join me. There's got to be another bar around here somewhere. It wasn't until I reached the street did I realize they hadn't followed. I'd just assumed they would. Typically when I walk away from something I'm followed. Often it's by security or management but either way I'm followed. I really needed them to follow me on my walk out as I am not at all familiar with San Francisco and had no real idea where that other bars I'd envisioned would be. As it happened there was another world famous bar right across the street - The Top of The Mark! The penthouse bar at the Mark Hopkins hotel. No line and no waiting, except for the rickety elevator ride to the top. My phone was blowin'up (as the kids call it) with angry text messages from the LG. Angry is a bit too strong, let's call them testy or miffed. Messages to the ilk of "you're a child" and "I can't believe you." I tried to explain to her there are certain rules you set in life and live with forever. Never mix dairy with large amounts of hot peppers. Don't accept a ride from a French Canadian. Don't wait in line for a kick in the nuts.

They waited. And waited and waited. I had two tasty bourbon cocktails, a long look at the San Francisco skyline and a rather dull conversation with some folks from Oregon before they even got seated. All the while I'm sending taunting text messages about how great the view and booze is up here, there's plenty of seats and I'd love for some company. They held strong and waited. I've got to hand it to the EIL's and the LG, the last text told me they were saving me a seat. I paid up (around 14 per drink!) and hustled back over. Sure enough there was the Lovely Girlfriend with a Lava Bowl for two sitting in front of her and an empty straw - if that ain't true love I don't know what is. The line avoided, the scene forgotten. In a large part due to the vast amounts of rum in the punch bowl sized drink in front of her and in a much much smaller part due to the recognition that I am a man with principles no matter how ludicrous. I will not ever wait in line for a kick to the groin. One to the pants with no waiting? Well, that's a different story.