Substitute Gym Teacher

This fall I realized that retirement can actually get boring. So, having taught math on a volunteer basis at my old high school for several years, I looked into getting my teaching license.  I discovered that, at least in Nebraska, a substitute teaching license requires little more than a few hours of undergraduate study and a background check devoid of child sex crimes.  Having falsified my record on both counts, I received my conditional permit in a matter of days. 

It started out well, filling in for my former math teachers several times a month.  They let me teach their normal lesson plan, and the kids listened because I know what I'm talking about.  I also now have the power to issue demerits, which each count as a fifth of a detention. 

Soon, though, I started getting calls about substituting for other teachers.  I even got a call at 6 AM one day wondering if I could be an English teacher.  A few weeks ago, I taught Spanish to lower and middle school students, which was pretty awesome; it reminded me of the song on the Adam Sandler comedy CD about high school Spanish teachers.  I've been a music teacher, which requires extensive knowledge of DVD and CD technology.  The best class by far has been gym.  A sample day in the life of a substitute gym teacher:

Show up at 8:45, just in time for my second period class, because no one has gym first period.  The fifth graders rush into the locker room and change into their gray gym outfits.  They all ask if they are swimming.  When I tell them they are playing badminton, they go nuts, especially the Asian kids.  They either hate swimming, love badminton, or both.

12 kids play badminton while the other eight roughhouse on the mats.  My main job is preventing death, which in a normal gym would not be a concern.  However, there is a pile of mats six feet high on one side of the gym, and the children seem to enjoy crawling over, under, and through the mats.  The image of a missing fifth grader found weeks later in a pile of mats flashes before my eyes and I make them do pushups instead.  One of them tries a backflip off the mats and I just lose it, blowing my whistle and sounding as mad as I'm able.

In the locker room, the fifth graders are changing when the next class of high school boys come in.  They repeatedly try to slap the younger children's hands and give them a "high-five".  I get the feeling it's an inside joke privy to which I am not.

3rd period I have sixth graders.  They are calm and organized and it seems like someone has fed them a collective chunk of Xanax and Adderall at the same time.  They do their stretches silently and without a leader and I worry that they are a communist youth group plotting the bourgeious teacher's downfall.

Back in the locker room, I wait for seventh graders.  I mistakenly order a sophomore to get ready for gym class.  He seems offended, but he's really small, so he should understand.

It's Been Awhile!

Hello blog followers!  It's been awhile and I promise I'll explain.  I have not blogged for almost 9 months but there is a reason for this.  I was applying to join the Air Force and felt like it would be best to lay low for awhile since you get investigated by the FBI.  Due to a hiring freeze at my position (flight surgeon) I was not hired. I realize many of you may think I'm not the military type.  You're right! 

In the interim, I've made some major changes in my life.  I earned my Nebraska Teachers' License and I now substitute teach at my former high school, Omaha Brownell-Talbot College Preparatory School. It's great.  Last week I was a substitute middle school gym teacher which is probably the best job ever.  Schedule: 9-11 AM, play badminton with fifth and sixth grade boys.  12-1, cardio with fourth graders.  If you think you know disarray try putting elementary school kids on treadmills with inclines. 1-3, watch school musical, which was hilariously funny.

I have also acquired a girlfriend and not via the usual online route from South America.  She's a dental student in Omaha and we met on a yellow bus.   Other than losing her purse and keys every 5-7 days she keeps it pretty real.  She has lots of friends, which is nice, since I only have 3 in Omaha not including family, pets, and family pets.  My oral hygiene has improved dramatically since meeting her.

Regarding jobs, I'm now only semi-retired.  I tutor high school kids in math on weekday afternoons, and I was just asked to come on board at a local acute care center in Omaha.  Soon I will have to change the blog name!  I had one really funny experience when I applied for a job in Oregon, thinking I might leave town and move to the Pacific Northwest.  The woman who owns the clinic to which I applied e-mailed me back.  I don't think she's a big fan of technology.  Here's the email. Really. (names/numbers edited)

HI MY NAME IS _________ I OWN _____ & WOULD LIKE TO TALK TO YOU MY PHONE _________ HOME ___________ SOME TIMES IT IS HARD


TO GET ME I HAVE A HARD TIME WITH PHONES THEY FALL APART HOPE TO HERE FROM YOU AGAIN THANK YOU _____ MY E-MAIL IS _________@hotmail.com

Needless to say I require my employers to have verbal skills exceeding the average for fifth graders, so to her dismay I did not follow through with the application.  Second of all, who uses hotmail?  Answer: The same people who search for employees on myspace.

More later as there have been plenty of entertaining times in the last few months.

Life, Liberty, and Pursuit of the Double Down

If you don't know about KFC's Double Down by now you must be living in a cave or in Berkeley or something.  You've certainly never lived in a red state, and by red state I mean Republican even though I think it should mean communist.  The Double Down-- a masterpiece from the Colonel-- consists of two pieces of bacon and two pieces of pepper jack and Monterey Jack cheese sandwiched between two pieces of chicken.  As the official ad states, "this product (?) is so meaty, there's no room for a bun!"

First of all, who advertises their ultimate comfort food as "product"?  Second of all, who says there's no room for a bun?  I beg to differ, and I will return to my plan to foil their bunless sandwich later.

But I was traveling back from Wyoming to Nebraska when my search for a Double Down began.  I figured I should stop at the first KFC I found, since I might love it so much that I need another one down the road.  I was first confounded in Kearney, Nebraska, where the Taco Bell does not include a KFC. At my next stop in Grand Island, I found that the nearest KFC was ten miles down the road, so I just stopped at Bosselman's Travel Plaza (see early January blog on this topic) to inspect and determine if they'd made any of the changes I requested.  I felt a bit depressed when I learned that the aliens were still present and Little Caesar was still not hot and ready. 

So I pressed on to York, Nebraska, where a Taco Bell/KFC sign loomed large on the interstate.  Seeing a storm up ahead, I knew that I was destined to taste the savory Double Down within minutes.  I pulled in to see an open sign at 9:05.  I jumped out and tried the door, slobbering a bit on the door as I thought about the prize (or two) awaiting me inside.  The door was locked. I tried the other door.  I tried the employee entrance and I'm pretty sure they were about to summon the local immigration authorities (I was rocking a pretty out-of-control beard) when I saw the sign stipulated that ONLY Taco Bell was open.  I lost it, then counted to three to calm down, then lost it again.  My car nearly filled with tears. 

But this sad incident only steeled my resolve to dominate a Double Down sandwich.  It's only 500 calories so I think that I need to add something to it.  Right now, this is my working recipe (see blog entry "recipes for a new millenium" for more similar ideas:

Double Down 9000
1 Double Down Sandwich, Original Recipe
2 KFC Biscuits
1 Double Whopper with Cheese
2 Eggs
3 Mozzarella Sticks
1 Avocado
Whole Lotta Mayo (Light Mayo only)
Pickles (optional)
BBQ sauce (optional)

1.  Seperate Double Whopper into top and bottom halves.
2.  Cook eggs over easy.
3.  Place Eggs, Mozzarella Sticks, Avocado, and entire Double Down sandwich on lower half of Whopper.
4.  Remove Whopper buns and replace with biscuits, or simply put the biscuits outside the bun.
5.  Add Mayo and Pickles to taste.
6.  Dip in BBQ sauce and enjoy it.
7.  No one lives forever but this may hasten the end.
8.  If you doubt that I will really do this check back after the weekend for pictures.

Two New Hats and Lots of Random Stuff

Some of you may know that I have a thing for hats, especially funny costume ones. I have at least 20 different funny hats, a number that grows or shrinks every time I wear one out. And I'm not even including my Burger King crown in that number.

So Saturday I was driving into Centennial to get the daily paper when I saw a garage sale sign in the neighborhood. Usually with garage sales, the older the proprieters the better, and these people were really old. So they had some old stuff; I first picked out a 1950's style grey leather suitcase for 50 cents. Moving on the hat section, I was pleased to find that, like me, this gentleman has quite a noggin on him. In fact, his size 7.5 hats fit me perfectly! I first picked out a brown felt cowboy hat. Here's a picture:

Please note the black-and-white Bruce Lee print in the background. Anyway, I will go ahead and tell you that I am a full seven feet tall with this hat on and if I were to put it on too tight a door could decapitate me. But honestly, hat+mustache+semi-western shirt*Bruce Lee=amazing. I don't wear much else anymore. Sale price, $1.

About to leave quite pleased with my purchases, I spotted a natty (not nasty, natty) green felt fedora on the corner of the shelf. The owner related to me that it was bought in Munich during the 1936 Olympics! I don't know if that's true, but it is German. Here's another pic:

Pop quiz: Which popular R&B singer do I look most like:

A. Ne-Yo

B. Ne-Yo

C. Ne-Yo

We're pretty much dead ringers for each other. And I wish I could sleep wearing my green fedora.

So the rest of this has nothing to do with hats, and everything to do with funny stuff that happens while I'm working at the bar. The first one has to do with backhanded compliments. Though I am a master of the empty compliment myself, I'll let it be known that I think backhanded compliments are low and despicable. Here's a really good one:

Person 1: "Rehab at 14 was the worst possible thing for him. I mean, he just isn't at all equipped for the pursuit of life. He really is practically useless at everything."

(pause)

Person 1: "He's a nice guy though, I've always liked him."

This anecdote serves to reinforce the widely-held, probably incorrect notion that saying "he's a nice guy, though" immediately negates ANYTHING negative you just said about the third person. Example:

Person 1: "He's a total hebephile and a huge racist. Hates Puerto Ricans and Buddhists with a passion. Kills baby seals for fun and throws their pelts away because he just likes the sight of a dying, clubbed, peltless seal. You'll never meet a nicer guy, though."

Next: I was poking around the kitchen at work for some food one evening, when I saw a big tub of generic sour cream from Sysco. It said on the label: "CULTURED SOUR CREAM". I started thinking about what uncultured sour cream would be like.... boorish, insensitive. Unable to respond to the needs of my taco.

My "Check Engine" light has now been flickering on and off for over three years. I take it as a sign of good craftsmanship that the light is able to last that long, and I know check engine lights are just swindles to get you to go to the repair store, usually so they can check your check engine light and fix that instead of your engine, putting you into an unending cycle of worry that your engine is broken alternating with worry that your engine is broken but you don't even know because your check engine light is malfunctioning. It's dizzying thinking about this, so I covered up my check engine light with black tape.

But what I really don't like about check engine lights is the fact that they're completely unnecessary. I have a VERY good idea if my engine is not working correctly, because the CAR DOESN'T TURN ON. Does this seem self-evident to anyone else? I'm out.

Thesmokinggun presents the police report from "The Mohammed Incident"

Crazy rock lady strikes again. Most recently, she called our local sheriff, the one who responded to her initial call, to request that he file an official police report concerning the incident, which I will remind you occurred over 7 months ago. Luckily, the sheriff stopped in while I was working and let me know about the existence of this document, so I rushed to the county sheriff's office the next morning (on the clock for the Census, obviously) to get my copy. It is the hottest document in town now. Here's the dope (it has been edited for content and formatted to fit your screen):

Civil matters- complaints
Reporting officer: Clyde Harris
Report date: 8/15/09 8:42 Date dispatched: 8/15/09 8:45
Case number: 2-09-001611

Complainant information #1.... will be omitted in this version due to litigous nature of the complainant.

Suspect/Arrestee Information- #1:
Prompt valid in: Costello, Joseph K

Narrative by Harris: On 8-15-09 at approxiamately 0842 hours I was dispatched to __ North Fork Road. The call was in regards to a possible trespassing violation. The complainant was identified as _________.

Upon arrival I met with ___ and she stated that the North Fork Homeowner's Asssociation had bladed and widened North Fork Road onto her property. ____ stated the she had her land surveyed about two years ago and the survey markers were probably bladed over. I asked ___ if she would show me approximately where on her land that the survey markers would be. ___ and I both spotted three different survey markers that showed the eastern boundary of her land. All three of the boundary markers were well off of the west side of North Fork Road. Appproximately eight feet west of the road (sic). ___ then showed me a map of her property and the boundary markers coincided with the map. I explained to ____ that there was nothing I could do for her as North Fork Road did not touch her property line and that this call was really a civil call in nature.

SUPPLEMENT BY HARRIS

On 3-16-10 at approximately 1715 hours, I received a phone call from _____. The phone call was in regards to events that happened a week prior to the original call on 8-15-09, _____ asked me if I would document her continued complaint from that incident, AS THE ALLEDGED SUSPECT IN THE MATTER, JOSEPH COSTELLO, WAS STILL LIVING AND WORKING IN THE AREA AND CREEPED HER OUT. (CAPS provided by me for emphasis, but this is the real text of the report.)

____ asked me if I remembered her complaint about a subject identified as Joseph COSTELLO. I told _____ I remembered her complaining about Costello, as he was moving rocks along her property line and North Fork Road. _____ told me that when she made contact with COSTELLO and asked him what his name and business was along her property line, COSTELLO would only give the name MOHOMMAD (sic). ____ stated to me that this had really upset her and asked me if I would talk to COSTELLO about the situation, which I did. I made contact with COSTELLO on the morning of 8-15-09 at his parent's residence on North Fork Road, of which I can t remember the address.

When I asked COSTELLO why he had given ___ the name of MOHOMMAD. he said that ____ was being a royal pain, moving big rocks onto North Fork Road and he had stopped to move the rocks out of the road when she made contact with him. COSTELLO told me he was just being ornery and joking when he told her his name was MOHOMMAD. When I asked COSTELLO if he would not bother ____ any more, he said that he would leave her alone.

This supplemental report was completed at the complainant's request, and there is still no basis for any criminal investigation.

No further action.
___________________________________________

Just a few comments on this. First, since when has "living and working in the area and creeping her out" an investigable offense?? Second, a trespassing complaint seven months post facto is not likely to have much merit.

Also, I found out the real reason behind this request. A few days later, my boss at the Census took me aside and asked if I'd had an incident with a "crazy-sounding woman" (those were his exact words) in Centennial. I stated that once, seven months ago I was involved in a minor incident and that I believed this woman had called my boss trying to get me fired, and was using the written police report as ammunition for this character assassination. Then, after my boss told me to skip her house while delivering the Census, she called him back to report that I had skipped her house and she had not received her Census. So you see what I'm dealing with: a devious, duplicitous, anxious crazy old lady with nothing better to do than try to get me fired.

But I'm still somewhat of a folk hero in my subdivision and many people know me only as Mohammed; I got several friendly handshakes from neighbors of hers recognizing my service to the community.

In another random thought, is there anyone else that thinks Duke's Coach K has really pulled the wool over America's eyes by convincing us that his name is pronounced with an "S"?

Circletalking the shoesaleswoman. Further news from the crazy rock lady!

On my first payday for the census, I decided to splurge on something I've wanted and needed for quite awhile: a nice pair of boots I can use for work and walking. So I went to the most natural place to buy boots: the World Wide Web. Not finding any crazy deals, and being wary of buying something as intimate as steel-toed word boots from a computer screen, I went to the next-best place for boots: Boot Barn. I realize this sounds like a store out of a bad movie like "Did You Hear About the Morgans," but it's actually TOTALLY REAL. And they do stock lots of boots indeed.

Minus blue makeup, this ad pretty much applies to me.

First off, the lady arranging the boots won me over with her good-girl country-western good looks. So I was going to buy something no matter what. She ignored me just enough that I had to seek her out and ask her questions once in awhile, that boot vixen! But anyway, I tried on many boots. That's not the funny part but yes, if you must know, I fall over alot while I'm trying boots and it's got to be pretty funny to the store security cameras and the people that may watch them. Because I'm tall and my balance is poor.

So I go to buy the boots, waiting for a moment behind a couple junior high school girls buying a very distasteful pink leather cowgirl jacket that may or may not be reversible despite its cowgirl nature. When I get to the front of the line, I note I'm buying from the manager; I cringe because I figure this means she's going to hit me up for upgrades and warranties galore. And sure as Asian people love mashed potatoes, she does.

The T in the middle is quite unnecessary, especially because if you read it phonetically it says "boot-T barn"

Manager: "Now, the first thing you're going to want to get with these boots is a good waterproofing agent."

RetiredJK (I show her a tag on my shoes that states they are "WATERPROOF"): It says they're waterproof already."

Manager: "You should still add some more waterproofing to make them that more waterproofed."

RetiredJK: "Waterproof is an all-or-nothing deal to me, and these boots claim to be waterproof. Are they waterproof or do I need a "more-waterproof" boot?"

Manager (hastily): "They certainly are."

Evidently, I am not the only person who finds Boot Barn funny enough to blog about.

Later, she tries to sneak in a rewards card:

Manager: "Would you like to sign up for a Boot Barn frequent shopper card?"

Retired JK (kind of cutting her off): "I don't want anything that won't save me money today."

Manager: "This can save you ten percent!"

RJK: "Today!?"

Manager"... No."

RJK: "Just stop now."

I just ate a chicken pot pie for the first time in like ten years, and they sure seemed alot bigger when we were kids!

Apostasy and the search for truth from the Census main office

Anyway, I have had some good times the last few weeks! In this series of humorous anecdotes, I milk my census position for every possible funny moment. Let's get down to brass tacks. I got a text from a fellow census worker today and at the bottom it said, almost like a formal closing, "apostasy." In the interest of you not going to an online dictionary to remind you what this means, it is defined as "total desertion of one's principles, morals, or religious beliefs." I can't really think of a better non sequitur to a Census bureau text message.

So in my response (which I'm sure was equally confusing) I asked faux-naively: "Is that like ecstasy? Isn't there a book or something called 'apostasy and ecstasy'?" I haven't heard back from this co-worker yet, so I'm interested in getting his (or her, I'm not actually sure which co-worker it is) version of this story.



In further Census news, I knocked on the door of a house that I thought was unoccupied. As I was preparing to leave a baggie containing the questionnaire on the doorknob, the subject answered the door. She was about sixty, and probably still is consdering it just happened three hours ago. But I hope I'm this cool when I'm sixty, and I hope this wasn't just a demented lady rhyming to me. But seriously, she spits hot fire.

RetiredJK: "Hello my name is JK and I work for the US Census."

Subject: "The consensus is... (pause)... you're with the Census!"

RJK: "Oh yeah when did you start freestyling?"



Also, I had a pretty amazing chat with a woman at our district office. I needed to get a TPS report from her including the emails of all the people in my group of ten enumerators, for I planned (in a stunning show of efficiency, decentralization, and direction of workflow) to start an "e-mail list" and a "Google document" which could allow us all to update the all-important spreadsheet. We'll start with my phone call being transferred to the target phone-answerer:

(Me singing along with elevator music)

Census: "Hello this is "Rhonda" how may I assist you today?" (names changed for protection)

RetiredJK: "Hello. My name is JK and I work for the Census-- I'm an assistant crew leader in fact. I need to get a list of the email addresses for the group I trained last week."

Census: "Oh my, I don't know if we have that information. I mean I'm not sure if that's even possible. I... I just don't know."

RJK: "Could you find out please."

Census: "I just don't think we have that information."

RJK: "You have my email address and everyone who took my training class last week."

Census: "Well.... give me their names and I'll ask my supervisor."

(On hold, I throw down half a K.C. and JoJo song)

Census: "You can't have that information because it's confidential. You'll have to get it from your workers each individually."

RJK: "You realize you sent me a list of all their names, telephone numbers and addresses previously."

Census: "I don't know. I'm just not in a position to give out any of that information."

We now go by code names in our Census group so that we don't give out any identifying information. This is totally real, one person goes by IB BrakenBonez, I am J-Tiger, someone else is Carlos, and we are really the only three people keeping it up, but it's pretty cool. I'm kind of sticking it to the man but in a funny way.



In yet another entertaining snippet, one of many in a seemingly neverending series, I called the main office to get a boss lady's email address to email her the master spreadsheet. I talked to the boss lady and it became increasingly obvious that she had an aversion to electronic music:

RetiredJK: "So I have this spreadsheet in Excel format and I'd like to send it over there."

Census: "So... you're gonna fax that to me?"

RJK: "Well, you see, excel files are most often e-mailed."

"I don't have an e-mail address."

(Pause for me to laugh)

"You poor thing. I am speaking to someone at the Census bureau right?"

"Yes..."

"You know you can get email on the Web for FREE, right?"

"Is that so? Well, I do have an email address, but I'm not important enough to use it."

I told her not to be so hard on herself, but I eventually realized that she just meant she didn't have a secure census email address, which again led to the following exchange:

Me: "So... it is OK to fax something to an office of forty people but I can't send it to you privately via email?

Census: "I'm just not qualified for that."

It's funny, because the more they waste my time, the more time I waste discovering out just how much time they waste.

Census 2010 Part 2: Is This Real Life?

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Census 2010

So training started today for Census enumerators in and around Albany County, Wyoming. I count myself so lucky to be part of this group. But as is true of much guvment (that is how our training leader says it, seriously) work it can be tedious, in fact it is quite often boring to the point of tears. Government (which will heretofore be abr. "guvment") conversations seem to be more circular. Vagueness and redundacy are treasured. In short I'm quite surprised the Census hasn't been privatized by Google. It's like, if you want to know where the road is, do you actually drive to the road? No you look at it from a satellite. Duh!

Anyway, on with the training. There did not seem to be a formal "beginning" or "end" to training, nor did there appear to be any logical agenda or schedule. Lunch was understood to start at noon and end half an hour later but that was really the structure of our day. It started out with alot of talks about small towns in south southeast Wyoming. Then we filled out forms for two hours. I think if I had really studied, I could have crushed the forms in ten minutes flat. Progress be damned, though, we had to ensure that everyone had two blue pens and one neon highlighter first and then talk of the ramifications of losing said highlighter.

The first time you lose your highlighter (item Z1908) you will be warned (in writing). The second you will be terminated. This "two strikes you're out" rule also applies in the following situations: wearing a helmet while riding an ATV, sexual harassment, and working overtime. Overtime requires pre-approval because without it people might overexert themselves, or possibly waste money with overtime pay, because all the Census Bureau's other expenses seem air-tight and unwasteful.

After the form-filling-out, a guy showed up to fingerprint us. Luckily, a random women had also been trained to fingerprint for the federal guvment, which is important because YOU HAVE TO BE FINGERPRINTED 14 TIMES BY 2 DIFFERENT PEOPLE EACH. We managed to tear through 12 people in two and a half hours. Some of the folks were elderly and forced into quite uncomfortable positions by the fingerprinting situation! I was told by BOTH fingerprinters that I had quite distinct and dare I say beautiful fingerprints, to which I quite characteristically replied, "I know." I got paid about $39 plus mileage to have my fingerprints taken!

There was also this great snippet of conversation talking about fingerprints:

Boss: "It's important that you roll your finger, so we get all the ridges and apexes."
Me: "Apices."
Boss: "Come again?"
Me: "Nevermind."

At one point, I realized that getting the group off track was quite easy, I figured it might be fun to try my hand at misdirection. When Lakewood, a suburb of Denver, came up, I realized that I had found my opportunity: Casa Bonita. I would say that we talked about Casa Bonita for five minutes, and then a fish restaurant in Lakewood for three more. Then we talked about other Denver suburbs. I would say all included I took up about fifteen minutes just by saying "Casa Bonita."

We spent a good two hours discussing assaults, safety, and mostly threats from dogs. Some of the better questions regarding dogs: "If there's a little dog hanging onto your ankle and you kick it, are you covered against a lawsuit?" "What if there's a big Doberman in the yard?" We also learned how to anticipate dog attacks and appear submissive in the face of dog aggression.

The afternoon was pretty dull, and we really could have knocked about two hours off the whole day. But the training seems more guided by the hours that need to be filled than any substance filling those hours and we chatted for quite awhile. At the end of the day I looked at the poster on the wall of the fire station in which we convened, and found quite a bit of comic relief for me.

I can't find an image of this poster on Google images, which means it is quite rare indeed. I also haven't the signal to send the pic from my cell phone. But to give you an idea, it portrayed an angelic babe with wings on it above two cars which had quite obviously crashed. It encouraged people to use child safety seats. The caption? "Babies can fly.... once." I'm not sure who made this but it's clearly not in the best taste even if the black humor is overwhelming. I mean, dead baby jokes are sometimes funny but the idea of a flying, winged dead baby is f-ing hilarious.

Also, there was an Asian woman in our class, thus I made the common-sense decision to either leave training first before she could get behind the wheel or wait around for the streets to clear.

I drove past a McDonald's on the way home and had a hankering for a double cheeseburger. But what did I see advertised on the window? A phony McDouble. I will never eat your McDouble, Sir. (Sir is Ronald McDonald.)

Bosselman's Travel Plaza, December twentysomething 2009

I'll bet most of you from outside the midwest have never been to a real travel plaza. Not a rest stop, not a gas station, CERTAINLY not a convenient store, a travel plaza is a place designed to attract truckers, families traveling cross-country, and aliens. Yes, aliens.

I wasn't feeling too hot as we pulled into the Grand Island Bosselman's travel plaza. Or should I say, the I-80 Grand Island Bosselman's Travel Plaza because evidently there are two such businesses operating in this small town. But the thought of Little Caesar's or Subway and water inspired me to enter. To the left, a miniature virtual Wal-Mart offering everything from pornography (which, I agree, should be readily available at any truck stop) to engraved samurai swords to blue cards saying "Happy Chanukah" on the front. I still can't really figure out which of these three things is the most necessary item in Grand Island, Nebraska.

Say, for instance, you're flying from Grand Island airport to Singapore. Both the porn and the samurai sword could conceivably come in handy in this situation (or shall I say "THE SITUATION") either on the airplane or afterwards in the dirty streets. But say you're headed eastbound to Skokie, IL. It's a Jewish hotbed of the midwest, thus the Chanukah card could come up big. And the porn's probably good for the ride. The sword... maybe seppuku. In other words, you have everything you need just on the left of the travel plaza.

On the right are (as advertised) the Little Caesar's and Subway. Subway offers $5 subs and Caesar's offers pizzas for five dollars hot and ready, 4 words which I rarely like to see together in sentence. And it turns out they're not really hot and ready because of a run on sausage pizza and I'm awful disappointed about this. I chastise the customer service manager (read: pizza maker) taking my order but it doesn't speed up the process of getting the pizza hot and ready ASAP, B.

So I take some time to explore. The bathrooms are lit in a sultry manner and involve large stalls and comfortable-width passages, and I can't tell whether this is a good or bad thing. I like the personal space but it is disturbing to think about what some people may do with so much personal space at a truck stop. Toilet paper is amply stocked but there are stange noises coming from the stall next to mine.

So I leave the bathroom and skip the water fountain. To the arcade I go, and on the way I see an encased model of the alien from Independence Day.... there is also an encased shrunken head that I don't recognize immediately. The arcade is well-stocked with stuffed animal grabs, virtual horse racing, and Skee-Ball. There is nothing funny at all about this dark arcade so I leave.

There is also an entire upstairs the size of a football field. I am not sure what's up there but it stretches my imagination to think what else a weary traveler might need that's not available downstairs.

I went for a comment card, and I found the greatest thing of all. It's going to take some explaining because I still can't make heads or tails of it. It was, at its essence, a small advertisement, a veritable mobile/diorama (haven't used that word since 3rd grade) comprised of several index cards and pamphlets advertising three things: a do-it-yourself eyeglass repair kit (not displayed), improved fuel economy (method undescribed), and total consciousness, which obviously comes via the Dalai Lama (twelfth son of the lama). All of these products refer back to the same 800 number. And I'll be damned if I didn't write down the number. So I got that goin' for me, which is nice.

Finally, the pizza was hot and ready, which evidently requires the stars to align and them to pronounce your name correctly (J.....K....?) So we sat and ate and people-watched (which could be a completely seperate blog in its own right) and I wrote my comment card. It went something like this:

"I am a grown man and I have never been so scared in my life. There are aliens here. Really. They are in glass cases. And my pizza was NEITHER hot NOR ready (thus coordinating my conjunctions in CAPITALS for EFFECT). There were suspicious sounds going on in the bathroom. Refills should be free. Sincerely yours."

I went back to sleep in the Mazda afterwards as we neared Denver. But just regular sleep, not sleep in the Sylvia Plath sense of the word.

Whole Foods Midnight Marathon

My dad once almost beat a Whole Foods employee into submission because the store lacked Hershey's chocolate syrup and Coca-Cola. That said, despite liking their cheese selection greatly, I feel pretty similarly about the entire Whole Foods operation. I like Velveeta, Jim Beam, and Wonder Bread on occasion. And I really like paying less for groceries.

But I can take Whole Foods with a grain of salt. I realize that moral superiority isn't really dictated by where you shop for groceries. So Whole Foods Midnight Madness in Denver was quite a humorous event for me.

"Midnight Madness," a term usually used to refer to college basketball programs' first practice of the year, means that Whole Foods puts a very few items on sale-- and on sale at Whole Foods is still pricier than Wal-Mart's everyday low prices (especially if they have that creepy yellow smiley face near the price.) Shrimp for $7 a pound? Insanity. Blocks of Parmigiano Reggiano cheese for $5? These prices, from what I could discern, made the yuppies of Cherry Creek as excited as if they'd received a new fixed-speed bicycle from Barack Obama for Christmas (or Eid?)

As we arrived at Whole Foods around 11:15 in the PM, we quickly realized that there was not an entire spot in the entire parking lot. Wait, were we mistakenly at a Subaru dealership? No. It was really Whole Foods, replete with Subaru Outbacks and their yuppie drivers. Oh my god, a Prius. The employees bowed to the owner as he entered the store. Thinking that Whole Foods' customers might be a bit less aggressive than Wal-Mart's customers, I quickly realized that a $4 pack of wheat naan could turn even the greenest soccer mom into a crazed discount hunter. Here's a picture of me getting a great deal on naan.

After an extended search for a parking spot, we entered the store to cheering employees announcing the midnight madness specials on the overhead speaker. Hip-hop music between the announcements calmed people's nerves about being a white person in an all-white grocery store. Soccer moms in pajamas ran around the aisles like teens at a slumber party high on soda flavored with all-natural coarse cane sugar.

I realized that the amount of self-congratulatory and hipster-ish quotes being thrown around would put my memory on overload (although that happens during most simple sentences to me). So I decided, luckily, to write down some of the quotes as I anticipated that this could be a blog-worthy event. I'll just throw these quotes out now with a lil' bit of commentary.

"Honey, are we out of naan at home?" I mean, why would you limit your naan consumption to home? Most families of four need at least twelve loaves of naan each week. Plus if you keep a stash in the car, you could eat twenty loaves of naan easily.

(on the overheard speaker): "The OJ special is in the PRODUCE section and not in the NATURAL JUICE section." This caused an absolute tide of yuppies to shift directions and I'm pretty sure someone got hurt in the ensuing rush for $3.99 half-gallons of OJ.

"Oh my god, I can't believe we biked here honey! We are having SO MUCH FUN." Couples' high-five. By the size and irony of the guy's moustache, and her awkward-looking blue leggings, I could tell they were some of the first people on their block to see Modest Mouse live in concert at a small venue. (Cheers to Christian's blog Stuff White People Like for informing this last hipster-inspired commentary).

Tatooed employee: "Free samples, bro! Rice nog!"

RetiredJK: "Is it ORGANIC?"

TE: "Sorry it's not, bro, but it's all natural and really tasty!"

RJK: (Disgusted look) Later broski.

Fifty-something: "EXCUSE ME, you're cutting in the seafood line!!!

Sixty-something: "I'm in the OLIVE LINE!"

Employee with multiple facial piercings: "Free samples! Pizza! No gluten! No rye! No wheat!" Ummm... at some point I feel like Whole Foods sells people the emperor's new clothes and that there's not actually anything in the box. Maybe some olive oil or something. But I'll bet buying it still feels really good inside.

A couple other funny things I noticed. One is that chicks at Whole Foods really like to wear their hair like Princess Leia from Star Wars. I also have never even fathomed that so many fifty-somethings knew how to send text messages. I really wondered who these folks were texting at midnight, given that my parents go to sleep two to three hours prior most nights. Probably their friends in Japan or something multicultural like that.

At the checkout, I really had to fight the desire to buy a Northern Italian cooking magazine, because seriously who would even eat Southern Italian food? Philistines. The uncultured. I say this as I eat a late-night crab enchilada with nacho cheese. But seriously, the string trio playing 90's pop hits (jazz-style) was blocking my access to baguettes. I'm pretty sure they played "I Want It That Way" by N'Sync on their viola and stuff. The layout of the store was very poor because I need two baguettes a day.

But as I left with my naan and block of Parmesan cheese, one of their dreadlocked employees handed me a free sample of peppermint soy beverage. ORGANIC. And if it wasn't the best peppermint soy beverage I've ever had then my name is not JK and I'm not retired. Whole Foods, holla! P.S. My dad would have totally kicked that employee's arse.

Do You Really Want to Hear About the Morgans?

Hello my dear blogettes. I hope this Christmas season finds you well and prosperous, and that you can find it in your heart to share some of that prosperity with me during my blogathon. It starts now and ends after this blog but may continue for another day or two depending on the motivation level in a post-Christmas world.

So, as you may have guessed, this blog deals with a certain recently released rom-com (for the uninducted this stands for romantic comedy) featuring SJP (Sarah Jessica Parker) as Meryl Morgan and Hugh Grant as Paul Morgan. A quick summary of the movie in my good friend Dave's words: "He's been stumbling through life as a charmingly befuddled d-bag... She's a horse-faced slut... But together they unexpectedly find the recipe for love..."



The movie doesn't even start before the laughs begin. A preview for the Jennifer Aniston action rom-com "The Bounty Hunter" precedes the movie, and I predict these two movies will compete for post-season honors on rottentomatoes.com. As the movie begins, Paul is repeatedly calling Meryl's answering machine, leaving sweet but wordy and misguided messages with the clear intent of reuniting with his estranged wife. The reason they're estranged? Sometimes movies imitate life, and Paul has cheated on his wife (although not with a hooker in the back of a car).

The first major scene in the movie features Paul stalking his wife at a charity dinner. She is the keynote speaker despite having zero talent for public speaking. The topic of her speech? An ironically foreboding talk about the fight against breast cancer reaching a "turning point" and a "make-or-break" time in their organization's fight for a cure. Paul listens intently and, after the speech, is the most convincing, polite, British yes-man ever played on screen. He never actually disagrees with Meryl, whose over-the-top high-strung personality clashes horribly with his. Throughout the movie, they are far more believable as the antagonistic, seperated couple than they are as a married couple living together. One wonders if a straight-to-video release may have been more appropriate for the flick.

As the plot thickens, Paul and Meryl walk to her client's home only to see the client murdered by a knife in the back. Of course, the hit man feels it necessary to stick around for awhile and stare at the Morgans; conveniently, he sees a picture of her on the cover of a magazine on his getaway. After some fish-out-of water jokes about her attire and business dealings, they quickly enter the witness protection program and are whisked off to Wyoming.

The directors evidently put the movie on auto-pilot at this point, as we while away a half hour watching Paul and Meryl adapt to Wyoming life. Placed in horribly contrived situations, they experience all the things that all rural people do: eat wild game, shoot rifles, ride horses, milk cows, visit the rodeo, and, of course, share themselves with the wonderfully quaint townfolk. The ultimate irony of this portion of the film is that Meryl at one point claims to be "allergic" to horses... could this be a sly dig at SJP's horse-like appearance on the part of the producers? Probably not, as that joke would be a bit over their heads.

One of the few saving graces of this film is that it parodies city folk, especially those of you who live in NYC. The Morgans' inability to fathom rural life comes up throughout the movie, for example as Meryl struggles to find a non-cocktail dress outfit to bring with her to Wyoming. Later, Meryl asks Wilford Brimley to blow his smoke in another direction, and they get a rude awakening to living in a rural town. Straight out of an episode of South Park, he states "we don't take kindly to out-of-towners coming in to town and tellin' us what to do" to which Paul replies "I hope we can be friends" in the most beseeching, submissive tone he can muster. And he musters a submissive tone amazingly well.

The New-York centric point of view continues later, as Meryl recalls an episode involving "Jarlsberg cheese from Zabar's" while recalling an incident in which Paul tried to humanely trap a mouse rather than slaughtering it (Meryl, of course, is a member of PETA). The humour (note how I spelled it!) continues until the very end, when the hitman tracks them down at a rodeo. Meryl and Paul, in a scene that reminds of their newly repaired relationship, hide inside a rodeo clown outfit. A charmingly self-harming Paul overcomes his fear to douse himself in bear repellent while attempting to disable the hitman. Despite his clumsy but well-meaning attempt, the couple has clearly endeared themself to the community, and they respond by pulling several guns on the hitman and knocking him unconscious with a horseshoe.

Can a movie get zero stars? Was this written by a junior high school student? Could Meryl's personal assistant's performance overcome an awful script to compete for year-end honors? Will there be a worse movie this year? I don't know, but to quote the movie, "we don't take kindly to movies like this around here." I'm also pretty sure there was a high school couple giving each other hand jobs in the back of the theatre... I have no doubt they were far more romantic than any movie with Sarah Jessica Parker could ever be.

Casa Bonita: Part Deux

Yesterday, when I left off, we were en route from the serving area to the seating area: this was what we had come to see! Cliff divers, pirates, gorillas, Blackbart's cave, mariachis! We made a special request to the host for a cliffside seat, as I'm sure everyone does; despite being prepared with a $10 bribe, I felt a bit sheepish about bribing a host at what is, essentially, a children's restaurant. He stated that our seat would have "a waterfall view" which was, again, tangentially true. We walked around confused for awhile until a waitress took pity on us and found our seat (again, I'm not sure how she knew where out seat was, furthering my conviction that Casa Bonita employs some type of animatronics).

We met our server, who claimed his name was Juan. He assured us that we would have only the finest service and that, indeed, the chips and salsa and the sopapillas would be gratis. We had a flag on our table and he showed us how to employ the flag to our advantage; moving it from the down position to the up position would indicate that we were in need of something. But really, what I need is companionship. And more cliff divers. So I didn't raise the flag for awhile until I wanted a taco.

Speaking of the entertainment, it is scheduled every fifteen minutes. It mostly consists of cliff divers, mariachis, and some dog-and-pony (or shall I say pirate and gorilla) show which seemed less than authentic. However, I did get caught in the middle of a chase; after a bit of banter, the gorilla escaped from its pirate owner, sending them into wild goose-chase mode. I saw the gorilla run by me, and attempted to misdirect the pirate when he asked which way the gorilla went. "Behind you!" I said. But this did not fool the wily pirate, who seemed to be no stranger to chasing large primates through Casa Bonita.

Sopapillas. While I could write about these for awhile, given they they are fried, free, and all-you-can-eat (hint, hint: bring a gallon bag with you and take some home!) I got a priceless photo that really sums up the sopapilla experience at Casa Bonita:


Finally, the check came. While charging me for their horrendous food seemed cheap of them, I had faced the facts that the only way to dine and dash would be via Blackbart's Cave and an emergency exit. Besides, they had provided us with two pitchers of beer and two margaritas (for the ladies) which was worth something, right? Well, it wasn't worth $17 for a pitcher of Coors Light. Which brings me to one of my major tips which I may or may not summarize depending on fate at the end of this blog. I don't think I can come out and say that you should do something illegal, because that's like yelling fire in a crowded theatre or spreading lies deliberately in a written manner (libel). So I'll say it in another language: Ooyay ustmay ingbray askflay.

Blackbart's Cave! Known to me only from South Park, this was a pretty sweet place to get back at kids for cutting in line... I mean it's dark and if the kid is as tall as my knees, how was I supposed to see him? I was focusing on the pirates. And going as slow as possible to block all the kids behind me. This is the treasure of Blackbart, it's crazy it's been out there this whole time just sitting there and no one has tried to take it.

Casa Bonita: Parte Uno

Casa Bonita. The words evoke a feeling of hominess, like your family will always take care of you. I wouldn't say the reality of the place quite lives up to its name, because from the odd buffet-style dining, to the amusement parkesque atmosphere of the place, Casa Bonita did not quite match my expectations. (Note: If you have not seen the South Park episode you really should prior to reading the rest of this. I believe it is Season 7 episode 10 or so. We viewed it practically en route to the restaurant.)

First off, let me remind you that Casa Bonita is first and foremost A RESTAURANT; this is confirmed by the fact that they won't let you in without buying an overpriced plate of nacho cheese with various (but surprisingly few given the number of combinations algebraically possible) portions of chicken, beef, and starch that didn't pass for a tortilla. I'm pretty sure they've cut costs by eliminating vegetables and real cheese from the menu.

But all these facts were available to me prior to visiting and yet I went. As you all may know, I am not always insistent on five-star food; I have, to my knowledge, never been within a mile of a Michelin-rated eatery. In fact, I am once in awhile willing to eat this very Tex-mex fodder that I've been describing. I once ate a taco al pastor reheated and filled with broccoli beef. My legend lives on, as so far I've never met anyone who tried this same thing.

That said, CASA BONITA IS AN UNMITIGATED FAILURE. And, moreoever, that said, thus, there is alot of science that I will write about below but you have just read the summary of my feelings on this strange place.

Here's the play-by-play. We arrived about seven PM armed with a "Survivor's Guide to Casa Bonita" provided so thoughtfully by Craig. We entered the castle-like structure to an entryway so small it may have been a bodega; we were immediately herded through turnstiles in a line of many shelters, twists and turns. I didn't realize until later that these were intended to confuse prospective diners as to their wait time.

And what you don't see until the last minute is that there are young ladies posing as hostesses who are actually waiting to take your order on a secret computer. So when you get to the front of this line and actually think you're about to be seated, you are forced to come up with an order while all the other hungry, pissed-off parents are wondering what's taking so long, not knowing that THEY TOO will be similarly confused, continuing a decades-long cycle of confusion perpetuated by the Casa Bonita MGMT.

OK. So we're still trying to order. Everything, strangely, is lined up in two columns: BEEF and CHICKEN. And the only menu is on the far wall. And alcohol is hidden behind some little kid. The "hostesas," which we'll pretend means hostesses in Spanish, seem to have the art of dodging questions down pat. Here's a sample of our convo, evidently she is communicating on a higher plane than I am:

RJK: "So do I have to order beer here or can I order from the table?"

Hostesa: "I can take your order for beer here."

RJK: "How do I get more of the all-you-can-comer platter?"

Hostesa: "You can get more of anything on your platter."

RJK: "How much are pitchers of beer?"

Hostesa: "I'm not sure, you pay your server at the end." (This was a truly great answer, as I would have without a doubt choked her if she had told me the answer which will be revealed later.)

I felt as though I might be speaking with a Fem-bot. We all sympathized with any parents in line; thoroughly frustrated as a group of reasonably intelligent twenty-somethings, we could not collectively imagine doing this with a five-year-old. Weekly.

Thoroughly mystified, we turned a corner to find that there was another line in which to wait. The end of this one held our food, though, so there was some promise of seating and sustinence ahead. Oddly, every platter being presented at the communal serving area looked to be the same even, perfectly molten, orange hue of cheap nacho cheese (we're not even talking about good nacho cheese here). Luckily, they came carefully marked by party, and on request the lady would magically discriminate YOUR plate of nacho cheese from THE TUBBY KID'S plate of nacho cheese.

Speaking of the tubby kid, I had my eye peeled for any budding Eric Cartmans. And I found one almost immediately when he slapped his brother. Attempting to get a photo with or of this child became my biggest wish for awhile. I really wanted to see this kid eat, a privilege which I was denied by the dismissive host. And yes, I know you're wondering, this kid was super-tubby.

Tomorrow, check back for the dining experience, the secrets of Blackbart's Cave, and a sweet picture of sopapillas and me.

Crazy Rock Lady Acts the Fool.

In my last posting regarding the crazy rock lady (c. 3 months ago), I had assumed that all our tensionsfrom our minor run-in had boiled over and receded long since. How nieve I was, nieve enough to forget the umlaut over both of those words. It seems that the rock lady holds on to our scuffle like it was a epic battle of minds and rocks, although I don't quite remember it as being that significant. Anyway, here's how the most recent As The Valley Turns goes.


I was working my normal Friday afternoon shift. All was well in the Centennial Valley. I was about halfway through my shift, watching some Cash Cab on the TV and listening to Elton John on the j-box. A customer unfamiliar to me, but evidently well known by others in the bar, walked in with a possible husband. They sat and had one or two beers when someone called on the bar phone, "is Michelle* there?" (*means the real names have been altered) I called out for Michelle, and the new woman responded. She chatted on the phone for a few seconds before handing it back to me.

Soon after, I heard them saying, "Jan is coming." Jan happens to be crazy rock lady, but I didn't think much of it given the remoteness of the incident in both time and space. I figured she'd matured alot since the incidenct and wouldn't give it any thought, and we'd bury the hatchet over a can of Busch beer or something. But upon her arrival, the hatchet was not buried, dude.

She sat down at the end of the bar next to a friend of mine and greeted all in the party of four. She kind of ignored me as I think she sensed the power of the beard and the likelihood that, in a minute, she could speak with Mohammed. I asked her kindly what she'd have, and she responded that she would enjoy a Busch can and a shot of peppermint Schappsteria (she didn't actually say that, I just added it for effect). As soon as I turned my back to get her drink, I overheard her asking her neighbor, "Is that Mohammed?"She immediately ran out of the bar into the grill area and never returned.

So now the weird part starts. First, she sent someone from the grill into the bar to pick up her two drinks and deliver them into the grill for her. Next, she sent someone else to pay for her drinks, tipping me $1! Soon after, she sent the same messenger with a hand-written note to meet her at the other bar/restaurant option in town. After her friends complained about the childishness of all this and refused to go to the other location, she left.

Soon after, she called to speak with the members of her party, disguising her voice when I answered. When they took their time finishing their drinks and complaining further about the immaturity of this fifty-something woman, she had another person call and then pass the phone to her after speaking with me.

So I submit to you, reader, that this level of subterfuge, vidictiveness, and immaturity have seldom been reached by someone past the age of 14. I have realized that the rules in this conflict are different: there are no rules. And no limits. So I must radically change my thinking about this whole deal. I need to be on my guard at all times. Turf wars are on.

In unrelated news, my toilet froze and cracked, so soon you will have the update on how the JK-fixed toilet works.

The Hitchhiker's Guide to Wyoming

I guess you could call it a bucket list, but I don't. Sometimes you do things and later realize that you've just checked an item off the life checklist, like when I saw Vanilla Ice in person and he poured elk's blood (read: Jager) into my mouf. And another one of those moments happened to me a couple days ago. I was attempting to reach a lake two miles off the main road, which closes for the year due to snow. As I neared the gate, I turned off toward Brooklyn Lake because I had heard a rumor that the dirt road was plowed the two miles back to the lake, which would allow me to park and access several good fishing lakes in the area.

As soon as I turned off the road, I knew that my plan was woefully awful as the road was not near plowed. Trying to maneuver around a parked snow plow, I felt my right front wheel fall off into a small snow-covered ditch. Stuck, I was. And nine miles from any type of civilization. And out of cell phone range. And at the end of a dead-end, snowed-in highway by which very few people pass. And without a shovel. And without a heavy coat. I approached a lodge I knew in the area, but it was empty. I decided to walk a mile downhill to another lodge that advertised it was open "year-round", which was totally untrue. So, knowing that I had no cell service and there was no one likely to be around for miles, I did what any normal person would do: cried. Cried before I decided to hitchhike, yeah!

It only took about ten minutes for a vehicle to drive near. I realized that this could be my last shot for hours, so I decided to not wait by the side of the road with my thumb out like a bum. Instead, I decided to stand in the road in front of their car waving my arms like a crazy bum. I wished to Allah I had shaved my beard that morning in anticipation of looking good while I attempted to hitchhike, but this did not happen Inshallah. Allah did smile on me when they stopped, mostly because they had nowhere to go except through me. Luckily, they were college students up for an afternoon sled, and not the murderous organ-thieving type of college student that picks up hitchhikers.

Right now I'm preparing for dinner, and I know you wonder what's on my menu given the limited cooking and cleaning capabilities I possess. Well, today it's chicken noodle soup followed by a salad with chicken. I recently got a free life insurance policy (from some actuary who clearly hadn't done their homework on me) and I'm trying to overdose on chicken so my family can reap the benefits... the benefits of being a close relative of the first person in the world to OD on chicken.

You may be wondering what I do most of the day now that the parents are gone, I have a steady two-day-a-week job, and I have no water. Well, I listen to the 80's song "Almost Paradise" alot and dream that I'm Kevin Bacon in Footloose, which is probably my favorite 80's movie. I whip up some vinaigrette once in awhile. I spend silly amounts of time reading news and books, most recently Friday Night Lights, which was pretty similar to my high school football experience albeit at an urban private school to which we wore ties and grey pants. Ultimately, I spend alot of the day chopping and moving wood, starting fires, handwashing dishes, cooking,and generally doing things that modern conveniences have long since rendered obsolete. So be thankful for these conveniences. And send me money.

Medieval Times

Usually there would be no stories to tell from a Vegas trip, but here's a child and family friendly one that you can show the kids. Know to most people as "Medieval Times" from the movie Cable Guy, we visited a similar show at the hotel Excalibur called "Tournament of Kings". For the uninitiated, it features legions of horsemen, midgets, overweight king-types, and fair maidens putting on a chivalrous display cum melodramatic performance, frequently exhorting the audience to sip from their chalices of $10 wine with a loud "Huzzah!" (which means "quaff your expensive wine, tourists!" in Gaelic).

So we met at the grand hotel, Excalibur, at the planned time. We took our seats in the Russian section (they seat people in sections led by your fictional "king;" ours happened to be Russian even though I pled with the host to seat us elsewhere. We opted for the prix fixe menu, which is mandatory for buying a seat to watch the tournament. This menu has been in existence, unchanged, for nineteen years as far as I can tell. The luxurious courses began at once. Tomato soup, which one of my friends promised would be the finest part of our dinner, was served in a not-very-medieval-looking plastic bowl. It was indeed good, although for all I know it could be straight from a Campbell's can. Then, the magnum opus of the meal:

You see the offending meal above, and believe me, this is one of the more appetizing pictures of it I was able to find on the World Wide Web. Soggy broccoli, lighted cooked potato sticks, delicately seasoned yet cardboardy cornish game hen, and some pieces of bread round out the entree course. The meal made us long for the days of junior and high school cafeteria food (especially Macho Nachos, and BBQ Rib). But enough about the food: the tourney hath begun!

These are the eight kings of our tourney. They hail from Sweden, Norway, Russia, Iceland, and maybe Spain and some other countries in Europe that really hadn't formed by Arthurian times. The historical acumen of the writers of this show is stunningly poor. But anyway, I was tipped off by someone in the audience that the Russian king would cheat to win the joust (even though I wish he would have said "earmuffs" prior to ruining my enjoyment of the night). I engaged him in conversation, telling him that, based on prior experience with Russians, I had assumed some acts of subterfuge from my king. I also expect his children to dote on him as he lays dying and they harass the doctors and nurses, but I digress...

As the tournament started, there was some half-ass trumpeting going on and some amateur-looking pyrotechnics. I also noted that, less children with their parents, we were the only people under forty in the audience. I ALSO began to note a serious lack of pre-gaming on our part, which became far more obvious as the tourney dragged on and I fell asleep as per usual. But from the part I was awake, I remember that there was a lot of prancing, in fact there were about twenty guys and ten gals whose job was simply to prance around the ring engaging in gymnastic feats. There were a full ten drummers, moonlighting from their day jobs as eighties' hair band backup drummers.

And then there were the eight kings. We all agreed that these guys were moonlighting prior to the night showing of "Thunder From Down Under" as they seemed to be a little too ripped for a medieval king. There was some jousting via horses, some swordplay, a mystical Dragon King who appeared in a puff of fire and fought everyone at once. It all came dangerously close to small children several times and I'm just glad no one got hurt. I slept through the ending, which I assume included some type of moralistic lesson from the time of kings, and I'm glad I missed that part.

San Francisco Rooftops aka JK the Cat Burglar

OK, blog fans, I had started a retrospective on my time in India and falling into the Ganges, but the save function didn't work properly, so I'lll whisk you to San Francisco, last week.


I was vacationing in my former place of residency, when this strange incident occurred. I was staying with a friend in an apartment building of around twelve units. The staircase ended in a door to the roof, which needed to be propped open while you walked around on the roof and surveyed the surrounding landscape. It's a great area in Western Addition that includes Alamo Square Park, home to the iconic homes of the Full House television series. My final night home, I made my way back after a night at McTeague's and the Kozy Kar Bar (kind of weird but with comfortable seats).

Prior to leaving, I had a downright bizarre experience with a beautiful French ballerina. For some reason, she patronizes McTeague's once a week despite living in the beautiful East Bay city of Oakland. I barely spoke with her on my first visit there, but after returning from a snack of animal crackers and candy served by my friend Eddie in his apartment, she began talking to me almost immediately. It really seemed like I had to be on hidden camera for the following reasons: A)this woman had no business at McTeague's B)she had no business talking to me, especially because I was wearing a beard that hadn't been shaven in months along with my black-framed dork glasses that I bought with the express purpose of driving away females C)her bizarre behavior to follow.

Despite my best efforts to show almost no interest in this amazingly gorgeous woman, she managed to corner me about my plans for the weekend. I told her that I was just in town for a few days and was leaving for Vegas in the morning. To this, she replied, with the cutest French accent, "Why are you going to Las Vegas? Why not stay here?"

RetiredJK: "Ummm.... cause if I stayed here I would miss my flight to Vegas."
FrenchBallerina: "But what would you miss in Vegas? You should stay."
RJK: "I'm going to my friend's birthday party. There's no argument about this."
FB: "You should stay; you never know."

Never know what? How creepy a hot French ballerina can get after a couple drinks? I don't think I want to stick around for this. At one point, I actually enlisted some friends' assistance in a cock-block setup to get her away from me.

So we parted ways, and she drove off down the road, the wrong way on a one way street in her BMW SUV.

So I trekked home to the Full House apartment and clicked on the baseball highlights. Drawn to the rooftop around three AM to look out on the city, I forgot to block open the door in my haste and forgetfulness. No problemo, I thought, I'll try the keys. No luck. Being the huge guido that I am, I tried to muscle the door open, but to no avail. At this point I first faced the possibility of spending the night on the roof in my shorts (I had changed into shorts upon arrival), a possibility that could be fatal in chilly San Fran. I stood by the edge for about a half hour, waiting for someone trustworthy to walk so I could toss my keys to them in the expectation that they'd actually come up and open the door. But at 4:15 in the morning, there just aren't alot of people walking around, and most that are you wouldn't want to be in posession of your keys.


So I gave up on finding someone to let me in. I check the fire escapes, which I realized would be my only way off the roof in case an inferno engulfed the entire place (no, setting it did not cross my mind). They looked steep. And close to people's windows. And possibly slippery. I sat and meditated on my next step for awhile. At this point, it was closing in on 5 AM. I called my friend who owned the apartment, and dammit, he was staying elsewhere that night! In my time of need, you're gone, and I'm stuck on a rooftop; I think I could make contemporary rock song up about the situation. So I decide that I need to take drastic action, lest a tenant come up to the roof for their morning yoga and find my asleep in my shorts in front of the door. That's not something they call the police for; it's something they call Animal Control for at that point.


I check the two fire escapes and opt for the one away from the street so that, maybe, not as many people will call the police. I shimmied awkwardly down the ladder to the top floor of windows; no lights on. So far, so good. The rest was just stairs albeit thin ones, but I took the final couple floors in a matter of seconds. Only one window was lit and I avoided looking into it. I smashed a potted plant on accident. But when I got to the bottom, I discovered that I was STILL ON A FIRST-FLOOR ROOFTOP.


There was no way out; all the sides were at least twelve feet to the ground with no obvious ways down. Evidently, escaping was not meant to be. Desperately, I surveyed the surrounding territory. The building was attached to a row house by a garage and small garden. However, getting to the ground would require climbing onto the house's windows, garage and fences. At this point, I had no other option. Certain that the police or at least a dog would await me on the ground, I crawled across their oversized stone window sill and down several small rocky shelves in their garden. A security light switched on and I went into stealth mode. Only one more barrier; a six-foot fence to the street. Of course, I couldn't open the gate from the inside and had to scale yet another fence. I sprinted to the apartment building's door, entering just in time to watch the police pass by on the street.



Overall, this morning was a test of my gymnastics, my wits, and my stupidity all at once. Luckily, I took off a few hours later for Vegas, where no one really cares if you're crawling around with glasses on at five in the morning.

Fat Babies, New Jobs, Snowmobiles

Whaddup Staten Island. OK, so I take back what I had said earlier about the discriminatory bar in town. With my tail between my legs and no money in my pocket, I approached the manager for about the fifth time looking for a job. Well, ask (a bunch of times) and you shall receive. I started last Friday and am liking it pretty well. It's minimum wage plus tips, but the real attraction is control over two (2) televisions the entire time I'm there. I don't have any TV's at the cabin, so YouTube gets alot of play, and the radio is pretty entertaining to go along with books. But anyway, when I'm at the bar, I rule the channels with an iron fish. I mean fist. Tom and Jerry is on alot, and so are Looney Tunes. Nebraska games get first priority Saturdays.

I dropped half a bottle of Crown my first day on the job.

Anyway, if I hadn't told you already, I am applying to psychiatry residencies, which I think will be perfect for me. But there is one program administrator who seems to be preoccupied with how I spend my free time: she really wants to know what I've been doing for the last four months. The best I could muster is this: "I hike and fish alot, and soon I'll snowboard alot." I don't know if I'll get anything from them re: an interview.

So has anyone heard about this chubby baby in Colorado who was denied health insurance for being overweight? He's six months and seventeen pounds, and his family was told he couldn't be covered due to being >95th percentile in weight! Alot of people have come to this little glutton's defense, but I for one am taking a stand! Why should I pitch in on insurance for this miniature Augustus Gloop? Someone needs to put their foot down, have an intervention, and say baby, that's enough! You're too fat! And if he doesn't understand the tirade, they should make him fast for a few days to teach him a lesson. You can't just go through life eating everything, lunchbox! You can't just be born into this country expecting insurance when you eat Ho-Ho's and salami all day!!!! Pull it together, baby!

Also, I have increasing amounts of proof that hitting your computer actually does improve its performance. For the longest time, this craptop I'm using to blog would only start up about every fifth time you pressed the button. I fixed that with a few blows to the kidneys, located on the sides of the mousepad. It starts up every time now. It's kind of like holistic medicine for your computer. I mean, there are "Western methods" of fixing a computer, if you have screwdrivers and knowledge and stuff, but when the computer is just out of chi, you need more than a microchip and a wish to fix it. You need to address the source of the problem, which is the computer's inherent evil. Only moderate strikes with an open hand can fix this problem.

So the other day, I learned how to snowmobile... at two in the morning. It's pretty exhilarating, those things can go over a hundred miles per hour! Craziness. I took a couple sweet jumps, but nothing too ridiculous.

A new way to play "Guess Who?"

So yesterday after a dinner of nice Chianti, bruschetta, e pasta a la vodka a la funge portabella, we set out for a board game. This quest began around 10 PM mountain, so finding an open toy store was impossible; trusty Wal-Mart had to suffice. After narrowing our choices to "Twister:Hopscotch" (which could be the name of a Nicholas Cage flick), "Guess Who?", and "Life", we decided upon the former (which would be the second in a series of three.)

I'm sure you remember this game from childhood; it features two boards of 24 matching faces with 24 "draw cards", each portraying one of 24 "characters" in this petty game. You each draw one, ask yes or no questions alternatingly, and thus try to deduce which "character" you opponent has drawn. Usually, the questions go something like this: "Does your person have brown hair?" "Yes. Does your person wear glasses?" Pretty standard. Problem is, this "hyper-objective" approach to the game really dichotomizes people unnecessarily and throws alot of bias into your world. So we came up with a new way to ask questions, a way that involves alot of grey area, which I like. ("How grey?" "Charcoal."--Fletch) (Did you know grey can be spelled with an "a" also? Although greyhound is always spelled with an "e".)

So the new way to ask questions involves alot more personality development and creative thought on the part of the players. Instead of objective questions like, "Is your person bald?," you ask questions like "If your person went Thailand, would he try to engage in child sex?" or "Has your person ever worked in the computer industry?" Believe me, this is much MUCH more fun than the original game, which may I remind you is a children's game primarily intended for the twelve and under demographique.

Here's a little sample of the interplay and witty repartee in which you can hope to engage:

Playa1: "Has your person ever been in a fight and won?"

Playa2: "Never been in a fight. Does your person do Sudoku with any regularity?"

Playa1: "Only when pressured at the office. Has your person ever visited an STD clinic under an assumed name, preferably Ron Mexico?"

Playa2: "Absolutely and on a regular basis. Does your person eat a salad at least six days a week?"

The game is also augmented by random statements about the characters' personal lives, such as: "Maricia is a buck-toothed skank!" and "This guy probably met his wife through mormonmatch.com."

I lost, naturally, as women are far more able to personify a real person from an animated figure on a card. It also helped that she picked Zachary almost every time, cheater.

(Note: Zachary is behind and to the left of the yellow Megan card, sorry this is the best I could find.)