I think I just found the Houghton, MI version of L-Dog:

http://www.backroomup.com/about/management.html

Today I spent money, which I probably should not. I joined the local art museum which has become very good over the years, and also bought my mom’s birthday present which was a Joan Miró tote bag.

I also got all my hair chopped off by a beautiful Russian woman for $12.95.

Tonight I took Mom out for her birthday, which was the 75th so a big deal. Dinner at Pascal which is a rare treat. We had the prix fixe which consisted of:

Beet salad with goat cheese, hazelnuts, sherry vinaigrette
Vermouth steamed black mussels with onion, tomato, basil, and parmesan chips
Day boat scallops with portobello mushrooms, cipollino onions, & sage cream
Herb crusted rack of lamb with eggplant and mashed potato
Chocolate mousse cake with chocolate dipped strawberry

All washed down with an Alexander Valley Zinfandel.

GOOD LORD THAT WAS A GOOD MEAL. I don’t eat that way any more, but fortunately this was small courses of really good food rather than a Stuff-Stuff with Heavy experience. The beet salad was a foodgasm. Horribly expensive, but she only gets one 75th birthday.

Tomorrow I shall gnaw on a crispbread

He was betrayed, tortured, humiliated, and killed and rose from the grave to save us. He gave us Communion and said: do this in remembrance of me.

Let’s buy movie tie-ins instead! (Reuters story here)

If I could sum up the American religion in one phrase it would be this:

Products are prayer.

I was talking last night with an acquaintance who works for one of the big networked gaming companies.

He was in the front office the other day when some customers arrived in person. This is never a good thing at a place like that. They arrived in force: four very typical young East Asian So Cal kids, spiky hair and Nikes and sunglasses and looking tough. There was a ringleader and his three homies backing him up.

“WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU?” said the alpha customer?

“I”m Firstname Lastname and I work here, how can I help you?”

“YOU CANCELLED MY ACCOUNT, ASSHOLE. WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU THINK YOU’RE DOING?”

“Okay, give me your account name and I’ll find out.”

The account name was “Homogay”.

“Sir, you might have some idea why we cancelled that.”

“THAT’S MY NAME, MAN! THAT’S MY FUCKING NAME!”

The guy said his name was something like Hernando Omogay.

“Sir, do you have ID on you today so I can verify that?”

“No! Fuck you!” etc etc

As the guy left he asked if they were hiring, because he had always wanted to work there.

I am a story vampire. My own life is not worth living, so I suck the weirdness out of those around me to live. The blood is not sweet, but it’s salty and has bite.

• A friend’s roommate was going out tonight to lead a church study group about a self-help book she has not read, but claims to have. In preparation she was making “chocolate chip cookies” but had no chocolate chips, so she was smashing unsweetened baker’s chocolate with a hammer to make some.
• A local character who has a degenerative, progressive, crippling neural disorder spends his disability check each month on a new bicycle. He then gives his old bicycle away for a pittance, and inevitably then runs out of disability at the end of each month and couch surfs or begs money from others. He won’t take formal charity because it restricts his lifestyle. When the next check arrives it’s new bicycle time.
• The young, energetic man with the pretty face who works at the supermarket is solicitous of old ladies. He has a fresh Harry Belafonte sort of look with madness just about 1 cm behind the eyes, bulging out. His spiel is quick and repeated often: “A lot of ladies just say they want to adopt me! I’m a get along guy, I try to make things work in life. I tell you, I can put a lot into a situation.” After a year he disappears from the market and is only seen in the company of a fur-clad 90something with perfect platinum perm hair. They roar by miserably in her Jaguar on their way home from the IHOP.
• A group of middle-aged failed men practically lives at the coffeehouse. They sit together and agree on the world’s great issues; they affirm each other’s business acumen, experience, and common sense; and they plot. They say things to each other like: “You get paid 60 hours for 40 hours work, and that’s the beauty of the thing!” or “That’s what I’m SAYIN!” or “You the MAN!” or “The trouble is, a guy like Eisner isn’t ever going to understand what his real business is.”
• Most afternoons, the alcoholic bartender arrives at the sports bar next door about 4 pm. He wears shirts with beer bottle prints. He yells at the TV so loud you can hear him a block away. He yells at his coworkers, his customers, his parents. He wants the world to shut the fuck up, to give him head now!, to make the fucking play. He hates retards and faggots and fuckin’ losers. His parents own the restaurant. He has sex with lonely women who later regret it.
• The one-legged diabetic with the permanent wave 1970 toupée has his favorite chair and his favorite spot and clings to them desperately. He’s had jobs selling wireless phones and leather jackets on and off over the years but he spends a lot of time sitting. Someone said he once had an apartment manager gig but lost it because someone found some cameras rigged up around the place.

And then, ya know, there’s me.

And sometimes people just look good even in unfinished hats [jpg, 85k]