Another Sign of the Coming Apocalypso Festival

For those of you who haven't had enough fish in your vodka lately, your prayers have been answered:

Smoked-Salmon Flavored Vodka

Traditional Russian drinking habits (as opposed to the modern form, which is simple alcoholism in the face of a completely dreary existence - would you look into Putin's eyes and get all warm and fuzzy like the Shrub did?) involve at least as much eating as drinking. Have a bite of something tasty, drink a shot with a friend. Have a bite of something else tasty, have a shot with a stranger. It's all good, you're putting away a lot of protein and carbs to absorb the booze.

(I've heard that Georgians - ex-Soviet Georgians that is, not the US version - can drink like big fishes; is that true?)

So now we have the flavor of the appetizers in the booze. Who needs smoked salmon with sweet butter on black bread when you can have smoked-salmon-flavored vodka? Tastes great, less filling, more drunky more quicky.

This took a long time, and lots of work. So now we have smoked salmon vodka and bacon vodka. I have a really delicious bottle of tarragon-flavored vodka (a traditional Georgian flavoring). There are many more flavors out there, but most of them are sweet flavors such as vanilla, various berries, etc. There is also Pertsovka, the chili-pepper vodka (which is painfully, volcanically hot, by the way).

What's next: Pizza-flavored vodka? Swiss chard? Liver-and-onions?

Next up, the Kosher Pastrami on Rye vodka, just in time for Passover. Gotta work up a label for that one. I wonder what you'd call it?

Crap and Holy Crap

Sewer goes again - thank god for Rapid Rooter. Fixed in an afternoon.

The very next morning, RG starts getting really really dizzy, which she later describes to me as a feeling of wanting to go to sleep. Also, the house smells kind of like burning. She's telling me this on the phone, so I suggest she turns off the heater now now now.

The oil company man comes in this morning and gives me a quote of $4,000!!!! for a new oil heater. So this, since I don't necessarily want to kill off prospective buyers of this, our beautiful but toxic home, seems fair.

We had a nice weekend, except for my cold. Spent in the lovely Edgefield Inn in Troutdale, OR (just outside of Portland), where I drank too much, we both ate too much, and we found a place on our way out of town called John's Marketplace, way out on Multnomah Blvd.

Every beer ever.

A large cooler of nothing but large bottles. Another large cooler of foreign brews at the appropriate temperature. Yet another large cooler of nothing but six-packs. Shelf upon shelf of excellent beers that they didn't have room for in the coolers. I am working my way through them.

Siletz beers won in the popularity contest: the Spruce Ale (made with real spruce tips, so it smells a little like a Christmas tree) was not what I was hoping for. A little weak. The Siletz Oatmeal Cream Stout (made with oats and lactose - hence the "cream") is a rich, chocolatey brew with undertones of coffee and an overall thumping in the back of the head feel. Last but not least is an organic fresh hop ale from a brewery I can't remember (I'll post it later). Yummy. Similar to the Sierra Nevada Fresh Hop Ale in body and nose. I have the Hair of the Dog Double IPA, a Deschuttes brewery Hop Trip Ale, and Siletz Chocolate Porter (made with real chocolate) left to drink. I suspect I'll be done by Friday, though I may reserve one for Saturday night, as I expect Saturday will be a day of pain and heavy lifting.

To explain: the poetry appreciation chair must be moved into storage. A 1920s antique optometrist's chair, it's really cool, but large, heavy and currently only used for hanging things off of. Then there's everyone's favorite futon and frame, which must also find pride of place in our storage unit, until we have a larger home to put them into. Then, to accommodate the fellers installing our new furnace, I need to move six sheets of drywall from the top of the stairs to somewhere they won't be in the way.

Then drinking.

Then dinner.

Then dirnking.

thndrknvdfof

On The Rude Again

September 16, 2007 Tracy, CA

Barnes & Noble cafe, with coffee and cheesecake from that Factory where they make Cheesecake.

Why doesn't the "Factory" thing clue me in a little? Tastes just like a factory.

Wearing an earwig for my phone has turned out to be a really good thing. I can better hear the person I'm talking to, and they can hear me. On the other hand, having Tom D saying "You've got something in your ear" over and over gets a little wearing...

The Last Depot September 11-17, 2007

A long time to be on the road. Nice people, all of them: Tom D, Robert W, Gail G and Mark S, with a Special Guest Appearance by Chris S (AKA, the Big Boss).

I arrived on the anniversary of the Big Bang in New York City. I'm not sure why but my flight was full. I was hoping a few people would stay home, but no such luck. I arrived before my teammates and began my work, unboxing what seemed like an endless parade of dumb terminals and big printers.

Fire Drill

While we all hang around outside a building that would have considerable difficulty in catching fire. Concrete, steel, metal studs and modern drywall. Oh, yeah... the Desks. Big Goddamned Desks. Crammed up against walls so that it's impossible to find the ethernet jacks.

Not without getting a shiny new hernia, anyway.

Desks made of thick, solid wood. Excellent burning profile. So I guess, don't smoke at (or under) your desk.

Back to unboxing. For all of my company's attempts to be and do Green, everything I unpack is made stable with lots and lots of Styrofoam. Enough to fill a 6' x 6' x 8' dumpster.

Once I'm done for the day, I go to the hotel to await my comrades-in-nerd. Dinner is at Chevy's, a mildly authentic Mexican chain. The beers take for-f**king-ever. The food is acceptable. Road food. What is it, exactly, that makes us choose the restaurants we do? The food almost invariably seems canned (even the rice).

The Wednesday From Hell

Everything going relatively smoothly, though I've misled myself about how many terminals I have to deploy. We thought we had world enough and time, but found ourselves at 5:15 PM (45 minutes from when we said we'd be done for the day) with issues out the kazoo. We end up working until 8:20 PM (nearly 14-1/2 hours), which put us at 9 hours between meals. And Chris S is just arriving, so we wait for her to join us in this new food adventure.

We go to a restaurant called Texas BBQ. As soon as I get past the blare of country-western music (yep - both kinds) at the door, across the floor with the used-peanut shell coating, I was presented with what looked like a butcher's case. Row after row of steaks.

Thick

Juicy

Meat

We didn't talk too much. Too tired. Chris S was subjected to Tom D and Robert W's drinking habits (endless Coors Light). I'm usually annoyed by my cow-orkers' insistence on drinking cheap, weak beer. But Gail G had something I'd only read about in horror novels - the Red Beer. Beer and tomato juice.

That's just wrong.

Thursday in the Cold

Work, work, work. I'm the only one crazy enough to work in our refrigerated buildings without a jacket. I dunno, they're bulky, they get in the way, and I tend to overheat in them, which makes me sweat, which freeeeeeezes to my body. Lots of workstations, and it all comes together pretty quickly. We eat breakfast at the International House of Carbohydrates. And again, I think about why we eat where we do on these trips. In this town, the choices are admittedly limited, but surely there must be something better...

Wound up at 6 (on time) and everyone wanted to go to the Olive Drab Garden. Italian food created by a marketing department trying make Italian food more "acceptable." Less "unusual."

You know - bland.

I begged off.

My cow-orkers are mystified by my antisocial behavior on these trips. Part of this has to do with the restaurants that seem to be popular with everyone else, but a big part of it is my own peculiar psychopathology. As I've told every therapist I've ever been to, my feelings about this are based on a joke by Groucho Marx: "I would never want to belong to a club that would have someone like me for a member."

Funny, but also sick.

It's not like I feel like I'm above these people; snobbery is only called for when you can look down on someone. And I only get really condescending when I'm drunk (on really good beer). I am in awe of people who do the kind of work we do and gain a measure of satisfaction from it. You plug the cable into the switch and the light changes from off to yellow to green. Happiness!!!

Which I do feel, but for such a fleeting moment it's not enough to base a career on. I meet people who've been working at my company for over twenty years, and are moving very slowly up the food chain. I used to think it would be easier for me to do some sort of menial job for a straight eight-hour workday, so I could free up the little grey cells for the creative stuff after work. I'm usually so wasted after that kind of day, that all I can think about is beer, food and TV.

Friday, Near the Edge of Done

Again strange food.

The work moves along smoothly, not much for us hardware folks to do. I feel a bit bad for the boss, as until the network is perfect, the hardware part is as far along as it can be.

She leaves after lunch. And I'll I can think of is "nap time."

Dinner at Texas again. More meat. And this time, bourbon - Woodford Reserve, gotta get me some.

Got it all Did

Saturday morning cleanup. Spent an hour and a half, carefully moving one cable after another to create a neater appearance and better organization in a network hub called an IDF box. I still don't know what that stands for.

Intermediate Data Fuhhhhhhh....

No food til noon.

As soon as Tom D saw the PBR tap, he knew this was the right place. We waited for a table. Waited for beer. Waited for beer. Waited for beer. Got wings. GOT BEER. Got wrong food. Everyone else got right food. Stopped waiting. GOT RIGHT FOOD. Tom D was not going to have another beer. Neither was Robert W. Robert W orders more beer for him and Tom D. I order more beer.

Everyone else leaves.

Nothing much to do do until the next morning. Play on the internet, nap, watch bad cable. Bought a bottle of Woodford Reserve, but won't open it until I get home.

Resident Men In Evil Black Blade 2

Work on Sunday lasts about four hours. Lots of cleanup, lots of packing. Back to the hotel, and on to Barnes and Noble. Which is where I write this diary up. Off to a very good, bloody movie, called 3:10 to Yuma. Terrific performances from Russell Crowe and Christian Bale. Dinner at a brewpub in Manteca (Lard?) California, called Kelley's Brewery. Lightish beers and lightish Fish & Chips. Not terrible, just not much to write home about.

Monday starts at 6. Ends at 6. Including a flight home, more cleaning, and an epileptic seizure in the airport.

Just like every other day.

Traveling with Crazy People for Fun and Profit!

Friends, Romans, Countrymen -

Get me the F**K outta here!!!

I digress...

I traveled to a lovely garden spot on the east coast of our dear Nation. I'm not revealing names or places for the protection of the innocent.

And if you can find anyone innocent in this crew, I'll give you money.

The Flight In

First of all, it takes forever. You start fairly early in the morning, just to show up. Then the flight is meant to last five and a half hours. During which (if you're willing to pay) you can have a burger-y thing or canned tuna and applesauce. If you're not willing to pay, a cookie and pretzels are what you have to look forward to, along with all the free water or soda or juice they can stock on the plane. All of which sounds OH, so appealing. There's also five dollar beer or wine or cocktails. Which I should have had, except I'm trying to do homework or entertain my brain with a fairly kinky novel set in the sex-trade industry of Thailand. Bangkok 8. Great mystery novel, and darn weird.

So, as we're approaching our destination, the pilot comes on to tell us (in faint, static-y wisps of english that still required translation via the stewardess) that we would be circling for a little while, as there was terrible wind shear, and an attempt at a normal landing might end up with all of us nose-down in the Atlantic ocean. So we circled.

And circled.

And circled.







And circled.


Then an approach was begun, from waaaaaay far out there.

The flight ended up being about an hour longer than originally anticipated.

We then split up into our respective cars, me with Robert W, Tom D with Amy G, and Heidi G with Jim R. (I think - I may have the dance cards mixed up) I immediately misdirected Robert (who was being closely followed by one of the other cars) onto the wrong offramp from the airport. We quickly recovered, and found ourselves on the right turnpike, heading south. Got to the hotel, checked in, showered, scoured, and headed out for the evening to a restaurant called Charlie Brown's (which I'd never been in). Drinking begins in earnest for the trip.

Food and Drink

Jim is the teetotaler of the bunch, and speaks of his drinking days with a certain fondness. Heidi dives into a watermelon (I think - pink for sure) martini. Amy orders water?!? I order a guiness draft. Robert and Tom order a pitcher of pee. AKA Coors Light. And proceed to drink it down in less than five minutes.

Another pitcher. Then large slabs of meat.

The work we do at the location, well, the less said the better, since it only makes sense to those of us doing it, and to outsiders it might sound like a big yawn. Or a big clusterf**k. Except that it all went pretty well. There was, however, flatulence - hence the above link.

Our first breakfast (the next day) is at a strange little countrified place that used to be someone's living room, or maybe their sunporch. The food involves various remakes of eggs, pork and velveeta. Comfort food for people who want to become uncomfortable. We actually eat here more than once.

We also eat at a little Italian place that appears to make a dozen different types of pizza, grinders, and salads, and they bring the food out to you. Genuinely Italian, the food has depth, subtlety and FLAVOR, and I could have easily gone through twenty slices of pizza without getting bored. I might have died, but I'd have died happy. We only manage to eat here twice.

Dinner conversation at TGI Fridays: "Throw her nuts on mine," "Put it in my mouth, now," the Dessert Exchange, "Open up." And my favorite, a new band name: "Jerry Springer Spaniel." Severe drinking. Margaritas, mojitos and beer (oh, my!).

The next evening, on our way to the best food of the trip, the conversation gets, well... a little of the old TMI. Nipples referred to as "party hats," certain sexual practices, High-Def pornography, "a** pimples," small hands, "a little head is OK"...

You get the picture.

The food is fantabulous! It's a BYO restaurant, so we first hit up the little tiny liquor store down the strip mall for six packs and airplane bottles of liquor. I find a beer called Hopnotic IPA, which is pretty darn tasty. Others are ordering Coke and adding booze to it. The food... the food...

Raw oysters and clams on the half shell, a ceviche of squid, scallops, and crab claws. Shrimp with a very decent cocktail sauce. And deep-fried rock shrimp with some kind of hot sweet sauce. Everyone orders large entrees, too. One order brings up yet another strange quote of the day, possibly the best one of the trip:

"Easier to get rid of veal than crabs."

I can't top that.

We leave a day early. Another long day full of sleep and homework, and a lovely novel called Clowngirl, by Monica Drake, whom Chuck Palahniuk refers to as his "Arch-Enemy." Which is quite a compliment, coming from him.

Goodnight for now.