Garage Sale Lightweight

We had our neighborhood garage sale this weekend and apparently I missed the big picture. The advertisement my neighbor Chris posted in the newspaper slated the start time for 9:00 am and ending at 4:00. By 8:00 am Saturday morning he and his wife had 5 large folding tables piled with items to sell. We hadn’t even started breakfast. My wife Linda walked the Portland to Coast Race this weekend leaving the girls and I to handle the garage sale. It’s the largest walk race of it’s kind with over 400 teams made up of 10 - 12 walkers each and lasts two days. This was her first year in the race and my first garage sale.

Chris had two televisions, furniture, books, and box after box filled with Taiwanese junk. He has two sources of income which he refers to as “my companies.” The first is a printing business where he takes a photo submitted by the customer and prints it on a Wheaties box just like the real ones you buy in the store with someone famous on the front. He’s the inventor or creator or whatever you’d call it of this idea and I believe he does a comfortable business with it. His second source of income, however, is from importing crap from Taiwan and China and hocking it to the lowest common denominator. Plastic 3-D puzzles, half sized coloring books with hard waxy crayons included, and spongy rubber holiday decorations are just a few of the items he sells.

A few months ago we ran into each other on our way to work. I to my office and he to his warehouse which another neighbor clarified for me, “It’s just a storage unit that he calls his warehouse.” This particular morning he had a new item to import and was anxious to talk to me about helping out. He held up a pencil made entirely from recycled Chinese newspapers. “You can even see little bits of Chinese writing there if you look closely,” he said. He had normal, pencil length versions and short stubby versions and it seemed he wanted me to get my company to buy great loads of the short version. “These would be great for handing out as promo items. Just imagine printing the logo right here at the end. It’d be a great marketing tool.”

This was yesterdays idea though and now as he prepared for the onslaught of garage sale buyers he arranged boxes and boxes of holiday decorations. Christmas and halloween mostly but there were a few strings of green leprechaun lights as well. I looked back at my driveway and his eyes followed.

We had a single item - a toddler bed that’s been sitting in our garage for the past six months taking up space. Is that all you’ve got,” he asked?”

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Yukon Denali Hybrid - Research & Review Friday

I’ve lived in Portland two separate times. The first time, 13 years ago, was for a year and a half and this time around I’ve been her seven years. Linda and I had originally moved from New York City for a new job with Adidas. Like most people living in New York we didn’t own cars so upon arriving in Portland we needed two. Since budgets were tight back then we decided on a new-ish car for Linda and our brand new baby girl Gretchen which meant the options for my commuter car were limited. We drove back and forth across Portland 15 times looking for the perfect deal. At one dealership we ran into a man I’ll call Juan. He was short and wore a deep red satin shirt under a blazer I guessed was cut in the mid 70’s. His black hair was slicked back and upon seeing us he nearly sprinted to our car. “What can kind of car can I put you into today,” he asked?

When car shopping I like to keep things surface believing if I remain aloof I’ll be able to shop in peace. In truth, it never works out this way and Juan was intent on proving me wrong. I mentioned I was looking for something small, “Just a commuter to get back and forth to work. I’m not looking for anything special,” I added. He suggested we take a look at a small import on the far side of the lot. It’s my experience that car salesmen will generally make small talk if there’s any dead air time but not Juan, he smoked. And he moved so fast Linda and I had to jog walk to keep up.

“What d’you think of this one,” he asked when we arrived. It was one of those really, really tiny Honda’s, I think. This one was a pale metallic blue and had a mismatched driver’s side door. He suggested I take a seat and when he opened the door I was welcomed by the unmistakable trace of a heavy smoker. Not a smoker myself this in and of itself was a deal breaker but there were so many more reasons I didn’t like the car. Being the shrewd salesman that he was, Juan picked up on my distaste and asked, “What’s wrong with this car?” And then he kind of leaned in a way that suggested, “Don’t make me ask twice.”

“I don’t smoke.”

“So. We can clean that up no problem. This is a good car, buddy. I’ve got a list of people who want a car like this.”

“Really,” I asked? I pointed out that it had over 200,000 miles on it and he reminded me it was a Honda. “But there’s a cigarette burn hole in the seat.”

And this is where Juan got really pushy wondering what my problem was. There were lots of other cars on the lot but in Juan’s mind this was the jewel of the dealership. There was an uncomfortable pause where Juan took a few long drags on his cigarette then added, “Listen, if you don’t like this car then I don’t think I can show you anything else. This car is perfect for you and if you can’t see that then maybe you should go.”

I agreed and Linda and I began walking back to our car. I thought he might chase us down, try another tactic but he didn’t.

-




I’ve had lots of requests for reviews so let me know early if you have something in mind so I can give it plenty of attention.

Today I’m going to give you the facts on GMC’s Yukon Denali Hybrid. This request came from a mother of 5 who currently drives an Infinity QX56 and is tired of filling the tank. While the Infinity is a well made, reliable car it’s not my favorite for styling and it only gets 12/18 in the two-wheel drive version and 12/17 in the four. It was also requested that I not include mini vans in my research which leads me to the Denali Hybrid.

As a general rule I don’t recommend American made cars because I think they lack heavily in the styling department and don’t seem as reliable. But when it comes to the larger truck class, I think American manufacturers lead the pack. The Denali Hybrid is well styled and well equipped with 12 way heated and cooled front seats, standard Bose® sound system and a multimedia navigation system. The big news though is the hybrid factor which pulls in an impressive 21 city/ 22 hwy mpg. And apparently if you’re so inclined, you can fold both rows of back seats down flat and pack your entire patio in the back. I’d suggest a test drive.



I give the GMC Yukon Denali Hybrid 4 out of 5 stars

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Changing

As a clothing designer I spend about 70% of my time in meetings. Linda often wonders as we catch up at the end of the day, “What can you possibly meet about all day long? And how are you supposed to design if you’re stuck in meetings that much?” I spend half of the remaining 30% of my workday wondering the same thing.

Today I attended a meeting called by a woman I’ve met with several times before, but not recently. Her name is Sue and the last time I saw her she had long brown hair worn down in a sort of uncontrolled mess. It seemed to fit her valley-girl accent and loose fitting, earthy style clothing. I actually found myself looking to see if she wore shoes the first time we were introduced. She did.

Today, though in our meeting I didn’t recognize Sue right away. She still wore her hair down, long and messy. And she still wore the earthy styled look, though this time rather than hanging slack and wrinkled, her clothes were drawn tight against her now bulging frame. It has only been 4 months or so since I last saw this woman and I was caught off guard by such a dramatic change.

My design work is seasonal, requiring me to work feverishly four times a year producing four collections. We’ve recently kicked off a new season meaning I should be taking advantage of every spare minute and working my way through the collection. Seeing Sue in such a state of change threw me off and has me distracted. I’ve been there before, or at least felt that way until I found the ultimate solutions.

I’ve decided beginning Tuesday I’ll post a selection from my journal documenting my discovery of this little weight loss miracle and how it impacted my life.

Remember - tomorrow is Research & Review Friday.

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Garage Sale

We found a plain white paper flyer in our mailbox today reading, “Ready. . .? Set. . .? To join in the fun?” Our neighbor Chris, who lives across the street, has been planning a street wide garage sale for weeks and must have decided these catchy flyers were all that was left to draw us in. He’s 60-ish and tends to blurt out demands in place of conversation. Socially we’re not horribly close but like catch up with one another a few times a week from across the street, which is how the garage sale invitation first arrived. I was emptying the trash when he shouted to me, “Christian, we’re doing a garage sale. It’ll probably be next week so make sure you’re ready.” It was clear he meant the “we” as in you and I.

Chris means well and is a fantastic neighbor but tends to forget simple boundaries, like a shut door. We first learned this a summer or two ago when it seemed he needed to borrow a tool. In his defense, he did give a quick knock before letting himself in while frantically shouting my name, “Christian, Christian, I need to borrow a pipe wrench.” When he didn’t find me in the living room he moved to the dining room followed by the kitchen, which was where Linda met him. Caught him, really. I would have liked to see the look on her face but was in the basement and missed the entire thing.

With the arrival of today’s flyer I’m worried if we don’t participate he’ll come knocking again. And we all know what that means.

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Keep Portland Weird

When driving around Portland it’s common to see a bumper sticker reading ‘Keep Portland Weird’. They’re always printed in the same bold black letters on the same bright yellow background and I usually see a few each week. While Portland does have its fair share of odd people, it’s generally assumed they stick to downtown or congregate on the east side of town. I live in what would be considered the “Westside” and work in Beaverton, which is further west still. If Portland can be considered kitschy and eclectic then Beaverton is just the opposite.

The other day I was in the Costco across the street from my office grabbing lunch when someone caught my eye. This person was driving around in one of those electric convenience trikes that beep when they back up and are generally reserved for the very old or very, very heavy. Neither old nor heavy, what first caught my eye was this person’s hair, which was an unnatural brown and sat motionless atop its owner’s head in big loopy curls. It reminded me of Dustin Hoffman in ‘Tootsie’ which brings me to the owner’s face which had a heavy 5 o’clock shadow set against long angular features. In and of itself no big deal, right? Before me was simply a man who could use a shave while wearing a wig meant for a woman and riding around in the bright red trike meant for the handicapped.

This particular man, though, was wearing a dress printed with brightly colored flowers and he had on long white gloves running up each arm. “Hmm, driving gloves,” I thought to myself. Because he was seated I couldn’t get an accurate gauge on his height but if I had to guess, I’d say he was well over 6 feet. Maybe something like 6 foot 5; his gangly legs stuck out so far from the ill-fitting dress he was forced to rest them awkwardly to one side of the steering column. What I liked best though, was the knee high nylons he wore which barely made it halfway up his calves. Slack and lifeless, they were nude in color and and painted a stark contrast against his paper white skin and the thick dark hair that covered his legs. Here was a guy who liked wearing women’s clothing but wasn’t trying to hide a thing. It seems Portland’s Westside will not be unnoticed when it comes to bringing the weird.

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Massage Therapy?

I threw my back out the other day and could hardly stand up straight. It’s something I do about 2 to 3 times a year then suffer through a week or so long recovery. It’s always the same spot along my spine, always about the same amount of pain, and it nearly always takes the same amount of time to recover. “You should stretch more often mister,” my wife Linda will tell me. And she’s right, I should, but like most men the pain associated with stretching is worse than anything my back can throw at me in the course of a week. “Besides,” I think, “It really doesn’t hurt that much the first day or two. And by the last couple of days, I’m pretty much better. So, really, that only leaves me 3 days of real agony.” And then I hobble off to the couch where I sit propped up by a pillow or two, one leg outstretched and try my best to find a comfortable position where Linda and I might watch a show before bed.

A few years ago we were visiting family in Utah when my back went out. I blamed it on the long drive and might have mentioned my pain a few hundred times. And I might have said it in front of enough people that my mother-in-law decided on an early birthday present. “Christian, I know your birthday isn’t for a few months but I think I’ll give you this years gift a bit early,” she said.

“Oh, I couldn’t accept that,” I complained. “It just wouldn’t seem right.”

She pressed on, though. “I thought I’d treat you to a massage.” Maybe I’d whined a bit too much about but my back, really gone on about it to the point my in-laws didn’t know how else to shut me up, but at the mention of massage my head spun and I forgot about anything else.

“Well,. . . if you insist.”

“I do. Go. Now. I’ll call ahead and have it arranged.”

I’d never had a massage before and wasn’t sure what to expect. After checking in with the receptionist, I was led back to a dimly lit room where it was suggested I remove my clothing, dress in a heavy cotton robe, then wait in a room they referred to as the “meditation” room. This was a room filled with wicker furniture and a single coffee table that had one of those Zen sand gardens. The ones filled with powder white sand and a little rake and a big rock glued down at one end. Apparently raking patterns in a tiny sand pile helps some people relax but this was my first time sitting in a public room dressed in nothing but a robe and I was too worried the flimsy tie might come undone. I think the knot in my neck actually cinched up a bit while I waited. “Should I cross my legs,” I wondered, “or recline a bit and act casual.”

When the masseuse arrived to invite me back to my private massage room I noticed she was petite and had long blond hair. She was dressed in black and wore small black satin slippers that padded as I followed her down the hall. She spoke in whispers and mentioned her name was Brittany, I think. I also noticed she was pregnant. Very pregnant.

The actual massage room was so dimply lit I could hardly see the table where I was asked to lay between two sheets. There was some new age music playing in the background and a scented candle, coconut as I remember. Brittany went right to work and within a few minutes I slipped into a relaxed sleep. Almost. I say almost because just above the background noise of the music and the sound of Brittany’s hands as they worked the knot in my lower back, I heard a small but distinct ‘pfffffttttt’. “Did I just hear what I think I heard,” I wondered. And then, over the smell of coconut came confirmation.

Brittany sensed the proof too and whispered, “Excuse me,” but I just couldn’t get past the moment.

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Research & Review - The Pen is mightier when it's MINE

My wife Linda has got this thing for pens. Well, pen anyway and until recently it had me worked into a jealous fit. She formed this little love affair about a year and a half ago with a pen called the ‘Sarasa’ which is made by a company called ‘Zebra’. She likes hers in the 0.7 size and they come in every color under the sun of which she owns at least two per color. I find them piled 12 deep in our junk drawer, next to the phone, and stuffed chock full into the pencil can sitting by the family computer. Each a little reminder that I myself don’t have my own special pen. Well, didn’t until recently when I laid claim to my own personal little gem.

I’ve been secretly on the hunt for months now all the while thinking, “I’m the one who should have my own signature writing tool not her. I mean, I’m the designer, right? I make my living sketching clothing and with what, the scraps I find laying around the office?” I was motivated.

I’m picky though and so my research took some time. A pen is something you have to hold in your hand and feel how it writes, you know, take it for a test drive. I had to put feet on the ground for this research project while all the while keeping it a secret from Linda. She might call during my lunch hour wondering how I was doing, find out what I was up to. “Oh nothing,” I’d say with a sly grin. “Just, you know, grabbing a bite.”

The pen I decided to call my very own is the ‘Itoya Finepoint System’ in a .4 just like in the picture. It writes nice enough but what really spoke to me was the name, “Now this is the pen for me, I mean it’s a ‘System’ for crying out loud. I deserve the complete package and not some simple click pen, don’t I,” I wondered?

My new writing system also has a really cool micro-texture which gives it a great feel in my hand and I’m really into grey right now so that’s a nice bonus. Pick one up for yourself.

I give this pen a 4.5 out of 5

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Spend, spend, spend

If I plan on spending more than a couple bucks on something I tend to do a bit of research. And by a bit I mean a lot. I can squirrel away 73 hours simply in the weed out process while I determine if an object in question even merits serious consideration.

A year or so ago I was toying with the idea of selling my car which in turn meant I’d need a new one; which in turn lead to a little research. One night Linda interrupted my process with a question, “Are you looking up cars on the internet. . . again?”

“Yes.”

“Seriously? Do you realize we’re on vacation?”

I did, which is precisely why I felt entitled to a bit of relaxation - and research. While others may catch a television show or knit a baby cap to relieve stress, I do research. I find it’s a great way to relax and get a bit of work done at the same time. To most this may seem an oxymoron but to me it’s the bees knees. “And while I’ve got the search engine open,” I think, “why not check into a few future purchases as well. I know at some point I’ll be in the market for a new power tool and figure why not do a little checking while it’s convenient. Just scratch the surface you know. After all, I have the time, I’m on vacation.”

My siblings know about my knack for price/product exploration and tend to call me before making purchases of their own. Video cameras, lawn mowers, or kitchen appliances - they call me first. Conversations open with things like, “I’m looking for a new cell phone, what do you recommend?” and “My toaster just broke, do you know anything about a new one?” Recently my sister Stephanie called asking, “I can’t imagine you’ve been looking for a new washer and dryer but would you mind. . .?”

And I cut her off, “Look into some recommendations? I’m on it.” She knows as well as anybody that I deliver results.

On this note I’ve decided to add a weekly feature to my blog. I’m going to post it each Friday and I think I’ll call it ‘Research & Review’. I’ll just post a little piece about something I’m researching so we can all enjoy the benefits of useless knowledge about something you nor I will ever buy.

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Crack and Crunch

My older brother Cameron has been injured. He called to tell me about it on Saturday while driving home, a bit loopy from the meds he was on. It seems he was backpacking with a group of kids from church and decided it was a good idea to jump down a waterfall. When his foot found the jagged rocks below he heard the crack. “Christian, it hurt so bad. I actually heard my foot snap,” he said. “In fact, I think it cracked and crunched - and I heard both.”

It was at this point in his story that I thought to myself, “Ha, it serves you right for being out of shape.” I quickly followed this thought up with another, “How does one get in shape for jumping down a waterfall and into perilously jagged rocks below?” And besides, I can’t really talk as the title holder in the ‘Broken Parts Olympics' competing in a family of 7 children. Wrists, feet, ribs and face - I’ve broken more things than anyone I know. Sure we’ve all heard of the guy who’s broken every bone in his body in a motorcycle accident, but really, has anyone ever met that guy? Seen him with their own two eyes? I sure haven’t.

Cameron had the fortune of having a doctor in his camp and after examining the injury the doctor decided he’d suffered a broken foot. “Possibly in two places,” is what my brother reported in a floating around in the clouds sort of voice which, in turn, lead me wonder about Cameron’s claim of hearing both the “crack and crunch.” As a brother of pain, quite literally, I can relate though. Drugs or no drugs, he was hurting.

“Did you throw up dude,” I asked? “Because that’s the litmus test - you break a bone, nine times out of ten you throw up.” I won’t go into the one time it wasn’t true, which happened to my wife Linda in a bicycle accident. I insisted though, stuck with my theory, you know, and to this day I’m still paying for it. How was I to know flying over the handlebars could snap a wrist? I don’t really have any experience with delicate injuries.

Following a visit to the hospital, a two-man tug-of-war to straighten things out, a cast and x-rays it turns out there was no broken bones. He did suffer multiple torn ligaments and tendons and whatnot, which in my opinion is far worse. Once again, I know, I speak from experience.

A few years ago I tore my achilles tendon, which is the worst thing I’ve ever suffered through. I did it on the basketball court and to this day like to include when I recount the incident, “I heard it tear, in fact, everyone on the court heard it. And most of the guys were on the far end of the court.”

True story.

I don’t envy my brother Cameron; he’s got a lot of hard work ahead of himself. I’ve never met a harder worker in my life though, and that’s a fact. I’ve seen it with my own two eyes.

- Good Luck Cameron.

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Da Bomb?

A few weeks ago while traveling for work I had dinner at a Mexican restaurant. Tacos Rancheros or something and it came highly recommended by our hotel concierge. Patti, the woman I was traveling with backed this recommendation up with an online review. She carries an iphone and read about it on the way over. I’ve noticed people who carry the iphone tend to whip them out a couple thousand times a day while exclaiming things like, “I just don’t know how I lived without this,” or “You should get one of these, they make my life so easy.”

I never know how to respond when it comes to the iphone. I’ve owned Apple computers most of my life and I love them and I’m fiercely loyal to them. When it comes to the iphone, though, I haven’t been converted. I like the idea of it but hear mixed reviews. “The gadgets part is great, the phone part sucks,” or “This would be perfect except AT&T’s service is crap.” To me it feels like the dirty bridge between PC people and Apple people and I’m not sure I want any part of it.

Tacos Rancheros turned out to be horrible with the staff being even worse. At least the woman serving us was. There were two other servers and I noticed they spent the evening sprinting from table to table, causing them to sweat profusely but it did allow them to cover all but a single table - ours. I wondered who had it worse as our server stood chatting up the bartender leaving us unattended for long periods of time.

Our waitress was named Rosa, I think, and she seemed burdened by our presence. More interested in maintaining her love life at the bar, she had long black hair and a casual swagger suggesting she had all the time in the world. Prior to taking our order, Rosa asked if we’d like anything to drink. I don’t drink and ordered a Diet Coke but Patti had questions. “What do you recommend,” she asked? “I was thinking about a martini but don’t like anything too sweet. How’s the pepper martini?”

“Oh that one’s da bomb,” said Rosa.

Da bomb? Our server was hispanic with a thick accent and her response caught me off guard. Patti found the martini extremely sweet finishing only half. We paid at the door after growing tired of waiting for Rosa to return from chatting up the bartender. It turned out ‘da bomb’ must have been a reference to what was happening in my stomach on the drive home.

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Security Briefs creator missing. . .

We've all heard that good things come in pairs and I wonder if the flip side is true as well. On the heels of yesterdays security tip I stepped into the elevator at work and was welcomed with the nastiest smell. Not so much like someone had farted but more like it's last occupant had horrific B.O. I was on my way down from the 3rd floor giving my mind just enough time to wander. "What if there's someone waiting at the bottom," I thought?

There was.

I wanted to say, "Hi, it smelled like this when I got on so don't be thinking I'm the culprit." What I got out, though, was only the "Hi" which I followed with a guilty sounding stutter. Rather than quit while I looked only slightly guilty, I continued babbling incoherently, blundering the rest and probably cementing my reputation as the stinky guy who farts when he's alone on the elevator.

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Security streak

The other day my brother Trevor sent me a link to a website that sells a pair of men’s underwear which have been modified into a secret stash container. It seems construction workers the world over have been looking for just the right camouflage to contain their valuables. The ‘Westminster Security Brief’ is the perfect answer. “Hide your money and small items in the specially-designed shorts with the secret pouch. The front pouch looks like it has the standard flap but seals with a sturdy velcro fastener. Realistic "skid mark" will keep others from touching them.”

And why not? It’s such a small creative leap from ‘Family Jewels’ to ‘families jewels’ and the realistic “skid mark” is a touch of genius. I’m just wondering how they researched the difference between authentic and almost - and than my mind wanders to the question of what my brother was looking for when he found them.

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Table knives, they can't cut - right?

As boys my brothers and I would often play a game called splits. We’d play on our front lawn, standing a yard or so apart, feet together we'd take turns throwing a knife into the grass near the other's feet. If the knife stuck and was within a blade length of your opponent’s foot then he’d move his foot to that point and then take his turn. The game would continue until one of us couldn’t spread our legs any further. It was good clean 1970’s fun. The other day I was comparing knife game notes with a friend, Jeff, who played a similar game as a boy. He had a different name for it, something light and girly as I recall, but the game was basically the same.

One afternoon my brother Trevor and I had become bored with “traditional” splits and decided on a variation. You know, add some excitement to a game in which opponents throw knives at one another. Guy stuff. I was 11 and he was 9 and we were playing with table knives so really, what’s the big deal? I mean they can’t even cut anything, right? Our yard was about 40 feet across so naturally we decided on a game of distance rather than accuracy. It was agreed that a single knife stick, regardless of distance, would be an immediate win.

As the older brother, I threw first. Christian - 1, Trevor - 0. Then he took his turn - he was 9. The knife stuck in my skull then did this vibrating thing completely hollywood style. Christian - 1, Trevor - DEAD MEAT!

Oddly, Trevor now sells knives for a living and I have a small blade shaped dent in my head. Check out his website at BladeOps.com

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Hump found - anxiously looking for original owner

“You eat like a bird, Christian.” This was what my grandmother said to me nearly every time I visited her. Her cooking wasn’t so bad but it was her tendency to break out a smorgasbord of leftovers when my brothers and I visited. A dozen or so tinfoil balls pulled from the freezer and defrosted for our dining pleasure. Mystery meals, we called them. I was in college at the time and generally saw my grandmother a few times a month. I lived across the way from my younger brother Trevor and he followed her statement with, “Christian is a camel for food. He’ll go forever without eating then every so often really fill up for another long haul.”

It’s true. Back in college I seemed to make the long haul more often than not. A couple of yogurts for lunch after skipping breakfast and I’d be good for the day. Should something convenient come up for dinner, great. If not, no problem. It was this feast or famine eating habit that contributed to my 3% body fat at the time. I had a roommate working on his masters of exercise physiology and for part of his thesis he needed a guinea pig to succumb to daily measurements for two weeks. I’m quick to bring up my scores, especially with Linda.

Just yesterday, in fact, I worked it into our conversation. It was a high point of my life and I like to remind her of it, “I was in really good shape back then, huh? 3% body fat, Linda, 3%.”

I was changing at the time, providing her with a nice profile angle and she answered, “Yeah, well you’re not 3% anymore!”

I looked down at my protruding belly sadly. The problem is I still eat like a camel, it just seems I’ve finally grown a hump.

I need a diet.

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Cruiser Lady

Some of my favorite encounters happen at 7-11. You’ve met my friend the freezie queen and today I ran across a woman who might be her relation. Sure I’m in San Clemente for a few days which is over 1,000 miles from the freezie queen’s home in Portland but still, I think they may share a parent. The Clemente cruiser, I’ll call her, and she pulled up outside 7-11 just as I was starting my car. Riding a beach cruiser bike, rusted and squeaking she wore her hair in long delicate ringlets held back with a plastic tortiose shell banana clip. Her skin was tan and leathery making a stark contrast between the silk flowery top she wore. “Oh the life down here,” I thought. “Sun, sand, and everyone is riding around on bikes feeling relaxed and mellow. This lady might be homeless but still, her life seemed pretty good.”

As she approached the front of the store she did this fantastic dismount hopping off the the back of the bike just in time for it to come to rest gently against one of those steel parking barriers. And then she threw her hands in the air and whooped like an olympic champion. Her triumph was short lived though, lasting only a few seconds before the bike fell to the ground. Cruiser lady did a 180 going from cheering to swearing in about 1/2 a second. She let out a stream of language reserved for sailors and construction sites then picked her bike up and slammed it against the yellow post over and over. Not so mellow, I guessed.

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Vicodin anyone?

I flew down to Orange County from Portland this morning. It was an early flight and the airport was busier than I had anticipated. Lines were long and the help was slow making for a really sweet atmosphere. I travel to Asia a couple times a year and for big international trips my company springs for business class. The seats are large and comfortable but more importantly to me, there is plenty of space between the seats. I don’t mind the legroom typical to most coach class flights but the lack of elbow room drives me crazy.

I tend to book my travel early so I can arrange for an aisle seat. This at least gives me an open armrest and the freedom to get up whenever I choose. Today I was in seat 8D, an aisle seat on the left side of the plane as you enter. I boarded shortly before the flight took off and the gentleman seated next to me was already asleep. He had a bushy mustache and reminded me of a cop. A fat one. He was spilling generously over my armrest and into my seat and I thought, “Time to wake up, buddy.” His polo shirt had some company logo embroidered on the chest and he had bright yellow earphones stuck in his ears. He also had a sling on his right arm. Since I’ve suffered more than my share of injuries I decided to squeeze into my seat without waking him. You know, not make a fuss because he was taking up a third of my seat. “That’s my style,” I thought congratulating myself, “I hope he’s comfortable.”

About half way through the flight my seat mate woke up, groggy and maybe even a bit grumpy but who could blame him, right? It seems he was spending a hot afternoon on his motorcycle last week when the back tire blew and he was thrown a dozen or so yards before tumbling end over end breaking his collar bone. “I’m amazed that’s all you broke,” I said.

“Yeah, and I picked up a lot of road rash. Could you open my peanuts? My right arm still doesn’t have any strength.” He practically inhaled the nuts and then, before dozing off again said, “I took a couple of vicodin so I’d be comfortable on this flight.” He said it casually, as though throwing back a couple of vicodin was standard pre-flight protocol. A few years ago I tore my achilles tendon and didn’t “take a couple of vicodin.” I’ve broken bones, cracked cartilage, and mangled flesh and didn’t take a couple of vicodin.

Then he began to snore.

And then, apparently he got really, really comfortable. And began to fart. It was at this point I felt I needed a vicodin and wondered if my smelly companion would wake up if I patted him down for a fix.

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