Mmmmmm, beer

When you’re in college, you drink the cheapest beer you can muster.
Carling Black Label (when I was at the University of Nebraska in the 80s, you could get a cold six-pack for $1.69). Shaffer. Blatz. Hamms. Keystone (and Keystone Light, shudder).
Milwaukee’s Best.
Some people never lose the taste for bad beer. That’s OK. Somebody’s gotta keep Bud and Miller in bidness.
But Milwaukee’s Best?
Man, I hated that beer. Still do.
But the Web site is funny.
Since it goes down to the most-common denominator for appeal for its target audience – downloadable posters of scantily-clad women, and videos of a few yahoos who built a cannon that shoots, what else, cans of Milwaukee’s Best.
You can witness the carnage at www.milbestlight.com/cannon.aspx.
Actually, if you think about it, a beer cannon is the perfect use for Milwaukee’s Best (Miller refers to it by it’s nickname, “The Beast;” we all know it as “Swillwaukee’s Piss”). Less bad beer that has to be drunk, more beer that needs to be spilled.
I was out of college, working for the Memphis Commercial Appeal, when I first realized that you could “launch” beer like a rocket. We were at a retreat for all the bureau reporters (I was in the far-flung outpost in Jonesboro, Ark.), tending to a campfire when I hit upon this phenomenon.
Put a full, shaken-up beer can - with the pop tab slightly pressed – in a fire upside-down and the heat will build to the point of a liquid-fuel rocket.
We were launching beers 40 feet in the air for hours. Beer that our metro editor had purchased for us.
That beer?
Milwaukee’s Best.

WTF!?!?!?


It is not OK to give Chinese squirrel monkeys sex toys.
Not right at all.
But, who's with me? Doesn't the little one in the middle look a little like Ben Stiller?

Cool ass-plosions


Head’s up, science nerds – tonight on Mythbusters on The Discovery Channel, Adam and Jamie delve into the phenomenon of mixing soda and Mentos breath mints.
With chaotic results.
There are hundreds of videos floating around the Internet about the experiment. YouTube, Google Video, you name it.
The ass-plosion (ha, get it?) of Mentos and soda experiments are just flat out hilarious (here’s my favorite http://video.google.com/videoplay?docid=6570869723386259299).
OK, so what’s the experiment?
If you take a two-liter bottle of soda (diet works well, since its less sticky to clean up) and drop like a dozen Mentos into the bottle, you’ll get a geyser that’ll shoot 18 feet in the air.
I so totally want to do this.
Especially if we can rig a way to have the soda bottle lift-off – like the space shuttle.
So do a couple of co-workers (and fellow bloggers).
“That parking lot back there…” I said.
“Dude, we’ve got a convenience store across the street, and that whole parking lot…”
And the cool thing is, one department just got new digital video cameras.
So we can add our own stamp on this Internet phenomenon.
Just so you know, Adam and Jamie tackle this problem at 6 p.m. PDT tonight (Aug. 9) on Mythbusters on The Discovery Channel.

Dream a little dream

Here's one tussle I would pay to see.
In one corner, a fat-assed cat; in the other, a jake - an immature male wild turkey.
Which one wins?
Don't bet on the cat.

One bad Apple


I’m a Mac guy. Always have been. Always will be.
It doesn’t mean the little company in Cupertino doesn’t piss me off from time to time.
I have a Mac iBook. The original click-wheel iPod (and yes, I got it waaaaaaay before iPods were considered cool). I’ve had three Macs, including the cute, little original that looked like a little beige garbage can.
Recently, I just upgraded the iBook’s Mac OS software to Mac X Tiger.
Now, there’s the leopard in my future.
Yep, Mac recently introduced a newer, bigger, better operating system, code-named leopard. It looks great, and has functions I’m going to need.
And it’s going to cost me another $150 bucks or so to get.
Which I will do so, happily.
But what pisses me off currently is the fact that my original iPod earphones have given up the ghost.
And I cannot, for the life of me, buy a pair of earphones that come standard with the iPod.
I know they have them; I bought my wife a Nano for Christmas, and helped my son get his Nano a few months ago.
Both came with the little, white Apple earbuds.
Which you cannot buy separately.
Oh, you can get replacement Apple earbuds, but the reviews are horrible. Everyone hates them. So you’re stuck getting a pair of Sony earbuds that cost like $50.
I want the originals, goddamit!
Oh, and another thing – when I bought the original iPod, it came with the home charger.
My wife’s and son’s Nanos came without. It’s $29 to get the charger, so you can plug the damn thing into the wall, without having to always have your laptop. Sometimes, my wife forgets to plug the Nano into the computer, and she’s constantly complaining that it’s got a low charge, as she heads to the gym.
There’s another $29 I’ll be shelling out. Sooner, rather than later.
I’d just like to say one thing, Apple: I’m a consumer – who is getting tired of consuming everything.

Don't fuck with me

Don't mess with me, buster, or I'll bite your nipples off. Oh, don't believe me? Bend down, I have to tell you a secret.
Yeah, don't fuck with me. I'm Mr. Bad Ass to you.

He's got game

That tremendous suck you might have heard – or felt – in south Redding this morning was me playing nine holes of golf.
My wife gave me clubs for my 40th birthday – the one I celebrated on crutches while recovering from knee surgery – and I can safely say I majorly suck at it. It doesn't mean I don't enjoy the game, however.
Hell, I just like to hit the ball and have fun. I know I will never be a Tiger Woods; hell, I’ll never be a John Daly.
I just like to go out and lose some golf balls on a cool morning (while ditching work).
I emailed a buddy over the weekend and asked, "nine holes?"
“As long as we can get out early.”
We met at Allen’s Golf Course, a nice, little nine-hole public course right in my neighborhood. When my buddy and I get together, we like to chat about mundane things; work, life, the state of the city, stuff like that. And, really, there isn't much conversation. Just a little golf between two friends.
This old guy – he looked a lot like Richard Attenborough from the movie Jurassic Park – walked up to the first tee and asked if he can join us.
What the hell, we decide.
“Name’s Roger,” he said. “Thanks for letting me play along.”
And then he starts to critique my play.
OK, a couple of the suggestions were helpful. But it just sort of continued.
My buddy was going after his ball up the eighth fairway – he got all of his tee shot and more – and Roger slides up to me to tell me how to get more height on my ball.
Now, I’ve watch him golf now for seven holes, and he’s a step above me in the skill department (although he can putt, I give him that). He managed to hit three trees and a piece of iron that marks the ladies’ tee – and sent two drives into the fairway of holes we were not currently playing.
“You know, Roger, I really don’t care,” I said. “I suck, I know it and I’m just out here to have a little fun and lose a few golf balls.”
He finished out the last two holes a bit faster than us – and promptly joined another twosome.

Support your local theater

So my wife and I are at the Paul Delay 5 concert at the Cascade Theater on Saturday, right?
First off, I’ve got to get this off my chest: For all of you people who cry about no culture and nothing to do in the north state, Paul Delay is one of the best harmonica blues guys around; his band is the toast of Portland. Surly, there are more than 250 people interested in hearing so kick-ass blues.
Yes, the Cascade sold 250 tickets. That’s it. Tickets were $18 and $24, which is hardly extravagant. Get out and support the Cascade!
Next, we’re sitting in the third row – best seats we’ve ever had for an event at the Cascade – and a couple joins us after the warm-up band had started (which is beyond rude).
Then this beer-barreled fat man and his bottle-blonde wife (both absolutely fucking reeked of cigarette smoke) start talking – over the band. People all around us start to stare the guy down – and this guy’s gravelly voice fucking carried in the Cascade.
He pays no heed whatsoever.
Finally, I looked around my wife and caught bottle-blonde’s attention – and cut her a look the said, “Shut the fuck up right now.”
She apologized and smacked her husband. Still, they never did quite shut up.
But it did get better. At he break between bands, they went out for a few puffs; when they came back in (again, late HELLO), beer-barrel polka sat closer to us, sending his voice the other way.
Before Delay had a chance to sing is final song – and the requisite encore – the couple up and bolted past us.
“Must have needed a smoke,” my wife said, wryly.
Anyway, it was a great show that most of Redding missed – including two inconsiderate creeps who we didn’t miss.
And there was some fun to be had.
During the break, a gal that works at the Cascade stopped to talk, along with her 12-year-old daughter.
“Are you security?” the daughter asked.
I was wearing a navy blazer.
“I always feel secure around him,” my wife said.
Damn skippy, she’s right.