Author: Bukkhead

I'm the writer here.
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In Junior High We Called It “Dippin.”

Postaday for June 13th: Hear No Evil. Tell us about a conversation you couldn’t help but overhear and wish you hadn’t.

I don’t have a memory for that sort of thing.

I used to frequent Overheard in New York, which was funny before it got kind of trolly and judgmental. But, it’s been a while— maybe it’s good again? Itself spawned Overheard at The Beach, Overheard in the Office, Celebrity Wit, and, I just discovered on a recent visit to make sure it’s still there, Overheard Everywhere. So that’s those places covered.

And then there’s Kids Say the Darndest Things, and Shit My Dad Says, and a number of subreddits dedicated to people saying stupid stuff. TumblrInAction and ThatHappened, for example, getting back to the trolly and judgemental.

The truth is, no one will ever top the Lewis Black joke which includes the line he allegedly overheard: “If it wasn’t for my horse, I wouldn’t have spent that year in college.” Having done some stand-up myself, I know there’s nothing sacred and that things don’t have to be true to be funny. I also know that sometimes you can’t beat the truth. Whichever the case, Lewis Black wins, when it comes to overhearing something insane.

But like I said, I never remember that kind of thing. I would have been a terrible landlord on Three’s Company. I would not have overheard any conversations, would not have misinterpreted them, not jumped to any conclusions, and there would have been no ensuing hilarity based on that awkward misunderstanding. The show would have flopped in a matter of weeks. Jack Tripper might not have ever gotten that bistro started. And that would be a shame because, the way I hear it, Jack made a mean cassoulet.

Man, I do love a good cassoulet.

On the other side if things, I can be a little hyper-aware of other people around me when I’m talking about something controversial, and I find I add too much mitigating language. You know, so as not to offend someone who may have strong opinions about proto-feminist evolutionary jargonism in Super Mario Bros 2. (I drink a lot; sue me).

Maybe I should go the opposite way. Maybe I should have fascinatingly stupid conversations with people, just so that folks who overhear it can go tell their friends, or blog about it, or best of all, start a whole website.

“So I’m sitting in this bar drinking a Lime Ricky, and not loving it at all because they used Hayman’s instead of Monkey 47, I mean, for the love of Krist Novoselic, do we live in Seattle, or is this the Pearl District. Anysquare, I’m trying to get through my drink, when my phone dies— so much for the Daily Bugle podcast I was listening to. Just when I was thinking I should get up and go browse the car repair store across the street— you know, to make an ironic blog post about it— I overhear these two people behind me talking about chess, if you can believe it. And one guy’s like, You know, in the Spanish Opening, and the other guy’s like, You mean the Ruy Lopez? And the first one’s all, No one calls it that. And the other one says, Well, Spanish Opening sounds racist to me. And the first one’s all, Then what do you call d4 Nf6 c4 g6? And he goes, I would never play that. And the first guy’s like, Why, because ‘King’s Indian’ sounds racist too? And the guy goes, No, because Bobby Fischer played it, and he’s an anti-semite, and the first guy’s getting mad, and he says, But you played the Scotch Game through five tournaments! And the other guy goes So? And he’s all like, That was Kasparov’s favorite opening! And the other guy goes So? And he’s all, Kasparov is from Azerbaijan! They’ve been charged with human rights violations out the ying-yang! And it was all I could do not to turn around and scream at the guy for using ‘ying-yang, I mean, talk about racism, why not channel a Chinese version of Rachel Dolezal, ya Nazi?”

Meh. Probably never happen. No one I know knows that much about chess.

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I Don’t Cook

Postaday for June 12th: Ingredients. What’s the one item in your kitchen you can’t possibly cook without? A spice, your grandma’s measuring cup, instant ramen — what’s your magic ingredient, and why?

My wife does all the cooking. She’s good at it, and she likes it. Sometimes she asks me to grill things. Sometimes she asks me to chop things. And/or put them in a pot. And sometimes stir. And sometimes add other ingredients. On occasion she’ll give me a recipe and ask me to prep it for her, or do the middle part, or finish it, or all three. Which I do, but, I don’t cook. She does all the cooking.

Usually I’m the one who goes to grocery store. My wife does all the meal planning, unless I do it— but it’s better when she does it, since she does all the cooking. She’ll send me to the store with a list, and on those occasions when I go without a list, or go without her asking me to go, I end up getting the kinds of things she needs to cook our meals.

That’s also how I handle it when she doesn’t have a meal planned, and I end up going to the store anyway, and bringing things home for her to cook. Or if I’m going to get a recipe started that she didn’t know about, since she winds up cooking it anyway. Or a recipe I follow all the way through. Still, she’s the cook.

The one item that gets me through all of this is Pandora. I put Pandora on the iPad or my mobile with a pair of headphones, or on the TV. I like to listen to mellow, minimalist music when I’m helping my wife when she does all the cooking. Today, for example, she’s going to be stuck in traffic, so I’m going to get everything ready for her.

At about five o’clock (we tend to eat early, go to bed early, get up early) I’ll put Pandora on the TV. A station based off a band called The Sound Defects (bands like Bonobo, Time Machine, Gramatik, Wax Tailor instrumentals, and so on). I’ll get some green peppers out so she can make stuffed peppers. I’ll cut the tops off and scoop out the insides.

I’ll brown some meat and chop some onions for her to add to the meat. If traffic is really bad (like it often is on a Friday) I’ll add the spices for her, shred some cheese. If she needs me to, I can put the meat combo into the pepper, and start the oven for her to bake them. Sometimes when she gets home she’s exhausted from the commute, so if need’s be, I can put the stuffed peppers into the oven. She might ask me to help her prepare them by checking to see if they’re nearly done. Then I can switch on the broiler, let them brown a bit, top them with the shredded cheese. I can do those things for her because she’s an amazing cook.

And since I don’t cook, it’s only fair that I do the dishes. She tells me this pretty much every time. But that’s okay because I’ve got that Pandora playing in the background.

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I Can Embed Tweets?

Okay I had no idea I could do that.

Embedding Tweets in a blog post! That’s amazing! For an egocentric megalomaniac like me, being able to do this is truly excellent. Now, when I think of something pithy, I can share it on Twitter, (which I have set up to automagically go on Facebook too) AND on Tumblr (for all 14 of my followers– love you guys) AND now on my BLOG!

Seriously, how cool is this. Because me, I like to be heard. All my phobias and foibles center around this. I tried to set it up so that my Tweets just show on my blog page, but this is even better. It’s got that cheesy picture of me (wedding photo–love you, honey) and the follow button and folks can even click the star thing.

Certainly this begs the question: so what, Bukkhead. Who do you think’s going to read this and be amazed? People just like me, that’s who. My fellow megalomaniacs. Can’t you just see us, gathered in a room, sipping tea made with what we each think is our own proprietary blend of herbs and spices, glaring at each other and using sentences with increasingly complex syntax and decreasingly understandable vocabularies?

I like the challenge of saying something interesting in only 140 characters. Twitter is fun. And now, knowing how to embed tweets, I have the best of both worlds: the challenge of getting as much out of those two lines as possible, and the opportunity to expound upon my triumph at great length.

And since most of my tweets are about running, this will get me to write about running more often too. Huzzah!

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I’m Already Tired, I Gotta Retire Too?

Postaday for June 11th: I Am a Rock. Is it easy for you to ask for help when you need it, or do you prefer to rely only on yourself? Why?

I have talked to my therapist at length. No, I don’t like asking people for help. Let’s ask Dale.

Hey, Dale. Turn off the TV for a second.

Can’t. Crudites are up by two, top of the eighth.

Crudites?

That’s a baseball team you invented because you haven’t decided where I live yet.

I thought I made you a Mets fan.

Did you? I don’t remember that.

Well, nevermind. Let me ask you a question.

Go ahead. Damn it, Manless! You bum!

Is it easy for you to ask people for help?

Buck-o, I get on my knees every day and ask God to help Manless get cancer. Ace pitcher, my ass.

No, but seriously. Like, do you ever ask Loretta for help.

Uh, I don’t know, do I? Every time you write about me, she ain’t around.

Well, now’s your chance. Let’s do some character building. Tell me about a time you asked Loretta for help.

Damn it!

Dale.

Sorry. What do you want me to do?

Was there ever a time when you needed Loretta to help you with something, like, when you had to check your machismo at the door and ask her to get you through an ordeal?

You mean other than last week when Gonzales broke his ankle pinch hitting for Lopez?

Well, that’s not exactly—

—Cause let me tell you, I was nearly in tears.

Yeah, but, what about—

I’m sitting right here, in this chair, and even the play-by-play guys got his mouth shut for a change, the camera zoomed in on Gonzales while we wait for the skipper to trot on out there. And you could see it, in his eyes, him thinking he’s two years past retirement as it is, maybe he gets a place in Arizona, or Miami. And Loretta walks in, and she goes Dale, you’re awful quiet, and I look at her, she ain’t the gal she used to be, but she’s still a decent broad, and I’m just lookin’ at her, like I’m that damned manager, and this chair and my sunken chest and how my knees hurt when I get up in the morning and it takes longer to chew on a steak than it used to, and you can’t smile at people on the bus causer they’ll either mace ya or ask ya to sign some petition to save the baby seals from getting evicted, or whatever, and Loretta’s not the kinda dame you ask to do menial things, I mean, I’m the man of the house but I can get up to get my own beer, you know, but there I am, and there she is, and she’s closer to the ice box anyway, so maybe this one time I ask her and she can hear it in my voice how sad I am, and maybe we have a moment, and it’s nothing like when we were kids but it’s something, and then later in the middle of the night she’ll lean over and she’ll whisper, let’s move to Phoenix and I won’t think it’s a stupid idea this time, I’ll think its her way of trying to take care of me, make sure I’m okay.

Uh, oh. Um. Yeah. So, uh… did you?

Did I what?

Ask her for the beer?

Nah. She’s my wife, not my maid.

I see.

Besides, I ask her to get me one, she starts counting them. I don’t need that kinda help, do I, buck-o?

No, I guess not.

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Platonic Canine

Postaday for June 10th: A Dog Named Bob. You have 20 minutes to write a post that includes the words mailbox, bluejay, plate, syrup, and ink. And one more detail… the story must include a dog named Bob

Bob’s kinda shaky these days, but he still tries. I open the blinds in the morning and he opens one eye against the light. Then I unlock the door and he gets up. It takes him a while, but he manages it, and I hold the door for him the whole time. Once I didn’t– I was in a hurry to get the mail, and when I came back, he was back in his spot like nothing happened. And when I filled his bowl, he didn’t move. And when I opened the door later, he didn’t move. Finally I had to resort to giving him a few burnt pancakes with too much syrup, and he gave me a lick on my hand. His way of forgiving me. Ever since then, I hold the door until he makes it out.

He’s shaky but he still surprises me. We went out one morning to see of the circulars had arrived, and a bluejay swooped down to give me some hassle. Arthritis, blind in one eye, muzzle gone to white, but Bob let out a woof and was in the air, swatting that asshole down like it was nothing. “What the hell, Bob! You ain’t no cat!” He just sort of panted the way dogs do with their tongues to show you a grin.

A walk out to get the mail in morning, Bob watering the one tree in the yard, leaves a deposit in a spot right next to the trashcan so it’s easy for me to dispose of. A walk in the evening to water the same tree, no deposit this time, just me and Bob looking at those mountains way off yonder. Was a day when that was all we could see. Now we see it over the top of houses, that new neighborhood they built in the valley.

Then it’s me and the circulars, looking for deals. I eat my apple slices and let Bob lick the plate. I watch some baseball, take a nap, Bob takes a nap, the TV takes a nap. Naps are good. Get up and wash the ink of my fingers. Maybe have a bowl of soup. What else are me and Bob going to do all day?

I wish I could hand you a twist to this story, like my wife died or I got some serial killer buried in my back yard, or I won the lottery but there’s no amount of money that can make Bob young again. Sorry about that. Just a little snapshot of an old man and his old dog, the easy chair I spend most of my day in, the worn spot on the rug where Bob spends his.

Either you love dogs or you don’t. If you don’t, you can stop reading now. If you do love dogs, think they’re pretty much the best, let me ask you this question: when you picture old Bob, what kinda dog do you see?

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Ronald Bog

Ronald-Bog

Maybe instead of “Photography 101” I should take a blogging course called “Abusing Adobe Lightroom 101.”

My “problem” was that I went out to take pictures of this lake and none were very compelling. So I did what I could for this one. Maybe overdid it. Oh well. I’m wracked with terrible allergies as a result of tromping through cut grass to get this shot, so, let’s blame it all on that!

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Avast, Ye Lazy Do-Gooder

Postaday for June 9th: On the Edge. We all have things we need to do to keep an even keel — blogging, exercising, reading, cooking. What’s yours?

Put me on a three master out in the middle of the Atlantic at half-past two in the morning, lightning on the horizon and fifty-foot swells smashing cargo in the hold left and right, and you’ll find me up in the crows’ nest, lashed to the rail and cursing God with every pitch and kick. That wing beneath water belong to no angel, and if she leans out too far she’ll swallow up the next gust, send a shiver up the timber and snap your sheets. Sails turned into sarcophagi but I won’t budge from spot until the mizzen breaks in two and Davy Jone’s lighting candles for another dark party.

Keeping an even keel is one thing. But usually it’s out of whack before I even know it. I’m no prophylactor, me, but then I’m blessed with a mellow life and have little need for balms and calming teas. I get up, walk into my office, do some work, so some writing, play some games, more work, more writing. Maybe I’ll go for a run. Maybe I’ll watch a cheesy horror movie on the Netflix. I’ll have an apple for a snack, a turkey sandwich for my lunch, and when my wife comes home, help her make something nutritious. I go to sleep and I don’t dream about anything.

I dread shipwrecks, but I’m never more productive than when crisis is on the rise and I’m forced to be at my best. Combine that with my otherwise laid-back life and you can see why I don’t need to keep my keel even. I like to walk around and take pictures of flowers while listening to podcasts. I like to browse Reddit or play Hearthstone and do Ken-Ken puzzles while I’m waiting for my opponent to take his turn. I’ve been known, now and again, to sit in a shady spot on a hot day and drink beer and eat potato chips and read really excellent novels. These aren’t palliatives; these are life goals.

My wife’s keel keeper is terrible TV. My brother’s is online slot machines. My dad does woodworking, my mom has her crochet. One guy I know rides his bike everywhere. Another gal I know posts political rants on Facebook. And then there’s marijuana, something I can’t do, even thought it’s legal, because my wife’s a Fed and it’s not legal for her. Are any of these world beaters? Do any of this smack of something deep and utterly human?

Neither do my past-times. Keeping an even keel, then, is just succumbing to an urge for peace. That’s well and good— but sometimes I wonder what irony there is in craving peace too much, too hard. Like running hard to go get more oxygen. Shouting at someone for silence. You see my point. We’re all of us vibrating dots in a petri dish, some of us swimming straighter than the others, are keels nice and even, but even the biggest dish is just so big and there’s always an edge to strike and bounce off of. Maybe the wigglers got it right— they never go anywhere, and never hit a thing.

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Street Veins

aurora-2

If nothing else this course has gotten me to take photos I might not have otherwise taken.

Aurora (Hwy 99) at North 130th, from the pedestrian overpass.