Highlights from the Eugene/Coastal Oregon family vacation:
- Number of relatives houses we crashed at that had wireless internet but not cable television: 1.
- A movie that is not fun for the entire family: I Am Legend.
- A movie that is not good in any way, shape or form: The Man From Earth.
- Times the phrase “I slept like the baby Jesus” was uttered: 4.
- How many trips were made to Autzen Stadium to procure gifts: 4.
- How many trips made to Autzen Stadium were to take back items bought by hasty husbands who purchased items with no thought of sizes/people in mind: 2.
- Times the assumed identity “Grayson Buttdorf” was used to sign into the Oregon Coastal Parks and Recreation gray whale watching sheet: 1.
- How many variations of the assumed identity “Grayson Buttdorf” were mulled over numerous Alaskan Ales and one annoyed 18 year-old misquoted cousin: 5.
- Beer, in ounces, that was consumed on the front deck of a the Heceta Head Lighthouse bed and breakfast in one evening: 184.
- A roaring ocean, a good buzz, a comfortable bed and a warm room gave me the best night of sleep in recent memory.
- A short, slanted ceiling, high-backed bathtub and hand-held shower head gave me the most uncomfortable bathing experience in recent memory.
- How many gravely-voiced suspected serial killers ate with us during our “seven-course breakfast”: 1.
- Lastly, props to my brother-in-law drove who our rented mini-van like Al Cowlings across Northwest Oregon in order to get us to our flight at PDX with minutes to spare.
My three year-old nephew possesses toys similar to these. He does not own thee Fantastic 4 Electronic Thing Hands instead he has the Incredible Hulk Electronic Hands. He does not own the Revenge of the Sith Energy Beam Blaster but he does have the Revenge of the Sith Lightsabers. I am proud that my brother-in-law is raising his son in the danger zone. It is going to be a great Christmas for the boy; he will be receiving some Air Kicks Kickaroos Anti-Gravity Boots and the Camouflage Water Bomb Fun Kit from Uncle Matty. I may include a bag of glass, some oily rags and a pack of matches just for good measure.
It may be Wednesday but I just now recovered from this past weekend. After treating my liver to a host of pollutants for three straight days, my body was pleased to remind me that it is not 21 years old anymore. On Friday, I went to the Great American Beer Festival with the usual cast of characters, minus one future brother-in-law who came down with sore ovaries stayed home. On Saturday, I went bar hopping with a large group of rowdy and intoxicated family members to celebrate my cousin’s impending nuptials. On Sunday, I attended the System of a Down concert at Pepsi Center with my future brother-in-law (who miraculously recovered from his sore ovaries) and friends, where two cases of beer and a can of Skoal Bandits were killed and an annoying fat guy in glasses who quoted Plato was almost killed.
Friday. I work until three in the afternoon until I notice that myself, Neal and Brandon seem to be the only people left in the office. I give myself the rest of the day off. At home, I order Chinese food, drain four Newcastles and paint the fucking walls. My sort of lady calls me on her way home from the final Bronco Pre-Season game. Talk gets serious.* We hang out anyway, agreeing to avoid relationship conversation for the evening.
Saturday. My sort of lady wakes up early because she has stuff to do. I leave her house and walk home and we agree to meet up later as I need her to help me purchase new bedding and towels. She is the shopping queen and I hate shopping (read: I am willing to pay $80 for a set of sheets at one store as opposed to shopping at many stores and finding the same sheets for $40.) I paint the fucking walls. In between painting the fucking walls, my sort of lady takes me to numerous linens and bedding stores. I purchase new linens and bedding. My sort of lady and I head downtown to meet friends for birthday drinks. We consume numerous whiskeys, vodka tonics and eat $9 steaks. The birthday girl informs us she wants to go to the Diamond Cabaret. We comply with her request where my sort of lady and I consume many beers and I smoke a $10 cigar that tastes like filthy assholes. We stuff dollar bills into stripper’s panties.
Sunday. My sort of lady wakes up early again. After she leaves and I spend twenty minutes staring out my bedroom window at the rain as I told the boys I play hockey with that I would meet them for practice at an outdoor rink at nine o’clock. I roll over and go back to bed. My brother-in-law picks me up and we proceed to our fantasy football draft. I have been competing in the same fantasy football league for ten years. Every year, we sit in the same basement, tell the same jokes, drink assorted Coors products and draft fourth string NFL players thinking we got a “sleeper.” I get home and paint the fucking walls half drunk.
Monday. I sleep in. I work out. I buy groceries. I eat a pork chop for dinner. My sort of lady and I rent a movie. Talk gets serious* again. We laugh at ourselves and go to bed.
* My sort of lady and I are currently “hanging out.” The relationship dynamic has progressed into something neither one of us expected. I like my sort of lady. My sort of lady likes me. I am interested in pursuing things further. Taking risks, especially when it comes to matters of the heart, is something I am willing to do. I figure it is best to try it and realize it does not work, then not try it at all. Relationship situations are like combat; you either get out of your foxhole alive and return home the conquering hero grateful for every day thereafter or you wind up getting shredded by machine gun bullets, laying on a field of battle with your intestines in your hands being comforted by a fat soldier named Murph telling him things like “I am so cold” and “I wanna go home now” before you die. Thankfully, my sort of lady does not use war analogies like me to describe her feelings.
I have bore witness to some wicked drunks on the Jager and I, too, have succumbed to the unadulterated madness that dwells within the green bottle. One hazy night long ago my brother-in-law bought me seven Jager Bombs while we hung out at the worst strip club in Denver. The night concluded when a patron actually took a swing at one of the strippers. While she was still dancing.
For the Easter holiday my family convened at my aunt and uncles to dine on some cooked pig, play board games where the end result is global domination and hear my dad tell my brother-in-law to bite his ball sack at the dinner table. Speaking of pigs, my coworker is giving me a few pounds of fresh Polish sausage that her parents are sending her from Chicago. Her and her husband do not dig on the swine so they are giving it to me. I may boil that shit up and slap it on a bun with some sauerkraut and mustard. I may cut it up and throw it in with my scrambled eggs. I may even attempt to flatten it out into strips and fry it. Mmmmmm. Bacon Polish sausage.
Friday was Colorado Rockies opening day, and attendance is an annual tradition amongst my circle of degenerates, er, friends. Once a year, we brave the concrete jungles of lower downtown Denver and binge drink like it was a Kennedy mixer. In the fuzzy haze that was Colorado Rockies Opening Day 2003, here is a list of events that may or may not have occurred:
- I consumed six beers and a hamburger before the game began. During the game I consumed three beers, one foot long hot dog, a bag of peanuts and a tub of nachos.
- At one point in the game, the intoxicated gentleman sitting in front of me (who was rocking a rat tail) got up and hollered, “Fuck you Walker! You fucking suck!” to right fielder Larry Walker. Larry Walker has a career .316 batting average and has won seven Gold Gloves.
- It was discovered by Nels and I during Colorado Rockies Opening Day 2002 that Hooters does not serve hard liquor. That fact, however, did not stop us from attempting to order a Jack and Coke at Hooters this year.
- I can throw a baseball 60 miles per hour while heavily intoxicated.
- Magnetic schedules make excellent missiles to hurl at the opposing team’s outfielders.
- An ex-stripper showed half of the bar her breast implants during post Colorado Rockies Opening Day 2003 revelries at Swankys. We happened to be sitting next to her at the bar when this occurred. One member of our party claims to have been instrumental in talking her into the flash.
- Within our immediate group two fights almost broke out. Reason for fight number one: One party comments on how amazing it was to supposedly talk an ex-stripper out of her shirt. Another party (me) comments on how easy it is to talk any ex-stripper out of her shirt. Reason for fight number two: One party comments half-jokingly that Nebraska would lose to Colorado State in football if they played this year, thus desecrating Nebraska football and its entire history and tradition. Another party, who happens to be a Nebraska fan, was heard yelling, “Don’t judge Big Red, motherfucker.” Unfortunately, one party of our group was involved in both potential skirmishes.