Suburban Bonding

Our neighbors across the street are almost identical to my family, but they are always working out... they are like our in-shape doppelgangers. They both work (only one from home from their bay area company), have two young kids, a nanny, and they moved here from San Francisco's Russian Hill. We both still had RuHi "A" parking permits on our cars for a year or so. Though he played football at some small school back east, and I think they both run marathons every Tuesday and Friday.

The Dad "Rick" is a total "do it yourself" kind of guy too; he remodeled their kitchen and built their back deck all by himself. I think I even saw him wearing his shirt once while he was hauling the lumber around the neighborhood. My personal strategy with home maintenance is more of the "close your eyes and hope the elves take care of it" variety. When all else fails (or when all elves fail) I hire a contractor.

This past weekend, Rick actually rented a F-ing jackhammer to tear up and replace his rock walkway. On Saturday morning I walked out on our front porch to refill our hummingbird feeder right when Rick was manning out on the jackhammer. I caught Rick's eye while pouring in the sugar water, gave him a knowing manly nod, and then went back inside. Yeah, we totally bonded.

Through the Quad and Into the Gymnasium

"You know exactly what I mean. You've come a long way since Frank the Tank, and we don't want him coming back."

-- Marissa Ricard, Old School

So we start out at the J Bar last night. This is a rooftop bar near Petco Park in downtown San Diego. It is kind of an LA meets Miami Vice establishment, with couches, a pool and pink and blue neon lighting. We immediately run into a chick friend of Big Ed. This chick is a professional matchmaker or something, and she's there with a Friend. They are both wearing turquoise, the Friend's turquoise outfit being a strapless dress. So naturally I start asking her how her Prom went and make the obligatory "I guess I need to stay 18 inches away from you or a teacher will get me in trouble," and Richard Marx "Hold on to the Night" and Savage Garden "Truly Madly Deeply" jokes. Maybe it doesn't translate that well into print, but I was killing it. So I'm feeling it, and I start working the room and can do no wrong. The Friend gets pissed and starts pouting, but does give me her phone number before she leaves. You could say she was "off like a prom dress" at that point. Note that I keep referring to her as the Friend because I have no idea what her name is -- I'm sure I heard it at some point but wasn't really paying attention. That is kind of my M.O. actually. Anyway, the Friend is blond, 5'10" or so, slender build. In a bit of foreshadowing, she is cute enough to hook up with. However, not so cute that you'd feel compelled to take pictures and brag to all your friends about it.

So we head to a few other bars and, after the bars close, an adult establishment. Throughout the night I have been periodically texting with the Friend and also sending some booty texts to some other chicks. Eventually I speak with the Friend and she tells me to come over to her place. So I brush off some of the stripper glitter, hop into a cab, and start heading in the general direction of the Friend's house. She tells me the freeway exit, and I am to call back when we get off the freeway for further instructions.

So, like a good little helper monkey, I call her when we are off the freeway. Ring... ring... ring... nothing. Clearly she's just stepped into the shower and can't hear her phone. So I call again. Ring... ring... ring... Apparently the Bitch, I mean the Friend, has passed out. Granted, it is 3am at this point, but that is still awfully rude. Passing out before the person gets there violates every rule in the booty call book, especially if the person doesn't have the address. Typical chick, she wouldn't give me the address but had to give chick directions: Ummm, you take a left at the second light, near the Rite-Aid and yogurt shop. Then you turn again at the nail salon, and go up a hill and there's this house where a really cute dog lives. Then you go past that to where I sometimes go running and... why don't you just call me when you get close, it's too complicated. You know what isn't complicated? A street address, that's what. Nimrod. Anyway, I call one more time on the off chance that she answers. Nothing. I tell the cab to take me home.

Here's where the story gets interesting. I realize on the cab ride home that I don't have enough cash. I had enough cash to make it to the chick's house, and I have enough cash to make it part of the way home. Plus, my ATM card is pretty beaten down and it doesn't really work anymore - machines won't read it. My new ATM card is sitting at home with my unopened mail. So, naturally, I have the cab drop me off at the point where I can still afford to pay him. I just checked Google Maps, and that point is 5.43 miles from my house. A long freaking walk at 3:30am. But it is mostly downhill, and I am in one of the nicest areas of La Jolla. So, naturally, I decide to jog home. I mean, I'll get there that much quicker, I just did a 10K Mud Run at Camp Pendleton, and I am training for the Hermosa Beach Ironman, after all. My suede boots are probably not ideal for jogging, but they will do in a pinch. In those old commercials some guy runs a marathon in Rockport dress shoes, and these boots were certainly more expensive than Rockports.

It isn't all that comfortable to jog in jeans, a t-shirt and a button down. One tends to overheat. A good way to avoid overheating, I found, was to remove the jeans, t-shirt and button down. And I figured, while I'm at it, I'll go ahead and lose the underwear as well. That's right -- we're going streaking through La Jolla! It's risky, kind of exciting, and what are the chances that anyone will happen by at 3:30am?

Turns out the chances are excellent. I'm making good time, and thinking about taking a swim when I get to my house when I hear the familiar and normally not terrifying sound of an approaching car. So, thinking fast, I do what anyone in my position would do - I dive into the bushes. I don't think the car saw me. The headlights couldn't have been on me for more than a second or two. So, after the car passes I get up, dust myself off, hope no one has reported me as a Peeping Tom, and proceed with my early morning run. The rest of the run is fairly uneventful. However, I got pretty tired towards the end and I think the term "streaking" implies a faster speed than I was moving at. Luckily, the street lights on the way home are fairly few and far between. My only regret is that I didn't think to write GoldenPalaceCasino.com or ItsOKTOBlog.blogspot.com or something like that on my backside before the run. And that I didn't have enough cash for a cab ride home. Oh, and that I'm 35 years old and I thought streaking was a good idea.

The Friend called and texted me this morning to see if I wanted to have breakfast with her. Apparently people who pass out early and are not up running at 4am are bright-eyed and bushy tailed in the morning, and want to do things like "have breakfast." Me? Pass.

Test Messaging

So, here's the deal. I sent the same text message to three people simultaneously. All three are known to me and would consider them "friends" though you would have to ask them if the feeling is mutual. The message was sent without provocation or explanation, to see how they would respond. And there most definitely is a "right" answer to this one. Why did I do this? Because it was a Friday night and I had no plans, and have no friends or life. Thanks for asking.

Here's the text message I sent:

Gambling is illegal at Bushwood, sir.

You might be familiar with this quote from the movie Caddyshack. Since I personally know everyone who might actually read this blog, I am quite sure you are familiar with this quote, which is uttered by Judge Smails to Al Czervik, after Al attempts to make a bet with the Judge, who is about to tee off. Now, let's meet our three contestants:

Contestant #1 - The Artist Formerly Known as SoHoMo. TAFKAS is a tech savvy individual, and has been known to text photos of breasts taken in New York bars from his cell phone camera. He's pretty much on his iPhone constantly and has to recharge it thrice daily. I suspect TAFKAS will one day be struck by a cab as he blissfully strolls across the street, head down and staring intently at his iPhone as his fantasy football team's score is being updated. TAFKAS is also the only heterosexual male I know who can get away with wearing orange. He knows how to text message, he's pretty strong on pop culture, he golfs, and he drinks mai tais. Should be a slam dunk for him.

Contestant #1's response:

Are you with Rusty?*

* Name changed to protect Rusty, the otherwise innocent Persian Diversian.

Ummm... no, I wasn't with Rusty. Maybe TAFKAS thought Rusty was in LA producing Caddyshack 3? Rusty is an avid golfer and all, but I don't understand this response. Maybe TAFKAS thinks I was playing golf, and that is why I sent the text message. Either way, this response is 100% entirely incorrect. Disappointing, to say the least. You're better than that, TAFKAS.

Contestant #2 - Xilor's Dad. Anyone who sires the future dictator of the free world is probably pretty much all-knowing. Even before that, though, Xilor's Dad was smart. Surprisingly, nay shockingly, he held his own in games of 1431B shot trivia, though this may have been because of his obscenely high tolerance for shots. Plus, this guy plays a lot of golf and watches a lot of TV, though his TV watching is more of the Food Network and porn variety and less of the "classic comedy golf movie" variety. But still, he should know this quote. It's a lay-up, for the Love of the Big Man.

Contestant #2's response:

Hey hey. Just a friendly wager to make it interesting. I'm not here for my health.

I guess this answer shouldn't be all that surprising; after all, I once learned in a castle in Italy that Xilor's Dad is all about gambling, traveling and partying. And seeing as how I recently played golf and wagered with Xilor's Dad, I think I can see where he's coming from. I won that match, surprisingly enough, but I did get 9 strokes from Xilor's Dad. Not a bad payoff if I do say so myself! Actually, I won a copy of GTA IV for my trouble, not because I played well but because Xilor's Dad stunk up the place like me on a Sunday afternoon after a hung over Del Taco run. Of course, playing a game like GTA IV automatically adds about 6 months to my singledom, because it confirms that I am a tool and that I'll never leave the house. So... adding 6 months... carry the one... and I will now be single until... 6 months after my death. Quick golf joke - Q: What's your handicap? A: Bad breath and a small weiner. For purposes of truth in advertising, I guess I should have titled that last sentence "Quick synopsis of my life." In any event, Xilor's Dad failed. More Caddyshack, less tummy time, sir.

Contestant #3 - Lusty. Also known as The Guy Who is "F"-ing a Mom I'd Like to "F", Lusty is a pretty worldly guy who seems to know a little bit about everything. Doesn't spend an inordinate amount of time in front of the TV, but was in a fraternity in college and someone in the frat house had to have owned the movie. Not much of a golfer, as evidenced by the number of times he was "played through" in college. Of course, at UC Davis "playing through" apparently means stripping naked, putting on a golf hat and/or shoes, then hitting a golf ball through the room of another guy who is trying to get some action. As I understand it, guys would line up to play through and this pretty much grenaded the potential hooker-upper. Ah, college. The land of Kentucky Bluegrass and Sensimilla. Not to be confused with the land of Stanford Kentuckians. But I digress.

Contestant #3's response:

And I NEVER slice.

Ah, finally someone who gets it. I knew we could count on Lusty. Then again, I thought we could count on TAFKAS and Xilor's Dad, and I was clearly mistaken. But let's go ahead and award the Caddy Scholarship to Lusty. Nice work.

It's OKTO Ramble About Sports

Did anyone notice how huge Tiger Woods has gotten? No, I don't mean "popular" huge, he's been that since he's been out of diapers. I mean he's gotten "Incredible Hulk" huge. During his recent play at the US Open, I was watching Woods at a bar with a bunch of jackasses (yeah, you heard me you guys, JACKASSES) when a picture of Tiger appeared on TV that actually made the woman sitting next to us gasp out loud. It was a shot of Tiger, and he just looked like a freaking BALCO commercial. Now I'm as heterosexual as the next guy (well, we were in a San Francisco bar, so maybe that's not saying much) but I think I may have gasped out loud too.

I guess Tiger's effect on the woman at the bar (and me) explains the whole Elin Nordegren-Woods thing a little bit more. That and Tiger's kabazillion dollars I guess.

Speaking of boring sports, when did European Soccer become popular? I mean, outside of Europe? I actually see people watching it out in public now. I even have some friends (I use the term loosely) that have requested that certain European Cup games not be talked or e-mailed about until after they get a chance to watch it later on TiVo! This is a tournament that America didn't know existed a year ago, and now it's more important than an NBA playoff game?

And God bless dudes. We just inherently understand the art of fishing to see if a big game on TV can be talked about, or not, without potentially ruining it for someone else who may not have seen it yet. Here is an Instant Message correspondence with a buddy a few weeks ago:

Buddy: Are you watching the game?

Me: I'm watching it tonight.

Buddy: We'll talk then.

Now in comparison I IM'd my wife last week while the above mentioned Tiger was playing in the Monday US Open playoff:

Me: Are you watching Tiger?

Wife: He's all tied up on 17

Me: BITCH! I'm 45 minutes behind on TiVo! He's down two strokes!

Me: [really] Cool!

And I'm still rambling.... you guys get back to it.

It's OKTO joint-Blog

Good for us, we have a joint-blog. We used to have two blogs, but didn't seem to have enough entertaining material or personal time to keep those going. So now we are joining forces and making one blog that will surely lack both in entertaining material and personal time from it's authors.

Now, I know it can be confusing to read these posts without knowing right away who is writing it and what their perspective is. Well, TRUST me, this shouldn't be a problem. We are very different dudes, and figuring out who is writing what should be quite easy.

First, I have a wife, dog, mortgage, young kids, barely a social life, and work as a finance guy in a basement / cave (and sometimes Amsterdam).

The other guy is a single lawyer in San Diego / Francisco, stresses about his hair product, dates, and hopefully sleeps with any young little thing that moves. Oh, and apparently has a thing for Harrison Ford.

So for example, if the post is about trying to keep a kid quiet in a public restroom stall while trying to pin their squirming butts to the changing table and get their pants off without making a mess of everything... well, crap you're right. This could get confusing. We'll just put the author's names at the end of the posts.


- Guy in a black shirt

Indiana Jones and the Last Comment

Some asshole named "matt" had the audacity to comment on my last post. To wit:

Important point about the grail: it only gives you eternal life if you DON'T CROSS THE SEAL. The knight didn't cross the seal, but the Jones Boys did. And actually the seal blew up, so not sure it would have worked anyway.

For the love of the Big Man, I don't even know where to begin with this one. If the Grail only gives eternal life if you DON'T CROSS THE SEAL then what the hell good is the Grail in the first place? Why would Hitler want it? Did he plan on building a nice condo on the other side of the seal and living happily ever after? Maybe slipping some Grail juice to Betty Grable and Eva Braun and piling them for the rest of eternity in his little Grail love nest? I guess some enterprising fellow could build a Grail hospital on the other side of the seal, and cure cancer, gunshot wounds, or whatever the hell else is wrong with you. But would you only be healed as long as you don't cross the seal? Doesn't seem that way, as Henry Jones Sr. was able to ride away on horseback showing no signs of a gunshot wound. And it sure doesn't seem to have corrected his eyesight, as he kept on wearing his glasses even after drinking from the Grail. So the Grail heals all wounds, regardless of whether the former wound later crosses the seal, but ceases to grant eternal life if one crosses the seal? Kind of an inconsistent set of effects. And you'd think these Grail scholars might have learned that about the Grail during all of their studies, rather than having to be told so by some gyppo grail knight. And how did the knight even know that? Its not like he was there when the Grail was created, he was just one of three doofuses who set out to guard the Grail hundreds of years after it was created. Turns out the Grail didn't really need to be guarded though, since it was essentially useless and in any event couldn't be carried across the seal without collapsing the cave around it and being lost in a chasm. Christ, you could drive a Nazi armored car through the logical holes here. Next, you're probably going to tell me that Top Men aren't currently studying the Ark of the Covenant.

Oh what the hell, let's dig a little further on this one. According to the script, here is what the grail knight says about the Grail:

You have chosen wisely. But the Grail cannot pass beyond the Great Seal. That is the boundary and the price of immortality.

So it appears on first blush that this mystery commenter named "matt" might have a point. However, who says the Grail has to pass the Great Seal to be taken away? Why not drill a hole in the mountain and leave the other way? Or blow the top of the mountain off and helicopter that sucker out of there, careful not to fly over the Great Seal? Because helicopters were not yet invented? I beg to differ -
the Nazis had helicopters in 1936 capable of just such a thing. Put that in your pipe and smoke it, "matt."

Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Bull

I went to see Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull tonight. By that I mean I went to see the film of the same name, not that I actually visited Indiana Jones and viewed a crystal skull. That would be difficult to do, because Indiana Jones is a fictional character (unlike Mr. Snuffleufagus, or my girlfriend who lives in Niagara Falls).

This is not a movie review, so there should be no need for any **SPOILER ALERTS**. Especially since "spoiling" something implies ruining one's enjoyment of it, and if you enjoy this steaming pile of monkey crap then, well, you are made of sterner stuff than I.

Actually, I enjoyed this movie. I felt it started off very well - I'd rate the first 30 minutes about an 8.5, and the rest of the movie a 6 or so. Worth seeing, certainly, but I almost wish I hadn't gone to the theater in costume. However, it isn't often you get a chance to wear your Willie Scott costume so I figured I would take advantage. I had the costume ready since I was supposed to attend "Drag Queen Bingo" earlier in the day but that was mysteriously cancelled. In other news, I am pretty sure I'm not gay. Like 53% sure.

But let's get to the point of this post. I don't think it will ruin the plot to state a few facts about the film. First, Indiana Jones's father Henry Jones Sr., aka Sean Connery, does not appear in this film. The reason he does not appear in this film is that Lucas, Spielberg, et al did not offer Sir Sean enough money to appear in the film. But the reason given in the film is that Indy's dad is dead. Secondly, Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade takes place in 1938, while Kingdom of the Crystal Skull takes place in 1957. So, 19 years difference. This makes sense, because Last Crusade came out in 1989 and Crystal Skull came out in 2008, also 19 years difference. It makes sense that the characters look about 20 years older than they used to (except Marion Ravenwood, who has gone downhill faster than Bode Miller, or Yannick Bertrand).

Toward the end of Last Crusade **SPOILER ALERT**, the Nazis shoot Dad to induce Indy to go recover the Holy Grail. When Indy reaches the Grail chamber, he is challenged by a grail knight, the last of three brothers who 700 years earlier swore an oath to find the Grail, and to guard it. Indy makes friends with the knight, then deduces which is the real Grail among a whole bunch of false Grails. Indy verifies it is the correct Grail by drinking from it before bringing it back to his father. Indy then pours water from the Grail onto Dad's gunshot wound, healing the wound, and has Dad drink from the Grail. Now, the knight clearly lived to be 700 years old by drinking from the Grail, which grants eternal life to those who drink from it (it also apparently grants the power to not go insane after being alone for 700 years, the power to speak perfect modern English, and eliminates the need for food, but I digress). Indy and his Dad both drink from the cup. Then how in the hell is Dad dead in 1957, and Indy looks 20 years older (in fairness, he's still in very good shape but his hair is now mostly gray)? 20 actual years are probably 2 Grail years, and Dad's dead of old age? OK, maybe Dad was crushed by a boulder on some archaeological expedition (we know he wasn't shot by the Nazis, who are the worst marksmen this side of Imperial Stormtroopers). But why has Indy aged so much? George Lucas hasn't insulted my intelligence to this degree since he created Jar Jar Binks. This is an outrage.

Bitterballen

Ahh Amsterdam, it's good to see you. What are the chances that my work trip would lead me back to your storied streets? Well, pretty good I guess since I planned my work trip around it. Was is really only eight years ago that we landed in Amsterdam for 48 crazy hours for BRD's bachelor party? That was truly insane. And what happened there will certainly stay there, not that anything "happened" there per se, but there are rules. This is not 'Nam.

OK, one thing I can safely talk about is the bitterballen.

WTF is bitterballen? Well, I think it ONLY exists in the Netherlands, maybe just in Amsterdam. Maybe in heaven too. We decided on that last trip, as we devoured them by the bucket-full, that they HAD to be deep fried gravy balls (see my camera phone picture above). Some kind of magic must hold the gravy in a ball form, while perhaps Jesus himself deep fries them. Look at that picture. LOOK AT IT. Mmmmmm. Oh yes, those are mini meatlette chunks surrounded by goodness, and then friend deeply in a bit of heaven. If you have never had the experience of bitterballen, and if you're a deep fried gravy kind of person (you know if you are), go get your likely fat ass on a plane to Amsterdam.

So it was a few days after my work trip, and I was trying to explain the beauty of bitterballen to a large group of family members at a family function.

Cousin: "So what did you do on your trip to Amsterdam?"

Me: "Well not much. I was by myself on a business trip. I did have a few beers in some bars... it was OK. OH, and I ate BITTERBALLEN! Do you know what that is? It's like fried gra..."

Uncle [interrupting] "Never heard of 'em! Sound like Bull's Balls or something! What is that, like Amsterdam's version of Rocky Mountain Oysters?" [everyone laughs]

Me: "Ha ha! No, it's like fried gravy. Bulls' balls... Good one."

"OH SHIT," I thought to myself. I just realized that I had NO IDEA what bitterballen actually was. We had all just ASSUMED that it was something as innocent as deep fried gravy. None of us were smart enough to ask, or investigate in the slightest. Did I just down a dozen deep fried bull testes last weekend? And another fifty or so years before? OH SHIT. OH SHIT. I felt very ill, and I started to sweat. It's called "bitterBALLen" for fuck sake! I think I just ate a dozen fried bull nuts in mustard sauce. And any of you reading this who were in Amsterdam eight years ago should be thinking the same thing. We ordered the local delicacy, with zero clue, and it was bull balls.

At least that's what I feared for about fifteen minutes of my life, until I got to a computer.

Bitterballen (per wikipedia) it turns out, is basically deep fried gravy. Thank God.