It’s time for a new futon. My current futon is not only lumpy, but the couch frame is literally held together by four uneven stacks of books and the wall. To be honest, the futon has been in a sorry state for well over a year. Of course, twelve months ago, it was only propped up by two stacks of books. It also didn’t need the wall for stability. But as our sole piece of furniture, it had a lot of use, increasingly losing bits and pieces through the year. A nut and screw one day, a random spring the next, an entire bracer bar a few months later… And yet, we didn’t replace it until now for varying reasons—most of which are directly related to my writerly income (or lack thereof). But now that I have a little money these days—well—it’s time to replace the futon.

To add to the urgency of replacing my futon, I have a houseguest coming this Friday. Of course, I’m too embarrassed to let said houseguest sleep on this lumpy “bookton” we currently have. But the manflesh’s parents and our friends—they’ve slept on this very off-kilter futon many times over. Strange, I know. I won’t even pretend to have a reason for you.

We could easily buy a new $50 metal frame to replace the former $50 metal frame. The last one—bless it’s cottony soul—was cheap and sturdy enough for a year or more, making it an excellent choice for us while we were college students. But I’ve recently discovered that once you graduate college, you suddenly have more discerning taste. With that diploma, you may not get a paycheck, but you certainly get a sense of entitlement to quality furnishing. The manflesh and I mutually decided that we want a nicer, more sturdy futon this time&#8212one that will hopefully last much longer than three years. Consequently, I have dedicated what feels like a small fortune for obtaining the newest member of our household. All I know is that for over $200, this frame better out-last my immortal dog.

Sweet, Bubbly Liquids

One of the “benefits” at my current place of employment is the giant glass refrigerators on every floor that are overflowing with a wide selection of free sodas and other fructose-infused carbonated “waters.” But I’ve never been a heavy soda drinker, and this lure of free sodas hasn’t changed that. So, why is it that after reading this article about Jones Soda and their decision to move to cane sugar, I suddenly want to drink more soda?

I’ve always enjoyed sodas that use cane sugar much more than those that use high-fructose corn syrup, and I totally agree with van Stolk in that “Soda’s a treat, not a food group.” But the fact that this article made my mouth tingle is unnerving. A ghost feeling of sweet, bubbly lime soda suddenly washed over my taste buds and a craving for Jones soda was born. Knowing myself as well as I do, that craving won’t go until I’ve had at least one, possibly more, bottles of Jones.

I guess it’s simply reverse psychology for me. Tell me, as a soda manufacturer, that you are not only going to use real cane sugar, but that you also plan to advise people to drink soda in moderation, and suddenly I want to down a case of your product.

Potato, I Blame You

An hour before my night class in screenwriting this past Tuesday night, I found myself at Big Time Brewery with a baked potato smothered in three types of cheeses, chives and olives with a hardy pint of beer. The beer and food (usually pizza) at Big Time is the second best way to reclaim my happiness after a torturous day at work. The best way would be Indian food.

I spread my script pages across the table and covered them in red ink; marking up areas or words that I found weak, and writing notes to myself for how I wanted to change the story. My writing/editing process couldn’t have been simpler:

Take a bite of cheese-drenched potato. Drink some beer. Write a paragraph of red ink over printed pages. Repeat.

Good food, good beer, and time to work on one of my stories. I couldn’t have been happier!

When the only thing that remained on my plate were fragments of potato skin and a puddle of butter, I had twenty minutes to leisurely walk to my classroom. Class came and went. I rode the bus home. Walked in the door by 10 PM. Relieved the dog. Fed and watered the dog. Lounged on the futon and talked to Tyler. Finally, by 10:30 PM, I brushed my teeth and went to bed. It had been nothing more than a typical Tuesday night for me.

Suddenly—cutting rudely into my peaceful dreams—my stomach seized and churned and bile flooded my mouth.

I dove out of bed and spent a good half hour waiting to throw up. Wishing I could throw. Once I threw, that annoying bile that ruins my teeth would stop. Once I threw up, my stomach would feel better. Once I threw up, I could return to bed. And yet, my stomach persisted in contorting and seizing. Finally, sleep and the comfortable new covers won over the chance that I might throw up on Manflesh. I returned to bed. I spent the rest of the morning shifting and contorting to reach the least painful position, and cursing the cheese-smothered potato that surely gave me food poisoning.

I stayed home from work, originally thinking that I would be able to come in a few hours late. I drifted in and out of sleep, contorting, tossing and turning. Between lucid moments of sleep, all I could think about was how evil Big Time and their bacteria-infested potato was.

Finally, when noon came, I realized it was pointless to keep thinking I would make it into work. I forced my stomach out of bed, telling it that it had to commit to a decision: either hurry up and throw up and feel better, or stop seizing and feel better. This seizing and contorting business, I told it, is not working for either of us. I made Stomach an Egg in the Window, and told it that if it didn’t keep it down, I’m going to have to find a new stomach to share my life with. Stomach seemed to think I was serious, and gallantly kept that egg and wheat bread down. Stomach and I spent a few hours laying in bed and playing DS, and then finished off the working day with a hearty three hour nap. By the time Tyler came home, Stomach started to feel better, although it was still a bit uneasy. The rest of the evening passed uneventfully as Stomach settled down and returned to the well-behaved digestive system it usually is.

By the next morning—this morning—Stomach was much better, although still a bit delicate from its bout of seizing and contorting. It was then that I learned Tyler had similar issues last night. I still believed that the potato had poisoned me, though. It wasn’t until I came into work this morning and saw three of the other contractors were out, that I started to think that the potato from Tuesday night might have been an honest, wholesome potato after all. Starting up my computer and email account, I soon saw an email from a contractor who sits next to me and is directly on my team. She wasn’t feeling well at 5 AM this morning and was going to attempt to come in late. However, she never made it in.

I now feel rather sheepish about cursing that damn tasty potato all day yesterday. However, I’m pleased to know that I can still eat at Big Time without thinking about that time they served me the evil potato of cheese-covered doom.

Things That Would Make Me Happy In The Immediate Future

  1. Going to Moose Factory, Ontario this year—for vacation. Preferably with friends.
  2. A Moose Factory t-shirt, whether I make it to Moose Factory or not.
  3. A job where I edit, even if it’s only 50% of the time and the other 50% is administrative or web-related.
  4. A constant—or fairly constant—stream of pay checks.
  5. More time to sit at home and do the things I like to do.

Hell Hath No Coffee

In other news, Starsucks is raising their coffee prices by one whole nickel. While this shouldn’t affect Seattle residents given the large quantity of quality coffee shops, the rest of the nation is spewing hellfire from its collective mouth. Expect to find a protest outside one of the twenty local Starsucks down the street from your home and/or place of employment.


The other day, while riding the bus, a trio of Junior High boys stretched their ungainly limbs out in the back. In young-pitched, cracking voices, they talked about normal Junior High things: music, video games, music, more music, teachers. Nothing about girls, as their voices were still too frightening to hope for such a commodity.

The bus made one of its last stops in the family-centric neighborhood before moving onto the University Ghetto, and the boys swaggered off. In passing, I was stricken by how abnormally they were dressed. Flannel shirts thrown atop over-sized t-shirts, slightly baggy jeans, hair that was long and hadn’t been washed in three days. It was exactly how everyone—and especially me—dressed when I was their age. Not a detail was off.

Junior High was a decade ago for me. Granted, when I’m nearing fifty, those ten years will seem like nothing. However, it feels like it was an eon ago. And in the fashion and pop culture world, ten years is an eon.

So why are Junior High students dressing like they did ten years ago? You can’t even consider the Grunge era vintage at this point, hence it can’t be in vogue. Granted, everyone in Seattle used to dress that way (sans the unwashed hair) years before the rest of the world coined the word “grunge.” But since that time, Seattle has quickly become a world of $200 REI jackets, GAP jeans, Pottery Barn-furnished lofts, and a pair of Birkenstocks or Danskos to tone down the Yuppification and add an air of authenticity to the look. Grunge faded here when it died throughout the rest of the country. What was once a way of life became a passing pop-culture fad.

To have seen “grunge” resurrected amidst the corporate whore attitude of “New Seattle” was rather comforting, leaving me with a twinge of hope that Seattle’s future may in fact not be a grayer shade of the Bay Area’s bland and soulless tech industry.


I get food addictions that must be sated. When I was a student, I was addicted to the elusive poppy seed muffins in the campus cafes.

Latetly, it’s been a chocolate crossiant from the cafe near my good job. However, the chocolate crossiant was merely a “chocolate crossiant” the first time I tried it. The second time, it was a ham crossiant. The past five or so times, it has been a crossiant with a teasing hint of chocolate. But today, it was a Super Mega Deluxe Chocolate Crossiant!

There was so much chocolate packed into this crossiant that my heart began beating rapidly with the first bite. It made quick, bounding leaps into my rib cage, much in the same manner as my former pet rabbit when being barked at by a certain honery Westie. It’s times like today when I really can forgive the cafe for selling ham crossiants and empty, lackluster chocolate crossiants.

Not Real Classifieds

But wouldn’t it be cool if they were?

WANTED: steadfast person with quick organizational skills and willing to work 3 hours a week. Duties include sawing, heaving and farting. Starting pay is 9 dollars per hour. Please apply in person at: 12 down third street.

LOST: Our dodo, Patricia, was lost on the corner of Mother and Dresden streets. She is red and fuchsia and very shiny. Reward of 12 dollars is offered for her safe return.

hairy prostitute looking for work. i am willing to heave and hold for 3 dollars per hour. I am very skilled at barfing as well. I can provide odiferous character references.

That last one is worthy of classified section of the Stranger. By the way, these came from a madlib generator I randomly found whilst searching for something totally unrelated.


As you can witness from here, here, and even here, this happened again. Yes, I held a short-lived reign of drunken terror on the blogosphere that will forever be visible for anyone—including future employers. If you think that was bad, feel fortunate you weren’t the waiter who was nearly impaled to death by my hand as I shot it up in the air at the exact moment he was trying to clear my dishes from the table.

The orange juice has been overflowething from mine cup, but I don’t have plans to lay in bed and moan all day long. Probably because I was mostly drunk on wine this time. For some reason, I can handle wine better than beer the next morning.

For the record, I also didn’t gain five pounds from last night. Only two. Go wine!

Off record: Expect another post really soon. I would like to bump that one that mentions the tampon wrapper off the front page as soon as poosible.

Drunk Dial #333: The Future Mrs. Pratt*

Me:”Omigod! It’s the future Mrs. Pratt! Omigod! I can’t tell you what an honor it is to speak with you!”

My friend laughed. “You’re drunk dialing me, again! You were supposed to call on Wednesday!” she said.

“I know, I know! I’m such a horrible person. But: Omifuckingod! You’re getting married!”

She had just told me today over the interwebs that she was not officially officially getting married in a year in Budapest. I.e. they weren’t quite engaged, but they’ve made the plans. I.e. The cheap bastard hasn’t given her a ring yet, but they’ve made the plans.**

Me, again: “Duuuuude! I am so fuckin’ drunk!”

Her: “I can tell…”

Me: “Are you drunk yet?”

Her: “Of course! I’m an architect! A drunken architect! Not only do I have an image to uphold, but I’ve also earned the title of ‘Professional Drunk Bastard’.”

Me: “I can’t wait ’till you come and visit! I’m gonna have to buy you a round of drinks to celebrate the ‘not official official engagement!”

Her: laughter.

Me; “Duuuuude, seriously! I haven’t even met this guy yet. I’ve only seen his picture! He still has to pass my test of ‘appropriate husband material for my ‘twin’***.”

Her: “This is such a deep and meaningful drunken conversation!”

Me: “As if you could expect any less!?! We’re fuckin’ toasted. The both of us! We should solve the mystery of the universe while we’re at it!”

Her: “Don’t forget the mystery of humankind existence! We’ll totally be able to solve that shit in a matter of seconds.”

Me: “Duuuuude. Let’s start right now! The number 47…”****

*I doubt this is #333, but three is my lucky number, so three threes must be super-lucky. And considering the subject matter of this call, I’d say super-luck is appropriate!

**This is all my drunken interpretation, of course, so pay no heed to it.

***She is totally my twin who has been seperated from me at birth. In a metaphorical, “I’m Whitey-McWhite and she’s Mexican but we still say the same things at the same time, even when we first met” sort of way.

****It’s probably best not to pay much heed to this entire post, other than for laughs. Afterall, it’s about a drunk dial, written while I was drunk. I cannot verify the accuracy of the above, though I do remember drunk dialing said friend and talking about her engagement.