Viva Las Vegas

So, I grew up in Southern California along the I-15 corridor. My dad liked to travel quite a bit and on any eastward trip we would pass through Las Vegas. Of course, I was just a kid on these trips, so the best the city had to offer me was Circus Circus. The first time I visited while old enough to participate in all the sin was for my dad's wedding, but William was about two and not allowed in the fun areas.

Well, it's been the better part of a decade since then, but Vegas has called me back. I won't bore you with the details but I'm there to attend an annual Adobe convention. While I'll be working during the day, the evenings are my own. I just don't want to become "that guy": the protagonist in a cautionary tale. When on a company expensed trip, what happens in Vegas doesn't necessarily stay there.

I arrived Thursday afternoon via my frequently flown Alaska Airlines. I used to stay awake through an entire flight, regardless of length (a flight to India is basically 24 hours in the air, not the most fun), but now I fall asleep every time. I awoke over Vegas only to find that Portland's weather had followed me there: cool and rainy. No matter, the experience of Vegas is indoors mostly anyway. Took a cab to the Aria hotel and casino, then settled into my room. And what an amazing room it is: spacious, fully stocked and automated, and with a great view. I probably have nearly as much square footage as my apartment back home, a king bed, and the back wall was a floor-to-ceiling window. The mini-bar comes with liquor, beer, and wine. I can control the lighting and the twenty foot curtains from a button pad, a bedside touchscreen console, or through the TV remote. My view is out to the west, away from the hustle and bustle, with the Rio and the mountains beyond.

After settling in, getting some work done, and playing with these new toys, I have one item on my agenda to accomplish: visit the Hard Rock Cafe. It's practically across the street (read: The Strip) from my hotel. I visit a Hard Rock whenever travel sends me to a city with one. What can I say? I love their steaks, drinks, and collecting their location specific glasses: pints for me, shots for my wife. I went with a bevvy of my co-workers so we could talk shop.

When dinner was over, I returned to my room and settled in for the night. I have zero interest in gambling and didn't want to stay up too late before having to work the next day.

Friday, with the work day over, we were supposed to join a company dinner. But most of that same bevvy from the night before opted to dine at Mon Ami Gabi, under the Eiffel Tower at the Paris. It was a nice little restaurant that was so French I couldn't pronounce most of the menu items. But I had the Steak Poivre, a nice spicy dish.

Later, I went back to my room to grab my camera and tripod for some night photography along with a couple coworkers. We walked down The Strip to Excalibur and just missed a shooting. Another of my coworkers was actually at the Tournament of Kings when it occurred. But this is Vegas, the show went on uninterrupted.

Not having any more plans on this end of The Strip, we went to the MGM to hitch a ride on the monorail to the other end of town. As we're going inside, two girls in club clothes are entering as well. It's hard not to notice because one is wearing this black leather corset/tube top that is just holding on for dear life around her impressive [insert Euphemism for Boobs]. While trying to figure out how to make our way through the crowd (did I mention that this weekend is also the National Finals Rodeo?) to our destination, it seems these girls are also attempting to find their way somewhere. It soon becomes apparent that our paths will overlap for awhile so I suggest to my comrades that we follow them. I've seen the effect astounding cleavage can have on a hoard, it's like Moses. Sticking close behind them is the same as tailing an emergency vehicle with its sirens going: everyone gets out of the way and gives you a clear path. What's more fun is watching the faces of those that are making way: men's eyes dart in and leap out sheepishly, old grandmothers say "My God! Did you see the size of those things?!"

Eventually the girls find their night club and we find the monorail isn't the free trip we'd hoped it would be. Not a total loss, but we head out of the casino and wander back down The Strip to the fountains of the Bellagio. This is where the majority of my photography comes in. We continue our trek and turn around at the Venetian before heading back to the hotel and once again ending the night.

Come Saturday, I've only got a half day of work. The rest of the time I plan on picking up some souvenirs and visiting some of the crazy candy shops I'd seen previously. The first such location is Lick, in the Monte Carlo. There I find a giant gummy bear, I think it was about one pound in size. But what's better is the "If you like this item" pictures on the back of the packaging. I ask the store person if they have one of these particular items. They do. It's a three foot long gummy dildo worm. I opt not to buy the nearly $50 candy but I do pick up an innuendo laden shot glass for my wife. We also stop at It'Sugar, which has much of the same candy novelties (and sexual undertones), but is actually less expensive.

Having completed the shopping and tired of walking, we spend the rest of our time drinking, the perfect preparations for the flight home.

Just one more thing to mention, and that is my need to collect strange items. The first is from work. We were having a series of quizzes and other competitions throughout the convention that could earn us team points in the form of poker chips. The team with the most points won a prize, which wasn't my team, but at the end of the contest they were just giving away the chips. There are worthless on their own, had no value at the casino, but they were custom made for our event and had the convention logo on one side. There was a table covered with them and a few people were grabbing them. But most of the crowd had passed by already and there must have been thousands of them left. I grabbed one for fun. Then I grabbed a couple more in case I wanted to give some to poker playing friends. I wanted at least ten so I could use them to practice chip shuffling. But then the guy who was in charge of them encouraged me to take more, and gave me a bag to hold them. He said what was left would end up in his office, and I suggested he make a fort out of them. In the end, however, I had one hundred and sixty of them, exactly. But I ended up giving one of them away to a coworker before leaving Vegas.

The other thing I collected is a bit notorious. You've probably heard about how on the streets there are people handing out cards with naked women on them. Well, it's totally true, and you know what a sucker I am for naked women. I compulsively collected these from every single person handing them out. In the end I had a huge collection of the things from probably every escort service in Vegas. Most of the pictures on the cards are obviously not the women you'll get if you call up or visit their websites (NSFW) for a good time companion. Hell, I recognize several from the pages of Playboy (NSFW) and similar publications. What's truly insane about the whole things is how many unique cards I ended up with, and how few were duplicates.

Too many Santas

So, I've been on a lot of pub crawls. But there is one with a very special place in my liver. And that is SantaCon.

I'd heard rumors about this phenomenon for some time after moving to Portland, but it wasn't until attending a reading by Chuck Palahniuk at Powell's downtown (which reminds me of another adventure I'll have to tell you) that I got some juicy details. He was promoting his latest book, Fugitives and Refugees, when he told a story of Windex and mobbing the Lloyd Center. It was a holiday tale about Santa and I wanted in.

It was a couple years later that I happened upon a blurb in the Willamette Week telling me about the upcoming event. Finally! I knew when and where to go to join in on this madness.

Sadly, it was a rouse, in classic Con style.

About 50 Santas showed up in Hillsboro, at the end of the Max line. No leadership, no plan. Just a bunch of milling about being watched by some nearby cops. After waiting around awkwardly for a while, someone took the initiative and lead us to a bar. And soon we were hopping from one dive to another. We were eventually notified, in a very discreet manner, that we had been SantaConned, and that the real event was next week, downtown.

I was dying for the authentic experience.

When I went, I didn't yet own a Santa suit. I had a Santa hat with beard attached, a t-shirt with a Christmas/Santa slogan, and little hope of blending in. But I brought the gift of liquor (shhhhhh! at least the bottle was wrapped like a present, it even had one of those stick on bows) and a ton of enthusiasm to participate and help out as much as possible. I started meeting and befriending the inner circle of troublemakers and mayhem stirrers who call themselves the Cacophony Society and started down a long road of new adventures.

This year I attended my fifth annual con.

Like that first year, SantaCon splintered into several events, run by different societies. And despite a host of options, multiple happening each Saturday of December, I was only interested in two.

The first was Anticon, the North Portland version of Santa that originally started as a way of escaping the "downtown mayhem" by following the Max Yellow Line down Insterstate. This was my first year attending the NoPo classic. As tradition states, we met at the Paul Bunyan statue. The small park was roughly divided between Santas and the rival bananas, but a good deal of  cookie, candy, and alcohol sharing fostered healthy camaraderie. After visiting our first bar, we headed over to Mayor Sam Adams house. There we were given a lovely speech about the unique fun that Portland can have without drinking in public (wink, wink). Which reminds me of the other time I met the mayor (a tale for another day). From there, we had a death march to our next location and had a lovely lunch at a Chinese restaurant while waiting out the rain.

We were then supposed to meet at another bar, but were tempted into The Office, a small dive that may one day grow up to become a strip club. Only had a couple other santas, so we took off for the official location. I spotted some friends and the next thing I know I'm in a tug-of-war using sheets tied together. Seems the line was meant to be divided between bananas and santas and I was on the wrong end. I flipped to the other side and we tugged until the sheets snapped and knocked the drunken revelers over like dominoes.

Santa then headed to The Tardis Room, which, unsurprisingly, is much larger on the inside, and we were divided into many different little parties. Eventually we moved on to the Dancing Bear Bare where santa let all the good little girls sit in his lap to talk about (deep, dark) desires. Let's just say the rest of the night is censored. Oh, except for dancing to a live band.

The following Saturday, Santa gathered again, this time downtown. We were running a little behind and missed the initial santa gathering spot. But we soon found everyone congregating at Dante's. Great venue, but only two bartenders verses a couple hundred santi resulted in me spending the majority of my time waiting in line for the one drink I had before leaving. Marching to a nearby park, we had a tug-of-war, this time with a right-proper rope. My side was winning, so the other santas tied their end of the rope to a lamp post. Not to be out done, we did the same on our side. Soon everybody/nobody was winning. I'm just glad we didn't destroy anything. I then helped by leading a contingent across the street to the Big Pink, but we were kicked out before even a dozen santas entered. We were only going to march through! No trouble, right guys? Still friends?

Kelly's Olympian was the next stop, but it's such a small joint that a group of us splintered off around the corner to the Rialto. Much bigger space, far fewer santas, and much less clothing. I, uncharacteristically, stayed pretty well dressed until we made it to our next destination: O'Bryant Square. I have partaken in many a rubber band and other battles here. But my most epic showdown was about to begin. A fight against the living mannequin at the men's underwear store across the street. I stripped to my santa boxers, flexed, and posed until a woman gave me a dollar. I win!

Visited a very crowded Mary's next (are Mary's and the Dancing Bare related or did the same person do both of their web sites?) but was soon tempted to visit the Glowing Greens for the best/worst round of miniature golf ever. This was a side mission where about ten or so santas load up in a van and leave the rest of the group behind. We did this again later for a karaoke stint at Chopsticks, a place where santa (not this santa) had gotten us into a bit of trouble a couple years ago. In between we hung out at Embers with the staff we know and love so well. But then my wife and I retired for the evening. Santa and Mrs. Claus had enough of the crowds and now just needed each other's company.

Thrills after dark

So, I'm not much of a dancer. Two left feet doesn't even begin to describe me. I have a pretty hard time doing anything with my legs beyond running and climbing. I'd say I was clumsy if I didn't have such excellent balance. I even find it difficult to switch my weight from one side to the other. Rhythm utterly escapes me.

Yet I am also a child of the 80's. MTV (you know, back when they actually played music) very effectively brainwashed me. And it was the anthems of Michael Jackson that most effectively planted a dance bug deep into my subconscious. We all wanted to moonwalk when I was a kid.

Thus, when someone said, "Hey, come do Thriller with me," there was no way I could turn it down.

Next thing I know I'm down at OMSI rehearsing. Our dance instructor took us through a lot of the original choreography from the video but with a slight twist to match our dance space, the cut of the song, and the whims of an artist. We did this for several weeks, culminating in a visit to our teacher's normal stomping grounds, the Diva Den. This may not come as a surprise to you, but most of the people participating were women, and normally the Diva Den is sans males, but this training was a special exception. That's right gentlemen, I have visited the forbidden inner sanctum!

Why were we doing this? All this bending of rules, practice, and hard, sweaty work? Well, the last Wednesday of every month is OMSI After Dark, an adults-only visit to the hands-on museum with a special theme. And just what was the theme we were preparing for? It was "I love the 80's" night. So we dressed in our John Hughes best and headed to the event.

And what is the 80's without music videos? Nothing!

So there was a dance floor where some of the greatest New Wave classics were played on the big screen. And without announcement we broke out into "spontaneous" dance when the Thriller video came on. Some people got excited and asked if they could join in. I said if they could keep up they were welcome to it.

In this video I'm that guy at the back of the dance group, in the upper right of the screen, with the hat, white shirt and vest. You know, the one flubbing all the dance moves and such.

And that's not even the end of the story. Because all of this took place last year. This year, someone said "Hey, come do Thriller with me." And the whole thing started again.

This time we had fewer practices and a longer, more complex routine (nearly twice as long and about a third less repetitive). Rather than the choreography of the Diva Den, we had the dance as told by Thrill the World. And the OMSI After Dark theme? The end of the world. So we dressed in our zombie best and had another Thrill.

Gathering in a back room to finish preparations and have a final run through, a couple of us got interviewed by the local news station. Our lovely instructor went first. She is an organizer for, and talked about the, Portland Zombie Walk, from which tonight's event grew. I volunteered to go next and talked a bit about other zombie activities in town. Our interviewer then said "This isn't your first zombie rodeo then?" To which I could only reply, "No, but those zombie bulls sure are hard to ride." We promptly ended the interview so the camera man could bust up laughing. There was also a group of zombified Disney Princesses. The Snow White was the only other interviewee before we had to make final plans.

We then did a quick zombie crawl around the museum to end up in front of a live band. We staggered around until they finished their song and we promptly collapsed to the floor. Everyone but Michael Jackson. Then a full six minute version of the song started and we danced as the crowd continued to gather round, film and photograph us. I kept up with the choreography much better this time and we pulled things off beautifully.

The aftermath of this event is that it continues to give me more confidence on the dance floor, as I have a better sense of how to make my body, even my legs, get jiggy with it.

When predictions go right and wrong

So, I had this little revelation: All conventions are for Geeks. And I don't mean anything bad by that, as I proudly wear my geekdom on my sleeve. I just mean that it takes a lot of interest and dedication to supply enough related material to pull together a large group and make them pay for the opportunity to buy stuff.

Many people probably think of the classic geekery when it comes to conventions: anime, comics, video games. But there are also conventions for guns and porn. And while sports fans may be hesitant to admit it, they can be complete geeks too. Especially those who play fantasy leagues and attend its conventions. All those stats, men in armor, women in slinky outfits. Face it boys, it's just Dungeons and Dragons for jocks.

But recently I had an opportunity to attend a convention of a whole other type of geekishness, one which I turned away from in my youth. Once upon a time, I consumed books on numerology, burned incense for more than just the smell, and studied "real" magic. I was trying to fill the void more mainstream religion had not. Unfortunately, I eventually found the occult to be just as hollow.

But... I was tempted back by free tickets.

It was called the Body Mind Spirit Expo.

At first glance I saw this merely as an opportunity to snicker softly with my wife as we checked out booths dedicated to dream interpretation and aura therapy. A chance to mock New Age mumbo jumbo.

Sadly, I was mostly proven right.

Upon entering, we were given a special cleansing: a free Luna Fiber bar. Nice. But is it life changing? Well, for some it could be. Joy didn't like her's, so I ate them both. Are they strong enough for a man?

The first booth we approach offered to magically melt away cellulite. I don't know the name of the product or brand, but the handy coupon doubled as a fan.

Next up was a variety of drinks. The first was a Red Bull-sized can meant for relaxation. Lanilai, we learned, contains no melatonin. This is good because if you consume too much artificially, your body will stop producing it naturally and then you will become impotent. To quote their web site: "The most simplest description of LANILAI Relaxation Drink is a delicious calming ice tea best serve chilled!" They also had beverages with the fastest way to make your face implode: made with pure ginger, mint, and grapefruit.

While stereotypes based on race, religion, sex, and/or age may be misplaced, this isn't necessarily true of geek cultures. I knew we would eventually run across a large assortment of crystals. When we did, I can honestly say I was surprised by some of what we found. Many were in the shape of blades and others in the shape of "magic wands". I guess you need a backup plan if the psychic based dating service falls through.

The winner of the best book award goes to "How to spot a bastard by his star sign" by Adele Lang. We read through my profile (I'm an Aries) and it's mostly untrue. I swear.

And plenty of bath salts were offered. But these would make you a different kind of zombie, depending on which "flavor" you selected. Expecting your bath product to grant you happiness or make you more appealing to the opposite sex is a waiting game that can zone you out from the rest of society.

The real gem of the show was a seminar about names. I wanted to know more about how we choose our names before we were born, but came away with a new revelation. Our names are important, they are part of a label that helps separate us from others. Not in a negative context, but in one that grants more respect upon you (sets you apart as an individual) and responsibility upon others (they must learn and remember your name). While how you say something is often just as important as what is said, there is a tone that comes with the letters used in your name. I always talk about how angry the German language sounds. Say "I love you" in German and you seem pissed off. If your name has Germanic roots, anyone who calls it may sound angry. Which could prove stressful. And while I may not believe we choose our names before we are born physically, we can certainly choose our names when we are born into new life stages. When we start our career, we can tell our co-workers what name to call us by, thus helping to direct our destiny.

Afternoon of the Dead

So, some days you just wake up dead-tired. You shuffle about seemingly without direction and are lucky to get started by noon. Your clothes are torn. Your face is haggard. Next thing you know, there is blood everywhere.

Don't you just love those kinds of days?

Now, zombies may be over-played and cliché, but I don't think they'll ever not be fun.

At the behest of friends, and despite the drama that may occur with other friends, I attended the October event from the Stumptown Crawlers. This was the 2nd Annual Zombies & Monsters Pub Crawl. (I was in attendance for the 1st Annual last year as well).

Where would the drama come from? Well, I attend a lot of events which are run by different groups or organizations (corporations?). And some of these groups have taken issue with some of the other groups for the theft of ideas, who's making what money, exploitation, misunderstandings, and all the other rubbish that lead to the Hatfields and Mccoys duking it out. My attendance was not meant to snub anyone, nor a means of showing support to someone else. I am not about to get involved in the politics of the matter. Maybe so-and-so is a douche to whatshisname. It matters not to me. I went to have fun with my friends.

Now that we've gotten that disclaimer out of the way, let's talk about what went down that day.

My wife isn't into horror, guts, and all that rot, so she sat this one out. Instead, my friend Laurie was going to be my date for the evening. She came over to our place so we could destroy the wedding dress she made to get married to the scumbag she recently divorced. I slashed apart a hand-me-down suit from my father-in-law. We were a truly torn up couple.

Heading downtown on the Max I attempted to perfect my dead-eyed stare, but couldn't help cracking a smile before really creeping anyone out. Arrival at the first bar was almost exactly on time for the official start (one of my most disgusting habits). The bar staff was all done up in zombie/monster style, and there was a make-up service on hand to professionally augment anyone who wanted it. Here we met our friend Velocity, a member of Niall's Zombie Control Service. It is only though the efforts of this team that any hope of keeping a massive, shambling hoard in order is remotely possible.

After a couple drinks and meeting even more friends (some dressed as the post-apocalypse version of the Scooby Doo gang) we moved outside to pickup our undead protest signs. I wanted one that said "Zombies are people too" and searched through the stack to find: "Zombies were Human too"! Someone had pre-read my mind. (Later, someone edited it to say "Zombies, we're Human too", but at least I got to put a big, bloody hand print on it.) Then we dragged the crowd to, and through, Portland's living room to fight for our ghoulish rights. I, in true zombie fashion, performed a dead leg limp, which gave me considerable trouble at every curb while crossing streets. Did you know that brain eating is our right? Well, there was a sign...

A quick fuel stop was made (where I saw signs for both "rage" and "brains", and it had nothing to do with us) before heading down to the real heart of the storm. A shack for the voodoo spirits, who may have been the reason we continue to walk the earth, held a couple surprises.

First, we had a gentleman preaching loudly on the corner. His sign said something about blood and "at-one-ment" but it was what he said that was so much more entertaining. Not sure what it was about but when he would use words like "resurrection" or "eternal life", I would echo him quite loudly. The folks in line also found this entertaining and I ended up on the cell phones of uncounted strangers.

Second, I tried playing a massive game of Twister. Not easy to breath in a suit that's a couple sizes too small when tied in a knot. (The small size of the suit contributed beautifully to destroy my coordination and lead to a more authentic shuffle).

Next came the den of inequity where a miniture version of Marilyn Manson helped to rip pages from the Bible and stuff them down the bra of a cyber goth woman. This entertained me just long enough to be informed that there was a bus waiting outside, with free liquor, and a trip to another bar. A sort of side mission to buzz in and out of another location before returning to the rest of the crowd who would completely miss out on this adventure. They had me at free liquor.

Our bus ended up driving to no location in particular. We drove a couple laps around downtown and simply returned to our starting point. At least I got to drink for free.

Next, we headed to another fortified location and met a zombified Rocky Horror group. When people started dancing on the table tops, Laurie and I joined them. I was then told that only women were allowed to dance on the table. Sexist! Not interested in having any trouble, I let the issue lie... for several minutes. I did a quick tour of the facilities and returned to find a guy up on the tables. Fair game! I jumped up, the guy mysteriously disappeared, and I was once again told no gentlemen on the tables. Shortly after, I got one more drink and closed out my tab. While waiting for the check this mysterious woman appears and starts dancing against me. Not super flirty, but more than simply bumping into someone in line. She takes a sip from my drink. Sure, why not. I sign my check. Poof! She's gone with my drink! Your little bump and grind was not enough to qualify you for a free drink! I didn't even get your name! I am Jack's righteous indignation.

Our final destination, the terminal point as it were, was a second den of ill repute (but the place where someone will most likely buy me a drink). Here I got a chance to talk to the fine folks from Zaico. They sell insurance for the eventuality of a zombie apocalypse. This idea sounded a bit familiar... They said they could sign me up for a policy. I informed them I had a pre-existing condition.

After a nice talk I ended up on the dance floor because they started playing Thriller, a song for which I know a few of the dance moves (which reminds me, I'll have to tell you about THAT adventure too). This was followed by Dead Man's Party and some other zombie oldies but goodies.

Having wore my self out considerably, I arranged for a ride to a friend's house where a karaoke party was in progress. However, I found myself unable to sing due to a hoarse voice from moaning all day long. Despite the trials and tribulations of the evening, I managed to hold onto my protest sign all along the way.

A whole city to discover

So, the year is full of these holidays which have traditions that get people to behave ways that would seem strange any other time of year. Halloween is my favorite. It asks us to dress in a fashion we normally couldn't get away with and others are only going to compliment us on our most hideous choices. People open their doors to complete strangers and then hand out candy with only a minimal threat. And it only gets better when you grow up because there are parties, alcohol, and women dressing as slutty possible.

At the other end of the year you have Easter, which has these strange practices: hide eggs and hope the kids can find them all before they rot (since the adults have likely already forgotten where they put them), surround yourself with bunnies, and eat candy until you're sick. Oh yeah, and Jesus or something.

But littered through the rest of the calendar are these really esoteric days. And the one that presented me with a small adventure recently was Columbus Day. And just what are you supposed to do on Columbus Day? Well, just what are we celebrating? Christopher Columbus sailed across the Atlantic, did not find what he was looking for, and was a total dick to the natives.

There really is only one thing you can do on Columbus Day to do it justice: dress like a pirate and go around "discovering" things that others already knew existed, "claim" them for King/Queen/Country, and leave a flag.

This was a small voyage of just a few intrepid adventurers along the shores of Burnside. We first landed in a quaint cove, exchanged banter with the wenches, and threatened to return. Next, we sailed across the alley to a small isle, where we were creeped-out by a Crispin Glover look-alike (to be fair, we also annoyed him by not buying anything, in true Columbus style). We rounded the corner to reveal a village of natives. Here we had the traditional Columbus Day drink: a cheap margarita. We then explored the caverns under a pink mountain and trekked  to a distant shore where we espied unveiled treasure chests. After a second tour of the big pink tunnels, we made our way to Haiti for some sugary delights.

Along the way, we left a trail of notices for future travelers:

• Finders keepers. - C. Columbus
• Let me explore you. - C. Columbus
• I saw it first. -C. Columbus

We may do this again next year, bigger, more organized, and with a better claim.

We didn't end our pirate adventures for the week though. The following Friday saw us with a group of scalawags to sing the night away with classic (and not so classic) shanties. The room had plenty of space, and liquor, which is important if you don't want to be pillaged (and if you do, it can be arranged).

Team Sports Training

So, I'm not much for watching sports. I know how it works, I understand the rules, I appreciate the athleticism. But I don't follow any teams, in any leagues, and could care less if this team defeats that one. I find watching the endeavor on TV to be extremely boring.

However, being a live spectator is a whole other experience.

I went to a fair number of professional sports games when I was a kid growing up in the LA area. I have very distinct memories of seeing the Angels play on their home turf. But it's been decades since I've attended a pro match.

All grown up now, I do a fair bit of travel for work. This often sees me going to Adobe headquarters in San Jose. I've been here so many times that I have to seek new thrills. Most of my colleagues were staying at the luxurious Fairmont hotel. For adventures sake, I opted to stay at the less posh, but more historic, Saint Claire.

Generally our boss will entertain the team with a fancy diner. This time we got a special treat: travel up to San Francisco to catch a Giants game.

Like all such situations, there was a plan in place. It was simple, would satisfy our goals, and was foolproof. Take Caltrail up the length of the bay, arrive early, enjoy the festivities. No problem.

When we got off work, Pete and I headed back to the Saint Claire together to drop off our work materials and get changed before meeting everyone else at the Fairmont. But we needed to pick up something from his car first and our hotel was further away. There was a time table for the plans, so everybody else took off: we'd catch up. This, it turned out, required a bit of running. We arrived just as our boss had finished purchasing the last of our tickets and we made it to the train on schedule.

But the universe had other plans.

Seems a BMW got clipped on the train tracks. Not our train, but one in front of us. We were delayed while things got cleaned up. Half of our train had reached the platform and many passengers sensed a long wait. These opted to BART the rest of the way, leaving only Giants fanatics behind. More than half an hour later we were cleared to travel again. But now our schedule was entirely off. So much for well-laid plans.

Instead of arriving early, we got to AT&T Park somewhere around the end of the second inning. The Giants had already scored and we hadn't even entered Willie Mays Gate. Bing handed out our tickets and I was assigned a seat next to Jeff. The two of us decided to stick close because everyone got split up as we entered the park. Our tickets were for the third terrace and we'd only made it to the top of the first when we'd lost nearly everyone. We found Baxter and the three of us continued to take the long way round to our seats.

We were in the View Box, a bit of seating that hangs off the main stands area. It offers a spectacular view of the field but makes it a little harder to find. Our section was near the top of the third base foul pole, which made the likelihood of a ball batted into our region about nil.

I headed to the gift shop to pick up some souvenirs. I got a shot glass for Joy, a key chain for Atheana, and Tim Lincecum in Lego form for William. While I was shopping the Giants scored again when someone hit a triple.

Participating in the national pastime is a strange mix of enthusiasm and Pavlovian shepherding. People cheer when a good play is made, boo at a bad call, and go nuts when there is a home run. But we also clap and sing on the demands of audio and visual cues that are staples at any game. The video cameras also sweep the crowd and encourage specific behavior. There was the "kissing cam", which would show a couple sitting together on the jumbotron until they did the deed. It could be cute, romantic, or downright steamy. Toward the end of the game we had the Gangnam Style cam, rousing folks to pony up.

There was a fight in the stands behind us at one point. Don't know many of the details, but I watched a wide-eyed bald man make an attempt at escape but he was caught by security. Later the paramedics came and picked up a woman who was limping and upset but didn't seem to be in terrible shape.

And what's a game without the Wave? The section above us also tried to get this going. While some participated and others merely ignored, other folks got rather heated and started screaming for this nonsense to stop. If you're not going along with the crowd, what's the point? If your main concern is watching the game uninterrupted, why not watch it at home?

Physics can occasionally play out strangely during a sporting event. At one point when a batter hit the ball, the bat split. The largest chunk went flying toward the shortstop and landed near the edge of the infield sticking straight up like a spoon in thick chili.

The greatest hazard faced during the entire event though was the seagulls. They would perch, pick their targets, and then head out in massive bombing runs. I was never hit, but there was a close call a couple seats in front of me. But we always had half an eye on the sky.

Most of my team left at the top of the eighth to catch a train back. The next wouldn't be for another hour, but I'd come to watch the game. We'd missed the beginning, I'd missed a chunk of the middle for shopping and to food lines. I would be damned if I was going to miss the end as well. Not that there were going to be any surprises. The Giants were up 5-0 and had been dominating the game. By the end they scored one more time, not even completing the ninth inning as the game was already over.

I caught the next train, but it was an all-stop special, so it took nearly an hour and half to get home. It was nearly 1 a.m. by the time I made it back to the hotel and I still wanted to hit the gym. Waking up the next day for work was nearly impossible, but I don't regret any of my decisions that night.

Way of the Warrior

So, late last summer I was convinced to do this totally insane thing. Insane, even for me. It involved lots of running and being outdoors and I was totally unprepared. Wouldn't I rather be watching a movie, playing a video game, or sleeping?

But I saw the pictures: running over the tops of derelict cars, being outdoors to jump over fires, preparing for a ninja battle. (Oh, wait. There are no ninjas in pictures)

I had to admit, I was intrigued and interested. So I signed up.

With only a week to prepare, I bought a new pair of running shoes and jogged three miles a night. Had to break-in the shoes and break-in my muscles because I was going on my first mud run. That's right, this was Warrior Dash 1.0.


I was about to find out exactly how out of shape I was. Those three mile night jogs? There was actually a lot of walking involved, and some very heavy breathing. After the first night, I could barely walk the next day. But I was bound and determined to complete this race and to perform well.


It was Atheana that got me into to this mess, so I would be competing against her and her husband Carey. But Atheana was feeling competitive, saying she's going to smoke me. I responded that I've got plenty of stamina. She fires back "You can't run the race on your knees!" Touche.

As it took Atheana at least fifteen minutes longer to reach the finish line than I did, it was a lot of talk with no show. But I had become addicted.

Now: Warrior Dash 2.0: The Glutton for Punishment!

I've mentioned my previous mud runs this year: Foam Fest and Run for Your Lives. I also had the Spartan Sprint to start this season off. Plus, I've been going to the gym since March. I was much better prepared for the Dash this time around. I was familiar with much of the course, it's obstacles, and had gotten into much better shape.

So, how did it go?

This time I went solo, no family, no friends. Just me against the world.

And right off the bat, luck is against me.

I'm just settling into flu symptoms that started a couple days before. Sore throat and cough being no friends to running. The weather is cool, overcast, and near raining. My clothing choice, though appropriate most mud runs, leaves me unprotected from the environment and with chattering teeth. However, these are minor setbacks against all the preparations I've made.

I'm expecting a near clone of last year as I approach the same start line as before. With the flamethrowers announcing the beginning of the race, my three hundred-odd companions and I take off into the woods. Over a small hill, down into a ravine, then up a steep, dusty, and winding trail that really kills all the enthusiasm the race announcer had built-up minutes before.

Like last year, the first obstacle is the river. Previously, we jumped into the water, climbed over a couple logs and then came out again on the same shore. This time logs were replace by tumbling jugs, like underwater broncos trying to buck you off. We also had to wade quite far downstream, over a river bottom filled with random craters. My guess was they had dredged the bed to remove large rocks and left holes everywhere. A much tougher swim this time around.

Most of the obstacles returned from last year, and the race ran pretty much the same course. But two of my favorites were removed. First, the earlier mentioned running over a car junkyard. Second, the wobbly table tops. Like playing the lava game as a kid, where you have to jump from one piece of furniture to another without touching the ground, you have to move from table to table. Each surface only has a single leg and is not very stable. Last year, I passed these flawlessly. I missed them this time around.

With some obstacles missing, they had to introduce some new ones. We got a much denser and difficult version of the spiders web that I had first encountered at the Foam Fest. There were also some trench and barbed-wire crawls.

I kept a pretty good pace most of the race, but there were many times I was so winded I had to walk. But as long as we were not headed uphill, I would catch my breath and start to run again. When I got toward the end of the race, when I knew that all that stood between me and the finish was a small hill, fire, and mud I found a second wind and really increased my pace. I started passing folks left and right and gave everything I had left to finish strong.

I performed much better this year. By looking at the race results I made the top 100 for my age group. And I was less than 10 minutes away from the lead. I was also in the top 10% overall. I don't know my official results from last year's race, but by best estimates, this year I beat it by 10 minutes. I like those odds for coming out on top next year.

At the end of the day I took a dip in the pond to remove the mud and donated my now year-old shoes, purchased originally to run the race last year but still in good shape, to GreenSneakers. Now, my running shoes are those I got from Portlandia.

Now that I've closed out this year for mud runs, I'll continue to train, to come out on top of the Warrior pile, but also be ready for the more insane Tough Mudder next year.

Gorillas in the Midst of PDX

So, I've lived in Portland and it's environs for over a decade. Some may argue that it will take another two before I could really claim to be a proper citizen. But I like to think I've been somewhat naturalized by having a son born downtown or that I've at least been adopted by the local community. I've walked every street, drank at most of the bars, and tipped a fair share of the strippers.

There are various landmarks in the city, many of which I've learned the history of, climbed, and/or been married to. Rarely does such knowledge, talent, or relationship get tested or prove of much use. Unless you are the hosting a walking tour, the best you'll get is mild banter out of it. 

Yet a scavenger hunt can prove to be the best use of such trivia (except an all PDX episode of Jeopardy is produced). So when the offer to join the Gorilla Challenge came in, I knew I'd found a very special calling.

The basic premise here is that you are given clues to various locations around town, upon visiting those locations you must provide photo (sometimes video) evidence of having been there. And not just any photo, you have to be doing something slightly questionable. Additionally, there are some mandatory physical challenges to complete.

A team of at least two people is required to participate and costumes are encouraged. So I gathered together my wife Joy, our long time friend Atheana, and new racing buddy Bonnie. We decided to go with a wedding party theme for our group. Since I was the only male it was obvious I should be the bride. Bonnie played my husband (in a tutu), Atheana a bride's maid, and Joy was the flower girl. We went with the name "Wedding Crashers"

As for the challenge itself, all contestants met at the Rock Bottom Brewery, got signed in, had a drink or two, and waited for the start time. While we mingled through the crowd I got complemented on being such a beautify bride many times. We met Mark Eisnehart (past and future American Ninja Warrior participant and fitness guru) and was interviewed by Laddie Read (of Mainstreamed Media, a platform for the disabled to be a part of the press). After a review of the rules, we got things started, with a quick jog to the other end of the block to get our first clue sheet.

We quickly identified our first item which sent us up to the former ground-zero for the Occupy movement, there we had to have a picture of one of our team members picking up another member in front of the pioneer statue. Then it was up to Ira Keller falls for a three legged, four fisted gorilla crawl. This was the first of our physical challenges. The next was a YMCA dance-off against another team in the park. Then, for gross-out factor, we had to spray "fruit punch" into another team member's mouth so they could spit it in a cup. Turns out the fruit punch was actually red dye and vinegar (lucky me Atheana had volunteered to be our taster for this challenge).

Other photo/video scavenger items including singing and dancing like a lemur in front of Portland's most tourist happy location, the Chicken Dance by a building dedicated to a candy maker, acting like a gorilla outside a benefactor of the homeless, a mimed tug-of-war outside the guardians of history, and Marco Polo by the worlds smallest park. 

We covered miles of territory during the event, scavenged ten of the twelve possible challenges (we failed an eleventh), and completed the event after two hours. We didn't win one of the prizes, but better luck next time.

Grimm tidings

So, some time ago I spent a day in Estacada at an old lumber mill musing over a crime scene. Seems a federal agent had been murdered, so I was called in to take over the case from the local law enforcement. The hitch was they only needed two FBI agents and there were three of us on hand. I was odd man out.

But I just got a second chance. Once again there is a murder, an abandoned car our only clue, and I would be on hand to help.

This is how I returned to the set of Grimm.

We had a very early call time, forcing me to leave home long before I normally wake. I had to head out to the remote reaches of north Portland's industrial district. Actually, the Grimm studio is right down the street from where the Tomato Fight had occurred.

I was really excited because this time I would get to be a uniformed police officer. Last time I wore my own suit, trading in the suit jacket for the blue FBI field windbreaker. Both times I got a gun, but police have a utility belt which comes with "mace" (a live can of training mace), handcuffs (let the fun begin!), a radio with shoulder mic, and a telescoping beat stick. I played with all of my toys while waiting for filming to begin.

For the second time in my extras career, my "character" actually had a name. From the random grab bag of name tags I was given "Oster". That's Officer Oster to you.

Our group was composed of several cops, a couple detectives, and a few perps. We were filming on the main PDX police station set. I've never watched the show (although I nearly did once, which is almost a story of it's own), so I can't say what kind of action has taken place there, but I can tell you where this fictional police station sits within downtown Portland. Since the building is just an artificial set in a warehouse, the view outside the windows is a huge photo panorama. Pictured is what you'd see if you were standing outside Whole Foods Market looking south (on Burnside and NW 13th).

I wasn't working with Nick (David Giuntoli) and Hank (Russell Hornsby) this time around (but I did when I was an FBI agent, though they were rather stand-offish). However, I did have Sgt. Wu (Reggie Lee), and he's a really nice guy. We were just goofing off, trying to stay out of the way while the crew set up the lighting for the scene. We were joined by Captain Renard (Sasha Roiz), all of us checking the doughnut box for treats (unfortunately, there were none).

When this episode airs, I'll probably just be this blur way in the background, as the scene takes place inside the Captain's office while the rest of us are out in the main area. When it came time for filming, my job was to get some coffee. I got a surprise here. Unlike the doughnut box, the coffee machine was not empty. It was full of nightmare. A horrific black sludge, probably made by Cthulhu the last time the stars aligned, poured into my prop cup. The rest of that coffee table was just as scary. There was a half empty cup of joe behind the machine that was hosting its own little evolution experiment.

We did the scene many times and then headed back to base camp. Most of us changed into street clothes for the next scene. We were taken down to Union Station to act as passengers coming off the train. Obviously, our ride was interrupted by a freight train blocking the back road we were on to get between the studio and the station. When the train came to a complete stop several minutes later, still holding us up, we decided to take another route. Once on location, I was paired with a woman and we were to be a couple arriving from St. Louis. We were asked to improvise our story, so I soon became her whipped boyfriend.

It's a difficult thing to maintain control of a public space, especially one where there is constant in and out traffic. We closed off part of the street and part of the sidewalk, but people continually tried to walk through, or become gawkers while on camera. The cool bit was when an Amish family came out of the station in time to be in the background of our final take. I just image trying to explain what we were doing to them.

After we finished, we piled into the van to return to home base, catching a ride with Reggie who thanked us for our help.

That was the end though, a short day overall. The biggest disappointment being that they didn't feed us!

NGR goes back to school

I love to read. It really is just one of my favorite things. I switch back an forth between fiction and non-fiction when choosing my next book from my library. Going to a book store is full of so many possibilities. An actual book, with paper pages, not a computer screen, is magical.

There is a grander magic in reading to someone. I read to William every night for over a year. The Lord of the Rings, The Chronicles of Narnia, the complete Sherlock Holmes canon by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, and more. It's an amazing bonding experience, full of adventures, cliffhangers, and epiphanies. And it's fun to give voice to so many characters.

Do you know what another of my favorite things is?

Guess....

It's naked women.

No surprise there, right?

And there is an organization that caters to both: Naked Girls Reading.

That's right, women, without clothes, reading to you, the audience. Each girl comes out, sits in a comfy chair (or stands) and reads from a book for fifteen minutes.

This was my second visit to their Portland show. And they read absolutely amazing works.

The first show was geek themed, reading selections from Sci-fi and fantasy classics. We had excerpts from Douglas Adams' Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, Carl Sagan's Cosmos, and Antoine de Saint-Exupéry's The Little Prince. It is at times enlightening, funny, and heart touching. So much so that you almost forget these women are naked.

...Almost...

These are fantastic women. Members of the local burlesque circuit mostly. They know how to be naked without being slutty. They are perfectly classy and entirely beautiful (without having that "perfect" Barbie doll look).

This time around, the theme was "Back to School". The idea being these are the books we read as kids, the type of stuff you were likely to buy at the Book Fair. I was reading Hardy Boys and Time Machine (a spin-off of the Choose Your Own Adventure) at the age seemingly favored by the selections. What we go was a rendition of The Giving Tree, a bit from a Goosebumps book, as well as a fantastic chapter from The Phantom Tollbooth.

The only bad part of the show was the venue. A place called the Blue Monk in SE on Belmont. We were in a basement that may be nicely intimate, but the horrid lighting proved an issue for our lovely readers, who often had to find a new location on the stage and angle to the lights in order to see their books.

All in all, a truly amazing experience and good time. I can't wait for their next return to PDX.

Stiff competition

My wife recently introduced me to interval running. You walk a certain distance, jog a bit, and then sprint.

Repeat.

What I learned this weekend is that everyone will need to do this kind of training if they want to be ready for the zombie apocalypse.

Now, I have a Plan Z, so I'd like to think I'm more than a little prepared for the this particular end of the world scenario. But having the idea of what you will do and having the physical capability of performing are two different things.

So, this past Saturday I took part in my latest World War Z training exercise. A little mud run called the Run for Your Lives. Your standard 5k obstacle course, only with packs of zombies strewn about.

Yes.

I said "zombies". In a race. Somewhere, Samuel L. Jackson said something epic.

In most mud runs, I try to hold a steady pace throughout (although after the halfway point I tend to power walk the uphill bits). But that won't work when you turn a corner and the undead jump out screaming for your brains.

The way it works is this, along with your number bib you get a flag belt. Just like the gentler version of football, your opponents (i.e. Zed) try to steal your flags rather then chew through your skull (there is a reason I didn't play sports in high school). You get three life points, three successful zombie grabs and you're dead.

At the start line I talked with a gentleman who is a veteran of these runs. His advice: stay in a dense group and power through. Chance of survival: Nil.

How very reassuring.

We start the race in a dark meat cage, a soldier letting us know the rules before opening the gate. There will be health packs on the course, he says. To heal our zombie wounds, he says. A count down, and we're off.

Now, I like to get an early start on mud runs. They have heats all day long, usually every half hour or so. Early in the day means cooler temperatures, smaller groups, and the track is less torn up. What I would learn is this was to be the least muddy, but (not surprisingly) most bloody run I've participated in. My strategy doesn't pay off though, this is one raw race course. It's full of ruts, rocks, branches, and to my later horror, blackberries. More on that later.

The first obstacle was a new one for me. A black house, with little black windows that you have to crawl through. Already there are people screaming. It's pitch black and filled with smoke inside. And there are naked wires hanging from the ceiling sending electricity into the unwary. Well, I'm wary and I don't get shocked. Getting to the other end you can hear the growls, here comes the first clash with the undead.

You burst from the smoke into a large open field filled with zombies. Time for the first sprint. Downhill, over uneven ground. I dodge a few of the walkers and shamblers, but here comes a runner. And he is out for blood. And wham! I've already lost my first flag. I make it the rest of the way unscathed.

We're in the clear. We cross a stream and... enter another open field with zombies. Time for another sprint. I'm successful in my dodging techniques this time and keep my remaining health, despite a bottleneck in the course, leading into the woods, defended by one more brain muncher.

A short jog through the woods leads to a muddy, but easy, crawl. Then back into the trees and: you guessed it, more ghouls. These aren't as aggressive, but the trail is small and maneuvering is difficult. We clear this crowd, and find a fork in the road. We can stay in the woods, or head out into the clear. But there are more of the unfortunate wretches out in the sunshine. We decide to stick with the "obviously safer path" (tm).

Yes, I did say we. We're maintaining a group of about five (we have, however, lost our veteran, haven't seen him since the smoke house), we pickup and lose folks from time to time. Still in the woods, we complete the first mile. By this time, I've received my first wound. A small blackberry vine was across the road, attempting to trip me. Only one end was in the ground, so instead of falling, it ripped across my exposed ankle, thorns leaving a jagged line. I've had, and I'll have, worse.

One of our number takes a spill while running past a wraith. This zombie offers to help her up. My advice to you: Never Accept Help From the Undead. Sure, she gets a hand up, but off goes one of her flags as well.

A note on the zombies themselves. It seems that the apocalypse has occurred during Halloween night. There are every stripe of undead: rednecks, scuba divers, doctors, Disney Princesses. Eventually I'll even be accosted by Batgirl.

More sprinting past the cursed. More walking to recover our breath. More jogging to keep our spirits and courage up.

Then it happens. We're running for our lives through some zeros. One makes a grab at me. I leap to the side, off the trail and into a massive blackberry plant. I'm up to my knees, but I can't stop now, my "health" is at stake. I jump clear of the bush, but a vine is wrapped around my left leg. It tries to hold me back. I pull free and pay the price. I now have what looks like claw marks running down and around by leg. From the inside of my knee, across my calf, to my outer ankle. It isn't too terrible. The blood only wells, it never runs. After a bit more jogging, though, I get the sting of poison and my calf muscle starts to burn in that special way. I'm able to walk it off, still alive (even by game terms).

More obstacles, over and under walls. A maze.

I don't even remember where I lost my second flag, but now we are two-thirds of the way through the course and I'm down to my last flag. Ahead is a nearly ninety degree ramp (this course runs partly over a motocross track). The wall is probably twelve feet tall and there are more of the reanimated at the top. At this point, we've gathered more survivors into our group, including a couple dead-men-walking/running. These are folks that have already lost all of their flags. With nothing left to lose, they offer themselves as decoys and meat shields. How very noble, but I can't climb the hill fast enough to get past the guard. I've lost my last flag and now I'm dead.

I keep running, no longer dodging the dead. I'm a decoy. I'm a meat shield. I'm not sure if I'm saving any lives though. And it turns out that this was the last group of the dead.

At the end is a water slide into a pool of "blood" and a crawl under an electrified fence. I've finished the race, dead on my feet. I think only one of our posse actually made it through alive.

When I get my results, despite multiple rest stops as we gathered our strength before plowing through our antagonists, I've finished this race at my fastest pace yet. At 36:00.3, just over eleven and a half minutes per mile, or an average speed of 5.5 mph. I'm really getting the hang of this, and I think I've drastically improved my chances of surviving the end of the world.

All roads lead to Foam

When I was a kid, I wanted to grow to be a ninja. Or at least a superhero. Well, that really just meant I wanted to be Batman.

I dedicated my life to pop culture: watching movies and cartoons, reading books and comics, bringing my mind to the absolute pinnacle of human potential. However, I didn't do the same for my body. I did some working out with my father, took various martial arts classes, and even learned a bit of gymnastics. I didn't devote myself to it. I was an amazingly fit nerd, not too physically coordinated, though I did a lot of walking, which kept me in shape.

As a geek I know this: superheroes train, a lot. The X-Men had the Danger Room, and many other heroes had some sort of training ground to help simulate the types of territory they may dispense justice within or ground they may cover during a chase. When I was a kid, my dad bought twenty acres of property. While he had very specific plans for much of it, one thing we talked about was building an obstacle course. One step on my way to superhero-dom. Well, that never actually materialized, but we did get a trampoline, and I used that to good effect.

Lately, I've been going to the gym quite extensively. Four or five days a week running and weight lifting. Still not reaching the levels of Bruce Wayne or Matt Murdock, but above average for a geek. But it's training, and for a more realistic purpose. Last year I was introduced to mud runs, which found a special place in my little nerd heart.

For those unfamiliar, a mud run is an obstacle course through some rough back country. You run over fields, through woods, and up and down hills. While many races share some common obstacles, such as wall climbing, there is a theme that sets aside some special obstacles for a particular event. And, as the name suggests, there is always mud. You will not come out of this clean. 

This past Saturday's event was the 5K Foam Fest. It's a bit on the easier side that the ones I've done before, but still an exhausting challenge. As with most events, team participation and costumes are encouraged. For a would-be superhero, I'm not much into the theatricality of it all. Instead, I'm there to challenge and push myself. I'm there for the competition, which is my own form of fun.

Foam Fest starts with a nice little jog across a pasture, before heading into the woods. Five foot wall climb, no problem. Crawling on your belly through a mud filled trench, no sweat. They didn't even use barbed-wire on this course, as most others do. Easy! Ouch... Some of the ropes over the pit that keep you crawling are electrified! More running. Another, now eight foot, wall. Here's something new: the spider forest. Ropes tied tree to tree like spider webs that you have to jump over, duck under, or a combination of the two. Football practice-type tire run. Where is all the foam?

Eventually, after a tough hill climb, jumping over trees, we come a halt. There is a line to ride down the ginormous slip-n-slide. And it's foam powered! Many took the ride and wiped out at the bottom, me included. But I was up and running again without injury. Then, more foam. A giant ball pit filled with the stuff. A human car wash, which had foam over six feet high and gave me my first mouthful of the nasty tasting stuff.

More mud, more hills, more obstacles, and even more foam at the finish (including my second mouthful). I'll admit it wasn't all running. During the later uphill portions I did some power-walking. I got passed by some folks, but passed others. But I never stopped, I continued to push. I completed the course in just under fifty minutes. My best time for such a race, but when you get down to the numbers 4 miles per hour isn't that impressive. Next time I'll do better...

Besides, nothing better than a good mud bath.

Getting some more Leverage

Sunday afternoon saw me downtown in the Lloyd District, dressed in a suit complete with tie. I joined a group of about thirty others of similar attire. Aside from our clothes, we were a diverse crowd: men, women, young, old, tall, short. As random a subset of humanity as you are likely to see anywhere, but we were all of a common purpose: to be anonymous.

Ah, the mostly glamorless world of being an Extra. This would be my sixth time performing this little hobby. The fourth specifically for Leverage. This time we were a group for business professionals walking about the street.

The Leverage crew had taken over most of the Lloyd District with the exception of the mall. It was a like a 10 block section of town, just so we could cross streets unmolested. Most of the work was pretty tame compared to what I've had to do in the past.

It started with simply walking across a parking lot, as if we are just arriving for work. We cross the lot, back to beginning, cross again... Then they decided that we were a little fast forward. I had been walking from "my" car (with my Prop Cup-o-Coffee!). The reset had me most of the way to the building. What does that mean? That there is enough time to turn me around and send me back to the car in the same take. Like I got to the building and said WTF?! I'm at the wrong address!

I always try to have a little story to my part.

In the next scene I had to walk into the same building, but from a different direction, and I had a walk partner, Lynn. She, even in her fabulous high-heeled boots, was shorter than my son (sorry Lynn, I'll love you forever!), so I had to walk at "a measured pace". Nothing too fancy here, just walking toward one of the stars of the show (we're probably over her shoulder when you watch the episode).

Then we broke for lunch. Guess what? We are filming the last episode for the season. You know that means? A very fancy meal. They were serving lobster tail! But our handlers said "You guys won't get to eat that fancy food, just stick to the middle table and the salad bar." Just before heading over, they hammered in the point: "Fancy food: not for you." Then as soon as we get in line: "Oh, yeah, you can have fancy food."

But I don't eat giant sea bugs. It has claws. A lobster is a giant, underwater, scorpion with no stinger. It's anatomy is the same as most of the things we squash around our house, only much larger. It's like a caricature of a roach. I can't believe that anyone eats anything so low on the evolutionary chain.


Anyway... I had the filet mignon. So I was satisfied.


Later, the handlers were looking for the person with the shortest hair. Currently, I need a haircut, so didn't qualify. I was pretty much willing to shave my head, but I think they were kidding when they asked who would do so... maybe. Anyway, someone else got the job: here, put on this police uniform. Then he got to get in a police car, with a STUNT DRIVER. Color me: jealous. They did a small stunt of a screeching u-turn to chase down a getaway van. 


Next, we had another outdoor scene of people just walking about. But I got to cross the street! Why is that special? Because the stars of the show were standing on the island in the middle of the street. I walk touching distance from them in the shot. I'm bound to be super famous after this, I'm sure. 


For the final shot of the day, everyone stands in a line to enter a "theater" for a showing of Macbeth. Guess who's taking tickets? Your's truly, of course. 


In the end, I had grabbed way more than my fair share of Chocolate Chip and Peanut Butter Granola Bars from the "Crafty Cart", was more liked than the Korean dude (who was getting on everyone's nerves, including mine), and stood in line behind Timothy Hutton at the fancy food line at lunch. Victory all around. 

Attack of the Killer Tomatoes

Tomatocalypse

Tomatogeddon

Words I used to describe this event before attending, but how do you prepare for something like this? What exactly am I talking about?

Well, on Saturday I attended the Portland chapter of the Tomato Battle. When I first heard about this, through some web discount site or other, I knew it was something I had to participate in. Looking at the pictures on the site, I was guessing this would just be an epic food fight. Oh how naïve...
It's not until you arrive on site and see the mountains of tomatoes that it starts to sink in. How did they get here? Well, all those fruits and veggies you buy from the store can only sit on a shelf, at the warehouse, or in a crate for so long before biology starts to get out of hand. So they get donated. Then, splat, there they are,unceremoniously dumped from a truck. And these puppies are RIPE. Shortly after the mountain makes an impression, the scent makes a more lasting one. It was rather warm this weekend, and I'd swear these things were fermenting right there in the parking lot.

There's some pre-action live music and costume contesting (I didn't dress fancy, didn't even really cross my mind). Most dressed to be silly, some went with a tomato theme, such as a group of "softball players" with their jersey's marked with the names of various species of tomato. Some took a historical spin and played off the Roma. But the most inspired were the Bloody Mary ladies, whipping folks with celery.

But then came the main event. Hundreds of us were funneled into the tomato cage, and told not to start throwing until everyone was in. I nabbed a spot next to the largest mountain (center in the photo above) and grabbed a couple of these not quite rotten fruits, as others were doing the same. I was only slightly disgusted by the thin white coating. Mold? Fungus? It wouldn't matter shortly. Then a couple tomatoes flew through the air. And like any classic food fight, it snowballed into chaos from there.

I hadn't really considered what this was going to be like. I discussed it with a fellow combatant as we marched in, who mentioned he wished he'd brought a cup. Not for drinking, but for protection. Sure, I said, this will probably be a little on the rough side, a bit like being hit by a water balloon. Yeah, but not one of those overfull, almost pops just throwing it kind. But one of those barely filled, have to really chuck it to break it kind. And they are full of jell-o instead of water. My only protection was sunglasses, which is no protection at all. Because when this battle gets going, you are covered, head to foot, every square inch, in ketchup.

There were a number of greater hazards I had no concept of, going in. One, red tomatoes = weird water balloons, green tomatoes = rocks. Those green suckers were numerous and painful, plus they didn't break on contact. Two, sunglasses + tomato paste = blind. But I found that wiping the glasses off with my tomato soaked shirt was actually somewhat effective. Goggles are the way to go really. Three, ketchup is slippery. Especially when you're standing in 4 inches of it.

It took no time at all for most of the tomatoes to be nothing but mush on the ground that you would just scoop up and throw indiscriminately around. I'd shout "Nothing personal, but take that!" and lob a handful behind me. On more than one occasion I misjudged the depth of the juice and nearly scraped the nails of my fingers on the asphalt beneath.

Once there is nothing left but a mash of jelly, your relationship to it changes. You start treating it like sand or snow. I made a tomato angel pretty early on. Many people laid down to get buried in it. The next thing you know others are sliding on their bellies like penguins across the ice. Of sliding into home, hoping the umpire calls "safe".

Truly, it's the most disgusting thing I've ever done. It smelled worse than you are imagining. It resembled what the aftermath of Hannibal's Battle of Cannae must have looked like: ankle deep in red slaughter. Oh, and I haven't even mentioned the taste of it, because yes, it will get in your mouth. Sweet and Sour! And it stings the eyes. But I continually wondered what it was doing for my skin. The vitamins! And what a conditioner! Such body and hold!

Sometimes you would be hit unintentionally and some would say "sorry". I could only respond with "I signed a waiver, and that means you can't tell me you're sorry!" Such was the camaraderie. And the sensuality. Something about getting covered in food really brings out a certain kind of animal with people. That, or the fact that there were so many of us that you are constantly rubbing against someone else, and things sure were slippery.

And as I hosed myself off after nearly two hours of battle, in cold water and a setting sun, I could only think that I'd love to do this again next year.