Holiday Cheer

I took the family out to dinner one night a few days ago. It wasn’t anything special, just a routine trip to our favorite sammich spot in town, Philly Bilmos. If you’ve never been, you should go. They’re fantastic.

Sylus behaved decently while in the restaurant. We had to threaten him with the baby seat about 10x, but he was good for the most part (ie: no epic fits over lack of chocolate milk, etc).

After dinner, Krysti, Sylus and I wandered down to Big Lots as per Sylus' request. He likes going down to Big Lots to look at the Christmas decorations and we happen to like walking around for a bit after eating, so it was a win-win decision.

As we browsed the aisles aimlessly, Sylus was behaving, but still being an energetic little almost3yr old. I don't remember doing anything out of the ordinary. He’s very aggressively-polite sometimes. He likes to say “excuse me” or “Merry Christmas!” to complete strangers at high levels (to make sure they hear his tiny little voice, I’m sure) and typically much sooner than necessary. For example, a random stranger was standing at the end of an aisle that was a good 20ft in front of us. Sylus decided it was time to start saying “excuse me” about 15ft too soon.

Sylus is pretty good about not touching things, or if he does grab something off the shelf, putting it back upon our request. This trip to Big Lots was no different from any trip to the store. We let him walk on his own as long as he holds onto one of our hands and doesn’t take off running. He definitely passed the test this evening. We interact quite a bit. He likes to point out when he sees things he recognizes (ie: super heroes on the shampoo bottles, etc) and I like to confirm that he is correct in naming Iron Man, Hulk, and Wolverine. As Krysti checked out, I let Sylus wander a bit near the front of the store. He saw Batman on the packaging for a snack of some sort, and he wanted to check it out, so we did.

As we walked out of the store, I hear a voice behind me saying, “excuse me!” so I turn around. It’s a random lady that I recognized from inside the store and she’s holding a card in her hand. I immediately reach for my wallet to make sure I didn’t drop it for some awful reason. As she approaches me, I see that she has a gift card in her hand. She goes to hand it to me and says, “Merry Christmas”. I look her right in the eye (well, mostly in the eye…I was wearing my Santa hat, and the fuzzies cloud my vision a little bit) and say, “you don’t have to do that…” with a bewildered look on my face. She looks back at me and says, “it’s only $25” and clearly won’t take no for an answer. So I take the card, say Merry Christmas, and turn to walk away.

I go to get Sylus in my car, and Krysti gets in her car. We took 2 cars because I met Krysti and Sylus at QFC earlier that evening (immediately after work) so we could see Santa. I drive home in quiet reflection on the events that just transpired. Do I look like I need $25? Why did she choose us for her random act of kindness? Does she know me from somewhere, and I just failed to recognize her? Is this a shred of good karma coming back to me because of all the points I’ve stacked up this past year? Who knows.

Krysti interacted with the lady once more after Sylus and I left. There was some sort of mixup with the gift card, and the lady had to get the cashier to activate a different card or something like that. You’ll have to check with my wife to get the details on the story, but the gist of it is this random lady said we were the nicest little family she had seen in public. She saw how we interacted with Sylus, talked to him calmly, corrected him, but didn’t scold him when he did something he wasn’t supposed to, didn’t yell at him, etc. She basically said we were a breath of fresh air compared to some of the parents/families she had observed over the holiday season; which is understandable, as everyone seems to be a little more stressed out in December.

My first inclination is to pay it forward, and donate the $25 to a different family in need. I have more useless stuff than I need, and have reached a point in my life where I’d rather see someone else, who could use it more than me, benefit from random windfalls of cash. It’s not about the money. The real gift for me was the reaffirmation that I’m doing a good job as a parent and a role model. I’m incredibly proud of myself and my family for all the little achievements we’ve accomplished together. It’s good to know that the general public sees how different our approach is, and maybe we can be a beacon for other young parents and small families.

To the random lady at Big Lots, thank you for the boost in confidence and reassurance that sometimes, I do know what I’m doing as a parent.

Happy Holidays to you and yours.

-Linus

I love the NW, and here's a reason why

So I went to shoot some hoops, right. I'm typically the only person out there because I've been lucky enough to find the 20min of sunshine lately. Today was different. I'm out there doing my thing, and this kid in a sweatsuit rolls up and occupies the hoop directly behind mine. I like to call that the first step in "the dance". Playground etiquette says that by opting for an immediately adjacent court when faced with 3 options, you're issuing an open challenge. I do what any regular guy would do when put in this predicament. I scout the competition. He’s definitely in better shape than I am, but his shots aren’t falling. He’s about as tall as I am, but as I mentioned before, I have at least 35lbs on him. I continue to shoot free throws while my lunch break ticks by. After shooting approximately 40% from the charity stripe, I start to shoot jumpers. He makes his way over to my side of the court as he removes his ear bud headphones. “You wanna play a game?” he says. “Sure, why not.” “To 15?” “I was thinking more along the lines of 10. I’m horribly out of shape, and on my lunch break.” “How bout 11? No one plays to even numbers” And away we go. I give him a ton of space at the top of the key. I pretty much conceded to the fact that his first step is 100x quicker than mine, and I don’t want to get beat with my back to the basket. He fires a long 3 and I gobble up the rebound. I dribble to the right, he gives me a 3ft cushion, so I stop and pop 1 from about 16ft out. 1-0 me. I check the ball at the top of the key, and dribble left. I give a jab step, and he backs up giving me enough space to jack up another jumper. He grabs the board, and quickly clears the ball out and drives to the hoop. I chase, he stops, shoots and scores. 1-1. I give him space after he checks the ball, and he hits a 3. In my face. 3-1 him. He takes the ball at the top of the key again, and fires away from 3pt range. He misses, I go all Pachulia on the rebound, and I clear the ball out. I dribble left, then turn it across the court to set up a running hook shot. Bottoms. 3-2. It was all downhill from here on out. 2 more possessions, 2 more rebounds and consecutive missed jumpers from the both of us, and I’m winded. He stalls out at 10-2, I make an errant jumper, and he eventually drains one from long range to end it. We bullshitted for a minute while I try to catch my breath. I find out that he’s a general contractor who works under the table and has done so for the past 4yrs for a friend of his. Nice. Tax free money is good, but I bet the health insurance blows. He tells me he’s a freshman at Clackamas Community College, and a senior took all the playing time at PG ahead of him last year, but this year, it’s his team. Here’s what we know; either you failed a bunch of classes, and are still technically a freshman this year, or you’re a sophomore. Judging by the way the conversation has gone thus far, I’m going to guess the former is true. He goads me into playing another game, and instead of backing down from a challenge and preserving my pride, I accept. He literally shoots 5/6 from 3pt range, and makes short work of me in the 2nd game. 11-1, and I’m sucking wind. As I try to catch my breath, he continues the bullshit session where we left it. He might not be the brightest crayon in the box, but he’s a decent conversationalist. to be continued...

The journey is half the trip

PDX went smooth as a clean shaven face. I breezed right through security, found a cup of coffee and a seat near a wall plugin in less than 20min. After surveying the seating situation near my gate (E6, which is downstairs, mind you) I opted to sit upstairs as gate E4 was completely empty other than a few old ladies reading their Diane Steele novels. Luckily my travel instincts told me to head on downstairs at around 11:15 as my flight would board at 11:20 since it was scheduled to depart at 11:49 (a 25min delay from my original 11:23am scheduled time). I had tuned into the Jim Rome show, and employed both earbuds to drown out the rest of the airport ambient noise. As I was packing up my personal effects, I heard over the intercom that my flight was boarding. I was the last person to make it onto the flight. Just in time? No...a ninja always takes strategic advantage of perfect timing.

I took my seat in row 13. Foreboding? Only if you've recently watched Final Destination or some other movie where the main character puts too much weight into unlucky numbers. The flight went by with minor turbulence. The choppy weather played a part in my entertainment, however. I decided to take advantage of my 2hr20min flight by watching the last 4 episodes of “The Dead Set”. I was at the climax of the story when the turbulence kicked in.

*SPOILER ALERT*

Just as the zombies closed in on the main character, the plane started to shake vigorously. The intensity of the turbulence increased as the zombies drew nearer and began pounding on the layer of plexiglass which stood between them and a meal made from human flesh. Very nice. Almost as perfect as back in 2000 when the aftershock from an earthquake was felt in Vancouver, WA. At the time, I was busy playing Diablo 2. I remember it vividly. Just as I had slain one of the 4 bosses, and the ground began to crack open and expose hot magma, my cousin's dog (Tiger) came running up the stairs. She hid under the computer desk, as I'm sure she was taught in grade school to duck and cover underneath your desk in case of earthquake or nuclear attack. I thought I'd definitely slipped into an alternate reality when I looked out the window to see the trees and the poles which held up the laundry line (what do you call a line that you use to sun dry your clothes on?) shaking violently. I readied my battle axe, as I expected the ground to break open, and demons to start spewing out at any moment. Much to my surprise, the shaking stopped, and I snapped back into reality.

“The Dead Set” was quite entertaining. It's no “The Walking Dead”, but it's good nonetheless. I don't know how I feel about zombies being the latest fad. I really enjoyed vampires until they went all sappy the past few years – see the Twilight series for more information. The good thing about zombies is they aren't capable of rational thought, and therefore, aren't capable of anything except death and destruction. No heartfelt love stories, just rending flesh.

I wonder what the people around me were thinking if they caught a glimpse of my screen. The series was graphically grotesque. I kept waiting for someone to make some wise ass comment. I could see the conversation going something like this:

Some Idiot - “What are you watching?”
Me - “The Dead Set. It's a mini-series loosely based on reality TV and the zombie apocalypse.”
SI - “It's really violent, and I don't think you should be watching that. I have kids/elderly/sandy vag with me, and they are offended by all the blood and guts.”
M - “Maybe you should stop looking at my screen then. Would you prefer that I be watching hardcore pornography? Last time I checked, this is my personal netbook, and I'm enjoying this television show. Mind your own bidness, turn around and eat your bigass biscuit.”

As the series came to a close, I realized that the triple-americano and two 6oz cups of water I ingested had combined and processed, and I now had to empty my bladder. As much as I don't like using airplane lavatories, I was prepared to risk depressurizing the cabin in exchange for releasing the pressure in my stomach. As soon as the last episode ended, I took a peek at the back of the plane to make sure there wasn't a line. As I turned forward to remove my seatbelt and make my way back to the vessel, I saw an older gentleman wearing a plaid flannel. He looked a little surly, and I was dreading my visit to the toilet closet since he'd be given the chance to deuce it up before me. I let out a sigh when I imagined the horrible stench he'd leave, and received more bad news. The nazi-stewardess announced that we had began our descent, and we were to remain in our seats for the duration of the flight. Denied again.

The nazi-stewardess earned her name by strictly enforcing the rules to a tee. I knew not to mess with her if I wanted to deboard the plane without having to test my ninja skills against a member of the brownshirt army. I knew by the way she drilled the 4 gentlemen sitting in the exit row that she was not to be tested. My preconceived notions were confirmed during our descent. During her final cabin sweep, she saw that one of the men sitting in front of me had his iPod headphones in. She asked him if his iPod was on, to which he replied, “What?” Her accusation was confirmed, and the following one-sided conversation happened,

Flight Nazi - “Is your iPod on?”
Businessman – removes his earbuds and turns off his iPod
FN - “You must not want to land. I'm going to tell the other 65 people that we can't land because you don't want to land.”

Seriously lady. The iPod isn't going to make the plane crash. Well, maybe if he threw it as hard as he could, shattered the door between the cabin and the cock pit, and shrapnel from his laser-rocket throw impaled the pilot and the blood spatter blinded the co-pilot.

20min of descending later, I feel my eyeballs floating in my skull. I chose to hold my urine after I saw that Adolf's wife was seated in front of the lavatory door. After we touch down, I expected about 10min of taxi-ing, and then we'd deboard, I'd make a mad dash for the mens room, and all would be well. Boy was I wrong. After landing, I was informed that we'd be traveling to gate B86 (I looked out the window to see gate B3 passing by slowly) but there was an aircraft in our gate. We'd have to wait on the runway since they were running behind schedule. The pain increased in my bladder and I began to debate whether or not I could talk Mrs. Hitler into letting me relieve myself.

Just as I thought about hitting the call button, a lady 3 rows in front of me took the liberty.

FN - “We aren't allowed to leave our jumper seats, so unless it's a medical emergency, we'll have to wait until after taxi-ing and answer your questions then.”

Translation - “NO SOUP FOR YOU!”

15minutes elapse, and I'm beginning to get upset. I notice that the other passengers are also getting stir crazy.

FN - “Ladies and gentlemen, you have to leave your seatbelts on while we're taxi-ing. Reach down, and buckle you're seatbelts until we've reached the gate. Thank you.”

We were all prisoners in her concentration camp. At least there was no six point star on my jacket. I could rest assured that at least I'd be at the back of the line to the “showers”.

15min later, we make it to gate B86. We “taxi-ed” for 30min, most of which was spent in park on the runway. I made a beeline for the bathroom only to be greeted by a 5 person line, 4 urinals, 3 toilets, and 45sec before my bladder explodes. WTF there's never a line at the men's room. I made it to a urinal just before pissing myself.

Enter the Denver airport. I've heard that the airport is suspiciously shaped like a swastika. That would help explain the nazi I encountered on my flight. I did find it curious that all of the maps only showed the wing you were on, never showing the big picture, thus keeping the dirty secret intact. I made my way towards the opposite end of the B terminal only to watch another episode occur on the escalator. About 3 automatically folding stairs before I reached the top, I notice a commotion. The people in front of me were all picking up their luggage and trying to move out of the way. I halfway expected to see the Flight Nazi beating someone to a bloody pulp for stepping out of line. To my surprise, I see an older lady struggling with her luggage. One of the people in front of me hit the emergency stop button and brought the escalator to a sudden stop. I look up to see Beatrice pull her leg loose and limp towards the Starbucks with an embarrassed look on her face. I probably should've felt bad. She could've injured herself, afterall. I look down to see if I can identify what got caught in the escalator and see a frayed shoelace. So THAT'S why old people prefer velcro shoes! I knew there was a reason other than the difficulty that tying shoelaces presents someone with rheumatoid arthritis.

Next order of bidness, find something to eat. I noticed a sports bar on my way through the terminal, but I decide to carry on instead of going with my first option. There was a large open area ahead, and the moving walkways made it easy to people watch while on the move. Now that my bladder was empty, the only thing I could think of was whether the Raiders put up 54 or 59 points on the Broncos a few weeks ago. I make it to the atrium area, and scout the options. There's a sports bar on the side I'm headed towards, so I decide to go there instead of the first option I saw. I arrive at the location only to find a wall mural which says “Coming Soon: Some bar I'll never get to eat at”. Disappointed, I turn the other way to head back to Lefty's.

On my way back to Lefty's, I see a sports themed store chock full of Tebow jerseys. F'n disgusting. Even the Aryan nation likes Tim Tebow. If it weren't for the joy brought to me by moving walkways, I would've punched the next Bronco fan that crossed my path in the stomach.

I find a table at Lefty's and order the cheapest sandwich on the menu.

$6.75 for a 16oz beer or $8 for a 22. Now that's a suckers bet if I've ever seen one. Today's math lesson brought to you by our sponsor:

$6.75 / 16oz = $.42 per ounce
$8.00 / 22oz = $.36 per ounce

A savings of $.06 per ounce isn't worth springing for the 22oz unless you're planning on pounding it like a frat boy on a Saturday night. If you're a refined southern gentleman, like myself, you prefer to enjoy your Winter Lager in between bites of your pulled pork sammich. The problem with a 22oz beer is the last 3oz or so get warm while you're enjoying your delicious pig sammich. I don't know about you, but if my choices are warm beer or ice water, I'm taking the ice water even if I leave a dollars worth in my glass. $16 later, I leave feeling refreshed and ready for the second leg of my journey.

There's a mouth breathing, old man sitting across from me intently watching as I write this blog. I locked eyes with him, and he's now staring down at his Dell laptop. I guess my eyes are stinkier than his.

That's it for now, ladies and gentlemen. Stay tuned for more tales of a traveling man. Timothy and I always seem to run into a character or two when our powers combine.