Happy New Year

To my Jewish reader(s) I'd like to wish a very happy 5769. As French singer/lover Serge Gainsbourg might say, "Bon Annee Erotique!"

If you have any leftover brisket, I'd like some.

We Went to Carolina!

And we have pictures to prove it! It was a great trip! See? We hiked Grandfather Mountain!


We went to a Durham Bulls game! Because no vacation is a vacation without baseball!


And look! Here's a step!


This step the last remaining feature from the parsonage we lived in when I was really small! And it was on this step that my big sister and I were nearly killed by our father! In fairness, he was just giving us a wagon ride! But we were shouting, "Faster! Faster!" and he went faster faster! He took us down this step and around the curved curby bit, and we went tumbling! Then we went bleeding! Then we went screaming! Then our knees went scarring!

We'll Be Revving Up Shortly

The missus and I got back from our vacation to mountainous North Carolina last night, which included a slight alteration to (limit of) my computer usage. It was indeed rather nice. But now that I'm back, I'll be returning to regular writing again soon. Thanks for the holiday!

What Stood Out This Week - Midweek Vacational Edition

I went to North Carolina, Obama went to Hawaii, and McCain's still a dick.

And that's What Stood Out This "Week." Am I missing something?

Ah, the Memories (or Something)

So it's Memorial Day, which means a day off from office jobs (but not retail jobs), some time for cleaning and shopping. And then some remember our fallen soldiers.

I like to think about war and peace, although I've never read the book version. And last week, the Economists Intelligence Unit, a name that doesn't mean anything, put out their "Global Peace Index." You might be surprised to learn that the United States doesn't rank terribly highly on the list. But at least we're ahead of Libya. Oh, wait. No, we're not.

The United States ranks in the bottom third of the 140 countries ranked. Two of the bottom five countries are Iraq and Afghanistan (which could be as warred as they are because we invaded them).

Iceland is #1 on the list of most peaceful, although the index doesn't take into consideration their utter obliteration of the whales in their waters.

Happy St. Patrick's Day

Some B&E best wishes for a happy St. Patrick's Day, the only holiday for which the entire point seems to be living up to stereotypes.

So get out there and eat some corned beef, potatoes, and cabbage; drink as much Guinness and/or Jamesons as humanly possible; get in a fight; and have lots and lots of children.

My Irish (and Latino and Korean and Romanian and Armenian and and...) neighborhood will be boisterous this evening. I'm going to catch up on some sleep that went curiously missing during my Kansas visit this weekend.

Groundhogs - Pennsylvania vs. New York

Yesterday was Groundhog Day.

Punxatawney Phil resides in Punxatawney, Pennsylvania. That cowardly groundhog came out of his tree stump or whatever, saw his shadow, and ran back into this tree stump or whatever. Six more weeks of winter, says that crying douchebag.

Staten Island Chuck resides in Staten Island, New York. Chuck came out of his shrub or whatever, didn't see shit, popped open a cool Coors 16-ouncer, smoked a couple of Kents, and said, "Bring on the warm weather, bitches."

Phil had a movie made about him. Chuck was too busy shooting up heroin to care.

Phil has apparently been right about 35% of the time, while Chuck has about a 70% accuracy rate. This is, of course, according to a New York news crew.

I'm going with Chuck, pictured here eating a PCP-laced carrot stick.

A B&E Woodwindist

The other night, the missus and I went to a little jazz basement here in Edinburgh with two of her brothers and her sister-in-law. It was a perfectly pleasant night on the town, and we were all in agreement that the band was quite good, while the singer was a little on the ridiculous side. He was one of those singers who won't listen to his accompanying band because he loves the sound of his voice too much. That's especially a problem when the voice is only OK to begin with.

Anyway, one of his featured musicians was a bald woodwind player. He played the saxophone and the flute very skillfully. This in itself might have qualified him for a Bald & Effective label.

But then, about three songs into the set, we noticed that he was missing the ring finger on his left hand. He compensated by playing with two different knuckles on his middle finger. Try bending your middle finger at both knuckles separately. I'm telling you: his lack of finger slowed him down not one iota. The man was impressive.

The double bass player was excellent, too, but he had all his digits and all his hair, so who cares?

What Stood Out This Week - End of Year Scotland Edition

I gotta tell ya, dear B&E readers, it's a breath of fresh air here in Scotland: literally fresh air in the Highlands and, of course, breathing free of our political discourse in the U.S. I have little sense of what's going on in our all-important primaries, and there's only four days before voting begins in Iowa. I haven't been this relaxed in months.

So What's Stood Out while in the Land of the Scot?

First of all I should mention that the missus comes from a long line of Scottish nationalists. Indeed, her grandfather was a founding member of the Scottish Nationalist Party (which I know I've mentioned before). Scottish nationalists tend to dislike the English on principle, even though well-educated Scottish nationalists tend to get good English educations. To my surprise, this dislike for the English doesn't necessarily translate to Americans. Or maybe they're just being polite because I was right there in the room. (And in fact one Scottish Lord in a kilt--a story for another time, perhaps--expressed his distaste for America even before I had a chance to introduce myself: "Hi, I'm American.")

Although the Scots I've been hobnobbing with have been mostly family, I was quite pleased to learn that they don't blame America and Americans for the world's problems. There's a clear separation in their minds between the Bush administration and America (and Tony Blair holds a special place of disgust in their hearts). Even a fifteen-year-old expressed her love for America, quite vociferously. And when I sang The Star-Spangled Banner at a party (again, a story for another time, perhaps), everyone stood (even the man in the room with multiple sclerosis), hummed along, and placed hands over their hearts while I belted out a particularly loud and obnoxious (read: American) version of the tune.

As for their opinions of the upcoming election, well, mostly they asked us what we thought. The missus' father has decided he likes Mike Huckabee, although I'm sure that if I asked him if he knew anything other than that the Huckster is an anti-abortion Baptist minister, he probably wouldn't have much of an answer. But let's face it: neither would most Americans. The fifteen-year-old mentioned previously offered her vociferous support of Barack Obama. Most of what she did or said, she did or said so vociferously.

The missus and I still don't have a good answer for the voting question. I think this is the first time I've been undecided this late in the game. But really, officially the game hasn't even started yet.

And that's What Stood Out. From Scotland.

Happy New Year, dear B&E readers. That's Hogmanay over here.

This is Scotland Calling

It's that time of year again, dear B&E readers, when instead of having no excuse for not writing, I have a perfectly good one. I'm heading out of town for a few days, and I don't expect there to be much happening here at B&E.

But hey, maybe one of my resolutions for 2008 will be posting more often than twice (and sometimes thrice) weekly. That'd be a worthy resolution. We'll see if I bother to resolve, and if I do bother, whether or not it sticks.

Whatever you celebrate, I hope you celebrate well. Git stuff't wi' ye Rabbie Burns kilt-wearin' selves on a plate o'haggis. And while that doesn't actually mean anything, it sure sounds Scottish to me.

My Summer Vacation - Part VI - Swedish Women

It's been a long time coming, this posting, and I'm well aware that B&E readers are amongst the most patient readers in the world.

Since returning from Sweden, numerous people have asked, "How beautiful are the women?"

Well, that's a tricky question, and not just because I'm a married man who likes to keep his eyes from wandering. The fact is that New York is about as attractive as a city gets (the #7 train notwithstanding), and comparing to other cities just isn't fair. So yes, the Stockholmers are attractive, but it didn't seem particularly out of the ordinary.

What did seem out of the ordinary was the high rate of pregnancy. I don't know what was going on between seven and nine months ago (besides that long winter perhaps), but there were pregnant women everywhere. Everywhere. It was uncanny.

The rate of pregnancy for women was even higher than the rate of dreadlocks for men. That's high.

My Summer Vacation - Part V - Art

There's a lot of public art in Stockholm. So I'm about to hit you with some photos.

We found ourselves at Sergels Torg a lot. It's in the middle of the city where there's a lot of bustling.


This is underneath the fountain at Sergels Torg:


Sodermalm is Stockholm's Brooklyn. With more time, we'd have spent more time exploring. There was a lot of cool there. This fountain was sorta weird:


The subways (Tunnelbana) aren't afraid to get in on the art action. All of these are underground, just on and around the platforms. The piano keys are on the ceiling of the escalator.





Not to be outdone, the Lutherans paint up their churches:


The Moderna Museet thinks this guy's art is pretty good, too!

My Summer Vacation - Part IV - The Light

This picture was taken in the archipelago about two hours north of Stockholm at 11:00pm. Dude. 11:00pm.

(I return to you, dear B&E readers, after what I will refer to a "Harry Potter break.")

The light is crazy in Sweden. And Swedes are understandably obsessed with it. In the summer, many Swedes are over-sunned and suffer from damage caused by UV rays. But they have to soak it up to prepare for the long winters.

The days were officially waning during our time (being after the summer solstice and all), but the sky never lost at least a little glow while we were there. The sun would dip below the horizon at about 11:00pm, hover out of sight for a few hours, and come back up by 3:00am. It's full-on daytime by 4:00am.

One morning, the missus and I woke up at 4:30am, convinced we'd slept the day away. Another day, we assumed it was again that early, and it turned out to be after noon. The light is confusing, dear B&E readers, and hard to get your head around, even when you're there.

Obviously, on the flip side of the summer days are the winter nights. Our kind Swedish host informed us that, on Christmas day, the sun barely peeks over the horizon to say hello before heading off to warmer climes.

From what I could gather, the Swedes are drunk and partying all summer. And they're drunk and suicidal all winter long. Sweden has the highest suicide rate in the world. But Finland has a higher rate of alcoholism. Maybe that'll be our next holiday.

My Summer Vacation - Part III.I - More Swedish Food

I forgot two little foodie tidbits. The missus and I spent about 24 hours in the archipelago north of Stockholm (more to come, dear B&E readers! And don't worry! I haven't forgotten to tell you about the Swedish ladies!). While there, we were in the company of a five-year-old. The five-year-old simply referred to us (in Swedish, of course) as "the guests." I think he liked us. He kept calling me a "thief" and putting me in "prison" (the kitchen pantry), and then he made this picture of the missus during dinner. I can assure you that the likeness is uncanny.


Actually, now that I think about it, maybe the five-year-old hated our guts.

The other little foodie tidbit also relates to the archipelago. In the woods behind our cabin lived about as many wild blueberries as I've ever seen in one place. They looked gorgeous, and ate even gorgeouslier.

My Summer Vacation - Part III - Swedish Food

While I didn't get to try a proper Swedish smörgåsbord (that shit's expensive, dear B&E readers, and the we were on a budget, yo), the food didn't disappoint. When the missus and I travel, we're as much about the food as the sights.

Thanks to the missus' mother (and the generosity of a friend of hers), we were hooked up with an apartment in Stockholm, so we even did a little grocery shopping. Gravlax, mustard dill gravlax sauce (sauce for gravlax!), herring in various sauces, pickled beets, potato salad, salami, turkey, cheese, flat bread, knackbread, mini-pancakes, blueberry jam, and yogurt drink.


A perfect plate of food:



An evening out resulted in some delicious traditional food: oysters, salmon, and meatballs in cream sauce.




When one gets excited about the meats found in a country, one is bound to feel a bit short on greens after a few days. So we got these salads (and gazpacho!) at the Moderna Museet (that's the Modern Art Museum in Swedish).


Not only were they fresh and delicious, but the cafe at the museet ("museum" in Swedish) offered fantastic views of Stockholm.


We learned that the band got its name from a readily available brand of herring.



We had dessert, too, of course. Violet ice cream, homemade waffle cones, chocolate balls (mm... balls...), and a fresh strawberry and butter cream pie with hardened meringue crust were the sweetish Swedish highlights. No pictures, though. We were too in-the-moment to think to break out the camera.

My Summer Vacation - Part II - The Stans

I broke a rule I've long lived by during My Summer Vacation. I visited one of the Stans.

There are many reasons to avoid traveling to the Stans. Civil war (and an unfortunate lack of vowels) in Kyrgystan. Al Qaeda camps and war in Afghanistan. Earthquakes and America-haters in Pakistan. Borat in Kazakhstan. God knows what in Uzbekistan and the Otherstans.

But there, in the middle of Stockholm, is the lovely Gamla Stan. In Swedish, it means "Old Town" or something seemingly non-threatening, but underneath the veneer of picturesque cobblestoned squares, there's darkness, dear B&E readers.

The missus and I shielded ourselves from whatever that dark cloud might be, for we rubbed the bald head of Stockholm's smallest public statue. It stands (sits, actually) at six inches, and in winter, ladies from the church (the statue is in the church's courtyard) knit caps for the little bugger to keep him warm. He kept the missus and I protected from the usual dangers associated with the Stans.

I simultaneously rubbed my own head for good measure.


Thanks to the protection of our duo of bald domes, we had a lovely day walking around the "Old Town." Yes, dear B&E readers, Gamla Stan seemed OK to me.

My Summer Vacation - Part I - Dreadlocks

The missus and I have returned from Sweden, and yes, dear B&E readers, there's much to report.

I think that white people who wear dreadlocks look ridiculous.

In college we sometimes called them Jafaicans or, more often, Trustafarians. But even when I had my luscious head of blond almost-locks, I thought white dudes in dreadlocks looked ridiculous.

As a bald man I still do. I assure you it's not jealousy. I really hate how they look on white people. I've known some very nice dreadlocked white boys (and occasional girls), and it's no reflection on who they are as people. They simply made an unfortunate decision that became a big enough commitment to keep them from being able to cut the fuckers off. Please, dreadlocked white people: cut the fuckers off.

If my lack of acceptance of dreadlocks on white people makes me a fuddy-duddy, so be it.

But what does this have to do with Sweden?

Even though one small town in southern Sweden has taken in more Iraqi refugees than the entire United States, Sweden is decidedly white. Not solely, of course, but when one lives in a diverse place like Queens, one notices overwhelming whiteness. And Sweden is overwhelmingly white. Sort of like Vermont.

And like the hippies in Vermont, many white Swedes have dreadlocks. Of the seven or so black people we saw in Stockholm only one had dreadlocks, and I would have to say that the same 7:1 ratio applies to the white Swedish boys.

Yes, exaggeration, etc., etc. But suffice to say there are a lot of white Swedish boys with dreadlocks. I had a different observation about the white Swedish women (stay tuned!).

You will have noticed that there's no dreadlocks-related photo to accompany the Part I report of My Summer Vacation. That's because there is one photo I wish I had been quick enough to capture on digi-film, but alas was not.

At a cross walk near Nybroplan (where one catches ferries to Djurgarden, etc.), a blond man biked by. He had dreadlocks. He was also balder than me. Shiny shiny shiny up top. Then shooting out of the sides of his head were bright blond dreadlocks.

As I found myself repulsed by the dreads and empathizing with the baldness, I was riveted by this vision of shiny-headed knotted hairdom. My feeble mind cannot grasp the contradiction and complexity of this Swedish cyclist.

Lycklig Juli Fjärde!

That's Swedish for Happy July Fourth. It's a literal translation from an online dictionary, so I fully expect that it won't make sense to an actual Swede.

You may be wondering why there's a Swedish tint to my Independence Day greetings. It's partially because Sweden is a year-and-a-half into its fifteen-year plan to remove oil from its economy. And it's partially because former Soviet spies live to be very old in Sweden.

But the primary reason, I admit, is that the missus and I will be traveling to Sweden in the relatively near future (not quite near enough for me), and I'm so excited I'm writing about it on our nation's birthday. Fireworks? Flying flags? John Philip Sousa? All terrific stuff. But my mind's already on the herring, venison, and smörgåsbord.

I've heard rumors that Stockholm is more than the sum of its food. Confirmation to come, dear B&E readers!

I have a hunch you can all look forward to seeing some delicious photos of Stockholm in the relatively near future.

My Favorite Day

No, it's not my birthday! It's not Christmas, Easter, or Arbor Day! Today is No Pants Day!

No more screwing around, B&E readers! Take off your pants! Anything worth doing is worth doing without pants!

Driving your car? Drive without pants! Taking a flight? Fly without pants! Visiting your mother? Visit without pants!

For the love of all that is great in this world! TAKE OFF YOUR DAMNED PANTS!

God, I love you all so much...

Happy Easter!

As you tuck into your leg of lamb this evening, I hope you'll remember the true meaning of Easter.

For when the angel rolled the stone away, and Jesus presented his resurrected self to those still mourning his death, his first words were, "I've been to hell and back, so give me some freakin' chocolate." They did, and behold: it was good.

So gorge on chocolate, dear readers. It comes in many delicious forms, and any should be considered appropriate for Easter:

Chocolate kisses, chocolate nuggets, chocolate eggs, chocolate bunnies, high-end chocolate, low-end chocolate, domestic chocolate, imported chocolate, fair-trade chocolate, children-made chocolate, organic chocolate, conventional chocolate, liquid chocolate, solid chocolate, molten chocolate, powdered chocolate, bittersweet chocolate, semisweet chocolate, milk chocolate, dark chocolate, white chocolate, pure chocolate, peanut butter and chocolate, coconut and chocolate, fruit and chocolate, caramel and chocolate, peanuts and chocolate, hazelnuts and chocolate, almonds and chocolate, toffee and chocolate, nougat and chocolate, chocolate bars, chocolate cookies, chocolate brownies, chocolate cake, chocolate pie, chocolate creme brulee, chocolate wafers, chocolate chips, chocolate shavings, chocolate ribbons, chocolate drizzle, chocolate icing, chocolate ganache, chocolate-covered cherries, chocolate-covered blueberries, chocolate-covered espresso beans, chocolate-covered graham crackers, chocolate-covered cornflakes, chocolate-covered Cheerios, chocolate-dipped strawberries, and fudge.

It's Easter, and Jesus ate the chocolate, thus fulfilling Isaiah's prophecy. So if you don't eat some chocolate, you're being a bad Christian.

Scotland Independence - Addendum

I knew I'd get something wrong. According to the missus, May's election is, in fact, just the regular old time-to-vote-for-members-of-Scottish-Parliament election.

If the Scottish Nationalist Party gets a majority, it's as if the Scottish people are saying, "Yes, we want independence." The SNP's will reward the people by fulfilling their primary platform plank, i.e. independence.

And then, I've probably got the rest of the events wrong, too. But like Mel Gibson as William Wallace said, "Scotland will be free."

Of course, he ended up disemboweled.

Robert the Bruce's Skull Will Be Happy

The mystery of Scotland, well, it mystifies. But apparently it's a mystery that will soon be declaring its independence. Details remain murky to this occasional visiting Yank, but when the missus and I paid Scotland a visit last week, the country was all a-buzz with talk of freedom.

Here's a summary of my understanding, which I freely admit could be way the hell off-base, particularly since I simplify things in my own head in order to make sense of events:

For decades, the Scottish Nationalist Party has been on the fringe of mainstream politics. A legitimate party, yes, and one with decent support in Scotland, but not at the level of Labor, Conservative, and Lib-Dem. (I learned this trip, by the way, that the missus' grandfather was a founding member of the SNP. How fucking cool is that?)

Since Scotland got its own Parliament in the late 90s, the SNP has grown, thanks perhaps especially to the disaster of the Iraq War. The SNP was against the war from the beginning, and with Labour policies hosing the Scots, the previously dominant party is losing its influence. Tony Blair is exceptionally unpopular in Scotland these days.

Of course, the Scottish Parliament has a limited scope. They can make decisions about how tax revenue is spent, for example, but they can't raise or lower the taxes on their fellow citizens. Major decisions are still made in the UK Parliament in London.

Scottish Parliament, however, has made one important decision: a referendum to the Scottish people, allowing them to vote for devolution this May. And a solid majority wants to be free.

Countries in the North Sea have some of the highest standards of living in the world - Norway and Iceland, for example. Why not Scotland? After all, Scotland has the oil. But oil companies have been given such a sweet deal by the UK Parliament, Scotland sees very little revenue. Instead, the profits go back to the international conglomerates.

The Labour Party is pouring money into a campaign to convince the Scots that they'll be worse off if they devolve. Most Scots are like, "How can we be worse off? And even if we are, at least we're in control of our own misery for a change."

Meanwhile, former Chairman of the Royal Bank of Scotland (currently the world's fifth largest bank) has thrown his support behind devolution and the SNP. Boy, did that get Tony Blair's knickers in a twist.

Once the Scots vote themselves free, apparently they go to the UN for recognition. The feeling is that the UN would have to recognize a free Scotland if that's what the people want.

It just seems so easy for Scotland to declare its independence. Won't the UK government find a way to stop it? They really can't? I mean, I don't think they should deny the Scots their freedom, but I find it hard to believe that there's no safeguard in place to keep this from happening.

And the Queen officially rules Scotland, too, so I'm not sure how the monarchy fits into this. Scotland's free, but they're still a part of the commonwealth? More like Canada and Australia and less like England and Wales?

How long before Wales devolves?

Remember when Tony Blair was first elected prime minister? In the US, Bill Clinton was at the height of his popularity, and Blair seemed like a shining beacon of hope to liberalize the UK after years of Thatcher and Major.

Clinton's legacy is NAFTA, welfare "reform," and a series of blowjobs in the Oval Office.

Blair's legacy could well be a disastrous war in Iraq and the loss of one-quarter of the United Kingdom.

Happy Thanksgiving

I'm sitting here watching the Thanksgiving Day Parade... oh, excuse me... the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade... and it occurs to me that other than the warm feelings of nostalgia I feel, I hate the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade.

Lip-synched musical numbers, tacky floats, silly marching bands... who needs it?

Hey, look! Tom Otterness did a balloon! Cool!

I found the parade on NBC first, but it's also on CBS. How the hell does that work? And why?

That new (old) Snoopy as World War I Flying Ace balloon kicks ass, though. And it's brought to us by United Features Syndicates. Why do I need to know that?

Maybe I don't get it because I don't have any damned kids, but what's the deal with Laurie Berkner?

And why the fuck does Barbie get a goddamned musical number?

OK, I'm not turning this into a live blog of the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade. But it's an idea for next year, assuming I'm not doing any cooking.

Seriously, the parade is stupid. And yet I can't stop watching. I hate it. I love it. I hate myself. I love myself.

Eat lots of turkey, everybody. Can we get a "Bah Humbug!"?

Much Ado About Pants

pants
Originally uploaded by dangunderman.

Welcome back, dear B&E readers. By welcoming you back, of course, I welcome myself back from yet another trip that took me through heightened security.

Air travel is often the source of material (see Airplane, Airport, Top Gun, and Red Eye, among many others), and my flight back to New York from London offered a curious anecdote that caps off a couple of weeks of pants-prominence.

I'm seated next to a nervous flyer. She's sandwiched between me and a smelly man. Poor woman. About two hours into the flight, Nervous Flyer and Smelly Man both get up to use the toilet. When Nervous Flyer returns, figuring I was up anyway, I take care of business also. When I get back to my seat, Smelly Man still hasn't returned.

"This might sound a little strange," Nervous Flyer says to me, "but the man next to me took his pants off." I must be giving her a perplexed look. "I felt him shift and bounce, and then I saw his bare leg exposed from under the blanket." I still have nothing to say, so she adds, "And he went all the way to the back of the plane to use the bathroom and hasn't come back."

"He had his pants on when he went to the bathroom, right?"

I don't know why that seems relevant, and obviously I would've noticed if a pants-less man had gotten out of his seat. But I really don't know what else to say to her. And I'm still trying to figure out if she thinks he was keeping a bomb in his ass that he is now assembling in the lavatory, or if she is simply disgusted by the thought of Smelly Man masturbating in the back of the plane.

My lack of response is clearly disappointing to Nervous Flyer, and by this point, she's white-knuckling the arm rest. Nervousness can be contagious, of course, so now my mind is racing at all of the things Smelly Man could be doing in the bathroom. And I never would've expected that semi-public masturbation would be the best scenario.

Nervous Flyer finally says, "I'm telling someone. I don't know what I'm going to say, and they're going to think I'm crazy, but I'm telling someone something."

I let her out, but she's back immediately. "OK, he's just standing back there." I still don't know if she's worried about bombings or diddlings, but somehow seeing him standing in the galley eases her fear. And we watch X-Men 3.

Smelly Man returns to his seat ten minutes before landing. The missus thinks maybe he wet himself (she's still in Scotland, by the way). But the smell of Smelly Man was BO, not urine. So why he needed to take off his pants in our row, then stand in the galley for six hours will remain a mystery.

But as long as I'm on the subject of pants...

While visiting the missus' godparents, we played the consistently entertaining game of comparing dialects. In Great Britain, where they speak the Queen's English, pants means underpants. And trousers are pants. Bum means fanny, and fanny means female genitalia. So when the daughter of the family put on her best American accent (which wasn't terribly good) and asked, "Do these pants make my fanny look big?" much laughter was had by all.

"Pants" is clearly a comedy word in both versions of English. I once wrote a comedy sketch about a patient whose therapist didn't wear pants. The set-up was funny, sure, but somehow, repeating "pants" over and over and over just kept making the sketch funnier and funnier and funnier. That David Letterman's production company is called "Worldwide Pants" must prove something about "pants" being a funny word. Heh. Pants...

But even before the trip, pants were becoming a serious issue in my life. I've spent the past five years working from home. My attitude has often been, "Why put on pants when I don't have to?"

Well, as I've mentioned, I've been looking for work. In most work environments, pants are compulsory. Now that I've found and accepted a job, I will once again be a daily pants wearer. In some ways I feel I'm growing up. In other ways, putting on pants every day feels like a step backwards. I thought my pants-wearing days were behind me. I will once again be working for The Man, and The Man requires pants.

Fortunately, however, I can wear the pants of my choice. I don't need to wear The Man's pants. My Carhartt's are good enough. And actually, I'm not really working for The Man, as I will be the only man in the office. And besides, it's a place that works solely with the nonprofit sector. Still, I'll have to wear my nonprofit pants every day.

And this brings me to the final pants-relevant news of the day. While searching for my pants image to go along with my pants post, I made a startling and pleasant discovery...

No Pants Day is May 4, 2007. Yahtzee.

My Summer Vacation - Lodging

b-n-b
Originally uploaded by dangunderman.

Vacations with the missus almost always include family. That's not necessarily a bad thing, and in our case can often be a great thing. Her family lives in Scotland, for crying out loud, and we get free places to stay in one of the most beautiful countries in the world. And my mother is fond of covering solid portions (and sometimes all) of the costs involved in family vacations.

Plus, of course, the missus and I love our families. Our parents, siblings, in-laws, nieces, nephews... all totally rule.

Which reminds me... the missus and I were hanging with her brother and teenaged nephew a few weeks back, and the nephew was telling us about a girl who asked him out. When he said no, she asked, "Is it because I'm a slag?" He told her it wasn't, although he admitted to us that she is "a bit the town bicycle."

Town bicycle... I love the Scots.

But anyway, we all know that a vacation without family feels more like a real vacation. And it better. You end up shelling out shitloads on lodging. The missus did all the research on accommodations, and she did a wondrous job. I can highly recommend the following three places:

Adobe on Green
This Santa Cruz B&B is conveniently located in the downtown area, near all the shops, restaurants, and crank addicts. (Crank is what we used to call crystal meth, right? And wasn't it free-based out of broken light bulbs?) What's terrific about Adobe on Green is the privacy. Keys are left for you in one box, and you leave them in another when you leave. Not once did we see proprietors, nor were we forced to socialize with other guests over breakfast. It was self-serve and fresh. Delicious pastries and/or granola and/or fruit, etc. We had a private entrance to our room (the smallest they had), the place was artfully decorated, and featured spectacularly comfortable beds. Seriously, this place was great. And it's so private, you could carry on an extra-marital affair there without ever getting caught. I would never do such a thing. After all, the place is in California. Not terribly convenient. Oh, yeah, and I love my wife.

Evergreen Lodge
Located just outside Yosemite National Park, the Evergreen Lodge is a campsite for those who don't particularly feel like roughing it. We had one of the new lodges, an enormously spacious one-room cabin with giant bathroom. It's an all-inclusive type of resort without feeling like an all-inclusive resort. So they've got a bar, a restaurant, a general store, recreation office with public space for board games and puzzles, evening activities (including film screenings and ping-pong tournaments), and the like. I was a little afraid that once we were there, we'd be bilked at their whim. "Here's a crappy ham sandwich for $45. If you don't like it, you can go hungry." But instead, the slightly overpriced restaurant was actually doing a more upscale menu, so you can at least pretend you're getting what you pay for. And, as mentioned in the post about my burned eyeballs, the Evergreen offers guided hikes. Our guide and the other recreationalists were terrific. They offered lots of of information about Yosemite in general when we had questions. And you don't have to participate in the social activities.

The Sanitarium
We knew we wanted to drive up the coast to get to the wedding, so we needed a destination a couple of hours south of Santa Cruz. It was going to be the missus' birthday, so she found the place she wanted to stay. It was our big splurge on the trip. The Sanitarium in San Luis Obispo. And it was truly the most beautiful B&B I've ever stayed in. (It's also the one I've pictured.) Owned by a couple of painters, they even offer free art supplies to guests. Private decks, large bathtubs, fancy-pants bathrooms, some great art on the walls, some art of questionable quality. And yes, it's a former sanitarium, where people came for wellness treatment in the late 1800s. Good times. While we were there it was being run by a young woman in her 20s. The missus and I suspect that she and a friend were getting high downstairs that night (familiar smell through the floorboards), but she made some goddamn mean strawberry pancakes in the morning.

San Luis Obispo, by the way, is also where I found my cop shades. Bad ass.

Now, of course, we're back in our overstuffed one-bedroom apartment in Queens. It ain't much, but it's home. And only slightly less expensive than vacation accommodation.

My Summer Vacation - Santa Cruz

dipper
Originally uploaded by dangunderman.

Here endeth the sunburn lessons.

Our Summer Vacation began and ended in Santa Cruz, California, because the missus and I were attending a wedding there. No one's interested in weddings of people they don't know, so suffice to say, the wedding was beautiful, the couple attractive, their families lovely, and the whole event about as pleasant as can be.

Right, so Santa Cruz...

Santa Cruz has a lot going for it. On top of the coffee places and restaurants that one would expect in any self-respecting college town, there's also a beach and a boardwalk, and the Giant Dipper (pictured), an old-school wooden rollercoaster. The Left Coast's answer to the Coney Island Cyclone. Minus the freak show. A great ride. You leave thrilled and bruised, the way you should feel after any good rollercoaster ride.

You can enjoy playing and sleeping seals, go on whale watching tours, swim, surf, shop, and go to the Mystery Spot, which is both incredibly cheesy and a total blast. We ate super-delicious tacos at a number of different joints, all of which were cheap and awesome.

Demographically, it's probably what you'd expect from a college town, too. Some rich people, hippies of all ages, college kids, angry locals...

And one of the most thriving crystal meth addict scenes I've ever witnessed.

Young, white, at-first-glance healthy, and seemingly homeless near-hipsters dominate downtown Santa Cruz. An attractive woman sits on the sidewalk asking for change, smiling a charming-yet-toothless smile. Her boyfriend stands nearby holding his skateboard with a blank expression on his face. A 20-year-old dude fights a case of the nods from behind a sign asking for help. Groups of youthful vagrants keep their eyes peeled on passersby for a potential score.

I've lived in New York City since '94, and the missus has worked in some shitty neighborhoods throughout the boroughs, and we agreed that we felt less safe at times in Santa Cruz than we've ever felt in New York. Addicts present a bit of a wild card where safety's concerned.

Obviously, I'm aware that there's a nationwide crystal meth epidemic, but nowhere had it been so thrust in my face. And it seems like a new enough problem that there's no help for addicts yet. Santa Cruz is a progressive town. One would think that it would be ground zero for addict outreach. Maybe it is. Maybe it's unfair for me to assume that there's no outreach just because I didn't see any in my two whole days in downtown Santa Cruz.

But the whole scene left a bit of a lingering bad taste.

Insert meth mouth joke here! Zang! ZzzP-POW! Wocka wocka wocka!

Oh, boy...

My Summer Vacation - Burned Eyeballs

granite
Originally uploaded by dangunderman.

While in Yosemite, the missus and I splurged on a guided hike, which turned out to be one of the best investments we made. The guide was great, and he took us off the path over the granite mountain pictured here. (A glacier left those boulders behind about ten thousand years ago!)

For the hike, the lodge (through which we booked the guide) recommended plenty of sunscreen, good shoes, water, lunch, snacks, and the like.

The final item on the list was sunglasses. I didn't happen to own a pair of sunglasses, so before we reached Yosemite (while in Santa Cruz), we stopped in many shops looking for good shades. They were all pretty awful. And not just for vanity reasons. They were overpriced and crappily made. In retrospect, I feel as though I should've forseen this, considering they were sunglasses available for purchase in a beachfront town. I got to the hike without having found any sunglasses. The guide wasn't overly concerned. It was a matter of comfort over necessity.

Right. So notice how there are only a few trees in the picture? The hike took place between 8,300 and 8,800 feet. Thinner air, fewer trees, and little sun protection. But, you know, I was lathered with SPF 50 Ultra Sweatproof, so no real worries.

Yes, the hike was simply amazing. Spectacular landscape. A series of lakes, one of which had granite stones that allowed for "walking on water." We waded out more than 100 feet from the shore on the stones. The water was cold. Snow melt. But it felt great.

I squinted my way through without sunglasses and blissed out in nature. We saw three other people the entire day, and it felt like we had Yosemite all to ourselves.

When we got back to the lodge, my eyes were bothering me. Sort of like when my contacts irritate, and yet decidedly different. It hurt to take the lenses out. I took a close look at my eyes, and I saw pink horizontal stripes going across the whites. Except in this millimeter-sized area that my contacts had previously covered.

To confirm my suspicion, I squinted in the mirror as if the sun was shining in my eyes. The stripes matched up. My eyeballs were sunburned.

I thought maybe the pink stripes were just a remarkable coincidence until I remembered a day of snow skiing about twenty years ago, during which I had forgotten to wear sunglasses for half the day. The same thing had happened.

So, dear B&E readers, the sun will burn your eyeballs. Apparently, instead of lathering your eyeballs full of sunscreen, you should wear sunglasses. I bought a pair the day we left Yosemite. By then of course it was too late. But my eyeballs recovered relatively quickly, and I love my new sunglasses. If I add a mustache, I'll look like a cop.

My Summer Vacation - Burned Scalp

ruddy head
Originally uploaded by dangunderman.

The missus and I went on vacation, and all I got was this lousy sunburned head.

The photo washes out the ruddiness somewhat, but rest assured, my bald head is effectively burnt.

I've often said that burning your head is something you do exactly once. It's a mistake you just won't repeat.

Unless you're in California. For the bulk of the nine days we were there, I was vigilant about the sunscreen. Seriously, I burned my head once years ago and swore it would never happen again. I burn easily anyway, so I just lather up the SPF-50 Ultra Sweatproof, and I'm good to go.

Well, after days of surviving sightseeing, shadeless hikes, and outdoor weddings, it was a brunch that finally did me in. The morning of the day we came back, we went to a post-wedding brunch at the home of the bride's family. Boy, they're lovely people. But I'd made the mistake of assuming it would be an indoor affair. I'd also made the mistake of trusting that northern California cloud-cover to stick around. And then there was the mistake of succumbing to vanity. I'd bought a new pair of sunglasses, and they just didn't match the baseball cap I had with me. Stupid vanity.

About halfway through the brunch I knew I was in trouble. I kept trying to find shade, but by then it was too late. Plus, in our hour-long effort to say goodbye to people, I managed to spend another hour in the sun during the sunniest sun of the Sunday. Standing around with my hands on top of my head provided little relief. I had to remove them during the goodbye hugs. Stupid hugs.

The trip was good, by the way, and I'm sure you'll read and see more. But while boarding the red-eye last night, I realized that my bald head had beat my eyes to the punch.

Although I managed to get a sunburn on my eyeballs, too. But that will be a story for another day, dear B&E readers.

Expect a Lag in Postings

Here it is, dear B&E readers, that requisite and predictable post explaining what could and probably will be a lapse in writing. Upon my return to regular programming, you will almost certainly be inundated with a B&E version of a slide show entitled, "My Summer Vacation."

Just as a final pre-vacation observation... As I finish packing this morning, the missus and I have the PBS Bill Moyers' series "Faith & Reason" on the tube. Today it features a Buddhist nun and Bill Moyers in a blue sweater. Channel 13 is doing its pledge drive, and between segments with the Buddhist nun, they cut to a give-to-PBS interview with Bill Moyers, who was wearing the very same blue sweater.

Bill's about substance, not wardrobe.

Carolina On My Mind

Off to the Carolinas for a few days. I've no idea if there will be a means to connect to the internet(s) while there. Keep a lookout for the Dickheads for me.

And don't forget to go to Hank's on Monday! Country karaoke! Oh, the humanity!

My Winter Vacation - The Off-Season

winterball
Originally uploaded by dangunderman.

Since most of my nephews and solitary niece live overseas, I'm taking it upon myself to introduce them to the best America has to offer -- baseball. So for Christmas presents, the missus and I brought the France-dwellers a baseball, a bat, and a couple of mitts.

There are some good signs for the upcoming season in northern France. My niece has a wicked throwing arm. She's a natural fielder and her enthusiasm for getting muddy and sacrificing her body to make the play will only help her improve. My nephew can bat both right and left, clearly taking after his American uncle, although unlike me, he's equally strong from both sides of the plate. And fortunately, France doesn't have any Little League coaches to tell him to stop showing off, so the ambidextrous batting can be appropriately encouraged and fostered.

Now, if I can just get him to stop chasing his own hits and circle the bases instead, we'll really get somewhere.

Meanwhile, on our side of the pond, the Mets have traded the outstanding Jae Seo and re-signed (and given a raise to) Victor Zambrano, who's been a complete bust. Most of the Mets' winter moves have been pretty solid, but that combo amounts to about the worst, most boneheaded decision the Mets have ever made.

My Winter Vacation - Meat

boucher
Originally uploaded by dangunderman.

The Butcher of Brittany has been given artisan status by the French government. All that means, really, is that he's registered and approved by the state, resulting in higher taxes to match his street cred. But people travel for hours to buy the Butcher of Brittany's meat, because it's so fresh and delicious.

We saw two unassuming heifers driven 'round back, enjoying the fresh air, while at that very moment their former colleague was being sliced up in order to become that night's beef burgundy.

And oh, she was delicious.

What impressed me almost as much as the freshness of the Butcher of Brittany's cuts of meat was the giant wood slab upon which he worked. It's about seven feet long and features a dip in the middle almost big enough for skateboarding. That's years of cutting meat, friends, with the proper health code sand-down every evening.

And the place was surprisingly clean, for a joint dealing with raw, bloody flesh. It sparkled, even. Although that could've been my hunger blinding me.

My Winter Vacation - The Ruins of Brittany

ruin3
Originally uploaded by dangunderman.

The missus and I had the pleasure of traveling to Brittany in the north of France during My Winter Vacation to see her brother and his family in their 17th century farmhouse. My brother-in-law is teaching himself how to renovate and rebuild the house as he goes, primarily in the 17th century style of things. To date, this has included slate roofing and clay walls. Fortunately, he's also installed plumbing and hot water. The portion of the house in which he and his family live is inhabitable and comfortable. The missus and I got our own room, which ruled, but it was in a part of the house with no windows or doors, and with the temperature hovering right around freezing... well, it was sort of like camping in wintertime. Hot water bottles, long johns, and lots of cuddling under blankets to keep warm. Going straight from the bed to the fireplace or wood-burning stove while sucking down as much hot coffee as possible was the first order of business every day.

ruin4

These beautiful 17th century ruins pepper the landscape of Brittany, and while some, like my brother-in-law's, are restored and lived in, most are simply the shell of beautiful stone work without a roof. In some cases these ruins, like the example pictured to the right, serve as the context for creative landscaping and gardening.

Most of these ruins are relatively inexpensive to buy, but then, of course, it takes the time and resources to make them livable. My brother-in-law also says that there's no real economy in his immediate part of Brittany, so for the most part, these ruins lie, well, in ruins, waiting to get knocked down for good (a real shame) or to get restored to their former glory. But like the refugees in Casablanca they wait. And wait, and wait, and wait, and then two German couriers are killed for their letters of transit, while Rick and Ilsa rekindle their romance while remembering their time in Paris, and Victor Laszlow defies the Nazis, and Captain Renault and Rick form a beautiful friendship. It's such a great movie.

My Winter Vacation - Art from Heaven

fromheaven
Originally uploaded by dangunderman.

The Archangel Michael, once portrayed by John Travolta on the silver screen, is a wicked artist, as it turns out.

I came upon this little ditty during our travels, and while this newly discovered miracle-art-from-heaven-itself might look like your typical Latin American icon of Our Lady, the brush strokes do, in fact, belong to the Archangel. He's even signed it. But not with a signature.

If you think that doesn't make any sense, I'm sure that's only because you're getting the information second-hand, from a source still wondering what the fuck was going on.

My Winter Vacation - Funny Cows

coo!
Originally uploaded by dangunderman.

The missus was shivering from the cold and the fear of the beast as she took this photo of a typical (if enormous) Highland Cow (that's "Heilan Coo" in the local dialect). Hence the blurriness. The cow is the one on the right. I'm the one pointing, just so you know it's there.

I'm standing quite far from the horns of this fella, so you can't tell just how large the fucker really is. But my god, he's huge. Just to the right of that sidewalk is a highway, and our car almost got gored as we drove by. So we stopped to take some pictures, keeping a healthy distance from the beast.

They really are fine-looking animals, those wacky long-haired cows.