and for those who are interested…
I got the fucking job today. Finally.
I got the fucking job today. Finally.
Superman Returns opens…er, opened, yesterday. (Yes, I know, I should update more frequently.) In honor of that, I thought I’d link to Larry Niven’s classic essay Man of Steel, Woman of Kleenex, a thought-provoking piece on why Superman would have such a hard time getting busy.
Don’t have time for science? C’mon, check out this excerpt:
Lastly, he’d blow off the top of her head.
Ejaculation of semen is entirely involuntary in the human male, and in all other forms of terrestrial life. It would be unreasonable to assume otherwise for a kryptonian. But with kryptonian muscles behind it, Kal-El’s semen would emerge with the muzzle velocity of a machine gun bullet. (*One can imagine that the Kent home in Smallville was riddled with holes during Superboy’s puberty. And why did Lana Lang never notice that?*)
Note: if you found that offensive, chances are you’re reading the wrong site. I’m not here for your entertainment, I’m here for mine. And if that pissed you off, that’s awesome. I know you’ll come back for more.
Last Thursday I woke up late and so had to go to work with no breakfast, other than incidental shower water I consumed. It was a busy day, and I had my interview for a new position, and so it worked out that I had nothing to eat when I walked out of there at four in the afternoon. I put out a call to a friend I hadn’t seen in a while to see if he wanted to get together for a drink.
Then I remembered I hadn’t eaten anything all day. So on the way home I got off the MAX at McCormick and Schmick’s and treated myself to a porter and one of their $2 cheeseburgers.
I got back to my apartment a little after five o’clock, and had just sat down when my friend called me back. He was downtown, and would love to go to happy hour. And that’s how I ended up at the Green Papaya a half hour later with Chad, drinking a Thai cocktail and munching on curry salmon skewers.
We talked and caught up on a few things, and when I got home I relaxed, knowing that I was in for the night.
Until my friend Barb the Hot Gresham Cop called. She and a friend were headed downtown to get a drink; would I like to join them? Sure, I said, even though they were going to a bar I had sworn to destroy.
So that’s how I wound up at the Thirsty Lion. And then, following up on an earlier promise, we moved our party over to Ringler’s Pub and sat with the rest of the crew, drinking more beer and eating more bar food.
I swear, I’m not normally this popular. It just worked out this way.
Like any nerd, I’m always on the lookout for new and better ways to handle code and files, and I’ve found a new favorite Windows text editor, Notepad++.
If you’re not geeky about these things, don’t expect to get excited.
Today we’re going to talk about the Thirsty Lion in downtown Portland, and why it’s a shitty bar and why I’ll never go there again.
I’ve been going out for “guy’s night” happy hour every Friday pretty regularly for some time now, and I try to scout out new locations with half-way decent happy hours for us to go. So I came across the Thirsty Lion, an “Olde Englishe Pubb” styled place built into the old Bar 71 location. They had a decent looking menu posted in the window (I admit I was intrigued by the weird culture-boundary crossing “Corned Beef Tacos”) so we decided to check it out. It turned out to be okay, and we shed no tears about $3 pints of Guiness, but we were vaguely weirded out by the way the waitress kept touching us, especially when she put her hand on my thigh. I know some people are all about having hands near their respective crotches, but for me, having a stranger put her hand that close to my junk was a little unnerving.
I decided to give them a second chance this last Saturday, when Beemer Todd was in town from San Diego and itching for a drink. I arrived to find him seated and working on his first beer, so I grabbed a seat at his table and we started catching up. Fifteen minutes later, exactly zero waiters had come by to see if I needed a drink. “This is bullshit,” I announced, using my ‘This is bullshit’ voice that I save up for announcing that things are currently at a bullshit-status. “How long did you have to sit here before they came to bring you a drink?”
“Dude, I had to go get mine at the bar.”
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