Thursday, August 31, 2017

Is your Emoji Organic?

The picture below contains an image known as an emoji.  I have been intrigued by emojis as of late because of their innocent appearance and comical nature.  They are primarily used in text messages as a replacement for words or phrases to convey a wide range of emotions.  Emojis can be interpreted in many different ways and often contain subtle innuendos, usually of the sexual nature.  No emoji demonstrates this better than the eggplant.  It is used primarily as a phallic symbolic rather than an actual vegetable.  Have we as a society lost touch with mother nature and the cornucopia of edible delights she offers us?  Instead of a wholesome eggplant we see a dick, or in place of a vitamin packed peach we envision a ripe luscious ass.  I suggest a retreat from the perverse and a resurgence agricultural awareness.     


Beware of the wolf in sheep's clothing.  Know the difference between the flesh world and the digital abyss that is your text message screen.  


It may be a little discolored and slightly less robust than its emoji brother, but this is an eggplant you can reach out and actually touch with your bare hands.  Go ahead, grasp it tightly with your hand. 


Alright enough fondling the eggplant, time to peel, slice, egg wash, and flour.


Hot oil coats the eggplant and results in crispy majestic medallions.  


All it takes is a layer of eggplant, sauce, cheese and repeat.  


And here we have emoji, shit I mean, eggplant parmesan.  Smash your phone against the coffee table and pour yourself a glass of wine, because you are now human.  

Tuesday, July 18, 2017

Hugs and Afros

It was hot and hell that NBA Draft Day.  It was that type of heat that makes you shake your fist at that glowing orb of fire in the sky and curse its persistent glow.  You begin to wonder if perhaps you should have been sacrificing virgins or lambs to some obscure sun deity during the cooler parts of the year.  With neither virgin nor lamb at my disposal I sought refuge in one of the many air-conditioned safe havens near me.  Today I might finally understand the hype and fascination behind the NBA Draft, or at the very least consume a few ice cold beers in a comfortable enviroment.  
      

4th Street Pizza would surely be the best bar to witness the Draft Day crowd in full fervor.


I should also mention that 4th Street Pizza also has loads of beer, and lovely bartenders who will give you smaller samples of other beer.  Beer and Beer Jr. would accompany me on my Draft Day safari.


"The hug" appears to be the most commonly used gesture by drafted players to express feelings of joy and gratitude.

When using "the hug" in a high pressure situation be sure to designate which side you and your hug recipient will be advancing towards.  If sides are not clearly chosen "the kiss" might occur, which is not the best way to start an NBA career.


It is my firm belief that intimate words and phrases are exchanged during "the hug," but I have no solid evidence of what they are.  I assume they are too hot for television.


"The afro" is clearly the preferred Draft Day hair style, regardless of ethnicity.


"The hug" combined with "the back grip" indicates a different level of gratitude, or perhaps intimacy.


Zach Collins did not sport "the afro" or implement "the hug" during his Draft Day selection.  He instead decided to come off as incredibly awkward and unprepared.  Good luck kid.


My attention started to shift after Bam was chosen to play for the Miami Heat.  He appeared slightly drunk, and for this I applaud him.


By the end of my social experiment I concluded that televising the NBA Draft is pointless, but beer, pizza, and air-conditioning are not.  And I was also one of the only people watching.

Wednesday, May 31, 2017

My Beloved Pavilion


At the intersection of Los Gatos Blvd. and Blossom Hill Road a strange dome shaped building juts out of the earth like a mysterious corporate monolith.  The inscription etched along the front once read Hollywood Video, but in recent years has regrettably been changed to Chipotle.  Regardless of what is written across its face, this ominous dome represents The Blossom Hill Pavilion and the various shops that line its painfully narrow parking lot.  Myself and countless others have roamed these premises for decades, slinking in and out of shops like lost souls in an cemetery.  The Pavilion is a warped microcosm of Los Gatos, both self-sustaining and self-destructive.  Having worked in The Pavilion for over eight years I can speak with proper authority on each business that resides here and its respective employees.



Forgive me for being slightly biased, but Starbucks is the glue that holds The Blossom Hill Pavilion together.  Maybe it is because we supply a potent drug that keeps the surrounding businesses, mothers, fathers, the self-employed, tired students, and violently hungover alert and functioning.  I also like to think that most of us working here are the type of person the average Joe wouldn't mind sitting down and having a beer with.  Come out to the The Blvd Tavern after 11:30 and find out.    


My relationship with the AT&T Store has tapered off a bit since switching over to T-Mobile a couple years ago.  And yes I assure you, when your cellphone turnover rate is as high as mine, having a relationship with a cell phone store is very much a real thing.  The employees at the AT&T Store possess a quirky dry sense of humor that is a blend of tech industry and customer service.  I have also witnessed a few of them getting loose at the bars in Los Gatos, which wins them bonus points in my book.  I dig this establishment and respect anyone who puts up with people like me, who ask to have a replacement  phone activated every other month.        


Jamba Juice is the black sheep of The Pavilion flock.  The blending of fruits is a shady business, the employees (save for a few) tend to be weirdly distant and reserved, and the overall color scheme is too vibrant for the human eye.  Jamba slightly redeems itself by carrying Franks Red Hot packets, that I pillage on a daily basis, and for this I tolerate their presence within The Pavilion.


I have a profoundly strange love for the surly chain smoking vixens who work at Pier 1 Imports, and who begrudgingly lug boxes of merchandise in and out of its mysterious blue back door.  Later on in the night you can find a handful of them on the patio at The Blvd Tavern, drinking beer, smoking deeply of their beloved nicotine wands, and complaining about the customers they had to deal with earlier that day.  These dark brooding beauties peddle generic furniture and nicknacks to the mindless hordes of Los Gatos housewives and loathe every moment.  It would behoove them to seek employment elsewhere and live more content and fruitful lives.  But then that black raincloud of despondency floating above their heads would vanish, along with part of their allure.  The women of Pier 1 not only recognize their plight but embrace it.  This acceptance is a direct reflection of the human condition and I am forever intrigued by it.      


Once upon a time, a young lad would eagerly ride his bicycle down to Hollywood Video, and peruse the seemingly endless shelves of DVDs there in hopes of finding the right film that would entertain him and his family for the night.  This was a careful process much like picking out a Christmas tree, which is probably why he was fond of it so.  Netflix would eventually collide with the entertainment world however, completely wiping out the video rental chains from the earth, much like a giant meteor did in the dinosaurs.  The space at the end of The Pavilion remained vacant for many years, until finally a repulsive excuse for a Mexican fast food restaurant named Chipotle moved in.  The boy wept, then cursed, and finally drank a corona to ease his sorrows.  Because at this point he had become a bitter old man.      

That boy waits by this no longer functioning payphone at The Pavilion to this day, awaiting a phone call from some higher power assuring him that Chipotle will eventually be replaced by a pizzeria.

Saturday, March 25, 2017

Saint Big Mac's Day

Excessive partying paired with my birthday forty eight hours later are the main culprits for why I have never written a Saint Patrick's Day Clog.  It is said that Saint Patrick cleansed Ireland of the Paganism that corrupted its people, and illuminated them with the bright angelic light of Christianity.  Oddly enough, an alarming amount of Whiskey and Guinness is consumed to celebrate Saint Patrick's purification of Ireland and its heathen customs.  The stench of irony hangs in the air more pungent than stale booze.  Unlike previous years, the majority of my Saint Patrick's Day was spent participating in good clean fun.

 I started my day like any good Irishman worth salt, by bathing myself in Irish Spring Soap.  I actually no not the connection between this particular soap and Ireland.

 Guinness brownies were baked the previous night to be enjoyed on Saint Patrick's Day with my dear old Grandpa. 
 Norman has been eating McDonald's every Saint Patrick's Day for as long as I can remember.  Come to think of it, he eats it on most other days as well.

 Norm's indirect protest against corned beef indirectly inspired others to eat McDonald's throughout the day.  "I feel like this Cup Noodles has too much sodium, I think I'll just wait for my double cheeseburger," declared Mr. Shawn Fast.

 A cheeseburger looks on with envy as Trevor stylishly backside disasters. 

 When asked what type of beverage this youngster was sipping out of his Starbucks cup he replied, "It's Chardonnay."  The ingenuity of the youth at Cesar Chavez Park always astonishes me.

 Buckets by Fnan to end the day.

 Irish car bombs are the least intelligent thing to drink, which makes them the most entertaining.  And when being served by this regal chap nothing can go wrong.

I retract my previous statement.  Kiss me, I'm standing up straight.

Thursday, March 2, 2017

Bathroom Reading Material

Have you ever taken a dump where upon completion it feels as if the dump has taken you?  I am of course referring to a trip to the toilet that, instead of being quick and routine, reveals itself to be a time consuming endeavor.  You exit the lavatory disoriented as if stuck in a time warp.  You wonder how much time has elapsed and whether or not the course of your day has been altered irreversibly.  I hardly suppose you would have imagined yourself reading about defecation in this latest Clog post.  But alas, here you are with your pants around your ankles wondering whether or not you will make it to dinner on time.  Luckily for you this particular turd will shoot out hastily and require minimal wiping.


Creeks and lakes across the Bay Area swelled as if nine months pregnant, and eventually gave birth to spectacles such as this.


The demise of Tommy's put an end to my football Sundays in Los Gatos, until I realized Carrie Nations offers free nachos and hotdogs.  Beer pairs well with both of these things.
  

As is tradition, I grilled ribs on Super Bowl Sunday.  They too were adequately washed down with an inexpensive beverage.


This is around the time when I felt the twenty dollar bill I had bet on the New England Patriots slowly wriggling its way out of my pocket.  Much to my surprise, the twenty managed to double in size!
   

February weather could look like this in Santa Cruz during the afternoon,


and look a little something like this in San Jose later the same day.


Joey Guevara was brought up skating with Jesse, Clark, and myself.  Not only did he somehow maintain his sanity, but went as far as to turn pro for Alien Workshop.  Seeing Bill Tran hold up Joey's pro model board was somewhat surreal.  


I may have been the biggest idiot at Joey's video premier party, but The Oscar Award goes to this man.   
  

Friday, February 17, 2017

There and Back in a day/Afternoon

The rain beat upon my window that morning like angry octopus tentacles against the hull of a ship, and I knew that the crew's day trip to Lake Shasta would surely be cancelled.  We agreed that the storm was too fierce for safe voyage, and collectively fell back asleep, only to awake several hours later to greatly reduced showers and timid winds.  It would be madness to begin the nine hour round trip up to Shasta at noon, right?

  Either Adrian had little idea of what he was up against, or he is just that perfect sort of crazy that enjoys long walks on the beach and white knuckle road trips.

 Out here on the road a man can clear his mind.  

 Bringing provisions is crucial for long drives, especially with our ridiculous time constraints.
 
 Within the witch's cauldron of the valley a storm is brewing.

 Always bring your skateboard (only one of us did) because you never know what crusty gems you might stumble across.  Unless you happened to be driving past this remote school in Lake Shasta City at dusk you probably do not know the outcome of Joe's boneless.  

A view like this justifies all the hardships. 

Sunday, January 8, 2017

Joaquin(g) murri(ly)eta into 2017

The first week of 2017 has seen relentless rain that will surely wash away the sins and blunders of the previous year.  Apparently 2016 was a wretched bitch of a year that swept through our peaceful lives reeking havok like a plague of of locust.  Perhaps my head was lodged up my rear end for the past twelve months because I found 2016 to be rather pleasant.  Christmas and the days following it were especially nice.  Allow me to guide you on a strange journey accompanied by photos.


My father has decided that after he retires most of his time will dedicated to fishing, and a whole slew of other very random and borderline unrealistic activities.


The fish were not the least bit hungry, so Tom suggested we go wine tasting.  He pulled off the road quickly because of a sign for Murrieta's Well, which my father thought was some historic landmark for the notorious California Gold Rush bandit Joaquin Murrieta.  It turned out to actually be a winery, and a very overpriced one at that.  While strolling around Murrieta's Well I could not help but imagine I was on the premises of some powerful criminal's fortress.   


Joaquin Murrieta's Fortress is lined with beautiful agave plants, that are harvest and used to make the bandido's delicious tequila.

The dining hall is also quite magnificent!  My imagination has now completely gotten away from me, so now I will sprinkle a light dusting of facts over my bundt cake of lies. 


 Joaquin Murrieta's head was severed and preserved in a jar of alcohol by the rangers that apprehended him as proof of his capture.  It was displayed to the public in Stockton and San Francisco, with a low admission price of one dollar.  Strange how this is the historically accurate portion of this Clog.  Happy fishing.