Thank you for flying Chewing Cardboard Airlines

Ladies and gentlemen, the Captain has turned on the Fasten Seat Belt sign.  When the seat belt sign illuminates, you must fasten your seat belt. Insert the metal fittings one into the other... oh screw it.  If you don't know how to fasten a seat belt by now, you deserve to flop about the cabin.  We suggest that you keep your seat belt fastened throughout the flight, because if we require an emergency landing, it improves our chances of survival if at least 43% of you are trapped in your seat by an impenetrable nylon strap in 1976's most popular shade of blue.

If you haven’t already done so, please stow your carry-on luggage underneath the 4 square inches below seat in front of you so that your knees are properly adjusted by your ears at all times for the duration of this 7 hour, 42 minute flight.  The good news is that when you throw a blood clot from being cemented in a z-shape, you'll at least have your Kindle and your Mentos nearby.  You can also stow your luggage in an overhead bin, provided the yahoos who boarded before you, ten rows back, haven't claimed your bin space as their own.  Extra points if they actually urinated on it to mark their territory.

Make sure your seat back and folding trays are in their full upright position.  Wouldn't want you to bruise your forehead during that 20 second death spiral, now would we?  

Please take a few moments now to locate your nearest exit. In some cases, your nearest exit may be behind you.  Yeah, good luck getting to that one.  Those fuckoffs won't even let you get to the bathroom without jumping in front of you.  If we do need to evacuate the aircraft, floor-level lighting will guide you towards the exit.  You won't be able to see it through the mad crush of screaming hoards, but don't say we didn't try. 

If you are seated next to an emergency exit, please review carefully the special instructions card located in the seat pocket in front of you.  No, not the SkyMall catalog.  No, not the barf bag.  No, not the airline's version of People magazine.  No, not the prior passenger's wad of snotty tissues. Yes... yes, that's it... the card that is pristine save suspicious spots of spittle all over it.  Don't worry - your instinct is correct... in the images, the people look calm, but inside, they're shouting "GET OUT!  GET THE FUCK OUT! MY POLYESTER JUMPSUIT IS ON FIRE AND BONDING TO MY SKIN!"  Rest assured, no one expects you to carry out any emergency duties; you were just the first one to book the seat with the extra leg room and 97% higher chance of survival in the unlikely event of a mid-air collision.

A life vest is located in a pouch under your seat. How you actually get to it in this sardine can of a shitfest is up to you.  Just be happy there aren't chickens in cages rattling around on your neighbor's lap.  Good luck and Bon Voyage.

At this time, we request that all mobile phones and other electronics be turned off for the full duration of the flight, as these items might interfere with the navigational and communication equipment on this aircraft.  Actually, no, that's horseshit.  If an iPad could bring down a 747, we're all screwed.  We just want you to be miserable.  So, no Angry Birds.

We remind you that this is a non-smoking flight.  If you didn't know that already, you're a dumbshit.  We do, however, encourage sneezing, wheezing, coughing, snoring, nose whistling, breathing loudly, talking loudly, burping and passing gas.  Also, don't ask us for anything, and for god's sake, don't fall asleep with a limb in the aisle.

We'd now like to thank you for flying Chewing Cardboard airlines.  We know you have choices and that ours was the cheapest, but we are going to pretend you are a loyal customer, anyway.  Please sit back three inches, relax with the able assistance of your cat's Xanax and enjoy the flight.

In Memoriam: Snailio Iglesias

Snailio Iglesias....

For almost four years, I've protected you and your family from me and my family - those who wanted to salt you, get you drunk or otherwise end your tiny little slimy lives.

For almost four years, I let you destroy my plants, poop on my entryway and make out on my front door - random drippy stuff and all.  Did you know that even 409 can't clean your trails?  All of this, despite the fact that you look like a dehydrated penis with antlers.

So, I'm sorry, Snailio Iglesias.  I'm sorry that in a moment of inattention, I smooshed your innards through your head.  The *POP* still haunts me. 

I hope you know that I tried.  And I hope that slug heaven has all the greenery, dampness and hootchie sluggettes that your little heart can handle.

A Public Service Announcement, Of Sorts...

Dear Future Gynecologists of America:

Please give a sister warning before you commence a rectal exam.

Thank you for your kind consideration,
Poked in Portland



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Dear Future Patients of Gynecologists of America:

Do yourself a solid and skip the post-pap-smear sigmoidoscopy.  After the high uterine scrape, the last thing you want is to view the insides of your intestines on a circa 1985 Apple IIe monitor.

You can thank me later.

Yours from the Final Frontier,
Glutton for Punishment


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Home, Sweet....

We used to live in a little town just south of Portland, a saucy little place called Milwaukie.  Land of the Milwauks.  It was mildly Twin Peaksy, without all of the kink and wonder.  Lots of political intrigue, with a side of Hatfield v. McCoy... And the offices of a renowned comic book publisher.  And the purveyor of Things from Another World.  And Foxy's, the one-stop-shopping choice of nicotine-addled video gamblers.

It was the kind of place where you could get involved.  Make a difference!  Where the old-timers recalled the glory days of Oregon's own Norman Rockwellian Mayberry, and reminisced about when the circus would come to town and then continued on about how we couldn't put a ball field there, because "that's where the youngsters go to smoke pot."

But we lived in a small house on a busy street, populated by old men on bikes in horned viking helmets, canoe carrying sopranos and the occasional meth addict.   Many of our neighbors, though well intentioned, allowed the paint to peel off of their homes and their weeds to grow taller than my head, and considered a blue tarp a suitable garage.

So, it was time to go.  And go, we went.  Bigger.  Better.  In the land where good taste is legislated.  To a land, so says a colleague, where the sphincter count is off the Richter scale.

And so here I sit.  And after nearly four years in Stepford, I've seen the neighbors to the left twice.  The neighbors to the right still allow their dog to defecate on our yard without recrimination.  And the neighbors across the street have... wait for it...  wait... weeds taller than my head.

Meat Suit Mambo

For the better part of the last 36 years, my meat suit has served as little more than as a vehicle to transport my brain from place to place.  But then I found Krav Maga, and I must say, I am enamored.  I typically spend all day scared of going and by the end of the class, I'm ready to kick Jet Li's ass.

It's empowering.

And terrifying.

And exhausting.

I think I'm in love.

xo

For Joellen and her Children

Someone somewhere once said, "A picture is worth a thousand words."  The pictures of you and your family speak ten-fold.  They say love and loyalty, compassion and awe, gratitude and dedication, openness and warmth.  They say "this is a family that's got it right, that has its priorities in check, that will remain as one, always."

And even in your darkest hours, even in your greatest depths of agony and profound loss, when you feel like your soul has been drained from your feet, and every breath is filled with sorrow, these things don't change.  A man like Scott cannot love his family like he did - so hard and so completely that strangers can see it radiating from photos - without staying with you always.

Costco.

Costco used to be called "Price Club" when I was a kid.  Or at least, that's what it was to us, in the pre-merger state.  Back then, to get in, you had to have some special quality to your humanity. Either you worked for the government or you belonged to a certain credit union.  There was none of this "any and all yahoos allowed" business.

Once, online, Costco sold Baconnaise.

But I digress, twice.

The real reason for this post is simple.  Marital Man Meat and I went to Costco last weekend to pick up trash bags.  We joked at the time, that our last purchase of trash bags lasted a good 3-4 years.

So, imagine my horror when I discovered that we already had the jumbo pack of trash bags, stashed away in the garage.  As someone who cannot bear to throw away soap or old towels, there is some sense of overbearing obligation in having, now, two boxes of Costco bags that could very well last us until 2019.

I will be 44.

Enough said.

Chewing Cardboard's List for 2011: Rub-A-Dub-Dub, Thanks for the Grub, Yay God!

4.  The Ultimate Happy Meal

Eat some prozac, where the "pro" stands for professional and the "zac" is ex-zac-tly how you want it.  What in the HELL am I talking about?

It's not a happy pill...

No... I am talking about the Ultimate Happy Meal.

Grilled Cheese
French Fries
Strawberry Milkshake


Right coast:  get it at Vancherie's in Havre de Grace, Maryland.

Left coast:  Swing by Skyline Burger... so legitimately old school they don't even have a website.

In between:  I'm not sure, but I'm guessing you've got a little diner somewhere that can hook you up.

Chewing Cardboard's List for 2011: Go To My Happy Place.

3.  Lazy K Bar Ranch, Crazy Mountains, Montana


Now, I was all-sorts-of winding up for a long one on this bad boy, but there aren't really words that express the depth of my sixteen years' worth of love for a single place.  If you're in search of even a single, solitary zen-ish moment this year, then turn left off of Highway 191 just outside Big Timber, Montana, rumble about 12 miles on a dirt road (past rattle snakes and ranches and sometimes, lost great pyrenees puppies that you'll want to take home, but don't, because the puppy isn't yours and isn't supposed to be on the road in any event), and mosey (do you like that?  that's local, right there) on up to the Lazy K Bar Ranch.  It's somewhere near where the grey meets the green...

Let's share a moment of silence.  GoogleMaps has found the Lazy K.

No cell coverage!
No internet!
No television!
No cell coverage!  (Did I mention that?)

There's nothing quite as lovely as narrowing down your laundry list of stress and worries to one simple concern:  avoiding cow patties.  The air is cleaner, the sleep is deeper, the priorities are right-er.  Check out my homies at www.lazykbar.net.

This here is that dirt road I told you about.

And deep in that canyon sits the Lazy K.

Although you'll be up early for breakfast, you'll at least get your clouds made-to-order.

Yeah, I got nothin' for this one.  Just enjoy it, already.

Quality time with a grumpy calf is included in the price.

Seriously.  In what world does this happen?  It's as if Mordor never existed.

Chewing Cardboard's TaskMaster List for 2011: Because Being Old is Cool

2.  Watch Lake Placid.  Then Watch It Again.  Then Laugh Until You Pee Your Britches.

Lake Placid is one of the singularly most hilarious movies you've never seen, but much like a good bratwurst, it's better the second time.  ... Finest one-liners in cinematic history, and Betty White - before the Betty White Renaissance - chock full of F-Bombs.

I mean, who doesn't like some profanity-laden Grey Panthers?

This movie will Turn. That. Frown. Upside. Down.

Chewing Cardboard's TaskMaster List for 2011: Because Humans Cannot Live on Cheez-Its, Alone

1.  GREG LASWELL:  The Guy You Need to Listen to, to Stave Off Homicidal Urges while Stuck behind Subaru Station Wagons in Downtown Portland

It might be true that I could be his biggest fan...

AND it might also be true that my good friend Jason was so kind, so generous - so completely hell-bent on ripping away every shred of dignity and self-worth I've managed to hold on to since the ill-fated day of my birth in the Year of Our Lord 1974 - as to introduce me as such...

AND it might be that that introduction was followed by a ridiculously uncomfortable 45 seconds standing in line with Laswell to use the loo... him, and me, and no one else...

And it MIGHT be that following that moment at the toilet, he could possibly be considering a restraining order (I was drunk, I had to pee... I was tongue-tied... it was not my finest moment)...

BUT... you gotta give this guy some love.  He is amazing live and incredibly friendly to the peeps at his shows.  I mean, he just hangs out in the crowd.  Who does that?

You've heard his stuff all over television - you just don't know it's him.  And now you do.  So, no excuses.

Greg Laswell at Mississippi Studios in Portland, Oregon, avoiding eye contact with the socially deficient bathroom girl and pondering whether to donate his earnings to the installation of a private toilet just for the talent.






'

2010: The Good, The Bad, The Ugly

The Good


A new cousin with a beautiful family
Archie's survival, despite eating everything equal to or larger than the size of his head
Two - count 'em - TWO Greg Laswell shows (and related benders)
No swine flu this year!
Telling jackass buyers of our beloved home to shove eet
Finding awesome renters to move into said beloved home
Spending quality time in Portland with old and new friends
Lazy K Bar Ranch, Montana
Garage. Organization. Nirvana.

The Bad


Bono's back surgery = No U2 Seattle
Rear-ending some chick while watching a dog hang out of a second story window
6 trips to Klamath Falls
Rental car paint = horse food
434 square feet of wool rugs destroyed by one cat with a skewed sense of appropriate elimination

The Ugly


Two root canals, one day
Various and sundry medical procedures involving the Last Frontier
Operation Eradication: Yellow Hallway Paint, and the 26 foot ladder from hell
Operation Eradication:  Old Crappy Bathroom, and the rotted out floor