Lidsville - Street Punk Edition

If you encounter this baby in a dark alley - run the other way. That baby will mess you up! At the very least, she'll steal your hat.*

This hat used to be mine. I bought it in Fort Bragg several years ago. I gave it to Kyle last year to take camping. At some point Erin got her hands on it and won't give it back. That's cool. I'm not gonna try and take it away from her - have you heard her scream?! I've got another hat.

I took these photos on a Saturday morning - this is how the baby kicks it around the casa.

So, I was going to tell you about Sharon and why she should pay for my suffering. Well, somehow she managed to get me to agree to be a vendor at Mather Golf Course's Second Saturday Event on March 14th. omfg. How did that happen? I don't drink, so I wasn't drunk. Why would I agree to such a thing? Selling my photographers? Sure, it sounds so simple. Wrong. It is a major pain in my ass! And it will probably be the death of me. Or a small part of me. Hey, I'm definitely losing sleep over it! I'm not even going to tell you about the traumas I am having over printing these photos. Then there are the logistics of displaying the prints. And at some point I'm going to have to figure out pricing! I am so going to kick Sharon in the shin the next time I see her. Damn it! She was just here on Saturday and not only did I NOT kick her, we fed her abalone, and then I took photos of her (106!) so she would have a new profile pic for freakin' Facebook! Ugh. Now, I'm really mad. I made her look good, and I'm sitting here having heart palipitations while some Canon bigwig is buying another Mercedes on my dime!

Ok, maybe it is time for a little yoga break. While I go stand on my head, you can ponder the cuteness of the Bean. In this shot she looks just like Chris!

* She's also been known to sticky-finger a cell-phone out of a purse without anyone noticing. Next up: Mug shots!

Lidsville

I have a cold. Or the flu. Possibly a random plague. I blame Julie. She cursed me – a pox upon my house no less! Sure, sure, she promptly lifted the curse, but obviously not fast enough. Because a couple weeks ago Kyle got sick. And Kyle never gets sick! And then while we were in Santa Cruz, Erin started getting sick. She was sick all last week, poor baby. And now I am sick. So yes, I blame Julie. Although I believe she has paid for her sins. She was also sick last week. And then yesterday she called me for tween anecdotes for an article she is writing. Ha! she ended up listening to an almost certainly feverish me babble on about Kyle for 30+ minutes. I have no recollection of what I said to her. More ramblings of a lunatic. She should have been recording that shit. Chopped it up, added some random images and a funky electronic dub, uploaded to YouTube, and become an instant internet phenomenon. Oh well, maybe next time she’ll be ready for me.

Warning. Abrupt change in subject.

I have been collecting images of Erin in all her hats. Girl likes to wear hats! And if Chris wants to point his genetic blaming finger at me for that one, well I’ll take it. Hats are cool. Use to wear them all the time myself. Still have a couple funky hats, but most are of the practical and warm variety now. Hmm, will have to remedy that situation at some point. More funky hats for the people! Anyway, Erin loves to wear random hats around the house. She’s also obsessed with her bike helmet. Shocking. This hat was pilfered off a stuffed dog that Kyle gave her. It always cracks us up when she wears it. She looks like a stoned snow-boarder, or one of the McKenzie Brothers.

"Beauty Clark!"

"Take off, eh!"

And that’s all I’ve got for ya today. You too can blame Julie. Or Sharon. Sharon has not yet paid for all the suffering she’s causing me. I’ll tell you more about that tomorrow. Or as soon as Julie’s pox removal cream starts working. The nice man on the TV said the results were guaranteed or I’d get my money back less shipping and handling. That’s a good deal right?

Olympic migraines*

So, we arrive in Santa Cruz last night and my in-laws were watching the opening ceremonies for the Beijing Olympics. Cool. We unloaded the car (ok, Chris unloaded the car) and settled in in front of Bob’s big screen TV. We had missed a lot of it, but what we saw was pretty awesome. But then came the Parade of Nations. And all I have to say is wtf Olympics? Why are all those wonderful athletes forced to dress like color-blind airline employees? Didn't the women look like flight attendants? And what is with all the hats? Is there some kind of un-written Olympic rule that you have to not only wear some god awful suit-like attire in hideous colors, but you must top it with a jaunty hat?! Are fedoras the national chapeau of 90% of the countries on this planet? How did I miss that little tidbit of trivia? And some of those patterns caused me to want to poke my eyes out. I pretty sure Hungary was trying to kill me!

It was getting late, but we stayed up long enough to see the US team, who looked rather subdued with their navy blazers, white slacks, and obligatory caps. At least the women weren’t forced into skirts and ugly pumps. God bless America.

I was informed that the US team’s outfits were designed by Ralph Lauren. So there you go. And suddenly I began to twitch. For I too was once forced to wear Ralph Lauren by an evil overlord. Or the co-owner of the Rattlesnake Club in Detroit, who was from California, and wore ocelot boots to the grand opening. The staff at the new riverfront restaurant had to wear pink button-down Polo shirt, khakis, deck shoes and a very colorful bowtie. I’m wondering if there wasn’t a belt too, one that might have matched the bowtie. Either way, we sure looked dandy. I’m surprised those preppy threads didn’t give me a rash.

The Sain’t, me, and several of our friends were part of the original staff when the restaurant opened 20 years ago. And the only reason I know the actual year is that last month Kim told the Sain’t that she was going to attend the restaurant’s 20 year anniversary celebration. And this is where we again encounter “bad math”. Math that ages me. Math that if done properly states that I was 22 years old when I worked there. Sweet mother of Barry Gibb how did I get this old?!

And to place you squarely in 1988, the music piped into the restaurant was a mix of Roxy Music and Sade. Suh-weet.


*Although I have had headaches the last 2 mornings, I’m happy to report they were not even close to Olympic in size or grandeur. More like a small regional qualifying events at best.