Category Archives: images

These are the things I find to be worth a thousand words. Whether I took them or found them somewhere else, this is where I put the pretty pictures.

I do this all the time…

post office fight scene

No I mean all the time. If I spent the same amount of mental energy I have used in a lifetime of imagining improbable rumble royales on thinking of important things, I probably would have cured cancer, solved all the problems in the middle east, and invented a flying car by now. So I guess you can blame all that on me.

via the frequently hilarious XKCD

Where the Magic Happens

After a quick trip to Ikea and some assembling, I have a work station. It is tiny, just big enough to hold my fat stack of text books, some basic supplies, and my inspirational action figures. They used to occupy my desk at work, but since I am a full time student now they are now part of the apartment decor, much to my girlfriend’s delight. This is where I’m hard at work learning how to think like a lawyer:

Desk/Workspace

Here’s what it looks like when I switch to blogging mode and prepare to regale the internet with my trenchant observations and witty commentary:

My workspace

Is that you John Wayne?

johnwayne.jpg

At the airport in Orange County, they know how to honor true American heroes. And if I hear anyone say that his real name is Marion, I will soundly thrash them about the head and neck. No true American heroes have girl names. Except for the girls, I guess. Betsy Ross had a girl name. And Rosa Parks. In college, I had a very good friend who kept a cardboard standee of the Duke in his living room. As we would drink beer and play videogames, we could feel his presence watching over us like a cowboy angel who just rode in off the heavenly plains. His essence washed over us, increasing our manly virility by at least 15%. Very few people even did John Wayne impressions in the presence of the cardboard cut-out because no one wants to disrespect the Duke. His spirit now watches over Orange County travelers. God Bless America.

Tower of Joy

Somewhere in Dublin there works a barman who possesses the dexterity and sheer nerve to balance 3 full pints of Guinness on top of each other. It’s a testament to the great things men can achieve when they reach for the heavens, though much like the builders of the Tower of Babel this alcohol architect tried to take his malted monument higher than it was meant to go. It ended in sadness but for one shining, glorious moment the tower of Guinness stood in mocking defiance of purely horizontal pints. God bless you, Mr. Barman.

guinnessresize.jpg

Link (via Boing Boing)

Oysters and Beer, Oh My

This past Saturday I got together with about 19,999 other San Franciscans to attend the Oyster and Beer Fest at sunny Fort Mason. It was a gorgeous day with enough sun to turn my face a mottled pink (that still hasn’t faded) but enough of a cool breeze to keep the sweat from dripping into my oysters.

Nothing ruins the taste of a briny/fishy gob of snot with hot sauce more than a few drops of salty sweat. Consensus seems to be that the oysters themselves were hit-and-miss with regards to quality. My own seafood tastes runs more toward the fish end of the wading pool, but I can shuck and suck with the best of them and I thought they tasted like oysters (which is to say like nothing really, except for the sauce you put on them and a little salt). The idea of the festival was to celebrate the way Guinness and oysters go together and I must admit I concentrated more on the latter than the former. Though I consumed some shellfish:

There was plenty of beer on hand, although since the event was sponsored by the “Big G,” the variety was limited to Guinness, Harp, and Smithwicks. That was more than enough to satisfy me, but as the festival went on I ran into a common problem:

They did what they could, but things got crowded at both the port-potty area and the beer tents. After being forced to endure a half-hour wait for that precious foamy liquid and forty-five minute one for its expulsion, I had no choice but to slow things down and teeter on the elusive borderland between sobriety and its opposite. Turns out this is the ideal frame of mind to enjoy the real reason I went to the show, which was a concert by Flogging Molly. Other bands played during the day, and they were all right but I was really there to see my favorite Irish rock band.

Unfortunately, I had to keep some distance from the stage due to a slight legal misunderstanding I had with Bridget Regan, the fiddle player. (Some day she’ll come around and see the truth. Just because someone makes a life-sized doll out of another person’s old hair and garbage doesn’t mean he’s obsessed; just a dedicated fan. On that day she’ll lift that restraining order and I’ll climb down from my treetop post and we’ll be together forever.)

But I digress. My position on the field was pretty good. I was not alone:

And although I am, as they say, “getting too old for this shit.” I was so appalled by the quality of moshing that I felt compelled to enter the fray. I don’t know if it was just a laid-back day but the moshers were bopping around like somnambulent children. I miss having no regard for my own body, and so:

That’s me in the Guinness top. (Which incidentally has been to more Flogging Molly and Dropkick Murphys shows than I can count, presuming I can’t count higher than six.) I was pretty much unopposed as the dominant force in the pit, except for one determined Marine who made it a point to tackle me when no one else dares. He knocked me down once, and was once knocked down in return. Semper Fi, my friend, Semper Fi.

Except for someone pouring an entire Smithwicks on my head when my back was turned, it was a fairly sedate mosh pit. I was unperturbed. I found the cold liquid refreshing, and the clinging beer smell in my hair and on my shirt served as a pleasant reminder of an afternoon well spent.

Mosh pit aside, I had a great time. I never get tired of seeing Flogging Molly or drinking beer, and I had ample opportunity to do both. I know all the songs by heart, but I still love to sing them. I was also struck by how seemingly lax the security was. There was nary a bouncer in sight once you got past the entrance, and the police presence was minimal. My friend Oliver suggested it was probably unnecessary as San Francisco seems mostly devoid of the speed-crazed rednecks that can turn most outdoor festivals in my home state of Florida into nigh-riotous brawls without a heavy security detail. It’s not that Northern California is lacking in aggressive no-goodnicks, but perhaps rather that they are less destructively preoccupied with ruining everyone’s good time.

Whatever the reason, I eagerly await next years festival.