There was a time when I and my junior-year roommate, Tomsu, could recite the entire section of excessive alliteration from the beginning of V for Vendetta, when V first meets Evey. And then we remembered that we like chicks, and chicks—even at Rose-Hulman—don’t like nerdy guys who can recite an entire film at will (unless, of course, that film is Caddyshack). So we promptly applied squishy-bottle vodka to our lower hippocampi and removed it from our memory-banks. Flash-forward three years, and for the first time since this film came out, I’m not drunk while watching it. I mean, it is November the 5th, after all—it’d be downright criminal for me to not watch it. And you know what? Voila! In view, a humble vaudevillian veteran, cast vicariously as both victim and villain…
Well, after a few anomalous, freak sunny days, it finally feels like I live in Western Oregon again. It’s been raining. As a matter of fact, it’s been raining all day. More to the point, it’s been raining all goddamn day, and it doesn’t look to let up until sometime in May. And this, my dear readers, is why Portland Oregon (or, as the shirt of the homeless guy I saw today said, PORTLAND FUCKING OREGON) is the capital of strip-clubs and craft-breweries in the United States. Let’s go to Tim McCarver and the telestrator up in the booth for a better explanation:
You see here, Joe, the rain is sending all these hipsters in Portland to Frown-Town, and they just can’t handle it anymore. They say they love Portland because it’s such a soulful, gritty place, but in reality the rain gets to them just like anyone else. And thanks to the gorgeous summers in this city, they’ve gotten accustomed to seeing a variety of mountains on a daily basis. But once those late autumn clouds roll in, instead of seeing that plethora of mountains, all they see are these gray clouds. So now, rather than getting Vitamin-D-infused sunshine and gorgeous outdoor weather, the sky above them is raining down depressing vibes and they don’t have a goddamn thing to look at. So it’s at this point—and Joe, this really reminds me of the ’76 World Series when the Yankees lost to the Big Red Machine—that these hipsters have three options: a) go get drunk; b) go see boobs; or c) go get drunk and then go see boobs. And that, ladies and gentlemen at home, is why Portland Oregon has the most strip clubs and breweries per capita in the US of A. I mean, what it really boils down to is that you have to score points to win the game here, and that’s just what the Yankees got from Hideki Matsui last night. 6 RBI! YOW! Anyway, let’s get back to Jeff, who has today’s Mustache Weather Update.
Thanks, Tim. As you can see, we’ve got a strong whispy front moving into the area of my upper lip, and it’s looking like we might have a chance of bright red Irish-kid mustache by the end of the month.
…okay, I can admit it. I might have lost my marbles a little today. When I start blogging like I’m in the booth with Tim McCarver and Joe Buck, I might have an issue. Either that, or I’m just really pissed that baseball season is over and I have 150 days to wait until Opening Day. Not that I’m counting or anything. And for the record: what the fuck! How in the unholy puperfect hell does Hideki Matsui win World Series MVP when he played in half–HALF!–of the games in the World Series? That’s ludicrous.