Man’s dominion over nature?

August 25, 2011 2 Comments read Attractions, Horse Girl, Pacific, Travel, USA, Washington, West

Since we only had a few days to spend in Long Beach this year, we tried to cram as much as possible into those days. So instead of sleeping off the previous night’s booze, we rose early and drove to downtown long beach to go for a morning horseback ride along the ocean. We arrived a bit too late for the first ride of the day, so we had an hour to kill in the area, which felt like much longer as nothing is open that time of day. During our hour, we spotted this charming sign:

Really? At no point during its construction did anyone look at it and say “Gee, that’s an awkward pose, and it sort of looks like this dog has a big deformed ballsack”? Because it took me quite some time to figure out that it was intended to be a paw and NOT a ballsack, and it wasn’t just the early hour clouding my judgement. We also spotted some deer grazing in a nearby field, relatively unconcerned about the morning’s light foot traffic. This meant they kept eating instead of raising their heads or doing anything picture-worthy, so in a move that is bound to end either in hilarity or tragedy, I encouraged Jason to go near them with the phrase “Oh, they won’t hurt you, I just want some pictures.” Jason cautiously moved toward them, warning them “Hey deer! Predator moving in your area!”, and this is what happened:

Apparently we’re not so great at the menacing predator thing, even if we are the top of the food chain. Those deer weren’t thinking “Oh no! Apex predator!”, they were merely annoyed. In the event of some apocalypse that wipes out civilization, should we survive the initial impact, I don’t know how well we’ll fend for ourselves by attempting to annoy food to death. After the hour had passed, we went back to ride some horses. Two years is long enough to forget just how obstinate a horse can be, and as it turns out, their obstinacy hasn’t lessened in any way. This time, I was seated on an obstinate horse named Gunner, who seemed rarin’ to go, fighting to move forward as everyone else was still mounting their horses. Oh, he was rarin’ to go, all right. Rarin’ to go right back into the pen to eat some oats. It didn’t matter how much I pulled back on the reins, said “whoa”, or shot thoughtwaves of “I am going to have you turned into glue” at him with my brain, he wasn’t having it, and proceeded to trot right into the pen to chow down, with me dragged along for the ride like fat ballast. After he was forcibly dragged away by the wrangler, he then stood in line backwards with his head wedged into a corner like he was a little kid pouting. We were warned not to let the horses eat any of the dune grass as it’s not good for them, but Jason’s horse recognized that he’s a pushover and viewed the whole trip as an endless snack bar. CHOMP. CHOMP. CHOMP. “Hey, no, I don’t think you’re supposed to do–“CHOMP.

We were furthermore instructed to keep some distance between our horses, which had been easy to do two years ago when it was just the four of us, but we had a lot of butt-sniffers in this group, which meant that horses were lashing out at one another with some frequency. I managed to mostly stay outside of the fray, but every once in a while, Gunner the butt-sniffer would wedge himself up in a group of horses just for sniffs and giggles. After the ride, I was helped off my horse by a five-year-old, which didn’t do much for my sense of self-confidence. I paid this child back in kind by not tipping him and hobbling away bowlegged.

Washington’s Goatalympics

August 6, 2011 2 Comments read Attractions, Pacific, Travel, USA, Washington, West

Occasionally people ask me how I find out about the strange, random events I attend, and how I determine whether or not they will be worth the trip. The answer is simple: there is no choice; I am drawn to these things as certainly as sailors are drawn to their doom by sirens. When I heard that the nearby fairgrounds were going to be hosting a Goatalympics, it wasn’t a question of whether I should go, but who I should drag with me. Jason, of course, and Emily and Tom joined as well, after Tom extracted a promise from me to not aid Emily in any way, shape, or form, should she attempt to smuggle a goat home and then feign innocence as to how it appeared on their back patio. Promises made, we ventured to the Evergreen State Fairgrounds to watch goats and humans compete for prize ribbons in such categories as loudest bleat, most spots, pinkest nose, best trick, and goat-owner lookalike. On the way, we heard the new Lady Gaga song on the radio, “Edge of Glory” and found it not only boring, but repetitive, so we spiced it up with some new lyrics: I’m on the edge…of the Goatalympics! And I’m gonna pet some cute goats with you! I’m on the edge…of the Goatalympics! And I’m gonna see some goats in costumes! We arrived too late to watch the goats play red light green light or balance an egg on a spoon in their mouths, and since we had time before the next round of events started, we went into the barn to check out the competitors. Inside the barn, we heard loud screaming that we assumed was a child imitating a goat, given that we are predisposed to blaming children for any number of loud and obnoxious behaviors. The noise, however, actually did emanate from a goat, whose insistent screeching put Emily off the idea of goat ownership.

While the goats and owners gathered to compete for the “Most Talkative” award, the audience instigated a call-and-response with one tiny goat, who seemed confused that humans were speaking his language.

This goat was trying to eat his ribbon!

It was around this time that the goat obstacle course started. None of the goats seemed thrilled about participating, but most bore the indignity for treats.

One goat, however, was having NONE of it and had to be carried and shoved through the entire course, after which, her princess-outfit-bedecked owner yanked her around and pouted, which raises the question as to which of them was the more stubborn.

A man we had dubbed Kenny Rogers demonstrated that his goats knew more than a few tricks, but as in the goat-owner lookalike contest, both Kenny Rogers and his goats got screwed because the ribbons always went to the children who had participated in the event. What is the point of having a contest if the winner is always the person most likely to throw a tantrum? Moreover, whenever I participate in contests against children, why don’t the judges recognize that the person most likely to throw a tantrum is me? All I’m saying here is that goats have beards, and so does Kenny Rogers, making him the most goat-like, and therefore deserving of the ribbon. I demand a recount!

Entered in the costume contest: One Lady BaaBaa.Who could have ever guessed that our Lady Gaga lyric makeover would have been so appropriate?

Along with the bleating of the goats, the day’s soundtrack consisted of the nearby racetrack’s cars droning around in circle after circle. We had very nearly convinced Emily that it was part of the Goatalympics and that goats were driving the cars, complete with goggles and scarves, but I’m afraid my grin gave the game away. After the show, we went out for some ice cream, and I learned an important lesson about black licorice ice cream: don’t eat it. Particularly if the people who have made it decided to load it with black food coloring, because then your lips and teeth and tongue and digestive tract will turn black and all your friends and even some strangers will have a great big laugh at your expense. Snoqualmie Ice Cream, have I got a bone to pick with you!

XXXtreme Burger

July 13, 2011 Comments Off read Masticating With Mellzah, Pacific, Travel, USA, Washington, West

A few weeks ago, we celebrated a friend’s birthday with some late night karaoke madness. After an evening of belting out some of the worst songs the eighties and nineties had to offer, I awoke missing a large part of my vocal range, and decided that the only thing that could possibly fix me was a giant root beer float from XXX.

And since we were there, we might as well eat something…after all, their food couldn’t possibly be the size they claim it is, right?

…God help me, what have I done? Who needs a burger covered in ham, bacon, and a hot dog, smothered in cheese and grilled onions and some sort of sauce that hastens one’s death? On the other hand, it was delicious.

And who doesn’t need a burger covered in ham, bacon, and a hot dog, smothered in cheese and grilled onions and some sort of sauce that hastens one’s death roiling around in one’s stomach while one is attending the ballet later that evening, causing one to sweat and grip the sides of one’s chair and pray that the discomfort will pass? Hypothetically speaking?