Beach House Day Three: “Be good or I’ll take you to the Cranberry Museum!”

June 16, 2010 18 Comments read Attractions, Nom or Vom, Pacific, Travel, USA, Washington, West

Unfortunately, given our shenanigans the evening prior, we had already behaved poorly enough to deserve the Cranberry Museum. And if we didn’t deserve it THEN, we (read: Evan and I) certainly deserved it after what we did Monday morning. Monday morning, Memorial Day proper, Emily sat up with a start and shouted ‘BALD EAGLE!’. She has a…rather contentious relationship with the eagles in Long Beach. Namely, she wants to photograph them, and they mostly don’t want to be photographed, by her in particular. So when she saw this eagle flying down to perch on the post marking the property line, she ran out to the beach with her camera, still in her pajamas, clutching her waistband so her pants wouldn’t fall down in her excited rush. I decided that it would be prime time for a marshmallow gun ambush. I swear that if this photo extended to the left just a bit further, you would see me standing in the window, plotting.

Evan and I crept downstairs and outside, waiting behind bushes with our guns. Emily was so excited that she was practically skipping down the path back to the house. And then we struck.

Her scream was bloodcurdling and entirely satisfying; there’s video proof but I can’t embed it here. And it put me square on the naughty list.

So let me tell you about some damn cranberries.

Firstly, they are boring.
Secondly, they are boring as HELL.
Thirdly, this ‘museum and research laboratory’ is owned by Ocean Spray (a fact which would no doubt thrill my grandma, who gets very excited when she has a point of reference like, say, Dole. “Are those orchards owned by Dole? Do you think they have contracts with Dole? I think they would make a lot of money if they sold to Dole.”), which means they are biased regarding cranberries, their interestingness, and what exactly constitutes a ‘museum’ and ‘research lab’.
Fourthly, “When the Pilgrims first settled in America, it was the Indians who introduced them to cranberries. The Pilgrims thought that the drooping pink blossom of the berry looked like the downturned head of a crane, so they called it a “crane-berry.” Later, the name “crane-berry” was shortened to cranberry. From the very beginning, our forefathers considered cranberries very important. They used them for food and medicine. And to this day, the cranberry is still considered unique. Its juice has a flavor that is naturally and powerfully concentrated. And it’s the cranberry taste that makes our drinks uniquely refreshing and that gives you the goodness and flavor you expect from Ocean Spray.”

If you guessed that a room full of pictures on the walls plus Ocean Spray propoganda plus a gift shop constitutes a museum AND a research lab, you would be correct. But wait, there’s more! It’s not technically a museum until there are people inside, being bored by the exhibits. It was time for me to shake things up a bit. As part of the shaking process, here I am, having my hind end picked by a suction picker.

However, it turns out I’m not the only one who decided there needed to be some shaking-up going on.

Really? Touching, wearing, and throwing have been problems in the past? I could see touching. Or wearing. But throwing?

Just look at all these fine products that Ocean Spray provides to the cranberry-loving public! They even label it ‘marketing’, as if perhaps I was confused as to the entire purpose of the museum’s existence.

We didn’t even get the benefits of the Ocean Spray movie, though it was prior to 4:30. What kind of museum are you running here, Ocean Spray? Oh wait, we already established, a crappy one.

Did you know that cranberries were an important part of the war effort, that they spurred the soldiers on to kill their enemies? Wait, maybe it’s the potent mix of coffee, cigarettes, and candy. I know that just the thought of fruitcake makes me want to punch a guy.

Of course, with any food-based ‘museum’ plus gift shop, there’s going to be food for sale. And some of it is destined to be judged by the internet at large. Poll #1579393 Nom or Vom: Ketchup? Catsup? Are you here to solve my ketchup problem? Open to: All, detailed results viewable to: All, participants: 25 Would you eat this?

View Answers NOM NOM NOM 11 (44.0%)VOM VOM VOM 14 (56.0%)

I could have gone to inspect the cranberry bog in person, but…eh.

“Tell me when you’re sick of having your mouth open and I’ll be the hole.” (part two)

June 15, 2010 12 Comments read Attractions, Pacific, So Terrible It's Amazing, Travel, USA, Washington, West

After stuffing ourselves sick, we drove to Marsh’s Free Museum. If you’ve ever gazed upon a piece of tacky merchandise so wondrous you never knew how you lived without it, you know what it is to be in Marsh’s. Marsh’s schtick revolves around Jake the Alligator Man, a poorly taxidermied monkey/alligator hybrid which has been featured prominently in the now-defunct Weekly World News, the only paper brave enough to tell us the truth about Bigfoot abandoning his children and Mrs. Bigfoot having to hook to buy diapers because her babies crap like a man. I may have, in my youth, read a story about this self-same Alligator Man and wholeheartedly believed it, because why would anything with ‘News’ in the name lie to me? News flash: I am naive. Marsh’s treasures hail from a different era, a time when we needed machines to mold things for us. Today, in the Pacific Northwest, things like bread and window sills and underarms manage to grow mold without aid. Truly, we live in the future! Do you suppose the cotton is magic? Or is magic corporeal now? What do magic boxers do? Is the fit magic? Do they lend magical properties to objects around them? Magic asses! Think of the possibilities! Of course, if you want to be a true stud, you will wear a studded t-shirt. There’s even danger inherent in wearing it! Nipple burn, or something! What is this I don’t even Jake himself is trapped in a lackluster glass case. I, for one, believe he should have some neon flashiness, a little more glittery Vegas-style sheen to him. At least give him a hat appropriate to the season! …Like this one. Appropriate for all seasons! Especially deer season. Yes, that is totally a two-headed alcoholic snake and not some doll heads propped upon a turd.

Racist or delicious? Both? Jesus Christ that lion has hemmorhoids, get in the car! I brought home with me three amazing new things: a rad poster, an alligator head, and a skullfuck pirate to go with the blowjob pirate I sadly didn’t buy last year which has now been sold and I will have to make my own because my grand new plan for the pirate bathroom (now quite different from the pictures but whatever) is to have a shelf with “Pirates You Can Stick Your Dick Into: The Series” which requires at bare minimum three pirates: A Skullfuck Pirate, A Blowjob Pirate, and an Earfuck Pirate. These are the sorts of things one can do with their apartment when it’s conceivable that no family will ever come to vist, ever again. After we got home from Marsh’s, it was time for a marshmallow gun war. It started earnestly enough with Emily standing patiently with her mouth open, waiting for a delicious marshmallow to land inside. It ramped up when she got popped in both eyes, particularly so when we discovered that velocity and sting to recipient increases if we wet the marshmallows just slightly, and that we could load several into the barrel for a scattershot effect. Marshmallows went EVERYWHERE. Down the stairs, behind picture frames, inside the decorative brick-a-brak, into the fireplace, behind the television, between the couch cushions…everywhere. The firing squad versus the willing victim. After that marshmallow war was cleaned up, we settled in to watch Orgazmo and play the associated drinking game: drink every time someone says the word ‘Orgazmo’, ‘Heavenly Father’, or ‘Jesus’, which means we got loaded. A few drunk folks (no names, ahem) discovered that you can make really awesome sea lion noises through a marshmallow gun. Particularly in the wee hours when everything else is quiet enough to allow your bellows to truly reverberate. It was only after we’d stopped making damn fools of ourselves that we realized there were people attempting to sleep who were planning on getting up early the next day to leave, so we attempted quiet peace offerings. After all the excitement and running around, we all felt quite awake and settled in to watch another movie, during which we all passed out on our respective couches. Thus endeth day two.

Blasting across the alpine hills in a jet-powered, monkey-navigated tube

February 3, 2010 35 Comments read Attractions, Pacific, The Great Outdoors, Travel, USA, Washington, West

On Sunday, I went tubing with Tristan, because we both agree that skiing and snowboarding sound like a lot of work, but that sliding downhill at high speed on our stomachs should be completely doable.

Two out of the last three weekends, I have had to sign documents promising not to sue if I break my face. This is a good trend, I think. We ended up getting there with quite a lot of time to spare, and instead of standing around in the snow for an hour like schmucks, we hiked up to the ski lodge and hit up the bar at ten am.

Gin & tonic & mac & cheese: truly the breakfast of champions. The bartender was maybe a little heavy-handed for ten in the morning, but I can hardly fault him. By the time we hit the snow, I was already toasty warm inside.

We were maybe a little apprehensive about flinging ourselves downhill on a tube; after all, they wouldn’t have us sign a waiver unless there was actual danger involved, right? What if the abominable snowman doesn’t just go after skiers but instead enjoys snacking on the easier prey of adults on less-maneuverable tubes, swelled with dairy and starches and too drunk to run away? Worse, what if we enjoy it so much we end up concocting a special tubing uniform like this guy?

The only way I can describe this outfit is: A clown ate crayons until he exploded, and a passing unicorn was so amazed by the sight that HE exploded, too. We oughtn’t have worried–flinging ourselves downhill was insanely fun, even better as adults than we remembered as midwest tykes. We conducted a series of experiments as to which position led to the fastest and furthest ride and didn’t come to any official conclusions, but unofficially, flinging yourself onto the tube, superman-style (belly down, legs out or up, arms extended) was the most fun, knees into the hole of the tube was probably the most dangerous (Tristan flipped his tube, to the raucous laughter of us all), and on your back looking up at the sky FELT most dangerous but actually got a shorter overall distance owing to not being able to run and dive onto the tube with any great accuracy. About half the time, we trudged back up the hill on foot, and half the time we took the tow. We probably could have gotten more rides in during our two-hour block if we’d trudged up every time, but then I might have died.

This is my ‘I’m boozed up and overstimulated’ face. The two hours positively flew by, but at the end, I was surprised at just how worn out I was–it didn’t seem like we’d done anything worthy of the term ‘exercise’ but my body told me otherwise. Everyone else seemed to be running out of steam as well. Tubes were being abandoned at the bottom of the hill and I ricocheted off one and nearly flew off my tube. A kid who didn’t want to hike back up the hill threw snow at his dad’s camera and the dad lost his shit. The employees were perky as ever, cracking jokes, asking us if we had fun, saying they hoped we would come back…it was really nice. On the way home, we loudly sang along to the Rocky Horror soundtrack, maaaaybe drawing stares from passing cars. Maybe.

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