The institutional mouthpiece of Kjel.org

Just like his old man, Jr. has a powerful effect on the young ladies. A positive effect, in his case.

This guy and I agree: the savvy traveler abroad always claims to be Irish when they are drunk. It didn’t work in this particular case, but the claim will often get one out of all sorts of alcohol related trouble. Not sure why it works, but it works. It’s worked before for the CEO. Either the Czech police haven’t heard many real Irish accents, or the CEO is just that good.

Jr. VP has earned many nicknames during his current tenure in the position. Stink Boy. Mr. Crazy. Sir Stinksalot. Bitey. Vampire Boy. Sr. Loco. The CFO and I have earned our own names, names that I am sure Jr. calls us behind our backs: Mean Mommy and Bad Dad. Mean Mommy does mean things like keeping Jr. from pulling over the Christmas tree, or preventing Jr. from crawling into the fireplace or from putting his hands in the paper shredder. Bad Dad often neglects to do those very same things, but gets lucky most of the time. Jr. tends to cry and Daddy tends to swear on the occasions when Daddy is unlucky.

It’s getting to the point where the lad will soon require a good set of earmuffs. He is starting to mimic the sounds people make, and it would be poor form if he were to mimic some of Daddy’s more choice words and phrases outside of the HQ. Of course Daddy isn’t going to change, so the “earmuff” command is an important one for Jr. to learn, and learn pretty goddamn quickly too I think. Stink Boy and I will start working on it tonight.

After repeated viewings of “For Your Eyes Only” (best Bond movie ever) I’ve decided to sell my Subaru and buy a 1981 Lotus Esprit Turbo, similar to the one below. The ski rack is an option I probably won’t go with, although I’m sure the Esprit is a great snow car. I’ll probably also take a pass on the anti-theft self-destruct system.

The CEO got a sweet new phone for Christmas. It has a nice camera too, and can easily connect to my laptop via Bluetooth, so more pictures are coming for Kjel.org. Remember that the next time you are acting stupid and the CEO whips out his phone . . .

Motorola I think intentionally provides very few rings with the phone (and all crappy), essentially forcing you to buy a ringtone. Selecting a ringtone is problematic: your ringtone says something about you, and you don’t want it saying “I am a loser” or “I am a hipster dufus trying too hard” or “I am an eyebrow tweezing metrosexual.” Unless of course that is what you are trying to say.

Unfortunately most music ringtones are of just the chorus or the part of the song that includes the song title, and they often sound dumb because of it — I’d much rather have the instrumental intro in most cases. That being said on my old phone I had Journey (”Anyway you want it, that’s the way you need it, anyway you want it”) as the ringtone. It was dumb, true, but it was my tribute to Rodney Dangerfield so that made it OK. “So what? So let’s dance!”

RIP Rodney.

How am I supposed to make it through yet another day without knowing, to a scientifically proven certainty, which Red Dawn character I am?

Luckily I don’t have to:

Robert Morris…-The Executioner-…You are loyal
and brave(to a fault) but you are also a
psychotic killing-machine. Seek professional
help NOW!

Which Red Dawn Character Are You?
brought to you by Quizilla

What, you actually expect me to work while I’m at work?

Kjel.org is back from Christmas in Seattle and Bellevue. It was lovely, and everything logistics-wise worked out well too, which plays no small part in fostering a pleasant holiday.

We got to see plenty of both families, and Jr. was in full “charm-the-grandmas” mode. He played his part perfectly. Nice work young man.

Kjel.org played tennis with the CEO’s family on Friday night, and the CEO even played, which is a rare occasion indeed. My devastating topspin forehand was in full effect. The family is still shaking, with fear or laughter though I cannot be sure.

Below is a picture of the CFO and I cuddling Jr. on a cold Christmas night. You can tell by my face that the eggnog was good this year.

I should be lunching on goat today, the same one ritually slain last night to mark the Winter Solstice. Alas, it is not to be — the Solstice passed unremarked this year.

I look back in fond memory at past Winter Solstice celebrations, celebrations that would last for several days. The solstice always seemed to come at just the perfect time: finals were over, or school was over, and no one involved had any other real responsibilities back then. A perfect time for a descent into Solstice madness. While we never explicitly acted pagan per se, much of what we did do was contrary to the laws of both God and man. Slothfulness? Gluttony? Public intoxication? Furnishing alcohol to a minor? Check, check, check and check.

So come Solstice time we would descend into a sort of feral paganism, aided by the good people at the Blitz-Weinhard company and easy access to cable, Nintendo, darts, skateboards, and biker bars. It’s a Solstice miracle that everyone always made it home for Christmas alive. Those were the days.

This is just too cool:

CANBERRA, Australia (AP) - Hundreds of human footprints dating back to the last Ice Age have been found in the remote Australian Outback, an official and media reported Thursday.

The 457 footprints found in Mungo National Park in western New South Wales state is the largest collection of its kind in the world and the oldest in Australia, The Sydney Morning Herald newspaper reported.

The prints were made in moist clay near the Willandra Lakes 19,000 to 23,000 years ago, the newspaper reported ahead of archeologists’ report on the find to be published in the Journal of Human Evolution.

State Environment Minister Bob Debus said the site showed a large group of people walking and interacting.

“We see children running between the tracks of their parents; the children running in meandering circles as their parents travel in direct lines,” Debus told Australian Broadcasting Corp. radio.

“It’s a most extraordinary snapshot of a moment or several moments in the life of Aboriginal people living on the edge of the lake in western New South Wales 20,000 years ago,” he added.

Jeebus H how I wish I had a time machine. Someday. Perhaps someday soon: I’m working on a time machine out in the HQ’s car hold. It’s slow going, especially since my sawzall was borrowed some months back and hasn’t been returned. I still have some drills, hammers, duct tape, and so forth, so work continues.

Aside from the missing sawzall, I’m also having trouble acquiring the plutonium required to fuel my time machine. Stupid Patriot Act.

Kjel.org naively thought last night that it could walk into Kells and enjoy a pint or two of the black before heading to the show. Several concert goers apparently had the same idea and Kells, to their great credit, took full advantage: $20 cover at the Kells door at 6:00 pm last night. The place was packed. We went down the street to McFaddens for our Guinness and Strongbow. Not quite the same though.

U2 never disappoints, even after all these years. I thought the band really shined on a couple of songs where they toned down the spectacle and then cranked it up to eleven. I agree that I Will Follow was a highlight, and Sunday Bloody Sunday another. The sound was not perfect and actually pretty muddy in parts, which really surprised me in this day and age of computerized mixing. The Rose Garden is what it is I guess. The last show I saw there was Bon Jovi, but I think maybe I assumed then that the bad sound was not unintentional.

After the show there were three thousand people trying to take the Max back to the good side of the river. Of course Tri-Met in their wisdom sent along one train along every 15 minutes. Without Tokyo-style professional subway packers, Portlanders are unable to make this sort of thing work: trains were leaving with plenty of nooks and crannies still unfilled.

Taking the advice of the CFO Kjel.org walked across the Steel Bridge instead of waiting for a train we could squeeze onto. Not a bad walk, except that of course we took the sidewalk on the wrong side of the bridge and added four dark and glamorous Old Town blocks to the journey. I almost had to wrestle a homeless woman in order to pass the corner of 4th and Flanders. Luckily she was distracted by a yelling junkie just long enough that we were able to slip past. I’m pretty sure I could have taken her.

We made it to the car and then on to the HQ without further incident. A good night all around.

Kjel.org was happy to hear that the U2 show tonight at the Rose Garden isn’t cancelled or postponed due to inclement weather. It’s nice because we want to see the show of course, but it is doubly nice because the purchase price Kjel.org actually paid for the concert tickets exceeds their face value (and hence any available refund for a cancellation) by a non-trivial number of dollars.

The set list from their show in Salt Lake last night:

City of Blinding Lights
Vertigo
Elevation
I Will Follow
Still Haven’t Found
Beautiful Day
Original of the Species
Sometimes you Can’t Make it On Your Own
Love and Peace or Else
Sunday Bloody Sunday
Bullet The Blue Sky
Miss Sarajevo
Pride in the Name of Love
Where the Streets have No Name
One

Until the End of the World
Mysterious Ways
With or Without You

Stuck in a Moment
All Because of You
Yahweh
40

Not bad at all, but tonight is the last show of the tour, so I’m told we should expect the playlist to be a bit more random, with maybe an extra encore or two — should be fun. I’ll do my best not to get up on stage again this year.

I just went outside to get the paper. It sucked. Screw going out again today — I’m staying inside where right now it’s a toasty 61 degrees.

The CEO and the Jr. VP are home tonight without the CFO. I’m not sure she understands what goes on at the HQ when she leaves, but she does need her time with the girls after all . . .

Jr. has been exposed to a ton of punk lately; it’s probably a good time for the boy to hear some metal, too. This evening I introduced Jr. to the majesty that is Iron Maiden. He loved it. Aces High may be his new favorite song.

He’ll be a well rounded boy.

Kjel.org made a visit to the Meier and Frank downtown last night to see the Chief Holiday Elf, and visit his Land. Thinking SantaLand was on the 2nd floor I hopped onto an escalator. Then another. Then another. And so on. It turns out SantaLand is on the 10th floor. CFO and Jr. took an elevator.

Gotta hand it to Meier and Frank: the SantaLand experience is not nearly as insanity producing as the name might imply. The CEO tried to steel himself for his time in the Land of Santa. I’d even considered prepping myself Bad Santa style. However, the expected unpleasantness failed to materialize. This in part is due to Santa himself, as the way he’s built his Land is genius: while the parents hold their spot in line for pictures with the jolly old elf, restless kids can go run around in Santaland and ride the elevated monorail that runs around the whole thing, waving to mom and Mr. Claus the whole time.

The CEO appreciated Santa’s whole operation. The line moved relatively quickly, there were a lot of people there but it never seemed crowded, there was no irritating piped in holiday music, and the SantaLand staff had the whole thing down to a science. St. Nick himself was a pro, and seemed genuinely happy to be there and talk to the kids. That Santa is a stronger man than me, I tell you. He was the polar opposite of this fellow below. Polar, Santa, North Pole, get it? Man the CEO is funny.

When it was Jr.’s turn to see the Chief Elf he was not exactly thrilled, but neither did he cry or scream. It’s not often I hand him off to random old men seated in a department store (not anymore anyway, after the Nordstrom incident last summer), so I think he didn’t know just quite what to make of the situation. The CFO got some nice pictures of the boy and St. Nick with her new camera, and of course we ordered some pics from Santa’s official photographer as well.

It’s really too bad that Jr. can’t talk yet: he couldn’t tell Santa what he’d like for Christmas this year. I guess Santa won’t be coming to our house. I’m going to help Jr. leave treats out for Mr. Claus on Christmas Eve, just in case he manages to make it. Cheese, Yukon Jack and cookies. I have a feeling Santa will approve.

What in the holy hell are the M’s thinking? It’s unknown if Carl Everett is a major league hitter anymore; what isn’t unknown is that Everett is a major league jackass.

This is the worst pickup ever for the Mariners, and makes the Rickey Henderson signing a few years back look like a work of genius in comparison.

Kjel.org dined at the Heathman last night in honor of the CFO’s birthday. We were expecting and hoping for a bit more of a classic French menu than was offered, but it was still quite good, with the great food, professional service and well recommended wine like one would expect from such a place. As an unanticipated bonus, I took a step toward one of my lifetime goals: to eat at least one of every animal on earth.

I’ve gotten past the low hanging fruit, so to speak, and it’s rare these days that I can find a beast to consume that I have not tasted before. Last night though was special: the CFO ordered some razor clams, and I realized then that I hadn’t ever eaten one, so of course I had a few bites and moved one baby step closer to my goal. Baby steps are how I’ll get there, but a couple of safaris to different parts of the world would help too. The CEO is kind of like a reverse Noah, except not nearly as greedy — I only need one of each animal, after all.

Kjel.org would like to extend it’s hearty thanks to the Chief Educator and [his date]*, for keeping an eye on Jr. last night while the CFO and I celebrated her 24th birthday. The footage gathered while we were out turned out great and will be on Fox sometime in January most likely.

*title redacted for national security reasons

I don’t need to see Brokeback Mountain, mainly because I couldn’t take it seriously no matter how fine of a film it may be. I blame Cartman. An excerpt from an interview with the creators of South Park:

AP: Cartman once described independent movies as “gay cowboys eating pudding.” Now we have “Brokeback Mountain,” an upcoming movie by Ang Lee about gay cowboys.

Stone: If they have pudding in that movie, I’m going to lose my mind.

Parked at 2nd and Davis at lunch today today I saw the damndest thing. A colleague and I walking to the deli were literally rendered speechless — our conversation stopped in mid-sentence, not to restart.

It’s probably for the better that the truck is not visible from our office. I really need to get a camera phone.

Every so often, usually on a Friday or Saturday night, I make wild promises to the CFO of a breakfasty nature. The CFO holds me to them the next morning, no matter how much I squirm. The CEO needs to learn when to keep his big yap shut.

I’m an underrated cook for the most part, but come weekend breakfast at least the CFO knows I’m money. I make perfect eggs, and can back them up with excellent bacon and toast and/or muffins. I like to think I’m good. No matter how good I am though, I’m a pale imitation before these guys:

The perfect Sunday morning place when I was a younger and dumber man: if your hangover can’t be cured by a liter of Fat City OJ, two pints of coffee, two eggs, hashbrowns, sausage links, toast, bacon, pancakes, ham, english muffin, and a side of waffles, then you probably should have just stayed in bed.

Mark Nelsen, the weatherman on channel 12 has a new blog. In it he describes how he arrived at the current forecast, but he really should be using it to make fun of other weathermen in town when they screw up. I’m looking in your direction, Zaffino.

Does this look right? Of course not. I don’t see a helmet . . .

Sweet Jeebus. Will we ever learn?

The CEO and the Jr. VP are dining at home; the CFO is not with us this evening. I’m enjoying a Papa Murphy’s calzone (with extra salami), while Jr. is sucking down a Gerber Turkey, Rice, and Garden Vegetable Dinner, among other treats. CEO-Jr dinners are fun, and while our tableside reparte can be a bit pointed at times, it never goes beyond good-natured banter. For example: tonight, he made fun of me because I have to actually chew my food — like a sucker, in his opinion. Touche. But he had no comeback for this: while he’s drinking warm tapwater out of a dorky plastic sippy cup, I’m drinking:

Full Sail Brewmasters Reserve “Wreck the Halls.” The lads in Hood River call it an Imperial IPA. I’m not sure I’ve ever had another Imperial IPA, but if this is representative of the style I wish that every brewery in the world made one. Or two. It is darker and has more malt than a normal IPA, but also has enough hops to kill on the spot the average Bud Light drinker. Kjel.org could go further into beer geekiness but won’t, mainly because these guys already have for me.

Suffice to say, I like it a lot.

Last night at the HQ:

CFO in her pajamas sitting on the couch folding laundry, sipping Moet out of a crystal flute. I believe she did set it down once to wipe a snotty boy’s nose, or perhaps to change a diaper.

Ah, the lifestyle Kjel.org provides for her.

The CFO didn’t actually receive a vacuum for her birthday. Otherwise, what would I get her for Christmas?

What she did receive, on the recommendation of the Chief Photographer, the CFOs dad, and a billion reviewers at Amazon was the Canon Powershot S2 IS. It’s pretty sweet, take a look:

Now the ultimate test for a camera: can it make the CEO look good?

The CFO’s birthday is in a few days, but I think I’ll give her her present tonight. She is going to be surprised. Pleasantly surprised? We’ll see.

This morning there was a shiny quarter (or “silver target drone” as I thought of it) in the urinal at my office. Appeared to be New Hampshire quarter, though I didn’t flip it over to make sure. How does something like that get there? Accident? That’s my bet, since I’ve never known us to run a “wishing urinal” up here on the third floor, and I’ve worked here awhile.

Anyway, not five minutes ago I was in the restroom again and the quarter was gone. There’s no physical way it could have fit down the drain, no matter how hard I wish otherwise.

Maybe it was some kind of test by the brass here, trying to figure out which employees realy are desperately poor and underpaid? Trying to see who here really needs some easy cash soon? I’m afraid now that I may not get that bonus I’ve been hoping for. I’ll be very interested to see who does get it, though I’ll probably skip the congratulatory handshake.

The CEO is like channel 12 news, always digging to find you the local connection, no matter what the story. In this case, two local connections.

Like out of a spy movie, the Red Wings smuggled Sergei Fedorov away from Russia’s Red Army team as a 20-year-old. Fifteen years later and now with Columbus, the Hall of Fame-bound star will play his 1,000th game tonight against the Wild.
. . .
The place is Portland, Ore., and Fedorov is playing in the Goodwill Games. The summer before, most around the NHL thought the Red Wings had wasted a fourth-round pick by drafting Fedorov, an elite player who began playing in the Red Army at age 15. At that time, the only way a Russian player could play in the NHL was to defect from the Soviet Union.

In the months before the Games, former Red Wings assistant GM Nick Polano and vice president Jim Lites befriended a journalist who spoke Russian and had access to locker rooms. The Red Wings paid him to act as an interpreter, and he frequently would sneak messages to Fedorov. Finally, the team informed Fedorov of a cloak-and-dagger-type plan it orchestrated to sneak him away.

Before that Goodwill Games contest, Fedorov casually dropped the key to his hotel room by an elevator. The journalist picked up the key, went into his room and took his bag.

Fedorov played in the game that night and coincidentally got kicked out for high-sticking, which scared Polano. “We were concerned he changed his mind,” said Polano, now a scout with the Ottawa Senators.

But, after the game, Fedorov stuck with the plan. He returned with the team to the hotel but was the last one off the bus. As his teammates marched into a dining hall, Fedorov spotted a man — Lites — reading a newspaper in the lobby. Fedorov followed Lites out the hotel’s back door, into a limo and on to owner Mike Ilitch’s private jet.

“We had him back in Detroit before they even knew he was missing,” Polano said. “But it was stressful. In fact, the interpreter and I waited in the limo whispering and the limo driver finally turns and goes, ‘What are you guys up to? This isn’t a hit or something? I don’t want to be involved in anything like this.” Polano, laughing, said, “The guy thought we were waiting to kill somebody.”

Kjel.org is no hockey fan. Why do I even know who the hell Sergei Federov is? Oh yeah. The other local connection. The Chief Photographer was inconsolable for weeks, even with the free grief counseling provided by Kjel.org.

The CEO’s employer is hosting a formal dress Christmas party tomorrow evening at the Arlington Club. It’s very difficult for me to say the phrase “at The Arlington Club” outloud without lapsing into a Judge Shmails voice: “Gambling is illegal at Bushwood, sir . . .”

The U.S. Naval Liaison to Kjel.org was in Portland this weekend, and I think I speak for everyone present Saturday night when I say our livers are the the worse off for it. He is pictured below. On the right.

In deference to the Lieutenant the CEO will withhold comment regarding the gentleman our man is pictured with, the namesake of the current vessel on which our Liaison proudly serves.

Received this morning:

Liver to CEO, Liver to CEO. Mayday! Mayday! Mayday!

And whose truck is that in my driveway?

Tomorrow the CEO, Chief Educator, and many more will be there at 11:00 to open this place up. Which of us eventually leave of our own free will and which of us is asked to vacate remains to be seen.

Saw the most awesome car downtown today. I scoured Google looking for a representative picture, but none were exactly right. This one is the closest I think.

From Hell’s heart, I stab at thee.

I was promised a Winter Blast. Where is my Winter Blast, Matt? Where is it? Where?!?