The institutional mouthpiece of Kjel.org

I remembered today that the license tags on the Suby are good only through July 06. Dammit. I’ll be a criminal until I can make it to the DMV later this week. The Jr. VP was quite upset when he noticed: Daddy, how could you?

Kjel.org went to the park today, a nice little playground off of Terwilliger featuring a perfect Stinkboy-sized big toy, with slides, a tunnel and the like. It was designed for kids a little bit older probably, but was really only dangerous when daddy stopped watching Jr. and started fiddling with his camera phone. Now, on to the pictures:

The lad training for a career as a sea captain or pirate. Yar, there be a mommy off the port bow!

A certain boy loves to go down the slide.

A certain boy likes to then spread bark on the slide for the kids behind him.

This one was taken through a tunnel on the big toy. It looks a little bit like the beginning of a James Bond movie, if 007 had mommy watching his back.

The CEO just sent two belated birthdays cards to some siblings. One birthday was only a few days ago. The other? January. The January lass is not super pleased with me. I’m not proud of this, as it is yet another example of how the CEO is a bad person. I included some money along with the cards though, hoping I can buy back some affection. It works on the CFO sometimes; I might as well give it a shot here.

Here is the Chief Educator last weekend throwing a frisbee to yours truly on the beach at Neskowin. All in all, a pretty awesome picture; nice shot Chief Adobo Chef.

A few days ago I sort of “dissed” (As the kids say. Or said, at least. Do they still say that?) Manhattan. It does however have the American Museum of Natural History, which houses the coolest thing I’ve never seen: the famous “Fighting Dinosaur” specimen. Next time I’m in Manhattan I’m totally there, and I’m sorry about what I said earlier.

More power to you, Lance. Please don’t anyone tell me that this was a surprise. The CEO fully expects announcements from the rest of ‘N Sync within the week.

Another man to put on the Kjel.org payroll:

Disgraced scientist says he tried to clone mammoth
(AP) — SEOUL, South Korea. Disgraced scientist Hwang Woo-suk denied Tuesday that he had spent research funds for personal use and said part of the money was used in failed attempts to clone mammoths, extinct relatives of today’s elephants.

When you succeed with something like this of course you pretend to be an utter failure, otherwise media and government would be all over you. Mr. Hwang, I salute you. Mammoths are awesome of course, but if you come work for me I will appoint you to head Task Force Sasquatch. Since I’ve had no luck catching one I’m about ready to try my luck at creating my own, and you sound like the man for the job. A few Velociraptors would be nice too.

The CEO is no huge fan of Manhattan. I hate the noise, crowds, filth, subways, prices etc, but I do love a few certain things about it. Like the restaraunts. I was doing this with pork ten years ago; apparently I should have opened a place in Tribeca back then:

When several companions and I ordered a pork chop one night at the Little Owl, which I’ll review in tomorrow’s newspaper, the server’s response took them aback. She noted that the chef, as a matter of course, prepared the chop medium-rare, adding that he would of course cook it more thoroughly if that’s what we wanted. Had they been on their own, my companions probably would have requested a different temperature for the chop. But I asked them to take a leap of faith and give medium rare a try, promising them that they would not only like it, but also live to see the morning. They did. And they did.

For many chefs and for many of us, medium-rare pork has been the norm for many years now. It’s not what the sternest health experts would recommend. It’s not anything that the U.S. Department of Agriculture would officially endorse. But trichinosis isn’t as much of a concern as it was decades ago — I don’t think there’s much dispute about that. And if medium-rare pork is a game of Russian roulette, well, I’m a lucky man who has never, ever encountered the loaded chamber. And I know many other diners just like me. “If the pigs are raised properly, there’s no reason to be afraid,” said Joey Campanaro, the chef and co-owner of the Little Owl, in a telephone conversation. He said that most upscale restaurants that are worth anything get their pork from the kinds of providers who aren’t raising or selling sick pigs.

People are finally beginning to see the light. . .

Kjel.org and several auxiliaries went to the beach this weekend. And thank Jeebus that we did: as previously discussed, 103 degrees forces the CEO to do bad, evil, crazy things, and it was that hot and then some at the HQ while we were away. It’s undoubtedly for the better that I wasn’t in town: I pull out and start reviewing my enemies list at about 100 degrees, but I don’t really start any tactical planning until the mercury hits 102. It was 105 on Friday and 104 Saturday, but sub-100 since I’ve been home. Very fortunate for certain people.

Anyway, while the chumps back in the city cooked, the cool kids chilled out at the Oregon coast. Neskowin was our destination, specifically a couple of rooms at The Chelan, a beachside condo pictured below:

It was a good thing we had reservations since it seemed that every third person in Oregon was trying to get to the beach:

Hundreds traveled to the Oregon Coast to escape from the valley heat wave. Most hotels and motels are booked, and campgrounds are also full. The high temperature in Newport was 68 degrees, and temperatures are expected to remain in the high 60’s to mid 70’s throughout the weekend. Major traffic delays were reported on Highway 22 westbound heading to the coast, and authorities are expecting the same conditions Saturday, and eastbound on Sunday.

The Chelan was not bad at all. Everybody got in some solid relaxing, involving reading, chatting, dominoes, sitting in the sun, barbecuing, laying and playing on the beach, and/or cocktails in the nice grassy courtyard in front of our rooms facing the ocean.

Speaking of cocktails, the CFO got her first taste of Islay Scotch this weekend. She LOVED it. It tastes like old wet band-aids and dirt. Bad dirt. Very bad dirt. [rasping] Please help me ! A few mint juleps (courtesy of Pancho Libre) and she was better than fine. Thanks Pancho!

Jr. got in his share of beach time and wading; he still loves the sand and the water. The waves at Neskowin are big and the beach is relatively steep, so Stinky’s propensity to charge the surf without warning was a bit more nerve-wracking than usual. Somehow we managed to keep him alive.

One day the Filipino Coastal Defense Attaché (aka Pancho) and Stinkboy built a pretty sweet foxhole down in the sand. Jr’s primary job in the building process was to probe for structural weakness, and then the Attaché would repair the weak spot Jr. had exploited. Once built, Pancho and Jr. would dive into the hole and take cover whenever an attack of any sort was thought imminent. Who or what was attacking was never entirely made clear. Friendships made in foxholes last a lifetime: Jr. and Pancho have a special bond, now that they were in the shit together. No pictures yet, unfortunately.

Even with all the fun, the lad was never quite right this weekend. He might have been a little sick the whole time, or maybe just tired from all the playing. Whatever the reason, he was testier than normal. A few times, Jr. treated our companions to a royal tantrum, with the yelling, floor rolling, the works — I’m not sure they ever believed he was actually capable of such a thing. They do now:

As is traditional at the beach, we feasted as if the world was coming to an end. This attitude might have had something to do with the apocalyptic tsunami warning cards in each of our rooms (side note: what the card said was that basically, in the event of a tidal wave, we should put our hands in the air and run around in a circle screaming. It would do us as much good as anything else). Spicy Chicken, Pork Adobo, Korean Ribs, Chinese Sausage, Berry French Toast and Egg and Prosciutto man-pie were all consumed, along with a panoply of tasty distilled and malted beverages.

The gentlemen played a pleasant round of the golf at Neskowin, which is my new home course I think. Except for this one, of course. My brother in law (Chuckles’s dad, not the CFO’s brother) joined us, since that whole brood happened to be in Lincoln City over the weekend. It was a hoary afternoon, but we somehow managed to keep our fires lit. Three out of the four of us more or less suck at golf. I have a feeling that you can guess the three. A good time was had by all, despite the fact that the CEO, the Chief Educator, and Pancho Libre now owe a certain large man some money. Kids, don’t gamble. Especially when you are a terrible golfer and the person you are betting is not.

Over the weekend the the CEO began developing a plan. Here it is so far: Phase one- figure out way to buy kick-ass house on the Oregon Coast. Phase two- ? Phase three- profit. I’ll let you all know when the plan is complete.

An excellent weekend all around. Next year though, I think we are going back to renting a house. It’s just soooo nice having your own place, and not having to worry about Jr. or the Chief Educator screaming. The CEO will do a better job of getting the word out next year, and hopefully more people can make it out to the beach with us.

The boy is a builder. Not sure how well designed that tower is though . . .

Proud of himself almost to the point of insanity. Hopefully almost.

Kjel.org is headed to the beach again this weekend. When I’m there, note to self: avoid the oysters.

Raw oysters make 14 Oregon residents sick
SALEM, Ore. (AP) - Health officials in Oregon have issued a warning asking residents to avoid eating raw oysters, after 14 people in the state fell ill over the last few days. Those affected came down with Vibrio parahaemolyticus infections, which are caused by a bacteria directly associated with raw oyster consumption, according to the Oregon Department of Human Services. Symptoms of the illness include watery diarrhea, cramps, vomiting and fever, according to the state. Most people recover without treatment.

There’s absolutely nothing that says “awesome beach trip” like cramps and watery diarrhea.

I think we picked the right weekend to head to the coast, since I heard a rumor that it could top 105 (not a typo: one hundred and flerkin five) degrees in town on Saturday. Ri-god-damn-diculous. The CEO cannot and should not be held responsible for anything he does when the temperature is above 103, although I hope to never actually test this theory in a court of law. To that end, please, gentle reader, if during this or any other serious heatwave you observe the CEO operating as if cards are missing from his deck, feel free to hit me with a 2 x 4 or similar implement until I either see reason or am knocked out, whichever comes first. I’ll thank you for it later, come Fall, cooler weather, and sanity.

Some people, mainly dumb ones, claim that “it takes a village to raise a child.” Wrong! It takes a Summerfest crowd at the Chief Educator’s house. And it’s a good thing too that they were there, since it’s not like the child in question’s parents were really watching him. That weird rash he picked up should clear any day now I’m thinking.

Overall verdict on the party: awesome, as usual. Fun for kids of all ages. Thanks Chief Educator and *[his roommate].

Below is a photographic account of Kjel.org at Summerfest. But first, we’ll start with part of an ongoing series I call “A boy and his hoose.”

We showed up at the Chief Educator’s pretty early to uh, you know, help. Stinkboy helped by tapping the keg.

Here is Jr. choosing a weapon for his upcoming pong match. Notice how he throws aside the other racquets and heads right for the good one.

Lt. Dan getting more than he bargained for from the Jr. VP.

A boy I will call “Studley D” showed up at the party, looking for some ladies. Small ladies. If I may say so myself, damn but he looked smooth. He makes me question my whole belief in genetics. I’m sure people say the same thing about the CEO and Jr. though. A lot of people.

The crowd looks on as the Chief Educator and some wild eyed communist radical (that assessment based on the shirt, and, well, the wild eyes) take their medicine after being hooped.

It turns out that the radical had a bingo set. One of the prizes was shots of Jaeger, laid out on a festive little wood panel. Blackout!

Things degenerated quickly after that and no more pictures were allowed.

However, the next day was Summerfest 2006, 2 — the sequel. This time it was personal. The CEO and Studley D’s Pa came over to help finish the keg. Things got ugly. Mainly for the Chief Educator. The Educator normally deals the beer pong punishment; it’s not every day he is the one taking the abuse. Both me an Mr. D took a piece of the Chief Educator’s liver home as a trophy. It’s on my mantle right now.

Sorry about the Chief, * [Chief’s roommate]. I hope you made sure he slept on his stomach.

*Title redacted for reasons of national security.

The Chief Educator has swallowed the Red Pill, been through The Quickening, found his Spirit Guide (her name was Bossy) and tumbled through the Looking Glass: The Chief ate some cold raw beef tonight, and he liked it. Welcome to my world, Chief. So much raw meat, so little time . . .

Going to Alba Osteria for dinner tomorrow night; I love that place. The highlight for me? Their excellent carne cruda. I’m not sure where else in town I can actually get a restaurant to serve me raw (not rare, but raw) beef. I doubt anyone would be surprised, but can I say that raw beef prepared correctly is a delicacy that the CEO quite enjoys? Cold, raw beef.

This reminds me of a story: the CFO and I were in Paris, eating at a fairly nice restaraunt. The CFO was ordering dinner for the both of us in her perfect French, since I could only point at the menu and grunt. She indicated to the waiter that the gentlemen would be having steak tartare. Up to this point the entire conversation had been in French. The waiter turns to me and says, in perfect English: “Sir, you know that the steak is raw?” It damn well better be, garcon.

There might be something to this whole “genetics” thing I’ve heard so much about: I just watched Stinkboy eat almost an entire pack of Hormel Natural Choice honey ham, half a package (the smaller one — 8 oz) of Tillamook medium cheddar, and several dozen cheese flavored crackers. Fruit? He laughed and threw it at daddy and laughed some more. Good God I love that boy.

There are certain days in any year that the CEO looks forward to as awesome, can’t miss-type days: The Superbowl. The Apple Cup. The Winter Beer Fest. New Years Eve. But there is one day better than all the rest: Summerfest, aka the opening of the Summer Season of beer pong at the Chief Educator’s house. The CEO has done crazy things at Summerfest since that party was first inaugurated. I have drunk my weight in Natural Light. I have fallen on ping pong tables and had them fold up on me, only to miraculously survive unscathed. I’ve made it out of Thriftway without being arrested, despite the fact that I was kicking seven cases of beer down the aisle and screaming in Spanish. (Side note: It seems counterintuitive, but the CEO’s command of foreign languages actually improves when he has had nine or ten beers. Just one of those things.)

As the years go by though, the party has taken on a different tone. Some of us will be bringing our kids. All of us are a little older, and with that age often comes additional maturity, or at least the realization that in polite company one must fake an elevated level of maturity. For example, I doubt anyone will break any chairs this weekend, or put on a viking helmet and run amok in the Educator’s backyard. We’ll probably all just sit or stand around, drinking responsibly, maybe watching some kids run through a sprinkler or something. We might as well start talking about our 401(k)’s, or how well our grandkids are doing, or the great episode of Matlock we caught on USA last night before falling asleep at quarter to eight.

On Saturday the CEO plans to rage against this dying of the light, and I urge all Kjel.org members and auxiliaries to do the same. I’ve got a big day planned, and it does not involve Bed Bath and Beyond. Or streaking for that matter, but anyway, as my man Humpty says, Let’s get stupid!

This is a web site provided by the state of Oregon that allows you to see what kind of sex offenders live in your neighborhood. I put in the address of the HQ and was happy to see that my neighbors are not well represented. The neighborhood where my office is located, however . . .

There’s a reason Social Distortion has been around so long: because they are just so goddamn great. I forgot just how awesome those guys are live. Mike Ness? Still kicks ass. The Crystal Ballroom was packed and about 90 degrees. The bathroom upstairs? About 115. My comrade and I walked in about 5 minutes before the Supersuckers started, just enough time to get beer and get set. The Supersuckers were really good, and we both agreed we’d go see those guys again in a second. The crowd was just what I expected: some hardcore punk rock kids, a few weirdos, but a lot of older music fans too, guys old enough to feel like they don’t have to try so hard at the shows anymore. Still, I may have been the only person in there without a tattoo. There were more girls than I expected too. At Social D shows there is a rockabilly vibe, and a lot of the girls go with a kinda weird 50’s - punk hybrid look. Sometimes it worked, sometimes it didn’t, but let’s just say that in a couple of instances it really worked.

After the show I was walking to my car when some wiry greasy-haired methed up loser rode past me on his 10-speed, then did a U-turn and asked why I was looking at him, and if I had a problem. He wanted to fight. Since I am like a slightly better fed version of Gandhi I told the guy to relax and kept on walking. He followed me for a few steps and I thought he was going to take a swing. Maybe the guy came to his senses at that point; if we had gone at it the CEO would very likely have killed all 107 pounds of him. I knew that with the Chief Educator back in town my corpse disposal options were limited, so I was very happy when the stupid tweaker backed off.

You know what’s funny? When you tell just one person that it’s a costume party.

The CEO has an unbroken track record of heterosexuality, but . . . that is one hell of an attractive man. It may be the nylons that do it for me.

Sorry guys, the CEO was locked out of this site by technical issues for a few days. Regular programming will resume shortly.

The CEO and the last man to escape The Dalles are headed to a show Saturday night. The CEO loves the punk rock, but these days he rarely gets out to see any bands. The last punk show I saw was the Misfits and GWAR, which (while absolutely AWESOME) was too long ago. Social Distortion is an old favorite of the CEO’s from 15-20 years ago; I just hope the kids at the show won’t mind an old, closeted punk in jeans and a golf shirt. Black golf shirt, at least. And, since my sister’s (the one Jr. calls Annanananananana) friend’s sister’s roommate is dating the Social D drummer, it’s like we’re practically in the band anyway.

I also really need to get out and see 800 Octane sometime soon. Chief Pimpaho, talk to me when you want to go.

The CEO swung by the Chief Educator’s pad the other day to make sure everything was in good shape, or at least in as good a shape as it was when those kids left. I saw no evidence of break-in or of rodents; I also noted that a certain Fresca was still in the fridge. The Chief Educator’s vehicle has precisely one thirty-second of a tank of gas left, no more, no less. Same with * [his date’s].

They get home tomorrow. What they don’t know is that the CEO has used his local media contacts to pitch a story: “Here are Portlanders that went to Germany for the World Cup, yet they cheered against the U.S. and hate everything it stands for. I believe they may be communists and/or damn dirty hippies. What is it with these people, and why is it that can we not hit them with sticks whenever they show their faces?“. Several people who should know better have bought it — expect to see Gianola and some colleagues at the Chief Educator’s door late tomorrow evening.

*Title redacted for national security reasons

Today is the anniversary of last year’s July bombings in London. The CEO lived in London during the summer of 1999, while I was padding furthering my education. I figured Hey, a similar gambit helped me raise my GPA when I was an undergrad, why not try the same thing again? Mission accomplished, by the way.

Anyway, the lovely building I lived in that summer was splattered with blood and God knows what else when a subhuman blew himself up on the double-decker that day. I walked along that very street several times a day, seven days a week. If those bastards had been a few years ahead of themselves, there is a chance, albeit slim, that the CEO might have been standing next to that bus. You think that right now I am occasionally, ah, ascerbic towards anyone who believes in jihad? What do you think the CEO would be like if he was missing a leg or eye or both due to some frakkin Osama wanna-be’s bomb vest? I doubt I would be the shining beacon of tolerance and understanding that I am today. Frankly, I doubt I’d often be allowed out in polite company. Allowed out even less than I am today.

This is why I finally cleaned out the Subaru last weekend:

STATELINE, Nev. - A bear cub drew a crowd of spectators at a Lake Tahoe neighborhood as it munched on barbecue-chicken-and-jalapeno pizza in the back seat of a vintage red Buick convertible. It also apparently washed it down with a swig of a Jack Daniel’s mixer, an Absolut vodka and tonic, and a beer taken from a cooler, the vehicle’s owner said. About 30 people watched the cub lumber around a parking lot in upper Kingbury Grade on Sunday before it homed in on the Buick and the spicy pizza on the floor. The bruin was unfazed by the car’s horn the blew nonstop as the cub pressed the seat into the steering wheel. “The bear was loping along in the parking lot and then decides to get inside the car,” said resident Jerry Patterson.

Sorry for the recent lack of content. The CEO has been the proverbial rented mule at work this week. Crap, I was even in there on Tuesday. I should have set off some fireworks while I was at the office; I certainly felt like doing it at the time.

The good news is that I finished up a part of a project that’s been consuming all my time lately, thereby putting the furthering of said project squarely on someone else’s shoulders. While I’ll still get blamed for the inevitable delays, at least there isn’t anything I can actually do about it, short of complaining like an impotent jerk. I enjoy complaining quite a bit more than the actual “work” I’ve been performing on this project recently, so I’m really looking forward to this next week or so. Except now I get to try to catch up on everything else work related I’ve ignored for several days . . .

The CEO was in Fred Meyer picking up some stuff for dinner last night, just a few things that we were short on: beer, primarily (I know my guests). I was in the express lane, and had my beer and other stuff on the conveyor belt. The gentleman behind me in line was a 335 pound dude (10-15 of it was beard) in black leather and boots who might once had been in either ZZ Top or the Hells Angels or both. He was smiling, but also had tattoos of people being killed in various ways on both his forearms. He threw down a couple of items for purchase; I snuck a peek. He was buying four things: 3 large boxes of donut holes (various flavors), and one large pack of Trojans. I really, really, wanted to make a comment: “Man, your 4th is shaping up much better than mine!” or “Yeah, I’m not leaving the house this weekend either.” But, the CEO is going on 11 weeks without being punched out by anyone and I didn’t want to screw up the streak now, so I left it alone.

Apparently the Jr. VP fancies himself quite the patriot. He roused me early today so that we could go out and raise the flag. Crack of dawn type early. At first I mumbled something along the lines of “cram it, I’m sleepy“, and he responded with his usual (and proven) early morning debating tactic: scream until the CFO kicks me. However, today he also had something new. “Why don’t you want to put the flag out? Could it be that my daddy is now a dirty, dirty hippie?”. Ouch, Stinkboy. Ouch. But touche. Below is how he had dressed himself before I got him out of bed to go raise the flag. Later in the day he spilt a metric ton of mac and cheese down the front of the shirt. The CEO had no choice but to (respectfully) burn the garment, since the flag was now soiled. Jr. didn’t see that one coming and was a bit surprised I think. Live and learn, young man.

Jr. had this sign hanging off of his crib when I finally came to get him this morning. Just a little F.U. for dear old dad I think, in case the CEO was still on the fence about the whole “raise the flag at sun-up” thing. I told him he was a good boy, but it wasn’t nice to call daddy hurtful names. Then I laughed and told him he was a Dumb Commie Stinky Wuss Monkey Boy, and that nobody liked him.

To the front of the HQ we went. I unfurled Old Glory and attached her standard to the HQ. Jr played a fair rendition of Revile on his trumpet while I was doing this. We both saluted, and then went inside to enjoy our respective bottles. Milk and orange juice, if you are wondering.

Jr. has spent the better part of the afternoon trying to learn Taps for tonight. So far it’s not sounding too good. A nicer person would probably go around and apologize to all the neighbors for this morning and tonight, but really, at this point there’s no reason to open the what else deserves an apology? can of worms with those folks. Anyway, after Taps tonight I’m sure we will again both enjoy our respective bottles. I hope mine has something in it from Scotland, England, or at least Kentucky.

Kjel.org had a lovely time in Bellevue and Seattle this weekend. The Jr. VP was his usual brown-nosing self, and of course the grandparents loved him for it. We got there early on Saturday and played outside and in the lake for a while. Below is Jr. getting a makeshift slip-and-slide ready for Chuckles, his crazy cousin. The CEO has said it before and the CEO will say it again: that boy loves him a hoose and noozle. And am I the only person who thinks that Jr. looks dangerously underweight?

Jr. decided he wanted to go swimming, so the rest of us decided we’d better keep an eye on him. Good thing too. Here is Kjel.org and several auxiliaries in the shallows of Lake Sammamish.

Here’s the lad down on the beach, charging into the surf. After wading in the ocean last weekend, Lake Sammamish must have felt like the Mediterranean to him. He ran into the lake until the water was over his head; luckily the CEO’s sister (the one Jr. calls Annanananananananana) was there to give him a snorkel.

After spending some time underwater Jr. then became quite partial to staying above it. Here he is floating in a tube with a Kjel.org elder standing watch.

A bit later the CFO and I left the Jr. VP to fend for himself and headed over to Safeco. I don’t think there could have been a nicer night for baseball. We went and bought Jr. a T-shirt (Ichiro shirt, similar to the CEO’s Buhner shirt), then enjoyed a few pints of Pyramid’s finest in their pleasant beer garden outside the stadium. We had great seats in Safeco (the picture makes them seem further from the field than we actually were), the weather was perfect, and the game was perhaps the best game the M’s have played all year. I’ll let Lookout Landing provide the full recap if you’re interested.

Alas, the CEO had to work today (and it’s looking like a little bit tomorrow too) so on Sunday we made our way back the HQ. It’s not all bad though: tonight, these two gentlemen and their date, along with the official footwear supplier to Kjel.org and his date will be eating ribs with us at the HQ. After the dinner the younguns are going to stage an exhibition boxing or wrestling match of some sort. Should be pretty fun I think.