I DRANK WHAT?

parking tickets, hipsters, and the armpit of Los Angeles.

2011-04-13T13:58:00.000-07:00

I got a parking ticket in Venice Beach yesterday morning. I worked there about five years ago. I didn't like it then; I don't like it now.

Nothing good ever happens in Venice Beach.

The trophy wife, Penny, and I were in Santa Monica for an optometrist appointment. After the check up, we found ourselves craving some over-priced beverages from one of the plethora of nearby coffee shops. We chose the Coffee Bean, mainly because it was the only place that had available parking. That should have been a sign.

Before parking my car on the street, I remember passing one of the Department of Transportation's meter maid-mobiles. This three-wheeled, glorified golf cart is truly a sight to behold. Falling lower than the ice-cream truck on the vehicular food chain, this electric shame trolley is less intimidating than a tandem bicycle.

To be fair, I actually feel sorry for the meter maids - or "Parking Enforcement Officers" as they seem to prefer. I'm not sure what would compel a person to seek a career in parking enforcement. They are reduced to performing only the very lamest duties of a Law Enforcement Officer without experiencing any of the fun. But it is a hard job nonetheless. Meter maids are civilians, not Police Officers, so they don't carry weapons, aren't trained or authorized to use force - even in self defense - and they all work alone.

That creates a problem when you consider literally 100% of their workday is spent angering everyone they encounter. To make things worse, everyone knows that they don't carry weapons and have no real authority outside the confines of their little ticket book, making them an easy and convenient target. Everyone hates meter maids.

I parked on the street in a spot that appeared to be legal, evidently missing any signage that warned of parking restrictions on Tuesdays for street cleaning. I'm not fully convinced there was such a sign; it wasn't until I got back on the 405 freeway that I noticed the bright white parking ticket tucked under my windshield wiper, and I don't plan on venturing all the way back to Venice just to see if I was at fault or not. Right or wrong, I got the ticket and nothing I do now is going to change that. Still, I'm not sure what's worse; the $68 fine, or getting owned by a forty-five year-old man who wears short shorts and drives a three-wheeled go-cart.

It's one thing to get a parking ticket doing something you like. It's far worse being fined for being in an area that already feels like a punishment in and of itself. The three of us had made a quick stop in the Coffee Bean that couldn't have lasted more than three minutes. I'm guessing three minutes because that's the amount of time I estimate it took the hemp-clad barista named "Earth" to take my order and ask me a series of increasingly specific questions about my daughter's birthday before ultimately declaring that Penny is an Aquarius.

"Oh.... " I said.

I never know how to respond when a total stranger decides to reveal to me that they not only believe in the zodiac, but that they have memorized the cutoff dates for each particular sign. I glanced back at the line behind me expecting to find a row of impatient customers eager for "Earth" to lay off the astrology lesson and finish my order. Instead, I found a line of hipsters so absolutely fascinated by the conversation that they literally began discussing each others Horoscope and the various implications it has on their futures.

"Check, please."

The trophy wife and I got our drinks and quickly retreated to the safety of our illegally parked vehicle. "I felt gross in there," the trophy wife so eloquently said. I felt the same way; the place was full of hipsters.

Hipsters are people who look like 1987 heroin addicts but have never used heroin and weren't alive in 1987. This is a group of people, mostly college-aged or younger, who will spend $300 at a trendy clothing store on an outfit, the equivalent of which could easily be obtained from literally any thrift store in the country for $3.75. I suppose that statement could be said about a lot of trends in my lifetime - the difference is this particular $300 outfit is specifically made to look like it came from a thrift store.

Hipsters are twenty year old guys who listen to Dylan exclusively on vinyl, grow long hair and mustaches, and wear skin tight jeans with pointy shoes in a misguided attempt at social protest - as if rebelling against your dad is accomplished by looking and acting exactly like he did in the 70's. Everything about the hipster lifestyle is carefully and meticulously constructed to appear as if they just don't care; proving without a doubt that they do. The mindless hypocrisy is staggering.

"What has happened to Venice Beach," I began to ask my wife, before realizing the inherent absurdity of the question and abandoning the thought altogether. Venice has always been a breeding ground of annoying people; to pretend that anything had changed would be an exercise in delusion. Ever since the 60's, when hippies took to Venice Beach like termites to a tree house, that part of town has become the final resting stop of every counter cultural movement in America.

Venice Beach, California is the only place in the world you could see a hipster riding his bicycle past a Bohemian painter selling crystal meth to a tattoo artist who just pierced the nose of a vegetarian cross-dresser. A few feet away is a body builder who tries to impress a Wiccan who would rather just watch the nearby snake charmer who is drawing onlookers away from the Hari Krishna dancers. All this gains the attention of a passing rollerblader who is chain-smoking outside the vegan market, which is owned by a palm reader who probably should have anticipated the street artist who vandalized the side of her building, which just so happens to be the very spot where Charles Manson recruited Squeaky Fromme. Across the street, a parolee picks a fight with a hacky sack enthusiast for interrupting his Haiku recital he was performing for a group of Minimalists who have grown tired of traditional Bikram Yoga now that the hipsters have embraced it. The circle of stupidity is complete.

Literally every annoying trend of the last half century is represented in Venice Beach; it's like a stationary carnival of pretentiousness. In a place where the counterculture is so celebrated that it becomes mainstream, the only true social rebel is the square in the button down shirt, out with his family getting coffee.

Nothing good ever happens in Venice Beach.

"....know when to fold 'em."

2010-11-02T14:15:00.001-07:00

Check out the new Andy Griffith Medicare commercial:

(Warning: picture going to Disneyland and catching a glimpse of the guy in the Donald Duck costume on a coffee break, removing his Donald-head while having a smoke. If that's something you would want to avoid seeing, don't watch this.)

I think it's time to hang up the fishing pole, Ange.

An open letter to the people of Baja Fresh

2010-01-17T03:25:00.000-08:00

Dear sir or ma'am,

Thank you so much for everything you do towards making the Baja Fresh experience memorable. I was in your establishment earlier today, getting lunch to go for my pregnant wife and I. Due to her bizarre pregnancy cravings, her usual order has been a plain burrito with only chicken, lettuce, cheese, and sour cream. Being a Mexican food connoisseur, I would never eat such an abomination under normal circumstances. But that's where you guys came in.

When I placed our order earlier today, I assumed that my Baja Burrito and my wife's specialty burrito would have some kind of distinguishable markings on their paper wrappers. Most comparable restaurants utilize stickers or some kind of specific writing to differentiate their food. But not you guys. No sir, a meal at Baja Fresh is more than just reasonably priced Mexican food; it's an exciting guessing game as well. Imagine my surprise when I got home and realized that our two very different burritos were totally indistinguishable.

What fun!

Today, we didn't just get a meal, we got a meal and a game... a game we lost.

Thank you so much for that mouthful of sour cream and lettuce that took me by surprise earlier today. I may go through life with the intention of never eating such a thing, but luckily you and the other good people of Baja Fresh knew what was better for me. You guys found a way to make me step outside my comfort zone and partake of some truly awful food.

As bad as that burrito was, I'm sure glad I tried it instead of the one that was actually intended for me. It's funny, I specifically remember that after I placed my order, the cashier repeated it back to me correctly before relaying it to the cook in the back. Somehow, I suppose the fry cook heard the cashier incorrectly, or perhaps something was lost in the translation. Either way, you should have been there to see the look on my wife's face when she took her first bite of what was supposed to be my burrito. Truth be told, even I would have been surprised by it, considering I ordered a Baja Burrito with steak and pinto beans. Now, had I ordered the "Diablo Shrimp Burrito" with black beans and cat meat.... then there would have been no surprise at all.

You know, it's been months since my wife suffered through the morning sickness phase of her pregnancy. Some might consider it the most unpleasant result of being pregnant, and some women experience it the entire nine months. Frankly, my wife has had it too good for too long. Thank you for knocking her back down a peg and allowing her to violently summon up that.... nostalgic reminder of new life.... all over the rug. I never liked that rug anyway.

Sincerely, Pecadillo

P.S. You have made a powerful enemy today, Baja Fresh.

guess what....

2009-08-13T17:07:00.000-07:00

Mrs Pecadillo and I are very happy to announce and introduce Lil' Pec to the world.

The wee Pec is actually the lower half of the little white spot, at the bottom of the big black circle. I know, I know, he looks just like me.

Adventures in Husbandry

2009-03-29T23:43:00.000-07:00

Pecadillo Returns to the Blogosphere

by Pecadillo

When we got married last summer, Mrs. Pecadillo and I received many generous and useful gifts from our friends and relatives. One handy gift, bestowed on us by another Officer of the Law and his Mrs. Officer-of-the-Law proved an essential home appliance the very day after we opened it from its gift wrap.

It was a warm Tuesday afternoon. Having just returned home from a Cruise in the Caribbean, our Honeymoon had come to an end. Mrs. Pecadillo was at work, her first day back since the wedding, and I was at home, still on my vacation from work and with little to entertain my feeble, child-like mind. Most of the day had gone by; a wonderful day filled with far too many naps to count. To the untrained eye, it would appear as though I had accomplished little to nothing—and there may have been some truth in that. I knew I needed to do something, but what? My wife keeps the house immaculate, and after all, it's an apartment. There was no lawn to mow and there wasn't anything to fix. All my guns were already clean, the garage was organized, and there were no more pictures to hang. I had to find something to do. After all, I didn't want to let on that my wife had married a bum—at least not this early in the game. Still fresh out of premarital classes, I decided to test my well-documented ineptness of all things domestic and attempt to be productive around the house in my wife's absence; I decided to do the dishes.

A chore of this caliber is a rare feat for me to accomplish. Most kitchenly duties are beyond my meager capabilities and the kitchen in our new apartment proved to be a very strange and unfamiliar place. We hadn't been back in town long, but there were just enough dirty dishes to justify a single load in the machine. Whilst loading the dishwasher, I looked under the sink in search of dishwashing detergent. There was none. However, at the time I felt my options were still wide open. Under the sink I found multiple bottles and containers that appeared to be a large soap collection of varying types and uses. To me, soap was soap, to a certain extent. I'm a guy—but I'm not a Neanderthal; I know the difference between dish-cleaning soap and people-cleaning soap. Obviously a bar of Irish Spring thrown hastily into the dishwasher would not get the job done. I even knew that the girly, liquid body-wash soap that had just recently made its way into my bathroom was also not an option for the dishwasher. However, while surveying the vast collection of dish-cleaning soap found under my sink, a thought occurred to me: how different can all these soaps be? Sure, none of these soaps say that they are meant for the dishwasher, but they're basically all the same thing, right?

I would soon learn just how different they really are.

As I rummaged through the cleaning products under my sink, I eventually settled on a bottle of Dawn PlusTM, Odor Eraser Dishwashing Liquid Detergent. This particular bottle boasted a "splash of lime" scent that I was thoroughly and eagerly awaiting. I had it all planned out, the lovely Mrs. Pecadillo would return home from a long day's work in about an hour. At the door, she would be greeted with a strong and pleasing scent of pure, old fashioned cleanliness with just a hint of lime. The kitchen would be clean, the sink would be empty, and perhaps our stacks and stacks of wedding gifts would be organized. And who knows, the carpet might even get vacuumed while I was at it. I was apparently too busy thinking of more things around the house to clean that I failed to read a few other words written on the bottle of soap. These words, printed in a much smaller font than the rest, were "Ultra" and "Concentrated." These two, tiny little words proved to be the most significant and important words on the whole bottle. Why they were printed in such tiny letters and hidden behind a sunbeam graphic, I'll never understand. As I later discovered, these words indicated that this particular bottle of soap contains 30% more cleaning ingredients per drop than the leading, non-concentrated brand, and thus, much less of this soap is required to get the job done. This is something they should teach men in premarital classes.

Not noticing the important information hidden on the bottle's label, I quickly administered what later proved to be approximately 7 times the required amount of soap typically needed for a single load of dishes. At the time, the only soap I had ever put in a dishwasher was soap that was meant exclusively for dishwashers. Every dishwasher I had ever used has had a small soap container built into the door of the washer that the operator is supposed to fill with dishwashing soap. Not realizing the vast intricacies in soaps that I was dealing with, I filled the container to the brim with the ultra concentrated, super-soap. I even poured a little extra over the dishes themselves just for good measure. I then closed the door with confidence, started the cycle of the dishwasher, and retreated to the living room couch for a little sit-down.

I still had almost an hour before Mrs. Pecadillo would come home from work. That was more than enough time to vacuum the floor, take out the trash, and finish organizing the wedding gift piles. According to my calculations, I had the better part of a half an hour of "me time" before I would need to actually get back up and finish the chores I had assigned myself. Break time was here and I felt like I had earned it. After all, visualizing yourself cleaning a home can really take a lot out of you. Besides, I work hardest and fastest when I'm under a little pressure.

I woke from my nap approximately 25 minutes after starting the dishwasher. As I slowly rose from my favorite spot on my favorite couch, I surveyed the living room and wondered aloud if the load of dishes alone would be enough to account for my day.

Finding it hard to regain the motivation I had briefly experienced moments before my most recent nap, I sauntered into the kitchen to get a better view of the living room. Upon entering the kitchen, my bare feet encountered a terrain they did not immediately recognize. A delayed reaction, possibly related to the day's over-napping, allowed me to walk into the center of the kitchen before noticing the eerie ground on which I tread. I looked down and observed that my feet had totally disappeared. The floor was gone, my feet were gone, everything below the middle of my calves. . . gone. Again, the sleep-educed delayed reaction was playing a significant factor in my psyche. Staring down, I was suddenly jolted wide awake with the discovery that I was standing shin-deep in a blanket of little white bubbles covering the entire kitchen floor like a mound of freshly fallen snow. This unwelcome mass of cleaning product seemed to be flooding out of the dishwasher door. I quickly theorized that there was indeed a big difference between the soaps I had found under my sink. The apparent over-dispensing of soap proved too much for the little dishwasher to handle. The growing buildup of soap suds on the other side of the dishwasher door must have been so powerful and relentless that it literally forced itself to seep out of the water-tight seal between the dishwasher's door and frame. Smaller wads of the soapy lather poured out of the ventilation panel located on the lower portion of the dishwasher door. These less intimidating, mini-masses of suds quickly joined forces with the mighty foaming beast, increasing it's size while taunting me as it consumed my lower half. This dubious monster of white bubbles where the floor used to be was growing before my very eyes, multiplying in size and frothing around my bare ankles like a boa constrictor or a villainous blob from a bad SciFi movie. I was literally sinking into an abyss of my own foolishness and I did not know what to do.

When just then, the very idiocy that had caused this predicament took over completely. I actually thought to myself:

If I throw a couple flashlights in there, this is gonna look just like the pool scene in Gremlins.

Brilliant. Thankfully, I came to my senses and realized my first order of action must be to stop the problem at its source. With that, I stretched out my hand to the dishwasher's control panel. Turning the large round knob counter-clock wise, the cycle was halted. For a moment, froth continued to pour out of the ventilation panel of the dishwasher however as the sound of water draining out of the machine crescendoed like a sigh, the froth ceased to pour. For now, I was safe.

As the proverbial smoke cleared, I discovered that the growing soap beast on the kitchen floor that had once shown no sign of slowing its steady proliferation was now a stagnate body of bubbles, cut off from its life source.

I had won.

A wave of pride swept through me. I had conquered the beast. In a mano a soap battle, I had shown myself the victor. But I wasn't in the clear just yet. Mrs. Pecadillo would be home in literally minutes, and I still had a massive mound of soap to get rid of. But how?

A mop might have worked, but probably not as fast as I would need it to. I'd seen my wife use one of those Swiffer Sweepers® but I feared something like that would only spread the soap around and would not soak it up. I estimated that there were approximately 10 to 15 gallons of soap suds on my kitchen floor. There was literally no portion of the floor left uncovered. A mop was out of the question. Towels wouldn't work either; it would take hours to soak up that mess and it would require using every towel we had. How could I explain that a day where my only accomplishments were napping and a single load of dishes caused me to soil every towel we owned? What I needed was. . . a wet/dry shop vacuum. Yes, of course! We had just been given one for our wedding! Like a foam-covered cheetah, I pounced on our neatly stacked piles of wedding gifts. Rifling through the hoards of decorative bowls and George Foreman grills, I searched for the red-and-black vacuum that I knew was my only hope. "I got it" I yelled to no one in particular. The machine, still in its white-and gray-cardboard box, read "TWO GALLONS." If the shop-vac held only 2 gallons, I would need to get started soon. I looked at the clock and estimated that I had no more than 12 or 13 minutes, tops. With that, I tore open the shop-vac box with more energy and enthusiasm than a 7-year-old on Christmas morning. Shreds of cardboard and paper flew all over the dining room. I had no time for instructions or warranties, It was go time.

Like a flash I forced the electrical cord into the wall socket. Having not read the instructions, I began vigorously pressing the many buttons on the vacuum at random, hoping one of them would activate the machine. After a few moments of looking like Helen Keller with a Bopit®, the vacuum turned on. I grabbed hold of the long black hose attachment and thrust it deep into the mouth of the soon-to-be-dead soap monster that was covering my kitchen tile. Within seconds the shop-vac sputtered like a burping baby, indicating that it needed to be emptied. I quickly poured the contents of the small vacuum into the kitchen sink and put it back to work on the tile. Moments later, I repeated the process a second time. Then a third, and a forth. I eventually lost count after 7, indicating that there had been more than 14 gallons of soap foam on the floor. After continuing the process of sucking up the soap from the tile a few more times, the kitchen floor began to look close to normal. While drying off a few problem areas, I glanced at the clock and realized that Mrs. Pecadillo could literally walk in the door at any moment.

I took a step back and assessed the situation; I was actually looking pretty good. The kitchen tile, aside from a few remaining wet spots was shimmering in the natural light of our apartment. The massive amount of soap that had previously filled the entire length of the kitchen floor had actually cleaned every spec of dirt off the tile. I couldn't remember the floor ever looking so good. It literally looked as though I had spent the entire day on my hands and knees scrubbing the floor, and then another few hours polishing it. I stood there for a moment admiring the fantastic cleaning job I felt I should have been proud of when I heard it:

"Honk, honk."

I knew exactly what that unmistakable sound meant; Mrs. Pecadillo was home. She had just parked and locked my Dodge Charger which she had inherited through marriage. I knew I had about 30 seconds before she would walk up the single flight of stairs, round the corner, and ultimately enter into the front door of our apartment. Those last 30 seconds allowed me just enough time to empty the remaining contents of the shop-vac into the sink, soak up some last residual wet spots, and hide the lingering evidence i.e. shop-vac, dish rags, and flashlight (I had tried the Gremlins thing. . . it worked). I retreated to the rear closet on the back patio with the aforementioned evidence. As I returned to the living room/kitchen area, the front door opened. In walked the lovely Mrs. Pecadillo, somehow managing to look more beautiful than when she had left that morning. The exchange went like this:

Mrs. Pec: "Hi, sweetheart. How was your—why does it smell like lime?"
Pec: "Ummm. . ."

During this brief greeting, she walked directly into the kitchen and approached the dish washer. Did she know? Could she tell what had happened just from the lime smell? I broke out into a cold sweet.

Mrs. Pec: "You did the dishes?!? Oh baby, thank you so much! I was gonna ask. . ."

The shine off the kitchen tile had caught her eye and she was now in a full trance.

Mrs. Pec: "Oh my word! Baby, you cleaned the kitchen floor! You're amazing, how did you get it so clean and shiny? I could never get it that clean."
Pec: "It actually wasn't that hard. I kinda learned a new way. Call it an ancient Chinese secret."

Mrs. Pec: "Well I think you're amazing. Man, I am so thirsty, it was so hot today. Are there any glasses in the wash?"
Pec: "Uhhhh. . ."

How I could have forgotten to empty the soap from the interior of the dishwasher, I'll never know. I hadn't even touched the dishwasher since stopping its cycle and halting the growth of the soap blob some twenty minutes prior. Logically, if the machine had been so full of the soapy monstrosity that it was literally seeping the froth through its watertight seal, there would still be an unnatural amount of soap in the dishwasher. If opened, the machine's door would surely release multiple gallons of soapy suds back onto the floor in a steady river of foam. There was no stopping Mrs. Pecadillo; her hand was already on the handle of the dishwasher door. As she lowered the door towards the ground, a large cloud of steam shot out of the opening like a mushroom cloud and dissipated into the ceiling. When the air cleared, Mrs. Pecadillo found herself standing directly in front of a monsoon of foaming soap, reeking of lime, and pouring out onto the floor. Mrs. Pec quickly slammed the door shut to stop the massive flooding while simultaneously shouting an unintelligible noise I doubt could ever be fully explained or interpreted.

The jig was up; I was caught. I knew the time had come to face the music and explain what I had done. That's when I said it; the only thing I could say:

Pec: "What'd you do?"

My favorite Pectator or How Not to Make a First Impression

2009-03-28T20:34:00.000-07:00

One of the reasons for my sudden return to the blogosphere is due to my wife's constant requests. She often says that we might not have met had it not been for my blog.

My wife and I knew each other as children before her family moved to Seattle when she was eight years old. Although we grew up separately from then on, our families remained in touch. Over the years, my parents frequently visited that portion of Seattle, inadvertently allowing them to continue a friendly relationship with the future Mrs. Pecadillo throughout most of her childhood. In fact, over the years, whenever my parents visited Seattle, my mom would inevitably return making not-so-subtle hints about a girl she really liked that was roughly my age. Historically, most girls my mom would drop hints about wore floor-length dresses and looked like they've never heard of a brush. Needless to say, I didn't think much of my mom's suggestions. Little did I know she was actually on to something here.

Years later, when the future Mrs. Pecadillo was in college, she stumbled across my blog during its heyday and quickly became a fan. At the time, she didn't know me, so her fondness for my writing was just that; she was by no means one of those weird stalker types. Just a casual, law-abiding fan-a rare change of pace for me.

Mrs. Pec and I finally met each other at a wedding we had both attended separately and alone. I was there because I grew up with the bride and she and I were very good friends. The future Mrs. Pecadillo was there because she had been hired to play the piano during the ceremony (Oh, yeah. She's a classical pianist. Hot!)

Incidentally, the future Mrs. Pecadillo had a little mishap that night with her performance. Through a series of unfortunate events, as the bride walked down the center aisle, the lights in the church suddenly went out completely (as opposed to the steady dim that had been planned). This regrettable accident left the future Mrs. Pecadillo sitting all alone at the piano, cloaked in a sudden and unplanned darkness and totally unable to see the piano keys in front of her. We're told that when one of a person's five senses is taken away, the other four will overcompensate. That mildly interesting Snapple fact did not seem to help Mrs. Pec navigate through her quandary.

Because the attendees at the wedding could literally see nothing-including the bride-all attention would be focused on the musical chords of the ceremony's lone musician; the future Mrs. Pecadillo. This was literally the worst-case scenario for a professional musician. It is the very essence of a sink-or-swim moment.

Mrs. Pec had been hired, of course, to play the Wedding March, or "Here Comes the Bride," as it's commonly known. This was the pivotal moment of the wedding ceremony, just as the bride appears for the first time. The "song" future-Mrs.-Pec wound up playing sounded quite different. It sounded more like Ray Charles was playing—if Ray Charles had never actually learned to play a piano.

That moment is not a fond memory for Mrs. Pecadillo, who is honestly an extremely accomplished pianist. Later that night during the reception, many of Mrs. Pecadillo's friends, not realizing she was the one butchering that tune in the dark, approached her and attempted to spark a conversation regarding the ceremony's horrendous pianist and how it ruined the entire wedding.

It was not a good night for Mrs. Pecadillo.

As she sought a place of refuge in order to avoid any more potentially devastating yet unintentional insults from her peers, Mrs. Pec accidentally bumped into my parents, who were sneaking around a side hallway. (My dad was trying to persuade my mom to leave early.) They quickly sparked up a conversation of basic chitchat and hellos.

Desperately looking for a way to avoid any conversation about the bridal march, Mrs. Pecadillo remarked to my parents about how much she enjoyed my blog. This was their first conversation with her in years that didn't occur in Washington (three states away from Pecadillo). As fate would have it, on that evening, I was just a stone's throw away from the conversation.

When my name came up, my dad said, "Oh, yeah. He's here too ya know. You should meet him."

Mrs. Pecadillo was mortified. She had just given the worst musical performance of her adult life, and had-according to all her friends in attendance-potentially ruined someone's wedding. All she wanted was to go home and cry herself to sleep, not meet a strapping and eligible young Stallion. (Remember: she didn't know me yet.)

With that, my dad realized the potential for ducking away early was gone. So he decided to "mingle." The first friendly face he actually saw was mine (where else?) by the hors d'oeuvres table with my faithful friend and fellow all-you-can-eat-free-wedding-food enthusiast, The C-train. When I noticed my dad approaching us, my right arm was thrust nearly armpit-deep into a large barrel of partially melted ice cubes, searching for the elusive last bottle of water.

Smooth.

"Hey guys", my dad said, apparently undaunted by the very behavior that had kept his son single for nearly a quarter of a century. His eyes narrowed as he looked at me. "I need to introduce you to a Pectator," he said.

My heart immediately sank into my stomach-and with good reason.

In the heyday of my blog, I had a large following of readers from all walks of life. When I was hired by the L.A.P.D. and subsequently entered the Police Academy, my blog went on an eight-month hiatus that has lasted nearly three and a half years. Historically, fans of my blog who held vigil through this time, or "Pectators" as they are known, inexplicably seemed to anticipate a new blog post everyday, despite the hundreds and hundreds of prior consecutive days without so much as a peep from me. I received countless emails and messages from these people, angrily demanding new posts in a vaguely stalker-y tone.

Needless to say, meeting a Pectator face-to-face is a very odd and unforgettable experience indeed. (Since returning to the blogosphere, the meaning of the word "Pectator" has been broadened to encompass all of my readers, in all their varying degrees of normalcy, or lack there of, so don't be offended if you are one.) But in those days, the word carried a more specific connotation:

My dad, in his infinite wisdom, was low-keying the introduction he was about to make. He knew that the word Pectator would conjure up an image of fanny-packs and Nascar paraphernalia coupled with the ever-present and unforgiving smell of chewing tobacco and Arby's sauce. (Trust me on this, I know my Pectators.) What my dad knew, and what I would soon find out, is that he was literally moments away from introducing me to a truly gorgeous girl, who, despite her unique sense of humor, shared none of the otherwise unfavorable qualities of a typical Pec-fan. She was and is a gem.

My dad later told me that despite my mom's not-so-secret dreams of a Pec/future-Mrs. Pec courtship, the thought had never once occurred to him. He has always maintained that she was so far out of my league that it didn't even cross his mind that something might come of it. Boy was he right about the "out of my league" part.

As he escorted me over to what I expected to be the latest in awkward conversations about faulty septic tanks and Walker-Texas-Ranger-type mysticism, I cringed when I saw my mom standing next to a staircase, speaking to someone just outside my eye line. I knew she had been keeping the mysterious Pectator company while my dad hunted me down, and that certain unpleasantness would shortly ensue.

Due to my police training, I've developed a habit of visualizing confrontation before it happens. In this situation, I created a vivid image of the weirdo I expected to meet, based on my prior experiences. I pictured a middle-aged man, dressed in a sleeveless t-shirt and blue jeans with an elastic waist-ya know: "weddin' clothes." His socks didn't match, but that was hardly the first thing you'd notice. His hair indicated a nap had taken place since his last shower, and his smell indicated that said nap could have occurred anytime within the past week. In my vision, this larger-than-life Pectator was holding a wedding gift, wrapped in newspaper that I was willing to bet money was a do-it-yourself "homebrewing" beer machine.

As I drew closer to my mom while preparing myself to meet the alfa-Pectator I had visualized, my fear turned into surprise when I rounded the corner and saw the young woman my mom was talking to. Who's the hottie? I nearly wondered aloud.

As I racked my brain for a possible explanation for the unexpected turn of events, I quickly concluded that whomever the Pectator was that I had been slated to meet, he must have wandered away from my mom sometime after my dad went looking for me. Shortly after his sudden departure, my mom must have began talking to the unknown babe I saw before me.

At the time, I couldn't decide if I was relieved to have avoided meeting the Pectator, or if I was frightened by the knowledge that he was now unaccounted for amongst the general population of the wedding reception. I deduced that the reclusive Pectator must have gotten distracted by something; possibly his reflection in a glossy window or maybe a set of extra-shiny keys. Or perhaps he had sensed that the wedding reception was coming to an end, and with it, his chances at an awkward and mildly inappropriate congratulatory kiss of the bride; his only true reason for attending in the first place. (I'm telling you: I know my Pectators.) Yes, of course, I thought to myself. He's probably being escorted off the church grounds at this very moment.

While I quietly celebrated the assumed ousting of my imagined-yet-quintessential Pectator, my dad uttered the three words that have continued to confuse me to this very day; "Here she is."

What? Her!?

The realization that this supreme fox of a woman was in fact, also a fan of mine and therefore a Pectator rocked me to my very core. Picture the hottest girl you've ever seen. Now picture that you just found out she loves Star Wars. Now imagine that you wrote Star Wars. Okay, maybe this analogy doesn't hold up. . .

To fully understand and appreciate the shock I experienced, one would have to meet the lovely Mrs. Pecadillo in person and see for oneself. She truly has the most beautiful and alluring smile, the beam from which I am certain can be seen from space. Next to it, slightly to the right, is an adorable and perfectly-placed dimple that . . . if these had been standard issue for all woman, all wars would likely cease. (I've often joked that if our children don't inherit that dimple, I will immediately put them up for adoption. These types of comments have never really gone over well with Mrs. Pecadillo for some reason.)

For lack of a better expression: Mrs. Pecadillo had it going on.

This was turning out to be a very good night for Pecadillo.

As I stood in front of this bombshell with my entire right arm still blue and shivering from the recent ice-bucket excursion; with my jaw opened wider than a sleeping mouth-breather, I found that my legendary ability to think on my feet had quickly deteriorated in epic proportions. I was totally and completely unaware of my faculties and surroundings. Out of habit and without thought, I immediately presented my right hand for a handshake. No sooner had I raised my arm than I instantly regretted doing so. Somehow, in my hypnotic state, I had forgotten that just moments prior that same hand was at the bottom of a barrel of freezing-cold ice water, digging for refreshments like a scuba diver searching for marine life. My hand was well and truly soaked. Any attempt to wipe my hand on a pant leg or coat would have proven both futile and bizarre looking. At this point, because I had committed a major breachin in decorum by initiating a handshake with a woman, I knew that to abandon and reject her hand would have compounded my error to the power of infinity.

I was committed.

I'm a guy who puts a lot of emphasis on a good handshake; it's something I take very seriously. It can literally make or break a first impression, and I pride myself on the fact that I never execute a bad one. Well on this night, I most certainly did. Due to the large amount of ice water that I had successfully drowned it in, my hand must have felt like a lifeless sea creature of a decidedly unsavory origin. Beginning with the very moment her hand first touched mine, I still remember experiencing an overwhelming feeling of pity for the future Mrs. Pecadillo that trumped any feeling of guilt or embarrassment that I could have also justifiably felt and would soon feel momentarily. My palm must have felt cold and lifeless, like a thick slab of rancid meat.

This was not a good night for Mrs. Pecadillo.

Despite the repugnant handshake that would have caused a lesser woman to double over in disgust, Mrs. Pecadillo didn't let on that anything was wrong. I'm certain her exquisite and expertly honed piano fingers were able to feel and absorb every last drop of clammy wetness from my freezing hands. In retrospect, Mrs. Pecadillo really took the unpleasant shake like a champ. Had she responded at all differently, I'm sure that would have been the end of our conversation right then and there.

Following the unpleasant greeting, I did my best to calm down. After regaining what little composure I ordinarily have, Mrs. Pec and I spoke briefly. I don't remember much about the ensuing conversation for a number of reasons:

1) I was speaking to an ubber hottie, who later proved to be the love of my life.

2) I was still kicking myself for the cold, wet, lackluster, and possibly deal-breaking handshake I had just botched.

And 3) my parents never walked away! Now I don't want to sound like I'm openly criticizing them-however, as a rule, you can't take a guy that already has less game than a paralyzed hurdler and then expect him to be Don Juan while his mom is standing next to him. Needless to say, I was no Don Juan. I wasn't even Don Knotts.

Luckily for me, the future-Mrs. Pecadillo was feeling her own bit of self-consciousness due to her "interpretive version" of the wedding march. Despite our respective feelings of guilt and self-anguish, we somehow hit it off and five months later, I proposed to her on the very same spot where I had so awkwardly met her.

The rest, as they say, is history.

How do you spell pretentious? I spell it A-P-P-L-E S-T-O-R-E

2008-02-01T11:54:00.000-08:00

So I bought a MacBook today and the purchase required that I go into my local Apple store, something I typically avoid like the plague, or that one friend everyone has who listens to Cher.

Let me be very clear: I like Apple computers. I hate Apple--and Cher too for that matter. Apple's systematic assault against mankind has been fairly subtle; it often goes completely unnoticed until you actually go into an Apple store and surround yourself with the world they have created. The Apple store went from being a one-stop shop for Apple products and software to what it is today: a glorified man-purse store that also sells computers. It's like Starbucks without the coffee; just a room full of pompous college students and shiny metal objects. The Apple store has become a breeding ground for pretentious trends and annoying ideas. Don't believe me? Go buy something there and wait for the cashier to ask you if you wouldn't mind forfeiting your right to a printed (normal) receipt and instead accept a digital (e-mailed) receipt in order to help "save the environment." Never in my life have I been more proud to drive a Charger with a hemi.

I loathe this recent iJunk trend that has caught on in which any and every useless, sub-par, as-seen-on-tv piece of junk has the letter "i" before its name as if the letter "i" makes it any less a piece of junk. I realize that not everything with an i before it is an actual Apple product and is usually just a cheep knockoff. Yes, i realize Apple doesn't make the iDeoderant, iFern, iPlunger or any of the other i- products one might find at 7-Eleven. However, Apple single-handedly popularized the iJunk craze and therefore should be held responsible.

As soon as you walk in an Apple store, the first thing you might notice is the varying classes of Apple employees. Toward the front of the store, you have the "greeters," identified only by their light blue shirts and total lack of knowledge regarding any of the merchandise found in their store. Keen observers might also recognize a slight look of shame, hastily masked by a thin mustache and patchy facial hair. The responsibilities of a greeter are simple. They are:

1. say hello
2. tell the customer their name (usually Stephan in my experience) and,
3. lisp about as often as the English language will allow.

Once Stephan verifies that you are there to make a purchase and not to ask for a bathroom key, he will direct you to the second class of Apple employee: the service person. Identified by their dark blue shirts and standard issue Kabbalah bracelets, the Apple Store service person is an unsettling character indeed. Most of these guys seem to be named Troy, and they almost all have long, unwashed ponytails. First-time Apple store shoppers might make the mistake of approaching a service person on foot. This is a major Apple store no-no. In order to speak with a service person, one must first locate a display computer and generate an email to said service person, reserving an appointment to actually speak to them face to face.

Gone are the days, apparently, of walking up to a salesman and requesting they help you. No, that's too simple, too analog. These days, you send him an email from across the room and wait for him to approach you, that way the evil corporation he works for can obtain your email address and bombard you with spam for the rest of your life. Ya see? Everybody wins.

Take my word for it, this is the Apple store's protocol and they will not allow their customers or employees to deviate from procedure. It's in the books. I'll be honest, I felt a little silly entering my email address into a computer in order to get the attention of the guy who was sitting 10 yards away from me. I've actually attempted to bypass the entering-of-contact-information stage and simply approach an Apple service person with a question on foot. The service person (who was literally sitting in a chair doing nothing with absolutely no one in line) informed me that per Apple policy, he could not answer any of my questions until after I entered my information into a computer and waited to be called.

After the customer has caved in and given Apple their contact information, they are free to wait in line to eventually ask the service person anything they want. When the customer inevitably stumps the service person, it is their job to direct said customer to the third and final class of Apple store employee; the Guru.

The dress code for the guru is a bit more lax. After all, they've earned it. Their computer knowledge is slightly greater than that of a first-year foreign-exchange student, and their social skills are slightly worse. They all seem to wear fleece sweaters but somehow, the look is not uniform. Each guru has their own little touch that they've added to their overall apperance, which on the street would cause you to avoid them at all costs. However, in the Apple store setting, it gives you the assurance that they possess the nerdiness and more importantly the knowledge to help you with your query. Each guru is different in their own way, however a few characteristics are always present:

1. they all sport their own, custom designed, heavily sticker-ridden name badge that is perhaps a relic of a prior job at TGI Fridays.
2. they all choose to express their own individuality by wearing the same acid wash t-shirt featuring a dramatic portrait of a wolf howling at the moon.
3. inevitably, somewhere on their bodies, a series of intricate yet incomplete dragon tattoos can be found.

Gurus are an odd bunch. Until summoned, they wait restlessly in the back storage area, engaged--no doubt--in heated Dungeons and Dragons tournaments that often continue long after the Apple store has closed its double doors. The life of the Guru is at its best whilst inside the confines of the Apple store. Work is the only place where a guru is the guy with all the answers. Everywhere else, he's just the guy that has to wear a t-shirt in the pool.

But what really annoys me is that because Apple products are so trendy and popular, no one seems to notice that the organizational hierarchy inside the Apple store perfectly mirrors that of Jabba's palace on Tatooine. Before you make it to Jabba the Hut, you must first get past the mindless droid who's running interference at the front gate. Next comes Bib Fortuna, a man(?) of questionable skill who can't get you any real answers, but he's still the guy that decides whether or not you actually get to see Jabba. Finally there's the great Hut himself, who mostly just lays there in a pool of his own filth, mumbles unintelligible gibberish, and mocks anyone who dare question his verdict. Plus, on your way out you always wish you had your own Rancor. See what I mean, just like at the Apple store.

But hey, I still really like my Macbook.

Sorry ladies....

2008-01-24T15:06:00.003-08:00

.....but meet the future Mrs. Pecadillo.

Four years and counting....

2007-12-31T15:13:00.000-08:00

The Second-best Cocker Spaniel I ever had.

2007-07-01T14:10:00.001-07:00

The story you are about to hear is true. The names have been changed to protect the innocent (from lawsuits).

The other day, my partner told me he wanted to eat at a restaurant that at the time he only saw fit to describe as, "this Vietnamese joint I know." He told me the place was located just outside China Town, deep in the heart of Downtown LA. He was driving the black and white that day, and before I knew it, we were parked in front of a building that at first glance could have easily passed for an abandoned veterinary clinic. There was a strange and eerie chain-mesh security door at the front entrance, which became only more troubling as the not-so-distant sounds of multiple dogs barking grew increasingly louder from behind the building.

I am not making this up.

Then my partner said the three words that have haunted me since; "Here we are." I quickly looked around, scanning the street for any possible signs of alternative destinations, but there were no other restaurants in sight. I looked back at the building in question while my partner approached it. Almost all of the establishment's signage was in Vietnamese except for a small, hand made sign that read "Pho 11's" (I later confirmed that it's pronounced "Foh eleven's" kind of like an urban way of saying "four eleven's" but with a PH to give it that extra touch of Vietnamese).

I was still not convinced that we were entering an actual restaurant until I noticed the all-too-telling "B" rating posted on the door by the California Department of Environmental Health. Ordinarily, a "B" rating isn't necessarily enough to dissuade me from eating at a restaurant, however, things change when you're in a police uniform. This may come as a shock to some of my more sheltered or home-schooled readers but there are a lot of people out there that hate the police, and wouldn't think twice about adding any number of cleaning products or bodily fluids to give a cop's food that extra zing. You can never tell if your cook or waiter recently received a traffic citation or possibly had a relative arrested. We literally take a substantial risk anytime we go out to eat in uniform. Off duty, I have no problem eating at "B" rated restaurants, after all, one of the biggest and most heavily-trafficked restaurants in Valencia boasted a B for years.

When I'm in uniform, however, I'm a little more reluctant to eat at a B-rated restaurant especially when said B rating is the only thing that identifies the establishment as a restaurant. But on this day, I decided to back my partner up and bravely follow him into almost certain peril.

Just inside the front door, Pho 11's lucky customers are greeted by a defective koi pond with a filthy, above-water filter, proudly displaying all the fun and exciting substances that one finds in a broken koi pond. Hmmm, my mouth was watering already. As my partner found us a table, I looked around in silence while still attempting to remain polite. The walls of the restaurant were white, or at least they had been at one time. The tables of the restaurant were all centered around a single, 18-inch TV screen that sat on the edge of the aforementioned koi pond. After all, what better place to put an electrical appliance than on the cusp of a 300-gallon container of water. The TV had seen better days, evident by the multiple wires running from it's ancient and ineffective ariel antenna system. Apparently Pho 11's is a popular place to go eat mystery beef and watch scrambled Dodger games, America's pastime indeed. I felt dirty just sitting there.

My partner must have noticed my uneasy demeanor because he looked up at me and said with the utmost sincerity "Don't worry dude, this place is way cleaner than it looks." I sat quietly and pondered the flaws in his statement. I mean really, that's like saying, "That girl over there is way prettier than she looks." Still, my partner continued his attempts at winning me over by giving me the rundown on Pho 11 procedure. "Okay partner" he said, "they're going to bring us a couple glasses of water. Don't drink it. Just order a soda. It'll come in a bottle so you'll be good to go."

Now I wanted to punch him in the face. If a restaurant can't be trusted to get water right, why would you want to eat a full meal there?

My partner then handed me a greasy menu which was written entirely in Vietnamese. "Okay, lemme see" he said while rubbing his chin, "we want... um... this one. Yeah, this one." He pointed to a picture of a beef bowl that looked identical to every other picture on the grease stained menu. I was suddenly reminded that my partner is about as Vietnamese as I am. Needless to say, I had a sneaky suspicion that we were not going to be served what we wanted, although at that moment, all I really wanted was any kind of emergency that would require us to leave the building immediately. Just as I was devising a plan to activate the emergency help button on my radio without my partner seeing, our waiter came by and took our order.

I sat quietly and did my best to ignore the unmistakable and alarmingly nearby sound of dogs barking which had intensified since we sat down and then became frighteningly quiet seconds after we placed our order. "There must be a dog kennel near here" my idiot partner said. I sat quietly and reflected deeply on my life and the various paths it had taken that ultimately lead me to Pho 11's.

For the record, I'm not saying that I think the nearby pack of dogs were in any way connected to the restaurant or it's owners. And I certainly hope our ordering food was in no way connected to their sudden and unexplained silence. After all, this is America, and I really don't think that anyone could get away with something like that. And if Pho 11's is guilty of what I believe to be the most horrid of crimes, I think they'd surely make some kind of attempt to cover it up. They certainly wouldn't keep live dogs locked up out back, just an ear shot away from their customers. Also, if my initial suspicions were correct, the California Department of Environmental Health would not have issued Pho 11's a "B". They would have gotten at least a "C-" and the owners would have been prosecuted to the fullest degree. I quietly reassured myself with this logic as our beef bowls arrived. Upon seeing my dinner, I immediately broke out into a cold sweat and sat motionless while my entire life flashed before my eyes. My partner didn't hesitate for a second; he dove right in and was immediately singing the praises of Pho 11's and their questionable beef.

I was now faced with a moral dilemma: Do I eat the mystery beef, and possibly risk violating the unspoken promise that all dog owners subconsciously make with their pets about never turning to them for nourishment even if stranded on the most deserted of islands? Or do I refuse the food, and insult my partner, Pho 11's and their customers and (worst of all) disgrace my fathers legacy?

I made the decision and I stand by it to this day; I ate the beef.

It didn't taste like beef. I think the less said about this the better. Do yourself and your conscience a favor; don't go to Pho 11's, ever.

Bring out your dead.

2007-04-24T17:31:00.000-07:00

As a cop, I work closely with several types of people that the general population never has the opportunity to meet. Whenever I respond to a crime scene or conduct a substantial investigation, I work alongside a wide array of individuals with very interesting professions. At first glance, they might seem unremarkable, but I've found that they tend to be very interesting once you get to know them.

Night watch doctors are very interesting because they never act how you might expect. On TV, doctors are always good looking, poignant, intelligent, and above all, good at what they do. In real life, the doctors I meet often seem to be only slightly more medicinally qualified than me.

Last week, I was at a small local hospital (which will remain nameless) guarding a gang member who had been shot multiple times and later proved to be mortally wounded from his injuries. The gangster was being attended to by four scared nurses and one crusty old doctor who had apparently just woken up. He had a good three-days beard growth on his face and the hair on the back of his head was matted down, indicating that he had just finished a delightful nap in an unused examination room. Had I been doing a traffic stop on the good doctor, a Breathalyzer test would have been in order.

The doctor spotted me while he was working on the soon-to-be-dead gangster. He suddenly abandoned his post and walked over to inform me of the situation. Removing his bloody gloves, he said in an alarmingly calm voice, "Ya know, it doesn't look very promising." Had I been thinking, I would have asked to see his credentials to make sure he wasn't just some guy who was staying at the local Holiday Inn Express. Minutes later, I saw my partner in the hospital lobby. I told him, "Dude, if I get shot standing right here, I want you to throw me in the black & white and drive me to another hospital."

Of all the people I come into contact with, coroners are by far the most colorful. Not only do they have the best stories, but they also tend to have the best sense of humor. Any coroner will tell you, the worst calls we get are when we have to respond to a senior care facility. Those are the worst because there will usually be a room full of old people lying in beds (think Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory) but only one of them is dead. Upon arrival, our job is to examine and make sure said dead person is in fact dead and that there is no evidence of foul play.

If I happen to arrive during scheduled nap time it's even more complicated, because everyone in the room is asleep or dead, and I'm supposed to know which is which. There's nothing quite like walking over to what you expect to be a lifeless body when, without warning, said body sits up and asks you to turn up the volume on Matlock. I've decided the best thing to do from now on is to, upon entering the room, hit my baton against the door frame of the room as hard as I can and look to see who flinches and who doesn't.

One day, I responded to the scene of a suicide. The deceased lived in small, multiple level home, not uncommon in the San Fernando Valley. By the time I was done with my investigation, the family of the departed had gathered outside of her home. Part of my job is to assist the coroners with a swift removal of the body before the family gets too grief stricken and needs to be physically restrained. The coroner who responded was so small and weak, I could tell that I would be doing most of the heavy lifting to get the body out of the house and down the stairs.

The coroner and I wrapped the body discretely into a body bag. We put it onto a gurney and made our way out the front door. As we neared the top of the complex flight of stairs in front of the house, the experienced coroner stopped and looked around to assess the situation. She told me: "Listen, the whole family is standing around watching us. I'm not gonna lie, there's a good chance that you and me are going to drop this body." I was shocked at her complete lack of confidence. Then she said, "If it starts to fall, let it fall. Trust me, I've been doing this for years, it's much better to drop the body and pick it back up than to play hot potato with it on the stairs in front of the family." Fortunately, we made it down the stairs and into the County van without incident.

Pectators

2007-04-12T22:16:00.000-07:00

pec·ta·tor (pëk’tat'õr) n., pl. pec·ta·tors, pec·ta·tory or pec·ta·noc·ity. 1. One who is a spectator of the Pecadillo. 2. A person who willingly wastes large portions of their life reading mindless drivel (much like a "Trekkie" only without the assumed computer and technological skills). 3. A drain on society, typically regarded as a half step above a hobo.

Since starting my blog over a year and a half ago and subsequently gaining (and losing) steady readership through a perfect combination of luck and nepotism, I've been getting recognised by people from all walks of life. My fans, henceforth known as "Pectators," much like menial street vendors, share a common set of values and interests that can only be truly understood by someone who has spent a lot of time at one of those portable carnivals they set up in vacant lots for three days. Pectators, while frightening and clearly unstable, actually experience and sustain brief moments of normalcy. These rare moments, stretched out over periods of unsupervised time, allow the Pectator to at least appear to function amongst the normal population and thus, exist amid us undetected.

When approached by one of these freaks of nature, it is important to keep in mind a few facts about the Pectator. Like most members of the animal kingdom, Pectators only attack when threatened. The problem is that even the slightest change in wind can cause intense fear and despair for the Pectator. The key to surviving the inevitable Pectator attack is to always keep a supply of Hi-C and Bacon Bits at the ready. Trust me, I've sidestepped countless Pectator assaults by using everyday household items to my advantage. If you're all out of substitute pork products and over priced sugar water, you can always use other everyday items. I've found that car keys or really any shiny metal objects are very effective in stalling the Pectator. Although nothing has proven more effective than the time tested flashlight-on-the-wall trick. Pectators may be unstable, but they're also very easily distracted...

The Pectator is small in stature, typically no more than 4 foot 8. This is just one of many physical disadvantages that the Pectator must endure. But what he lacks in looks, health, social skills, and basic sense of hygiene, the Pectator makes up with thin mustaches and a vast knowledge of obsolete computer technology. Due to his usual diet of nachos, cigarettes and pure caffeine, mixed with his inability to exercise and years spent sequestered from fresh air and sunshine, the Pectators' life expectancy rate rarely exceeds 42 years. They can put a man on the moon but they can't improve basement/boiler room ventilation systems... But don't let those dark rings and Harry Caray glasses fool you, at night, the Pectator can see for miles by using his heightened sense of smell.

It is true that the Pectator suffers from chronic poor eyesight, however they boast an unusual bond and rapport with all members of the animal kingdom. Here, Darren "the kitten wrangler" Montoya demonstrates his comradeship with one of his many, many cats.

This Pectator has had a few run-ins with the law. I'm happy to report that Anton is now reformed and is nearing the end of a five year sentence. He's doing a nickel at San Quentin for undisclosed reasons. Here, he demonstrates how to floss imaginary teeth with imaginary dental floss. That can come in handy... someday... I suppose.

This Pectatorette has found herself in quite a predicament; I hope I never have to make the tough choice between cigarette, Dr Pepper, phone book, or a whole Turkey leg. So many treasures, yet just two arms to carry them. What a dilemma indeed.

Periodically, a Pectator will get separated from the rest of the herd. Alone, and completely lacking any survival skills, it won't be long before this little guy takes his next step in the circle of life.

Such grace, such elegance, such untamed beauty. Yeah, I think I just puked in my mouth.

Catherine, the striking young beauty on the left, is one of my biggest fans. Don't let that bored, near death look on her face fool you; she was very excited to meet me. I bumped into her one afternoon while I was deodorant shopping at the local Rite Aid. She was there to replenish her stock of powdered milk and horse tranquilizers in time for winter. Catherine and I shared a lovely conversation about Geritol side effects and John Tesh's career before he "sold out".

Norabelle, the one on the right - although at the time I was sure her name was "Walter" - is credited with the invention of the nylon tourniquet. I wonder how she got that idea...

Good Humor indeed.

2007-01-14T21:43:00.000-08:00

This picture truly amazes me. It’s rare when a single image is able to tell such a complex and detailed story, but this is one of those pictures. It’s a sad story; one you’ve probably heard before. Clearly this tale takes place in the South, judging by our li’l hero’s mullet, I’d say we’re in the deep South.

Let’s start with the ice cream man, something tells me his name is Billy Ray, but I bet his friends call him Shooter. Keen observers will notice that the missing fingertips on Shooter’s left hand suggests either a violent past in the Korean War or perhaps one too many bar fights down at the Country Bunker. Perhaps and more likely his disability is due to the hazardous effects that are sure to come when you mix extremely poor motor skills with dangerous and outdated ice cream truck machinery. From Shooter’s visibly irritated posture, it’s obvious that this kid did not pay for the fudgesicle. Clearly, Shooter’s half hand is the only thing standing in the way of our hero and a vicious beating. You just don’t steal a fudgesicle from a good o’l boy without paying the consequences, I don’t care if you are a preschooler.

Which brings me to our next subject, Li’l Buford. I’m 60% sure that Buford is male; his mullet is certainly cut to be masculine, although I suppose the same could be said of all mullets. It’s hard to tell at first but our hero actually put a lot of thought into his actions. To keep from burning his shoeless feet on the hot Ozarkian asphalt, he brought a towel along with him on his journey to the ice cream truck. This fact musters up an image of Lil Buford wrestling pigs in his tighty whities one moment, and then, after hearing the ice cream truck playing Dixie or Freebird or some other Southern jingle, our hero jumped to attention. Like a flash, he ran out of the barn he sleeps in, stopping only to grab spare change for payment, and a towel for shoes. Did he stop for pants, a shirt or even a pair of sandals? No, there was no time for such superfluous items. Buford was on a mission, a mission for fudgesicles, and nothing, not even a lack of valid, “Union” currency was going to stand in his way. There he is now, standing on an unwashed towel, enjoying the last few bites of a fudgesicle that are now only visible on his naked belly and ill fitting underwear.

Merry Christmas

2006-11-28T17:59:00.000-08:00

Why couldn't I have been born in India?

2006-11-20T06:41:00.000-08:00

The Hindi answer to every bad musician America has to offer:

I wonder what the hindi word for "thriller" is...

Ugly Dog Olympics

2006-11-05T11:29:00.000-08:00

I've already shown you the ugliest dog in the world. But since he's been mercifully put down, the world title for ugliest dog alive is now up for grabs. Which of these hideous pooches will walk away as the new champ? That's up to you; cast your vote in the comments section of this post. The contestants are broken down into four categories, choose wisely.

Our first round of competitors is the "Spawn of Kujo" category:

This is Muffie. She likes to play fetch, go on long walks, and tear the flesh off paper boys and delivery men. Fortunately, she was born completely blind so she's not as threatening as she appears, every once in a while though she gets lucky.

This is Reginald T. Berkowitz. The first four years of his life were happy ones spent with his owners at a lake house in Vermont. That all changed one fateful winter night when little Reginald was struck by lightning, giving him the power to destroy anyone who makes the mistake of looking him in the eye.

Meet Scurvy. He's a very disturbed dog that was almost put down last year after he attacked his owner and three senior citizens. Luckily - for him - he was run over by an ice cream truck later that night. The accident claimed both his hind legs, causing him to be viewed as less of a threat to his neighborhood and in turn, saving his life.

This is Steve Perry, he was born with Hydrophoby. I think he's sufferin'.

The next round is the "Wait, that's a dog?" category.

This is Stanley J. Binkus. Stanley is most commonly mistaken for a mop... until his hair gets really dirty and then he is mistaken for Bob Marley.

This is Oprah. She is most commonly confused with a pile of dirty rags. She has had multiple owners due to the fact that she has, on numerous occasions, been accidentally donated to the Good Will. Strangely, all of her masters have seen fit to name her "Oprah". What are the odds of that?

This is Lil' George Clinton. This little pooch has more soul in one of his little dred locks than anyone else in his native Alaskan homeland.

This is Stripe. Stripe has maintained an illustrious film and television career playing the villain in many B-movies, namely "Gremlins" and "Gremlins 2 the new batch".

Meet Reuben, he is most often mistaken for something that another dog has regurgitated.

Round three; the "Dog Deluise" category:

This is Jabba the Mutt. I can't seem to figure out how he got that name.

This is Matt. Theoretically speaking, Matt still has the ability to stand up on his own. However no one has witnessed him do so in over 7 years.

And last, it's the "Honey, put it in reverse and finish him" category:

It's unclear if Lil' Justice here is foaming at the mouth or choking on some kind of rodent. By the looks of him, I'd say it's probably a little bit of both.

This dog's name is the "Unsinkable Doggy Brown". He's survived numerous near-drownings despite the best efforts of literally all of his owners.

Wait a minute, that's not a dog. Wow, I can't imagine how that one could have slipped in.

The jury is still out on weather or not Roscoe here is even a dog. Some say it's a rat, others say it's a Mogwai. Either way, I wouldn't feed it after midnight until I get the okay from a licensed veterinarian.

This is Skippy. If nothing else, Skippy's life has served to raise more questions about the possible evil nature of Chihuahuas, not to mention their questionable status as a bona fide K9 in the first place.

Say hello to Monty. This frightening little pooch is what happens when zoo keepers foolishly cross-bread a dog with a giraffe as a joke. Monty is said to be the only dog in the world that voluntarily wears a smoking jacket. He may not be pretty, but he's got class!

Here's Festus. I think the name says it all.

El Jefe here is possibly the ugliest dog in the contest. What gives her that extra edge is the fact that you know that some crazy lady out there thinks that El Jefe is adorable. It's one thing to have an ugly dog and know it, this is way worse... but that's for you to decide.

Halloween: a day of mistakes

2006-11-01T00:36:00.000-08:00

October 31st is a day for people all over the world to do things they're sure to regret as soon as November 1st...

Need I say more.

Well, since it's the season of bad choices, I think it may be time to make the biggest mistake of them all. And lets face it; all big mistakes have something to do with Spam, America's favorite mystery meat.

It's been brought to my attention by a loyal pectator that people without access to pumpkins have begun turning to other food items to fullfill their jack-o-lantern needs.

Well it's definitely scary.

Yes folks, nothing says, "Grandma's medication must be out of date" like the Spam-o-lantern. You'll be the talk of the town when your front porch boasts this homemade catfood scented candle. I can't think of anything that could clear out a room faster than the smell of burning Spam. Well, maybe one thing...

Pecadillo's new ride - part 2

2006-10-05T18:47:00.000-07:00

Well you've seen the vehicles I've already ruled out, my quest continues:

Another possibility is the Honda Carry:

With the Carry, owners have the distinct privlage of driving a car that looks the same from both ends. While that's a dream I've had since childhood, I kind of want a vehicle that won't tip over at the first gust of wind.

What a beauty. I'm not sure, but something tells me that the Alto Hustle was originally designed for the Animal Control service. Call me crazy, but I don't want any passenger of mine to catch hydrphobie... again. C-train has never really been the same.

The aptly named StepVan derives its appellative from the fact that it is 1. a van, and 2. roughly the same size as a step ladder.

With the StepVan, you get a vehicle that can - and often does - double as a closet.

And just look at the colorful crowd of people that the StepVan attracts. Those are people I want to party with.

Although... chicks dig guys with trucks.

I don't know, maybe I've been going about this the wrong way entirely. I don't need another car, what I need is a hog. Yeah, a hog is sure to make me look butch. And nothing says "butch" like a Zook:

Even this young Asian man is frightened by the shear manliness that is the Zook.

I'll be honest, I'm not really sure what's going on in that last picture.

Sadly, I'm afraid I might look a bit silly on the Zook. I'm 6 foot 3, and I estimate our Asian friend here at no more than 4 foot 8. Even at his small stature, he looks like an awkward giant on the Zook. I don't know, maybe I should leave the Vespa's for Chesney Hawkes.

Maybe what I need isn't a motorcycle instead of a car, I need a motorcycle that will fit in my car.

The Trunk Bike has it all; it fits in your car, it doubles as a automan, it even comes with its own tote-bag.

My friends and I often find ourselves in this pose, all I need is the minibike to complete the picture.

Here it is. I've found my new ride. I need look no further. Who could resist a name like "The Road Fox"? I defy you to find anything cooler than a Vespa with training wheels.

While driving this beaut' around, people will know you're either the bad boy in town, or you've been stricken with adult onset diabetes.

Where do I sign?

Pecadillo's new ride - part 1

2006-09-28T18:05:00.000-07:00

My car, a 1998 Honda Civic, is on the verge of death. Now that I have a steady, full time job, I'm officially in the market for a new ride. But I don't want one of the same boring cars that everybody else has; I want something that stands out. In my quest for a truly unique car, I've come across a Japanese web site that sells pre-owned vehicles that never exactly made it big here in the States. I now have many options, all I have to do is choose.

My first option is the Honda Vamos:

Nothing says farm work quite like a Honda. And with it's whopping 2 cylinders, the Vamos really has the power to get-up-and-vaminos. This unique automobile is said to top out at 35 mph... going downhill... while being pushed.

With the Vamos, my passengers will feel like they're on a back lot tour of my life. That might have something to do with the lawsuit that the Universal Studios Tour currently has pending against the good people at Honda. Notice how the spare tire also doubles as the front bumper. It's efficient and stylish... well, at least it's efficient.

The Vamos comes in Army brown, off-white, and more off-white. Originally designed as a rural golf cart, the Vamos made the transition over to bona fide vehicle status due to a typo made by Honda's marketing department. Nevertheless, the Vamos has since graced the driveways of literally tens of people.

The Vamos' trunk area is just big enough to hold many of the things I often have in my ride, such as a three foot ladder, a folding chair, or maybe a even whole bag of groceries. I'll tell you what, if the Vamos comes with a pair of those bright red pants, there'd be one parked in my garage already. Unfortunately, pants are not included so I must give the Vamos the adios.

The purpose of Camera Phones

2006-09-16T01:00:00.000-07:00

Camera phones are a great invention. Without them, many of my favorite pictures would simply not exist. An image like the one below would never have been captured and thus never released amongst the public for the enjoyment of all mankind.

What a waste that would be.
I don't know who took that picture, but if the photographer didn't have his camera phone with him that day, he never would have been able to prove to his friends that he'd seen the Michelin Man's son at MacDonalds.

This picture was taken on Christmas Eve, 2004 from my phone. NOTE: contrary to what your eyes are telling you, this man is not sans pants. He's simply wearing shorts that are entirely too short for a non-foreign, male adult to be wearing in public.

Myself, the C-train, and Muffin were having our annual breakfast/gift exchange at the local IHOP, a tradition we've continued for years. This guy was already seated behind Muffin's chair when we arrived. He was wearing a matching jacket and shorts combo but because he is approximately 80 years old, the top of his shorts reside a few inches below his armpits. This meant that while seated with a white napkin in his lap, his shorts were completely invisible to the naked eye. It took me and the C-train roughly ten minutes to determine that he was in fact fully clothed. After our discovery, Muffin was kind enough to pose like I was taking his picture while I captured this Kodak moment. Merry Christmas indeed.

My dad took this picture of me in the Tower of London. This guy fell asleep on a bench in the White Tower while hoards of other tourists walked around him. Some stood and pointed, others laughed. I decided to pose for a picture next to the poor guy. He almost woke up twice, once when I sat down and again when onlookers realized what me and my dad were doing.

This guy fell asleep on a bench in a popular shopping area in Santa Monica called Third Street Promenade. Something - either a gust of wind or perhaps a mischievous Seagull - caused the front of his shirt to fly up exposing his protruding belly with a suspicious growth just above his navel. I would have posed for another picture but this guy smelled of old cheese and feet. Dad has really let himself go.

This is the back wall of a dirty Mexican Food joint off Laurel Canyon Boulevard, deep in the heart of the San Fernando Valley. I'm talking about the type of restaurant that proudly displays its well-earned "D" rating by the California Department of Environmental Health. The type of place that probably runs an underground cock fighting/cat juggling gambling ring after hours. This is where society’s outcasts and degenerates spend their time.

I was there having lunch with my family and I was struck by how much this Lone Mariachi looks like Burt Reynolds. "El Smokey era el bandido."

This is the front sign of an abandoned aerobics center near LAX. It's a relic of a time when two men clad in flamboyantly colored spandex could stand that close together without questions of their manhood being raised. At the height of its popularity, this gym was patroned by some of Hollywood's most fabulous stars. It was not uncommon to see George Michael and Elton John spotting each other as they did squat thrusts, power lunges, and seated chest flys. This was a time when "Sweatin' to the Oldies" and "Jazzercise" were acceptable forms of workout. A time when people thought Richard Simmons was just really happy.

Boy, I'm glad those days are gone.

This is why you don't run from the Cops...

2006-09-02T21:34:00.001-07:00

Warning: This is messed up. Very, very messed up. If you're a homeschool mom or are the type of person that is often confused with homeschool moms, don't follow this link. For everyone else, check this out.

How to talk like a barber 101

2006-08-26T22:11:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, I broke a vow I made years ago and went to my childhood barber shop. I heard that it was under new management with new barbers so I decided to give it another shot. I found that Henry Wonder has retired and Henry J Fox is only working two days a week. This came as good news to me as I have recently been granted the privilege of having hair again.

While getting my hair cut, I noticed something strange about the way barbers talk. I now have a theory: I think it may be impossible to carry on a normal conversation with a barber.

To speak like a barber you must first; make a random observation about your surroundings and direct it at no one in particular. Then you must repeat your comment no less than seven times, in an increasingly more awkward manner each time you say it.

For instance, yesterday’s conversation went as follows;

BARBER: "It's windy today... It's windy today... Today it's windy... Boy it's windy... Windy. Today... It is windy today... Windy, windy, windy. Lot's a wind."

Pec: "Yep."

I quietly agreed but in my mind I was thinking, "Gee, I kinda wish this guy wasn't holding a pair of scissors next to my head right now."

Yikes

2006-08-19T17:30:00.000-07:00

All right, check this out and try not to dry heave.

Pecadillo's Kitchen volume 2

2006-08-08T10:01:00.000-07:00

You may remember that I made a promise to never post a recipe with exact measurements, and I planned to stand by that promise. But here's the thing; I've come across a pudding recipe that is so good, I'd be willing to break all of my rules just to have more of this pudding.

Now, if you're like me—and let's face it, if you're actually reading this then you probably are—then you didn't know there was any other kind of pudding than the ready-in-five-minutes, Bill Cosby stuff you can buy at the store. Well, apparently, in days of yore (I'm talking about back even before Bill Cosby's time), when people wanted pudding, they would spend hours mixing and blending various creams and flavors together into the delicious dessert we take for granted today. Talk about roughing it, don't even get me started on tribal Indian Jello recipes... but I digress.

A few months ago, at the CrossRoads hoe down, a good friend of mine, Christen, brought homemade banana pudding that she made from scratch. It was so good I think I may have shed a tear. I'm not kidding, this stuff was magical. This was back before I was in the academy, but I'm telling you, if I had a gun with me, I'd have taken the whole bowl hostage.

Christen gave me her recipe, but it was encrypted with measurements and chef lingo directions that mean absolutely nothing to me or to the type of people that read this blog. I have a strong suspicion that most of my readers are a lot like me... you know, my 'pectators. But at least we're men - not fancy boys, so what if we're all going to die alone. When we cook, we don't think in terms of cups and ounces; we use handfuls and little handfuls. We don't bake; we microwave. And to us, "fondue" is a four-letter word.

"Then why, Pec", you ask, "would you post a recipe with fancy boy measurements we can't possibly understand?" Well my answer is that the pudding is just that good. We may all be terminally single, but we have to know someone that can make this pudding for us. Whether it's your mom, or your sister or some fancy boy you might know, just find someone. You won't be disappointed.

Her recipe is as follows:

To serve 10 People (or 1 Pecadillo)

Ingredients:

1 (14-oz.) can of condensed milk
1 (3.5-oz.) package instant vanilla pudding
1 1/2 cups cold water
1 pint (2 cups) heavy whipping cream
1 box vanilla wafers
4-5 bananas, dipped in lemon juice and then sliced, OR sliced first and sprinkled heavily with EverFresh fruit preserver (then brown very quickly, even after the pudding is assembled)

Directions:
1. Whip whipping cream in a Kitchen Aid or a blender until light and fluffy. (her words, not mine)

2. Mix together water, pudding mix, and condensed milk until well blended, and then fold in a whipped cream.

3. In a large clear bowl or trifle bowl (trifle bowls work well for double batches), spread one thin layer of the pudding/cream mixture across the bottom. Then line the sides of the bowl all the way around with vanilla wafers (standing upright in the pudding) and also place some, evenly spaced across the pudding layer. Next, layer sliced bananas liberally in the spaces between the wafers and on top. Repeat layering with a thicker layer of the pudding, then the wafers, then the bananas, until you reach the top of your bowl. How many layers you have will depend on the height of your bowl, but we usually do about 3-4. Be carefull to watch your proportions of pudding, wafers, and bananas so that you don't run out... you want your last layer to be a nice thick layer of pudding. Smooth it nicely across the top and top with a few sprinkles of crumbled vanilla wafers.

4. Refrigerate the pudding for at least an hour or two so that it will be nice and chilled for serving. However, as the vanilla wafers get soggier and the bananas get browner the longer that it sits after you make it. I probably wouldn't recommend making this one the night before. It's best to refrigerate it no longer than 5-6 hours before serving.

Enjoy

Tales from the Academy. volume 1

2006-07-30T20:20:00.000-07:00

In order to pass the self-defense portion of our training, one of the tests recruit officers have to endure in the academy is called the fist suit. A fist suit, also known as a redman suit, is a set of full-body protective gear that keeps one's sparring partner from getting injured. Basically, after weeks of training us, our self defense instructors put on the fist suit and fought each recuit officer for three minutes to see what we'd learned.

All I can say is that the suits provide for a much fuller range of motion than one would first suspect. That, mixed with the fact that our instructors are some of the best fighters in the entire department, we pretty much got the skubalon beaten out of us for three minutes.

The point of this training experience was to test our proficiancy with a baton. While the instructors had head-to-toe body armor, we had a mouth piece, a cup, and a foam baton that achieves roughly the same effect in a fight as a soggy churro. Now, you may be wondering, if the instructors have full body protection, why were we armed only with foam batons? I wondered the same thing.

It's okay, I blocked his punch with my head.

Hate is a strong word but I really, really, really don't like the Dodgers.

2006-07-25T21:59:00.000-07:00

I'm always amazed at how many people who apparently don't like baseball show up at baseball games. How else can you explain the wave, beach balls, or "DAY-O"? I live In Los Angeles; home of the non-fan fan. We've all heard the stereotypes about LA fans being bandwagoners that only cheer for the winning team....

Well, it's all true. Every bit of it.

It's a well documented fact that in LA, Dodger fans don't file into the stadium until the top of the third. If I miss batting practice I feel late. Nevertheless, Dodger fans wander into the park forty-five minutes late, and usually leave within an hour, depending on which team is winning. If you've never been to Dodger Stadium and witnessed this behavior first hand, you are probably thinking that this sort of thing happens everywhere, and you're right. But what sets LA apart is the sheer quantity of people doing this. I challenge you to go to a Dodger game, and at the bottom of the fifth, if the Dodgers are losing, look out into the crowd the way you'd look at one of those 3D posters that were cool in the mid 90's. You will see mobs of people stand up in unison and file out of the stadium like sheep. It happens every game; you can set your clock to it. In fact, the best way to avoid traffic at Dodger Stadium is to get there on time and leave when the game's over.

Growing up in LA has probably been the greatest contributor to my fierce hatred for the Dodgers. It's not a bad stadium; It's actually a pretty nice stadium... when it's empty. Dodger fans are hands down the worst fans in Major League Baseball.

As a Los Angeles Police Officer, I come across criminals and gangsters everyday. There are few places that make me feel more unsafe that the outfield bleachers at Dodger Stadium. Every game is like an 18th Street gang reunion for all the homies and their little bambinõs. I would venture to guess that there is more gang activity in the Dodger stadium bleachers than in the entire City of San Fernando. And somehow they call that the family section.

A few weeks ago, while at a Dodger game, I sat in front of your typical Dodger fan. It didn't take me long to figure out that this guy was the prototype for all other Dodger fans to follow. My first and second clues were when he showed up in the third inning spilling his beer down the backs of myself and everyone else I was with. Throughout the next four innings, (he actually stayed longer than usual) I had to sit through this man's inane rambling about absolutely nothing. It started with his spouting of inaccurate statistics of the Dodger's line up, then onto how he felt the team should be managed. After exhausting his ability to recite what he had clearly heard on ESPN, the conversation shifted to another topic he knew nothing about; women.

It's a verifiable fact that Dodger fans boo louder when a 9 year old drops a foul ball than for a home run from the apposing team. This guy was no exception. Even worse, everytime a fly ball was hit, our hero would cheer right until the ball fell into the glove... of the short stop. Apparently, nacho cheese and beer drastically affects one's depth perception.

As much as I hate the Dodgers - and I do, if I could change one thing about the MLB, it would be seating. Tickets for assigned seats should only be good until the game begins. That way, when I'm stuck in the nose-bleeds, I get to automatically upgrade my seats as a reward for punctuality. Once the first pitch is thrown, it should be my right as a loyal fan to relocate to any vacant seat of my choosing while the tardy, non-fans get banished to the upper deck for showing up late.

That's baseball the American way.

Yevereverillo

2006-07-17T12:57:00.000-07:00

So, my readers have asked me, begged really, to post again.

To celebrate my recent graduation, my two closest friends, my brothers and my sister-in-law took me to a pirate themed dinner show restaurant aptly named A Pirate's Dinner Adventure.

It was weird.

The restaurant is a blatant Medieval Times rip-off, a fact that is accentuated even more so due to it's location literally next door to Medieval Times.

Basically, you sit and eat in a big room with a pirate ship in the center. There are five different sections - ours was yellow - with a corresponding pirate - ours was Antonio, the self proclaimed master swordsman.

At the start of the show, all the pirates are shipmates under one Captain, a fact that prompts this rugged crew of scallywags to (what else?) sing and dance. All is happy and joyous on the seas until the pirates encounter two young wenches and decide to bring them aboard. One was the daughter of a wealthy statesman and the other was a young gypsy girl. Soon, our heroes are singing and dance-fighting for the attention of their new shipmates. The fighting would have been much more deadly had it not been for the giant trampoline that just happened to be located in the middle of the ship. As the poorly choreographed fighting continued, the gypsy girl attempted an ill-conceived rope climb/trapeze act/escape set to (what else?) the love theme from the Man from Snowy River.

As the fighting continued, the pirates died off one by one. Antonio was the first to go; apparently his skills with the blade could not withstand devastating mule kicks from the the dastardly Sebastian the Black. Soon, all but two of the pirates were in Davy Jones' Locker, leaving the Statesman's daughter and the gypsy girl with their own rightful suitors. The two couples live happily ever after... until the 8:20 show.

I would suggest A Pirate's Dinner Adventure to anyone who likes pirates, enjoys over choreographed dance-fighting, and has literally nothing better to do.

Pecadillo's top 5 album covers

2006-06-30T21:37:00.000-07:00

I was cleaning out the family attic this week, and I came across a few records that I feel should be made public as a cautionary tail of what happens when you mix extra cash and poor judgment.

This particular album is very close to my heart for two reasons; 1. I'm almost certain that England Dan changed my brake pads last month and 2. John Ford Coley has lived in a pup tent behind the local Burger King since I was a kid.

I find it odd that someone who's clearly never stepped foot out of the Ozarks could have "England" as a first name. I can only assume that England's namesake was the result of a bad combination of the Dan family's moonshine and a Roger Miller record or two. You have to respect a guy like England Dan though; despite his own obvious issues and social deficiencies, even he is uncomfortable around Big John Ford.

I can't decide what's worse; being in a band with your parents, or being the only fourteen year old with a comb-over.

I'll be honest, everything about this cover troubles me. Is "Country Church" the name of this band and this is their self-titled debut? Is that barn in the background their country church as well as their home? I need more information; these people fascinate me.

I always find it interesting when I see people dress alike on purpose, and this is no exception. Typically, only factory workers or a pair of six year old twins can get away with it... and again, this is no exception. I'm trying to imagine what was going through the minds of these guys while this picture was taken.

"Hey Cletus, I know that there un-E-form don't exactly fit but if you try to stand behind Maude, maybe people won't notice that you look like David Crosby in plaid midget clothes."

Yeah, that's probably how it went.

I don't know about you, but I want to see this family band in a cage match with the Country Church band. They're almost identical; both bands have matching uniforms; both opted to have their pictures taken in open, vacant fields. And they both have their own awkward, poorly kempt, powerhouse bass players in ill-fitting clothes from the children's department at Sears.

My money's on Al Davis here. Just look at that power stance.

One and only indeed. There is something very sad about a guy who thinks a leather jacket and a magnet ear-ring earns street cred. In his mind he's thinking, 'Fonzie' but in reality, this is the 'one and only' guy that got kicked out of Hansen for being too girly.

At first glance, it's easy to dismiss Hawkes as a 90 lbs, Clay Aiken knock off with a fake mole, but believe you me, you do not want to cross him or his Vespa gang.

Pecadillo: the triumphant return

2006-06-24T17:40:00.000-07:00

Please rise for our National Anthem.

Coming Soon

2006-06-05T21:54:00.000-07:00

Starting June 24th, the day after I graduate from the Los Angeles Police Academy, I Drank What? will return to the blogosphere with exciting new posts, products, and slightly more activity.

Be there!

Note: Any and all of my 4 readers are invited to attend the graduation ceremony to be held on June 23rd at 9:00 am (next to Dodger Stadium) on the eve of my return.

Los Angeles Police Academy
1880 North Academy Drive, Elysian Park
Los Angeles, California 90012

"It's always nice to meet a fan."

2006-03-29T19:48:00.000-08:00

Last month at the Shepherds' Conference, I had the pleasure of meeting some of my former readers. I know that they used to be readers because I met more than ten people, and I haven't had ten readers in a while.

As nice as it is to meet someone who appreciates what you do, I must say I was a little surprised to find that even my most loyal readers don't know how to pronounciate my name. I've heard "Pec-a-DEE-yo", "Pec-a-de-DIL-a", and even "Pico de gallo".

It's really not that hard. Pecadillo is pronounced "Pec-a-DILL-o." Rhymes with "armadillo".

pec·a·dil·lo (pëk’ëdïl’õ) n., pl. pec·a·dil·loes or pec·ca·dil·los. 1. A small sin or fault. 2. Offensive to the senses; revolting. 3. Generally marked by stupidity and uselessness; typically carries out the remainder of existence in parents' basement. 4. Frightens children.

Update from the Academy

2006-02-11T13:07:00.000-08:00

While I'm in the Academy, there are many restrictions on what I can and cannot discuss on the internet. The following will be very brief and remarkably vague, only the names have been changed to protect the innocent...

I've just completed week 13, leaving only 19 more weeks until graduation. To date, I've lost 26 pounds, earning me the nickname "anorexic" from my fellow classmates. Don't worry; I'm not really on the "Karen Carpenter diet", my weight loss is due to the intense physical training and sudden change in my diet. Believe it or not; Pop-tarts and Count Chocula are not part of a well balanced breakfast if you run five miles a day. Go figure.

Before

After

In the academy, it's tradition to name your gun. Most of the guys go with the standard "Lucille" or "Eleanor". My primary sidearm is "Mary-Kate" and my back up is "Ashley". Together they're a full house.

For the three of you that still check this blog...

2006-01-26T17:57:00.000-08:00

As I'm sure everyone's heard; I, Pecadillo, have joined a new group blog. That's right, I've been teamed up with the likes of Daniel Phillips, Frank Turk, James Spurgeon and some other guy I've never heard of.

Anyhoo, my joining this group is not unlike the way every high school jock has at least one friend in the marching band, but I've already covered that.

Well, I'm pleased to announce that in addition to neglecting the new blog, I'll continue to barely post on this blog. There, you can all sleep now.

Offseason

2005-12-26T16:39:00.000-08:00

During the other eleven months of the year, Santa disguises himself as Leroy the vagrant. He's really good at it; none of the neighborhood kids recognize him through his interesting new scent and decidedly unjolly attitude.

Santa's best little helper, Gumdrop, spends the off months working at the local paintball course, and somehow manages to stay cheerfull year round.

Rudolph spent the summer with his cousins down in Wyoming.

Santa's vowed to never park his sleigh in Compton again.

And word on the street is that Mrs. Clause won't be back to the North Pole for another eight to ten years.

A festival of lights

2005-12-20T17:18:00.000-08:00

Ok, what's the deal with outside Christmas lights? Honestly, somebody please explain it to me.

Every year my neighbors get progressively tackier with their light arrangements and decorations. My house is literally surrounded by crazy people who are proud of the fact that they've made my street look like the Las Vegas strip. With all these tasteless people, my shadowy, undecorated house stands out like a midget in a punch bowl, and I'm proud of that. One neighbor has so many lights that it literally keeps me awake at night. Being that I've put up with this nonsense for years, I think I've become quite the expert on outside Christmas lights.

There are basically two types of decorators: normal people, who seem content with making their house look identical to everyone else on their street, and lunatics.

This first group of people have no imagination. They use every cliche in the book; Reindeer on the roof, Snowmen on the lawn, and those ridiculous hanging icicle lights that look absolutely nothing like icicles. If this is a picturesque description of your house, then... ummm... awkward silence...

Seriously, if your house is like this, I mean no disrespect, in fact, I wish you lived on my street. That would be alot better than the tasteless imbeciles I currently reside near.

My neighbors and other people like them are just barking lunatics. I honestly think these people watch National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation to get pointers from Clark Griswold. These psychos engage in competition with other psychos for the "Guess who's responsible for California's energy-deficit award." My street alone is covered with inflatable Santas, garage-door projectors, and enough blinking lights to ground a 747. This year, one of my neighbors has gone crazy with the oversized inflatable Christmas characters. He's got a snowman, a Santa, a Reindeer, a Penguin, and even a giant snow globe. All I can say is; this year, I'm asking Santa for a crossbow.

I know what I'm thankful for...

2005-11-24T17:39:00.000-08:00

Remember that spawn of Satan I blogged about? Well, apparently the beastkeeper is a reader. That's right, earlier this week, she did the world a favor and put him down. Now I can sleep at night.

Happy Birthday C-Crest.

2005-11-18T20:05:00.000-08:00

This barely counts as a post, but it's my best friend’s birthday tomorrow and I'm willing to lose a little more sleep in order to commemorate it. Although I'm very busy, I feel an obligation to tell the world (and by "world", I mean the 10 to 15 people who still read this blog) that C-Train is 22 years old.

Happy birthday, dude. Much love.

Third year in a row

2005-11-13T11:15:00.000-08:00

A few of my most faithful readers—I'm talking about the ones who might very well one day drink "Pecadillo Kool-Aid"—have asked about my People covers. Believe it or not; those magazine covers are actually forged. It's true; People Magazine has yet to recognize my achievements. Neverthelesss, I put my likeness on the coveted cover in a new style every year.

This one started it all. I was going for the classic Don Pec look. This is how I look about 98% of the time. My ascot was actually a pair of boxers, and the monicle was a plastic sealing-ring from a bottle of juice. I'm like the MacGyver of magazine-cover forgery.

The next year I looked like a cross between Burt Reynolds, Gabe Kaplan, and the "Joy of Painting" guy. This is my favorite cover.

Last year, I didn't go with a theme. My dad caught me off guard with his camera while I was wearing my flight gear, and the picture just happened to fit the cover nicely. What should I do this year? I'm open to suggestions.

By the way, I've had to shave my head completely for the Police Academy. I'm thinking about going for the Vin Diesel look. Unfortunately, I look more like Sinead O'Conner.

Speaking of the Police Academy; tomorrow is my first day. Incidentally, sometime tomorrow morning I'll be receiving my 20,000th hit. Scroll to the bottom and see what number you are. If you’re lucky number twenty-thousand, leave me a comment. Be sure to include who you are, where you’re from, and what time it is. This will be very cool for you; a lot like it was for the fifty-millionth visitor to Disneyland... except your name won't go down on record and your achievement doesn't matter at all.

The new and improved Casa del Pecadillo

2005-11-03T22:25:00.000-08:00

Ok, I'm moved in. So far, only the Jaguar (Muffin doesn't like his former nickname, and his initials are J A G so he is now "the Jaguar") has moved in with me. A lot of my stuff is still at my parent’s house, but my new place is starting to feel like home. I have yet to get wireless installed in my new house so my posts will continue to be sporadic; I still have to go to my parent’s house if I want to blog.

In the mean time, I'll be posting on the many adventures I've encountered these last few weeks while moving.

About a week or so before we actually moved, we painted the inside of the house. On painting day, C-Train apparently had an overdose of stupid pills. He's usually a very intelligent and insightful individual, but—um, OK—well maybe that's pushing it. Either way, C-Crest was particularly beef-headed the day we painted my house. When the boy-wonder noticed a spider crawling on the wall next to the door to my room, he decided to smash it with his paint brush. There was and are two simple problems with this: 1. C-Crest's brush was covered in dark brown paint. And 2. We weren't planning on painting that wall.

I love it when a plan comes together.

Earlier that night, C-Train attempted to examine a can of "Stormy Waters", dark blue paint. Despite the fact that he had just witnessed this particular can of paint being opened; our hero picked up the can and turned it sideways! Approximately half a quart of dark blue paint now graces my living room floor. I think C-Train took enough stupid pills to sedate Liza Minelli.

Later that night, while the rest of us were desperately trying to make do with the remainder of the blue paint, C-Train had an idea. Einstein decided THIS:

would be a good way to use what was left of the paint he wasted on the carpet....

The moral of the story: don't let C-Crest into your home, under any circumstances. It will never turn out well.

The house is coming along pretty well. I've added most of the "Pec signature touches" that make me feel at home. For instance, the trash can in my room.

The broken bats on my wall.

Or the Barry Manilow record I found in a stack of my mom's old records. She is justifiably ashamed that she ever paid money for it.

"I write the songs that make the whole world cringe."

What's a kitchen without a bike?

Here's me and the Jaguar having our own little Laverne-and-Shirley moment:

Blog Attire.

2005-10-29T22:47:00.000-07:00

Well it came in the mail today.
What? you ask. Did I receive my income-tax refund?

No.

Did I win millions from Ed MacMahon?

Not yet. (But I may already be a winner.)

Did I receive my acceptance into the LAPD?

Well, yes actually, but that's not what I'm talking about.

I am speaking, of course, about my Frank Turk T-shirt from his very own "Shopping Cart a Basket of Goodies." That's right folks, for just $19.99, you too can be a walking, talking, advertisement for Centuri0n's world-famous blog.

"Why", you ask, "would I want to wear Frank's likeness?"

I have no idea. I'm not the only one, though. Frank's shirts seem to be a big hit with the some of the locals.

I don't even think the stat-man himself knows who's reading his blog.

Oh thank you. You're too kind.

2005-10-27T17:28:00.000-07:00

Call me crazy but I don't think there's any need for a re-count.

And now the world knows.

2005-10-26T22:13:00.000-07:00

Is this really a surprise to anyone?

Taking a break.

2005-10-23T21:29:00.000-07:00

I hate to jump on the "taking a break" bandwagon but I'm moving in to my new place this week, and I don't have internet access yet.

Posts will be sporadic, but I will have to post a few times; Frank Turk has pulled ahead on hits-per-day and so I can't afford to slack off.

Yet another reason to hate cats.

2005-10-20T23:15:00.000-07:00

Remember that dog that should be put to sleep? Well apparently he has a feline counterpart.

I actually had to do a little research to be certan that that's a cat we're looking at. At first, I thought it was a lab rat that survived some kind of fire or evil experiment. Who knows, maybe this thing is a former roomate of the C-train's sub-par dog.

... as a sheep before her shearers is dumb

2005-10-17T23:27:00.000-07:00

Ever since I was in the first grade, I've been going to the same barber shop. It's an old fashioned place that's manned by two senior citizens both named Henry.

Henry number one, I suspect, has Parkinson's disease, and Henry number two is clearly blind. You can probably imagine what the quality of their service is like. Needless to say; Henry Wonder and Henry J. Fox should not be cutting hair for a living.

As a kid, I guess I never noticed how bad they were at cutting hair. As I got older, I began to notice all the little things that make a visit to their shop quite annoying.

For instance, most barbers, when they want you to move your head, will either motion or ask you to do so. Henry number two likes to stick his finger in your ear and manually turn your head. There's nothing quite like a hair-gel wet-willy.

The Henrys also have a nasty habit of criticizing the plans you have for your 'do. For instance, if you sat down and asked for a "three" on the sides, one of the Henrys would surely say something to the effect of, "Oh that's too short, you're getting a four."

One time, my oldest brother (let’s call him "El Capitan") went to get a haircut and got more than he bargained for. El Capitan had spent the summer growing himself an impressive set of mutton chops that he was understandably proud of. Henry number two apparently didn't like my brother's sweet chops so he promptly cut them off, even after being instructed not to. El vowed to never set foot in their shop again, and he hasn't.

In high school, after I made a similar vow, I had a friend of mine start doing my hair for two reasons: 1. She didn't charge me and 2. She was a she.

There is something weird to me about having a dude who is under the age of seventy-five run his fingers through my hair.

Recently, I've been going to Supercuts. This has been hit-or-miss, to say the least. Half the time I get stuck with a fifty-something lady who does my hair the way guys did back in "her day." Needless to say, the "Pecadillo Pompadour" is not a good look.

How can it be so hard to cut hair? I don't ask for much. Here's everything I want in a haircut:

1. A young, cute girl to spend no less than 20 minutes running her hands through my hair.

2. After she has sufficiently played with my follicles, she will promptly cut my hair in a manner that keeps minimal hair from going down the back of my shirt and itching me the rest of the day.

3. If both 1 and 2 are accomplished, who needs a three?

I don't think that's too much to ask.

People are more stupider.

2005-10-13T12:14:00.000-07:00

Today, a man came into my store inquiring about a new pump for his koi pond. I suspect this was his first contact with the outside world in weeks.

The man was fifty-something and appeared to be wearing the sleeves of a brown wool shag coat. About the time I realized he was wearing a sleeveless shirt, he informed me that his current pump will often "arch" a spark. He also mentioned he's noticed that, when barefoot, he gets a shock whenever he sticks his hand in the water. The man then proceeded to look me in the eye and ask me with a straight face, "Does that sound serious?"

After explaining to him the obvious danger of his pond's electrical setup, I handed him a new pump and UV sterilizer to replace his old ones. He then said—and I promise you I'm not making this up—"I'm not too good with reading words. You'll have to tell me what to do."

Well, now there's a shocker.

There is a family of four that has been frequenting my store longer than I've been an employee. The only problem is I'm pretty sure they've never bought a single thing. Now I don't want to sound like I think everyone who enters our store is obligated to leave having purchased something, but they come in every week—as if we were their own personal, no-admission-fee Sea World®.

Also, I'm not sure, but I suspect their two boys are the spawn of Satan.

I've never caught the boys names, so let's call them "Uday" and "Qusay". These two troglodytes love to wipe their grubby, filthy hands all over our aquariums. I realize that doesn't sound like a big deal but it takes me a long time to clean all those tanks, and I'm proud of the fact that I do a good job. A lot of kids do that, but these kids are out of control. They're constantly running around our store, knocking things over, breaking our equipment, and shouting at the fish. Every time they come in, Uday and Quusay enjoy testing the buoyancy of new kinds of candy by placing it into one of the aquariums.

When their parents discover the havoc their sons are wreaking, they usually respond by laughing or say something like, "Isn't that cute?"

Who are these people, and why do they seem to flock to me?

How to hold a purse without compromising your dude-hood

2005-10-09T23:03:00.000-07:00

We've all been there.

Well, maybe we haven't. Guys, if you've ever had a girlfriend or are currently married, you've probably been there. You're out in public—maybe at church, maybe shopping—and both of your lady's arms are occupied, leaving you with the embarrassing task of having to hold her purse. Such is the inescapable and horrifying lot of the boyfriend.

Some guys try to ignore their perfectly natural and justifiable feelings of discomfort when presented with this dubious task. To compensate, they often embrace the purse; sometimes going so far as to sling it over one shoulder. I think the theory behind this is that if you look like it doesn't bother you, it won't bother anyone else.

Well they're wrong. It bothers me. It should bother everyone. There is simply no excuse for a guy cradling a purse.

It seems like there is no way out of this predicament. We can't refuse to hold the purse. That would make us look like we're uncaring, selfish lugs who think only of ourselves.

That, of course, is true, but we don't want to let on.

I, Pecadillo, have discovered a way out, and it is surprisingly simple. You don't hold the purse like a football; you don't sling it over a shoulder. You hold it like a bomb—a bomb that could go off at any moment. Because that's what it is.

Holding it this way will surely draw attention to the purse and your current obligation as keeper of the purse.

This approach goes against our natural instincts of attempting to hide the fact that we're holding a purse. But trust me, it's the only way.

All too often guys will try to hide it under their arm or keep it out of sight in some way. The major flaw to this approach is that, to the untrained eye, you look like you are in possession of something that you are 1. comfortable holding and 2. accustomed to holding. Both of which should not be true.

Instead, the boyfriend should draw as much attention to the purse as possible in an uncomfortable and truly awkward way. Think of the way C-3PO would look holding a purse. One or both arms should be fully extended, drawing attention to the fact that you don't feel right about holding it. Handle the purse with only the tips of your fingers. Never, EVER clutch it or palm it. Pretend your woman found the purse in the street and you don't know where it's been. While in possession of a purse, every movement you make should be unnatural and unsettling, proving to anyone who notices, that you are not a purse-holding fancy-boy.

I have been fortunate. In my brief and limited experience at boyfriend-hood, I have only rarely been put in such an awkward and undesirable position. However, I have had many a friend suffer the humiliation of the girlfriend's purse.

It's not pretty.

Live strong; fall strong III The Search for Spock

2005-10-07T13:50:00.000-07:00

Well guess what, I really shouldn't have a bike.

During my maiden voyage since having my bike fixed yesterday, I ate it yet again. This time, I must have run over something because my back tire popped about six miles into my ride.

I think this is some sort of sign.

Anybody want to buy a relatively new bike with just a few dents and scratches? Anyone?

Live strong; fall strong part deux

2005-10-05T10:58:00.000-07:00

Well guess what. Apparently, I shouldn't have a bike.

That's right, I ate it... again. Although this time, it wasn't due to any ill-conceived plans of going off sweet jumps. Also, I'm pleased to say that this time I stayed on my feet.

It is incredibly windy today; there have been reports of winds up to 45 mph. Nevertheless, I set out to ride on my favorite bike trail, about nine miles or so. The first half was horrible; it was on a slight incline and the wind was so strong I could barely maintain speed. My speedometer averaged a pathetic 6 or 7 miles an hour. Coming back, after the turn-around point, I started out understandably well. I was going downhill and with the powerful gusts of wind to my advantage. Here, my average speed was about 23 miles an hour.

Just as I passed a school playground that shares a fence with my bike path, something happened with my kickstand. My size 14 clown-shoe scuffed the ground, causing it to bounce up and hit my kickstand, sending it into my back wheel. If you've ever seen "Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade," you can imagine what happened next. My back tire stopped dead in its tracks, causing the bike to do a front-wheelie for about a second and a half. Somehow my legs made it over the handlebars, so when the bike eventually flipped over front-ways, I was on my feet, skidding to a halt in the standing (more like hunched) position.

For about a nanosecond, I was able to contemplate the wipe-out I had just avoided and the position I was currently in. I came to the reasonable conclusion that I had just pulled off the impossible and come out of it looking pretty cool in front of all the elementary kids.

Then my bike caught up with me and hit me in the head.

Now there was no question about it—I looked stupid. Really stupid. Any doubt I could have had on the matter was immediately erased once the entire playground full of kids commenced the justifiable pointing and laughing.

How is it possible that every time I eat it, there are always punk elementary kids there to laugh at me? I think from now on, I'm going to avoid riding anywhere near children; they seem to always indicate that bad things are afoot.

To make things worse, my friends Joey and Erin Penberthy are both teachers at that school, and may have even witnessed this display of my total lack of bike-riding skills. Who knows, they could have been laughing too. I know I would have.

Pecadillo's Picks, volume 2

2005-10-04T11:41:00.000-07:00

BLOGS
The Teak has a post about the differences between American toilets and "dunnies" from his native Australia that has absolutely fascinated me. Apparently, "toities" down under are far more effective than ours. Not only does he describe the mechanics in graphic detail, but in another post, the Teakster published pictures of his very own "Crocodile Dunnie."

I also found the account of his visit to In-N-Out particularly interesting as he visited one that I been have been frequenting my entire life. It's an interesting outsider's perspective that is also good read.

I must say, after reading of the wonder that is the Australian toilet, I have been given yet another reason to travel Down Under. Perhaps the best reason is because Australian chicks have the most attractive accent ever. It has long been my goal to find myself a God-fearing Australian lass, and make her Mrs. Pecadillo.

TV SHOWS
You'll never see a more realistic classic TV show than the Rockford Files. Today, reality is often the goal; everything is supposed to be as realistic as possible. Back in the 70's, there was one show that stood out among all others as entertaining and believable. James Garner's performance as a private investigator named Rockford paved the way and set the standard for the now redundant anti-hero character. Jimmy never broke even. He almost never got paid for his detective services, and when he did, he usually had to spend it all to get his car fixed, or pay some off a debt he wasn't responsible for. He often got beat up; usually the result of his friendship with a weasly con named Angel played by Stuart Margolin. Any episode with him is a guaranteed winner. Angel's always trying to rip off Rockford, or use him in some way. He's a dishonorable scoundrel you can't help but love.

Here's Angel's description of a chess game between Rockford and his dad (Rocky)—note the strong use of 70's jive talk:

"This game's over, man! You gotta move your Boss or Rocky's gonna lay a subpoenie on him; then his Torpedo is gonna smoke your Old Lady, and all your Heavies'll be doin' time—except for maybe your Mouthpiece, but Rocky's Sheriff's got him put in the corner. You got nothin' left but Punks and Junkies: you're through, Jimmy."

—Angel Martin to Jim Rockford

I love that show.

PRODUCTS
For the past year or so, I've been using a pen that is wicked awesome. It's called a Space Pen. NASA developed this truly ingenious invention so their astronauts could use pens in space. Obviously, the average ball-point pen would be useless when in zero gravity because it utilizes the gravity system to work. The Space Pen is pressurized, making it possible to write while holding it upside-down.

When I was abroad last year, some of my friends there told me a joke I would not likely have heard in the States: The Americans spent thirty years designing and perfecting a pen that works in space. Russian astronauts use pencils.

I actually know a guy who is an astronaut, but I'm a little reluctant to ask him if they really use these pens. The last time I saw him, he crushed me with the news that they don't really drink Tang. He didn't even know what it was. How can it be called "the drink of the astronauts" when they don't even drink it? And to think, all those times I drank Tang as a wee Pecadillo, thinking that would make me more like a "Space man"—now I know all I got was a better chance at diabetes.

Breaks my heart.

RESTAURANTS
Olive Garden. Before I continue, I want to make something clear; I am not one of those people that thinks the Olive Garden is Italian Food. It may be called Italian Food, but it's about as Americanized as it could be. Calling Olive Garden authentic Italian food is about the same as calling the sushi sold at Costco authentic Japanese food.

That being said, it should be noted that I have yet to meet a single female who doesn't love the Olive Garden. Clearly it has a purpose; dates. I have a theory about this: girls that would otherwise decline to go out with you (in my case, most girls) are more likely to say yes if they know they're getting free Olive Garden out of it.

Also, every so often, Olive Garden has a deal called the "Never ending pasta bowl". The name says it all. You pay for one bowl of pasta, but receive as many as you can eat. If you're anything like me, you like to get your money's worth. If so, it would be a good idea to not partake of the magical never-ending pasta-bowl while on a date. Especially if you suspect the savory cuisine is the only reason you're not eating alone. For more information, my buddy James, a server at "the OG", recently wrote a post about this deal and its effect on Olive Garden employees.

My dog is better than your dog!

2005-09-28T23:29:00.000-07:00

This is my dog, Wrigley J. Rimmer. It is my belief that all dogs should have three names, just like us. Giving your dog your own last name is unimaginative and lame.

Ever seen a Beagle puppy after drinking two pints of Mountain Dew?

I have.

This was taken last Christmas. I have no excuse for using that blanket.

Wrigs is a purebred Beagle and he is far cuter than any other dog. I know you're probably thinking (especially if you have your own dog) that is a subjective statement and by nature cannot be proven.

Well you are wrong. My dog is far superior in every way.

Want proof? Check out this sorry excuse for a dog:

What kind of person would let something like this into their home? Do you think she's able to eat around this thing? I can barely keep my lunch down just looking at it now. Imagine being in the same room as this.

And what would you name such a thing? Assuming you've lost a big enough bet, or promised your mother on her deathbed you'd look after her dog; what do you name it? Surely not "Sparky," or "Skippy," or "Cupcake."

I think I'd have to go with "Saddam," or "Stalin," or "Oprah."

If I were to see such a hound, I would surely feel obligated to wipe it's existence from the face of the Earth. Honestly, if you were driving down the street, and encountered this, you're telling me that you wouldn't swerve to hit this thing. In doing so, you'd be doing your country, nay, mankind a favor in ending the life of such a horrid creature.

What's even more sad, the fact that even this dog has a girlfriend.

There must be something seriously wrong with me.

People are stupid

2005-09-22T00:36:00.000-07:00

As you might have ascertained from my profile, I am an aquarium technician. Basically, I clean fish tanks and treat sick fish. Most of the tanks I maintain are at people's homes or Doctors offices. However, for the last year and a half, I've worked primarily inside the fish store owned by my employer. In that time, I've come to a substantial conclusion about our society; people are stupid.

This simple fact is perpetually reinforced everyday I go to work. If you work in sales, retail, human resources, or have a job that requires you to deal with people in any way, then you know exactly what I mean.

Without a doubt, the most commonly asked question in any type of retail store is, "Do you work here?" I have literally been asked this question hundreds of times. Under normal circumstances, this is not necessarily a stupid question. However, I seem to be asked this no matter what I'm doing. On a number of occasions, I've been asked this question while one of my arms is completely submerged into an aquarium, cleaning it:

Moron: "Do you work here?"
Me: "No, I just like to touch other people's fish."

I've even been asked this while catching a fish for another customer:

Other moron: "Do you work here?"
Me: "No, isn't this a self-service pet store?"

Just today, a customer asked me if I "work here" while I was operating the cash register:

Yet another moron: "Do you work here?"
Me: "No, this a robbery, stick 'em up"

One time, after greeting a customer with my standard, "How can I help you?" I was immediately asked if I spoke English. Now, I live in an area (Southern California) where Spanish is quickly becoming the official language, and it has become necessary to sometimes enquire as to the appropriate manner of expression. However, after HAVING JUST SPOKEN ENGLISH, any previous questions about my heritage and language of choice should have been answered. Also, as you might have noticed from any of the pictures on this blog, that I am one of the whitest humans to have ever walked the face of the Earth; there are certain times during the summer that I am unable to go outside. A guy THAT white in Southern California, speaking fluent English with a native accent. It should come as no surprise that English is my primary language. GOSH!

People are stupid.

This simple truth is also consistently validated at the cinema. Have you ever been in a movie theater, and found yourself wanting nothing more than to senselessly beat the person in front of you? I think we all have.

A few weeks ago, I went and saw a special screening of one of my favorite movies, the Blues Brothers. The party in front of me was courteous enough to get themselves intoxicated before being seated, you know, to make the movie more enjoyable for everyone else. These incredibly thoughtful people decided it would be a good idea to break into applause after every musical number, not to mention recite their favorite lines along with the movie.

When I went to see the Lord of the Rings: Return of the King, there was a woman present with her son, who was worse than the aforementioned drunks. This mother/son duo, felt it was their duty to stand up during every fight scene and shadow-box the bad guys. Then, after literally any plot development that was even remotely positive, these two mental giants broke into applause. It took every ounce of restraint for me to not huck my cherry Icee® in their direction.

What kind of mental void must a person have to think that is acceptable behavior? Did these people fall, and subsequently suffer some form of head trauma? Had they taken some bad prescription medicine from Canada? Are their parents cousins? Who knows.

The shadow boxing lady's son has an excuse. His mom is flippin' crazy. But what about everyone else?

People are stupid.

Confessions of a fat-boy, or, how to lose eighty pounds in a summer.

2005-09-17T16:48:00.000-07:00

Warning: The following is an account of how I, Pecadillo, dropped eighty pounds in a single summer. It is not meant to encourage anyone to follow my lead, or copy my method. Looking back, I should have known better; Pecadillo's Weight Loss Program was pretty dangerous. Now that I've sufficiently covered my rear...

Throughout the last few years of high school and into my first year in college, my weight stayed pretty much consistently at 250-260 lbs. As a rather large, 6'4 growing young boy, that made me fairly chubby, but never really fat. You know how they say college freshmen gain fifteen pounds during their first year in school; the freshman fifteen? Well I innovated the freshman forty. Strangely, I put it all on during the end of the second semester.

So one day, I hopped on the scale and to my disbelief; I was "three bills". That's right, three-hundred pounds. "Dude, I'm fat!" I could not believe my eyes.

Memphis: July 28, 2003

As a 250 pound guy, 300 lbs seemed huge, much like the way 30 years of age sounds really old to a teenager. I was scared. I was so scared that I virtually lost my appetite for food all together. I'm not saying I became anorexic; I just wasn't ever hungry. Whereas food had previously been a priority and something I spent a great deal of time preparing and enjoying, now, I was simply not concerned with it. I was too scared about my own health to worry about what I was going to eat next. Growing up, I would eat every meal until I was full, now, after reaching three-hundred pounds, I would eat just a portion of what would have normally been a typical serving. I'd still eat the same types of meals, (anything Mexican) just much smaller portions. For example, in high school, I could polish off an entire pizza-no problem. However, after my stomach shrunk, I can vividly remember one night having trouble consuming a single slice. I call this the Pecadillo weight loss program-do not attempt.

After a few weeks of eating small amounts, my stomach actually shrunk. Then gradually, after my appetite slowly increased, I began eating until I was closer to being full, although, since my stomach had shrunk significantly, that meant I was still eating small portions of food. This is very similar to what happens to someone after getting their stomach stapled.

I never intended for this to happen; I didn't plan to shrink my stomach, it's simply what happened due to my sudden lack of appetite. And I want to be very clear on something; I am not recommending this for anyone. Looking back, even though I was careful to get all the food groups represented at each meal and took vitamins daily, it was still a stupid thing to do.

Hollywood: October 17, 2003

At the same time, my best friend C-train and I were both planning on enlisting into the Marine Corps, (this was about a year after 9/11) and spent the summer working out with our recruiters on the weekends, and running and lifting weights on our own during the week. Needless to say, the sudden drop in food intake and constant exercise made the fat melt off. I'm not exaggerating; there was one week where I lost twelve pounds.

It was an amazing feeling. By October, I felt so much better. Everything was different, I was no longer wheezing after running. I found myself sweating only after physical exhilaration. I could even go up numerous flights of stairs without fear of cardiac arrest. I had lost so much weight that my posture and general stance changed drastically. The loss proved so great that I found myself to be quite clumsy for a while. It was like I had been given a new body. The best part was I'd run into people I knew from high school or even the previous semester and they did not recognize me.

At the start of the summer, I tipped the scales at 300. By October, I weighed in at 210. Technically, I lost 90 pounds, but that last ten pounds returned just as fast as it had left.

My typically massive appetite has been reinstated, plus I don't run near as much, so my weight has gone up a bit, however, Crawford and I still lift so it's hard to tell how much of that is fat. Sadly, the massive weight loss has posed a serious side-effect; my skin is not what it was. Whereas I used to have tight (more like stretched) skin, now I'm more like one of those Chinese fighting dogs. That's right folks, loose skin. You know the way a balloon looks after its been inflated to its maximum density, then ,after time, slowly deflated; that's me.

If it aint' one thing it's another.

Stunt-doubles

2005-09-15T23:03:00.000-07:00

As you might have noticed, I recently cut off all my hair. I didn't shave it to the skin but I clipped it at a "one." This summer I had the longest hair I've ever had in my life. After our recent heat season,(temperatures of 114 degrees) I decided it was way too hot to keep all the hair. Now that I'm bald, I've been getting quite a few comments. My boss told me I looked like one of those "hari krishna dudes." Another guy I work with said I look like Kojak; I don't see how that could be a compliment. I think, if I look like anyone, it's Curly from the Three Stooges. Who do you think I look like?

Curly, a true genius.

Kojack, who loves ya baby.

Burn Victim looking like someone just insulted his mother.

Paul Schaffer

Hari Krishna dude apparently standing down-wind from something.

Drew Carey

Six Flags old dude-looks kind of like Drew Carey much later in life.

Yul Brenner, one of the coolest bald guys ever.

Mel Cooley, one of the lamest bald guys ever.

Stone Cold-it's like looking in a mirror.

Weird tattooed guy... something tells me he lost a bet or two.

"Now a better blog!"

2005-09-13T00:04:00.000-07:00

I was just enjoying a "fun-size" bag of Doritos Nacho Cheesier chips. "Fun-size" is the manufacturers' name for the smallest-size bag, although, I would think the largest size would be the most fun. Anyhoo, while I was contemplating what was printed on the bag, I noticed it also says, "Now better tasting!"

Huh?

How, exactly, are they able to make such a claim? Who is qualified to tell me what I'll think tastes better? Isn't that the same as if a woman, after changing the way she does her hair, walks around with a sign that says, "Now more attractive"? Or a guy who, after seemingly bathing himself in cheap cologne, wears a shirt that declares, "Now better smelling"?

As a guy who has just recently both; cut off all his hair and, began wearing a new cologne, I can say with authority that my looks and signature musk are still nothing to brag about.

Do not be fooled by Doritos' lies and exaggerations, they are clearly not looking out for our best interests.

What's in a name?

2005-09-10T22:52:00.000-07:00

Are you telling me the best name they could come up with for this hurricane was "Katrina"???

Seeing how this was easily the worst natural disaster ever in America, shouldn't that merit a more fearsome name than "Katrina"? What's the deal with that? Katrina? That is not a name that evokes much fear. I don't know whose job it is to name these disasters, but the guy needs to get fired.

Last year, another hurricane ravaged the coasts of Florida and other southern districts, and some moron decided to name it "Betsy."

Betsy!?!

That has to be a joke. It sounds like a doll, not a destructive force of nature. No one is going to flee their home because "Betsy" is coming. Nobody in the history of mankind ever said, "Oh no, Betsy's coming, run for your lives!"

What's next? Hurricane Skippy?

Traditionally, hurricanes are named alphabetically. Apparently, they all used to have women's names, but some angry femi-nazis felt that hit a little too close to home, so to speak.

So now, in the name of equal rights, they rotate between boy and girl names. For example; the first one of the season might be called Andrew, followed by Betsy (apparently), then Chuck, then Doris, etc.

Last year, the second storm of the season needed a girl's name beginning with the letter B. Instead of "Betsy," maybe they should have gone with something a little more frightening—like Bertha. Now that's a name people will run from! "Bertha" just sounds like a powerhouse of destruction that claims hundreds of lives. In fact, most people are probably already accustomed to running away from people and things named "Bertha."

They never use famous names, but I can think of some really scary ones: Geraldo, Oprah, Cher, Seacrest.

And why is it only a first name? I think a last name or some kind of title could be useful to help people distinguish between disastrous storms that could potentially destroy their lives, and annoying relatives that might also destroy their lives. If they ever do name a hurricane "Bertha," it might be confusing for citizens who happen to have an Aunt Bertha. So maybe "Bertha the Horrible." Later that year we might encounter "Kevin Barstool." "Gunter Shirtstain." Or "Nigel the Colostomyzer."

Possibly someday we'll be hit with "Hurricane John Tesh".

Those are names people can be afraid of! Not "Betsy."

Live strong; fall strong

2005-09-07T17:30:00.000-07:00

This morning, while riding my bike a couple of blocks from my house, I ate it... hard.

I had been riding for about twenty minutes, when I saw a perfect opportunity to take my bike off a sweet jump. The jump was the slope of the sidewalk on the left side of the street. Unfortunately, today is trash day, so there was a row of three trash bins just beyond the spot at which I planned to make my ascent. There are a number of reasons why this particular jump was unsuccessful; namely, basic laws of physics, but also the well-known fact that my physical prowess is limited, and my body can can best be described as "dead weight".

For this jump to have been successful, I would have had to either: jump completely over the row of bins, or lean out of the jump which would send me to the side of the bins. I attempted the latter, a far more plausible scenario given my physical dexterity. As I took off, my uncoordinated, non-athletic butt had a meeting with the trash bin, turning me sideways, in the other direction. I had failed to stay to the side of the row, thus throwing the opposite side of my body to the ground. I only skidded for seven or eight feet, though that was more than enough to tangle my bike chain. There I was—blood flowing down my pasty-white, hairless legs—trying to fix my bike chain, while a little twelve-year-old girl was laughing her head off at what she had just seen. In her defense, pasty-white, un-athletic chubby guys falling off their bikes in the middle of the streets is always pretty funny.

Casa Del Pecadillo

2005-09-05T23:42:00.000-07:00

In about a month, my two best friends and I will be moving in together. Our "house" still needs a little work, but it's coming along. I say "house" because it's really more of a shanty. It's the kind of place that only single guys, fresh out of college would live in, and even we're having second thoughts. My future roommates, C-Train (a very odd and disturbed individual) and "Muffin" (who has yet to enter the blogosphere), are also my two best friends. We've already purchased our first, and most essential piece of furniture; an air-hockey table.

She's a beaut'.

The house, however, is not.

The property is owned by Muffin's parents, and in a year or so, they're going to tear the house down and build their dream home. Until then, they're being awesome enough to let us live there for next to nothing. I keep saying "the house" but in actuality, it's two. There is a small, two-room main house, and a two-room guest house that is almost just as big. The backyard is huge. It's easily big enough for a good game of football or even baseball, something you don't see a lot of in California. C-Train and I will take the guest house because we are, without a doubt, the only people on the face of the earth who could tolerate living with each other. Plus, that's where the air-hockey table is. The pair of us share the same off-beat plans for interior design. Crawford will be contributing a painting he made in elementary school that features a sword-wielding rat, while I will be displaying a portrait of the one and only Sean Connery. Not young, good looking, James Bond era Sean Connery mind you, this picture is of the old, bald, depends wearing Sean Connery. We also have the same Blues Brothers movie poster that we have been talking about hanging next to each other ever since we got them in junior high. Living together is going to be very interesting.

Muffin will be our front man in the main house. His job is simple, he must keep up the appearance of normalcy so that neither C-Train's, nor my own LAPD background investigator will know what we're really like. This will work out nicely as Muffin can best be described as a 75 year-old-man trapped in the body of a 20 year-old. Let me explain; he is the only guy (my age) that I know of that listens to Dean Martin, refers to everyone as Sir or Ma'am, and always speaks with flawless grammar. Sometimes, his unwavering politeness can be a little hard to fathom.

Warning: Muffin is a nickname that only a select group of people are permitted to use, very few have earned the right. It's a lot like how a guy can say the most insulting things to his brother and it's all good, but if anyone else does, they're dead. Muffin's real name is the same as mine, and when we started to become good friends in high school, that caused a lot of confusion. Clearly one of us needed a nickname, so I dubbed him Muffin. It is my opinion that a good nickname must be either random or insulting, Muffin is both. Perhaps that is why it has stuck so well. Take my advice, if you ever encounter him, do not attempt to call him Muffin unless you have earned the right.

While we are on the subject, it should be noted that I am the undisputed king of nicknames. I have dubbed more alternative titles than I can remember. In high school, there was a kid that always tried to hang out with us. He was a nice enough guy, although I have the sneaking suspicion that he managed to make it all four years without taking a single shower. WOOF! Everyday it was worse. This rising crescendo of stink that never subsided. So of course, I dubbed him "the onion", as he smelled much like you'd expect a burning onion patch would. Just awfull. Another friend, named Rey, has become "little Rey of sunshine". That name is particularly enjoyable to shout in public.

Anyhoo, Muffin is a scholar and a gentlemen, and I have yet to persuade him to start his own blog. He will, no doubt, have a very respectable looking home that Crawford and I will endlessly enjoy messing up. Muffin is definitely the Felix to mine and Crawford's Oscar. It's amazing to me that he continues to put up with us.

Pecadillo's Picks, volume 1

2005-09-02T15:11:00.000-07:00

Every once in a while, I think a few recommendations are in order. Not just links to other blogs, mind you—but other excellent time-consuming media and products, too. The following is a list of quality time-wasters I have found particularly enjoyable.

TV
Has anyone seen that show on the National Geographic Channel called "The Dog "Whisperer"? That guy is awesome! Watching helpful shows about how to train your pet correctly or similar Animal-Planet-type topics is not usually my thing. Normally, I would much rather watch programs featuring real video clips of people getting mauled by a crazed circus elephant, a medical documentary about the effects of a flesh-eating virus, or news about an escaped Liger in Detroit. But there is something really cool about this guy. For one thing, his voice sounds like a pre-pubescent Ricardo Montalban. (Sadly, there is no counterpart for Tattoo on the program.) Still, the Dog Whisperer is able to turn even the meanest pit-bull into a cuddly little house dog, and every once in a while he gets bitten in the process.

BLOGS
Dave Cleland's got a winner. Don't get me wrong, I am in no way implying that Dave Cleland's blog is a total waste of time; it is actually sometimes edifying, and always one of my faves. However, a few months ago, he published a post in which he analyzed the endless debate of which is cooler: Pirates or Ninjas. It's without a doubt a very enjoyable read. As his central thesis is entirely incorrect, however, I deem that particular post a waste of time.

PRODUCTS
Last weekend, I purchased one of the most ingenious and essential kitchenware products I've ever seen. It's easily one of the greatest inventions since Gutenberg’s movable type printing-press. I'm speaking, of course, of the Chip & Salsa Sombrero hat tray.

The brim of the hat holds the chips (arranged in precisely the same manner as my famous chip-doughnut) and the top of the hat can be used to hold salsa or nacho cheese. The built-in cup that is designed to hold the salsa even detaches for easy cleaning. And what's more, it's dishwasher safe.

But wait; there's more. To uncover the salsa, one must press a button which simultaneously uncovers the dip and prompts the tray to play "Mexican Hat Dance". This thing is magical. This is surely something that will grace Pecadillo's actual kitchen for many years to come.

RESTAURANTS
My brother introduced me to one of the finest burrito joints known to man. A place that combines all the benefits of Subway's assembly-line style of preparation with the quality and freshness of Baja Fresh. The place is called Chipotle. If you've already discovered this fine franchise, then I congratulate you on your impeccably good taste. If you have yet to enjoy the magical burritos of which I speak, then I feel very sorry for you and suggest you get better friends. If you live in an area that has yet to boast its own Chipotle, then move. Do whatever you have to, just go there.

I always get the "Barbacoa" burrito (spicy braised and shredded beef) with pinto beans, rice, their hottest salsa, sour cream, and a generous amount of shredded cheddar cheese. You're going to need a large drink.

Worst Christmas Ever.

2005-08-30T10:41:00.000-07:00

Warning: the story you are about to read is extremely troubling, and not suitable for small children. But I think it's a good cautionary tale about the dangers of excess.

The day after Christmas 1998, I witnessed one of the most disturbing things imaginable. It was late morning, around 9:00 AM, when I decided to eat a baked potato for breakfast, a meal I would soon regret. As I stood in my kitchen, I heard the unmistakable sound of a woman screaming. You can always tell the difference between a playful scream and a genuine scream; the sound a little girl makes while playing is far different than the scream that emits from a woman who has, say, discovered she's run out of canned pineapple while she's halfway through a Jello® recipe.

This lady was clearly in trouble. Her incoherent cries seemed to be coming from the direction of the community swimming pool. (We lived in a condominium development, and the pool was located right across the street from our unit.) When I looked out the upper window, I saw the screaming lady standing over the jacuzzi, too much in shock to move. I instructed my mom to call 9-1-1 as I started downstairs to see what was going on. Upon arrival, I immediately wished I had stayed inside. The woman had found the body of a dead man floating in the jacuzzi.

"Chestnuts roasting on an open fire..."

The dead guy—let's call him . . . "Stu"—had just been released from prison a day or two earlier, and had pretty much been drinking ever since. Stu decided that (in the spirit of Christmas) he would spend Boxing Day drinking in the jacuzzi. Although this was a particularly warm holiday season, Jack Frost was most assuredly "nipping at his nose," if you know what I mean. So the new parolee set out to enjoy his first days of freedom with copious amounts of the most unnecessary pool accessory of all—a case of hootch.

Worst of all, at some point during a long night of boozing in the jacuzzi, our hero decided the next best way to celebrate the holiday was to release himself from the uncomfortable bindings of his bathing suit. Now, I don't want to be judgmental, and he was, after all, a new parolee enjoying real freedom for the first time in who knows how long, but I think getting naked and drunk while flying solo in a community jacuzzi right under the warning sign would have been enough to guarantee Stu a lump of coal next Christmas anyway.

Anyhoo, sometime in the early morning hours, with the combined effects of so much alcohol and steaming hot, foaming jacuzzi-water, Stu experienced exactly what the large, red-lettered warning sign next to the jacuzzi said would happen.

Intoxication combined with excessive heat plays havoc with a person's blood presure. Stu had apparently passed out and subsequently drowned.

Poor Stu's corpse must have simmered a few hours before the neighbor-lady located him. And that's how I came to be standing over his ghostly-white, naked, lifeless body—with a piece of my baked potato still in my mouth and Stu's ghetto blaster still pumping out the poignant strains of Lynyrd Skynyrd's "Freebird."

Merry Christmas indeed.

When Pecadillo was abroad.

2005-08-28T21:32:00.000-07:00

Last February, I had the pleasure of visiting what is now my third favorite place in the world; London, England. (1st being my grandparents' house in Oklahoma, 2nd being Disneyland, and—in case you're wondering—4th is the Del Taco on the corner of Soledad and Bouquet Canyon Road.)

Pecadillo in Piccadilly

Anyhoo, in just a week, London earned itself a place in my heart previously occupied only by chili-fries and dancing midgets. I was surprised, however, to find that most of what I thought to be true about the Old World was actually based on common misconceptions.

For instance, the food is actually pretty good. I found myself a reasonably good Mexican-food restaurant, a superb English-food place called Porters, and, I'm pleased to report that British Sausage McMuffins are served with two sausage patties. How 'bout that! One night, I ate a chicken dinner at a friend's house that was easily as good as any home-made chicken I'd had anywhere else.

A nap in the tower of London

Also, prior to my trip abroad, I was a coffee drinker. Not everyday, but I dug it. However, after being introduced to "English Tea" (tea with milk in it) I don't think I'll ever go back. And did you know that you don't have to use a tea bag to make tea???

Not everyone in England is named "Nigel." In fact, I didn't meet a single bona fide Nigel the whole time I was there. Now that one caught me off guard. In all the movies, British people always have names like that. Not only was my visit to London Nigel-free, I didn't meet a single "Alister," "Sinclair," "Mandrake," or even an "Artful Dodger." Surprisingly, I actually met guys named Tony, Jon, and Peter.

We totally get lied to by Hollywood.

At John Bunyan's Tomb

Pecadillo's Kitchen volume 1

2005-08-25T21:47:00.000-07:00

After carefully contemplating what my next post should be, I think I may have come up with something very helpful. It is my belief that a good post should be both entertaining, and useful. It is also my belief that many of my readers are a lot like me: single, with no signs of that changing anytime soon. What could be more useful than teaching my terminally single friends how to make the world's greatest nachos?

First of all, I think a warning is in order; if you're one of those people who refuses to cook anything without a list of exact measurements, then don't bother reading this; you will never hear such a thing from me. You know who you are—the type of person who will actually rake a cup of flour with a knife, so that your measurement is as precise as possible. If that's you, you make me sick. Where's your sense of adventure? How do you expect to improve your recipes? Instead of cups and quarts, I go by the Pecadillo Standard Measurement System; consisting of mostly handfuls and, well—more handfuls. If I were like you, I never would have discovered that the trick to making really, really, really, incredibly, good Kraft Macaroni & Cheese is to add nearly twice as much milk and butter than the directions say. GOSH!

Anyhoo, another warning: don't expect any strange or hard-to-come-by ingredients from me. I'm well aware that most people think it's cool to offer recipes filled with herbs and spices you've never heard of. I'm sorry, but if you have to travel all over the world just to obtain the required ingredients, that kind of defeats the purpose of cooking at home. Not only are my ingredients easy to find; they're cheap.

Also, two very crucial facts should be noted; I am by no means a cultured person, and I grew up in L. A. This pretty much means everything I cook is an Americanized rip-off of an otherwise excellent Mexican meal. Translation: If I cooked it, you can bet it's going to be very spicy and very unhealthy.

Another thing: whenever I give you a recipe, I may suggest brand names, but I leave it up to you to decide what brands to use. That may come as a shock, but it is quite logical. Have you ever eaten over at a friend's house, and everything tasted weird? You know what I'm talking about; the milk tastes strange, the bread's all wrong. They use fake butter. I hate that. Everyone has their preferences. That's why I don't force mine upon you. I will only ever suggest what works for me.

And finally, anything from Pecadillo's kitchen is meant to be consumed by a man. I have yet to meet a woman who shares my culinary tastes. Any and all recipes of mine are meant exclusively for men; don't hold your breath for Pecadillo's Fondue Recipe. If you're a woman, and if after reading my description you feel you might enjoy the World's Greatest Nachos, then by all means, give 'em a shot. Just don't say I didn't warn you.

That being said, here's what you'll need:

Tortilla chips (preferably Mission Corn Tortilla Chips)
Grated sharp cheddar cheese (it's a bit on the pricey side but Tillamook is the best)
A can of your favorite chili (If you don't already know what your favorite can of chili is, then stop reading this. In fact, don't ever show your fancy-boy face at this blog again)
A jar of jalapeños (Mission has made yet another contribution to my refrigerator)
Bottled hot pepper sauce (your preference; but there is NO beating Cholula)
A carton of sour cream (Knudson is mighty fine)
A bottle of salsa (I prefer Herdez)

Arrange your chips on a plate like a ring, with a hole in the middle. I call this "the chip-doughnut." After you have heated your chili in a separate dish, apply a generous amount in the middle of the chip-doughnut. This may sound strange, but it is essential. Most people just pile the chips on the plate with the chili on top. Unfortunately, by the time you reach the bottom of the nachos, your chips will be too greasy from the chili. If doing this does not cause your chips to become soggy with orange grease, then you prefer a pathetic excuse for chili and are no longer welcome at this blog.

After filling the chip-doughnut with the chili goodness, it's time to add the cheese. Here's a valuable rule of thumb. There is no such thing as too much cheese. Taking heed of this rule will do wonders for you if you plan on mastering anything and everything from Pecadillo's Kitchen. Just be sure to apply the cheese as evenly as possible, allowing for even melting. Next, you add the jalapeños and hot-sauce (better be Cholula). No rules as to quantity; all I ask is that you refer to them with my preferred pronunciation: "jah LOP a noes."

Now it's time to microwave. All microwaves are different, so I won't specify time. I've found that it works much better if you nuke it in several small spurts as opposed to one long nuking. Also, it is important to cover your plate with a splash guard. Failing to do so will dry out your entire plate of nachos. The only other thing you need to know here is that you should wait until all your cheese is completely melted; count to five; then stop the microwave. If you cook them too long, you'll notice that the cheese begins to bubble and form a hard texture. If this occurs, you've just ruined the nachos and are now forced to start over. Assuming the nuking went well, remove your nachos from the microwave, and apply sour cream to taste. More is better.

Now pour yourself an extra large drink and enjoy.

jenius

2005-08-23T23:45:00.000-07:00

Is it just me, or is the word "genius" being thrown around way too much today? Apparently everyone today is a genius. Musicians, comedians, artists, and athletes alike are all widely acknowledged for their talents and declared geniuses.

For instance, ever since the Ray Charles movie came out, and it became cool to pretend you listen to his music, people have been very generous with their assessment of the man's talent. Would somebody please explain to me how Ray Charles qualifies as a genius? Clearly it took a lot of talent for a blind guy to play the piano so well, especially when you consider how "coked up" he was half the time. But was he really a genius? No. Ray Charles was simply a very talented blind guy.

You want to talk about a genius; the guy who invented the churro, that dude's a genius. I'd pay ten bucks to see a movie about that guy any day.

When to quit

2005-08-23T00:23:00.000-07:00

Have you ever been at a mall or amusement park and seen a "leash kid"? You either have or you haven't, it's not the type of thing that is easily forgotten. If you have managed to avoid such an unsettling display, I'll explain. A "leash kid" is a child that has apparently proven themselves untrustworthy in their legal guardian's eyes, and have consequently been sentenced to be permanently harnessed to their parents whenever in public. The leash usually goes from the parents arm to the child's arm, although I have seen on numerous occasions a leash that extends from the parents hand to a harness that the child wears much like a backpack.

I went to Disneyland today (one of my favorite places in the world) and saw a few of these unfortunate children tethered to their parents. What's even more bizarre, is when the parents have multiple children. It's not a pretty sight when the kids get all tangled up. Strangely, most leash kids seem to be old enough to be somewhat on their own. Most of the ones I saw today looked like they were at least six or seven.

Anyhoo, the point of all this is not to bash leash kids or even their parents. Today, I was reminded of a painfully awkward moment that happened in Disneyland a few years ago. I came across a seven or eight year old boy with a leash and made a crack to my (then) girlfriend. The joke went something like, "I wonder if the kid has had flea shots or if he just wears a collar." I seem to remember expecting to hear her laugh or at least chuckle. What I got was silence. I figured her lack of response was due to the possibility that either she didn't hear me or maybe the flea joke was too obvious. Either way, I felt I needed to make another attempt. So, in my ever-present lack of discernment and general stupidity, I went in for the kill.

"I wonder if he has his own dish or if they just keep the seat up for him?" This time, instead of just silence, I got "the look". I think every man in the world knows what that look is like. Surely my toilet seat joke hadn't been too obvious.

In my characteristically unthoughtfull and ill-perceptive nature I frantically tried to think of another zinger. Had I actually thought before I spoke, I would have saved myself more trouble. In my mind, there wasn't time to think, after all, comedic timing was at stake here; leash-boy was walking (actually, being led) away. Thankfully, before I could think of another joke, she cut me off.

She promptly informed me that she herself had once been a "leash kid" and she really didn't appreciate my comments.

And so the silence began.

Words cannot describe the feeling I felt in my gut. The closest thing I can relate it to is the way it feels when you're in a car that has just rear-ended another car, only my feeling lasted the rest of the day. I'm not sure who spoke first but, I do remember the silence lasted quite some time. In telling this story, I cannot help but think of James 3. And now, whenever I walk by the teacups, I'm reminded of that awkward silence and my foot shaped mouth.

Yet another reason to bring my nunchucks to work.

2005-08-20T23:19:00.000-07:00

While working my day-job at a local fish and aquarium store last week, an irate customer attempted to provoke a fight with my boss. The man looked like a cross between a bad Steven Seagal impersonator and the bad guy from The Karate Kid III. Under normal circumstances, such a person would not arouse much physical intimidation. However, on this particular day, our friend was accessorizing a "Crocodile Dundee" style knife on his belt. To be fair, it was really more like a small sword. Anyhoo, it's still unclear why he became so infuriated but one question has baffled me ever since:
What is more frightening, a man who carries a two foot knife on his belt, or a guy who tries to look like Steven Seagal?

Is it really that hard?

2005-08-18T20:42:00.000-07:00

Have you ever shaken someone's hand, and immediately wished you hadn't? We've all been there. Here you are, engaging in our polite and civilized method of greeting one another, and what do you get? A cold, moist, seemingly lifeless and ill-placed handshake. WOOF!

Why do guys do that? I say guys because women are supposed to have soft handshakes. Men, however, are supposed to have a man's handshake. That's like, one of the requirements.

Last December, while attending Les Miserables in downtown Hollywood, I noticed that pseudo-celebrity John Tesh was seated a few rows in front of me. During the intermission, I found myself standing behind him in the snack line. Now I don't know why, but for some reason I find it funny to meet lame celebrities. Not A-listers, mind you, I'm talking about E-listers here. If I were on a plane with Tom Hanks or George Clooney, I really wouldn't think much of it. However, the novelty of meeting a person like Mr. T or the kid from the Dell commercials is extremely amusing to me; I still enjoy telling people about the time I ran into Sinbad at Tower records.

Anyhoo, there I was, standing behind the eight-foot-tall gargantuan known to the world as John Tesh, and I decided to make contact. At this point, there were two very important facts I was overlooking that would have convinced me to abort my mission; 1. He is an established pianist, and 2. He is John Tesh. Either of those helpful pieces of information would have been enough to rule out any chance of receiving a real handshake. Nevertheless I shook the man's hand.

At first I thought he must have been holding a dead octopus. It most certainly did not feel like a hand, or any recognizable extremity for that matter. When I looked down to see what it was I was shaking, I realized it was his bare hand I was holding. I was speechless. What could he have been doing to make his hand feel like that? Does he soak it in mayonnaise? Had it been frozen and then recently thawed? Had he sustained some sort of chemical burn? Not likely. Unfortunately there was and is no logical explanation for the moistness of that man's hand. However the strength, or lack there of, can and should be addressed. Sadly, this is not a problem that only a few people encounter. On the contrary, this is an epidemic that has haunted millions. When shaking a person's hand, there are a few rules to know:

1. If your palms are sweaty, wipe them off on something before you shake someone's hand. Anything will do; your shirt, the inside of your pocket, the family dog, anything. Just don't allow another person to touch your hands if you've been stricken with "Tesh syndrome".

2. Get your palm square onto your partner's. None of this half-handshake monkey business. There is never, EVER a reason for that to happen. Nobody wants your lifeless hand slothfully latched onto theirs. Be a man! Get your entire hand all the way around the other guy's. Remember, your shaking hands, not fingers. If you have ever violated rule number two you should be ashamed of yourself.

3. Don't get fancy. All too often people attempt to cover up their poor hand shaking skills by adding a snap or a slap or any combination of non-shaking movements. Remember, your not an expert. If any of these rules seem new to you then chances are, you'll never be an expert. While we're on the subject, Pastors and Seminary students alike seem to enjoy adding an arm-grab at the end. If you've never witnessed this, try to imagine a normal handshake, only with the left hand (typically the non-shaking hand) placed on the tricep of the shakee's right arm. It's almost like a way of securing the normal shake, forging a solid greeting that is unmistakably diplomatic. This form of handshake is acceptable, however it's usually reserved for Pastors and/or anyone over the age 65.

4. Never shake hands with John Tesh. I learned this rule the hard way.