Do Whales Eat People?

Recently, a Facebook thread shared the attached picture, which generated discussion regarding the fear of being around such immense creatures, and what harm they might do to the average you-and-me kinda Joe. It was suggested that mankind not need to fear these behemoths of the deep, because they do not view us as a food source. Au contraire mon frère!

The ignorance of the comments within the post, most notably, “I think whales only eat people in make believe stories like Pinocchio or the Bible”, shows a complete lack of knowledge, and a gullibility to accept one man’s common sense over scientific proof captured on film. I warn you: The footage contained in this actual, real-live evidence is not for the faint of heart.

You have been warned.

In Accord with The Law

A couple mornings ago, I took my two youngest (we refer to them as “The Little Ones”, even though they both are now many inches taller than their mother) to their weekly piano lesson, I noticed there was something stuck to the hood of the car belonging to my oldest son (one of whom we refer to as “The Big Ones. Again, both of whom stand many inches taller than their mother). It had been a couple weeks since I had driven the car myself, as it is a secondary vehicle to the big Ford Expedition family car. The thing on the hood really stood out.

After dropping them off at the piano teacher’s house (a small mobile home owned by a diminutive grandmotherly type with the heart of a lion and an iron fist teaching style), I headed off to the local Barnes & Noble to get some study done for my Sunday lesson. After reaching the parking lot, I inspected the hood to determine the identity of the foreign object on the hood of the four-door go cart that resides about 28 days a month in the same footprint since its last trip to the grocery store.

At first, I thought it was a rare earth magnet. It had a ring of rust around it as though it had been there for a winter in the Rust Belt, or a week in the Pacific Northwest. I barely cloaked my irritation with whichever of my kids (Little Ones: Member #2) that put it there... until I realized that the reason I couldn’t pull it off of the hood was because it wasn’t on the hood. It was partially imbedded in the hood. It was a bullet. “Now, there’s something you don’t see every day!” I said to myself aloud...

After I got back from my kid-shuttling duties, I dropped by the Shoreline Police Department to file a report. My dad told me it was often the small tips that lead to the big arrests, and sometimes the most seemingly inconsequential piece of evidence sometimes was the key that brought a case together. Who knows? Maybe what I thought to be a late night of Cinco de Mayo afterglow was, in fact, the missing link to Al Capone’s vaults (your ability to get this is dependent upon: 1) Whether you read my blog, and 2) Your age.)

The officer who stopped by the house to fill out the report was very nice. Seattle is a great big small town, so imagine Barney Fife with a new squad car, and you will have a pretty good lead for where this is going, as well as the general theme for the story. Or is it mood? Regardless...

“You the guy whose car got shot?”

“That would be me...”

“Seriously?”

“Yep...”

“You sure?”

“Pretty sure!” says I, pointing at the bullet in the hood.

“Wow. That’s pretty rude,” says Officer Fife. Crime, in Seattle, seems to be based more upon etiquette than upon actual laws... unless, of course, a salmon is involved. “Wow.” (got that the first time)

“So,” says I, trying to strike up a bit of conversation that takes us beyond three-letter exclamations, “Do you think that’s a 9mm, or a .32 caliber? It’s definitely not a .45, right?”

“Your guess is as good as mine!”

Really? Seriously? What if I guessed it as a Shoshone tomahawk* from the time of Lewis & Clark...? Would that give me a chance at a prize bigger than, “Wow!”?

*the more astute readers among you most likely jumped with immediacy upon the reference to a Shoshone tomahawk with disdain. Alright... pukamoggran, then!

“Do you mind if I take it with me?” Officer Fife asked. At this point, I wasn’t really sure if it was for himself, or for “back at the lab” where the deeper mysteries of the Shoreline Police Department were discussed. “That’s fine,” I answered.

“Got anything to get that thing out? Pair of pliers? Hammer? Vice grips?” Something was telling me about now that ballistics had no chance of seeing my hood ornament make it back to the home base. “Uh... Sure.”

After I pounded the copper projectile into an orb-like lump, Officer Fife produced a single, professional, black latex-free glove from his right breast pocket (they must be professional: The ones at Costco are blue, the ones in my physician’s office are not nearly as smooth) and gingerly took the prize from my cold, not-so-dead-hands. “Thanks!”

“I wonder how it got there?” Instead of reply with “Maybe someone used a gun?”, I suggested that a party reveler may have joyfully let loose with a skyward round, as that the bullet itself did not pass through the hood, but merely lodged in it, seemingly falling from the sky. “Got anybody who might want to hurt you?” he asked, eyes narrowing into calculating slits. Pointing at the sky, I offered a meek explanation of, “This seems to have fallen from the sky. I’m pretty sure I am safe from any malice in that department.”

“O.K.” He seemed satisfied. “We’ll be in touch if we hear anything.”

I am not planning on leaving town any time soon. One never knows. Especially now that my fingerprints are now safely locked away in somebody’s pocket... I mean, forensics lab.

...take a look at THIS!!! (Part 2)

There’s this show on the internet called “Portlandia.” It is a comedy based on the stereotypes in the city of Portland, OR (for all my midwest friends, the correct way to pronounce Oregon is somewhere in between “OR-ragun” and “Orgun," and NOT “ORE-ra-GON”). Candace and I have watched a couple episodes and have just died laughing. The humor of the show stands alone on it own, but what really caps it for us is that they just nail the idiosyncrasies of not just the people of Portland, but of the Pacific Northwest in general.

Seattle and Portland have an interesting relationship. Portland is like the city that time forgot, and Seattle is like the city that thinks it is ahead of the curve, but is actually 10-years behind... Seattle is a big small town, and Portland is its weird cousin from the South. But that is a different story...

Where was I? Ah, yes....

At last, Candace and I could hear each other talk! It was wonderful! We sipped our drinks and crunched our chips and salsa and enjoyed each other’s company. We discussed her night at work, my day at the office, our kids, our summer plans, Aidan going off to college... It was refreshing!

We also spent time discussing what we had just witnessed, and as we did so, our feelings went from irritation to compassion, mostly for Wonder Twin #2 who appeared to be thinking she had it all going on with Wonder Twin #1, but he was, in fact, a loser who was ready to go behind her back with her best friend (Third Wheel) the moment an opportunity arose (or when she was in the bathroom, as the case presented itself to be). We had compassion for Third Wheel, who seemed desperate the whole night to have someone... ANYone... pay attention to her. The need to be loved and appreciated runs in us all deeply, and often we grab the counterfeit to fill the spot that only the genuine can fill. We had a harder time having compassion for Wonder Twin #1, but we knew that he was just as broken and in need of repair as the rest of us.

Our conversation was cut short when the hostess brought another couple to the table next to us (I told you this was anything but over!). They looked like a combination of Portland and two of the Muppets characters: She was shaped like Professor Honeydew, with bleached-white hair and jet black roots, piercings in her lips, nose, ears and eyebrows, wearing all black and Doc Martin boots. She was about 5’6”, and could easily take me in a sumo-esque fashion. Beaker, on the other hand was about 5’10”, and most likely tipped the scales at no more than 140-pounds, which included the weight of the large leather wallet and dog collar chain that held it fast to his belt. In typical Portland style, he wore a skin tight, short sleeved plaid shirt with skinny jeans. The mutton-chop sideburns were accented by gauge-pierced ears, horn-rimmed glasses, and in lieu of the traditional trucker hat, our new neighbor wore a Detroit Tigers ball cap. Hold on kids... this one is going to be a wild ride.

Silence. Not a word. They both just sat there, staring blankly at each other, expressionless... as though their favorite free trade coffee company had gone corporate on the S&P 500. It was spooky. The kind of spooky that only Rod Serling could create. The highlight of our night’s people watching seemed to be over, because Honeydew and Beaker weren’t providing any more entertainment eating chips and salsa than a pair of mice nibbling cheese. Was it a first date? Perhaps a blind date? There appeared to be intimacy issues, to say the least. Candace and I finished our food and drink and conversation without any further interruption

As our waitress collected our bill and payment, I turned to our neighbors and told them how much we appreciated sharing space with them, and how pleasant they were as our dining companions. “Plus,” I said, referring to Beaker’s ball cap, “you guys are Tigers fans.” Historically speaking, the only greater sleeping tiger ever awakened was done so on an Infamous Day back in 1941. Nuclear detonators hold back less energy than what was now unleashed.

Honeydew exploded with joyful exuberance, nearly knocking the chips and salsa into the next dining room. “YOU GUYS ARE TIGERS FANS?!?!?! NOOOO WAAAAAYYYYYY!!!!!!”

My single friendly comment sparked a firestorm of conversation and knuckle-bumping around the table that is most often reserved for when your team wins the pennant, or in the Pacific Northwest, you successfully navigate your smart car out of a 2-inch snow drift. Candace once again was staring wide-eyed at the occupants of the table immediately to her left, but this time, the corners of her mouth were turned upwards in an astonished smile as her jaw hung wide and agape. Getting caught up in this new level of excitement, I announced that I was born in Detroit, which was received with even greater enthusiasm and a double round of knuckle-bumping. The volume continued to escalate as Honeydew excitedly shared her love for baseball, the Tigers, the city of Detroit, and eventually, her astonishment for how we knew they were Tigers fans. She was overwhelmed with the mystical ability I must have conjured from within my deep and powerful spirit to sense the presence of other like-minded individuals. “TELL ME HOW YOU KNEW WE WERE TIGERS FANS TOO?!?!” she demanded.

I quickly surmised that a sarcastic remark or a deceptive jest would have the power to hurt these two. I saw them, then, through different eyes... They were gregarious to be loved and accepted, and in community with someone other than themselves, and were seeking fellowship and unity and koinonia. To mess with them, even for an innocent laugh, might place a stumbling block before them. Who was I to shut them down and invite a tit-for-tat retaliation that might bring further woes to our already sordid evening? “Uh, actually, I just guessed because of your hat,” I said, pointing now to the big embroidered D on Beaker’s forehead. “That’s how I knew you were Tigers fans.”

Nothing in my 44 years of walking this earth could have prepared me for what came next. Nothing.

A light of recognition and understanding lit within Honeydew’s eyes as she spoke.
“IF YOU THINK THAT’S SOMETHING...”
And with all the power of David Copperfield, she drew our eyes like a great conjurer to follow her hands, which moved as lightning to raise her shirt and expose her more than ample bosom.
“...TAKE A LOOK AT THIS!!!”

Plastered to the side of her right breast, in 360-point, Detroit Tigers Old English font was the famous “Big D.” Time stood still. The restaurant went silent. Eyes as big as pie-plates, Candace and I stared in shock at the wares displayed before us, unable to speak, move, or react. I finally broke free of the spell and offered up a weak “woo hoo!!! detroit!!!” before the last round of knuckle-bumping commenced. Candace and I offered a couple more for good measure, and to keep Honeydew’s hands busy from committing any other surprise pronouncements.

During the next few minutes, we were submerged in a stream of words as the story of her inking unfolded. Frankly, I do not remember a word of it. I was in a state of semi-shock. Candace and I gently extricated ourselves from the conversation before we were invited into a deeper level of intimacy, and walked briskly to the front door. As soon as we crossed the threshold and were on the sidewalk, we both exploded with laughter. I have not laughed that hard in a very long time. We laughed all the way to the car, and during the 15-minute car ride home as well. We laughed for probably an additional 30 minutes.

Seattle is home to humanity, in all its beauty and all of its brokeness. And even though we are 2346 miles away from Comerica Park, we are never really that far away from The Big D.

...take a look at THIS!!!

...Take a Look at THIS!!!


There’s this show on the internet called “Portlandia.” It is a comedy based on the stereotypes in the city of Portland, OR (for all my midwest friends, the correct way to pronounce Oregon is somewhere in between “OR-ragun” and “Orgun," and NOT “ORE-ra-GON”). Candace and I have watched a couple episodes and have just died laughing. The humor of the show stands alone on it own, but what really caps it for us is that they just nail the idiosyncrasies of not just the people of Portland, but of the Pacific Northwest in general.

Seattle and Portland have an interesting relationship. Portland is like the city that time forgot, and Seattle is like the city that thinks it is ahead of the curve, but is actually 10-years behind... Seattle is a big small town, and Portland is its weird cousin from the South. But that is a different story...

Where was I? Ah, yes....

At last, Candace and I could hear each other talk! It was wonderful! We sipped our drinks and crunched our chips and salsa and enjoyed each other’s company. We discussed her night at work, my day at the office, our kids, our summer plans, Aidan going off to college... It was refreshing!

We also spent time discussing what we had just witnessed, and as we did so, our feelings went from irritation to compassion, mostly for Wonder Twin #2 who appeared to be thinking she had it all going on with Wonder Twin #1, but he was, in fact, a loser who was ready to go behind her back with her best friend (Third Wheel) the moment an opportunity arose (or when she was in the bathroom, as the case presented itself to be). We had compassion for Third Wheel, who seemed desperate the whole night to have someone... ANYone... pay attention to her. The need to be loved and appreciated runs in us all deeply, and often we grab the counterfeit to fill the spot that only the genuine can fill. We had a harder time having compassion for Wonder Twin #1, but we knew that he was just as broken and in need of repair as the rest of us.

Our conversation was cut short when the hostess brought another couple to the table next to us (I told you this was anything but over!). They looked like a combination of Portland and two of the Muppets characters: She was shaped like Professor Honeydew, with bleached-white hair and jet black roots, piercings in her lips, nose, ears and eyebrows, wearing all black and Doc Martin boots. She was about 5’6”, and could easily take me in a sumo-esque fashion. Beaker, on the other hand was about 5’10”, and most likely tipped the scales at no more than 140-pounds, which included the weight of the large leather wallet and dog collar chain that held it fast to his belt. In typical Portland style, he wore a skin tight, short sleeved plaid shirt with skinny jeans. The mutton-chop sideburns were accented by gauge-pierced ears, horn-rimmed glasses, and in lieu of the traditional trucker hat, our new neighbor wore a Detroit Tigers ball cap. Hold on kids... this one is going to be a wild ride.

Silence. Not a word. They both just sat there, staring blankly at each other, expressionless... as though their favorite free trade coffee company had gone corporate on the S&P 500. It was spooky. The kind of spooky that only Rod Serling could create. The highlight of our night’s people watching seemed to be over, because Honeydew and Beaker weren’t providing any more entertainment eating chips and salsa than a pair of mice nibbling cheese. Was it a first date? Perhaps a blind date? There appeared to be intimacy issues, to say the least. Candace and I finished our food and drink and conversation without any further interruption

As our waitress collected our bill and payment, I turned to our neighbors and told them how much we appreciated sharing space with them, and how pleasant they were as our dining companions. “Plus,” I said, referring to Beaker’s ball cap, “you guys are Tigers fans.” Historically speaking, the only greater sleeping tiger ever awakened was done so on an Infamous Day back in 1941. Nuclear detonators hold back less energy than what was now unleashed.

Honeydew exploded with joyful exuberance, nearly knocking the chips and salsa into the next dining room. “YOU GUYS ARE TIGERS FANS?!?!?! NOOOO WAAAAAYYYYYY!!!!!!”

My single friendly comment sparked a firestorm of conversation and knuckle-bumping around the table that is most often reserved for when your team wins the pennant, or in the Pacific Northwest, you successfully navigate your smart car out of a 2-inch snow drift. Candace once again was staring wide-eyed at the occupants of the table immediately to her left, but this time, the corners of her mouth were turned upwards in an astonished smile as her jaw hung wide and agape. Getting caught up in this new level of excitement, I announced that I was born in Detroit, which was received with even greater enthusiasm and a double round of knuckle-bumping. The volume continued to escalate as Honeydew excitedly shared her love for baseball, the Tigers, the city of Detroit, and eventually, her astonishment for how we knew they were Tigers fans. She was overwhelmed with the mystical ability I must have conjured from within my deep and powerful spirit to sense the presence of other like-minded individuals. “TELL ME HOW YOU KNEW WE WERE TIGERS FANS TOO?!?!” she demanded.

I quickly surmised that a sarcastic remark or a deceptive jest would have the power to hurt these two. I saw them, then, through different eyes... They were gregarious to be loved and accepted, and in community with someone other than themselves, and were seeking fellowship and unity and koinonia. To mess with them, even for an innocent laugh, might place a stumbling block before them. Who was I to shut them down and invite a tit-for-tat retaliation that might bring further woes to our already sordid evening? “Uh, actually, I just guessed because of your hat,” I said, pointing now to the big embroidered D on Beaker’s forehead. “That’s how I knew you were Tigers fans.”

Nothing in my 44 years of walking this earth could have prepared me for what came next. Nothing.

A light of recognition and understanding lit within Honeydew’s eyes as she spoke.
“IF YOU THINK THAT’S SOMETHING...”
And with all the power of David Copperfield, she drew our eyes like a great conjurer to follow her hands, which moved as lightning to raise her shirt and expose her more than ample bosom.
“...TAKE A LOOK AT THIS!!!”

Plastered to the side of her right breast, in 360-point, Detroit Tigers Old English font was the famous “Big D.” Time stood still. The restaurant went silent. Eyes as big as pie-plates, Candace and I stared in shock at the wares displayed before us, unable to speak, move, or react. I finally broke free of the spell and offered up a weak “woo hoo!!! detroit!!!” before the last round of knuckle-bumping commenced. Candace and I offered a couple more for good measure, and to keep Honeydew’s hands busy from committing any other surprise pronouncements.

During the next few minutes, we were submerged in a stream of words as the story of her inking unfolded. Frankly, I do not remember a word of it. I was in a state of semi-shock. Candace and I gently extricated ourselves from the conversation before we were invited into a deeper level of intimacy, and walked briskly to the front door. As soon as we crossed the threshold and were on the sidewalk, we both exploded with laughter. I have not laughed that hard in a very long time. We laughed all the way to the car, and during the 15-minute car ride home as well. We laughed for probably an additional 30 minutes.

Seattle is home to humanity, in all its beauty and all of its brokeness. And even though we are 2346 miles away from Comerica Park, we are never really that far away from The Big D.

If You Think THAT'S Something... (Part 1)

stream together.

Thursday night.  May 5, 2011.  Cinco de Mayo.  

After I finally found a parking space in the Greenlake community (it is easier to find a Republican in this liberal community than it is to find a parking space), I found my bride close to the front of the long line of party revelers entering our favorite local watering hole.  The music was loud, the margaritas were obviously being poured in record numbers by the mood of the cliental, and the smell of the food rolled out into the street in front of the shop.  This place was anything but quiet.

We decided to go in and people watch.  I had a couple beers with the nachos, Candace had a natural margarita, and we both got an eyeful that evening, in the people watching department.  The fun began in the last category the moment we first sat down.  Immediately to my right was a trio of celebrants who had, by all visible account, gotten an early start on the evening.  One guy and two ladies swapped conversational anecdotes laden with profanities, obscenities, and an occasional blasphemy thrown in for good measure.  I just looked across the table at Candace and smiled at our “good fortune”.  She wasn’t looking at me, however.  Her attention was captured by the behavior of our three neighbors, all of whom were about our age. 

While the man and his (quite obvious) um... partner were all over each other, the third wheel friend shouted across the small cocktail table to her love-struck and intoxicated partners in crime (alright, their behavior was not criminal, but it certainly would have garnered them a ticket if done in a public park).  The entire time they sat talking, the language was loud, crude, and interrupted only by outbreaks of physical passion, or possibly, inebriated flirtation.  As the drinks continued to arrive, so, too, did the eventual restroom break.  As the feminine half of the power-passion Wonder Twins excused herself from the table with one last tonsillectomy of her be-lusted, Candace stared with eyes wide and mouth agape.

It gets better.

Wonder Twin #2 isn’t gone from the table more than thirty seconds before Third Wheel springs into action, and Wonder twin #1 reciprocates.  I think I have done a fine enough job detailing the private actions that were displayed for the public at a table that is just 3 feet away from us, so I will highlight the less carnal behaviors of our neighbors.

When Wonder Twin #2 returned to the table, everything had cooled down at ground zero, but the party was anything but over.  These three made more noise than almost everybody else in the whole place combined.  This is not close to an exaggeration, either, because when they were gone (after stumbling out of their seats, sitting on our table, falling all over each other and us), the whole place was quiet.  No more harpy-cackling or drunken, “Oh yeah, baby!” being shouted every dos minutos.

That whole episode lasted about 25 minutes, by the way.  Maybe 35.  Seemed like a couple days, but it was definitely less than an hour.

But wait.  It gets better.  Stick around for Part 2.

If You Think THAT'S Something...

This Posting is WAAAYYYYY overdue, but I just had to share it with you all.  Maybe this will be the one that gets me back into writing.

Back in May, Candace called me from work to suggest a quiet date-night for us.  She works next door to a great Mexican restaurant that is known for its nachos and margaritas.  I was a bit skeptical that we would have a “quiet” night, but she insisted that because it was a Thursday night, the neighborhood was relatively quiet.  It would be good to go out and blow off some stream together.

Thursday night.  May 5, 2011.  Cinco de Mayo.  

After I finally found a parking space in the Greenlake community (it is easier to find a Republican in this liberal community than it is to find a parking space), I found my bride close to the front of the long line of party revelers entering our favorite local watering hole.  The music was loud, the margaritas were obviously being poured in record numbers by the mood of the cliental, and the smell of the food rolled out into the street in front of the shop.  This place was anything but quiet.

We decided to go in and people watch.  I had a couple beers with the nachos, Candace had a natural margarita, and we both got an eyeful that evening, in the people watching department.  The fun began in the last category the moment we first sat down.  Immediately to my right was a trio of celebrants who had, by all visible account, gotten an early start on the evening.  One guy and two ladies swapped conversational anecdotes laden with profanities, obscenities, and an occasional blasphemy thrown in for good measure.  I just looked across the table at Candace and smiled at our “good fortune”.  She wasn’t looking at me, however.  Her attention was captured by the behavior of our three neighbors, all of whom were about our age. 

While the man and his (quite obvious) um... partner were all over each other, the third wheel friend shouted across the small cocktail table to her love-struck and intoxicated partners in crime (alright, their behavior was not criminal, but it certainly would have garnered them a ticket if done in a public park).  The entire time they sat talking, the language was loud, crude, and interrupted only by outbreaks of physical passion, or possibly, inebriated flirtation.  As the drinks continued to arrive, so, too, did the eventual restroom break.  As the feminine half of the power-passion Wonder Twins excused herself from the table with one last tonsillectomy of her be-lusted, Candace stared with eyes wide and mouth agape.

It gets better.

Wonder Twin #2 isn’t gone from the table more than thirty seconds before Third Wheel springs into action, and Wonder twin #1 reciprocates.  I think I have done a fine enough job detailing the private actions that were displayed for the public at a table that is just 3 feet away from us, so I will highlight the less carnal behaviors of our neighbors.

When Wonder Twin #2 returned to the table, everything had cooled down at ground zero, but the party was anything but over.  These three made more noise than almost everybody else in the whole place combined.  This is not close to an exaggeration, either, because when they were gone (after stumbling out of their seats, sitting on our table, falling all over each other and us), the whole place was quiet.  No more harpy-cackling or drunken, “Oh yeah, baby!” being shouted every dos minutos.

That whole episode lasted about 25 minutes, by the way.  Maybe 35.  Seemed like a couple days, but it was definitely less than an hour.

But wait.  It gets better.  Stick around for Part 2.

Kevie Needs a Holiday

Seriously... The brain has not been working all that well lately. Too much going on Too many tasks, appointments, meetings...
I need a holiday. I am a fried egg.