Flipping birds since 1983

Crosswords are a crazed passion of mine. Everyday I wake up and head down to a previously mentioned cafe and crack open both the daily NYTimes and the syndicated one that appears in both the Seattle Times and the Post-Intelligencer. Heck I've even bough stacks of graph paper and tried to make a fifteen-by-fifteen puzzle all by myself.

Not with much luck, unfortunately.

I love Brendan Emmett Quigley's puzzle, though I can't find where he has his syndicated puzzle is located on the web, except for over at The Stranger. I've found his profile over at Cruciverb and a few articles about him writing puzzles but nothing that suggests a true presence on the web.

But that's really not the reason why I made a post about crosswords. I just came about Dictionary.com's puzzle "solver" here. Basically it's a few submit fields where you punch in the clue you're having trouble with, any letters you happen to have and the amount of results you would like to come back. Now, if I was on the internet looking for help on a crossword, isn't that what Google and Wikipedia are for? Yikes. I'm no blue-hair that requires a tome of answers every time I pick up a puzzle. That's just outrageous.

If you got BEQ's website it would be awesome if you were to leave it for me. If you happen to be Brendan and you happened upon this whilst ego manically searching for references to yourself, thanks for sadistically ticking me off. Keep it up, I like it.

So in the meantime, enjoy this picture of a baby hedgehog's poop chute.

The Bastard of Barnes & Noble... or STFU

I really don't know who in Seattle hasn't been to the University Village Barnes & Noble. It's been around since I was thirteen or so, so easily over a decade it has stood. Proudly and easily the cornerstone when University Village turned from quaint shopping center of North Seattle where all you really needed was an Ernst Home and Lamonts, now it boasts big chain names and unnecessary symbols. And apparently the second busiest Starbucks in the entire world.

I heard you gasp.

A few years ago while unemployed I made a really awesome habit of hanging out at the second floor near where the old computer annex used to be. They tore down a few unnecessary shelves and added a bunch of big comfy chairs where, I suppose, people are supposed to preview books. This was where I read The Da Vinci Code in less than six hours one afternoon, and tore through House of Leaves in the span of three. Afternoons, that is.

Well now that I'm still unemployed (the tap and grill in Ballard hasn't called me yet) I decided to commemorate the event this afternoon by checking out what I could tear through in an afternoon.

Sufficiently caffeinated and armed with a $1.50 Metro card, I rode the 65 down to North Seattle's clock tower.

Making my way up to the second floor I failed at really getting into a Cormac McCarthy book, so I picked up Jeff Lindsay's latest Dexter in the Dark. I bought this book for someone for Christmas this year but never got around to reading it.

As I'm reading about sixty pages into it, there's a guy, a smelly guy, talking loudly trying to woo two art students not but five and a half feet away. They relocated when he got up to go smoke a cigarette.

One hundred forty five pages.
An Asian kid sits across from him and out of fucking nowhere - hey-you-look-like-you-want-to-talk-politics! Smelly and Asian guy start talking. Now excuse me. But if you're in a public commercial space that has books and you happen to be in a common area where people around you are either studying or reading, wouldn't you too adopt a library like mentality? Does Smelly?

Six pages and fifteen minutes later.
I look up at him. "Hey buddy?"
"Am I talking too loud?"
"Yes, but-"
"OK I'll stop."
I thought that would end it. Granted he did talk quieter. For about...
Two pages and ten minutes later,
I just stand up. "Was I still being too loud?"
Me: "Obviously. I think a cafe would be a better forum for your politics."
"I'm sorry-"

I really hope karma bits that guy hard on a bus. If he's reading some political science or art history book, I hope some obnoxious Juggalo sits right down next to him and blasts shitty music through his ear buds. I'd never wish that on anyone. Except for a few. You people know who they are if you know me.

Have fun making up that hour tonight guys.

2 Urns 1 Cup

Thirty minutes before the Van Gogh closed today, I gave up on the crosswords. That's the NYT syndicated in the PI and the NYT itself. I was totally bitch-slapped. Heading to the coffee bar to refill my last drip coffee, one urn bubbled and spat the bottom of the pot. Refusing to give up and not leaving without a full cup of coffee, I headed to the other... the "French Roast". Not quite the even close competitor to its superior neighbor the "Sumatra", always my first choice. I pushed down on The Thing. Groaning, it gave easy evidence that, this too, would be expelled of all its sweet delicious nectar in the next few moments. A few more presses. The cup almost full.

Few more. Sputter. Spat.

The cup almost teeming. The percolator gave its final hurrah, the last ounce or so splashing.

I let out a small cry of victory careful not making myself a spectacle. No throwing both arms up in victory or anything, but just enough to let the two people in the cafe that I was triumphant. I grabbed the coffee pot and set it behind the danish tray.

"All done, huh?" The blond behind the counter asked. Presumably rhetorically.

"Two urns, one stone," I smiled. "Hasta luego."

I don't think she got it. But I thought it was totally awesome.

"Nothing quite as breathtaking..."

Shaved.

I've been watching this show starring Fox Mulder or Zalman King( OK, but he WAS on Red Shoe Diaries, but not the movie). Its called Californication, that Showtime show that nearly got raped from Flea and his band mates. Basically the show is just tits and ass, but for a half an hour you get David Duchovny ( I almost spelled that right the first time ) playing a burnt out has-been writer living in LA drinking and getting laid a lot. And he's surly.

He's basically Tommy Gavin, but without all the heartwrenching death.

The only thing I really don't like about the show is the really dumb opening. The show is centered around a character who loathes himself for being who he is in what age he's living in. He's a writer in the blog world. The opening credit sequence looks like a bad early 90s grunge video. But with no singing. If Fox Mulder were to star in Singles 2: Electric Boogaloo, it's already been made. Roll credits.

Confidential to Cass: Hollah.

Febru-arrrrrrr-y

I get first dibs on the new month.

Dibs.

Who wants to go drinking on the 29th with me. Promise it's not cheating. The day doesn't even exist, it's like the prologue to March. And who writes a prologue nowadays? It's called a PREQUEL.

Bartender logic

I'm at Earl's yesterday evening, drinking on Royal Crown Cola, not Crown Royal 'n Coke and shooting straight eight. I'm losing since I seriously believe that booze makes me better. One Jameson and two PBRs would set me in the zone. I have eye witnesses. Anyway, back to the game. Finding myself two games down already, I excuse myself from my new Japanese pool master(this guy was almost too good) and head back to the bar for a refill. The bartender, who has been pouring me Tanqueray and tonics since I turned 21, says, "More Coke?"

"Please."

"You know it is a bad habit." (The bartender is French.)

"What? Coke? What about gin?"

I know how it works, unless the patron is either your best friend or the one that's writing you into the will, as a bartender, I'd rarely question an order unless the customer was getting sassy or crossyfaced. And always you'd get a personal taxi if you looked like you had an extra twenty bones to spend on getting home. But shit, she'd make a horrible tooth fairy.

Oh, and Steep? That extreme high skiing documentary? Save the evening ticket or even a matinee... just rent it. The cinematography will not be lost on your baby silver screen. It was enjoyable, just not mixing jujubees and buttered popcorn-munchable good.

I've been had

I can't even finish Tuesday's New York Times puzzle. Consider me, last Thursday, grinning stupidly as I tackled like a premiere cruciverbalist. Now few days later, I cringe at opening up my Seattle P-I again.

I re-read Thomas Harris' Silence of the Lambs again, and by glaring necessity I'm going to rent it again tonight after work. I just have to remember if they refer to Buffalo Bill as "Jamie" or "Jame". I remember the former, but the book itself insists on the latter.

Working on my own crossword has been outrageously obnoxious. I don't know how the fuck Brendan Emmett Quigley does it. It's absolutely frustrating to have some awesome answers but the complete lack of knowledge of three and four letter words to seal the deal. Maybe I should start smaller than a 15x15 grid. I think I've figured out the theme. But it seriously needs some work.

Keep you posted.

T-Pain is ruining R & B...

....though I'm pretty aware you knew that already.

Being that this is my first entry, I'm going to keep things simple. I'm 24, I live in the city with some pretty lame nicknames, my passions are crosswords (you'll come to realize this as I complain my struggle through a Friday NYTimes) and flicks. No doubt you'll read about those too.
I hope you stick around, since this is my first crack at a blog since I thought people actually cared about other people on MySpace, instead of just generating interest by posting comments so then others would clicky-clicky and comment. Since that realization, I've ditched Murdoch's favorite latest acquirement and headed for Google. Check in here and there, will ya?

I'll get back to T-Pain later.