Dave Fox's Outbursts!

Wind-Induced Brain Damage

Parts of Seattle are still without power four days after a wind storm with 60-mile-per-hour gusts came screaming through our city. People have been calling and e-mailing me to ask if I'm okay. I was one of the lucky ones who never lost power, so I'm fine, thanks. Local radio and television reporters, on the other hand, seem to be suffering from wind-induced brain damage.

I will forgive the television meteorologist who made the statement, "The winds right now are fairly under control." Never mind that "under control" implies we have the ability to control the wind.

But this announcement, Friday morning on a local radio station, is inexcusable. (Please forgive me. I do not have the exact quote and am paraphrasing.):

"More than a million people around the Puget Sound region are without power this morning. Many school districts are closed today, including schools in Seattle, Everett, and Issaquah. For a complete listing of other school closures, please visit our website."

Visit your website?!?! A million people are without power. Hundreds and hundreds of trees have fallen across phone and cable lines. Is there some new wireless smoke signal technology I haven't heard of? Has somebody invented a wind-powered laptop?

Excellent Team Stormwatch Coverage, guys.

If you wanted to have sex, why didn't you just say so?

Seattle police found themselves in an awkward situation after they launched a sting on Craigslist prostitution ads.

The Seattle Post-Intelligencer reports vice detectives rented a downtown condo, and placed ads on Craigslist offering a "full service massage" for 150 dollars an hour.

Two of the men responding to the ad showed up, genuinely expecting a massage and nothing more.

I can't wait for the false advertising lawsuit.

metroidiotic

I am feeling sad today.

Seattle's Convention and Visitor's Bureau has just come up with a new slogan for the city: "metronatural."

I am feeling sad because according to the Seattle Post-Intelligencer, the Visitor's bureau spent an entire year and $200,000 to "invent" this new word. I wish they would have called me first. I could have come up with something equally idiotic in half the time, and I only would have charged them a quarter the amount.

I have this image in my mind of the meeting at which the final decision was made: A bunch of self-important marketers in khaki pants and name brand shirts patting each other on the back, thinking we, the innocent taxpayers of Seattle, would actually like such a slogan.

"It sounds kind of like 'metrosexual,'" one self-important marketer would announce smugly to the other self-important marketers, with the same pride one would expect from a two-year-old who has just picked his nose and run to show mommy his new-found treasure.

But wait! It gets better! Now that they've blown 200 K on the dumbest new word to hit the dictionary since... since... I think since the invention of the English language... now they are going to spend another $300,000 on an ad campaign to market the word.

Half a million dollars?!?! For "metronatural?!?!" I want my tax money back!

Instead of blowing all that cash on "metronatural," how about spending half a million dollars on this slogan instead:

"Seattle: Come be a tourist in our city, but don't move here if you have kids because our public school system doesn't have enough money to keep all of its schools open."

On the Blog Again

Dear Peoples,

Welcome back to my blog. Or if you have just wandered over here for the first time, welcome, and please try not to break anything.

This blog has just undergone a temporary bout of blog schizophrenia, but I am pleased to announce that everything is going to be just fine.

Back in May, I worked out an agreement with the Seattle Post-Intelligencer, one of the morning papers here in Seattle, to start writing a humor blog for them. It was a nifty experience, but after four months blogging for the P-I, I have decided (in part due to feedback from several of my regular visitors to this blog) not to blog for the P-I anymore, and to move my writing back here.

What happened was I started writing humor for the P-I, but it was not a good venue for the other ranting I used to do here -- political drivel, stories from my life that had a point but didn't exactly qualify as "humor," blather about books and music, and of course, shameless self promotion. (Speaking of which, if you have not yet purchased a copy of my award-winning book of travel humor essays, please hurry up and order a copy. I'm getting hungry.)

The P-I has taken an approach to blogging that works very well for the newspaper's website. They are hosting a variety of blogs from local Seattle bloggers, each with a particular theme. Once I began blogging for them, however, I realized that my blog had no theme. I like it that way, and based on feedback I've received, so do the other weird people, such as yourself, who visit this site.

So the weirdness is back, and badder than ever. Thanks to those of you who have written with feedback over the past few months. Thanks to the P-I for five wonderful months. I'm sorry things didn't work out, but maybe we can still be friends. (In the platonic sense, of course. The "friends with benefits" thing just doesn't work in break-ups such as ours.)

Over the next few weeks, in addition to spewing out new material, I am also moving my P-I archives over to this blog, for those of you who never made it over to my P-I blog. My May entries are already here (just scroll down, or check out the archives) and June through September will be cut and pasted as time allows.

It's good to be home, kids! Now seriously... before the boss catches you squandering time online when you should be working, hurry up and buy my book, damn it!

Pirates Versus Ice Cream

Stockholm, Sweden

An ice cream truck has been driving around the streets near my hotel for the last 30 minutes. It keeps playing one of those music-boxy, "Hey kids, I am the ice cream truck" tunes that ice cream trucks play in order to make children scream for ice cream, terrorizing their parents.

The tune goes something like this:

"Dee doodlee-doo, dee doodlee-doo, dee doot dee doot dee doo."

Then it goes:

"Dee doodlee-doo, dee doodlee-doo, dee doot dee doot dee doo."

Then it goes:

"Dee doodlee-doo, dee doodlee-doo, dee doot dee doot dee doo."

Then it goes... oh, you get the point.

I was feeling highly annoyed by this. This tune is going to be stuck in my head all night long. But then I thought, I should be glad to be in Stockholm, listening to an annoying ice cream truck. It beats being in Seattle, being subjected to the Sea Fair Pirates' canons and the Blue Angels.

Seven Seconds of Toe Envy

Dear Mr. Bus Driver,

My friend -- I'll call her Emily -- says it wasn't very nice of me to say the things I said about you the other night. So I would like to apologize.

I guess I just didn't understand why you went roaring off the way you did. Emily had just come out of a bar, you see. It was 11 at night, and buses weren't coming very frequently. Emily went dashing across the street, waving for you to stop. I watched it all from inside the bar. You looked at Emily as she was halfway across the street, a mere ten feet from your bus. You looked straight at her. Then you shrugged and floored the gas, leaving Emily to hack up your exhaust.

I know you are busy, Mr. Bus Driver. I know you have a schedule to keep. I am trying really hard to understand that even if a woman, by herself, on a dark street late at night, is trying to get on your bus so she doesn't have to stand alone outside for another half hour, that maybe you really can't wait seven more seconds -- SEVEN SECONDS! -- for her to board your bus. I'm sure you had a good reason. Maybe the police were chasing you. Or maybe your mommy taught you never to pick up hitchhikers. I am sure you had some good reason for looking at Emily and shrugging and driving away.

I see how hard most of you bus drivers work in Seattle. I see the challenging personalities who board your buses, and the frustrating traffic you must tangle with. I see what happens during rush hour -- that during rush hour, you really can't wait for one more person running after the bus, because at that time of day, if you wait for one person, then another person will come running, and another, and another, and the next thing you know, you will have been sitting at the same bus stop for three and a half hours, waiting for just one more person to come running down the street, while all of your other passengers are getting surly because they are missing America's Next Top Model. Maybe you were confused the other night. Maybe you forgot that at 11 at night, it is not rush hour, and such a scenario will not occur.

I know most of Seattle's bus drivers are awesome. It was not nice of me to think that maybe you were an exception to that rule.

So I apologize, Mr. Bus Driver. I apologize for suggesting to the other people in the bar that maybe you raced off the way you did because you were overcompensating for a smaller-than-average big toe. That wasn't a very nice assumption of me to make. I am sure your toes are really quite adequate.

I am so very, very sorry.

Love,
Dave

Viaduct Tape

Just when you thought it was safe to walk down the street in Seattle without getting whacked by cranky citizens with petitions, a firestorm of controversy is brewing over the past and future of the Alaskan Way Viaduct.

Let us quickly review the history of the elevated motorway:

April, 1953: The first section of the viaduct opens. Allan Pomeroy, Seattle's mayor at the time, proclaims, "You will be able to drive from Spokane Street to the north end of Green Lake without stopping for a single traffic light." The mayor is basically correct. What he fails to realize is that you will soon have to stop every 30 feet or so because Seattle is about to experience a phenomenon known in the scientific community as "too many damn cars."

February 28, 2001: Seattle is rocked by a large earthquake. Several paperback books fall off of my bookcase. They are not damaged. Concerned engineers do "emergency repairs" (to the viaduct, not my paperback books) and declare it (the viaduct) safe to drive on.

March 26, 2001: A big chunk of metal falls off the viaduct, nearly squishing a mother and her baby. Oops. Engineers declare the viaduct not so safe after all. They close it once again and purchase an extra-large roll of duct tape.

April 3, 2001: The Seattle Post-Intelligencer reports, "Viaduct partially reopens, but traffic is still a mess." Traffic in Seattle? A Mess? Must have been a slow news day.

Now, here we are in... ummm... 2006, I think, and politicians and preservation groups are sharpening up their claws as they prepare to battle over whether to tear down the viaduct before somebody gets killed, or whether to leave it standing, and declare it a national historic site.

I'm torn. On one hand, we tear down everything in America. We have no super-old buildings like they do in Europe. Did you know that in Rome, they have a huge stadium called the Collosseum that was actually built before Ronald Reagan was even born? The Collosseum has survived centuries of wars, violent storms, and even Elton John singing "Crocodile Rock," because Rome has no Major League Baseball team to demand its implosion. Maybe we should be more like Europe and keep our crumbling structures standing, shrouded in scaffolding, so that future generations can come stand in long lines and pay high ticket prices to gasp, "Ooh! How old!"

On the other hand, The viaduct is an ugly, withering eyesore that could topple over at any moment and kill you.

Yes, you. When viaducts topple over and squish people, they never squish... oh... annoying freaks in Darth Vader outfits who are starved for attention. They squish nice people like you instead. It's all part of the great unfairness of life.

The good news about the viaduct, no matter which side of the issue you are on, is that Seattle now has something to squabble about again. Life here has been kind of boring since the Monorail plans crashed and burned.

Inappropriate Behavior: Gregorian Drinking Chants

And the First Annual  Award for the Goofiest Event at the Seattle Folklife Festival goes to...

"Pub Singing in the Beer Garden: Drinking Songs from Around the World."

Before I go any further, I must confess I personally do not sing in pubs. This is because I sing like a dying rhinocerous, and if I did attempt to sing in a pub, somebody -- probably several people -- would attempt to kill me.

And rightfully so.

Nevertheless, I have visited many a pub in many a country for the purpose of collecting important anthropological data, so I know a thing or two about proper pub singing etiquette. And some of the people at Folklife were not following said etiquette.

There was a big blob of eager singers, which fragmented into three smaller blobs. One of those blobs had their pub singing down pretty well. They were boisterous. They were rowdy. They got it that in the world of pub singing, "in tune" is only a rough guideline. But the group I was standing closest to was clearly a bunch of rookies.

That's fine. We all have to start somewhere. Nevertheless, as a generous public service to the pub singing rookies, I would like to offer the following helpful advice for future reference:

• Drinking songs are called "drinking songs" because they involve drinking. I couldn't help but notice that many of you took an entire hour to sip three and a half ounces of your malt beverage. This, in and of itself, is fine. If boorish guzzling is not your style, good for you. My mother wishes I would be more like you. But in a pub, your tea party behavior is highly inappropriate. One should hold one's pint glass like a pint glass -- even if it is made of plastic. Sticking your pinky out and sipping daintily like it's a steaming cup of Earl Grey is just plain offensive.
• Lose the solemn harmonizing, people! These are drinking songs, not Gregorian chants! Smile! Make noise! Let out a little belch, even!
• Numbered song sheets with all the lyrics? Those are for Christmas carolers. If you're singing a drinking song and you don't know the words, make something up. Better yet, slur unintelligibly. I know; it's tough to slur when you're sipping daintily, but next time, maybe you can come with some pre-rehearsed slurs. Here... repeat after me: "Shlurdish bargle gerb shrolerdge! One, two, three, cheers!"

I shouldn't be so critical, I realize. The Folklife Festival is about discovering new cultures, and for some people, pub culture is foreign. But in a real pub, taking your singing so seriously is as dangerous as singing seriously out of tune, and I don't want anybody to get hurt. When in doubt, slurp without singing and observe the rowdy people until you learn to be one of them.

Dear Norway, Sorry for all the lutefisk jokes!

Dear Norway,

On this May 17th, I would like to congratulate you on the 192nd anniversary of the drafting of your constitution. I would also like to apologize for the behavior of some of my fellow Norwegian-Americans.

Dear Norway, I cannot explain to you why some Norwegian-Americans do what they do. I can't explain why they have reduced their heritage to a caricature of lutefisk-eating goofballs who talk VIT foo-NEE lil-TING ac-CENTS dat SOUND nu-TING like JOO real-LY talk IN nor-VAY.

I think the reason some Norwegian-Americans perpetuate these stereotypes is they've been in America so long, they've forgotten the dire struggles their ancestors went through to get here. They've lost touch with their real heritage, so they've turned it into a cartoon. They have not heard for themselves that you are a highly educated people, that most of you guys speak beautiful English. That, plus the fact that Americans are celebrated worldwide for being the phenominal multilingual geniuses that we are, has led some of us to get a little bit cocky about our own screamingly impressive language skills. I am sorry for that.

I am also sorry for all the lutefisk jokes. I know that back in the real Norway, most of you guys who do eat the stuff only do so maybe once or twice a year around Christmas to remember the old days. I know you created this gelatinous cod concoction by accident, and that it's not the national Norwegian obsession many Americans think it is. Most Americans have never learned that lutefisk was probably created when some cod fell into some lye, and people were so poor, they couldn't afford to throw it away. I wish more people in America knew that your modern cuisine is quite tasty. I'm doing what I can to get the word out.

Why is it that Norwegian-Americans eat tons more lutefisk each year than real Norwegians? They are trying, dear Norway. They are trying to honor their roots. Yes, they have overblown their lutefisk consumption in a misguided way that makes you guys look ridiculous, but they mean no harm. Maybe they don't understand that Norway now has refrigerators like we do –- and the electricity needed to power them. Maybe they don't understand that you now preserve your fish in more palatable ways. And I'm pretty sure they don't know that Norwegians today are the world's largest per capita consumers of frozen pizzas. (And hey, thank you for that! As a proud Norwegian-American, I'll take a pizza over lutefisk any day!)

What about the Scandinavian stores in Ballard that sell the demeaning Norwegian joke books and the "Uff Da!" T-shirts? Well, dear Norway, I've talked to some of the owners of these stores about that. One of them agreed with me. She finds the stereotypes as tiresome as I do, but she has to sell the books and shirts to stay in business. Those things attract customers, and if that's what she has to do to stay open so I can get my lefse at Christmas time, I'm willing to put up with it even though I don't like it.

There's a community near Seattle, dear Norway, that has been struggling with its modern Scandinavian heritage recently. After the good people of Poulsbo elected 17-year-old Jasmine Campbell their "Miss Viking Princess 2006," pageant organizers received racist e-mails. Campbell, you see, is half African-American, half Hispanic. She was adopted and raised in a Scandinavian-American household.

Dear Norway, I know most of you will agree with me when I commend the good people of Poulsbo for taking a stand against racism and rallying behind Campbell. As a Norwegian-American, I am proud to see Norway's modern ethnic diversity reflected here in America as well.

True, according to the Seattle Times, Campbell won the honor by getting up on stage and telling a joke in a "well-rehearsed" Norwegian accent about lutefisk-gobbling fools. I wish Norwegian-Americans were not rewarding such negative stereotypes by making Campbell their "princess," but I don't fault Campbell for telling the joke. She's a typical 17-year-old Scandinavian-American who is forwarding her heritage in the way she is being taught to by her Scandinavian elders.

Some Norwegian-Americans tell me I need to lighten up. They tell me I need to learn how to take a joke. I am already anticipating the hate mail some will send me for writing you this letter. At times, dear Norway, I wonder if they're right. But then I come to Norway every summer to work as a tour guide, and when some American tourist starts telling his lutefisk jokes in his loud, fake accent, in the middle of a fancy restaurant, and you guys start glaring and making menacing gestures with your forks, I realize there is a time and place for all sorts of humor, but some people just don't know when to stifle it. When I talk to young Norwegian students who are studying in America, and they tell me how sick they are of their American peers running up to them, screaming, "Ya! Sure! You betcha!" -- a phrase that has no verbatim Norwegian translation -- I realize I am not the only one who grows weary of such humor.

Don't get me wrong, dear Norway. Norwegian-Americans are good people, and we're not all running around perpetuating these stereotypes. Many of us are intensely proud of our heritage. On this May 17 –- Syttende Mai –- Norway's Constitution Day –- we are having a huge parade in Ballard, the Scandinavian part of Seattle, to celebrate the struggles you faced for independence. You would find it quite moving if you could see how many thousands of people all the way over here in Seattle flock to the streets to honor Norway. People will be dressed in their traditional bunads, waving Norwegian flags and munching on pølser –- your scrumptious lye-free sausages. I'll be right there with them, taking clandestine swigs of akvavit from a hidden bottle, and thinking the same thought I think every year when the bagpipers walk by: "Ha! Bagpipers! Do they have any idea what the Vikings did to the Celts?"

Gratulerer med dagen, kjære Norge! Congratulations, dear Norway, on your national holiday. I'm really sorry for all the lutefisk jokes. I'd like to make it up to you somehow. Maybe when I come visit next month, I can buy you a pizza.

When Patio Furniture Attacks

The winter rains have left Seattle and the sun has come to greet us again. As a self-employed writer who works at home, I used to fear I might get so wrapped up in my work, I'd forget to go outside and see the sun. I have come to realize, however, that I don't have to worry. In Seattle, you always know when the sun is back, even if you stay inside with your blinds drawn and a bag over your head, because every year, every television meteorologist in town trots out the same stale joke about "that mysterious yellow ball in the sky."

When the sun returns each year, I partake in a long-standing personal tradition. I put the cushions back on my patio furniture and have a barbecue. I bask in the glorious sunshine, and the reports of several days of sparkly brightness. Of course, we still get the odd rainy day. Remember that pounding rain storm we had two weekends ago? But then the sun returns a few days later and....

Oh....

I really should have brought those cushions back inside.

When left in a pounding rain storm, cushions stuffed with foam rubber tend to get wet. I have tested this theory several times with a scientific research experiment I call, "Having one too many malt beverages and forgetting to bring my cushions inside after a barbecue." The results have been pretty consistent.

Many other people have conducted this same experiment, with similar results. They find themselves faced with the potential of mildewed foam rubber, which they attempt to fix by yelling at their wet cushions.

This solution does not work. Instead, follow these simple steps:

1) Stop shouting. The neighbors are beginning to stare.

2) Squeeze one of the cushions. See if any water dribbles out.

3) The cushions are just a bit damp? Splendid! Bring them inside and set them on your floor to dry completely.

4) As you lift the fourth or fifth cushion off of a chair, you will now begin to notice water dribbling out. This is a little practical joke that patio furniture likes to play on us humans. The cushions do not begin dribbling until after you have laid several of them on your living room carpet.

5) You will now notice the cushions on your floor have formed puddles, creating a scale model of Green Lake in your home. Enjoy!

6) Move the cushions to your bathtub to dry properly. Avoid bathing in your bathtub during this time.

7) Repeat as needed throughout the summer.