Gone Fishing…

And this is what happens sometimes. You get into the car to go fishing. The Cramps are blaring on the stereo and your travelling companion is that person who needs no cajoling; Who has all the same bad ideas as you. And then sometimes you see an interesting-looking train tunnel. Naturally, given the circumstances, you pull over, climb under the fence and go exploring. Also, naturally, as you are halfway through the damp, dark and atmospheric tunnel, you hear a train whistle sound.

You discover that the shoes you are wearing, while attractive, aren’t very practical for fleeing from a train over rocky ground. You also discover that trains are fast! You remember high school. Running over the train trestle in the dark with braver boys. You press yourself to the graffittied wall of the tunnel and hold your breath as the train very literally bears down on you.

 

The engineer is angry. You see his face glowering out the window at you. Stupid kids. You realize that you are not dead. Then you remember that you have a camera.

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I Mean Really

Ok, is this guy fucking kidding me?

Like I need to lust after shoes so undoubtedly expensive that not only is there no price listing, there’s not even a way to buy them. Apparently you have to be friends with this guys mom in order to acquire them. Fuck. Well, that’s ok. Moms love me.

Oh, and speaking of:

Yeah, It's Called the "Blow"

Posted in Covetable, Ho-made, Other people's shit, Pretty Fucking Strange, Sara, Super-Awesome, Uncategorized, We'd Rather Look at This (Than You) | Leave a comment

There Is Something Wrong With You People

You. Right there. You are one sick fuck.
Yes, I know I swear a lot. And I understand that Granny-Whole-Chicken is one hot bitch, but there is something seriously fucked up going on with this world and with YOU specifically.
Here’s why. One of the top 5 searches that bring people to this website is the term “granny fucking.*”
Seriously. I can’t even look at you right now!

*Great, now there’ll be even more people cruising my blog looking for geriatric pussy. YOU! You’re GROSS!

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Weird and Inappropriate: A Love Story

This post is actually for my friend Heather who asked about the dishtowels in my sausagefest post. Yay Heather! You win pictures of my strange dishtowels!

So we have a wide range of vintage hand-stitched linens acquired through years of assiduous purchasing, melancholy inheritance and light-fingeredness. Some of them are just funny like the quaint, 20’s bread-warming cloths that say “Hot Buns” and “Muss It Up, Chum!” Some are your typical 50’s housewife dishtowels with flowers and cheerful teakettles and kittens doing laundry. (OK listen, I don’t really like pets, but if anyone has a cat that can do laundry I will totally buy that shit from you.)
And then there are the stranger ones.

Yes, Those Are Cookies. We Are Quite Fucking Domestic.

Oh, I’m sorry, can you not quite make those out?

There he is, as promised. The weirdest fishing clown ever. Shut up, I said fishing. I have way weirder pictures of clowns doing that other thing.

Oh, and

Yeah, that’s pretty much a totally racially insensitive depiction of a baby in a cannibal pot. I pretty much bought it so no one else could. Well that and because, look at it.

Posted in Covetable, Craft-ish, Happy Ho-makers, Pretty Fucking Strange, Sara, Uncategorized | 1 Comment

Holy Fucking Catacombs

Once I went to a club in Brixton that was in the catacombs under St Matthews Church. Well, the club wasn’t directly beneath the church, sort of more across the street, although I doubt there would have been much of a noise problem, considering the hours of the two businesses.
Anyhow.
It was a very cool dub bar with big rasta djs and smoke-filled air and good lighting, but it didn’t have any of this shit.

I mean damn, if anyone had ever told me that the catacombs were more than just rooms made out of human skulls, I would have gone. Because really, if you’ve seen one room made out of human skulls…

Posted in Drugs, Outings, Pretty Fucking Strange, Sara, Super-Awesome, Travelogue, Uncategorized, We'd Rather Look at This (Than You) | 1 Comment

Granny Whole-Chicken: The Exclusive

Note: This post was started way back in July after our trip to San Francisco, but at a certain point I got tired of writing about that trip and I’m sure you got tired of reading about it. But since then there’s been something bothering me. Something unfinished. Someone I had angered.

So you may remember this young lady.

Granny Whole-Chicken: House-God of Cafe Americana

Or maybe you don’t. Whatever. The holes you blow in your brain with cheap inhalants are not my problem. This is Granny Whole-Chicken and she doesn’t give a fuck whether you remember her or not. She is going to eat that whole chicken and there is nothing you or anyone else can do about it.

Little Miss Whole-Chicken holds court at a restaurant in San Francisco’s Outer Richmond District called Cafe Americana. Cafe Americana is one of those places which manages to combine impressively unimpressive decor, a menu which inspires more confusion than not, and service that would rather read the paper into a magical wonderland of awesomeness. The menu is Italian-American-Vietnamese, and I’m not even shitting you.

The chicken that that little ol’ gal is tearing into is one of San Francisco’s much lauded five-spice chickens. Fucking delicious. Our table held five-spice chicken pho (mine because, chumon!) a club sandwich and clam linguini, all of which tasted like they came from a restaurant that was, you know, focused.

This is my friend Blaine, who introduced us to this amazing culinary gem.

Surprise, Chicken!

Usually he doesn’t have such serious jazz hands, but this was a special occasion.

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Sausage Party! No Wait, Sausage Festival. (That Just Means More Sausage, Right?)

So as I may have mentioned, I like festivals. And fairs. And carnivals and fests and bazaars and harvest celebrations. I don’t like faires though, that’s for hippies.
So, last week a few weeks ago my friend Ian (who also likes festivals) and I hitched up the buggy and rode on down to Verboort for their 76th Annual Sausage Festival. It’s held at Asenscion church in the small Dutch farming community of Verboort, Oregon.

Presumably it always occurs on the first Saturday in November, but the quotation marks confuse me. Perhaps that’s actually some sort of euphemism or the title of a song.

Anyway, this event so charmingly referred to as a “dinner”starts at 9 in the morning, and for one, precious, pork-filled day you may buy, smell and consume delicious traditional hand-made sausage to your heart’s content.

Correction: To almost anyone’s heart’s content.

First thing’s first. We stand in a long line in the early morning air which is scented by huge redwood trees and pork.

And then we buy bags of sausages selected from an enormous pile and sold by relentlessly chipper high school kids. I should have taken pictures of this part of the process, but I was a bit overwhelmed by the presence of so much sausage.

THEN, we meander over to the sauerkraut hut. What, you thought they weren’t going to provide a side dish? These people are Catholics.

Mmmmm… don’t those huge vats of shit sauerkraut look fucking appetizing? And yes, that’s a port-a-potty in the edge of the frame.

So now we have a bucket of sauerkraut and approximately 20 lbs of sausage, but our day has just begun! There is so much more fun in store that someone might puke by the end of the day. In fact, I can almost guarantee it.

So now we’re on the horns of a dilemma. In conjunction with the massive sausage fire sale, the church hosts a community dinner. This is a full meal, a very full meal, with desert, and it’s now about 11am. I generally don’t eat before, oh say dark, so that seems a bit much, but the tempting scent of sausage has been wafting like a motherfucker and so I am perfectly happy to be talked into a little sausage-in-a-bun action. (Don’t get any ideas, we’re practically in a church.)

Waiting in line with farmers.

After this, you wouldn’t think there could be any more festiveness, would you? Well, you would be wrong, but I bet you’re used to that.

First, there’s a church to look at. I know, I know, I’m a bit of a blasphemer, but I do dig me some religious art and architecture.

Look, I'm taking a picture, not bursting into flames!

 

Wow, I wonder what he did?

I told you to stop picking at it

I also like nuns, although clearly it’s not mutual.

 

Sorry, Sister

But that’s not even everything!

There is also a fish pond in the motherfucking gym.

Ok, so there’s not. what there is though, is an old-school church bazaar complete with fake pond where you fish for dimes with a magnet, pounds and pounds of sickly-sweet homemade candy and antler art (oh yeah, with google eyes.) There are also nice little Dutch ladies who will sell you hand embroidered tea towels depicting a squirrel, say. Or a scary clown holding a large fish.

 

I told you! Hats and everything!

There’s also a beer garden held down the road at the Verboort Rod and Gun Club (not even kidding) which we decided to skip because it was still like, morning. And everyone knows that morning is for hard liquor. We did, however, venture to the Verboort Pioneer Cemetery which was conveniently located across an expanse of field from the beer garden so we felt included.

Half-time Jesus showers blessings on your sausage

Posted in Outings, Sara, Travelogue, Uncategorized | 5 Comments