My Pops, Tom

A week late, but I've been tardy posting as of late.

So I had the typical 18 November phone conversation with my dad -- the same one I've had for the past ten years:

JD: Hey dad! just calling to say happy birthday!
D: I appreciate the phone call and you thinking of me. But I would prefer not to think about getting older...

And such it is with my dad. He doesn't like the spotlight and is perfectly content to do his own thing. I think a lot of people are surprised to find that I attribute a good deal of my own personality to him: some sarcasm, a tendency towards introvertedness, willing to let others make their own choices and not take control of the situation. I guess hands-offishness is the technical term I'm looking for. Encouraging might be another. All of these are great things, in my opinion.

Dad also instilled in me a thirst for knowledge and books, and an appreciation of music and culture. He always has his nose in a new book, is watching some documentary/history channel thing, is always looking for something new. When we (me, Jen, and Juli) were kids we would travel a lot as a family, get out and see how things were outside of the country, etc. Invaluable experiences that he and Shigeko facilitated. Now I think they're in competition to see who can dote over their grandkids more. So far it seems like they're dead even.


Now he's on a Bob Dylan kick. Has a bunch of albums, some books, and went to a concert in Canada the other week. Love it. I guess the lines at the border coming back from Canada were long; Homeland Security was being thorough and it was taking a while. The border guard asked my dad what his business in Canada was.

Dad: Went to a concert.
BG: The Bob Dylan one?
Dad: Yeah.
BG: I was there, too. Alright, go ahead.

Gotta love it.

Happy birthday, dad!

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Jones Soda Blows -- Photo of the Week 24 Nov 2008

With the upcoming Thanksgiving holiday, I hope all of you get to enjoy time with your families and continue those traditions that bring you together, create memories, etc.

Here's one tradition that should not go on: Jones Soda and their holiday vintage flavors: Cranberry Soda, Pumpkin Pie Soda, Wild Herb Stuffing Soda, Turkey & Gravy Soda...

And, most disgustingly, Brussel Sprouts Soda.

These pictures were taken the night before my friend Rye got married. We were bored, and I admittedly ended up trying some. I do not possess the command of the English language required to describe the flavor. The only comparable sensations I can think of come from two separate episodes of "Man vs. Wild" with Bear Grylls. Anybody see the episode where Bear is dehydrated, disembowels a camel, takes its dung, then squeezes and drinks the fluid?



Also, there is another episode where Bear finds a snake and eats it -- standard fare for the show. He then takes the empty skin of the snake, pees into it, ties up this tube of his own urine and slings it over his shoulder, thinking that he might "need it for later." Sure enough (go to the 4:05 mark or so):



On the "Disgusting Things Frat Boys Are Likely To Drink At Some Point" scale, I would place Brussel Sprouts Soda between "Drinking a wild animal's urine" and "Drinking your own urine" -- it's basically the same as the other two, but with carbonation!

Now if you'll excuse, I need to go have an experiential-recall-induced vomit.

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Why I Would Suck As a Diplomat

Remember that integrity thing I was talking about earlier? Why don't you just go ahead and toss mine out.


The other day I was talking with my sister Jen on the phone, doing some catching up. She told me she just got back from running 13 miles. An immediate alarm went off in my head.

JD: Wait, Jen. Are you--? **deep breath** ...Are you training for a marathon?

Jen: Yeah. I was thinking about running one at the end of February.

**Insert crotch-punched-feeling here**

See, for the past few years, I have slowly been getting boxed in on the Endurance Sports Front. Various family members and friends have -- unsuccessfully -- attempted to persuade me to run marathons or other distance races. I was always against long-distance running. All that self-discipline, goal-achieving, and sense of accomplishment was for snobs. Being the stubborn person that I am, the more people suggested I participate, the more I dug in my heels.

Jen was my last hope. Although Jen ran a half-marathon this year, I felt like she had yet to cross over to join my sister Juli and her husband Ben on the endurance sports side. Yes, 13.1 miles is more than I've ever run and is extremely admirable, but the operating word there was "half." She was still with me; not with them.

It all changed with that fateful phone call. With that conversation, I became the pariah of my family; I am the North Korea/Iran to my family's international community. I am isolated, becoming marginalized, and my family is tightening the grips on me. Am I being passively coerced into doing a marathon?

I'm afraid I might go against everything I've preached for the last few years and choose to run a marathon. Something tells me I would suck at the negotiating table in international politics -- I'd buckle before the other guy even said anything.

It's all politics.

As for everybody else that contributed to the pressure, you know who you are.

Folsom, CA -> Sacramento, CA. Bring it.


Endnote: My family has never tried to manipulate me into doing this -- This must be my competitive side kicking in.

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Memories From The Grudge -- Photo of the Week 17 Nov 2008

With Halloween having recently passed and the release of Saw V -- the latest iteration of a movie series that easily falls under the "Survivor"** classification -- I present this week's photo.

The whole Halloween season reminded me of a very simple fact that I readily admit: I don't do scary movies. I just can't handle them. Especially ones with freaky children. I think deep down for a very long time I always knew this, but the manly side of me would never fess up to it.

But it all became glaringly apparent a few years back when some friends and I went and saw The Grudge in the theater.

My friend Casey is an emotional guy. It usually manifests itself in hypercompetitiveness, but it also translates into the amplification of emotions while watching movies. In the case of The Grudge, that emotion was FEAR. Granted, had I not sat next to him, I still would have been scared. But sitting next to Casey sucked me in emotionally and multiplied my fear threefold.

Afterwards, my roommate, Rye, wanted to drive his girlfriend home, but I wouldn't let him leave me alone. Casey's wife, Jenna, just made fun of us for being scared.

And I think as a way to rub it in, Jenna rented The Exorcism of Emily Rose some time after that. You can imagine how the dialogue went as I was over at their apartment late one night:

JD: Well, what're our options [of things to do]?
**Casey remains silent**
J: I rented The Exorcism of Emily Rose. We should watch that.
JD: Oh no no no. I'm not watching that thing.
C: Come on, man. You gotta stay and watch it with us.
JD: No freakin way. Who has to drive home by himself after it's over?
C: Fine, fine. How about this. We watch it in the middle of a huge field in the middle of the day.
J: Okay, that's lame! No way we're watching it that way.
JD: I am not watching that movie. Period.
C: Well, I can't watch it by myself!
JD: You'll have Jenna here with you, dude.
C: She can't protect me!

I think Jenna -- understandably annoyed at our cowardice -- ended up having to send it back to Netflix, unwatched.

*The "Survivor" stamp is derived from the TV show and can be applied to anything -- athlete , celebrity (Paul Walker, Keanu Reaves), business (McDonald's), country (Canada) -- that held very little to no promise from the outset and should not survive, but somehow continue to defy intelligent reasoning by attaining some measure of "success" (based on no merits of their own, mind you). Saw V? Really? In a country that claims a literacy rate of 99%, I ask: How is this possible?

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Running Concert Diary

Went to the Beastie Boys concert about three weeks ago. Time to check a life goal off of the list. I should probably set some real ones now.

Some famous writers have a "mailbag" of some sort, where they answer question from readers. I don't have one of these. I did, however, get a text question regarding the concert from a reader and will open with that:
Q: Well, did it change your body and soul?
JD: Yes, it did. I will attribute part of it to seeing the Beastie Boys live, but I will pin a larger part of my nirvanic experience on the contact high I got from the kids around me toking weed.

That mailbag was exhausting. While I'm at it ("it" = copying better writers), I will follow Bill Simmons' running diary format and take you through the "Get Out and Vote" concert I went to on 28 Oct.

6:59 -- Dave and I are sitting in the bleachers, waiting for the 7:00 start time; Dave is mid-sentence when Beastie Boys Mike D and MCA come out to MC. I'm halfway to the stage taking pictures with my camera before Dave realizes I'm gone.

7:00 -- Mike D and MCA introduce the opening singer, Santogold, with the obligatory "we're on the same tour, so we have to say she's super-talented, even though we've never listened to her music ourselves." Out walks a woman with two backup singers dressed in bug-eye sunglasses and shiny gold suits, like you would see alien invaders wear in old crappy sci-fi movies. Dave leans over to me and asks how much I want to bet that the backup singers are Santogold's two best friends from high school riding the gravy train. I chuckle my agreement.

But wait: Doesn't having a "gravy train" imply you've attained a level of success?

This is all a means to an end, I tell myself.

7:17 -- Santogold is still on stage and announces her next song. What is she still doing here? Weren't we courteous in tolerating her three songs? She is quickly becoming the Jar Jar Binks of this concert -- the annoying, unwanted sidekick whose presence the audience grows to hate.

7 freakin' 40 -- The excruciatingly long set -- 40 minutes -- ends to token applause containing undercurrents of resentment that Santogold took so much time.

Means to an end.

7:55 -- Norah Jones calms my nerves with her performance. I drift off to sleep and dream that her voice and Sarah Mclachlan's fight each other for my affection.

8:03 -- Norah spouts some politically-charged comments, and I am surprisingly OK with it. Hell, with that voice, she could advocate crystal meth usage, Tom Cruise for President, and nuclear war, and I'd agree with everything she had to say.

8:25 -- Jack Johnson walks on stage to huge applause. Also, this is apparently the universal cue for everyone to light up their joints. I didn't get the memo.

Which reminds me of one of my friends from high school who hot-boxed his cat once. Afterwards, the cat careened its way back to his parents' room. Five minutes later, his parents called him into their room: "Tim!" "Yeah?" "Why does the cat reak of dope?" "...because we hot-boxed him."

8:48 -- I notice that the guy in front of me, who is about the same height but weighs about 230lb, has been completely motionless with his hands in his pockets since Jack Johnson has started playing. I've seen roadkill move more than this guy. I'll be checking in with him later.

9:05 -- Sheryl Crow walks on-stage in a tightly tied black trenchcoat that screams either "I am completely naked under here" or "I am selling cheap watches out of this thing." She looks seriously haggard, as if she hasn't slept or eaten since she and Lance Armstrong broke up. Rough year for Ms. Crow.

9:28 -- I consider yelling out "home-wrecker!" in between songs but decide not to. Sheryl decides to spout political drivel at us, using cliched phrases like "you can make a difference! I know you can!" Spare me.

Besides blinking, Roadkill remains unmoved.

9:42 -- The percentage of Sheryl's set has shifted to 85% political rant, 15% music. I could see her pursuing a political career filled with pointless rhetoric and little action.

Means to an end...

10:06 -- Still have this sneaking suspicion that in between some songs, Sheryl will spout off some more political drivel and then tag on, almost as an aside: "Hah... funny thing... a portion of the ticket proceeds will actually go to my next botox treatment since I have missed my last two. Anyway, the next song is 'Every Day is a Winding Road.' Sing along if you know the words!"

10:10 -- I've been here for 3+ hours. What did I come here for? I can't remember anymore. Dave reminds me that I came to see the Beastie Boys.

10:15-11:15 -- Beasties enter to "Sure Shot," bring the house down, and I spend the next hour screaming every word to every song.

Roadkill remains unchanged the entire time. Unbelievable.

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