I could write a post about the fact that the Captain completely disassembled this desk in a vain attempt to fix the mouse. (What???? I know!)
I could guess that maybe the Captain was unable to get his ape-like hands into the small spaces in the back of the desk to, I don't know, jiggle a cable that looked particularly purple-colored in an attempt to heal the mouse, and thus leave the desk parts scattered throughout the room. (Don't worry - as a tech rescue truckie ape, he will take this all as an elaborate compliment.)
I could write about the fact that, when I learned that the mouse was dead and found the desk in pieces, I cleaned the mouse and had it back in working order in about 30 seconds.
But I won't.
I will instead concentrate my wrath upon Dean for making us deep-fry in an outdoor stadium which, inexplicably for an outdoor venue, had less air in it then a Tupperware container, on the hottest, muggiest day of the year.
I would heap some wrath upon him if I had any. Actually, and again inexplicably for me and my insistence upon comfort above all else, I had a good time. Even more inexplicably if you count the fact that the match ended badly for our side.
The Portland Timbers soccer team were playing their bitter, bitter rivals, the Seattle Sounders (I assume they named themselves after the large body of water that shelters Seattle from the Pacific Ocean and not the rabid dog). Portland and Seattle have a long history of bitter rivalry, unfortunately one that often ends with Portland being given a rough hug full of noogies by its bigger, richer brother who has a cool car. But we feebly fight on, as only a little brother can do. Because we're wiry, and our brother's girlfriends think we're adorable. Sorry, where was I?
Oh, a soccer game in an outdoor stadium on a 103 degree day with no wind and lots of humidity, which we are completely ill-equipped to deal with here in the PNW. Here are some thoughts.
The Portland Timbers "fan club," or more accurately, "drinking club," have some rather colorful, if by colorful, I mean evil and depraved "cheers." If there is such a thing as cheerfully mean-spirited, that's what they are. From a distance, they look to be having a good time. However, if they are anything like drunk college football fans, they are to be kept at a distance.
The Portland Timbers probably have the only mascot in sports who is of retirement age, with a beer gut, a scraggly grey beard, and a chainsaw that he revs like a leather-faced massacre-er to the delight of the fans.
Your average stadium seat does not necessarily hold your average American ass these days. Luckily (with a few uncomfortable exceptions), soccer doesn't seem to be a big draw for the girth-challenged.
Speaking of the girth-challenged: it's no big surprise that America is all fatted up. We stopped at a nearby Mexican restaurant for pre-game sustenance and air conditioning, and my dinner came on a plate the size of a backyard wading pool.
On the hottest day of the year, Dean bought a knit scarf, because he sorely needed one. Obvy. I told him how I used to take a gauze scarf, wet it down, arrange it around my head and neck fetchingly, and then drive my no-AC car home from work in my old Vacaville days, so he wetted his scarf down and tried it out. Unfortunately, it worked less like a cooling device and more like a wet blanket.
Drew to Dean, whose head is wrapped in a wet scarf: Is that cool?
Dean: If by "cool," you mean, "awesome."
Jenny's foot hurt because she recently had two warts removed. I think their names were Gary and Emanuela Guatemala (or something). Apparently, they had become part of the family.
I brought a spray bottle of water, which allowed me not only to survive, but also to annoy those seated around me. Without it, I would have perished.
I get extra points for not being particularly irritated at the boys sitting behind us, whose witless parents had bought them huge, 3-foot-long horn-like noise makers and then continued to say "Okay, stop that now," but without really meaning it, or inflicting any long-term damage, like I would have. Luckily, the noise that the boys were able to make with the horns sounded more like dismayed guernsey cows then honks, so that was more entertaining than irksome.
The halftime show consisted of a sausage (yes, sausage) eating contest held by a particularly odious local pretend-English pub. With any luck, they learned that (a) you don't pick random dudes out of the crowd to engage in competitive eating. They may find it more entertaining to throw the sausages. (b) You offer them a prize they want to win, instead of more of the same food. (c) You pick a less hostile audience. (d) You don't use sausages.
The refs sucked.
Oh, but there was a line judge who was like 80, and so intent on doing the very best job, never running alongside the pitch when he should be doing a little jumping-jack maneuver that kept his full body focused on the play and not just his eyes. So cute with his little flag. I was a little concerned for him, because I was just trying to keep from fainting while seated, and here he was, with his tufts of wispy white hair flying about as he scissor-stepped his way up and down the pitch, never taking his eyes off the ball for as much as a sip of water.
I am humbled, sir.