Junxion_Box

I'm willing to come clean with you, I have nothing to hide. The fact of the matter is that I have nothing to say that would seem even remotely shocking to pretty much anybody that I know.

I wear a scarlet "O." I'm a night owl, and in no way at any time have I ever insinuated otherwise. I'm a predator of late-night goings-on such as blog reading, Super Mario Brothers 1-3, and Super Metroid. I like to watch reruns of Monk, Buffy, Angel, Alias and Friends, though for me they are new-runs. I troll Craigslist and eBay. I sup from Wikipedia's bottomless vat of goofy trivia, history, and other odd (yet useful) information; I'd take it intra-venously if I could. I dabble in tech blogs, news or the occasional finance or investing article. I lament my online bank statement - therein is proof positive of my lack of worth. I will usually have my dinner sometime between the hours of 9:00pm and 10:30pm.

My cats get their second wind with me, though for how lazy they are it is likely the start of their day too.

And I like it that way. Every bit of it. For some reason, I am built such that I am completely non-functional in the mornings, and by morning I mean before 10. Yeah, Meagan, Mamie and Wayne (and now even Britney) go on and on about how "everything will change" when I have kids and I'm "headed for a huge surprise." Well, Meagan, Mamie, Wayne and Britney, surprise. I don't have kids yet. I'll sleep in every minute I can.

Which is why I'm pleased that I have found a more or less viable alternative to the Sounder train that leaves at 7:30 every morning. Painful. Hurts thinking about it. There are several express busses that leave from another station a few miles down the road, the last of which (that I've found so far) is at 8:47. Hey - that is a full hour. Another 77 minutes of blissful sleep.

In fact, the bus is so cool that I'm posting this blog on the bus right now. My wireless network is called "Junxion_Box."

I love you, Junxion_Box, and the extra 77 minutes of sleep you represent, as well as the network access dorks like me have group therapy about. May you live healthy and strong.

Bean Dip

As a young teenager before I was old enough to work at Taco Bell, I worked in the corn fields surrounding the rural towns sprinkled throughout Boone County, north of Indianapolis, Indiana. Describing the work we did will take longer than I have, so for now I'll forgo the description of what it is I did. What I'm trying to say is that during these formidable years of my life, one of my many weird monikers developed: Bean Dip.

To be completely honest, it wasn't as much a nickname as it was a declaration of awesome. "That movie was Bean Dip." "You got a date with her? BEAN DIP!" "I love your car; totally bean dip." "Mr. Wendel's blog - Bean. Dip."

Bean Dip has been used very gently the past few years. Maybe it is because a very small part of me still feels 13 saying it out loud, and who liked being 13? Maybe because, at the heart of it all, it is a reference to a small bowl on a hours d'ouvres table full of beans, cheese, salsa and sour cream. Now, putting it that way makes me want to revitalize it; I love bean dip.

I have a sneaking suspicion that Bean Dip is on its way back to the mainstream, regardless of how I feel about the expression personally. Like a train or the weather, you just can't stop certain things from happening. I am formally declaring my presence distinctively before mainstream. I am the grassroots movement; with this, it has started. Bean dip is coming; "Here [it is], [gonna] Rock you like a Hurricane." (Scorpions)

That's all I have to say about that.

The Beverage Run

So I guess this year I'm trying to drop soda. This means that I'll consume close to 1/2 gallon of Diet Coke per day less. I have been in the (arguably bad) habit of getting the 44-ouncer every afternoon on my walk to the gas station. I fear, however, that I still need my mid-afternoon beverage run. Today I embarked on my first sojourn in search of thirst quenching since relocating to Seattle.

I asked a coworker if he had any suggestions for a new haunt. Apparently nothing like this had been instituted. I say give me about 6-8 weeks and I'll have a regular following.

Looking back, I suppose that back in college it was Brian, Dave R. and I that would go to Hart's, that is until it was torn down. Sometimes that gal that gave us all the creeps would come too; we'll call her Tiffany. Jess often would join and of course Ray was a big-time beverage guy. Brent would on occasion, but his stomach prevented him most of the time.

Hart's was a gas station that had every single beverage on tap right next door to our office building. That means cheap refills and huge selection. Everybody could whet their whistle at Hart's. I mean, how many places had both Coke AND Pepsi products next to each other for sale? And every single product they offer? And Squirt? Nobody carried Squirt on the fountain. Not in 1999. Close to 30 different carbonated beverages available. It was a beautiful thing. I'd dance around the many flavors, never really settling down with a "usual."

That was when I'd usually get a hostess pie, if there was any that were $.50 and due to expire, and a York peppermint patty for anybody who wanted one. Whenever a new guy came, they thought there was some sort of a catch. After about a week of this, the other regulars had their "contribution." Brian went with the atomic fireball. Good choice really, since not everybody like the burning sensation of cinnamon in their mouth. Dave did once or twice, but his wasn't one you could bank on. Once in a while, you'd get the mooch who came just for the freebies from me and Brian. Slackers.

There there was "Black Tuesday." OK, I don't remember the day of the week, but Hart's had closed, and then a week or so later it was torn down. None of us could understand. We did understand, however, that we would never find a beverage sanctuary again like Hart's. Not so close. Not with the selection. Not in this lifetime. We did what every species through the annals of time has done: we adapted. About 3 blocks further down the street, Chevron sat on the corner with a smaller lobby, smaller beverage choice, and no York peppermint patties. The Beverage Run would never be the same. Of course, at this time Randall came on and joined the clan. In our time of loss, we gained a beverage brother. Randall and I would be known for making beverage runs at all hours of the night through the remainder of college together. I was a notorious Sobe drinker at the time.

There was another Randall in another time. He and I were RAs for a one professor who shall remain nameless. We were his lackies and we all knew it. Randall and I were trying to productize some of the work that had been poured into several years' worth of research, and we got really thirsty doing it. Chocolate milk was my drink of choice, slowly sipped over wars fought on the pool table. The rec center had $2.00/hr pool tables so you know where we spent our few minutes of decompression.

In Orem, it wasn't so easy. Doug "The Duke," Boyd, sometimes Doug, Jeremy or Rick and I would have to pile in a car and go to Maverick's. Not bad selection, but it was about 1/4 mile up the street. Certainly not the convenience I was used to. Bonds of brother hood forged, however, and if any of us couldn't make the beverage run, the rest of us could feel the void. Even when the office moved and beverages were another couple miles away, we weren't discouraged. We'd rotate the driving around. The beverage run had never failed us, and we weren't about to fail the beverage run. These were my Dr. Pepper days.

In Phoenix, there was a Chevron just about 2 blocks away from the office, which included crossing a pretty busy street. I say Chevron, but it is so much "On-Auk-Mor" than that. The fuel they sold was branded Chevron, but the convenience store was called the "On-Auk-Mor." The busy street you cross actually crosses soverign borders. On the east side of McClintock Drive is the Salt River Pima Maricopa County Indian Reservation. On their turf, they had the luxury of not charging tax on their Tobacco products, so accordingly they had a 5000 square foot Smoke Shop, inclusive of every single brand of cigarettes, accessories, pipes, chew, smokeless, pipe tobacco you could think of. I'm not a smoker so honestly, this is in all likelihood an incomplete accounting of the Smoke Shop offerings.

The Smoke Shop was about 1/3 the total size of the entire store. In the rest of the store there were classic items: beef jerky, gum, candy, batteries and is customary in the Phoenix area to have walls of refrigerated beverages for sale: Gatorade, Red Bull, Sobe, Monster, Coke, Pepsi, 7-up, Mountain Dew, root beer, orange juice, apple juice, snapple. In no way can I exhaustively say all the beverages to choose from.

Particular to the On-Auk-Mor was the Him-Ko-Gee Deli, which was met with mixed reviews. Now I am going on the record as saying that I've never seen a gas station with as fine a sandwich as the Him-Ko-Gee. I mean, The Him-Ko-Gee deli knocks the socks off of Subway anyday. Granted, I am admittedly biased against Subway, but these sandwiches are good, relatively inexpensive and are made by this really nice woman whose name escapes me at the moment. You can get a sandwich, pickle and a fountain drink for like 6 bucks. It was wonderful.

I suspect that because of the deli, there were fountain drinks. This was our oasis. Dave, Geoff, Muffaddal, Jesse and I wore a track in the sidewalk as we ruminated about various aspects of our work to and from the On-Auk-Mor. Sometimes our boss would join us. The selection wasn't stellar: Coke, Diet Coke, Cherry Coke, Dr. Pepper, Orange Fanta, or Sprite. Jesse often got an upper-middle-class beverage like Tropicana Twister or something. I'd usually bring my own cup, since the refill charge was $.50 and a new drink was a full $1.00. I'd usually fill up with Diet Coke, but sometimes I'd lace it with Dr. Pepper or Cherry Coke. Occasionally I'd forget my cup, but sometimes even when I would, the same nice lady would only charge me for a refill anyway. You see, that is how they treat you at the Him-Ko-Gee.

I never did ask for an interpretation of "On-Auk-Mor" or "Him-Ko-Gee." I sort of regret that.

Crossing the busy street was a blessing and a curse. I mean, to be a good citizen you should wait there at the corner until the green man appeared. And if our little walk would stretch out a few more minutes, so be it. For the sake of humanity. That same wait could be painful in July and August as temperatures hovered around 120. And mind you, this is the mid-afternoon walk, so you'd get every single degree at 3 or 3:30. The Phoenix sun is in no way trivial. Scuffing your knee on the pavement could mean a second-degree burn.

I took my dog Kipp to work from time to time and we'd go on the beverage walk. In the summer, he hated it. He'd walk on the grass strips or beg to be carried. Once, he jumped up into my friend's wheelchair basket under the seat to avoid walking and to get in the shade. It was a riot.

So that leaves me here in Seattle. Dropping soda in no way means dropping the history, the significance or the legacy of the beverage run. I must adapt again. Acclimate to my new surroundings and of course, quench my 3:00 thirst.

Blindly, I went downstairs and out on the street. I'd gone it alone before and I'll likely do it again. I found some little Asian mart a few blocks away. Not that I am surprised - everything in about a 10-block radius is an Asian shop of some kind. Apparently, I'm in the international district, which is but a few short blocks away from little Chinatown. So that's cool. There are literally 15 different Thai, 12 Chinese, 7 Vietnamese and several other types of restaurants really close by. I'm loving it because I am a curry junkie. 20 different interpretations of curry? I'm up to the challenge.

I found that there were 3 or 4 fridges of beverages, but no fountain. I found a Sobe and felt comforted, somewhat connected to every beverage run of times past. I felt that, even though I was new in town, I was tooling the streets alone and I didn't have distinct beverage depot, everything was going to be OK. The lure of the beverage is timeless, as is the 3:00 thirst.

I may or may not return here for beverages, I can't see it satisfying enough types of thirst. But I have a contingency. I have a sinking suspicion that here too at Amazon, I'm on the cusp of forging beverage bonds of brotherhood.

That's all I have to say about that.

The Krazy Sub
25 What?

A few weeks ago at my High School reunion I won a gift card to Krazy Sub, a sub sandwich shop close to the school's campus, by remembering the score of the football game against our arch-rival 10 years ago. Sometimes useless factoids come through for you. In this case, it came through to the tune of 10 bucks.

Though I wasn't a regular, I recall that Steve's Krazy Sub was one of the more popular haunts back in "the day." In fact two of my good friends, (then) Stacey Riggs and Julie Tenney, worked there. Maybe the fact that they were "popular" elevated Steve's to the status it enjoyed. To be brutally honest, I had been to Steve's exactly one time, and that was a quick drop-in to say hello.

So at some point during the past 10 years as I was away in Russia and Utah, the little sub shop by the school changed its name to The Krazy Sub. OK, whatever. To this fine establishment I won the aforementioned gift card.

One lazy Saturday afternoon Ashley and I opted to mozy over to The Krazy Sub so as to enjoy lunch on the class of 1996 reunion planning committee. We came with her sister, who was attending ASU at the time.

Given that I wasn't a regular, I had no real basis for comparison. I will say that I was somewhat struck by the overall crappiness of the place. Crappiness may be a bit harsh, but the walls, tables and floors were pretty beat up. It wasn't cozy. It wasn't inviting. The sandwich assembly line was hidden behind a 7-foot wall of some kind. On the right was where you start; you place your order and shuffle past the 7-foot separation wall and pick up your order on the far left of the counter. Standard fare for a sub shop.

Above the wall was the menu, wherein all the different available sandwiches, toppings, sauces and extras are advertised. The menu was boring. The toppings looked budget.

So I stepped right up to the counter, placed an order and started my shuffle past the mysterious wall.

And then it happened. It caught me off guard, and hit me hard. It seemed so innocent, but it was lurking. I had my infernal cell phone with me, which happens to have a camera. So see for yourself.



Though I had examined the menu to choose my meal, I apparently missed the fact that they charge $.25 (25¢) for a refill. Say what!!!?

In high school, I worked at Taco Bell. I could be wrong, but it seems to me that somewhere in the mid-'90s Taco Bell paved the way for soda drinkers everywhere by offering same-visit, in-diner free refills. Like 10 years ago. It seems that every crappy fast food restaurant has since followed suit. For that matter, I don't know when the last time I paid for a refill was.

In my mind, free drink refills have risen to the ranks of: taxes, commercials and infomercials, vehicle registration, clothing, noise, air, recycling, holiday weight gain, fossil fuels, my birthday (4th of July, Thanksgiving and every other holiday), elevators in tall buildings, FBI Warnings at the beginning of rented movies, my bad vision, cell phones, couches, water pipes, paint, sand and dirt, clouds, leaves, the plant and animal kingdoms all together (including fish, mullosks and fungus), high fructose corn syrup, FD&C Yellow #5, Wal-Mart, traffic lights, cassettes, CDs and DVDs, motor oil, color TV, sidewalks, grass, bark, grasshoppers, pianos, carpet, trees, Microsoft, telephones, hair dryers, mirrors, Albuquerque, outer space, Fenway Park, shoe soles, leather, lotion, chapped lips, overpopulation, boats, farms, t-shirts, otters, clay, speedometers, teenage acne, toothpaste, guacamole, vehicle emissions, speed limits, electricity, glass, smelly cat litter, DisneyWorld and Disneyland, email, paper, lawn mowers, hair gel and Monopoly.

These are things that more or less just are. I can pretty much anticipate with a fair deal of certainty that paved city streets are made of asphalt or cement, just like I have grown accustomed to getting free refills on a fountain drink. I mean, come on. Am I out of line here?

Apparently, I am. There still seems to be just cause in charging customers money for soda refills. Not that you don't pay for it 20 times over by paying a buck for it. They insult you by taking yet another quarter.

The sight of this sign absolutely blind sighted me. I erupted into a fit of laughter I had not experienced in ages. I laughed out loud, very loudly at that. I embarrassed Ashley, her sister and I'm pretty confident The Krazy Sub worker thought me an idiot. It was grand. I laughed for several minutes on end. Tears welled up and started flowing. I was out of control: OOC. There was no stopping this train. I was on the 25 cent nonstop to hysteria.

I had to buy a refill, just for the novelty of it all. "Back in my day, you had to pay MONEY for a refill..." Do you see the obsurdity of it all yet?

The quality was mediocre. The sandwich was dry. My second Mt. Dew was a quarter. As much as the paid refill annoyed me, it made the whole experience. I would have left thinking that The Krazy Sub was a lousy sandwich shop, and we wouldn't have spent the past few moments together.

That's all I have to say about that.