YEESH, WE REALLY NEED TO UPDATE THIS THING MORE...

As you'll see below in a second, I got drunk last night and decided to update the blog. Seemed like a good idea at the time. Now it's the next night, I've been hungover all day, and I'm going to compress a few months into a few paragraphs to try and get this emeffer caught up. Juli thinks we should post more often w/ fewer pictures. She's probably right, of course, but obviously not right enough to stop watching football for a few seconds and do it HERSELF. So I have to make this quick, or else I'll burn her mimosa and her omelette will get warm and then I'll get a WHUPPIN'.

Last time we left our intrepid heroes (from my P.O.V., remember--I swear I'll stop harping on the odd reverso-chronological slip n' slide of this thing soon), they were celebrating holidaze and getting trumped by the Danes. What's happened since then?

First off, Juli, Ty, and I get in a huge fight over whose turn it was to iron the antique parka collection (and in hindsight, it WAS my turn--that's my bad, guys). Ty slaps Juli across the face, and while it was funny at the time, Juli and I are forced to throw him through a window in retaliation. So he goes through our window, straight into the window of a passing taxicab, gets driven to the airport, thrown onto a plane, and calls us later from Cape Cod. Weird. Juli and I have since passed the time by trying on all of Ty's clothes and then running around the house going, "Look at me--I'm TY! DUH! My shoes and jackets are so TINY! DUH! I will be upset when I find out that my roommates have stuffed my acoustic guitar with pancakes! DUH!" I don't know why we keep doing that.

So Juli and are are back to a duo, which is good in some ways and sucks in others. One of the ways that it sucks is that now our rent is split two-ways instead of three. So we call in for backup. San Franciscans arrive in due time w/ child labor in good supply, and we set them to work immediately.

First we start Danny training for long-distance marathons...









...the operative idea here being that first-place medals are made of gold, and when gold is melted down, it eventually cools into the shape, texture, and general likeness of gold, which can then be sold for $. Associated ideas involve writing a book like, "Make Your Kids Work 4 YOU--Turn Your Toddler into a World-Class, Money-Earning Athlete in 4 Short Weeks!". The pages of this book, BTW, would be made from gold, which could of course be melted down into gold and then traded for money (or more gold, you see--I'm confident you get the picture).

Supposedly, there's also money to be had in oil, so we make the kids hang around oil machinery for a bit. Then we sit back and wait for the money to roll right in:





The money doesn't seem to want to roll right in, but Leah, being the very perceptive little girl that she is...



...looks into the water and sees all kinds of salmon:



Judging by the prices on seafood at the market, salmon is stuffed full of gold, so we rent a hovercraft, throw the kids on it, and sit back to watch the money roll right in:



Again, the money refuses to roll right in. Unfortunately, so does the hovercraft, and the kids are presumed lost at this point. T.J. and Judy, understandably upset, leave in a huff. Nevermind the fact that we blew all of our gold-medal marathon funds calling in a Blue Angels search party:



Juli and I, ever the supportive teammates of each other through thick and thin and other sundry child-losing adventures, shrug it off and go down to the market for some wine:



It's nice here, so I decide to get a job. This is a picture of me at my job, doing my job:



Verily, 'tis quite a nice job, with much grog and wenches to be had. Unfortunately, the hours 'tis not quite so nice, and so I must leave.

I am sad to go, and Juli is sad to go, so we banish our sadness with many, many episodes of Deadwood. Although Deadwood is like Shakespeare mixed w/ an N.W.A. album, I get all inspired by the cowboys coifing their facial whiskers into odd shapes and decide to have a go of it myself:



I am now a man. Men have arrangements of facial hair that provide evidence for all the beverage quaffing and lip-sneering that they have to do. My fathers have moustachios, and my father's fathers had moustachios, and cops and sailors have moustachios, and now I have moustachios, too. Also, guys that live here on Capitol Hill and hang out at The Cuff, R Place, and the Manhole all have moustachios, as well. Go figure.

One more shot of that incredible whisker sculpture for the ladies:



AWWWWWWWW, YEEEEEEEAAAAH.

The one condition of my leaving the wine bar was that I had to participate in an exit ritual, which consisted of perching precariously above a vat of acid while former co-workers and bosses fired red-hot coals at my tender flesh. Fellow members of the Grande Order of Flavor-Saver Whiskey Whisker Mustache Men be not afraid--I stepped up to the challenge with much aplomb and manly bravery:



This is my boss, Jen, looking fearsome as she wields an equally fearsome projectile:



Her aim is even more equally fearsome...



...and this is a picture of my face melting off from her successful dunking of my tender flesh into said acid vat. Good times!



Luckily, I have bionically enhanced aim, and I am not afraid to use it:



After this, Jen's top came off and things became inappropriate for our younger readers. Suffice to say, they know how to party here in the Emerald City.

So that's all the pics we have up until now, ladies and gents. I'll get pics and descriptions of our current jobs up soon, and seeing as how the rains started today and we spent way too much money on Goretex crap so that I could ride my bike through the air-ocean to get to work, maybe we'll get some outside shots, too.

Oh, and the leaves change here, too--we'll get pretty pretty of that, as well. Feel free to write in w/ any suggestions, such as, "Y'know, it would be great if JULI could write something for a change..."