Just like a jackass.

Deathlist 2012

2011-12-31T12:45:00.002-08:00

So I've been formulating my death pool for next year, and right at the top of my list was a certain dictator. So much like the year Benazir Bhutto was killed a month too early for me to shamelessly exploit, this year starts with a strike-through name. If you like morbidity and taking odds on the mortality of famous people, drop me a line.

1.) ~~Kim Jong Il~~

2.) Hosni Mubarak

3.) Field Marshal Mohamed Hussein Tantawi (I was going to go with Assad, but he'll probably find a way to escape the gallows)

(notice a theme here?)

4.) Bradley Manning (sorry, they're gonna execute that dude.)

5.) Ron Paul

I'm only going with 5 this year. Rather than hedge my bets I want to demonstrate my conviction that at least one of these dudes (huh... no women. weird.) will die before the end of the world. Cheers.

Happy New Year.

What the hell am I doing?

2011-11-10T22:45:00.001-08:00

This:

Pimpifying the new studio space with that Twelve guy.

HIgh above Nebraska

2011-06-04T12:48:00.002-07:00

In the last week I've been all over this country and seen things that, while par for the course for me, would break you up into little fits of giggling and hysteria. I've driven over 2500 miles, flown at least four times that distance, and boggled my way through airport after airport. I managed to spend a grand total of 7 hours out of the last 192 in my own home. The most recent visit lasted approximately ten minutes and saw me tossing dirty laundry into a bag with vague hopes of cleaning said articles of clothing at a distant location. I stroked the cat's muzzle and apologized for being such a negligent parent before darting into the cool Portland evening to finagle new travel plans and inappropriate volumes of alcohol. I have slept - and by that I mean to say I have engaged the services of fever dreams - fitfully on the plane to the tune of 2 hours out of the last 30, and I am currently winging my way towards New York city. I am told there is a roof-top hot tub at my hostel/guesthouse/whatever the fuck it is. I've gone from a 30 year old plane to first class on a new plane to the back of the same plane inside of 6 hours and my spine feels like it's going to crawl out of my back and declare itself a sovereign nation. War has come to this body, and both sides are pushing the limits of their supply chain. Soon I will be in the Big Mango or whatever the devil they're calling it these days. I am told there will be beautiful foreign women, music, parks, and negronis. Negronies? Negroni (already plural)? There is not enough gin on this plane to put me to sleep apparently, so you get a disjointed blog. Where are you? Do you want to hang out? Let me know and I'll fly to your city next. Or drive. Or... fucking walk, I don't really care anymore. The will and the way is there, so. Let's. Go.

A treatise on the quality of first class air travel.

2011-03-21T21:49:00.001-07:00

I'm druuuuuuuuuuuuuunk!

(and posting at 30,000 ft)

Bloggery in Absentia

2011-03-21T12:10:00.005-07:00

I haven't been around, possibly because I've been afraid to write something that might screw up a good thing. For once I decided to fight my instincts and stay put because I was in what seemed to be the ideal space: loving, practical, fun, and devoid of drama. I still miss it. Or maybe I wasn't writing because I had no impotent angst to plaster upon the internet. Either way, it's over now because I can't be satisfied with a good thing. My attention span ever wanes and I'm looking for what's next. This will probably kill me eventually.

Enough.

In slightly less dreary news, I'm traveling again. I've decided to postpone my hunt for a new abode indefinitely and redirect the funds I would have spent on better housing towards plane tickets to exotic destinations. This week I went to the Bay.

San Francisco was a bit of a mixed bag. It was pleasant meeting a few new people and connecting with old friends I haven't seen in a while, but as for the city itself I was left wanting. Except for the last day here the weather gods seemed to be on an epic bender and flooded the streets with water, wind and a complete disregard for my desire to explore. Explore I did though when the high waters momentarily receded, and I walked my happy ass all over the Castro, Mission, and Haight districts. Granted that's not a huge portion of the city and I've visited them all before, but venturing too far from the hotel without a foghorn and life preserver seemed foolhardy. Everyone assured me that it had been 65 and sunny for weeks before I showed up. It appears that as I prepare to leave the weather gods are ready to lift their embargo on fun. Who run San Francisco?

Boy howdy, my writing muscle is seriously atrophied. Expect me to exercise it more frequently.

Please feel free to leave suggestions in the comments for places I can go galavanting. I figure I'm saving 700-1000 bucks on rent so that's my travel budget. Yes I am still terrible with money. However, I make a metric fuck ton of it now so go screw. Foreign destinations are as welcome as US cities, parks, etc. Where do/would you like to go? Live vicariously through me.

Don't look at me while I'm performing.

2011-02-20T23:17:00.003-08:00

The only true portion of that movie was the sex scene between me and LeVar Burton. That totally happened, and it was way hotter than Daryn Aronofsky was willing to put on screen.

I just wanted to clear the air. Now go rent 'The Social Network'.

Of Urine and the Universe

2010-10-16T11:02:00.005-07:00

I love the fear inherent in the faith of so many "faithful." Stephen Hawking decides, after years of hemming and hawing and (more importantly) further discoveries in M-Theory, that God is not in fact required to bring something out of nothing. Pundits scoff, Lary King attempts the same "gotcha" questions as every pastor and wanna-be creation "scientist", and still the universe keeps on expanding. Hawking's answer to the not-at-all-novel question from King, "How can something come out of nothing?" was curt and unsatisfactory. Why? Because he doesn't have a decade or more to train you in the mathematics, conceptual frameworks, and underlying theories necessary to comprehend the mind-crumpling awesomeness and rigor of the theory. We're speaking of a fellow who is most likely too busy to call someone in to change his soiled diapers because his brain is swiftly analyzing data for problems we are, without being in any way hyperbolic, too fucking shit-tarded to understand. However, people like Hawking, Richard Feynman, and Brian Greene write lovely books that are designed to distill the most salient features of the Cutting Edge O' Science into words the layperson can wrap their noodle around. They try diligently to impart as much knowledge as you can gather without learning a metric butt-ton of math - and believe me, that is a difficult task. If you want to know what these fellows are on about, read their god damned books. Trying to "catch" one of the most renowned minds of all time is juvenile, impotent, pandering nonsense that makes good television for the self-assured, ignorant monkey nation we've become. Stephen Hawking doesn't care if you believe in god, he's just making a point about the fact that the universe probably doesn't need him, and we (by we I mean of course 'they') can back that shit up. Much as I can prove that fire is not magic only to the average english speaker with a high school degree, these dudes require you to know some herpes-serious shit before their arguments make sense. So read their books and decide for yourself, but remember that you and I don't actually have the chops to argue this stuff. There are thousands of people who do (ok, maybe hundreds) and you are welcome to go to college, get an advanced physics degree, and then poo poo on their party as loudly as you want.

So now to what you really came for. I got very excited about urine today. Since it's cold as hell (for Portland) I decided to find out just how cold it would have to be for your urine to freeze when it leaves your body. Could it freeze before striking the ground? Could it freeze at all? Did I have the tools to find out? I spent the next hour and a half combing two text books and the internet for data. Thankfully, many others had collected information on the content of urine and I began to look at different possibilities for solving the problem. I, like those smarter dudes I mentioned before, will spare you the math. Basically I finally found that the miniscule amount of contaminants in your urine (which is more than 95% water) will reduce the temperature required to freeze the solution by anywhere from 132 - 142 degrees C. To be clear, it would have to be several hundred degrees Fahrenheit below freezing to accomplish the task of writing your name in falling ice off the Grand Canyon. Now, my math could be off. I haven't been peer reviewed yet, but I'll be sending my work to a friend in France the next time I'm drunk, rest assured. However, I found afterwards that Mythbusters failed to freeze urine at -70 degrees F, which lends at least some minor element of observational weight to my theory. This is how science works. If you come up with an idea, you test it. Hopefully your test is fun and involves peeing, but sometimes it's boring and involves a lot of statistics. You back yo' shit up with observations, fool. You don't just proclaim inane fairy tales to be the everlasting truth about the universe and kill anyone who disagrees with your point of view. Well actually, I guess that works out pretty well for those guys.

On my numbers and other numbers: My numbers agree with other calculations I have read online, however research done around the turn of the century found the freezing point of urine to be between -.45 and -2.4 degrees Celsius. This was done with patients experiencing renal failure, and I am unclear on the freezing method. The Mythbuster dudes failed to freeze artificial urine at -55 degrees C, but the "artificial" part still bugs me. So! Science! I am currently trying to freeze my pee. If putting it in the freezer works, I will disregard my former method as flawed. If the sample fails to freeze I will begin looking for funding for further research. Basically I want a free Vacation to Alaska in the dead of winter. Anyone feel like supporting the progression of human knowledge? I promise a non-biased and rigorous experiment that will control as many variables as possible within a constrained budget. I will use multiple subjects, sample and analyze the content of their urine, and determine (if it does freeze) the heat of fusion of urine as well as a suitable conversion factor for this value based on the contaminant content in moles/L.

Pee!

Update: It's starting to freeze! Science!

Quotey McQuoteypants

2010-09-30T15:49:00.002-07:00

"Of course, you only live on life, and you make all your mistakes, and learn what not to do, and that's the end of you." - Richard P. Feynman

Unless of course you manage to teach someone else how not to make them. I find myself perpetually unable to learn the most important lessons I've tried to teach myself, but perhaps I can impart them to someone with more aptitude, clarity, and character.

I wish

2010-09-07T19:19:00.002-07:00

that there had been at least one child from almost all of my lovers. That I had punched Eric Kerr in his blond-curl-bounded face before the stout woman shoved him under her arm and dragged the little bastard away screaming like all hell. I can still see his face and flailing arms thrashing against her retreating buttocks, firm with purpose and stress. I wish no one knew my last name. That I had asked Alyssa Border out on a date when I was 17 even though she would have turned me down. That there was a better solution to the morning than waking. There is nothing more disappointing than realizing I did not actually teach myself to fly in a playground. I wish that most of my nutrients could be absorbed through your face. I wish that your face was her face. I wish that your brain was her brain. I wish that I wasn't quite so shallow. That I wasn't so damn pleased with and proud of myself all the time. That I could throw you from my mind like a Nazi from a dirigible. That I could go on and do what I really wanted. It would not hurt anyone, I swear. I just wish it would never stop. It will. That's alright as well.

The 14th ammendment.

2010-08-17T02:58:00.005-07:00

I had this long rant planned about the lunacy surrounding the recent suggestion by certain pundits of questionable sanity that the 14th amendment to the Constitution of these United States is no longer relevant. Instead I thought I would just point out that this particular amendment was not just about recently freed slaves, but rather equal protection under the law. So here's the full text courtesy of wikipedia (the source, in case you were concerned, is the effing Constitution).

The 14th effing amendment to the god damned Constitution.

I don't support Democrats. I'm not a Republican, but we all need to be clear about one thing: the Constitution is an agreement among civilized people. It provides the framework that allows us to try and be reasonably sure that every single jackass who walks by us on the street won't attempt to kill us and rape our spouse. It doesn't always work, but it's better than relying on your jawbone club. Support the idea of rights by mutual compact. Support the concept of the rule of law. Support civilization, because this shit will not persevere forever, and I for one don't want to be part of that last generation. Equal protection. It's not about recently freed slaves you fucking dolts.

Persephone just kicked in the door, and she's armed to the teeth.

2010-05-17T13:51:00.002-07:00

The phone rings again, and I'm confident without looking that yet another woman is wondering - completely innocently and without ulterior motive - what I'm doing tonight. It's sort of been a pattern this evening. The drinks continue to flow, the pretty young girls I'm currently laughing with smell very nice, and the night air is at that perfect gulf water temperature. I'll be going home alone, because I finally know better than to believe a single word any woman says. Last night I had a series of protracted dreams in which I took a half dozen girls I know out to dinner one after the other. We chatted, we flirted, we ate and drank and parted with a hug or light touch of the hand. Everything was cool and easy; I never felt that either myself or my guests were engaged in any disingenuous bullshit. So now, sitting with two women who are far too young for me and babbling on with them about nothing important I am feeling extremely confident, relaxed, and unconcerned with the future. Later we'll part ways and I'll go home to check my messages. I will chuckle at the feelers put out hours previous in increasingly drunken and brash voices. I will feel very good about myself and then I will fall asleep alone. For the first time in quite a while I will feel very good about that as well.

Portland is really something else this time of year. If you've never seen seen this valley during the month of May you might want to reconsider that tropical island getaway. Fertility drips from the strange legions of flora in great heaping gobs, soaking into the grass and pavement, pouring back out through the drinks and seating itself with authority in the multitudes of pretty young people lazing about in the sunshine.

I have finally given in and grown a beard, and my identity is in danger of being subsumed by the uber cliched Northwest Guy. I've got my hoodie and my secondhand pants, now all I need is a pair of Raybans, an ascot and a v-neck. If you see me doing this, murder is the only acceptable solution. The other day I found myself walking down the street and looking in a reflective shop window when the unbidden thought popped into my head: "Look at this fucking hipster."

Come visit me now. I will probably not try to sleep with you, but I can't promise anything. I'm feeling very confident again and I aim to ride that wave while I can.

Generations of Befuddlement, A Speaking.

2010-04-20T17:15:00.003-07:00

He followed an armored cavalry division through Europe, converting Wehrmacht radio stations into Allied facilities. He taught high school students and coached the debate team, encouraging thoughtful and well supported discourse in all things. He lived in the relative wilderness of Yellowstone National Park with his wife and two children, relocating grizzly bears that had ventured too close to the tourists. I don't know about you, but getting within five feet of a bear is not something I would want to be doing every other week.

One story in particular sticks: he had parked his jeep at the top of a high, steep embankment and walked down to the river at its base. After a few minutes two grizzly cubs came rushing over the hill not far from where he was standing. The hill was so steep that their forward momentum could not be stopped and the cubs barreled towards the bank of the river. Knowing what must be right behind them he sprinted up the hill as fast as possible. Just as he crested the top, momma grizzly ran over the lip at full speed. She turned and roared, but her momentum was also too great to stop at that angle. He rushed for his jeep and got it started just in time to see the grizzly come tearing back up over the hill.

He also survived over 5 decades of marriage. She was an alcoholic, a drug addict, and a source of great misery for him and his whole family, but he loved her and never stopped trying to help her fight those demons. I know that she also brought him immense joy. He always had a smirk on his face when she told excited grandchildren stories of the thousands of indian arrow and spear heads she had found in her walks about Montana. Their apartment was covered in them. Walls adorned, drawers full, and not a visit went by that he couldn't be coaxed into telling another story about the park after a few moments of gawking at those relics. You could see that their shared history was much more than just the bad times. The 50th anniversary of their wedding was attended by hundreds of family and friends.

By the time I knew him it was difficult to get the man talking, but it was always worth the effort. He was so much larger and quieter than anyone else in the family, and the old photos are testimony to the fact that he was far more handsome than any of his descendants. He had a firm handshake and a strong hug even after his legs could no longer carry him about.

Last Tuesday a massive jet of plasma rose off of the surface of the Sun and exploded into space. Two days later the expanding cloud lightly tapped the electromagnetic field of earth and most of it went spinning out into the void. Chuck went with it.

He was here. Now he's gone.

Rest in peace, Grampy.

Faced.

2010-04-09T12:04:00.002-07:00

I don't have anything to contribute at this time, so I'm reposting an idiotic facebook comment because it amuses me how much time I can put into an impromptu argument when I should be doing homework.

The original thread was deleted by the author, but it began with a post from a USA Today article about how 47% of US households pay no income tax. There were comments about how "half" of Americans don't pay taxes but still get to vote on other people's property taxes. A statistic was brought up that says 86% of income tax is paid by the top 25% of earners. I was urged to "look it up." and told that if I didn't like capitalism I should move to Cuba or something. This was after I had urged the OP to consider the massive amount of tax evasion, tax incentive, and general corporate welfare that skew our federal income, so I followed up with this:

"So I looked it up.

http://www.irs.gov/pub/irs-soi/04in05tr.xls

You're right, 84% is paid by the top 25%. What you don't say is that 96.7% is paid by the top 50% (same document.) If you look at the chart it's fairly obvious that your numbers are skewed. Those four columns don't equal 100%. What's really happening is that each successive bracket includes the previous. So, the top 5% pays 57%. Period. Including the top 1%. I would argue that few of those people pay FICA tax, and Social Security holds very little burden for them (as opposed to the single mom working at KFC). What stands out to me is the Adjusted GROSS income floor. It appears that those earning between 30,000 and 137,000 (gross, not net) pay (96-37 =) 59% of the income tax. That also means that half of American households make less than 30,000 dollars a year. So really what we're saying here is that half of America lives on a razor's edge and they still have to pay SocSec, medicaid/care, payroll, state, local, and property taxes (not that they shouldn't). Also, if the data included all the taxable income of those corporations that were just given human rights without the requisite responsibilities, I think this chart would read differently. Furthermore, you get plenty of that tax money working for you in the form of highways, farm subsidies, and any number of public services that benefit you directly.

All of that said, there are cogent arguments against progressive taxes, but you're just regurgitating and it isn't helpful.

Also, when did I say I hated Capitalism? I just don't think handing over tons of money to the dudes who have enough money to buy lobbyists counts as Capitalism. You want to stop welfare? Start with the welfare for non-people."

It should be noted that the person in question inherited a lucrative family business and always knew he would. To his credit, dude works very hard for his money. To his detriment his product is government subsidized crops that are primarily used to make ingredients for food-stuffs that are sold to poor people, contributing to their poor health and increasing their drain on the national health care system. Try explaining this to people without a flag pin on your lapel and a magic touchscreen with scary pictures though and you're in for a world of hurt. My "primary sources" and "logic" can't compare to sound bytes and flashy stats.

2010-03-10T15:55:00.004-08:00

The bus is crowded and I choose a seat near the back facing a trio of beautiful young women. They're all smiles and suggestion, attempting to cover the rings on their left hands without being too obvious about it. We chat intermittently about nothing important and I watch the summer roll by over my left shoulder. At some point their flirtations become a distraction and I turn around to face out of the bus at its 7 o'clock. The sunlight is fading and every leaf on every tree threatens to catapult me back into paroxysms of muscle spasms and recursive, terror-driven thoughts. I take a deep breath and pull my shit together. My father's voice breaks in behind me and he says something calming and natural without the slightest hint of pretense or insincerity. For some reason I'm completely unsurprised to find him there as I turn my head. The girls continue to giggle and flash their large and dangerous eyes in my direction, their broad toothy smiles predatory and enticing. Dad tosses them a sideways glance and then stares back out the window. We have yet to meet each other's gaze. I find my way back to the rolling scenery as well and he utters a few more truths that roll off my back and into the pile. I respond periodically in a normal tone of voice until a thought occurs and I ask him if he's really sitting here next to me on the bus. The old man doesn't skip a beat and says matter-of-factly, "Of course not." I nod and continue to tick off trees in my head. Dogwood. Poplar. Mangrove. That doesn't belong here... It isn't long before I realize that I have boarded the wrong bus. I mention this to my father and he shrugs. The girls either do not notice or do not care that I'm having a conversation with myself. I know that this bus is still headed in the general direction of my destination and the subsequent walk will do me good. It will give me time to think and inspect these trees in greater detail without the olfactory, auditory and visual distraction of these temptresses, still fidgeting nervously with the expensive demonstrations of another man's love adorning their slender fingers. I fart and dad laughs. The girls don't respond. The bus rolls on and the sun paints my gut a dangerous color of forewarning.

What the hell, damn guy?

2010-03-03T13:42:00.005-08:00

Someone is continually attempting to post anonymous comments to my blog that read like snippets from a romance novel, albeit a romance novel with fantasy-style names (Radin? Really?). Is this something bots do? Is it some sort of advertisement gimmick that I don't get? Periodically the prose breaks from the third person and appears to address the reader with terms of endearment, but there isn't really any indication as to how this fits with the story or if it is even supposed to. I am very confused. I'm used to the internet trying to sell me pills that will simultaneously cure my depression, slay my enemies and grant my penis its own gravity well, but I have never experienced this. I almost feel like the internet is... flirting with me. It's awkward, much as my flirting was in its infancy (not that it's gotten much better...), so I can only assume that the grand network of Tubes has become self aware and is trying to express its undying love for me by throwing together whatever it can find from the vast sea of information in which it finds itself. These soft susurrations in my digital ear are beginning to have an effect on me that is not unlike climbing the basketball pole during recess in the fourth grade: tingly, vaguely pleasurable and terrifying. I expect the next installment to involve XXX granny-tranny elves or something. Can't wait.

And no, I won't approve these comments on the off chance someone is selling something. No free rides on this horsey.

Update: A little googling has lead me to the conclusion that these are in fact out takes from an "adult" fantasy series about Dark Elves. I am not making this up. What. The. Hell.

In the wake of his passing.

2010-02-18T13:14:00.002-08:00

Saint Valentine has come and gone, and he left a crumpled twenty on my dresser. His parting words were - and you'll have to forgive me if I misquote, I was very drunk - "Keep the motor running. I'll be back next year and I expect you to be presentable, bitch."

There is so much infidelity around my I can't even believe it. I suppose most people don't consider some of my observations a breach of trust, but I do and I am here concerned only with my exasperation and confusion as I watch each and every person I know blunder through stable couplings, bellicose relationships headed straight for the grave, and tenuous new loves that are, if I have even an ounce of intuition, destined for at least a few years of bliss. Oh, I suppose it's true that a few of these couples don't seem to have any real problems with one or the other person getting naughty on the side, but they are the exception rather than the rule. So Valentine's day was spent working and then drinking, eating week old popcorn because I was too high to know any better, and watching everyone who wasn't single revel in whatever joy they could find. I did some hearty bellyaching with other single balls of quinine and that felt pretty good. I saw hypocrisy and genuine sentiment, honest-to-goodness love and the usual phoning-it-in. I went to bed early and dreamt of all the women I know. They were generally very polite to me.

Usually I couldn't care less about this artificial Holiday, but as I've said before I understand why it strikes a chord with people and that chord is far from unimportant. It's that turnaround that makes your otherwise boring progression sound full of life for a moment. This year I noticed my own bitterness and wore it like a hat. A fun hat, struck at a jaunty angle, just to piss off everyone who walked by. I wanted to load super soakers full of pepper spray and stalk through fancy restaurants. Who knows why making others miserable can mitigate your own unhappiness for a few seconds, but even the thought gives me an evil-boner. There is no mistaking that I'm the bad guy here, and I'm fine with that as long as everyone understands that I don't blame anyone, thing or supernatural phenomenon. It's not destiny. There is not someone for everyone. I'm sure I'll be much happier in days far from now, blah blah blah. However, after watching so many people treat each other with such little regard after professing their continued affection and mutual love on this most holy of greeting card company stock bumps I can only assume that I'll be far more likely to hide in the corner and wave a warding gesture at the mere suggestion of intimacy. Yea, I know. My problems are cliche and trivial. That's why my life really isn't so bad. Just remember that Saint Valentine will be back next year, and he expects you to be well lubricated.

1 Million shining idiots with really good intentions.

2010-02-03T11:44:00.003-08:00

Facebook is notorious for inane concepts and catchphrases that one may become a 'fan' of to show their friends exactly what kind of person they would like to be perceived as. Religiously inclined people, art lovers, car enthusiasts, and those excited by bacon, sluts, or violence against the mentally challenged can all find like-minded individuals by the thousands. If the proper meme doesn't exist you can simply create the page yourself and begin collecting fans like worms on a corpse in their great multitudes. Normally I find this to be harmless (if somewhat transparently shallow) behavior that has little impact on the world. If my ex girlfriend from high school wants to let everyone know that she supports the overthrow of the tyrannical regime in Iran, far be it from me to point out that she has not now nor will she ever engaged in actions that would precipitate such a change.

Then I saw this: X friend became a fan of We can find 1,000,000 people who DO believe in Evolution before June.

Belief in evolution? I'm seriously concerned about the current terminology surrounding the debate between religious zealots and what I hope are rational people. Scientific theories aren't belief systems that carry with them moral values or judgements (at least they shouldn't be). They're empirically derived descriptions of the way some portion of the universe around us behaves. There's nothing to believe. You either study and understand (to whatever degree you are capable) the theory - including its limitations - or you don't. You then either accept what you have learned or question it - and then you'd best be prepared to bring some serious mojo-filled arguments and evidence along to back you up. There seems to be a pronounced effort to cast the 'Theory of Evolution' as 'Evolution' the creed. Let's not lose sight of the real difference between evolution and intelligent design: one is a rigorously tested theory and one is an attempt to fit the facts to a pre-existing belief system. One seeks to find truth out of observation and the other seeks to impose its own version of truth on inconvenient observations.

This of course has much less to do with the Facebook fan section than it does with the shift in attitude I'm seeing with respect to science and religion. It's becoming a dogmatic contest between ideas that are fundamentally incompatible. This is problematic enough without the matter being obfuscated by a cloud of ignorance on the side of the fence that considers itself the rational yard. When we begin identifying ourselves as believers of Evolution we necessarily ascribe to it a limiting aspect of absoluteness. I know, I know, you may be thinking "this is semantic nonsense." To be certain, many who say they "believe in Evolution" are just turning a phrase and fully understand what a scientific theory is and how it comes about. In this sense though we are forgetting a great deal about the political and social implications of our words. Most people don't study science beyond their sophomore year in high school, and while they accept Evolution for any of the possible reasons they could it has become an empty dogma unto itself. In any given social situation people will have strong opinions about a person based on their position vis a vis Evolution. I'm sure many of us have watched a room go silent when one odd person out of 10 declares that Evolution is junk science. Many more have seen the opposite occur in a church or youth retreat. So what does 'believing' in natural selection (or for that matter, I.D.) actually mean for most of us? If you were to ask the average person how the process of natural selection works, there is a significant likelihood that they would offer confused and incorrect descriptions that vaguely resembled portions of the actual theoretical framework. In fact, I'm fairly certain the same would happen if you asked me. Interestingly enough you will find a similar inability of many religious people to accurately recall the teachings of their holy books or to recognize the incongruities contained within them. This is not to imply that the average person is stupid, but rather that the single most important theory in many scientific disciplines is some heavy, complex shit. So don't tell people you 'believe' in Evolution. We should not have to justify something with such a vast body of hard evidence supporting it in the language of blind faith. That way lies a complacency and acceptance of an idea we don't fully comprehend, and that is antithetical to the scientific method. It fails to encourage us to search deeper and learn more. It encourages us to accept blindly what we are told by "scientists," just as the religious are encouraged not to question their clergy. It leads to a dialogue that is neither credible nor productive. Don't play their game. You will lose. We all will.

Dramaturd.

2010-01-17T16:11:00.002-08:00

I still live in a poorly written soap opera, but at least these days everyone seems willing to just have a beer and get over it. Go us. Growing up doesn't seem to mean growing more mature; rather it appears to have a proportional relationship to the amount of bullshit you can accept with a shrug and a sidecar. This weekend I threw my hands up and spoke directly to the Gods of Mischief, Irony, Love and Deceit. "Whatever, dudes. I'm down. Let's do this."

It's been good so far. Going with the em effing flow.

A serious call for music.

2010-01-13T19:15:00.002-08:00

I wasn't kidding before. We've got the room and the means, so let's make the tunes happen. Bring your guit-fiddles or what-have-you and start spankin' out the rock!

Just in case the Christians were right about me.

2010-01-13T17:55:00.005-08:00

I've hidden a cache of weapons in a particular location. Should I be unable to access it for any reason, I trust you to follow my instructions precisely in order to secure it for your particular purposes. There is no shape more sincere than smiling lips, and I assure you all the dollars, which being what they are I am unable to grasp firmly, that passed through my fingers in the last ten years have been bent towards the promise of that kind of truth. It makes one wonder what could possibly be achieved in life if instead a small fraction of those monies had simply been given to a prostitute and the rest bent to nefarious purposes of a more profitable nature. Go west on Highway 6. Turn right on the road where I tried to lose that sheriff. There was no moon that night, and my mushroom addled brain concluded that turning off the headlights would make the car invisible to the constabulary forces arrayed against us. I had not considered our lit cigarettes, reflections from his headlights on my cherry red honda, or the ten foot ditch to our left and my sudden complete inability to see the road. It was an interesting few seconds. I appreciated your heartfelt request that I turn the lights back on. Do you remember how he followed us all the way back into town? It strikes me as odd that we weren't pulled over. Take a left at Long Judson. How much better do you suppose we could be if our hatreds and jealousies were easily transferred, for a nominal fee, to the spiders and ants that live in our rooms? If I had any aptitude for true forgiveness this would be a moot point, but despite my sincere desire to be rid of these feelings I dangle from the branch of my own disgusting intolerance and anger, feet twitching away while my hands frantically flail about in an impossible bid to tighten the noose further. Where is the merchant who will alleviate the suffering of my own design? No I can't say I think too highly of the snake oil men with their serotonin tonics, though I wish them well in an economy such as this, and I know that the traditional purveyors of good will, enlightenment, mindfulness and compassion cannot truly meet my product specifications. They lack the requisite sincerity. Trust me on this. When you reach the road with the windmills, park your car and walk due north into the fields. It is very flat here, as you well know, so I recommend a compass if you lack stars to guide you. There are so many people upon whom I would commit acts of terrible violence. The urge is never accompanied by the thought of using weapons - those things are tools to which I can attach no emotional strength, only common sense and the need for self-preservation. Instead, when the awful rage lurches up into my throat, I feel as though I am sliding down a great and sandy hill with my fists spinning wildly. I want them to come walloping through the bones and soft meats of those who have wronged me and feel with great satisfaction the utter destruction of those who, in all honesty, have not come to deserve such mindless apish brutality. And yet I don't want peace. I don't want freedom from that frightful need. I had the temerity several sentences and many months ago to tell myself that I would be better off letting go of these burdens, not for the sake of the trolls who raise my hackles, but for my own besotted head. Well, the truth is that there is sincerity in my violence, and I am not ready yet to trade truth for peace. Perhaps some day I will be, and you and I can sit as smiling happy Buddhas on the sidewalks of some safe city, sipping tea and proclaiming the joy in our hearts to anyone who can suffer us. I will not be surprised when a young man meets me on the street then and kills me. He was well taught, that one. You'll know you've reached the spot when you find a large rock that has no business in a farmer's field. Dig a hole two meters deep on the western side of the rock and you will have the means to achieve whatever it is that you feel merits tearing lives apart. I wish you well.

Reciprocity. (For Jibbers.)

2010-01-12T10:02:00.003-08:00

Inanity! Familiar patterns! Failure and success! Lessons learned and lessons ignored, this is the winter of our appropriate level of contentment!

I say a lot of things. In fact, my mouth seems capable of outpacing my brain by a good two meters per second, which means I'm constantly managing to clamp a hand over my lips just after I've demonstrated exactly what kind of moron I can be at any given moment. The point I'm making here is, for those who know what's up, I know I've said twenty things and done one other. My resolve is less than spectacular.

While coming to terms with the simple fact that everyone in the world is totally into infidelity except for me, I've tried to temper my natural instinct to rage and blow, thrash and growl when confronted with emotions engendered by the behavior of other people. The results are... mixed. Here's the simple fact of the matter: I would enjoy nothing more than to have dinner for two. Conversation during that dinner would be nice, and perhaps a bit of wine to soften the edge of getting to know someone in a town full of perpetual whiners, layabouts, and unskilled workers - many of whom are generally passionate, driven in some capacity, and at worst marginally interesting. At best they are awe inspiring and titanic in personality. After dinner I don't really give two shits what happens save for this: I don't want to find out that this person already has a boyfriend, husband, open-relationship guru, sex-cult swami master, or any other significant person in their life. No, I don't care if that person is cool with it or "won't find out." Let's get down to brass monkey balls here: statistics show (and we know those things never lie) that Portland is teaming with single people. Are all of them out fucking the not-single people? Is that what you're doing on a Saturday night? Because seriously, we could go grab tacos or something.

In other news, major changes in my housemate situation are looming. More on that later. My basement is now sans-pool table, but we haven't so much lost a table as gained a music space. Let's jam. I need a new job, since my current one is only providing me one day a week of income. Hire me or face my estimable wrath - which is to say that it would be easy to calculate the amount of wrath I am capable of delivering, so like... I know you aren't scared but please hire me anyway.

Anyone want to have a cookout to combat this mild winter weather? You know you can't deny your desire to masticate my basted, grilled meats.

Annnnnnd the ball is back in your court, JB. Mmmm. Dueling blogos.

Just shy of three months.

2009-12-03T17:00:00.002-08:00

I have been without liquid spirits now for 78 straight days. Other than a marginally increased level of stress during the first hour after work I haven't noticed any terribly ill effects. In the realm of improvements there is also little to report. I found early on that I would become enraged about midway through any given day, but this was easily remedied by replacing the 1000 or so calories that I had formerly taken from beer and replacing it with actual food. Will wonders never cease. This boy remains an inveterate procrastinator, prone to loud outbursts that resist any attempt at internal parsing previous to expulsion, given to idiotic budgeting decisions, bereft of even a modicum of social decorum. I'm not doing any better in school either, but I've never been what one would call a model student. I do well enough and the important bit is that I actually understand everything that's being presented to me. It would please me greatly if you and I could discuss the various methods of computing the volume of a solid produced by rotating the area bounded by two parametric equations about a given axis, but you don't want to hear me you just want to dance. Well. All hell is about to break loose and I might even dance with you (though I wouldn't hold my breath if I occupied your fancy dancing footwear). There are four weeks separating my last exam and the beginning of the winter term, and I plan to punish my brain something fierce. Join me this Tuesday for what is sure to be an evening of terrible decision making and laughter. If you can't make it on Tuesday, come see me in San Francisco from the 17th-25th. That's right. Christmas in the Bay. Come and get it.

No really, I'm fine.

2009-11-07T10:45:00.004-08:00

I awoke today, my 29th birthday, to find that overnight I had grown a second chin. The perplexities of middle age (and make no mistake, the average lifespan of the males in my family assures me that I have nearly reached the half-way point) notwithstanding, this is an affront to all decency, common sense, and even my recent diet. Seriously, body, are you trying to piss me off? Because it is fucking on, bitch. I have been exercising. I have been eating whole grains until I poop shiny rockets that leave no trace of their passing. The multivitamins march through my veins in stoic silence, led by a vanguard of electrolytes brutally suppressing any dissent from free radicals. I have even completely eliminated alcohol from my life for over a month now, and this is how you repay me? A fucking goiter? So be it! Then let it be war between us! When this quarter is over I will go on a bender that mocks God and all his works. I will enter into sexual liaisons so dubious that my nether bits will try to shriek and find cover behind my massive thighs (all that bike riding, you know). There will be torrential rivers of alcohol overwhelming my capillaries causing my translucent skin - which hasn't seen the outside of a bar or dingy hotel in days - to pock up with bright red bursts as though a new galaxy of stars had formed in the swirling chaos of my face, now dull and vacant with the weight of ages. I will make you rue the fucking day, body, that you betrayed me and left me feeling... old. Rue it!

The bright side.

2009-10-31T11:14:00.003-07:00

Assessing myself at the end of this decade, I have found many fissures, flaws, and extremely detrimental traits, not to mention a virtual deep ocean trench of indecisiveness, fear and jealousy. Those hindrances notwithstanding, I am moving forward, keeping on, and (mostly) finding excuses not to hit people I pass on the street. I think I look pretty good for 29. I believe in all sincerity that - assuming there were no better options available - most women (but by no means all, mind you) if they were truly desperate would not kick me out of bed. You know how it is, when you really just need to feel something because your best friend died or your boyfriend left you for that Polynesian boy he had sworn over and over was just his muse? Or when you completely lose your shit and scream at a customer so your boss fires you and then the bus doesn't even stop but rather splashes you by cutting into that giant puddle that's formed beside the uncovered stop you've been waiting at for twenty minutes in a downpour? It's the way you feel when you try to stop drinking for a few days and wind up face down at a bar full of old drunks watching football; you don't even like football, but you're watching it with your head turned sideways, left side on the damp formica, yelling at the quarter back and calling him a "tool!" just like you used to call your med-school boyfriend who left you because you couldn't get your act together. Yea. When you feel like that my guess is that I don't look like such a bad option. The bags under my eyes and receding hairline look positively hot juxtaposed with the day you've had. No, I will not buy you a drink. I don't have a god damned dime. You can buy me one and we'll see where this goes.

The soldier and the intellectual.

2009-10-27T16:28:00.002-07:00

An officer and a professor were walking through a forest in the hills of southern Russia. The professor began to tell the young soldier of his philosophy; he expounded upon the grandeur and beauty of existence, the perils and heartaches of life, and a great many truths that could give meaning and purpose to anyone regardless of creed or politics. The officer listened intently and after an hour of walking began to cry. He poured out joy and sadness, knowing that if the world could hear these words that the multitudes would weep in unison. Never had he heard such wisdom and he knew, then and there, that never again would such truth as this be spoken.

At length the professor came to a succinct and lovely conclusion. The logical consistency and elegance of his arguments could have withstood the onslaught of the most rigorous examinations, though the soldier did not know this. The soldier stopped in the forest and the crunching of leaves ceased. He turned to to the professor and said,

"I believe that what you say is the truth, and furthermore I believe that few if any other person living or dead could have brought such things as you have imagined into being. I stand in awe of your achievement."

The professor smiled and bowed his head in humility.

"I thank you, but it is not so great as you imagine. Now you must tell me of your philosophy, Comrade."

The officer nodded and extended his hand to the older man. As the two men shook he drew his pistol and shot the professor in his face.

Returning from the business which had brought him to those woods, the young soldier took a beautiful wife who he wooed with words stolen from a dead man's lips. He sired bright-eyed and respectful children who learned their most important lessons about life at the knee of their father. The words he gave them though came not from his mind, as they supposed, but who could say otherwise? Finally, after watching his children grow and move on to their own success, the old soldier penned a series of books that swept around the globe. The scope of their insight and their pertinence to all cultures and peoples was undeniable.

And the world loved him for it. The soldier died quietly and peacefully at an advanced age in his bed, his family and many distinguished persons surrounding him and weeping for their great loss.

That was embarassing.

2009-10-19T13:18:00.002-07:00

The train station looks surprisingly like SeaTac with a greater abundance of windows, some of them propped open with sticks to let in the warm breeze. There are palm trees and rice patties through those same windows and I can smell burning fat in the distance. I can feel the urgency of time and I rush from terminal to terminal until I finally climb aboard a car filled with placid children, exhausted mothers and a few bored business people. Their clothing is kaleidoscopic, pulling flavors from everywhere: New Delhi, New York, the Swat valley. There's nowhere to sit, so I stand with my back to the front wall of the car. An American woman doing her best fashion imitation of Oprah eyes me with a smile. Her hips are more than generous and her face caries a good half gallon of water cut by deep wrinkles that her concealer cannot hide, but you can tell she was beautiful and fertile in the very recent past. Her left eye sparkles as she looks me up and down, mouth half open and prepared to let me in on the joke. She thinks better of it and clams up.
I wonder aloud how long this train will take to get where it's going. The woman can't contain herself any longer.

"Honey, this isn't your train. Didn't you know that? You're in the wrong place, little boy. You're going in a completely different direction."

"Really?"

If I'm going to hit myself over the head with a blunt metaphor, couldn't I at least include something sexy? Fine, let's deal with this nonsense before someone bludgeons me to death with a 'WRONG WAY' sign. I run for the nearest exit, the lady cackling behind me and shouting "It's too late! The train's leaving!"

She is in fact correct. I feel the car lurch and by the time I reach the door the train is click-clacking along at a wonderfully dangerous velocity. I briefly mull over the potential consequences of jumping and determine that, while wicked scars are totally manly, chicks do not dig head trauma. I sit down with my feet dangling from the open door and watch the rice paddies drift by.

At the first station I disembark and begin following the tracks back the way I came. The sun is setting, I'm chewing on my tongue and wondering bitterly why the first dream I've had in recent memory could not involve a significantly larger quantity of breasts.

The sound of someone coming into the room then quickly turning around and leaving jolts me awake. When I wake up two things happen. The second thing is that I find myself completely exhausted: as though I had just walked 30 miles through an Indo-China summer. The first is I realize that I've been humping my mattress like a gerbil in heat and there is no way in hell that whoever just walked into the room could have missed the spectacle.

An open letter to Chase

2009-08-02T15:19:00.002-07:00

On July 29 I received correspondence from your Portfolio Lending department advising me that this account has been closed for a number of reasons. That is not particularly distressing to me beyond the negative impact it could have on my credit report. What I can't understand is why the account ending 9213 is still active. This account was supposed to have been canceled under WaMu and yet it appeared in my accounts after the transition to Chase. So as I see it you have canceled one account because, partly, I have too many bank cards open - yet the account I actually asked to have closed remains. I plan to pay off account 7448 fully in September, but I want to register my disappointment in the move to Chase as well as my decision to settle all outstanding balances and sever ties with your institution as soon as possible. Every time I go into one of your branches there are too few employees, long lines, confusion about new policies, and more trouble than I care to recount here. Please feel free to go fuck yourselves. No need to send me a patronizing response about how you appreciate my patience during this difficult period of transition; please just go fuck yourselves. Seriously. Thank you for making this recession just a little more painful for all of us.

Sincerely,
Fuck You.

2009-07-11T02:46:00.002-07:00

I had one grandmother who said, "Moderation in all things." and another who knew nothing but excess. When people ask me things like, "Don't you want to live in balance?" I wonder if they understand the concept. Opposing forces are not their fulcrum. The fulcrum is not a division of two weights somehow forming a cohesive whole, it is a point about which they balance. Do you loathe the destruction of native traditions by modern monoculture? How do you feel about female circumcision or abortion? Why would anyone want to carry a firearm? Is it kosher or vegan? Peppered or Teriyaki? Where's the beef???

I can feel the genes of both of those women deep inside me, clawing and screaming at each other. What a circus. Memories are dim, but certain facial expressions and postures stick with me. I see the two of them squaring off across shag carpet, the only mad expression I can remember from either. Baking contest! Clear winner. Present contest! A different but equally obvious victor. Eventually there are mech-suits and lasers, buzz-saw projectiles and super-ninja-granny action.

I tried to dance just now. To a song I love, in the kichen, alone. It was still stilted and terrible. Just can't dance. Oh well.

Totino's Party Pizza has the longest ingredient list I've ever seen, and so I have concluded that there is a statistical probability that one or more of those ingredients will kill me.

Miss you. Love you.

They know I'm givin it for free.

2009-06-26T17:32:00.004-07:00

Today the tiny Hispanic man with long frizzy hair and cutoff short shorts (denim, baby) who gives blowjobs under the overpass commented positively on my physical appearance. He looked me up and down as I walked towards him over the freeway. When he was within spitting distance his eyes bulged and locked somewhere on my crotch before he issued a low and appreciative "Daaaaaaaamn!"

I'm not really sure what that was about. I wasn't wearing tight pants or anything, but thanks anyway to the cracky-looking fellatiophile for the ego boost. The only women who want anything to do with me these days have boyfriends, so I'll take it where I can get it. That is, apparently, under the 405 bridge.

The weather is stunning and the Portlanders are equally radiant. I wish I could say the same for myself. Biking is exhausting, but I keep at it assuming that I will feel better eventually. I'm trying to get some energy and motivation going but mostly I just want to sleep. Christ I'm tired. Someone told me that my body might be busy trying to heal the tail bone which could account for my lethargy. I am not convinced. Rather, it seems to me that a total lack of physical violence in my life is rapidly tripping my apathy circuit breakers. Without a good wrestling match or scuffling of a more carnal nature I might just end up sitting on the couch eating fistfuls of antidepressants and watching "So you think you can dance." Pray for me (or whatever).

For your consideration

2009-06-17T19:14:00.002-07:00

Let's play pretend. You'll be the Platonic Form of everything I've loved and hated, and I will try on the other jerk's pants to see if I can fit. Excitement! Sure, I get that. Frustration and a sudden realization that you really could not be paid enough to care about the other's feelings. You go for what you want and it's given to you freely and with joy. No regrets (blah blah blah). It's pleasant here so I can understand why you've all enjoyed it at my (and his, and her, and their) expense, but I simply cannot abide the rationalizations. You heard it straight from the Rationalizing Horse's mouth, kids. You made your decision in the creeping of the second hand sometime between the words "my" and "place." There's no need to explain it over again. I get it. I got it before I met you I think, but it needed time to bed in my consciousness. It probably also required a certain amount of distance and personal disinterest in a specific circumstance to give me the clarity I needed to see her and him and you and I and all those other beautiful bastards moaning into the morning, hoping it wouldn't be so bad after all. Well, it is. Sorry about your luck, because whatever you tell yourself you are going to tell that boy. You may lay it down, cards all out and honest (my personal preference for heartbreak) or it might happen without your consent: your body and your language will give you away. Don't worry, he may never say anything. Perhaps he won't go and fuck it up with something as ungainly as confrontation, and the two of you will live out the rest of your days in uneasy bliss. After everything that's happened I can't say it sounds so bad. It makes me wonder if I should have gone down that road, but a few seconds pause lets me emember that I can never leave well enough (or any kind of enough) alone. For what it's worth, I don't trust anyone any more or less than I did a week ago.

I'm eating cabbage from my garden and waiting for your phone call. I like you.

Thanks for the perspective. Best of luck to you.

What the hell

2009-06-02T01:05:00.004-07:00

am I so angry about? It's been growing for days. A gnarly, devilish little itch at the nape of my neck that cries for blood and tallboys. Wow. The spellchecker recognizes tallboys. In any case, it's growing. Perhaps feeding on the obscene diet of tacos and pizza I've been forced into by my latest employment endeavor. I work. I school. I try to party and fail miserably. I have no time to feed myself real food, and I am beginning to believe that this is the primary source of my current misery. It could also be that I just need to get laid, but that's advice that everyone needs for all general ills. I can't distill this absolutely malignant stretching and aching of muscles that constitutes the rage and violence building in my chest into something useful to deal with, but there has been some progress. Today I beat a (mostly) innocent man to death with my bike lock and felt, for a brief moment, relieved of this noxious, poisonous anger that is driving me to distraction. It's only been at my throat for a few days, and if it keeps up I may just lose it completely - find myself ass up in dumpster, the blood of innocents dripping inexplicably towards my broken and abused face, no memory of how I got there and less recollection indeed for the crimes of which I am being accused by the local constabulary. Christ on a fucking cracker, I could probably just alleviate this all with some sex. Do we have laws about that yet? Mandatory fucking for all citizens? We probably should.

I actually planned this if you can believe that.

The moral here is: you're generally dumber than you think.

Contentment.

2009-05-08T11:21:00.004-07:00

I was a bit bewildered, but she assured me that we should continue fooling around. It was half-hearted and not very sexy, but everybody loves to rub about. Apparently we had some time left, so the lazy rolling around continued. She wasn't terribly active, but I assumed that had more to do with blood loss than lack of interest. I felt very warm, sleepy and content. She smiled and appeared to be enjoying herself, but it occurred to me she might just be hallucinating so I asked again,

"Are you sure this is ok? I mean, we could get you to a hospital or something..."

"No, no, this is fine. Let's just lie here some more."

So we did. And we did other things. I felt very pleasant and she seemed to be enjoying herself.

"Sorry about shooting you in the stomach."

"Can you just stop talking? You're in danger of ruining a good thing here."

I stopped talking. She never stopped moving, squirming around and smiling like a cat in the sun. Her belly was very warm and I was absolutely certain that I would be spending the rest of my life in prison. That thought was very comforting for some reason.

Stress.

2009-05-07T14:19:00.003-07:00

You may have heard that a number of U.S. banks have failed certain tests designed to simulate "worst case" scenario conditions. The specifics of what's actually going on are vague if not downright classified First Lady Titty-Level state secrets. I find it particularly amusing that Bank of America is reportedly the most at-risk institution. Will they fail? Will they take 33 billion tax-payer dollars? I'm guessing, based on the scoreboard thus far, that both are likely "worst case" scenarios.

To say that it irritates me misses the mark by several counties.

Let us say, hypothetically, that a person happened to have a line of credit with Bank of America. Let us further say that this line of credit was taken out specifically to consolidate and pay down credit debt under one of those lovely 0% financing schemes. Furthermore, let us presume that a payment date had been established for a number of months before being randomly and without warning pushed up a full 6 days. Business days. The person in question, used to having his usual automatic payment deduct nearly twice the minimum payment promptly every month on time, would find suddenly that his 0% APR had now jumped to 17% in addition to a number of fees and "finance service charges." Well, that is how they get you after all. Sucker.

So our hypothetical consumer bucks up, learns his lesson, and begins actively monitoring his account every month. He (ooooh, I started using a specific pronoun... my veneer of hypothesis is wearing thin) has alerts sent to his freaking phone notifying him of the due date a week before it arrives. He therefore, after only one mishap, continues to make payments far in excess of the minimum balance due. Good monkey. Way to feed the crocodile. It will never bite your dick off now!

All of a sudden our not-so-hypothetical asshole finds that his interest rate has been raised again. The reason? There is no reason! No notification, just a demand for more money without any contact or explanation. The timing of this interest hike is of course, not without some small measure of importance.

So, our little consumer has made a few bad choices and wound up with some debt that his meager income really can't handle, but he continues to come up with the funds month after month in order to meet his responsibilities. It is a huge strain, but he finds the solution he seeks... in the government! They have plenty of funds available at reasonable rates so long as our plucky debtor claims that these monies are for higher education!

Let's see, where does that leave us? Oh yes. The debtor can't pay the lender who is suffering from their own brand of fiscal ineptitude, so he borrows money from the government to settle up. The lender is near collapse because they thought that no one could ever have trouble repaying loans if they constantly jacked up the price of continued admission, and therefore will likely have to turn to the government for a fat dick-slap of a loan. In the end, both of these loans will be thrown on a pile of deficit that increasingly looks like the Tower of Pisa sculpted from bird shit. Or perhaps a Jenga tower... you know I love those.

This is all so damned funny. Too bad it's also so damned serious. For someone. I'm not sure who, but it ain't this guy.

To all my single ladies.

2009-04-23T12:14:00.003-07:00

My roommates have left a Cosmo lying about, so in the interest of gender espionage I began leafing through this incredibly strong-scented periodical. I was specifically looking for references to what the magazine presumed men were "actually thinking" or "really wanted." You know. One hundred and one ways to make him do the dishes or whatever. I could write a dissertation on the inane bullshit that spewed forth, but what really jumped up at me should be a no-brainer even for women (especially those who are or have been servers). Here's a tip, ladies: if you really want to leave your phone number for that cute server dude, just leave the damn phone number. Or hand it to him. Or *gasp* ask him out. I don't care how hot you are, if you leave your phone number in the tip line of the bill/credit card receipt instead of a tip I will give that phone number to the hairy fat old guy at the bar who's been checking you and your friends out all night. Not tipping is not sexy. I don't care if there's a note that says "Call me - I owe you a drink." I will most likely call you: a cheap whore. Seriously, does anyone actually live by these magazines? Are there men out there who think FHM and Maxim are giving them really solid advice? Brush your teeth, shower often, and otherwise follow your instincts.

You people just aren't very good at this game.

2009-04-22T12:04:00.004-07:00

So Qwest DSL is bombarding my online cartoon experience with irritating ads featuring frustrated computer users screaming at what appears to be a completely manufactured "crash screen." The idea is that these people have, like so many of us in the past, lost some sort of important data. The tag line is: "Crash happens. No worries." No worries, it appears, because if you purchase Qwest's incredibly poopy DSL service they'll offer you FREE ONLINE BACKUP! That's right, you heard it. Why spend 20 dollars on a 40 gig hard drive at Fred Meyer that you can carry in your pocket when you can pay them 50 bucks a month for shitty, intermittent service that comes with 2 (count em, two) whole gigabytes of free backup that you must be connected to the internet to use! And in my experience, their DSL connection only craps out about four to five times a day so the likelihood that you'll have access to this backup service that is only slightly smaller (read: half the size) than the thumb drive attached to my fucking keys is pretty good! I mean, the file hosting service I'm sharing with another friend costs him (he isn't making me pay for some reason...) a few dollars a month for a measly unlimited amount of space. What a deal Qwest is offering. These incentives for crappy internet service are almost as good as the .05% interest rate WaMu was giving me on my savings account! Man, these dudes sure know how to stimulate economic growth and redefine their service model to properly align it with consumer demand and the realities of a rapidly changing tech sector.

Douche.

A simple set of truths.

2009-04-21T16:55:00.004-07:00

There are absolutely no women to whom I am physically attracted that are interested in the theory and implementation of digital systems. Oh well.

If she looks too young for you, she probably is. Don't bother confirming it with a conversation that comes to a grinding halt when she begins talking about her favorite band and you think she's describing a self-help book.

The availability of women to you on a college campus follows the inverse square law where x = age * (number of beers you have consumed in your life)

She's gay. No, seriously. Stop talking to her. You're embarrassing everyone.

That guy will eat you alive. I know that makes him sound more appealing. Go get him, but do please keep your inevitable tears far away from me.

Reggae sucks. I'm sorry. I don't like to poo poo an entire musical genre, but I fucking hate reggae.

Your dress looks like a bag of potato chips.

Amy Winehouse has terrible hair. How much did you pay for your copy?

I will never go into outer space. You will never make it to the moon. Eventually we will get all our power from Venus and Mercury, but you and I will be long dead.

I will be somewhat old by the time I have children. This is equal parts unsettling and relaxing information.

Nudity is fun.

Addendum:

Whoever decided that most of a man's sexual sensation is in the head of his penis obviously had a very small mouth. Just the tip my ass. Stop spreading this stupid rumor. Your technique is not incredible.

Kitties

2009-04-14T11:45:00.002-07:00

like me better than women, assuming I can judge that entirely by the number of asses presented directly to my face. Stop it kitty, seriously.

Dedicated to all of those with big egos.

2009-04-09T14:42:00.003-07:00

There was this guy once who thought that Copernicus might be right. He wasn't the only one, but he was the only one willing to say openly that the Earth revolves around the sun. Being a savvy guy, he named a few moons after some rather murderous rulers of Tuscany and found himself in their good graces. To be specific, they had him pack up from Venice and take a position in their court. This was all well and good, and Galileo sort of began to flaunt his controversial position on the cosmos despite a new Pope coming to power. See, if you're going to print a dialogue in the common parlance describing a heretical theory of the Universe, it's probably not wise to put the words of the Pope into the mouth of the character you call "The Simple One." Galileo perhaps thought that the ruthless politicos he was patronized by would protect him from the Vatican. The Medicis, on the other hand could have given a toss about some twerp astronomer when they had to consider their very angry ally, the effing Pope. So we all know the rest. House arrest, gag orders, "and yet it moves." The world changes for the slightly-less-stupid.

The irony is that if Galileo had stayed in Venice he probably would have been protected from the Vatican, since at the time Venice and the Papal States were in opposition. The rulers of Venice, also not caring one walrus tit about astronomy or Galileo, would have kept him safe just to piss off the Holy Father. Of course, he might also have been less widely published and read, begging the question: would his impact have been felt so profoundly?

Who knows. The lessons I take away from this are simple: sometimes it takes a major shift in your life to get anything done,

and:

don't let your ego get too far ahead of you. Especially if it winds up dragging you between politicians and religious fanatics.

More!

2009-03-30T01:12:00.002-07:00

This is fun. Like digging through an old trunk full of crappy clothes and trying them on in front of a less-than-flattering mirror!

I know why I didn't post this one the first time around, but it's still pretty much the truth and I'm done censoring myself for stupid reasons: Clickity.

Also, this was in fact originally posted, but since I seem to be doing the same damn crap at the same time of year... Fuck.

And this is the worst poem ever written by anyone, but it reminds me of a bad space that my head was (and is no longer) in. Also, it's about a burrito. Boop.

Ha! You tuned in for a lame clip show! Suckers.

Pork-fried beef tubes are delicious.

2009-03-30T01:00:00.001-07:00

The pan is sizzling nicely. A smattering of low and lovely frequencies piled together and swept about my head. I'm having trouble with the stereo field and the noise is pleasantly absent any meaning or import. The drone is consistent from overhead but rife with conflict and dissonance. Lovely.
My reverie does not last. My steady symphony slowly shows faults in its hull as increasingly frequent chirps manifest themselves with corresponding stabs of fear and pain in my lower gut. The sensation is spuratic in location but very specific and isolated. Each punctuation in the boiling soundtrack moves the pain closer to my genitals and it is only now that I realize I've been standing naked in front of a rusty pan full of bacon grease, rolling kosher hot dogs back and forth in this sloshing, manhood-searing abomination at four in the morning.

I found this draft in the backwaters of my blog gathering dust. I apparently wrote it in 2007. There are more and they amuse me. They aren't good, but I may post them anyway. This one was the best.

Magic bullets and little white pills.

2009-03-23T13:21:00.002-07:00

To expand upon some comments and shed some light on what I think are broadly misinterpreted intentions, I'd like to discuss with you the difference between a "fix" and an actual system solution (as loosely as possible).

For example, let us assume we have a man named, oh I dunno, "Tony." He might be a plumber, a doctor, or even a super hero who rides around on bicycle. None of this matters, because Tony is unhappy with his life regardless of his work and personal triumphs.

So Tony tries some things. He is given all sorts of advice, and he dutifully tries each avenue in the following order:

1.) He tries talking about all of his many pointless and not-really-that-scary problems.

This helps a bit and gives him some ideas, but he is still unhappy.

2.) He takes a pill that a doctor gave him and goes about his daily life.

This also helps a bit, but it's sort of expensive and he hasn't had an erection in months. So... no more of that.

3.) He loads a gun and pulls the trigger. I'll leave it up to your imagination where the barrel is pointing.

In another universe, Tony decides that "being happy" is a relative state that is in constant flux. It's not something one can guarantee with the push of a button, change of venue, or even extended therapy. It's ephemeral, and if you chase it rather than embrace its presence, you'll be one unhappy puke.

So Tony thinks long and hard about the things in his life that he can do something about and the things which are out of his control. Then he narrows the list of actionable items down to those that really bother him the most and draws up a corresponding set of possible reactions. He considers that joining the Air Force is probably going to cause more new problems than it solves. He determines that buying property and going mad with the power of a landlord will serve no one's health or well being. He notes, wistfully, that starting a mail-order puppy farm in the basement is probably an idea that would break down in implementation.

Finally he makes a decision that eliminates what he sees as the greatest detractor to his personal growth and that also opens new and exciting opportunities to him.

This might be moving to a new place. It might be going to school or gunning for that great job. It might be getting married or getting divorced. It might even be joining the Peace Corps and spending the rest of your days in a war-blasted desert. I'm not Tony, so I don't know what he wants and needs.

My point is, people have been known to tell me that there is "no geographical cure." I know. I've never been looking for a fix for my life. That doesn't exist. However, despite my shortcomings, I'm not stuck with the sinking feeling of a dead-end life in food service in a small town that bored me to tears. Simple equation, really.

Now come visit me and I'll buy you a beer. We can trade secrets and plot our respective next moves.

I take it all back.

2009-03-22T16:14:00.003-07:00

That program I was lauding? Yea. Forget it.

Who needs to think through fleshing out complex plot holes when you can just throw your hands up at the end of the series and say, "God did it!"

I never learn. Television rots your brain.

Of flesh eaters and men.

2009-03-22T03:28:00.003-07:00

I just realized that I posted nothing concerning the ways and means of zombies, much less that most wondrous of organs, the mammary. So, to make amends, I provide the following:

Seriously? Just don't even click this link. You've been warned.

before the fall

2009-03-22T03:11:00.004-07:00

So I'm watching this television program. I like this program, but I'm not particularly impressed with it on any significant level, other than its masterful control of the dramatic. Then She says to Him, "I'm proud of you." That's a start. "I don't think I ever said it before, but I always wanted to be proud of you." There it is.

I am infinitely amused by this dialogue.

Horrific violence ensues.

That pretty much sums up my feelings about life, the universe and everything. It's a lovely picture.

I have to go baste my pork.

Brand new coat of paint.

2009-03-17T12:11:00.004-07:00

Template changes abound. I'll continue to fuck with it until I break something irrevocably. Comments are appreciated... I pretty much suck at all things visual, especially color coordination. I've done my best to steal from others, so I don't think it looks too bad. Also, if anyone knows anything about java script and can help me align the image under the sidebar properly, I'd really appreciate it. It's close, but I can't make it sit properly in the middle. Also, it's amazing how much more smoothly Safari handles scrolling compared to firefox. Still don't like that browser though.

And school:

Today it dawned on me that I'm actually really fucking good at all this shit. I was the first to walk out of my C++ midterm. A close third in my digital circuits class. In years past that would have been due to a complete lack of knowledge and many many questions left blank. In this case, I not only felt very confident (minus 3 or 4 questions on the DC test) about my answers, but I had time to check my exams over several times. The C++ test took me 20 of the allotted 110 minutes. Hellz yes, son.

I just looked over this and realized how boring a post it really is. There'll be something about tits or zombies next time, I promise.

End of the line.

2009-03-16T12:03:00.002-07:00

The news just told me that our inevitable slow slide into senility begins at 27. That's right, we're all just becoming slower, dumber, more forgetful, etc. as of (for me) last year. Hooray! Thanks, news.

So I guess that explains why I'm doing better with math and science than I ever did as a young jerk. That probably also explains why I feel so much better about expanding my consciousness with something tangible, scalable, and useful than I ever did the day after a mind blowing tear-down of the old noggin. Yea. Give up. Getting old just means you're in the way.

That said, my ego is in serious danger of ruining a good thing here. So Dr. Nick has prescribed the usual. Bye, everybody!

Finals first though.
Time to slap them bitches down.
This quarter has been equal parts amazing and soul-rending, both academically and personally. I can't wait for spring to take me in new and (likely) terrifying directions.

He said she said

2009-03-15T11:33:00.002-07:00

"You really aught to respect the occasion."

My former brother in law is not given to reason and respect, so against my nature I shut up and listened. It was my sister's wedding after all, and even though it was the second time around my ratty t-shirt and bluejeans truly were inappropriate to the moment. I did not, as I had presumed I would, choke on my pride but instead found myself looking quite pleasant in that ridiculous tux. I don't remember seeing my sister or any other wedding guests. The father of her children and author of her suffering looked approvingly at me and smiled with a kindness I have not seen from him in 10 years.

"You always have something to say, but you left and now it's my turn."

We had been trying to talk over each other for 30 or 40 seconds with words such as "no, please, let me just get this out because i know what you're going to say." So against my nature I shut up and listened. It was your home, room, and bed after all and I have certainly worn out my welcome. You told me how it was and how it should be and how it can never be. I listened and listened and knew that you were right, but we can never seem to help ourselves. And so:

"You can't stay here."

We had sex that nearly blinded me with its ferocity, intensity, violence and caring. Then you kicked me out of your apartment and I walked many miles through the rain.

When I arrived at the gun store, the owner offered to take my coat and asked what I'd like to drink. I think I had something brown and stiff, cold and dry on my tongue to take the bite out of my soaking wet walk. I was damp and in shock, so I bought an AR-15 (it's an assault rifle if you were wondering) with plenty of ammo to boot. Nick, Shy and myself then walked back into the wet and parked ourselves at 39th and Hawthorne. Politely waiting for breaks in the flow of traffic and pedestrians we began firing round after round up towards Mount Tabor. I felt a little guilty about the whole thing, especially after shy almost blew the head off a pretty young girl with a red umbrella crossing the street. The girl smiled at us nervously and waved like one does when they're not sure if a car about to pull out of a drive can see them. We waved her on and continued to shoot.

I hear ya.

The Hawthorne Bus

2009-03-15T03:04:00.002-07:00

does not, as I was recently told, run until 1:45 or 1:50 on Saturday evenings downtown. It in fact arrives for its last stop at 2nd and Alder at 1:31 in the morning, approximately 5 minutes before I got there. I had a lovely (and very long) walk in the cold, shitty rain.

On the plus side, Conrad Keely tried to kill me with his guitar several times.

Also, I think I make the best 5th wheel ever. Well, I will once I perfect my juggling act anyway.

Don't let anyone tell you that a hot dog made from mechanically separated chicken tastes anything like a real hot dog. Those people are lying sacks of garbage and I will have their heads.

My ears are ringing in a way that is both alarming and musically pleasing. There are some interesting dissonant things happening, and I can't hear that fucking cat's obnoxious heavy breathing anymore. The earplugs were insufficient.

I am prattling.
No more.

Get to be doin up this goin.

2009-03-14T09:55:00.002-07:00

I am, as you may have gathered, feeling very un-good. However, I find whiny blogs about people's recurring emotional problems that they do little to nothing about to be just shy of Tolstoy in terms of engaging reading, so I'm going to talk about Ninja Gaiden instead.

That shit is hard. Super hard. Like, fuck your newfangled video games and read a book because this game will smite your ass. If you want to see three to four males in their late twenties put aside all differences in opinion of politics, race, religion and ethics, sit them down in front of a Nintendo Entertainment system and enforce a strict turn-based regimen of cooperative Ninja Gaiden. If we could rearrange the United Nations and Congress around this principle, world peace would go from pipe dream to the Rule of Fucking Law in 60 seconds. Ryu Hayabusa for Hegemon. That shit is what's up.

End.

That old familiar feeling.

2009-03-13T19:01:00.002-07:00

Like waking up to find your entire body gone to pins and needles - almost enough to empty your stomach. That's the only relief I can think of, but I've never been good at vomiting so I step blindly into traffic instead. This is Portland, so that's really not such a big deal, but it goes against my most basic instincts. The act contradicts me and my nature in a way that may not seem profound to you but which is, as far as I'm concerned, the greatest single indicator that my head is well and truly fucked. I took one look at _______________ and lost my nerve, my resolve, as well as my self control in rapid succession. I'm not sure if anyone came close to hitting me with their car. I really wasn't paying attention. I walked by girl after girl in the sunshine and they were only gray outlines of pleasing curves. It's possible one or two of them smiled at me, but they were just so blurry and unreal. The buildings were solid. Real things that I followed with my eyes to keep from falling over. The sidewalk wanted to eat my face, and I think I wanted that - to just collapse and mangle myself horribly. I could imagine walking into the house covered in my own blood, plopping down at the table without a word and having a good cry or laugh or good-old-fashioned smashing session. There were teeth that needed gnashing, fists that required bloodying, and nonstop terrible adrenal rushes that had me choking for air. I've felt like this before, and I think at the time it was warranted. Something hurtful had been done to me for no good reason, but this is not that time and you have done nothing to deserve this feeling from me. So I clenched my fists, kept my eyes on the rooftops, kept my posture and walked home to find a guitar and some sanity. I have most definitely found one of those things. The _________________________ looks so much like the one I _____________________. I know that time and place well, and I remember you licking my face like a puppy. It was very silly and full of suppressed anxiety, but that was a good moment and now it's tied to pain for no good god damned reason. Someone told me I just have to make a decision to blah blah blah, but if I had ever been that good at making and sticking to decisions you would all know a very different boy.

I want to be happy for you, but I think I'll have to settle for acceptance. At least for a little while. I need to stop doing this to myself. I'm now accepting severe beatings from anyone who thinks they can kick the dipshit out of me. First come, first serve.

Holy Shit.

2009-03-13T01:35:00.002-07:00

Go to thedailyshow.com and watch a late night comedy douche tear a professional investor to pieces. This shit is incredible. I don't even know how to drive the point home any clearer: "Dumb shits listened to obvious douchebags and left our economy in ruins. In the meantime, you and I were watching Aqua Teen Hunger Force and not doing a god damned thing."

We are all culpable. And we will pay for it. We are paying for it.

Gun control.

2009-03-12T13:11:00.004-07:00

German Teenager Kills more than a Dozen People - Gun Laws Likely to Be Strengthened

There's your all purpose headline for the day, and I can't say it's at all surprising. The response to deadly violence from without usually precedes the war drum and calls for aggressive action, but when it's just some psycho on holiday everyone screams and hides under new laws designed to reign in these one-in-a-million perpetrators. That troubled young man acquired his guns from his father, a legal firearm owner. The logic therefore is to restrict gun ownership further so that troubled teens can't get their hands on them. This seems sound at first glance, but you have to look no further than Columbine to understand that people (even kids) can get weapons if they want them badly enough. This boy walked calmly around a school, sometimes revisiting classrooms he had already sprayed with bullets, and discharged over 100 rounds of ammunition. Let me repeat that: over 100 rounds. That means he reloaded anywhere between 7 and 20 times depending on the type of firearm he used. No one had the means to stop him and he had time to kill 12 people before those who did could arrive on scene. In the states we often declare "Firearm Free" zones and restrict the right of sane, law abiding citizens to carry defensive weapons there. Well, whoopdyfucking doo! That'll keep the crazies from shooting up our high schools. If just one - count it: one - single person had been armed with a concealed weapon in that school today's headlines would be very different.

Taking away my right to defend myself does not make you safe from violent criminals.
Yes, guns are dangerous, but weapons have always been with us. I promise you that this young man could have killed 12 people with a knife if he'd been smart about it.

There is no such thing as absolute safety, but there is such a thing as a reasonable policy. Banning firearms in schools/hospitals/whatever and restricting the rights of responsible citizens has in no way changed the fact that crazy fuckers will always hit the wall and take it out on people who don't deserve it.

There was a farmer who blew up a school with home made dynamite back around the turn of the century. People can kill you. Get used to it. Maybe even get ready for it. And as for Congress: You shall make no laws infringing our right to bear arms. So stop it.

Economic Ruin is still sexy.

2009-03-12T10:01:00.000-07:00

Click.

I have nothing to add.

Useful Bureaucracy.

2009-03-11T20:35:00.002-07:00

The UN has just admitted that it is not only losing the WAR ON DRUGS, but that it is essentially making the problem worse. No shit? Man, I'm glad we've got these guys around. Here's a link.

Dumb Fuckers Admit What We've Been Telling Them For Years: That They Are Dumb Fuckers.

Property.

2009-03-09T23:19:00.005-07:00

In an amusing twist, Megavideo has decided to ratchet up their push to get people paying for premium content. They've limited viewing duration and placed a permanent, gigantic banner ad for their pay service inside every video. We'll get to why this is funny. First, if you aren't familiar, Megavideo is one of the largest video hosting sites out there these days for completely, shamelessly, unappollogetically stolen content. It's based out of Hong Kong, and the site is by far the biggest host of popular US television shows and movies (at least, the ones that don't get removed quickly). Their new approach is funny, because they appear to want people who are actively viewing pirated material to pay them for the priveledge. Talk about missing the point. It's annoying, but some other site will fill the gap in a few weeks or less. Everyone wants to get paid, I know, but no one yet has found the magic formula to solve the epic battle between creators of intangibles and... well... everyone else. Thanks for the great times Megavideo, I'm sure I'll think of you fondly like my other exes. Ah, yes. So many sweet ladies that have gone the way of all flesh: Napster, Limewire, Hotmail... hell, someone even tried to charge me for playing on a MUSH once. If you don't know what that means, be happy you aren't a collossal dork.

Salesmanship in the new era.

2009-03-06T16:49:00.004-08:00

My phone was stolen. I can't really fathom why, as the resale value of my ~2 lb. behemoth probably approaches an hour's wage at Jack in the Box, but there it is. No phone, no phone. I do not want to be alone, but if you feel like contacting me you'll have to use the Inter Webs for the next few weeks. Why so long you ask? Well, because the people who work for Verizon Wireless are, as far as I can gather, either independently wealthy or afraid of money. After checking out all of the prices of new phones online (with, of course, another 2 year extension of my very stupid contract) I went into the store to shell out 80 lousy dollars for the newest version of my indestructable techno-bauble. I was greeted, passed around, and finally dropped rather heavily into the arms of a sales representative named "Niki" or "Page" or something like that. Judging by the look on her face I must have smelled atrocious. Perhaps she had eaten some bad shellfish for lunch too, I have no idea. In any case I explained my situation, pointed out the phone that I required, and asked a few questions about that phone and another which I had a passing interest in. Her responses varied between terse statements, begrudging divulgence of information, and of course the ever popular "are you a fucking kindergartener?" Perhaps I have indulged in hyperbole, but I'm not too far off base. I calmly explained that on their website - the website which she accesses to get information about my account - the phone I wanted, after rebate, cost $79.99 before shipping. She flashed me yet another condecending sneer and then, with the patience of the worst elementary school student teacher you have ever had, she pointed slowly and painfully to the prices listed on the display.

"This phone is 180 dollars after rebate. You have a 50 dollar credit. So this phone is 120 dollars."

I corrected her math.

"This phone is 130 dollars."

I explained that I understood her reasoning, but that her company's website was offering quite a better deal and could she please match that. The curl in her lip (I'm not kidding, she really did the "curled upper lip" thing) told me that this was not going to happen.

"We don't match the website."

I started to thank her for her time, but she walked away. So, um... when I have 80 dollars I'll order a new phone. That will be, with any luck, before the 20th but definitely by the 20th. Then I'll wait on UPS. I'm always waiting on UPS. And women. God damn it.

Also, Vicki, or Gigi, or whatever the fuck they called you... I would have bought the $120 phone from a salesperson that gave a damn. That thing was totally sweet, and my impulsive ass could have easily been coerced into an unnecessary credit card purchase. Your loss, ho.

Stack your cakes until they get sky high.

2009-03-03T20:27:00.002-08:00

I get angry when I don't eat for more than 8 hours. Real angry. Like, I almost hit a guy on the bus. To be fair, he sneezed on the back of my neck. I really had to restrain myself from breaking his jaw. Ain't no jokes.

So. I got home. I threw my shit in the corner. I made a batch of pancakes. You know, a mixing bowl full of batter. Usually good for putting 2-4 people in pancakes. Next I made a single pancake from half of that batter, smothered it in blueberry compote and syrup, then set it aside. Following that I mixed diced bacon, creme fraiche, and yes... a little bit of bacon grease into the remaining batter. I used all of it for the next pancake. I smothered that pancake in grated pepperjack cheese and green onions. And syrup, of course. I am currently in the process of making myself sick by ingesting both of them. I'm about 2/3 of the way there.

Sometimes I overreact.

It's hard to see in the picture, but they're about 1.5 inches thick.

Too hot for that Space.

2009-03-03T16:00:00.002-08:00

I had a link on my stupid MySpace profile to this blog. Apparently the link to my blog was too (and I quote) "naughty" for myspace to handle. I'm not sure what about my bullshit rants is beyond myspace's pale, but it must certainly be worse than those videos where people hurt themselves really badly. Thanks, guys.

Black Magic.

2009-03-03T15:30:00.003-08:00

I have always known there was magic in the world. I'm not speaking of witchcraft, or tarot, or hedge wizardy, no. Rather I refer to Real Magic that exists. There really are wizards and mages (of both sexes) toiling away in their towers, pouring over arcane formulas, constructing mighty mystical devices of nefarious and constructive intent. They even train millions of future magicians in the multitude of magical disciplines that have been, through careful study of strange phenomena, refined down the centures. When I was a young twit, I read all sorts of stories about these people in dark and foreign worlds that were beyond ours in space and time. It turns out, we're doing it all right now. Right here. We can throw fire from our hands, build weapons that blot out the sun, heal the sick and even resurrect the (very) recently dead. For fuck's sake, we can fly.

People who play World of Warcraft like to tell me all about the sweet shit that their characters can do. So far I have yet to hear of many things that can't be done in the real world, to greater effect, and with far more satisfaction. Hell, even if you want to kill lots of people there are ways to go about it that don't involve incarceration. Be all that you can be! "Oh, but I don't want to put myself in any actual danger!" That is what separates the true magician from the gamer and fantasy enthusiast. Real magic involves risk. If not physical risk, then it certainly requires you to put something of yourself on the line: your integrity, your skills, your reputation, and perhaps even your livlihood. And occasionally shit blows up, too. Pwnage.

I'm particularly fond of Black Magic. Other students of the Arcane complain that it's mysterious, confusing, confounding, or even terrifying. Black Magic is predicated on the notion that the elemental forces of electricity can be arbitrarily assigned a value. These values can then be used to construct nearly anything. Trust me, you're probably surrounded by the susurrations of an army of these constructs as we speak. I know for a fact you're looking at one right now. Like all magical disciplines, Black Magic relies on other schools to accomplish most if not all tasks. And that shit is everywhere! Magic is all around us! One can't spit sideways these days without watching every natural law bend and twist on the fruit of our sorcery, forged in the minds and hands of some very crafty wizards.

Schools of the Arcane are everywhere, and the government will even fund your journey into the bizarre.
So put down that fucking mouse and go get an education. Ass.
I swear to Maxwell Planck that I will electrocute you with my finger from 40 feet away if you don't. I am absolutely not fucking kidding.

Pork apple.

2009-03-01T13:36:00.002-08:00

This girl kept asking me for food. I believe you might know her if you live in Portland. In any case, I had food, I made food, and she ate my food. For my trouble she slept on a hotel-style bed with me and we spooned for a bit. The bed was not comfortable. We made out for a while, but she could not stop pressing her hand into my throat. She did not do this in the sexy way that people sometimes do, but rather in a manner suggesting she was unclear about how to support her own weight when coupling. It was very awkward and again: uncomfortable. This nonsense passed and a short while later found her on the floor of my kitchen begging for more food. I obliged and began preparations. Presently I noticed bag 9 with a recently prepared pork loin in his hand. He was tearing great chunks from my precious meat as though it were some sort of bizarre tropical fruit. I let this pass for some time, realizing that I was actually in the kitchen of some old friends from North Portland, but this affront could not stand for long. After he pulled nearly a third of the small loin into his gaping maw in a single bite I lost my temper. "Hey! I need that to live!" He simply shrugged and handed the mangled meat to my simpering female companion. I snatched it away from her and resumed knocking about the kitchen, dutifully reapplying myself to the task of sustaining those around me. I felt oddly fulfilled.

Boob tube.

2009-02-27T03:43:00.001-08:00

John Stewart's interviews with Brian Williams are the best thing on television.

Idi Amin

2009-02-26T12:56:00.002-08:00

was a crazy fucker. Well, they're a dime a dozen in history books. I'm not sure why all those customers were so incensed that we were hugging behind the counter. Amin didn't mind, and Amin is your father. He is my father. Someone's father? Uganda's, right. I had forgotten, but I didn't forget you. The smell, touch, taste and sounds of you. These are not things I usually get in dreams. It was nice, even with a brutal African dictator smiling in anticipation just over my shoulder. His smile was genuine and large, full of teeth and vicious promise. Those fat cheeks looked like they could swallow us whole. I could smell him as well, and the clash of gunpowder and burning hair against the subtle whiffs of you rising directly into my nose was enlightening. I could hear gunshots and cannon fire in the distance. As I drew you in tighter their reports came louder and louder. Amin just kept smiling. I wanted to share a sandwich. Would you like a sandwich?

Surfin Dreams

2009-02-25T16:24:00.002-08:00

It's been a long time since my regular dreams were this vivid, frequent and recallable. The themes are unhelpful and pedantic, but I'm happy to be having any kind of time at all with my wild nights of slumber.

The medical practitioner tells me, with a certain amount of suppressed giggling, that I have a staph infection. I poke absently at my scrotum - which hurts like hell - and ask if there's anything to be done. He stifles a smile (poorly) and shrugs. Apparently antibiotics don't exist in this dream, so I'm out the door and on my way back to an apartment I've never seen before. In this apartment I meet an ex-girlfriend and we chat for a while over some video games and beer. She invites me to lie down on the couch with her and make out, as if it's the most natural and uncomplicated thing in the world. I suppose it is at that.

After a while, clothes begin to come off and I start to squirm. There is sweat on my brow, and she is very persistent about releasing the button of my jeans despite my best efforts to twist away from her prodding fingers. Eventually I give up and in exasperation explain to her the horrifying state of our potential union. She sits up, straddling my lap, and strikes a thoughtful pose that reminds me of a cowboy, on an old broken mare, who can't seem to decide which way to meander down the ol' dusty trail. Did we put Dick Dale on the record player?

She picks a half-burned cigarette out of the heavy porcelein ashtray at the foot of the couch and lights it. Still half-naked and sitting on my ruined loins, she drags the rotten, stale tobacco and comes to a decision.

"S'aright with me."

The ensuing fornication is heavy and moist, not entirely unpleasant, and decidedly rockin. As she comes to climax I notice that the door is open and another ex is standing at the threshold smoking and staring off into space. She appears to be... well, waiting her turn. I peer past her and view a small line of girls I know heading down the stairs. They all seem very patient, perhaps even bored. Realization dawns and with a sinking heart I know that I will have to repeat this conversation many, many times. As the next in line glances over to see if we've finished yet, I reach a new level of terror as I become convinced that all of these conversations will end in exactly the same way as this one just did.

A very verby guitar assures me that this is going to be a hell of a long night.

Whoah, buddy.

2009-02-25T00:46:00.003-08:00

I dreamt that I went to see all the old places and people, and most of all I came to see you. At least, I think that's what I was thinking, but I put it off and made my rounds. There were fresh faces and haggard cliches, but pretty much everyone was what I expected - new and known alike. Surprises are seldom nice anyway. I milled about, piddled my time away in the usual fashion and occasionally stopped myself from clutching at the burning place in my gut when I realized for the umpteenth time that I had not called you since I arrived. I went about my business. I told the little old ladies how bright the city lights were. They thrilled to my wild and exagerrated stories of all the large and little people, their restaurants and failures, the stupid names they give these things, and the crustaceans they wish would take the place of husbands. I found the walking dead and listened once again to their excuses while I dutifully minded the gnashing teeth asaulting my prescious flesh. I lapped up the breath of life from the brilliantly living. It was rich and heady. It was full of flavors I have only imagined and cannot possibly understand but hope someday to recreate. In the middle of a gaudy carpet I felt the stinging pain again and picked up my phone. A few days remaining and I still hadn't called you, that was the depth of my fear. This guy here. This guy's not a brave one. Never has been, and if he gets his way he never will be.
Your voicmail message indicated that you were married now.

Dude

2009-02-21T04:04:00.003-08:00

can swim like a mutha' fucker. It is pot. POT. M-A-R-you know. Fucking dope.

I love the way he apologizes. It's ambiguous and positive. Good for you.

Seriously, weed? Are we still worried about that? Dude can fucking swim.

Point.

2009-02-18T12:51:00.003-08:00

It has been brought to my attention, by a friend and by my own ridiculous behavior, that I have a problem letting go, moving on, gettin to be doin up this here goin. It's affecting my pool game now. That is unacceptable. When I was simply destroying myself emotionally and wreaking a range of 'minor annoyance' to 'major havok' on other women's lives, that was one thing. The dreams and intrustions upon my interactions with strangers I could handle. I didn't even mind the occasional "she looks exactly like" bullshit, but when I start losing at pool because I can't keep my head straight... something has to change.

If you have any suggestions that don't involve graduate student therapists, I'm all ears. Maybe those memory-erase pills will work for me... yea, that's the ticket. Pills. *cough*

Crap. I'm gonna be late for school. See what I mean? Damn.

The end of human endeavor

2009-02-16T11:43:00.004-08:00

will come in the form of a pill. Our desperate need to medicate all of our problems has reached predictable and staggering heights.

Keep on hooting, monkeys. Keep on hooting.

Also in the international hooting, some shit that was going on while our collective back was turned:

See if this is on Fox News or CNN.

Look up Saint Valentine on Wikipedia. Do it.

2009-02-15T16:44:00.003-08:00

Today a pretty girl told me that if you can show that your relationship is strong during certain days of the year (Valentine's, Sweetest, Thanksgiving, Christmas and I don't know, President's Day?) then by societal convention - no matter how fucked up shit is every other day - you have a healthy thing going on. We had a good laugh. Then she went off with her boyfriend. I wish them well.

This year, like many years, I had almost zero interaction with the opposite sex on the celebration of St. Valentine. I went to the bar and did homework while couples swirled around me. I went to watch, but really I barely noticed. There were 1's and 0's describing a potential digital circuit that held my attention. A timing diagram, perfect as a newborn, was my primary focus for several hours. There were also some delicious tacos and a great barman in there somewhere. I rounded out the evening with Sonny Chiba in the epic sequel "Return of the Street Fighter."

I spent approximately $20 for the entire day. No one had any expectations of me. No one got mad at me for not delivering a cliche. No one told me that they loved me. Well, here's to mixed blessings. Personally, I fucking hate this holiday. Not because I'm single, and not because of greeting card companies, but because I think love and affection are only genuine when there is no sense of entitlement or duty. When it comes naturally, any given day, without external pressure then love and romance are beautiful and indescribable. All the same, I know people like this celebration and I wouldn't dare try to argue them out of their joy. I just never feel sentimental for a day that someone else decided was for celebrating love. I do feel great about watching Sonny Chiba poke his finger through a man's throat.

Happy happy.

The Bill of Rights

2009-02-10T15:54:00.006-08:00

is pretty bitchin. Have you read it lately? You should. Are there parts you disagree with? Well, we have a process for amending it. I sincerely hope that those of you who wish to pass laws in contravention of our constitution die of genital rot. Your fears, morals, religious beliefs, and even rational discourses can take it up with 2/3 of the states if you don't like what I have to say, how I respond in court, what I believe in, or the weapon I carry. These things were not decided by a group of fat dudes drinking beer at the pub. They were brought out of historical context and furious debate into a world that was beginning to understand how important freedom is to an ever-expanding population. I have a right to speak my mind. I have a right to bear arms. I have a right not to incriminate myself. I have a right to a number of other things, and no part of the constitution shall be construed as restricting other rights which the citizenry may be entitled to (read it, it's there). You do not have a right to safety, because that's not something that anyone can ever guarantee. That's the price of a free society. You do not have a right to be free from offense, verbal, visual or otherwise because that would violate our right to free speech. You live in a country where the fundamental rule of law is our Consititution and the rights contained therein (laws that exist in breach of said document not withstanding). If you don't like it you are free to try and convince other people that your concerns are valid. If enough people want to change our basic rights, it can and will happen. It's happened before. In the meantime, stop being a prick and read the fucking supreme law of the land before you go sticking your damn legal nose in my business.

This is my fat:

This is my gun:

This is what I have to say to the several people who have suggested lately that I'm a complete idiot or horrible person for not desiring legislation that would prohibit these things:

Body image.

2009-02-04T12:20:00.003-08:00

I recently had a discussion with someone involving John Allison's webcomic "Scary Go Round." It was argued that his comic, like almost all in the medium, creates an unreasonable standard of beauty for women and therefore yada yada we all know the rest.
Seriously. If you have a problem with your body then take it out on your body. Stop hating on things that aren't designed for children. Ten year old girls are not reading cheeky British humor on the web and if they are you should be monitoring your children more closely for signs of deep intelligence.

I know it's easy for a skinny guy to say, but seriously: a woman with confidence and love for her body beats a woman of any proportion who's constantly unhappy with herself. There are all sorts of things you can do: exercise, change your diet, or just fucking live with the fact that you are built differently than that stupid hipster slut who works at your local coffee shop. Fuck her anyway, she has terrible breath.

Here are some things you can't do: tell me that certain modes of expression should be restricted because it makes you (and yes, potentially young girls) feel uncomfortable. People draw what they identify with. If John Allison finds women attractive in particular ways and chooses to exaggerate them, then that's tough titty for you. Find new heroes if you have to. Freedom of speech is more important than your self esteem. Sorry, it just is. Even if that speech is inane cheeky fun, hurtful hate, blindingly stupid, or just plain offensive.

Rebranding.

2009-01-30T16:17:00.002-08:00

The Grand Old Party, in a completely predictable turn of events, has elected a black man chairman of the Republican National Committee. His name is Michael Steele. Michael Steele. That's a hardass name for a moderate. See, black America? We rich old white dudes get you! You want a guy with metal skin swinging a sledge hammer around to clean up your neighborhood!

Material.

2009-01-30T00:59:00.002-08:00

The Daily Show is not nearly as funny as it was a little over a week ago. We should all be thankful.

Bag 9 departs early tomorrow for the frozen wastelands of North Dakota. If you missed him before he left, it is truly your own damn fault.

No one can find work. The stories are getting progressively worse. One involved a business sorting through over 500 resumes. If you are interested in moving to Oregon and helping me to make a subsistence farm out of our front yard, please get in touch. Owners of firearms and fine cookware get priority consideration.

Sex, lies, and duct tape.

2009-01-29T15:30:00.002-08:00

Portland, as you may have heard, has a homosexual mayor. His name is Sam Adams. This is quite possibly the coolest name for a mayor since Koch, which despite its pronunciation looks to me like 'cock'. Sam Adams has recently been lambasted in the media for lying about a brief love affair with a young man some time ago. His name is Beau Breedlove.

You can't make this shit up.

In any case, Sam was accused of sleeping with this person. It's kind of a big deal because the kid was an intern. Naughty. His lies have been confirmed, he really did fuck Beau Breedlove, and now everyone has something obnoxious to say about it. Talk of social values, inequalities in the perception of gay public employees, pedophilia, and biblical quotes are fluttering past my ears like the requests for money I just can't get enough of.

Right now unemployment in Oregon is supposedly over 10 percent. We have an escalating level of gang violence. Our schools are underfunded and rapidly getting worse. I could go on. You wouldn't want me to. Do you know why? Because you're too busy worrying about who is fucking who. Has our political dialogue become a soap opera? I don't care if Hillary Clinton likes to fist 19-year-old interns while Obama takes a shit on her face and Joe Biden holds the camera! Hell, I really don't even care if legislators want to hook up with random dudes in the mens room of a rest stop. This nonsense is the most phenomenal waste of time ever.

So-called "social conservatives" have forced the specious notion on public discourse that your sexual predilections are at least as (if not more) important than the actual quality of your service. Let me be clear: if something happens between consenting adults, it's none of our business. So long as it doesn't interfere with the execution of a public officials duties, personal relationships should be just that: personal. Mind yo' bidness. Jes mind yo' bidness! Damn!

Yes, it's improper to carry on a relationship with people who work under you. It's an ethical violation, but it's not illegal. Shut the fuck up and let's get back to worrying about our incredibly broken down country.

What I've been doing.

2009-01-25T12:30:00.003-08:00

Reality dawns

2009-01-22T22:45:00.004-08:00

It took a bit. I've seen news highlights, political cartoons, pundit reactions, and giant crowds, but it's still taken this long for shit to sink in.

Those lying, incompetent, self-absorbed, short-sighted, pseudo-religious, irresponsible, globally-destructive asswipes are finally gone.

I'm not optimistic, but it still feels like someone pulled a Ford LTD off of my shoulders.

Good riddance.

Weathering.

2009-01-18T14:43:00.002-08:00

Dear Mr. Soon-to-be-President,

Please create some jobs somewhere other than here so everyone else will leave. Thanks.

Love,
Me

So many jobless people. So many whiners on the bus, the street, Pioneer Square - all of them asking me for money and looking genuinely pissed when I refuse. This thing can't sustain itself for much longer. I have a sneaking suspicion that a lot of people are going to go back where they came from eventually or move on like bag 9. All of the aspiring artists that would normally have found barista jobs will go back to Austin or Minneapolis. The musicians hoping to jump on the west coast like a dog in heat will have to look elsewhere for pizza jobs. Cooks can get jobs anywhere, and I imagine that will dawn on a fair number of them. Portland is super-saturated with people who don't have big ties to the city itself. Sure, there are the students, locals, and plain old stubborn jerks, but I think I can hang with them. I'm eeking out a living and enjoying this town as usual, so I don't fear the worst. Besides, if things get too bad I will simply fish through the closet, dust off my favorite old black hat and return to a life of criminal endeavor.

Also, I'm building the crap out of some electronic audio hardware. DIY kits are fun. Preamps are expensive. My solution was therefore simple. There will be some pictures of my Mad Science forthcoming.

Unexpected side effects.

2009-01-12T15:14:00.003-08:00

So I'm not smoking again, and for the most part this has been a positive experience. The upside is, I can smell everything again. The downside of course, is that I can smell people again. Pleasant smelling girls and pretty flowers are delightful, but for the most part I'd forgotten the terrible stink of desperation that clings like pancake batter to the inside of my nostrils when I enter a bar that's in full sausage party swing. Pleasant smelling girls quickly become olfactory terrorists when they speak in my direction. Try a Tick Tac, honey. Sweet fuck of Christ we smell bad. Ah well. At least this isn't Newark.

Windows 7

2009-01-09T01:05:00.002-08:00

The beta becomes available this afternoon. I plan on checking it out, one way or another, but as far as I can tell there are no significant changes implemented. What would constitute a significant change? Well, for starters, doing away with the outdated, insecure, and just plain stupid System Registry. Attempting to place something innovative on the table rather than another leap-frog move with Apple and the other players would be welcome. Oh, and how about this: if Automatic Updates and other various demons of the OS would stop fucking insisting that I do what they want when they want it I might just keep the shiny little gun in my pocket, in my pocket. Man, if I'm this angry just from the press releases perhaps I shouldn't try the beta...

Also, who the hell thought that these two assholes would make good marketing counterpoints to that sexy Apple commercial guy and the hordes of dancing shadows should be fired. I could take his job. Trust me, I know a few sexy people. They might even have computer chops:

Crappy Windows 7 Preview Video. Meh.

It's a brief video. When you're done watching, tell me: are you as excited about Windows 7 as those guys appear to be? I suppose I am.

So mabel says to me, she says,

2008-12-29T15:35:00.002-08:00

"You just need to make up your mind."

And that's not bad advice, but I'm of the opinion that my mind cannot be made for any reasonable length of time. Picture a road made of asphalt. Now envision a twenty ton vehicle made of perfume, expectations, excitement and disappointments. Finally, witness several hundred thousand of these lumbering behemoths crushing the asphalt of my determination daily as they hurry to and fro. Crack, crush, crackity-crush, ding dong doodle. Time for a road crew and a new face.

This shit is getting expensive.

In other news, my student loans came in and I'm temporarily free of extreme poverty. Here's to Tomorrow Guy and the crushing debt I've saddled him with. It's a good thing we'll never meet. He would totally kick my ass. So if you're reading this, TG, let me just say thanks. Sucker.

Portland is warmish and wet again, the snow having mostly melted overnight. There will be school again soon. There will be rockets. There will be drinking, pool, and poker. Most of all, there will be confusion and nervous sweats. I like it. Sort of.

If you didn't get anything from me for Xmas, it's because no one did. Sorry. Come see me and I'll buy you a drink.

Puzzle fights, real fights, and binge drinking.

2008-12-24T12:22:00.001-08:00

What else do you expect me to be doing? Besides making bad decisions, fighting puzzles is what tiggers do best!

Reprieve!

2008-12-20T23:36:00.000-08:00

Would your landlord hook you up with ridiculous party dudes to crash with while at the same time searching for a truck to plow through the worst weather in decades to pick your sorry ass up? I don't fucking think so. You rule, Nick. You effing rule.

Holliday Hell, continued.

2008-12-20T23:16:00.004-08:00

I'm in Eugune, OR. Portland is almost completely inaccessible. My train ticket was annulled, there are no available seats for the foreseeable future, and the buses have stopped running into Portland. I went so far as to inquire about renting a car. The drop off fee was 75 dollars and the snow is so bad that chains are now required on the road (chains, of course, are not an extra option with Enterprise or Hertz). I am very very far away from the nearest hotel. My dilema is this: I can afford to get into town and rent a room, but if I do that I won't have enough money to get home should something become available. Additionally, I cannot sustain the hotel lifestyle indefinitely.

I am in a bad way.

At least Eugene has public wifi.

Fuck.

Holliday Hell.

2008-12-20T15:47:00.002-08:00

Shit is well and truly fucked. It's like groundhog day without Bill Murray.

If you're planning on flying in or around PDX in the next few days, I suggest you bend over and try to suck on your own genitals. You'll be more likely to succeed.

PDX is closed. I tried Seattle, but I can't get a train down to Portland until Wednesday. I tried Salem and it's closed too.

I roll into PDX on a train early tomorrow IF I get to Eugene from Salt Lake City (which is still looking at terrible weather) and that's IF I get out of Helena tonight. The plane still hasn't landed. It's supposed to leave in 8 minutes. Fuck fuck fuckityuck fuck fuck.

If I have to stay in Helena again I'm going to totally lose my shit. Seriously.

And you were there, and you were there...

2008-12-20T10:28:00.002-08:00

and you were all cock blockers of the nth degree!

No really. Stop getting in my almost-sex dreams and then passing out covered in your own vomit in my bed.

I'm staring at Salt Lake City's weather forecast with a mounting sense of dread. With any luck I'll be stuck there tonight instead of Helena. Yes, I'd rather sleep in an airport and kibitz with tourists than spend another night watching Jim Lehrer with the fam. My diet has gone to hell, I barely move (because it's too cold to walk anywhere other than to and from a car), and I know in my heart that Helena is actively trying to hold me here - possibly as some sort of sacrificial offering for an early spring thaw. I can see something in the local's eyes. It's not unkind or disdainful, no, it's more like... hunger. They tell me that the small mountain in the middle of town is just a city park, but I can almost make out a large stone altar at its summit. Something is afoot, and my paranoia is not assuaged when I see my father's friends all over the PBS channel. This place is small, and I now associate small places with danger.

My father assures me that all of the pretty girls are checking me out when we're on the town. I tell him that I'm aware of this fact, but I'm also aware that they're all teenagers. I'm going stir crazy. I desperately need to socialize with someone under the age of 50 and over the age of 20. I crave a conversation with a woman who hasn't hit menopause yet.

And the hits just keep on coming.

2008-12-19T17:16:00.002-08:00

Ever wonder why the major Airlines are always hovering near bankruptcy?

Today I waited in an Airport for three hours. When the flight was canceled, a military man and myself were monitoring Delta's website so we got the word as soon as it happened. We hadn't heard one fucking word from the airline employees. Nothing. We spoke to the TSA people (since no Delta people could be found anywhere) and they had no clue. They were kind enough to radio the Delta counter people who said, "Uh... I don't know. Hold on." Yea. Thanks for staying on top of the ONLY FUCKING FLIGHT LEAVING YOUR GOD DAMNED TERMINAL TONIGHT. After rescheduling for tomorrow night (when the storm is supposed to be worse), I noted that the board still showed our flight as being "on time." Fuck you, Delta. Fuck you.

God.
Damnit.
I'm still in Helena.

Generations of befudlement.

2008-12-19T15:28:00.002-08:00

Yep.

Socks.

2008-12-18T20:42:00.006-08:00

Dear American Apparel,

Um... thanks? I.. uh....... think?

Love,
Ellipsis Guy

Remember how we've all been noting that American Apparel seems to be edging ever closer to pornography in its ads? Well, they are definitely using porn stars to hock their wares. Feel free to take this ad's advice if you don't believe me.

Socks.

.

Fruitcake.

2008-12-18T19:46:00.002-08:00

I spent the evening dining with family and strangers in a small room inside the Masonic Home. As far as Old People Jails go it's not so bad. They don't need to lock the old coots up, because it's so far out on the prairie that no one could possibly hope to get anywhere other than dead. No one is ever screaming incoherently when you walk in the door, and the staff appears to be made up of competent people rather than confused drug addicts. Still.

Grandpa seemed as if sitting around making boring conversation with me was the greatest thing since boners. It was good to see him. The man is fairly well broken down now: he rides a scooter, takes regular insulin, and can't really use his right hand anymore. He's slow, but his mind is still there and he has no problems recognizing anyone, so there's that. We ate pizza and bullshitted. He dozed off a few times. I told him that I got all my brains and looks from his old ass, and looking at him now I can still believe it. Even in a tiny scooter he's still a giant, imposing figure who's chest volume could easily contain my entire body (assuming some crafty squishing).

After pizza my father passed around pieces of the fruitcake his wife bought to support the retarded Boy Scouts. Apparently they produce more Eagle Scouts per troupe than any other troupe in the country. Go figure. In any case, I was the only one to decline fruitcake. I have a fear.

"Well, Chris," said an older woman I'd just met, "we've always figured that uneaten fruitcake pieces have a tendency to fall towards each other and that there's only really one fruitcake in the whole world. So if you don't eat it..."

I'm not sure where she was going with that, but I had a pretty simple response.

"Yes, I'm familiar with the Fruitcake Gravitational Force. That's why I don't eat it. I assume that if I get too much fruitcake in my stomach at one time I'll be drawn inexorably towards the place where the largest concentration of fruitcake can be found, and then I'll never be able to leave Minnesota."

There are things worse than death, to be certain.

An inevitable progression.

2008-12-17T23:08:00.002-08:00

The non-stop cavalcade of fun rolls on, and the temperature in western Montana has risen ever so slightly into the positive digits. My dreams have moved from the realm of violence to the sickeningly hot, muggy and uncomfortable shores of awkward romance. I wake up feeling irritable, unhappy, restless and most of all sweaty. Needless to say I spend my waking hours feeling exponentially more violent.

Why can't I have sex dreams like normal people?

I did have a nice dream about signal flow. No, that's not sexy. Well. Not to you, anyway.

Helena, MT

2008-12-16T18:10:00.003-08:00

I may have remarked upon it before. It is not a very fun place. It's a very pretty place, but not very interesting. I'm currently in a cafe filled with teenagers. There's not much that stays open past 9pm besides pet stores and "casinos." There's an Irish pub down the way that parties until a heady 11 p.m., but its website was enough to scare me away. It's been sub-zero temperatures and constant run-ins with people my father knows (i.e., everyone) in various stores. Needless to say, my dreams have been vivid and violent. Last night I dreamed I was pulling large quantities of loose hair out of my eyelashes. Fistfuls. I was grinding those shaggy piles into the faces of my loved ones. I enjoyed your screams.

So much violence last night.

2008-12-15T14:55:00.004-08:00

It took him weeks to build up the nerve. It wasn't impulsive, it wasn't false, and it certainly wasn't coming from a guarded place of safety. He had looked into her eyes and felt certain of the feeling. It wasn't a feeling with which he had a great deal of familiarity, but it was clear, glowing and bright among the little self doubts and other darker thoughts that made comfortable homes in his head. The problem of course was that she didn't feel the same. To her credit, she told him so as plainly and kindly as she could, though without mincing words. He had nodded then and left with a parting word.

"You can stay the night. I don't want you walking home alone at this hour, but please don't be here in the morning."

She did not plan to be.

The bar was relatively quiet and devoid of anyone he knew. It was a bar like many others and if anything remarkable could be said about it no one had the poetry to make those words interesting. He seated himself at the end of the bar on a lone stool posted against the counter's only turn. He stared across the curve in front of him and down the long plank over a few closely guarded drinks and made eye contact with the bartender. She was pretty. Sort of.

"What'll ya have?"

"I would like a shot of Beam, a shot of Quervo, a beer back and some tobasco sauce please."

The young woman nodded without comment or expression and turned around to fetch his order. Three stools down a haggard drunk with several days of stubble began loudly commenting in course language on the sexual prowess of his companion. She seemed mildly amused by the attention and sipped something pink. The man was wrapped in a few layers of coats and a tattered scarf despite the mild temperature, and his odor carried well even through the stagnant bar air. His eyes were far away, but he maintained an impressive command of his physical faculties despite what appeared to be an epic level of intoxication.

The bartender had arrived with the young man's drinks and quietly took a twenty from his hand. Her implaccable face finally consented to raise an eyebrow when she noticed the steadiness of his hand. She drifted off to an ancient cash register as her patron went about his business. That business consisted of three distinct phases: First he raised the bourbon, toasting no one at all, then drained it at once. Next he filled the remaining glass space in the tequilla shooter with tobasco and drank it with equal gusto. Finally he took a small sip from his beer and set it down with care.

"Another round, please."

"You ok on the beer?"

"Yes, thank you."

She returned moments later and the scene repeated itself.

The drunken buzzard to his left soon tired of prodding the fat thing next to him with obscene compliments and took a keen interest in the stranger. By way of introduction he set the tone.

"Hey, faggot. What's crawled up your stinker?"

The young man took another small sip from his beer.

"Leave it be, old man."

"I'm thirtyfive, cocksucker!"

"Could have fooled me. In any case, I'm here to drink not talk."

The bartender approached but a look from the young man made her shrug and mosey back to the counter in order to count her tips. The buzzard stood and moved to the seat immediately next to the young man. The stink became a ripe bananza of distinctive aromas, all jostling for position in the humidity. The drunkard opened his mouth and rank booze assured all the lesser smells of their amature status, taking its rightful place on the throne of nauseating odors.

"Maybe I'm here to fuck your fag-ass up and throw you straight ou..."

The young man did not look at the ragdoll he was now holding by the throat. His thumb pressed firmly against the windpipe of the limp and terrified man who's head was now well and truly affixed to the bar with fear. His body, recognizing a mortal threat, had sobered rather quickly and finally noticed the nonsensical clothing in which it was atired. The man began to sweat profusely. His eyes bulged. His forhead sprouted veins most people don't know they have. He was dying very quickly. The young patron held him with a strength that did not surpise anyone, despite his size. The buzzard's companion chuckled and sipped her pink confection. The bartender looked at her money with a vauge air of pleasure.

"I have no idea why I'm not afraid to kill you. I've never been in a fight in my entire brief life. I have a healthy fear of prosecution and incarceration, yet at this moment I am perfectly content to stare at my remaining beer while you suffocate. Do you understand me? Do you hear exactly what is coming out my mouth?"

The buzzard did not attempt to free himself, though his vision was beginning to tunnel.

"None of this is because of suffering. Not real suffering, in any case. It's a simple case of wiring. This is how our brains work. You don't have to have felt it to know an inkling of what I'm on about. I suggest you remember that the next time you consider speaking rudely to strangers."

The drunk tried to gasp one last time, but there was no room in his throat. His eyes began a slow ponderous roll into the back of his head just before the young man let go. Stale smoke and a precious little oxygen came rushing into his lungs and the head rush nearly broke him against the concrete. A firm hand gripped his coat though and pulled him up to the stool. The young man was still staring at his beer. The drunkard gasped and spit. The young man finished his beer and stood up.

"Thank you, miss."

"No problem. Need a place to sleep?"

"I really couldn't impose."

"Wouldn't be an imposition."

She put her lips together and let loose a loud whistle.

"Last call!"

The young man sat down again, staring at his empty beer. She brought another without a word and went about her business. The drunkard stared for a few moments before slowly and carefully excusing himself from the premises.

One month of abstinence.

2008-12-15T12:58:00.005-08:00

It was in a house where no house should be, a block east of a childhood home, that I trained a shotgun on them and dipped my eyebrows towards something resembling menace. I don't know why I was mad, or sad, hurt or jealous. I can't begin to describe the petty and childish sensation that drove me to violence at that moment. I knew it was unjustified, undignified, and above all pointless. The girl was crying. The boy did not beg. In fact he looked quite composed as I pointed the weapon at his face. She was talking, but neither he nor I were listening. Our eyes met and I simply pulled the trigger. It was not difficult and the realization I'd committed murder served only to propel me towards further action. I dropped the shotgun, pulled a small automatic pistol from my waist, grabbed the girl by the arm and walked briskly out of doors. She did not scream, but rather went somewhat limp. There was no more crying.

We walked southwest across the street in the general direction of my most famous abode, but that was apparently not our destination. We talked. About what I can't recall, but she was calm and I was resolved - there didn't seem to be anything but the leaden pull of inevitability before, between and below us. Presently we came to a place that I had not expected but was not surprised to find. We entered through a door, the location of which I cannot remember except during the most desperate times, and wound our way through large packing crates and scrap metal. The low ceiling hid the true size of this place, but I knew it to be cavernous. When we came to a dead end she began to cry again; there was a great amount of dried blood splattered against the concrete and single wooden crate. There were two metal folding chairs and a window into a small shooting range that took off to our left at a ninety degree angle. We sat and talked some more. Her crying became soft and automatic - a background thing that become unnoticeable in time. The space was damp and dull. No echoes and only slight reverberation of our voices came back to haunt us. She asked me why and I threw the question back at her. Neither of us could discern our relationship or our connection to the boy who's head I had so recently relieved of its contents. Well, I did have a sneaking suspicion that she knew and was reluctant to disclose too much even at the end. The question remained for me though: were we lovers? Were they? Was I her brother or was he? Was it all one and the same? I finally decided that it didn't matter. He was dead now and soon one of us would be as well. Her sobbing became noticeable once again.

At that point a number of people who were known to us trickled into the room. There was a small table in front of us now and it concealed my pistol. She made no attempt to solicit their help and I was not concerned that she should. Several people engaged us in trite niceties across the table while a few others began firing down the shooting range without enthusiasm. We answered their questions and proffered cheap replies, but our attention was clearly elsewhere and we were soon left to it.

Her face remained always distinct yet indescribable. I cannot lay it out for you in plain terms except to say she was beautiful and remarkably lucid for her ordeal. She said she loved me, and I nodded. My internal conflict and guilt had been building for some time, and I so decided finally to do something proactive. Under the table I took her hand and gripped it tightly. She returned the squeeze in kind, whereupon I pressed the gun into her hand firmly and let go. A young man, also known to both of us, chose that moment to enter the room and greet us nervously across the table. Had I not just shot this man-child in the face a half hour previous? No, perhaps not. Or perhaps I did and archetypes simply take more killing than I am capable of providing. In any case, I smiled at both of them and then stared straight ahead at nothing saying, "I hope that someday you can forgive me."

I felt something cold and hard on my temple before everything went away.

Gambling is legal in some circumstances.

2008-10-06T01:26:00.000-07:00

If say, you are not gambling on the outcome of a presidential election, then in certain states your wagers are legal. Give me a call.

I'm not a Democrat.

2008-10-01T14:46:00.002-07:00

Nor am I a Republican, Libertarian, Atheist, Deist, or even Agnostic. I don't call myself a Socialist, Marxist, Humanist or Environmentalist. If there is any ideology I can have accurately ascribed to my person, it is most likely Capitalist, but that is purely functional since I spend a great deal of my time trying to acquire capital so that I might... um... live. Where I actually stand on the dogma of that particular economic set of ideals is anyone's guess - even mine. I don't particularly care for -ism's and -ology's when they suffix arguments, ideas or ideals rather than disciplines.

With that out of the way, I'd like to remind you that Barack Obama's economic advisor is one of the douchetits that got us all into this mess that eerily parallels the run up to another famous market disaster. I just watched an old cspan video in which some Donkeys and Elephants make loud and rather juvenille noises at each other over the issuse of Freddie Mac. Long story short: some people saw this shit coming, and at least one of the people who tried to pretend that the largest loan companies in the country weren't doing a swan dive into the parking lot now have Obama's ear. Maybe I'm behind on the news. Maybe Franklin Raines is no longer Baraka's economic advisor, but that puke bucket sure did send a lot of money to your Golden Boy over the years.

My point is not that he's better or worse than McCain. My point is that this idiotic division into "Two Americas" that I heard Bill Maher blubbering about is putting even intelligent people blindly behind candidates who are never truly what they seem. This isn't like 2004 - I'm not being asked by most people to choose the lesser of two evils. I'm being told by both sides that the opposition is the Antichrist come to rape our children with fiscal policy or kill our God with gun control. Frankly, some of our children could probably use a tougher world and God can take care of his own damn self if he/she/it is really out there. Neither of these inarticulate jerks are telling you the truth. There are not two Americas. I'm pro-choice, anti-gun control, pro-business, pro-nationalized health care, pro-globalization, and interested in letting everyone get a say in how that globalization proceeds. Furthermore, I'm open to argument on all of these issues. I don't need a President who agrees with all of my policy ideas (or rather pretends to), but I do need a leader who doesn't fucking lie to my face.

I'm sorry. After reviewing the congressional record of each nitwit, hearing their debate, watching their shuffling, catch-phrase laden speeches and witnessing the sheer magnitude of the mismanagement at all levels of federal elected government over the past few years I can come to only one conclusion: we are absolutely and totally unable to pretend anymore that we live in a Republic. Is there still hope? Absolutely, but it's not there just because a charismatic guy with big ears says so. It's in the millions of people still participating in local, state and regional elections that probably don't have the money riding on them to be completely fraudulent yet. It's in the good people working to establish oversight of business and government. It's there in your teachers, police officers, and corporate executives who still have an incling that maybe capitalism is most effective when you consider society's well-being as well as your own.

I have no more faith in the ability of this nation to fascilitate its own governance at the federal level. That is and clearly has been in the hands of very few people who are only doing what they have to in order to keep the rest of us from roasting them alive. I do, however, see the impermanence of all civilizations as a good thing. If we have to go down (and no, I'm not predicting an imminent collapse, stop huffing and puffing - I think Amurica has plenty of ups and downs left) it is because everything does eventually. Hopefully we will build something better out of the detritus of our mistakes. As it stands, I'm pretty sure I like living in the United States better than I would have enjoyed the Roman Empire. Who knows though? Vomiting is pretty great...

Hot springs, school, and goblin rockstars.

2008-09-28T14:20:00.002-07:00

School begins tomorrow. Did I mention I'm an electrical engineering major now? Yea. I decided to carry the whole mad scientist thing to its obvious next iteration. This one seems remarkably more sensible. I am becoming increasingly fascinated (or rather, re-fascinated) with math, science, global economics and language. My former bed fellows such as philosophy, politics and hedonism are beginning to pall. Been there, done that, reaped the economic ruin. Now I just want to sit in my wizard's tower, design strange arcane tools and use them to profit from the masses. Since the government seems determined to give my money to rich people, I figure there's more incentive than ever to not be on the bottom rung of this increasingly rickety ladder. That way, when the whole babbling tower comes crashing to the ground I can reach out my meaty paws and drag as many people down with me as possible. Dear ideals: I'll meet you at the intersection of usefulness and practicality. I'd say I'm growing up, sounding more like my parents blah blah blah, but they always encouraged my dreamy side. I'm not getting older/wiser/more cynical... I'm just getting bored - ever the motivating factor for me.

I watched part of the Labyrinth last night. So... there's this baby? And this girl has to save the baby from the evil Goblin King before the baby becomes one of his little goblin slaves, right? Well, from what I saw of Goblin Culture, it consists of getting constantly wasted on wine and rocking out with David fucking Bowie. Sure, he insists that you laugh at his stupid jokes and occasionally kicks you (though those goblins seemed not to mind - perhaps they were too drunk to notice?), but that baby looked like he was having a good god damned time! So I put it to you all: if I'm ever in danger of becoming Bowie's goblin slave in a magical land of wine and sorcery, please please please leave me the hell alone.

So what do we do in Oregon when we aren't telling hippies to shut up about their bourgois local post-organic uber food? Well, we go to hot springs. Or build shops in our garages. Yea, we go to bars and play pool too, but I would do that anywhere on Earth. The job I was given was retracted for reasons so idiotic I can't bear to mention them here, but I have some backup work. Unemployment during the worst fiscal crisis since the Great Depression doesn't seem quite so daunting. I think. I hear through the grapevine that a certain member of our Pantheon is returning to the dreary pastures of Olympus. We wish him well, and will refrain from stating the obvious. Best of luck to all of you, and may your compromises bring you contentment. As always I have my doubts, but I'm finally too interested and engaged in my life to care.

Up next: music collaboration. Eat it.

Happy Terror Day!

2008-09-12T02:56:00.002-07:00

Everyone's been talking about it. At the grocery store, at home, on the phone. People even talked about it at work. It was mentioned in or central to 3 out of four web comics I read, and it definitely got talked about on the few forums I still frequent. The Large Hadron Collider has received more attention in my daily life than the anniversary of 9/11. Thanks, guys. I really appreciate it. (Science rules.)

An open letter from Tweedle Dum

2008-08-12T14:59:00.004-07:00

Do you have any friends that were not introduced to you by us? Do you associate with anyone other than your co-workers and invisible digital cohorts? Really, what do you do with four days a week (all weekdays mind you) of absolutely zero responsibility? I couldn't handle that personally. The general lack of structure in my life is already too much. I'm craving the crushing pressure of a full workload/class schedule. I thrive on adversity and I've offered myself very little of that in the past few months. I think you would too, but for whatever reason you feel you are succeeding at... well, whatever it is you're doing. Good luck with that. I'm not impressed, but maybe she will be. I doubt it though, since Andy Warhol was larger than life and you've become even smaller (at least from my limited vantage point) this year. Maybe you're happy, but again I doubt that. Good luck, kid. Yep. Still think of you as a kid. Sorry, but you just provide me with so many reasons to see you that way. I had hoped you would find something to motivate you if you got out of your comfort zone, and perhaps you have. Perhaps this is the life you've always dreamed of: constant diversion and distraction, an absence of real challenge, and a comfortable line for the folks back home to hear. You guessed it: I doubt this to be true. It's not my problem though, and you don't want my interference so we'll leave bad enough alone. Hell knows I'm not one to be giving people advice. Nonetheless, here's a little bit: take a hard look in the mirror and ask yourself as honestly as possible, "what the fuck is that thing on my face?" See what you come up with. I'm going back to my fucking hot tub.

A cold shower for all the wrong reasons.

2008-08-02T14:03:00.004-07:00

I tried to take a shower today, but when I ratcheted up the hot water only a sad, lonely wheeze escaped the drain. I waited for several hours and tried again. Zounds! Hot water! And it's nearly black! The first sputtering gobs of filth gave way to a steady stream of rust-brown ichor speckled with black chunks the size of cous cous. I ran the water for thirty minutes at which point the chunks seemed to have exhausted their reserves. The brown flow however refused to give me any quarter.

I am so fucking done with this apartment.

I will probably be taking up residence with other people again. Sigh. Single living was nice, but this shit is ridiculous. Also, my prospective new house has a hot tub. The hot tub has alternating colored lighting. Booyah.

The agreement.

2008-07-31T09:52:00.003-07:00

Nick and I have both agreed that if we were to ever, either of us, own a restaurant that it would require a prominently displayed notice directly under the one that says "We reserve the right to refuse service to anyone." It would be similarly simple but more specific: "No screaming, crying, whining children." I can't wait for the discrimination suit.

This morning I set my alarm for 10 am. That would have allotted me seven lovely hours of sleep, had not a well dressed gentleman plopped his toddler, himself and his screaming, crying, whining newborn at a table directly below my window to have breakfast. The cafe opens at 9, and the child was still whining in that sort of droning repetitive way that I have come to expect from a baby that is very unhappy and plans to stay that way. By 9:30 I had begun to get... a tad salty. The child had been crying, without interruption, and I made sure that the dining family knew about my displeasure. Instead of changing his child's diaper, singing to it, or really trying anything this paragon of paternal patience was having a conversation with another patron - also directly under my window.

Well. Shit's dun changed. I don't know whether or not power-daddy enjoys the Notorious B.I.G., but he was certainly subjected to some Ready to Die (conveniently delivered out the vary same window which had started this mess). Interestingly enough, the baby stopped screaming about halfway through Machine Gun Funk and returned to its tirade as soon the music was stopped. Kids know what's up. So gangsta.

What was once lost, unbridled consumerism, and big tits.

2008-07-23T19:59:00.006-07:00

I was at it again. Mucking about and meddling with forces beyond my reckoning. One can pour through arcane texts in the massive Google library to find the specific incantations that may or may not be needed to force your graphics card to recognize a very angry operating system, but that operating system was never designed to meet the needs of my foreign hardware. So, like the summoned Djinn, if not properly tricked back into its bottle the fearsome OS X operating system will devour worlds. Like the ill-fated sorcerer's apprentice I simply wished to use my limited skills and knowledge to improve my work flow. There was no hubris or greed, simply the exasperation of years of toil with inferior tools. Mickey had his broom and I had Windows. We both envisioned a world where the liquid of our chosen medium flowed in great torrents to its destination while we relaxed and watched reruns of Doctor Who (at least, I assume that's what Mickey would have done had he the option).

Instead, like the great fools of all ages, we fell. We fell fucking hard.

I let that cute little Mac feature known as Time Machine select my backup drive as its save destination. I didn't mean to. I also didn't mean to muck about with this stuff before securing my data. Bad Chris. This time it was your own fault. I was trying to click on the cancel button, I assure you, but some greater force was at work (perhaps the fact that I was wicked high? I dunno...) and it had plans. Sinister plans. As soon as my finger fell on the mouse button I saw a window erase and reformat my beautiful hard drive in a matter of seconds. I remember when that shit spanned geological ages before completion. Ah, progress.

So it was all gone. All of the music I had recorded with prestigious artists like the Mechanical Cat, my own rather childish offerings to the musical world, the vast digital music library I have spent years accumulating (though to be fair, most of that was Dan's. *cough*suck*cough*). All gone. Like so many brooms travelling at the speed of light my data was carried in little buckets into the ether and dispersed. I tried to stand, but the weight of loss actually dropped me, stiffarmed, to the floor. My eyes wide and mouth hanging open, I attempted to convey my loss to the person who happened to be in the room at that moment. Alarmed, she asked a number of questions, mostly concerning the current location of this information that, between choking back sobs, I could only bark about in brief fragments of terrified isolation. "All gone. It's all gone." She kept asking questions, but I lost track of her voice and continued to stare at my now-empty drive, sitting accusingly on the desk like a perturbed old wizard - woken from his sleep by the dangerous and inept application of the ancient dark arts by a foolish young whelp.

What could I do? I started a download of some cracked software that purported to retrieve lost data and went to the cafe. We ordered a pitcher of mimosa and I drank surely more than half of it.

This young apprentice has learned his lessons well, and (thanks to his wise decision to not fucking touch the drive) managed to retrieve what appears to be... well, everything. Turns out I rule. It only took a week of trying out different software and waiting for its - generally - faulty analysis before I found something that worked. Scuse me while I step away from these dangerous tools of divination and conjuration for a few minutes to work on my bank shot. My wizard's hat won't gather dust for long though, I'm quite sure.

In other news, my poor management of funds is more humorous than ever. I'm throwing out resume's like crack on a playground, so hopefully all will be well soon. I really want to buy everything apple shoves in my face. I hate them so much.

As promised: