Author: Dave

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Eh?
At my funeral, if any of my friends get up and speak about me, I hope at least one of them opens with, “Dave was one of the funniest motherfuckers I’ve ever known.” The “one of” part is optional, of course, in case I was just that funny. Really, what an honor – and the expletive at a funeral, who cares? No disrespect to me really, I like people that know how to get a laugh. So when I die, I expect ya’ll to get out your best eulogy-writin’ pens and keep the jokes coming.

Just got done with a late-night conference call to Shanghai, a three-hour event that found me eating dinner with an earpiece and microphone boom in my ear, on mute, listening for my name so I could respond with, “I’m sorry, I didn’t hear the question, can you repeat?” It went well though, I mean, how couldn’t it – it’s that same hated presentation I’ve been griping about for months. The same one folks, again, one more time. I balanced my time between barely paying attention and working on my website, which seemed to work out OK. I am so dedicated.

Today Sharaun went out and bought me some new clothes. Strange, but not entirely unwelcome. She’ll do this every once in a while, in some attempt to “update” me to the latest “cool” look. I don’t really mind this, other than I feel like people look at me and see someone who’s dressing based on advice read in “How to Dress Hip for Dummies, 2004 Edition.” She’s a master at scouring the clearance racks for $4 jeans and $2 t-shirts, of which there are usually quite a few in my hopelessly unique and misshapen height-to-girth ratio. Anyway, because the alternative was execution by pistol, I tired them on for her tonight – with surprisingly sexy results:


My lord! Look at that snappy-dressed gay feller! Have you seen my trucker hat?
Cargo pants and a flask full of Jack. Let’s go clubbing. Put on some Dave Matthews.
Bootcut jeans, some kinda logo’d tee, and a bunch of grapes. Oh God get me out of this makeover.

I was extremely happy when I came home from work today and hit the bathroom. Not because of my impending bowel movement, although that does offer some minor joy, but for the copy of the California 2004 Voter Guide I saw on the floor. Sitting on top of the Maxim I bought for my last flight/stay in Taiwan, and the GQ Sharaun bought because Justin Tenderlegs was on the cover, was an SAT-test-booklet-lookin’ document that promised to tell me all about the latest Indian gaming referendums that I can vote on come November 2nd. Oh, and the reason I was so happy? Because it being in the bathroom meant Sharaun must’ve brought it in there, which means she mighta been interested in it, which means maybe she’ll read up on stuff and vote.

As if helping to determine our country’s next leader isn’t exciting enough, I get to vote on 16 confusingly-written “Propositions.” Why don’t they write these things for humans? I’m a friggin’ college graduate, and I can’t really understand some of this. Where’s the “definition of terms” section telling yokels like me what this politic-speak is trying to say? What is a “compact,” and how do you “negotiate the amendment” of one? This “non-partisan” review of the props is pretty much written in the common tongue, and helped me a little more.

Hey, you guys see what I see? An entry mixed with media! That means I don’t have to write as much, I mean, one picture is worth at least one paragraph? right? I sure think so.

Dave out.

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to narrowly avoid divorce

This moll will break yo ass down!
Yeah, Sunday afternoon and I’ve done absolutely nothing all day. Did the first “real” test of the Winch Witch today, using the new “all-drill” winch mechanism. What’s better, it worked… it totally worked. Now it’s just tweaking and refining. Now I’m sitting here wasting my day away in a way that’s only afforded to the people of the modern day. No crops to harvest or animals to kill for dinner – the worst challenge I have to face is my bothersome headcold and rubbed-raw nostrils. And, having just thrown in the Fellowship of the Rings, it seems like I’m only planning to get lazier and lazier. I’m sick, I deserve it, right?

Last night Sharaun and I had a fight; the likes of which we haven’t had in a long time. I’m talking a real humdinger. Seems like the biggest fights always stem from the most minuscule and ridiculous things. This one, for instance, started with me asking Sharaun why she had turned on the air without closing the bedroom window first, and soon escalated into swearing and yelling (both the swearing and the yelling mostly done by yours truly). So dumb. Thankfully, we were able to smooth things over soon enough, and with apologies were able to narrowly avoid divorce. I’m glad we rarely fight, it’s a waste of time.

I know I haven’t stopped talking about it, but really, the new album by the Arcade Fire is hands-down the best album released this year. I worked in the yard yesterday for nearly five hours, and I listened to that 47min album the whole time. Over and over and over as I huffed and puffed and sweat in the grass and dirt. Happy the whole time. Don’t take my word for it, go out and buy it, or download it, or something. Just get it in your ears for God’s sake! You’ll be a better man for it.

Back in high school, I started smoking a pipe for a couple reasons. My fake-uncle (you know, your dad’s good friend who your family for some reason starts calling “uncle?”) had smoked one for as long as I can remember, and I was reading The Lord of the Rings for the first time. I can remember sitting out on the screened-in porch in Florida, smoking my pipe while turning the brittle yellowed pages of the coverless copy of The Fellowship that I’d picked up from the local used book store. I used to smoke whatever I vanilla-ey stuff I could pick up from the smoke shop in the mall, but soon developed a taste for more quality tabac. Now I have a nice pipe collection and a few varieties of smoke, but I rarely sit down with a pipe anymore. Every time I think about it, I remember how much I used to enjoy smoking my pipe. I think the fact that Sharaun won’t abide my smoking in the house stops me more often than not.

Last night I set the TiVo to record the first presidential debate, in hopes that it’ll give me some further insight into the upcoming election. At this time, I would still classify my current allegiance as somewhat tenuous… although still aligning with my inborn lean to the left. Having lunch the other day with an uber-politico friend of mine (a hardcore Independent with equal amounts of doubt for each major-party candidate) only helped to muddy up my mind on the whole thing. As sad as it sounds, I’m really looking to these debates, and the discussion and answers that come from them, to help me decide. I mean, I know it may sound superficial and “American” to rest my vote on a media event, a Jerry Springer -esque showdown if you will, but I have to admit it will probably play a big role in my decision. At this point, however, I just can’t see myself voting for W – which doesn’t leave me with a lot of options. I just don’t know.

I was going to write about how I’ve never been to a funeral, but I changed my mind because I want to go to bed more than I want to write about how I’ve never been to a funeral.

Dave out.

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a bigger desk this time

Workin' hard to make a better blog for you.
A quick entry before bed. No bloggin’ lately because I’ve been working on the new calendar and PermaLink features for the site. They are both up and working now, with some minor changes still needed (calendar needs to “grey out” days without entries, and should give a more elegant 404 page when you try to click on an entry in the future).

Anyway, I’ve been feeling pretty sick. I think I’ll just go ahead and clear the blog “cache” by posting all the half-written entries from this week, right now…. so… get… umm… ready. Because here comes some disjointed, unfinished stuff, but I gotta get rid if it.

Written sometime on Tuesday, during my non-presenting time at the customers:

Conference room, two people openly sleeping in their chairs with no shame. Full of Starbucks and watching a catering van pull up out front. Must be lunch, looks like sandwiches… I was hoping for something more extravagant. As much as I complain about presenting the same thing over and over again, I actually really enjoy going out and meeting with customers. I like when people recognize you from the last time you were here, I like answering questions and feeling smart, and I like the “worldly” feeling I get from traveling. So far I’ve answered five or so questions, and otherwise just sat here taking notes to keep busy. Figured I’d try and write a bit.

Slept from takeoff to landing on the flight today. Put on my little flash MP3 player and let the Arcade Fire drive my dreams. I woke up with my mouth hanging open as we hit the runway, hoping that I hadn’t been snoring, but pretty sure I had. Now I’m stuck singing the songs in my head as this guy presents and these people ask questions. Falling asleep hard, just caught myself with my eyes closed and head falling forward.

Across town, dodging lunchtime traffic on the 808, another customer and another presentation. A bigger desk this time, darker wood and more chairs – same sleepiness. Three more hours and I can head back to the airport for the jet home. At least then I can sleep.

Written sometime yesterday, before I felt too crappy to keep going:

I’m no longer afraid y’all, this is the best album released thus far this year. At first I was hesitant, thinking it might have been puppy love, a crush with no long-term emotional roots. I was wrong, it only gets better each time. Arcade Fire you’re my hero.

And finally, written right now:

I’m tired. A more proper entry tomorrow, I promise. Dave out.

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does this count?

Old dude in black and white.
10pm on a Monday night. Trying to decide whether or not to iron tomorrow’s monkey-suit tonight or wake up early and get it done. Since I have to split around 5:30am to make my short flight, I don’t think I want to wake up early. But, I really don’t feel like ironing right now. If I was in Taiwan, I’d have already sent tomorrow’s shirt and pants to be pressed, and some unseen laborer would’ve hung them nicely in my closet. Where are my unseen laborers? Owell. The nice thing about tomorrow is that I’m really only going to press flesh; I’m not even presenting. I’m there for “face time,” and to answer any questions that might come up. To me my motivation is more like a free lunch and a day away from the office… nearly as noble, right?

I’m sitting here looking at my desk before me, and I’m disgusted by how messy and cluttered it is. Here’s just a rundown of what I can see: a bottle, one-fourth full, of generic tropical-flavored Tums antacids; a Diet Coke; electric nosehair trimmers; a ziplock bag full of Garbage Pail Kids; stacks and stacks of CDs; a plush monkey; spindles and spindles of blank media; a wedding-cake groom figurine; a vintage cassette walkman; two cans of Play-Doh; a wireless universal garage door keypad; piles of mail; fingernail clippers; pipes and pipe tobacco; an empty prescription bottle of allergy medicine; one plastic troll with bright blue hair; one plastic troll with bright red hair; an incense burner shaped like a wizard; an empty glass on a coaster; loose batteries; a faucet attachment for a sink; and it goes on and on. I gotta get less pack-ratty.

I don’t really have time to be writing right now, on top of having nothing to say – I should be sleeping. Instead, I’m sitting here listening to the Arcade Fire and staring at my Word doc. I think I’m going to take some vacation soon. Not that I’ve been taxing myself at work lately or anything, I just started thinking. We’re not going anywhere for Christmas this year, so the five or six days I usually reserve for that are just going to go unused if I don’t do something with them. I was thinking, since Sharaun’s off for a while now – that we could maybe take a trip or something. Maybe run away and hide out somewhere for a while, just us. I used the word “thinking” a lot in this paragraph.

Midnight and my fingers don’t seem to be writing anymore. They keep asking my brain for more words, but he mutters back something about being sleepy and kinda hot. Sharaun’s been asleep on the couch for hours, so I’ll now go through my light-turning-out, door-closing, wife-waking routine. Today on the phone I laughed at a joke I wasn’t really listening to, just because the teller of the joke was laughing, and then realized that can be dangerous. What the heck, or who the heck, am I laughing at? What am I associating myself with, what did I just find funny? Better not to laugh when you’re not paying attention, this today I learned.

Hey Kirby corporation, you send one damn vacuum representative to our house each week; we still haven’t bought your $2000 vacuum, despite your kind offer for a “payment plan.” The day I take out a line of credit to pay for a damn vacuum is the day my identity has been stolen. Your van-ferried teenage salespeople in loose-fitting khaki’s and reeking of Hilfiger cologne can’t market for crap, the 2hr training session they went to only makes them come off like pre-pubescent used-car salesmen. Stop coming to my house, we know our vacuum sucks. It’s made of plastic and came from Wal Mart, yours is all metal and can tow a boat or suck up piles of my dead skin – I don’t care. My wife hates you and so do I.

It’s gone! He already took down the site, just as I was getting to like it. Owell. Loaded the Arcade Fire and Grand National to my MP3 thumbdrive and I’m ready for the flight tomorrow. Not related to anything, I found this in my old journal and loved it so much:

I describe, visually in the form of a Venn diagram, my ability to detach.

Dave out.

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red marks on my thighs

Whatever.
Sometime Saturday the weather turned, and I wore my first jeans of the fall. Sure, I still coupled them with sandals, but that’s how I rock fall fashion y’all. We even got a cold rainy Sunday, a Sunday what found me asleep on the couch at a friend’s apartment – enjoying being asleep on a foreign couch, being warm inside while it’s cold outside, the sound of football in the background as I wake myself snoring, good company, a full belly. Womby, it was great. Sorry guys, it’s the music that makes me write like this – what music you ask? Well, only what’s possibly the most awesome album to hit my ears this year. For those who don’t care, the next full two paragraphs will be about this album, so you may skip ’em. Onward then.

Effing-A people, the new music boat docked at my place long enough this weekend to rub some electrons on the platters of my hard disk – and impart to me some gorgeous new tunes in digital form. Here I was over the last month or so, trying to make the days’ memories stick to my brain, but with no new soundtrack to aide in the process. The Killers’ and Polyphonic Spree’s album sections in my head are already at their allotted memory-to-music fill-points, so I’ve got stuff going in up there with no album set as a trigger. Damn shame. How shall I earmark the passing of these days? Thankfully, the indie world has heard my cry, and bestowed upon me a new batch of tunes. And I’m not talking mediocre here, I’m talking some of that instant-like stuff, love-at-first-listen kinda junk.

From the moment I right clicked the folder called “Funeral” and highlighted “Play in Winamp,” I was rapt. With every listen I become more engaged with this album by some group called The Arcade Fire. Seemingly tailored for me, made near-perfect to what I enjoy about music. It’s presumptuous sure, but I call this as being on my “best of” 2004 list come December. Other music came from God too, Grand National and AC Newman; both sound good – but I’m hopelessly in love with this Arcade Fire. The first song is about kids growing up in their Neighborhood (a theme stretched over four tracks), and talks about every kid’s dream of underground tunnels from best bud’s room to yours. Talks about walking around and growing up and, and, sorry, I just had an orgasm. Enough about this album, it’s that good.

I’m just about finished up with the graphic novels Kristi lent to me, Maus. Two-thirds of the way through the second volume. I’ve been doing most of the reading in the john, I keep the book there so it’s always handy. Sure, your legs fall asleep from sitting there too long, but I don’t mind. What a sad book. To think a comic book could move someone to tears. A grown man, sitting on the toilet, red marks on his thighs from resting his elbows there as he reads a coming book, crying. Crying while reading a comic book on the commode, must look hilarious. Ach! What do you know from funny?

This weekend was our going-away celebration for Steve and Ragan. It was a joint-effort between Kristi and Erik and Sharaun and I, a pretty nice affair. We did it at our place, and drew a pretty nice crowd. Food was eaten and drink was consumed, and hopefully our guests of honor felt particularly honored. Eventually, the fog machine was taken out, and last year’s Halloween supply box was raided. The result was a zero-visibility black- and strobe lit garage, which was a big hit. Somehow the party ended with three guys, me included, playing Mike Tyson’s Punch Out! until 3:30 in the A-M, which is odd to me- but was great fun. Somehow sometime during the evening’s festivities, Steve ended up taking out the shower curtain – and what’s even better, it was caught on camera:

Anybody's guess really.

Prior to the party, I had originally had plans to go skydiving with the crew. However, upon hearing the appalling way that fat brothers are treated at the skydiving place, I chose to stay home. Being that I’m a beefy 240lbs, I’d’ve had to pay $40 extra to jump, and they’d’ve only taken me to 6000ft vs. the 14,000ft everyone else got to jump from. No thanks. I’m not gonna ride in the “special plane” to make a “special jump” at a paltry 6000ft. I play it off funny, but it does kinda run up in ya like a knife.

Found this site this weekend, linked from /., and I love the idea. Now, why can’t I ever be this creative? Tomorrow it’s an early trip by jet over to San Jose for another day of presenting, you know I can’t wait. Dave out.

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my stallion’s stable

I love this picture for some reason.
Thursday night. This morning, while I was waiting for Ben to come pick me up for work (Sharaun’s driving my car while hers is being fixed), I was outside sweeping up the glass from her broken window – all the while thinking it was Friday. I even wore a ballcap to work, which is something I usually only do on Fridays. When I got in the truck with Ben, I said something like, “Well, at least it’s Friday.” When he told me it was only Thursday, I was crushed y’allz. Crushed. I really need to pay more attention to stuff.

Today after a fine lunch at the all-I-could-eat Indian food buffet, I set off to a local sewing machine and vacuum shop to try and scavenge a motor for the Winch Witch. The shopkeep at the place was an eccentric guy, cracking jokes and stuff, and when I asked for any spare motors from dead/retired machines – he took me in the back room and showed me the graveyard of machines I could choose from. After picking a nice vintage Singer that had an external motor and housing, I joked to him, “Now what do you want for this? I have lots of things to trade, even money.” He joked back that “… a bottle of rum would be nice.” Conveniently located next door to the sewing machine shop is a liquor shop. So I walked over, bought an $8 bottle of cheap rum, and walked back to complete the trade. How strange. I traded a bottle of cheap rum for a broken sewing machine, now how many people can say that. Anyway, I think the purchase was for not – it doesn’t look like the motor will power the witch? but at least I got a funny story.

I don’t know, maybe it’s because I’m a big dude or something – but I battle constantly with an almost invincible foe: the creeping, twisting, and altogether encroaching boxers. Yeah you heard me, I’m talkin’ bout my unmentionables, my drawers, my stallion’s stable, and more euphemisms ad infinitum. As much as I’m plagued by my boxers, I’m surprised it’s taken me this long to write about it. So I’m here to rectify that y’all, I’m finna lay this down for ya.

As much as boxers are better than briefs, they do have one drawback – there’s a lot more “loose” material to move around and bunch up and tug and pull on things. Now, I usually wear what the underwear industry calls “boxer briefs,” which are like “tight” boxers, or at least tighter than free-hanging boxers. I prefer these because they are more comfortable to me, and why this is relevant to the story I have no idea.

Anyway, I don’t really know exactly what factors lead to the awful shifting and creeping and twisting, but I have some suspects. First off, I think they have to be put on properly. I’ve they’re even one inch off-center, the simple motion of walking will pull one side up your leg into a bunched ring of boxer at the top. Second, I think a tucked-in shirt can influence movement. If you’re getting a lot of tug from the left side of an disproportional tuck, you can expect the left leg of your boxers to follow suit. The real problem is, once the boxers start moving, it seems that no amount of mid-day readjustment can fix it. So, you learn other temporary-relief techniques. I’ve classified them below.

All unwanted boxer movement, at least for me, falls into the category of leg-to-crotch creep. One or the other leg seems to inch higher and higher with each step. This is not only uncomfortable, it’s supremely annoying. There are several ways to address this situation, short of stripping down naked and re-dressing. My two most-used fixes are a) the up-leg-pull-down readjust, and b) the spin-step-drop readjust.

Method A is the more hardcore of the two remedies, and involves manual insertion of right hand up the offending shorts-leg, at which point the boxers are grabbed and manually pulled down into place with a firm tugging motion. I say this is hardcore because to the observer, you’ve got your hand up your own short legs – so it’s really for more extreme situations when you can afford not to be seen. A less-obvious variation of this method is sometimes executable, and involves putting a hand in the pocket on the creeping leg and grabbing the boxers through the pocket lining. Using this method, sometimes just holding the boxers in place can offer some relief.

Method B is more subtle, and therefore better suited for quick-fixes among company. It’s pretty simple: as you sense the action of walking sucking your boxers upward – you counter the effect by spinning the foot of the afflicted leg as it hits the ground, and stepping slightly out with the opposite foot. This releases the boxers from the grip of the upward pull and lets the creeping leg fall freely back into place. While not as effective as the method A, it’s more socially acceptable. Be aware, though, that even method B is not transparent? many a time my wife has asked me, “Why do you twist like that sometimes when you walk?” Dang boxers?

If neither of the above fixes is practical nor feasible, there are occasions where you just have to take you punishment and let ’em ride. Usually this happens at the worst possible time, such as walking around the 90 , 90% humidity streets in Taiwan with customers, dressed in nice clothes and sweating bullets. In this situation, it’s best to just endure the pain – I’ve found biting down on a stick and taking a shot of strong whiskey makes it almost bearable. Then when you get back to the hotel and strip off the Dockers, you’ll see one boxer leg completely rolled up like a giant thigh-condom. Grab that sucker and liberate it, feel the fresh air in places that have been stifled for hours, and breath a sigh of relief – you are now free. Stupid boxers?

Holy crap. See up there a few paragraphs where I used the word “finna?” I started to think maybe some people might not be familiar with the word, so I decided to look it up on Google and maybe link it to the definition. But, the results of the search are awesome enough to get a link of their own. Check out the “hip hop slang” entry in the online encyclopedia, Wikipedia: click here. I especially like how the word “fo” has, count ’em, three meanings. Oh man, rich.

Why do some people put a ‘t’ in the word “else?” Have you heard this band Hoobastank? I saw them perform live twice on the MTV lately, and man that dude can’t even come close to sangin’, couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket. He sounds awful, how come I don’t have a contract? I’m done. Dave out.

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crappy bureaucratic machine

These little piggies... got crushed by an anvil, or something.
Inching closer to Friday, this week maintains its steady crawl. It’s ’round about nine and I’m watching some TiVo’d Andy Griffith. I didn’t do a thing tonight, fell asleep on the couch shortly after getting home from work. Didn’t work on the witch, didn’t shave, didn’t do anything.

Guys. Really. I mean, I thought I was finally done giving this presentation. For a week in Taiwan I parroted this stuff, and at two conferences already before that. I flew to Houston to present it, I presented it over the phone. I can do it blindfolded, on one foot, while whistling. I can do it in pig latin with no slides, I can recite it backwards while jumping through fire, I can roll out of bed and give the whole thing completely straight-faced in nothing but my skivvies. Please, please, don’t make me fight traffic over to the Bay to give it two more times… I might collapse. Oh lord…

Everyone is saying I’m guilty of fraud, just because I added a few letters to a doctor’s evaluation of Sharaun’s knee. OK, OK, I’ll back up and start from the beginning. Sunday, Sharaun tweaked her knee while playing soccer. At first she thought it was OK, but later that night it had swollen pretty bad was really hurting her. Bad enough that we drove to a friend’s to borrow some crutches so she could better get around at work the next day.

Anyway, since she can’t really make phone calls from work, I called the next day to try and get her an appointment at our doctor. Turns out there wasn’t anything until Thursday that she could manage to make it to. Since she was/is in pretty bad shape, I asked if there was anything else we could do. I told them that I was pretty sure she’d need to see a specialist, and that we just wanted to get a referral so she could do that. Our doctor’s office suggested she go to an “urgent care” clinic and get checked out, that way his referral to a specialist would be good enough for insurance, and she wouldn’t have to wait until Thursday. So, Monday night we spend roughly three hours at the urgent care place, where the doctor’s assessment was that she’d need an MRI and further evaluation. Before leaving, we got carbons of some paperwork with his assessment which we figured, according to what I’d been told on the phone earlier that day, would satisfy insurance’s requirement for seeing a “primary care” physician before being referred to a specialist.

So, the next day I called the our normal doctor back and relayed what the urgent care place said about Sharaun needing an MRI. However, this time I got a different story. For an MRI, she’d have to come in and be seen at the doctor – which is exactly what we were told we’d be avoiding by going to the urgent care. So I explained what I’d been told the day before, and that we’d spent three hours at the stupid urgent care, and blah, blah. Finally, the nurse relented somewhat and said that if the paperwork from the urgent care doctor stated she needed an MRI, I could fax it to them and they’d in turn fax it to the insurance for approval – bypassing another appointment. Awesome, I got the fax number and pulled out the paperwork from the urgent care.

Now, guess what y’all? That crap-doctor at urgent care didn’t even write the word “MRI” on this little paper. I mean, there’s all sorts of stuff on here – but the key statement says, “You have an internal injury to L knee, needs further eval.” He even captured such astute observations like, “… walks with limp..” and, “… swelling.” Great. Now I have no proof that this quack ever recommended an MRI, and Sharaun’s gonna have to go in for another appointment before she can see a specialist. So, here’s what I did:

Easy right? I just added the word “MRI” in parentheses after his “… needs further eval.” statement. I didn’t even bother to try and match his script, or the color of his ink. I didn’t even really think about it. The doctor wanted to see MRI, so I put MRI. I faxed it all over and am awaiting the response from whatever triad of governing bodies it requires to get a damn specialist referral through insurance. Crappy bureaucratic machine.

I’m spent.. I have nothing more. Dave out.