Author: Dave

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I can already see through walls

The buiding blocks of proteins.
You have to wonder why the Lord, our God, would make the tissue of the human mouth and throat so much sturdier than that of the anus. I mean, it stands to reason that man will eat things that are at a spice-level which he can handle. Only problem is, what I can safely handle on one end don’t translate too well to what I can handle when it’s headed in the other direction. I loves me some spicy food, the hotter the better, and if you don’t then you’re a pussy. I had these awesomely spicy Chinese noodles for dinner the other night, and I swear I was almost crying on the toilet at work today. First off, I was on the toilet at work, which doesn’t happen unless we have a level-seven or above situation – so that fact alone is telling in the ferocity of this movement. It was one of those sweat and headache inducing ones, where right in the middle of it all – you’re not sure but you think you might puke instead of colon-explode. Anyway, I’m not one to go into gory detail, so I’ll leave you with the generalities lest you are easily grossed out.

I’m trying to write early tonight because I’m dead tired for some reason, I should be ripping CDs right now but I’m not. Sitting here listening to the new Badly Drawn Boy album, trying to make myself like it – and it’s just not happening. I mean, it’s good and all – but it’s nothing compared to his previous efforts (I mean, if you ask me). That kinda disappointed me, but I guess you don’t get what you don’t pay for. And being that I rarely pay for any music these days, my expectations probably shouldn’t be that high. Anyway, there seem to be a few good tracks on here, but nothing to write home about. Write a paragraph on the web about, now that’s a different story. Ugh.

Ben will be here soon and we’ll go running. I don’t want to run tonight, but I will because I’m trying to make my fat go away and get into better shape. So far, I’ve got nothing to show for it but some sore feet and the occasional calf cramp walking up the stairs at work. It’s gotta be much easier to just get signed up to go on Survivor or Pioneer House or something, ’cause running sucks. I see Ben, here he comes, he’s gonna wanna run right now. He’s walking to the door, there’s no escape now. I gotta put on my shoes.

See, on the blog you’d think I was just hitting enter and starting a new paragraph. But in real life, hours have passed, running has been done, and I’m now sitting here wrapping up the evening and listening to some Quicksilver Messenger Service. When I was at my brother’s place last weekend, I was amazed by the amount of crap he and Angela take. She works at GNC, so they’re both total health freaks – and take every kind of supplement known to man. Amino acids, vitamins, proteins, fruit enzymes, you name it and they take it. Although they’re not really into herbs, they do seem to go for any vitamin or supplement that can be extracted/concentrated and squished into pill form. It’s a daily regimen of protein smoothies and upwards of twenty pills – no joke.

The bottle of Jager is on the shirt, not part of the daily routine.

While I was there, Angela managed to sell me on GNC’s Centrum-like multivitamin. It gives me all the “recommended daily value” things I need, and contains some amino acids and stuff that’s not in Centrum – plus (and according to Angela, this is the real plus) it’s time-released. I used to take Centrum, so it’s not that much of a stretch that I’d buy into this vitamin mumbo-jumbo. Anyway, the GNC multivitamin (which, awesomely, is called “Mega Men”) has had lycopene for like, ever… and Centrum just added it. I mean, c’mon people… get with it. When you gonna pull your heads out of your asses and start eating glutamine shakes with your flax seed cereal and soy milk?! Sheesh. I mean, if it wasn’t for all the Viagra and Phen-Phen knockoff wonder-drugs they sell, you could almost mistake them for a real store. I’m happy with my vitamins though, and I can already see through walls.. so they must work at least a little.

Dave out.

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stumble through turtle-paced motions

Bitch.!
Lately, I just can’t seem to find time to write every night. I’m hoping it’s not a permanent thing – and I can see my schedule is lightening up in a couple weeks. Right now I just think I’m slammed at work and when I get home I’m just void of ideas. The two days I didn’t write last week, I sat down and wrote into paragraphs but just couldn’t come up with any meat. When I sit there staring at the screen trying to think of something to write to be funny or insightful, it’s a doomed entry. So in that situation I usually just give up and don’t write anything. I did, however, like what entries I managed to come up with last week – so maybe it’s a quality vs. quantity thing.

Didn’t do a dang thing on the yard this weekend, opted to “have fun” instead. Friday night we had some sushi and took in a showing of “Supersize Me” at the Crest. What a fun movie. If you haven’t heard of it, it’s a documentary following some dude who chooses to go on an “all McDonalds” diet for 30 days. The film chronicles his health and life for these 30 days. It’s a great flick if you have a chance to go see it, McDonalds must freakin’ hate it… makes them look terrible. Saturday Sharaun and I tried to do some “spring cleaning” around the house, which amounted to dusting. Party at Justin’s/Pat’s/Ben’s Saturday night and then wakeboarding on Sunday. A fun weekend, but not terribly productive. With lots of travel and vacation coming up, the next few months are action-packed. Where did that sentence come from?

What in the world is up with checkout people these days? It seems like cashiers at every discount store and supermarket take lessons in “slow as hell” or something. Honestly, I was in Wal Mart Saturday, and the dude at the register was picking up each item one by one, looking them over as if he was evaluating them for his own future purchases. He’d then take a leisurely swipe or two over the UPC reader, only to turn his whole body and stack them neatly for eventual bagging. This whole painful process was repeated over and over in slow motion. It was all I could do not to yell at the guy, who wasn’t even retarded or anything (not that that would stop me from yelling at him… what?). When I was a cashier, and there were people in my line, I would freakin’ race through the items. The only delays came from the old ladies who still believed a personal check is the most convenient form of payment. On top of all that, they don’t say a damn word to you when you finally reach the front of the line – nothing. They just stumble through the turtle-paced motions and ask if you want cash back. Places should base these peoples’ pay on throughput, not just showing up for work.

I’m out.

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a new wiping technique

Schematics, I know this!
Quarter to eleven and time to write tomorrow’s thingy. Came home, tidied a bit around the house and finally unpacked from the trip this weekend past. Did some dishes, watered the trees, took out the trash and then sat down with the laptop to multitask between the NBA playoffs and knocking out some work in order to meet this week’s commitments. Now I’m done working on PowerPoint slides, and I’m sick of them, so I quit and came back here to the computer room to do some serious music downloadin’ and rippin’.

Looks like I’m not alone in the desire to digitize my entire music collection: Wired magazine had a feature this month about pay-for-ripping services that will convert your CD collection to digital audio for a fee. I’m on the Ms now, Steve Miller to be exact. In a strange burst of random activity, I spent 20min this afternoon “linking up” some items on the “cast” page. I’ve been wanting to do it for a while, since I’ve written entries about lots of things I mention on there. Anyway, intro paragraph over!

I was experimenting with a new wiping technique the other day. Oh yeah, I’m talking about what you think I’m talking about. See, I’m kinda self-conscious about my current wipe – I kinda think I’m in the minority with the technique I employ. First off, I’ll start by saying that I’m semi-obsessed with being “clean.” Not to the point where it’s OCD or neurotic or anything (although I guess that could be debated), I just like to feel like I’m relatively “clean” – especially in my nether regions. I think that my current wiping strategy was born out of this desire for cleanliness, being what my mind settled on as the most efficient and tidy method.

My current wipe? Rear-wipe, sack-to-crack. Yes, that means I actually sit up off the seat a little and reach around my body to get the job done. I never thought much of this method while in the privacy of my own home, but shitting in a communal setting tends to make one examine his techniques in light of other techniques witnessed as feet-under-stalls. I noticed that most guys don’t visibly “move” when it’s time to do the wiping, and I figured that – looking in on me in the same situation – there would be visible motion associated with my wipe. I mean, I’m not propping one leg up on the seat or anything, but the slight “lift” required to get my arm around would most likely be given away by some telltale calf-flexing or heel-raising at least. So here I am, sitting in the middle stall with two other dudes dropping loads on either side – studying foot and calf movement during the wipe-phase of their food-transactions. Putting myself in their positions and pretending to examine my own movements, I suddenly became aware that I may be in the rear-wipe minority.

The majority of field data I’ve gathered is decidedly not in-line with my methodology. In fact, I’ve never seen any visible sign that someone is a rear-wiper. So it must be that the majority of people are front-wipers. Of course, I’ve never actually had the opportunity to observe my own technique (either in a mirror or via an out-of-body experience), so I’m not even positive there are any noticeable motions associated with it. However, faced with this seemingly overwhelmingly scientific data, I decided to give the front-wipe a go. For my test run, I chose the Courtyard by Marriot in Houston, TX. I took some paper (won’t even get into the paper method here, that’s another entry altogether) and went for it. Hmm… not too bad. Have to make sure that my hand doesn’t hit the surface of the water, have to make sure not to wipe too far forward – things I’m assuming come with practice and are second-nature to the seasoned front-wiper. Maybe people kinda “loom” above the seat a little even when employing the front-wipe, like I do with the rear? It just seems like a tight squeeze to get your hand down in there between the offending area and water surface.

My conclusion, the front-wipe just isn’t for me. I just don’t trust that I’m not draggin’ poo right into that dead-zone between the canyon and cajones. I mean, I guess the same could be argued against my technique, possibly lodging poo near the top of the crackish area – but I just feel I have a better go at it from that angle. I mean, they never really taught this in school or anything – you’re just kinda on your own to figure it all out. Or maybe I missed that day? Coulda been the day the Army came and gave the ASVAB test – I skipped on purpose that day so as to not alert the brass to my superior intellect and face the inevitable compulsory enlistment.

Wow guys, I just got done writing all this – and decided to search on the web… seems my fears are unfounded! I found a website which offers a wiping “poll,” and guess what? Rear-wipe, sack-to-crack/bush-to-tush, is by far the #1 technique for men and women! For really y’allz! Check out the crazy results here. Seems I’m not in the minority after all, I guess the people I work with are just all front-wipers – or I have an exaggerated idea of what the whole process must look like from an adjacent stall. Good to know that I’m not a freak, at least.

To be honest, I’d rather do like the Japanese and French do and be rid of the whole wiping thing once and for all – the bidet has to be the single best advancement in crapper technology. What a preferred solution! Faced with reaching my own hand, TP-clad or not, into my own asscrack – or having a toilet shoot a nice stream of water up there… there’s really no choice. Water cleans, people. Paper just smears and pushes around, there’s really no comparison. When I get an extra five grand saved up, maybe I’ll go all out for one of these dealies. “They’re years ahead of us!”

OK, so I didn’t mean for the wipe thing to consume the whole blog today, but it kinda went on a word-rampage and stepped all over any other ideas. Being as it’s midnight-thirty and I’m getting’ tired… I’m gonna call it a night.

Dave out.

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44 gallon jug of chili

D-size baby, 'cause we don't play around with that C shit.
I can make my entries this week if I make sure I write at night, y’allz. All I gots to do is get my discipline on and come up with something funny and/or interesting each night around midnight, write it down, find a semi-related picture to accompany it, and post that junk. All for what, again? Oh right? because I have this website where I try to write something every day, I forgot for a minute.

I interviewed a guy for work the other day, and was surprised to find myself ultimately confident sitting on the other side of what I know to be a fairly daunting situation. The guy did great, knew what he should know and made good efforts at the stuff he didn’t. While I was talking to him, he asked me how long I’d been working at my current job. Man guys, you know I’ve been working here for four years? Despite a close brush with the FBI, it’s been pretty much smooth sailing. No, really? the FBI.

My brother and I had a good time this weekend reminiscing about stuff from the old days. We were watching something on TV when the channel did whatever it is channels do when they all of the sudden trump programming audio with a series of what sound like telephone key presses. Have you ever heard this? You’ll be watching TV, or, it used to happen a lot at the very beginning of VHS tapes – and out of nowhere it sounds like someone hit speed-dial on a phone. Beep-boop-beep-beep-beep-boop-boop. Anyway, he asked me if I remembered what I used to tell him about those beeps – and I had to laugh. I told him that it was the president’s phone number, and if you slowed it down enough you could make it out and dial up the president himself. He also remembered being scared to death whenever we had to take an “offramp” when on the freeway, because I’d apparently told him they were real “ramps” like from the Dukes of Hazard – and we’d have to launch into the air if we took one. Oh man, where did I get this stuff?

You know we actually skipped the last period of school one day so we could beat my brother home by a half hour or so. Just enough time to get a length of PVC pipe, some D-size model rocket engines, and the ignition switch for those engines. We took the aforementioned supplies, climbed on the roof, and fashioned a makeshift rocket-engine bazooka. We then lay in wait for Frank to come home from school, having removed the front door key from it’s regular hiding place under a log in the flower bed. As he walked up, we let loose – shooting engines as fast as we could load them into the pipe. Nevermind that they went every which way but straight after coming out of the pipe, it was the look on his face that made it worth it. No wonder he hated me.

The crown jewel of brotherly abuse though, would have to be 1994’s “Frank Day.” I was a senior in high school, and Frank was a freshman. My friends and I had been planning what Frank’s “freshman day” would be like for nigh on three years. For those who don’t know, “freshman day” is that day in high school where all the upperclassmen pick on and beat up the new blood. This particular year, freshman day fell on a Friday which also happened to be a football game Friday. Usually on football game Fridays, the “pep squad” would get together after school and make up a bunch of huge “Go Team!”-ish banners to hang around campus (y’know, to inspire the athletes and all). Some of my buddies and I got the great idea to sneak into this pep squad banner-making party and use their materials for our benefit. The result? We created a huge banner which read “Frank Day,” instead of “frehsman day.” I think there was some extra text at the bottom, but basically we wanted to hang it up so my brother would have the fear of God in him for what was coming.

Imagine Frank coming to school Friday morning and, amidst the “Rock ’em Raiders” fanfare, seeing his name plastered across a 20ft banner hanging from one of the 2nd story walkways for all to see. The banner did way more than we had intended, for it stirred the interest of a lot of kids in the senior class. Word got out that we planned to inflict Frank’s punishment on him as he walked home from the bus after school. The banner helped to whip everyone into a frenzy, and things got a little out of hand. I knew this when me and four buddies turned the corner onto my street after school let out? and saw what must have been fifteen cars, lining the streets near my house. There were people there I hardly knew, who had just come along for the festivities. As I saw the massive motorcade, I got a small idea of the fear my brother would feel as he would turn that same corner minutes later. The shaving cream and egg toting crowd erupted into cheers as little bro Frank and his bespectacled friend Isaac turned that corner – and as any sane persons would have, they both immediately turned tail and ran the opposite direction.

Yeah, we eventually caught up with ’em, egged ’em, creamed ’em, and even attempted to hogtie ’em before I, ever the sympathetic big brother, intervened and sounded the “he’s had enough” clarion. It was good, even if it only did serve to deepen the resentment Frank harbored towards me. As one senior put it in our “last will and testaments,”: “To Frank, I leave Frank Day of 1994, you could run, but you could not hide.”

Speaking of senior year “Last Will and Testament” stuff, reading these is cracking me up, we must have had some conspiracy to rip on my brother until the very end. Seems that quite a few of the seniors bequeathed strange items to one Frank. An orchestrated plan?, judge for yourself:

“To Frank a dozen jelly donuts.” -Mike K.
“To Frank: 44 gallon jug of chili, and meat too!” -Andy W.
“To FRANK, a life-long membership to Jenny Kraig (sic)” -Tracy R.
“To Frank a girdle.” -Dan R.
“To Frank: Keg of butter.” – Shawn O.
“To Frank, I leave Frank Day of 1994, you could run, but you could not hide.” – Jeremy D.
“To Frank, my legacy and my school.” -Dave

Man, we were awful. That’s all the guilt I can stand for one night guys, and it is nearly 1:30 in the AM for crap’s sake. What the heck am I doing? G’nite all, Dave out.

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make sure my beer’s not empty

How do you say en Francais?
No internet at my brother’s place means no entry for Friday. Now worries though, as I’m trying to get “back at it” and keep the juice flowin’. The weekend was really fun, getting to hang out with my brother and his wife (still sounds funny to me) was cool. On Friday night we stayed up late talking, kinda letting each other in on those “missing years” when I was away at school and he was a working-man back home. For more than two years there, I had no idea what he was up to – and him the same for me. I thought I got into a lot of trouble when I was a kid… but damn. Anyway, it was great. Even though Frank and I are about as different as two brothers can be – we still have a lot in common that we can talk about and agree on. I’m glad I got to spend some time with him, and he and Angela seem genuinely happy. I got a mini-tour of where he works on Ft. Hood, and a glimpse into what he does every day – it was great. My little brother ain’t so little anymore, all grow’d up with a wife and a job and everything. That shit still trips me out.

So now I’m sitting here in the Continental terminal at George Bush Airport in Houston, drinking a tall Shiner Bock in some airport seafood joint. It was the only non-food-court place where I could sit down and have my food brought to me, which is much more conducive to sitting here typing away on the laptop. Someone to come check and make sure my beer’s not empty, and no one to bother me while I wait for my flight (about three hours and counting, if you’re curious). Nevermind that I look like some nerd, typing on his laptop in a restaurant, while watching America’s Funniest Home Videos on the TV, nothing but a big ol’ beer in terms of sustenance in front of me. See? I certainly haven’t analyzed the situation.

I think I could get used to this solo traveling gig. I mean if I were unattached, of course. I kind of like the anonymity of sitting alone in a booth and just “observing” stuff. Not Sherlock Holmes type observing, just, y’know, checkin’ junk out. It’s kind of a good feeling to be wholly responsible for yourself, making sure you budget enough time to make your flight, return your rental car, eat some food, etc. Guys, I’m kinda buzzed right now? this Shiner was biiig, and I haven’t ordered yet because I still have like two whole hours before I can board the flight. When I do order, here at “Bubba’s Seafood Grill,” I think I’m gonna get one of “Bubba’s Favorites,” namely – the “Buffalo Popcorn Shrimp Platter.” I mean, I’ve been mulling this decision for a good twenty minutes now as I downed this beer, so I think I’m prepared to take the plunge and go with it.

Hey original Cyn… I heard you talking to your sister and your roommate at the pool party, I have super-hearing y’know. So for you, I finally cleaned it up and uploaded it – now I think you owe me sex (or at least something sexual in nature). (I know, the picture is broken). And thanks Benz for the praise on my last entry, I too fancied that paragraph as one of my finest… in a league with the desert island paragraph I’m so proud of.

Time to eat my scrimps, Dave out.

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feel the confidence in my firm handshake!

Think highly of thyself, dost thee?
Wow, like a dang week dude. Nearly a whole week without a proper entry. I guess there were some mitigating circumstances. One, I don’t work on the weekend; two, I’ve been busy as crap. So, the three day weekend took care of Monday, and Tuesday and Wednesday I didn’t have a second to breathe. So now it’s Thursday, and I’m sitting in a hotel room in Austin, TX. Business took me here, to meet with some customers, but I’m staying through Sunday to go visit my brother in Killeen. He ships off to Alaska next week, and my trip to Houston matched up with his last weekend in town – so I decided to catch a Sunday, rather than Friday, flight, and hang out with him. Should be cool.

I was thinking the other day, how much doctors much hate WebMD. I mean, that site can be a pretty dangerous place for those with a hypochondriac side. It’s so easy to search this huge repository of symptoms and see what crazy diseases you might have. They even have this handy “symptoms checker” page where you can pick from a big nice list of elemental problems to diagnose your ailment. I can imagine some dude going into the doctor with a ream of WebMD printouts, thinking the combination of his shortness of breath and numb toes is anything from West African Mandibulolitus to Fendabular Tindanation. And while I was over there, I found a funny page under the symptoms. The “symptom” is “fishhook injuries.” That’s a symptom? I looked for the microwave and tandem-bike injuries symptoms, but surprisingly they weren’t there.

There’s something “grownup” feeling about being in a hotel room, even more so when you’re on a solo trip. Maybe it’s just me, but I’ve always kinda liked staying in hotels. I think because, when I was young, staying in a hotel meant we were on vacation or a trip. My brother and I always got to share a bed and we would all hang out as a family. Now that I’m all grown up and staying in hotels when I travel, I get some piece of that sensation every time. I like the feeling of being “important” enough to have to travel somewhere for someone. You know, someone is putting me up in a hotel and taking me out to dinner because I’m here to help them in some way. Makes me feel all yuppie or business-class or something.

Kinda like the “importantness” I feel waiting for the daily parking shuttle to the airport terminal in the morning. Rubbing shoulders with the other suits, all of us with our laptop bags and corporate-logoed Polos, getting ready to be flown to God-knows-where… and all these dudes looking at this twenty-something punk kid, wondering why he’s here. What the heck is so important about him that he needs to fly somewhere? That’s right other coach passengers, I think I will bust out my laptop and work on a PowerPoint presentation – just because I can. What? You’re surprised I’m taking an important meeting from my cellphone while I wait for my connection? Sound odd to hear me call shots into the little headset/mic combo dangling from my ear? Wise up old-money, here’s my business card – call me and we’ll do lunch; that is, if I have time to fit you in. I’ma come up in your world with my khakis and dress shoes and exude import – I wear a badge around my neck for God’s sake! Feel the confidence in my firm handshake! I own you!!

Goodnight all, blogging should resume as normal now that things have died down a bit. Until tomorrow, peace out.

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a peg-leg too

It's cyclical.
So it appears I’m going to Houston next week to meet with some customers. I got to thinking, and turns out my brother is stationed only a two hour drive from Houston. Since I’m coming in on a Thursday and was planning on leaving Friday – I think I’m just going to make my return flight on Sunday and head up to spend the weekend with him. Should be cool, since he leaves to build roads in America’s only rainforest the very next weekend. Right now work is at a peak, with everything conveniently converging on next week – which I’ve dubbed “hell week.” I will rock hell week though, I have no fear.

As predicted, I’ve become totally addicted to PBS’ new “reailtyducation” series “Colonial House.” I’ve written before about my affinity for these series, and this one doesn’t disappoint. I think find them “acceptable” reality programming because there’s no unnecessary drama or Real World-esque bullshit. Not to mention, they’re chock-full of awesome history goodness. No ex-football players giving roses to doe-eyed, streetcorner-clad golddiggers; no diving into entrails to gather enough gold coins to beat the other team; and no one getting voted off as part of a grand strategy. Just learnin’ and hardship, what more could you ask for? PBS rocks, makes me feel all Linuxy when I watch it.

Have you guys seen this new “cleric” they’ve indicted? You know, the one who supposedly built some crazy terrorist training camp in Oregon, of all places. I mean, this guy is a seriously mean looking dude. One insane eye that’s got the crazy-glaze and seems to be permanently on the lookout for enemies approaching from the left. A freakin’ hook for a right hand. And a crazy unkempt shaggy beard to top it all off. Who knows, until we see a picture of him from the waist down – I’m gonna say he has a peg-leg too, he certainly seems injury-prone enough. Allah not really lookin’ out for you eh Abu?

Maybe you’re just not terrorist enough, get more terrorist – that might help. No, I’m joking (lest people think I’m one of those “they’re all terrorists” idiots, it’s only comedy people). Anyway, I can’t see this guy recruiting anyone, let alone a bunch or tree-hugging Oregonian hippies who can’t pump their own gas. If this guy approached me in my mosque about coming to hang out at his cool “ranch” and learning to shoot guns – I’d probably bust him over the head with a bottle of rum and try to steal his treasure map. Pirate-looking loony.


“With my good eye I will see the infidels! I will then hobble to them on my good leg and pummel them with my good hand! Fear me!!.”

Well, it’s 11:30pm here and we’re on a marathon-run of Colonial House. Happy birthday dad, feel better mom! G’night blog faithful. Dave out.