Category: self

Introspective thought on my own behavior or actions.

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i remember

Freezecamping.
I had a friend in college who used get down sometimes for no apparent reason. During his down times he’d say that he was “in a funk.” I first remember hearing the term on some baseball wrapup on ESPN. I never really thought too much about it, I guess because I never really experienced a “funk.” I don’t know how to describe what’s been looming over me lately, but something is there. Maybe this is what a funk feels like.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m actually a really happy person, and I’m quite satisfied with every aspect of my life. It’s not that I’m overtly upset or depressed about anything, it’s more like there a “shadow” of something hanging just out of sight, just barely there enough to where I can sense it. The best way I can describe it is that I feel like there should be some “transition” coming up in my life. I’ll try to explain.

All my life I’ve tracked or measured or gauged things in terms of large events: graduating high school, graduating college, getting married, getting a job, etc. Each event is like cresting a hill on a roller coaster, I enjoy myself while all the while anticipating the nearing precipice. Then I pass that marker and start another ride, awaiting the next slope and drop. It’s like I’ve always seen milestones off in the future, and I subconsciously wait for them. Sometimes I just get this feeling like I’m poised on the edge of one of those roller coaster drops – but this time I don’t know what it could be. I feel like I’m expecting something to happen soon.

Sorry, psychobabble stuff because I’m bored. I actually wrote paragraphs very similar to those about a month ago, but never posted them because they sounded dumb. So now I’m revisiting the thought and posting it.

I used to write little one paragraph entries in my journals called “I Remember.” I’d set down fond memories in abridged form – in hopes that one day I’d have totally forgotten them and be delighted to read and recall them. Well for this blog I wanted to write a story from my youth down, but couldn’t decide which one. So I’m gonna do a few one-paragraph versions of a few I considered.

We all told our parents we were spending the night at each others’ houses. I think it was the only time we tried that particular ruse, since it was just too risky. We drove to West Cocoa and bought a $20 off some guy on the corner. I drove my red Nissan Sentra Joey had his car. We ended up driving out to an abandoned drive-in movie theater that had long since turned into a grown over forest. The only thing that hinted at the place’s previous life was a streetlamp standing in the middle of some pine trees. We parked and enjoyed copious amounts of cannabis. We laughed, talked, saw Batman in the clouds, and finally decided just to sleep out there in our cars. I remember waking up to water dripping on my leg. The inside of the car had filled with condensation from our breathing. We woke up early, covered Joeys car (containing a still sleeping Joey and Kyle) with thrown out couch cushions, and headed to McD’s for breakfast.

It was high school and Joey was spending the night at my place. We snuck out the window and headed to a party at Skyview, the abandoned drive-in mentioned above. On the overgrown dirt road leading into the party loop, Joey found a full gallon bottle of gin. I think he drank about half before we left, and maybe more on the way home. I’ve never seen anyone that drunk. I asked another friend to help me carry him. We had walked nearly five miles to get to the party. We each slung an arm across our shoulders and hauled his passed out body home. When we got home there was no way we were getting in the window with him, so I just bit the bullet and came through the front door. Justin helped me carry Joey into my room and drop him on the floor. I woke in the morning to find Joey had pissed himself overnight. I remember trying to explain to my mom that I just “wanted to clean my floor and vacuum.”

We were too young to drive, none of us had ever tasted beer. Joey’s parents were out of town and he knew where a spare key to the car was. We took the car and drove around town until I spotted someone older that I knew and persuaded him to buy us four big bottles of Red Bull malt liquor. Once back at Joey’s house, I suppressed vomit with each swallow – standing over the sink the whole time, fully expecting not to be able to finish the bottle. Once buzzed, we again took the car over to my ex-girlfriend’s house where Joey dropped three of us off and left. Somehow the cops came. I remember telling the cops we were camping and out for a walk, the same as we’d told our parents. Dispatch called each parent and we nervously awaited as she read each parents’ reply over the radio. All three of our parents said “return to campsite.” I remember the cops were so cool: “Have you boys been drinking tonight?” “No sir.” “Well you smell like a god-damned brewery.” Andy threw up in his mouth and swallowed it back down.

Joey, Kyle, and I snuck out of my house and headed over to a semi-cute girl’s house. We always used to carry our Zippo lighters with us everywhere we went. This girl was probably cuter than I now give her credit for, since I was judging her with the idealistic eyes of a high school male. I remember she took Kyle’s lighter and stuck it down her pants, we were in her driveway. She told him to reach in and get it. I was so jealous, but that is one of the more vivid memories I have. I thought that was such forward flirting – and I loved it.

I remember I had just kissed Her for the first time. Sharaun was supposed to be busy with Vacation Bible School at church. Her and I laid on the bed, and Pavement’s Wowee Zowee was playing on my stereo. After kissing we just laid there together. That’s when my door swung open and Sharaun walked in. I had my head on the pillow, so all I heard was my door open – then slam shut again. Then Her turned to me, eyes wide, and said “That was Sharaun.” I got up and found Sharaun in the bathroom. I promised her that nothing had happened, and while we talked behind the closed door She took it upon herself to leave. She and I used to joke that the world might explode if we ever kissed. Oh, it exploded… right in my face. Thus began my eight-month lost weekend. The only time I’ve in the past ten years I’ve not been with Sharaun.

We skipped lunch at school to drive out into the woods and check on the marijuana plant we were cultivating. A week earlier we had dug a nice 6″ deep bed about 100 yards into the woods, at the end of a self-made machete-cleared trail. We started our plant in a little flower pot. After a couple weeks it had flourished in the pot, and we could tell it was going to be a female. We were going to transplant it into the bed we had dug – and needed to fill it with fertilizer. Easy enough. We headed to Wal Mart to pick up some Miracle Grow and on the way out simply drove up to the fertilizer pallets in the parking lot and helped ourselves to 400lbs of fine manure, then headed out to do the transplant. Apparently we had been in and out of the woods too many times, and a nearby preschool had reported our car as “suspicious.” Upon getting to the plant, we found it had died and withered overnight. Out of frustration I uprooted the plant and tossed it into the woods. As we came out of our trail there was a cruiser with two cops waiting. They didn’t see me at first so I ducked back into the woods and warned the others. We quickly chose a “talker” whose story we’d all go with no matter what. Unfortunately the dumbest one of us proclaimed himself talker, and we had to follow whatever he might come up with. That was how we ended up explaining that four 16 year old kids were “building a fort” in the woods. Using 400lbs of fertilizer to “level” the ground upon which we’d build the fort. As for the Miracle Grow, our talker’s grandfather apparently loved tomatoes – but could “smell them from miles,” so we were going to grow some for him at our fort? as a surprise. Yes. Seriously. That was our story. They knew what we were doing but couldn’t prove it. We got away without as much as a call to our folks.

Dave out.

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burn down the barn

Social... anxiety... setting in... must run and hide...
Damn, I really am pretty touchy when it comes to some things. I never expect certain things to affect me so much, but things often creep up on me. When I least expect it, I can be struck by a total feeling of dumbassness. Sometimes I anticipate it, and I’m ready because I know I’m up against a potentially embarrassing situation. Other times, it sneaks up on me and I leave a situation or exchange with a feeling humiliation and self-doubt. If I could, I would escape from all situations that could be potentially pride-damaging. I know what I’m writing doesn’t make much sense, I’m just lamenting another situation I found myself in. Let’s move to other topics shall we? Good.

On the real tip, I’ve decided that I don’t really care for “going out.” I mean, I’m a totally social person, and I love hanging out and partying with friends. It’s strange, certain forms of “going out” are completely acceptable, and even desirable, to me. Things like going to a movie, going out to a restaurant, or hitting a brewpub. I don’t, however, enjoy going to dance clubs, discotheques, high-falootin’ or swanky bars, or seedy bars with crappy bands playing. Mostly I like little pub-like places were you can sit and eat/drink/talk with friends. If I had my choice, I’d hang out exclusively at either those kind of places – or ever better someone’s house. The idea of “going out” does nothing to add extra excitement to activities for me, I just don’t get a charge from it. In fact, in most cases it detracts from the potential excitement. I know, it’s anti-social, and hermity, and stubborn.

If I think about it though, I’ve never been a fan of going out on the town and getting blasted, and I loathe dancing. I’m not in the market for a significant other, and $6 beers don’t taste any better to me than $6 six-packs. I guess when most people get pumped for a night on the town, they get excited inside at the prospects of “going out” and what the evening may hold. I just don’t get that for some reason, at least in relation to going out. I mostly think about what time we’ll be getting home and if there’ll still be time to read some on my book or relax. Jeez, reading that last sentence I might as well have said something about wanting to get home and watch Star Trek or work with my chemistry set. Bottom line is that I’m a huge tool.

At frist I wanted to write about it and rationalize it by saying I did most of my “crazy fun” stuff a lot earlier than some people. Thinking that by college, I was already pretty much retired from going out and getting crazy. I’d had my fill. But then I realized that’s kinda stupid reasoning, because you can’t really “use up” all the party in you, and there will always be times that I’ll get the itch. So it’s harder to explain I guess.

All that said, I do tend to blow in the wind a bit – and occasionally the very things I just said I hate sound oddly OK to me. I’ll find myself agreeing to go out thinking, “hey, this sounds kinda fun.” When the evening’s events end up being “going out,” more often than not I go so not to appear as a total grump and wallflower. I never have a completely suicide-inducing time, but I rarely burn down the barn. So maybe I’m not completely geriatric inside, but I’m close. I suppose I’m what’s called a “homebody,” and I’m cool with that.

Haha, I don’t even know what “burn down the barn” even means in that last paragraph. I totally wrote and I had no idea. Like a spirit took over my fingers and typed it. An Amish sprit maybe. I guess I was thinking of the term “barnburner” or something.

Dave out. Well, not “out” like “going out,” or “coming out.” Just out.

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nobody’s home (as far as you know)

Treehouse. Hideout.
Why do shirt manufacturers think that as one goes from L to XL or even XXL, the only dimension that needs to change is the length? XL doesn’t mean I’m an 8ft tall giant, it means I’m hugified. Now I have a t-shirt that’s still “queer eye” tight up top, but hangs down to my knees. I’m supposed to wear this? Scale the entire shirt in proportion you idiots! America is overweight, not overtall. Sheesh.

Sometimes there’s nothing more liberating than not answering the phone. I’m not talking about not answering the phone because I’m busy or asleep… I’m talking about not answering the phone for no reason at all. It’s not that I don’t want to talk, it’s not that I don’t like the person calling me, it’s just that I don’t want to answer it. I get this little feeling of victory when I ignore the phone, and it feels even better when the caller ID shows it’s someone who I wouldn’t mind talking to. I just like the idea of not being available at anyone’s beck and call, not having to respond to anything. It feels so good to just sit on the couch and let that thing ring its little heart out. If they’re serious, about ten seconds later I’ll have to ignore the cell phone too. Phones are great, but they’re also a great nuisance sometimes. When I’m in my house doing nothing, I really want to do nothing. Meaning, I want to sit around and do whatever it is that I want to do – without being interrupted. Back in college I used to not only ignore the phone, but ignore the door too. Sometimes it’s fun to just hole up and and be a hermit for a while.

The new Lord of the Rings comes out this week, and I couldn’t be more excited. Ever since I read those books back in high school (and three times over again through college), I’ve considered them the best works of fantasy ever. Jackson has done such a good job capturing the imagery of the books, and thank the lord for the digital recording techniques that make everything look so crisp and clear – New Zealand looks like an awesome place. I can’t wait to drop fistfuls of cash on the super-deluxe full-film edition dvd set, whenever it comes out.

I’ve decided to go into business doing what I love, on the side of course. It’s crazy the way things happen, but my best bud from 5th grade has a business opportunity and we gonna go partners on it. We’re gonna start a webstore (like millions before us). I’m going to handle the technical and webpage part, and he’s the salesman and goods appropriator. It’ll be my pet project until it’s up and running well, and we can actually launch it and see if it floats. I’m excited because I think there may actually be some money to be made with it, but who knows. At least I’m finally doing something with the internet that has some possibility of return.

That’s it. No links in this blog at all, strangely. Dave out.

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fake your way

the forest I wearily tread on a daily basis
Some things can make me feel so stupid. At work, I sometimes find myself in a situation where someone is asking me a question – and I have no idea what the answer is. Thing is, I should know the answer – but more likely than not I haven’t cared enough about it previously to learn it. I may have heard it a thousand times, but I just filter it right out. Thing is, I usually don’t learn until I’m burned. By that I mean I really only learn things that I don’t care about in one of two ways: by rote, or because I have to learn them. I don’t learn the answer to a question until I’m put on the spot and embarrassed for not knowing it. I don’t pick up on things unless I’m immersed in them every day. I ignore important details because I simply don’t care. It’s all about what I find interesting I guess. I am able retain knowledge I don’t care about – but if I do it’s either because I know it by heart and don’t have to commit brainspace to it or someone’s called me out for not knowing it before. It somewhat comes down to being selfish I think. I don’t want to be embarrassed, so the memory of feeling like a heel spurs me to commit something to memory.

If I care about, or am interested in, something – it sticks up there whether or not I will it. Even tho I didn’t intend for the derivation of the quadratic formula to be burned in my head, it’s there. I didn’t purposely memorize the lyrics to “We Didn’t Start the Fire,” they just stuck. My dumb old head just works that way. I don’t care about stuff I don’t care about and I don’t like doing things I don’t like to do. My selfish head will bypass stuff I should know; or commit it to rote for the short-term so I can get by, then trash it when the immediate need to remember it is gone. I’ve always been about “just getting by” when it comes to learning stuff I have no interest in. However, when it comes to learning about something that intrigues me – I attack it with some kind of hunger. Devouring all I can find and retaining a surprising amount of it for the long term.

That’s one of the things that bugs me about work (not my specific job, but work in general). Ideally, my job would involve a knowledgebase that I enjoy having and knowing. I want to have a job where I want to learn more, where I want to know that extra tidbit that sets me apart from the other guy. My best example comes from working in the music store. I used to get so much respect for how much I knew about music. My recommendations were pretty much always lauded, and eventually I had a returning-customer base who asked for me because they knew and trusted me. I liked knowing what I knew, and what’s more, it fed my ego to know it.

A job where you’re respected and praised for your knowledge, that’s what I enjoy most. I have occasional burst of that now, but the thing is – I have to care about every bit of the material related to my job in order to gain enough expertise and win that respect. If I don’t care about it, I don’t learn it, and then I don’t get that respect. Bottom line?, gimme a job doing something I intensely enjoy: webpages, music, writing, etc., and maybe it won’t even seem like a job. I shouldn’t complain, I do like what I do right now – but I find myself saddled with that same attitude of “who cares” in way too many instances. So, like so much of my academic past, I fake my way through and buckle down when I have to – and somehow get good at it.

Back in gradeschool they used to tell me, “You just can’t fake your way through middle school David, it’s the real deal.” Then, as I was graduating from three years of faked-through middle school they’d say, “Mister, you better really buckle down come high school. You just can’t breeze your way through there, there’s no ‘faking it’ in high school. You’ll be swimming with the big fish there.” Shortly after I faked my way to 6th in class and a full scholarship, my guidance counselor said “This is it David, you’re an adult now and this is your life. You won’t be able to fake your way through a job, so you better get straight.” Screw ’em, I’ll keep on fakin’. Feigning interest in whatever it takes to keep a paycheck, but secretly (between you, and me, and the entire internet), not giving a damn about anything but what I want to. Bollocks to them all, this is one ne’er-do-well who will always work the system as much as possible.

I’m truly happy when I’m listening to music and writing or reading. I’m truly happy when I’m camping or hanging with my good friends. I’m truly happy every day when I come home to my wife. I’m truly happy when I’m working on our house or yard. I’m truly happy when I can wake up in the morning knowing I have no set plans for the day, even more happy if I know the same for the next day too. I’m truly happy when I can “get away” and spend time with family or even by myself. I wonder if, regardless of vocation, there will always be that need for release via “getting away” from whatever it is that becomes your “daily grind.” Maybe true happiness only comes with the autonomy that retirement or winning the lottery brings? Yeah right.

I’ve said it to Anthony many times. While drifting down the river on his boat, no destination, no time to be back, nothing on my mind but what a nice day it is and how comfortable I am: “Dude, this is why I work.” It’s true. I work not to “better myself,” or “get ahead,” or “make a name for” myself; I work so I can enjoy the times when I’m not working. So I can pay my bills and afford to buy Anthony a tank of gas for the favor of a day on his boat. So I can afford the gear I need to take three days off and climb Half Dome with my friends. So I can take Sharaun to a nice steak dinner and still afford her favorite candy at the movie. All those self help books that talk about getting ahead and getting noticed or whatnot, you can have that trash. I need surprisingly few things to make me truly happy, and work is not one of them. Unfortunately, by way of association – money is. Not money itself mind you, but money nonetheless. So, I work. And will continue to do so. Work is a (by and large unfulfilling) means to an end.

Wow, a semi-personal entry, a thing of blog lore. I admit to a bit of job dissatisfaction (in that it’s not my #1 dream job), I admit that my learning is largely selfishly motivated, and I admit that I need some ego stroking to make me truly happy.

In other news, I found this article quite relevant.

Dave out.

Posted on

i been around

show flyer from the GAMH
Tonight’s the Broken Social Scene / Stars show in SF. I don’t feel like writing anything about it, but I’ll do the customary wrap-up tomorrow. Remember I snuck my camera into the Death Cab show the night before last? Well, I put together a lil’ movie of the footage I captured during the show. The sound is crappy because the big rock noise easily overpowered the tiny integrated mic, but you can kinda discern enough to bob your head in time. Most of you won’t enjoy it, but I had fun making it – and who knows, maybe there are some closet indie fans reading this thing… Anyway, here it is for broadband and also for dialup (both are sizeable files, so beware).

Evolution of a blogger:


1st grade:
Holy crap that is one cute kid! Don’t worry, I used up all the looks early in life.		        
2nd grade:
Hmm…. looks like I may have been crying, or pinching a loaf. Cuteness definitely on the decline already.

3rd grade:
Ahh… “the teeth years.” Notice at this point I’ve still got a pretty well-defined chin, keep that in mind.		        
4th grade:
Clean-cut, mom still buying clothes… becoming quite the lanky thing too.

5th grade:
Whoa! I’ve obviously had a hand in that t-shirt, and that haircut too! Spiky and bemulleted, I am a force to be reckoned with.		        
6th grade:
Awww… the drugstore clerks would have never suspected this babyfaced darling was stealing cigarettes by the carton and selling them to the track team.

7th grade:
Hmm… what’s it called when you start to look all awkward and your face gets greasy? Oh yeah, puberty – seen here in full, undeniable, effect. Note the “what the crap?!” hairstyle – it only gets worse…		        
8th grade:
What, the, crap. Seriously… The hair, the face, the eyes pointing in two different directions?… The eyebrows, and that smile? My head is a near-perfect sphere I think. Where are my ears? Check out that adams apple! You believe this kid had a steady girlfriend?

9th grade:
Well, at least I look a little more proportioned. I don’t know if I ever even did anything with my hair, it looks so… big. Note the subtle blending of chin and neck, pretty soon the two will complete their synergy and become a single entity.		        
10th grade:
Oh yeah, sophomore year. The height of my hooliganism, you can almost see the authority-defiance in my eyes. I think I look particularly cocksure in this photo – it’s a wonder I didn’t get beat up more.

11th grade:
I brought a picture of Thom Yorke in the “Creep” video with me when I asked for this haircut. Seriously. At the time, I loved it. By this time I’ve ditched most of my old friends for my new girlfriend… a dick move that surely saved me some jailtime or brain damage in the long run.		        
12th grade:
It took me twelve years of school before I looked semi-presentable. Sharaun got me cleaned up pretty nice in the end tho. Here I am with my new hair “style” (with highlights!), some chic earrings, and my soon-to-be-trademark confused smile.

Wow, what a multimedia-rich blog this turned out to be. Movies, pictures, scanned in flyers… I put entirely too much work into these things. I have a lot of other stuff written, maybe I should just throw in a random pre-written paragraph….

Sometimes I go to the bathroom for no other reason than to “run a check.” C’mon, don’t play coy with me… you know what I’m talking about. I mean, sometimes I just get this “feeling,” call it a cautionary thing. I’m sitting on the couch, thinking “things just don’t feel right… maybe I should hit the bathroom for a ‘test wipe’ real quick.” Yeah, I said it, I don’t be carin’. Usually it’s a false alarm, but sometimes… I wonder, perhaps that’s not normal. Maybe I’m not working right, from a functional perspective. Anyway, the way I look at it – at least I go check. Right?

Ahh, much better. OK that’s it. Enjoy the pictures and the movie.

Dave out.

Posted on

playing with fire

this bear hates me... if we were in a cartoon i would be his nemesis
I actually get a little embarrassed to “publish” some of the dumber things I’ve done, but the blog has kinda morphed into this two-purposed thing. One: to document what’s going on in the present, and two: to write down funny stories from the good ol’ days. I try not to glorify the bad stuff too much, to me now it’s mostly just head-shakingly funny. You know, like “oh man I was an idiot back then,” chuckle chuckle. Anyway, I did it, and I like writing about it, so I’m gonna keep doin’ it I suppose. Meeting Sharaun really cleaned me up, thank God – and I’m no longer the awful miscreant I once was. Don’t hate me for what I was, love me for what I am. Hopefully most of the stuff is back beyond the statute of limitations of my hometown PD.

I can trace my fascination with fire back to such a young age that it’s hard for me to believe. The very first place in this world that I can actually remember is our house in Huntington Beach. We lived there until I was somewhere between five and six years old, so you gotta realize these aren’t the best memories. However, one of the most vivid memories I do have of those times involves fire. I had gone a couple houses down from ours to play with a friend, who I think was older than I was. We somehow ended up with a book of matches. I remember I lit a match and burned the crap out of my finger. I remember wanting to cry and run to mom, but knowing I’d be in trouble. I hid the burn from my folks. That’s my very first memory of fire, you’d think it would have deterred me from further experiments. (I know it seems strange to think that I was playing with matches at five, but I swear my memory is correct on this one. I’ve tried to imagine it happening at other ages and in other houses – and it was definitely back in Huntington Beach. Can you even talk when you’re five and half?)

Growing up, I have memories of staring into campfires for hours, begging Grandpa to let me strike the long match and start the fireplace, and biking around on the 5th of July to collect the spent fireworks people left in the street (I loved that burnt smell).

My next real memory of “playing with fire” comes sometime near the 4th grade I think. I convinced my dad’s dad to let Frank and I “shoot” matches in the backyard one day. My parents weren’t home, and he let us hold the match to the strike pad on the side of the box and “flick” the matches into the air as they lit up. We shot matches in the backyard for a while, thinking it was so cool. (Actually, I can remember feeling genuinely guilty for asking my grandfather to let us do that. I knew my folks wouldn’t allow it, and I also knew that my Grandpa probably wouldn’t object. I remember feeling like I had “used” him, and to this day that feeling of guilt still sticks to that memory).

Probably sometime shortly after that, I had another experience in the same backyard with “shooting” matches. Our neighbors on the one side had a stone wall instead of a regular wooden fence. I was arcing lit matches over the wall, why – I have no idea. Luckily for me nothing caught fire (I don’t think I was really thinking of the possibility anyway). However, I also didn’t think of my neighbor finding a small pile of burnt matches in his backyard. He came over and told my folks, and next thing I know my mom is taking Frank and I down to the fire department. Once there, we got a nice tour of the building – and then got sat down for a lesson on “playing with matches.” I remember the fireman being stern but nice, and I remember thinking we were in trouble, but I don’t think anything ever really came of it.

I think the remainder of my gradeschool years were relatively fireplay free, although I do recall spraying words on Ryan Lopez’s fence with hairspray and lighting them on fire. I think I must have chilled out for a while though.

When we moved to Florida, I met a group of friends who were as pyro-crazy as I was. In 6th grade we learned how to make what we called “napalm” (really just styrofoam dissolved in gasoline). We used to keep a coffee can full of it hidden behind a friend’s house, and pull off the sticky chunks to light and throw around. I remember learning that Brut stick-style deodorant burned, and frequently lighting mine on fire in my room. We also developed some crazy game where we’d spray our forearms with Off! and light them on fire, to see who could last the longest without waving themselves out. Joey discovered that aerosol white lithium grease is perhaps the most flammable aerosol on the planet, and burns forever. I can remember sneaking out at night with friends and us all pouring lines of gas in the street so we could light them and “race” the flames down the line. Filling mason jars with gas, tying them to string above a campfire and shooting at them with BB guns. Trying to make the “hearts and diamonds” bomb from the Anarchist Cookbook (probably tweaked out on “bananadine” at the time – Anarchist Cookbook joke, sorry). And always having a stash of fireworks to play with. For a couple years, I wore this old army jacket everywhere I went. We all had one, all filled with various “useful” tools. Matches and ladyfingers were a staple item in the jackets.

Sometime around the end of middle school, our firelust got dangerous. I can recall starting at least five fires in the woods, a couple of them being fairly large. I think there were more than that, but there are only five that I can specifically remember. There would be four of us, each with a book of matches. We’d walk in a line, shoulder to shoulder through dry brush. With each step we’d “shoot” lit matches over our shoulders until the books were empty. The rule was that you couldn’t turn around or look back until all the matches were gone. No matter what you heard or felt, you could only look back when it was done. Oh man, did that ever work. We used to run away and come back later to watch the firetrucks put out our work. Gawd… we were truly horrible.

At this point in my life, I consider myself lucky. I’m not dead, and I’m not in jail. I did so many stupid and just plain mean things. For the record, I no longer burn things? and my love of fire is now limited to campfire gazing and firework watching. And for an afterschool special wrap-up: What I did was dumb. Don’t ever do it. I’m actually pretty ashamed of a lot of the stupid stuff we did, but I can’t erase it, so I might as well write about it. In fact, I went back through my journal and searched for fire-related stories – there are a couple really good ones related to specific incidents (the “Tex fire” and the “tire fire” in particular). I’d put ’em in here, but they’d triple the size of this already bloated and boring entry.

I promise I’ll write something worth reading again soon… promise. Dave out.

Posted on

pick your own

clash!
This morning I did something a lil’ crazy. See, I constructed a new “outfit,” without external consultation. That’s not something I normally do. Usually I’ll throw on a shirt/shorts combo that is already proven. That means that someone, almost always Sharaun, has already told me that the items I’m wearing “go” with each other. That way, I have preset combos that I know look OK – so I cycle through those. I mean, I don’t even buy clothes. I get a wardrobe “refresh” every December when my birthday and Christmas roll around. That usually lasts me through the year. Since I have very little idea (and really don’t care that much) what looks good, I’d rather take what I get and trust in my gift-givers’ abilities to decide on my accoutrements.

Anyway, today I got all creative and tried to make a new ensemble, and what’s even more strange, out of items I’ve rarely worn before. Ends up I’m wearing a powder blue sweater that’s (in my mind) a tad too tight, and some really dark blue jeans. I have never worn the sweater before (perhaps because it doesn’t quite fit) and I normally loathe dark denim. So, I’m sitting here wondering how gay I look. Note to my gay readers: I ain’t got nuthin against ya, I just don’t wanna be mistaken for ya… no hard feelings? Cool.

Nobody’s really said anything yet, so I guess it’s not too aggregious of a fashion faux pas. But somehow, whenever I stray from my tried and true clothing combos – I end up sitting in my cube staring down at what I’m wearing and thinking “Damn. Do I look like a huge tool right now? Man, I do. I look like a friggin’ tool. Nah… maybe not…” Bottom line I guess is that I could care less really. As long as my junk isn’t hanging out or something, I’m cool with it. I’ll just wait till I get home and Sharaun goes: “Did you wear that to work today?” Then I’ll know.

I’ve finished the code portion of the Halloween costume voting page. And don’t complain about it not being ready yet, I put a lot of effort into that mess. For the nerds who appreciate it: involved a masterful combination of cookies, Javascript, ASP, and JetSQL. Probably all for a page that will be stale from inception anyway, but whatever – like I said before I love projects. So working on it was fun enough. I should have it ready by tomorrow morning. You’ll be able to vote on the best costume, as well as leave comments for each individual costume. Should be cool, but I’ll let the end user decide. There were some awesome costumes, so I think they should get some time on the web – as all awesome things should.

Last night Anthony and Ben and I put our best effort into finishing off the Halloween keg. From the “liftability” of it, I figured it wouldn’t be very hard. However, turns out it had me fooled as it easily served up two liters of tasty brew for each of us (that’s six liters total: dave conquers multiplication) without hinting at being dry. I mean, it feels empty – but the beer keeps coming. Could it be I bought the fabled neverending keg? Who knows… I’ll keep testing it though, just to be sure. Then we watched some TiVo’d Reno 911 and threw in the Matrix Reloaded. Bah… Reloaded blew to me… too much mystical crap, and that orgyrave scene seemed really dumb and gratuitous. I like the first one a lot, but the second one either went over my head or I’m not interested enough in it to invest the time to appreciate it’s intricacies.

OK, I’ve got lots more to say – but my fingers aren’t willing. Look for the Halloween page to be linked in tomorrow’s blog, promise. Dave out.