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high-jumping with a motorcycle


The blog is prophetic; we had a real storm last night – thunder and lightning and all. A rare occurrence here in Northern California, although you’d think I’d have gotten my fill back in Florida.

The coffin-sitter Halloween project is coming along nicely. I finished the base and sides of the coffin this afternoon – and did a rough-fit of everything to gauge the realism of the finished product. I also placed orders for the key pneumatic ingredients: the cylinder and the solenoid valve. I found both online. Spending a little time shopping around, I was able to get the parts quite a but cheaper than the place I initially intended to buy them from. Got the cylinder from a dedicated pneumatic store and the solenoid for a deep discount on Ebay. Friday, Ben and I went by the local goodwill and picked up the corpse’s burial suit and shoes, all for $20 no less. Apart from assembling the coffin itself and rigging up the pneumatics, the only missing ingredient is a nice creepy mask for the corpse himself. Oh, and I still have to finalize the triggering method – meaning, how and when will the corpse actually sit up out of his coffin.

I gotta find a way to cash in on this Kabbalah thing. I’m sure ancient Jewish mysticism would be incredibly interesting to me, it’s right up my alley. But, that wouldn’t stop me from making a buck off its sudden popularity. With celebrities eating it up, John “Lemming” Public is all over it. Have you seen the Kabbalah brand energy drink? What genius! Not only are they in on the energy drink thing, but the Kabbalah too? Now that’s marketing to your unapologetically idiotic demographic in its best. I just need one killer product; the perfect blend of Kabbalah, RSS, reality TV, low carb diets, pilates, TiVo, extreme sports, and podcasting. Masses of drooling retards would line up for that crap.

We’re going after the Red Bull market; but Kabbalah Energy Drink tastes better. And, it’s infused with Kabbalah water, which is holy water.

Kabbalah Energy Drink spokesman Darin Ezra

You gotta be kidding me… I need to get my Scientology butter and Mormon beef jerky to market ASAP before these idiots wake up. Wait, what am I saying… we breed idiots now, and teach them to embrace it at that! It’s a goldmine!

Over the past month, work has gone from autobahn to school-zone… leaving me confused and unmotivated. Just a little over a month ago, I was something important. I was making decisions and exerting influence. Now, I’m planning… years into the future. It’s still important work, and I know I’m still contributing – but it’s not front-lines and the difference in the reward I feel is significant. I suppose it’ll just take some adjustment before I’m comfortable with the new pace, or before the pace changes again to something more immediate-reward based. I’d just been doing the same thing in the same ways for so long, I got accustomed to coming in and having my head spin until I left… then going home and knowing I took care of shit. Now, I go in and sort of map out what needs to get done, at a very non-breakneck pace and quite meticulously. When I get home now, it’s hard for me to gauge just how I effected any bottom line. Thus the funk I’ve been speaking of. Oh, I’ve been through this before at work… the whole peaks and valleys thing, and it’s always the same. Feel a tinge of guilt in the lollygag pace of the valleys, and feel like Superman through the fast-paced peaks. So, my focus shifts to other things: babies, holidays, finances, etc. I suppose it’s pretty normal.

Y’know, when I wrote the post x-rated last week, I had it in my mind that I wanted to put something down that was a little explicit, a little uncharacteristic for me and for sounds familiar, and hopefully something well-written. I had one reader, whom I often see in person, mention to me that it was indeed quite explicit – which made me very happy, actually. Some part of me wants to write about things like that all the time, not necessarily sex stuff… but just stuff that comes from memory and bangs off my fingertips with ease. Stuff that people may not expect or stuff that is surprisingly open. It seems to me that, over the years, I’ve written so much down – but that there’s so much still unwritten which might make a good entry. I just have to reach down and find it, then put it down. After all, it’s why I started keeping a journal in the first place… to help my ailing memory one day – to be able to bring it all back. Selfish, I know.

‘Night.

Posted on

ready for grey skies

Buzzzzzz...
I’m ready for some thunderstorms, for some grey skies.

Halloween-centric weekend. Spent time planning and beginning working on this year’s prop – the pneumatic sit-up coffin guy. When I made the decision to go air-powered this year, I needed to get an air compressor first. So, I headed over to Home Depot and picked up their cheapest and smallest, a 1.75gal for $99. I was happy with my frugal yet functional purchase. Then, Anthony called and said he’d seen a massive sale on compressors at another store, where there was a 21gal for $169. That’s 10x the capacity for less than 2x the price, not to mention a lot more oomph. So, from needing only a minimalistic compressor to run some Halloween props, I ended up with a massive beast capable of running full-out impact wrenches and air hammers and all sorts of other wife-wrath-inducing air tools.

I’ve always wondered about the “birds and bees.” No, I don’t mean I wonder about it like that, I think Lil’ Chino is enough evidence that I at least understand what is meant when one says “birds and bees.” What I mean is, I was never taught about sex via the birds and bees story – and to this day I have no idea how a story about bees, or birds, or the way they interact has anything to do with explaining sex. Even the great repository of knowledge that is the internet is kinda light on the details of how a story about birds and bees can be used to explain human reproduction. Anyone know how this story supposedly explains sex to a kid?

I have nothing more. Sorry.

Posted on

x-rated

Steamy.
Slump in full effect, I came home early today. For some reason, I got to writing… and the following was what resulted. And, despite the title, it’s no Penthouse Forum… but I suppose it could leave you nostalgic for those red-cheeked teenage days spent in backseats and darkened theaters. Enjoy.

So we found ourselves alone in some alley behind the buildings, not the most romantic place. It was in one of those “old town” places that plenty of American towns have. The throwback towns, facades crafted to recall the glory days… packed with specialty shops and antique stores, little cafes and toys tores where everything is wood and handmade. The kind of place where they have annual street parties with vendors and open markets – you know, Old Town. Ahem… so there we were, in the alley, not the most romantic place. Thankfully, romance has nothing to do with lust and sex. Against the dirty stucco wall I held her arms to her side and kissed her. At least a foot shorter than me, I had to stoop while turning my tongue over in her mouth. Her boyfriend was out there somewhere, on the other side of these buildings somewhere. Her boyfriend and my girlfriend, my friend and her friend, our friends. My hand wandered under her shirt, pressed the soft skin of her side; still kissing. Being so wrong made it so fun, they were right out there somewhere; could turn the corner into this alley at any moment; could find us. What if she tastes you on my lips?

Later that night our double date to the go-cart track and arcade place on the beach, where all the cool kids go. You know the place, the one with the mini-golf course that has a volcano and a windmill, and the huge maze you can pay $2 to run through. The maze full of twists and turns and dead-end presswood walls painted in circus colors. Grab my hand, let’s get lost, they are in here somewhere too… this could be even better than the alley. These presswood walls don’t even extend to the ground, feet run by on the either side. Hearing shouts and talking as people rushed past us, yellow and blue presswood walls separating them from us. Us: the four feet on the other side of the wall from them. The four feet that weren’t moving at all, the four feet that were standing still and, if you listened close, making hushed gasps for breath between sloppy kisses. They’re in here somewhere, running through these same presswood walls, separated from the ones they held hands with on the way in tonight; they’re in here looking. Any minute now they could turn the corner into our three-walled presswood room. You actually listened to me on the phone this afternoon and wore the overalls, they are always the easiest to get into. Down the side, I slip my hand between the denim and your skin. What if he smells you on my fingers?

The preceding paragraphs, while fine enough on their own, could stand for a bit of background: When I was 15 or so (pre-driving, if I remember right), I was dating a girl. And, as often goes in early teen relationships, one of my closest buddies at the time was dating one of my girlfriend’s close buddies. It was the kind of thing that worked well for double-dates and whatnot, teenagers eat that crap up.

Standing in a field a mile from anywhere in every direction. We brought a blanket and some soda. The sun is shining bright and it’s not cool, it’s downright hot. You smelled so good; clean and fresh, and your light brown hair was newly washed and dried, shining in the sun and sticking a little to your damp forehead. The heat from our walk makes your scent stand out, stirred up with sweat and wafting upward. Standing, I look down on you, your fingers working my zipper, pulling my shorts to my ankles. Your lips pink and full from kissing, the blanket tousled from our rolling around. As I stand, I shoot defiant glances into the the distance; the trees and tall grass where anyone could be watching – but no one is. I look up to the clear blue sky, the birds our only audience. Us: the birds and I, we watch from above, watch your mouth work. At this moment, if I’m not king of the world then no one is. That day, in the woods, my open eyes watched her closed ones; her head moving slowly at my waist as I gathered and caressed handfuls of her hair – truly king of the world for the moment.

The preceding paragraph, while fine enough on its own, could stand for a bit of background: When you are too young to get a hotel room or go back to each other’s apartments – you turn to the woods. All kids should get to make out in the woods, there’s nothing that compares to being half naked and experiencing first sins alone in the wilderness; pine needles sticking to exposed skin as you moan and pant like TV has taught you. That particular day in the woods stands out, and was with that first girlfriend from above – pre double affair.

Enough of this filth!

Even though PF and other music ‘zines have lauded his every effort, I’ve never been able to get into nouveau-folkie Devendra Banhart that much. Oh sure, I downloaded all the albums and listened to them diligently. I could hear talent, but they were just a little too slow for me – maybe it was a temporal thing, sometimes uber-slow or sober albums only work during certain times of year or under certain circumstances. So, when I read the expectedly glowing review of Cripple Crow, his latest effort, I wasn’t surprised. I figured I should follow the drill though, download the album give it a fair shake, and delete it a week later. This time though, the planets were aligned, the time was high, whatever – and the album hit me just right. This is a solid album, reminding me most of Donovan, and at times Dylan or the stripped-down component-Beatles of the White Album. (And I swear I wrote my review before reading PF’s, it’d take an idiot to not compare this to Donovan, Dylan, and the Fabs.) Oh, and I just found out that my newly-loved Field Music album is made up of members of other bands… who’d’a thunk?

Goodnight.

Posted on

pulling up grass

Koff.
Today I got all developer and GIMP’d up a favorite/bookmark icon for the blog. If all works well, instead of the plain Firefox or IE page icon in your bookmarks, you should now see a little green thing that matches the page’s banner scheme. Ahh… so much work for something so few people care about.

I don’t know what’s wrong with me folks. I’m feeling supremely frustrated, or burdened, or something. I’ve got this strange sense of desperation, invoking my fight or flight response – which for me is nearly 100% flight – which leaves me with an overwhelming desire to run away, to drop out. I get like this sometimes, I don’t know what it is. I just get to feeling like I need to take off, mostly from work. Just take a vacation and get away… completely disconnect from everything that’s running around in my head. It’s times like these that I fall back on my fantasy of taking Sharaun and running away to some remote location, a desert island, perhaps, and just doing nothing – just enjoying each other. I’ve been like this since I was a kid, I guess you could call it temperamental or sensitive. In gradeschool, I used to just decide to spend an entire recess sitting alone in the far corner of the field on the playground. I would cross my legs and pull up grass and make chains from those little flowers (yeah, yeah, insert gay jokes here, it’s cool). In some ways, I did it because I knew it would draw some folks out to me… curious as to what I was doing. But, for the most part, I did it to just get away and sulk, or think, or not think, or… whatever. All my life, I’ve always loved being alone with things I enjoy. Listening to music alone, working in the yard alone, reading a book alone, being alone with Sharaun, etc. It’ll pass, but maybe I should consider some time off… just for the heck of it.

The other day in the airport, Tony and I happened to strike up a conversation with a girl who was studying to be a veterinarian. Our conversations turned to equine surgery and pet insurance and all other various nutty topics. At one point, she mentioned something about taking care of a cat with diabetes – giving it special food, insulin, taking it for regular checkups, etc. That’s when I made my mistake, as well as an enemy for life. I mentioned that, should my cat come down with kitty diabetes or feline AIDS or tore her tiny ACL – she’d be out of luck. That’s right, I like our cat – but not quite enough to spend multiple hundreds of dollars for kitty surgery. I’m sorry; you’re a cat – you’re pretty replaceable. You can get a new one of you for like $20 at the pound. When you’re born, people give you away – that should tell you something. Anyway, this girl was shocked at my callousness… that I would dare consider a cat expendable. Thankfully, our plane began boarding before she could report me to PETA. Honestly, sometimes I don’t know why I even try to write…

Sitting here on the couch when I should really be doing dishes instead, they’re up there taunting me, being dirty on purpose.

Goodnight.

Posted on

homeland security


Back in the good ol’ US-of-A after a long week in Taiwan, mostly spent not blogging.

Y’know, I’m not one of those folk who put a lot of stock in vitamin supplements, herbs, fish oils or flax seed. However, I do take a daily multivitamin; and I actually think it does some good. For example, while in Taiwan last week, I made sure I faithfully took my two Mega Man pills a day – I have this unspoken (until now) fear that, should I forget them one day, I would somehow be sapped of strength and energy. This becomes more important when trying to keep the sleepless pace of a “business trip” to Taiwan. Part of the reason I have confidence in the power of my Mega Man is because, anomalous or not (but almost certainly so), my last couple cases of the common cold have happened to manifest right after I’ve run out of them. I did entertain the idea that perhaps GNC actually puts some common cold bacteria in each pill, but also puts in enough common cold antidote (something that exists only in this particular evil-GNC fantasy) in each to stave off contraction. Then, when you run out of pills, the virus can take root… or something like that. So, conspiracy or not – I fell for the Mega Man bit 100%. Wait, was this paragraph going anywhere?

Come October 7th, we’ll be able to schedule our sex-ID sonogram for Lil’ Chino; that’s two weeks from today (right?). This is the sonogram where we’ll be able to tell how sexy Lil’ Chino will be. I have my own thoughts, being that he’ll be the offspring of super-sexy me and uber-sexy Sharaun – but, from what I’ve heard, the sonogram will be able to tell us for sure. I’ll figure he’ll swagger out of my wife’s vagina, swishing a gold cane in front of him; wearing a crushed velvet smoking jacket and smoking a cigarette, faint echoes of Barry White wafting from his former home. The nurses will immediately faint at the sight of his thick, luxurious, and impeccably styled quaff, and his jewel-encrusted umbilical cord will fetch thousands at Christies. What? That’s not what the sonogram is about? Really? Oh; I see. I guess it’ll be good to know if he’s a boy or girl too – but I think the sexy test would be better.

I was forced to watch the Emmy’s last night. Oh. My. God. I sat through the opening “performance” by Earth Wind & Fire and the Black Eyed Peas – where they changed the words to one of those super-recognizable EW&T “smooth jams” from words about love and humpin’ to words about TV and TV shows. Seriously people. The Black Eyed Peas were up there rhyming about Everybody Loves Raymond and Desperate Housewives. Man, I hope those guys got paid a buttload of money for that – as it was one of the most embarrassing thing I’ve seen in a while. I was actually embarrassed for the Black Eyed Peas up there, spitting game about such gritty “keepin’-it-real” topics as Must See TV and TGIF. It’s a good thing the BEP aren’t a real rap/hip-hop outfit and don’t expect to be taken seriously, that way they don’t run the risk of ruining their reputation as serious artists. For real, I heard they’ll rap about Gynolotramin and Preparation H if the check is big enough.

Listening to McCartney’s new album… y’know, because my love for music was born with, and will always be with, his early efforts with the best band in the history of time: the Beatles. Macca’s solo output over the years has been hit or miss for me. The early stuff was great, and some of the pre-late-70s Wings is simply outstanding. Then there’s the albums I don’t know very well, and don’t dig that much. I adored Flaming Pie, and then there was that last one that was OK. First listen to this one and I dunno… some slow jams, some rock tinkering, but it’s most assuredly McCartney. I’ll reserve judgment until I can manage a few more listenings. But either way – rock on Sir Paul, glad to see you still turning out wax.

Goodnight folks, I love ya all.

Posted on

nothrything

Cha-chung.
I got my 30-nights-stay “thank you” letter from the hotel last night; one entire month of my 2005 was spent at this hotel. They gave me three-thousand Taiwan dollars worth of free food or beer or whatever. Yeah, just what I need: “free” beer. For the first time on this trip, I’m simply sitting in my room doing nothing. So I decided I’d try and at least get one proper entry done before my regulars bail on me.

I did write this week, despite what the calendar shows. I started and never finished an entry a day, on average. As proof (for some reason), here’s a potpourri of unfinished stuff from this past week, at least it’s better than nothing:

3000 miles into the trip and I’ve exhausted the visual media I borrowed from the internet for the flight. That internet, he’s a great guy, loaned me the Family Guy movie and Fox screener of the O.C.’s season-opener for the flight. With both consumed and enjoyed, I’m at the point where I type for a bit and listen to music, at least, until I get tired of typing and decide to nap. On a plus note, I’m listening to this extremely 60s-tinged Field Music album, which is quite enjoyable. Reminding me a bit of the Shins, and strangely like a less-prog Yes at times, I think; damn fine, whoever they sound like.

I already miss my wife, now-lonely as I fly and future-lonely over the prospect of two other long-distance trips before the year’s out: Shanghai in October and Bangalore in December. In some way, I hope both trips materialize, as I’ve never been to either place – and am particularly interested in seeing India. I suppose it’s better to get the traveling out of the way before Lil’ Chino comes, since I doubt I’ll want to be away for very long afterward. Meaning this year is my boon year for travel, as well as my travel swansong of sorts.

A shorter one:

Been no time to write y’all, no time.

Throat is scratchy from beer and cigarettes and belting out exaggerated versions of such karaoke standards as “House of the Rising Sun,” “Hotel California,” “Friends in Low Places,” and “The Final Countdown.”

An ambitious one with no hope of being completed:

Taiwan, the text-based adventure game version.

You are standing in the lobby of an opulent hotel. All around you, people in tuxedos are waiting to serve you, and all flat surfaces are made of marble. A man is happily polishing anything brass. To your left is the concierge desk. To your right, a staircase. In front of you, a set of large glass doors, and two immaculately dressed doorman who are eagerly awaiting the opportunity open them for you.

>left

You are standing at the foot of a staircase which is, of course, made entirely of marble. The staircase winds around and around upward and out of sight. Above you, hear can hear the faint strains of piano and laughter.

>climb staircase

You begin up the winding stair. As you crest the top, ahead of you is a dimly lit open room. It’s hard to see from here, but it appears to be a bar, and you can now better make out the sound of clinking glass and conversation.

>shit

You can’t shit here.

>damn

There is no one here to damn.

>go to bar

You walk toward the BAR. The floor opens up to your right, looking down on the lobby where you stood moments below, a large crystal chandelier hangs from the ceiling. As you come to the entrance of the bar, you can now make out couples hunched over drinks and shelves of bottles on the wall. There is a sign at the entrance to the bar.

>read sign

“Henry’s Bar, Sherwood Hotel, Taipei.”

>eat sign

You cannot eat the sign.

>make knuckle-babies.

Does not compute.

>enter bar

You walk inside. The friendly staff immediately recognizes you for the VIP pimp you are, and ushers you to a seat at the large marble bar.

>check pockets

You rifle through your POCKETS. You find a wallet with several thousand dollars of local currency, a room key, and a cellphone.

And, I have no earthly idea what this one is or when this week I wrote it – but it was in my drafts folder and made me laugh so hard when reading it, I had to post it:

World population growth rate in light of human and technological development making life much safer than living in caves and dealing with your food not wanting to die so you can eat.

Bought a fake watch this time in Taipei. Lots of people do it, and I guess I caved to the pressure. Somehow, I either lost or forgot to bring my watch on this trip. I never realized how much I looked at the thing until it wasn’t on my wrist all the time. It’s a fake TAG, which the fake-watch man told me retails for like $2500 if it’s real; I paid $70. At least I got a new watch, even if it does scream “pompus brand-whore” quietly from my undeserving wrist.

What an ugly entry. Goodnight.