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hammertime

No sex?
Taiwan. Again. I’ll write today’s entry in the style of “5th grade essay.” Intro paragraph over.

Of Taiwanese Hookers and Hundred-Dollar Grape Juice
An Essay by Dave

One day when I was in Taiwan last night, me and some buds (poor grammar intentional) just wanted to go have a good time. We went to some food, where I ate a fish head, tail, and even eyeballs! After the meal, all my friends and I decided we should to go the big street market to look for some things to buy. I like the big street market very much, mostly the booths that sell boiled animal entrails skewered on sticks because they are funny and gross to me. I try not to laugh, because this is this man’s profession to sell this gross stuff! Anyway, we get many good jokes from the big street market, and are always giggling at the stinky smells that are all over in the air and on the people. Probably the most funny are the shirts by GIOGIO ARAMNI and shoes by PUWA.

After shopping at the market, I ended up buying a cheap ballcap and some of my favorite cologne (probably fake like everything here). Now my friends and I are getting tired of the crowded stinky marketplace, and the hot weather is making us sweat. Someone says, “Let’s go to where they have karaoke!” and the rest of the crew says, “Yes!” We climb in taxis and ask for a good place for “singing, drinks, and pretty girls.” The first place we go is guarded by several yucky men with small headphones in their ears. The yucky men are very happy to see us and all jump up to lead us upstairs. Soon, we hear that this kind of special karaoke is very expensive, almost $70USD per hour, per person. I bet the reason for this is that it’s not really karaoke at all, it’s mostly $70 for the sex that you can have with women while you karaoke. Since we are not really looking for sex right now, we move along trying to find a more better karaoke. Surprise! We are in the part of town where everything comes with sex! Everywhere we go there are more yucky men grabbing arms and saying “very happy ending!!” I think we should go to a new place, so we get in another taxi.

This time we make it more clear, “karaoke, drinks, girls, and no sex.” “Hmmm…” thinks the Taiwanese man.. “… no sex?” It seems maybe this kind of karaoke doesn’t exist. But our driver was very cool and young with a ponytail and emo glasses, so he suggests a better place. It’s a bar, says the driver, where girls can come sit and talk to you while your drink beer – and guess what, no sex! We think, “This sounds great!” and start going. We arrive at the intersection of a couple small alleys, and there are bars everywhere! All the bars have some women standing outside saying things like, “Come have beer here, only $100NT and we are the best!” The first bar we go to is very normal, with many pretty girls who flirt with us from behind the bar. We stay for a beer and then decide maybe we should look around some more of the bars. I think this is where the idea went wrong, because we should have stayed at the normal bar.

As we walk down the street, some not-pretty girl runs up to me to bring me to her bar (the best bar, of course). She has some teeth, and some are not in the right places where teeth should be. Eventually, we do go into Megan’s bar (Megan is her name, she told me already). As soon as we sit down, we realize this is a special bar. For each of us guys, one girl comes and sits next to us. Our beer comes to the table, and the girls start to talk to us about all kinds of boring things! Soon, they ask for a drink – and we decide we will buy them a round. Megan, my girl, the one with the teeth, leaves and brings back three very small silver cups with some dark red wine or other liquor for the three girls. We also have Candy who is from Vietnam and is actually very pretty, and some other girl who I think has the same dentist as my girl Megan – none. To be funny, we call my girl, Megan, “Hammertime” because it looks like someone took a hammer to her grill. Don’t worry, it’s OK because she has no idea what this means – thankfully words like “gap-toothed” and “death-breath” aren’t understood by our new friends.

Soon, the girls finish their thimbles of drink, and ask for another round. We agree, since by now we are having a great time calling them names to their smiling faces and pretending to be different people who are very important inventors from Australia and the Himalayas, again, this is all OK because they barely know what we are saying so who’s going to tell them we don’t travel the world in yachts? One time, a smart friend of mine finally asks the girls how much their tiny drinks are making us spend. His girl, who has a ugly-tie with my girl, says that we are paying $400NT for each little drink. My smart friend maths-out that this means these few drops of stuff are almost $15USD each! Wow!, we wonder what this surely strong liquor is, and ask if we can taste it to find out why it’s so good. Now guess what? The secret comes out! It’s only grape juice! The girls drink tiny drinks of grape juice for $15USD each and pretend to get drunk while we really do get drunk. What a good business idea! By the time we left we were into that bar for $5000NT, over one-hundred bucks…

By now all the formalities of this social visit are over, and our troop of ladies are paying very good attention to us by holding our hands, and touching our shoulders, chest, and even thighs! I keep having to move around and stand up for no reason to avoid Hammertime’s wandering hands and dragon-breath. To me, it’s past time to go. Soon these women ask what room we are in at the hotel, we give room numbers of our other friends who decided not to come out with us, because we think that would be a hilarious joke on them. The whores give us their cellphone numbers just in case we want to call them while we’re in town, we can call for anything – but mostly sex. By now we’re glad we all have fake names and live in remote locations across the world. Since we are all three co-presidents of our big company, we decide we better leave and get some rest before making all our “inventions” tomorrow.

This is where the essay ends, but don’t worry one day I will write about the after-party. For now thought, it’s almost time for my turn up in front of these customers – presenting to a bunch of people who probably catch only about 60% of what I’m saying. No worries, no name-calling here.

Dave out.

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I shaved for you

Mmmm... beetlenut.
Taiwan. Again. Sitting here in the offices of one of our customers while another member of our traveling marketing troop presents up front. Marketing always gets to talk before engineering, it’s just the way it goes. Figured it’s as good a time as any to get a quick entry in. I was planning to write last night but I had my great “catch-up” sleep. You know, that night where you sleep like a corpse after traveling to a 15hr+ timezone. So far though, it’s been good. Yummy food, decent beer, and ridicu-hot Florida-esque weather. Yay Taiwan.

For the flight over here, I thought I’d try something a little different this time. Usually, I just try and sleep as much as possible, and get through the 10hr trip with only a few crazy dreams and some bedhead. This time, I took a little while to load my laptop with both a classic NES emulator and a N64 emulator, along with a bunch of ROMs. I configured a cheap Wal Mart controller for the emulators, and boom – access to hundreds of old-school Nintendo games for the flight. Just like 5th grade again. Anyway, I started playing Zelda64 for the Nintendo64, which came out when I was college. Holy crap, I am now hopelessly addicted to this game. I played for nearly six hours on the plane and another couple in the hotel that night. And I find myself finding excuses to head up to the room for an hour and get some Zelda in. Hopefully I won’t beat it before I leave here so I can have something to play on the flight back.

The more I come to Taiwan, the more comfortable I am here. I guess it just comes with a sense of familiarity, you know, getting used to you surroundings and the way things work. On Saturday we took the public transit (MRT) downtown to poke around, and it was no problem having done it before – even for a couple of white boys who don’t speak the language. We headed down to Taipei 101, the tallest building in the world, and did some shopping. I hate shopping, but I love people-watching, especially in a foreign country, so it was OK. We’ve got a really good group of engineers and marketing brothers out here this time, so going out is always enjoyable no matter where we go.

Changing subjects, I was thinking before I left about what it’s going to be like when the backyard is finally done. I mean done like done, done like I can lay out a hammock and look around the backyard while relaxed – instead of spotting a million little projects that still need to be done. That backyard has consumed my spare time like nothing else before, I think of it all the time. It’s been a monumental project that I’ve given a lot of sweat and muscle too, and I’ll kind of be sad to see it go. Although, it will be nice to have the option of yardwork-less weekends and evenings again.

The “desert island” beard I was growing is gone. That’s right, in preparation for my trip, I mowed my face before leaving the other night after coming in from the yard. I had been planning to keep the shaggy unkempt mess as a vie for some respect while in Taiwan. See, at one point while my Taiwanese customers were here in the states, and I had neglected my shaving as I so often do, they told me I looked “much more handsome” with the “beard.” So, I started growing a “desert island” beard – a beard which is purposely unmanaged and allowed to grow wild. Only problem is, my beard tends to want to “connect” to my chest hair, which isn’t all that flattering. That and, my beard isn’t really that conventional, I don’t grow a single hair in the “soul patch” or moustache areas – smooth as a baby’s butt. Which makes for a beard that’s pretty unbalanced in favor of the neck, making my lack of chin all the more pronounced. Owell, it’s gone now.

As much as I can, I’m going to try and write each day while I’m here. It’s kinda hard, what with work each day and being addicted to Zelda64 in my free time, but y’know, I’m dedicated here folks. I need to keep my three or four readers abreast on what’s going. Until tomorrow, or whatever, Dave out.

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seriously, for real?

Kakhi, beige, what the?!
This morning I woke up and it was overcast outside. The first time in a long while I don’t remember waking up to the sun. Not only that, it was cool outside. I stepped out into the morning and smelled Fall on the air. I know it’s premature, but it got me so excited for the coming of my favorite season. I could almost smell Halloween night, and I was pumped.

With the Taiwan trip coming up fast this Friday, I’m in a furious rush to get various things done and squared before I leave. This activity burst led to me having a day of unprecedented productivity yesterday. I mowed the lawn and had some more mulch and decomposed-granite delivered, all on my lunch hour. Dropped my new slacks off to be hemmed, and filled some prescriptions so I won’t die from my obscure disease while overseas. It was the kind of day I love, where I’m driven harder each time I tick something off the “to do” list, feeling more accomplished with each one. The kind of day where, when I lay down in bed at night, I feel productive.

Speaking of my various outings today: When I took my regular-man’s pants to be hemmed and magically transformed into tall-fat-man-with-ridiculously-short-legs pants, I was giving instructions to the woman behind the counter. “Both the black and khaki pair need two inches off the bottom, the navy-blue pair needs three.” “Oh,” said the woman, “I better not call them ‘khaki,’ the woman who does the alterations is Korean and might not know what that word means. I’ll call them ‘beige.'” OK, I’m thinking, why not get kindergarten on her ass and just call them “brown?” I mean, just how English-deficient is the Korean seamstress? Will she be able to interpret the “two inches” part or do we need to draw a picture or send a piece of string or something?

The other day, I was surfing around reading up on death metal. I don’t know why, I’m certainly not a fan of death metal or anything – but I am slightly fascinated with the devotion people have to an “art form” which to me sounds like pure shite. I mean, some of the website music samples for the “best” black/death/grindcore bands are hilarious. And then there’s the complete seriousness with which websites review these albums. I mean we’re talking about what are, on average, two-minute “compositions” comprised of rapid-fire bassdrum pounding, heavily distorted guitar crunching, and some dude puking into a microphone for lyrics. I mean seriously, you gotta read some of these reviews. They make absolutely no sense. In a review of Massacara’s album “Enjoy the Violence,” the reviewer pens the following gibberish:

Feral vocals slash across pounding rhythm carrying direct motifs of revolving riffs which in inversion or recombination transfer the listener through Wagnerian visual illustration in sound: shaping harmonic space in collage of juxtapositions to demonstrate change, allowing basic poetic ideas to expand into song structure conveying not catharsis but logical realization within a context where catharsis is an event of listener decision.

What the hell?! Did he even say anything? If you didn’t notice, that’s one sentence. And I’m not entirely sure, but I think there may have been a comparison drawn between the classical composer Wagner and this band Massacara. Really, there’s page upon page filled with these reviews, and I’m starting to think not a single one of them says a damn thing. Check it:

From this modal playing framing atonal song development is a dying Baroque gasp given ferocity by the gutter logicianship of death metal in a rising force of logic within the decaying realm, a negative truth within a larger existential conception which can never be reconciled with the forces of Judeo-Christian morality; its expression (cause and effect as self-inventing forms of calculation and change) brings to mind the ancients alongside the more recent philosophical efforts in Nietzsche and Heidegger to replace morality with a primal, natural valuation of a constantly changing aesthetic landscape with unaltering core values, as seen is the modern time.

Oh. My. Word. What the eff is this dude talking about?! Is there a thought buried in that mess? Again, that’s one sentence. Guys, the “songs” on these albums have titles like “Vomited Anal Tract,” “Orgiastic Disembowelment,” and “Feast On Dismembered Carnage,” and I’m seeing references to Nietzsche and Wagner? Are these people serious? I mean, that’s a whole dictionary’s worth of words and I swear they said nothing. Somebody boil it down for me, gimme a bulleted list or something. Crap, it’s too hilarious.

OK, well, I’m outta here. I’ve gotta take care of some spots of crabgrass I noticed while mowing yesterday. I mean, what is this stuff, magic? I mowed a week ago and there wasn’t a dang sign of it, it was nonexistent. Now, a mere week later, it’s snaking around in at least six different outcroppings. Personally, I think a jealous neighbor may have thrown some clippings in my yard or something. No worries, I’ll take that shit out – for good.

Dave out.

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hammer to thumb

We're watching you.
I am so overly proud of the work I’ve done in the backyard. Honestly, when I’m out there working I’m constantly “taking a break” to look out over my creation. I think I spend about 40% of my time just wandering around looking at the parts that are finished, admiring them and judging them, recalling the work that went into them, standing in the sun beaming smiles towards them. The fruits of my labor, the reason my hands now have just a little teeny-tiny bit of oh-so-desired roughness in place of their normal computer-engineer suppleness. Yes that’s right, I made this, from scratch. The thing that really gets me though, is that it’s actually starting to look good. I mean, good like almost professionally-done good. When did I get so handy?

Anyway, in the spirit of fully enjoying this particular deadly sin I’ve decided to post some pictures of the current state of affairs out back. So here ya go, feast your eyes on these six new snaps of what’s going on. (See, pictures add seemingly-meaningful bloat an otherwise sleepy blog.) Gaze on, and see for yourself why I feel I’m rightfully proud:


The beginnings of our new porch, hand-laid and leveled.
Zone three in full operational glory, watering our pear trees.
Zone two in action alongside the newly mulch-covered retaining wall slope.

Once again our front yard is filled with pallets of stone.
What a thumb looks like after being smashed between a paver and rubber mallet.
Sharaun wanted equal-time for her newly manicured fingers when I was photographing my injured thumb.

Well, a combination of factors are making me close this entry tonight: I’m tired, it’s late, and I don’t feel like writing anymore. G’nite – Dave out.

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double-header

For you Lord, and none other.
For the record, I don’t think this is cheating. I finished Wednesday’s entry around 11pm and was getting ready to hit the sack, when I got a second wind – and the rare urge to keep writing. So I did, and ’round about midnight I realized I’d written a full-fledged entry and not just a “starter” fragment for an eventual Thursday post. So here she goes, Wednesday’s hit the web around 11pm and this one’ll be up before 1am – making for a nice blog double-header.

First off, I’d just like to say that, beginning with this week’s Monday entry, I think the caliber of my entries’ “accompanying image” has increased greatly. That trippy color-thing on Monday, the awesome silhouetted diggers that were Tuesday, Wednesday’s “black dude with big balls,” and today’s Abraham sacraficing Isaac. I was beginning to feel down about my blog lately, like the entries were forced and not very good. But I really like yesterday’s entry, and I went back through the archives by week to see if I could pinpoint when I developed this feeling – but to my surprise couldn’t really find any entries that I truly detest. So, I guess I was just bummed because there seemed to be a run on ideas, and I couldn’t think of anything new. Hopefully I’ll maintain my talent of filling up paragraphs (much like thus one) with nonsensical ramblings. Ramble on!

In a quest for new music that I can fall in love with, I’ve been reassessing some of my latest downloads and giving them second chances to become the next Killers Hot Fuss. I finally made it back around to Sufjan’s latest effort, which I actually remember really liking the few times I listened to it the first time around. PF gave it such glowing accolades, I thought I’d better spin it again for good measure. Instantly I remember hearing every tune, which tells me that, at one point, I listened to the whole album – generally a sign that I enjoyed the offering. Anyway, predominantly quiet and for the most part reflective – it makes a solid impression (one underscored with some heavy Christian imagery, making the whole thing very familiar). I think I just picture it as more of a Fall album, while the summer heat makes me pine for something a little more bouncy. As a sidenote, Sufjan’s site eventually resolves to a website called “soundsfamilyre.com,” clearly a rip-off of this very blog. What?

In a little more than a month, and if I so desire, I’ll be able to do a “one year ago” feature for my entries. That’s right, the blog’s 1st birthday is coming up in early September. Hard to believe I’ve been writing pretty much daily for a solid year. Come that day, I plan to do a ratio of writable days to days with entries – to judge my dedication, y’know? I have confidence it’ll be a high number, despite my recent spotty writing. I’m super proud of some entries, and others are so/so, while some are downright filler. More often than not I fancy a paragraph or idea that might be hidden inside an otherwise common entry. Anyway, I think it’ll be cool to “look back,” a year to the day, on what I was writing about. Blog on.

I mean, I’m trying Sara, I really am. A couple MP3s, a Ween WMA or two. Didn’t mean to “God you out” with that Sufjan track, but it’s outstanding, no? Dave out.

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out of element

Look at that black dude's balls!
I’ve decided that I’m just not extreme. Some people, while not extreme – can make that extreme transition. Working a desk job by day and paragliding or basejumping by night. Me, not so much. Not that I’m not crazy or afraid to take risks, I’ve always been willing to stick my neck out. It’s not even that I’m afraid to be extreme, I just don’t think I’m cut out for it. I’ll wakeboard, slide down waterfalls, hike mountains, etc., but I think I’m just a few ticks shy of being truly “extreme.” No worries, I think I’m “mundane” or maybe “average with a touch o’ crazy.” Either way, this paragraph is over.

Oh man, I thought of an awesome idea last night. I decided that Anthony, Ben, and I should get together and pitch a reality show to the networks. I had several ideas, but most centered around us pitching a classic “out of element” show where three computer engineers go somewhere “uncharacteristic” and have their experience taped. My first idea was to take three engineers and have them go to Alaska and homestead (man, I really thought you could still do that). The cameras could follow us as we try to build a house, farm, hunt, whatever. You know: “Three computer engineers, one raised on farm, one who used to be fat, and one who can’t do math – abandon their cubicles for a shack in the Alaskan wilderness.” Maybe the Alaska thing is too extreme (there’s that word again), but we could pitch a few ideas just for good measure: three engineers run a charter fish camp on a tropical island, move to the French countryside and run a winery, walk the Appalachian trail for three months, etc. So yeah, I have a wife… don’t worry, I’d work her in somehow.

Today I actually broke my cycle of laziness and got out to work in the backyard. I filled all the ditches for the sprinklers in “zone three,” and did some general rock cleanup. Then I fired up the sprinklers and sat on a stool in the middle of them, just because I could. It was relaxing actually, after sweating and working to rake dirt and rocks, sitting in the middle of a rain of cool water looking out over my creation. I am God of this backyard, all ye lizards and crickets boweth unto me and offereth up ye tributes unto me.

I’ve been listening to the new Polyphonic Spree album, and – it’s pretty good. I mean, it’s saccharine-sweet hippy crap, but great music. I’ve also decided I have to see these guys live. You may remember them as doing a song on an Ipod commercial a while back (indie is so out-of-the-closet), but the “band” is a sight to behold. Actually, they freak me out a little bit. Mostly because they look like some freakish doomsday cult, ala Heaven’s Gate or something. I count twenty-five white frock wearing “brethren” in most of the band shots, creepy. But for all the creepiness, they make some dang fine tunes. Even though the copy I have is all busted (a terrible blippy, bloopy, hiccuppy rip), I can hear the potential goodness of the album.

Time for bed, g’night.

Posted on

poop ship destroyer

Chain gang.
I don’t know, for some reason I’m feeling that need to “caveman out” lately. Y’know, to spend a day at home in the dark accomplishing absolutely nothing. Wake up early, never get properly dressed, make breakfast without a shirt on and rip CDs all day. Just fundamentally waste a day, for no other reason than I can. In this day and age we’re afforded a lot more luxuries than our ancestors. Back then, one day not hunter-gatherering meant one day not feeding the tribe. Today, to me, one day not working, or not doing anything for that matter, really has a net effect of nil. I can afford it see, my tribe can afford it, the world can afford it. So get off my back already, I’m busy, doing nothing.

Another ripping project flashback, I’m now listening to Ween’s “The Stallion Pt. 3” from their Pure Guava LP. (Readers note: I snobbishly use the abbreviation “LP” and word “album” to describe those things most commonly now referred to generically as “CDs.” This is a music-purist and elitist thing, sorry to be such a prick.) Anyway, when we first heard this album we were sure it was a damn joke or something. I mean, gradeschool beats, crappy guitar, and laughable lyrics made the whole thing seem so tongue-in-cheek. However, since we were way into the comedy of stupid – we bit hard. So much so that as 9th graders we each shelled out $10 bucks for tickets to see Gene and Dean Ween play live at some dive in a Melbourne, FL strip-mall. I mean, if you count the twenty-twin-twin we paid a little more per person, but whatever. Live Ween is sublime to a gaggle of stoned 15 and 16 year-olds. And when they busted into that “Purple Rain” cover right after “Flies On My Dick,” sheer genius. Thanks for the memories Ween. I mean, we called Joey’s big brown Oldsmobile the “Poop Ship Destroyer” for years.

You feel gyp’d? Too bad, Dave out.