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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.

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waiting for the bus to take me to college

Spacey man, far out.
Even though Skinny Puppy’s Rabies may be one of the worst examples of “music” ever, it’s a like opening a musical time capsule for me. Listening tho this album brings my clad-in-black high school days rushing back. Not that I feel into the whole industrial/goth thing for too long, I’d say maybe six months top – but there was a time I lived for Frontline Assembly, Ministry, Skinny Puppy, and the like. So listening to it now as a byproduct of my ripping project is fun enough. I’m mad right now because I can tell I’m going to have to stop writing at some point and go pee, and I hate interrupting my writing – the urge goes stale really quick. Chances are I’ll come back to the page and deem everything I’ve written already “crap.” Owell.

I came home from work today fully intending to head into the backyard and fill in the ditches that comprise my recently-finished sprinkler system. However, it was so balls-hot today, I decided a nap on the couch would be far more rewarding. It’s OK, I worked quite a bit this weekend – the pavers for the porch were delivered last week and I started laying them. Seeing the combination of the finished retaining wall and newly-added mulch, the trees, and a little imagination for a finished paver-porch and green grass, I’m getting really excited. I actually think the backyard is gonna look better than average when I’m done. To be able to say that I did it 100%, from planning to labor to maintenance – will be a source of extreme pride for me. Considering I learned most of the skills on my feet as I went along, I think I’ve earned that pride.

Listening to the “new” Nick Drake album, not new really – but some of the mixes are new and even a few tracks are new to me. He’s got one of the most brilliant voices, and his writing is awesome. To think I “discovered” him back in college from a VW commercial or something (remember, they were all headed to a party – got there, and decided that driving with the moonroof down was better than the party?). Anyway, fate would have it that I “discovered” Nick Drake and Elliot Smith around the same time – so they’ve kinda “melded” in my mind as period artists. Reminding me of hot, rainy, summer afternoons in Florida, waiting for the bus to take me to college. Good memories, good music.

The Taiwan trip is sneaking up on me, and I haven’t really been preparing that much in terms of getting ready for my presentations. I need to set up some meetings at work to “pick some brains” and make sure I have the right canon of knowledge and current marketing party-line when I get up there. I’m not worried about the customer visits, but the industry training event is a little different, as I want to do a good job and not just be another white dude up there blathering. While I’m excited about the trip (I always am), I expect the last minute “ugh, I don’t even feel like going” feeling to set in as the date draws near (it always does). I always end up having a blast though, and each time I teach or present in front of an audience my confidence in doing so improves vastly. Crap thing this time: I miss Sharaun’s birthday while I’m over there. Yeah, that really bums me out, but what can ya do?

Doodoo time.

Much better. An odd out-of-cycle dump, but enjoyable nonetheless.

Drifting off into the don’t-wanna-write-anymore ether, Joy Division’s Unknown Pleasures lulling me along. Too long staring at the screen writing nothing means it’s time to call it quits. Until tomorrow, Dave out.

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purposely building in huge air pockets

Sounded good in theory..
Late and not in a writing mood. Listening to the new Devendra Banhart album, minimal but meaty.

Know what I remember?

Towing Joey on my bike. We’d ride around the neighborhood in the summer, he used to call me the “expert tower” because I knew just how to hit the bumps and take the turns so as to make them most comfortable to him. We both had long hair and we never crashed.

Stealing bananas off a tree overhanging the fence on the corner lot so we could make “banandine” from a recipe in the Anarchist Cookbook. Peeled ten bananas, scraped the peels and baked the remnants. Got a lot of black ash and never did try to smoke it.

Digging a hole in Chad’s backyard so we could fill it with gas and light it on fire, then jump over it with homemade nunchucks we’d fashioned from a dog chain and hacksawn closet rod. Late night while camping out, in a tent, in the backyard. Yeah, it was the same night we snuck over to Mary Jo’s to watch Matt make out with Krissy.

Being told I had to go home and change my Led Zeppelin Houses of the Holy shirt. Some girl in the lunchline told on me, “there’s nekkid chicks on there!” We compromised and I wore it inside out the rest of the day. Worked out immensely better for me because it practically forced me to tell the story to everyone I saw.

Purposely building huge air pockets into our clay pieces in art class, in hopes they’d explode like bombs in the kiln and ruin some chump’s real effort. If she wouldn’t have stressed how important it was to rid the clay off all bubbles at risk of it exploding, we’d’ve never known.

Spending the night at Justin’s house and watching a GWAR movie called “Phallus in Wonderland.” Where it came from, how he got it, I have no idea. The same night we put an old Booker T and the MGs album on the turntable and checked the homemade moonshine we were making in his closet. Foul and rotten, we ended up throwing it out.

Taking down my Garbage Pail Kids and Garfield posters in favor of underwear models clipped from the pages of the JC Penny catalog. Anything with chicks would do, really. Swimwear, Surfer magazine ads, Sunday newspaper inserts, whatever. It didn’t matter.

Lying about having had my first kiss, until I actually had my first kiss.

Listening to a friend tell me he’d tried to commit suicide that weekend, but got too scared with the gun in his mouth. We all lied for attention back then, but I never had the nerve to follow up on this one later on. To this day I don’t know if it ever really happened.

Ordering something called “Inda Kind” from the back pages of a High Times magazine. “A legal high.” Rolled up in some Zig-Zags, I’d imagine we smoked three or four cigarettes filled with this fruity crap in some vain attempt to get “stoned,” whatever that meant. Got some killer headaches, but that’s about it. Threw that waste of $30 out.

Taking a break from writing to search the internet and see if someone could still buy “Inda Kind.” Ending up reading about fake week for 20mins and coming back to the page with a blank mind. Re-reading what I’d written and realizing all those things happened between 7th and 8th grade… wow.

Noticing it’s midnight and calling it quits. Dave out.

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chills

This song needs a Rosetta Stone.
After such a triumphant return to writing yesterday, I feel the need to keep it up and make sure the blog’s longest dry-spell is put to rest with nary a memory remaining. Anyway, today was the first day back to work, so as you can imagine it was filled with jumbled attempts at getting “back into it.” Catching up on e-mail, answering phone calls, going to meetings, etc. Wow, what a puss job eh? Woulda sounded much more impressive had I said something like: poured a foundation, raised a barn, and helped foal three roans. Foal three roans, man that’s a literary gem. Intro paragraph over.

Have you ever heard a song that could give you chills? I mean, consistently? Like every time you hear it? There are several for me, really, the Star Spangled Banner, when sung well, is one for instance. Are there too many commas in that sentence? Nevermind. I mean, I was thinking about songs that have that “power” the other day – mostly because I was listening to one: “She Sends Kisses” from the Wrens’ Meadowlands LP. An unlikely tune for this category perhaps, but the swelling culmination of harmony and music at the end so perfectly puts a bow on what is already a masterful combination of bleedingly personal poetic lyrics and ingenious song structure, it’s undeniable. Seriously, take a listen to this thing – for me, hair stands up and eyes mist over right around the five-minute mark. Can’t tell what the marble-mouthed New Jersey native is warbling about? Lyrics can be found here, “hopes pinned to poses honed in men’s room mirrors,” and “I put your face on her all year” indeed. Brilliant.

While at the ballgame the other night, I spied an ad in the men’s room for “laser back hair removal – $99.” Nothing like discount medical procedures to get my attention. Now, some qualifying text stated that the $99 was “per treatment,” and I’ve heard that several treatments is almost a universal requirement – but dang. Even if I had to go five times, I think it would be worth it to get these damned culturally-unacceptable locks off me backside. After a little research online, however, I was somewhat dissuaded. But when the miracle-cure for this affliction does roll around, I’ll be the first shirtless dude in line.

Speaking of afflictions, I head to the allergist today to do a follow-up on my cold-induced urticaria. After a couple weeks on every antihistamine known to man, and a week of hard-core antibiotics, we get to see if I’m still stricken (hint: I am, my hung-out-the-window-on-the-way-to-work arm was nice and itchy this morning). Perhaps seeing the actual allergist rather than his PA will pay off more than my previous visit? Who knows, I’m not really keeping my fingers crossed. Crap? I just forgot I never got the bloodwork I was supposed to do for this visit. Sucks. Dang, how could I forget that? Crappy.

Oh, and while doing the research for the “Wrens made me cry” piece above, I got intrigued by the lack of lyrics for the track “A Faster Gun” from the same album. And that’s how I ended up spending nearly two hour with headphones on, replaying the same song over and over and over in an attempt to transcribe the words. Here’s what I got, and after a million revisions I think I’m actually getting pretty close. If anyone can help me out – have at it. Yeah, I have that kinda free time. You envy my luxury? You should, I do what I want.

And should the urge strike you to get the whole album, here ya go. It’s totally worth it, every track is exceptional – with the aforementioned “A Faster Gun” and “Ex-Girl Collection” being among my faves.

Dave out.

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roll your own

I am the winner!
I’m off vacation, I’m off vacation (read it again, as a funeral dirge). Yes yes y’all, it’s over. It was rad to the bone while it lasted, filled with relaxing days of blessed unproductively and unabashed laziness. Alas, the week is at an end and by the time this is posted I’ll be back at work, busily climbing the corporate ladder. It’s cool though, I’m refreshed and actually kinda ready to get back to things left cold on my plate a week past. I mean, I’m just sitting here on bellyful of tri-tip omelet, fresh off a splendid leisurely dump, ripping through my CD collection. What am I saying, this rocks. Work blows. Where’s that winning lottery ticket?

Somehow, we got to talking about the whole toilet paper discussion the other night – and my earlier entry about the mechanics of my wipe. People were in general agreement that the “kinda stand up and wipe from behind” technique which I employ isn’t that odd at all, which made me feel better – but then we delved into more detail and I was once again made to feel alone in my wiping style. See, we decided to discuss not just the “direction” of wipe, but the TP usage model as well. So, how to you use the paper? My answer brought forth laughter, shock, and mocking. However, like my previous fears about my strange wiping techniques – the internet helped me to feel a bit less “unique.” (Not that the internet is a good place to judge the weirdness or non-weirdness of your actions or anything).

According to this page, 20% of people admit to using TP the way I do: the “whole-hand wrap.” That’s right. I forsake the more popular “wad” and “fold” techniques for what I consider to be a far superior method. It goes something like this: take TP in hand and grasp the lead edge between thumb and inner palm, now spin roll around hand to get hygienic “mummy-like” coverage (if you cannot remove the roll from the spinny thing, you must unravel a long span and manually wrap). It’s best to cover from the top of the palm to about a half-inch below the fingertips. Now take the karate-chop edge of the hand and pinky and use as the primary wiping-surface. Once you’ve used this section of the wrap, and with a little practice, you’ll learn to rotate the entire TP glove to a clean spot and reuse – all with one hand. Usually three rotations’ll do it clean. At this point, depending on the tightness of your wrap, you can either unravel the TP into the bowl using a gentle circular shaking motion, or alternatively spread your fingers and break through the paper straightjacket ala Bruce Banner’s Hulk-transformation shirt ripping.


getting ready to wrap		        
a couple rotations to rule out any
single-layer bleeding
 

tightly wound, nice coverage		        
powerful, yet clean, hands bust through
the feces-coated paper sheath

And that’s it, no chance of poo on the hand as I would imagine you risk with either the “wad” or “fold” technique. Am I a savage for this? I mean, is this not more sensible than simply shoving a “wad” of paper up your butt? A wad which may or may not provide 100% hand-coverage? So, next time you’re at my house and you catch yourself wondering why all the rolls of toilet paper are loose and sitting on top of the spinny thing rather than inserted through it as normal – you’ll know why. Mock me if you will, I found what works for me and America tells me to embrace it rather than change it because society deems it “odd.” So to summarize – I wipe in a semi-upright position, from bottom to top, and with the paper wrapped around my entire hand. What a site this ritual must be for an observer, I shudder to think.

My upcoming travel plans have morphed so much in the past week not even I know what’s really going on. I think, that it goes something like: Houston to Taiwan, and scrapping the Japan visit for another week in Taiwan. I was kinda bummed that the Japan stint got canned, but there’ll be other chances I guess – I was just looking forward to the newness. The good bit, Pat and Anthony will be in Taiwan that 2nd week, so I’ll have some people to hang out with and whatnot. Also sounds like I’ll be headed to Oregon again next week to teach some kinda class. In other work news, my boss decided to take a different job – so in a short while I’ll be bossless and anxiously awaiting the appointment of a new good, or bad, leader. I have some concerns there, but it’s out of my hands – so I just do what bossman says (whoever bossman may be that day).

After a week of laid-back vacationing with Sharaun’s folks, and a semi-forced relapse into a slow southern drawl, I’m realizing how much I enjoy spending time with family. I mean, the in-laws used to be this intimidating bunch of people from whom I desired acceptance. After four years of marriage, it’s clear they approve of my union to their eldest, and even that we enjoy each others’ company. Much to my surprise, Sharaun’s dad and I agree on a great many things – more so than I ever would’ve imagined. The thing that probably floored me the most: he’s a die-hard Democrat and thinks Bush is making a mess of the good ol’ USofA. I dunno why I was so surprised by it, I just associate Southerners with conservatism or something. Actually, politically, he’s a lot like me. Not a rabid Dem, but not a rabid member of the GOP either – somewhere down the middle, and not afraid to vote for a dude regardless of party affiliation. Surprising, but nice.

Dave out.

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me, i whistle all the time

Guess!.
I’m on vacation, I’m on vacation (read it again, mockingly sing-song this time, like kids on the ballfield, y’know?). No, really. I’m on vacation. A week of time off, today being day #1. Sharaun’s folks don’t get here until late (10ish), so I have the whole day tomorrow to work in the yard, write, sleep, or maybe cook something. Cook something?

I was thinking the other day about the talent of whistling. Some people can’t whistle; me, I whistle all the time. I actually prefer whistling along to music over singing, perhaps because I tend to favor the tune over then words – but that’s immaterial. Anyway, whistling: how’s it work? Have I just been conditioned to know what blow-velocities and degrees of lip-pursing produce which tones? I can hear a song, or note or whatever, and whistle it back nearly pitch-perfect. I guess it just comes with time, eh?

I’m gonna admit something right now, I’ve never seen Goodfellas. Yup, that’s right – and I’m not even gay. I mean, there are quite a few mandatory-man-movies that I’ve somehow missed over the years: Goodfellas, Platoon, Scarface, Full Metal Jacket, Caddyshack, the list goes shamefully on and on. It’s not that I was a practicing non-male or anything, I guess I just never saw ’em. I know, this is cause for excommunication from the secret society – but I just had to get it off my chest. Think of more requisite male-movies, I bet I missed a fair amount of them.

Dude, all this buzz in the media about this about this unbeatable Jeopardy champ got me curious, and I decided to TiVo a couple episodes to see what it’s all about. After thirty consecutive wins, this dude has won nearly a million dollars – all from answering trivia in the form of a question. I pitted myself against him tonight and did OK, but the guy knows some seriously obscure stuff. Watching him trounce the opponents, I couldn’t help but imagine myself in his place… sweeping the categories, ripping through useless facts with a confident posture and cocksure smile, making millions.

Tonight Kristi called me with the perfect setup: she told me she was killing time reading her Jane magazine (not to worry, no more femmagazine bashing), and there was an article about the proliferation of blogs on the internet. She proceeded to read to me from the article, which started out talking about some political pundit site, and then read on: “…or read about the every day musings of an average guy at www.pharaohweb.com…” I about choked, wanting to hang up the phone that instant and call everyone I know (to brag that my blog had hit the big time, Jane magazine of course). After telling her to “shut up” a few times, she broke down and admitted the ruse. As far-fetched as it was, I wish is were real? I mean, what is a “blog” but a big “look at me” sign?

Holy crap, this has got to be the coolest game ever. Sharaun and I sat up for an hour trying to stump it with sitcom characters last night, but it beat us every time (at least, when we knew enough to give it meaningful answers). Try it, pick a sitcom character and then answer the questions as if you were that character – it’s fun with two people because one can think of the character but keep it a secret while the other poses the questions. I mean, we went totally obscure on this thing and it guessed ’em all.

Update: 12:17am, I’ve stumped the damn page! Haha, take that – I’m Fred Mertz from “I Love Lucy,” not Charles from “Charles in Charge.” Triumph! Sweet victory! Playing a dictator/sitcom guessing-game to into the wee hours… who cares! I’m on vacation.

Dave out.

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the boob bible

Workin' man.
Today, Nokia and Lays Potato Chips team up to bring you: the blog.

A wall-to-wall weekend of work, the likes of which haven’t been seen since last summer’s retaining wall heyday. I taxed myself, and for proof I offer the picture of my working-man’s neck to your right. Five yards of decomposed granite and four yards of shredded cedar needed to be moved from the street in front of my house to the backyard – wheelbarrow by wheelbarrow. The good news is, it’s starting to look like a backyard. Or, at least, I can see my envisioned endgame� and that’s rad. Oh to be done! The good news, I’m on vacation this week – the bad news, I have to go in tomorrow (Monday), because things are rockin’ in the workal area.

Friday night Sharaun and I went to Tahoe to celebrate our fourth wedding anniversary with a dinner cruise on the lake. It was a really fun time, and didn’t require too much dosh, so we had a blast. Cruising around the lake in a big ol’ paddlewheel, sipping mixed drinks and listening to some polished cover-band run through such dinner/dance standards as “Margaritaville,” “Play That Funky Music,” and “Brown Eyed Girl.” Saturday night we headed to Pat and Cynthia’s place for some dinner and cocktails. A nice relaxing night by the pool drinking bloody marys and smoking coconut flavored tobacco out of a Palestinian girl’s hookah (no, I’m for real).

The other day I sat down to take a dump, and on top of my normal bathroom-reading fare (a three-ring binder containing the 3rd-9th series of Garbage Pail Kids), sat Sharaun’s latest Cosmopolitan magazine. Thumbing past the multitude of ads to try and find some actual content (try it, that damn magazine must be 75% ads), I landed on a five-page spread about celebrity hairstyles. In this meaty piece of journalism, the writer went over hair “winners” and “losers,” explaining in detail why each was chosen as such. The Pulitzer Prize fodder didn’t end there either, the 25% of pages that had actual writing on them were simply crammed with think-pieces on topics like: “what your man wants to hear in bed,” “thongs or boyshorts,” and even a “boob bible.” Having finished my business thoroughly pissed at the waste of ink that was this woman-fluff, I headed to the living room to find my wife watching a show on VH1 about (drumroll)� celebrity hairstyles! I mean, c’mon people – are we this void of thought?

Time for dead, and I’m outta here. I still haven’t decided on my vacation writing schedule, so I’m not making and promises. Dave out.