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yuppie vs. hippie

Damage.Dude, could we have an image that portrays sadness any better than this? I mean my God people, did you camp out next to this poor kid’s kin with your finger on the shutter ready to create a graven image the second this man’s heart breaks? You can see the combination of sleepless nights and pure agony in his red-rimmed eyes… and the whole thing comes to us in vivid Chromavision thanks to the well-meaning folks at the AP. I understand the motivation, it just sucks that this poor guy has to mourn his son on the front pages of millions of websites and newspapers. Sorry Mr. Sun-il.

Tonight my co-workers from Taiwan were in town, and my boss and I took them out for dinner. After dinner bossman headed home early and I took the boys out for some beers at a local bar. It was actually really cool, being the sole US “host.” Good “face time” and general “team-building.” Man, I sound like just another suit eh? Well whatever, I see that kinda think as a good chance to build up relationships that might get me somewhere someday. The more of the APAC brethren that know my name and enjoy hanging out with me, the more my name gets out as a good US host. Can’t hurt, right?

What’s happened to me?… so career-minded and self-motivated. The yuppie in me is in a constant battle with the hippie in me. Like those old cartoons where there’s a devil on Pluto’s left shoulder telling him to bite Goofy in the ass, and an angel on his right admonishing him to not. Except on my right shoulder there’s a twenty-something in a sweater-vest sitting on an Ikea sofa watching Moneyline with Lou Dobbs, and on my right shoulder there’s a patchouli-drenched, flannel-sporting, dreadlocked and unshaven mod sitting on a yoga mat in the grass at a MM&W or SCI show. Don’t get my Lou Dobbs or acronymed band references? Congrats, you’re neither yuppie nor hippie – and are most likely a square. Now back to your regularly scheduled romance-novel, MTV, and Top 40 radio please. Dang, sorry… got a little harsh there…

There’s been a serious lack of tunage lately… and I’m feeling the pain. I mean, the last stellar albums that graced my stereo are now becoming quite stale. One can only listen to Modest Mouse and Iron & Wine so many times before you just get tired. So lately I’ve been going back in time and revisiting some old favorites, hitting some old Death Cab, Decemberists, and Wrens for good measure. It’s not new, but it’s a constant… and sounds fresh to reminiscent ears. Hopefully someone will come out with a blow-away LP soon, because I’m getting worried that I’ve either lost my knack for finding the rad noise – or the scene is drying up, neither of which are good.

I missed a day of blogging again, I just end up running out of time. With all the recent holes in my one-a-day plan, I’m wondering if I’ll ever get back on task. I tend to do OK when things are slower at work – but as it is I just don’t feel like filling in the days with crappy crap. So I’m gonna keep on writing when I can write, instead of writing just to fill up a day. I mean, I need precious time to come up with stuff like the Ikea and Moneyline gags above… that shit doesn’t just write itself people.

I’m out of words, until whenever… Dave out.

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tethered to their haggard bodies

Trendy.
The dismal drive home from my folks’ place… six long hours of cows, brown grass, and barbed-wire fence. I asked Sharaun to drive because I knew this is the only chance I’ll get to write today – barreling homeward down the highway. She’s a pretty good driver, but must be a really poor colorer (’cause she can’t stay in the lines for crap). Intro paragraph: over.

It was a good weekend away, just the two of us. Even though the drive there and back is long and empty, it’s a good chance to sing along to some tunes, talk, and share a #2, animal style, with the other Southern California road warriors. I get pretty liberal with the music choices on the long trip, since it’d just be one six-hour fight if I tried to keep only my ears happy the whole time. Really, it’s my chance to “get with it,” and be relevant with what tunes I know. I mean, where else I’m I gonna learn that Usher has like three “songs” in the top ten right now? Certainly not on my own, that’s for sure. So I let the tonal indiscretion slide, and sorta benefit by at least being able to say “yeah, I’ve heard this song… it blows hard.”

We headed down south Friday night, getting a late start because Sharaun was busy at work preparing sub-plans for her absence today. It’s cool, I hung around the classroom and practiced my rope-skipping skills, which, I might add, are severely terrible. Saturday we all rode out to Los Olivos and did the art gallery thing. We thought maybe we could find some paintings for our house, but it seems local Santa Barbara artists are obsessed with brown-hill landscapes dotted with cows or horses. It’s either that, semi-nude native American women – again riding horses. So, we passed on it. Not that there’s not some talented hill-and-squaw painting artists down there, but it’s just not right for our crib.

After hitting the galleries we took a trip to the Chumash reservation casino. Casinos are always a mixed-bag for me. I enjoy gambling, and there’s something about the draw of a casino that I like. But there’s also a really depressing side to the whole thing. To see these old women rooted in front of a slot machine, smoking cigarette after cigarette. It makes me sad, especially since so many of them have those little “frequent gambling” cards – where you just store money on them and insert them into the slot on the front of the machines. They’ve got them tethered to their haggard bodies with stretchy cords, clipped to their lapels or blouses – like some life-giving umbilical cord to the mechanical entertainment that sucks them dry. Between the “greatest generation” chipping away at their social security pull for pull, and the white-trash couples in neon spandex and oversized Eminem t-shirts – casinos can be a real bummer. Anyway, we dropped $10 each and called it quits. Too bad I’m always too intimidated to actually sit down at the blackjack tables, I know how to play.

Sunday was my buddy Shaine’s wedding, and the whole reason for the trip (although spending Father’s day with dad was a worthy aside). Shaine was my best friend in the 5th grade, my first real best friend I’d say. It was really surreal to be at his wedding nearly 15 years later. Taking place aboard a yacht on Marina del Rey, the whole affair was awesome. And being that he was getting hitched into an Armenian family – there was plenty of Armenian dancing and music. It was a total blast, and I always love watching people of other cultures. The customs and dancing and music, all fascinating and enjoyable. Anyway, it seems like he found a great one in his new wife – and were really happy to be able to be there. Not only that, I got to listen to Death Cab’s “405” and “Los Angeles” while I was actually in LA and on the 405. Neat.

I guess I’m outta here, don’t wanna burn out the writing in me – I still have to do another one of these tonight, for Tuesday. Because we all know, if I don’t write at night – I don’t write. And I’ve been told lately that my blog sucks and that I need to work on being funny on demand more. So yeah, I’ll give that a go.

Until then, Dave out.

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my illustrious career history

Oh man, those were the days... check out that hair!
Basketball, in high-def, a non-party party at Anthony’s. Got new tires on the truck today, six-hundred dollars of rubbery goodness. Shaine’s post about yesterday’s entry being my 200th got me thinking, it’s halfway through June now and the there’s only a couple more months before I mark a solid year of doing this site.

Sounds like I’ll have a rather long overseas trip this August, spending about three weeks in Taiwan and China both. More customer visits, speaking at some seminars, and then heading to Shanghai to train our “offshore” team members. I need to train ’em good, but not too good since I wanna maintain some job security. I’m excited about going again, mainly because I love the experience – but I’m bummed that Sharaun’s birthday falls right smack in the middle of the trip. We’ve talked about maybe using my sky miles to fly her out for a while, to hang out and experience the APAC (Asia-Pacific geography for those not in into abbreviation). I think I’ll have some spurts of down time that we could use to see some of the island I’ve yet had the chance to check out. Who knows.

I was thinking back on my illustrious career history, trying, nay, stretching, for something to write about. Anyway, it all started when I got my very first job as a sandwich artist at Subway. I was barely sixteen. We locked people in the walk-in freezer, ate all the food we wanted, and set fire to the joint twice. From there I moved on to Arby’s, where I worked as a cashier and fast-food jockey. We stole 10lbs bags of curly fries. I quit the job at Arby’s to take a position as a “go boy” for a local CPA office. I made copies, did data entry, fetched files, took out the trash, etc. I worked there for over a year, moonlighting over the summer as a bagger at the local Winn Dixie. Eventually, I quit both the bagboy and gopher job for my dream job – record store clerk at the local mall. I pushed music for nigh on two years, eventually winding up as the lowest paid “assistant manager” ever. It’s OK though, the steady stream of nubile female clerks hired by the owner more than made up the difference.

Omni Music in the Merritt Square Mall, I used to alphabetize those shelves
with the quickness. And who’s that in the background?

I only quit the record store gig because I was moving. After that I didn’t work for a few years, just used my scholarship money and student loans to live. Took the bus around town after my car broke down, and finally found gainful employment again sometime later as an ADA programmer for Raytheon. Since it was only an internship thing through school, the job only lasted about four months. A time later I actually managed to matriculate, and landed my current job of four years. Back in the tech industry, working on something that I actually earned a degree in. There were other spotty jobs in there, making funnel cakes at craft shows for a few hundred a weekend, tutoring a high-school friend’s mother in college Algebra, etc. – but nothing meaningful. I think it’s a pretty varied employment history – and what’s better, it filled up nearly two paragraphs so as to make today’s entry look all the more beefy.

I’m outta here, time to give the leaked Beastie Boys album a test-spin. Nite.

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I can already see through walls

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dave out.

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stumble through turtle-paced motions

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

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

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

I’m out.

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a new wiping technique

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dave out.

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44 gallon jug of chili

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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