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crazy itchy hives

Good thing I wasn't born an Eskimo.
Did you know that the word “carrot” has four homonyms in the English language? You’ve got “carrot,” “caret,” “karat,” and “carat.” What a dumb language. Tonight we’ve got a surprise Shins/Decemberists show in Davis, so that should be fun. Now onto the meat!

Well, after going to the doctor once and getting a prescription for some kinda allergy drug – I still get crazy itchy hives when I come in contact with coldness. I will say that the medicine has stemmed the reaction a bit, in that it doesn’t happen every morning when I go outside anymore (aside from a little itching and tightness in my hands). But doing things that are super cold, like wakeboarding, still bring out the hives and itchiness in force. Sunday we were on the river, and when I came out of the water my whole body was on fire with itch – and covered with mottled red spots. I looked like a tomato, and all my skin felt tight and warm – and like the last time I was in the river, my chest got tight and I felt dizzy. It’s so strange, after being in the water for a while I get short of breath and woozy, not to mention itchy and bright red.

Being that I just didn’t believe the whole thing to just be “allergies,” I decided to do some research online. A couple refined Googles brought up information on a condition called “cold urticaria.” Seems like it’s a real thing, and while it can come at any age – it’s most prevalent in younger people. An allergy to cold? How much does that suck? But dude, the symptoms are dead on exactly what I experience under the exact same conditions. Sounds like I’ve been stricken with the urticaria, maybe I should hold a benefit concert? Anyway, several websites say you can test for this malady by holding ice against your skin for a few minutes. So, Anthony and I went downstairs at work yesterday and filled a napkin with ice from the soda machine. We sat down in the cafeteria and I held the ice to my forearm for about 5min. Went back upstairs and within a couple minutes my whole arm was blotchy red, warm, and itchy. Oh, that proves it – I’ve got the cold urticaria, ain’t no denying.

OK, so when I first listened to this new Wilco album – I wasn’t that impressed. I mean, there’s been a lot going on with this album. It was leaked, in an unfinished form, nearly a year prior to it’s release. Being that so many people had the album so early, Wilco set up a website for fans who downloaded the leaked copy – allowing them to make donations in whatever amount they thought fair compensation for the music, all of which would be donated to charity (Doctors Without Borders). Here we are in May, and the album is still unreleased (there were some label problems, some lineup changes, some rehab time served) – and I’m sitting here listening to it and liking it more each time. Like I said, I wasn’t that impressed on first listen – a sentiment that Ben echoed (although he went so far as to call some songs “uninspired”). But the more I listen, the more emotion the tunes convey. Not only does it have a Pavement-esque indie tinge, it’s flirting with that 70s drug-country vibe. Drug-thick minimal rock-country arrangements ala JJ Cale, Jesse Colin Young, or Brewer & Shipley. Just something to sit stoned on a mountain to while looking out over God’s creation. What, a whole useless paragraph about one album – sorry.

I guess work really does sink into my brain more than I’m willing to admit. I mean, I like to think that, regardless of how much I think about work when I’m at work, work-related thoughts are only accessing the periphery of my brain. I don’t want to let them into the real stuff like installing sprinklers and checking account balances and what’s for dinner – work stuff needs to be relegated to the edges where I’m sure I’m not really “thinking” about it at all. It would be a shame if I couldn’t learn the lyrics to a new song just because I have some work junk taking up the neurons where those lyrics want to move in.

Anyway, I guess it’s all this talk of offshoring to China or something – but last night I had a dream that Sharaun and I were over in Shanghai picking out an apartment. I guess we were going to live there for a while or something. Freaked me out in the morning when I woke up and remembered it. Stupid China.

Dave out.

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my curse


Hey guys, here goes the customary intro paragraph. Which is odd because I usually come back and write it last, after I’ve gotten the “meat” done and am out of stuff to say (don’t worry, you’ll be able to see it all happen in “behind the blog,” soon to be shown 600 times a week on VH1). No but for real. This weekend was good. Friday night Kings game at my place, Saturday worked in the yard and went mini-golfing, Sunday on the river all day and another Kings game. Next week sounds good too, Tuesday we catch the Shins/Decemberists show in Davis (a local show? awesome!), Wednesday Kings game. There, see – we’re all caught up on the junk and I can write what I’m here for.

Watching TV the other night, I saw a commercial for these new condoms that produce a “warming” sensation. Are you for real? Dude, if there’s on time I don’t need to be any warmer – it’s humpin’. Considering my natural internal body temperature is lava-hot compared to most humans, and that I’ve been known to break into a fevered sweat from just thinking too hard – artificial warming is the last thing I want. I mean, especially when I’m doin’ it. I gotta open the windows and turn on the fan as it is, I’d have to be insane to want to turn up the heat anymore. I’ve been cursed with a Bikram existence that has me sweating from a shower and while swimming. Now come up with a condom that chills the room to meat-hanging temps and you’ve got a lifetime customer.

I’ll tell you a story that haunts me to this day. Back in my first year of high school I used to ride the bus. Now, yes, there are some great bus-stories (carefully placing homemade pungee-sticks to pop the bus’ tires and render it useless for transporting us to school; removing one screw from a different place each day until every window and seat was ready fall apart; etc.), but in this story the bus in only the setup. We were ridging home one afternoon, headed towards the corner where we’d be dropped off to walk the block or so home. This day it so happened that the man who lived in that corner home was out mowing his lawn as we drove up. Only thing was, this guy had what was quite possibly the hairiest back I’d ever seen. So, here comes a bus full of young kids – and there’s this old, slightly overweight, sasquatch-looking dude mowing his lawn. We did as all good kids would, we laughed till we cried and made fun of this poor sap. I mean, why would someone so disgustingly hairy mow his lawn without a shirt?! Surely he knows how utterly repulsive he is as an example of the human form, right? Hairy man, do you have no shame?! If I remember right, I actually yelled some comment out the window at this sad man – although I’m sure he didn’t hear me over his lawn mowing.

So, what’s the point you ask? Well, for those of you who don’t know – I am now that man. And I can’t help but think that my cruelty that day has spun around on the wheel of fate and dealt me this Teen Wolf hand as some ironic justice. The God of body hair looked down on me that day and put me on his list. Then, as I reached my late teens – he sent his demons nightly to slather my back and shoulders with Rogaine. These follicle-awakening imps took me from baby’s butt to missing-link with a quickness, and one morning I awoke to a hideous sight. That sad man, that poor sap – he had nothing on me. My hair had reached a thickness and luster to rival Pantene commercials. And as the years went on, not only did the Black Forest that is my back and shoulders continue to flourish, but the hair that I’m supposed to have started to take off. Maybe those “good guys” hairs from the top of my head were forced out by the urban sprawl of my back hair, I don’t know.

That’s it, I’m outta here.

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band together and masturbate on the enemy

You'll go blind.
Hey dudes, didja hear there’s some video of US soldiers masturbating onto Iraqi prisoners? That’s so cool. As a country, we should masturbate on more people I think. It just seems so logical and all. Oh, and we should take pictures of it. As Americans, we must band together and masturbate on the enemy – and don’t forget to shout “You got served!” as you finish up in their eyes. Fucking Neanderthals.

Man, I remember how mortified I was when I learned we were expected to take showers in Junior High gym class. As if my sports-challenged former self didn’t have enough problems, now I had to take showers with other dudes? Luckily, I wasn’t the only one who had this fear. In the three years I was there, I don’t think I ever saw one single dude take a shower in that locker room. And some dudes needed a shower too, come 8th grade you can get pretty ripe after 40min of flag football.

Looking back now, the social shower doesn’t seem so strange. I mean, I’ve been in several same-sex communal showering situations since – and they don’t bother me much anymore. I still, however, don’t like those “rotary” urinal things. I mean, the trough urinal is bad enough – but a circular one where I’m peeing directly across from a bunch of other dudes peeing? No thanks. If you’re gonna see my goods, it’s gonna be because I had too much beer and am the sole participant in a game of “strip Dance Dance Revolution.” Yeah, for real. With video too. I can never hold public office.

Dave out.

Posted on

living in a treehouse or driving a skateboard to work

Hi what goes here?
Oh yeah? What you gonna do about it then? Mess me up huh? I’d like to see that. Step to me fool and let’s see. Don’t make me drop the hammer on your ass, ’cause I’m ready. Step back.

Guys, for real. I’m so excited about my sprinklers almost being done. How gay is that? It’s a huge accomplishment for me though, so I can accept the gayness. Oh, and by the way, I still haven’t stopped using the word “gay” to mean stupid or lame. I think I’m fairly conscious of political correctness, and can operate within its standards most of the time – but I’m just not ready to give up that gradeschool “gay means stupid” thing. So to all you homos, I got mad love for you – but gay means stupid. Sorry. Wait, homos isn’t PC either? Aww man, a brother can’t win.

The other night at Anthony’s, Bronte was playing MASH with some of the ladies. For those who didn’t have a childhood, or whose brains are time-addled and have forgotten – MASH was a kind of “fortune telling” game centered around how your life will turn out. In the 80’s version (which I played), you picked four chicks, for cars, four kid counts, and four locations on earth. Then you draw a spiral and count through all the options to see who you’ll marry, where you’ll live, what kinda car you’ll drive, and how many kids you have. Man, I remember always having my fingers crossed for Alyssa Milano, she was so friggin’ hot on Who’s the Boss. To make it fun you always had to stick one stinker in each category, you know, like, living in a treehouse or driving a skateboard to work. Then there was always that one cootie-ridden girl who’d be the “gross” one in the wife category. For us we had to marry Beth Somethingorother, oh how we hated her. An ugly boy-hating girl with a penchant for nuts-kicking, she was always the “stinker.” She was so butch, I bet she turned out gay (and this time I mean gay-gay, like gay. Y’know?)

Anyway, we were playing MASH and making “cootie catchers” (which are little four-peaked origami fortune tellers), and I was transported back to the 5th grade. All I needed was a swingset, a game of dodgeball, and to be overly proud of some crotchal peachfuzz – and I’d be back in time. I think I ended up marrying Hilary Duff and having “a google” of kids (that sucks), driving a ’63 Stingray and living in a shack underwater. Improbable? Yeah, sure. Horrible? Hard to say. I can kinda see myself transporting our immeasurable offspring across the coral reefs in the Stingray. Yeah, Hilary Duff, what?

Dudes, I can’t tell and didn’t notice at the time… but is that a bare titty in my post’s image from yesterday? I swear I see nip. OK guys (and gals), I’m outta here.

Posted on

real people think like that

Rambling again...
Been checking prices on fog machines lately, the non-Halloween prices are much cheaper. My little machine does 3500 CFM, but I want something in the 20,000 CFM range. I want so much fog this Halloween that the fire department has to come to make sure the place ain’t burning down.

Busy day yesterday, saw a US civilian get his head sawn off by hooded captors. Not the CNN or Fox News version, but the uncut version. Brutal. How can someone feel so much hate that they can kill an unrelated, innocent human just because of their nationality? I don’t understand that hate, obviously. Hey, I’d be mad about my people being tortured too – but enough to kill the first English-speaking white dude I find? I think not.

Some peoples’ reactions to the whole incident are almost as disturbing. So many references to “turning that whole country into glass.” I say I don’t understand the hate these people must feel, but apparently we have plenty of people here who not only understand it – they return it. Honestly, I know intelligent, rational people who think we need to “nuke” these heathen nations into extinction. Their rationale goes something like “they all hate us anyway, and they’re killing us.” I’ve heard “that’s what we did in Japan, and that ended that war.” Shit people, are you for real? You think annihilating these people is the answer? Genocide, you’re behind that? I’ve got friends who refer to “those people” as a “plague on the world, the vermin of the earth” if you will.

In a simplified view, the real danger out there isn’t Iraq or Al Qaeda or Muslims or terrorists – it’s ignorant people. I don’t care what color or religion or nationality you are, if you’re ignorant enough to abide such hate – you’re the enemy. The only problem with this logic is, some people are brainwashed and purposely kept in ignorance by a select few, so these few can exploit the masses. If, from day one, you’re taught to believe that it’s noble and heroic to kill the Zionist infidels – you’re gonna try and bag as many Zionist infidels as possible. Regardless of these brainwashed-masses’ culpability for their ingrained beliefs – ignorance still plays a role the way they get to such a state. Right? Is it too much to think that intelligence will cause people to question things that just don’t seem right? If your mullah or grand dragon or prophet is telling you to kill people because he says so, will not the smart man ask “why?” Too optimistic?

Because, I want to believe that people can “know” right from wrong, on a very base level. If you’re ignorant enough to think that nuking the whole middle east is the solution to our problems, you’re no different than the paranoid white-pride southerner who blames the Jews for his failed business ventures. And if you’d be proud to push the red button and blast them all yourself, you’re no better than those assholes who crashed planes into our buildings. I can’t believe real people think like that anyway, it blows me away.

Well anyway, once again I’ve failed to communicate what I wanted to say. But this is what I’m posting, so at least I tried. Dave out.

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i bet i was passing killers

Some kinda watchgroup is gonna have problems with this one...
The other day I was driving around, looking at all the people in their cars and on the street, thinking about them. I wonder how many of those people have killed someone? I know it’s a morbid thought, but surely there’s a percentage there. Whether or not they killed someone in service of their country or police force or something, or they accidentally killed someone through negligence, of even if they are a good ol’ fashioned murderer – I bet I was passing killers on the road.

I’ve always been fascinated by the idea of “collective statistics,” for lack of a better word. I mean, I’d drive down the river road in high school, peering into the picture windows of the houses lining the road. Seeing pictures hung on the walls and families watching TV, thinking about how each of those families, each person, has just as many, if not more, memories and experiences as I do. Think of all those memories and anecdotes and stories and emotions. I always thought that if you could somehow harness all that into a central repository – how cool it would be to just browse through it. Kind of voyeuristic I guess.

Subject change, ready?

Man, the more I listen to this new Of Montreal album, the more it gets bombs. Total 60’s brit-psych, so syrupy with harmonies and strings and dings and funky whimsical melodies. Sickening really, but really good. The Pitchfork reviewer calls it California psych-pop, wrong – it definitely mimics UK psych more than any west coast US stuff.

That was a long paragraph. So this weekend I got for real and dropped the dosh on the sprinkler ingredients: pipes, joints, risers, sprinkler heads, etc. Totaling out at $250 for most of the materials for the backyard irrigation (sans the drip system for the retaining wall slope and the will I/won’t I drainage materials), not a bad amount. Anyway, Ben helped me go buy the ~600ft of PVC and whatnot on Sunday – and then Sharaun helped me hook it all up. By 5pm on Sunday we had “zone one” complete and tested with sprinklers and all. It was really cool to see the little sprinkler heads pop up and start watering the Martian landscape that is my backyard. The rest of the job should go pretty quickly, and I anticipate being done with sprinklers (burying them and all) by this weekend. It’s a big step in terms of progress, because as soon as the sprinklers are in and I’ve taken care of the yard drainage (either with drains or just proper sloping, haven’t decided) – the next step is sod! That’s right, we can finally have something green in the backyard! I’m still working towards the July deadline, trying to be done in time for Sharaun’s folks’ visit.

The weather lately has been awesome, the kind of days that tend to draw me outside, that make it increasingly hard to concentrate on all things work. Well, at least work where the work’s happening indoors, trapped inside four cramped cubicle walls. Work where I’m outside in the sun, hunched over a ditch fitting two pipes together while Forever Changes blares out the windows, however, these days scream at me to do that work. A blue sky with no clouds on the way to work seems to make my brakin’ foot resist that turn and want to just keep on driving. Maybe pick up Sharaun and head to Yosemite for some camping or hiking. Stupid weather, so tempting. It’s like God’s communicating to me, just urging me to stick it to the man and call in sick or take vacation. Hey, who am I to argue with God?

Coming up in July, Sharaun and I will have been married for four years. I know that’s not very long compared to some, but dang man. That’s a long time! Considering we’ve been dating since 10th grade (way back yonder in 1994), it’s kinda crazy. Even way back in high school we used to joke about getting married, and now we’re for really married and far from what was then “home.” Funny to think about, but I’m glad things went down the way they did.

In middle school there was this kid with a prosthetic leg. The sad thing was, on top of the cool-detriment that having a fake leg alone brings – this kid was a total nerd. I mean, being one-legged is enough of a uphill popularity battle, but this kid was facing the Everest of uncool with no hopes of ever reaching the summit. Now, I know, it’s not nice to make fun of people, especially people with physical handicaps – but there’s no law (aside from what you squares call “morals”) against recounting hilarious stories about said people.

Story #1: The one-legged kid (OLK), had a huge crush on Kyle’s sister (yeah, the same sister who I’m proud to call my “first love”). One day I was walking with her up to the office, it was during class so there was no one in the hall. OLK must have been going to the office too, and he was walking in front of us. In what must have been an effort to look cool in front of his crush, he did a spin-move to try and open the door to the office. He spun around and used his fake leg to “kick” the door open. The door did open, but in the process of spinning or kicking, his fake leg came off. The door snapped back closed, suspending the detached limb mid-fall to the floor. OLK stood there in shock for a minute, then opened the door and retrieved the leg. He was refitting it as, stifling guffaws, we turned the other way pretending we weren’t headed for the office at all.

Story #2: Gym class. OLK would wear sweats all the time instead of shorts. One day we were inside the gym, and several of us were using the big integrated weight machine. It had all sorts of equipment bundled into one beast of a machine, including an inclined sit-up board. The guys in the class loved to set the inclined board at its steepest and have sit-up contests to see who was the coolest. This day, however, no one was using the board. OLK jacked it up to the steepest setting, and climbed on, hooking his sneakers under the pads at the top and laying down. After a few sit-ups, I guess his fake leg came “unhooked,” and his other foot slipped under the weight of his whole body on the incline. Now, remember, he was wearing sweats – so imagine the resulting scene. One “foot” and “leg” are still hooked at the top, but are detached at the knee. The other leg ha slipped from the top and with nothing to hold him, OLK is sliding down the incline. So to the observer, we see one leg seemingly “stretching” as the rest of the kid slides down the ramp. Some girl screamed, and one actually puked. We laughed for days.

Story #3: The cool thing to do after school was to steal candy from the convenience store on the way home. The pilfering was so bad, in fact, that the store was forced to implement a “two students at a time” policy in an attempt to curb their losses. I guess OLK wanted to get in on the fun, but for some reason decided to one-up everyone else by stealing a lot more candy than we were accustomed to. His modus operandi? Why, fill his fake leg with candy, of course. In the end, OLK got caught, and we all watched as the cops made him remove his fake leg to reveal a pirate’s booty of sweets.

OK, I’m done. I got nothing left. Sorry for the dumb and exploitive stories. Dave out.

Posted on

not going to write today

Lazy
I am not going to write today, even though the entry is written – I reviewed it before posting and have concluded that it sucks. It is my right. Instead, read this and you will laugh.

Also, by 8:20am I had decided I would do no work at work today. Nothing, not a damn thing. Weekend here I come. Dave out.