all entries in category 'life'

Whoopadeefriggin’ Doo.

Not a whole lot to report from Texas of late, and not a whole lot on my mind. Maybe I’m crazy, but I’m feeling rather gruntled thesedays, and finding things to whine about that are strong enough to write down is tough going.

But who knows, maybe the winters here will suck.

What’s that? An average temperature of 75°F in winter? Well I guess they probably won’t suck.

So, in lieu of a rant about weather or traffic or Walmart or one-horse towns, I’ll drop a few of my favorite photos on you. Well, a couple from the day when I remembered to bring the camera, at least.

Fishin’ From the Pussywagon

As you can see, I like to ride in style. Yes, the back is carpeted. Yes, I smoke cigarettes. Yes, I have a paddleboat.

Orb Weaver at Spring Creek

Boo, Kids! It’s a big-assed spider! Actually, it surprised the hell out of me, and I almost walked into it face-first. It's a Golden Orb Weaver (Argiope aurantia), and at about 4 inches long, it was inpressive as hell.

Bait Stealin’ Wankfish

This little fucker got three of my worms within a one-hour period. I held him up in the light, scolded him for being piggy, and after my wagging finger got tired, I threw him back. for the fourth time. As far as I could throw him.

Hey?! Where’d The 'Box Go?

On Summer vacation, of course.

Yep, been enjoying the great outdoors here, getting a good tan and generally drinking in my new surroundings. What do I mean by surroundings, you ask? Well, beer, for one. Beer is awesome. I've also been enjoying the flora and fauna of the Texas Hill Country.

I’ve seen more stars than I have in years, including what looked to be a Flaming Winnebago reentering the atmosphere this past Saturday night. Ask my brother, he was there. I was about 2.75 sheets to the wind at the time, so I wondered aloud if the Free Mexican Air Force now had a space program, but I am reasonably sure it wasn’t a beer-and-dehydration-induced hallucination. Whatever it was, it was large and green and on fire; to wit, it kicked ass. The night sky is spectacular out here. I can also see the Milky Way pretty much every night.

Back to the point. Summer vacation always produces photos: some desirable, and–at least in my experience–some incriminating. These are both, really, most taken off-hand and in the best fashion of the random photographer. Anyways, here’s where I make with some pictures. There’ll be none of me in any easily identifiable compositions, as I am on the lam and don’t need the hassle from five-oh.

Some Photos

A. The Hat. It’s a ranchers hat, and it keeps the holy-shit-I’m-fuggin-on-fire! sun off your melon. Pair it with my recently reacquired prescription sunglasses (packed under S for miscellaneous) and you have quite the stylish Texas getup, if I do say so myself. Okay, well, maybe you have to be here awhile to appreciate it. Okay, Okay—I only wear it on weekends. Alone. In the tub.

B. Birkenstock Tan. Fairly self-explanatory, no? And yes, before you get all weird on me, I was born with semi-webbed toes. I’m an excellent swimmer, and I can pick up a hammer with my feet. Yeap. You're impressed.

C. Wasp Addendum. These two choice shots are ones I got of a Texas Red Wasp up close, after I had nuked him with a spray bottle of Popov vodka. He was stumbly-bumbly, so he let me get close, but I almost got the shit stung outta me as he sobered up.

D. This is a close-up of yours truly, taken surreptitiously by my brother while we were drinking large amounts of domestic beer. Ladies – note the azure blue eyes; They’re the real deal. (Ignore the dilated pupils.)

E. My Brother and his fish. We spent a few days in a row fishing for what amounted to bait, and then I caught a 10” Catfish. “Woot!” I said, “I caught the biggest fish and you suck!” Of course, minutes later he turns around and catches this 3-pound Bass, and proceeds to brag about it for the remainder of the visit. In fact I’m sure there’s an email in my inbox that has something to do with that fish. Dammit. I will have my revenge.

More to come when I get a new camera; the $400 one I currently have took a spill into the drink and only produces photos like this one:

Fucking gravity.

Answered In a Gonzoid Run-On

Wait. Why did I move here again?

If I’d stood on a low pair, waiting indefinitely for the call of the big release, where I could steer the rubber raft of my existence down the stream without fear of discovering the newest ancient species of freshwater shark that exists only in the tidal surge of delegatory, masturbatory passion and fearful, involuntary greased-rope-ladder downkicking…

I reckon I would’ve lost the point – like a strung out waitress in an off-the-strip dive, struggling to tally her losses on what was supposed to be her final trip to the blackjack table, to bring her to some sort of psychological state of break-even that ignored the past and arithmetic…

But I had fears. Big ones. With crazy, dead eyes.

Deep within I did want the high. The one you get from success and doing it your own way, with your middle finger out in salute, if only curled up inside your buttoned shirtsleeve or behind your back like an angry kid keeping fingers crossed. A psychosomatic high – like the one you got from trying to smoke banana peels as a twelve year-old, knowing full well that if it worked the law would be at your door but unable or unwilling to resist the temptation to defy the harsh reality of organic chemistry. So I’m to spend some time impressing myself that I am not in fact the newest and perhaps saddest shiny brass cog, destined to wear and corrode over time…

I moved to Texas, land of fucking contradiction, a brownian stew of sentiments and dispositions, a land unto itself, where the wayward but captive transient rushes in to meet the hard-nosed and single-minded immigrant, both watched warily by the wizened but fixed-eyed glare of southern conventional existence and manner. A place where nature is saddled like an ill-tempered mule for the dirty work of man but has a separate and rich life in its downtime, full of a splendor as rich as it was long before man stopped flinging his shit at his shadow. And it’s hot, but I like it, and I think I’ll stay. At least until I get a good tan.

Here I sit, at the end of a long thought, but at the beginning of a new story. And if you read this far, you are to be commended.

Big Trip Log Part 2: Nashville to Little Rock

Day 3 - May 5th: Nashville, Tennessee to Little Rock, Arkansas

Official: 348 Miles

First Stop. Memphis, Tennessee. Well, Graceland was a bust. Easy enough to find, it being on Elvis Presley Boulevard as it is, but alas, discouraged by the hordes of polyester-clad housefraus and bums around the area, I gave up and drove around Memphis for an hour or so looking for some sort of interesting thing to do. Didn’t find anything, and Dog was looking at his watch a lot (apparently he’s not an Elvis fan), so we bought a few post cards, I ate a gyro from a Crab Juice vendor and hit the road again. I made a mental note to come back soon with a reservation and a pocketful of dreams – perhaps when I make it out to See Andy Williams in Branson.

Second Stop. Traffic jam leaving Memphis on I-40, the result of what was obviously a fatal accident between an RV and a tractor-trailer. See? Old people can’t be trusted behind the wheel of a Caddy, much less a linoleum box atop a Cummins diesel. Crossed the ‘Ssippi into Arkansas, and was immediately struck by the utter lack of federal highway monies actually spent on highways. Willis (he is my truck) was bouncing up and down like a cholo wagon on… well, Cinco de Mayo.

Third Stop. While traveling through the ultra-mundane farmland of east Arkansas, I noticed off to my left one of those yellow cropdusting planes, and after I saw the acrobatic moves this guy was pulling, I had to stop at a nearby gas station and try to take some pictures. This guy had great big stones. He ws pulling immelman after immelman, and a few times I wondered if he ws gonna make it out of the dive. Oh, and about the gas stations on I-40: lots of them have the ultra-tall programmable signs – you know, the ones that advertise their diesel and unleaded rates? Well apparently all of them chinced out a decade ago and opted for signs that only had the ability to display a 1 before the decimal (duh), so the sign appears to offer gas at $.65 a gallon. Dumb rednecks.

Fourth Stop. Bryant, Arkansas. Made my way through Little Rock proper around dusk, figuring I can now beat rush hour in the morning. This is by far the smallest hotel I’ve ever been in; I think there are no more than 20 rooms, and it is crammed behind a Little Caesar’s (still in business, who knew) and a Wendy’s. Checking in, I didn’t have the heart to even ask if there was Wifi in the joint, but much to my surprise, they actually have 2 WAPs here. I can reasonably assume I’m the only one in the hotel using the bandwidth, so I’m sucking it up in every way I know how. Oh, and on the way into the Taco Bell parking lot to get dinner, I managed to enter the single-lane drive-thru exit and had to back up onto a busy road, all the time feeling the scoffing glares of the lokels. Funny, I suppose. Or it will be, in distant retrospect.

One thing else before I sign off and take Dog out to “do his dirty, dirty business” – in need of a cold six pack after today’s travels, I nipped into the “Foster’s Pak’n’Sav” across the road from the hotel. Nice people, of course, but one thing struck me like a ton of bricks: Somehow I was standing on the film set of Raising Arizona – you know, the scene where he’s being chased through the store by a pack of barking dogs, and the butcher opens up from the Courtesy Booth with a double-barreled shotgun? That had to be fillmed in Bryant, Arkansas.
Travelled: 357 Miles
iPod: Bob Marley (Uprising, Babylon by Bus), Cake, Beatles, Jamiroquai, Ibrahim Ferrer, Johnny Cash (One Piece at a Time), Grateful Dead (Reckoning, Blues for Allah)

Tomorrow it’s on to Dallas and the waiting embrace of my brother’s Keg-o-rator. Oh, and my family, yada yada.

Big Trip Log Part 1: Columbia to Nashville

After all of these months of waiting, I am finally off to Texas for good. Last minute snafus (of course) delayed my departure for about the fiftieth time, but I finally departed Columbia, Maryland at 1:14pm Wednesday, May 3rd. Having shut down my personal network at my folk’s house and removed my printer (duh), I actually had to use a trip to say goodbye to an old friend of mine (who works at the front desk of a posh local hotel) to print out my directions (care of Google Maps, natch). I gassed up and washed the truck (Dee-Lux, 8 whole dollars worth of bird-crap removal!), mailed off the last of my bills and cancellations, and shopped for our (Dog is my copilot) initial stash of goodies: Granola bars, caffiene-heavy sodas, and–of course–beef jerky. I also added to the list one of those coconut car air fresheners; life in a truck for ~24 hours in four days is mighty close quarters, especially in the olfactory sense. And besides, Dog said I smelled like a Greek waiter’s feet. Starting Mileage: 105,146.

Day 1 - May 3rd: Columbia to Bristol, Virginia

Official: 401 Miles

Relatively easy time down 495 and onto the dreaded I-66 through Manassas. As is custom, flicked off NRA headquarters on the way past.

First Stop. Harrisonburg, Virginia. Home of James Madison University (who?) and not much else. Judging by the clientele and the employees at the local Arby’s, life in a shit town is… well, shit.

Second Stop. Some lameassed rest area around Blacksburg (VT sucks) to dig the sunblock out of the back of the pussy wagon: This took 25 minutes, as I am a world-reknowned packmaster, and I’d filed “Banana Boat SPF30” next to “Box of bungee cords and “rock Collection from Egypt the packers forgot”. I was a tad too late with this remedy, and I now have a wicked trucker’s tan. When I get to Dallas I’ll have my brother take a picture of the aftermath… it looks like half of me went to the Bahamas.

Third Stop. Christianville (?), Virginia. Some 60 miles shy of Bristol proper, but it was getting late and after a few inquiries, the only place that would accomodate my navigator (Dog is a great multitasker) was the Super 8 – Not the best of hotels, but it overlooked a fine “Flying J” truck stop, a bustling hive of meth-induced activity complete with rentable showers (a cursory teeth count reveals that apparently life atop the Blue Ridge is hard livin’). Ate Burger King, watched Mythbusters, walked jittery Dog at 11pm, 3am, 5am, and 8am. One of us pooped in the parking lot.
Travelled: 322 Miles
iPod: Al Franken (Lying Liars), Sarah McLachlan, SOAD, Otis Redding

Day 2 - May 4th: Bristol, Tennessee to Nashville, Tennessee

Official: 292 Miles

Got out of Xmasville (or whatever) around 9am, after gassing up at the “Flying J” (2.6799/g). Drove through Bristol, Virginia into Bristol, Tennessee.

First Stop. Around 10:30am at a rest area so Dog could see a tree about a horse. Noticed what seems to be the “new” Tennessee state flag, and mused to Dog that it now looks like the pseudo-fascist “Hammers” flag from Pink Floyd’s The Wall. Wondered if this was deliberate. Also noticed the beginning stages of oppressive fucking southern summer heat.

Second Stop. Lunch in Knoxville at a Chic-Fil-A. Some sort of million-to-one occurence of attractive young women. Dog eating chicken nuggets scores points.

Third Stop. Unintentional. 1+ hour in traffic jam on I-81 near the Clinch River. They were repainting the white lines. Passed Tennessee State Trooper who appeared to be sleeping in his cruiser. Mumbled “Fucking Tennessee… if it wasn’t for your Fireworks Supermarkets…” under breath a few times.

Fourth Stop. Charlotte Park, Tennessee (just west of Nashville proper). Checked into Super 8 Motel which promised “Hi-Sped Internet Access!!!”. Unpacked Dog stuff and clothing. Went up the road to local WalMart. Asked clerk “Hey man, where’s your juice and soda and stuff?” Clerk replied “It’s in aisle 13 by the liquor and beer.” Scoffed at Maryland’s victorian liquor laws. Bought shaving cream and Dog treats. Puzzled at the profusion of both attractive young professional-looking women and burned-out rednecks. Stopped at Bojangles’ for (what is still the) best chicken on planet. Adjourned to hotel room to eat and shower. Spent 45 minutes trying to connect to hotel’s crappy linksys router. Realized while walking Dog that I am closer to large EMI-spewing power substation than to WAP. Decided to type this crap into Notepad then walk over closer to the lobby to try and post it. Permanently set all clocks to CDT. Went to bed.
Travelled: 389 Miles
iPod: Triumph the I.C.D.: Come Poop with Me, Johnny Cash, Bill Monroe, Flatt & Scruggs, Ricky Skaggs, Hank Williams, Indigo Girls (Nashville. Get it?)

I Love Hanging Drywall

about as much as I love having my bottom lip pulled over my head and stapled to the back of my neck. Actually, its not the hanging that’s the bad part, it’s the mudding. Something in my psyche loathes white gypsum paste and the finesse with which it must be applied. The sanding is, as you’ll see in the pictures, no picnic either.

But in order to make some small amends for moving 1700 miles – across a continent and away my family, for all intents and purposes – I decided to spend a few days finishing my folk’s garage – you know, so my dad has a proper place to retreat from my mom, and my mom has a nicer-looking place to pile her antiques (crap) on top of the other fleamarket finds (old useless crap) she already has.

But this is one of those times when (not to toot my own horn or anything) I actually remember some of the shit I am good at; most days in the last few months, I get home from a thoroughly-unsatisfying-yet-satisfyingly-temporary job at Target with my brain oozing out of my ears, pick my nose for a few hours in front of the television or the in’rweb and let my iPod sing me to sleep. I forget that, aside from being credentialed, I have a handful of other things at which I could probably make a decent living - without using my br41n p0w4r too… too umm… goodly.

This project required a fair mix of skills. Here are a couple that spring to mind, and their origins:

Household / Commercial Wiring to Code

1.5 years as a wiring contractor’s polemonkey, involved in everything from replacing mains to running OFNR backbone; I have the Klein Tools and the lifetime supply of Scotchloks, shrinktubing and zipties to prove it.

Rough-out carpentry, Framing

My dad spent many years as a professional carpenter. I learned by carrying the hammer, so to speak.

Drywall, Painting

1+ year spent languishing on the eastern shore with a job titled “IT Consultant” but with a job description that somehow included hangs drywall, paints your house, and blows in your blown-in insulation. I still haven’t forgiven God or Cambridge, Maryland for that debacle.

Drinking on the Job

see Drywall, Painting

So anyways, I took a few snaps of myself and my handiwork so far. The job ain’t done; The trip sorta got in the way a bit. You might be tempted to ask wtf I am blogging about this… well I don’t really have an answer. A few six packs and no blog ideas, I guess. That and the simple realization that I should thank fuck I don’t have to do this to put a roof over my head.

So without further ado – a photo essay for yoo.

This large (1.13 MB) image was intentionally witheld (relative url) to preserve bandwidth. -HBDC steering committee

Southwest Actually Gave Me Peanuts

I’m back from my “Splorat’ry Spedition”, and even correcting for the irrational exuberance about moving out of town just in time to miss being fiscally raped by BGE, I must say I like what I saw. You can go here to see part of what I saw.

So I’ve got temporary lodgings up in the Hill Country–a town called Boerne (berr-nee) NNW of the city proper. It’s about 20+ acres of awesome land, and I hope to spend some q.t. exploring its crannies (see pictures) with my camera and headlamp.

Not much else to say other than I’m still recovering from the beer and the sun, but the food was excellent and–goddamn all clichés to hell–the people were nice. Not make you want to puke nice, like Wisconsin farmers, but just not assclowns nice. Hard to put a finer point on that one; i.e., it's conceptual.

And I got a line on a Cadillac, too.

Ten Things I've Noticed, Of Late

1. Suffer the Nosepickers: Boy, the average joe has it rough these days. What with large corporations spending billions on courting the NASCAR consumer, most of what Bubba-Bo-Bob Smith sees or hears today is completely tailored to his particular inability to comprehend complex ideas — Ford Tough and War on Terror come to mind here. Contrary to his current understanding of geopolitics (love it or leave it, osama), he really is getting it right in the ass.
2. Confections: You know those candies called Smarties… the ones in the twisty-end plastic? They don’t taste like their corresponding color.
3. Weather: Snow is pretty cool when it’s falling, but otherwise it sucks.
4. 
5. Politics: Dick Cheney is a shitbag par excellence (see #1).
6. Sports: Between my overwhelming and unexplainable need to watch the Tour de France and Olympic curling and my ambivalence about traditional professional American sports, I might be Canadian, European, or gay.
7. Cuisine: If you eat enough beef jerky, your farts smell exactly like beef jerky.
8. Technology: After about 4 good years of having a website, I have quite the preponderance of extraneous shit to sort out. Case in point.
9. Traffic: It is probably illegal to shoot out someone’s tires, headlights and windows – even if you leave a note at the scene.
10. Retail: God dammit, Retail sucks.
11. Nostalgia: I really miss my Keg-o-rator – the one with the VW connecting rod on the tap.

Rootin' Tootin' Researchin' Texas

I’m getting a tad angtsy about my upcoming move. Career wise its a big winner, of course (duh), but it really is a step off the cliff into a land that I know little about. Sure, I’ve visited and sure, I’ve known people who’ve left (escaped?) Texas, but aside from old westerns that were probably filmed in Burbank, CA., I know very little about my future state. Hell, my brother lives in Dallas – around 200 miles north of where I’ll be – and even though he has a different mindset than I do, he seems to like it a lot. In light of these facts, I’ve been working up a glut of bookmarks on the subject, and amassing as much of an understanding of the place I will be living as can be gleaned without actually going there. Yet.

Here are a few things about Texas that I’ve learned from the in’rwebs:

Texas Laws and Regulations

• It is illegal to take more than three sips of beer at a time while standing.
• It is illegal to drive without windshield wipers. Windshields are optional.
• A recently passed anticrime law requires criminals to give their victims 24 hours notice, either orally or in writing, and to explain the nature of the crime to be committed.
• The entire Encyclopedia Britannica is banned in Texas because it contains a formula for homemade beer.
• Homosexual behavior is a misdemeanor offense. (Vote Kinky).
• It is illegal for one to shoot a buffalo from the second story of a hotel.
• It is illegal to milk another person’s cow.

Other Important Stuff

Of course there are other important things I needed to research.

All the counties where I am considering parking my drunk ass are ‘wet’ (thank fuck).

The Spoetzl Brewery (which makes Shiner Bock) is perhaps my favorite brewhaus in the world. It is located in Shiner, Texas, which is about half way between Houston and San Antonio (Within reach!)

Kinky Friedman, noted jewish scholar, author and musician (See Asshole from El Paso), is running for governor of Texas this year under the mantra “Why The Hell Not?” Indeed. If I can manage to become a resident before the election, my vote is already decided.

I also made a point to research Texas’ fireworks laws. Here’s what I came up with:

• You must pay money for fireworks.
• Light fuse, get away.

More Texas links as I come across 'em.

Resources

Maps

• Physiographic Map, Texas
• Geological Chronology, Texas
• Vegetation/Cover Types, Texas
• Big Fuggin’ Map o’ Texas

Web Sites

• Texas Parks and Wildlife
• Central Texas Bluegrass Association
• Austin City Limits
• The Beers of Texas

Retail for the Mentally Competent: Day 1

Jackpot!

First day on the job:

• 18 year-old Eminem candyass dropout asks me to buy him beer (See fig. 1)
• Commended for taking a 15 minute break (instead of 30+, as everyone else apparently does)
• Some dizzy loon of a broad working in the food section actually asks if I’ve “brought JC into my heart” yet – hints at eternal damnation in response to my answer
• Asked to buy beer again by #1 douchebag (See fig. 1)
• Showed 20 year-old community college guy how to ride a pallet jack without breaking your neck
• Another completely different dizzy loon has it in her head that I’ll be doing her job for her (this might be fun)
• Asked to buy beer third time by same douchebag: was asked “why you hatin’?” – laughed heartily in his face (See fig. 1)
• Offered 40 bucks to set up someone’s WiFi (Workin’ in my Field! Woohoo!)
• Left with enormous bag of Twizzler’s Cherry Bites
• Felt sick while posting this entry

Yeap, shaping up nicely. Can’t say I wanna be at the register just yet – that looks like actual work. I also spent a few minutes thinkin' on an ad campaign to show my 'manager':

No Blog Ideas?

Got things you’d like to rant about but are pretty sure you shouldn’t? No Problem! Just rearrange the backgrounds of your blog and hope people don’t notice the utter dearth of content!

Okay, maybe they already noticed a bit when you started giving things away for no apparent reason.

Anyways, it appears that my long-awaited departure for the Lone Star state is temporarily on hold, though preparations continue at a brisk pace. Latest word has it as no-later-than APRIL 1, so in the interest of keeping sane, I’ve decided to take a joe-job – if nothing else, for the entertainment and the beer money.

Yep, Targét will now be paying me to lift heavy things. Unless, of course, those snobs over at Border’s realize their error in the next week or so. Its been awhile since I worked retail -- 'round 10 years now - and I almost laughed out loud at the smirk on the manager’s face as I handed over the application – sort of a “fuck, you’re not TOO overqualified, so I can’t just say no outright…” I can tell he’ll be an interesting chap to work for — interesting like a sandy-bunghole beach hangover is interesting. Needless to say, though, I’ll be buying lots of cheap shit imported from Chiner with the extra cheddar, and I’m sure I’ll have some stories worth blogging about shortly. Like how I crammed a pricing gun up some 19 year-old’s ass.

In the mean time, I’m doing a detailed study on a redesign. I have a few ideas kicking around upstairs, and at least one set in motion:

Something serify perhaps?

Ought Six; A New Year

Six years ago: at 12am, January 1st 2000, I was in New Orleans, waiting on Canal street for my friend Aric who had to take a leak; of course, he got arrested for pissing on a wall (law enforcement is and always will be a business proposition in the Big Easy), and I didn’t see him for a stretch (I talked to his mom long distance though – he had used his phonecall to talk to her, back here in Maryland. Oh, the fun that was), but neither that nor being pickpocketed by a gay rollerblader at the corner of St. Ann and Bourbon could dissuade me from drinking myself into an absolute stupor, barfing into my hair (almost to my ass at the time) and weilding a magnum of champagne like a drum major’s mace. I’ve got pictures of me post-gack around here somewhere.

Twelve years ago: I was celebrating my first new year’s day stateside in almost five years. I was 19, and I think I’d had a big joint with my friends at the stroke of midnight, so I was feeling alright, I’m sure.

Eighteen years ago: I was in Bumscratch, N.C., dreaming of not being in Bumscratch, N.C. for much longer.

Six years hence: Texas? Well, lets just hope I’m not wearing cowboy boots and shooting at speed limit signs that I fundamentally disagree with.

Happy New Year 2006. I hope you got a chance to tie one on and boogie.

originally posted Dec 31, 2005 at 4:23pm, EST

Lists, Worthiness, etc.

So I’ve drawn up a list of all the things I want to recieve over the holidays. It’s not terribly long, but in some parts it’s a tad wide. I wouldn’t feel right in publishing this list, as some of you moneybags out there might go all crazy on me–and besides, it’s tackier than birken-socks when folks use a blog to pander for tchotchkes. I can say that a good random holiday shagging is in there somewhere.

In accordance with my belief in conservationist relativity (this is a meaningless phrase used to dispel your incredulity), I’ve also made a list of the things I’ve done this year that were less than polite, uh, less than forthcoming or honorable, and umm, I dunno, downright shitty.

I then used my own brand of fuzzy math to determine–for these particular purposes only mind you–my net worth as a person.

My calculations have me coming in a bit light; what can I say, I was a bit of a shit vis-a-vis obligations, promises made/kept, etc. and now I’m confused as to which of two possible gifts I should push for:

1. A big bag of jerky.
2. Carhartt socks (best socks ever).

So help me out here… Do I go for comfy warm feet whenever needed, or 2 days of glorious gastric distress?

Out of Its Element, The Hinkybox Suffers

I’d really love to post about web development, web design, or about progress on the many projects I have in the works.

But I can’t.

I gave some serious thought to playing up the code and development aspects of this blog for the forthcoming submission round over at 9rules, and more than once I’ve set out to do just that—but invariably I find myself staring mindlessly at the screen, with no idea where to even start. In my daily travels, I feel the same old urge to really knuckle down and crunch some code: I’d like to work on Wheatblog, I’d really like to finish the WBA site, I need to debug and release CloneSpy v1.1 and I’d also like put some time into developing a stronger design for my portfolio site.

But I can’t—not yet at least.

I’ve become accustomed to a specific routine in the last few years, as I suspect most people do–real job M through F, nights off to work with my website while smoking Camels and listening to bluegrass (at any damned volume level I wanted), walking the dog, drinking the odd Colt .45 with the neighbor, and so on. Rinse; Repeat. Alas though, time marches on, and sometimes it’s in your best interest to sacrifice such a pleasantly uncomplicated and sedentary lifestyle for a change; a big change that promises to make your life a whole lot better when all is said and done (and packed up and moved).

So here I sit, in my folks’ house: a beautiful and homey sort of abode that most visitors agree is very comfortable and impressively appointed, with all sorts of interesting things to mess with, from all different corners of the world. It’s a nice place by any measure. Quiet, neat, clean, and lavishly, umm… carpeted. Most people would call this a great home, but I’m beginning to think that this place is a problem.

As I type this, you see, I am sitting at a desk. A real desk. A desk made of oak, probably in the early 1930’s. The lamp which lights this office space–itself worth probably more than every piece of furniture I’ve ever owned–is on the left of the monitor. On the left! Who does that?! The mouse and the computer and the 19” monitor are mine, but the assprint in the chair is not. And there are baby pictures everywhere.. LOTS of baby pictures. Don’t get me wrong, I love my nephews with everything I’ve got, but as far as I’m concerned, I’m in an episode of the Twilight Zone. I’m accustomed to sitting at my drafting table with a nalgene full of water to my left, lighter and smokes in front of the stereo, lamp to the right, everything else exactly where it should be. I’ve always thought that spatial awareness and familiarity is extremely important to productivity, and now I know I am right. I remember hours slipping by as I focused intently on the 30+ files I typically have open in Dreamweaver and PSP. I spent a lot of time in this nook… ever-so-steadily wearing the letters off of my keyboard. I’m used to a focused, rapid, and productive workflow. It’s gone. Fuck.

Verily I type this, quietly inconsolable over the loss of my creative alcove and thus my creative outlet, and I hope to be back–at least in some sense–to my previous state of productivity soon. Hopefully I’ll get over this before The Big Haul™, but as yet, it remains uncertain. Sure, I can blog about random shit that I photograph, but I rarely ever read those sorta blogs anyway. I don't really expect people to read this entry; I suspect the TruckNutz gidget over there in the del.icio.us pane will get more interest out of a visitor than this long-winded turdfest. Man, this is torture. I'll end it now, for both of us.

One thing is for certain: when I do get out to Texas and settle down, I’m building myself a studio. It will look much like the spare room in my old, dingy apartment, where I learned CSS and PHP and Linux. The place where I combined a here-and-there hobby, a love of the web, and a desire to continually improve my design and development skills into a lifelong pursuit. I can’t be guaranteed the exact same atmosphere, but hell, it’ll be mine, dammit. It'll have stone floors.

And maybe a pimp-assed skylight.

Thirty whats? Holy shit.

Yep. I turn thirty years old this week.

Not so bad, really. I’m not too broken up about it – everything still works as it should, though now I realize that the day is coming when I’ll be completely unable to relate to anyone under twenty-five. But that doesn’t bother me; those whippersnappers are out of their minds — everyone knows that.

Actually, things are lookin’ up. I’ve got some news that I can’t exactly spill right now, but suffice it to say that it’s a whopper of a thing.

Elvis Death Day 2005

Ahhh, Elvis. Your life was not your own.

Annual Re-post - Originally posted 8/16/2003

Driven to an early demise by the greed of others, your sweet soul and imperturbable charm will be your greatest legacy. Well, that and the fact that your colon weighed 62 lbs and was chalky and impacted at the time of your sweet release. And the fact that you thought you could control the weather.

Oh, Elvis, was it your destiny to be great and burn out young? Why was it that cruel, cruel fate never let you live up to your own impeccable standards? We can all remember the day you inspired us all with your TCB mantra - Taking Care of Business your way. I can recite it by heart.

The TCB Oath - by Elvis Aaron Presley

• More self-respect.
• More respect for fellow man.
• Respect for fellow students and instructors.
• Respect for all styles and techniques.
• Body conditioning.
• Mental conditioning.
• Meditation for calming, and stilling of the mind and body.
• Sharpen your skills.
• Increase mental awareness.
• For all those who might choose: a new outlook and personal philosophy.
• Freedom from constipation.
• T C B Technique.
• All techniques into one.
• Elvis Presley 8th
• Applying all techniques into one.

So today we celebrate your fiery end - the end of a life less ordinary, to be certain. We are but humans, and we need things to hold on to - things we loved so much about you.

Thanks for the good times.

Bye Petey.

Peter Jennings was arguably the best television journalist in the history of the profession—a consummate professional who knew that when it came to finding the truth, the question is just as important as the answer. Not to be overly sentimental about it, but really, his death signals the end of an era. Television is now that much more ridiculous and disingenuous for his passing.

Thanks, Pete. ◊

Still Life with Home-Grown Tamaters

Well, its about that time of year; the time when the days start getting noticeably shorter, the Orioles fire their skipper and slide to about .250, and backyard bounties, lovingly watered and protected from kamikaze squirrels (and the odd tomatophiliac deer) are ready to be harvested, Hon.

This contrived and heavily photoshopped still life – à la the Dutch Masters – represents the first batch of Romas, Bushmasters, and Cherry tomatoes for the season. (original)

Disclaimer: About 20 of these beauties were harmed in the making of dinner, along with fresh Basil and some nice Buffalo mozzarella. ◊

Three Things Not to Be Left in Your Car

on a 90° July afternoon.

---

---

1. Electronic Media: Optical or Magnetic: Especially if you intend on using the information in the future.
2. Unopened Aluminum Cans of Carbonated Beverage (any variety): Apparently these things become quite agitated about being left alone for more that a few hours.
3. Keys to said auto-voiture: Hard to get back in without these, right?

Failure to follow these pointers can, with surprising dispatch, turn a Friday into a Monday. ◊

Five Nuggets from My Youth

Well, being that I’ve been asked by the benignant Mr. Gone to do so, I shall put forth a few things about my childhood that I miss, now that I’m (temporally at least) all growed up.

» 1. The Creek. I spent the better part of my childhood in North Carolina, in an area of the state that is considered sub-piedmont delta—only about 20 miles (as the crow flies) from the open Atlantic. The creeks and streams I played in with my friends were, in some sense, sacred places where we spent entire days knee deep in mud, playing war, building dams, and generally harassing the minnows. In retrospect, and owing to no other frame of reference to temper bias, it was the best possible place for a kid to spend a long hot summer.

» 2. Fireworks. Man, we loved to blow stuff up. My dad, working often in this area (Washington, DC), would travel back and forth from NC traversing Virginia, where fireworks were legal. My brothers and I would each have those purple and yellow velvet bags that came with Crown Royal bottles just waiting for my dad to come back home. We then filled them up with all manner of black cats, moon travelers, the big pink ground blossoms, and smoke bombs. I remember clutching my purple bag as if my life depended on it. The smell of raw sulfur sticks in my mind – as well as the frequent rebukes received for leaving circular black burns on the driveway. I also vividly remember trying to use these fireworks in concert with the dam building activities from #1.

Yep. At age eleven I was experienced with the BiC lighter, and carried one on my person. This is the sort of thing most touchyfeely parents these days would flip about; It’s worth noting, however, that we only set the lawn on fire once.

» 3. Legos! I never played with GI Joe or He-Man stuff that much, though I had tons of it… I was a devout Lego kid. Man, I had so many damned Legos. I had two big red plastic lego suitcases full. I used to build planes a lot – not many fighters, but often huge bombers. I remember spending hours trying to perfect a system of retractable landing gear for my blocky rendition of a B-52, never quite getting the desired functionality. I also ran a whole series of semi-scientific parachute tests, trying to build the perfect landing craft that would, theoretically at least, spare the tiny yellow-headed test pilot (poor bastard!) any serious harm. The results were often catastrophically disappointing.

» 4. Cherry Fig Newtons, Frankenberry, Nestlé Cherry Yogurt, and Chicken Tikka.

Cherry Newtons were awesome, but they didn’t stay on the market very long. They were instead replaced with Raspberry Newtons, which will do in a pinch.

Frankenberry—well, you can still come by that in the occasional store, but last time I had it, it wasn’t nearly as good as it was when I was 10.

Nestlé cherry yogurt was something I used to eat in Egypt. The commissary supplied to we gubment types was bare bones, and they imported a lot of stuff from Germany, like milk and bread and such. The yogurt was absolutely the best when had with a handful of Ritz crackers. None of the yogurt you get here in the states could even touch this stuff.

Chicken Tikka was an indian fast food joint in Egypt that absolutely kicked ass. Pouri bread, french fries, and half a chicken, tikka style for less than 5 bucks. Other kids went nuts when Pizza Hut came to Egypt, but I was a die hard Tikka Fanatic.

» 5. The Breadth of the World. Moving from an idyllic if sheltered place to a country thousands of miles and many cultures removed was a shock to the system, with most of the damage done to my simple notion of the size of the world in which I lived. It’s not that I miss living in such a culturally sequestered place–actually, I don’t really like the south that much–but I suppose everything seemed easier, and answers more tangible when I had no idea what the words global or politics or global politics meant. The hard thing to figure out is this: Was it me leaving the states, or perhaps just the change of scope that comes with age that makes me reminisce about a simpler time? The only thing that is certain, it seems, is that I can never go back—but I suppose that’s the linchpin to any nostalgic bleat. ◊

Note: I think the other demand of this "Meme" (euugh!) was to inflict it on someone else. I think I'll beg off of that, TYVM. ;)

I’m Officially a Circus Freak.

Everyone has something they can do with their body that sets them apart; for instance, I can extend my middle finger at right-angles with my index and ring fingers – something that comes in quite handy for those tight moments in traffic. A couple of times, in fact, I have unfolded my digital wrath on people only to have them look on in amazement for a split second before realizing I am not, indeed, saluting their impeccable driving skills.

My Wierd Fanger.

In my estimation, special talents such as this tend to be discovered in grade school, thoroughly exploited in middle and high school, and only brought out thereafter to win the occasional bar bet. Sounds about right, yeah? I thought so too. Until today.

Yes, lately I’ve been (slowly) getting over a raging cold that has been plaguing every napkin, roll of tp and paper towel within my reach. After about 2 weeks of headswimming swervation and impaired taste, I think I have the upper hand. Captain Loogey is not going down with a fight, however, and as a last gift he's left a stubborn contingent of crudbubbles camped in my ear (uhh?) tubes.

Long story short: this morning, while trying to look busy (not asleep) at my desk, I enlisted my sole weapon against this pleghmmy menace. Holding my nose and closing my lips, I exhaled briskly in an attempt to equalize the blinding pressure in my head. Suddenly, I heard an extraneous gurgle, and felt a burst of air on my eyeball.

Weird as all get out, right? I have seen this before, but only on a very odd guy named Ruvan who also used to shoot himself with a BB gun for laughs. I really thought Vinh was in a class of his own. But no.

Apparently I have, all the sudden mind you, an “Incompetent Rosenmüller's Valve” in my right eye, and its really kinda ooogin’ me out.

Like I said: I am officially a circus freak. ◊

Tour von Deutschland?

Karlsruhe, Germany.

This year, the Tour de France ambles across what was once the much contested Franco-German border, to a small town called Strasbourg. For me, this provokes nostalgia—I spent a week in Strasbourg when I was 16, and remember my time there fondly. Funny bit was, as it is situated practically on the border (The Rhine), it was quite hard to tell if you were in Zie Fatherland or in Gaul, especially after a couple of Kronenbourgs.

The same stage then turns north from Strasbourg, ending finally in a town called Karlsruhe. Now, Karlsruhe is interesting, because in the 80’s and 90’s, it had a reputation for being pro-American and a favorite destination for the less than saintly American military personnel stationed in Germany, and the kids of vacationing diplomats (me). In fact, the entire stretch between Kaiserslautern and Karlsruhe was often called ‘Little America’ in those days. What a place.

Right now I am hoping against hope that the tour will swing through K-town and onto Kaiserstraße—I just gotta see the place where I barfed on my shoes. ◊

Vive Le Tour!

Attaque!

Any normal month, I like to eschew all things French; having met quite a few Frenchmen in my travels, I can without hesitation say that the stereotype is not, as most tend to be, far off the mark. In fact, I am reading a voluminous book at the moment titled An Army at Dawn: The War in North Africa, 1942-1943, which does very little to mitigate my preconception about French equivocation and self-aggrandizing silliness… One word: Vichy.

Sacré bleu!  C'est Juillet!

Lance riding into the Champs Elysees in 2004. (source:trek.jp)

All my prejudices notwithstanding, it is July. This means that for the fifth year running I will spend my evenings glued to the boob tube, watching the Tour de France with as-yet untempered fascination. In my nascent fanhood, I’ve spent some time delving into the history of the Tour, and as far as athleticism, the human spirit and tradition go, it really is second to none.

The thing that makes my ritual so bizarre is this: I never did more than the average kid’s amount of bike riding when I was young — I never even owned a 10-speed, but for some reason, I am anually transfixed by the constitution and raw willpower displayed by these guys in lycra. No shit, it is a mystery even to me.

This year’s tour is shaping up great; there are some awesome looking stages with climbs that make last year's L’Alpe d’Huez look like a speedbump. The gang’s all here: Basso, Ullrich, Hincapie, Voeckler, and of course, Lance. A lot of the gambling houses in London and Vegas are giving it to Team Discovery and Lance already, but I have a sneaking suspicion that it might be a close one — a nailbiter all the way to Paris.

David Zabriskie finishes +1:26 following a nasty fall. Until his mishap, Team CSC lead Team Discovery at every split in the stage. (source:upi)

Of course, I can rank my biases as any fan might:

Sentimental: Lance Armstrong (Take that, frenchy!), Jan Ullrich. He's a mensch, though apparently he likes to rave a lot in the off season – the talking heads don't give him much more time before he retires unfulfilled. Team: Formerly USPS, now Discovery Channel. Countrymen: George Hincapie, Levi Leipheimer, Floyd Landis.

I was really rooting for that Zabriskie fellow, though today’s crash within 2k of the line was really one of those stunning moments that illustrates just how unforgiving the competition can be, and how much skill it requires to do what these guys do. Late word is that he broke a couple of ribs and may not be able to continue, which is a shame. I saw his post-stage interview with the OLN guy yesterday, and for some reason, I don’t think its the last I’ll see of him in the maillot jaune.

Not to give a free plug to a channel that is whorish enough already, but the great TdF coverage by the Outdoor Life Network airs live at 8:30am every race day, with an in-depth replay and extended coverage at 8:30pm every night.

Be careful, though; it hooked me in one short month. I fear that five years hence I’ll be the guy with the cigar and beercan helmet, running alongside the peloton, waving the stars and stripes. ◊

Feliz Dia de Los Papas

Well, I know I had fun reliving for oh, the tenth year in a row, the story of The Problematic Garden™, the Big Pickle, and me.

I was about four, you see, and after a string of tough, fruitless growing seasons, my dad had one viable candidate; his goal of producing a watermelon finally seemed within reach.

“You walked up the steps to the back door, knocked with your little hand, and, holding the watermelon against your chest, said with the biggest grin on your face, 'Daddy, look at the big pickle!'”.

I guess some things are worth never living down.

Happy Father's Day, to all you dogs with puppies. ◊

Like Our Oldun's Known

Good ol' Bobby D. (of the minnesota Zimmermans) gave an interview that re-aired on Sunday's episode of 60 Minutes (originally broadcast in 2004). If you missed it the first time, or the second, here’s a quick précis:

“Ab dinna write [my good songs]—abbujist [possessed] byda majic see. (garbled) Immade a deal with (brushed lavalier static) da unseen guy and such. Iwa born with the wrong name. Ima rilly a Dylan.”

Good to see he is still barely intelligible, and in no real control of his neck muscles. I wouldn’t have my folk messiahs any other way. ◊

Meme Killers Anonymous

Hello, my name is Josh, and I like to kill internet memes.

I have seen these things all over, and I usually never read them — I mean, come on, I can handle people writing about the pickle stem they found in their tuna sandwich at lunchtime, but I feel this is even more ridiculous than that. I apologize in advance for being such a stick in the mud, but these "Memes" really provoke a mild sense of indignation in me, similar to any time I have to listen to Dick Cheney's voice. Not much difference between this and a chain letter, if you think about it; add to that the fact that it is a sacharrin and somewhat forced misinterpretation of Memetics. Pardon me for being so literal, but sometimes the neologisms that are cooked up on the web are just silly.

Okay, I'm done bitching.

So, my buddy Bubs "tagged" me. Here I go:

1. If you could have one superpower, what would it be and why? (Assume you also get baseline superhero enhancements like moderately increased strength, endurance and agility.)

   The ability to control any appliance with my thoughts.

2. Which, if any, 'existing' superhero(es) do you fancy, and why?

   I don't really like the basic notion of the superhero archetype–it is far too Jungian and formulaic to me–but for sheer entertainment value, I would have to say Powdered Toast Man.

3. Which, if any, 'existing' superhero(es) do you hate?

   See #2.

4. What would your superhero name be? (No prefab porn-name formulas here, you have to make up the name you think you'd be proud to mask under.)

   WTF? Why do I have to wear a mask?

5. Is there an 'existing' superhero with whom you identify/whom you would like to be?

   Nope.

Thank me later; this "Meme" dies here. ◊

21st Century Digital Boi

I have officially forsaken POTS and gone to cell-only for all communications. I figure, screw it, I carry the cell everywhere anymore, and I got pretty damned tired of getting home to 5-10 messages featuring illiterate dopes trying to explain how I have just won a Fo'd Explo'a.

So here's to you, Verizon.

Kissin' my ass.

Guns and Brothers

I'm not a huge fan of guns, but I don't dismiss them as some sort of evil talisman either. I know a couple of people who a.) I call friends and b.) who do the whole gun thing, and besides secretly thinking that they are a little wacked and perhaps covering for some other subconcious deficiency, I don't give them too much hell about it.

My brother Stan has always been a bit of a “scrappy fellow”; exactly the kind of guy you want over your shoulder in a bar fight. Yes, I think he has always cultivated that sort of image, but truth be told, he is a very good man in every sense of the word: a good father, a good brother, and, as it happens, a good cop.

Being that I spent a good portion of my twenties ensconced in an artifactual social group – the “modern hippies” – I always felt a sort of wry satisfaction when I got to tell an assembled group of pseudo-intellectuals that my brother was “a pig”. I always made sure to mention that he lived 1500 miles away, so as not to be labeled a “narc”, which would surely cost me any measure of appeal I had to the hippy chicks; lord knows I needed all the help I could get.

Well, I can happily say that those days have passed, but my brother is still a cop. Yes, at family gatherings we still drink lots of beer together and laugh about the fact that I am a “computer dork” and he is a “pork product of some nature”.

Which is what makes this picture so amusing to me. Anyone else might see a guy with a bigassed shotgun; I see my big brother. ◊

An Anecdote

Q: You're about to have a huge wedding when you get cold feet. What's your strategy for evading all obligations?

A: This is one of those lose-lose situations. I mean, come on -- you have to commiserate with that poor woman -- she was about to marry frankenstein.

This whole thing reminds me of a conversation I had with a good friend -- one I will never forget, even though it was fueled by, ahem. . . "scheduled" substances. Bear with me, there is method to my madness.

We were in college at the time, and the apartment, occupied by three smokers, was on the third floor. This particular winter had been snowy one, and, not being completely unrefined, smoking cigarettes was disallowed inside the house.

The ground was covered with snow for practically all three months of winter, and as I had previously mentioned, we were not completely refined in our habits either; needless to say, when the snow finally melted, the little patch of grass below the balcony was nearly carpeted with cigarette butts.

After this alarming reality settled in, my friend (currently a practicing lawyer) said in a clear, purposeful tone (as is his wont): "I have a plan."

"What we do", he continued, "is simple. First, we mount a harassment campaign on the neighbors living below on the first floor. Every night for two weeks, we stealthily egg their door. Then, as if we were 'actually' madmen, we kidnap their deck furniture, leaving photos and notes threatening to irreparably stain the cushions if they consult the authorities. After a month of this, they will have had enough, and will most certainly choose to move out." he said. "That is when we make our move."

Intrigued, I begged him to continue.

"Then, in the few days between the time they move out and the arrival of the landlord to complete the final inspection, we carefully stage the crime scene. Haphazard placement of upturned ashtrays on their patio is key, perhaps coupled with dozens of empty, weathered cigarette boxes. The perfect crime."

Ya know, to be honest, it seemed like a good idea -- At the time.