$4 Latte

Food Service, LOL

2011-08-20T14:02:00.000-07:00

Inspired by the latest feature in The Stranger while sipping an iced mocha this morning, I couldn't help but wander off in thought about my one and only job in a kitchen; an upscale retirement comm...oh excuse me, "assisted living facility" back in ye olde New Hampshire. It's from a time in my life I don't generally look back too fondly on, during my days as a lazy stoner later on in high school; my athletic days already long gone thanks to countless injuries and the crushing realization that I'm simply too fucking small to play damn near anything competitively.

After hopping around between a few different part-time, after-school jobs in the area, this particular establishment, with a geographic location basically straddling the line of division between the two main school districts in the area seemed to have a complete overhaul in part-time staff between kids mostly from "that other district" to the ones in ours, so the recruitment process in the halls during school came hard and fast seemingly overnight. Since the facility only really served one true "course" (dinner), the needed hours for staffing to carry this out was perfect for local teenage dipshits to fill. Supposedly the best job was to be a server, and being the dumbass I am, I waited WAYYYY too long to pick up an application and was greeted with only two choices; prep cook, or dishwasher. Even though a prep cook would make more money, they also had to work longer hours, and I already had a cushy gig putting in a couple hours a day as an office "assistant" ("bitch" is more like it) at my sister's office, somehow earning $10/hr just waiting around to do menial tasks. So, dishwasher it was.

As you would imagine, it sucked, but the hours were incredibly flexible, and because literally everyone around me was a classmate, the time flew by. An already simple three-hour shift felt less than an hour, as in between every scrubbed pan were several moments of general teenage tomfoolery. I honestly could've stretched this dishwasher gig out for several months; it was easy, it certainly wasn't a career path, and at least it helped keep me busy during the school week.

Only a month into it though, one of the prep cooks quit, and the chef, a somehat goofy looking, 40-something year old who just had the essence of a man who goes home and gets berated by his wife for several hours before bedtime asked if I could take the now open position. I didn't want the gig, but I was so flattered that he bypassed the entire service staff and asked ME, one of the guys breaking more plates in the washroom than actually cleaning them, for it. Without thinking, I just blinked and said "yes". Shit.

I had to quit my easy office bitch job because my new shift started literally ten minutes after last period at school, and I was immediately thrown into the fire of: chopping. Endless, tedious, soul-sucking chopping of vegetables and whatever else was laid out. What made it worse was that the other prep cook was a college dropout from bumfuck nowhere with the personality of a doorknob, and my fellow classmates in the service staff and elsewhere in the kitchen wouldn't arrive nightly for another few hours. So, just me, and the college dropout doorknob in the back of the kitchen, going Jeffrey Dahmer (minus the eating) on various foodstuffs. During the actual dinner service we'd emerge with the other line cooks and at least be at the front of the line to serve plates and chat, but then towards the end it was back to the chopping; this time prepping for tomorrow's breakfast or whatever.

I found out quickly that the college dropout doorknob was also relatively new, so our sentence of endless chopping was mostly a training period to see if we could...chop things, I guess. It was only a week of this hell before the chef then also tasked us with making soups, some desserts, and other dishes. We still had to chop the living fuck out of everything though, so the first couple hours of every shift went from mindless vegetable slicing to "SUPERFAST FUCK CHOPCHOPCHOP" then actual cooking. This was essentially my after-school life for about a full year. And, while I had to make every soup known to man at least ten times over, I can't remember a single fucking recipe to pass along for the life of me.

But, as I'm sure anyone who has worked in a kitchen/restaurant can attest to, the actual environment is what you remember the most. If you haven't worked in one, let me break it down to you: it's an endless cycle of slow, FAST, slow, HOLY SHIT HURRY, quick, MOTHER OF FUCKING GOD SERVICE NOW, quick, SPEED OF LIGHT JESUS CHRIST, aaaand crash. Every night.

Oh, and there's lots of drugs, sex, and curse words. Every night.

Our chef was fairly normal, albeit a little "off" (again, I'm convinced his wife is the spawn of Satan so work is actually a refuge for him), but everyone else in that kitchen was a tinderbox of unreliability and questionable, often illegal, habits. One of our line cooks, named Greg, was arguably one of the biggest dealers on our side of the state, so he spent more time on the loading dock UNloading hash, pot, LSD, and other "goodies" to the underage service staff than actually at the front of the line. Another line cook (name I can't remember) was something of a loser in real life but was 21 and admittedly handsome, so aside from buying booze for anyone who would ask, I'm pretty sure his DNA is now a permanent fixture all over the walk-in where we normally kept salads because almost every 16-year old tart had at least one encounter with him in there. The other, other line cook, the oldest, named Frank, was a real nice guy. And a little hyper, but for good reason; I'm pretty sure the tallest point in SW New Hampshire was the mound of coke he snorted before every shift. It was also no wonder why he always "forgot something" in his truck every 30 minutes.

The real eye-opener though was how this trickled down onto the rest of the staff so quickly. Most of the service staff were females in my school, generally of the "preppy, I-wouldn't-have-thought-they-put-out" variety. Perhaps that's exactly what they were before they were hired, but holy hell, did they come out the other side smelling of cheap booze and regret. Aside from wild humps in the supply closet with Mr. 21 year old line cook, Greg was also certain that they became somewhat regular customers of his. When our eyes locked in the hallways at school, the unmistakable "please, do NOT tell anyone" written on their face was in bold, neon letters. I could only smirk and nod, as I could only imagine the horror if their fathers found out what their Abercrombie wearing, church-going daughter was doing while at fucking work. Let that sink in; this wasn't weekend shenanigans at so-and-so's house when the parents are away, pouding a few warm beers and maybe a hit or two...this was a Tuesday night, sex in one walk-in, snort a line in another, bang out a dinner service, steal a bottle of wine (our chef had allowed the 21 year old future sex offender to keep tabs on most of the inventory...bad idea), and then drive home for school the next day. Wash, rinse and repeat probably two days later.

When I quit, I quit hard. The long hours of prep cooking and watching promising young girls completely defile themselves, courtesy of Creepy Old Men With Drugs just...grossed me the fuck out. I only worked another three shifts into my two week notice, then just stopped showing up. My last day was actually a Friday night, and I ended up going home knowing I wouldn't go back and slept clear into Saturday evening. I remember then taking one of the longest showers of my life, and then a sobering realization hit me:

Wait, all I had to do was dangle some weed in front of those preppy, rich girls all this time? FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK

3+ Years and Counting...

2011-07-22T21:40:00.000-07:00

If you're anything like me (and if you are, you should seriously consider changing everything about yourself), occasionally you find yourself on a weekend night too tired to spend time with peers drinking and fucking the night away, but instead of being smart and deciding to go to bed, or read a damn book, you reflect on the inane minutiae around you. I managed to ignore a few text messages because I was too caught up pondering the essence of my desk lamp, but then it dawned on me; holy hell, I've somehow lived in this city for over three years. It feels like, one, at the most, but...damn.

I'm coping like most displaced east-coasters do out here; constantly telling yourself "hey, at least it's not snowing" while crying into your coffee as you look out the window to the see the umpteenth day of drizzle in a row. I bitch like most displaced east-coasters at the passive-aggressiveness of a native populace in Seattle that boldly claim to hold "liberal" values while harboring a surprising level of ignorance towards most minorities and failing miserably to enable enough light rail routes to steer us away from our evil, carbon-emitting automobiles. But, like most displaced east-coasters, I take solace in the abundance of Asian food, goofy shit sold in Capitol Hill boutiques, and the undeniable fact that, when the weather IS good, it is entirely impossible NOT to find something to do.

Have I learned anything? Found undeniable truths? Possibly; but I'm also coming to a larger understanding (which is hard to admit) that most likely, I came out here for the wrong reasons. I didn't run from anything, but I sure as shit never looked back as I sped westward, on some undefined journey under the misguided flag of "self-discovery". Sure, it's not fun to tread on the same ground, with the same friends at the same hangouts where the relationship with the love of your life sped off the freeway at 100mph and crashed into the ravine. But it wasn't her fault, and it wasn't mine, simply a case of "life happens".

Damn, really? There's no way I packed my shit and high-tailed it to the Pacific Northwest for that, right? Well, the fact is I can't think of any other specific reason. And, while I'm not literally beating myself up over this, I can't help but facepalm at the fact I've put significant distance and strain between family and friends for a reason I can't pinpoint. I'm okay here, but not nearly in love with the area enough to be fully satisfied and to make an honest effort to really make this place home. It's an odd state to find oneself where you feel that something is lacking, yet you're not nearly restless enough to light a fire under your ass and do something about it.

On the plus side, I have a better grasp of my own morals, my own beliefs, and my own existence because, let's face it; for 2/3 of the year here, you have to duck into a coffee shop to save yourself from a drenching, and do a lot of thinking. I'm very good at thinking...could improve on the follow-through of said thoughts and ideas, but goddamn I can drum up a thought bubble that could kick your thought bubble's ass. And, surprisingly, said thought bubbles are not just about sex and "shit, did I leave the gas light on?" I'm talking like...thoughts...here. Deep ones. Thoughts that can move mountains and dismantle Iran's nuclear program.

So, here's to you, Seattle, for being an "alright" city that makes me think a lot. You're a real pal.

Alexander Funnylastname

2010-06-27T18:44:00.000-07:00

One of the first books that I honestly fell in love with was Into The Wild, and this weekend I finally got around to watching the film adaptation directed by Sean Penn. Pretty good, I must say; certainly captured the spirit in which Christopher McCandless lived his intriguing life, and perhaps did an even better job than the book of (at the end of the film) portraying just the right amount of regret he probably had during his final breaths.

Of course, it made me think of the things I want to do; not necessarily the "things I want to do before I die" (generally a meaningless list) but the "things I need to do to find my own truth" (somewhat airy-fairy but still holds perceived meaning). Per usual, once I drifted off into thought I got distracted by the first shiny object and never completed the task. Now that I sit in front of the computer, I'm looking back at the important things I have done, and one particular event, a two and a half week odyssey in fact, seems to have provided me with most lasting value to this day.

"The Trip"

Four dudes, one shitty van, and the entire country of Canada in front of us...well, from Montreal westward, that is. Sorry, maritime provinces.

While some of the details I care not to explain, in part because of length required would take me all night to divulge, but also because, well, some of the experience I wish to keep my own, it still ranks as the best time of my life.

Many long to backpack through Europe, or trek through SE Asia (I certainly wouldn't mind doing either), yet this cheaper alternative provided four college students who couldn't legally drink in their own country a chance to explore a land not very different from their own, but at the same time still exciting and enchanting for the simple fact there were no rules, no itineraries, and no expectations...just driving, stopping when we so desired, and exploring. I have traveled abroad (like, over a fucking ocean and/or not in another largely English-speaking country) but it was different. For that, I had a schedule, and having a schedule means having a leash. For this...nothing. Just us, and whatever the fuck we felt like.

There was plenty of boozing, sexual encounters (some regrettable), and the like, but honestly all of that took a backseat to the wonders of the open road and the idea of being completely unchained to anything at the given time. Hell, two of those guys I'm no longer in contact with and the other I think is a raging douchebag these days, but it doesn't matter; we'll always be brothers for those 17 or so days, for the sheer amount of trouble we at times dance around, and for the immeasurable quantities of fun we had together.

For one, after getting back home once the trip was done for, I began to realize what I was capable of, and also what humanity in of itself can be. I can't even count the number of total strangers we encountered willing to buy us a beer and have a laugh with us (sometimes at our expense). In a dingy cowboy bar just outside of Calgary for instance, grown men who would make Sam Elliott and John Wayne look like Nancy boys regaled us with tales of love lost and other hardships of life, as if our mere presence automatically made us regulars at their watering hole. I really could go on all night, but you get the drift.

I would do a similar trip in a heartbeat, but it wouldn't be the same. While still a young guy, the weary roads we travel in every day life out in the real world can't help but make you grow cynical in some ways. My eyes aren't as open, and at times my mind seems to be padlocked. What made "the trip" so great was our youthful innocence and eagerness to trust anything and anyone that came in our path. Now, it's different; not necessarily worse, just different.

But I wouldn't mind trying.

Matzo and Flotilla Soup

2010-06-11T18:09:00.000-07:00

In the aftermath of the siege, any level-headed observer is left with the feeling that Israel seems quite content to cut off its nose to spite its face. While I certainly have no problem with the nation of Israel itself, or its very right to exist, the fact they can time and time again act and react with belligerence with our aid, essentially our weaponry (we certainly helped pay for them), and our de facto backing is highly disconcerting.

We've helped to prop up Israel largely on two fronts; one, the "realist" approach, for the sake of having a democratic ally in a generally not-so-democratic Middle East, and the other the "wacko Christian"; the babble from Christian Conservatives about the rapture and how Jesus ain't coming back unless the Jews have their homeland (of course, no politician with the second mindset ever says so publicly, but, we know). While spending any time delving into the latter approach makes my head hurt and lowers my IQ, the former becomes troubling if they routinely fuck up relations at a faster pace than we can try to save. The route taken to deliver humanitarian aid directly through the Gaza blockade was a direct provocation, no doubt, but one that a military as modern and well trained as the Israelis should stop with no problem whatsoever. Yet magically, 9 people ended up dead, and now perhaps the only Muslim ally the Israelis had, Turkey, is rightfully pissed. Well done. And, of course, is there a shred of remorse from our own Middle Eastern, non-Muslim ally? Nein.

Is Israel bad? No; the country is a bastion of economic activity and scientific development in a region that otherwise lacks both, and generally promotes liberal social customs in a region that, surprise, generally lacks that as well. Outside of probably only Turkey, try being an openly gay atheist, for instance, elsewhere in the region and see how long you can last before being burned at the stake. Hell, several parts of America are backwards compared to Israel and their general tolerance and acceptance towards different lifestyles. Throw in the fact that both Hamas and Hezbollah are retards, and you can see why it's easy for the pro-capitalist, democratic American to throw their weight behind the Israeli cause and support them dutifully.

The problem is that, while perhaps on a more "dignified, Western-like" level, the Israelis are just as unwilling to accept the terms of peace that we try to set for the region. I'm bothered by this because, well, my tax dollars aren't arming the 12-year old Palestinian boy who might chuck a rock at frustration towards an IDF soldier, but instead helps pay for the IDF tank that may very well just run over said 12-year old boy and say "oops" after. My tax dollars helped pay for the use of white phosphorous that was used against ("accidentally", of course) Gaza civilians. And, my tax dollars helped arm the IDF soldiers that shot up those aboard the flotilla. Ignore the obvious moral issues for a second; we provide direct monetary assistance for this. Who gives a shit if we reprimand them after, we've given them a blank check. What does that mean? Every disenfranchised Palestinian is seeing little American flags on everything Israel does to them. If that doesn't bother you, I'm not sure what will.

Forget the Gaza blockade, as stupid and useless as it has been (all it does is cause further hatred to develop since many supplies can still be funneled through Egypt anyway). Forget the illegal settlements, further proof that there is a legitimate hardline Israeli contingent that really doesn't give a flying fuck about a two-state future. Forget everything else...and just let this sink in:

We. Are. Allowing. This.

We've allowed the Israelis to develop a nuclear program without putting an ounce of pressure on them to sign the Nuclear Non-Proliferation Treaty, and somehow think we have a leg to stand on to demand Iran and other bad boys in the region to comply. I can state other glaring problems, but my head is starting to spin. If, heaven forbid, the Middle East becomes the smoldering pile it very well could, we can largely thank ourselves for doing a shitty job of keeping our non-Muslim ally in check. At this point, I don't even blame Israel for anything anymore. We're a bad parent who has raised a spoiled, entitled kid and it's too far gone to reign him in.

I can't state it enough; most Israelis are great people, and the nation itself stands for many good things...but Palestinians are largely good people too, and because of our insistence on being pro-Israel first and foremost on everything, I don't know what future that region has that would allow for anything resulting in "peace" if the country with the best and most aggressive military thinks it can do no wrong, and we're too blind to ask them, just once, to chill the fuck out.

Closure

2010-06-03T21:06:00.001-07:00

There is something indefinitely fulfilling in reaching inside yourself and finding something broken, and being able to mend it back together in a way that years ago you assumed to be impossible. There is also something about this which almost strikes you as embarrassing, as if you had waited for so long for nothing, simply out of fear. Regret is a powerful thing, made moreso when you realize what kept you from coming to terms with "it" was being afraid of your own shadow.

I made a giant step in the right direction last weekend, taking advantage of the Memorial Day weekend to plug an old leaky hole that had been letting a drip go on for way too long, and the fact it only took a few hours out of my day to come to an understanding, and to find peace, told me more about myself than most of the experiences I've had in the 20-some odd years of my existence. What I'm afraid of most, perhaps of all, is letting go of things that no matter how awful they might be, largely made me who I am today. The caring, thoughtful person I strive to be today (and to an extent I certainly am) stems in large part from my adolescence as a selfish prick, longing for a quick fix at every turn and displaying a general lack of empathy for everything and everyone around me. I wasn't a bad kid; I almost always obeyed orders, was polite and at times even outright demure, but at the end of the day my own well-being came so far out in front of others in terms of importance that I made a continual habit of missing the forest for the trees.

And then, things changed. Cemeteries began filling up with gravestones of those I knew, and I managed to find ways to let down other loved ones in my life. While these events would prove to be traumatic for anyone, the cross I carried from then on was mostly self-designed. I took these tragedies personal (some deserved, most however not so), made them a part of my being, and essentially lived my life as an act of pity. I was at fault for everything, and a complete change in who I was, and how I viewed the world around me, was in order.

To be fair, NONE of this is as nearly dark as it sounds. I still had fun, still drank, still fucked, and otherwise from the surface lived the life of a normal young adult with hormones and a penchant for deriving pleasure. Yet, inside there was something burning that told me to be a certain someone; be someone who loved unconditionally, and be someone who would never betray. Not out of an honest appreciation for my fellow man, but because of sheer guilt.

What I'm learning now is I don't need an excuse or some inner driving force to command my emotions. I can love simply for the sake of loving. Perhaps I've been doing such all along, I just convinced myself there must have been some other power. There is none. Only me.

And I like that.

The Break-up Dance

2010-02-18T19:58:00.000-08:00

Years ago, in a non-descript diner having lunch with a girl in a boring suburb of Boston, I play with my clam chowder. It tastes good; after all if you're going to order a cup of clam chowder you best do it in New England (fuck Manhattan), yet I'm not really hungry. I mean, I kind of am, I hadn't eaten all day, but I just don't feel like eating. I make these cute little maneuvers with my spoon, twirling pieces of clam up against the oyster crackers I unceremoniously dumped into the bowl minutes prior, and I'm sure a couple times I've accidently toppled a little clam nugget over the edge of the cup and either onto the table or the floor. I really don't care, it's a diner. I don't even remember, nor care, what she ordered. I'm too fixated on pretending I'm that interested in the ingredients in my clam chowder that I must twirl my spoon endlessly to identify each morsel..."oh look, a piece of potato"...

We're about to break up. That much is inevitable and hanging over our table like a storm cloud. Why the hell could we not have done this over the phone, or at least in person without having to enter a dining establishment and placing orders which means we owe money afterward? Eventually, I fuck up my graceful spoon-twirling and said spoon careens out the cup and slides over the table, shattering the awkward yet predictable silence.

"We have to talk..." she starts.

I know.

The act of "breaking up" can incite many different emotions, but by this point it's happened enough in my life that it's become yet another predictable song-and-dance that I consider among many of life's other monotonous activities; the brushing of teeth, the wiping of your ass after a shit...yet the one potentially awkward variable is that while I know how I'll manage, you're never quite sure how the other party will. Even when it's largely their idea to end the relationship and move on with their life, sometimes they actually seem to take it the hardest. Some people just don't respond well to cutting ties with not necessarily the former romantic partner, but the actual entity of a romantic relationship. The emotional investment in something is now kaput, and all that time can be viewed as a total waste and utterly regrettable. Or, while they've grown sick of their former partner or just feel they've "grown apart", the idea of no longer having that romantic figure (again, not the actual individual) in their lives for the short term makes them feel lonely or incomplete.

Personally? For the most part, meh. Sure, some girls have gotten away that I wish I made more of an effort to please or at least not have been such a dumbass towards, but ultimately I'm not a "chaser". If you don't want to be with me, I don't feel angry or defeated, and I certainly don't want to continue something that you're already looking beyond. I have many faults, but I have plenty of strengths as well, and if said strengths aren't what you want or the faults just outweigh them in your mind, hey, that's cool. No hard feelings. Best of luck.

The problem is, that attitude can look rather cavalier and, well, uncaring to some, which is why I tag along to the diner in a boring suburb and play with my clam chowder as if I'm "avoiding some calamitous and trying emotional event about to ensue." It's probably not even convincing by this point, but I pretend to myself it is. I never want the girl to think I can get over her so quickly, as if I never loved her in the first place...I did (or still do). I also don't want to come off like some bitter douche who's first move after our "break up lunch" is to call one of her best friends for a hook up. Most of the time, it seems, it's best to play it off like I usually do; cautious, pensive, remorseful yet strong.

Is it a total act? Not really, many of those feelings are real yet my natural mannerisms don't always translate them well. Again, I'm more afraid/worried/flat out unsure of just how SHE will react, and the cautious-pensive-remorseful-yet strong routine generally conveys the safest array of feelings to ensure the least volatile or awkward reaction to the break-up talk. She can walk away feeling "I do think he really loved me, but I think we'll all be okay".

Perhaps all of this largely stems from the fact that I generally don't care if I "win" in most tense or dramatic situations. Arguments happen, but as long as I state my case I don't need to have the last word. Break-ups certainly happen, and again, I don't feel it's important to slay the victim with a jab about any perceived faults in the bedroom or other shit, real or imagined, that I "put up with" during our relationship. It's over, who cares.

I could go for some clam chowder, though.

Is That It?

2009-11-18T20:27:00.000-08:00

Apparently NME magazine feels Is This It, the 2001 debut album from those posh NYC hipsters (yes, "posh hipsters" is the best way to describe them) The Strokes is the "best album of this decade".

I'll be honest; I really don't have the energy to vehemently disagree or at least counter with my own suggestion. There has been a lot of good music in this decade if you've been willing to look, and while I was never a huge fan of these guys, I originally welcomed the wave of adulation they received with the incessantly catchy (albeit musically simple and wildly overplayed) single "Last Night". Terrestrial radio up to that point had become swarmed with the likes of Limp Bizkit and Kid Rock, and I certainly didn't mind these "five rich kids who listened to way too much Velvet Underground growing up" taking some of the former's commercial oxygen.

That said, what "impact" have The Strokes really left? Their albums since commercially have sold well, although I haven't paid much attention to them. The same kids who embraced their style at the beginning of this decade; vintage rock t-shirts and Chuck Taylors, are now in the workforce and are probably too busy with Real Life Shit (™) to spend hours each weekend at thrift stores to don themselves with the appropriate apparel while nodding along to the cheeky lyrics of late-night shenanigans in Hipster Paradise by Julian "even my real name has its own fashion identity" Casablancas. Interpol, another NYC band from a similar cloth (but different sound) is still chugging away, but they too no longer carry the aura they once did back at the dawn of the 2000s.

Worse yet, neither band's music, in of itself, is terribly memorable. Is it good? Sure, but ultimately disposable. I brought it upon myself a couple years ago to obtain and listen to the entire catalogs of both bands as well as from others, such as British imports The Libertines, and others in that same ilk, and as much as I tried...I couldn't find anything meaningful.

So there we go. The "album of the decade" is nothing more than a promising debut from guys who idolized Lou Reed, yet aren't Lou Reed, and even two albums later their most profound lyrical statement is, essentially, "dating in NYC is hard". Sweet.

The "Monsters" Among Us

2009-10-06T20:40:00.000-07:00

I caught a piece of some WW2 documentary recently late at night, mere moments before I went off to bed. A former Soviet prisoner, a captured Red Army grunt who had an unpleasant stay at one of the concentration camps barking out something which sounded awful (Russian is not exactly a "sexy" language to being with), which the subtitles translated to something to the effect of "Those Nazis...they were monsters. What they did to us (I assumed "us" meant fellow captured Soviets), and those people...". He was asked a follow question regarding what he thinks of the Holocaust, and basically repeated the same thing.

Any snarky comments aside about the not-so-humane treatment Soviets treated the POWs they got their hands on, I found the comment...odd. I can only imagine the hell he went through, and surely he has every right to make disparaging comments towards his captors, but to sum up the most tragic event in the 20th century as being perpetrated by "monsters" is too easy. It's convenient and narrow-minded.

The same fire-from-the-hip analysis we give when news of a captured serial killer hits the airwaves, and we him or her arraigned in court for the first time and say to ourselves "what a monster" isn't easily translated to a mass murder of the magnitude we saw in during WW2, is it? When so many individuals are complicit in an atrocity of the highest order, and your brain flickers like a bad spark plug trying to rationalize the "why", and you simply utter "monsters", are you satisfied? Probably not, but many still do it. Genocide is ugly and terrible, but it must be carried out by several, so were they all just "monsters?" When does one become a "monster"? Is it at birth? Is there a switch that turns on when a group of "monsters" who have been suppressing their maniacal and perverse view on humanity in the name of morality suddenly get together? We seem just fine brandishing them as "monsters", which really means "not human", so you tell me.

The psychology of groupthink, realities of economic and social disparity, and anything else one can throw out to explain the worst in human behavior has been well documented and explained time and time again, and it's a discussion perhaps best saved for those who want to spend the next several hours all coming to the same conclusion I can wrap up in a sentence; these things happen because we're human. Doesn't mean these behaviors should be excused or condoned, and the sanctity of human life should be protected most of all, but the answer sadly lies in the mirror.

The "monsters" are us.

All Aboard

2009-09-26T20:34:00.000-07:00

The roommates and I, inexplicably it seems, had a rousing conversation the other night about "running the train". No idea how it started, or even how it ended (we were drunk) but I do recall laughing my ass off when one of our friends who was also over our place, who had not taken part in the discussion during its initial moments blurted out innocently something along the lines of "hell naw, that shit never happens."

Oh yes, yes it does, my friend.

Without any further ado, here goes my favorite "A party crashed by train-runners" story, witnessed hilariously (and perhaps unfortunately, given the really random circumstances of it) by me.

Rewind to Junior year in college. My then roommates and I throw a bit of a party at our apartment on a rather "meh" Friday night. Around 15 other people show up by 10pm, and nothing crazy or particularly monumental happens over the course of the first hour over the sound of ping pong balls careening helplessly across the kitchen thanks to errant shots at the beirut table. Then, four people just walk in our place (a girl and three dudes), and while it wasn't like a scene from the movies where the record skips and all attention is drawn to them, as the four slowly make their way through our living room, one-by-one heads turn and the occasional "who are they?" whisper floats through the air. I notice them right away myself, but I'm not alarmed...while I have no clue who the fuck they are, and it's obvious no one here invited them, they did bring their own booze and, hey, it's college; perhaps the only four years where brazenly walking into a party uninvited is more or less acceptable.

They plop on our couch and while they made little effort initially to introduce themselves to anyone, they seemed perfectly pleasant when I took it upon myself to say "hi", and at that point the largest of the men, while never even saying his name, just hands me a beer and smiles. Nowadays, you walk uninvited into my place at anytime and I'm going to want a verbal explanation, but again, this is during college; where the mere "gift of alcohol" is something akin to major powers brokering a peace treaty. Further attempts to chat them up a little (or, in other words, find out a goddamn name our two at least) go basically nowhere, so I just leave them be.

I completely forget about them, and seemingly so did everyone else since almost all of us where huddled around the kitchen, and after another hour or so I turn back towards our living room to say hi again to my "new friends...sort of" only to find their 30-rack on the table. "The fuck? They just left their beer and took off? SWEET!" While alcohol was a-plenty otherwise, we all dive in like vultures, or at least I did so more like a hyena since I was giggling maniacally (I'd been pregaming since 8pm and was well on my way towards Plasteredville) and pounded a few down without a second thought. Party continues, a few more people come and go, but at least we know THESE newcomers, and all is well.

Fast-forward to sometime around 2:00am. The party is starting to wind down, partly because of one my roommate's declaration that he had to work in the morning. I'm contemplating spending the night in my own bed or calling up the girl I was kinda/sorta seeing at the time, and doing so standing in the middle of our short hallway, when I feel a blast of air coming from behind me, and upon turning around, guess who I see leaving my roommate's bedroom?

I imagine because of the alcohol I had consumed, I thought nothing weird whatsoever about the four strangers leaving my roommate's bedroom at such a time. I actually apologized, for fuck's sake, about thinking they had left for good and drinking their beer, and was still a good few minutes away from understanding the shit-eating grin on all three of the guy's faces when they each told me "no problem, man". The girl, still without saying a single word to me, or anyone throughout the whole night, ducked into our bathroom for some time before finally meeting her three...whatevers....at our door and leaving...like for real, this time. The actual roommate in question, whose bedroom was "used", was still fucking around in the kitchen and never saw them exit, and briefly blamed me for the fact his bedroom door was wide open and the light was on. He had less to drink than I did that night, so you can imagine his lack of haste and understanding when I tried to explain to him it was "those" four who apparently were in there the whole time.

Just a couple minutes later, while in our bathroom myself, I hear said roommate exclaim "WHAT...THE....FUCK!!!" I run out, and he's standing by his bed with a look of horror, pointing to the floor.

Rubbers. Lots of them. Just scattered.

Used rubbers, by the way, in case I'd failed to set up the scene I was too drunk to interpret at the time. Lots of them. Just scattered.

By now, for me, it had finally come together, and I laughed like hell. My roommate looked like he wanted to punch me, but even he himself began to laugh. The other two roommates who had just gone to bed heard the commotion and were just stumbling out of their rooms, to find us two laughing, one of us pointing to a mass grave of used rubbers at floor of his bed.

I wasn't even disgusted (the fact it wasn't MY bed helped), just, amused and somewhat flabbergasted. Seriously...who just picks a random apartment, then goes into a random bedroom, and then initiates THIS of all things? Really? Is it supposed to add an element of danger or some shit?

I never saw those four again around campus...not that I spent my last three semesters of college actively looking for them or anything, but a part of me wanted to track down one of those guys (I doubt the female would talk about it) and be like, "I'm not mad, but, just, WHY?"

And in case any superheroes want to assume the worst about the situation, I can remember clearly the girl being just fine and sober both when entering and upon leaving...so, yeah, it was voluntary alright.

Why they picked our joint, no idea.

Oontz oontz oontz oontz

2009-09-05T16:05:00.000-07:00

Been on an electronica kick recently, and I'm not terribly sure why. I went through a phase when I was about 18-19 years old listening to all kinds of stuff by Underworld, Orbital and others almost around the clock, but stopped and had only intermittently listened to it since...until about last month.

I bought Daft Punk's Alive a couple years ago but almost never listened to it. During a road trip recently, I gave it a spin, only to do it again, and again...hell, the entire 6 hours on the way there was a constant barrage of the French duo's live beats emanating from my vehicle on the interstate. I remember the big fuss about the Alive tour back in either '06 or '07 but the actual album cuts I had heard from them never really moved me (I thought it was decent but not "HOLY SHIT I MUST SEE THIS GROUP" material). Back in 2001 one of my high school friends was all about them when they first got big, but I was still in my alt-rock phase and was pretty indifferent to what they were doing at the time.

That said, Alive is a very good live compilation because Daft Punk was smart enough to do track mash-ups, which is a must for any electronica/house group. Rock groups and other musicians unfortunately get a pass for going onstage and usually playing songs exactly the same fucking way they're played on the album, all in front of fans who have paid God-knows-what to see them. Because DJ's are usually hidden behind their gadgets and whatever light show emanates behind them, for them especially it's imperative to do something a little different onstage for the paying audience. They can't just put their guitar behind their head and adlib a solo in full view of everyone, because they don't have fucking guitars. They can't interact with the audience by stating "I wrote this song about..." because people who would see a Daft Punk don't give a shit and just want to dance. The whole "heard and barely seen" aura of electronica groups in concert puts a real emphasis on the actual sonic output, and for that I give them a lot of respect. REM could go on stage, play random folk music on ukuleles for two hours and Michael Stipe could go on random political outbursts and I'd bet every single person would leave the arena thinking "BEST SHOW EVER, MAN". What, they didn't play "What's the Frequency Kenneth?" Who cares, Michael "interacted" with us, yo!....bands who actually play instruments and say stuff are elevated to such levels by their fans, that I don't think said fans would know when they've been had (I think REM is fucking amazing, btw).

I still personally prefer "rock" to electronica, but I give electronica groups more credit since they have to take the stage, and figuratively fire automatic weapons into the crowd and make them dance and have a good time. Your token rock band gets to play in front of thousands who have probably memorized all of their lyrics and bought into whatever image they've projected, and are generally mindless drones marching on the orders of their dear leader, Mr. or Ms. "Really deep songwriter". Big difference.

Music Rant # 3,455 (b)

2009-07-12T00:01:00.000-07:00

A couple days ago while mindlessly touring social networking sites and perusing the updates of people I only pretend to care about, an old friend dedicated a "status message" to the wonders of Jeff Buckley, and in the comments section was having a back and forth with someone I didn't know about whether or not he was an overrated musician only receiving praise "for dying young".

Like many, I find his cover of Leonard Cohen's "Hallelujah" breathtaking, but after giving myself several opportunities to enjoy his debut album Grace, and several other scattered tracks, I just never "got it".

To me, Buckley was an attractive dude with average guitar-playing ability and songwriting skills. The only real "eye-opener" (unless you're a female and a sucker for emotional singer-songwriter rocker boys) was his singing; or...well, his vocal range in particular. As a pure singer, even after a million takes and production magic in the recording studio, his voice is unpolished and lacks control, often warbling in unpredictable (which isn't bad in of itself) and needless directions. You can't knock his range and unrestrained power, however, as at times he could make Mariah Carey and Freddy Mercury look pedestrian...but whether it was youth, arrogance, or perhaps a combination of both, he just couldn't harness it for my liking.

The guy could play, I'll give him that. If he were still around today even with the same musical capabilities (which is of a fairly talented person still unsure of how to channel his strengths), I'd see a show if he were playing nearby. That said, while I'd never intentionally poke the eye of a diehard fan with a stick to stroke my e-peen in some useless internet spitfest, I do put myself in the "he's glorified too much because he died" camp. He left behind only enough music to show he had potential, but even then that potential, from what I can honestly gather, was of "a dude who someday could REALLY know how to sing". The actual music he left behind in my mind was not much more intellectually and muscially challenging than other pop stuff put out in the mid-90's by bands such as, say, The Wallflowers.

Way back in high school, I remember watching a film in class where a song by Buckley was played in the background. "Such a great musician" some classmate uttered.

"More like a great voice" our teacher, albeit somewhat smugly, responded.

I agree with the latter.

We Be Trafficking People...

2009-04-30T21:28:00.000-07:00

I've been pretty stagnant of late (going a few months w/o a job has a funny way of putting a clamp on your expenses), so after scurrying around the eastern seaboard of both the U.S and Canada for Christmas and New Years, my ass has been planted here in Seattle for months and I've probably wandered at most 20 miles away in any direction for any sort of activity. If you know me, that's not me. I'm no global jetsetter by any means, but I used to be that guy who would grab a friend and drive four hours to Montreal for a weekend for no reason, or hop a plane to Phoenix because I know a guy and a really good restaurant there. Even spending a few nice days outside and partaking in some fun shit here and there in the area still gives me a horrid case of cabin fever if there wasn't a random excursion to Calgary, Baja, or SOMETHING mixed in. I don't like hanging out in airports, but being in one is a great sign.

Now that money is coming in again, I'm doing my best to stimulate the economy, or more importantly, the airline industry. I have a couple weekend trips back East for some stuff in the works, and am working out the kinks to go for at least a week down in Belize next coming winter. The coolest thing on my agenda however does not in any way resemble a vacation, or something "fun" on the surface. It's actually 'Serious Business'.

The first Global Forum on Human Trafficking is taking place in Carlsbad, Ca this coming October. I've been a member of Not For Sale for awhile, dating back to college, but like many liberal, white-guilt ridden new adults who glob on to any cause that makes them feel important, once I left school I did a crappy job of keeping up with it (and other orgs). Bills, jobs, weird girlfriends, relocations...hell, LIFE, has a funny way of making things you once viewed as important take a back seat. You stop buying the merchandise, and the e-newsletters over time magically get sent to your junk folder. Since I spent most of January and February on my ass dicking around online, a friend mentioned something to me through IM and my brain starting working, which is a rare occurence in of itself. A couple phone calls to old friends from school whom, like me, let this fall by the wayside, reinvigorated that old eager-to-save-the-world self of mine (to be fair, we mostly exchanged "I can't BELIEVE you slept with that chick!" stories, but it came up. Like, once, during a conversation. But still).

Had an email correspondence recently with a heavily-invested Seattle member, and while quite frankly she annoys me a little, I can tell her intentions are sound and she's worth working with closely. For an organization as large and with such an international reach and political capital, the "foot soldier" contigent here in the States is actually quite pathetic in comparison to other countries (I noticed in particular some South American countries are very well represented and organized). Hopefully this gets corrected, and soon.

More Useless Opinions on Music

2009-03-15T22:50:00.000-07:00

Once on my old blog, I wrote a fairly long-winded post on the "Five albums I'd take with me on a deserted island." After listening to some older tunes recently, here comes the follow up; "Five worst albums by otherwise good bands."

Radiohead: Pablo Honey

- "Anyone can play Guitar", "You", and "Stop Whispering" notwithstanding, their debut effort was full of sophomoric lyrics, muddled string arrangements (with the exception of the boring, any-garage-band-can-cover "Creep"), and Thom Yorke's near Rivers Cuomo-like tendency of including some real embarrassing shit about himself that no one needed to hear. Luckily, I was already really into The Bends before I really gave this album a good listen the first time around, and knew that these boys were actually capable of writing intelligent songs about politics, the age of technology, and...well, more than teenage angst (even though they were already in their mid-20's when it came out) riddled with "look at me!!!" grunge/Pixies wannabe drivel. It's not a bad album, really, but only average at best standing on its own, and more importantly just fucking awful when compared to the rest of their catalogue.

Pearl Jam: Binaural

-This album failed for me for a completely different reason; it was too political for its own good. Vedder and co put so much effort into preaching social and political commentary (okay, I get it, the US really sucked at dropping bombs in Eastern Europe) that finding a coherent melody in any track is futile. If they just scrapped all instruments and turned this into a spoken word album, then perhaps I'd dig it while sipping a vanilla latte at Tully's.

Blur: Think Tank

- Actually, not a terrible album at all. I even choose to listen to it on occasion.

Slight problem. A jarring lack of Graham Coxon. Meh. Anything else by them is better

Boards of Canada: The Campfire Headphase

- Their first two major releases were awesome. This is just decent...ly boring. Maybe it's the more prevalent use of guitars. Perhaps Geogaddi and Music has the Right to Children were just 12 kinds of better. Either way, major letdown.

The Pixies: Doolittle

- Perhaps a shocker, but I never understood this album. At all. "Hey", "Here Comes Your Man" and others I find to be very good songs. One problem; they're kind of...well...dare I say radio-friendlyish.

Now, before someone attacks me with a sledgehammer, a more "pop" sounding song doesn't automatically mean I assume someone is selling out, in fact, I doubt this was their intention. But, in case you haven't noticed, Frank Black absolutely fucking sucks as a singer, and is, surprisingly, at his best blaring out-of-tune wails with his jerky lyrics.

Call me a retard, but I enjoy those moments on Surfer Rosa where Frank trails off randomly into improper spanish for no good fucking reason. The straight-ahead rock sound (for the most part) on this particular album just sounds like your run-of-the-mill good alternative music, and the Pixies are not run-of-the-mill; they're one of the most influential bands in recent memory for good reason.

Thousand Mile Stare

2009-02-11T18:53:00.000-08:00

You know it when you see it.

Spirit broken, and soul empty. The mind is going at the speed of light, flickering through the myriad of awful images witnessed which brought the person to this horrible conclusion. It's like the body, this now hollow shell, is asking "What is there left to do or say?"

The strange thing was, I didn't see this myself on the battlefield. On the corner of 5th and Cherry this woman just stood there, staring. As corporate types and regular folk alike marched on by, emotionless and stiff she was. I couldn't help and think what brought her to this point; what hand did life deal her which led to such a jarring realization that now standing completely frozen in time became her fate. A strange sadness came over me as I began to piece my own version of what brought her to this place, and suddenly everyone around me seemed to walk slower, and cars once buzzing around us seemed to disappear. Sea gulls one by one began to shut up, and scattered vagrants ducked in alleyways. Before I knew it, literally nothing was in motion, or emitting sound.

Then...*flash*...some impatient motorist blasted their horn, sea gull shit splattered on the ground mere inches from me, and life seemed to re-enter the picture. Also, the woman in question was now halfway through the crosswalk, and I was even able to detect a smile on her face.

At this juncture I realized this woman merely was daydreaming, and I am one giant retard.

Does Your Safeway Have a Hump?

2009-01-20T17:23:00.000-08:00

I felt like doing some grocery shopping a half-hour away where there was actually some sunshine (it's been cloudy and foggy by the Sound for awhile now) and I was greeted by a hump.

I'll call him "Humpy".

Oh Canada

2009-01-03T07:55:00.000-08:00

I've been in Toronto since the 30th and will be back in Sea-town on either the 7th or 8th (weather permitting; winter in these parts can be terrific).

I actually haven't done much of anything spectacular over the past few weeks. After celebrating Christmas with the folks somewhere in the woods of New England I arrived here, and since I'm trying to keep myself on a budget I've probably spent more time playing video games than anything else.

I have tickets for Maple Leaf and Raptors games before I leave however.

Happy Stuff-Before-End-of-Year

2008-12-02T18:59:00.000-08:00

The puget sound is cold, and is not worth jumping in after plentiful amounts of wine.

The rainy-ish season is upon us, which means spending hours looking outside a window trying to correctly guess not only the type of precipitation, but whether or not it's really the spray from a homeless guy taking a leak somewhere.

My balls aren't very talented. They just hang there.

It is hard to incorporate umbrellas and Air Supply CD's in foreplay.

A Haphazard Sense of Wisdom

2008-11-13T19:25:00.000-08:00

For some reason, I've been deluged (again) of late by sort-of-friends and past acquaintances about their perceived shitty lives, and the current state of depression they may be in. Depression is a serious thing, but the word gets thrown around a lot. If you get laid and feel better the next morning, you were not depressed. If you stop crying once you leave the Dashboard Confessional concert, you are not depressed. Simply being a mopey son-of-a-bitch does not equal depression. It means you're a mopey son-of-a-bitch.

My advice has always been simple, since I've only found the light in the past year or so. Know yourself. The "meaning of life", nirvana, and whatever hot air philosophical jargon you'd want to use, comes down to identifying within yourself what exactly, above all other things, you should be doing. More importantly, it's not just knowing what it is, but why.

It's not fate; you define it for yourself. If someone asks you "what this thing is" that either drives you or acts a prism which you view all of life through, you should be able to tell them, yet it's not your prerogative to make sure they understand it. It's your voice, it's your "thing". Fuck anybody else who questions it.

The crux of all of this is understanding the why. I can ask any asshole off the street what they do for a living, for instance. Many don't know why they do it. They may shrug and say "it pays well", or "I like it"...but the simple fact they shrugged first tells me they have no fucking clue. There's nothing wrong with that; some people live their lives without thinking about these things. However, if you're feeling depressed, and you can't identify why you chose your line of work (again, for instance, life is more than fucking employment) without a shrug and quick look to the heavens...well, I found one of your answers.

98% of the people I've met who are "depressed" (sometimes their own diagnosis which I question) are so, in my opinion, because they just don't know why the fuck they do things. They're bound by social constructs fueled by their own insecurities, which tell them to do things because, well, "someone" (often greater society) else thinks they should.

Trust me, your relationship dissolving is not the root of the problem. Staring into space while at work because it's sucking the soul of out of you is not the root of the problem. Monetary problems can exacerbate the issue, but again are not the root.

The root of the problem is the fact you don't know who you are, and I suggest you find out quickly.

What on Earth....

2008-11-06T19:16:00.000-08:00

I rec'd a "break-up" email from a girl the other day, and while you may think I was rather shocked, hurt, and possibly on the verge of making a late night trip the apothecary, there's one piece of information that should be divulged.

I had not talked to the girl in about a month. Yep. No communication in a month. 30 days. No talking. Nothing. For a month. Nothing. 30 days. Nothing.

Now, what kind of girl would send communique desiring an "end" when as far as I was concerned, an "end" had already reached? The answer; I don't know.

But, I found it hilarious. I replied with a slightly longer equivalent of an "LOL WHUT", expecting it to mildly infuriate her, or at least demonstrate the amount of shit I give towards caring about the entire situation is hovering around zero, and surprisingly she replied pretty quickly, blabbering in incoherent girl-speak about "wanting to clear the air".

30 days. A month. No talking. A month. No talking. 30 days. And somehow, air needed to be cleared.

Women; a gender full of air cleaners, apparently.

Breaking Into This Society

2008-10-31T10:48:00.000-07:00

I've already said to a certain degree that the infamous "Seattle Freeze" is mostly bullshit. A large amount of people who move into this area do so for jobs in IT, and the large majority of those people, let's face it, are not the most gregarious and outgoing in the first place. When faced with the reality that most people here, while nice, don't roll out the red carpet into their social circle upon first meeting you as the newcomer, then many of these new people, who are not used to exerting much effort into making friends outside of their own network, throw their hands up in the air and consider Seattleites as a whole a bunch of closed-off assholes.

That said, since my job is in sales, I've encountered a lot of people also new to the area who need to "network" with those w/in this society for the sake of their employment, which is a similar yet still different nut to crack entirely. Admittedly while performing the duties of my own job, I've come across this as well, but it's not the end of the world.

The fact of the matter is Seattle is not New York, Boston, Los Angeles, Chicago...[enter virtually any large metropolitan area] in two giant areas; it does not have a large, cherished history of attracting professionals from "the outside", and its location is fairly remote as the unquestioned population and economic center of the still largely undeveloped and unurbanized Pacific Northwest.

Before the boom of Microsoft and its ilk, it was essentially a giant fishing and industrial town staffed by lost Northern Europeans and Asian immigrants. If you came to the area, you were like my Dad; you were in the military, got stationed here, and left once your commitment was up or you were transferred. All the other major cities on the east coast had long begun their economic transistion before a certain campus was built in Redmond. While the overall growth of the area here was pretty rapid (and wages here are good), there is a reason why "the grunge" movement started here, and no not because it rains a lot and drugs are plentiful; the economy, for a long time, sucked.

For years, Seattle was just the lone decently-sized city, nowhere near anywhere else in particular of note (Portland, OR is not a major city, and doesn't even compare to Seattle both in overall size and economic importance). It's isolation I'm sure brewed a sense of "Us vs. Them" that still fosters, particularly among the older population today. 15-20 years of young professionals graduating college to work for tech companies (engineering positions at Boeing being the only other draw for outsiders for fucking years and years) in the area is simply not enough time for a true Seattleite to accept and understand that Seattle is now something different. Couple that with now various multinational companies opening regional offices which now represent various industries (keep in mind, I moved here and I'm not in IT), literally overnight in comparison to the path most cities in the United States have taken, the city has changed remarkably. From strictly a social standpoint among the "old money" and the official "Seattle elite", probably too fast.

New York has been attracting people from all over for centuries. Damn near every other big city (particularly on the east coast) has been doing for several decades. Many of the skyscrapers you see in other cities were built 50 years ago and even further back. Most of Seattle's skyline was built after 1970. Seattle seriously has been doing it (and at a breakneck pace) for...what, three decades? Maybe four? People born and raised here have seen the transformation and can't help but want to keep those they've known for years at their side, while casting suspicion at newcomers because, well, "they don't really know Seattle".

Is it fair? Not really, but climbing up their ass about it isn't either. Respect the fact that this city has seen an economic rise (and social change) over the past few decades, that more and more people means more and more construction and development and less easily accessible nature and space, and it will take a considerable amount of time before "Us vs Them" simply becomes "Us."

Manliness

2008-10-22T21:11:00.000-07:00

My Dad always told me a lot of things; most of which were never terribly important to me because he was perhaps already half in the bag when he uttered the words, or I was too busy staring at the ceiling. If I actually had a viable distraction at my disposal, say the TV or a hot girl within reasonable distance, then it wouldn't even register to me that my own father was talking. For a military man who owns a lot of guns, he doesn't always command a shitload of respect.

One thing though that fell out of his mouth that formed a coherent, rational thought which I also picked up and retained for myself was his opinion on being a "man". It surprisingly has nothing to do with a penis; whether it's the length, girth, or the amount of tricks it can do. The definition has nothing to do with women; the number you've been with, the quality thereof, or the tricks they can do (although I would consider the boyfriend of a girl who can do DP while baking cookies and writing Shakespearian soliloquies with her foot to be a "man". He would receive an honorary Man Express Gold card, with 50,000 free Man Express Reward points.)

It also had little do with one's job, one's hobbies, their social life, their goals...it all came down to simply owning up to your mistakes. If you fuck up, and I mean FUCK UP, and look people in the eye, particularly the ones most affected by your fucked up-ness, and tell them, "my fuck up", then you are in fact a man (as well as one who swears too much. 3,000 point Man Express Reward bonus).

I write this because in the past couple days I've found it staggering just how few "men" fail at being, well, "men" (-15,000 Man Express point automatic reduction for every offense). I'm not going to sandbag this individual anymore on the internet (not manly, potential loss of Man Express points, and I would feel kinda bad), but I made a fair amount effort on my part to understand this particular "fake" man, and to see where he was coming from, and I walked away feeling more upset and frustrated that this so-called "man" was being...a bitch (I win 2,000 Man Reward points for the insult, but also penalized -25,000 points for killing this joke entirely). I hate bitches, by the way.

My point? Tell shit like it is. You got a problem? Diagnose it. Find the root, and if it's yourself, which it will be A LOT in life, then say so. Pansy.

Now pardon me while I redeem whatever Man Reward points I have left. I think I have a free flight to Cancun...no, wait...Camden. Shit. Off to fuck bitches and start fights to increase my points.

Romantic Horseshit 101

2008-10-05T18:50:00.000-07:00

Some relationship articles aren't dumb at all, just overly cutesy like this one. The fact people get paid to write this shit is beyond me. Anyways, there's a few opening paragraphs which provide enough insight to make the average Us Weekly article read like fucking Carl Sagan, and then it spews cow patties about asking yourself questions. Perhaps out loud. On an Amtrak. Naked.

"The marriage question
Have you been fantasising about your wedding day since you were a child? Or would you be just as happy having some other sort of commitment such as a mortgage with your partner?"

Well this is tough, because I see so many people during the course of my day where from mere appearances, I think to myself, "I'd love to have a joint checking account with this individual. They look so responsible". Lord knows, I once dated a girl because I just knew she'd be perfect to put money down with towards buying a Prius together. She dumped me when the word "Prius" came out of my mouth.

"The future question
Do you have visions of growing old and grey with your partner? Or are you more of a serial monogamist, who's happy to have a few good years with someone before moving on to the next relationship?"

Generally, I try to refrain from picturing my dates as older, saggier tittied versions of themselves. Particularly when fucking them.

"The kids question
Is the tick from your biological clock deafening you? Or does the thought of snotty little brats fill you with dread? What do you think about a relationship involving children from a previous marriage or relationship?"

The thought of snotty little brats waking me up in the middle of the night, poking me with hot embers and telling me I'm their father would fill me with a lot of dread, come to think of it.

"The best friend question
Do you want your partner to be your best friend, or is there someone else in your life that your partner will never compete with when it comes to being a best friend?"

No, in fact I'd like the love of my life to be worst enemy. We'd be adversaries, sleeping with each other, owning a house and perhaps raising children together, and all the while plotting to kill each other. Only we won't, end up living until our 70's or 80's and spending the rest of eternity up in "assassin heaven" pissed off at ourselves for missing our chance.

"The details question
Is it necessary for you to hear about every little incident and thought your partner has day in, day out? Or do you prefer to have some emotional space, preferring to hear only the Reader's Digest version of what your partner’s been up to?"

I interpret this as the "are you a jealous fuck?" question. I interpret my interpretation of the question to be correct. I interpret my answer to be "no, I don't need to know every little thing she does." Except the "I got drunk that night with Wendy from work and had the entire Accounting Department run the train on me." This would be a minor detail worth knowing.

"The (in)dependence question
Are you looking for someone to do absolutely everything with, from your home life to your hobbies? Or are you happy with spending time being independent as well as together? "

The couples who literally do everything together are really cute at first, and then begin to creep you out when you notice they laugh at their own jokes the exact same way, cut their steak into the same size bites, seem to have the exact same opinion on the acting abilities of a pre-1987 Steve Martin...and then, a couple years later, when you're still "single" and they're still together, you grow a festering hatred for them and consider the possibilities of setting their house on fire. Even when you do, they'll still piss you off when they run out of the house at the exact same time, screaming the exact same thing.

"The sex question
Are you prepared to be in a relationship where the sex is so-so if every other aspect of the relationship is excellent? Perhaps sex is the most crucial aspect of your relationship? Identifying this up-front can help you choose more suitable partners. "

Personally, the sex with me isn't that important. It really comes down to how well the bitch cooks meatloaf. My mom, bless her heart, makes GREAT meatloaf. Almost everyone else I know takes a lump of buffalo shit out of the oven that has the consistency of drywall and still have the nerve to actually call it meatloaf. Fuck that.

"A perfect ending
'I am deliriously happy. Being what some refer to as middle-aged, I was tentative about Internet dating. I had concluded that it was only for twenty-somethings after seeing the TV ads! I decided I had nothing to lose though and went ahead anyway. Within a week I was contacted by the wonderful man who has become the love of my life! We agreed to meet for coffee. We just walked, talked, dined and gazed into each others' eyes all along Melbourne's Southbank. Now, eight months later, we are planning to spend the rest of our lives together. I still cannot believe how quick it was to find that special someone.' Heather, Geelong, VA. "

Well, apparently all it takes to swoon middle-aged Heather is to take her out for coffee and stare at her. If this is all it takes to score poon from internet dating...

Smoke Signals

2008-09-30T19:40:00.000-07:00

On Saturday night, I was approached by a guy and a girl who both pointed to my shoes and asked where I got them. I informed them, and they kindly offered a smoke in return. Being a "social" smoker of cigs, I said "sure, wth..."

For about...fuck, probably around 60 minutes, the three of us blow through about half a pack, discussing everything from the royal fuck up known as the Seattle Mariners, to the state of fashion in Romania (seriously, and no, I don't remember our consensus).

Afterwards, we went back inside, and more or less dispatched ourselves to wherever our own friends were inside, without another word exchanged between us. That's when it hit me; I'm used to people whom I just met, if they end up spending as much time with me as those two did, asking for my cell number or some method of contact. I think the "Seattle Freeze" is 60%-80% bullshit (and that is being generous), but this particular example of mine is a good indicator that out here, you often have to make the move yourself to initiate the "hey, let's be friends!!!" banter.

Unless they want to fuck you, of course. That would be a different subject altogether.

The Big Kids' Table

2008-09-23T20:04:00.000-07:00

There's a hot debate (link goes to the comments section) going on over in one of my favorite blogs over...hot-air semantics, really. Good honest arguments are all being made, but this exchange in particular I find strange:

"DPU: That would be an accurate comparison if al Qaeda had conquered Iraq rather being a non-entity there prior to the invasion.

You don't seem to understand what I'm saying.

The US has fought more than one war in Iraq since 2003.

Let me put it this way. The war against Saddam in Iraq was a war of choice and arguably a distraction.

The war against Al Qaeda (etc.) in Iraq was not a war of choice and was not a distraction.

My parents, for example, opposed the war against Saddam in Iraq but support the war against Al Qaeda in Iraq. Others, like Andrew Sullivan, supported the war against Saddam in Iraq and oppose the war against Al Qaeda in Iraq. All tehse (sic) people correctly view the wars as separate. You should, too, if you want to understand my point."

I agree the "battles" being fought from the initial invasion in 2003 up until Saddam's capture (and to be fair, that should probably be bumped up to sometime during the beginning phases of the new Iraqi Government) is light years different than what has been waged over the past couple years. But, the Bush Administration used Al Qaeda (partially) as the bait to gain support for a war to uproot Saddam, and had to know that Al Qaeda would eventually (though not prior to) become a factor at some point during our adventure. Strategies have changed, troops have been moved around, but this was part of the plan, make no mistake. Flypaper strategy, motherfuckers. This is all the same war; different phase yes, but the same war. When getting cute to make a simple point by declaring this an entirely different military intervention, you cloud the entire purpose of the event itself defined by those who created it.

There's no way when looking at now-unemployed Donald Rumsfeld's smirk that this was only about Saddam. No. Fucking. Way.

Why Girls Are Retarded, Part 4,223-B

2008-09-16T21:47:00.000-07:00

I'm with a group of dudes. We enter a known upscale meatmarket with unreasonably overpriced food and drinks and a really hot waitstaff (Joey's if you must know. There's three in the Seattle area, and while the food kinda sucks and five drinks later you've almost blown through your commission, I'm not kidding about the waitstaff). We take a seat, order a round of drinks, and two decent but not knock-your-socks-off-looking girls take it upon themselves to squeeze in our booth.

The two of them at first completely ignore me, and then one decides to scoot my way with an "are you from here?" line, complete with a VERY HARD question mark at the end, as if I have three heads with a velvet penis protruding from each possibly indicating that I am in fact not from this area. Or earth, even.

I give her my standard I-moved-here-from-Boston babble, leaving out some of the normal details since this girl has her hand firmly planted on the thigh of one of my friends while talking to me, and I figure at any moment she'll return to giving him most of the attention. We end up having a pleasant, if somewhat banal, conversation (her hand at no point during this moving off of my friend's leg) and then she turns away, and I assume said conversation over. I finish off my first drink, consider my options for a second, and then she turns back toward me with:

"Are girls hot in Boston?"

How the fuck do you answer this? Ignore the fact that I'm a single guy, and a mildly attractive girl not from Boston just asked me this. I could be Estelle Getty and Bea Arthur is asking me this...HOW?

"Um, well...yeah, there's a lot of 'hot' girls in Boston."

"How about in Seattle?" she fired back.

"Well, yeah, I've seen some attractive girls here too." I couldn't help myself so I further responded "quite frankly, everywhere I've been, I've seen some hot girls and some ugly ones, and I'm sorry I haven't been keeping track of solid data, complete with an entire powerpoint presentation for you".

"But I mean, like...(pauses)...generally speaking...Boston or Seattle?"

I stared for a minute, grabbed a napkin and a pen from the bar, and drew a line with two points at the end. "This here is Seattle, this over here is Boston. This line is I-90, which connects the two, and is about a four/five day drive. Try it sometime".

She giggled (not my desired response. I was hoping for her to perhaps cry and leave, finish her drink and pass out...perhaps burst into flames, I didn't really care at this point) and said something to the effect of "don't be shy. I won't be offended if you say Boston girls are cuter".

I slammed down my second drink which had only just arrived seconds before, swallowed hard, took a deep breath and said simply "Neither. Gary, Indiana. I love crackwhores." I then left my seat, texted a buddy, bummed a cig off a stranger, struck up a conversation with said stranger, struck up several conversations with more strangers who came up to us...eventually made it back inside to see my friends were ready to leave with annoying dumb girl walking by me, asking (and by this point she's absolutely shitfaced, which is a fucking scientific marvel in of itself because she was perfectly fine only a half hour or so earlier):

"Would I be *hic* hot in Gary, Indiana?"

No.

A Really Long Entry That I Expect You To Read Anyway

2008-09-11T20:39:00.000-07:00

One night stands. They happen. I also didn't think they were really needing some jackoff to make a list of how to, well, "do them". Apparently I was wrong. First, enjoy

Now let's break this down using Jon-think

1. ALWAYS have Condoms with you
-Well, um...if an adult who goes out in public every now and then needs to be told this...God help him/her.

2. Do NOT give them your phone number
-Again, kind of obvious given the nature of a true "one-night stand", however I love the implication that if you actually like the person enough to give out your phone number you are doing something heinously wrong and should ask your pastor for forgiveness. That, and people apparently becomes stalkers like it rains in Seattle. "OH, I have Jon's cell number! Even though he was only average in bed and average looking, I'm gonna call him 400 times next week! He'll wish he'll NEVER have given me his cell!!!!!!"

3. They MUST be a stranger
- Yes, because in the history of mankind, two friends have never had sex and been able to maintain that friendship and understand what that "one night" really meant. Ever. Shakespeare wrote plays about this every day of his life.

4. Do NOT be drunk
- Congratulations on now telling every single human being on the planet they've been doing this wrong. Does this asshole run around also saying the sky is really brown?

5. Do NOT go to your place
- Yes, because if you really want to fuck and the other person's place is too far away to realistically go there, you should go at it behind a dumpster. Or in the city park next to seven hobos. Why? Because having sex with someone in your own bedroom is just so dangerous and should never be attempted.

6. Do NOT use your car
-As an adult I'm willing to get a hotel room for the night if the only viable alternative is a fucking automobile. Also, apparently using a stranger's car is better than yours.

7. Do NOT eat anything weird before
-Because there are plenty of things in life where eating something completely fucking strange and bizzare is actually preferred. Like a job interview. Eat squirrel balls and watch the Golden Girls naked before that.

8. Do NOT fall asleep
-Implication being if it's your SO, begin snoozing immediately after foreplay. It'd be like you're already married!

9. Do NOT leave any tracks
-Yes, because there was that one time I accidently left a sock at this girl's place, and the police tracked me down and I was extradited to Singapore where I was caned daily for three years. Don't ever do this.

10. Do NOT kiss them when you leave
-Mushroom stamp her instead in order to proclaim dominance. Take a shit in her laundry basket. Recite the Gettysburg Address backwards in your best Don Rickles voice while masturbating on a toaster strudel. Anything besides kissing her before you leave.

A Rare Serious Thought

2008-08-25T21:21:00.000-07:00

FWIW, one of the most powerful and inspiring moments one has in their life is the realization that despite what one has gone through in their past, and perhaps how much they have previously let their own history define them, the only constant variable which can determine their future is themselves. We all have our demons, and I don't care to describe my own in full detail here, but they exist in part due to our natural inability to fully let them go. As painful as they usually are, they helped create the form we appear in today, and subconsciously humans have a very hard time erasing the "bad".

A guy I know through work, usually a semi-annoying douchetard who seems more capable of wielding half-assed stories about drinking and debauchery as opposed to fulfilling the duties of his actual job (which admittedly are not particularly vast; he's a sales guy like me). During a rare "tender" moment, semi-annoying douchetard let down his douche-guard and mentioned, in surprisingly vivid detail and in a very frank manner, that he was previously married and has a six year old son which is ex-wife has full custody of. The jist of his story; he fucked up, and lost his kid and the love of his life because of it.

Without going on and on over the specs in this case, his "fucking up" was very much along the lines of most young, married guys fucking up, and the fact someone as generally cocky and...um...(can't use the d-word again...shit help me here)...(fuck)..."douchetastic" as him can openly admit that to someone he only casually knows through work is pretty impressive. More importantly, it shows how heavily this weighs on him, and it's obvious that for perhaps the rest of his life, I was informed of what is his own individual cross to bear.

Not having experienced anything like that myself, I was unsurprisingly at the proverbial loss of words, and more than likely emitted a series of stuttering sounds in yet another glowing display of my unparalled intelligence. The point of this however, is that this example, including many others I've experienced over time, is to again illustrate we all have our "shit" we internally battle ourselves over, and quite often pick unhealthy (though usually not life-endangering by any means) and just fucking stupid ways to overcome them. The sales guy I know through work in this particular example became even more of a "frat boy alcoholic who happens to get a paycheck" to combat the one or two nights years before where a nicer, calmer version of him acted this way and essentially ruined that life he was previously living thanks to a couple of mistakes that this behavior helped create.

Lord knows I still have my "shit" hanging over me, but I hit the point fairly recently where at least I realized from this point on, letting history dictate my every move and using that as a crutch for future failures is not only retarded, but would serve as a general disservice to everyone in my life whom I either failed, or to those who I potentially could in the future. Your own mind, body and soul come first, but if for some reason that's not enough, think of the loved ones who you could possibly drag down with you. If that fails to provide enough motivation to at least help change the course, then you're in deeper than you thought.

What Medal Count?

2008-08-20T14:40:00.000-07:00

I've noticed I'm not really giving a shit about the Olympics. Does this make me a bad person?

Oh, and I have caught bits and pieces of it...enough in fact, that if one more assfuck on NBC refers to the fucking smog in Beijing (which everyone knows pollution-wise, makes LA look as clear and pristine as the top of Mt Everest) as "fog", I'm going to commit a hate crime.

It's Okay to OD in BC

2008-08-03T21:28:00.000-07:00

So I took a quick jaunt up to Vancouver Saturday night...

Sweet, holy motherfucking Christ.

In short, I didn't drink/smoke all that much (I drove up there and had to drive occasionally throughout the night), however everyone else around me sure did. The friend I was visiting was already half in the bag by the time I passed border patrol so he was utterly fucking useless as this was a strange city to me.

Nevertheless, I followed him around on a tour of complete mayhem that lasted well into the morning hours. Some highlights include; an Asian man in his mid-30's threatening to kick my ass if I didn't drop acid with him, three giggling girls who barely looked 18 following me around for the better part of an hour asking for my autograph (I couldn't even figure out what celebrity they were mistaking me for), a few different "clothes optional" after-parties, and me helping my friend's now-unconscious female roommate up the stairs and into her bedroom, and then immediately tripping and falling down the stairs myself (while actually more sober than anything).

All in all, an okay Saturday night.

What Happens in Memphis...Gets Re-told Here

2008-07-29T21:24:00.000-07:00

Nothing groundbreaking took place over the past few days, but a quick chat with an old friend Monday night brought back one of my all-time most “WTF?” memories.

Almost two full years ago now, I went to Memphis for a full week on business. In truth, to say “on business” feels to me like utter bullshit since it was essentially a week-long conference in which I was really only required to pretend I was paying attention for about six hours a day before being turned loose. Most days after each conference session became their own “how much can we drink and yet still be able to find the hotel afterward” sessions, and between the beer and the barbecue I actually came back home and weighed six more pounds according the scale.

That said, there was one evening where something else happened entirely.
On Wednesday (third day of the actual conference), things ran a little long. A presenter was late, another group actually attending the conference somehow got lost after lunch (which was catered at the hotel; explain that one)…point is, we got out that day a full two hours later than usual. The group of guys I had and would continue to go out and party with asked my preferred plans for the night, to which I replied “I don’t know, but I’ll catch up with you later. I need a quick nap.”

Well, the quick nap turned into a four hour snoozer, where I woke up in my now dark hotel room feeling as if Elvis himself had placed a visit and beat the shit out of me. I tossed and turned for a little while, hoping I’d either fall asleep or die, but in the process I accidently rolled over the remote which turned on the TV, and because the asshole who previously watched it (quite possibly myself) had the volume up apparently for Helen Keller, I ended up scaring the living shit out of myself and sprung up out of bed with all the eloquence and grace of a retarded rhino.

Now awake, obviously, I grabbed my phone and headed down to the main lobby with every intention of calling one of my “conference boys” to meet up with them at whatever (hopefully close-by) drinking establishment they were currently at. However, upon arriving near the front desk and in full view of the all-glass main entrance, I noticed the ever-familiar lights of an ambulance. I darted outside, letting curiosity get the best out of me, and was surprised not at the sight of the ambulance truck itself, but of the two male EMTs laughing their asses off while leaning up against the side of the building.

“Is…everything…okay?” I uttered, still groggy and somewhat achy from the possible assault by the King of Rock ‘n’ Roll himself just hours ago.

The laughing continued, as I wasn’t sure they even acknowledged my presence for what seemed like another five minutes. Eventually the one closest to me shaped up a little, walked toward me, and placed his hand on my shoulder. “With this job, you see the CRAZIEST shit from business travelers, man.” Hand slowly removes itself from my shoulder, man slowly saunters toward fellow EMT, and uncontrollable laughter continues. Also, the slight headache I had after the nap begins to worsen.

I immediately went back to my room, took five Advil, roughly six shots of worth of vodka (the only alcohol I could find in the room, most likely my roommate’s) and buried my head in a pillow. I awoke 13 hours later in a cold sweat, reciting various lines from Ferris Bueller’s Day Off, and was an hour late for the next day’s conference activities. Yay me.

Another Goofy Wingman Tale

2008-07-21T10:04:00.000-07:00

I don’t pretend to be the best with women in general. Like most average-looking guys, when out and about on weekend nights, I just try and strike up conversations with girls I either find attractive, or just seem for whatever reason to have a pretty neat personality. I don’t go all emo on myself if these “talks” don’t happen to go anywhere, nor do I begin to consider myself Fabio Jr. just because the girl in question is still talking or even openly flirting with me after some time. In fact, this would probably be my biggest piece of advice for dudes out there; just take it easy. My uninspiring ass has gotten laid plenty of times by simply being “the cool, casual customer” in a bar or club. The goal is not to act aloof, but to calmly demonstrate interest while taking the attitude of “hey, I’m having a good time tonight regardless.” The type of women who react to a guy being incredibly forward from the initial contact (or if the girl approaches you with a “take me now” attitude) are generally the type that will take you home and fuck you 37 times until sunup, and then kick you out as if they realized you look like Gilbert Gottfied. Trust me on this. I personally am not looking for a relationship at this point in my life, however I don’t appreciate being treated like a penis with a warm body attached to it, and I like to get some sleep and give my wang a rest every now and then.

That said, my roommate had a lovely episode this weekend. I got back into town Saturday night and was greeted with a “let’s roll to Fremont” (something becoming quite common on Saturday nights recently). I’m told while on the way that he was supposed to meet up with an old girlfriend who recently had taken some interest in him again, but had blown him off today. My initial thought; this boy is somewhat depressed and could some tail tonight. After meeting up with some friends, he tells the brief story again and the rest of us come to unspoken conclusion (it’s a guy thing) that I came to earlier, and with nary a word we automatically label ourselves “wingman” for the night.

Now, the night itself is fairly uneventful until the bars start chasing the customers out after last call. A couple of our friends already left so our little group was down to three, and the roommate starts talking to this girl who was apparently looking for someone. The two talk for maybe five minutes, then the roommate walks her towards us and introduces her. Cool, I’m thinking, he might have this. She drops a couple BIG hints and flashes a green light so fucking big I’m sure some guys up in Vancouver saw it and started drooling. Our other friend and I turned to the roommate (who was driving us) and basically say “hey man, we’ll taxi or something home. You’re good.” Roommate inexplicably asks to tag along. I facepalm.

As much as I wanted to just ditch him, it was obvious he was either uncomfortable or just felt the night wasn’t over for us yet as a crew, because apparently this girl had offered us all back to her place, and he wanted to take her up on it. Okay, other friend and I think; we’ll drink a beer over there, and then calmly duck out and let my roommate make his move without the awkward presence of us. Well, “a beer” turned into about three or four more, and my roommate had yet to really make much of a move to a seemingly willing participant. Friend and I become a little uneasy as this whole charade is taking way too long to develop into something worthwhile for my roommate, but now both friend and I are a little drunk and don’t feel like grabbing a cab either. We decide to willingly move ourselves outside on this girl’s patio and basically freeze our ass off on a very cool summer night, waiting for my roommate to take the cue and finish the deed. So we wait. And wait. And wait. I actually fell asleep twice, only to be awakened by other friend’s rapid texting to other people, perhaps alarming others about how pathetic my roommate is being tonight. Eventually, between being cold and just flat-out fucking impatient, I pound on the glass sliding door to give out a warning signal, in case these two were going at it right in the living room, waited about ten seconds, and came in. To my complete disappointment, roommate is simply sitting on the sofa by himself, fully clothed, and looking perpetually bored. Before I can utter a word, he looks up but doesn’t make eye contact and says “I just wasn’t feeling it.”

Now, I can appreciate this. I love sex but hate forcing it, and quite often will pass up otherwise golden opportunities because I, too, “wasn’t feeling it”. I’m not gonna rag on a brotha’ for not giving in to our own selfish desire as friends to see him get ass because our own stupid asses were convinced it would make him feel better.

That said, I went to sleep that night at least a full three hours later than I needed to because roommate didn’t have the balls to just tell us this earlier. All night every single girl that so much looked in our general direction was directed towards him, and it should’ve been obvious our whole goal that night was to feed him “a chance”. It should be a man-law that when a guy sees his friends assuming the role of “wingmen”, you need call off the dogs if it’s completely unnecessary. Furthermore, and this goes for both girls and guys, when someone seems to be giving the “go-ahead” sign to you, do not answer it if “you aren’t feeling it”, for chrissakes. True, girls will often invite guys over to their place just for sake of capping off a night with another drink and nothing more, and I can tell he difference. This girl my roommate found WANTED more. All he had to do was say no and save our time.

Drifters Apparently Unfazed by 2008 Election

2008-07-17T08:25:00.000-07:00

There’s usually about one day a week where for “work” I essentially make a one or two appointments in Seattle, and then spend the rest of the day essentially wandering around downtown. Yesterday I spent a little over half the day doing just this, and it was mostly uneventful until around noon when on the corner of James and 2nd I was approached by not one, but two equally annoying characters. One was a college-aged kid on I believe one of those “Get out the vote” campaigns (otherwise he’s living a very sad existence by standing on street corners simply asking people if they’re registered for amusement), and the other a drifter/homeless type with a penchant for cussing.

Me: (Walks up to corner, waits for the little Caucasian fella to light up)

Voting Kid: Hi sir! Are you registered to vote?

Drifter Dude: (steps in front of me and points right at Voting Kid) Are YOUUUU registered to vote?

Voting Kid: (slight pause) uh….yeah

Drifter Dude: (still uncomfortably right in front of me, now turns to face me) I guess this little douchebag is not only registered to vote, but is registered to piss me the FUCK OFF!

Voting Kid: (visibly annoyed) Anyway (to me), are you registered to vote sir?

Drifter Dude: Don’t answer him kid

Voting Kid: Excuse me?

Drifter Dude: (tries to put arm around me, I duck out of way) I’m talking to my friend here, PAL! Take your vote and shove it up your ass!

Voting Kid: Does your “friend” even know your name?

Drifter Dude: (pause, turns to face me again, and lowers voice) Do I kill him now, or later?

*Crosswalk Caucasian lights up*

Me: How about now…BYE!

I'm Sure Paris Is Nice...

2008-07-14T09:35:00.000-07:00

I spend on average about 80-85% of my daily life decidedly NOT taking myself and the world around me seriously. I grew up watching just as much CNN as cartoons on Saturday mornings (before I was given a TV in my bedroom, my Dad was not just going to change the channel for me until his news fix was done), and as a result I spent more time than I should’ve otherwise as a youth worrying about anything from nuclear proliferation to what the hell went wrong in Mogadishu. Occasionally, I feel the need to be a retard at 24 years old to make up for lost time.

That said, not all of my time spent on the internet is used for fart jokes and cats with stupid captions. One of my favorite bloggers is apparently about to hit the road again, and once again putting his life in potential danger with me sitting safely on my ass in my home country awaiting new entries of his experiences. Aside from the fact he’s a great writer and does his best to report/reflect on what he’s seen while eschewing as much political bias as he can (can’t say the same for his comments section), most of my checking-in stems from my own personal desire to visit many of the same areas he does. The idea of traveling abroad to lavish resorts in politically and economically stable countries doesn’t particularly excite me, and I wasn’t impressed or all that happy the few times in life I’ve already done so. I live in the United States; the bulk of my money is invested in banks which are FDIC-insured, my votes are counted, our economy is still un-Godly huge and vibrant overall in comparison, and of course there’s this thing called the Constitution and the Bill of Rights which further help guarantee a rather nice lifestyle. In short, I already know what living “comfortably” is like.

Vietnam is one of my first planned trips, mainly because I’ve read so many books on our little adventure there some 40-odd years ago. It's not Haiti, but it's also not quite the tourist-rich mecca that I'd prefer to avoid. It’s a beautiful country, but I would find it so fascinating and powerful to interact with someone knowing full well that my own father was part of an otherwise bullshit military intervention which possibly killed his or hers. I may not yet know the language, but eye contact and hopefully a smile would be enough.

From Maui Comes Reason

2008-07-11T09:08:00.000-07:00

I think it was only 9:30 or 10:00 at night when overlooking the Seattle skyline from some party we had crashed on Alki Beach (it's located in West Se....aw fuck it, if you don't know the city) when the infamous Tyler, visiting from...I assume Hawaii...turned to me and said "Y'know, you should keep a blog or some shit since I only keep in touch with people via the internet".

I don't remember my next move, as its entirely possible I dismissed his comment to drool at a passing female or bitch at how warm my beer was, but about a couple weeks after his departure back into his own nomadic lifestlye, where even HE can maintain a website despite sometimes being in places where running water can be a luxury, let alone the internet, I decided the least I could do is try and keep up.

Most of my old friends from back east who may or may not read this with any regularity already know I had a brainfart sometime back in late '07 and decided I would move west. I still have brainfarts, but they usually cause a more "localized" disturbance (running across the street to the 7-11 at 3am for a hot dog and a slurpee when neither hungry nor thirsty). The fact is, I realize it's a little sketchy on my part to bail 3,000 miles away in a flash, and all the while answering your phone calls yet not really ever providing much of an explanation for why I moved and what I'm currently doing.

Whatever...some of you read my older blog when I was in high school/early college, and the fail was rather strong in that one. I don't expect to maintain this daily, nor fill it with my own activities or conquests only...this simply exists to fill my quota of incoherent rambling, to demonstrate that yes I'm doing okay and staying productive (mostly), and that I didn't move to Seattle and became a drifter in flannel, retracing the steps of early Pearl Jam and Soundgarden in some horrid attempt at rekindling my days in elementary and middle school.

Actually, that last part doesn't sound so bad if I'm randomly fired from my job anytime soon.