czechmarc

2003-08-15T15:53:00.000-07:00

how sad is my site? don't even have the gumption to write its own fairwell. so...

I will miss being Jill Matrix. I'll miss that little swimmer kid particularly. But for a lot of reasons, it's time to shut this site down.
I'd thank all the people who have helped me for the past three years by name, but I know I'd forget someone and feel terrible.

Thanks for reading me. Thanks for all the comments and emails. Thanks for helping me when my coding didn't work or my site was being held hostage by Verisign. Thanks for getting me involved in projects that brought lots of new readers to this site. Thanks most of all for rooting for me.

I'll miss everyone, but you can still get my deeply bitter take on the news of the day over at Queer Day or drop me a line. (E-mail is still jill@jillmatrix.com. AIM is JillMatrix.) See you in the funny papers.

Love,
Nancy

thanks nancy, for doing what i could not.

2003-01-09T11:07:00.000-08:00

ferklempt

on the whole my general disposition leans toward diplomatic – calm, weighing, understanding, with an ability to dilute the shocking with a dose of sublime reason. physically though, i am an entirely different story. i am a knot of wood. tense with thickened and gripping fibers who have tripped over themselves to create coagulated quagmires of bundled flesh – in the neck, back, chest, shins, everywhere really. now and again i pinch my shoulder blades together, stretching my chest just to hear my sternum pop, to buy a little relief.

i can’t figure out why there is this disparity between physical and mental.

is this the result of avoiding years of conflict? the depression of a truer self, a getting-medieval-on-your-ass self, a flying-off-the-handle self, a quicker tempered self? is my ferklempt body a collected manifestation of denied outbursts? there have been a few occasions when i have been off the handle, though i can’t say i recalled a calming after effect – nothing that i would associate as muscle relaxing. i did say fuck alot. however i am unsure of a more substantial answer.

recently i asked whether morgan freeman could help. i’m always looking for new ways to relax. and if i could procure his voice over for my thoughts, similar to his narration of shawshank redemption, i might be able to unwind a bit, the way i had hoped sauna’s, pilates, and massages should’ve allowed. it could work y’know. i just pray his agent will return my call.

2003-01-03T10:23:00.000-08:00

where am i

how i bear myself
slacken from foraging words
again awake, yawwwwn

2002-12-13T13:55:00.000-08:00

i have no pants

2002-12-12T09:18:00.000-08:00

trojan man

"so what do you do?"

you meet new people and it’s not long before the question congeals in to the conversation. and while i love the shinning and focused spotlight of others, it’s one question i’d ffwd right over if i could.

i'm not ashamed of my job, but i won't lie -- my work life, in terms of entertainment or impression factor, not so fascinating. i’m not exactly telling people i’m a doctor, or a lawyer, or a policeman, or a writer, or any other easily recognizable career category. and to add a pinch of confusion to the mundane, i've yet to find an elegant way of saying "i’m a copy/regulatory project manager for a health care organization."

huh? what? it doesn’t exactly roll of the tongue, does it. and it’s almost as if i didn’t answer the question, instead giving the inquirer a poke in the belly. the ensuing blank stare is predictably followed by a sympathetic courtesy nod and an “a-ha,” signaling the time to move on to someone else, hoping maybe to find a teacher, editor, or account manager to talk to.

but really, what do i do? well, i’m a sort of prophylactic editor.

the process starts when our writers and editors craft wicked cool marketing copy. the kind of copy that alters the brain’s chemical combination of want to unquestionable need. powerful, mesmerizing, can’t-say-no-to copy. for instance, say they came up with this copy here (they wouldn’t because this is taken from a bottle of juice i bought this morning. but for the example say they did):

to every man, woman & child moving 100 mph in this crazy 10-lane highway-world, with no off-ramp for nourishment, naked food-juice delivers your daily dose of vitamins, energy & yum. these are the bare essentials to satisfy your body, psyche & soul. if you eat or drink nothing else...get naked.

sounds pretty good, eh.
and it’s here where i come in.

it seems the californian state has vested interest in not letting things sound too good to be true. or simply too good, particularly when it comes to doctors and medicine. in fact they spend a decent amount of tax payer dollars on operating a department that regulates the industry and its entire allotment of persuasion used for marketing their services. it turns out the state does this because some people, members in our very own society, well they’re just not smart enough to discern on their own.

the main objective of my job is to make sure copy that eventually lands in the hands of the public doesn’t get my organization in trouble with this bureaucracy and it’s ability to fine us kagillions of dollars. we really don’t want the blame for them driving around our freeways at 100 mph. so what i do is modify the copy slightly -- a tweak here or there – transforming our example into something like this:

if you are a man, woman, or child moving no faster than 65 miles per hour on a freeway, with no off-ramp for nourishment, naked food-juice helps deliver some of your daily dose of vitamins, energy and yum. these bare essentials may satisfy your body, body psyche & soul. if you eat or drink nothing else...get naked.*
*getting naked by itself does not assure that you have the appropriate amount of daily nourishment needed to sustain a healthy diet. please consult your dietician to learn more about a healthy and balanced diet.

yeah, i know. just like a condom – it doesn’t feel quite as good. but in my line of work, you’re better off safe than sorry.

2002-12-09T09:29:00.000-08:00

neat-oh no you're not

in bed by four a.m. and up by eight. by ten i had taken a walk, absorbed my favorite gaylord’s beverage, and processed four loads of laundry at the wash and whatever. i’m thinking, for post-soiree morning productivity, that’s damn good.

when i return to the scene of the preceding night's action, life was once again in restoration. some of the leftover guests were milling about in that this-isn’t-my-house-i-don’t-have-a-car-here-don’t-know-what-i’m-going-to-do-today-eventually-need-a-ride-back-to-the-city fashion, where one tends not to think of the weekend as two days, but just one long entity comprised of preparation, the event, and recovery. to pass the recovery time they observe -- intuitive anthropologists -- glancing over pictures, books, and cd collections. secretly they wonder if it’s ok to draw some water from the tap to quench their thirst.

i bring in my basket of fresh and folded laundry from the car.

like other possessions that adorn my domicile, this basket of clothes comes under quick analysis and scrutiny, an additional clue to be placed into the guest’s newly created mental folder of known human marc. a different thirst is quenched as a big checkmark now accompanies the attribute “neat” in the profile. it’s been decided so by the tidiness of my room, the impeccably stacked shirts, the flat and squared linens, and the lack of garments hanging over a chair or bedpost. later that morning it would become the topic of conversation at breakfast.

“marc, you are so neat” they would say. like it was a disease. like the the cdc would distribute a notification in the case of an outbreak, “attention, attention, there’s been an epidemic of neatness circulating in the oakland area. symptoms include made beds, extensive use of shoe cabinets, and pressed and color-sorted underwear. it’s not quite known if the disease is spread by the orderly mosquito but please take precautions to protect yourself and loved ones from the horror.” all this with a home video backdrop of organized drawers, filed papers, and the spotless symmetry of an infected person’s home.

ok, so i admit that if you were to fold my clothes for me i would probably refold them to my own specification, but don’t most people fold there own clothes? do i really deserve such labeled scrutiny just because i fold and stack my clothes? keep a clean room? or make my bed in the morning?

i’m growing tired of the label -- tired of defending my habits -- and one day, if pushed, i may be tired of being neat too. so be careful when you say i’m neat, as if i had the disease, i may just have to mess you up.

2002-12-05T08:46:00.000-08:00

one peach orchard

i know i know. i need to post something. anything.

and it’s not as if i don’t have stories to sell, but since my return from the orchard i’ve been infected with a sort of unsettling lag. putting my thoughts in cohesion, let alone for writ display, has been like trying to catch my reflection in a spring waterfall.

do i tell one story in detail. do i stick to highlights. or maybe something non sequitur. what about a metaphorically delusional tale told from the voice of a monkey’s disposition. certainly though, i must write something, for you, my demanding and beloved audience.

so this morning i mulled over your needs and my attention span to come up with these bits of summarization:

best item packed: my peacoat. half my luggage comprised of said peacoat. half of what i wore everyday was said peacoat.

best single peach moment (coincidence or a sign of things to come): at the karaoke bar in prague’s oldtown the peach was to pick the song for which i was to sing. blindly pointing to a random song, she chose don’t cry for me argentina. i just so happened to be wearing my argentinean soccer-t that evening.

best single peach moment (the sequel: i can now be a cloud in two cultures): when describing why it was so light out at 4 a.m. in prague, with city lights reflecting the cloud canopy, the peach provided me the word for cloud 'mrak.' it has escaped my memory for the last time.

best single peach moment (the return: good night sweet prince): the peach, who’s recently taken up english lessons, uninhibitedly, and with the elegance of a coy princess, said “good night” that same morning. our first conversation in english.

best purchase in prague: cafe del mar, volume 7.

best art exhibit in prague: frantisek tichy at the the stone bell house.

number of times i got lost in prague: 0. with no specific destinations on my itinerary, it was difficult to get lost in prague. after all, i did make it home every night without having to call for help.

number of times i was disoriented in prague: at least 50.

number of times i had fried cheese: 4

number of postcards i sent on the day i left: 7

number of total postcards i wrote: 7

a word you might hear if ever in prague and staying with three very bachelors: kozy (the literal definition is goats, but in this context it’s more likely to mean breasts).

official drinking age in the czech republic: 18

average age of patrons at the nisa club in jablonec: 15. the younger portion of the age spectrum are referred to as shkolka (kingergarden).

my weight in kilos: 85

temperature in prague when i left: 32 F

temperature in san francisco when i arrived: 65 F

peacoat now no longer required. guilt for not writing, gone.

2002-11-27T05:25:00.000-08:00

p.s.

the picture of the peach...

that's her driver's license photo.

2002-11-20T11:35:00.000-08:00

i’m off to see the wizard, the wonderful wizard of prague

because because because because of all the time i’ll spend clearing dust bunnies from my czech vocabulary.

having grown up as a part-time czech tyke, just past first-grade territory, afforded me the opportunity to become bilingual. it wasn't by choice. it just happened that way. and it doesn’t necessarily mean i’m one hundred percent certified conversant in the czech language. in fact, when i go back to the czech republic i basically start out speaking as if back in time -- from when i last left in 1977.

i can still get around the schoolyard despite my odd metaphorical articulations (use of monkeys and elephants illustrate my more complicated ideas) and the realization that kids my age are really grown-ups, but i’ve concentrated on trying to improve with each visit. in fact this trip’s focus is on lessening my use of the diminutive. for a seven year old, references to cute little dogs with their cute poo are acceptable, tiny kid slippers on even smaller feet are good, while smurfish mareks (marcs) are too. but not so much anymore – not for people my age anyway, or so i’ve noticed. because those smirks i get from the corner table at the pub -- when ordering my cute little glass of beer -- they're the wrong kind.

what’s the czech word for ridiculed anyway?

****

i’ll be back on the 3rd. until then...

2002-11-15T15:43:00.000-08:00

whatever you do, don't look down

i’ve got a double shot of espresso-induced nerves.
lotus notes is down.

a bad pair.

i wonder how much longer i can stare at “server not responding” before a) i’m again able to make use of my agitated state, or b) that energy wears off and i crash my face, with eyes dried open, into the keyboard.

juhl 78rhgiolg,n

ouch!

2002-11-14T11:05:00.000-08:00

7 days

is the saying “seven days” (said with the ring intonation) getting old yet? you bet. sadly, there are times when i can’t resist beating a good thing straight into the ground, six feet under.

but seriously, in seven days me and a 747’s 900,000 pound payload will find enough lift under our wings to get us skyward, pointed easterly, and speeding away at 600 mph. in seven days, i’ll be back on czech republic soil. and in seven days, you can bet i’ll find myself seated in the company of tartar-sauce-doused fried cheese, boiled and buttered potatoes, cucumber salad, a glass of the finest pilsner in the world, plus a peach.

hold a sec. before you whip out your calorie-counting brains and start dreaming of me in rubenesque proportion, rest assured i’ll do something to combat the cheese-grease-and-beer inflation of my tissues. really really long walks will be in order, preceded by one lengthy roll down a hill.

the particulars of my czech gameplan remain mostly undefined, though still good times. undoubtedly a glut of opportunity for cultural submersion awaits me in praha (prague or prag), willing to sustain my aimless hooves. praha can swallow time without even a whisper. there are things to do.

the one thing i do know, is that i will be sending postcards – a tradition i keep when at various corners of the earth. so if you’d like one of my artistic renditions of a czech greeting, simply e-mail me an address where you’d like to receive your post. hurry though. sign up within the next seven days – i’ll even throw in shipping at no extra charge.

****

today i researched the phrase “good career moves.” rob schneider’s name did not appear. anywhere.

2002-11-11T22:29:00.000-08:00

if frosty wore socks they'd be black and hiked over the calf

some perversely sophomoric clouds convened this past friday to catch the bay area comfortably wearing it’s veil white undershirt and underoos on it’s way to pick up the morning paper. by the bucket, the clouds heaved rain upon us. and then proceeded to snicker, as if behind bushes, while we blindly enjoyed the reprieve from the cottony climate of summer and fall’s relic mood. when was the last time it rained with consequence anyway?

yes, we needed the rain, if for anything but to see that it still exists. though i’m anticipating mostly, because this storming banshee meant it snowed in the mountains. and snow in the mountains offers a whole new set of activities for my mind to mull over -- snowboarding, snow shoeing, mountaineering.

i’m positively no expert at any of these recreations. heck, my best trick on a snowboard is knowing how to bail before bowling through crowded pines (resulting once in a broken foot). but regardless, i love the cold white stuff; for it’s swish beneath my board, a soft crunch under my heel, and the death of noise in a frosty-slabbed meadow. let it rain i say. let it snow.

and don’t be surprised if you catch me getting the paper in my undergarments, doing the rain dance.

2002-11-08T23:33:00.000-08:00

where you been all my week?

the weekend is upon me. but before i get started, let me recap this past week’s activity on czechmarc...

(me blankly looking)

yeah, “what happened to me” is exactly right. what did happen?
dunno.
but i’m back.

****

you know those acupuncture and acupressure charts -- maps of the body’s vital energy points? well if you’re a bit in the dark, they’re a sort of a blue print for people who perform acupoking therapies, helping identify points on the body associated with specific tension or ailments. conceptually, it’s like a phone tree.

hello and welcome to the acupuncture help line. please listen to the following message and make an appropriate selection. if you are calling to treat acne, please press one. if you are calling about gastric problems, please press two. if you’re calling about nausea, please press three, and if you are having trouble breathing, please stay on the line and the next available operator will assist you.

ok, it's not for every ailment, but you get the picture.

so let’s say you do have nausea and you go to your favorite chinatown pin pushing clinic. the visit goes something like this: acupuncture dude says “oh, you say you have nausea,” then goes to the chart and runs his finger along until it finds the number three. in this case, the number lines up with some portion of the body associated with tension causing nausea. he comes back and then proceeds to stab you with a finger, elbow, pin, root, or other piked object in the corresponding spot. see -- simple.

what’s supposed to result is a) you're not nauseous anymore, and b) a release of identified tension and pain helping restore the body’s energy flow and environmental balance. good energy equals happiness and voila, you have harmony!

so why am i talking about this? well i’m wondering if you can gain harmony from getting tattooed. i‘m no expert, and i’m not claiming that getting tattooed is an equivalent therapy, but today i must say i’m feeling slightly more simpatico. you see, yestereve i went out and got my arm inked up with an hour and a half session of needle love. but it’s not just the idea of a new design that’s set me agreeable again. apparently, i had a lot of tension in the elbow looking for some release too -- oooh, and did that ever fuckin' smaht!

but who knew? my viny orchids, how you make me happy.

2002-11-03T20:56:00.000-08:00

laughing with the granparents

night of the living dead. day of the dead. dead alive. the evil dead. oooooo-scarry.

run for your lives -- because death is gonna gitch'ya. gore, horror, tragedy -- isn't that american death ideology? a never ending supply of fear for something we hope wasn't so guaranteed. and yet we consume it as if our lives depended on it. if we're not buying it off the big screen then we'll settle for it in our news. i mean c'mon, what is news but a daily obituary blog?

we just had a sniper running around on the east coast. at least ten people are dead because of his bullets. then there's the impending war with iraq. care to take a guess at how many people will die during this campaign? just last week hip-hop pioneer jam master j was shot an killed in his studio. a ferry off indonesia sank. that death toll is being adjusted daily. and if we're not doing it to ourselves, mother nature provides a helping hand; 29 dead in italy due to an earthquake; 10 more dead in pakistan when the earth shook in that region.

or maybe it's that we're just fascinated with death. unpredictable and seemingly so final. we want to look away, but we can't seem to get our fingers tight enough to cover our eyes. the problem is, though we look, we don't know what we're looking for -- and that bother's us. because once your gone, your gone. right? and what of our lives -- did we make the difference we thought we would, that we were suppose to make?

i don't have the answer, but i know last night at my first dia de los muertos procession i succumbed to an alien festivity in deaths regard. walking among the flotilla of candles, the skeletal masks, and amidst the pageantry of stilt-walking bride and grooms, this percussion procession of the living and memorialized made me think: death ain't so bad. if a group of people can laugh with death the way they do in the outer mission for this day, as they do in other parts of latin america, then maybe we can disown some of the gore and horror and tragedy we buy. and laugh a little ourselves instead.

2002-11-01T09:53:00.000-08:00

we can rebuild him. we have the technology

mardi gras in the big easy. carnival in rio. those i’ve yet to take in, but halloween in the castro -- that i can cross off my list. i’m much too much of a zombie to articulate my impression of last night’s free for all. but for you, and just for you, i give some transient musings.

holy mother masses of humanity! who didn’t go to the castro? because i know i saw your grandmother’s neighbor’s dog. or someone dressed as it. great costume by the way, but not as good as...

best costume: eight foot tall flounder a la the far side style.

runners-up: ninja. seriously. actually not so much the costume but the person underneath the black sheath. with only naked eyes showing, i could tell she was a beautiful creature.

runner-me (as steve austin): costumes with sound effects rule.

bunny-up: any dude who dresses in a rabbit suit and grinds to the blues deserves mention here.

and to think that steve austin was a part of royalty (almost): some young girls confused me and my red sweatsuit for a royal tenenbaum. i replied that i was not but that they could move forth, happily, now that they’ve met steve austin, the six million dollar man. they said “who is that....wait, is that like from 1987? no. uh-uh...that’s not right. i don’t know who that is.” and after some silent deliberation “you should be a royal tenenbaum.”

why, why, why? pissing in a large crowd, on your friend, even if your friend is costumed as a urinal, is unnecessary.

and finally: pizza can be might tasty at 2 am. mmmmm. pizza.

now i see why they call today the day of the dead. i am dead right now.
i need some rest in peace. peace out.

2002-10-30T07:43:00.000-08:00

on your mark, get set, go

right about now, my manager jan is having a pair of incisions made -- one to her lower abdomen and another to her uterus. in a matter of minutes, jan's doctor will pull baby anna into our lighted and beautifully chaotic world. anna will then order a soy latte.

congratulations jan and karl.

2002-10-29T13:20:00.000-08:00

...and grover wanted a half-decaf venti nonfat mocha

after seeing the ring i thought some families could’ve benefited from a first born creepily over-perceptive child. i figure an aidan or a cole could go a long way in helping irresponsible parent pairs see a consequential end to baby making activities; that somehow the face of innocence delivering adult perception would scare some sense into these people.

i know. my theoretical musing is flawed in both moral and actual ways. other ways too, but ultimately i was just trying to create a reality for these kids to exist. and that maybe they could do some good for society. that is...until i went to long’s drug this weekend.

a mother and her 3 year-old daughter, who is perched in the fold-out seat compartment of the cart, legs barely long enough to dangle, are having a conversation on the candy aisle.

girl: mommy, i don’t want any candy.
mommy: you don’t. but it’s halloween. we need to get some candy for the trick-or-treaters.
girl: oh, ok. but after are you going for coffee?
mommy: no, i don’t think i need any coffee.
girl: but i think i need a soy latte.
(pause)
mommy: don’t talk like that dear. you scare me when you say those things.

yeah, me too. go back to the movies where you belong. seven year-olds shouldn’t be able to draw pictures for ghosts. eight year-olds shouldn't see dead people. and three year-olds shouldn’t want to order soy lattes.

2002-10-24T22:50:00.000-07:00

can i interest you in some zigmund palffy?

i‘m not sure that i‘m qualified to say what is interesting about me, but i’m pretty damn sure my given name isn’t. knowing my parents as i do, what with their youthful experiences and worldly influences, i’m dealing with the fact they didn’t put those qualities to use when the registry nurse told them (for the tenth time) they were going to need to call me something for the rest of my friggin’ life.

my mother is from the czech republic for christ’s sake! i was born in germany! didn’t they have any better names on the list than marc and clyde and richardson. c’mon. bleh.

so today as i scanned the sports section, i found myself envious of the exceptional names bestowed upon others, particularly hockey players. there i sat in the doctor’s office looking and drooling over these gems:

olli jokinen
zigmund palffy
zenith komarniski
sami salo
krysztof oliwa
and uwe krupp

i coulda been a contender i thought -- a multi-millionaire with fancy skates and a crooked nose. they‘d call me mr. yzerman, or stevie “y“ and ask me about hat tricks and what nationality does yzerman derive. but that’s just it, isn’t it -- we can’t choose our names and we can‘t choose our parents either.

on the other hand if i could choose my parents, and i did it based on receiving an interesting name, i’d choose to have horses. equine names -- those are true trademarks. for all i know there could be a hundred krysztof oliwas in poland and thousand zenith komarniskis in alberta, but a horses name... that’s one of a kind. so as i continued to glance over the paper, i tried some on that i found in the breeder cup section, like:

ivanavinalot
buffythecenterfold
whywhywhy
perfect soul
and my personal favorite milwaukee brew

sure they felt nice, unique, but in the end i came to believe this was just fantasy play and that i really was not a horse (also confirmed by my doctor). so i can’t choose my name, nor my parents, but i’ll always be comforted with the fact i choose my friends. and to that i’ll always answer to principe, p, pants, feet, and partyball.

2002-10-23T08:47:00.000-07:00

one good conversation leads to another

i like fun people. all the following within two days of e-mails after our first meeting at a thursday night work function – and i get to be an ocean.

me: it was a pleasure sharing stories with you and your cohorts at the food-is-art serving fifth floor.

her: i am so glad you wrote to me. i felt rather the lucky one to get to sit next to someone so charming. is it the bellingham, portland, or prague influence that makes you so intriguing and warm? i hope it wasn't overly presumptuous of me to mention that we seemed to share slightly similar family histories, particularly since you're far more traveled and diverse than i am.

me: to tell you the truth i'm not sure what makes me intriguing or warm. i don't really think of myself that way. not that i'm not, mind you.

i'd actually describe myself as an eclectic sponge. but i'm sure i could amend that to a warm intriguing eclectic sponge. which makes me wonder, i described you to sarah as effervescent. what would you add to that? (and you can't say effervescent less diverse eclectic sponge -- i simply won't believe you).

her: well, i see you've brazenly stolen a description of myself for your own use, how unfair. i've always said i am an eclectic sponge, which is sometimes to my own disadvantage (if you're truly a sponge you'll know what i mean... there's so much to sop up out there and finding a teflon coating is much harder than people make it sound).

effervescent? thank you for saying so. i try to save my wanderlust conversations for friends who won't choose to think i'm just a dreamer or get annoyed with me because i don't think life is generally drab. i do want to raise my family (when i have one) around the world and i persist in believing it's possible. someone once said to me they thought that if life was an entree, then joy would be the sprig of parsley on the side. being lively with that person has never worked, so that's when i turn on my turtle disguise and hide away.

what a fun afternoon talking with you! warm eclectic diverse intriguing fellow sponge, i'm very glad to meet you. i hope you have a good week of exploring new places and ideas.

me: oh, you bet it was brazenly stolen.
because in e-mail world, that's how i am - brazen.

her: oh no! you did know i was joking, didn't you? i had to at least pretend that i thought it was shameless of you to steal one of my preferred identities. hope you knew what i meant. oh, and btw, i suppose you can have the "eclectic" part. i'll settle for just being a sponge -- upon further thought that's really more me. i tend to round up a lot of perceptions, not just limited to the eclectic.

me: oh no! oh me! i didn't mean for you to think that you actually brazenly stole said sponge. i was admitting to the fact that i stole from you -- though at the time i didn't know it.
in someway i think i'm the product of everyone else's experiences - i sort of just happen to be there and then later regurgitate (the experiences). and hopefully in a matter that is the best of everyone else's world. ooooooo - connective individuality. i like the concept.

or maybe i'm just one of those hit parade radio stations - the best hits of the 70's, 80's, 90's and now.

hmmmmmm.... me mind thinks... what else could i be?
i think i could be a cloud, too. or how about an ocean -- full of life it is.
and with that, do i really need to horde the sponge too? you've made me see my selfish ways. please take the sponge. it's really yours anyway, and...and... i insist.

her: thank you for the sponge, you're so kind. i've had it since i was 6, you know, it's been mine... but it's ok, we can share. you gave away your tuna tartar, and then you were left with tiny tomatoes, difficult to spear. you can still be a sponge. You can mop up all the best and I, all the rest.

if you've taken the cloud and the ocean, i'll settle very happily for the rain, it works well that way. and I'll get to dance with the wind.
i'll take the lost single soundtracks of the 20s, 30s, 40s, 50s, and the 60s, especially the ones by gershwin.

rhapsody in blue? All mine. oh, and all of the "morning becomes eclectic" ones, too, on m, w, and f, jan - june (you can have them t and th). then we'll switch, june - dec.
i am, however, going to have to put my foot down on this one: i must be harold and maude.

2002-10-21T22:26:00.000-07:00

fries, manicures, and horns

something’s not right in the bathroom these days.

my bathroom to be specific. but nothing stinky. nothing gross. clogged. overflowing. or wiped in the wrong direction. nothing moldy. scummy. or heaven forbid, left unflushed. what it is though, is that our shower head is in a new position every time i see it.

the entire time i’ve lived with rai-mi that double-jointed overhang has remained as still as ralph macchio depicting a crane. not even a hint of movement and always aimed perfectly for my shampoo-lather-rinse routine. it use to be within minutes i was, dare i say, oh and i think i will -- clean as a whistle (intro: irish spring theme).

nowadays, i’m spending minutes just getting the shower head leveled back to the right height. it's in a different pose every morning and i’m beginning to wonder if i’ve caught it in the midst of a yoga sequence or something. just this evening when i went to clean the bathroom, its extended arm was aimed down from its usual nine o'clock position to six o’clock, putting the head of the shower at about two inches above my navel. and the wheels start spinning in the back of my head...

what are we washing down there that can't be washed from water coming up above? hmmm. or maybe it’s a simple case of midgets.
but what to do about this? how does one deal with such infestation?

after talking to my roommate we surmised that it’s not midget's after all, but her boyfriend antony. y’see, he’s french -- one of them frog-eatin’ mother fuckers that use those contraptions to shoot water up the backside. and we don’t have a bidet, so we think it’s throwing him off a bit. which is why he moves the shower head around. so he can get one of those french showers.

i’m not sure what that entails, and i certainly don't need the visual, but french whatever -- this is america. shower like you belong.

2002-10-18T19:39:00.000-07:00

and to all, a good weekend

having smacked my smack habit on planet concoction, it’s time for a few quips about the real world.

when does a specific hue become more than the definition of itself? is it just me, or does green foliage overdose on itself against a gray sky? with white stratums and blue sky, leaves and grass seem only a matter of muted backdrops. but against a gray sky -- it’s fucking chlorophyll on frog poison.

at a dinner party i was asked to divulge my most interesting job. i had two contenders. one was working security at the horde fest in portland; a laughable stint as neil young’s most immediate line of defense (p.s. thanks for flicking the spit from your harmonica on me). unsurprisingly the stoned crowd provided no real drama. the other was serving subpoenas for my dad. i knew that job was interesting when i was greeted by an armed (i’m talkin’ more than just body appendaged) husband of said to be served, tempermental and loaded with expletives in mouth. i backed out of that situation, living to fight another day, and eventually served the court papers at her place of employment -- minus the threat of rambo.

i received my first colleague complaint about work performance. it’s got me in a vendetta kind of mood. all approvals for her projects will now come with a side order of dick.

baseball. sweet october baseball.

and finally, from the fine city of calgary, a hockey and/or labatt story (or a "you were wondering why americans delight in teasing their northern neighbors" story).

“A streaker scaled the glass near the penalty box during a stoppage in play with just over five minutes to play and went onto the ice.
Wearing only a pair of red socks, he slipped when his feet touched down and he landed hard on his back. He was apparently knocked unconscious when he banged his head on the ice and was motionless on his back beside the boards.”

that really wasn't a musing, was it? whatever. comedy at the expense of canada is my wild card.

2002-10-17T09:03:00.000-07:00

addict

gaunt eyes.
that’s what i have now. recessed and ringed with dissolved mortality.

it’s getting harder to notice these things when you’re eroding against forever. time escapes your mind and the blindness allows the body to fade while your skeleton moves in. the twenty pounds or so that i’ve lost over the past two months have made my body sleek. yet out of the shower and into the mirror my appearance sinks with morbid weight, as if twenty-flesh-stripping pounds were affixed to each muscle instead; there to methodically drag the last bit of flesh from my bone.

it would be a revelation as to how i make it through the day, especially at work. nine hours of boredom. nine hours of sobriety. nine lowly hours away from a fix. mainly i keep to myself, on occasion rehearsing enough to carry a light-hearted conversation with my fellow colleague. i’m still able to do this out of a paranoia that someone will look through my eyes and see what’s taking over. out of necessity i manage the air of responsibility. i should be an actor instead.

the farce will fade soon, if it hasn‘t already started. i feel no guarantee, that to others, my reality will stop masquerading with any warning. overwhelmed with the rest of the world’s lucidity i see that there is only one place where i make sense; that two minutes of euphoria and the hours of serenity that follow.

i was afraid at first. though heroin use is romanticized in movies, magazines, any curiosity i had was restrained simply out of fear. self-administering an injection was beyond the perception of things i would do to myself. however, like with other risks i’ve overcome with the first try, i know that fear is easy to disoblige. really, it's just a matter of charging that first urge with an assault of confidence.

i moved closer to the curiosity after living with my brother. to help battle the symptoms of his multiple sclerosis he injects himself with beta-interferon. on occasion he would ask me to inject him in his lower back because the body sites he’s able to administer have become sore and hard with healing tissue. with this i was able to remove the barrier fear had provided. i became comfortable with a needle in my hand and i became comfortable with the ease and lack of resistance flesh gave to my push of the needle. i had gained that assault of confidence.

track marks were always a concern, and at first i thought i could hide them in my tattoos. though against a faded tattoo these raised tracks are less than discreet, at least from what i’ve seen on some of the other buyers that loiter in my suppliers flat. as distressing the image is to the mind, beneath the large toenails is my site of preference. with the nails painted, it helps provide the perfect cover from any evidence of use. the idea that once turned my head i can now do as easily as i sign my name to credit card slips. nothing can outweigh the rush.

sometimes i wonder how much longer this appearance of responsibility will last? my roommate is already wondering why i nap when i come home. weekends go unaccounted except for in the lies that i tell. my savings is depleted, and i have nothing substantive to show for it. and how much longer will my brother go before he notices that i tap into his supply of needles? how much longer will i even care?

2002-10-15T08:47:00.000-07:00

mamko, vsechno nejlepsi k narozeninam

2002-10-13T20:35:00.000-07:00

girls just don't swoon over me like they use to

and yes, those are lederhosen i'm wearing.

2002-10-11T11:33:00.000-07:00

a new study shows boyfriends cause brain damage

right on rai-mi. you’ve got a man in your life, but it seems to be making you a little silly-stoopid. yeah, i know, your work schedules are opposite. your’s in the day and his at night, leaving only the wee hours of the morning for your picnicing and the hours between 7 and 9 am for sleep. but for fuck’s sake, listen to yourself.

(yestereve, rai-mi had found a movie for us to watch by way of the on-screen television guide. y’know the guide that scrolls by time slot and lists the names of the shows, the year they were released, the actors and so on. well the movie she picks is with denzel washington, tom hanks, antionio banderas and others; the one about the guy with aids and a lawsuit; the one with the grammy winning song by bruce springstein of same title. remember?)

(5 minutes of watching have passed)

rai-mi: what city is this supposed to be?
(long pause of silence. like at least a minute long, and accompanied by my puzzled stare)
me: are you serious!
(slightly shorter pause)
rai-mi: well it doesn’t look like new york.
me (in shock): well maybe if you thought about the title, that would help.
rai-mi: (breaks down in a dazed, delusional laughter )

get some sleep dear. you’re beginning to scare me.

2002-10-10T09:31:00.000-07:00

a whole lotta whoopie in january

ok jacob, it's your turn. happy birthday.

2002-10-09T22:28:00.000-07:00

oh dukkha

and for a while i was so happy to be eating roast beef and chicken and tenderloins of pork that i pretended i liked the job. actually it was difficult for me to keep awake. what i had to learn i learned in a weeks time. and after that? after i saw myself doing penal servitude for life. in order to make the best of it i whiled away the time writing stories and essays and long letters to my friends. perhaps they thought i was writing up new ideas for the company, because for quite a while nobody paid any attention to me. i thought it was a wonderful job. i had almost the whole day to dispose of the company’s work in about an hour’s time. i was so enthusiastic about my own private work that i gave orders to my underlings not to disturb me except at stipulated moments. i was sailing along like a breeze, the company paying me regularly...

-henry miller, tropic of capricorn

had i been reading this a few months ago i would be blabbing on how i identified with bad (in a good way) ol' henry miller and how even the seemingly most mundane of existences had silver linings and how i like pork tenderloin and...well you get the picture. the fact of the matter is i would've had time to explain all this to you from the comfort of my grayest of gray cubicle somewhere between the hours of eight and five during your average weekday, and getting paid to do it.

but look at the time of this post. fuck. i'm not identifying much with bad ol' henry these days.

oh sure, i'm still getting the job done. they love me at work, and according to my mid-year review not even the janitor had suggestions for a skill area that i could strengthen. the best my co-workers could come up with was that i could better match my toe-polish with my ensemble (true story). this keeping up with the workload shit though, has got to stop.

it probably wouldn't be so bad had my managers instituted some of the four pages of database changes i gave them (that they asked me to compile) so that i could speed up the process-oriented end of my job (which btw takes up inane and idiotic amounts of my time).

ya see back in november of two zero zero one, i thought i was ahead of the game. i knew i was about to be launched into a more responsible role when management tacked on six other regions to my copy review process. but going from one region to seven didn't bother me. i thought if we could modify the project management database, i could handle the increased review requests. so i said, "hey, if you want this to work -- here's what you gotta do...see, i've outlined it for you nice and neat, made diagrams of the changes, and put that nice little line at the end of my memo that says you can call me if you have any questions." with ten months of anticipation and no phone calls later under my belt, they unveil the new features to the database. out of four pages of changes, they've managed to ignore all but two individual and inconsequential ones.

this sucks! was about all that came to mind.

and currently it is still sucking -- like dukkha. especially when you've got a co-worker writing this shit in his blawg -- reminding you of the glory days and bad ol' henry miller.

2002-10-09T08:28:00.000-07:00

happy birthday k2

2002-10-08T10:04:00.000-07:00

trekking around the world

my friend ami sent me this. seems appropriate to share with those of you who know me as pants.

2002-10-08T10:02:00.000-07:00

happy birthday erica

2002-10-04T19:27:00.000-07:00

keep off the grass

it’s the third time i’ve been witness to the grim reaper’s craft. today, in the grassy park across from my office, two paramedics calmly rolled a sheet-covered corpse into the back of their double-doored and now-converted hearse. and just for my confirmation, before they closed the door on this guy for good, a slight wind lifted the sheet in to a hover giving me a brief glimpse of his blank serenity. “yep, dead” i said to myself, drawing a sip from the foam of my cappuccino.

i’ll never forget the first time i saw death take the life out of a man. i was in vietnam, on a bus destined for halong bay. anticipation had been focused on a natural metropolis of limestone skyscrapers and aquatic avenues, not death. so it just goes to show that it will sneak up on you -- even if you’re not the target, whether you’re deep in third-world communism or coasting in verdant capitalism.

like here in the states, traffic fatalities in vietnam are as common as daylight. but unlike our traffic-lighted and line-painted concrete byways, their road infrastructure apes the architectural genius of a pre-schooler’s crayola blueprint. perhaps it’s why their traffic rules are just as simple and crude -- biggest vehicle wins, pedestrians beware.

twenty minutes on the road and about one-quarter mile (two-fifths kilometer) ahead on the highway, someone made the fatal error. it was a simple case of rock, paper, scissor, only in this scenario the elements to this challenge were re-purposed to pick-up and scooter (see simple rule above). to add injury to accident, there appears to be no word in vietnamese for helmet, and no need -- certainly not in this case. but i know nothing about the consequences of death, right? certainly not in vietnam.

while some of the drivers ahead stopped to investigate the thrown and broken man, our bus casually skirted by, offering a glance of death in slow motion. blood had already begun to crawl from the backside of his head, expanding in a pool beneath, escaping with his life. what to do? like the passengers on the bus, would-be samaritans on the road were left with helpless faces staring at their mighty opposable thumbs, rendered useless by an expiring inevitability. the final two seconds of this man’s life disturbed the most, as death literally shook the man’s soul from his body. his final flail and fit over, he layed still -- stiller and deader than the asphalt beneath him.

it was hard to face at the time. but one day that’s going to be me, i think softly and on occasion. still. and to tell you truth, i’m glad i witnessed death at work (even though it scared the shit out of me at the time). because now, i feel much better about dying, living -- knowing what the stillness looks like. and maybe it’s what the vietnamese have known for quite some time.

2002-10-03T21:02:00.000-07:00

now that i'm old enough

i work to make money. i make money so i can spend it. i spend it because i’m thirty-something (so i’ve been told). lately, plans for the money i make have been bouncing between the ears, sounding like a mastercard commercial on steroids.

making your bmw 2002 look like a 2002 bmw: $1500
saying hello to your friend in prague -- in person: $550
your first sitting with a needling artist: $240

i’m still trying to find that priceless ending. the one where you’ve concluded that virtuous rewards don’t involve spending money. but the fuck if i have a son named timmy to take to the ballpark for his first ball game. i’ve got me, selfish me.

now that's priceless.

2002-09-30T10:03:00.000-07:00

happy birthday doodie

2002-09-28T14:26:00.000-07:00

the price of obscure fame

i am injured -- bad wrist, patches of missing skin on the shin, the latter a grotesque welt of raw and weeping flesh. and although i am healing well, i’m not nearly as excited about carrying these badges of courage two days after the incident, when i was high on endorphins and awe.

by all accounts, i lived that situation many sport-fanatical boys recreate in front of their garage-mounted basketball hoops, on grassy park fields, and sunday sandlots. you are announcer, crowd, and hero -- and you’ve scripted the perfect ending to an improbable last-ditch-effort come-from-behind pressure-cooked victory. the fantasia always ended the same, “...and the crowd goes wild” (insert single voice mocking of crowd noise). bow.

maybe for today’s kids it has a little different ending, “can you say restructured contract?! show me the money!” but the essence is the same. your feat and fame are undeniable.

yeah, scripts are nice. but the percentages of playing out one of these dramas are dismal. the immaculate reception, the shot heard around the world, these gems simply don’t present often and even more so, they’re never scripted. life, rather, is an intersection of time and place; and at each crossing is an opportunity, never a script.

yet i found myself in one of these situations. it was classic - and seems as if scripted. it’s the bottom half of the final inning of the final game of our season. if we win we have a chance for the playoffs. our team is down three runs, there are two outs, the bases are loaded, and i’m up to bat. even now it sounds different than the moment. more impressive.

maybe because i’m removed from those childhood years, but i didn’t grasp the situation in which i was intersected. for me, i simply didn’t want to end the game as the last out. i didn’t even own the notion that my success represented the winning run. “keep it in play” i told myself. so, on a two-and-one pitch, i drove a line drive into center field -- a sure double.

it wasn’t even until i rounded first base, when i realize the ball has found a gap through the outfielders‘ defense, that life made its screen adaptation out of one childhood script. i am suddenly running in a vacuum of muted tones. the field instantly doubles its size and i now have twice as far to run. balanced though, all else is moving twice as slow, including the air, which breaks the silence when i run through it. in one realm, my legs are turning over in real time, in another, time is turned over in languor. there is screaming coming from the outside. i can hear it slowly drilling through the thick layered dream, my legs encouraged by our contingent of teammates and perhaps even a fan or two. time and fantasy were up to their tricks, because as i was watching the world’s malaise, i found myself approaching home plate in the instance of a blink. the ball too.

the catcher went up. i went down, riding the gritty base path into home plate. ballgame.

the grand moment was over that instantly. i had scored the winning run on a double that somehow turned into a grand slam. and reality bolted back in the form of 16 teammates and group hugging. though in some ways, i still think it's sinking in.

never did i think i would have a kirk gibson moment, even in a recreational softball league world. but i did -- not that my shin or wrist care.

update on johnny softball

johnny softball from last week played in the game previous to ours. at the end of the game he got into a shoving match with his teammate after said teammate suggested he try to hit singles instead of homeruns (presumably he did not hit a home run and instead produced outs). jackass.

2002-09-26T14:25:00.000-07:00

sam i am

i'm waiting for marc outside 1800 harrison. this guy walks up, says his
name is steve. all I know is, he's wearing fancy pants. says something
about being middle eastern, says he drives a taxi. i don't buy it. the
guy has his hair parted funny, doesn't look middle anything. i look
around; don't see a taxi either.

but why's he talking to me? that's a piece that doesn't figure. i offer
to buy him a beer; i need to get the straight dope on this jackass.
fast, too—i have a plane to catch. besides, maybe he does have a taxi
somewhere (maybe in a pocket of those fancy pants). i need a ride to the
airport. see?

from here, things get strange. he's asking me all these personal
questions. he knows things about me, too. like my home address. if
things don't get sorted out soon, i'll need backup. sometime the best
defense is a good woman. i want to be cool, though, so i order bags of
almonds, then say, "how's your old lady?" that's my first break. he gets
real nervous, see? he starts babbling about disco balls and plastic cups
with messages on them. sad really.

time wears on. i still don't know much about this guy who says his name
is steve. he does give me a ride to the airport, though. thanks,
steve—whoever you are.

--contributed by czechmarc guest blogger, sam

2002-09-25T11:59:00.000-07:00

scintillate, scintillate, asteroid minific

time: 6:24 pm, tuesday
place: 55 laguna, san francisco
setting: classroom

overheard conversation (monologue said in one breath):
“did you do your homework? i didn’t do mine. well, i did homework. i read the chapters and then did all the questions at the end. they were really, really hard. and i was thinking to myself that we didn’t even cover this in class. so i went to the syllabus, which i realize i hadn’t checked before, and low and behold, the questions weren’t even on the assignment list. i did really well on the questions though. i missed only three. but i didn’t actually get the real assignment done and...”

i said (in my private brain chamber):
“...AND OH MY GOD! YOUR VOICE IS SO AGGREVATING. WILL SOMEONE PLEASE SHUT YOU UP!”

perturbed and judgmental, i added:
“btw, gene simmons is looking for his make-up.”

i am already going to hell. i do not feel bad about this blog.

2002-09-23T20:25:00.000-07:00

it’s all fun and games until someone writes poetry

so on occasion i’ll write some lines with poetic intent.

i’m a little short on time this evening, as i have some text to deface for my editing class, but i thought i’d toss you a little sentimental mood. written about a year ago after a saunter in one of portland’s best hillside nooks, the following depicts one warm afternoon in the japanese gardens with my friend ami.

a walk,
beneath the favor of evergreens,
a garden hides within itself,
wrapping over the meticulous plans
of a choreographer’s wit
and his articulate pen.
from above,
rich skies sip from the siesta
shedding a dream through leaves,
casting green upon green,
tumbling,
until the clay of which it lays upon
seeps into a bowl it’s own happy tears.
with one inhale,
the lush crisp dew and still tide,
whose walls were drawn for orange fins
and floatillas of yesterday’s faces,
gives way to a gentle vapor
as eager fingers caress
the dry shells of the iris stem
delicacy,
is the path of this dance,
for a lazy slate suns itself
across the course of jeweled water,
and amidst the chatter
liquid finches ruffle the early autumn air
teasing the fantasies of grey stones,
still in their perfect day.
inspired steps,
as if looking through peacock eyes,
or galloping with naked toes,
the peripheral plume taps the edge,
where the land and the bush conspire
in innocent growth and random joy,
foretelling the new season.
so,
change comes near.
and the inevitable heat
begins to warm the skin,
despite a vow of time’s silence,
despite the fire tree’s sleep--
breathing anticipation of what it knows,
that the soul is dressed in rouge.

2002-09-22T19:02:00.000-07:00

let's hear it for johnny softball

there’s one on every team we play. the guy with the slide pants. the guy that always goes for second base on a true single. the guy who gave up a high school baseball career for a beer-belly and a slowed-down version of the game. the guy that argues calls with the men in blue when his team is up by twenty in the last half of the final inning with two outs. the guy who is proud of his softball prowess and has the trophies on his fireplace mantle to prove it.

sure these guys are passionate about their sport, and had they been good enough to be considered for minor league action, i’m sure that type of intensity could’ve only added to their potential success. however, they seem a little out of place when i take the field opposite them. are these the bullies that flunked 6th grade so they could pick on the kids coming up from 5th?

see, i play in a softball recreational league. on a co-ed team. in the double “d” division (yeah, that division -- the second lowest one they have). let me put that into perspective. let’s say our team wants to be in a top division like division “a.” we’d have to work our way in reverse order through the double alphabet, then start over with “z” and work our way to “a.” if we moved up one division each season, it would take us about 29 seasons. hell, by then i’m starting to look at social security and medicare options.

this past week’s johnny, to his credit, did hit a home run, but otherwise made a complete tool of himself. this is how he started, after our runner went to third base standing up on a close throw, johnny argues with the umpire that our runner had to slide into third base. not even in tee-ball do they have an asinine rule like that, and after blue basically asked him what rulebook he was reading and which drugs he was smoking mr. softball moped his way back into left field -- our runner standing on third.

apparently not satisfied he couldn’t just make up rules on the spot, he took matters into his own hands -- he's the type who regularly uses the line "i'll finish this once and for all!"

it was on a ball hit far enough to get the batter to second, and far enough to think about going on. the throw once again comes to third base, but the runner holds at second thinking better of the situation. in the mean time, jackass has galloped in from left field, literally, to cover third base for the ensuing throw. heads up play you say? not really when you consider they already have a third baseman, and she’s already standing on the bag. that is, until he bowls her over with his half-rack ass. nice move johnny.

nice karma too. final score: 11 us, 8 them.

in other news about tools on the field, check out this piece by ray ratto of espn on the two idgets who stormed the kansas city royal first base coach during their game against the chicago white sox.

2002-09-19T08:52:00.000-07:00

who stank? you stank

my little socal fantasy ended the second i stepped on the oaktown-bound plane in orange county. yet, the rock star lifestyle still continues for my friend. a few weeks ago she was invited backstage with her friend lenny, and now, today, she calls to say she’ll be in a music video.

funny thing. i misunderstood her over the phone and thought she said it was a super stink video, and said it as if i should somehow know who super stink was. so, after a few online minutes of googling, i quickly deduced there is no such band. there are plenty bands that do stink, though. turns out the band she was referencing...hoobastank.

i pointed out that courtney cox started her career by being in a video as a band crowd groupie who perfected the suburban white finger-snap dance. it worked for her, then why not alida. courtney’s done quite well since, even despite having to act along side the annoyingly wimpy david schwimmer--if i might be so generous as to credit her with acting, or him for that matter. and could he possibly even be anybody's friend?

“you’ll be rich and famous. rich and famous,” i told her.

well maybe not rich just yet. apparently acting as a crowd groupie is something you do for the love. alida didn’t earn a dime for her ‘acting’ services or the twelve hours she waited around before being sent home. i guess that’s what they mean when they say it's the price of fame, right? or maybe just the price of being in a video for hoobastank?

hoobastank. that’s funny.

2002-09-16T23:22:00.000-07:00

big ben's weekend adventure

i’m a punctual fellow usually. my body clock works well, and in general, i don’t need to rely much on watches or clocks when it comes to navigating my daily activities.

however, on occasion i’ll do something that throws the ol’ torso-ticker into conniption, just like i did this past friday. after a night of playing party host, conversation contributor, and crazy-foul liquor consumer, i crashed into my bed. hard. i’m not sure at what time exactly, but i think it was 3 am or so --a good 4 hours after my normal bedtime. and that’s just the type of thing that messes with my sense of time.

it’s ok, it’s not like i don’t own a clock or a watch or a cellphone that able to keep time. i still reference them from time to time, particularly in those situations when i get a little off my schedule – like saturday for instance. in fact, one the of the quickest ways for me to get on track is to simply steal a glimpse toward my night cabinet where my clock sits. a nice round clock, with big easy-to-read numbers.

in saturday’s case, i was relying on my clock to set things straight again. yet, all was amiss and missing. namely my sense of time, but even more importantly my clock. "oh no, where is my friendly-faced timekeeper," i thought peering at the space where my clock no longer stood.
wait (rubbing the sleep from me eyes) let’s rephrase.
"now way! someone fucking stole my clock!"

gone.

i suppose i shouldn’t have been all that surprised. some eighty people showed up to the house for our friday the thirteenth shindig. there’s bound to be one bad apple in the bunch, right? still, who steals a clock off a nightstand?

so i’m pretty bummed right about then. and disoriented too. like why is it already 3 pm? and this whole ‘not knowing what time it is’ really messes with the rest of your weekend. and there’s not much i can do about it because it’s only a clock, and it’s gone, and i should just move on and get a new one.

but i just can’t run out and get a new one. grieve must take it’s course (moping) and then there’s the sympathies of my listeners on which to capitalize. which in the end seems to work just fine. not because people are feeling sorry for me, but because i’ve waited to find a replacement.

you see, had i replaced my clock immediately, i‘d now have two. so what happened you ask? how would i end up with two clocks? well, on sunday evening this don guy shows up at our home, with my clock in his hand. now i don’t know don, but don knows my clock, and he’s come to return it. and i’m like – huh? what just happened. and who the fuck is don?

apparently don, friday night partygoer, needed to "borrow" the clock so he "could get up an go to work the next day." i didn’t catch on to the details of his story as i sat distracted embracing my returned timepiece, but i think he slept in his truck that evening.

i’m still a little on the fence on how i feel about someone taking my clock without permission, but the tally card looks like this: good don for not driving home stupid. bad done for taking clock without permission (or note of explanation). good don for returning the clock.

anyway, i’m back on schedule. and i have my clock back.

2002-09-13T12:27:00.000-07:00

what’s your cup size?

where have i been all week?
no post since monday?

yeah, well...it’s been a hectic week with preparations for tonight’s friday the thirteenth party, live at the compound (that would be were i live – one duplex, with some single units out back – crazy neighbors, crazy times). the supreme party commander gave me a list of things to do for the week and i’ve just about completed my duties.

get keg – check.
cups – check.
condiments – check.
disco ball – check.
clean room – check.
purchase ice – will do today.

so it looks like i’m pretty much up to speed.

though, i’ve got one more thing that i want to finish. it’s somewhat of a self assignment, which is to personalize our guests cups. at parties i always find, invariably, that it’s very easy to loose sight of the cup from which you originally quaff. not a lot of difference between one white-lined red dixie cup and another. put one down and identifying yours from a line up of identical suspects is quite simply overwhelming.

i’ve learned through experience. what will happen is, i put my cup down, loose track of it, and pick up some one else’s – it’s a terrible thing to go from an i.p.a., to gin and tonic, to an unidentifiable fruit punch mix. trust me.

and who wants to waste cups by continually grabbing from a stack of new ones, right? so to help conserve and create clarity i decided to individualize each cup with a phrase. i’ve got 80 cups marked with unique movie quotes, sayings, pick-up lines etc. but i still have 20 more to go! after four score, my brain’s a little over-worked and it’s getting harder to think of new phrases.

here are the latest two:

my boyfriend drives a miata.
this cup is a size “d.”

18 more to go. got any suggestions?

2002-09-09T14:13:00.000-07:00

who needs a hug

one thing i remember about my grampy clyde (dad’s dad) is how he use to test me on state capitals. i’d get a buck per correct answer, usually with five big ones, total, on the line, and augusta and madison were always in the answer mix. i don’t remember a lot of hugs from grampy however, and i think it’s a genetic marker for the richardson clan. we simply don’t have the timing or grace to pull one off. those are needed attributes if you give good hugs. i don't really know, perhaps we’re conditioned to not risk a head butt or something. either way, my dad’s not a big hugger, nor my brother, nor i.

of course, i’m not talking intimate, significant-other type hugs. i know, at least, that i can execute those with confidence, success, and lack of injury. but when it comes to the social hello and good-bye type, you pretty much need to ambush a richardson to get a hug out of him. and that’s exactly what happened this weekend.

what’s extraordinary about this particular hug-jacking was that it was richardson on richardson.

i was in p-town for the weekend, doing the stanich routine with my brother, and we decided to stop by the old man’s pad to watch part of the ducks’ game. we get there and as i follow my brother up the contained stairway, from the garage to the first level of the house, the ambient light is shunned by a back-lit, displaced, but unusually familiar figure -- our father. with stiff and reaching arms, ala dr. evil, he is blocking our ascent into an open, spacious, and friendlier family room. “come give daddy a hug” i imagined him saying, shivering quickly to rid the comical fright.

luckily for me, my brother was first up the stairs and i was able to settle in the role of witness.

oh, it was classic. my brother had no choice but to stumble forward in his confusion, as i blocked his escape in reverse. i could practically read the thought bubble blinking above kelly’s head, “oh fuck!”
there really wasn’t much he could do though, so he just went for it – kamikaze in spirit.

did i tell you that the richardsons aren’t predisposed to pulling off a good hug. in fact i wouldn’t even call my dad and kelly’s get-together a hug. it was more like two fork lifts trying to ram each other. i’m positive no arm or a hand ever made it around another’s torso, y’know for like a pat on the back. quite simply put, what we had were two adult males bouncing from each other after a gentle game of chicken. absolutely retarded. and so i’m thinking, what ever happened to the high-five. we’re good at that.

don’t get me wrong, the sincerity was there. the affliction seems comfortably contained to it’s physical form. we still exchange our good to see you’s, how are things civilities, and commentary over sport, the stuff true father-son relationships are made of. and i truly like to think that this is a genetic fault, really i do. because i think, looking back today, if grampy would’ve given hugs instead of a dollars, we richardsons would be a lot better off.

2002-09-05T14:33:00.000-07:00

kermit the frog here

you can now dissect a frog on-line. it’s true.

ahh, the internet – where were you when i was stuck in mr. brown’s biology class, staring over that organic lump of dried slime, reaffirming my future as anything but a doctor or biology teacher? you could’ve helped me avoid choking on that acrid formaldehyde air, the splicing of stale and stiff organs, and the inevitable associations of taking apart the carcass of a childhood muppet hero.

it’s not easy being green. but it’s getting a little easier.

2002-09-04T10:26:00.000-07:00

afl-cizzzzzzzzzzzzzz

labor day? shouldn’t we really change the name to anti-labor day? i mean, i could hardly be accused of doing anything laborious this past monday. i instead, a conservationist of calories steeped in a love affair with the couch.

anyway, it was a day of malaise that started, for me, around 10:30 as the morning sun began to bake my room. i rolled out of the confines of my sheets looking for some air to fan the forming perspiration around my neck, the cool sides of my pillows having long departed. dazed, i scratched my head a bit, smacked my lips a little for wanted moisture, gathered a small amount of coordination and frankensteined my way to the bathroom for needed relief. at some point in my stumbling, between flushing and deciding that going back to bed would instigate self guilt, some clothes were placed on my person and flip flops on my feet. instinct was in control and i, prepared enough, was ready for a morning stroll to the gaylord’s – double cappuccino, make it on the wet side, please.

but no java jolt could help me motivate. before one o’clock was upon me, i had relegated to the couch for a two-hour italian-style siesta, y’know, from working hard at not working. with minimal time devoted to eyes wide open, my day was already half over and the standard for the rest of it was set.

i would leave the house only two more times. once to get a replacement shower curtain (what is that red scum anyway?) and once to get a bag of flammin’ hot cheetos (what is that red stuff anyway?). the rest -- well, i feigned interest in the usc/auburn collegiate football game, as i flipped back and forth between it and a freddie prinze jr. movie (question to self: when did you start watching freddie prinze jr. movies?).

this got me through to about eight in the evening. though as lazy as i was during the day, i wasn’t ready for bed just yet. perhaps something to do with the fact i had been sleeping so much of the day. that’s ok, the tv and couch thing was working pretty well for me, so after usc won it’s game and freddie his dame, i continued on to watch denzel’s oscar-winning performance in training day. which, btw, is an appropriate example of why a great acting performance can’t save a mediocre storyline.

but then that’s were it ends, as the news and recap shows failed to hold my interest, and doing anything productive required will. it seemed the day had barely passed before i was back in bed, pillows once again cool, asleep. and although my day seemed wasted, i have to say, it sure beat working. something tells me i should feel guilty, but i really don’t. now that i look back and think about all the things i do do on other days, i’m thinking i had a pretty good anti-labor day.

2002-08-30T08:40:00.000-07:00

i think i'll be a cloud today

2002-08-30T00:01:00.000-07:00

principessa

happy birthday ami.

2002-08-29T15:15:00.000-07:00

weather's beautiful

hey, i like getting postcards from friends who are in far-away places, but this one disturbs me a bit.

"we wish you were here" -- is that me in the jaws of death?!?
maybe they don't like me anymore, but that's twisted. plain sick.

2002-08-28T10:32:00.000-07:00

image is everything

so everything i said about so-cal in my previous post...
it’s absolutely true. but my little visit to planet l.a. held more surprises in it’s star-studded sprawl than this kid from the northwest could’ve conceived. ever. even alida was in awe of the happenstance weekend we both seemed to stumble upon. i’m still trying to put some perspective on it.

first of all, there’s a persistence in that air down south which is either very good for the self-conscious or very bad. image has unique precedence in this sculpted spread of populated mass. for women it’s an aim towards a top-heavy, stick-figure appearance that gets them their shot at status and privilege. while if you’re of the male persuasion, you're best off sporting a glimmering timepiece, a fancy car under you butt, and a business card that has “dr.” or “at law” in bold, because l.a. is no place for people who are down to earth or can‘t impress with the first words that fall out of their mouth to an introduced acquaintance. sounds stereotypical doesn’t it? but i kid you not - i actually ran into encounters that verify my musings.

with all this, alida an i basically have three strikes against us -- our vehicle (alida’s mazda 323), the fact that by nature we’re down-to-earth northwesterners, and, though i work for an organization that employs doctors, i’m several hundred thousand dollars short of having that m.d. title on my business card. on our side is our versatility, though, with years of north face, flannel, hiking outdoor resourcefulness.

our first step into our image induced weekend was to trade in the 323 for a rented convertible. we were on our way to hollywood, guests on an exclusive list to one of it’s most esteemed clubs. it’s about image remember. consciously we had hoped for a black coupe with a tan interior, but in true california style we got a white one with a like interior. it was hertz’s only offering and we were so happy to ditch the mazda, distant cousin to the gremlin, that we took the ditzy mustang with open arms.

of course it took 2 hours to get to l.a. from southern orange county (it would only take about 30 minutes to get back). and it took a shopping spree on melrose to get appropriately attired for the evening (the jeans i brought were apparently too pedestrian). but since i had never been on a guest list for a hollywood club, or any club for that matter, not even as “+ 1 guest,” it seemed worth the experience to roll with l.a. scene.

and so we did roll into this club, escorted to the front of the line, with free drinks for the night courtesy of alida’s friend colin. inside the club -- l.a., so-cal, fake breasts and the people who befit aforementioned stereotypes above. i’m out of my element and it’s here that the strangest event of the weekend happened for me.

while i had the pleasure of being observer for most of the evening, in this pool of shallow humanity, i also had the pleasure of meeting some nice people, who exuded a little depth, who were social, who knew of the mockery we were amidst, and who’s first and last question wasn’t “what do you do? (loosely translated as “are you someone important?”). one of them being colin. another, his date branda -- outrageously gorgeous and yes, fake-breasted.

but again, this is l.a. and reality here seems fictitious, at best undefined. which is why i can’t conceptualize any rational to the following event:

scene: branda, heather, and colin are ready to leave. marc ready to say goodbye. alida is off chasing boys. it’s loud so you need to step close to the person you’re addressing).

colin: we’re getting ready to take off.
branda: you’re coming with us, right?
marc: yeah sorry, but alida and i have a car and we’re driving back to orange county tonite.
branda: are you sure you’re not gay? (following up an earlier conversation, because i had mentioned i was from the bay area. she has a friend who likes blondes.)
marc: uh yeah, i’m sure
branda: well then you need to prove it to me.
marc: and...how would i do that?
branda: you need to kiss me (mind you it’s loud so colin, who’s talking to heather, can’t really hear our conversation.)
marc: ???? (not really sure what to do)
(and it was in this moment of indecisiveness that she corals me with her right arm and kisses me – one of those kisses where your lower lip melts into the other person)
marc: ????? (not really sure what just happened)
branda: that wasn’t a kiss. it was like you gave me a peck (commenting on my reserved reaction)
marc: well, i’m not really sure how colin feels about this (although it’s becoming apparent that colin really doesn’t care, conveniently still talking with heather, peripheral vision turned narrow.)
branda: hmmm. you’re not gay?
marc: nope.
branda: but your so good looking. well then you you need to kiss me again...

so after three rounds of this it’s finally time for them to leave. and they do.
and, i’m stunned. like, wtf just happened, my lip sort of dripped on my chin.

end scene.

wtf is right! and i couldn't even begin to explain to you how i ended up at boat parties in newport the next day.

ah so-cal. only in so-cal.

2002-08-27T15:10:00.000-07:00

round 3

my apologies for posting this late. this happened last friday.

marc (to a sitting and snacking helen): whatch’ya got there?
helen: almonds.
marc: well that seems very healthy.
helen: it’s because i can’t stand to eat crap like that (nodding her head in the direction of ian, who’s lost half his arm in a bag of ketchup flavored chips.)
marc: so is that how you keep your slimming figure?
helen: fuck you dear.

and we have a winner!

2002-08-26T14:27:00.000-07:00

back to school

i am trying to improve my writing.
i am not much in the mood for writing today.
and i am in the throws of conflict, as i agree that one writes better with practice.

but really, i am trying to improve my word and grammatical skills. so here i write.

one thing that i do look forward to, that relates to writing, is a sequence of classes starting this fall at the uc-berkeley extension. it’s a three-course regime in editing complete with certificate of omnipotent editorial power (upon satisfactory completion) and the right to mention such certificate on a resume. and although i don’t really give a monkey’s pooper about the certificate, i am quite interested in uncovering the science of writing a grammatically correct sentence.

i know i have this blog, and i write in my blog, but that doesn't necessarily make me a writer. i have the distinct fear that my prose would horrify well-trained editors. hell, i wouldn’t be surprised if you, my fine audience, have been frequently turning your head from ghastly misuses of the n or m dash, or colon, or one of my favorite no-no’s like the overuse of commas. and to think that i also make editorial comments at work, well it’s all the more reason to justify the pursuit.

so, me going to write good soon. make good promise to you -- promise.

a better future for better bloggin.'

2002-08-22T08:52:00.000-07:00

a bit of kansas in l.a.

it’s off to so-cal for a fake-breast weekend. no, no, no, not like that–i’m not looking to get a pair. i mean–that they would be surgically implanted into my body. wait, i mean...but not that i’m going down there to specifically look at pseudo boobs on the female population either. i mean...ugh, so hard to explain.

to me, so-cal, l.a., fake breasts–they’re essentially interchangeable, synonymous. if ever asked to give opinion on questionably real chests, i’ll think l.a. and if queried about so-cal, my reply will inevitably include a reference to gravity defying breasts. that’s just the way it works for me. so when i say i’m going down to so-cal for a fake-breast weekend, it just means when i step off the plane, an implanted bosom environment is what i expect to step in to. hold a sec, i mean, that’s not why i’m going though...ugh. they’ll just be there, because that’s where they live.

the irony in this is that i’m really there to visit my dear friend alida. or, maybe just my nutty friend alida. either way, one thing she isn’t is my big-chested friend alida, or the one that people point and refer to as “the girl with the new boobs over there.” which is good, because after this post, i’ll need someone to hang out with that doesn’t remind me of so-cal, er..l.a..um, i mean fake breasts...ack!

****

round 2:

me (to an approaching helen): what a splendid and brilliant day today.
helen (mocking me, only in a sprightly english accent): oh yes! it’s positively a gorgeous day! (finishing with a ridiculing smile)

hm. i think i lose points on that one. fuck!

****

advance warning: no bloggin’ on friday for me.

2002-08-20T13:28:00.000-07:00

bloody hell(en)

there’s a new game being played at the office. it’s called ‘smile helen, smile.’

admittedly, i’m the only person playing since my invention of the game earlier this morning. but the concept is simple -- praise helen, our beloved and morosely sullen lead editor and part-time cynic, with affection and joyous comment until you are able to solicit a victorious response. you are declared a winner at the point one of her disdainful retorts includes the word ‘fuck,’ preferrably directed at you. for instance, if you say what a lovely smile helen could have, and she told you to ‘fuck off,’ you’d be declared a winner. on the other hand, if you could only manage a ‘bleeahhhh’ (it's one of her favorite responses)...well then, you need to continue to the next round.

it’s a full featured game: there are no losers; you never have to finish a game; you can play as many times, with as many rounds as you want; and, you can play by yourself -- or with others. if it catches on in the office, it's bound to provide hours of entertainment for my co-workers.
who's gonna be a winner today?

today: round 1

marc (noticing helen by the window): helen...you look absolutely glowing in the sunlight
helen (leaned back in her chair, forcing her exasperated british accent): ‘bleeeaaahhhh, what sun?’

damn. looks like i’m on to round 2.

2002-08-19T14:27:00.000-07:00

it tastes like burning

i’m not going to burning man this year. and i may never have to. in some ways, over the past few weeks, i feel like i’ve already seen it.

my roommate (who is going and sells it as life-changing), a couple of friends and i hit yet another fundraising event aimed at getting the flocks of expressionists and their sum to the sun-bleached grounds in the black rock desert of nevada. you begin to understand the fundraising culture necessitated by this trial in camping art when you see that not only does it take a lot of cash to fund your artistic endeavor, but that on top of supplying all your own food, water, clothing, medicine, drugs, sunblock, vacation days, pepper spray and transportation – the event coordinators lighten your financial sovereignty to the tune of another 250 dollars just for the privilege.

ok, i understand that it’s a unique weeklong event, but let’s just recap this –you and some friends pay $250 a piece to sleep at an outdoor art gallery in the desert for a week, and...
byoe (bring your own everything).
in some ways i feel i’ve already done that. but we just called it car camping the friday after first thursday. and if i remember correctly, it all cost me about $20. tops (picture me scratching head). hmmmm.

i respect the urge for others to pursue this provisional art community, questioning it only slightly, yet for me, i can think of better ways to cash allocate. for instance, towards a life time supply of flammin’ hot cheetos or fanta, or maybe even fancy soap. or if it’s sun and sand that i want to see – how about applying it towards a plane ticket to the uruguayan riviera.

don’t get me wrong. i’m not anti-burning man. i’m just selective when it comes to throwing in a few dollars for his support. like if i can go to a warehouse gallery in west oakland to see ludicrous experimentation with frankenstein electricity and a man in a metal suit on in-line skates, well then that gets my dollar. which is why this past weekend worked perfectly, as dr. megavolt. – accident waiting to happen – came to town, to fry hotdogs. wooden chairs and aol junkmail cd’s with his one million volt producing tesla coil.

i know i didn’t get the full effect of burning man, but i got a taste (burnt ozone), and i’m comfy with that, because when the show’s over, i’m eating my bag of cheetos, sleeping in my bed and thinking how i still have $239.01 left to spend on whatever i want.

2002-08-19T10:19:00.000-07:00

i've discontinued comments on my site until further notice. the link with my comment service provider was painfully slow.
meanwhile, have somethin' to say? tip your staff.

2002-08-17T12:25:00.000-07:00

reminders

brush teeth after getting coffee, not before.
try, somehow, not to stand like a bailiff.
ask for less cream cheese on my bagel. or, more bagel on my cream cheese.
kristen really did look like flipper, with her reversed-motion pool tricks, but maybe should keep these thoughts to myself.
watch monster’s ball, thin red line (widescreen version), and the princess and the warrior. today.
tracy beats people up.
finish reading tropic of capricorn.
clean dirt in-between my toes, too.
think of myself as a quiet clown.
but, don’t think of myself as just funny looking.
buy plane ticket for portland.
purge ‘crazy duck -- i’m crazy -- a crazy duck’ from the recess of my mind.
research samuel taylor coleridge poetry.
make stuff up about myself.
check back into the methadone clinic.
find out what happened to joe piscapo.

2002-08-15T12:57:00.000-07:00

blowing smoke

so my roommate raye-mi is addicted to cigarettes.
and is in denial about such fact.

how do i know? well i always thought i knew, but never had the verified proof of seeing her desperate for that jolt smoke. until monday evening that is. that’s when it started -- when she called asking where i was, what i was doing.

i’m at the coffee shop, what’s up?
oh, are you coming home soon?
yeah, i’m getting it to go. do you need something?
well yeah, if you don’t mind, do you think you could bum a cigarette off someone?
i’ll see what i can do. is that it?
well, yeah. that’s it. just a cigarette.

now mind you, our home is only three blocks from the coffee shop and ever since the incident when i asked a guy if he could spare his girlfriend i’ve been averse to bumming anything off anyone. if i show up empty handed, her world won’t crumble.

but, there are other mediums for obtaining smokes, like buying them at stores. more expensive than bumming, but what you lack in absence of price you more than make up for in quantity. a happy roommate is better than a pouty one, so i buy a soft pack of marlboro reds, not necessarily because i’m nice, but because i’m curious and slightly cruel.

on the walk home i open the pack and place a single in the ear holder, hiding the rest in my back pocket, bringing on the appearance that i truly did bum a cigarette. it's more for my own image than suiting her nicotine craving, though she immediately notices her prize the second i march through the doorway. how riddled with glee and anticipation she was – because i am god to her (as i like to think) or for the fact she would be smoking soon (as she probably really was thinking).

of course it doesn’t take long for her to figure out that i have a whole pack of these, tipped off when i bring out my own single to smoke. it was a subtle way of indicating there were more. and it worked, enticing the addiction to reveal itself.

yesterday at work i get another call.

what’s up?
well i’m at work. staring at the computer. the usual.
well i’m going home. i think i’ll work from there.
oh great. good for you. (me thinking, this is why you’ve called, i need to know this???)
hey – um.... i was wondering where you put your pack of cigarettes.

(first of all, i like that she’s called them my cigarettes. it gives me the sense of power, though in reality i’ve bought them for her)

well. they’re on top of my dresser. but you can’t have any – i couldn't possibly contribute to your addiction.

(second, this is all about experimenting with contributing to her addiction)

awwww c’mon. y’know i can’t function knowing there’s cigarettes in the house.
but, you’re not really a smoker (lie).
i know (lie), but, but... i’ve had a real stressful day. it will help me unwind. (denial of addiction)
well...ok, but just one.
ha ha ha. you’re the best (truth).
all right. see you at home.

just one? perhaps she meant one set of three, because that's how many were missing. regardless...
i predict the pack will be gone by the end of the week.

so you see, my roommate is addicted to cigarettes.

2002-08-13T22:39:00.000-07:00

come on come on up

i'm not sure what in the hell ted's talkin' about here, but this goes out to my brother kelly.

here i come again now baby
like a dog in heat
tell it's me by the way now baby
i like to tap the streets

now i've been smoking for so long
you know i'm here to stay
got you in a stranglehold baby
you best get out of the way

gonna cruise is a bitch now baby
you know you can't do me round
if your house gets in my way baby
you know i'll burn it down

you remember the night that you left me
you put me in my place
got you in a stranglehold baby
you better cross your way

solo

sometims you wanna get higher
sometimes you gotta start low
some people think they gonna die someday
i got news you never got to go old

come on come on up; 4 times
come on come on baby
come on come on up
come on come on baby
come on come on

gonna cruise is a bitch now baby
you know you can't do me round
if your house gets in my way baby
you know i'll burn it down

you remember the night that you left me
you put me in my place
got you in a stranglehold baby
you better cross your way

2002-08-12T21:34:00.000-07:00

where did it all go?

national parks tend to be fascinating, hence the selective designation by our esteemed government, and lassen volcanic national park naturally fulfills this requirement. from pine forests and nature made swimming pools you expect to see on your store bought bottle of water, to desolate painted dunes in the midst of fields where hell has poured from the bowels of earth, lassen shows diversity and merit for it’s exclusive membership. but for me to try and describe to you what makes this quadrant of land unique would be a feeble attempt at using my limited arsenal of adjectives. that’s not to say, though, that i can’t relate something fascinating from my ramble through the park.

let’s put things into perspective by starting with a question.

given that over a 24 hour period 18 miles were hiked (8 with full packs), with temperatures in eighties and nineties, how much water would you think necessary to keep you hydrated?

you say anywhere between 5-8 litres could probably do the trick? it’s not an algebra test, so we can say that sounds right. by the time i finished the trek, i had taken in 7 litres, putting me in the appropriate range. but let’s break it down into english -- litres aren’t as impressive unless you’re french and you’re talking wine. ok, so in order to convert litres into ounces, we have a 24 hour period were i’ve had, (half thinking outloud) let’s see....do some math here...seven times...number of minutes...divided by atomic weight of hydrogen...minus fiftee...add three woodpeck...plus feet in mile...throw away the remainder...and you get approximately 230 ounces of water consumption over the period of a single day.

holy goldfish crackers, that’s a lot of aqua in the tank! almost enough to classify myself as a “body of water." simply compare that to the daily recommended allowance of between 64 and 80 ounces. wait though, that’s not the fascinating part. now what if i were to ask you how many times i peed within that same period of time, how many times would you guess? 7 times? 6? 5? maybe as few as 4? sound reasonable, right?

try one. i peed one time in 24 hours after saturating my body with 230 ounces of water.

only once? well then you must’ve peed for a very very very long time? nope. an average pee, maybe enough to load a water balloon - nothing like where you need to put a hand to the tree so you can brace myself against boredom while waiting for the downpour to end or where you have enough time to reflect on your top ten movies. heck, if it weren’t for the fact that i only did it once, i wouldn’t even have recalled anything about the pee -- on all accounts just your everyday no frills, aim for the hole in the ground, 15 seconds of stream pee. but 230 ounces. 24 hours. one pee.

now that’s impressive.

2002-08-09T16:00:00.000-07:00

here’s lookin’ at you kid

about a month ago my little sister gave opinions to aid my selection of a new set of sun specs. at sixteen and on a continuous dosage of hormones she’s quite impressionable, consults with glamour and vanity fair, and watches monster amounts of reality based television like the real world or elimidate. funny, it's because of this that i trust her to know what’s hip in social circles, what’s attractive, and to lend a hand with the management of my image.

these new glasses, though, these are freakishly good. i’m sure at the time, ann thought she was pulling one over on me by endorsing their effect, saying in the secrecy of her giggling mind “you look ridiculous,*” thinking one day i would realize this too, and that we would laugh together in a few years where i would say in reminiscence, “good one, you got me there.” but i’m smitten. fuckin’ beside myself, now. constantly craving my reflection in mirrors, windows, polished brass elevator doors, toilet bowls, what have you, i can’t get over the air of mystique they give me. fly, bug boy, jackie-0, there’s a concerted effort to label the persona, but none ever ring with the conviction that it’s the one. familiar but indefinable.

the best thing about them, is that they give me super-duper power. i can now watch people watching me without dealing with the awkwardness of looks that say “watch’you lookin’ at dickhead.” sort of like invisibility, only people can still see me, so not really like invisibility. but i guess i do have invisible eyes which allow me to avoid who’s going to catch who staring at the other first showdowns.

due to the dark nature of the lenses, and the fact that they hide nearly fifty percent of my face, it makes it impossible for people to tell where i’m looking. and it works well. here’s how i do it. position head so that it is pointing in the general direction of nothing. use my peripheral vision to catch people looking at me. that simple.

with most people, they don’t like to be stared at while they’re trying to do some staring of their own. so it feels good inside to allow them to gawk in comfort (and they do gawk), gives them the feeling that they’ve gotten away with something during the day – a win-win situation for all.

*better said mimicking patricia arquette’s character, alabama worley, in true romance. the scene: malibu hotel with virgil, played by james gandolfini.

2002-08-08T15:41:00.000-07:00

headin’ for dem der’ hills

with the weekend fast approaching i’m switching from man of languor to man of adventure. lassen volcanic national park awaits in the distance, ready to welcome my pampered feet and lack of sensible preparation, as i head for the volcanic playground tomorrow after work. only of slight concern, is my conditioning.

not since attempting to summit mt. shasta in late may has my cardio-vascular system experienced anything remotely taxing, unless of course you consider two stints as shortstop/outfielder in retard baseball, an occasional flight of stairs at the bart station, and a three week smoking binge in europe, taxing. but hell, that seems right: three months of malaise and ice-cream treats ought to be about the perfect tune-up for strenuous hiking between thinned air at 8,000 and 10,500 ft in the unwavering heat of the sun over an ashen landscape. it’s recommended in all the new hiking guides. sound as a pound, right?

what you say? the grim reaper has called in the vulture squadron already?

“attention, attention, calling all vultures – we’ve got a plump white male, drastically out of shape, commencing upon death this saturday. be on the lookout in the mt. lassen vicinity for his fallen, overheated corpse. he is armed and has a juicy backside. no hoarding, there’s plenty for everyone, and remember it’s byob.”

on the flip side, if i do make it back, if i do cheat death, i’ll feel great about doing nothing for another three months. life is easy, now where did that pint of ben & jerry’s oranges and cream go?

2002-08-07T10:17:00.000-07:00

3 haiku morning

steaming home crackles
under rejuvenate light
day waits on the man

***

eyelid and sun rise
toothbrush in a thinking face
still the warm bed glows

***

the morning steps repeat
a rudimentary brain
knows the cafe path

2002-08-06T12:54:00.000-07:00

illegal parking

as a driver of a mercedes-benz, i am concerned about the image i carry for fellow benz drivers. it's unspoken at dinner parties and bar mitzvahs, but there’s a certain sophistication we mb operators uphold when in our vehicles, no matter what type of lives we lead outside them. so i'm postitive my carpatriots were just as alarmed as i to find that a woman used her mercedes-benz to kill her husband, running him over three times and then parking the car on top of him. and, all this while his daughter watched from the passenger seat.

that's just now way to use a benz. it ain't right.

2002-08-05T10:36:00.000-07:00

i will not throw rocks at animals. i will not throw rocks at animals. i will not throw rocks at animals. i will not throw rocks at animals.

i laugh at myself. hahahaha-heh. heh. oooooh i slay me (wiping away tears of laughter).

i'm no anger expert for certain. friday’s venture in tantrum can only draw a smirk, below and slightly to the right of my nose, now that i pause for review. woooooo. heh. heh. nostalgia, in its infancy -- i feel silly. i am silly. you’re silly.

yet one area in which i exhibit some skill, is concocting travel plans. that and executing them. that would be two areas i guess, sort of the same though. but because two is more than one we'll consider them two different animals -- without execution, that would make me pretty much just like any other day-dreaming joe, “yeah, i’ve always wanted to travel to...but y‘know we‘re painting the house, the caravan, the kids and the dog this summer. ”

lucky enough to hoard six weeks of vacation a year through the very same job of my lament, travel is my oasis of experience from where i abandon the rut of my weekly schedule. so in times when silly-me is feeling “anger” i'll refrain from throwing rocks at stray cats and think about where i could go, where i’ve been, instead.

nice kitty.

going forward (top five destinations)

1. patagonia (on deck for march 2003)
2. tunisia
3. cambodia/laos
4. nepal/bhutan
5. jordan/syria (if they're still there)

looking back (couldn’t possibly rank ‘em)

czech republic ('96, '98, '02)
guatemala ('97, '02)
istanbul ('96)
senegal ('00)
vietnam ('99)

2002-08-02T18:46:00.000-07:00

i'm sorry, did i get lung on you?

with all this blogging going on (and on), i've been neglecting some things at work. mainly work.

i can't seem to reconcile which is more important, keeping up this web log or hacking up other people's work in the name of state law. looking over my job description, i fail to find where in the details my duties for the upkeep of a personal web site is outlined. is it just me, or am i getting gypped? i'm actually thinking about asking for a raise, what with all the added responsibility.
hmmmmm.
on second thought....

work sucked today. it's been sucking. it will probably suck in the future.
even taking liberties with an "hour" lunch break sucked. ian, shannon, janine and myself stole off for a rendezvous with a matinee showing of can't direct, can't act, can't write a screenpl... wait, that was signs. the only part of the experience that held any interest was the phlegm-erupting granny next to ian who nearly launched both of her lungs into his lap. good lord, she'll be the inspiration for the sequel to outbreak.

ian buddy, the centers of disease control called. they'd like to have a word with you.

and look at me now. i'm writing this on my own time. that sucks!
fuck it! i'm outta here. have a weekend.

2002-08-01T15:12:00.000-07:00

don't be surprised if you find a horse's head in your office

deficient a fashion consultant this morning, i was left to dress myself for work. the fact that i managed a top, a bottom, some clean looking undies and a pair of matching shoes gave me a good dose of self-confidence for coordinating outfits on a daily basis. however, i discovered i still need to work on my execution, particularly in understanding the theory of ensemble. selection surely is a more defined art than imagined, and one ill-advised adornment can change “you look nice today” into thoughts of renting a circus tent and charging admission to the sight of yourself. judging by the minor hub-bub that ensued at the office, culminated in this introduction from my manager “hey, guido” (as i enter a meeting stuffed with other so-called professionals), i could have made me some money today.

guido? now, i imagine she’s referring to me solely on account of my silky-sheen-textured button-up disco quasi-hipster shirt, as my cordless cords and sneakers rarely bring to mind the street-savvy hooligans of la cosa nostra. certainly, it has nothing to do with my bleached hair, pale complexion, or complete absence of physical features remotely mediterranean. and lacking a wide-brimmed feather-in-cap hat and bloated fur overcoat, you most definitely wouldn’t mistake me for an administrator for women’s services (if you know what i’m talkin’ about). so it’s the shirt. and it’s become a freak show.

but it’s not just that people thought i looked this guido character. to punctuate the inability to categorize my textile appearance, i had one set of commentary accusing me of wearing pajamas while another asking if i could pose long enough for a coworker to fix her make up. and who knows what people where thinking behind closed minds. f-r-e-a-k show, freak show. so until i figure out a way to just draw “you look nice today” from the gallery, i’m charging people to look at me.

see the man with the fancy shirt! part mobster! part pimp! part mirror! step right up.

2002-07-31T13:46:00.000-07:00

brought to you by the letter "p" and the number 32

sixteen paces down to the right of “a,” the letter "p" debuts in the english alphabet. there's much to admire about this little fella's accomplishments, i think, as he helps make my day an easier place to exist. for instance, there are two of them in happy, and one in pissed-off. i've been both in times and “p” has been there to help me express those feelings.

it’s even in my diet. three appear in pepper -- of which i have a predilection. none in mushroom, yam, or anchovy, but there is one in puke, which the 'fore mentioned non-“p" words can cause me to perform. there is one dilemma though, i do like oranges -- yet no “p” there. so i'm trying to petition merriam-webster to add a silent one to the beginning (porange). however if this proves to be unsuccessful, i will always be able to ask for them proudly when i go to the czech republic. there, orange (fruit) is pomaranc - and you get to pronounce the "p."

the "p" seems vital to so many words, words we use on a daily basis. it's presence or exclusion changes entire meanings. leave it out of apple and you get ale. add it to a raid and you speed things up a bit. and while it's a variant of phony, you'd still get honey in its absence. some things you can’t even do with out it’s prominence. like you wouldn’t be able to point, capitalize, tap, piss, heap, dupe, perfect, multiply, philander, ponder, oppress, zip it, uphold, or percolate without the “p.” not to mention, what we do with the philadelphia phillies, the pied piper, or the partridge family?

“p,” i like you. so i want to say in appreciation, “here's to you ‘p,’ and all that you do for us. prost.”

and as to the number 32...those of you that know me well enough will get the reference.

p.s. some favorite "p" words:

procrastinate
pablo
prague/praha
principe(ssa) (italian)
ploy
particular
pozor (czech)
portland
persnickety
poop

2002-07-30T11:08:00.000-07:00

commute

it was later than normal, but the work day concluded.
i walked to where i park my car...
to discover it was not there. i thought, why would it leave without me? was it angry -- had i left bird splatter on it's hood too long?
so i turned and walked to the bart station.
as it turns out my car had stayed home that day.
i had forgot.

from the "weird things said to me at 3am" bin

"i haven't been to a rave in 2 years. i stopped going because there were just too many 60 year old men wearing diapers and t-shirts down to here [pointing to the top of her abdomen] trying to hit on me with pacifiers in their mouths."

2002-07-29T09:26:00.000-07:00

i’d change names too if my parents named me rachel

which seems right. not too many guys are running around answering to “hey rachel, wanna get some beers and go shootin’ some road signs?” probably not many girls answering to that either, but you get the point.

rachel certainly doesn’t seem to be an offensive name and it wouldn’t be something that i’d snicker at, perhaps say like i would edwina or rich. but there is something about the name that makes my roommate want to abandon it – she thinks it uneventful.

but then i get to thinking (as i occasionally do), what if it was something eventful, extreme? what if she’s on the run from g-men. what if rachel isn’t even her real name, just an alias she’s just about finished abusing in the name of crime?

we’ve only been roommates a short time, and as i’ve woken up each morning alive and breathing, i haven’t questioned who this person really may be. should i be wondering why:

she keeps late hours?
although she says she has a job, she’s often home during supposed work hours?
she refers to her boss as “the don”?
and why she uses my hairbrush when hers hangs right next to it?

i’m not sure of the answers, but in reality i probably won’t be selling a tell-all about my life with the hairbrush hitman. a month into her new campaign as rai-mi, she's met limited success. not something you’d expect from one attempting to disappear from the government’s radar screen and into duping roommates for the sake of assuming a quite suburban alter ego.

i have, however, made the switch over on my phone list so that my caller id announces her as such, while our neighbor ed has taken fancy to using the new name, but for the most part attempts to assimilate into this new identity have gone largely unheralded, or with crinkle brow. even the question mark drooped over people’s expression when confronted by the change depicts the answer to queries about it’s spelling. though it remains the de facto choice for scribes, my rendition of rai-mi has yet to get its official seal of approval. rae-mi, ray-me, raye-mi, and ra’ie’mee all remain in contention, as does any other version you can give thought to.

so why all the trouble to change a name? experiment? rachel truly is a boring name? change for the sake of change? she wanted to give me something to write about? i'll never know. she still doesn't know. it's a question that breeds more questions, but...

why not! it's already made it into this web log.

2002-07-26T13:38:00.000-07:00

holy harvey

thick,
on the verge of collapsing under the weight of his own testosterone.
practically attractive – but just shy.
delivers lines like a can of spam falling from the grocer’s top shelf.

he’s harvey keitel.

and he’s also one of the best cult actors over the past 30 plus years. favorite actor in the nude to be sure. i can’t explain the attraction, but it’s sort of like taking in a michelangelo sculpture – so powerful and graceful, accentuated in body parts for divine appearance, and mysteriously relaxed in repose. he’s a beautiful man.

rai-mi, jackie and i rented holy smoke last night, an odd film with a lost identity directed by jan campion (the piano). part independent, part big budget, it doesn’t seem to be able to decide whether it’s a film about where to hold our existential beliefs or simply how men are just assholes. captivating at times, the cinemaphotography and location help focus on the strongest reason to see the film – the acting of kate winslett and harvey keitel. but in the end, even a naked harvey can’t solve the movie’s indecision to make a strong statement about any of the conflicts it presents, let alone tying them together.

still looking good harvey.

2002-07-25T09:50:00.000-07:00

judo chop

the other day, i was informed by a work place colleague that “it,” was “all about her!” in rather disconcertingly fashion too, as she chimed in a tone that suggested i hadn’t seen the banner’s around town promoting the fact – “you mean you didn’t knooow, it’s all about me!?!”
“uh, ok, spotlight's on you.” i played along. it’s important for people to have something to believe in.
but i’m wondering what type of conflict this will present at ye old job site. “it” really can’t be all about her. after all, i approve her projects. with out me, she’s picking the dirt out from under her fingernails with a paperclip. i mean, doesn’t that partially (if not predominantly) make "it" about me?

i think so. and i like the idea.

move over shay-do, there’s a new kid in town – and don’t try anything smart. i played with toys that had the kung-fu grip.

* * *

a pair of these are coming to me soon. i’m so excited.

2002-07-24T09:32:00.000-07:00

so this is it. i'm a blogger.

wow.