Tuesday, September 11, 2012
Wednesday, August 22, 2012
San Diego - Oh How I Love Thee
San Diego, California...where I currently sit writing this little blog post.
I grew up here. Well, at least in a way I did.
Escondido (the Spanish word for 'hidden'), is a small suburb of San Diego where I spent the majority of my early childhood.
I remember the weather being a constant, mild 70-something degrees most the time. The people here were always sun-soaked, happy and carefree and they lived that way.
That much hasn't changed since I left here 20 years ago.
Now that I'm back on this business trip, I notice that the little city I remember as a kid has grown into a sprawling metropolis with all the sophistication and allure of Chicago and the young, hip, cultural magnetism of Seattle.
It really is a magical place.
The Gaslamp district is a cute little spread of restaurants and shops. I just polished off a meal at one of the Italian places there and now that I'm on my way home, I'm a bit sad.
I'll always have a piece of my heart here. It's not going anywhere and I'm happy to reunite with it whenever I find my travels taking me here.
I love you, San Diego. :)
I grew up here. Well, at least in a way I did.
Escondido (the Spanish word for 'hidden'), is a small suburb of San Diego where I spent the majority of my early childhood.
I remember the weather being a constant, mild 70-something degrees most the time. The people here were always sun-soaked, happy and carefree and they lived that way.
That much hasn't changed since I left here 20 years ago.
Now that I'm back on this business trip, I notice that the little city I remember as a kid has grown into a sprawling metropolis with all the sophistication and allure of Chicago and the young, hip, cultural magnetism of Seattle.
It really is a magical place.
The Gaslamp district is a cute little spread of restaurants and shops. I just polished off a meal at one of the Italian places there and now that I'm on my way home, I'm a bit sad.
I'll always have a piece of my heart here. It's not going anywhere and I'm happy to reunite with it whenever I find my travels taking me here.
I love you, San Diego. :)
Thursday, August 9, 2012
Through Glass Eyes [A short story]
People often underestimate the annoyance they cause in reading over another’s shoulder.
To thwart this, simply open up a word processing program on your laptop while on a plane, for example, and type the above sentence.
Problem solved.
Now that my privacy has returned to me, I’ll get to the meat of this. I’m on a plane from Oahu to Chicago, where I’m going to be taking yet another flight to Sioux City, Iowa – a city located in a state known more for its corn production than anything else. If I had half the amount of brain cells and the same number of empty hours on my hands, I might have a regular reason for going there.
But no. Of course not. Nothing in my life is normal. That would be too much to ask for.
What brings me here is the death of a friend.
His name was Troy. 38, single, childless and driven by a life-long obsession with optical lens grinding. He had me convinced 10 years or so ago, when we first met while working for the same company, that he was going to be introducing the world to the most flawless method for manufacturing convex crystal lenses, ever.
What a weirdo, I thought at the time. Who spends their twenties so god damned concerned with glass that they’d forego things like dating and personal hygiene? Aside, of course, from barefoot hippie pipe-makers in West Virginia. I knew one of those once. He was equally as odd.
Anyway, Troy confided in me for some reason. Maybe it was because I was a social sore thumb without an inkling of concern with following any traditional roadmap for growing up. However it was that Troy came to trusting me, I didn’t mind it. If nothing else Troy was entertaining. He’d often sit down with me and ask bizarre questions related to his craft.
“How many times do you think you’d have to throw a piece of saucer-shaped diamond against a brick wall before you broke through it, Tim?”, he once asked me.
“Fuck if I know. A million? Two million?”
What planet was this guy from?
Troy ended up quitting his job on a whim and moving to Hawaii. A few years later he persuaded me to do the same, but by the time I had committed to the move he had yet again relocated. This time his travels took him to Chile to work on a long-term project with some observatory under construction at the time. I still moved anyway. I had heard great things about the grass skirt-laden backsides of the female islanders there.
I was not disappointed when I arrived. Hawaiian ass is indeed fucking exquisite.
A few months after I got a job and a stable residence I heard from Troy. An e-mail from him informed me that he had created something that the world was simply not ready for: A lens capable of bending light in such a way that a ‘self-contained photonic vortex’ was generated.
“What the fuck is a self-contained photonic vortex? What the hell does it have to do with me?”…I asked Troy in an e-mail back to him.
I never did get a response to my questions.
In fact I didn’t hear anything at all from him until weeks later when I received a letter in the mail from the Chilean observatory where he had been working. It actually concerned me a great deal – Troy told me he didn’t have more than a few days to live and that he was counting on me to guard his life’s work until ‘the world was ready for the next generation of light manipulation’.
Man, I don’t know what the fuck I’m even doing. All I know is that there is a package of lenses that is right now sitting in a safety deposit box in a community bank located in a tiny ass town called Cresco, a few hours outside of Sioux City.
I do have some instructions. Troy told me in his last letter that some people were after him; apparently he had trusted his invention to some unsavory people who had ill intentions. He didn’t go in to much detail here, but what he did make clear was that I needed to complete a final step that he didn’t have the time to complete, himself.
He wrote:
“In the box in Cresco you’ll find two manila envelopes. One contains 4 lenses. They are labeled A1, A2, B1 and B2. DO NOT LET THEM TOUCH ANYTHING. Even your fingers. These lenses are coated with a plasma that will degrade if you so much as cough on them. In the second envelope there are two spectacle frames. They’re constructed of a special scandium alloy the formula for which I stole from the observatory. Take special care in handling the frames – they’re well-built but certainly not bulletproof. They should fit your face.”
I have a copy of the e-mail with me as I type this, just in case I have to refer to it later.
Basically, I need to insert the lenses into the eyeglass frames.
That’s right – I’m flying to Iowa to build two pairs of mother fucking eyeglasses that a friend of mine was murdered over. Like I said earlier, normalcy in my life would be way too much to ask for. This little science project is going to require some special equipment that isn’t in Cresco…Troy provided me with a somewhat difficult shopping list but apparently I should be able to get this stuff from a jewelry repair store. Troy did some research for me and it looks like I’ll have to make a stop in Davenport – another few hours’ drive from Cresco - before all is said and done.
Some Pakistani guy runs a luxury watch repair joint there that carries the stuff I need to get this done.
Joy.
I’ve only got about 15 more minutes before I have to return the seatback in front of me to its upright and locked position, so I’m going to have to tie this up. After I get off this plane, I’m going to the nearest Kinko’s, printing out this memo, and placing in my breast pocket. It should give some context to whoever might find my dead body if something should happen to me en route to Cresco.
I don’t know what else to say here, really. If I had a family, a job I cared about…heck, even a dog, I might think twice about endeavoring to do this.
But I don’t. So who cares, and here goes nothing.
Oh – one last thing.
Troy claimed that these special glasses are completely useless 364 days out of the year. There is only a single 12-hour period during which they can actually do anything. Something about atmospheric concentration of solar insolation.
That date is on a slip of paper I should find in the second envelope, with the two frames.
So if I understand all this correctly…my dead friend left me instructions for assembling two super-secret pairs of eyeglasses to be worn in sequence on a special day of the year.
Why? Why would someone want to do this, you might ask?
Well…in Troy’s words:
“My invention has but a single purpose. To see God.”
Plane’s descending now so I gotta get off this computer. This is going to be interesting.
Signing off…
Tim Cherrud
To thwart this, simply open up a word processing program on your laptop while on a plane, for example, and type the above sentence.
Problem solved.
Now that my privacy has returned to me, I’ll get to the meat of this. I’m on a plane from Oahu to Chicago, where I’m going to be taking yet another flight to Sioux City, Iowa – a city located in a state known more for its corn production than anything else. If I had half the amount of brain cells and the same number of empty hours on my hands, I might have a regular reason for going there.
But no. Of course not. Nothing in my life is normal. That would be too much to ask for.
What brings me here is the death of a friend.
His name was Troy. 38, single, childless and driven by a life-long obsession with optical lens grinding. He had me convinced 10 years or so ago, when we first met while working for the same company, that he was going to be introducing the world to the most flawless method for manufacturing convex crystal lenses, ever.
What a weirdo, I thought at the time. Who spends their twenties so god damned concerned with glass that they’d forego things like dating and personal hygiene? Aside, of course, from barefoot hippie pipe-makers in West Virginia. I knew one of those once. He was equally as odd.
Anyway, Troy confided in me for some reason. Maybe it was because I was a social sore thumb without an inkling of concern with following any traditional roadmap for growing up. However it was that Troy came to trusting me, I didn’t mind it. If nothing else Troy was entertaining. He’d often sit down with me and ask bizarre questions related to his craft.
“How many times do you think you’d have to throw a piece of saucer-shaped diamond against a brick wall before you broke through it, Tim?”, he once asked me.
“Fuck if I know. A million? Two million?”
What planet was this guy from?
Troy ended up quitting his job on a whim and moving to Hawaii. A few years later he persuaded me to do the same, but by the time I had committed to the move he had yet again relocated. This time his travels took him to Chile to work on a long-term project with some observatory under construction at the time. I still moved anyway. I had heard great things about the grass skirt-laden backsides of the female islanders there.
I was not disappointed when I arrived. Hawaiian ass is indeed fucking exquisite.
A few months after I got a job and a stable residence I heard from Troy. An e-mail from him informed me that he had created something that the world was simply not ready for: A lens capable of bending light in such a way that a ‘self-contained photonic vortex’ was generated.
“What the fuck is a self-contained photonic vortex? What the hell does it have to do with me?”…I asked Troy in an e-mail back to him.
I never did get a response to my questions.
In fact I didn’t hear anything at all from him until weeks later when I received a letter in the mail from the Chilean observatory where he had been working. It actually concerned me a great deal – Troy told me he didn’t have more than a few days to live and that he was counting on me to guard his life’s work until ‘the world was ready for the next generation of light manipulation’.
Man, I don’t know what the fuck I’m even doing. All I know is that there is a package of lenses that is right now sitting in a safety deposit box in a community bank located in a tiny ass town called Cresco, a few hours outside of Sioux City.
I do have some instructions. Troy told me in his last letter that some people were after him; apparently he had trusted his invention to some unsavory people who had ill intentions. He didn’t go in to much detail here, but what he did make clear was that I needed to complete a final step that he didn’t have the time to complete, himself.
He wrote:
“In the box in Cresco you’ll find two manila envelopes. One contains 4 lenses. They are labeled A1, A2, B1 and B2. DO NOT LET THEM TOUCH ANYTHING. Even your fingers. These lenses are coated with a plasma that will degrade if you so much as cough on them. In the second envelope there are two spectacle frames. They’re constructed of a special scandium alloy the formula for which I stole from the observatory. Take special care in handling the frames – they’re well-built but certainly not bulletproof. They should fit your face.”
I have a copy of the e-mail with me as I type this, just in case I have to refer to it later.
Basically, I need to insert the lenses into the eyeglass frames.
That’s right – I’m flying to Iowa to build two pairs of mother fucking eyeglasses that a friend of mine was murdered over. Like I said earlier, normalcy in my life would be way too much to ask for. This little science project is going to require some special equipment that isn’t in Cresco…Troy provided me with a somewhat difficult shopping list but apparently I should be able to get this stuff from a jewelry repair store. Troy did some research for me and it looks like I’ll have to make a stop in Davenport – another few hours’ drive from Cresco - before all is said and done.
Some Pakistani guy runs a luxury watch repair joint there that carries the stuff I need to get this done.
Joy.
I’ve only got about 15 more minutes before I have to return the seatback in front of me to its upright and locked position, so I’m going to have to tie this up. After I get off this plane, I’m going to the nearest Kinko’s, printing out this memo, and placing in my breast pocket. It should give some context to whoever might find my dead body if something should happen to me en route to Cresco.
I don’t know what else to say here, really. If I had a family, a job I cared about…heck, even a dog, I might think twice about endeavoring to do this.
But I don’t. So who cares, and here goes nothing.
Oh – one last thing.
Troy claimed that these special glasses are completely useless 364 days out of the year. There is only a single 12-hour period during which they can actually do anything. Something about atmospheric concentration of solar insolation.
That date is on a slip of paper I should find in the second envelope, with the two frames.
So if I understand all this correctly…my dead friend left me instructions for assembling two super-secret pairs of eyeglasses to be worn in sequence on a special day of the year.
Why? Why would someone want to do this, you might ask?
Well…in Troy’s words:
“My invention has but a single purpose. To see God.”
Plane’s descending now so I gotta get off this computer. This is going to be interesting.
Signing off…
Tim Cherrud
Caretaking.
I gave up my dream of becoming a professional violinist a long, long time ago.
For many years I harbored this surreal fantasy of earning the respect of orchestral musicians the world over, leveraging my decades of arduous practice to impress even the most discriminating of them.
Like with any other overblown expectation, reality stepped in and bitch slapped me like an incensed pimp owed 3 weeks of back pay.
It reminded me of my ineptitude with every arthritic bolt of pain and with every moment of confusion over how exactly to complete the perfect chromatic run. I sold any aspiration I had of being a professional musician and opted for this life, instead.
Sadly, I didn't make much of a profit.
Things aren't so bad, though. Not as bad as they could have been, I guess.
Sometimes when the pressures of conforming to your own standards becomes too much, the best thing to do is to plainly stop giving a fuck. I remember the first time this happened - I was dating a woman who worked the Sephora counter at the local mall, giving free make up lessons to insecure, clueless hags with way too much time on their hands and absent husbands who wouldn't care if their wives looked prettier, anyway.
Her name was Lori. She expected a lot from me, probably because her ex boyfriend was a Special Forces operative who could maker her cum with barely a hard stare. Nearing 40, she convinced herself that I was her way to an effortless lifestyle of working part time and getting to blow ten grand a month of my money on whatever trivial bullshit her cramped brain could convince her she needed.
She asked me once, "David, how long until I can move in with you and make you breakfast every morning?", to which I responded, "I don't know Lori, when could you afford your share of my three thousand dollar a month mortgage?".
I guess that was kind of a callous response...but it set a precedent.
Lori left me because she thought I didn't care enough for her. Bullshit. I cared plenty. What I didn't care for was encroachment with an ulterior motive more obvious than the crows feet on the faces of what Lori called her 'clients'.
Sure. 'Clients'.
I haven't played a violin in months. I can't be bothered, really. I have more pressing engagements. Since relieving myself of the dream of performing Mozart's Concerto Number 5 in A for international audiences, I've moved on to something a lot easier to master.
Selling black tar heroin.
Now I get up around 6 am, go for a swim, put on a pot of coffee and wait for my phone to ring. My home phone. Not a cell phone. Cell phones are why lesser dealers get nabbed and canned.
If it's 'blue', pickup is at 2pm. Reds are noon. If it's 'equipped', it's sealed in waterproof tape. If it's 'cornered' it's intentionally light on weight so whoever is reselling it can cut for profit. If it's 'dog tired', there won't even be a pickup and the call is simply a ploy.
Sometimes I wonder what would have happened if I stuck with drawing a bow for a living. Or if I let Lori further invade my life.
Or if I switched from Raisin Bran to Rice Chex.
Whatever. Life is better now. It has to be.
Gotta go.
Phone's ringing.
For many years I harbored this surreal fantasy of earning the respect of orchestral musicians the world over, leveraging my decades of arduous practice to impress even the most discriminating of them.
Like with any other overblown expectation, reality stepped in and bitch slapped me like an incensed pimp owed 3 weeks of back pay.
It reminded me of my ineptitude with every arthritic bolt of pain and with every moment of confusion over how exactly to complete the perfect chromatic run. I sold any aspiration I had of being a professional musician and opted for this life, instead.
Sadly, I didn't make much of a profit.
Things aren't so bad, though. Not as bad as they could have been, I guess.
Sometimes when the pressures of conforming to your own standards becomes too much, the best thing to do is to plainly stop giving a fuck. I remember the first time this happened - I was dating a woman who worked the Sephora counter at the local mall, giving free make up lessons to insecure, clueless hags with way too much time on their hands and absent husbands who wouldn't care if their wives looked prettier, anyway.
Her name was Lori. She expected a lot from me, probably because her ex boyfriend was a Special Forces operative who could maker her cum with barely a hard stare. Nearing 40, she convinced herself that I was her way to an effortless lifestyle of working part time and getting to blow ten grand a month of my money on whatever trivial bullshit her cramped brain could convince her she needed.
She asked me once, "David, how long until I can move in with you and make you breakfast every morning?", to which I responded, "I don't know Lori, when could you afford your share of my three thousand dollar a month mortgage?".
I guess that was kind of a callous response...but it set a precedent.
Lori left me because she thought I didn't care enough for her. Bullshit. I cared plenty. What I didn't care for was encroachment with an ulterior motive more obvious than the crows feet on the faces of what Lori called her 'clients'.
Sure. 'Clients'.
I haven't played a violin in months. I can't be bothered, really. I have more pressing engagements. Since relieving myself of the dream of performing Mozart's Concerto Number 5 in A for international audiences, I've moved on to something a lot easier to master.
Selling black tar heroin.
Now I get up around 6 am, go for a swim, put on a pot of coffee and wait for my phone to ring. My home phone. Not a cell phone. Cell phones are why lesser dealers get nabbed and canned.
If it's 'blue', pickup is at 2pm. Reds are noon. If it's 'equipped', it's sealed in waterproof tape. If it's 'cornered' it's intentionally light on weight so whoever is reselling it can cut for profit. If it's 'dog tired', there won't even be a pickup and the call is simply a ploy.
Sometimes I wonder what would have happened if I stuck with drawing a bow for a living. Or if I let Lori further invade my life.
Or if I switched from Raisin Bran to Rice Chex.
Whatever. Life is better now. It has to be.
Gotta go.
Phone's ringing.
Tuesday, June 5, 2012
NEWSFLASH: Egg Consumption Proportionate to Ass Kicking Capacity
If you know me, you know I like science. I like developing an understanding of things using facts, numbers and proven knowledge (a good reason why I am allergic to religion).
Hopefully then you can appreciate my newest scientific discovery: I have determined a pretty reliable formula for determining how much ass I will kick on any given day using...wait for it...egg consumption.
It's remarkably simple.
But, it has taken months of trial and error to reach my final, scientifically sound conclusion. I never had this kind of luck when I was trying to prove what color boxers enriched my testosterone levels the most [that's a shame, too - as I believe the correlation IS THERE].
This all started when I was on the road, travelling for work, and staying at a Hilton hotel somewhere in dumbfuckistan - not that it matters where. Hilton has some badass breakfasts, just so you know. They don't mess around when it comes to self-serve cereal silos, just as an example.
Anyway, I was fueling up one morning on my trip, eating my standard fare: A bagel, maybe some yogurt and a black coffee. But then...I spied on the breakfast table some delicious looking eggs, innocently steaming in their comfy, heated stainless steel food service tray.
Mmm...look at them. They're resplendent. Fluffy, not overcooked, and with a slight garnish of diced chives. So tempting. So sinfully magnetic...if I didn't know better I would think a charm spell was cast on them by some wizard's apprentice who liked practicing on breakfast food.
So what the hell. I figured I'd eat some eggs. I got myself a healthy scoopful. Nothing over-the-top...probably 2 eggs worth. I thought nothing of it. I went on about my day thinking it would be just another 24 hours of being relatively awesome.
I didn't really expect what happened next...
Around an hour after my breakfast, I dropped my pen AND THEN CAUGHT IT ON ITS WAY DOWN.
No big deal, right...I just got lucky...
Then, I suddenly remembered the 5th digit of pi after the decimal (9).
Hmm...that's odd...
And THEN, this smoking hot girl at a stoplight I was at raised her sunglasses and made direct eye contact with me (and trust me, my rental vehicle at the time was NOT THAT SEXY).
Ok, something is definitely going on here...
I got to thinking. What is different about today? I'm not wearing my lucky tie...and I haven't sacrificed any small animals to Cthulu in the past 12 hours...so what gives?
AHA! THOSE MOTHER FUCKING EGGS. It had to have been the eggs. I knew it!
But...it wasn't enough to go off a hunch. I needed to test my hypothesis. The next morning, I made my way down to the breakfast area with a clear plan. I would ingest exactly double the eggs I had the prior morning, and then gauge the level of ass kickery I experienced later in the morning.
And holy shit were they delicious. So yummy.
Sure enough...about an hour after leaving the hotel, bound for the airport, a series of quite notable events transpired:
1 - I didn't even need to use my GPS to get from the hotel to the Hertz return center. I EVEN LEFT MY PHONE OFF ENTIRELY. I know...shocking...
2 - I corrected a reference someone on the plane made to medieval England architecture.
3 - Driving back home while travelling at 80 miles per hour, I dodged a refrigerator box that was sitting in the middle of the freeway (it could have had a whole litter of puppies in it for all I know, right?!)
4 - Later in the day, I got hit on by not one, but TWO gay men in the gym. With 10 minutes of each other. WHAT THE FUCK!?
I had all the evidence I needed to conduct my final experiment - tripling the egg consumption. This was dangerous...because I didn't know what to expect. How much of a epic superstar Johnny Awesome would I become? Would I spontaneously develop a cure for AIDS and help a dozen old ladies across the street, all before noon? It was uncharted territory.
But, being a man of SCIENCE, I was ready to take the plunge.
Dear readers, I cannot disclose to you the exact results of this experiment, because frankly they're just way too astounding to believe.
I will just say this: for about 10 hours after eating 6 delicious eggs, I existed on a plane of consciousness that would impress even the most devout Shaolin monk. I also performed physical feats that others would only write about in their life memoirs.
You probably don't share my enthusiasm for scientific experimentation, reader. You probably don't even BELIEVE my claims here, but I don't care. Why?
BECAUSE I HAD 8 EGGS THIS MORNING, MOTHER FUCKER.
8.
There is literally nothing anyone can do to cramp my style this day. I am working on solving a 256-sided Rubik's cube at the moment and things are going well. I also just set up a date with a supermodel for later this evening. Oh and I just got a voicemail from Neil DeGrasse Tyson, asking if I would kindly share my knowledge with him, on the subject of gauging gravitational force wave distortions in super massive black holes.
I just had to type this out because I'm not one to keep my revelations bottled up inside.
If YOU found centuries-old Egyptian treasure hidden in your back yard, wouldn't YOU want to tell the world?
Hopefully then you can appreciate my newest scientific discovery: I have determined a pretty reliable formula for determining how much ass I will kick on any given day using...wait for it...egg consumption.
It's remarkably simple.
But, it has taken months of trial and error to reach my final, scientifically sound conclusion. I never had this kind of luck when I was trying to prove what color boxers enriched my testosterone levels the most [that's a shame, too - as I believe the correlation IS THERE].
This all started when I was on the road, travelling for work, and staying at a Hilton hotel somewhere in dumbfuckistan - not that it matters where. Hilton has some badass breakfasts, just so you know. They don't mess around when it comes to self-serve cereal silos, just as an example.
Anyway, I was fueling up one morning on my trip, eating my standard fare: A bagel, maybe some yogurt and a black coffee. But then...I spied on the breakfast table some delicious looking eggs, innocently steaming in their comfy, heated stainless steel food service tray.
Mmm...look at them. They're resplendent. Fluffy, not overcooked, and with a slight garnish of diced chives. So tempting. So sinfully magnetic...if I didn't know better I would think a charm spell was cast on them by some wizard's apprentice who liked practicing on breakfast food.
So what the hell. I figured I'd eat some eggs. I got myself a healthy scoopful. Nothing over-the-top...probably 2 eggs worth. I thought nothing of it. I went on about my day thinking it would be just another 24 hours of being relatively awesome.
I didn't really expect what happened next...
Around an hour after my breakfast, I dropped my pen AND THEN CAUGHT IT ON ITS WAY DOWN.
No big deal, right...I just got lucky...
Then, I suddenly remembered the 5th digit of pi after the decimal (9).
Hmm...that's odd...
And THEN, this smoking hot girl at a stoplight I was at raised her sunglasses and made direct eye contact with me (and trust me, my rental vehicle at the time was NOT THAT SEXY).
Ok, something is definitely going on here...
I got to thinking. What is different about today? I'm not wearing my lucky tie...and I haven't sacrificed any small animals to Cthulu in the past 12 hours...so what gives?
AHA! THOSE MOTHER FUCKING EGGS. It had to have been the eggs. I knew it!
But...it wasn't enough to go off a hunch. I needed to test my hypothesis. The next morning, I made my way down to the breakfast area with a clear plan. I would ingest exactly double the eggs I had the prior morning, and then gauge the level of ass kickery I experienced later in the morning.
And holy shit were they delicious. So yummy.
Sure enough...about an hour after leaving the hotel, bound for the airport, a series of quite notable events transpired:
1 - I didn't even need to use my GPS to get from the hotel to the Hertz return center. I EVEN LEFT MY PHONE OFF ENTIRELY. I know...shocking...
2 - I corrected a reference someone on the plane made to medieval England architecture.
3 - Driving back home while travelling at 80 miles per hour, I dodged a refrigerator box that was sitting in the middle of the freeway (it could have had a whole litter of puppies in it for all I know, right?!)
4 - Later in the day, I got hit on by not one, but TWO gay men in the gym. With 10 minutes of each other. WHAT THE FUCK!?
I had all the evidence I needed to conduct my final experiment - tripling the egg consumption. This was dangerous...because I didn't know what to expect. How much of a epic superstar Johnny Awesome would I become? Would I spontaneously develop a cure for AIDS and help a dozen old ladies across the street, all before noon? It was uncharted territory.
But, being a man of SCIENCE, I was ready to take the plunge.
Dear readers, I cannot disclose to you the exact results of this experiment, because frankly they're just way too astounding to believe.
I will just say this: for about 10 hours after eating 6 delicious eggs, I existed on a plane of consciousness that would impress even the most devout Shaolin monk. I also performed physical feats that others would only write about in their life memoirs.
You probably don't share my enthusiasm for scientific experimentation, reader. You probably don't even BELIEVE my claims here, but I don't care. Why?
BECAUSE I HAD 8 EGGS THIS MORNING, MOTHER FUCKER.
8.
There is literally nothing anyone can do to cramp my style this day. I am working on solving a 256-sided Rubik's cube at the moment and things are going well. I also just set up a date with a supermodel for later this evening. Oh and I just got a voicemail from Neil DeGrasse Tyson, asking if I would kindly share my knowledge with him, on the subject of gauging gravitational force wave distortions in super massive black holes.
I just had to type this out because I'm not one to keep my revelations bottled up inside.
If YOU found centuries-old Egyptian treasure hidden in your back yard, wouldn't YOU want to tell the world?
Wednesday, April 4, 2012
Steve Vai - A god among gods.
Not only does Steve Vai's playing ability rival even the BEST guitarists, but his humility and understanding of the entire musical endeavor is just simply awesome.
Check this out:
I love you Steve. :)
Check this out:
I love you Steve. :)
Tuesday, March 27, 2012
They have arrived. Genuine Oakley Frogskins from the 80's.
I don't know about you, but I was alive and well in the 80's.
It was a time of coin-operated video games, crazy hair styles and these - the baddest ass sunglasses ever produced by any company ANYWHERE - The Oakley Frogskins.
And now I have a pair.
AND - they're the 'Collector's Edition' with special green Iridium lenses.
My level of coolness has just notched up a point or ten. :)
Sunday, March 18, 2012
Chronicle of St. Patty's Weekend, 2012 on the 16th Street Mall
Well I should SAY! I haven't had a more pleasant 48 hours in QUITE some time.
This weekend has been lovely. Lots of great weather, some awesome fans downtown paying well for my music...and killer motorcycle rides throughout. What could HONESTLY be needed here?
Friday night brought some interesting douche-bag grade characters out of the woodwork. There were quite a few fights along the 16th Street Mall, none of which were particularly entertaining.
This one dude took off his wifebeater and screamed, "SHOOT ME NOW MOTHER FUCKER!" at some other dude who apparently got all up in his business.
I guess that *was* kind of entertaining, in sort of a "wow-look-at-that-moron-with-innumerable-personal-issues" kind of way.
Saturday night --- last night --- was CRAZY drunk night. All the drunkies wearing green were frenzied and, thankfully, pretty spendy. I made a nice chunk of change off them, and they danced around my tip case pretending to be leprechauns all night.
Twas pleasant.
Aaaaand tomorrow it's back to reality.
*sigh*
This weekend has been lovely. Lots of great weather, some awesome fans downtown paying well for my music...and killer motorcycle rides throughout. What could HONESTLY be needed here?
Friday night brought some interesting douche-bag grade characters out of the woodwork. There were quite a few fights along the 16th Street Mall, none of which were particularly entertaining.
This one dude took off his wifebeater and screamed, "SHOOT ME NOW MOTHER FUCKER!" at some other dude who apparently got all up in his business.
I guess that *was* kind of entertaining, in sort of a "wow-look-at-that-moron-with-innumerable-personal-issues" kind of way.
Saturday night --- last night --- was CRAZY drunk night. All the drunkies wearing green were frenzied and, thankfully, pretty spendy. I made a nice chunk of change off them, and they danced around my tip case pretending to be leprechauns all night.
Twas pleasant.
Aaaaand tomorrow it's back to reality.
*sigh*
Sunday, March 11, 2012
Tuesday, February 28, 2012
So yesterday I quit Facebook. For realsies.
This is very liberating.
Now, when I open up my trusty little web browser, I have to remind myself that going to 'www.facebook.com' won't really do anything for me anymore.
I won't be seeing posts from people I hardly know, about inconsequential bullshit that never affects me.
I won't be advertised to by Facebook's partners. Nor will I unknowingly advertise to my 'friends' on behalf of said partners.
And by the way, this is permanent. There is no going back, and that itself is really pretty fucking awesome if you think about it.
I think I had like 120 friends or something like that. Women I've dated, old high school friends, some family members. That's it.
The ones who matter won't mind my absence on Facebook. They will be quite pacified, I'm sure, to keep our communications to the old-fashioned methods of e-mail and the occasional phone call.
So long, Facebook.
You have been unfriended.
Now, when I open up my trusty little web browser, I have to remind myself that going to 'www.facebook.com' won't really do anything for me anymore.
I won't be seeing posts from people I hardly know, about inconsequential bullshit that never affects me.
I won't be advertised to by Facebook's partners. Nor will I unknowingly advertise to my 'friends' on behalf of said partners.
And by the way, this is permanent. There is no going back, and that itself is really pretty fucking awesome if you think about it.
I think I had like 120 friends or something like that. Women I've dated, old high school friends, some family members. That's it.
The ones who matter won't mind my absence on Facebook. They will be quite pacified, I'm sure, to keep our communications to the old-fashioned methods of e-mail and the occasional phone call.
So long, Facebook.
You have been unfriended.
Monday, February 20, 2012
I will miss you, Hilary.
Yesterday I was informed that a friend of mine, Hilary Weimer, lost her battle with colorectal cancer.
She was in her mid 20's.
We knew each other for about 5 years. We had dated some time ago and while things didn't work out romantically, we stayed friends ever since.
I am not kidding when I tell you this woman was one of the most vibrant, energetic, optimistic and friendly people I have EVER come across in my short 32 years of life.
And she was so...persistently...IMMERSED in life. That's the best way I can put it.
It's like she woke up every day on an epic quest to satisfy this undying thirst she had in her soul - a thirst for new experiences, new people and new things to think about.
She was like an addict when it came to education. She wanted more of it, ALL the time. And she wanted to talk about it...to bring you as her friend INTO it, to share her exuberance for it, an exuberance which just over...FLOWED.
I won't ever forget the time she convinced me to go on a snowshoeing adventure with her. I was content with sitting at home playing video games that afternoon, but she insisted.
She was like that. She could tell that something would be a GOOD thing and she would pursue it with the vigor of a Romanian gladiator.
She showed me that real optimism lives and in fact thrives. It's in the smiles and hearts of all people who have faith in humankind and who are truly good beings. It's unmistakable in some people, and Hilary was one of those people.
Today, I am having a hard time concentrating on much. I can't stop thinking about the void of LOGIC at play here...the fact that Hilary - someone so valuable and grateful for life - would be taken from this world before ME?
ME??? A guy ambivalent at BEST about the worth of his own life?
ME?!?
What a colossal, cosmic injustice. It serves as proof in the pudding that there isn't a God with good intentions and an all-touching hand. It proves the opposite.
It proves that this life is what we make it, and the people in it are there to share the ride with us, to teach us and to love us.
I don't need a God to know this. I just need the warmth, openness and graciousness of people like Hilary.
May another person like her, or indeed many of them, find their way into my life again.
I will never forget you Hilary. Rest in peace.
She was in her mid 20's.
We knew each other for about 5 years. We had dated some time ago and while things didn't work out romantically, we stayed friends ever since.
I am not kidding when I tell you this woman was one of the most vibrant, energetic, optimistic and friendly people I have EVER come across in my short 32 years of life.
And she was so...persistently...IMMERSED in life. That's the best way I can put it.
It's like she woke up every day on an epic quest to satisfy this undying thirst she had in her soul - a thirst for new experiences, new people and new things to think about.
She was like an addict when it came to education. She wanted more of it, ALL the time. And she wanted to talk about it...to bring you as her friend INTO it, to share her exuberance for it, an exuberance which just over...FLOWED.
I won't ever forget the time she convinced me to go on a snowshoeing adventure with her. I was content with sitting at home playing video games that afternoon, but she insisted.
She was like that. She could tell that something would be a GOOD thing and she would pursue it with the vigor of a Romanian gladiator.
She showed me that real optimism lives and in fact thrives. It's in the smiles and hearts of all people who have faith in humankind and who are truly good beings. It's unmistakable in some people, and Hilary was one of those people.
Today, I am having a hard time concentrating on much. I can't stop thinking about the void of LOGIC at play here...the fact that Hilary - someone so valuable and grateful for life - would be taken from this world before ME?
ME??? A guy ambivalent at BEST about the worth of his own life?
ME?!?
What a colossal, cosmic injustice. It serves as proof in the pudding that there isn't a God with good intentions and an all-touching hand. It proves the opposite.
It proves that this life is what we make it, and the people in it are there to share the ride with us, to teach us and to love us.
I don't need a God to know this. I just need the warmth, openness and graciousness of people like Hilary.
May another person like her, or indeed many of them, find their way into my life again.
I will never forget you Hilary. Rest in peace.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)