Guilt and the Gridiron

There is a commercial for a satellite TV service in which a boy runs to his father and jumps on the couch asking "Can you read me a story?" The father looks around for a second and the crestfallen boy says "Oh, football."

The father says, "Nevermind, I can freeze time!" {Snap} TV action is paused. {Snap} TV action is resumed. "Do it again, daddy!" squeals the kid, book forgotten.

While watching the commercial, my wife said something to the effect of, "Oh, god forbid that he spend some time with his son!"

I replied, off hand, "That's the pain of every child."

The wife looked at me with her brows furrowed, then did an uncanny Spock peak with one of her eyebrows. She stared at me for a moment, then let it go.

When I was but a little guy, I walked into the living room where my dad was watching football on a beautiful Sunday afternoon. After playing for a while at the foot of the couch, I remember looking at him and saying, "I can't wait for football to be over, so that I can have you back."

He looked at me as if in pain, a sight I've never since witnessed. He didn't say anything for a few moments, and I jumped on to the couch and snuggled next to him, happy to watch the game, if it meant that I could be with him.

He couldn't 'freeze time', and he didn't have to. We just watched the rest of the game together.

The pain of every child is in realizing that their parents, even their world, exists outside of themselves alone. There is a time when one first groks that the Me-liospheric model has long since been retired.

It would seem that the pain of every adult is remembering that moment. Moreso, in experiencing it again through the eyes of the young.

This Should Work

I finally friggin' remember!

The Golden Paper Clip goes to This Girl I Used To Know, if only because she questioned my notes.

The rubber band reference was supposed to be a completely different post. It was about my friend, and a dark day in 20/20 hindsight stupidity.

He had a good sized bag of rubber bands, and we had spent all afternoon linking one after the other until the chain was at least 20 feet long.

The next logical step, of course, was to stretch the chain as far as we could. My friend stood stationary as I walked up the sidewalk, one house after another, sometimes testing the tautness. It was inevitable what happened next: the chain snapped, and 150 feet of overstretched rubberband accelerated at warp speed toward my friend's scrotum.

It would have been much funnier on America's Home Videos. As I understand it, one can not go wrong with a testicular impact gag.

Anyhow, said friend has just started a blog. Please check it out.

I'm a little concerned, because Technorati, etc., will eventually lead back to li'l' ol' LP. The internet is full of Hanzel und Gretel crumbs. But this guy is one of by oldest, best friends, so annonymity be damned. It's not like I'm running for Emporer President! Viva la Work!

The land of Nod, on the east of Eden

I'm not Catholic, but I believe in Purgatory.

I believe it because I fear it.

And I know what I fear.

The Talking Heads say Heaven is a place where nothing ever happens. I don't entirely disagree. But I believe Purgatory is a place where nothing ever happens. Well, not quite nothing.

My idea of nothingness and waiting is that, once parsed, you are assigned a song that you don't really remember. For example, the theme song to T.J. Hooker. Or perhaps an obscure America or Grand Funk Railroad B-side. Something that you haven't heard in years, if ever.

Then you are asked to transpose the entire song note for note, lyric for lyric. If Manfred Mann's Earth Band sings "wrapped up like a douche", you will have to understand that it's "duece".

Once per year, and only once per year, you are allowed to take your findings to the Curator. He will either allow you to pass, or fail you, again, to another year of trying to piece together a forgotten memory.

He will not let you know how close you are, or if a musical phrase or lyric is correct. Only yes or no.

And you will toil nearly forever. Finally, due to the logic of infinite monkeys, and infinite typewriters, you may finally escape. Rather, be reassigned. And you may finally be forwarded to Heaven.

A place where nothing ever happens.

KOMtasticalicious

Not all of my written garbage is stored as computer drafts. A fair amount can be found on post-its and general stickies all over the KOM-cave.

I had in mind a post that was going to blow your little cotton socks off your mis-shapen toes. Unfortunately, based on the notes that I wrote, I have no freaking idea what I was supposed to document.

So it's time, once again, for the Golden Paper-Clip award. This hallowed award is, uhh, awarded to whoever can make sense of the following notes. Understand, there is no prize for creativity - this is strictly based on the proper interpretation of the following notes.

You want a prize? Ok. Whoever reads these clues and can tell me what the fuck I was going to write about may take over li'l ol' LP for a moment, and be 'googlefied' in their own time on my dime. Err, Google's dime. Whatever.

(Yellow pad notes, no date, no direction)


Steve Winwood.

Genius?

Rubber Band.

Toilet. Crying.

Trujillo?



That's all you get. Genius or absurdity? I'd venture both.

No, really, I'd venture neither.

Really, though, I don't venture.

A brief dream X

Last night I dreamed that I was on the Island from Lost, trying to process I-9's for all the survivors. As you can imagine, this was not a pleasant task.

Casting ivory before swine

If I really wanted to be free, I would live by my own hand. I would run through the forest and the plains, hundreds of miles without fences.

I might cautiously sneak into towns to mate, but I would be gone long before the sun came up.

I would probably step on a nail and die next to a secluded stream. Or perhaps I would be eviscerated by a mountain lion. I might just slip and break both of my legs, breathing my last in the same spot that I landed.

No thank you. I'll happily trade boundless freedom for shelter and security. Or the illusion of such, anyway. And everyone who is reading this, or even could read this, has made the same decision.

So I was startled to hear a woman's shrill voice as I walked across the parking lot in front of a Safeway. "Do you want to save the elephants? From the circuses?"

"Sir?"

"Sir!?"

"Excuse me, Sir!"

Okay, let's play.

"What."

"Do you want to help save the circus elephants?"

"From what?"

"From the circuses! The trainers! They are kept in tiny cages all of their lives and beaten."

"How do they train?"

"What do you mean?"

"How do they train the elephants to do tricks inside of their tiny cages?"

"Well, they let them out to train."

"I see. And what would you do with these elephants?"

"Do?"

"Maybe I'm missing your point. What is it that you would want me to do?"

"Boycott the circus!"

"Let's just say that every man, woman and child in the US boycotted elephants. What would happen?"

"The circuses would go out of business!"

"Right. And what happens to the elephants?"

"They would be... taken in."

"By whom?"

"By... I don't know, but someone would do something!"

"I see. And if 'someone' did 'something', what would that be?"

"They would be returned to their natural habitat where they could be free!"

At this point I'm afraid that I was forced to kick the woman in the throat. For any Anonymous's out there, I'm not only racist but a rabid misogynist.

Let them back into nature. Unbe-fucking-lievable. "Okay, Mr. third generation housed and fed pachyderm... here's your new digs. Dinner? No, nature will provide for you! Water? Uhh, I don't know. It's probably around here somewhere. Hey, you're the elephant. Don't you know this stuff? See ya. Oh, by the way, don't get sick. Ciao!"

But as I was pounding her head into the pavement over and over, I began to feel bad. After all, she apparently meant well. She just hasn't really thought it through. Is it her fault that she's a mindless puppet? It's like talking with a Mormon missionary. I swear to god that they are only taught "Jesus loves you, and fags are bad", then kicked out the door and bussed to my neighborhood. They are completely incapable of having a philosophical discussion. I don't mean that they just repeat the 3 talking posts that they've been taught (which they do), but they are not trained in their own fucking book! Seriously, I don't think that I've ever met a missionary that has read the damn thing. And god forbid that they've cracked a bible open. Why the hell are these people sent to teach me about religion? They are like door-to-door salespeople that don't know what's in their own product box. Fuck, it's maddening.

But I digress.

The day after Wilma's landfall she asked me if I wanted to save the elephants. From the circus. She was unconscious now, but I leaned over her body and whispered into her ear:

"No."

Sometime is too much

I think my eye's been leaking.

I was watching some show this evening, 60/60, 20 Minutes... whatever. They were talking about musical savants. One of these prodigies was blind as well as being mentally retarded. I mean than in a very clinical sense: he is unable to buckle his seatbelt, unable to tie his shoes, unable, even, to button his shirt.

But he remembers every song that he has ever heard, and is able to play it upon request on a piano.

As the segment was cut, the interviewer asked "can you hold up 3 fingers?" He held up all ten, stretched taught, and responded "I don't know how to do that."

Asked shortly thereafter if he could play "The girl from Ipanema", he went straight into song.

And this is what got me. They asked if he could interpret musical phrases as if done by another talent. Bach became perhaps too complex when asked to be interpreted as Mozart. Perhaps too regimented and baroque when asked to be interpret as "Russian". But it was organic, and real and, TV to be trusted, in the moment and beautiful. Not that he didn't miss some notes, not that it was Carnegie-ready, but it was immediate and incredible.

I had stood, mid living-room with my hand on my hip, watching the segment. Very shortly into the performance, I was forced to step outside. Ostensibly for a cigarette, but honestly because I was emotionally overwhelmed.

My mother tells a story from when I was a little tike. I was watching "Close Encounters" at the foot of the TV in my parent's bedroom as they were getting ready for bed. After the famous musical encounter, when the aliens opened the hatch and showed themselves, my mother tells me that I cried uncontrollably. Not from fear, but from awe. Something about the scene had touched a part of my mind that wasn't tied to want or need. It was pure wonder, and I cried.

One night a few years ago, my wife and I were driving to a friend's house. I was trying to explain that I had never really thought about the role of firefighters or police as positive institutions. While I had little thought about firefighters, I actively disliked police. Not that I hadn't met some pretty cool cops in my youthful indiscretions, but I always considered them a barely-contained gestapo, existent only to give me tickets or bum my high.

It struck me like a bolt of lightning, after 9/11, that they had their purpose. The men in blue have the authority to tell you where to go, how to get there, and if you should stay there. The same people that I'd always considered to have some social defect in peace-time were the only ones who could direct the populace when absolutely necessary.

I tried to tell my wife that while I was still wary of cops and their totalarian power, I finally understood their purpose. The same characteristics that I've always hated and feared in the blue-clad autocrats could in fact be used for the social good. There can be times and reasons for their existence. I became overwhelmed at the realization and cried right there in the car.

The same awe has been repeated on more than one occasion: The moment my wife said "yes" to the proposal; when I saw her march down the isle; when in the middle of all havoc and hell I was handed the forceps to cut the umbilical cord...

Humans are damned by their own existence. As said in Contact, "You're capable of such beautiful dreams and such horrible nightmares." It's a wonderful thing when we can be shocked out of our usual routine, and can be hurt or enlightened by the simple thoughts and actions around us. It's in those brief moments when we are taken out of ourselves that I believe we are closer to whatever we choose to believe as God.

And it is in Awe, when all other emotions fail, that we are, finally, Human.

Perrier Eleison

Because I've already blasphemed by calling you Pellegrino.

;)

Emoticon, how I loathe thee. Let me count the ways.

On second thought, after so many months teaching a toddler to count, I'm not sure that I can count much beyond ten. So let me just tell you why I hate them.

I've gotten into "trouble" at least twice here in the blogosphere for not adding a winking devil troll to the end of a sentence. Why? Because written text is impersonal and lacks the social cues that would smooth over spoken word.

I call bullshit on that.

Emoticons exist because the first FIDOnet users were geeks, not communicators. To be honest, I'm a bit surprised they could parse the heavy atmosphere of autism to even see the need for better stating static emotion.

This was funny! :) I ironically called you a dipshit! ;) You make me sad. :( Wh-what? :O I'm pissed. >:| I like boobs. (o)(o) Have a flower! @-/--

I hate emoticons because the mock me. They make me realize that I am not talented enough to convey a written thought without an understood human response. In other words, emoticons make me write less effectively.

They are a crutch.

It's so much easier to write "You are an unmitigated whore ;)", than to try to turn a phrase that conveys the same message.

Damn you, emoticon. You had makes I stupider.

(o)(o)

Shake it like a polaroid picture.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch

We had a wicked windstorm a couple of months ago. Hello wind, goodbye fence:



I believe that my beautiful wife covered this a while ago.

Santa sprinkled some love dust, and now we have a new fence and a retaining wall:



How fucking cool is that? At this rate, we might have some grass before the end of the decade.

KOM is a big fat racist

I've also noticed that KOM is as likely as not to refer to himself in the 3rd person.

I received an interesting comment on one of my recent posts. Anonymous states, simply, "you sound like a big fat racist." I was torn about responding to this comment. You know, the whole 'acknowledge them and the terrorists win' scenario. But I've also been thinking a lot about comments made by Stephen Jackson regarding the NBA dress code. So I guess it's time for LP's monthly race-inspired post.

Anonymous, who incidentally left her IP address and location, came to LP through a Blogger search for the term "asian woman". This lead her to the post titled "Autumn dreaming", linked above.

This post begins with me describing two women that I saw in a bank. One of them happened to be Asian, the other white. Why did I mention this? I mean, it wasn't really necessary to the story. By way of an answer, I will re-submit the post in its entirety, all possible offending material removed.


All-seasons inclusive, non-sexual fantasizing

I was in a place. I noticed two earth natives. One of them smiled.

Not that there's anything wrong with that.

I like sweats.


Hmm. This didn't turn out as I had hoped - that's actually a pretty funny post. Well, good enough for these pages, anyway. My point was supposed to be that description is necessary to the immersion of the tale. All verbs and no adjectives make Jack a dull story.

I stated that I assumed that the Asian woman (heretofore 'younger woman' to avoid typing "Asian woman" and "white woman" over and over in a post about racism) was the older woman's care provider. Why? Because she was handling the older woman's accounts, and was clearly not blood related. Could she have been a daughter-in-law? Why the heck not. That's why I wrote "assumed". It could have been any number of scenarios. Yet, regardless of the relationship, she was providing the older woman a service. That counts as a 'care provider', right? Besides, is there a stereotype that I've missed about Asian care-givers? If I had written that I assumed the younger woman was responsible for the older woman's laundry, then I think Anonymous would have had more of a point. It would have been stereotypical and taken completely out of context.

I also stated that I assumed that the younger woman was bilking the older woman. Again, is this a stereotype that I've missed? Are Asians known by everyone but me to be predatory cheats? Or have we come so far in Bleeding Heart Land that only white males are capable of doing negative things? Why did I assume that the older woman was being bilked? Because I would have done it. While meant in jest, I think it's pretty clear that I was projecting my own psyche onto the younger woman.

So, Anonymous, I submit that if anyone is racist here, it's you, in that race matters to you in more than an incidental fashion. I was just describing the situation - you are the one with the hang-ups. Don't lay 'em on me.

Moving to the NBA.

Has everyone lost their fucking minds? Why is there even debate about the dress code? It's racist to ban wearing chains or pendants outside of clothing while "on the clock"?

When did racism stop being about civil rights and become the bogeyman of every person who doesn't like a situation? Didn't get your white-ass into college? Blame the native American who "stole" your scholarship. Didn't get the job as a hostess? Could it be because you don't speak English? A dress code at work? Must be the man trying to stamp out your culture.

I'm not even going to bring up the McDonalds uniform argument. It's too obvious.

What I see are a bunch of spoiled brats that get paid ridiculously well to play a game, yet cry foul when they are required to present themselves as the league sees fit.

Jason Richardson states "You still wear a suit, you still could be a crook. You see all what happened with Enron and Martha Stewart. Just because you dress a certain way doesn't mean you're that way."

That's truish, in and of itself. Don't judge a book by it's cover, and all that. Except that it completely misses the point. Will requiring the players to dress a certain way help the league? I don't know, and I couldn't possibly give less of a fuck. But theirs is not to wonder why, theirs is to but play and... well, not die. Get paid a lot, I guess. Once they own the league, they can set their own rules (and lord knows that the players make enough money that they could buy it.) In the meantime, when management says "jump shot", they should say "how high?"

Says Jackson, "I love wearing my jewelry. But I love my job. I love playing basketball more than I love getting fined and getting suspended."

Amen.

And if I'm wrong, maybe I am a big fat racist.

Conversational vortex

My boss isn't a bad guy, but for some reason we are unable to communicate. I don't know if other people know what he's talking about and the fault is mine, or if he lives in constant frustration over the 'stupidity' of others. This exchange took place about an hour ago, and is very nearly verbatim.

{Ring}

"Hello?"

"I need you to do me a favor." (this always bothers me. As long as I get paid, I do what you want. Don't call it a favor.)

"What do you need."

"Our insurance is X, right?"

"Which insurance?"

"Our insurance."

"Vehicle insurance? Workers comp? Medical? Gener--"

"--Vehicle insurance."

"Yes, X is our vehicle insurance."

"Is the policy number ########?"

"No. It's ########"

"And that's for Y, right?"

"No... that's for carrier X."

"Then I need you to make a copy of all of our insurance ID's. I'll need two copies. One for me, one as a back-up for your records, and one each for shops A and B."

"So, you need 4 copies?"

"No, {frustrated exhale} two. One for both shops."

"Ok-"

"-And one for me. And another copy for your records."

"So-"

"-Two. Total. Two total copies."

{Click}

And did you want pickles on that?

Kal-el Cage had best tread lightly

I watched the second half of Superman II over the weekend, and have been trying to deal with it since. I wanted to blog about some issues I had with the movie, but I haven't been able to marshall my thoughts on the subject. It was just so...

...something.

And then, like a ray of a red Sun's light, I beheld the glory that is General Zod 2008. I was skeptical of Christopher Walken's candidacy, and with good reason. But Zod '08 appears to be the real deal.

I just have one question. What is he a general of?

KOM gets a new pipe

Indulge me one more "pot post". I don't promise that it will be the last, and after 10 years of starting every story with "Ok, we were sooo baked...", it's a hard habit to break. But I'll try.

My friends and I used to drive to Berkeley nearly every weekend. We'd get high, shop for deals in the LP bargain bins, check out the head shops and then dine at Spanger's. It was something to do.

My girlfriend and I had purchased a pipe at one of the head shops. It was really, really cool. It was one of those pipes covered in that playdough-like material that bakes on hard. It was covered in a mushroom dominated happy valley scene.

The happy valley soon disintegrated - literally. The clay cracked and broke off after just a week or two of use. I was infuriated. Which at the time meant something like "Man, I should, like, say something or something. I mean, I should talk to them, man."

So the next time we went down to Berkeley, I carried the faulty purchase in my pocket and planned to give the Man a piece of my mind. First, of course, I had to gird my loins, so to speak, at Fat Slice. Is this good pizza, you ask? I couldn't tell you. I don't think I've ever eaten it.. ah.. not ravenous. Does good pizza give you the runs? Then it is the best!

Said loins girded and greased, I walked the few blocks down Telegraph to the head shop where the defective pipe had been purchased. I walked in, full of indignity, and said "This pipe's busted, man!"

The poor proprietor took the pipe in his hand, looked at it for half a second and then turned ghost white. "You have to get this out of here! Now!"

"Not until I get a refund, man!" I retorted.

"No, you don't understand. This has marijuana resin in it. I could be shut down! Get it out of here!"

"Uh. Uh, okay. Can I have a pen cap?"

"Wh-what?"

"To clean it, man. Sorry to stress you, man!"

The proprietor gave me the pointy pen cap off of a nearby bic and nearly kicked me out of the store.

I sat down on the sidewalk, reclining against the storefront. I had just started to pull the pipe apart when one of my friends found me. He was hanging out with a sketchy-looking guy in a green sweatshirt. "Dude, you got two bucks?" he asked me.

"Why?"

"Because Dirtnap here has two joints to sell me, if I can come up with a couple more dollars."

I squinted up into the sun, then lazily cast my gaze on 'Dirtnap'. "Cool sweatshirt, man. Yeah, I got a couple of bucks."

Dirtnap, friend and I smoked the first joint right there on the sidewalk, backs against the jittery proprietors store. Our new friend was telling us how the cops in Berkeley are cool, just when a cop turned the corner across the street. That dude could run fast, man!

The cop didn't pay us any mind, so friend and I finished the joint. I pulled a Zig-zag out of my pocket and scraped all of the resin that I could from the pipe, depositing the tarry goodness on the paper for later use. "Does this look clean to you, man?" I asked.

Friend was gone. He may have been gone for some time. I still picture myself, tongue sticking out at an angle, busily scraping and completely ignorant of the hundreds of people that passed me on that narrow sidewalk.

Finally satisfied, and with a pretty good haul of resin to boot, I walked back into the store. I again offered the pipe to the proprietor and stated "This pipe's busted, man!"

The poor man again looked at the pipe, and noticed that it was still covered in resin. "I can't have you in here!"

"But the pipe's defective, man!"

"Listen, take any replacement you want. Now. And get the fuck out of here and never come back."

"Wow! Cool, man. I like that one," (pointing). He grabbed it and threw it out the open door. "Get out!"

That night we dined on fresh seafood. I couldn't believe how lucky I was that the proprietor didn't even want the defective pipe in exchange! "It's not like it doesn't work or anything," I confided to my friend.

The Official 301st Post

There was some jackass that posted #301 over the weekend. I removed it before too much harm was done. Well, harm was done, but I deleted it. We'll leave it at that.

Perhaps this is officially post # 303. Because I've deleted one other post as well. But I put a post up in its place. So the count still remains 301.

It's easy to forget how public a forum this (blogging) is. When I first started blogging, I made a promise to myself that I would post anything that I had bothered to write - unfinished or not. This lasted several moths until I started to use "drafts" as a notepad. Just one more promise to myself out the window. Then, a month or two ago, I had to remove a particularly whiny, needy post. Sometimes the things that are written in the wee hours of the morning should never see the light of day.

For example, a single line taken out of a draft that I've finally deleted, because it never bore fruit. Taken also completely out of any context that could redeem it:

I've never eaten while masturbating. Not yet.

Over the weekend, I posted something that really did not need to be said. Confusion about someone else, another blog, another situation.

It's difficult for me to realize that you all are real people. I tend to think that people go into "cold storage" when I'm not around.

So. Cryptic as it is, I end post #301. I hope that it will be a reminder to me about what is acceptable for me to post, and what is a needless commentary on another real person's blog.

Autumn dreaming

I was waiting in line at the bank and watching a little old white lady in pink sweatpants who was standing with a much younger asian woman. I assumed that the asian woman was some kind of care provider. I also assumed that she was bilking the woman. Because I would, if I had access to a little old lady's bank account.

But as the ladies left the teller and walked past, the older woman caught my eye and smiled radiantly. I instantly realized that she knew that she was getting ripped off, and that she didn't care - because she gets to wear sweatpants anywhere she goes!

As near as I can figure, I need to either age another 40 years, or put on another 100 pounds before I get to wear sweats in public. Neither option is particularly appealing.

I guess I could pretend that I'm always jogging, or don a whistle and impersonate a highschool PE teacher. But I just want to be me - in sweats.

I'm going to sacrifice some chickens to the Casual god this weekend. If you get to work on Monday and all the men have exchanged their button-ups and ties for sports jerseys, you'll know that the sacrifice was pleasing. And you'll also know that I will be smiling radiantly, waiting in line at the bank in my sweatpants. Commando.

KOM needs

This wasn't a meme as such, and it certainly wasn't directed at me. But the idea cracked me up, so I had to try it. Thanks to Sheri for the idea.

Two pages of my Google search for "KOM needs":

KOM needs a live account and black arrow

KOM needs two slashes

KOM needs a lot of tough love sometimes

KOM needs to shed public-sector image 2004

The current KOM *needs* 2.2.3

KOM needs an update

KOM needs frequent feedback from its valued customers

KOM needs us!!

All KOM needs to show is that there are other explanations that do not require God

KOM needs to get a leader of this

KOM needs adult dvd erotik store

Just think of all the washing and grooming a KOM needs - let alone how much one will eat!

KOM needs the protein


Jesus Christ, get out of my fucking head!

Do you know how to suck dick?

Do you know how long it takes to drive from the Bay Area to Boulder, Colorado? I do. It takes almost exactly 24 hours.

We had driven 24 hours straight. East through California, through Nevada, past Salt Lake City and up into Wyoming, then finally back down into Colorado.

I only have a couple of thoughts about the intervening states. First, Nevada is mindnumbingly boring. And it's so much bigger than you can imagine. Second, I had no idea that waves crashed to shore against the Great Salt Lake. Who'da thunk it? That's one big fucking lake, I guess. The city looks like something out of a sci-fi movie - giant cliffs placed haphazardly next to a roiling sea. Jets fall out of the sky and skim the highway about 30 inches above the cars, then disappear through sea-foam and rock formations. In the middle of the fucking desert. Finally, Wyoming is also massive, but much more interesting. Interesting to look at, at least. My totally uneducated guess is that they have 1 resident per 500 square miles in that state. In their massive isolation they've also re-invented english. We stopped at a gas station that advertised Pop;Ice;Beer;Gas. All separated, as God intended, by semi-colons.

So.

Aaron and I were to meet a friend who was going to school in Boulder. The only thing that we knew was that he lived "on The Hill". I was under the impression that "The Hill" would be a bit like Telegraph in Berkeley. Initially it looked more like Main St. Disneyland.

At least there was, sort of, a hill. I would think that so close to the Rockies, natives would call a place a "Hill" in a facetious way, like a Texan might call his 100,000 acre ranch his "back yard". But irony seems to be lost on these people (must be the lack of oxygen). In a little bowl valley, nestled between towering, sheer cliffs, sits a little city with a tiny "hill". And as if named by Jebediah Springfield himself, the little city is aptly called Boulder. Down the road is "Stick", "Tumblweed" and "That Creek Where Johnny Took A Piss".

Because we were young and didn't worry about things like telephone numbers or addresses before going on a road trip, we simply parked the Festiva and began to look for Seth.

His last name makes the question of asking about Seth X sound something like "Do you know how to suck dick?" The jocks were not amused, and we were too tired to repeat ourselves. Imagine two grungy, bleary-eyed, long and oily haired fucks walking around town offering oral pleasure. The jocks were not amused, but the people who looked like us seemed happy to offer us drugs.

"What? Not stuff, man. Seth. Do you know how to suck dick?"

"I need money, man. Muh-nee. I don't need no help with that, you dig?"

What was I saying about Disneyland? Maybe it was a bit more like Telegraph.

I honestly do not remember how we found him. I'm sure that it's a story in itself. I mean somehow, knowing nothing except for the general neighborhood in which he lived, we ended up finding a non-descript guy in a smallish city.

I don't know if it was the same Seth that we were looking for, but he was a good guy and let sleep in his apartment.

That first night Aaron and I were too tired to sleep. We lay on the floor in the dark and moaned as our bodies tried to process 30 hours of wakefulness and 5 packs of cigarettes. Each. I think we finally slept after Seth went to work the next morning, and didn't wake up until the middle of the next day. Seth was already gone.

That's how we learned that he had a room mate. I believe her name is Kendra, but the details are fuzzy. While we were unsticking ourselves from the floor, Kendra walked in. She raised her eyebrows and put her hands on her hips as if to say "So, you can move. I was beginning to think that Seth had just purchased ugly furniture."

Very quickly the initial look of disgust was wiped away and she smiled, offering us something to eat. That offer amounted to ketchup or water. We both decided to have some water.

Seth called from work and told us to go down the hill to a video place and rent a VCR and a movie called "They Call Me Bruce?" Obviously he was already high. I don't remember what he did in Boulder, but based on experience I'm guessing that he sucked dick for pot.

Aaron and I had a respectable stash ourselves in the Festiva, if we only we could remember where we had parked it. We should have just worn a sandwich board advertising "Mug Us!" as we walked up and down the streets, a VCR under my arm, a bag with movies and goodies clutched in Aaron's hand.

Luckily we were not challenged, and we found the car unmolested, the pot unsmoked. Somehow we found our way back to Seth's house. Maybe it is more like Disneyland, afterall.

Laden with edible food, entertainment and other such goodies, we returned to home base. This is where the story becomes (more) muddled. We were supposed to stay for a night or two before continuing our journey to Memphis. We ended up staying at least one week. Although I'm pretty sure it was two. I think two weeks because I remember our friend in Memphis being non-plussed for our only staying half as long as we had spent in Boulder. And we must have spent at least a week in Memphis. Speaking of which, do you know how long it takes to drive from Boulder to Memphis? I do. Just about 30 hours. But watch out for Kentucky. That's where I started hallucinating. Maybe we should have scheduled more than one day between destinations.

If you've read this far, you might as well brew some tea and let me continue with the mental snapshots of Boulder that pass for my memory of this "layover".

They Call Me Bruce? was a sage choice. It is perhaps the dumbest movie that I've ever seen, but 3 joints later it is also one of the funniest things that I've ever seen. It's like that song, "we smoked two joints before we smoked two joints, and then we smoked two more", but then we watched the movie, then we smoked two more, then we watched it again, then we smoked two more, then we hit mute, put Ummagumma on the stereo and watched it again. It was spectacular. All of those people you knew in college that told you to watch The Wizard of Oz while listening to The Wall? Unimaginative losers, the lot.

In fact, I've only had a single more satisfying experience. In another town, another time, we were on shrooms and watched The Jetsons Meet the Flintstones while listening to Ween. Truly, you have never experienced utmost hilarity until you watch Barney talking to George about the flies on his dick.

At some point Seth received a care-package from his mom. It contained 4 gallon sized jugs of ketchup, several pounds of dried spaghetti, and a teaser sampling of Chef Boyardee. It all came in a huge box, and the delivery man was sweating from just carrying it to the door from his truck.

We attempted to make spaghetti for the four of us (don't forget about Kendra). They only had one pot, really just a sauce pan, so we crammed as many noodles in as possible. It took an hour for the mess to cook properly. This was a good thing, actually, because the "couch" was just a love-seat. Only two people could sit on it at a time. If you managed to get a seat on the couch, you stayed there until you started to pee your pants. The alternative was a 1960's aluminum dining room chair designed by Marquis de Sade. Or the floor. Why was the spaghetti fiasco a good thing? Because it made such a mess that it was possible to get either Seth or Kendra to stand up and correct the situation, at which time you could sometimes get a seat on the couch. "Move your meat, lose your seat," has always been the mantra in my household. It was doubly true in Boulder.

Kendra once tried to take her seat back. She started with the "I live here" line of guilt. Sorry, sister. Been there done that. We just laughed. Next she attempted the "But I'm a girl!" angle. While giving her points for advancing women's lib significantly - backwards - we just let her know that it was a natural progression of equal rights.

Well, equal rights be damned. She exacted her revenge at the dining room table, playing poker. We must have played for at least three days straight. My ass still hurts from sitting so long at the torture-chairs. None of us had money, so we played for bud. I think we came out ahead, because we stashed what we won, and smoked whatever we would have, anyway.

So passed two weeks. I think we must have eaten once or twice. We may have even left the apartment. But I don't remember.

Aaron and I decided to leave one morning while Seth was work. We had traveled with heavy snackage, and we had a Costco size pack of those cheese crackers with the peanut butter well and red "smearing stick" that we hadn't yet broken into.

So we lugged the pack from the Festiva back to the apartment and built a shrine, right at the top of the stairs in front of the living room. These snacks are basically rectangular cubes, so they stack nicely. We built what was originally supposed to be an altar, but eventually turned into the Ark of the Covenant. You know, the covenant betwixt Man and cheese-food? It worked pretty well, but it's hard to stack a convincing Seraphim out of crackers. All told, there must have been fifty or more pieces. I hope this helped supplement Seth's ketchup stock.

On top of the Ark we placed a single joint. To this day, I wonder if God didn't wipe it out like the swastika on the shipping crate in Raiders of the Lost Ark. Waawaaawaaawaaawaaa. Rats running, cockroaches scattering, the joint burning without burning, forever and ever amen. But my guess is that Seth just smoked it. Then went and plied his "trade" for more.

I didn't know Seth very well before the trip. He was a friendly acquaintance in highschool, maybe even a friend, but I'd never spent any real time with him. But since the visit, we've remained close. If he ever reads this, I'm just joking about the dick-sucking thing. Well, that he did it, not that his name sounds like it. He and I eventually became room mates back in California. Someday I'll have to tell you about the vending machine that we bought from one of his ex-girlfriends. But that's another story.

Aaron and I fired up the old Festiva and continued the journey East. If you're interested, I've already posted about our experience in Kansas. Maybe one day I'll get around to the week in Memphis.

How did we get to this?

The following image has haunted me for the last 3 months.

I'm sure that any media-savvy person has seen worse... worse in the sense of violence and physical harm. Yet somehow this image taps into my greatest fears. Not to be outdone with flashy images of Americans being beheaded or Nazi death-pits, it speaks of simple despair.



It would be so easy to extrapolate from this; so easy to post about the civilian casualties here, the victims of natural disaster there. But this picture doesn't haunt me for political reasons. It doesn't haunt me because I could have done something.

It haunts me because it's terribly, terribly sad. It haunts me because the flip-side of every Mother Teresa is a Joseph Goebbels. Dukkha is not losing hot water during a shower. It's not Tivo erasing your favorite show. It's not even breaking up with your high-school sweetheart.

Dukkha is the image above. And I'll be damned before I have learned to accept it.

You make my teeth sweat

And now, a musical interlude.


Click the image for the song

Your eyes are like stars,
Your teeth are like pearls.

The Wheel of Hunger

Or, Why Mr. Man Thinks He Must Be Born of Nobility.



"That one was delightful, let's try another. Oh yes, delectible! Could the next be even better...?

"Oh, bother. I'm stuffed to the gills, if you will. Ha! May I now retire to the antechamber to watch another ripping episode of Baby Shakespear? I love the Bard nearly as much as teething crackers. Yet I can't seem to take more than five minutes at a time. I say, could you start the Teletubbies? Just the beginning, thank you, Jeeves, just the beginning..."

I also dream in MASH

Last night I dreamt that I was Hawkeye from MASH. As the dream began, I was beginning to tell Father Mulcahy why I had been lead back to base by MP's.

The scene faded, and I had just picked up a new doctor from the airfield. We were driving my Festiva back to base. The new doctor (who's name I don't recall - we'll call him ND), began getting very agitated, and told me that he had been forced to enlist because his wife had caught him sucking his best friend's dick. He was sure that he couldn't handle being in the war, and was contemplating suicide.

We reached a checkpoint, and I decided to teach ND a lesson in letting go. Instead of slowing down, I smashed through the barricade and drove off as quickly as I could. There were several jeeps chasing us, and ND suddenly became very serious. While I was laughing and taking my hands off the wheel, he reached into his holster and withdrew his pistol.

The camera angle changed, and now the scene played from outside the passenger window. I could see ND holding the pistol to my head, telling me to fucking stop. I could see my pale face, streaked in sweat. I could smell the faint ammonia as the stain on my crotch spread. Even though I was watching myself, the fear was palpable.

I pulled over and was beaten by the guards, then handed off to military police to be taken back to base.

The scene faded back to Father Mulcahy and myself. I was trying to justify my actions to him, to try to make him understand why I had thought it was so important for ND to appreciate flying without a net. Mulcahy stopped me with a look and told me that while I had been in the barracks, ND shot himself.

Same planet, different worlds

"I'll be the guinea pig of all the fun beauty things of God and stuff!"

I was trying to decipher the phrase above word by word. I got as far as 'fun beauty things' before I passed out.

While struggling back toward consciousness, the smallest spark of understanding took root. I think that this is what a Blonde Super Villain says moments before receiving the power that will ultimately destroy her. It's a triumphant baring of her wishes, hopes, very soul, before being ironically and satisfactorily cut down.

Think Shadrach, Meshach and Toht at the end of Raiders of the Lost Ark. "It's beautiful!" cries Belloq, moments before his head explodes.

Think Dr. Strangelove's "Mein Fuhrer! I can walk!" just as the doomsday device is triggered.

Think Grand Moff Tarkin, smug in victory, ordering the Deathstar to fire mere seconds before being atomized.

I have only one piece of advice for our BSV: Don't look at it. Shut you eyes, Tara, and don't look at it, no matter what happens.

KOM's Fortune Cookie I

It stings my eyes and pools at my feet. I slick my hair back with my left hand, and with my right hand I let the body slide away.

If anyone ever tells you that it's hard to eat a stick of butter, tell them that it is much more difficult to drink the blood of a living, kicking prostitute.

I smile red, my breath visible in the chill. "How much do I owe you?"

On Blogging

Old man KOM struggles down the litter-cleared path. His cane probes for depressions in the sand, his astygmic eyes look back and forth for danger.

KOM is an old blogger. Old beyond his years. Old beyond his almost one year.

He knows that many have gone down this path, and he is truly appreciative. He looks at the mark in his palm and asks everyone around him to please, please, direct him to the floating circus.

But somehow KOM survives. The THX1138 police, the Logan's Run Enforcers... they are all out to lunch. And sometimes KOM thinks it's too bad.

He thinks that some of his best stories are behind him. He knows different, but still he wonders. Blogging is a young man's game. A young woman's game. A young blogger's game.

"We were so high!" Heard it, move on.

"I fucked some chick" Heard it, move on.

"I, uh, hate my job?" Oh god have we heard it. Move the fuck on.

KOM thinks that perhaps he should introduce furious masturbation fridays? Stools that look like famous people Wednesdays? When did the music stop and I find myslef utterly alone Mondays?

KOM notes that we have a lurker, gentle reader. One of KOM's oldest, best friends has been given the URL, and he sees what we type. Say hello, everybody.

Blogging is a bitch-godess; say "cheese."

Fruitless searches and poetic nonsense

I spent a good deal of time today scanning through the approximately 880,000 Google listings for haiku machine. I had to put the kibosh on the excercise when I'd looked at so many sites that I completely forgot what the hell I was trying to find.

The words have become meaningless. Hi-koo-mush-een. Koopa-trooper-pooper-scooper.

I took a long look into the reflection of my face staring back at me from the window. "Under what possible circumstances would you be searching for hiccup mocha?" it seemed to ask.

"Haiku machine," I angrily corrected, just as a co-worker was walking by my open door.

"Excuse me?" asked the startled co-worker.

"You heard me," I screamed, "HAIKUMACHINE! HAIKUMACHINE! HAIKUMACHINE!"

What I really said was "Nothing."

So that I can close this sad chapter in my life, I leave you the following, taken from a recent post and translated into Korean and back:

But with the last enemy him (we... The unpronounceable Hu lang when the silence regarding his name which is will be wrong as the this called, must do) in us in his house with him with after requesting our trains which it does will arrive until... He is letting us comfort.

Ho. Ly. Shit.

"... and then the python burst open, partially exposing the lifeless alligator. Ok, kids, that's enough story for one night. Sweet dreams."

Fog

We both came-to at the same moment, in the moonless dark.

We staggered to our feet in a thick, thick fog. We could have lifted ourselves on the haze.

In the near distance marched dozens of shapes. They slowly resolved into hundreds of hooded sweatshirts. Sweatshirts without faces.

We faced roughly north, and they were moving south. Silently they approached, silently they parted where we were shivering in our hypothermia and confusion.

Soon they passed, the fog filling quickly behind them.

To this day, we both remember this as being the single most bizarre incident of our young, stupid lives.

4 8 15 16 23 42

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Update 10/13/05, 9:31pm

Thank you, internet strangers who have visited my little slice of the blogosphere via Yahoo's search directory, where as of the time-stamp above LP is listed at #5.

This little blurb is a joke. The math is real, but both mindless and meaningless. I suspect the number sequence is meaningless as well, but there are more interesting thought on the subject to be found nearly anywhere else. Spoiler: The joke is about Twin Peaks. Read on or move on - this ain't no library!

We now return you the the regularly scheduled post, already in progress...

--------------------------------------------------------------------------


Not, I repeat not 32.

It's like one of those SAT sequences: What number comes next? Not that it matters so much what comes next (at least, not yet), but what is the relationship of the numbers.

4..8.. doubling... 16, 8x2 -1=15, 16x2=32. But not 32, right?

Okay, let's try again. 42-23=19, 19-4=15. Okay, we've found the missing number from before.

23-16=7, 15-7=8. Ah ha!

4-8-15-16-23-42=-100. Nice round negative figure, that. All negatives=-108. All positives, of course yield 108. 1+0+8=9.

4+9=13, 1+3=4. 8+9=17, 1+7=8. Hmm.

15+16=31, 3+1=4. 23+42=65, 6+5=11, 1+1=2. Doubling again, 2, 4, 8...

Let's dial Jenny! 8+6+7+5+3+0+9=38, 3+8=11, 1+1=2. 2, man, 2!

Yup, it's clear: Leland is Bob, and Bob killed Laura Palmer. Beware the owls.

I'm not fond of penile lesions

I tell myself that I was a freshman, but it must have been when I was a sophomore.

I was still buying lunch at the cafeteria, which exposed me to ridicule. So it couldn't have been any later than when I was a sophomore.

That year, we had a single elective class that was broken up into three parts. Health, Computers and Drivers Ed.

Hold on now, you've got your drivers ed in my computer! No, you've got your computer in my drivers ed!

Yes, this mish-mash curriculum was the peanut-butter and pickle amaglamation that every pregnant woman desires. I was just an unwitting pawn to its power.

Ahh, drivers education... The erstwhile drafting teacher in the "arts" block did double duty. "Blood on the Highway", "Little Miss Rotten Crotch and the Drunken Prom", "Chip the Molesting Tractor Speeder" and "Highschool Beauty Snuff Film" were all part of my experience. Mr. Freaky liked also to tell us stories about how he lost his leg to gangrene. The leg that he walked on every day, the leg that had never been lost to gangrene. I remember two important facts from this class:

1) Don't piss off our "rural" friends. They are as likely to run over your leg with a tractor as wave hello.

2) IPDE. Identify, Predict, Decide, Execute. For example, if you are driving up a hill you should say to yourself "Over the next crest could be a clutch of alien eggs!" We have just Identified a possible issue. "I suppose that as soon as I drive into the clutch, the eggs will all activate, shooting gore and stomach-pulsing aliens to the four winds!" I've just Predicted a possible outcome. "I'm going to die, but I'm going to take out the next mother fucker that flashes me with high-beams!" I've just Decided what I should do, if this scenario unfolds. "YAAAAAAR!!!" This is my war cry and battle-hymn as I steer my car head-on into the next vehicle that happens to be on the same road. We call this "Execution."

Mr. Freaky would be so proud. Somehow, I passed driver's ed.

Computer class was next. I remember next to nothing about it. Apparently I passed this class as well. I'm sure the pot helped. Com-Pooh-ter. Cool.

Next came Health, AKA Horrifying Pictures of STD's.

Young KOM sat in the back row for a reason. His near-sightedness helped with the general diffusion of horrifying images. But the Health Nazi's were not to be dissuaded. The eventually help up 2'x4' posters of the most sickening shit you could imagine. Things that you can't even find on the web (and I've looked, if only to tie some sickening images to the links above).

Well, it was a hot day and we were stuck in a "trailer" classroom with no ventilation and no air. Strangely, the more of the posters that they showed me, the more I felt ill. Finally, the "instructor" noticed that I had turned green, and suggested that I may want to sit outside for a few minutes. I didn't hesitate, and managed not to throw up on the precious pictures on my way past the entire class and to the door.

I immediately collapsed into the grass and stretched, spread eagle, into my new-found nirvana. Birds flew overhead. I could hear the grass rustle.

Later, as I stood in line for a god damned slice of salami pizza, I heard people that I'd never conversed with whispering about my "episode". "No!", I yelled at them, it was hot in the back row! I was green and sweating from the heat, you bastards! It could have happened to anyone!

But it didn't. It happened to me.

On the upshoot, I've never had an STD. That may be much more due to luck than education, but whatever. I still imagine all of those smiling, sneering faces covered in warts, their genitals dripping and burning. And I smile.

MMMmmm. Cheese Zombie. Can I get some tartar sauce with that, Ms. Chlamydia?

Welcome, future drug addict

Fuckerloaf? No, too yeasty.

Pizza Hut? No, I think it's been copyrighted.

Aglio E Olio? I should choose just one.

Struwwelpeter? Too Freddy.

Apple? Oh yeah.

Dildo? Might have to keep that one...

Gruntfart? Sounds like an orc.

Kellogg? Ooh. That's close!

Cornflake? No, getting cool again.

Kettle? Almost there...

Kal-El! Yes! That's it! I'm a fucking genius! I must be, because I'm a Coppola! And 'Apocalypse Now' isn't at all over rated!

Ooh! Ooh! Ooh! Apokolips! The next child may be called Darkseid!

I can't believe I thought about Apple for a minute...

I could blog all night... and I just might

The wifey must have had a long day. She fell asleep shortly after Mr. Man went down. I had expected to watch a Netflix video, perhaps some TV. But without my better half to bounce stupid comments off of, TV really is boring.

Yeah, I know. But I tried that sentence several times trying to keep the preposition from the end of the phrase, and it was much, much more awkward. I mean "off of whom to bounce"? Who talks like that?

So anyway, tonight I'm your late-night host. Kom-vira. Without the boobs.

So let me segue without grace. Right now I want to speak of a matter close to my heart.

This keeps me up at night, and I often find myself thinking about it at the most inopportune times. How embarrassing it is to cry in front of clients. And how do you answer your son when he asks "Daddy, why does it make you cry every night when you stick the barrel of the gun in your mouth?"

Namely, why are there cream-cheese filled jalapeno poppers? What the bloody, bloody Christ is that all about?

"Sir, I'd like a jalapeno popper, but more mild, please."

"We could provide some cooling sauce. Or a glass of milk."

"No, trusty waiter. What I desire is a popper devoid of spice."

"Umm... we could just give you a piece of cheese."

"Hmm. Tasty, but boring. Do you have any more boring 'cheeses'?"

"We carry cream cheese, sir."

"Yuck. Maybe you should put it in a pepper and fry it."

"As you like, sir."

And the rest is just as Satan himself intended it.

Now, I don't claim that cheddar is authentic Mexican, but I'm also pretty sure that a "popper" is also not so authentico. So just put cheddar or jack in the damn thing and shut the fuck up!

Cream, cottage, velveta and "cheese food" are all examples of things that are not cheese. Just like a "Vienna sausage" is not a sausage. Just like a Pepsi is not a Coke.

Oh, God, I'm crying again. How embarrassing.

Bushism IV

Once more, from our "blue-collar" president:



Crawford, Texas; August 23, 2001