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[06 Jul 2011|05:44pm] |
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Compared with other social networking sites ... livejournal feels kind of claustrophobic. The user base seems to be constantly shrinking, and there's a noticable shortage of folks who have anything interesting/original to say (except for you, reader, of course.)
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| The Royal Fuck-License Ceremony |
[29 Apr 2011|11:38am] |
Pay no attention to global suffering, starvation and injustice.
Pay no attention to corrupt governments, horrible disasters and life-threatening pollution and nuclear meltdowns.
Pay no attention to the fact that we're gradually being more dumbed-down, poisoned, enslaved and exploited by the global elite.
Look! Over there! A couple of in-bread royal retards are spending more money on a wedding than the average family earns in twenty years! Now they're officially licensed to have sex with each other and bear even more inbred, over-priveleged, burden-on-society, useless, royal retarded children! Oooh, how romantic! Look at the pagentry, waste and extravegance!
Doesn't that cheer you up? Well gee-whiz, why not? Are you some kind of hater or something?
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[12 Apr 2011|02:11pm] |
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Wow. I haven't even looked at this page for about 3 months now ... but that's obvious, right?
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| Paradise Revisted ... |
[21 Jan 2011|12:02pm] |
Sometimes, we're thrown out of paradise; other times, we leave of our own volition.
Sometimes, after we leave, somebody else takes care of paradise and it stays the way that we remember it.
Other times, paradise is neglected and becomes a campground/toilet for bums and rounders who leave it filled with refuse and scarred by grafitti.
Other times, paradise is paved over and made into a parking lot.
Other times, the river that runs through paradise goes sour, and all of the plants and flowers that made paradise appealing to us whither and die.
But whatever the case, it's always good to know that there are other paradises out there, waiting to be found.
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| I am Truely Bummed Out ... |
[17 Dec 2010|04:08pm] |
Damn! Apparently Captain Beefheart (AKA Don Van Vliet) died from multiple sclerosis today.
Back during the mid 1990s, when the internet was new and wide open and uncontrolled, I stumbled across Don Van Vliet's home phone number. I was gonna give him a call and tell him how much I'd dug his music all these years, but it was a long distance call and I was afraid my wife would get pissed when she saw the phone bill.
I've always regretted not giving him a call when I had the chance, and now I regret it even more.
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| Lunch at the Fast Food Burger Place ... |
[11 Nov 2010|02:58pm] |
I'd rather bring a sack lunch to work and eat in the lunch room while I read a book, but the lunch room has been taken over by a rather outspoken supervisor who talks constantly and makes it very difficult to read, so now, instead of just nuking a burrito in the lunchroom microwave, I've been eating lunch out, constantly searching for a spot that has good cheap food, yet also provides a suitable atmosphere for reading. Today, it was a fast foot burger joint.
There's music in the background. It sounds suspiciously like the dull, oppressive muzak that Nurse Ratchet constantly blasted at the patients in "One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest".
There's a constant influx and outflux of customers, they flow in and out of the burger joint like air flowing in and out of a huge lung.
Some customers are engaged in lively conversation, talking about workorders and procedures, or whether or not the gas station at Costco accepts cash or credit cards.
The employees in the burger joint seem like zombies. Most of them are recent Mexican immigrants, with sad, downcast eyes, who mumble bits of conversation that sounds suspiciously like it comes direct from some burger-joint-corporate-written master script. Things like, "Would you like to make that an extra extra large?" or "Have you tried our fried salads?" or "Next Customer Please."
While I'm eating and reading, I can hear a constant drone of shapeless, formless, tuneless background music, punctuated by the occaisional mumble of "Next Customer Please!"
People eating in groups are engaged in pointless conversations about work. There's always one guy who appears to be some sort of superior or supervisor who leads the conversation, keeping it on the topic of upcoming programs, and quickly squelching any complaints, questions or rumbles of disatisfaction.
People eating by themselves eye each other nervously while simultaneously trying not to see each other, fumbling with napkins or taking conspicuous, care about the way that they dip their french fries in catsup. Other solo diners look out the window or fiddle with their cell phones (Haven't any of these fools figured out the trick of bringing a book along with them to hide behind?)
When ten minutes to one PM rolls around, there's a sudden dive for the exits. People are almost trampling over each other to be the first one to the parking lot, the first one to their cars, the first one out the driveway.
Soon, the burger joint is quiet, and the only sound is the cashiers' now infrequent mumblings of "Next Customer Please" and the droning 101 Strings muzak in the background.
Damn, suburbia is an ugly place.
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| Logic and Proportion: Fallen Sloppy Dead ... |
[11 Nov 2010|11:33am] |
I've always wished that I knew somebody named "Alice," so I could ask her when she's ten feet tall.
I figure that a ten foot tall woman named Alice would be pretty darned interesting, but first you'd have to know exactly when she was ten feet tall, so you could time your questions just right.
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| Nut Meg |
[07 Oct 2010|10:25am] |
Q: What kind of person spends $200 Million of their own money, to try and win election to the California Governor's seat; a position that pays about $200 Thousand a year?
A: A MEG-lo-maniac.
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| "Once the Ad Ends You'll Be Returned to Your Live Journal Experience" |
[17 Sep 2010|10:52am] |
Translation:
"At this point you can either:
a) Stay at Live Journal and wait for this annoying ad to download and run, or
b) Go to another social media site that doesn't try to force you to watch video ads."
... I'm choosing option "b" more and more these days.
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| Hmmm ... |
[27 Aug 2010|03:02pm] |
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Live Journal seems pretty dead these days, eh?
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| Safe as Milk |
[28 Jul 2010|03:25pm] |
Well my cigarette died when I washed my face
Dropped some dots in an ashtray in a wrong place
Woman at my blinds to see spiders spinning lines
It's as safe as milk
It's as safe as milk
I never heard it put quite that way
The shape I'm in is a gone a way
They called a day they called a day
Yesterday's paper headlines approach rain gutter teasing rusty cat sneezing
Soppin wet hammer dusty and wheezing
Lusty alley whining trashcan blues
Children running after rainbows stocking poor
Gracious ladies nylon hanging on to line
Jumping onto leg looking mighty fine
Sorrows lollipop lands stick-broken on a dark carnival ground
Pop up toaster cracklin
Aluminium rhythm and sound
Ev'ry day pencil lazy and sharp
The icebox inside looking like a harp
E-lectric bulb been out for years
Freezer fumes feed the gas tears
Cheese in the corner with a mile long beard
Bacon blue bread dog eared
Bacon blue bread dog eared
I may be hungry but I sure ain't weird
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| Very Strange, Very Vivid Dream ... |
[08 Jul 2010|11:47am] |
I'm going through another one of those periods where I'm having lots of weird, surreal dreams again lately. This one was actually kind of horrifying.
Last night, I dreamed that I was some sort of Animal Control worker or dog catcher, and I was part of a team of dog catchers who were trying to capture this out-of-control human/gorilla-hybird being that was running amok in a huge shopping mall. In the beginning of the dream, we were chasing the human/gorilla hybrid through the mall, but we weren't able to catch up with it; every time we got to where the human/gorilla was supposed to be, we'd just missed it by a few minutes.
When we finally did catch up with the human/gorilla, it didn't look like a gorilla at all. Instead, it was a huge naked woman; she was about eight feet tall, slightly overweight, blonde, kind of ugly, she spoke English ... and she was scarey as fuck-all. The first time we encountered the human/gorilla/giant-naked-woman, she immediately ran directly at us at horrendous speed. We were barely able to get through a door and lock it before hearing her violently throw her weight against the door, buckling the door and almost breaking through.
The next time we encountered the human/gorilla/giant-naked-woman, she caught one of my fellow dog catchers, picked him up like a toy, ripped one of his arms off, and started chewing on it while the armless co-worker screamed in agony and spouted blood like a fountain.
Next, we tried a series of tricks to try to scare the human/gorilla/giant-naked-woman into various traps. I can't remember all of the details, but one of these tricks/traps involved playing a loud recording of Ringo Starr singing, which for some odd reason, caused the human/gorilla/giant-naked-woman to cover her ears, and scream in agony while beating a quick retreat.
Nothing was working though; the human/gorilla/giant-naked-woman was just too quick and too smart for us. After several more attempts at catching her, she ended up killing another one of my fellow dog catchers while we tried to trap her.
I can't remember how the dream ended, but later on, a "scientist" told us that if we were trapped or cornered by the human/gorilla/giant-naked-woman, we should offer to have sex with her and she would then spare our lives. I'd love to hear how a psychoanalyst would interpret that one.
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| People on the East Coast are Pussies ... |
[07 Jul 2010|10:37am] |
This morning, I was watching the news while I ate breakfast before going to work. As I scanned around the dial, hopping from news station to news station, I noticed that the big story of the day seemed to be the "heat wave" that's hit the east coast of the US.
There was a story about West Point Cadets fainting because of the heat, another story about an old woman who was actually killed by the heat, and then a video montage of people in the east playing in opened fire hydrants, holding ice packs to their foreheads and gulping down tall, icy drinks while sweating profusely.
The panicky fashion model/newscaster was at wits end, confused as to how to behave in this "hot" weather, "Why is it that those cadets fainted in the heat, yet I still see people out on the streets jogging in the hot weather? ... Is this wise? Can't we hurt ourselves by exercising in the heat?"
"Wow," I thought, "It must be really, really, unusually hot back east right now; the way these people are talking, it sounds like it must at least be up to about 114 degrees or so ..." But no, that wasn't it at all; the news reported "temperatures as high as 103 degrees!!!"
103 degrees? And these pansy-assed New Yorkers are griping like its the end of the world? Damn, what a bunch of sissies, it gets up to about 103 about every other year in California; usually, in late September or early October, yet these nancy-boy New Yawkers can't handle a mere 103? I've been stuck on a freeway in Phoenix, AZ in 115 degree heat; those 103 degree temperatures that are making the east coasters moan and cry would have felt like a cool breeze of relief by comparison.
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| Pardon My Shallowness ... |
[06 Jul 2010|02:17pm] |
I've got a degree in fine art. I work in what could loosely be called "the field of art". I've spent many hours in museums looking at great art and trying to understand it (sometimes, successfully.) I've seen examples of Frida Kahlo's art in person; it wasn't exactly my cup of proverbial tea, but her sense of color and line still impressed me.
But that said, when I see a picture of Frida Kahlo, the first thing that crosses my mind is not "Art." When I see a picture of Frida Kahlo, the first thing that crosses my mind is, "JESUS M. CROW LADY! DON'T YOU OWN A PAIR OF TWEEZERS?"
I realize that one could call this kind of reaction, "Shallow" ... but I aslo think that one could call this kind of reaction, "Honest."
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| I've Got an Excuse to Be Lazy ... |
[01 Jul 2010|03:32pm] |
How long does it take a broken toe to heal anyway?
About a six weeks ago, I broke my little toe during a round of drunken dish washing. I wasn't washing the dishes with my feet or anything, I just turned a little bit too quickly while rushing dirty dishes from table to sink after soaking up a few brews on a weekend afternoon.
It turned purple and hurt like hell at first, but I've broken my little toe at least three times before, so I knew it was no big deal; not even worth a trip to the doctor. So having learned from past experience, I just taped the broken little toe to the toe next door and went on my merry way.
But here I am, six weeks later, and I'm still obsessively taping my toes together before I put on my shoes every morning. The little toe still hurts a bit, but realistically, I could probably go without the tape and feel just fine (as long as I didn't decide to play soccer or something.)
I think the toe has pretty much healed, but I'm afraid that on a semi-subconcious level, I'm still using the toe as an excuse to curtail my walking/hiking activities and clinging to the toe taping routine in a crazy attempt to avoid the exercise that I should be getting.
My obsession with stuff like this seems to get worse and worse as I get older. I know the toe is basically healed, yet I still tape it, just out of force of habit and a lingering fear that I might break it again if I start running around without the tape on it. I know it's stupid and compulsive, yet I still can't seem to leave the house without taping my toe first.
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| My Daughter Graduates from High School Today ... |
[23 Jun 2010|09:40am] |
Damn, this makes me feel old; it seems like just the other day we were pushing my daughter around in a baby carriage and getting used to being new parents, but here she is already, 18-years-old and graduating from High School.
It's kind of a bittersweet thing; on one hand, I'm happy that she's done well in school and excited that she's moving on to adulthood ... but on the other hand, it's sad to know that my little pumpkin will be going out into the big bad world on her own soon, and that in a couple of four years or so, we'll probably only see her when she comes to visit.
That's the tough thing about having kids; you want them to grow up and be independant, but by the time that they do, you're so used to being able to hold them and protect them, that it's kind of hard to let go.
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| Trauma in Suburbia ... |
[22 Jun 2010|09:59am] |
Last night, my wife was talking to one of her friends from her "Japanese Mom's Club", and it turns out that my wife's friend just found out that her husband had run up $30,000 worth of debt on credit cards, without telling his wife about it.
Apparently, the husband had been forced to change jobs a couple of years ago, but his new job paid significantly less than his former job. So the husband had kept his new salary secret from his wife, and covered up the reduction in income by continuing to live their former lifestyle, completely financed by credit cards.
For two years, they'd maintained the facade of the "South Orange County Lifestyle"; they'd driven expensive cars that they couldn't really afford, wore expensive clothes that they couldn't really afford, ate at expensive restaurants that they couldn't really afford and taken expensive vacations that they couldn't really afford. But they hadn't been able to keep up with the credit card payments, the late notices from the banks had started to show up, and that's how my wife's friend had discovered that her husband had run up the $30K debt.
They'd basically spent themselves into a hole in a vain effort to "keep up with the Jonses" and fit in with the phoney, show-offy, pretentious lifestyle that characterizes cities like Irvine, Mission Viejo, Rancho Santa Margarita and Ladera Ranch. So now, they're faced with the prospect of possibly losing their home, and having their neighbors finally see what was really going on behind the false front of Mercedes and Ralph Lauren. The wife is frantic, the husband is catatonic, and it appears that they have no way out.
The really sad thing is that this isn't the first time I've heard this story. It happens again and again in South Orange County, mostly to those poor, pitiful folks who can't tell the difference between the dream lifestyle that's shown to them on TV, and the reality of their paychecks and bills.
There's a whole lot to be said for living humbly and within one's means, regardless of the upturned noses and condescending sneers of one's neighbors. A smug feeling of superiority and satisfaction won't keep the rain off your head or food in your kids' stomaches.
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| At the Cougar Bar ... |
[16 Jun 2010|10:23am] |
Last weekend, my family decided that we should go out to dinner. We don't dine out very often, but in spite of that we decided that we were kind of tired of the restaurants that we'd frequented in the past, and that it was time to try something new and different, and eat somewhere where we'd never dined before.
So I fired up google maps, and started looking for unfamiliar nearby restaurants. After checking out a couple of places and reading online reviews, we settled on a place called "Beachfire Bar & Grill"; it was basically standard grill food, but from looking at their menu online, it appeared that they gave their grill food kind of an unusal twist (e.g., an Ahi taco that actually had sea weed on it too.)
The reviews for Beachfire were both negative and positive, but we were impressed with the menu and prices so we thought we'd check it out. However, one thing that I noticed in the online restaurant reviews kind of puzzled me. Out of about 20 user comments, three of them joked about the fact that the place was a "cougar bar", generally stating that you should stay away from the bar itself unless you want your dick grabbed by some oversexed old woman.
The restaurant seemed nice enough when we got there. The architecture was typically southern California; it was located in a huge "fake house", which was actually a standard commercial building that had been camoflaged to look like a large, old fashioned, plantation-style home, with a huge veranda running around the outside of the building. The food was great, but the waiters were kind of creepy; a bunch of 20-something bar-crawler types who all seemed like they must spend their off-work hours trying to break into show biz. Our waiter looked like he was trying as hard as he could to be Steve Buscemi ... but couldn't quite make it.
It turned out that the "cougar bar" thing was for real though. Both the bar and restaurant area were jammed with small packs of 30ish/40ish Orange County housewives; dressed to the nines, laughing way too loudly, and staring hungrily at everyone in the place who had a penis. Most of them seemed to travel in gangs of three or four, although there were also a few, solitary over-dressed, middle-aged women hanging out in the bar too.
Most of the single guys in the restaurant were "gyrene types", with buzzcut hair and bulging biceps that looked like they must take a lot of gym time to maintain.
It was a truely surreal thing to see; I thought stuff like that only happened on TV.
I probably shouldn't laugh, because after all, these frustrated divorcees were just trying to fulfill their natural urges and all, but the irony of the place was almost overwhelming. Even with my family sitting right at the table with me; if one of the "cougars" caught me even giving them a cursory glance, their faces would light up like they just won the Nobel Peace prize.
The thing that I was most tempted to laugh at though, were the guys who showed up to be slobbered over by the cougars. I kept thinking, "I bet that when those buffed-out musclemen were in the gym, doing curl after curl to beef up their biceps, they probably imagined themselves scoring with some sweet, young, 21-year-old sex kitten ... I wonder how many disappointments it took before they threw the towel in, and decided that the 21-year-old-sex-kitten-thing wasn't going to happen, and resigned to the fact that their only hope was to trawl the cougar bar and then wake up the next morning beside a 45-year-old, bleach-blonde divorcee, with her carefully coifed hair now rumpled and her make-up all smeared off from a night of desparate porking, and kids in the next room screaming for breakfast?"
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| Cool John Steinbeck Quote ... |
[10 Jun 2010|01:33pm] |
"No man really knows about other human beings.
The best he can do is to suppose that they are like himself."
(From "The Winter of Our Discontent")
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