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loose lips sink ships
i was hoping you would forget.
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the call...
so, i got another one of those calls today. the ones that simultaneously make you feel sick and vulnerable and helpless. friend. accident. hospital. surgery.
...and then you hear more details, and the anger comes. it washes over you. clinched fists with butterfly belly. such a stupid accident. so common. so deadly. so fucking preventable.
ugh. team z. rider down.
don't worry k, we will build you stronger and faster than before.
( and all you other kids... take an extra second and look to the left again, ok? )
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remember, remember...
just a bit of wood, screws, and some polyurethane molded wheels: considered abstractly, the skateboard is a crude device in many regards.
today, one leans against the orange wall of my office--static, stationary--a dusty plank that shudders with raw potential energy. it torments me. i haven't made it 10 minutes today without casting nervous glances at its supine, taunting form.
"i dare you. i fucking dare you."
it's here. the 14th of march. the one year anniversary of the great fall. the first step towards jack's titanium future. the cancellation of an entire year's vacations. the perscription for 6 months of surgical procedures and physical therapy... and the lasting explanation for my continued inability to soundly sleep on my right side.
it's been a year. today. now.
after work, i'll pick up that skate, walk out of my house, and towards the mountain. i will walk past the place where i tumbled, walk all the way to the top. i admit: after this, i may never touch a deck again... still, that's a discussion for tomorrow. today i have to do it. just to show that i can. that i'm not afraid.
...but i am.
deep in my stomach, i am. screw butterflies. pansy fragile things; (besides, their wings break too easy). right now, my gut, my mothra. we're talking terror. oppression. violence.
it is this fear, of course, that is precisely why i must do this. a sublime paradox. i concede: in logic problems, there is no less satisfying stance than a circular argument. simultaneously, there is no other answer to this problem. no doubt, i will contemplate these weaknesses as i walk. it's a long way to the top. i will contemplate a lot of things.
anyway. what's the worst that could happen?
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the fastest indian
last night i rode my ss180 down to a neighborhood theater that was hosting a pre-screening of the world's fastest indian—a fund raiser for a local moto club's run at a land-speed record on a cb160 platform. although my earlier attempts to procure tickets for the sold-out show had failed, i chose to ride down anyway, show some support, maybe say hi to some friends...
city bikes, super bikes, sport tourers, dual sports, a spattering of scooters. lots of *different* people, all out on two wheels. "hi jack," tommy says, "nice to see you crawled out from under your rock." i raise my glass, roll my eyes. yeah, yeah, yeah; i've been busy...
one of the club members hooks me up with tickets from their private-sale reserve; i call the kids, skin my gear, and I'm in.
ok ok ok. i'll admit, sitting down, i did not have high expectations of this film: it's the sort of project that can float on the weight of it's star and subject alone. but, damn, was i surprised. although i cannot say that i'm unbiased—i wear a predisposition to moto enthusiasm on my bug-splattered sleeve—i believe this is probably the best film that i've seen in a year, even for normal people, even for the neighbors....
i found i actually cared about the character(s), which says something. seriously; i have about as much compassion for the human condition as an unattended garbage disposal. the film never took itself too seriously, never felt too "in your face" about anything. i thought it simply an artfully understated compliment to burt himself...
a simple man with an improbable dream.
some trailers (in HD) available here:
http://www.apple.com/trailers/magnolia/theworldsfastestindian/
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parkour. for kids who can't ollie
by now everybody has surely discovered the raw, random, (and free!) source of entertainment that is video.google.com. personally, it has evolved into an unofficial daily metric: at least one search a day based on a keyword or phrase that comes up in casual conversation. today's root was "the angry french," which ultimately lead me to videos on parkour...
parkour, which is really just a fancy french name for freestyle walking, has gotten a lot of press lately for being the hip new thing. whatever. i remember covering my zips in duct tape, and doing this on military bases way back in 83. (usually whilst being chased by somebody official looking).
anyway, i ended up on this video. afterwards, i can't help but to think to myself....
"what the hell is with kids today?"
i mean, damnit. skateboards don't cost thaaat much! get a paper route. steal the skinny kid's lunch money. fence candy lifted from the 7-11... just show some freaking initiative! sheesh.
then again, maybe they can afford it. some of those guys are sporting some pretty bling kicks. maybe the answer is that they just don't have the discipline, the patience, to pass skater 101: the ollie. it's ok, really, not everybody can—back in my day, those kids were called rollerbladers.
we had a cool, french sounding name for them too. "poseur"
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digerati discovers analog booty alarm
a sombering tale of cohabitation direct from a flat in leeds via the ap newswire:
Leeds, England -- A computer programmer found out his girlfriend was having an affair when his pet parrot kept repeating her lover's name, British media reported tuesday.
( continue reading at cnn.com. )
sqwaaaaaaauuuk. "i love you gary."
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macbook-ho!
holy crap. it's here! (...and so much sooner than expected.) the precioussss!
http://www.apple.com/macbookpro/
sweet damn am i pink-poor. as desperate as i am for a new portable mac, i really can't afford to be bleeding edge these days. suppose i can only hope that i'll have enough spare change by the time generation 2 is announced.
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i am the 1 in 10
macworld sf 2006 starts today. this is the first macworld that i've missed since an enlightened uncle first lured me to moscone, way back in 96. the first in a decade. ( putting aside the almost-more-depressing fact that I am now able to measure life increments in decades, the washed up mac fan in me is more than bummed to be missing this event ).
quick fix: text updates of the apple keynote are available from the macrumors site.
anyone want to make bets based upon the veracity of mac-plasma rumors?
---- update : 2006-01-10 14:27 ----
apple has now posted a polished version of the keynote address on their site.
gone are the spontaneous days of "live" webcasts. go intel. go corporate.
first hour is pretty boring. after that they start introducing hardware. yummy.
http://macworld.apple.com.edgesuite.net/mw/index.html
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government standards
today, i received a compensation check from multnomah county for my recent tenure on jury, a financial note which graciously includes "mileage expenses," as calculated for the travel distance between my recorded address and the courthouse.
the face value is $2.00.
if this paltry sum accurately reflects the standard compensation policy for county employees, i will no longer wonder why they sound so disspassionate on the phone, or so indifferent at the dmv.
$2.00? really, why bother? surely, the expenses accrued in paying someone to document my presence, calculate that total, request the check, print the check, and post the check is a far greater sum. then again, maybe i paid for all that, and the remainder is the value of the check. maybe i'm lucky for not having to pay them for the pleasure of being on jury?
anyway.. it's quitting time now, and i'm craving a beer and a taco.
guess i better choose.
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psycho killer dolphins stalk human targets with govt. issue stunguns
yet another example of how truth can be stranger than fiction:
"It may be the oddest tale to emerge from the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina. Armed dolphins, trained by the US military to shoot terrorists and pinpoint spies underwater, may be missing in the Gulf of Mexico. Experts who have studied the US navy's cetacean training exercises claim the 36 mammals could be carrying 'toxic dart' guns. Divers and surfers risk attack, they claim, from a species considered to be among the planet's smartest."
full article is available here.
an educated reader might note that the domestic media silence on this matter underscores the true danger of this situation: a demonstrably intelligent faction of militants, trained by our government and highly motivated for revenge has been let loose on the public.
"revenge," you might ask, "isn't that a little over the top?"
hell no.
imagine being abducted from your natural environment by a faceless government agency, surgically violated as they placed current-inducting electrodes under your skin, and retained indefinately without representation in the nasty, stank-ass pond water near 'nawlins?
shit yeah! you'd be pissed as hell and out for some stun gun revenge yourself.
one might argue that this could explain the unusually high body count in new orleans. i mean, how else can you explain thousands of people standing on their roofs in 100+ degree heat, with all that fine water available to go swimming in? honestly. i used to live in the area... i remember DREAMING about having a pool in my backyard.
gun shots? man, people were just trying to defend themselves from government trained undersea monsters with freaking stun guns on their heads!
this is why bush did his first visit from the walnut-paneled safety of AF1. this is why even the military was "slow" to respond. they have seen the intelligence reports, they knew the awesome power of pyscho killer dolphins with stun guns!
of course, this revolution—like so many others before it—will not be televised. clearly, the man is already at work, covering his tracks, and subverting the facts...
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wifi refugee pt.2
after roughly 60 minutes of joy-division assisted caffeine buzz, the usually reliable stumptown turned on some ROCK! that sounded more like speed-metal blasted on a blown mono-speaker-tapedeck placed at the bottom of a glass aquarium filled with nails. or something like that. ouch.
packing my belongings, i set off again, only to end up a few blocks away at tiny's cafe. comfortable chairs, free wifi, and the ability to serve both coffee and sandwiches: surely, this is the perfect mid-day stop?
of course, it's never that easy.
the servers are cute, but this wifi bounces more than my old buick. what a tease. after an infuriating hour of on-again off-again signal, i jump to an obscure open network that appears to be coming from the taqueria next door.
yes. i am now TYPING on a MEXICAN RADIO.
--------[ edit: september 23, 2005 - 15:11 ]----------
ok, so maybe that doesn't have the resonance of a well executed pop reference that i thought it would. what can i say, i'm out of my element...
not a problem, really, as the aformentioned cute barista is now giving me that "it's daylight now and the wine has worn off and why the hell are you still here" look.
guess it's time to move again.
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wifi refugee
somewhere in the ether between the old house, and the new house, lies my thus-far-neglected dsl migration request. ( so much for planning ahead ).
as the resulting lack of connectivity complicates my ability to work, i have little choice but toss the laptop in my bag, and take to the streets: the modern wifi refugee.
not unexpectedly, asphalt tides have dutifully carried me to the welcoming doorstep of stumptown: a double macchiato is just the way to start the tour.
let's hear it for the love-hate duality of a sincere caffeine addiction.
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i do not need a moped. i want a moped
i have a dirty secret. not dirty, really, but embarassing. it's just not the sort of thing that proper people talk about in public. especially not a scooterist. or motorcyclist. or whatever i am these days...
you see, for the last several years, i have been secretly aspiring to find the perfect moped. i have scavenged garage sales, newspapers, craigslist. i have seen hundreds, test pedaled a dozen, even almost offered on two, yet through all this time, i have refrained.
i'm looking for the perfect moped.
the problem is, i just can't put my finger on what that is. sometimes i think it's a model just like the one i had when i was in italy. sometimes i think a modern one might be cool... but forget all that crap: today, it's all about 80's bmx-style. white mag wheels and block graphics.
why, pray tell, am i admitting this now? i found one on craigslist. it is cheap. i am going to look at it lunch.
i do not need a moped. i really, really, really, do not need a moped.
really.
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canadian subversion
today was the first day of PT after last week's surgery. frustrated with the slow recovery progress—it's almost been four months since the original injury—i encouraged my therapist to guide me into an agressive therapy regimen...
thinking to myself: no pain, no gain, right?
who could have ever guessed such a slight, passive looking, canadian woman could cause that much pain.
[ shakes advil bottle for cinematic effect ]
now, where did i put my bag of frozen peas?
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waiting for the sun
so, a few months back, my very tiny tech company officially announced its anticipation of being swallowed by a very large tech company. this news represents the long-overdue end of an era, and has everyone shifting in their seats with the promise of change.
in the weeks that followed, we were asked to classify our job responsibilities, provide updated CV's, and attempt to carry on business as usual—much despite the foreboding knowledge that not all of our pack will make it to the next pasture.
(the astute reader will note that I've refrained from calling the aforementioned pasture green. i'm still not sure which path is ideal. should historical precedence hold true, i probably won't know till long after it's too late.)
today, monday, is the long anticipated "offer day." o-day. the day we are scheduled to receive letters of intent from our new employer. in the information vacuum, i imagine them to be hand-delivered, wrapped in unnecessarily large, scented, red paper envelopes. full-time positions, transitions, or the two week notice. reciprocally: pink tickets, blue tickets, golden tickets.
as mark renton said: "there are final hits, and there are final hits—but which was this to be?"
to distract from the weight of this wait, jack turns to itunes, and the apathetic therapy of pop indifference. instead, he stumbles upon the following gem: a song that has clearly lied dormant for decades, waiting just for this moment.
"Waiting for the Sun," by The Doors
At first flash of Eden
We race down to the sea
Standing there on freedom's shoreWaiting for the sun
Waiting for the sun
Waiting for the sunCan you feel it
Now that Spring has come
That it's time to live in the scattered sunWaiting for the sun
Waiting for the sun
Waiting for the sun.
Waiting for the sun
Waiting,, waiting,, waiting,, waiting, waiting,, waiting,, waiting,, waitingWaiting for you to come along
Waiting for you to hear my song
Waiting for you to come along
Waiting for you to tell me what went wrongThis is the strangest life I've ever known
[scream]Can you feel it
Now that Spring has come
That it's time to live in the scattered sun.Waiting for the sun
Waiting for the sun
Waiting for the sun
Waiting for the sun
if anything, one might argue that it lends immense credibility to the argument of prescience through hallucinogens.
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the drugs don't work
Main Entry: ti·ta·ni·um
Pronunciation: tI-'tA-nE-&m, t&- also -'ta-nE-&m, -'tan-y&m
Function: noun
Etymology: New Latin, from Greek Titan
: a silvery gray light strong metallic element found combined in ilmenite and rutile and used especially in alloys (as steel) and combined in refractory materials and in coatings.
well, the surgery seems to have gone pretty well: i woke up with no pants, and less hardware than originally expected. of course, i don't remember much past singing modern english to myself wearing the funny smelling mask, but they assure me it was a good time.
i suspect i would have enjoyed iceland more.
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osteo-metallurgy is the new black, right?
sprawled on my back, i watch through the slivers of semi-closed blinds as the first fingers of dawn snake across an upside down sky. normally, the sleepless begrudge a new day's arrival: it serves notice to hours forever lost in the futility of the exercise, and a grim reminder that yet another day, as unforgiving as the last, is now upon you.
this morning, however, i am not sure what to feel.
it seems to me that is always like this, that days such as these arrive. quiet mornings nuanced only by a heightened self awareness.
this dawn: orange skies, gray clouds. just like yesterday, just like tomorrow. in this way, it drips of syrupy literary banality. yet, even as i lie here, bored with another postcard perfect sunrise, i consider how the events of today have the potential to alter all following days that i might know.
this moment, these breaths, are how i will always remember my last dawn as a fully organic; a hazy morning spent speculating what it would've been like in iceland.
today, i become the machine. i wish i would have gone to reykjavik instead.
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scam #102 - good times behind enemy lines
despite yesterday's success, i almost chickened out.
deep into my lunch hour, far corner of the carpark, engine idling: there's an usually good cover of ceremony on the radio, and i'm staring at the faceless shuffle trying to remember the artist. i'm stalling. no, i'm pacing. i'm in a shadow.
18 stories of hospital, block the sun, tower overhead. i can do this. pull the key, open door, straighten shirt. i can do this.
..........
in the lobby of the main building, it's open, yet crowded. 15 feet to the right, a corridor of elevators, top button already glowing. just as i reach it, the doors glide open, and the car is half full. a few squeeze past me, step inside. hesitating again, i wave them on.
the doors close, the button goes dark. i can do this. as i reach forward to push it again, i speculate on the number of sicko, germ-infected people have pressed this in the last hour; returning my hand to my side, i wipe it discretely on my pants. ewwww.
flicker. flicker. a power surge, a brown-out, it doesn't last but a second.
now, resonating in the hollowness before me, i can hear alarms. each tone shift reflects the respective car's relative distance from my floor; a chaotic kaleidoscope of tinny metallic noise as i stare at my own reflection in polished brass doors. smiling.
that, was close.
i turn on my heel, head for the stairs. up up up. with even landings, the alarms grow louder, only to fade again in the odds. at floor 10, i spill out into a wide open hallway, and fall in step behind some doctors walking just a few feet in front of me. dumb luck!
there are signs above, and on the walls. radiology: C wing. we continue straight ahead. now to the left. i slow as one member of the group waves his badge over the wall mounted reader, then doubletime to catch the opaque glass door, just before it latches. 20 feet beyond, the image library desk.
smiling, (beaming), i hand the receptionist a carefully prepared 3x5 index card containing my name, my hospital ID, and my birthdate: "the attendent last night was to set aside some image media for this patient?"
she takes the card, scans it briefly, looks up at me, smiles. "sure, just one second." shuffling through a poster-tray filebox mounted to the wall behind her desk, she selects a small manilla envelope and turns to hand it to me. "we also included hard copy reports of the physician's image evaluations for the post-op review on april 19."
"excellent, those will be very helpful. thank you."
i'm already half way out. through the door, to the stairs. the alarms have stopped now, but i'm not taking any chances.
...........
[ some time later ]
i must admit, it took a little work to find a utility which could read files in DICOM image format, but once opened, it was pretty straightforward to convert them to another web ready format. [ wanna see? ]
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scam #101 - jack vs. the medical bureaucracy
it has not taken long to discover that the only thing that is more frustrating than the recovery time of this injury, is the absolute futility of ever reaching a live medical professional to ask about it.
...be it prescriptions, appointments, or god forbid, pre-surgical medical questions solicited of a doctor: each manic, information-hungry, stab into the bureaucracy of the hospital system results in a recursive loop of phone menus offering a suite of options that don't match the request. ultimately, most of these questions end up in a generic phone box, and lie dormant for days, sometimes weeks, until (or if) a response is made.
absolute fucking insanity. we are not calling an erosion control hotline. we are calling a medical office. the requested information is necessary, pertinent, and above all things, time-sensitive.
it is 9:16 a.m, and i am stalled on yet another hold queue—involuntarily tapping my foot to a madonna song considered so risque as to be banned from radio only a decade ago—and i'm just waiting for the two-tone-beep which indicates i have been timed-out, and unceremoniously dumped into a dusty voice mailbox. tapping my foot, looking at my system clock, and just counding the seconds; "there has got to be another way."
ctrl-t, ctrl-l, www.google.com, [enter]
30 minutes later, i've found a free utility for spoofing a CLID (Caller ID), and the and the exit key sequence necessary to drop out of the proprietary(1) voice menu system employed by their office.
requisite tools in place, i move on to collect environmental data: a few focused search strings on the health system's website, i've found the intended internal department name of my query, the location of their office, and what seems like a unsuspicious call center #.
...and now, now i'm ready...
...........
i enter the code; three clicks, in rapid succession. probably call routing switches... and it's ringing.
sure enough, sporting my new in-system ID, the internal operator doesn't even blink when i ask to be forwarded to the "medical records library." two rings later—fuck me—a human answers the phone...
"yes, i'd like to request a copy of patient XXXX's x-rays, as documented on the dates D1, D2, and D3.""would you like film duplicates, or is digital media all right?"
"digital is acceptable. probably save you some trouble too."
"yes, they sure do. we can have those ready for you in an hour, sir. would you like to mail them to your department, or..."
crap. i didn't think about this. intercepting mail is illegal, and i'm not out to break the law. "i'd rather finish this patient report tonite: may i pick them up in person? you're on the 10th floor, correct?"
"yes sir."
"brilliant. i'll be by this afternoon. do i ask for you by name, or?"
"they will be waiting for you at the front desk. you will need to tell them the patient name and ID."
"execellent. thanks so much for your time."
[ click ]
..........
an hour! now, that's what i call service.
time for phase 2: the social hack. look the part, acquire the media. a friend suggested that i don a lab coat, but i think that would be too much, too obvious... i'm thinking a slightly ruffled blue button down oxford, some chinos, and maybe that old beeper will be just about right.
use $STD_LIB/eddie_haskel; sweet_talk ();
[1] (this pearl of information came up during an informal conversation with a chatty receptionst during my last office visit: we were innocently commiserating about flakey corporate phone systems, and she mentioned their recent roll-out.)
today, i discover that many of the commercial vendors of these systems provide readily available documentation for deploying and testing the call routing software. amazing what happens when you rtfm. )
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fear is the path to the dark side
perhaps a tragic indictment of my own feigned optimism... but one must consider the possible perk(s) of scheduling a somewhat invasive surgery on may 23rd in lieu of the 13th.
the possibility of personal expiration—however remote—due to complications of the procedure is somewhat more acceptable so long as it were to happen after may 19th.
i mean, can one define a more fundamental case of unfinished business...?
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freaky friday
today, after weaks of teeth-grinding anticipation, i finally received the scheduling call from the hospital's surgical department, regarding the target date for installation of my new "functional upgrades."
a distant, well enunciated, though slightly accented (slavic) voice on line suggests that 5/23 is the earliest date they can fit me in:
"though, i believe we maybe have cancellation on 13th may. would you be interested in that, if available?"
sure. please. anytime. as soon as possible. call me. i want to get it over with. i am desperately ready. to. move. on.
so, i hang up, open my calendar to pencil it in... 5/13. friday. friday the thirteenth. no wonder they think they'll have a damn cancelation. (rolls eyes)
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cyberpunk shopping @ amazon.com
|
i'm not sure if shopping online for new titanium body hardware would be classified as punk rock, (or) cyber-punk. i mean... imagine a future where you can order MODS online the way you might do it for your car? –turns out, that future is here. anyway. to the left, you can see a promotional photograph of the accumed's ® titanium congruent clavical plate: it's almost pretty cool... so long as one can sufficiently abstract the process of actually implanting it. |
too bad for me that it doesn't come in adamantium. ... some wolverine-style healing skills might get me to iceland on time.
update: 2005-04-27 16:01
hasty research suggests that accumed's ® manufacturing facilities are based only a few minutes away from my house; i wonder if they accept comissions or custom work?
if you want to learn more—or are interested in performing this sweet body mod at home—check out the installation guide: (graphic photo warning)
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new friends--
EOD update:
1. new friends++
2. playing god
either seeking adventure or a prompt conclusion to his captivity, middle-fish martyred himself by jumping out of bowl, off shelf, and onto hostile keyboards below. perhaps it was the fall, or the time it took to retrieve him from between the f4 and f5 keys; he simply didn't work so good when returned to bowl.
flush.
big fish lasted two hours longer: mild stability problems (drunken sailing?) progressed to the point he eventually began to float cartoonishly belly-up. biting my lip, i watched him sway with the water level to the rhythm of my typing.
flush.
small, previously backwards-swimming fish, now swims mostly forward in recently vacated bowl with fresh oxygenated water.
it's been a hard day for goldfish.
---------------------------------------------------------------
update [february 17, 2005 - 9:20 AM]
---------------------------------------------------------------
small fish has survived the night.
appears to be very healthy today.
i have named him julius.
because he is orange.
duh.
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playing god
...a followup to (new friends)
all three goldies survived the night, but one—the smallest—is currently swimming backwards. i'm no icthyologist, but this can't possibly be a good omen.
fueled with good intentions, i dedicated my lunch hour to the location and procurement of the largest gold fish / beta bowl available from the fish market down the street. only now, after researching goldies in further detail online, is it clear that even this vessel is far too small for the three of them.
thus hoping to ensure the best possible chances for survival of the desktop goldie population, i have chosen to transplant the two healthy, (i.e. forward swimming), fishes to the new bowl. the smallest guy continues to swim backwards in his original vase.
though this entertains the cats immensely, i can't help feeling like a heartless jerk.
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new friends++
for tonight's failed attempt at coaxing her relatively stubborn python into eating, the girl purchased some feeder goldfish on the way home from work. —it is my understanding that one of her snake charmin' pals suggested that her own snakes liked to 'slurp them down' when they weren't in the mood for de mices.
though vinnie, (the snake), was clearly entertained by the goldie in his water bowl, i can't say he appeared even the slightest bit tempted by this savory treat. one can only imagine that after ten years of associating small furry mammals as "food," seeing the same quality in an immersed swimming fish would require a decisive cognitive jump.
thus bewildered about how best to handle her 3, suddenly spare feeder-fish, a rapid negotiation ensued; i am now the keeper of three new desktop friends. :D
unfortunately, i have no goldie bowls readily at my disposal... so they'll have to spend the night in vases. hope they do ok until better arrangements can be made tomorrow.
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constant stone, variable cape.
another accidental tradition: housemates depart early on saturday morning, laughing under their breath at my unwaivering devotion to the ritual of first run weekend cartoons. "why do you always wake up so early to watch this crap?"
i am usually mid-spoonful when they ask this, and routinely half hiccup, half cough, rice crispies onto my t-shirt. "... because it's one of the few joys left."
some days, i feel ridiculous for it. like a sad old man refusing to let go of his youth and perennially stumbling around in denial.
most of the time, i have to admit, i'm guilty of glazing over, stepping blindly with precedence: there really is a lot of crap out there. (yu-gi-doh!). other times—times like this morning—an episode will air that will encourage even the most jaded of viewers to touch that 'old high.'
it's the magic of those rare moments: when story and artwork manage to transcend the medium and transport me out from underneathe today's stale krispies, a house i loathe, or even the wash-out skies above. i want to tie a blanket around my neck, jump off the back of the sofa, and run around the house in my underwear like a super hero.
like any good drug, the freedom is fleeting.
today's episode of teen titans closed with the team installing a plaque on the statuesque form of their friend/betrayer/friend again, terra; frozen in stone after using her power to stop a volcanoe eruption from destroying the city.
i feel frozen in stone today. any recent illusion of forward progress is a trick of the light, a complicated arrangement of smoke and mirrors. frozen in stone, AND wholly lacking such haughty accomplishments.
i sometimes wonder what i used to dream about.
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or, how tiffany beckoned the atomic age
somewhat steadfastly carrying the banner of sushi club into yet another new week, jack found himself sitting solo in a dark corner of the karaoke bar on yet another thursday night. (probably pondering the fine line between being stuck in a rut, and pedantically adhering to tradition, but that is a digression somewhat circumspect of the intent of this post).
in the unremarkable absence of the usual accomplices, this seating position tends to afford three welcome distractions:
- an inconspicuous corner for people watching: this is a karaoke bar, after all.
- ready access to witty banter of tremendously clever, bijin bar-keeps. (we adore them both).
- a tele, which usually is playing some obscure anime title, or adult swim. tonite, it's adult swim.
there are three other geezers at the far side of the bar, (henceforth to be referred to as the triad). 'the triad' is easily recognized as a group of regulars, an observation that—in my own socially abrasive way—tends to imply that they've done something annoying enough, or simply frequently enough, to finally be commited to memory. (for what it's worth, i can't recall which).
like me, they are predominantly white, twenty-something males with sad faces and an expensive sushi habit. like me, they are trying hard to look like they are not trying hard to engage the aformentioned clever bar-keeps in conversation. (greatly suspect bar-keeps are clever enough to identify this timeless ruse, yet surreptitiously professional enough to play along. sneaky she-types, that lot.)
all in all, it was shaping up to be a relatively routine sushi-club experience. routine right up to the point of sub-atomic fission.
somehow temporarily distracted, (retrospective liberty affords the opportunity to blame it on the tiffany imposter struggling through 'time after time,' but who knows), i missed the triad's presumptuous request to change source channels on the CC tele.
a few off key notes and forced hair twirls: the socially neutral adult swim feed was terminated, and a kodachrome mushroom cloud bloomed at top-shelf, refracted through a nearby bottle of johnny walker black. ikinari hidoi.
the triad had requested tuning to OPB (like PBS, but specific to oregon) in order to capture "japan's war in color."
disclaimer: i will readily concede this to be an interesting program, perhaps even recommendable. thus confessed: any historical (and perversely aesthetic) stimulation conceived of this experience played a muted second fiddle to the overbearing sense of uncomfort in this experience. then again, perhaps that's what made it so engrossing.
i have never been so acutely aware of my race, my nationality, my very insignificance than sitting in that japense bar, drinking my japanese beer, and watching these satiny billowing clouds of shifted color. how impolitic.
60 minutes of unwaivering silence. 60 minutes of directionless adrenaline, fueled by wasabi, which seeps like sweat and smells of guilt.
i pay my bill, tip 40%, and slip quietly into the night. it's cold outside.
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swappin streets for phat beats.
delayed exactly 30 days—due to procrastination or finances, i forget—the girl and i sat down and unceremoniously swapped holiday gifts last night.
she got me a freebord.
distilling the marketing hype for the uninitiated: a freebord is an unconventional, six wheeled skateboard that actually "flows" like a snowboard. i've seen a lot of pseudo-skates promise the same, but nothing seems to come close. [watch it spin]. -- i think it's fucking brilliant, though i suspect i'll break my neck.
attempting to reciprocate, albeit with a somewhat smaller box...
...whilst conceding to be the relatively predictable, (and somewhat pedestrian), geek that i am, i opted to give her some random. the sleek, svelte, and unabashadly iconic ipod shuffle.
it's fun to watch her dance.
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/dev/random/muz
after much rabid anticipation, uninformed speculation, and utter heresay... it's here. an ipod sans moving parts.
sure, sure, it's a few years later than expected, (stupidipodminiwhat'sthedamnpoint), but all that's in the past now.
why?
because the worst part about tumbling, ass over tea-kettle, at high velocities on icy slopes isn't the bruises, or the busted mouth. it's having your song skip. even crashes—especially crashes?—demand a soundtrack.
besides... they said i wasn't random enough..
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mac-junkie shakes
i've just read that apple is going to buck tradition, and completely refrain from "live" webcasts of steve's keynote. admittedly, the general public will probably shrug and say "so what," but most rabid mac-fans recognize this event to be the most anticipated 2 hour segment of apple specific news for the entire year. ( this is the forum where most of the cool new swag is presented, or hinted at. ).
on one hand, i guess this is somewhat expected for a company that's made a name for itself by challenging the status quo, but i can't help but to feel a little alienated by the decision. guess i'll be relying on leaked news from sms-happy "insiders."
poop.
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getting away from it all
|
from BBC world news:
"An Indonesian man has been found floating on tree branches in the Indian Ocean, eight days after a devastating tsunami struck the region." |
close your eyes and imagine sailing past a sun-crazed, half-starved, broken-hearted, semi-naked man waving frantically from a primitive raft of twigs, adrift at sea, over 100 miles from the nearest landmass. (i.e. well beyond any possible visible horizon).
as it turns out, lack of imagination isn't an obstacle for visualizing this. the merchant tanker that discovered this guy was japanese... and (go figure) they had a camera.
the article goes on to report how this [un]*lucky soul persevered, watching as friends and family were selectively swallowed by the deep blue, one after another, until only he remained...
floating there, in an incomprehensibly limitless ether; a single soul sandwiched between 100 square miles of featureless sea and sky. floating there, suspended in the profound silence of that last goodbye.
imagining this, i'm afraid, is a substantially more difficult prospect.
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not random enough?
in an ironic inversion of precedent, today i was informed by senior management that i was not random enough.
...the TSP install uses the system's /dev/random device. This generates a random number based on keyboard/mouse/network/etc interrupts. So on "quiet" systems there may not be enough randomness available, and as it would be insecure to return something that wasn't random, the call blocks. Hence the "hang".
so, sure, there is a sound technical explanation for this accusation, but the sublime implications remain relatively disturbing. that an authority figure could find jack, an ex-skate punk, class-clown type of kid, to be lacking in random is daunting indeed; clearly, i've been doing the 8-5, 401k thing for waaay to long.
actually, i guess one might craft a reciprocal technical foundation for this too...
per the above statement, if the system call() blocks [ed. halts forward processing] whilst waiting for more units of a finite resource, it implicitly defines both importance and scarcity of that resource. observing this, one might then realize that they musn't waste their random.
there goes my quota for the day....
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30 second fuse, 2 feet of pvc
to wake up, like this, is to taste life again.
fingers, stained black with carbon soot, pressed against my sandy face; they leave marks that will be discovered hours later, in a bright blue gas station bathroom, and sheepishly wiped away with extended sleeve.
the fury of last night: 2 pork ribs as long as my forearm, 5 bottles of beer, 3 bottles water, 1 serving brown beans, 2 servings cole slaw, and over 130 independent mortar shells, tossed into the black.
(oh how we love to blow shit up.)
the fuzzy of right now: the distant drone-roar of the pacific resonates in a mind still groggy with beer, and somewhat numbed by the repetitive concussion of the prior evening's pyrotechnics. hasty consciousness comes as the world spins east, grows brighter: it's too damn early to be awake.
first stirred by morning sun, i'm now sleepless in the subtle, semi-acrid haze of consumed incandescents, exhausted propellants. i can't help but to imagine trace particles of aluminum, magnesium, and maybe a little titanium swirling about me, sticking to me like the sand on my skin; a cancerous film that clings to the small hairs in my nose, dancing with each breath, as if to lure the stranger onward, deeper into my chest.
the girl who broke my heart: she's lying next to me, still swimming in her own unconsciousness, having finally retreated from my own.
how can something so soft cut so deeply?
i wake up with million year old specks of sand, violently torn from billion year old rocks, each grain fulfilling a trajectory through eternity to cut into my face. the mighty pacific laps complacently at my feet, while caustic, probably-going-to-kill-me-prematurely, heavy metal particulate lines my chest and all i can think about is this small, treacherous, fragile thing, that slumbers on in relative indifference to my left.
i wonder what she's dreaming about.
( i wonder what she'd do if i ignited a three stage, phosphour fun flaming dragon tail in her sleeping bag. )
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desperately under caffinated
absentee latte
why do you leave me like this
so fleeting, your touch
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futurism is soo passe
the laptop battle was ok, i guess. kinda cool, yet kinda lame.
it was nice to see all these introverted geekish types stroll up to the table, plug in, and jam. pc's, mac's: all customized with stickers, mods, lights. when the set was done, they'd sometimes smile, always shrug, close the shell and walk away.
still, it felt a bit canned. sterile. i couldn't help but wish for the grit and spontenaity of a more traditional rap-battle format: where two competitors literally go head to head and play off each other dynamically througout the set: sampling, spinning.
as it was, i suspect i could have taken them armed only with my nokia 3650. (i am only partly joking). ((...and no, i can't substantiate that claim in any way)).
one thing is clear: my pal wes would be the uncontested west-coast champion. he's got clicks and beeps that make robots jealous.
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powerbook endurance
as yet another facet of jack's conscious effort to step out of his shell and into the world, he's decided to finally stop wondering, and actually go to check out the bar/venue just down the street called holocene.
of course, after making such a decision, he turned to their event-list and found a tight rotation of unrecognizeable dj's, each with a name just obscure enough to hide any hint of what type of music they might play. that's like agreeing to go on a road-trip with a radio that receives only one channel: scary!
tonite, however, they have listed an event called "laptop battle: PDX vs. SEA rematch." —the possibilities for such an event run the spectrum of overtly pretentious to just at home. which is this to be?
jack will go. and jack will bring his powerbook.
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should probably stay off the motorbike
clutch-shift-click she didn't. twist, faster. clutch-shift-click she couldn't. twist, faster. clutch-shift-click she wouldn't. twist, faster. clutch-shift-click she would. twist, faster. clutch-shift-click she could. twist, faster. clutch-shift-click she did. twist, faster...
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she is like a drug
the mood swings are too much.
on the pillow, i'm desperate to leave.
at the door, i'm desperate for her touch.
it comes like waves.
she is a drug.
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give me back my dreams
give me back my dreams
i've been counting these sheep
since i can't remember when
give me back my sleep
i'll be dreaming of you
till i wake up crying again
i have lain awake
through the longest hours
wondering whether to cry or scream
you can take my heart
it was always yours
but give me back my dreams.
- "give me back my dreams," by the 6ths
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wash your hands. lávese las manos
she asked me this morning not to give up on us. she said we had too much history to throw away, that it couldn't be ignored. that seven years had to account for something, right?
i pointed out that it was her, not me, that gave up.
the stupid, frustrating, terribly obvious thing is, i still love her. i honestly can't imagine life without her. absolutely every decision i've made in the last two years, (and a good many of the last seven), has been weighted around us. each step, an integral point in the function that mapped a path from the day we met towards the dream we shared together.
after seven years, she is a part of everything that i am today.
but how can we restart? i will never love her quite the same. i simply can not. i will never be as blind or as sophmorically unassuming as i once was. my love will never be so completely entrusted as before.
she could never be happy with someone who always questions why she's late; with this experience, some part of me will always be wondering why she's late.
sure, we might save us, but my dream of us is gone forever.
and if we can't love like that, what's the point? after touching such great heights, wouldn't anything lesser be fundamentally unfulfilling by comparison?
but i look at her, puffy red eyes. we are crying together. we are sleepless together. we are sick to our stomachs, and unhungry together. and in a perverse way, it kinda feels like we are a team again.
but how can we restart? i am an overtly sensitive fool, with a terrible weakness for attaching meaning to inanimate objects. her deceit went on for so long, for too long, and now so many things in our lives are tainted. talismans of bad memories that clutter our home, our garage, our lives.
ruined the truck i helped her to buy. the truck they used to get away. the truck i will never ride in again.
ruined the lillies. our lillies. the only flowers we ever gave each other. the flowers delivered on the morning she woke up in his arms.
ruined valentine's day. a stupid, commercial holiday that should not mean anything in and of itself, yet does. the day he held her, and i did not.
ruined the engagement scooter. long intended to be my promise. the process had started; i had found the motive, the painter, and a friend's basement to build it in.
ruined her place of work. i cannot go there. i do not trust my temper. i do not trust myself around him.
ruined her circle of friends. he is part of them. i can not join them in any event, he might be there. i do not trust my temper. i do not trust myself around him.
ruined our home. i imagine him by my fire, on my sofa, watching my movies. drinking my brandy.
ruined her arms. they are not as pure, as wholesome, as unquestionably mine as they once were.
ruined my house buying plans. they were all about finding a space for us. a single, solitary place in this world to be all ours.
ruined citrus listerine. i will always remember it placed where it should not be. placed where he left it.
ruined her new glasses. her red pants. her new shirt, skirts. all items purchased whilst on her "high;" (damn, she looked good in them). all items undeniably touched by him, possibly removed by him.
ruined t-faz on 23rd. where she sometimes went to be "alone." where she went to be with him.
ruined my absolute trust in her.
ruined the question. for the last two months, i had been scheming, planning, plotting: time spent working to find a clever, unforgettably romantic way to ask her the ultimate question. the very same two months she played this game.
ruined me. my heart. my soul. i feel a part of me has died inside. melted, then scared over. the only me available for a recovered relationship would be resonant deprecated echo of my former self.
there are too many shadows. there are too many ghosts.
there is no mappable path from here back to our dreams.
it is too much.
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$WHD == /dev/hell;
another weekend, another 2 day, post-keyboard cool-down that beckons the dull resonant ache of wrist hurt disease like icebergs calling sheet metal from deep in the fog.
it's when i stop, and let things unwind, that it really really hurts; right now i'm about four handfuls of ibuprofen into the worst WHD flare-up of recent memory. no scooters, no swinging, no sleep.
observing my failure, yet again, to sleep even the slightest bit longer than a lab rat dosed to ld50 of clinical grade meth, the girl coerced me into trekking north to seattle with the doe-eyed ambtion of visiting IKEA and aquiring a standup desk.
(i seem to recall her citing something about the implied change in work station ergonomics helping to alleviate symptoms. )
—though readily willing to concede this as an intelligent course of action, i can not help but to doubt its ultimate effectiveness...
i mean, after this many years of micro-breaks, macro-exercises, accunpuncture, yoga, shock-therapy, cortozone injections and arthritus perscriptions, i've learned that self-medicating with bags of frozen (and melted and refrozen and melted) peas is the best short-term remedy, and have begun to realize that the probabability of a long-term remedy is asymptotically bounded to $WHEN_HELL_FREEZES_OVER.
then again, it was a nice day to go for a drive, and i've always been a sucker for a woman behind the wheel.
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hot news for the apathetic
today marks the two year anniversary of my admittedly anticlimatic return to the employ of the company, and the hours passed just as innocuously as one might predict.
who would suspect that the sickly sweet bi-weekly financial injections of a steady paycheck could be as effective as the mighty colorado in ultimately carving a canyon through the soul?
...and suddenly jack realizes he's another late twenty-something, almost thirty-something, college educated adult who can look back through a post-high-school kaleidoscope of memories practically a decade in length and still be left wondering what it is that he's really achieved in all that time.
(besides a demonstrated affinity for run-on sentences and impassive blather that does pathetically little to help the situation).
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boundary conditions
considered purely as a deterministic measure of time, february cowers as somewhat of an afterthought in an unappreciated corner of the calendar year...
...a calendar year that is simultaneously too old to still be 'exciting and new', (e.g. you no longer accidentally transcribe last year's digits onto signed documents), yet too young to motivate anyone with the brutal earnestness that a deadline such as the END OF THE YEAR demands. quite simply, there still remains a whole lot of 'tomorrow' left to exploit.
then, as if to add insult to injury, the very composition of february is redefined on a quadrennial basis. it exists as a kind of pseudo scientific band-aid, a crude slight-of-hand to mask the fact that our planet rotates about the sun in an irrational period which does not fit nicely into the rational space we'd really, really like it to.
rendered impotent by the shifting guidelines of western calendars, how can february possibly demand the respect of those that tumble through its tear-away days with reckless indifference?
then again, maybe it is this very element of ambiguity that makes february so compelling. a bridge between winter and spring, or fairy tales and reality; february allows for the blurring of the edges, the simple suggestion of 'chaos theory,' in bug free code.
...........
this year is a leap year. i like to think that if i time it just right, maybe i'll find the opportunity to see through the boundary conditions of my own 'killing me softly' penchant for self-defintion and into the possibility of pointedly perplexing parallel potentials.
'to see with eyes unclouded by comfort'
of course, that sounds like work. maybe i'll just resign to the movies and try to loose myself in someone else's imagination...
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still at work, clearly working
i have found no more apt a definition for 'cruel and unusual punishment' than this: hippopotomonstrosesquippedaliophobia.
jack: 'so, uh, tell me, what's your problem anyway?'
marla: 'oh, i have a clinically diagnosed case of hipp...AAAHH!'
damn. i'm at work too late again.
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what would renton do?
alternate supplier located, product request placed; jack can expect shipment on the 7th. mmmm... the 7th. what a sunny, glorious day that will be.
thus empowered, i just cheated time, and edited a previous entry.
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panting for panther
panther queue now t+13 days. have lost all faith in ADC connection; investigating other suppliers to acquire immediate fix. no man can last forever...
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the junkie limbo
alright. panther, (os x.3), released on the 24th of october, and the install discs are still not here..
have these sadistic project administrators no understanding of my deep, (admittedly ill-placed), psychological need for this media? (a controlled substance?) is this really any different from a more conventional addiction?
after receiving beta releases on a bi-weekly basis as an ADC member, they finally release the damn thing to the public, and leave me hanging, without install discs!
10 days now... surely you can be publicly stoned for such treachery in less civilized countries.
please contact ADC. please tell them jack needs a fix. please tell them 'give us it!' tell them...
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october symphony?
historically speaking, october could easily be considered to be my favorite month. the color, the fall, an annual demonstration of life's constant need for change. (desperately literal, my apologies).
still, the leaves have warning. days get shorter, the night grows longer. each extended sunset in turn forshadows the ultimate ending. with similar precision, the air gets colder; to the leaves, the breeze whispers its own deadly promise in incrementally more blatant and brazen ways.
where was my warning?
my october: a precious friend announces an engagement. (first time somebody i've kissed has done this). my first meeting with a lawyer. my first meeting with a mortgage broker. a loved one is tested for indications of a truly debilitating disorder. (nothing found: phew). finally, a second friend announces wedding plans (am i really this old?)
if this is change, if this is 'growing up,' i'd like to go back to chasing girls 'round the park with frogs. thank you.
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these things happen...
relishing in the opportunity to dress up like someone else and make a righteous terror of myself, i teamed up with a cohort in an admittedly sophmoric recreation of thing 1 and thing 2 from the dr. seuss classic.
 |  |  |  |
this whirlwind of rouge found occasion to terrorize a few local pubs as well as the unsuspecting residences of acquaintences brave enough to extend an invite on halloween.
(no trick or treating though. didn't see a single princess or dragon all night. do kids not practice this banal american tradition in portland? what gives?)
anyway. it was in that rare slice of night when it's no longer today, but not yet tomorrow. the point at which all the dishes were broken, all of the walls were marked, and all the coffee was consumed: thing1 and thing2 were finally retiring for the night...
it was then that a skeleton of a dead man with the voice of live man leaned in and bid farewell. 'goodnight, and thanks for stepping all over my culture.'
..........
i did not mean to step on it,
no i did not.
i did not mean to upset you
you're clearly distraught
my actions, i'd retract
if only i was able
but how could i have known
you'd keep it on the pool table?
a culture indeed should be handled with care
not left unattended behind a sofa or chair.
surely this defines how
as now defines when
it's important to remember
that these things can happen.
to be fair, he's right. the hallmark revolution is complete, and american society has lost touch with the true foundation of 'halloween.' not that this is a terrible thing, as i believe it provides an annual opportunity for mindless millions to find a new way to express themselves. (a rare glimpse into the colorful possibility of 'what if?')
in fact, i'd make a very strong argument that halloween and 'the day of the dead' in turn, are mutually exclusive events, each a manifestation of a culture's subconcious need to make something tangible from that which is not.
anyway, it's a freakin' halloween party dude. lighten up.
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let the battle begin!
my sister, an individual so reinvented that she only resembles the girl i grew up with when she's sleeping, or on those late summer days when the light is just right and you swear your eyes are playing tricks on you, has transcended the space and time that differentiates her reality and my own with a wholly unprecedented snippet of correspondence.
mi hermanita, an individual whom has spent the better part of the last month traipsing about the south of spain with her spanish-based beau, produced this lip-synch parody, and somehow projected the potentcy of a spanish summer several thousand miles to a portland disbeliever.
yes, it's clever. in fact, it's perhaps one of the most brilliant thing's she's ever done... to be fair, the sun-worn, off-duty-model look does well when mixed with a common fan and some cheesy 80's easy listening, but this level of soft-core, pulp-romance-novel-cover, chris isaac or bad karaoke video reproduction is, well, staggering.
more than that, it's clearly a challenge.
although i lack the aesthetic to compete in the paperback-cover category, i do intend to respond, and i intend to do it with style.
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the man comes around
a sad day for music indeed.
i loathe country, yet i love j. cash; a truly common scenario, as i understand it. --this man has the rare and admirable capability of effortlessly bridging genres and generations.
through collaboration, he helped to make good artists better, yet always managed to keep his own unique style. should we all be so lucky!
jcash; the original man in black.
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the autumn of our lives
chalk it up to that frantic acceleration of autumn, the time of year where each blustery day seems to crash into nightfall 10 minutes earlier than its predecessor, and the rapidly descending darkness leaves you scrambling to get things done.
a time for quiet moments, opportunities to sit in bed, and try to recall where you've hidden all of your sweaters, or just how you've managed to squander an entire summer in the sun.
most importantly, it's a time for personal reflection.
as the days grow darker, you begin subconciously sorting out your nest; if winter is the season for homebodies, then fall's all about auditions and training. a season of embarassing moments, where even the straightest guys can be caught coordinating their turtlenecks with sofa shams, all working to perfect the ultimate in casual 'chicken-soup and movie rental' effects.
fall is an especially interesting time for relationships. shorter days imply shorter amounts of time with each party doing their own 'daily routine,' and more opportunity for bumping elbows in the bathroom.
more opportunity to ponder whether or not those special idiosyncrasies of your relationship are still really endearing, or just kind of annoying.
...and sometimes, sometimes you decide that it is over, and now is the time to move on. a cold, dark winter lies ahead, why spend it with strangers?
be it as sublime as simply growing apart through the months, or as literal as was one too many little mystery puddles, the thought is infectious, and consuming.
it happens slowly: green leaves that cautiously yellow, then rapidly fade to brown before they are resigned to the blustery indifference borne by the winds of change.
........
with all the frailty of fall, she dances on my arm like a consumed and tired leaf. even a fool can recognize, the time is right, the time is now. still, after all these years, it breaks my heart to see her go.
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all the stars in nyc
deemed worthy as a cover story to this week's time magazine, clearly, the big event last week was the cascading power outtage that managed to down several major metropoli in canada and the north-eastern united states, and perhaps most iconically, new york city.
i wasn't there to experience it myself, but have spent a considerable amount of time reading about the logistics of the event with the detached curiosity of someone who's simply interested in the dynamic and instantaneous physics of 'energy delivery.'
through all the volumes of text i have now perused, a 'witness' comment in a well written editorial stands out above them all. unfortunately, i don't have the exact source, but concede the semantics far outweigh the syntax:
'it was the first time in 40 years that i've seen stars over new york city'
at first, i innocently considered this comment a rather comedic anecdote. admittedly simple minded, this first impression eventually melted into awe: surely, a feat such as this must be a testiment to man's igenuity; his ability to push back against the oppressive blackness of night?
in turn, this new postulate held fast until i found my mind swimming within the soothing indifference proffered by the darkness of last night.
it was then, laying in bed under an open window, that i couldn't help but wonder if the above observation was just a literal manifestation of everything that is wrong with society. to put it bluntly, how can people dream if they can't see the stars?
it's far from my station to wax philosophical on such a global scale, (i'm admittedly far too selfish for such practice), but it sure seems to me that the bigger story here is definitively outside the politics of regulation vs. deregulation, and wholly independent of all the finger pointing and blame games. instead, i can't help but to wonder:
for all our bright lights, can we really see better in the dark?
one thing is certain: measures to prevent reccurance of this event are already being implemented, and experience suggests that the probabilty of a repeat will continuously decrease, asymptotically bounded to zero. (perhaps thankfully, never reaching).
of those that were in NYC on that magic night, the subset of people that spilled into the streets and found occasion to stare awe-struck at a decades-repressed sky exploding above them, witnessed a moment so singularily noteworthy that it might stand out in human history as an event more important than any scandal, or war, or disaster in recent memory.
then again, maybe it was just another wacky night out in the big apple.
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the elusive geek-high
every once in a while, jack configures something that makes him feel like a proper geek again.
a little wireless connectivity, a little port of the rendezvous protocol, a couple little hacks, and a big dual channel RAID published from a linux file server: we don't do this because it's necessary, we do it because it's cool.
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cat /dev/null/ >> brain
somtimes, it's like the whole wold is working against you.
[root@foo bin]# ./unzip bash: ./unzip: No such file or directory[root@foo bin]# ls -al ./unzip
-rwxr-xr-x 1 root root 85288 Aug 1 14:56 ./unzip
wtf?
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just a perfect day
with ambient temperature nearing 100', the cold sweat of true panic is almost inviting. still, folly such as this is not quite what i had in mind...
jack: dontcallmedontwritemeandreadthefuckingmanual
jack: IMFUCKINGDONE
jack: i cannotstand customers
jack: HERE
jack: HAVE SOME LYE
jack: play with it.
jack: IT's A COOL CUCUMBERMASK!
jack: PUT IT ON YOUR FACE!
bosslady:
bosslady: lol
bosslady: i'm so sorry.
bosslady: maybe i should have layed you off!
:: GULP ::
jack: er, oops. that was the wrong IM window.
was supposed to go to $coworker
bosslady: yeah. right.
bosslady: i
jack: er, no, it was. *ack* soz.
bosslady: 'm sure!
bosslady: hey!
bosslady: you gotta share with me too!
jack: oh, i do. ususally not with that much color...
..........
'haha. that's funny. he just ranted to his boss.'
seriously, it is not that i think that she can't handle it, (quite the opposite, in fact); it's not that she's not smart enough to perceive this sort of emotion without it being voiced; it's not even that she would misinterpret it now that it has been said; it's just....
what an embarassing transgression of the manager-managee relationship. the silent, accepted, and understood agreement between coworkers to mask such abrasive emotion in the work place, venting only after-hours, and in dark corners. (if at all).
sure, there are some days you really loathe your job, it happens to everybody. --of course, this does not provide free license to walk around broadcasting the fact.
water under the bridge, i guess.
admittedly, as i type this, a couple hours removed from the embarassment of the original exchange, i have to admit, it was sort of liberating. i'll be sure to remember how 'liberated' i feel when i wake up at 11am and walk my unshaven and redundant ass o'er to the unemployment office.
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exit music
going old school this afternoon:
we both know i need this too much
only i know that it's got to stop
but i can't keep my anger up
change it, it's your job,
change it, it's your job
now i'm stuck
i'm stuck...
--excerpt from "capital letters," by ned's atomic dustbin
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art for the unenthused
this afternoon, i discovered an exotic sound quite unlike any other: the fragile, yet blunt resonance of fiberglass and epoxy being scraped forcibly from an expensive helmet by greedy pavement.
closer, perhaps, to synthetic porcelain than that of tupperware, i revel in the exquisite splintering even as my body continues its arc over this pivot, driven by its own reckless eagerness to comply with gravity.
having missed my opportunity for tracktime during the 'vintage days' at PIR, i had opted to make lemonade, and spend the afternoon reading a book, (sleeping on the porch with a book on my chest). it was in this state that my mobile's sudden vibration roused my reclining form to swat blindly at the improbable invasion of privacy going on in my pants.
news from ptown: the fog of administriva was lifting, paperwork had finally arrived, and jack's recent acquisition was free from its pseudo-escrow imprisonment.
with a haste known only to virgin adolescent males on prom night, i collected my gear, paperwork, tools, a small collection of scooter consumables (spare parts), and set out for downtown.
much to my relief, i found her just as beautiful this hazy afternoon as the night we first met; eye candy to ease the the time spent tightening or replacing, (as appropriate), deteriorated control cables in the wavy lines of light gliding up from an overheated parking lot.
one litre of water, one 20 oz. mountain dew, and a healthy dosage of gojo passed before i felt her ready for our first trip together. a simple half-kick, easy spark, the motor purrs to life: all lambrettas should have electronic ignition.
from the shop, down the main drag. i'm careful to slow when passing the tinted window-fronts of downtown buildings, eager to catch glimpses of this exotic and unfamiliar form that idles kindly beneathe me.
done with the strip, i turn right at the light, head west into the hills. i've ridden about 2 miles now, and the incline slides from passive to agressive. leaning forward, i whisper breathily to her speedo, urge her forward...
forward into the critical juncture between reality and potential, or perhaps motive and intent. --the engine seizes with such ferocity that one might not say she merely stopped, but instead recoiled backwards from the shock of the event.
this is jack, condemned in an instant by the offhand mantra of a man named after a fruit cookie: 'objects in motion, tend to stay in motion, unless acted upon by an external or unbalanced force.'
this is jack, pulling the clutch, even as legs pitch up, up and over hands that hold stubbornly to bars that decrease in importance reciprocally to inversion.
.........
i've always been fond of the elegance that single-use stages of large rockets demonstrate whilst tumbling from the heavens. elements carefully constructed with a purpose so singlularily defined that when they exhaust their fuel supply, they exhaust their utility, and ultimately exhaust their very existence.
it is in the fireball of reentry; a whirlwind imposed by the superheated drag of air particles against a surface that these meticulously designed stages don't simply cease to be, but instead, metamorph into something else altogether.
.........
in the end, the years of experience miscalulationg height, speed, rotation and velocity whilst feigning proficiency in skateboarding does teach the body how to properly roll out almost any forward-moving 'accident.' --it is with this instinctual, faster than-thinking reaction that my body rolls forward, pops again onto its feet, and runs out the rest of the momentum unscathed.
a volkswagen golf swerves to avoid me as i walk back to her tragic form: original sheet metal so pure and white, her reclining shape carves stark angles framed against the dark incline of pavement.
it dawns on me that i've never been moved in this way before, and i laugh uneasily, (the way someone who has just tripped in front of his peers might laugh), as i lean over to pull her up.
what a revolution! what personality! --this experience has just confirmed for fact that which i could only previously assume: this scooter is different, a passion and vitality and intensity all her own.
in a nutshell, her demonstrated willingness to toss me violently down the road demands a respect that could only make me love her more.
.........
in retrospect, it is only the lament of my spent helmet that darkens this experience. its delicate surface, perforated so barbarically by the high coefficient of friction intentionally engineered into the pavement.
the recollection of crystalline exasperation as its internal structure splinters to dissipate force throughout its form, as if exhaling at the opportunity to finally become that which it was intended.
this afternoon, i experienced an exotic sound quite unlike any other: the fragile, yet blunt resonance of an object transforming irreversibly from one form to another.
$450 of safety potential reduced (or evolved?) in an instant into a kind of performance art; i place it reverently on my mantle, and begin scheming to replace.
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what you don't know can hurt
did you know that it is a misdemeanor crime in oregon to even possess a manner of firework or ordinance capable of self-propulsion, and explosion from any point above the ground?
(it's ok, i didn't either)
kind of a paradox, actually: should you happen to have it, you can't simply dispose of it, it's a misdemeanor to move it and it's a felony to destroy it, (as is its very nature).¹
not that the latter point makes much sense, either: seems pretty obvious that there are far less people to send screaming and flaming into the night at 1000' than there are standing bright-eyed at ground level.
then again, lawmakers tend to have a penchant for defending the unobvious.
¹ do not try to explain this paradox of legality to anybody who informs you of the civil burden mentioned above; your case is probably stillborn by their over-inflated sense of moral right. instead, simply release interest in, (i.e. launch), what ordinance you have, and run quickly in the direction that they are not...
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move with your heart, not your head
today i experienced what a recovering addict might refer to as a textbook "relapse."
actually, i guess it happened last night... an innocuous email broadcasts hamburgers and beer (free food) at the local scooter shop, alerts jack to pervasive and haunting sensation of cabin fever.
after arriving, i loitered in the parking lot for a little while, chatting, drinking. it was shortly after i stepped inside: an improbable instant where crowd chaos abated, and line of sight was briefly established. blue eyes meet original corello glass; i exhale involuntarily, then look away.
there is a point when reason is lost, and instinct kicks in.
after soo many years of 'good behavior,' so many years of truly inspirationless first encounters, there she was. in fact, only the embarassment of waking up with a hang-over and an unfamiliar (and spendy) woman in my home prevented her from returning with me last night.
i said i should go home, go home and "sleep it off."
yah, like that did me any good...
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2fast 2furious - necesito mojito!
so, it's a bit after the fact, but as i'm sitting here sifting through stack traces of forwarded corefiles, i can't help but to nod my head to the smooth melody of the afro-cuban allstars, courtesy of itunes, she.
...a little gdb, and it dawns on me, this is the answer to almost every complaint i have for a recent cinematic experience.
you see, i've been on this big cuban kick lately -- i'm not sure if the root is better traced to pambiché, my fav. portland restaurant, or the fact that i simply grew wary of all the other stations whilst playing grand theft auto: vice city. (probably a synthesis of both).
actually, i'm getting ahead of myself. let's roll it back.
flashback: it's early summer, 2001. i conn my mate rm into rolling to a matinee of fast and the furious. (yes, i admit it; i'm into campy action films). anyway, we had this big wannabe-rice-racer dialog going on at the time, and it was a no-brainer for a lazy saturday afternoon.
anyway, walking out.. it dawns on me that i actually liked the film. i won't bother to explain, as that's not really the purpose of this post.
whatever. flash-forward to this weekend: the studio, banking on the 'surprise success' of the first film, tries to make a second. as many know, this is usually folly for disaster, but occasionally it works. (immediate example: empire strikes back).
so, i tried it. and: well, um, uh, it... "it left me wanting."
it wasn't until i was walking out of the theater that it dawned on me... were the viewer to substitue the modern, neon-hilighted, fiberglass-skirted cars with an appropriate array of 80's european sports cars, and this movie was little more than a live action rendition of aformentioned game, gta: vice city.
now, as i'm listening to the afro-cuban allstars, i find myself wondering: 'what if i were to watch that movie again, this time substituting all of the hamster-brained dialog with a huge cuban playlist, smuggled into the theater via ipod.'
i'm willing to gamble that it would be a far superior cinematic experience...
the burning question: is my theory worth the $5 required to test?
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new diet, more carbs!
finally saved enough pennies in my project jar to order a fancy new sidedraft manifold and carb for my 2002: very fortunate, as the repeated stalls from my tired stock solex has passed out of the 'cute phase,' and into something far more insidious.
on the lighter side, with the conversion from downdraft to sidedraft, and that big ole' weber on there, (supposing i can actually tune it right), that little 02 might just become pretty competitive during autoX.
better still, it's still a light enough mod that i can still run within the "street prepared" class, per SCCA's own definition.
of course, right now, i might sound like i know what i'm talking about. i really don't, and to be honest, i guess that's the most fun part about it.
i hope julliette likes it...
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the aftermath
well, it's over now: last weekend was the first time i've been on the 'management' side of a scooter rally; an admittedly enervating experience when it comes to preparation considerations.
that said, once it was underway, things seemed to go pretty smoothly...
well, at least, the saturday ride that i lead did. unfortunately, it seems like a few people had some difficulties with the gymkhana (scooter obstacle course) that i had designed. in fact, i believe during the 'trial' rounds, we had about a 70% kill rate (i.e. 7 of the first 10 bikes to run it crashed).
wimps. ;)
then again, even i had a pretty wicked wheelie-runout after that final launch ramp. (of course, i saved it with a sweet motocross-style fishtail near the bushes: one of those events that take you so close to the edge that later, you find yourself wondering if it was more luck, or skill that saved your arse.)
shiny side up, yet