Monday, December 31, 2001

Sheesh.

I just spent some time looking at other people's blogs. Deadman.org is astonishingly well-written and thought-provoking. I just have such a hard time discussing my innermost musings in this public forum. Perhaps this is because my innermost musings have a lot to do with other people whose privacy I don't want to violate. Also, my experience with provoking thought in this medium has been a bit disappointing. Rasmus checks now and again and offers comments... he's a dear guy. But most of the links I had to other bloggers have faded away with lack of attention.... this blog has lain fallow for weeks and weeks and the archives have long since been password-protected (I can't even remember what the password is, anyway).
Such a balancing act all this shit is. I haven't had opportunity to journey outside myself for a good long while.
One must watch what one prays for, though.

Good lord, could this sound any more fragmented?

Friday, December 28, 2001

Hello all. More sporadic and not very good loggin' comin' your way.

We were in SoCal visiting wy wife's family at a posh resort in Ojai. Knobbin' with the super rich is about as rewarding as its ever been . We were eating a blackened tuna thingy bob while watching these very obviosly stoned college guys chip shots onto the green. They were shaggy and lanky and looked as though they were practicing to be Kennedys. A look into their record collections would no doubt show ample Phish, Thievery Corporation and Dave Matthews selections. I was bored even watching the bastards.

The worst part of the trip was leaving my very rare copy of Tournier's The Fetishist at the San Jose Airport. Haley got felt up and I watched as a woman went thorugh my bag with rubber gloves. She completely ignored my digital camera. It could've been packed with C-4 for all she knew.

Hey, have you seen those hairbrushes that pull out into plastic spikes designed to kill? I have. Three battle-hardened hand-to-hand combat experts could easliy do it all over again. Running my shoes thorugh an X-ray doesn't add to my comfort level. Plus, India and Pakistan are on the brink of war and Bin Laden is very likely in Pakistan. These are nuclear powers, here. How powerful is he? I fear we don't really know. He's been underestimated before.

A hint... if you want to think way, way more than you should, read the Atlantic monthly. They have a way of turning hackneyed arguments on their head.

Maybe tomorrow I'll start writing before I get so damned tired.

Monday, December 17, 2001

It's quarter to six. I've been up for a full hour already. It seems that I have let a void overtake me, a creative void. The most dangerous kind, really. I have done nothing to feed my soul for many days now, months, years. I don't even know where my notebooks are. But I'm sitting at my laptop here and hopefully it won't fail any time soon. The new financial situation is extremely tough for me, but we are getting by.
We've been battling for custody, stopping short of an all-out suit in favor of mediation. I am less than happy about that... the effect that Olivia's mother has upon her is not a good one by any measure. I believe we'll walk out with joint custody, a damn site better than what we have now (which is bupkus). It has caused us no end of frustration, and I've been smoking so much that a rattling cough still plagues me.
This log has been quite sporadic. I don't currently have the date displayed except at the top of the page, so I can't tell when it was updated last. Ah well.

Sunday, December 02, 2001

My brother is again a father. He's pretty excited, although it's Nutcracker and he's super busy. Looks like he'll make some good money this month, though. I know he can really use it.

Tuesday, November 20, 2001

Blogger offers instant communication power. Some promise. What is, I wonder, the exact power of instant communication? I mean, yelling and screaming and explosive email are all instant and, while gratifying, they do far more harm than good. Even thoughtful communication seems to often go awry. Perhaps I will become an advocate for clean, musical communication.
Such as this...

Crap that it is, I made it and it is all right by me.

Asshole that I am.

Monday, November 19, 2001

I've hit this thing a few times in the past few days only to have it crash on me. Good to know that some things don't change. I think the last time I posted something I was interrupted by the crash of the Airbus jet in Rockaway Beach, so I guess it hasn't been that recent.

This looking for business is for the birds, man. Just sucks ASS. I wish it were 1999 again.

Friday, November 02, 2001

Say, I want to give props to BlogBack. Excellent commenting software.

Now where's my damned candy??

Well, yet another comments script has been installed. Since I haven't updated this in god knows how long, I assume that nobody is even reading this anymore. Ah well.
I have a new site up at http://grapnelgroup.com We are actively soliciting work as heavy duty Flash designers. The calendar is starting to fill up a bit, so that's cool.
Anyway, lots to do today.

Thursday, November 01, 2001

Whoa, Nellie. Been a long time since i've been here. I supposed that maybe Blogger deleted me from their records, but no... there it was, poping up and everything. I am unsure how much I have to say, as always. I put doen the blogging thing for a while because I was having a hard time, as always, joining the teeming masses of bloggerdom. There was something rather forced about it for me. And I was starting to be rather dicky about comments. Now that reblogger is more or less down on a full-time basis (and since I won't install Greymatter) I suppose that once again this will be a silent singular rant about life ingeneral and all that malarky. I think that I've used Blogger for a year now, but my internet railing has been going on more or less unabated since '94 or so.

Whew... I must have made that last entry when I was loaded. Bourbon and computers make strange bedfellows, I am sure. Blah blah blah BLAH.

I'm back to working again. The vacation that was global capitalism was nice for a while, but now I am going back to my roots. I may even start to cartoon again, by god.

Saturday, September 22, 2001

I had a vision . In this future the US is destablized by a series of attacks abroad and at home. The war and so forth, but more... attacks that destabilized the vision Americans had of their home. Bear in mind that vision is the core of this country (why the fuck else do you trust a paper dollar, let alone an ATM?).
Out of the ash rose a leader, and from there arose a confligration the likes of which had never been seen.

What do you value, I ask? What is your treasure? Do not rely on dogma of any kind. No one has an answer. There is a history of innacurate vision, surely, but you are on your own.

Gas masks ain't in it, I suspect. I'm scared, and I grew up surrounded by Titan II silos and Airforce base mishaps.

What do you value?

Think about it.

Thursday, September 20, 2001

From Janes.com

Who did it? Foreign Report presents an alternative view

Israel’s military intelligence service, Aman, suspects that Iraq is the state that sponsored the suicide attacks on the New York Trade Center and the Pentagon in Washington. Directing the mission, Aman officers believe, were two of the world’s foremost terrorist masterminds: the Lebanese Imad Mughniyeh, head of the special overseas operations for Hizbullah, and the Egyptian Dr Ayman Al Zawahiri, senior member of Al-Qaeda and possible successor of the ailing Osama Bin Laden.

The two men have not been seen for some time. Mughniyeh is probably the world’s most wanted outlaw. Unconfirmed reports in Beirut say he has undergone plastic surgery and is unrecognisable. Zawahiri is thought to be based in Egypt. He could be Bin Laden’s chief representative outside Afghanistan.

The Iraqis, who for several years paid smaller groups to do their dirty work, were quick to discover the advantages of Al-Qaeda. The Israeli sources claim that for the past two years Iraqi intelligence officers were shuttling between Baghdad and Afghanistan, meeting with Ayman Al Zawahiri. According to the sources, one of the Iraqi intelligence officers, Salah Suleiman, was captured last October by the Pakistanis near the border with Afghanistan. The Iraqis are also reported to have established strong ties with Imad Mughniyeh.

"We’ve only got scraps of information, not the full picture," admits one intelligence source, "but it was good enough for us to send a warning six weeks ago to our allies that an unprecedented massive terror attack was expected. One of our indications suggested that Imad Mughniyeh met with some of his dormant agents on secret trips to Germany. We believe that the operational brains behind the New-York attack were Mughniyeh and Zawahiri, who were probably financed and got some logistical support from the Iraqi Intelligence Service (SSO)."

Mughniyeh was the only one believed to have tried it before. On April 12th 1997, he was reported to be only two hours away from achieving the highest goal of any terrorist organisation (until last week): blowing up an Israeli El-Al airliner above Tel Aviv. A man carrying a forged British passport with the name Andrew Jonathan Neumann was in a Jerusalem hotel preparing a bomb he was supposed to take on board an El-Al flight leaving Israel, when it accidentally went off. Andrew Jonathan Neumann was very badly injured but strong enough to reveal later to the Israelis that he was not British but Lebanese, and that his operation was supposed to be a special "gift" to Israel from Imad Mughniyeh.

‘A psychopath’

"Bin Laden is a schoolboy in comparison with Mughniyeh," says an Israeli who knows Mughniyeh . "The guy is a genius, someone who refined the art of terrorism to its utmost level. We studied him and reached the conclusion that he is a clinical psychopath motivated by uncontrollable psychological reasons, which we have given up trying to understand. The killing of his two brothers by the Americans only inflamed his strong motivation."

Experts on Iraq and Saddam Hussein also believe that Iraq was the state behind the two terror masterminds. "In recent months, there was a change, and Iraq decided to get into the terror business. On July 7th, they tried for the first time to send a suicide bomber, trained in Baghdad, to blow up Tel Aviv airport (Foreign Report No. 2651)."

Our sources believe that it will be very difficult to get to the bottom of this unprecedented terror operation. However, they believe the chief of the Iraqi SSO is Qusai Hussein, the dictator’s son, and his organisation is the most likely to have been involved.

Mughniyeh, 48, is a "sick man", says an intelligence officer who was in charge of his file. He is considered by Western intelligence agencies as the most dangerous active terrorist today. He is wanted by several governments and the Americans have put a $2m reward on his head.

[Detailed list of Mughniyeh operations removed for Non-Subscriber Extract]

It was the assassination of one man in March 1984 that is said to have made Mughniyeh the CIA’s most wanted terrorist. Mughniyeh allegedly kidnapped the head of the CIA station in Beirut, William Buckley. The kidnapping triggered what later became known as ‘Irangate’, when the Americans tried to exchange Buckley (and others) with arms for Iran. However, the attempt ended in a fiasco. By one unconfirmed account, Mughniyeh tortured and killed Buckley with his own hands.

A year later, in a combined CIA/Mossad operation, a powerful car bomb went off at the entrance to the house of Hizbullah’s spiritual leader, Sheikh Muhammad Hussein Fadlallah. Seventy-five people were killed. One of them was his brother. Hunted by the CIA and the Mossad, Mughniyeh hid in Iran.

In February 1992, Israeli helicopter gunships attacked the convoy of the then head of Hizbullah, Sheikh Abas Musawi, in South Lebanon. Musawi, his wife and children were killed and the revenge attack followed a month later. According to press reports, Mughniyeh was called back into action and, in a well-planned and devastating attack, his people blew up the Israeli embassy in Argentina. The building was demolished and 92 were killed. Only last year, after a long investigation, did Argentina issue a warrant for Mughniyeh’s arrest.

The reprisal for the attack in Argentina came in December 1994, when a car bomb went off in a southern Shi’ite suburb of Beirut. Four people were killed. One of them was called Mughniyeh, but to the deep disappointment of those Israelis who planted the bomb it was the wrong one. Mughniyeh’s life was saved, but his other brother Fuad was killed. Mughniyeh waited for his opportunity for revenge.

Our Israeli sources claim to see Mughniyeh’s signature on the wreckage in New York and Washington. How to counter this kind of terrorism? "To fight these bastards you don’t need a military attack," said an experienced Israeli commando officer. "You only need to adopt Israel’s assassination policy."



Copyright 2001 Jane's Information Group. All rights reserved.
Reblogger is down so comments are out. This third-party shit is for the birds.

Point is, I suppose, what matters? What survives? Art, probably, but that doesn't buy chicken. Learn, surely, about your world (after all, you live in culture of Carnegie libraries and unblimited information, should you care to discern it) but really this may just turn you cynic.

What then? Wave a flag and clutch your loved ones? Learn what under-counter cleaning products can be combined into leathal explosives? Tighten your eight-shot pattern at the local range?

The big buildings killed five or six thousand civilians in ninety minutes (Hiroshima killed 90,000 in one, but hell, that was war). The press says that was the bloodiest day in American history, but that of course doesn't count Antietam, where some 25,000 Americans were killed.

Box knives. Slit throats. A bloody flight attendant, a dark-faced man yelling about a bomb.

And now your civil liberties. Tomorrow, perhaps, your son. Freedom has its price. Free trade, too.

Where are the leaders? Show me.

Sunday, September 16, 2001

Well, I am back. Partly because I am an opinionated asshole who is boring my wife to tears by my drunken accosting of pasersby, but noetheless:

The united states never apprehended Pancho Villa, the terrorist. Nor any other terrorist since, save Noriega, and that was in Panama. Panama.

The military has now achieved broad power. The enemy who achieved the henious vicory resulting in so much death is dead or unkonown. Follow the money, the DEA say, and Bin Laden fits this edict. Strike back, we say. In 1941 the path was daunting, but clear. In 2001 the path is both daunting and invisible.

Who are terrorists? Depends who you ask. The IRA? The PLO? ETA? Chechnya? Tibet? The Miltia? The Taliban? The Canadian seperatists? Each has employed terrorist tactice. The American Revoultion has soldiers shooting officers from the saddle, a tactic flying in the face of "civilized warfare."

What about Tokyo, 1945? Hamburg, 1943? London, 1940?
Dresden? Baghdad?

What about it?

Is it a holy war? What for, then, do we fight? Disneyland? McDonald's? Nike? Whom do we kill? And how?


Read your history, American brothers.. We are responsible. 5000 innocent died, surely, in this quentessetial American Tragedy (jumbojet crashes into a skyscaper on national TV TWICE, for God's sake.). Nothing will reclaim them. Nothing will revenge them. But we have killed so, so many. In eight months our troops stood by while 800,00 people were massacred via machete in Africa. 100,000 a month put to death by the sword while our highly trained soldiers stood by and the American public watched the Simpsons.

We, the people, are accountable. We must be. We didn't even fucking NOTICE.


Who are we and what do we believe in? The Highest Standard of Living? White bread, supermarkets and Hollywood pap?


Where are our leaders? Who gives us cause? GW Bush, for God's Sake?

Where is Patrick Henry, Robert E. Lee? Where is Dr. King or Stokely Carmichael? Malcolm X? Bobby Kennedy?

We are adrift, leaderless in the worst crisis in the world. For God's sake, there isn't even a fucking Hitler.


God help us. It is the worst kind of peril.











Thursday, September 06, 2001

After much deliberation, I am discontinuing this blog as well as the entire Uberhaus site. I feel the need that it met has ceaed to exist. Blogging has always been a compromise for me anyway vecause it lacks both the utter candor of a journal and the raw creativity of online poetry if it is not done perfectly. And I, alas, have been extraordinarily half-assed about it, especially lately.

And so, I bid adeiu to the weblog community in this incarnation. It has been a fond three years.

adios

Tuesday, September 04, 2001

Well, I am through the hard stuff and in a nicer world. Our wedding was truly wonderful, and the meeting of the two families could not have gone better. The dark day was just that, a dark day... a huge and sagging low point. Thanks you fopr your support in this; utter candor is a dangerous thing to release.

We are moving in a new directiuon and it feels very good indeed.

Wednesday, August 29, 2001

After today i am unsure what to believe about anything. I know that grief is hard, I know that loss is hard. I've experienced it. But today I feel I have lost something I can never regain and that everything I've ever believed is a bunch of lies and shit.

Maybe tomorrow I will feel better, but for now I have nothing, nothing left. I am as low as I have ever been, perhaps only because for a while I somehow believed that things might be different.

The despair that one feels at the brink of suicide is not unfamiliar to me, and yet never have I felt it so strongly than at this moment. The things that hold me are my belief in karma, afterlife and commitment. I would not be so selfish as to inflict my loved ones such a permanent pain. Mine, I must assume, is temporary.

I am glad of my years because they give me strength. But not, now, hope. Frankly, I am terrified of my future, once so hopeful. I see aught but peril at each turn but cannot leave the path I am on. I detest myself for a lack of strength. I simply must close my eyes and trust.

It is the darkest day of my life and I have never felt so alone.

Monday, August 27, 2001

Blow after blow befalls us. Haley's grandmother had a stroke and is not expected to live more than a few more hours. We are aghast at the recent events. Each day we wonder if it cannot get worse (answer is, as always, yes). I am unsure how this is happening, but it is true that when things start going badly they will often keep heading downward.

Throughout it all, though, we continue to grow closer and closer, leaning on each other as never before. That's what it is all about, I guess. We feel strong in our love and commitment.

Sunday, August 26, 2001


My friend Dave wrote this a few years ago. I assume he still feels this way... some things don't change.




I'm not patient enough to have kids.

I'm not good enough to be in a band.

I'm not fast enough to race.

I'm not smart enough to run the business.

I'm not good enough to make it.

I'm not graceful.

I'm not organized.

I'm not flexible.

I'm not healthy enough to live a long time.

I can't sing.

I can't keep time.

I can't stay focused.

I can't control my emotions.

I can't remember names.

I can't avoid complications.

I can't relax.

I don't learn well from books.

I don't plan.

I don't know what to do.

I don't fit in.

I don't see me as others see me.

I don't know what she expects.

I don't dress well.

I don't have good looking arms

. I don't read enough.

I don't have what it takes.

I don't listen.

I drink too much coffee.

I drink too many beers.

I eat too much fat.

I am judgemental.

I am bitter.

I am easily frustrated.

I am easily confused.

I am easily discouraged.

I am a little child.

I seek approval from others.

I forget everything.

I remember the bad stuff.

I am a slow learner.

I am messy.

I am full of regrets.

I am full of fear.

I always say the wrong thing.

I play it safe.

I am resentful.
Our beagle is cowering at my feet, a supplicant for God knows what.

Today I killed a dog I've had for ten years.

Oscar attacked Mr. Plymouth in the dog park, viciously biting him on the muzzle. He bit Haley on the hand. A policeman drove up and maced both dogs. Oscar was clearly at fault.


I drove to the animal control and paid 25.00 and had him euthanized.

That's all.

Wednesday, August 22, 2001

Whoo boy. I am totally fucking zoned out right now. I've just put in about sixteen straight hours finishing up a big project. Flash is a wonderful software, truly. I'm listening to radio take 10 and sipping on coffee and IT'S TWO FUCKING FORTY AM. Who am I?

Haley's snoozing away in our nice warm bed. I think I'll go up and join her. It's odd to be sitting here glazed and blinking with hurting back. I hope the client likes the site. I put in some real stoopid shit that serves no purpose other than look cool (a magnifying mask, which I've never had pretense to use before). There's some cool interaction, too.

Guess what I'm doing tomorrow at 9? That's RIGHT! I'm going to the DENTIST! Another thing entirely, some stictly cosmetic filling work. After what I've been through it'll be a picnic. Maybe I'm developing into a masochist or something. Or a nitrous oxide addict. Mmmm. Niii-trousss...

PS. Microsoft bites ass. I rebooted this damned machine at least twenty times today. That's a record. Gotta be. What bullshit that it works so poorly. I actually even PAID for this copy.

Oh, wait... maybe I didn't.

Never mind...

Tuesday, August 21, 2001

Still hammering away. It's a lovely cloudy day. It seems each is better than the last. There is nothing so sweet as recovery, I think...

Sunday, August 19, 2001

I'm hard at work, late for a launch. A bit like playing poker when deep in the hole. Anything I do burns money... it's only a question of how much.

One nice thing about being flat on my back is that it's all lookin' up from here!

A philosophical question: if all your basic financial needs were met, what would you do with yourself? Is it a higher calling to follow the Art Spirit or to serve humanity in some other way? What defines a success? All my life I have had invisible pressure to achieve "success"and have been absolutely unable to define it concisely.

I am wondering what I want to do with my life. A big club I have now joined.

Saturday, August 18, 2001

Whew. What a tumultuous week. Another one. On top of everything, my identity has been stolen (in the form of some checks that accidentally got thrown away for an account I thought I'd closed) and somebody impersonating me has been wreaking havoc on my credit rating writing thousands of dollars of bad checks all over the Northwest. When the shingles come of the roof they come off in huge patches.

Our wedding has been cancelled and moved from the sumptous Oregon coast to a Colorado backyard. Okay by me... I've been so reduced that I'm grateful for anything now. The company I work for is bankrupt and my health has been on the rocks (or on the teeth, I should say), but two root canals later I'm beginng to recover.

At any rate, I'll probably start blogging again soon...

Monday, August 13, 2001

I've been up all night. Today I have taken enough hydrocodone to stun a horse and I feel relatively lucid. The agony of an abscessed tooth cannot be understated. I have been afraid to sleep because I worry that this massive swelling might obstruct my airway.

Haley's got enough shit to worry about. I haven't wanted to trouble her, but she came down anyway and kept me company.The dentist will see me in just two short hours.

I've never been in such pain. What a fuckin' week.

Sunday, August 12, 2001

What a week. Haley's dad broke his neck in a bike accident. We just got back from Colorado. Awful, awful. He's not paralyzed, but a hangman's fracture is no pretty thing. The wedding is in three weeks.

My tooth has abscessed and one side of my face is the size of a grapefruit. Tomorrow at seven AM they kill the tooth. I am on so much hydrocodone that I should be asleep, but it barely keeps pace with the horrific pain.

That's about it. I have a launch tomorrow that is obviously not gonna happen.

Saturday, August 04, 2001

Ah, well, saturday morning and for once
no dim darked dreams and for once
waking in the toothache night
skipped my heart as I thought and thought
and for once falling back to sleep
if theres time
for once

Friday, August 03, 2001

I have a horrific toothache. My dental situation has been a ruin for some years now... my teeth are pearly and straight, but soft. They have betrayed me time and again, degenerating slowly. To open my mouth is a glimpse of mortality and decay.. fillings, crowns, more fillings. I've been unfortunate many times in my choice of dentists and have had cut-rate work done more than once. This unfortunate tooth is in the front and the twinges have ruined my sleep for two nights running. If it weren't for nitrous I would likely be toothless by now.

Wednesday, August 01, 2001

Billy is now a member of my preferred linkstomer list. Dig it. He's very funny.
I just planted two bamboo trees in the little strip of grass between the sidewalk and the street (using the bit of sod I cut away to conveniently cover the water meter). I am very excited about this... a future wall of bright green and golden stalks twenty to thirty feet high. A wall that will grow like a motherfucker and require no maintenance, a wall that will shield our porch from the street and create a little tunnel over the sidewalk. I am excited to see it grow.

One month from today I will be married. My heart begins trotting at the very thought. I can't wait.


Now it's time to walk the dogs before I set about working...

I see blogger has decided to post. The rather mysterious workings of this behemoth that is Blogger.com leave thousands in the lurch. I need to go ahead and install this other software, crank down and make it work the way I want. The trouble is that when I bend myself to such dreary technical tasks I usually want to be paid for it. I hate computers. I really do.

Particularly this one, screamer though it is...

Blogger has not posted my posts for some while now. This, I assume, will be no exception...

Tuesday, July 31, 2001

Dark dreams. Dreams have secret meanings, deep power. Dreams can shape the day. I lay in bed, awake at six, brought to conciousness by a dream of unredeemable destruction and loss, of waste, of indolent choices thoughtlessly made. Irrevocable, destructive. I watched my life burn away in a fierce hot wind. Beside me, Haley lay sweating and dreaming along the same lines. I had many girlfriends and Livi sat still in a swing in a desolate playground while I sat and smoked.

Our lives were in ruins in both dreams.

Are dreams portents or warnings? Are omens truly omens if they are heeded? Can you shake the dreary cloud of them and proceed as though nothing had happened, or is it a wiser course to heed them, take what meaning you can and turn it to action where possible?

The gift of waking from a hideous dream is not to be undervalued, not in the least.
Reblogger is now back up for want of anything else which remotely resembles a commenting system.
Best search strings of late (because I have no current comments system I am looking at my stats, quite impressive with damn near 30,000 hits in July... i assume this is because of the random image on my blog and the relative boredom of most of the readers):

7.14% snoring and pillow%0d%0a

7.14% fucking angelina jolie

14.29% boom boom room oregon


But why 7.14? What does pi have do with this shit, anyway?
I seem to have momentarily dropped from the world that is blogger. I hope to come back soon as this has been one of my main creative outlets. That's pretty sad considering the dubious quality of my recent posts. I have been rather deleriously happy in recent weeks which makes for dull correspondence.

The wedding is September 1st. My birsthday is on August 5th, too. God only knows how old I will be. God, my mom, me, Haley and about sixty other people. God only cares, I guess.

Sunday, July 29, 2001

I had a dream last night which so disturbed me that the dream itself, and even the feeling that rose from it, have vanished. Whether because of a propensity to foget the unpleasant or a survival mechanism that prevents me from harboring seeds of self-destruction too long I cannot say.

I just ate about three pounds of watermelon, two pounds more than my stomach can hold.

My commenting system does not work.

And what else...

Wednesday, July 25, 2001

I've been away for a while now. Like a mini-vacation. Little to talk about, at least right now. Odd how when you're happiest you have the least to say. A trite truism if ever there was one.

Wednesday, July 18, 2001


Have you ever had a conversation with someone whom you thought was cool and suddenly, without warning, you revised your opinion of them mid-stream?

Have you ever thought about one of your friends whom you liked a great deal but haven't seen for some time only to realize that they really aren't your friend and in fact never were?

Are there things long-forgotten by all concerned except yourself that still make you cringe and burn with shame?

It would be lovely if failure was a desirable thing. Giving up is the dicate of many religions, and yet is the thing that makes us feel the worst.

Oh boy! The design winners for Blogger have created some really lovely templates. Look for them in a neigborhood next to yours soon.

I'm staying the fuck away from the computer today and probably tomorrow too.

Except for now, of course...

Tuesday, July 17, 2001

One more day, now, and the Haley comes home. I have never been so excited in my life, truly!

Tomorrow it's the marathon of cleaning and picking up dogshit and doing yardwork. I think I can deal...
Just got off the phone with Haley in London. She's home in a day or so.

I'm pretty drunk right now, and although I cannot type for shit I will say that I have been reminded tonight of the magic that runs through my life. I may have lost and lost big at poker, but the paltry cash could not buy a moment of tonight, not if you added ten zeroes.

The world is what you make it, and what you see, and what you remember.

Dear God, let me always remember the wonder and joy I feel right now.

(the gin headache, though...)

Monday, July 16, 2001

Let me say this: I fucking hate Microsoft.

It is so, so shitty.

I have used every almost MS operating system: DOS, Win95, 98 NT, 2000... they ALL suck. Huge, complicated pieces of shit that lock up and crash. Easily hacked, imeensely (and needlessly) complex, ugly and ubiquitous.


Yes, yes, you guessed it. I did not save the animation I have been working on all morning and POW, the box froze and ALL IS GONE.

Woe is me.


Microsoft: it's not that it's everywhere. It's not that it's shit. It's that it's everywhere and it's shit.

Sunday, July 15, 2001

Stop, Dave. My mind is going.
I spent the day with my father. Late, after some wine, he read me a poem by Theodore Roethke about his father and his voice cracked, tears streaming down his face. I squeezed his arm and drank deeply. I love you, dad, I said.

Later still, after dinner, he was in tears over a joke about a redneck hotel. How do you tell that it's a redneck hotel? You call down to the desk and say, "I got a leak in the sink" and they say, "Go right on ahead."

I spent the day in the back of a car reading J.R.R. Tolkien aloud to my stepmother, dad and daughter. I walked where I will be married six weeks hence. I put my feet in the cold pacific. I watched my stepbrother clench his fist as he made up his mind about his future. I have a pocketful of seashells.

I said goodbye to my daughter, my weekly goodbye that never gets easier no matter how much I practice.

My dogs are glad to see me; they have destroyed nothing although I've been gone all day.

Haley is right now in London and may call any moment. I have not talked to her in days and miss her as I would miss one of my senses.

Saturday.

This was Saturday.

Saturday, July 14, 2001

Rasmus has found the following meta tag to prevent Microsoft from adding "smart tags" to your web page::
<meta name="MSSmartTagsPreventParsing" content="TRUE">
... I would recommend adding this unless you are fond of IE6 inserting links to Microsoft affiliates on your site. And you think pop-up messages are annoying...

Also, Rasmus my musing about pointlessness rather well. I agree, especially about how blogging makes it possible to meet people from all over the world. In a way, it is like a huge apartment in which all the windows face each other. Certainly a particular (and peculiar) type of person will commit to logging their daily activities and innermost thoughts in a public forum. Sometimes I get the impression that this is the sole point of contact for some of them...

Friday, July 13, 2001

I've been reading a lot of blogs and at some point almost everyone asks the question, "why the fuck am I doing this?"

I have no answer.
Up now and working. I am procrastinating other things.

I would love to afford to be in a position where I could have contempt for money. Hypocrisy and irony, hand in hand, all the way to the bank. The concept of money enslaves millions, even those who are well beyond success (or any definition of it they'd care to use). I think that making money is a teeny-weeny artsitic impulse, a godlike desire to create something where there was nothing before. In the beginning was the Word. Or darkness, depending on where you crack the book. The Blackfoot believe that the Sun populated the first attempt at earth with snakes, but they writhed and burrowed until the world was all mud. So then he made a Man, Napi. Napi was far more trouble than the snakes and was always scheming and plotting to get more than his share without working for it. Of course, he was working far harder than he realized.

John D. MacDonald said it best: "The truly lazy man is always misunderstood."
I am procrastinating going to bed. I think it's the unfathomable hassle of brushing my teeh that is holding me back. So much easier to stare hour upon hour into the computer.

And hit refresh on my blog over and over and over until all 22 images have appeared. I keep puting them in. I wonder how many before the javascript won't run any more?

I am wondering if what separates people is in a constant battle with what brings them together. Perhaps successful salesmen are adept at exploiting what brings people together to their own ends, thus separating them. I wonder if these forces have their own volition and sense of purpose or whether they are merely states which exist independent of any outside influence. Or if they exist at all.

Do I sound stoned?


I'm not.

But wondering all the same. And striving to be relevant, perhaps.

Thursday, July 12, 2001

Well, today has dawned sunny and bright. I'm feeling rather accomplished as I have been attending to wedding details. For some reason I back-burnered several tasks (including tuxedoes) and am now in a flurry of getting the shit straight. The tuxedo lady and I had a great time looking over the various types, but I knew from the start what I wanted: a very old-fashioned six-button tux with tails and a white vest and tie. Fred Astairin' you in the FACE.
The feeble journal of late has been utterly devoid of any philosophical musing. I've often wondered about the uses of such pondering; today I was explaining to Olivia what a light year is. I first asked her how far she could walk in a year if she never stopped (the never stopping was, for her, the most fascinating part of the discussion. "Not even to eat? Or go to the bathroom?"). Then how far in a car, then in a plane. Then we moved on to light speed (299'792'458 m/s ). It is strange to begin to quantify the universe in such minute measurements as meters and seconds, but it puts it in perspective. Travel at light speed for a year is a remarkable concept, but millions of light-years simply boggles the mind. We then started thinking about the very small, the atoms and why our hand doen't dissolve into the table and vice versa.

Having a kid is great because you realize you don't know shit about SHIT. All this little information I bandy about is poppycock, rote-memorized drivel involving no thinking at all. Facts need no be defended and therefore need never be questioned. As the Mormons are so fon of saying (and with good reason),"With proof there need be no faith." I have always believed in asking.

The question's the thing.


10 different backgrounds now and counting.

Okay. Enough is enough. Every entry today has been about the minute adjustments to this website and the frustrations there entailed. These adjustments smack of mania.... like some tweaker scrubbing her nathroom floor with a toothbrush at four in the morning. Give me a sense of balance, of purpose...
and for the blog itself... shit. shit on a shingle.

The content is the point here, not the medium. Not messing with greymatter and slapping together a production html site just like I used to do before I learned flash. Not configuring cgi scripts.

Not maniacally trying to make up for a bad review.

If anyone is still bothering to read today, my heartfelt apologies. I would've deleted the whole mess if it weren't for a nagging suspicion that I will do exactly the same thing some other day. Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it.
And so is everyone else, by jesus.

(but special thanks to Jodi for turning me on to Noah Grey's site. That fucker is SMART. And a great designer to boot.

okay.. I'm changing over to greymatter. Feel like a traitor, really. But I need to cut this page into header, footer and sidebars and this takes time. So for now, blogger hi-ho.

Wednesday, July 11, 2001

Well, I'm about ready to give up. My limited experience with eprl and cgi has left me unable to analyize why this particular code is not working. Maybe it's a server thing, maybe not. Whatever it is, I am beyond caring. Reblogger seems to be down for the count nd so that option is not availible either. Drat, because the comments are the fun part,

I have been in a cleaning flurry. I feel oddly disappated and unable to focus. Depressed? Well, if it's any indicator, I'm listening to fuckin' Morrisey right now.

Hand me a razor, Jeeves!

But sir, I shaved you this morning!

Blast you, Jeeves! Are you my butler or aren't you?

This is broken! The damned cgi ISN'T WORKING! I'M A TEENAGE LOSER FUCK! I'VE WASTED AN ENTIRE DAY ON THIS BULLSHIT!!! ARRRRRRRRGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!
ARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Okay. maybe these will work now? maybe?
And it looks like reblogger is down, to. Sigh. Not my day. Poop.
Reblogger is reinstalled until I come up with a better solution. A cgi or perl comment code would be most helpful. I'll keep lookin'...
I found the trouble. My server doesn't support php extensions. Damn, damn. No comments for the moment. I'm working on it.
I can make random images work, but I'm damned if I can get dotcommets to function. Anyone with a moment drop me a line, won't you?
Well, now... the images are random. Seven so far, but we'l see if I might not make a few more...
Well, this reblogger thing isn't really working out. It's clunky and awkward and has that big, nasty ad platered over the top of it. Anyone have a php or perl script they can give me for comments along with so guidance on how to set it up? Quid pro quo... I'll make you a little flash spinny thing or a stereo or something in exchange.

I'm drinking my breakfast. No, no... I mean a shake, you goof. fruit season and all, plus it's bloody hot outside today.

My father is visiting starting tomorrow. I finally have reached a stage in my life where we are friends. I never used to admire my dad, but I certainly do now. Maybe I can get him to go to the Tillamook Air Station with me and Zach. more aircraft pictures, oh boy!
I have implemented a slight change. The design will be different each day for the next eight days. We'll see how this works out...

Tuesday, July 10, 2001

Well, a former coworker emailed me. haven't heard from her in a good while... she's blogging too. As soon as I get a link I'll put it up for everyone. She's a great writer and the fastest typist I have ever seen.
Anyway, her email brought to mind the very public forum that is blogging; I took advantage of the archive downtime and put up a password for the archive site. If anyone wants it please email me and I'll be happy to provide.

I am a very, very stinky man. My skin is crawling so I will now step into the shower. Thank God, Baal or whatever you worship that there is no showercam.
Haley called from Tanzania! Wheeee! She is having a nice time but her sister is being absolutely horrid. Perhaps she can arrange to marry her off to a Masai. Put a dish in that woman's lip! Yeah!

Don't need no coffee no mo no mo, don't need no coffee no mo'!

Well, maybe just ONE more cup... it's a felony to refuse in the state, anyway.

Fixed the little problem with the pop window.
Well, thanks for all the props on the "redesign." I'll probably keep it for a while. The picture is of the famed Spruce Goose. The wingspan is longer than a football field.

I need coffee bad, man. Reeeaallll badd.

Monday, July 09, 2001

Okay, this non-redesign redesign is so dumb. I gotta stop. My goal is to just change the position and content of the layers. No new code at all. Photoshop is allowed but no new scripts may be written. And I need to use notepad.

And here was the trouble. You see, IE is so helpful when you are selecting text (say on the Blogger template page) that it will select exrta text for you. Things like this <
And this {

which can make some things not work very well. Also, I was having a hell of a time with "Links." It was "links." Makes a difference, and I'm not even German.

I am so hungry right now! I think I'll eat me a whole big can of sardines!
Man, these guys are funny. I reject the earnest, droll preachings of theweblogreview.com for this site! I want to send in mine just so they'll lay me open! Scre my bad design! Screw my dull life! Hate me! Hate me!
I was going to leave well enough alone and ease my aching ass out from this computer and out of the hottening room (western sun and two huge monitors makes for an Easy Bake oven) but I realized that I feel absolutely terrible and wanted to spew this horror all over the Internet. Perhaps my depression is merely circumstantial; afetr all, my wife has dropped out of civilzation for three weeks and is having the time of her life without me. I am broke, flat broke, and forced to make a choice of severing a business relationship I cherish (and thus kiss more than ten grand bye bye) or dragging myself through the arduous task of selling myself to new clients or employers. I haven't been exercising, haven't been eating properly, cleaning the house or maintaining an even strain at all. I feel utterly adrift and somewhat without hope.

Lots of it going around today, from what I've ben reading. Maybe I ned to get up and smell the flowers. Or at least water them, huh? Walk the dogs, maybe? Huh? Huh?
It suddenly occurred to me that I hate fuckin' RED! The crimson, as they call it, is a most unnatural color.

The frankensteinian green is much, much better...
I can't really explain the red. that's the sort of stupid shit I'll do to avoid a real redesign. I keep thinking about doing a neat Flash interface that would be driven by the blogger html. I've done it before, and it's actually much less work than standard html/css stuff once you figure out how it's done. It would certainly look cooler than this tripe. I figure white text and a gloomy red background might well give me motivation to change it.

Doctor once said "Cheap shoes, cheap eyeglasses and cheap tools are o bargain." Add to that cheap... or, in my case, free...office chairs. My ass burns and itches for thirty minutes before it finally goes blisfully numb. The chair also will tip you right into your ass, blammo. Not adjustable, either. Maybe I should pony up and get a real one, but they are so damned ugly unless you feel like spending an assload.

last night I went to cory's house for his birthday. He's a very acomplished drummer, playing in no less tha three big local bands. He has two kits set up in his studio and I had the rare, rare pleasure of playing double drums with Curtis. These kits are both really sweet, too. Cory has my cymbals that I stupidly sold him six years ago for 500.00 I could kick myself because the ride is the sweetest cymbal I have ever heard and I'll not ever find another like it.

Perhaps I'll get back into playing in bands, but perhaps not. It would seem that the time to do that has past... it would've been a great single man thing to do but it doesn't really fit with married life at all.

*crack* goes the whip, so it's back to worky!

umm...

Sunday, July 08, 2001

What magic causes me to doubt even this city
floating above the clouds
spun from fancy, a silver thread in a fading tapestry?

the ripples of it, unseen
gently lap the sea-hard hull of my craft.
On worn oarlocks muffled against any noise I pull,
facing backward
redoubling

as sweat beads and rolls
no thought to soft hands, nor nod to pain is given
calling this child who always finds the hardest way
some day, I tell myself, this doubt will seem small
as a star

lost among brothers
in the summer sky
I rarely go to bars. Mostly because I have no need for the dual purposes of bar-going, namely camaraderie and gettin' some action. My life is very different from my recent past.


I was drinking Meyer's and soda in a pint glass with limes. This is a great drink for several reasons. One, rum is easier on the system than almost any other liquor. Two, the soda (instead of coke) hydrates you as you tank up. Three, the drink looks so pale and weak that your average bartender will dump a bit more in (for you see, they are used to the inky brown of rum and cokes instead of the Johnny Winter I order). Meyer's is good Jamaican rum available in most places. The drink tastes like diluted coca cola.

I have a remarkably clear head condsidering. I assume that this new flush of youth is entirely due to the Fat Burners I have been taking for several days... they are a mixture of herbal speedy shit (ginko and that sort), amino acids and caffeine. This was the shit we pounded up and snorted the other night which left four extremely drunk and stoned people without a trace of hangover the next day (my friends, inspired by this success, went out the next night and drank deep, scoring cocaine somewhere on the way. Let us say that the coca was not nearly so kind). It is quickly supplanting food in my new bachelor lifestyle.

Whoa. I just crashed. Pow. Goodnight.



Saturday, July 07, 2001

A bad review of my weblog. Whoa. That sucks, dude.

Now, I could go off and say that Brent has no leg to stand on becasue on HIS weblog the entry today is a spam some guy from Bacardi sent me in 1998. He is, after all, the webmaster of the weblog review and did say some nice things in spite of the low rating (which I don't care about. 1.5 1.5. Can't get much lower. I don't care about it. 1.5)

It is immature to mention that Brent misspelled "definitely." For you see, he is right. My weblog is banal and pointless, particularly lately. It is self-pitying, self-serving, grim and often turgid. It uses needlessly large words and too many at that. I would avoid it myself if it wasn't about me and I didn't have to write the damned thing.

So why the fuck am I here typing this thing, then, after this epiphany?

Well, the truth is, I've been pulishing mediocre material on the internet for a long, long time. I've filled up fifty megabytes with bad poetry and drunken, pointless observation about the world around.

I am obsessed with journaling in the public eye.

I am addicted. There. I said it.

I have no idea why. I cannot fully disclose anything, cannot write an essay or really do anything interesting. All I can really do is discuss whatever's happening in my day, just as I would with co-workers, friends or family. For God's sake, it's communication, not entertainment. But it's dull, slow going most of the time. Most small talk is. Getting reviewed on it is not exactly breakfast in bed.

I know that I occasionally do cool things and can write witty little shit when pressed. I've never been called dull (until now).

A great cartoon in the New Yorker shows this artist in front of some hideous, huge painting and saying "I think it's brilliant, but I think all my work is brilliant."

this ain't brilliant.


Fuckin' 1.5 Shit.

Blogger, too, was down today. Alon with MSN and my ISP and mailserver. WEIRD.

So, so... what's up? Well, my friend Ron gave me (more or less) his son's drumset. It's a CB700 male kit with traditional tom sizes, a nice bass pedal and bent-up hihat. No snare or hihat cymbals, but I should be able to beg or borrow these from my drummer friends. I miss playing the drums, the sheer abandon of laying down a beat. I miss jamming with my pals, too.
This is one nice thing about the wife being out of town. The only nice thing, actually.

My creativity has really tanked lately. Please forgive the swill.

Thursday, July 05, 2001

My DSL is up, down and up again. It seems the ISP I use is fond of doing reconfigurations on the fly which often leaves me hanging. Sucks, especially when I'm as behind as I am. I'm remotely configuring a shopping cart and right in the middle it dies. This post probably will too.

I'm way sadder today than I've been in quite a while.

Wednesday, July 04, 2001

I am listening to Live365. Frank Sinatra singing with the Dorsey orchestra. Sweet, sweet voice from such a skinny, mean little fuck. The girls would shriek for him, absolutely scream at the top of their lungs. Dad says that the funny thing was that they were looking at each other.

Last night was full of philosophical drunken conversation which seemed very profound at the time but has since vanished into a vague haze. Ah, well. Such is alcohol. Oddly, I feel quite good today. Can't explain THAT one, seeing as I drank and smoked enough last night for five or six fellows. I seem to pour liquor into people when they come over. It's obvious that although I do not drink often (perhaps once a week), my capacity continues to expand as though I was a habitual user. Alcoholism runs fat and wide through both sides of my family and thusly stands as a warning. However, I am unaware of the drastic personality change that is usually the hallmark of a problem drinker. Of course I am not exactly a fit judge, and I am well aware of the easy lying which comes with alcoholism. I would not wish my youth on anyone; in fact, the Adult Children of Alcoholics syndrome so recently popularized has done much to bring to light the considerable trauma of growing up with a drunk parent.

Adult children, though. Can't say as I like that, accurate though it be.

And I have work to do this 4th of July. Better get on it.


You know, I am now aware of why I wasn't single longer. It would've fucking killed me.

Any semblance of a regular life is gone. I went out to see Nina Simone, the "High Priestess of Soul," with a few friends. She had a white, white band that wouldn't have known a groove if it had latched onto their collective ass. It diminished it a bit, but she's a legend and now I can say I saw her. Like a merit badge, maybe.

Anyway, I was out with Brian and Demian and some other old friends. After exhausting our resouces at the martini bar, we came back over here and kept drinking. Mescal, bourbon, all of it. Plus, we crushed up and snorted herbal diet pills. Not bad. Kind of gingery. I pointed out that most people leave such stories behind in their teens. i pointed out that this new experience would make a great story. I did not, however, point out that we will most likely not share these somewhat pathetic stories.

Maybe it is best, because what might otherwise be construed as a folly of youth can be more accurately (and soberly) reconstructed as a self-destructive buzzquest with the ultimate aim of further alcohol consumption. The pearls of wisdom prevail and we keep silent.

At the very least, though, I enhanced Brian's reputation as a crazy motherfucker with this nonsense.

But the result is that it is now 3:12 AM and I am drunk, drunk, with a pounding headache, dry cigarette mouth and racing heart. The dreadful practicalities assert themselves.

I wish my woman was here. The travel company says that the safari got off without a problem, so I guess the missing health certificate was no big deal.

Let me just get through the next fifteen days without too much trouble. Please, please.


Please.

Tuesday, July 03, 2001

Morning. I am really fuzzy today. Something about waking up to a trashed, empty house with beer bottles all over the place that makes one wish for a maid.

Ah, well. Maybe I'll write more later.
P.S.

The Blogger spellcheck is mighty cool. Not seen anything like it. Could be the beginning of pay dictionaries for us all.

Ah, poker. I believe it is a mistake to read about big-stakes games and then play with your friends.. A big mistake. As the book I was so recently reading said, "The fella who invented poker was smart, but the guy who invented the chip was a goddamned genius. It's not money. It's not food money, rent money, money for your kids. It's not real. Sure you're down fifteen grand, twenty grand. It's the game that counts. Getting back in.
Kinda like watching Bogart smoke. Reading Hemingway about being drunk.

The only thing that I got from this book was this rule: the winner of poker is reckoned by the amount he walks out with. But with gamblers, they never walk out. There's always someone who will bluff you, call your courage to match an unknown variable. You pony up when you believe you are ahead and still lose. You bet the whole shithouse on a longshot and still win

I suppose it is classed as personal philosophy.

.

Monday, July 02, 2001

Just heard from the wonderful woman. Haley hasn’t slept since Saturday night and has been trying to guide her dazed sibs around London town. Why? Because BJ has forgotten his health certificate. This is worse than forgetting your passport when it comes to Africa. He may have difficulty getting into Nairobi. I’ll keep you informed.

Anyway, it seems Haley was trying to get everyone onto the right train to go to a hospital for reimmunization (trouble, because BJ has been taking larium for malaria and has adversely reacted to it) and was confused by the tube system. Understandable… London is a huge fucking city. They got on the wrong train and were lost very soon. They managed to hail a taxi and Haley talked to the driver while her brother and sister fell asleep. Her sister woke up grouchy and began bitching about Haley’s incompetence.

Maybe she’ll be eaten by a lion or something. The short, miserable life of Francis Macomber.


Anyway, we could only talk for five minutes because she had to board. Apparently London has been stripped of its charming phone booths. No doubt they are all in McMansions in the states.

Sunny. Hot. Sticky.

This is shit, I tell you.

Shit.

Well, I have discovered it. The flight to London got it early, so I think she must have gotten on the much earlier flight to Nairobi and had no time to call me. That's about all I can figure... otherwise she's in London right now at about five in the evening and isn't calling for some other reason.

The main difference in this phone-waiting game is that I am not wondering if I have said or done something which has blown it (which usually I had). Paige is going through this right now and boy, do I feel for her.

But I wish, I wish, I wish the phone would RING!!!
It is odd but I have found myself sitting by the phone, carrying the phone and looking at the phone like a smitten teenager (or myself a bit more than a year ago). There is a window of time in which Haley can call from London that started at 2am and ends in an hour. I am resigning myself to not hearing from her until the fourteenth. I am really sad about this as I am totally pining fpr her. Slept like shit, etc etc. Got up this morning and let the cat out and found the mastiff lying in front of the cat box chomping away like it was popcorn. Dear sweet Jesus, give me strength!

I, smart man that I am, have arranged for a host of activities to fill my empty, miserable life this week. Poker tonight on the patio (which needs to be mowed, weeded and furnished with cheap plastic table and chairs), Nina Simone tomorrow (!) and then the Glorious 4th with Olivia and perhaps my brother. And then, who knows?

I haven't had coffee. I hope this loneliness wears off soon. Funny, I used to be quite accustomed to it but now I am at wits' end.



Sunday, July 01, 2001

Yes, Mr. lonely sap gets amped to see the little envelope in the top corner of my screen. Goddamned Microsoft Outlook and it's gimmicks. It permits every sort of spam and virus and then gives you options as to how, exactly, you wish to be informed that you can Grow Your Penis Up To 6"!!! or all about The KIT They Want BANNED In all 50 STATES. Why? Because these secrets were never intended to reach your eyes...

Newsweek published a cover about the Internet a few years ago where various scientists talked about how extensive surfing can lead to depression.

Doy!

For most people, extensive surfing of the Internet equates to extensive periods of idly masturbating in front of a smorgasbord of depravity the likes of which have been even undreamt since Caligula invented respectable bestiality. Is it depressing to see a newsgroup entirely devoted to thousands of low-res digital pictures of anonymous, ugly girlfriends lackdaisically twaddling for the camera? Is it depressing to be bombarded with endless pop-up windows touting Hot Asian Sluts and Gigantic Titties And Cumshots? Is it depressing to be turned on by this in spite of better judgment?

Survey says... fuck, yes!

Masturbation has always been a taboo subject with men. They giggle when it comes up and act as though they've done it once or twice. But I wonder how much impotence is the result of private moments with onself on the bathroom floor, in the shower ...or in front of the computer. Masturbation seems to perfect for many suspended adolescents because it requires little time and no commitment. Like nitrous oxide, the effect is intense and short-lived. And for many, it lessens the wolvish slavery to the Urges.

But it also is pathetic and lonely, despite what Dr. Ruth says. Now, now... calm down. Pathos is in the eye of the beholder, the public eye. Let's use a case in point: cigarettes. Smoking is evil, stinky, it kills, etc etc. But it is cool. Bogart was cool. Bette Davis was cool. Shit, when Sir Walter Raleigh strode into a clearing and saw an Indian jam a burning stick into his mouth and blow out smoke, what did Sir Walter say? He fucking said the sixteenth-century equivalent of "Cool!"

In movies when a chump turns cool, he smokes to show it.

But masturbation in the movies? Think Fast Times at Ridgemont High. I mean, the scene of Judge Rheinhold beating off in the bathroom to a Phoebe Cates fantasy may well have killed his career just as swiftly as co-starring with Jennifer Connelly. What did Judge do after Fast Times? Beverly Hills Cop? Lackey to Eddie Murphy. Spanking himself showed ol' Judge to be patheic, foolish and self-indulgent. Worse than the pirate hat. (As to the Jennifer Connelly thing, when you think about it, every actor who played opposite her had their career nosedive. Frank Whaley, the kid in Rocketeer, all of them! Check it out yourself!)

Is the Internet depressing? I ask you, O Internet!

Also, hey to Paige and Andrea. Thanks for posting comments! Glad you're here!

Am I cleaning? No no no! I am sitting IN FRONT OF THE FUCKING COMPUTER!!!

But at least I can't see the dirty house!

I seem to fucking swear a lot more when Haley's away. A whole motherfucking lot more.

Goddamned bachelor shit.

Whew. What a day. I said goodbye to the love of my life for 18 days. 18days with no contact at all.... Haley's in Tanzania away from all modern communications conveniences. It is very hard to be away from her. I have no wish to feel numb to her absense, but neither do I wish to feel miserable. I am a big, sappy baby. If we could only talk it would be better, but we can't so I'll stop my fucking whining.

I went with my brother (bless his soul) to the Spruce Goose museum in McMinnville. Zachy's father-in-law is in town and went along with us. The place kicked ass. I have to say I know a shitload about WWII aircraft. It all came flooding back to me in the worst know-it-all sort of way. I was fourteen again. Dear, dear Zach. He knew I'd be feeling awful and lonesome and wanting to do something and he invited me to come. I am lucky to have such a brother, folks. He is something else.

And the dogs are miserable, assuming (as dogs will) that Haley's vanishing is a punishment of sorts. Mr. P is really a bit too dense to figure it out, but poor damaged Treat is a mess. I must coax her back to health and sanity. Bonding time with a wounded Dachshund.

I am tired and lonely and sore. I think I will clean house, by god.

Tuesday, June 26, 2001

I walked this afternoon through a graveyard which was founded in 1851. It takes up almost a square half-mile in the heart of Southeast Portland. It's fenced with rusting chain-link and has many beautiful trees. The headstones range from the nearly-dissolved, crumbling older marble to nearly-new Russian markers with laser-etched portraits of the deceased (or diseased, as Mark Twain would say. Towering above all are huge trees, linden and oak and redwood.

Ironically, I find this graveyard to be almost ghost-free. There is a calm of nothingness and eternity which has settled over it like a robe. There is a war memorial erected in 1903 to the brave and fallen of the four recent wars: Mexican, Civil, Indian and Spanish-American. Modern war had not yet begun. It is always odd for me to consider those who died in 1899. They had far more in common in heir daily lived with Homer than with me. No car, electric light, telephone conversation, world war, airplane, laundromat. No Hemingway, Marilyn Monroe, FDR, Superman, Hitler.

Weird. I walk on their graves and think of how short my life actually is.

Nothing new, I suppose. I've been contemplating my mortality since I was about five.

On a different note, the comments section is now jury-rigged using reblogger. I haven't the time to actually configure a php comment book on my own server as so many of my friends have done so well. Now if you could build them in flash! Ah!

Monday, June 25, 2001

Perhaps it's just my system, but the Net is painfully slow this morning. It's odd thinking of the anoymous millions skittering about from work or home. And the Internet is usually a private thing; television was a family activity, at least. Even the hallmark of American individuality, the almighty car, is something that can be enjoyed by several people at once. But the Internet evolved from work and is usually viewed on workstations. Maybe someday there will be a multi-user computer that becomes popular? I hardly think that the current paradigm of tower/keyboard/monitor/mouse will be anything anyone would put in their living room. But who knows? It certainly wouldn't be any uglier than a big television, would it?

Haley's leaving for three weeks. I am really upset, more than I imagined. Three weeks is a long, long time. At least it seems so now.

Sunday, June 24, 2001

Oh my!... a spell check for blogger! Where's my custom dictionary when I need it?

It's cold here... windy,rainy and cold. We just finished watching 42 Up, the latest of a series of documentaries begun in 1964 about fourteen then-seven-year-old British kids. Every seven years they are rvisited by director and film crew to see what has become of them. I tell you this now: if you do not wish to see some truly scary shit which will make you inspect your own life with the cold, practised eye of an audience member then avoid this fine film. Otherwise, have at it and don't be shy. We immensely enjoyed it and have been talking about it steadily.

Oh, I'm feelin better. These inadequate hard-on-myself feelings tend to come and go. Sopmetimes I document them only to look at what I've said in horror and dismay. 'Tis the human condition, I suppose.

Funny, I get the blues when it's sunny all the time. I was raised in Arizona, so maybe I just have had my fill of "beautiful" weather.


Saturday, June 23, 2001

We've got guests coming over. Friends of Haley's, one of whom is a boyfriend that we've not yet met. A BBQ. I'm not much in the mood. I'm not feeling particularly sociable. I have a way of storing up pent-in energy until it becomes a bitter, stagnant force to be reckoned with. All that is neded is a catalyst, and I'm fond of bringing out 107 proof bourbon at such times. Additionally, I've been eating these "all natural" fat burner diet pills which are a mixture of ginko, caffeine and several other wire-you-out ingredients. Maybe i should grind up some of the motherfuckers and snort them.

I am disgusted with myself. I've allowed myself to get out of shape both physicaly and artistically. I am almost wholly without discipline in my daily life. Sure, I work, but I am feeling uninspired and insipid... a hack-job shadow of all I dreamed I could be.

Guests are here. Oh boy!

Friday, June 22, 2001

Cloudy again in Portland town. We went to see Disney's latest movie last night, Atlantis: The Lost Empire and found it lacking conscience. Sure, Disney is trying to distance itself from what the critics have called its "Disneyness" with such features as Mulan and The Emperor's New Groove. All three of these recent releases feature original stories and very little music (the latter is much appreciated by any parent now listening to the shrill singing in the sacharrine Little Mermaid and its ilk). They also have boldly different animation styles and have non-traditional characters in the lead role. Emperor was pretty much the peak, beacuse Atlantis blew the big sucka wad witha cheesily conventional (and yet almost impossibly convoluted) plot, cookie-cutter characters and weird mixed morals. For example, the animations were so sexy! I mean, every single person had a gym hardbody and shook their booties as though they were pole-dancing. That isn't necessarily a bad thing, but it it, after all, a movie for kids. If I wasn't a dad I probably wouldn't see such swill.

Give me Iron Giant any day. That was a fine fuckin' movie.

Personally, our life is back on a nice track. It seems that the roads are ever salted with potholes and that, from time to time, we are bound to crack a wheel in them. As long as we emerge on the other side the better for it all is well.

Thursday, June 21, 2001

I would venture to say that few things are more destructive than the naked truth as you see it.

Especially if you just fuckin' blurt it on out.

That's all.

Wednesday, June 20, 2001

This was a story of Dave's but it was just too goddamned long. Sorry.
I was at my friend Greg's house last night. His uncle was an antropologist and collected various Mayan artifacts. Greg brought out the three he inherited. The first was a tool of some kind made from a bird's beak. It was pretty creepy. The next item was a jawbone fragment from a Mayan royal. It was about 3000 years old. Many of the teeth had been pulled out... Greg said that they had been set with gold and precious stones. Made me think to hold this thing, this human jaw.

But the last item... whoa. It was a tiny mask with little round eyes and three little holes over the mouth. It appeared to be wearing a bandage and had what looked to be a lump on its forehead with stitches in it. It was carved from a single piece of bone... skull, it looked. Greg said he thought it was an infant's death mask. That chilled me. What the fuck was I doing handling something like that?

It gave us both very weird dreams.

I'm ICQ'ing Paige right now. It's amazing how frank an ICQ discussion can be. Very enjoyable, funny and illuminating. She sometimes has multiple discussion going on at once. How she does it is God's own mystery!

Tuesday, June 19, 2001

Hot today. I've been super busy, my computer keeps mysteriously quitting on me (save early and often) and my office is a frickin' oven. Two huge monitors pushing out heat isn't helping, too.

Bitch bitch bitch.

I'm in a fallow period of blogging for sure. Nothing remotely interesting is occuring to me and so I am writing banalities and whiny drivel. Ah well.

I am getting spammed with "inspirational" chain letters from someone I don't even KNOW. I think that those things are just awful. The last one claims "One guy sent this to 500 people!" Great! I added this person to my junk senders list. Probably will send viruses. Maybe she just did.

Typhoid Mary loved to cook. We all must remember that.

Sunday, June 17, 2001

Blogger deleted my last post, the bastards. Sigh. Imperfect technology. Not much said, anyway, so you ain't missing much. I did finally get an ICQ number which is posted at right. That's about it.

Thursday, June 14, 2001

I am listening to music that nobody, nobody, likes. trust me. It is at once technically masturbatory, tonically offensive and chromatically purile. It harks to the worst of jazz, country and rock all at once. It's showy and sounds brash. It is unrefined.

Yes, I am talking about the Dixie Dregs. This music is as white as white gets. Why do I listen to this shit, this dreck, this swill? Simple. I listened to it when I was young and, bad as it is, it takes me back. This phenomenon goes far to explain the popularity of so much bad music. It was shit then, it is shit now, but we like it because it reminds us of another time in a way more powerful than almost any other (the exception being smell... try on the cologne you wore in high school if you want to see what I mean).

This musical time travel was unknown before the 20th century.

Beginning in the 'teens it was possible to purchase and replay your favorite music, listening to it ad nauseum. (This means "to the point of nausea" in latin. It is a relative term. Listening to Tears for Fears' "Shout" once is, for me, ad nauseum.) At the same time, sound was added to movies. The idea of a soundtrack was born (In Audie Murphy's To Hell an Back, one soldier turns to another and says, "the problem with war is there's no background music," a sentiment that a WWI soldier could not share because he wouldn't have known what background music was). These records played again and again became the soundtracks for our lives.

Most people, at a certain point, won't listen to anything new if they can help it. Wynton Marsalis is obxiously famous for this, as is R. Crumb. Nothing after (you year here) is any good! I've seen the same in ageing hippies who still collect vinyl copies of the same records they've owned for years. My friend Dave was doing this shit at 20, pining for the good old days of 16 and only listening to Devo and the Blues Brothers.

And while I listen to all kinds of shit (mostly goinbg into an ambient thing now, if you care) I still have my soundtrack music. It's just my luck that it's such horrible shit as the Dregs. God help all you former fusion junkies. I feel your pain.

Tuesday, June 12, 2001

Blogger keps on adding features. I only hope BlogVoices will soon be back up. I miss the comments.

Much beter today. Funk come and funk go, I suppose. No big deal in retrospective, but whilst in the midst it sure is painful. Thanks for being there, all. At least I assume you are.

Got clients coming over any minute so I will close. Look and feel presentation of design comps... the easiest and most rewarding part of web design. At least it's supposed to be. I'll let you know.

Monday, June 11, 2001

Note to self:

first things first.

1. Coffee

2. Music

3. No black thoughts.


Now I have Charley Patton wailing away incomprehensibly with his slide dobro, sitting on a stool somewhere in the Delta in 1933 singing into the bell of an Edison wax recorder while some white man looked on encouragingly. I too am a white man, but in Portland Oregon some seventy years in the future. I work on a huge computer and listen to Charley in full stereo sound. I make more money in two months than Charley made in his whole life. He died thirty years before I was born. Our conversation is one way: he tells me his life is shit, and why. He is artful and copies people whose works are forever lost because there was no means of recording it. He tells of getting a death letter from his wife, finding it nailed to the table of the kitchen. I don't think he's making this shit up, but he might be.

Oddly enough, my illness has made me stay totally sobner through hwat is turning into one of the most unhappy times of my recent life. Nothing compared to Charley, mind you, but still no picnic. I am unsure if this is just a snap-back from delirious happiness so recently the norm or just a temorary glitch. But I feel leaden and miserable and I am unused to it.

Ah well. Back to number one. Coffee.

Yes, coffee.





Saturday, June 09, 2001

When things begin to go wrong it is easy to say fuck it and point the cannon at the deck and just start firing away. Perhaps it is a zest for self destruction, or maybe it is just a hackneyed pseudo-psyche explanation involving feelings of low self-esteem. Whatever it is, once you spur that pony it's a heller to dismount. Look forward to trampled gardens and broken limbs.

I am overly dramatic, but this has been a fucking shitty couple of days. Why I cannot say, exactly. Ultimatums are for assholes.

Friday, June 08, 2001

Another sunny day and I STILL have a cold. this is now 15 days... a bit extreme. At least I'm used to it.

Gossip... what is it, exactly? I think it's two people talking about a third person in a way they wouldn't want them to know about. The word, my father says, comes from the Old English Gott Sib, meaning "a sister God has given you." Initially meaning friend with whom one feels a particular affinity, it has morphed into the word we now know:

1. Rumor or talk of a personal, sensational, or intimate nature.
2. A person who habitually spreads intimate or private rumors or facts.
3. Trivial, chatty talk or writing.
4. A close friend or companion.
5. Chiefly British. A godparent.

Odd how gossip can color you thoughts about the gossipee. Two people can together change their opinion of the third (and not present) person and behave accordingly. You know the drill: "that BITCH" and all that.

Loose lips sink friendships? Maybe.

Thursday, June 07, 2001

Blogger seems stable again. Blogvoices is still down, though. No comments on this site until that's happening.... I have no desire to pop in a cgi or php script into my site. While I will tackle any li'l Flash thing you might throw my way, I am still boggled by server-side stuff. Keeps me from being too employable, right?

I am really enjoying having a full size workstation, an actual office and... most importantly... a subwoofer. Amazing how much easier it is to to work, even with this stopping to blow my nose every few minutes.

I just deleted a long and stammering missive that made me wonder what the fuck they put in that cough syrup.

We went to the vet to take our two new kittens for a check-up. Yes, kittens... Hugh and Stuart, the newest members of the household. At least they were. We got talked into taking Treat, a four-year-old Daschund with a game leg. cALL US SUCKERS.

Wednesday, June 06, 2001

Ever so odd how the music of the moment effects what's happening in my current world. For instance, right now I'm listening to Laika really loud. frenetic and loud. And now it's William Orbit. I love Winamp's shuffle-up-agus. It really helps when I'm on a big project.

Haley is going to Africa after all, but Tanzania for a bwana-style safari. More her style than trekking through jungles with Hutus and Tutsi marauders about. It will be a longer trip, but her sister is really putting on the pressure. Besides, distance will only make the heart grow fonder (although that is unimaginable at this point!)

And happy birthday to Jodi, who had better put up one more thing on her page so it's 29 instead of 28.

I'm doing an extremely enjoyable Flash project in addition to my international duties. Making ends meet whatever way I can.

That's about it. Still sick. Getting better ever so slowly, but I still feel rotten.

Tuesday, June 05, 2001

Gad, I have been so sick this past few days. I thought I had kicked this illness but it struck back with a vengeance. Normally I am in the pink of health, but this laid me out so that my main activities of late have been sleeping and, well... sleeping. Weird dreams, too, but that goes without saying. Illnes gives us youngsters a taste of being old: wondering, for example, if you have the energy to walk on home from the park, or maybe not being able to draw breath without it catching somewhere in your chest.

I've started again in keeping an offline journal, a handwritten one. I looked over this one I've had for some years and was amazd at my candor. I knew that nobody would be reading the entries save myself, and thank God for that. Some of the details were excruciating to relive. I was pretty unhappy. And unedited.

This morning I was walking to the grocery store and there was a huge boom. Turns out that a transformer up the street blew up and blacked out a large chunk of my neighborhood. My house was spared, but the power surge knocked out my new computer. It wouldn't restart, either, and I cursed my computer luck.

My computer luck is particularly bad, too. My main box three years ago was a screaming AMD 200 (so fast that all my friends swore I'd never need a new one... imagine that). In upgrading to Win98 from 95 I had virtually every possible thing that could go wrong go wrong. It culminated in the power supply catching fire and blowing up the RAM, the motherboard, the processor and all the cards. Pretty funny, except that I relied then, as now, on my computers to make a living. Shortly thereafter I went back to bartending for a few months.

Anyway, things are back up and rocking. I am so spoiled now... this system is a dream. Lots of work to do, also. So why am I blogging, anyway?

Saturday, June 02, 2001

Man, have I been falling off on the job here or what? I have my new computers all set up but no NIC in them, so I type this on my tried-and-true laptop.
Blah blah blah.

I awoke from a weblog-centric dream this afternoon. Apparently I was in the familar dream-town I occasionally visit (an amalgam of the Tucson of my youth, stories I have read and an alpine world I've never seen in waking life) and I had some weblog messages which were printed up and lying outside a small mobile home. The last line I remember was "I looked around the bar and realized that, in one way or the other, I knew everyone there." Odd. It occurs to me now as I listen to Live365 playing a Miles tune that drummer Tony Williams was also in this dream. Weird.


Haley was all set to travel to Uganda on June 20th. This, however, will scrub the trip. At least i hope so. When the State department advises you not to go somewhere, I imaging even the least savvy tour company would comply. Mountain Travel Sobek is hardly a hack-job, so I am almost positive that they will cancel. The gorilla parks sound cool and all, but Jesus... Hutus and Tsutsis hacking each other into bits with machetes is not my idea of a place I would be confindent sending my dear love to. Not for such a whimsical reason as a family safari.

I have been sick with the crud. Seems to have become a sinus infection. My favorite... headaches and snot. Oh boy!

BTW, this blogger template idea is a scam. While I love sharing my ideas with the world, we're talking about giving the rights to a commercial design template to a for-profit company in exchange for a t-shirt. Geeze. Even metal bands are more generous than this.
Double post. Double post!

Tuesday, May 29, 2001

Please excuse the long absense. I've been pretty much offline this past week. The move and all.... it's amazing how much little stuff you accumulate in the course of a year or so. And all that shit needs to be sorted and thrown away or packed. Anyway, I'm off in a few minutes to see how much of my 900.00 security deposit I get back. Should be all of it because the place is spotless.
I am out of touch with the Blogger community and will need to catch up this afternoon. I have a shitload of work to do, also, and my office is still largely a pile of various boxes need ing homes. I also have a new computer, and we all know how long ot takes to tweak a computer to exact specs. I threw in a ton of memory so it's really screaming and should do everything I require of it. Before it breaks, that is.

Tuesday, May 22, 2001

Sunny and hot today in Portland. I lost at cards last night (again) but had fun nonetheless. I have always enjoyed cards if for no other reason than to study the ebb and flow of luck and to observe how we deal with risk and opportunity. If the luck is flowing then it's great... you can take chances and come out ahead, often outrageously. Since poker is also a matter of skill and calculation, luck is only part of it.

The most important part of poker is patience. We don't really play long enough... it's unusual for our games to last more than three or so hours. The real game starts after six, seven hours. Then the ebb and flow really kicks in and you can see bigger cycles. I've been in but one of this type of game and I was far out of my league. Mostly I folded, and if you do that you can stay in and watch but be part of the cycle as well.

Anyway...

There is news in the blog world (and not just the Monkey Man. I'm sure you know all about it. fakery, deception, etc etc. The Big White Guy took the fall. AIM can be an instrument of liars. Lies get out of hand so easily, too.

I remember one of the earlier interactive formats, The Fray. When it came out it was revolutionary... people telling true stories on the web and then soliciting responses from readers (which would then also be posted). It was a very early attempt at moderated weblogs at it worked really well. It seemed to attract a certain type of person, artsy and troubled with perhaps a bit too much down time in the late evenings. I still like to look at it now and again.

Anyway, I must work now...

Monday, May 21, 2001

We went out last night with our friends Chris and Sahana to Gino's, a little Italian place in Southeast which has been there since 1934. The sign outside says, inexplicibly, "Leipzig Tavern" and you walk into a great old room with a huge craved oak back-bar from the turn of the (last) century. The food was so-so, but the wine... the WINE. Unreal. This guy has a cellar of unbelievale wine, old Barolos and Chiantis and Ruffinos. The best of the best, and so rare as to be unavailable almost anywhere but New York. But the really amazing thing is that they sell these bottles at about 10.00 over original cost. That is unheard of... we drank a Barolo which was quite possibly the best wine we'd ever had and cost a mere 40.00. It was a '93 and served in huge Riedel crystal balloon glasses. Almost had us crying, it was so good. Of course, Chris and Sahana came over to the new house to take a gander and brought a bottle of nice champagne, so we were already rollin' along. Wine talk nis almost as boring as golf talk, though... thanks for the indulgence.

Needless to say, I have a bit of a headache this morning. And tonight is the annual steak night with the poker boys (including Chris). So it's deja vu all over again! What an expensive week, all on food. Weep for me, weep for me.

I don't eat meat, either, and we're going to Ruth's Chris. That means I'll have to have lobster. Sob. Sob.

Sunday, May 20, 2001

I just installed a dog door using my brother's cordless Porter Cable saw and drill. Nice equipment indeed, but it doesn't make me a carpenter. With dismay I looked at the jagged hole I was ripping in our back door. With alarm I looked upon the misaligned screw-holes. With hollow laughter I saw that the newly and finally installed door is crooked as a radio preacher. But the dogs seem to be getting it. Oscar has seen this sort of thing before, albeit as a pup.

I weigh several things here:

One: Does the freedom of not getting up each morning to let the dogs out balance against the idea that my dogs now have freedom to go in and out as they please? Is my convenience worth the potential scenario of a squirrel carcass spread triumphantly over the living room floor and walls by my in-and-out beasts?

Two: is having a human-sized hole in my door a security risk? Sure, a big hole means a big dog, but is the average stupid junky thief smart enough to consider this? I mean, look at the idiots last night.

Three: Why do I insist on doig a shitty job myself when I will ultimately have to hire a professional to redo my shoddy work, thus incurring a double expense?

I feel like sitting on the porch and smoking a big fatty and squinting at the neighbors and pondering these acedemic arguments. I've been working all day on all kinds of things.

Maybe I'll do that.




What is it, six AM on a sunday? And here I am blogging away? Man, this is dedication! But alas, I have nothing to say.

There was an animation festival last night at the Clinton Street Theater put on alumni from Will Vinton Studios. For those who don't know it, Vinton is a Portland animation house which has produced the California Raisins and the PJ's. It's a sprawling place and employs some 300 or so people (or at least it did... during the dot.com craze, I had several friends talk of "whoring themselves out" to Vinton). Anyway, there were a few student pieces (stinky) and a few real gems. But there was one in particular which made me so depressed it nigh on ruined a perfect evening: a time-lapse film of the building of the Fox Tower set to raunchy rock 'n' roll. It went on and on. It began with an extensive destruction sequence in which anonymous machines knocked and scraped at the old Fox theatre, one of Portland's venerable old gems on Broadway (the building behind it, also razed, was home to Portland's best... and my favorite..French restaurant, the Vat and Tonsure, reputed to have over 4000 French wines in its cellar). From there it got worse. Worse music, the digging of the Vast Hole, the construction of the tower going up and up and up. It's, as my dad put it, an ugly fucking building, and the vainglorious tribute which was devoid of any irony at all made us both mad and sad. Small and in the way of progress, sure. But mostly it was a blown opportunity to say something bigger.

A lighter note: we got home and greeted the dogs. After we'd been home for a bit, they started barking wildly. I went out and saw two figures carrying what looked like my garbage.

"Can you give us a blanket?" one whined furtively.
"What?"
"A blanket. We're cold."
"What are you doing with that bag?"

They paused for a moment.

"You realize that you just stole my garbage off my porch?" I laughed.
"We took it."
"You didn't ask. That's stealing."
They changed their tack.
"We thought it might be a blanket."
The other one chimed in now. "C'mon. Give us a blanket!"

I shook my head at the two freaks. "No way. Get lost." And closed the door.

You see, it was about 60 degrees last night, clear and balmy.

What is less dignified than stealing garbage and then lying about it while begging at the same time?


Saturday, May 19, 2001

It's funny. I'll have all these things occur to me throughout the day and think, "That'll be worth writing about!" But lo, when I sit down at the box I find that these fleeting thoughts have fled.

Yesterday my friend Brian called and told me that he and his wife are splitting up. It was not terrbily surprising, seeing as they have lived the past nine months on separate coasts, but it was bad news all the same. We went out on some piddly errands, drank margaritas in a bad Mexican restaurant, smoked, talked philosophy and just hung out. It was the male equivalent of "girl time." It's funny that men have so few conventions for emotional support. Back-slapping and getting drunk seem to be about it. The casual attitude in the face of hardship and all that. Who needs it? No wonder so many men are total assholes. Not men at all, really. just boys in man-suits.

There have been several upsetting things which have taken place since I started this post, things which I need to ponder. I realize that I cannot be the protector for my daughter I would like to be, that there are things beyond my control. It is, perhaps, the hardest lesson for a parent. It is one thing to have this realization for yourself (realization of mortality, realization of your failures, realization of loss, etc) but to see it for your progeny is heart-rending. Now and agin I need a good cry, I suppose. A grown man standing there blubbing like a six-year-old. Some days are hard even when everything is perfect.

Friday, May 18, 2001

We sure have a lot of dogs. Not just dogs, but male dogs. Actually, we have three dogs, two of them male. But Mr. Plymouth is very very large. And pretty stinky. Not just regular dog smell, but Ass. Ass is a peculiar smell, eminating from the scent glands around a dog's anus. In male dogs these are much larger and, well, muskier. This translates into many, many moments of the day when you smell Ass and look down and there is the smiling, baggy face of dear Mr. P panting away with a look of stupifying contentment. He is a very sweet dog, massive and slow to learn. You can hug him with all your might.

I am oddly irritated today. There is much to do, of course, and I am feeling put upon. I absolutely do not want to go back to the old house and deal with the wreckage of the move. It's all odds and ends now, with only a beat-up old futon and my desk remaining to be moved. There are boxes and boxes, too, so I will be gathering up the detritus and hauling it over here. This is the sort of shit which keeps me up at night.

I've been reading Michael Ondaatje's Collected Works of Billy the Kid, a riveting and gruesome book. He's a talented writer, the sort who writes so effortlessly as to make you feel a bit sick. I saw him read last year. He was touting Anil's Ghost, his latest novel. In one section he lost me, though... he was talking about Tucson and he mentioned an armadillo running across the road. I grew up in Tucson. There are no armadillos and never were. That kind of glaring inaccuracy, especially coming from a writer who is know for his vivid details, is appalling. But his old books are still good. Maybe he just missed a step... bound to happen now and again. Hemingway pulled his head out of his ass for one last good novel (The Old Man and the Sea) after a string of failed attempts. Many of which have been published posthumously, I might add... guaranteed sellers for the publisher to have a "new" novel by Papa.

They don't do this with Faulkner, I've noticed.

Thursday, May 17, 2001

Another day at 56k. Gar, what a spoiled brat I am. Mr. DSL. But peoples, ye must understand that I got DSL back in 1998 when it first, first came out. And before that I had a dedicated modem line. I am truly Mr. Net. Yeech. It used to be cool. Really. Now it's like riding a scooter. Which, I am starting to think, are so uncool as to be cool again. Actually, they were never cool, but hey... fun as shit to ride. I loved mine. Then I saw this fat dotcom dude in a goatee pushing a Razor down the street and that was all she wrote. Bikes are better, I suppose, but you can't put one in your backpack.

Been getting some nice emails from folks. Thanks Andrea and Paige for the letters. After posting to the vacuum for so long it's nice to get readers. I'm updating my link-jumper to include many of my new friends in the age-old Blogger tradition.

Wednesday, May 16, 2001

Ah, dear Blogger saw fit to doubly post that meadering and cynical lecture. I feel fortunate that I can delete it, but I will leave one copy as a reminder that I can work myself up into a damned good froth over the state of the nation. That's a bad thing to get worked up about.

Better to comfort ourselves in the age old way of pilgrims. Buddha, Jesus, Mohammed... all thse guys were big on idea that we're all just passin' through. The brithers I used to hang with were fond of being deep into things, part and parcel of the whole mess. Of course, that can be a comfort in itself because we feel powerful, responsible and grown-up.

I see my mood has not really improved, so I shall close.


Feeling low today for no good reason. That's the worst of it. One cannot rreally feel sorry for oneself unless there's a damned good reason to. I have none.... everything is going swimmingly. I suppose that the ongoing move is eroding my psyche. I suppose that I have it so good that I feel bad about it (and if that isn't bullshit I don't know what is). There is more I could say, but seeing as this weblog is part of my public face I will defer.

And instead turn to questions of a philosophical nature. I wondered early this morning if history will judge the leadership of the United States as inherently evil and self-serving throughout its brief tenure. I don't just mean the president; I mean the entire elected and unelected assembly.

View the rebellion as a case in point: a coalition of elite businessmen in whose best economic interests lay succession from the Crown utilized a few high-minded and articulate social idealists (Thomas Paine, B. Franklin, Jefferson, etc) to galvanize the colonists into a fighting whole with grand words and ideas while experts in Franco-British politics fanned the flames of war between France and Britain to extract military support.

Jump to the systematic exterminationof the native peoples using a combination of lies and military force.

View the conquest of the Southwest during the Mexican-American war.

View the Spanish-American War and its rationalization of American imperial expansion into South America and the Pacific.

Look at the internment of Japanese-Americans and the permanent seizure of their property and businesses; the firebombing of Tokyo; the Atomic bombing of two untouched and beautiful cities.

Look at Korea, the Cold War and Vietnam.

Look at the "freedom fighters" of El Salvador, the allegations of CIA-run drug farms, the sanctioned policies of strategic assassination...

Most importantly, look at the virus-like spread of the culture of Buy Low Sell High and the incredible carnage left in its wake.

I am sadly disgusted with the whole fucking mess today.

But, this being America, I can write this without fear of reprisal. At least for the moment.

The right to bitch incessantly. This is what your ancestors fought and died for.