If It's Not Funny Anymore...

I'm Trying Something New.

2009-10-06T21:25:00.000-07:00

itsnotfunnyanymore.wordpress.com

I'm using Wordpress, because it's supposed to be better. It may be a little rough at first, but we'll get through this. Please look at it there.

Well If That Don't Beat All.

2009-10-06T21:23:00.000-07:00

When you sell bikes for a living you hear a lot of stories. People have all kinds of reasons for buying bikes. Sometimes there's a big life changing thing that happens, or someone needs to get in shape for something, or someone is out of shape because of a life changing thing, and so on. I've heard a lot of them now, and a lot of different kinds from "I just got divorced, and I really deserve this" to "I was pronounced dead, but lived and the doctors said I'd be a vegetable." But today I heard one. A kind that I'd never heard before. This wasn't even my sale, but I had to listen in, because it's wins the pot.

This middle aged guy, and a younger guy were in the store together. Both of them were weird. The older guy was slightly overweight, he was wearing "fitness clothes," and he had a tattoo of a lone wolf howling at the moon. The other sales guy working with them mentioned in passing that the older guy was a Vietnam vet. So, right there... Then I over hear him saying he was up way late.

"Out partying?" The salesman asked.

"No. I got a Xbox." He replied, and followed with, "I've been clean and sober for 21 years. If I'da had one more drink I woulda gone to jail, an' my brother went to jail same way, an' he died there. I haven't had a drink since June 23, 1988."

"Oh, man. Good for you." The salesman sounded off uncomfortably.

The man went on to say some other things I didn't really hear about growing up in New York? Owning a bar? Living in England? Something else, and then:

"... two guys escaped from Chino, an' they came broke into my house, they killed my wife, killed my two kids, an' cut 'em up wit a chainsaw, I came home from work that night an' had to identify their bodies, that was twelve years ago, then i wen' up to 300 pounds, started goin' to the gym, work out early in the mornin' before i go to work..."

The story goes on as a personal narrative of his struggle with fitness, and the difficulty he's had finding a quality fitness establishment (like one that will stop charging his dead wife a membership fee) and how he's just going to ride a bike from now on.

I hope it doesn't sound like I'm trivializing this guy, because (if all that stuff is true) I am amazed and impressed by his desire to even be alive, let alone his commitment to A man who served combat in an horrific modern war, who fought a hard battle with alcohol, whose brother died in prison, and whose family was left horrendously murdered by escaped prisoners for him to see. A man like that really is a lone wolf. A pack animal without a pack, who can survive, and persevere.

I Fucking Hate Rockabilly. Vol.2

2009-09-28T09:44:00.000-07:00

A little while back I made an entry about how stupid rockabilly: music, style, culture, and fat chicks are. Well, if you're starting a rockabilly band or are already in one (both of which I highly disadvise) and you need some names you can purchase any of these from me. They are registered DBA's, and they range in price from $45-$700. This list is ongoing, and if you need help with a name for your shitty fake 50's band just let me know.

The Flaming Backfires, The Grease Mops, The Hellcat Rollers ,The Chrome Peelouts, The Shop Rags, The Jackboot Bandits, The Tailpipe Tallboys, Los V8 Vatos, The 57 Shimmies, The Cherry Violence (Chick band), The Leatherettes (Fat Chick band), The Southern Undershirts, Cuffed and Creased, The Suicide Door Suicides, The Crankshaft Frankenstiens, The Cheater Prank Creepers, The Checkered Flags, The Pink Slips, The Switchblade Burnouts, The Rumbleseaters, The Jet Cats, Kitty Crimson (Chick band), The Alleycat Rumblers, The Cobra Sharks, The Drag Strip Fakeouts (Cross dressers), The Flag Chasers, The Rockin’ Horrors, The Scary Dead Guys (Psychobilly), The Coffin Cruisers, Los Grease Fires, Rosy Thorn and the Dress-Ups (Female Fronted), and The Black Eye Girlfriends.

If any of these band names are what you call your band, you can purchase the right to use the name from me, or cease and desist. Also, I'm sorry you chose such formulaic and unfortunate names if you are currently using one of these (I would have browsed myspace, but they didn't have that in the 50's.)

Sean Yseult.

2009-09-28T00:12:00.000-07:00

I just realized the other day that there is some leftover 13 year old in me that is still in love with Sean Yseult, bassist for White Zombie.

An issue of Metal Edge magazine had this image of her, and an interview.

I love her.

So much.

I would fan out so hard if I saw her.

Perfect bass chick. Ibanez, and everything.

Here is her geocities fansite (awesome.)

And here is her Wikipedia page.

Dark of Heartness

2009-08-15T18:06:00.000-07:00

It's been almost a month since this happened, and I keep thinking about it.

I went to Kroger one night after 10:00, a fairly regular occurrence for me. I was there with Kelly, and we were rounding up various vegetables and some Topo Chico for that evening's dinner. I wandered through the produce department picking up vegetables and setting them down, cursing the hard avocados, cursing the smushy avocados, and having that what-the-shit-am-I-supposed-to-be-looking-for thought when I forgot every ten seconds what I went there for. While idly holding some vegetable that I surely didn't purchase something caught my attention. I was somewhat startled as it sounded like THIS was rolling down a cobble stone hill at me, but it was just the voice of a man. A visual of him was not much more settling: he had a weathered face, gnarled hands, he wore a hat of some U.S. Navy ship and he carried a giant stick in his motorized shopping cart. His question finally made it to my brain after passing through a water like barrier in my ear canal that had been caused by my dumb and momentary stare at him: "Are you a fisherman?" Another moment of dumb staring and I was able to say "No. Well, I used to..." I didn't want to finish that statement. "But, you like the sea?" he asked. My confusion only lasted a few seconds before I realized he was commenting on the tattoos on my shins. One is a sailing ship, and the other is a shipwreck. Normally I don't care to converse with strangers about my tattoos. This was different. "Yes." I responded.

I take great lengths to avoid these kinds of situations usually, but something about this gruff old man was strangely difficult to avoid. "Do you read books about the sea?" he asked. "Yeah" I responded having not actually completed a book in over a year. "Like what?" He followed. At this point I couldn't tell if he was trying to break my balls over these tattoos, or test my knowledge of the sea, or what, but I couldn't stop talking to the guy. I listed a few of the books that I've I particularly enjoyed, and he listed a few titles and asked me if I'd read any. He was sort of giving me a litmus test: asking me what I thought about Conrad's Heart of Darkness, and assured me that it's a quality tale. We had a little bit of overlap, but I really peaked his interest with In the Heart of the Sea. He squinted at me when I said the name of the book, and he asked me to elaborate. I told him that it's a nonfiction account of the first known ship to have been sunk by a whale, and that some of the events were the basis for Melville's Moby Dick. He was a tad incredulous for a moment about In the Heart of the Sea being a recent title, like somebody cheated him or slipped something by him, then he asked me to repeat the title, and then the author's name. He started to look for a pen and paper with some urgency, while doing so he mentioned that he wouldn't remember the name of the book because of his condition.

Before I knew it I was walking to the front of the store in search of a pen. I spotted one in a recently accumulated dust/debris pile and I picked it up before the pile could be swept into the trash. I walked intently back across the store to find this guy just to give him this pen so that he could write down the name of this book. When I found him again I tried to just write down two titles and authors on his coupon sheet, but he couldn't read my handwriting, so I stood there and spelled out the two titles while he wrote them down. He had a dry, violent, coughing spell for a moment that made me think he was going to shoot handfuls of pea gravel out of his mouth. He mentioned something again about his condition, and then he asked me what Sailor Song is about. He snickered a little bit when he realized that it is from the author of One Flew Over the Cukoo's Nest and made some remark about living in California around the time that Kerouac and Kesey were creating their movement. With very few words he identified that he understood it, but that it was so passe´. I was being paged over the intercom at this point to come to the front. He touched for a moment again on Moby Dick right before he reverted to his original question; he wanted to talk about fishing, and for no reason that I can possibly imagine I wanted to indulge him.

I had already mentioned that I used to fish, but I wasn't going to elaborate on that just the same as I didn't want him to elaborate on his "condition," which was clearly a limiting factor to what was certainly his biggest passion. He was asking me what kinds of fish I had caught. "Speckeled and rainbow trout mostly, flounder, redfish..." As I recited my list he nodded, and made some gestures of approval. "You ever catch any snapper?" The question itself was morsel of bait at the end of a 60 lb. test leader. "No, almost all of the fishing I've ever done was in the bay, or in the surf. I've never gone offshore." "Well what's the biggest flounder you ever caught?" I really didn't know, so I made a conservative guess (which I realize is not very typical of fish-story-telling). "Maybe 8 lbs." I answered, recalling one particular large flounder my grandfather was so excited to see me bring onto his boat. This stone voiced man, who shopped in a motorized cart, who was propping himself up on something the entire time we talked had a literal knee slapper of a laugh at my 8 lb. flounder. He had already been searching through his wallet for something, giving it a really good once over. The man said that it was nice talking with me and that... "WAIT! There it is!" He held a trimmed down piece of color photo paper up for me to see, and he handed it to me. On it was the same man, ten years younger, holding a giant red snapper in his arms, wearing some kind of PVC bibs, with the unmistakable look of joy on his face and in his eyes. I flipped it over to see the weight of the fish and the date, "That's a big fish." I said, and when I looked up to hand it back, he was leaning casually on the frozen food case in front of me, with his arms proudly crossed, joy in his eyes, a smile, worn down.

It's characters like him that make it that much more unbearable to see limp-dick-jerk-off-douche-bag-goobers like this guy holding some fish in some vacation destination with their Columbia hat, and PFG shirt, and neon mirrored sunglasses, and crocs, and Livestrong bracelets, and vacation stubble while shitting their pants.

Things I've Learned Recently:

2009-07-21T18:42:00.000-07:00

Some people old enough to attend or graduate from a university and own a car do this:

Scrabble is hard with only vowels.

Izit catches tags with sidewalk chalk and may be younger than I thought (glad I got this one before it rained.)

I eat at buffets a LOT, and sometimes get them to go.

Nutrias were brought to Louisiana from South America for Tobasco sauce pets, and came to Houston to get away from Hurricane Katrina. (a little inside, I know.) They are STILL awesome.

Bowling is still fun when the bowling alley tries to close 15 minutes early.

Rocks and minerals sometimes fight? or have court cases? I'm not really sure it counts as learning if I'm still confused.

I could have figured that one out, but sometimes it helps to see it in print.

Where to get fresh ideas for sick ink tatz.

Cricket larva is apparently the same thing as Doritos.

What Madonna's pussy might look like.

Beef In The Streetz

2009-07-09T18:27:00.000-07:00

I saw this near downtown the other day. It is awesome.

A classic case of graffiti-heavyweight-beef. What do we have here? Jenkem: a name that references a DANGEROUS DRUG, it's written in primitive cursive with a curvy underline in brown marker or possibly shit. And, Izit: a clever way of putting the words "Is" and "It" together by misspelling one of them, the lollipop "I" of a kindergardener with a clever arrow for a "T".

So spiteful, this Izit. The line running through the Jenkem tag goes back and forth, like three times. You might even say that Jenkem got totally crossed out.

This could get really heavy, Houston, so be careful what spots you pick. There might be somebody high on shit fumes with their eye on the same spot, and who knows what someone high on shit fumes would do to someone else, considering how they get their kicks?! I don't even wish to speculate what could happen if you ran across an angry Izit; bad kids are scary, the really young ones don't care about consequences, and cleverness is like an extra bullet. Just be careful out there.

I Fucking HATE Rockabilly.

2009-07-01T19:06:00.000-07:00

Upright bass:

Fuck.
Stupid fucking tattoos:
Fuck.
Stupid fucking fake fifties fashion:
God. Fuck.

Weak fucking "art":

AAAAAAAAHHH! FUCK!
Fat Chicks:

Leakey.

2009-06-22T22:19:00.000-07:00

I took a much needed vacation with two friends of mine, Connor and Bret, last week and spent most of the time in Leakey, TX. There might be a better place on the planet, but to get to this paradise (not parrot ice) I don't have to get on an airplane, or cross an ocean, or leave my country, or even leave my time zone. A car ride there only takes a couple of hours from Houston. If I lived in a state smaller than Texas I would stress the fact that Leakey is in Texas, but so are Amarillo and El Paso, and both of those destinations are about ten hours from Houston by car. I digress. The point of this vacation was simple: to ride bicycles as much as possible in the most tranquil and challenging areas of the Texas Hill Country, to swim in rivers, and to relax. Mission accomplished.

No good vacation is complete without running into a new character, and thankfully this met the necessary criteria. We stopped in San Antonio on the way out to pick up a pump since we collectively forgot to pack one, and when we arrived at the shop we received a relatively unabridged and wholly unsolicited autobiographical lecture from what must be Texas' best ever bicycle racer. Now I know what you're thinking, "Isn't Lance Armstrong from Texas, and hasn't he won the Tour de France more times than anybody else in history?" He is, and he has. BUT, has he ever won The Killer Diller? I didn't think so. This guy set the course record... with downtube shifters, on a 90 lb. bike, in the hottest summer ever. What's the Killer Diller you say? Only the most important non-sanctioned race on the planet. And according to this guy, ol' "Vance Legstrong" didn't want a piece. "Vance Legstrong" was too busy "twinkle toe"ing up Sestriere to do a real race. So, this guy told us that he got tired of racing against his reputation, and having a target on his back, and living like a monk, so he quit racing "because it's all about the pussy."

When we arrived at our accommodations we were greeted by this quaint and inappropriate indoor birdhouse:

The accomodations were great; kitchen, laundry, DVD player... everything necessary for relaxing after riding. And there was usually a dozen or more deer hanging out at the back porch. They were really tame, and really annoyed with each other. Louis C.K. is really funny and HERE is what he has to say about them. And below are the deer that we saw:

There was one ride we did from Leakey to Camp Woods. It was really challenging, and totally fun. When we stopped in Camp Woods to refill our bottles we met a nice man. He was wearing a garage shirt with the word "Lonesome" embroidered on the right breast, and a patch with three crosses on the left breast. As we sat on the curb hydrating he asked us where we'd just come from. "Leakey," we told him. "Y'all from thayre?" he asked. "No," I replied. "At's wheyre Ah growed up," he said. We told him how much we were enjoying it, and occasionally he brandished his rodentile-three-toothed smile. He kind of looked like a beaver in winter; he had very large yellow front teeth (and like, one more tooth as best I could tell), chubby cheeks, and a big round belly. We mentioned the name of the subdivision we were staying in, and he told us that his brother lived there and stated his name like we would recognize it. He went on to let us know that his brother used to "run th' water sistum thayre. He'd take cayre of it an' do all kine o' tess on it. He lives in Youston now though. About therdee fahv years." Then he let us know that at his age, and with all the pills he takes, he's got to find a bathroom quick when he needs to go.

The subdivision we stayed in has a private park on the Frio River. We found a pretty good swimming hole there with about a ten foot high bluff to jump off. The three of us enjoyed this swimming hole exclusively for about 15 minutes before some badass little redneck kids showed up. One's name was Dolan, and he was bad. For a solid three minutes he was throwing rocks down into the water from the bluff as hard as he could. Then at the bluff from the water. Then at a plant from the bluff. The kids had been fishing and were spotting fish in the river. "Look at that one," and "Aww, see him?" and "There goes a catfish... yellow cat." Dolan's dog, Shooter, was the coolest thing about those kids, even though he pissed on my bike a little.

Last time I was in Leakey I saw one of these:

It's a rock squirrel. He was HUGE! Like, the size of a cat with short legs. I was coming down a hill, and he ran across the road and toward me. The entire sighting lasted only 2.5 seconds, tops... he was in a big hurry. By his coloring, and size, I had no clue what he was, but I got a good look at his face, and he was definitely a squirrel. I was holding my breath in hopes that I'd see another one this time around, and I did. A much smaller one, but I saw one, and so did Connor and Bret. We saw it as we left Garner State Park-- which was gorgeous, and scenic, and full of shitty, fat, trashy, leathery, dumb worthless people.

We went to a race. Meh. Went to Austin, it was fun, and a good way to ween ourselves back into Houston. I'd like to thank Bret for driving, and Connor for pulling. And I'd like to issue a series of photos to give you (the other three people who read this blog that weren't there) a fraction of an idea why the Texas Hill Country is so great, what makes it so hard to leave, and why it's become a growing obsession.

Critical Mass Is Fucking Stupid... and more.

2009-06-13T18:07:00.000-07:00

Critical Mass can suck my dick. Once a month on a Friday night a group of people on bicycles ride through the streets in an attempt to bring cycling awareness to motorists. The idea of Critical Mass, as far as I can tell, is to disrupt motor vehicle traffic with bicycle traffic. Several methods are employed to ensure that a slow moving group of people on bicycles can annoy motorists: they occupy all lanes of traffic, cork lanes at stoplights:

(a way to stop cars from going through a green light so that bicycles can pass through a red one), they move very slowly, and they act like jack-offs. I can't think of a better way to spread goodwill through cycling than to make a really confrontational and obnoxious statement on a Friday night. Critical Mass can suck my dick.

"One Less Car" stickers can suck my dick. More like: "One Less Car At The Bar." Take your bike to work every day or shut the fuck up about people driving. Just because you ride your stupid-fucking-color-coordinated-rolling-fashion-statement-dress-up-doll-dumpster-fixie to the bars at night doesn't make you progressive. People drive cars. I know you just got your Fisher Price My First Fixie and you feel really radass on the street in traffic, and you heard that messengers in New York and San Francisco totally don't give a shit about cars, and they're all "fuck the man" an' shit, but you look like a fucking idiot enough already without antagonizing motorists, AND chances are if you live in Houston and you participate in Critical Mass that you drive a car on a regular basis.

Mayor Bill White can suck my dick. That geriatric asshole has dubbed himself the "cyclist mayor"-- or someone has, and it stuck for some reason. Why? I'm not sure, other than the fact that he makes a very public bicycle commute to work once annually complete with motrcycle, SUV, and helicopter police escorts.

He also was very public about his addition of "bike lanes" throughout the city. Just because there's a white stripe following some arbitrary road with a picture of a little bike riding man inside of it DOESN'T make it a suitable bike lane. Especially when a large percentage of those "bike lanes" have two completely different road surfaces that are equally covered in debris within that narrowly striped-off section. Not to worry though, the average motorist totally understands why it's more sensible to ride in a lane of traffic when there's an alleged "designated bike lane." ALSO, the municipal funding spigot for Alkek Velodrome was at a mere drip before it was completely shut off under-- Guess who!!! Mayor Bill White. That's right, your one and only "cyclist mayor" went ahead and cut public funds to a velodrome! There's less than 25 velodromes in the U.S. (the fact that two of them are in Texas is another reason that all these non-track-racing-riser-bar-fixie trendsters are completely absurd to me) and that asshole pulled the plug on a damn fine one.

I ride a bike for leisure. I commute to work by bicycle every day. I ride a bike competitively for sport. I ride a bike to get where I need to go. I sell bikes for a living. I read about bikes. I work on my bikes, and I try to help with friends' bikes. The only professional sports I follow are road racing and cyclocross. Bicycles are my daily life, and my biggest obsession. One of the very few things in this world that brings me joy is riding bicycles. Almost every day, some motorist honks their horn at me in anger, or yells at me, or comes close to hitting me... or does. It took a few years to get used to the average harassment. To learn how to pretend that those honking and yelling at me are cheering for me, and to wave at them like a friendly idiot. To learn how to say polite things politely such as "thank you" and "excuse me" when motorists make dangerous moves around me and my bike. And to learn that it is my duty to be an ambassador of cycling to the rest of the world. That is why it bothers me so much when a group of idiots who own bicycles decide to be really vocal about their right to the road, and their negative opinions concerning drivers, and take "direct action." Well, that direct action directly affects me and other cyclists. It may sound contradictory of me to be so exclusive of the current "scene" of bicycle ownership. But as far as I'm concerned it's just that-- a scene, and like in a play or a movie, it will eventually be over, and onto the next.

My Weekly World News Garth Brook Juice Diet.

2009-06-10T13:44:00.000-07:00

I've been told by a famous blogger that "Real bloggers take pictures of their food." So, in an effort to blog famously-- or at the very least have a real blog-- I am sharing what I have eaten today.

First I had a cup of coffee, and a Prana Bar (not pictured.) Then I made some juice with my Juice Tiger: It starts off like that, then it looks more like this:I drank the whole thing before I could remember to take a picture. But this is what's left over:
Later on I made some quinoa:And when I finished with that, I made some more juice:
I made a little extra for later since I'm on a juice kick. The juice kind of looks like in Gremlins 1 when some of the gremlins get killed in the kitchen, but I can assure you that it's only celery, parsley, and apples; no mogwais (good or evil) were juiced.
Maybe some day I will eat some more and take pictures of it, so you can enjoy my exciting meals.

Tone It Down.

2009-05-28T16:17:00.001-07:00

I thought that by now you would be able to hum (even if you're tone deaf) a few notes of a song that's in your head at your computer and your iTunes would find it and download it for you. I also thought that you'd have your choice of as much of any band's discography as you'd like by just shouting the band's name at your computer. Not the case. I thought the future would be a little more futuristic than this.

For the last two months I have been on a very active quest for something quite simple. A compact disc containing some music from The Undertones. It started as a quest for a CD of their discography-- which exists. That was downgraded to a search for their first album, which was subsequently downgraded to a search for a greatest hits (ugh), and eventually that was reduced to a hunt for some compilation or anything with at least "Teenage Kicks" in some sort of digital format.

This quest, by the way, is totally the reason that I haven't made an entry on here in two months. This sort of thing can be very time consuming. I've been to at least eight stores looking, no, scouring the shelves for SOMETHING. I've made multiple trips to some of those stores because they at least had a divider labeled "Undertones," but no, nothing. New, used, greatest hits, compilation, NOTHING! And each occasion came complete with the incredulous look-through-the-adjacent-bands'-sections-because-surely-they-have-this-here-somewhere scavenger hunt.

"Why didn't you just download it?" That's what you're saying to yourself while judging me for wanting to purchase music in a physical, but non-vinyl format. Well, shut up, because I tried that-- plus I have two Undertones records. Call me old fashioned, or at least 90's fshioned, but sometimes I like to have a non-burned copy of a CD. And, I'll have you know that one of the two Undertones records I own is a somewhat coveted copy of their "Peel Sessions." The other one is this:

I know. Nothing is hotter than a second rate version of Kelly LeBrock covered in bacon, prosciutto, and cellophane. But that's a seperate post all together (possibly one discussing really good ways to get sick while simutaneously not attracting men, and the fact that a Kelly LeBrock google search suggested the related search: "kelly lebrock fat," as she is currently... like Kirstie Alley fat, it's bad.) Anyways, The closest thing that iTunes has to any Undertones anything is some stupid tribute album with a bunch of shitty groups doing very poor covers of very exceptional songs. How did that make it through? Really, why would you sell an album that is a tribute to a band whose original music you don't sell?

I finally broke down and ordered an extensive greatest hits CD from and ebay music seller. On the day it arrived I watched some Undertones videos online-- something I'd been intentionally avoiding for the fear that it would make me more frustrated. I'm not sure what would have happened if I had discovered this video without owning something I could listen to without a record player or a computer. It doesn't matter, but what does matter is how great that particular video is.

I also discovered an a capella group that calls themselves The Undertones. They are ALSO amazing. They're just a bunch of Notre Dame students (with the football jerseys to prove it. No fakes here, OK.) who perform popular songs like: "Jack and Diane," "Sweet Caroline," and "Uptown Girl" AND they do it ALL with their mouths if you can believe that! They also have a few showtunes in the mix, like: "Kiss De Girl" from The Little Mermaid, and "Circle of Life" from The Lion King... Disney songs count as showtunes right? I thought so.

The Zoo. Like You'll Never Get To See It.

2009-03-26T09:01:00.000-07:00

A little while back I got my second dose of backstage treatment at the Houston zoo. My friend Ryan is a reptile handler there; celebrity blogger give up and I were given all access laminates and a luxury tour of the reptile facilities.
What you may not know about the zoo is that they have a great deal of animals "on reserve." That means that there are animals that are not on display in the public areas; they have them ready to go if an animal on display dies, or if a new display is opened, plus some animals in the back are bred and given to other zoos. The picture above is a back hallway in the reptile house; pretty much everything that resembles a container in this picture contains an animal, and in this case snakes, the tall stack of plastic bins on the left is three containers wide and has a rattlesnake in each one. I have very mixed emotions about the zoo, and the animals in captivity there, but there's a few things that make me very happy and hopeful about the reptile house at the Houston zoo: there is a particular species of frog that is extinct in the wild, but has been bred in very successful numbers at there. Also, Ryan is very involved in the conservation of the extremely rare Barton Springs salamander both in the wild and in captivity. I digress.

Ryan's tour of the facility was pretty exciting. He's really amped on amphibians, but the section he was given as a rookie has a strong contingency of rattlesnakes. He was opening habitats and showing us animals, each one with a tidbit of fascinating information. "Does anybody ever get bit?" asked celebrity artist/blogger give up, concerned as Ryan had opened several habitats for us. "Yeah man, the guy whose job I got. He got bit by a rattlesnake. You should see his scar, too," answered Ryan indicating a wavy line from the center of his palm to his bicep. He told us that the guy's arm swelled up so bad that the hospital had to cut it open otherwise it would burst. Either way it ends up looking something like this really GROSS shit. As Ryan removed the lid of some habitat he said "Here's the snake that bit that guy." I wanted to know if it was the same kind of snake or what, he told me that it was "this exact snake" just as he lifted the hide box. His casual demeanor throughout all of this wasn't really a surprise, but it kind of was. He did tell us that you just have to assume that all of the snakes and lizards are going to attack you otherwise you'll have your guard down-- venomous and non-venomous alike.

Here Ryan showed us one particular rattlesnake that is usually pretty fired up.

His rattle was really loud and creepy.

When we entered this one room Ryan issued a warning, and it was the first one after having been there for almost two hours. "Okay, seriously, don't touch anything in here, because everything is venomous." I took it very seriously. When I was still about five feet away from this guy he struck at the glass. It was so fast, and his rattle was so loud that it gave me quite a start; I totally flinched. This snake is a bushmaster. Their bodies are really thick, their heads are very big, and they are exceptionally scary.
After having been startled by this snake I got a close look at it. Celebrity artist/blogger give up took this picture. He, Ryan, and I were all standing right in front of its habitat as Ryan told us a little about it. The bushmaster was really fired up, and rattling very loudly, and as I stepped back I noticed something. "Is that supposed to be there?" I asked.

"No it's not," Ryan said. I tried to be calm about getting away from it, but I probably spazzed out. I had just learned that you have to assume any of these snakes will attack you. PLUS, I was assured that everything in this room was venomous. My face was right next to that lock when the previous picture was taken.
Here's Ryan transporting the snake into a habitat (opened) with a female of the same species inside. Once Ryan had the snake in a locked habitat, we all took a deep breath. "He wouldn't have fucked you up too bad if he gotcha," Ryan assured me. But, when celebrity artist/blogger give up said "just get him with your hand, look how still he is," Ryan said "that's not the kind of thing you wanna do with your bare hand," while he searched for a snake stick. There was a snake stick every five feet or so in the back areas of the reptile house, but not when there's fugitive venomous snake.

Later on Ryan remarked that the fugitive snake may not have been noticed until the following evening, by which time it would have made its way into the ceiling. If you are ever at the zoo and the reptile exhibit is "temporarily closed" that may be the reason.

I thought that would have surely been the cap for excitement, but then we saw this:

Big deal, a snapping turtle. Right? Wrong. This guy is over a hundred years old and over 160 lbs. He had to be taken out of the pond because he kept eating ducks.

Here's a little perspective:

And it didn't stop there. We even got some special time with some special unphotographed birds.

My fascination with these snake bite alarm boxes all over the reptile house has grown a little bit more. Just thinking about Ryan's predecessor being bitten, and having to push that button. And thinking about how there is nothing that can be done if one of the black mambas bites you; you're done, within five minutes. On the other side of the fence from the zoo is one of the best medical centers in the world, but if that snake bites you there's no point in pressing that button, because nobody has an antivenin for it. You may as well just have a seat.

Religious Retraction

2009-03-23T21:42:00.001-07:00

I take back everything I said about Hindu temples being tacky and leaving a dinosaur footprint. I forgot about how they do this:

And this:
And this:
And this:
And this:

And don't forget about this:p.s. that last one is also in Texas.

God Help Us All

2009-03-19T09:13:00.000-07:00

Recently I was taken to a Hindu temple. I use the word "taken" because I was a passenger in a car that arrived at this temple before I was given any knowledge of the car's planned destination.

This is the exact temple I was taken to:

I know. It's breath-taking. The entire structure is hand carved marble with gold on top of the spires. Whoopty shit.

When I walked up the stairs of the structure with no shoes, a much more reverent way to walk on marble, I was handed a garment to cover my irreverent pants. It looked like this:

I felt much more peaceful and respectful with my gold skirt on as I entered the most intricately crafted and expensive porch I have ever sat on.

Here's what I don't get. If people are dumb enough to think that there is some sort of magical being in some magic realm that made the one that we live in, why do they want to go to some building to think about it? Why don't they just go take a walk in the woods, or a canyon, or the beach if they want to communicate with their magic guy? And why do they think that some man made porch is more sacred than the naturally occurring beauty that is torn to shreds to afford them some stupid edifice?

This is what a marble quarry looks like:
Isn't it so beautiful they way the forest is mowed down, and the side of that mountain is gouged out? From quarry to temple you only have like, five more really simple steps... one of them involves putting all of those columns, and arches, and sculptures, and stairs on a boat and sending them accross the world.

And here is one of the largest gold mines in the world:
In this particular gold mine "Extracting a single ounce of gold there—the amount in a typical wedding ring—requires the removal of more than 250 tons of rock and ore," according to National Geographic, and there used to be a volcano there, but now there's only a pit that is currently about 345 feet below sea level, and will eventually reach 1,500 feet. Gold mining and and the techniques used to separate gold from other "less precious" metals uses the worst kinds of chemicals and processes imaginable, ensuring the highest possible damage to land and oceans. Not to mention the human rights struggle it causes.

All that aside, why so gawdy and intricate? Why don't people know where to draw the line between tasteful and tacky?

I noticed while I was sitting on that porch that there was some sort of intricately carved wooden trunk with gold on it. Front and center of that trunk there was a really lovely piece of plexiglass delicately encasing a piece of white paper that had the word "donations" intricately laser-jet printed in courier font. That's interesting to me. It seems like if you needed some money you could start by selling the gold on the box, then all the gold on the roof... maybe see where that gets you. I'm told that it is the lifestyle of monks to only live on donations. If you are so dumb that you believe in all this stupid magic so much that you want to devote your whole life to it, it becomes somebody else's problem to feed you and buy your gold lacy sheets. It's called collective poverty, and it's what monks do in all religions. But it's bullshit. You are not allowed to "collectively" have large amounts of valuables and say that you live in poverty.

Why do all these people in the western world think that they're on some serious shit because they took the time to learn about some stupid religion from the other side of the world? It's the same shit. It doesn't make you any more "enlightened" or "spiritual" than some born again Christian moron. India, as a direct result of Hindus, has the worst caste system in the world. Not classes, castes. Imagine a little kid whose job it is to live in filth and move human shit around, and it's socially acceptable to spit on him, but it's not socially acceptable to touch him or interact with him, all because of something "he did in a previous life to deserve it." Well, if you're dumb enough to think that some part of you stays on Earth, inhabiting different bodies until you understand magic enough to graduate to the sky where you can sit indian-style on a cloud wearing all of your gold, then I hope you're smart enough to consider the possibility of that child graduating to the body of a tiger that happens to have a taste for humans.

Religion is at the heart of most major conflicts in history in one way or another. People take all these stories, and symbols, and images, and places, and relics so seriously that they will kill for them. But they're not willing to actually defend the things that are part of the natural world. Nope, they're much more concerned with your behavior and appearance while you're in their buildings; some of them want you to wear a special hat, or skirt, or tie, or some other prescribed clothing, and kiss things, or make gestures at things, or kneel at certain times, or sit a certain way, AND they all want your money.

It's all the same thing whether it's some blue guy who plays flute that was conceived without a sexual union, or some bearded guy who was conceived without a sexual union, or some elephant lady, or some fat guy, it's all the same shit. It's all superstition and it's all stupid.

The Best Movie I've Seen All Year. (2nd of course to Slumdog)

2009-03-09T11:45:00.000-07:00

I'm breaking my long silence to bring to you a review of the best movie so far in 2009: The Watchmen. Everybody should watch this movie or be rendered sterile, and in some cases both. It has everything, and it was totally mind-blowing... I hardly know where to begin except by first saying S-P-O-I-L-E-R A-L-E-R-T.

Here goes. There's this group of superheroes that's been around since, as best I can tell, WWII. The group's leader, Dr. Manhattan, had some sort of radio-active-science-experiment-gone-tragically-wrong type of accident that causes him to use perfect grammar. It also allows him to teleport himself and others, make multiple copies of himself, see through time, and make things float. His wiener is out for like the whole movie, and he doesn't use a single colloquialism.

This is how he appears in multiplicity:

Some other key characters are The Comedian, The Guy From Coldplay, Batman, a mother/daughter combo, and The Blank From Dick Tracy. Collectively they are the Forrest Gump of superheroes; they are present for all the major events of the 2oth century including the assassination of JFK. This movie takes place in the 1980s, but it's a different 80's than the one we know, it's the 80's of the future. In these 80's Richard Nixon has been president for five terms, Dr. Blue Manhattan Group and The Comedian won the war in Vietnam, and things hover all over New York City.

The Guy From Coldplay is just how he is IRL. He's smug, and uses his superhero status to advance his business while talking about saving resources and the environment.

The Blank From Dick Tracy is a real wild card of a character in this one as his faith in humanity and destiny dwindles, resulting in his wild-and-crazy-loose-cannon antics. His skills (or her skills... as The Blank turned out to be a chick in Dick Tracy) involve sudden acts of brutal and awesome violence, breaking and entering, and parkour. I was really impressed by his Jet Li level parkour abilities, but I was most impressed by the gruesome violence exacted upon bad guys.

Batman moved to New York City at some point and converted an old subway tunnel into his urban bat cave. He's a lot less rich and confident in The Watchmen than usual. He's also more emotional and less stoic than the Batmans I'm used to seeing. He's crushing hard on Dr. Blue Manhattan Group's girlfriend who is the daughter in the mother/daughter combo. The batmobile in the 1980's of the future is a giant hoverjet version of wall-e's head with some badass guns and flamethrowers and shit.

The mother/daughter combo is exactly that. The mom used to be a superhero a long time ago and she's all old in the 80's and so her daughter turns into one. They have some sort of conflict 'cause the mom is a drunk.

The Comedian isn't funny at all. He didn't even tell a single joke. He tries to rape the mother, and I heard that new for 2009 rape is funny, but it just wasn't a very good joke. Then he knocks up some Vietnamese girl when he's winning the war and he kills her and blames it on Dr. Blue Manhattan Group. The Comedian gets killed in the early minutes of the movie by some secret supervillain. Also, The Comedian is the one who invented the smiley face... the yellow button kind, not the emoticon.

So anyways, in The Watchmen the other superheroes are worried that there's some kind of maniac supervillain that's killing "masks." So, The Blank From Dick Tracy is on a mission to find out who it is. He goes to see Dr. Blue Manhattan Group, but he's too busy fixing things without touching them to help. So he breaks into Batman's house, but Batman is kind of a pussy at first about helping out. There's some really old supervillain that he tries to intimidate and then he gets framed for murder. Batman and The Daughter totally hook up and fuck the wall-e batmobile, and since this movie takes place in the 80's, there's tits in it. Then they break into a maximum security prison to rescue The Blank From Dick Tracy; it's really badass. When they finally get him out they break into The Guy From Coldplay's office and find out that he is the main bad guy. Big fucking surprise. He doesn't actually care about the environment or free trade or stopping nuclear war, in fact he's got his finger on the button all along, and presses it, and frames Dr. Blue Manhattan Group for exploding New York City while Dr. Blue Manhattan Group is doing naked yoga meditations and clock building on Mars. So Batman and The Blank From Dick Tracy break into The Guy From Coldplay's mega bad guy lair in Antarctica, and they take a crack at him. Although The Blank From Dick Tracy's attempts are more futile than Batman's, I can tell that he hates The Guy From Coldplay for the same reasons we all do: he's smug, and kinda faggy, and he wants atention for things he obviously doesn't actually care about. The Guy From Coldplay explains how he killed The Comedian and his plan to nuke everything, but then he clarifies that he's "not some comic book villain" and that he wouldn't have explained that stuff if there was something they could do about it. I'm told that The Watchmen actually is a comic book, or "graphic novel" if you want to be a fag about it, so that's exactly what he is. Comic book, graphic novel, what's the difference... I don't read funny books, or books at all. Anyways, Dr. Blue Manhattan Group totally shows up with The Daughter and pw3n5 the shit outta The Guy From Coldplay and then he kills The Blank From Dick Tracy and Batman cries.

Seriously, you have to see this movie. I'm going to see it again tonight.

The Baked Potato Tornado: Remembering Little Mattberry

2008-09-21T19:18:00.000-07:00

When Hurricane Ike came to Houston it took three things from me: my power, one window, and Little Mattberry. The first two things... well, I could give a shit really; my power came back after about five days, and my residence is so old and falling apart anyways that a broken window is pretty much unnoticeable, so much so that I still have not fixed it. The third, however, was my friend and family member. For the first time in twenty years, I don't have a single pet. In those twenty years, Little Mattberry certainly displayed more personality than any of my other animal friends, and I'd like to say a few things about him.

Matthew James Berry II, known to the world as Little Mattberry, came to me in 2002-- the year that I got my first apartment. My friend, Douglas, was working at an exotic pet store, and he was really excited about having received a handful of prairie dog pups from the wild. When I went to investigate the pups I was consumed by their cuteness, and had no choice but to get one, and what better choice than the one that sat like a little Buddha and stared at me. So, I brought a new friend into my new home and my new life as an independent young man. He was a little shy and uneasy at first, but Little Mattberry warmed up to me quickly.

Little Mattberry touched a lot of lives, and is a hard character to forget, especially since he touched many people's lives with a sharp set of rodentile incisors. He was not the best pet socially speaking. His extreme cuteness made people want to play with him, and he was okay to meet people here and there, but in the same way that cats will let you pet them and then suddenly attack, he would bite. Only worse, I think. He bit his namesake and left a permanent scar on him. He bit my friend, Sara, on her birthday and put a scar on her arm. He bit one of my roommates' sister, and latched onto her arm. My friend, Nick, wanted so badly to socialize with LMB despite my numerous warnings of his biting tendencies; Little Mattberry ripped off a half-dollar sized scab that Nick had gotten skateboarding, and ate it. A german guy who stayed in my house for two days while he was on a bicycle tour (from Argentina to Canada) was standing next to LMB's cage; I could hear Little Mattberry chattering angrily, so I was trying to warn my guest that he would surely be bitten if he put his hands near the cage when I heard a calm German voice say, "The rat is biting me... the rat...he's biting me." I peered around the corner to see Little Mattberry futilly attempting to shred the traveler's finger. The German took his finger out of the cage when Little Mattberry was done, he laughed, and walked away. I guess his hands were made of vulcanized rubber, or steel, or something, because everybody else who'd ever been bitten bled.

I don't want you guys to get the wrong idea here, though. Little Mattberry was very sweet, but pretty much only to me. He loved me a whole lot. He loved to be held, and have his little cheeks and shoulders rubbed. He loved carrots, beets, and cheerios. He liked to jump up onto the couch with me. He liked to burrow underneath my covers and ball up next to me and go to sleep. It was really funny when he would jump onto the bed... if you were laying down, you'd see him come into the bedroom, and as he got close to the bed he wouldn't be visible until he popped up right in your face, and once upon the bed, he'd declare a loud "weeee-aehhh." That noise was great. It was the same noise that he issued after I sneezed, as if he was saying "bless you." If he'd been at home by himself all day he'd use it to say "I'm sooooo glad you're home." If he was really itching to get out of his cage, he'd put a few extra syllables on the front of his greeting whenever he came out.

In one of my apartments, Little Mattberry made a home for himself under my stove. The entrance to his lair was between the wall and the appliance. There was a small opening in the front of the stove that he couldn't quite fit through, but he was able to get a hold of my kitchen mat, which I eventually surrendered to him after multiple retrievals. He can be seen attempting to fortify his lair with a box in this video:

In 2005 after having a kidney removed, I was released from the hospital the day that the evacuation was issued for Hurricane Rita. Little Mattberry came to La Grange with me, and it was obviously very stressful for him. He wouldn't come out of his carrier for over a full day at my parents' house, and when he finally did, he was skittish and uneasy. I didn't leave Houston for Hurricane Ike; I stayed with my grandmother, who celebrated her ninetieth birthday only a week before the storm. She has a lot of trouble breathing, and needed someone to stay with her to set up an oxygen tank if her power went out as the machine she uses to breathe runs on electricity. Since my parents now live in Dallas, and my uncle couldn't be bothered to take care of his mother (thanks Rick,) I got the job. The storm force winds had calmed down by ten or so in the morning, I was at my grandmother's house until about six that evening, and when I got home and finally had a chance to check over my situation, I discovered that Little Mattberry hadn't made it. It was just too much for him, and his little heart gave out. The average lifespan of a prairie dog in the wild is about four years; Little Mattberry was over six years old, and he was really starting to show his age. I had always planned on having him cremated, but with no power throughout the city and no way to store his body, I had to bury him. I was able to find a place that night, that wasn't under water or police supervision, that is special to me, that I will see often, where Matthew James Berry II came to his final resting place.

There are a few people who were exceptionally important in the life and death of Little Mattberry, who helped create a lot of very important memories, and you know who you are, and thank you.

arachnid alarm clocks, and the most refreshing beverage on the planet.

2008-09-08T12:19:00.000-07:00

When I awoke this morning there was a brown recluse two inches away from my face. I opened my eyes and was alarmed to see an arthropod, then I was relieved to see that it was a spider, then alarmed again when my eyes focused on the fiddle on its back.

I love spiders. I really do, but I don't really care to have a very dangerous one in the place that I sleep... very near my brain. I checked myself over to see if had been bitten anywhere. I hadn't been, as far as I was able to tell in the brief inspection I performed upon myself. As I got ready to leave for work I thought to myself, "Well, I guess if a bite shows up later on I'll just have somebody take me to the hospital." I hate hospitals: the smells, the light, the sounds, the colors... all of it. Several hours into the day, and no sign of any bite, just a really scary wake up call. So even a crappy day at work (which it wasn't really) was way better than it might have been.

Also, Topo Chico is the best thing that has happened to me in at least a year... possibly ever (beveragely speaking). I drank it less than regularly about a year ago, and didn't fully realize how wonderful it is. I can't find anything wrong with it, and I only have great things to say about it. Recently I've caught myself in full on daydreams, fantasizing about the cold carbonated goodness, and how remarkable it is after a long day, or how well it refreshes after a ride, how great it goes with a hot meal, how perfect it is while you're putting on socks, the way you need one while you wash your dishes... basically there is not a time of day or a single occasion where it is inappropriate to drink one.

the road to syracuse

2008-09-02T19:00:00.000-07:00

Last week my friend Jill was in town and she had to drive from Houston to Syracuse, so I went along with her to share the driving and hopefully have an adventure. We got a leisurely start to the drive, setting sail early afternoon on Wednesday. I learned from billboards that Beaumont has been gushing with fun since 1901. They failed to note, however, that the fun stopped gushing in 1943 when oil production slowed and race riots broke out. I also learned from some billboards that Orange, TX is full of culture, history, and art. I’ve heard a lot about the art happenings of Orange, and it’s rich maritime and lumber history is well known, but Jill informed me that she knows for a fact that Orange, TX is not a cultural hotspot.

We stayed somewhere in Alabama for the night, and got an early start on what was to be a very long day two.

There wasn’t a whole lot to see for quite some time, but we were headed, with great anticipation, towards the Appalachian Mountains, stopping periodically to buy gas station coffee and the gourmet, quality, low sodium, healthy snacks that are readily available in the heartland. We took a musical time machine back to high school, and listened to some all-time deep and meaningful pop-punk and emo albums for several hours.

I saw this somewhere in Georgia I think:

Unfortunately, I was there on a Thursday, and was not able to raise any extra funds. When I showed that picture to Jill, she felt left out, and remarked how she wished she had something to show for cash. It didn’t take her long to realize that there are several different professions in which women are able to show something for cash in various capacities, and that they seldom have the need to do so in a gas station bathroom.

Driving through the Bible Belt is weird. There’s a bunch of big crosses on the roadside, churches everywhere, billboards about your personal salvation, etc. Thusly, it was fun and appropriate that we listened to Julia Sweeney’s Letting Go of God. It’s not exactly a laugh riot from start to finish, but it is interesting, and it gave a good satirical vibe to the setting. If you haven’t heard it, it’s worth a listen.

Jill drew this picture for me:

And I saw this guy in Chattanooga. It's some kind of fly, but it was as big as a hummingbird.

There’s a point somewhere before the Appalachians where, as Jill identified, the hills are successful at keeping out new ideas—or anything new for that matter. We drove for several hours seeing exclusively towns that had been named after existing places: Glasgow, Buena Vista, Lexington, etc. There were also places that little kids and people who can’t spell had named, like Grossclose and Eutaw.

We drove for what seemed like forever on Thursday. When it was absolutely necessary to get some food we weren't close to anything, and we had to stop at a Taco Bell, and modify menu items to make them vegan(ish). I had assumed that we would go in to eat, and Jill mentioned something about wanting to sit down for a minute; by the way she said it, she sounded like she wanted to go in and meditate or something. Seemed like a stretch, but I know that some fast food restaurants in the middle of nowhere are famous for their rock gardens and general receptiveness to eastern philosophies. Jill ordered first and the middle aged woman taking her order struggled to modify her items, and let us know that she was new... it made me wonder what she was doing before. I looked to the back and saw a country punk girl drop a stack of lids or something on the floor and kick them really hard in frustration. Ordering fast food as a vegan is a total craps shoot, and with our low blood sugar bets on the table we had clearly rolled a big snake eyes.

The mountains looked great as we made our way through them in the late afternoon and into the magic hour. More driving, lots of laughs, more driving, and finally at almost five in the morning we got to Jill's apartment. I caught a few minutes of sleep and headed to the airport. Jill had told me for quite some time about the woodchucks in Syracuse, just as we pulled up to the airport Jill spotted a woodchuck in full gait in the grass, and it was spectacular.

With the (much appreciated) help of my friend Chris who works for Continental, I flew back to Houston on a few different planes. I met an old New Jersey guy named Justin on my flight from Newark to Cleveland. He was a lot of fun to talk to. I had way more fun on that trip than anybody could ever hope to have just by driving 1800 miles in two days, and then instantly getting on a plane and coming home.

ol' smitty

2008-08-20T11:01:00.000-07:00

i spent a few days and nights recently in leakey, tx on my friend, lauryn's property. her cabin is right on a gorgeous creek that feeds into the frio river. you can jump off a bunch of rocks into some clear cool water at the bottom of some handsome hills. i was really excited to have a bike with me (thanks again to robert for driving and letting me cram my bike in his marshmallow) because the hills there are amazing and almost completely void of automobiles. on the first morning i awoke in leakey i set out on a much anticipated century loop.

the first twenty five miles or so went like this: climb a little, ride through town, ride a really awesome stretch of dirt and gravel, climb like hell, and descend really fucking fast. about thirty five miles in, i hadn't seen a car, or a person, or anything that wasn't livestock or roadkill for over half an hour. i was really deep in thought, and my involvement with these thoughts had reached a low volume autoconversational level. i was muttering to myself in the middle of nowhere. a guttural roar bored through the hypnotic hum of my tires, simultaneously disrupting my one man dialogue and spiking my heart rate. i glanced back to see a terrifying beast of a miniature pincer with his mouth agape about to remove my right foot. he looked kinda like this:

i stood on my pedals to accelerate and escape the monster. i raised the volume of my mutter to a full yell, bravely declaring, "oh shit." i totally got away.

two days later i realized that i hadn't had a cup of coffee. robert and richie and i had to go into town to get some essentials, and i was really excited about some shitty gas station coffee. as we walked into the convenience store, a man who was easily a hundred and thirteen followed closely behind.

"hey smitty," the man holding the door for us said as the geriatric entered wearing his standard issue jumpsuit, slippers, and hat. i wandered around for a minute, hoping to find some topo chico, and looking at pictures of dead bucks with their tongues hanging out of their mouths. i filled myself a tall styrofoam tumbler of exquisitely gas stationy coffee. i tasted it and approved. just after i tasted it, i noticed smitty ambling towards me intently. once within arm's length, he said, "lemme see that tattoo ya got there." before i could even swallow my second sip of coffee in two full days, he grabbed my shirt and rolled the sleeve up to my shoulder. while inspecting my arm closely, he made that weird lip-lick/smack that really old people make. "where'd ya git that done?" he demanded. "in houston," i said. he looked at me for a split second, and walked to the candy bars. when he took his purchase to the counter, there was a newspaper from two towns over waiting for him. the man working the register says to ol' smitty "that'll be $1.28 then." "let's just call it a dollar," smitty replied, handing over a single. the woman who facilitated the newspaper deal made some gesture to the cashier to let him know that was cool, and smitty left. i wish that he hadn't though, because i had a lot of questions for him about the civil war, world war one and two, prohibition, candlestick phones, and what the stamp act was really all about. i guess they'll just have to go unanswered by a man who experienced it all first hand.

there was all kinds of road kill all over the place, but some of it was extra fucked up:

apart from all of the awesome riding, swimming, and meeting ageless men some other cool stuff happened. i caught this frog:

this nice gentleman will offer to park your car when you pull up to lauryn's grandparents house:

then we had some fire,

then we crammed into robert's marshmallow again and went home.

nearosporum

2008-08-20T10:55:00.002-07:00

the following was an email that i sent to a friend about two years ago; i stumbled across it a few days ago and it gave me a good chuckle:

i had this dream where i was in new york city. i was in this really fancy piano bar being hit on by multiple divorcees. i left the bar with one of them for a walk arond town. on our walk i fell into a storm drain and landed in some neon green ooze. i transformed, as you may have guessed, into a teenage mutant ninja turtle. at this point you must be saying "well, wouldn't it be more like a twenty-something mutant ninja turtle?" the answer is no, because i turned specifically into raphael. i got into a ninja-off with an exceptionally talented member of the foot clan. we weren't fighting, just showing off, chopping boards, twirling swords... you know. anyways, i won the ninja-off with a spinning back-kick,breaking two terracotta pots suspended overhead just after commenting on how all of the activity was increasing my appetite for pizza. the next morning i awoke with five fingers, no shell, and not a single ounce of karate ability.

two days after that i was hit by a car on the way to work. i escaped with only minor cuts and not so minor bruises. my newly replaced front wheel is toast, and so is my fork. the woman who hit me happily handed over her information. while walking my bike home i said to myself repeatedly, "1500 dollars. that was probably worth about 1500 dollars." well, the insurance info was bogus so it wasn't worth a fucking dime. if it happens again i'm calling an ambulance.

fast forward to last weekend: i went to the bayhouse with my parents and grandparents. while my grandfather, dad, and i were in the boat fishing this one point, we saw a giant rainbow far off. a couple more minutes of fishing, and a rain cloud settled right over us. at this point we were literally at the end of the rainbow... both ends: one on the port stern and the other on the starboard stern. and this was not just some pussy, little ten-foot halo, this was a giant-skyward-arching-at-any-second-a-pegacorn-is-gonna-fly-through-it
rainbow. once again-- not worth a fucking dime. no
matter how much you know the pot-of-gold is bullshit,
if you shall ever find yourself in the same situation,
you'd expect one to be there.

the next day i had the pleasure of meeting this really shithouse lady at a bait camp (go figure). in response to a simple "how are you?" she replied, "not so good. i just cut myself." she held a sloppily bandaged finger a few centimeters away from my nose
and brandished her shotty dental work in an ignorant smile as i held onto the pier from the boat. "iscratched a mosquita bite," she continued "and i had to stay innuh hospital for six days with that
bacteeral infeckshin. i cut this one on one o' them croaker tanks, so i been open it up, pourin' ackahol in it, an' puttin' that nearosporum in it... so..."
"well, thanks," i said, taking the pound of dead bait also a few centimeters from my nose my grandfather ordered. "see you later."

those were good times.

a little strange, don't you think?

2008-08-20T10:55:00.001-07:00

i was taking the trash out today just before closing down the shop. near the dumpster area sat a homeless man, who was not a familiar face of the rice village vagrants, with two heaping stacks of junk mail. he was opening envelopes, reading and discarding offers for travel, credit cards, and the like. letters were blowing away from him as he made no attempt to secure them. as i approached the dumpster i noticed a one dollar bill on the ground between me and him. fearing that it had belonged to him and was covered in leprosy or excrement, i did not pick it up. so there's this homeless guy twenty feet away from me opening letter after letter, obviously in search of some fortune, meanwhile there's a dollar ten feet away from the both of us and i couldn't tell if he even knows it's there. i finished dumping my trash, and headed back towards the shop, watching him discreetly to find out wether he even sees this fucking dollar. as i'm passing him he asks without looking at me, "do ya have any extra starburst?"
"what?!" i asked.
"ya got any extra starburst?"
i heard him correctly the first time after all, but i had no verbal response; all i could do was lift an arm in total confusion and make a face to complement the gesture.
and that was it. i went back inside, and i still don't get it. i know he knew that dollar was there.