Thursday, April 23, 2009
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
Encounters Trying To Write
A few years ago, a PH.D student recently moved to Venice heard a noise. No, not a noise really, but a beat, constant, suggestive, bouncing off the cement guards of the beach and through the residential areas. Eh. He thought nothing of it, until he went with a friend to find these beats himself. Herein lies the story of the biggest lifestyle change he had yet to encounter.
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
The Ideas Three
1. Frogs and the Internet: Am I an annoyance now?
2. Misty Mornings: Ideas spring quickly into being here, and then are quickly forgotten.
3. I Suspect Aliens.
Tapping on keyboards has become the new cure for the early morning hangover, replacing the early morning workout that you never get to. Beware the marsh mellow overdose, but when it does make sure to record your thoughts.
2. Misty Mornings: Ideas spring quickly into being here, and then are quickly forgotten.
3. I Suspect Aliens.
Tapping on keyboards has become the new cure for the early morning hangover, replacing the early morning workout that you never get to. Beware the marsh mellow overdose, but when it does make sure to record your thoughts.
Sunday, April 5, 2009
Thursday, March 26, 2009
Outage
You're too much of a good thing,
I said,
And so am I.
When I talk to you, I make it sound like destiny.
I slept on a floor,
In a living room.
Lately the place has gotten
quite dusty, and
given me the incentive to vacuum.
Life got in the way,
but, but, but and but.
I never did, and pulled my
sleeping bag closer to my face
each night.
Fuck it I cried out
on the last day.
I yanked out
the chord and paced the room,
music exploding in my head.
That night I closed
the door on my clean living
room floor bed,
and did not sleep
there. Fuck my life.
I said,
And so am I.
When I talk to you, I make it sound like destiny.
I slept on a floor,
In a living room.
Lately the place has gotten
quite dusty, and
given me the incentive to vacuum.
Life got in the way,
but, but, but and but.
I never did, and pulled my
sleeping bag closer to my face
each night.
Fuck it I cried out
on the last day.
I yanked out
the chord and paced the room,
music exploding in my head.
That night I closed
the door on my clean living
room floor bed,
and did not sleep
there. Fuck my life.
Cause Of Death Cited As Steak
Back in early December, I bought four steaks for our annual UCLA-USC football game tailgate. Only three got cooked and eaten. I left the other in an ice chest for the duration of the game, then the subsequent ride home through horrific Pasadena traffic.
It was a friend's ice chest, so the steak wound up in his freezer after God knows how many hours outside. Two nights later I retrieved it from him. By now the marinade, mostly olive oil and salt with some vinegar, had compounded into a white, sticky solid, and was clinging to the sides of the plastic tupperware. Horrified at the sight, I stuck it back into my freezer, where it lay forgotten for eons...
Until a few days ago, when I came back from a trip and found a devastating lack of food in the fridge. So I defrosted that steak, cooked it today, and had the best, juiciest steak that I've ever made for myself (although meat was a little tough, probably from all the freezing).
Still no signs of death, but if it comes, you'll know what did it.
It was a friend's ice chest, so the steak wound up in his freezer after God knows how many hours outside. Two nights later I retrieved it from him. By now the marinade, mostly olive oil and salt with some vinegar, had compounded into a white, sticky solid, and was clinging to the sides of the plastic tupperware. Horrified at the sight, I stuck it back into my freezer, where it lay forgotten for eons...
Until a few days ago, when I came back from a trip and found a devastating lack of food in the fridge. So I defrosted that steak, cooked it today, and had the best, juiciest steak that I've ever made for myself (although meat was a little tough, probably from all the freezing).
Still no signs of death, but if it comes, you'll know what did it.
God Is Pulling My Leg Tonight
In all the wrong directions, and using what I love to do it: The New York Times. I'm an optimistic person and deal well with stress. I don't freak out. Maybe I just have two copies of a gene dealing with Seratonin that puts me in the 'low-risk' group for depression.
There's something troubling about writing off this essential part of me, that I take a lot of pride in, as genetic. It says, "hey, you can't take credit for these anymore, someone gave 'em to you and could've easily given you the two genes that put you in the 'high-risk' group for depression.
Of course, changing rails and getting on the religious train, you could say God designed this trait in me, and probably did it for a reason. I should count myself as lucky, maybe anxious to see what comes of it. I'm so jaded with religion that this doesn't make me happy or satisfied, and that's a little upsetting.
People aren't entirely responsible for the things that happen to them, but they are somewhat. Certain genes can make you more likely to get mugged. For example, if someone seeks experience and adventure, they're more likely to walk down seedy streets and encounter a mugger.
So that's me. Suddenly the kid pre-disposed to a lot more things and responsible for a lot less. This is a certain blow to the ego.
Another blow: a strange bump/cyst below my wrist. I've had it for as long as I can remember, but today it started to bother me. I should get it checked.
There's something troubling about writing off this essential part of me, that I take a lot of pride in, as genetic. It says, "hey, you can't take credit for these anymore, someone gave 'em to you and could've easily given you the two genes that put you in the 'high-risk' group for depression.
Of course, changing rails and getting on the religious train, you could say God designed this trait in me, and probably did it for a reason. I should count myself as lucky, maybe anxious to see what comes of it. I'm so jaded with religion that this doesn't make me happy or satisfied, and that's a little upsetting.
People aren't entirely responsible for the things that happen to them, but they are somewhat. Certain genes can make you more likely to get mugged. For example, if someone seeks experience and adventure, they're more likely to walk down seedy streets and encounter a mugger.
So that's me. Suddenly the kid pre-disposed to a lot more things and responsible for a lot less. This is a certain blow to the ego.
Another blow: a strange bump/cyst below my wrist. I've had it for as long as I can remember, but today it started to bother me. I should get it checked.
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