precipitation

After watching Constantine the other day, and posting that nonsense about cats and God and baptism and Dave Brubeck, I grabbed up my said Dave Brubeck and jammed it all the way into the freaking CD player. Yeah, I still gots a CD player, but I had to hook it up. So I hooked it all the way up and blasted that. Man I love that album.

Alright.

So afterwards I put in Charles Mingus. Excellent.

Then it happened.

I have a Technics 5 disc changer from 800 billion years ago. It is the kind with the huge tray and the 5 disc carousel that goes around in a circle. Fairly primitive as far as CD changers go, but I sort of have a romantic draw to those things. Something about it's limited capacity and the fact that it spins around in a circle in such an inefficient manner...

Charles Mingus' Mingus Ah Um wrapped up and the changer changed (as it is wont to do, being a changer after all, changing is it's primary function, second only to the actual playing of CD's... can you have a secondary primary function? Is that some kind of paradox?) and it returned to Brubeck's Time Out! as those were the only two CD's in the machine...

I let Time Out! go for a little bit since I started the album at Take Five, the actual song played in Constantine, because, having my memory tickled in just such a way, I needed to hear exactly that. But as Take Five approached, I decided it was time to move on to another CD, and I contemplated for a moment.

Now I know I'm going on and on like I am some sort of jazz guru, or aficionado, or enthusiast, or some other adjective, but I'm not. I don't know all the specifics of who did what, who wrote this or that and all the stats of the different players... I just like jazz. Not that noodly new age crap. But real jazz. I like old jazz from 100 years ago. I like the modern improv jazz. I like Count Basie, Monk, Miles, Coltrane. That shit rubs all over me like some kind of hot oily feminine hands caressing my body into some warm sleepy state where I can no longer tell the time, and I forgot how I got there...

But really I don't know a lot about jazz, or all the great musicians and singers. I fall into the category of "I know what I like". And I know it when I hear it. I guess that's the best way to know about anything, really. I've heard a ton that I don't know what it was, or how to ever find it again... but that's how things go sometimes.

Now that I've branched off so far you forgot what the hell I was talking about, Mingus finished off, the quaint roundy CD changer returned to Brubeck (and who can blame it, really?), I figured it was time to move on to the third disc of the night. So I went through my (not) extensive jazz collection and said "wow" and pulled out Sun Ra's Space Is The Place. Man, what a nutty piece of music. It is a beautiful assault on sanity, coaxing circles out of squares. And it struck me just then.

I am a huge fan of the Swedish band, Meshuggah.

Deep breath here. I have no idea what the hell you, reader, are about, but Meshuggah is one of the heaviest (death) metal bands ever to torture the audio spectrum. I will not attempt to convey here what they sound like. Words will fail. I assure you.

My first experience with Meshuggah was in 1998. On a fluke I bought Meshuggah's Chaoshpere, put it in the (quaint 5 disc roundy roundy changing) CD player and thought to myself, "Self, what the hell is this shit?" I couldn't make out what was going on, heads or tails, I couldn't find the rhythm, I didn't hear the melody. It was noise. Just like all those stodgy old parents had been telling kids for the last thirty plus years...

I took it out, put it in it's (jewel, love that term) case, and there it sat, like a festering seed, for six months.

Then one day... for some unknown reason, much like the time I actually bought the CD, I took it out and jammed it into the CD player. I figured I bought the damn thing, don't know why, but, I'd give it another go. The ol' college try, whatever the fuck that is.

And...

BAM! It hit me over the head. It was like the mirror shattered and now I saw past the world reflected back at me. I know that sounds deep and transcendental and whatever the hell kind of experiential crap you want to call it... but musically I was floored. Suddenly I heard what they were doing. I heard the drums, like some kind of seven armed, lumbering elegant beast, falling and catching itself, the massive guitars grinding, crashing and then flying, the two meeting together in accord with one another and falling back again. I don't mean to, but I think of Mozart, and I am no master of music theory, but just in regards to his complexity, how he was able to take so many varied melodies and have them compliment and dance with each other...

In a very different way, Meshuggah accomplishes the same effect. Do they sound like Mozart? No. Definitely not. If you like classical music will you like Meshuggah? I highly doubt it. Seriously. Am I a nut job? Yes, but my point is still valid. There are a few of you out there, who's minds and musical tastes are so freaking open and broad that you will listen past pounding drums, or tender flutes or jackhammer guitars, or ferocious pipe organs, and hear the music, hear the pattern, the rhythms inside rhythms, and the melodies flirting around them, and you'll be satisfied like the eater of a fine banquet.

What does this have to do with Dave Brubeck? Very little. When I listened to Sun Ra's Space Is The Place it sounds just like a horn and vocal version of what Meshuggah plays. They are so close together... and yet the instrumentation keeps them polarized. Kind of sad that the timbre of grindy guitars or gentle horns carry more weight for most people than the music itself.

Either I am highly evolved, musically, or I have really lost perspective. I don't know which. All I can say is, I know what I like when I hear it, and both of these strike the same chord in me...

Fundamentally astounding.

Crosswalks are not babysitters.

I cannot recount how many times I've seen this lately in Los Angeles. This place has the most brainless fucks of any place I've lived. I *can* tell you that stupid people are everywhere, but this just takes the cake...

Women who push their babies in a stroller out in front of a moving car, REGARDLESS that the light is red and that they have the crosswalk sign and the right of way, WITHOUT LOOKING at the car to check that it is actually stopping, let alone taking notice of them, are FUCKING STUPID. God gave you a neck you stupid bitch, use it. IT IS YOUR CHILD'S LIFE! Stop pushing it out in front of a moving car without first checking that it's safe. For fuck sake.

So many people in the world aren't worth the carbon they're made of.

Finally!

You know, the great advancement in men's rings has been the inner contour. If you do not know about this grand invention I'm guessing you've never been married. It's a nice little bevel on the inside edge of the ring that improves it's comfort. My wedding ring had this, wherever that thing went to...

Mankind has been beveling things for ages, but only recently have we begun to bevel rings in an effort to make the lives of men the world over such a gentler experience.

I have owned, for probably 6 or 7 years, a ring, which has been the reverse of this comfort contour. It is a rounded dome shaped exterior, with a flat inner surface. This results in an edge on the ring which points directly at the finger. It is quite sharp and rather *un*comfortable. I cannot tell you exactly why I bought the damn thing in the first place. It also had a design cut into the top that looked vaguely like some sort of celtic batman symbol.

This ring has done nothing more that turn my finger green, snag my jeans or anything else it would come in contact with, stab my finger with that silly carved out design that is a copy of nothing that exists in the world, and generally cause trouble wherever it would go. Nevermind that everyone who saw it would coo over it, telling me how cool it looked.

Looked.

I hated that little bastard.

Well, as luck would have it, I was in a hurry to put on my rings this past Saturday as I was about to go onstage, and wouldn't you know it, as I pulled all five rings of mine out of my pocket, there goes one of them spinning across the floor, behind some ladders and assorted debris, under a rickety wooden step and off into some magical land I cannot enter.

Of course you know the ring I'm talking about is that pointy edged little fuck I've been toting around like a dumbass for half a decade.

For a second I thought to myself, oh shit, I lost one of my rings. And as I resigned myself that it was just gone and to accept the situation, I realized it was the most hated of my rings. I suddenly understood this was a good thing, something that should have happened a very long time ago.

Goodbye you little fucker. I hope nobody finds you.

News Of The World !

Again, this was written some time ago. I was reluctant to post it. But by popular demand, here it is. Have fun.

****

I was happy today. Then I cried. But I had a good reason. And I'm not going to tell you what it is. But then I was happy again.

I ate two peaches. You have no freaking idea how difficult it has been for me to learn how to properly let a peach ripen. Somehow I manage to always make them stay hard, and then they immediately rot. Don't ask how, I don't know, it's just a fortunate trait I seem to possess. And so I had two peaches turn out great. Soft. Juicy. Actually very juicy. I made a delicious mess. At work on my desk. Oh well. I also ate an apple.

I had coffee. A bunch. Well, a bunch for me. I really haven't been much of a coffee drinker as I've gotten older. Lately I've made a swing back. I think it's the proliferation of fancy coffee joints, like Starbucks, Coffee Bean, Tully's, Peets, et al. in the last ten years that has brought me around. I used to just drink black regular coffee. Pretty harsh by today's standards. Sort of like back in the day when the only martini you could get was a gin martini, and not good gin at any rate. I think fluid intake for pleasure has reached an all time high in its paletteability in recent times. I just made up a word.

Today is Saturday and I'm at work, but I got a moment to write. I write a lot these days. In fact, I think I'm also writing a book. I haven't written in years. A book would be a nice accomplishment in this life, whether or not it were to be published. I can't really imagine being published. I have no point of reference for that sort of thing.

Sometimes I feel like Carrie from Sex and the City. I mean, I'm a guy but she's got all those shoes. But that's not it. I come to a time in my day, alone, and mulling over myself, my life, events in my day or week, in my friend's lives around me, you know, *everything* and sometimes something grows from whatever seed has been planted through those times. It's really nice. I haven't written much in a *very* long time, and although I'm exceedingly rusty, I am starting to feel some of the cobwebs coming loose. Very cool when you see progress, especially when it's back towards something you once had. Like getting back into shape. That is something I've done over the past two years. I went from being the heaviest I've ever been in my life, to almost the weight and physical condition I was in during high school. Of course the cardiovascular system is lagging the most, I'm still pushing it a bit. When I'm not working overtime and sitting at a desk. In the dark. Turning into a blob.

Man that paragraph rambled.

So, back to Carrie. I get to this moment, sometimes everyday, sometimes only occasionally during the week and I am compelled to right this self aware thoughtful whatever. Honestly I think I am closely examining my life. I used to write fantasy stories, horror or scifi, or horror-scifi. Now I am more interested in writing what reflects real life, real people and real experiences. Or something close to that. It's actually pretty satisfying. As if I am now swimming with the tide, instead of fighting my way against it.

I don't know. I have been tending to write stuff like this and it feels strange because it's new to me, never having kept a journal or diary or anything like that. Keeping a journal always seemed laborious to me. And silly. Today I ate a peach. Today I talked to my mother on the phone. Today I fell on my head. Strange. But that's pretty much what I'm doing right here. I find myself in a strange place that I don't recognize and I'm looking around wondering how I got here and I have no map of the terrain.

I wear my great-grandfather's ring on my wedding-ring finger. To keep girls away. It's just a ring he had, not his wedding ring. It is strange I know, but I need to be alone in that department. Things have changed for me regarding women. There is one out there, maybe, and that's how it's going to happen. I'm done screwing up that part of my life. However long it takes. It's just how my guts feel. It's an odd feeling, I've never experienced it before, and it isn't unwelcome. Like the change as I get older, peaches or apples taste better than candy did when I was young. They're better for you and that's what has to happen in my life. Something a bit more healthy. If I can't have something good for me I'd rather go without. I guess that's quite a bit different than, almost everybody I know. Except for one man. He is a friend of mine I don't see often, but he a *great* human being. I look up to him in many regards. I don't think he even knows this... that's pretty cool.

I'm becoming rather self absorbed. Well, for me it seems self absorbed. I've always been pretty modest. I never cut up in class. I always kept to myself when I was young and drew pictures or wrote stories. The older I get, the more of a jackass I've become. I do things to piss people off, but only if it makes them laugh in the end. I drive my co-workers nuts. I seem to be a late bloomer class clown of some kind. I think it's just an attention thing. I never wanted attention before, and now I do. Self-absorbed. For some time (about 6 years now) I've been having pictures taken of me toasting with my coffee mug. I have no idea what that's about, I just do it. But it's all about me really. Maybe I'm on some voyage of self discovery as they call it. I guess we all are in a way. I just never figured it out until recently. Better late than never.

I have a touch of bronchitis right now. I guess I had some sort of lung thing after I was born. Oxygen tent and that whole bit. Now I get bronchitis on occasion, but usually only if I get run down. Stress and drink will bring it on, two things that attack your immune system. Seems reasonable, right?

I use gmail to write my blogs. I think that's weird. Actually it's not. Gmail is accessible where ever I go, so it makes sense. I have FOURTEEN blogs at one stage or another right now in my drafts folder.

I dress nice. The nicest I've ever dressed. I like it. Hell, I used to think suits were for slaves, and now I'd wear one everyday, because they kick so much ass. I never realized before how rich the world is and how much it has to offer. I was always so busy going against the grain. I never listened to 'radio'. I didn't even own a TV until 6 years ago, and at that never really watched it. And I *definitely* didn't watch anything popular. Except Simpsons. But I didn't like them until season 3 or 4 anyway, because everybody else *did* like them. I just couldn't ever be like anybody else. I still think I'm not like anybody else, but now I've pulled my head out of my ass and I've realized I don't have to try so hard out of fear of being mistaken for a MTV or GQ clone, to be different, to just be myself.

I'm growing a beard. For no good reason. We'll see how long this lasts. I look quite a lot like my father with it. Which actually startled me in one photograph I saw. The resemblence was freakish. I don't think I look that great with a beard. I mean, I can carry it off just fine, but, personally, I think I am more handsome when shaved. Which is how I prefer my face. Clean shaven is the way to go lately. I guess the beard is like a time out in the facial hair grooming department. I think this goes with the ring wearing I mentioned above. Chicks in general don't dig beards. Maybe I should just stop showering. Or even putting on clothes...

I was onstage tonight. I perform improv. Not stand-up. I have no desire or talent for stand-up. But improv with a group, creating scenes and stories out of nothing, live. It is a crazy rush. As much as playing any sport I've tried. It can be a bit physical, I was thrown around a bit tonight, you know, being stabbed, punched, hit in the face with a door, falling down an escalator. Of course all those things are make-believe, but you're still falling and rolling for real on the stage. I've come off stage with a few scrapes and bruises. One torn tendon and a twisted knee once. That's really rare though, and certainly nothing near what could ever happen for you in a football or soccer game. But it's not even that, although it's fun to be energetic and create this worlds that become very real physically, it's the psychological rush. You have to pay a lot of mental attention, to what your teammates are creating, what they are saying, what story is evolving, who their character or personality is. And then you have to make appropriate choices, and grab random accidents that happen and explore them and bring life to them. All these things in a split second. It really is quite a rush when it is going well. I'm so happy to be involved in this. And the people I have around me here in this are some great people.

*Addition to the improv injury list: I got backhanded in a big way this past weekend by a girl. Damn. I tasted blood. My gums are black and blue. Heheheh. She got a good one in on me... accidentally right?*

Life is good. For all of it's crazy unexpected twists and turns.

Something snapped in me recently. Something in my brain. It's been straining for a long while I think and finally... finally it gave up. It couldn't resist any longer. And you know what? It's sort of like a spinal adjustment, or cracking your knuckles. It actually feels good, although I'm not sure how to navigate it just yet. Like that first time you ride a bicycle. It sure is fun and exciting, but you haven't quite figured out how to work with the machine, so the two of you can get along down the road without one of you messing up the other. I'm taking a few spills, but I'm also experiencing a new joy I don't think I've felt since... in a long damn time. And now with the added perspective of experience. Like having some lifetime of knowledge and also getting back a bit of that childlike naivety or wonder.

That is the current state of affairs, this second weekend of September '06. Whether or not you care is trivial. I suppose if you've read this far I must hold some sort of fascination, whatever that may be.

It's interesting to put my day into perspective and see what is going on in my life. How many of us actually take a moment to look at this stuff, things that we choose and things that happen everyday that are forgotten as soon as they pass? And something that I find fascinating, is just how much stuff I am missing in this. There has to be five times as much stuff that swims past my conscious mind while trying to capture these few moments, than what is actually here in writing.

For the record I am rather uncomfortable with writing out my life like this.

Actually, I think ratbaby is right...

this was originally written several weeks ago. not that it matters, I'm just uptight about details. humour me.

****

I went to a party this past weekend. I was invited because there were *too many* girls there and they were trying to level things out. I don't know any of these girls, just two friends and the birthday girl. Well, no shit, there was a truckload of women and a Smart Car-load of men.

If you don't know what a Smart Car is you are truly unrefined. Or like me, you're a fan of dragsters and formula 1 cars. Basically a Cro-Magnon Man. Thank God there's a few of us left. Seriously, I'm half drunk typing this right now, thinking about girls. It's taking me about 8 hours to write up three paragraphs.

The point is Smart Cars are really small. They hold two adults and chimp. And maybe a ferret. And some goldfish, but not in bowl. In a baggie.

Anyhow, a lot of these girls were typical LA fair, talking about what cars guys owned (bleh). And they were overdressed for a birthday party in an apartment, more like for clubbing and fishing for the flavour of the week. I didn't think I'd have anything to say, as I am 100 % unavailable, but I ended up talking with a lot of them. A couple of them (not the night on the town ones) were enjoyable to talk with. I swear three of them wouldn't leave me alone. I would excuse myself to talk with other people and invariably they found their way back into conversation with me. I'm sporting a beard. Yo estaba tomando bastante. I keep my great grandfathers ring on my ring finger. I mean, I don't think any of that is a particular draw... I don't know how this shit works. It was a lot of fun, but I certainly don't understand the dynamic... and none were take home to mom material. Not for me, I mean.

So now, I claimed Cro-Magnon status just a paragraph ago, but you know, I still have a soft fleshy heart beating behind my rib cage... and it is running the show right now. If the rest of you Cro-Mag's want to fight about it.... I own a baseball bat. And a sword. Let's go.

skinball

okay.

first off, I have no idea why I'm writing this.

in the time between when I had my great IDEA and the browser loaded, I forgot. Yes. That is correct.

Now, I am very *smart* but I have the attention span of a rock.

It had something to do with cheese. Maybe chocolate.

I use a microplane to shred most things, including cheese. If you like to cook, and you don't have one, go buy one. Now. You are a caveman if you don't have one. Seriously, these things are unbelievable. I own one and I still shit my pants every single time I use it. Damn.

If you do not know what a microplane is, well then, shit. You don't cook. Or maybe you do, and you wish cooking was 'better'. If you don't wish it to be better, then stop reading right now and get the fuck out. Fuck you. Get out and stop reading.

But if you do wish cooking was 'better' then read on.

Okay. I am not a cook. I enjoy cooking. I know a few 'tricks' that help me seem like I know what I am doing in the kitchen. Well, it makes me look good, but more importantly, it makes the food taste better. One tool that helps this situation is the microplane. My stepdad demanded I get a microplane for 1 million years before I finally bought one....

And then I bought a microplane.

Shit.

This thing rocks. It rocks all day and parties every night. Even when I'm not there, it's partying. It is rocking the Casbah and the shareef is shitting his pants this thing is so cool. Seriously. Damn.

I know that sounds sensationalist, but damn dude, go buy a microplane if you spend more that FIFTEEN minutes in the kitchen. If you DON'T, then WHAT THE FUCK are you doing all the way down here in this blog ???

shit. come on. have some self respect. get out if you don't like cooking.

now.

get out.

bitch.

okay. so the creepers are gone. and the hard core cooking weirdo's are still here, and I have to tell you....

microplanes kick so much ass.... there may very well be not enough ass for them to kick.

BUT !!!!

be careful.

seriously.

microplanes are sharp. and precise.

and if you snag your finger you will end up with a tiny, unidentifiable skinball in your food.

skin is delicious like any other food such as chicken, chicken skin, turkey, turkey skin, pork, pork and sausage and pork and bacon and what not...

but if you don't want to eat human, then be careful.

it's really easy to get some skin in there.

with great kitchen tools comes great responsibility.

and so.....

You don't need a *microplane* to serve human skin to your friends.... but it helps.

farsighted

About ten years ago I went to renew my driver's license. At the time I was living in North Carolina and the DMV I was directed to, was a strange building where the reception area was actually quite small, and you walked up to a desk much like going to a teller in a bank. Yeah it was exactly like that, a bank, except they weren't behind bulletproof glass. You went up to the desk and did your business, whatever that was, I can't remember exactly, and then you went into a line. A cattle chute of some type for drivers and what not. Quite a bit different than the take a number and sit method in Los Angeles.

What I really found interesting is what took place after the line. About 2/3rds of the area inside the building (this building had no rooms, it was one huge room) were wood desks, evenly spaced and all facing the same direction. Perhaps I am part of a generation that can still manage to recall, if only from photographs, the fifties and maybe sixties of the 20th century where large business would have armies of people at desks, toiling day in and day doing... I have no idea what. Not only this throwback to another time occupied the space, but manning these desks were none other than actual highway patrol officers. *That* seemed rather peculiar to me.

So you get called from the line and head to the appropriate lawman behind his desk, where he was outfitted in a full patrol uniform with all his gear. And again, unlike Los Angeles where you are handed a test or booklet or paperwork or whatever and return to your chair to attend to these papers, in this particular DMV you sat at the desk in front of the patrolman while taking the test, as if performing some sort of interview. Which I guess it is in some perspective.

You finish your papers under the eagle eye of the law's handyman and hand it back. If everything is in order you take the road sign/eye test. This is a peculiar one I hadn't seen before. I've seen the machines but not used exactly like this. If I am correct (and it has been awhile since I've been in a DMV) in LA you look into the eye machine just for an eye test. In NC the machine was used first to test your knowledge of roadsigns and their meanings. Once that task was overcome, finally came the eye test.

Straight away I'll tell you I tested at 20/14. And ever since that day I've bragged about how great my vision is. And truly it was pretty good. I had always been able to make out details just a little further than most people I knew. In high school I had read the line below the 20/20 mark in the dark. Again, I was rather proud of myself. (That wasn't an actual test, we were all just waiting to get our blood pressure taken. Not sure why...)

There is another thing. Some of you may have this also, I know many people who do. I am under the impression it is not uncommon. I have what I've been told are floaters. If you've ever looked into a clear blue sky and saw faint blurry black spots floating around, well, those are floaters. I've had them as long as I can remember, and usually I can't see them due to the staggering amount of visual information coming in, but if I'm looking at the sky as mentioned or a blank wall for instance, they are always present.

I asked an eye doctor friend of mine what they are. I hadn't expected his response. Retinal detachment is what he told me it was. Obviously, that sounded rather alarming. He lives in another city some 6 hours as the car drives, so he recommended I go see an eye doctor. To spare all the details, I hadn't been to an eye doc in about 800 years, so a friend sent me to hers and he was very good and friendly. So now I have an excellent eye doctor.

What he told me is the retinal detachment is about normal for someone my age and not to worry. But what he said next I wasn't ready for.

He told me I'm farsighted.

Now hold up a minute. I have great vision. If 20/40 is bad, and 20/20 is good, then 20/14 is better right? I guess a decade after 20/14 I am becoming a bit farsighted. I never in 800 billion years thought that when the second number got smaller that things got worse in the opposite direction. I guess you shouldn't assume so much in your life...

Now that I am aware of this I have some mild corrective glasses, basically reading glasses, to bring things just a bit closer to my eye. And what I've noticed since, is, my eyes don't hurt. Like any mild chronic pain you have for any length of time in your life, you adjust and don't really notice it. I hadn't realized that my eyes were straining and I had this dull ache behind my eyes from straining to focus up close. You see, I work in a field that requires me to focus, for 8 to 10 hours a day, about 2 feet in front of me, looking at a flat surface. And even when I look up, the farthest distance I get to look to is only about 30 feet away.

I never thought I'd have glasses.

In other news, I have about 14 unborn blogs sitting around. Many of them will most likely never come to completion. But the one I just wrote yesterday is the longest blog yet and it's some kind of personal inventory of the current affairs in my life. Very diary like. Like I said, personal. And it's just sitting there. Out of the 14 it's the only one that is fully finished and ready to post, and even though I want to share the fruits of my labour, it's sitting right on the fence of just how much and how detailed of the stuff that is my life I want to share.

I don't know what to do with it. I'll probably just post it. You'll laugh because I'm probably just in my head about it. I think it's the shear amount of information in it. Where this blog deals with one or two topics, that blog moves from one to the next to the next to the next.

And it's a little deeper than eye exams.