|
|
Friday, December 22nd, 2006
| |
12:48 am - Moms Are Embarrassing Sometimes
|
The following is an actual phone conversation my mom had with my sister today.
"Your aunt mailed us two (Plant whose name i don't remember) today. One of them is for you to take back to your apartment...Yeah, well, it's just soil in a pot right now, but they'll grow about an inch in just a night or two after you water them....Uh huh. Well they're unique because they grow in a long stalk, it looks like a giant erection (laughs).... They'll grow if you put them in a good spot, and you've got lots of good spots....(laughs)..Oh i didn't mean it like that..."
Which is why I've decided my mom is not allowed to speak at my wedding, or for that matter, never allowed to speak on my behalf for anything.
|
|
(comment on this)
|
| Sunday, December 17th, 2006
| |
5:39 pm - You Might Have it Too
|
I'm sure the very last thing any of us wants after our week of finals is to come home and be sick. Well, this has apparently happened to me. The bitch was i didn't even realize i was sick. I mean, I felt fine, but my mom, (having all that medical knowhow) was able to spot that i have contracted diabetes. Yeah, i know, I was shocked too, and that is exactly why i felt i had to share this with everyone, because you might have diabetes as well. I didn't realize that i was exhibiting all the textbook symptoms of your standard diabetic. For example, if you consume two gallons of water and consequently have to pee a lot, that's a big red flag right there, says my mom. Furthermore, if you only get four hours of sleep and then feel tired the next day, you should check yourself into a hospital immediately, because you, my friend, have diabetes.
I'm not sure which is funnier: my mom's school of logic (the same school that teaches the philosophy that the designated driver in a group of drinkers shall be the one who falls down the fewest times on the way back to the car), or the fact that she actually says to her son "You may have diabetes. I'm going to keep an eye one you."
Golly, ma, I sure am glad to be home under your watchful eye. By the way, I've got a weird growth on the back of my leg. It's probably cancer, don't you think?
And now, to lighten the mood after this horrible news (btw, if you would like to send get well flowers, please address them to the Terminally Ill Mothafucka. We'll all know what you're talking about) allow me to share a humorous tale of my first christmas shopping of the season.
Yesterday, my brother, mother, and myself went to the Men's Wearhouse and while by bro was talking with the sales clerk and being a dork like he always is, i took the opportunity to steal across the parking lot to the sports store where i purchased a pair of 25lb weights. This i thought was a good idea, being as how i was in the neighborhood and my brother was busy at the moment, i could just sneak them back to the car with them wrapped in my sweater and it would be very inconspicuous. I failed to take into the equation however that i was trying to carry 50 lbs of awkward weight, and also that i am a weak excuse for a man. So imagine, if you will, a very full parking lot with people coming and going and in the midst of this, a kid staggering across with a bundled sweater, gritting his teeth and looking like he is well on his way to a hernia. Imagine next when he meets up with his family and tries to nonchalantly pickup his sweater and hop into the back seat. See how it takes him a good 7 seconds to find a hold to pick it up and how he more fall into the seat than sits into it.
Yeah, I'm quite sure he doesn't suspect a thing. I'm Mr. Subtle.
Other news- I AM IN 100F THIS WINTER. BOO YEAH!!!!!!!
|
|
(3 comments | comment on this)
|
| Saturday, November 18th, 2006
| |
11:23 pm - Accomplished
|
|
I done made me some Japanese friends today. From Japan might i add. Twas good times indeed, let's just hope I rock the house when i have my written exam on Monday, and my oral on Wednesday. (crossing fingers).
|
|
(comment on this)
|
| Thursday, November 2nd, 2006
| |
7:45 pm - Thoughts on My Mind
|
Perhaps it is the rain, but i don't think so. The falling droplets of water have always given me a strange feeling of happiness. But, rain also has a way of profoundly amplifying the potency of tragedy. And it is for that reason that i harbor this sleeking suspicion that the source of my funk is the suicide of a Davis student.
He was an exchange student, or so my Japanese teacher said. And the question burning for me is what was he like? Did he speak English and did he have friends? Was life in America just too different for him? What was so unbearable that he would take his own life?
They found a note addressed to his parents which read, "I don't have any reason to be here."
Here in the Davis university? Here in America? Here on earth?
Who says you have no reason? I sure as hell didn't, did i?
I suppose it was appropriate for it to be rainy today, for many reasons. Jenna and I wanted it to be rainy today; we decided earlier in the week that it should be so. There's something about running out in the pouring rain that just makes one feel very much...alive. But when the rains came we were not out in it. We were not together, though we enjoyed it in our solitude.
There was a quiet reverence about the students on campus today; it seemed so at least. People were quieter, more within themselves. And that is what happens when there is something like this. You sober up and for a moment think of someone else but yourself. You try to make sense of it, and when you fail you retreat to the safety of the mask you wear for your own protection. But today, if for only the time it took people to read the news paper article, everyone knew the man who apparently no one knew the day before.
I remember my childhood, a camping trip i went on with my father, brother, and our older neighbor (then a teenager). Coming back from the camp ground, motoring across the lake in two small boats (my father and brother in one, Paul and I in the other) Paul lost his glasses in the water and without thinking dove in after them, leaving the six year old boy in the boat speeding towards land. Frightened, the boy turned the rudder so that the boat began to travel in circles. And in another moment of irrationality which is second nature to a child, he jumped overboard, only to have to boat come ripping towards him another moment later, the spinning blades of the propeller foretelling the end. In a final act of futility the boy, just as the stern of the boat came over him ducked under water, hoping that somehow he would be missed and spared. And in that instant a guardian angel arose from the muddy depths, took him by the leg and dragged him out of harm's way. And then, as the boat came around for a second pass, the second boat, heroically steered by the boy's father crashed headlong into the rogue vehicle, sending it off course. And as the boy swam to shore he was intercepted by a man, a stranger he had met two days before and had spoken to for all of two minutes.
He was a Jamaican man, or at least, that is what the boy decided based on his dark skin and dread locks. He had warned the boy not to touch his bird because it might bite. And because the boy was shy and fragile, he thought he was being reprimanded and felt ashamed.
That man saw the events unfold from the shore and dove into the water immediately and swam some 30 yards out to catch the boy, struggling to negotiate his life vest.
I remember how with his giant arms he pulled the boy from the water and set him on the shore. But do i remember the man's name?
Where was he yesterday when another youth was drowning, needing a hand? I can just see him watching the boy as he took the walk to the 3rd floor men's room with the rope in his bag. I can see the man punching the door until his knuckles are bloody and swollen. He doesn't stop, nor feel pain. He thinks only of the life slipping away every passing second. He wants to help and no door will stand in his way. And like everything, it is just a matter of time.
Today i am alive when i should not be. At the age of fifteen i decided i had had enough of it and had resigned myself to suicide, just as the man found in Sproul did. But the one day i had enough...courage to do it, my father's gun was not where it was supposed to be, and by coincidence or some divine plan, i lived and got better.
At 18 i witnessed the death of a man on campus. Right outside my dorm i saw the police shoot and kill him. The people i was with were dramatically more upset than I. I stood there, pondering what i had just seen, unsure of the proper response. The first one of us to recover spoke on behalf of us all. "That fool is dead."
And whether or not it was because i was such a good English major and not savy with slang, when i gave my police report i told the officer that Carl said, "That guy is dead."
My friend, who only heard about the event later, cried, and although i knew i should be too, i couldn't. i didn't take the night off to rest but rather went on studying as usual, and later this bothered me so much i asked a catholic priest what he thought about it. I can't remember what he said, so it couldn't have been that important.
Today, in fact, while writing this, i have shed my tears for this fallen young man who was without reason, and for that i am glad. There is so much about it one can never understand, even when they have been through it themselves. It is just impossible. But knowing that simply saying hello to someone at the right time could be the most heroic action of your entire life, now that is something indeed.
|
|
(2 comments | comment on this)
|
| Friday, October 27th, 2006
| |
11:51 pm - Show And Tell
|
I feel like I'm wading through a torrent of waist-deep hell, and it's making my socks all squishy. With every morning i wake and am reminded with the perennial low-burning headache that taking 21 units this quarter was a bad idea. The terrible part is that though i reserve the right to bitch about it nonstop, I am happy I am doing it. I was lucky to make it to Davis as a freshman and i have a great deal of pride now boasting a 3.63 GPA. It has become to a large degree, my identity.
So what if i don't have much of a social life- I am on pace to receive High Honors upon graduation, and have a very good shot at receiving Highest High Honors if i work at it. And that's what I'm doing. I got in, and I am proving to myself that i belong here, regardless of how many typos i make in a LJ entry, or even if I don't pass the English comp exam tomorrow morning. I admit i am not the brightest guy around, in fact, lets be honest, I'm a bit of a ditz. But i am a damn good writer who earns everything he is given, and many things he is not.
Since I'm on the subject of writing, let me digress for one moment to say something that bothers the baJesus out of me. Yesterday at the Lit Mag we were discussing the kinds of writing we would be accepting for publication and one piece was heavily criticized for being 'too cute' and not saying anything. To that I say, "So what?" Why should it matter if fiction doesn't say anything about life or society or the war in Iraq? Who the hell decided that if it doesn't the writing isn't good? To be completely honest, my favorite writing is anything that has a good plot-based story and fleshy characters. I couldn't give any less of a rat's ass over whether or not a story has subtext or a web of metaphors. I read for the sole purpose of being entertained. That's why i don't like subtexty stuff; because i usually don't pick up on it, finish the story and think "what the hell just happened?" I don't want to think when i read. That's very arrogant, but i just don't. If the writer wants to tell me something i say just lay it out for me and don't make me jump though the hoops of having to figure it out myself.
Anyway, when i submit my story about three kids going on a imaginatave space adventure in their own back yard, the editing board is going to hand me my ass and ask "what was the point of this story? It seemed very cute."
And now let's get to me. A recent event which I am will not at this time disclose has got me thinking, yet again "what the hell is wrong with me?" The topic of which i speak this time is my good friend social anxiety. I don't know how but my father can strike up a conversation with any random stranger and talk to them as if they've known each other since high school. It is uncanny. I on the other hand, have one hell of a time talking to people i see on a semi regular basis. In the words of Moon Face Martin, "There's somethin wrong here."
Now take this anxiety one step farther. What happens when, god forbid, i decide i want to make a new friend. How do i go about it? What do i say? How do i sell myself to them to make them want to talk to me? It's funny, people that don't know me at all think i am really shy. Those that know me just a little think i am a huge narcissist, and the few who are really close to me know that while for the most part i am well adjusted, i've got a bit of a confidence problem.
Example: I know i am a cool person, or at least, an interesting person. I know this because my friends continue to talk to me every day. Why then does this not give me security with strangers? I blame the epilepsy, which is a lovely scapegoat, especially since it's been gone for four years now.
The problem is that i am much to introverted. I focus so much on myself, protecting my environment to make sure that i can function that don't feel comfortable when another person enters my little bubble. All of a sudden you can't focus on yourself, not if you want that person to stay in your bubble at least. So what do you do to accommodate another person, especially when you still haven't definitively figured out how to accommodate yourself?
The torrent fluctuates with swells and recessions. At its worst it makes me lose my balance, but i always keep my footing. I've not been swept away yet. And when the tide falls, in those brief, evanescent moments where i can really enjoy just being, when i can towel off my shins and make for higher ground, things are much better. I am so very aware that that was trying to be way more introspective and deep than it actually was, but who cares. This is my party, pay the door charge or give me back my beer.
SO that's my life right now. What's going on with yours?
|
|
(2 comments | comment on this)
|
| Saturday, October 7th, 2006
| |
10:25 pm - I Dare You To Try And Make Sense Of This
|
And then you take a moment to reflect. How was it, in fact, that a five minute break to enjoy a pudding snack escalated into the largest fire disaster in the Los Angeles area?
You sit there in the charred remains of a chair and wipe the soot from your goggles (in hindsight, protective eye wear had been a good idea) as you smoulder in the remains of your studio apartment. You can place the blame definitively on one thing. Anime, or perhaps that isn't fair. Let's say, it's the fans on anime that's the problem. Yes, that's the truth. All this "it's time for my super tengaku attack" and "Aw, kawaiidesune" nonsense. It's unhygienic, poison to impressionable young minds. That's the problem with the Japanese they never think of the children.
You probe the floor with your toe and feel the melted plastic of your pudding cup. You reflect on that dream you always have where you are going to the park to kiss that new girl in town. But of course, dreams wouldn't be dreams unless they operated by certain conventional rules, so you never actually got to kiss her, though you can imagine what it might be like. Sticky. Probably a bit salty, and then you'd wonder why you had anticipated it for so long. That's how it would be if your dream ever actually played itself out. You wake up instead. The only logical explanation is that your mind doesn't want you to realize it. After all the anticipation of something is always better than attaining it.
You have a friend Zakaa who, to be sensitive, we shall say is a bit off. It is his concensus that the dream is real and that reality is being interrupted by the dream- that which you perceive as real, which if you actually bothered to think about it is absolutely daft. That reasoning is exactly why the Germans lost the war. By that logic, Zakaa is a character in someone else's dream, nonexistant. What does that say about his self esteem. Your school councilor used to be concerned with that. Your father actually remembers the days when self esteem had not manifested itself into words. No one was worried about it then.
-I'm sorry sir but you were illegally parked in a red zone.
Still, Zakaa may have been onto something. After all, that girl did look different every single time you had the dream, whereas life seemed painfully redundant. But why would he actually tell you?
You step out onto the street and look at all the wreckage. Across the way you see several neighbors gathering on the street.
"What was that?" One exclaims.
There is a child bouncing a ball in the street. No need to worry about him being hit by traffic when traffic doesn't exist. Maybe that fire wasn't such a bad idea. Not that you had intended to do it, of course. An accident. A beautiful, heaven sent accident.
There is a commotion to your right. There are six cats. Five of them have large patches of hair missing. Clumps gone here, a bit there, and a lot there, though there is not point in pointing out the obvious. Mangy, like those diseased cats you see dying in the gutters. Next to it you see one of those freakish naturally hairless cats, and you would swear to some higher power (or a lower one for that matter) that it was laughing at the other five.
-You have insulted my honor and i demand that we duel to the death!
-Fool! You cannot defeat me. My power is unlimited. You haven't the strength.
-Yeah, well you have a tiny cock.
-What? Impossible! How could i have lost to you?
-You are blinded by arrogance.
You wake up every time and your hand reaches out, trying to snatch the image before it disappears. You stop half way, because, well, you're used to it by now. You fold your hands on your stomach and listen to your pulse. Steady. Maybe it's just a need to be certain, to remove the doubt. And maybe if she hadn't liked you, you wouldn't have liked her in the first place. And maybe if the girlfriend you had when you were seven hadn't broken your heart, it wouldn't have been a big deal.
Zakaa wants to talk, but you tell him not now. That guy always wants to talk. In fact, all he ever wants to do is talk. It's gotten to that point that he calls and you don't answer the phone. He tries again the next day. You ask him if it's important and he says no, he just had this really weird idea that he wanted to share. You tell him no because weird isn't interesting if it's the only stuff he can come up with. You don't need to hear again about how he saw a girl on the bus who looked exactly like the girl you describled in your dream. The last time you asked how that was possible when she looked different every single time, and he replied, "she didn't have a face."
Maybe you should talk to him.
The last few days has been spent with the entire city cleaning up after the destruction. The LA area looks even more like an asshole that it ever has. While you are scrubbing a sidewalk, you watch as a teenager does his part by throwing rocks at building that is flirting with collapse. It might as well come down. It will make a satisfying crunch and rumble when it does. It's funny how disasters bring people together. Actually there isn't anything funny about it at all, but earlier you saw a dog peeing on a passed out homeless man, and that was pretty funny.
- Your car has been impounded by the Overlord of Inconveniences and other things that make you go, Damn it!
- Nani?
-To get it back you must pay with, YOUR SOUL.
- E! Zannendesuyo.
You wake up. It's the same story over and over. You'd like to watch something else but that isn't up to you. You want them all to just shut the hell up and leave you be. Can't blame them. That isn't fair. While it's so easy to pin everything else on them, the fact is that you can't blame your inability get over her on the Japanese.
|
|
(3 comments | comment on this)
|
| Sunday, September 24th, 2006
| |
9:56 am - The Verdict
|
Sorry, Liz.
It was an ok movie, but i just didn't feel it.
Also, it's a happy ending, so........
|
|
(4 comments | comment on this)
|
| Saturday, September 16th, 2006
| |
2:57 pm - Y'all Can't Touch This
|
My beard brings all the girls to the yard and they're like, 'it's better than yours.' And i say, 'Damn right, it's better than yours. I could teach you but i'd have to charge.'
I am sweaty, covered in dirt and cement, and i have a beard the likes of which would get me respect from a Russian.
Step off, lest you be schooled by my excellence.
|
|
(3 comments | comment on this)
|
| Wednesday, September 13th, 2006
| |
5:14 pm - Down Periscope
|
There are certain things from childhood that we never grow out of. I was reminded of that just now, showering after a good run.
As i was rinsing the small lake off my forehead and cooling myself off (it was a very cold shower, so nice) I noticed that that the water in the bottom of the tub wasn't draining as effectively as it usually does (This is one of those bath/shower tubs where even when it's on the shower setting, the water pours from the bath faucet for some damn reason. Crappy engineering if you ask me. It doesn't fill the tub but it still makes a big enough pool for a retard or a baby to drown in, you know?) Anyway, being a guy, i decide i have to investigate the problem and fix it if possible, whilst showering.
This is the part that reminds me of childhood. Fellas, and ladies too?, remember when you were four years old and you took baths and you'd take some toys in there with you- maybe a GI Joe or a small plane or something? I had this plastic boat that was just about the size of a size 5 shoe and it, quite appropriately, could float. Anyway, what i would always do was hold my breath and dunk my head under water like i was a CIA scubadiver infiltrating an enemy ship.
16 years later...
I put on my pool goggles so i can see the problem under the water (Note: if you just read that and went, WTF? you obviously don't know me that well. You should have been like, Yeah, of course, the pool goggles he keeps by the tub for emergencies. Duh) and grab an old pair of scissors (again, shouldn't seem unusual), hold my breath and into the abyss i go. I pretend like I'm in a sub and I'm trying to fix drainage before the whole crew drowns!)
I didn't find as much treasure as i had expected. But guess what, bitches. I saved the crew, so give me my medal of valor!
Happy Birthday, Kevin, the dirty Ko-bag
|
|
(1 comment | comment on this)
|
| Monday, September 11th, 2006
| |
9:13 pm - Something More Personal, Then Something Funny
|
Well my darlings, as promised today I went to the dentist and he said that i was fit to eat solid foods for years to come. That made me happy. Although they put some piantlike floride stuff on my teeth that hardens and stay for a few hours and man it feels soooo gross. It feels like a month's plack buildup on the teeth. Ick.
Topic of discussion comes from the last part of the visit. The doc commented on the gap in my teeth and asked if i wanted anything done to it. I decided to humor him and ask what he recommended. He said they could put plastic on the inside of them to fill it in (and make my two front teeth unusually large. no, not in the least bit obvious) or the invisaline thing was an option.
Now, friends, my teeth have been the way they are for as long as i can remember and over 20 years they haven't gotten noticably worse so it's never really bothered me much. The problem I have is, since i say that it's not a big issue for me, wouldn't getting it fixed prove that the above statement is a lie?
I've thought about this a little bit, and i can't think of a single reason to do it other than to have a better appearance.. Let's see, better smile could, in theory, help me do better with the ladies, could conceivably help me in a job interview, and could improve my self esteem.
I don't like any of those reasons. In fact, i hate every single one of them. As far as the ladies are concerned, i need to learn to actually talk to them before i worry about whether or not they are repulsed by my smile; the job, slightly far fetched that i would lose out on a job because of a blemish on my dental record; and as for the self esteem...i don't think i could sleep at night if i let myself think that i was happy with who i was because of what i look like. Fuck that. Again and again.
And despite this, i still find myself saying, Might as well do it. Don't see a downside. I mean, couldn't hurt right?
But i have to say this, because it is important. If the doc had said, normal braces could fix that right up, i'd say no way immediately. And i could say i said no because (as mentioned) it hasnt bothered me. yet with the option of this invisaline thing, suddenly it's worth thinking about. I hate myself just for that alone, yet i bet most people would act the exact same way.Vanity and being self conscious sucks balls.
I realized that this situation is very similar to something explored in an episode of Daria, (my all time favorite TV show for anyone who doesn't know that). Here's the conversation:
Daria - Aunt Amy?
Amy - Hey, my favorite niece.
Daria - Oh!
Amy - Who is this?
Daria - Um, it's...
Amy - I'm joking, Daria. How are you? Your mother hasn't had a stroke, has she?
Daria - Well, I haven't checked her in the last half hour. How was Hawaii?
Amy - Wish I were still there. What can I do for you?
Daria - Um, I wanted to ask your advice about something. I'm thinking about getting contact lenses.
Amy - Uh-huh, sounds good.
Daria - It does?
Amy - Why not?
Daria - Well, isn't it kind of... vain?
Amy - Do you have mirrors in your house, Daria?
Daria - Yeah.
Amy - Do you look in them before you go out?
Daria - Yeah.
Amy - Well, then, you're already going to hell, so you might as well get the lenses; you'll see the brimstone better.
Daria - What do you mean?
Amy - I mean, having contacts is no more vain than primping in the mirror. It just gives you different options about the way you look. It wouldn't change your personality, it wouldn't change your values, and it would set your parents back a couple hundred bucks. So, I don't see any downside at all.
I guess I'm going to go ahead and get it done...but know i don't feel right about it one bit.
And now the funny:
After the dentist i went to the ATM to get some cash. When i stuck my card in, i forgot that the first thing you do is select a language and instead i started typing in my pin, and apparently the button i hit was just the right button to select the Chinese language, and, oh Jesus.
I had a mini panic attack and started pushing buttons to no avail. AGGH!
Eventually i discovered the 'cancel' button and the crisis was over. But golly i sure was scared there for a second.
Anyway, I am off to Discworld, cause Terry Pratchett is the man!
|
|
(3 comments | comment on this)
|
| Sunday, September 10th, 2006
| |
11:52 pm - Baseball, Cinematic Adventures, Tom Steel, and So Much More
|
Fun day today.
Little Giants baseball action with the Eric's and a fucking Dodger fan named Bob. Despite his poor taste in baseball teams, Bob is a pretty cool dude, except that isn't possible for a person who bleeds Dodger blue.
The game sucked. Giants lost, the TV lied and sent me on a wild goose chase for the pad tai bowl which doesnt exist. Fuckin TV.
Peety Feliz couldn't hit, as usual. And the didn't fucking pinch hit for Tom Steel in the 9th when we were down by 8 runs.
But then again, that would have been bad. He would hit the ball all the way to 421 and just stand there at the plate talking to the catcher, "Hi, I'm Tom Steel and i turned 19 yesterday. Here's my baseball card. You wanna get fucked up after the game?"
God damn that guy is cool.
Oh, and i gave Era Eric a reaaaal hard time for answering a call from his ball'n chain in the middle of an inning. Eric, can you say a fucking party foul to the highest degree? I swear if you weren't buying me garlic fries, i wouldnt take you back. How embarrassing. Get your girlfriend's purse and reclaim your testicals, please! Kidding man, i love you, sorta. I mean, you're good in the sack so i'll keep you around.
...WHAT?
Afterwards went back to Eisberg's house and watch Dane Cook's Viscious Circle. So good. He's just, the funniest guy ever.
PS, after my last post here's what happened. I did not see Somewhere in Time. Know why? Cause the movie is so god damn old, the video stores dont carry it anymore. And it pissed me off cause i thought i was going to get my hot toasted sub to go, hit the video store, grab it and go home and eat my orgasmic sangwich. BUT NO.
They didn't have it so i hit a second store. They don't have it either. So i ask the guy to check the worldwide data base and apparently, Liz is the only one who has rented that movie in the last 12 freaken years.
And the worst part, my sangwich got soggy.
FUCK!
I may as well mention this, just cause, funny story. I made a friend in the UCDLJ. He's a real sweet guy.
And, my friends rock.
Oh, and tomorrow i go to the dentist....on sept 11th. Kinda foreboding right?
|
|
(4 comments | comment on this)
|
| Saturday, September 9th, 2006
| |
5:11 pm - PS
|
I decided that LOTS of hot girls go to sonoma state.
This morning however i decided that some of that must have been the "grass is always greener" law at work.
Davis girls, you fine too. Sorta. OK...ish.
Nah, kidding. You girls are FIIIIIIIIII-Hi-Yaaaaain! <--(pablo francisco. Anyone?)
|
|
(comment on this)
|
| |
4:48 pm - Silliness
|
Hung out with my buddy Eric at his dorm home in Sonoma U last night. A brief recap:
1- Preston plays Halo for the first time ever, fails to kill any opponents. Succeeds in killing himself. Damn kids these days and their confounded contraptions.
2- Eric does a pirate shot (about 5 or 6 shots worth in one mighty gulp) of whiskey. MMMM, scrumptious.
3- Preston uses his beer sandals to open beer bottles for everyone. They think he is pretty cool.
4- Eric's suite mates Alex and Collin play and win three consecutive matches of beer pong against 3 different teams. They are studs.
5- Enter the coolest mother fucker of the evening, Tom Steel. This silly bitch wanders into the house drunk off his ass with a shirt, much to the bemusement of Eric's gay suite mate, John, and starts mumbling shit like, "hey everyone, here's the deal. I'm Tom Steel and I turned 19 today and i wanna get fucked up."
First of all, how fucking cool a name is Tom Steel? *In fake English accent* Steel. Agent Tom Steel.
Secondly, he was well lubricated by that point already and no one even knows this guy.
So one of the girls invites him to leave and tells him they are out of beer anyway (we were) and he drunkenly calls her a bitch.
Enter A.J.
A.J. is built like a pro linebacker, and just happens to be the said girl's boyfriend. Uh oh.
Tom Steel is about my stature, only taller. A.J. gets right in his face and starts jawing with him about respect and get the fuck out of my house. Tom Steel (i can't just call him Tom) stares him down and calmly says "Hey, listen. I'm Tom Steel and I'm here to kill you...at beer pong).
Somehow they don't come to blows and Tom Steel wisely leaves.
6- One of the visiting guests blows chunks in one of the guys' rooms, denys it, and everyone is pissed off.
7- Tom Steel starts being belligerent in the quad and drawing attention to himself like a fireworks display. police are called in and as he is being cuffed Collin yells, "Hey, tell that dumb bitch to put a shirt on."
Collin's a pretty cool guy, I've decided.
8- Went back to Eric's and discussed professional eating and how to train one's self to eat a 12 lb burrito.
9- Argue over the health benefits of white and dark meat.
10- Visit another person's house where some guy who isnt nearly as cool as Tom Steel has passed out by the toilet whith his shoes on. Uh oh.
Out come the permanent markers and you know the rest.
All and all, a fun night, though i missed the smoke out. Of course they bust out the weed after i leave. Bitches. Hehe.
Today i helped my dad set some post holes for a fence in cement. By the end of a few hours i was hot, sweaty and covered in dirt and semi hardened clumps of cement. I felt like a stud, and i had a hankering for a Carl's Jr. burger (I hope you all get that reference.)
Tonight i will eat an ID sangwich and watch Somewhere in Time, because Liz insists it's the best love story ever, and to that i say balderdash.
Do you hear me, liz. I say balderdash to you and your movie. But who knows, i may repeal that statement in a few hours.
stay tuned.
|
|
(2 comments | comment on this)
|
| Sunday, September 3rd, 2006
| |
11:07 pm - I Need a Hug
|
R.I.P. Steve Irwin.
I mean this in all seriousness when I say that you touched my life and you will be missed. Your death has affected me.
In the past few years we have had some big names who had died. Lots of people who have done big things for the community, social reformers, musicians, politicians...and never once have I honestly given a crap.
Croc Hunter...I enjoyed your love of nature, your energy and your spirit. ....I'm sad.
|
|
(comment on this)
|
| Saturday, September 2nd, 2006
| |
10:35 pm - Welcome To The Hash
|
For those who don't know, the Hash is a club that got started a long time ago and has grown to the point where it is now country wide, and I'm pretty sure, world wide, at least getting damn near close (we're still waiting on France).
The slogan goes: Hashers, a drinking team with a running problem. Cmon, that's just brilliant.
Here's how it works. There are Hash groups in almost every big city or county and they run every single week. It's based of the hound and the hare where the hare is the run leader who sets of by himself about 15 minutes ahead of everyone else and chalks the path (the goes through streets, ravines, deer trails, and rocky paths. Basically wherever the fuck the hare wants to go is free game). Also, the hare starts fake paths and dead ends to throw people off so you actually have to run a bunch of different ways sometimes to find the right trail.
Before the hounds (everyone who isnt the hare(s)) set off they circle up for a prayer and a religious reading from the Hasher's bible which looks like a bunch of folded napkin. They will select the youngest girl present to read some of the smuttiest erotica i've ever heard. Wonderful. During today's reading, one gentleman was caught by the holy spirit, put his thumb over his beer bottle, shook it up and during a steamy part of the reading, stuck it between his friend's legs and released. I'm sure you can figure out what it looked like. Teehee!
Another great thing about the Hash is that there are things called Hash crimes, the penalty for which is that you must chug a beer. The most common is not calling people by their hash names. (By the end of your third hash run with the same group, they must get together and come up with a name which usually comes from something stupid you said in their presence). My sister's name is Pet-da-cooter. Other great names in the group were Wet Clam, Leave it to Cleavage, Tits Ahoy, Nutless Sack, Whale Boner, Gonad, Gerbil, and Long John.
If you are a newbie like me you introduce yourself as Just Preston.
Another crime is wearing new shoes; there is a nice punishment for that as well.
Among the hounds there are two types of people that you don't want to be. The FRBs and the DFLs (Front Running Bastards, and the Dead Fucking Lasts). Again, Teehee.
During the run (which vary from 4 to 10 miles- today's was around 6 i think, 4 of which was up fucking hill) you have to go through beer check-points (called down-downs), where you shotgun a beer and keep running. The amount of these depends on the trail laid out. Due to all the mountains and such we only had one checkpoint.
(Note: I was told today that in SoCal they had the Hasher's BettyFord recovery run where they actually had a down-down in the Bettyford parkinglot. HAHAHAHAHA. The cops were called on them for that.)
At the end of the run you feast and drink for a few hours and then they sing Hash songs (which are freaken hilarious) and put people up for Hash crimes (our Hare needs to be convicted of picking a shitty trail towards the end when we ran through tall grasses, a wasp nest and a bunch of burs.)
Sadly we were not able to stay for that cause we had to get back for my bro's party. (Happy birthday, bro).
Bottom line, the Hash is amazingly fun if you like running even the slightest bit. And they don't care how old you are so long as you pay the $30 for the food and booze. Totally worth it.
I wanna go again! I wanna go again.
PS- My legs are fuckin killing me right now. It's AWESOME!
|
|
(5 comments | comment on this)
|
| Wednesday, August 30th, 2006
| |
4:23 pm - This is exactly why English majors Don't belong in Big Business
|
Or, maybe it's just that people like me are the ones holding the other English majors back in the workplace. Either way, the discrimination needs to end. Not all English majors are as incompetent as I am.
I work for a mortgage company in Petaluma for no other reason than because my dad knows people ergo, the job was handed to me, thank you very much.
Usually the job entails grunt work like copying loan packages and filing and the like, but today I got the call, or rather, I made the call. The authorities that be gave me the task of calling DHL to check the tracking status of one of the borrowers (the net system was down) so lets have a look at what i did to completely fuck it up.
DHL guy: How can i help you.
Me: I, I'm calling for FCMC and I'm trying to track down the Gibbs file.
DHL: One moment, sir...Ok, can i get your phone number?
Me: uhhhhh.
Ok, granted I should know my job's phone number, shame on me, but i was thinking that I'd be doing the questioning, not answering questions. My bad. So i quickly look it up and tell him.
DHL: Ok, and what is the tracking number on the file?
....Shit.
So i go find out and tell him.
DHL: Alright and what is the mailing address?
HA! I've got this one, so i start to tell him the add of the company when my supervisor who apparently knows exactly what's going on says "no, they get shipped to a different location"
Fuck me in the-- you've gotta be kidding me.
Put him on hold while i check."
So i do, they look it up, tell me, and i go back to the phone and push the hold button again. Well, turns out i am phone retaded too, cause i hung up on him while doing that. My bad.
It's alright. Just gotta brush that off and get em next time. And i shall. bitches.
|
|
(1 comment | comment on this)
|
| Monday, August 28th, 2006
| |
9:18 pm - This Just In
|
Fair warning, this entry isn't funny, actually i don't even know why I'm writing it cause i have better shit to be doing. (Enters high Stewie voice) Like working on that novel, you know, the one i've been, um, writing for a few months now, gonna work on developing those characters, maybe throw some interesting plot twists, keep the reader guessing?.. oh who am I kidding, i'ma go jerk off.
A shocking conclusion was made by this reporter in the Hatfield house today. Barry Hatfield, 58, father of three children (ages 20,22,30) was declared to be a very, very funny drunk.
The announcement came after Barry allegedly drained two vodka cocktails and proceeded to (in this reporter's expert opinion) undercook the chicken. A scene then followed where said reporter refused to clean the bone due to a gross surplus of pink and crimson flesh, effectively leaving the better half of a large chicken thigh uneaten and picked apart like an appropriate metaphor which i cannot think of right now.
By this point, the alcohol had percolated it's way through Barry's system and was now piloting his voice. He proceeded to hassle this reporter, calling him childish names like "Bozo Butt," saying that the chicken was plenty done, and further arguing that a person who eats raw fish (sushi) should not have a problem with chicken (He would not say undercooked because in his dilusional mind, the chicken was perfect). We argued for a while, threw each other a few verbal punches, and wisely, i backed down, not wanting to perpetual anything.
After dinner:
Said reporter's brother wants to play cards and Katy (Barry's wife) suggests we may want to wipe off the table, to which this reporter replys: Oh, that's just superstition.
Barry laughs hysterically, and makes me feel funny.
We interrupt this news bulletin to bring you this: my brother's music sucks. Fuck Bad Religion. That's right, I said it.
Anyway, later mom (screw the journalistic narrative, i grow tired of it) uses the word collate in a sentence and i comment that collate is a silly word. At about this time father leaves the room, to come back about 30 seconds later to proudly announce "I agree though, collate is a silly word."
...thank you dad, you drunk son of a biatch.
And for anyone wondering, No, i ain't been drinkin this evening.
PS I don't think there is anything sweeter than when you are driving down a two-lane highway and some douche bag who thinks you are going to slow (75) blasts by you in the other lane and not a mile down the road gets taken down by a motorcycle cop. How sweet is that when you drive by, maybe you slow down a bit as you go, look out the window and turn up your nose at them?
Sweet. Fuck you BMW driver. ENjoy your ticket, you're very impatient.
|
|
(comment on this)
|
| Sunday, August 27th, 2006
| |
10:01 pm - Magic Beans
|
So checkity check this out. I was out Saturday night having pizza with foxy Liz Bassin, being Mr. Charming Smoothy Pants when all of a sudden my chair gets bumped and I feel a hand on my shoulder. Girly tryin to feel my rock-hard delts? I turn and see a girl, a goodish looking girl (not that i cared, cause as i said, foxy Liz Bassin and all) and, let me be clear on this point, she eye fucked the SHIT out of me, smiled, and said "sorry." She then took a step towards me and without warning a flash of light and this girl was shot backwards and knocked over some guy's beer. My aura of hotness was too much for her to handle.
She got up and then got down on her knees (I'll savor that part of it for a moment.....yeaaaahh) then she said "Preston, i can't go on living without you. I need you. You're the very air i breathe."
And i was like: sorry, love, but as you can see, I already have a date. She bought me a chicken ceasar. What have you done?
She realized she was beaten and went off wailing into the night. Liz was the envy of every girl in the room. As was I the envy of every guy. Call it fate, call it love, call it Happy John's Crazy 95% off everything Clearence Sale (what?), the point is, it was magic.
If you don't believe this amazing tale, just ask Liz. She'll tell you.
Wassup?
OOh, and happy freaken birthday Nikki.
I refuse to ever call you sarah, so continue being used to it.
|
|
(4 comments | comment on this)
|
| Thursday, August 24th, 2006
| |
8:04 pm - Drinkies
|
What are the exact ingredients/ratios for a flaming DR. Pepper?
and those of you who've had them, is it seriosly EXACTLY like the soda?
|
|
(4 comments | comment on this)
|
| Wednesday, August 23rd, 2006
| |
5:04 pm - I Say Boo On That
|
Life can be a bitch sometimes. That's when you gotta buck up, give it the SUFI and get on with it. Screw you life, I'm bigger than you are.
So, I'm ticked cause i didn't get the writing tutor job. The big issue was that in my analysis of the essay i had a "negative tone throughout."
So?
Yeah, ok, i understand that the entire point of being a tutor is to help people and that i need to be positive, but does that mean sugar coating and pampering people who need help? Granted I could have used more tact in my essay (except for the fact that i am completely lacking in that department), but people who need help don't need to have hot air blown up their asses: "oh this essay is fantastic, don't worry about the fact that you switch tenses every other paragraph, that's just your creative style." No, they need to be told very plainly what their faults are and how they can fix them. That's what i did, and apparently they don't like that.
Fine, next time I'll be positive-er..er.
In the mean time, I'm going to put it out there, Davis community. If you want private help with essays, i can help, if you don't mind my being negative that is. I've got good credentials: English major, 3.59 GPA, A's and B's in every class I've taken in my two years at Davis.
Whadda ya say?
|
|
(2 comments | comment on this)
|
|
|
|
|
![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif?v=88.8){kind=small}
jamie47's journal