Holiday post...

Suggested soundtrack: "You're so cool" by Hans Zimmer (True Romance Soundtrack)


Today I write with a tiny white dog on my lap.

This is Gracie, and she belongs to Janet, my foster Grandmother. Gracie is kind of a little shit when she's loose, but put her in your lap and she becomes a decoration.

Speaking of my lap, check out what I just realized I'm growing:

Yup. Inactivity + Desk job = Gut. I need to get a gym membership. At this rate, I'll look pregnant before too long. Oh! Speaking of pregnant, my sister had her baby!!

This is Micah Nikolaus, my new nephew and godson. I'm going to go visit him later this week. I leave Friday and will be seeing my sis, her hubby, and my dad (who is flying up from Palm Springs). Then I'll be heading up to Portland and Seattle to see Shandra!!! Oh, good times!!! I think that I'll be shooting some video while I'm on my trip, and trying to turn it into something mildly entertaining when I get back. We'll see.
Really bummed that I won't be getting to go to SD for the holidays. I'll miss hanging out at Kendra's house (her family Christmas is always awesome) and doing the Drunken Christmas Carolling Hayride (2nd annual). I'll miss the mild weather (it is colder than a witch's tit out here, and Oregon's gonna kill me, I fucking know it), I'll miss all of my friends, and I'll miss the great tips that come with the crazy shifts at the Prado.


Hell, I even miss the Prado.

And I'm gonna write all about it. Later.

And mail it to you.

Listen: You've read this much, loyal reader, so I have something for you. I usually do a Christmas present for my friends (last year it was a bookmark if you remember)and this year I have something more better planned. All I need is your address. Anyone who reads my blog should get my gift, since I love you for reading this. So: email me your address, and I'll mail you something cool. Deal? Deal. My email addy is: niktionary@hotmail.com

I'll try and get the presents mailed out next Tuesday, so send your addresses post haste!!!

Until next time...

Quantitatively Nik...and other thoughts...

Suggested soundtrack: "I woke up in a car" by Something Corporate


It's time for a new Quantitatively Nik. This collection of data was inspired by the fact that I'm spending more time in my car than ever before. So I logged the time spent in my car on a daily basis. Here you are:
Monday: 2 hours, 2 minutes (commute to/from work and a lunch trip)

Tuesday: 2 hours, 2 minutes (commute to/from work and a stop off at a friend's)

Wednesday: 2 hours (commute to/from work in slightly bad traffic)

Thursday: 16 minutes, 20 seconds (Thanksgiving day beer run)

Friday: 1 hour, 59 minutes (commute to work, then to bars, then to female's house)

Saturday: 52 minutes, 58 seconds (drive home with stops at store)

Sunday: 1 hour, 3 minutes (drive to friend's house to watch Charger game, drive home, drive to/from movie theatre)

Looking this over, I realize to my horror that I spend, on an average work day, two full hours in my car. Holy shit! That a major slice of my day!! That means that for every 12 days of work I spend a WHOLE DAY in my car! 24 hours! This is beyond me. Is this normal? That's a lot of fucking time to spend in a car. This list makes me long for San Diego, where I spent maybe two hours a week in my car. Holy shit. I'm picking a more uplifting list next time.

In other news...

My foster mom's out of the country again, picking up the new kid from the Ukraine, so the duty of doody collector falls again upon my thin shoulders.
Since I am going to talk about dog shit, again, I think I'll introduce the dogs this time.

BELLE

Belle the retriever, is a good girl. She listens, doesn't beg, and tolerates the stupidity of the other dog, who is younger yet larger then herself. Belle is not just a good girl, she is a considerate crapper who shits dainty, hard little tootsie-roll-type shits that rattle around on the shovel and don't smell bad.


MIA

Mia the mastiff (aka the "couch cuddler" since she always climbs up on the couch with me when I'm watching TV), who weighs as much as I do, is as dumb as a bag of hammers and produces extraordinarily large turds. Lots of them.
Mia's turds are the size of baguettes (but not the color).

They frequently have foreign objects sticking comically out of them. This is because Mia is the dog that will eat anything she can wrap her jaws around. She especially wants whatever it is that you're eating. For example, I was carrying a dirty plate out of the TV room that had bits of trash on it (I was tidying up, you see) and Mia was plodding along behind me, jamming her snout into my ass like she always does. A candy wrapper fell off of the plate and Mia, without a moment's hesitation, ate the wrapper. Just because it came off the plate and she figured it was probably people food and knew that she wasn't allowed to eat it, so she did so quickly.

Which brings us back to this morning, where I'm scooping up a giant turd partially covered in a bright orange Kit-Kat wrapper. I'm trying not to laugh, first because the I'm imagining what the neighbors would think when they see a grown man in a zebra-pattern robe with a shovelful of dog shit laughing like a maniac, second because laughing means breathing more and faster and the smell is already threatening to make me barf. Changes in wind direction can turn a foul odor upon me and make me gag fit to drop the shovel. I'm out here in the cold because I thought cold air reduced bad smells (the Vegas theory) but the rain of yesterday has softened everything up and recharged the stench. Another challenge this morning is the dead leaves that litter the backyard, some of which look like piles of shit (they're the "decoys") and some of which are covering piles of shit (aka the "disguise-a-dropping"). Because the "shit zones" are confined to certain compact areas of the yard, I start to wonder if the dogs ever step in their own shit. I mean, I walk gingerly here and there, seeking piles, while at the same time the dogs bounce around, never looking down. Then I see a large, tight pile of dog logs with a great big paw print in the middle of it. Ah-ha! Mia is never coming up on the couch with me ever again.

Until next time...

Dall-Ass

Suggested Soundtrack: "Use Me" by Bill Withers



Well, the wait is over. For me at least.

After nearly four months in Dallas - a record-breaking span of time in which I have been as celibate as a nun - I finally got some. This may not seem like a huge deal to many of you, so let me take a few moments of your time to point out the hurdles involved. Following the hurdles part, I'll share some details about the lovely (and lucky!) lady. Welcome aboard!!

Part 1: The Dallas scene.



As any regular reader knows, Dallas is very different from San Diego. The same goes for Dallas girls. While both cities have the same proportion of drop-dead gorgeous girls, the Dallas lifestyle (as exemplified by the term "The Beverly Hills of Texas") means more pretentiousness than this SD boy is used to. The guys are trying REALLY hard to appear wealthy (They're called "Thirty-thousand-dollar millionaires"), and the girls are used to the dividends that this kind of macho one-upsmanship pays. Well, I don't play that game. Just because a girl grabs my butt and smiles at me doesn't mean I'm buying her next round, especially because it is expected. Take for example, the folllowing exchange that happened two weeks ago, at an uptown club. The girl in question had been smiling flirtatiously at me me from across the room for a couple of minutes. I had turned my back to her to order another round for myself and a friend. Here we go:

GIRL: (Tapping NIK'S shoulder) Hey!
NIK: (Turning, surprised to see that GIRL had crossed the room so quickly) Hi!
GIRL: (Holds empty glass up) You got my next round?
NIK: (Smiling, nodding) Not at all.

See? This is the kinda thing that makes me want to drink at home (if, of course, I didn't live in a dry county and I could get booze in my area). There's this bizarre kind of qualification process that the girls have which involves What You Do, Where Else You Hang Out, and Whether Or Not You Got The Next Round. So I lie. But in a bad way. I'm: a postal carrier, a busboy, a maintenence man, an out-of-work writer, a boy scout troop leader, a forklift operator. She's: just on the way out of here, looking for the girl's room, not interested, glad to meet me and sure she'll see me around. It's my only form of entertainment some nights. I finally found some cooler places to hang out, so those kind of evenings are coming to an end.

Part 2: My personal struggle

First and foremost, I am not established here in Dallas. I came here with a carload of shit, and that's all I got. No apartment, no furniture, just a bunch of books and a bike. While to me this is the most free I've ever felt, others see this as "he doesn't have any stuff."

Also, my living situation is hard to explain: "Where do you live?" Up in Allen. "Why so far away?" Because the rent is free. "Why is the rent free?" I live with a family. "Your family?" No, A family. "Oh."

Another big deal for the Dallas girls is that I am poor right now and will not pretend otherwise. The whole point of coming here was to pay off debt, not live an extravagant lifestyle buying drinks for any girl who cares to wink at me. When I go out drinking here, it is a treat, as opposed to San Diego, where it was a habit.

Plus, I don't know where shit is. I have not heard of all the hip lounges and swanky bars where cool people go to see the Mavericks getting drunk. I know of maybe five places to get a drink, and I don't really like three of them. My ignorance is apparent to any Dallas local.

So any girl that I hook up with has to accept the fact that I own nothing more than books and DVDs and clothes and a beat-up car, that I live far away and with a family that is not mine, that I don't have any money in the bank, and that I have no idea about what is and isn't cool in this crazy city. I bring exactly me to the table. That always seemed to do me fine in San Diego.

It finally worked out for me in Dallas.

There's a bar called Vickery Park, which is as close to my kind of bar as is possible. Pubby, not Clubby, and the music is always great because the bartenders take turns playing their iPods. The girl in question is a friend of a friend. She reads the same books I do, likes the same movies, rides bikes, can hold a conversation and her liquor, and has an artsy streak (fashion design major). She also has her own place. Hooray!! Oh yeah, she's hot, too! Plus, it wasn't a one-time deal. So I'm pretty stoked. Now that I know there's cool girls out there, and I know where to find them, Dallas is looking a lot better.



San Diego still makes Dallas look like shit, though.

A new development...

Suggested soundtrack: "Weapon of Choice" by Fatboy Slim




I sat down in front of the computer tonight, after a long day at the office, wondering what the hell, if anything, I should do. I had farted around on the internet all day, so more web surfing wasn't the direction I wanted to go. I felt like writing, but writing what I did not know.

Then, out of the blue, I noticed something that had been right in front of my face since I moved here. Something that, despite being in my direct line of sight, had failed to register with me. Well, here it is:


That's right!! A little web-cam!!!
Now every blog can have a picture of me and, if I can figure some shit out, I can start making movies!! I think I'm getting inspired...
But, first!! Look what I did! As mentioned in an earlier post, I am helping with childcare while my surrogate mother and father are away in the Eastern Bloc. One of the joys of this was helping the middle child with building a castle for extra credit. I tried to do as little as possible, and let little Hunter do the bulk of the work. Here's one shot of the castle:


...and here is a little detail of mine, the pipe-cleaner Dragon:


If she doesn't get an "A" the teacher and I are gonna have some words.

At any rate, it's getting kinda late, so I'll shove off.
Before I go, I present to you a short film I just made. If you have some pipe cleaners laying around, grab a couple. And find a cool song in your computer to accompany the show(I haven't figured out sound yet, sorry!).



...as you can see, I've got a ways to go.
Until next time...

Man of the house...and a trip in pictures...

Suggested soundtrack: "1963" by Rachael Yamagata (no real reason for this, I just discovered this artist and she's pretty chill)


Sorry for the long delay. I wanted to do an update regarding my California trip, but I've been super busy. For starters, it was the end of the month, and therefore "crunch time" for loans. I had to actually work for all eight hours at work, for almost a week and a half. Bad news was that I didn't get to write much, good news is that I bonused, meaning I'm gonna make a good amount of money. The other issue that is limiting my free time is this:

My "parents" have left town.

John and Kim, the wonderful couple who have taken me in and provided me with employment, have left the country for three weeks on a mission to get even more people into their home. That's right, they've decided to adopt an orphan from the Ukraine. This couple is kind and caring beyond belief. Besides my homeless ass and the three children they already have, John and Kim also have two dogs, one of which is a gigantic mastiff. That is six mouths to feed. But they want to help this young boy named Victor who they met a year ago when he and a group of other orphans were flown to the US as a kind of test run. Since they decided to pull the trigger on this thing the whole process has taken more than a year, cost who-knows-what, and required reams of paperwork, hours of interviews, and more than one inspection of the house. Tiresome, to say the least. There is so much that can go wrong with everything, and they have to fly halfway around the world and take a train still further in order to find out if they can bring Victor home...in another month. Yep, this is the first of two trips. Looking at the fact that any two idiots can bump uglies and produce a child that neither of them actually wants, the process to adopt that same child into a loving home almost seems too difficult. The kid wants help, the family wants the kid, only there is two massive bureaucracies and one annoying language barrier to muddy the proceedings. Not that they should just give orphans to whoever wants one. Not at all. It's just that the process could be off-putting for those without the tenacity of a cockroach(then again, maybe that is the point). So, moving on.The resolve shown by John and Kim is amazing to me, and I just wanted to tip my hat to them while bringing us to the point of the post, which is this: I now am the "man" of the house.
Not in a breadwinner sense. Oh, no. But I now share house-running duties with Kim's mom, Janet. Before we go on, let me just state that the life of the housewife is by no means easy. Kim is the queen, and her home is under control, despite the fact that three kids plus two dogs frequently adds up to pure chaos. I've asked for chores to do around the house, so I can help out, but I have been flat-out denied...until now. In her stead, Janet and I are doing our best. Admittedly, Janet does the lion's share of the work, and is pretty much directly responsible for the lives of the two youngest children (the oldest is currently living with friends, aka "on vacation"). My duties are paltry compared to hers,BUT DUTIES NONETHELESS!!! Janet has an item-by-item itenerary that tells her exactly what needs to be done, and exactly when. The packet sits on the counter when Janet is home, and browsing through it I see that Janet, bless her heart, has gone through and put little notes all over it with additional information. She is very serious about her task, and judging by the fact that the kids are eating regularly, and don't smell too bad, and no one has showed up to take them away, she is doing it well.

I, on the other hand, have a smaller list:

-Tuesday night: roll trash cans out
-Wednesday night: bring trash cans in
-Empty pool traps of leaves
-Dog mounds

...it's only the last one I'm not too stoked about. Basically, it amounts to me, in my robe, with a shovel, picking up shit.



Not that bad, really. Two rules for doing this, though:
1. Don't just scoop up the first turd you see, working your way to the back. Pass up all the poop, and work your way out . Shoveled crap still leaves a crap-stain, and crap-stains are harder to see than a full-on turd but still smell as bad when they're all over your slippers.
2. When toting 20 pounds of dog shit on a shovel, hold the shovel to one side.



I really am not complaining. Poop is never fun, but I've never felt quite so...domesticated. I wish I had chores when John and Kim are in town.



And now, a photo essay detailing some of the high points of my trip...

Soundtrack change: "Click click click click" by Bishop Allen

...I just saw these guys live at the Granada, where I saw Cat Power a while back. It was great.

Okay, the trip.

Right off the plane, I went to the Prado, for good times and good eats.



Following that, we went to see (the fantastic) Wrong Trousers at the Ken Club, where we remained for the rest of the evening, getting shit-housed.



The next day, after a delicious breakfast with some old-school Outbackers and other assorted friends, I headed up to LA with Monica. There we met RC and Stephanie, with plans to go to Knott's Scary Farm.
But first, we drank.


Once inside the park, we found that it was very scary.



The rides were running, and also quite scary.


After stopping to ask for directions...

...we were on our way to see the freakiest, yet sexiest monster in the park.


Later, we had the midnight buffet.


Sunday meant a trip to Palm Springs to see Papa and Martha. While there, we adopted a new kitten into Papa's house.

Monica and I were fed a great dinner, and the we played dominoes. It was an old-school kinda party, and we all we pretty giggly. It's always a blast at Papa's house.


Back to San Diego on Monday, where a couple of people came and had beers with me while I waited to see if the plane was gonna be able to fly out with the fires blazing and all.


And then, I flew away, in what was the freakiest takeoff ever. Massive turbulence, and the horrifying sight of San Diego county on fire. It looked like hell on earth.

...and now I'm back in fuckin' Dallas.
Got a speeding ticket to the tune of $225 last week. The policeman was trying to talk to me about the difference in cost of living between SD and DFW. Needless to say, I wasn't in the mood for a friendly chat. Seven years in San Diego without a single traffic offense, and I'm not in Dallas three months and I'm already running afoul of the law.

On the up side, the weather here has been gorgeous. Very San Diego-ish. I've actually been able to go on bike rides again.

Quantitatively Nik...

Suggested soundtrack: "1 2 3 4" by Feist


In the interest of posting more entries, I've come up with a new concept which is going to keep new material coming on a steady basis while at the same time not requiring too much extra writing. The concept is this: random lists. Doesn't sound like much, but I think it has potential. I can make these lists as I go about my day, and then when they are completed, I can throw them online. I already have 10 or so ideas, and as I fill those, I'll rely on you all to help me with new ones.So, without further ado, the first ever "Quantitatively Nik" list:

Food & Drink I Consumed During the Third Week of October

MONDAY:Apple-cinnamon Nutra-Grain bar; two unfrosted blueberry Pop Tarts; Faux-mocha (my own recipe which consists of 1 cup coffee, 2 tbsp non-dairy creamer, 1 packet Swiss Miss Hot Cocoa Mix); two cups water; Wendy's Chicken Filet Sandwich, medium fries, medium Dr. Pepper ("The number five"); two cups water; four Crown-and-waters ($2 each, happy hour); Sausage egg and cheese biscuit, hash brown sticks, medium Coke ("the number twenty-five") and a Big Texas Cheeseburger with mayo and tomato only, all from Jack in the Box (it was a late night snack. The next morning, in the shower, I burped and re-tasted it, which almost made me puke).


TUESDAY:Faux mocha; two apple strudel Pop Tarts; two cups water; six-inch Spicy Italian sub on parmesan oregano with pepper jack cheese, toasted, with tomato, green pepper, red onion, salt, pepper and creamy Italian dressing, a bag of Mrs. Vickle's jalapeno potato chips, medium Dr. Pepper, from Subway (I always get this sandwich and those side items); two cups water; faux mocha; one order of six cheesy breadsticks with marinara dipping sauce, six (of 10) traditional "bone-in" chicken wings flavored "medium buffalo" with ranch dipping sauce, from Pizza Hut; two cups water.


WEDNESDAY:Bowl of Quaker instant grits; glass of milk; cup of green tea (my preferred method of morning caffeine injection, I had just picked up a box of teabags that morning); cup of water; eggplant marinara sub and a medium Dr. Pepper from Joe's; cup of water; cup of green tea; three Amstel Lights; slice of pepperoni pizza, can of Dr. Pepper, chocolate fortune cookie ( "You will attend an unusual party").


THURSDAY:Cup of water; cup of green tea; cup of water; Big Texas Cinnamon Roll ( "2005, 2006 & 2007 Automatic Merchandiser Readers Choice Pastry of the Year!" the package said. I say, Sold!); meatloaf with tomato sauce, mashed potatoes with gravy, stuffing with gravy, and a medium lemonade, all from Boston Market; cup of water; faux mocha; some sort of sandwich from Sonic Burger consisting of pita meat, bacon and melted cheese on an 8-inch hot dog bun (it was a gift); a handful of Wheat Thins Whole Grain Toasted Chips; Twix.


FRIDAY:Carnation Instant Breakfast, rich chocolate flavor, in skim milk; cup of water; cup of green tea; Apple-cinnamon Nutra-Grain bar; cup of green tea; cup of water; 20oz Dr. Pepper and a 1.75oz bag of Chex Mix traditional flavor; chocolate chip cookie and chocolate-chocolate chip cookie, both from Subway; Corona w/ lime; cup of Coke; one packet of honey roasted peanuts containing 10 whole nuts and 13 halves (making 16.5 nuts total, plus some salty dust); small bag of Ritz chips; two 50ml bottles of Jack Daniels whiskey, can of DejaBlue water; pint of Karl Strauss Red Trolley, some Crispy Calamari Fries, one piece of Kobe Beef Sushi Roll with garlic-ponzu dipping sauce, small chop of Pork Prime Rib(stolen from the kitchen), Braised Beef Short Rib with chocolate-espresso demi, mashed potatoes and grilled asparagus, a bite of Prime Cap Steak cooked medium, two more pints of Karl Strauss Red Trolley, glass of Charles Krug Cabernet (vintage? I forgot), bite of Vanilla Bean Cream Cheese Flan with bits of crushed lattice tuille globe, all from The Prado at Balboa Park; five Jack-and-Cokes; Black Velvet and water.



SATURDAY:Two mouthfuls of shower water; mimosa, bloody mary, three pancakes, three eggs over medium, potatoes, and two sausage patties from World Famous; raspberry Arizona iced tea (99 cents!); string cheese; two bottles of Miller High Life; bottle of Budweiser, chicken fried steak sandwich with tomato, lettuce, mayo and sides of French fries and cole slaw, all from Po' Folks; Orange Gatorade ($3.25 from the Knott's concession stand); bottle of water ($3.25 from the Knott's concession stand); breakfast buffet consisting of un-measurable amounts of scrambled "eggs," bacon, French toast, sausage, biscuits, various fried chicken pieces, and a coke, all from the Knott's after-haunt buffet; chocolate Nesquik.




SUNDAY:Half of a chocolate donut, sip of orange juice, chocolate Nesquik; two glasses of orange juice and the "Farm House Scramble" from Coco's, or maybe it was Carrow's; large Dr. Pepper from Jack in the Box; six Miller Lites, chicken salad with melba toast, New York strip steak, veggies, potato, burgundy sauce, bread and butter, one glass of merlot, neapolitan ice cream and a cookie at my parent's house; can of Coke; cup of water.


MONDAY:Maple oat nut scone and a grande chai latte from Starbucks; three pints of Blue Moon w/ orange slice, chicken finger dipped in ranch dressing, cheese stick dipped in marinara, slider dipped in au jus, two more pints of Blue Moon w/ orange slice, all from Maloney ,s; cup of Coke, cup of water, small bag of Ritz chips, one packet of honey roasted peanuts (I did not count them this time, the stewardess was cute and I didn't want to seem like a freak); cup of water.

ant farm and ancient relations...

Suggested Soundtrack: "Pets" by Prono for Pyros


Horrible news: My ant farm is dying. I knew this was gonna happen, I just didn't expect it to be so terrible to watch. When the first ant died, I was actually kinda stoked. This is because in the booklet that came with the ant farm it told me this would happen eventually and it told me what the ants would do when one of them died (the booklet had nailed every aspect of the ants' behavior up to this point - The way they dug, their shift-splitting so that some slept while some patrolled, the tiny specks of ant shit that they confined to one room of their home). But this time the booklet was wrong. They were supposed to carry the dead ant up to the surface. They were supposed to know, instinctively, that the rotting ant corpse might introduce pestilence to their habitat. I was supposed to take the corpse out of the ant farm once it was carried to the surface, which was supposed to happen almost immediately. Sadly, all the other ants did was push the body out of the way as they went about their business. Every so often, one would tug the body around a little bit, but there never seemed to be a team effort to get the recently departed to the surface.
The late ant had curled into a ball upon expiration, so I had the bright idea to tip the farm upside down and have him tumble out. No dice. He had one minuscule leg that stuck right out and stymied his rolling. In the meantime, though, I had panicked the rest of the ants. My rescue attempts were at an end, and I had to just sit back and see how things progressed from this point on.
After a few days, it seemed like the majority of the ants were relaxing in the bottom-most chamber, where they "slept" at night. One or two would be up top, moping about, but all new construction had stopped. Then another ant died. It seemed like she (all the ants are girls, just like the dinosaurs in Jurassic Park) had had the courtesy to die in another room of the farm. Or had she gone for a walk and died halfway through? No way to know. Every day I'd come home from work to find one or two more dead, but always in a room away from the main sleeping chamber. Still the two up top, and the other survivors huddled together in the bottom.
This is when I started thinking. These are only insects, but it still sucks to see them die. There's no way to tell just how many "wild" ants have died from my actions, accidentally (day-to-day walking) or on purpose (magnifying glass, retaliatory attack for biting my leg). But these were my ants. When a stray dog dies that no one cares about, no one cries. When the family dog passes on, it is a tragedy of epic proportions. Was I falling prey to this same sort of thing, only over 25 harvester ants? I don't think so. I had no real attachment to the little guys (girls), but the pathetic existence they led and the way the slowly and sadly shuffled off this mortal coil was distressing. Now it's down to the last two ants, the hardy ones that stayed up top roaming while the rest gave up and shrivelled and died (the sleep chamber is now full of dead ants, as the last ten or so elected to stay put and die there rather than politely expire elsewhere). I look at the last two and wonder whether or not to set them free, and I think that that would be far crueler than keeping them in the farm. There is a good reason for me thinking this. For starters, these ants were born in captivity and in all actuality have no idea of the world beyond the curved plastic walls of their prison. So is it really a prison? Would a fish raised in a fish tank be happier released into the wild in the twilight of its life? Would I enjoy it if, when I was 80 or so, someone took me out of my house and put me in the forest and said, "There you go, buddy, you're free now!" or would my heart seize up in terror? So there's that to consider. My ants have lived an existence free of predators and exterminators and the elements. Their simple needs were met, and their environment catered to their instincts: they dug, and walked around. There was no queen for them to serve, but they would have lived no longer had she been there. So they lived their life and did their thing and didn't have the fear that the normal ant would have. So I can't really feel that bad for them. It's the circle of life, after all. It still sucked to see them go. I'll miss their pointless busywork and the way that whenever they met, their antennae would do a little handshake. I liked that whenever I would open the top, whoever was patrolling the upper level would rush down and rouse the others, who would then all swarm to the top to see was the fuss was about.

Now I look in at the last two survivors, creeping around the dead bodies of their sisters, and I see a life led toiling away at tunnels that went in circles, of pointless work for a queen who they never saw, labor that was never rewarded, and a world that had definite limits, and I think how lucky these ants are to be so very simple. So simple that they will never have moments like this, where they see something simpler than themselves and they realize that this simple thing they are seeing puts into perspective things that are much, much larger than themselves. Because every time I look in, I also see my own reflection looking back at me.


...and now for something completely different.

Soundtrack change: "Elderly woman behind the counter in a small town" by Pearl Jam


Further evidence that I'm out of the shelter of my old Neverland, and that this strange place and new life is as much a shock to me as factory work would be for Peter Pan:

Went to my hometown of Shreveport, Louisiana last weekend to see my elderly grandparents. It wasn't an easy visit. Communication with my grandparents is a nightmare. There are no commonalities. What should have been a stop-in for lunch became, due to my ignorance in planning, nearly two days in hell. I'm punishing myself. I must be - first the move to Dallas, and not this. They talk about friends and/or relations who are dead and/or dying. Each one of them holds a separate and unique conversation with me at exactly the same time, each one taking moments out of their own endless monologue to interrupt the other's monologue for clarification on something they had forgotten. Making matters worse, neither one can hear the other, so grandparent-to-grandparent interaction is a sad, loud and funny show of its own. They bitch and moan about the (n-words) who are "taking over the neighborhood." It's a sad, sad visit. Am I supposed to like these people just because they pitched in on my creation by performing an act of coitus 60 years ago? I mean, shit, I'm related to them through my mother, who I really have nothing in common with, who I have not spoken a civil word to in 10 years, or even heard from in two. I know I can't write my grandparents off, and I do respect my elders and all, but good god this hurts. Why hasn't my aunt or uncle put them in a home yet? After a few quiet hours staring at the carpet, I head off to bed which, if I'm not mistaken, consists only of a box spring with a sheet over it, no mattress.
Breakfast is "Oatmeal," which somehow means corn flakes with a bunch of Splenda at the bottom. Two hours later, we're off to the Piccadilly Cafeteria, where the post-church crowd and white-trash stereotypes go to eat. We got there early and lined up, and were the first ones in when the doors opened. I chose a seat which, for my own personal amusement, allowed me to see each and every person coming off the food line with their tray. My, oh, my. Let me just state for the record that I am aware that I was sitting in the same place as the people I was laughing at the expense of. I'm superior to them, of course, because I didn't leave the house in a yellow t-shirt that reads "It's not a bald spot, it's a solar panel for a sex machine." Oh, yeah, you bet that guy was there. With his family. Also present are "Mom" jeans, NASCAR hats worn without a trace of irony, missing teeth, patterned sun dresses from the 70's worn in a non-hippy fashion, sleeveless hair-band concert shirts, etc. All of these people were quiet and looked unhappy. Maybe it was because church just got out and they were still in the throes of reverence, but laughter was at an absolute minimum and enjoyment was not in the vicinity. The world is sometimes a very ugly place, full of sad people in unintentionally funny clothes, people for whom smiles are few and far between. At least it is that way in my hometown. It's a poor and backwards part of the world, the embarrassing older brother of American culture. It's worse than movies make it out to be. It is quite miserable. I am so happy that my parents moved us kids to California when we were young, and I called my father later and told him just that.
Next time you see Britney Spears on the TV driving on a suspended license while intoxicated and using her infant children as airbags, I want you to understand that she comes from Louisiana, and the statement that starts with, "You can take the girl out of the trailer park..." is absolutely true. I was happy, for once, to be heading back to Dallas.

A quick and wonderful visit...

Suggested soundtrack: "Award Tour" by A Tribe Called Quest

San Diego!!
I'm picked up at the airport by Nick and RC, and we drive downtown to start drinking (I would technically be continuing to drink, but I'm not going to go into flight details here). Basic bar is the destination, a place that serves alcohol and oversized (and overpriced) pizza. We eat a pizza, we drink some beer, we set off for the Padres game. Remembering back to the time when we got so housed at a game that we missed Peavy striking out 17 people to set some kind of record, Nick and I vow to "not get that drunk." Granted, this was a promise made while half-drunk, so it could only be expected to be half-enforced.

Despite the fact that a plastic bottle of Budweiser costs $7.50, Nick and I were able to advance our intoxication pretty handily. We had parked ourselves above the Western Metal Building, next to an avid Padres fan (avid!) with a broken collarbone whose love for the Padres was only equaled by his hatred of the Giants in general, and Barry Bonds in particular. His Barry hatin' bellowing was as scary as it was amusing ("BAAAAA-REEEEEE!!!!!!! YOU SUCK!!!!!!!!! NOBODY LIKES YOUUUUUUU!!!!!! and so on), and the little woman in the red ELITE security windbreaker did stop by from time to time for little warnings. It was far more fun for a person with a marginal interest in baseball (namely, me) and a good buzz going (me again) to simply turn and watch this screaming maniac do his thing. So I did. Since his exit coincided with the seventh inning stretch which also coincided with last call for alcohol in the stadium, we let it coincide with OUR exit as well.

After a quick stop at jBar to drink more and relieve our bladders, we headed to The Field to meet up with Jason and the rest of the crew. The only thing notable about our time at The Field was that Nick got kicked out for getting choked. Details are still sketchy, but after some post-choke interviews with some of the drunks at the scene, what we know is this: some Big Dude bumped into Nick while trying to make way through the crowded bar, and Nick didn't budge, so the Dude just totally started yelling in Nick's face, and Nick just like, laughed at the guy, so the Dude snapped and grabbed Nick's neck with one hand and his face with the other and tried to like, pull his head off. I was in the bathroom so I missed the incident, but came out in time to see Nick getting ejected. "Why are you kicking my friend out?" I ask. "He just got choked by another guy," says the bouncer. "Okaaaay. Why are you kicking my friend out?" was my next question, which almost got ME kicked out. I went upstairs to tell everyone else, and when I left with Trent, Nick was gone. He had said he was going to Henry's, but I was, at this point, trashed, and the night pretty much fades out at this point.
I wake up, confused and alone, in someone's apartment. They were nice enough to leave a key, some green, and a cup of water by the bed (and an "Alice in Wonderland"-esque note pointing out the items) and a clean towel in the bathroom. I knew where I was at this point. I tidied up, washed my face and brushed my teeth, and set out into the day with no idea where it would take me.

Hat shopping while figuring out what to do next, I hear from a friend who wants to meet for breakfast at a little cafe a couple of miles away. Great! So I head out, enjoying the beautiful San Diego weather and the music being pumped loudly into my head by my iPod. It's not long into the walk that I notice strange things happening all around me. I'm hung over, so it took a bit for this to dawn on me: people walking towards me all seem to have the most horrified expressions on their faces. Others just look down, or shake their heads in disbelief. Some actually step to one side, or duck into shops as I approach. What, I thought, the hell is going on? I had looked in the mirror before I left the apartment so I knew I didn't have anything written on my face (this stems from an incident a few months ago. I got home after passing out drunk and spending the night at a friend's house to discover a sharpie mustache and goatee on my face, which immediately answered the question of why the Starbucks guy was looking at me so funny). Hmm. A quick swipe of the forearm across my forehead allows me to stealthily sniff my armpits: nope, powder fresh. I use the side of my index finger to wipe below my nose: no snot, no blood. It was still happening, and peripherally, I could see people sitting in front of restaurants turning to look in my direction. Aha! Looking down to see if my pants were stained, I see that they are not. Meantime, a car has slowed down in the street next to me, and seems to be pacing me.
Then it hits me: there's a crazy person behind me, isn't there?
Sure enough, the song I'm listening to ends and I hear an unbroken string of profanities that would make a sailor blush being shouted out from right behind me. Presently, I turn around while quickening my pace and see that the source is a short blond guy in clean clothes wearing a backpack who is just angrily cussing up a blue streak. I'm wearing a backpack too. He's so close to me we could be traveling companions. I've got to get away. Though my music has started back up, I can see his lips and jaw working, and his chest heaving from the effort of saying "fuck" so loud that it can be heard in space (for the record, noise cancelling headphones WORK). I step into a used bookstore to get behind the loon. I notice that as an added crazy touch, he's holding a jamba juice cup that for some reason has a hole in the bottom and is dripping little orange blops every few feet or so. Though it zig-zags back and forth, his Hansel-and-Gretel-style smoothie trail shows that he's been following me for a very long time. Close call, I say to myself, and follow him at a safe distance until I get to breakfast.
After consuming a pancake 14 inches in diameter, I get a call from Jason, who got just as drunk as I did the night before and left his SUV with the valet downtown, and asked would I please go pick it up and drive it to him. Sure. Now I'll have some wheels.
Things did not go according to plan, and to make a long story short, I was not able to get into the SUV so Jason grabbed his spare keys and hopped in a cab. I could've waited for him, but I was getting impatient. So I rented a bike.

I rode off, happy because I was on a bike just like the old times and it was now only a 25 minute ride to the beach: where my buddy Todd was waiting for me on his boat; where beautiful women were walking around in swimsuits; where wave after salty wave of polluted blue ocean water was slamming onto the sandy shore; where I wanted to be more than anywhere else at that moment.
Unfortunately, fate hit me with the shit-hammer. For a guy who rode a bike everywhere in San Diego for more than two years, I had been remarkably lucky in that I have only had two flat tires. That's less than one flat a year. This day, though, I managed to have a violent hissing blowout before I had gone two miles. It was at this moment, walking the rented bike back to the shop, that I realized how stupid I was for not renting a car and for listening to the people who said they'd be driving me around. I try not to depend on others for much of anything, and consider myself an able traveler, but Saturday was not shaping up to be my day. I considered changing my flight and leaving early. I was down in the dumps, dear readers. Then, a thought: I'm not that guy, that miserable "why, me" guy. I'm not the guy that has a sharp downturn of luck and gives up!! As far as I knew, a hard-to-get SUV and a flat tire were all that life had to throw at me. There was nowhere to go but up. Plus, breakfast was great. Just as I got to the bike shop to have the tire replaced, Jason got his SUV, and I got a ride to the bay to meet Todd.
Parked the bike, waded out to the boat, kicked back a few beers and the day was 100% better.

That was easy.
Soundtrack Change: "Don't worry be Happy" by Bobby McFerrin

After a while, rode off to meet Adam out for drinks in PB. Watched the sun set over the ocean, shed a bitter tear, continued to drink.

Then Adam, Kristin and I went to In-n-out for a Double double, which was so wonderful I still can't properly explain it.

While there, I realized my phone was running out of charge. I had the charger, but no plug! This could be a problem. Not wanting to stop back at Kristin's place and wait for my phone, I had to find another way. Across the parking lot was a car wash. There was a covered outlet on the wall of the car wash!! So I knocked the cover off:

...and while we waited a few minutes for that to get going:

...and then we went back to PB, where Chelsea and Amorica and Tim and Tommy joined the crew, and the wonderful and lovely Eve provided shots of, shots of...hell, I don't remember. It was a good time. On a bathroom break I'm walking, head down, texting God-knows-who. I round the corner and go through the door, and realize that a girl just followed me in. I look up, smiling, ready to made a funny comment, but then I shut up and wonder why there's so many chicks in the men's room. That's when I knew I'd had enough to drink. So of course we went to another bar. How we got there I have no idea. I simply remember being somewhere else. Memories get sharper, though, when we got to the Ramen place.

It was a restaurant, open until 3am, that served ramen. Gourmet ramen. It was great, and it sat better in my guts than a California burrito would have.

Woke up a couch.
Off to breakfast. Good times. I'm surprised at how much I enjoyed Prado shop talk. I really miss the place. Scratch that. I really miss the people. Hearing all the same stories, all the same gripes, brought me right back to three months ago when I was spouting the same stuff. I was able to forget, for just a little while, that as soon as breakfast was over I had to go back to Dallas.

Soundtrack change: "Life is a Highway" by Tom Cochrane

The flight back was odd. The first leg of the journey was to Atlanta. This was because I had purchased my ticket relatively last-minute and definitely as cheap as possible. I actually flew past Dallas on the way to Atlanta, and could almost see the skyline from the window. What a stupid way to go. It's like flying to London, via Tokyo. The drudge was made bearable by the little video screen that each passenger got that provided a GPS ("ooh, we're over Alabama now"), some movies available for purchase (each screen had a credit card swiper thing), 50 or so decent recent albums and the ability to create a little playlist for yourself (cool!), and my personal favorite, the trivia. It was like the bar trivia, but with all the passengers able to play. During the part where it shows everyone's score and their answer to the last question, it would also list the seat numbers. So when a hard question would come up, everyone who was playing would sit up in their seats and look around at the other players to try and see if they got it or not. It was cool. Since I was flying away from the sun, I also had the distinct pleasure of watching America turn her streetlights on. That was an awesome sight. Flying at night takes the sometimes ugly scenery of the flyover states away and just leaves the shiny pretty stuff. The Atlanta to Dallas portion only had one thing worth mentioning: the guy sitting next to me was an absolute mystery. While the flight was boarding, and as it taxied and took off and flew along, the guy was writing tiny notes in a full size notebook. Not the page-filling, serial-killer-from-that-movie-Seven kind of tiny notes, but more like islands of itty-bitty writing on a sea of paper. He'd put one near the top, another to one side, and then flip the page and start on the next one. I tried to peek while pretending to read, but I couldn't make a bit of sense out of it. No rhyme or reason whatsoever. I don't think he was scary-crazy like the screaming guy in SD, but more of a kooky-crazy, like he had a pointy tinfoil hat at his apartment and owned a ferret. I can't say what i wanted more: to read his notebook or to magically make him not smell as bad as he did.
At any rate, I'm "home" now, missing home already. I had a mini-epiphany the other day, and it will be the backbone of my next entry, so check back in soon.
Until next time...