Whaaaaaaaaaaa?

Over two months later, and this space has remained empty, devoid of life.

Because my life took over. I beat my case, and suddenly the world of Malakkar (tm) became an interesting event, something whereby activities became a daily event, and downtown for blogtime became a fantasy, like Malakkar winning against all wars of oppression, universal utopia, and of course, a harem to put Wilt Chamberlain to shame.

Damn, still a sexist pig. Gotta work on that.

Tomorrow, tomorrow I go to war again. This two month absence of leave is over. Tomorrow law school starts, and I begin anew.

So, my faithful five (and now 1 dedicated!), whatever have I been doing?

Moving to San Francisco. That was a big one. Went to DefCon 17, which wasn't a slouch either. Managed to get pulled over twice in a matter of one month, but neither time was I driving, and in the former example, it was a load of shit, and in the latter, only a speeding ticket.

Let's talk about the load of shit: Arizona State Trooper pulls us over on I-15, the short snip, like 20 miles, that dips into Arizona between Utah and Nevada. Pulls my brother out of the car, and tells him he's got two problems with us: 1) license plate lamp is out. 2) open container in vehicle.

The open container was of root beer. However, we spend the next 45 minutes on the side of the road, being harassed by the pig, because he wants to search the vehicle.

Did I mention that I was moving to SF? The car has almost everything I owned in it, a search would have taken hours. So, naturally, we both tell the pig to fuck off. At which point he threatens to bring out the dogs. We both say, "don't fucking care, bring the fucking dogs," and eventually, he decides to let us go, after finding out my brother works drug policy, and I'm about to start law school.

Craven coward. Just like the DEA. Looking to mess with people just because he's bored.

We left, and missed the fireworks in Vegas because of this prick. Next time, more adventures from the road, what actually went down at DefCon, and how I came upon some heartbreak.

I'm Free(er).

Yeah, it's been a month. I could have a million excuses, but I'll only use one:

Free. Er.

As in, Supervised Release is over with. As in, I stepped into a hearing last Monday, and came out with a ruling ending my coerced involvement with the federal government on Tuesday.

I'm still not free - none of us are. We're still the victims and the caged animals of a world demarcated by bastards that came way before us, and by those who currently hold either compliance or consent, or some combination of the two.

Now that I'm free: I don't regret a thing. I did nothing wrong. To those that got high-quality LSD from me: you're welcome. Glad to be of service. Won't do it again, because I don't have another 8 years of prison time and 14 months of supervised release time to spare. Sorry, other priorities, and being a foot soldier appeals just about as much as working the trenches in the legal field. Not my interest. I'd rather see about winning this damn drug war, and setting all of my people free.

So free. Er. And still I'm a slave to the job.

My other news: my stay here in NYC is over. I'm headed to San Francisco, to become a blood-sucking bottom feeder... er... lawyer. Well, not a practicing attorney, mind you, but the law degree should prove endlessly helpful in designing policy to put an end to the madness, to increase the overall freedom of the people, and to reign in some of this damn tyranny being sold as a good idea.

Or at least that's what my high horse wants. My sober horse just wants to make sure I do something to help free some more drug war prisoners.

So what does this sensation feel like? Can't really describe it, because none of it feels very real.

Anyways, this is my lackluster apology to my faithful 5, and my new 1 blog reader: I'm back. Sorry about the delays. But as a free(er) man(boy), I should prove to have some more interesting adventures on the way, at least until law school starts...

Especially when you consider that I'm about to pack up the parent's loaner car (since I never want to own an internal combustion engine again), and go across the country in 4 days and 7 breweries, with 1 brother, 1 cousin, 1 convict, 1 sweetheart, and 1 partner n' wife inbetween me and my final destination (not like the movie, damnit!).

HDCP and a Modern Hate

I suppose I could also call this, "fuck Intel."

So, I spent a majority of my Saturday fixing a blu-ray drive with a busted eject tray. My word on the PS3 - 1) I was very grateful to receive this as a gift, because if I paid for it, I would want someone at Sony to bleed at least a quart of blood for all of the design flaws that were intentionally put in it, and 2) the attempts to engage Sony customer service went from bad to, I'm glad I got this as a gift, because I refuse to buy Sony products.

Where to begin? The blu ray drive eject tray broke. Mainly because it's built like shit. Rather than a standard CD-tray, it's got a fancy internal slide mechanism, so it "grabs" your disc. This nifty feature means that the tray has about 60 movable parts, including 18 cogs, 12 springs, 2 rollers, 2 spindles, 16 levers, and about 10 gears. For comparison, my cheap-ass Dell DVD/CDRW tray has 2 slides, 1 spindle, 1 gear, and 1 release lever. It still hasn't broken yet, and it's now 5 years old.

***This rant obviously got cut off due to more hardware problems. However, I feel the intense hatred for Sony in it demands it be posted.

Pesach and the Life of a Errant Jew

Or, otherwise known as, I barely fulfill one goddamn commandment, yet I still feel entitled to ethnic identity. Truly pretentious, I swear.

So that I feel like everyone else isn't ignored, I shall recount the Malakkar version of Exodus, which jews are commanded to tell on Pesach (I did both nights, to two randomly-selected jews)...
...I know, you've been awaiting this for weeks, maybe even months on end. So here it is:

We were once slaves in Egypt, until we were led out of the trap that was set with promise of material wealth by Moses, who because of his rage would never see the promised land. We eat matzah because although the one who is not to be named is mighty and great, evidently he thought it amusing that we be rushed out, not allowing our wonderful challah to rise. Instead we got hardtack, but call it matzah because of tradition.

There are four questions to be asked by the children, but naturally that’s a product of us winnowing down these options, otherwise the Seder would never end. I’m always siding with the contrarian son.

Enjoy the mirar – you can call it bitter herbs, but I love horse radish. Evidently, my stay in the desert wouldn’t have been so bad, though I do hate hot weather.

Regardless, we were led out of Egypt, and proved to be the chosen people, yet somehow entirely stupid when it comes to directions. This is because the great oracle of GoogleMaps was not there to guide us, and the one who is not to be named thought it amusing to make us wait 5,760 years for the aid. Not very funny in my book, but I wasn’t in the desert either.

The lessons learned: even if you can part the waters, doesn’t mean you gain entry to the promised land. And if you kick rocks in anger, you’re screwed, so just kick rocks in rejection. And matzah ain’t half bad with honey and peanut butter, so if you’re in a rush…

Also, it just so happens that this week, I'll be finishing up Chupecabra. In a complete denial of my heritage, I have finally decided to make the taped-on horns epoxy-on horns, and I just ordered red-colored spraypaint, with photoluminscent properties.

You all know where I'm going with this.

It's a dark night in the city. While you don't hear anything, you see something in the distance. Your heart starts to race. What could it be? As it approaches, in near silence, all you can make out is glowing red horns...

I know, it's terrible. It's also so fucking awesome I don't know if I'll ever bring myself to ram anyone ever again, afraid to break the horns.

That's it for tonight. P.S. I'm going to Golden Gate Law, can someone find me a place to live in the Mission District, someplace that won't mind federal probation snooping around for other convicts?