Time to Take a Break!

California-bound, though I've got a stop along the way: Santa Fe. Several inches of snow await me, which to me seems weird.

I mean, it's New Mexico. When I think Mexico, new or old, I think desert. Hot, dry, desert. Like Palm Springs, without the stuffy rich people. Or the palm trees. Yet I'm headed into a snowstorm. Leaving NYC, which on Monday was 65 degrees, and still managed to snow lightly on Tuesday.

Yes! Snow! I had a snowball fight with my brother coming out of a bar on 4th Avenue in Brooklyn.

On some weird non-sequitur ish, I got myself a tiny notebook for trecenta median (sure I fucked the spelling on that one) dollares. This thing is so fucking small, I can't even type on it. I mean, I can, but only if you accept paired typing, so "t" becomes "ty" or "tr" depending on the sway of my fingers.

Seriously though, I highly recommend it. Solid state hard drive, which, unless I do my usual klutz shit, will last longer than I will. Weird to think about that. No matter. Asus EEE 901, dope, dope, dope ish. It also means I might blog once or twice from the road - but no promises, I'll be on vacation after tomorrow. Fight the tears, all four of you.

Where was I? Oh yeah, Mexico. I, of course, being totally ethnocentric and a prick to boot, forget completely about the Yucatan, which is like lush tropical jungle. For me, Mexico is like Cabo San Lucas - all fucking desert. Either hilly or flat, like in the movies, but desert. Like there isn't enough water in the entire country to support 100 people, much less the 100 million.

Oh well, it's just another example of my limited perceptions. I'm getting awfully used to them.

And with that, it's time to head out to fight it out with my p.o. (who's giving up no love), so I can get my travel permission and hop on a plane in seven hours. Fuck I'm up early!

I'm back!

No doubt, all four of you have missed me. I'm deeply touched, really.

While I would say that I'm happy to be back, truth be told, it was a rugged month - studying for the LSATs, only to tank the logic games section regardless. I don't know what's been wounded more, my sense of accomplishment or my sense of pride.

Incidentally, I did wind up with an actual wound - fractured another rib. No car, actually, this time it was purely a mechanical freeze up. Somehow, the crank decided to hiccup, just when I was powering my left leg down. So instead of the leg and pedal going down, my body went airborne, at which time I thought it'd be great to land on my handlebars chest-first. Actually, rib-first. This time, however, the rib that took the brunt of the damage is one of those mostly-cartilage floating ribs, so it doesn't hurt too bad. Except for when I'm taking the LSAT, and it's the only thing that can distract me from the white walls, flickering white fluorescent lighting, or the...

...okay, I have to admit, I had another problem. For whatever reason, there was like 100 beautiful women taking the goddamn LSATs yesterday in Manhattan. It was un-fucking-believable how many beautiful women were surrounding me. I was flabbergasted - where do they disappear to? I haven't met that many attractive attorneys.

Clearly, there's some void that none of us know about, a void that sucks in all of the attractive attorneys, and leaves us with fat, older, bald-headed white guys that hate humans. In other words, leaves us with who I'll be in another five years.

Just kidding. I don't think I'll go bald.

So I'm back! I'm leaving for California (once again) in about a week and a half from now, which means at least one more posting before I'm on vacation!

I Refuse To Blog Tomorrow.

Why? Because a man should not be expected to insult himself on his own birthday.

That's right, I'm turning 33, the old cantankerous bastard is getting a little bit older. And crustier, as if that was possible.

So how am I celebrating, you ask? By not blogging, on my usual Wednesday spot. Terrible, I know, to make all 4 of you suffer through a day without my usual antics.

Anyways, some updates: minus the bike helmet, I've experienced no crashes. I mean none. It's like a fucking curse to wear a bike helmet. Crash every other week, if not more frequently. Ditching that albatross was probably my best move of the year. Of course, I've had a lot of bad moves this year (just ask my ex-lover), so making it the best wasn't like a highly competitive field. I might revisit this analysis if I do well on my LSATs...

...but I've found my critical shortcoming in the LSATs: logic games. I'm too slow at them. Scary, huh? For a highly analytical guy, I should be able to take care of them in no time. Sequencing I find easy. Grouping is like a foreign language, and leads to endless confusion. I hate grouping. It's like hanging out in a bar - there's a lot of fucking noise, and I just want to leave. With grouping logic games, same thing, but I know I have to stay and finish the game. It's terrible. Sequencing I can get at 100%, but I'm slow. Grouping I manage 80% and I'm really slow.

Which means my next flight out to California is going to be 6 hours of logic games on a plane (kinda like that Samuel Jackson movie, but without the snakes. I'm pretty sure I'll be saying motherfuckin' a lot more than him).

When's that? Day after tomorrow, that's when. Califor-neye-aye, here I come (again)!

Happy birthday to me! Goddamnit. And you'd better believe that if Sudwerk's doesn't have their infamously good doppelboch, I'm going to read them the riot act, and gets to some serious protesting!

My Home State Has Hate Issues...

Incidentally, I stopped wearing a helmet as I ride Chupecabra through these faulty streets of NYC. I haven't been in an accident since. Not normally given to hocus pocus, superstition and voodoo (though I do like stories of elves and demon goats), there is nonetheless something related between wearing a helmet and getting into accidents - I'm just not sure of the relationship right now.

So why have I chosen to lead with this particular non-sequitur? It's related! Hocus Pocus! Abracadabra! We have our first semi-Black president! All is well! Change we need!

Or is it?

Proposition 5 failed to pass in California, which would have set some of my people free.

That's not change, that's more of the same. Sometimes I wonder at the stupidity of doing the same shit over and over, and expecting different results. The feds are poised to take over the California Prison System, to the tune of 8 billion to California taxpayers in building new prison medical facilities. All they had to do was let some drug addicts go from prison to treatment, and this disaster would be completely averted.

Nevermind that locking people up for consensual crime surrounding 1st Amendment Rights is fucking ridiculous.

1st Amendment? You read me right. Freedom of the press and of speech is meaningless without freedom of thought. Freedom of thought is impossible when the government can dictate what chemicals you can and cannot take, since psychoactive chemicals, by definition, change your thoughts. Since certain mindstates are indeed banned, certain thoughts, by logical extension, are likewise banned. Since certain thoughts are banned, certain speech becomes impossible, and is, by proxy, also banned.

Proposition 8 did pass, banning gay marriage.

That's not change, that's more of the same. (For those who doubt this, bear in mind that I answered my door in 2000 with a petitioner trying to helpfully "add 14 words to the California Constitution to help families: marriage in California is defined as a union between a man and a woman." I told him to get fucked. It's 8 years later, and the fascists finally got their wish.

Everyone who supported Prop 8 can get fucked. Of course, I would have supported Prop 8, if it had banned all marriages, since I think marriage intrudes on my equal protection rights, since I don't believe in marriage, so I'll never receive any of the state-sanctioned benefits of it. In the meantime, the millions spent on this stupid proposition could have gone to the families of Katrina victims - thus actually protecting families, rather than wasting time hating on gay folks.

Can I see a bright side? Of course! I had another byline for this blog post:

Gays finally more well liked than dopeheads - by 9 points! (40/60 for Prop 5, 51/49 for Prop 8).

So, we continue politics of hate in California. Supported, of course, by the Mormon Church. Yes, the people who believe in polygamy somehow have the nerve to comment on other's families. The real funny shit? Proposition 8 bans their own prophet's marriages. Talk about hypocrisy.

Today it rains in New York City, Chupecabra will stay in the stairwell. I go to work, to renew the battle against oppression. We had setbacks in California, major setbacks, but the struggle continues.

In the meantime, I'm reapplying at ONDCP: Obama, make me the new Drug Czar, I swear you'll get results!

Malakkar Becomes Boring!

It's true. I hate to say it. I'm about to become... boring.

Why? Because I have to study for the LSATs! It's terrible, I tell you! While I might entertain with an angsty tale or two of lost romances, and horrible intersections between myself and whatever that demon goat throws me into next, for the most part, I'm buckling down the hatches that don't exist, and getting my mind on LSATs and applying for law school.

Which is to say, that I'm totally procrastinating on finishing my personal statement right now. It's beyond inexcusable, but I'm a notoriously fickle writer, given to tantrums and moments of inspiration alike.

For instance, right now I'm backing some shit up, and wondering why the fuck I'm not actually listening to any music for a change. I'm also wondering how I've managed to make it almost a whole month without a major traffic accident. Well, almost a whole month. Well, okay, I've only been on the beast for three weeks, and the first week I did get into another accident when my chain fell off... and I got hit by a taxi...

..but outside of that, I feel like I've really turned a corner with Chupecabra, and the broken rib is like payment made for the next upcoming year in NYC. I hope.

I also managed to get a raise at work. Which means I'll actually have a second dollar bill to rub the first one against. Soon enough: wall street, and I'll be able to get a bailout, assuming I make enough bad credit decisions.

Speaking of bad credit decisions, I applied for and received a United VISA card, only to cancel it the day I got it. They gave me so much damn credit, I thought the crisis was about to ride on my back! I got scared, I admit. To wield that much opportunity to royally fuck myself for the next 20 years was too much for me. I balked at the potential, and coughed that fucked up into a pair of scissors, after calling to ensure it would never be activated.

Nice try, fuckers, I'll only become your debtslave for law school, not for cheesy shit at Target...

...not that I shop there... or much of anywhere outside of eBay and Craigslist. I am, after all, still stuck rubbing two bills together...

Next time: post election analysis, or, how we're still royally fucked, and what YOU can do about it.

Sensitive Subject: Terrorist Endorsement of McCain?

So... you might have paid attention a few weeks ago, when I alleged that electing McCain would lead to the end of the American Empire.

Evidently... though they don't contemplate Europe or Latin America, as I have, they've pointed to the same economic failure that is the current U.S. economy. They're alleged terrorists, and they support McCain, relying on him to support Bush's policies in the Middle East, which are bankrupting the U.S., creating a market for recruitment, and not at all helping out Joe-sixpack/plumber/hairstylist/interior decorator/beerswiller or whatever.

This is not the first case of my seeming clairvoyance... my professional blogging, at D'Alliance, had a piece I wrote specifically about a Ventura County Star story that alleged Prop 36 was leading to an increase in the crime rate. Instead, I pointed out, there was an increase in arrest rate, which just indicates shifting law enforcement priorities. My contention was that Prop 36 was working, but that the cops were just arresting more people as a result (probably because they figured if they arrested more people, they could keep prison numbers high, and they're right on the money with that).

Not one day later, USA Today featured a Drug Court Judge, stating Drug Courts Don't Work because they widen the net of arrests, siphoning more people into prison, rather than less. This is because cops go after more and more petty dealers and junkies, since it's easy pickings, and makes their numbers look good.

So, all 4 of you, you now have 2 examples of the incredible, not-quite-edible predictive powers of my rants and musings. Be afraid, be very afraid!

Working on Satuday: Whoring Against the Man

Here I am at work, fixing up some beater computers to donate to a Brooklyn Nonprofit.

Why? So I can be some kind of righteous prick, that's why. I'm helping a nonprofit that does charity work. I'm sure the judge will like it when I try to kill my paper, especially since this charity services a bunch of ex-drug addicts.

Also, I hate the thought of throwing away perfectly usable stuff, especially computers, because I spent so much of the 90's groveling, begging, and digging through trash to put together a computer for my own use. Hey! They were expensive back then, even if you DIDN'T want to play video games.

So, I'm being green, being a goody two-shoes, and even working a weekend to get it done. How far from the grace of being the despicable dope dealer have I gone? I might resemble someone who's truly reformed, but it's a pile of crap. I still don't regret hooking people up with quality LSD. I think it was the right thing to do. I don't recall too many people complaining, until I told them that I wasn't going to provide that service anymore. What can I say? Despite societal labels, I was pretty popular as a drug dealer. Lifestyle I miss. I make up for it these days by handing out candy at work. It's sad, but it is about the best I can do with what I got.

Can I describe to you in non-geek details what installing Windows XP is like on older machines? Imagine trying to drink oatmeal through a straw, that constantly crimps on itself, so it's not like you can do the whole suction-continuous flow trick that works so well for siphoning gas out of other people's tanks... er...

...not that I've ever done that, mind you.

Where was I? Oh yeah, oatmeal and crimping straw. So even though it says it will install in 45 minutes, since I have to babysit the fucker, and it's already running like a slug, it's more like an hour and a half. Disgusting. This is why I switched to Linux. That, and I'm a geek.

So, I'm not getting paid to do this by anyone in particular, so I've now decided I'm not whoring against the man, I'm slutting against the man. Take that, you four!

So I Went To Cali, And All I Got Was This Lousy Redeye.

And for you pervs, no, I'm actually talking about my flight back to NYC.

What can I say? Leaving California gets harder and harder each time. So much so, that during lunch today, I booked my next trip out in November. Yeah, that's how much I miss Cali... I'm not even back five hours to NYC, and I'm making sure I'm returning to NoCal.

So... my trip. I know, you're all dying to hear about it...

But you're not going to like this next part: nothing happened. I had a great time. I chilled with some friends, I chilled with my moms and pops, I got some work ish done on Friday, and tried to get an in at Boalt Law School (didn't seem to work). I ate all kinds of food, I wasn't super cheap with my cash. I hung out a bit in Sac...

In short, nothing worthy of this blog happened. Nothing on me broke - neither the body, nor the heart. But now I'm back, and Chupecabra stares at me with evil intent... sure to exact vengeance, vengeance for my willingness to turn him aside for a measly trip to California.

And, in the spirit of things, I have turned myself over to Bacchus. Also known as Dionysus. Eris: eat shit and die, you've been a bitch to me, and I resent the shit out of it. Get yer head on straight, and we'll talk. Recently, she's been playing with the stock market, and I can honestly say that I feel their pain, I know what it is to have a life in complete turmoil because the goddess has decided that you need change to understand that you're still fundamentally fucked up.

No, I don't retract my statement. Just because I'm fundamentally fucked up, doesn't mean that I need an ancient goddess to point that shit out to me. I do fine enough on my own.

Except for pool. I got my ass kicked at pool yesterday. It would have been embarrassing, but I can always counter that I lost on purpose, because my opponent was attractive. It would be a lie. The losing on purpose part. She whooped me something silly. I could blame the beer, but it actually improved my game.

I mean, who would ever think that a clutz could type, let alone play pool? Well, the former I got covered. The latter? I'm just glad I wasn't betting money with her, she'd clean me out in under an hour (yeah, I'm still broke like that, don't hate! There's nothing beautiful about hate!).

Now, to sleep. Tomorrow brings more work, and maybe one day I'll actually make a funny blog again.

Or I'm just stringing all four of you along (yeah, I got it on good authority that there's four of you curmudgeons now).

Time will be the judge of that.

Pain and Suffering, A Tale of Relationships.

Namely, the one I have with my demon goat of a bicycle.

I mean, naturally, there's pain and suffering with my other relationships, but none are quite so primal as the one I share, daily, with my not-quite-trusted steed, Chupecabra. We've been reconnected after a week and a half apart. Our last time together ended badly, with hurt feelings all around, which in many ways reflects a majority of my romantic entanglements.

However, Chupecabra and I are on the road to reconciliation, and have already taken to the streets of New York City like we never spent any time apart. Outside of the fact I can't push quite so hard - still in recovery mode.

I can't recall if I had done the CT Scan when last I discussed my fate here. Regardless: fractured rib. Good news is that after five and a half years of no longer being a nicotine addict, my lungs have recovered completely. Of course, Chupecabra is on schedule to destroy what remains of my body. Ahh... the price we pay for a moment's pleasure, right?

There's still a blood stain at the base of the Manhattan Bridge, Brooklyn side. I've still got chemicals coursing through my veins, and a lidocaine patch over the rib. This chemical mix has made for some interesting unstable moments, but for the most part, I'm doing well, considering all circumstances.

I'm chalking it up to August 28 - September 28th being my bad month... just slightly off kilter from a regular month. The worst, however, appears to be over. Which means, my faithful three, the comedy is returning, as I once again have a sense of humor about it all.

I mean, ultimately, just because I'm the butt of a joke, doesn't mean the joke isn't funny. This first year out of prison, I both gained and lost a life partner in six months (we obviously had a very different concept of what a life partner is - I was talking human lifespan, she was talking worker ant lifespan), gained and lost a good friend to silence, lost another stalwart companion to graduate school, and gained another from the abyss of the midwest.

Which is to say, my life is in constant flux. A flux that most prisoners would go apeshit over, since nothing in my life has remained stable for this year, outside of my job, my place to live, and my family. It's enough to make a convict cry, I tell you. For the past few weeks, I've felt like I was going to go apeshit myself.

Wait! I'm just kidding! No sob stories here! I'm doing great! No tears, not one! See? The computer didn't short! Everything's okay folx! Nothing to see here! I've recovering! I'm getting better! Don't leave!

Okay. *Whew* almost lost you three.

So, I'm going back to California next weekend. Northern California. Where two of my ex-significant others will be. It'll be my first trip back whereby I don't see either of them. It will be weird in that regard, but good in another - I'm getting a whole lot of work done. I'll be meeting people that will help me secure my place in law school, which in turn helps me secure my future as an advocate to free my people - the prisoners of the drug war.

And that, my fine 3 readers, is no laughing matter.

Now, about that fucking demon goat...

Shameless Plug of Someone Else...

Just, get ready to laugh... David Rees is the shit!

If only I had such talent!

The Goat Got Me.

Why haven't I been doing my usual, you all ask?

Heartbreak got you silent? Politics got you flummoxed? Masturbation got you distracted?

Certainly! Actually, no. The goat got me - not just any goat, rather, Chupecabra, the Demon Goat of a bicycle that I had been riding through the faulty streets of New York City.

No more. I'm on a break from that. This rider was bucked a little to hard, and now I have the fire of Hades in my chest, burning me up, preventing me from getting anywhere near the reins (and the horns) of that bastard ride.

Surely your interested is piqued (does anyone use that word anymore?) - what could possibly dissuade a demon goat rider from doing what comes naturally?

-Injury!

So, I went to this Blue Stockings event, dealing with women and incarceration. Should have stayed long, there was a cool speaker there, but I got offended by a bullshit speaker and bounced out. Had dinner with a friend, tried some Lower East Side Tacos. Bullshit speaker, and bullshit tacos. The burrito wasn't shit either. Where's the Mission District when you need it, like every fucking day because a Mission Burrito is truly something to behold (and taste, for that matter).

Have I ever discussed the nirvana that is a Mission Burrito? I sometimes overlook the important things in life, like spanish rice, over black beans, with grilled chicken or steak, sour cream, guacamole and cheddar cheese, with tomatoes and peppers, and spices, all rolled into a hot, steamy yet dry on the outside flour tortilla, wrapped in aluminum foil, and smelling of nothing but goodness and peace.

Where was I? Oh yeah, Demon Goat. Anyways, so leaving the dinner, I'm riding back over the Manhattan Bridge... going down the Brooklyn side bike path... fast - like as in 30mph or so.

Some idiot bicyclist is around the bend at the bottom, riding at like 5 mph, and is swerving through both of the bike lanes...

...of course, I didn't know this at the time. I saw the bicyclist change to the left lane and went to pass on the right...

...only for them to suddenly swerve to the right, leaving me two choices: into them, or into the fence.

Naturally, I tried to shoot the gap between them and the fence, favoring the fence. Hit fence. Chupecabra stopped. I didn't. The impact wasn't remembered too well... I couldn't roll out of it, because the fence was preventing my movements... so it was a plant instead.

Note to people that habitually fall: difference between cold plant and hot roll? Night and Day. Rolls leave me with bruises and minor scrapes. This plant left me with two microfractured ribs, an inflamed lung, Most of the skin missing on my right forearm and elbow, and a gimp knee.

There's still a blood spot on the bike lane, evidence of my impact. The Demon Goat sits in the hallway, snorting in total contempt of me. Somewhere out there, in downtown Brooklyn, is the trail of blood that leads back to my apartment. Chupecabra hadn't been fed in so long, he turned his demon horns on me, and I suffered the consequences.

So far, the medical bills are at $400 and climbing, a costly lesson in this motto I ignored this night:

The best bike defense, is a good bike offense. That, and feed Chupecabra on a regular basis.

Now I'm waiting for CT scans, and wishing I had a mission burrito to make these days in recovery go by with at least a little eternal bliss, yahdig?

McCain Will End the Empire

Not a lot of comedy recently, but these are times that beg for a certain seriousness that I can supply when the need arises.

True radicals understand the fundamental dilemma in front of us: The U.S. is declining under the party-for-the-rich policies of Dub-Yah. Our decline is so steep that the end of the empire is in sight...

Our military might is stretched thin between two broke-ass, torn-up third world countries. The mighty U.S., that once turned the tide on Nazi Germany, now has a rough time fighting cave dwellers and other Bedouin descendants. I mean, we ought to be fucking embarrassed. Then again, against the Nazis, we actually had some kind of mandate of what we needed to get done, in clear and concise terms. Another term, and another third world country invaded (ahem, Iran), and we're done for, militarily speaking. We're luck the Chinese and North Koreans aren't as bad as we've made them out to be in the past - because if they were, we'd be invaded by now.

Our economy is on the verge of collapse. With no investment in infrastructure, and the gutting of the manufacturing base that started in the Clinton years, then got accelerated in the Dub-Yah years, is almost complete. The U.S. produces very little now outside of food, and high-tech gear that does not have the same universal commercial application then say, the highway system, or a hydroelectric dam. The capital flight into the stock market that accompanied this gutting, followed by flight into the housing market when the "dot.com" collapse happened, were accompanied by losses all around. Where's the capital going to flee to now? It's almost all been squandered, while inflated values make it seem like it still actually exists. That's how trillion dollar surpluses become trillion dollar debts - the money, or more appropriately, the goods and services that the money is supposed to represent, don't exist. The house of cards is collapsing.

Politically, all that's been accomplished in the past seven years is that we've shown the world that we're lousy bullies, with absolutely no idea about the complexity of cross-cultural values, nationalism and international accord, and ultimately that we don't care about our ignorance. This has been exploited, rightfully so, by Latin America, which has enjoyed an amazing amount of autonomy for the past seven years. Used to be a time that is someone like Hugo Chavez came to power, they wound up like Salvadore Allende. Evo Morales would be facedown in a mass grave, alongside a few hundred women and children, courtesy of some goon squad that were trained here in the U.S.'s School of the Americas.

We've become so pathetic that when rattling sabers at Russia, their president essentially laughed at us. This is the same Russia that collapsed in its long economic/military struggle against us from the 50's to the 80's. They used to respect our ability to manipulate the world to our advantage, and our ability to contain them and cause them economic and political hardship. Now, now they dictate the terms upon which we'll act.

People act like Obama is the great hope... and to some extent, he is. He's the one most capable of turning this decline around. Hence the dilemma: do we really want this turned around? I mean, Latin America at this point ought to be routing for McCain - four more years of being left to their own devices, increasing their independence and autonomy. I'm sure the entire world is looking at Obama as a more reasonable person - but they're just worried that they'll become the last or second to last target of the U.S. military, as we further our decline and become more desperate for some kind of pyhrric victory to demonstrate how "awesome" we are.

There is a historical and personal perspective on this that I wish to share. While I didn't snitch, because snitching is the wrong thing to do, I did consider it. Why? Not to get out of trouble, mind you. I thought about it because I know that close to 1/3 of the population uses drugs. Probably a tenth of them deal those drugs. That's about 10 million drug dealers out there. if we all snitched each other out, the prison system would collapse under our collective weight. It seemed like a reasonable thing to do, since no one was pushing in the other direction: if we all went to trial like I did, the justice system would collapse under the weight of those they're already prosecuting.

The point is this: Obama will be a slide back into a reasonable manager of the empire. Which means empire continues. McCain, on the other hand, will continue this train wreck of an administration, and the empire is already so close to the edge that collapse seems imminent.

Does anyone think that the world is honestly better off with the U.S. acting as empire?

9/11 Has Nothing to do with Freedom

I know, because on 9/11/2001, I was in prison for thoughtcrime.

I'm still flummoxed by the weird statement that we live in the "land of the free."

The people that claim this is the land of the free ignore the fact that this is the land of the most not-free: we have the largest prison population on the planet. That's population wise, percentage wise, doesn't matter, any figure you use, we're at the fucking top. We're not free, we're not even close.

The people I see that claim to be free are whoring themselves to the system that enslaves them. They're chasing the mighty fucking dollar, not realizing that the paper chase is empty and devoid of meaning. I've heard just about every excuse under the sun for chasing that dollar. At the end of the day, though, a majority of time it's because people let stuff own them, and in turn they sell themselves short to own stuff.

The people who struggle - we know we're not free. We know complete freedom isn't possible. But we know we can do better than what we're looking at today. Unfortunately, we tend not to have money, which means in terms of power, we are greatly restricted in this society, which encourages people mentioned in the previous paragraph, and discourages us.

So, President Bush asked us all to remember where we were when this attack on "freedom" occurred. I was in prison for thoughtcrime, when the U.S. government responded to terrorist attacks by upping their attack on our freedoms. In the seven years since then, we've seen our freedoms diminish, alongside our happiness, security, and pretty much every measure of progress you can imagine.

We still have no better analysis of why we were attacked forwarded by the powers that be. The Homeland Security Department insists it's because "They hate our freedom," - quoting the President. If terrorists hate freedom so much, check our prison population, we ought to be the last on the fucking list of targets.

If, on the other hand, they hate us because of how our government acts in the world, then suddenly it seems much clearer.

The 9/11 attacks had nothing to do with Freedom. They had everything to do with how we act in the world. Paying lip service to freedom means nothing: judge actions. We, as a society, have acted freely against almost every other country out there, but have accepted no responsibility. We freely lock up our own people, but accept no responsibility for the conditions that create criminal environments.

And I just might include the above in the next Prisoner Within. Just a heads up, to all three of you.

Came Back From Cali...

...and all I got was another flat tire.

Seriously. I mean, fuck I just stepped off the plane, went to work, and rode the Metro home. Check my tire in the PM, since it'd been almost a week since Chupecabra and I had met our destiny on these mean streets, but all was good. Pressure solid on both tires.

Got up this morning a little sluggish. I don't really get jetlag, but I tell you, from 80 and dry to 80 and humid can fuck with some sleep. I also had a broken heart. Well, more broken than usual. I got issues. Fortunately, I also have a demon goat of a fucking bike, that likes to help me get my issues out in an angry charge through New York traffic.

However, this morning, Chupecabra wanted me in a rage. That same back tire I checked last night, was fucking flat this morning. So fuckit, replaced the tube with a thorn-resistant model, and put in the slime-gel tube protector. Of course, during this process, my tension bolts somehow decided they wanted to go get fucked, so my tire didn't come back on straight. I didn't know til I hit the streets, ready to ride. Shit was rubbing like the inner thighs of a fat man - and I know, being one. At this point, if I had a thermite bomb, I'd use it on the fucking demon goat. Fortunately, all I had were tools from my brother, so I got that ish straightened out.

Rode to work. Got some of these feelings out, but didn't manage to hit anyone, so I was left with a little left over to make me morbid all day long.

One note about heartbreak and morbidity: it can make you barf text. Hence this blog, even though I just got back from vacation. It also happens to explain just about every Depeche Mode song in creation, though I'm quite certain that now I've pissed off two of my three readers.

Where was I? Oh yeah, work. Did I ever mention that I'm an admin geek? Pathetic, really. I mean, how many stupid 80's movies were based on a geek getting their heart broken? Now, two decades later, here I am, imitating the movies of my youth (well, imitating as long as you take out the prison sentence, the copious amount of drugs, three girlfriends and the fact that I've actually lost my virginity, as far as I can recall [see previous comment about drugs, I might have hallucinated those events]).

Maybe I got a lot more than a flat tire, and Chupecabra was trying to bring the point home. Ouch! That almost was a really bad pun! I'm otta here! Next time, no posting without the aid of copious amounts of alcohol!

A Message From Senator McCain and President Bush

Obama: You ain't got shit on us.

Bush) Bad Boyz... we ain't gon' stop

Verse One: McCain

Now with G-Dubs on the hot seat I'm like the fresh treat

Put it out all the bustahs bet I can get the vote, sheep (that's right)
Leave a po' boy without shit to eat fronting like
Bad Boyz ain't got cheese (wiggas gotta wear sheets)
There's no guy slicker than this old white figga

Nickel nine soulja floss - you die quicker (uh huh)
This presidential time outta senate flipper
Turn Cristal into a five c-note slipper
Everbody want to be fast, see the cash
Fuck around with my Cheney staff, get a heat rash

Anything in Bad Boyz way we smash (Iraq)
Billion G stash, push a bulletproof convoy and mash (uh huh)
I'm through with bein a vet and a brawler
Already got me one rich bad cunt, as I call her
Mac gonna be the one you respect, even when you're vexed

Rock Versace silks over crushed velvet
Got green never seen so the press suck my jewels
Clutch my uz', anything I touch they use
G-Dubs make his own laws, democrats fuck your rules (that's right)

Obama Hussein, you know you can't touch us dudes

[Bush] Don't push us, cause we're close to the, edge
[Bush] We're tryin, not to lose our heads, a-hah hah hah hah

Verse Two: McCain


Broken glass everywhere *glass shatters*
if Iraq ain't about the money, G-Dubs, I just don't care (that's right)
I'm that POW fly guy, sometimes wiseguy
Don't spend time in H-A-W-A-I-I

(Mac can you please stop talking without teleprompters?)
G-Dub why try? I'm a vet, straight talk express- though I'm gonna lie
I be out in D.C., suckin' off the lobby
Middle class ain't worthy to rock my derby

Though I'm never present, I'm the future president, G
Though I know the Barack be wantin to crack me (uh-huh)
Could it be I lie as smoove as Bugsy? (yeah)
Or at the Senate with too many working for a lobby? (c'mon)

Yo I think it must be the right wing want to lust me
Or is it simply the rich rascist pastors just love me
Po' folx wanna: keep their homes, put food on their plates,
Pay off they bills, control they fate, disrespect my life (uhh)

I'm like, "Damn, how these suckaz got these steaks?
Used to be my slaves, how you gonna plot on my wife?"
Do you think you can take me, cause dems hate me?
Or you got your Rh.D; Republican Hater's Degree? (Ahaha!)


Chorus: McCain, Bush

[Mac] Can't nobody take my pride
[Bush] Uh-uh, uh-uh
[Mac] Can't nobody hold me down... ohh no
[Mac] I got to keep on movin

Verse Three: McCain


Quit that! (uh-huh) Obama ain't a big Mac! (yeah)
Where your votes at? (yeah) Where your majority whips at? (where dey at?)
Wherever you get votes, I'm a fix that
Everything that's survivor shit, I did that (that's right)

Don't knock me cause you're not a POW
I'm torture proved with crew (*whistling*) straight talk on you
A lot of simple men be wantin to hear it too
Cause their words just can't offend me (uh-uh, uh-uh)

We spend cheese, bombing some oil countries
Then come home to plenty cream Bentleys (ahehe)
You name it, I could claim it
Old, white, and famous, with money hangin out the anus
And when you need a hit, who you go and get? (who?)

Vote against me? (Not a good bet)
I'll start a war that'll rearrange your whole set (that's right)
and got a home I ain't even lived in yet.

Loyd Dobler Should Have Stayed Home.

So, I finally got around to the second installment of the Loyd Dobler quadrilogy. I think that's a word.

Loyd Dobler, starting with Better Off Dead (high school), then post-high (Say Anything), Reunion Time (Grosse Point Blank) and to date, the final installment, War Inc.

Incidentally, all great movies. I once got an "incident report" or, as the colloquialism was, a "shot" in prison for having two one-dollar bills. For those that have not seen Better Off Dead, this will not be funny. For the rest, understand that in my locker was a picture of the paperboy from that movie. Ironic, and funny. No, the cash wasn't mine. Got dumped in my locker (which I never locked) while I was at work, during a shakedown. I wish the fucker had used the trash instead, but que sera, sera.

Where was I?

Oh yeah, watched Say Anything. Not a bad flick, but probably not the best choice considering my current plight with the fairer sex, and continued mismanagement of those (normally qualified as sordid by our uptight society) relationships.

What can I say? I'm a professional fuck off. I managed to fuck off about eight years of my life in federal prison, and I'm cursed to another five years of fucking off my life in post-sentence supervision. At least I can have some fun with it. Not that law school sounds like fun for me, but if I make Berkeley, I might get a chance at the war criminal John Yoo, which sounds at least entertaining.

Speaking of entertaining, I haven't yet had a chance to talk about the new shoes I got for Chupecabra. Yeah, purple pedals. Installing the pedals led to a discovery: my bike shop is peopled by folx that didn't have my best interest in mind - the crank, which was only partially sealed by my older brother, was rusted through. Despite three tuneups in six months, somehow the crank never got greased, despite in two occasions a specific call by yours truly for them to do something about the fucking crank.

Needless to say, I'm doing my own maintenance from now on. I'm sure my step-pops, the do-it-yourself maintenance guy, would surely approve, but quite honestly, I'll go with an unnamed friend of mine from prison: if you want good drugs, you should just bite the bullet and make them yourself. That's a paraphrase, by the way, since s/he was a little on the minimalist tip, and had compressed the above to, "If you want it, make it."

Where was I? Oh yeah, Loyd Dobler. Depressing in some respects. I had to ignore 16 candles, of course, as an anomaly. I don't recall his sister being in that film, and at this point, I'm quite sure that if Joan Cusack isn't in the fucking film, it's not a Loyd Dobler film, no matter what the protagonist's name is. Conversely, if she's there, it's one of the series.

Speaking of series, I still have yet to watch the Twin Peaks series I picked up for free from Craigslist. Which reminds me, I haven't gone over my theory of the internet taking us back to classical Greece. To summarize:

Google is the Oracle. Craigslist is the bazaar. I haven't figured out the colisseum just yet, but give me time, this theory is rather new. None of this has anything to do with my title, so I'm getting back to the point now.

If Loyd Dobler had stayed home, we wouldn't have had a crazed assassin on the loose, we wouldn't have an opportunist in some Middle Eastern country, and just for once, he might have had the same girl from one flick to the next - hell, at his high school reunion, he hooked up with someone that was no where in his initial high school experience.

Maybe I'm just a little on the optimistic side - I suppose things could be worse than being a highly paid hitman with a conscience. I wouldn't know.

Next week, I can't figure out if it is polemic time, or another ramble with no particular point except to comment upon something I've seen recently. Until then, my three fans, fare well, and know that somewhere, someone is watching some seriously sappy ish, and getting a good cry out of it. That someone, however, is not me.

Tomorrow, Chupecabra and I ride to meet our destiny in the streets of Manhattan, those sordid streets that have already soaked so much of my blood.

To Those That Waited...

Prisoner Within, the Release Papers, is on its way.

What does on its way mean? It means that we, meaning my brother Gabriel and I, have conceptualized the next issue, which will be widely distributed at the next Critical Resistance Conference, coming at the end of September in the Bay (Yay).

Prisoner Within, for you of the three that actually read this blog and don't know, is a collaborative project that I have with my brother Gabriel. We discuss prisons, and the effect they have upon people both in individual terms (Gabriel, as a supporter of a prisoner, myself, as a prisoner) as well as societal trends (how we approach the world, conceptualize the world, the function of state, etc).

Naturally, at this point you're as excited as someone about to attend a life insurance seminar. In all reality, however, Prisoner Within is a serious work, and so isn't in the same mien as this blog, which is both a personal polemic, rant space, but also a comedic testing ground. That being said, Prisoner Within has some insights and stories that are funny, that are sad, that are outrageous, and an underlying mission that no amount of playing the jester can ever truly fulfill... so this is exciting news for me. And maybe one of you.

So, with all of those qualifications out of the way, let me introduce Prisoner Within, the Next Edition:

We shall be exploring themes in the next edition, themes of how people both think and relate to each other, and how the function of tradition and culture, nominally passed onto the State, have made us prisoners in terms of what modes of interacting with each other is considered acceptable or "right."

Pieces already contemplated for inclusion are a piece on the definitions commonly associated with "drug dealer," "brother," and "crack dealing gangster."

What? You accuse me of leading off? Of trying to "hook" you in the most base of fashions - confusing and blurring the lines between work and play? Certainly! I'm gui... er... I take the fifth, goddamnit.

So, my fine readership, next month, I shall be directing you all to Critical Resistance, and the release of the new edition of Prisoner Within!

In the meantime, stay tuned for your regularly-scheduled buffoonery from yours' truly.

Fucking Fuck Fuck Fuck!

So, I signed up to take the LSATs in December.

Yeah, I know. Big fucking deal. Yet another asshole ambulance chaser. Or rather, a facsimile of a human with only two organs: identical assholes. Right.

I'm not trying to become a lawyer. I'm trying to get a law degree for something even more stupid: credibility. I'm trying to become a public policy expert, and that fucking law degree confers automatic expertise, even though half a million dipshits (i.e. prosecutors) already have gotten one in the past, making the entire exercise some kind of questionable waste of money.

Not that I have money, I'm going to borrow it. I'm still questioning the logistics of why I'm bothering to save money, when I'm going to go into such a ginormous debt that anything I put away to later pay off my debt will be like spitting on a forest fire to put it out.

To top it off, if I manage to mismanage one more relationship with the more enchanting sex, I think I'm going to chemically casturate myself as a service to humanity. Either that or become a whore. There's something about the extremes I find at least entertaining, if not productive or beneficial to the world. I would go for porn, but I just don't have the courage, the penis size, or the physique to make me an in-demand porn star, and I'm just not willing to do the amateur circuit - it's all or nothing with me.

Do you think there's a demand for chemically-casturated pornstars? Manboobs and semi-soft genitalia?

Okay, Okay, goddamnit, I'm sorry! I'm not trying to scare you three off!

So, outside of law school and fucking off relationships, I've also realized I can eat just about anything. My dinner tonight consisted of Ben and Jerry's Ice Cream, as the appetizer for some collard greens with rice, brown rice vinegar, canola oil, buffalo meat, eggs, candied ginger, mango salsa and chili pepper sauce. I can't quite describe what it tastes like, but I can say my roommate made a definite "no thanks" after he smelled the concoction.

And if I look at any more porn after this weekend, I'm seriously going blind.

Which makes me think that my bike is starting to wear into my fucking brain: I'm acting like a damn goat in rut. I swear if a cantelope shows up, the fucker's in trouble.

Sorry! Didn't mean to scare you! Seriously, I wouldn't do that to a cantelope - too tasty to ruin the soft, supple, sweet flesh....

...ohhhh....

Nevermind. I probably would. Fucking Fuck Fuck Fuck!

ABQ is the new Homeless HQ

What can I say? The fates did not deliver me into the hands of a former female bodybuilder in Albuquerque, and instead I wound up spending the night at the airport. Believe it or not, it wasn't that bad.

In fact, it's almost 5 am right now, and I'm typing this blog over a free internet connection offered by the city of Albequerque. Homeless and still got my wireless - BK can't compare on that kind of tech geek ish.

Surprisingly enough, airport security hasn't stung me yet. I don't know if it is the quickness in which I whip off my belt, the ease in which my shoes slide off my feet, or the humble-as-pie handing over of my hat, but they ain't trippin, while that college girl got the 3rd degree by some woman that looked like she ate a forty of fear for breakfast.

Maybe I'm just reading too much into this situation. Too hard to tell what's really going on, when you're tired and just woke up from a night of wandering around the SE portion of Albuquerque with nothing to do.

Had dinner at the Waffle House. Interesting pricing scheme - it was cheaper to order sides than main dishes comprised of the same sides. This is not something I can easily understand, but something that I easily adapt to - I ordered the damn sides.

Now, now it's back to Cali, courtesy of Abuse, err.. US Airways. Can't seem to fly me direct to Sacramento, so instead I have a forty minute scramble in Phoenix, home of the worst dressed folx on the planet - or at least they were about six years ago, when I came through on Con Air. I wonder if this will still hold true, and promise to keep all three of you posted on that tip.

For those that don't know: I'm in New Mexico because work had me at a staff retreat. Little did they know what they were getting into by having yours truly participate. Their technological needs were met, and the partygoers were informed of what a real soldier looks like. Rumor has it there are pictures showing the damage, but you won't find any of me looking bad, I was born with a smirk/grin/smile, and no amount of the death and destruction of downtown Santa Fe could put a dent into it.

Despite the partygoing, I had much more fun chillin' with the folx that my brother introduced me to there - aside from a couple of DPA'ers that proved their meddle (no names, I protect the guilty and innocent alike). No matter how much fun, though, I can't wait to be back to the valley, Northern California is my true home.

Perhaps I should have called this post "I'm going, going, again, again, back to Cali." but instead I wanted to give a heads up for all the homeless out there in California - it's a lot nicer here in terms of weather, and hell, the airport ain't kicking anyone out - ya'all should move here.

In the meantime, I'm getting the fuck outta dodge.

No Such Thing as a Free Concert

Anyways, the Cold War Kids were playing in Prospect Park, for free, last Friday.

Of course I went! Goddamn you three, what do you take me for? Some kind of sucker? Well, turns out, I really was a sucker for thinking there was such a thing as a free concert. I should qualify: getting in was free, but you couldn't take any food or drink with you.

Yeah, that scam. $2 for soda, $3 for water, $6 for 12 oz's of Budweiser. Yeah, you read that right. They're trying to get paid, suckah! Naturally, my brother and I couldn't manage to swallow that. Of course, we did manage to choke down two Negro Modelo's that were left by a trash can (no, not in the fucker, but it wouldn't make a damn bit of difference if they were, we'd still take them and drink them) by some person who obviously treasured close seating more than their beer. I suppose I understand, in a weird sorta-love-music-more-than-beer way. Or something.

So my brother and I sat outside the fenced-in area, and watched all the cops that swarmed the place like flies on you-know-what. Not that it stopped anyone from drinking outside the fence, or smoking pot. Here's an interesting observation: in New York, middle-classed white people can do pretty much whatever the hell they want, and the cops ain't tripping. I mean, the trees were burning, and the smell was everywhere, and the cops were chillin' on the main drag through the park (nevermind why there is a main drag through a park, it's beyond me) like nothing was happening.

Despite being white, I don't feel quite that secure. Long prison terms do that to a person.

After the concert was mostly over, brother and I went for a ride, I had to go to Staten Island, he was going home to sleep. Of course, he's more native to NYC than myself, so I let him shout out the directions.

Side note: we were on bikes, of course. And my chupecabra, the rat bastard goat-suck that he is, hadn't ate that night. This is important to help understand the next part... the part where I got directed by my brother right into a flight of stairs.

Maybe ten of them... I couldn't see them because it was nighttime, until it was too late to brake for the edge. So instead I jumped, and landed awkwardly. Actually with enough awkwardness that Chupecabra decided he was being abused, and to bite back. Now my shin has about seven holes in it, but at the time I was too busy cursing out my brother to notice it...

...or the smaller flight of steps that I came crashing down upon. This time, however, it was only five steps, so I managed to hop them all... and landed with a small bit of surety (if not pride).. and zoomed off to Staten.

So what I'm saying is that I went to a free concert, and all I got was these lousy holes in my shin. Que sera, sera, right?

So I Went Back To Cali...

Lo and behold, the damn state was still there.

Can I talk about the Chipolte Burrito I had in NYC Today, without bringing up the Mission Burrito I had May 30th? I think not. There's something about a Mission Burrito, even though I was in reality at Pancho Villa Taqueria, which is on Valencia, but that's just the fucking details.

Where was I? Yeah, Chipolte. Edible. Not a Mission Burrito though. Gotta love interns, they always bring in new information, even though they reveal my relative ignorance of the world since I've been gone, and my continued ignorance of recent trends because TV isn't in my queue.

Speaking of interns, somehow we managed to hire a 13-year old one. She's actually 18, but damn if I didn't think she was 13, and asked a coworker, "what the fuck is this kid doing here?" I'm a little cruel like that, and obviously a poor judge of age, which is especially embarrassing because I have a little sister, so I should know better. Then again, my little sister is 20, and I still think she looks like she's 15, so I guess the math does work out.

And when it comes to the math, it doesn't make sense that I didn't break down ChupeCabra, load him into a box, and bring him with me to California. He made protest today, my second day back of riding, with three separate accidents. None of which resulted in injury, but I'll be damned if his hunger for side rear-view mirrors hasn't increased since I left.

So California. What is there to say, other than I ought to be there right now? So many people were chilled with, and for a moment, I almost felt like I wasn't a ghost in the minds of many, but an actual person, living, breathing, and doing the unmentionables in mixed company. Yeah, that's right - the three of you reading this are mixed. Get over it.

I also came across the great secret of why our roads are filled with idiot drivers: I got my license back by taking an 18 question exam, paying $28 to the DMV, and showing proof of my legal name change. I read the handbook on the way to the DMV (well, scanned it). I'm probably the worst driver you'll ever meet: I've got the reflexes necessary to be a race car driver, and the careless attitude of the fool that feels invincible. Except when driving in reverse, which makes me nervous. Nonetheless, the license is in the mail. Yes, I did get perfect on the exam, but let's be honest: that just means I can read. Not that I can drive. I used to get into a lot of accidents, though truth be told, only one involved going faster than 15 miles per hour (the rabbit I dodged on a wet road while driving a former friend's Prelude, the dodge leading to a crash into the shoulder ditch of the road).

My cousin had a great theory on this: go faster. That way, you never have to worry about what's behind you, cutting out 180 degrees of concerns. I don't just support this theory to justify my leadfoot, I think there's some real substance there. I don't think the pigs will agree though, since it's a game that only works for the person driving the fastest. I'm sure that's where the Germans came up with the autobahn concept though. Incidentally, talked to a German guy on a beach outside of Malibu, and the autobahn isn't quite the raceway it used to be: gas is too expensive. Funny that. Somehow, I don't think it would have mattered in terms of the rabbit, I was only going 60 mph on that one. When I think about how many rabbits I've ate since then, I wonder why I bothered to save one that was silly enough to wind up in the middle of a county road.

What does any of this have to do with going back to Cali? Damned if I know, but it was good to go home.

I Generally Don't Go Political...

But I've had it up to "here" with the goddamn Reverend Wright "controversy."

Look, I'm not here to defend religious figures, since I think religion is a scam. A bad one at that. I'm also not here to be partisan about this shit, I don't really see too much of a difference between Demopublicans or Republicrats. If the big O- really does get the troops out of Iraq, I'll change my mind, but currently I think of politics as the second scam next to religion.

However, the nonstop deluge of descriptions of Reverend Wright's "hate speech," had me piqued: what the fuck was this nutcase talking about?

Reading the entire text of his speech, he's talking the same-ole, same-ole that radicals have been for the past few decades in the United States: that we are not fit to morally judge anyone, based upon our own atrocities. We do fucked up and insane shit without even realizing it. Clinton's camp stated it would use the "nuclear" option against Obama in the primaries.

Nuclear Option? Let's take a peek at what the nuclear option looks like. The fact that anyone would use this fucking comparison sickens me. And I don't sicken easily, I used to work at a dairy farm.

The twisting of Reverend Wright's words, and the taking out of context is incredible. The main stream media has alleged that he stated that the U.S. government invented AIDS. He doesn't actually say that. In the text, he states that the U.S. government has done things that are comparable, like the Tuskagee Experiments.

He's certainly a fiery pastor, but fiery criticism and hate are two separate things. Not once does the Reverend suggest that we do any harm to anyone. Not once. Not once does he suggest that what has happened to the U.S. is morally right - he states that it is a consequence of our actions, which is certainly a better analysis then: "Terrorists wish to attack us and exploit our vulnerabilities because of
the freedoms we hold dear." (Official Statement from the President in our National Strategy for Homeland Security, pg. 3)

Instead, the Reverend does suggest that we examine how we are acting in the world, and towards other countries, and to change our behavior to more closely match the Christian ethic: be good to one another. I'm not really into religion, but damn, at the root of Christianity, the words of Jesus (whether or not he actually existed aside) were pretty plain: let's be nice to each other. Judge not lest ye be judged. Stuff like that. Hard to argue with the golden rule, even though we hardly ever practice it internationally. Further, we ignore the basic Hippocratic Oath: if you must do something, be sure to first do no harm. Iraq anyone?

Next week, the comedy should return. I'm out.

Forget the Acid Flashbacks, It's in the Pudding

So there I am, in lower Manhattan, coming out of a weird sort of meeting concerning the Rockefeller Drug Laws, and how to repeal them. Lots of interesting folks there, I even got a chance to meet Jack Cole of L.E.A.P. Yeah, work related ish. The meeting left me feeling all fucked up.

Rode Chupecabra down there, mission given to deliver "No More Drug War" stickers. Almost got blind-sided by the police along the way, tried to tag his car with a sticker, but he burned off before I could put the slap down.

Reminds me: once I'm off this paper, I'm going back to hooliganism. Stickers and utter contempt for the state. Well, let me fix that: continued contempt for the state. Mixed with a little bit of fear, because they are indeed out to get me. Not personally, of course, they're impersonally out to get everyone. It's what states do, just ask the Palestinians. States are kinda like Chupecabra: wanting to destroy individuals, just on a larger scale.

Chupecabra is my bike. It has a habit of hurting individuals, if not myself, then random strangers. At least it hasn't hurt one of my friends... but this might be in its infernal future. I just don't know. Friends: steer clear of Chupecabra, he ain't no good.

Totally fucking sidetracked. So, Chupecabra takes me to this venue, local union 339 or something like that. I'm bad with certain numbers. Locked up and chillin', I help myself to some yams, some salmon, and finish off with some banana pudding.

Let me backtrack: walking into this place was fucking creepy. It looked like a goddamn detention center, thick metal doors, with that thin slice of safety glass to view in and out of, stone walls, the whole nine yards. I was totally ill-at-ease, while my brother blithely led me down the corridors. Not fucking fun. Good thing I trust him, or I would have broke into a run in the opposite direction.

Anyways, there's another aside here: I worked at a dairy, and part of that process meant a lot of shit got diverted... we made banana pudding. Using the cream I would process. I also made ghetto-prison-ice-cream on the side, but this is a different story, but a funny one - in prison, I really was "the ice cream man." I would make all kinds of flavors, and fuck with the other prisoners with it. My flavors would go from the regular chocolate, vanilla, and so forth, to Frenchy Fluff (lemon french vanilla), Choco-Loco (a really rich mocha), and the favorite, but never ordered by name, "Deez Nutz" (a peanut butter and maple syrup ice cream). What can I say? When you're the ice cream man, you can get away with just about anything.

But, I was talking about the pudding. Banana pudding, and it tasted exactly like the ish they were serving at this event. So I'm sitting in a place that reminds me of prison, eating food that reminds me of prison, and talking to an ex-cop, who still carries a bit of the "cop" demeanor.

Can you say, flashback?

It wasn't the LSD, it was the fucking pudding that did me in.

Can't take it with you.

So they say. Yet everyone keeps collecting. Though these days, it appears we're collecting debts, to accompany the things that own us.

I feel like I have nothing to say. Mainly because through some miracle (or there truly is a god, and he's evidently done pissing on my fuckin' parade) I haven't had any major impacts with various objects, including but not limited to car doors, cars in general, FedEx or UPS trucks, or the occasional pedestrian.

It could also be that I've managed to learn how to navigate these faulty streets like an old pro...

Then again, it could be that I've finally named my bike: ChupeCabra. A.K.A. Sucks Goats, for those of you that aren't Spanish-inclined, like myself. I actually don't know for sure that's what it means, since my Spanish is worse than my driving. I do think Chupe means suck, or all them piezas back in prison were telling people to do something else with their dicks. Which, might be the case, how the fuck would I know? I mean, hell, that's why I didn't get any pictogram shit stenciled into my flesh - I'd be afraid that some vicious translator would paste "stupid fucking jew" in chinese for the tat artist, instead of "counter culture warrior" or whatever.

Nothing worse than having "stupid fucking jew" tatted anywhere on your body, since the little dirty secret is that jews aren't supposed to get tats in the first place. But I'm totally digressing from where I was going (like I ever know that particular piece of trivia).

So I cut my hair, and donated it to Locks of Love, under the name of DPA. I did this for two reasons: one, I really do believe in trying to help out, and two, I find it funny to think that DPA will be, in all likelihood, the first nonprofit organization to donate hair to Locks of Love. Aren't legal fictitions weird? I think so, but these days, I'm not paid to think, I'm paid to perform menial tasks that are required in the fight against the war on drugs.

I know, you're all crying a goddamn river. All three of you. I feel surly tonight, hence the exasperated tone of this blog.

The sad part is that I miss the accidents. I wasn't getting flats when I was in accidents. The accidents have been replaced by a weird tendency for my bike to suck metal objects into the tires. To date, I've got two staples (yes, fucking staples) and two nails (one miniscule, without a head, the other more of a thumbtack). That's been the past three weeks. It's gotten to the point where I can fix a flat in under five minutes now, which is great, considering I'm supposed to let the fucking rubber cement dry for five before applying the patch in the first place.

And yes, I've finally accepted the fact that I totally fucked up. When I hit that pedestrian, I really should have gotten her number, hulking menace at her side be damned. What's a little injury, without a little sumpin' on the side, right?

My Life Has Descended Into Executive Directed Hell

So, many of you have been wondering...

"Where the fuck is Malakkar and his boring-ass blogs?"

Yeah, I know, for the three of you that actually have been paying attention, I've been about as amusing as watching grass grow. Or the latest season of reality shows. What can I say?

I could say that I haven't had time, which would be true. I'm actually fucking off to get this done, but hell, I'm tired of working through my lunch hour.

So here we go:

Malakkar's a free man, relatively speaking. It's not a coincidence that I haven't blogged heavily in the past two weeks, your's truly is no longer on home confinement. Not that I'm going out that much, but it does mean that my computer gets a lot less usage, and I'm sure the internet porn traffic industry has notice a recent recession that matches the economy. Advertisers are certainly demanding heads roll... there's a sick joke in there somewhere.

So... in the spirit of bringing you some more tales, it's time to start dipping into the history files, and talking about the things I've been relatively shy about, because I was still under the thumb of the prison authority, even though I wasn't in an actual prison.

1st off: I'm tired of drug treatment. More to the point, I'm tired of pretending to be an addict, so that I could get into the drug treatment program, so that I could get 9 months off of my sentence. The fucked up part of this program is that if you have a dirty UA (that's what they call it to "distinguish" the humiliating act of collecting someone else's pee, and lend it something akin to "credibility" rather than the utter ridiculous nature of it), you get kicked out of the program.

What happens in practice is that all the real drug addicts get kicked out of treatment, and don't get any time off, and all the fakers (like yours' truly) graduate the program, and get time reduced from their sentences. This is another classic example of the federal government having the law of unintended consequences striking home.

So did I fake a drug addiction, and travel from Lompoc, California to Cumberland, Maryland merely to get a measly 9 months reduced from my sentence? Fuck yes I did, and anyone who doesn't do the same is a sucker. Best acting class of my life. Spent 15 months as a fake drug addict, and had 'em all fooled.

Fuck Brad Pitt, fuck Daniel Day Lewis, I got you chumps beat in spades when it comes to acting. Of course, they're rich, famous, and good looking, so I'm sure they could care less about my little rant here.

But I am saying, "Hollywood, if I could ever find myself standing L.A. for more than a few days at a time, here I come!"

Google Ain't Got Game...

So I got an e-mail this morning from AdSense, Google's advertising arm. Hey, they need to make a buck too, right?

Anyways, my AdSense account has been disabled. Evidently, I curse too much, or talk about drugs too much, or talk about getting totally fucked off in downtown Manhattan too much.

At this point, I'm pretty sure it's just another scheme by either UPS or FedEx to get me... they figure if I get paid, I can either 1) pay my hospital bills, or 2) continue to buy more protective equipment.

That, or the automobile manufacturers are behind it all, because I'm proving on the daily that you don't need a fucking car in New York City, a bike and the metro solves all problems...

Unfortunately, Google's advertising arm seems to be more like the Rovian Whitehouse than anything else. They won't state the actual reason why my account was disabled. I'm still thinking it's because the pro-capitalist fascists found out about my attempts to make money off of them, while undermining their basic philosophy... but I've been known for the occasional foray into the realm of bathos.

Fuck this post, I'm outta here!

Why Are New Yorkers Suprised?

The big news around here... hell, 'round the country, is that Eliot Spitzer, the fine, fine former governor of New York, has resigned over a sex scandal in which he cheated on his wife, over the course of several years and to the tune of tens of thousands of dollars, with sex workers.

Yeah, I said sex workers, not hookers, not prostitutes. I don't demean the honorable men and women of the sex industry, who guarantee that even if you don't have a single redeemable trait, with a little cash, you can still get some. I think that important - how many Daumer's have been prevented by the occasional visit to the sex worker by the borderline case?

I don't think I'll get any research funding from my theories, but there it is: sex workers cut down on victim crimes... the only crimes I really think people should worry about / have laws concerning. I mean, really, do we need to spend all of this time and money concentrating on service personnel? Sex or drugs are the appetites, so long as there are appetites, there will be food provided.

I'm not here to defend Spitzer. I'm here to point out that the only true surprise should be that a former prosecutor paid someone to screw them. Most prosecutors get way too used to getting paid for screwing people.

Just my two cents.

Last Migration from MySpace!

Saturday, March 01, 2008


All plans fail when they meet the enemy.

Or in this case, the facetious enemy.

So Stephen Colbert came by the office yesterday (picture posted to prove it, even though I've already received one commentary suggesting photoshop work). Interviewing the big boss of DPA, Ethan.

Naturally, in my mind, I've got some clever ish to say, to steal the show. Because I figure that fuckit, I've got the prison sentence, I've got the goddamn story here. Even if the interview was about "know your lobbyist" or something like that.

Stephen Colbert's crew is like a horde of busybodies, who are constantly up to something, but you can never be sure exactly what. They turned our conference room into the fucking Starship Enterprise (that's Star Trek humor for Robin), and a recently emptied office into an impromptu makeup room. I swear, there must be so many gay and genderqueer people in hollywood just because of the makeup influence. You can't go on t-v without makeup, it's like some commandment, probably one of the five that punk-ass Moses dropped on his toe and broke apart.

A while ago I had a discussing with a coworker about the Pirates vs. Ninjas debate, and sided with Ninjas due to the lack of the phrase "Butt-Ninja." However, at this point, I have to stand corrected. A butt-ninja is someone who gets into that ass without being noticed. Stephen Colbert is a butt-ninja. He was in and out of DPA so quick, you thought he'd gotten his leather shoes greased for the occasion.

And this was a man with a major fucking cold. I could barely understand him. My initial ploy was to accuse him of being an imposter, and a shitty one at that... but I got nervous, and he didn't look like he would enjoy any antagonization, especially from a fucking crook that looks like Captain Morgan. So instead I observed, and let his horde care to him. He got his makeup done while reading some material to prep himself, went into the conference room for the interview, and then my boss interceded my plan to "hang out" with some busy work.

I swear, my boss was trying to make me pay for some sin against him, but I have no clue what. So instead of hanging out while a segment of The Colbert Report is being taped, right under my fucking nose, I'm trying to discern how to set up a fucking accounting system that's fundamentally fucked, written by morons that don't like SQL from PERL. Morons very similar to myself, actually. I just realized that I couldn't tell the difference between SQL and PERL if you offered me hard cash, without first consulting the Oracle.

Anyways. After the interview segment was over, he was out of the office in under two minutes. Managed to stop him using a sneaky technique: the intern. Interns are great. They don't get paid, they don't get an opinion, and they're the first to go in harm's way. They're the cannon fodder. The intern went in first for the foto-op, and I followed close behind. My line: "A friend of mine from Sacramento said I needed to take a piece of you, or she'd kill me. So how about we settle with a photo, so that we both get to live?"

At this point, Stephen paused to read my t-shirt. I had worn, special for the occasion, my recently-acquired Reagan Youth t-shirt. Reagan Youth is some obscure punk band from the 80's. The t-shirt features a person with their head breaking off their body, VOID printed on the forehead, with the caption "I am not a number, I'm a free man!" (quote from the 60's TV series "The Prisoner"). Yes, I was being fucking ironic. Sue me.

After reading the t-shirt, and posing for the photo, I saw in the corner of my eye his eyebrow lifting, and decided I had to best him. Thus the foto was born.



He was out of DPA less than thirty seconds later. If you peep the folder, that's his backpack on his right shoulder. Yes, even with a posse, he still carries his own shit around the streets of New York. Must just be famous, not rich.

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Tuesday, February 26, 2008


Nevermind the Bollocks, the Peds are Vicious!
Current mood: crappy
Category: Life

So I'm riding my bike through downtown Manhattan again. Naturally, half of my stories begin this way, because disaster always looms on the horizon when you're riding a fucking bicycle in New York City. I'm pretty damn sure that there's a latent suicide urge still left from my early days as a manic-depressive teenager, which manifests by my fixed desire to roll through these dangerous streets on a device with as little personal protection (helmet notwithstanding) as possible. Regardless.

It's one of those fucking nights when everyone is driving crazy, so my brother and I (actually, I'm not trying to diffuse responsibility here, I fucking chose to go the wrong way down a one way back street) turn down Rivington Street, on the Lower East Side.

Everything's cool, until we get to Ludlow, when oncoming traffic has me pushed up to the curb, which normally isn't a problem, except there's a woman at this intersection, right next to the curb. It's a close shave, but I'm pretty damn used to those, and besides, I'm cruisin...

Right into her, as it turns out, because she makes a sudden turnabout, and steps right into the street, right in front of me.

They have a saying about what happens when a Jew with a hard-on hits a wall - he hurts his nose.

Well, this Jew crashed into a woman on the street, and let me tell you, the helmet didn't work for shit, because I hit my nose, along with my mouth, into the woman's forehead. Down I go (again)... but this time I hit the ground stumbling, so it's not a total wipe.

It is, however, a collision that left me a little dazed. Stumbling around, I got back to my bike, and checked on the woman: "you okay? Fuck! Totally my fault!"

She's looking at me like something out of the exorcist, and that's when I feel the blood pouring down my face. Damn. Her eyes are somewhat bugged out, and she keeps asking, "you okay? you okay?"

Naturally, I'm dazed n' confused, without the marijuana, just the semi-concussion - her head was like a rock - but I don't feel a thing. "I'm good, I'm good... sorry about that... you sure you're okay?"

At this point, she's touching my face.

Minor point of disclosure: I hate it when people I don't know touch me. It's a personal space thing. I don't care if it was Carmen Electra, I would still not want anyone to touch me without first being familiar with them. I'm picky like that.

However, at this particular instance, I'm dazed, confused, and feeling vaguely guilty because I hit a pedestrian while going the wrong way down the street. I shake off the urge to be rude, and say, "it's okay, I'm okay, just a bloody nose, no worries..." while my brother is handing me a handkerchief.

Split the inside of my lip on the top, and my nose is still swollen and sore.

On the scale:

UPS: 2.5 (trying, but getting nowhere)
FedEx: 4.5 (one good hit in, but no lasting or bothersome injury)
Woman at Ludlow: 8.5 (fucked me up pretty good)

Just so you know, o' private couriers: your competition is fierce, and on foot.

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Friday, February 22, 2008


Snow falling on Jabberwockies in the Metro
Current mood: awake
Category: Jobs, Work, Careers

It's finally snowing in New York City.

To being: New Yorkers hate snow. They hate how it screws up traffic, they hate that it's cold. They hate that it makes walking a bit more difficult. Most of all, they hate New York when there's anything other than 75 degrees, sunny with a fresh, but slight, breeze. They should move to Santa Barbara, like my brother did. Pretty much describes that place 24-7... except it also has some awesome beaches. Interestingly enough, it costs about the same to live in either place. Go figure.

So, no riding, no running, my other brother is riding the Metro with me. I rolled out of bed, got dressed and was out the door in under ten minutes. Would have missed the metro, but they're running late too, because somehow, even on rails, New Yorkers worry about the snow. I'm not a metro operator, so I don't know the intricacies of this, and I'm not quite cynical enough yet to assume they merely run behind schedule because they've got a good excuse to. I'm close to being that cynical though. Very close.

Anyways, everyone's in a bad mood on the Metro. See above for the reason. The two cats smiling about the whole situation are your's truly, and my brother, two California kids, loving the fact that we finally got some real snow. Like 3 inches. No jokes about endowments please, it's too early.

And speaking of too early, someone hit play on a human tape recorder. I'm not trying to be offensive to those that enjoy the proselytizing Xians. Just a personal opinion - I got to hear about fifty paragraphs of words, not one rational thought, and a bunch of hooey as we were passing over the Manhattan Bridge. The woman wasn't really speaking to anyone on a personal level, she was just speaking aloud... to everyone in the metro car. No one asked her to speak, and no one wanted her to speak... almost everyone is either listening to music on their iPods (fuck apple!), reading the newspaper (fuck Murdoch!), or watching porn on their iTouch phones (go porn!).

I had a brief discussion with my brother about the rudeness of the proselytizing, and wondered if we could take a couple of approaches:

1) doctors. We could both rush the woman, and exclaim, "stand back! We're doctors! This woman is suffering from diarrhea of the mouth!"

2) fellow proselytizers. Preaching the gospel of the Invisible Pink Unicorn, ensuring that everyone knows that if they do not tend their pastures, they shall be trampled underhoof, or outright gored.

However, having to worry about the feds, I decided to be a coward and do nothing. Story of my life.

We get to the Canal Street stop, which is in Chinatown, when finally some New Yorker had enough, "Jesus would love you off this FUCKING TRAIN!" Which starts a miniargument in the back of the car, and someone in the middle of the car exclaiming, "you don't want her on the train, you get off too!"

Brother at this point is laughing, and I'm trying to contain myself. Brother says, "It's a little early for Jesus, don't you think?"

"I never try to do Jesus, without first a cup o' Joe."

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And that would be Model, not Mom.

Thursday, February 21, 2008


Union Square: I can’t order cream with my coffee
Current mood: catalyzed
Category: Food and Restaurants

You can blame it on my queer brother. He took me to the coffee shop right off of Union Square. From the outside, I was wondering why the hell we were going into some dive at a hip spot. Not my cup o' joe, yah dig?

We go inside, and I instantly notice how nice the place looks on the interior, in complete opposition to its outside. I also notice the three model-like women standing near the front divider of this place, which is essentially a coffee shop and bar with a middle divider between the two. They're laughing and joking, and I'm not trying to stare as I follow my brother and some waif of a waitress to our seats. We're meeting a friend of his, and just rode our bikes in, despite the 21 degree temperature and single-digits with the windchill fucking cold of NYC today.

I sit down next to him at a booth, and the waif-like waitress asks if we want some coffee. Her breasts, while small, are spilling out of her almost nonexistent top, because she's wearing a summer dress in the middle of winter. Two coffees, and brother orders some water too.

I look around, and damn if there aren't five different waitresses, and between the five of them, there probably isn't more than three hundred pounds collectively. It's too bad, because they're all attractive, just underweight - by a lot. I felt like I ought to be serving food to these women, rather than ordering from them.

Back to the present moment. I've got this waif, who's pretty damn cute, asking me if I want anything else with my coffee.. milk? cream? She's leaning over the table, threatening to spill out of her dress.

Mmmm....

Damn if I didn't feel like I was stuck in my dentist's chair, trying to pay attention to what she's saying, but totally distracted by the semi-clothed (even if underweight) body of the woman in front of me.

Words, words, words... "yeah... yeah..." I think I just ordered soy, half and half, and milk with my coffee. Luckily, my brother provides cover: "I want milk with my coffee."

"Yeah, I'll have the same." Thanks brother, at least I can pay attention to what you're saying.

Twenty minutes later, my brother is meeting with his friend, and I gotta go, I'm getting on the late side of getting to work... but damn if I didn't get ate up like a ham sandwich wouldn't by one of the models as I was on my way out the door.

I think I found a new hangout, even if I can't order cream with my coffee. Not, at least, with a straight face.

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Thursday, February 14, 2008


UPS Outsourcing, or Private Courier Conspiracy?
Current mood: intense
Category: Life

I can't decide if it truly was Brown trying to kill me as a personal vendetta, or professional animosity.

Today, that indecision, that lack of certainty was compounded.

First off: it's fucking freezing in New York City right now. Snowed Tuesday, was a wet goddamn mess on Wednesday, and today finally dried out... but stayed around freezing temperatures. Throw in a wind chill, and it's in the teens this morning.

Nonetheless, I decide that I'm going to ride my bike to work. Probably because I've got a lot of angst to work out. Or maybe because my new, low profile bike o' excellence really is a nice ride (though I need to work on the gearing, since my top end is not fast enough for rush-hour traffic in Manhattan). Or maybe because I'm not getting any action, and I need to vent somehow, and late-night porn sessions just don't satisfy anymore. Regardless of the reason, there I was, riding my bike to work again.

This time, I get some weird stick up the ole' you-know-what, and decide screw it, I'm taking the Brooklyn Bridge, instead of the Manhattan. There's two reasons for this bridge: it's got a better view, and it's a wood-plank covered bridge, which is fun to ride on. The Manhattan is really fucking boring.

Two disadvantages: it's really out of the fucking way, and drops you off in the middle of lower Manhattan, near Wall Street, which is a total fucking mess. Blame Stuyvesant, the peg-legged would-be dictator of Manhattas when it was a Dutch colony. His fucking street design was as good as his missing leg. Fucking Dutch bastard. But I digress.

I'm rolling Jay street, trying to find my way to Sixth Avenue. For those not in the know of NYC, below Houston (How-stun, don't ask me why it's pronounced that way, probably to spite Texas) the avenues all have different names, like Chystie, Bowery, etc. None of which I know jack or shit about. I try. Except this morning, I gave up, and decided to hit the west side, or greenway... a bike path that leads up the entire west side of Manhattan.

So, Jay to the greenway, and I'm just about to the last light, and I see the squeeze. Let me tell you what the squeeze is: traffic next to a parked vehicle. You have to navigate carefully, because you're in a narrow tunnel, and you can feel the vehicles squeezing you in.

Looking over my shoulder and around, Brown is nowhere in sight... I'm safe, right?

Fuck no!

FedEx, the magic fucking arrow is the vehicle to the right on the squeeze, and the van door comes flying open. Caught me in the shoulder, the bike on the right handlebar, and your's truly went flying into the left hand car of the squeeze. I bounced hard, and hit the turf.

Staring up at the clear blue sky. Legs, check. Arms, check. Head, check. Back, check. Breathing, check. Getting up. Fucking FedEx got me... but I live to see another day!

Fucking FedEx got me.

So did Brown outsource the job it couldn't get done by itself, or is there a vast courier conspiracy, to take me out, because I'm a cyclist with a messenger bag on my back?

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Wednesday, February 06, 2008


Color coordination: is New York attempting to make me gay?
Current mood: angsty
Category: Fashion, Style, Shopping

So I'm getting ready for work this morning, and I decide it's a Timberland Boots day. Probably because we're going to have torrential downpours and tropical storms. 63 degrees expected high today, it's already 50 degrees. Some fucking New York winter we're having - I'm wearing a t-shirt. Red, with slogan, "No More Drug War" plastered on the front.

Company shirt. It was free. I think I should get paid for all of the advertisement I wind up doing with their free shirts. I wind up running the streets of Manhattan and Brooklyn with a company shirt on, I make it a point to go to the halfway house with the company shirt on. I've got four of them, in different colors. I hadn't worn the red one yet, and needed to have that fresh-clean-new shirt feeling this morning. Don't ask, it wasn't a rough night or anything, just one of those feelings.

Anyways, when I'm putting on the t-shirt this morning, I'm thinking to myself, "goddamn, what do I have that goes with red?" Fucking black, that's what. Black goes with everything. Boots were black, with red designs - don't ask me what the design is, I'm staring at it right now and still don't have a clue... but it is a red design.

Cool, I'm matching. Throw on the baggy black jeans, because they're 1) comfortable, 2) black, which matches everything, and 3) on my bedroom floor, which means I get to clean up my room while getting dressed. This is a win-win-win situation for me.

Get to the Metro stop with my brother Gabriel, and he looks down, and says, "nice match there with the jeans, red threading and all... I couldn't have done better!" This bothers me. Why? Allow me to illustrate:

My brother Gabriel is queer as a three-dollar bill. The only thing detracting from his gayness is the fact he's in a rather committed relationship with a lesbian. I don't know how all of that works, I'm new to the realm of gender politics and identity. In my realm, he's gay like he could star in Brokeback Mountain. As in, gay like he listens to Merle Haggard and Lucinde Williams, and sings along while wearing a straw hat, pink tutu and leopard-print panties. That's fucking gay.

You can laugh only if it is kind-hearted. If you're mocking him, go to hell bastards, my brother is one of the dopest people on the planet. If you don't believe me, ask Lorretta Nall from Alabama, she's a great independent source of this particular truth. Those that know him will vouch for me. I digress.

That he thinks I'm doing a better job of matching is disturbing me, so I look down, and notice that he's right - I've got my pants cuffed, and the inside stitching... IS RED!

Goddamnit if New York isn't sinking in, and trying to make me Gay. Or at least a metrosexual. Fucking hell! I bit my lip while chewing gum from the shock of it all, and even now almost passed up eating a banana, because I felt like the plot was thickening...

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Tuesday, February 05, 2008


Low Profile Excellence...
Current mood: amused
Category: Automotive

So, part and parcel to the three week tech support for my brother in SoCal, he sends me his special BMX bike. Special, mind you. As in, he's sunk hundreds of dollars into making this bike the best thing on wheels.

It arrived last Friday. I opened up the box, and found a bunch of rusty parts that appeared to all go together. I assembled it, amazing because I'm a fucking clutz, and only remotely capable in the field of software application management... in all other fields, I'm a dunce with an overinflated sense of ability, which also includes my personal blog, my various writing projects, and especially my driving record.

In fact, if it weren't for my phenomenal luck, I'd be dead right now, having crashed a Prelude in an attempt to dodge a rabbit on the road (I did succeed in dodging, but I hate to think how many died in my subsequent burnout into a roadside ditch). There are other examples, but the Prelude is the first to mind. It was a $500 lesson (lucky, should have been more) in how bad of a driver I am - excellent reaction time (this was over a decade ago, after all), no idea at all of how to use said reaction time.

Where was I? Oh yeah, rusty bike. All put together, and I'm looking at a rusted-out frame, handlebars, chain, and a brake that doesn't work... the cable rusted out as well. At this point, I'm thinking, "well, goddamn, I give this fucker some of the best tech service money can buy for free, and he gives me the most fucked up bike I've seen since the pedal broke off of my Huffy [see previous blog: Fuq Huffy]? What the hell!"
Don't get mad - he didn't do me wrong. Closer inspection revealed that the hubs were clean, as were the rims. While the cosmetic damage was extensive, this bike, when assembled, had a certain sturdiness about it. My brother mentioned over the phone that it could use a professional tune up, and that the crankset needed new spacers in order to work right, so take it to the shop and get it serviced.

Despite needing a tuneup, and new spacers for the crankset, this fucking thing FLEW down the road. If I had higher gearing, I could really crank out some speed on this thing, and my bike mechanic said it should work even better once the tuneup is done. This thing looks like a complete piece of shit. I could clean it up, by why entice the thieves?

I'm the proud new owner of a stealth fucking missile!


P.S. Hey Huffy: Fuck You!

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Linux is the idler’s work...
Current mood: annoyed
Category: Web, HTML, Tech

I don't know why I have this drive to stop using Windows, and an embedded hatred for all Apple products.

I don't actually hate Microsoft. I'm dismissive of them. Like they're some vastly overgrown cow that's just in the way. I don't hate them, but feel vaguely annoyed, and like somehow, this fucking bovine creature needs to get the fuck outta dodge, so I can get some real work done.
I don't know why I beef with Apple, but it's beef. Maybe it's one too many "my iPod died" stories, maybe it's leftover angst from the Mac SE/30 days (don't ask if you don't know, it's some true geek ish), or maybe it's because everything they do is so fucking overpriced, you think it's either conspicuous consumption, or the realm of effite snobs. Their new wave of smarmy advertisements aren't helping this distaste, nay, utter disgust, that I have for Apple.

So here I am, working with Ubuntu, debian-based build of the linux OS. First off: everyone's experience will vary, and hell, my experience varies. I installed it graphically to one computer, with no problems at all. My brother in SoCal tried to install a bad copy, and a three-week tech job ensued, that he's still recovering from (of course, he didn't fucking listen to me when I told him to back everything up before installing a new operating system, but no one listening to me is pretty standard). Sorry, didn't mean to gripe. My bad.

I realize now that the last paragraph is probably greek for everyone who actually bothers to read my blog. (There's a tally sheet, but I'm pretty sure that the numbers are inflated from me looking at myself, like a proper egoiste). So, to all three of you: what I'm saying is that linux is the idler's work, because even when an installation goes smoothly, like mine, there's still more and more work to be done. Right now, I'm trying to get my dual-layer DVD burner to work, so I can "back up" my DVDs. The drive is recognized, the media is recognized, and I have a copying program. Does it work? Nope.

Why? That's becoming a major fucking project. As in, might take me a week or two, with a commitment of an hour or two a day, to figure out.

This is probably why most people wind up with a Mac or Windows computer, because they don't have the time or energy to commit to their computer. Which makes the next line obvious:

I'm a fucking GEEK. And not even a smart one, or I'd be copying DVDs by now.

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Wednesday, January 30, 2008


Yesterday’s Near Faceplant.
Current mood: ashamed
Category: Life

So there I am, running to work one bite-ass cold January morning.

Actually, this was yesterday.

Nevermind that I was already running late, having left the house about fifteen minutes behind schedule - this didn't mean I was going to run any faster. It's hard enough to do 8 miles first thing in the morning, but 8 miles fast, 8 miles first thing, 8 miles in the cold... none of them are something I'm particularly interested in doing.

Anyways, things were going smoothly enough, until I hit Union Square. I was sabotaged, and saved, by two paradoxical traits I have:
1) I'm extremely clumsy. Anyone who knows me knows this is true. It's part and parcel to my blatant fear of small children... I'm quite convinced that one day, I'll accidently step on one, and never live it down.

2) I'm extremely lucky. Most people find this one hard to believe, considering how much time I spent in prison, but it's true. I could have caught a judge that wouldn't think twice about giving me life, as the prosecution had requested. Instead, I got the judge that gave me a mandatory minimum, which he felt he had to do in accord with law.

The combination of these two factors led me to almost merging my face to the sidewalk. A one inch gap turned out to be three inches, so clumsy me caught the tip of my shoe in the ledge, twisting the ankle and sending me flying towards the pavement.

And then, promptly, my luck kicked in, and I was back on my feet, still running foward. I had managed to hit the turf with my hands, roll over my right shoulder, the brunt of the fall hitting my right hip as I rolled up back to a standing & moving position. Lucky for me, because I didn't even know I was falling until I was already back up and running.

Gloves? Trashed. Shirt? Sidewalk grease smudge. MP3 player? Turned itself off, but no damage done. Pride? That one is going to sting for a while.

And they told me that riding a BIKE was dangerous in New York City...

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