Whaaaaaaaaaaa?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I'm Free(er).

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

Free. Er.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

HDCP and a Modern Hate

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

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

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

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

Pesach and the Life of a Errant Jew

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You all know where I'm going with this.

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

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

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

South by Staten Island Southwest...

Or rather, I finally had an extensive ride in a car in New York City. Even rode across a bridge, to an island.

The bridge is called the Verrazzano and similar to the Bay Bridge. What I mean by this is that it's totally fucked up, because you have to drive a car across it - no riding bicycles, no walking across. It's also a steep toll - $10 for a car.

Here's my gripe: bridges are supposed to be about access. Why the hell would you design a bridge open to the public, and then limit its access to cars only? Isn't that a little screwed up, especially in New York City, where the population has a very low percentage of car owners (except evidently, anyone living in Staten Island and using the Verrazzano Bridge).

So whatever was I doing riding in a car, all 6 of you ask? Someone decided that for their 30's birthday party, they wanted to go the 1 of 2 roller skating rinks in New York (the other one is in the Bronx)! Evidently, the Staten Island was easier to get too, despite the rink being on the complete opposite end of the island from Brooklyn (it's right off of the bridge to New Jersey).


*** Uhh... I just noticed this draft when I decided to clean up my blogger account. Sorry about the delay, my faithful 5!

Late, but not as Usual...

More to the point, I didn't feel like blogging yesterday.

Why, you ask? Was it because I was out on a hot date? Was it because I completed my master plan to conquer the world? Was it because my people were finally liberated?

No, it is because it was my first year anniversary of completing my prison sentence. That's right, March 21, 2008, I left BOP custody and started my Supervised Release. I have 5 years of this garbage, but I did just put in a motion to the Court for termination (they're allowed to after you've completed 1 year, since recidivism rates go down so much after the first year).

Get this: I paid the $39 Court Fee by check, but they returned the money, explaining that although I wasn't in forma pauperis (broke) anymore, I was still Pro Se (representing myself), and the fees only apply to lawyers. At least you know where $40 of that 50,000 went to, right? I'm still in shock that the government wasn't going to take the money and run. Evidently, I needed a bailout too.

Except New York ain't jibin' - they still haven't given me my tax money back. Which means I'm broke... since this weekend, I saw the Watchmen at the IMAX theater, then went to the top of the Empire State Building (well, 86th floor, the 102nd costs an extra 15, so I said screwit!).

It's unfortunate, because I really need to get 2 tattoos done (bad jew! bad jew!), and would rather have them done now, rather than later.

That's it for now. I'll fill you all in some more next Saturday, when I have some real time to write (unless I get outraged by something this week, you never now).

Two nights, two bars, two weeks disposable income.

Or rather, another reason why I don't like bars.

I wish I could say that it was all worth it, but really, from a fiscal point of view, I blew through almost $150 in two nights, and only have buzzed memories to show for it. $16 a drink? I sometimes really hate New York.

I mean, $200 would be like my entire food and beer budget for a month (having a beer a day is still expensive in New York, where good sixers are about $12). And I spent that in two days.

Note to self: no more hanging out in bars. I've got a future to save for, so long as inflation doesn't kill the dollar completely.

So, why the hell was I hanging out in bars again? Well, mainly because I'm a sucker for good company, and I had a lot of friends who wanted to hang out in bars. Terrible, I tell you. I'd rather pick up a few sixers from the store, and hit the pad where Iiptsos awaits, and complete control over the music selection to boot.

Then again, I'm considered somewhat anti-social. Though a friend tried to rephrase this anti-social behavior into a different terminology: I need social "naps." Basically, in a crowd, I sensory overload after a period of time, and have to remove myself from the situation. I haven't figured out the exact person-to-square/cubic-foot ratio, but I know when it's been breached.

So, how did I make up for this incredibly stupid spending you ask, all five of you? Well, by managing to finagle insane discounts on airfare! Yes, yours truly managed to get two cross-country roundtrip air tickets at an INSANELY low rate. As in, you would think me a liar. I'm flying my older brother out to NYC for a weekend as a birthday present, and myself out to the Bay to check out schools and a place to live in May. Between the 2 bar nights, and the 2 airplane flights, it's almost a fiscal wash. Almost. JetBlue rocks, except they still overcharge to fly into Sacramento. Bastards on that!

Also, as my time in New York grows short, and the weather improves, I'm starting, alongside my brother here, a project to experience the "new york" scene. So yesterday was the Queens Museum of Art, with a panoramic miniature of all five burroughs of New York. It was awesome. Incidentally, getting in is a voluntary contribution, and their cafeteria actually has really good food that's insanely cheap. Weird that, I'm used to an overcharge to get in, and an overcharge if you want to eat. I gotta hand it to the Museum, they run a nice ship there.

It's at this place, the location of the World's Fair back in the day, now called Flushing Meadows. New York is weird like that - you're in this total urban zone, then suddenly you're in a massive park, and the buildings become a backdrop. I still can't get used to it.

So then brother and I met up with a friend, had some Mexican food on Roosevelt Avenue (no, nothing compared to a mission burrito), then headed to a bar in Brooklyn. Actually, truth be told, Saturday night wasn't as bad as Friday night, whereby I had 3 drinks and 1 plate of food, and spent $80. Ouch.

Anyways, you all get to look forward now to weekly weekend missives of my mighty adventures through NYC, instead of the inane exploits of Chupecabra (though I'll certainly keep you posted on that as well, just for the hell of it).

Psychic Near-Hit, and Fuck the Vatican

So, Hastings didn't accept me this week. Berkeley did reject me. Golden Gate University, School of Law did accept me though, meaning I missed by about 1 mile (distance between the two schools).

I just want you five to keep that in mind, when asking for my psychic predictions - 1 mile can mean very little ("You will live in a mansion in Beverly Hills on Santa Monica Boulevard," we can give or take a mile and it's all good), or it can mean a lot ("You will be near the Ocean of San Francisco," could mean the bottom of the bay).

Onto the other headliner. Fuck the Vatican. I can't make it any simpler: any church that would excommunicate the doctors that performed, and the mother who authorized, the abortion for a nine-year old rape victim who's pregnancy endangered her life, and not ex-communicate the rapist stepfather, is a church that should burn in the proverbial hell. If there were a devil, they would be carrying out his work.

I mean, I know I need to brush up on my buy-bull knowledge, but still, I remember enough to know that Jesus did NOT say "Honor thy mother and father, but most of all, any rapists that belong to the church - forgive them and condemn those that support and help the victims of their rape." Maybe I missed the Gospel of Memnoch, the secret Dead Sea Scroll that really is the guiding force of the Catholic Church, when it's not divinely inspired to support priests that rape, and ex-communicating those involved with 9-year old girls that might die from their rape-caused pregnancy for getting an abortion.

*Whew* haven't had a rant like that since the last time I had a priest shit in my oatmeal, for which I was ex-communicated. I knew there was another reason I had to become an atheist!

Life Ain't Nuthin' But Demon Goats n' Hookahs

Also known as: you'd never believe the kind of night I had last night. Or the week. It's been hectic.

So there I was, in the jungle, a.k.a. a bar that my brother dragged me to. Amidst this ordering of drinks and social studies thing, a little play got carried out, one that left an incredibly attractive woman alone and annoyed at the bar.

I know what all five of you are thinking: "No, he _didn't_!"

Nothing cheesy, really. Just asked her to join us for a drink (she declined the drink) and a little bit of talk, since sitting alone at a bar just doesn't look right.

Risking rebuff? Certainly. Risking rejection? Certainly. Outside my character as a general principle? Certainly. But hell, she did come over to chat for a little bit.

Why do I bring this up? Because I realize that I'm empowered through accouterments - whether it be Iiptsos, or my wonderful Fedora. When I have my power object, I suddenly possess some kind of confidence and attractive powers. I feel like Popeye, addicted to spinach. It's terrible.

And also related - because much like Popeye, I thought I had superstrength, and decided that my brother's drunken idea of riding bikes out to Coney Island to watch the sunrise was a good idea. Oh yeah, forgot to mention, we closed out the bar - left at 3:45 in the morning. By 4:45, we were off riding South through the massive entity that is Brooklyn.

This worked great, and we had a great time - even brought Iiptsos for some beachfront sunrise smokin'. Worked great until that bad part - needing to ride home. Needless to say, it was a tortured ride through the dirty Brooklyn Streets, with a bright sun shining, mocking our tired eyes. We went on two fruitless and one successful quest for cheap sunglasses, had breakfast muffins with the Queen of Brooklyn Baking Goodness (ninecakes.com), and limped the rest of the way home.

Fabulous night. Chupecabra handled it all like a champ - except for one unceremonious dump onto the concrete when I jumped the front wheel onto a curb, and the rear wheel decided to slide sideways instead. Que sera, sera.

On the boring note, got accepted to Golden Gate University, School of Law. Soon I shall wear the vestiges of our enemies, my five faithful readers.

And with that, I'm totally exhausted, feeling a little beat up (rode over 40 miles yesterday), and about to head out for another night on the town (First Night at the Brooklyn Museum). Someday, this abuse will stop. In the meantime, party on Wayne!

The Psychic Strikes Again!

Berkeley Law was apologetic, but regretfully had to deny my application for their 2012 J.D. program, and encouraged me to apply for the 2013 J.D. program.

Now... about Hastings...

Friday Night,and the Feeling is... Abstract?

Or maybe hanging out with a majority of 20-somethings was just kind of weird, since I've been used to my own age group, and the geezers. Oh yeah, and some little tykes even though I avoid them like the plague if I can help it. Somehow, the little tykes manage to find me, and stare at me in the most uncomfortable way. Yes, I'm paranoid. Yes, they're out to get me. Yes. They got me - them people, not the tykes.

I was a little apprehensive of going to this party, mainly because of two reasons: 1) I don't really like dub step electronica, and 2) it's in a seedy part of town, but the immediate area is like hipsterville, neither of which make the area sound appealing.

Boy was I wrong. All 5 of you better save this page ASAP, I just might decide to erase it later, then fabricate my opinion retroactively to avoid admitting a mistake. Just kidding. Sure. Dance parties in NYC are all indoor affairs, so it's really about where the space is, right? I mean, it's not like we're dancing in the streets.

So, how much did I dance, you ask? Dub step. Some Electro. Your's truly did no dancing whatsoever.

I did, however, break out Iiptsos. I spotted a couple of guys at the non-bar, talking and smoking cigarettes, which I treated as my cue for the smoking area. Iiptsos is small enough to take on the road. I tried to get everything rolling smoothly, but Iiptsos was being a right bastard, and clogged up on me. So I had to fiddle with him a bit (not like that your perverts!), while at the party.I managed to clear one of the chambers that had frozen, re-assembled him, and loaded up with the shish and a red-hot coal.

Then Iiptsos showed off his mighty power. No, damnit, it didn't get me to shut up permanently. It did, however, draw the most exquisite woman I've seen in quite some time, and she joined in a circle of folks that didn't seem to have a beginning or end, at least, until we ran out of shish (tobacco for the hookah).

Of course, since these folks are all in their mid-twenties, I feel vaguely perverted for finding her attractive. Not to worry though, she wasn't interested in me like that - there was someone else in the circle that had her eye. I begrudge nothing here, though it does suck when the most beautiful woman at a party approaches, engages you in some really dope conversation, then banks left. Just sayin'.

We did, however, have like a two hour rolling and varying conversation over that hookah (if not longer), as people came in to take a toke (mango-melon-sweetpipe flavor), and at least temporarily participate in the ongoing discussion. We had a lot of common ground to shoot the breeze with (which, after the Dub started, was the best thing for me to do, since I can't dance to Dub, and I didn't want to join in drinking Budweiser, I'm a snob like that). I didn't even flirt, chaste convict that I am. Okay, that part is a lie. I lack confidence. You may all laugh at me now. I wasn't controlling this scene, Iiptsos was.

And when Iiptsos no longer had hot coals or shish, he made his feelings known. Off the woman went, leaving me to prepare Iiptsos for transport home. I swear he leaked on my back on purpose, his way of doing-you-know-what. Evidently, I had not come prepared enough for the night. The shame and embarrassment of running out of shish!

As I wandered both to and from this little swarre', I had a lot of thoughts going through my head. On my way there, I called my biopops to try and have some kind of relationship with him, once I figure out how to have us both accept the past, not needing blame, but needing understanding of how it shapes our present perceptions and interactions.

On the way back, I realized that I will miss this city when I leave it. I hate the concrete jungle and bars everywhere, but at 5 in the morning, coming home from a dance party, this place just feels so damn alive! It doesn't hurt that the weather was rather nice.

Next week, I'll probably have my first law school answer... who wants to take bets? I'm betting either a reject from Berkeley, or an acceptance at Hastings.

Sunday and Black Monday, Friday, Tuesday, etc.

I still haven't heard of Black Thursday, and since everyone's into "Hump Day" Wednesday, it's de facto Black due to our current overpopulation crisis. So Friday, Monday, Tuesday, and Sunday all have Black references, and by overpopulation Wednesday, this leaves me Thursday and Saturday that don't have to be totally screwed beyond belief. I don't know what started this particular track of thought, but it appears to be a track leading nowhere. Which is to say, when I'm disabled my mind wanders.

That being said, I am finally back into functioning order. Evidently, the Palestinian Pagan Deity (tm) that has been torturing my back demanded I see a hippie chiropractor for services. Whereupon I was notified that my pelvis was out of place, and that my heart meridian had some issues. This commonly known as 'stress.' in non-hippie terms, IMO.

So, how to celebrate? Well, after almost a complete weekend of doing nothing, I was thinking about taking a ride, except it's raining, and, well, Chupecabra still doesn't have a chainwheel. This is the longest break our relationship has had since it started in February of last year. I can't say I'm particularly enjoying it, hence it being a black day that I can add to the collection.

From henceforth, only Thursday and Saturday rank well in my book. All others can go to hell, unless something special happens on them.

Yeah, I feel like this was rather forced myself. Perhaps better things next time?

The Pain of Love on Valentine's Day

No, this is not another sappy pining for lost love, or whatever.

This is a story about a demon goat (now in the hospital), and a humble-by-only-the-most-outrageous-standards narrator (that probably should be in a hospital).

I didn't do anything for Valentine's Day. I'm officially a hater now. I hate commercialism, I hate sappy holidays, and I hate feeling obligated to do shit. I'm much better at feeling like a slacker. Can't we have a slacker holiday? You would think so, but to establish a holiday requires effort, hence the conundrum.

Regardless. Blew the back out. Second weekend in a row I've managed to injure myself in time for the weekend. Actually, that's not completely true, I did have a semi-decent Friday night, going out for drinks and dancing at some club down on Atlantic Avenue in Brooklyn. The largest problem with trying to hang out at a club is that usually, as was the case here, the music is so loud you can't really talk to anyone without yelling, so it's basically dancing and drinking, or nothing at all.

I don't get it. It's not really my thing. There was a giant fake ficus in the center of the dance floor, and in my hating on Valentine's Day, I decided the ficus was my date, and danced with it.

Actually, I really wasn't hating just yet. I just didn't really want to dance with anyone else, even though I did for a bit. I have a nasty habit of mocking/clowning when I dance drunk, and this night was no exception, hence my gravitation towards the tree - it wouldn't cause problems. It also didn't move around much, which is good because I'm also very clumsy, so dancing with other people is highly likely to result in collisions.

Saturday, hangover free (I'm lucky like that), I took Chupecabra to the vet/doctor/bike shop. There's a new one where the old one was. I learned what a BMX crank puller looks like, and I unleashed the pain of a smashed crank and jammed crank arm on the specialists. The crank got royally screwed by an employee of the former bike shop, overtorquing everything on it. Hopefully my luck will be better this time, otherwise, I'll have to start up my own bike shop just to keep that gawdawful Demon Goat appeased.

Either that, or using an ancient Egyptian God of Sleep name for my hookah didn't satisfy the Palestinian Pagan Deity that hates me so much. In which case, back to the appeasement drawing board. Any ideas?

Good Afternoon In Agony (a.k.a. Palestinian Pagan Deities Deliver Pain)

So... here it goes:

Even if, even if I had bought the correct sized crank puller to help me fix the guts of Chupecabra, I would not be riding today.

Even if, even if my brother was up for a run today, instead of yapping on the phone, I would not be running today.

Even if, even if there was a million dollars awaiting me in midtown Manhattan, I would not go outside today.

Okay, that last one was a big fat lie. But seriously, my back feels like someone inserted a square metal rod with sharp edges into the center of it - turning and bending feels stiff and painful.

Being my Jesus year, I wonder if somehow the pagan deities are punishing me for slights unknown, for the death and destruction of their millions of followers. Then I remember that I'm neither Christian nor Catholic, and outside of the whole Palestinian thing, the Jews haven't been too guilty of genocide.

Therefore, it seems only logical to deduce that it's a Palestinian Pagan Deity that is the source of my pain.

In light of this, I have a new plan for appeasement. No, goddamnit, I'm not moving to Palestine to do peace work, I'm too much of a goddamn coward to go into the middle of a warzone, I leave that to braver women and men.

So whatever could my appeasement mean? Well, let me tell you about a new cherished friend in my household, someone who has until now remained nameless, yet always present, promising sweet-flavored relief and relaxation. My hookah (that's HOOKAH, not HOOKER, you bastards!). Two-hosed Iiptsos, sweet savior of rest and reprieve. Hopefully, with this honoring of my cherished friend, the Palestinian Pagan Deity will leave me be, and tomorrow I'll awakened renewed. Time will tell.

P.S. I got it on good authority that there's 5 of you now. If I could make this my sermon, that's big enough for my own religion. Don't think I'm going cult on you all, I'm just looking at tax break possibilities.

Where Have I Been?

Dancing. I swear. And not riding Chupecabra, who sits like a limp gutless goat in my living room.

Need to replace the cranks - that's right, the stomach of a goat has finally founds its match on these mean NYC streets. I'm discouraged, disheartened, and fully non-functional as a result of this. I should probably call it all a tale of heartbreak and loss, but it seemed too melodramatic - the demon goat will return soon enough.

In the meantime, it's getting a little cold in NYC, like as in single digits with the wind-chill, and I'm back to running the streets on a regular basis. Not that anyone particularly cares. In the hood, I get stared at with the blatant, "'nother stupid whiteboy, gentrifying this beeyotch with his crazy, frozen ass." Of course, I generally get that look anyways, since I dress rather light for cold weather.

Can't be helped. I get too warm very easily, and too cold is something I rarely encounter. It's like I've got a furnace inside that just doesn't seem to work for my appendages, all of which succumb to rigidity from the cold, even though I feel fine.

I've also been doing a lot more professional blogging. Folks, this is the year to start tipping the drug war towards ending. I still don't see a realistic end to it until about 2012 (plus or minus a year), but this is the year for decisive action, and I've been making decisive action a central theme, hence a lot more professional blogging, including now specific requests for people to take action.

So, my faithful four, know that although you've (suffered? taken advantaged of? been relieved of) missed out on some blogging here, I'm recommitting myself towards a little more attention to this blog, to keep the spirits flowing. My promise to you four: at least a sentence a weekend, unless I'm traveling. Gawd I love disclaimers!

Love and a Demon Goat Disguised as a Bicycle (a.k.a. I hate wind)

So two days in a row, I'm relatively late for work. I say relatively, since I can start anywhere between 9am to 10am, but generally am in the office at 9. This week, it was 10:00 on Tuesday, and 9:30 today.

Why, oh why do you ask? Damn good question. Become a slacker again? Right, like I ever wasn't a slacker. Decided the battle to free your people (drug war prisoners) wasn't worth getting up in the morning? Yeah right, NEVER SURRENDER!

First, Tuesday. Full hour later than usual. This is because I was hit. I don't call it an accident when the driver looks at you, and decides that getting past the double-parked car on the left, and the dumpster on the right, is more important that a bicyclist's health, and rams said bicyclist into the dumpster. Then burns off without stopping.

I shouldn't say I got hit, my demon goat of a bicycle, Chupecabra, took the brunt of it. Actually, I'm pretty sure the beast is mad at me, since I dumped the bike. There, I admitted it. I jumped off the back. Minor hand damage from the car hit, minor knee pain from landing hard on my left leg.

Chupecabra? All twisted up. Bad. Slightly ridable for a second, with an askew handlebar/front wheel combination, and something funny going on in the back. Actually, the hub and back mounts popped off, but I didn't find this out until the base of the Manhattan Bridge (Brooklyn side, where formerly I broke a rib), when the back wheel popped out completely.

Can I say I leave something cheap in New York? Of course I can! 99 cent stores are a godsend. Where else can you, for 1.98 plus tax ($2.15) can you pick up a set of allen wrenches and a mini-crescent, the very tools I needed to get Chupecabra in ridable condition. Took me about 15 minutes to get to the store, 5 minutes to find what I needed, and another 10 to get Chupecabra in working order.

Not complete working order. Somehow, the front rim got shaved. That meant flat tire this morning. Front tire. No matter, I was planning on installing a thorn-resistant tube and anti-puncture slimes... after I filed down the shaved rim (to prevent further side-panel flats). So, only a half hour late this morning, most of which I blame on the wind.

Let me rant here about the wind and riding a bicycle: how is it, no matter what direction you're riding on a bicycle, the goddamn wind is going against you? I switch from West-by-Southwest, to South, to West, to North, and every turn, it was like going directly into a wall of wind. I even turned back a block, and somehow, the wind was still against me! I'm blaming the east coast for that one.

Damn, I've rambled too much. Next week, something less mundane than bike crashes (which means, of course, that my good fortune of not wearing a helmet is no longer paying off, goddamnit!).

So... Where Was I, Again?

I guess back in California, though if my tales were told, I was a complete slacker. Barely saw anybody, barely did anything. I didn't even blog from the road, but I do have a caveat here: my new laptop died.

Actually, the shitfuck virus posing as an operating system, Windows XP, decided to immolate itself in a most inglorious fashion, namely in front of an attractive woman, making me look the fool (trying to explain why this goddamn laptop is so great, when it won't even boot).

In the meantime, I've installed Ubuntu Netbook Remix, and outside of the usual linux-related-I-need-to-be-a-full-time-geek-to-fix-the-glitches shit, the fucker is running smooth, so I'm mostly happy again. Except for that one button that turns off the wireless (for airports) that causes the entire system to freeze (hardware interrupt problem). Outside of that, I'm all good.

I did catch two rides from Craigslist, and I gotta say, I came out like a champ. I'm a little concerned post-ride though, because in both instances, extremely attractive women were giving me a ride for fair price. Why does this concern me? Because I'm a goddamn ex-con, damnit!

Actually, I was more concerned that within a couple of hours, I wound up driving said vehicles, with the person supplying the ride going to sleep. This means that I, obviously, exude a certain level of trust and comfort that is totally at odds with what I tried to accomplish as a seedy, dangerous ex-con.

Meaning, much like the school of alcoholism, I've totally fucked it up, and wasted those 7 years I could have spent becoming a dangerous individual. I still like beer though, and I still can drop a pig in under 30 seconds. I'll take both as a consolation prize.

Regardless, I have nothing but praise for the rideshare program with Craigslist: they done me great. Cheap rides, beautiful women, and control of the car stereo, a most coveted power in all circles, not to mention nearly-anonymous ones.

Anyways, enough of that. I spent a lot of time with my family, which was a real change up. First time we've all been together since before I got sent up the river (or whatever you want to call it).

Now? Now I'm back, so all four of you will be entertained once again with the random exploits that I regularly undergo in these mean NYC streets.