junk food

yesterday i had a long day at work. patients went long, i fell behind on the peripheral duties, and by the time i had clocked out at the end of the day i had nearly ten hours of being on my feet running around. i was exhausted, mentally and physically.

a half-hour drive home, fighting to stay awake. in the kitchen, i immediately see that no. 2 has been doing sentences. they read, "i will not use leftover money from the book fair to buy junk food at lunch." since no. 2 is in the other room playing, i am guessing he is done writing.

so my wife and i have a talk while i have a drink (she is already halfway down a drink of her own), and apparently, no. 2 was given a ten dollar bill to buy books at the book fair. when my wife asked for his change, he said he didn't have it. he told her he accidentally spent it. she said the only thing he might've "accidentally" spent it on would be junk food at lunch. he said that is what he had spent it on.

as she thinks about just how much sugary shit an 8-year-old boy can buy with five usd, she becomes livid, and makes him write sentences, then tells him he is grounded from games and tv for two weeks. he replies, "am i grounded from legos?" to which she answers, "no, you're not grounded from legos." and he cheerfully says, "well at least i can still play legos." she says, "glad you're seeing an upside to this."

"you need to have a talk with him." she tells me.

i decide i am gonna need a moment to decompress, sip my drink, and get in a calmer frame of mind to deal with the situation.

when i am finally ready, i call no. 2 in to talk with me. he stands in front of me, and i ask him why he blew the five bucks on something like junk food. with the idea of teaching him the value of money, i ask him what he could've spent the five dollars on that he might still have to show.

he looks at me with a strange sort of smile. his eyes are glittery, and his big buck teeth are on display as if they are holding back a laugh. i stare at him, waiting for him to tell me what sorts of things he would spend money on that last longer than a few minutes. he stares deep into my eyes and says, "it's in my pocket!"

and proceeds to pull a neatly-folded bill out of his pocket. "and two pennies!" and places them all carefully in my hand, while still smiling that weird smile.

deranged chuckles begin to pour out of me. i stare at the money in my palm. the chuckles roll in ever-increasing waves out of me. "go play, you're fine no. 2."

"wife!" i shout to her in the other room, "come in here and talk to me!"

we try to figure out why on earth he would willfully lie about buying junk food and then take the ensuing punishment when the key to freedom was in his pocket the entire time. the only solution we can come up with is that he was messing with us in some sort of elaborate and convoluted practical joke that is only funny to himself. all the while, the maniacal chuckles spilling from my frame.

if nothing else, it was the exact amount of the surreal to fix my day.

darth sardonic

There is another world There is a better world...

as promised, life is back to as normal as life can be, and i am done being morose for the time-being. i guess i didn't really have much else to say at this juncture except that the funk that was clouding my post about my graduation is gone.

in a completely unrelated topic, why is it that a woman who could easily be my daughter (street-legal, as it were, but still in the late teens/early twenties and therefore young enough to be the firstborn of a dude who is going to be 40 (yes! 40! (?!?)) next month) make coquettish eyes at me and flirt? and no! no, no, no. saying something like, "you're hot" et al is not really answering the question for me. i am curious as to what the driving attraction for her would be, not necessarily to me specifically, but to a man who is obviously older. as a writer, i feel i need to at least have a basic understanding of what is going on in her head.

and yes, a young blonde with a lip piercing who was graduating with me was doing exactly this before the crowd expanded and she was pushed away to find some other guy to flirt with. i was simply being polite back, o my beloved non-existent readers, lest ye think in some way my heart is straying from my lovely wife. but in all honesty it is a weird combination of emotions involved for me: i am flattered (i mean, after all, i am a dude. a dude who doesn't really think of himself as sexy. or hot. and everyone wants to feel attractive. this is completely set apart from my feelings for my wife.), and at the same time, i automatically think, why the fuck is she flirting with me as i am obviously much older and there are at least 50 hotter younger buffer guys nearby?

my wife simply says (as she does, matter-of-factly, as if it should've been so clear to me) "it's cause you're sexy." i sure do love her.

and when i pose the same concern about what is going on in a woman's head to my wife, she just as matter-of-factly says, "security."

can the woman's thought process really be boiled down to one word? was this lady thinking that by making eyes at me we would have a long conversation, fall in love, and i would take care of her till i grow old and die and then leave her to pine for another 20 years until she herself is finally old too?

somehow i doubt that.

comments from anyone (but especially women) as to what sorts of thoughts, however random, back this action are most welcome. it is not necessary to make confessions, i am not asking anyone for their sordid past. generalities are sufficient. i would just like to approximate an understanding of the woman's mind on this. thanks.

darth sardonic

by way of an update...

to quickly tie up the loose ends from the last two posts: a police report was filed. we met with the principal, who expressed great concern, said she would follow up on it and talk to the teacher to see if this was perhaps a trend of which no one had become aware. she also informed us she would have to call the mother and talk with her. we said that was fine.

a few days later, no. 1 gets off the bus and said, "dad, i think me and [charles manson] are friends now." well, o my beloved non-existent readers, it goes without saying that i expressed great consternation at this, but asked him why he felt that way. he told me that the offender had apologized to him, and they had shaken hands. i attempted to be magnanimous, and said, "well, that is very nice of him." but here my graciousness ended: "but i still don't want you hanging out with that kid, or talking to him, understand?" no. 1 nodded assent.

on that front, let's hope that i never have any more to report.

in other news, school keeps me busy, the two classes i am taking having abnormal homework loads, but i keep on top of it. i got my graduation paperwork today, and if i maintain a's in both (we're halfway through the school year and i currently have a 100 in one and a 97 or 98 in the other, without any signs that this should change in the next two months) i will graduate with honors, despite an atrociously poor showing my very first year of college at byu. (they wanted to stick me on academic probation!)

s the drummer and i met up with a couple guitarists, one friend of mine, k, and one friend of his, m, to try and create a new band from the ashes of the old. apparently, s the drummer didn't like k, or his musical style, or something, as he only wants to jam with m. and apparently s the drummer and m are ok with just jamming in my garage and not really doing much to branch out further than that. k is more than interested in fleshing out the veritable cornucopia of original songs i have been dutifully jotting down over the years, with the intent of playing out. so i had one fun jam with s the drummer and m, where little was accomplished beyond blowing off some steam and having a good time, and then another weekend had a jam with k and another of our friends, sc the drummer, in which we nailed down two songs, one an original of mine, and the other a potential cover, and they agreed that emptyhead was a perfectly good band name, and we discussed regular practices with plans to work on a setlist. and, at the same time, we blew off some steam and had a good time.

the boys have, overall, been doing pretty well in school lately; as well as in life. i feel like they are making headway in following my directions and accomplishing the things i want them to accomplish. no. 1 is talking about cub scouts, and while i think i might get roped unfairly into doing much more as a scout leader than i really want, i think the benefits might outweigh the grumbling aggravation this might cause me.

not much of a post really, but for now, better'n nothin'.

darth sardonic

"how to drop a tv on yourself in three easy steps!" and other useful items for life in the sardonic household

a lazy sunday afternoon, when from the kids' bedroom my wife and i hear a rapid series of dull thuds followed by a much louder crash.

we are halfway up the stairs like sprinters at the olympics as my lyrical "what the fucking fuck?!!?" finally stops echoing from the walls and a new sound begins: a wail. a wail that forms words. a wail that sounds like, "oooooh nooooo, i am in sooooooo much trouble!" in a rising crescendo that breaks wetly at the end.

i burst into the bedroom and my heart fires off like a dragster at the green light at the sight: no. 1 is buried under his dresser, the tv that was atop it, and the dvd player that was atop that.

he is still wailing about how much trouble he is in, his face screwed up with tears, as adrenaline spikes my brain like a white-hot sixteenpenny nail. i dive in and lift up the dresser that is lying across the instep of his right foot like it is a piece of paper.

my wife is on her knees by his head, and we are both shouting "are you hurt? are you hurt?" over his keening lament for the broken tv and the loss of video game privileges he surely faces.

"move your foot!" my stern voice, amplified by my racing pulse, cuts through the the peripheral noise, and no. 1 complies.

"does it hurt?"

"no, my foot is fine. but i broke the teeeeveeeeeeee..." he winds back into the siren of his original concern.

"fuck the tv!! are you alright?"

this seems to cut through the fog of his mental anguish, and he gulps down a sob, looks me in the eyes, and says, "i think so."

"does your foot hurt?" this is the only body part i had seen with an actual furniture object on top of it when i had arrived on the scene.

"no. my wrist does, a little. the tv fell on it..." he looks again at the tv on its screen beside him on the floor, and looks like he might be getting ready to recommence the high-pitched mourning.

"move it like this!" i command stoutly before he can.

he dutifully rotates his left wrist and hand like he is twirling bolas over his head to bring down an ostrich, and looks at me expectantly.

"does that hurt?"

he shakes his head.

i survey the damage while his mother explains to him that we are, in fact, more concerned with his well-being than that of the tv, dvd, or dresser. he seems a bit incredulous, and i feel a momentary pang that we might've misrepresented our reasons for laying down certain ground rules for existing.

"what happened?" my wife asks.

"i was climbing the dresser..." he says, again expecting a barrage of angry yelling.

"oh, honey. what have we said about climbing furniture?"

"not to, cause we might break something."

for the first time, i feel a brief flash of anger: anger at myself for having led my son to believe we cared more about material possessions than his own well-being, anger at how hard my heart is still pounding, anger at finding myself in this situation in an otherwise uneventful day. as a result of this burst of frustrated ire, what i say is a little more forceful than i intend:

"yeah, you might fucking break yourself!"

he looks abashed, and i soften some. "anyhow, it appears that the only thing that got broken is the wall plate the cable comes through. if anything else is actually broken, we can replace it. we can't replace you so easily, buddy. yeah?"

he nods.

"i'll take him downstairs and put some ice on his wrist." my wife says.

"'kay."

i put the room back in order. other than the aforementioned broken wall plate, which probably saved my son's life by creating negative tension to the downward trajectory of the heavy dresser and television, the only other damage i can see is a bent cable input in the back of the dvd player. i raise the dresser, place the tv back on top, settle the player atop it, and reattach all the wires. everything plays as if nothing had ever happened.

"so, what'd we learn here today?"

"not to climb on furniture."

"why?"

"i could get hurt."

"yes, buddy, you sure could."

my wife and i go outside to smoke, hands still shaking, and count our new gray hairs and the years that have been removed from our respective lives.

the next day, we run no. 1 through his paces again:

"move your foot."

he does.

"hurt?"

he shakes his head.

"move your wrist."

he again does the rotationary action with his hand.

"hurt?"

"no."

"make a fist."

he does, with his ring finger extended.

"lemme see that hand."

he holds out his hand, and i inspect his left ring finger. it is a little swollen, and i notice bruising at the joints.

"is it bad?" my wife asks.

"well, not sure. it doesn't seem too b--holy shit!"

i flip his hand over, and the bruising at the joints on the palm side of his finger is a luminescent shade of deep purple.

"bend that finger, bud?"

he does only slightly, and winces. "hurts, dad."

i sigh.

a phone call, doctor's appointment, xray, and visit with the osteopath later, and his ring finger is splinted and he has a piece of paper displaying his hand, the fleshy parts represented in smudgy gray halftones, the bones stark, the bend in his intermediate phalange glaring to share with his class on the next show-and-tell day.

"good news is, doesn't seem to be slowing him down any." the osteopath, who should switch to decaf, smiles as my son skips rapidly away. "hey, kid! no more climbing on furniture!" he calls after no. 1.

from his mouth to god's ears.

i stink

my wife has a bionic nose.

no kidding. it's as if she had some tragic accident upon reentry and lost her olfactory nerves, and nasa dropped six million bucks to put in super sensitive bionic ones.

for example: i can smoke a pipe. nothing too obnoxious; some black cavendish, perhaps, or maybe some whiskey cured. i can then enter the house, strip off, toss all my clothes in the wash, take a shower, scrub my hair twice, clean every inch of me, floss, brush my teeth, swish listerine, put on deoderant, don fresh clothes, give myself a spritz of kenneth cole black, and when she gets home will announce after kissing me and wrinkling up her nose: "you stinky like pipe!"

this is also the woman who, upon my announcement that i had been considering taking up the pipe cooed: "ooo, i love the smell of pipe smoke!"

not on me apparently.

when you have a bionic nose, and a pipe-smoking, sweaty husband, and two boys who are fascinated by dirt and bugs and grass, and three cats, the house can be a painful place to exist.

luckily in this day and age, there is an entire supermarket aisle dedicated to removing all residual scents of everything you love from the carpet, the walls, the furniture, and the air. and their target group for sales is my wife. well, and maybe a couple of other wives who have lost their sense of smell to some sort of bizarre accident and then had them replaced with mechanical means. we have oust and febreze and candles and whathaveyou. but perhaps the thing most present in our house are the plug-in style air fresheners.

i see them in the commercials. some sort of oil or pad or other such thing that you shoot a small trickle of electricity through and it emits--"old man cologne!" "that's not old man cologne, it's lavender!" "lavender? that's crap. it smells like some sorta really bad aqua velva." and they keep cranking out new and better ones. "lasts longer!" "smells better!" "now with less aqua velva and more lavender scent!" i keep loose screws and nuts and nails in ziploc bags in a box in the garage. my wife keeps outdated plug-in air fresheners.

she was overjoyed to discover the latest and greatest in air freshening technology: little statuettes that have built-in sensors and sneeze out a spray of essential oils to make the atmosphere pleasant only when it is necessary. they are a bit larger than the plug-in versions, but are not limited to a place where a socket is readily available. they have sort of an art deco look, and can be placed on any shelf, table, or on top of the tv.

they blink one baleful yellow eye at me, and i am immediately distrustful of them. there are three throughout my house: one on a shelf in my bedroom (near my side of the bed), one on the end table at the end of the hall (and near the cat litter box), and one on top of the tv (where the kids, cats, and myself end up spending the bulk of our time.)

i begin to notice a disturbing trend: any time i pass one, it spits its spray venemously as i pass. every time. without fail. but never when my wife passes.

"hey, what kinda sensors you say were in these things?" i ask casually one night.

"motion sensors. they sense when someone is near, and if it has been awhile, they spray the smelly stuff."

"motion sensors?"

"yeah, why?"

"you sure it isn't stink sensors?"

"what?"

"well, every time i pass one, it goes off. these things are giving me a complex. like they can smell me and no matter how good i think i smell, they think i stink, and are doing their damndest to counteract it."

my wife, the bionic-nosed woman, just laughs, and calls me "silly."

but i see them eyeballing me. they know. as soon as i get close, they are going to cough out their combination of lavender and aqua velva, or rose and old spice, or whatever it is. they will even try to spit it directly on me.

and i begin to wonder if perhaps this new technology is created by some subsidiary of nasa after years of extensive research based on nanite scent detectors they placed in the noses of wives who lost their olfactory nerves in horrible space shuttle accidents.

or maybe i need to start wearing old man cologne.

if i've said it once...

i have said it before, and i will say it again: i am one lucky motherfucker. i remind myself of that daily. that is not to say that i haven't had rough times in my life. times where i wanted to cash in whatever chips i had left and call it quits. times when i wondered where god was hiding that he could no longer see me and the mire of shit i was wading through. but i have always had the good fortune to come out the other side clean and smelling like roses, and beyond a little experience, unscathed.

i see others around me. some who are in something that for me counts as a real trial. my friend melly, same age as me, battling cancer, for example. family members who have battled cancer in the past. people i never got say proper goodbyes to, perhaps, and with whom i may never get the proper closure, until the day i tearfully remind my own loved ones that, regardless of what was going on at the time, i have always been one lucky motherfucker, and then transfer from this existence to the next, where i will meet them again, and say the things i should've always said, except that you think you have forever to convey those feelings that will hit you at midnight on some random thursday a good ten years after you have missed that opportunity.

and i consider myself doubly lucky that i have this awareness of my own luckiness. now, o my beloved non-existent readers, this is not me tooting my own horn. i didn't always feel this way. there was a time when the world was fucking falling apart if the girl i loved didn't love me back. where something as simple and insignificant as that would have me throwing in the towel. i hate to admit it openly, but yes, i have matured. i have realized just how fucking precious this gift we call life is, and just how much of it i have been blessed with.

and again, it may sound like it now, but i am not tooting my own horn. i am not full of myself. if you, the beloved non-existent reader, have been here more than twice you will know this is not my style. i am just a guy, trying to make it happen, trying to be happy, on this little blue marble in the big fucking universe that looms over us every night.

i am trying to remind us that those people who make us aware of just how lucky we are need to be reminded that we have noticed. that we are there for them. that when they wade through that swamp of shit we will be the ones putting out a hand to pull them free, clean and smelling like roses; so that they too may stand on the edge of some cesspool and drag the next lucky motherfucker free with a warm hand and a smile.

none of us are perfect. none of us are happy all the time. i am learning to forgive. i am learning to forget. but happy is the man who is surrounded by the kinds of people who stand ankle-deep in putrid waters (or better yet, come in to the armpits to walk a bit alongside) to cheer us on to whatever finish line awaits us. and i, for one, must say: happy is the man who knows just how fucking lucky he is; just how blessed; just how gifted and happy and cared for he has been his whole life, and how important it is, as one who is a lucky motherfucker, to pass that luck along. how important it is to be willing to wander the swamps lending hands.

i pray, o my beloveds, for i know you are still out there; still wander my way when you find a quiet moment; that you also will pass this along. that you will reach out to those around you who are in need; that you will thank your lucky stars, or god, or whatever power you submit to and in the same breath reach out to the others around that need that.

we are all in this together, and there is nothing more god-like and divine that realizing it, and sharing it.

darth sardonic

metaphysical fiction

i am like the breath through a harmonica: sad, and lonely. my toes still try to dig into the soil, afraid to let go. afraid to change. afraid of what lay beyond the tops of the highest mountains. beyond the increasing hole in the ozone.

afraid, perhaps, of what becomes of all that remains of me when i sever ties with the mud and dirt and the crawling worms to explore the vastness of space without bounds.

but the sun is warm. the sky is blue. my skin is raw. and i need to sail beyond the swirling pain of this existence.

and i let go. at first i only see my yard. the green grass, needing to be mowed. the tree preparing its leaves for a trip just as far in the opposite direction of my own. mossy rocks. crawling beetles.

i spread my arms wide as i pass the top of the fence and begin to see my neighbors and their unmowed lawns, their shrubs, their dying flowers.

i kick hard, like a swimmer evading a shark. these are known to me, familiar; i long to pass beyond this to the unexpected, the unprecedented, the unknown.

the tops of the trees give way to the tops of mountains, and i see the lonely few who travel to these heights to see god and still fall so short. i sidestroke past them on my own rapid trip to the center of my being and the center of the universe.

my being begins to flake as i leave the atmosphere; not due to the extreme cold, for i am no longer capable of feeling it, but as i push past each lightyear into galaxies beyond the scope of our technology, my self is beginning to give away to the forces that have no play on the planet i once called my own.

tendrils of my self wind away like loose threads from an old sweater; warm, fuzzy, and pulling my form into formlessness. these tendrils intertwine with those of my father, and my father's father, and my father's father's father. the familiar stars wind down to holes punched in a frail piece of black cloth as i am now drug by the cosmic fabric into a gap like a patch to fill a void and lose all sense of self in a mesh that becomes a blanket that warms a baby as it sleeps in its crib.

darth sardonic

just more of the same...

what can i say? life continues along, often with nothing to report. so i don't.

what's happened in the last few? well, i am 39 now, though honestly i don't feel it. except maybe for my knee. and the encroaching gray, especially in my goatee.

my wife and i celebrated our 11th year of marriage, and our 12th together. we are still madly in love, and enjoy each other's company.

i've sold quite a few of my books, but apparently not enough to add up to the requisite 25 bucks or whatever it needs to be for the company to send me a check. i honestly may never get one, but that is much less important to me than the fact that i have a book rubbing shoulders with naked lunch, on the road, tropic of cancer, and running with scissors that has my name in the author's slot. i am still working on another memoirs, as well as my fiction novel. i keep telling myself i am going to mail out stand-alone chapters from The Unfinished Work and the upcoming Pierce County to literary magazines and such to drum up interest, and eventually i will.

big dumb animal practices on a regular basis and our main setlist is getting tight. we probably have 20 to 30 songs in the works easy, but are choosing to focus on about 10 until we can play them without thinking. we have an fb page where we post pics and videos, so if you're interested in checking us out, just search facebook for big dumb animal. or friend me on fb and check it out from there. i am actually amused and surprised at the fb friends i already have who i know as non-existent readers.

we have another cat now. a black and white stray we named binx after the cat in "hocus pocus." some family formerly loved him, as he came to us healthy, neutered, and declawed, and he is more friendly than either pele or pepper, and overall, more well-behaved. you do, however, have to watch your dinner with him. we have been spoiled by pepper and pele in that neither one of them has ever been interested in human food. binx, on the other hand...

add him in with the two other cats and our two beta fish (7 and ponyo) and we are close to being ready for forty days and forty nights of rain.

i am doing well in school, and am down to my last four classes. it's pretty exciting, but at the same time, the job market is a little daunting. hopefully there is a big boom in the need for drafters in the area before may.

and that is pretty much it, o my beloved non-existent readers. overall, not much to tell. hence the major gaps in posting.

i cleaned up my pals list as well, as more people have gone leaving their respective blogs (or perhaps me as a reader) behind.

darth sardonic

the air was a-buzz...

when my wife and i first arrived in new mexico from alaska, she was six months pregnant, and i was hanging out during the day in preparation for my soon-to-be career in stay-home parenting.

for the first month or so after we closed on our house in tularosa, i was occupied emptying boxes, finding suitable places for everything, and trolling the local used furniture shops for a few necessary bits and pieces to complete the place.

once this mission was accomplished, however, and without a regular job to keep me occupied, boredom set in, and i began to wander to and fro in the area, hitting pawn shops, antique stores, and what can only be referred to as "junk bazaars" hoping to find some super cheap bit of awesomeness, or at the very least, an inexpensive guitar or bass project.

on the way to high rolls, just before 82 began to climb steeply into the mountains, was one of these junk shops. it looked like a quonset hut erected to house two, or maybe three, small biplanes, with an extended porch-style roof protecting the larger items such as rusty rototillers and vintage schwinn bicycles from the burning afternoon sun. small american flags lined the chainlink fence, behind which were parked a litter of dusty malfunctioned vehicles and signs invited you in to peruse the large assortment of goods while others assured you that the owner was packing heat and would shoot you rather than dial 911 if you were caught shoplifting.

items for sale ranged from farm equipment to glasswares, furniture too new to be antique and too old to be worth anything, and old costume jewelry. as i worked through aisle after aisle of a mind boggling assortment, i found myself near the back of the store, where there were a few specialized rooms. upon opening one, i found rack after rack of forgotten vinyls and 8-track tapes by bands that no one would recognize anymore. in another, library-style magazine racks featuring "club" and "oui" and other skin mags dating from the late 70's and early 80's.

the last one in the row had a sliding glass door, like it had originally been a porch and had eventually been walled in.

so i slid the panel to the side with difficulty as time and settling had caused the tracks to run askew, and stepped into the porch room.

the light was dimmer, and it seemed to have affected my brain, as all my senses seemed dulled momentarily, and my skin was already running in goosebumps before i even realized anything was going on.

the next thing i thought was that i had finally completely snapped, and my new found rock bottom of insanity had manifested itself in a buzzsaw sound that was growing like an approaching chainsaw in my head. i actually reached up and ran my fingers over my scalp and through my hair as if i half-expected them to encounter the teeth of a blade eating through my skull.

then my eyes cleared and i realized where the sound was coming from. every available wall space in the 20x12 room was floor-to-ceiling with terrariums housing snakes. not just any snakes; rattlesnakes. and each and every one of the possibly 200 snakes was pissed off, and expressing itself by rattling its rattles to create a sound that i could only associate with an armageddon of angry hornets and power tools.

i turned back around and exited the room rapidly, shaking my head as if i had gotten water in my ears and could not get it out.

and i did not go back.

darth sardonic

batshit stark-raving barkers (the latest on the tattoo)

the angel girl and devil girl's are all done, as well as the bulk of the background. i go to a tattoo convention in salt lake city, utah (yes, that is mormon central. yes, they have a tattoo convention. yes, it will actually be fun (my tattoo artist says it's always one of the best he has ever been to, and follows that up with the phrase: "the greater the oppression, the bigger the rebellion.") in feb to get more work done, and then one or two more appointments after that, and it will finally be done. i think we are about 35 hours in, at this point.

darth sardonic

randomness is the sugar sprinkles on the ice cream sundae of life

if i let her, my wife will read me the entire list of foods i am allowed to eat on whatever diet she is interested in today.

you cannot split the signals from three gibson g-3 bass pickups to three different phase switches for maximum tonal diversity. it took me a total of four hours bent over a hot soldering iron and a tangle of multicolored wires that would make the most stone-cold bomb technician break out in night sweats to figure it out.

when you are 7 and 8, repetition of one phrase in a high-pitched cartoonish voice is the height of hilarity. it might also land you in the er.

when you are 7 and 8, "daddy, can i have a kuitar lesson?" means: "daddy, can i plug one of your kuitars into the kuitar amp and wail on it like i am the bastard love child of sonic youth and tad."

(in a related story, if you turn to your wife and say, "quick, gimme the name of a guitarist known for atonal and obnoxious noisy solos." she will sputter, stutter, say "jack white." and end lamely by saying, "i don't know guitarists." (i was going to go with pete townsend and kurt cobain, until it occured to me that the obvious subtext to that would be that my kids had smashed my guitar. they treat it very lovingly, as long as you don't mind retuning it when they're done.))

in a not related at all story, if your wife says, "i'm just tired." what she really means is "i'm pissed at you about something and if you are too fucking stupid to figure it out, i sure as hell am not going to waste my time explaining it to you." disappear or look busy for about a half-hour, and whatever it was you had done will have dissipated and been forgotten.

and nothing beats a walk on the beach when it is about 70 with a light breeze blowing in your hair. well, maybe sex. ok, definitely sex.

darth sardonic

this is not a manifesto...

i am going to start this post by saying, i am however many whiskey sodas and smirnoff ices down the tubes.

so this is going to be a literary (or written verbal, not sure which is really appropriate) dump site. no one knows whence my thoughts will wander (and yes, i did say "whence" and i would gladly kick your ass if you take issue with that!)

i had a shitty day.

now, o my beloved droogs n only friends, this; this is nothing new. fuck, considering some of the classes i am having lately, and the course loads, it is a regular fucking deal. we know, right?

who'm i kidding? here i sit, alone, really. only a small group of you still stop by this dung heap on the information superhighway: but here's the thing, even the guy cleaning the port-a-pots is happy with his lot, right?

back to my shitty day, or more appropriately, how unshitty it really becomes in comparison to those that do and deal and fucking take it on a daily basis, right?

cause no one, and i do mean no one, can really understand to what depths we all fall, in and of ourselves. but. the big fat "but" that always rears its ugly head: those depths are still our depths. and the big game we play on this blue marble that has been dropped in a coal bin that fires up the train that rollicks across the universe beyond our ken is ultimately viewed within only our very own eyes.

cause that is how it is.

and those of us who are real friends, and who are self-aware, we approximate, and we do our part to make it pass easier. we see you in your moment of weakness, and we pass you the towel, or the change of clothes, or the cool glass of water, and we don't say anything. ever. never again.

cause somehow we know.

i have friends who have seen their friends blown to bits. i have friends whose friends' blood has been spattered across them. have i ever done this: whoah, i seriously take a drunken lucid moment to pause, and no, i have never held someone in my hands while they breathed their last breath.

some have.

some have been through the dank pits of hell, and only hint at it in moments of weakness. not that i am afraid of the dank pits of hell, and hey! if some of you are gonna be there, i prefer them to shiny happy times, honestly. but still. i have never actually what i would call, "been there."

and that is cause, ultimately, without a shadow of a doubt, i am one lucky motherfucker. but i am one rapt listening son of a bitch when someone who has is sharing these moments with me. i am appreciative. and i try to be the first bastard to say, "you know what? there but for the grace of god go i. and ty. thanks. thank you, cause you are stronger than i will ever be."

put your hand in mine, o my droogs and only friends, my long-suffering non-existent readers, those who return day after day or week after week or even month after month (fuck, i will even take the year-after-year's, cause really, have i been any better? no. no, i have not.) put your hand in mine and together we will traverse this monopoly game-board of life like some red-rover wall, impenetrable as long as we all uniformly and unanimously stay one to the cause.

i warned ya at the beginning of the post, didn't i?

darth sardonic

if only, o my beloveds, i could sometimes convey in a more detailed manner the tangle that occurs in my head, but i discovered something, with the help of lady macleod and a few other close friends that only one thing matters, ultimately: i have got your back. n if you could, for me (which i know is not my usual style to some of you newcomers, but i will tell you, hang around this sorry little excuse for a blog long enough and you will see happens more often than not--), find that one person in your lives who really needs that hug, and give it, without judgement, with total abandon. you may make the difference between life or death. and that is one fucking thing i won't joke about.

a quick one before class...

well, my beloved non-existent readers, we are fast approaching the end of pictorial drafting, which means i will be stupid busy finishing my final project. which means less posting here probably.

i just wrote a review for The Unfinished Work at barnes and noble. initially, this idea felt a bit uncharacteristically full of myself, cocksure, and arrogant. but seeing as no one else added a review, and most of what i am hearing about the book i am getting straight from the horse's mouth, so to speak (my friends might punch me for calling them horses), i felt it might be necessary.

however, i was honest. brutally so, actually. cause i think the book could've (and still can) be alot better. and i said that. but i added that overall i was getting very good feedback, albeit from my own friends and family.

that's pretty much it for now, though my final project for pictorial drafting is pretty fun because i get to design a zero gravity bar in space! me and my partner are having fun with that one.

darth sardonic

60 and cloudy

the spaces between seats are narrow, and it is impossible to navigate them without bumping someone with my carry-on.

a lady next to me is sacked out in her seat. she has herself twisted to the side, her legs tangled under her, her face pressed against one armrest. i can't help but wonder if she will end up with a nasty red, hard-edged strip across one cheek when she awakes.

i do a double take as it appears an old grandmotherly lady a few rows over is openly reading a porn magazine. i am about to applaud her audacity, but upon closer inspection i realize it is just a full-page ad depicting two scantily-clad blondes sitting very close together.

ever since i hurt my thumb and subsequently launched upon this pictorial drafting debaucle, my writing is atrocious and i can only do it for a bit before my hand begins to ache.

the sky is a beautiful shade of robin-egg blue with the sun shining luxuriently. i'm going to trade them for the perpetual gray and drizzle i love so much.

the two ladies across from me are discussing a bad experience with another family member at a family reunion from which they are on their way home. one has a mannish, mr. spock haircut and glasses, and the other's sunglasses are tucked into a feathered 80's style 'do.

the one with gray spock hair grabs her water bottle, causing one of her bags to fall over, bumping the ankle of the sleeping woman, whom i wish, upon waking, would turn towards me so i can check her cheekbone.

another lady joins spock and tina turner hair, obviously related. there is a brief exchange, and the first two leave to get something to eat. as soon as they are gone, the third gets on her cell phone and proceeds to bad-mouth the first two at length to someone on the other end.

i decide they are this flight's terrorists, with plans to hijack delta dl 2758 to minneanapolis, and crash it into one of our national monuments, mt. rushmore. joke's on them, as nobody will even miss it.

i overhear someone behind me say, "i'm dying on the inside." i fight the urge to offer to match up the rest of him.

off to get some water and a snack.

other notes of interest: while i always miss the pacific northwest, i do not miss her traffic.

my back feels like someone used a cheesegrater on it. pics soon.

to the old fucker in the truck who nearly hit me/ran me off the road when changing lanes without signalling/looking; and the metric fuckton of commuters who slammed on their breaks in unison to rubberneck world's smallest and least interesting fenderbender: if i find you motherfuckers, i am beating you soundly till my arms drop off.

that is all.

darth sardonic

Catastrophe keeps us together.

i am on the ropes.

a few years back i posted about how i never quit fighting though i am low, and bleeding, and hanging onto a turnbuckle for dear life.

and i am reminding myself of having said that. over and over. because, o dear beloved non-existent readers, who so lovingly commiserate with me time after time after motherfucking time and still keep cheering from the cheap seats; shouting: "get back up! keep going! you can do it!" i am reminding myself that i have said this because i am on the ropes, and i really want to toss up my hands, toss in the towel, wave the white flag and sink onto the bloodstained canvas for a very long nap.

i want to piss it all away into a mud of self-loathing and self-pity and wallow like a fat pig.

needless to say, it's been a rough couple of weeks.

i kinda don't want to dwell on the why too much. suffice to say, in the past week i have: taken my car to the shop for the third time in a month, thought i was done with my kiosk project in pictorial drafting only to find out today that the teacher failed to let us know clearly that there was still more to do, ordered a new cell phone after i washed my old one with the jeans the cats used as a litter box one morning, and showed no. 1 pictures of homeless people so that he might start getting prepared for the career his current attitude is setting him up for.

that's the cliff notes.

i am exhausted. i've lost count of the rounds i have gone, let alone the jabs and uppercuts that have landed soundly. i am reeling, punch drunk and dreaming of being normal drunk instead. i can't remember the last thing the coach said as he slathered me with vaseline and spread medication on my swelling eyes and nose.

i don't quit fighting.

i also remember a time when a very tiny darth sat in a very tiny room at a very tiny ronald mcdonald house and begged a very large god to take a very tiny break on a very tiny family and its very tiny newest member in particular.

i was punch drunk then, too. i was seeing double. i was stumbling around trying to avoid any more blows, cause i knew another one would lay me out.

i was begging for the bell like i'm begging for the bell now.

i won't stop fighting. i won't. but a nice sit on a hard stool, a swig of cold water, a bloody spit in a bucket, shouted advice from a grouchy old cuss with a stogie jutting from his gob; these might be in order.

i'm hanging in there, o my droogs and only friends, but i'm tellin ya, one more solid punch and i am going backwards through the air, my hair whipping sweat, like brad pitt's character in snatch to lay flat out on the boards, watching from a watery metaphor below as my opponent kicks me repeatedly in the ribs.

hey, god? can we ring the bell, just for a bit, please?

darth sardonic

i mean, really!

ok, if you have been reading at this tiny bit of broken glass on the beaches of the world wide web for any length of time, you know i am completely down with nudity (my own, and that of others).

it's also possible, o my droogs and only friends, my long-suffering non-existent readers, that you might've also cottoned to the fact that i am a firm believer that there is a time a place for everything.

so here's the rub: i will not be finding any new pals to add to the list today as a result of one particular blogger somewhere in germany.

i clicked on "naked lunch" in my favorite books and commenced traversing the blogsphere like a much taller and only slightly less rounder bilbo baggins. blog number four featured a not-so-slim fella who apparently held the camera just below his (rather small, shriveled, ugly, and uncircumcised) genitalia and snapped a pic upwards towards his face, so that the very first thing greeting my upon looking was his semi-erect cock.

now, again, penises don't bother me. nudity does not bother me. but when i am fucking searching for blogs to read, i really don't want to be bombarded by your dick! i'd rather not find myself positioned somewhere slightly below your scrotum like you and i are on the most intimate of terms. these sorts of things need a certain amount of warning, of prep, or at the very least, the proper mindset to start off with: "ok, it's no big deal, i am gonna be seeing a naked middle-aged man. so don't freak out." at the very least, right?

but here i am, munching on a sandwich, thinking (the truth comes out as to how i search for pals, lol): "boring, boring, full of himself, boring, way too high-maintenance, bor--holy fucking two-week old fuckstain!! what the fuck?!!? who would do that?!? fucking warn a guy, jesus christ!"

so if i have no one new to add, you, the beleaguered non-existents, might understand why.

thanks for playing along.

darth sardonic

Had a nice grip on my life 'til you twisted my arm

ah, how life twists and turns and weaves and bobs. the "pals list" is cleaned up. for the most part, i removed people who don't post anymore. in a few others, i removed people i just don't read anymore, and i suspect don't read me. it was a little painful removing krissie. i've no idea what happened to her. i actually had her on my fb as a friend as well, and she is no longer there either. gringa, if you might shed some light...? i kept a few around for a bit longer to see what the authors do next. soon hopefully i will venture back out into the blogsphere and see if i might find some new "pals" to be interested in. but lately i have been too busy and stressed and here's why:

warning: long whiney ranting blog to ensue. proceed at your own risk.

when i signed up for pictorial drafting, i knew it was going to be a hand-drafting class.

what i did not know is that the class would be 50% interior design students, the majority of which have never drafted in any way shape or form, and 50% drafting and design students, most of which have only drafted on the computer. furthermore, i did not know the teacher would be disorganized and ramble for literally an hour about things that will not be useful ever, not even in the drafting job market. i did not know that she would not bother to teach us any hand-drafting techniques whatsoever, but rather; would give us our very first project to accomplish as a group in hopes that we would just pick up the necessary methods for properly hand-drafting.

i did not know that the teacher would give us our first project on the very first day of class, and that we would start project number two the same day we turned in that project, and project number three would start the same day number two is due, and so on through to the end of class. i did not know, that when i say, "this aspect of this project doesn't make any sense, and should be changed" the professor would hide behind "i didn't come up with the projects, i just teach the class" and leave us to flounder with some requirements that seem almost contradictory. are you not the teacher? is it not your class? can't you step up to the plate, make a command decision, display some guts, and say, "fuck this lame-ass project, we're not even gonna do it"?

i did not know i would spend literally every weekend, and most weeknights, since starting the class, at the kitchen table with vellum taped to a piece of foamcore, carefully and painfully mapping out floor plans or elevation drawings by hand with a t-square.

here's why it is so much more frustrating than your average, run-of-the-mill drafting class with way too much homework and a disorganized teacher:

first, the class is an elective. i didn't have to take this class. i could've taken vector graphics, or pro-e. i chose pictorial drafting because i needed to have a full time course load to get the full amount of g.i. bill each month, and this one worked with my schedule. if i could travel back in time, i would tell the then me "no way, dude, you don't wanna do this."

secondly, the teacher is a career interior designer. and the other teachers of this class are as well. which means that not only will i have to draft stuff by hand, but i will be required to design things. and not just design these objects (most recent, a kiosk like you find selling cheap jewelry and shitty cell phones at the mall), but wax lyrical about what kind of carpet or paint i might use and why the color of the plastic chairs will bring out the gold that is in the... whatever. i am not an interior design student. i will be an autocad operator. i will draft the things that are given to me. i will not decide what cloth the furniture should be upholstered in. and yet, i need to do that for one of my projects.

third, and perhaps most important: hand-drafting has moved from the ranks of necessary job description to art form. the analogy i keep using is this: let's just say you are having a great party. all your friends show up, everyone is having a wonderful time, all the guests are laughing and playing and enjoying themselves. you want to capture this moment to remember always.

now, you wouldn't call rembrandt or dali or van gogh and have them come over to paint you a portrait of the good time your friends are having at your party. that's ridiculous, it's ineffective, it's time-consuming. you would grab your camera and take a (or several) picture(s) and download them to your computer.

with the advent of computers, and computer drafting software, hand drafting has been rendered obsolete. despite how the professor goes on and on about how she thinks it will impress our future employers to see carefully hand-drafted plans; and how she thinks it is just easier and faster to hand-draft an idea rather than doing it on the computer, hand-drafting is a waste of time. in something like a half-hour, i had successfully drafted out (in 3-d, no less) my kiosk idea on autocad, so that i would have an idea to work from when i am hand-drafting the different elevations of my kiosk. it takes nearly a half-hour to get my vellum taped down properly and all the tools i need to do the task out and ready to go. forget all about actually laying a pencil line down.

this particular kiosk project pisses me off to no end. here's why, o my beloved non-existent readers: initially, the teacher said she wanted us to "design" a kiosk. in my sardonic, flip kind of way, i decided i was going to make a space-kiosk to sell tang to the astronauts of the international space station (i actually kept saying the mir space station until one of my friends said, "i think they blew that up." "no way!" "yeah, don't you remember taco bell put a big target out in the ocean, and if the mir hit the target everyone would get free tacos?" "what?!?" and yes, as it turns out, he's right on both counts), and eventually moon base alpha and then colonies on mars. i was very excited about the idea, because i wanted to use the millenium falcon and elroy(from the jestons)'s little space scooter as my main design inspirations. it was a project i was actually excited to get behind.

then the teacher told us that we had to pick from a list of (rather uninspired and mundane) objects to sell.

well, smoothies were on there, so switch it to tang smoothies. problem solved. but then my kiosk has to fit into a 7'X5'X7' cube. bleh. then it has to have 42 linear feet of display. (i ask her, "if i have a smoothie shop, what exactly am i displaying?" "well, maybe you have to display the fruit or something.") it also, above and beyond the display, has to have 70 cubic feet of storage. (again, i ask why i would need that much storage in a smoothie shop. i am told that that is what i will have to figure out. i reply, well you can't slap a one-size-fits-all requirement on kiosks selling merchandise as varied as smoothies, ties, surf boards, and hermit crabs. she says again, "well, that is what you will have to figure out." i say nothing, but think, "i have already figured it out. i have figured out that all this display and storage space would be completely unnecessary in my kiosk, but that a human operator would sure appreciate the room to move around.") i actually contemplate just finding a kiosk at the mall that is selling something on the list (ipods or jewelry), measuring it, taking a few quick sketches, and cranking out someone else's idea and turning it in as my own, so strict is the rubric. and the teacher actually says that this isn't a bad idea(!!!)

comme ce, comme ca, o my droogs and only friends: my kiosk is actually going to be in a hallway of the international space station. the makers of tang have designed a revolutionary advance in the field of robotics called the "smoothiebot 5000" that will hover over the 84 (count 'em, 84!) cubic feet of storage and create your smoothie within the confines of its titanium belly. fresh fruit as well as canisters advertising the different flavors of tang that can be used in the smoothies will equal about 48 linear feet of display, and there is absolutely no way the teacher can complain about my kiosk as it meets all her requirements as delineated in the syllabus, and i get to do a project i can actually be somewhat enthused about.

just seven more weeks of this stupid shit.

darth sardonic

big dumb animal, "i must be doing something wrong"

as promised, a video clip of big dumb animal (my band) performing a song i wrote many years ago (but made a million times better by s-the guitarist's additions) entitled, "i must be doing something wrong" (and yes, i am singing. no, i am not even in the least bit sorry.)

synopsis...

i have amazing friends. my family rocks. i want to punch my pictorial drafting teacher in the face. my book, The Unfinished Work, might finally actually just possibly be available to anyone and everyone regardless of color, race, religion, creed, or country of origin of said person's credit card as long as they have access to the internet and a means to make online payments. i'll know for sure in 3-13 more days. naturally, i will let you, the beloved non-existents know when i know, and most likely post a link or some such thing. i am still working on my fiction novel, but think i have enough blog posts and sundry miscellaneous stories to do another memoirs cum insanity cum essays from the inner dank reaches of my mind follow-up to The Unfinished Work that i am thinking will be entitled Pierce County. my guitarist, s, should be home in less than a month and then big dumb animal (as we have dubbed ourselves) will immediately begin preparing ourselves to actually play bars and clubs and such and take our show on the road. i might post an old video of us playing a song i wrote here eventually.

i guess that more or less sums it up for now, o my droogs and only friends.

darth sardonic

smile scream always so extreme

man, o my beloved non-existent readers, my droogs n only friends, i have decided: a.) i am a shitty poster, and b.) i am a lousy fucking friend.

gringa, i finally got your link fixed.

i just finished up mid-terms, in which i had four essays, ten drawings, and two tests all due within the scope of a week.

and i have been feeling pretty selfish lately i guess. hording my free time and wanting to spend it doing only the things i want to do. and of course, the creative energy i would normally spend coming up with witty posts is instead being channeled into all these essays and such in the hallowed and hollowed halls of higher learning. (say that ten times fast.)

but i do have this for you:

we have long held in my household that if you want to hide something from my view, simply place it on a shelf behind something else. i will never find it. i am sure all of you, the beloveds, are snickering because you know some other male who finds himself in this self-same category.

well, the other day i am looking for the last rock glass that hasn't been left in a drunken haze at one of the neighbors' houses, i look in the cupboard, the dishwasher, the sink, the side table by the couch; marred with moisture ring scars the exact size of the bottom of said rock glass: to no avail.

suffice to say, o my beloveds, i am kinda aggravated. it's been one of those days. i want a goddamn drink. where the sweet cherry fuckstain is my glass...?

"it's in the cabinet with the rest of the glasses." my wife is sooo helpful.

"it is not! i looked there, twice!!" i spout, all piss n vinegar as i yank open the cupboard for the third time and--

"well fuck me gently with a chainsaw! why'd you put it on this side of the small juice glasses?"

(an aside: what the hell purpose do the small juice glasses really serve? i mean, does anyone still make a "well-balanced breakfast" replete with cheerios, toast and jam, a large glass of milk, and the apparently quintessential juice glass of oj? they are sorta the right size for a gibson i have noticed though, as long as you don't make it a double... now back to your regularly-scheduled program.)

"are you serious? you couldn't find it because it was on the other side of the juice glasses?!?"

i take a deep, steadying breath, and let it out in a prolonged sigh of surrender.

"let me see if i can attempt to explain the phenomenon of my inability to find things in pantries and on shelves to you, once and for all:"

she is already starting to giggle at me. which of course, makes me want to pour on the theatrics.

"let's say you tell me to get the medicine." i say, holding up one of the boys' prescription bottles, "and this is what i see in my head. an rx bottle. but let's just say the medicine actually looks like this:" holding up a blister-pack of gas-x.

"i will look thither n yon. my eyes will pass over this little packet of pills a million times without ever registering them, because i am looking for a bottle."

the giggles are full-on laughs.

"furthermore, if i think the object i am looking for is red, and it is actually blue, same thing, it's like it doesn't even exist."

the laughs are tears and are bordering on snorts, and by christ, o my beloved non-existents, i am hell-bent for a series of snorts.

"but the biggest way to confuse me is to put something slightly out of place from where it should be. if i know it is in a certain spot, then i won't be looking for it anywhere else, even if that is on the left side of the juice glasses instead of the right. since they are glasses, and it's a glass, it was completely invisible to my eyes."

i get the crescendo of laugh-snort-laugh that i so desperately needed at this point, and smile myself as i fix an old fashioned in my newly rediscovered rocks glass.

darth sardonic