If you haven't played the first Midnight Club, don't worry about it - this one is infinitely better, and not just because of the above news. It's faster, looks better, plays smoother, and did I mention it's faster? Rock on!

Tuesday, February 04, 2003

New Land Speed Record

So today, I had my follow-up appointment at my doctor's office. Hopefully, this time, I'd get my dermatologist referral. Instead, he took a quick look to see that the prescribed cream was working, told me I'm better now, to keep using it, and if there are any problems, I could come for a referral. Total time: 20 seconds. Maybe less.

You know those NFL ads with Don Cheadle talking about football redefining five seconds as a long amount of time? I believe HMO healthcare pioneered the use of seconds as a standard unit of measure. Oh, the one-liners they could use for such an ad for Blue Shield.

It took me more than my time with my doctor to get out my wallet and pay my "Ten Dalla Copay Please!"

My appointment was shorter than a J-Lo marriage.

Premature ejaculators take longer to climax. (Not that I'd know about this.)

It's about the same amount of time it takes for George W. Bush to spit out a 4-syllable word.

However you'd like to put it, this sort of healthcare is unacceptable. After today's appointment, I still don't know exactly what will prevent future dermatitis, what I should do to take better care of my skin, or anything more than I knew going in the first time. If I don't use the medication often enough, is there an increased risk of skin cancer? And what's the risk of overuse of corticosteroids? I read something about an "HP Axis" or whatnot, but I don't know what that means. Again, I'll have to research this stuff on the web by myself, since my doctor can't even pronounce "atopic dermatitis," let alone "Elocon."

I'll definitely be changing doctors for next time. After all, it'd at least be interesting to find a whole different sort of incompetence.

Monday, February 03, 2003

My New Toy

Brutal putdowns. Populist art. The straight dope. This is going to be fun. I'm telling you the troof.

Too Bad I Don't Get Homework Anymore

On the plane back to San Blasé, I was reading a prophetic book from 15 years ago about how the oligopolies are taking over America - this after reading a review of the new Hunter S. Thompson book on how we've really become an oligarchy.

It's a shame it's not like junior high where you have to come back with a project influenced by your reading anymore. It forces you to think about it. And if I did have to do a reading-based art project tonight, this would be it.

Saturday, February 01, 2003

I Still Love LA

Sure, the temperature dropped 15 degrees to a biting 75 degrees today, but somehow, I'm dealing with it. Take that, my Bay Area brethren! I'm not coming back, I tell ya. I'll send for my things once I find an apartment. And car. And job. And...

Friday, January 31, 2003

I Love L.A.

Yeah, there's all the pretense, bullshit, and backstabbing, but you know what? It's the last day of January and it's freakin' 90 degrees here. Beach weather in January! On this side of the hemisphere! Sunnyvale can suck my...

Tuesday, January 28, 2003

Very Funny. It's Atopic Dermatitis.

What do I have to do, hold a Mike Piazza-style press conference? After learning of my adventures in bad medicine (see below) and the subsequent publishing of an article on Yahoo News, some have suggested that maybe I have this curious skin malady that affects gay men in L.A.

Certainly, I take many trips to Los Angeles. (I'll be there Thursday night, SoCal. You've been warned.) And I have exquisite taste in clothes. And I mix and produce electronic dance music. But dammit, I dig CHICKS. (I doubt they dig me, but that's beside the point.)

Enough of that crapola. It doesn't matter what you think, anyhow. More interesting, though, is how the follies in healthcare continue. I dropped by the local pharmacy last night to have my mysterious prescription filled. Unfortunately, not even the veteran pharmacologists at Walgreen's could decipher what-on-God's-green-Earth my splendid doctor had prescribed me. We could tell it was a cream. We could tell it was a 0.1% concentration. And, umm, that's about it. They told me I'd have to come back tomorrow (today, now) after they call the doctor to find out what he wrote. I wished them luck.

I called Walgreen's to verify my prescription, and I'm going to leave work shortly to pick up my tube of cream. It turns out it's for dermatitis, not some antibiotic-resistant staph infection. Not that my doctor was capable of communicating any of this to me...

Monday, January 27, 2003

Corporate Medicine Still Sucks

Last week, I expressed my fears of going to the doctor. While I've long gotten over my fear of needles, yucky medications, and those paper aprons, I still get nervous about two things: rectal exams and shitty medical care. I only had to deal with the latter today.

My assigned doctor's philosophy of service seems to have come from the Chili's-to-Go ad campaign: "Get in. Get Out. Get on with your life." While this is fine and dandy in the world of mid-quality chain restaurant food, it seems to be in medicine... how do you say it? Ah, yes, absolute bullshit.

Dr. Kim's office is obviously an HMO revolving door. From the 20+ year-old carpeting to the faded, taped up medical posters featuring artwork from the 1970's, the place simply screams "We just want your insurance money." In fact, the phrase I heard uttered most during my visit was, "Ten dollar copay, please!" You can just see those Alexander Hamiltons going to good use.

My actual time with the doctor topped out at a whopping three minutes. Mind you, this includes all the times I had to say, "Pardon me?" since I couldn't understand half of the words coming out of his mouth - not because I'm unfamiliar with medical terminology, but because of his 5th grade command of the English language. The edited version of the exam is as follows:

"How old are you?" "28." "Do you smoke?" "No." "Can you urinate?" "Yes." "Regular bowel movement?" "Yes." "Chest pain?" "No." "Short of breath?" "No." "Then why come here?" "Because I wanted to get a regular physical, and also to get a referral to a dermatologist for some redness on my skin." (Blank look for a few seconds, so I try again, slowly.) "Some-times, when I work out, and I sweat, my skin gets ir-ri-ta-ted and red in pat-ches. And then the patches stay for a long time. I'm won-de-ring what this is and would like to see a der-ma-to-lo-gist." "Ok, take shirt." "See, around my shoulders and neck..." "You have chest pain?" "No." "Short of breath?" "NO." He gets out the prescription pad and writes me a scrip for a cream - without having really looked at me at all. "Write your own name. Use this, come see me next week, then you see skin doctor." "What about an exam?" He begrudgingly checks my blood pressure and heartbeat. "Slightly high. But ok. Come see next week."

So I can give them another copayment before my referral. I made my way out as he kicked back with a warm beverage and continued to read his newspaper.

If there was anything good about the visit, I encountered some funnies during my seemingly endless wait in the reception area. The receptionist sounded just like Margaret Cho doing an impression of her mom, so as I was flipping through six month-old magazines, I couldn't help but let out a chuckle or two.

Glad to see what passes as acceptable medical care in the richest, most powerful country in the world...

Thursday, January 23, 2003

A Letter Received...

IMMEDIATE ATTENTION NEEDED :
HIGHLY CONFIDENTIAL

FROM: GEORGE WALKER BUSH
202.456.1414 / 202.456.1111
FAX: 202.456.2461

DEAR SIR / MADAM,

I AM GEORGE WALKER BUSH, SON OF THE FORMER PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA GEORGE HERBERT WALKER BUSH, AND CURRENTLY SERVING AS PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. THIS LETTER MIGHT SURPRISE YOU BECAUSE WE HAVE NOT MET NEITHER IN PERSON NOR BY CORRESPONDENCE. I CAME TO KNOW OF YOU IN MY SEARCH FOR A RELIABLE AND REPUTABLE PERSON TO HANDLE A VERY CONFIDENTIAL BUSINESS TRANSACTION, WHICH INVOLVES THE TRANSFER OF A HUGE SUM OF MONEY TO AN ACCOUNT REQUIRING MAXIMUM CONFIDENCE.

I AM WRITING YOU IN ABSOLUTE CONFIDENCE PRIMARILY TO SEEK YOUR ASSISTANCE IN ACQUIRING OIL FUNDS THAT ARE PRESENTLY TRAPPED IN THE REPUBLIC OF IRAQ. MY PARTNERS AND I SOLICIT YOUR ASSISTANCE IN COMPLETING A TRANSACTION BEGUN BY MY FATHER, WHO HAS LONG BEEN ACTIVELY ENGAGED IN THE EXTRACTION OF PETROLEUM IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA, AND BRAVELY SERVED HIS COUNTRY AS DIRECTOR OF THE UNITED STATES CENTRAL INTELLIGENCE AGENCY (CIA).

IN THE DECADE OF THE NINETEEN-EIGHTIES, MY FATHER, THEN VICE-PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA, SOUGHT TO WORK WITH THE GOOD OFFICES OF THE PRESIDENT OF THE REPUBLIC OF IRAQ TO REGAIN LOST OIL REVENUE SOURCES IN THE NEIGHBORING ISLAMIC REPUBLIC OF IRAN. THIS UNSUCCESSFUL VENTURE WAS SOON FOLLOWED BY A FALLING-OUT WITH HIS IRAQI PARTNER, WHO SOUGHT TO ACQUIRE ADDITIONAL OIL REVENUE SOURCES IN THE NEIGHBORING EMIRATE OF KUWAIT, A WHOLLY-OWNED U.S.-BRITISH SUBSIDIARY.

MY FATHER RE-SECURED THE PETROLEUM ASSETS OF KUWAIT IN 1991 AT A COST OF SIXTY-ONE BILLION U.S. DOLLARS ($61,000,000,000). OUT OF THAT COST, THIRTY-SIX BILLION DOLLARS ($36,000,000,000) WERE SUPPLIED BY HIS PARTNERS IN THE KINGDOM OF SAUDI ARABIA AND OTHER PERSIAN GULF MONARCHIES, AND SIXTEEN BILLION DOLLARS ($16,000,000,000) BY GERMAN AND JAPANESE PARTNERS. BUT MY FATHER'S FORMER IRAQI BUSINESS PARTNER REMAINED IN CONTROL OF THE REPUBLIC OF IRAQ AND ITS PETROLEUM RESERVES.

MY FAMILY IS CALLING FOR YOUR URGENT ASSISTANCE IN FUNDING THE REMOVAL OF THE PRESIDENT OF THE REPUBLIC OF IRAQ AND ACQUIRING THE PETROLEUM ASSETS OF HIS COUNTRY, AS COMPENSATION FOR THE COSTS OF REMOVING HIM FROM POWER. UNFORTUNATELY, OUR PARTNERS FROM 1991 ARE NOT WILLING TO SHOULDER THE BURDEN OF THIS NEW VENTURE, WHICH IN ITS UPCOMING PHASE MAY COST THE SUM OF 100 BILLION TO 200 BILLION DOLLARS ($100,000,000,000 - $200,000,000,000), BOTH IN THE INITIAL ACQUISITION AND IN LONG-TERM MANAGEMENT.

WITHOUT THE FUNDS FROM OUR 1991 PARTNERS, WE WOULD NOT BE ABLE TO ACQUIRE THE OIL REVENUE TRAPPED WITHIN IRAQ. THAT IS WHY MY FAMILY AND OUR COLLEAGUES ARE URGENTLY SEEKING YOUR GRACIOUS ASSISTANCE. OUR DISTINGUISHED COLLEAGUES IN THIS BUSINESS TRANSACTION INCLUDE THE SITTING VICE-PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA, RICHARD CHENEY, WHO IS AN ORIGINAL PARTNER IN THE IRAQ VENTURE AND FORMER HEAD OF THE HALLIBURTON OIL COMPANY, AND CONDOLEEZA RICE, WHOSE PROFESSIONAL DEDICATION TO THE VENTURE WAS DEMONSTRATED IN THE NAMING OF A CHEVRON OIL TANKER AFTER HER.

I WOULD BESEECH YOU TO TRANSFER A SUM EQUALING TEN TO TWENTY-FIVE PERCENT (10-25 %) OF YOUR YEARLY INCOME TO OUR ACCOUNT TO AID IN THIS
IMPORTANT VENTURE. THE INTERNAL REVENUE SERVICE OF THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA WILL FUNCTION AS OUR TRUSTED INTERMEDIARY. I PROPOSE THAT YOU MAKE THIS TRANSFER BEFORE THE FIFTEENTH (15TH) OF THE MONTH OF APRIL.

I KNOW THAT A TRANSACTION OF THIS MAGNITUDE WOULD MAKE ANYONE APPREHENSIVE AND WORRIED. BUT I AM ASSURING YOU THAT ALL WILL BE WELL AT THE END OF THE DAY. A BOLD STEP TAKEN SHALL NOT BE REGRETTED, I ASSURE YOU. PLEASE DO BE INFORMED THAT THIS BUSINESS TRANSACTION IS 100% LEGAL. IF YOU DO NOT WISH TO CO-OPERATE IN THIS TRANSACTION, PLEASE CONTACT OUR INTERMEDIARY REPRESENTATIVES TO FURTHER DISCUSS THE MATTER.

I PRAY THAT YOU UNDERSTAND OUR PLIGHT. MY FAMILY AND OUR COLLEAGUES WILL BE FOREVER GRATEFUL. PLEASE REPLY IN STRICT CONFIDENCE TO THE CONTACT NUMBERS BELOW.

SINCERELY WITH WARM REGARDS,

GEORGE WALKER BUSH

Switchboard: 202.456.1414
Comments: 202.456.1111
Fax: 202.456.2461
Email: president@whitehouse.gov

Gimme a Wake!

I know, I know, that's awful, but sometimes I can't help it. I'm mean, ok?

But seriously, a big RIP to Nell Carter. I don't know much about her, but growing up as a chubby, little brown kid getting pushed around in a honky neighborhood, there was something totally cool about a big, mean woman of color telling all these yuppies what to do.

Wednesday, January 22, 2003

Advertising as Haiku

Advertising - good advertising, at least - is an artform. This statement is a no-brainer, considering the eager anticipation much of us are experiencing while waiting for the coming weekend's Super Bowl ads. A good advertisement can entertain us, cheer us up, or simply (here's the shocker) make a good impression on us that we will later associate with a product or service.

With a medium like television, though, the only limits are budget and creativity. Even the 30-second rule goes out the window if you have the money. I learned today, though, that good print advertising is truly a confined, disciplined art, much like haiku.

In a good print ad, you have a very finite amount of time and space to register a good impression. Unlike television or radio, where you have a mostly-captive audience, a magazine reader can easily thumb past your thousand-dollars-per-square-inch glossy masterpiece with nary a thought.

And as much as you'd like to say about your product, there's no way you can tell the Gentle Reader about it in detail without lulling them to sleep. In essence, you have about one image and five or six big, boldfaced words to grab their attention. Period. Because if those don't do the trick, they're not going to read the blurb on your product or the contact information or the URL or what stores it's available in.

Yet in those few words, you have to convey some sort of truth (or something that passes as truth) that resonates in the reader as though it's something universal. In a handful of syllables, you have to make the reader stop in his or her tracks, think, and make sense of what you put up in giant Garamond or Arial Black or whatever typeface your old art director decided eight years ago would be your company font.

It's a tough job, especially when attention spans are short and so many brief word combinations have become cliché. A good print ad is like a good haiku. Brutally simple, yet involving and thought- or emotion-provoking.

Well, the one I'm working on isn't quite there yet, but at least I finally understand my goal. Now I just have to figure out how the hell I can make database development sound intriguing in a metaphorical 5-7-5. In a magazine for geeks. By tomorrow. Oh god, I'm fucked.

Tuesday, January 21, 2003

I love HMO's!

They're so cool! They assign you a doctor you know nothing about. You don't know if they're qualified, how professional they are, or any other silly non-issues like that! Isn't it great?

Today, to celebrate one year without using my Blue Shield HMO plan, I scheduled a doctor's appointment. I'm only doing this so I can get referred to a dermatologist, so next Monday I'm going to grin and bear (bare?) it when a doctor I know nothing about is going to ask me to strip down, cough, or whatever.

My reservations come from the fact that I couldn't understand a damn word of the broken English the receptionist was speaking as I was making my appointment. From my adventures in dentistry, I've learned that a medical professional who doesn't put on a good face (i.e. have a good front office that can politely deal with prospective patients) probably lags in all other areas that make a patient feel confident and comfortable with the care they're getting.

So although I'm a big boy now and shouldn't be frightened by a visit to the doctor's office, I am. If by next Monday afternoon I'm dead, please hunt down Dr. Kim in Sunnyvale. Thank you.

Monday, January 20, 2003

When Church and State Collide


It ain't pretty. But we seem to be well on our way to watch this collision repeatedly while the current regime rules our lives. I ran across an AP photo today and decided to crop it appropriately and turn it into one of those halftone, activist-type stickers. You can download a PDF of it here if you want to print it out in full resolution to show your displeasure. Or better yet, you can send it in to Stickerguy.com and have it made into a vinyl, weatherproof sticker for serious subversion. (Not that I would ever condone subversive behavior of any kind!)

A Thought...

This has been bugging me all weekend. No one's been able to answer this query. Perhaps because it's rhetorical.

So if you've been exposed to that horrid little box called "television" lately, you may have seen a Ford Motor Company ad featuring country/western "sensation" Toby Keith singing about their trucks. The lyrics go "I'm a Ford truck man / That's all I drive / Ain't got no boundaries / No compromise."

Now, humor me for a moment and try to answer this. If Mr. Keith will drive Ford trucks exclusively, is that not a boundary?

I never realized until now that country music is abound with paradoxical riddles. No wonder the stuff makes millions. I hereby repent for my numerous years spent ridiculing the genre.

Liar, Liar, Pants on Fire

Once again, I have reneged on my promise to update the journal regularly. Not that enough people read this to warrant my guilt, but I do like to keep promises to myself, at the very least.

So in this third week of the year 2003, I hereby resolve to write on a more regular basis. I hadn't made any New Year's resolutions, so why not start out now?

On the other hand, I am considering starting a new site - kind of a media-oriented, opinion-driven magazine - fueled entirely by blogs, but at the time, I don't have the resources. Plenty of ideas, but few resources.

Speaking of which, I may be spreading myself too thin lately. In addition to my daily grind of going to work, I've been dividing my time between photography, making music, improving my DJ skills, songwriting, voice training, reading, and getting back into my artwork. I realized very recently that I have a tendency - even when I have free time - to forgo relaxation for as much activity as possible. I've also come to realize that I go insane if I'm on vacation (as I was during Christmastime) and I'm not being productive - not in a workaholic sort of way - I'd totally relax if I were on the beach or in Tahoe. I just hate not doing something I actually enjoy when given the opportunity not to be in my cubicle. Perhaps this is a hint that I need to find something more enjoyable to do in the daylight hours... Hmmmmm...

Thursday, September 26, 2002

Beautiful Smog

It never ceases to amaze me when the most beautiful sights spring from bad things. The view out of our building today is of the Santa Clara Valley, blanketed in a thick layer of white haze, the true meaning of smog: a combination of smoke and fog.

We've been marveling at it all morning, not only because it's not an everyday occurence, but also because it is simply beautiful. A co-worker commented how it looks very Lord of the Rings-ish, with thousands of trees poking up through the haze of the valley floor.

Unfortunately, unlike a misty forest somewhere in New Zealand, it smells like standing too close to a hickory barbecue outside. Oh well.

Tuesday, September 17, 2002

In Case Anybody Forgot...

Windows XP really sucks my ass.

Tuesday, September 10, 2002

Help! Help! I'm being repressed!

IT is forcing me to install Windows XP on my PC at work. My eyes are currently being deluged by that hideous combination of blue, orange, and green that only a Florida Gators fan would appreciate. I want to sue Microsoft for visual assault.

Happy Birthday, Vince!

There, I finally got around to updating my page. At least I had a good reason! Anyway, happy 29th, you old fart.

For those of you readers who aren't familiar with him (don't you view the galleries?), the V-man has been my pal since I can remember, and an occasional co-conspirator on the site - at least, whenever I force him to hold the camera when we're out partying. He's been part of the reason that I haven't been updating the site as much as I like lately. Considering I've helped him move three times ::glare:: in as many weeks and that we've been hanging out watching DVDs on his big, bad TV in his swingin' new bachelor pad, I've been slacking on my web site duties.

So once again, happy birthday, d00d. As for the rest of ya, I'll whip up a present in the form of bitchin' galleries of Sonic Youth, Lenny Kravitz, non-club ::gasp:: adventures in SF, and some schmuck DJ named Omi-San in the very near future.

Wednesday, August 21, 2002

Truth, Justice, and the American Way

I was just interviewed by arson investigators about the Santana Row fire, and now they want my pictures. Woo hoo! Who'd ever thought that a big old inferno would create demands for my photography?

Co-workers and I were joking about pasting in pictures of Bert or Osama Bin Laden to mess with them, but do I really want that obstruction-of-justice rap? I think not! It would be funny, though ;)

Hmmm.. how about pasting in a silhouette of an enemy with a big ol' gas can?

Thursday, August 15, 2002

Wham Bam Thank You Ma'am!

No, I didn't do anything stupid. Just quoting Bowie's "Sufragette City." I just got back from the Area2 festival and I thought I would gloat. That is all.

Sunday, August 04, 2002

Portraits of Pain

After the accident described below, I handed the trusty ol' digicam to my mom to snap a few pictures in the lovely light of the back yard. Yes! For your entertainment, I decided to forgo the sanitization of my wounds for a bit and commit some images to digital "film." Either way, I like to document my little mishaps, if only to serve as a reminder to be more careful in the future. (If you see my gallery section on road trips, you'll find one of me in a splint after skiing... oops!)

To spare more squeamish readers the sight of blood, abbrasions, and me being smug, the pictures will only be text links:

1) This summer's puffy take on road rash, as modeled by my right hand.
2) Bloody hell! I've got a bloody knee!
3) You can't see the damage my ribs sustained, as they're hidden under my nicely soiled shirt and a nice layer of skin. That nice, straight dirt stain is from sliding along the curb for a couple of feet. Despite the pain, I still put on a tough guy pose, because I can't be a wussy in front of my mommy.

As you can see, the injuries aren't too bad. But they certainly don't feel good. I hope this can serve as a reminder to everyone that urban sprawl is dangerous! And now back to your regularly scheduled soapboxing...

Monday, July 29, 2002

King of Pain

Frankly, I don't know how that Jackass guy does this crap on purpose. I have a bandaged up knee, my hands are covered in antibiotic ointment, there's a small divot in my left palm, and I have several icepacks strapped to the right side of my torso.

On the first day that I decided to bike to and from work, I had my first bicycling mishap since skinning my knee after misusing a coaster brake at age 9 or so. I've biked regularly in bicycle-unfriendly Los Angeles - down Wilshire Blvd. to the beach, up Ventura Blvd. through the Valley. I've thrown caution to the wind and launched myself down singletrack trails that I hadn't scouted. Who would have thought that in all these years of pedaling, I'd get thrown over the handlebars in... San Jose!?

Granted, the Bay Area probably has the highest number of stupid drivers per capita than any other city in the nation. But I wasn't hit by a car. Hell, I wasn't even run off the road by another vehicle. I was the victim of urban sprawl.

You see, right around the corner from my work, they're building this monstrous shopping/townhome complex called Santana Row. Unlike the popular Latin guitarist, no one wants this thing in the Bay Area. The developers thought it up back when there was this Silicon Valley "gold rush" thing going on, and a handful of people thought it would be a brilliant idea to create - in an area in desperate need of affordable housing - an "upscale" tract of buildings: Rodeo Drive shopping meets Penthouse-style living.

Naturally, with an economy gone bust, this whole shebang is an exercise in futility. The developers can pile in all the Prada, Gucci, Armani, and Celine they want (no Hot-Dog-On-A-Stick here, pal!), but when no one has money to spend on extravagant purses and $2500+ apartments, all the rich names in the world still make for a poor idea. At any rate, the economics of it don't matter to me. If I had the scratch, you bet I'd be in there getting fitted for a nice, new suit. Why lie? I may support the proletariat, but I like nice stuff.

Anyhow, I digress. The more immediate issue at hand with all this Santana Row mess going on is the construction. This behemoth of a complex requires a mass of trucks and equipment going in and out. The nearby freeway ramps are always clogged with these slow-moving monstrosities, spilling gravel all over and caking anything in their wake with dirt. Sometimes, the debris is larger than gravel.

Sometimes, the debris is a big, round chunk of concrete, rolling conveniently into the road where a bike lane should normally exist, causing a cyclist to potentially go hurtling ass-over-tit into the concrete at a decent rate of speed. Needless to say, I was that cyclist, and I fulfilled that potential.

Fortunately, my trajectory was a bit to the right, away from the flow of traffic, but directly into a sidewalk-in-progress. I bloodied my left knee on asphalt, scratched up the right one on relatively fresh concrete, and blistered and cut the back of my right hand against god-knows-what. Fortunately - since it was a sidewalk-in-progress - there was a nice chunk of curb between me and the semi-open trench, which broke my fall... with my ribs and the right side of my face, which stopped a few inches short of the jutting-out-part of a fire hydrant. For vanity's sake, my face got away with a very mild abrasion (I was lucky and caught the curb with the fleshy part of my cheek) thanks to the edge of my glasses intervening. But my ribs - they felt as though they were broken, as I couldn't breathe until I was helped onto my back and slightly elevated.

Ironically, it was a Santana Row construction worker just leaving the site who helped me. Having a bit of experience with on-site injuries, he made sure I was alright, put all my parts through the full range of motion, and determined that nothing was broken. He reassured me that everything was alright, and that I just had to gently breathe and move my arms until I could stand again. For a little while, I was struggling for each breath, feeling as though my chest was collapsing, but I knew that if I could sit upright, I was OK. I looked at the palm of my left hand and pulled out a small chunk of broken glass that I hadn't noticed before. I thanked the construction worker as he left, and I sat for a while, pondering calling an ambulance or a friend or my parents. I looked at my bike, seat bent 90 degrees to one side, front wheel bent out of alignment with the handlebar, and the third gear slightly caved in. So much for my brand new bike and my brand new commute.

I stood up, withheld the urge to scream in pain, and picked the bike up. I fixed the seat, righted the front wheel, and as for the third gear.. well, that would have to wait. I got back on the saddle and took a deep breath. Or I tried to, at least. That hurt like hell. I took a few very shallow, slow breaths and got on with my commute. Each breath was cautious. My glass-divoted hand burned against the nubby rubber handlebar grip as my weight beared down on it. My kneecaps stung as though they were being dragged through vinegar. But I wasn't going to let a little (ok, a lot of) pain stop me. I had joked earlier in the day about the bike commute, saying that I was "twice the man Lance Armstrong is (literally)." Sometimes things come back and bite you in the butt.

As you can figure out, I've made it home. My hands are shredded in parts, but they look as though they'll heal nicely - I might have a small scar or two, but as long as they don't interfere with my livelihood, I won't fret. My knees don't look as bad with all the blood cleaned up off of them. My ribs still hurt like a mother, but as long as I don't lean forward too much or lie down on my right side, the neighbors are spared my screaming. Yeah, I'll be sore for a few days.

Hopefully I'll feel better tomorrow... I have to get back on the bike and pedal to work again.

Tuesday, June 04, 2002

White Trash, Get Down On Your Knees

So the exponential increase of double-wide-dwellin' folk around here has gotten really noticeable. Not like people don't have a right to make a home wherever they want, but some things become *too* noticeable to be more than "just another thing to deal with." Pregnant teenagers lasciviously saying hi to you at the post office is one thing, but this morning's run-in with Jerry Springer Show candidates was beyond reproach.

I was driving the Shaggin Wagon up Hollenbeck on the way to work (the Civic is being repaired to meet California's allowable pollution levels) when this Straight-Outta-Stillwater woman - without looking at all in my direction of traffic - stepped off the sidewalk to cross the street... WITH A BABY CARRIAGE IN FRONT OF HER! I slammed on the brakes, making a noticeable scrreeeeeech in my attempt to stop and was maybe a couple of feet from the stroller as I came to a halt. Immediately, this woman starts screaming her head off at me. It probably would've been much louder and clearer had her voice not been wasted away by cartons upon cartons of Virginia Slims...

Granted, we all get protective when it's our own little Gymboree-wearing poop machine involved in the fracas, but since when do I deserve to get an earful when its someone's own irresponsibility that led to a near-catastrophe? If you were crossing the street with your little one in tow, wouldn't you be more careful? At least to the point that you'd look both ways before crossing the street? As episodes of Jerry Springer and Riki Lake have proven over and over again, it's appalling that they don't require a parenting license. To paraphrase Keanu Reeves, of all people, in Parenthood, "How is it that you need a license to drive a car or hunt or catch fish but they'll let anyone have a kid?"

The problem with negligent parenting isn't limited to so-called White Trash, so perhaps the header on this entry is a bit misleading, but I've just noticed that the daytime talk show set has gained some prominence in this area once again. As I've said before, I don't mind, because if anything, they're making the area more diverse. They're a nice break from the timid yuppie fucks I typically have to put up with. Back to the point I was attempting to make - I've noticed lately a rash of lazy and irresponsible attitudes on public display, and the chain-smoking, toothless portion of the population is just a more noticeable part of it.

What all this is really indicative of, however, is the decline of accountability. It seems that in the wake of our economic and political troubles, the populace at large is using this atmosphere of being in a "downturn" as a crutch to stop being repsonsible for their actions. At a time when responsibility and proactive attitudes should be at the head of the queue, we're making every excuse to slack, be lazy, and not get things done.

It's 1991 all over again - we've got a King George on the throne, the economy is shit, and we have regions of the world threatening to blow things up and make life horrible for everyone. So we can sit here and feel sorry for ourselves, waiting for some sort of technology boom to save us, or we can stop being the pathetic whiners that the luxuries of the late 80's and mid 90's made us, grow some backbone, and start being responsible for our own future. Just like the airline and utilitiy companies, we've grown accustomed to waiting for a bailout when things go crappy. We have every opportunity to make life grand again, yet we sit here passively waiting for what's going to happen next.

Well, I don't want to stand by that. And it starts at home, or on the street. Have some fucking pride. Down on your luck? Go after the job you want. It's out there. Write that book you've been wanting to write. Someone might read it. Get off of that crusty couch, put down the remote, snuff out the Marlboros you've been chaining since 10:00 am and do something that makes you feel good. It doesn't take any money, so you can't blame the economy. Hell, be a good mother and take your baby out for a stroll. Just have presence of mind enough to do it as a good parent and look both damn ways before you cross the street, ok? Then I won't have to think about our collective irresponsibility and I can continue having a nice day, which I'm about to go do. Thanks for tuning in...

Friday, May 03, 2002

A nice, romantic, candlelight...

Shower?? Ah, yes, power outages. Nothing like not having any juice to remember how utterly topsy-turvy life can become without electricity, even for half an hour. You know the power is out, but you still hit the light switch. You curse the darkness, only to realize that had you gotten a place with more windows, this wouldn't be an issue. I showered by the light of three candles this morning, and it was actually quite nice. Not in that romantic, flickering light kind of way - how romantic I get with myself in the shower is not a matter of public record anyhow. It was rather meditative. The light was low, and the only sound was that of the flowing water. [Courtesy of the new shower massage that I'd installed myself the other day - I feel like He-Man when I do that kind of stuff.]

I realized that normally I'm inundated by sounds, even when first getting up in the morning. The annoyingly loud bathroom fan is usually cranking away, and I typically have the cheap clock radio in there blaring as loud as I can to hear it over the water and the fan. This morning, however, was serene. Even though I was late getting up (note to self: get battery backup for alarm), I didn't feel rushed during breakfast, and I didn't feel particularly aggravated on the road on the way in to work.

Maybe sometimes I do need some peace and quiet. I surround myself with music and noise constantly, because it keeps me going and, well, I love music. The car stereo is always going. I don't go running or hiking without my iPod. If I'm not playing CDs or MP3s at my computer, then there's some sort of music streaming. This morning's moment of peace reminds me that I sometimes need to chill, and reaffirms the decision I made to not party, not go clubbing, and not go to any shows this weekend - instead I'm going to *gasp* relax.

Thursday, May 02, 2002

Deep Thoughts...

I just received spam that says "Our product sells itself!"

If that's the case, why am I being spammed about it?

Saturday, April 20, 2002

Making the Most of Life

So it's a gorgeous day out here...

I decide it's a barbecue worthy day so I hop in the car, roll down the windows, and take the long way to the grocery store to pick up some mesquite, some drinks, and some hamburger buns. Singing along loudly to Van Halen on the radio, it felt like a summer vacation day back in high school - only now I don't get carded...

On the way back, the news woman on the local rock station came on with a totally somber voice to announce that the body of Layne Staley, lead singer of Alice in Chains, was found decomposing in his house in Seattle. What a buzzkill. With a history of substance abuse and recent absence from the scene, it's not like his death came as a massive shock, but it seems to me that there's been a rash of deaths around lately, both celebrity and non, which gets me into that contemplative mood, thinking about making the most out of life, etc. etc.

Alice in Chains kicked ass. With now-clichéd downtuned guitars, walloping crunchy bass, and airtight drumming that was so clean it defied the term "grunge," Staley's wails and acerbic lyrics were a perfect complement. He had a voice as uniquely recognizable as Ozzy's, and the vocal harmonies he performed with Jerry Cantrell set the multi-part standard for countless hard rock outfits to come. Before AiC, the only other modern music acts harmonizing their voices were doo-woppy R&B groups like Boyz II Men. Now, like downtuning, it's a nü-metal staple.

I can still remember the week that Facelift came out. They were an unknown rock band out of Seattle, and the whole "grunge" thing hadn't blown up yet. Like the Cult, Soundgarden and others who were a marketing question mark for their labels, Alice in Chains were in the precarious position of not being quite metal and not being quite alternative. So Sony gave buyers an incentive by including the "Video Facelift" VHS tape along with the CD and allowed TV shows to air it in its entirety. The promotion wasn't all that successful, but a handful of us bought into it and got a great video out of it, featuring this dirty-looking rock band with an intense, dreadlocked, angry lead singer. For the proud few who owned this, it was like some kind of unknown pleasure, until "Man in the Box" finally broke on the radio nearly a year later.

Dirt came out sometime around my senior year of high school or so, or maybe the summer after - I don't quite remember, but I can still remember when I sat in the living room, unwrapped the celophane, and cranked it on my parents' big stereo from the opening note to the last bit of sustain at the end. The CD didn't leave my carousel for ages, and I still pump my fist and slowly bounce up and down when I hear the opening notes of "Them Bones." "Dam that River" still reminds me of why I grew my hair long for the first time - so I could bang my head to tunes like it. And the intense war tune "Rooster" will always take me back to the humid summer night standing in the mud pit at Shoreline Amphitheatre, with 20,000 fellow fans who were happy to hear the slow number in the midst of a bone-crushing set. That night, as Staley thanked the crowd when coming out for an encore, there was something special - He and his bandmates looked at each other as though simultaneously thinking, "We've made it." They were, as I feel more determined to do now, making the most of life.

Staley was a self-professed junkie, and that went on the public record shortly after that tour. His heroin addiction wasn't a complement to his rock and roll career as many would (sadly) imagine, but rather it destroyed the band. Shows were cancelled, albums delayed, and who knows how many personal lives were affected... Through it all, they released a brilliant EP (2 if you count Sap) and an excellent eponymous album, but they were no longer at the top of their game.

There are the rare handful who recognize these patterns and do something about it before it destroys a career or a life altogether. But for every Dave Gahan or Scott Weiland recovery-success-story in the world, there are thousands of Bradley Nowells, Chris Farleys, Shannon Hoons, and now Layne Staleys. Formerly living "cases in point."

And it's a damn shame. Not just for the great talents, but for all the potentially great figures whom we'll never get to see. I've come to realize that making the most of life often includes living it up and letting loose, but it also requires making it to see another day...

Tuesday, March 12, 2002

Asbestos Lead Asbestos

Ok, who remembers that song? (Meat Beat Manifesto, off of Subliminal Sandwich) So last week, they moved some cubicles in my office to clear some space for whatever seismic work they're doing on our building. They put up these barriers of plastic sheeting & duct tape for them to come in and do their work at night, but now I'm not so sure how effective all this is. Yesterday, I could taste whatever dust the crew has kicked up and was having sneezing fits. Today, my eyes are burning.

We've been reassured that an independent crew comes in each night after work is completed to clean the place and test the air - that way we know it's all clear to come to work in the morning. For some reason, what with the track records we've seen with companies of late, that's not all that comforting. Maybe it's time I ask for some hazard pay ;)

In other safety-at-work issues, some twisted fuckhead thought it would be funny to buzz our 11-story building with his Lear jet yesterday. He then headed off and swung near another tall building in the distance. Mind you, yesterday was the 6-month date from September 11th.

There is no shortage of sick people in this world. And if this construction crap at work keeps up, there'll be a few more sick people - just a totally different kind. Let's hope it's just springtime allergies coincidentally kicking in...

Thursday, March 07, 2002

Mission Accomplished

Not that anyone cares or anything, but I finally got a full 8 hours of sleep last night, and it was glorious! And, um, well, that's it. :)

I'd like to thank the Academy, work, exercise, beer, etc. for making all this possible. It seems now that I've gotten past the first-month-of-work shock to the system, I'm able to go out hiking & running again, which gets me all nice and tired and sore. As all that pent up energy is burned away on doing circles around the neighborhood, I'm able to finally rest.

It's an odd thing running at night here in Sunnyvale - no one seems to do it. And in my big baggy yellow pullover and black beanie hat, I look like a bit of a thug. Must be even stranger to people that I do this in the rain. I must look suspicious. Passersby in cars look at me funny. People look out their window in suspicion when I set off their motion detectors as I bound past their front lawns. So I found it refreshing last night when I went past a small group of elderly ladies who were also out getting exercise in the rain. I didn't feel like a criminal anymore... and maybe that's what let me get a good night's sleep. Heh.

Wednesday, February 27, 2002

I Can't Gets No Sleep

Unfortunately, unlike the line from that Faithless song ("Insomnia"), it has nothing to do with "tearing off tights with my teeth." In yet another stupid Fight Club similarity (see old journal entries), I realize that I've been suffering from nasty insomnia for months. If it was only an annoyance before, it's now becoming a hinderance. I'll fall into short periods of disconnection, forget little things, and get entirely too dependent on coffee on some days.

It's not that I'm incredibly stressed. If anything, I'm the most stress-free I've been in ages. I'm caught up with most of my bills, my level of creative output has been unparalleled since late high school, I'm thoroughly enjoying life, and I'm finally working. (And no, work isn't stressing me out - despite a decent level of responsibility, nothing going on at the office is worth losing any sort of sleep over.)

It's not discomfort during sleep. I have a very comfortable, large bed with a comforter I wouldn't trade for (almost) anything. I just got one of those "heat sheet" things that I turn on before hitting the sack that keeps the bed nice and toasty, so if anything, I'm more comfortable than ever before.

Of course, there have been several solutions that have helped me get to sleep, but they're not exactly healthy. The first is to spin or play music all night, to the point which I'm absolutely exhausted and can't help but crawl into bed. Unfortunately, even then, the sleep isn't good. The other option is to go out partying - something about jumping around and dancing until 5 in the morning alleviates insomnia - at least for one day. The final option is to get completely schnockered and pass out. While that provides the deepest sleep of all and my eyelids certainly appreciate it, my liver is puts an ad out on the Internet looking for a new owner every time I do this.

I'm not sure what it is... I'm not stressed out, I'm happy, and the future's looking bright. Yet I still can't sleep. Something must be missing. Anyone who has a clue as to what, let me know. 'Til then, I'll see you in the melatonin aisle at Walgreen's... or at the bar.

Tuesday, February 12, 2002

Do You Know the Way to San Blasé?

It's only 9:00 and I'm already back from Post Street, which is billed as California's biggest Mardi Gras party. Downtown San Jose has proven resoundingly that it is only a pretender in the west coast nightlife scene - and no matter how much Silicon Valley money is pumped into the place, it will never measure up to San Francisco, Hollywood, or even Orange County.

The San Jose area (I wouldn't call it metropolitan - try as it might, it's still a suburb of SF) prides itself on its diversity... if you call the crossroads of nouveau-riche yuppies and ghetto hoochies diverse, that is. And that's pretty much what the crowd of nearly 6,000 at tonight's Mardi Gras festivities was comprised of. The ghetto-fabulous crowd tonight reminded me of why I don't bother with San Jose anymore, even though it's much closer to me than San Francisco - plain and simple, it sucks.

Which is why I'm utterly confounded as to why this town was recently ranked among the top 10 cities in the nation for single people - above LA, SF, Chicago, and all the obvious places. The area boasts what seems like a 9:1 male:female ratio, earning it full "sausage" status - and before you ladies out there say, "Well, that's good for us," just remember that 8 of those 9 are either socially inept computer geeks or feel that a shaved head, white t-shirt, and cavernous khakis make for good formal wear. The reasons cited for SJ's worthiness for single folk were the abudnance of bars, clubs, eateries, and public places for people to meet. Truth be told, I've been to them all, and none have been able to keep my attention for more than an hour at best.

Fortunately, I don't even bother looking anymore, but for the good lord's sake, couldn't we have some eye candy around here at least?? Tonight was Mardi Gras, and you all know what throwing beads is good for, right? The mysoginistic practice of shouting "Show us your tits!" and awaiting the results. Well, the only pair we saw dangling out for the world to see were huge - as they were attached to a roughly 400-pound frame. That moment pretty much summed up what San Jose is all about. A whole lot of quantitiy, without any regard for quality.

Monday, February 04, 2002

The Fuses Have Been Lit

Just how does it work? Now that I'm working full time again, I'm creatively more productive than ever... outside of work. (I'll devote an actual site article to that concept very soon, just so I can spew on about time management or my lack thereof.) So there's a preview stream of my 'net station radio1328 playing a bit of the new format that's launching soon: All mix all the time. There are about 8 15-30 min. long mix sessions up on the server now, which isn't bad for a few days of playing with the decks. Of course, the output there is going to change drastically soon. Vince - no no no - "Vincent H" (we're coming up with snappy DJ names for ourselves) has placed the order for a couple of new decks and a hellaciously cool new mixer which should arrive any day now..

In the meantime, my vinyl addiction has come creeping back, with a couple of trips to the record bins over the weekend. I felt like I was back in high school, rifling through every freakin' platter in the joint trying to find those "gems" that will make a mix perfect. Of course, half the stuff I picked out isn't even relevant anymore - just contains a bunch of sentimental value - but I have years of not regularly buying vinyl to make up for. This can be very dangerous.

Anyway, tune in to the 'cast regularly to see how we're progressing. We're technically getting MUCH better with CDs, and now we're switching to the old-school style... Progress is funny sometimes. (NOTE: If you go to the station's Live365 page and vote highly for the station, you'll have my eternal gratitude.)

Monday, January 28, 2002

An Economic Turnaround?

Whether you get your news from local hacks, overpaid economic analysts who push their own stocks, or the sexy anchors of CNN, the buzz in the gloomy air is that our economy is headed for a rebound... eventually. If my own earning potential is any kind of fiscal harbinger, then perhaps the icy grip of recession is starting to thaw.

Almost unanimously, everyone that I'm acquainted with thought that - overall - 2001 sucked. And that's not including the Earth-shattering events of September 11 and the ensuing war. It was decided, then, that 2002 will be a comeback year... A year to make amends for all the crap we've collectively suffered in the last year. And thus far, signs point to it being true. After all, could it get any worse?

My buddy Vince said to me the other day, "More (good) has happened in this month alone than all of last year." And he's right. Apple produced a bumper crop of kick-ass new toys for me to drool over, Virgin Records dropped their contract with Mariah Scarey, UCLA beat the #1-ranked team in the nation for the third consecutive time, and my music is starting to take shape after a bit of necessary motivation.

I'm not sure how much of that benefits you, gentle reader, but there's one area that bodes well for the future. If underemployed little me can get a job, then gosh darnit, so can you. Or you can safely buy a new car. Or get a good mortgage deal. Or ask that cute little redheaded girl out on a date, Charlie brown. In short, miracles do happen.

Naturally, there's always a catch. For me, perhaps it's too much good stuff. I not only got a job offer today from a very cool, established software company, but I also had a good interview with a super-cool, promising startup, and over the weekend I was accepted into the talent pool of trade show presenters for Apple. (Yeah, the thought of me introducing show-goers to the finer points of a dual-gigahertz G4 makes me chuckle, too. Where's my Jobs-issued turtleneck??) Finally, for the first time in what seems like ages, I have actual choices as to how I want to make my living. After swallowing my professional pride and submitting multiple job applications to Starbucks, Borders Books, and the like - and getting rejected - I'll be able to regain some of my dignity. And hopefully not carry a negative balance at the best financial institution I've ever banked with. (When you're that good, you get a plug in my journal! Wowee!!)

So here's hoping that the start of my own personal turnaround is just a small part of one huge recovery for everyone. After all, we don't want to end up like Argentina, where the economy and government have collapsed a few times over despite their amazing ability to export hundreds of unfathomably hot soap stars.

Wednesday, January 23, 2002

Hurray for e-Commerce!

So am I two-faced, or what!? I complain and complain about online shopping, then turn around and tell everyone how happy it makes me. It's as though I've got Multiple Personality Disorder of some sort, and if I did, it wouldn't surprise me, as this wouldn't be the first time I've been accused of it. Can someone please break out their DSM-IV and run me through the course?

At any rate, yesterday, one of my favorite bands issued a new release. (Nine Inch Nails: And All That Could Have Been) It was released in two versions... the regular single disc ($13.99 on sale), and the limited double disc ($29.99 on sale). Unfortunately, the double-disc was sold out everywhere. So I recalled an email from nin.com about web-exclusive orders of the 2nd disc only (called 'Still' for those who are interested) for only $10. Being a NIN looney and a bargain-hunter, I snagged one for myself. Let's do the math:

(13.99 + 10) < (29.99)

If you're anal retentive, you can bring up shipping and tax.

(15.41 + 13.88) < (32.16)

I still win.

The lesson? Online shopping can still be cool! And sometimes, spam is good. At least, spam from Nine Inch Nails is good. I'm still not endorsing any of those emails with promises of making $10,000 a week from home.

Tuesday, January 22, 2002

Woah, Dude! It Works!

I'm starting to suspect that if I bitch and moan or ask for something in my journal here, I'll get it quickly. After a rant on Office Depot, I got my RAM first thing yesterday morning. I subsequently told Amazon to deliver on their promise, and I got everything from them this morning. If you look back to a year ago, I was lamenting my blown-up computer situation and it was resolved the next day.

Perhaps I should ride this wave... I really, really, really need a car. I also need a j-o-b like you wouldn't believe. And shit, we could really use that whole "world peace" dealy the hippies were always talking about. (Can't blame a guy for trying, right?) And if this works, I'm investing in Blogger...