Food slaves

We human beings put such horrible things into our bodies. Really. I am quite guilty of this, although I do attempt to be moderate in the fatty vile sludge with which I inundate my body. I watch out for trans fats. In fact, I am terrified of them. If ever I eat something and then happen to look at the package afterwards and I see that most evil of ingredients "trans fat," dripping with venom, blood, and death, I freak out a little. Even worse, when I come across something that I have eaten a great deal of throughout my life, and come to find out it is loaded with trans fats...I just imagine my heart valves plugged and ready to seize up at any moment.

I allowed my roommate to talk me into eating at Lon's Cookin' Shack today for lunch. All manner of fatty meats, hydrogenated oils, and deep fried vegetables. Such as fried cauliflower. As though that particular vegetable wasn't already useless and practically nutrientless by itself. As I gorged myself upon pulled pork, garlic mashers, and what I assumed was really healthy mac and cheese, I noticed the people around me. Now, I think that at any given time and pretty much any place in America, one might look around and see plenty of over weight people milling about. This is pretty normal. But being surrounded by people who are morbidly obese is a bit of a rarity. People who are hanging out around 4 bills--you just don't see concentrated groups of them.

Unless, of course, you are eating at Lon's.

Now, don't take this post the wrong way. I am not writing with a mocking, fun-poking tone. I think it is horrifying and sad. So, as I was sitting there stuffing my gullet, I couldn't help but observe that at least half of the patrons were morbidly obese. Not just overweight, but painfully obese. Like, walking over to refill the 32 oz coke at the machine looks painful, obese. I guess I just can't understand how people do what they do to themselves. You may be thinking, "Well hey. You don't have that problem so you don't understand. You have skinny genes, and therefore can't understand what these people go through."

That argument is, for the most part, bullshit. I realize that genes to play a roll, but it isn't all encompassing. I watch what I eat. I mean, at 10 o'clock at night, I wanna shove all of the ice cream, crepes, and brownies down my gullet that I can, just as much as the next guy. But I exercise a little self control. Every time I eat out, I would love to down 3 pepsi's. Instead, I force myself to drink water, even though I want that filthy black liquid more than anything. I think about buying cookies at the grocery store. Then I look at the package, see that eating 2 of them provides one with a good hearty 14 grams of fat, and I put the package down and walk away. I try (and often fail) to at least be moderately active. None of these things are easy for me. I have a rather lazy and indolent nature. I love food more than just about anything. I struggle with all of those things, but I do my best.

What I don't understand, is at what point people just simply give up. Is it not obvious that when one can barely fit through the door, that it is really time to quit patronizing Lon's multiple times per week? I just think it's so sad, and I feel bad for those people because I don't know how they can be happy. Food rules their lives. Food regulates how fast they can move, how much it hurts to move, whether or not they can fit in a single airplane seat, or a movie theater seat. Food dictates what they wear, where they must shop, how they feel about themselves, how others feel about them, how much they pay for health insurance, if they can even get health insurance. These people are food slaves, and it is one of the most unfortunate things occurring in America today.

What can be done? Perhaps nothing by larger society, because nobody can force anyone to take charge of their own lives. Welfare is a shining example of that. Is banning trans fats the answer? Is forcing fast food companies to adhere to absurd regulations it? Those ideas are starting to take hold, and it is scary. More and more, people want the government to take charge of more and more aspects of our lives. The government is slowly sapping away people's accountability. Poor? It's not your fault! It's those filthy rich capitalists holding you down. Obese? Not your fault either, but that of wicked fast food corporations.

I'm sick of a country full of people who won't take responsibility for anything. In the end, we are all just pointing our fat, poor, unsuccessful, greedy, angry, oil guzzling, hypocritical, big shady governmental fingers at a mirror. We have no one to blame but ourselves.

Creatures for sale

I saw the most curious thing yesterday. The Macey's parking lot has been full of those Narnia animals for the last week or two. You know, the ones that were in front of Ruby River before that? In case you aren't aware of that which I speak, they are these ginormous creature statues cast from...maybe bronze? Anyhow, we are talking like...full sized elks. And moosen. And bears. Freaking Aslan.

So every time I drive by there I think, "Gosh. I prolly should get me one of them. I mean, it would look great......Somewhere?" (insert confused face, hunched shoulders, and chest level palm up hands.)

I guess I truthfully think, how is there a market for this? I mean, they aren't selling like...5 or 10 of these things along side some blankets with huge wolf heads or unicorns on them. Maybe some turquoise jewelry. No, no, there is an entire parking lot FULL of them. Probably 100. And I must say that, in all of my driving around Utah valley I have never seen a single ridiculously huge bronzish statue in anyone's yard. Maybe people put them in their rooms?

There was a sign in the parking lot that said, "Last Day!" As I was approaching I thought, "Does anybody really care that it is the last day?" To my surprise, a whole lot of people cared. That parking lot was seriously crawling with folks excitedly milling about the statues. I was so ridiculously amazed. I guess I just couldn't imagine someone in their right mind purchasing a humongous creature statue. I can't see how that would compliment anyone's home in a positive fashion.

So as I'm driving by, this flat bed truck pulls out in front of me with 2 twin bronze bears strapped to the back. I got so unbelievably excited and yelled, "He bought the bears! Yeah! The bears!"

And then cracked up for 5 minutes. Seriously, that made my day.

An inconvenient tone

So I have a dear friend who shall remain nameless. Let's just go ahead and refer to her by the alias "Jess." I adore my dear friend Jess. We spent many a hellacious hour together in some rather horrifying classes. We suffered through and miraculously passed our senior thesis course together. Once, we drove to the god-forsaken land of Delta and visited quite possibly the most lackluster museum in Utah. Once upon a time, many years ago I took her on a date to get sushi. I had all kinds of a mad crush on her, and she subsequently rejected me. Once we drove to Salt Lake and test drove a car. Upon returning said car to the owner, I broke off the handle/lever that opens the hood. We later found my current car together. Many memories, Jess and I share.

There has however, been one consistent thorn in the side of our relationship. A horrible little creature gnawing away at the sinews of our friendship. This lilliputian abomination takes a very simple, yet nefarious form.

Two words. Well, actually a compound word, followed by another word.

Ringback tone.

Ugh. Every single time I call my dear Jess, I am greeted by the spine curdling "Oh baby...If I was your lady...I would make you happy..." Some horrible country wench, searing those words and that awful tune into my cerebellum, thus causing seizures and involuntary projectile vomiting.

Here's the thing. It isn't so much the actual song itself, as much as the vile, leeching nature of it. It seriously ensconces itself inside your head for sometimes hours, even worse than the ice cream song. There is no escape. And I do this weird thing where I involuntarily (my mind just does this on its own) change the lyrics of a song stuck in my head to something ultra random and ultimately annoying. Jess's (can you do that, 3 s's in a row?) tune morphs into, "Oh beaver...I would be your Deaver..." at which point I usually mentally yell at myself to shut up. Beaver because I love that word. Deaver, from this elementary teacher that I did "service" for during two weeks of, ironically, a course Jess and I took together.

Let me also clear up something real quick. I realize that the word "beaver" to many immature folk caries a dirty connotation. To be completely and absolutely honest, I love the word beaver. Especially when combined into something like, "beaver chunk." To me, this word has absolutely zero filthy connotations. So if you think of it in a dirty way, that is your problem, not mine.

Anyhow, at times I will go a period of time without ever calling dear Jess. Then, for some reason I will have to/desire to call her and then...wham! Punched in the ear by the decaying fist of vengeance. I always forget about that wretched ringtone until it is too late. So I was driving back to Provo from Nephi on Saturday evening. I was exhausted after a day of mountain biking/manual labor. I began to drowsily nod off. I decided to call my dear Jess, in hopes of a pleasant conversation to help stay the somnolent state into which I was quickly descending. Instead of Jess's sweet voice, I was greeted by that most repugnant of tunes, the antithesis of all that is wonderful and good--her ringtone. Upon being prompted to leave her a message, I stated that I had forgotten about that wretched ringback tone, and vowed that I would never ever call her again as long as she still had it, so help me God.

Am I overreacting? Seriously, if I am the only person who is absolutely annoyed by ringback tones I'll piss off and never bring it up again. I don't care what song it is, or how much I once may have even liked it. Having to hear the same 22 second slice every time I call someone is annoying in the extreme. Even worse, the person who opts to have the ringback tone as a part of their plan, yet neglects to acquire a song for it, thus forcing their callers to enjoy some classical tune. Which means, this person saw fit to pay the extra money each month for the service, yet wasn't willing to pony up the extra buck for an actual song. So irritating. I suppose that the classical is better than being ear raped by some emo crap that leaves me with the desire to cut myself after I hang up. Because they didn't answer. Because they never answer. Because they don't like me, because nobody likes me. Where's my blade??

But seriously, some input here would be great. I would love to know if I am the only one that finds ringback tones to be an ultra annoyance. And I'll shut up about it. Seriously.

Lastly, let me also clear up that, moments after I had left my dear Jess that message, she demanded via text that I call her. After refusing for fear she was merely trying to trick me into listening to it again, I finally called her and was greeted by glorious ringing. She is a wonderful person, and a better friend than I deserve. Thank you, my dear Jess, for having the kindness to spare me further insanity.

Give my room a condom

So ever since I shattered my window with my considerable strength (not really) my room has become, "attack of the creatures." While sitting here working (on my bed, because I work from my bed ((I'm a freaking sloth))) I have been attacked/crawled upon by no less than 3 distinct creatures. I can't take this. My room is relatively clean, so slobbery isn't the issue. Also, I never eat in here, with exception of an occasional can of low sodium V8.

What's the point? Why keep drinking "heart healthy" V8 if small bugs are just going to crawl through my ear canals while I sleep and burrow their way down into my chestal cavity and nest in my heart? I bet the sodium would have created a protective salt layer around my coronary region, thus rendering it impossible for the bugs to penetrate my palpitating blood engine. But now I'm screwed, all in the name of healthy heart valves.

But really. What do I do about these bugs? I doubt there is much to make one feel like his life has descended into a low level of squalor than when one is attacked by bugs in bed. I have no window, nor a screen on my window. Creatures have an all access pass to my lair. I am reminded of the AIDS video that we had to watch every year in Elementary school. There was this house with a white picket fence guarded by white suited men (white blood cells) which would turn away all of the evil colored creatures (diseases.) But, suddenly AIDS sneaks in because of premarital sex! Because whenever you have premarital sex, you will get AIDS. So I believed until I was about 15. Anyways, suddenly the gate keepers were transformed into evil red ones. "Come on in, Mr. Cancer. Sure thing Mr. Pneumonia, get in here." And so a flood of multi-colored scary creatures overtook the house. And that, kids, is why you only have sex when you're married.

How very appropriate that, as I was writing that last paragraph, an ant crawled on my shoulder.

I totally grew up thinking that one contracted AIDS arbitrarily through sexual intercourse, and that it was impossibly to become infected after one was married. In other words, I thought that AIDS was a consequence of premarital sex, instead of having sex with an infected person. As much as people may laugh at that thought, it actually holds a lot of truth. If people didn't have premarital sex, nobody would get AIDS. (ok, ok, I realize I am leaving out needles, but the principle still applies.) It is pretty absurd that one of the greatest scourges of our time is completely and 100% preventable.

Keep your treasures in you pants, avoid the AIDS dance. Until you are married, of course. Then you are immune.

Man this post took a random turn.

Ghosties

sometimes I go places I shouldn't go.
sometimes I think things I shouldn't think.
sometimes I see the ghosts of people,
in places I shouldn't go,
in places unsafe to think.

sometimes I swear I'll never go back.
sometimes I swear I'll never think.
sometimes I miss the ghosts of people,
in places I swear I'll never go,
in places I swear I'll never think.

sometimes I wish you'd take me there.
sometimes I wish you'd make me think.
sometimes I wish you'd kill the ghost
in that place I'll never go again,
in that place I'll never think.

Ultra creeper status

It would appear that I have attained this for describing Miley Cyrus as a "no talent, hot 17 year old." Apparently, unbeknownst to me, she is merely 15.

So much worse.

Congratulations universe. You win again.

Sneak attack from hell

I'm growing quite weary of driving by BYU stadium of late. Not simply because I mostly hate that school/think football is a retarded waste of life/money/brain cells/time. My annoyance is caused by the gigantic stadium of fire advertisement with Mylie Cyrus' face plastered all over the side. It isn't even the fact that I have to look at her over and over again. I mean, I feel just as creepy as the next guy for checking out a jumbo-tron photo of a 17 year old day after day, but even that shame I can live with.

It is the simple fact that Mylie Cyrus exists. That there is such prodigious market for the musical slop that,,,,euashlkasel;;;a;laakl....ok, so I just felt something crawling on my arm that I assumed was an ant. An occasional rogue ant has been infiltrating my bed of late. I looked down and it was a spider. A freaking bloody spider. Let me go ahead and admit that there is nothing more frightening to me than a spider. Especially one crawling upon my body. Ugh. There is probably a whole nest of them somewhere in here.

Well. I have probably pretty much ruined this post. No, that effing crawling spawn of Lucifer ruined it. Oh well. Bear with.

So as I was saying before I was attacked. The fact that some little no talent (being a hot 17 year old/having mediocre singing ability does not count as talent) teenager is headlining shows all over the country that sell out within minutes of the start of ticket sales is sickening. Think of all the raw talent out there that you know personally. People who actually write/create their own unique music, but will never get out of the local circuit. It is tragic that Miley Cyrus is outselling just about any band out there, all because Billy Ray mullet face Cyrus has managed to prostitute her to the Disney corporation.

So on this poster you have Miley, Glen Beck, and then the Blue Man Group, who occupy a very small corner of the poster. Really? It is simply tragic to me that a group as amazing and talented as Blue Man has to fall under Miley's barely pubescent shadow.

You know what? I don't even care anymore. I can't get over that spider violating my arm. I keep feeling something crawling on me.

Congratulations universe. You win.

Please. no more blindness

The worst part about my sweltering room is my contact lenses. I sit here on my bed and write. Because that's what I do. I have a high velocity super fan blowing upon me. I am quite blind. Like...absolutely can not function without glasses or contacts. The wind causes my eyes to get dry, which causes me to blink frequently. This overly frequent blinking and squinting causes me to become irritable and fussy.

I hate my eyes. I want new ones.

Bear meat

Whenever I want a good laugh, I watch the local evening news. Seriously...the things these people say are outrageous. The movie Anchorman is seriously right on. "Now, here's quite the story (insert ubiquitous voice inflexions, overt smiling, surprised eyes, and fraudulent chuckling throughout.) Now, get this...seriously Maria, this is no joke. A man was fishing. He thought what he heard was birds. But no wait, it wasn't even birds. It was a drowning man! I'm dead serious Maria. A drowning man. So he casts his line, hooks the man (most certainly surprised eyes with a rapid and slight head shake, jerking back just so) and just reels him on in! Can you believe that Maria? Reels him in! What a lifesaver!"

Upon listening to that utter idiocy, I couldn't help but hear..."A La Jolla man clings to life, after being viciously attacked by a pack of wild dogs in an abandoned pool..."

But all of that isn't the point of this post. Amidst all of the obnoxious theatrics, there was a story that really pissed me off. Apparently there is a bear somewhere in Utah that has been "curiously" entering campsites. It apparently chased off several people today. This "curious" bear is attracted by freaking Joe slob and his dirt bag family that A) doesn't exercise enough common decency to put their trash in the proper receptacles and B) are too moronic to pay any heed to the signs blatantly admonishing the fatuous city dwellers that keeping food near one's person upon sleeping is bad because bears will freaking gobble your face.

So, what to do with this "curious" bear? Kill it. Kill the damn thing, because Joe Slob and his little bratty sloblings couldn't care less. They are simply fat and happy that Pappa skid-row could put enough gas in the wagon with enough money left over for chips, burgers, and Shasta, and head on up to the campin' spot, thus commencing a weekend of filthiness.

Here's a novel idea-shut down the campground for a week or two, clean it up, and then make sure the sloven bastards that subsequently occupy it keep their shit together. If the bear is a crazy bear, by all means do something about it. But for goodness sakes, it is only curious because people are negligent. Why must we always bend and mold nature in accordance with our indolence and whims? Let nature be nature.

If a hungry bear wants to eat a fat man passed out with a half eaten hamburger in his pocket and a bag of deep fried pork rinds cradled to his chest, so be it. Maybe the ensuing belly ache will convince the bear to think twice in the future before consuming someone who just ate an entire bag of deep fried pork skin.

Next comes the stretchy wasteband

So I asked Joe if he was coming tonight. He said, "No. I have to play basket ball."
I said, "Really? Are you freaking kidding me? It's my birthday. You are a jerk."
Joe said, "Dude. Sorry. We have three hoops reserved. You can't even know how that is."

I then woke up sweaty, and mildly chuckling at that last line. I kept wondering why I was sweaty. I haven't worked up a good night sweat ever since I have no less than 3 fans blowing upon me. I then sat up and said out loud, "Oh. That's freaking why." My desk fan, the one that blows really really directly upon me was not spinning. I sat up, turned it on, and collapsed back down saying out loud, "Activate, blessed air. Cool me from my sweats." I then lay there, thinking about the ridiculous nature of speaking to one's self out loud, and just how often I do that, and how it occurs quite naturally, seeing as how I even do it unthinkingly at 5 am. Also, about how stupid a thing "Activate, blessed air. Cool me from my sweats," was to say.

Sometimes, hours later, I wake up and I'm 26.

No longer right in the middle. On the deadly descent into late twenties. Yeah, yeah, some of you are already long past that.

So what. This isn't your blog.

I guess I am a bit freaked out because, next comes the 27, which sounds horrifically old to me. Followed by the quick, screaming nose-dive into 30. Dear lord, spare me the long dreaded "alone at 30."

Dear Dave, are you going to call me a colicky baby?

Love, Fish

Better than crack, i freaking swear

Annnnnd 100.

Sometimes, while chugging along on the sad train, I hear word on the street that the Springville whore of the earth is packin' Fun Pops. So, there I drive. My dear friend and I wander all over that wretched people zoo filled with golden smilies and blue vests, wife beaters and fat butts. Fun Pops, nowhere on the radar. I start to feel dismal. I pass an associate with a popped collar and think, "Gee. What a jackass. Oh wait, my bad. That shirt was meant to be worn with the collar popped, as 'Hollister' is imprinted in gold lettering on the back of the neck, and wouldn't be visible without the collar erection."

Silly me.

After combing that place up and down, I gave up. As I walk toward the automatic doors, very nearly in a lachrymal state, a glint of color catches my eye. The magnificent sun, shining through the windows, and splayed across the colorful glory which I was seeking--a whole bin full of Fun Pops. "I wonder how many bags I can buy with $20," I thought.

Apparently 7. So I bought 8. Enough to eat 1 Fun Pop per day for 280 days. Or, a more likely scenario, 5 a day for 56 days.

As we pushed the cart out towards my vehicular device with 16 bags of Fun Pops and then loaded them in the trunk, I thought, "Well I'll certainly be pissed if I get rear-ended in the next 15 minutes. Freaking juice explosion."

After that splendidly glorious acquisition, I read that Myspace sold for 580 million dollars last year. What in the world does a person do with 580 million? I'll tell you what I would do. First, I'd go buy the most expensive bicycle that the collective world had to offer. Then, before I even took it out of the box, I'd run over it with an SUV. Then I'd run over that SUV with another SUV. At which point, I would drive that SUV into a fire. Then, I would put out the fire with liquid gold. Because I could. Because I had 580 million dollars.

So speaking of Fun Pops and liquid burning gold--this is my 100th post. I feel like that is a pretty big benchmark for me as a human being. I started tracking my blog at the beginning of April, and 1,061 absolute unique visitors have taken time out of their lives to read my rantings since then. For those of you who give me the time of day--I sincerely thank you. 1,000 people may be a tiny little chunk of the world, but I guess everyone has to start with some tiny little chunk right? Morbid obesity doesn't happen over night.

Thanks, from the bottom of my lonely, loveless heart.

Losers weepers

Sometimes I find,
What I never find,
And then I find,
It wasn't such a great find,
For what I found,
Didn't find me,
Worth finding out,
I sadly found.

Let's talk about caloric intake

I believe this shall be the last of my boring travel posts. Again, probably for posterical purposes. Also, so that I might make up new words like, "posterical," which alludes to "having to do with posterity."

I believe the defining aspect of this NYC trip for me was FOOD. I am an intense lover of food. A courter of fine foods, if you will. And food was, in my opinion, the best thing that city had to offer. Let me quickly clear this up, because there has apparently been some confusion--I loved NY. Nope, didn't hate it, as some have gathered. Loved. But mostly due to the food.

Wednesday Night-7:52 pm-The Cafeteria. Salmon BLT w/ Avocado. -16
10:35pm-Magnolia Bakery. 2 Red velvet cupcakes. -5

Thursday- 12:15 pm- China Town bakery. Some buttery coconut injected roll, and a sick mini sandwich with miracle whip...GAG. -2
2:10 pm-Revolution. Pad Thai w/ chicken. -13
9:00 pm-The India House. Chicken Tikka Massala w/ some weird nacho cheese bread, wtf. -16
1:37 am-Some random 24hour bakery. Tiramisu. -5

Friday- 1:26 pm-Some absurd "organic" cafe. Filet Mignon Sandwich w/ a side of utter neglect. -14
9:04 pm-Cafe Metro. Sirloin Sandwich w/soy apple crisps and ginger ale. -14
9:27 pm-Street meat. -4
11:40 pm-Nooch. Massaman beef curry w/ edamame. -17
1:10 am-Dunkin Donuts. 25 munchkins w/ a fat ass. -6

Saturday- 2:12 pm-Lunella's in Little Italy. Veggie pasta primavera w/ tomato cream sauce, peas, carrots, mushrooms, and artichokes. -13
8:45 pm-Street bananas. -1
11:43 pm- Some sick bar and grill. Boneless garlic and parmesan wings, and carribean jerk regular wings, plus 50 other wings by mistake. -13
4:28 am- Pop Burger. 2 mini pop burgers. -7

Sunday 3:45pm- Pastis. French Toast, best of my life. -16
6:05 pm-Coney Island. Sick Corn dog. -3
6:24 pm-Coney Island. Coffee flavored ice cream cone. -3
6:37 pm-Coney Island. Another corn dog from Nathan's. -3
6:43 pm-Coney Island. Another coffee ice cream, but twice as big. -5
6:50 pm-Coney Island. A fat ass. All of the above.
10:19 pm- Pad Thai. Pad Thai shrimp w/ tofu. -11

Monday 2:00 pm. 3 guy's restaurant. Mexican burger w/ avocado, bacon, pepper jack. -13
4:21 pm- Starbucks. Strawberries and Cream frappucino. -5
9:00 pm- Some freaking italian place. Home made flat pasta w/ a white cream sauce, wild mushrooms, peas, sausage, and a split calamari. -26
12:52 am- Some random delimart. Ben and Jerry's kiwi strawberry sorbet. -5

Tuesday 12:31 pm-Pad Thai. Pad thai w/ shrimp and tofu again. -11
3:30. Starbucks. Vanilla bean frappucino. -5

Total gratuity- Somewhere in the neighborhood of 70.

Just a few events. 4th of July was the most magical I've ever experienced. Wandering through the streets surrounded by apartment buildings, the explosions sounded AMAZING. We watched the fire works from under the Brooklyn bridge amidst blaring car alarms and little screaming black children. I absolutely LOVED it.

I tried to find Guy-me-bow in China town (a delicious pastry to which I was introduced in San Fran) but was only offered "bud" and "rolexes" instead.

I was told by a bum in some park in which Gorgio Armini provides free wi-fi, "Yo this ain't yo ney-buh-hood. Don't get cute, cha git cha assss whooped." Whatever that means.

Got told to eff off by an angry manish female New Yorker after apparently walking on the same side walk as her, followed by being called a sucker of something I shant repeat, followed again by mother effers, and capped off with faggets. I suppose the tight jeans warranted that last one.

Was dazzled by a "lobster man" in the Coney Island freak show, which was undoubtedly the best 5 bucks I spent on the trip. Although it was a bit disconcerting when he made masturbation jokes concerning his deformed digits with about 20 little kids in the room. Not to mention he was a freaking CREEP.

The trip capped off perfectly with listening to Sufjan Stevens and Radiohead atop the Rockefeller center for an hour or so, followed later by an evening sitting in Battery park staring at the stature of liberty. It was seriously a perfect moment, laying on the grass by the east river, and discussing with Derek what it would be like if gravity suddenly failed, and we all floated to our deaths for about an hour. Would everyone be screaming? Talking? Trying to make amends? Praying? Enjoying floating about, as the last minutes to the end of their life counted down? Also, about what it would be like to be a murderer, and wondering if they ever wake up in the morning and think..."Hmm. Do I want to get up and exerci....Oh...oh no. Oh no no no. Crap. I'm a freaking murderer."

My conclusion-I liked Portland infinitely better.

Annnnnddd a picture or two. For mom.





And thus ends travel posting.

Horror at 32 feet

I am Joe's queasy stomach.

As our plane came swooping into the San Diego airport at around 8ish last night, I couldn't help but be sick.

I also could only imagine that, were the plane to somehow over correct, and touch a wing to the runway, I would be rather ill protected in that ultra high speed, rolling ball of carnage and twisted metal by that little blue strap around my waist.

I was uncomfortably, yet serenely napping at 32,000. I had recently been dazzled by 2.5 hours of S.W.A.T. on FX. Cabin light signaling seatbelt sign flashes on. Dip, and bump. Dip, and bump. I am moderately coherent, my pillow folded up on the tray before me, my spine bent at a 90 degree angle, and my neck bent at another with my face half plastered over the edge of the pillow/mini-screen, my body ultimately in the form of a tiny staircase, descending the seat in front of me.

Bump, dip. Bump, dip.

Tap tap tap.

"Please sir, attach your seatbelt."

What is the point? If some mythical flying creature, with the ability to withstand subzero temperatures and fly 6 miles high, not to mention is the size of a rather hefty pig is suddenly sucked into the engine, thus sending us plummeting towards earth, I doubt this little blue strap is anymore than an absurd pretense.

I doubt that there is anything more chimerically pointless than the airplane seatbelt. Such a false sense of comfort. Such a facade.

This last thought was more or less on my mind as we were landing.

Suddenly, an Asian boy vomits all over himself, the seats in front of him, and the people sitting in those seats in front of him. Literally cocks back his head at a 90 degree angle, and projectile vomits, but 2 seats ahead of me.

So many angles on a plane.

I am Joe's queasy stomach.

As the plane roughly jerks to a halt, I sit, horrified in my seat, awaiting the puke stench to wash over me.

It didn't take long. Airplane chicken cordon bleu, mixed with coke and bile. Rather unpleasant. Seat belt light off. I grab my things and bolt for the aisle. Just as I am parallel with freaking exorcist, a tiny little woman jumps in front of me, and the aisle slowly clogs, like too much hair in a sink drain.

I close my eyes, and focus on restraining my gag reflex, which is currently attempting to ejaculate everything I have ever eaten all over this tiny woman. I look to the left. Vomit, all over his lap, down the front of his shirt. Pukelits on the ceiling. Vomitlings nesting atop the seat. The man in front, wiping bits of bile from his bald spot. All within inches. Horrid putrescence, trying to force its way into my olfactory system, a lilliputian thief, deftly sneaking through my defenses. Nose futilely plugged, I try to imagine I am anywhere else. Which is hard, when the horror is but inches away.

Slowest plane exiting of my life. It felt like I was there for an eternity, slowly watching people dipped in molasses, dragging their sticky, spiderweb snagged luggage from dark, gooey overhead compartments, only then to amicably converse about stocks, politics, and why everything is Bush's fault.

Slow slow slow.

Finally, like a dam gradually cracking and breaking, people began to funnel out, and finally I was free, Thai food, 2 packs of ginger cookies and 1 package of cheese crackers still nestled in my roiling digestive juices.

Airport air never smelled so fresh.

I doubt they will clean that puked on blue strap of ineffectual, false comfort very well, before the next person is strapped in with a counterfeit sense of security.

San Francisco--way less gay than i ever imagined

Ok. I think I shall be doing this more for posterity purposes (and also for probably 3 or 4 people who really actually care,) but I am going to do a photo recap of my favorite points in the San Francisco/motorcycle trip, and I suppose any random commentaries of note that come to mind as I do so. Here goes. Also, due to a lack of creative thinking on my part, these photos sort of run from end to beginning, or in no particular order, because I got sick of moving them around/wasn't intelligent enough to think to upload them backwards.
Let's just go ahead and get this out of the way. In China town, I bought a baby blue Everest fanny-pack (that just took me like 7 tries to spell that correctly, I figured a ph.) I pretty much wore it throughout the duration of the moto trip, much to the chagrin and annoyance of my co-riders. Mock me they did, but boy did that fanny pack make my trip all the smoother.

All tuckered out in the park on Saturday evening, in freezing cold San Francisco.
This would be me and Dillers playing soccer. Or basically I am using his body to knock the ball around.Soccer/hoodie buddies

So I guess this is what I look like from the side when I don't shave for an extended period of time. I was under the false impression that my beard was a little thicker than this. Why has nobody told me?
Parked in the red wood forest, somewhere nigh unto fern gully.
Some big freaking tree.
Some times I take pictures of myself when I am riding through the Avenue of the Giants. No big deal.

This, unfortunately, was the best meal we ate on the trip, and it was at a crapy little cafe in some crapy little town on the coast. The man sitting outside was a crazy mexicano who had a rather lengthy and intense conversation with himself and possibly invisible beings out in the road throughout the duration of our meal. Afterwards, we talked to him and he was surprisingly intelligent and coherent, if a little mad.
Just like, climbing a tree or whatever outside an overpriced restaurant in some other crapy town on the coast. Wait. Actually the same crapy town. And I ate the most amazingly atrocious ribeye, the likes of which I have never shoved down my gullet. Half of it, I fed to the seagulls outside the window.
Some where on the coastal highway, I reckon. It was rather unnerving at times, to be driving up a steep, winding road with a vast and roiling ocean below the sheer cliffs, but feet away from whence my tires were spinning. Unnerving indeed.
Like...a rock.
A little post-motorcycle trip meal at some overpriced Italian restaurant in San Fran. It was really good, just a tad excessive on the price.

Holding one of the cutest babies ever to grace the planet. Which sort of made me desire one. At Justin and Josie's favorite Chinese restaurant in San Fran's China town, which is infinitely cooler than NYC's.



Just collecting my cool and wits for the swing battle of a lifetime.Clearly in this photo I am winning. Also somewhat parallel to the ground.


A rather graceful dismount.
A little less graceful, if more enthusiastic.
I really liked this photo, with the wind blowing the trees in the opposite direction in which my father is facing, and then the other guy sitting neutrally, albeit a bit overexposed.

Larry doing...something. I suppose that sign that cool kids do.
Tiny Carlos, scampering up a pole.


What any good Asian would do in a photo.



China town, the land of horrifically unsanitary meats, adorning every window.

Well I guess that wraps it up for the photo tour. All in all, it was probably one of the most amazing trips I have ever been on, and I am indeed fortunate to have an amazing father who provided the means for us to take such an adventure.

Next up--Chelsea New York. Indubitably the gayest place ever. Seriously, makes San Fran look like a homophobic Mormon village.

There are way too many hot girls in New York

I can't handle it.

The rationality of irrationality

Besides Motels, I think my second greatest traveling hatred would be of public restrooms. I think the worst thing about them is the horribly unnerving feeling that I get just prior to opening a public single user bathroom. I have no idea how many times I have opened a door to some guy pissing with his pants down around his knees. I generally mutter a hasty “Uhh…sorry,” and scurry away in shame. Of course, I can’t scurry away too far, as I still have to piss. The worst part about that is the post-pissing encounter, as the man leaves the bathroom. Awkwardly meeting the urinator’s eyes on the way into the restroom is a walk of shame that is unpleasant in the extreme.

Even worse when it is a scary bald pirate type with a parrot on his shoulder. No freaking joke. We stopped at some random nasty little gas station somewhere on the Coast Highway. I went inside, looking for a place to piss. The only urination accommodations were located out back in 2 porta-poties. I hate those things more than the acne that has plagued me my entire life. I can’t help but feel an extreme level of anxiety upon watching my piss arc down onto a moldering fecal mound. I always imagine getting shoved down that hole—and then subsequently finding the quickest way to extinguish my life, as I do not believe I would like to survive such an encounter with about a thousand shits and untold buckets of urine. Always gives me the creeps.

Anyhow, as I arrived at the porta-potie, my irrational fear of finding someone in there began to well within me. The door said “unoccupied.” Trusting that, I reached out and opened the door. A freaking parrot stared me in the face. Also a bald head, and a sleeveless shirt. Also parrot shit on said sleeveless shirt. This was even more awkward than the usual barging in, due to the fact that I was practically touching him upon opening the door.

“Oh…fuh…oops.”.

I could hear his piss hitting the mountain of feces as the door slammed shut.

I stood there in shame as I awaited his emergence from the poop closet. As he exited, I dared not meet his gaze. He was a pirate, after all. With poop on his shirt. Needless to say I avoid porta-poties at all costs, as they are a cause for double team anxiety.

But pretty much every public restroom is horrible. I get especially irked when they have the faucets that one has to hold down in order for the water to dispense. How is this in any way sanitary? One poops. One wipes. One likely has some form of microscopic, or scopic poop fragments upon one’s hand. One wets one’s hands, thus transferring said micro-fecal to the faucet handle, and then lathers up with the nasty, caustic public soap. After said lathering, one returns the previously clean hand to the previously infested faucet, thus negating any possible debacterializing. That was definitely not a real word. And not only one’s own poop germs, but every previous poop germ from every other filthy person who defecated there during the last week, as cleaning doubtfully occurs more often than that.

On that note, how can any sane person feel good about using the crusty, stained cloth towel rolls that so bafflingly exist in some restrooms? I really don’t care if those things are in theory washed—I refuse to wipe my hands upon something covered in yellowish brownish stains, dotted with crust spots. Who is using this thing? Obviously some people are not opposed to it, as the contraption actually exists and has been marketed as a good idea to the public restroom guild.

Please, good people of the world—when you use a single serve restroom, lock the damn door. And to those members of the American Public Restroom Guild of America, please take into consideration the banning of all pushdown faucets and rotting linen dispensers. Thank you.

ps

as i still have much to blog about from the motorcycle trip, and am currently in new york, posts may become sporadic and unorganized. deal with it.

Worst idea ever

I have decided that coach class seating on a Delta 737 is quite possibly the most uncomfortable position in which one could ever find oneself. I mean seriously. I spent the first 45 min of this God-awful flight attempting to cram myself every which way in order to find some moderately comfortable position, to no avail. Somewhere between the tracks “Cannonball” and “Older Chests,” from Damien Rice’s O album, I managed to fall asleep, only to wake up with a crinkled neck and a grand view of one of the most inhospitable places on planet earth—somewhere over New Mexico. What a wretched state.

I have attempted to view one of the on board films, but have been foiled in that endeavor by an in-seat computer that would much rather reboot itself every 2 minutes than allow me to watch Jumper. I am probably better off, as that movie likely blows. But it’s the principle of the thing. I was also, for whatever reason, singled out and passed over for the free nut/animal cracker/conventional cracker serving. Luckily I brought my own bloody nuts.

Flushing the toilet on a plane is a rather unnerving experience. I think I hit the button about 4 times, and had given up and turned around to wash my hands when it finally flushed. It makes that terrible “whoosh,” and you can feel air being sucked out of the cabin. I would like to think that planes empty their septic tanks somewhere over New Mexico.

One of the most beautiful girls I have ever seen is sitting about three seats ahead of me. She has an empty seat next to her, and my mini TV is not functioning. I thought about possibly moving up to that seat earlier. Then, I remembered I have a mustache.

Damn filthy mustache. What was I thinking?