new digs
The view from where I currently call home:
- saw a rainbow the other day; it didn’t end at a pot of gold, it ended right here:
- and a little to the left is part of Hanauma Park
- to the right of that:
- and further down the marina still is:
- and in case you’re wondering why I moved, well:
85 degrees most of the day today; until I wanted to take pictures, when it promptly got overcast. Brilliant.
girl cupid is bendy, bad judge of service providers
Sure you can fire an arrow with your feet and nail the target’s center, but can you get emacs running on a x11 host in vista? That’s what I thought. Bitch please.
Oh, also, if you’re going to include a promotional excerpt with your primary online presence please, next time, ask somebody to spell check it. “… while also becoming a regual feature…;” seriously?
ms
Is it ok I find her nominally attractive?
[update: Nevermind.]
business card
I think I figured out what I want on my business card:
Jeff Thomas
peripheral visionary
Maybe a blurb on the back about how I can see into the future, but only off to the side.
the putter of knowledge
the year of losing touch
It has been nearly a year since I took on a new twist. I did away with a lot of the political correctness I used to carry around; shed the weight of your happiness as my burden, and I have to say, it has turned into one of the most entertaining years I’ve had.
But entertaining is many miles from fulfilling. I’m happier and safer, but furiously guarded and very much alone. I don’t know if lonely is the word, or if I’m just too callous now to know it when I see it, but all I mean is that no one - not one - has much idea of what goes on in my heart anymore. Not even me, and I used to be an expert.
I lost touch with that part of me. The part that knew the right thing to say to make it better; the part that empathized. The part that could stare longingly. The question now is if I miss it.
No. But yes. But no; mostly no.
But so much yes.
I don’t miss getting hurt, but I miss being able to. I miss being expressive; I miss writing love letters. I don’t miss being so understanding of everybody and everything; I don’t miss never getting angry at you. I don’t miss crying, but I miss tears.
Sometimes I feel at odds with myself; the two distinct portions of me tugging in opposite directions, fighting for attention. The best I can summarize is the old me had a cat, the new a dog.
But some days are overwhelming, and I fall to my knees in the elevator. By my floor I’m back up so no one knows, and no one does. I tell them about my dog and they inquire, “I thought you had a cat.”
She died. I have a lab mix. His name is Finn.
haikus for hot chicks
pretty isn’t all
go out and learn something new
like, seriously
–
stop bleaching your hair
trust me different is better
we’ll fuck when you change
–
stop talking aloud
it sounds better in your head
and fuck, no one cares
–
you have a nice ass
that’s just not enough for me
but your tits will do
lie like an authentic persian rug
By now I’m sure you’ve heard of the incident in the Persian Gulf where a couple of Iranian “fast boats” essentially buzzed a US Naval envoy (note: I’m not sure what constitutes an envoy versus a hodge podge, but I’m disinclined to think the Navy would call anything a hodge podge. Too bad, really). If you haven’t, watch the youtube video of the event here.
The video is apparently a separately taped audio and video account, the US government stitched together later, of the events. Ok, I can readily believe a war ship would have separate audio and video recorders, especially when it comes to audio tapes of radio transmissions. Iran, however, is pretty adamant the US fabricated the record, citing primarily the audio/video mismatch.
Here’s the thing, if I were going to throw something together like that to lie, that’s exactly how I’d do it. You can download damn good multimedia editing software and put something like this together in short order, and I can only imagine what kind of tools and people the government might have at its disposal. Making it too perfect and taking a little more time to release the footage would only make the conspiracy cries louder. Release it straight off and make it crap though, and it leaves legitimacy as a viable option.
On one hand, why go through the trouble of fabricating a provocative incident and not make it perfect? On the other, make it crap while everybody knows you could have made it perfect and start answering questions with questions, like “Why would we so poorly combine the mediums and leave room for controversy if we had something to hide?”
On another note, anybody tomorrow that tries to relate it to the the Gulf of Tonkin incident is going to get stabbed in the face. If this were anything like the Gulf of Tonkin there’d be a hold in the side of a US ship - self-inflicted to escalate the incident or not I don’t care - , a couple of Iranian floaters and absolutely no publicly released video.
I commend the Naval officers for withholding their soap-in-a-sock bootcamp aggression and allowing the situation to diffuse without any shots fired. Now that I think about it though, maybe that’s a little too convenient.
Update: I’ve watched the video a bit more and every time I do I end up feeling like it offers less and less real information. Camera stability, the surrounding weather from different angles, the shit audio/video matching job; none of it makes much sense. The sea really is the perfect place to make something like this up. It’s also the place to stage the event so your enemy’s populous thinks it’s made up. It might be time to pick up the red phone. I just hope Bush calls collect; “Yeah, we’ll negotiate, but you gotta foot the international charges, bitch.”
Update 2: Think that guy that yells “INBOUND!!!” at the top of his lungs 30 seconds in is now the official ship pussy? Somebody has to fill the role on a ship of pent up testosterone, I can only imagine it’s the guy that gets a little over-zealous with his notifications.
flying sucks, except for the occasional bacon
It’s early; 4:30 in the warm Hawai’an morning. An hour ago I was thankful the rain stopped. Now I wish it would start again so United might cancel my flight. I like this place. Too much to leave.
Footsteps hit the top of the stairs and the mid-last-century wood creaks with disdain. It didn’t want to get up either. Each step wakes the next without enough warning to anticipate the 200 pound bitch slap. So they all cry foul. Good thing the girls sleep so hard.
“Hey Dad.”
“You ready?”
No, but time clicks on anyway and I like my job. It pays for the booze.
I manage to utter something about “as I’ll ever be,” grab my bags and head for the car. Rain starts again, just light enough to tease me. Mother nature is a cruel mistress with sleeves of tricks and death. You can’t tell me She isn’t having fun exploiting global warming. I dare Her to freeze hell over so I can see my morning bacon get airborne, but nothing. Just the spattering of rain, feeling how I would imagine dove tears do.
It’s still early; now 5:30 in the tourist infested airport. A tour group jams the first bag check, and of course they don’t speak much English. One hundred people, six bags each, the 1.3 children per adult national average and a lot of confusion over which line to stand in first and where to place your belongings. Shit.
I approach the front of the line, present my ticket, get my underwear x-rayed and move on to the next line. Just like the entire tour group equation did before me. Now I’m stuck again, kicking my toiletry tote in the outermost pocket a few feet every time someone decides to invade more personal space. For some reason I start thinking about Pearl Harbor and Ben Affleck. Ugh. I don’t see any kamikazes, but if one of the kids pulls out a toy boat I’m going for cover. The x-ray machine looked sturdy.
Line # 2 takes longer than the first. I think they prep you with the easy one to get your hopes up just for fun. Still, I admire Hawai’i’s effort to ensure I’m not sneaking an apple onto my flight. God forbid I take poison fruit back to the mainland, where it was grown and poisoned in the first place. If there’s an airline lobbyist group, and I’m sure there is, they have something to do with this. I can’t bring my apple on the plane because they can’t extort $5 for a cracker if I did.
I hate waiting in line; like the Dali Lama probably hates China. Can you blame his holiness? He’s only human. I think.
Finally, 7:00, boarding call. Now’s when all the non-English speakers get to try their hand at printed numbers.
“Ladies and gentlemen, we appreciate your patience,” sure you do, “and would like to begin boarding with group number one. Will all passengers holding a group one boarding pass please come to the front.”
You’ve never seen so much hustling, bustling and confused hysteria over how to board a plane. How did all these people get here in the first place? I can’t imagine this is their first time, but shit, there’s no other explanation.
“… I’m sorry sir, we’re currently only seating group one.”
Incoherent response.
“No, no. See this number? This here? This has to be a one. See? Like this gentleman’s pass.”
I’m sorry lady, he doesn’t see, and it would go a lot faster if you’d stop being so egomaniacal about the numbers one through three. Let him go and get on with it. For that matter, just let them all go.
“… group three…”
“Good morning Mr. butchered last name, thank you for flying United.”
I’m not thanking me for flying anything; that’s what the fucking pilot is for, and if you aren’t thanking him too then you just don’t give a good God damn about your employer sponsored health insurance enough to deserve it. Thank me when I get off so you can convince another asshole to spend $5 on an ounce of mystery meat.
I startle awake about 8:30, wondering how I found my seat, where I put my bag and whether or not we’ve left the ground. A quick inventory out the window and I’m sure. We most definitely have. Oooh, beverage service.
“Would you like something to drink sir?”
“Apple juice, if you have it.”
“Of course.”
“Thanks,” and she walks off. What the hell? I give your company $700 to take me home and you walk away with my apple juice? Is she forgetful or a bitch? In this situation how the hell am I supposed to know the difference? I’ll go with bitch. At least that way it occupies my time with frustration and small fantasies of telling her off. I have a long flight.
Too bad hell didn’t freeze over. At least then I’d have some bacon up here.
merry christmas
You might not have noticed, but it’s the holiday season again; maybe still, depending on how early you like to get your shopping done. I’m a procrastinator myself - big, appropriate shout out to all my high school teachers - and in my experience that works about as well as the alternatives during this bright-eyed, bushy-tailed shopaholic time of year.
Considering nearly everyone I know is either on the ball or in denial about their incredibly timely holiday shopping, I thought I’d comprise a short list of what this season is like for me.
The cheer: I hate it. And let’s be honest people, who doesn’t. Please note the punctuation; it is not a question. If you for some reason find yourself enjoying the festivity, you need to get checked. Do it for the children.
The music: it’s awful. Most of it reminds me of John McCain’s time in Hanoian solitary confinement. What’s worse, it’s everywhere, constantly. Every coffee shop, every hotel lobby, even a train station in Portland I found myself at over the weekend. See? Prison. Jam a shiv in my ear and call me Lucky.
The gifts: they’re nice, I know, but there are a lot of people in the world that need a glass of fresh water more than your upper middle-class husband needs tivo and a tree ornament that’s used one month of the year. For kids it’s different, and of course it is; they deserve to feel the magic and love the toys, but does Joe in the mail room really need another box of chocolates? This is the same guy that loses your mail and lingers on every short skirt come January.
I think I’m done for now. Emphasis on for now because frankly the closer we get, the more irritating you all become.