Archive for September, 2004

They ask me where the hell I’m goin

Posted in Blog on September 29, 2004 by trevorgregg

Another night…
Another dream…
but always you.

just kidding.

Why am I the person I am today? Why do I live the life I do?

Good questions. For whatever reason, I have almost no functioning self-consciousness. I don’t mean self-consciousness in the sentient sense of the word, but more as the Ability To See Yourself Through The Eyes Of Others.

For better or for worse, I act and speak and conduct myself in a way completely independent from the opinions and influences of others, to a large degree. More than just not caring what others think, a good part of the time I am straight unable to divine their view of me. Would I get along with me if we were to meet for the first time? I have no idea. I am a reasonably good judge of character in others, and even when someone vexes me, I’m arbitrary and judgmental enough to categorize them anyway… but how would I do that to myself? I know how I describe myself, but if everyone I knew got together and had to make a trading card or book jacket or personal statement about me, what would they put? What would people say on Trevor’s Behind The Music?

Basically, I think it narrows down to the fact that I know myself, and I know others, but I don’t know how others know me. Do the me that I know and the me that everyone else knows have a lot in common? This shit makes for weird thoughts and even weirder pronoun conflicts…

I don’t know what set me off on this rickety ass nonsense tangent. My warped concept of objectivity…thinking about whether or not I need a haircut… who’s driving this fuckin crazy train, anyway?

Who really knows anything, on nights like tonight.

Summer’s lights are dimming; the mean and the hard and the weird are all sharpening their claws for the winter hunts. I’m a darker person than I once was, but I still don’t relish the near future, despite its congruity with my current state of mind. I’ve spent enough nights walking around aimlessly in this dive town to know how cold it really gets.

I’m starting to get The Fear, and steps must be taken to neutralize it. After all, even unhappiness and toil are preferable to the alternatives, like stagnation. Time to focus on the essentials: survival, innovation, improvement…

Anyone who’s ever lived inside my head knows it can get real strange real quick and this is one of those times.

So what’s the plan for the future? Back straight, stride long, lots of push ups.. Leather jacket and a clenched jaw, then see what develops.

See you out there,

-T.

Take a bow

Posted in Blog on September 27, 2004 by trevorgregg

Another weekend slips into the past, becoming a set of foggy and twisted images filed away in my weird ass brain. And now, Monday.

I can not believe this:
http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/tg/detail/-/B0001ZMWXW/qid=1096316555/sr=1-1/ref=sr_1_1/002-4178562-8671236?v=glance&s=dvd

Who the fuck buys an Everybody Loves Raymond DVD collection? Who even watches that show? How does it exist, in the world? Perhaps it serves as a sort of blank backdrop to contrast with all the other shitty shows on TV. Maybe without Raymond and Everybody who Loves him, people would recognize that, in fact, Drew Carey is a hog-faced piece of unfunny turd. I don’t actually have a TV, so I guess it’s all academic anyway, but jesus christ. They should just start playing reruns of the old great shows I grew up with, like Hangin with Mr. Cooper, or Renegade. Why is there no Renegade DVD collection? Lorenzo Lamas was awesome.

So my new neighbors have an organ, which is sick. I’m torn between my throbbing desire to rock out to bands with weird instruments like organs, digeridoos, and Mayan pipeflutes, and my deep-seated need to not hear the god damn wedding song 46 times a day. I mean, playing the intro to In a godda da vida is one thing, but why play the fucking wedding song over and over again? Homie sits down and belts out the Iron Butterfly riff like 6 times, just enough to get it wedged in my consciousness good and tight, then starts playing the bridal shit over and over again. It’s like the musical juxtaposition from hell.

Could be they’re just trying to pay us back for playing berimbaus and drums till all hours… I hadn’t thought of that before… If that’s the case, bow down, fellas, cuz you don’t wanna step to the all night drum beating portuguese singing gourd rattling fury of this house. We bring that A game, fool.

Can I give a shout out to my folks at 3573 Johnson? My boys pour their hearts into prepping their sick house for a rager and the god damn thing fizzles out like a match in a toilet. Who’s to blame? You. Bunch of god damn ingrates. Can we talk about

“A Boones For Every Girl.”

pure genius

and the thing still barely gets off the ground. It’s like some kind of dark, twisted, National Lampoon’s sequel to Field of Dreams, except instead of having all the kickass baseball dudes show up, three husky chicks from Cuesta and 45 random sausages named Mike from the ski club roll through. If you build it, they will all lame out like bitches.

Ah, what do I care, I had hella fun. Say what you want about meeting new people, but at my kind of party I walk in and already know 90% of the fools there (TENAYA!). Secretly, I spend most of the night hoping some fuckwad will start shit with me so me and my army of folks can run up on his ass and devastate, like that toothy mutant from The Goonies. Oh, didn’t think the skinny guy with the purple shirt was friends with everybody, did ya bitch? BOOMshakalaka.

Such aggression… you see what higher education does to me?

Speaking of which, I suppose it’s time to drag my ass back to campus.

12 units of school, 8 units of capoeira, and 20 units of Warcraft is putting a serious crimp in my free time, but I’ll see if I can crank out something meaningful and character-filled in the near future.

late,

-T.

All you sweet girls with all your sweet lies

Posted in Blog on September 25, 2004 by trevorgregg

Ah, Friday.

Let’s not think about how ridiculously swamped with work I am. Let’s ostrich it hardcore and try and enjoy ourselves, shall we?

Not a whole lot going on tonight, though….

A couple of us were hoping to go to a high school football game and get asked to prom or homecoming or winter ball, which would be awesome, but the team was away. Tragic. Maybe next week.

Instead, we mobbed over to H-Bomb’s house who, apparently, was going to have a party. We were unaware of this, we just went to chill, which all in all was probably better, since we had no expectations from which to be completely let down.

This house is, in every sense of the word, a college house. Ping pong table, foosball table, huge stereo, holes in the wall, ratty couches, beer posters, stains, solo cups, and most importantly, a kegerator. Bow down, fools. So there we are, illin out and drinking moderately flat (but cold) bud light out of the kegerator, when it comes time to play a game. People are drifting in and out, a stream of indistinguishable dudes and roommates all named Mike or Paul or some shit, I wasn’t really paying attention. The house is just in a constant state of buddy flux.

In order to fully grasp the nature of our wonderful game, you have to know its history. The last time we played this game was about a year ago, at H’s birthday. I don’t think he participated, since he had scrambled half-naked out into the backyard and passed out under a boat, but that’s not important. The important thing is, this shitty, shitty board game called Catchphrase was left out on the table, and we picked it up. It’s got this little wheel thing that you click and displays a word, which (I assume) you then have to get others to guess. Like non-artistic Pictionary for feebs. Anyway, many a beer and many an hour later, we spontaneously develop a much more entertaining and competitive form of the game: Yo mama catchphrase. The object of the game is, of course, to be as ridiculously vulgar and insulting as possible while still getting someone to guess the word. No score, no tallies, just beer and degradation.

I remember the game being mildly entertaining, and doing my best to offend some fools, but then Don Mclean’s American Pie came on at full blast at about 3 am and Nate threw a football at some bitch as hard as he could (missing by mere centimeters, unfortunately. Still, it was god damn hilarious) and there was some yelling and we left or something. I don’t really remember. It was a strange night.

ANYWAY….

Tonight, in a much soberer and more relaxed state, we start up again. Me, Soss, Nate, H, and whatever random Mike/Paul/John happens to be sitting in the recliner at the time. This time, all bets are off.

It took us a few rounds and a few beers to get going, but after about a half an hour we were really getting into some nitty gritty shit, the good stuff. Henry was talking about bestiality (The word was dentist), Nate told the story of how his entire baseball team slept with Quint’s sister (The word was encore), and someone even discussed punching my great grandmother (The word was sparrow). Now this is what I’m talking about. As the night progresses, the hints become anecdotes, the anecdotes become stories, and the stories become epics. We are dudes at the absolute peak of our mental acuity and potential for vulgarity, so it was not only competitive and hilarious, but unspeakably dirty.

When the warmups involve gang-bangs and pedophilia, you know you’re in for a fun Friday night.

I wish I could relate to you all the things that were said, especially about the last hour worth of the game, but even discussing them is illegal in most of the western hemisphere. They were that foul. Each person’s turn took like fifteen minutes, but somehow a psychotic nut-biting leprechaun and African bush-porn starring Nate’s aunt always helped someone guess “lamp”. Who won? Well, nobody. Least of all our female relatives. Who ended the game, though? Yours truly, of course. I can take shit to levels people don’t even know about. I cross lines and break taboos like Roseanne eat Pringles. You know I always sorta thought Darlene on that show was kinda hot… Sorry, I digress.

It’s hard to get offended looks from a house full of 20 college age dudes, almost all of whom would sleep with a second cousin if she was drunk enough, but I may have managed. My final entry, which took about a half an hour, was for the word “lamb”. It involved awful, awful things: date rape, kidnapping, nuns, nostrils, baseball bats, machinery, Nate and Henry, drugs, and most importantly, Quint’s mom, but it was god damn horrible.

H made a very astute observation afterward, when we were sitting around quietly listening to some of the other 40 dudes (where the hell did all these sausages come from? Is this supposed to be a party? This was when we were informed…) play Beer Pong and Beirut in the next room. He said it was like we were returning from war, soldiers who had experienced dark and grave things that we could never take back, and it separated us from the fun loving dudes headbutting and talking about business calc in the front room. Indeed, it did. The gap between us and them was as wide as your mama’s…sorry, habit.

You can only push the envelope so far, but know this: I’m willing to push it just that much ( |——| ) farther, even if it means peeing on your cat or setting your firstborn daughter on fire.

So then it was a party, but a party without any girls is just dudes standing. Whatever. I had a good time, sheit. I got to exercise my vocabulary, my creativity, and my liver.

The ridiculous sausagefest is becoming sort of a theme, in 2004, for whatever god awful reason. I read once that the human race is made up of 51% women and 49% men. The Cal Poly party human race is made up of 97% dudes named Mark and 1.5% plain chicks from Campus Crusade with boyfriends. Why the disparity?

We may never know.

All the chicks are probably at home watching Sex in the City on DVD eating Kettle Korn and doing whatever other dumb horseshit chicks do. Come on ladies, why not make something of yourselves? Why not go to parties, or invent something?

Ah, my heart’s not in the hate tonight. I certainly wouldn’t want to go to a party with 40 dudes, jesus. Do what you want, I don’t give a shit.

God dammit I wish I was graduated and could move to Brazil, or maybe Boston. Somewhere where everyone really did love Magical Trevor, where programming is forbidden by law and no one yells at you for playing in shopping carts. Does such a glorious place exist?

Wait what were we talking about?

Forget it. Holla back,

woo woo.

-T.

Story of my life

Posted in Blog on September 23, 2004 by trevorgregg

Zero to swamped in 3 days. God dammit.

Not only am I already busy, I’m already behind. For those of you oblivious enough to have never found out, I absolutely despise programming. I am teh sux at coding. The concept that people out there, people I associate with and consider to be reasonable human beings, enjoy what is for me grueling torture is beyond me. I fear for my GPA and my soul, this quarter. I must pass. I must.

There is no alternative.

I suppose I should write something about capoeira, about the reunification of our group and all the excitement and possibilities for the future, but even my lyrical ass can’t do it justice.

Capoeira is the beginning and the end. Capoeira is family and liberty and wisdom. Capoeira is pain (Exhibits A, B, & C: Pulled quad, smashed elbow, chronic wrist shittiness). Capoeira is fun as shit. There is nothin better.

Without capoeira I would not be half the person I am today. Forte, UniĆ£o, Amizade, bitches.

Our first training session / class was a spectacular success. That’s all I have to say about that.

Too tired to expound tonight, all of the ranting and raving was left as pools of sweat and blood in the center of the roda. It’s gonna be a looong quarter.

Peace kiddos, I’ll hit ya back soon.

-T.

I want a girl who laughs for no one else.

Posted in Blog on September 21, 2004 by trevorgregg

Ah, the enigmatic First Day of School.

Catching up with friends you haven’t seen in months, predicting your latest professor’s “quirks” (read: pyschoses), kicking freshmen, and coming into contact with an entirely new batch of people you will probably grow to despise over the next few months… Good times, good times. Day one, and I’ve already had a teacher talk extensively about ESP for no discernable reason before demanding that a student fill her water bottle for her and passing out a syllabus that forbids gum chewing

What?

Whence cometh thee, foul bitterness? I know not.

And yet, this quarter (like all those before it, I suppose) has the faintest hope of being different. Therein lies the catch. That glimmering, distant possibility of dramatic change, improvement, or cataclysmic excellence bites me in the ass every time, and then never delivers.

I’m being blue-balled by destiny.
Fuck it.

All of the typical annoyances are still running wild. I’m sticking it to those pigfuckers at the bookstore this quarter, though, and ordering all my books via Half.com and saving about 200 bucks. Booya. My $90 English text? (yes, ninety dollars for an English book…) I found a used one for SIX FIFTY. Ten bucks with shipping. Who cares if it’s shipped by media mail, the slowest, most ludicrous form of shipping known to the western world? Media mail is basically the modern day equivalent of the Pony Express, except instead of ponies they use these six autistic paraplegics from the Czech Republic. I’ll bet those shady fuckers at Media Mail headquarters just dump a load of my text books into their grimy Czech backpacks, hand them a Mapquest printout and a box of saltines, and shove them out the door. They should call it something more appropriate than Media Mail, like Mediocre Mail or maybe Holyshitit’stheeighthweekwhereismygoddamntextbook Mail. Still, I’m sure I can find something productive to do with my time, like building a fort out of all the god damn money I saved, or baking. Yay for the internet.

So today I met this gorgeous girl in my Operating Systems class…

haha.

Raise your hand if you fell for it? Chump.

I did go to the gym today, with Sossegado the Immortal, and am consequently feeling like I got shot with a fully automatic beanbag gun for about twenty minutes. You’d think that an entire summer of sitting in front of a desk explaining how to organize a user’s Favorites over the phone would have left me in prime physical condition, but I guess it didn’t. Ah, the agonies I suffer to get better at capoeira.

I suppose I could keep writing, put down a few words about how the gym is shitty or making fun of some fat chick or something, but fuck it I’m beat. Before I leave you, though, here are a few points I’d like to make, sans commentary:

1) Chris’s bootsy ass 2.5 horsepower yellow scooter is fucking cool as shit and we should all get them and mob deep around town.

2) I don’t have class until 4:40 tomorrow so all you whorebags can be jealous that I’m out studying Beach Football With Amos 101 while you’re slaving away in a classroom. *scoff*

3) I still hate the President.

http://www.reuters.com/newsArticle.jhtml?type=topNews&storyID=6285182
http://www.reuters.co.uk/newsPackageArticle.jhtml;jsessionid=NCEMDXTCGYDJMCRBAEOCFEY?type=topNews&storyID=587531&section=news

http://sfgate.com/cgi-bin/article.cgi?file=/gate/archive/2004/09/15/notes091504.DTL

4) Go Raiders

That’s it.

Good fight, good night.

-T.

p.s. This thing’s spellchecker just offered me geophysicist and Bolshevik as possible correct spellings of Holyshitit’stheeighthweekwhereismygoddamntextbook. Haha.

Dead and bloated

Posted in Blog on September 19, 2004 by trevorgregg

A terrible cold has settled in over San Luis Obispo, a cloudy bitterness that refuses to leave. It seems appropriate.

School starts tomorrow.

*sorrow*

In my creaking old age, seeing the youth and eagerness of the incoming freshmen fills me with a deep, overpowering nausea. As I shamble onward towards graduation, dealing with the same old bullshit that Cal Poly loves to dump in my lap, these bright-eyed greenhorns scurry around yapping about meal plans and trying to find people to buy them booze. I guess, in part, I’m jealous. I’ve had a good time so far, but I worry that I haven’t taken advantage of college to its fullest. So many goals remain unmet. Sure, I’ve clawed my way through the majority of my classes, wheedling and conniving and bullshitting at every opportunity. Sure, I’ve made excellent friends and partied hardy and learned to do a cartwheel with no hands.

Still…

I mean, come on. I haven’t cut a rap album. I haven’t woken up in Mexico after passing out in Bakersfield. I haven’t even been in a knife fight. Not even one.

Those are the things that validate life, not paychecks and DVDs and programming projects. Or women.

All that being true, here I am, teetering on the brink of another dismal three months of paperwork, programming, and wasted youth. Not much else I can do at this point, however. I mean shit, what’s the alternative? Bail out now? No way. Change majors? My already waif-like savings account shoots that idea full of holes. Move to Morocco and learn to make beads or some shit? Hmm…. Perhaps…

You know that feeling of Sunday afternoon when you’re a kid, and you just want to fucking play your heart out and do all this fun stuff because you know you’ve got school the next morning, but it’s already two o’clock and you end up just sitting around agonizing? Well, stretch that feeling out across an entire school year and add a ton of loathsome hectic bullshit like working and filling out forms and coding in C. Let the feeling simmer, then take it off the stove. Wait until the foul brown grease rises to the top of the pan, then skim it off into a bowl made of the skull of someone terrible, like Atilla the Hun or Rosie O’Donnell, and mix it with powdered Despair. Then add a whole bunch of weird thoughts about totally whacked out deep left field shit, like panda bears and submarines. Mix thoroughly and serve with a side of God Dammit, and you’ll feel the way I do. Not that I recommend it.

Who knows, maybe this year will absolutely rock and I will be so completely fulfilled that I will pray for death as I backflip across the graduation stage. Maybe I’ll get caught up in routine and forget about all these negative thoughts, pushing them back and letting them fester like a good American. Maybe I’ll flip out and go to Achmad’s Moroccan Beadmaking School. Time will tell.

Fuck it.

Just gonna have to sack up and do the thing. If you’re going to do something, after all, do it righteously. I’ll catch you scumsuckers on the flipside. bounce

p.s. I had a genius idea when I woke up this morning, still a little woozy from last nights drinkin/ass-shakin: the TAI.

The Trevor Awesomeness Index, a specific and quantifiable value that a person is assigned based on measurable criteria. A single number representing your entire worth as a human. Things like the number of books read in a month, height of vertical leap, Warcraft record, felony convictions, number of Cadillac Tah albums owned, and distance from city of birth to Hayward in miles could all contribute… This is definitely a concept that bears further investigation. Booya.

Roll call!

Posted in Blog on September 18, 2004 by trevorgregg

Preface: hammy.

I am, as they say, crunk.

Typing presents a significant challenge, even to one of my almost otherworldly experience with it. Pardon the misprints.

Lord.

It is good to be back among friends. I fake an independence and isolationism which I truly do not contain, but holy shit my friends areawesome. Went down tizown tonight, with a couple of my faves, and partied hardy. They even gave me a ride home. Kindness and convenience and companionship, what more could one ask? Some of my boys, namely The Wog and The Wheeze and C Murd are still down at the scene, and I wish I could attend them. Too Much vodky at the speakeasy, as Raab would say, prevents me. My truck is… who knows? Not here, taht’s for sure.

Basically I’m tppling around until I am no longer too dizzy to sleep.

A weaker man would pour his heart out, under the influence of vast amoutns of Absolut, Firestone, and whatever the hell drink was I stole from Pete (sorry homes), but not me.

Why not me?

ice cold.

This year is to be a magnificent festival of character building. In ever sense of the word, I will be a better person at the end of this year than when I started. Word has come down, and Nate has a case of Camo 40’s, perhaps the most hardcore and torque filled drink known to humanity. Soss is ready to rock, we will be training ourselves into athletic oblivion. Me, I just donm’t give a fuck, and am ready to do whatever is necessary. My homies out on johnson, who are fucking ready, well, those fuckers are ready to do some shit. Yes. Gnar Kill.

Hammy jesus.

zzzzzzzzzzzzz.

I wish.

Where were we?

p.s. If you live in the slo area and want to give me a ride down town to searchj for my rruck tomorrow, I would appreciate it. Lord knows where I left that stinky gold bastard.

I wish I was a ninja, that would be awesome.

The Ever-ingenious Regina came up with an absolutely brilliant idea tonight: The Fall Formal. Come to the think of it,. the idea was pure Regenius haha .

The details have yet to be formalized, but suffice it to say that this fucking rbilliant combination of embossed invitations, slow dancing, low-class highclassyness, and [qimping clothing will go down in history as perhaps on eof the most awesomnest parties in ever. The quote social event of the season endquote, I can not wait. A FORMAL why have we never discussed this before. The shear magnitude of itsbrillance is punching me inf the face. A FORMAL. Tomrowo the preparations begin. Dates are manditory (MANDATORY, you poro spelling fuck), we will have pictures and cockatails and a nice l;ittle walkway and shit and it will be off the hook and awesome and everyhtig own could ask for from a -party.

Better start finding a date now, shiet. You know who hatesme? ladies.

thts the sux.

ICE COLD, *headbutt*

Now its time to drinka hafl gasllon of water and lay down. Tomorrow I go ins search of my car and my destiny. I hope neither one has been towed.

Kicking ass and taking names,

-TADOW.

but it could only be for one night, cuz the only thing I love in my life is the mic