Archive for October, 2004

Whatcha gonna do when you get out of jail?

Posted in Blog on October 31, 2004 by trevorgregg

Halloween, the best holiday of all, is upon us. I’m in a damn sorry state, I hate to say, and so I’m sitting here on Halloween night doing laundry and fighting to keep my eyes open instead of starting fires and terrifying the peasants. Whatever, we partied damn hard the last two nights. The ringing in my ears, the ache in my bones, and the weariness in my soul is a small price to pay for the riotous hard drinking and rumpshaking of Friday and Saturday.

Where to begin… I’m not sure, really. So much ground to cover before I pass out.

Our costume shopping had been quite successful, as evidenced by the array of wigs, glasses, and ninja swords jammed into the back seat of my truck. After Q Unit picked out his bra at Ross (haha, picked out his bra) we met up with some ladies and chilled high class at the Cliffs. The Cliffs is the only place to be at 4:30 on a Friday afternoon. After gorging ourselves on free tacos and half-price drinks, we said goodbye to the ladies and bounced out, heading back to our place for costume construction and pre-partying.

Our costumes fuckin rocked. Q makes a damn sexy Beatrix Kiddo, and he had his ass variously pinched and slapped several times that night, by both adventurous girls and confused dudes. The line of the night, which we heard over and over again, was “Hey yeah… Oh damn that’s a dude!” Hilarious. Pete and I made an excellent Wayne and Garth, schwinging ladies left and right while quoting many a line. Fools don’t know, but Wayne’s World is definitely one of the most influential movies of the 90’s, a cinematic masterpiece that serves as a cornerstone of not only the pop culture of the era, but of my very personality. It’s an interesting thing to think about, that a movie which can capture a moment in history so perfectly and be so god damn righteous will be absolutely incomprehensible to people not alive during that split second in time. It’s a sobering thought that my 16 year old cousin doesn’t get about half the jokes in it, and certainly can’t understand why we worship it the way we do; she’s not ignorant, we’re just old.

Speaking of schwings, there were two basic reactions from the Fairer Sex upon being schwung by Peter and myself;

1) Giggling and mild embarrassment. About half the ladies reacted this way, enjoying the compliment and setting aside any notions of propriety and stuckupitude for us because a) we’re in costume and or b) we’re hot. For future reference, ladies, this is the CORRECT way to respond.

2) Baleful glares, sneers, and or hissing. The other half of the double x’ers reacted like this, which is very uncool. “Denied!”, as it were. It’s not as though we’re screaming “TAKE IT OFF!” or leaning on the horn as we speed past you in our IROC Camaro. How the hell can you justify taking offense to having Wayne and Garth toss a tasteful schwing your way when you’re dressed up in a leotard with kittie ears and a tail, a costume with the same total fabric surface area as a napkin? It’s Wayne god damn Campbell and Garth mothafuckin Algar, complimenting you in their own special way, and you turn around glaring like we just spat on you, or drop-kicked your grandma.

Well whatever, we had a damn good time, and it’s nice to see that some classy ladies still know how to be schwung with dignity.

Friday night was a flurry of parties, driving madly from place to place and getting our merriment on in a big way. Highlights? Indeed.


The dudes in the Fishmasters costumes. That rocks. Jessie and Evelyn’s party, which also rocked; in fact if there was any poor judgment that night it was leaving their party for the sorry ass one by Santa Rosa Park, which was a bunch of Cuestoids sitting around a fire smoking and being mediocre, glancing mournfully at the empty Kegerator and basically just sucking. The Beatrix vs. Michael Jackson danceoff, where Q emerged victorious despite serious inebriation and fake boob related logistical problems. The Airforce girl, the Cheerleader girl, and the Crippled girl, the top three schwings of the night, in that order. All three were Babealicious. Airforce? If she was president, she’d be Baberham Lincoln. (The Crip was not cuter than the Airforce one, Pete, and you’re a god damn nearsighted feeb if you think so.) Incidentally, none of these three reacted to the schwing in a graceful or pleased manner. For that matter, Airforce’s large, shirtless Fireman boyfriend didn’t react all that gracefully either, but I guess he couldn’t find sack enough to start a fight with two pop culture demigods and a dude in a bra. Chump. The weird ass Gwar extra breathing fire at the tard party while getting hit on by the skinny, chain-smoking Whorefairy. That was a damn great image.

Demolishing a pinata with our capoeira skills. Watching Little Red Riding Hood holler at Garth (she must have heard he got pubes). The look from the three dudes who dressed as Crazy 88’s when Q aka Beatrix walks through the door of their party. (Awesome coincidence or quantifiable evidence of divine meddling? You decide.) Nate and Gina’s god damn sick ass Army of Darkness costumes. The dude who dressed up like the God guy from Farmers, with the sign and everything. Screaming “Backstage Passes!” and flashing our Stab party tickets at the door to everyone around us. Getting freaky with Gumby to “Thriller”. Much much much drunken bootyshaking. Peter falling through a table while trying to climb in a window. The 3 AM Shopping Cart Crash, which I managed to escape with only minor cranial and spinal damage. MGD Tallboys, Captain Britain, and that damn good pizza at Stefanie’s.

Vanilla Milkshakes and the Hiphopastromanous as the ultimate hangover cure. Quint breaking his face open. (In the process of helping Gina move, Nate held up the bottom hooplike piece to one of those large bamboo concave chairs and told Q to dive through it. He did, and succeeded perfectly, except he hooked it with his toe at the last second and tossed it into the air, rolling over at exactly the wrong time and taking the whole bamboo apparatus right in the eye. There was some blood, and a decent shiner, but it was still awesome. Definitely QBAB worthy) The brand new ICE COLD sign gracing our living room wall, courtesy of Drew who liberated it from some gas station. Words to live by, and now they hang bold and blessed over our very home. In them, I find inspiration, comfort, and hope. Finding my wallet. Filling out my absentee ballot in direct opposition to Fox News’ recommendations.

Can you blame me for being god damn tired? I fear the abrupt return to reality tomorrow morning; coming down off a weekend like this into a mire of paperwork and academic despair is a misery I wouldn’t wish on anyone, especially me.

Oh, and you fuckbags that put on the haunted house at the end of Osos street? You should all be whipped with an extension cord and force-fed a dictionary, page by page. I have no real problem with you trying to do something nice for the kids and putting on a haunted house, in fact I applaud the intention and throw up the horns for how awesome it is to go all out on Halloween, but… BUT… If you’re gonna make signs for your shizzle, where little kids can see, do NOT WRITE “Hallowierd!” On an average street, the kids come away no worse for wear beyond bad teeth and some smeared face paint, but at your little den of evil they come away with shitty spelling and grammatical ineptitude, damaged for life. You make up a word, and still spell it wrong. I hate you.

College educated people who can’t spell weird right on a god damn Halloween poster… and it’s not like you didn’t know, you found out and still didn’t fix it. I must have screamed at you three times out the window of my car at various points during the day, and when I drove by tonight the damn travesty was still hanging up on the wall where all the impressionable youngsters could see it. When you see a crazed, geeky looking guy in a Who Is John Galt shirt swerving across several lanes of traffic to cuss at you for your grammatical ineptitude, take it seriously, don’t just leave your shame flapping in the breeze. Your lame ass house was only scary as a commentary on the state of the modern American educational system, assmonkeys.

A weekend like this is so jam packed with anecdotes and images and excellence that I feel like I’m short changing you kids with a highlights reel. I guess the only way to get the full experience is to be there, though, so all you starry-eyed, worshipful readers out there are just gonna have to settle for this pale written reflection of a truly kickass weekend. That’s what you get for living vicariously through me. I do my best to capture the feel, the vibe, the meaning of the incidents, but somehow I fear I’ll never quite do justice to the things I’ve seen. I could write for an hour, describing every little detail of Q vooing a mannequin at the Establishment at 3 AM amidst the broken balloons, empty bottles, and party fallout from the night’s festivities. I could hack out adjective after adjective, trying to convey that very special, quasi-satisfying, twisted feeling you get when a truly drop-dead heart-stopping “Exsqueeze me? ” gorgeous girl snarls at you and stomps off after being audibly appreciated for her beauty with a harmonized “Schwing.” Hell, I could even start msesing up allthe wrods so its seems liek i’m a s faded as i were last nite!~ I somehow doubt any of that will do the trick, however. I guess it’s a good thing I’ve got vivid memories, my friends’ sharp recollections, two disposable cameras, and a few minor scars with which to hold on to the last couple of days. For all you kids at home that weren’t with me and have to settle for the Reader’s Digest version, well, there’s always next Halloween.

Party on, readers.



Call on me

Posted in Blog on October 28, 2004 by trevorgregg

The Lord giveth, and The Lord taketh away

but not hiphop, yo.

In the words of Ice Cube, I gotta say it was a good day. Indeed, I didn’t even have to use my AK. There’s nothing like an English midterm to remind me what academic success tastes like. Yeah I might bomb my programming assignments, yeah, I might f up every differential equation I get my hands on, but god damn if I didn’t get a hundred percent on that bastard today. Unless she grades me down for shitty handwriting or being too damn sexy, that’s a straight refrigerator-bound A+ test. Capoeira went damn well too.

Now I’m back at home, tired as shit and achy as all hell. We dug another hole, me and the other two members of the QBAB Assault Squadron, and it was superior in every way to the first. The geriatric Avila beach security force, a man so old he still calls America the New World, came and gave us some guff, but then took a liking to us and left us be. We tried to explain to him, using metaphors and complex analogies and obscure Karate Kid references (He claimed he’d “Seen the previews but never saw the actual movie”) why exactly three dudes were out digging a giant hole in the sand at 1130 at night on a Wednesday, but it was beyond his grasp. Instead, he mumbled and shined his flashlight, then smiled and abandoned us once he saw we had no booze, corpses, or firearms. I shouldn’t be so hard on him, he was nice. Much nicer than the 4 real po that sat up on the road watching us for 45 minutes, hoping we’d do something illegal or at least turn into minorities so they could shoot us. Fascists.

Sitting in that pit, listening to the waves and watching the moon through the clouds, is something. I don’t know, or at least can’t convey exactly what that something is, but it’s definitely something. Something good.

These past few days, I’ve been filled with an overwhelming desire to go back to Brazil. It’s all I can think about. Not just as an escape, although there are many aspects of my life that are escape-worthy at the moment, but as an improvement, a step up. I catch myself daydreaming, remembering walking the streets of some no-name town between Campinas and Pouso Alegre at 2 AM, talking haltingly in poorly accented Portuguese about the capibaras sitting on the lawn across the way. I’d seen those things on Animal Planet before, but you don’t even know how big they are till you see one up close. They’re like a 50 gallon drum with feet. I digress. For whatever reason, I’ve got it on the brain. Call it a shot in the dark, but if any of you work at an English language newspaper somewhere down in the Promised Land, get me a job and a visa come June and I will be forever indebted to you, mind, body, and soul. To live in a place where, simply because of their foreignness, even the most mundane things become adventurous; to have my language be my ivory tower; to distance myself from all the mire I’ve sunk into over the last 22 years; that’s what I want. The question is, how do I make it happen.

For now, it’ll have to remain academic. Pass classes. Finish senior project. Graduate. Move to Brazil.

Still have a lot of steps to get through before I worry about that stuff.

I thought about writing down something concerning greatness, about how utterly devoid of it my existence is, and what I should do to remedy it, but that’s a slippery slope I shouldn’t get started on tonight. No, what I need tonight is a fistful of Advil and 14 hours sleep. Maybe some Vitamin C. It’s hard, going to school and learning about people like Charlemagne or reading books by Helprin or Hemingway or any of those other fools, and then being expected to write a design document for some sockets bullshit. How do you people do it, how can you muster the will and smiles to go to the grocery store and make your bed and fill out forms when there are people out there loving, fighting, suffering, and basically just participating in meaningful shit? Whatever. We’ll discuss that some other time.

Just so you know, Quint-a-palooza 2005 is gonna be off the hook. I say, without jest or arrogance, that it will be the best and dopest party in years, certainly in our own college careers. Prepare yourselves, because guess what? You don’t even know. You don’tevenknow.

Natemo busted a quick little website for it, and keep your eyes peeled for flyers and invitations in the mail.

What else was I gonna talk about tonight… Something about that dumb hottie that sits in front of me in linguistics, blah blah I don’t remember….


Rereading High Fidelity right now, still a damn good book. I know what you’re thinking, “That John Cusack movie made me want to carve pagan runes into my abdomen with a steak knife just to have something to think about besides how boring the shit was”, but hey, the book is way better. First off, it’s British, and they do that quasi-romantic past your prime average joe shit way better than we do. Second of all, the main dude is very much not ice cold, but somehow I still find him endearing and root for him. That’s quite an accomplishment; good work author.

The only thing the movie had that the book doesn’t is JB. He’s the shit.

And so, in a very blatant and copyright infringing sort of way, I’ve composed the following three Top 5 song lists, just like they do in the book. Keep in mind these top five are not in order, these are simply the top five.

Top 5 Songs To Dig A Big Hole To On A Wednesday Night At The Beach:
1) The Rolling Stones – You Can’t Always Get What You Want
2) Erykah Badu – Call Tyrone
3) Whoever that dude is that remixed it – Call On Me
4) Spearhead – It’s A Crime
5) The Doors – Break On Through

Top 5 Songs To Listen To When Writing A Blog Entry
1) Stereo MC’s – Connected
2) Master P – Burbans and Cadillacs
3) Freaknasty – Da Dip
4) Sambassim
5) Beck – Tropicalia

You know what’s funny? Ashlee Simpson. Hahaha.

Top 5 Songs To Blare In The Parking Structure Cuz The Fuckwads In Front Of You Don’t Know How To Drive And It’s Taking Forever To Get Out.

1) Pharcyde – Passing Me By
2) Blues Brothers – Sweet Home Chicago
3) Neil Young – Southern Man (live version)
4) Nine Inch Nails – Closer
5) Cadillac Tah – POV City Anthem

Later yo.


p.s. Good job sox, you earned that shit. Long live Boston, the Yankeeslayers and defenders of the American Dream. May your reign be long and benevolent.


Posted in Blog on October 24, 2004 by trevorgregg

QBAB, fools.

What the hell.

Just got back from Avila, after a very successful night. The desk and dresser that Soss and the NFP destroyed with our martial arts skills on Friday made for quite the bonfire, at least after liberal application of flammable liquids. A lot of people are dumb, and say shit like “Wet particle board doesn’t burn that well” or “That desk top has a quarter inch of carcinogenic laminate on it” or “Don’t throw the whole rest of the can of lighter fluid in there are you crazy”. I didn’t have to respond, I just turned and pointed to the ten foot tower of green hissing flames behind me. The fire, and its massive spire of filthy oily smoke, was perfect. As long as you stayed up wind.

And then a lot of fools start asking shit like “Why are you digging that huge hole?”

You know what, if you have to ask why I’m digging a huge hole on the beach at 1 AM on a Sunday morning, you’ll never understand.

Low and behold, though, all the naysayers climbed down in it too. God damn bandwagoners.

Drew also broke a bottle over Soss’s head but it was cool cuz he had a helmet, so no biggy.

All of this coolness stood in stark contrast to the dark hours of the early evening, however. A good portion of my life sucks, and Saturday night was no exception. Studying frantically for midterms in classes that I’m doing dismally in is just not my idea of a good time. I’d much rather be studying than programming, so I guess that’s a bonus, but for whatever reason I was in a foul mood. The kind of pissed off that makes you want to kick over mailboxes or torture the innocent, one of those moods. Hemingway’s A Farewell To Arms and Radjaji’s Operating Systems Concepts are two books which should never be mixed outside of a safe laboratory environment. Trying to tackle the complexities of multi-threaded operating system programming after having your heart laid to waste by Ernest’s creeping tragedy is just stupid. I suppose it’s no wonder that by the time the crew got back from the Ozomatli concert I was grinding my teeth and listening to Kill ‘Em All way too loud.

Downtown last night was a zoo, but nothing out of the ordinary. Spent time with my friends, yelled at people, became increasingly convinced of the absolute uselessness and idiocy of Poly girls, you know, a typical night.

It’s late, and I stray dangerously close to seriousness.

It frustrates me that I spend so much time and energy doing shit that I find tedious, difficult, and meaningless. I hate my major. I hate filling out forms. I hate being perpetually stressed out about the two. I always seem to find such constructive means of escaping my woes, too. I can go read a book or play guitar or hang out for a few hours, and enjoy myself, but I come back and the shit is still there, waiting to be Dealt With. I keep telling myself that, in a few months, I’ll be free of it and able to really get down to something worthwhile. Move to The City, get a meaningless tech job to pay the bills and start doing things I care about. Move to Brazil and teach English while training capoeira day in and day out. Move to Istanbul and sell plums at a fruit stand in an alleyway. Anything.

There are times, friends, when even I, the emotional iceberg, can be brought low. The hole and the fire and the bottles did help, though.

Now it’s late and I’m tired and we’re both sick of complaining. Whining about weaknesses just makes them worse, like scratching at poison oak. It’s time to crash.

What’s cooler than bein’ cool?

See you around.


Black Milk

Posted in Blog on October 20, 2004 by trevorgregg

No rest for the wicked. No rest for the weary.

Either way I’m screwed.

The curious transformation of this, my own little piece of internet real estate, strikes me as retardedly predictable. It’s gone through several phases since its inception: idle diversion, amusing passtime, needy dependant, and backbreaking responsibility. Not that I don’t enjoy being here with you kids, but shitfuck I’m busy. Neglecting this damn thing isn’t healthy for either one of us, so here I am forsaking sleep to bring the pain hardcore from the brain.

Straight verbin.

And while we’re on the topic, what the hell am I supposed to say to you people that tell me you read my shiz? That’s like saying “Oh, hey, you were just sitting weird and I saw up your shorts and looked at your junk.” Wtf do I say?

What’d ya think?
Didn’t I tell you I was demented?


Shit I don’t know. Granted the entire purpose of this thing is to be read, but with one way exchanges of information like this, you assholes always have me at a disadvantage. Judgmental bastards.

The rains have come, and come hard. It poured all day, not the kind of poignant, melancholy rain you see in sad music videos, but vicious, snarling, bitter rain. I enjoyed it for about an hour when the fellas and I stood screaming defiance at the pathetic Texas State team during the homecoming game on Saturday. The torrents washed away all the riff raff, scaring off all the bandwagoners and alumni, leaving only the hardcore. Ridiculous rain kicks the epicness of painted-face shirtless top-of-your-lungs football fanaticism up a notch or two, but off the field I’m very over it.

Driving rain and dark skies, wind and cold… I have a hard enough time getting up and out of the house as it is, and when my natural bent toward hibernation and hermitude get boosted by foul weather patterns, well, it’s a god damn miracle I make it out the door at all. Even as we speak… well, I guess as I speak, I find myself wanting to write about unhappy things, about weaknesses and mistakes and regrets, rather than the full-tilt jaw-clenching scathing shit I should be cranking out. It’s like that part in the Neverending Story, and I’m like that god damn horse in the swamp that just gives up and sinks in. But you know what? Fuck that. Fucking Artax should have sacked up and QBAB’ed his way through the hard times, but he wasn’t ice cold. He wasn’t made of stern enough stuff, he was weaksauce. He wasn’t me.

The first casualty of the storm season was, woefully, my TV. As an engineer, you’d think I’d recognize the fact that chimneys are not one way streets, and that if smoke can get out, water can get in. We keep (kept) our TV in the fireplace, and now, wet and defeated, it sits in the middle of the floor emitting an awful high pitched whine, even though it’s unplugged. I thought about taking the back off to try and dry it out, but then remembered that I’m not actually retarded and have better things to do than fondle a giant wet overcharged electromagnet. We’ll see if I can coax the bastard back to working order in a few days, otherwise we’ll throw it off an overpass or toss it in the bonfire or sell it on eBay “as is”.

Your homework is to read Kurt Vonnegut’s Slapstick and build a shrine to his genius in your living room, paying homage at least once a day and sending flowers and cashiers checks to him as often as possible. Just don’t build it in the fireplace.

I should write something about Harry’s in Pismo, definitely the best bar on the Central Coast, but I’m running on fumes. So, to conserve my last bit of energy, here are some key points, not listed in any particular order, and not in complete sentences:

Cover band: AC/DC, Billy Idol, Zeppelin, Creedence, more AC/DC
Faded tattoos, leather vests
People over 30 can’t dance
Bar fights
Awesome Budweiser light fixtures
Soss puking up Singapore Slings in the alley
Cigarettes, raspy laughter, and always, the rain



Over the hills and far away

Posted in Blog on October 15, 2004 by trevorgregg

In the words of my good friend Douglas Adams:

“I love deadlines. I like the funny whistling sound they make as they fly by.”

And boy do they fly by.

Even without all this school horse shit living my life is a full time job. Between feeding, grooming, cleaning, playing WOW, training capoeira, rocking out, making capoeira videos, planning Quint-A-Palooza 2005, and keeping this god damn thing even moderately up to date, it’s a miracle I have time to sleep. Add a steaming shitload of programming on top of that and something’s gotta give.

I am not, obviously, a praying man. For those of you that are, though, feel free to beseech your deity of choice to grant me some sort of miraculous escape from my academic woes, like a record deal or psychic powers.

Do you ever, like, make up ridiculous scenarios at weird times? Just off the wall shit that would never happen?

I was riding on the bus home, sitting in traffic (SLO traffic = 3 cars at a stop sign), when I start actively hoping the fat dude across from me would pull out an MP-5 just so I could bust some shit. Kick him in the throat, wrestle the gun away, just something to spice up the day, ya know.

Of course, it didn’t happen. The dude got so weirded out with me glaring creepily over my sunglasses and cracking my knuckles that even if he had an MP-5 tucked away in his Jansport he’d probly just jump off at the next stop to get away from the strange fucker across from him, going in search of safer public transportation to hijack.

For the record: Pseudo-scientific 1970’s Ecofeminists are a trip. Read The Descent of Woman if you’re ever, well, stranded on an island with it or something. It’s out there. Nothing like a little warped cetacean-feminism to prove that women are nuts.

Homecoming is this weekend, so I’ll have to get all pumped up and show my school spirit by doing the exact same shit I do every other weekend. Go mustangs.

Serious work on the SLO capoeira video starts this Saturday, with production shooting beginning down at Avila. We’re not too sure exactly what we’re gonna put on there, but we know it’ll be capoeira and cool and riddled with inside jokes. With classics like Damn!, Thin Plot, and CKY as our inspiration, plus the twisted minds of NFP as the directing staff, I’m sure it’ll be magnificent.

Quint ate the last Oreos.

Fuck, I really wanted an Oreo.


Well it’s becoming painfully obvious to you and I both that I don’t have much to say tonight, so I’m gonna get back to my burdens. If things keep up like this, where so much of my time is absorbed in meaningless drivel like schoolwork, I’m just gonna start making shit up to keep this damn thing worthwhile. Stories about how our Venezuelan neighbors’ meth lab blew up at 4 AM taking out half a city block, our house being saved miraculously by its armor of lead paint and asbestos. Maybe I could tell about how I went out with this Graphic Design major last Friday but she turned out to be a moose, or some shit. Who knows. We’ve both seen the mangled atrocities of outlandishness I can pull out of the non-fiction parts of my mind, who knows what we’d dredge up if the premise of authenticity was dropped. As fascinating as I’m sure it is to hear me whine about my academic ineptitude, you’d probably much rather hear about back-alley knife fights and elaborate kidnapping pranks perpetrated on the elderly, whether the stories were true or not.

You greedy scum.

You invent something, like inward singing.

And then I’m out.


I just learned Marvin Gaye was shot to death by his own dad, who was a minister. What the hell is wrong with people? Who shoots Marvin Gaye? What kind of a thing is that to do?

Same as the old boss

Posted in Blog on October 12, 2004 by trevorgregg

Damn it’s late.

This can’t be healthy.

It’s been a while, and for that I throw myself on the altar of your mercy, oh great and all-powerful Reader. Between programming my fingers to the bone, playing capoeira, and killing an average of 200 gnolls a day on that cursed video game, I have little time for brooding.

I can’t fucking wait to do my new English project. When the assignment was described, I was, to say the least, apprehensive. A final project, counting for a fair chunk of your grade, to be displayed and graded at an English Language Faire hosted by our teacher. Art projects. Scenes from plays. Dioramas.

Call me elitist, but fuck you I’m an engineer. Engineers do not make dioramas, we design space shuttles and robots and ICBM’s. You think those fools you see on Modern Marvels ever made dioramas? Hell no.

Rather than caving in and slopping together some pathetic scene out of The Canterbury Tales made with GI Joes and popsicle sticks, I asked if I could do a writing project. Sure, she said. Sure.

Oh ho ho, lady, you done dropped the ball on this one.

What I proposed was a retelling of Act 2 of Shakespeare’s Twelfth Night in modern, northern California slang and context. It would be educational on both a literary and linguistic blah blah blah whatever who cares. The point is, I’m going to turn in a paper with words like “shiznit”, “booya”, and “badonkadonk” in it and get an A from a linguistics teacher. ph33r it, fool. It’s gonna be the most tangled knot of sarcasm, rap quotations, and inside jokes ever created, and it’ll be a god damn miracle if anyone outside of my very closest friends can decipher more than half of it.

Fools don’t know about us, man. Back in the stack with throw so much slang bitches can’t grasp a thing we sayin. Like Navajo code talkers with gold teef. Fool.

Other news…. went to some parties, nothing exciting there…

Oh yeah so, parties. What the hell. I don’t know how the rest of humanity functions, but when the Johnson crew and I go to a party, we just stand around talking to each other and nobody else. What’s the god damn point? I meet more new people in line at the bank or skulking around the mortuary (don’t ask) than I do at a party full of college students. I could blame everyone else at the party, but

no wait, let’s do that, that was a good idea. It’s all their fault.

Perhaps it’s my conviction that I’ve pretty much already met and befriended everyone worthwhile in this hemisphere; maybe it’s the way I start shrieking and foaming at the mouth when I meet someone outside my very narrow spectrum of tolerance (Republicans, stupid people, religious people, people into cycling, the poor, Mac users, etc); maybe I should wear something besides ripped Dragonball Z t-shirts, tapered jeans, and sky blue Tevas. Ah who gives a shit, I’d rather sit back and laugh when Mike from the Ski Club falls off the second story balcony after a botched keg stand and starts bleeding through his meshback hat. Maybe if it was a regular hat instead of a meshback it would have shielded you better from that massive head trauma, or at least staunched the flow of blood better, right Mike? Guess that’s the price of fashion, isn’t it.

This is what programming does to me; it turns me into a miserable hateful ass who actively wills the unsuspecting to die horribly and dreams of things like hunting manatees with a speargun or setting ice cream trucks on fire. What did those stupid manatees ever do to me?

Wow it’s 3:30, I need to put my ass to bed. You scum have kept me up too late as it is.
Gotta get up tomorrow and break some bottles at the Wa wa, maybe burn some wood or dig a hole.

Keep on keepin’ on.


p.s. For the record, I do not own Tevas, tapered jeans, or a Dragonball Z tshirt, ripped or otherwise.

Baby, cuz I’m a thug.

Posted in Blog on October 5, 2004 by trevorgregg

Programming assignments: 2
Trevor: 0

The scoreboard doesn’t lie. Programming is like some kind of disease, it gets into you and takes a gnarly toll on your health, your happiness, and your social life, and when you’re finished you’re way worse off than when you started. I would, no joke, rather get kicked in the junk than have a tough programming assignment. If I could walk into office hours and say “Listen up Prof, you and I both know my shit will never ever work, I’m wasting your time and mine, so why don’t you just rip me one in the jewels and give me a C- and we can both be on our way?” I’d totally do that shit. The fuckin sprinkles on the cupcake is that it’s not like I don’t try. Today alone I fucking hacked at my shit for 9 hours. I didn’t eat lunch, I didn’t play any video games, I didn’t leave the god damn lab. And it doesn’t work. Well, it like half assed works, but how many points do you get for a partially functional attempt? 0. The joys of computer engineering.


Shoulda been a god damn English major. What was I thinking?

Well, it’s turned in now, so no use bitching about it. Fuck it. Let’s talk about the good things in life…

Actually, I guess there’s just one: capoeira.

I don’t like to write about capoeira, or even talk about it with non-capoeiristas. Not for any kind of secretive elitism, not that I don’t revel in secretive elitism from time to time, but because you can’t explain shit about it to somebody that doesn’t already know what you’re talking about. You can’t explain what red looks like to a blind dude, you can’t explain what that skunk corpse I found then hid in Peter’s glovebox smells like to a dude without a nose, and you can’t explain what capoeira is like to somebody that doesn’t already know.

Lord knows I’ve tried. Beware, ye who would ask my loud ass about my martial art of choice, because I don’t shut up. I’m a verbose motherfucker and will spout Portuglish for hours about capoeira to anyone who’ll listen, but it doesn’t matter cuz they won’t get it. It defies description, quantification, explanation, and the laws of physics.

That being said, you’ll have to go out on a limb here and trust me that, without any reasoning I could explain to you, capoeira is the best anything ever in the universe. Better than watermelon, better than rock and roll, better than sex, better than hockey, better than hard drugs, better than anything. Taking / leading classes and playing cap with my good friends stands as the one beacon of fun, expression, and sanity in my otherwise mediocre existence. For two hours my academic woes, my dwindling romantic prospects, my god damn ancient house with unpotable water, and my fucking dentist appointment all disappeared. It’s like pure, unpasteurized radical, from concentrate.

Strange days….

Laid out on the rack of life; at one end is loathsome school and the Dodgers and all the badness of the world, at the other is capoeira and good books and warm weather, and the two just keep cranking away in opposite directions. Wonder when I’ll break.

Pete showed me this ad in the Daily, our school’s dismal attempt at a news publication, for columnists….

Hmm… marinate on that shit for a minute. Fame. Fortune. Writing.

What could I write about in said column?

Politics? It’s so 1999…
Fashion? Hah.
Geeky shit? Well yeah but then there goes the fame and or fortune. I’d transmogrify into some kind of minor geek deity, worshipped by the drooling hordes of engineers as the voice of their sex deprived unkempt awkward ass generation… Could be worse, I suppose.

Well shit, what else do I know about? The guy that writes the sex column is a tard, but I can’t spell labia, so that’s out….

Books? Capoeira? Me?

Why Trevor Is Awesome
by Trevor Gregg

rant rant rant cuss cuss rant you’re fat.

Don’t see that one being a big hit… Although you assholes read this damn thing all day, don’t you? Admit it. ADMIT IT. You adore me.

Whatever I’ll just go talk to the fucks, maybe they’ll assign me something, or turn me away quicker a Jehovah’s Witness with BO. Guess we’ll see.

Oh god, all the soreness just hit me at once. Capoeira is a drug, holy shit. What a come down, I feel like Hulk Hogan just walked in on me and his daughter in a compromising position, and then dealt with me in an appropriately Hulkamaniacal manner. My everything hurts.