Archive for November, 2004

I’m lost in my words, I don’t know where I’m going

Posted in Blog on November 29, 2004 by trevorgregg

Back in the Lou, in, if not full, then at least partial effect.

So tired. This may be a short one.

The break is over. Reality descends upon me once again, like filthy water out of a clogged toilet. How can I still be so far behind? I can’t wait for finals week, when I can relax and just study for 9 hours a day. It’ll be a respite.

Fuck that, no more words on that topic. Negativity is so 1997.

Went to a friend’s wedding today…

That has a horrific ring to it, like “Went to my mother’s arraignment today.”, “Went back to Rite-Aid for more suppositories today.”, “Went to Jack in the Box and somebody pooped in my eggrolls today.” That kind of ring.

Went to a friend’s wedding today…

Surprisingly, it wasn’t atrocious. Not atrocious at all.

Although the entire matrimonial concept is still abhorrent to me, the event in and of itself, which is just essentially a fancy party with weird rituals and somebody else picking up the tab, was quite a ‘hoot’. I saw friends I haven’t seen in years, girls who I knew as squeaky-voiced, knobby-kneed, cootie-ridden children that now, much to my chagrin, look damn good in a red bridesmaid’s dress. Our friends, it seems, have aged well. I can only hope they think the same of me. Being “That kid who used to wear flannel shirts, sweatpants, and thick glasses.” is not such a terrible fate, but being “That kid who used to wear flannel shirts, sweatpants, and thick glasses at his peak, in seventh grade” seems a terrible fate.

On a related note, we were instructed to sit at the “Troublemaker’s Table”, table 15, which turned out not to be so much a troublemaker’s table as a god damn filthy nerd table. The bride’s parents, they know us too well. Quarantined in one corner of the room, the bride’s brother, a couple other friends, and I talked about all manner of unmentionably geeky shit interspersed with trips to the buffet, clapping for various speeches, and dancing with the bride. I was forced to leave early, to make the horribly repetitive and traffic-snarled trek down from the bay area to the lou, and for the first time since the dawn of history, I was unhappy to leave a wedding early. Strange days indeed, friends.

The whole wedding was a tasteful affair, with a sense of humor and none of the religious servility I’ve come to know and loathe from my own family’s weddings. To be perfectly honest, I don’t think Jesus was even invited. I certainly didn’t see him on the guest list. Without him around, the ceremonies were brief, pleasant, quick, classy, and over in a hurry. And fast. I can remember weddings from my youth, endless, horrible hours spent cramped and sweating in the pews of a Baptist church listening to some white dude yap about God. Shut up, just do the vows and bring out the wine, you verbose zealous fuck. Those Christians, they’re like god damn Amway people. Any excuse to bring up their schtick and grind away at you with it, whether it’s a wedding, a funeral, a bus ride… I don’t want into your pyramid scheme, whether it can earn me $45,000 a week or save my eternal soul.

Little sidetracked there, sorry.

Note: If you live on the Central Coast, or liked Lost in Translation, or any combination thereof, go check out the movie Sideways. It’s damn funny, in a depressing, old-people sort of way, but I liked it.

In a way, it’s almost a shame that I won’t be in a wedding. Given the opportunity and a suitably open-minded fiancee, I’m sure I could plan some sort of uber-awesome LAN party dance-a-thon rock concert wedding reception. How much you think it’d cost to get Tower of Power to play a wedding? or to rent out the entirety of Golden Gate Park? Where can I buy Silly String and Olde English in bulk? It’d be like Waynestock, but with tuxedos, paintball guns, and gangster rap.

Nevermind.

I’ll just have to enjoy myself at others’ weddings instead. I can see it now, with each passing year and each friend that slips into the abyss of nuptual slavery, I’ll get a little more hammered at the reception, give a little bit more offensive and embittered speech, and get kicked out a little earlier. That’s what life is all about, kids, it’s not about staying in school, or falling in love, or even running for public office. It’s about getting wasted on somebody else’s dollar and making an ass of yourself in front of your loved ones. It’s about doing whatever you need to to get dirty looks from the old folks and tears from the children. It’s about making sure you don’t get invited to any more weddings. And then showing up anyway, to repeat the process.

Goals, kids, life is about goals. And waking up in a dumpster three days later with arterial blood, ash, and salmon chutney smeared all over your rented tux.

Props to those involved with today’s festivities, however. Charm, amiability, and good food earned you clemency from my wedding shenanigans. The rest of you fucks would do well to emulate them.

Time to crash.

Much love, kids, from me:

Your ice cold host and immorality facilitator,

-T.

Honolulu, Calcutta…

Posted in Blog on November 26, 2004 by trevorgregg

Sup.

On this day I give thanks that Thanksgiving comes only once a year.

Not that I have much right to complain, this year’s was surprisingly painless. We seem to have refined our ritual down to its core elements, and so can jump through all the necessary hoops in about three hours before returning to our regularly scheduled lives. Show up, eat, bounce. That’s what I’m talking about. Obviously, the subtleties and details are many, as they are with any family.

Our Thanksgiving is in Napa, a god-awful dive of a town that, through some absolutely ingenious marketing scheme, has the reputation for being quaint and upscale. Let me clue you in on something, fuckmook, vineyard might sound fancy, but you know what it really is? A grape farm. Just like a corn farm or a tree farm or a whateverelsecanbefarmed farm. And we all know the most essential ingredient for farming, as inescapably necessary for agricultural success as nitrogen in the soil and sunshine, is ignorant white folk. Napa has plenty, and I am related to a good percentage of them.

So we descend on my cousin’s house, a cookie-cutter tract affair with a ‘Happy Fall, Y’all’ sign being held up by a cartoonish turkey on the front porch.


indeed.

Trying to capture that special something that makes this house so damn Napa would be impossible, so I’ll just give you a couple of mental images and you can fill in the gaps for yourself.

The front room has three main decorations: an absolute fucking plethora of family photos and greeting cards arrayed on top of an aged big screen TV, a battalion of wooden and lace angels holding up signs that say things like Bless This House or God Hates The Gays or whatever Christian slogans people from Napa write on their cutesy lil’ angel signs, and finally a god damn enormous mounted elk head. I don’t know who shot this elk, but they must’ve used a sidewinder missile, because this thing’s head alone is bigger than me. A few quick mental calculations and I can say with reasonable confidence that, in life, this elk weighed 34 tons and stood 19 feet tall. This monstrosity would look out of place in a hunting lodge, just because of its size, and in my cousin’s ultra-low ceilinged living room it’s just an affront. The thing is mounted about 3 feet off the ground just so its rack won’t jam into the ceiling, and juts so far out into the main living area that you’re constantly ducking, flinching, or limboing to avoid its predatory jaws or barbwire antlers.

A lot of ignorant fucks out here in California don’t know about elk. Fools think Oh, an elk, it’s like a deer.

No, friend. No it is not.

I come from a long line of hunters; it was my great great grandpas who cleansed our country of the filthy herds of bison that once tainted its rolling plains; it was my ancestors who showed those god damn grizzlies who’s really boss and drove them north across the Oregon border; it’s my family that’s made sure that your kids will grow up never seeing any wild animal larger than a possum. You’re welcome. I know my god damn wildlife, and let me tell you that an elk is not a deer. An elk is 60% Clydesdale, 20% mastodon, and 20% semi truck. They’re like furry dinosaurs, and make this horrible horrible sound that sounds like Ron Artest beating up a bagpipe. And they’re huge.

God damn elk. How did I get so far off track? Where was I…

Ah the ritual. So we show up, hug the relatives, and my father and I immediately march out to the garage as is our duty as men. Women and children in the house, men in the garage. It’s like a god damn mandate. We sit out in the freezing garage, watching the Lions get the piss whipped out of them by Manning and his superhuman offensive line, and talk in brief, awkward blurbs.

Uncle who is a truck driver: “How’s school? Almost done now, ain’t ya?”
Our Hero (me): “Yep. Getting close”
Cousin who restores hotrods for a living: “Unemployedcousin isn’t comin this year.”
Our Hero’s Dad: “Oh yeah?”
CWRHFAL: “Yep.”
UWIATD: “Yep.”
Our Hero: “……..”
CWRHFAL: “Got these new propane tanks here, had to turn the old ones in, it’s cheaper than replacing the valves.”
Our Hero: What the fuck are you talking about?
Our Hero’s Father, who knows about things like propane tank valves: “Oh yeah.”
UWIATD: “Detroit just fumbled again.”
Our Hero: “Propane is cool.”

Bienvenidos a la Gregg Family Thanksgiving.

We banter. We shuffle our feet awkwardly. The women come and get us when dinner is ready, like good squaws.

Then we eat, then each subbranch of the family asks me to repair their computers in turn, and I fix the ones that are actually on-site, namely the two my cousin has. To the others, I offer intelligent and forthright computing advice that will no doubt be completely ignored or botched horribly. Such is my station in life, amongst the relatives.

Aunt: “Our computer is acting up again.”
Me: “What’s it doing?”
Aunt: “It’s really slow, and sometimes turns blue.”
Me: Never touch anything newer than a rotary phone. Ever. “Maybe I can come take a look at it.”
Aunt: Yeah right, lazy ass. “That’d be great.”
Me: Yeah right. “Just give me a call.”
Aunt: Heathen “OK.”
Me: Primitive “Great.”
Aunt: “How’s school?”
Me: “Propane is cool.”

I just found this picture:

See that fucking thing? That’s an elk, not even that big of an elk, fucking up a car.
No human, ever, besides Ken and Ryu from Street Fighter, has ever been able to take on a car. Elk are fucking huge.

Sorry, back to the ritual.

So I fix computers, we watch the Lions lose, we talk about random crap
UWIATD: Are you gay? “You got a main squeeze down there in SLO?”
Me: No I’m not “Nah, the girls down there aren’t that great.”
Aunt: If you believed in Jesus he’d give you a girlfriend “I’m sure there must be someone
Me: BITCHES AINT SHIT ICE COLD BOOYA “I’m pretty busy anyway.”

So it goes. Also, it’s not like it’s just my family at this event. There’s hella fools, and I mean hella fools I don’t even know. Family members who are so distant that I’ve never met them, neighbors, Napans, and probably a circus midget. Hella fools. And there was this god damn baby.

Those of you who know me, know I don’t do kids. Me and kids, we just don’t match. For me, children go through three distinct stages: Baby (Which lasts until they can talk and move with relative ease), Child (which lasts until they can drive), and Fucking Annoying (which is pretty much forever.) I can’t tell how old they are, and I don’t know how to talk to them. I see other people talk to them like they’re pets, instead of larval people. That can’t be healthy. Then again, when I talk to them, they just look at me. This baby today is the perfect example.

This baby rolls up to me while I’m sitting there, and starts watching me. It can walk, and is carrying a shredded towel I’ve heard others refer to as its ‘blanket’, and is sucking on a pacifier. It just watches me. I watch back. Things get weird.

Me: “Hello, baby.”
Baby: “…”
Me: “Baby, what is your name? Who do you belong to?”
Baby:”….”
Me: “Why are you looking at me, baby? Leave me be.”
Baby: “…..”
Me:”….”

And the thing just stares at me, chugging away at its pacifier, its awful, piercing baby eyes boring into my sanity.

UWIATD: “Hey there Matilda! You hungry? Huh? Want a little cookie cookie?”
Me: “It doesn’t know how to speak, I don’t think.”
Baby: “I’m not very hungry, thank you though.”
Me: “WHATFUCK!”

That fucking baby busts out with FULL SENTENCES and NO BABY LISP. It was HORRIFYING, scared the shit out of me. It’s 2 1/2 feet tall and talks like 35 year old secretary, like a real life, female Stewie. Scared the hell out of me. You can’t drag around a towel once you can conjugate verbs. You can’t. Put the towel down, baby, I’ll have no more of your trickery.

It’s not that I dislike my relatives.

I don’t want to give that impression. In their own way, they are good people. They are just not my people. My parents and I are this little island of black sheep sanity that broke free of the mainland 35 years ago, and now we barely speak the same language as the natives.

I was also gonna write about some other shit, about trip-hop mixes and traffic and medieval literature, but I guess that’ll have to wait. I’ve written too long as it is, I know you short attention-spanned fuckers stopped reading after the second paragraph anyway. We’ll see who’s laughing come test time, slackers.

Happy Thanksgiving, fatties.

-T.

Rebel, mind your last name

Posted in Blog on November 22, 2004 by trevorgregg

Good morning, Vietnam.

All abuzz with weird thoughts tonight… Outlandish schemes and exciting propositions, distant worlds and foreign sands. Someone must have slipped something in my drink.
Maybe it was me.

I have been absolutely 100% responsibility free for the last two days. For better or worse, my week-long wave of projects and due dates and sorrow broke and rolled back into the sea at about five o’clock Friday night, PST. The other obstacles, which are many, are so distant (almost a full WEEK away) that they don’t even loom, they merely stand on their tippy-toes and try to look menacing. I care not, beasties. Leave me be.

It’s a hellishly cold night in San Luis Obispo, as if even the atmosphere had deserted us and the hateful frigidity of the void was free to reach down and torment me at will. In a masochistic sort of way, I can almost appreciate weather like this, at least when I armor myself with sweatshirts and leather and beanies. We walked the streets for a while after tonight’s feast, and between the clear skies and the orange streetlights, this old shithole of a town was almost a sight to behold. We beheld.

Reading over my other entries from this weekend, I realize it was a fairly eventful one, full of turning points and plot twists and dramatic background music. Indeed, what I had predicted to be pretty much just a forty eight hour booze-fueled Halo 2 tournament at the Johnson pad turned out to be, if not monumental, at least enjoyable. You toil and you struggle and then, when it’s over, you have a weekend like this. Not an epic star-shattering blow-out, but a liveable, grounded, smiling-but-not-showing-any-teeth kind of weekend. Just what I needed.

Two hours worth of feasting on the delectable culinary stylings of N & G has left me powerless to do anything besides type. I would sleep but I made the terrible mistake of making my bed this morning, and with the sheets all tucked in I’m afraid that in my bloated state I would injure myself trying to gain access. Instead, I’ll sit here mashing away at you, my ravenous fan-base, until I pass out or digest myself back into a normal human shape.

On a completely unrelated topic, I did indeed dance with a beautiful girl this weekend, for quite a while. It’s a practice I thoroughly enjoy, and though I don’t often get to partake of the ritual, its rarity makes it all the more exciting. Two thumbs up to you, hottie from Blue. Our relationship lasted just upwards of an hour, but given my current degree of emotional decay, her propensity for crashing into innocent dancersby, and the troubled state of the world (both socio-politically and environmentally), it’s probably for the best that it lasted no longer. I never learned her name, so we’ll call her Gwen, because she kind of looked like a Gwen. Gwen, I’m sorry, but things between us never would have worked. It would have started off well, but after a few months it would degenerate into harsh words and slammed doors, unanswered phone calls and baleful glares. Nobody wants that. I’m glad you, too, had the foresight to seek to prevent such a tragic future from ever coming to pass by not giving me your phone number. We both know it was for the best.

Looks like I’ll be venturing into the frozen wastes of Oregon for a week or so after finals. I can’t wait. A visit to A-town, now no doubt awash in many feet of snow, should be damn fun. Certain regions, be they cities, counties, or countries, just seem to generate quality humans. Just as LA has a mind-blowing ability to forge and unleash hundreds of thousands of thieves, perverts, and posers per year, places like Hayward, Ashland, and Brazil seem capable of producing large quantities of good folks, for which I am eternally thankful. I can’t specifically define what factors, be they environmental, geographic, or genetic, come together in such places to create people I want to be friends with, but that’s why you go and visit: for fun, adventure, and to further the research on the root causes of awesome. It will, however, be fuckmook off-the-hizzle cold, which I don’t look forward to. Winter is the suck. Sometimes you just have to sack up and power through, though. Snow-chains and Goretex and testosterone, bitches.

Did you know they once blew up a whale with dynamite in Oregon? I watched a video, it’s dope.

It’s time for me to cut. It’s been quite a couple of days, with certain events being enjoyable enough to offset the bad shit, like cleaning our filthy bathroom and getting (literally) kicked in the junk by my ex.

Not that I’ve been checking the UPS Online Tracking shiz every 5 minutes for the last three days, but my (our) copies of WOW are somewhere between Vernon, CA and my greedy greedy fingers right now. If you don’t here from me for a while, don’t fret, it’s because I’ve become a full-time citizen of Durotar and spend my days eviscerating dwarves, pillaging farmsteads, and looking for Old Blanchy’s Oates.

I’m such a geek sometimes I amaze even myself. They need a Betty Ford clinic for video games… some day I’ll wake up and find myself way too old to be dorking so hard.
Fuck it. That day is not today.

Goodnight, wretched readers, goodnight.

-T.

Sounds from the ground

Posted in Blog on November 20, 2004 by trevorgregg

Back so soon, you say?
Indeed I am.

I can see how, judging purely by my writings, I could come across as some sort of nocturnal liquor-fueled vampire. Seems like I’m always out of my head with drink and screaming (figuratively) into this machine in the wee hours. And you know…

Perhaps I am.

This post, however, proves that I do indeed exist and function before the sun sets. I’m sober, hatefully sober, and the remorseless sun streams through my window like the visual manifestation of a banshee’s shriek. I grit my teeth and carry on, because I owe it to the kids.

Things happened last night. Many things. Probably things I don’t even remember. That’s not what’s important.

I’ve been cold, physically, spiritually, and emotionally, for a long time now. A long time. The world passes me by, life washes over me, and all I do is sneer, because it’s all I know how to do any more.

Last night, however, something happened that fractured the glacier of my soul. A thing of such beauty and… and rightness that I can barely even quantify it. It takes something seriously momentous to put a smile on my face these days, let alone at such a god awful hour of the morning on a Saturday, but it’s happened.

Humanity, you’ve redeemed yourself. For a while.

I reach out and hug the world, embracing you all from my humble home here in San Luis Obispo, in this foul year of our lord two thousand and four. Our species has earned a reprieve once again, and on this devastatingly bright, sober Saturday morning, I’m proud to be human.

Good work. Everyone. I mean it.

There are other things I could talk about it, but they pale by comparison, so I don’t think I’ll bother. My newly acquired mutant power, a complete release from the need for sleep, is not as wonderful as I had expected it to be. I’m up this early on a Saturday with nothing to do for the next six hours, when my hung-over and hopefully equally enthused cohorts will rise from their own coffins. Maybe I’ll go clean up this dump. Maybe I’ll go work out.

Maybe I’ll just sit here and bask in the glory of creation.

Paul is the man.

Peace, love, and rock and roll.

-T.

GET LOW

Posted in Blog on November 20, 2004 by trevorgregg

Oh christ
the words, they blur.

Nobody,
and I mean nobody believes me when I say I’m chattin hammy.

I just got off the aim with mark, and he was like you’re not, and I said I am.

Just cuz I got typin skillz doesn’t mean I’m teh sober.

Enough of that bullshit, let’s discuss important things.

First off, I’ve been awake for god damn ever. 50+ hours, 3 hours sleep. I don’t know what kind of college student they make movies about where all they do is party, but is sure is fuck ain’t me. No beer in the OS lab. Or fun. Or ladies.

No fucking sleep either. The words.. They blur!

Nobody, least of all me, wants to hear about my trials and or tribulations at the hands of the academic fascists that run this fiasco of a university. Let’s talk about the ladies, and how absolutely loathsome they are.

Understand I speak not from my own point of view. I am well aware that, in a very objective and third person sort of way, I’m kind of a fuckwad. I don’t pretend to care about what you have to say. I don’t buy you flowers. I don’t write you poetry. I am therefore subject to all manner of female evils, cuz I sure as shit haven’t earned the good treatment. The ladies that icecolded me and Soss at SLO brew tonight? I don’t blame you. The skinny chicks that gave me the hateglare, even though they were cute and I was gentlemanly? Do what you gotta do, honey. I understand that there are better boyfriends out there than me.

HOWEVER.

I will absolutely 100% not abide you fucking with my boys.

AT ALL.

Equal rights means equal vengeance for interfering with my folks, be you M or F.

Do what you will to me. Lie. Cheat. Thieve. Betray.

But to my friends? The most standupest mothafuckas currently residing in this hemisphere?
God help you should you act like a frontin ass ho on them. You bitches don’t deserve mens like my boys is. Not in the least.

Bitches always be like: “I want a sensitive man with a sense of humor. Someone kind and caring who will take care of me”

Right. You just described about 34.000 of my folks.

What they mean is: “I want a guy who I can overtly mistreat and will still treat me like a queen. I want a boy who will compromise without me giving up anything. I want someone who will tolerate all manner of female horseshit with a smile on his motherfucking face.”

Guess what bitches?
ICE
COLD.

Ain’t nobody standing for that while Ta-dow’s in town.

There is the theory, the algorithm if you will. Let’s discuss a practical example:

Floozy A drives many an hour into town to hang out with Homeboy B. Homeboy B is a solid dude, smart and way nicer than your exalted author, and the cutest boy in the club to boot. Floozy A, after enjoying 3 or 4 minutes of dancing with Homeboy B, bounces out to dance with Randomfuck C. Randomfuck C is a douche, some twat who thinks he can dance and who is just asking to have the proverbial smack layed down on his prick ass by Soss and Trovao. Watch it fuckward, because we might look like the harmless dudes in the corner, but we are in fact lethal weapons. Our martelos > your fake ass crip walk. Pose all you want, it’s hard to look cool with a collapsed trachea. Bitch.

Not that it’s even the dude’s fault. Dudes are dudes. He, no matter how much of a douche he is, has no idea of the situation he’s walking into. He just sees some bitch that wants to dance and is acting hoey. He’s just freakin her. Wouldn’t you?

Thus, where to place the blame… hmm…. how about HER. She connives her skanky ass into my boy’s world and then lames out to freak with some other tool at slobrew? Not OK. Not OK at all.

I am an equal opportunity asswhooper. I know for a fact that homegirl weighs more than I do. She’s heavier than me by at least 15 pounds, she’s almost as tall… She basically has no excuse. Same weightclass, same height… It’s time for a cage match, a fair fight. Sounds like a decent competition to me. My only serious advantage? A roaring inferno of hate for you slutting on my homie. This advantage makes my kicks and punches fly so much faster that your pathetic ass (and that shitfist from SB) that y’all will end up in the emergency room with the quickness.

Honestly, bitches, what is your problem.

The other side of the coin though…
the other side of the coin.

Details are not important.
The names of those involved, of those who sacrificed and manipulated and toiled are not important.
The act and the results?
Not important.

What’s important?
A) Brian is my hero.
B) Paul is the man.

Nothing else need be said.

The walk home from downtown was a long and hard one, one I haven’t experienced in what seems like an eternity. My life, as of late, has consisted of A) lab and B) rewriting things written in lab. I’ve neglected everything from eating to hygiene to writing in this damn thing for the last several days, since my every waking minute has been allocated to my god damn reports. I write now only because I feel I must retaliate while the hatred of them stupid hos is in me, and because I feel I may go to sleep for like a week.

Fellas:

I know it’s hard.

They’re pretty. They can act nice when they want to. They will play on your every weakness.

REMEMBER:

They are absolutely 100% no exceptions untrustworthy. Don’t trust them and you’ll be fine. Don’t believe what they have to say and you can excape unscathed. Don’t fall for their deceptions and you, too, can lead a happy life. If you treat them right they’ll destroy you. Never surrender and never make a mistake.

Ice cold.

Now I’m going to bed, to sleep off the exhaustion, the liquor, and the disdain.

I’ll be free of the first two long before the last.
Bitch.

-T,

Tastes better on the way back down.

Posted in Blog on November 11, 2004 by trevorgregg

Word.

It’s a bit early for me to start writing, and I feel awkward. Writing is an activity reserved for the darkest hours of night, like hard drinking or burglary. Writing at nine, before the rest of the world has gone to sleep, while I can still hear students laughing in the streets and hobos stumbling and crashing in the hedges out back… it seems unnatural. The words stick in my mind, and I’m forced to push and pry to get them on screen; they’re like those last few Pringles, coveted and unreachable.

At times like this (you know, decent, godly hours before my eyes get red and the music gets loud) I envy real writers, for many reasons. Think about the differences in audience: Who reads this damn thing? If anyone reads it at all, it’s people I know, friends and cohorts (or at least acquaintances close enough to have me on their Buddy List). This presents two problems to the Writer At Large:

1) Forced veracity: A real writer could get up here and spout whatever the christ they wanted with little or no concern for the truth. You could write Non-Fiction on the cover of any Hemingway book, and I’d believe it, straight up. Shit, how would I know? It’s not like I bump into the guy at Scolari’s and call him out… “Yo Ernest, I knew Old Man and the Sea was a load of crap. Look at that, you’ve got three boxes of fishsticks, some Miracle Whip and a god damn case of Slim-fast in your cart! How the fuck do you expect me to respect your ideas about nature, the human spirit, and sportfishing when you buy cherry Poptarts?! They’re fucking not even frosted, you hack.” But no; Erny, even if he was still alive and kicking, would be shielded from my prying eyes by hundreds of miles, thousands of life experiences, and probably a barbwire fence. I, on the other hand, am subject to constant supervision by my readers. I could invent some elaborate story about falling in love with a gorgeous French girl I met at a flamenco club, sweeping her off her feet with my sterling charm and tasteful wardrobe, but then I’d run into one of you and we’d both know that I spent the last 16 hours with a Coors in one hand an a PS2 controller in the other. And no pants on. We’d both know that while I claimed to be off gallivanting with a high-class Eurolady, I was, in fact, doing my laundry, studying for a networks quiz, or chucking old D-batteries into crowds. You fuckers have shackled me with honesty. No wonder writers become hermits.

2) Limited subject matter: Oh the things I would say if I didn’t have to worry about the consequences of my little e-rants. For the sake of minimizing boat-rockage and in defense of Ye Olde Status Quo, my claws remain sheathed and my fangs safely behind my lips. I suppose I could call it fiction, change some last names and hair colors, then bring the full force of my righteous angst and adjective-ridden retribution to bear on the guilty, but a veil that thin is pointless. Saran-wrap blindfold. Even if the aforementioned beautiful foreigner did exist, if I wrote about her she’d probably read this damn thing, get pissed because she thought I portrayed her as fat, and throw a heart-shaped cinderblock through the windshield of my car. Or she’d feel trivialized that I didn’t mention her here and throw a heart-shaped cinderblock through the windshield of my car. Either way, I lose.

So do you, though. It’s not just the vengeful shit that’d drop were I truly able to hit y’all off with the brizutal hizonesty, but some hilarious, enlightening, and heart-wrenching gems that are locked away in my vault of experiences.

As it stands, though, I keep it as real as I can given my constraints, be they true or imagined. I try to capture theme and meaning, since so many details are off limits. I bring that depth, and you love it. As for the unspoken facts of the situation, a teacher in 5th grade told our class these GLORIOUS words of wisdom (after finding a note that portrayed her as a horned donkey in a compromising position and punishing the kid who drew it (I think it was Frank Jones)):

Never, ever write anything down you want to keep private. So true.

I suppose the other alternative is to create a pen name, something dark-eyed and dramatic like Victor Mathras or Eric du Sol, and start a fascinating and blatantly untrue blog about my life as an assassin/journalist/smuggler in Rio.

That sounds kind of like a lot of work. Let’s stick with what we know.

Just for a second, can we revisit the concept of a heart-shaped cinderblock? Pick just about any object in the world and you can think of a positive use for it, but that shit is mono-polar evil. Talk about your one-purpose item. If they really made those, they’d have no more potential for good than assault rifles, Everclear, or the Russians.

Where were we… got a little side-tracked while staring wide-eyed into the glory of my own genius with that cinderblock shit…

Maybe I’ll start throwing in fictitious anecdotes, and letting you kids play the game of Which Character Represents Me And What Does It Mean?

Maybe I’ll just have to use guerilla marketing techniques to attract a wide and anonymous audience from the barbarian hordes of the internet, a fiercely loyal army of readers to whom I am faceless, ethereal, and moderately omniscient. On that note, in order to boost my search-engine ratings I’m going to start randomly sprinkling in key phrases into my posts, e.g. BRITNEY SPEARS PANTIES. That’ll hook those gullible fuckers. Click the link, monkey, CLICK IT AND BEHOLD! I’ll have to tailor the phrases to attract just the kind of people I want, and weed out the scum… Could be tricky. From here on out, ignore all the bold writing.

Until I’ve got my army of the night obedient and indoctrinated , however, I’ll have to keep being stingy with the gossip. You’ll have to come to me in person to get bad-mouthed and disparaged, cuz it ain’t gonna happen here. GOLDEN GIRLS NUDE

You know, I suppose LIVE STREAMING KOREAN TEENSI could dredge up some old shit, so you get your fill of lyrical sarcastic mayhem and I get my getitoffmychest fix with some real life trashtalk. Yeah, that sounds good. Let’s get started:

Marissa whateveryournamewas, when you pushed me off that big tire above the sand pit in pre-school and made me cry, you started me down a long path of bitterness, distrust, and black-heartedness that has made me the villain I am today. You taught me how to hate. FREE IPODS I hope by now you’ve got three kids, no husband, and untreated chlamydia. Bitch.

Charlie Roecken, you’re a douchebag.

Shane, from my scout troop, you were and are one of the top five most annoying humans I’ve ever had misfortune to interact with. I’m ashamed to share the same phylum as you, let alone species, language, or nationality. You suck at life.

CONDOLEEZZA RICE UNCENSORED

Fuck the midwest.

Dude with the stupid ass emo haircut I see walking through the physics building every day: I loathe you. Cut that shit, fucking sack up, act like a man and take those stupid ass leather bracelets off. Nobody likes you, nobody likes the Smiths OR Morrissey, you look like fuck, and your parents are justifiably ashamed of you.JESUS HATES THE POOR

That’s about all I can think of right now. It’d be damn ironic if these people caught wind of how much I couldn’t stand them, banded together to form a sort of ultra-pathetic assault squad, and threw heart-shaped cinderblocks at me. Damn ironic. OSAMA BIN LADEN AND MOTHRA INVADE CLEVELAND

I’m done for now. Time to go read some more Bluebeard and perhaps even *shudder* attempt something productive.

Fade to black,

-T.

PILATES ATKINS CARDIO METRX
ALTERNATIVE ENDING TO BACKDRAFT
SEX IN THE CITY DVD COLLECTION IS THE NEW NEW TESTAMENT
STARCRAFT MAP HACK
VENOMOUS LIZARDS

ICE COLD.

That should bring in just the kids we want…

You, like, use these images…

Posted in Blog on November 9, 2004 by trevorgregg

Friends, it has been too long.

You never call. You never write. Where is the love?

The world is turning at a higher than average speed these past few days; where to start…

The election? What can I say?

I wish there was someone to blame besides the American public. The profound disappointment, despair, and loathing I feel wouldn’t weigh so heavily on my soul if you idiots hadn’t brought this down on our own heads.

Perhaps it’s for the best. Rome’s corruption, opulence, and over-extension brought it down, maybe it’s our time as well. A sad day, no doubt, but it’s just global/historical natural selection in action. A glorious empire turned zealous and violent, paranoid and tyrannical… we’ve heard it all before, why should my home be immune to the perpetual forces of civilization at large?

People think I’m exaggerating when I talk like this. I suppose I’ve brought it on myself, given my propensity for bullshittery and nonsense, but seriously… The American people, by due process, re-elected the worst President in American history to a second term. From any economic, moral, environmental, or patriotic point of view, this administration is the worst on record. I say this without party bias, arrogance, or sarcasm.

The economically minded voted for him because they think Democrats waste money. Bush’s foreign policy and internal economics costs jobs and funnels money into rich white dudes’ bank accounts in Trinidad. The Christians voted for him because, well because they’re dumb, but also because they think he shares their morality. If Jesus were here, and I asked him which was the worse sin, letting two dudes get married or slaughtering Iraqis, guess which one’d he pick, biblethumper? I don’t care, if Kerry was an untreated schizophrenic Satanist with an eye-patch, a Van Halen tattoo on his neck, and a raging case of herpes I’d still choose him over Bush as long as his policy wasn’t based on murder, theft, and paranoia.

Whatever. I’ll get the last laugh. When your kids die (and they will), whether on the battlefield in some godforsaken desert across the world or at the hands of an enraged terrorist seeking revenge for his family’s death at the hands of one of Bush’s cruise missiles, you’ll get yours. When we look back and try to figure out why America is no longer an economic superpower (and thus no longer a military or scientific superpower) in twenty years, and China and the EU run the world, guess who’ll be to blame? You, you fucking twats. You. Buy the ticket, take the ride, assmonkey. If we’re dumb enough to put that feeb in charge of our guns and our money and our kids, we don’t deserve to be a superpower. If we’re that dumb, we deserve helmets, mittens, and safety scissors.

Fuck it I’m moving to Brazil anyway. Ciao, filho da puta.

I have not lost all hope. Perhaps California will secede. If there was ever an army I’d enlist in, it’d be a Californian one. Perhaps Bush will abdicate. Perhaps voting Republican is highly carcinogenic. We can always hope.

I had so much else to talk about, but now remembering that dismal night clicking “refresh” on CNN.com for hours waiting for Ohio’s results has put me in a foul mood. We sat on the porch that awful night, drinking heavily and giving shout outs and fuck yous at the top of our lungs, a sort of Irish wake for the American way of life we’ve known and loved. Thank you Abe Lincoln, fuck you College Republicans. Thank you Jon Stewart, fuck you Charlton Heston. Thank you Blue States, fuck you Rumsfeld. Thank you liberty, fuck you fascism.

I’ve said it before, kids, but I’ll say it again, with feeling.

I hate you all. This is your fault.

I’ll be back in an hour or two to finish this post on a completely different topic and, hopefully, in a completely different mindset.

*Intermission*

Though overshadowed by the impending collapse of our nation and thus the free world, by the declaration of martial law in “Free” Iraq, and by the prospect of a military draft, positive things have happened over the last week or so.

I suppose right up until the day the Huns, the Visigoths, and the rest of them kicked in the gates and got their rape & pillage on, Roman twenty-two year olds still got hammered on cheap wine and hollered at the ladies with the shortest togas and bitched about their fantasy gladiatorial teams performing poorly. Why shouldn’t we?

This weekend was great, as I expected. We went to a capoeira event up in The City and got to partake in some of the glory that is a true vida da capoeira. I say again, capoeira is the best anything ever. You probably don’t understand, but it really is. Nothing else even comes close. When we visit our extended family up north or down south in SD, catching up with people so dedicated and engaged in the art that no one but their mother still calls them by their real names, I go green with envy. They live capoeira, training and teaching and playing and traveling. A hard life, but one I have a staggering amount of respect for.

Sipping a Red Stripe with friends I haven’t seen in months, discussing the nuances of a particular game, the outcome of a particular fight, or the melody of a particular song… that’s more than enjoyable, it’s home. To be Corisco for even a few hours, learning and singing and fighting and playing, while leaving Trevor and all his pettiness elsewhere… it’s just better, I don’t know how else to describe it.

Word on the grape vine is that Pete had himself quite a weekend too. He came back giddy as a god damn school girl full of Carlo Rossi, enlivened by his two day association with real live cool ladies. A species thought to be extinct on the Central Coast, Peter found an isolated pocket living in the relative safety of some bumfuck town out near Fresno, undisturbed and untainted. I can sympathize completely; upon returning from the now-legendary Occidental trip, I had a completely repolarized sense of hope and appreciation for the X chromosomers, in fact of humanity in general (Which was promptly demolished by interaction with the locals back in SLO). To see, with one’s own eyes, that ladies of such caliber do indeed exist in the world, well, it’s like seeing a bald eagle on your windowsill, or catching a coelacanth on a nightcrawler off a dock: invigorating, rare in the extreme, and nigh heartrending. Of course I’m pissed I didn’t get to enjoy their company as well (you fucker), but good for you anyway, Pete. If you were a molecule, you’d be Di-Ballerate Straightpimpinol 2+.

Props to Vira way out in Chi-town for totally shirking his responsibilities to go train capoeira. That’s absolutely bomb-diggity.

I had a job interview today… creepy. Opportunity, he is knocking…

Do I answer? Make that paper stack and move on up to the east side? Or do I knee him in the junk and hop a plane for Sao Paulo, to find that street with those stairs and that chubby man upstairs who can turn me into a demi-god? Decisions, decisions.

I’m gone.

Peace.

Seriously, peace.

-T.

“Mestre, what is capoeira?”
“Capoeira is treachery.”

NOTE: Who spelled Coelacanth right on the first try? Me. ph33r.