floorpie

Californians who share my opinion Unite!

A travesty, as I see it, is in the midst of taking place. As you are well aware, slowly but surely, commemorative quarters are being issued for each state as the proverbial Sun moves across the country. California is up, soon, and voting is happening as we speak. As of this writing, this is winning:

Jigga wha? I’m all about So-Cal… and sure it’s pretty and all… but I’m sure (insert winky-face emoticon) you’ll all agree this would be a better choice:

Now, y’all cruise on over to cockeyed to see all the choices in enlarged glory…

Best Picture that I Won’t Post on Account of I Didn’t Have my Camera with Me At the Time, Second in a Series

As spotted by ADG whilst I got a bagel & lox from Noah’s: a disheveled homeless woman talking in downtown Palo Alto… on a cell-phone

When sleeping, or when in that period before sleeping where you can still hear the outside noises of events around you, but their imprint on your brain has less and less of an effect; where the sound seems to diminish as if by the turn of a volume knob though you know in your heart, or at least think you know in your heart, that that is impossible, for your body is simply a machine that functions the same, day in and day out, and the ability to actually alter the volume at which you hear things is an ability beyond the grasp of your immediate evolutionary state: when there, when doing that, do you think of the world around you as stopping when you slip into unconscious dreams(?), waiting for you to wake up and renew it’s trek around the Sun, or do you envision time and actions speeding up around you as I do(?), mentally seeing deals made and broken, alliances agreed upon and enacted, actions begun and ended all around you; and, you in the middle curled into a ball or stiff on your back or front, or spread-eagled across the soft surface of your floor, so vulnerable and slow-moving and dead to the world that teems around you, ready at any moment to turn slightly to the left and gobble you whole before you even have a chance to peel back your eyelids and greet the sun, totally unaware of the events and circumstances that conspired against you while you slumbered.

You know, when standing in the bathroom facing your American Standard engaged in the wonders of Number One, as a guy you eventually become tuned to the timing associated with your Home Throne™… to the point, in fact, that you (being rather impatient when it comes to the wasted time of bowel evacuation) can preempt the cessation of said evacuation and time perfectly the mechanical flushing of your Home Throne™. Imagine your surprise, then, when using an Away Throne™, either consumer or personal, whose timing is unique to itself, and you find yourself either over or underestimating your mark.

Distressing.

There are many positive and engaging reasons to live in California. One is the fact that within a radius of 200 miles you can find beach, rivers, and mountains to sate any outdoor desire at almost any time of the year.

One notable negative to this attractive fact is the taking of 7.5 HOURS to drive that 200 miles.

7.5 hours to drive from New Years in Tahoe to almost The Day After New Years in Santa Clara. 7.5 hours. The same 7.5 hours that it took my friends to drive the 400 miles from Sacramento to LA, having left earlier in the day. Urge to kill… rising.

Here, by the way, is a bit of advice for any and all drivers out there: when creeping along on a mountainous two-lane highway in bumper to bumper traffic, it does not help situations to take advantage when the highway temporarily opens up to two lanes for passing. You see, what you have then is another created bottle-neck, ’cause we all just have to merge back together in a quarter mile… you stupidfuckingidiots! As the clogged artery of our roadway trumbles on, there are massive clogs every four miles, induced by the great quantity of jackasses of the opinion that they will somehow gain immeasurable advantage by passing the car in front of them… at 2mph.

Or, in enginerd-speak, the increased velocity associated with a venturi only works with fluids, not cars.

calm cleansing breath calm cleansing breath.

To be honest, though, being in a car with ADG for 7.5 hours is actually a pleasure, and I therefore offer the above advice only as observational.

Number of guys seen to run over to the side of the road to pee: 3
Number of times ADG almost followed suit if it weren’t for lack of cover: 3
Number of times Dave inwardly thought to himself, ‘guys are awesome’: 15

Should old acquaintance be forgot?

I will be MIA between now and ought-three, so I wanted to take the opportunity to wish you all a Happy New Year. Hopefully, it will provide some new opportunities and perspective for us all…

So it’s raining (again), here in NoCal (again)… hard (again). I’m sure this is all extremely silly for those of you in climes with actual weather systems and whatnot; but, for me it’s fairly dramatic. Well, that’s not true, really; I used to live in Texas where Weather was actually something worth talking about.

At any rate, with rain comes water, and three storms in a row now I’ve gone into my kitchen to find a fairly substantial puddle of water in the middle of the floor.

And that’s it.

No dripping, no obvious water stains, no clue as to source, and, when I clean it up, it never comes back. It’s as if someone decided to break into my apartment, throw a cup of water on the floor, and then leave without disturbing anything else. It only happens when I’m not in the apartment, and no I didn’t just run the dishwasher. Obviously, my apartment is haunted. Haunted rather poorly, granted, but haunted all the same.

So I don’t know nothin’ about nothin’ (including grammar, obviously), but it seems like a glaring double-standard to be amassing weapons and troops with the intent to destroy a country based on the supposition that there are weapons of mass destruction, like ohmygosh you know, somewhere; while at the same time ignoring through diplomacy another countries obvious and asserted effort to kick out regulatory inspectors with the express reason being so that they can go on about the business of firing up a nuclear reactor.

Like I said, I don’t know nothin’, but bombing Iraq for their alleged intent while ignoring Korea’s factual direction seems incongruous to me.

But then again, I’m a bleeding-heart, so what do I know about anything? Besides, I still can’t wrap my mind around the hypocrisy of condemning a country for threatening to destroy us with weapons of mass-destruction (that, incidentally, we gave them when we were friends); while attempting to thwart them by, err, destroying them with weapons of mass destruction.

This political break brought to you by Pig’s Knuckles With Red Cabbage And Raisins

You know what’s funny? Dog food is funny. Of course, I don’t actually have a dog, or any dog-related possessions, but these are the things I think about. No, I don’t know why either.

Dog food is funny because dogs can’t read… but you can; and, when you choose to purchase 2-for-1 Snausages it’s because you want them, not Fido, Scout, or Dipshit. You’re drawn in by their appetizing similarity to pigs-in-a-blanket, eye-catching product placement, and tantalizing nutritional information.

Don’t deny it, you want them… and you’re sick.

You see, inside your meat suit is a rudimentary subconscious. It’s not the same one that keeps you from killing your boss or philosophizing about all those weak trees that keep falling down with no one around. This one mainly handles your sexual urges (or ‘fails to handle’ depending on your individual lasciviousness) and your food consumption. “Eat that Twinkie,” your mini-mom says, “it’s only been nibbled on a little bit, and it’s not even touching those coffee grinds.”

This same rudimentary subconscious looks through your ocular nerves and spies the inviting and welcoming sight of glorious Snausages and whispers, “You know, you like pigs-in-a-blanket, you should buy those.” And, like with the Jedi mind trick, you stare numbly, drool slightly, and recite, “You know, I like pigs-in-a-blanket, I should buy these” as you lower armfuls into your cart.

And that, Billy, is why watermelons float.