Giro means 'ride', not 'tasty meat sandwich.'

In times like these, you have no choice but to grab on to a piece of your life and hold on like there's no tomorrow. Everyone wants you for their own selfish ends, and it takes Herculean effort to hold on to yourself so that you never forget that you are not who they think you are. Whatever that thing is, that person, that idea, whatever it is, it is your anchor to life, and it will keep you grounded and allow you to reach heaven at the same time.

No one should take away this much of a person's life and not expect resentment and frustration. No one should be amazed at outbursts and demands to go home, sleep, shower, see friends and family, eat a healthy meal, go for a walk, make love, dance, write poetry, read comic books, and buy flowers at the farmer's market. No one should even dare question that smelling a beautiful woman's hair first thing in the morning is infinitely more true and important than the things that Professor X says at the end of a lesson. I wish you knuckle draggers (not you, Dear and Constant Readers...your knuckles are way off the ground) could see that, but you're too scared to question the way we all live.

As am I. But now I'm more afraid of the answer.

Tuesday, June 6, 2000
10:19 p.m.


Vicki Marsha's Revenge

So, Jay and Wash, two of the guys at my office, went to my high school. They graduated two years after me. I didn't know them then, but we had a lot of the same teachers. I did my Brother Aquinas imitation in front of Jay, and he fell apart.

Christine Castro also went to my high school; she got out the year after me. She also ran in different circles, but we had one important intersection: her friend, Christine Quimbo, had a locker above me all four years of high school. I find this hysterical.

And now Jay (who's marrying his high school sweetie) has just told me that he had dinner with someone else from our high school who was in band with me and said that she thought I was the hottest thing on two legs.

My ten year reunion is coming up in two years (Jesus Christ, has it only been 8 years since I wore that uniform and said my prayers before and after class and groused about the Nuremburg vibe of the pep rallies? Seems two lifetimes ago), and I have the feeling it's going to be interesting. Wonder who else thought I was sexy back then?

Monday, June 5, 2000
01:53 p.m.


Rockin' Fu

The last thing I really needed to see last night, after a long, miserable weekend at the office, was the tail end of The Fiendish Plot of Dr. Fu Manchu. But I saw it anyway.

I'm going to have nightmares for weeks.

Monday, May 29, 2000
01:42 p.m.


Nothing to say, really. I woke up about an hour ago, maybe the first decent night's sleep I've had in weeks, even if it was on the Aerobed.

What's funny is that, earlier this morning, around 1.30, as I was inflating the thing, my producer walked up to me and said, "Why don't you just go home?"

Good jokes are always wasted on the stupid. I went to sleep.

Sunday, May 28, 2000
12:24 p.m.


Burnout

You tell me:

When did it become a badge of honor to put in a sixty-hour work week when you don't have any stake in the outcome other than a paycheck?

Whatever happened to the forty-hour work week, the one that our immigrant ancestors fought for?

Since when do we (no, I) put up with the blather of morons and boot-lickers who have nowhere else to go?

When did this become a way of life?

I lost my shit tonight, people. I blew up at my producer because I wanted to go home and sleep. At 12.30 this morning. I am tired, and I can't code anymore, but I blew up instead of clearly saying, "I have been at my desk for the past 12 hours. I am making more mistakes than I am usable code. I am going home to sleep in my own bed."

We'll see how it all works out in the morning, but right now, I could care less. Up your ass, boss.

Friday, May 26, 2000
03:39 a.m.


Prescription

In the event of a Shitty Day:
-Go home. Do not eat the Cheap Chinese Food your boss has bought for dinner.
-Warmly greet the friends who are sitting on your front porch.
-Grill up and eat a good dinner (salmon, sweet corn, basmati rice, sauteed shittakes).
-Walk to nearest beach.
-Roll up pants.
-Run into the ocean like a crazed ape.

Continue as needed.

Thursday, May 25, 2000
02:34 p.m.


Brewing...

Through the paper-thin warehouse walls of the office, I can smell the world outside. The clouds, I can tell, have gathered and are holding a conference. There are things afoot, and the air is charged with ozone.

I can smell the wet in the air, collecting itself, falling to earth, and vaporizing on the hot asphalt. There is a storm coming, weather fronts gathering on both sides of the sky, ready to clash over the city and turn everything slick and clean.

I can feel the air crackle, the static building up in my brain. Something big is approaching, and I, for one, can't wait.

Wednesday, May 24, 2000
05:16 p.m.


Let It Out, Baby!

This, of course, is the space that I call my own. This is where I tell you that the Good Things In Life include buying produce at the Farmer's Market and turning it all into breakfast. Or things like getting a phone call from the woman you went with last week who just wanted to call you up and say hello. Or being forgiven for missing a friend's birthday party 'cause you're crunching like fuck at work.

The Bad Things, of course, include dinner from Taco Bell and sleeping on the Aerobed for the third night this week. At least I got to sleep in my own bed last night. At least this will all end soon.

This doesn't keep me from wanting to tell the management staff of my company to put on Alpo suits and take a walk at the Grievous Bodily Harm Pit Bull Farm down in Moorpark. Fuckers...

Saturday, May 20, 2000
11:35 p.m.


Inventory

So, in honor of my new friend, Christine, who also happens to live five blocks away from me and is excellent dinner company, I'm going to give you The List Of Why I'm Beautiful.

(Granted, this should be a The List Of Why I'm Handsome, but there are Inside and Outside lists, apparently. Hey, it's late, and I'm punchy. Work with me.)

Outside:
I have bright blue eyes.
I've got great legs.
I have strong hands that can type, knead bread dough, or massage sore shoulders.
I can lead when dancing.
I give mighty hugs.

Inside:
I'm a neophile. New things excite me.
I also appreciate old things, especially those that are built to last, like friendships.
I've probably cooked for you at some point, and wouldn't hesitate to do so again.
I genuinely like to laugh.
I want to make the world a better place. Really. I'd like us all to wake up and realize that our lives are our own and that we can do whatever we want. I want to help everyone do that.
I really do blush when complimented.

All right. Your turn. My friend, Rebecca, and I were talking once, and we realized that we both beat each other up too easily. This has nothing to do with self-esteem; this has to do with standing up and taking yourself out for a walk. So, go ahead and tell yourself: why are you beautiful? And don't be afraid to hold back.

Friday, May 19, 2000
01:10 a.m.


So...

Since I know that roughly 8 people read this page (I should know...I have the ticket stubs to prove it), and that I've been doing this since the Old Days, that it's time I weigh in on the whole weblog vs. journal vs. everything else debate. My position is, as follows:

Who gives a Great Galloping Godfuck?

Thank you. Refreshments will be in the lobby.

Thursday, May 18, 2000
04:18 p.m.


And, Jesus Christ, it really is Thursday, isn't it? Oy...someone, somewhere, deliver me an egg cream, a chicken burrito, and a large Swedish woman named Olga who's well-versed in Toletc avacado massage. Is that too much to ask for? Will Kozmo do that?

Thursday, May 18, 2000
09:52 a.m.


Language...

I read somewhere once that cursing gives people an excuse to dismiss everything that you have to say. I wholeheartedly agree with that statement, which is why I do my best to use expletives that don't make a lot of sense. Crying out Holy Good Gravy! tends to get people's attention, especially in a foul-mouthed age like ours.

However...

Saying naughty words is still fun. So, for the next five minutes, I expect you to dismiss everything I have to say, especially after I say fuck, fucker, fuck, fuckity fuckfuckfuck.

There. Much better.

Thursday, May 18, 2000
09:38 a.m.


A Whole Lotta Ass

Sleeping on an Aerobed kicks ass.

However, sleeping on that Aerobed while it's at the office sucks ass.

Jesus...I swore I would never do this again, but what else do you expect when features get added the week before we go final and I live an hour away? Someone actually had the temerity to suggest I move up to the Conjeo Valley so I could be "closer to work...like the rest of us." Pardon my Lithuanian, but fuck that. Why don't you fuckers move from this armpit down to, say, the Marina? Square had offices there...

Forgive me. It's been a helluva week, and I ramble. But I'll tell you now: I will one day lead the Ideal Life, in which I love where I live and where I work and what I do. One day. Soon. It'll be great. Tacos will be on me.

Thursday, May 18, 2000
09:08 a.m.


Spleens-A-Go-Go

Even though they're playing the El Rey tomorrow night, I won't be able to see The The like I'd hoped. I took too long, and the show's sold out. Now, I could always go down to Anaheim to see them at the Sun, but who in God's name wants to go there for anything? I'll have to wait for next time.

However, this means that I was that much quicker to snap up tickets to see Robyn Hitchcock next month at the Troubadour. Oh, baby...

Tuesday, May 16, 2000
01:57 p.m.


Vocational Realization

When I was growing up, one of my friends had a dad who was a Porsche mechanic. I really couldn't wrap my head around the significance of that; all I really knew about Porsches were that they didn't look anything like Mom and Dad's cars. I didn't know anything about the horrific price tags that go along with these sleek street dolphins. I couldn't grasp how it was that Wil's dad was able to buy a house and feed his family. I mean...he was a mechanic, right?

Anyway, remember how I realized a little while ago that I was just a mechanic? After going to E3, after finding out about the PlayStation 2, after the possibility of working on it, I have now realized: I am a Porsche mechanic.

I'm still not sure what to think of that.

Monday, May 15, 2000
10:18 a.m.


It Is Time

It's now 5.30 in the pm on a gorgeous Thursday, and I have been inside this office long enough. There are sounds galore coming out of my machine, and I'll be damned if I have to spend another minute inside. My boots are on, my pack is loaded, and, quite frankly, I'm feeling handsome. Not sexy, not saucy: handsome. As in, if I walked down the street, you'd want to stop and get a better look.

Any woman I meet on the trail had better look out; I just might charm the Merrells off of her.

Thursday, May 11, 2000
05:31 p.m.


Your Instructions

Call 1-877-685-4411 ext. 759.

And say hello. Tell me who you are. 'Cause words are good, but the voice behind it is better.

Wednesday, May 10, 2000
07:54 p.m.


Upgrade

What I thought was once a symbol of gawdawful yuppiness, something I swore up and down I'd never get, has slowly become an indispensible part of my Daily Gear. Every morning when I walk out the door, I make sure I have all of my talismans with me: wallet, keys, shades, notepad, pocketwatch, and, now, cell phone. While I don't use it while I drive (you know what a pain it is to talk and shift at the same time? And no, I am not getting one of those thrice-damned headset deals), I've now Walked and Talked at the same time. I've even had the power cut out in the middle of a conversation, which was a very LA thing to happen (the Los Angeles thing would have been me simply popping randomly into my friend's house, but she lives down a valley and up a hill, so it's phones for us).

I thought it would be something good to have. Now it's something Important to have, as I've shown by upping the minutes I can use per month. Dear God in heaven, what's happening to me?

Wednesday, May 10, 2000
06:20 p.m.


Yo! Mad Props!

Whoever it was at Qualcomm who decided to use a yin-yang as the working symbol for Eudora 4.3, you have my deepest thanks. A beer is waiting for you next time you're in Santa Monica.

Wednesday, May 10, 2000
06:17 p.m.


The Fear

There's a point in a relationship when you decide that, yes, she's not going to leave you because of your petty, human faults. This is the point when you realize that it's okay to Let It All Hang Out; you stop shaving every day, you scratch yourself when you feel like it, and you have no compulsion to restrain your Natural Bodily Functions. Like someone once said, "You know it's love when you can fart in front of her, and she doesn't care."

What people fail to mention is that the time leading up to Letting It All Hang Out is one of gut-wrenching terror and fear. You have to be On all the damn time because you're fully aware of your shortcomings as a human being. You know that, unless you shave every two hours, you're going to give her face rug burn. You know that you have to scratch in Odd Places. And we won't even get into the Natural Bodily Functions.

The moment of Letting It All Hang Out is one of joy and relief. I know a lot of people also say that this is the point when the mystery dies, but you know what? I'll take comfort over mystery just about any time. Mystery can only last for so long, and comfort can only grow deeper.

The problem, of course, is not rushing out of the mystery. These things takes time, and, no matter how long you've known her, the whole thing is new. You have to start over. If you rush right into the Comfort Zone, things are going to deflate, and there's no way to restart it all. You must be patient. So, suck in that gut, break out that shaver, and, for God's sake, cut back on the frijoles, man. Because, as someone else once said, "You know it's love when she makes you chili."

Tuesday, May 9, 2000
01:44 p.m.


*Click*

Further memo to self: I am an idiot. Pay no attention to anything I tell myself in future. Unless, of course, I happen to be right.

Monday, May 8, 2000
11:52 a.m.


*Click*

Note to self:

When responding to the notes of pretty girls who respond to your personal ads, the following topics are verboten:
Work
How much time you spend at work
What kind of work you do
This here Scratch Pad

Jesus God Almighty, I used to be good at knowing stuff like this. Does the fact that I've spent time away from the city mean that I've started all over again? That I'm 22 and on my own? Man, if so, I might as well start up another Geocities page and do it all from scratch...

Thursday, May 4, 2000
02:37 p.m.


Reclaimation

Words, despite what our parents told us when we were kids, have power. Words can be used to kill or to make pretty girls swoon. I don't think it's just a matter of intention: a word is like a thought bomb, waiting for someone to pull the pin.

The power comes from culture, of course. We all understand that if I call you, say, dumb motherfucker, that I'm intending on hurting you. Or saying that you're ancient Greek royalty, but that only works in Mel Brooks films. It's also understood that if I go and call you, say, overripe zuccini, then I am being a moron. We make the discovery when we're kids that words we hear have meanings, and those meanings are the gunpowder behind a slug made of syllables.

I bring all this up because I was reminded of how important it is to reclaim language that's been marred and twisted by petty hate and base stupidity. Everyone's been put down at one time or another by people who can't quite grasp the bottom rung of Humanity Ladder. If you want to stay down there in the cesspool, go for it; the rest of our species won't miss you as we do our damnedest to evolve, climb up, and get the hell off of this planet. And we start by taking back our words, by reclaiming what you took from us because you were too dumb to grasp what you were doing.

I'm a geek. This is not my job; this is who I am. So take your puerile brain, the one that doesn't understand that the spaces in between words shouldn't be taken up by more words, the one that isn't firing on all cylinders, the one that makes you watch pro wrestling and go to Hooters and complain that Europe is full of foreigners and, basically, keeps you from saying anything important, live with it, and get the hell out of my way.

Thursday, May 4, 2000
01:50 p.m.


Looped

Yes, the CD has been sent out. Yes, the rest of the team is still unconscious. Yes, I am still at the office, though my guts are churning, and my head feels like all the neurons are sitting in Disneyland Teacups and demanding that we spin things faster. But I can't go home. The day isn't going to be over for another four hours, and it still doesn't end after that. It won't be over until I am home, curling under flannel sheets, wondering why the world is turning at 78 when all I have are 33's.

Like I said, I just knew that everything was going to happen at once.

Thursday, May 4, 2000
11:30 a.m.


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