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


There are some albums that, when you listen to them the first time, they are instantly accessible. You listen to it once, you get the whole thing, and you know it's one you're going to like for a long time. Things like Barenaked Ladies' Gordon or David Gray's White Ladder. Yes, it's all pop, but it's good stuff. I will not get tired of listening to "Grade Nine" or "Babylon."

Related to these albums, of course, are the ones you hear once, like them, but they wear out quickly. Albums like Matchbox 20's debut (shut up) or Yes's Union (shut up!). These are the ones you bring to Buy Back Day at Moby or just use for coasters.

And then there are the albums that you listen to once, don't know what to make of it, put it away for a while, let the music squirm around in your head, making all sorts of synaptic connections and short circuits, and then, when you give it a good hard listen the second time, you know you are in love.

This is one of those albums. Matt Johnson, once again, you are my hero.

Thursday, May 4, 2000
08:46 a.m.


Art is anything created by human hands that is unnecessary and beautiful. We make art, not to make the world a more beautiful place, but as a guidepost on the path to that more beautiful place. We make art to inspire. We make art to release demons. We make art to be loved. We make art to be immortal.

I realize that, with this definition, things like Metallica and velvet clown portraits count as art, but, hey, you can't always be perfect.

Tuesday, May 2, 2000
03:36 p.m.


Of course, some people would say that the whole point is to figure out the flow in your head, and then create the damn thing in one take. I'm still not sure if my way is sloppy or not; after all, bits don't cost anything but time. But how else do you learn if you don't screw up every now and then?

Sunday, April 30, 2000
07:53 p.m.

Pride In The Work

This is the part I love: the unraveling of the machine spool. I always think of programs as machines, and that each machine has this spool of thought running through it. The spool is the way it works, the flow of thought, the way the gears work together.

And I dig sitting back and watching how it all works, figuring how to make everything run better or simply make it run at all. Yes, it can be boring and frustrating, but it sure as hell beats bussing tables.

Oh, by the way, table six needs more bread sticks.

Sunday, April 30, 2000
07:50 p.m.

Yeah, yeah...

Canoe, outrigger, whatever. What do you expect from a haole like me?

And, speaking of outriggers, Darwin is now threatening to bring me along to his paddling practice next weekend. Like I need another activity to add to the list of Things To Do On Weekends (which already includes rock climbing, mountain biking, snowboarding, hiking, backpacking, and pulling weeds. You'll notice that sleep isn't on that list, nor is sweet lovin'. Things, dammit, they need to change.)

Friday, April 28, 2000
10:29 a.m.

Turnabout Is Fair Play

Well, in that case, Sarah paddles the canoe.

Nothing like using the Web for flirting.

Thursday, April 27, 2000
06:02 p.m.


And, of course it's all turned out like this. How can we expect otherwise when our extended families are split up, our villages become cities, and everyone forgets that they're human? How in God's name do you expect machine parts to come together and multiply? It's not in their design.

Yes, I've been looking through personal ads again. Soon, I will create a coherent stream of words out of this mess, and it will be brilliant. You will fall in love with me and name your children after me. You will offer up your finest fish tacos and offer to pull the weeds in the garden for the rest of forever. All because of the words that will Make Sense Of It All.

(Dear Mother Of God...I really need to get out of the office...)

Tuesday, April 25, 2000
07:38 p.m.

Well, I give up on the sex. Guess I'll have to settle for working code.

Tuesday, April 25, 2000
07:34 p.m.

Still no hot sex. A hot burrito, maybe, but definitely no sex.

Tuesday, April 25, 2000
05:53 p.m.

Nope. No hot sex yet.

Tuesday, April 25, 2000
05:10 p.m.


I should have mentioned this last night, but I was too delirious and looped from the hiking and the work. Anway, here it is: streaming audio now works!

Which means I'm due for some hot sex any minute now. Oh, baby.

Tuesday, April 25, 2000
05:08 p.m.


Is it a bad thing when Amazon starts giving you complementary shipping upgrades? I'm starting to think it is.

Tuesday, April 25, 2000
05:00 p.m.

Wise Words

My motto for the next century: "Soup is forgiving."

I dig my mom.

Monday, April 24, 2000
12:16 p.m.


I still can't believe I did it. I wonder what you've been thinking all this time if you've thought about it at all.

I don't think it was just the beer or the sake or even the homemade noodles from that hole-in-the-wall in Chinatown. It simply felt so good to walk the distance from the house to the bar, holding your little hand in my giant mitt, realizing that you were actually holding on, not just humoring me. And, as we walked down Montana, you interlaced your fingers with mine. I never knew your hands were so strong.

But that's nothing new for me. Many's the time I've walked down some dark and misty street with a beautiful woman I'm so mad about that I want to leap onto lampposts and sing show tunes. But I can say with relative certainty that I've never gone and bitten one of those women on the back of her neck and watched her turn to a weak-kneed pile of slush at my feet.

What can I say? I still got it.

Monday, April 24, 2000
11:39 a.m.

Scratch Pad

In the corner of my room are four milk crates. While three of them are filled with random detritus that I haven't pitched, one of them is all important: it contains just about everything I've written.

In college, I read something by EE Cummings wherein he wrote that his mother kept a book with her at all times. In it, she would write down thoughts and her favorite poems. I thought this was a good idea and started to do the same, and thus was the Scratch Pad born.

That's all that this thing is, see. The idea is that, as long as I'm writing something, that's good. Using the muscles, even for short periods of time, is better than letting them atrophy.

Friday, April 21, 2000
07:34 p.m.

The Switches

My dad has this theory that, somewhere along the line, a switch just goes off in your head, and you think, "Yeah...I think I will get married."

There's another switch that goes along with that one, of course: the Fatherhood Switch. I'm still glad his flipped, 'cause, even though he drives me up the wall every now and then, I couldn't have asked for a better dad.

I mention this because, for the past year or so, someone's been tapping away at those switches something fierce. Not actually flipping the damn things, but just walking up and tap-tap-tapping at them. And not a particular someone, either; I'm talking about Someone, the singular form of Them.

I think about Melina and her son, Rowan (and what a great name that is). I met her on a trip to Seattle, spent a madcap weekend with her that involved wasabi, laundry, and topless fritatta. She has long black hair, a wicked grin, and a seven-year-old son. It was the first time I'd ever been involved with a woman, however brief, who had a kid in the picture. Rowan lived with his dad in Minneapolis.

Not too long after I got home from Seattle, I got an email from Melina: I'm coming to Rancho Cucamonga to see my folks, and Rowan will be out visiting! Would I want to come out? Hell, yes!

And it was odd walking in that house, with everyone knowing that I was more than a Friend. I didn't know what the kids in the house would think until I told them what I did for a living. "You make video games? Coooooooooool..." Rowan and his step-brother, Cooper, immediately dragged me into their room to show me the PlayStation. Well, rather to make me sit down and play for them. It was Male Bonding of the highest order.

At one point, Melina came in and started wrestling with her son, and I just sat back and watched as Coop asked me where to go next in Final Fantasy VII. "Do you like her?" Rowan asked me as he pointed to his mother.

"Her?" I replied. "Nah. Can't stand her." Melina and I grinned at each other.

I think about that evening spent wrestling and playing games with the boys, and about how cool it is when Randie and Ollie bring their kids over to the house. And I don't give a stony rat's ass what you think about my manhood for saying this, but I'm sure that flipping the switches isn't going to be all that tough.

Granted, I should probably find a girlfriend before I think about becoming a dad. Details...

Friday, April 21, 2000
06:42 p.m.

All Tied Together

For the past seven weeks, I haven't been able to get the streaming audio code to work. I've been in need of some sweet lovin' for about as long. Coincidence?

Friday, April 21, 2000
05:22 p.m.


I used to think that it was the sheer volume of what I wrote that made me a Writer. Wrong! That just makes me a Scribbler.

However, if the stuff I write makes milk come out of your nose, and you weren't even drinking milk, then I'm on the right track.

Thursday, April 20, 2000
04:24 p.m.

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