ThreeRings

Oh yeah.

2004-07-17T01:43:00.000-07:00

Haven't posted in a while and removed some of the most recent items. I'll post some more stuff soon. I'm thinking about reformatting, and to be honest I haven't really had/made the time to pay any attention to this blog lately.

When did life get so hectic?

Time to step it up.

2004-06-28T03:01:00.000-07:00

So I've tried writing for this creative writing bombarella.com site, and it dawns on me that I haven't read any of the other stuff that people have written and entered since bomabarella was birthed.

I read some articles.

I've decided that I need to work on my writing a bit more if I want to post words alongside the likes of them folks. Great stuff.

Run Like the Grunion

2004-06-23T03:33:00.000-07:00

The grunion are a runnin'.

I'd never seen anything like it until the other night. Fish flopping on the beach by the hundreds to lay eggs. It's against the law to catch them once they're out of the water, or at least that's what my friend who had cast a line (never got even a bite) in the water was trying to tell me. If he could reel them in - I think he was trying to catch them to use as bait, not sure - before they reached land, he and his fishing license had nothing to worry about.

The grunion are small, not much meat to be found there. The nighttime flopping in the sand was pretty cool as the moonlight reflected off their silvery bodies. A few locals showed up to check it out. I was told it wasn't that good of a batch and that in the next days to come they would probably be bigger. I need to bring a digi camera next time.

I'm so cool.

2004-06-22T04:25:00.000-07:00

I figured out how to edit the links to the left all by myself. Truly an accomplishment for me. hbomb gets the honor of being the first. I'll add more in the next few days.

I missed a call from the detective in charge of my case today. He wants to show me another photo lineup, see if maybe I can pick the guy out from a different group of pictures I guess. He's stopping by tomorrow before I go to work. It's nice to know he hasn't given up yet on nailing the guy.

Apples and Pies

2004-06-21T02:23:00.000-07:00

I failed to properly register at bomberella.com tonight. The blame falls mostly on this crappy computer which I will continue to bitch about until I can finally get mine hooked up. I don't know if it is a javascript thing or what, but the field for registering was partially outside the explorer window and it just didn't work out. I think I registered as binderer by accident, but when I tried to log in with that it didn't work.

bombarella wants us to write stuff. She's calling me out, I just know it. And although I could not register, likely due to my own screwups, I'll take the whole hook-line-sinker thing and give it a go. The topic is Apples and Pies, and I guess I have fifteen minutes to write it.

H knows me well enough that it would normally take me an hour to write on the quick like that. But I think I'll put on some mellow tunes and give this a go. I don't have an idea yet, so this should be totally random and probably won't make any sense. Hopefully she'll check this blog and give me some pointers on how to register and post at bombarella.com. I guess I could always email her - kidding H! I'll shoot you a line after this B-)

APPLES AND SURPRISE

Martha Finch hated the cool evening air, and the stink from the pig slop and barf and poop. She and Sam would take turns pretending to sleep. When Martha allowed herself to believe that Sam's nasal fake snore was real, she would get out of bed and close the windows. Sam would then wait for Martha to commence that weird purring thing she did when she slept, and then he'd get out from under the covers and open the windows again, ever vigilant for the threats to his precious apples from raccoons and bears. Not to mention what those brutes might do to his pet pigs. He always thought that if he could hear them coming, the 30-gauge he swiped from the closet of Martha's stepfather one late night long ago would do the trick.

At 4:30am, Sam Finch, of Sam's Apple Orchard and Pig Farm, had confirmation. He had outlasted his wife, the windows were open and it had payed off. He rolled over to gloat to Martha, an early riser as well - living on the farm tends to do that to a gal - but she was already up and nowhere to be seen. The ruckus outside was truly something. There was a squealing the likes that Sam had never heard, and quite a lot for a couple normally well behaved pigs.

The truth about Sam's Apple Orchard and Pig Farm was that although there were forty-four apple trees, all lined up in four rows of eleven apiece, but there were only two pigs on the entire Pig Farm. Sam named them Ralph and Mirabelle, although he never took the time to investigate what gender either creature was.

Ralph and Mirabelle's collective existence on Sam's Apple Orchard and Pig Farm was utilitarian. Ralph would let them loose in the morning to run through the four apple corridors. The pigs would gobble up any rotten apples that had fallen to the ground, or any that Fernando and Jimi (pronounced "Himi") might have dropped as they plucked the fruit from the limbs for 30 bucks a day.

In return, Sam kept them close to the house since he didn't really have a pen for them. He built a crude doghouse-style structure outside the bedroom window which he enclosed with slapped-together fencing and a chicken wire gate, for which he fashioned hinges out of bobby pins. In time, Sam regarded Ralph and Mirabelle as domestic pets. On occasion he even allowed Mirabelle to enter the house and eat from an old dog dish left over from when Rudy the Dalmation (rest his soul) was hit by a car six years ago.

Sam rushed from the house, shotgun in hand, safety released. The outroar from the makeshift doghouse/pigpen had diminished, so he made a beeline for the orchard lanes, figuring the pigs would have busted loose in the face of danger. He cursed himself for not bringing a flashlight, but the moon was at three-quarters. Enough light to rush through the trees without turning an ankle on a debranched Granny Smith.

As a breeze picked up, the limbs began to sway in a way that Sam found haunting. He had no idea where Martha had run off too, no to mention the pigs. He recalled that in the past week he had almost gotten Mirabelle to offer her hoof as a handshake, just like a dog. She was one smart pig. He had not had much success getting her to come when called, but as he rambled nearly blind through the orchard, he could think of no better time to call her name.

Sam Finch looped through the rows of apple trees, retracing and then retracing his steps again. A light rain began to fall, and he began to recognize his own footsteps as he returned upon them. Hoarse from repeatedly beckoning Mirabelle, and quickly getting soaked to the bone, he returned to the house, padding through the muck around the makeshift pigpen outside his door. The apple trees seemed alright, certainly not victim of an attack by rabid raccoons or anything, but the pigs!

As he sloshed up to the particle board pighouse structure, the sun was weakly attempting to break through the early morning storm clouds and make an appearance. Tiny glints of orange light reflected off the raindrops.

Ralph, looking none the worse for wear, slept on his side like a dirty pink baby in a bed of moldy straw and mud. The straw directly next to Ralph was strewn about, as if Mirabelle had been awakened in a fright and scrurried about.

Sam Finch was despondent but not without faith. Mirabelle was the smartest pig he had ever known. Granted, he had only known two, but Mirabelle, she (or he), could snarf up those grounded apples like nobody's business. She (or he), could find her way back home in the dark, or in a day or two. No big deal. All that squealing and commotion over nothing. Hopefully.

Sam Finch was tired. The storm passed as soon as it had arrived. As he left the pen he entertained the idea of taking the day off. Hell, he had already patrolled the orchard many times over, and an experienced apple farmed like him, he could tell that the orchard looked fine today. Jimi could take care of the minimal harvest later in the morning.

As Sam Finch opened the tattered screen door to his home, he was exhausted. The farming life was a hard life. What the hell was he doing running around with a shotgun at dawn, chasing down nothing more than the pig...his pig that had gotten a case of the willies. Mirabelle would be back, she was probably just spooked by some creature of the night. Sam Finch considered himself lucky. Sam's Apple Orchard and Pig Farm rarely got paid a visit by predators. Mirabelle had no experience. A distant coyote howl might have set her off. She'll be back.

More tired than any man should ever be, he fell into the storm door, turning the knob and spilling onto the kitchen floor like a puppet whose strings have been cut .

Sam Finch had a peculiar three instantaneous reactions.

The first was that something smelled awfully good. His wife had been cooking something savory, to be sure.

The second was that the linoleum floor was a mess. It looked dark. And red.

The third was that he was incredibly hungry all of the sudden.

Martha offered him her hand to help him get up from the floor. Her smile was golden.

"Would you like some breakfast, Sam?" She asked. "I thought I'd try something different this morning. How about some pork pot pie?"

------

Alright, it took me almost two hours to write that. Still doesn't make no sense.

Reason #47 Why I hate my roommate`s Mac G3

2004-06-20T02:17:00.000-07:00

I wrote this contemplative and brilliantly literary entry comparing my life in San Diego to my old life in Los Angeles, and how things have changed for me over the past 4 months. It was over 400 words for sure. Not pulitzer prize material, but I was happy with how it was going as I was wrapping it up.

But on this POS keyboard, which is ridiculously small to the point that the keys appears smooshed too closely together I might add, to the right of the DELETE key (typically called backspace on a PC) there is a key called CLEAR. The CLEAR key automatically erases everything in a text field at the touch of a button. It does not need to be highlighted or anything. There is no security measure in place to prevent someone from accidentally erasing the next great American novel at a single keystroke.

If you type like me, which is with the groundless confidence of not looking regularly at the keys as I type, the CLEAR key is powerfully hazardous. Sure enough, the right pinky finger wandered and -zap!- all gone.

To sum up the words that are now lost and forgotten to the point that any attempt at recreating them would be fruitless, here it is:

Things are different in San Diego then they are in Los Angeles. And L.A. sucks hugetime. Yes, I just made up the word hugetime, but it felt right.

And my roommate's G3 is still hooked up instead of my much faster PC which has the driver for my WACOM, a CD burner, and a DVD drive, (the Mac has none of these), for reasons I have yet to understand. You know, it's okay to favor one OS over another, but all arguments point towards the PC being set up instead of this dinosaur of a machine. For the record, I prefer neither format and can use both equally. The only OS I favor is the faster one.

On a personal note, I am still in discussions with detectives and the District Attorney's office regarding the felony Battery charges against the chump who jumped me on the way home from work not long ago. The long and short of it is that it is doubtful he'll do any time, but they're doing their best to make his life miserable.

If any worthers have happened to find their way to this blog, you are welcome to add my blog to your bloglink lists. I'd do the same for you in return but I've only been fiddling with this blog thing part time so far, and I have to admit I don't know how to link to friends' blogs yet. I'll work on it though. There must be an instruction manual around here somewhere.

Ouch. That was fun.

2004-06-07T11:22:00.000-07:00

I got jumped on my way home from work on Friday night. Punched in the head from behind and then kicked multiple times in the back and ribcage. I have bruises all over my back, and I get muscle spasms every few minutes.

The guy who did it jumped into a car afterward. I managed to get a good look at the car and gave the cops a full description, including a license plate number.

That turned out to be a good thing, since I barely saw the guy who hit me. The detective came by my place today with a photo lineup, and I didn't pick the guy who matches the car registration. The photo lineup consisted of five pictures. I eliminated two people right off the bat, but the remaining three faces looked so much alike. I told the detective that if I had to choose one of the three, it was probably "this guy" (pointing at the picture), but I wasn't 100% certain.

The detective was mildly discouraged by my choice. It would have been so much easier for him to build his case if I had selected the face that matched the car info I had given him. But the car info was good. It matched an address in my area, and the same detective had busted the person who owns the car just a few months ago on a "not entirely dissimilar" (detective's words) charge. He's going to impound the car in the hopes that the punk will either cop to the crime or rat out his buddy if someone else was involved.

In the end, the detective said that unless the guy talks, most likely nothing will come of it and he might not be able to build a case. Oh well. Time to take some Vicodin.

A Picture Is Worth A Whole Bunch Of Words...Like At Least 600 Or So.

2004-05-30T03:51:00.000-07:00

Or 1000.

www.worth1000.com

I guess I just shamelessly plugged a site in my blog, mostly because there is little else I can think to mention and I haven't posted for a while. They do all kinds of contests there, primarily photoshop, but also photography, text, illustration, and feats of strength.

Technically, the Feats of Strength contests are still in the beta testing stage, but things are looking pretty good. I pulled a bus full of senior citizens with a penchant for slots from here to Las Vegas using only my teeth and one of those belts that weightlifters wear to keep their spine from snapping at the base. I think I might have a shot of placing in the top three. Even if I don't, a jury selection will make me happy.

Just in case the Feats of Strength contests never get off the ground, I also entered a photoshop contest. First one I've tried in over three months. It's a head-to-head, so at least I only have to beat one other person instead of 60 or whatever. Should be interesting to see if I'm rusty or if it's the old "like riding a bike" thing.

And in local news: Last night some clown descended the hill on Narragansett Ave at 70mph and went airborne at the base of the hill where Narragansett meets W. Point Loma. He died.

Nothing special about that, just thought I'd keep up with the local color commentary. Maybe my town's not as interesting as I thought it would be for this blog. If people actually start reading this, I'm going to have to come up with some better material.

The extent of my awesome computer knowledge

2004-05-27T03:29:00.000-07:00

My first introduction to computers was pretty cool. It was my Dad's Apple II+. I remember thinking it was cool when I figured out how to write the code to make my own "Create Your Own Adventure" type of narrative programming:

If x
Then y

If z
Then q

-well, that's not coded correctly, but you get the idea. I think there were a few gotos in there.

The Rocker and the Developmentally Challenged Guy

2004-05-25T03:11:00.000-07:00

There's this guy in town that all the locals know, or at least smile at when they see him on the street. He's so thin you could snap him like a breadstick. He has eyeglasses thicker than the bulletproof glass on the popemobile, and his hideously large Adam's apple is a cancerous growth in his throat.

He has a very deep tan, as do most of the homeless folk and wanderers who show up in this town. I mean, if you're going to be homeless, you might as well lay out in the sun and catch some rays, right? I'm not saying he's one of the many homeless citizens of this town, (Are homeless people actually citizens of anywhere? Do census takers count them or are they just part of the plus/minus thing when they publish population stats?), but he resembles the many, and I do mean many, homeless people in my neighborhood, which was once called "gritty" by a sportswriter for a major newspaper. He was writing a story about David Wells, who grew up here. It doesn't seem gritty to me. It's more like creamy Jif peanut butter. Tastes great, always satisfies, but it can be annoying when it sticks to the roof of your mouth. I hate when that happens.

So this skinny tan guy with the enormous Adam's apple, he is almost always wearing a walkman and headphones. He saunters up and down Newport Ave., the main strip, and plays air guitar to the music in his ears. He really gets into it, with the head bobbing and the hip thrusts and the whole deal. It's quite the spectacle. He's the Rocker.

The Rocker has a friend who is a little bit retarded. He is a stubby blond guy, with close cropped hair over an unusually expansive forehead, a bit of a gut, and has a tan that would make leather jealous. He's permanently happy, with a constant grin that makes you wonder just what the hell that guy is so happy about whenever you see him.

He also has difficulty talking. I'd guess that part of his disability just shut off the mechanism that allows the mouth to form the sounds that make up letters and words. It all comes out as hoots and mumbles or a combination therein.

Before today, I'd never heard the Rocker talk. He was always too busy rocking out, of course, to want to start up a conversation with anyone, let alone me.

This afternoon, I was struck with the most intense craving for Mexican food that I have ever had. There is only one place that can supply me with the good stuff, that quality fix, and that's Ortega's - the best Mexican restaurant in San Diego - conveniently located a mere block and a half from my door.

3pm is a weird time for a food run. In between traditional lunch and dinner times, it made for a walk along Newport Ave. (which is entirely inhabited by restaurants and bars and is almost always crawling with people), that resembled walking through...someplace not totally packed with people. The sky was cloudy, there was a chilly breeze coming off the beach, I guess people just weren't out today.

I had the strip to myself. Until I turned a corner and found myself walking directly behind the Rocker and his friend. Oddly, the Rocker wasn't wearing his headphones this time. He and his retarded friend were having an animated conversation. They laughed, they seemed to mess with each other like good friends do. At one point, The Rocker's friend punched him playfully in the forearm.

The thing is, it turns out that the Rocker's speech abilities were no better than his friend's. I walked a little more than a block behind the two, and neither of them uttered a sound that resembled a word not just in English, but in any language. Hooting and wailing and snickering and mumbling was all I got out of it.

But man, they were having a great time. And you know, I think I was a little bit jealous.

Daggermouth the Man-Eating Bluefish

2004-05-20T02:28:00.000-07:00

We don't need any more fishermen crowding up this wharf.

I'll continue to write stuff here only because I was told that I probably wouldn't. I don't really know what to do with a blog, though. I'd rather not turn it into a diary or journal kind of thing, because that would be incredibly boring.

Maybe I'll just write observations about the town where I live. Lots of interesting things happen here.

Unfortunately, nothing all that interesting happened here today. Next time I might write about the joys of living five minutes away from an international airport. It's like a party in your mouth!

Except instead of a party, it's more like a hellishly loud roar; and instead of in your mouth it's more like in your brain cavity.

Good times, good times.

Squawk

2004-05-19T02:45:00.000-07:00

The story goes that some years ago some people on my street had an unknown number of pet parrots. For reasons unknown, the owners released the birds into the wild.

I guess the birds decided they liked the San Diego climate, or the food supply, or surfing, or blondes in bikinis - not that I could blame them on any or all counts - so they stuck around. In time, they reproduced, and now on my block you can usually spot a green parrot or two, (I've never seen more than four together at one time).

Not having ever owned a parrot, I've learned something I had not known about the flying green bastards recently: they are far louder than your average, ordinary neighborhood bird. Your finches, sparrows, starlings, chickadees - they got nothing volume-wise on a pair of bickering parrots.

And lucky me, the parrots like to squawk at each other as they stand on the powerlines right outside my window, invariably quite early in the morning after I work until 3am. Awesome!

SQUAWK!

Test run

2004-05-17T03:35:00.000-07:00

So, I guess I have a blog now. If I can remember to update it with any regularity, it will be nothing short of miraculous.