I can do what I want.
2.4.2k3
Thursday, 27 February, 2003
I had a dipshit for a neighbor when I was growing up. He did really stupid suburban white-guy things like leave a strip of grass between our lawns if he mowed after us. Or me, rather. Mowed after me. I mowed the frikkin' grass. Didn't mind. I'd mow interestin g patterns in the lawn: Circuit boards, snail trails, concentric circles, etc. I really liked making an Etch-A-Sketch-like pattern in the lawn in th e morning and then waiting for the evening or even the next day to "erase it." I liked the idea of all the cop helicopters seeing a crude, shaved-ber muda grass "Last Supper" for a day. Or the TV news choppers maybe spotting the likeness of an erupting Mt. St. Helens I carved into the lawn (The log jam of downed trees in the South Fork Toutle River turned out rather well if I do say so myself.) But back to the jerkweed neighbor. He left the str ip of long grass because he was a dumbass. Further evidence: He had a semi-hollow grapefruit tree in his yard. Some birdys made a nest in it. Once , while he was watering his trees with the garden hose, he figured maybe filling the hollow with water would be the best way to water said tree. He dr owned the birdys. The tree had to be chopped down. Dipshit.
The one cool thing he ever did was quite extraordinary and totally by accident. While mowing (having just left the strip of tall grass between the am biguous border), his wife came out to yell at him or ask him something. They were talking over the din of the mower when her head suddenly snapped ba ck - as if having been hit by something. She then ran into the house. He dumbly shut off his mower, thinking his wife (did I mention? Also a dumbas s) might be in some sort of distress. Well she was. They went to the hospital and the doc dug a fucking penny out of the side of her head. The mowe r had kicked the thing up and by freak chance nailed her in the head, penetrating it. Wow! What a shot! No shortage of fun and games in my old 'hoo d.
Tonight Orbit Room. Thank Alan if you think this is boring. Lyndal does. That's why she ain't comin' out.
However, I'll see you there!
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
Thursday, February 27, 2003
Thursday, February 20, 2003
Yeh, whatever.
2.3.2k3
Thursday, 20 February, 2003
Hello cans, boxes and pork sandwich makers. Tonight, the much requested Attic Club is once again our venue. Alas, no rambling Venue Announcement today, but I will tell you that, in collaboration with the science geeks from the University of Bisbee, Robot will be presenting you all with a full-custom, DE-lux (read: Interactive) Venue Announcement soon. Go have yr bevvies.
See you there!
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
2.3.2k3
Thursday, 20 February, 2003
Hello cans, boxes and pork sandwich makers. Tonight, the much requested Attic Club is once again our venue. Alas, no rambling Venue Announcement today, but I will tell you that, in collaboration with the science geeks from the University of Bisbee, Robot will be presenting you all with a full-custom, DE-lux (read: Interactive) Venue Announcement soon. Go have yr bevvies.
See you there!
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
Thursday, February 13, 2003
Hit and run TNSC
2.2.2k3
Thursday, 13 February, 2003
Ya ever hear the expression, "Always crashing the same car?" If you don't get its meaning, it means that you make the same mistake again and again. There are several dumbshit maneuvers I repeat but there's one in particular I'll delineate here in anecdotal form:
I was sittin' around jawing with a pal a few weeks back. We were at her apartment drinking a few beers, watchin' some TV. As we're both fans of that genius Alton Brown, and his show, Good Eats, was on, we were watching it. As I mentioned, Alton Brown is a genius, and as usual, his show was interesting, informative and captivating, so our attention was glued to the show and stayed put through the transition to a commercial break. What jarred me out of my Good Eats stupor was a spot for that annoying, no-talent jackass, Bobby Flay, and his stupid show. God that fool pisses me off. He doesn't tell you anything you don't already know and he treats the chefs he profiles like wannabes. This is the same Bobby Flay that got his ass soundly handed to him by the Iron Chef on that show's special "celebrity" series. I think that Bobby Flay even ran off the set because he was getting whooped so bad. Anyhoo, I started off on a rant about, well, what I just mentioned. To my pal I said I didn't care much for Bobby Flay or his show or his talent or how he treated the other chefs. I think I threw in some made-up crimes against cooking just for hyperbole. I was working myself into a lather when my friend interrupted and said, "Um ... you know that Bobby Flay is my sister's husband's brother, right?" I, of course, did NOT know this. I sensed that she didn't appreciate my comments. She continued with, "And you can get your goddang beer can off the arm of my new sofa, okay?" Sheesh. I took a quick moment to assess how important to me our friendship was. Then I said, "Have you ever met that jer ... uh ... Bobby Flay? Was he a total prick to you? Did he cook for you? Had you had better MacDonald's? Oh, and, this beer can's empty. I guess that means that you could get me another." I don't think she cottoned to that kind of talk. I didn't wait around to hear how she finished the phrase "... big-mouth, spastic, jerkweed, geek-boy ..." The door closed behind me at "geek-boy."
That's the kind of crap I do a lot: Insult someone or yell at them only to find they're closer to me than I thought. How was I supposed to know that my friend's sister's husband's brother was Bobby Flay? Or that that hog that almost ran me over on the way to work was actually my client that morning. (Man was that a tension-filled edit!) I can answer my own question: There's no way to know. I figure I'll take the risk, though, because no one likes a guy who doesn't talk. A lot. Or have opinions. About everything. Or creatively swears. Constantly. Et cetera.
Tonight: Hemlock Tavern
Come meet a real chef tonight at the Tenderloin's Hemlock. Watch for people in crosswalks, I always do.
See you there!
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
2.2.2k3
Thursday, 13 February, 2003
Ya ever hear the expression, "Always crashing the same car?" If you don't get its meaning, it means that you make the same mistake again and again. There are several dumbshit maneuvers I repeat but there's one in particular I'll delineate here in anecdotal form:
I was sittin' around jawing with a pal a few weeks back. We were at her apartment drinking a few beers, watchin' some TV. As we're both fans of that genius Alton Brown, and his show, Good Eats, was on, we were watching it. As I mentioned, Alton Brown is a genius, and as usual, his show was interesting, informative and captivating, so our attention was glued to the show and stayed put through the transition to a commercial break. What jarred me out of my Good Eats stupor was a spot for that annoying, no-talent jackass, Bobby Flay, and his stupid show. God that fool pisses me off. He doesn't tell you anything you don't already know and he treats the chefs he profiles like wannabes. This is the same Bobby Flay that got his ass soundly handed to him by the Iron Chef on that show's special "celebrity" series. I think that Bobby Flay even ran off the set because he was getting whooped so bad. Anyhoo, I started off on a rant about, well, what I just mentioned. To my pal I said I didn't care much for Bobby Flay or his show or his talent or how he treated the other chefs. I think I threw in some made-up crimes against cooking just for hyperbole. I was working myself into a lather when my friend interrupted and said, "Um ... you know that Bobby Flay is my sister's husband's brother, right?" I, of course, did NOT know this. I sensed that she didn't appreciate my comments. She continued with, "And you can get your goddang beer can off the arm of my new sofa, okay?" Sheesh. I took a quick moment to assess how important to me our friendship was. Then I said, "Have you ever met that jer ... uh ... Bobby Flay? Was he a total prick to you? Did he cook for you? Had you had better MacDonald's? Oh, and, this beer can's empty. I guess that means that you could get me another." I don't think she cottoned to that kind of talk. I didn't wait around to hear how she finished the phrase "... big-mouth, spastic, jerkweed, geek-boy ..." The door closed behind me at "geek-boy."
That's the kind of crap I do a lot: Insult someone or yell at them only to find they're closer to me than I thought. How was I supposed to know that my friend's sister's husband's brother was Bobby Flay? Or that that hog that almost ran me over on the way to work was actually my client that morning. (Man was that a tension-filled edit!) I can answer my own question: There's no way to know. I figure I'll take the risk, though, because no one likes a guy who doesn't talk. A lot. Or have opinions. About everything. Or creatively swears. Constantly. Et cetera.
Tonight: Hemlock Tavern
Come meet a real chef tonight at the Tenderloin's Hemlock. Watch for people in crosswalks, I always do.
See you there!
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
Thursday, February 06, 2003
Hit and run TNSC
2.1.2k3
Thursday, 06 February, 2003
One day when I was but a wee-little Robot, I was riding my bike along the quiet suburban street near my home. I don't know where the hell everyone else was but I found myself alone. As is natural for a wee-little Robot, I decided to pedal as fast as I could for roughly 30 seconds and then see how I would coast. I was going really fast at first then naturally I slowed. I don't know, maybe I got a half-a-block. I slowed to a crawl - trying to get every yard, every foot, every inch - manuvering the handlebars back and forth to keep from falling over. Inevitablility eventually caught me and I stopped. I balanced on two unmoving wheels for a long moment, then fell over onto the pavement. It wasn't a hard fall and it didn't hurt. Not sure why I did it. Kinda seemed like a fine ending to a stupid experiment. At any rate, I laid there on the warm sidewalk with the hot sun shining on me and it felt nice. I closed my eyes and felt the heat on my eyelids. It was very peaceful. Until, that is, the fucking car came screeching to a halt right next to me. A frantic middle-aged dude lept out and ran over to me. I looked up at him, quizzically, squinting from the sun. He was blabbering away: "Oh Lord, son, are you okay? Were you run over? Can you move - no! Don't move! Stay still! Oh Jesus! Is anything broken?" Then he was pawing at my arms, feeling for breaks, looking for compound fractures, abrasions and whatnot. He was being such a spaz and back then - like now - I didn't like people pawing at me. I said, "Lay off, buddy. Get yr mitts offa me. Want me to call a cop?" His jaw dropped and he took a step back. "You ... you're okay? What are you doing laying on the sidewalk? You weren't run over?" I said no. I was just laying there. That was when he got angry. He started yelling at me. "You little fool! You gave me a frikkin' heart attack! I thought you were dead! What the hell are you doing? What's wrong with you?" I figured I had better start looking for a cop but the guy got back in his car and peeled outta there. Not before admonishing me a bit more for laying in a heap with a bike half in the street. "When you're really run over nobody's gonna help you, sonny!" SCREEEEECH! His last comment puzzled me. Like I did it a lot - laying in the street. Not to mention that, "Sure. Nobody will help a run-over wee-little Robot." Guy's a dork.
Tonight: The Il Pirata
Doug is added to the list. So is Peg. This joint is parking-friendly and located in lovely Potrero Hill. (Hint, hint, Lyndal.) It's pretty slick, so slick List Members are required. Also, I hurled on a raccoon here. Come on by and I'll tell the story. I may even recreate the event for ya. You like UPS? It's right across the street!
See you there!
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
2.1.2k3
Thursday, 06 February, 2003
One day when I was but a wee-little Robot, I was riding my bike along the quiet suburban street near my home. I don't know where the hell everyone else was but I found myself alone. As is natural for a wee-little Robot, I decided to pedal as fast as I could for roughly 30 seconds and then see how I would coast. I was going really fast at first then naturally I slowed. I don't know, maybe I got a half-a-block. I slowed to a crawl - trying to get every yard, every foot, every inch - manuvering the handlebars back and forth to keep from falling over. Inevitablility eventually caught me and I stopped. I balanced on two unmoving wheels for a long moment, then fell over onto the pavement. It wasn't a hard fall and it didn't hurt. Not sure why I did it. Kinda seemed like a fine ending to a stupid experiment. At any rate, I laid there on the warm sidewalk with the hot sun shining on me and it felt nice. I closed my eyes and felt the heat on my eyelids. It was very peaceful. Until, that is, the fucking car came screeching to a halt right next to me. A frantic middle-aged dude lept out and ran over to me. I looked up at him, quizzically, squinting from the sun. He was blabbering away: "Oh Lord, son, are you okay? Were you run over? Can you move - no! Don't move! Stay still! Oh Jesus! Is anything broken?" Then he was pawing at my arms, feeling for breaks, looking for compound fractures, abrasions and whatnot. He was being such a spaz and back then - like now - I didn't like people pawing at me. I said, "Lay off, buddy. Get yr mitts offa me. Want me to call a cop?" His jaw dropped and he took a step back. "You ... you're okay? What are you doing laying on the sidewalk? You weren't run over?" I said no. I was just laying there. That was when he got angry. He started yelling at me. "You little fool! You gave me a frikkin' heart attack! I thought you were dead! What the hell are you doing? What's wrong with you?" I figured I had better start looking for a cop but the guy got back in his car and peeled outta there. Not before admonishing me a bit more for laying in a heap with a bike half in the street. "When you're really run over nobody's gonna help you, sonny!" SCREEEEECH! His last comment puzzled me. Like I did it a lot - laying in the street. Not to mention that, "Sure. Nobody will help a run-over wee-little Robot." Guy's a dork.
Tonight: The Il Pirata
Doug is added to the list. So is Peg. This joint is parking-friendly and located in lovely Potrero Hill. (Hint, hint, Lyndal.) It's pretty slick, so slick List Members are required. Also, I hurled on a raccoon here. Come on by and I'll tell the story. I may even recreate the event for ya. You like UPS? It's right across the street!
See you there!
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
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