Heavy Metal Cello

I saw Apocalyptica live @ the avalon last night. They ROCK. They are a Finnish Cello quartet with a drummer. They started with Metallica covers on cello.

Metallica is my favorite group, so they started with the best material IMHO. And it blows my mind to hear my favorite songs and guitar solos performed on cellos accurately.

I was in the front row ten feet from them as they played. They don't speak much english, but they talked to us anyway and were funny: "Hello L.A! This is the first time for us here. It is good to see women in the audience tonight. It is usually a lot of really ugly guys. We play in L.A. more often now. This next song is for the women...or the guys too if you like us that way. That is fine if you do, you are just not welcome back stage. Ha. Ha." and then they played Bittersweet. Which Loo LOVES, so she was super happy right then.

Ok, so I want to capture that evening, but I don't have enough time to do it now, i.e. midterms. So I give you night in nutshell (I talk in broken english like Finnish people for now) I parked, meet up with girl. We went to exotic shoe store and she buy tall leather boots, then we eat at Kabuki Japanese restaurant with 10 piece sushi plate each. It was really very good. Then we wait in line for hour and inside for one more hour until show start. Apocalyptica (they pronounce it like a spanish speaker would.) rock the house with heavy meatal cello music. If you search "Apocalyptica live at the avalon" you see me on right side up front. I am tallest, bushy haired guy in audience. Cannot miss me.

On the Rag

I think I am on my cycle right now. I woke up grumpy and emotional, which is soo not me.

I noticed the sunrise this morning, the green flash as the sun peeked over the mountains into the San Bernardino valley and the tiny lights of cars moving like ants through the roads that looked like arteries of the city. And I thought how beautiful it all was and I smiled to myself and my eyes got hot and watery and there were sniffles.

The shower felt amazing and I was so appreciative of it this morning. I almost thanked it out loud.

Then I took my rats out, hugged them, told them I loved them, gave them a treat and left for school.

Down the mountain people were going slow and I felt annoyed. Like what they can't drive the speed limit? Ok, fine the limit is 55 but 30 is ridiculous. And then there is a sign that says: slower traffic use (the fucking) turnout. And I watch as they coast on by 35 now. WTF is that? It says slower assholes use turnout, you are a slower asshole and you missed the turn out. Not to worry there is another one in a mile.

Up to 35 now. You can do it, 20 more miles an hour. The bumper reminds me to support the troops and that abortion stops a beating heart and that McCain/Palin should be the next president. We come upon another clean, empty turnout just begging to be used--and we drive on by.

But not to worry! There is a PASSING LANE OF SALVATION ahead. I sit squarely in preparation for the amazing acceleration I am about to release upon these mountain roads. We ease around the last corner, come upon the double yellow, it splits, the road widdens, I prepare to mash the gas and the $%$%$@$#@ speeds up!

"NO!" I scream over 'My Friend of Misery' by Metallica. I stab the gas. I am doing 65 and the @*&#$ is pulling away from me. "WHAT THE FUCK IS YOUR PROBLEM" I scream at the windshield.

Then I relax. Because now the passing lane has ended and they are ahead. Now I can continue down at the speed limit, now I can chill out. As I sail around a corner at 55 I see them ahead. They weren't doing 55.

Back to 30 again. I wanted to tell them that the yellow signs that say "35 MPH turn ahead" aren't speed limit signs but recommendations, caution, warnings--for SEMI TRUCKS! Not for this puke green Toyota Camry.

We drive by five more turnouts (empty, glorious, oases of freedom) and approach the last passing lane. I ready myself, turn the overdrive off kicking the RPM to 2800, foot on the gas, right in the power band, ready to blast by them.

The road widens, dotted lines develope, they speed up, I whip out to the left, stab the gas, see the cop with the radar gun, stab the brake, turn the Overdrive back on, set the cruise control for 55 and come neck and neck to the Pukemobile.

I look over at it. A woman sits there. Smug and oblivious, a blue light glows from her ear and she has big bugeyed sunglasses. She is blond, her hair has pins on the sides to keep her bangs out of her eyes and she has a pony tail. She reminds me of Jabba the Hutt and looks to be in her late 30's early 40's. I coast by the officer at 55.000 mph and when he doesn't turn around I push the Resume/Accel button. 57. I inch ahead. I push it again. 59. I am half a car length ahead and she starts accelerating! In the span of 0.5 second: Overdrive off, downshift to 2, both hands on the wheel, stab the gas.

The 3.0 liter v6 in the Nissan Maxima screams, rises to 4200 rpm, variable valve timeing kicks in (which pukemobile doesn't come with), torque steer in full effect, and it hunkers down, the exhaust roaring a crescendo until the upshift at 7000 rpm-- a lurch like the anchor I was dragging finally got hauled in--and I flew right by. Victory!

Around the next turn was a Cement truck--but its OK! because he drove 60 and used his turn out. I told him I loved him as I drove by and waved a thank you. The rest of the way to UCR was smooth sailing.

In class we watched the second half of the movie Smoke Signals, which is a great movie. And I was 0.5 seconds late and the only seat was between all these sorority girls--three rows of them with me in the middle. Blond hair, bubble gum and iPhones were in great supply.

As the movie went on I started crying. It was so emotional. They kept asking if I was ok. Through sobs I told them, "I'm just really emotional right now." Kelsey handed me a tissue.

I thanked her, mopped my tears (as a side note I have an extra tear gland, so when I cry I cry a lot. My mom has it too.) and after the movie I moved on with my life on my way to the sci library.

The trees are so pretty here. People are so beautiful. I saw people holding hands and fought back an "awww!" and then I seemed to be surrounded by couples in love. They reminded me that while I was in love, that person was 233 miles away.

I signed on MSN and told her I missed her so much and I was thinking about her and I can't wait to see her and she is great.

"Thanks."

WTF is that? Thanks? I am pouring my heart out to you and you say thanks!? Thats Bologna right there. Thanks. psh, as if. So I told her she was welcome and I had to go because she was too busy to talk. I signed off MSN and crossed my arms at my computer and pouted. "Thanks." psh. Lame.

Loo signed on to AIM, which I forgot to close. My status was labeled: HERE--In the science library. Her text flashed up on my screen:

"Don't get all snippy with me. I haven't had time to sleep or think much this week. Call me after work. I am super busy now."
"K" I typed back. And she left.

My eyes felt hot again and my vision blurred. I was looking into the future: we were married, might or might not have had rug rats crawling around, but she was too busy to pay me any attention and I was sad. Where is the faerie tale I was promised? Is it always going to be this way? Surrounded by people yet always alone?

Then I got hungry and this chocolate soy milk drink looked really good. And then I saw some girl munching on a burger. And now I have a craving I have to give into.

I noticed my lips are chapped. And my pants need to be washed. And my hair needs conditioning. And my nipples are sensitive.

War Paint

This morning around 1 am I woke up sick to my stomach. I felt nauseated, there was a sharp pain there. Also I was having trouble breathing, there was a kind of wheezing gurgle. There was something in my throat blocking my air too. My face felt warm and weird and when I touched it it felt slippery. There was something on it, something slippery and sticky.

I rolled out of bed and stumbled up the stairs to the bathroom clutching my stomach as pain stabbed me with every step. I knew this feeling well.

In front of the mirror I flipped the light on. Blood was splashed all over my face and arms and hands. When I opened my mouth my teeth were pink with coagulated blood between them like little burgundy popsicles. And when I opened my jaw strings of saliva and blood stretched across my lips like crystalline columns. It wasn’t my blood though.

Just kidding. It was. And it came from my nose. It had started a while ago while I was asleep and my unconscious self brushed the tickle away from my face for a long time while I dreamed of swimming through a submerged maze of iron fillings and rust.

The pressure difference, the heat and the dryness of where I live really bothers my nose to the point it just cracks and bleeds. I stood there looking at myself in the mirror at 1:37am and let the blood run down my face and drip into the sink making a “plink” sound.

It could have been war paint.

I felt the warm blood roll down my upper lip like a slow tear until it met the blood coagulating between my closed lips and was absorbed and releases on the left corner of my mouth were it oozed down my chin slowing, reaching the end and then stopping just before falling away into the sink, hanging there like a liquid-ruby stalactite. And there it stayed. Another drop followed the same path and collected at the same point. It isn’t like water or ice. It doesn’t flow over or around, it flows into, flows through and the liquid-ruby swelled like a tiny balloon.

If I don’t move for awhile it starts to harden on my face, contorting it into a grimace as the red rivulets harden into jagged collections of red spider strands holding my cheeks back. Slowly they darken, and harden, pulling tight across my face. Then they break like parts of tectonic plates, unable to hold my face back any longer.

The severed places look like clean breaks of crystal strands or ice. I hook a finger nail under an edge of darkened blood and lift, loosening long sheets of thin glass that clink when they fall into the sink. After they are all off and piled up like glass shards my face has a thin layer of smeared blood from when I was asleep--now the color of ancient rust.

Clean flesh shines from beneath the war paint like jagged lightning bolts the color of my skin, in this light the color of humus.

Then I washed my face off and went back to bed.

Blood

Blood seems strange to me. Not in the sense of unfamiliarity but in the sense that it is weird stuff. It has little things in it like hemoglobin and red and white cells and platelets and vitamins and minerals and hormones and pheromones and alcohol and caffeine and bacteria and viruses all pumping through my body under pressure.

The fluid, plasma, just sounds cool. Plasma. Plasma.

When I was little and started playing video games with giant mechanical warriors, one of the most devastating weapons was the plasma cannon. I thought the plasma cannon, that shot big green fire balls, was just a weapon that harnessed the blood some how. And I became afraid that my blood was green, and if it ever reached the outside air it would explode. So I was careful for about a day until I fell out of a tree and scratched my arm real good and watched the tomato red blood ooze out of me expecting, any second, for it to turn green and blow up.

I noticed I said, "scratched my arm real good" isn't that interesting? Like if I barely caused harm to myself it would have been a bad scratch, because a good scratch is long and deep. Although if you go too far than you get a bad scratch, in the sense that if you don't seek medical attention you will bleed to death. Paper cut, bad. Vegetable knife slice, good. Car accident gash, bad. It seems like any laceration should be bad, but I hear people say things like, "Yeah, than I cut myself real good."

Good for who? Good for the thing that cut you? Good for being cut? Good for the blood? Good for the scar afterward? That has to be it right? A big flesh wound that looks worse than it actually is. Those kinds of wounds people call, 'good ones.' I wonder why that is. I think it is for scar recognition.

When I cut myself badly at work across my left bicep--er I mean, goodly, cut myself real good-- I went around and showed everyone because it looked really bad--er, good-- but it didn't hurt much, but it bled a lot, anyway I showed everyone. The guys were like, "Awesome man!" and sounded envious. The girls were like, "you should get some disinfectant on that." And one time this woman named Kitty was next to this checker from Alabama named Phil who was a part time body guard for celebrities (this was at the Vons I used to work at) and I walked up to them both and showed them the gash and Kitty said, "Wow, that's gonna leave a gorgeous scar," and Phil said, "Hell, yeah. Boy, how'd you get that?" And I told them the story:

I was reaching over the desk to get this paper that fell behind and this board slipped and cut me.

They both looked at each other before Phil said, "I'd keep that to yourself," and Kitty said, "Yeah, I'd make up a story involving being mauled by a mountain lion."
"Or a bear," Phil chimed in.

So now, if you ask me I tell the story of how I was mauled by a bear, and the scar looks totally believable.

But I think I want to be abducted by aliens now. Ask me in a few days, maybe I will have been abducted. They left a burn scar, I have proof!

The Girls Locker Room.

I just read a list of random questions. One of them brought back a memory.

"Have you ever peeked in into the opposite sexes locker room?"

I remember in 7th grade my friend Alex and I would rush out of the boys locker room to get to the other side of the gym where the girls locker room was. We had to get there before they got outside. Once there we would take turns boosting each other up and spying on them.

The angle was bad and nothing like we expected. I expected a sauna of naked beauties bathing one another. What I got was a small vantage point of the lockers and once I had enough times to see one of them in a bra and panties!

Which reminds me the first time I ever touched a breast. The first time I can remember anyway. It was around the same time. I was boosting Alex up and he jumped down and pretended to be in the middle of a conversation.

"How big was it?" he said really loud.
"This big!" I said and threw my hands out wide to either side. The back of my right hand smacked squarely into Claire gardener's left breast. (Puberty was especially good to her) It was a soft supple surprise. She gasped. I apologized. And when she walked away Alex gave me a high five. To the left hand, because the right hand was now sacred.

For the next few weeks I became the resident breast expert. A position I hold still to this day.
It is funny how things happen that shape you for the rest of your life.

I read every book on the subject I could get my hands on. Not because there were pictures of naked boobs, but because they were so mysterious and I thought that by learning about them I could have some power over them. This led to books about the female body. And books about sex. And shortly there after I became the resident Sexpert, never having ventured there myself until I was much older but able to explain everything to my friends.

A girl I was dating before I was engaged to Loo told me that, "You could look at a map of Italy, read about the people who traveled there, but until you are there you will have no idea what it is like." She was much more experienced than me. In fact, all of the women I was ever with were more experienced then me. Ha! I never thought about that before. Anyway, the joke was if you ever wanted a guide for Italy I was available. I could tell you the metro times, distances between places of interest and the best places to eat. ( I know nothing about the real Italy.)

But there is something about me that craves information and knowledge. If it is especially interesting I will never forget it, as was the case for female anatomy, biology and physiology. I know more about my woman's body then she does, which makes me feel special.

For example: A few years a go a new Birth Control pill came out called YAZ. It was clear that Loo needed a BC pill to stabilize her emotional states. I didn't like the one she was on because of the side effects--migraines, heavy periods, putting on weight and lethargy among so many others. I did a lot of research and suggested she switch to YAZ. We went to the doctor and now she is much better off because YAZ is a much lower dose of estrogen then the ortho tricyclene stuff she was using before. Her emotions are much more even, her migraines are virtually gone and she is much more active. Now I am the lazy one that doesn't want to go anywhere or do anything because I am so busy and tired from school and she jokes that I need YAZ. And when I am particularly grumpy she has offered me the little white pill.

"Here. You need this more than I do," she says with a serious face.

And I laughed so hard my stomach hurt.

Slice of life

I dislike that nomenclature.

10:21 AM, science library, friday:

I just finished my lecture for Religious Myths and Rituals. The professor hopes to convert us science types, which is starting to get old, but I will tolerate it indefinitely.

I get to work today at the tire store. It has been about a month since I last worked. I left the Camarillo store behind for the Norco store here. While I was away and transitioning, the Owner of the nation-wide company decided that he had better put a nation-wide freeze on hours on account of the lackluster economy. I was sure there was no hours to be had for me, but I talked the manager into it and he is going to modify the store schedule to fit me in. It has something to do with my experience and ability to do anything at the store. In February it will be five years at the same company. Where has all the time gone?

The uniform for the job follows a funeral motif, one that can be regularly confused with the uniforms of Applebee's and Pep Boys Auto to great hilarity. "Waiter, hey waiter, where is my food?" me: "The cat got it. So sorry." But I digress. As I moved up to the cabin I left my Black shoes behind, the ones that are NEEDED for the job. They don't like it if you wear non-black shoes, and if I were a rookie they would send me home to get them. But I am a veteran and it can be over looked if I sell enough tires to make up for this outrageous transgression.

The cabin doesn't have a mailbox. All my mail goes back home, and the next time my parents or Loo come up they will bring it, or when I go back for some reason (laundry) I will collect it. So my text books are at home right now, not at the cabin, and I have to go home this weekend to collect them. My parents said they would come up this weekend last weekend. And then vacillated the rest of the week until last night when they confirmed that they wouldn't be coming up. Which is a bummer, because the books are there and I need them Monday, and they can't be mailed to me in time. I wish they could just have some integrity and mean what they say when they say it. I said if they didn't come up that I would have to come down. I said that Monday, and they forgot.

My only choice is to drive home from work late Saturday night, which means I will have to leave my Boyos behind (male rex rats). The drive from Norco to Ojai is about two hours depending on the 405 which always likes to piss me off. I will arrive in time to go to bed, and wake up sunday, my one day of reprieve, rest and relaxation.

Just kidding about that rest and relaxation thing. It just so happens that Loo's Maxima threw a code (check engine light came on). My brother, a brilliant car guy, showed her how to check the computer to tell her the trouble code, which can be looked up using the factory manual and diagnosed with a chart. One of the thee Oxygen Sensors broke. I get to fix that Sunday. I have never done it before, but being a car guy myself, and having already replaced the other two, this should be no trouble at all...ha! In addition to that small job, her Brake light on the instrument panel turned on, which means her brake fluid is low, or her brake system is about to fail, either one. I have to investigate that. Of course if I were there I could simply open the hood and look at the brake fluid reservoir to see if it is low or not, or if it needed to be replaced. But Loo has no automotive skills, and can't check it for me, cause she doesn't know where it is, what it looks like, what color is bad, and how much is too much et al. Plus, she gets anxious and nervous and says, "I can't do this, can't you just look at it yourself?" Which is mildly frustrating because she says she wants me to show her how to do things like oil changes and brake jobs and the like so she can do it herself without me. I have done many oil changes by myself now, despite her enthusiasm to relieve me of that duty.

In addition to the O2 Sensor and the brake inspection, I will probably have to do another oil change on her car by myself, and my own car as well which will naturally progress (I never see this coming) to washing her car, which makes me want to wash mine because its dirty and all the stuff is out.

In addition my Dad is building a shed so he can put his larger tools for wood working in it, which would clear up a lot room in his shop, which has become the place to store anything worthy of being stored, and as he says, "It is gumming up the works." He has most of it done, except the roof. So Between oil changes I will be helping him with heavy lifting and the like because I am the only one who can. Mom isn't strong enough, Kevin had major chest surgery and has a ten pound maximum lift limit, and Loo isn't strong enough either. If it is too heavy for Dad and I to do alone I will have to call Mike who we call, "The Wookie" for obvious reasons (He never gets lost, he is super strong, rather furry and can imitate wookie noises).

In addition to that, I imagine I will have to mow the lawn, change the cat box, pick up the dog poop, vacuum the front room, clean the rat cages, change the water in the fish tanks, clean the snake cage and clean my room for no other reason than because I happen to be there.

Did I mention Homework? I'll just do that after all those other trifling tasks.

On the positive side of this visit I will get to enjoy the company of my family because we havent seen each other in two weeks and we get along very well. I will also enjoy a nice dinner, which I haven't been enjoying lately at the cabin by myself. I will get to take a shower without using melted mountain snow runoff like at the cabin. And some where in there I will probably get hugged or maybe even kissed by Loo, which I have been without this last week. She will probably ask that we go out on a date because we haven't done that in awhile. I think the reasons are evident in this post, but it always ends up on me somehow. i.e.: I do all these things because secretly I don't like her, don't want to go out with her, and keep her around as my personal play thing.

Then I will most likely come back late Sunday night or early Monday morning (class is at 9AM, the 405 makes the trip at least three hours) and hope I wont be scheduled to work that day. I'll find that out at work today.

That about covers it. Enjoy your weekend.

wtf mate

So I sit here on the 3rd floor of the science library at UCR waiting for my discussion class on religious myths and rituals at 9pm. And while I do that (wait) I am reading the other posts of all my friends and acquaintances. I posted 3 things last month. Why can't I just post all the time. The posts are fun to read. This month my favorite is Erin. She makes me laugh. And this post is prompted by one of hers..something about the rules of coupling for girls.

I have this book called, "The Rules. How to get Mr. Right" It is actually a girly book about how to acquire a husband, not a boyfriend and explains the difference. And it is a collection of rules that when used properly will result in success of the husbandly kind. I feel guilty about talking about this book, cause I am not supposed to have it, not being of the girly persuasion myself.

I have mixed feelings about this book. When I was younger I used it against my female adversaries in the dating arena. The book talked about the right kind of behavior to attract a husband, and the other kind of behavior that attracts a boyfriend. A boyfriend in this case representing the chance for an often shortlived romantic relationship. It was interesting what behaviors called to which types of guys. And it goes on to give rules and tips and tricks for many situations. You (ladies) have to come accross to the potential husband as not easy, but not impossible, that the proof is in the pudding and you are worth the chase and the wait and all the trouble that this little book puts the guy through.

This book is especially devious because many things are subliminal, and if the boy wanted a short-lived fiery romance he might find himself tricked into a long courtship. This book also summarized the things boys do (the way they act) that attracts brief romantic encounters and long romances from women.

The book says you must act a certain way to discourage the boyfriend type guy looking for a brief romantic encounter, and encourage the courtship type guy. I don't have the book in front of me but here is one of the rules:

When a boy calls to make plans for the weekend he must do so prior to tuesday of that week.

If he calls up Wednesday, he is too late, tell him you are busy and if he would have called you sooner you might have been able to change your plans, even if you had no plans. DO NOT GO, it will be hard but you must not go! If you were to agree to his invitation, say to a Saturday date when he called on a Thursday or Friday you would show him that he doesn't have to plan or work very hard to get your time or attention and that you do not require consideration or thought to be taken out. This starts low expectations on his part and he will continue from this low standard and the relationship is doomed to fail! Only agree if you want some sex, knowing that it wont work out as you pursue other options!

Here is the official top ten rules list: http://www.therulesbook.com/topten.html

Anyway, the point I was trying to make is that I used this book to counter the girls who were reading it and using it on dates, which was a surprising number, I found out later. And it worked beautifully. It became a game, I knew where the conversation was going, how to perfectly answer the tough questions they were supposed to ask (some of them didnt even vary the order in which thery were written!), and how to get around the defense mechanisms of time, waiting, number exchanging, etc. It was very devious of me, if I do say so myself. That was back when I played games. And I didn't enjoy the dishonesty of that game.

It was totally useless against girls that had never heard of it, girls that meant what they said without any subliminal trickery, girls that didn't fit into a "type," girls that told you exactly what they thought about you if you asked, girls that were honest, girls like my Fiance.

She was the one that showed me that all the trickery I was learning was a stupid, dishonest game that wasted everyones time. Her simple, yet strong, sentiments spoke volumes about her character. She was the most honest girl I had ever met. When asked a silly question, she didn't dismiss it out of hand, or change the subject as "The Rules" urged, she answered the question. It was disarming. The thought came, "You mean all I have to do is bemyself, and if you like that person then the skys the limit? No tricks, no games, no espionage/subterfuge?"

(I suppose it helped that I was exceptionally handsom and charming and buff and had known her very well for ten years before I met her)

I know her, and she knows me. And we like those people, so it's good.

But that Book. I do not like it on principal. And while it encourages some nice things--make yourself stand out, place yourself in social situations were boys will be etc.--it also encourages dishonesty. You can't say what you want when you want because it will break the rules. You can suggest a place to go that you like, because that is his job and it breaks the rules. You can't ask him frivolous things because its against the rules. You must act a certain way, talk a certain way and be someone you are not. Some may argue that it is modifying who you are, but the modified person only exists when on a date or on the prowl for a date so it is a mask, a facade. (Which is a french word with a little C thing like a capitol letter "Q" on it) And I don't like facades. People that are genuine all the time are my favorite people and that is who I surround myself with.

And as I sit here at the science library in a cubicle all by myself, I chuckle about the irony of all those people I "surround" myself with. LOL

IN summmmmmmation: Be yourself, even if that self is a kook and a half, you may draw another kook and a half and you will have 3 kooks!

*Reading rainbow jingle* da dum dum