Top Five Reasons I Would Make a Poor Drug Dealer:
#1: Too penny-ante. The whole always-a-bigger-fish thing seems to come in to play often.
#2: Not British. Honestly, I’m not. Awfully close, but just not.
#3: The metric system. Kilos? That’s plain un-American.
#4: Don’t use enough unintelligible slang. Also, don’t call anyone “my son”.
#5: No fashion sense. Apparently adjectives such as “snappy” are used to describe coke dealer dressing habits.
Ah, Buffalo — where all know all. Sightings of our city’s residents will often mean uncovering unknown connections. For example, take these two recent thoughts:
There’s a friend’s uncle talking with that guy who runs that thing at work.
There’s that guy who used to come in to Kinko’s every Saturday walking with my college roommate’s cousin’s ex-girlfriend, who happens to be my neighbor’s daughter.
Baffling.
My brother, hereinafter referred to as “3L”, moved to town. Here’s our dinner conversation last night.
3L: If you really appreciated her cooking, you’d do the dishes.
Alex: If you really appreciated not being punched in the mouth, you’d shut the hell up.
3L: -extends middle finger-
The joy of family life.
As I sat on my porch last night around 1 AM, the sound of some manner of wooden flute instrument floated down the street, its mournful tune a message too mysterious for modern ears to interpret.
A playful breeze kicked up, and cherry blossoms floated past. I followed their dancing flight with my eyes, and when I looked back, a figure could be seen down the road, slowly approaching with solemnity and intent. Was it man or demon? A grimacing mask hid his face, and great red robes adorned a giant frame.
The apparation told me he was called Yojimbo, and that I would die this day. I was to pay for my life of dissolution, which had dishonored the memory of my ancestors. When I asked who had sent him, he replied simply “my master”.
I offered to pay him more than his wage, and he stood silent.
I told him I would leave, never to return to this place, and he stood silent.
I vowed to move to the honorable path of life, and still he stood silent.
The apparation would not be moved by words; the finishing couplet of this stanza was to be written in crimson. I leapt from the porch, unarmed and unarmored, and faced the one who would be my death. With a slow flourish, he unsheathed his sword, pausing for a moment before lunging.
A side-step and a twist saved me from the first blow, but the second grazed my arm as I took off my coat and began whipping it about. The cloth caught the sword just long enough for a disarming kick and a punch to the chin. A moment later, Yojimbo lay on the ground, staring up the length of his own blade.
Tempted as I was to remove the mask and see the face of my tormentor, I hesitated. Yojimbo had shown me honor; how was I to repay him? A strong wind blew in with the suddenness of a storm, bearing with it the recorder’s melody. I turned to see the player, but saw only the darkened street. I looked back to the ground, and Yojimbo was gone.
#1: At least one night, go to sleep with the knowledge that you have nothing at all to do the next day. No driving, no plans, just chill. Like a god damn baby.
#2: Static randomness. For some reason, we can sit and watch the ocean for hours in complete solace. Also works with a good fire. Always changing, but always there.
#3: Preparedness — but not too much. e.g. Implements for opening alcoholic beverages. Socks. Don’t leave home without ’em.
#4: Do something stupid. Play bocce in the dark. Remarkable how the utter strangeness and irresponsibility of a thing can seem like a vacation in and of itself.
#5: Don’t even think about checking that work email. They’re going to expect you to be rested when you get back, so live up to that expectation.
Apparently You Tube has all kinds of Looney Tunes cartoons. See the stuff you learn when you take a few days off?
Here’s a personal favorite. I saw discussing this one with Garv the other night. Between the light/shadow use, the points-of-view, and those creepy little eyes, I was terrified of this one as a kid.
B A Start poll: Funniest Looney Tunes cartoon ever? My vote: This one.
I am sunburned and bearded.
A Jiffy-Lube in Durham, NC now has my address. What they plan to do with it, I can only guess.
Gary has commented on my recent posts roughly one jillion times. I will address them one by one, slowly divvying.
I now know the following: highway signs that say “Exit Only” mean “this lane is for the exit”. They don’t mean “it is absolutely impossible to get back on the highway. Enjoy living out the rest of your short life lost on the untamed rural byways of West Virginia”. Good to know.
As I sat getting my hair cut today, a young fellow walked in wearing the standard early-twenties wear or a t-shirt and jeans. He grabbed Stuff magazine and took a seat. Close as I was to Vito’s wattle, I found myself reflecting on just when exactly it was I stopped wearing T-shirts as outerwear, and when Road & Track started to seem more appropriate than the “men’s interest” periodicals. That and why I was getting a haircut on the first day of vacation. Getting old, man. Getting old.
Tell me, where is geekdom bred?
On second thought, I’ll tell you: in the home. Saw a picture of this high-tech piece of equipment the other day, and found myself gasping and agape. The Sinclair was the first computer my family owned. I was five. That’s the kind of environment that spawns a man like me, whose interests are abstract but can’t keep his hands off of thinking machines.
Remember playing catch with your dad? Or going to the game? I spent many summer afternoons in front of the Apple IIGS with the old man, reading lines of code out of PC magazines. When we got a Macintosh SE, a friend came over with his machine and we networked them, just to say we did it. The young geek tales, they are multifarious.
You can see how I just can’t help but be what I am, and can perhaps see why I’ve been trying to install a decent Linux distro on a seven-year-old laptop. Old habits.