Month: April 2005

… can’t drum, can’t run, can’t lift. I can only drive as long as circumstances permit me to turn my head no more than 2 degees in either direction. Given the ridiculously tight intersections of which 90% of Portland is comprised, driving these past days has been a gamble. An almost total invalid I presently am — and being the doer of many things from which I draw my self-worth — I’m feeling a tad invalid.

[None of you dillholes better call me a pussy either. “Even thugs cry!” said the late great Tupac Shakur]

Any of you Tri-Met #8 takers out there will strongly identify with this. Enjoy the above link!

Every so often, when Jane and I are driving around and find our popular radio song options to be unsatisfactory, we’ll tune in to a country station. And, usually, there’ll be a song with lyrics so cheezily sentimental that I burst out laughing (or burst out gagging). Here’s a song that illicited such a reaction from me last night after I heard it for the first time:

If heaven was an hour, it would be twilight
When the fireflies start their dancin on the lawn
And suppers on the stove and mammas laughin
And everybodys workin day is done

If heaven was a town it would be my town
On a summer day in 1985
And everything i wanted was out there waiting
And everyone i loved was still alive

Chorus:
Dont cry a tear for me now baby
There comes a time we must all say goodbye
And if thats what heavens made of
You know i ain’t afraid to die

If heaven was a pie it would be cherry
Cool and sweet and heavy on your tongue
And just one bite would satisfy your hunger
And there’d always be enough for everyone

If heaven was a train it sure would be a fast one
That could take this weary travler round the bend
And if heaven was a tear it’d be my last one
And youd be in my arms again

Chorus:
Dont cry a tear for me now baby
There comes a time we must all say goodbye
And if that’s what heaven’s made of
You know i ain’t afraid to die

[Andy Griggs: If Heaven…]

There are plenty more bad country songs that I need to share. This post is the first of a series to come.

I got to hand it to my boss. He’s learned the best way to deliver orders to me that he knows will make me riled. Rather than to my face — which is guaranteed to evoke an instant scowl, annoyed response and an arguement back from me explaining why the particular dork ass thing that he wants me to do is completely unreasonable — he does it by email, to keep him occupied while he travels during one of his 10 or so week long outings to far off places that he makes during the course of the year. Meanwhile, I’m trusted/expected to hold down the fort/lab, answer my own damn questions pertaining to research regulations and neurological well-being of my subjects (which my background in physics makes me more than qualified to do) and of course, in his absence get more done than I do in his presence.

He would like for me to do a small “favor” for him and stay employed at my job right up until the first day of grad school. My staying will help my replacement to have a smooth transition in to my position. Hmm, let me think about that… 2 months paid vacation w/out my life consuming job hanging over my head or the stress of working, training someone new, moving, and orienting myself for grad school all at the same time (in the span of two months, mind you) to make things convenient for him. Please let me know what you think I should do. I’m having a hard time making a decision here.

… all it took for me was a bit of instruction. I spent Friday skiing for the second time in my life. I didn’t receive strong guidance the first time I attempted it and, well, I remember that as long as a didn’t mind falling as a means to right myself I could stay up on the hill with experienced skiers as long as I didn’t mind hearing them laugh at my ineptitude. As you probably have guessed, I have been in no hurry to try skiing again.

Most of the people in my office, my boss especially, are ski nuts. One of my co-workers (who had a few extra lift tickets that she would have not been able to use before the season ends) went to my boss to organize a lab meeting, that would just happen to take place at a ski resort. More dreading the event than looking forward to it, I went only to promote lab solidarity.

My ski instructor turned out to be about as articulate and compassionate as your typical high school football coach. This was actually a blessing (for me at least) since, when it comes to physical activities, that tends to be the teaching style from which I learn best. After I mastered the bunny slope I graduated to “Butterscotch” that, instead of a rope pull, was supported by an actual lift. The first time off of the lift I stood up and fell over. The second time off I turned the wrong way, went down into a pit and hit the pillar supporting the lift tower (didn’t fall though). By boss was just in front of me laughing his ass off. So was I. The third time I came of the lift I stayed erect and managed to turn the correct direction. From then on I went down the slope a few more times without incident.

I think with a couple more lessons I’ll be able to tame the slopes that the “big kids” enjoy.

A few weeks ago, my band, ClapAmp (version 2), performed for the first time at a houseparty. We were the headliners of the evening. The first group, Buttersmooth, had their shit the most together of any of the bands that played. I enjoyed their set completely but they could not have any been more different than us even if they had made a conscious effort to be. Their music was quiet, folky and acoustic, while our’s was loud, experimental and electronic. They all had tattoo’s while none of us have ever been penetrated. They all hailed from the southeastern US, all of us are north/westerners. The list goes on… The only similarity between us that I could detect, besides being friendly, was that they were also “virgin” performers that night.

I’m pleased to say that our set was a success, epecially considering the difficulties we encountered. A success to us, specifically, was that few heads were bobbing and people were polite enough to clap. Jane said she liked it, and not just in a supportive, dependent partner way either.

Pat, our “frontman” had a hell of a time! His guitar stopped outputing a signal, for whatever reason, right in the beginning of the first song so he had to do the rest of our set on his alternate guitar that was only tuned for half of the songs. Man, the rock gods were not with him; he hasn’t been making enough sacrifices (i.e. smashing guitars) I suppose! Solid troopster, he was, and he did his best with the other guitar while his vocals and effects control remained strong. He bravely pressed on to the end of the set without losing enthusiasm.

Matt, our keyboardist, is a rock (thank god) and seemed to enjoy the experience thoroughly. He is definately one of those people who are fortunate enough to shine when he knows that the attention is on him. For his appraisal of the event check out: PERFORMANCE

I, myself, was quite nervous and I didn’t realize how hard I was pounding the drums until my hand started cramping up (luckily near the end of the set). My nervousness did impair my drumming ability, but only slightly. I couldn’t stay as relaxed as I needed to be. ClapAmp’s songs are quite fast, (that’s just how we do it up in this piece…) and the set was (and continues to be) a workout for me. During our performance I fatigued much earlier than I usually do during practice; my anxiety induced from my self-consciousness I attribute to be the cause. Playing out for the first time taught me not to attempt what I do during practice, during shows. While I cannot honestly have called my first performance playing the kit ‘fun’, I did get a charge from it, corny as it sounds, and look forward to playing out again.

Myself and my former illustrious labmate. I’m the flagger. My buddy there is the husky globetrotter.

There’s this “seasoned hippie turned establishment”, with whom my boss has been strongarmed cooperate, is “helping” us setup one of our studies on Parkinson’s disease. Not only is this guy a complete clown, but the study that his astounding insights help shape – a study that, without his overriding dipshitiousness, would actually be doable – has become the most complicated, tedious, exacting pile of crapola the likes of which our lab has never seen. Of course, by now I think you may have guessed that I don’t always give him all the respect he deserves. (He being esteemed faculty of Portland’s “Oregon College of Oriental Medicine” who probably earned his advanced degree in the field of chakra kinetics or something similar.)

He leaves a 2 minute voice message on my office phone, of which the following is a small sampling:
“umm yeah hi… this is R_______ H___________________ at OCOM [he was sure acronomize the college name to convey to me his institution’s legitimacy] Yeah, I sent an email to you about, oh-I-don’t-know, 10 days ago asking for your most recent versions of the HIPAA forms that you guys submitted to your review board… …You really should get those forms to me ASAP okay… …If there’s any reason why you can’t get these to me today, please send me an email right away… Anyway, thanx ;)”

My angered reply into the phone loud enough for all of my fellow, obedient research assistants (who, incidentally, are quite accustomed to my outbursts) to hear:
“Yeah BUTTFACE I’ll give you the best goddamn reason you’ll ever hear: I DON’T WORK FOR YOUR CRUSTY ASS. So why don’t you go get some bitchass assistants of your own to baby-sit your fuck’tarded shit.”

I of course feel like quite the big man yelling at my voicemail. Being the deskjockey that I now am, who has painfully come the the conclusion that my aggressive posturing only hurts myself, I sent a pussyass email plainly telling him not to contact me for requests such as those any longer.

I don’t know how many hard up freudian psychologist flunkies Dodge employed to come up with their recent ad campaign, but if I see or hear one more suggestive TV/radio/billboard advertisment subversively implying the power and size of a man’s truck or “magnum” reflects that of his phallus I’m gonna fuckin’ go apeshit.

If you somehow doubt my claim please check out this link: http://goyk.com/video.asp?path=1504

I know your typical truck owning american man is supposed to be some retarded, sex-starved dipshit whose self-worth is derived almost entirely from his groin but come on! I don’t know why more guys aren’t insulted by this fuckin’ shit. Yeah and so what if I’m a prude; this shit is fuckin’ stupid!

Join me, will you, in spamming those corpo ‘tards with penile enhancement ads…

Ever have a dish so delightfully scrumptious that you could eat it ’till your entrails ruptured? If you’re looking for one, try the sauteed green beans (#911) at Legin Chinese Restaurant on 82nd Avenue in SE Portland. You will not be disappointed even if you sway toward the more carnivorous end of the sustinence spectrum. Better yet, enjoy it in the restaurant’s Phoenix Lounge where you can enjoy Karaoke in your east asian language of choice!

82nd Ave. is hands down the best, most genuine, street in Portland. It does not try to hide what it is; unlike ‘hip’-pocritical Hawthorne, that – while being saturated with flyers describing the leftist cause and the evils of capitalism – is probably the most commercial street in the city; bent on cashing in on stupid folks’ desire to be different. Many folks, hipsters primarily, avoid 82nd because of the used car lots, strip malls, sex shops and prostitutes… things Ptown immigrants (myself included) originally moved to Portland to avoid. Every city has a street like “the Av”. Many cities have entire sectors of similar character. Portland needs the Av to provide all the necessities/vices that city residents require, but don’t want to admit they require–things/services that “pdx proper” folks do not want cluttering up their charming neighborhoods of high repute. The Av is where real life happens, as opposed to the quaint conjoured up idealizations of it that people try to live up to in their homes.

So give the the Av a chance — have some green beens and a Scotch, enjoy some Hmong Karaoke, grab some porn and live a little!