A cocky omen

Last night sucked. In fact, put the whole of yesterday into the sucking category.

Yesterday sucked.

Woke up, jogged 3 miles (big+little Audubon loop), met up with Mark at Costco tire-center to drop of the Tercel, off to Venice beach around 11am.

Walked up and down Venice beach boardwalk, visiting pipe shops. On one of the first shops we stopped (they had the gas mask bongs) Mark pointed out a longish blue pipe on the shelf. I took a mental note.

We later returned to the same store. The clerks, both of them, were extremely patient and helpful with us (which should have immediately rang my alarm), were eager to explain all the intricacies of glass work to us. I surveyed several pipes, including the one Mark pointed out earlier. Bluish green, a little on the dirty side, longish with a deep bowl in the shape of a hammer, but with intricate multi-color glass lacing 3 dimensionally. Nice looking piece. I decided against it initially, choosing another more traditionally shaped spoon, but reneged at the last second and took the hammer. The clerk threew in a bag and a couple of glass filters.

Somewhat happy about the purchase, we also bought two cognac sniffers for John's birthday and a bottle of Reformador tequila for myself. Shit shaved and showered and went to Cirque du Soleil in Orange County Fairgrounds. 73 toll road took us there in under 10 minutes and we had plenty of time to walk (like a mile! in the cold!) across the street for a couple of brown-bagged beer from the Circle K. Returned and met up with Meg and Asian Jeff. (Hi Asian Jeff, meet Asian Jeff! Oh we've met. Yeah. Where. At your birthday party) Good show, amazing stunts, gorgeous music and costume. During the intermission I felt like I was a little bit frozen out by Megan. An effect she has on people around her in her quest to be the center of all attention. Nevertheless we parted cordially. Back to my house to christen the pipe.

Ed showed up, and ordered from Dominoes. I get the typical annoyance I get from Ed, listening (more like evesdropping on his and Mark's conversation when I'm in the same room) to his typically over-the-top stories that sounded like typical Ed lies. It was around this point when Mark pointed out that my pipe, with it's long nect and deep bowl, looked like a cock. Unfortunately, it does, with its average ball-sack and anatomically correct bulbous head. They laughed and named it Dick, I pleaded it down to Richard, then Nixon, but was unable to extend the name association even further from the painful truth. My pipe is named Nixon and looks like a cock. I can't exactly take comfort in the fact that hey, at least it's not a crook.

Ed's Dominoe ordering was disastrous. I was in a foul mood and didn't think twice yelling and pointing out that he's fucking it up. He didn't appreciate it obviously. That started a chain of negative vibe that carried well into our 3-handed hold'em game, in which Ed tried to cheat and steal chips multiple times. Everything ended bitterly at around 2:30am.

I believe in omens. I believe that my observation and interpretation on omens bring out unconscious decisions that I wish to make. Yesterday may have been an omen, telling me not to smoke anymore.

Warning below may contain words tainted by substance

another idea: refurbish your room. You need to lower everything to the floor to increase maximum surface area. get rid of the rocking chair.

a decorating philosophy: balancing the elements, or in other words: fung shui.

fire: light
water: food, kitchen, bathroom
and so on.

another story idea: CINDERELLA! that's like a steal of a steal of a steal of a steal. ME steaing THE STORY OF THAT KID IN BASEBALL cap and no other identifiable information besides that he hangs out with the asian kid who stole THE EXERCISE OF STEVEN ripped out of the TEXT BOOK whose idea was to write on a STOLEN STORY ALA CINDERELLA.

sorry about the caps.

but this cinderella will be a much darkers tale. Cinderella being the ultimate bitch who clowns and queens her step-mother and sisters because they can only get at her inheritance once she turns 18 par her father's wish, who had a great lawyer.

The prince would be the filthy rich oil shaw who's dying to marry her with prenup. maybe not handsome but rich.

what would the fairie grandma be? yes, a fairie grandma who likes a grandaughter. maybe.

she would have to be really really evil and turn the ending upside down and you're gonna have to think of it. Hence the challege.

The story's title: Cinderella and her lawyer.

another idea: finding a writing buddy. freewrite buddy. BLOG BUDDY!

alright. an idea: start broadcast your profile, you ready for this? to the entire world. maybe to those who speak say Japanese.

here's another: start categorizing your thought bubble pop-ups. ideas for future ideas; self-analysis; further categorizing of ideas, etc.

here's another: get a digital photo when? probably soon in order to start working on your website, the one that you haven't paid for in order to get started.

another: convert digital photos to easily readable bmps? for website texture? maybe?

and yet: write like a rock star. dishing your decaying mental garbage at the masses. fucking dump on them.

still: that was some dark shit.

continuing another.

continuing another still.

another of another, another squared, another cubed, another to the infinity of stupid, plus 2, another another in sight.

(perhaps a working metaphor for kids in one-up's man conversation?)

another still, and yet another boom boom boom.

wait, another?: a drill for writing rhythmically. i guess writing poetically. or, more straightforward: write some goddamm poetry!

the previous another another one-upmanships can be used as the backbone of a poem.

a meandering expository (written from the first person point of view) on WHY FAQ IS A PRETTY FUCKED UP IDEA? (alright, more like the beginning of an interesting topic for a little exercise of argumentative/analytic/research essay, perhaps like multiple-personality disorder)

(or perhaps, an caution:EXTREMELY nerdy intro to that psychology chick in riverside. I wonder this online dating thing doesn't work? no one replies back. there's something i'm doing seriously wrong here. Well maybe I need to alternate the voice a little bit. think hard.) suddenly getting the urge to erase that line. this is sad jeffff.

it's just a little spark for more crazy ideas.

(here's another crazy idea: a expository/confessional/rap song title: alright, i like to dominate)

takes a pause to evaluate my dancing habit.

Every so often, I would estimate about twice a month, I get the tendancy to break it down and boogie. Alright, I admit it, some of it, some plus a little more of it, some where some time all added together from beginning till end plus somex3 of it are substance induced. However, what's more notable though is the will that's behind the act (act of substance+act of boogieing on downtown charlie brown)

That was much more drown out that what was intended. Okay, getting back onto the topic--my dancing habit. Here's a FAQ, the best format of expository writing I can think of.

why do you like to dance?
it's pretty simple: it's fun. Word associate dance and what do you come up with quick now set go! Fun. That's mine.

okay, what do you get out of dance (aha, got you there)?
(this is some pretty fucked up pent up dude! it's like self-psychoanalysis)
for one, stretching. It's like what's it called type of work out. Using your own strength, lifting the weight of your muscles and body. Think about it: your body weights a lot just by itself, think of how big a stack of dumbbell is like your weight??)

no that's a awful analogy. an. (that was like meta-meta-editor at work). Lifting the weight of your body plus the weight of the stacks and translate that stacks to another volumne of objects, such as another person.

okay. I get ouf of dance is just that, it's a workout. Plus it's a little, probably a little bit more like stretching. it does a body good that's what i'm saying.

A little bit like the precursor to multiple personality disorder.

DAMN! Now that I think about it, a FAQ is a pretty fucked up idea.

is going to talk about the dreams I had last night.

Let's see. Looking ata web page listing all the 7+ footers from China, ones that have hormone abnormalities highlighted. There were a 9 footer and even a 10 footer who had a vaguely Mongolian name implying monstrosity (something like icy beast) but both of these were unconfirmed rumors. There were 3 highlighted names, one of which wa Yao Ming. Another was a 7-2 who's an academic, images flashed of him sitting behind a desk with two other men interviewing someone ala JET style. He's the most established of the three. The other 7-footer was a teen who hasn't mastered the sky-hook. Stayed in a fancy hotel with one such 7 footer and 2 reporters from America (one of which is attractive). My room was on the top floor, but the lower floor room is much bigger. The room itself is an elevator, and while decending I saw the bay and the dock on the other side of the water briefly before the view was blocked by another skyscraper.

Unknown transition, probably woken up by the alarm.

Blamed Jack for uncovering the BBQ during the rain. Scrubbing a wok that had a white thick greasy film over it, and the reverse side of it is orange-red rusty. There was a housekeeper in the house who only paid attention to her baby. The house was the house in Taipei, we're sitting on the rattan couch watching something nondescript on TV. The refridgerator was to the right hand corner in the corner niche. There were green-tea and fruity icecream in the freezer, and the freezer door was unattached. What are you going to make for dinner? Probably dumplings since you left all the pots unwashed. But we had dumplings yesterday.

So, Yesterday (I know, probably should've written this yesterday but such is my writing habit) was the JET interview, in Little Tokyo LA at the JACCCCCCC (can't remember how many C's, Japanese American Culture and Community Center of Commisional and Conventional Crime Critters Cringe over Cracked Crackers on the Crayon Countertop).

It was intimidating intervew style to be sure. Big open room, at least 20 by 20, 4 people. You in a chair with minimal back support, in the middle of the room. 3 sitting in front of you behind a line of office tables, hands domed and face hidden behind them.

Overall, I thought I had a good game plan, interesting ideas behind some of my answers, but the execution was piss poor. I stuttered several times, at a loss for words several times, and just plain sucked. This is all I'm going to talk about it now because anymore of this I may kill myself over the thought of the same old routine for another year. Blah!

starts out today with a realization of a New Yorker cartoon. It happend just 5 minutes ago in the bathroom eventhough I have seen and not gotten the same comic for days. A hippo dipping in the waterhole says to another hippo, "I hate her," referring to the giselle drinking from the same hole. I get it now: a fat chick hating a skinny chick.

How about this?

Title for your next story: "Derek and Jane get laid"
Story told from two diverging perspectives, Derek's and Janes, about two people's pre-date activities and anticipatory thoughts about the sex they're about to have that night. Ends with the two diverging characters meeting up at prearranged somewhere.

Maybe with a tougue-in-cheek tone, sarcastic yet insightful (of course from make-belief insights) about the modern day mating rituals. Maybe written in a journal/blog format, with date and time openings for multimple short paragraphs. Derek not masturbating since their last date. Jane shaving her legs. Derek picking out boxer briefs and button flies because his erection against the zipper hurts him. Leg-man Breast-man Ass-man all like Jane. Eating grapefruit to make his cum smell better. Probably some description of their previous date where some make-out session was conducted. Derek sending Jane flowers on-line with point and click(pressing ctrl-n opening a second window next to espn). Jane's reactions to the flowers. Jane picking out a new bracelet. Imaginations/idealizations of what the date might be. Heat fel under the table. Footsie. Derek thinking that the bracelet looks like a cock-ring. These and other plot elements.

can suck it.

Yet another Valentines day had passed. I intentionally avoided blogging during the day so I can chill the bitterness down a notch. Looks like it hadn't helped. I'll be alright.

Was hoping to blog or Word a story during the day today but never got to it. Made the beef tendon/oxtail broth this afternoon, which I've been intending to do for days. I'd like to call the broth subtle but really it's just bland. Got lots of it though, I forsee lots of noodle soups in your future.

Oh yeah, don't let this one slide. Mark broke chubby last night. I never really christined that blue glass pipe with a name did I? I suppose chubbs will do now that it's no more. Was less upset than I ought to be, considering that I've had the same pipe for 5, almost 6 years. Was bought the summer of 99 in Long Beach with Santa Cruz Paul from CALPERG. Like a little kid, 6 years. Damn. Now I'm pissed.

Spent a couple of hours working on the match.com profile and sent out a few winks. Should harvest the results this weekend and send out a few initiative emails. Will it work? It better.

What else? Not much.

was held hostage tonight at english 104.

presented my story to the class tonight. feeble feeback at best, everyone was non-involved. supremely dissappointed. well, part of it is based on selfish reasoning to be sure, i was dissapointed that no one wanted to give more compliment on all the one-liners that i threw out and sucking me for it, but i guess that's life.

i sure hope for more of a bang, i thought that i would be the star for tonight, but i guess the star turned into a quasar, endlessly remitting radioactive signals that no one picks up other than the lucky dorks at conservatories. too bad there aren't more lucky dorks around in this lonely world.

what should be my next story? huh? what do you think? the previous iwamoto-san idea seemed promising.
time is present for the unvealing of promising leads. until the wind and dust are no more, and dry sandy tomes obliterated to make way for the concrete jungle. cliche jungle housing automatic DNA carriers and their timeless biological mission to obliterate all that stands in its way. avocado: ripe clean green dripping with vegetable fat trendy ladies at the expenses of sweaty mexican fathers and mothers.
nectar: mandarin orange nectarine orangatane swinging from twine to twine to the next. nectar of life is the succulent juiice that feeds us all. somewhere in there is the source.
superman: invincible flying creature. speed bump obstructing and tall-building obliterating, gas-guzzling superhero of america.
USB drive: fast connect pulling ends of strings together on a dime of zeroes and ones.

takes a back seat when money is concerned.

and where are you going to get that dough? hustlin' and bustin' on the go, shootin' pool is the way to go.

finished in the money tonight. in the fourth, got my $7 entrance fee back. not much i know, but it's the best finish i've ever had on kelly mccue's monday nights.

well, you finished ahead of kirk, that's for sure (footnote: kirk is the plaid shirt donning, short shorts wearin', playin' pool in the morning hustlin' poker at night jack ass that everyone appears to agree)

finished behind vick (the stoic asian middle-ager, likes combo shots, doesn't say much and doesn't play with much flair, but leaves his game on the table, lost 4-1) and richard (the avuncular white middle-ager with a beard, full of annoying after-shot one-liners, will miss shots on purpose to give you some leeway if he sees fit, lost 3-1). a solid 4th place if i've ever had one considering that vick and dick were fighting for 2nd and 3rd place when i took off. doug (the coordinator of the tournament, seems to be a nice enough guy, claims to have a son in uc hastings law school, somehow dubious ((prejudicial to the extreme on my part)) considering the omnipresent brown bag at his side) seems to think that i should beat richard handily. i dunno, richard gives me weight to be sure. at least doug gave me some easy 'caps on some earlier matches.

biatch, make way for fast cho.

- like Leviathan tartar in soaked in bathwater.
- everything feels a little bit pregnant
- like a piece of night
- the smell of time
- was this hell? is this what they meant? if it was, then she knows she must walk thru it. it is the only way to move about in hell. to be defiant.
- a dog that barks at random makes all the street bark in earnest.

is not quite there yet. remind self to think of another title tomorrow in order to stimulate writing, like a mental stimulant. mental but not psychotic.

idea for a character, a guy who makes combover an art. that's why it's cool to live in the city, the richness of it. you'd see a guy who makes combover an art like every other 2.5 hours.

idea for a story, write an episode of cowboy bebop.

the richness of it, coffee beany smell of beatles in the morning. that was a good one, i think. you're letting your mental editor affect your writing, wirte with inspiration and grandeur, write with style and flows with instant coffee efficiency. editor: your piece is good, you have talent, but there's no story? that sounds nice to me actually. the book definitely wrote with an intent to inspire potential writers.

1:56 AM. the drousy smell is intimidating. it is too daunting a task to partake. too drowsy and out of control of your mental stream, mental stream that threatens to pick up spead and ocercome this instant mind0fuck attemp to mind fuck. what a load of shit. who says habit need be pretty?

Kaoru Iwamoto always looked in the mirror every morning, trying on different faces. He tells himself a joke he read in the bathroom book and smiles to get that happy feeling. He's an artist, the top of his head his canvas, needle thin strands of hair his art.
(can tie in bits of unemployed, the smoking, the bus walk, the girl eye)

you're treating this like a jigsaw puzzle. writing little pieces and then adding on to them. flow obstructing.

Mr. Iwamoto is a tireless employee. Always first in and last to leave. I know, I've been leaving last for the entire eight months I was here until Iwamoto-sa took the lead in January. Iwamoto does good work. Yes he does.

out of steam and mental stream,
eddying flow, encircling the uselss middle
is the tiresome trickle that must never twiddle,
yet again, and again, still again.
the blurr of riffs must be concealed at all costs until such

back from sf rainy misty wet concrete with slick road coverings ford ealorship push button salesmaen with a ready set smileready set style ready set style self censorship with dignitified retreat from the bullethole shore misty rainy mountain woodchuck so that woodchuck chuck losing thefflow, scurrying in mental eddy of psychiatrick cosmetics no i meant psychical cosmetics, mind made up of fingerclicks wher touch can turn into information concret convoluted self-servomg propagando, self-brain wash purification of the purity of fluids

losing it yet again dell superiortron 3000, with warranty of up to whenever you find the time to return the product in the tom waits in line. nice way to incorporate the enlightened one. whose mental plug draining all of its inmcoherent glory. incoherent glory

story idea: bus driver and wife driving together in the morning.
a story consists entirely of dialog.
a vase of infinite water

draining. draining, draining counterclockwise.