Build Me Up

I had only just returned from helping a friend fix his computer. In transferring his hardware from one box to another, he - being the curious thing he is - decided to take a look at the fan-heatsink-processor sandwich, breaking the contact between the processor and the heatsink in the process. I, being the watchful friend that I am, caught this error when he was screwing his fan back on.

"Did you take the fan off?"

"Yes."

"And the heat sink?"

"Yeah. I wanted to see how it worked."

Briefly hanging my head, I explain why you do not do this. Chastised, he left for Fry's to get some thermal compound, and I returned home.

"Hi honey."

"Hi babe."

I sat down on the couch, curled up with my laptop, while my boy plays World of Warcraft on my PC. "Someone called me 'buttercup' earlier."

"Who?" I asked.

"Gregor."

"Is it because you build him up?"

"No."

"Before you let him down?"

"No."

"And mess him around?"

"You can stop."

"Why do you hate everything I love?"

Here's the Problem...

Here's the problem with me writing a blog: I'm boring. Exceedingly boring. Unnaturally dull. A real snoozer. My life is comprised of incoherent events strung together haphazardly passing by the corner of No and Where. God just took random beads and stuck them on a string and presented it to me, tying it around my neck and slowly removing each bead and letting the necklace inch menacingly towards my trachea. And he didn't even pick cool beads - brown and puce, primarily, with the occasional spot of green (that was probably my graduation).

So instead of trying to make this about me, I'm just going to share some stories from friends, because the people I know lead far more interesting lives than I do. This is how I squeak by with writing. I've heard it said that a person can do one of two things: live, or write. Writers need to live in order to write so they have to do more with less. I get around this by absorbing the experiences of others as my own.

Next post will be far more interesting, I assure you; primarily because it won't be about me.

I Couldn't Get to Sleep

Due to undisclosable events, my residency has become temporarily inhospitable. I shall return eventually, and sleep in my exceedingly comfortable bed. For now I write this in a Starbucks, latching onto a TMobile signal for dear life. Next I'll be eating at McDonald's. This particular location is on the corner of Lawrence and El Camino, and I chose it because it is open until 1am.

The quiet room is anything but. Even with the door closed, segregating us from the noisier patrons, sounds of laughter, conversation, and generic wish-I-was-indie music surge through every crack they can find. When the door is opened it is a brief torrent of sound. Everybody always tries to pull the door open on the opposite side, when you have to push it to get in. I don't blame them. The handles are all wrong.

When I first sat down, I spilled coffee. That was my introduction, and I think everybody hated me for it. My first action was to go back to the counter.

"Is there something you need?"

"I..." Fumbling hesitantly, I sighed and looked down. "I am incompetent."

I cleaned it up, of course, and Blake the Register Biscuit offered me a fresh cup. I did not decline.

Thankfully the evening wasn't a complete waste. I made a friend. She will be at the Potter thing tonight. We shall see how that turns out. The rest of the evening, once I was shown the door at 1am, was spent watching DVDs in Denny's, nursing a lonely glass of soda. Glorious (Eddie Izzard) and Silent Hill.

Fun fact: Izzard is the word for "the letter z." I'm not making this up.

When You Don't Really Want to Eat Anything

The beautiful thing about Charles Shaw is that he makes wine we can all agree on. It's cheap, it's potent, and it comes in a bottle. Many a wino have probably taped pictures of Mr. Shaw on those pillar candles you can buy at the supermarket, creating miniature shines in alleys and doorways of abandoned buildings.

The tragic thing is, if you leave a bottle of two buck chuck corked on your counter overnight, you'll have something that tastes like it's rapidly approaching vinegar.

That's a glass of Cabernet Sauvignon gone to waste. Not that it tastes any different from the Chardonnay. But I was looking forward to a glass of wine.

Whiskey it is.

Am I Really No Longer Addicted?

I was just working on the outline for my story whose word count is posted below. As of now it's labeled the "mesmer story" because I don't do titles very well. In the process of this, I decided to write up a list of character names, considering that I hadn't done so, and that one of my characters had a temporary filler name and really needed himself a real name as opposed to the scratch I had lying around for him.

Mentally, I stumbled around for names, and the name 'Mathias' came to mind. I enjoyed it. I attempted a last name. 'Shaw' showed up. 'Mathias Shaw,' I thought to myself. 'That is an eerily familiar name.'

Mathias Shaw is a mans in Warcraft.

I have a problem.

Harry Potter and San Francisco

On Tuesday at 11:59pm I went to go see Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix. Outside of a few important details getting left out (Ron and Hermione making prefect, for instance), the movie was overall fantastic. The following day was spent recovering.

Thursday I spent the afternoon and evening in San Francisco (the morning part was spent asleep). My friends are staying in a hostel in/near the Tenderloin, but the place itself is fairly secure, so I have no worries for them. We did a fairly boring walk through Chinatown (hitting the best dim sum you're likely to find), a bit of North Beach, down Embarcadero to Fisherman's Wharf, then the train back to Tenderloin. Most of the memories are in laughs and conversations.

I was notified that I'm a walking wikipedia and like to explain everything about everything to everyone. An unfortunate flaw. I pity those who call me friend.

Good Morning

It's currently one in the morning. I get pendantic with friends over this, that a new day has arrived. They argue that the beginning and ending of days are marked by sleep schedules, which is utterly arbitrary.

Apparently this is the hour at which my cat prefers to bathe herself.

At any rate. Here's a blog. I really wish I had something interesting to write. I've recently left the workplace - I suppose it was a matter of hearing "you're fired" before I could say "I quit" but at least I got two weeks extra pay for riding it out. Now I'm finding myself able to build reputation up with varying factions in World of Warcraft and perhaps write a book. The latter is a far more lofty goal.

Will I ever publish? It would be nice, but odds are slim. I plan on putting short stories up here until I find I have the gall to suggest someone pay for the bits I have commited to hard drives. I suspect said 'gall' will be slow in coming.

You know how cats will lick their front paw and then wash their face with it? Always a crowd-pleaser.