FACT #566 ABOUT ME

FACT #566 ABOUT ME: I am you and your boyfriend's relationship strengthener.

To King & Queen, I am but a pawn.

To my horror, my outward appearance lends itself to a female's eyes some matter of appreciation. Get an eye check-up, ladies. There's something wrong with your peepers. It is because of whatever they sight of my exterior that they come to with a step aside from who matters most to her: a relationship grounded heavy into care with a boy who can give her the world. The girl, in but few moments spent with me, finds out for herself I am no suave beast, no king confident, and no future to make her time worthwhile. This is known to her but to her boyfriend, having no knowledge of who I am aside from what his girlfriend sees, spotlights me as a threat. A jealousy. Another One.

But I am NO ONE. I am a LOSER. I am a BUM. I am a MISTAKE.

She might tease her boyfriend with the vision of me. Put on some minor hurt to give a pulse check to her boy to see if he really cares. He does, naturally. And there will be tension. And in that tension they'll know they do mean everything to each other. Aware of the nonsense inside now fully revealed, no longer veiled by my fedora and tie, the girl soon goes back to the boyfriend. She skips back to him merrily, thankfully with a joking tune of the wreck left far behind her. And I'll stand alone as I always have and I'll see the laughs of both boy and girl sharing the storied massacre of the fuck-up she once stepped aside to in a moment of blindness.

But she can see now. And so can you.

And you two in your kingdom will be the better for it.

Yeah, you're welcome.

Fortune Hunter of the COWON S9 Charge Cable

Woohoo! I just found the charge cable for my COWON S9 mp3 player! Woohoo! That sonofa-cuntgun was buried deep in a drawer that isn't its usual location. The charge cable must be trying to escape the COWON S9, no longer wanting songs running through its insides and electricity jolting it to charge its Big Brother.

I found ya, you proprietary USB bastard!!!

---- Indiana Lacking ~ Fortune Hunter Extroardinaire!!

A Weekend Question Replied

The following is a reply to a correspondence with a cousin of mine. The title of the initial message was "A Weekend Question" regarding what plans were already set for the weekend of my 25th birthday. Yowza!!! That's a quarter of a century!!!!

Whoa, your schedule is more action packed then a Schwarzenegger and Stallone movie COMBINED!! =D

I was thinking . . . Seacliff. =o

Sometime, anytime April. But a great weather day needs to be caught.

That place brings up such wonderful childhood memories. With this recent mood-shift I am stricken by a reminder of that dock and abandoned boat, overlooked by a cliff-by-the-sea (the namesake) that bears a deceptive wooden stairwell that looks easy but upon 73+ steps is soon to be found brutal. Bwahaha!

I'm sitting out here in the backyard, my flabby man-boobies and stretch-marked whipped hung-over belly exposed (yup, no top) to enjoy the brilliance and warmth of the sun in full. I'd wear a thong too but that's like Black Belt status that I've yet to achieve with my comfort with my body. =P There is a cool breeze and I wish for the weather this day to be exactly the same when we get there - a great weather day. Schwaaay! =D

The plan IS admittedly massive. So they are just thoughts and possibilities in my head right now. I've Facebook messaged Tedd the same Weekend Question since he was the first to ask about a week ago what do I plan to do with my birthday? The original blueprint contained 2 or 3 things. They are (1) Jack & (2) Shit and maybe, just maybe a (3?) cake. =P

So between the Jack-shit Plan and Seacliff, sweet Seacliff, you see which is preferred. Again, just a possibility.

The underlying motivation to all this though, ate is this . . .

I want to fly the kite on the beach. I want to fly it at Seacliff. The birthday bash is just along for the ride. Schwaaaaaaay!! =D

You need not drop by Jim Drive Sunday evening, te, the fact that you're aware of the significance of the 17th day is plenty enough for me. Thanks a bunch!!! I always did think of you like you were my older sister. Schwaaaaaay!! =P

Where the heck did all this "Schwaaaaaay!!" come from? I dunno??

Oh yeah, Scwhaaa . . .

arzenegger?

=P =D

Dude, I'm gonna go watch Terminator 2 again. "I Need Your Clothes, Your Boots, and Your Motorcycle" He would've asked for a fedora too I'm sure but bikers prefer bandanas. And vicious robot assassins from the future are very particular about the quality of their hats. That's why the future is all messed up: No good haberdasheries. =l

Tracy Pancakes

[NOTE: The people mentioned in this post are referred to by their real names except for two: "Marcus" and "Buddy." These are aliases since I haven't gotten proper permission from each person they represent. Tedd was originally to go under the alias "Raimund" until his permission was recently cleared.]


SUNDAY AUGUST 17, 2008

This day has been planned for weeks and I don't know what will happen. It might go well or it might be awful. I'm rooting for the former but I can't see anything beyond the hills out my bedroom window. We leave sometime before 2:00 p.m.. Upon my entry into the vehicle, Madison (Debra's dog), rushes towards me and licks the bejeesus out of my face. My eyeglasses get smacked wet while I simultaneously try to to hang onto my fedora and get into the vehicle: a red Mistsubishi Montero. As soon as I get settled, Madison nonchalantly makes her way to the other end of the backseat. This must be the canine equivalent of a formal introduction. The trip begins.

Debra drives while another cousin of mine, Tedd, rides shotgun. Debra says we must first drop off Madison at her boyfriend's mother's place. I assume Madison already knows everyone there; no formal introductions via sloppy dog kisses will be necessary. We arrive and Debra's significant other, Marcus, makes his way out the front door, down the front yard and up to the Montero. Debra asks, "Are there any pancakes?" I am stupefied. I don't know why anybody would want to eat big floppy pancakes in a car. This very feeling is shown on my face but nobody notices. Marcus takes Madison inside the house and returns with a small Tupperware container filled with what looks like little cookies. Tedd grabs a few, as does Debra. When it's my turn I grab 2, absolutely baffled. Although they vary in size, they are about the size of a child's palm. Convenient. Neither hesitant nor ardent, I bite into one. The texture is fluffy with a slight but satisfying crunch approaching the outer edges. The flavor sweet and delightful. I should have grabbed more. I should have hid the entire container under my hat.

With no determined place to go, the vehicle approaches the Milpitas Art & Wine Festival. It is known that TJ is to perform there and we crack jokes about being there by coincidence. The festival is set on one long street with a less fulfilled branch to the west, The day is warm. There are many people but it isn't crowded. They couldn't even form a legitimate lynch mob. Tedd (with his war mage idiosyncrasies) would easily take them all out with a "Tempest of Raistlin" spell and maybe a summon or two. The "8-toed Ogre Savage of Vindabona" could crush this feeble tea party. But for now the situation doesn't call for it. We continue down on the line and pass an empty stage. The booths themselves are heavy on the crafts and light on the wine. The oddest sight there are local agents trying to peddle property and vacations. What this has to do with art or wine, I do not know. Maybe they took the angle of gluing together popsicle stick sculptures at your new home and getting wasted on vintage 91's in the Caribbean. Damn peddlers.

At the end of the street sings a bluesman on another stage. The guy's got his stuff down pat and I'm jiving with everything he says. Having no woman to lose or have lost, I can't relate but the intent and the delivery of each word is good. Damn good. If "The Krystle Song" was this hip then I'd be up on stage too, wailing woes of what was never mine. But nobody would want to hear that. The bluesman's got more soul than I have in my left foot. Christy Brown could get spastic to this stuff too.

On our way back up the other side of the street and after winning a free pasta dinner, I keep an eye out for TJ the brother younger. Debra and Tedd check out another free spin at an Adventist Church's booth. The banner alone keeps my feet pointed in the other direction; religion isn't my bag, man. It is faith that carries worth. The multitude of idealogies in how to get to god/God/a god is a marathon of running in a circle. I think I'll go my own way, thank you. Screw the middleman! This dude's going direct. As the cross-stamped banner bends in the heat of the sun, I keep my ears open. I think I hear something . . . horns. That's TJ. I walk away from the never-ending foot race behind me and head towards the "bah-rah! bah-rah! bah-rah!" coming from the street to the west.

It's a lively sound, these musicians on stage. Four female vocalists whirl their bodies with the words they sing. It's not something I usually listen to but it's nice. I am a bit disappointed that the mix has the horns at a lower lever. They are overpowered, almost drowned out by the voices, and the power of the brass does not come through. The set is over. One singer is a relative of someone that Debra knows and they trade hellos. Soon after, we leave the Art & Wine Festival.

Tedd needed to pick up an aloe vera plant. The location? At Buddy's house, yet another cousin. We hang out for awhile. I take a quick stop at the bathroom to rinse my face of this warm day. It is decided that we drive to Sonic at Tracy; a place far, far away from San Jose. Why there? Because there isn't a Sonic fast food joint around where we live. We must go out and elsewhere to partake of a rumored better burger. Buddy is along for the ride and we head out with the aloe vera plant at the back of the Montero. After dropping that off at Tedd's place we pick up Marcus from where Madison and fine pancakes reside. On to Tracy.

It's all-natural so it's not the death scythe that Big Tobacco sells in millions, billions, trillions. The three men take their turn. I pass, having given up the stuff many a month ago. I am amused at the jokes that fly. Occasionally, Marcus and Buddy take the wise-cracking to a more "queer" affair. They are the best of friends, these two. Even so, the homosexually charged ribbing is something I am not comfortable with. I am not distressed but it sure is pretty darn awkward to be in a cramped vehicle where two dudes comment freely on who goes to the front and who stays at the back. It is a bit silly and I do give a few restrained "hah hahs" but I can't find myself casually throwing out jokes about who's the one to take it up the brownie. See, that's just plain [your word of choice].

The drive itself is pleasant. Or at the least the view is. The Montero must've been made in the bumpy end of the factory. The passengers pay with each dip on the freeway. I look outside the window. Summer makes the grass cry in a shade not far from the trickling reach of a burning flame. These rolling hills are a permanent sea of yellow. They swing upwards and sway downwards in a dance of many miles. The backdrop of a clear blue day accentuates the dervish scrolling by my window. I want to play. I want to be out there and be a part of the divine freedom that only untouched earth can provide. Except these lands are not free. The dance is kept in check by fences of wood and wire. They punch upwards and kick downwards as a shackle of many miles. This piece of earth outside my window is not as flawless as it seems and I don't feel like being somebody's cow just to be there. I'd rather stay on this bumpy Montero ride.

We make it to Tracy. Ophelia. Sonic is the kind of place where you can park your car and a waitress will roll up to your car and ask, "What will you be having for today?" The Montero being as constrained as it is, we opt to dine in the outdoors area of Sonic under a big roof and away from the failing heat of the sun. The menu is a wealth of choices. I jump between "fries, onion rings, fries, onion rings, fri . . ." until I go with the onion rings. I usually make a point of trying out the french fries where ever they are served but today I change it up. Before I even sit, I scope out all the people within the vicinity. Why? Well you know why, don't ya? I'll give you a second. Okay, another. It rhymes with "pearls." Bingo! A table across from where I am sits a girl in pink skirt-shirt thingy. (You female readers will have to help me with the proper terminology on that one.) She reminds me of a nice girl (hard one to find, that) I knew in my senior year of high school: "Kat with a K" Kathleen Volk. Except with black hair. She sits with a bunch of manly men in muscle shirts; me, myself, and I couldn't be more contrary to this. I look at the Sonic building. There are two doors where the waitresses roll out with the food and go back in again. In between the swings of one of these doors something, or rather, someone, catches my eye. I can only hope she takes a trip to a parked car before I go. My wish is answered and on her skates she glides to wherever. It doesn't matter where she goes, really, as long as I get my one look. And I do. Maybe a few more?

This raven-haired beauty is something I've not seen before. Splendid. Had I not gone on this trip I would not have seen her in this lifetime. Perhaps any lifetime. The view is mighty fine but is interrupted with the inevitable. I would like to avoid it but with this crude mug of mine it can't be prevented and I don't have a mask at hand. Eye-contact. Straight off the bat she is disinterested and why wouldn't she be? (I'll spare you the self-deprecation for now. You all know the routine.) It doesn't keep me from looking, though. She rolls away. I look back across to the girl in pink and her eyes are looking at mine. I hope I'm not scaring her. If she was ugly this would be a different story and my eyes wouldn't have to look her way. But there they are. There she looks. I break away not wanting to play the monster in this horror flick. Somehow, someway, Raven ends up at our table bringing the other half of what we ordered. (A different waitress brought the first.) She stands 2 'o clock from where I sit. Being the complete ponce that I am, I dare not look at her as she towers over my onion rings. This sucks. So does this eraser.

Back to the girl in pink. She now wears sunglasses with a huge white frame. It suits her. I find it funny that the sun is behind her, so why bother? If she wears them maybe she'll be invisible to the frightening man in the fedora. Maybe it would be better if I was blind? That way, the splendor of female beauty wouldn't stun me so and the all the pretty ones could go about their day without a look coming from my way. It works out for everybody, doesn't it? Raven stops by the table again and this time she is to the left of me, just over my shoulder. Onion rings. Two of them left. Yup, Just two o . . . I look up at her. She really does look nice. The moments are few and she rolls away. I am lost in thoughts of things that could have been done, should have been avoided. As we get ready to leave Sonic, I take one last look at her. The expression is something I won't soon forget. Slight anger. Totally annoyed. "Way to to go, Casanova." I shouldn't have looked at her at all.

The sun is going down as we make our way back to San Jose. The feast of burgers, fries, onion rings, shakes and a sundae play enjoyable in our bellies. Back in San Jose we make one last stop. We go to the hills overlooking the valley and see the city drawn in streetlights. The sky, once blue, now a canvas of oranges and grapes. Debra, Marcus, and Tedd share stories on nights previous about the trees behind us.

"Someone was screaming." Debra says.

"The trees were screaming? Creepy." I reply.

I make sure to stay away from what haunts this area. Steady, tall, but grim, these trees look very much the part. I look back at the city and am embraced by the perceived serenity. It looks calm down there. But people are angry. People are wasting. People are watching sitcoms. If someone must be so far away to escape what they know all too well, this must by why people are content with what they've got. They just can't/don't step outside to see that it can be better. The city sleeps without care. But the people want more.

It's very important to live, isn't it? No, I don't mean the day-to-day grind of work, pay rent, be stable. Life. Enjoy it. Step outside of the box once in a while and see a view you've never seen before. You'll be amazed. Places will be scary and jokes might go gay, but at least you'll see it for what it is. A dog will make a formal introduction. The pancakes will be fantastic. And you'll see someone that'll astound you. It might not necessarily be the pretty girl, either. It just might end up being be your own self. This day has been planned for weeks and I did not know what would happen. There sure are a lot of things outside my window. I think it went well.

Strangers On A Pier

Yesterday, via AOL Instant Messenger, a cousin of mine by the name of Debra suggested I post my blogs up on Blogger (a.k.a. blogspot) for monetary reasons. She had mentioned Blogger before (no pesos were involved at the time) and my reply in the e-mail was the following:

"I appreciate the compliment regarding (to what I assume are) my most recent blog entries. As for the prospect of blogspot, what is that exactly? What I write is mostly written as a throwaway and as such, MySpace does suffice. If anything, it exists to fill up the void on the upper right section of my MySpace page. Hah. =P

But blogspot, huh? Perhaps."

That's how it is, really. The reply was to a comment Debra made about the MySpace blogging community being inactive and Blogger being the better venue. Her exact words?

"secure it in blogspot, myspace is dead"

Reading that line, I laugh now as I laughed then. "MySpace is dead." Bang! That's just too direct to not be funny.

This second time around Debra mentions Blogger and now an income of cents is a possibility. I had doubts about the penny signs and immediately told her about having to be a premium member pulling in tons of traffic to benefit financially. The premium membership was not an issue but she did confirm the traffic fulfillment. Enter predicament.

There is no [insert expletive] way what I write could pull in enough traffic for the pocket change to start rolling in.

"The rush hour is in another part of the city, peasant, and you are far, far from it!" says Billy Blogger, the Blogging Bishop of Blogtopia.

And where am I? At the park, by the lake, feeding popcorn to the ducks writing massive amounts of near-interest and humour that only I find funny. Mind you, I do check the number of views that this little sucker gets and I am appreciative for the few apparent but I figure every single one is a family relation. I'm not sure if that counts. Even then, at this point in time the numbers are hardly enough to give me my 3 cents a day.

But beyond the field and over the hill . . .

the words come back to me . . .

hush and pervasive . . .

"MySpace is dead."

So where do we go from here?



[cue creepy music]

"You unlock this door with the key of imagination. Beyond it is another dimension. A dimension of sound... a dimension of sight... a dimension of mind. You are moving into a land of both shadow and substance, of things and ideas. You've just crossed over into... The Twilight Zone."

Of blogging!

The words you've read, are reading, and will read now reside on two different planes of existence. At one end sits MySpace. At the other, Blogger. Don't worry, there isn't a black hole to suck you into the other side (although that would be tremendously awesome). As a blog, being at two places at once must be tiring. Luckily enough I've got a twin and we can easily pull a Borden on our online audience.

Yes, I have gone the route of Blogger but fear not, for I am not abandoning my online home, MySpace. I figure I'll post on MySpace and "copy & paste" everything onto Blogger. It can't hurt. The wave of coins won't roll in but that doesn't matter; Blogger is just another place to be. If by (natural disaster e.g., earthquake) should I be lucky enough to gain some sort of "fan base" (that isn't family, cheater) then splendid! If not, then at least leonardlacking.blogspot.com is now taken and it's mine!

[in booming godlike voice]

"ALL MINE!! MUAHAHAHAHA!"

[cough cough]

But I digress . . .

thanks goes to Debra for this blog's existence on Blogger. Whatever may come of it, you can blame her. If she's lucky, the humble words I write might catch on and I'll have to throw a few dimes down her way. We can then toss them, one by one, into a nice fountain somewhere downtown and wish for giant Vegas jackpots.



[Location: a Monterey pier]

A man with a fedora sees a friend.

"Hello MySpace. It's nice to see you again."

Across from him stands a new face. Hesitantly, he approaches the stranger.

"Hello Blogger. I'm Leonard Lacking."