robert

bobert @ 2005-04-06T22:17:00

2005-04-07T05:18:14Z

It seems that Britney Spears wants to set the record straight by starring in her own reality show on UPN with her latest husband. While it’s not rare for us to witness such irrelevant crap in the news, some things are so incredible that I’ve got to let reason have its moment. And, well, I must admit it’s a little fun too. The only problem I’m having (in addition to all of the painkillers and feeling as if I were rapped in the mouth with a baseball bat - but that‘s for later) is that I just don’t know where to begin. I think the fact that she’s going to be on the UPN is just…magnificent in it’s hilarity - you know, this is the least watched station in the history of the world, while at the same time, is reputed with the worst programming of all time. Set it straight Britney, you just set it straight. Oh - but maybe she’s smart. Maybe she knows that she’ll be just the smash hit that the UPN needs to bring it back up to the days of Moesha - everyone liked Moesha. That was just good stuff.
But, to be serious, celebrities like George Clooney and Britney Spears never cease to blame the tabloids and the media for each and every negative attribute that comes to the public’s attention; and then they get FED UP! Now, it’s Britney’s turn to set the record straight. Everyone one of these morons ought to be thanking the tabloids for every dollar they own. Honestly, what else would have brought her to fame if it weren’t for media obsession? Her angelic singing voice? Her artistic versatility? Her clever business sense? Could it be that her songs speak to the heart of the modern age, and guides it down the road of social justice? Well, the definition of artist is one that creates something unique, using nothing but their own artistic method as the source and vessel of their unique design. She doesn’t write her own songs, and even she did they’re as hollow as her own skull. She’s clearly not smart, clever, and perhaps not even educated - an analysis I made after hearing her speak for four or five seconds 6 years ago. And as far as her voice goes, if angels sing like that, I don’t even want to go to heaven. No, she became famous because the media became obsessed with a pre-legal vixen who, to her credit, did a good strip tease. And 6 or 7 years later, she’s still here…getting her own reality show on the UPN. Do we even wonder why God has forsaken us.
But getting back to my original point, I was stunned to hear this mentioned in every news piece on every station. Since Saturday, the only major story had been pertaining to the Pope, and yet, in their first attempt at returning to the normal course of news updates, all of the major news outlets were fast to inform of us this watershed event.
Anyway, since I mentioned him, I have to say something about the Pope. All I that I can think of now is how strange it is going to be not having someone like him in the world. A lot of people have been saying a lot of things about him on the news and otherwise, but few of them seemed to have gotten the point of the Pope’s message and mission. In my opinion, he was the last truly good person left on the planet (that we know of). He taught moral living, lived morally, and was fearless; and being the only Pope of my life, shaped me in ways that no other public person ever has, and probably ever will. He stood for all that was good about humanity and against all that was evil. I’m going to miss him.

Well, I guess this would be a good time to explain my earlier comment - painkillers and what not. I had all four of my wisdom teeth extracted on Tuesday (when I started writing this). It actually didn’t hurt too much since they numbed my mouth, but I definitely felt the “pressure” that my dentist warned me of. Since I couldn’t afford to be drugged up, I was awake for the whole thing, and thought at one point that my dentist was going to press his foot against my chest and force my bottom right tooth out. But it wasn’t so bad until later on when I was home and the numbness wore off. Changing the gauze was very painful and swallowing hurt until this morning. But I’m getting used to my liquid diet, saltwater rinsing, and painkiller naps.

I’m speeding this up now because I’m tired. School’s almost done, and in just a few weeks I will be an Associate of the Arts, which means absolutely nothing. I did, however, get into UCI (my third choice) and am awaiting acceptance or rejection from UCSD, UCB, and UCLA. I can’t wait to know where I’m going (even if it does end up being UCI, which is very good school), so that I can start planning out the next couple of years. And I’ll finally be at a real college that can give me degrees that actually matter.

HOME DEPOT: IMPROVING EVERYTHING WE TOUCH

2005-03-19T06:02:30Z

Do you belive in life after Cher? Well, I guess one would have to, though it is a shell of a life. Three Cher songs (NO - I'm not exaggerating, 3, sometimes even 4), along with enough Celine Dion, Britney Spears and N'SUCK to kill horse is liable to send the most mentally stable person into an hysterical fit. And imagine those songs on a dept. store track, being played repetitively for eight consecutive hours. Did I mention the inhumanly horrid dance/pop/electronic/we-dont-know-what-the-fuck-kind-of-music-we're-trying-to-create/techno songs? "And all around the world its lala-lal'ala. And all around the world its lala-lal'ala...." over and over and over again - that's the entire goddamn song!!!! I swear to God, I feel like I'm trapped in a gay disco. Let me out! Let me out right now! I can't...I just can't - I can't take it anymore.

Now this is in addition to the job itself, which I've detailed many times. It's just the managers - that's it. I could do everything else, everything else - sucks, but I could do it, it's just a job, it isn't difficult. Stressful - sometimes, difficult - not at all. I have, however, decided that customer training is imperative - if for nothing else, than to promote the sanity of retail workers around the nation. Case in point: EMPLOYEE-ME "Ok, so you're gonna get $(yadayadayada) to your credit card and $(yadayadayada) in store credit" CUSTOMER "Ok...what's that?" Store....credit. Alright, so.....I know that I'm totally off the wall-nuts, mainly by reason of the fact that I daydream of going postal all over Home Depot aaaaa-bout.....20 times an hour. But all things considered - notwithstanding that, prehaps, this person had never stepped into a retail store in her entire one hundred and eighteen year life - I have to admit that a term such as "store credit" sounds pretty damn self explanatory. Wouldn't you say???

But, I'm getting sidetracked. Because then there's Judy. Heeeeeeeeeeeey Judy. Good ol' Judy. Well I've finally decided that I've been red-flagged among Home Depot management. I was about to go on my break, so I began to take off my arpon when I heard the sensormatic alarm go off. Keep in mind that at five separate exits, these alarms generally go off 20-300 times per door, per day. They're almost never caused by theft. Usually, they're sounding because a sensormatic tag (which are found on various types of Home Depot products: faucets, power tools, paint brushes, etc.) wasn't deactivated (which cashier are supposed to do as the items are being rung). Often, the doors just go off because, like every other piece of equipment we cashiers use, they're simply jacked-up beyond repair. So, I turned around and asked the gentlemen (who was already on his way back to me with his items - like 98% of the people who cause the doors to go off) if I could deactivate his mercahndise. So I did, and the door still went off (like it often does). So I told him to go ahead and not to worry about it.

Here was her chance. Judy, bolts over to me as I'm writing the alarm down in the sensormatic log, and the first thing she says is:
"you're not allowed to leave your apron up here on your break, you have to put it in your locker."
(*Politely*) "I know, I'm wanted to write this down first" (This was a technical lie since I always leave my apron at my register like every person in the store - including non-cashiers who stash their aprons on their breaks to avoid walking all of the way to the break room to put it in a locker)
"Ok, but why didn't you turn around right away?"
"What?"
"Why didn't you turn around the first time you heard the alarm go off, I saw you?"
(Keep in mind, we're talking about less than one-minute between the first alarm and her saying this to me)
"I was in the middle of taking my apron off"
(Generally not easy to see through orange fabric as it's being raised past one's eyes and over one's head)
"Ok, well you need to turn around as soon as you hear these alarms, and you're not supposed to be taking your apron off at the front end anyway"
(Another point that requires further explaining - HD policy is so absurdly complex in it's doublethink that one is supposed to, not only, place his or her apron in his or her locker on breaks, lunches, and, essentially anytime one is not working; but, we also aren't allowed to take our aprons off before reaching the lockers, that are behind the break room. The problem is that you'll get stopped 2 or 3 before you reach the lockers by people asking questions - which often lead to further work.)

So, considering that she had no solid reason for bolting across the store to scold me (What exactly was it - leaving my apron at my register? Not immediately observing the alarm - that goes off constantly, all day long? Or was it, taking my apron off at the front end?) I have to assume that she is in Judy-mode: She must find a flaw. Anytime I need one of these idiots, anytime I have to call one of them to my register for an approval, or a complaining customer, or anything - "Nope. No. I'm in an important meeting. No, they'll just have to wait. I can't come right now. Call this is other manager - surely their head has been placed squarely up their own ass, as has my own, in order to achieve maximum managerial efficiency - but I just can't make it myself." And she had enough precious moments to spare, in order to scold me for something totally unimportant - well, 3 totally unimportant things, though it took her a minute or so to come up with those last 2.

bobert @ 2005-03-05T16:43:00

2005-03-06T02:11:08Z

"Robert, why don't you go ahead and clock out and we'll talk tomorrow morning in my office..."

I'm beginning to hate all variations of the color orange.

To begin with, I live here in Orange County. All positive things considered, I love this place. California weather, beaches and warmth. The big sky of the dreamy-West coast, and milky clouds like today's that remind us that even the wild rains of El Nino won't bring us down (I love the rain too by the way, possibly since I don't live in the hills and get to laugh when mudslides take down the million-dollar homes of morons who decided "I must live at the edge of a foothill with a marshmellow-like foundation"). Ahh but California, it doesn't get much better. No, actually, it could get a lot better. First, we eliminate all those among us who identify with Fox's "the O.C.," make it illegal to be a dipshit, and systematically burn all unfavorable celebrities. That probably won't do for Michael Jackson though. Since he's not carbon-based. For him - it, I should say, we'll have to strap it to a rocket and send it hurling into the sun. That way, when it (the sun) explodes in 5 billion years, it's (M.J.) sure to blow up with it (the sun). Maybe. Alright, this is a tangent already anyway, so I may as well finish it. What the hell was that whole jury selection crap about? Are there actually people out there who think they can racialize the Michael Jackson case? Unless these jurors have some kind of prejudice against martians who dress like Hillary Clinton, I don't think discrimination is going to be an issue. Though there is the possibility that they don't like child molestors too much. If that's the case, M.J.'s fucked.

Orange. The color of my apron. The color of Homer D. Poe and his minions of the night.
The date is March the fifth. Since mid-January I've been to two meetings, called in sick to one, and am currently approaching another, set to commence this week. That's four Home Depot meetings in under two months. At the last one, just as we were being instructed to gather together for this pep-ralley-esque ceremony of company spirit and blaah blaah blaah-I-want-to-go-home-bullshit, our human resource manager buisily told me to go ahead and find a seat. Since he was also talking to one of the managers and not paying much more attention (I won't use their names, but I call her midget-dike-bitch) I simply moved a little closer, still standing at the back, but much closer than I normally do. I could see just find, hear just as well as anywhere else - none of which mattered since I wasn't fixing to pay much attention. Then, the HR (let's call him fat-bastard) says "Robert, why don't you go ahead and clock out and we'll talk tomorrow morning in my office..."
Apparently it was hurting his pride to find that his order ment very little to me - very little considering that it had absolutely no bearing on anything. SO THE FUCK WHAT YOU FAT SON OF A BITCH! (sorry, I should be clear that I'm substituting bastard with son of a bitch here - both of which pretty well sum up Home Depot management). Now, this put me at a total loss. I said "This is fucking ridiculous" and started to walk away. Then he decided to flex his managerial muscle further (not that he has actual muscle. No, that's all covered by unadulterated fat) and said "I told you to sit down" Rather than try to explain the obvious reason I didn't sit down which is that I'm an adult and if I choose not to squeeze one ass cheek onto a wooden plank I do still have that right. So I made the other obvious point: "There's no where to sit!" Which there wasn't, of course, I underestimated my old friend fatty who asked someone to move over so that I could sit down. "There you go Robert" "Thanks asshole." Why fight it? I need my money more than my pride anyway. I'll sit down and pay absolutely no attention. I can do that. But don't stick out your fat sweaty paw to shake my hand when I go up to recieve my merit badge saying "I'm glad you decided to join us tonight Robert" "Suck me off you dumb-fuck! - I hate you and your fat ass. Yes, AND your fat ass, which among having its own time zone probably has a separate brain, heart and liver as well. You fat bitch!"
And ever since, he's probably had more to say to me than he has in the last year that I've worked there. When I went to turn in my merit badges (which we get $100 for once we've collected 5 - which reminds me of another contention I have with this place: 5 merit badges, 1 cashier of the month, always do what I'm asked - thats work related - great attitude about work, great customer service, and my own private place at the top of every cashier performance report that I'm on; and the most he has to say to me is "Ill talk to you in my office tomorrow" - for not sitting down?!?!?!) "Are you having a better week Robert?" "Better than which week B___?" "Better than last week" "No, I'm always having a pretty good week (you asshole)"
He says hi and bye to me everytime I see him - which he never did before. He asked where the mail box was. Now, I must admit that he is a lazy bastard who does little more than play with himself in his office all day - but I found it difficult to believe that the human resource manager didn't know where the mail box was; thus, having to ask me.
Fuck you, and don't talk to me. Belittling me infront several employees, and talking down to me because I didn't feel like sitting down, pretty much kills your chances of ever being viewed with respect by me.

I shouldn't blame orange though. The color of sunshine and orange julians. Oranges and pumpkins. Screw drivers and some kinds of good herb. A clock work orange and knock-knock jokes that begin with "Orange" "Orange who?" "Orange you going to kill your Human Resource Manager?" Well Orange, I think I will.

bobert @ 2005-02-20T21:53:00

2005-02-21T07:06:33Z

I need more time. I'm thinking about those thirty-or-so hours I spend at work each week, and I've decided: I want them back. They're mine dammit, give them to me! No no, the money too.
Wouldn't that be great though - thirty extra hours to pretend that I'm going to study (of course I would instead be doing fantastically exciting Coffee Bean related activities). I really need to get out of here. I swear to Christ, when the highlight of one's day turns out to be free day-old scones and tea lattes after an hour game of chess, something needs to change. And they weren't even good scones - allbeit, that was a damn nice tea latte.
So what'd I do this week?
I dropped my geography class. It turned out that I still needed one unit of PE to graduate in May, and my Geography class was superfluous. So I dropped it and added a condensed, two-weekend first aid class (pe 235) which I'll have at the end of next month. By then, my Psychology class will be done, and my intro to research will have started. I hate that I had to drop a class since I'll have a "W" on my transcript, but, this way I get the easy last semester that I deserve. And, I'm finally starting to enjoy my History class.
Yes - there's the topic I was looking for: my history class.
So there's this dipshit that sits behind me (It's important to stress this introductory sentence. While I am jumping ahead by mentioning him, I'd like this overarching issue to sink in as you read what follows: unadulterated dipshittedness) At the end of each class we take a 10-point quiz. It's really more of an essay than a quiz (infact, it is an essay, rather than a quiz). In any case, our professor hands them back at the beginning of each class. Only one person had the audacity to make a public comment about his grade. Now my first point of argument is this: no matter what the grade, the contention, the unfairness, the whatever one has, you don't make it everyone else's buisness; because, by doing so, one can only expect so many results: 1) the entire class agrees. Thus, one's complaints give way to revolt, and an immediate overthrow of the tyraneous instructor. "How dare she use her red pen!" 2) Such complaints make the teacher look foolish, incompetent or not in control of her class, or 3) (which usually comes right after #2) The instructor regroups and publicly examines the stupidity of her pupil.
So, then, what was his complaint you ask? I quote: "Is this a writing class or a history class."...............wait, let me find my brain. It sort of slid out of my ear just recalling the occasion. Ok, what do we have here? Let me say first that the two most reiterated statements among whinny-students of all ages for as long as I've been in school has been either "what do I need to learn advanced math for? I have a calculator." Or, some variation on this complaint about the cross between English and other academic disciplines. "Silley rabit, righting iz 4 inglesh klas." Honestly there must be some kind of pre-requisite for college - all those categorized as dipshits must fulfill 2 months of dipshit training, and are required to read How to Combat Learning: The Case for Dipshittedness.
Why do we learn advanced math that we'll never use outside of math class? Critical thinking skills. Why do we need to know how to write and use proper English outside of English class? Because we speak English. Dipshit!
So lets consider this: In every class we are expected to speak in English, write in Enlgish, ask questions in English, take notes in Enlgish, take intructions in Enlgish, read in English, think in English (some of us anyway), and do everything short of shit in English. Here stand at least seven reasons why every class is an English class. Furthermore, of all classes to ask such an absurd question: A HISTORY CLASS?!?! Yeah...it'd help to know how to write a thing or two when one regards and analyzes the study of human events.
Now I want to move on to the second moronic statement ("dipshit" has been, thus, exhausted for the duration of this post - but I beleive my point has been sufficed) made by the same person, not 30 min after the prior. As our professor was explaining a pie chart of British-colonial population demographics (approx. - 48% British, 20% African, and the remaining comprised of either indigenous Americans or settlers from other European nations), he had something to the extent of this to say, (and I justly paraphrase) "So I always wondered why didn't they enslave people from all of those other groups." Notwithstanding the fact that the chapter and lecture clearly explained the FORCED migration of slaves from Africa, and the PUSH/PULL factors that brought Europeans to the colonies FREELY or INDENTURED (but mostly free, or indentured for 7 years), or the fact that Europeans shared similar heritage and had collectively justified enslaving non-Chritians for hundreds of years, or the fact that the entire triangle-trade system was based on taking slaves from Africa and delivering them to the Americas, or the fact that Britain may not have wanted to go around enslaving other Europeans within their colonies considering the Spaniards to their south and west, French to their north and, oh yeah, those equally dominant imperial empires (Germany, France, Spain, Portugal, Netherlands etc.) that probably would have raised hell on England for enslaving their people. I mean, just forget about all of that. This kid was born and raised in the U.S., took U.S. history in 8th grade and eleventh grade, has surely heard about slavery 850,000 times in his life and still doesnt understand why British colonists would have enslaved tribal Africans as opposed to their fellow pre-Industrial European neighbors of equivalent technological and military power. HMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM.........this is a noodle scratcher. I may spend all night on this one........

bobert @ 2005-02-10T16:10:00

2005-02-11T00:10:29Z

At first it made me think of an irredeemably terrible John Denver song (ok they're all irredeemably terrible), but I must admit that the sunshine on my shoulders made me happy today. We were up on that hill above the park on Meats that overlooks part of Orange (the city), where you can see to the ocean on days as clear as today was. It was good to finally be out enjoying the daytime, knowing that I had nothing to do for the rest of the day (except for the meeting that I called in sick to). I only worked until 2pm - that was nice (getting off at two, that is; and not to be mistaken for work itself.) Ahh, and the lady with her 15 plants, who wanted them delivered, and yadayadayada I stop listening because I don't care and clearly don't speak to aything regarding plants and/or their deliveries or planting procedures - no ma'am I'm just a cashier, are you all set to check out now? aren't ya ma'a? arn'cha? I know you are...I know you are. a- goochie-goochie-goo...you're'dumb as a box'a hair...a-gooochie-goochie-goo.............................................
So here's my tangent of the moment: these damn shows about self-absorbed rich people who get every piece of material crap they want, and then complain about it - ie: reality shows about celebrities, and quasi-celebrities. Of course by quasi I mean people who have absolutely no reason to be famous; yet, by some diabolical-Warhol-esque plot, achieve enough success during their 15 minutes of quasi-fame to make them quasi-wealthy. Those celebrities, along with people like the Hilton's - now these dipshits comprise a whole new genotype of the quasi-celebrity: two girls who became famous by doing literally nothing - no 80's sitcom, no Del Computer commercials, no marrying billionaires on the brink of death - they're just famous: plain and simple. Ask no one why, they will not have an answer.
Anyway, so you've got these tv shows - 30-60 minutes of Jessica Simpson and Nick something from 98 Degrees (quasi celebrities - "why quasi?" you might ask. Well, can you name any BIG hits by Jessica Simpson? or 98 Degrees, for that matter? I didn't think so), two people who have done an excellent job of extending their 15 minutes into the length of a tv show; and whose shared IQ approximates my shoe size. This show is about.......nope. nothing. It's about nothing - and not in the way that Seinfeld was about nothing, this show really has no reason to be on television, let alone music television. This is music television, right? Where one would expect to hear music, along with visuals to accompany this music. You know, music. The stuff, with the sounds and happiness.
So let's take a look at VH1 - oh, ok: A braining-churning show about that girl from the Gogos and one with that dwarf from Austin Powers....ahhhhh. Inspiring. How good it is to have t.v. channels devoted to playing music.
Some of these aren't even about famous people. I saw part of a show about this rich kid planning his quarter-million dollar birthday party - all the while bitching to his idiot father about the details of it (he just had to have it on a tennis court). This was also on mtv. Where they play music, that is, at least in theory.
Granted, most programs on television are a waste of time; but I don't mind wasting the time if it's on something entertaining. Apparently, a large group is entertained by programming about spoiled rich people. To this group: my deepest sympathy - and all the best luck for their confused minds. As for the stars of these shows, I can't say that a sadder group of people comes to mind: capitalizing on their very unimportance. Now, laughing out of self-deprication is one thing; but celebrity boxing is quite another. Understand that these people are accepting work and attention out of sheer pitty, and at best to be made the ass of has-been (or never-been) jokes.
Anyhow, I'll close with a question - one asked by the oracle of idiocy herself, Jessica Simpson: "how did they make wine in Jesus-days?" We may never know....

ps- Incase anyone's wondering why I have so much to say about shows that I clearly don't watch regulalry - I've come to realize that it is, now, very likely that when I turn on the tv I will see one of these shows on at least 3 channels simultaneously. For Christs' sake, I just saw a commercial for the Ashley Simpson Show - appearing right after the show with Jessica Simpson. So if you've been waiting for mtv to come up with another way to not play music (allbeit - they only play crap even when they do play videos) then here ya'go: the Ashley Simpson Show. She had less quasi-fame than her sister. Jesus. Why did she even attempt a career in music? She should've just gone to the producers at mtv and said "I'm fun to look at, and possess the talent of stool - can I have my own show?" In fact, I think I'm gonna try it.

bobert @ 2005-02-01T13:58:00

2005-02-01T22:10:55Z

"Welly-welly-well........"

To be dicked around by the big orange box,
pontificating its corporate talks.
Where assimilation is your key to success,
and unquestioning thought, one's only test.
But again, again, to kill a day.
Cause of death: the Home Depot Way.

-1/30/05, standing at the Self Check Out podium, wanting to destroy every customer and all that they stood for.

An added note:
I wasn't planning on leaving a long post, but I've got to add this. When an automated voice tells you "please place item in the bagging area" or "remove this item before continuing" what would you do? Now that's a rhetorical question, but let's consider our options: pick up item (after response 1) and look at it? pick it up and put it back down a few times? Add more weight to the scale? Stare blankly for a few seconds before make indeterminable hand gestures to the cahier (apparently indicating "this thing! I don't know!!")? Or, maybe, one should push down on the scale with their hands, in order to trick it ("I'll show this damn machine!") Should you remove all of your items as you're ringing them up, despite the voice telling you to place your items in the bagging area? Should you let little Susie Q or little Mickey the monster jump up and down on the scale, or sit on it? Perhaps they can even sit on the floor in the middle of the space where people usually exit with shopping carts?

Well if you answered yes to any or all of these questions, you would be a Home Depot shopper.

bobert @ 2005-01-29T16:31:00

2005-01-30T00:42:54Z

Perhaps I let it get the best of me sometimes. I would seem that if I really didn't care I wouldn't spend so much time talking about it, and pondering it. But I hate my job, nay, I hate my managers - for, you see, my job really isn't that bad. The pay could be better, though I'm not complaining (considering some of my alternarives); and the work itself is mildly strenuous (perhaps moderately stressful - but that really depends on the time of day and, well, retail stores - you know.). But these fucking managers. And this socialized-Home Depot family/way of life midset is pure bullshit. I mean, seriously, I've got a family, I'm not working there to make friends or become popular (which is another tangent I'll have to come back to: this place is like a goddamn middle school), and I sure hell don't need this team-player-reinforcement-new-aged-voodoo-jive that calls for, oh yes, a Home Depot cheer: "give me an H" - "H!," and so it goes.
Speaking of which, I'd better go to work now. I'll finish this thought later....that is if I have any thoughts left after tonight. Who knows, it may be my night for the labotomy.
(I apologize for any spelling mistakes, the English is slowly but surely coming back.)

bobert @ 2005-01-27T11:07:00

2005-01-27T19:42:55Z

El fin, yo complete mi primera clase de espanol. Ahora, yo comprendo un poco del lengua, pero pensar en espanol, por me, es muy dificil. Mientras escribo, estoy leyendo un diccionario de espanol. En todo caso,

I finished my Spanish I class at Golden West yesterday. It was a four-week intersession, but it really wasn't as much as I thought it would be. It's a huge relief though, now that I've started up Spring session at Fullerton - my last semester, oh yes it is. I'm down to 14 units now: Spanish 102 (5), Geography 100 (3), History 170 (3), and Psychology 139 (3). Now, I'm absolutely certain that hearing (or reading - no importa la palabra que) me blather on (blather blather) about my school schedule is tediously boring, but since it's my livejournal, and since it hasn't been active in last 4 months, I'm just going to blather on aimlessly about whichever subject I choose. Shit, I can barely even write in English anymore. I've been sitting here typing and have actually stopped myself to contemplate the correct spelling of words like, "relief" and "contemplate," and to be honest I'm still not sure if they were spelled right here - and yes I almost just spelled "right" w-r-i-t-e. So on that note I'm just going to stop here, and perhaps try again later once I've gathered my brain...I know it's around here somewhere.

bobert @ 2004-09-03T20:54:00

2004-09-04T03:54:42Z

Fools, all fools…..I got off work around 245 yesterday afternoon, and was looking forward to spending some time with Brandon, who had come into town for a few days. These lingering weeks of the season seem to be the hottest, as always, and the sharp blaze of the sun was kind of soothing. Barbara and Brandon, cry-babies that they are wouldn’t sit atop the hill by Anaheim Hills’ Estates, so I compromised and we wandered to the outback of the estates to find some shade for a late afternoon smoke.
Well, I couldn’t miss the last night of the convention that I’ve been watching all week, so after our smoke I went home for a few hours. Since there was nothing to do, which didn’t surprised me all, going home was probably a good idea, at least until the evening.
At 830 I met Brandon, Barbara, Brent, Kristin, Matan and Sherrey at Brent and Kristin’s house. After a brief run Brent and I made to pick up the herb, we were back to split it all up and drive, yes, back to Anaheim Hills Estates.
We took two cars: Brent, Barbara and Matan in Kristin’s car, and Sherrey and Brandon in mine. It’s been a while since the three of us were together in one place to hang out in this way: Sherrey and Brandon and I, that is. Our lives are in varied places now; though, they’re the same crack-head and jew of old: Brandon with his dipshitness, and Sherrey with her timely remarks of Brandon’s dipshitness.
So, we started out on a 10 o’clock rendezvous, the seven of us, walking into the open-pitch of brush and trees. From the beginning of the trail, Brent, Sherrey and I had a lot to say about philosophy, and philosophical theorists. Soon enough, and well after the first, second, third, fourth, fifth, and sixth bowls, which was right around where I lost count, Brent and I were on a philosophical roll. But let me say, the setting, notwithstanding the cold, was perfect. Matan and Kristin had a guitar and bongo drums, and at one point Sherrey, Brandon and Barbara walked away, leaving just the four of us to play and philosophize under the trees, below the night, and at the beginning of a path, leading far into the mystery of the undeveloped land.
When the time came to leave, it was unclear where we were going - then again - not a whole lot was clear at this point anyhow. Somewhere in the convolution of our situation, while driving behind Kristin, I knocked over a trash can, following her in a U-turn.…….that was great.
After a stop at 7-11, Barbara, Brent, Kristin and I were the last standing veterans of the night. Of course - stoned as Rastas, we were - we smoked another bowl.
It was the bowl of strength - could we, or couldn’t we? Yes, we did. Now, I can’t remember the last time I hallucinated from gonja, though I can’t say I remember ever hallucinating on it; but last night, I saw two roosters, one rhino, and a gorilla in a head-dress, not to mention God knows what else, all in one distant bush, while sitting in the front seat of Kristin’s car - ask her if you don‘t believe me, that was one crazy-ass bush.
Finally, I drove home. Sleep is now all I remember hence forth.

bobert @ 2004-08-18T17:40:00

2004-08-19T00:41:31Z

Deep sleep: the beginning of every good day off. Monday started off calm and relaxed, enough. I slept off the night before, restfully read and spent the day in peace. I like to give myself enough time to regain whatever sense of reason and wit I loose from these nights that I lie awake until three, stoned and contemplative. Only, to do the same thing all over again.
The daylight had cast down in a declining angle, and had prepared the sun for an evident setting. But the streets saw puddles of warm light, as the pavement scorched my feet with that light’s mellow radiance. August afternoons are characteristically blasting of heat; but after a lifetime, one starts to associate that heat with so many late summer memories. August: the most bittersweet month of the year.
As I walked to Brent’s car, I had a mind to just stay home while he, Barbara, and Kristin did whatever they would. How could I say ’no’, as Kristin popped out with her face of beaming excitement, over what, I’m never sure; though, more importantly, doesn’t matter anyway since she’s always ready for a good time - and what can be bad about that? I heard the key phrases, markedly Kristin’s call to drunkeness, and I naturally said, “this is good drinkin‘ time….”; the best, I should have said: a blazing August sun, set to fall before our drunken eyes - what time could prove better?
After Circle K, we drove to Anaheim Hills estates and walked off the road, into the nature of the undeveloped hills. I love that word: undeveloped, that’s how the whole place ought to be - or at least most of it. I’m so tired of looking around and seeing nothing but homes and cars and shopping centers and strip malls. Granted, they develop it cleanly and nicely in Anaheim Hills, but its ridiculous, nonetheless. Why do we need all of this crap?
Anyway, we walked to a high point, where we could watch the sunset and the stare down at the Hills. There’s no freer a feeling, I think, then being able to stand witness to everything around you, in every direction, without being blocked or hindered by something manmade. Not that we weren’t, since we were looking down at homes and the reservoir, but, still, we were high enough that we could look behind to view the blank and rolling hills of brush and bush. At another direction we could stare across to the beginning of Orange Hills, and through a narrow opening, at the smallest glimpse of the city of Orange. Nearest were the high-pried homes of Serrano, surrounding the reservoir, and green patches of parks of suburban spaces. One could say that we were at the edge of civilization, and though I’m not sure how far that openness stretches behind Anaheim Hills estates, it’s far enough to get lost in nature - something everyone needs to do.
By that time it was a hazy sun, and the weather had cooled to comfort as we drank and talked at the crest of the isolated hills, waiting for the sunset. We watched it dissolve into a swirling stream of purple-pink, held up by splashes of orange and fading blue. It was an August sunset to remember, and, best of all, we weren’t too drunk to forget to watch it.
That’s more than I can say about myself by the time we got to the bowling alley. I don’t know why I thought pool might actually be possible, and so I put $5 in on it and played against Brent. I should have resumed holding myself up with the pool stick, rather than actually engaging. I do know how to play pool, I’m not great, but I have the knowledge of the game and, at least, minimal skill, notwithstanding drunk eyes - no, these beg to challenge my pool playing abilities. I got one ball in, two or three if we can count all of the ones that I just pushed into the pockets.
After work on Tuesday I had planned on going to see Rilo Kiley at Amoeba on Sunset. Karen had told me about the free show, and, although, I’d never heard the band, the price was right. Barbara and Brent and I drove in my car through the world’s most God-awful freeways at the height of the afternoon commute.
Well, I’ll get right to the show. There must have been a thousand people, or more, standing in Amoeba. The best part was probably looking at all of the people attending. Everyone looked a little different, but kind-of the same too. You could say EMO was the feel of the evening (fucking emo), but there were a lot of interesting looking people too. There was an older black man with dark hair and white mustache; and he was dressed like he just stepped off the soul train in 1974. He was my hero of the night. There were understated girls who looked like they had a lot to say, and overstated ones who probably had a lot of nothing to say. It had to be the first time in quite a while that my hair length was near the median of the male consensus.
Ok, so then there was the show. They were pretty good - though I admitted even then that unusual factors were present to sway my opinion. For one thing, we were a little stoned and I was sipping vodka through the whole show - I was beyond reason, or even driving capacity, but I’ll admit I was somewhat more susceptible to enjoyment. Then there’s the obvious fact that live music generally adds more to one’s mood than music coming from the radio. It’s a different way to experience music, as you can stand and watch the creation of it unravel. You just never know what’s going to happen next.
So, they played about 5 songs and I enjoyed 2, specifically, but have already forgotten what they sounded like. They played well, especially the lead guitar, who seemed as if it would excite him to play anywhere to any amount of people - those are always the best kind of performers.
Afterward we went to Tommy’s (apparently it‘s one of those LA hamburger places with age and cult appeal), and ate the heart attack surprise, I mean chili burgers. I’m not sure what I meant by surprise - after all, if the heart attack is the surprise, it couldn’t be very surprising considering that the phrase heart attack is right there in the title, thereby eliminating that element of surprise.
Today has been yet another day off - and I’ve been fortunate to have so much free time this week just before school comes back. I think I’ll read Dharma Bums before it starts back - I finished Orthodoxy, and started on the Prince, by Machiavelli, but it’s just not that interesting so far. Oh well. Hopefully tonight is entertaining, that’s all I really want when I go out every night, a little entertainment, even if it’s only mild and gets me nowhere in the end - I’m just tired of going places for the sake of figuring out what we’re going to do next; and then getting there, only to ask the inevitable, and rhetorical question, “soooooo - what are we gonna do?”

bobert @ 2004-08-15T19:36:00

2004-08-16T02:51:37Z

So when last I wrote my computer had yet to abandon me on its own will. Sadly, my computer died, and has been reborn. Needless to say, perhaps, I have lost all of my music, pictures, and a few things I’ve written. Well, fortunately, losing the songs wasn’t the worst part, since I’ve never gotten too much into music downloading; and keep most of my music on cd. Then, there were the pictures, of course, a majority of which I actually have in photograph-form. The things I wrote on the other hand were not totally replaceable. I was happy to find that most has been saved prior to the incident on floppy-discs and on paper - but a few pieces are long gone. Oh well. Enough on the subject, the end result: my computer is back to life and moving as fast as it did in youth. I had forgotten what it felt like - honestly, it seemed normal to get up and use the restroom, watch tv, read a book, get a glass of water, or count the speckles of cottage-cheese on the ceiling, during the time it took for my computer to travel between websites. Once again, the world wide web, and all of its wonder is at my finger tips, with just a mouse click away - 1995, here I come.
The week, thereafter, has proved rather mad. When I say ‘mad‘, I mean inasmuch as a hatter, and when I say ‘mad as a hatter‘, it is because a hatter must measure the human head. No, that has no relevance to the succeeding; but chew on it tentatively….I need a glass of water……………………………….................... After work on Monday I stopped by Erin’s house to pick up something that I’d left the night before. When I left, she and Scott joined me on my way to the beach.
It was probably my last bonfire of bonfire season (late Spring-Summer), although I only enjoyed it for half and hour or so. By the time I’d gotten a small bottle of vodka, which I, along with Evan and Erin, finished, we only had so much time until 10pm, when the beach was closes. So I didn’t have time to drink my corona, but it was just as well since I had to drive and didn’t want to press my luck with the liquor. I had a carefree, and almost nostalgic buzz about me from the few shots of vodka, as Erin, Scott and Evan sat by, drunk in their own rights, for the most part. Nirvana and Pink Floyd were the choices we exhausted on the ride home, though, in a good away. Our pre-midnight mission entailed a trip, first, to Melanie’s house on the way toward Anaheim, and then a stop at Edwards (Cinema - not a person named Edward). We were supposed to pick up some herb from Paul and Kevin - supposed to, requiring that, no - we didn’t, because they weren’t there. Now, for those you who don’t know the area I’m referring to throughout this story, it’s relatively big. From the Hills, to the beach, to Orange, back to the Hills, back to Orange (which is what happened after we didn‘t get herb at Edwards - I‘ll explain soon enough), then, naturally, back to the Hills. Well, I let Erin drive us back to Orange, where we were able to get two-for-$30 from Paul and Rachel. Should I mention that Erin lost the $30 I’d handed her? I guess I will. Luckily Rachel trusted Erin to bring her the money at another time, so we could accomplish our evening’s ambition - just as 1am appeared. Not much comes to mind in the aftermath. Of course we smoked, and Barbara, Kristin and Brent returned from the beach with their own story, switching course just after we left them at the bonfire. They were ticketed on the beach for having alcohol - my alcohol, and I lost my corona as a result. That sucks. I guess their ticket sucks too.
A couple of days later, after I finished work I met Brent, Barbara, Kristin, Matan, Tricia, MK, and Melanie at someone named Nick’s house. Mainly friends of Brent and Kristin compiled the party, but it was amusing, nonetheless, as a few of them succeeded in blasting one another with a be-be gun. Once the momentary joy of that wore off, it was decided to have a blunt at Ed’s house.
At Ed’s we compacted into an outer corner of Ed’s garage. Arms-in-lap and sharing the final breathe of air with my too-close-for-comfort friends, we squeezed about…13 people in on this blunt (save for MK who doesn‘t smoke). My breadth of sanity and wit diminished with arrival of 151 - only a shot, but any amount of burning-death-juice will alter most brains; and, this aside from the blunt, bowls and beer.
On the following day I was able to sleep easily with the thought of work now two full days away. Barbara and I went to some thrift stores so I could get new pants, and then to drop of money to MK. A slow and easy day for the most part until the night peeked in. It was Tricia and MK’s going away party at Melanie’s house, and was a night designed for careless irreverence. Okay, so it was only yesterday; but I’m telling you, this was no 24 hour day. In fact, I think last night must have been a separate date all on its own; or perhaps the 12 & ½ day of August. The second part of it began with Barbara, Melanie, myself and a few drinks. It ended after one or two dozen faces wandered through in unmitigated intoxication. Eight or nine glasses of vodka and cranberry juice, God knows how much smoked on the vaporizer, and 300,000 cigarettes brought me to a point where I actually thought to myself, through some narrow stream of reason and logic grazing my throbbing brain, ’I’m going to forget every moment that is right now, occurring tomorrow; since I already can’t remember a moment ago.’ So went the night, and so intoxicated became the rest of the stoners and drinkers. Not lost was, ironically enough, a night to remember. I wouldn’t have forgotten everything in regards to it being the last night before Tricia and MK left for Arizona (this morning). Some images will run blurry, as points-of-interest grow vague; but I remember the people, and how their energies promoted an aura of drunken-love and incorruptible peace - though that‘s usually just the alcohol talking. I won’t forget Kristin vomiting against Melanie’s side wall, or once-full bottles of Grey Goose and Popov (I don‘t think it was popov though, maybe a lesser brand of vodka - which speaks volumes since popov tastes like clear-potent hell). Tricia and MK’s last nigh here, yeah, I’ll remember.
I went a little book crazy this week and am now overwhelmed by all of these new books to read, just weeks before school begins - when I know I won’t have time for them. I found Orthodoxy, the War of the Worlds, The Complete Science Fiction Treasury of H.G. Wells, The Return of the King, the Two Towers, Tender is the Night, The Dharma Bums, John Adams, Royal Cities of the Old Testament, and the World’s Greatest Speeches. I think I can finish Orthodoxy and Dharma Bums by the time school starts up. I’m looking forward to school. I need something to fill up more of my schedule, so I can quit spending money and drinking too much.
Today, Thursday, wassssss long and blaaaah. I’m tired, I woke up at 1130, took a 3 hour nap, and I’m just tired and lethargic. I can’t grasp a clear enough thought right now because I still so tired and faded. This was a boring entry.
At the risk of making this entry, still, more incoherent and inconsistent, I will add this last update on last night and today (Saturday, and Sunday).
I went to Steve’s house last night with Barbara, Brent and Kristin. It’s been a while since I’d debated with Steve, last. Ahhh, but Steve, though we are often right at the same time, we are occasionally right separately. Which means one of us must be more right (me).
Today. Yeah. Today. Went to bed at 230am, woke up at 630am. Worked from 7 to 2pm, and will be returning to work shortly. If you guessed that this is because I can’t get enough of this place I call work, my second home, you’d have guessed wrong. An employee meeting from 830 to 1030 is the nature - what a prime time for a meeting eh? 830-1030 on a Sunday night - no, not a morning, not a weekday, not midday, not even a goddamn flyer or memo to all employees explaining the talking points of this fabulous meeting; no my friends, those options would have made entirely too much sense. And it’s not like they had to schedule the meeting at such a time to make sure that everyone could attend - I mean, it’s summer so no employee has school. It’s not as if anyone would be needing an exemption from it to work - it is work, we were scheduled. And you’d think if anyone had family obligations that outweighed their attendance at the meeting, then maybe a Sunday evening isn’t the best time to be keeping people from their families. I mean even if it has to be in the evening (after the store is closed), why not a weeknight? Why Sunday night? And why schedule people 7am to 2pm, only to force them back 6 ½ hours later? Why a meeting, anyway? A memo would do the trick, just as well. Huuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuh. Work, I can’t wait. Perhaps I’ll be assimilated into the Home Depot “family” tonight, upon my Home Depot cheer or pepped-up enthusiasm, resultant of getting a double-dose of Home Depot on this day. Oh, but the thrill.

bobert @ 2004-08-04T18:33:00

2004-08-05T01:58:18Z

Deductive reasoning, my friends, what does this valuable skill allow us humans to do?

Deductive reasoning ought to entail, when executed properly, that when you are at the Self Check Out at, say, a Home Depot, one should consider that their merchandise is being placed on a scale; therefore, one should not pick them up and stare at the items blankly - especially, when an alert goes off asking them to place their items in the bagging area.
Deductive reasoning tells us that when one is in, well, let's just say the garden department at Home Depot, one probably need not ask the guy behind the register questions about plants, soil, or anything of the like, as he is probably not a Horticulturalist.
Deductive reasoning lets us know to ask the people who are actually walking around this department these, always, clever and thought-provoking questions.
Deductive reasoning allows us to see that when a person wearing an orange apron has six customers asking him twelve questions, he is probably well past his capacity of work-place stress, and maybe - just maybe, he'd prefer that you direct all questions to somebody else.
Deductive reasoning grants us valuable insight into a world of knowledge - it should bring to mind the fact that a 20-something working at Home Depot probably knows less than jack shit about anything pertaing to home improvement, much less, does he care about our stupid questions (that he likely can't answer anway).
Deductive reasoning springs to mind each time he says "..uhhhh...that way...maybe" - for this should remind us, that he's no Bob Vila (I think that's his name).
Deductive reasoning should beg the question "If I ask this person, who is clearly stuck behind a register, and already busy with a host of other people, to page someone for me; should I a)walk away so that he has no idea where I walked off to -or- b) wait for this person to direct another associate to my needs" Afterall, deductive reasoning says, one can't tell someone who needs help, or what they need help with, if one has no clue as to where the fuck the person is.

So what did we learn today?
Well I'll tell you:
Deductive reasoning, it's a beatiful thing.

bobert @ 2004-08-02T18:53:00

2004-08-03T02:32:14Z

For anyone who felt that my convention analysis was slanted, I want to allow for a final note:

-Objectivity-
Of the major polls covering the Presidential race, namely Gallop, John Kerry fell in all but one (the one showing no change). Gallop puts Bush at 50 and Kerry at 46 - that's minus 1 for Kerry and plus 4 for Bush. That's the fist time since 1972 that a candidate fell in the polls after their respective convention (Senator George McGovern - Nixon vs. McGovern). Not to mention that George Bush rose 4 points without campaigning, in a custom of curtosy for Presidential elections - (no campaigning during an opponents convention).

-Subjectivity-
I am not alone. America was given a picture of amoral rhetoric, politics, and fallacy disguised in the name of unity, progress and goodness. It weilded the vibrant and blissful colors of ignorance
and idiocacy mired in a spectrum of deiceit. America was asked, not for the sake of her well-being; but, instead, expectant of a blind glance hithermost to complacent praise, 'what do you think?' But she looked closely - and she looked with those keen eyes of the wise matron of Western liberty. Pealing and chizzling through the layers of color and distraction she found the stark black of opaque untruth, indifferent grey of mediocrity, and the liberating whiteness of reality. America answered: lies, lies, lies....

On this day, I am proud of my fellow Americans. At least 1 or 2 percent of you.

You Have a Brain America (at least one I hope) - use it

2004-07-30T21:26:02Z

On my third attempt at watching an open mic night this week (and I'll note that that is possibly the first time I've used the correct spelling of 'mic') I finally made it. Overall I'd have to say I was impressed by professionalism of the performers. The singers, especially, in that they were confident of their voices enough to sing with loud clarity, as opposed to hesitant amateurs. For the most part the writing, not only as far as the music was concerned, held a fairly high standard throughout the evening. Erin and Evan performed with equal confidence, coupled with less experience as it was their debut performances. No, I believe I'm too publicly timid to perform; but then again we aren't all meant for the spotlight, and if I am maybe this just isn't the right kind of stage. However for those who make it look easy I should add, "salute, Don Corleone".
A word or two on the Democratic Convention, and broader issue of the Presidential election:
Not one image, one song, one speech, one word, or one iota of planning at the Democratic Convention went without calculation. What did they calculate? Well, what did you want? If you can answer the latter question, rest assure you would have seen at this convention. If you wanted to have Mother tuck you in with a bedtime story and slide her soft hands across your forehead and downward over your, now, closed eyelids, shut away from the long day and hard world - than this was the convention for you.
Now, crazy me, I always had this...uuuuh lets call it notion that a Presidential convention was a time for a party's candidate to present a platform of issues that they will stand for as President, and perhaps even solutions to problems that may or may not be facing the nation at the present time. In addition, these conventions have classically been a way of making a case as to why their candidate stands above the rest; or, in other words, how does their record give them leadership aurthority that one, or the entire country for that matter, wouldn't grant to just any man or woman - What have they done?
Now, keeping this thought lets refer to the short film on John Kerry that was played last night: He was born, he had parents, he went to Yale, he "volunteered" for Vietnam (I'll explain in a moment), he came back, he was a prosecutor, he had children, he got married to Teresa Heinz, and now he's running for President. How nice.
"Oh wait, that's what we forgot... he was in the Senate for 20 years." Not to mention that when they spoke of his children, they forgot about their mother, the wife who wasn't a billionaire. When they talked about Vietnam - when did they do that again? Oh yeah, every 5 minutes throughout the entire damn convention - they forgot to tell us that he spent 1/4 the amount of time there that most other Viet. vets did. He was awarded these medals (the validity of which are in serious question) that they talked a lot about, only they didn't tell us that when he led a march on Washington disposing of these medals and asking other Veterans to join him, he disposed of someone else's medals and said later, when it was found out that they weren't his, that he simply, "left them at home." Fair enough (if you're willing to take that logic), but then, why does he still have them?
Ok, so why didn't he talk about his Senate record? We know that he voted for the $87 billion for Iraq before he voted against it. So maybe he decided to talk about his Senate record, before he decided not to. He has no backbone! Apparently he's against abortion personally, but wouldn't recommend outlawing it. Whether you're for or against it don't you have to ask yourself, "what the Hell kind of statement is that?" 'Well I have these beliefs and principles you see, but I wouldn't be willing to stand up for them, or anything crazy like that.' He's been a legislature for 20 years, you'd think he would have picked a side here or there by now. But I should be fair, he did spend 26 seconds of his 55 minute speech talking about his Senate record. I guess not all was lost.
Another point on Vietnam, since it did consume nine-tenths of the entire show, can we say enough yet? Honestly, how many people do you think have served their country in the past with greater distinction and, honorably, said nothing about it when they got home? At the risk of sounding ironic, what does he want? A medal? 'No shit, do you mean to tell me he went to Vietnam and did what he was supposed to do.' Now I respect people that go to war, because I've never done it and probably never will, and if others hadn't I wouldn't be writing this today; but boasting about it at every oppurtunity, especially when it's not exactly the greatest contribution anyone ever gave to their country (as in Kerry's case) it becomes a little callous, extremely arrogant, and, when you're running for Presient, distracting and deceitful. Why deceitful? Well, aside from the clear and present lies, or, Hell - lets even call them embellishments about his Vietnam service, when you serve 20 years in the Senate and can't talk about your Senate career because you're too busy talking about what happened 35 years ago, I'd say that's a little decieving, and clearly distracting. What is he going to do?!?!?!?!
As for the smoke and mirrors effect of the whole show - and I must call it a show at this point - lets not foget the 12 Vietnam veterans they paraded onto the stage behind John Kerry, and his opening salute accompanied with, "I'm John Kerry, reporting for duty." They made a big deal about this too, and it was a message delivered best by our favorite caesar - I mean President - Bill Clinton who when referring to Kerry's "volunteerism" said "John Kerry said, 'send me'..." Actually, he did what everyone did before the war was heavily protested at home - he had a high number, and knew that he was going to be drafted so he signed up for a safe branch of the military, as opposed to those who were drafted and sent to just any branch (usuallty the army). But Kerry signed up for the Navy to eventually command a swift boat, and Ill give him credit for that - only, he make's it sound like he put himself up to be martryed. No folks, he simply thought ahead.
But back to the smoke and mirrors. I heard someone on the radio say this week that our celebrtities are the closest thing that America has to an aristocracy. It makes perfect sense - quasi-rebellious elitest who think that they know what's best for the common man; and make every effort to stuff their fuzzy and confused ideas down our throats as we frustratingly yell "sing, act, do something - just quit acting like you have a brain!" Most of them anyway. So I want to end this spiel with something for us to think about. I'll steer clear of my own biases, and keeping the objectivity of truth at the forefront. $95,000,000 were spent on this convention. It was organized by the same group that has often organized the Academy Awards. The catch-phrases, mindless and meaninless rhetoric comprised 85% of the speeches (maybe that's a biased, but it's certainly the truth). That video-documentary I spoke of - made by Steven Spielberg, and narrated by Morgan Freeman. Among others, I saw Ben Afleck, Rob Reiner, Leonardo DiCaprio and Michael Moore in the audience (Speilberg too, of course). Can we say "made for tv" ?

btw- $95,000,000? You need a goddamn auditorium and a microphone, and these guys spent $95,000,000. How many people could have eaten, or had a place to sleep for the last week had that money been spent on... what's that called again? A valuable cause.

Think for me people. You can do it too.

All work and no play makes jack a dull boy

2004-07-29T17:55:52Z

You came awake with heavy eyes,
in the quiet of the hour.
How lamented, you, this time of day,
regretfully coming to.

Lying in bed, you couldn't fight,
you didn't have the power.
Outside your mind was fixed on clouds,
scattered was the blue.

Passing headlights of those awake,
they're off before the dawn;
And the fact that five came in AM now,
just never occurred to you.

Now wide awake in a tiresome haze,
frequent are the yawns.
Two hours in to an early day,
and you're still just coming to.

bobert @ 2004-07-24T19:14:00

2004-07-25T03:00:35Z

On Last night:

And as the dusk,
of red and grey,
took us safetly
to the end of day,
we saw an end
to hours passed.
Above glowed the crescent,
where it rose high and fast;
but beneath we sauntered
through a whiskey night,
with finite pleasure,
as the moon fell from sight.

(If this were a conrete poem I think it would be an arm chair)

On work today:

A minute more
or an hour less.
Your feet are sore.
You're complacent to regress.
Apathy rambles,
while time stands still.
So you've put a handle
on seconds left to kill.
You stop watching the clock,
it's easier that way.
At this sight you stop:
it's a beatiful day.
So for your minds repose,
and the air you can't touch;
You say "Fuck you Home Depot...
Fuck you very much."

(This would be a guy with a hat and a protruding chin: the point of his nose is "clock," and the tip of his hat is "regress." I don't know, just chew on that for while)

So this guys comes in today with his 13-14 year old son to buy a gift certificate. Now keeping in mind that these gift cards are printed in English with a Spanish translation below every word. There's something about them, maybe the color motif, that makes it hard, sometimes, for one to notice both languages. I actually thought myself that they were only in Spanish, figuring that we ordered Spanish cards for the considerable number of Spanish speaking people in this area. Well, this guy, buying the card, thought that they were strictly Spanish as well, handed it to me and said "Do you have these in English? This is America, that's wrong." etc. I felt bad for, and was actually impressed by his son who contested him and tried to shut him up. Now I understand wanting English printed on the things you own if you speak English, as I do. I even understand expecting an English standard nationwide, since this is a majoritively English-speaking country. But am I right when I say that this guy was a loud-mouthed jackass? Who cares if it's in Spanish, it's a goddamn gift card! You don't need to read it, it's just plastic money, spend it! Of course this is all aside from the fact that he felt that the presence of a Spanish alternative, in a state that's comprised of mostly Hispanic residents, was somekind of an insult to his American pride. Do you think people that speak Spanish can't be proud to be American? Fucker.
That was about an hour before the screaming brats and the appeasing parents. I know everybody sees this everyday, there being the problem: If I ever threw a fit in any public place from the time I could walk and talk onward, I'd have been slapped or at least told violently to shut my mouth. But no, pick them up and caress their heads as they rant and scream like the monsters you'll allow them to become.
But what I loved was the father who was trying to pay for his merchandise as his two sons were screwing around in the cart - maybe 6 or 7 years old. "C'mon guys," he pleads, "be good." I'm sorry, if you can't just give your kids the look of evil death, which every father should perfect, than you've screwed up somewhere. Do you know that look? The one that you're parents could turn on in an instant, be it from behind a wall or 300 yards away and it would make you stop doing whatever it was you did to deserve the look. I'll stop here.

bobert @ 2004-07-22T15:27:00

2004-07-22T23:24:36Z

So the other day I was watching CNN, out of sheer urge I guess - sometimes I just have to have my fill of yellow journalism and propaganda, inasmuch as why I had to see Farenheit 9/11 - total bullshit. Im so tired of being President Bush's devil's advocate - because I really dont support him, but Im getting really tired of blatant lies.
Do you remember P Diddy? Good ol' P Diddy: proof that a man can have no talent nor merits to rest his fame upon, or even an iota credibility - be that in terms of brains, wisdom, or reputation - and yet he can control unreasonable wealth, power and the minds of millions of young fools who have got to be asking even themselves, "why I am I a P Diddy fan?" I mean, for Christ's sake, he calls himself P Diddy. Enough said.
In any event, I was watching CNN and there appeared our old friend. Apparently he's decided that the hip-hop vote needs to be recognized. Another reason you've got to love this country. The hip-hop vote?!?!?! It doesnt matter who you are or what you do, yet one can turn any of the slightest or most insignificant classifications of themselves into a voting constituency.It must follow the premise that - I listen to hip-hop, therefore, the United States election process and news media should recognize me on those terms pertaining to hip-hop music. - The hip-hop vote?!?!??!?! What the Hell? Thats not a race, an economic class, a sex, a religion, a urban or rural community, or anything of the like - its fucking people, mostly ignorant kids that dont give a damn about the world they live anyway because theyre too damn busy listening to people like P Diddy for all of their world news, that listen to hip-hop. Fuck em. You dont see me bitching and moaning about the classic rock vote.
Anyway, I'll try to stay on track. As I listened to P Diddy talk to the CNN anchor woman, via satellite and fidgeting after every answer since he couldnt have been compfortable commenting on issues and points that he clearer knew nothing about, I had to wonder "Does he even know what he's talking about?"
However, my favorite part came with his parting plug of his "Vote or Die" campaign - brilliant title by the way, which Im sure he spent hours considering - he said, "we're going to make it sexy..." Of course - of course, he had to be refering to the voting process. Sexy. I am so glad we have P Diddy to make voting sexy for us, because as you all know, sexy is the one thing Ive always thought it should be. Sexy. This guys allowed to vote? And people actually....listen, to what he has to say? Alright, that's it - Im moving. I dont know where Im going, but Im there. bye.

bobert @ 2004-07-15T19:41:00

2004-07-16T02:43:47Z

It seems as if Im always looking for my next beginning, or possibly even a transition into the next series of events, however those events may come to pass. So in my somewhat-less chaotic living space, newly cleaned and more conveniently organized, I’ve used this day, Sunday, to rest, think and relive it all. Understanding full and well that my dreaded work week will start up again tomorrow, I can finally lie my latest experiences down in words so that I might refer to my memories and send them fondly into my personal history.
I’m not sure who wrote the song “Summertime,” by Janis Joplin, but I feel that whom ever it was, they must have known, as much as Janis had it in her voice, just what summer in California means.
When I went to pick up Sebastian in Dana Point for Melody’s party on the 2nd, it was one of those days when the sun heats up the pure sky, unflawed by scattered clouds and warm winds. It was one of those days when it seems life ought to stand still, if only for a while.
Seb, who had recently totaled his car, needed a ride to Anaheim Hills, and I gladly volunteered. After a lazy morning I looked forward to a warm breeze circulating in my car on the quiet drive. Once joined by Seb, a consummate madman in his own right, he agreed that drinking at such an early hour of the afternoon was imperative. When we reached Anaheim and picked up Barbara from Brandon’s house, bought beer and went to Erin’s for pre-party drunkenness. Perhaps combining four such drunken people, who I predict that one day will either do great things or go prematurely insane, doesn’t seem like the most rational conclusion to idle boredom; but, then again, which better kinds of people are their to drink with?
After many beers and passing around a bottle of champagne, we came close to following Seb’s idea of selling everything we owned and buying plane tickets to a random destination. Instead we opted for more beer and waited for most of the party to show up at Erin’s. Finally, it was time to move everyone to Melody’s.
For yet another evening we drank, we smoked, we talked and we lived. However, this night was an occasion, and unlike most nights we attracted many and shared the evening. Erin and Paul and I went to Paul’s friend’s house for part of the evening, where I played croquet and drank further still. By the time I returned to Melody’s I found Seb incapacitated and lying on the grass. I found myself not quite as drunk as before, and in, what I call, the drunken dignitary stage: where you’re very drunk, yet very confident that you’re still hours from saying something incoherent or falling on your ass. Rarely are our nights so alive.
The following night I dropped a quarter-eighth of mushrooms and baked mildly with Erin and Melanie. We were joined by an awkward group of people: Paul and his friends, along with Erin’s friends from work. Usually 25 people coming together from 3 or 4 different social groups doesn’t make for the most unified party, and so after smoking with Paul’s friends and Melanie I went home.
The next day was the 4th of July. Work dragged by slowly until I finally got off and met up with Tricia and Matt so that we could go to a party in RDO that Paul had invited us to. It was your average garage party and 4th of July goodtime. There were Drunken kids with fireworks in the streets, and an even more drunken father of the household challenging the youth and marking his territory. After a few hours most of the party moved up the street, though not before a cop had 10 or 12 of us sitting on the curb. Apparently some crazy person was starting fireworks in the street, and on 4th of July no less! But luckily, our men in blue (or black I suppose) came just in time to waive their pricks and make us all feel a lot safer.
All in all, it was a fun night of late drinking and conversation.

After work on Monday Yosemite felt closer than ever. I packed everything and waited until we were ready to leave. Erin and Melanie had the day off and accepted the responsibility of taking care of last minute details. Of course leaving these two in charge of anything, especially tasks that involve time management, was my mistake. But, eventually they got whatever it was together and we were ready to go. Unfortunately we planned our trip for the day before Brandon left for school in Santa Barbara, and so we had only a brief farewell at Melanie’s. Not that Brandon’s important, and so I regress.
We weighed down Erin’s car with the 4 of us, Paul, Erin, Melanie and myself, and 700lbs, or five days worth of clothes food and crap. As close and cramped as our space had become, the ride to Yosemite never disappoints. We packed bowls like clockwork and finished half the beer we brought, with the exception of Erin who was driving. We played music and talked sparingly, but pleasantly. Personally, I focused on the road and everything in the distance. It’s almost hard to classify that mood that happens on a night ride. You can be surrounded by this mysterious blackness with poke-dotted streetlights and headlights throughout the scenery; and as you watch it, it becomes almost natural to dream with open eyes, especially if you haven’t slept.
At around 4am we arrived in Housekeeping camp, which is a campground of living spaces made of three brick walls, a cement floor, a canvas front wall and canvas roof. We knew our site wouldn’t be ready for six or seven hours so we stepped in to nature and found a wooden bridge to observe the river and mountains just an hour before dawn.
After sleeping in the car for a couple of hours we walked around some of the villages and tourists areas. We walked up part of the icy river and explored the mild rapids and rushing water. I’m not sure how many times I’ve been there, but the scenery never fails to impress me. Works of natural art spread 360 degrees there, and anywhere we looked, smelled, or felt we found perfection.
After we made dinner, camping-style on a Coleman stove, Paul and I explored the other side of the river and walked as far the secluded Awahnee hotel. I believe it was the first fox I’d ever seen that passed right by us like a common household dog, panting and trotting freely up the road. Unfortunately we didn’t see any bears or mountain lions, though on the following day, on our hike to Hidden Falls, a sign directed us to “fight-back” if we encountered any mountain lions. Luckily we came equipped with water bottles and tuna fish, should we have needed to fight back.
That hike, however, was certainly a high point of the trip, which is saying a lot since we were high for most of the trip. For miles we hiked forest roads hidden deep in the thick trees. By the time the road disappeared, after a scenic stone bridge, we simply followed the water, which was about 10 feet below us now.
At the bottom of the Hidden Falls we faced the lower bedrock of the Granite Mountains, comprised mainly of large-sloping boulders. Climbing the most difficult of these boulders, which put us on the path to the top of the falls, was, for all of us, the great rock climbing challenge. It was a slick, perhaps, 45-degree slope of relatively smooth granite. Without ropes we scaled it, clinging tightly by wedging our hands into a crevasse that followed along side us. Bear-footed and with our hands covered in dirt, we did what would, under normal circumstances, had been impossible.
At the top of the falls we were the sentinels of a natural wonder. We walked up and down the massive flat rocks that comprised the waterfall. We tested the force of the water by stepping into the shallow spaces where the water raced toward the imminent drop off. We ate lunch on a small-rocky beach and smoked freely in the spacious forest, miles from the nearest people.
We knew going up that we would eventually have to make it down. The real test came as we approached the crest of that impossible rock. As I said before it was at an approximately 45-degree slope and stretched, perhaps, as far as 75 feet. The safest and most reasonable approach appeared to be the same as our upward climb: stay close to the wall (made by the nearest boulder, approximately 12 feet high) and cling to it by wedging our hands into its crevasses. Only this time we would have to face downward in a sitting position. Paul went ahead, and I followed second. Reasonable.
Needless to say Erin and Melanie sought a different route. They stayed closer to the edge of the boulder, just past the midpoint of the face. Erin, although starting down after I did, reached the bottom just before me by sliding down her last few feet. No, this was not part of her grand plan. Melanie was barely starting down by the time I reached the bottom, though the speed of her descent held the group record. After finding herself in a bit of a quagmire, she held on for about thirty seconds (and as a reminder there really wasn’t much to hold onto) before sliding two-thirds of the way down and breaking just feet from a 10 foot drop off into the rocks and water below. Now in those milliseconds a few things passed through my brain: 1) she may fall and die 2) she’ll at least break a bone 3) Erin is a lot closer to her than I am, therefore you should yell “Catch her! Catch her!” and 4) Why did she listen to Erin? Of course she survived with some scratches and a bloody ankle, but fortunately nothing serious.
That night we had dinner in Curry Village with Melanie’s family and, like every other night there, got drunk. Melanie took us to meet and smoke with Jennifer, a friend of hers who was working in Yosemite. We joined her and some of her friends for an open mike night, something which I had no idea happened in Yosemite. Paul played guitar and sang while we drew with crayons on the paper tablecloth.
The next day we had breakfast with Melanie’s family and helped her Dad blow up rafts. Equipped with a raft built for two, a inner tube made for a swimming pool, two Rolling Rocks and two Coronas, we set out on the raft ride planned by morons. It rested the crest of idiocy, and was one of the best times we had.
Paul paddle at the head of the raft, with myself at the rear, Melanie in between, and Erin holding on from the inner tube. We got off to some rough starts, as you could imagine, after all we were app. 430lbs in a raft with a 190lb weight cap. However, by the time we got floating warm peace ensued as the sun lit up the world around us. We breathed the air and drank our beer as if life had been made for moments like those. We drifted and occasionally paddled anxiously (with our one paddle) as we approached shallow water, heavy rapids (of which there were few - unfortunately), or jagged rocks; but it was carefree, as we knew how ridiculous our situation had become. At one point, when we had to get out and walk across the forceful water, the inner tube flipped over and Melanie’s Rolling Rock rushed down the river like a message in a bottle. I think its safe to say that we tried to open our beers a little prematurely from time to time, as on each occasion we would see a jagged rock or a rapid ten feet ahead. What a waste of good beer though.
That evening we smoked a lot of herb, including one time with one of Melanie’s uncle. Our neighbors, Eric and Renee, a couple in their mid-twenties who live near the Grape Vine in Valencia, joined us on late night walk through deserted parts of the campgrounds. Imagine a pitch-dark forest, six stoned jack asses, one lantern and one hell of a smoke out. Imagine it, because it’s about all I remember from that night.
We spent much of the following day walking and riding on the shuttle. It had become our mission, ever since leaving home, to find rolling papers. As it turned out those aren’t sold in Yosemite, so I suggested a blunt. Apparently, however, the only cigars sold in Yosemite, at the Awahnee hotel, were priced at about $10. Sadly, neither blunt nor joint on our trip. Although, the quest wasn’t a total failure as on our way back we stopped and watched a guy, 14 or 15 years old, take pictures of three male deer at uncomfortably close range. We had to wait and see if he’d be charged and maimed by these feeding bucks outfitted with full antlers and hoofs meant to stomp whoever threatens them, not matter how cute and bambi-ish they may seem. This kid was a fucking genius.
In the evening, again joined by our neighbors, we went to Melanie’s family’ s campsite. There we drank rum and whiskey and stood around the fire talking. We met more of Melanie’s family and got as drunk as anyone ought to on a camping trip. Our neighbors we’re become friendly every day, and that night, Eric slipped me a vicodin while we were talking, not long before we bough some E from him.
Erin and Paul split a pill and I took one. The obvious thing to do while rolling in the most beautiful place on Earth at 1am was to, of course, go rafting with no light. This time, in our neighbor’s larger raft, the five of us (not including Melanie) set out on a grand voyage. Eric, or Captain Jack Sparrow as he called himself, and I paddled, while I looked up the perfect sky, contrasted by the black mountains and highlighted by the omnipresence of the glowing moon. As I looked at it all my most recurring thought, which I blurted out in the glorious and carefree chaos of the turbulent and mysterious ride, was that “this is life.”
After the ride, we, along with Melanie now, walked to the wooden bridge that defined our whole trip and sat there for God knows how long. I was rolling so hard that the mountains and night sky seemed almost like a pallet of paint swirling and blending into the picture before me. The vanishing point of the mountains vibrated like static in the distance and the mood was quiet, but surreal. As we left the bridge I recall asking the question that was surely on all of our minds, “our we on a bridge?” Maybe not.
I don’t remember starting to play Uno, I just know it was for a long time. Eventually I gave up and watched as they transitioned into a game of dominoes. I was terribly confused and sat silently for the rest of the night.
I didn’t sleep for more than an hour or two, if even that. I hate feeling cracked out, as my mind became a wash in confusion and paranoia that I might never return from the state I was in.
When I woke up, or came to (whichever came first) we went to eat pancakes, courtesy of Melanie’s grandma. It was one of those strange contrasts between spending a night doing rather seedy and taboo things and then waking up to a wholesome breakfast at a nice family campsite, as a cute old grandmother fusses over you while you eat so much more of her good food than you had intended, if only to prove to her that you are a polite and upstanding young gentleman – who just happened to spend the night experiencing mind-altering drugs.
Anyway, it was long day. I barely spoke more than a few words since my brain felt like it had been stripped away and supplemented with a soup-like substance sloshing back and forth in my skull. We rested throughout the day and eventually went to Lower Yosemite Falls to climb on the rocks. Later on Melanie and I went to see if her friend Jennifer would be willing to come with back to our campsite with us. Somehow we ended up getting in her jeep with her four other Yosemite employees to go play flag football on a tennis court. Later that night we prematurely finished off our herb and celebrated Erin’s birthday with midnight champagne and orange juice concoctions (I know what they’re called, but I can’t spell it).
On our last day we woke up, packed everything in the car and wondered over to Melanie’s family’s campsite since we had to vacate our own site. Rather than carrying her Dad’s raft back, Paul and I took it down the river to the bank closest to their campsite. Not surprisingly, paddling and navigating was much easier that time with just two people overweighing the raft.
We had planned on leaving late at night again so that we wouldn’t have to pay at the entrance, but Melanie’s Dad wanted us to leave so he gave Melanie money to pay the fee and we left that afternoon. Before we spent about an hour with our neighbors reading Renee’s entertainment magazines and chiding the Olsen twins. Annoying twin bitches turned gorgeous coc-heads, you’ve got to love these girls. Though I’d sooner inhale dog shit than watch one of their movies.
Paul drove as far as Bakersfield and Erin the rest of the way. We had nothing to smoke on the ride home so we finished off our four warm beers as a 90-degree wind encompassed the whole car with its windows down.
I saw almost everyone that night at Brent and Kristin’s party, along with several of their friends. It was an ok party, though a bit high school-ish and I can’t say that it or anything since has been that memorable. At least not as memorable as Yosemite was. I’ve worked the last few days and every time I’ve felt like writing I worked on this entry, which is why I began talking about Sunday and am now writing these words on Thursday. I won’t go any further into what’s going on with me right now, only because I think you, the readers, have enough of my spiel and have probably lost interest and stopped reading at this point. So come again, when I write again. I can’t say when that will be, but until then I will continue to search far and wide for my sanity or perhaps think of new ways to say I hate Home Depot.

bobert @ 2004-06-29T13:32:00

2004-06-29T21:16:27Z

Did you ever have one of those weeks when you feel like the sky's about to fall? It's 1pm now and I've spent the last 3 hours watching tv and lying around because that's about all there is to do. My throat's so sore you'd think I were swalloing sand, I have no money or gas, I work at 6pm, and the only show I watch anymore ended 20 minutes ago.
Sorry to sound so pesimistic, but I guess this just isnt my day.
I think it's time for a new change, perhaps a new job, again. I know Home Depot pays pretty well and gives me stable hours, but I just dont think it's for me any longer. I know for a host of reasons it's a lot better than my last job, but there's something about it that I just dont like.
You see when I worked at Carl's Jr. I hated it. I hated the work, the routine, the drama, the customers, the under-appreciated responsibility, and I just hated going everyday (something which now holds true for Home Depot as well). I think Home Depot's problem is, mainly, the people. I know theyre all working their asses off and trying to earn a living just like me; yet at the same time they just arent real to me. Now at Carl's I was at the heart of Tustin Ave in the Orange Mall, on the outer rim of the elitest Villa Park and on the cusp of the crazies who wandered about with shopping carts and 3 year old clothes stuck to their backs. I worked with illegal aliens who, on average, spoke about 20 English words and probably went home to cheap apartments with 8 people to a room. I worked with people who seemed like they were at the bottom but just kept going to make ends meat. I liked that.
Home Depot sits between Yorba Linda and Anaheim Hills. Most of the customers coming for their own home projects probably make more in 2 months than I make in a year. I work with people my age who generally know close to nothing about life, and many older one's who never bothered to think about it.
The other day I overheard a couple of old men talking about the war and Bush in the breakroom. I guess a lot of retired people come to work at Home Depot in their 60's because it gives them a little extra money and something fairly easy to occupy their days. One of them made a comment that went something like "blow all of them away," ofcourse referring to the Iraqis who oppose American occupation. He said a few more things, equally as ignorant, that I cant remember. I had to wonder if he understood that his logic more or less mirrored that of Saddam Hussein's and Osama Bin Laden's: we disagree therefore one of us should die.
Well the other old man disagreed, but didnt argue back much since the other fat old bastard had a rather commanding and overpowering voice, and probably wouldnt have understood a reasonable retort anyway.
Im really not so upset about it; but I think I need to get out of Orange County before the I trade in my brain for a tan and a frapuccino.

bobert @ 2004-06-18T12:12:00

2004-06-18T19:17:20Z

Time can be a strange thing. It’s amazing sometimes how each minute segues into the next, as an hour becomes a day, or how day becomes the night. Finally at one point you just turn around and there it was – not individual minutes as they were while we lived them, but rather one long and strange night.
Its been one of those days, or nights, where I’ve had to ask myself, “does day begin when you wake up? – or – does day just begin with the new sun?” That’s what one usually asks themselves when they haven’t actually slept; and suddenly time is no longer the ticking of a clock. Time simply is.
Well it’s evening now (Thursday I suppose). I’m not exactly certain where, why or how things began; but, then again, what better place to begin than Saturday evening.
Quite often I turn up in Fullerton at “The” apartment. I call it that because there are too many damn people living there to associate it with one name anymore. So “The” ends up being the pithiest description of this place I wind up at 10 nights a week. I guess I was as stoned as anyone needs to be by the time Melanie’s friend arrived with a vaporizer to entertain us through the dwindling night. But it was at some point that I spoke to Erin over the phone and decided, then, that something, somewhere, and soon was bound to happen.
I woke up late Sunday and began my morning ritual of catharsis: slowly awake, reorientation of the mind for a fresh day, shower, eat – possibly, tv – usually, and eventually the phone calls. I decided to join a few at Kristin’s graduation party that afternoon at her house. It was one of those clear summer weekends, ideal for a gathering of family and friends, where they all crowd around suburbia in polo shirts and short pants to discuss family news and home remodels.
I asked Erin to meet us there before the two of us went to work. Erin, Brandon, Todd, Zavina, Barbara, Brent, Melody, ofcourse Kristin, and I took the opportunity at our own table, as the young ones always do, to plan for the evening – the time when the elders settle in and the young are just beginning. Erin and I decided it had been too long since we’d had a worthwhile bonfire – so after work I met Erin at the Block and we drove together to the beach.
The Mission
Night 1: no luck, fun nonetheless.
Our bonfire was a stoned/drunken goodtime for me, and the rest I hope. Many more had joined the list and came to celebrate a warm night on a happy beach with good people. It was a generous night, as the bottles were shared and pipes passed all around. New faces joined on Erin’s behalf: Paul and his friends.
But my favorite parts of any night like this are the beginning and the end. At the beginning you start with just a person or two. Together we look ahead with wonderment and, “where will we all be by nights end?” is the lingering question.
At the end of night its common to, again, wind up with just a small group to reflect on it all.
Erin, Brent, Barbara and I hit a gas station and drove back to Fullerton (The apartment). It was a silly little drive a I think, and I was glad to be with those 3.
When Erin and I finally left, after an hour or so of rest, we met at Del Taco to talk. We stayed there until about 4 talking both importantly and unimportantly into the morning. A car of strange ones next to us got us to roll down our window and chat. “Where’s the party at,” we heard one say from the back seat. Erin replied with something to the extent of “you do your drugs first and come sit in a drive-thru.” and back and forth we went for a while. We thought about them, and how many other stories were unfolding in the middle of the night – similar to our own.
I woke up late and worked again on Monday. I was off at 11 and then headed to that night’s meeting ground: Melanie’s.
Night 2: no luck, but fresh news.
Many of us were there for a night at Melanie’s with her Dad gone. Its almost always nice to be there though. Sitting outside late at night, gathered around a growing ash tray with people and discussion.
Brandon made a call to John Q. for some of us about getting something fun, and again it began.
Night 3: the mission renewed
I met up with Brandon and Kristin Tuesday afternoon. We went to Grape Press to meet John. Kristin and I were excited, then again, Kristin – the darling puppy I never had – is nearly always excited about something. But how we enjoy our yay.
I had to work late in the day, but at 9 it was to Melanie’s again. I must say I had a lot that night, not that the stuff was that great, but it was a chance to share with old friends and simply enjoy. Watching Melanie’s Betty Boop dance closed off the night and I drove home.
Night 4: no work and all play makes jack a happy boy
I woke up around noon on Wednesday and spent the day with Melanie. We smoked and spent and schemed and wandered for a while. We met Melody at the Orange Circle, shopped for books and then met Evan at Melanie’s house. After which we were back at the apartment. There, Sebastian joined our crew of irreverence and the plot, or should I say plotting, thickened. It was decided that drinking at Melody’s made the most sense before Paul called looking for Erin. After days of looking it finally dropped right on us; and I asked Paul for a little favor before he met up with us.
Seb, Erin and I took them around 12 I think. For a while we sat in the backyard talking and smoking cigarettes with Erin’s new friends. Slowly but surely it was all happening.
Melody had been in bed for a while before we all decided to leave. At that point, it was to Melanie’s for a late night pow-wow.
It was brilliant, exciting, energized, and sleepless. A perfect combination of minds and creativity. We are artists, we were beats, and we were beautiful. We were insignificant to all people in bed and yet every word spoken mattered like nothing else. We were dignified and sophisticated. We were humble and warm. We were 6 kids – not haters but lovers. We spoke the truth as we knew it, while innumerous cigarettes burned and burned. And in those early morning hours we were alive. We were no longer human beings, but we were simply humans being.
There was nothing better than drawing with Seb and discussing every nuance of our common minds. Nothing better than talking and smoking in the backyard with Erin, Seb, Melanie and our new friends. Paul is musician, an artist. He played his music while Seb and I played jazz with our drawings. He and his friend Kevin seemed no different than us, and yet absolutely unique. I was inspired by them all.
As our newest creatures of night left, Seb, Erin Melanie and I retreated to Melanie’s room until about 6am. There was no place on earth I would have rather been, and with no other people. We finished everything we had and listened to music, talked, and took pictures.
After her dad had left around 6 we let Melanie go to sleep and I drove to Norms. I was still rolling pretty well and the gloomy morning streets popped out with vivid perspectives.
Norms was strange, or maybe we just were. A man was staring at us as we walked in and Seb decided to make faces at him and talk crazily so that he could hear. But we were all talking pretty crazy I guess.
We dropped Erin off to go to work, and so there were two. I sat along on Seb’s wild ride to Ralph’s for alcohol. That went about as smoothly as I thought it would – 7am, two dirty and tired looking guys stumbling into a grocery store for no reason in particular. He grabs a bottle of wine and shoves it down his pants. He then drops the bottle out his pant leg just as an employee walks by. “You dropped something,” she said, as Seb sets the bottle on a shelf and bolts toward me out the door. Do they train grocery stores employees to say that exact phrase when people shoplift alcohol? I swear, they’re always condescending bitches. They cant just be cool about it and say “you need to go” or “don’t do it again.”
But anyway, we headed off to Melody’s house for the remaining wine and kahlua from the night before. We walked right in, since we had left the door unlocked; and after we finished the alcohol we went back to wake up Melody. She and her dad were arguing, which meant he apparently had not left for work yet. Which is funny because we had just walked in his house and took alcohol 20min beforehand.
Soon enough though he left and we went in to rest finally. I stayed there sleepless and exhausted for about 3 hours before I called Sherrey who just came back from Europe.
Seb, my fellow binge partner probably didn’t even remember me waking him up when I left. But that was that.
Night 5: he rests
After an hour with Sherrey I finally came home to a silent midday house. So I gave myself a morning ritual at 1 in the afternoon to put a final period at my night with no end. I showered, watched tv, and at last I slept. I saw Erin for an hour or so, around 11. Its Friday now, about 1am and its about time I really slept.
I can now call this mission, accomplished.

bobert @ 2004-03-15T17:22:00

2004-03-16T02:12:15Z

Are you asking yourself what happened next? I know I am.
For starters I got called back from Home Depot just days after that last entry. Things were looking good for a few days there, I quit smoking in anticipation for the drug test Id have to take. This of course was easy enough and a small sacrifice to pay for my escape from fast food. That and the dreaded interview, at which, I must say, I charmed their asses off - smooth as a muthafucka.
Yes, for a while everything was turning up bobert. That was until I went back to Home Depot for them to make me an offer. I sat down at the HR's desk and was doing my best with frivolous chit-chat and that "how'bout-this-weather-kiss-my-ass" bullshit thats always so enjoyable. Then she hands me a job description and a few forms to fill out and sign including one little piece of paper that she casually slides in - "oh! my pay rate." Well my initial response was: "uhhhhhhhhm......" The same amount I was alreadyb making, bullshit. So I try to negotiate, she wouldnt budge, then I asked about other departments with higher pay, none were open, then she says, once Id decided "hell-no", to go ahead and call the other stores to see if they were hiring - now I like to refer to this period: my flickering candle light of hope at the end of a 40 day tunnel with no pot!
Yes, like Moses and Noah before me I led the righteous for 40 days and 40 nights in a prophetic mission of cleansing: 40 days and 40 nights in the dark void of sobriety.
Why 40 days you ask? Well from what Ive learned it takes about 10 days to reach a human resources manager by phone; 10 days to call you back; 10 days for them to get their shit together; and 10 more days to call you back. Of course those are approximate numbers, but you get the picture. Finally I went in for another interview about 2-3 weeks ago and actually did even better than the first one. I got hired at the Anaheim Hills store as a cashier for $9p/hr and talks of promotion on the day of the interview. I got my drug test the next night and smoked pot about 20 minutes after that; and of course peace of mind followed about 10 minutes later.
What happened during the 40 days you now ask? I got very very drunk 3-4 times a week and actually had a lot of fun doing it. Except the one time - 6 weeks ago tomorrow in fact - when I went swimming. To make a long and overtold story short, I got pretty drunk and jumped into a swimming pool at the 3ft mark. Now, that alone wouldnt have done much since I was counting the water to break most of my fall; and perhaps only hitting my tail bone in the process. That would have been the case had there been any water in the pool. And yadayadayada I fractured my wrist and went to the emergency room.
Now the best part: Inside the E.R. - Melanie and Barbara drove me to the er while Brandon and Kristen took my car (no way I could have driven even without a fractured wrist. Shit, I dont even no how I jumped back over the fence to get out of the pool deck). The er was not a fun place to be at first. I was still really drunk though, so the pain was probably more than cut in half (but still hurt like a bitch). It wasnt too long before they got me x-rayed and onto a bed to have a splint put on - the guy putting the splint on was cool though, he recognized as much as I did at the time how stupid I was and though Barbara and I were tripping on something - just stoned drunk and stupid though. As he was wrapping me up the pain started increasing and the drunkness went somewhat into remission. All my drunken ass could do though was laugh hysterically and say "this vodkas starting to wear off."
I have to go now but Ill make this quick. I starter Home Depot on thursday (Ive been training everyday since) and Im pretty overwhelmed with my new job. I think itll be cool once I know how to do it. Theyve mentioned drug testing and abuse policies about 900 times which kind of sucks because I think any promotion I get will require another test. Still, good benefits, sick time, 401k, stock options, and pretty good pay. So long as I steer clear of the home depot corporate brainwashing machine I think Ill be alright. I have a lot more to say (especially about this last week and the new apartment), hopefully Ill do it soon and not wait 3 more months to do it. Oh yeah, one more thing:
No more Carls Jr., I finished my last shift a week ago today. I may go into more detail about that next time, but for now: free at last, free at last, thank god almighty, we are free at last.....

bobert @ 2004-01-01T15:50:00

2004-01-02T00:54:25Z

Lets see, I sat on my ass and smoked pot and spaced out last night until 130am so it must have been new years eve. But first, lets refer to Christmas. Scenario: Christmas Eve, and onward:
I got off work around 745pm that night, a day when most people are with their families, eating, celebrating, fulfilling twice-a-year church obligations, and renewing their hearts with holiday spirit. Well, probably everyone who wasnt at the Village at Orange (do I have to call it that now? I mean really, its a mall, its in Orange - not at - and it sure as shit isnt a village). But with that behind me, I went home to make my 7 layer dip, now, the highlight of all my holidays. Afterward I took Sherrey and Melody to church with me. Not that it should have been that exciting, but I remember church, at least on Christmas Eve, being more tolerable than other weeks. Maybe its because I was use to anticipate going home afterward to wait for Christmas - when I actually got presents. Anyway, church was pretty blaah. Not even very many Christmas songs, at least not the good ones.
Next, I was off to Reuben's house, Barbara's friend from work. Melanie, Barbara, Melody and I all drove to Santa Ana to spend a couple hours there and drink into Christmas morning. We just sat on the couch, mainly, and had a few drinks and smoked a lot. I didnt say much, but then I never do when I first meet people.
We got home around 3am. I lied down at the end of my day that had begun so long before. It was also the last day of work after 7 holiday shoppong days in a row. So I reflected: nice and faded, and well past drunk too. When I re-opened my eyes it was 8am and my Mom was telling me that we were leaving for Shannon's at 10am. Still in my clothes from the night before, dehydrated and stumbling through my still-lingering haze I got up and got ready. I spent the day in Corona with my family - it was actually a pretty good Christmas: I got a $40 costco card and a $20 refundable sweater from my Mom and $15 for Barnes & Noble. Things went well pretty much all day. I got as drunk as a non-designated driver ought to and ate almost nothing besides 7 layer dip and cookies all day. The power went out around 2 or 3 and when we got back to Anaheim at 5 it was out here too. I sat here in the dark and slept, finally. Then it took me about 10 minutes to decide that having no power for the evening wasnt going to work so Barbara and I left. We went to Denny's (If I didnt eat then I was going to throw up 7 layer dip as far as the eye could see).
Well one more Christmas journey took us back to Santa Ana. Sherrey had invited us to go to Egan's "house" (I wont explain the quotations - lets just say, its not quite a house, but works just the same). As I was driving in search of her place I felt a grinding from my tire. A flat tire! just what I asked Santa Ana Clause for!
So, Barbara and I start to change the tire at a 7-11. As we were trying to pry off my hub cap that was apparently put on by the hands of God, a guy on a bike came riding up and asked if we needed help. As he and I pulled off the hub cap he must have noticed my Jimi Hendrix shirt because first he exclaimed "good fucking Mexican huh?" I laughed and nodded back yes. Then he asks us if we like the "muta" (which Im sure isnt how you spell that). Barbara offered to smoke him out but he said "not today." Good fucking Mexican indeed. He helped us change a tire and wouldnt even accept a bowl for it. It sucked to pay $80 for a new tire the next day, but Im glad I have a new friend riding a bike and smoking the muta somewhere in Santa Ana.
Egans's place was a perfect way to end Christmas. We sat outside around their fire pit while Chris and his friend planted grass for us at 1145pm. We smoked peacefully and warmed ourselves in the icy weather. It was nice to be restful at last. Chris offered to sell me the stuff he had - but lets just say, unlike our bike-riding friend, good thing dont always come from Mexico.
This last week since then hasnt been much. We wanted mushrooms for last night but that didnt work out. But it was an exciting New Years. I think at 12:01am Melanie asked with a bong in her hands if we it was midnight yet. I said we should all go to the roof since we'd congregated in Todd's room to smoke but, needless to say, everyone was a little stoned. I drank a little too, but only enough to wake up with no moisture in my mouth and a lead brick in my head. Ahhh New Years.
And so, just as I get use to writing 2002, here it is. Happy New Years.

bobert @ 2003-12-22T11:46:00

2003-12-22T20:05:32Z

I realize how impermanent everything is. I think at a point, most will come to understand this. Unless, ofcourse, youre living in the Bush or in some remote tribe where you remain your whole life, and where everyone around you pretty much remains as well. But even then you have face somekind of change. Natural disasters, death of your loved ones, occasional migration. Well thats not so different from living here I suppose, only change seems a lot more relevant in modern societies. Its like everything is here, right now, in the present. It all had a past that seems to be in the past and forgotten now. But I remember how these things were different. And in a few months, everything thats here now will be gone and will have gradually turned into what is, now, the future. Im not to trying to make no sense, incase I lost any of you reading this (all one of you that is). It all seems real, and it is. Im not one of those who philosophically feels that there are no absolute truths. I think, more often than not, theres right and wrong, black and white, real and not real. But its hard to tell sometimes. You reach the point when you just dont want to depend on other people anymore because you no that in the end youre going to get screwed. And so you retreat into your private world and say "fuck em, Im living my life for me." But there have been some good times, and I just wish it could be good for a while.
I dont want to sound so depressed, this is just the shit I think about. I aslo realize that there are a few things that never change. A preson might where different clothes, or find new interests, but I think, at least whats important, remains. Im starting to see which friends will be there in the long run. The ones who have been there long enough already that when you see them again, whether its day after day or every so often, you still think about those good times, and maybe you'll even have a few more that are just as good. I dont lie to myself, Im not saying they will be there forever, but I know which ones could be, and which ones I want to be.

bobert @ 2003-12-20T13:56:00

2003-12-20T22:36:36Z

So what have we all been up to? Me too kids, me too. You know, life sounded a lot better when I agreed to be born, but I think Ive changed my mind. Oh well, its not all so bad: good herb, pretty good friends, school, shitty job, no money, and parents that are driving me to premature baldness (not that I should, genetically, ever go bald, but for those of you wondering, I didnt really get a hair cut, I just ripped it all out after shouting with my parents). So Ive decided to kill myself. As soon as I finish this entry Im going to push the screen out of my window and jump. After which I will fall half way onto the trash cans and half way onto the brick wall - only then I will realize that Im on the first floor and would probably just scrape my face against the brick and say "oww, fuck!". And since I cant afford anything but a bebe gun my only alternative would be a dinner knife. Too painful. I could drown or burn myself to death but as an asthmatic Im terrified of suffocation.
So I guess Im stuck here. Its not so bad though, schools over: 3 A's and a C. Im happiest about the C - I havent really been to math in weeks. I missed well over half the semester since even when I was still going regularly I left an hour early everyday. But I guessed on almost the entire final, got my F (that stands for fantastic final) and earned a C for the semester. So, its done. Goddamnit, its done. No school for about 5 weeks. Happiness? Sort of. I still have to go to my shitty job in about 20 minutes where I earn a whopping 3 cents a day. I could start applying for new jobs, of course no one hires during Christmas and its not like it would be worth it to start at anything less than $9-10+ an hour. I cant go get a real job since I have no experience or degrees. I cant afford shit, especially moving out, which would solve this whole, living-with-my-parents problem. And then there are my friends. As much as I love the 8-12 people that I call friends, for the most part theyre a bunch of inconsiderate flakes.
What have I done recently you ask?
Nothing. Same old shit, different day. I hung out with Sherrey the other day before my anthropology final, we went to Canyon and talked to Mr. Leal and Mrs. Egan. That was nice. Talkig to Leal 2 years after graduating is very different. He doesnt talk to us like high school students anymore. He talks to us about our lives like he knows, which Im sure he does. What he knows is what we've all come to know in our first years in the "real-world": Life sucks, but you get by. He knows that we've indulged in everything and discovered all the things that we knew nothing about in high school. We've seen the world outside of the safety net and have only begun to come to terms with it all. Dont get me wrong, I feel better off now than I was two years ago. I feel smarter, wiser, more autonomous, more responsible, more mature, more confident, and maybe even a little bit closer to knowing where I want to be and where Im going to go.
But still, what that Hell have I accomplished? Sure I did well in school for the last 3 semesters, held on to most of my good friends, had some good memories, and even made a few new friends. But what's new about it? Im still here at the same fucking computer, in the same room, going to school, with the same job. the end.
Im not really this depressed. Im just frustrated. You cant do shit without money, and you cant get money until you do something.
Id keep going but I need to get ready for work. I cant wait - 8 1/2hrs of sweat, grease, and crap.

bobert @ 2003-12-16T10:26:00

2003-12-16T19:04:54Z

Have you ever heard that song by Bob Dylan "4th Time Around"? Its so beautfiul. I woke up about two hours ago to the irrational screams of my aging and crazy father who forgot how to speak at room level about 32 years ago. I heard him next door waking up Daniel (my brother) and I knew it was coming so I got up and started getting dressed. He came and shouted something about the street sweeper so I ventured off into the bastardly Santa Ana winds, when the suns shinning bright yet your face and bear feet are frozen solid. Then my hood blows back off of my head and the wind thrusts against me as I unlock my car. It was finally silent, and cold, so I turned the car on and drove up the street to get my heater working. That song came on and somehow sitting in my car at 830am on a windy December morning seemed right. It comes on slowly and enters your mind like only a few songs know how. Just sitting alone in the deserted neighborhood, listening quietly and knowing all of the things inside my head. I knew everything I knew yesterday and at this very moment, all of the good and the bad and the thoughts and memories that make you want to shout or sleep or drive or do what ever you can to just escape them. And when the song crept up I felt like I was a thousand miles away from this house and this madness that I live from day to day. The thick texture of his voice, and the smooth strings that sounded like angels falling to the empty streets infront of me. Now everyone had moved their cars and raced inside to warm their ears and be pleasant over news and coffee in their mid-morning traditions. Well there was I, and two of my brothers in their cars as well. I dont know what went through their minds during those 15 or 20 minutes of dwindling time. Perhaps some of the same thoughts, or perhaps just the sleepy twilight of one's mind after waking only moments before. Perhaps they played music and turned up their heaters, and listened for the sounds quiet morning and blustering winds. But all I knew for those minuets was that song and every time it restarted the same way it did before. Even now it replays over and over again in my head to tell me that everyone and everything is changing quickly, but a few things are always going to be. That song, and the safety of that heater in my car, and that empty neighborhood; I can always go to that place. I can always hear those songs and make the world go away for at least long enough to keep my soul away from the insanity and relentless thunder of a loud and chaotic world. Im under the bo-tree and nothing can reach me, not the terrifying burden and horric disorder that surrounds me, and not the stresses and heartache of a young life not ready for this kind of pressure and struggle. Im indestructable with a song in my ears and pain in my mind, with love in my soul. The world is still full of suprise and songs still fill a world that longs to escape its own disorder and rage. That place is still there. That song still remains.