good lord! those earrings are hypnotizing!

while at work today i happened to notice the number 444 written on a sign. then i thought., hmmm, that's 3 '4's. now you may be aware that 3 times 4 = 12. but did you know that when u add the the numbers 1 and 2 together you get the number 3. furthermore, when you multiply 12 by 3 you get the number 36. and of course when u add 3 plus 6 you get the number 9. now divide that by 3 and you get 3. so we end up with 3 '3's. however, when you take that number 36 and then multiply that 36 by 3, u get 108. if you dare to multiply the 36 by 36 you will come up with the number 1272. add 1 plus 2 plus 7 plus 2 and whats the total? 12. or take the 1272 and split it into 2 numbers. say...12 and 72. add these together and you get 84. add 8 and 4 together and you get 12. but wait! you could just add 1 plus 8 and get 9, OR, add 10 plus 8 and get 18. adding 1 to the 8 gives you the number 9. once again, dividing this number by 3 gives you 3. if i were to subtract the numbers like this, 8 minus 1, i would get the number 7.
now go back to the begining of this formula. remember when we multiplied the numbers 3 and 4 and got 12. lets just say we added them instead. where would that bring us? 3 plus 4 is 7.
so what does this mean? i don't know.

neat

i found this neat little song on youtube. i was searching for the dropkick murphy's cover of "long way to the top" by ACDC. i found it, but i also stumbled across this little gem as well.
It's serge tankian and the Foo fighters covering the dead kennedies song "holiday in cambodia". neat.

the question of the day

The Outsiders is such a great movie. it's been around since i was in grade school. Originally written in 1967. It was in Grade 7 i believe, that i first came across this fine read. now we all had to read books and write book reports and of all the books i held in my grimey hands while in school, about three in total...It's the one book that stands out.
Written by s.e. Hiton. white cover, classic school library book. discovered in the library of cook avenue elementary school, later to be relocated to the personal library of myself. and sitting on the bookshelf , it still stands out. the funny thing though, is that i've never read the book.... i don't think i've even opened it up. i wonder why. Here's what wickepedia sez a/b it.

The Outsiders is a novel by S.E. Hinton, first published in 1967 by Viking Press. Hinton was 15 when she began writing the novel and 17 when it was published. The Outsiders is the lifestory of fourteen-year-old Ponyboy Michael Curtis. Hinton explores a multitude of themes throughout the story, such as friendship and coming of age. They are seen by following two rival groups, the Greasers and the Socs (pronounced "soashes" by the author, short for Socials), who are separated by status.

I think the reason i've never read the book is because i've seen the movie. Now that makes me sound lazy and typical, but the movie is really good. Usually when i see a good movie, i need to read the book about it. But so far, not with this one. I think probably because i'm satisfied with the movie. I love the whole atmosphere about it. the 50's scene, the story is great, seeing all those pre-famous actors, and matt dillon who rules to this day.

then there's the poem written by Robert Frost called Nothing Gold can Stay.

Nature's first green is gold,Her hardest hue to hold.

Her early leaf's a flower;But only so for an hour.

Then leaf subsides to leaf.So Eden sank to grief,

So dawn goes down to day. Nothing gold can stay.

So i have to wonder though, when ever a book is made into a movie, it is always different, sometimes it's a big difference, sometimes subtle. so there's only one thing left to do.

it's about time i read this book.

favorite song and video for this day of nov 4, 2008

the girl you can drink

i know this girl, lets call her "dorie"., who compared herself to the perfect espresso, "the taste is sweet, full bodied with a well balanced acidity and bitterness". This got me thinking, i think that every girl can be compared to some beverage of one sort or another. so i don't know why, but i just had to sit down and continue on in the formulation and conduction of this trainwreck of thought.
I say that because when i originally wrote this i had real names to match to each drink. each description is inspired by some gal that i know. i was going to name names. but at the last moment i thought to myself "what are you crazy!?" so i took out the names to protect myself from the furies and scorn that somehow usually finds me anyways. those of you who know me know that i used to have tact and common sense but i think i left it sitting on the top of my car in a briefcase and i drove away.... fast.... so you can all speculate while i decimate, problicate and differentiate.
some girls are like a mocha, sweet, flavorful, will cheer you up and is made of dark chocolate sprinkled with cinnimon. some are like sprite. sweet, clear in complexion, fizzy and makes your nose twitch. others are like natural spring water, with lemon. clear, and pure, completely refreshing and you are always thankful and feel lucky to have around. others are like ginsing tea with honey instead of sugar. all natural, healthy. the drink of reason. i know a girl who is like rootbeer. my favorite of all the soft drinks. she's fizzy and full bodied, smooth with a bit of an edge. she goes well with ice cream. rootbeer doesn't screw around. it means business. it's the serious drink that's equally fun and non-alchoholic. rootbeer is unique that it demands to be served correctly, in a tall chilled glass. another is like goats milk, but a goat from hawaii :) b/c its wholesome and entirely good for you. no preservatives. and since it's from a goat that's from hawaii, it has the essense of coconut, a little exotic, with a hard stubborn shell that can be tough to crack but has a soft sweet inside. others are a buttery nutty squirrel drink. more nuts than butters.
i could go on, but it's getting late, i'll add more later, or you can. that would be neat. for now, i think i'll make one last comparison, that is of myself to beer.... it may look alright, but don't drink to much, your heard will spin and you'll be left with a bitter aftertaste and a hangover.

sad

so today i was driving down the street and saw a tractor trailer truck taking a bunch of cars to the crusher. amoungst the wrecked cars on the flatdeck of this truck was a car just like mine. same year, same model, same color. the only exception was that this car (with another car on top of it being taken to the crusher) was actually in better shape than my own car....

mission plausible.

here's what i came up with.


my two favorite instruments at this moment.

street near mine.
rollin....
security system in full effect.

o.k., this is the real story here. ended up at this park, standing there looking for something to see. I pushed aside some bark mulch with my foot and BOOM! what did i uncover? a nice shiny 1 dollar coin. total random discovery. not what i was expecting, but it works.

mission impassible.

it's sunday afternoon, i'm gonna grab my sisters camera and go take some pictures and bring em back and post em , regardless of what they are or how they look. i'm giving myself about an hour. lets see what we can do here. back in a bit.

rain rain rain rrain rain rain rain rain rain rain rain rain rain rain rain rain rain rain rain rain rain rain rain rain rain rain rain rain
rairnairnainrainrianrinarinairnain
rainrianrianriarinarinarinarinainrian
rainrianriarianrianriarinarinairnainriarniar
rain

3-stage IC-based. Continuously variable gain from 30dB to 70dB. Input loading pluggable: > 47pF and <>AC-coupled with just one series capacitor, and this enclosed in a feedback loop at that. Resistors matched to 0.2%, capacitors to <>Takes bi-phase AC or DC power in, through rectifier, gyrators, and then opamp-based series regulator with multi-loop feedback. i found this on a site called vinyl engine. i didn't create this , some genius did. props to geniuses.

if i could do anything today, i think it would be this.


\

Questions that real men aren't afraid to ask.Pt.1

when it comes to shaving ones beard, where does one make the distinction between where the chest hair stops and the neck/beard hair begins? If you can be honest with yourself and ask the tough questions, then you will find the answers deep in your heart. Plus here is a website that may help. http://gallery.beardcommunity.com/

i

the letter i. i hate it. it's a pain in the ace. This is because it always wants to be capitalized. especially when used as a first person reference. This means that when i talk about about myself i'm supposed to capitalize the i. As in "I went to the park", or, I fell down but I didn't hurt myself because i'm a stuntman". well, i don't have the time or patience any more. and i just don't care. so from now on i'll never capitalize the letter i again. it's like most people that i meet. myself included. "ohhh, look at me" i'm special" i demand to be capitalized". ohh ohhh. pure arogance. no more sir, thank you very much. Your days in the spotlight are done. Your reign of terror is over. Small i is all you'll ever be. i don't even wanna get into talking about u.

a quiet noise

i am surrounded by quiet noise.
a fan, computer, and a gas fireplace.
the television in the next room.
voices that are not loud, but i can still hear them.
children entertaining each other. Usually loud, but not right now.
all buzzing,
all droning,
all of them making a quiet noise that isn't loud.

notice the glass jar

i noticed a glass jar, i did this by looking in its direction.

a hat on my head.

I didn't have a hat on my head. I wanted one there, so I found my hat by walking around until I found it. It was lying on the floor. I picked it up with my hand and then placed it on my head. I placed it so the brim was facing forwards. I wore it like that for the rest of the day.

typing a message on this blog

i wanted to type a message on this blog that someone could read. So I pushed the keys on the keyboard individually to spell out words that when placed one after the other in correct grammatical order, would create a message for everyone to read on this blog.

it's like dat y'all

springsteen makes it all simple. This one song sez more to me than 6 months worth of semons in any church. simple.

evan tanner. r.i.p.

took these from an m.c. at a bmx comp earlier on this afternoon.

how many skateboarders does it take to screw in a lightbulb? One, but it takes 'em 47 times to do it.

how many skateboarders does it take to screw in a lightbulb?

Three. one to do it, the second to film it, and the third to say "yeahhhh dude..."

joke of the month.

here's one, originally told by my friend brenda. so i' m kinda stealing it, but then again, i can't take credit for how bad this joke is.
Q- "how do you catch an elephant?
A- "dig a hole, line it with ashes, then fill it with peas, when the elephant goes to take a pea, kick it in the ashhole...." isn't that sweet?

two things happened on this day in history, the first thing is that this is the day hunter s. thompson offed himself, and the second thing is the return of myself to blogging. I am no where near hunter s thompson in terms of writing skills or anything like that. In fact, this return to blogdom is only because of him and will most certianly be the last entry for another couple months. Nevertheless, i enjoy his writing and especially this story. I took this story from another website called; http://www.knucklebusterinc.com/.




Hunter S. Thompson & Motorcycles
Song of the Sausage Creature by Hunter S. Thompson
There are some things nobody needs in this world, and a bright-red, hunch-back, warp-speed 900cc cafe racer is one of them - but I want one anyway, and on some days I actually believe I need one. That is why they are dangerous.
Everybody has fast motorcycles these days. Some people go 150 miles an hour on two-lane blacktop roads, but not often. There are too many oncoming trucks and too many radar cops and too many stupid animals in the way. You have to be a little crazy to ride these super-torque high-speed crotch rockets anywhere except a racetrack - and even there, they will scare the whimpering shit out of you… There is, after all, not a pig’s eye worth of difference between going head-on into a Peterbilt or sideways into the bleachers. On some days you get what you want, and on others, you get what you need.
When Cycle World called me to ask if I would road-test the new Harley Road King, I got uppity and said I’d rather have a Ducati superbike. It seemed like a chic decision at the time, and my friends on the superbike circuit got very excited. “Hot damn,” they said. “We will take it to the track and blow the bastards away.”
“Balls,” I said. “Never mind the track. The track is for punks. We are Road People. We are Cafe Racers.”
The Cafe Racer is a different breed, and we have our own situations. Pure speed in sixth gear on a 5000-foot straightaway is one thing, but pure speed in third gear on a gravel-strewn downhill ess-turn is quite another.
But we like it. A thoroughbred Cafe Racer will ride all night through a fog storm in freeway traffic to put himself into what somebody told him was the ugliest and tightest decreasing-radius turn since Genghis Khan invented the corkscrew.But we like it. A thoroughbred Cafe Racer will ride all night through a fog storm in freeway traffic to put himself into what somebody told him was the ugliest and tightest decreasing-radius turn since Genghis Khan invented the corkscrew.
Cafe Racing is mainly a matter of taste. It is an atavistic mentality, a peculiar mix of low style, high speed, pure dumbness, and overweening commitment to the Cafe Life and all its dangerous pleasures… I am a Cafe Racer myself, on some days - and it is one of my finest addictions.
I am not without scars on my brain and my body, but I can live with them. I still feel a shudder in my spine every time I see a picture of a Vincent Black Shadow, or when I walk into a public restroom and hear crippled men whispering about the terrifying Kawasaki Triple… I have visions of compound femur-fractures and large black men in white hospital suits holding me down on a gurney while a nurse called “Bess” sews the flaps of my scalp together with a stitching drill.
Ho, ho. Thank God for these flashbacks. The brain is such a wonderful instrument (until God sinks his teeth into it). Some people hear Tiny Tim singing when they go under, and some others hear the song of the Sausage Creature.
When the Ducati turned up in my driveway, nobody knew what to do with it. I was in New York, covering a polo tournament, and people had threatened my life. My lawyer said I should give myself up and enroll in the Federal Witness Protection Program. Other people said it had something to do with the polo crowd.
The motorcycle business was the last straw. It had to be the work of my enemies, or people who wanted to hurt me. It was the vilest kind of bait, and they knew I would go for it.
Of course. You want to cripple the bastard? Send him a 130-mph cafe-racer. And include some license plates, he’ll think it’s a streetbike. He’s queer for anything fast.
Which is true. I have been a connoisseur of fast motorcycles all my life. I bought a brand-new 650 BSA Lightning when it was billed as “the fastest motorcycle ever tested by Hot Rod magazine.” I have ridden a 500-pound Vincent through traffic on the Ventura Freeway with burning oil on my legs and run the Kawa 750 Triple through Beverly Hills at night with a head full of acid… I have ridden with Sonny Barger and smoked weed in biker bars with Jack Nicholson, Grace Slick, Ron Zigler and my infamous old friend, Ken Kesey, a legendary Cafe Racer.
Some people will tell you that slow is good - and it may be, on some days - but I am here to tell you that fast is better. I’ve always believed this, in spite of the trouble it’s caused me. Being shot out of a cannon will always be better than being squeezed out of a tube. That is why God made fast motorcycles, Bubba….
So when I got back from New York and found a fiery red rocket-style bike in my garage, I realized I was back in the road-testing business.
The brand-new Ducati 900 Campione del Mundo Desmodue Supersport double-barreled magnum Cafe Racer filled me with feelings of lust every time I looked at it. Others felt the same way. My garage quickly became a magnet for drooling superbike groupies. They quarreled and bitched at each other about who would be the first to help me evaluate my new toy… And I did, of course, need a certain spectrum of opinions, besides my own, to properly judge this motorcycle. The Woody Creek Perverse Environmental Testing Facility is a long way from Daytona or even top-fuel challenge-sprints on the Pacific Coast Highway, where teams of big-bore Kawasakis and Yamahas are said to race head-on against each other in death-defying games of “chicken” at 100 miles an hour….
No. Not everybody who buys a high-dollar torque-brute yearns to go out in a ball of fire on a public street in L.A. Some of us are decent people who want to stay out of the emergency room, but still blast through neo-gridlock traffic in residential districts whenever we feel like it… For that we need Fine Machinery.
Which we had - no doubt about that. The Ducati people in New Jersey had opted, for some reasons of their own, to send me the 900ss-sp for testing - rather than their 916 crazy-fast, state-of-the-art superbike track-racer. It was far too fast, they said - and prohibitively expensive - to farm out for testing to a gang of half-mad Colorado cowboys who think they’re world-class Cafe Racers.
The Ducati 900 is a finely engineered machine. My neighbors called it beautiful and admired its racing lines. The nasty little bugger looked like it was going 90 miles an hour when it was standing still in my garage.
Taking it on the road, though, was a genuinely terrifying experience. I had no sense of speed until I was going 90 and coming up fast on a bunch of pickup trucks going into a wet curve along the river. I went for both brakes, but only the front one worked, and I almost went end over end. I was out of control staring at the tailpipe of a U.S. Mail truck, still stabbing frantically at my rear brake pedal, which I just couldn’t find… I am too tall for these new-age roadracers; they are not built for any rider taller than five-nine, and the rearset brake pedal was not where I thought it would be. Mid-size Italian pimps who like to race from one cafe to another on the boulevards of Rome in a flat-line prone position might like this, but I do not.
I was hunched over the tank like a person diving into a pool that got emptied yesterday. Whacko! Bashed on the concrete bottom, flesh ripped off, a Sausage Creature with no teeth, fucked-up for the rest of its life.
We all love Torque, and some of us have taken it straight over the high side from time to time - and there is always Pain in that… But there is also Fun, the deadly element, and Fun is what you get when you screw this monster on. BOOM! Instant take-off, no screeching or squawking around like a fool with your teeth clamping down on our tongue and your mind completely empty of everything but fear.
No. This bugger digs right in and shoots you straight down the pipe, for good or ill.
On my first take-off, I hit second gear and went through the speed limit on a two-lane blacktop highway full of ranch traffic. By the time I went up to third, I was going 75 and the tach was barely above 4000 rpm….
And that’s when it got its second wind. From 4000 to 6000 in third will take you from 75 mph to 95 in two seconds - and after that, Bubba, you still have fourth, fifth, and sixth. Ho, ho.
I never got to sixth gear, and I didn’t get deep into fifth. This is a shameful admission for a full-bore Cafe Racer, but let me tell you something, old sport: This motorcycle is simply too goddamn fast to ride at speed in any kind of normal road traffic unless you’re ready to go straight down the centerline with your nuts on fire and a silent scream in your throat.
When aimed in the right direction at high speed, though, it has unnatural capabilities. This I unwittingly discovered as I made my approach to a sharp turn across some railroad tracks, saw that I was going way too fast and that my only chance was to veer right and screw it on totally, in a desperate attempt to leapfrog the curve by going airborne.
It was a bold and reckless move, but it was necessary. And it worked: I felt like Evel Knievel as I soared across the tracks with the rain in my eyes and my jaws clamped together in fear. I tried to spit down on the tracks as I passed them, but my mouth was too dry… I landed hard on the edge of the road and lost my grip for a moment as the Ducati began fishtailing crazily into oncoming traffic. For two or three seconds I came face to face with the Sausage Creature….
But somehow the brute straightened out. I passed a schoolbus on the right and got the bike under control long enough to gear down and pull off into an abandoned gravel driveway where I stopped and turned off the engine. My hands had seized up like claws and the rest of my body was numb. I felt nauseous and I cried for my mama, but nobody heard, then I went into a trance for 30 or 40 seconds until I was finally able to light a cigarette and calm down enough to ride home. I was too hysterical to shift gears, so I went the whole way in first at 40 miles an hour.
Whoops! What am I saying? Tall stories, ho, ho… We are motorcycle people; we walk tall and we laugh at whatever’s funny. We shit on the chests of the Weird….
But when we ride very fast motorcycles, we ride with immaculate sanity. We might abuse a substance here and there, but only when it’s right. The final measure of any rider’s skill is the inverse ratio of his preferred Traveling Speed to the number of bad scars on his body. It is that simple: If you ride fast and crash, you are a bad rider. And if you are a bad rider, you should not ride motorcycles.
The emergence of the superbike has heightened this equation drastically. Motorcycle technology has made such a great leap forward. Take the Ducati. You want optimum cruising speed on this bugger? Try 90mph in fifth at 5500 rpm - and just then, you see a bull moose in the middle of the road. WHACKO. Meet the Sausage Creature.
Or maybe not: The Ducati 900 is so finely engineered and balanced and torqued that you *can* do 90 mph in fifth through a 35-mph zone and get away with it. The bike is not just fast - it is *extremely* quick and responsive, and it *will* do amazing things… It is like riding a Vincent Black Shadow, which would outrun an F-86 jet fighter on the take-off runway, but at the end, the F-86 would go airborne and the Vincent would not, and there was no point in trying to turn it. WHAMO! The Sausage Creature strikes again.
There is a fundamental difference, however, between the old Vincents and the new breed of superbikes. If you rode the Black Shadow at top speed for any length of time, you would almost certainly die. That is why there are not many life members of the Vincent Black Shadow Society. The Vincent was like a bullet that went straight; the Ducati is like the magic bullet in Dallas that went sideways and hit JFK and the Governor of Texas at the same time.
It was impossible. But so was my terrifying sideways leap across the railroad tracks on the 900sp. The bike did it easily with the grace of a fleeing tomcat. The landing was so easy I remember thinking, goddamnit, if I had screwed it on a little more I could have gone a lot farther.
Maybe this is the new Cafe Racer macho. My bike is so much faster than yours that I dare you to ride it, you lame little turd. Do you have the balls to ride this BOTTOMLESS PIT OF TORQUE?
That is the attitude of the new-age superbike freak, and I am one of them. On some days they are about the most fun you can have with your clothes on. The Vincent just killed you a lot faster than a superbike will. A fool couldn’t ride the Vincent Black Shadow more than once, but a fool can ride a Ducati 900 many times, and it will always be a bloodcurdling kind of fun. That is the Curse of Speed which has plagued me all my life. I am a slave to it. On my tombstone they will carve, “IT NEVER GOT FAST ENOUGH FOR ME.”