Pudding Pops: A Tutorial

The pudding pop has sadly disappeared, however, it is not forgotten. So, I made some the other night. I have a gang of pudding at home from an ex who went through a pudding phase and just had to go buy milk and a popsicle mold thing from Target. In the pic, you can see all my choices. I was very tempted to go with pistachio, but instead went with Banana Creme for some reason. I saved the flan for another day and another experiment called: Tripping The Light Flantastic. So, yeah, bowl, milk, pudding mix, wire whisk, mold and lots and lots of patience.



Okay. It's kinda gross seeing pudding in it's native habitat, but there it is. It reminds me of the band days a little bit and a picture of the black last supper, but that's a total inside joke.

Anyway, pudding begins life in powder form. When it is combined with milk and whisked it gets gooey and thick. Now...Let's fuckin' wire whisk.


















WOOHOOOOOOOO!!!!!

Action shot of whisking.



Look at the action blur on that whisking hand.

Whisk

Whisk

Whisk


For two minutes.








Next you fill the molds. You'll probably have some pudding left, but unless you like pudding, don't eat it.

I put some in a coffee cup and ate it while I was frozing and didn't really care for it.












There is the saddest freezer ever. You can see my store bought popsicles giving shit eye to the homemade ones.

My ice pack is also giving a tiny shout out there on the left. I'd be dead in the water without my ice pack. It's like my R2-D2. Like someday I'll be all "Be careful with that ice pack over there. We've been through a lot together."

I chose to froze them over night and it may have been too long, but I don't want to spoil the end for everyone.



The next day I pulled out the mold and started yanking on the stick and it wasn't budging. So, I did what anyone would do and used a butter knife as a lever to force the stick part out of the mold. Well, this just ripped the whole thing out and left the pudding part in the mold.

I hung my head and disappointedly put them back in the freezer while I tried to figure out what to do.







So, today, I was sitting at my coffee table going through mail and whatnot and I put the mold on the table to remind me that I'm a failure in being pudding popular and got distracted with something for a half hour and then went over and remembered the popsicles and just tried to pull one out and HOLY SHIT it came out. It was a fucking sword in the stone moment and I finally felt like the boy king of frozen confections that I thought I was.

Then the whole feeling went away when I took a bite out of it. Apparently, I was wrong and a boy king I was not.

It turns out that the pudding pops that are made at home are very susceptible to temperature. So, if you do try this at home. The key is patience and gut instinct.

Flan pops are the next experiment. I'll make sure I document it.

Y rthday

I just started laughing maniacally in my office due to utter eelarity.

So, it's my birthday today, which is historically disastrous. Whatever. I have faith in it being fine today. I'm bulletproof as if I was inebriated and being chased by SeaWorld police. I slept in an extra hour this morning to celebrate and almost didn't shave in observance of the day, but chickened out and shaved anyway.

I got dressed for work and walked around my apartment grabbing all matches and lighters and threw them in the garbage and then took a pack of Parliaments with six smokes left in the box and broke each of the cigarettes in half and threw them away in the most cliched fashion possible.

On the way to work, I stopped by Starbucks and got a non-fat vanilla latte as I sang "happy birthday to me" in my inside voice. The barista told me that she liked saying my name and said it like three times. That was the first time that had ever happened and I felt flattered.

So far, the day is absolutely fuckin' normal. Last year on my birthday I was a bottle of wine deep at this time and I don't even remember what went down...I remember. It was drunk at Nolas again with my family. That's for the local peeps. For the unlocals, it's a New Orleans themed restaurant with a bar that smells like vomit and Hurricanes that will take the paint off of a car. I swear. I drank two at one sitting once and it was such not a good idea. SUCH NOT A GOOD IDEA!

So, the funny Charlie Brown part of my day is the cake at the office. A woman's birthday was yesterday and they only used half the cake, so they are seriously going to roll out a cake that says:

Y

RTHDAY

It's fucking hilarious and made me start laughing. Oh, on top of that it was an ice cream cake that they put in the fridge. Seriously?!?! I really think I'm turning into some kind of fictitious character. This does not happen to normal people.

Fred Einaudi

Via the Drawn! blog here is a link to the work of Fred Einaudi. It messes with your head a bit, but it's really good while being a little disturbing at times.

Outgoing and Then Some.

I seriously just put this on my outgoing voicemail greeting and it's making me laugh way too hard. I had to listen to it again. The work people that call it might get freaked out a little bit.

"Hello. You've reached HughCentral.

All of our operators are currently busy with superimportant stuff and only two of them think your call is important to us.

If you are awesome, press 1

If you might be awesome, press 2

If you would like to learn the art of awesomenacity, stand on one leg and imagine you are a tomato with bat wings and press 3.

If you just did that you probably look hella dumb."

Really, I was proud of myself like a 12 year old next to the shitty mug he made in ceramics class for his mom. Maybe I'm less complex than I previously thought.

The Perfect Storm

I was talking to my stepbrother yesterday and he told me that my 21 year old sister had just got out of a three day stay in jail for missing her community service. They were never that rough on us in the Boy Scouts when it came to community service, but in a post 9/11 world, I suppose this is how it goes.

So, I went out for one of my last smokes and was talking to my neighbor and he goes "Oh, shit. It's your birthday this week? We should totally get you a stripper or two in your apartment." While I understand that it's a universal male code to like strippers, I'm not completely down with it as expressed in this blog before. Yes, I'm down with hot girls. Even hot girls covered in glitter that smell like pear lotion, but when anyone does anything under a false pretense; It's sad. I mean, if you want to give me a lap dance and then go to lunch, that's fine, but otherwise, I'm not into it.

I'm not just going to beat up strippers on this, though. It happens in real life, too, the whole false pretenses thing. I'm convinced that some people don't even know they're doing it. The human condition is just that fucked up.

So, anyway, it's the perfect storm because if my neighbors try to surprise me with a stripper, my mom will probably be over watching over me because I tend to do dumb stuff on my birthday because I still associate it with some bad shit subconciously. Dumb stuff being alcohol related obliteration or as it's known by it's street name "self-medication."

It would be like a horrible episode of Three's Company where Larry tries to surprise Jack and then Jack has to go meet a flight attendant at the Regal Begal so Janet wears a fake moustache and acts like Jack. I think that may be a real episode. Mr.Furley comes in in the last 5 minutes and wraps up the debacle and Larry gets the girl. Larry always gets the girl. Then, Jack walks in piss drunk without the flight attendant and ten Ketel and Sodas deep and tells everyone in the apartment to "Fuck Off" and falls asleep on the couch in his clothes. Then, Eddie Money walks in the front door and sings "Two Tickets to Paradise" for the TC gang and the credits roll. Wow! I just wrote my own custom episode of Three's Company. That's awesome. Maybe I will start writing them for others like caricatures.

Being smart this year and being a groundhog, though. It's taken a few stumbles, but I swear I learned this time. I even set a "quit date" for smoking of tomorrow and plan on chain smoking until then. I quit for two months last year and made the mistake of becoming involved with a fuckin' hobo drunk nut job that smoked when she drank. She left smokes at my apartment and tended to make things quite complicated and I found myself smoking after a while.

She was very cute, though and had really nice taste in dresses. She was a little too into PDAs, though and I think she may have affected my cool guy street cred a little bit. No life aspiration and some unresolved core issues, but very cute and watched soccer with me in my underwear the morning after our first date. That was probably my kryptonite on that one. Dammit, I got pwn3d. I've got to be smarter on shit like this. British accent? pwn3d. Smart? pwn3d. Likes my hair? pwn3d. Has good hair? pwn3d. I'm a big stupid man who falls for this shit. How many krypling kryptonites (alliterations are fun) can one person have? God, I feel stupid now.

Happy Hump Day.

This Is Dope

The Radiohead sample grabbed me and then I looked a bit closer and here it is. It's Dan Le Sac vs. Scroobius Pip and is a song called "Letter From God." It's kinda brilliant.



Enjoy!

Dear God

This is a cool new site that takes submissions from people revealing their innermost hopes and concerns addressed to a generic higher power for the most part. Seems like more of a way for people to get shit off their chest. I find it touching and disturbing at the same time. It's a lot like PostSecret, but a lot less cryptic for the most part.

It kind of makes me want to start the Dear Jesus Flying on a Unicorn site that would be geared to drug fueled hallucinogenic confessions/announcements, but who has the time to administrate a place for dudes on mushrooms to profess their love for their couch cushions while fighting with the equalizer on their stereo? Does sound entertaining, though.

Dear God
Oh God
Other Son of God - Jebus
The God Particle
Gear Dog

Here come the GoogleSearch JesusFreaks looking for their God in an algorithm created by two dudes from Stanford who then infused that algorithm with a revenue generating add-in to drive Internet traffic via advertising and search. Actually, I think "Tiny Horses" and "Centaur Penis" are still the number one search strings that drive traffic on this blog. I need to see if CentaurPenis@gmail.com is available.

How disappointed must the mythological fetishist be when he or she gets to this site and sees no centaur penises? It must be as big of a letdown as when I went to a restaurant called Illusions and found out it wasn't magic themed. I was fuckin' bummed. It was mediterranean cuisine. Shouldn't it be called Mediterrific or something like that?

Cocaine, Valium and Marijuana - It's What's For Dinner.

This news article from the Marin Independent Journal is hilarious. Area 51 Mission. Dudes like this make me feel like I've got a chance. Here is an excerpt:

"He was under the influence of cocaine, Valium and marijuana and stated that it was a top secret experiment with his doctor for Area 51 and the government," she added. "He also stated that he was working for a cure for AIDS by taking the drugs."

That is a rad dude. Misguided, but radical nonetheless.

New Saying

Just said this to someone at work:
"Dude, that's gayer than a rainbow with a moustache on roller blades."

Chewing The Fat

Holy Shit! I just read this article. "Fat Fucks Complain in Time Magazine." I seriously got angry. They are complaining about being discriminated against? Have you ever sat next to an obese person on an airplane? I've done it and I swear to god there was a cheese layer on the side of my body that could not avoid their planetlike gravity. I swear to fuck the woman was being orbited by two small moons. Then, when the flight attendant came around with nuts, it was on. It's not a fucking buffet, hon. That was the longest plane ride that I've ever been on where I was smashed up against the wall of the cabin.

So, wait. Time magazine is going to run this article on how fat people are discriminated upon? This is not an MLK, JR, Rosa Parks thing, dude. They're just fat and it's not fucking hereditary. I'll drink the Kool-Aid on the gay gene, but try and pour me a glass of obesity as hereditary and I'll throw the cup in your fuckin' face. The reason families are fat is because of horrible fucking parenting. Like, "Hey Jimmy, Happy Birthday. Let's go to Sonic and watch you take another step towards diabetes and heart disease and fitting into your mom's giant fuckin' tentlike underwear."

Dude, let's talk about discrimination towards smokers and those fuckers that cough when they walk by me. They cough while they roll a fucking stroller with four fucking kids in it. Should I pantomime horrible unprotected sex when they walk by to respond to that fuckin' lame cough? Aim for the face, fucker. The world is shrinking and we have no room for your fucking sanctity of life. Ooooooooooooh. You can have a fucking kid. Hobos can have fucking kids. White trash can have kids. Parents of serial killers can have kids. Osama Bin Laden was had by someone. Feel special now? Congrats, but it's not that big of a deal. I've spent the last 18 years trying not to. That's the hard part.

So, yeah, I need to quit smoking. Shit, I dated someone and they told me that I could only bag on fat people if I didn't smoke. Did I say dated? Haven't done that in two years. So, anyway, quitting in three days. I'm serious. The only reason is to better bag on obesity. My own private hell will be myself strapped to a chair at a buffet in Orlando while watching Wheel of Fortune. My god, that sounds awful.

Goddamn You Tay Zonday

22% Is Not That Bad

Ummmm, so yesterday was like the best pool day in two years. Not one Asian kid feigned a drowning and I had my iPod at the perfect volume to drown everything in the world out of my head. Yeah, the day started weird. Check this. It really happened.

I woke up at 8:00 AM and put a pot of perfect coffee on. The previous night I even bought half and half at the grocery store during my homemade pudding pop project. Sidenote: Flan pudding pops. I'm serious. I have all the materials, but totally lost interest Saturday night and then Sunday was a blur and is what I'm talking about right now, however it's going to happen. I will invent the flan pop. Take that Bill Cosby.

So, at 8:00 AM, I fire up my laptop and start auditing reports from work. I got through 58 out of 259. Not exactly stellar, but it took four hours. While I was doing it, my neighbor's kid walked in front of my sliding glass door and started pogo sticking for what felt like three hours. It's the most godawful sound you have ever heard. He's going through a thing where he calls me "Uncle Hugh" now and likes to attack me with lightsabers, play whiffle ball with me and also drive a remote control car repeatedly into my sliding glass door when I work after work. It scares the bejebus out of me, but I'm getting used to it. His dad gave me a chair for in front of my apartment and he walked up and said "That chair used to be my mom's. She died." Seriously?!?!?! So, the lil guy and I have talks sometimes. He's a really good kid, he's just a handful. He's been suburban camping lately in front of our apartments. I'm pretty sure a homeless guy is living in his tent about now.

So, after work, at about noon, I rolled out to the pool. It's straight up wife beater weather. I'm a huge fan of it. I laid by the pool for what was like five hours and drank about 12 beers. It was seriously the best pool day in two years. I'd occasionally field texts from the kickboxing, 112 pound girl from Friday night. We exchanged about 80 texts since Friday. I found out that she is serving community service for a felony, but chose not to ask her what she did. She has good taste in music and a good sense of humor. I think she's really young and lives with her parents, so totally my type. I'm like a hetero, non-child molesting Michael Jackson. Wait...that's just normal.

So, my neighbor invited me to a lobster dinner on him because I had achieved uncle status, but I told him that I was good by the pool falling asleep. So I slept listening to an awesome playlist and was jostled awake by my other neighbor when they got back. He let me know that I got some color. Everyone seemed like they were getting perpetually wasted. I knew that it was on when my one neighbor yelled "Where are the strippers?!" and I had to tell him to be quiet and quit being disrespectful, it's the only way that they know to make money and if he would like to be around the strippers he should go to the titty bar or leave dollar bills around his front door like Elliot did with Reese's Pieces in E.T.

So, after pitching the world's gnarliest knuckle ball while holding a beer and a smoke during a whiffle ball game against my neighbor's two kids, I found myself sitting in front of my apartment with the screen door open listening to Otis Redding with my shirt off. As white trash as it felt, it was a moment. I looked at my personal trainer neighbor that was about to fall into a gimlet coma and just let him know that "This was the shit, dude." It was seriously like the best pool day ever in an individual sense. I've had better pool days when I had a partner in crime, but as an individual, this was up there.

Brace yourself, it's going to be one of those weeks. I hate it.

Ad(vertisement)Justment

I often judge myself by the commercials that are aimed at me during television programs that I watch. Sometimes it's not very favorable for my self-esteem. For instance, I'm pretty sure that I suck at art and may have erectile dysfunction if these marketers are choosing their demographic correctly.

So this morning, I've been watching one of the most anticipated and what's turning out to be one of the best soccer matches of the year. Here is the list from half-time:

Half Time Commercials During Arsenal V. Manchester United (4/13/08)
Umbro
Corona Light
Garden State Life Insurance (Meredith Baxter, no Birnie)
DirectTV
Corona Light
Verizon Wireless
The Marines
Challenger British Soccer Champs
Wallbangers
Art Instruction School
Viagra (The Viva Viagra One)
Wire Transfer Service (Xoom.com)
International Calling Service (VIP Communications)
Perfect Pull Up (Perfect Pushup II?) "3 Exercises in one invention"

This list is actually better than normal because they aren't playing the male enhancement ads. Those were really having an effect on me. I almost went out and bought a Hummer to compensate.

Also, Lehman getting a card on a PK is one of the most awesome things ever even if Ronaldo (that bitch) hit two perfect PKs in a row.

Bounce With Me, Bounce With Me

Again, the nights don't cease to amaze me with their randomness. I went to a spontaneous retirement party for an old boss at work that turned into a roast of me once I sat down. Like I said before, I leave a mark on people. I had a few beers and then jumped on my bike to head home from work. Don't get excited. It's not a motorcycle. It's an old school Schwinn Heavy Duty that I enjoy cruising around on immensely, however, don't let it know, but I'm checking this out as a replacement rather than fixing my existing. It would take some customizations, though. I'd have to remove the hand brakes and freewheel so that it was a traditional fixie.

So, I'm on my bike and I stop by the bar that I drink at and grab an after work beer on a super nice Friday and am looking forward to going home and getting a little bit of work done before I watch Battlestar Galactica and go to bed at midnight. I'm lame and boring and I have plans.

As I'm sitting there I go have a smoke with a couple of the bartenders and they are stressed because they don't have a bouncer. I make eye contact and next thing you know, I'm on waters until 9:00 PM. Then, I'm sitting on a stool drinking Diet Cokes for five hours while I check IDs. These numbers went through my head all night: 4/11/87. Seriously, all night.

A couple pricks tried to sneak in while I was checking IDs and making small talk and it was awesome. All you have to do is sound mean and say "Hey Dickhead. Where's your ID?" and then they say "I don't have one" and you get to look at them and shake your head and just go "Seriously, dude. Seriously. Just go home, man." I was totally impersonating my dad when I had to lay down the law. It was rad.

Also, drunks like to talk. They will talk about anything. Their boyfriends, the stock market, punk rock donuts, metal, chess, your shoes, your hair...anything. At one point, I went and got my iPod and just listened to music while I nodded like I was listening to drunks. Some of the regulars would actually doubletake when they saw me on the door, too. One girl told me that she had never met me sober and that it was kind of intimidating. It really was like the ultimate revenge on debauchery. I was Bizarro-HughVoltage.

This one Russian girl (love the accent) came over while she was smoking and asked if she could hear what I was listening, too. I think it was "Poor Places" by Wilco. So, she starts groovin' to it a little bit and is really getting into it and then ends up listening to Force Seven (my old band) somehow. She starts humming along to one of the songs which is kind of weird because there is no way that she has ever heard the song, but she actually got it better than the original trumpet player played it. ZANG! Anyway, she gave me her e-mail after dancing in my personal space for a while. Then, another little kickboxing girl who I let punch me in the arm like twelve times gave me her number on her way out. Then, another girl asked if we could go home and cuddle after work. That was kinda weird. Do bouncers remind chicks of their dads or something?

Anyway, a lot of girls were coming in which creates a testosterone heavy atmosphere which concerned me a little bit because dudes get weird around a lot of girls and I get bloody noses around weird dudes occasionally. At about 1:30 I was pleasantly surprised, however, that only one dude had a real problem and just stood in front of me trying to creep in while I said "Not gonna happen, dude" over and over again without even looking at him. The disinterest defuses aggression, I swear. I think it also made him yell "busta" at a guy inside. Dude, did you not get the memo, playa? Nobody says "busta" anymore.

So, yeah, I was on my way home from work on my bike. Went to get a drink and ended up bouncing until close and then had to ride my bike home with no bike light at three in the morning and got to bed real late. Moral of the story? Making plans is simply a way that life has of fucking with you and setting you up for disappointment. Let life happen, don't make life happen.

UnRestroom

The continuing story of dysfunctional bathroom habits continues here at work. I don't get it, but it backs up my theory that success can be determined by proper potty training.

So, I'm in the bathroom urinating for the 27th time in the day from drinking massive water based mammal amounts of water. It's downstairs so I get my stairs in during the day even without the gym. Plus, I think the tough love is helping my foot heal. It felt like I caught it in a bear trap for a while. I was gimpy.

So, I look to my left because, seriously, my penis has been played out since college, and I see a newspaper laid out on the floor. It's a San Jose Mercury which I wouldn't line a litter box with if I was unfortunate enough to need to fill a gaping hole in my life with a creature that sucks my breath out of me while I sleep. I mean, if anything, a monkey or a killer whale, right?

I see something weird at this point and it's a dude's clenched fist on the floor and I'm thinking dude, that's a rough one, maybe you should go to the doctor. Then, I see his other fist clenched on the other side and his face like two inches from the page. In my mind, I'm going through all of the different positions that could possibly be going on in that stall like a porn movie choreographer in pre-production.

I mean, seriously, it's gross enough to use the bathrooms at work, anyway, but then add placing your hands on the disgusting tile and you've reached the pinnacle of disease and whatnot. Then, the face two inches from the floor is probably going to get you a staph infection.

It's the fucking basics of etiquette and co-existing with your fellow society members. Yeah, nobody likes to talk about going to the bathroom, but it's a pretty basic task and everyone does it. An outhouse in the middle of Lake Don Pedro can add some complexity, but with slight adjustments it can be done and yes, it's fucking necessary sometimes.

Anyway, just reporting back some of the fucked up shit that I have to deal with on a daily basis. I find it really unnecessary and wish some of these people could step it up a bit so I could have some "colleagues." I'm really missing my desk and "colleagues" at Arthur Andersen about now. In a parallel universe, I'd imagine, I'm really happy with a trophy wife that feigns love for me. Instead, I've got this fucking path written all over my face, staring at me in the mirror while I try to figure out if the eye twitch is from stress, disappointment or exhaustion. The hair looks good, though. Maybe I'm bald in the parallel universe. That could be the trade-off and one worth considering the value of. Hmmmm? Good hair or good life.

That's right, ladies. Still single.

Real conversation from this morning:
Co-Worker: "Hey, you know those creamer cups are recyclable."

Me: "Yep, but I don't really give a fuck. I'll watch you pull them out of the trash like an eco-hobo, though to support an eternal life and making the world last forever."

HughVoltage does not and will not play well with others before his first cup of coffee.

Hugh's (Imp)Lamenting

So, first off, there may have been a San Diego related shoe casualty. Should know by tonight, but will have to pull out the leather food and the shoe shining kit or go to the airport to get them shined. That's the only place I ever get my shoes shined.

Second off, it has recently been brought to my attention that I occasionally engage in games of chance against a rigged deck and loaded dice. I know better, but even when the dealer looks over to me and whispers "Dude, the game is rigged," I naively jump into the game thinking that there just may be a chance that I can beat the deck or the roll of dice. It's either brazen arrogance or misguided hope and faith.

Regardless, I lose. I'm not a sore loser at all and instead look for a silver lining in the form of an experience to file away and either remember wistfully or learn from. More often the latter doesn't stick, but like I said to a friend "If you throw enough pasta at the wall, it will stick and be done eventually, right?" He just responded that he had heard me say that before. He had.

After some introspecting, it may be a result of some good/bad advice delivered from an ex in the words of "You are a really good guy. You just need to open yourself up to someone at least once and you never do." It's really a question of timing. Every time I do, I take a pummeling and every time I don't, someone gets hurt and even hateful and malicious sometimes and then I feel remorse for what I did to them and question if I did actually care about them. It's a mindfuck.

Perhaps, against a standard deck these rules would apply or at least have a better chance, however, in my history, I do it on the wrong hands. Again, a question of timing. Eventually, it will work and to tell the truth, I take the blame. I've got work to do before I'm ready to ruin anyone else's life that puts trust in me. That's for damn sure, but it'd be nice to get a break and have a fair chance. I mean, christ, I see ugly people couple up. I see douche bags with hot girlfriends who are total dicks to them and just don't get it. Then again, it could be my standards. Again, taking the blame on that. All I need is a blonde girl who is super intelligent, hot and has a British accent. I'd even settle for a Welsh accent. Too much to ask?

I'll tell you what I don't want: your girlfriend or wife. I'm so over that shit. Why do girls do that? It just makes everything so complicated. Also, dudes shouldn't do it either. No one should do it. This coming from a guy who won't mix his food up on his dinner plate and will instead work around it eating it in modules. It's an anti object-oriented philosophy of eating. So, to apply that to life, I'd prefer something much more of a procedural philosophy than object-oriented dating. Files are meant to be shared, not people. That's for the nerds.

Yes, I've had a fair chance and blown it, but am doing my best to make some life changes so that when the opportunity arises I'll be ready. Waiting for something good to happen is kind of a dumb state of mind, though. Waiting, in general, is just a waste of time. Need to be a doer, not waiter.

Anyway, I did go to lunch with an ex yesterday who is now engaged and doing very well. I also have the respect for her current situation to remain hands-off, but still pick up the bill for lunch. She provides a lot of insight into how I got here while also giving me the opportunity for some minuscule amount of atonement. It's all I'll ever really be able to get. Even with an assistant, it would take me a while to work my way back to the origins of the darkness that lurked in my heart as a young man.

I'll admit, I do find pleasure in doing nice things for deserving individuals, however, I do find pleasure in verbally destroying those that deserve it, as well. I just need a few moments to find your center or your weakness and will work my way out of it until you've really grown to dislike my company in a social situation. It's your fault, though. Also, I'm working on knocking that bit out of my personality due to its unproductiveness outside of selfish entertainment. It would be nice to flip it and find the goodness rather than the weakness in others and expand on that. That's borderline idealism, though. It also opens yourself up to disappointment when you come up blank on the goodness in an individual.

So, again, got my markers out and staring at a pretty blank whiteboard trying to figure out what to implement next. I'm starting with a list on the right side of the board with a list of "Not-To-Dos" and will just work my way back. I also put a hand drawn penis on there, so I knew it was my list. Also, trust me, the "Not-To-Dos" list is fucking hilarious and most of it has already happened at least once. That's how you know not-to-do it. It's the multiple offenders that are the motherfuckers.

Brilliant

I was in La Jolla this weekend underwear shopping with a few women while we brunched and played hooky from the conference. So, we're in Victoria's Secret and I'm just kind of doing my thing and one of my "colleagues" is buying something and the sales clerk asks her if she would like to join the e-mailing list and she said "yeah." I then heard her give the girl my work e-mail address. I just got my first e-mail from them. Brilliant move, Breeder.

Now, the word "colleagues" has been trying to pry into my vernacular, but I really feel that it adds too much importance to co-workers. Plus, "colleagues" are like your peers, right? Like a jury, right? I don't want to think about that. It makes them sound like judgemental fuckers. Furthermore, I'd like to believe that my contemporaries are few and rare. That way, hopefully, when I find them I will appreciate them more.

Yeah, I'm starting to sound like a pretentious dick, but...I have no way to refute that.

Go See World...Blurrily.

This is a tough blog because I think it's in my best interest to keep somethings ambiguous and hypothetical, so everything following this sentence is going in a row in the spreadsheet with a column checked "Alleged" on the far right.

Allegedly, I piloted my car down the road of best intentions to the airport and got on a plane headed for San Diego after paying three dollars more for a double at 8:45 AM. So far, so good, right? I met a friend on the plane that was a real friend/colleague? and not one made spontaneously and we were on our way to a conference.

We land at the San Diego airport after listening to my playlist called "Music For Airplanes" which is a collection of the saddest songs that I've ever heard. Reason being, that I fly alone a lot and find solace in listening to really sad music around a bunch of strangers in a confined space. I'll admit that it's pretty weird, but it's what I do. It's either that or talk about some fuckin' ladies cat and a bunch of bullshit for an hour.

At the airport they managed to lose my colleague's bag so we had to go to a place called a CBO or something where I scolded my friend in front of the tense customer service associates by saying loud enough for them to hear that "Of course, your bag is going to be late if you put your vibrator in it." We, then took off to the hotel/resort that we were staying at and thought about catching a baseball game, but lack of initiative and the weather swayed our opinions.

Instead, we went to the hotel patio bar and saw how many empty lowballs I could stack vertically while giving the bartender a gang of shit about the cats that she owned. They were named "Sassy" and "Smudge."

The final number was a stack of 6 and a stack of 4. They were quite impressive and even the bartender started helping with it. Poor thing, I think I did turn on her, but she was a really good sport about it and even fired back a few things. So, this Brit expatriot and his girlfriend were sitting behind us and I had an Arsenal jersey on so we talked for a bit and then became friends. This is that other version of friends. The more spontaneous version. They were super cool people, though. So, they bought me a drink and we stayed for a while and another colleague showed up and we went mobile to watch some NCAA tournament.

We jump in a cab where I'm driving the cab driver crazy by intorducing her to words like "FuckDick" and then telling her that if she picks us up and gives us a ride home that I 'll let her give me bath. Apparently, it takes double digit vodka and sodas to flip the switch on and then break it so it won't turn off.

We get to a bar on the beach and it's packed with dudes in board shorts and tribal armband tattoos, but we meet dude's friends and they are all supercool, too. So, stuff is working out. We drink beers out of goblets and do a few reverse crunches on the picnic bench (well, I do) and then my colleagues snuck away because they were getting tore up and because they are way smarter than me.

Some dicks with a Sunderland fan get me backed up against a wall for wearing the Arsenal jersey and things are starting to get a little tense, but I manage to get the dude I was with to come talk about England as a distraction with the guy as I peel off to go drink some Red Bull blasters with some local chick. We started talking and then the dudes I was with came and got me because we were leaving. Local chick didn't want to go because "I like him, but I don't like that place you're going." That was nice of her to call me "Him." Then again, I may have introduced myself as Dan Diego. I kept doing that.

So, we end up at a burger place called Rocky's that was really cool and wound down the night over some Stellas. They dropped me off at my resort afterwards and then................Shit got fuckin' weird.

I started walking the wrong way towards my resort. Of course, unbeknownst to me in the state I was in. I came to a barrier in the road and jumped over it figuring that the resort I was going to would be behind it. This became a theme. Also, the fastest way to get from point A to point B is a straight line, right? That assumes that you are going the right direction, pro tip.

So anyway, to keep this short and unincriminating to some degree. I kept coming up to fences and hopping them. I then ended up in a weird place accidentally. It's a place that some of you who read this would know. Also, some of you who I drunk dialed from that place know exactly where it was. It was a very unique experience.

So, anyway, when I got to this place, I realized where I was by some of the more distinct features of the place. Then, four dudes with flashlights started running towards me and I split. It was a collection of more fences. Two fences of interest were the one that was six feet when I faced it and then when I got over the top of it, it was a twenty foot drop on the other side. Buwah-Buwah. I reached behind me and caught some chain link to slow down my fall and managed to mess up my foot and a bit. The debacle closed with the second fence of interest, a barbed wire fence that I used my pant leg to drag on the barbed wire to slow my fall down. That's MacGyver ninja shit right there.

So, I got out of the place of interest and found a guy who was fishing and gave him $20 to get me back to my resort. I was very tired at this point. He threw me into a truck with his wife and took me back to my resort where I happily searched for the bungalow that I was in for an hour.

The next night at the conference the story managed to make it through all of the people that I know at the conference and then also new ones. I must have been asked to tell the story fifteen times at the first cocktail reception and even got referred to as a conference legend now. That last part is kind of scary, though, because I'm pretty sure you've got to die to become a legend. It's part of the deal, right? The bar has been raised in conference shenaniganery. Sad part about that is that I set the same bar last year. Next year I'll wear a fake moustache and be all serious and boring.

Oh, that's the other thing. As I was leaving last night a small group of people lead by this woman asked me if I would be part of this advanced technical users group for the application. This after being Captain Derelict for most of the conference. Whatevs, I guess you can be smart and stupid in tandem. Who knew?

So, anyway, I could probably use a foot x-ray this week, but I'm going to see how icing it does. The rest of the cuts and bruises seem to be healing fine. Needless to say, I'm happy to be back home and in my bed and in the safety of solitude. An uneventful trip to the grocery store sounds pretty good right now.

Open Letter To Trader Joe's

Dear Trader Joe's,
You fucker. I depend on your pre-packaged and pre-prepared foods for sustenance. You see, I'm like an astronaut and need to have everything ready to go when I get hungry or tired. Uh, yeah, not a huge fan of astronaut ice cream, but meals that you just need to pour water on interest me. I won't lie.

So, regardless, your produce is divine and your organic peanut butter and chocolate chip cookies help me close down an enjoyable day. Your chipotle ranch fries are incredible and pair with turkey dogs like you would not believe. Your Dynamo Plus Calcium juice is seriously...Dude, I'm gay for it. I know it's RW Knudsen, too. I know that it's bottled in Chicoooooooooooooo, CA. I know that I have to make my own sparkling Dynamo by mixing a combination of Pelligrino and Dynamo now. I also know that I seriously would be dead if it weren't for Sparkling Dynamo in college when I interned at Knudsen. That was a fuckin' weird job, but free organic juice all day. Delicious.

Oh my god, Trader Joe's, I'm just blathering on to you and not getting to what I was here to talk about. Don't look at me like that, either. I have fucking feelings you know.

So, first, where the fuck are your rolled up tacos? They were so good and they haven't been in stores for like a month. Second, please figure out your BBQ Chicken Salad. There have been three iterations of it at this point. When I first got it there was one dressing container that contained ranch and bbq sauce or something. There was probably chipotle something in there. Whatever, I don't care. Anyway, then there were two containers in the salad container of dressing. I seriously said "What?!" out loud in my kitchen by myself. So, anywway, I got used to it. It was fine and then today at lunch, I go to the breakroom and make stupid fucking conversation while I prepare the salad and there is one container of something that I don't even know what it is because I felt compelled to write this letter to you before I ate the goddamn salad. I'm sure it's delicious, but I need stability like the people that work at your stores need weird forearm tattoos and piercings.

Oh, also, if you read this. Please tell the cat ladys with like no food in their carts and like ten bottles of wine to quit standing behind me in line and being weird. It ruins my shopping experience, but I know I have a chance with weird cat ladys that drink gangs of wine and don't eat. They also always seem to look the same. I wonder if it's a chicken and egg kinda thing. Like the cats sucking their breath out at night gives them that gaunt look or if they had the gaunt look and hole in their life and felt compelled to buy a cat. Now, Trader Joe's, isn't that a fuckin' conundrum?

So, anyway, thanks for all the years of reasonably priced goodness and health...and bananas. At nineteen cents each, I'm living like the king of all monkeys, motherfucker. Just tits up in bananas and loving it like King Kong.

Sincerely and with love,
Hugh Voltage
xoxoxoxo

Where The Fuck Is My Pencil?

Or: How I Learned To Stop Worrying And Love The Bomb.

In addition to having a stormtrooper on my bathroom sink by my toothbrush and a pencil sketch of Burt Reynolds above my kitchen sink, I have a few oddities or rather uniquities about me.

At work, when I write up a draft of anything or am writing code, I always use a number 3 pencil. They don't work on ScanTrons, you've been warned. I have a case of them. I'm not sure how many that is, but they all say [Hugh's Company] on them. Oooooh. I'm going to get some with my name on them or maybe just hand drawn dicks. I think I'll go with handdrawn dicks. God, they never get old, but I will admit that they look best on golfballs and golf scorecards. It's like guy getting kicked in the balls funny. Never gets old.

So, anyway, there's just something about using a good old fashioned fucking pencil. I've got mechanical ones. I've got pens. I'm actually a bit of a pen aficionado, to be completely honest. If you look up my Amazon.com wish list, which is kind of a life grocery list, you will see a box of pens on there. I seriously get semi-aroused when looking through the Corporate Express catalog. It's all about fucking highlighters, sharpies and the Uni Jet Stream in black ink, 0.7 gauge. That is a motherfucking pen that you would sleep with. It was where I graduated to from a Paper Mate Flex Grip. They are just a'ight. They are what you fill forms out at the doctor's office with. There is no elan about it. It's just not a writing experience.

Anyway, seriously, try getting back into pencils. Trust me, though, get a kick ass pencil sharpener first. A lot of people forget about that and end up using some fucking Chuck E. Cheese, 50 ticket sharpener and it just cheapens the experience.

It's Called Gratitude...

...and that's right!

Man, I'm weighed down by about 120 pounds of gratitude this morning. I should be regretful. Maybe sorrowful. Hmmm. I should feel like the loser king of the world. I should feel at least tired and hungover, but nothing.

So, Hugh? Did you lose your soul last night? Did you sprain your conscience last night? Did you leave your heart at the bar with your credit card? Are you just a terminally tortured soul? Are you Charlie Brown with a sense of humor? You fucking sad clown. (Thanks Pappy.)

None of that. I'm seriously the most fortunate fucker in this area code at the moment. I'll explain it all in a second, but first must address the fact that I could watch a genocide on closed circuit television and be less disturbed than watching fat people at a buffet. I have fucking issues, I know.

So, rolled in to work this morning at ten. I'm currently not wearing shoes and feel naively positive to the point that I'm waiting for a ninja to jump out of my drawer and jam a shuriken (ninja star) in my eye. It's one of those days. I woke up this morning and walked downtown. It takes 45 minutes. I never knew that before, but it's about 15 to 20 minutes too long for work shoes. We know that now.

Got downtown and texted a personal savior from last night and asked if she would like me to bring her coffee after I had missed her text about picking me up this morning. There is a New Pornographers lyric that goes like this "Two sips from the cup of human kindness/ and I'm shitfaced. Just laid to waste." Speaks volumes right now. Great song, though.

Knowing that you're stupid is the gateway drug to actually being stupid. Everyone is aware of that, but fuck, man. You've got to take the gloves off every once in a while to experience anything. You can experience life in your own emotional shark cage, but the shark bite is what makes life worth living, right?

Experiencing life will give you cramps and blisters, but at the end of the day, it's so worth it. Again, if you are in the back of a cop car with vomit in your lap, this does not apply. It's like an 80% rule. Like "Oh my god. I'm so fuckin' wasted...and I'll be your captain today as we fly into O'hare. It's noon local time and if you look out the window you should be able to see..." Not one of those moments either.

Oh, so before I woke up and right before I got to bed. A beautiful girl in an SLK saved my life as I was ready to sleep on someone's lawn lost deep in the bowels of the city that I live in. Fuck, that would have sucked much worse than my headache right now. Anyway, I think I told her this last night, but if not, she reads this sometimes, but I had kind of written her off in a respectful way last week due to a mental malfunction via Vicodin and massive amounts of booze.

It was for her sake not mine. I just didn't feel like she should waste her time with a wretch like me. Seriously, I have self-love issues. If you would like to join that club, send me a self-addressed stamped envelope and I will send you a signed document that states "Yes, I cannot foster relationships because I hate myself and self-destruct on a whim" and I'll send it to you. It's in the mail, Pinch.

Now, just prior to getting the ride from a saint in the church of Jauge, I was singing my ass off at karoke and drinking club sodas, but at some point threw the gloves off in the spirit of "Fuck It" the way I do. I'd be better off staying at home, but I get restless. The nail in my coffin in the last month, however, is that I've pretty much stopped eating. I seriously question whether I have an eating disorder or not. It makes no sense. Three years ago I was a fat fuck who could barely see his dick when he peed.

By the way, dudes, if this happens to you, don't even check the BMI scale. You are obese if this happens...and gross. You are a disservice to the opposite gender and if you do have a girlfriend or wife, get her pregnant before you start balding and she can leave you. You are fortunate and don't forget it and don't lick the whip cream off the stripper at the bachelor party. Obesely worship that person that sucks it up and sleeps with your fat ass every night or at least twice a week.

If your wife or girlfriend is overweight or just fat, then fuck it, go to Cheesecake Factory and eat some gigantuge portion of shit you shouldn't be eating and then go home and eat a bag of Doritos. If you're fat and she's fat, then fuck it. Put on sweat pants because you both have given up and are in the waiting room for heart disease and diabetes. This coming from a smoker, too.

Anyway, I've lost the enjoyment of food. Perhaps, someday I will find that person who enjoys going to a nice dinner or staying in and wrecking a Bon Appetit recipe, but for now, there is no enjoyment in culinary conquests because when I get done making something just fucking awesome, I'm the only one to enjoy it and I don't even like food, right?

I'm whining, whatevs. I'm not eating currently is the thing and it's a little scary. It's where I fuck up big. Go ahead. Try four Ketel and sodas on an empty stomach and let me know how that treats you. Then, try six. Some nights eight? It's not a happy ending. Well, at least not in the grand scheme of things. If you've been married for ten years, yeah, you'd love some of these nights.

Oh my god, the one where the girl goes "You work at [Hugh's company]?" and I roll off her friend and say "Yeah" and she goes "So does my husband." I look down at the jeans that I'm sleeping in and they are hers and wonder where it all went wrong, but to a married guy that would be awesome, right? I can't believe that actually happened. Seriously, fuck a dog. I think I need to adopt a small child to reel this disaster back in via responsibility for another living being.

So, what was I talking about? Whatever, I stamped trouble on an individual because I KNOW TROUBLE. It's in the eyes. You can see it if you look real deep in them. She's still trouble, but as long as I'm stupid, I guess everything will be fine.

Actually, I'm not stupid, just self-deprecating. I'm actually quite handsome, charming, intelligent and witty. Just had to state that for the record. Don't take the blog too seriously. It's pseudo-fiction. It could be a ruse. A handful of individuals (sounds like crotch grabbing) know what's right and wrong and actually socialize with this bag of issues that I see in the mirror everyday.

Conversation of the day yesterday:
Girl: "You have good hair. If I were older I would totally date you"

Me: "Seriously? If you were older, I don't know that I would date you, but if I got wasted enough I might have really sloppy desperate sex with you that was both unfulfilling and left us both questioning our existence afterwards with our backs to each other while we pretended to sleep. That's assuming you were older. As for right now, probably not."

Miss Teen Wordpower

I'm going to go ahead and say it: "Miss Teen Wordpower" by the New Pornographers has got to be one of the happiest songs ever.

A perfect Sunday? Make a pot of coffee and crank up the first New Pornographers album, Electric and start cleaning. It's a religious experience. You'll be amazed at what you find yourself cleaning.

I'm Serious.

It's My Lot In Life

There are a couple things that provide stability in my life. The primary stabilizer outside of disappointment is laundry. It's a freakish addiction, but it's my happy place. It's my candles in the bathtub if I were a woman.

On that note, as a married individual, or a husband as they are called, I had a gripe about laundry. It was a fly in my ointment. It was a panty liner stuck to well, panties, since that's what they line, right? So, here's the deal. I really don't like finding them in the dryer, ever. So, as a non-married individual, or philanderer as some call it, I've not had to deal with that issue in about three years.

So, today, while I'm minding my own business and doing a load of whites, the most scum and villainous of all laundry when it comes to folding and sorting, I found a fucking panty liner in the dryer. What the fuck? Do the same creatures that steal one white sock or shrink one work sock also put panty liners in dryers? There hasn't even been a panty liner, to my knowledge, in my apartment since I moved in. I found a tampon in my medicine cabinet once that spurred a discussion that didn't end particularly well. As I recall, it ended with someone leaving my apartment with a bag of stuff.

I've since moved past that hangup, but it served as a symbol of doom at the time and I'll still stand by it being that symbol. I'm not totally jaded, however, for the right girl, there is a place in my medicine cabinet for her feminine sanitation products, but that is all time and place driven and should not be forced.

Also, there is no real Hallmark card that says "I like you so much..." on the oustside with a little fuzzy bear and then when you open it it reads "...that you can leave tampons at my house." There could be a market for that one, though. I'd also recommend putting a Starbucks or Target gift card inside if you ever have to give it to anyone assuming that the card gets created.

Losing To Learn How To Live

Spent the last couple of days finally accepting being sick and sleeping a lot. Like more sleep than I've had in a long time. It helped put everything back in perspective. I had lost my perspective for a little bit and through the help of a couple of ghosts, I feel that I've gained it again.

An hour long talk with my ex-wife the other day did wonders for some mental spring cleaning. I'd like to hope that being able to talk to your ex-wife is a sign of personal evolution and not the other way around. I'll get the question "Do you still love her?" all the time from people. Of course, I do, but not in a sleep together way. It's more of a brother and sister way. We break each others balls, but will totally be there for one another in an "In Case of Emergency. Break Glass" moment. It's severely ironic that a person who breached my trust more than anyone also still has the most of it. Call it what you will, but I think it's okay.

A brief text conversation with another ex helped a little bit, too. It was to congratulate her on getting engaged, but quickly moved to how bad I mistreated her and an apology. Again, we are all good now and when she's in town, she has an open invitation to lunch with me. I was a real asshole to her and will own up to it. I feel bad about it, but try to not treat people like that anymore. You've got to fuck up to learn.

So, the thing is, if you truly want to find out things about yourself that will lead to personal growth, go to your largest critics. Go to the people that hate you or hated you. While they can never beat you up as much as you can beat yourself up, they offer some form of atonement and brutal honesty that you need at times.

So, after that, I went to an adult/kids party. It was my old boss' house and there were tons of kids around and everyone were in pairs except for me. It put some stuff in perspective again. Eventually, the life of the party needs to hang up the life. You hear old friends talk about getting "hall passes" every month to go get wasted while you are on a permanent hall pass and while changing a shitty diaper doesn't sound like that much fun, a night in playing Scrabble with someone you care about sounds kind of entertaining. What do you give up for that? Oh, I don't know, nights of four hours of sleep, hangovers, trips to get STD screenings, mornings/weekends of secret regret meetings with yourself, endless disappointments, and people who you don't remember saying "Hello" to you in public places. You have to give up a lot for the "good life," but I'm at least checking out the pamphlets at this point. There's just an overwhelming fear that I would fail at it. Fear of failure, keeping winners losing since 1975.

So, the good news, it's a beautiful day. I've already finished a crossword puzzle and have laundry in while I spot clean my carpet. Totally showered and also found myself smiling like a wackjob crazy for no reason three times this morning. I was gathering up a bunch of crap and decided that I would make the most bizarre donation to the Goodwill today. It's a book called "Penis Pokey" that my sister gave me for Christmas one year. There's not even any words in it, I don't think, so you might like it if you liked the DaVinci Code. So, it's just kind of taking up space and I thought it would make a good donation. I hope to god it actually makes it on the shelf. That would be really, really funny. Here's a pic:

You Want Some Cheese With That, Wuss?

Okay. After the whiny last two posts, I felt that it was a disservice to everyone who read them to not put something worthwhile up. So, yes, anyone who read the previous two posts, I owe you five minutes of your life back. If you can find me, I'll give it to you.

I kind of figured out what was going on and find it a collection of unacknowledged stress from work, being sick, and just some life stuff that created the perfect storm of brain clutter. So, I just slept for 14 hours and am putting puzzle pieces back into place and think it's going to be all right. It has to be.

Think it may be time to hang up the party pants and pick up the responsibilipants. I just can't find them anywhere. It's been that long. It's fine when everyone around you at dinner is laughing while you harmlessly flirt with the waitress, but you get home and the apartment gets quiet and you start to feel like an arrogant, loudmouthed asshole. The question is is it really you or are you doing the monkey dance because you believe it's what everyone wants you to be. This is where the breakdown begins. You can't be both people. I think you've got to pick one path and just start heading in that direction. It shouldn't be that hard.

So, still nothing worthwhile, but I'll go outside at some point today and report back.

Kill Your Televison: Part VIII

I started watching Pleasure For Sale on the Sundance Channel about a week ago. I just watched my second episode of it and I feel like I need a shower. It's about the Chicken Ranch in Pahrump where the only thing weirder than the prostitutes are their customers. The first episode I saw had a dude who was in love with his prostitute and started crying when talking about how he had pursued a relationship with her and she wouldn't do it. She would, however, take money from him and fuck balloons because he got off with balloons. Makes that Erin Gray in Buck Rogers spandex jumpsuit thing that I have look tame.

So, then there is the prostitute who had a husband. That was kind of weird. I'm into trusting someone and I'm into letting an individual that I care about spread their wings and express themselves sexually, however, fucking dudes for money is a dealbreaker. You can totally add that one to the list. I think it goes beyond the "cheating" thing and goes to the level that I feel it is a disservice to all parties involved to fuck someone for personal gain while faking any type of connection. Yeah, I'm a softie deep down. That's the big con. Tricking the dumb man into thinking that you care about him. That's why the guy is really there, I have to imagine. A guy who finds himself with a prostitute has a hole in his life that is in need of some patching and I don't think a romp with a stranger is going to help at all, but I'm no Psychologist nor stranger romper.

Just as women get into porn, stripping, prostitution because of something really shitty that a man they trusted most likely did to them, men are there, too waging some type of revenge on the opposite sex. It's a collection of unresolved problems and issues preventing a person or persons from truly living a fruitious life. Yes, strippers love money the way ducks love bread (thanks, Tony), but I think the money affords them the freedom they need to distract them from the core issues that haunt their souls whether that be cocaine or sweats with writing on the ass of them.

Now, I don't know shit about anything and I'll be the first person to let you know that, but at least I know that I don't know. That's the first step towards learning. I do know that I'm not a huge fan of strippers ever since I got to know a few in college. They all had potential to be totally normal and some of them could even have been girlfriend material because they were super hot, but that's where everything stopped. You need so much more as a person than a nice rack and good hair. There's humor, intelligence, self-esteem, the ability to deal with Nazi's-looking-into-the-ark-and-melting stressful situations.

Yes, she must look good in a bathing suit and fit well with you on a couch in a pair of sweats while it rains, but she also must be able to beat you in Scrabble and look at you and go "Fuck you. You're totally wrong. I'm Googling that."

Instead, these beautiful girls would be in the bathroom when I got home from work stuffing themselves full of pharmaceuticals. I think that's what was going on. I kind of didn't even want to know what was going on at 3:00 AM on a Sunday morning. I just kind of had to use the restroom and noticed that they would be in there for a while.

About a year ago I did find out about one of them wiping herself with our hand towel because there was no toilet paper in the bathroom. The information came from a dude in a tree who was looking in through the bathroom window and is one of the creepiest, but funny stories I had heard in a while. She was hot. I don't think she was up a tree and peek in the window hot, though.

Do not mistake any of this rant as misogyny. I don't hate prostitutes, strippers and the like. I find it disappointing that a person is at that place in their life. I feel the same way about 45 year old guys at Best Buy. In a perfect world everyone could be a fireman or an astronaut. In a perfect world the homeless would be clean shaven and smell like cucumber lotion from Victoria's Secret. In a perfect world there wouldn't be the need for people to sell themselves and there would be someone for everyone like they say in books. Huey Lewis had song called Perfect World, didn't he? Yep. 1998.

So, back to the show. There have been two episodes that I've seen and a prostitute has cried on both. They really aren't that hot and I can't believe the clients. The idea of sitting in a double wide and looking at a lineup of dive bar chicks just sounds horrible to me, but at least I got to see the process without actually going to one of those places. Finally, I guess I'm looking forward to next week's episode.

The Book of Jim 3:16

So, I knew I was not a huge fan of my birthday and kind of didn't like Christmas, but Easter was retarded. Something was going on subconsciously that just wanted to ruin Easter any way I could yesterday. It started with theological debates with my Mormon grandmother where I immediately began the Bill Hicks inspired dinosaur bones argument versus the 6,000 year old bible history.

I think it started because she told my nephews that Jesus was speared and gored to make way for the Jewish holiday that was approaching. I countered to save their tiny brains by telling them that Jesus wasn't special and that they did that to everyone. She then turned and it was on. Yes, I'll argue with my grandma when I find it appropriate. She got a little pissed when I called her "teachings" propaganda projected on children's ears incapable of independent thought.

Now, sidenote here. Her and my grandpa raised me for a few years while my mom went to court reporting school and was 21 years old, so we go back a bit. Also, for loyal readers, I was raised and baptised Mormon so during this talk my poor grandmother is trying to figure out where she went wrong and why am I not drinking Postum and paying a 10% tithing. Not a huge fan. I actually told her about the day that I became agnostic. I was six years old and had to stay with some Mormon friends of the family that were not the Osmonds. So, I'm six years old and one of the kids asked me if I believed in God. I told him I wasn't sure. He replied that if I didn't I was going to burn in hell and be in pain for eternity. By the time, I had woke up the next morning, I was done with it.

Are you going to sell fucking Diet Coke by saying "Drink Diet Coke or you are going to burn and be in pain for an eternity?" This fear bullshit would only possibly work on the religous fucks who somehow find comfort in fear. Life is too fuckin' short to fear shit like that you god-fearing-retards (Republicans). Live a little. Snort coke off a hooker's ass. Christ, if there is a heaven, don't you want to bring stories about living? Do stupid shit. It makes life interesting and worthwhile. When your life goes to shit, you find religion. "Uhhh. Sorry, sir. You did too much heroin. Now, go find God."

You ever notice that it doesn't go the other way? Like, "Jesus, I way OG'd on God and totally found heroin."

Really, though, I could care less if you worship a fucking coffee pot or Zeus. It's your fuckin' right. The spot where I have a problem is when you force your beliefs on someone else. Don't you fuckin' dare knock on my door to talk about your savior unless she is naked, hot, willing and with you. Don't hand me a fuckin' pamphlet. Don't even look at me if you have a name tag on and ride a tenspeed door to door spreading your beliefs. If you want to impress me with your faith, sit down with three people of opposing faiths to yours and have fuckin' lunch. Now, that's a perfect world. As soon as we realize that no one is really going to win, we can start to move forward. No one is keeping score. Also, remember that no one keeps score after 1:00 AM.

Things:

Things I like: I like Nalgene bottles. I like movies that don't have Whoopi Goldberg in them. I like Lazy Sundays next to the pool with a book and my iPod and an occasional small Asian child semi-drowning while I nap. The last part I don't really like it just happens all the time in my complex. I've pulled two out of the pool to date.

Things I fuckin' love and had no idea that I loved: The teriyaki chicken bowl from Wahoo's Fish Tacos. It's black beans, ahi rice, teriyaki chicken and a tiny amount of a salsa garnish. My only thing that I would change would be more vegetables, but that thing was super good. Plus, I got to watch skate vids the whole time while I ate and noticed two John Lucero stickers stuck to the wall. My first real deck was either an old Lucero or a Caballero with Boneite. Probably the Lucero. It was such a tight deck. So, yes, I love the chicken bowl at Wahoo's and I think I will add it to my list of places to dine alone.

Things I may like: I went to Fry's at lunch to buy a new mouse. I had a bluetooth mouse because I kept catching my ankle in the cord of my other one, but the bluetooth went batshit crazy and was retired in favor of the Logitech MX 620 Cordless Laser mouse. I'll admit, I'm more of an optical mouse guy, but whatever, as long as there is no cord to get caught in, I'm good. The new mouse has a kickass scroll wheel that you can just spin forever. I'm a huge fan. Can't think of a compelling need for it, but awesome.

Also, I got reversible headphones. Swear. They are A4 Tech DualFit Metallic Earphones. They are so metal that they are made of metal. That's metal. One side is more bass responsive and one side is for "Clear, Crisp Sound." Honestly, they aren't the best sounding headphones, but they block out office noise (co-workers talking to me or each other or their kids on their phones) very well.

Things I would like: One night of uninterrupted, eight-hour lasting sleep.

Of Nano-Climates and Scientists

First off, I (heart) the new We Are Scientists album a lot. I noticed yesterday that at 2:44 into "Let's See It" there is a blender or vacuum or something going on in the left channel. I kept taking my headphones off at work and looking around for what was making the sound. I looked like a tard.

Update: "Chick Lit" off of Brain Thrust mastery makes me want to dance on a houseboat after taking two Vicodin and drinking four Bud Lights. If not, I'd put money on it happening on someone's coffee table. If I'm at a party or any type of function accompanied by music at your house, do not put this song on. If you do, your coffee table will be danced on. BTW, horrible dancer. Horrible.

Here's a picture from my sister's birthday that I took. I've got pics from the drive up through the city (SF) that I'll have to post. There is a Doggie Diner, my old flat, and traffic jams. The change of scenery that flashed by on the way to Healdsburg was kind of a trip. Also, Cotati still smells like ass. I stopped at a Target there to buy some shorts in the event that a hot tub party erupted at the house. I secretly enjoyed the peacefulness of the house and Healdsburg, but that's just between you and me. If anyone found out, I'd lose a shred of streetcred-grade smarminess.


Oh, so the reason I logged in to post was to post today's office nano-climate forecast. It's exactly the same as everyday. I just read this about my office on weather.com.

"From 7 - 10 your office will be amazingly pleasant. At 10:00, you will start to notice loss of feeling in your hands as joint hardening cold makes its way from your fingertips to your shoulders. At 11:00, working with the keyboard will become almost unbearable to the point of violating OSHA standards set for meatpackers working in refrigerated warehouses. At 1:00 someone will have complained or they just plan this, but the office will start to heat up in an effort to lull you gently to sleep in a way very similar to that of a hypnotist's pocket watch or a roofie. At 4:00, perfect office climate will be achieved again as you leave."

Hey Phucker

Okay. Here's a follow-up. I looked at the e-mail that I got from HP after two days of trying to contact a human being.

There was a ton of idealism in college about how to conduct business, but some of it rang true if not made a good rule to bend slightly when conducting commerce i.e. making the world go round. This is ridiculous, though. Look how personal this e-mail is:

"Dear Customer, (Customer. That's like writing dear HR Manager when submitting a resume. It's just faking it. If it's going to fall flat like that and shout that it's a form letter just don't even try.)

Thank you for your order from Hewlett-Packard. This is your delivery receipt. Please keep it for your records. Should you need help, please contact customer service (There is no such thing. HP customer support without a support contract is an urban legend) of the Hewlett-Packard store from which you purchased, by following the "contact hp" link from the home page. You don't buy the product that I bought at the store. Maybe should have stuck with a more general form letter that just said 'You, thanks.-HP Peace Out.'

As always, your interest and continued use of Hewlett-Packard products are greatly appreciated. We look forward to serving your needs in the future. I don't think HP has any interest in serving me in the future and they will still probably get the sale. It feels like sleeping with an ex. I'm going to feel dirty and of low self-esteem when I buy this product. I will feel like a man of no discipline and morals. I'll feel professionally whorish making this purchase.

Sincerely,

Hewlett-Packard Company (There is nothing sincere about signing a letter like that. It's like getting a note from your car on a post-it. 'Hey Hugh. I need a car wash. Sincerely, a Honda Civic Automobile.)"

So, I'm going to recommend that Hewlett-Packard Company go to Borders Bookselling Company and purchase a book in the Business section about customer-centric business practices. God knows there are a ton of those kinds of books. Instead of illegally listening to their board members phone calls a few years back, they really should have focused on listening to their customers. This was a shoo-win sale, but I'm going to look for something open source or a competitor. This is ridiculous.

Sincerely,
Hugh Voltage Blogging Organism

Huge Pain

Ummm. If you are driving in silicon valley and you see an HP building, just let me assure you that it is an empty building. Even if the parking lot is full? There is no one in that building. You see people? Holograms.

Trying to get anything from this company has proved to be a phone maze of button pushing which is entertaining as some kind of meta-game of commerce, but when you are looking to perform an efficient and timely business transaction, you don't have time to play meta-games.

I seriously have no idea how this company sells anything outside of ink, but they do have an elaborate system of license granting and e-mail procurement that leaves people completely out of the loop. They should remove all of the jpegs on their web site that show people and just put phone keypads. Seriously. They have me by the balls on this because I need the product and I especially need the license so that I can get the patches I need to get Internet Explorer to work again after their demo version killed it this weekend. Fuck. Not a huge fan of HP right now, yet feel closer to them than I did a week ago because of all the time we've spent together lately.

Also, I'm a little suspect (sounds like a midget pickpocket) of their disdain towards people. When did SkyNet become self-aware? 1997? I'm not going to point any fingers, but could HP be the company that is going to turn against the human race with it's phone recording, button mashing army?

Dude, you're just not that awesome.

When you are me, nights can go from routine to interesting within seconds. When I meet people, I'll leave a mark sometimes. For instance, last night, myself and a couple of other guys from my soccer team went to get a few beers at my local watering hole. The watering hole where I have CDs in the jukebox for my comfort. The watering hole where I know the bouncers and all the staff and have been on drinking missions outside of their establishment with them. It's a safe place.

So, when a small Irish man gave his ID to the bouncer while we were talking and then one of his friends called him by his bald Irish name, I realized I knew who he was and he wanted to kill me for dating his girlfriend after picking up on her in front of him and then telling him to "punch me in the fuckin' face you fuckin' pussy." Pappy was there and claims I kinda ruined breakfast. It happened a long time ago, but I didn't know if he had let it go. He hadn't recognized me yet, though, and I was seriously within ten inches of him. It was like being invisible. I felt like I was swimming with a tiny shark all night and milled about narrowly missing bumping into him and looking over my shoulder a lot. I figured a punch was going to come from behind and I kept my eye on him just in case.

Then, the bouncer walked up to me and goes "He heard someone use your name and figured out who you are and was talking mad shit about you out front. Watch your back."

This is the price of handsome and charming. It just puts a damper on my night. It's not that I'm handsome. It's not that I'm charming. It's not that I'm awesome. It's that he is not that awesome. It's dudes like him that lower the bar for me to look good. I was just a vehicle for his girlfriend to get out of a situation that she was not really happy in. If anything I did him a favor and yes it feels like ripping a band-aid off, but sometimes you just gotta count to three and rip it at two.

I will say this, though, it's no reason to make out with a fat chick in front of the bathroom in a public place. Get a hold of yourself, dude. People are watching. That's just a loss of self-respect. If you are going to make out with a girl in a bar, make sure she is super hot. Pro tip.

Dude, you're just not that awesome.

We Are Scientists - Brain Thrust Mastery

Song by song review of the new We Are Scientists album. I've only been through it a couple of times and I've been working while I did it, but I'll make this quick.

1. Ghouls - I was expecting the first song to jump out of the gate like they did on With Love and Squalor. They fuckin' hit the ground running on that album and the video displays another reason that you should fear bears. On Ghouls they are still self-deprecating with a tongue in their cheek. I hope it's tongue in cheek. Well, basically it starts "We all recognize/That I'm the problem here." It dirges along on the bass line for a bit and then the drums and guitar come in and it picks up a bit. There is a sample in the left channel unless the drummer is riding the hi-hat. Kicks in the right channel. I dig it a bit. Overall, though, this song just serves as a long, repetitive, ambient demo.

2. Let's See It - The riff in this song runs up behind you and puts you in a headlock. It's awesome. There is something Phil Spector-ish of the chorus on this song. I think it's the chamber echo or ginormous reverb going on. It just sounds real good. This should be the single off the album. I'm not sure which one is. The pre-chorus "Oh-Ohs" are pretty good, too. Those are good in songs when used properly. They always remind me of Genesis' "Land of Confusion" for some reason. What a fucked up video that was. So, yes, love this song.

3. After hours - What's up acoustic guitar? Hmmm. Someone in white pants will dance to this song like George Michael in the Wham! years. This song reminds of something, but I can't quite get my hand around it. Oh, it reminds me of the song Common People by Pulp which was recently covered by Shatner and Joe Jackson. It's almost got a Killers vibe to it except it's not whiny and shitty.

4. Lethal Enforcer - Holy Shit! You got your Duran Duran in my We Are Scientists. This is straight up DD, but without biting. It's a jam. This is a cool song. Chris Cain is becoming one of my favorite modern bass players. He knows just the right notes to play and carries some of the songs as they are a trio. He is definitely tapping the vein of John Taylor on this.

5. Impatience - This song is different. I'm mixed on it. It isn't bad, but it isn't awesome. It's song number five out of eleven. It fills space. It gets kind of Killers in the middle. No band wants to be compared like that. So, again, it's that Duran Duran that the MTV generation carries with it whether they know it or not. The Duran Duran bridge that you write and then go "Fuck, I just wrote the Duran Duran bridge."

6. Tonight - Pulling off the 80's guitar tone on this. This song pulls the listener out of song 5 like the administration of CPR to a drowning victim. Well arranged, interesting and fuzz bass. Love it. The bass just owns the bridge. This song is cool.

7. Spoken For - The guitar has that Spector vibe again. They must have done their homework between albums and have good musical taste. This album definitely shows growth from their first album and is not a rehash. There are similarities, but there are also a lot of changes. It's cool. They are so rad the way they will have this shoe gazing groove going and then in the bridge just grab you and throw you across the room. Take a note Jack Johnson, it's called dynamics. Really cool arrangement.

8. Altered Beast - Bass line sounds like Muse right here in a good way. The production on this one is so dense you could take a bite out of the backing vocals if you had to. The use of space by the drummer on this song is smart. You don't need to hit all the notes when the bass line is keeping the rhythm. It's like a throwback to old school jazz when the bass carried the rhythm and the drums were the accents and syncopations. Write that down.

9. Chick Lit - Dude, a hybrid. This sounds like We Are Scientists and Duran Duran. Perfect melding of an influence. Paying homage without biting. It's a gray line. This song is great. The groove is sick. The club remix is probably already in the can.

10. Dinosaurs - You could sing "Devil Went Down To Georgia" over the beginning of this song. Cool groove. Good bass line. They're a good band.

11. That's What Counts - It almost is Roxy Music Club-by. The harmonies are great. There is also a great organ on this song and then a sax thrown in. They are keeping music interesting and I thank them for that.

Pre-Order Brain Thrust Mastery here. Seriously, pre-order it.

New Advertising Campaign Idea #234

It's really based on my love affair with Yoplait yogurt which borders on the obscene-No, I have never stuck my...whatever, I don't need to justify my love affair with Yoplait to anyone. It's between us and that's all that matters. It started when I was a kid and the foil top and shape of the container was so much cooler than the fruit on the bottom or Alpha Beta brand yogurt. God, fruit on the bottom yogurt was so gross. Anyway, it was just way cooler and more fun to eat because it felt like you were eating the insides of a tiny spaceship.

I recently was at the grocery store in a hunger blackout and came home with 10 containers of Yoplait, beanless turkey chili, and I think I actually bought corn dogs or something. Rule to live by: Don't go to the grocery store hungry or high. It's like going to Vegas and drinking to many RVs (Red Bull-Vodkas) and you start seeing through the cards, spilling a drink on the table every twenty minutes and giving a speech to a blackjack dealer that if he is offended by the word "Fuck" then he should go to DeVry and get a different job that's not in a casino filled with drunk people trying to get their rips in before Cirque Du Soleil or a marriage. Yeah, grocery shopping hungry is exactly like that.

Anyway, I was just thinking how awesome it would be if Yoplait put out an ad campaign inspired by the Cocoa Puffs Cuckoo who is cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs and goes all ape shit to try to eat them which implies to children watching the cartoon that they should wear down their parents until they buy them so that the children can be crazy, too.

So, I was thinking that the Yoplait version could be an animated French mime that just appears on the screen with accordion music on in the background. First, he puts on a beret. Then, he lights up one of those super long cigarettes that French people smoke and says very subtly "I'm gay for Yoplait." Other commercials could feature notable French people and gay people alike announcing that they are gay for Yoplait. I'm sensing a movement much like the "I'm a Pepper. You're a Pepper." movement. It would be like "You and I are gay...for Yoplait."

I'd like to see that commercial. I'd also like to see what would happen if I walk by a mime and say under my breath, but just loud enough for the mime to hear, to someone "Don't worry. It's just a shitty clown."

You Can Be A Winner At The Game Of LIFE

So, the story goes that Newton was sitting under a tree and a coconut fell out of it and hit him on the head and that's how he discovered...Wait, dude. A coconut? He lived in England. I think I've got the Schoolhouse Rocks! version of this smashed into my memory. It's like knowing the comic book or rather, graphic novel version of Moby Dick or the Bible.

Regardless, I subscribe to the belief that the best things in life happen when you are not looking both ways before you cross stuff (rivers, landing strips, roadways). Besides the pedestrian fatalities and curb induced concussional blunt head trauma victims, the people that don't die sometimes experience some cool stuff. It's a kind of social Darwinism, meets luck, meets Kismet and then smashes you over the head with a flower pot while you hope for the best.

That is the best way I can describe life in general. At least, life as I know it. Don't try anything. Do something. Always remember, however, that your cards may already be dealt no matter what you do. Good things can happen if you sweat your ass off or just point and laugh. Life is awesome and shitty at the same time like that.

I forgot why I was talking about this this morning. I guess the point is that you can never take yourself too seriously, nor your surroundings. I mean, guy, if there is someone with a shiv in your kidney in the shower in jail, take it seriously. That is not the time to laugh at yourself and the wacky situation that you got yourself into. For the rest of us who sit at coffee shops and do crosswords and have a positive outlook on life without feeling that we are owed something, though, it's good to know that good things can happen for no reason.

These good things can range from getting an onion ring in your large fries at Burger King to finding a ten dollar bill in the dryer. That's the biggest range I've been able to pull off in the recent past, but it counts.

Actually, I'm finding ways to stumble into good things happening, as well, after a crash course down the path of good intentions and least resistance. I'm smarter than that. In fact, I'm smart enough to write subtext into documents by saying cryptic things.

I've also left a path of destruction behind me while I was stumbling, but wouldn't change a thing. It was worth it already. I really needed the bitchslap of how good people still were that I received lately. It helps restore my faith in the fact that there may be less crooked hookers than good people in the world. The crooked hookers were really winning for a while, but some people can be so fuckin' rad. The trail of the dead that is left behind is really inconsequential.

Happy hump day.

Hey Diddle-Lee Dee...

...Ninjas take a point in the ongoing battle of pirates vs. ninjas unless someone can find a book called Sodomy and the Ninja Tradition. Sweet. I'm seeing Google search hits on "Ninja Sodomy" now. Whatever. See below.


Here is a link to the GoogleBook page.

I (Heart) Will Arnett

He lost his gig as the voice of the car in Knight Rider, but that may have been fortunate as I watched that piece of dogshit Ford commercial and it was beyond awful. Will Arnett is brilliant for this.

The News

I'm sitting here working diligently and shuffling the 8,000 songs on my iPod. It's always interesting. I noticed that that Journey song "Lovin', touchin', squeezin'" or whatever it is, is not as bad as I previously thought. I'll expect one more gray hair for having that thought.

Anyway, there is the volume adjustment in iTunes that I have to occasionally use on some files. Journey was actually one of them and Huey Lewis & The News is definitely the other. I'm mindin' my own business writing a retarded script and "WHACK!" H & The News just starts blarin' in my fuckin' ears. I think it actually may have caused a nosebleed. Sadly, it was "Doin' It All For My Baby" off of Fore!.

The preceding paragraph may have just inspired me to put together an awareness campaign towards musicians that would demand respect for the letter G in the use of present participles in song titles. It's just an idea. Somethin' to do.

A Confession

So, that's Hugh Voltage in Halo 3. He's a corporal grade 2 and is very aware that there is a war going on in the future...and it's being fought by 13 year olds.

I went home last evening after work and cracked a beer and started playing some Halo 3 again. It had been like a week and I had been playing some other games because my dreams were getting kind of disturbing and my hands would shake for a little bit afterwards. Totally healthy. Last night I dreamed that I had moved back in with my step-dad and that I witnessed a helicopter accident on the freeway. It was stressful enough to wake me up.

So, first couple games were mellow, I was learning the controller again and playing with no headset. I had forgot some of the maps and was just getting pwn3d on some of them. Occasionally, I would get carried by really good players.

Like five beers later, I'm still playing and I've got the headset on and I'm talking shit back. One kid is just ranting in Spanish, but myself and another guy are kinda catching some of the stuff he is saying. I think he said "Head Shot" in Spanish a bunch. Then, these two twelve year olds were just yelling about pwnag3 and dominating the game. Finally, this four man team had screen names of "Douchiest," "Less Douchie,""Douchie," and "More Douchy." They then whipped our ass in about three minutes. They were douchie.

One dude started talking shit directly to me and I told him that he is fat, pimply and can't do one sit up in real-life and to enjoy his alternate life in an imaginary universe. He, then, got all quiet and just replied "Dude, it's all I do." It felt like an intervention and I felt kinda bad.

Then, I accepted a team invite from afro man jkls and this other guy. Afro Man is hecka good. He is also 13. The conversation went like this:

"How old are you HughVoltage?"

"Dude, I'm an old man. I'm 32."

He replied "I'm 13."

Then, the other guy goes "Don't worry about it, dude. I'm 40. You've got a dude coming up behind you."

I'll admit it was reassuring to know that there were older guys playing than me. I'll also admit that it was way more cost efficient than spending the evening at a drinking establishment. I just don't know why I never get good.

Dude, I look kind of bad ass in that picture. I could see how people could get lost in their Halo dude.