Whitey Rice or Brown?

I moved to NC several years ago. When I did one of the first things I did, one of the first things you do, is go to the Grocery Store. When you're struggling to beat out a life in a empty apartment surrounded by a new place, you're going to need some Ramen. So I'm toddling along the aisles going through a mental checklists of staples, when I notice that they didn't have my rice. shit. My beloved Niko Niko rice which I had pratically lived on in college was not with the other rice bags. With a glum puss and a suspicious eye, I picked through the other foriegn brands (foriegn to me, they were all american brands) and selected a bag.

me(grumble): the @#@$ is this #@#@?...

Later as I was crusing through the aisles trying to think of things to buy I noticed an "ethnic" aisle with a Chinese section. okay. I noticed more rice in the Chinese section. and lo and behold, bags of Niko Niko! I was elated...

and then I thought about it..

me: What the $@##@?

They are two different rice sections. One for the Chinese aisle (with the good rice) and one for the regular aisle..

?

One of the interns today walked up to me smiling and asked if I had gone out last night.

jefe: Uh yeah, actually

intern: [smile broadens] where?

At this of course I was pouring over the recollections of last night wondering what the hell she was grinning at. Had I made a fool of myself? Snubbed her?

jefe: umm.. Tylers..

intern: I was at HE's not having a beer with Michael Jordan.

jefe: [relieved] really, that's great. wow.

intern: Yeah I'm friends with some friends of his and I actually had a drink with him. The place got really crowded once everyone who was there communicated with all their people.. [etc]

As I carried on the rest of the conversation, grinning and trying to evince how impressed I was by all this, it occured to me to try and picture Michael Jordan at this particular bar. I couldn't. 'He's not' is a dive. A total dive. Its remarkable only in that it serves draft beer in 32oz blue plastic cups and that it features a large outdoor 'garden' (I use the term loosely) with picnic benches. The other odd thing is the strange mix of clientele that it attracts. Depending on the night, you may find yourself mixing with all sorts at He's not. Grungy locals, preppy b-school shits, yuppies, punk kids, etc. How these disparate groups cohabitate is a mystery to me. I guess its big enough that people can ignore/snicker at the rest of the crowd without too much of a ruckus.

Still, I can't imagine Michael Jordan at this place. The cavernous insides of the bar are truly gross, so he'd have had to sit in the "garden", but then I would imagine he'd have been mobbed by an army of salivating North Carolineans... Not too mention when the call of nature would have hailed. The men's consists of a small trough and a sink you probably don't want to touch.. gah.

fame is a mutt's game.
El Jefe

I love Scotch! Scotch is good!

In the spirit of taking stock after a year writing this shit-bird blog, I've been thinking about where I am now vs. then... I've got a regular job, the same fucking basement apartment, and a REALLY expensive piece of paper. My taste in liquor is improving tho'.

Yep. Grad school all finished. well done and two years down the fucking drain.

It's cool though. I'm sitting here at my computer, living in the free world, listening to Dusty Springfield with a glass of my favorite. If you think about it, how fortunate can one man really be?

Lately though I've been casting around for projects. Something to fill the xtra time... In fact, I guess I'm so hard up that at a party a couple of days ago, I did the one thing a smart man never does...
I volunteered.
*shit*
I was talking to some friends about hockey and it came up that we all missed fonder days playing roller hockey in the streets...

Wait a minute, I cried, we should put a league together! Hell yeah! I know tons of people!

I know, I know.. stupid.. In my defense, however, at the time I was talking to two attractive Canadian girls... whaddya going ta do?

Crap. Of course now that I'm on the record, I've got to do it. I mean people have been asking for christ's sake.

Still.. I've spent a lifetime trying to avoid being the dude with a clipboard...

Don't go changin'
El Jefe

Well the blog is one year old. Fantastic.
I'd like to thank everyone with the good sense not to read this page.

It's been pointed out to me in the past that posting the runny dregs of my psyche onto the internet was more than a little unwise. In fact, the author was assured, shit like this will keep me from any sort of elected office/position of moral authority.

Shame.

A friend of mine was telling me today how he and his wife are planning on moving to the wilds of Ontario somewhere north of Toronto to join a farm for the mentally handicapped. For twelve months they'll be off the grid, living on a farm, making crafts, farming, logging, and helping the mentally challenged day-to-day.

We're all impressed. Adventurous, Noble, etc.

Inevitably it made me think that it would be nice to drop out for a while... No longer sully myself with timesheets and the filthy lucre. Though, of course, I envision a slightly different adventure for myself. A rally-car racing academy in France for instance... Racing hard by day, drinking the local red by night..

Unfortunately though, the man has me by the balls. Firmly.

Grad school = bad idea.

Fiscally speaking.

Obfuscate

1. The act of darkening or bewildering; the state of being darkened.

I have a buddy named Jones. As far as I know Jones doesn't read this blog, so I'm going to say whatever the hell I want about him. Kind of how I wish this blog really operated in regards to everyone else.

Jones and I have had some really good times. He's a hell of a guy really. Funny in a dark satirical way that only we losers appreciate or so we think. We have a lot of things in common including a deep-seated faith, a penchant for strong beer, and distrust for those in authority. Mixed together these traits can make for an interesting mix. Well. A lot of bullshitting anyways.

At any rate, Jones and I were out the other day after work. We were at a local hole, having a beer, when ole Jonesy started getting that philosophical glint in his eye. I had been busy pondering the past. It seemed to me that if my ancestors hadn't kicked the king o' England's arse so well back in the day, my beer wouldn't have been so frosty cold or half as delicious. Etc. Etc. Typical women are to blame for the Cuban missile crisis and agriculture is the source of all evil stuff. Meanwhile as I was gazing lovingly at my pint, rolling it from hand to hand, it appeared Jonesy was sucking in wind for an announcement.

"You know Jefe", he remarked in an airy tone. "Taken in the context of a certain kind of faith, I find life ironically humorous. Quite so in fact"

I was at that point rather more engaged with processing my favorite Californian.
I belched.

"Quite Right" he said. "I mean if you think about it the expectation for success is an incredibly misguided perspective for successfully navigating a reality made up of millions of variables linked with other variables via millions of tiny causality relationships."

Here he paused, my eyes swiveled towards him as I canted my pint backwards.

In a sudden burst of energy fueled by renewed attention, Jonesy leapt up and raised his glass, staring into its contents. "If I throw this pint glass up for instance, it'll probably fall to the ground in a predictable manner right? Basic Physics. Were I a smarter man, I could theoretically model the spatter pattern and account for each drop of beer."
He smiled.
"On the other hand, a bird might get sucked into a jet turbine sending a plane crashing into this bar, wreaking bloody death and destruction, and incidentally changing the projected arc of said glass."
He looked at me, shrugged, and took a thoughtful sip.

"Killing us in the process" I muttered into my cup.

"As it happens.." Jones took off his glasses, wiped them off on his shirt, and looked around like only people who've just removed their spectacles can. A vague kind of 'where am I again' look.

Yeah, he's kind of a pompous dick by the way. On the other hand such mannerisms are one the few benefits of wearing specs.
Regardless, It seemed that he was just settling in.

"yeah. Point being?" I queried closing my eyes in resignation.

"eh?"

"'Making predictions is for asses' isn't exactly particularly exciting or original. Even for a man three pints in."

"Exactly my point, millions of variables blah, blah, blah. All bullshit really. Chance is the great monkey wrench. We can see the broadstrokes but counting on tomorrow is a mutt's game. For my money its better to expect the best and evince no surprise when the worst happens."

"What money?"

"Ehhhxactly"

"Murphy's law, I believe its called" I muttered, thinking of my own situation.

"Right, except that in my case you just assume that when bad things happen you're just being messed about with by the almighty. Taught a lesson."

"Says a man living a blessed existence"

"True enough, which is were the karma and 'God with his finger in the pie' theories get a little wonky. Who deserves true calamity? Everyday people loose limbs and lives. Who can say? No. I can't make rules that make sense for other people. From my perspective God as they say is in the details... You know how people talk about the butterfly flapping in the Amazon, blah,blah,blah? Well say the almighty, like any truly skilled con, prefers to just lightly touch the scale ever now and then. You know just enough to make a difference, but not so the screws notice"

I was only half-listening.
"Point being?"

"Eh? Oh. I just find it funny is all."

"What's that?"

"Having our hopes for success shoved back into our fat faces in such a subtle manner. Strikes me as funny somehow."

"yeah.. You're kind of a depressing fucker aren't ya."

"Hmmmm"

Don't go changing
El Jefe

Back to Normal
For graduation I received a gift from each of my lovely sisters.....

A bottle of Scotch.

Apparently the secret is out. Rather sad if one cares to think on it..

eh.

Due to recent events in the fucking lame epic o' Jefe, I'm having a good ole pisser..
and may I say that, though I hesitate to hurt feelings, Balvenie is my new best friend.... Balvenie was brought to me from far Scotland and while Wine Enthusiast may rate the 12-year Doublewood a Best Buy, I rate it a fucking delicious Scotch.

So, when asking for the Jefe it would be best from now on to check his schedule with his best friend Bal. Smart money puts me in the most comfortable chair on earth on my porch heartily drinking a toast to the British isles and their wonderous bounty.

I probably should apologize to the two Glens.. As things go, its been a good run. I still love you guys, but Love has led me elsewhere...

still want to hang out?

Here's to ya
El Jefe

Just another Ipasian day...

Jfizzle and I are shooting the shit in his cube.. We were probably working on something or other. Some network issue blah,blah,blah... We're joking around and suddenly the fizz grows a little pensive..... I lean in and question this sudden change of mood.

Jfizzle: jefe, I've decided that from now on, I'd like to be called the Wolf.

*he grins*

me: uhmm.. yeah?

Jfizzle: absolutely.

* he leans back in his chair and stairs at the ceiling panels*

The Wolf: I think it fits.. "You sending the Wolf?.... Shit, negro, that's all you had to SAY!".. Yeah I like it... Call me the wolf

me: sure... is that the wolf or just wolf?

[The] Wolf ponders...

The Wolf: The wolf.. you gotta have two syllables. Definitely

me: sure?

The Wolf: yeah, I'm all in

me: right then..

I turn it over a bit..

me: I'll be coyote then. without a 'the' though. Just kiy-yote... Kiy-yote

The Wolf: right, two syllables is the way to go.


--Later--


Walking down a hallway with the indomitable WH...

[Coyote]: So from now on, call Jfizz the Wolf...

WH chews on that.

[Coyote]: and I'm Coyote before you ask...

WH: really?.. huh.. do I have a nickname?

inner jefe (sensing a trap): shit. does he?

[Coyote]: uhh no, I don't think so..

WH: You dick, yeah I do. it's Constantino! remember?

I do remember. We had agreed over Mexican and a few too many beers on nicknames. We figured at the time that what we really needed were a couple of badass monikers with which to get the ladies. Names that had fire and edge to captivate the fairer sex. one of those nights...

WH being a feisty Peruvian with declared machismo decided on the name Constantino. A good name. Constantino is a man who sucks the marrow from life, A man with women's names tattooed on his biceps. Me? What did I choose? Did I choose a name dripping with testosterone and awash with manliness? No... Being an inexplicable enigma, a puzzle with no solution, a mystery wrapped in a conundrum, I chose the name Chinatown...

ehhh right. I'm still kind of on the fence when it comes to Chinatown. What kind of connotation does the name carry? Either one thinks of a buzzing morass of refugees, immigrants, and men with nothing to lose, or Chicken-fried rice.. I personally belong to either camp depending on how hungry I am... most people, however, just laugh. And while the badass-ness of the name Chinatown is certainly debatable, It's certainly not going to attract any ladies which was, you'll remember, the stated point....

I should defintely have called Constantino....

[Forget it, Jake. It's Chinatown.]

El Jefe