Whiskey in my life

I've heard Whiskey is currently experiencing a popularity boom unlike ever before. It probably has something to do with me coming to enjoy it.

I've always loved whiskey. Long before I ever drank any alcohol. Maybe because it originated in Ireland, I'm not sure. No one in my alcoholic family ever drank whiskey. It was always my default idea of alcohol.

I'm not going to go all wikipedia, or drink expert here, I just want to lay out my opinion on the matter.



The first whole glass of liquor I ever drank was some Jim Beam. I was 21 years old, it was about the end of 2003 and I was in Stockton on leave from the Navy. I had never been drunk before so I told my dad I wanted to see what it was like. He let me drink his Jim Beam, but it was only about a glass and it didn't actually get me drunk. I wouldn't have another sip of alcohol for 2 years.

I love the process of making whiskey. The charred oak barrel aging is actually where most of the flavor comes from, though whiskey is never distilled to pure alcohol, so it retains the flavor of its grain origin as well. Like pretty much everything else on earth, there are hundreds of ways to make it, and many variants. I would like to note one in particular, Bourbon, which I recently learned, is found in almost all major foreign bottles. Scotland, Ireland, Canada, etc? get their barrels from Kentucky (namely Jim Beam) and reuse the barrels, so most Irish, Scotch, and Canadian whiskeys have a certain percentage of Bourbon in them (and it isn't as little as you might think). Now how can you get snooty knowing that?

Coming in usually around 80 proof (40%) whiskey is mid range in the liquors, above the girly drinks, and below the mixers.


I'm going to list here most of the whiskeys I'm rather familiar with, with a snippet of opinion and rating.


Good Whiskey

Glenlivet I drank this for the first time a little over a week ago. Tony got me to go to a boring party in Ukiah, which was a 4 hour drive, I should do a blog about that. In fact, I will. It was the first single malt I've ever had, and it was very fine. It had a burn to it, so It's not as miraculous as I oddly assumed single malts were, in fact, tasting it, let me know single malt doesn't necessarily mean anything at all. I enjoyed it neat and that's about as good as it gets for me and whiskey.


Jameson This may be my second favorite whiskey, purely by its taste. Jameson sure doesn't have what Budweiser calls "drinkability" it has a harsh burn to it, but it does taste and smell very good. It also isn't anywhere near as syrupy as most whiskeys, which makes it easy going down. I like Jameson because it lets me get drunk very quickly. When I was in San Diego I did security for about 8 months. Work started at 5am, and I had no vehicle. So I would go to my ship the night before and sleep there. The thing about not having a car and being stationed on a ship on Coronado is you have to walk a lot. I have literally walked the entire length of Coronado many times. It's over a 20 minute walk to the ship just from the front gate of the base.

So each night before work, around 8-9pm, I would go to my freezer, pull out my bottle of Jameson, and drink straight from the bottle for awhile. Enough to guarantee I was drunk. Then I would begin the long bullshit process of getting to my rack. I had to walk to 5th avenue from my apartment, then I'd get in a cab, ride to the front gate of Coronado and walk to the ship. By the time I got to the ship, I'd be sober again. It took that fucking long. I'd usually be just buzzed enough to sleep soundly, which was important for having to get up at 4 am with 6 hours (max) sleep.




Jim Beam I already said this was my first drink. It was also the only time I ever had Jim Beam. My dad taught me how to drink whiskey correctly, and this alcohol didn't fail, if drunk right, very little burn, decent taste.








Knob Creek This is a premiem Bourbon by Jim Beam. It is 100 proof, so it is exceptionally more alcoholic than most other whiskeys. You can smell it in someone's glass, especially if they've mixed it with soda. I bought one bottle a few weeks ago thinking it would have a premium taste. with 50% alcohol, it is a little much for a sipping whiskey. It has a good flavor, but neat is less enjoyable than mixed with coke.


Mediocre Whiskey


Jack Daniels Oh I know I'm breaking the heart of every frat boy wannabe from the 90s until 2015 with this, but Jack is mediocre, and you know it. That's why you always put it in coke frat boy wannabe. Or you're just a tool. Either way, the stuff has a good flavor, but it actually tastes watered down. I can't explain that.




Johnny Walker Red This is the only Johnny Walker label I've had, so I can't say anything about the better ones. Red is their bottom of the barrel label, their "stuff got mixed in this and we're not sure what, but it's only been aging since you put your swim shorts away for the season so who cares" quality brand. It burns, it smells awful, and it tastes worse. It is possible to drink though. So it stays here in mediocre land.


Absolutely Vile (aka Canadian whiskey that comes in plastic jugs)


Canadian Mist It wasn't until I was long out of the Navy, long out of spending money. Long into retreat and no longer caring about anything but getting drunk, when I decided to purchase this liquor, based on price. Oh good lord. You can buy the shitiest vodka, and you're still somewhat safe for mixing, but this taught me a serious lesson. Whiskey can be offensively bad. This smells like vomit, it tastes like vomit. If you mix it with anything, it can lose alcoholic potency in dilution, but its stink, itsdisgusting flavor will never go away. Let it be a great testament that this shit sat unfinished in my poor kitchen for months before one particularly desparate day I chugged it and had to forcefully prevent myself from blowing it all back up.




Black Velvet After Canadian Mist, I swore to never buy cheap whiskey again. Give the story a few months and Danny comes over to eat drink and be merry. He brings as "gift" a mostly drunk bottle of Black Velvet. It is exactly as bad as Canadian Mist.









Great Whiskey


Chivas Regal This is my absolute favorite. Maybe it's just my subjective good memories of drinking this in foreign lands with my friend Sean (it was his favorite) but Chivas does have a lot going for it. It tastes great. I usually drink it room temperature, neat. I like to smell it first, just sticking my nose in the glass and swirl it around. It is so smooth and delicious, I pour some in my mouth and swish it around and smack it and taste and taste and oh jesus. It's seriously good. If you can't imagine a whiskey so smooth that you can drink it this way, you haven't had any good whiskey.

Who Did you Vote for With your Wallet?

http://fundrace.huffingtonpost.com/neighbors.php?type=name&lname


Check it out. You can see every person who donated to every candidate (through legal channels only I suppose). If you type in my name, you will see I donated to Ron Paul. It even gives you the addressed I lived at when I donated! It provides all the information that was asked of me when I donated, that is, name, occupation, industry. You can use the map on the page to see who other people around you donated to.

What blew my mind was how quickly I could see illegal activity. There is a campaign contribution limit, I notice one guy sent the maximum to Hillary, then a week later sent the maximum again, but used a slight variation on his name and occupation, he was at the same address, it was so obvious!

There were $352,872 in donations from my old zip code (92101) which takes up only a portion of downtown San Diego. $70,147 was donated by my current zip code which I think is impressive enough for central Stockton.

Give it a try, you can go find out what your favorite celebrities support. I looked up Ron Paul, he donated $325 to the Republican Party of Texas. Maria Shriver donated $2,452 to Barrack Obama.



Anyway. I think it's cool.

Going Back

I walk across the base. All my money is being sucked down a drain in Stockton, so I can't drive. I want to spend more time at home, so I don't ride my bike. 20,000+ people live and/ or work on this base everyday, but I am the only one who walks out the gate. I am the only one without a car or a boyfriend.



After several miles I am out. Walking into a rich neighborhood. I walk the busy road, alone. The cars tearing past don't know this neighborhood. I know this neighborhood, its past, its present, and its lives. I have walked every street. I have been to museum, the library, and the parks. I have read books; I have drunk with the locals. I have eaten all they offered. I have lain on their beach. I have been in the hotels and motels and dreamed of living out my days there. I walk this familiar neighborhood alone. I have corrected a taxi driver who thought the land owned by the Spanish decedents, because those were his primary customers. I explained to him that Coronado was built by 2 Americans. The Spanish and Mexicans had never used the land but for hunting jack rabbits. Jack rabbits that still control the night in North Island Jack rabbits that only I ever see. I the only one of 20,000 to walk the fields in the dark of the morning hours returning from ever fruitless efforts to obtain even the remotest human contacts, failing even the remotest rudimentary means of pleasure and satisfaction. I explained to the cabbie that those with money, do not ride cabs. I ride cabs, the Mexican servants he drives around may be dressed sharply, but only as a living. I walk the road until I come to the bus stop.



It has now been over an hour since I got off work. The sun is setting. It is past 7. I sit on the bench waiting to pay $2.25. The cheapest I can pay without going it on my own. The cheapest I can pay and return home before late night. I once rode the distance. The ferry that ever eludes teased me and I sought vengeance. I kept riding. I rode off the base. I rode the peninsula. Cars screamed past me at 70 miles and hour, and I rode in the dirt next to restricted areas for miles with no place to stop. One long strip of dirt and cars. I kept riding. Until the bay turned to piles of salt, salt several feet deep as far as I could see in that direction. In another, Mexico; if not by name than by all other means. I kept riding past the highways up the hill and down again, for miles through cities I had never seen before. I moved until in the depths of the barrio I could see tall buildings on the horizon. I rode until I was home. But I have no bike now. I could try to take the ferry. It is about a dollar more, but it is more consistent. The bus comes rarely.

.. ..

I sit and wait for the bus. On the bench I see the same faces. I see them everyday, and they see me. They look at me, knowingly. They know I do not belong. I listen to my iPod. I play games on my phone. Music that helps me avoid the silence of loneliness. Terrible overpriced under-programmed games on a phone just to look like I have something to do with a phone.

.. ..

Sometime in the evening a bus arrives. I get on and hope to have a seat. I have been awake for about 16 hours now, and 12 of them I was on watch wearing a gun and a bullet proof vest. The people on this bus are always different and new. I find I hear a new language being spoken each time. Korean, Japanese, German, Spanish, some kind of north European language I couldn't identify. I don't know why these people are on this bus. I don't know where they spent their day. I ride it over the bridge and into the city. It takes the barrio path to 12th. I get off surrounded by bums and tourists and cops. I am across the street from the ball park. I am a block from the convention center. I walk away from that and up the street. There are homeless masses in the streets and on the grass and in the alleys. Every time I wonder my fate, but only in passing. Up I walk past the half way homes and low cost housing and retirement home. At Albertsons I stop and purchase alcohol. I purchase food, and drink. Usually a jar of that Pom tea, usually a pizza, usually some meat and various TV dinners. I ride the elevator up to my room. The weight of my purchases tearing into my hands. I quickly enter my apartment. It is now around 8pm. I put on the TV, I turn up the AC, I make up some food and I drink. I drink. I drink until I am no longer coherent. Then I get in bed and sleep for a long time. Eventually I wake. Eventually I move around, eat, go out, drink, and make the day. Eventually. But soon that is over and I must return to work. I want to spend as much time as I can at home, so I don't ride my bike. I wait until it is 7 or 8 I start chugging whiskey straight out of the bottle for awhile, and then I walk to 5th avenue I live on 14th so this isn't too far. Eventually there is a taxi. I pay to have them drop me off at the gate, and I walk across the base.

.. ..

This was 8 months of my life. Save the girl, I did not.

Crimes and Obligations

I am now unemployed. I am running out of money fast. I am now like a normal person I suppose. I have unpaid tickets, I'm just going to assume there are warrants out on me. I'm still very much living in an apartment I've already paid to leave. In fact I paid more money to buy out my lease than I even have left. There's this one me that knows all this, and he doesn't care. There's the other side of me who is playing video games all day and is thinking about 3 things showers, food, and sleep. I've almost beat Suikoden 4. I've had the game for about 4 years and I've finally gotten around to playing it. I used a walkthrough so I could get all 108 stars of destiny.

This last year was the easiest of my career. But maybe only because I remained aloof. When I left Japan, I left a place that was painful and challenging for me, but it was real, it was life, and it wasn't all bad, I had people well, if you've read my blogs from back then. Anyway.

This is what I strived for, and this is what I got. Mediocrity.

I'm thinking about this life I'm tailoring for myself. I'll take full time classes at Delta College, I might be on unemployment, or some part time job. I'll be staying in my father's house. In a room previously occupied by my brother, until he was kicked out. I shouldn't be there for too long, convenience will fall to sanity. My relationship with my father is much better when we are not actually within shouting distance.

I will take classes, I will work, and I will watch tv. That's it. My understanding of the world, my ability to reason and develop and problem solve, my experience, I will abandon this. I can't imagine ever telling anyone that I ever served except on a resume. I can't imagine ever admitting to people that I've left Stockton. I'll just say I had this or that job. Hell I could just say I apprenticed as an electrician, didn't like it, and leave it at that.

I can never be accepted by Americans. I will always be repulsive, and a freak. I can at least pretend to be normal again. No more globe bouncing, late nights in long seas leaning against various war machines speaking casually about every little detail of every aspect of life. Now is the time for discretion. Time to casually stand by and watch all the beautiful people steal everything from me and keep me in their pen with promise of a gift. The gift of being a stone in a pyramid. I can rest now. Rest in my mind and complain about this or that while everything every decent man has ever worked for is used to further destroy everything every decent man ever valued. Come along mediocrity. Sell me out.

It Isn't Ironic!

I am tired of all these fucking 20 something dipshits whose only method of evaluating or describing works is "ironic". People wearing stupid shirts isn't ironic. Shitty presentations of malformed conceptual deveolopments aren't ironic. You're shitty humor isn't ironic. You suck, and that isn't irony either.

You know what's ironic? The Brady Bunch Movie. The entire movie is devoted to making fun of the 70s TV iconic family, set in the back drop of the 90s. The irony comes into play only when one understands that the humor derived from the family is in their absurd attitudes, clothing, and their aparent oblivious nature. In this, the presentation makes such an effort to portray how different and "modern" the 90s are, that in only a few years time the 90s characters appear ridiculous and outdated. The 90s clothing is as unacceptable as the 70s perhaps even more so. The attitudes of the "modern" characters seem childish and narrowminded whereas the family seems completely rational, a good example would be the neighbors willingness to sell-out their lives for a little money, and the high school students who don't seem to appear to possess any means of civility or happiness. The Brady family on the other hand are goal oriented and all possess analytical skills that allow them to attain their goals even if they have been "dropped in" to the 90s.

Although a movie has yet to be made to portray the 21st Century as it is, I would venture the highlight of our social structure at this point is a successful individualistic style of living. in these 00s we have more than one can imagine, our wealth is unprecedented nor is our jaded nature. With the internet firmly planted, we have children who have grown up with the world in their hands and know nothing less. Not that people seem to be any more intelligent, we just found a way to max out our own potential. In a life of unlimited resources, the parent/child relationship changes to be much less instructive, and much more guiding. A parent would now not be preoccupied with fact giving, rather helping develop a child's moral and rational abilities. Even school's fact based methods are becoming obsolete, and can focus more on teaching a student how to learn, and how to apply knowledge. In this I believe the internet has literally lifted the minds of all those who can access it, it has made it possible for humans to reach higher states of knowledge and development much faster or at all if never before.

I have just found out about a new feature on Google Map, "Street View" where you can take a 3D trip down a street and look around. You can even zoom in and read signs, or look at people and things like that. They've only uploaded portions of less than 30 cities so far, but it shows great potential. San Diego is one of them, and my street is one of them, you can move the screen to right outside my apartment. Though when the Photos were taken I hadn't moved in yet. I was able to get an idea of the date when I passed the Spreckles theatre on Broadway, its next show listed was March 15, 2007. Interestingly enough if you look at the front end of the show boards you can see that Arcade Fire will play on April 26, which was the day I got the apartment, and only 6 days after returning from a 4 month underway. I was at the Arcade Fire performance only because I luckily walked by and noticed a few hours before the show. Imagine one day having a live Street View. You could virtually travel downtown and see what's going on. See if there's a good party or a protest. The kind of things you'd either have to see for yourself, or hear about it later, the kind of fun you can't schedule. That's the irony of the old, narrowmindedness mocked by narrowmindedness. In the broad vision of life, we act to live, not to please, we live to please, not to act.

Thrown out of a Punk Show

I didn't really get kicked out. Michael did. Michael that crazy rebel who after buying a house in Aurora Colorado with his wife and baby, took a full schedule of college classes without hindering his full time desk job for the Navy. This wild man got me to come along with him to a music show downtown (after special permission from his wife) while there he drank a whole glass of beer and then in the throes of the mosh pit he lost his wrist band. The wrist band was critical in showing that he was in fact over 21, so he'd be allowed by the stage. Now the House of Blues did issue a ticket that also says he's over 21, and a receipt for the ticket, and a stamp on his right hand that verifies this as well, along with his driver's license, his military ID, and my affirmation, but the rebel Michael recklessly lost the paper wrist band in his irresponsible decision to be in a mosh pit that he wasn't allowed in without his paper wrist band that so innocently was weakened by an unexplained presence of sweat. So once security got wind of his wristbandlessness in the pit when the Circle Jerks were on their very last song, security very kindly asked Michael to leave, and even escorted him, like the gentlemen they are.

Meanwhile I was very cordially trying not to embarass these two nice ladies with my flatering glances. As I would tell Michael the full "8" on the 10 scale was dressed in fine evening attire, that complemented the high class crowd. Seeing my best friend being escorted to the exit, I assumed Michael was simply ready to leave, since the show was essentially over so I began to follow, only briefly in repose at the loss of the opportunity to further enjoy the ambiance.

Upon leaving the House of Blues my good friend asked the fine gentleman if his ticket would suffice. That is when I realized Michael had commited a faux pas and hadn't left of his own accord. At this I was momentarily overcome with emotion and I did try with my strongest voice to defend my friend's honor. If I hadn't lost my voice in the pit, I dare say I might have myself been called upon by security, for at the top of my lungs, albeit not very loud at all, I told the gentlemen that my friend was a 24 year old war vet! The gentlemen, with their distinguished careers in music crowd control, seemed not so impressed and went about their noble duty of sweeping up trash.

My good friend Michael was a bit perturbed by all of this (perhaps his heavy drinking was to blame) but I walked with him on a peripatetic and we did discuss the issue quite suffiently. In fact, I suppose the only reason that I wrote this was because I'm getting bored and nervous and this clock bullshit is really wearing me down.

Burger King Onion Rings used to be made with onions

I decided to go to the movies today. I saw I am Legend and National Treasure: Book Of Secrets. I was planning on seeing The Golden Compass, I even bought a ticket, but I was tired. I bought 24 season 6. And I headed home.

On the way I detoured to Burger King to get dinner. I didn't lock up my bike so I spent the whole time in the restaurant looking out. There was this bum standing by my bike the whole time. I had blown him off when I walked in. A car with a big open bed stopped by my bike, and I imagined what I'd have to do if they tossed my bike in their bed. That's how I lost bike number 3. Being on bike number 11 or 12 now I know how to not get it stolen. If they did toss it in the bed, I imagined droping my stuff hopping the railing, knocking a guy over, breaking the glass door on my way out, jumping into the bed of the truck and calling the police while in the truck. I even thought about how I would speak, how I would navigate the cops, and pondered if I would have to fight them or if they would take me someplace where they had backup. In all this bike worry I ordered my meal. I didn't want the soda, but I started imagining that I could find a way to bring it home with me, I certainly didn't want to spend another minute there. I got my food, went out to my bike and dumped months old gatorade out of my water bottle. I tried to put the cup of soda in the water bottle holder, but the top popped instantly and I knew it was hopeless. This whole time this goddamn bum has been watching me, nobody watches me for minutes on end, especially not entire visits, so thoughts of having to beat him to shit, and what I'd do if he had a knife crossed my mind. I imagined kicking him in the throat rather than trying to kick his knife away, in this scenario he's already on the ground (that's why he'd pull the knife of course). I decided to walk my bike for a while instead.

By the time I crossed the street I imagined throwing my soda into the parking lot or against a building, but I don't litter, I don't make messes, and I knew that God damned bum was still watching. I crossed the street again, about 3 or 4 steps into the street one of the straps to the bag holding all my food and DVDs breaks. I know that soon the second one will go, but I'm juggling a bag, a cup of soda, and a bike. At the exact middle of the street the second strap breaks all my shit hits the ground and spills out. My can of "Duff" energy drink I had purchased as a collector item is fucked up and my food is in the street. I bend over but I still have to hold my bike and the cup of soda in my hand. I start stuffing everything into the bag and I see the street light turn green on me. I move faster pick all my shit up, except for one casualty, a package of zesty onion ring sauce. I move over to the side of the road and toss the fucking cup of soda into the trash. All the while I imagine that God fucking damn bum is watching. I hop on my bike. I glide downhill. Down down. I imagine that the flood of criminals and bums I am passing can't hear me while I am traveling in stealth mode. I get down by the trolley tracks and I illegaly cross them on a red. As soon as I am on the other side I see a cop car parked so I make a right turn onto the sidewalk. I pass by a couple men who had just been talking to a bum. "Merry Christmas" they say to the bum and he walks over to one of the street saplings. He grabs a bag of something out of the tree and walked away. I am amazed by this. I just illegally crossed a street, and then these guys just did a drug deal, and this cop car doesn't move. I keep rolling down down hill. Bums and crazys and criminals. Anyway. That was my day. I know I changed tenses half way through, but my left hand is numb, I need to take a shit, I'm tired, and my food's gotten cold again while writing this.

San Diego Apocalypse

There was light this morning, beyond the dark wall looming on the buildings so far removed from the earth. The sun came high but shone not through, but around. The clouds of smoke turned black to blot the light that threatened the fire's glory. Blood red light poured over the wall, ending darknesses celebratory hold. Though the ashen rain reminded us all that the wall was moving, and it was destroying everything it touched.

Guns and guns and guns and bullets

I shot the M240G a few days ago at Camp Pendleton. It's a belt fed machine gun. I was really almost excited to do it. Not many people in America are even legally able to have that experience. I yelled out "Get some!" as I poured the bullets into an old car about 500 yards away. I'm going to shoot the M9 pistol tomorrow. I've already qualified "Expert" on it twice. You can't get a higher rating for shooting. I'm really good at shooting yep. Though my time in the Navy has never involved a need to shoot anything other than inanimate objects.

On October 1 I go to SRF A school. I will run around with real guns shooting quite painful simrounds at mock terrorists. I will be running around getting shot by painful simrounds by mock terrorists. The instructors are all war vets. It may be a lot of fun.



I think maybe if I make it out of this, I might enjoy to some extent reading these blogs that I write. Most of them while trashed. I don't look anywhere anymore.

Traffic

So I helped smuggle some chronic and counterfit money over the border with a certain un-named person this weekend. Ha ha ha! No, not kidding. Though honestly none of the shit was mine.

Mr. Wacy's Push

Here's the short of it, Wacy wouldn't listen to me when I told him my spirit was dead, because of him I ended up dancing with a beautiful half black/ half native american college girl from Novato and her 3 friends. Fucking Wacy quit and went to a titty bar. Don't know how that turned out. I really am unhappy about the matter. If I weren't dead inside I might have enjoyed it more.

Der Words

This liquor on my lips the blood of the German's Hart it is, my Russian is weak but the grain is strong, as we sing this cola song. I remember the nights of pleasures past and the newfound glories of stories that couldn't last. For it is my job to hurt, you and I and oftimes I am so good it makes girls cry. Not that I haven't, I surely wouldn't deny, but those days are over and now only silent night. The dream I had, the skin. the music, the pain, it's only today's arrangement of sugar that I disdain. But I still feel, I still move if only in mockery of the man whose words flourished in ample debauchery.

God forbid my actions and lack of faith, for I remain true in my trials and ways. I will not secede that which I held but if it ripped from me, this life that's been felled. I write this drunk of the fruits I have named, the German, the Russian, and the purest of grain, but that makes it no less true you see, for I am simply siempre a man of honesty.

Nadie or the Purses

My roommate Mr. Mikey brings a girl over every day. I don't know who they are, and I don't really care. But I noticed I can remember them by the purse they leave on the counter. I've become the drunk roommate. The girls don't really acknowledge me. I just am drunk and siiting abouts. It reminds me of Ai's (Thai woman) roommate who was always home when I came over and made fantastic happy time. She made me dinner once. Also we went to her restauraunt, where she was a waitress once. Those were good times. Now I'm out on my drunk ass.

I sometimes wonder if I'll ever have to deal with one of these women. I wonder if any of them care. I don't think so. But I'm stuck on the double standard. Where I felt no connection to Ai, but assumed she felt a connection to me. Well, not me, but I mean a more a general idea that women are more emotional about sex. (btw thank buddha I learned how to type, cause I'm litterally too drunk to read this)

Anyway. The only reason I can imagine that Mr. Mikey can pull these girls into bed is that once these girls come to our apartment (or lair of awesomeness as it is) is that he plays completely "understanding" completely "fascinated" by everything she says. I am litarally sitting next to Mr. Mikey and girl of the night (tonight it's an AC) while she's blabing about her roommate and he's "yes sir" ing her. Also I'm trashed. So it's a wonder of science that I can write this, listen to her babble, and listen to TV. I am like a superhero.

I'm not jealous of him. He has no standards. If I had no standards, I could fuck a girl every night. All I feel on this subject is that I need to die.



"So how did you become a lightweight then?" - My roommate about to fuck girl number whatever, purse: red aligator skin/ leather.

"I don't know, I think it's because I haven't gone drinking out much since "C' school" since then." -Girl who Mikey saw today, therefor invited to come over today. (It's hella the only reason I know she's an AC cause they clean the hall right next to us.)

Hey she's on "Blue Moon" number 2!

Did you know, stupid people make more sense when your trashed?

The Ice Bridge

So if you pour yourself a glass of 151 and Sprite, is ice the bridge? I mean the 151 is a liquid and the Sprite is a liquid, but the ice, it's as cold as the 151 but isn't toxic, just like the Sprite. Drinking while ironing, and fixing bike flats is more than just fun, it's intoxicating.

A Day in San Diego

Walking alone I let the World possess me.

They are beautiful and many, yet I could consume them all. Passing briskly by a sign a glow blurs my sight and burns me. I see a woman at this moment and I judge her. I think of ways to dismiss her even as the chill of winter drains me. I think of how much better I am but as this light blinds me. It is not but a few more steps and I find my place again. Left to my own accord, left unthreatened, I drop my guard, my wings, my shelter. I see children beautiful and young. I see women of all types of beauty and I think I could be happy the rest of my life with the stay of the women within my sight at this or any other moment out on the street. I think should I do something about it? There was a beautiful woman about my age and the Buddhist had gotten to her, she was shelling out something and I watched a man of great poverty approach, he hung around the nearby trash can but I imagined him going for the opportunity of her generosity. It was in this same place I stood an hour earlier with two apples. I had paid $4.00 for 4 apples at a Vons. The grocer noticed me eyeing them, I asked if these "Grapples" were just sweet apples, or a hybrid. He indicated the later and went and got a knife. He opened a package and shaved an apple, then cut a piece for me to try. It was very sweet and unusual. I watched him carry away the package. It would be thrown out so I could take one bite? I bought a different package of 4 and headed out. I ate one right away, a second while watching fire trucks pass me. I didn't want the last two. I thought I was going to see a movie so I was in that spot looking for a bum that I had passed twice. The second time I passed him I doubted him. He moved as a man of ability. Although he wore the same clothes the man walked as if he had a place to go, and it is by that, that I judged him to be someone else. I was wrong. I felt this cold. I thought how strange it me, since the last time I gave anything to a bum was because I was scared of where I was living. In the most dangerous area in San Francisco, I lived, barely housed with nothing but my mother to provide any food or clothing or shelter. I gave a bum $6.00 in hopes that he would not try to harm me or my existence on another day. So it was that the last time I gave to a bum was when I was on the verge of being one myself. None of this I was thinking about as the beautiful young woman was giving to this Buddhist who had books on Yoga. I only thought it would be funny if I took my approach as I oft tend to do in a manner most dominating and mocking by walking up to her as the Buddhist and bum try to get something from her I would ask for money too, because it would be funny, but the thought hurt me, since it's a truth I was feeling. I may not be on the verge of homelessness, though I have no home, I have recently dumped away about as much money as I make in a year, it was most of my savings, and all I get in return for that is that maybe I saved the house my mother couldn't. In her death a void was created and this void sucked away my $10,000 with no promise of anything. The Grapples as they were called could go to no one it seemed so I took out a third and ate at it. I read completely the plastic container that held the apples and I read something that set fire to my heart like a lighter, small annoying, but not so dangerous in it's standard dose. These "Grapples" were not hybrids, they were artificially flavored apples. I had paid a dollar a piece for grape flavoring on dime a piece apples. I threw what I had not eaten into the trash feeling it's better there than these lies going into the mouth of an innocent bum. I did not go to the beautiful woman handing out to the Buddhist, and none of this did cross my mind at the time, for the World was possessing me at that moment and when I turned to continue in my effort to kill my day I was blinded by the light of a sign and in my blurred vision I judged a woman as I passed.

Mi corazon, ha!! How about my handshake?

What am I supposed to say? I want to meet you. How about that? I can't sell myself very well. I am not a salesman. When do I quit?

You are cute and single and obviously very intelligent and observant and real. I am attracted to that. Very much.

If you read my blog posts you get a very interesting view of me.But you can't really get to know me through my blogs. Only direct discussion. Because I leave out so much. You don't know if you'll like my personal touch. In person is the best I'd say. I'm always honest, so I only get more real the closer you get to me. I don't want to write any of this. I want things handed to me. But you, you are still keeping quiet. You can't get hurt if you don't give anybody a chance eh? Yeah I understand. I just work the other way around. I try harder.

Spirals and the nature of the 3rd dimension (my neurosis)

I was about to declare that spirals don't exist in nature but within seconds I noticed a vine spiraling up a potted tree. Spirals do exist, but in the 3rd dimension. I was thinking of spirals in 2D. We see in 2D, which is annoying to me. None of this was what I was wanting to write originally, but it did help me remember.

I think in spirals, when I come back around I'm a little farther from where I started. Thought threads are fleeting though. I can't even remember what the particular spiral I had in mind was.

So, my current loops of bullshit;

1. I need to care again. (this covers lots of littler issues)

2. My Mother's death (oh my dollars is this a lot of issues)

3. My lack of house and transportation (FTN)

4. My morality (this is just too much)

Where I am: So I decide that once I learned enough about the Vikings, I no longer felt the guilt I've felt for years for not telling my 12th grade British Literature class all I knew about the Vikings when the teacher put me on the spot. It always pissed me off that I didn't talk about their conwquests of America, and Russia, and trade with Constantinople and their written language. Now that I have learned much more, I see that even then I was not too qualified to teach about them at any length. I figured the same logic would help me to regain my control on the General Vallejo situation. That being I have read conflicting sources siting both Vallejo, and John Sutter as having had an army that wore Russian uniforms and took orders in German. It pissed me off that I could know so much, and then be unsure of something so grand. So I thought I'd go to a library. Then I remembered that I wasted years of my youth at libraries instead of socializing. This made me feel guilty for even wanting to read more. So I thought about going to a gun store. Why now? I can't buy one yet, I should take care of important things first. This issue was dropped when the phone book revealed that gun stores aren't open on Sundays. Are Libraries open on Sundays?

I thought about going dowtown to drink and socialize, once again though it's Sunday. I didn't want to go back to the ship. I had nothing else to do, I felt shame for liking to read, so I thought about this spiraling search in my mind for something productive to do on this Sunday. This led me to want to write about spirals. As you may imagine, Fashion Valley Mall is devoid of blank paper. I saw a Hallmark store and checked it out. Cards are almost stationary, but in there I thought about the nature of Hallmark cards. There are in a sense; For those who can't write on their own. Hallmark hates creative people, because creative people don't need Hallmark. They would then logically despise blank paper, for it takes creativity to make that paper valuable.

I then went to Border's Book Store. No paper there. Not a bit. I was mad at this, but had to conclude; For the common man, there is no direct correlation between reading and writing.

Fashion Valley Mall isn't about thought. Fashion is anti-thought, if it's "fashionable" then you didn't choose it, you didn't make it, it isn't creative. I also noticed it's mostly girls there, but they came to shop, or if they came to socialize too, I wouldn't know it, becuase I'm kinda pissed at sex right now. We aren't on speaking terms.

So all I have left to do is go back to the ship. I start walking, cause the trolley was packed, and I didn't want to call a Taxi. Eventually I end up at another Border's I see a beautiful woman in there and as soon as she looks at me, I know we won't be making-up any time soon. I find a book that is all about mid 1800s California with a lot of Vallejo shit in it. I get all excited and buy it. I'm a nerd. Fuck it.

Thanksgiving Post

They wouldn't let me in because I wore Vans! That's all I got. Truthfully though I'm like 15 people. Eminem is the epitome of today's society, but it would take me sooo long to explain why.

So I've spent the last 3 nights sleeping next to a beautiful intelligent relatively successful woman who won't even talk to me. Seriously, I suck. There's nothing more to it. I just put everything into everyone. Her not having any interest in me just tells me I need to fucking stop existing. I don't even know her. It has nothing to do with that. I don't even want to know her. I, Oh fuck this subject.

I'll just say this. I keep hoping that if I die, then maybe someone would read some of my blog posts at my funeral. I'm sure that when I die it will be pathetic and half assed. The tears will be real. They'll take my money and forget me.

I still have nightmares. I've been having nightmares every night for months now. I'm sure it has to do with my dead mother. She's in about a third of them. My dead Grandpa comes along sometimes too. They're always alive in my dreams. It's always a time that never existed. It's like I'm dreaming that they are alive now, and I am not in the Navy. She deserves a dedicated post. I think she was murdered. It's too late to prove it. I haven't told anyone this. But there are very good reasons for me thinking so.

In INDOC they described the side effects of stress. I noticed I have all of them except when there's a choice, like eats too little vs. too much. Most of these started a few months ago. This year has really sucked.

I'm 24. I'm old. Not really, but functionally. I am late.





I am very not normal/ Then people say, there is no normal. Yes there is. I'm not it. You might think you're not normal, but you probably are. Normal is good. Sometimes people are better than normal. That isn't me. I have zero female friends. I mean there's Hailey who bless her heart has never met me, and the YN that's all smiles but has never done anything social with me, but they can't count. I have never had a girlfriend. If you read my posts you might want to know why I would say this. I just mean i have never had a relationsip with a woman (ehem 50% of Earth's population) that wasn't purely sexual or purely hands off for more than say a few hours at a time. How can I have any credibility as a human being with this hanging over my head? That is what I call not normal. I can't even pretend to be human.

I'm jealous of Adrian Monk.



SO What did you want Brian? I'm not Fucking God. This has been the worst time of my life, and I'm still young. Ayn Rand only wrote shit like "We The Living" when she was young, that's the most sad depressing shit ever. A girl who watches everything she held be wrentched from existance, then all the good she created came to nothing, and everything she grew to love was destroyed. She tried to create a better life and ended up dead in a forrest in a pool of her own blood mixed in snow. That's happiness for you Brian. Fucking just do what you can. If life had cheat codes it wouldn't be worth it.

I write one happyish post and just smash it to shit. You like that Michael? You want my reality? I haven't heard anything from Alexandra since I left. She's got my email and a fucking computer right next to her.

Joshua, well I imagine you found this post entertaining. I honestly hope you did.

I'm wearing a designer t-shirt from "Affliction". Why is it that when you think "Designer Clothing" it's all rich and powerful sounding, but the standard precept is that homegrown shit is always the cheaper "old style" of doing things. In the food world the designer equivalent would be a "Mom and Pop" establishment. A place you'd be proud to go on Sunday, and the "non-designer" shit would be McDonalds and Wal-Mart, both of which are chastized for being popular. So its cool to wear the Capitalist pig's clothing, like Levis or Hanes, but not to eat his food like KFC or Waffle House. Designer just means that a real artist, that doesn't suck, made it, versus a coalition or panel of old crotchety fucks and focus groups. Yeah the shirt costs a little more, but the extra dollars are for the personal touch. So go ahead and look down on people who only wear designer clothing, and keep on praising Trader Joe's home town feel you hypocritical fucktards. Not that I only wear designer clothing. I'm a Capitalist for christ's sake. I certainly don't need designer underwear when the ladies never see it.

My Mother's Funeral

I cried uncontrollably for about 20 or thirty minutes after reading a message from my sister that my Mother had died. The people on the ship were great about getting me on emergency leave. I flew into Oakland, got picked up by my Father and had him take me to my sister in South San Francisco. I went into the living room of a house I used to live in and hugged her awake. I then had her ride with me. We ate lunch at Bay Pastry, a Dim Sum restaurant in San Francisco we'd always go to after school, then went back to Stockton.

I rented a car that day with my Grandma, I don't really need her anymore to get the car, but she's always gone with me to get one.

I wore my uniform to my Mother's funeral. It was in the Castro district of San Francisco. That's the gay center of San Francisco if you didn't know. I only got one "Hey Sailor" which was enough. At her funeral I got trapped looking at her. I hadn't seen her in so long, and in the days prior I had avoided thinking about it. Looking at my dead Mom I couldn't hold myself together. My sister came up and hugged me and I talked to her up there for about ten minutes. I met a lot of people I didn't know, and some I hadn't seen in a long time. There I met a very aware and interesting little girl, my youngest cousin, Tara Dillon. I so wanted to spend more time with them all. I am very glad that I am going back in October.

When I was at my Uncle's I got to ride his $5000 road bike. I took a path along the American River all the way up to Folsom Prison. On the way I passed up some old guy, he managed to catch up with me later. Rather than face humiliation I turned off onto a foot bridge that leads into Folsom City. He followed me, but I had stopped on the bridge. He stopped too. I noticed some really cool rocks in the river, so I went down to see them. My Uncle John had told me to keep the bike close to me no matter what, so I carried it on my back down the rocky bank. It was about 20 feet down. I was wearing those bicycle shoes that lock into the pedals and they have no tread. I made it to the bottom and walked out onto the rocks. They were boulder sized and flowed into the river. I was able to stand on one that was surrounded by water that was at least ten feet deep. They were very slippery from the algae. The water was freezing my barefeet. I only had to take two steps to get back to the bank and I managed to slip on the second one. I didn't get too wet, or ruin my 4th iPod. Then I went back in the other direction so that old bastard wasn't on my trail. There were nothing but old people out biking then, my Unlce pointed out that its probably because the time of day I was out there most people have jobs.

Michael and his wife: I left Carmichael, slept at my Dad's house, then went to see Michael when I woke up. I was kinda late in leaving so I was going a good 90 MPH when I got pulled over. Somewhere halfway down the San Joaquin Valley I got a ticket, my first ever! Michael and his wife, mmmhmm, ok I think its cute that they are physically incapable of not making out every 3 to 5 minutes. BUUUUT I don't need to be there. Michael and I went to the Charger's Stadium where they were setting up for the Street Scene concert. we walked right in, me in my fine atire, to look for three people spending time in a porta-potty trying to get tickets to the concert. I couldn't even remember what radio station was doing it, and there were way too many porta-pottys. So days earlier I had only one shirt, a shirt I got in Guam. I bought another at Ross in Stockton. It was a little too small for me, but it was cool, a ratty old brown "Red Stripe" beer shirt that read "Stubby and proud of it" I wore that for about 5 days striaght, including while at my Unlce's so I took advantage of Mission Valley shopping and went to all the malls I went to back in '04 during the brief period I was stationed there. I bought some really fine clothing. I was a total pimp with a bad ass hat. I tried to tell them. We went to dinner and the "seating" girl said she really liked my hat. Michael's wife Allison said she was just being nice, and that my response to the girl, "Hell yeah!", was inapropriate. I told her she was wrong. That she can get as preachy as she wants but I wasn't the one getting all drunk and high when I was 15. That's cause I am a fucking douche, and I say those things to my best friend's wifes. Perhaps I didn't say it so harshly but when we were leaving and the "seating" girl once again said how awesome my hat was, I rubbed in Allison's face for a good twenty minutes. She's a great person by the way. If anything goes wrong with their relationship, I'm going to blame Michael. I think about how cool Allison is, and I pretty much lose all hope of ever having a good relationship. I certainly don't deserve a woman like that.

Winding down. There is so much unresolved. My Mother's boyfriend is all fucked up. My sister is all fucked up on her own. We have to deal with a house, some insurance, and a business. I left all that. I came back to Japan. Now I have unresolved issues in two countries.

I don't know what the hell is going on right now. I am seriously engulfed in something. Hearing Caitlin say "Columbian Woman", watching Michael and his life. Seeing my sister fighting, clinging to what isn't. My life. Jesus. What have I done?