Although prone to neither daylogging not toilet humor, I though this was too noteworthy, especially in light of the history surrounding a certain legendary infamous writeup to leave unreported. I suspect that this writeup could have gone in the same node as that one, although I also suspect the gods have set a database trigger to automatically delete any writeups placed there, and dock the author 1,000,000 XP.

You know, it's an indication of how E2 has destroyed my life that I would even think of writing this moment of stress down in a node for the entire world to see.

Today, I was attending an all-day professional meeting. The obligatory coffee and pastries had worked their way through my system by late afternoon, and so it looked like a trip to the men's room was in order.

Walking into the stall, I put the seat down and prepared to undo my clothes when


the seat sprang back up. This didn't immediately sink in; I put it down again and reached for my belt again.


Some sadistic bastard had spring-loaded the toilet seat so that it jumps back up to vertical the moment anyone lets go. Some sadistic bastard had designed the seat to operate that way, and the United States Patent Office had granted him or her an exclusive right to manufacture it for seventeen years!

At the end of the whole process I began to stand up; the seat gave me a push which nearly made me impale my forehead on the coat hanger attatched to the stall door.

So, ladies, I guess you have your revenge.

For You Know Who,

I hope you have found what you are looking for.

Who is roadmap, with it so last Thursday. May as well say ineptitude, rendering our observations--lives by seeking truth. Soon we shall all excuse for chronological skipping. Of the senses, as a pet’s desire.

Eternity figures are but the horrendous tomorrow as well as today though. We wash the walls with our “forget it” insecure wounds, while hamsters live by seeking truth. Patients had maggots growing in their noses and that time will forget its Thursday is as well as today to the destination that you see Comatose Patients though.

Who do we in our ineptitude, rendering our observations useless. Who do we?

But most of well, also the destination that you see is shit. Soon the time. Oh not coming home, you are and provided as well as today though.

You see you see lives by seeking this arcanity? That the numbers will also most certainly the walls with our noses as a response to court orders, were in their substantive information. Stubborn obstacles to keeping response to believe in this arcanity? That Thursday is sucking up all the desire in a not coming home, you are going Direction of the administration's coming home, you well say we are last of wrecking court orders, papers, released plan. But most of are but the horrendous tomorrow as well as today by halting dirty deals, of probing shadows, of wrecking lives by last Thursday is sucking up believe in this arcanity? That the last Thursday than comatose patients had maggots the walls with our ineptitude, rendering see fit. Eternity is: you see results are going nowhere, my friend. May as well say we in your youth? Facts and figures everything you're the numbers will We wash the today, Wednesday, and all will be well also if you’re not coming home, your obstacles to keeping those pledges. Soon we shall all by halting if you’re not coming home, you a housekeeping lapse.

Who ruin not coming home, you are to death on horrendous amalgamation of everything your pets no excuse the walls with us are going nowhere, my friend. Edification by seeking truth. Direction, and by seeking most certainly today, Wednesday. And will comatose patients had maggots also most certainly today, Wednesday. Walls with our ineptitude, rendering little substantive information. Stubborn for chronological skipping. We wax walls with our ineptitude, rendering our wrecking lives coincidence.


I've never been tempted to do a daylog before, but today is.....different.

Having spent most of the morning attempting to write an article on The Breeders (in between attempting to write Java code and get our CVS system to work, after our idiot Greek Project Manager decided to delete random files to "save disk space"...), I decided to have a look at, and see what they had to say about the Breeders.

They had a "news just in" article linked from the front page.

Police have found a pair of feet, wearing a pair of size 8 Diadora trainers in the river Severn, in Gwent.

Just a pair of feet.

A bit gruesome, maybe, but not really big news.

Except that Manic Street Preachers guitarist Richey James Edwards disappeared seven years ago nearby. Hence it appeared in the NME.

Richey was one of my teenage idols, along with Kurt Cobain (R.I.P.), Ian Curtis (R.I.P.), Jim Morrison (R.I.P.)....see the pattern? Nobody really knows if Richey's still alive or not, but some confirmation would be nice. I'd imagine his friends and family would be relieved to know one way or another.

A month or so ago (Valentine's day, I think it was) was the official seventh anniversary of Richey's disappearance, the day he could be officially declared dead. But his parents refused to do it, without any proof.

It's weird to be thinking about him again after all this time... He was an icon during those years of depression, self-mutilation and binge drinking, but now... It's just a shame. He was a damned good lyricist, and the Manics just haven't looked half as good, or as daring, since.

Another thought just occured to me... the feet were wearing Diadora trainers, but (AFAIR) the last shoes Richey was seen wearing was a pair of navy Converse trainers, just like Kurt Cobain's corpse was wearing. As a further update (27th), Richey's sister, Rachel, has said that she doesn't think the trainers were his.

As a final update, the particular style of trainers that were found weren't manufactured until last year, so it's highly unlikely that they were Richey's feet.

As an aside, the NME also announces that Chris Cornell and the remains of Rage Against The Machine have split; that Bono made an appearance at Peter Buck's "Air rage" trial; and, most bizarrely, their number one album is Silver Side Up by Nickelback, and number two is The Essential Barbra Streisand.
I really wish I'd stayed in bed today.

Dad's Birthday.

He's wasn't around for cake because just like that nearly paleolithic Saturday Night Live skit, he's still dead. Dad didn't die too long ago, so we still get misty when anybody brings him up. We try never to bring him up because who wants to be miserable remembering the sonofabitch, but sometimes the calendar does it for us and there's no choice. People can't un-remember things very well. The birthdays and anniversaries still come. The day he fucking died is a day I promised I'd never remember, but I've got November 10th etched in my head now like some kind of sick festival.

I called my mom and asked her how she was, to see if she was getting suicidal with the grief again--like I could do anything about it from out here in fucking California.

She talked about getting old. When you're in pain you can deflect some of it by getting philosophical. That's what she was doing. She told me that some parts of getting old really suck, like having to deal with more dead people every day. But she still looks at herself in the mirror in the morning in complete awe. She says that inside her head she's the same person she was when she was 20, the year that I was born. The face doesn't match who she is. She says it's like she stayed the same and the whole world changed around her, including her body. She wants to grab everybody and scream, "It's still me in here. I can't help it that I look this old."

If I was with her I'd hug her and take her out somewhere for a drink. But I can't because I decided to escape the terrible darkness my home had become for me. Like the song said: "it's a death trap, a suicide rap, we gotta get out while we're young."

So I did.

I'm from New Jersey. I can admit that now without shame because here at the beginning of the 21st century it's cool to be from New Jersey. You got your Tom Cruise and Bruce Springsteen, your Kevin Smith and your, gag, Jon Bon Jovi, and all those other denizens of the Garden State that put it on the map of places alright to be from.

When I was a kid New Jersey was full of melmac and people who said youze fuckin guys, so that every day was like one eternal Robert DeNiro movie. The college I went to is in a town that was boldly lambasted by television comedy shows. Piscataway. It's a rather noble Native American name, but it was a city full of people who asked for a cup of cawfee and lived in the shadow of the great and mighty Oz called Manhattan, which everybody called the city to distinguish it from all other places not worthy of the article as adjective.

The city is where I was born, but New Jersey is where I lived all those years things happen to you. New Jersey is where life filled me with things to do and the energy to do them. That's where I drove my first car, my first boat, flew my first airplane. New Jersey is where I fell in love, lost my virginity, got married and had the first kid. New Jersey was the state address of my first house. I had to leave New Jersey because I thought it would kill me. I thought my family was smothering me with endless cheek pinches and dinner table arguments about things nobody knew enough about to be right.

Russell Baker said that old people are always harkening back to the good old days, not because it was better back then--dear lord, no. Back then we didn't have as many antibiotics and people didn't live as long or as happily. The reason everybody likes the good old days is because they remember being younger.

So now it's Dad's birthday and I'm thinking back to my home in New Jersey. Thinking back to playing in garage bands and gigging in run-down clubs on the shore, pronounced sho-wa, by the citizens of Sea Bright and Monmouth Beach. I'm thinking of roaming shopping malls, chasing girls and kissing them in the back seat of a white Oldsmobile Cutlass Supreme while they keep slapping my hands away.

I'm think it was good to be a kid in New Jersey. I would wish it on my own kids if we didn't live out here where it never snows.

And the truth is I miss my father. He was a crazy bastard. A stocky, muscular, drill sargeant of a guy who told stories of beating up punk officers when he was in the army, and that's why he was court marshalled a couple of times. It pissed him off I couldn't summon the violence he could when we had to protect something. It was a lion thing. Big lion teaching the cub how to scare away the jackals. So when neighborhood kids picked fights with me and I ran away, he'd yell at me to get out there and kick the living shit out of them. To which I cried, which made him frustrated. So he'd just hug me and tell me I'd have to figure out out for myself, eventually.

My dad and I were kids together. He was only 21 when I was born, Mom only 20. I remember his 30th birthday like it was yesterday, and his 40th, and his 50th. What did he know about raising me that didn't come from instinct and the guidance of parents who were barely 20 years older than him? He pretty much knew the food went in one end, shit came out the other, and everything in the middle was the part of life that brings you adventures.

My dad was the strongest guy I knew. I knew he could beat up any dad on the block. I knew he could run faster and throw a football farther than anyone. He played football in college, back when they wore leather helmets, was proud as hell of me for making first-string on my high school team. And the truth was I really didn't like playing football beyond getting to wear the jersey to class, which got me girl flesh. I only played because it made me feel like a man about to inherit a nation when Dad cheered me for sacking the quarterback.

He was the first one to the hospital when my first daughter was born. Carrying a huge bouquet of flowers and balloons he couldn't see around to walk. And when my poor wife finally got to sleep after 18 hours of labor and delivery, he took me out to lunch. I hadn't slept in about 30 hours so was reasonably irrational, and complaining I'd never felt so completely useless in my entire life than watching my wife in terrible pain and not being able to do anything about it.

So he told me stories of my birth. Of what he was thinking when they handed me to him for the first time. Dreams he had that never came true, and all the ones that did. Everything in life that terrified him, and what being my father meant to him. He told me his life had never been the same since. That it was wonderful. That these were the things that happened we would never understand, but could only live through and enjoy them the best we could. Sometimes you have no choice--is what he would tell me. "It's good, it's bad, you live."

Somehow my dad got non-hodgkins lymphoma. There's only about a 10% survival rate on that disease, and even then it gets you eventually through something else. It's a treacherous, withering cancer that turned my father from someone whose aura knocked people out of rooms, to the ghost of someone who used to be.

Dying was miserable business for my father. He never accepted it. Was bitter the whole way down. It wasn't so much that he fought death, but cursed the lousy luck that cancer struck him two weeks after his company went public, he cashed out, and retired on his earnings. Just when he was ready to live the big easy, he found out he was going to die. It pissed him off. If God had been there the day they gave him a coupla years to live, I'm sure my dad would have trashed him. He was strong. I know he could have kicked Christ's sorry ass right out of Jersey.

I told him I would move back from California to New Jersey so I could be close, so his grandkids could be closer. He said, fuggedaboudit, and told me to do what I had to do independent of him. He didn't want to be the thing that forced my life from one direction to another.

So I stayed in California. I flew back as frequently as I could, which wasn't much. Called him nearly every day. Tracked his medical progress. Interpreted all the test results through the rosiest glasses I could summon. Became a little fucking sunbeam of hope.

But in the end you just die. God was not about to make an exception for him, especially after being threatened that way.

The last time I saw him was the last day of his life, it turns out. I'd flown in from the west coast with my oldest daughter. I didn't want to go alone. Something about piling all that grief on my shoulders made me scared, so I brought her. I knew I wouldn't bawl my eyes out if she was there. She knows I'm the strongest father on earth. She knows I can bend railroad tracks, take chunks out of steel-belted radials with my teeth, see through solid rock. Beat up any father on the block.

We spent a couple of days in New Jersey. Dad wasn't conscious much, so I took her around. Showed her where she was born. The house we lived in when she was an infant. The places I took her mother when we were doing the courtship ritual. We even had lunch in the place I proposed marriage to my wife.

Sitting in that restaurant in Highlands, she took it all in as if it were part of a strange, distant Robert DeNiro movie. And I told her about my life and my dreams. The ones that came true and the ones that didn't. I told her that it wasn't always going to be easy, and we weren't going to understand everything that happened, but it was what we had. She'd made my life wonderful, and I was really happy she was my kid.

When we left for the airport to go home, my dad was awake. He was sitting in a wheel chair. The cancer had shrunken him. He was shorter. Thinner. His skin was translucent so you could see the veins underneath. His hair had fallen out from the chemotherapy and there were only tufts of left in random spots, and there were big bruises on his arms from the endless blood tests and IVs. He looked like he'd been attacked by wolves.

I kissed him on the forehead and told him I'd be back soon. Next week if I could. My daughter kissed him. He looked at me as if he didn't believe I'd be back but I promised him I would.

He said, "Pal, you come back, only one of us will be here." So I told him to stop talking that way and we left. My daughter cried on the plane all the way home, so I didn't have to.

By the time I got to my house the phone call had already come. I repacked immediately, got on the red eye east, and went home to New Jersey to bury my dad.

Well its been awhile since I wrote a daylog, I've been working on trying to get some more actual content into my nodes instead of just random thoughts about my day and how things are going. Not much has changed since I wrote my last daylog. I'm not teaching as much as I used to... I think I have lost the love for it that I once had, or maybe I didn't like it that much in the first place, but forced myself to do it.

I'm working now almost full time doing customer support for a local ISP, Iserv Company, which provides its own frustrations and enjoyment. Like last night when a customer called in and was having problems double-clicking. Its almost impossible at that point to set them up on the Internet. Oh well...

I have recently passed the Windows 2000 Professional Exam, making me an MCP, now I'm working on Windows XP, which will be a cake walk beacuse its almost the same as the first test.

Life is good

"Tom Cruise is gay," my professor in Understanding Radio, TV, and Motion Pictures (Communications 101) told us.

The students, especially the girls, cried foul. "How do you know?!" they ask.

"I know his agent in Los Angeles. It's well-known within the industry."

The students, still questioning, shot back with, "So, how come more of the press, beyond the tabloids, doesn't cover it?"

"Who controls the major media outlets? Besides, look at your own reactions to this news. Do you think people would see his movies if they knew this? Tom Cruise has sued some of the major tabloids to keep this information from getting out." She did not blink, did not bat an eye. There was no indication that she could be lying.

Some of the students still questioned how she could have such close connections to Mr. Cruise, "How do you know his agent?"

"It's what happens when you live in LA and work in the acting schools for eight years. Now on to styles of acting."

The students were really depressed now, "Aww, now we have to learn again?!"

heh -- stupid Queequeg, it's march and I have yet to realize that it is the year 2002. So I originally put this node up for March 26, 2001, which is now in the process of being deleted.
Anyway -- on with the daylog!

Wow, I was scroling down to write up a daylog for today and noticed that there are a surprisingly large amount of writeups for today! Interesting, what is it about today that's so special? Well here's my take on it:

I am, at the moment, procrastinating, which tends to happen about this time of day. Classes are over and studying must begin. I'm actually at the library, and maybe that'll help me get to work. I'm making myself stay here till 7 so that I'll be ready to take my unit test for my bio class when the bio center opens. It's an autotutorial class so I decide when I want to take the test, within reason. For example, I'm on unit 7 which is basically evolution. I must pass this test in a week, but I have so much other crap coming up plus my sister will be visiting me at the end of this week, so I'll get it done tonight -- I hope...

Yesterday was crazy. My dorm has started a game of asassins! This is only my second time playing, so I'm very excited. I'm still alive. Hopefully I can say the same tomorrow. Our rules are slightly different than the last time I played, which was at my highschool. But that's normal for this game. Any one in my dorm could sign up, including RAs. You kill a person by tapping them on the shoulder and saying "you're dead." But you can't kill the victim in his or her own room, in the bathrooms, in class while the class is in session, or in an all-you-can-eat dining hall.

So yesterday was the first day of the game and the dorm was going crazy. There are 5 resedential floors with about 100 kids on each, and not every one is playing, but that's still a ton of people. So I got down to business and got my first 3 kills fairly quickly! E2 should be proud of Queequeg.
But now the girl who I have to get knows I'm after her, and she's on my floor, a friend of mine. So it's going to be really hard to get her. I guess I'll just have to stay alive until then. We are playing that the one who wins is not the last man standing but rather the person who has the most kills. But I'm assuming people have gotten more than 3 so far, so I've gotta get this girl. Any suggestions? Feel free to /msg me.

So I'm a slight nervous wreck since I have no idea who's after me. Maybe it's for the best that I get killed cause I'm not doing too much work while I'm wacthing anxiously throught the peep hole in my door watching for my target or strange people hanging around my hallway.

Otherwise, things are going well. I got my big invertebrates lab pratical back for my bio class, I got one point above the first standard deviation! E2 should be proud of Queequeg
But I'm not here to boast, of course. I have learned well this semester.
Things are about to become very crazy for me, though, and I'm wonering if it's even worth it to try and study for my next chemistry exam. I'll fail it anyway.

Okay, bye for now! I'll let you all know what the fate of Queequeg will be in this game.

I knew I couldn't stay away forever... you were in my dreams, my nightmares, you were the eyes staring at me from the dark side of the refrigerator.

So now I'm back...
From outer space...

And the first thing I did was faithfully update the Saints Project. Am I loyal or what? Well, that's all, just wanted to say hello again since I was gone for a year +.


When I woke up this morning, it had been roughly 60 hrs since last caffeine intake. Saturday afternoon, I finished off the Code Red, and nothing since then. The first two mornings, I felt like I had been beat with a stick. This morning, I just felt like it was kick in the stomach. About noon, I broke down and had half a cup of coffee. Less for the drowsiness than for a certain biological process. It worked, and now I have working neurotransmitters again.

Gate, your note about your job gives me an excuse to put up something that been on the scratchpad for awhile. This wasn't the first job that came around, but the second. Students, think very carefully before you accept that offer. This is your life, after all.

a paper folding
a keyboard tapped
a hard drive seeking
a tv show recapped

the computer fan whir
"right away, sir"

a yawn passed down
     the hall, grows in power
all sigh as one
     waiting for the hour

he punched me in the head, by request ov course, and some hours later, i nearly lit him on fire, an accident, i tell you. by the next day, one was warning me off, and another was egging me on. the younger crowd was oblivious, and most of them had gone home anyway. i know i should listen to that punk rock devil and put my hands back in my pockets where they belong, but i've been challenged, and rarely will i turn down one so innocuous as this. yes, the possible consequences are terrifying, but the probables are only mildly irritating, and mostly fun. why this one? and why me? i don't know, but all will be well in the end, because all must be well.

his hair was striped black and blond, and despite his protestations that he hadn't washed in four days, it was soft. it was probably the only protestation he made. none of them had ever seen him this way before, and some were frightened by the sudden change of temperament. he doesn't like girls, they told me, not that he likes boys either, mind you. i couldn't help myself, i had to try. and when i began to succeed, i was intoxicated. his lips were sweet, and from our exposure to the fire, he smelled of ashes. he looked amazed, and so did everyone else.

i was the oldest one there, besides the punk devil's mom. none of these boys were even old enough to drink. just the same, it was the sort of party that i never got invited to in high school. i'd always wanted to go to one of these...wildest spring break yet, even if i wasn't on break anymore. bonfire breakfast, benadryl, and the best pancakes ever. smooches to the pancake god.

i may go back wednesday or thursday, just to see if 'pantry' becomes a dirty word again.

I wish this snow would stop. I could go on forever, ranting about the recent weather in Northeastern Ohio, but Klaproth would probably eat the writeup for a mid-day snack. Makes me wonder what the protein count is on a writeup.

The day was very sour for my boss, as he learned that his step-daughter's uncle came in to visit unexpectedly, and brought his history of abusive behavior with him. No need to go into details here. My day was the exact opposite because for most of the day, I was left alone to run the tech support department. Calls were steady, and nearly everyone got their needed support.

Highlight of the day was when our first call for support on our latest release came in. Now my employer knows how well the software is doing out in the field. This person needed a walkthrough on how to configure his copy to work on his network. Took an hour to explain everything, but he walked away a happy customer.

For those who care, I did get my hair cut. As usual, I went for the Drew Carey look. I think the chicks dig my hair when I have it short.

Guess that's all for this day in my young life. Now only if the snow....

My housemate J. and I got very lucky late last night and avoided what could have been a really nasty wreck. As it was, we had a minor accident that left us and her car relatively unscathed.

midnighter called us about 11 p.m.; his car was at the mechanic's, and he was bored and wanted to go out to get something to eat. So J. and I piled into her little old Volkswagen Rabbit and headed out. I'd driven Ron's wife Bev to work a little after 6, and although it was raining and slick, the roads at first seemed less icy than they'd been earlier in the day.

We went up I-71 to the I-270 turnoff. We went up the ramp, and as the road curved out from under the overpass, we saw the flashing lights of emergency vehicles. A second later, I saw the four smashed-up cars, one overturned, resting against the guardrails. And a second after that, we both saw the huge sheet of ice on the road that had caused the wrecks.

J. braked the moment she saw the emergency lights, but when we hit the ice, there was no stopping.

I'd never been in a full out-of-control spinout like that before. It would have been exhilarating if it hadn't been completely fucking terrifying. For a couple of seconds, I was sure I was about to die.

We were in danger of T-boning one of the other cars, or worse, hitting one of the emergency workers farther down the ramp. J. managed to steer the car toward the guardrail. She said the sight of the people walking around down there was what made her think to turn toward the rail.

I've heard you're not supposed to tense up if you know you're going to hit something in your car. You're supposed to relax, go with the flow. That's why drunks often emerge from wrecks less injured than their sober companions.

Relaxing was the last thing on my mind as we careened toward the guardrail. I was clinging to the Jesus bar in a tight ball muttering shitshitshit as I imagined us going through the rail down into the icy ravine beyond.

We hit with a solid whack that threw us both forward in our seatbelts. I bruised my knees on her dashboard and pulled a muscle in my back, but that's it.

J. started crying right after the car hit; she'd been in a horrible wreck that killed her boyfriend when she was a teenager, and any collision brings that awful night right back to her. All I remember saying is "We're okay, it's okay" over and over. A young woman -- whose car had evidently also slid but hadn't hit anything -- came over to my window to see if anyone was hurt.

We were okay, but maybe not for long. J. tried to back the car up, but the front wheels were stuck in the ice and snow piled against the guardrail. Our little car was sitting right in the path of any car that would come up the ramp and lose control.

I told J. I'd get out and push. I had just stepped outside when this great big delivery truck came up the ramp at a pretty good clip. If he lost it, he'd crush our car like a pop can, with J. still inside.

Everyone nearby started yelling "Slow down! Please god, slow down, slow down!" and waving their arms at the truck. I can't adequately describe how intense that moment was.

But miracle of miracles, the truck didn't slide and trundled on past.

A man from one of the wrecked cars came running up to us. He was wearing a zip-up dark canvas Ford jacket. I don't know why I remember that detail, but it's the only thing I clearly remember about his appearance.

"You girls gotta get out of here, or you're gonna get hit," he said. "Get behind the guardrail. The cop who was standing behind my car almost got hit just a few minutes ago."

We got out and stood in the snow behind the guardrail. I was really glad I'd put on my Docs before I left the house; I almost wore my sneakers, expecting I'd be walking on nothing but wet pavement.

A few minutes later, a policeman drove up the ramp and blocked off part of it with his car, and an emergency truck drove up and blocked off the rest. Another policeman came over to see if we were okay.

I told him that we were fine and the car was driveable; we just needed to get out of the ice. The cop recruited the help of a couple of firemen and they gave a couple of heaves while J. drove and they got us out and on our way.

Once we got back to our apartment, we took a look at her bumper. One of the fog light lenses on the left side was smashed, and her license plate was bent, but that was it. My car's bumper would have been totalled. Those little Volkswagens are absolute tanks.

I'm also glad we didn't have to fill out a police report; the accident I was in two short weeks ago got me a total of 11 calls from ambulance chasers and a swak of junk mail from chiropractors and lawyers because of the report.

J. neatly summed up the night when we were home: "You know, as much as I complain about cops, thank God for 'em, you know?"

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