borts minorts tonight

A grand festival of super-dorks. It's kind of like the ren-faire meets cirque de soliel in a professional karaoke forum. Fantasy and sci-fi all rolled up into one weird package complete with a garageband soundtrack. This is what I do: I push the pause button between songs so the spandex clad performers can catch their breath. Borts and his dancers; Dinah and Pu-nope bring a seriously warped and hilarious texture to any venue, but a shot of jameson surely helps. This place called counterpulse on mission and 9th will be hosting this evenings freakshow. Somehow Borts Minorts is able to simultaneously mock, mimic and codify the 'art' of show and the amount of energy that goes into performing. The video below is from the album Human Error, song of the same name.

commute

I drive the 6th street gauntlet to work everyday, usually twice. I start at the top of the hill near the big famous church and the masonic temple, and then end up near the DPT tow yard on harrison. Leaving my house at 6:40am gets me to work at about 6:50. I have seen some sad, scary, random, interesting and downright horrifying scenarios played out on this sad strip of blacktop. Once I actually jumped out of my car to help what I thought was a woman lying face down in the street outside bourbon and branch, turns out it was one of those inflatable thingies - a male version in drag and I actually touched it to turn it over. It was clammy. So I stop at my java spot to grab my columbian and after said transaction continue on my way, only to get pulled over a block later for not wearing my seatbelt by a cycle cop. I'm sitting in my car in a metered spot and about a half block away I see this drug deal going wrong, let me see if I can describe it.

She walks up to him and gives him the whats up, he is tweaking super hard so he cant stop moving most of his limbs the whole time. They do the palm-off and he about-faces, searching his hand for the score. He sticks his hand in his pants and then reverses his trajectory, grabbing the woman by the back of the neck. He pulls her backward as if he is some kind of Neanderthal going in for the dip and kiss, but instead of lips he jams his hand into her mouth and I can see the force he's using from up the street. She struggles but her 70 pound emaciated state is no match for his uber-tweak and he removes his hand from her mouth accompanied by a long silvery string of saliva. It was surreal enough but that long weird saliva strand glinting in the morning light was too much. The cop came back to my car and gave me the ticket, advising me to be more attentive to safety and the traffic laws when driving around the city. I had the obsessive urge to brush my teeth. Good Morning.

romantic fucker that I am

Here I am. Alive and well. I have a gigantic beating heart, it keeps me alive and it makes me want to either scream or sing. I think I have hit some kind of psychic wall in my life, because I can freely admit that I am a lover without a care to the damage that does to my hetero-coolness-streetcred value. I'd be the first to admit that shit has taken enough hits to go down in friggin flames lately. But whatever, I got the jazz you know? SOmethin about talking to a woman gets me hot and blushin and seriously all down in my pants, but at the same time I have started to notice some odd occurrences. Like not only is the pornoweb boring - but its like smoking. You just start doing it to do it, it gives back zero and in fact sucks a whole bunch of your life and soul if you let it. I would so much rather make out on the couch for hours than do just about anything else. I have started to say hello to random strangers - when completely sober, with no irony, and not even the slightest thought of flirting. Of course in SF that means you are crazy or you want something,... usually money. So no one has yet to respond. No,... wait I take that back. This one kid downtown gave me the coldest stare I have ever seen, and then when his parent wasnt watching looked back at me and gave me the vulcan peace sign (or whatever that is). I'll take it. So maybe today I dont care. Maybe I dont care enough about reality that the scales have tipped and I believe in love, and cher's singing voice. Maybe I am 2 pints of beer into my evening too. So whats the diff? If you are reading this, I hope you get some hot make out session sometime soon. There is nothin like the straight-up full on lovin liplock.

another fantastic weekend

So I bought my way into her heart/ is there another way? She told me about freak and geeks, and before I did a little weberesearch and realized that this short lived series was/is fodder and hyperbole for the alty-dork-TVhipsterclone set and for that reason could only be another cultural nemesis of mine; I bought her the complete DVD box set. We watched a few passable and well written episodes and then started making out when we got to a real clunker: that one where Lindsey smokes weed - and suddenly the editing and shooting of the show must have been handed off to the wardrobe PA. Near as I can figure. It was quite clear that either these folks had
a) never smoked or snorted anything save perhaps pool water and no-doze so had no concept of the state of mind or
b) this shit got all cut because of lame censoring and or self censoring on national TV.

Regardless, Conchita and I were not distracted a bit by the freaks or the geeks so we commenced with the weighted petting. What took hold of us was some kinda spirited grope session I'm here to tell you,... it was like Wimbledon meets professional wrestling. We were both caught off guard and had many layers of clothing separating the millimeters between our bodies which seemed like an incredible inconvenience considering the effort we were both putting into the liplock/dry hump arena. I had my thigh firmly between her legs, flexing my quadricep and grabbing her ass like it was gonna save me from the noose. My whole world spun a bit and I got that weird rush of sexual endorphin power that happens so infrequently that I never know what to do with it. At that moment I was having some trouble trying to figure out how to extract her from her wife beater and bra while she was laying on her back and I was lying on her. without even having a conscious thought about it I grabbed the left shirt and bra strap in both hands and just like some kind of god damned Neanderthal I must be related to, ripped it completely apart, exposing the skin and freckles of the now bare shoulder. I froze because her face transformed from pleasure to shock and then total anger in about a millisecond. I have never done this before, and was just as shocked myself, and I asked her if she was ok. Conchita never answered that question and instead decided to school me on how I should handle a womans wardrobe just before demanding a new shirt from me and exiting the apartment - slamming doors and measured expletives galore. I fucked up. Funny thing is I have polled a few women about this incident and the reaction is evenly split: half are horrified, half think it's hot.

I have to say I also felt pretty bad because for the 20 seconds she was tearing into me for destroying one of her favorite shirts, I just stood in a hyper-sexual awe as she somehow removed what was left of her ruined bra from underneath the trashed tank top, with one hand. My words cant convey the movement, but it was incredible and super sexy. One hand holding seperated shirt strap, while other hand does this magic trick so that ruined bra slides out from behind her somehow, never exposing those incredible boobs for even an instant. It was all david copperfield n shit.

In short, I cant wait to get back to work.

getting this out of the way

Look I'll be the first one to admit that I am a complete suck-ER for gadgets. touch screen, blue- ray, tooth, chip, balls - wireless enabled audio systems, phones, electricity, deodorant sensors, self filling pet dispensers, I love it all. I try it all. This isnt news to anyone but the iphone isnt a good gadget. It ranks up there with the in-shell egg scrambler. Think about it and if you think it has a better than oh-gee! level 2 response you have been taken in by the same soulless marketers who convinced 3 generations that smoking was not a bad thing.

Tech gizmos aside I also have tried every commercial (and some not) beverage ever marketed. I have about a dozen corner stores across the city I hit up on a regular basis in order t o check out the latest stock. One in the top ten: the 'energy drink' called Cocaine. Love those ad people. It tasted just like all the other energy drinks, chilled pee meets anti-freeze. New fav: lipton brand green tea with lime. Next up to try: the coke brand energy drink called 'Vault'. See you then.

your choice: dork or goober?

As I transition away from alty bandgeek and into technerd with a side of artfag 9000 I find that through most of my personality re-incarnations one thing has remained constant. I am a goober. By that I mean a dork, or if you prefer, nerd. Personally I don’t like the ‘N’ word anymore because it has been darlinged about all too often in magazines like blender, source and (gaakk!) spin when referencing numb-nuts barking pumpkins wanaabees alt-country-psych whatever bands. I hate them, hate them all. Back to the point: I am truly dork-tastic. Example you say? Allrighty – my heart was reduced to strainer pulp not long ago by a beautiful woman. It happened quickly and because I am the consumate social misfit I missed all the signs completely, forcing this wicked vixen to become so frustrated at my inability to detect the subtlety of our impending demise that she actually had to stick her hand into my chest and hand me the burned remains of my love muscle. Just like in that indiana jones movie.

I finally got it. SO what do I do? I started a blog. Yep. Not only is that option incredibly unique but the subject matter was of course completely unlike any other blog that had come before it. I decided to publicly air my hurt and resentful feelings of rejection and pain, down to some very pathetic minutiae. Not only that I had some choices to make before hand – which mother f@^king blog to use? I just didn’t think the content would fit well with my Technorati, or lifehacker blogs, ditto for Gizmodo or techdirt. Yelp has totally soured for me and I cant even really put my finger on it but I cant stand even looking at the scrollbars anymore. I had given on up LJ about a year ago because I couldn’t get an ounce of play out of that site, and for some reason it just screams BEIGE! Myspace blog = too ghetto for these kind of passionate rants, facebook = too elite and ivy league and frat or whatever…. I could go on and on about facebook right now. I have about 20 friends and family who are desperate to convert me to “the grown-up” social networking cult but I’m not buyin into it,……yet. SO to complete this uber-emo dork out session I started a blog on (surprise) blogger! (owned by google, like most every quantity content portal) in June and wrote everyday. I also had some photos taken of me with fake blood on my chest in clown makeup. Yes that’s right. Clown make up. Fake bleeding heart. Pictures. I sent her a link to the blog posted the pictures and then scored some internet Zoloft and a case of mendocino syrah, and planned on hunkering down for the remainder of the summer blissed-out and drunk; working on a full uni-bomber beard.

I woke up the next day at 4pm and made the blog private, took down the pictures, and threw away the other 50 packs of Zoloft. I did however begin smoking again. Which I don’t even remember doing. My parting words to her? “you couldn’t possibly dislike me more than I do!” OOOHHH that showed her.

I have to get into a bar. Everything fun in life happens in bars.

outstanding helpdesk service

I had to call Dell for the 135,348th time today. It was the best experience I have ever had, at least in the realm of dell tech support. She trusted me, she was nice, and her voice was HOT! When I got the inevitable form letter I couldn't help but respond. I am a pathetic, stalker, tech nerd and I hope I didnt get her fired.

Dear Jennifer

Rep ID 01115130,

Thank you for being a live human being and speaking with me in a thoroughly professional manner about my Dell computer issues. Because of your intuitive technical nature in diagnosing my issue, your personal conduct and subtle accent; it was a pleasure working with you to resolve the issue I had with my system.

The following information relates to my recent call.

Case #150007939

Dispatch Reference #081912627

In order to perform like the trained help-desk monkey I am it is moments like this service call that keep me from completely losing my mind due to the sheer volume of ill-equipped end users who constantly hound me for trivial assistance out of loneliness or bitterness about their own malformed career choice. The part(s) of me that still resonate with any kind of actual emotion or thought because they are shielded from the constant mental pounding of my relentless clients; thanks you deeply for being intelligent, responsive, helpful, and having a hot voice.

You will not be receiving another email from me, as I am sure this one violates some corporate conduct rule, and I need this job in order to pay back the excessive debt I racked up in the 90’s. Be aware though that I will probably reflect fondly on this call even while consuming multiple beers in a feeble attempt to drink away the rest of the day’s monotonous experiences.

Thank you for choosing to be intelligent.

Respectfully,

SFUSD ITD

Systems Administrator. Help desk Primate.

Customer Experience: How am I doing? I am constantly striving to help you locate your computer power button. If there is anything I can do to help you become less intimidated by your computer, please don't hesitate to let me know by contacting me at the SFUSD helpdesk. I am sitting by the phone now, waiting, waiting. Please call.

tech pirates

When faced with being accountable for the inevitable problems that accompany any personal technology device even the most scrupulous individual becomes a pathological liar. Phrases like: ‘I didn’t touch it’ or ‘I didn’t install anything’ or ‘It just started doing that’ are the tech equivalent of letting your dog poop on the sidewalk and then running away. You know that someone somewhere is going to have to deal with the mess you made, but you’d rather not take any responsibility or figure out how to clean it up cause you’re just so damn busy. Personal favorite – when someone downloads every damn browser toolbar known to man and then cries about the length of time it takes their browser to open. I know, I know folks want their computers to work like a hammer. You just pick it up and hit something, it should just work. Problem is we have all kinds of ninja programmers and developers switching teams constantly. Take for instance the story of Bert. He worked for a startup company called ‘Stumble upon’, cute little toolbar that is supposed to give the user tips and options for searching all kinds of stuff on the web. Seems like Bert got acclimated to a very plush lifestyle in the Oakland hills, and when his company decided to give him an options self off or pay cut choice he simply split and signed up with a company that needed developers to infiltrate toolbars with malicious software and hijack browser results. Long story short, he has figured out how to maintain his opulent lifestyle by constantly creating demand for himself with rival companies. So far he has developed software to screw up your computer then contracted himself out to the company that designs software to catch said spyware, then hires on as a consultant to design even better spyware to elude the developing he just designed. These guys are pirates of the tech high seas, worse even than ambulance chasers, they prey off the uninformed and informed alike offering their services in an effort to make top dollar off of everyone’s cyber-frustration.

not relevant and just sad

from the wire:

Jerome drove his Volvo closer to the piers, in an effort to find inexpensive parking. He knew he could carry his son the 8 blocks or so to the ballpark and didn’t feel like battling the traffic and lot prices. The sun was setting to his left as he pulled up to a deserted traffic signal, he put on his right blinker and turned up NPR a bit to catch the last moments of As It Happens. Toby was fondling one of his Thomas the Tank Engine toys and he vaguely wondered about the recall for lead paint he had heard about on the radio earlier. As he began to reach into the pop up console to make a note on his blackberry a hand reached through the open window and grabbed his throat, fingers digging in deep to his windpipe. Fighting to stay conscious Jerome instinctively grabbed at the arm connected to the hand, but before he knew it his body was ripped from the car, his throat leading the way, and slammed onto the pavement. As the claw on his throat loosened he drew in a sharp breath and tried to stagger to his feet, too late he realized a form with a boot attached to it connecting with his stomach. Another blow to the face and he rolled sideways, forcing his legs to bend and support his weight in an effort to stand. It was too late, through tears and pain he watched his car speed through the red light and off down the deserted road. He began to run , blood streaming from his ear and nose, his cheek a hamburger mash of flesh and muscle; His screaming voice bouncing off of the vacant building and slowly disappearing over the water. The volvo was later found 30 miles outside town, the car seat and the gas tank both empty.

colateral networking

She was all retro-sassy - another devotee of fashion icon history, belly shirt and one black glove. Hair propped to one side with a ribbon so that it almost obscured one of her heavily mascaraed eyes. I heard her boots thumping asphalt even before I could see someone against the fog. some kinda creaky light blew out from an old street-lamp half a block away, and it reflected like a knfie rack off those piercings. In her hand a skateboard and a brown bag, around her neck was a vintage minolta '16'. She looked like a total bad-ass, like she'd already been recovered for years; and having nothing interesting to say I asked her for a smoke. Without even making eye contact she jammed her free hand inside her baggies pocket and threw a pack at me. Camel. I fumbled and almost dropped them all out onto the ground as she kept cruising by only pausing ten feet away, raising her hand wordlessly and wigging her fingers. My throw sucked,.... too high, but she floated imperceptibly, launching from her tip toes a sharp snag, caught the pack. We stared at each other for 3 beats and then she blew me a kiss through a haze of insecure sarcasm, softening for a moment. I saw her again about a week later standing in line waiting for the free clinic to open. I was walking to work and she looked like she mighta been drilling invisible eye lasers into the sidewalk. Rounding the corner at 7th the one armed underpass guy and his smell crippled me. I safely arrived in my little computer world and spent 90 minutes researching the mars missions on google and randomly closing email accounts.

factfour: port exchange

bridging the computer intimidation gap by shattering the "delicate machine" myth.

Perhaps I lunged my way into the office and obliterated whatever current atmosphere existed.

Some maybe 10th grade students, huddled in a corner around a NEC monitor from about 12 ad. It creaked out a fuzzy, battered database image that swooned in a sparsely pixelated land working its transformer into an audible frenzy. As everyone in the room turned to see who had just blundered into the room I could feel the radiation leaking out of the screen and into the immediate atmosphere my eyes warping to polar ends of my skull.

"are you the tech guy?!!? I mean,...." trailed off as the meaning of my appearance beat the councilor senseless. Suddenly all the tenuous curriculum mandates, progress reports and IEP's might simply vanish behind that screen, never to return; possibly sending this post-retirement biddy into a permanent paxil rage.

I dismissed the crew of GPA bookies and got down to business forging an inter-personal relationship with the madam and her blackbox typewriter. I started off with the typical folksy boast: lets see if we can get this little lady to walk like an angel......... soft and strong. Luckily it was the end of the day and that gave the woman a moment to shudder and check the time, generally the more positive of the responses I get. She lifted one hand onto the opposing shoulder and hugged herself as she asked,

" please make it stop, because if it turns black one more time today there will be police booking me on adolescent manslaughter...."

I proceeded to grapple the desk and haul it's 1970' pine carcass out from the wall; there are some benefits to being a lumbering hulk. I stood in eyeshot of the back and recognized that chassis anywhere, an old compaq d530 small form factor. notorious for the shoddy effort put into the mainboard and bus. This model was issued with an incompatible graphics chipset and there was only one thing to do. I took the mouse and covered it with my hand flashing a toothy grin to my client, in seconds I had uninstalled the stock graphics driver and inserted the hardware back into the profile manually. This is sometimes known as 'pushing back' against the operating system. finishing the cleanup into the reboot I began with the CRT monitor. Com'er love I said as I just pulled the 50 pounds of glass, circuits and plastic on its side, ramming a .03 flathead into the sharpness adjustment well. I then pulled every cord out of its corresponding port, letting the loose cables dangle between my legs like a mess of whipsnakes. I pulled each cord up and with a precise firm hand joined male and female port connections to the back of the computer - letting the friction of metal contact be machined in solid unison. settling back into the wall on my heels I pulled the desk back into place and rolled the screen back into it's native position. As the image of the cheesy logo came up she audibly gasped and swallowed air. The picture had pitch now, it was not shaking or fuzzy, and the colors were sharp and modest. slowly putting her hand on the mouse she navigates to the graduation database and smiles.

"you know a mac wants to be babied,.... but PC's, you just got to show em whos boss every now and again." this was the topmost layer of the thick buttercream folksy persona, I had her, and so I just blew the moneyshot out and turned to leave; tripping over the backpacks in the hall on my way out.