I love sitting in a coffee shop and playing around on my laptop. But you see some interesting people if you're here long enough.
I've been visiting the Serious Coffee on Broad for a couple of weeks now, and almost everytime I'm here, there's the same guy sitting in the dedicated wireless room. He's.... well, he's something else.
Greased back hair that looks like it's been bleached blonde, a white polo shirt, and general "nerd jeans" (you know what I'm talking about). He wears a microphone headset and always clicks madly, and I assume he's playing World of Warcraft or something. He's here for hours (I presume - I've never seen him show up or leave) and only orders one drink for the duration... and it's a pink smoothie. .
Random quotes I've heard just while writing this entry:
"Wait, what day is it? Did school start today? Shit."
"Yeah, he's not playing anymore, he's got a girlfriend now."
"BRB guys, need to pee."
Also, he has one of those scooter things that look like a skateboard with a handle. He's at least twenty two.
Moral of the story?
I think I need to stop going online in public places and troll the internet in the privacy of my own home like a normal person. Lest I turn into some sort of carnival freak
Dildos, dildos, everywhere!
Another day at work, and I am busily assembling work kits. A co-worker comes up from behind me. "That's not what I think it is, is it?"
I look down at the long metal rod in my hands. "Well, it's most definitely NOT a dildo, lemme tell you," I say, putting my best shit-eating grin on my face.
Co-worker becomes confused. This is when I realize that the person I thought was "co-worker" is ACTUALLY "boss". This is also the moment I realize that what I thought was a nearby "door" is actually "the last thing you'll see of this place when you get thrown out on your ass."
Instead, boss looks at metal rod, and goes "No, that's definitely the piston I thought it was. Thanks for finding it."
He then grabs the piston, and turns to look at me. "And you're right, it does look kind of like a dildo. How'd you find that out?"
The shit-eating grin returns on my face. "You don't wanna know."
I look down at the long metal rod in my hands. "Well, it's most definitely NOT a dildo, lemme tell you," I say, putting my best shit-eating grin on my face.
Co-worker becomes confused. This is when I realize that the person I thought was "co-worker" is ACTUALLY "boss". This is also the moment I realize that what I thought was a nearby "door" is actually "the last thing you'll see of this place when you get thrown out on your ass."
Instead, boss looks at metal rod, and goes "No, that's definitely the piston I thought it was. Thanks for finding it."
He then grabs the piston, and turns to look at me. "And you're right, it does look kind of like a dildo. How'd you find that out?"
The shit-eating grin returns on my face. "You don't wanna know."
Sound Effects
I am in the warehouse with a bunch of former military engineers. Naturally, the conversation turns to Die Hard, as warehouse conversations are wont to do. This quickly leads me into making an imaginary uzi, and shooting a co-worker.
"Ch-ch-ch-ch-ch!" I sound, making the stuttering noise of a semi-automatic rifle that is, if I say so myself, scarily accurate.
Of course, he dodges, because he is a male, and therefore, able to dodge super-sonic bullets. I can't blame him, although really, I should have hit him, because I am a male, and therefore, unable to miss. Anyways, he draws two imaginary desert eagles (I suppose they could be glocks, but if we're gonna deal with imaginary guns, they should probably be cool imaginary guns, right?).
With his deagles, he proceeds to blast at the table I am hiding behind. "Bkchhsss! Bkchssss!" He says, scrunching his face up, Axl Rose style, while he makes the sounds. Of course, he doesn't hit, but that imaginary computer in front of me explodes in a cascade of imaginary sparks.
Another man rushes to my defence with a shotgun, letting out a loud "BOOM!" and then a cocking sound. He covers me while I run to cover, just as two more men rush into the fray on the other side. One sprays the area with AK-47 fire ("ra-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta!") while the other seems to be working on some sort of shoulder-mounted rocket launcher which is sure to blow a hole in that imaginary wall behind me.
I will walk away from that explosion in slow motion.
It's looking bad. That rocket launcher is being loaded up, and I can hear Marc in the next room, supplying the "pings!" and "Chinks!" as imaginary bullets tear up the warehouse. And then, my compatriot comes to the rescue.
Jill comes out from behind cover, standing in the middle of the doorway like an easy target, and has some sort of derringer pistol which seems to consist of her thumb stuck out like a hitchhiker's along with a pointy-finger... the ol' "Finger-Banger". She points this puny pistol at the rocket-man, and begins firing.
"Pew! Pew!"
Silence rains in the warehouse, the only sound being that of imaginary sparks firing off a broken screen and phantasmal flames lapping at spilled diesel on the floor. The combatants all look at each other, and then put down their arms.
"Girls don't know how to make sound effects," Rocket man says.
Another man holsters his desert eagles. "Did anyone watch that football game last night?"
"I miss my kids," the assault rifler says, strolling out of the room, shaking his head as he looks at Jill's pistol, still in her hand.
Jill looks at me, but I'm trying to avoid eye contact. "What'd I do?" She asks.
I shake my head and get back to work.
"Ch-ch-ch-ch-ch!" I sound, making the stuttering noise of a semi-automatic rifle that is, if I say so myself, scarily accurate.
Of course, he dodges, because he is a male, and therefore, able to dodge super-sonic bullets. I can't blame him, although really, I should have hit him, because I am a male, and therefore, unable to miss. Anyways, he draws two imaginary desert eagles (I suppose they could be glocks, but if we're gonna deal with imaginary guns, they should probably be cool imaginary guns, right?).
With his deagles, he proceeds to blast at the table I am hiding behind. "Bkchhsss! Bkchssss!" He says, scrunching his face up, Axl Rose style, while he makes the sounds. Of course, he doesn't hit, but that imaginary computer in front of me explodes in a cascade of imaginary sparks.
Another man rushes to my defence with a shotgun, letting out a loud "BOOM!" and then a cocking sound. He covers me while I run to cover, just as two more men rush into the fray on the other side. One sprays the area with AK-47 fire ("ra-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta!") while the other seems to be working on some sort of shoulder-mounted rocket launcher which is sure to blow a hole in that imaginary wall behind me.
I will walk away from that explosion in slow motion.
It's looking bad. That rocket launcher is being loaded up, and I can hear Marc in the next room, supplying the "pings!" and "Chinks!" as imaginary bullets tear up the warehouse. And then, my compatriot comes to the rescue.
Jill comes out from behind cover, standing in the middle of the doorway like an easy target, and has some sort of derringer pistol which seems to consist of her thumb stuck out like a hitchhiker's along with a pointy-finger... the ol' "Finger-Banger". She points this puny pistol at the rocket-man, and begins firing.
"Pew! Pew!"
Silence rains in the warehouse, the only sound being that of imaginary sparks firing off a broken screen and phantasmal flames lapping at spilled diesel on the floor. The combatants all look at each other, and then put down their arms.
"Girls don't know how to make sound effects," Rocket man says.
Another man holsters his desert eagles. "Did anyone watch that football game last night?"
"I miss my kids," the assault rifler says, strolling out of the room, shaking his head as he looks at Jill's pistol, still in her hand.
Jill looks at me, but I'm trying to avoid eye contact. "What'd I do?" She asks.
I shake my head and get back to work.
Cool Gingers:
"Trust me, Jill. There are very few cool redheaded men," I say while in the workshop, throwing a few screws into a box.
"What about, um, what about what's her name?" Jill asks.
"I'm guessing what's her name is a woman. Redheaded women don't count."
"Oh, yeah, right." Jill is nice, but she sometimes misses the point. She also prefers the Stones to the Beatles, and therefore can't be trusted.
"Ginger boys just cannot be cool," I say, perhaps a bit sadly.
She spends the next hour thinking of a name, and then coming up to me to see if this guy is cool. It seems she's more trying to think of famous redheaded men, rather than trying to ascertain if they're cool. And it's true - there are relatively few famous ginger men.
"Ron Howard? Jill, Ron Howard is NOT cool. He's the epitome of nerd-dom."
"Jill, seriously? You think David Caruso is cool? Seriously?"
And so on, and so forth.
Eventually, after two hours, she settles on Prince Harry - and I guess he's kind of cool. However, he's the exception that proves my point.
The point?
I'm genetically predisposed to liking Doctor Who and obsessing about music. Being suave just isn't in my blood or, more importantly, my hair.
"What about, um, what about what's her name?" Jill asks.
"I'm guessing what's her name is a woman. Redheaded women don't count."
"Oh, yeah, right." Jill is nice, but she sometimes misses the point. She also prefers the Stones to the Beatles, and therefore can't be trusted.
"Ginger boys just cannot be cool," I say, perhaps a bit sadly.
She spends the next hour thinking of a name, and then coming up to me to see if this guy is cool. It seems she's more trying to think of famous redheaded men, rather than trying to ascertain if they're cool. And it's true - there are relatively few famous ginger men.
"Ron Howard? Jill, Ron Howard is NOT cool. He's the epitome of nerd-dom."
"Jill, seriously? You think David Caruso is cool? Seriously?"
And so on, and so forth.
Eventually, after two hours, she settles on Prince Harry - and I guess he's kind of cool. However, he's the exception that proves my point.
The point?
I'm genetically predisposed to liking Doctor Who and obsessing about music. Being suave just isn't in my blood or, more importantly, my hair.
An Explanation of Sorts:
A while ago, Blogger decided to change their settings, mostly because they are dicks and can't stand, I dunno, tradition or something.
My computer was old enough that were it a human being, it'd be old enough to read and refuse to eat brussel sprouts. It was having problems loading the google website, let alone handle new changes to the tried and true.
And so I was cut off from the "blogosphere", or something to that effect. This meant I had to do new things to occupy my time... like go outside. Or socialize.
They were dark times.
Luckily, I have a new computer now. And I can carry it with me, because it's all laptoppy and whatnot. As an added bonus, it has this great sperm-zapping feature that ensures there will be no future Daves walking around, for which I'm sure the universe is thankful.
Anyways, for those who are of the TL;DR variety.... I'm back.
My computer was old enough that were it a human being, it'd be old enough to read and refuse to eat brussel sprouts. It was having problems loading the google website, let alone handle new changes to the tried and true.
And so I was cut off from the "blogosphere", or something to that effect. This meant I had to do new things to occupy my time... like go outside. Or socialize.
They were dark times.
Luckily, I have a new computer now. And I can carry it with me, because it's all laptoppy and whatnot. As an added bonus, it has this great sperm-zapping feature that ensures there will be no future Daves walking around, for which I'm sure the universe is thankful.
Anyways, for those who are of the TL;DR variety.... I'm back.
Crazy
I was at work the other day, talking to a work friend about how absolutely illogical I can be. I'm nervous about something coming up this weekend, even though I know I have absolutely nothing to be nervous about - all I have to do is shake someone's hand and make small talk, but for some reason, in my mind, I equate failing at small talk with the end of the world.
I know I am overthinking things, but this doesn't make me feel any better.
This lead me to tell my co-worker, "The thing about being crazy is, you know you're being crazy, and that what you're doing is crazy, but you still can't stop yourself from doing it. You're aware of your craziness, but unable to change. And that makes you crazier."
I meant it as a joke, but then, afterwards, I found myself brooding on it. Crazily, of course.
I know I am overthinking things, but this doesn't make me feel any better.
This lead me to tell my co-worker, "The thing about being crazy is, you know you're being crazy, and that what you're doing is crazy, but you still can't stop yourself from doing it. You're aware of your craziness, but unable to change. And that makes you crazier."
I meant it as a joke, but then, afterwards, I found myself brooding on it. Crazily, of course.
Love and Music
I fell in love last week.
This happens to me with alarming regularity - I come across something new, get enthusiastic, lose control of my critical thinking, and then get completely absorbed. After a week or two of intense devotion, the loving feeling turns into little more than affection, and I'm back to normal.
I'm talking about music, of course. Most recently, Pink Mountaintops' Outside Love, a 2009 (I believe) release that I described to a co-worker as "A pop-heavy album filled with love songs, as imagined by Black Sabbath", which is as good a starting place as any. It's a great album, and one I thoroughly recommend checking out, but it's not what I'm here to talk about.
Instead, I've been thinking about this capacity to love something like an album, and yes, "Love" is the word here. Because the physical manifestations of how that album made me feel are almost exactly the same as the first few weeks of a relationship are - without any of the dirty stuff, you pervs. I mean is, that sense of happiness deep in your gut, the urge to smile when something just clicks, all of that fun stuff. It's there.
I remember, years and years ago, walking home in a late summer night. The stars were overhead, and I could distantly hear the sound of crickets in the hills. I had on my headphones, and was listening to Tool's Aenima on a walk home. And I clearly remember just this intense rush of pleasure when the solo on "Third Eye" came on, as if my body was just pumped up with Dopamine.
It's happened many times since then. The guitar solo on Pink Floyd's "Comfortably Numb" (or the outro of "Eclipse", or the harmonized guitars of "Dogs"). The last ten minutes of Abbey Road. Robert Plant's wail in "Since I've Been Loving You".
I find myself looking back, to past relationships, and not having any clear memories of those dopamine rushes. They were there, no doubt, but they haven't stuck in my head in the same way that one experiences a "first kiss" with a new album.
This is what it's like to be a music obsessive, I think. This is what it's like to get your wires crossed, and to perceive music in the same way that you perceive love and companionship. Some people might say this is sad, and I guess maybe it is, in a melancholic way. But you know what? When you can view an album with love, you are never lonely.
My two cents.
This happens to me with alarming regularity - I come across something new, get enthusiastic, lose control of my critical thinking, and then get completely absorbed. After a week or two of intense devotion, the loving feeling turns into little more than affection, and I'm back to normal.
I'm talking about music, of course. Most recently, Pink Mountaintops' Outside Love, a 2009 (I believe) release that I described to a co-worker as "A pop-heavy album filled with love songs, as imagined by Black Sabbath", which is as good a starting place as any. It's a great album, and one I thoroughly recommend checking out, but it's not what I'm here to talk about.
Instead, I've been thinking about this capacity to love something like an album, and yes, "Love" is the word here. Because the physical manifestations of how that album made me feel are almost exactly the same as the first few weeks of a relationship are - without any of the dirty stuff, you pervs. I mean is, that sense of happiness deep in your gut, the urge to smile when something just clicks, all of that fun stuff. It's there.
I remember, years and years ago, walking home in a late summer night. The stars were overhead, and I could distantly hear the sound of crickets in the hills. I had on my headphones, and was listening to Tool's Aenima on a walk home. And I clearly remember just this intense rush of pleasure when the solo on "Third Eye" came on, as if my body was just pumped up with Dopamine.
It's happened many times since then. The guitar solo on Pink Floyd's "Comfortably Numb" (or the outro of "Eclipse", or the harmonized guitars of "Dogs"). The last ten minutes of Abbey Road. Robert Plant's wail in "Since I've Been Loving You".
I find myself looking back, to past relationships, and not having any clear memories of those dopamine rushes. They were there, no doubt, but they haven't stuck in my head in the same way that one experiences a "first kiss" with a new album.
This is what it's like to be a music obsessive, I think. This is what it's like to get your wires crossed, and to perceive music in the same way that you perceive love and companionship. Some people might say this is sad, and I guess maybe it is, in a melancholic way. But you know what? When you can view an album with love, you are never lonely.
My two cents.
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