Boulder eater?

Occasionally, you run across a news story that makes you go, "huh?" I just found one. It's on Fox News, talking about the aftermath of the California storms...the cleanup, the deaths, etc.

I'll talk about the interesting part, but if you want to read the whole story, you can do so here.

Halfway down the page, this paragraph struck me:

"A house-sized boulder teetered above Pacific Coast Highway in Malibu, forcing the closure of a two-mile stretch of the well-worn road. Crews planned to inject the rock with a type of gel that would cause it to disintegrate from the inside."

A gel that eats boulders from the inside?! Did I miss something? Fall asleep for a century or two? Is this commonplace now? The fact that it was so nonchalantly placed in the story and not mentioned again baffles me even more. I don't claim to be terribly current news-savvy, but a rock-disintegrating gel? Come on, are you serious? Who's running the Department of Transporation, Wile E. Coyote?

If I wake up tomorrow and see the freeway filled with commuters riding rocket-powered roller skates, I'm going for counseling.

A clearing

For the first day in six, I saw a blue sky this morning. For those of you who haven't heard, or disregard most everything SoCal-related like I did when living elsewhere, this entire state has been inundated with torrential rains over the past week or so. We had some bad spells in January, too. Overall, it's amounted to the third wettest year ever in California. It'll be number two if someone spits a few times.

I was going to say that this state is known for its extremes: riots, wildfires, mudslides, road rage, trials, house prices, boob jobs, earthquakes. Or, maybe it's just a state full of masturbatory media mongers who like to lead with "extreme" angles. I don't know. I didn't really set out to tackle that subject in this entry.

All I wanted to say is that this rain has been impressively intense, and driving to work this morning, I saw snow on virtually every mountain in sight. There are some distant mountains (I should probably know the names by now) that I can see on my way into work. Post-storm during the "winter months", they usually get a dusting of snow, sometimes pretty significant in volume. I've been expecting to see those once this rain cleared up. What I didn't expect to see was about 2 or 3 more huge ranges, the entire visible panorama from north to south (or is it east to west?) completely covered. The wind was blowing across the cloud-enshrouded tops of them, giving the whole vista a very Himalayan feel. Really quite inspiring. You suddenly felt that the road you were driving on was instantly 10,000 feet higher above sea level. I wished I could've taken a picture. If the local media has posted one, I'll try and post it here later.

With that view to my right, and the billowing ocean-spawned clouds to my left, it is one of the really unique things about living in Orange County. Thought you'd like to know.

WOW, that's a lot of spare time!

No, I haven't given up my World of Warcraft obsession. In fact, it's reaching pathological levels now, but I've learned not to put it on public display as often.

There are many who do, however. If you're interested in observing, visit Warcraft Movies.

Seems there's a shareware application that lets you record your WOW sessions as mini-movies. People have now taken to editing these together, adding music, and creating little WOW epics. Some of the funnier ones involve staged events that, unless you've played the game, you may not realize how much coordination they take. For instance, "GnomeVasion2" involves 16 1st level gnomes racing death across the countryside. The Vangelis sound track and Olympic ceremony at the end are very funny.

Some of these are very long. If you're looking for the best cross section in a relatively short size, check out "Medieval Man" and "A Heros Love". Medieval Man may still be my favorite.

At the very least, this gives me hope that I'm not as far gone as some. Although I am in pre-production of a quaint film about a hunter and his love affair with his bear. Critics call it "the feel good movie of the year". :)

Peace.

(F) Blu-J Skims the Surface

Blu-J awoke in a sun-drenched conservatory. She was bathed in a wash of warm amber light that permeated the leaded glass ceiling. Blinking the sleep slowly from her eyes, she found herself curled on a firm George III settee that had been placed there specifically for just such an indulgent midday cat nap.

The air in the room was cloying with the smell of flowers. Lying on her side, Blu-J perused the room — absorbing the fragrance and pleasant humidity. She sat up languidly. Wearing luxuriant, silk pajamas, she stretched like a cat awakening from a successful night of hunting. Satisfied. It felt good to move.

Glancing over the ornamentally-curved arm of the settee, she noticed that the housemaid had laid out her favorite lemon cakes. Three delicate pastries sat atop a glittering silver tray. She savored a long, refreshing yawn.

I like lemon cake, were the first words that filtered through her clearing head. Reaching out an alabaster arm, she plucked one from the tray and broke it gently in half, replacing a portion to the platter. Taking her time, she wetted a finger, dabbed a few crumbs from her lap and drew them to her tongue. She sucked on the tip of her index finger thoughtfully for a moment.

Mother will certainly be disappointed in me. I have slept another afternoon away. Blu-J's gentlemen callers, obeying the mores of refined culture, restricted their courtship to the safe hours of the early afternoon. Blu-J knew better. She saw the way they looked at her. Each wishing she would reveal her calf to them. Waiting for her to arch her graceful neck back in laughter. They were devious, every one of them. She had no time for such passions.

She rose to her feet, curling her toes briefly into the crimson rug. Placing the last morsel of lemon cake into her soft mouth, she crossed the warm room slowly. A large mahogany table served as the centerpiece of the space, adorned with myriad bouquets. The colors were exquisite. A beautiful display of restraint and temptation, replete with subtle purples and ivories, yellows and pinks — broken occasionally by a brazen and seductive red. She ran a long finger over the petals as she glided along.

A large silver vase dotted the exclamation mark that was the table. Blu-J stopped to admire it. Something about it...this isn't right. The light played over its sculpted curves, rippling and shifting across the polished surface. The mirrored image of swaying elms outside. Blu-J lowered her face to look at her complexion in its slightly tarnished surface. Warped and distorted for a moment, and then a flash. A beam of sunlight, a shimmer. An odd angle into her iris.

A still shot of her reflection. This...that...isn't me.

A voice from a distant room. A woman's voice, beckoning. "Youngest one?"

A fragment of memory. Mother?

Blu-J became dizzy. This isn't working. The woman approaching would be upset about something, Blu-J was certain. A large, glass-paneled French door stood beside her. She moved to it, slipping through quietly and returning the latch to its closed position with great stealth.

Feeling the caress of the sun on her back, Blu-J smiled wanly. She turned to what she expected to be the large, terraced garden of the summer manor. Instead, she was on the forward bow of a ship. Her smile vanished.

I am at sea? What is happening? A surge of astonished adrenaline. Her soft, manicured feet that glided across plush carpet only seconds ago now chafed on weathered, sun-stressed wood planks. I am not right.

She approached a dark wood railing in front of her, expecting to look over to a sapphire sea — her mind struggling to find a purchase of reason. She placed both hands on the banister and arched a glance overboard. The ship was half-buried — bow ten feet deep in the hard, parched floor of a desert.

Blu-J's knees weakened. She shouted out to exorcise the rallying demons. "Where am I?" The blood flowed quickly to her face, her pulse throbbing beneath her temples.

"I am here." The voice was familiar and close. She looked toward it, swinging her head around recklessly. It was her lover, she was sure of it. She folded to her knees.

Her mind was at a crossroads. Memories collided like frantic horses escaping a burning barn. Her vision tunneled from the sides and she feared she would faint.

One thought cleaved through the chaos. A word. Bill.

She brightened. The name made sense. She looked up to the voice with hope. I found you!

Squinting through the railing that circumscribed the ship's bow, she strained to focus on a shifting form. Fluid and mirage-like on the desert floor, the mutable silhouette roiled under the heat of the sun and Blu-J's sputtering consciousness. The very air about her head was turbulent and pressurized. Tears streamed down her face and her throat spasmed with the effort to speak. "Bill, I need you."

Blu-J finally sprawled to her back on the bleached wood, her pajamas snagging as she writhed. Turning her head to her right, she focused once more on the vaporous form hovering a mere twenty yards away. A shrill whine began to fill her senses as the vision defined itself. Torso, neck, face.

Looking back at her were the sunken features of a man, hair black and wild across his sallow forehead. Eyes wide and blazing with first disbelief and then frenzied desperation. He sees me! His mouth moved soundlessly behind the thick sonic wall that now encapsulated Blu-J. The piercing shriek was too much to bear.

Blu-J capitulated. Her eyes rolled back in her head as she was enveloped.


* * *


A connection is made.

An antechamber of consciousness. A secret passageway.

A return to the body. Reconciliation of arms, legs.

Then the burden of location. Memory.

The night nurse slipped deftly to Jana's bedside, shutting off the screeching alarm and pulling nodes quickly but carefully from her patient's clammy skin. "Dammit, I knew it. I knew it," she cursed through clenched teeth. "You are going to get me fired, Jana. This is the last time I let you dive. What was I thinking letting you jack my proxy?"

Demonstrating remarkable dexterity, the nurse slid the coil of patch gear to the drawer of an adjacent meds cart with one hand, and grabbed a moist sponge with the other. Wiping off Jana's drenched brow and neck, the nurse realized she had only moments until the supervisor would come to investigate her patient's erratic vitals.

The nurse placed her mouth to Jana's ear and whispered urgently, "I know how important it is to find him, but this is my stop. I can't take you any farther. I'm sorry."

Jana's eyes were wide but vacuous. Attempting to cope with everything at once was shutting her down. She had found him, she knew it. Now her dive guide was jumping ship, just when Jana was so close — so close to finding Bill and getting him out.

The night shift supervisor came into the room with an air of dubious curiosity rather than concern. "Interesting readings on the monitor," she commented knowingly, sending shivers down the young nurse's spine. "For a woman who's been through what she has, it's very strange. Patients don't normally show that type of cognitive activity three days after such massive head trauma," she continued, eyeing the nurse, her tone dripping with suspicion.

Jana sensed the two of them move to the darkened corner of her vision, their voices inaudible but the tension between them palpable. She couldn't turn her head or raise an arm in protest. The purr of her automed station's motor accelerated ever so slightly, and Jana knew the drugs would hit her any second. She focused her last thought on Bill's face. I have so much to tell you.

Awareness dissipated and she was gone.

Sub-170

Yesterday I got below 170 pounds for the first time since...oh, I don't know...1995. For those of you who don't know (or care), I've been a pretty stringent low-carber since June of 2004. After watching my weight balloon from 179 to as high as 187 despite my pretty intense workout regimen over 2000-2003, I looked long and hard at my diet. With inspiration from Jerry Liu at work, mom and my love handles, I set out to try the Atkins-esque lifestyle.

One of the biggest culprits for my gelatinous weight gain was my work schedule. After working late 3 or 4 nights a week, I usually ate late, too. I thought I was being good by only having a bowl of cereal before I went to sleep, say at 10 or 11. What I later realized was that eating carb-rich, milk-laden cereal was probably the worst thing to eat right before going to sleep. That stopped immediately.

In addition to going low-carb, getting my work schedule under control has helped. I've been eating at regular hours, and that has definitely contributed to my turnaround. I have given up most bread in favor of low-carb wraps, dismissed milk and cereal completely (a tough one), and kicked Saturday morning donuts to the curb. I have actually reintroduced red meat into my diet sparingly (after I gave up burgers in about 1993) for want of some food of substance. Even those are lettuce-wrapped.

Frankly, my ability to be satisfied with a diet of about 4 to 5 items works to my advantage. All those times as a child being told to "try new things" were actually just making me fat, I see it so clearly now. If I had just stayed with a strict PB&J and pop-tarts diet since age 5, I'd probably be on the cover of Men's Health by now ;)

The most amazing thing about doing low-carb has been my complete avoidance of pop. Even though I had limited my intake to one soda a day and a few on the weekends since about 2002, it was still one of my most unconscious vices. Considering each one packs 50+ carbs (more than I take in now in total per day), the logic of giving it up was hard to deny. I have officially only had two root beers since Fathers Day of last year. That impresses me. I drink water like it is being fed intravenously.

I feel flat and generally good. My skin fits better. I have found the groove of my 1993-96 workout period when being in shape inspired other beneficial activities...regular flossing, crap like that. :) It's definitely a better state of mind to be in. Although I don't do the insane cardio workouts I did back then, I still feel great.

I thought I'd jot this down if for no other reason than to give myself a virtual pat on the back. Everybody have a CarbSmart peanut-butter, double toffee crunch mega protein bar on me!

(F) InvisiBill and JabberJoe Resolve

InvisiBill resolved, the surging disorientation subtly reassuring him that this time the transfer took. He dropped to his knees, his stomach in knots and residual flux still crimson and frothy in his peripheral vision. It was much too soon for sound. He shifted his weight back on his heels and calmly waited, letting the sensation of muscle strain recalibrate him. Chin pressed to his chest, he closed his eyes with a depressurizing sigh.

JabberJoe cackled to form six feet away. He resolved clumsily mid-stride and immediately nose dived to the asphalt, burdened with the cumbersome new gravity. "Whoop," he sputtered in his bellowing voice, followed by a boyish guffaw. His rotund shape came to rest against an alloy culvert as he grimaced against the flux gurgling behind his sinuses.

"God, it hurts bad this time, Bill. Real bad," JabberJoe lamented far too loudly, face to the dark sky. He rubbed the bridge of his nose and gingerly moved his jawbone from side to side like a cow chewing its cud.

"Mmm," InvisiBill intoned, the general murmur of their surroundings now beginning to surface in his ears. Though now fully resolved, InvisiBill was hardly there. What was left was an odd jumble of angular, if not sharp, features. Skin hung like windless sails from the masts of his serrated cheekbones. A swatch of thin black hair fell across his forehead, pointing to the scythe-like extension that was his nose. His shoulder blades jutted out beneath his thin tunic like intersecting rotary saw blades. Rubbing the jagged knuckles of his right hand across his temple, he stood cautiously, assessing his reserve of strength.

JabberJoe giggled from the gutter. "You ever feel one like that, Bill? Huh? I mean, you ever think it's been that bad, Bill?" He rocked his girth from left to right two times, finally building the momentum to roll over and come to his knees. His pupils dilated wildly as he strained to take in their surroundings.

They had come to rest in a Flash district, at the foot of the queue leading to a ubiquitous Haza club. Proxies were lined up five deep for at least a hundred feet in either direction. Flickering cyan under intermittent latency conflicts, the proxies paid InvisiBill and JabberJaw no mind. Proxies were quasi-sentient. JabberJoe figured they would surely acknowledge their presence. Instead they appeared wholly consumed by their current task definition. Automatons of decadence.

"Nothing change, huh, Bill? Nothing change."

An emotionless grin curled at the corner of InvisiBill's mouth. Extending a hand down to JabberJoe, he leaned back against his weight and pulled him to his feet. Nodding at an adjacent underpass barely visible in the violet halflight, InvisiBill led JabberJoe down the hill and through the billowing mist.

InvisiBill shouldered JabberJoe's substantial weight as he always did. JabberJoe typically took longer to come round after a transfer. This one being ninety percent hack-and-hope left them both depleted spiritually and the closest thing to physically they could manifest.

A dimly lit walkway snaked alongside the river that demarcated the Flash district. A goodies vendor had set up shop along the riverside, stationed itself by a merchant proxy. The three-tiered cart was draped garishly with everything the Flash district's reckless clientele could want on a whim's inspiration. 2-Fruits, hammerballs, Yazirian ale, and slicksticks were all set out on display. In the cart's belly, caked eel percolated in thick brown broth, awaiting the deadened palate of the hardcore Flashbanger.

InvisiBill turned his nose toward the cart, but could smell nothing. What little bandwidth he pirated was so thoroughly taxed and filtered, nearly all sensation short of sight and sound was disabled. Shunted to paying denizens.

"Can't remember last time we tasted, Billy. No, I sure can't. Not for long time, huh?" JabberJoe commented wearily, a string of wispy spittle hanging like a cobweb from his mouth.

InvisiBill looked up at his behemoth companion and smiled slightly, shaking his head in commiseration. Laboring under JabberJoe's mass, he finally led them into the shadows beneath the bridge. JabberJoe sloughed from InvisiBill's shoulder, collapsing heavily to the textured concrete.

"That's better, Billy. I gotta park for a bit. That took much out of me, you know. Not sure how many more we can do before we stick."

InvisiBill sat down slowly beside JabberJoe, who was now curling into a fetal position. He placed his hand on JabberJoe's haunch and tapped it reassuringly. JabberJoe garbled a few incoherent words and went latent.

InvisiBill slid a hand into his left pants pocket and felt Jana's picture — the one material possession bonded to him that couldn't be filtered away. He pulled it out to make sure it was really there. His force feedback was so permanently out of whack that he had lost trust in his hands.

Jana's face smiled back at him in the way it always did. Frozen moment. Standing in the kitchen. Mote-drenched sunbeam through yellow linen curtains. Silver kettle on avocado stove. Her left eye a blur, caught in the moment of blinking. Her right eye focused on the camera, on him. Knowing.

He put the photo back and closed the pocket flap. He wasn't ready to deal with it now. The loss, the desperation. The oblivion between them. Fading slowly to static himself, he looked back up the hill at the proxies shuffling along the promenade. Behind each set of their eyes were real people. Real people laughing, waiting, eating chocolate, screwing. They controlled everything: in, out, on, off, now, later. They took it all for granted.

InvisiBill titled his head back against the wall and went still.

Tomorrow, hope glimmers.

The Id, Ego and Kurt Vonnegut

I want to blog last night's dream before it fades to oblivion. I'm at that gratifying intersection of remembering the obscure details and understanding what they mean.

Here we go...

Lori and I are awaiting the arrival of Mom and Tom in some sun-drenched plaza. It feels like the area in front of the Long Beach Aquarium, but is probably Harbor Village in San Diego. I sense Sydney and Emelie at our feet, although they aren't clearly in focus. It has the appearance of one of our Coronado brunch outings.

From around the curve of an approaching sidewalk, I see Mom leading a rather large procession, maybe 10 people. Tom is there, Jeff, and an odd jumble of grandchildren, high school friends, and other relatives flicker in and out of existence in the group. More a sense of them than a clear picture.

As the group gets closer, and actually starts to walk by us, catching us in its wake as we fall into step, I see that Robin Williams is walking aside Mom. I am taken aback. He actually looks fairly old, but I'm stunned that he is apparently going to lunch with us.

My point of view becomes disembodied at this point, and from this new vantage I am able to survey some of the other members of the entourage. The surprise of Robin Williams is eclipsed by the presence of another figure. At first glance, part Albert Einstein, part Mark Twain, it is none other than Kurt Vonnegut. Only this Kurt Vonnegut is gargantuan. Literally seven or eight feet tall.

I stare at him dumbfounded, and he gives me a polite nod. I approach him, getting directly in his path so he is forced to stop. I then look back to Robin Williams, who is passing me, and say "I'm sorry Mr. Williams, I'm just really excited about meeting Kurt Vonnegut." Robin doesn't even look at me.

Kurt Vonnegut's immense stature becomes overwhelming, and I evidently begin to shrink at the same time, exaggerating the size discrepancy. I reach out to shake his hand, but the sleeves of the sweater I'm wearing have descended my arms. The fingers of my right hand barely extend beyond the cuff, and as I'm trying to pull it back, he grabs my hand to shake. He has ham hands with fingers the diameter of garden hose. He engulfs my pathetic little paw and I can hardly manage to even exert the slightest pressure in return. He looks down at the union of our hands and snickers, something between a smirk and a sneer curling at the corner of his mouth. My embarrassment is overshadowed only my residual shock.

So we go to lunch. We file into a virtually empty dining room that is once an airport lounge, the next moment a mall food court, and then ends up more like a terraced Black Angus bar. There are dozens of tables in small, boxseat-like arrangements. Most of the tables are overturned, or have chairs stacked on top of them. Paper and silverware litters the floor. Feeling like we're early, or the place isn't open yet, I suddenly feel responsible for picking the restaurant. Still, a hostess is clearly leading us to a table.

She directs us to a cubicle of two tables amidst the sea of hundreds. This tiny little space is nearly impassable with clutter, and is jammed up against the half-high wall of a DJ booth. Cigarettes and junk are strewn across the tabletops. Next to the tables we're being herded to, two little old ladies are eating quietly. Somehow proving that the place is, indeed, open for business but is so horrible that apparently only us and the soon-to-be-dead would risk eating there. Chaperoning Robin Williams and Kurt Vonnegut there suddenly makes me wish that I was one of the latter.

End of dream.

So what do I think this means? At some point, the two professions/projects I've mused about pursuing are standup comedy and writing. In my mind, Robin Williams and Kurt Vonnegut are my most admired, revered figureheads in their respective occupations. Their arrival at my dream lunch signifies my renewed courtship with those pursuits. Vonnegut's dominant size (and the fact that I told Robin Williams I was more interested in meeting Kurt) signifies that writing is my more highly regarded, more realistic endeavor. Vonnegut has always embodied my ideal mixture of speculative fiction and satire, two threads of style I often practice weaving.

This dream was probably all triggered by the cathartic experience of writing in a public forum and doing my best to entertain. However, my obvious inability to treat the group to an edible meal or measure up to Kurt Vonnegut enough to even shake his hand clearly reveal my own insecurity in my abilities. Having that exposed to a montage of family and friends that were also coming to lunch is pretty funny and telling, too.

So...welcome to lunch all. I can't guarantee you a nice place to sit, a decent meal that sticks to your ribs, or that you won't be stricken with botulism when we're done. But it is what it is. I am what I am.

Enjoy your meal.