Forgive the picture blog, but I'm excited for my new place! And new roommates, and lack of old roommate or her dog. The pictures:

Ye living room.


Ye Kitchen


Ye Stairs


From outside. Interesting color, eh? I'm sure it will make for easy directions.


View from the balcony outside my room.


My room. Last roommate left a nice little design, which I might keep up.


I need a bed...


and maybe a desk.



I also found out that I'm only a couple blocks from where my parents lived when they went to medical school here! I walked by said street this morning.

Fellow Geeks... Presenting

The Adventures of Dr McNinja


This is the funniest comic I've found online in a long, long time. In a lot of ways, the humor is reminiscent of The Tick (and not just because of the ninjas). Make sure you check the stories in the Archive part. Some quotes:


"Chicken McNuggets are 26 percent disobedient robots"

"What do you thugs know about velociraptors?"

"What is your mother's expertise?"
"Pickled beets."
"AND?!"
"Precisely aimed demolitions..."


Anyway. If you're as much of a geek as I am, you'll get a kick out of this...

Part II: Comfort and Cigarettes

I locked myself out of the hotel room. Deliberately. I knew as I watched the heavy door swing shut that I could be dooming myself to a long night outside. I was ok with that. Besides, I had promised the others as they headed out that I would catch up with them after a short nap. So I had napped, showered, and, feeling like ten bucks, headed out the door. The door closed with a soft click. I strode down the hall towards the elevators, making a game of stepping on certain parts of the carpet pattern.

***

I sat down among a small crowd that had gathered to watch a man at one of the oversized slot machines, which took dollar increments. From his clothes, I determined that he was probably from Louisiana, and had an affinity for lobsters and motorcycles. He would punch away $5 at a time, and then step to his left to watch the giant tumblers roll, burnt out cigarette in hand. It didn't take me long to figure out that, like the slot machine, his mutterings and responses were point-based. Here it is:

-$5 = "Gye," or occasional boot-stomp.
+$5 = "Yer"
+$10 = "Yer!" and single hand clap.
+$15 = "Yer!" two hand claps and boot-stomp.
+$30 = "Yea-er!" three hand claps and half a square-dancing step.

Right after he won thirty, he lost it all right away, plus the rest. He turned around, said to someone, "There went five hundred dollars," then proceeded to a smaller slot machine.

***

After a few hours of wandering, I was ready to call it a night. So I found a bench outside a gift shop, and watched people wander by. Two men walked in, one with an incredibly ugly tattoo on his neck, just visible above a flannel collar. The other kept turning around and grinning at me. On the third grin he stopped, and gestured as if to pull his pants down, jerking his thumb past his face in the direction they were walking. I stared at him levelly until his grin faded, and he turned to catch up with his companion. I walked over to a slot machine, won a dollar, cashed in the ticket, and found the bench again. More time passed.

A tall and very pretty woman walked by, then seemed to change her trajectory so that she could sit on the other side of the bench. She looked as if she had just gotten off her shift at the restaurant across from the gift shop. She ruffled through her purse for a moment, then looked over and asked if I had any cigarettes. I replied that I was sorry, but I didn't smoke, and we talked for a bit. When she spoke, it was with a hint of sadness, and a slight Scottish accent. I guess things weren't going so well for her, between long shifts at the restaurant, her living situation, and everything. Conversation got around to what I was doing there, and I explained how I had willed myself into the situation I was in. I stated matter-of-factly that if it came down to it, I could just sleep in my car. She scoffed at me, and said, with a hint of a question,

"A bed is much nicer to sleep in than a car."

Suddenly I was awake again. I paused for a moment, then repeated her words in agreement, if in a careful tone. I think I must have sounded more cautious than I intended. Perhaps realizing that I could offer neither comfort nor cigarettes, she moved to gather her things, and we awkwardly wished each other a good night. Silently, I hoped that things would get better for her.

I sat there, going over what had just happened. "I only have eyes for you" came on over the hotel speakers, and I smiled at what an idiot I was.

Doo bop shu bop.

The Extreme Pita: A Review

I was driving down Dentist & Car Dealership Blvd earlier today, foraging for provisions, when I spotted a small eatery called The Extreme Pita, sandwhiched between a car dealership and a dental supply store. The sign was written in wildly irregular letters in clashing blues and yellows, a sure sign of its extremity. I'm a sucker for anything extreme. Extreme Goldfish Food Flakes, Extreme Lawn Bowling, Extreme Shoe Laces, you name it. So I turned my car around, or flipped an Extreme Bitch if you will, and checked The Extreme Pita out.

I was extremely disappointed. Although the pace of food preparation was appropriately frenetic, to the point where I had to double-check that I wasn't also being sold a car or dental insurance, the meal itself was anything but extreme. Most of the ingredients were cold, the tzatziki was bland, and the grilled chicken was distinctly average. I might go so far as to suggest that they rename their chain to The Moderate Pita.

To be fair, I still enjoyed my lunch somewhat. While I sat there eating a pita of questionable extremity, I couldn't help but think that some slight changes in atmosphere might assist with making the culinary experience more "Extreme."

***

-Change the background music. No more of that light jazz shit, I want to eat my pita while listening to speed metal.

-Get rid of the 80's "crazy" yellow and blue motif. Paint the walls black with slashes of red, and then add stripper poles, half-pipes, caged tigers, and pits with spikes in them. Train the tigers to dance on the poles and ride on the half-pipes for bonus Extreme points.

-Fire the friendly staff members, and replace them with angry dwarves (and/or tigers).

-In addition to the standard ingredients, ask if the customer would like to "Go Extreme" with such ingredients and options as gravel bits, live fire ants, battery acid or pistachio ice cream.

-Change your corporate key words from "Fast, Fresh, Healthy, Convenient" to "Frenzied, Furious, Dwarves, Fuck you."

***

In short, I give The Extreme Pita only 2 out of 5 Extreme Points, but I believe it has potential, if it implements any of these ideas.

Part III: A Desert Vision?

I pulled off I-15 South on the exit that would take me through the Mojave Desert to Joshua Tree. There was a station right there, with exorbitant gas prices advertised on fading red letters, but I decided to stop and get some food. I walked through a crowd of aging, black leather-clad bikers, who calmly swiveled their heads back and forth as if anticipating an attack, and into the dimly lit store. There were plenty of Vegas-themed keychains and other kitsch, but the racks were almost completely bare of anything edible. With an odd sense of deja vu, I walked back through the bikers, wondering if I had also stopped here and gotten nothing four years ago.

On crumbling pavement
Ghosts are riding through ghost towns
Remembering youth

Mojave Desert is beautiful. And desert-ey. Parts of it seemed to have more Joshua trees than Joshua Tree, which I found funny. I stopped at a couple places and climbed around on some rocks, but I wanted to get a campsite in Joshua before sunset, so mostly I drove through it. I'll have to come back and get some more pictures, especially of the dead towns I passed.

***

By the time the sun had set, I found what was probably the last spot in a site called "Jumbo Rocks". My spot was the farthest out from the camp road, and surrounded on all sides by rocks (jumbo ones, of course) and foliage. I set up camp, which didn't take so long without a tent. Then I met Harold and Voula, from Germany and Madagascar, who were out of luck on a spot. I offered them the empty half of my parking space, and they offered me some beer. Good trade. They hung out for a few hours by the fire, and shared some pretty incredible stories about their travels, before returning to set up the bed in their van.

There I sat, slightly cold and slightly buzzed, eating potato chips under a brilliantly beautiful desert sky. I couldn't finish the bag, so I set it down for a bit and just enjoyed the fire. Then, on an impulse, I crumpled up the bag and threw it in the dying fire, and laughed at how brightly the greasy chip core burned. I remember thinking I probably shouldn't stand so close, in case any toxic chemicals were being released by the bag.

It was right about then that I blacked out.

I woke up on my sleeping bag what felt like moments later, vaguely aware of the presence of something close by. Whatever it was must have just become aware of me, because it snarled right in my face. I bolted to my feet and gave a shout, wildly scanning my dark surroundings. It responded with one angry bark, and was silent after. I shook my shoulders, trying to rid myself of fear. Scared half to death by a little coyote.

Mad desert spirit
Come for my potato chips
A burnt offering