The Ninny Spot

AAAAAAHHHHHHH!!!!!!

2009-06-13T09:52:00.000-07:00

Apparently I'm a terrorist. This is the only logical conclusion I can reach based on the events of the last month or so. In each of these occurrences, the Federal or State government have fired metaphorical weapons at me. In a short period of time the following have occurred (yes I'm whining again, deal with it):

The state of California decided it was okay for voters to strip rights from other citizens.

The Obama administration decided that equality really wasn't that important and went against their campaign promises in favor of upholding don't ask, don't tell.

The Department of Labor voted to not provide a grant to the program I work with, stripping us of a fair amount of our funding.

I think it might be beneficial for me to stop paying taxes and start telling the government to bite me. Why should I support them and help others if every time I turn around I'm gonna get bitch slapped.

Tragedy and then some

2009-06-05T13:34:00.001-07:00

With all the events that have happened in the last couple of weeks, I've been wanting to share so much with the world. Mostly it's been anger. Anger over the events following last November's California State Elections, when a (very) slim majority of voters opted to strip the right to marry away from same sex couples. Yes, this is terrifying for many reasons, predominantly the fact that a slim majority (really, only two percent more) vote for a constitutional change that effects the rights of many, and it happens. systematically oppressing a minority group. This is digustingand terrifying for us, and many many other groups. Imagine if 51% of the state decided that it would be better if interracial couples shouldn't marry, wrote an initiative, and passed it. Same concept, different minority. I'm on a tirade and I digress.

On this same day, I ran a kayak into a rock. The boat flipped and my poor beloved iPhone and camera (yes this is a materialist complaint) were destroyed.I wasn't that upset about this, until I started readjusting to life without them. Luckily for Mr. Ninny, Frankus and Danger(Space)Kitty delivered devices for contact. Now I'm back in the world, and trying to step up my game. I've had students graduate, and made a quick trip to LA. I wanted to post little nothings of these events to this here Ninnyspot, but I failed. Apparently my new nifty, text a post system isn't functional, even though Blogger says it is. Hrrmmmm.... We'll see.

A Warning

2009-05-28T07:32:00.000-07:00

We are tired. We are angry. We have seen the true face of many who live in our state and it is one of hatred, ignorance, and sanctimonious religious fascism.

Let the Supreme Court ruling last Tuesday be a warning to all those who live in the State of California (which should be read "Theocracy of California"). Your rights are at the whim of others; they are not protected. Should you fall out of favor with the minions, you will be next.

Yes..... there's more

2009-05-01T20:33:00.000-07:00

Along with the attitude and mood swings of the last year or two. Ninny has also re-discovered his love of decent public transportation. It had been since Portland that Ninny had truly embraced a Metropolitan transit system, but in San Francisco, MUNI provides. One fond activity of Ninny's while riding said transit system is the phone journal. When random thoughts, images, or tangents strike him, Ninny enters them into the trusty notepad. Here then, are some of them for you to read.

The first dates back to the awakening from the depression mentioned in a previous post:

"A dry hole in my chest like opening my eyes wide on a grey clouded day.

Unclear if it's an absess or an additive;

It it's guilt, sorrow, or something yet to be named."

And then it continues:

" He took in the view as a starving man his meal. The wet city, shrouded in grey, as though all the towers, turrets, sky scrapers, and piers were nothing more than delicately balanced droplets, posed and ready to be consumed by the parched. He gasped at the audacity of such a vision, yet kept driving as though it were unseen."

And finally, while listening to José Gonzalez for the first time in a long while:

"Plucked, syncopated, alone.
Echoes of conscience, subconscious, dreams;
The shadowy intonation of solitary.

Luxurious and guilt inducing as though allowing oneself to slowly sink into a deep feather bed for one. The sounds, emotions, and implied actions surround the mind as down feathers. Insulating in, and from, the world. A safety net from loneliness, a shield from unwanted cerebral intrusion, cloaked in tenor and timbre."

The Fight

2009-05-01T20:21:00.000-07:00

the story continues now...

Loneliness was hovering like a dense fog over Ninny's life. He looked here. He looked there. He looked there again. Yet no matter where our Ninny looked, all he found was meaningless forays in the sheets with drunken persons, and Ninny was sinking deeper into a drunken era of mental absence. Following a holiday season with family and the dropping of the cigarette habit, Ninny found himself ringing in the New Year with Drella and friends. It was a low key evening to be sure, though many libations were imbibed. Ninny, once again, found himself in a whirl of sheets and body parts. This time however, the person stuck around.

Yes, our Ninny was whisked into a relationship with a kind man. Weekends became events, and sleeping alone was rare. The loneliness had finally begun to recede. Sadly the depression did not. It seems the other end of the spectrum was not much more bearable than the first, and Ninny was soon overwhelmed by the relationship. Resentment rooted, grew, and festered. Soon Ninny was disturbed and still depressed. So a mere few months from the start, Ninny separated himself from the other, and was back to being alone.

And alone he truly was. Miss Drella's work schedule did not coincide with Ninny's. Ninny was consumed by staring blankly at flashing images and mindless drolling. Drinking heavily and sleeping often. Exhaustion, emptiness, and sorrow were looming on the periphery of Ninny's vision. As the darkness crept closer so did Spring. Ninny took a quick trip back to LA to see the friends and family he missed so dearly. The sun and warmth of his loved ones, coupled with a little sun and warmth from the weather, brought Ninny a little ways from the darkness again. Once home Ninny began changes.

The TV was abandoned, the gym reinstated, and bay area friends reacquainted. In short. Ninny was back.

And now you find him here. A new perspective ever developing with excitement for the near and distant future riding astride it. May Ninny's new journey be long and ever challenging, bringing out new views, creations, and friends.

Not forgotten

2009-05-01T20:14:00.000-07:00

No dear reader, Ninny has not forgotten that he was filling in the gap (multi-year gap) recently. But first there are two choice phrases that are flitting about in his head.

The first is from "Market Place" on NPR and it is: "Ramshackle Mom and Pop Diamond Shop"

The second is from "American Dad" and it is: "cocky pie skank"

Now really, how blessed are we to live in a world with such keen verbal frivolity? That's right. Very. You cocky pie skank.

And all of a sudden....

2009-04-12T19:13:00.001-07:00

Ninny returns.

Hello dear friends. Please do not begrudge me my absence. Years have passed. Yes years! Or at least, year and some change, since I last wrote an entrance on the Ninny spot. SO much has changed since then. Rest assured the wombat cricket club is still just fine, though morning the loss of one of the food sundry members (apparently someone got too hungry and couldn't resist, I'm not naming names.....Frenchy!). Ah but the changes to Ninny's life. So many. So large. Where to start?

How about the beginning? No? Too obvious eh? Alright I'll start wherever sounds right then. And that would be on the patio at the Faultline Bar in Los Angeles, CA. Ninny lived near this bar at this time. It was one semi-common warm evening by the fire pit. Our Ninny was standing and chatting with Danger(space)kitty, discussing the world and their places in it. Certainly there was beer and cigarettes involved. As our heroes discussed the world it came into existence a plan. A plot, ploy, diversion, what have you. It was, it must be said, initially posited by Mr Danger(space)kitty, that perhaps it would be advisable, to leave Los Angeles. Now those of you who have read other tails of Ninny know, that he lost his mother roughly two years ago. Until the loss of the matriarch there was an unspoken requirement that Ninny stay put in southern California. However, at the time of this conversation, Ninny's beloved mother was no longer around. So Ninny put the idea in the head of Charley. Charley put the query to the ear of his boss, and next thing you know, Charley and Ninny were packing their belongings, bidding a fond farewell to friends and family, and moving to San Francisco.

Upon arrival, Ninny spent some time in awe of the new metropolis he called home. He walked and wandered. He stretched is eyes, his legs, and his mind. Soon Ninny found himself in the company of wondrous people with whom he felt inadequate, but inspired. Within a few months of his migration Ninny was joined by none other than Ms. Drella Jones, whom, after an unpleasant attempt at moving to New York, decided that San Francisco was a better option (a decision that Ninny most thoroughly agrees with). Ninny and Drella found themselves a lovely two bedroom apartment in the city and settled into new lives and new adventures. Soon though Ninny found himself in a depression. It seems that after Ninny had adjusted to life in San Francisco he also found himself a bit lonely.

The trials and tribulations of Ninny's new life will continue with a follow up piece soon.

It's working

2007-09-08T21:38:00.000-07:00

Howdy folks. I figured I'd throw out a brief message to let you all know about Ninny's latest adventure. Ninny has, somehow, begun trying to get just a tad healthier. With the help of one Danger(space)Kitty, Ninny has been going to Yoga. But that's not all. Ninny has also gone back to running (albeit not much) and even more recently, with the help of a DareBare Swears, lifting a weight or two. The end result......are you ready? Ninny has gained 6 pounds!!!! That's right boys and girls, Ninny is gaining weight again. So here's to the joy of work paying off.

Cheers!

The Quick Fix

2007-08-10T00:09:00.000-07:00

So yes. This has been a bit of a trying day for 'ol Ninny. The sudden and horrifying demise of my beloved hairy lip has caused me loads of self doubt and lowered self esteem. I calm myself remembering that it's just hair, hair that's not retreating from my body (like other hairs that shall remain un-named (damned genetics))so it will grow back. Also, I discovered tonight, that though the pathetic femi-French gay mustache remains, it isn't as horrible with the addition of my trusty spectacles. I love my glasses anyway, and often kick myself for not wearing them more often. Well for the coming weeks, I doubt I shall go without. Here is a visage for those of you in mourning. Granted it's no substitute, but it will at least serve as a buffer until the old hairs grow back.

All I need is a cardigan and a malt, and I'm back in business.

In case you missed

2007-08-09T17:46:00.000-07:00

In the case that you are one of the poor few who never had the opportunity to bask in the glory of my former mustache, here's a picture:

Admittedly that's not a fantastic picture, but still.... such a horrible loss. Really.

Mustache Massacre

2007-08-09T17:27:00.001-07:00

Tragedy! Scandal! The worst has happened. I was trimming away at my lovingly cultivated mustache when.... wait for it....I FUCKED IT UP!

Then I tried to fix it and things got worse.
Yes.
Worse.
There was facial hair everywhere! I tried to stop it, but it kept falling!
Finally I had to stop the molting, before my whole face was bare.

Now I face (pardon the pun) the ultimate dilemma. Do I eliminate all traces of the once glorious face broom, or do I sculpt to a tenable hold over while the rest grows back?

I'll let you decide.

Here be the tragic results, prepare yourselves. It's truly horrifying.

Don't ostracize me for my atrocity.

Lump (don't bother reading this, it's more of a journal entry)

2007-08-08T23:40:00.000-07:00

I fear it may have been months dear Ninny Spot readers. Oh don't act like I've betrayed you, those of you who take the time to read this only do so out of some bizarre mixture of semi-allegiance, pitty, and and so that the next time I see you, you can nod knowingly when I regurgitate whatever I write, not knowing that you are actually one of the 3.14 people who read this.
Tonight, aside from having difficulty with my shift key, I am Lump. Sad and lonely in a boggy marsh. I fear that this open schedule of mine is allowing me too much time in my head. I've been spending most of this time trying to keep myself busy with art projects and exploring the possibility of a far off career change (one that would require me to go back to school, again, and get another degree). These things were succeeding in keeping me distracted, succeeding, that is, until now.

Oddly, I've had company of some form or another for the last three evenings (including tonight). Monday Ms. Hosebeast came up to visit, yesterday I had my weekly Eureka fix with Master Danger(space)Kitty, and tonight Mr. Book Co. came and watched a movie. Yet now, I find myself in bed, tired nonetheless, knowing that I should sleep as, once again, I'm up past my bed time and will inevitably struggle to rouse myself in time to prepare for work tomorrow, yet wishing that I wasn't alone. I'm sure I'd not feel this way if I wasn't spending so much of my time wandering around inside my own head. You see when I do this, I tend to bore myself. I get wrapped up in circles, and the few people I talk to grow weary of hearing the same circular synapse sequences again and again and again. However, that's not the real root of my lumpishness.

This sad and lonely boggy marshness, has been drawn from a different sense of being alone. One I've been carefully maintaining for the last year and two thirds (yes I just did the math). I'm grasping at straws again, wishing I had some kind of partner. An intimate friend to hold, share ideas and make things with, someone to wake up next to. Yes. I'm lonely. It's odd though, for as lonely as I am, I have no desire to seek out a person to be with. At least I've learned that lesson in the past several years. If you look for it, it will elude. The only way it will rear its lovely head is if you're distracted looking for other things to do and think about. Perhaps this is one of the reasons I've been throwing myself into more creative and educational endeavors. Or perhaps I just have more time on my hands than I'm used to, and even the various projects I'm undertaking aren't enough to occupy my mind, so it reverts to its standard default. LAUL warning signs (Lonely And Ugly Loser feelings) are cropping up. I've been truly adventurous, on my own the last few days, exploring myself in new ways. Yet I still find myself wishing I could follow these explorations with someone else. Instead, I'm throwing it in faces, "LOOK WHAT I MADE!" As though my friends and acquaintances will print out my slightly illicit digital images and hang them on the refrigerator. "Did you know that Neutra believed that humanity and nature were one, not diametrically opposed as some previous architects thought? And that he strove to reflect this in his buildings?" Yes, these are the things that fall from my mouth when left to my own devices. But it's either that, or lie on my bed, wallowing in groundless self pitty, feeling lump. Sad and lonely in a boggy marsh, even though my life is full of wonderful people who tolerate my blabbering self.

People like you. For if you have actually read all the way to this point in this tedious posting, you are most definitely one of these people. Thanks to you all for listening/reading/nodding and smiling. It means a great deal to me (and yes, I'm not so clueless as to not notice when you're doing so, I just choose to pretend like you mean it. To me the fact that you're willing to put on the front, means that you are hearing the important parts of the conversation the parts that say "hi. I'm needing validation. You see my life is a series of pointless creations and futile queries, most of which go unanswered. So please. PLEASE. nod along with my babbling. Soon I'll leave you alone and you can go back to whatever it is you should be doing while nodding at me

When I win the lottery. It will be those of you who will nod for me that receive the greatest gift of all: a Peanut Butter Twix with a chocolate cookie center, and a five dollar gift certificate to Walmart. With this gift card I highly suggest you purchase for yourself the cheapest "My First Gun" you can find, and a few rounds of ammunition for it (you'll have to dip into your own pockets for that part). Carefully lift the barrel of the gun to your forehead, smile real big, so that when the rigamortis sets in you'll look presentable, and free yourself from this shit hole. Wait, then who will nod for me? Never mind, I'll just pay off all your debts and let you live in my artists commune for cheap. I only ask that occasionally you bring home a nice boy who will help me feel less lonely.

Blow shit up day

2007-07-06T11:31:00.000-07:00

So Ninny finally got a new ride. It's black. It's shiny. It's still developing a name. So far it's being called Vladamir, however, that's not set in stone yet. Upon finally completing the acquisition process, Ninny grabbed his dear friend Diana, and headed north to visit the Dude, Davey, Kaili, and Sallykins for a blow-shit-up-day celebration. Young Master Vladamir handled splendidly up to Santa Cruz. Unfortunately, several insects lost their lives in the journey.

After our arrival in the hippie haven, Diana revealed her true colors as the god empress of Dune.

During a sunny afternoon of merriment. Ninny decided the time had come to make an homage to Ms. Drella Jones, with an amendment for other Ninnies in the world.

On our return trip, Diana and Ninny stopped in Castroville to visit the Giant Artichoke!

Suprisingly the Giant Artichoke is not only home to the ginormous leafy bud that goes so well with garlic butter, but also to a variety of oddly large fruit. Each of these fruit contains smaller, or shall I say, normal, sized fruit. Sometimes the baby fruit within are of a different variety of fruit, proving once again, that nature is not nearly as ridiculously prejudiced as humanity.

Ninny's final, and perhaps most delightful, discovery in the Giant Artichoke was this new truth. At the heart of every artichoke there lives a lobster wielding claw toy machine.

So the next time you go to eat your artichokes (which I highly recommend you do) take care when eating the heart. For therein lies a toy machine, that just might wield a stuffed lobster.

Undead and mustaches

2007-07-02T09:10:00.000-07:00

My my what a weekend. Ninny and Danger(Space)Kitty ventured down to San Diego to play with our dear friends Drella, JP Satán, and Azure Die. On Friday we dawned our mustaches and ventured out to Ye olde Eagle. Oddly, Drella and Ninny appear to be somewhat pirate-ish Mr. Danger(space)Kitty showed us once again what gorgeous looks like. Perhaps it's just in our blood.

Apparently sometime in night on Friday we all died. Ninny regressed several years and then died. Luckily a kind group of ghouls resurrected us and brought us to the park to walk amongst our fellow living dead.

Sadly there are few good pictures of our various parings. Ms. Jones has some lovely pics on her blog here. You might also wish to peruse around on Myspace, as there are several pictures from the San Diego Zombie Walk there as well. With that, Ninny shall nap before the adventures of getting a new car begin.

Belated

2007-06-28T21:13:00.000-07:00

The following were written on tiny slips of paper. Life was exceptionally rough at the time and I've been carting around these tiny chunks of mental vomit since. I have decided the time has come to dispose of the tiny blurbs. But first I thought I'd record them here.

There are times
There are times,
too numerous to count,
when I think to myself...
"I don't know how much more of this I can take."
Then a clear alto voice rings in.
It registers softly yet firmly,
somewhere between the past and the present.
"You'll take as much as it gives." It says.
"and you'll say thank you when it's finished."
And though I hate this.
Though each time I marvel at the pain,
the fatigue,
at the surreality of each instance,
I know she's right.
And each time I say thank you.
Even if it may sound more like fuck you.

Gone Wanting
I recently welcomed my dear friend into, what has become known as,"The year from hell."
We're going on our fifth year now, it's truly quite remarkable.
When the latest event added itself to the menagerie of catastrophes, I thought to myself, "again?"
So another home flooded.
Another period of wandering from place to place wishing that home felt like home.
The part that frightens me is the absence. It's like traveling. It's almost fun for a few days, sitting on floors, dressing from knapsacks, walking blocks to bathe, but then you reach a point when you think "hey, I want to go home now."
But home has become a myth. A concept glorious in its foundation, but transparent in its reality. Home is the place you go when you want to feel safe. But now, be it my ark, my friends apartment, or my childhood residence, home is a vacant edifice.
I have hands reaching out from far and wide. Offering whatever they can, and yet I feel more alone. As though no matter where I go, I'll still have an absence waiting.
Home has changed from a place to a feeling. It's an idea of security, not physical, but emotional, and there are few, if any (at the present) who represent it.
Family helps but hurts, friends know but don't quite understand, and the rest feed the dryness that stings your soul, reminding you that absence is a reality.
Inherent in existence.
Innate in its function.
Painful and painless.
A missing.
An abstract void.
A home gone wanting.

The Wombat Cricket Club Debacle

2007-06-18T21:19:00.001-07:00

That's right folks, J-J-Jimbo Ninny is back. Wipe your eyes, unclasp your hands, and save the hallelujahs, I know my return was long awaited, but the speaking in tongues should really be reserved for holy occasions....on second thought... theoje jksoekcj djkliehk iahelvjahcikeok ahwoeijckwol ! aoiejr !!joiajw eoivjwoeifjo.

Praise Ninny. Holy holy. etc. etc.

So Ninny is back. But where has he been you ask? Well, usually I'd reserve answers to such questions for the Ninny Spot's sister blog, Ask Ninny, however, since you were so polite in your query, and since Ask Ninny refers one to this page for referencing the cause of his prolonged absence, I shall share with you the tale.

You see, I, J-J-Jimbo Ninny, have been on sabbatical. For those of you wondering what exactly a sabbatical is, please ask on Ask Ninny. Yes, Ninny has been abroad (no no, not a broad, abroad, Ninny does not do drag, though he does greatly appreciate the artistry of it). Ninny was sent away on a mission of diplomacy to help negotiate a bit of a feud amongst the Wombat Cricket Club of South Central Buttpumpusville.

This was supposed to be a short yet fruitful mission where our Ninny would strengthen his skills as a mediator while building new connections and friends amongst the Wombat community. Unfortunately, the conflict amongst the cricket aficionados in Buttpumpusville was thick with hostility and complication, and it required a full six months before either side was willing to consider compromising towards an agreement. You see the Wombat Cricket Club is comprised of two main factions and three hundred and twenty seven and a half smaller factions. Because of the rather small size of the club, the three hundred and twenty seven and a half smaller factions actually make up the majority of the club, each faction is an individual, the half being a conjoined twin that, though fully independent of his once attached sibling, never grew to full stature and is thusly considered a half of a person. Oddly, he truly is only half of a person and consequently has difficulty with depth perception, performing any dance that isn't the pogo, and clapping. I digress, the point is, the two main factions only consist of two people each, or in this case, two wombats, and two sentient enchiladas both named Alfred. Apparently the Wombats and the Alfred Enchiladas had already reached an agreement upon my arrival in Buttpumpusville, and were ready to set the season calendar so they could start planning their Tupperware parties.
The three hundred and twenty seven and a half other factions, however, were on the verge of all out war. Each of the smaller factions had a different issue they felt was of the utmost importance in settling before setting dates for the season and moving on with their lives. The actual Wombats and the Enchiladas' differences had revolved around the eating of cheese in the club, conveniently the Wombats are both allergic to cheese, and the Enchiladas being made of Cheese, had no desire to be eaten. As a result these two parties settled on not allowing the consumption of cheese quite quickly, and left the club to sell seal tight lidded plastic ware to housewives and domestically enabled, yet socially inept gay men. The remaining factions argued this point for quite a while. One of the factions, named Pierre, whom had recently moved to Buttpumpusville from Arles, and whom had been eying the Alfreds with a slight hint of drool, felt that banning the consumption of cheese was blasphemous, and touted it as being blatant prejudice against him for being of French descent. His voice, however, was quickly silenced, quite literally, by a freak accident involving a salad shooter and a drunken hedgehog from Auckland which I shall refrain from explaining at the moment, let's just let be said that neither Pierre nor the Hedgehog shall be returning to the Wombat Cricket Club anytime soon.

The remaining three hundred twenty five and a half factions each assaulted Ninny with a number of complaints ranging from whether it was proper to wear a hat tilted forty five degrees to the left on a Sunday, to the prohibition of two legged dancing and clapping on the field. In the end Ninny prevailed, setting inline a number of compromises such as the infamous one handed clapping agreement of April, and the grueling yet successful agreement to the wearing of hats at any angle regardless of the day, as long as said hat was not adorned with pink ribbon or a large fluffy bunny (the exception being the fourth Thursday of each month, whereupon the adorning of a hat with pink ribbon and a fluffy bunny is requisite to playing with the club).

Having settled all of these conflicts Ninny has returned to his new home with Frankus and Charley in Hollywood where he is happily settling back into the life of a Ninny. He shall be venturing forth for San Francisco on Friday for some gay frolicking, so please look for him there. Otherwise, might I suggest a trip to Buttpumpusville to watch some Wombats, enchiladas, and others play cricket? The season oficially begins on Sunday, at 3:31 and 30 seconds. All hats without pink bows and fluffy bunnies are welcome.

moving on

2007-06-14T16:53:00.000-07:00

So the count down has begun. Mr. Ninny has reached the point in the school year where, aside from completing grades and cleaning up the room, his main objective is to keep the kids from killing themselves and count down days. As of now there are 6 (count them 6!) work days left in the school year. I can hardly wait. I believe baited breath is an appropriate term to go here.

Also, Ninny just received word that he will be working somewhere else quite soon. He will not need return to the hell he has endured for the past six months. That is something that truly calls for celebration. Some will occur this weekend, but a great deal more the following (that would be the weekend of the June 22nd for those of you checking calendars). Look for Ninny in San Francisco that weekend. He'll consider a new Ninny shirt to make him more identifiable, the old Ask Ninny shirt is starting to look a little worse for wear.

Hoy

2007-06-08T10:55:00.000-07:00

Hoy es viernes. Estoy enfermo y poco cansado. Mi compañero de cuarto y yo somos vivir en nos apartamento de nuevo. Hay nos cosas en nos cuartos, y nosotros compramos camas nuevas.
Hey that's not bad for having barely completed Spanish one a couple of weeks ago. As near as I can tell, I believe that says: Today is Friday. I am sick and a little tired. My room mate and I are to live in our apartment again. Our things are in our rooms and we buy new beds. Which is all true. Last Wednesday we met with the property management lady (who was friendly and professional with a no-bullshit manner about her that I appreciate) and the manager of the carpet cleaning company (who was receptive to my concerns about the behavior of his employees). I also had the pleasure of dealing with my ill vehicle that day. The problem turned out to be the same she had recently endured meaning there was no charge for the repairs. Unfortunately, as Ninny's dear sister was driving poor fancy home, she discovered a new concern and notified me immediately. It seems that when driving Fancy one noticed that the alignment was off by a fair amount, there was a strange new grinding noise eminating from the rear left wheel, and when you went over small bumps the back end of the vehicle bobbed and swayed in a manner reminiscent of Johnny Depp in Pirates of the Caribbean. One that made the driver suspect that the cars hind quarters were about to snap off and land in the street next to the wheels. It's a very disconcerting sensation to say the least. So little Fancy was taken to the doctor again. There she was inspected by the kind gentlemen who have taken such good care of her over the years. They informed Ninny that the problem lay in these little bars near the wheels called the Lateral Links. It seems there are control arms in there (two of them per wheel in fact) and they had been bent. There are two ways in which this can happen, one: wreck the car (Seeing as Ninny has not wrecked Fancy, that option was out) and two: someone strapped her down wrong (sadly, the kind man who towed little Fancy all the way to Long Beach from LA, who was friendly and patient with crappy traffic and whatnot, apparently strapped her down using these little rods). So now Ninny gets to work out the cost of these repairs (something he can't afford since he had to purchase a new bed from the flooding of his apartment without compensation from the management company)with the tow company, as it is their fault entirely that this damage to his little Fancy occurred. On Thursday, after picking up his new bed, Ninny awoke ill. An edgy and creeping illness swept through my body over Wednesday night, apparently egged on by my weakened immune system (that's referring the amount of stress I've been enduring, not any disease that would cause such). So Thursday was a no work day for Ninny. Then again, today, Ninny awoke in the middle of the night sweating with a split-head and a rasping cough (one that differs from the smoker's hack he usually endures) and the poor students of Ninny's class are out one teacher for yet another day.

On the brighter side of things. The mountain in the topics is now more of a mound in the living room. The heat and humidity of the apartment have all but disappeared, and most of our belongings are finding their ways back to their respective homes in our rooms. New beds have been purchased and soon, life in the lounge will return to its appropriate status. Ninny will have his vehicle back sooner or later, and there are only two work weeks left now until Ninny is permanently freed of the horror that has been his work. All-in-all things are looking a bit more positive.

And then...

2007-06-03T16:40:00.000-07:00

My Fancy has betrayed me. She is infirmed. Resting outside of Danger(space)Kitty's residence awaiting the vehicle paramedics to whisk her down to the Doctor in Ye Olde Long Beach. Another exciting time for Mr. Ninny, you know, it's Sunday, and all I want to do is sleep more.

The sea and the means

2007-06-03T10:12:00.001-07:00

My dearest friend wore me recently and, in light of recent trials in our lives, mentioned a desire to buy a boat and go out to sea, never to return.

I've been wishing to flee myself of late. I know this utter pull of escape. As though simply uprooting oneself and disappearing into the horizon could erase the pain. Unfortunately I see the past wherever I go. The future may be what pulls one forward, but the past is what ties one to the present. Knowing what's been makes what is more real. So in response to my friend's message I sent this.

"The sea is a barren desert of rocking and nausea. Sure it's filled with fertile and lush life but that's all beneath the surface; and though sparcity can be nice, it's also quite draining. Besides, the beauty of the world is in fact everywhere. If it wasn't, I'd be gone by now. The only thing that keeps me facing each day is the knowledge that there's something else out there that I'd like to see, witness, or do. I'd like to buy a motorcycle and drive it to the beach. I'd travel up the coast stopping at sea bluffs and forests. I'd visit all the cities and stroll up broad boulevards with tall buildings and masses of people living their lives. I'd tip-toe through tulips and sit beneath cedars. I'd smell salt, grass, and manure. I'd look to the sea and know that it's out there, but know that it stops at another land far away with different people and plants and bluffs and broad boulevards. Then I'd come back on my motorcycle and share my adventures with you, then hand you the keys and a camera and send you off on your own. I'd tell you to kiss Arcata for me."

And she would.

A mountain of crap in the tropics

2007-06-02T13:20:00.001-07:00

The joyous adventure that is Ninny's existence continues with more excitement these days. Following a relative calm period where the only trials of life faced involved the constant barrage of insults, challenges, and spiteful remarks that Ninny's daytime alter-ego endures, came a new (yet sadly familiar) tribulation. As Ninny was flexing his culinary muscles last Wednesday evening, making a Spanish Tortilla to take to the final night of his Spanish class (that is: está haciendo una tortilla española para la clase ultima de español)a strange and eerie sound commenced in the apartment. Ninny, thinking firstly of his beloved tortilla, carefully pulled it from the stove and stashed it on the counter where it sat beautifully, waiting to be eaten. A quick inspection of the apartment located the source of this high pitched unearthly noise. The industrial fire system in the building had been activated. Tiny strobe lights flickered in the little boxes mounted in the ceiling to alert residents to the possible danger of being barbecued at home. A second inspection informed Ninny that his apartment was not on fire, in fact, the only unusual smell was the scrumptious odor of potatoes and onions cooked delectably amidst egg and garlic in the form of tortilla española. However, the sound and flickering continued, and then a new tone joined the me lee. A second and discordant sound had begun to sing with the original shrill howl. Ninny began to think perhaps he should do something quickly. No sooner had this thought dawned on Ninny when a pattering noise joined the cacophony of fire music. "Oh dear" thinks Ninny, "this really can't be good." A third rapid inspection tells Ninny that water has begun to fall from the ceiling. Now, Ninny is not a dim bulb, he knows (lots of things in fact, as represented on Ask Ninny) that ceilings do not produce rain. The water was, in fact, dripping from the fire sprinklers. It is important to note these sprinklers were not activated, no, the water was seeping from above the sprinklers. Ninny dashed and dotted, dodged and grabbed, placing pots, bowls, and whatever else he might find under these miniature waterfalls birthing in his residence. It was this moment when a knock on the door drew Ninny to the entry. A kind yet worried face greeted him as he opened the door. "Umm...it kind of smells like smoke and greese, and the fire department says we need to evacuate the building." Ninny thanked the nice girl for her warning and, taking a final look at his apartment, grabbing sunglasses, cigarettes, and coffee, evacuated his space, his tortilla still sitting on the counter.
An hour later, after four fire trucks and two cigarettes had come and gone, Ninny, now accompanied by his dear friend Dare, re-entered his apartment. Luckily, during the evacuation, the fire department and building managers had warned Ninny as to what to expect when he returned. It seems that Ninny's dwelling was directly below the source of the alarm. Which meant that all of the water produced in dealing with the concerning smoke and greese had meandered through the ceiling into his home. Ninny's living room and kitchen were mostly intact. A kind mustachioed fireman led him on a quick tour. The kitchen had puddles but the tortilla was fine. It was the hallway and bedrooms that had endured the worst. Ninny carefully trod his way down the marshy hall to his room mates quarters. A large garbage can had been placed in the middle of the room to try to catch water before it reached the floor, the carpets color changed from deep brown to beige about halfway into the room signifying what looked like the place where the water subsided. Turning to his right and entering his own room Ninny quivered. There, in his beloved sanctum, lay a new bog. The items that, in his haste to carry on with life, Ninny had left on the floor, were now dense with water, the floor pooled around him as he stepped, and on his bed sat another large garbage can (in actuality it was a laundry hamper with a garbage bag in it, those fireman are crafty folk)it was nearing half full of brown murky liquid. The bed itself was soaked. In the end, the back half of Ninny's apartment was emptied of all it's content (emptied into the front half)and a small army of Hispanic carpet steamers (who muttered judgments to of Ninny and his room mates sexual preferences to each other in Spanish as they worked, and no that is not a terracotta butt-plug, it's a Scandinavian garden gnome you sick fuck)peeled and pulled at the floor with tools, hands, and shop-vacs. The following two days left a hum of industrial fans and de-humidifiers whirring in the space.
Now it is Saturday. Ninny and his roommate remain homeless. The building managers decided to have a nice weekend in their safe dry homes without deigning to contact poor Ninny and room mate, or arrange for their accommodations. All of Ninny and his room mates belongings remain in a large pile in the center of their apartment, making movement within the dwelling near impossible. The fans and dehumidifiers are gone leaving a hot moist climate where an apartment should be. The new home of Ninny and Frankus is now a mere mountain of crap in the tropics.

quiero

2007-05-13T01:26:00.000-07:00

I would like to run away with the circus. To find that which is eluding. To discover the means and way to a life less lacking. Unfortunately all I find is an absence. A void left from lives fulfilled, adjacent, yet peripheral to my own. At some point that which I'm familiar with will become unfamiliar. That which I desire forgotten. But for now I live in flux. Wishing for one thing while living another. The true United Statesian existence; that of wanting more while not appreciating what you have. When I awake I'll feel bitter. When I rise I'll feel pain. When I think I'll remember losses, and when I dream it will seem more real than actual life.

I wandered to to a hillside today. I sat and lay on the dry grass in the shade of a shrub. I scrawled spanish phrases on cards while gazing upon the scorched hills of Griffith Park. I thought not of loneliness or absence, I thought of beauty and comfort. I thought of solace and knowledge. For once I dreamt of sharing, not fear of missing, and was at peace. This moment was monumental. Sitting in the near shadow of Frank Lloyd Wright, staring blankly at the rolling grey of the city's northern border, wondering if I'll experience the joy of sharing such a moment with another. Yet there was no fear or sorrow in this moment.

This evening i cried. I sat on my couch and felt tears well. I allowed myself to wallow in my losses. I stumbled through memories of rose garderns and proud parents. I dreamed of warm nights with street lights for stars and clammy palms clasped in mine. I imagined tattooed stiches and suits made of flesh and wondered if mine was destined to be an existence of solitude.

Now I stand in the kitchen, dreading the dawn and sinking deeper into my dreams. I will escape into fantasies scribed by others and wait for next month to relieve me. I will write my own reality for a few fleeting hours and face the waking world with thick bags beneath my eyes and a bitter taste on the back of my tongue.

At least I'm aware of my illusions.

Tomorrow

2007-05-12T19:39:00.000-07:00

It seems tomorrow is día de las madres. For some reason i wasn't expecting to have any problems in coping with this day. However, as tomorrow approaches it's baring down on me harder and harder. I've been fighting feelings of being cheated by time, of jealousy for friends who still have theirs, of intense nostalgia, and desires for a stronger memory. It's been thrust upon me unbeknownst to my consiousness and proving trying. In any event, the day will arrive and the memories won't stop and won't strengthen. But in honor of my mother I bring to/direct your attention to this image.

May your mothers' feel the love they deserve, and may mine, wherever she is, continue to feel that which she gave.

Wanted: clean hands

2007-04-08T17:13:00.000-07:00

Since Mr. Ninny has been on sebatical as of late, I called him up and asked if I might borrow his blog for a posting. He kindly asented and here you have the words of one Charley, rather than Ninny. So sorry to dissapoint those of you who have been eagerly awaiting another meaningless ramble by one J-J-Jimbo Ninny. Ninny did tell me that he will be back with more tid-bits of disinterest someday, he's just not quite sure when he'll be done with the "Wombat Cricket Club," yet.

So here's the news from the Charles arena. Frankus, Ninny, and I have finally procured an apartment in LA. Yes, I'm officially becoming an Angeleno, as will be Ninny when he returns from sebatical. Our little box in a bigger box will provide us shelter from rain and sun, and is walking distance to things like metro, cheap beer, and LACC. All of which are great benefits to me.

That having been said, the less fun part of the last few weeks has been the final passing of Mom. The queen mother of all mothers, and one of the worlds greatest educators is finally at rest. She actually died almost two weeks ago now but the mourning process is long, arduous, and inconsistent. Her services were yesterday in Long Beach and were lovely. It's quite odd to think that I'm one parent down after having two for so many years. Even today my father and I are at a loss of what to do and find ourselves pacing the house. Ninny has recommended more drinking, and though my liver may protest, I shall follow Ninny's sage advice and imbibe even more alcohol this evening. Now if I can only find a way to smooth away this rough crawl on my skin and slip down into a safe space for some real rest. Human contact is proving to be a necessary thing, an act of intimacy can soothe most pains. But this pain is deep and forboding, and I suspect that all the alcohol and caressing in the world won't erase it. Then again, if I can lose myself in vices a bit more, the chasm in my consciousness may start to fill in and settle. Or at least, public works may notice it and decide to build a lovely bridge across it, achoring the two sides that are currently at odds.

At any rate, those are the main events of note most recently. New apartment with a good friend (yay!) lost a momma (boo).

Thanks to Ninny for allowing me to use his text-megaphone for some good old fashioned spewing. He's promised to forward on any questions or comments others may have for me (as well as to filter out all the shit that seems to fly at you in times of duress).

And not to worry, I suspect that the "Wombat Cricket Club" fiasco that Ninny has been wrapped up in recently will subside sooner or later, and you'll have your ninnyspot back before you know it, not to mention more answers on askninny as well.

Here comes Mr. Ninny

2006-12-04T14:08:00.000-08:00

It happened folks! Ninny has found himself a job. Soon I'll be teaching at a lovely school in an undisclosed school district. Nourishing fragile minds and changing the world one student at a time.

This also means that soon I shall be making my move to the great Los Angeles and living an indpendent life once again.

Huzzah! Joy! At last I'll be able to start building my future, rather than sitting and waiting for the chance.

Mission Accomplished

2006-11-18T13:12:00.000-08:00

It's official. I have now completed all the work and classes for my Masters. The degree itself won't be posted until January but all of the work is finished. I now (or soon will) have a Masters in Cross Cultural Teaching.

It's okay to bow if you wish.

November 7th, 2006

2006-11-06T10:52:00.000-08:00

Tomorrow is November 7th.

Vote.

If you're not voting, and you are eligible to do so, you are part of the problem.

A return, or peeking

2006-11-02T12:17:00.000-08:00

I'm not sure if my hiatus is ending or not. However here I am to share a little something with any of you who care to read it. Maybe it's just being a bit on the sick side that pulls the threads from my bean. At any rate...

I have discovered the secret to karaoke. Now, I've never actually been one to sing karaoke. I've been known to attend an establishment that is hosting the event, however I tend to drink, gawk, and leave. But I have discovered the secret. If you are wanting to sing a classic piece of Karaoke trash, the best exposure to the song books you'll find in a karaoke establishment can be found in the Antacids aisle in your local Walgreens. It's true. When the time comes that you're looking for a new pass time, a place to go to where everyone is twenty years older and wearing funny, yet remarkably comfortable looking shoes. Let your hair down and go peruse the antacids. You'll hear great hits of the past that you've always wondered how that trashy blonde chick in the bodice last night knew. Or the other song the over-weight computer programmer was busting out off key. They all can be found amongst the Pepcid and the Prilosec, just next to the Maalox crooning for your pleasure. GO GET 'EM TIGERS!

In four and one half hours

2006-10-06T19:46:00.000-07:00

I'm in the death throws of my mid twenties. Yes, in roughly four and one half (make that one third) hours it will officially be my birthday and my mid twenties will be behind me. Here comes the late twenties, and with them the feeling that this lack of responsibility I've been enjoying is certain to end quite soon. I actually have possible work....in the works (parden the pseudo redundancy in that statement). Oddly, I'm not too concerned with this birthday. Normally, I've built it up or purposely avoided thinking about it resulting in some form of dissapointment. This year, however, I'm going to have fun, or what fun I can. It's not every day your Ninny embarks on his late twenties after all.

Aside from the birthday oddity another thought has wriggled into my consciousness. I'm always wondering what hapened to the idea of compassion. Where America lost it's caring and replaced it with self preservationism, greed, and judgement. Often I want to point to Chirstianity. Not that all Christians are like this. Quite the opposite in fact, but there are some standards ingrained in the bulk of the religion that fosters harsh judgement and oppression that I feel feeds the social break down we're experiencing.
I'm off point again, sorry.
In undergrad, I knew a girl who was double majoring in vocal music and cellular molecular biology. I thought this an odd combination, but then again, there are a lot of things I do that others find odd, so I applauded her ambition and let it be. When she chose to drop the science major and focus on music I asked her why. She told me that the only reason she had chosen the double major was that she intended to engineer a plague that would wipe humanity off the face of the planet, but she was too tired and burnt out from the double major insanity, so she was just going to sing instead. I thought to myself then that she was a bit crazier than I first realized but again, thought the idea had some merrit and also found her voice mesmerizing, so once again, I let it be.

In a recent conversation with a close friend the topic of HIV and AIDS came up. I recently was tested (still negative if you care) the discussion had turned to plagues and prevention. It seems that a person we know disagrees with efforts to stop AIDS (i.e. AIDS walk Los Angeles, free clinics, passing out condoms, etc...). When my friend was preparing for the AIDS marathon this other person screamed at her about natural selection, and how AIDS was entirely preventable. Though she is right, AIDS is entirely preventable, this is an overly simplistic view of an extremely complex and deadly scenario. A large portion of the problem stands in education and religious bans on necessary precautions. (hm...I'm getting off point again).

Tonight a friend informed me that his/her mother was just diagnosed with cancer. Having watched my own mother face this, still living through the aftermath of what this can bring to not only the patient but also their family, having heard news of an old friends mother recently dieing of cancer, this news came heavy. The compassion my own mother instilled in me makes me want to run to this friend and their family. To clean their house, go grocery shopping, make them dinner, wash their cars, answer their calls, poor them drinks, whatever I can to help. I know that these are things they don't need. In fact these are things they need to be doing to keep themselves mildly sane throughout whatever process is awaiting them.

I also think of how many people have cancer right now. How many have died from it, how many will never be the same person again, how many families, friends, and co-workers have suffered from this condition. I think to myself, how is this happening, and why does it seem to be getting worse? I have two answers for myself when I think this and I'm not sure which I like more.

1. The increase in cancer is a sort of natural selection. Humans have become soft with adaptations. Tools and science have been fighting off what would otherwise have killed us for centuries now, something will have it's way to put us in check. With six billion people, war, pollution, and hatred prevailing, perhaps this isn't such a bad thing. Perhaps my old college friend was right to consider simply wiping us off the planet with a single plague. Maybe she doesn't need to, perhaps cancer will do it for us.

2. When my mother was diagnosed our worlds changed. My sister was far away and felt trapped, she came home as soon as she could and will quite possibly never leave again, refusing to leave my parents on their own. My mother's friends and co-workers organized a meal circle, brought us dinner every night so that we could focus on trying to find the pieces that had fallen when my mother shattered. Cards, emails, faces from the past appeared on our door step. Flowers were everywhere, even with our house in shambles from a flood that happened at the same time, the house was filled with well wishers and sympathizers, there was no doubt how much love there was for my mother and our family. The compassion that seems to have leaked out of our culture, found it's way back in through an ugly back door. Perhaps cancer is a painful and ugly lesson in reminding us that we're social creatures. We rely on one another for more than just goods, but for love, companionship, caring. Compassion is a gift that our species developed in its own way, and one we are losing. Perhaps this shit that mutates our cells, devouring us from the inside out, is a way for us to remember that amazing ability we have to care.

Evidence

2006-09-26T14:26:00.000-07:00

Here are the pictures I mentioned before. It's actually a tryptic I'd drawn on paper once and decided to try it again with the new medium. It looks better in person. Partly because I don't have a slide camera and I'm no good at framing my shots squarely, so I had to photoshop the images to isolate the subject. And partly because the texture of the pieces in person add to them. But here they are.

At last

2006-09-25T16:56:00.000-07:00

I attended an art opening last weekend. My friend had a piece in the show and had asked me to attend. I happen to love his work and was excited to see the piece he'd been working on. i was not even remotely disappointed. His piece was gorgious. More so than that though, was the over all feel of the experience. There was so much creative energy in the space. Several of the pieces displayed were impressive, and one got the feeling that something real was transpiring. Some innate means of communication between viewer and art. So often artwork can be too literal and stagnant, for the most part, this wasn't the case in this show. Somehow that communion inspired me. Today I finally experimented with an idea I've been toying with for months. The reults were greater than I had expected. The first piece I tried was admittedly shotty, but tit led me to try a tryptic which I'm completely in love with now. Once the lighing is right I'll photograph and post them for all to see, either here or on my website. The best part is I'm re-motivated to resume my previous series. I'm even going to redraw some of the earlier peices in this new way. Tonight alone I have come up with four (count them 4!!!) new ideas for pieces, plus I finally worked out the kinks in an older design I'd never liked enough to commit to the larger format. I can hardly wait to start working on these, though cost of materials is a bit daunting. If they come out how I envision them though, I may finally try to get a show in some manner. We'll see. For now I'm just excited about the prospects this new style is delivering. Even my dad, in his relentless support, though waivering understanding of what I try to make, was overtly impressed with the results of the trials, exclaiming that I've really found something in this new medium, instructing me to get my ass down to the store and get more supplies. Huzzah!

Farther and farther

2006-09-12T00:17:00.000-07:00

The Un-usual place is seeming farther and farther away these days. I'm so lost in my existence, while wondering how that can be since my existence is so shallow and pathetic. I'm back to that place where I often think "Just give me a gun and show me the trigger."

Luckily I'm smarter than that. Yet, I still have to sit and think it. As though just sleeping would solve the emptiness.
But if creating isn't doing it. If going out, being with people I love, sex, drinking, smoking too much, if none of these things will do it....what will? (and don't say hari-krishna)

I want to run away, but there's nothing to run from. I want to immerse myself in the un-usual place, but it's too far to get too, and I know it won't serve the same as it once did. I need a new hole to crawl in. I'll be accepting applications, if you or someone you know has a hole for me to hide in, please feel free to comment or write in to askninny.

abductor

2006-09-08T13:31:00.000-07:00

It seems to lie under the surface.

Hiding from view in whatever shadows it may find.

It is the abductor.

It takes from us that which we cherrish.

It takes with and without warning.

It steels life indiscriminately.

It's renaissance is terrifying in scope and realm.

It is cancer.

It is in the lives and deaths of so many. Unchecked, unseen, unrecognized.

Unknown

Unsolved

just taking.

Waiting

2006-09-08T01:32:00.000-07:00

The time comes, every day, when I realize I'm waiting for something.

Night walks reveal hints.
Scent of carrob, shape of Jaqueranda and Elm.

Silence and solace while sitting on brick.

Yet nothing betrays the reality of what the thing is.
Nothing explains why I'm waiting.

Perhaps if I had some concept of why I'm waiting, why the purgatory of existence is in place, I'd relax?
Or maybe, had I an inkling of what it is I'm missing, I'd look for it.

I've learned, over time, that when something is needed, searching rarely reveals it.
Patience delivers that what is sought, not searching.

Still I find myself waiting. Day by day, night by night. Wishing for the next stage, if not the conclusion.

Sometimes I long for the un-usual place. Not the time, the place. That wandering, self-reflective period when there were genuine things for me to reflect on.
Now I find myself staring up into the street lamps in the wee hours wondering if I'll ever sleep soundly again, if I'll ever have work again. If I'll ever feel a purpose again.

Creating is my last stronghold. I have no other venues to express what life is than to make things. I divide my time amongst ideas and process. I clean, eat, smoke, and make.

I'm so fortunate to have this odd dilemma. Do I take a job I despise in order to receive a real paycheck, move out and exist. Or do I wait and hope that something will come along. That I'll find work that suits me before I dive back into the world I'd be in now were it not for my parents?

Guilt rides me daily for living as I do. Free of rent and most bills. Just a slacker in the suburbs wishing to escape. But to where?
There is no work for the unemployed elementary school teacher here. There are no apartments that fall into the price range of the poor.

Southern California is a sess pool of classism. The haves must have loads, the have nots must have something. The rest are homeless or leeches. I fall into the latter. I leech. I cling and hope that the day will come when I can do it alone. But for now I have no options and no hope. Alone and waiting. For someone, something, somewhere to take me away.

Obnoxiously personal (feel free not to read)

2006-09-01T02:07:00.000-07:00

I just finished writing one of those long drawn out emotional (or should it be demotional?)confessions. I hate writing shit like that. Never ending, uncomfortable for the recipient, and only half true.
Granted half is more truth than most human interactions, but vulnerability has never been something I've admired in myself.
Oddly , it's something I admire in others.
I suppose that's one of those "humanity is okay, as long as I don't have to be human" things.

I can openly admit my faults with pseudo-pride. But realizing that those same faults signify my own personal failings is a rougher pill to swallow. I'm used to my physical short comings. They're unavoidable. But the internal ones, those are the barbed and poisonous stingers. Lurking in the background waiting to dig into the flesh and tear away the thin membrane I build up between attacks.

I find it odd that the one thing I want right now is intimacy, but it's the one thing that can completely screw me up.

Seriously. Castrated hermit would be such a perfect life if only it would fix it. It won't though, so but the shearers away buddy.

I'm not sure what it is I'm looking for, but I just may have found it in Pasadena

2006-08-29T04:20:00.000-07:00

I felt my age tonight.
It settled in amongst the ashes and empty beer bottles.
It cowered in the flickering light and bubble gum droning of Empty V.
It muttered definitions of words yet unwritten, drawing closure to a sentence left unsaid.
Behind the meaningless it spied prisoners, took comfort in the past, crawled deeper into silence and endless flickering.
Coughing in the haze of smoke it slid up my arm, scuddled across my face, and slid silently into the crevices of my forehead.
It pulled the flesh around it like a blanket, folding the skin around my eyes and resting it's head on the soft bags growing under my lids.

Age is a long word for loneliness.
That place we all must sit in one day and accept that no one else can fit in the chair with us.
Three letters to spell out one.
One lives in this skin, this mind, this existence.
One stumbles awkwardly from door to door, around tables and laughlines.
One leaves to forget, only to find it was temporary, that nothing can erase the past.
One hunts for an exit, knowing there is none.
Only an entrance.
One clings to others, collects them like trophies.
Hopes life can be improved through vicarious circumstances.

Age is the loneliest number, but in that solidarity lives solace.
Knowing you've been there and don't want to return.
Knowing thick skin can protect you from the elements.
Knowing there is an off button on the remote.
Knowing the entrance can serve as an exit.

Attention Email Marketers

2006-08-25T12:07:00.000-07:00

According to my SPAM inbox there is a growing concern out there in the Internet Ether that I, J-J-Jimbo Ninny, am having a certain personal problem. Allow me to end this concern right here and now. I am not having a problem with my erection. Or any erections so far. Nor am I struggling with an erexction, irection, or any other clever mispelling used in a futile attempt to slide your message passed my Spamguard. I have not, in fact, had any erectile problems since Middle and High School, in which the problem was one of too many, as opposed to not enough. Perhaps you should start marketing math books to school boys, that's an erectile disfunction that can be just as upsetting as an older gentleman struggling to poke up for some play.

Sleepin with a skeeza

2006-08-24T00:25:00.000-07:00

I bought new sheets today. Ever since I was sick I've had this horrific dread of my bed. It's as though I hold my bed entirely responsible for the event and cannot forgive the atrocity. As a result I've been anxious to change my sleeping arrangement. I decided, being that I'm still gainfully unemployed, that the best course of action was a change of wardrobe for my sleeping apparatus. I have started a journey to a new bed via the wonders of linens. Today I purchased a set of black sheets. I've never owned black sheets before and found the decision to strike my conscience as being, well, bold. I chose the sheets, purchased them, and brought them home. When I opened the packaging and felt the cloth for the first time I actually said to myself: "ooooh, these are gonna be niiiice. Damn you is a skeeeza." The weeve of the fabric has a slight sheen to it that checkers in tiny squares across the surface. They do feel remarkably soft and absorb the light like an abyss. Tomorrow I'm venturing off to purchase a new spread for the bed that was my bane. Soon my new sleeping environment will be complete, and hopefully more welcoming. I held myself back from the purchase of a new mattress pad. I was very tempted to purchase a memory foam pad to place on my pathetic old queen. But I knew that, being my financial situation, the purchase would be overly frivolous (as though new sheets wasn't bad enough) and withheld. But just imagine. The firm support of memory foam under the luxurious rich black sheets... I can almost taste the debotchery that would flicker through my solitary slumbering mind. Well, there's always hope for the coming weeks. Perhaps something will change and I'll find myself buying that special pad and looking forward to, if not blatanly loafing about in, my bed.

At night

2006-08-24T00:17:00.000-07:00

I'm always amazed at how drama seems to seep into everything at night. The contrast and shadows draw out the true nature of a thing. It's almost as though the unbidden vision, unhidden sights of daylight, detract from the essence of a thing. That is, a specific. Often the broader specturm can thrive with the sun exposing the cohesiveness of a landscape. But the intimacy that is bound in the shadows in unique, as though you are seeing a thing as its true self.
I have a friend who often makes reference to being seen in the daylight as though it is a moment of revelation. I understand how the light of day can lend context, show how one reacts to their environment. But I also think this is masking. By placing a thing or person in a specific situation you can lose sight of the whole as it stands outside of being one of many parts. You lose the intimate knowledge of one in favor of how that one relates to many. Consequently you can lose the intimate knowledge of how one stands alone.

Malcolmlives.com

2006-08-23T00:24:00.000-07:00

Here is the first installment of a short story I've been thinking about. Not to worry, I haven't abandoned Bené Due. I just wanted to get this out.

When the idea first came to him, Malcolm was shocked he hadn't seen it before. In an erra of reality TV shows. In a world where voyeurism seemed valued versus abhorred, he thought surely someone might have done it. But all he could find were porn houses and the like. Nothing depicting the simple day-in day-out wandering of the average guy. Certainly he wasn't alone in his mundanity.

The equipment was easy enough to acquire. Cameras for the apartment and car, an extra phone with camera for when he was out, the most expensive part would be the constant service required to upload the live feed while being mobile, but his inheritance would more than cover that. Within a week Malcolmlives.com was up and running. Twenty Four hours of whatever he was doing was now available, free of charge, to whomever wished to see it. he knew it would only be a matter of time before the viewership grew. Then would come the endoresment requests and finally the realization that not everyone was so horribly screwed up.

He was right. Within a few months he had to upgrade servers to process all the hits Malcomlives was receiving. By this point he had stopped noticing the constant eye of the cameras. The spare phone seemed to find his hand whenever he left the house or car. His local haunts had come to expect the pan of his arm as he mindlessly revealed his location to the world at large. He enjoyed the ocassional recognition from strangers passing, "Hey Malcolm, how'd you like that laundry detergent you bought last Wednesday?" The world knew him and he found a certain comfort in this. He knew it would be soon that merchandizers would be lining up for him to exclusively use "SkidMark-Scourer" or whatever product they were pushing. He'd deny them all. His vision was of an honest depiction of his life. Not of a life bought by the market.

Shorthand

2006-08-23T00:21:00.000-07:00

I have a fascination with stenography. Specifically, courtroom stenography. What's up with that funny machine? I've decided I'm going to procure one. I want to experience the wonders that come from such a bizarrely cryptic device. Once I've obtained it, I'll write little stories on it and keep it in a glass case with lights shining on it. The stories will wallpaper the room it lives in to show the gradual change it causes to its environment.

It's Official

2006-08-16T00:25:00.000-07:00

I'M CREDENTIALED!!!! I received notice that the California Commission on Teacher Credentialing is officially issuing my preliminary credential. Yeeeeeee Haaaaaaaaw!!!!!

Dried Up

2006-08-15T01:04:00.000-07:00

Apparently, in the midst of all that is my existence at the moment my creative juices have actually dried up. I'm unable to hold a conversation let alone share any fascinating observations. So instead, I have decided to hand the reigns of creativity to others. I have created (are you ready?) "Ninny Knows." An ask Ninny blog. Bring Ninny your questions and he will provide answers. Never mind the sort of answers they will be. Answers you will get and you will like them! So bring yourselves to Ninnyknows, and let the wonders begin!

Graves and Gravity

2006-08-14T20:39:00.000-07:00

I went today to the local Forest Lawn Mortuary. I've been meaning to go for awhile. I often tell myself I should go to cemeteries more often, then when I finally do get to one, I remind myself again to go to cemeteries more often. It's odd that I have such an affinity for the places. It's not exactly a practice that I endorse, burying the dead in really expensive elaborate boxes after flushing the corpse with noxious liquid so that they won't decompose properly. I find the whole process odd and counterintuitive. However, the places where people choose to remember the ones they love who have died, I appreciate. I think of them as large tranquil parks. Parks not filled with screaming children, drunk homeless people, and thugs looking to assert some sense of domain. Instead they are sanctuaries. Places to go and appreciate beauty and calm, to reflect on life and what we can create. Odd that I find this in a place reserved for those who are no longer alive and creating.

The place was all these things. Tranquil, with the exception of the buzzing blower from the man providing landscape maintenance. The grounds themselves were unassuming, quite Southern California with a wide expanse of manicured grass with the occasional palm tree, and even more rarely, a branching leafy tree of some form. We didn't spend much time wandering the grounds, just what it took for us to traverse the distance to the main mausoleum. Once we managed to make it inside I found what I had hoped I would. The interior of the space was as inspiring as the exterior has always struck me. Ornate and elaborate in an old-world manner. We stumbled into a Foucault Pendulum when first entering the building. The ceiling was severely ornate and golden. The building provided seemingly endless halls of the dead lined in marble and busts of significant minds (or at least significant white male minds) from throughout the ages. Once outside the sound of the gardening apparatuses the space proved to be exactly as its purpose makes it, a silent home of memories. Stuck against the marble and gilt are deflated balloons and wilting flowers dieing in their own way: a surreal and frighteningly apt symbol of the lost hopes those who left the trinkets there are experiencing.

Regression

2006-08-09T17:39:00.000-07:00

Apparently all this fun and mood swings have caused a relapse. I woke up this morning, felt existence, went back to sleep. Woke up hours later feeling slightly better, somehow visualizing my flesh as an oversized ground beef patty being flattened out smoothly aided in my well being. I could envision the illness that is overtaking me as a noxious sulfuric gas swirling up from my bowls, forming a ball, and eruping from my mouth is gasps and coughs. I wandered the house aimlessly for a bit, then retired to my room to finish watching HP4 (my comfort filmage at the moment). Sadly, I did in fact finish it, so now I'm sitting, feeling ill, and pondering on my previous "sick tips" I used to prescribe to others. I think they shall be called in this evening. Masturbate often, shower, masturbate more, mix Theraflu with Brandy, sleep. I'm quite looking forward to this actually. That being said, I will share with you the true reason I chose to peek in on the 'ol Ninnyspot. I have nothing of real interest to share, as is usual. However, being the shriveled shell of a Ninny (seriously, I teared up a couple of times during Goblet of Fire today)I thought I'd share what is fascinating my deluded ill mind.

I came across a cardboard box-like thing in my room today. I suspect it was involved in the packaging of one of my recent purchases, perhaps my new clippers. It is not a complete box (hence the title box-like). It is open at both ends, and has a perfectly round hole cut into the mniddle of one of it's planes. I discovered that this white (did I mention it's white paper coated and thinly corrugated?)box-like thing opens to be a flat sheet of boredom. Not nearly as interesting as when the tab is inserted into the slot and the box-like form reappears.

I then discovered that stuck to my right foot was none other than a plastic quarter. A renegade manipulative that somehow found its way out of one of my student teaching classrooms, migrated to my bedroom, and adhered itself to my foot. Not to the bottom mind you, to the top right side, near the apex of the arch. It was nestled next to some of the short cropped hairs that reside on my foot at the same location. I plucked this plastic quarter, which looks remarkably like a real quarter, just a bit thicker and shiny in the wrong way, and held it up. "Hmmmm...." thought I, "this quarter, or plastic replica of a quarter, looks to be of a remarkably similar shape and size to that mysterious round hole in the white-box-like-thing of wonder. Perhaps the two should meet."

So I held the quasi-quarter up to the hole in the box-like-object, and low and behold, I was right. They are, in fact, made for one another. I carefully inserted the plastic money into the hole the box-like-object provided and it slid in snuggly. We homos do know about careful insertion afterall. Now the box-like-thing is even more appealing and mysterious. I peer at it occasionally pondering the meaning of the thing. "Why is there a white-cardboard-box-like-thing of mystery with fake money stuck into it?" I wonder. "It seems to be intentional there paring, but what purpose could they, or now it, serve?" These are questions the answers for which I probabaly will never know. Had I the energy and motivation, I would retrieve my camera from its cradle and take images to share with all of you. Alas, I'm ill and lazy, and wish nothing more than to bore you with my sick ravings and pathetic interests. Having accomplished this, I shall now go back to staring at the object I shall now christen: "Magical-white-cardboard-box-like-thing-with-plastic-quarter-inserted" You may all bow and make with the revelry.

Broke-Broken-Broke down

2006-08-03T15:04:00.000-07:00

After a month of scrambling my final paper for my masters is done. Graded and everything. Let me tell you what a thrill it is to have someone tell you that you have created a well written paper but you still suck because, no matter how many times you went over it, or your family and friends went over it, you still missed a bunch of formatting errors, there fore you are a first rate loser at a second rate school. I'm so pleased.

Following the completion of the paper that I would rather forget, I left on a journey with Mr. Frankus and Danger(space)kitty. We ventured back up to the City by the bay for Up Your Alley. A scangey leather festival (emphasis on scangey). On the second day of the trip I discovered that all the stress of my paper, coupled with no break after its completion had lead to a break down in my immune system and was in the midst of becoming ill while on vacation. This did not please me, so I bought dayquil and kept myself drugged for the remainder of our excursion. Part way through the trip, I also tripped on the power cable for my trusty (yet old) powerbook. As a result, my computer has been out of commission until today when I finally hauled my sick ass to Macmall to replace the fucking thing. Now I'm sitting mostly calmly on my little seat-of-love with my sorely missed computer and heaving a sigh of relief. I feel as though I finally have the tools to begin rebuilding. My credential is finally being applied for, my pseudo-piece-of-shit-thesis is complete, and all I have to do now is find employment and wait for November to come around so I can take my last class. I'm thinking I shall spend some quality time with Bene Due (in a bit) I haven't worked on it in...well...a month probably. This makes me sad. Though, in light of my final paper, I'm wondering if I'm wasting my time. C'est la vie. I've never stopped wasting my time before, why start now?

Soon I will offend you the trusty ninny-spot reader with images of SanFrancisco. Though not now. Now I'm tired and wish to watch more Battlestar Galactica while nursing the wounds that are my body and soul.

Oh, and I'm beginning to doubt your commitment to Sparkle Motion.

in brief

2006-07-24T16:29:00.000-07:00

I've been slaving away the past few weeks on my final paper for my Masters. As a result, I have absolutely nothing of interest to say aside from (the possible re-) statement that, come November when this whole thing is completed. I shall be referred to as Master Ninny, or any other of my names with the title "Master" set in front. Be prepared to swoon at the mention.

Now then, back to work bitch!

Building of a dream house

2006-07-14T12:09:00.000-07:00

Like any other red blooded American (or in my case, Burnt-Sienna blooded), I spend a fair amount of time dreaming of a better life. Now, for those of you who don't know, I am a 26 year old unemployed college student, so dreaming of a better life tends to include grandiose ideas such as living on my own again, and being able to pay bills. As of late however, I've been getting especially dreamy. i've been gettting these wild ideas about someday buying a car, or maybe (GASP!) a little shoe box to live in and call my own. These thoughts tend to lead to the lottery since, lets face it, I'm going to be a school teacher. I'll be driving Fantasia (the beautiful white '98 skateboard-I mean Dodge Neon I inherited recently) and living in a one bedroom apartment with friends. Such is the life of the hard working public educator (gotta love philanthropy).
But I digress. I was speaking of lottery dreams. As I have so much time on my hands, I have, of course, figured out exactly what I would build had I millions of dollars to build with. These plans change often but they have, in their transitory way, led me to a wonderous discovery.
My father has handed me an odd legacy (Bare with me, this is related). He has dreamed for years of building a small home for he and my mother to retire to. Some place lovely and secluded. As a result we've had countless books pass through the house that are filled with home plans. If you are not familiar with this sort of publication, they are page after page of sample house floor plans, complete with lovely little drawings of what the finished home would look like. If the book is current you can, for a nominal fee, order the actual blue prints for the home you like and have it built. I find these books endlessly entertaining as they represent the plethora of options there are for those wealthy enough to build a house from the ground up. I'm also fascinated by how stupid people must be to willingly build one of these homes, as all of them are frighteningly cliché and belong more in a vomitous Thomas Kinkade painting than in the real world.
In one of my recent fits of lottery grandeur I went to my local public library in search of books depicting modern architecture. You see I have a growing obsession with modernism. I subscribe to Dwell Magazine and avidly await the arrival of the next issue so that I can see what those more successful than myself (i.e. the bag boy at the local grocery) have done to create a living environment worth, well, living in. Unfortunately, aside from the requisite Frank Loyd Wright books, my local branch library is completely void of all mention of anything remotely modern in terms of architecture (I could of course order books from the Main branch, but, as I said, I'm an American and expect immediate gratification without extending any real effort). What my piddly little local branch did have though, which is almost as good, was two (count them 2!) books of glorious home plans from the remarkeable "Home Planners Inc." Produced in the late '80s, these pages are packed with "Modern Ranch Houses" and "Trendy homes for the '80s and beyond!"
It was quite obvious that several of the plans were developed in the '50s and '60s based on the illustrations of Buffy and Biff sipping Maitais pool side at this swank Ranch pad with Hot Rod convertibles parked in the "Auto court."
As I flip through the pages I wonder how much my taste has been effected by the neighborhood I've grown up in (my area of residence was developed in the mid '40s to the early '60s). I know I've seen homes that are near replicas of plan T25...whatever on nearby blocks. Then I look back at the multitudinous depictions I've made of my "dream" home and see many striking similarities. It is with a heavy heart that I admit that I suffer not only from being an American, but of actually having the traditional American dream. My Burnt-Sienna blood pumps pure. I too would love the open floor space and broad horizontal lines of the "Modern Ranch" home, even if "Modern" means 30 to 50 years ago. Instead I'll have a hovel in the hood. I wonder if they make books for those.

Bené on my mind

2006-07-07T00:43:00.000-07:00

With the stalls in my pursuit of a career in place still, my mind seems to be grappling for alternative focusses. One would hope that this would mean a stronger focus on the paper I'm supposed to be working on to wrap up my masters degree. But no. Instead I'm drawn to work on my story. It's odd that I'm actually focussing on this project, seeing as I'm not a writer. I have no idea what I'm doing as I go, but the challenge is comforting in a strange way. I just wish I knew more about the process I'm pursuing, not to mention some of the technicalities that come into play with the plot. None the less, I've completed the next chapter, or scene, or whatever they are. However, I'm not going to bore those of you who actually read this with the whole thing. As per the suggestion of my sister and a few others, I'm not going to post my entire story here. On the slim chance that I actually finish this book and attempt to publish it, I shall refrain from revealing everything for copyright purposes. Instead I'll continue with posting teasers as the chapters go by. This chapter is tentatively entitled "Bené," (all of the chapter titles are purely tentative).

Ana's body had been taken to another small exam room. Luckily there were no cute posters in this one. The same formica cabinets and floursecent light were there, but in place of the perilous pussy hung bronzed hard bodied men clutching each other with a message about safe sex and HIV. Jeremy's eyes flickered with the spluttering light and landed on his wife's body. She lay on a gurney. Her limp swollen form sprawled out on the blue canvas, thinly veiled in a white sheet. The contrast between her palour and the stiff cotton of her cover was slight. The absence of blood flowing through her had left her pase as though frozen. Thin frayed lines at her throat revealed where the glass had punctured her body and Jeremy's life.
Jeremy's eyes traveled down her body. Damp blotches marked the peaks of her breasts still leaking milk from the morning. He imganined a line similar to that on her throat dividing the swollen breasts, marking where the glass had taken her.
The swell of her stomach is what caught Jeremy. Somehow he imagined that once the baby was out it would deflate. Shrink back to the tight form he'd known. But the rounded mound of flesh he'd begrudged still lingered in her lifeless body. Imgages of the sleeping child still in the ward down the hall, cradeled in the arms of the cotton eared nurse flashed through him and he flinched.
He was alone. Alone with this child. Ana was gone. The torrent of words that followed this realization errupted before he knew it was there.

Bené Due: After

2006-07-02T15:31:00.000-07:00

Consciousness came heavy to Jeremy. The dark tunnel receding slowly to reveal bleach scented linoleum warmed by his own breath. He gingerly rose to his knees and ventured a tentative hand to inspect the sharp throb at the back of his head. Flinching at the use of his bandaged palm he switched hands for the exploration. There was a matted knot on the right side of his head, the blood still slightly tacky to the touch but the hand came back clean. A quick assessment of the small exam room revealed little change. The table he had been seeking for shelter still stood in front of him. The cold revealing fluorescent light was on. The roll of white gauze still sat on the vinul exam bench. Being careful to move slowly, Jeremy drew himself up to a standing position, resting his good hand on the table to steady himself. He managed to stand without dizziness, and the nausea he now experienced stemmed not from his head injury but from the discovery of the poster of a precariously posed kitten on the wall behind the bench he had sat on earlier. He imagined his nurse hanging it with a saccharin grin saying something like “hang in their sugar,” or something equally cliché in that sweet rumbling baritone.
After one more quick self-assessment he decided he could venture out of this exam room and leave the kitten to dangle alone. The hallway outside was calm. An orderly was sweeping the glass outside the maternity ward in silence.
“Um, excuse me?” called out Jeremy, his good hand clutching the welt on the back of his head.
“Shhhhh! She’s sleeping!” the orderly horse whispered.
A rush of realization struck Jeremy. He rushed down the hall to the ward, goose stepping some of the glass and slipping through the door.
The room was nothing like it had been last he was there. All glass in the room seemed to have broken. Some furniture still lay toppled on the floor. The bd his wife had been on was now empty and had been moved to the far corner of the room. In the other corner, opposite the now empty bed, in a still wooden chair, sat the nurse he had followed out of the café that morning. Cotton balls had been taped to both of her ears. In her arms, sleeping soundly, was an infant. The serenity of this scene was awkward and surreal against the tableau of the ruined ward. Jeremy started to speak, then thought better of it and slipped back out into the hall.
“Where’s my wife?” he whispered to the orderly.
“Oh, um…you better talk to the Doctor, he’s down in the café with the rest of the staff.”
“Fine, but where’s my wife?” Weariness was giving way to irritation and his whisper was warming to an urgent mumble.
“Shhhh! Please, sir, you gotta talk to Dr. Serramin.”The orderly’s voice was imploring, his face showing signs of the days events.
Without another word Jeremy spun on his heels, pausing to steady himself against the yellow wall, and strode off towards the café.

Gene Serramin looked at the senior members of his staff. In their faces he was met with stern, albeit slightly haggard expressions. He took a long draw off his coffee and forced a swallow. “Wow.” He thought. “This really is crap, is it too much to ask that it at least be hot?” He steadied his thoughts and looked about the table again. A stark and alarming thought assaulted him. Where was the father?
“Christ! Where’s the father? Where’s Jeremy Due?” The inquiry blurted out as quickly as it came to him. The table of harried faces jolted and erupted in mutters and turning heads.
“Randel!” The strong voice of Mary Sneed, head RN for his ward rose abouve the voices. “Randel, weren’t you working on his hand?”
“Aw shit, you’re right, last I saw him we were coming out the exam room where I wrapped him.”
“Alright.” Gene took control of the table again. “Randel will you go back up there and search the area, and Jesus, do it quietly. Mary will you take the rest of the clinic, and Jess will you go check on Sarah and the child? She knows enough basic signing that you won’t need to use your voice.” Gene felt his senses coming back, and wondered if the coffee wasn’t so bad afterall.
Mary and Jess stood quickly to leave, Randel stalled in mid stanse.
“Randel?” Gene didn’t like the odd expression that now hovered on the large man’s face. Randel half stood for a second, his eyes focused somewhere behind Gene, then he jolted into action. He grabbed a wad of napkins off the table and the pitcher of water as he said, “No need to search Doc, here he comes now. Mary I think we may need some cleaner though, looks like he got his head with something.”
Randel reached Jeremy Due in the doorway tot he café. He looked like he was going to walk right through him, but walking around Randel finney was no easy task, so he stopped at the threshold, blocked by the nurse’s shear mass.
“Now what the hell’d you do to your head sugar?” Randel immediately took to inspecting the clotted lump on Jeremy’s head.
“Where is my wife?” demanded Jeremy.
“Honey, you need to sit down. Let us have a look at that nmole hill on your noggin and Dr. Serramin will tell you the situation.” In all his fluster Jeremy found himself irritated by the assurances of the baritone man, but reluctantly took the proffered chair when he entered the café.
Dr. Serramin approached his table as Mary Sneed slipped out in search of antiseptic. Randel began gingerly dabbing at the limp on Jeremy’s head as Dr. Serramin pulled up a chair opposite him.
“Mr. Due, I’m so glad to see you, we were just mounting a search party to find you. “ The doctor’s voice was steady, but Jeremy knew it was concealing something.
“How did you do this to your head Mr. Due?”
“Where is my wife Doctor?” The quiestion was a near yell this time, panic seeming to spread even deeper into him by the second.
Mary appeared beside the large man dabbinga t his skull and a new sting joined the pains that resided in Jeremy’s body.
“I’m guessing, that you this point, you realize that the birth of your daughter was a bit, well, tumultuous?” Dr. Seerramin asked.
“Wel, if by tumultuous you mean a fucking explosive earth quake, yeah. Where the hell is Ana?”
“Apparently your daughter has a truly remarkeable larynx, to put it lightly. Here crying is what caused all the damage you’ve undoubtedly witnessed.”
The doctor paused while Jeremy winced at the prodding taking place on his head.
“All of the glass you’ve seen about the maternity ward was broken by your child’s voice. Including the window that was over your wife’s head. It seems, from what we’ve been able to get from one of our nurses who was with your wife, that when the window exploded, some of the shards pierced her jugular from behind.”
Jeremy’s throat caught.
“As was her heart Mr. Due. Your wife is dead. Marron, the nurse that was with her is currently at the ER in County General being treated for multiple lacerations as well as ruptured eardrums. Your daughter was protected and silenced by your wife’s body. She’s being looked after by Sarah Learner, one of our maternity nurses.” Doctor Serramin stopped talking. His face had mutated into something between a frown and a blank slate. Jeremy stared into his eyes, looking for the rest but it never came.
Standing abruptly, Jeremy knocked the two nurses away from him. “Where is she? I want to see her.”
“Mr. Due please. Let us finish with your head, we really need to see how badly you’re injured.” The woman nurse’s voice was firm but imploring.
“It’s alright Mary, I’ll go with them. Let the man see his wife.” Randel’s voice cut through the room, leaving a sharp silence. “C’mon sugar let’s go see. Doc you comin?”
“Yeah, Randel, I’m coming.” Dr. Serramin’s voice held a sense of resignation as he stood to join Jeremy and Randel.
Randel put his arm around Jeremy saying, “Don’t worry sugar, I’m not getting fresh, I just don’t trust those spindly ass legs of yours.”
Dr. Serramin cast him a warning look, but let the aside go as the three men left the café.

Dastardly Day

2006-06-30T17:02:00.000-07:00

Some of you may have heard of Poor Miss Drella's traumatic experience involving her fish Goldie. Well, I'm afraid there has been another disappearance. I too am missing a beloved, inanimate, pet. My dearly beloved Elliot, little green lizard extraordinaire, has gone missing (ooH! did you know that "goon" is an actual word? I didn't.). It's true. Poor Elliot has vanished. I've searched high and low (especially low, as little plastic lizards aren't exactly adept climbers) and my lovely lizard is nowhere to be found! The worst part of all is that I'm pretty sure that there was no foul play involved. I have received no ransom notes or clues. Simply an absence. I do believe that perhaps, just perhaps, Elliot grew weary of me and fled. I haven't been giving hiim the attention he deserves as of late. It's possible that he and the Devil Ducky formed an unlikely alliance and ventured out into the world alá

"Skinny Legs and All."

If they are in fact making their way to the raising of the third temple I hope they get there safely, as I shall miss them terribly. If they have been swallowed by the abyss that is my living environment, then perhaps I shall find them somewhere, huddled together in plastic petrification. If they have been swallowed by less abstract entities (i.e. a furry animal found roaming the house) I shall be quite angry and will possibly curse at said animal(s).

Purgatory

2006-06-30T16:08:00.000-07:00

What was expected to be the summer of redemption is quickly turning into the summer of regression. The years I've spent striving and toiling to reach a new plateau seem in vain. Bureaucratic debacles have stymied my future. Releasing belay and letting me fall. Bitch work and hand-me-downs are my lot once again. Guilt for my misgivings and regret for my failures. This should be a time of rejoice and accomplishments. Revelry for independence hard sought and at last gained. Of planning new goals and searching out a new future. Instead I sit grappling at what almost was/is in the shadowy dark of a rut I thought I'd shunned.

More to come

2006-06-28T22:37:00.000-07:00

These may just be pictures from adventures in gay-land, but fear not. The next installment of Bené Due (or as Jules says it, Ben-ay Doo-ay) is in the works. I know you're sitting on the edge of your seat, couch, chéz, dildo, what have you, anxious for what happens next, and you shall be rewarded (oh the scandal!). For now, here are a few more pics from our big gay adventure to the city by the bay.

So what these are:
The first: The alien Vessel that came to watch the hordes of homos
Second: A Frankus directed photo of a lovely roadside grove.
Third and fourth: A throwback to an old photo project of mine that I still happen to love. Linear compositions made using a camera and urban electric infrastructure.

See all white boys do look the same.

2006-06-27T21:12:00.000-07:00

View the wonderment of Ninny with brother Frankus and Ninny with Dare-bear.

An explanation

2006-06-27T21:05:00.001-07:00

I've been meaning to start this story for quite awhile. In fact, I've had the basic plan for the whole thing in mind for over a year now. I decided I might as well start writing it in pieces. So you'll be seeing snippets of a possible book idea over time here. Feel free to criticize or suggest changes if you should keep up (if you don't know my normal email address I'm on Myspace, just look up J-J-Jimbo Ninny). If you can't seem to get through the length of the entry, fret not. This is intended to be either a novella or a novel so the first two entries (Bené Due: Inception) would be the first chapter and I'm quite the novice at this process. If you don't want to subject yourself to my pathetic first attempt, I won't be even slightly offended. Hell, if you read anything on this blog I'm shocked.

Bené Due: Inception (Continued)

2006-06-27T18:13:00.000-07:00

Labor wasn't anything like what Ana had expected. Once the contractions really began she understood why Dr. Serramin had offered the epidural. The pain that washed over her body now was unlike anything she had felt. All thoughts of future to-dos left her. All thoughts of freedom, movements, and a return to order disappeared behind a veil of agony. The only memory that lingered in the blackness of Ana's consciousness was push. She knew she had to bare down, pass the bitch, and get it over with. With a shuddering rasp Ana focussed what faculties she had left and pressed with all her might. Somewhere beyond the darkness, in the room she once occupied, a hand took hers in hold. She clutched it, dug her nails into the yielding flesh, and heard the faint echo of a scream join the wailing cry that was her own.
Ana bore down harder, the pain threatening to swallow her whole. She imagined her once beautiful body ripped open by an internal explosion. Frays of bloody flesh and pulp spattered over her engorged breasts and the unsuspecting face of Dr. Serramin. She hadn't noticed the hand leave hers, she wanted the parasite out.
A strange shift of pressure occurred for Ana then. The murmuring voices beyond the darkness grew louder. Something tugged at her from inside, she felt it stretch taught, then release. Her body flattened out, the small of her back finding the mattress again. Someone began to swab at her ragged flesh with something soothing. "If only they could wash the inside of my tits with that stuff." she thought.
With the labor winding down Ana felt herself slipping away, a new darkness closing in on her, soft and safe.
The nurse was still swabbing her when the slap came from the corner. As soon as the thick sound of flesh on flesh reached her, Ana's mind flickered. A new wail met the room. Not hers, not the mysterious muted cry from labor, a new one. It's tremendous force was like an explosion in the ward. Nurses cried out in response. Ana's bed shook. The glass viles on the small tables shattered. As Dr. Serramin, the orderlies, and other nurses fled the room the viewing window shattered. One nurse slowly turned to Ana. Ana's whole body was shaking, the pressure in her breasts was now excruciating. The nurse's eyes darted to the window above Ana, the thick panes blurring with vibrations from the cry. Her eyes flicked back to the small creature she held in her arms, and she strode confidently to Ana. The last of the orderlies cleared the room as she neared the bed. Ana saw thin strands of blood trickling out of her ears. The convulsing in Ana's body grew stronger as the nurse and child grew nearer. As the nurse knelt toward her, Ana's ears began to ring, her head numbing in the wail. Beyond the nurses stooped body Ana could see shards of glass and toppled furniture. She looked at the child now being held out to her, its face purple and wrinkled into a grotesque mask with its toothless mouth wrenched open. Ana writhed with the pressure from insider her and that coming from the child.
When the pressure released it was sudden. Faint memories of expunged black heads flickered in Ana's mind as the fount broke loose. The bleeding nurse wrenched back in alarm as her face and arms were sprayed. The child was bathed in gushing milk and the resounding silence that followed seemed to stop time.
The nurse silently placed the baby into Ana's arms, the look of shock on her face rigidly fixed there. Ana looked down at the spluttering infant as the burbling wail began to rise from it again. The cry resonated through Ana and the bed. It sent tremors into the wall. The open window banged in its frame. With the pressure subsiding, Ana, unknowingly pressed the child to her breast, the spray now falling limply into its mouth.
The nurse was beside her now, hovering in the silence. Ana didn't dare take her eyes of the now suckling child. She didn't speak or move. She didn't even notice the nurse's hand grip the bed frame behind her pillow.
The motion of the bed shifting caught Ana off guard. She jerked her head up to look at the nurse, wrenching her breast from the mouth of her child in the process. The nurse was straining against the bed, pushing it with a grimace of determination on her face. The cry resumed so quickly that Ana jerked again. There was a sharp pain in her head, then silence and warmth on her ears.
The bed shifted again, farther this time. The silence in the room frightened Ana. She could feel the child crying. She could feel the bed scraping and shaking across the floor, but she could not hear it. Ana's eyes reached the nurse's and followed them to the wall above her bed. The window was a blur of movement. Ana stared in shock at the mottled panes, realizing the danger she was in. She felt her muscles rip as she tried to swing her body forward, away from the glass. Without the leverage her abdominals usually provided she doubled over the baby, her breast falling into its mouth just as the window shattered.

Firm hands grasped Jeremy's in the small exam room down the hall from the Maternity Ward.
"That's some grip your wife has honey." The baritone lilt of the man's voice was off-putting to Jeremy. It seemed so gentle to be emanating from such a large man. "She really got you good."
Jeremy veiled a wince at the astringent seeping into the fresh gashes across his right palm."Yeah," he said. "She kept saying that the little bitch, that's what she called it, may destroy her figure, but she'd be damned if she let it ruin her finger nails."
Jeremy gasped at the stab and pull as the nurse removed the last fragment of his wife's nails from his ragged hand.
"Alright sugar, we're just 'gonna rinse this one more time then we'll wrap you up." the nurse said.
"Oh, good," he winced again at the wash then sighed as the nurse wrapped his hand in white gauze. "Thanks." Jeremy said.
"No problem sugar." again the strange endearment catching Jeremy off guard. A broad white grin graced the man's wide dark face as he said, "Well, shall we go see if you're a Daddy yet?"
"A what?" asked Jeremy. "Oh, um, yeah." The hand incident had caused Jeremy to forget what had caused his wife to grip his hand so tightly. Jeremy looked down at his white clad hand again. "She should have taken the damn epidural." he muttered.
Jeremy didn't hear the nurse's reply. It was drowned out by a cacophony of cries and shatters mixed with an eerie vibrating resonance coming from the hall. The nurse turned and darted from the room surprisingly quick for a man his size. Jeremy strode to the door and peered out at the mayhem. Nurses and orderlies ran pell mell through the yellow hall. The walls shook and Jeremy grabbed the door jam to secure himself. He jerked at the pain from his right hand, then jumped back as his nurse came hurdling back down down the hall. Jeremy's ears wrang with the noise. The large window to the maternity ward shattered in its frame and the noise was amplified. Jeremy through himself back into the small exam room, slamming the door behind him, and ducked under the table. He covered his neck and head as he taught the children to do in earth quake drills at school.
The eerie sound and rattling broke abruptly. Slowly, Jeremy lifted his head from beneath the table. He started toward the door again. He was halfway across the room when the sound came back with the shaking. Jeremy rushed for the cover of the table again, this time catching his head on the corner of a cabinet door that had swung open with the shaking. Jeremy's consciousness fell away faster than his balance. He slumped forward in a heap on the floor of the exam room, inches from the table he had just crawled out from under.

Bené Due: Inception

2006-06-19T20:50:00.000-07:00

The small community clinic on G Street seemed to glow with the light seeping through the windows. The heavy panes had been thrown open to allow the cool morning air in and the stale night air out.

This tiny hospital was bustling with staff preparing for Ana Due's labor. Ana lay in a bed quite calm, her eyes barely betraying the anxiousness within, her mouth exhibiting a broad grin. Ana was ready, ready to have her body back. She was ready to release the pressure pent up in her swollen breasts. If passing the excruciating pain of birth was all that stood between her and her old self, she'd take it with a smile.

Ana did not think of the child turning toward her thighs. She thought of standing without straining. She thought of Martinis. She thought of sleeping on her stomach and the smell of bacon without nausea. She thought of life before preganancy. Ana thought of nearly nine months without, and knew that soon she could have again.

So in her quiet bed by the open window, with nurses, orderlies, and doctors bustling around, Ana lay smiling. She was ready for the pregnancy to end and ther life to return, never mind the life of her child.

When the labor did finally begin, Ana embraced it. All she need do is bare down, pass the parasite, and move on. Nurses checked her vitals as she dreamed of her old self. When Dr. Serramin asked if she wanted the epidural Ana didn't know why. So it will hurt. The last nine months had been painful and they didn't offer drugs then. No, Ana felt the contractions coming, but she payed them little more attention than was necessary, when this passed she could resume her old ways and that required much more focus than the irritation in her womb.

Jeremy Due was in the café at the clinic. Dr Serramin asured him that he would know as soon as Ana was ready to pass the child. The coffee in the café was stale, luke warm, and lacking in flavor. He wondered if Ana couldn't have waited a few more hours so that he could have had his morning. Real breakfast, decent coffee, hell, a little more sleep wouldn't have hurt either. But apparently the child was coming whether it was wanted or not, and that meant waiting. Waiting in this café with it's bad coffee and lack of warm food. But soon his wife would be back. She could go back to work and stop complaining about boredom. They could return to their social engagements, Martinis with their friends, hiking in the canyon, they hadn't been out of town in months. Jeremy was ready for his wife to not be pregnant and soon that would be the case.

The young nurse from upstairs came into the café. She had the confident walk of a school teacher, but without the familiar clop of hard soled shoes on tile. Jeremy wondered why school teachers didn't wear those funny booties also, it would definitely aid in student focus.
The nurse approached his table, "Your wife has gone into labor Mr. Due." Her contralto voice had the practiced professional excitement of a maternity nurse. She obviously thought that there was nothing more wonderful than child birth, in fact, Jeremy suspected she would be squeeling the news at him but life had sucked the energy out of her voice.
"Oh, thanks. Tell me nurse, do you have any children of your own?" he asked.
"Oh, no. I don't need any children of my own, I have my hands full with the ones who come through here." The broad white toothed smile that graced her face as she said this told Jeremy that once again, the nurse was being genuine.
"I know what you mean." he told her. "I'm a school teacher. I have my hands full with my students let alone whatever this child will bring." Jeremy forgot to hold back the bitter tone in his voice. The nurse's smile flickered for a moment as she registered what he was saying, but the white arch returned as she asked, "Well, shall we go see how your wife is doing?"
"Oh, yeah, let's go." He replied. Jeremy strolled to the garbage, tossed the paper cup, still half full with room temperature coffe in, and followed the nurse out of the café. As he followed the woman's swaying scrub clad hips he dreamed of cocktail parties, trips to the city, and a good night's rest next to the woman he married. The child soon to be was on its way, and that meant the woman he used to love might be back too.

SAMbot 9000

2006-06-19T01:14:00.000-07:00

As promised here are the pictures of my new friend SAM.

Since these pictures were taken poor SAM's arms have fallen. One of them has completely fallen off. Luckily for SAM (and me) he is a robot, and all missing and fallen limbs can be replaced.

A face only a manufacturer could love.

I AM A ROBOT

2006-06-17T21:00:00.000-07:00

Today was a day to be random. I awoke in a good mood, continued my morning in an equally pleasant mood (enhanced greatly by the presence of Frankus and Danger(space)kitty), and decided follow through on random urges. Todays urges were:

a) build a robot

b) juggle.

At first, upon returning home to Long Beach, I thought they would stay as simple urges and I would instead nap and waste time in less constructive or entertaining ways. Then, after my attempt at a nap was thwarted, I did what I thought I wouldn't.

I followed through on my urges. I built a robot.

The robot's name is SAM (Simulated Automated Man). He is constructed of a variety of materials, the largest portion being cardboard. He is also constructed of aluminum, plastic, a bit of tin, and duct tape (MADE FROM REAL DUCKS!!).

Oops. As I sit typing this, one of SAM's arms fell off. Poor Sam's firts few days are proving to be tumultuous and painful. So far SAM can only generate basic sentences. His main statement is "I AM A ROBOT." He has also said "I AM SAMbot." And just this evening to my delight SAM baid my mother good night: "I AM SAMBOT, GOOD NIGHT JUDY, I AM A ROBOT."

We're still working on continuity and redundancy, but his lexicon is growing rapidly.

I also did in fact juggle today. I've decided that the standard method in which I juggle, which is pretty basic, needs work. i can't keep it going as long as I'd like,and if I do, I think it gets boring. So, I'm working on uping my skill level just a tad. I found myself out in the yard half naked in the sun, a half built robot on the back table while I waited for some of the paint to dry, and three bright tennis balls gyrating in the air in front of me. It was glorious and surreal.

I think I need to follow these urges more often. Life can be much more interesting when you make robots and juggle. Just imagine what other interesting things I could stumble across if I simply followed my cravings.

Well... there are other interesting things that do happen when I follow some cravings,but that's a whole other blog. Keep checking the ninnyspot, I'll have pics of SAM up soon, possibly tomorrow.

Ain't no thang

2006-06-15T20:33:00.000-07:00

It has passed. As of 1:30PM on the 15th of June, 2006 (the year of our gord, not to be mistaken with the other type of year that rhymes wtih gord which I have no use for) I have completed my student teaching. That's right boys and girls (and homos, and citrus fruit with proper names, and certain types of poisonous hamsters)Ninny has, at last, completed his preliminary teaching credential. Now comes the small task of finding employment. This will happen in time. For now (or rather soon) I shall celebrate in some fashion to ring in the new chapter of my existence. I am thinking, in fact, of washing my belly button to commemorate the occasion.

Perhaps not.

Coming down to it

2006-06-13T23:32:00.000-07:00

21 Cover letters and résumés

21 CDs with my academic portfolio on them

1 Honors grade for a pass no pass class (I didn't even know this grade was an option)

1 failing student art project,but at least the thought was cool.

2 days left of student teaching.

in hiding

2006-06-12T17:09:00.000-07:00

At last the final week of my second assignment is at hand. I'm meer days away from finishing my preliminary credential. This is exciting in many ways, it means that I'm now ready to attempt to find a job. It's also disconcerting as it means that I'm now ready to attempt to find a job.

The other side of this predicament is the mind frame of the students. I remember being there myself so I don't particularly blame them. They have complete and total short timer's syndrome. They're all aware that the last day of school is this Thursday. They all realize that his means there is little academic work left. They also all realize that the person next to them has this same idea in their head and they're feeding of each other. I personally think that parents and guardians feed their children methamphetamines with their cereal in the morning as a way to thank the teacher for caring for and teaching their child/children for nine months.

I'm trying to not face the reality that the end is near. This means not only will I be done with student teaching, but that I'll be essentially useless for all things professional until fall. Those of you with normal jobs might find this idea highly attractive, and I would/will agree with you once I have steady employment, but for now, I have nothing and that is frightening.

When you add this to my recent overwhelming desire to get out and do things constanty has left me in an odd state. I'm home now. Home from the first of my last days, and all I want to do is hide. I want nothing more than to stay here in my room, door closed, and wait the week out, only to emerge Thursday when I'll say my goodbyes to the third graders, celebrate the impending family birthdays and fathers day, and then embrace the new weekend with great anticipation and optimism.

I suppose that this is a short week will make that more possible. The fact that I have no job, will make it complicated, but still worth it.

In other news, my belly button is dirty.

Robot Chicken

2006-06-09T00:02:00.000-07:00

I've been watching the brilliant brain child of Seth Green. The sketch I just took in involved Michael Jackson. He was an alien, the real Michael Jackson having been abducted in the (presumably) late eighties. The whole story is explained in this sketch. The real Michael Jackson returns to Earth to rescue humanity from the Michael Jackson impersonator planted by the aliens.

This is brilliant in and of itself. The frightening part was that, as I watched it, it seemed feasible. I actually believed the whole thing. As though the man (or thing) having been replaced by evil world domination bent aliens seemed more sensible.

For I have fought.

2006-06-07T22:48:00.000-07:00

Long and hard.

Cliché a phrase as ever there was for a gayman.Shall I insert more euphemisms? I would, but my mind is clouded and lethargic with little to contribute to the tangent.

I have been sitting, wondering, and hoping. Counting days while wasting nights. Thinking that, perhaps if I sit long enough, the time will pass quicker leaving the trials of now behind me.

Today was long. A day in which I wondered if I'm on the right path. When the students seem near uncontrollable. Yet I handled it fine. Recieved compliments in fact. Why then this feeling of ineptitude?

I believe it stems to the foreigner factor. This is not my class. This is not my school. This is not my room. This is theirs. This is the land of the other, and I am but a visitor contributing what I can, while trying to fit into their system.

I look to the future thinking my own space will be different. My own space will be more structured. My own space will be more me.

But I am not structured. I am chaotic. And though I grow more compartmental as I age, I am still impulsive, wandering, instinctive. I look to this room, this place that I spend my time and see variation. I see it and fret. I see it and fear that my own space will be the same, lacking structure. I suppose that seeing this is a near guarantee that I won't let it happen. This lends some comfort, that and the knowledge that this class is not easy.

There is no clear path set yet and this uncertainty, though invigorating, is also terrifying. Not knowing where I'll be, with whom, and in what way, poses this plethora of inevitable variables that will have to be faced individually. I just hope I have the strength, patience, and knowledge to structure it in such a way that my fear will not become reality. That I will find the means to create my space so that I have what I dream of and not what I fear. If that can be, then I will know that I have chosen well in this endeavor. If not, at least I'll have a challenge to play with, that is, until I win the lottery and run away to Tierra Del Fuego.

June Gloom (debunked)

2006-06-06T22:38:00.000-07:00

The cliché is proving inaccurate. What is considered to be a time of morose greyness has shown itself to be a period of excitement and spontenaety. I forget how much I love the summer until it is looming on the horizon. Perhaps this is why I chose a career in education. What other field provides you with three months of vacation, often sequentially located in the summertime?

As the year end approaches I find myself fighting unseen (and oddly unrecognized) stress. My jaw has been clenching, my head throbbing, yet my life is not so hectic. I have most of the tasks ahead of me in hand. The only real trouble I face is the uncertainty of employment, but that was expected and will be dealt with in time. I think, perhaps, the real trauma in my existence at the moment (yes, my true American blood is showing when I must find trauma in the quietest of times)is that I have no real drama. Single is treating me fine, economically I'm stretched but that will change, class is essentially over until next month, and I can literally feel my branches stretching outwards for social expansion. It's as though I'm brimming with oppurtunity, just not ready with an adequate saucer to catch any spilling.

I suppose that the charge that is omnipotent in my current life could be the cause of my tension. It might just be that I'm so ready for the change that my body is responding in kind. Or perhaps there is an unknown shadow looming beyond my peripheral vision threatening and menacing yet heretofore unseen.

Whatever the cultprit I'll take it. I'm contented with the fact that things seem to be going decent. I'm feeling safe in my future (whatever it may hold) and strong in my yearnings for change.

There are of course other variables. I have no real lovelife, but I'm fairly pleased with that. I have no real desire for any intense romantic interlude at the moment, as I have no idea what I'll be doing or where I'll be in the next six months. If I were to enter into any meaningful relationship I'd want there to be stability, and I'm not exactly a poster child for consistency at the moment. What I want, in fact, is the opposite. Random,spontaneous, unbridled exploration is my goal for now. See, do, and be all that I can so that when I am settled and ready, I can reap the benefits of such experiences without wondering if I lost out at some point along the way.

I feel old to have this mind frame, yet young in that I've never fully enmbraced it before.

Here's to wandering. May it bring adventure and comfort in one smooth stroke of the palm.

Oh yes, and Frankus

2006-06-02T00:06:00.000-07:00

I mentioned (in a posting weeks previous) that I shall, henceforth, refer to a certain Mr. Spiziri as "Mr. Says relax."

Well, I have negated that statement for a better title. One which (as most of my friends, family, and general mutual associates of the boy already know)I have launched a campaign to instill in the minds of the minions. The new title for the Spiziri extraordinaire is this: Frankus.

Now, do not let the seemingly mundane nature of this new title throw you.

It is a title that demands respect, creativity, and pose.

It is the most fitting name I can foster for the man I have deemed Frankie, Francis, Master Spiziri, Frank, and many other titles.

It is a title that is unique to a boy whom is unique.

So! Should you know this man (and chances are, if you're taking the time to read this that you are at least familiar with his existence) take up the banner!

If we can have upwards of 5 people referring to him as such (that was Frankus if you have forgotten) then my work is done.

Oh, and Frankus, if you should happen to be reading this, cheers! You have spawned your very own blog entry on the Ninnyspot! Most people have to sleep with me, or at least be quite ill to earn such an honor, and you did none of the above (which we shall keep that way).

Chapters/Transitions

2006-06-01T23:44:00.000-07:00

With gilded fingers he plugged on slowly.

Hands bound by time, garnett, and gilded in flesh.

He journeyed deeper into what was, what is, and what may be, all the while drifting through the mire of what wasn't, what isn't, and what probably won't.

Accomplishment is the mist of confusion, bringing with it the draw of the dawn.

Yet the light of the sun rising is dim from this angle leaving long shadows that mask the horizon.

Optimism is prevolent in this land of new beginnings, afterall that sun will be high soon enough.

But what of the hours that stand between days?

Those of the questioning, the agonizing, the lost.

These are the days of gilt fingers and eyelids pressed.

Of furrowed brows and wilted pockets lined with lint rather than coin.

These are the days of the tired, the hopeful, and the fervent.

Forever looking past what is now, in hopes that the next will be better.

With this he drifts further into the shroud of unknown.

Fingers dragging in twilight as thoughts blaze on unhindered.

Will morning bring options or more binds for the wrists?

Will adventure be breaking or cowling in shadows,

behind the horizon,

passing for another day to draw forth.

I share of the pictures

2006-05-27T12:05:00.000-07:00

I'm not sure what has prompted this but here it is. Three random pics (two recent, one not so recent) for you to look at.

The apocolypse came while I was away.

So much love for Miss Drella Jones-Public.

Danger(space)Kitty's shoes found a friend.

When selfless becomes selfish and hopefully back again (2)

2006-05-23T21:59:00.000-07:00

Thanks to all my boys. I'm a lucky man in so many ways.

RICA

2006-05-22T22:09:00.000-07:00

Reading

Instruction

Competence

Assessment

The most painful and grueling test I've faced yet. Admittedly it's no LSAT or MSAT or any of the other horrifying standardized tests. It was still remarkably unpleasant, and not something I wished to repeat, luckily, I won't.

When selfless becomes selfish and hopefully back again

2006-05-22T21:51:00.000-07:00

Up and down,
teetering,
the tide of response and repose.

Mending of fences still hot from destruction.

The emotive state is more volatile in its positioning.

Dangerous to tamper with,

still more dangerous when left alone.

This healing process,
riddled with peaks and valleys,
wears souls thin.

This learning curve can be grueling,
each party wearing readers to decipher small print while trying to look over the thin frames at the horizon looming.

With time our eyes will adjust.

The landscape will level.

Our place on the curve will peak,
leaving us at the top with more tools in our shed,

A library of knowledge to wield .

A renaissance of relating wtihin means yet unknown.

In two lives apart,
yet not lonely,

Not missing,

Not hurting,

Just being.

Get yo gay on

2006-05-22T21:36:00.000-07:00

Pictures from the homoventure

Porch Peopes

Ninny and the brothers.

Ninny, Danger(space)Kitty, and Miss Drella Public go grunge at the Falcon curb.

All I needed was some chocolate pudding.

Exhaustion

2006-05-22T17:00:00.000-07:00

I'm really tired after this weekend. Mondays really are the worst day of the week it seems. The kids were being crazy and my patience was getting ever shorter as the day progressed. I actually found myself looking forward to this week as it will give me chance to rest, we'll see if that happens.

In other news, I received the official notice in the mail today:
I Passed The RICA!!!! I Passed The RICA!!!! I Passed The RICA!!!!

Against my better judgement

2006-05-14T22:50:00.000-07:00

Against my better judgement I started watching Aeon Flux (the movie) tonight (at a time when I shouldbe sleeping). It's actually quite pretty. Tothe point that I really wish to finish watching it, but it would not be a wise decision. Mmmph. But really, Charlize Theron, Jonny Lee Miller, so beautiful.

I really need to get out of America again. Europe is beckoning again. Brittain Specifically. I must obtain employment first, then I can pursue more travel. This bug of the travel (the travel bug) is quite a nuisance. I'm not sure how it came. It happened gradually, over years of wander lust gone awry. Now it's out of hand. If I do not travel every few months I feel anxious. New York was not satisfying, it was more an appetizer. Now I'm faced with no money and no time to escape and the desire to do so is near excruciating.

In time I suppose. In time.

With the season

2006-05-11T23:19:00.000-07:00

I've decided that self esteem is seasonal. It seems that there are two times in the year when, for whatever reason, I feel capable.
Don't get me wrong, there are always certain things that I feel confident in throughout the year. But there are these times where I feel totally confident in my self, as though a thin sheath of light comes into my mind and murmers "hey, you are good enough." It tends to come at times when transition is nigh though not yet present. When life altering events are around the corner still out of view.
In my current state this corner is the end of my credential program. I feel like I'm finally on the edge. The edge of what I'm not sure. But there is this sense that I have what is needed for whatever is to come. I know, from past experience, that this feeling is fleeting. It will fall away around the time that I plunge myself into the situation that is most trying. For instance, I moved to Portland on this feeling. I plunged myself into an unknown city with only one acquaintance (whom I still think the world of THANKS JULES!!!!) and came out three years later with all these amazing life experiences. But when I first got there I had no idea what I was doing. I just arrived with a beat up Honda full of shit. The first year was rough and uncomfortable, filled with awkward gaps of questioning and insecurities. Then, after three years of living the Stumptown-life-fantastic, I fled again. I plunged back into family life in the land of manicured lawns, asphalt, and smog. I arrived here looking for the future and got caught up in the past. I struggled through another period of self reflection and self abasement. Now I look around me and see what I've overcome, what I'm dealing with daily, and what I will take on, and feel capable. I fear that, come the end of my program, my hopeful employment, and ensuing trials, I'll face another period of disillusionment where I wonder why I placed myself in the situation.
I suppose at least these periods of extreme transition are entertaining in the emotional sense. You never know what will stab you and what will tickle. In this sense I truly am ready and for that I'm thankful (if not excited). I should revel in the sense of self worth. let's just hope it's not unfounded and that I do have the necessary goods to make it work. The only way to know is to try.

Slow Like Honey

2006-05-10T23:15:00.000-07:00

I was listening to Fiona Apple on the front porch just now. A recent trip to the Silver Fox here in LB with Master Spiziri (whom I have decided to henceforth refer to as: Mr Says relax) his brother and Vic led to this activity. It was a fine evening for the most part (the only exception being some unfortunate news and events occuring within another friend's life). Eventually Mr Saysrelax and I were the lasts out and about. We strolled to the binder for the karaoke and I browsed. Now, I should make it clear that I have only once sung Karaoke and it was in high school with a friend and japanese exchance students to the beetles (a group I do not particularly like). I've attempted once or twice since then, once I chickened out, the second time I was never given an oppurtunity. This browing led to the re-discovery of the First album released by Ms Fiona Apple. I was pleased to see it there in the laminated pages of the binder. Today I sat down and listened to my two favorite songs on the album.
They are exquisite in their nearly understated reference to emotive quality. They're subdued yet evocative. It made me so pleased to hear it that I've decided that the next time I'm in a Karaoke environment and a piece by her is available, I must force myself to get up and sing it. I will destroy it of course, but I will feel better knowing I tried.

I'm not exactly sure why I decided to share this thought with the world, but there it is.

I'm high like heaven, I'm strong like music, but I'm slow like honey and heavy with mood.

I love it.

Dog Bite

2006-05-05T17:47:00.000-07:00

Moods carry like contageons,

Ice on the wind, melting and dissipating,

Chilling the world as it drifts.

Fraelty revealed in the emotions of those surrounding,

fraelty revealed in one's self.

Memories of comfort dispelled by hostility, nips to the face destroying trust.

All are succesptible to the flares of the virus, spreading cold to all reaches of being.

Bath

2006-05-04T21:53:00.000-07:00

Liquid settled taught around his thighs.

Seeping slowly up the flesh to meet the air at waist level.

Thin sheets of tiny bubbles, pockets of oxygen, nitrogen, and carbon,

escaping from unseen crevaces, fleeing the depth.

The warmth.

All subtleties lost in the moment of submersion,

Shamelessly bare for the emptiness.

The heat travels outward from loin to digit,

seeping through porcelain, flesh, and bone.

His thoughts idly stagnate on occurences past,
Fantasies reborn,
Pain unburried.

Slipping lower, the fluid consumes him.

Devouring rib, limb, and neck.

Nibbling at lobes and lips.

He draws farther into the solace of water,

Body lifting with shuddering breaths.

A bouyant raft in an ocean too small for its mass.

Drifting deeper and deeper to the solid, hard beach, of the edge.

For one moment he is no one.

Not child or senior,

Not son, brother, or friend.

Just flesh, bone, and water.

Rising and falling with breathes unbidden yet not unwelcome.

Futures and pasts pan out on the title shore,

Opalescent refractions of lost life yet to be formed.

For now it is safe here, a coffin of water.

Solid in its fluidity,

Transitionary state,

Soon it will pale in the cool of the room,

Spend its warmth on reflection and drain away,

Slowly drawing its solace down through the pipe work.

Washing wasteful thorughts away with the waste of the flesh.

Until then he will lie there half floating,

half sinking

Content in stagnation.

For the time being.

Munchkin a go go

2006-05-04T18:22:00.000-07:00

I'm tired. Admittedly, it's Thursday night, and by this point in almost any week I'm exhausted. This week has seemed excessively grueling and oddly quick. It seems like the never ending Sunday night that started the whole thing has now led to the expeditious demise of the bastard five days.

Today I had my first observation in my new placement. It was my first, well....I don't want to say awful, or even bad, but definitely not good observation. The rugrats had apparently been mainlining crack under the desks after lunch, for as soon as my lesson began they started to go haywire. I plowed through the lesson and tried to get them under control, while trying to maintain that delicate balance between fun and disciplined, but to no avail. My supervisor was very understanding. Not at all bothered by the situation, simply gave advice about what I might do next time, and said that the mistakes I made I would learn in time not to make. I didn't really feel too bad about the whole thing myself, just tired. Now I'm home, trying to figure out what I'm doing for Misseur Francis' b-day tomorrow and wishing I was more mentally stable at the moment (oh, and might I add more financially stable? That would be nice too).

Never the less, tomorrow will be splendid somehow.

I still have a portrait to finish as well. I'm mostly finished with the thing, but it's at that awkward stage where the final tweaking hasn't rendered it believable yet, instead it's sort of....off. It's just not right. It's almost unsettling, as though a demented drunk cartoon was looming out at me in black and white from the drawing board. If I don't manage to mtoivate to finish it tonight so that it may be whisked away to it's commissioner then I'll have to find another way to get it to her, which, I suppose I'd rather it just go tomorrow.

Bah! I'm going to quit my job (hey I'd save money!) and become a homeless alcoholic. I'll hang out on the corner and beg for change for my liver and simply neglect to tell the innocent passersby that it's to pickle rather than fix the thing. OOOH! OO! OOOOOO!!!! I could give handjobs for smack! Yes!

Writing (Absence)

2006-04-28T18:43:00.000-07:00

So my writing urge hasn't subsided, today I'm starting to think about where the writing stems from. Both yesterday and today it seems to start with a single phrase that, for some reason, is lingering in my head. The previous little snippet (It comes) grew from the first line (From beneath the sidewalk...). Todays stems from it's first line as well. I'm wondering if this is where it all will come from, the initial line that runs through my head until it is vomited onto the page.

With stale tastes of honey and coffee grounds, he slept late.

Sunlight brushing the cratered surface of vacant pillows, cheek adjacent, and still.

Murmers of traffic whispers hints of waiting hour.

How long since he had left?

Eyes sealed against the heat of day, he dared not glimpse the persistent face of the clock.

Swallowing the faint flavor of morning exodus he allows his lids to lift.

Emptiness is waiting.

A silent room.
Closet door half open, clothes peaking out , as though planning an escape of their own.

The still room feels vaguely used, like the laundry that litters its floor.

How long?

He turns to face the demon that pries at his conscience.

8:30

the flavor of honey stained coffee left in mouth by his lover still lingers.

The rug is an obstacle between him and the door.

Corner folded back by half woken feet shuffling out while he slept.

The light has invaded the kitchen.
It has sought out and landed on the soiled French Press, on the half emptied cup, and the sticky faced bear filled with honey.

As he pries the press from the morning sun's grasp and bathes it in the small stainless sink, he notes the absence of his own cup.

The dish washer is empty.

The cupboard proves fruitless.

He settles on a juice glass as the kettle sings.

The fresh grounds gulp and gasp under the pressure of scalding water and steel plunger, drawing flash images of the evening prior.

How long?
Thirty minutes?
Forty Five?

He turns to the ice box in search of cream, eggs, bacon.

The door bears tidings from absence.

Breakfast in the microwave.

He turns to the box in the corner.
Nestled amidst greasy finger prints and specs of old lunch (Damn I really need to clean this he thinks) lies another message.

Press start.

The small screen on the box flashes:

*2:00*Press Start*2:00*Press Start*

He opens the door and peeks in.

His cup sits filled to the brim with rich brown fluid, still swirled with the white of cream un-stirred.
Next to it lay two eggs laden in congealed grease, a biscuit dabbed with near melting butter, and bacon nearly crisp but not quite.

He closes the door again, staring at the mottled surface.

His broken reflection pock marked in finger prints.

He tastes again stale honey and coffee grounds lingering from sleep.

Presses Start.

Ta Dah!!!

2006-04-27T20:24:00.000-07:00

Here's the frames I received today. Can you spot what little changes I've made in this picture? I'm sure any of you who have any knowledge in photoshop can tell. (Yes, Mr. Satán I'm sure you've already identified several flaws in my bland play). I can't wait to get actual lenses in these things, lenses that aren't just plastic demos, lenses that won't break and scratch easily, lenses that don't have the Frame's name written across the left eye (Ohp! Damnit, I've gone and spoiled the surprise!).

OH YES!

2006-04-27T18:28:00.000-07:00

I got new specs today. Despite my 20/20 vision, I have an ongoing love affair with eye wear. This is largely, I think, due to the other half of my family's profession. You see, my brother, mother, and myself have all pursued careers in education. However, my grandfather, father, and sister all took on roles in the optical realm. As a result I've been surrounded by glasses, books, and colorful charts my entire life. Occasionally I get a wild hair in my left nostril and decide it's time to get frames again. My newest pair are "conservative" as my sister put it. I do look rather like some sort of something I'm not. It's highly enjoyable, I can't wait to wear them to work and appear to be a "smart" teacher.

He he. accessories ladies! accessories!

Writing (It comes)

2006-04-27T18:02:00.000-07:00

I'm reaching the point now where I sit down to write when I have nothing of interest to write about. Not even a mundane complaint or a cute anecdote from my day. I just want to make letters move across a page, it need not be paper, it could easily be pixels, just something. I feel I should find a way to harness this, focus the craving onto a topic. Write a book or children's story. But I'm not quite ready for that. Instead, today, I wrote the following. It could serve as an introduction to a book, or it could stop where it ends now. I'm not sure what it's faith shall be, but here is what, well.... it is:

From beneath the sidewalk it came.
Beneath the top soil, root balls, water table. Deep in the mantle where the ancient and new coexist. It slept cradled in the warmth of the Earth's blood, floating, waiting.

This timeless existence of before and after, of something and nothing, in one.
Here is where it started, here is where it ends.
Here is all points in between.

There is no time like the present here, no time like the past or future for that matter.
No time at all.

So when it woke it might have still been sleeping. Had consciousness been? Or is it being?

It draws in a deep sigh. Thick with molten rock. It stretches all points outward. Burbles of song seep through the mantle as it rubs what will be, what are, and what were, eyes.

The song increases, rising and falling, singing of Core, Crust, and between.

Singing of plates, rifts, and continents.
Mountains, forming, eroding, exploding.

Without time existence is mundane. One vast purgatory of half sleep.

The burbling tune crescendos in a shudder of vibrations careening in waves and bubbles through the thick fluid of the planet's womb. The last wave of song shakes all; Core, Mantle, and Crust. Forcing inward and outward.

It is said the whole Earth swelled that day.
That the axis tipped just slightly.

The Atlantic grew wider, the Himalayas grew taller, and the Cascades all blew steam from their caps. Kilimanjaro is said to have woken. Its bare peak re-dressed in white ash.

All for the coming of something whose presence seeped out undetected.

It settled in on the Americas first, a vast land of isolation. But it knew loneliness well and craved change, so it drifted on.

Over the swollen Atlantic it went, passing ships and platforms unseen.
It landed softly on a cold grey beach, slipping over the green grasses bringing light as it went. Through fog and brittle winds, past a pier to a town with stone buildings. Along cobbled streets it passed narrow doors, through a window cracked open above the road.

The bustling figures inside didn't notice the ruffling of sheets in an unoccupied bed. The warm breeze had surprised them.
The Sun had breached early.
The figures stood at the opened window looking out.

"Spring's early," said one to the other.

"Or is it late?" the other replied.

Comment conundrum

2006-04-26T23:07:00.000-07:00

Today I recieved two (count them two!) comments from an anonymous source. Usually this gets me excited. My pulse starts to quicken at the idea of strangers reading my mundane musings. However, the comments read something along the lines of:

"Nice job! I made some quick easy cash as a secret shopper! You should try it by clicking the link below. I made $900 having fun!"

Now, don't think I'm opposed to making some money. I am, after all, student teaching, which is to say, I'm working full time and paying money I don't have to do so. No, not making little-to-no money. PAYING MONEY! But that's beside the point. I do not like the idea of some random schmuck, flitting through my blog, paying little to no attention to what is written there (I realize there is little written here anyway) and then posting some skeazy ad trying to coerce innocent people into following their insidious link.

Needless to say, I rejected these comments (there were two, completely identical). I now feel slightly less annoyed by the requisite request to enter the letters of an odd squiggly nature whenever I want to leave a comment on someone else's blog.

Keep the Mother Fuckers away!

On a lighter note:
I've been slaving away at this work stuff. I have to complete all these things by Monday and I'm nearly there. All that's left is to complete my electronic portfolio for my credential. If I continue to work tomorrow as I did today, I'll be ready by Friday and can enjoy my weekend thoroughly. Who knows, maybe I'll go to the Mountain again, just because, or play Tennis, finish the portrait I'm working on, or just lamp in the sun (for a definition of the verb "lamp" please ask Mr. Jason Rieke of Eureka, California, his boyfriend Joe, Juleen Norling of Portland, Oregon, or I suppose you could ask me).

LBC Fag Forboding

2006-04-24T23:28:00.000-07:00

Last night Master Spiziri and I decided, after a lovely day of rollercoastering, that it would be wise to to imbibe beer at a local establishment. You see, Beer Bust, being a gay tradition, was happening, and it appeared that there was one in Long Beach. So We headed down to the place that claimed to have cheap beer. To our dismay, they had rid themselves of beer on tap (they tell us this after we payed the cover mind you). So we were drinking cheap beer in the bottle (actually preferred, though more expensive). We walked around. It was here that I was reminded of why I want to leave Long Beach. The music is frightening, the folk in attendance equally so. Inevitably it ends up with me and Master Spiziri standing in a corner, nursing beers, and allowing our self righteous gay selves to criticize the rest of the patrons. I feel awful doing this. Believe it or not, my self esteem is really not that high, yet when standing in a packed room of drooling homos such as these, it is hard for me to understand why they are drooling. Is it because they are in fact pavlovian and someone in the background was ringing a bell? Or was it simply their choice destination, enthralled by their peers and the incessant thumping of top forty remixes from five years ago. We stuck it out, enjoyed ourselves as best we could and planned to never return unless really tired, bored, and desperate (I might add that from the other perspective that this would be a choice environment, with fabulous music, to those who feel this way I give great kudos, I unfortunately am not one). I look forward to the days when the seedy underbelly of the homo community in which I live is that of the perverted folk I'm familiar with. The ones found in bars that reek of urine and stale beer, rather than cologne and fresh nail polish. When I can join the trapeze classes in Hollywood that happen on weeknights, and possibly work for pay. Those days will be soon and I positively quiver with anticipation.

Or perhaps that's the Ibuprofen talking.

By the by, I just finished watching "My Neighbor Totoro." I haven't seen it since I was in high school Japanese class. This was a recent American release by Disney. They employed Dakota Fanning and what I assume was her sister, amongst other celibrities and semi-celebrities to play the voices of the characters in English. It was still adorable, though I don't remember it being so sad. The ending is positive, but the meat is a bit heavy. I loved it. I think I shall have to search out "Graveyard of the Fireflies" next.

Irritant

2006-04-22T23:34:00.000-07:00

A throwback to an earlier age.

Home for the summer slaving.

The weasel had come and gnawed at my flesh.

Or so it felt.

Enslaved as I was for the goods of the white bread

I scrubbed.

Brush and thinner bringing down aged paper.

paper of lines orange and pale green.

A top a stool I stood scrubbing, peeling,

paper in thin whisps, fragments like skin of the ancient.

Bubbling from the chemicals and the grueling labor of my arms.

POP! Went the Weasel.

And with it came the blood.

And with it the blood, the agony, the fear.

Were I a woman I would know menstruation, yet I am not.

I have no Uteran Lining to shed but the blood came and caked my thighs.

The pain was real and the fear that coupled it doubly so.

Now I remember.

The pain and swelling that preceded.

The knot below that grew and swelled.

The Black Bean that hell forsook has returned to stab at me with needles and glass.

Asking me to be ginger while demanding my attention ten fold.

If I had the courage I would lance.

If I had the tolerance I would ignore.

But I am a lowly faggot. Set here to wallow in my celibacy, wondering if I should have the ability to know contact again will I be able?

Or will I sit in my memory of bathrooms with wallpaper falling,

craving numbness,

bloodless,

release.

Hell Has A Name

2006-04-22T22:45:00.000-07:00

Hell has a name, and it is spelled R I C A.

This test has tried me to a point that no standardized test has (at least not in well over a decade). I entered without too much anxiety. I consider testing like I consider many things, to freak out about it accomplishes nothing. The best one can do is to apply themselves adequately and hope that that is enough. So I did.

Well, I applied myself anyways, not as much as I could have, but I at least put for the application during the test itself.

The test allots four hours to complete the entire thing. When I took the CSSET you were given five hours. In those five hours you could take one, two, or three subsections. I took all three with the CSSET. I finished in two and one half hours and passed all three subtests with little to no studying. This RICA, alloted you four hours. Again, I studied the minimal. I finished with only five minutes to spare. Even the proctor commented about my cutting it close.

I found the proctor's comment odd. She of course, sees all that people are doing during the testing process. Once I had finished the (seemingly endless) seventy multiple choice questions, the two one page open answer questions, the two two page open answered questions, and read and taken notes regarding the final five page case study, I raised my hand to use the restroom. At this point I still had a little over an hour left to finish the exam. I thought to myself, "Okay, I have to pee. Nothing is going to relinquish this need other than going to the restroom and letting it out. I have over an hour, and I'm prepared to start writing. I might as well go and come back refreshed, ready to write."

The proctor saw my hand raised, and immediately assumed I was finished with the entire test.

Mind you, on any other test I've taken in the last nine years, she would have been correct. My theory with tests tends to be: either you know it, or you don't.

In this case, the content, or at least the answers to the prompts, is largely subjective. What you know is only part of it. It's what you can do with what you know that truly seals the deal.

When the proctor assumed I was finished, I was slightly abashed and ashamed of my slowness. But I was bound and determined to not let anything dissuade my completion of the test, not even an overt urge to urinate. So, I walked quickly to the restroom, relieved myself, and hustled back to the room.

As soon as I retook my seat, I was back at it. I noted, planned, and began to write. One hour later I was still finishing my thoughts and reeling for anything else that might add to the concepts and stratagems I was employing in my case study.

Finally, I was finished. I had written the full five pages, by hand in pencil, and was done. I was not overly pleased with my writing, but had no time or energy left to revise or fix what had been done. I did not, in truth, even have time to proof read. I quickly skimmed over what had been written, decided it was mostly legible, and turned it in.

This is when the comment of "just made it" was made.

Hmmm...thought I, perhaps I'm not ready after all. Perhaps this Reading Instruction Competence Assessment is trying to tell me something. Perhaps one does need to be a complete expert in the field of linguistics and cognitive assessment to truly complete the necessary requirements. For all I know this summation is correct. I won't know for weeks to come if I exhibited the necessary knowledge or not.

For now all I know is that I would much rather endure the persistent agony of an enraged hemorrhoid for days than face this test again.

For my sake, I hope neither turns out to be my fait.

New York Moments (Take 3)

2006-04-21T18:02:00.000-07:00

Of Loss and Beauty.

There really is a hole there. A loss of something so real and tangible that even those of us who have never witnessed the place before can feel it. It is powerful and disgusting. The lack of something and the effects brought upon us by it can be overpowering at times. I actually saw a couple stop and pose for pictures in front of a NYFD truck. I thought to myself "When did tragedy turn in to a trendy tourist commodity?" Then I remembered the date and moved on.

This is St. Patrick's Cathedral. It lives on Fifth Avenue. Somehow, it sits across from retail establishments, hot dog venders, and delis. I sat on the steps here for a bit and wrote in my journal. I was struck by the similarities between this place and the feelings I received when viewing ancient structures in Spain. The beauty and pageantry of a lost age coupled with the rush and industry of ours. Some how the two seem to coexist without contention. As though timeless is a real thing, not just a cliché adjective for good design. The real beauty in this for me was the sense of complacency the building seemed to have. As though it's weary stones were tired but content to stand and watch the new polished sky scrapers and tiny carts come and go.

New York Moments (Take 2)

2006-04-21T17:49:00.000-07:00

Here are more images from my New York Excursion.

Please read Left to Right, Top to Bottom. I only ask this as I am writing in English and this is the chosen directionality for this language. I apologize if it causes a stretch for your mind, then again, you chose to view and read this, so chances are, you don't mind at all. The First image is of a sign in the subway. I found it entertaining, and highly suggest to those in the marketing department at MTA that they make a jingle to go along with it. The second is the subway itself. For those of you who live in a city with an effective public transportation system, this is probably not exciting. For those of us who do not have such a system, it is a glorious thing to behold.

The third image is the moment at which Mr. Satán seemed to have discovered a tie in his soup.

Finally, the Uneven sign. Needless to say, I should be required to wear one of these everywhere I go. I know that those who went on this trip with me agree to this statement. To them I say...well..I'm not at liberty to say that here. But the appreciation and biting satire are involved.

Caterwauling Craving

2006-04-21T17:12:00.000-07:00

Caterwauling is such an adept description. I've been studying for my test tomorrow. No, not nearly as much as I should have been up to this point, but studying none the less. While laying about in the sun with my iPod strapped to my ears I've poured over the contents of my RICA test prep book. The wonderous function of shuffle (as I believe I've mentioned before) on the iPod has given me access to my entire library at random. In this I get to "re-discover" artists I have in my library that may or may not get enough of my attention. Today it is the screaming banshies that have grabbed my interest. It started with Diamanda Galas. You see, she's new to my repetoire (with many thanks to Mr. Satán). Caterwauling is perhaps the most effective word to describing her delectable style. She seems to howl and grate through songs like a live cat strapped to an electric cello. She wails and screeches through her songs in pure emotive desperation. This may cause some to flee for Tierra Del Fuego, or some other far flung locale to avoid the sound, but to me it is captivating. It demands attention with such vigor that it causes my sub-conscience to tremble with recognition. Images are brought to my mind as I listen of depravity, desperation, and other unadulterated emotive states. Her voice is genius in its sonic impurities and emotional honesty.

The second artist, though possibly considered mundane to some when compared to Diamanda, is equally banshee-esque, though more subdued. I would possibly say that she is more guttural, visceral, ground and pulpy in presentation, while highly polished and developed in other ways. I speak of P.J. Harvey (good 'ol Polly Jean). To her I owe hours of elation, aggravation, and determination (should you not find these words befitting of Ms. Harvey, feel free to insert your own -ation term here). Specifically, the iPod selection of the day was "Mansized." Such a glorious piece to behold. I simply cannot get enough. Having had my CD's stolen multiple times (yes, J-J-Jimbo is in fact a Ninny) I no longer own as many of her albums as I once did and find my collection lacking in certain songs that I truly love. Luckily for me I do have a live concoction of her music; boot legs and what not that have come into my possession through various means. On this there is a live version of "Man Sized." No, it does not hold the finesse and disparity of the string quartet version on Rid Of Me, but it does the job in it's own way. When PJ begins wailing "Man Sized! Man Sized! Man Sized! Man Sized!" I croon with glory. There are few words to describe such a glorious wail. As though she has opened up her thoughts and let them explode through her larynx. When tied to the understated opening of the song, the seemingly introspective and methodic plodding of the lyrics in an almost whisper of words that build and build to the climax of shrieking. How I wish that more of our society accepted what is essentially a modern form of keening. Wailing out music as a means to express what words alone cannot.

Caterwauling.

I should be sleeping

2006-04-20T22:50:00.000-07:00

One of my final purchases for my trip extraordinaire was a transpod. I decided, at the last moment (that moment being this morning before driving back to Long Beach from San Diego) to get this lovely device, rather than new shoes.

Oh what a glorious decision this was!!!! Now that I have all of my music on my iPod, I can hear any of it anywhere! Today I had my entire music library with me all the way from San Diego, and around town once home. It was phenomenal. I'm in love.

Is it legal to marry electronic devices in California? I mean, it's not like I'm going to procreate with it, we're not even the same species. I just want to show the world that we have chosen to be together for better or worse (mostly better though) and that if I should choose to leave it, I'm willing to fill out the proper divorce papers to finalize the separation. That's reasonable right?

Oddly, I think there are many in this country who'd rather I married my iPod than whatever man I end up falling in love with. But that's another tangent.

YAY! iPOD! Everywhere!

I think I just leaked with all the excitement.

And then there was none.

2006-04-20T22:26:00.000-07:00

Disillusionment settled around me slowly.
A sheer cloth slipping from my face.

Distance looming on the horizon,

welcomed by the glare brought on from the shed fabric.

Time elaborates on wounds left vulnerable.

Susceptible to permeation from multiple sources with no bandages able to cover the whole.

I have slept little and too much, trudging onward in a world of discovery.

Looking for a future while writhing in the past and wondering where the two will collide.

Will there be more fireworks?

Fire words?

Or will the merging be more sedate as the rest of reality hints?

Words bear sharper edges than actions and actions wield great strength.

If I could leave both and live in my mind would it ease the transition?

Or would it merely complicate an already disastrous state?

Patience has never been my strong suit and now I find myself facing eternity with my watch placed firmly before my eyes,
foot tapping,
jaw clenched.

As though I can will the future to come more quickly.

Anything to urge this eternity of adjustment.

Anything to let the past be itself, and the present a new entity to enjoy rather than fear.

New York Moments (Take 1)

2006-04-20T20:44:00.000-07:00

So the trip has transpired, and with the exception of a few moments where my inner-turmoil surfaced like bubbles in a hot pot of water, it went well. New York is, in fact, an amazing place. I look forward to going back and seeing some of the things I allowed to slip by un-experienced. Here though, are two glorious images from the trip. If you pay attention over the next few days, you may also notice a minor change to the Ninny Spot. It's getting a new subtitle and image to head it up.

You shall see.

You shall see.

I can fly! I can fly!!!

This one is a lovely detail of yet another reason why that poor little man should never leave his house.

Odd product

2006-04-13T17:50:00.000-07:00

My most recent attempt at a cake was an odd one. I had never had this cake before, I just thought it sounded good (by title alone). It's a cake my Mother used to make apparently, though not since I've been around. It's called "Tunnel of Fudge." So I set about making it. The ingredients were simple enough as were the directions. I baked it, let it cool in the pan, pulled it out and set it to rest over night. Today I concocted a pretty decent chocolate glaze (though it's a bit too sweet I think). I ladled the cake with the glaze profusely, being sure that nearly the entire thing was coated in a sweet chocolatey goo. The finished product was lovely to gaze upon. I waited an hour or so for the glaze to cool some (it will never fully dry, but I didn't want it to be warm). I cut the cake and scooped a bit onto a plate. To my astonishment and consternation, the center of the cake was gooey. The edges of the cake were fine, maybe even a bit on the crisp side. I was sure I had done something wrong, but tried the cake anyway. It really did taste similar to fudge (this is partly due to the large amount of chopped walnuts it contains). I liked the cake but was still concerned about the gooey middle. Finally my mother (who had been sleeping when I tried it initially) woke up. I asked her if the "Tunnel" part of the title suggested that there was indeed supposed to be a pseudo-tunnel of less than cooked cake in the center. She confirmed this. So apparently, I have a new cake recipe in my arsenal. One that involves goop. I will admit, that though discerning at first, this goopy center is enticing. The cake is really rather pretty, and the gooey center makes me feel like it's a bit unusual and something fun to serve adventurous folk. I was considering scrapping the idea of taking the cake with me to work tomorrow, but now that I know it's supposed to be like this, I'll take it with me and simply apply a warning label for folks who pass through to try it. I think it shall read something like this:

WARNING: This cake, though scrumptious, contains large numbers of chopped Walnuts. If you have an irrational fear or allergy to said nuts, please do not consume. The center of said cake is also quite moist. One might go so far as to say it is "gooey." Please note that this texture is indeed intentional and is referenced in the cake's title "Tunnel Of Fudge." Enjoy.

Peek at ures

2006-04-12T22:39:00.000-07:00

As promised, here are the pictures of some of my more recent projects, and farewell momentos from the ankle biters. The gifts are fantastic, the culinary projects not so much. But I tried, and that's the part I enjoy. Today I made a new cake. Well, it's actually a cake my mother used to make (but I've actually never had). It came out looking alright, but I have yet to try it. I think Tomorrow I'm going to make a chocolate glaze or icing to drizzle on it before I dig into it. I intend to take most of it to the new school to butter up the staff (the best way to a school teacher's heart is through sugary baked goods).

BUT, without further ado: The pictures.

These are the lovely gifts my munchkins gave me. They make my heart swell with cholesterol, I mean pride.

The first picture here is of the spread from my cooking extravaganza. Baked bacon (the best way to cook it I must say, and fun to say to boot), home made buns, and stuffed burgers extroardinare.
The second picture is the compiled sandwich. Not so pretty, but it tasted good.

Oh! My iPod is now fully loaded. All of my music is catergorically entered into my iTunes and I'm good to go. Not a week to soon either. I LEAVE FOR NEW YORK DAY AFTER TOMORROW!!!!!!! YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE HAAAAAAAAAAAAW!!!!!!

Another Day Of Infamy

2006-04-11T16:40:00.000-07:00

Today was Election Day in Long Beach. The items on the ballot, though not necessarily too significant on the international, or even national level, were significant to our thriving metropolis. Mayor, City Attorney, City Auditor, and School Board positions are being decided upon. That in mind I'd like to invite the United Nations to come and monitor our electoral process. The School Board has been running a rather slanderous campaign. There has been an ongoing argument between the Board and the Union over cost of living increases for district employees leaving teachers working without contracts at the moment. Through out the campaign season the Board has sent out costly mailers to all district residents extolling their (fictional) virtuous ways in light of the rough rocky economy and decreasing enrollment, and villainizing local educators as money grubbing ne'er-do-wells whom care nothing for the students. This in itself is enough to get me wound up. In a time of budget crisis our public board sent out mailers that must have cost a quarter of a million dollars (lied about the expense) to propogandize their position. Then, at the last minute (just yesterday in fact) I received another little item in the mail. This one had printed on it in bold leters "Important: updated polling place information."

"That's odd," I thought as I opened it.
"I've voted in the same place for the past several years, why would they change that now?"

They hadn't.

Printed in tiny font on the upper right hand corner of the enclosed sheet was my polling place, the same place it's been for years. The rest of the page and another page included, was propaganda for the local School Board Incumbent. Admittedly I'm biased. I'm quite fond of the challenging candidate for the position this woman holds, however, this mailer sealed my resolve. I was offended by the attempt to make it seem so official and government sanctioned. I wanted to call the woman personally and tell her what a fiendish and corrupt bureaucrat I thought she was.

But I didn't.

Then today I drove to my traditional polling place. The people working were not overly eager to greet, then again, I wouldn't have been either. They were friendly enough, located my name and marked me off their list. When they handed my by ballot they started to tear it off the stack from the same side, causing my ballot to be held together by a thin thread of remaining perforation. This was irritating and distracting as I walked to my booth. In my little booth (or rather, plastic table with what looks like test dividers from a first grade classroom) I took up a ball point pen and looked at the ballot. There was no booklet to assist me, nor did I receive one in the mail. Luckily I live in an informed household and formed my opinions and views from conversations with friends, family, and advertisements (the least influence coming from the latter). I marked the bubbles for my choice of Mayor, Attorney, and Auditor. Then I gingerly flipped it over to scan the back, shocked at how short and uninformative the thing was. I glimpsed what looked like legal mumbo-jumbo decrying the contractual agreements one takes when voting. Then I struggled to slip the frail ballot into it's stiff sleave and took it to the nice gentleman who's job it is to remove the end tab and slip the ballot into the box. I proudly adorned my "I voted" sticker, and left the place.

Once in my car it dawned on me, "Hey, there was no place to vote for the School Board!" I picked up my phone and rang my dad to ask him when we were supposed to vote for the positions I was most concerned about. "Today of course," he replied.

"But there was no place to vote for them!" I answered.

I decided to go back into the polling station and inquire about this mystery.

"Oh, that's on the back of the ballot," they informed me, ten minutes too late.

"You're kidding!" I said. "Shoot. That's the one thing I really care about!"

But I was fucked. I now sit fuming at the poor planning and logistical mess this election was. If those staunchy fooligans are re-elected I shall be livid. As though our children don't have enough to worry about without thinking of losing any remaining qualified educators due to inadequate monetary compensation.

Once again I'm reminded of one of my greatest concerns with our education system. How does a populace with little-to-no appreciation or understanding of the pedagogical process, decide who's best suited to dictate district mandates?

POORLY! That's how.

That is, unless they surprise me with an informed and supportive decision this time around. Somehow I'm not counting on a society that supports education, but we shall see.

This, That, & Sleepless

2006-04-09T23:48:00.000-07:00

My ongoing effort to finish updating my iTunes is progressing nicely. I'm nearly finished loading all of my CD's onto the thing. I've gone through already and manually entered the track titles for all the things I've loaded before when i didn't have an internet connection and organized it all by album and artist. Soon I will plug in my iPod and will have all yes ALL of my music on my blessed little technological marvel.

The real problem with all of this is it's actually causing me to lose sleep. I keep myself up at night plugging away at the fucking thing! But I'm nearly finished so it won't be long before I can just let it go.

Last Friday was my final day as a 1st grade student teacher. I bid my ankle biters a fond farewell. They gave me adorable little gifts that I have photographed for all of you to enjoy, I will upload them tomorrow. Tomorrow I start my new assignment in a third grade classroom. It should be interesting. Especially since it's basically midnight, and I'm not asleep yet. But that also will change soon.

I attempted more cooking shenanigans this weekend. I produced home made hamburger/hot dog buns (which were not great but definitely edible) as well as a chocolate chip cookie disaster. On the bright side, the chocolate chip cookie disaster makes a fantastic ice-cream topper. I made some excellent gourmet hamburgers with my father's help which I also took pictures of (that you will see soon as well).

Finally, the other thing: I have a quote of the day, courtesy of the Simpsons.

"You know Smithers, 'I told you so,' has a brother. His name is 'Shut the hell up!.'"

Time-ing

2006-04-04T21:02:00.000-07:00

Time seems to be accelerating. My final week at my first student teaching assignment is half way finished. Between observations tomorrow, and open house on Thursday, the weekend will be upon me before I know it and with it the advent of a new school. I look forward to the new assignment. It will be nice to see a different school environment, a different age group, and a different teaching style. It will be sad to say good bye to the ankle biters. I have grown accustomed to them.

With the changing of the rooms, or at least, with the compeletion of the first week at the new school, will come the departure for New York. It's funny, how much I'm looking forward to this trip. It's almost as though I'm traveling to another country. Perhaps it's just the idea of a real vacation. None the less, knowing how quickly this week and a half is going to fly is even more encouraging.

On a completely different note:

I'm watching "The Chronicles of Narnia; The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe." I love that the evil queen is a great white hippie. Stupid white dreadie! That's right! Big pussy gonna get you!

Procrastination

2006-03-31T20:54:00.000-08:00

How I love thee Procrastination. I'm not even procrastinating a gruesome or abominable task. No, I'm procrastinating prepping myself for a standard Friday with the boys. I'm listening to Billie Holiday croon about Summertime and choosing pictures to post here. So please enjoy as I should be cleansing my dirty self.

There, now you have something to think about while you sit and stare at the wall.

That's right.

I'm bathing.

A pretty thing.

Possible future project...of sorts.

Odd affinity

2006-03-28T21:36:00.000-08:00

I've been developing this love for Jazz standards. I've had a special place in my heart for Billie Holiday for a while. Then came an appreciation for Sarah Vaughn (whom I have yet to begin collecting). The powerhouse came when my interest in Ella Fitzgerald became a borderline obsession. Damn that bitch had a voice!

But I digress.

I've just acquired a cover of Gloomy Sunday (one of my all time favorite songs) as sung by Mel Torme. To my shock, and almost horror, I really like it! I think I'm going to have to look into the old crooner to see if he's another one for my files. Along with Mr. Torme came the collection of a couple different versions of Summertime (no you fucking stoner, not Sublime. The song from Porgy and Bess). I now have a version sung by Etta James (another for me to look into further), Billie Holliday (melt) and a final one performed by Miles Davis (needless to say there are no words in the latter). All of which are glorious and make me giddy with the excitement of digging deeper into this glorious world of musical brilliance. It's true, what they say about America, the two truly original things we have going for us are Jazz and Abstract Expressionism. Not to slight the latter, I love the whole non-representational movement that America birthed without public funding, but Jazz. Hmmmmmm..... There are no words for the beauty and rawness that a truly well performed Jazz piece thrives within.

I feel it necessary to mention before ending this blog, that I do not consider new-wave jazz Jazz. It is in fact, a horrific atrocity befitted no one, especially not elevators which are frightening an experience enough without the ear curdling sounds of Kenny-G.