Happy Chang’s Army likes it hot, and so does my favorite restaurant. In the consistent strangeness of taking pictures in men’s bathrooms, here’s the latest installment. Enjoy!
Archive for June, 2010I’ve been in my fair share of restrooms in my life. I’ve used urinals, I’ve used troughs. I’ve stepped around mysterious puddles, and have even somehow avoided touching a single thing in a public restroom using the Kung Fu kick to flush and Jedi Knight abilities to work a faucet and open a door. If I entered a men’s restroom and found nothing but a bucket sitting on the middle of a small room, I probably wouldn’t think twice about it. Just take aim and fire. But (earmuffs girls) why the hell does every men’s room in America have to be the epitome of infestation? Last night, I was out playing pool at a bar in San Diego. The floor was wet. There was an abundance of paper product forming an impenetrable surface in the toilet (an unwalled toilet, I should add) that seemed to be saying, “I dare you to flush me.” The walls were dirty where messages of hatred were carved. And the crown jewel was the metal wall-hung vending machine that dispenses various sex products. There was a glow-in-the-dark, ribbed cock-ring. Some kind of condom that screams, “If you want to be a VD dad, try me!” And of course, pornography.
I can understand the concept behind these machines; in a bar with a chick, about to go home and get some sweat mixing on, and you don’t have any protection. But what is with the cock-ring and porn? It just doesn’t add up. And why the hell do I keep taking pictures in men’s bathrooms? That doesn’t add up either. Happy weekend. Cannery Row If Catcher in the Rye ate my soul, Cannery Row punched both Holden and Sallinger in the face, reached in their stomachs and gave it back. I read the first paragraph and was hooked instantly. It was poetic; it was perfect. Steinbeck, who grew up in Northern California, describes a small town in Northern California, and although this is a work of fiction you can’t help but wonder where the fiction stops and the truth starts.
Cannery Row is a different style of book than what I have been reading. Steinbeck is more focused on the surroundings and scene than he is on the actions of a particular character. Once he sets up a particular time and place, he allows the story to slowly creep in on it’s own. So, there isn’t much of a plot in this novel. If there is one, it’s mainly about how Doc is a standout guy, and because of that, Mack and the boys (the bums of the Palace Flophouse that swindle with good intentions) throw him two parties, both with similar outcomes, but one was a failure and the other a success. Each character is interesting, and the adventures/events that lead up to the two parties are captivating and sometimes moving. Between the frog massacre, the Place Flophouse, the Bear Club whores, and the guy named Gay, this novel is a must read. If there is anything that I will walk away from this book with, it is in the last page of the last chapter. It is the final section of a poem that Doc was reading at first to the party, and then to himself as he was cleaning the next day:
This is a great book, you should read it. 100th post. I don’t know, seems like more. It must be the apocalypse. It’s gotta be. I just saw the most messed up headline I have ever read in my life. It’s very wrong on so many levels. Here it is: Boyfriend, 14, hunted in stabbing of 13-year-old mother of his child So it turns out that this kid stabbed his girlfriend of 3 years, mother of his 1 and a half year old baby girl, in the neck with a kitchen knife. The girl was taken to a children’s hospital, her child was taken to relatives, and the boy fled the scene shirtless. Let’s do the math together: The child is 18 months old. A normal pregnancy duration of 9 months. Potentially 2 kids that just had their birthdays. This equals a mom at age 10 and dad at age 11. Let’s take this a little further: The child is 18 months, divided by the pregnancy of 9 months, equals 2. 2 times the mom’s age for 2 parents to make the satan spawn child equals 20. the dads age is 11. Kinda sounds like 2011 to me. Or how about this one: the child was born in a 619 area code. The 1 could easily make a fraction that looks a little more like 6/9. 6 divided by 9 equals .666. Yikes!
There are many places, people and things that remind me of my hometown. I tried to soak them all in while I was home for my sister’s wedding. The wedding was beautiful, quaint, and a very sweet. My sister looked gorgeous, her husband was ecstatic, and everyone seemed to have a great time including me. I got to watch the Philadelphia Flyers lose the Stanley Cup first at the Edman’s house, then a second time at Natalie’s. I don’t pay much attention to hockey, but had a great time for both games. And boy was it nice to catch up with Natalie. The gang pulled together on Monday to go out for dinner and drinks. Other nights I had plenty of time to hang out with my family for dinner. I Indulged in as much Wawa coffee and diet green tea as my system could handle, and gorged on pizza, cheese steaks, and grilled reubens. I can’t figure out how I didn’t come back to California 20 pounds overweight. Princeton Record Exchange proved that it still has what I’m looking for, as does the journey. Bob and I had a good amount of time to catch up, and as always enjoyed our time together. I picked up a few records while there, and discovered that The Flaming Lips cover of Dark Side of the Moon sounds much better on a turntable than in digital form. I spent other days and nights going out to old stomping grounds, visiting proud parents-to-be for lunch, and even playing ping pong while chatting away with my good friend Jay. All around, this has been a spectacular trip home. I returned back to California feeling incredibly refreshed, and am looking forward to all that life and summer has to offer. Here’s a photo that reminds me of home, and a photo that reminds me of The Simpsons.  The little steal bridge that crosses the Nesaminy Creek
 Nuclear power plant in Limerick
Ok. There are at least 7 people taking pictures of this guy. Sure, it’s a triumphant pose and all, but come on! Stereotyping is frowned upon, but Asians really do take a lot of pictures.
CATCHER IN THE RYE I was drawn to this book in the way a moth is to a flame. It was instinct, it made sense. I’ve heard that serial killers seem to always be drawn to this book. It is found in there collection, or proclaimed as a favorite, so maybe I might find a little madness contained within the pages. I didn’t like it, though, which might be a relief to all those who might think I’ll turn murderous some day. It won’t happen with a book. Catcher in the Rye is a book about a guy named Holden Caulfield, and his seemingly unimportant events that lead up to his arrival home for Christmas break. He has been expelled from school due to failing grades (again), hates everybody (except his sister and late brother), can’t stand phonies (people, movies, etc), and speaks with redundancies like it’s gong out of style (he really does). I didn’t like this book. The spoken style of writing with slang, redundancies, and purposeless banter is unrewarding to the reader. The message is wrapped around the hatred and frustration of a disillusioned kid that can’t or won’t find his place in the world. Holden Caulfield’s rebellion, confusion, alienation, and teenage angst is just another way of interpreting his loneliness. He wishes to hold on to these ideals and become some kind of martyr because of them. He says that he would like to stand guard at a cliffs edge where kids are running and playing in a field of rye. He would catch the kids that accidentally ran too close to the edge, to save them from hurting themselves. He would be the catcher in the rye. The story ends with Holden in a mental institution, or at least hinted towards being in one, saying that he’s going back to school next semester. Then he tells the readers, “Don’t tell anybody anything, if you do, you’ll start missing everybody.” I started reading Cannery Row by John Steinbeck, and it is like a breath of fresh air after the cluttered banter of Catcher in the Rye. Taco has been with me since 1998, and has seen more of the country than most other Americans have. Although not much of a conversationalist, I allowed him to ride shotgun in my drive across the country. What better time than memorial day to move Taco to a new home. He hasn’t said much, but I can tell that he is happy. Who is Taco, you ask? He’s my leafy friend in the picture below. Say hi Taco.  Hi Taco. Very funny. Anyway, he has at times flourished with green galore, and has also been known to look like death is creeping through his roots. Oddly enough, it seems like his state of consciousness solely depends on how much water I give him in any given week. This weekend, Taco got the spa treatment. I trimmed his weary vines and replanted him in a larger pot with fresh soil. He’s looking happy today. I also have a few sons of Taco soaking in water. I will be giving Taco spawns to lucky locals. Memorial Day weekend was interesting. Between traversing the golf course high on mushrooms with a group of friends, record hunting to find hidden treasures, riding the Triumph along the coast at sunset after dining over the Pacific, soaking in the sun with a good book, and building a new toy (the current crown jewel of my circuit bending career), I still have the energy to be at work at 4am. Another way to say it is, unfortunately I still have the energy to be at work before sunrise.  Stopped at a bluff to watch the sunset.  The sun did set. So, I decided to torture myself last night after watching Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, and fired up my old computer for the first time in years. I caught myself reminiscing through hundreds of photographs of years past and the good times shared with someone special. It was nice to do, though bittersweet. Funny thing about photos is they capture the good times. It’s nice to see proof. It is also important to understand that everything in my life is as it should be. In a very Siddhartha way, I can accept that. I am proud of that. The good times continue to roll on. This time next week I will be back in the old stomping grounds celebrating my sister’s wedding. Look out peeps, here I come! |
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