My first speeding citation. Yeah, I know, I've gotten pulled over many times in my life but it has never resulted in a speeding ticket. Tonight changed that, and it wasn't even from an angle I expected. I always imagined a cop would be hiding in the bushes in some great hiding spot I didn't anticipate, or appear from out of the traffic behind me.
Instead, I had just slowed down to an unbearably slow speed because I realized I was going through a town and not on the highway that I wanted to be on. There was a cop in the opposing lane, and another vehicle between us. I watched the cop pull a u-turn in my rearview mirror, and slowed down as far as I could without stalling my car. The cop came right up behind me. I moved one lane to the right, since the road kata (keep right pass left) demands it. He followed. I basically continued driving as slow as I could, chewing on the beef jerky I was relying on to keep me awake, and staring at him in my rearview mirror.
Finally he put is damn lights on and we went through the whole bit. This guy didn't try to bait me or anything. He just accused me of going 55 in a 30, and asked for my papers. He also made me say the alphabet forwards after finding out I had two drinks in six hours. I would have offered to go through it again using NATO alfa-bravo codes, but I've had a strict say-as-little-as-possible policy every since that time a customs agent searched my trunk because she asked if I brought anything back from Canada and I held up a bottle of Dr. Pepper.
Anyway, I have no comment on my speed, but I will tell you that I was fucking coasting. The ticket is for $247. I am tempted to pay it, but I don't think you can do that and maintain your innocence. Regardless of the amount of money I lose, I care the most about not giving in and not letting the City of Bremerton profit, though I likely face a battle I'm sure to lose. I think I'm going to hire a traffic lawyer and take this to court, if for no other reason than I want to know exactly how the hell he allegedly clocked me from the opposing lane when there would have been a car in the way fucking up his radar. I don't think he's bluffing though: he quoted me the 55 before he saw the out of state license, so I doubt he's betting on me not showing up. If they really expect us to drive this slow maybe I should just sell my car and walk on the highway.
I have 15 days to respond and I have to send in the original ticket, which precludes framing it on my wall.
Monday, May 30, 2011
Saturday, May 28, 2011
Calvin and Hobbes Lego Mosaic
I started this project in February. Most of the time was spent waiting for batches of Legos to arrive, and I can tell you, the Lego.com store is not anywhere near as good as Amazon. Unfortunately they are the only place you can buy brand new bricks and select exactly which ones you want.
It is 64 studs (two baseplates) wide and 136 studs (four baseplates + 1 tiny 8x baseplate) high. I don't know how many pieces it has, but its hundreds or thousands, and it cost me about $269.21. Plus ten cents for that last piece, and then something for the baseplates. So maybe a tad closer to $300.
So, yeah. If you want one of these, or just have a good idea or image, let me know. I created a rose design, and a portal cake design. I don't know if I will make those. Maybe the rose. One of my friends out here wants a mermaid.
It is 64 studs (two baseplates) wide and 136 studs (four baseplates + 1 tiny 8x baseplate) high. I don't know how many pieces it has, but its hundreds or thousands, and it cost me about $269.21. Plus ten cents for that last piece, and then something for the baseplates. So maybe a tad closer to $300.
Friday, May 27, 2011
[Just Fiction] The Endless Tower
Epilogue
I just watched the wedding episode of The Office, and started thinking about all the weddings I have to go to.
The End
In two years, maybe a promotion. Maybe. If he worked real hard. Irish couldn't keep his mind off of it. He was already twenty seven. Twenty fucking seven. What did he have to show for it? A girlfriend.
Irish was walking on a sidewalk. It was not the kind of sidewalk that saw steady traffic, the kind of functional, commuter sidewalk that did its job on the weekdays. It was a special sidewalk, made of red, octagonal bricks. There were no cracks in this sidewalk. Flowers lined it, and outside of these footlights, and there was not a single weed among them. Irish had an important to make--they wanted an answer by Monday--fucking Monday man--but he couldn't keep his mind on it because his thoughts kept drifting back to those octagonal bricks, and whether or not that pattern could be mapped onto a sphere. A torus, definitely. But a sphere...
His thoughts were interrupted when a black motorcycle crossed his vision. He was instantly jealous. He loved motorcycles but Cynthia, well, she'd kill him. She'd leave him and then kill him. The motorcycle parked in the fire lane. The rider got off the motorcycle with that long leg swing that told you their ass hurt from riding so long. He took his helmet off and dropped it on the ground. Who does that? Irish kept staring, unaware that he was staring. The man in front of him was tall, tan, muscular. He was wearing black slacks, a black shirt, and a black tie, and just the right amount of five 'o clock shadow to be an extreme gritty sex appeal master. The man glanced towards Irish. Irish saw piercing blue eyes, like he was looking at Raiden, and then the rider turned and sauntered up the steps. He walked slow, with a bit of a swagger. He looked to Irish like a cowboy out of a western.
One of the ushers ran down out of the church and tried to talk to the rider about his bike, but the rider glanced at the usher the way a veteran city dweller glances at bum. The rider took a program out of the ushers hands as he walked by. Irish followed like a little kid drooling over an astronaut. He glanced at the man's bike. The faring was all scratched and cracked and shit. The read tire was worn down to the cords, and the clutch lever on the left handlebar was bent. The windshield was missing a corner, and had a single velcro sticky left in the spot that once held an automatic payment device for toll roads.
The rider ignored the usher who asked about bride vs groom. Irish waited in the anteroom. Cynthia would kill him if he walked in without her. She late again. Fucking late again. How long does it take to put on a damn dress? Irish waited, growing more and more impatient, mortally afraid that the wedding party would show up, and it would be, you know, awkward. Finally he saw her hurrying across the street. She was doing that thing girls do when they try to walk fast in four inch heels. She probably spent two hours on that getup, and from where Irish was standing, she just looked silly. Sure, she was hot. Medium boobs, 145lbs. Tight. Man, those hex bricks probably would fit on a sphere. Wait, no they were octagons. Damn. If Cynthia ever left him, he would miss those 32 Cs.
Cynthia was talking even before she stepped inside the church. "I know, I know, I'm sorry, my sister..." Irish zoned out. "...hair curler, and then it..." Still boring. "...oh thanks," Cynthia smiled at the usher who handed her a program. Cynthia gave Irish a kiss and then took the usher's arm, letting him escort the couple to their seats. Irish scowled at him; stupid pimply fat kid touching his girlfriend.
Irish watched the the ceremony. Jason stood across from Caroline. And old man said words. People read shit. They kissed. People read more shit. Irish glanced at Caroline. She was totally padding. All the girls here, well, what about girls out there? What was he missing if he stayed here? Shouldn't he see whats out there? Damn, he couldn't decide. Here's the thing: could he do better? A question with no answer.
Irish turned around and looked for the badass guy with the motorcycle. He couldn't help it. Mr. Badass was leaving though, holding his side like he'd been shot.
When the damn wedding was finally over, Irish ran into Mr. Badass in the bathroom. Irish was trying to touch up his front hair--damn gel-that-isn't-gel was starting to fail on him. Mr. Badass came out of a stall with this shirt open, revealing a chiseled chest, and fresh bandage where his liver was supposed to be. The man tossed a piece of metal in one of the sinks and set a piece of bloody gauze down on the counter. His hands were covered in dried blood that he was vigorously trying to wash off.
"What happened to you?" Irish stared at the bandage. Also at his abs. Damn, what was his regimen? Like 60 squats every morning? 60 squats wasn't doing shit for Irish.
"I dropped my program. When I leaned forward, I forgot that was in my pocket."
The metal in the sink bothered Irish. It wasn't supposed to be there. This was a bathroom. He was worried someone was going to step in and catch them hanging out with this metal in the sink. He picked it up. "You keep scrap metal in your shirt?" It was maybe quarter meter long, and a few inches wide.
"Don't throw that out." The man fixed his scary blue eyes on Irish. "That's a backsword. What's left of it, anyway." The man took it back from Irish, wrapping it in a silk cloth.
"You keep a broken sword on you? What, like next to your wallet?"
"It's all thats..." the man drifted off. Then he smiled a tiny bit. "Every story needs a katana, don't you think?" The man dried his hands.
Irish felt like fanboy with his one chance to get an autograph from his favorite movie star. He stuck out his hand. "I'm Irish. Matt Irish."
The man shook his hand. "Beck--people call me Logan."
"Are you bride or groom?" Irish immediately regretted his pathetic attempt to sound cool in front of this stranger.
"I knew the groom a long time ago. See you around." The stranger walked out of the bathroom, sword fragment tucked into his pants, his shirt still open. There were people directly outside the door. Like directly. Who just walks out of a bathroom with their shirt off? In the middle of a wedding? Who does that?
Remember Your Name
"Logan!" Irish found Logan during the reception. Logan didn't seem to hear his own name; he didn't respond until Irish crossed into his field of vision. Then Logan looked up.
"Oh. Hi." He paused for a second. "Matt."
Irish sat down, placing his mug next to Logan's. "Do you actually like coffee, or did you just switch when they closed the bar."
Logan grunted with a half smile. He held up a small flask and raised an eyebrow.
"Sure!" Irish had no idea what was in the flask, but he really wanted to look cool. He had to fight back from choking--damn that shit was strong.
Logan turned his attention back to the dance floor, which he had been studying with disinterest.
"So how come you walk around with a katana."
"Its kind of a souvenir."
"From Japan?"
"Japan, no. I didn't go that far. I have been moving around for quite a while, but I never quite got that far."
"I wish I had done that. You know, moved around. Gotten the hell out of here. I wish I had done that years ago. But no, I had to get a job as soon as I graduated. You know, that whole...live life like you mean it thing."
"Don't be so hasty." Logan sounded like he was only halfway through a sentence, but then he took a sip of his coffee and looked at the people dancing. Some stupid ass 80's song was on. Everyone on the dance floor looked retarded.
"What do you mean?"
"It's not that great."
"What isn't?"
"Living life like...whatever they call it. Riding the ups and downs like your a leaf getting tossed in the current."
"That sounds awesome."
"It is awesome. In movies. In real life, its draining. You end up running out of money, out of all your resources."
"Yeah, but its so cool." Irish sat back in his chair, in dream mode. "I wish I had some fucking adventures, you know? All I've done is go to school and get tied down. Its like achilles, you know? That story about, he had like a choice, between being awesome and everyone would know his name and dying young, or being boring and growing old. Who wants to grow old?"
Logan shrugged.
"I mean, I don't know what I could have done, but some times I feel like achilles, but I made the wrong choice."
"I think you're mistaken. Achilles didn't make the right choice." Logan's hand moved to his side.
"This, coming from the guy who's 'moved around alot' and rides a motorcycle and carries a broken katana. Who does that?"
"Just hear me out. Do you know math?"
"I have a fucking masters in-"
Logan raised his hand. "Hold your horses there, partner. Just do that math. How much sex do you think you can have in your lifetime if you died on your 30th birthday. How much?"
"Well, 365 days, times 7 times a day..."
"No, keep in mind that you're single, and you spend most of your times having adventures. So like maybe once every few months."
"That's still a lot."
"Compare that to getting 'tied down.' For a few decades. Which one do you think is better?"
Irish chewed on his tongue. This wasn't--this wasn't right. This wasn't allowed. The math had to be wrong, because the conclusion was wrong.
"Take that girl there." Logan pointed at the bar with his glass. He happened to be pointing right at Cynthia.
Irish sighed inwardly. "She's alright."
"She's a ten."
"She's not that hot-"
"She's a ten. 32C, somewhere between 130 and 145-"
"Ok." Irish didn't like the way this guy talked about his girlfriend, especially not with that uncanny weight guess. What do you mean only a ten?
"If I could shack up with her every night--look at the way she keeps eye contact when she's talking to people. Its like she wants to look away because she shy, but she can't because she's too interested. You don't see that a lot. Who cares who remembers your name when you can hear her moaning it--"
"You know, I do like that about her," Irish interrupted him again. "The shy thing." If Cynthia ever left him, he would miss that smile.
"You know her?" said Logan. He almost sounded lonely.
Irish was about to answer but Caroline grabbed him and pulled him towards the dance floor. You know, the whole "if we're dancing, then all of our guests have to dance" thing that newlyweds do.
Logan finished his coffee quickly, grunting at the whiskey.
The Beginning
Logan had planned to be out of there before the old people started leaving, but he couldn't start his bike. He probably could have, maybe, if he had taken it easy with the starter and maybe cleaned off the spark plugs first, but as it was now the starter motor was shot. He needed to keep moving. The best thing to do was probably pull the plate and scrub the vin and leave it for scrap.
He didn't want to leave it. Not again, not with this one. He was driving every bike he got into the ground, and his mind, that was akin to a little boy that keeps buy puppies that die because the little boy can't take care of them properly and keeps redlining them. So he spent two hours fixing it.
Logan stuck a cigarette in his mouth. He brought his lighter up but didn't light it; no...some girls were coming out already, and if one of them walked over, well, smoking always gave a bad taste when you started kissing them. Logan's hand froze, with the lighter lit, the flame dancing back and forth, teasing the cigarette. He really wanted to smoke. He couldn't decide.
A car drove by. It was a beat up hatchback, the kind Logan wouldn't be caught dead in. But inside it was that kid Matt, and that hot girl. Logan could read from their body language that they were boyfriend and girlfriend. He snapped the lighter shut, watching the car drive away in the fading daylight, the unlit cig still dangling from his lips.
"Next time, I bet they'll be in the limo."
"Limo?" a girl asked from behind him. Logan leaned back to face her and made a funny joke. Then another, and another. The he asked where she was staying and if she'd ever ridden a motorcycle. When the girl got on and wrapped her arms around him, he knew it was going to be another night, another show, another few steps on the endless tower that he couldn't stop climbing. He sighed, thinking of the couple in the dirty old hatchback.
Irish tried to keep up with Cynthia, but she just talked too damn fast. She'd been in the middle of a story about someone pissing off the bride's mom back around 4th street. He'd actually been interested in that one. But now she was talking about someone's hair, and he had no idea how that was related. It all happened so fast. They stopped at a red light. Irish leaned over and kissed her. It was kind of awkward, because Cynthia said "no, wait, what are you doing?" and tried to back off, but he was persistent and they lip-locked until a car behind them layed on the horn. When they pulled up to the apartment for the afterparty, they were holding hands, and Cynthia noticed his thumb kept rubbing her ring finger.
Irish glanced at a stop sign on the way in. Yeah, octagonal patterns could totally fit over a sphere.
I just watched the wedding episode of The Office, and started thinking about all the weddings I have to go to.
The End
In two years, maybe a promotion. Maybe. If he worked real hard. Irish couldn't keep his mind off of it. He was already twenty seven. Twenty fucking seven. What did he have to show for it? A girlfriend.
Irish was walking on a sidewalk. It was not the kind of sidewalk that saw steady traffic, the kind of functional, commuter sidewalk that did its job on the weekdays. It was a special sidewalk, made of red, octagonal bricks. There were no cracks in this sidewalk. Flowers lined it, and outside of these footlights, and there was not a single weed among them. Irish had an important to make--they wanted an answer by Monday--fucking Monday man--but he couldn't keep his mind on it because his thoughts kept drifting back to those octagonal bricks, and whether or not that pattern could be mapped onto a sphere. A torus, definitely. But a sphere...
His thoughts were interrupted when a black motorcycle crossed his vision. He was instantly jealous. He loved motorcycles but Cynthia, well, she'd kill him. She'd leave him and then kill him. The motorcycle parked in the fire lane. The rider got off the motorcycle with that long leg swing that told you their ass hurt from riding so long. He took his helmet off and dropped it on the ground. Who does that? Irish kept staring, unaware that he was staring. The man in front of him was tall, tan, muscular. He was wearing black slacks, a black shirt, and a black tie, and just the right amount of five 'o clock shadow to be an extreme gritty sex appeal master. The man glanced towards Irish. Irish saw piercing blue eyes, like he was looking at Raiden, and then the rider turned and sauntered up the steps. He walked slow, with a bit of a swagger. He looked to Irish like a cowboy out of a western.
One of the ushers ran down out of the church and tried to talk to the rider about his bike, but the rider glanced at the usher the way a veteran city dweller glances at bum. The rider took a program out of the ushers hands as he walked by. Irish followed like a little kid drooling over an astronaut. He glanced at the man's bike. The faring was all scratched and cracked and shit. The read tire was worn down to the cords, and the clutch lever on the left handlebar was bent. The windshield was missing a corner, and had a single velcro sticky left in the spot that once held an automatic payment device for toll roads.
The rider ignored the usher who asked about bride vs groom. Irish waited in the anteroom. Cynthia would kill him if he walked in without her. She late again. Fucking late again. How long does it take to put on a damn dress? Irish waited, growing more and more impatient, mortally afraid that the wedding party would show up, and it would be, you know, awkward. Finally he saw her hurrying across the street. She was doing that thing girls do when they try to walk fast in four inch heels. She probably spent two hours on that getup, and from where Irish was standing, she just looked silly. Sure, she was hot. Medium boobs, 145lbs. Tight. Man, those hex bricks probably would fit on a sphere. Wait, no they were octagons. Damn. If Cynthia ever left him, he would miss those 32 Cs.
Cynthia was talking even before she stepped inside the church. "I know, I know, I'm sorry, my sister..." Irish zoned out. "...hair curler, and then it..." Still boring. "...oh thanks," Cynthia smiled at the usher who handed her a program. Cynthia gave Irish a kiss and then took the usher's arm, letting him escort the couple to their seats. Irish scowled at him; stupid pimply fat kid touching his girlfriend.
Irish watched the the ceremony. Jason stood across from Caroline. And old man said words. People read shit. They kissed. People read more shit. Irish glanced at Caroline. She was totally padding. All the girls here, well, what about girls out there? What was he missing if he stayed here? Shouldn't he see whats out there? Damn, he couldn't decide. Here's the thing: could he do better? A question with no answer.
Irish turned around and looked for the badass guy with the motorcycle. He couldn't help it. Mr. Badass was leaving though, holding his side like he'd been shot.
When the damn wedding was finally over, Irish ran into Mr. Badass in the bathroom. Irish was trying to touch up his front hair--damn gel-that-isn't-gel was starting to fail on him. Mr. Badass came out of a stall with this shirt open, revealing a chiseled chest, and fresh bandage where his liver was supposed to be. The man tossed a piece of metal in one of the sinks and set a piece of bloody gauze down on the counter. His hands were covered in dried blood that he was vigorously trying to wash off.
"What happened to you?" Irish stared at the bandage. Also at his abs. Damn, what was his regimen? Like 60 squats every morning? 60 squats wasn't doing shit for Irish.
"I dropped my program. When I leaned forward, I forgot that was in my pocket."
The metal in the sink bothered Irish. It wasn't supposed to be there. This was a bathroom. He was worried someone was going to step in and catch them hanging out with this metal in the sink. He picked it up. "You keep scrap metal in your shirt?" It was maybe quarter meter long, and a few inches wide.
"Don't throw that out." The man fixed his scary blue eyes on Irish. "That's a backsword. What's left of it, anyway." The man took it back from Irish, wrapping it in a silk cloth.
"You keep a broken sword on you? What, like next to your wallet?"
"It's all thats..." the man drifted off. Then he smiled a tiny bit. "Every story needs a katana, don't you think?" The man dried his hands.
Irish felt like fanboy with his one chance to get an autograph from his favorite movie star. He stuck out his hand. "I'm Irish. Matt Irish."
The man shook his hand. "Beck--people call me Logan."
"Are you bride or groom?" Irish immediately regretted his pathetic attempt to sound cool in front of this stranger.
"I knew the groom a long time ago. See you around." The stranger walked out of the bathroom, sword fragment tucked into his pants, his shirt still open. There were people directly outside the door. Like directly. Who just walks out of a bathroom with their shirt off? In the middle of a wedding? Who does that?
Remember Your Name
"Logan!" Irish found Logan during the reception. Logan didn't seem to hear his own name; he didn't respond until Irish crossed into his field of vision. Then Logan looked up.
"Oh. Hi." He paused for a second. "Matt."
Irish sat down, placing his mug next to Logan's. "Do you actually like coffee, or did you just switch when they closed the bar."
Logan grunted with a half smile. He held up a small flask and raised an eyebrow.
"Sure!" Irish had no idea what was in the flask, but he really wanted to look cool. He had to fight back from choking--damn that shit was strong.
Logan turned his attention back to the dance floor, which he had been studying with disinterest.
"So how come you walk around with a katana."
"Its kind of a souvenir."
"From Japan?"
"Japan, no. I didn't go that far. I have been moving around for quite a while, but I never quite got that far."
"I wish I had done that. You know, moved around. Gotten the hell out of here. I wish I had done that years ago. But no, I had to get a job as soon as I graduated. You know, that whole...live life like you mean it thing."
"Don't be so hasty." Logan sounded like he was only halfway through a sentence, but then he took a sip of his coffee and looked at the people dancing. Some stupid ass 80's song was on. Everyone on the dance floor looked retarded.
"What do you mean?"
"It's not that great."
"What isn't?"
"Living life like...whatever they call it. Riding the ups and downs like your a leaf getting tossed in the current."
"That sounds awesome."
"It is awesome. In movies. In real life, its draining. You end up running out of money, out of all your resources."
"Yeah, but its so cool." Irish sat back in his chair, in dream mode. "I wish I had some fucking adventures, you know? All I've done is go to school and get tied down. Its like achilles, you know? That story about, he had like a choice, between being awesome and everyone would know his name and dying young, or being boring and growing old. Who wants to grow old?"
Logan shrugged.
"I mean, I don't know what I could have done, but some times I feel like achilles, but I made the wrong choice."
"I think you're mistaken. Achilles didn't make the right choice." Logan's hand moved to his side.
"This, coming from the guy who's 'moved around alot' and rides a motorcycle and carries a broken katana. Who does that?"
"Just hear me out. Do you know math?"
"I have a fucking masters in-"
Logan raised his hand. "Hold your horses there, partner. Just do that math. How much sex do you think you can have in your lifetime if you died on your 30th birthday. How much?"
"Well, 365 days, times 7 times a day..."
"No, keep in mind that you're single, and you spend most of your times having adventures. So like maybe once every few months."
"That's still a lot."
"Compare that to getting 'tied down.' For a few decades. Which one do you think is better?"
Irish chewed on his tongue. This wasn't--this wasn't right. This wasn't allowed. The math had to be wrong, because the conclusion was wrong.
"Take that girl there." Logan pointed at the bar with his glass. He happened to be pointing right at Cynthia.
Irish sighed inwardly. "She's alright."
"She's a ten."
"She's not that hot-"
"She's a ten. 32C, somewhere between 130 and 145-"
"Ok." Irish didn't like the way this guy talked about his girlfriend, especially not with that uncanny weight guess. What do you mean only a ten?
"If I could shack up with her every night--look at the way she keeps eye contact when she's talking to people. Its like she wants to look away because she shy, but she can't because she's too interested. You don't see that a lot. Who cares who remembers your name when you can hear her moaning it--"
"You know, I do like that about her," Irish interrupted him again. "The shy thing." If Cynthia ever left him, he would miss that smile.
"You know her?" said Logan. He almost sounded lonely.
Irish was about to answer but Caroline grabbed him and pulled him towards the dance floor. You know, the whole "if we're dancing, then all of our guests have to dance" thing that newlyweds do.
Logan finished his coffee quickly, grunting at the whiskey.
The Beginning
Logan had planned to be out of there before the old people started leaving, but he couldn't start his bike. He probably could have, maybe, if he had taken it easy with the starter and maybe cleaned off the spark plugs first, but as it was now the starter motor was shot. He needed to keep moving. The best thing to do was probably pull the plate and scrub the vin and leave it for scrap.
He didn't want to leave it. Not again, not with this one. He was driving every bike he got into the ground, and his mind, that was akin to a little boy that keeps buy puppies that die because the little boy can't take care of them properly and keeps redlining them. So he spent two hours fixing it.
Logan stuck a cigarette in his mouth. He brought his lighter up but didn't light it; no...some girls were coming out already, and if one of them walked over, well, smoking always gave a bad taste when you started kissing them. Logan's hand froze, with the lighter lit, the flame dancing back and forth, teasing the cigarette. He really wanted to smoke. He couldn't decide.
A car drove by. It was a beat up hatchback, the kind Logan wouldn't be caught dead in. But inside it was that kid Matt, and that hot girl. Logan could read from their body language that they were boyfriend and girlfriend. He snapped the lighter shut, watching the car drive away in the fading daylight, the unlit cig still dangling from his lips.
"Next time, I bet they'll be in the limo."
"Limo?" a girl asked from behind him. Logan leaned back to face her and made a funny joke. Then another, and another. The he asked where she was staying and if she'd ever ridden a motorcycle. When the girl got on and wrapped her arms around him, he knew it was going to be another night, another show, another few steps on the endless tower that he couldn't stop climbing. He sighed, thinking of the couple in the dirty old hatchback.
Forward
Irish tried to keep up with Cynthia, but she just talked too damn fast. She'd been in the middle of a story about someone pissing off the bride's mom back around 4th street. He'd actually been interested in that one. But now she was talking about someone's hair, and he had no idea how that was related. It all happened so fast. They stopped at a red light. Irish leaned over and kissed her. It was kind of awkward, because Cynthia said "no, wait, what are you doing?" and tried to back off, but he was persistent and they lip-locked until a car behind them layed on the horn. When they pulled up to the apartment for the afterparty, they were holding hands, and Cynthia noticed his thumb kept rubbing her ring finger.
Irish glanced at a stop sign on the way in. Yeah, octagonal patterns could totally fit over a sphere.
Thursday, May 26, 2011
Today's Lego Model
It is a turtle. I used an style of construction that can seem impressive to novice builders because it involves twisting the pieces into angles you don't normally used.
I made it during the end of our team meeting today.
Monday, May 23, 2011
Thursday, May 19, 2011
K-Dawg
The night began when I showed up at Birthday Girl's place of work. For the record, and your understanding of this story, Birthday Girl is the girl I'm interested in for the duration of this story. I'm paying some girls at work to take me shopping and...do whatever so that when I go out I'm not just in the same old jeans and button down shirt. I don't have a problem with the jeans and button down shirt, and if you do, you are a hipster loser that goes drinking too often so go away, however I do want to be able to dress better than the competition around here. Sadly, that shopping trip hasn't happened yet, so my gear was limited to my standard brown shoes, jeans, and JBoss or...wow that's an embarassing slip. Some kind of overpriced button down shirt with the word "Boss" in the brand name that I had to buy because I couldn't find any other shirts that fit. Anyway.
In the beginning of the night it was just me, two other dudes, and her. I began to wonder if she is one of those girls who is an expert at just sort of keeping guys in orbit around her, like I always suspected Laura was. I steeled myself for whatever possible outcome.
The night began at some mexican-ish bar called Pesos which is awesome at something according to someone to recently raved about them to me whose identity I can't recall. Ten people were coming and Birthday Girl had apparently decided not to make a reservation. This turned out to be a problem, since there is only like one table configuration they have that can support 10 people, so we were stuck in booths. This became a major element throughout the night, as we started in the middle booth, then accepted an offer to move to the both on the end so they could add a table, and then were told we were a fire hazard and got moved to the both on the other end. On the bright side, most of the eventual 10-ish people that showed up were girls, so that was pleasant. One of them was a cool russian chick who brought birthday girl some roses.
By the time we got to booth number 3 most of the people were drunk. Girls were climbing in and out of the booth, etc. Birthday girl was super excited that everyone was there. Enter this guy Kevin. I know. I don't normally use names of people in seattle, but more on that later. Kevin is this guy who I thought was Birthday Girl's boyfriend. He's not. Found out later that he has a girlfriend, but its reasonably clear that he wants Birthday Girl. Don't we all.
I don't know of a nice way to say this, so, drunk people are morons. We'd been there for hours, and everybody was trying to leave one at a time, getting the poor waitress to cordon off their drinks into individual bills over and over again. I had assumed that we'd be doing that thing where everyone chips in for the birthday girl, but that didn't seem like it was going to happen. Who would pay for her unnecessarily many shots of petrone? Once a critical mass of people had invidiually paid their tab fraction, it was mostly girls left on the tab, so I intercepted the waitress with my card. Party Rules say when you're out with a bunch of girls, you pay. So I used my operations card, instead of my food card, figuring this counted as sort of an adventure. Two of the girls got all happy. One gave me a kiss on the cheek (yessssss). Then Birthday Girl got super excited and jumped up. I thought, you know, based on her trajectory, that she was going for a hug and a kiss on the cheek, but instead she kissed me right on the lips, which caught me off guard in front of everyone. I don't like, or what to be one of, those guys that try to get girls by tossing money around, especially since I don't really have any, but I have no qualms about exploiting the relative differences in our valuations of discretionary income by paying for drinks at a bar. The bill was obscene, even for four people. I make sure the waitress got plenty more than a 20% tip. Call it hazard pay.
Most of the people went home. Me, Birthday Girl, 'Bb9 (who I have no interest in but through whom I met Birthday Girl) and the cool Russian chick who was carrying the flowers she brought. Birthday Girl was hammered. I watched the other two girls hold her up as we made our only bar change of the night, leaving the crowded scene at the mexican-ish restaurant for the empty-but-in-a-cool-way vibe of the theatre bar that 'BB9 loves to go to. Halfway there, everything changed. Birthday girl realized she didn't have her camera. We stopped on the sidewalk and she looked through everything. It was gone.
I offered to go back to Peso's and look for it while they continued on to the theatre bar, knowing full well that my chances of success were slim. I had glanced the last two tables over pretty well and would have seen a camera. I went back. I checked. Asked some guys who were now filling out one of the booths. No luck.
At the theatre bar, Birthday Girl was ridiculously upset. Apparently, that had been an extremely espensive camera that she had just purchased, and she was about to leave for a trip to south america in a few days. Not only was the price of the camera relative to her income a crushing loss, but she was beating herself up over it. Also, Kevin was there. Suddenly, all she wanted to do was just go home. This is a problem, because she lives in the suburbs, and she was going to drive herself home. We tried to convince her to stay but she booked it out of there while most of us looked on in shock. Kevin ran after her.
I wrestled with the conundrum of doing the right thing. It wasn't exactly my place to steal the keys of someone I barely knew. Especially since, if anyone ever tried to do that to me, I would come very near killing them (you don't have do be a judo master in order to trip someone that can barely walk straight on their own). Still, it wouldn't do so just this there and let her drive. I've seriously never had this problem before. None of my friends have ever been so irrational. Then I decided--fuck doing the right thing--I like Seattle better with Birthday Girl in it, not dead, and not jailed for DUI. I paid my tab at the theatre bar and headed out in search of Birthday Girl and Kevin, having only a rough idea where they went. BB9 went back to Peso's too look for the camera again, and the cool russian chick just went home. My my perspective, that left just me, Kevin, and a very drunk girl in play.
I headed out from the bar, hoping I'd run into them. I saw shadows straight ahead. As I neared I could tell it was them, and switched to the soundless roll-step I learned way back in marching band; if there was any intelligence to be gained in the next five seconds, like if they were making out, you know, deal me in. They weren't making out. Birthday Girl was either crying or freaking out. Kevin was going what every normal person would do. I hung out near them, letting this other guy take center stage, and we eventually convinced her to go back to the bar for a while. The next twenty minutes would be spent hearing her insist over and over again that she was totally fine to drive. I don't know if you've noticed this, but people who are actually ok to drive after a night out never insist loudly about it. Thats how you know. The more they insist, the more drunk they are. If they just give you a simple "fuck off, I've had 4 drinks in 4 hours," you know their ok.
Just outside the bar...damn I forget what he said, but Kevin gave me some kind of hostile command about letting her drive home. Given that we were both clearly interested in this girl, I wasn't surprised by a shot across the bow, but I was momentarily shocked that he was siding with a course of action that could easily end with Birthday Girl driving into the lake. Damn. This story would be so much better if I could remember his exact words. Ce la vie. Anyway, I didn't get a chance to reply, or even stare for long, because Birthday Girl jumped in and said something.
The next stage of the night was the nightmare planning problem. We had 1 drunk girl and her car that both needed to be transported into the suburbs. It was a pretty simple planning problem, really. Only a few elements...you don't even need a computer to solve it. Here's the catch, though: all possible plans had to be approved by an irrational drunk girl who just wants to go home. The original plan was for her to stay over at BB9's place. That was out. Waiting in the bar until she was sober enough to drive: that was also rejected. Even if it wasn't, that would have been made more complicated by the fact that she was regularly asserting her alleged sobriety with slurred words. There was also this issue with me and Kevin clearly not trusting either other. For some reason, I remember not expecting him to make a move, but he seemed concerned I was going to take advantage of her, which I think revealed his own intentions. It was like the united states verses russian in our own little cold war. I suggested we take a walk in the park until she sobered up. That got rejected. Birthday Girl insisted many times that she would just sit in her car until she was good to go. I said that I or we would sit in the car with her; that got rejected. Her taking a taxi home was out of the question, and I didn't have cash on hand to just hand the cabbie--would have had to have been some bullshit with the credit card. I offered to drive her car home and then cab it back to seattle, and even texted BB9 for the number of a taxi company that handled that area. That seemed like the best solution to me; I would get her home, she would get to go home with her car, and but not spending the night my motives in this whole business wouldn't be tainted, except probably in Kevin's eyes, who I assume was assuming I would cancel the cab when I got there and try to take advantage of her.
Then came the second plot twist of the night. Kevin just gave up, and said ok drive home. I didn't say anything, other than something about walking to her car, knowing damn well that whatever happened I wasn't going to let her drive. Something didn't feel right about the way he just gave up like that, especially if I was going to walk her home. It was like in chess when you ask yourself why your opponent just sacrificed a knight for apparently no reason. I was too focused on Birthday Girl's safety to think about it.
So we left the bar. I was glad that I was finally alone with her, but also sad because I realized that she would probably hate me for what I was about to do, and preventing her death/DUI was probably about to cost whatever chance I had of dating her. Still, Party Rules are Party Rules. We pressed on.
She swore a lot and used slurs that I normally, in my personal brand of anti-policial correctness, don't find offensive. We got to her car and she started fumbling for her keys. My battle plan was to wait for her to try to open the car door with them, and then grab them like James Bond and strongly insist that I was driving. I had noticed she'd be getting at least moderately agreeable when you forced it on her hard enough. I have the number for the taxi company; the plan was ready.
She couldn't find her keys.
She dumped her purse out, slamming each item individually onto the trunk of her car, breaking some of them. After her first pass through her purse I put everything back while she went through the duffel bag with her work clothes in it. She was about to repeat the slamming routine with her purse when I told her I'd do it. No keys.
She started to freak out. I calmed her down. Then in a sudden twist she apologized profusely for embarrassed me in the restaurant by kissing me, which was interesting since I wasn't aware of being embarrassed at all. I didn't know if she was fishing for reassurance, but I knew what I was going to do about it either way. I grabbed the back of her head, right down at the neck, and turned her towards me and kissed her on the lips. I kept it brief, and pulled away after only a few kisses. In hindsight, I probably should have just continued making out with her right there in the street. Anything to give her liver time to process that ethanol. Instead, our attention turned back to the keys.
Suddenly, I pretty sure I knew exactly where her keys were, and I was pretty damn sure I knew why Kevin just let her go; he knew she wouldn't be able to drive. I don't know if he boosted her keys himself, or if she actually left them. I really doubt the latter. Whatever the case, it was an excellent play. In fact, it was badass. He could let her go like that because he knew she'd be coming back. Right around then is when, in my head, he ceased to be Kevin and instead became known to me only as K-Dawg. I was soundly beaten. It took a few minutes to go through the process of "oh, where could the keys be" and who might have them, and when did she last have them. I suggested she text Kevin.
He was waiting outside, smoking, when we got back to the theatre bar. The first thing he said was to look directly at me and say something like "So she's going to drive home now?" like he was making a threat. The hell she was; she was still walking and talking drunk and I knew which pocket he kept his little knife blade in. Again, though, I didn't get a chance to reply, which probably would have been more of a stare anyway. Birthday girl got her keys back, and I kept my distance. Figured I'd let him take his best shot. Then he left. Birthday girl and I walked back to her car. Then I came up with my last move. I had previously offered to give her my camera, which wasn't as fancy as hers, but at least did take pictures. I told her that if she walked with me to my place, and took the camera, I would walk her back here and let her drive. It was my best delay tactic, I mean other than sitting on the hood of her car and trying to make out with her again. She agreed and we headed for my place.
On the way we stopped in this sort of corner side street. It was the kind of out of the way place that, if my life was an FPS, you would likely find health and chaingun ammo there. She had brought up my dancing again, and for some reason kept focusing on merengue, which is like the one I knew the least. So I showed her a few merengue steps right there on the sidewalk. It was pretty difficult since the tequila was making her an extra shy dancer.
We continued walking home. Most of her anger was now directed inward, not just a frustration over the incredible loss, but at what she thought was her sheer stupidity for losing it. In my opinion, when you have ten drunk people switching between three inadequately sized booths, things like lost cameras happen (I'm personally just glad none of us guys got a heel in the testicle). She wouldn't hear it. She said she was a fuckup. Then I told her what a fuckup was. I described to her a caricature of the kinds of guys the girls I fall in love with usually end up with. I said a fuckup is a guy who lives which his parents (unless he's european--then its cool, BTW), doesn't have a job, never finished school, and thinks that pulling out is an acceptable method of birth control. She beamed at me when I said that, and stopped chiding herself to much.
When we reached my place, I made her waffles and showed her my cam. No interest. Didn't have the screen on the front for when girls take pictures of themselves. I had a picture of me and Firefly Girl on it anyway, as well as some ancient salsa lesson videos that I felt I should keep since I paid for them, so I gave up. Though I was still willing to walk her back to her car, I converted the futon in my living room to bed mode while she finished the waffles and she just crawled onto it. I tucked her in with some closet blankets and made myself some tea.
The next morning I woke up early and couldn't sleep. We played around with some music; me on guitar with her doing vocals. Sung through some of her favorite songs. She has an amazing voice. She's actually amazing in various other ways, but they don't contribute to this story.
We parted company halfway to her car. She brought up the kissing thing again and apologized again, so I kissed her again. Then we went our separate ways and I ran to make it to my morning meeting in time.
We've kissed multiple times and I still don't know if she's interested at all; it seems like there is something holding her back, but I can't read what. I've had this feeling before; I guess its just part of the game. Also she's gone back to being flaky. Also she's like leaving in a few days. All I can do is play my best hand and hope for the best.
In the beginning of the night it was just me, two other dudes, and her. I began to wonder if she is one of those girls who is an expert at just sort of keeping guys in orbit around her, like I always suspected Laura was. I steeled myself for whatever possible outcome.
The night began at some mexican-ish bar called Pesos which is awesome at something according to someone to recently raved about them to me whose identity I can't recall. Ten people were coming and Birthday Girl had apparently decided not to make a reservation. This turned out to be a problem, since there is only like one table configuration they have that can support 10 people, so we were stuck in booths. This became a major element throughout the night, as we started in the middle booth, then accepted an offer to move to the both on the end so they could add a table, and then were told we were a fire hazard and got moved to the both on the other end. On the bright side, most of the eventual 10-ish people that showed up were girls, so that was pleasant. One of them was a cool russian chick who brought birthday girl some roses.
By the time we got to booth number 3 most of the people were drunk. Girls were climbing in and out of the booth, etc. Birthday girl was super excited that everyone was there. Enter this guy Kevin. I know. I don't normally use names of people in seattle, but more on that later. Kevin is this guy who I thought was Birthday Girl's boyfriend. He's not. Found out later that he has a girlfriend, but its reasonably clear that he wants Birthday Girl. Don't we all.
I don't know of a nice way to say this, so, drunk people are morons. We'd been there for hours, and everybody was trying to leave one at a time, getting the poor waitress to cordon off their drinks into individual bills over and over again. I had assumed that we'd be doing that thing where everyone chips in for the birthday girl, but that didn't seem like it was going to happen. Who would pay for her unnecessarily many shots of petrone? Once a critical mass of people had invidiually paid their tab fraction, it was mostly girls left on the tab, so I intercepted the waitress with my card. Party Rules say when you're out with a bunch of girls, you pay. So I used my operations card, instead of my food card, figuring this counted as sort of an adventure. Two of the girls got all happy. One gave me a kiss on the cheek (yessssss). Then Birthday Girl got super excited and jumped up. I thought, you know, based on her trajectory, that she was going for a hug and a kiss on the cheek, but instead she kissed me right on the lips, which caught me off guard in front of everyone. I don't like, or what to be one of, those guys that try to get girls by tossing money around, especially since I don't really have any, but I have no qualms about exploiting the relative differences in our valuations of discretionary income by paying for drinks at a bar. The bill was obscene, even for four people. I make sure the waitress got plenty more than a 20% tip. Call it hazard pay.
Most of the people went home. Me, Birthday Girl, 'Bb9 (who I have no interest in but through whom I met Birthday Girl) and the cool Russian chick who was carrying the flowers she brought. Birthday Girl was hammered. I watched the other two girls hold her up as we made our only bar change of the night, leaving the crowded scene at the mexican-ish restaurant for the empty-but-in-a-cool-way vibe of the theatre bar that 'BB9 loves to go to. Halfway there, everything changed. Birthday girl realized she didn't have her camera. We stopped on the sidewalk and she looked through everything. It was gone.
I offered to go back to Peso's and look for it while they continued on to the theatre bar, knowing full well that my chances of success were slim. I had glanced the last two tables over pretty well and would have seen a camera. I went back. I checked. Asked some guys who were now filling out one of the booths. No luck.
At the theatre bar, Birthday Girl was ridiculously upset. Apparently, that had been an extremely espensive camera that she had just purchased, and she was about to leave for a trip to south america in a few days. Not only was the price of the camera relative to her income a crushing loss, but she was beating herself up over it. Also, Kevin was there. Suddenly, all she wanted to do was just go home. This is a problem, because she lives in the suburbs, and she was going to drive herself home. We tried to convince her to stay but she booked it out of there while most of us looked on in shock. Kevin ran after her.
I wrestled with the conundrum of doing the right thing. It wasn't exactly my place to steal the keys of someone I barely knew. Especially since, if anyone ever tried to do that to me, I would come very near killing them (you don't have do be a judo master in order to trip someone that can barely walk straight on their own). Still, it wouldn't do so just this there and let her drive. I've seriously never had this problem before. None of my friends have ever been so irrational. Then I decided--fuck doing the right thing--I like Seattle better with Birthday Girl in it, not dead, and not jailed for DUI. I paid my tab at the theatre bar and headed out in search of Birthday Girl and Kevin, having only a rough idea where they went. BB9 went back to Peso's too look for the camera again, and the cool russian chick just went home. My my perspective, that left just me, Kevin, and a very drunk girl in play.
I headed out from the bar, hoping I'd run into them. I saw shadows straight ahead. As I neared I could tell it was them, and switched to the soundless roll-step I learned way back in marching band; if there was any intelligence to be gained in the next five seconds, like if they were making out, you know, deal me in. They weren't making out. Birthday Girl was either crying or freaking out. Kevin was going what every normal person would do. I hung out near them, letting this other guy take center stage, and we eventually convinced her to go back to the bar for a while. The next twenty minutes would be spent hearing her insist over and over again that she was totally fine to drive. I don't know if you've noticed this, but people who are actually ok to drive after a night out never insist loudly about it. Thats how you know. The more they insist, the more drunk they are. If they just give you a simple "fuck off, I've had 4 drinks in 4 hours," you know their ok.
Just outside the bar...damn I forget what he said, but Kevin gave me some kind of hostile command about letting her drive home. Given that we were both clearly interested in this girl, I wasn't surprised by a shot across the bow, but I was momentarily shocked that he was siding with a course of action that could easily end with Birthday Girl driving into the lake. Damn. This story would be so much better if I could remember his exact words. Ce la vie. Anyway, I didn't get a chance to reply, or even stare for long, because Birthday Girl jumped in and said something.
The next stage of the night was the nightmare planning problem. We had 1 drunk girl and her car that both needed to be transported into the suburbs. It was a pretty simple planning problem, really. Only a few elements...you don't even need a computer to solve it. Here's the catch, though: all possible plans had to be approved by an irrational drunk girl who just wants to go home. The original plan was for her to stay over at BB9's place. That was out. Waiting in the bar until she was sober enough to drive: that was also rejected. Even if it wasn't, that would have been made more complicated by the fact that she was regularly asserting her alleged sobriety with slurred words. There was also this issue with me and Kevin clearly not trusting either other. For some reason, I remember not expecting him to make a move, but he seemed concerned I was going to take advantage of her, which I think revealed his own intentions. It was like the united states verses russian in our own little cold war. I suggested we take a walk in the park until she sobered up. That got rejected. Birthday Girl insisted many times that she would just sit in her car until she was good to go. I said that I or we would sit in the car with her; that got rejected. Her taking a taxi home was out of the question, and I didn't have cash on hand to just hand the cabbie--would have had to have been some bullshit with the credit card. I offered to drive her car home and then cab it back to seattle, and even texted BB9 for the number of a taxi company that handled that area. That seemed like the best solution to me; I would get her home, she would get to go home with her car, and but not spending the night my motives in this whole business wouldn't be tainted, except probably in Kevin's eyes, who I assume was assuming I would cancel the cab when I got there and try to take advantage of her.
Then came the second plot twist of the night. Kevin just gave up, and said ok drive home. I didn't say anything, other than something about walking to her car, knowing damn well that whatever happened I wasn't going to let her drive. Something didn't feel right about the way he just gave up like that, especially if I was going to walk her home. It was like in chess when you ask yourself why your opponent just sacrificed a knight for apparently no reason. I was too focused on Birthday Girl's safety to think about it.
So we left the bar. I was glad that I was finally alone with her, but also sad because I realized that she would probably hate me for what I was about to do, and preventing her death/DUI was probably about to cost whatever chance I had of dating her. Still, Party Rules are Party Rules. We pressed on.
She swore a lot and used slurs that I normally, in my personal brand of anti-policial correctness, don't find offensive. We got to her car and she started fumbling for her keys. My battle plan was to wait for her to try to open the car door with them, and then grab them like James Bond and strongly insist that I was driving. I had noticed she'd be getting at least moderately agreeable when you forced it on her hard enough. I have the number for the taxi company; the plan was ready.
She couldn't find her keys.
She dumped her purse out, slamming each item individually onto the trunk of her car, breaking some of them. After her first pass through her purse I put everything back while she went through the duffel bag with her work clothes in it. She was about to repeat the slamming routine with her purse when I told her I'd do it. No keys.
She started to freak out. I calmed her down. Then in a sudden twist she apologized profusely for embarrassed me in the restaurant by kissing me, which was interesting since I wasn't aware of being embarrassed at all. I didn't know if she was fishing for reassurance, but I knew what I was going to do about it either way. I grabbed the back of her head, right down at the neck, and turned her towards me and kissed her on the lips. I kept it brief, and pulled away after only a few kisses. In hindsight, I probably should have just continued making out with her right there in the street. Anything to give her liver time to process that ethanol. Instead, our attention turned back to the keys.
Suddenly, I pretty sure I knew exactly where her keys were, and I was pretty damn sure I knew why Kevin just let her go; he knew she wouldn't be able to drive. I don't know if he boosted her keys himself, or if she actually left them. I really doubt the latter. Whatever the case, it was an excellent play. In fact, it was badass. He could let her go like that because he knew she'd be coming back. Right around then is when, in my head, he ceased to be Kevin and instead became known to me only as K-Dawg. I was soundly beaten. It took a few minutes to go through the process of "oh, where could the keys be" and who might have them, and when did she last have them. I suggested she text Kevin.
He was waiting outside, smoking, when we got back to the theatre bar. The first thing he said was to look directly at me and say something like "So she's going to drive home now?" like he was making a threat. The hell she was; she was still walking and talking drunk and I knew which pocket he kept his little knife blade in. Again, though, I didn't get a chance to reply, which probably would have been more of a stare anyway. Birthday girl got her keys back, and I kept my distance. Figured I'd let him take his best shot. Then he left. Birthday girl and I walked back to her car. Then I came up with my last move. I had previously offered to give her my camera, which wasn't as fancy as hers, but at least did take pictures. I told her that if she walked with me to my place, and took the camera, I would walk her back here and let her drive. It was my best delay tactic, I mean other than sitting on the hood of her car and trying to make out with her again. She agreed and we headed for my place.
On the way we stopped in this sort of corner side street. It was the kind of out of the way place that, if my life was an FPS, you would likely find health and chaingun ammo there. She had brought up my dancing again, and for some reason kept focusing on merengue, which is like the one I knew the least. So I showed her a few merengue steps right there on the sidewalk. It was pretty difficult since the tequila was making her an extra shy dancer.
We continued walking home. Most of her anger was now directed inward, not just a frustration over the incredible loss, but at what she thought was her sheer stupidity for losing it. In my opinion, when you have ten drunk people switching between three inadequately sized booths, things like lost cameras happen (I'm personally just glad none of us guys got a heel in the testicle). She wouldn't hear it. She said she was a fuckup. Then I told her what a fuckup was. I described to her a caricature of the kinds of guys the girls I fall in love with usually end up with. I said a fuckup is a guy who lives which his parents (unless he's european--then its cool, BTW), doesn't have a job, never finished school, and thinks that pulling out is an acceptable method of birth control. She beamed at me when I said that, and stopped chiding herself to much.
When we reached my place, I made her waffles and showed her my cam. No interest. Didn't have the screen on the front for when girls take pictures of themselves. I had a picture of me and Firefly Girl on it anyway, as well as some ancient salsa lesson videos that I felt I should keep since I paid for them, so I gave up. Though I was still willing to walk her back to her car, I converted the futon in my living room to bed mode while she finished the waffles and she just crawled onto it. I tucked her in with some closet blankets and made myself some tea.
The next morning I woke up early and couldn't sleep. We played around with some music; me on guitar with her doing vocals. Sung through some of her favorite songs. She has an amazing voice. She's actually amazing in various other ways, but they don't contribute to this story.
We parted company halfway to her car. She brought up the kissing thing again and apologized again, so I kissed her again. Then we went our separate ways and I ran to make it to my morning meeting in time.
We've kissed multiple times and I still don't know if she's interested at all; it seems like there is something holding her back, but I can't read what. I've had this feeling before; I guess its just part of the game. Also she's gone back to being flaky. Also she's like leaving in a few days. All I can do is play my best hand and hope for the best.
Saturday, May 14, 2011
Self Righteous Suicide
"If we’re going to date, you may have to defeat the rest of my seven evil exes."
"So what you’re saying is we’re dating?"
"So what you’re saying is we’re dating?"
An asshole is someone who was born with a penis but tells OkCupid they are a girl. Naturally, since OkCuipd's matching algorithm still has it out for me, I got matched up with him. Even the websites here match me with guys when I look for girls. I read half of this guy's profile in disbelief. He had some thing going on where he thinks hes a "neutral" gender, kind of like how some people think they are Elvis. I thought about writing him a nasty note, or trying to be mean via some other measure, and then I realized that nothing can give back those 45 seconds of my life--they are gone forever. All I can do is complain about it, and appear bigoted or whatever. I think the only reason I care is that I'm not used to guys appearing on my radar. Normally my brain filters them out, but when I guy is pretending to be a girl, it fucks up my whole system. Its like when sonic is running along collecting rings, but every once in a while runs into one of those power up monitors that hurts you because its a Dr. Robotnik power up. I don't even know how we're supposed to treat these dudes. Is this the same thing as when your buddy shows up at the library with an apple sticker on his old ass IBM laptop, and no one says anything because you feel sorry for him?
Work is a roller coaster. I get interested. I get borred. Frustrated. Interested. And it continues. I did realize one thing though. I can't tell you what we use at Amazon, but I can tell you that I've realized one big reason not to leave is that other places will force me to code on windows. I really...windows is so awkward I think I might rather do boring work in a good operating system than exciting work on windows. I could be wrong. Idk. I am occasionally finding projects that are interesting enough for me to stay late working on them, which is good because that negates all the time I sit around binging on wikipedia (todays started at Mary Poppin's and ended up at Bonded Warehouse). Despite this, I often walk home mentally exhausted.
Foul Weather Friends are an interesting concept, and I have one. You see I have two girls in play right now--well, its one girl in play. This one...we were, I thought, seeing each other. You know, that stage where you're hanging out, checking each other out, but not dating exclusively. Some people don't know it exists; others are creeped out if you thought you were doing anything else. So that was fine, except every time she got in my car she'd ask how my dating life is going. This is the girl who likes to be stalked. She also doesn't carry her cell phone. Prefers to leave it at home, and off. Also, she's a foul weather friend, which I'm declaring as the opposite of a fair weather friend, and more literal: she disappears when the weather is nice. For example, she told me she would love to come over to my place and play Legos. Yeah, I told her about the Legos--that can be a good card to play if you want to have that geek angle--anyway, this is the second time a girl had wanted to "play Legos" with me, and I think they just say that to get in my pants, because so far I don't think any of them even knows what that means. That, or they are accustomed to playing with Legos when you only have 10 of them. I have 20,000. So anyway, I said she was welcome to come over some tuesday night, wondering to myself what the hell we were going to build. The night before I carry every single fucking crate of legos out of my hiding place in the closet to my living room, and arranged them for easier access to brick-style pieces, because obviously no one ever starts with the box full of Lego tires. I emailed her during the day asking if 7pm was good for her. She emailed me back saying it was too nice outside, and "Legoland would have to wait." It was her fucking idea! Also, it was dark less than two hours after 7pm. Also, I noted that she just blew it off instead of suggesting that we hang out outside. This girl really likes being outside. I mean reeeallly likes being outside. I assume she had a date with someone else, or something, or maybe I was supposed to be all "masculine" and aggressive and try to hang out with her outside. Then again, maybe acquiescing to her whims like that is less masculine. I don't know. This is the same girl who wants to make out outside. Like, in the wilderness. I've looked into it. We happen to live in a city. This city is surrounded by suburbs and water, and I don't have a boating license (yet). There are a number of small national parks, like Mt Rainier, where you're not allowed to walk on the grass (not kidding!) and various other parks all in close proximity to houses. Making out outside does seem awesome to me, at least in my fantasy world where encounters with bears, hikers and park rangers are not likely. Unlike this one. I've never been arrested, and the police don't have my fingerprints. I'd like to keep it that way, in case I ever decide to shoot a traffic camera with a rifle (this would, of course, occur on a closed course with legaly obtained blah blah blah. Research for my novel.). In any case, I bought a military style compass (in order to get us a couple miles due south of the nearest trail) and then decided I don't really feel like dealing with this girl. So. If you need a military style compass, hit me up.
There was a Lego contest at work. I didn't participate. You had to show up at 8 am and use only bricks (1x1 to 1x8 to 2x4, etc). There was nothing I wanted to build out of those types of pieces. Some guy wanted make a jersey out of legos. I gave him some pointers and a link to Lego graph paper. That reminds me. Lego released a new pirate ship. I want it. Also my lego mosaic is nearly complete. It is literally missing once piece, because when I ordered all of the pieces that I miscounted, I miscounted again and left one out.
Firefly Girl is gone. I have no one to watch Castle with, and I am very much going to miss watching Castle with her. Even though I accidentally texted her another girl's name, and even though she later rejected me, I still really enjoyed watching Nathan Fillion be goofy and solve murders. I have no idea how to replace her, unless there is a hidden cache of attractive Firefly fans somewhere.
Seaweed is not something you normally search all over the city for. Here's the deal. Hot Lego Girl came over my apartment and cleaned it while I played Castle Crashers with her russian friend. I was initially shocked that a girl would love cleaning so much that she'd come over and clean a stranger's apartment. Then I started noticing her clean things that I was under the impression didn't need cleaning. So, that was interesting. My apartment has been somewhat cleaner since. I try to keep it nice, but the only real victory has been that I've been putting my toothpaste and floss back in their little holder thing instead of letting them sit on the counter. I mean, I was doing that. Anyway. So we were going somewhere, maybe that day, probably the next--and then we start going all over town trying to find steamed vegetables, or something, because Hot Lego Girl was on this crazy diet where you only eat vegetables on day 1. Eventually we settled on walking all the way to Chinatown so she could buy seaweed at the asian supermarket. While there, she asked me if brussel sprouts were a vegetable, and was not happy about my reaction to that question.
Seaguls can be made to dive by giving small pieces of bread the proper arc. I found this out while hanging out with Hot Lego Girl again, and again it was me her and the russian kid. She invited us out to feed birds down on the pier using some moldy (only a tiny bit) bread that she obtained from her workplace. Call me racist, but I dislike pigeons, and deliberately spend all my tie at the railing throwing my bread out over the water, where apparently those nasty bird rats are unable to fly, so that no pigeon got food from my hand. After a while, I noticed that sometimes a seagull would dive (like a falcon) for a piece of bread that I threw, and dedicated the rest of my bread throwing to the study of what is required to induce a seagull to dive. Ladies and gentleman, I have discovered it: the means, or at least a means, of causing a seagull to dive after food and not just watch it go by and come around for another pass. The trick is you need the bread to arc through their field of vision with a trajectory roughly 90 degrees to their path of travel, so that the bread flies right across their face. If you get bored of that, you can always try to throw the bread above them and watch them scramble up to get it.
Exponential backoff is a term you may be unfamiliar with, so first let me introduce it to you. When computers talk to each other, some protocols of communication dictate that when they start to lose messages (due to network congestion) they send fewer messages. But they don't just send a couple less, they back off exponentially. For more informatino see RFC 1122. Ironically, that link is meant for the kind of reader who won't bother clicking on it. Anyway. So I really can't tell if Hot Lego Girl is interested in me. I mean, I really can't. I have so many times missed obvious interest from girls, while wasting so many years of my life by falsely inferring interest from others, that I just can't fucking tell anymore unless they come out and say it. For example: I took Hot Lego Girl out, and we played some pool, and she later told me about how she got all...whatever at some girl that I didn't realize was checking me out. Then, hours later, I tried to put my arm around her while we watched this nice romantic comedy called Sin City, and she didn't seem to like that. Then again, she did get drunk and try to convince me to not leave Seattle. Then again, she also blew me off the next two times I tried to hang out with her. So, I started using exponential backoff: the first time she blew me off, I waited one day until I asked her out again. The second time she blew me off I waited two days. Had she blown me off a third time I would have had to wait 4 days. Then she texted me saying I should come out next week to celebrate her birthday. I think that counts for resetting the backoff. Dorky? Yes. But it seems to be working. I think there is a strong desire that a lot of people have where we just want to know that we have someone--even if its a really small degree of "have"--even if its just some acknowledgment that you're dating. Its like you have the ace and king of hearts in your hand, and the jack and queen are on the table, and you just want to see the 10 so you can relax. But I don't have that reassurance, and maybe I'll never get it. All I can say is I admit its more exciting this way*.
Traffic Stops don't scare me any more. More precisely, I didn't feel anything. We were on our way back to Hot Lego Girl's place, after she had gotten drunk and demanded that I take her to Jack in the Box (a fast food chain I don't remember from the east coast) but settled for three large fries at McDonald's (this act likely canceled out her seaweed diet, but from where I was standing, she didn't need a diet in the first place). I realized I was in the exit lane, so I moved over one and punched it. Seconds later there were flashy lights in my mirror. This is the second time I've gotten pulled over for allegedly speeding after a lane change. This time, though, was different. Every time I've ever been pulled over in my life, my heart has raced, my hands have shaked, and there's been adrenaline in my blood. This time, I felt nothing. This was almost unfortunate, because Hot Lego Girl started to get all worried, and it is difficult to project an aura of calmness when you literally feel nothing. In retrospect, I should have touched her on the arm, because my former and all time favorite salsa teacher once showed us raw reassuring potential of a mere touch, which is extremely important when you're leading a girl through...anyway. So. It wasn't because I was drunk; 2.1 drinks in 4 hours does not a buzzed make me. So what was it? Nothing I've ever consciously done has ever made me fearless of cops. This time, though...just, nothing. Guy came up on the passenger side, because of the way I had to pull over near a median. Afterwards, it was extremely interesting the way he tried to bait me: he didn't ask me a question, just said something, something about me getting a bug up my ass and allegedly accelerating to 80 mph. I'm starting to wonder if they are trained to so that in a certain way, because I was speechless--there was literally nothing I could say. You can't say "I'm not answering that question" when they don't ask a question. All I could do, really, was shake my head and confirm that I wasn't discussing it. Minutes later we left without a ticket. I couldn't tell you why, and I couldn't tell you why I felt nothing. It was like someone flipped a switch off. Maybe it was just because a hot girl was riding shotgun; that kind of thing tends to change your priorities.
Fashion consultants. Thats what I'm calling these girls in my minds--the ones I'm going to pay to take me shopping and tell me not to wear jeans every day. They have their own name for their business, but it is to retarded for me to write or speak. I met up with the one in a coffee shop, and she gave me a price. Its gonna run me 1/14th the cost of a 600cc sportbike. She seemed super excited in person, but less than motivated over email. I told her when I'm free and I've been waiting for a reply all week.
Retarded. I was watching the video for "Rolling in the Deep" by Adele which inspired my idea about a crazy person who fills his house with bottles of whiskey (technically bourbon, or whatever) and kills someone, maybe a vampire, but lighting them on fire. It turned into the climactic ending of one of the five roadninja volumes. Anyway, instead of crazy I went for fake retarded, and I was trying to spruce up the antagonists dialog when I realized I don't really know my racial slurs--like at all. Like it you grabbed 20 random ethnicities from around the world, I would only be able to piss off three of them, and really, in my opinion, calling a white person a cracker isn't that offensive anyway. So I started googling for the racial slur for retarded. Seriously, I was hoping for a chart (Like on the left it would say "White people" or "the blind" and then on the right it would say "cracker" and whatever mean thing there is for blind people). Unfortunately, I couldn't find a single slur for actual retarded people. I was sure there had to be one but the only thing I could find were some people who think the word retarded itself is a slur. You know what kind of person thinks retarded is a slur? Sarah Palin. That idea is so fucking stupid--wait--rewind a sec. That's retarded. Long story short, I left empty handed, and there is no way I'm having the antagonist (an unsympathetic character) use the word retarded; the reader could infer that I'm discouraging its use. Instead, I'm going to try to have the antagonist (who at his parents request, tries to murder his sister in an "honor killing") bitch at someone for using the word retarded in casual conversation. Yeah, this is what authors do.
Sonic is Dead. Not the blue hedgehog that was my childhood hero (before Sega's demise and the corruption of sonic games by the introduction of that punk as bitch Shadow) but my desktop computer, sonic. I had a laptop named knuckles. It dies also. I had a laptop named Tails too--it hasn't quite died, but its out of commission. I think I'm going to stop naming computers after sonic characters. More importantly, I need a new computer, and fast. It's been having problems for a while, such as freezing every time I played Unreal Tournament for too long. I suspect a cooling failure and a fried processor. Having just discovered that there was an expansion pack to Doom3, one of very few AAA game titles that was made for linux, and with Duke Forever being delayed, I could have gone a bit longer with my current setup. I've been dragging my feet about buying a new computer, mostly due to committing funds elsewhere, but there's nothing like a busted computer to force your hand. Starcraft II, here I come.
System of a Down played in Seattle tonight. My friend invited me go to. While I love metal, I typically don't go for whatever kind of metal System of a Down is. Especially not Rage Against the Machine, because the lead singer, to me, has always sounded like a little kid for some reason. System of a Down though, that I could do. I had been wanting to start going to concerts anyway. The only song of theirs that I really know was "Chop Suey" and of that mostly just the line about a self-righteous suicide, which always bothered me because self-righteous+suicide always seemed like an inescapable oxymoron. They played a good show though, and their guitarist is amazing. Also, their frontman seems to have operatic power in falsetto. I don't know whats going on with he vocal chords when guys take something so high they sing it falsetto, but I was fairly sure it was not possible to project your voice like that.
*I was in the theatre once, watching The Da Vinci Code with the girl of my dreams. I remember realizing that I would probably never get any more than that (I was right!) and that I should just relax and enjoy the movie, enjoy what little time I had with her. So that's what I did. Later I decided that is the only way to play it.
Thursday, May 12, 2011
The Road Ninja Saga - Episode I - True Honor
Chapter N-1: Fever Pitch
Trent's car rattled into the driveway with a blown tire and more than extensive body damage. The engine died on him, leaving him coasting, but no one cared because it was an automatic.
Inside the trunk, Jasmine was shaking, bleeding and crying, but somewhere, deep down inside of her, a different spirit had siezed control. Time had slowed down. Each second was an eternity within which she searched for the means to save her life.
The car came to rest just off the edge of the driveway, its front bumper knocking over one of two lawn ornaments: a garden gnome, defending the house from a garden goblin. The car knocked over the goblin.
Trent glanced around the neighboorhood. It was quiet. And not like a quiet-night-in-the-ghetto quiet, no, this was fucking rich people quiet. There were no eyes on him. Least, not that he could tell. He popped the trunk open. The lid actually came off one of its hinges, and this is what distracted Trent from realizing in time that the duck tape around Jasmine's wrists was cut.
Jasmine scrambled forward with all of her might and stabbed, or possibly cut, Trent with the piece of glass in her hand. She never quite remember which it was, but it made Trent scream.
Jasmine rolled out of the trunk. She was in so much panic, with so much adrenaline in her blood, that when she pawed wildly at the driveway surface she could find no purchase, and was unable to move, like a car doing a burn out. Finally she relaxed for just a second and she was up, forward, at the steps. The front door was open. Entering Trent's house was a bad idea, but Jasmine had no mind on where she was going, only what she was getting away from.
Trent barreled through the front door and tripped over bottles of Jack. Jack Daniels. He stopped for a second and stared. Tom had put them everywhere, on every surfaced. Thousands of dollars of liquor on every square inch of the floor, windowsills, shelves, the chairs, armrests, the tv.
"Holy fuck Tom!!!" Trent screamed. His roomate. His crazy fucking roomate. He screamed obscenities at Tom. He smelled the liquor. He watched Jasmine only a few feet away, trying to wade through the bottles of liquore on all fours.
"I'm here, Trent." Tom was perched--literally perched--on the railing the stop of the staircase. It was literally the only place you could put your feet without dislocating a bottle of Jack.
Jasmine heard the voice of another human--or perhaps we should say a human being--and headed for the sound. There was no time to think about the fact that she was in a house full of whisky bottles--her brain just didn't process it. All she could do was claw through and beg for help.
Jasmine reached the top of the stairs, and knew not where to go. She hugged the railing supports for her life. Tom looked down at her. Her face was covered in blood, apparently from a possible lacerating just above her left eye. There were bruises everywhere, and her breathing was labored. Had anyone been more perceptive at this time, that might have noticed that Tom's eye wasn't twitching.
Trent came up and smashed one of the whisky bottles onto Jasmine's back. Then he looked up at Tom. Tom has a metal lighter in his hand. He was flicking it open and shut every two seconds.
"You crazy fuck! You crazy little shit fuck! You filled the entire fucking house with-"
"You need to learn a new word," said Tom. He flicked the lighter open. "When you abuse the f-word like that, it loses its punch. People stop listening to you." He flicked the lighter shut.
"Fuck you!" Trent failed to realize that Tom wasn't stuttering, either.
Tom hopped down off the railing, standing between Trent and Jasmine. Jasmine whimpered and scrambled away. Trent advanced. Tom retreated, always staying between Trent and Jasmine. He was still flicking that damn lighter open and shut.
"Tom, Tommy, my little man, out of my way," said Trent.
Tom should his head.
Jasmine was up against the wall. Window, actually. She had nowhere to retreat. Tom stopped. Trent would have bumped into him and plowed him over if it wasn't for the lighter in Tom's hand. It was one of those fancy $10 metal lighters, with the blue flame. Tom left it lit this time.
Trent stopped and tried to compose himself. There was still time to deal with this situation. In fact, he could all blame it on Tom. Tom was 'mentally challened' or whatever--fucking crazy--Jasmine's honor killing could be blamed on him.
"I thought we agreed you wouldn't interfere, Tommy boy," said Trent.
"Like this?" said the man holding the lighter. Tom grabbed Jasmine with one hand sent her flying through the window. She fell with the shattered glass. The two men in the room heard a splash when her body hit the pool. The men stared at each other for a few seconds as the potent aroma of bourbon filled their notrils. Trent was actually soaked in the stuff.
"Tom...what...." Trent's mouth dropped open and hung there.
"My name's not Tom. Its Becker. Biff Becker." Biff tossed the lighter at Trent's feet.
The resulting fire expanded immediately, and Biff's own clothes were lit by the time he made it out of the window, but he too was falling into the pool. He wrapped up the water landing, and some rescue breathing for the damsel in distress, and a few other extraneous details. Then he scooped up Jasmine and carried her away from the pool fireman style, a wall of flame at their backs. Somewhere in the night Trent was still screaming. The cops would have an interesting time figuring out the liquor bottles, but there was no paper trail to identify 'Tom.'
Biff would have left Jasmine for the paramedics that were bound to show, or better yet carry her to an emergency room himself, but no one at the hospital would realize in time that Jasmine's parents were also trying to kill her, and Biff wasn't about to hang out and explain things.
The best place to take Jasmine was her own apartment. Biff checked her over and repaired her like a crash victim. Her copy of The Art of Driving was under her bed. Time to jet.
Biff looked at his patient. She was barely conscious. Biff sat down. He used the book he'd worked so hard to reclaim to prop up her IV bag. He'd take it back later.
He stayed, then, and talked to her. He'd break my hand if I wrote that he held hers, but I think its safe to admit that this was the one time that the new Biff, the new jaded Mr. Sadpants Biff, ever showed compasion.
"You know," he said, "Jasmine would be an excellent name for a blue sportbike. Maybe a yamaha. You know, a liter bike...."
you're gonna wish you
had never met me
Trent's car rattled into the driveway with a blown tire and more than extensive body damage. The engine died on him, leaving him coasting, but no one cared because it was an automatic.
Inside the trunk, Jasmine was shaking, bleeding and crying, but somewhere, deep down inside of her, a different spirit had siezed control. Time had slowed down. Each second was an eternity within which she searched for the means to save her life.
The car came to rest just off the edge of the driveway, its front bumper knocking over one of two lawn ornaments: a garden gnome, defending the house from a garden goblin. The car knocked over the goblin.
Trent glanced around the neighboorhood. It was quiet. And not like a quiet-night-in-the-ghetto quiet, no, this was fucking rich people quiet. There were no eyes on him. Least, not that he could tell. He popped the trunk open. The lid actually came off one of its hinges, and this is what distracted Trent from realizing in time that the duck tape around Jasmine's wrists was cut.
Jasmine scrambled forward with all of her might and stabbed, or possibly cut, Trent with the piece of glass in her hand. She never quite remember which it was, but it made Trent scream.
Jasmine rolled out of the trunk. She was in so much panic, with so much adrenaline in her blood, that when she pawed wildly at the driveway surface she could find no purchase, and was unable to move, like a car doing a burn out. Finally she relaxed for just a second and she was up, forward, at the steps. The front door was open. Entering Trent's house was a bad idea, but Jasmine had no mind on where she was going, only what she was getting away from.
Trent barreled through the front door and tripped over bottles of Jack. Jack Daniels. He stopped for a second and stared. Tom had put them everywhere, on every surfaced. Thousands of dollars of liquor on every square inch of the floor, windowsills, shelves, the chairs, armrests, the tv.
"Holy fuck Tom!!!" Trent screamed. His roomate. His crazy fucking roomate. He screamed obscenities at Tom. He smelled the liquor. He watched Jasmine only a few feet away, trying to wade through the bottles of liquore on all fours.
"I'm here, Trent." Tom was perched--literally perched--on the railing the stop of the staircase. It was literally the only place you could put your feet without dislocating a bottle of Jack.
Jasmine heard the voice of another human--or perhaps we should say a human being--and headed for the sound. There was no time to think about the fact that she was in a house full of whisky bottles--her brain just didn't process it. All she could do was claw through and beg for help.
Jasmine reached the top of the stairs, and knew not where to go. She hugged the railing supports for her life. Tom looked down at her. Her face was covered in blood, apparently from a possible lacerating just above her left eye. There were bruises everywhere, and her breathing was labored. Had anyone been more perceptive at this time, that might have noticed that Tom's eye wasn't twitching.
Trent came up and smashed one of the whisky bottles onto Jasmine's back. Then he looked up at Tom. Tom has a metal lighter in his hand. He was flicking it open and shut every two seconds.
"You crazy fuck! You crazy little shit fuck! You filled the entire fucking house with-"
"You need to learn a new word," said Tom. He flicked the lighter open. "When you abuse the f-word like that, it loses its punch. People stop listening to you." He flicked the lighter shut.
"Fuck you!" Trent failed to realize that Tom wasn't stuttering, either.
Tom hopped down off the railing, standing between Trent and Jasmine. Jasmine whimpered and scrambled away. Trent advanced. Tom retreated, always staying between Trent and Jasmine. He was still flicking that damn lighter open and shut.
"Tom, Tommy, my little man, out of my way," said Trent.
Tom should his head.
Jasmine was up against the wall. Window, actually. She had nowhere to retreat. Tom stopped. Trent would have bumped into him and plowed him over if it wasn't for the lighter in Tom's hand. It was one of those fancy $10 metal lighters, with the blue flame. Tom left it lit this time.
Trent stopped and tried to compose himself. There was still time to deal with this situation. In fact, he could all blame it on Tom. Tom was 'mentally challened' or whatever--fucking crazy--Jasmine's honor killing could be blamed on him.
"I thought we agreed you wouldn't interfere, Tommy boy," said Trent.
"Like this?" said the man holding the lighter. Tom grabbed Jasmine with one hand sent her flying through the window. She fell with the shattered glass. The two men in the room heard a splash when her body hit the pool. The men stared at each other for a few seconds as the potent aroma of bourbon filled their notrils. Trent was actually soaked in the stuff.
"Tom...what...." Trent's mouth dropped open and hung there.
"My name's not Tom. Its Becker. Biff Becker." Biff tossed the lighter at Trent's feet.
The resulting fire expanded immediately, and Biff's own clothes were lit by the time he made it out of the window, but he too was falling into the pool. He wrapped up the water landing, and some rescue breathing for the damsel in distress, and a few other extraneous details. Then he scooped up Jasmine and carried her away from the pool fireman style, a wall of flame at their backs. Somewhere in the night Trent was still screaming. The cops would have an interesting time figuring out the liquor bottles, but there was no paper trail to identify 'Tom.'
Biff would have left Jasmine for the paramedics that were bound to show, or better yet carry her to an emergency room himself, but no one at the hospital would realize in time that Jasmine's parents were also trying to kill her, and Biff wasn't about to hang out and explain things.
The best place to take Jasmine was her own apartment. Biff checked her over and repaired her like a crash victim. Her copy of The Art of Driving was under her bed. Time to jet.
Biff looked at his patient. She was barely conscious. Biff sat down. He used the book he'd worked so hard to reclaim to prop up her IV bag. He'd take it back later.
He stayed, then, and talked to her. He'd break my hand if I wrote that he held hers, but I think its safe to admit that this was the one time that the new Biff, the new jaded Mr. Sadpants Biff, ever showed compasion.
"You know," he said, "Jasmine would be an excellent name for a blue sportbike. Maybe a yamaha. You know, a liter bike...."
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