-{ redgeek.net }-

Odd inquiries people have posed over the years:

• “Are you part Indian? Because you have asymmetric body hair.” (Yup, asymmetric body hair – my chest hair goes up a bit higher on one side than the other, I understand that’s common with Native Americans. And no, I don’t have back hair.)
• “Are you part Italian? Because you talk with your hands a lot.” (I don’t know if I am, but I do.)
• “Are you Canadian? You look Canadian. And you say ‘hockey’ funny.” (I don’t even know what to say to that. How do you look Canadian?)
• “Dude, I could’ve sworn you were Mexican. Don’t try to cross the border wearing that beanie, hermano.” (You wouldn’t say that if you saw me with my shirt off … there’s a reason my nickname years ago in Mission Beach was ‘Casper, the Friendly Ghost.’)
• “I’d say Midwest. You’re definitely from the Midwest.” (Never even been there, but okay.)
• “Are you Jewish? ‘Cause you look like my Jewish friends.” (Matt, my evil [and Jewish] twin, should find that entertaining. As it turns out, I have DNA common to Eastern European Jews, as returned by one of those DNA tracing things my uncle did, but faith-wise, no.)
• “What do I think you do? I’d say artist. Yeah, probably artist, or maybe in advertising, or something like that. Or a hitman.” (Said to me on this last rainy New Years Eve, while I was dressed up in a tailored charcoal suit, French Blue button down, matching tie, Kenneth Cole shoes, and my black raincoat with leather gloves. No one ever guesses ‘programmer.’)
• “Are you a rugby player? ‘Cause if I had to call your sport, I’d say rugby.” (Wow. I’m by no means a small guy, but I’m like half the size of all the rugby players I’ve known. I wouldn’t last two seconds on the pitch.)

So let me get this straight: I look like a Native American – Italian – Mexican – Canadian mulatto that’s a Jewish artist/rugby player from the Midwest that moonlights as a hitman? Someone draw that caricature, please.

For the record, I’m predominantly Welsh-Swiss-German-English, and I believe we’ve traced in Scottish, Irish, Spanish, Cuban, and Cherokee as well. And I’m not a hitman.

Fits and starts. A jerky, spasmodic evening of false starts. Saturday night started with a trip downtown to Rouge (the old Hustler bar) to check out some local artists, including Ginger’s: DJ’s, belly dancers, body painting, bondage art and performance, all sort of interesting things to view.

Sort of. Ok, I dig some of Ginger’s work, but since I’ve photographed half of it, I was going more for moral support on her behalf and to check out the other artists. Most interesting were the nudes painted on the husks of giant palms, the the dim but variable lighting casting an erotic wave to the figures emerging from the undulating husks. Pretty cool. And there were some reasonably interesting abstracts in the back room. Unfortunately, that’s just about when I mentally checked out.

Out of the rest of the work, I was thoroughly unimpressed. The bondage art pieces were without depth or nuance, just far enough from flat to remove the impression of cartoon and not nearly close enough to indicate any understanding of light or perspective. The themes were entirely too literal and transparent, and the people were ill-formed but without suggestion of eros or disgust. Very emotionless pieces; exactly what I would not expect for bondage art.

There was also a photographer/model duo displaying various pieces, of which I really only enjoyed one piece – although that one piece was quite good. The rest of the shots were decent, but reeked of lighting and composition compensation via Photoshop filters. I could walk up to just about and piece and pull it apart, e.g., “yup, this one was shot digital, the depth of field is all off so they blew out the lighting in the background and ran the watercolor filter over the whole thing, and they printed it larger than the resolution of the camera can support.” Now I have no problem with digital (I shoot digital) or photo manipulation (I do that as well), but for the most part, it’s really hard to make a bad photo good, but really easy to make a good photo worse. It was a more subtle version of what you see over the net: a decent photo/rendering that’s had lens flare, ripple, and spherize effects dumped on top.

After speaking with half the duo, I believe they could do much better leaving the effects at home and learning how to use a camera. Most where shot of a little point and shoot digital, which while fine for snapshots, did not allow for the control required to get what could be a great shot: you could tell just from the contrast that the camera’s metering was off. The potential is there, but the filters killed it for me.

I said goodbye to Ginger, and bailed.

I was to meet up at En Fuego in Del Mar with Chris+Sarah, Mike+Stacey, Brett+Lisa, and Frenchie for a little birthday celebration for Brett. A nice, enjoyable, uncharacteristically mellow time. Frenchie spots two cuties ordering drinks at the upstairs bar near our table.

“Go talk to them.”

My beer’s empty to I saunter up beside them and place my order, nodding hello and attempting to introduce myself. I’m cut short with a disinterested “hi” before she turns to her girlfriend, blocking me out with body language. I pay for my beer and return to our table.

Frenchie looking at me incredulously. “What happened?”

“She wasn’t interested. She and her friend were actually whispering about some hot guy here I can only assume isn’t me. Nothin’ I can do about that.”

“Aww, shit. Oh well.”

Later in the evening Frenchie saddles up to a table with a Lone Lady at the adjacent table. We’re all watching surreptitiously under our conversation, as Frenchie is solid once he’s on the date, but not so good at the introductions. It appears he’s doing alright. Until Lone Lady’s boyfriend comes back and sits down next to Frenchie. And quietly stares at him.

Our table’s alternating between laughing, crying, and huffing “abort” underneath coughs.

But Frenchie doesn’t leave. He keeps on with the conversation, five, ten, twenty minutes with the girl.

After LL and boyfriend leave, Frenchie slides back over to our table.

“Dude, you guys are supposed to tell me when there’s a boyfriend!”

“Frenchie, remember that time a few months ago when I cut you off from hitting on my friend at The Pub after about thirty seconds? The one that was married? Whose husband wasn’t there because he’s deployed? As an active duty Navy Seal?”

“Yeah?”

“Well, aside from the ring, there’s no way you could’ve known she was married. But when the boyfriend is sitting right next to you, well, you’re on your own. You gotta know when to fold ‘em, or at least, exit gracefully.”

Note: Frenchie’s really a great guy, but exiting a relationship of several years, he just kinda lost that “go right up and talk to girls” attitude. But, it does provide us with some great entertainment. We luv ya’, Frenchie.

She’d circled the bar several times now, counter-clockwise, looking for someone or something. She was tall and relatively thin, with hips a little too wide for her frame and a pronounced Egyptian proboscis. I hadn’t really noticed her aside from her regular cycle through the club, not attractive nor unattractive.

Out of the blue, Sean hooks her arm and queries, “Have you met my friend Barclay?” He’s wearing his eternal smile, sincere and goofy. She mumbles something and waves him off without breaking stride. We go back to our conversation about lenses and lighting.

Ten minutes later in her next lap, Sean again hooks her arm again. “Have you met my friend Barclay?” She stops briefly with a noncommittal wave, and continues on.

Fifteen ‘til last call, she’s circling again, although noticeably less stable. Same question: “Have you met my friend Barclay?”

She halts, confused, and Sean starts extolling my virtues. She’s just moved here from New England, she’s a New England girl, New England is the place to be. Sean rolls with it, “Yeah, that’s what Barclay’s always telling me. Barclay’s from New England.”

“Really, where?”

I pause, trying to think of cities of the Northeast, but the drinks have significantly slowed my synaptic firings.

“Delaware?”

She turns to me, and between the rumble of the band and her intoxicated slur, I can’t understand a single word. I takes wild stabs of guesses as to the topic, responding with insightful observations and questions I assume would be appropriate were I correct. She doesn’t seem to notice any conversational drift, and sloppily scans the crowd at intervals.

Eventually, she migrates over to talk with Sean while Charlie and I shoot the shit about writing, but returns shortly to begin grinding against me, ass against my crotch, face toward the crowd.

Yes, I was that guy. The guy that some girl is pretending to hook up with so some other guy, some guy who doesn’t really care what she does if he even knows she exists, some guy who’s probably out of her league, some guy she’s sublimated to nobility in her drunken fantasy, will see the impending loss of his siren and immediately rectify the situation. Yes girls, both This Guy and Other Guy know when you’re doing this, we see it all the time, this bartering frotterism for attention. We let you do it anyway.

I continue my conversation with Charlie while she arches her back in front of me and pushes hers into mine, gyrating and pulling my hand to her side.

After a few minutes, she guides me closer to the wall, body tight against mine. I wonder if these displays ever work. As her mouth opens and our tongues explore, I have my hand on her ass. It’s past last call. I’m kissing her, wondering if her ploy is working, imaging a seductive-sports bookie, some X-Games spinoff, taking odds. I know she doesn’t want me, but I wonder how far she’s willing to go.

We’re parted as they kick the last patrons out into the turbulent mesh of people congregating outside the door, hailing taxis, stumbling home, raucous conversations of subsequent destinations. Reconvening with Sean and Charlie, I see New England, in the embrace of some other guy, hopefully Other Guy, mid-kiss.

Sean winks. “How old are you again?”

“Twenty-nine.”

“Yeah, so you’ve been around. You know she was just working you.”

“Yeah. So what’re we doing tomorrow night?”

“Don’t know, but third time’s a charm.”

Shilo walks in to the bar casually, carrying his eternal smile and expressive eyes. He has the composure of a surfer fresh out of the water on an overhead day, but he manipulates his face as though a seasoned dramatist.

After the perfunctory introductions, Ron mentions Shilo has quite a story to tell, and experience in profound elegance. Shilo capitulates, holding up an open palm indicating dramatic pause while he whets his tongue with a sip of beer. We fall silent.

“So Ron and Tracy and I were hanging out at the pub the other night, just grabbing a late dinner and celebrating the end of a long week. I notice there’s this pretty cute girl camped out at the bar with two total tools, and I’m sitting there thinking, what the fuck? What is she doing with the ‘tards? So I walk up to her, wedge myself in, and eventually she ends up coming over to our table and drinking with us.”

He nods at Ron, and Ron node back in confirmation.

“So it turns out this girl is pretty down, and hot, and we hit it off pretty well. She lives just down the street from me, and surfs, and I’m thinking this is damn convenient. Before you know it, it’s last call, everyone’s a little drunk, people are milling about and catching cabs home, so of course I offer to walk her home.

“We start out the door with my hand on her back, then we’re holding hands, and by the time we’re halfway home, we’re completely making out, you know, like up against the random fence and whatnot. We finally reach the backyard of her apartment complex, one of those generic ones they have all over down here, and my shirt’s already off and somewhere in the alley, and we’re stripping down to our skivvies. It’s getting pretty hot and heavy, you know, so I’m like ‘So, uh, before this goes farther, we should get a condom.’ I was just out with friends you know, so I wasn’t boy-scout prepared and all that, so I’m like, ‘Do you have any in your apartment?’” His eyes twinkle.

“Now she’s just in her bra and panties, and I’m just in my boxers. She trots upstairs and disappears into her apartment. A couple minutes pass, and I’m thinking, ‘What the hell? What am I doing out here?’ I’m a little fucked up myself, so it took me a couple minutes to come to that conclusion.”

He takes another sip and snaps a grin into place.

“Anyway, I walk up to her place in my boxers – my clothes in her yard, the alley, wherever they came off, whatever – and I walk into her place, and there’s these two guys sleeping on the couches. I poke my head into one of the bedrooms, one that has a door cracked a bit, thinking maybe she just passed out, but there’s just some other guy sleeping. I’m sitting there thinking, first, ‘Where the fuck is she?’, and second, ‘How many fucking guys does she live with?’ I mean, there’s only so many rooms in this place.

“So I’m standing in her living room in my boxers, just kind of scratching my stomach, and she comes barrelling out of the bathroom – one of those bathrooms off a hallway – and slams the door. The sound wakes up the guys on the couches, and they see me standing there almost naked, and they’re like, ‘Who the fuck are you?’ I’m looking at this chick like, ‘What the fuck do I do? Explain this shit to your roommates,’ but she’s just staring at these guys, and suddenly blurts out, ‘Who the fuck are you?’ All the commotion wakes the guy in the bedroom, and he bounds out, angry, puzzled, staring at a half naked man and woman in his living room, and shouts, ‘Who they fuck are you two?’

He pauses amidst an assortment of questions of from the peanut gallery, holding his hand up again, motioning for quiet.

“I decide this shit’s just getting too weird for me, so I bail, grab my clothes on the way home, and hoof it the half block home. This shit was so bizarre; I just cracked a beer and plopped down on my porch for a smoke. A few minutes later, I see this chick in a bra and panties haul ass down the street with a bundle of clothes under her arm, and she runs right past me on the other side of the street, and runs straight into another apartment complex. You know, another one of those generic looking ones.”

Everyone’s doubled over in laughter. This shit’s too funny to make up.

I’m trying to stay away from small posts without purpose, but there’s only so often you read, in a reputable science publication, phrases like “In some cases, breasts can slap against the chest with enough force to break the clavicle,” and “No one really knows the long-term medical consequences of ‘excessive breast bounce.’”

Here

(This is bound to get me some wierd hits from search engines….)

Ten years ago, 1995: First year of college, UCSD. It was now October, just after my nineteenth birthday, and I’d spent the last four debaucherous months largely couch surfing in the polluted heart of Mission Beach.

I spent most of my time on front porches overlooking the boardwalk, steps from the sand, taco shops, and liquor stores. Since remodeled, the apartment complex was a termite-infested inhabited by waves of dubious barely-pay-by-the-month characters. The ones I knew best were in 1B: Lenny, Eric, and Hollywood. Their apartment was eternally open for anyone to come and go, although there were usually more people coming than going. It was saddled between Jamaica and Isthmus courts and central to the decadent vices of Mission, and there were more bodily fluids on that section of boardwalk than sea-water. Such was the reason the incongruous three lived there.

Lenny was a twenty-three year old ‘Guido’ from Jersey, working God knows where during odd hours to cover the cost of one room. Eric was in this late twenties, a shyster car salesman that’d regale me, without remorse, of tales of screwing poor families out of a couple thousand on a used minivan – or at least enough to rent the other room and keep a kitchen stocked with alcohol and living room with hardcore porn. Hollywood was the a-periodic couchsurfer, and butt of all derisive jokes, a towering slab of black homosexuality on loan to the armed forces.

Everyone was there to fuck women, except Hollywood, of course, who was there to fuck men.

The most important thing was to have was activity: nobody wants to hang out with a bunch of guys just drinking on their porch, even if it did have an ocean view. We pulled out everything: speakers to the porch tossing a blanket of cable-radio over the beach, dancing, interminable games of Asshole and other drinking pastimes, cardboard placards to rate passing women (only supporting the grades of ‘2’, ‘9’, and ‘10’), squirt guns, strobe lights, kegs, footballs, Frisbees, beer bongs, Jagermeister, hoses for wet T-Shit contests, day old pizza.

We each had our own ways of pulling women. Eric had the rapid-fire velvet speech of his trade, seducing girls to his bedroom before they knew they were interested. Lenny flaunted his vulgarity-laced East Coast directness to take pairs group-wise in the bathroom. Hollywood had impeccable gay-dar, and would essentially walk up to a gay man he wanted and grab the stranger’s crotch. I knew if I could cajole an unforgiving computer to draw exquisite images on screen, I sure as hell could use some combination of logic and artistry to nail a girl doggy-style on the back patio.

But I never did. Something always niggled at me. Perhaps it was my conscience, or a fear of contracting STDs during some inebriated and poorly-executed sexual escapade, perhaps both. I did however, meet M-. M- was exquisitely attractive – olive skin, a petite frame, long umber hair, with large almond eyes. We’d been out on a few dates over the summer, but the start of school had been hectic enough I hadn’t seen her in a month or so. I’d turned 180 degrees in the last few weeks, from sloven boozehound to poor, studious, dorm-living gakusei.

On this chilly Saturday night, we had plans to see her friends’ band (always a dangerous proposition, but they actually weren’t bad) out in a little joint in El Cajon. Running late as usual, I showered, threw on my last pair of clean jeans and a T-shit proclaiming some suitably obscure reference, and whisked myself out dorm suite. Anxious and behind schedule, I was taking all the shortcuts: jumping over the couch in the common area instead of walking around, combing my hair as I ran down the stairs instead of taking dawdling elevator, slipping sideways through the rapidly closing stairwell door – not fast enough. I was still trying to stop my forward momentum when I heard the denim tear.

It must have been like one of those slow-motion car crash scenes: a close-up of my face, a montage morphing from carefree and excited, and at the first resistance my eyebrows curling upside down, eyes curiously flitting toward my back, and as the first stitches pop, side of my mouth leading the rest of my lips into a downward march, eyes scrunching together in recognition and resignation, jaw tightening, skin wrinkling around the muscles and taut between them, until forward momentum is finally extinguished.

Frantically, I patted myself for the source of the sound – my back pocket, torn open, taking the seat of my pants with it exposing my at least eight square inches of boxer-briefs in all their glory. I groan, and looking back to the shred of denim still fluttering from the clasp of the door, dancing in the A/C, mocking my haste. It’s that small sheet of metal with a slight curvature at the end, the piece that guide the tumbler lock into it’s mate. Looking at it in profile, from above, it is indistinguishable from a hook – now complete with Levi bait.

Metal-door-lock-claspy-thing: 1, jeans: 0.

Clean pants: 0.

I borrow a bunch of safety pins, pour some coffee on my shirt, ruffle my hair, and call it punk. I must have looked about as punk as those Wal-mart Halloween costumes look like Barbie or Yoda.

The date went well, we smooched a little, but she never once put her hand on my bum.

How to Argue on the Internet
or
Going Head to Head with and Internet Tough Guy and Not Looking Retarded
or
Why the Troll Handed You Your Ass

Arguing, debating, and other generally useless Internet activities are somewhat different that in other mediums. Although similar to a spoken debate, in that jabs are generally traded in somewhat of a reciprocative manner, there are subtle but important elements of human communication that are lost. Elements such inflection, cadence, and body language are not present or very difficult to convey at the least. Furthermore, there are elements of “netiquette” that are oft overlooked, where such oversights would be unacceptably damaging to one’s arguments should the analogous action be performed in person.

On the up side, it’s next to impossible to be interrupted.

Gleaned from years of net existence, here’s my guidelines for not looking like a complete dumbass when arguing on the Internet. Remember, you’re not trying to convince your opponent you’re right, you’re trying to convince everyone else. After all, your opponent is an idiot, so he or she must be wrong. You’re just trying to make sure he or she doesn’t contaminate others.

1. ALL CAPS IS LIKE SCREAMING AT A DEBATE. DON’T DO IT.
2. Smileys do not convey body language.
3. Smileys do not convey cleverness. Quite the opposite.
4. Graphical smileys incite the wrath of netizens.
5. Gratuitous graphical smileys incite the wrath of God.
6. Not your god, my god.
7. Spel check. Twwice.
8. Your computer is not a mobile phone; there are many keys on it. Use them.
9. “OMFGROTFLMAO ur so wr0ng” is not a sentence.
10. Re-read your web forum post/email/Usenet posting the greater of
    • Four times
    • Two full times through without making corrections

    Your opponent will read it at least twice three times that, and quote you on it.

11. Re-read your opponent’s post until you understand it. Then read it again, slower. Then, read it empathetically from your opponents point of view. You might already be the dumbass.
12. Do not mis-quote your opponent. After all, there is a record of what he or she said, and they’ll just refer to it. And send it back to your high-school debate coach, your mother, significant other, and the credit bureau.
13. Reverting to personal attacks is about as effective as calling your doctoral review board “a bunch of snotty poopheads”. Dumbass.
14. You cannot kick, punch, or shoot someone through the Internet. You will not hunt someone down because they insulted you. You are fundamentally lazy, as you are currently Arguing On The Internet.
15. Such threats only serve to provide the masses with entertainment regarding the lack of your grip on reality. You will be trolled indefinitely after that, and any future valid point is already in the dustbin.
16. Sixteen different fonts, sizes, and colors do not impress or instill fear in your opponent. Unless arguing with the Amish, he or she has seen them before.
17. Your signature should be shorter than your post. Always. And it should never include a graphic of some anime character. Ever.
18. If you’re wrong, admit it. If you’re unsure, say so. If you’re right, spell it out word for word.
19. Sarcasm and cadence don’t translate well. Don’t try to use them unless you’re a very experienced Internet Debater, author, poet, or furry. Furries can do whatever the hell they want; they’ll never look like anything but a dumbass.
20. Cite legitimate references. Just because it’s on the web, doesn’t make it “true.” Just like this list.
21. Your “friends” are not legitimate references. Neither are your parents, siblings, children, or other relations. No one believes you actually have any of the above.
22. Asides only give your opponent ammunition and detract from your point. Omit them, don’t emit them.
23. Do not enlist the help of bystanders, let your opponent collapse under the weight of his or her own mistakes. The spectators will commence kicking the offender once he or she is down.
24. Remember, you’re not trying to convince your opponent you’re right, you’re trying to convince everyone else that your opponent is wrong. Argue accordingly.

Most of this couldn’t be more obvious. But, as they say, arguing on the Internet is like competing in the Special Olympics – even if you win, you’re still retarded.

Historically, guys are the ones famous, or infamous, for presenting some of the worst pick-attempts in history. Recently I’ve been privy to some from the female side, although not directed at myself (thank goodness.) Sadly, all these are true, and you’ll probably end up wondering where in the world I been hanging out. These all took place in relatively normal, out-about-town environments. So, girls, Ways Not to Pick Up Guys:

• Sticking your finger in his butt while walking past
• Getting ragingly drunk and bitching about getting just kicked out of some other bar for being too drunk
• Giving him a “Purple Nurple”
• “My husband just got out of jail, and we’ve decided we’re swingers. What are you doing tonight?”
• Having a farting contest
• Lactating in his drink

Tonight the burrito shop shorted me my napkins – but never fear, my intrepid reader (how cliched is that) – my burrito was solidly constructed, and I had no need for them. (Burrito, light of my life, fire of my loins. My sin, my soul. Bur-ri-to: the tip of the tongue taking a trip of three steps down the palate to tap, at three, on the teeth. Bur. Ri. To.) Which, naturally, led me to wonder, is there a Context Free Grammar for the construction or validation of a well-formed burrito?

Based on my sampling of burritos from around the nation, my gut told me no, there is an art form to burritos, which threw me on to the assumption that art is that which cannot be constructed nor validated.

Ladies and gentlemen of the jury (to run with the cliches), I rest my case.

If I have one.

Or even a point.