How to Make It in Life

My friend will be visiting from San Diego today, and then I'll be heading to Sacramento for a few days to help another friend out on a video production. So if you don't hear from me again, that means I am dead.

So, I have to go to sleep soon knowing that in a little over six hours, I will be jarred from my slumber by the sound of hammers, drills and electric sanders.

Our next door neighbor is building a new house, or should I say "remodeling" his old house. Basically, it's considered a remodel because he left one wall up from the original house that got demolished. I guess they don't have to get permits or something because of it. But make no mistake, they are totally building a new house. And it's taking forever.

I always thought residential construction wasn't supposed to take place on weekends. But this guy doesn't think so. Hasn't he heard that Sunday is the day of rest? And I'm sure Saturday was always intended to be a day of rest as well, dammit. He sure likes to start early too, like at 7:30 in the morning, a time which should really be reserved for the sunrise and the tweeting birds and the rest of God's creation, not power tools and the sounds of port-a-pottie doors slamming and hairy guys spitting galagalas on the ground.

Oh well, here I am, losing precious sleep time. I should probably just shut up and invest in some ear plugs. Good night.

UPDATE: Yes, they did wake me up, but only because one of them was singing and pounding a drumbeat on my wall (which runs along the property line) GRRRRRRR!!!!

Looks like Google has pigeonholed my blog. I mention a few things about Hawaii and my love for squid luau, and look what happens. If you look at the top of my page, you'll probably see the banner ad selling stuff like Hawaiian-style party supplies and tiki torches. What the frick? Why don't I just wear a grass skirt and do the hula while I'm at it? I feel so dirty!

Living in Los Angeles these past three years, I've been able to see many different images of Hawaii, most of which are presented to the mainland in "tropical paradise" ads. Just from seeing these images, I would never know what Hawaii was really like. The islands have a lot of natural beauty, but the ads just make it seem so polished and fake. If I didn't know better, I would think the whole state is one big frat luau made up entirely of hotels and beaches, with the occasional volcano.

I do understand that the Hawaii Tourism Authority has to doll up the state to make all the tourists with fat wallets want to come. After all, tourism plays an enormous role in Hawaii's economy. I'm sure they don't want to mention anything bad in their ads, like Hawaii's HUGE crystal meth problem. Unless they believed more people would visit because of it. "Visit beautiful Hawaii, and while you're there, smoke enough ice to stay awake for the entire trip so it'll seem like you're there longer."

Oh well, in the meantime, perhaps I should consider upgrading to BlogSpot Pro, or whatever it's called, so there's no ads. Or maybe I should just mention sex toys a lot, then maybe I'll get ads for dildos!

Have you ever worked on something so hard, with all your passion and heart, and it still turns out to be a piece of crap? Mmm hmm.

Some days, you just have to be satisfied with doing the best that you can. After all, you need some consolation when you realize that, no matter how hard you try, you just can't cut it.

Many of us are just not destined to be what we most want to be in life, whether it's a rock star, sports hero, dancer, actor, CEO, etc. You can't polish a turd, as they say.

But there are some people who just refuse to believe that they are the turds in the horse stable of life. I say, don't discourage them. If anything, look them straight in the eye and tell them something like, "You can be whatever you want if put your mind to it."

Because I truly admire that potent mixture of determination and lack of skills. I don't care how bad you are at the thing you love to do. If you have that fire and that passion, and that denial, you have my respect. Your relentless pursuit of an impossible dream may be crushingly sad, but it is also inspiring.

Eye of the tiger, baby! Eye of the tiger!

I live with two people I don't really know. You'd think I would've learned my lesson by now. I used to live with two other people I didn't really know, and they turned out to be unbelievable psychos. But that's another story.

My current situation is nice because for one, these roommates are not psycho at all. And while they both live in the main house, I get to live in the guest house. So it's almost like having no roommates at all. I have my own bathroom, my own fridge, my own kitchen, etc. I don't have to deal with the roommate fights or the dreaded roommate tension - i.e. "I'm going to be passive-aggressive all day because you forgot to wash the dishes."

My "roommates" are more like friendly neighbors that I see every so often and converse with on a highly superficial level. We chit-chat, talk about the weather, and then head our separate ways. It's awesome.

With them, there are no mind games, no secret agendas, and certainly no emotional diarrhea.

Did I mention my old roommates had problems?

Anyway, the only thing my current roommates and I share is a mailbox and a washer/dryer. It's a pretty good set-up. But last week, the dryer stopped working. And so us roommates actually had to meet each other on purpose. After looking at the dryer for a bit, we were all ready to give up and call the Maytag repair man, but I, for some reason, said, "Let me have another look."

Now I'm not the handiest of persons around, and never have been, but I can also be overly confident/stupid at times. For once though, it didn't end in total disaster. I found the problem, and when all was said and done, I was able to fix the dryer with my bare hands!

All I did was replace the thing that ignites the gas, known in technical terms as the "igniter", and now the dryer doesn't crap out on us. My roommates were very happy, and now we have something else to chit-chat about. My landlord was very happy as well. He let me deduct $100 from the rent, which in turn, made me very happy. And not just because of the money (Souplantation, here I come!), but now I know what it feels like to be one of those people appreciated for their ability to fix things, someone who can always be found at Ace Hardware or Home Depot. So maybe, at least this once, I know a little of what it's like to be my grandpa. Now all I'll need is hemorroids and the transformation will be complete.

Remember that TV show Blossom? It was my sister's favorite show, but I didn't really care for it, mostly because of Joey Lawrence and his "whoa!" and his mane of hair, which I was probably jealous of, since mine was all short and un-Thundercat-like. Remember the Thundercats? But anyway, I always remember a line from Blossom that I thought was kinda funny -- I think the dad was telling his older son about seeing someone who looked exactly like him at the mall. He wonders if it was his "doppelganger."

"What's a doppelganger?" the son asks.
"A German word for having a double, someone who looks exactly like you."
"Why do the Germans have a word for that? Is that a big problem over there?"

I don't know, I just thought it was very funny. I wondered what would happen if that actually was a problem in Germany. You'd get mistaken for your doppelganger and get beaten up for the bad things he did. Or he'd ruin your credit rating. And then you'd get into a fight with your doppelganger, and in the confusion, attack a mirror.

It would be weird to meet someone who looked exactly like me though. I just imagine it being awkward, like seeing someone in the same outfit as you, except worse. Oh well, if I ever do meet my doppelganger, I do know one thing.

He'll be frickin handsome.

They say that you don't know what you got until you don't have it any more. Well, what I don't have is squid luau. It's a Hawaiian dish consisting of squid, taro leaves and coconut milk. Sure, to most people it doesn't sound delicious, and the final product looks like something you'd find in a diaper, but I can assure you that it is indeed MOST delicious. The flavor is hard to describe, perhaps because it's been so long since I've had some, but let me try -- it's sweet and succulent and juicy and tender and beautiful.

Dare I say I'm in love?

The problem is that I no longer live in Hawaii. It makes me sad. This feeling reminds me of a song from that old long distance commercial where a young woman reminisces about her family back home...

Far away and out of touch
People I know I love so much
I do believe this ocean
Is far too wide for me

Thinking back to times with you
There's nothing else I'd rather do
I do believe this ocean
Is far too wide for me...

And those people were only on different islands! I'm 2500 miles away! Anyway, if anyone knows of a place in the Los Angeles/Orange County area that has good squid luau, or any squid luau for that matter, please holler if ya hear me!

Some day, I want to be a philanthropist. And by philanthropist, I mean billionaire. I'd give millions away to charity and still be able to buy myself several houses in various spots around the globe. I could summer in England and winter in Barbados. I'd go back home to Hawaii and buy my parents a phat pad. But my pad would have to be phatter.

I would eat at the fanciest restaurants and finally get to know what caviar and Cristal taste like. I would order the highest priced hookers, but instead of having sex with them, I would have them do Tae Bo with me. Because you always feel better when a sexy lady does Tae Bo with you. Then, sweaty and spent after the vigorous workout, we'd massage each other with sesame oil.

I would go to McDonald's and order a 20 piece Chicken McNuggets. I would get a cell phone equipped with camera, Internet and George Foreman grill. And if such a device did not exist yet, I would have someone make it.

I would buy a house just to store my Transformers collection. I'd buy a Toyota Prius! And then I'd buy a Lexus just because I could. I'd equip both with OnStar and LoJack and GPS navigation. I'd of course have thumpin speakers too. And if someone stole one of my cars, I wouldn't have to worry because my cars would also be equipped with anal intruders that would thrust up from the seats in event of theft. I would have to make sure that they never malfunctioned and intruded upon me or a guest.

I'd go hang-gliding and parachuting. I'd buy health insurance first, of course. And then life insurance.

I would then give my money to worthy causes. I'd set up a scholarship fund for geeks, and another one for troubled geeks. I'd build a castle and turn it into a library. I'd let people borrow books for a whole month. But if they didn't return books in time, my library wouldn't charge late fees. Instead I would lock those people in the castle's dungeon and show them "The Miracle of Life," an educational video about the human reproductive process. Because there is no greater torture than seeing, through use of tiny tunnelling camera technology, the inside of a dude's hoo-hah at the moment of climax. There would be no late books after that.

Then I'd buy another house and perhaps an airplane with my face on it. Not on the side, but in the front, with my teeth bared, like on a WWII fighter plane.

Being a philanthropist would be frickin awesome.

Rice is cheap, easy to cook and goes well with anything. It is filling and you can even use it to bulk up certain foods. Add it to any stew, curry, soup, etc. and it will be like you have more of it. I can make a pot of curry last two weeks because I always mix in a little rice.

Or make that a lot of rice.

It's also great on it's own, or with shoyu, or nori, or furikake. Rice comes in 20 pound bags that cost five dollars and lasts for months. Or weeks, if I am really hungry. If the other food on your plate is too spicy, rice will be right next to it to save the day. For rice soothes. Rice comforts. Rice leads me by still waters. Rice restores my soul. Oh rice, if thoust were but a woman, I could make sweet love to thee. But alas, my love for rice, as with many great loves, shall go unrequited. Unless, perhaps, I poke a hole in the bag. But I shall not abuse rice so!

My psychology teacher in high school gave us an assignment one day - we had to draw a picture of a person, any person, and hand it in to her. She said she would have them analyzed by one of her psychoanalyst friends. So I drew a fat construction worker leaving a port-a-pottie after taking a dump. It had no meaning for me, it's just the first thing that came to my mind that day. I was all ready to turn it in, but then I started freaking out. What could this drawing say of me? She might somehow find something horrible about my personality that even I don't know about. I looked at the fat construction worker leaving the port-a-pottie and I thought that maybe she might think I was fixated on shit. Or something like that. So right before class, I quickly drew an elf that I saw on the cover of some fantasy book and turned that in instead. There was no way to connect that character to me, or so my mind said to itself. It was only afterwards that I realized all the phallic symbols contained within the drawing. The elf was holding a knife, he had pointy ears and a pointy nose and also other pointy things about his person. I was horrified. The next day, when everyone expected to get their drawings back, she told the class that she decided to hold on to them, and not give us any feedback. And we didn't hear about our drawings after that.

I spent the rest of the school year afraid that she was looking at me funny. I was half-expecting her to pull me aside one day and say, "I'm just a little concerned about your grades in this class. Wassamatta? Too much penis on the brain?"

But I probably had nothing to worry about. After all, she was the crazy one. Instead of having us call her by her real name, she wanted everyone in the class to call her "Mama."

But come to think of it, I do reference penis a lot on this site. That needs to be "rectified."

I met someone the other night who believes in reincarnation. It was at a party and he was sorta drunk, but I believed he was serious. So I asked him who he was in his former life, and he said "Theodore Roosevelt." I guess that made sense, since he looked like someone who enjoys shooting large land mammals. I didn't want to risk angering him, so I wandered off without asking him my next question, which was this: why do reincarnated people always gotta be a reincarnation of somebody famous? Like Cleopatra, or Joan of Arc, or Samson? Why can't it ever be Angus, the town drunk, who would perform fellatio on you for a tuppence?

Well anyway, I don't believe in reincarnation, even though I've heard some believers try to prove its existence by saying stuff like, "Sometimes, when I meet people for the first time, I instantly don't like them. That must mean were were mortal enemies in our former lives."

I must admit, that statement does have a certain logic to it. But might I suggest another theory? You're an asshole. You know, instead of blaming your hate for the guy you just met on a hunch that he slaughtered your family in 1342, why not take a look at yourself? Perhaps you're just judgemental. Or perhaps you feel threatened? Whatever it is, you need to take care of it. Only you can help you.

Well, I hope the former Teddy Roosevelt isn't reading this right now. And if he is, I hope he's not polishing his elephant gun. If you know what I mean. I wouldn't want to be mistaken for a giant rhinocerous. If you know what I mean.

You know how some scientists and aquarium salesmen say having a fish tank reduces stress? Well, I happen to agree with them. But what's so soothing about having fish? It's not the fish. Seeing your fish go from healthy and alive to sick and dying is very stressful. Who wants to see all that death? No, what makes fish tanks so calming and soothing is the constant hum of the air filter. Sounds like a kitty purring all day and all night, content that you are there. Except it doesn't judge or claw you if you whip out your ding-a-long to do a happy weenie dance.

Been having mild hallucinations today. That's what you get when you don't get any sleep. It's not that I'm overworked; my two freelance jobs have no work for me. It's just that I have nothing else better to do. Yes, and I have been looking for other jobs. But I don't need sleep to do that.

So I'm enjoying sleep deprivation in all its glory. When I stay up more than 20 hours straight, and now it's been more like 30, my mind starts playing tricks on me. I see and hear things; nothing absolutely definable, but shadows and things lurking in the periphery. Sounds get amplified and have more "personality", e.g., my hard disk sounds like someone saying, "Yayeeyayeeyayeeyayee." My brain is probably just slow and tired, and therefore scared. Like a fight or flight response with nothing to fight or flee from except, apparently, demons.

So anyway, I figured there's no sense in getting down about not having work. I've come to enjoy the simple pleasures of life. Like clipping coupons, which I then take to a grocery store that doubles coupons, which I then further enhance by purchasing items that are already on-sale, so in the end, I get things for practically nothing. I recently bought a pair of cornish game hens for $2.00 using this method. No, not each. It was glorious.

I feel like a grandma. Oh well. Time to take a nap.

I love tomatoes, but they're so expensive. Like, $2.99/lb certain times of the year. So I planted some tomato plants this past summer, figuring I would grow my own damn crops. I was so excited. I imagined I would be eating bushels and bushels of tomatoes in just a few short months. All those tomato recipes I had prepared...

Oh, what hubris! My three plants produced a total of five edible tomatoes the entire summer. And it was mainly due to these fat disgusting bastards. They kept eating my plants the whole summer. And those mutha humpas can eat. They start as little tiny things and then suddenly, it seems, they get FRICKIN HUGE. If you get close enough, you can actually hear them chewing. But I don't get too close. I'm afraid one will leap from the plant and burrow into my ear canal. And I wouldn't be able to get it out because they'd be too quick! Finally it would settle deep in my skull and feast upon my delicious brains. Ugggh, the hideous sons of bitches. So they ate my tomato plants all summer, and other tomatoes would just die for no reason and parts of the plant would just shrivel up. Maybe they were sad because they were in pots. But they were in big 12 gallon pots. And I watered them every other day. Fertilized every week. They had no excuse.

Anyway, it is now mid-winter and the tomato plants are still alive, clinging on for dear life. It is only 50 degrees, but they don't like it. Producing little shriveled tomatoes that get all moldy and die before ripening. And something still appears to be eating them, although I find no caterpillars. Sigh. It wouldn't hurt so much if I didn't like tomatoes so much. Take what you will from that and apply it to any aspect of LIFE. Do it now.

Now, with whatever aspect of life you are thinking of, take with you this lesson: instead of nurturing and loving something in the hopes that it will one day produce something great, just go to the supermarket and buy one that's already firm and ripe.

A horrible lesson, you say? Indeed it is. Indeed it is.

I admit, I'm not sure if Colonel Sanders actually said that. In fact, I'm pretty sure that he didn't. So why am I putting words in Colonel Sanders' mouth? Because he puts delicious fried chicken into mine.

Along with his knob.

Which I dare say tastes kinda like a certain bird.

Though it's not nearly as crispy.

Crusty, though, I'll give you that.

Don't know if you want it though.

There are more steps to making it in life, but I have yet to take them.

- Colonel Sanders