PAW

The cutest thing ever.

Hurra Torpedo

Now I know what to do with that fridge in the backyard.

For all the "Losers"

Geez it's March already

( Laura, Eric, Me, Eric's brother, Jenn)


First, lets turn back time to January 5th...8:00pm, a taxi pulls to the bottom of my front step. I jump in and head to my friend Jenn's to pick her up. It's the Speakeasy Holiday party and Jenn just quit a week before for a bigger and better job at Xbox. We proceeded to have a goodtime and found life jackets for 4yr olds on the top floor of the pier that the company rented for the occasion. We put them on. It was easier to put them on after a few drinks, which made me capable of dislocating one of my arms. I don't actually remember taking mine off...but then we ended up at a party where most of the people there where naked with the exception of a few ackward party goers, Jenn, Houston and myself...what a strange way to end an evening...

Ok, let's go a bit further back when Jenn still worked with me. It's the marketing teams holiday party... White elephant (always a bad idea) but this time I got Lynyrd Skynyrd beer glasses. The real highlight to this was something called Exquisite Corpse. The entire marketing team individually wrote a portion of this piece not knowing anything but what the last person wrote...

Exquisite Corpse

December 15, 2006

On two separate occasions during the past year I’ve been besieged by requests for deeper inquiry into the events of early 2005. Why now? Why after such a long period of disinterest? I suspect that it is somehow connected with the sudden appearance of Sir Timothy Billingsworth and his disheveled entourage at the gates of our fine city last August.

The last time I’d seen Tim (or Sir Timothy as he now likes to be called), was before he hit the big time. I had run into him in Vegas a few years back when I inadvertently walked into the lobby of the Sahara and saw him leaning up against one of those NASCAR arcade games with a showgirl hanging off his right arm and a 32 oz. mug of Budweiser in his left. Never mind the pinky ring and sunglasses. With that image in my mind, I would have never guessed that he’d become the person he is today.

Now, "Sir Timothy" sits before me - a sorry wreck of a man. He called begging to meet me, choking back sobs as his each earnest plea chiseled away at his remaining pride. Well, here I was at a hole in the wall dive, staring down at a broken man in a dirty suit, waiting for him to wind up enough energy to pitch his pleas, his schemes, and his apologies. He rubbed a shaky hand through his hair. The pinky ring was gone, replaced by a broken red mash of what could barely be called fingers.

Before he could speak the door slammed open and in walk 7 Santa's. I thought to myself, "not again, this is the second time tonight." But this time was different. They seemed to be surrounding us at the bar. The jukebox just finished playing Tom Waitt's version of White Christmas.

Next on the Jukebox was Adam Sandler’s "The Chanukah Song". Apparently the Santa's were a militia group out to gather toys and money for the local Christmas charities. Due to the fact that we were lacking toys and reluctant to give them cash, the Santa's were on us like the IRS on Jeff Skilling. After buying the Santa's a round of grape nehighs and donating $20 to toys for tots we found ourselves all locked arm in arm singing along with the jukebox "put on your yamaka, and celebrate Chanukah!"

All signs were pointing to the greatest holiday season ever, until the skies parted and Arnaud descended from the heavens atop a purple Emu and declared that he was a MOS, the Byzantine Christmas Vampire, and didn't require sleep....ever. T'was then that things began to make more sense to the merry revelers. Upon hearing this sad and disturbing news the jolly yet benevolent crew boarded a freighter destined for the Land of Nod, in a joint effort to give MOS the gift of all gifts, the gift of a good night's sleep.

But once again: who needed sleep at this time of year? After quite a night of joy, merriment (PG-version) in this wonderful mossy territory, the entire MOS community joined the crew in a singing praise of ITU standards, FCC regulations, Patent law and FTC recommendations. Caroling had never been so fun in this land since the Hobbits had left the Shire before joining Shadowfax and his acolytes in greener pastures. In a parallel universe, young and old were increasingly saddened by the absence of festivities at the hub of all transportation, as the Supreme Commissioner and Commander of All Airborne Identified Objects had prohibited any prominent display of joy, greenery or other seasonal conifer. All creatures were wondering: why such scrooginess?

And a painful cry was heard througout the land.. "If I could work my will, every idiot who goes about with 'Merry Christmas' on his lips, should be boiled with his own pudding, and buried with a stake of holly through his heart." Indeed, it was the best of times, it was the worst of times.

As he fled the chaos of Christmas fever, he finally finds peace by the fire with spirit in hand. Finally, alone to check the successes of his recent online endeavors, he finds his broadband is down. "Damned Covad" he mumbles to himself. He calls for support without much help at all, his blood starting to boil and he begins cursing them all. Stuck on hold, his door bell rings only to find Christmas carolers wanting to sing. He slams the door. "How dare they try to spread their Christmas cheer!" And just then he hears whispers in his ear.

Oh no! The voices are back! The Christmas carolers must have been part of the CIA plot to steal his brain waves and use them to relay coded messages to the dolphins!! (The dolphins—as he kept trying to tell his wife before she ran off to Tahiti with her chiropractor—have been in league with the aliens for more than a decade, secretly instigating wars in the Middle East, fostering the reality television craze, and slowly unfurling their plan to kill all the human men and breed with the women, thus creating a new amphibious species that will be able to communicate across the galaxies and override all known forms of mass communication.) The fate of the planet now depends on our hero finding the right brand of aluminum foil to cover his head.

The brand of aluminum foil that you can only find in dorm rooms and frat houses used as antennas for television sets nationwide. There are only 3 known places that this foil exists, Arizona, Texas, and of course, Minnesota.

He had tried some foil from inferior states such as California and Washington, but they always left him with a headache and that impotent feeling. He decided to head for Texas because it was the largest state and therefore easier for him to locate the proper foil... he hoped. Fortunately, he had his Father's leer jet waiting for him at the airport. The Old man's eccentricities did come in handy sometimes

The flight to Dallas was turbulent, and when he landed he felt sick to his stomach. He stepped off the plane into the Texas heat and was greeted a man in a blue suit and dark glasses. The man said, "Follow me, sir. I'll be driving you to your desired location." He looked like one like one the those mafia hit men types, but that's ridiculous - there's no Texas mafia.

The stretch limousine was dark gray with all the windows darkened. When he slide into the car, he noticed the pungent smell of cheap aftershave and stained upholstery. This was going to be a long ride. The drivers name was Gus and he wasn't as hardened as his exterior appearance. It took about an hour to arrive to the weathered cattle ranch.

Once he arrived at the cattle ranch he realized it wasn’t a ranch at all. It was actually a haunted castle on a cliff in a place he had never been. He wasn’t even sure how they got there. About 10 minutes into the ride Gus suggested he enjoy a beverage, which he did. That’s the last thing he could remember, and Gus was nowhere in sight.

As dis-Gus-ted as he was by this turn of events, he soon regained a sense of perspective. In the end, it mattered little if he finished what he started, or if someone else did. It didn’t matter that his story was about as coherent as a pack of feral cats stuck in the pipes of an 18th century English church organ playing Helter Skelter to a dance floor of 1,000 neon-clad lepers. What mattered – for this one precious moment at least - was the glass in his hand, the company of his friends, and the smile on his face.

New Hairstyle

My sister, Marla, took me into her kitchen and transformed my grown out seventies hair to something worth taking a picture of.

What A Trip

For my long awaited vacation this year I decided to drive down to CA instead of flying. A couple of reasons for this decision but the main reason was money the second reason was the length of time. So I set out at 3:00am with my lil' buddy, Francis at my side and off we went. As with most road trips, as good as you are at planning, you can never plan for everything.

Five hours into the trip my "Check Engine Soon" light went on..."Damn", I thought, "I just had the car weatherized and tuned up." Needless to say the car drove just fine to my Grandmothers house 7 hrs away. On the way down to Santa Cruz I stopped in Santa Rosa at the Saturn Dealership and they found some intake filter issue, so I had it fixed..."Good to go," so I thought.

First week flew by and then on Wednesday of the second week Francis sniffed a foxtail up her nose. Ugh! It had to be surgically removed. After dropping lil’ frannie off , my car died. I had to take it to the Saturn Dealership in San Jose. They said it was the Battery. My seemingly inexpensive road trip ended up costing an additional $1000.00.

We saw a lot of family and friends which was nice, but as all trips I make to CA I never get to see everyone or go everywhere I would like. Next Year... maybe I’ll fly.

Seattle Psycle...movies about urban cyclists

I have been spending some sleepless nights working on a very exciting project, Seattle Psycle. The website is finally designed!!!Hotte, a good friend of mine, and I are planning on spending this lovely Friday, October 13th putting it together. We are hoping to have it live within the next week or so. Check out the site www.seattlepsycle.com. If it isn't live it will be soon....

My friend, aka Carl

The fun never ends. My friend from work is a great photographer and has a vivid imagination. Put that together and with my photoshop skills and a fascination with things that are creepy, we'll... this is the result. Gabe (my friend) likes to call this character Carl.

Carl is Otto's slightly odd identical twin brother. Carl's brother Otto is a quiet gentle insurance salesman who is often on the road traveling from town to town selling insurance leaving Carl on his own. Carl sleeps in the basement during the day and emerges at night to walk the halls of his and Otto's old house. You can say he's a night owl, and with those goggles he kind of resembles an owl.