Subterranean Beefworks

"Who asked you anyway?"

Wise words from Outlaw.

This weblog was created for interaction. I have a lot more to say than what is worth saying in most situations, so this is a place where I can lay it all out and give someone the time to respond if they choose to. To me, it's a forfeit act to publish something in the public realm without intending to get a response from the public. Everyone has their reasons for doing things like this (and honestly, to take it seriously is kind of silly) but personally, I get off on interaction. Otherwise, this is as entertaining as talking on the phone with no one else on the line.

I am slightly ruffled that I was actually given advice on how I should present things here. But alas, Outlaw said it best.

Who asked you anyway?

Readership faultering

I get all psyched to see 3+ comments when I check this site, only to find out again that Fugimax is having a conversation in my comments section. I understand completely that when you read about someone else's interests and daily life, it is very easy to be at a loss for things to say. I also acknowledge that what you read here may not even be sufficiently thought-provocative to bring forth comments. But seriously, get over that and write something. It's anonymous to most people but me anyway. Comments make this worth doing, that's all.

I think I'll try an experiment and actually talk about my day, selfishly.

Last night was a good Bob party. Along with the plentiful cache of alcohol, there was a wonderful, smallish group of people that I really enjoy hanging out with. They are the people I would know a whole lot better if my life in PA wasn't "interrupted" by "moving" to "Ohio."

It's always a little uncomfortable when I re-meet the people I went through primary school with. It goes something like this: They look at me, I look back as their brains visibly search for a name, and then they cock their head to the side, chancing at my name. Then a handshake and some quick life-review. By far the most explosive re-meeting was when I saw my old neighbor who didn't even recognise me at first, but once he had, I was barraged with "holy shit!"s and "where have you been!"s. It was really cool.

People aren't really different after 7 years, besides the slight change of shape, amount of facial hair, and the fact that the ones I hated 7 years ago are now some of the coolest people I've met. There's a couple lessons to be extracted from those statements, but I don't want to say them.

That's enough for now. I think I'll go so far as to say goodbye to whomever is reading this, to keep with the theme of selfishness of this entry.

~~CYA guys! till next time KAY!? <3 ---<-@
-dan!!!!!!!!

Turbocharged and intercooled 2.5 liter DOHC boxer engine

It's about 04:10 as I begin writing this, hoping to burn off the testosterone and adrenaline that have settled in my bodily tissues while I read about cars for much of the night. I see this being a long entry, so for those of you stuck at work or just woefully unemployed, this should tide you over well.

For those who know me well enough, chances are you've once or twice heard my lengthy tirades of profanity and defamation that scold the the lifestyle of the common anime "fanboy," the type that willingly, nay proudly sacrifice their culture and any shred of tolerability to ostensibly further their enjoyment of japanese animation. Yielding, however, no disdain for this group of broken individuals, it is now, with a heavy heart, that i concede hypocrisy.

Initial D changed my life.

Before I watched this series (the story of a young guy with an extraordinary ability to drive), I had just as many choice words for car fiends and ricers as I have for mutant orange-haired cosplayers, but having finished the 39 episodes, 2 specials, and the movie a few months ago, I am completely enamored with the world of automobiles. My affinity for cars has grown to be embarassing, as I will call attention to any Subaru WRX I see, or completely lose attention to the road as I drive past what may be a 1986 Toyota Corolla GT-S.

Hey, at least I admitted it shamefully.

Now that we are at an understanding concerning my unflattering fascinations, lets move on to the future. Car lust has given me a reason to strive for a well paying job. I don't care what kind of soul-sucking oppression a desk job would place on me; the utter satisfaction of being fired forward by the roaring turbo boost of a WRX would be like experiencing the best orgasm of a man's life from the sperm's point of view. It would be emotionally impossible to bring home the stress of the workday.

If there is one thing I look forward to in the future it is enjoying the sport of motoring with Tairan, whose impeccable taste will place him alongside my WRX in a Mazda RX-8 as pictured below. It's a race to a well-paying job and $32,000. Let us pray for a draw.

2004 Subaru WRX STi

2003 Mazda RX-8

Churn your insides

I wonder if you are as tired as I am of coming to the page only to see my horrible unwelcoming grimace. My hope for this entry is merely that it will be long enough to push that picture far enough down the page that you don't have to see it anymore.

I was doing some research on radar detectors this evening and in the process found some pretty interesting information. As it turns out, there are some tiny little loopholes in Pennsylvania statute that give you a leg to stand on if you feel you've been met with injustice in a speeding conviction. The problem is VASCAR. (This information comes courtesy of this place.

VASCAR is considered a "paragraph 3" speed timing device, meaning that it falls under this umbrella:

Electronic devices which calculate speed by measuring elapsed time between measured road surface points by using two sensors and devices which measure and calculate the average speed of a vehicle between any two points may be used by any Police officer.

As such, there is a seemingly little known statute that gives a motorist some wiggle room between legality and illegality. The paragraph reads:

4. No person may be convicted upon evidence obtained through the use of devices authorized by paragraphs (2) and (3) unless the speed recorded is six or more miles per hour in excess of the legal speed limit. Furthermore, no person may be convicted upon evidence obtained through the use of devices authorized by paragraph (3) in an area where the legal speed limit is less than 55 miles per hour if the speed recorded is less than ten miles per hour in excess of the legal speed limit. This paragraph shall not apply to evidence obtained through the use of devices authorized by paragraph (3) within a school zone.

Decrypted, it means that you can't be convicted (though I'm sure you could still be pulled over) for traveling 5 mph over the speed limit, period. Additionally, if the evidence against you was obtained through the use of VASCAR, you need to be 10 mph in violation if you're in a zone under 55mph.

Granted, its a gnat's wing of wiggle room, but when you take into consideration the margin of error with VASCAR (a cop's reaction time when pressing a button) a court could be convinced that you weren't driving as fast as was claimed on your citation. The unfortunate truth that remains, however, is that cops still have every right to waste your time and act like assholes.

Things that I look forward to:
Owning an orange and black paisley bandanna
Being mildly injured in hockey
Hanging out with Nicole, whom I haven't seen in a bunch of years
Getting $50 bucks for painting the porch floor
Having my re-opened knee-scuff dry into a scab.
Driving faster than this
Eating a large, fulfilling meal and then having an especially satisfying bowel movement a few hours later.

Released from bondage

Today was the long awaited day of braces removal. I have so many horrible things to say about orthodontics, but I'd rather just lick my deliciously smooth incisors and chalk it up to experience. And now you may join me in the chair as we relive the glorious rebirth of my smile.

Before. You see that metallic mess on my front teeth? That's bad enough. But what you don't see is a healing cut on the inside of my bottom lip, the countless scars, the flap of skin next to my upper right molar that refused to rejoin the rest of my cheek...and a bunch of other shit I don't much feel like describing.

I developed a healthy distain for the orthodontist I had in Ohio. He was a self-important, cold-hearted woodchuck of a man who I eventually got to yell at. But Dr. Thran is the fucking man. This is his lovely office and a magical place.

Welcome to the chair.

He went across all my teeth with a tool that looked like nothing more than adapted pliers. All this time I thought the brackets had probably integrated with the tissue of my teeth, but the fuckers popped right off without resistance. That doesn't surprise me though. Everyone knows how quickly cowards give in to pressure.

Can you see the glee?

The worst part was the 10 or so odd minutes during which he "polished" the "cement" off. Its better described, however, using the words "grinding" and "enamel."

I'll use my face instead of words to describe this part.

Nurse-lady looked as thrilled as I did about handling the clay-like mass of increasingly viscous white shit taking over my mouth.

And the finished result. Hell fucking yeah.

Also of interest is this little part of an ad poster near the chair I was in. I keep reading it over and over, looking for just one grammatical error so it can be the Engrish it so wishes it could be.

I skated over his metacarpals and didn't stop.

My lust for the blood of other players is increasing with my ability to control my skates. I will be the first to say that I am by no means a great hockey player, let alone an impressive skater, but the game is really starting to give me a set of new nerves. On the drive to the park, I felt myself getting restless and clenching my jaw, starting to daydream about body checks and firing shots. It might be all the Pantera and Opeth in my musical diet, but I feel that before long, I will have not only respectable skills, but I will become quite demonic when handed a hockey stick. You fear the ABEC-7.

I spent the weekend getting my calves horrendously sunburned at Seaside Beach, NJ. What follow are some pictures of the beachly experience. It had been far too long since the the ocean was allowed to rip me limb from limb and man, I was glad to finally embrace the violence of the waves. I have to say though, it's really unsettling when you get plowed in the back by a wave and expect your vertibral column to give, but instead it stays as straight as the steel rods screwed into it. Fucking rods. They need to come out.

I don't remember NJ having such fresh-looking water. It was lovely.

It's amazing how a little oil makes skin glisten that way.

I was raised hating seagulls because my dad, a sailor, told me of how they peck the eyes out of sea-stranded sailors.

A flower from the kitchen table of my friend Rob's girlfriend, a girl who decorated her most excellent party with various bouquets.

I believe you have my stapler

I woke up today way, way smarter than you are. It only lasted like 6 or 7 minutes, and I recovered, but man, it was a lot cooler than you'll ever realize.

Today the theme is "being careful". I'm going to try to influence as many people as I can to be careful. That way everything should go just fine. If it doesn't, it probably shouldn't have gone right anyway.

Earlier today I watched my neighbor taking out some garbage. I realized he may have some trouble concentrating, and if worse came to worse, there would be a garbagy mess all over his garbage area. Hoping to avert disaster I hastened to his garbage area shouting "BE CAREFUL!!!" I noticed along the way that he was indeed being rather careful, and other neighbors may have been more in need of my reminders. Now here's the kicker! I got so preoccupied with making sure everyone else was careful that I ran full speed into his garbage cans. Looks like I wasn't very careful! Sometimes things like that can happen, I get so wrapped up in helping others that I forget to look after myself, like the time I accidentally killed all those turtles.

In a way hitting all those garbage cans was a revelation. If I hadn't helped my neighbor in the first place, he probably would have knocked his garbage all over the place. But I did help, and the same thing happened anyway. I guess there's something we can all learn from that. I think that's why I don't have a job. I used to, now I don't and hey, I'm still alive right?!? Speaking of that, I found a really good, almost complete pineapple in that garbage so I didn't have to worry about lunch anymore. It's funny how things work out like that. I think God hates me.

We're gonna cut your dick off, Larry

This is the first entry I've made on an even-numbered day. The calender may have looked cool with the staggered pattern all the way through, but I don't think such a regular posting routine would show me in a very good light. ::urinates on this weblog:: See? I don't care. It means nothing to me, nothing. Additionally, I'd just like to say that if you ever talk yourself out of commenting because what you have to say concerns an old entry, comment anyway. Any comment gives me the same thrill as finding five bucks on the ground.

I have a Portishead album, "Dummy," and I've been listening to it most of the night. Such excellence. Similar to what I've heard of Radiohead, each song has a very evocative mood to it. Each song presents a distinct emotional demeanor, which makes Dummy the sort of album that you get hankerings for; you know exactly when the evening calls for Portishead. Dummy also has the enjoyable facet that the songs are just as good when you can barely hear them, the volume turned way down, as when you have them turned up. This is, in part, due to Beth Gibbons and her fragile, crystalline voice. It is expressive in the same way a person's eyes are. With just her singing, she can stare at you with the sharp, tormented glare of someone just betrayed, or if she pleases, flirt with you with a dark sardonicism. This album could talk you both into and out of suicide with one listen-through.

And now art...

Created while listening to Portishead - Dummy

"Today I'll play the part of non-parent"

Schroll is:

http://www.schrollcabinets.com/
http://www.maths.lth.se/na/staff/achim/
http://www.schroll-dk.com/
http://www.business.uiuc.edu/annual/annual96/schroll.html
http://www.tu-berlin.de/~ifhsm/english/staff/schroll_english.htm

I have no idea what the hell Schroll is. It certainly didn't mean anything when I made the post about it. It's just a syllable that I decided to publish.

On the Lehigh front, so far so good, very good actually. I've gone from haphazardly selecting it as my exit from the brick scab in Rochester to actually being enthused about going there. It took an actual visit to lock Lehigh in my mind as an actual place that exists, a place that will take my money, but now that it is determined to not be a hoax, I am excited to go to a university that seems to actually contain thinking people. It has a much more academic taste than the South Henrietta Institute of Technology, and on the purely aesthetic side, its really frickin gorgous. I don't know if there is anything more to say about the visit, except that it left me excited to actually be a college student, not a pale-ass out-of-shape anti-social technology whore in a bullshit major.

Pantera - "Fucking Hostile" = driving music

Too much waiting

I'm a big fan of Schroll.

Chest-pain

I took a nice drive out to Wegmans tonight to purchase the above meal (complete with Pantera - Vulgar Display of Power for a soundtrack). Besides the modicum of satisfaction I got from the odd 13 pieces of pretzel I ate, this was a horrible idea. Now I just feel more awake, my mouth reeking of "cultured sour cream" and MSG, and one snack closer to a massive heart attack. RC Cola is delicious though, the underdog of big name colas.

Now for some substance, I'll quickly review two CDs I've listened to.

First Selection: Lee Jung Hyun - àìá¤çö 2áý / ³ê (who the fuck knows what the romanized Korean was before Windows mangled it)

Lee Jung Hyun has earned a bit of reputation between Tai and I as having a laughably offensive voice. I remember us both wincing when we first heard it, blushing on her behalf for how horrendous it was. I can't speak for Tai (although I think he agrees), but for me, the album has somehow gotten much more tolerable as I listened to it more. On some tunes, she actually sounds rather sexy, the music driving well behind her; on other songs, even her sophmoric rap breaks have taken on a charm of their own. I guess what I like most about listening to it is that I can pretend she hails from North Korea and that this is what communists listen to for dance music. It has a very stern, red-flag vibe to it.

Second Selection: Metallica - St. Anger

If I can learn to appreciate Lee Jung Hyun's abrasive siren of a voice, then that alone proves I can appreciate most bad music in some way. But for Metallica's latest, that's just asking too much. Forget about the ridiculous snare triggers that reverberate for no less than 1/2 a second. Forget the fact that the entire album is tuned to the novelty of drop C. Even forget that the lyrics sound like they came from the margins of James Hetfield's fifth grade math notebook, and you still have an album that sucks harder than most adult alligators can bite. No song falls below 5:14 in length, which would normally be fine. But in this case, they just multiplied the number of times they run through the chorus. Every song is Kirk Hammet's tired technique abusing the nearly floppy 6th string while James either proclaims that he is "madly in anger" with someone, or is trying to express *something* by screaming "TICK TOCK" at the top of his lungs. I gave the album a second chance, as was suggested to me, but nothing changed. Only now I know where to turn if I never need a chuckle on a rainy day.

I apologize if I offended anyone's taste in music, but I'm sure no one cares enough about my opinions to actually be put off. But flaming is welcome, as I'd love to talk more about it.

This concludes my first 'opinion' post of Beefworks.

Fotofest

Happen to be in the mood to look at pictures? Good.

Thank you.

Fire-engine fart

One thing that's cool about where I live is that I get to hear all the goofy noises fire engines make. There's a station right down the hill, so in addition to hearing the clammer of every major emergency, I get to hear the random electronic farting and tooting of engines returning to the station. They emit what sound like jovial robotic belches roughly half a second in duration. Sure that's not so cool, but when you pretend there is a giant, bulding-sized robot at the center of town whose purpose is to help out the townspeople and clean up the parks, Clarks Summit takes on a whole new level of cool.

Much to the dismay of nicole, I made some good progress in my werk-0ut pr0gr4m. It's still admittedly lightweight, but even adding 1 repetition to each set up pullups makes you feel godly (only to be humbled to quivering exaustion soon after by 3 five-count concentrated pushups). Ectomorphs don't get huge, though. They just get more capable and sinuey. I'll be able to hold my own in bar fights that erupt because I beat some hot girl's boyfriend in arm wrestling.

Then there's the downer of the day. I found out that I am living in the same room with 2 other individuals this fall. If you know me past my name, then I've probably bitched to you about how impossible it is for me to be happy sharing living quarters. Please, God, don't screw me here, not at Lehigh.

-payce out,
your friend for eva,
Puffbite

Bonus Foto---

Constipated Summer

::Comes home from doing errands at 3:40. Sits down at computer. Reads message...
"want to go to potts falls? call me if you do. we're leaving at 2:30."::

::profanity insues::

I feel about this day the same way that I do about sitting on the toilet in stubborn constipation. You know you have to do something, the bowels are throwing a fit, but all you can do is wait and do nothing.

From my house, high on a hill, I can see the tops of many voluptuous trees extending for miles. I can see the sun beating down on the healthy leaves, satiated by the endless rains of May and June, and it makes me feel very healthy. I can see the neon glow of sunshine radiating through translucent plant matter and just that sight alone makes the air seem ever fresher.

Maybe I'll skate or something. My special plan to go to bed late and wake up early (so I am thusly tired at more reasonable hours the next night) is working, but it fucks up the next day. Right now i feel utterly drained, voiceless, and grouchy. I bet I'll peak this evening though.

Hahah, oh hell the sun is out. I'm grinning. I changed the basement project to something more reasonable and now, as you can see in the picture, I am set up with a pullup bar and these evil looking lifting-gloves that make me feel like Satan.

Additionally, I hate having a lot to say because entries grow too long. Maybe later will bring more.