Subterranean Beefworks

Don't forget the gross side of Thanksgiving

There is a gross side to Thanksgiving. It makes for the sort of conversation that no one feels reservations about euthanizing because it's just so unwelcome. The topics that make you wretch when you think about the delicious meal you just ate; the topics that make you blush ashamedly when you remember that you're human. You wish to excuse yourself from the table at the broach of these topics so you can busy yourself reading the paper or checking your email, any activity that is as far from these concepts as possible.

Turkey and Man. Man and Turkey. The relationship has been blooming wonderful for centuries with these stomach-turning undertones scarecely acknowledged. They are as taboo as the oddly-colored indecipherables between the teeth of your beautiful date. They are as taboo as your grandfather's colostomy bag.

These topics are so distressful that we tuck them away in the deepest, most dusty recesses of our minds, right next to our feelings about Monday mornings and our opinions of Hitler. We do this so we can enjoy our holiday, so we can eat our meal and smile at our relatives across the table. Is denying the existance of such a fundamentally nausious concept wrong in any way? Not one bit. In fact, for the sake of my own Thanksgiving dinner, I give thanks that things are the way they are.

So just what is the gross side of Thanksgiving?

For heaven's sake, be reasonable, and please drop the subject. This is not the time or the place.

Unrockbar (with some misc pictures)

Pictures:
Row 1: [LED] [Lila Smear] [Drama Guitar] [Wa bu fu] [Sam the Cat] [Hot]
Row 2: [Tonight] [Confrontation] [A First Snow] [Desk@RIT 1st year] [Ohio House] [In RIT Woods]

God. I love playing [guitar] so hard that when I sit down again, the seat of my pants feels damp. I can only begin to imagine the thought in your mind after you read that sentence. But continuing, I got an idea tonight at dinner, and it's been hatching a little more all night. You see, this entire week has been nothing but school spirit in the form of drinking, cars honking at tour groups, painted windows, marching bands, and just....lots of drinking. It was Lehigh/Lafayette week, during which there is a party every night of the week somewhere on the campus. It culminates on the gridiron, when the two teams of Lehigh and Lafayette attempt to hand eachothers asses to eachother. Incidentally, we violently jammed Lafayette's ass down its throat with a 30-10 victory. With everyone partying so hard, it got me thinking about bands.

I went to a party earlier in the year which had a band playing in the basement, a band party I guess it was called. Watching the guys on stage and a bunch of drunk co-eds thrashing around and being merry inspired me, and rekindled that flame that I guess all young guys have about presiding over the ecstatic chaos of a concert with a guitar, a soaked t-shirt and a raspy voice. Before I graduate, I want to do that.

My vision is to have maybe two guitars, drums, and bass. For the stage we'd have some colored lights, a garbage can full of beer and ice, and some candles on top of the equipment. We would play rock and punk, the kind of stuff that exhausts an audience, forcing even the most hardcore dancers to take breathers every so often. During songs, I would lock eyes with a cute dark haired girl in the front row, so she would think I was singing about her, then turn back to seducing my guitar. Between songs, taking sips from an increasingly warm bottle of beer, I would taunt the audence for more movement, more noise, more damned chaos. There would be jokes between bandmates half-projected through the speakers, drunk frat brothers screaming for FREEBIRD... which we would probably end up playing. We would fucking rule that party, and rule everyone in it, and they would love us for it, even the dark haired girl in the front row.

Shows how much an environment can change you. I had a similar ambition when I was at RIT, but it was signifigantly more fucking stupid. Since RIT had a social scene similar to a bingo hall, I would spend a lot of time in my room learning how to play anime music on the guitar. Now, you must understand that 'anime music' is really diverse and covers everything from classical to rock to metal to pop, so it wasn't really as bad as it sounds. But still, it was anime music. I was a member of the anime club, which met on wednesdays to show two hours of anime, and met every so often for dance parties, "talent shows," game parties, and other such easily mockable activities when themed with anime. My dream was to gather a couple people to play anime music at these gatherings. I thought it would be cool, and I'm sure that if I actually did it, I would still find it cool. But, I never did it. I am somewhat thankful for that. Anime fanboys and their frightening willingness to live a very unflattering stereotype are quick to get on my badside.

Where am I going to find a good drummer?

Christmas List

The List
• Shower slippers
• New cutter for my Remington MicroScreen2 TCT razor (MS2 200)
• Clothes (a sleek-ass pair of jeans, a good sturdy long-sleeve shirt)
• Chalk bag for climbing
• A nice compact sleeping bag (the kind that can be stuffed into managable little bags)
• Hiking boots that can be waterproofed
• Unique boxer shorts
• Phish - Round Room (CD)
• Leo Kottke & Mile Gordon - Clone (CD)
• A beautiful girl in a warm sweater who wants to eat cookies.

Half-Kidding (AKA, the Big gift)

• Logitech Z560 Computer Speakers ($137)


• A bitchin' one-person tent.


• Tom Anderson Hollow Drop Top: Alder body with Quilted maple Top, Maple with Madagascar Rosewood fretboard, Matching Headstock, Vintage Tremolo-1 11/16” nut in heavy with +.030 Carve, Locking tuners, 5 way, add Bridge, Vintage Voicing CHOME H1- SA1-H2+ Pickups (RETAIL is $3609 but it will cost about $2,400 after heavy negotiation. With a trade-in, perhaps $2-300 less)


• 2003 Honda CBR 600RR Motorcycle - $2650

this might be about girls

Let it be said that this entry is in no way intended to compete with Tai's Visual Shock pentalogy (a mind numbing display of inconceivable Asian beauty that dries one's mouth of saliva). Rather, this is just a display of some girls that strike me so. Admittedly, I am a fool for the whole nymph/sprite thing, so it's a pretty universal theme in these pictures. Blame it on my height or something.

Pretend Russian lesbians can be spritely. (TATU)

This is somehow Christina Ricci.

I love the idea of moss for hair. (Bloem de Ligny)

Or just tousled real hair. (Björk)

Or just red real hair. (Franka Potente)

Winona Ryder is simply a very cool woman.

Clarissa might as well bark and eat from a dish on Alex Mack's floor. (Larisa Oleynik)

The obligatory Asian. (Rina Uchiyama)

Fucked.

I might as well write about this will I'm still fuming. I couldn't register for classes tonight.

This school is run by a bunch of mentally retarded fucking monkeys with bad ideas. I can't fucking register because some dipshit with warm diahorrea between his ears thought it would be "progressive for the instituion" and a practice in "organizationalized uniquness with goal of streamlining the academic processization" to make students have TWO fucking pin numbers to get into the registration area.

One pin number gets you into the system, a personal number of your chosing. Then, the other one (WHICH NO ONE FUCKING TELLS YOU ABOUT) is the "alternate" pin number, or, "registration" pin number. I mean for Christ's bloody sake WHY?!?!?

Given how "relatively" obvious the importance of this number is, you would think that WHEN YOU MEET WITH YOUR ADVISOR ON THE FRIDAY BEFORE REGISTRATION that she might maybe perhaps say "oh! did you get the alternate pin number that you are supposed to get from me when you meet with me about classes? I mean, you CAN'T register without it, so you PROBABLY FUCKING NEED IT YOU LITTLE MONEY-SPEWING PAWN! NOW GET UNDER MY DESK AND STUFF ME WITH TUITION!"

Honestly. In the two class-wide emails I received from her, maybe she could've mentioned a number as important as this. It's not even like you get one number for the year and go from there. You get a new one EVERY SEMESTER. This is a COMMON thing. Such fucking dick, I tell you.

Yeah, maybe if I read the instructions for online registration I would've seen the two places this is mentioned. I shouldn't be complaining. No, fuck you. You don't sell someone a digital security system and hide the initial passwords on your poorly organized, unprofessional, unintutive website. You don't sell someone a car and then leave it to them to figure out that you open the doors with psychic energy instead of with a normal god damn key.

This is why I miss RIT. This place should take a fucking seminar from them. Allow me to compare the respective registration processes.

And fugimax, i really don't care to hear your predictable disagreement. i'm sure cmu does it even better than rit, or i'm sure 'this is normal procedure for acredited universities' or some shit. just don't bother.

Lehigh, expect to find a dump in one of your more important filing cabinets tomorrow.

I dreamt last night

Why the hell do I keep dreaming about nail-clippers? for the second time that I can remember, nail-clippers have appeared in a dream, stuck somewhere I happen to be looking. The first time, they appeared in the front pocket of my bookbag. I had to actually check in there after I woke up because I thought I would find them there. Then this second time, they appeared in my closet on the shelf above my clothes were all my food and soap is. there were two nail-clippers, apparently there because i put them there, but i surely didn't. Again, i checked there this morning only to find nothing but food and soap, and my real clippers where they should be: in my agatized wood bowl.

I had another weird one this morning before I awoke.

I was standing outside of a monestary that was in the process of being built. It was in the middle of the woods, with enough trees cleared out for the building itself and a couple meters around for people to stand and materials to go. The stone masons were hammering away, shaping the stone and being hard workers while I stood with a group of 9 or so people, all of us clad in thick burlap robes. I remember being amazed at the skill of the stone masons, working the stone with such efficiency and prowss. The structure quickly grew higher and higher. While this was going on, a member of our group (who happens to be my RA in real life) was talking about how to evade a bear attack. He mentioned that every so often you'll see bears near the treeline (he was referring to the edge of the clearing) and sure enough, there was huge, greasy brown bear foraging around behind us. My RA continued to explain that you don't evade a bear attack by running, because the beast will assume you're pray and try to eat you. You throw up your arms and scream, facing the bear so it knows you're not pray. At that point, the stone masons were taking a break. But they didn't use scaffolding or ladders to get off the building, they jumped. They used a technique where they scooped a shovel full of dirt, leapt off the building, and just as they were about to fall, they would fling the dirt to the ground with all their strength. In my dream physics, this counter-balanced the force of gravity and they were able to land in a large dirt pile below. From the force of their landing, a huge cloud of brown mulch dust ejected from the pile, at which point they would emerge, clad in robes that seemed intended for protective purposes. They were dark-colored, covering the entire body, with the face covered by a large mesh oval that went from the forehead to just below the chin. Amazed by the masons' technique for getting off the building, the conversation among the group quickly shifted to whether we could do it as they do. My RA took the inititive (in real life, he is an avid rock climber) and explained that he's not doing it for the thrill value. He's not doing it for some contrived reason. That's not what his climbing is about. He never explained it fully, but I assumed he just meant that he had some profound reason for the things he does. He began climbing. Then I noticed that there was a massive bear coming very close to the group behind us. One group member was nearly pissing himself with fear and suddenly bolted, the bear instantly taking chase. For some reason, I bolted as well, and the bear then chose me as a target. There was a rather vast sloping pasture on the side of the monestary that included the 'back-yard' as well. Before the bear could pounce, I turned, threw up my arms, and screamed as loud as I could. I had only short gasps worth of breath; my screams sounded furiously animal. The bear, confused by my sudden change of demeanor took my right arm in its mouth. I prepared my mind for what I was sure would come next, that my arm would be ripped off and I would have to live without an arm. Surely, the bear made a 'ripping' motion, yanking itself back in a madly forceful arc, but my arm did not come off. Paniced but relieved, I continued screaming. The bear bellowed and groaned at me, towering over me and advancing me backwards across the pasture. Somehow, my screams were being interpretted by the bear. He would respond, almost conversationally, agreeing with me or pressing for more information. He seemed to agree with my inadvertant point about how hard life was in the woods, and how hard it is in the state of nature. He shrugged, took things in stride, and continued leading the conversation with his gregarious, overbearing nature.

Around then is when I woke up, my body moist from sweat.

To hell and back

There have been very few incidents in my entire life around computers that have been inexplicably catastrophic. Once, a fan died in my power supply that caused the thing to overheat and melt a little bit. Then my Voodoo 3 went temporarily senile (but actually still functioned, upon later testing). I've never been maliciously hacked; viruses I've had were disposed of promptly, and as far as I can remember, my shit pretty much stays where it should be.

Well, I suppose there's a first time for everything.

I had just gotten back from a very poor night of climbing. A couple of weeks before, when I first started climbing regularly, something must've happened inside my shoulder, because every night since that first week I've left the wall with some definite osteo-soreness. That night though, it felt like a recovering gunshot wound. This put me in a very bad mood, because not only did this pain fuck up my scores for the bouldering competition, but now I had to go about my normal business with my shoulder constantly yelling at me, "HEY!! HEY ASSHOLE! WHAT'D YOU DO!? HEY!! HEY!! THIS SUCKS!!! HEY!! ASSHOLE!!" Couple this with my roommate's decision to go to bed at fucking 9pm and you have a pissed, hurting Dan in the dark with work to do, no music, and barely able to hold a pencil.

My mood decidedly sour, I decided to postpone homework and play some Rally.

Now something else you need to know about my computer is that it has seizures. Every so often, it will get some great idea that it has to think really hard about, and when it does, everything goes to shit. The seizures usually last about 30 seconds.

As could have been expected, it got some wonderful idea right as I was loading my game. Okay fine. I'll let the fucker think through its problem and then go on with my game. No, this just happened to be a REALLY great idea and the stupid thing had to think extra hard and for much longer than my patience could stand. God dammit! I wanted to fucking race!! *I* am the user, I'm hurting; all I want is to play a stupid rally!

So I shut the damn thing off while it was still in the game.

Roiling, I paused for a moment, cursed life, and then turned it back on.

"The following file is damaged or could not be found: /WINDOWS/SYSTEM32/CONFIG/SYSTEM

Select 'r' on the main menu of the Windows XP Setup disk to attempt a system repair."

The paraphrased error above didn't faze me initially. Maybe it was a fluke. Maybe the system was pissed off because I made it lose its train of thought and now it had to figure out all over again how to become sentient. So I restarted again. Nothing. Alright, still no matter. I'll just do what it says and run setup. I roiled for a little bit before popping in the XP setup disk. The menu loaded, and just as promised there was a choice for "repairing." Yeah! I've seen this before, it'll rebuild all the important files for me and everything will be fine! Wooord. I pressed R.

This is the Windows XP repair console. You will be able to repair and restore system files using this utility. Which installation would you like to repair?

I happily selected the only choice there was.

C:/Windows

A prompt appeared.

What? What the fuck. It's just sitting there. It's a fucking console prompt. It's fucking DOS! My mind doing somersaults, I started exploring. As it turns out, the "repair console" or whatever the hell it’s called is a neutered version of the command prompt. You can't even copy more than one file at once. Well that was just a peach-fucking-pie; I would be able to copy my files to the other drive before reinstalling Windows.

I sat back and roiled for a moment.

I decided to check out this windows/system32/config/system file that was currently ravaged with cirrhosis. It's one of the three main registry hives and probably the last thing you'd ever want corrupted. With the laughably short length and girth of the repair console's penis, there was very little I could actually do besides look at stuff, delete it, or copy it. So, I decided to copy SYSTEM.SAV to SYSTEM, in effect replacing the dead file with what appeared to be an earlier saved state of it. I wasn't roiling anymore. I was in the heat of triage, trying to bring the thing back to life.

Something I found very strange happened when it began booting. I was presented with the initial installation screen of Windows XP. I don't know if this was because of what I did with the SYSTEM file, or if it was a matter of course after running the repair console. Whatever the case, Windows was on the road to reinstallation. A thick wad of angst began to gather in my throat as I began to consider the fate of my files.

After an abnormally long installation process, Windows definitely loaded. I was definitely looking at the "new style of clean lines and colors." And my files were definitely inaccessible. XP has all these security measures built in that keep kiddies from getting to another user's files. But thanks to the www.arstechnica.com forums, I found that even though XP makes the files of defunct users impossible to access, you can "take ownership" of those folders in order to get access to them. It was really brilliant if you ask me. I got all my files back, was able to back them up, and since I reinstalled XP again (having no faith in the jury-rigged install described earlier) it has been nothing but screaming performance and NO SEIZURES!

I've been thinking a lot about why performance doesn't suck now. It might be because I didn't use the XP install CD that came from a certain inept individual from RIT. Pretty much everything I've gotten from him has been complete trash, so a busted-ass pirated XP disk is entirely conceivable. It could have been that before, I didn't have the Indexing Service disabled and these seizures were caused by the disk being indexed (though I do distinctly remember disabling indexing service...). It could also have been that I ran a hard-drive repair utility that fixed some errors on the drive.

I don't know though. Whatever the case, I have an extraordinarily fast install of XP, my files are all accounted for, and I won. I fucking won this battle. My shoulder doesn't even hurt anymore. I have to say I have learned more from this episode (much of which wasn't even spoken of here) than I have ever learned from any other catastrophe. I'm glad for that.

I hope you enjoyed this boring, esoteric epic. If you got this far without skipping anything, well...it begs a few questions that won't be asked.

New Features

A lot of the errant visitors to this site get here because they search for WRX STi on search engines. (I'm on the first page of results for the query "wrx sti 44s," mhwhahaah) Unfortunately for them, they are welcomed by the utter uselessness of some nameless American's weblog that actually has very little to do with the WRX itself (nice rating of relevancy, Google).

Well, I am going to take ownership of the responsibility that Google and other search engines have bestowed upon me. In the coming weeks, I will begin releasing features that will be accessable from the main page of this weblog. And to start this off, I'm going to pay comprehensive homage to the Subaru WRX.

Other features about various topics will follow later. Whoever said a page like this couldn't have purpose?

The Ballad Of Bill Hubbard

Say what you want about Roger Waters and how he's a no-talent money-scrounging ass-clown, but I don't think so, at least from what I hear of his album Amused to Death. Much of the album is his prose, a poignant mix of sarchasm and cynicism, poking fun at the ridiculousness of the military and the age-old crisis in the middle east. The timbre of his voice as he hunches over the microphone is like an old man in a saloon, hunched over a beer. It's very intimate, it makes me think long and hard about the life of a soldier. It makes me think about what they're fighting for, and it makes me disheartened and angry.

The album is special to me for another reason too. Back when I was growing up, Amused to Death was an album my dad played a lot in the car. He would turn to Perfect Sense and tell me to listen really carefully. At the time, I didn't really understand why a submarine would fire missles at an oil rig, or why Marv Albert would be a commentater presiding over the whole thing, but nevertheless I imagined it. To this day, I still imagine it the same way; black waters under an inky night with a dim red glow of civilization on the horizon. A submarine slinks through the water in the foreground, approaching the wire-frame sillhouette of an oilrig that pierces the horizon. I love that memory, and I love how my dad made me think of such cool things at such a young age.

Shit, I still remember the busted jewel case that the CD was in, how the cover would always come off and how it had all the scratches. I remember putting in the CD player of my dads Miata before we drove to 'the office' to get some stuff.

So maybe it is sentimentality that makes me enjoy this album so much, or maybe its a genuinely good album. I don't really care, truthfully. It inspires me to think about fatherhood, and how I want to share music with my boy as he grows up. He'll probably hear a good bit of Pink Floyd, hide, maybe some Phish too. He'll hear my trip-hop like Chicane and Röyksopp; he'll hear Faye Wong and Air; there will be some Björk in my collection, some Steve Burns, the White Stripes, Tool, Schiller, Rusted Root. Of course, he won't like any of it at the time. He'll be bitching about having to "turn on the computer to hear it, why can't they just put it on brain-disk, it would be so much easier." My son is going to rule.

This post will now become extra-long.

Fatherhood. A good son or daughter will happen if I can find a cool wife, and this is something I am beginning to think about. Cutting through the shit, I think we can all agree that when we become involved with someone of the opposite sex, we wonder how they would be as a life partner. We think about their genes, their abilities, their appearance, how tall the kids will be, are they good at math? Are they motivated? I've met two people in my life who, as I know them, would make a good wife. They were different than me in all the right respects. They were smarter than I am, but they didn't seem to make an issue of that. They were beautiful as people, with hearts big enough to help strangers, minds straight enough to get good grades, and spirits vibrant enough to have a hell of a good time. They were creative with gifts, they remembered dates, they were astute enough to know when they were being bullshitted, but naive enough to never become jaded. They'll end up with good husbands because they respect themselves, and those men will be the luckiest fucking bastards on this planet.

Too much noise to sort through right now.

Reluctantly crouched

Although my addiction to CMR3 has waned in recent days, I have had some excellently productive relapses. I indicated improved times over on the right there.

The bitter battle between Subaru and Mitsubishi continues. Soob managed to de-throne Mitsubishi from a very important place (Narndee in Australia), again proving the impossible possible. However, in what can only be called vengeful retaliation, Mitsubishi managed to not only wipe Soob from Cundering and Rockingham, but also to pour 01:34 worth of salt in Subaru's already festering Wyemando wound.

It now seems fitting to pose the question, are we any closer to establishing, once and for all, who the better vehicle is? We know that it is no uncommon feat for Mitsubishi to calmly step up and gracefully eviscerate Subaru on tracks thought to be unquestionably Soob-controlled. Additionally, it often takes weeks, even months before Subaru can break into Mitsubishi property (Ghardhiki, anyone?). However, we must not forget that Subaru has control over some of the most challenging roadway on the circuit. Mitsubishi can't touch Shinshushinmachi with a 20 foot pole, nor can it do more than dream about retaking Ghardhiki. It was shocking to see them rip through USA recently, but Subaru put them right back in the kennel that very same day.

An end to the pitched battle between Subaru and Mitsubishi, and an answer to the great question of vehicular superiority is far from being seen. Fortunately though, this can mean but one thing: more and more racing.

* * *

I need a girlfriend. What I wrote above is all the proof you need of that.

I don't want any moire

This new monitor kinda...eats it. I had to replace my old one because after something like 4 years of being carried to people's houses, moved from room to dorm room to room to another dorm room, car trip after car trip, it just gave out. The Sony Multiscan 200sf was a fucking tank of a monitor, with huge versatility, no color quirks. 1280x1024 at 75hz without a complaint.

I was so spoiled by it that this new monitor (NEC FE990) seems like a huge step down. It's got all these moire problems that I can't get rid of, and the whites turn to dirty-laundry white when white is the prevailing color on the screen, and because it's 19", 1280x1024 looks too big for my taste. 1600x1200 just looks assy too. In addition to this, when lots of black is next to a lighter color, the lighter bleeds. damn unacceptable.

This sucks because if I don't learn to adapt, then I'm going to have to RMA this, ship it back to the fucking west on my dime, only to put my faith in another screen. Damn.

Look how narrative my entries are getting. Here's more:
I climbed again tonight, the third night in a row, and i can barely lift my arms anymore. My hands feel raw and abused, my groin is singing, and my right foot is pissed about being stuffed into a smaller space than my left foot (i think they're two different sizes). Progress is progress though, and I'll be stronger tomorrow morning. Tomorrow is a day of rest though. Must heal.

how about some pictures then, eh?

It actually looks kinda badass. Damn shame

Bacon whistle. ?

A friend of mine made the flame pillow. It seriously makes sleep 31.24% deeper. I love it.

This is who makes these posts.

This is who lives with him.

This is how he gets into the room.

steinklettern

that's the german word for rock climbing. there will be no proper capitalization in this entry because my figners hurt too much for compound keystrokes.

i felt good on the wall tonight. coupled with yesterday's trip to stover park, i think i'm finally starting to get it, that is, get locked into that mindset where you no longer feel like climbing. it becomes an obligation to your mind and your muscles.

i feel very aware of where i am lacking. my hamstrings are as tight as suspension cables, my hands don't have much endurance, and my feet are handicapped by shoes that haven't been completely broken in. i need more isometric strength, that is, i want to be able to suspend at least 80% of myself on any single limb. i need more snappy springiness, so that's some work for the legs.

all of that aside, i feel like i could become an extremely good climber. i can't bend my spine like normal people due to the everpresent steel, so i surely look awkward at times, but i don't think that holds me back as much as one would think. truly, i want to become awesome at this so everyone with spinal fusions can have a hero, in a way, doing slinky-curvey things without the faculty of slinky-curviness. i know i've needed a hero at times, but since there are none that i know of (gloria estefan and that supermodel don't really apply to me) i might as well make myself one.

there's a bouldering comp at the wall here that i found myself enrolled in tonight. so far, of 20 possible points i have 19 (that's two climbs at 10pts each). tomorrow, there's a moderately-fucking hard one that involves some dynamics, which i suck at. but, may this be my first steps in what will be a long trip. maybe one day i'll be in a magazine. hell, then i could get climbing chicks ::whipes away drool::

Chimaira

Thank god for Chimaira. Metal sounds bad sometimes; sometimes you don't want to deal with the screaming and the distortion, the cries of violence and dysfunction. But sometimes you really really do.

For some moods, you only wish your speakers could push a little harder to do the music justice. Sometimes good metal--and tonight it was Chimaira--gives you a voice when you can't scream yourself. You can sit and listen, clench your teeth, and let the music drag its nails down your inner walls.

http://www.chimaira.com