Sunday, May 27, 2007

Cellphone Antics Revisited

I am notorious for pulling out the cellie and shooting pictures of everything. I have some shots that are less poignant than these, but they capture beauty. Like, the beauty of this area. Maybe I will put them up, maybe I won't. I am no Leibovitz, and this is no real camera. However, I am treating it like I treated cameras when I was in summer camp as a kid. I treat it as a thing with unlimited ammo.
Since she made me take down K DA FO part 1, here is a shot of a conscious Yzzy.

I took this with a flash last Tuesday night. If you were so inclined, you could click on the picture, zero in on the speedometer and determine that I am driving at about 70mph. I wonder what the car looked like from the outside?

This is a cellphone shot of my comp screen that I was going to send to Casson in regards to his "links" blog. I even clicked "send" from the phone, but it failed. I have bad Verizon at the house.

Safeway today. Shopping for my weekly chicken. I looked at this sign and filled in the blank with my own dirty mind. I don't think that it was that much of a reach.

'Cept mine. This older manager was looking at me suspiciously as I shot this in Safeway. I guess he didn't want me taking a pic of his nuts.

I laughed out loud

For just a sec when I saw this pic online.

Perhaps I spent my allowance on the Topp's Star Wars cards for too many years.

Whoever did this doctorage is someone my age and probably in my frame of mind.

Wednesday, May 23, 2007

Yzzy's Blog


Matt's Olds and how I done messed that up

Hector is a badass. I dig the car. Whoops it up to 80mph if I just slip on the gas pedal. Built for speed and damn sexy. Does the trick. However, Hector the Mustang, with that .351 Windsor runs hot. The guy before me put an electric fan in there that kicks on when the radiator gets to a certain temperature, but last week, that stopped working. I was overheating profanely. It is cool to have a car that is a showstopper (well, compared to Ferdie R.I.P.) but with the steam blowing out the front? NOT COOL.

So Hector was out of commission. I needed wheels. Matt said he would loan me his Olds. I dig that car. I laughed myself sick in it a few weeks ago. I mused that I'd always wondered who drove a car like this, and now I know. it wasn't the fact that it was an Olds; it was the fact that there was trash and random stuff all over the interior. In the coffee cup holder was a 2 day old cup of unfinished joe with cigarette butts floating in it. Clothes, papers, bits and pieces, cigarette packs, matches, nuts, bolts, fast food wrappers and spare change were everywhere. Furthermore, Matt has a socket wrench up by the back window, just there...waiting to brain someone if the brakes get spiked.

Not only that, but the transmission in this car is fading fast. This means that if you slow down for a speed bump, the car decides to drop into first right before you stop, giving a slight chirp at points. First time this happened to me, I thought that I had hit something, the downshift was so drastic.

But talk about comfortable! You can lean wayyyy back and just float in this thing. It is almost like you are coasting in a cab full of warm jello. This vehicle holds you in place, but lets you spread wayyy out. Relaxation. Combine all of that relax-time with cruise control and an MP3 Player ready stereo system, and we are talking Slow Ride, Foghat style...wherever you go.

So I am rolling down Highway 1, digging Moss Landing. Just digging those smoke stacks. I will never get over them. I once accused myself of phallus-worship because I am so into them. but then I checked myself, because if that is phallus worship, then I have issues. Circus issues. I had Dr. Dre and Snoop Dogg on the player with a remix of 187 on an Undercover Cop, and I distinctly remember thinking to myself how when I watched Deep Cover years ago, I had held a tape recorder to the TV to record the rap, because I knew that this Snoopy kid was fresh.

Then it happened. I was in the single lane corridor. An older 5-ton truck drifted across the painted lane divider. It clipped me in the front left wheel. Right in front of me. It happened quick, and I saw the vehicle shuddering and bouncing from the brakes as it slid into me. The truck was carrying a payload of stacked strawberries in the back and suddenly, there was a cascade of red, sweet projectiles clouding the sky. Like bullets of blood-chunks. The impact caused the front windshield to bow for a second of hang-time before it snapped, sending shards of safety glass into my face, particularly my left eye. I winced and held onto the steering wheel as I was pushed and torn into the shoulder of the road.

The strawberries were hitting the ground and the interior of the car when the traffic behind me caught up, locked brakes and began to plow into the passenger side of the five-ton. I saw the truck driver rocking forward and back in his cab like he was taking machine-gun fire to the chest. A black Toyota 4x4 attempted to swerve around the mess and wound out hitting head on traffic in the oncoming lane. A motorcyclist on a BMW hit the front grill of the 4x4 and launched into the cab. His head was through the safety glass; his body hung limp on the hood of the truck as it spun towards the bridge. Like a criminal waiting for the guillotine blade to fall, he had lost the will to live. The BMW cycle recoiled back into the hood of an oncoming white Mercedes, which pinballed the remains of the overpriced two-wheeler in my direction. I was still in motion, mind you, yet, I was able to duck as this cycle's belt-driven rear wheel tore into the roof of the car. The sound of grinding metal and scorching tires was all I could hear, and I wasn't quite ready to look at the mayhem that was still procreating outside of my situation in the Olds.

A Volkswagen Jetta slammed into my rear end, throwing my face into the closed glove-box, which opened as I bounced back, blowing papers, mints and an obscenely sized container of hand sanitizer in my face. I was on my side, and I looked up at the passenger door. It looked intact, so I reached for it. In the process, a Mercury Tracer wagon plowed into the rear of the Jetta, causing the rest of the glove compartment to empty in my ear. The latch from the open, hanging glovebox door had torn into my left cheekbone, and I had to pull away from it. I felt it rip my face meat as it unstuck itself. The blood began to gush, and I made the mistake of reaching up with my left hand to check the wound and then rubbing my itching eye. I ground the chunk of safety glass deep into my eyeball, and I began to wince, weep and pulse blood out of my left socket. I was cussing at this point, gritting my teeth as I reached up for the door handle to get out.

The chaos outside was deafening. Everyone must have been driving at 85mph, and everyone must have not hit their brakes. It was a cacophony of human screams, breaking glass and grinding, scraping metal. I had to get free of the vehicle. Suddenly, my face stung so horribly that I flipped over on my back and writhed in the cigarette wrappers and safety glass. Gasoline from the BMW was dripping in on my face. My other eye caught a serious flush of gasohol (probably supreme, them Beemers don't come cheap), and I was officially blinded. I was grunting loud now, and I should have kept my mouth shut. Gas poured down my face. It was in my mouth, in the back of my throat. I sneezed and it burned like nothing I have ever felt before as it mixed with my snot and blew out of my nose.

I wriggled my way blindly to the passenger door and propped it open. Surprisingly, it opened like butter, and I fell out into the marsh on the side of the road. There was noise, and there were sirens, and it was all a tangle of input over the roaring pain that I felt throughout my head and eyeball. I reached out for a clump of grass to pull myself up and away with, and my hand sunk into something warm and deep. I reached in deeper and felt things, hard things moving out of the way. Then the smell cracked through the sheen of gasohol in my nasal passage, and I smelled the rot. I couldn't open my eyes, but I smelled the smell of flesh in decomposition. I realized that I had put my hand, probably up to the elbow, into some roadkill. By the size of it, and the size of the bones that I was bumping into with my fingers in that oleaginous mess, I would figure that it was the size of a full-grown german shepherd.

I gagged. There was nothing to come up, except a trickle of gas-flavored bile.

I honestly don't know where the spark came from. I have never been a believer in cars "just blowing up" when they wreck (like at the beginning of Final Destination 2), but there was a spark that hit somewhere. I felt all of the air suck away from me in a pleasant breeze that returned with a scorching blowback. I was thrown, over and out of the roadkill and into the top part of some sort of ravine. I lay there for a second. I was prostrate, and I hadn't been in a relaxed position since that fool cut me off. My eyes were still stinging shut.

Then I realized that I was on fire. The gasoline had ignited. It was my head that was on fire. I staggered to my feet and tried to walk towards where I thought the ocean was off of the bridge. I ran. I was slipping on strawberries. They were popping and smearing under my feet like little embryos. The scorching hurt. I batted myself around my face and ears, trying to get the flames under control. No such luck though; they had taken root and were tearing and bubbling under my skin.

There comes a point where there is too much pain. Too much pain and then it all stops. The nerves can't fire anymore. They have bleated their last messages to me and now I just have to suffer whatever consequences of disfigurement there are. I hit that point. I also made it up to the road. I was able to squint my non-sharded eye open and view the flames and wreckage about twenty feet behind me.

A woman ran up to me.

"Oh God, Oh my God!" She kept yelling.

"Are you alright? Are you alright?" She kept asking.

I wanted to yell at her to shut-up and that was when I realized that my lips had been shredded and cauterized in strange forms on my face. I inhaled deeply and the flames caught the gasoline residue in my mouth, sending a plume of flame straight into both lungs. I coughed like a dragon, blowing my burnt innard smell all over the woman. I saw a light bearing down on me. Coughing smoke and burnt lung pieces, I turned. With my one good eye, I determined that it was a CRV, blasting down the highway. Apparently no one seemed to be slowing down or hitting their brakes at all; they were just plowing through. Whoever was driving hit me. I buckled around the hood of the vehicle. My arms over the top. Blood, smoke and lung-meat dribbled onto the hood of the vehicle. I looked into the face of the driver, a beautiful woman with long brown hair. She looked down at me in horror, and I felt the impact of the side of the five-ton truck in my back. In slow motion, I watched her beatific face disappear behind a snap of dust and then, an airbag.

I may never walk again, smoking is out of the question, and I am looking pretty rough these days, but thanks for loaning me your car Matt. Homies do that kind of thing for each other.

Wednesday, May 16, 2007

Fun Pix

This pic is dope, straight up.

There is this site that I go to from time to time. They have a random pictures page. You can put whatever you want to up there. Outside of a bunch of strange nudity all sorts of racist, misogynist, homophobic photography and a bestiality pic, there is some gold. It is on a video games board, and I am sure that the average posting age of anyone on that site is probably about 13. The pic above of the Walker is one that I swooped from there. So are the rest in today's blog except the candid Ferdinand shot.

So I loading this pic below up and gave it to them. I don't think that they got it at all. It scared the living hell out of me when i was 11 or 12 and in Woolworth's on Alvarado Street in downtown Monterey. How these guys got away with this album cover is still beyond me:

And in the last post, I tried to attempt some L33T speak. I have no skills, but this pic is hilarious. Everyone I show it to wrinkles their nose and says that it is disgusting. I just think that the audacity of the thing is worth every guffaw I muster when I see it:

And then there is just the plain cynical:

Oh, and I sold Ferdie about 2 weeks ago to a guy who was sleeping in his friend's backyard in a tent. He was hyped to get a room on wheels. I went to see him about a week later and he was already working on the rust. We were kindred spirits he and I. Our life stories are both about the same. Even with a history in radio to boot. Both of us are feeling our own personal holocausts and both of us are rebuilding our lives out of whatever the hell the last 15 years were.

Here is a peace out shot of Ferdie. I also have video footage of the last time she was towed. It was a night that I really needed her to perform and she couldn't do it for me. It was official that it was time to peace her out, before I went all sledgehammer on her. I made the decision then and there that it was going to be the last tow, and it was.

Score! Beating the Top 16 Video Games!

Yeah. This is something fresh, and lots of what I wrote on the boards on the subject.

This book was my bible when I was a kid. I lost it after moving multiple times. Actually, I think it is still at my parents' house. My father was in the hospital last year and that forced me to work from Stanford with my laptop. In my downtime, I started playing a Mame version of Star Castle almost nonstop. I am still intrigued by that game. However, I couldn't crack the 40,000 point barrier. The game just got too vicious.

I went online to my normal video game haunts with posts like, "OLD SKULE GAMR NEEDZ ST* C*SSTLE STRATS PLZTHX." Not cool enough I guess, I didn't get any replies.

Then I went through the mental Rolodex on a late night bout of insomnia on the subject and realized that the strats were indeed out there...I just hadn't thought of the proper place. Furthermore, I had owned those very strats previously. I knew that I had them in the Ken Uston book. At that point I couldn't even remember the title of the thing though.

So I started to think of this book obsessively. I was at my folks' home awhile later cleaning up the garage (killing mice if you have been keeping up with this thing at all), and I realized that the book was probably in there. Every time I saw a pile of older books in a box, I would rifle through it...hoping. But no. Nothing.

On a sick sort of bored whim, I went to Amazon and punched it in about 2 weeks ago. I found the sucker for one penny. Shipping was 3.49 though. Whatever. I have the book back in my possession.

It is deep, as far as depth for the games of that era go. This book was the Koran, or maybe the Year's Greatest Video Guide among video gamers back then (the '80s) because information wasn't moving the way it does today. I would hear stuff about games in the arcade (like you get an extra man every time you die in Defender once you hit 990,000. But you never saw the stuff unless you were in the arcade at the right time. People would talk about all of these things that were happening, but there was no database, no verification and certainly no 1up or youtube. You needed to get out there and play and talk. You could read Electronics Game Magazine, but sometimes they just got close to the fact that you wanted and then changed subjects.

Home versions were completely compromised versions of the originals and there were few complaints about the absolute porting blasphemy of the time. We were happy to play our Atari 2600 version of Asteroids because we knew that was all/the best we were going to get. The arcade days of the 1980s were fascinating this way.

Furthermore, my parents knew that arcades were places where pedophiles and dopers might be hanging out. This created a completely constricted knot in the leash of my social life. I couldn't just roll on down to the arcade. I had to coordinate with parents and older sisters/brothers of friends. I wasn't allowed down there alone, or just with my brother. This meant that every moment I spent down there, I had to pay attention, because it might be my last moment for a lonnnnggg time. Furthermore, with $2.50 a week for allowance, I really needed to get as much bang for my buck as humanly possible.

All of this is the backdrop/political pathos that led me to Ken Uston's SCORE! BEATING THE TOP 16 VIDEO GAMES book. Without the drive that I felt because I was sure I was missing out on something, I probably wouldn't have given a rat's ass if I had found the book in some "free" bucket in front of any number of downtown Santa Cruz houses.

Ken Uston in some ways was a visionary on the subject because he was hanging out in Vegas (where the pulse was strong for some reason, and where some of the best players at that time congregated) and he brought out the little known facts.
Before you contest me and say, "Hey Man! Eric Ginner was cracking SICK high scores in the Silicon Valley area! Some his scores have yet to be beaten!!!!" I need to stress that the guys making video game playing magic were not out for the big Atari medals. They were guys in bars and arcades having a good time, dropping quarters and sharpening their skills beyond what ordinary quarter-droppers had.

My claim to fame on any record sort of level was running the pterodactyl cheat on a Joust machine on Cannery Row for what must have been 8 hours. If I recall correctly You needed 10 million to flip that sucker (bring it back to zero) and I wanted to make sure that I had the 20 letter high score, so I almost flipped it twice.

I've got my Star Castle Strats and I am almost there. I was playing last night and I am such a short-bus riding retard because of it.

The book is solid old-school gold. Best penny I spent in my life EVAR.