So this one's a bit heavy. I was my homeboy, KT's house tryin to pass out on his couch but unable due to a small black cat in heat, named Gucci. She just kept making that horrible screaming meow sound, so I decided to put something on the TV to try and make it less irritating. I decided a documentary might be mellow and thus some noise but not too distracting. I saw "Oregon" in the title of an HBO special documentary on demand and I pick it. "How to Die in Oregon" is the full title and as it starts, I realize that I've made a mistake.
In 1994, doctor assisted suicide became legalized. It was the third or fourth place in the world to make it legal. This doc is about that and it intimately tells the story some of the folks who opt for this and their families. In the opening scene, an old man is preparing to drink a concoction that will end his life. He's sitting on a bed surrounded by family and a few medical professionals as one of them explains the process. She says that she can hand him the medication after she says two things. Firstly, he can change his mind at any time, to which he says that his mind's made. Secondly, she asks if he knows what the medication will do to him. When he answers, he says something along the lines of "Kill me and make me happy."
She hand him a pill bottle-like container full of liquid and explains that it's taste is very unpleasant but he can use a chaser. He has cream soda. He drinks it and my stomach drops. Then he lays down.
He says a few things after this but before his eternal silence. One is that it doesn't taste so bad. He describes it as "woody." He then thanks all the voters who allowed him to do this along with the doctors and his family. He closes his eyes and breaths in. I know instantly that it's his last and he's dead, right there. The screen fades to black and "How to Die in Oregon" appears in white lettering.
Sleep came slow to me that night.
Anyway, it's a really strange, powerful thing to watch and worth checking out despite the morbid nature of watching someone die, even on film.
Be well,
-N.
Someone told me about Blakroc shortly after the Black Keys hit single, "Tighten Up" came out. He said that it was the Black Keys and various hip-hop artists. It caught my interest and eventually it was on my Ipod.
Here's the story, as I understand it. Damon Dash, co-founder of Rock-a-fella records heard a few songs and fell in love with the Black Keys sound. He reached out to them while in Atlanta to record a song with Jim Jones. Somewhere along the lines, Mos Def interupted them and ended up on the song. This worked out so well that they decided to do a couple more tracks. They ended recording for eleven days and ended up with eleven tracks featuring Ludacris, ODB, Raekwon, and others. One of my favorite side projects ever.
Now, that was released in 2009 and I bring it to your attention now not only because it's fuckin rad but because I hear there's a follow-up coming. On said follow-up, artists such as Wiz Khalifa, Curen$y, and the Cool Kids are said to be involved. It's definitely worth keeping an eye out for and who knows, it could be amazing.
-N. Sanders
^^They also have a series of webisodes to take a look at^^
Where do I begin? The actual attack? Do I go back to the first incident that raised my eye brow? What would Quentin Tarantino do (besides a lot of dialogue)? I guess I could do what I normally do. Just shit it out and let it take stinky shape on it's own...
Let's go back, even before the beginning. I never hated birds. In fact, I loved them. My pop had a book that showed all the birds that thrived in the great Northwest and I would use it to identify the ones we fed on the balconey. We had a neat-at-first-but-later-infuriating clock that had a different birdcall every hour, on the hour and that was just fine by me. In fact, the bird I used to not like was the Starling. A non-indigineous European winged asshole who has taken over. (
http://www.nae.usace.army.mil/recreati/bml/bmleuropeanstarling.html)
Anyway, I liked birds up until maybe a month ago, when I had a little run-in with one. I was on the front porch of my friends' house when I happen to look over and see this rodent with wings coming straight at me. Full force, a strange angry look in it's normally emotionless, souless eyes. I had just enough time to duck down and feel it flying right where my head had been. I was with a good friend and I know that because as I felt the wings of death almost cut my hair, I see my buddy throwing a punch. He missed the tweeter but as a broke fella once said, it's the thought that counts.
Between then and yesterday, the day of the attack, I've had one or two little confrontations but they never got physical. A small feathered fuck would fly a little too low, right above me or seem to be diving right towards me and then puss out at the last minute and head skyward once more. I started to make a connection that would later be confirmed by one beak-wearing nuisance.
Let me set the scene of our climax, here. It's maybe 3:30 on a Tuesday afternoon. A beautiful day; the sun is shining and the ugly, gay birds are tweeting. I'm walking home from our friendly neighborhood Fred Meyers with a backpack full of groceries and a plastic bag full of top ramen that wouldn't fit into the said pack. I'm minding my own business, making a conscience effort to thoroughly enjoy the sun and my own good fortune when it happens.
You know the spot on your head where you would have a bald spot, if you had one? The crown, maybe. Right where the back of your head and the top meet. That's where I feel the strangest mix of claws and violently moving feathers. I feel all the rage of a being who exists almost solely to eat insects, finish our fries and moldy bread for us and be killed by cats, let loose on my scalp. To be fair, that rage should've hurt more I think.
I feel this and im reminded instantly of holding a pannicked chicken in some world far off in my past, and I make the connection. The birds have finally decided to take action against me for unknown sins. They've come for what they feel they deserve. Some kind of avian revenge, I think.
Both heads shoot to the top of my head like the police have drawn guns on me, but I feel no bird. I assume that it attacked and fled like the coward it surely was but when I look over my shoulder, I see it there. Two feet above me, it's black wings outstretched and beating to keep it in a sort of wavering hover. When I see this gross warrior, I know it's not over and that I must turn into a coward and flea. This motherfucker means business and he's not going to just let me walk on.
I take a couple quick steps, still covering my bald spot, when I see an old Asian man across the street with a big smile. I had to ask if he saw what had happened, just to be sure I wasn't losing it. I'll be damned if I get labeled a 'cluck'. He starts laughing and nods. At this point, I'm laughing too even though I still hear the aerial warrior above and behind me someplace until I turn the corner.
Understand me when I say that it didn't really hurt me but I still am holding this grudge and hating birds now anyway. It may not have brought me pain but as I believe I've mentioned, it's the thought that counts.
-N. Sanders
O my brothers it has been a long time a new post has brightened these dusty web pages. It should be a joyous occasion that brings me back to my sweet, yucky lovechild but alas it is awful news. It only effects me but it could be that you feel my pain.
My Ipod has become a paper weight...
I've had it for quite a while and before me, someone had it for however long they had it before leaving it in an airplane, so it had some miles on it. That eases my mind a little; that it got to travel and lead a full life. Also, it had been dropped a great many times by my own hand before it dropped that last time (last time alive anyway) in a friends garage. That last time however, was not my doing. Who it was doesn't matter and I don't want anyone forming a lynchmob on behalf of the ShampPod.
Anyway, it hit the cement garage floor and it did something that I'd never seen before. It popped up with a logo that made me sad...
My Ipod.. The same one who had kept me alive at work all those times. The one that I filled with any bit of noise that I found pleasure in... with that sad little icon. Underneath it, there was a wed address. WWW.APPLE.COM/SUPPORT/IPOD
That was maybe two weeks ago and just today, I hooked 'er up to my dad's 6 year old lap top and opened up Itunes. Nothing comes up. Nothin at all, the computer doesn't even read that anythings hooked up to the usb port.
Naturally, I go to the address suggested to me by the sad rectangle and follow their steps. The five Rs. Right away I know its not going to do anything for me. Recharge, Retry, Restore, Retard, Reach around. I don't think it works for any problem besides when someone doesn't know how to turn their pod on.
So I do what you do when you're not going to pay to get something fixed. I googled that shit and I got an overwhelming number of the same idea.
Drop it. Again. On purpose. "Sounds like a great fuckin' idear to me, Hoss."
So I do it and no luck and what do you know, no surprise on my part, either. I do it again and it pops open and there it lays on the floor in my kitchen. Two peices held toghether by electronic guts. Then, I decide that my music collection went from 20,000 songs to a Strokes album and Guns N Roses greatest hits... Awesome.
I'm sorry, folks but not every story has a happy ending and this one certainly doesn't. Maybe one day, I'll have another mp3 player and all will be right with the world once more... Until then,
Rest In Peace ShampPod
N.
[The automatic printer]
In September of last year, I landed a job at my "uncle" Tom's screenprinting shop (he's actually a good friend of my dad's but I've known him forever.) Later, I'll tell you about my experience but for now I'll just give you the scoop on what exactly screenprinting is.
These days, you can't go anywhere without seeing a locally printed t-shirt. Usually, it will be a business shirt. Maybe a nice polo with a logo on the chest or a large logo promoting a service or promotion. If it's in ink than it's usually a screenprinted shirt, which means someone like myself handled in some industrial complex, somewhere.
The process starts with graphic design. The image is seperated into the individual colors. Each color is printed onto a film, only it's black. Next, a screen (which is just that, a wire screen, although way finer than any screen door) is coated in emulsion. This chemical dries fully when under a special light. Before putting it under this light, a printer tapes one of the films onto the screen. The emulsion is dried, besides the image where the film's image was. Then it's taken to the pressure washer, which washes away the wet emulsion, leaving plain mesh in the shape of the image. Well, one color from the image.
Now you have one screen, ready for the press. At my shop, we have a manual and automatic machines for printing. For most jobs, particularly big ones, we use the auto. If there is more than one color, we use more than one screen which means that we have to line up the screens perfectly. To do this, you print on a shirt and then lower the second screen onto the first image. You line up the image on the screen with the image on the shirt and lock it into place.
Of course, more goes into it than just that but it gives you an idea of what I do for the bread.
[Here, you see 2 pallets of boxes full of shirts. From a 10,800 shirt job]
Of course, more goes into it than just that but it gives you an idea of what I do.
-N.
My pal, Rickie got a gym membership the other day and I happened to be there. The man signing him up offered me a 24 day trial membership. I, being thin but not in shape at all, jumped at the offer. Allow me to detail this splendid journey into the depths of a fitness center.
But before I do, you should know that I haven't worked out in quite a while. I'm not a strong guy, really and I weigh like 144 lbs.
I follow my friend through the doors and we head to the locker room. Let's first take care of the obvious. The men's locker room is full of penis. There are wieners everywhere and you can't not see them. Weird wrinkly old asses exposed as their conductors fish whitey tighties out of lockers. The most awkward small talk takes place in this horrid place. God forbid, some completly naked man with a comb-over has to get into the locker directly next to you, and he has something to say. "Pretty rainy out there, eh buddy?"
You leave the steamy dick pit, knowing you have to go back eventually, and you head towards the workout machines. In order to get to everything besides the stairmasters and treadmills, you have to walk behind them. I couldn't help but to fear someone trying to go too fast and tripping, falling and being launched into me.
At this point, I've passed the first few trials on my way to becoming fit. Now it's time to act confident in front of rediculous piles of muscle in Nike shorts. I felt self-concious for no reason, though. The walls are lined with mirriors to distract the brutes as mouse-ike me scurries to the first activity.
After working out for a while and being showed the ropes, I'm pretty much done. I wanted to do some cardio but for some reason, the treadmills and such are very popular. It seemed like steam room time so that's where I went. It was crazy hot in there. It's supposed to be at like 110 degrees but it was more like 120. I couldn't breath through my nose at all. It also smelled like menthol for some reason. I lasted maybe five minutes before switching to the sauna, which was nothing after the steam trap.
One more trip through the cock filled locker room and I was back in my normal fit and on my way out. All-in-all it was a good experience and I'll be back as often as I can in 24 days.
-N.
Once again, America is in the midst of a ridiculous holiday season. It's nothing new, not at all. Every year, the masses go out and buy stringed, colorful lightbulbs and oversized, stiff socks. They go out and they get their napkins decorated with leaves of fall colors or pilgrims with their stupid little hats. Spirit driven consumers spend the money they work so hard for on miniature books that actually just contain eight rolls of lifesavers. Evergreen trees sit in living room corners until they begin to wilt.
It makes me wonder how these traditions start. I don't mean which religion started it or what the point of it is. What I'm curious about is the human need for tradition and ritual. To some extent, it's a good thing to do something regularly. Routines make sense. Holiday traditions don't. At least not to me, really. I don't mean to be Scrooge-like or anything but so many people spend money that they shouldn't on Christmas gifts. Parents who may not have a lot of money feel inadequate because they can't get little Richard that new bicycle. It's all a gimmick to get you to buy stuff.
Thanksgiving is a good excuse to spend time with the family and that's wonderful. It's a little sad that you need an excuse, though. Really, family shouldn't feel obligated when Turkey Day comes around, to go home and eat with people who share some genes. If you don't want to spend time with your family, you shouldn't. Don't waste your time. You'd be wasting their time, too if you truly aren't interested in the company. Family isn't the most important thing. It certainly can be but it's not necessary. By family, there, I mean parents, siblings, uncles and such. If you have children of your own, it's different and you maybe should feel obligated.
The most wonderful time of the year is cold and chaotic. It's depressing to a lot of people. The roads get more dangerous.
Have yourself a merry little Christmas,
-N
A very good friend of mine had to make a very short film for a class at ITT and he wanted me to be apart of it. Unfortunately, shooting started late and I had to leave.
It's a mockumentary about a group of friends who meet up and play Monopoly, every Monday. Sounds like fun, sure. The drama ensues when one of them becomes a little obsessed over the classic game. Check it out.
Ronnie, Doug, and Jessie doing there thing. Jessie portrays a great character.
I want a Monopoly towel.
Late,
N.
There's a thing known as the "BME Pain Olympics." This occurs at barbecues held by the people who do Body Modification Ezine (BME)
It's a sort of rite of passage, where people drink hot sauce, see how much weight they can carry from peircings, forehead pulling, ect. There is no prize, apart from the attention and being featured in an Ezine.
I explain that to explain this: I recently found an old video of myself, watching the "BME Pain Olympics: Final Round" video online. It was one of those stupid reaction videos. You watch me watch horrible things because who doesn't like people watching. I also did one with "2 girls, 1 cup"
In the time since, I have heard and read that it was a hoax. I believe it, although I haven't seen the video in years. Still, when the video was recorded, I was told that it was real. It's kind of hard for me to watch, now. I was super goofy.
Good times..
-N.
I was poking around online when I came accross an intriguing link. It took me to a slideshow of pictures containing one polar bear eating parts of another. Although disturbing, it was interesting to me. In nature, not many animals eat members of their own species. According to a US led scientific study, this is due to global warming and their hunting ground melting away. I don't know enough about global warming to have a strong opinion about it either way and I'm not sure that this would convince me but I have to admit that it's strange.
Click for source and Slideshow
This picture, along with the other pictures in the slideshow (that this picture is linked to) were taken North of a city called Churchill, in Canada.
I wonder what kind of repercussions this might have. No more white teddy bears? Will people stop thinking they're adorable and cuddly? Will they lose their endorsement deal with Coca Cola?
I guess only time will tell.
Take care of eachother; we're all we got.
-N.
