Lovely rigormortis.

Indonesia is that rarest of treats - a country so ripe with culture and a storied past that one can easily pluck any number of its lovely fruits, and, biting gently into its soft flesh, send rivulets of sweet nectar down one's chin...a miniature, luscious cascade that ultimately collects in a damp, sticky mess on the front of your shirt.

One day in the near future I will find myself delicately climbing out of my own private submersible, placing my soft black beret over my heart, and placing my pasty white American feet, tender with disuse, onto the moist green soil of Mother Indonesia. I do this for love...love and adventure.

In an attempt to endear me to the nuances of Indonesian culture, lovely Miss M., the woman who I follow to the byways of Indonesia directed me to a website overflowing with pictures of the marvelous seascapes, lush forests, and busy cities of proud Indonesia.

What she did not foresee was the existence of this particular photo, which I showcase below.



That is the facade of a police station in Bintan, on the island of Riau.

In case you missed that, allow me to provide a closer shot of a certain detail in front of that police station.



Indeed.

I will never leave Indonesia alive.

Confirmation.

There are some things in this world that just make everything seem...all right.

Subtlety.

I am endlessly amused by the recurring ad my blog page here seems to have spawned. A bit of exposition - Google's ad service scans the content of a particular web page, then displays an advertisement with links it deems relevant to the content of said page.

Here is the ad I've been getting:



Nice.

Dinosaur apathy

I am beginning the long walk down the sad, sad path of utter apathy for the work I am doing here at my place of employ. You see, I quickly become bored when I master a new challenge. When I am in total control of things, and I know everything I need to know in order to accomplish my job, boredom sets in. Boredom and routine. Every day, read through documents, edit mechanical and grammatical errors. Same subject. Groundwater remediation. Environmental cleanup. California Regional Water Quality Control Board. City of Ventura. City of Los Angeles. City of Santa Barbara.

Sometimes, to break the monotony, I like to emit a low, guttural growl from deep within my throat, which I slowly increase in volume until one of the other editors in the room hears...something, something they can't quite put their finger on, but deep in their trembling, comma-splicing bowels, they know something is out there, and they begin to feel the first burgeoning twinges of fear. They sometimes peer around, searching out the source of the sound - but they cannot, as I am too quick for them. I vary the pitch slightly, and they ask me "if I hear that". Of course, I deny hearing anything, and at this point I stop my neanderthaly antics.

Other times, like today, I don't feel much like antagonizing my coworkers, so instead I marvel inwardly at the prospect of, for example, resurrected dinosaurs with super-strength, enhanced intellect, and the ability to wield heavy firearms. Like in this artist's rendition I created today instead of editing this groundwater remediation progress report -



In the future, all our wars can be fought using dinosaurs, until of course, cliches begin to set in and they turn on their masters, enslaving the selfsame beings which set them free from their millenia-old extinctions.

upcoming shows, label stuff

It seems Rilo Kiley has left Saddle Creek Records and has started a new record label, brute/beaute.

They are playing a show in Hollywood in a week or two, and I think we're going to go. At least it's not at the Glass House, which was quite possibly the worst venue I have ever had the displeasure of visiting. No bar, no cameras, meh. I don't really care about the cameras, honestly, it can be very annoying to have to struggle to see a band when all the 15-year old girls are jumping up and down in the front with their cell phone cameras in the air. The absence of alcohol, however, is unpardonable.

mid-yawn

Patrick the compulsive urinating cat sums up how I spent today rather nicely.



Preach on, brother Patrick.

They say I am

Wackiness: 82/100
Rationality: 62/100
Constructiveness: 50/100
Leadership: 84/100

You are a WRDL--Wacky Rational Destructive Leader. This makes you an enemy of the state. You are charismatic and winning and a very dangerous enemy. You favor justice over compassion, and would almost rather see your opponent fail than you succeed.

You impact the lives of those around you more than any other personality. People remember your name and respect you. You are a tremendous amount of fun to be around and astonishing to watch. You are generally abstinent in your habits, and you like things tidy and ordered.

When picking teams, it is smartest for others to pick yours.

I am an outsider, a maverick out to destroy all and win over all the ladiez when the destruction is done.



I am OCD Vin Diesel.

How did I wind up being stuck washing dishes and taking out the trash at 2 AM? I believe it was because I fell asleep for several hours after eating earlier. Something in my din-din demanded I lay my body, obstreperous as always, down for some rest quite immediately.

I woke up this morning (er...yesterday morning) to a pair of marvelous surprises left by my newly adopted (he's community property...or something) cat. Said feline demon sated his vile, philanderous needs by peeing in the corner of the bathroom, in front of the shower, coincidentally, it seems, right on the selfsame mini-towel I step on to absorb my wet feet when I step out of the shower. The cat may almost have been successful in catching me in the pitiless grasp of this malevolent, gleeful trap had I not become especially attuned to the very particular stink of cat pee from an earlier mishap of his. More surprisingly, he left three well-formed cat turds on the carpet under the dining room table. Now for some much-needed exposition. We moved the litter box out to the balcony a couple of weeks ago in order to try and combat certain problems, and have been trying to train him to utilize the kitty facilities outdoors, as the apartment is rather small and the only place we really have to put the litter pan indoors is in the bathroom. Also, he leaves little poo stains on the carpet because he can't seem to do his business without being fairly messy in the process. The move to the balcony is intended to remedy these issues. I let him out there as often as I can so he can take advantage of the litter box, but most of the time he just chases little moths or stares at the trees while outside, as if they are somehow mocking him in their tenebrous posturing.

Moving on.

I was bored earlier today, and so I thought it would be fun (read: relieve my boredom) to remove the hair from my manly chest. Now, my chest is not especially hairy - I have enough hair on it to lean towards the masculine rather than the feminine, but I'm certainly no Baldwin. So I went snooping through M.'s woman-products in her womanly stash below the sink (all women inevitably have a stash of hair-removal products under the sink in the bathroom...go figure) and I successfully found a mysterious, not wholly reassuringly pink bottle labeled....Nair.

I mulled the use of this Nair over and over in my head for about 3.25792 nanoseconds, when I came across a warning of sorts, in eye-catching bold print on the back of the bottle:

WARNING! IRRITATION OR ALLERGIC REACTION MAY OCCUR!
ALSO, MEN - YOU RUN THE RISK OF LOSING YOUR WILLY IN A SEA OF SWOLLEN PAIN AND SOMETIMES PLEASANT AGONY IF YOU PUT THIS NEAR YOUR THINGY.

This gave me pause. I inspected the product more closely, and saw that one of the chief ingredients in this beef stroganoff of noxiousness is urea. For the uninitiated, urea is the chief nitrogenous waste of mammals.

So...people rub animal waste on their bodies to remove unwanted hair. If I had known this earlier today, I would have gleefully rolled around in the free and natural depilatory the cat left for me.

On that note, I go to my much-needed rest.

I sit here savoring a crisp glass of riesling whilst waiting for my dinner to cook. While at work today, over the eight-hour span of time I was present, I estimate I probably did only about three hours of actual work. It's true what the sages of Initech say - a man will only work just hard enough to keep from getting fired.