Bullshit Manifesto

You know how you put something in a “safe place” so you won’t lose it, but then you end up losing it anyhow because that “safe place” was so safe that nobody on earth now knows of its existence? Then, while looking for something weeks later that is also in such a “safe place” you find that previous item in it’s “safe place?” I found me a whopper.

I found some undeveloped rolls of film. When I get a disposable camera I take the roll of film out when it is done so I can get at the AA battery in the flash (yes, you can do that). I only know about this because my dad used to work in a photo finishing plant where he would pick up bags and bags of AA batteries that had only been used for the 27 flashes in the camera. My gameboy was never hungry.

So, these rolls, lacking any distinguishable characterisitcs, were a complete mystery to me. They were, in fact, in a “safe place,” which I came across while looking for something completely different. It was a russian roulette getting them developed, but I spent the money to get them done, and I don’t regret the decision.

One roll was started by my godmother on a disposable camera, but then she left the camera with me. The pictures on there are awesome. She has cancer, and had been given 3 weeks to live back in January of 2003. She’s still kicking, but has been slipping slowly all the while. Granted, anyone else in her position would be in a bed, not moving. She rages against the dying of the light, and won’t go gentle into that good night. The pictures on the camera capture much of her spirit, and will be treasures of mine for years to come.

The other roll had pictures from Halloween 2002, and some more recent pics of Milca and I at the new place. That Halloween was the year I had a soirée at my previous residence in Altadena, with roughly 20 people in attendance. I was dressed as Gene Wilder from Young Frankenstein, with costume and makeup in black and white, goggles, the works. This roll had group photos, some pics of friends, and some more incriminating pics. I dare not say more of the pics, except that there is some sweet lesbian action in them. In the words of Quagmire, “Allriiiiiiiiiiiiiight.”

The pics of Milca and I at home are cute, and will likely be put up at work.

I’m thinking of taking a bunch of rolls of film and just putting them into some sort of time capsule, or maybe I’ll just put them in a safe place.

I go to Pasadena City College. Much like other colleges, the parking situation is not ideal. In the past they constructed a parking structure, 5 levels tall, to take the place of one of their lots. This has helped, but not entirely. Last semester they started construction on another structure, taking out another lot to do so. In the interim this means one less lot which held hundreds of cars that have to park elsewhere.

My morning class is at 8:20am. I park on the top of the parking structure because I know it’s always virtually empty, there are spots near the parking permit dispensor, and the inside of parking structures always seem creapy to me. I always see that scene from RoboCop where all the cops shoot him down, so he rolls this way and that to descend to the bottom where Lewis picks him up.

After my class, the scenario on the roof is the exact opposite. All the spots are taken, there are cars scanning the aisles for a spot, and the traffic moves as slowly as Christopher Reeves in a potato sack race. On more than one occassion I’ve had someone in their car call out to me as I get off the elevator, asking me if I would like a ride to my car. This, of course, insures them my spot when I leave. I can’t say that I blame them, but I can’t help but feel that they may be screwing some pour soul who has been driving through the lot for hours where this person has just got there, and picked me up.

I think that I should devise a way to track parking spaces in the lot so that you will always be aware of a spot being open, where that spot is, and those available spots are given to those that have been waiting the longest. There’s another million dollar idea, if I could get it off the ground floor.

Until then I guess that karma will just have to get those less fortunate souls to find me so they can drive me to my spot.

Boobies.

I have a car. Not a piece of shit with wheels and a mass of metal that vaguely resembles a motor that isn’t registered, I’m talking about a bona fide registered, insured car.

It’s a 93 Dodoge Intrepid. There’s a few small things that need fixing, but nothing severe. I’m mobile now. Let it be heard upon the highest mountain top. That is all.

Vote Quimby

Yesterday my friends Kat and Brian called me up. I met Brian through a Burningman kegger my camp threw to raise funds. He and his cohorts saved the day, and became buds instantly. Pooks and I actually ended up going up with them. Kat went out with my boy Phil. It’s a wonder her and I hadn’t met sooner, as we have several mutual friends/acquaintances. They are busy folk, what with work, school, and a relationship (sounds familiar…), and wanted to meet up at the bar. “The bar” is otherwise known as The Buccaneer, or the Buc, located in Sierra Madre. It’s a nice dive with a kickin juke box, and a decent pool table. What more do you want from your dive?

The bartneder is an old soul by the name of Tony. Tony is a shaved bald man who could pass for 30 something. In all honesty, I don’t have any idea as to his real age. I’d guess late 30’s to early 40’s. At any rate, he is a mild mannered guy with a quick wit and wisdom beyond his years (however many they may be).

After a great deal of math homework (I sure missed logarithms), and some quiche for dinner (the frozen ones from Trader Joe’s rock, btw), I rushed up the hill to the buc. To my dismay, I found that Kat, Brian, and “the crew” had left, due to Kat’s feeling sick. I guess I could lay on a guilt trip, as I was pleaded with, hounded, and guilted into going in the first place, but I missed them a lot, and Kat was sick, so I will let this slide… but it will be noted in the log.

Tony was there, though, who told me the whole story with Kat being sick. I hadn’t been to the bar in many months, so we caught up a bit. He had a baby a little over a year ago, so I asked how the munchkin was. This child has made him a new man. He said his outlook has completely changed. I can’t put my finger on what was different, but he looked like he knew something that he wanted to tell the world, but lacked the words. For Tony, that face isn’t as grand as you may think. He’s a subtle man, and the gleam in his eye was all I needed to deduce this inner struggle for vocabulary.

He shared some of his goings-on, and I left earlier than I intended, and happier than I’d hoped.

Bartenders are wise folk, and I don’t mean those guys who make drinks at restaurants. If you can’t afford a shrink, go to your local dive and throw one back with Tony.

…or just jerk it.

This weekend was jam packed full of stuff. Let me start from the beginning…

Thursday night, Milca and I got a call from my cousin Svea (that’s pronounced suh-vay-uh. cool, huh?). She wanted to see The Passion of the Christ with her mom (my aunt), and some other family members Friday night. That fell through because she got tickets to a play. Then she calls me to tell me that there are extra tickets, and asks if we want to go. After her describing the premise, I’m sold. Lemme just tell you how it went…

Friday night, we roll to Silverlake to La Casita del Campo. It’s a mexican restaurant, kind of dark inside, with a bar. It was packed, lot’s of people eating and drinking. What you can’t tell from the outside, and can only find if you look really hard inside, is that there is a small theater underground at this place. There we were at the bar, and there’s a door that leads down to a theater that seats about 40, maybe a bit more, and a small stage. I went upstairs to get myself a double bloody mary, came back down, and watched the show.

Chico’s Angels. It’s a play on Charlie’s Angels, only the 3 girls are Latinas who flunked out of police school. There’s the chunky one, named Kay Sedia, the odd but cute one, named Freida Laye, and the leader who’s a hottie, named Chita Parole. Their Bosley is named Bossman, and is a little vato guy. Each character is hilarious.

They have been hired by a Mr. Kumquat to save the Miss Kumquat pageant. It turns out that someone is killing all the contestants. Out of 50 states, only 3 are left. So, the Angels investigate by having Kay and Chita to join the pageant as contestants, and Freida pretends to be a reporter, followed by her cameraman (Bossman) to investigate the judges.

The 3 remaining contestants were from California, Texas, and Hawaii. They were all completely ditzy, and perfectly played. Hawaii was a little overdone, but the dumb blondes from Texas and California were awesome, specifically California.

The fight sequences were hilarious. Kay and Freida held up Bossman so he could do a slo-mo kick a la The Matrix, and they later used fans for a slo-mo wind-in-the-hair shot. I laughed all the way through the show, and anxiously await the sequel.

Oh, did I mention that the Angels were all played by drag queens? That’s right, they were guys. I nearly pissed myself.

I am going to organize a large group of people to go see the sequel, which is going to be on the Love Boat. The info is at padprod‘s website. If you’re interested, lemme know via email, or by posting a comment. I loved it, and know a great many of you will too.

Then, Saturday night, one of Milca’s friends from high school was in a play that we saw. It was nothing like Chico’s Angels. It was about 9 catholic high school girls in reform school that commit suicide. It was abstract, and may have had some metaphors for the nine gates of hell, but because it was not very linear, and it was as abstract as it was, there wasn’t quite enough info for me to say that this was indeed an underlying theme. The performances were great, but the writing and direction left a bit to be desired. Milca’s friend in particular put out an awesome performance. Carrie Reeves. Keep your eyes peeled.

Sunday, on the way to Milca’s mom’s place, I saw someone dressed as a large purple crayon. I immediately felt a connection with this person and gave them a thumbs up. They returned the gesture, to my total glee. It was a great way to start my day. We got to the house, got the dogs, and went to the hills for a hike. We wanted to keep it short, as Milca’s mom was making gnocchis, and we were going to meet up with some of my homegirls after we ate. It was gorgeous out. We go hiking at least once a week, making the changing of the seasons even more apparent, as we witness them first hand in nature. We hurried back, ate some awesome gnocchis, and went home stuffed like christmas geese.

The homegirls were awesome, and so was my action packed weekend.

Dear friend of yesteryear,

The times we had were great, and I think of them fondly. It’s great to see you again, and I’m happy you are doing so well. I’m sorry I was in a rush, I wish I had more time to catch up… and to remember your name.

My ability to remember names is very poor, you see, so it has nothing to do with you. I see people who’s names I do remember, and hide from their view. The fact that I made myself visible to you and chatted is in and of itself a testament to my liking you.

The fact that I mentioned my girlfriend wasn’t an attempt at cutting our conversation short on account of my being in a relationship, thus negating the need for us to talk. She is an important part of my life, and that’s what I was filling you in on, my life.

Thought I hurried to finish my grocery shopping, know that I hope you find the rest of your days to be happy and fulfilling.

Always yours,

Chris Loop (in case you forgot, too)

at Burningman, I was walking along with a bunch of people I was camped with that year. We were walking along the Promenade, a 3 mile strip of parties, raves, clubs, art, dancing, music, etc., when we came across a circus tent which screamed to be looked into. There was a rather ominous man clad in black leather at the entrance who told me that I could only come in if I was prepared to confess my sins. I, clad only in a sock hung from my genitals, entered the tent ready to confess.

What I saw when I entered is nothing short of stimulating. I panned across from left to right soaking in all that I saw. To my left was a man, nude, tied by the wrists to a hook above his head. Walking about him was a woman clad in black leather holding a cat o’ nine tails, who occasionally used it on him, asking if he was sorry for what he had done. There was also a gymnast horse with a nude woman strapped to it so that her torso was parallel to the horse. Walking about her was a leather clad man brandishing a paddle.

To my right was a pair of St. Andrew’s crosses (that’s an X as opposed to the T). Both occupied by nude men. One was being whipped by a larger woman, clad in leather, and the other by a man…

This man was Hispanic, about 5’5″, and had long wavy hair that went down to hiss butt. He had a long flowing skirt on, and wore nothing above the waist except for his two nipple piercings, one on each nipple. He had a goatee, and his lips were pursed in such a way I thought I was looking at a demon sent straight from hell.

Also on my right was an arch, 6.5 feet high, 5 feet across, with metal rings every foot or so. Under this arch was a man who was tying a woman up by several of these rings, using a great deal of nylon rope.

In front of me was what really scared me. A carpeted path with many people kneeling in line. Not sitting, standing, or lying… kneeling. The path led to a man sitting in a throne, who seemed to be passing judgments. He was easily the most impressive person in the room. He had a large build, clad in leather, boots that went almost past the knee, hair that went to his shoulders, and the scariest eyes I’ve ever seen. They were a pale blue that seemed to fathom the deepest darkest secrets you don’t even tell your diary. Those around him called him Archbishop, or The Judge.

I knelt in line, which was rather uncomfortable not wearing any pants, behind a guy who seemed to be rather scared by his surroundings. I was too, but more like that anticipation of something unknown and exciting. He looked like he was going to soil himself. After a few people moved up in line, he ended up getting out of line and leaving. The entire time in line I wondered, “What am I going to confess?”

Person by person saw The Judge, was then led to one of the devices listed earlier, and was brought back to the judge. Before I knew it, I was next. I was as nervous as I’ve ever been, and didn’t really know what I wanted to confess yet.

I knelt before the Archbishop. It was then I first looked into his eyes, and realized that I couldn’t pull anything over on this guy. It was then that I realized what I truly wanted to confess. Only he and I know what I said, and I’m going to leave it that way, if you all don’t mind. He nodded, leaned to his assistant, and had me taken to St. Andrew’s cross to have my sins absolved.

I was led to the cross by a larger woman in leather. She was wearing a nametag that said “DADDY.” I didn’t catch her name, and didn’t think to ask, given the name tag and what her current task was. She went over the safe words, Green, Yellow, and Red. Their meanings can be assumed. I Never said Red.

I was whipped, paddled, scratched, the works. When I thought it was all over, she stopped and asked me to say a number. I’m a math man, so I immediately thought of 2685. I don’t know why, I’ve just always liked that number. Given my position (hands cuffed in leather to metal hoops at the ends of the tops of the X, legs the same at the bottoms), I thought that a smaller number was likely going to hurt me less. I said 14. She said that’s an awfully big number. Fuck. Well, I’m a gambling man who doesn’t second guess instincts. I reaffirmed that I had to go with my gut. That was when I heard the most terrifying noise of my life.

She cracked the bullwhip, warming up. She was a pro, as were all the people in the tent. I was assured of this before I was strapped in. Assurance or no, I was scared as hell, and excited twice as much. She knew her distance and started in. My job, other than learning the pain involved with leather on skin, was to count the hits.

I lost count.

I’m guessing that I got hit 16-18 times. Bare back. After she was done, she asked if I was okay. A single tear fell, and I said yes. See, the thing about getting hit with a bullwhip is that you can only remember two things, how much it hurts, and what got you there to begin with. I felt extremely bad about the sin I had confessed. Not because of the whipping, but the whipping made the rest of my brain to shut the fuck up so it could really think about what I did. 100% of my brain was at work on this one, and I felt extremely bad for what I did.

I went back to The Judge. He was currently talking to someone who said they had nothing to confess (asshole). The Judge pointed out that this was, in and of itself, a sin. The judge sent him to get atoned by one of the less gentle looking of the people there. Somehow I don’t think the guy minded.

He then brought his blue telescopic eyes to mine, and asked if I had atoned for my sins. I said I had. I knew that I was speaking the truth, and so did he. I got a certificate, a temporary tattoo, and one of the most religious experiences I have ever had.

Here comes rant, everyone put on their “Chris-is-bitter” hats on.

I am sick of teenagers/children on the internet. I posted before that I think that you should have to pass an intelligence test to be online, and I’m thinking that needs to be put in effect.

The whole point of written word is communication in the absence of speech. If I can’t understand what the fuck you are trying to say, what’s the point of you talking at all? I understand it in chat. I understand that there are subcultures of geeks speaking l33t. But in the ether, you need to take responsibility for the limitless free speech you are being given.

What gets me the most is that we live in a world where grown adults rarely know how to spell, and the internet is harboring these morons in training. My spelling is not impeccable, but I at least put out an effort. If I learn that I’m spelling a word incorrectly, I make sure that I spell it correctly from then on.

I’m done now. I think I’ve blown the necessary steam. I want some ice cream. Phish food. ben & jerry rock.

I’ve been toying with the idea of creating another blog for movie reviews. Since I have a pretty expansive knowledge of most movies, I know I won’t run out of material. Netflix will make it easier, too. I’m fairly generous when it comes to reviews, but I have my snob tendencies.

I may make it so that certain peeps can also post on that. It’ll be some good fun. Lemme know if you’re interested.

Milca and I have been watching Twin Peaks on DVD thanks to my beloved netflix. I’ll likely break down and buy them when I have the money to throw around. The other night, before we watched the next dic, Milca said, “We should get some pie and coffee before we watch.” I love her more than words can say. I’m eager to see me some David Lynch. “I’M WORRIED ABOUT COOP.” “O-RE-GON.” Priceless.

Milca and I are going to start planning now to take a trip to Oregon in June. This trip has been in the works several times before, and something always makes it fall through. Every time we say, “This time will be different.” Well, this time will be different. Seriously. It will be for my birthday, she wants to check out the University of Oregon in Eugene, and I’ve got some burningman buddies up there from Audacity Camp. I miss my fair citizens greatly, and I yearn for bean dip.

I’m turning 24. I don’t know how, or even if, I feel about that. I’m working towards my goals, and I’m in the best of relationships, and I’m happy. That’s all that matters, I guess. Not some numbers on a piece of paper that say how many times the Earth has traveled around the sun with me as a passenger.