Random thoughts today:
#1: I had a dream last night that I got piercings in my lip and my nose (not my ear, as I have always wanted) and the bruisings made my face swell up so that I looked like a middle-aged, portly black woman. It didn't look good. I half way woke up and realized that I didn't look like that, but wondered why in the world I had gotten the piercings, and how I was going to explain them to my wife.

#2: I've always held the theory that people go into fields of study that cause them the most trouble in their personal life: doctors are hypochondriacs, psychologists are insane, linguists are bad communicators, etc. The other day I finally got confirmation. I was listening to a radio program (geek that I am) about a scientist who was doing experiments on the effects of love. These were extensive experiments, involving hundreds of animals and spanning years and years of his life. You may have heard of the monkey who would always choose his soft, plush, synthetic mother over his other, wire, milk-giving synthetic mother. If not, nuts to you. Anyway, the host of the program went on to explain that this particular scientist suffered a severe disability to maintain loving relationships with people. Who else, said the radio host, would have done such an experiment, except for one who felt the need to analyze the subject and its very mechanics? Wouldn't the case be the same for all of my above examples?

#3: Joshua Davis, aka DJ Shadow, you're my hero. You go do your own thing, man, don't let your fans bring you down. I hope your wrists feel okay.

A Translator's Biggest Occupational Hazard: Being Laughed At.

Check it out.

Like Water For Mountains

There's something to be said about feeling at home amidst your native geography. Having been born and raised in Salt Lake, I grew up nestled closely in the lap of the Wasatch Mountains. It was there that I went to play, to rest, to think things out. And they watched over me. I always said to myself that it would be impossible for me to feel at home at a place where my orientation and latitude couldn't be immediately determined by looking at the huge mountains just outside my window. I mean, i could never imagine myself in a place that was surrounded by open space and cities on ALL sides. How clostrophobic.
But now I'm here, in California, where the closest "mountains" are a good three hours away, and there's not much of anything physical on any side impeding the spread of the human disease that is urban development.



Well, there is one thing.

I've traded a vast range of peaks and canyons for a flat expanse of ocean, which I must say is beautiful. Not only that, but I can be assured that Marina will never be enclosed on its north western side, as the closest populace in that direction would be...Hawaii, I think.

It's the secret to the popularity behind California culture, I think. You know how people always prefer to sit in booths at a restaurant, due to the human instinct to protect their food from anyone who might consider a surprise attack from the rear. It's the same principle, only instead of a glass partition behind our head, we have a huge ocean on which we can lean back and watch the rest of the continent do its thing.
What's more, the local climate and geology creates a number of California substances that can't help but get into your veins. Sand, for example, as everybody knows, will invade every crevice of your soul if you come within a hundred yards of a beach, a dune, or an anthill, all of which surround our house. Water is another invader of personal space. When I last opened my mailbox, the fog had penetrated the steel panelling and soaked all my credit card offers.
So it's a proven fact. Don't move out here if you're afraid of falling in love with California. It will literally get under your skin. It's actually already in your genes.

Okay, the zombie world has now overtaken my iPod. It's possessed, I'm sure. Shortly after moving out here, my iPod died. Dead. Without life. No amount of charging or connecting could revive it. Then, one night, after a thunderstorm emanated from a bright green sky, my iPod crossed back over the river Styx, and with it, a terrible curse. On half a dozen occasions I've woke up in the middle of the night or in the early morning to hear the soft sounds of music being played, only to track down the sound to my earphones, connected to the locked console of the phantom Pod. Apparently the spirit is a fan of Talking Heads, Radio Soul Wax, and Hits of the '80s.
Even more creepily, twice now, during my 6:30 commute-by-bike to school, through the A.M. fog of the bay, and at the top of exactly the same hill, my iPod has interrupted whatever playliist I was enjoying at the time and switched to the original version of "Downtown Train" by Tom Waits.
Theory #1: an electrical short and a series of coincidences have got me again. True? Most likely. Fun and Interesting? Not in the slightest.
Theory #2: after the iPod regained the spark of activity, I cleared a bunch of stuff off of there with the idea that, perhaps if the memory were slightly less full, the thing would work better. Among the deleted, my Best Of Marvin Gaye album. Is he back for revenge? Is he a Tom Waits fan? Perhaps he is the one that originally wrote "Downtown Train" and is desperately trying to set the world to rights from beyond the grave.

Dah Dah Daaaaahhhhhh! I've found another celebrity double worthy of posting. This one is special: a celebrity who looks like another celebrity.



For those of you born in a cave, this is Chad Smith, drummer fabulous for the Red Hot Chili Peppers, who, btw, are on their way to restoring their former hair-whipping glory. I don't know about you, but I've always thought that this bugger above always looked like this guy right here:



Without the tan, of course. Interestingly enough, Will Farrel is also the name of a top-notch bullrider.



Ain't he a handsome devil? Now I was unable to confirm or deny the fact that Chad Smith has been informed of his doppleganger-hood, but I'm sure he was disappointed. By his own admission, he'd much rather look like Flea.



But then again.... wouldn't we all?

No.

How does that saying go? You can take the Boy out of Utah...

Sheri and I got together with some of our friends that we had met at church to drive down to Pebble Beach to have a barbecue. Now most of these people are hardened National Guard, Army, or Air Force guys studying Farsi or Arabic or Chinese at the local Defense Language Institute, having formerly held a collection of other non-descript posts (interrogator, special ops, recon, etc.), but it seems that Mormons are as Mormons do: we pulled into the Fort Ord parking lot and pulled up next to one of what must have been seven or eight minivans, each a veritable hive of children six and under, dads talking about gas prices and how much ice the cooler could hold, moms changing diapers talking about their memories of going through Basic before having kids. It was as though Bountiful had been uprooted and replanted on the coast, with a little military hard-ass spice thrown in the mix. The best part was that, when the caravan had assembled, all the dads got in the passenger's seats as the moms got in and in quick succession peeled out of the parking lot in order to get a good spot on the beach.

In other news, school has finally started. Hooray, though I shall miss the lazy afternoons of blogging and walking to the beach with my dog. He, on the other hand, may feel better about the situation, as the afternoon seems to be the time when all the cat owners in the complex shirk their cat-herding responsibilities. I feel sorry for ol' Ash, since he can't seem to get a good bead on the length of his leash and he ends up choking himself every time he takes off after one of those hairy little devils. We love the guy, though, and pet him lots and give him treats, so don't call the SPCA on us.