How is it that when people question the decisions of our leaders and the war in Iraq they are so frequently labeled as un-American or unpatriotic?

This logic of this argument fails me every time.

The current thread on Blurbomat’s site got me thinking about this again, and as today is Memorial Day, the topic seems apropos. I know I have said it many, many times before, but I do not now, nor have I ever been supportive of the current Bush administration. I do not believe his actions and decisions are in the best interest of our country, our soldiers, or our world. I think he is intellectually unsuited for the job, and I think the election and the powers that placed him in that role were questionable at best and corrupt at worst. I am happy to argue all of these points at length with anyone who disagrees with me, but that’s not my point here.

DJ Blurb is also no fan of Mr. Bush. And has also made it abundantly clear on his site many times in the past. However, in doing so he (and his readers) is immediately attacked as un-American.

Frankly, this offends me for if that can be said of him, the same can be said of me.

I, for one, love this country and love the freedoms and the resources and the opportunities and the history we have. I’ve traveled enough to recognize first hand how lucky we are. But my love for America doesn’t mean I should keep blind faith in the decisions and actions of our elected leaders.

Those who accuse us of being unpatriotic love to remind us that thousands of men and women have died to protect those freedoms we chose to invoke. I am well aware of this. My grandparents are both veterans, as is my uncle. My brother is an officer in the Marine Corp, and I am proud of him and his decision to be ready to fight for our country.

That doesn’t mean I want him to fight for causes that I believe are amoral or unjust. It’s called Memorial Day because those soldiers are dead. And before we send any more of our children off to kill or to die, aren’t we not only justified but required to question why? If we believe strongly that those sacrifices are not made in the best interests of the world or our country, are we not only justified but required to dissent?

Our freedom of dissent is at the heart of those American values and freedoms we are sworn to protect. The ability to publicly voice our disapproval of our government and to actively work for a change in said government is perhaps our greatest freedom of all.

So please, somebody tell me, how this makes me or anyone else who disproves of our president un-American and unpatriotic?

I would argue that questioning authority isn’t only American, it is one of the most responsible and patriotic actions you can take.

Posted by themightyjimbo at 05:12 PM | Permalink | Comments (13)

I've decided to do a little rededication. A little refocusing. A little reprioritizing. And I’ve decided to get a lot more diligent.

For the last month I haven't been climbing. I haven't been riding. I haven't been working out. Well, not much. I went from five days a week in the gym to three. This month I went several weeks with MAYBE one day in the gym. I've gone from high-protein, low fat to whatever is in the fridge. I’ve been sleeping late and sucking down Red Bulls like Golden Tickets were hidden on bottom. Shit, that's two "Willy Wonka" references in one week. This really is a bad sign for a person trying to get back into shape.

Sure I've cut the pasta to keep the fat off, but I've also backed off the weights and the cardio to keep the knees from hurting all the time. So by in large I've become lazy and skinny and it's making me nuts.

Yeah, I'm one of those people who loses weight when they stop exercising. Hate me. It's OK. I can deal. I was bald at thirty and a virgin well into my twenties. Feel better?

Regardless, my lack of diligence is starting to show. It’s just symptomatic of the cycle of passive-aggressive, self-destructive behavior I have been on for the last year, but that’s a blog post for another time. I've dropped more than five pounds in the last two months. Close to ten since September. That doesn't sound like much, but when you max out at 160, ten pounds shows. More importantly, I've lost strength. I've lost endurance. Sure I can probably out run or out bike or out climb or out exercise 99% of the American couch culture who spend their lives sucking the cheese off a large stuffed crust pizza while watching "The Swan" with envy, but that's not the point. I'm not competing with them.

I'm competing with me. Right or wrong. Realistic or unrealistic, I have a certain set of physical standards. I expect to on-sight 11b when climbing. I expect to easily run a 5K in twenty minutes. I expect to be able to hike at 10000 feet. I expect to look into the mirror and think, “damn, girl, I'm a really sexy bitch.” Wait, that’s the other Jimbo . Never mind. I want to go walk around in low cut jeans that show off the hip lines and have girls thinking of "Fight Club" rather than thinking of "Ghandi."

I don’t feel that way right now, and I don't like it.

In the last two weeks about a half dozen people have asked me if I've lost weight. And not in the "Wow, you look great" Jenny Craig kinda way. More like the "ooh how is the chemotherapy going" kinda way. And I don't like it.

It's making me stressed at work. And I don't like it. It's screwing with my complexion. And I don't like it. It's messing with my rhythms. And I don't like it. Frankly, it's messing with my ass. And I don't like it. I'm a skinny little white boy. I stop working out and my ass is likely to disappear all together. And we can't be having that now can we?

I think not.

So I’m getting back into shape. I’m getting back into rhythm. I’m getting back into eating right. And I’m getting back into the gym.

Right after I finish reading these blogs.

Posted by themightyjimbo at 01:32 PM | Permalink | Comments (15)

This has become something of a tradition, the Halcyon birthday dirty limmerick, with the first installment (and still my favorite) sent I think seven years ago:

Although John is surely no slob
Lack of sex is making him sob
Won't some tasty dish
Grant his one birthday wish
And give him a sloppy blow job.

So without further ado...

With pink hair and pants made of fur
And a blog that can't be called pure
He makes many men say
That dude must be gay
But only his dick knows for sure.

Happy 33 Hal . Thanks so much for making all this possible. And please, PLEASE don't start acting your age. Can't bear the thought of you in Dockers.

Posted by themightyjimbo at 11:28 AM | Permalink | Comments (7)

This is the first holiday weekend in YEARS where I don't already have travel plans. I really could use a weekend climbing somewhere, but I seem to be sans a partner (kids really take away your weekends). I could toss all the toys in the SUV and scoot to Arizona. I'm sure I can find plenty to entertain me there. Maybe up to Bishop. Maybe out to Utah. Todd has plans to take the boat out for wakeboarding and the mass consumption of alcoholic beverages this weekend but all the people who were planning on driving out to Phoenix with me bailed at the last minute. I'd go it alone, but frankly, I'm a little cheap right now with regard to springing for a last minute plane ticket or dumping $200 in gas. So now I'm thinking get up real, real early, throw a pair of shorts and sandals in a back pack, hop on the VFR and see if I can make Scottsdale in under five hours and hope that the wind is down in the desert. Sure I would be too sore for boarding, but life's an adventure, right? Of course I could always just sit here at home, enjoy the beach and in between untold hours of blog hopping and internet porn (which seem to have the same net effect on my productivity and mental well-being lately) try to figure out just what the hell I want to do next with my life.

Posted by themightyjimbo at 12:32 AM | Permalink | Comments (6)

It's not what you take. It's what you give.
It's not what you want. It's what you need.
It's not what you say. It's what you do.
It's not what you think. It's what you believe.
It's not what you see. It's where you look.
It's not what you start. It's what you finish.
It's not where you work. It's how you work.
It's not how you die. It's how you live.
I think I need to start living and soon.

Posted by themightyjimbo at 11:48 PM | Permalink | Comments (8)

Last week one of my colleagues who had flown in from Australia was having some trouble with his American Express Card. For whatever reason his attempted charges kept coming up as declined. We were in the process of raiding the local outlet mall, and he was stoked to save a hundred bucks on Calvin Klein and Timberland. As Amex was his only source of payment he was suffering a bad case of retail impotence. I offered him my cell phone so he could call customer support. When he called they told him they couldn't access his account information, and he would have to call the Australian office. Funny cause we had always assumed they were a global financial services company that advertises it’s capabilities for assisting international travelers with card trouble. Regardless, he was going to have to call Australia. Now even more frustrated, as he was closing the call, the agent on the line asked him, and I swear this is the truth, "Are you 100% satisfied with the service American Express has provided you today?"

Yep. Membership has it's privileges.

Posted by themightyjimbo at 10:53 PM | Permalink | Comments (3)

I warn you all. 1983 has returned and with a vengeance. Case in point. Remember those stupid black rubber bracelets we used to wear in Junior High? The ones that decorated Madonna's arms back when she was still like a virgin and like a slutty vinyl clad middle-aged Italian woman? Yeah, well you can buy those at Hot Topic. Along with studded belts. Guitar solos? Oh they are back. Break dancing? Back. David Lee Roth was on the Sopranos. The Darkness is channeling Freddy Mercury. I think Spuds McKenzie is planning his comeback. And the pastel polo has officially returned. Don't believe me? I was just in Virginia for corporate training (read napping in a well lit conference room), and we had a group of four Dutch colleagues in from across the pond. Every day, every one of them wore a different colored polo. Untucked. Sometimes layered. Sometimes, collar UP. They ran around the local Ralph Lauren outlet store as if the little polo players were all hand embroidered by Oompa Loompas. The fashion forward are looking backward - to Alex P. Keaton. I tell you people, 1983 has returned, and this can't be a good thing. I warn you all, mullets are just around the corner. How long till I'm sporting a rolled-up white blazer and baby blue t-shirt? And do you know what inevitably follows pastel? Do you? Do you?

Day-glow.

(shudder)

Then again, I think I can handle a neon yellow, heavily mulleted population so long as tight jeans and the miniskirt stick around for a while longer.

Posted by themightyjimbo at 12:18 AM | Permalink | Comments (28)

This really, really made me smile. Bridget , you rule. In case, you know, you didn't know.

Posted by themightyjimbo at 10:28 PM | Permalink | Comments (8)

So here's the deal. This website, it's a personal weblog. Which means the content contained within is, frankly, PERSONAL. Or at least of a personal nature. It's about me. It's about my life. And on occasion the details of my life or my decision to share those details here are going to fall outside the boundaries of what you think is acceptable or prudent or appropriate or responsible or respectable or decent. Feel free to comment or criticize honestly and respectably. I can totally accept this.

If, however, you cannot, feel free not to visit any longer.

There. I feel like we've made some progress here today in blog therapy. Now how about some nice, safe, adorable puppy pictures to keep everyone happy?

Posted by themightyjimbo at 08:49 PM | Permalink | Comments (15)

Home. Not sure it's where the heart is, but it's where I want to be right now.

Posted by themightyjimbo at 10:43 PM | Permalink | Comments (1)

Forty years ago or so my late grandmother had a falling out with her brother. I don't know the details. Never heard the whole story. It was about a man I had never met. Barely heard of. I only knew I had an uncle somewhere.

I knew my great grandmother and my aunt. I had heard countless stories about all of them. I heard all about my great grandfather. I have his immigration papers and trinkets from WWI. But I never knew my uncle.

My grandmother died in 1998. And I wrote a story about it. I thought the story and the history had died with her.

Yesterday I received an email from someone I didn’t know. Someone I had never heard of. I almost deleted it as spam. My cursor hovered over the remove button until I saw the same sender twice in my mail box.

The header read simply "cousins."

"I am guessing from your story that your name is Jim. I read that your grandma was born Marion C, and if from Connecticut, that would make her my dad’s sister…My aunt Marion. Help me, here…Does this sound right? Aunt Marion was married to Uncle Tony, who was a terrific gardener. All I know is that they lived in Arizona. I only met them once, on a day trip to Connecticut to my grandmother Julia’s home. I also met Aunt El that day, and ate my grandmother’s cooking. My dad, Ralph, is now 75 and he is Marion & Eleanor’s kid brother. They lived in Norfolk, Connecticut. So your dad (if he is Marion’s son) would be my cousin, and you would be…my second cousin? My name is A. and I would really like to hear from you, if you are willing to jump into this. I have so few memories and just tidbits of information about my family that I would be truly grateful. Thanks, A."

Her information (with the sole exception of Norfolk - it's actually Norwalk), was correct. I played in that house in Norwalk, eating from my grandfather's garden and pulling apples from his trees and raspberries from the shrubs. My father and my uncle grew up there. I listened to stories from my Aunt Eleanor and collected feathers with her in the woods. My grandmother made us jello and cakes and we caught fireflies outside the deck every summer. Our dogs would rumble and play with Buffy, my grandmother's Boston Terrier, and we would play games on the tractor in the garage or wander around in the smooth river rocks at the stream in the back. My great grandmother would come over with her homemade pizzelles and we would fall asleep stuffed and tired in the car on the way back home to Danbury or later, to Brewster.

And in all those years, I never knew I had an uncle. Or a cousin.

Until yesterday. Until a little wonder and a little happenstance and a single name and a single Yahoo query led her directly to my digital door.

I don't know what happened forty years ago. I don't know what drove the family apart. My family tree, like every family tree, has holes and scars and fallen boughs. But because of a story I wrote and posted here, my tree grew a little taller.

Writing this website has given me a lot these last two years. I’ve found friendship and romance and frustration and laughter and frankly, I’ve found out a lot about myself. But yesterday, yesterday I found family.

Or more accurately, family found me.

Posted by themightyjimbo at 09:24 PM | Permalink | Comments (17)

One two three,
Four five six,
Seven eight nine,
Ten eleven twelve,
Billion cicada bugs went
To the cicada bug picnic.

I have nieces, what can I say? I'm down with Grover.

So I’m in Virginia, and apparently I showed up just in time for a cicada orgy of Biblical proportions. It's proof God hates Bush. He has smote him with annoying green bugs. The air outside buzzes louder than their stockroom, and going for a stroll feels like you are walking on piles of Wheaties.

Doesn't anything out there eat these little bastards? I swear even the birds are waddling around on the ground all fat and bloated. "No really, I couldn't, not another. I'm stuffed."

After walking inside from a cigarette break, people have to brush the little winged hitchhikers off their shoulders. Pants. Hair. It can make for some excitement. It's a little like a corporate version of Indian Jones. Only minus bullwhips and booby traps.

Though that might liven up some of these Powerpoint sessions.

Posted by themightyjimbo at 06:41 PM | Permalink | Comments (16)

She is brilliant.
Aloof.
She moves like a cat.
But loves dogs.
Definitely not birds.
But maybe feathers.
She knows more about UNIX than you do.
Her life is almost as complicated.
She was never married.
Sort of.
She would leave my ass for Aria in a red hot second.
Or Eminem.
Preferably both.
At the same time.
It's a Dalmatian.
She has more than one rock star's home phone number in her cell phone.
She has toured with bands that are more than likely on your iPod right now.
She has been in a band that is more than likely on your iPod right now.
She was the first person who showed me hers.
She was the first person who saw mine.
She is an exhibitionist.
I am totally OK with that.
She likes girls.
I am totally OK with that.
Yes, they are fake.
I am totally OK with that.
Yes, they are amazing.
They were just as amazing before.
We were friends first.
We would never have been friends if it weren't for the internet.
Yes, pink.
No, it won't wash out.
No, you can't have her Yahoo address.
Yeah, lemon and honey.
She can rebuild your transmission.
Field strip an AK-47.
Fly a plane.
Drive a motorcycle.
Park a big rig.
Do an ollie.
Jump the wake.
Drop in at Santa Cruz.
She doesn’t mind me posting those pics.
Heh, you should see the ones she wants me to post.
And no, you can’t see them.
Well, maybe. Ask her.
I met her through a friend when I saw her photograph and thought she was the prettiest girl in the world.
I still do.
She still hates it when I call her that.
But really, how can I not?

Posted by themightyjimbo at 11:22 PM | Permalink | Comments (13)

I had about fifty pics from that night, but when I began to upload them to my Powerbook, my memory card puked and I lost the lot of them. Luckily, we had previously uploaded them to her Powerbook, so I was able to pilfer these from her website.

Then again, even if they had all been lost, it would have been a perfectly good excuse to fly back to San Francisco and take some more.

Posted by themightyjimbo at 07:57 PM | Permalink | Comments (18)

I think somebody needs to have a baby soon just so I can buy them this .

Posted by themightyjimbo at 07:41 PM | Permalink | Comments (10)

I'm in Virginia. They tell me Virginia is for lovers but my lover is 3000 miles away. Maybe Virginia is for frustrated, frequent masturbators stuck in corporate training centers, but I bet that doesn't look quite as good on a bumper sticker.

All for the best I suppose. I'm sick with some weird infection making my lymph nodes feel like golf balls and my throat feel like sandpaper, so I shouldn’t be much of a lover to anyone right now anyway. Besides, this is supposedly a good class, and I'm excited to take it. Well, as excited as I can get about server and storage technologies.

I'm on a huge training campus outside of DC. I'm in a room reminiscent of my dorm days, only smaller and with better furniture and without the lingering stench of stale beer and rotting pizza boxes. Reminds me of those years as an RA at NAU. Nineteen year old boys really are just a few polymorphisms removed from chimpanzees. Only chimps have better eating habits. And they don't hurl as much shit.

So I flew east this morning at nine. I really would rather not have. And not just because I left the prettiest girl in the world in San Francisco. I hate to fly on Sundays.

I was commenting the other day that bloggers (or “digital journalists” for a certain pink pigtailed reader who really hates that term) are in many ways like super-heroes. They have secret identities. They refer to each other by strange nicknames. Their exploits are well documented, read by multitudes of creepy fan-boys, and are often wildly exaggerated. Some of us even have superpowers. Dooce can make constipation wildly funny. Halcyon can make any outfit work. Me, I can fly.

Well, I can fly better than virtually anyone. I can get in and out of any city in any airport, anywhere in the country faster and more comfortably than anyone. And I can do it indefinitely with just one roller bag and one backpack and less than an hour of prep time. If you fly you rapidly learn to never, EVER fly on a Sunday. Sunday is amateur hour at the airport. Sunday is Kryptonite for the road warrior.

I had to fly on a Sunday. Apparently so did fifty fourteen year old kids, all behaving like fourteen year old kids. On my flight. On a 737. For five hours. Not including the hour we spent on the ground to replace a couple tires.

Thank God for iPods and good, loud headphones.

iPods, however, do not prevent awkward fourteen year old girls with no sense of social protocol or personal space from keeping their especially bony elbows in your ribs (or shoulder or arm or stomach) for the entirety of the flight.

I think I have totally discovered why rich, white people send their children to boarding school. They keep the kids around for the cute, well-behaved phase, ship them off for puberty, and then get to reacquire them after college. Sounds like a near perfect plan to me.

Regardless, I made it here alive. I'm here all week, but my schedule looks grim for any attempts to socialize. Wednesday night is a possibility. I could be talked into staying next weekend if I can find a place to crash. It's been a decade since I last visited DC, and I'm anxious to give it another go. I have some good digital and real friends in the area, and I would dig on the idea of seeing them. If you are a DC local, and want to attempt a visit in meat-space, ping me. I'm not overly optimistic, but there is always a chance.

Posted by themightyjimbo at 08:22 PM | Permalink | Comments (16)

I'm in San Jose.
I hate San Jose.
The wireless network isn't working for shit.
I hate dial-up.
My flight is two hours delayed.
I hate to wait.
The airport Admiral's Club is packed.
I hate goobers wearing cell phones on the belts of their pleated Dockers.
They don't have Red Bull in the concession stand.
I hate coffee.
There was only one middle seat left on my flight.
I LOATHE the middle seat.
I feel like dogshit.
I hate dogshit.
I haven't worked out in two days.
I hate feeling like a blob.
I spent the entire day working on a goddam spreadsheet.
I hate busy work.
I have to fly to DC this weekend for training that begins Monday morning.
I hate when work eats my weekend.
I won't see the prettiest girl in the world for at least ten days.
And I really, really like the prettiest girl in the world.

UPDATE: So sometimes a little shit in your day makes for a good fertilizer. After four hours in the airport, I boarded the plane just as the flight was cancelled.

I'm currently in a warm hotel room.

With the prettiest girl in the world.

Posted by themightyjimbo at 06:09 PM | Permalink | Comments (33)

What would you give to be excited about what you do?
What would you give to really want to do it?
What would you give to love why you do it?
Yeah. Me too.
It's late. I'm tired. I'm going to bed.

Posted by themightyjimbo at 12:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (12)

So I know I have a reputation for being arrogant and boorish and a more than occasional braggart. I accept this. So for a change of pace, I'll put my well tooted horn down for a little while for a story about how much of an insensitive prick I can be.

So about my aforementioned, past, unrequited love, BK. Well, back about four or five years ago, this ex-lover and good friend met the love of her life and promptly got engaged. As we were still very good friends, I was invited to the wedding. As potentially painful as that event might have been, considering I spent more than a fair amount of time weeping unashamedly on my couch over her, I was flattered and honored and very keen on attending. However, this was also the year that Jimbo up and quit his job, took off to Africa with a stranger, and spent a summer knocking about California with his baby brother on leave from the Marine Corps. It was also the summer that no less than twelve of my friends decided to marry. Yes. That wasn’t a typo. Twelve. And seven more were having children.

I swear I needed to find new friends after that.

With my familial obligation crashed out on my couch, my status as a beach bum living off a meager (at best) savings account of $3500, and no job prospects on the horizon, I made the difficult decision to decline all invites that year with the sole exception of my sister’s wedding. That one was most assuredly a don't-miss lest I suffer the severe consequences from two very, very irate Italian women who are remarkably, genetically, expertly capable of holding an epic grudge for a long, LONG time.

Despite all that, as I had just returned from Africa, I had a huge slide show of pictures from my trip, and I decided to organize a dinner party to show them off to all my friends at once. Unfortunately, the only day that fit for everyone was the day of my BK’s wedding.

A few weeks after making the decision to go ahead with the shindig, my brother and I were about to split for a weekend of camping and downhill mountain bike riding at Big Bear with James and Anne (who is doing very well in her recovery and is now making the media rounds in case you were wondering), and hurriedly dashed off an email invitation for the party before I left.

Sometime that night I shot bolt upright in my tent and screamed "Shit! I sent her the invite!" In my haste I had sent the party invitation to my entire "friends" list. Including BK.

By the time I arrived back home the following day, the damage was done. I had no time to compose a contrite, explanatory and deeply apologetic note or call to grovel.

Waiting for me in my inbox was the most scathing email I have ever received. And the most scathing email I have most deserved.

To make matters even worse, my brother had borrowed and was riding HER mountain bike while we were away. I have never in my life felt like more of an asshole.

That she and I are still friends is remarkable to say the very least.

Thanks BK for the gift of forgiveness. I know I sure as hell didn’t deserve it.

Posted by themightyjimbo at 01:21 AM | Permalink | Comments (6)

You all asked, so don't ever say that I don't deliver. One of my (many) great, past, unrequited loves is trained and employed as a landscape architect. Don't think I didn't relish the opportunity to ask her about the infamous "semen plant" you all seem to know a little too much about.

Tree of Heaven or the Ailanthus Altisma (botanical name, if you really want to impress your friends).

Posted by themightyjimbo at 12:36 AM | Permalink | Comments (7)

Heh. Random security screenings and bag checks at the airport are infinitely more entertaining when your suitcase contains a black paper bag filled with a nice variety of personal products from your friendly neighborhood sex shop and a pair of leather trousers. Then again, I suspect that my bag is fairly tame compared to some that go through their hands. Explains why they wear rubber gloves. You just know that guy in the pinstripes and cuff links has a ball gag and an inflatable sheep in his roller bag.

Posted by themightyjimbo at 12:39 AM | Permalink | Comments (8)

She called me on Tuesday. Told me she wanted to see me. I flew to San Francisco. I had to go for work anyway. I was supposed to leave Thursday.

I still haven't left.

I was worried about running out of clean clothing, but honestly now, this hasn't mattered much.

We spent the day buying fetish and club wear in Haight Ashbury today. Dammit, who knew leather and fishnet felt so good. And I'm not even talking about what she's wearing.

It's sinfest at Club Rawhide tonight. Tonight is bound to be, uh, entertaining.

I think I'm going to need a week of something like, oh, WORK to recover.

And yes, I'll have pictures for you next week.

Posted by themightyjimbo at 08:11 PM | Permalink | Comments (6)

This shouldn't really come as any surprise. Well, that's not totally true. It kinda did to me. I'm still trying to figure out how in the hell Arizona broke into the top thirty. The message is clear. Dumb people vote for Bush.

Posted by themightyjimbo at 02:40 PM | Permalink | Comments (13)

So I'm sitting here at the desk of the Westin St. Francis, a little sleepy and a little hung over, and the most heavenly creature I know is resting peacefully in that wonderful, disheveled, heavenly bed. However, the devilish smile that creeps across my face when I turn to watch the prettiest girl in the world sleeping naked in that bed is definitely not sent from heaven. Neither are my intentions for that heavenly shower later.

If only I didn't have to work today...

Posted by themightyjimbo at 08:53 AM | Permalink | Comments (16)

Yeah, so maybe it's not properly vegetarian, but I fully admit that I will always sacrifice bovine ass to save my own.

Besides, you dig a boy in leather, don't you?

Posted by themightyjimbo at 01:21 AM | Permalink | Comments (19)

I'm exhausted. And really. The heat didn't help. It was 90 in Newport today. 90! In ten years here I don't think I have ever seen it that hot. Ever try to work from your bedroom when the house feels like a sauna? Especially when you are running on about four hours of sleep? It was naptime for Jimbo by four. Add impromptu naps to the pluses of having a home office in your bedroom.

My boss, of course, may disagree. But my boss has no clue that this site exists, and if any of you tell him, I will totally go Tony Soprano on your ass.

I took the VFR out through Ortega Pass again on Sunday. The bike now has more than 600 miles on it, so it's pretty broken in. I'm starting to get on it a bit. It's making everything else I drive feel really, painfully, desperately slow. I got into a nice long straight on the toll road and took it up to 110 just passing an SUV. I really need to install a radar detector in my helmet because, honestly, it is far, far to easy to haul ass.

It was a good ride overall, but not as good as perhaps it could have been. I was remarkably lucky to find myself alone on the way up with no traffic in front of me. However, for the last fifteen minutes of the drive, every other rider that passed me signaled me that a cop was waiting up ahead. I appreciated the input, but I ended up crawling the last SEVEN miles of the road. When I finally did reach officer friendly, he had already pulled out ahead of me and left the speed trap.

I shouldn't complain. They probably just kept me from letting my ever increasing confidence on the bike write some checks my skills can't cash.

I drove out of the Ortega and met Gary at one of our properties in Hemet. He has been busy for the last month working on the yards, the paint, the kitchens, the bathrooms, the yards, and oh yeah, the yards. I've been busy too, but I think my writing the checks, although financially strenuous, is not quite as difficult as what he has been doing. In the end it works out well. He would rather be outside working with his hands, and I would rather pay someone to be outside working with their hands.

I'm pretty happy with the whole process overall. We hope to have one back on the market in the next week and the other by the start of June. We think we are already up thirty or more on each, so we are hoping we both net at least ten on each.

Yeah, SoCal real estate is sick, but the symptoms I don't mind when someone else is getting the night sweats about the prices.

Owning a home is a unique experience. I was in the back yard picking lemons and oranges and grapefruit from the trees, and I felt like I was stealing. I was trying to be quiet about it when I suddenly realized that it was, in fact, MY fruit. And MY tree. And MY backyard. I felt so suburban.

Of course, I had rode the bike out there, so I had no idea what the hell I was going to do with ten pounds of produce, but as it was my produce, it was my prerogative.

Gary and I then split for Frustration Creek, a waterfall decorated crag outside of Redlands up on the 18 for an afternoon of hard climbing. It was great to be back out on the rock, two pitches (read 200 feet) off the deck, looking out over the canyon and the valley below us. Hearing the thrushes whistle by our heads. Finally getting outside and getting dirty. It was good to pull again.

It wasn't good to have a fellow climber step on my day old Arnette sunglasses, functionally destroying a brand new pair of $90 dollar shades.

This makes $600 in sunglasses I have lost this year. $600. I swear I need insurance. Or just them surgically attached. Yeah, I know I can buy cheap shades, but a good pair of glasses is so worth the money - so long as you don't drop them in a lake. Or have them stolen from the gym. Or from the beach. Or stepped on at the crag. Besides, I have very few fashion indulgences. Sunglasses and my watch are about it. Leave me those.

It wasn't even the money that pissed me off (OK maybe it was the money), it was that he didn't even offer to fix or replace them, even after I told him I had bought them just yesterday. Frankly, I found that rude. Take some responsibility for your actions, dick. I hadn't climbed with him much before, and as of today, I won't be climbing with him again. I can tolerate nearly anything, but I won't tolerate disrespect.

It's karma, dude. It's why you didn't send your project that afternoon.

Regardless, we all had a good time. I got to spend some time with one of the best young climbers in the country. A twenty something kid who routinely sends 14b. He was warming up on 13b. For the uninitiated, climbing in the US is rated on a scale from 5.0 to 5.15. This scale is not linear. It's more exponential. Think of climbing a handful of randomly placed quarters super-glued to a pane of overhanging glass. Yeah, it's THAT hard. Watching him climb was like watching vertical ballet. Only with a lot more grunting and swearing.

And really, the tutu would just get in the way.

It was after eight by the time we left. We still had an hour to get back to Hemet, and I was looking at another 90 minutes to get home. On the bike. In the dark. On the most congested freeway in the country. After a full day of riding and climbing.

So wasn't gonna happen. I crashed at Gary's place, woke up around 4:30, and started the drive shortly after 5:30. I was home just around seven. Only to be greeted with nearly 100 spam comments and nearly 100 degree heat.

But I figure if blog spam and a little sweat is the worst thing I had to deal with after a weekend of triple digets on a motorcycle and triple digits of elevation on a rock wall, then really, I came out ahead.

One more of the Amazing Linder-man just cause I dig it...

Posted by themightyjimbo at 12:28 AM | Permalink | Comments (5)

Unless I can stop the army of spam bots attacking my site, Digital Catharsis may soon become a memory. I outright refuse to allow my diary, my creativity, my words, and my life to become a vehicle for the promotion of penis enlargement pills.

I'll kill the blog before I allow that to happen.

Direct marketing is a parasite on the back of a free society. It is the engorged tick in the ear of the capitalist dog.

I'm getting several hits an hour and have been since last night. I have no HTML skills, and as such this site is not hosted or developed by me. Subsequently, I have no way to fix this on my own right now. I could move to my Live Journal page, but that just opens a whole new set of headaches.

Right now I'm feeling pretty fucking pissed off at the planet.

I have more than five hundred entries. I could turn off comments on all of them, but then I have to go through and hand edit five hundred entries.

I fucking hate people today.

Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck. Fucking fuck fuckers.

I loathe every single one of you spamming motherfuckers, and I don't give a rat's ass how many children you have to feed in order to compromise your blackened soul. And I loathe every single desperate man with a small penis and no common sense keeping those bastards in business.

Suck it up and get good at oral, Needledick. And quit fucking with my blog.

PS: While I was writing this post I received five more spam posts. FUCK YOU VERY MUCH.

Posted by themightyjimbo at 10:02 AM | Permalink | Comments (21) | TrackBacks (1)

The incomparable Melly recently (OK not so recently but I have been too lazy to write about it until now) sent me a stuffed toy mouse wearing a tuxedo and a fedora that sings New York New York.

This gift was made even cooler when i realized that the mouse had his hand in his pants.

I'm starting to think my friends know me perhaps a little too well.

Posted by themightyjimbo at 11:44 PM | Permalink | Comments (2)

It's funny; I spent the better part a decade in a vain and ultimately futile effort to do whatever possible to keep the hair I had on top of my head. I finally accepted that if I were to loose the battle of the bald, I was going to lose it on my terms. Now of course, I spend untold hours in a futile effort to keep hair OFF of my head.

How's that for a genetic royal screw?

Eh. Girls like to rub my head. There are worse fates.

Best advice I ever got: This is seriously the best shaving creme on the market. No joke. Nothing even comes close. I was just introduced to it. By a girl who likes to rub my head. And some other parts, but we won't talk about that. Regardless, I don't care how much you spend or what you have tried or what parts need to be shorn. Seriously, the BEST. My melon feels like, well, a melon. It's even menthol so it'll make those parts all nice and tingly afterward - but only if you are into that kinda thing.

Posted by themightyjimbo at 11:35 PM | Permalink | Comments (6)