Saturday, August 03, 2002
Ok, I admit it. I check the logs on my web site. I'm addicted. I'm curious as to who is visiting. Who is scoping me out? Who is checking out my digital/psychological ass? And I've been surprised at some of my findings. I have people visiting me from places I can't even imagine. Sure, people have found me from Australia. But I have people reading my blog from Japan. And Tennessee. And a dozen other places that I don't know anyone. The coolest coincidence was when a visitor found my story about Lost Arrow Spire and wrote me for advice about the climb. Turns out, my coworkers were visiting him that day about a business deal. The same day my team was working with his company, he did a random web search and found my site. Those six degree of separation are getting smaller every day. Hey, I'm new to this kind of thing. Previously, only my friends and family were privy to my madness. And they, they didn't have a choice - I was emailing them these little stories. Now I have total strangers willingly and regularly reading my rants. I feel so tingly. If you are reading this and don't know me, feel free to drop me a line. I like making new friends. Digital or otherwise. Autograph requests, nude pictures, panties - hey, I'm not above a little fan mail!
Jim Parisi
An unseen half finished glass of red wine + a very curious and abundantly energetic two year old boy + Jimbo's favorite white silk sweater = really solemn looks from my dry cleaner. Sigh.
Jim Parisi
Friday, August 02, 2002
For you Instant Message types out there, I use Yahoo Messenger. My handle: themightyjimbo. Should have been obvious. Feel free to harass.
Jim Parisi
I found a sure fire get rich quick sceme. I was in Canada with Karli, Todd, and his new sweetie Nicole. We went into this boutique soap and stuff store (think a high end Body Shop) called Lush. Must have been thirty people packed into Lush. Lush sells natural soaps, massage oils and aromatherapy type stuff in bulk. You carve chunks of exotic soap off giant blocks. The combination of tempting aromatic and tactile stimuli was overwhelming. You walk in, and you will walk out with product. But sweet smelling skin and buttery soft hands don't come cheap. Soaps sold for up to $5 for 100 grams. Bath Bombs, amazing little balls of sodium bicorbonate and cocoa oil and fragrance that turn bath water into bubling cauldrons of foam and moisturizer sold for $5 a pop. Massage bars, candy shaped bars of hardened massage oil that melts into warm hands sold for $8. And EVERYONE was buying bags full of this stuff. Here's the deal: This was Vancouver. I don't know if you have ever been to Vancouver, but most people don't have too much trouble staying moist there. It's a wet town. Scottsdale, however, is a haven for sun worshippers. Spas fill the damn town. Scottsdale is teeming with rich, white, suburban women who are hoplessly, desperately addicted to moisturizer. Have you been to Scottsdale in the summer? Trust me, I know. The right location in Scottsdale and you would make a killing! They would sell out of stock inside of one weekend. A smart entrepeneur opening a franchise in that town would turn a profit in three to six months, guaranteed. I'm telling you, this store will crush the competition. I asked about franchise rights. The manager told me they haven't openned a store in the US yet, but the list of potential business partners in the US already has over 2200 names on it. I somehow doubt that I'm gonna make the cut. I'm still gonna try. I guess I wasn't the first person to spot a good thing. But I still walked out of there with fifty bucks worth of soap.
Jim Parisi
Thursday, August 01, 2002
One of my best friends from Tucson is coming to visit tomorrow. He and his family will be here at my home for a day. We might go to Magic Mountain on Sunday. It's a Disneyland Day for his boy Michael on Saturday, and I am not a Disney kind of guy. He is on his own that day. I have known Dave since I was about 13. I actually met him once when I was 12 when he chased me and my buddy Chris out of his neighborhood. I don't remember why. I must have been being a prick. Maybe he was being a prick. Wouldn't have been the first time for either of us.
Dave married a friend of mine from HS. He and I went to church together for most of my adolescent life. I am as welcome in his parent's home as I am in my own. He went to prom with my sister's friend Satan I mean Christine (I seem to recall that was a bitter little breakup David). He met her at my house. I still have not lived this down. His parents were my CCD teachers. He was my confirmation sponsor. He let me drive his first car, a beloved 1972 Datson 240, through a quiet residential neighborhood in East Tucson at about 80 MPH. He still has not let me live that down. I let him drive my first new car, a 1997 Eclipse Turbo, through a residential neighborhood in North Orange County at 80 MPH. He damn near ripped the front end off when he hit a drainage ditch at speed. I have not let him live that down. He nearly got me fired from my job at "I Can't Believe It's Yogurt" by jumping up and down on the drive through bell. If they only knew how many pounds of yogurt I gave away by making giant, elegantly balanced sculptures of the frozen confection in tiny taster cups. We used to cruise Speedway in his giant 70s Ford LTD Wagon. A beast of a car complete with wood siding and vinyl seats. We made knock off Mr. Bill videos by torching "Muscle Men" figures in his back yard. Good Lord were we ever geeks. He now teaches PE at my old HS. I was in his wedding. I love him like a brother. I trust him and his entire family more than nearly anyone in the world.
Dave, however, has also done one of the dumbest things I have ever seen. In a moment of adolescent summertime ennui, a common ailment in suburban Tucson, Dave got the idea to make a chemical bomb from brake fluid and bleach (I think that's what it was). He filled a paint can (or was it a plastic bottle - I forget) with this noxious brew, shook the can and took off running. I was somehow there to witness this little experiment and preceded to provide my usual sardonic commentary on the idiocy of the plan. We waited about five minutes. No excitement. Dave decided it was safe to investigate. He walked over to the can, inspected it, and picked it up. At that instant, it expanded in his hand and exploded with tremendous BANG!, covering Dave (and the whole alley behind his house) in a noxious cloud of chemical smoke. Dave stood there making a noise like "AAAACK!! AAAACK!!" as he tried to force the stinging fumes from his lungs. He reeked of bleach and brake fluid for the whole day. I suspect he is lucky he didn't lose his hand. Or worse.
But these are the things that a bored teenager will do to amuse himself in the desert. I think kids today have it better. At least they have internet porn. This man is now teaching the next generation of leaders. God help them.
Jim Parisi
Wednesday, July 31, 2002
I'm getting sick of Orange County. I think I need to move. I am feeling that same sense of stagnation that I felt when I was working at Wavefunction. I have been here nine years. It might just be time for a change. The problem with OC is that it is too comfortable. It's not gritty, grimy, smelly, cold, hot, wet, dangerous, boring, humid, or ugly. It's not too dry, rich, poor, urban, rural, cultured or hick. It's terminally in the middle. It is too republican, but that's different. It's too silicone, but that has some advantages I suppose. Anyway, it's hard to leave. The middle is comfortable. It's nice being in the middle. I'm close to J-Tree, close to the desert. I'm close to LA, close to San Diego. I'm close to Mexico, close to Arizona. I'm close to the Sierras, close to the Ocean. And with LAX just around the corner, I'm close to anywhere in the world. I'm close. But not there. Constantly comfortable. But not satisfied. And all this comfort is starting to create some psychological bed sores. I miss the sunsets in the desert. I miss the mountain lifestyle. I miss the urban energy and charisma of a big city. But I'm not far from any of those things. OC keeps me comfortable but leaves me with a chronic, nagging sense of cognitive dissonance. There's not one massive opportunity cost. Just lots of little ones. I think I need to move.
Jim Parisi
I need to start writing more. But the only thing I seem to have time to write is email. Help!
Jim Parisi
Tuesday, July 30, 2002
I was in BC with Karli and Todd and Todd's new sweetie Nicole this weekend. While we were downtown, a a dirty and disheveled drug addict walked by, filthy shorts, old tank top, greasy mullet style hair. And his body covered in open, bleeding, scabbing sores. He walked by with his arms in the air, swollen purple sores on his veins inside his biceps. He would turn to every passer by and show them his sores. He made a point to turn toward every person sitting at the cafe and eating on Robson Street and show them his sores. He wasn't asking for help. He wasn't looking for compassion. He was flaunting his hell. He was getting a kick out of the revulsion he created. He did this with every table on the corner. Addiction and mental illness is a tragic thing. I wanted to be compassionate. He really needed help. But to be honest, I also really wanted to kick his ass.
Jim Parisi
Monday, July 29, 2002
For those of you who have not noticed, summer is 2/3 over with already. Turn off your computer, and go outside. Stop shopping on the weekends and go for a hike. Start running, start riding, start traveling. Take the kids. Go camping. Go climbing. Go paddling. If only for an afternoon. Get your knees dirty. Be sore. Have sex outside. Play Frisbee. Play rugby. Have a catch with your son. Go to a baseball game. Better yet, play in a baseball game. Swim in something without chlorine. Forget the yardwork. You only have about 4000 weekends in your whole life. And if you are 30 years or older, more than 1500 are already gone. Better use them for something a bit more life enriching than another trip to the mini-mall. You are not your job. The world is not your neighborhood. Go outside.
Jim Parisi
