For my birthday I received a varey strange gift — a collector's edition in fact. A sock. Framed. A dirty sock. Framed and numbered. And it came with it's very own Certificate of Authenticity. I work with strange girls.

Here's the background. On Friday the 13th, the four of us — myself, Brandon, and two of the receptionist girls — went to Burger King for a quality lunch. On our way back across the parking lot, there appeared in our path a lone sock (#1 of a pair, I'm told). Being who I am, I kicked the sock around for a while. Until it met Brandon's path, who promptly scraped iit hard against the asphault as if it were a vicious cockroach (or an ex-girlfriend). In any case, this severely dirtied our sock (#1 of a pair) and we all walked on.

Sort of.

I secretly snatched up the sock and stuffed it into my pocket for later use. Well.... not that secretly.

"You didn't bring that sock into the car did you??"

"Uh... no?"

Having successfully snuck said sock secretly, I sneakily slid such into sly spaces suited to the secretaries' sight! Uhm, that is, I proceeded to hide the sock (#1 of a pair) in obvious places where the girls would find the yucky sock (e.g., on their car antenna, in a purse, &c.) and in return, they would do likewise to me. After a week or so of these hijinks, the sock (#1 of a pair) disappeared. Too easily it would seem.

Then the girls came in my office on the date of my birthday with a package. Out of sight and out of mind, I had forgotten entirely #1 of a pair. Until I opened their gift to me. *sigh* then it all came back. And now Mr. Of A Pair is mounted upon my wall as proud display of my aesthetic bankruptcy. The end.

Also, for those of you unaware, Valencia is not the capitol of America... Bakersfield is.

[indistinct murmuring broken by occasional chatter]
*shrugs*
Oh alright...
*stands tentatively and coughs*
Well, uhm... hello. My name is Seth. And, uhm... I'm a twenty-eight year old.
*returns timidly to plastic folding chair*
[chatter rises briefly and then declines once more into indistinct murmur]

We're gonna need a bigger blog.

She hasn't been working on PERL lately because she's been working on Latin (that and the fact that PERL will put you to sleep faster than a bottle of white zin, The Longest Day, and three cassettes full of audio lecture by my old college U.S. History prof, Mr. Christiansen).

Wow, I was so busy designing the random template design for the site this weekend that I totally forgot that Friday was my blogging birthday! One year of e-journaling down and who knows how many to go. Here's hoping that the first year was the roughest....

Levy came over last night sporting his new shirt that his father got him. I was laughing inside. So we took a picture for the net.

Just finished reading William Gibson's Neuromancer for the first time. It's what we used to call "hip" and "enjoyable." Maybe we'd still call it that. I had played the computer game around 1988 on my C64 and was immediately entranced. I asked for the book for my birthday that year, but my mom — being the protective angel that she is — said the content was inappropriate for an eighth grader. She may have been right, but I suspect rather, that I would have neither "gotten" the sexual references nor gotten more than twenty pages into the cyberpunk, dystopian vision — I almost didn't make it through the initial confusion of the story this week. In any Case (pun intended), after getting about forty pages in, I was entranced by the vision and scope of Gibson's nightmarish noir future. I think my only real complaint is Gibson's inclusion of dialectical distinction in character voices (well, really only those in which words were spelled phonetically or apostrophes were used in place of vowel sounds). I had to reread several conversations just to get an inkling of what was being said. I hated this about Twain too, so I guess Gibson claims good company on this track.

Uh oh. Inspired by inspiration, a co-worker has begun his own blog. We shall see what we shall see. Considered him under surveillance.

I sincerely apologize for the fact that my illustrations of our winning dance moves look like their straight outta some wacky book of Kama Sutra. I merely intended to demonstrate visually what I was having difficulty describing with mere words. [oh yes, and for those who are interested, my medium of choice was a black-coloured Sharpie Fine Point Permanent Marker on a generic white printer paper]

9+/1Ø

1) [true] I nearly drowned in sand when I was 20

Eight years ago, I visited Big Sur on the California coast (just under Santa Cruz and Monterey for those of you to whom it matters).

The State park is filled with beautiful forests and wonderful creeks that present the avid rock-hopper a bounteous haven. Perhaps I'll tell you this story another time. But the near-drowning occurred at one of Big Sur's beaches.

It was afternoon. Surf and sun were on our minds. Squirrely Big Sur weather prevented this. Upon our arrival, we found that high-speed winds occasionally guest upon the parks sandy beaches creating piercing sandstorms.

After covering behind a cliff for a wind-break, we deployed and began to lounge in the shelter nature prepared us. Ever the adventurer at that age, I set off as a Bedouin wrapped tightly in clothes, towels, and jacket, not an inch of exposed flesh visible. Even my eyes sat well-protected behind a pair of purple-iridium-lensed Oakley Razorblades (just past their expiration date of coolness).

Still, the sand stung as it pierced my cotton armour. Then, surprise, the wind grew in strength. The sand began to tear through my failed protection. Unable to go forward or back, I had to seek harbour where I might. And quickly. Twenty yards forward, I could just make out an exposed rock, seemingly newborn from the vast seas of burning sand in which I wallowed. Barely did I make it to refuge (if one could really call it refuge — it pierced a mere foot and a half from the irrupting beach). Yet I did indeed make it and hunkered down to await a reprieve from the gale.

...

Some time later, it was related to me that my father had come searching for me as the winds began to curtail. He had hunted me to no avail when at last he spied two legs poking out from a small dune. Rushing to uncover this oddity, he discovered this buried treasure to be his own son, fallen asleep during the long wait and nearly buried all. Luckily, I somehow survived none the worse for my wear — though coughing up sand is not an experience to be envied.

2) [true] I took my first plane flight when I was 24

Having never left the country before, nor even the state with rare exceptions, I had never had reason to board an airline's fare. Until my parents and brother had left the country to serve in Romania as missionaries. Then, if I wanted to be the good son and visit my family occasionally, I had to make the airbourne trans-Atlantic flight. So, a year after their own departure, I used my two weeks of vacation time to pay them visit. Probably not the best-recommended trip for a first-time flyer, but well, there you go. I also discovered that I have a distinct inability to sleep while flying. I'm not certain why, as I harbour no fears regarding the mode of travel, but even twenty-some hours of travel could not cause me to nod off. *sigh* Too bad ocean liners take so long.

3) [true] I've worn Converse All-Stars consistently since 1983

Yup, ever since the third grade, I have loved the look and feel of good ol' Chuck Taylor's famous shoe. Not really the most useful shoe — neither designed rugged for hiking nor with arch support for athletics nor with an eye toward a classy evening — it still, through a variety of colours and flavors, has been my constant companion since that hallowed year whence hurricane Eva rocked the Left Coast. Now of course there have been occasional usurpers: I owned a pair of Adidas in 9th grade which I had stripped of stripes to my parents chagrin; I spent a year or two shoeless in the last of my teen years; and now I wear dress shoes to work. But for all of it, I still prefer the easy, broken canvas of a well-worn Chuck Taylor Converse All-Star.

4) [false] I won the 5th Grade science faire at my small school

The truth of the matter is that though I had prepared a handsome investigation of propulsion, drag, and the finer points of aerodynamics, I did not in fact win. As there were so many projects, many were displayed on the school's patio for all to see. My was so placed. Little did anyone imagine that rain would come to decimate the papier-mâché volcanoes, the petrie dish investigations of the human digestive system, the illustrations charting the life-cycle of metamorphic rocks, my own carefully built models, and a host of lesser projects. With my rockets a soggy mess and the power of my engines beyond any hope of ignition, I had nothing to offer at my oral presentation but shameful would haves. I got a C+. I hated that teacher.

5) [true] I have never sought to begin a relationship with a girl from work

My first four jobs really offered me no option of relationships other than those homosexual or incestuous — neither my fancy. My first job, lasting three years, was as the sales clerk at my father's ceramics booth at the Sawdust Festival. I guess I coulda hit on my mom, but I wasn't that desperate nor do I ever hope to be. My second job was as an electrician's apprentice on construction sites. I don't remember seeing a single double-x chromosomer on the premises. Not once. Then I worked at Victoria Skimboards airbrushing boards (see Visual Propaganda section). No women there. Except the bosses wife. And I wanted to keep my job, sorta. Then I worked a couple month for Big Country Pottery (I think that's what it was called) pouring slip. Usually I was the only in the place. No opportunity and I never really went in for women twice my age.

Next was a five-year stint at Round Table Pizza, delivering, managing, fooling around, and playing pinball and reading Jonathan Edwards on my breaks. Finally, a place with women. And occasionally some cute ones at that. But by this time, I had a girl in mind and so, abstained from occupational flirtation. We got engaged and by the time I moved over to working at Baja Fresh, I got her a job working with me — which goes to show how great a job I had done of wiping her from my memory since I had no recollection of this until Rachel saw fit to remind me. Thanks a lot Rachel.

Then, having left both the restaurant business and ex-cute girl behind (well, it was she who did the leaving), I leapt into the web design industry and began labouring for a company consisting of me and two other guys. Not exactly ideal for inter-office romance if you ask me. And then, when we did hire a girl slightly younger than me for secretarial work, my boss called "Dibs" and promptly married her. By the time we hired more female staff (now I'm surrounded! Egads I often wish women were out of my workplace!), I had began my current relationship with Slim. So, there we go! Nearly fifteen years in the work force and not a single bit of hopefully office flirtation. Maybe in my next life?

6) [true] I've lived at the beach since I was three

What can I say but "Yep"? When I was three and a half, we moved into my fourth house. And what a move it was, from the mediocre inland residence of Costa Mesa to a bluff over-looking the wide and blue Pacific. What joy! What elation! I could really stay here forever and still remain happy!

7) [true] I've been actually depressed just three times in my life

The first time: For approximately four and a half minutes when I was seventeen and I glanced my youthful, zit-riddled reflection in a reflective window on the way to church. (Luckily, I kicked myself in the pants and realized that stuff like that doesn't matter and that it would pass anyway....).

The second time: For approximately four and a half months after ex-cute girl dumped me for a classmate six months before our proposed marriage. I was in pretty bad shaped (I lived like Jon Favreau's Mike in Swingers, sitting in the dark up against the wall with my nearly empty carton of five week old orange juice), but I bounced back pretty well. Mostly forgot her 'til Rachel brought her up again. Thanks Rachel.

The third: For about a week at the beginning of my current separation from Slim. No, it's not that my-parents-aren't-divorced-just-separated kind of separation. I think the depression lasted so briefly because of my fixture of mind upon the fact that I will see her again. And soon.

8) [true] I was incredibly shy until I was 20 when I simply decided not to be shy any more

Yep. It's true. Previous to my willful metamorphosis, I was the introvert's introvert. Actually afraid of girls, I had an inability to talk to Them just as I had in inability to related on a human level with other guys. I took a speech class (mandatory!) in high school and refused to do a single speech. I was terrified of people. I ended up doing a stuttering four-minute presentation to the teacher, alone in her office on the last day of school. It put a real hamper on the enjoyment of my life.

So I changed. I looked at myself one day and said, "Nope. You're not shy anymore." And from that moment forth I wasn't. I cut my long hair — which I had used as a mask behind which I could retreat — on Pearl Harbour Day in 1992 and six months later I had become nearly as much an extrovert as I had been an introvert. I consider myself living proof that no matter the debilitation of personality you possess, you can change if you want to. If the reward is juicy enough.

9) [true] I won a swing dance contest in 1994

Absolutely! And my partner was my brother! Okay, okay... why was I dancing with my brother? And better, why was I dancing well enough to win a dance contest with my brother?

Well, boys and girls. It all began on a sultry evening in April 1994. It was really only sultry because in a room packed to the gills with concert goers, the atmosphere is necessarily humid. Havalina had been playin' up a storm when the announcement went out: "Swing dance contest three songs from now! Pick yer partners and get ready!"

Now at this point, our large circle of friends had been dancing swing for about a year and everybody had their favored partners. Unfortunately, not all of our society was present, so just in all games of musical chairs, two of us were left standing without: me an' Joey. We looked around and when we had discovered the fantastic dearth of suitable female partners, we looked at each other and shrugged. "Why not?"

Being both male does have its bonuses as we both had enough of that high-flyin' upper-body strength to keep our routine almost exclusively aerial. And I had taught enough girls how to dance properly with their male partners that I could easily mock up the feminine role in the dancing. Our opening move was a kicker! We'd start facing each other and then I would handstand, he would grab my legs, and flip me out in front of him. Like so.

It was a real crowd pleaser. So were many of our other flips and semi-wwf-style tricks. Soon, all the couples had been tapped out but for we and an elegant couple who probably ought to have won. Realizing that it was down to it, we signed that it would be time to break out the big guns of our opener again! Alas, Joey neglected to catch my left leg (I think I may have kicked him in the face).

So here we are, stuck in an embarrassing position that's sure to get us tapped out (me with my hands on the floor dangling from Joe's shaken grip), when we strike gold! Out of nowhere we turn it into a wheelbarrow as if that was always our intention. The crowd, and more importantly, the MC, went wild! Somehow, we flipped me back into a standard dancing position and finished up to the winning applause of the concert-goers. Yay.

10) [true] I still couldn't tell you what supercilious means

Nope. It's true. With all the vocabulary that rests at my fingertips and with as many times as I've looked it up (uncountable), I still haven't the faintest memory of what the word means. I'm still not certain either whether it ought be pronounced: "soo-PER'-sill-yuss" or "SOO'-per-sill-EE'-us." Isn't that disappointing of me?

Ooh... I'm the Number One hit for the Google search request for seth hahne is gay. Big surprise there, huh?

So. Whaddyu think of my new splash page? It's 750 x 550 pixels so be sure to adjust your sets. It loads within a few seconds on cable or dsl, but 56k is a chugger and at 28.8, you might as well go bake some yummy chocolate chip cookies while you wait for it to hit the 350k mark (the point at which it begins). I haven't decided on a musical theme yet, but it shouldn't take long. I'm debating between 60s spy chic and some homemade techno... we'll see.

Oh yeah, and this was definitely inspired by my recent fascination with Pow's index26 (which, incidentally, targets almost the exact location of his apartment in Manila — or so I'm told). So a big thanks to the Big Brown Pow for his creative input without knowing that he was inputting!

From the better late than never meme file:
Nine Things About The Dane Which Are Being True
(and One That Isn't).

1. I nearly drowned in sand when I was 20.
2. I took my first plane flight when I was 24.
3. I've worn Converse All-Stars consistently since 1983 (occasionally opting for sandals or bare feet).
4. I won the 5th Grade science faire at my small school with a multi-stage model rocket that took two-and-a-half weeks to build.
5. I have never sought to begin a relationship with a girl from work.
6. I've lived at the beach since I was three.
7. I've been actually depressed just three times in my life.
8. I was incredibly shy until I was 20 when I simply decided not to be shy any more. Now I am outgoing.
9. I won a swing dance contest in 1994 back when swing dancing was becoming cool again (for two years).
10. I still couldn't tell you what supercilious means even though I looked it up to czech my spelling here — I also have a difficult time remembering how to pronounce it.

So...what think thee? (I'll post the answers Monday evening to let all my only-while-at-work peeps in on the fun)

Aaaaaand... portrait of a baby blogger — courtesy of wannabegirl.

Because it's been awhile...
A Fresh Boiled Cabbage Joke!

A man and a boiled cabbage walk into a bar and start having a few quiet drinks. As the night goes on, they get pretty drunk. The boiled cabbage finally passes out near the pool tables, and the man decides to go home. !

As the man is leaving, he's approached by the barman who says, "Hey, you're not gonna leave that lyin' here, are ya?" !

"Hmph," says the man, "that's not a lion, it's a boiled cabbage!"

A Flame About This High....

Miguel el Bambino has sparked a discussion in me — now that oughtta be pretty fun for all youse to visualize! Wondering how I should go about the subject, I decided that I will simply tell you what I am tired of (if you'll please excuse the dangling preposition - which remind me of Dangling Sausages... Mmmm, Sausages....).

In any case, I am tired/wearied/exhausted/ drained/fatigued/bored of this modern conception that people of artistic or athletic talent are meant to be morally emulated! Who's bright idea was that? To change the focus of our moral praise from those who show themselves to be bastions of goodness? To believe that someone should be looked to for moral guidance because he is born with the talent to move a ball toward a net or a line better than most of the population? This is an amazing thing! That our culture is so unbelievably backwards is maddening.

Further, as strange as this installment of pop icons as moral pedagogues is, it isn't even the most astonishing trick of the day. [Now let me couch the following by saying that I have learned some bit of my lesson and so will refrain from hyperbole though I think the issue merits it] The fact that people are angered (even enraged in some cases) when a musician or athlete or writer or movie star behaves like a normal person with normal problems simply because a child's parents are stupid enough to allow the child to look up to and adore said pop idol is pure and unadulterated LUNACY!!

No really. Since when does having enough talent to sing well or hit a homerun or cry convincingly in front of a camera make one into a paragon of virtue. For all their talent, they are still people — people who suffer the same flaws and inconsistencies of belief as you or I. I know plenty of people who do drugs, fail miserably in romance, cuss when they're angry, download porn off the Internet, cut people off in traffic, occasionally drink too much, have quick tempers, and had sex when they were teenagers; but these people never have to withstand massive public chastisement because their talents lie in balancing the books properly at the end of each quarter. Or in teaching 11th graders how perform simple functions in calculus (and why it matters). Or in creating a workable and dynamic database system for a multinational corporation. Sure, we might not think much of them for their foibles — especially if they are foibles that we have a handle on — but never do we harangue them for being a poor role model!

The real question is "Are celebrities role models?" The real answer is "No." Not even close. So let's stop treating them as if they were, okay?

p.s. I apologize for none of the pejoratives spoken herein as they are duly deserved and you should all be happy that I didn't break out my sandwich guns

I just finished an 1152-page book.

Thoroughly involving and only dull twice. For about three pages each time. Clavell weaves a portrait of both Turn-of the-17th-Century Japan and Europe that will not fail to intrigue Western audiences with its cultural differences and ambiguities. In many ways (spiritual, ethical, hygenical, and more), modern Americans may find their ideals more closely knit to feudal Japan than to our European heritage. Absolutely worth the read (in spite of ), the tale of romantic tragedy, political intrigue, religious fidelity, and cultural prejudice had my interested enough to read at least fifty pages a night (and sometimes a hundred). For those of you who don't know me anymore, a book that doesn't provided copious amounts of pictures isn't likely to have more than ten pages read per night — I just don't have the time anymore! I guess all this is to say: I liked it. And you might too.

Maybe it's just that I like the techy-look of bitmaps with vectorish overlays, but I think orbital incipients is Pau's best index yet! And I do dig #27 as well :-)

Well Russ, why don't you go for something like http://www.PassTheAdvil.com/mybrainhurts ?!

NOOooooooooo!!!! *shame* I'm the 15th Top Hit for June Cleaver nude. There's something wrong with the world. Something terribly and horribly wrong.

Hallelujah!

Patriotism: A La Redux
I was born in America. So what? Does that define who I am? Does a simple matter of geography hold so much influence? Or is America more than just geography? Some would say that it's a way of life. What way then? Life, liberty, and happiness. Really though, who doesn't want to enjoy these things? Does that mean there can be Americans who have never visited and will never visit America? If being an American is more of an ideal, does that mean God is an American? I suppose if American is defined broadly enough, anything can become American.

But that can't be what being an American is. It can't be an ideal. Maybe it's a culture thing. Like Mexican culture versus American culture. So what is American culture? What is that one cultural common denominator that must exist between all Americans? Between people in Los Angelos, New York, Orlando, Little Rock, Phoenix, Houston, Minneapolis, and Topeka? There has to be something. What could it be? I can't think of a single thing shared between these various places that isn't found in other countries. And again we run into the problem of having Japanese citizens who we must deem "Americans"; of Russians who are Americans; of Egyptians who are Americans.

It seems dumb to me, but the only thing that makes one an American is geography. Does a person live on one side of a river or another? Why should I feel any sense of pride over something so far beyond my control as the location where I was born. Yay, go This-Side-of-the-River!! Boo, Other-Side-of-the-River!! How moronic.

You know what I've found in my travels to other countries? And in my experience with foreign visitors here? People, no matter from which side of the river they hail, are, well, people. I know plenty of American jerks and I've encountered plenty of nonAmerican jerks. And I have had the pleasure of meeting pleasurable people on all sides of the damned river. I met a guy from Hungary and another from Romania and I have more in common with them than I do with probably 98% of the American populous. Does that mean I'm really not American, but a Hungarian or Romanian who just got lost or something?

Nope. It just means that being an American is nothing in which I ought take any special pride. Am I happy that those from whom I descended fought and died for the freedom that we all cherish today? Of course. I might even fight for that someday as well. But I will never fight for America. I will fight for the future of my children. Maybe even the future for your children. I will fight perhaps to aid the concerns I feel for my family. But no, I will never fight for something so foreign to my heart as national pride (a.k.a. patriotism).

Patriotism is a faery tale that teachers engrained in their students to keep them warm at night. Patriotism is the heart of manifest destiny. The heart of national imperialism. The heart of true and lasting racisim. I am American, hear me roar. Who were the original patriots? Wealthy landowners who fought and killed so they might remain wealthy landowners. Or put them in a gentler light: men who so valued liberty that they would rob other men of liberty by robbing them of their life's blood.

No. May I never be a patriot.