Author: Orin Zebest

My chosen name is Orin Robertjohn Zebest. My née name was "Robert John La Londe-Berg" but is no longer my legal name. Use that if you want to. My good friends "the homeslices," otherwise known as The Homepie, call me Billy.

There's a story behind that --- and you can ask them if you want to. They live in Palm Springs, where we all grew up. Well... where we were all bored and self-amusing teenagers. They live there in a big house and I live here in San Francisco, in a much-apportioned-but-not-so-big apartment. I'm the one that has all the internet skills, and I'm the one that has the discipline to blog (sort of).

Incidentally, this is not a blog; it is a Glot. Glot is what it is. Read more if you must. I don't write often, although sometimes I do. I write about a great number of things: some personal, some reflective, some reactive, some rantive, some radioactive, some are really just sort of silly. My topics are of my own choosing. My choice is to discover some topics. In other, more conceptual terms: this site exists as no more than an edification to the intrinsic value of highly individual perceptions, and that individual happens to be myself, Orin. If that sentence makes sense, congratulations, you've won the chance to write me an email.

Categories
Glot-glot

Caveman I.T.

Let me address, for a moment, a subject of male preoccupation: machines.

Damnable machines. The intricacies and interminglings of mechanical and electrical, the mystery and lure of esoteric knowledge, the elusive and seductive usefulness of them—such aspects evoke what the ancient ones would call the summoning of spirits. Caveman call to God with the same sticks and stones. A key turned, a button pressed, and a powerful and nigh-understood beast is yours to command. As spoken by Arthur C. Clarke: “Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic.” Think about it. I haven’t.

Years ago American lore tells us that we men were fascinated with automobiles. We knew all the intricacies of engine parts, created mythologies (such as the ever-faulty Knuter valve), and “talked shop.” How quaint. Today these honored traditions are mostly just useless and annoying distractions. Example. Example. Example. Which of course makes them dishonored traditions. Because people have pooped on them.

Today, modern machines of manliness aren’t built from aluminum, but rather silicon wafers. By my scientific calculations the average american male knows a hefty 1.8 terabytes more in the category of “shit about computers,” as compared to the relatively clueless american female. Bear in mind this fake statistic takes no account of age and there are often pleasant exceptions. But by and large, I think you’ll agree, womenfolk have to deal with us cause it’s a man’s job to take care of the computers.

The ramifications: if you’re like me, there will be occasions when every-single-person-you-know will want you to fix their computer. Recently I had two computers break on me—the same day. The first, the PSU simply exploded… or, uh, imploded… I don’t know cause I wasn’t actually there… but am told the sparks were impressive either way. And the second? It’s PSU was momentarily temporarily disconnected. This (of course) caused catastrophic driver corruption. It’s now stricken with the condition I like to call “POS syndrome.” And, the day before, I’d picked up an old-timey laptop which needed to have everything reformatted, reinstalled, and re-gotten-working-again. Windows ME doesn’t seem to even exist on the internet.

And so, my essential caveman nature was faced with three highly sophisticated (highly busted) thinking machines. We’ve only evolved so much in 10,000 years, people. Let me assure you that only the best-placed utterings of damnation can sway a determined machine. General cursing helps, but not as much as besmirching the name of Engelbart. They hate that kind of besmirching.

How I eventually managed to fix all these problems isn’t actually important. Even though you probly’ve been lead to believe it is, by me. Although hint hint—my method did involve money and throwing. Needless to say the computer that’s mine is working again.

Categories
Glot Glot-glot

The Boringest

Somtimes a realization can spring upon you like a nightmare in the… in the night. And that realization for me is: I am boring.

Now this is not the kind of thing I like to admit openly. And in this day and age, where coolness is a personal commodity, this is not a paltry thing to admit. Especially for a 21 year-old. Especailly for me—I’m the coolest person I know. What does that say about the rest of you fuckers? Poor sad bastards. No wonder I’m so boring. I’m bored.

Has the world lost it’s luster? Or has the stunningly doldrum-hohum warm-piss wooden-shoehorn nature of this stucco’ed strip mall of a town finally begun to egg away at the colorful and wild-hearted edifice that is ME. Maybe this ham-it-up phone operator spchpiz-niz is getting to me—the need to speak clearly and in an elevated tone, having to to say things like “how may I direct your call?” and “I’m sorry, sir, I’ll have those bath towels delivered right away.” I need to do something soon, man, soon. I just used the word spchpiz-niz in a sentence and it made perfect sense.

I swear I have never listened to a rap song on purpose.

What brings on this tide of troubled thoughts to my toiling cerebrum? I’ll tell you: girls, goddamn… damn… girls. Being all, there, and all. They taunt me with their… making me think about them. That’s the best I can explain my feelings at the moment.

I am reminded of the cosmic precept (not quite a law), that is applicable in a situation such as mine. The more you need something, the more you feel you have to have it, the less likely you are to get it. Conversely, if you are terribly afraid of something and obsess about it happening it will happen. You’re going to lose your hair. The germs are going to get you.That airliner’s going down. And you know what—this isn’t just some cheeky-tongued blaaah-zay adage here. It deals with the primal force of manifestation, and a powerful force it is.

This is science (or philosophy—depending on how you view the very nature of consciousness). I’ll give you an example: you’ve heard of that cheesy R&B song, “I Beleive I Can Fly?” Well that song is full of crap, no one can fly unless they’re on a feakin’ plane. Now, that’s an example of negative manifestation: I believe it’s impossible ergo you can’t fly. And it’s true! See what I’m saying? This same principle keeps me from being suave with women: I know I could be reallly good. But I know I’m not. I think myself into doing the wrong things even though I know what the right things are, and this happens because… because…

Damn I’m bored. I need a hobby. Like web design. Or blogging. Wait—you know what, fuck that shit—I’m gonna go whittle a boat or something. I hate tha intarweb. I hate calling it ‘tha intarweb’. You heard me, Internet. I know you’re out there. Sending you’re little robots to check up on me alla time. Coming in 12:15, 12:30, 12:55, what do you think I am, a blog junkie? You’re lucky if you get one entry a week from me Internet. That’s cooler than Kottke can say, working his b.s. as a full-time gig. What a loser…

Please, like me. If I blogged more would you like me? Would you grant me the graciousness of your pagerank, send me the beloved unique IP hits that pad my ego so? Tell me, in so many bits, that not only is my prose lively and un-boring but is worthy of actual readership? Well fine then. I’ll do that, and I’ll make it XHTML-compliant-valid-and-douched just like you told me to. But you gotta get me a girlfriend, Internet. You know the kind—smart, pretty, willing to engage in long bouts of smart-assness. And she better be from this country too you ass, stop sending me girls with surnames like Iripov or Kerpletzka. If you have to pay for it that’s cheating (I don’t know if you realize that, being a formless amalgam of machines and all). Also I’m cheap; tell her that just in case. Other than that she should know I don’t need her, but uh, you know it’d be nice. Just make it sound cooler than that when you say it. I don’t want to sound boring.

Deal?

Categories
Glot

Work Blog

Guess what? I got a job. And I’m here. Now.

I join the great tradition established by blogger big’uns like master Tony Pierce—of taking time when you might otherwise be working and instead writing b.s. you copy onto the internet. Cept I’m not working for a super-secret intelligence organization protecting the innocent, but answering phones.

“Good morning, Westin Mission Hills resort and spa and villas, golf course, convention center, beauty pageant host, annual lesbian mecca, etc etc, this is Robert, how may I direct your call?”

I’m Robert again. It’s not as bad as I thought it’d be. People get your name right the first time.

It’s a pretty laid-back job, relatively speaking. No spouts of molten shrimp or light-sensitive chemicals you can spill that remove your skin. I sit in a chair and direct calls, very appropriately. As an associate of a 5-star, 5-diamond resort I cannot say “hi.” I say “hello.” It’s a good gig but I have to memorize a lot of things. For instance, the extension for the Gary Player golf bag room is different than the extension for the Pete Dye bag room. Also, there happen to be about 3000 such individual extensions.

But hey, paid training boy-o. $8.50/hour isn’t anything I’ll scoff at.

Wish me luck, intarweb malcontents.

Categories
Glot

Good Night’s Rest

PJ needs to have his eyes fixed cause he used to be able to pop ’em out. Especially the left one. Babies used to be popular Christmas entertainment in the 19th century. Children who were learning ventriloquism would place them in the tree and do tricks. Also, the Honda needs chlorine to make the engine run smoother and get better pickup. Those ‘Real Gilligan’s Island’ people (never seen the show) are having a race and they’re driving the wrong way and using the middle lane. That’s the one clogged with weeds and debris. Not a bad idea. Housing is cheaper in Sacramento but you’ll get lost in the boonies on the way there. Young musicians are more successful in the long run, because… they have more time, or maybe attractiveness fades, or something. Ask Nana she said it. Also fraternal twin bands seem like a good idea but they aren’t. And lastly, it really does suck when the rest of your neighborhood is torn down behind your back and zoned for ‘mixed use’ residences and strip malls. Ugly black boxes up and down the street.

One final bit of advice: have the cat sleep next to you, you’ll like it.

Categories
Glot

…is Fourth of July

Creative Commons photo by Flickr user WhatNot

With the tide coming in and the fireworks reflecting off it, and even the billion little bacteria come to show their patriotism by glowing in an awful nice way, I remember thinking it was a pretty good 4th of July. Explosions were happening off the pier, from someone’s house, from zoomers lit right on the beach. Some narrated events on cell phones. Some attempted ecstatic epilepsy (or is it epileptic ecstasy?) with strobe wands bought for $4 apiece. I sat on a rock and wrote on a thick sketchbook on a page of doodles I didn’t like, and all the while the tide kept coming.

toy fireworksThe fireworks crackled in stereo up and down the beach.
BOOM. BOOMBOOM.

You got your sparklers, your poppers, your whistlers, screamers, thumpers, swimmers (my favorite), smiley-faces, two-timers, and of course your duds, all in blue and red and green and white, purple even. That I’ve had before. You’ve had them before. But have you ever had the very waters of the ocean aglow for you on the fourth of July?

Categories
Glot

So Here’s What I’m Thinking

I’m thinking: why have I not posted in so long? Do I derive no joy from smattering my self-involved brain trash all over on the intarweb? Shouldn’t I use the word ‘intarweb’ more often on the internet, just to show how ‘hip’ I am for the kids today? Why don’t I openly mock my own motives and diction more often, in public, on a crappy website I built wasting time when I could have been doing classes?

Huzzah and kudos to myself. I have now alienated anyone who might have liked me. Usually I’m not so… deprecating, to be fair. These few weeks have been odd. I haven’t written in a long time so don’t feel so bad, imaginary audience. Or should I just address you as search-bots? Search-bots, ho!

I wrote a letter to Emily last night, an old friend from college. Not an old friend. She’s frickin 20. I’m 21. Dammit. Anyway it felt good. And so, I am now operating under the perhaps misguided assumption of “who gives a fuck? no ones reading!” So I can now admit (using my false confidence) the fact that, since I was a boy, I have had a curved dick. And that it’s the result of a flawed circumcision. Didn’t see that coming, did you asshole!? Hoo-Ah!

Well that’s enough personal detriment flavored with wanton and oddly juxtaposed enthusiasm for one sitting, woodenshoessay?
I’m to bed.

Goodnight Cleveland.

Categories
Blog

Eh.

Eh.

Categories
Glot

Rhymes with Puke

I’d like to see me, playing a ukelele, really really badly.

I wanna suck at playing it so bad it’s funny.

All people aspire to something. To better themselves. To better society. To protect and provide for their families. To perform acts of renown and courage. To create breathtaking works of art. Can I not dream, dream to suck?

Many would question my dream. They would say that I am only failing at my original dream of learning to play the oft-soft-plucked, sonorous, humble ukelele. No no no contraire. I have learned to play it, just recently (yesterday). Much easier than you’d think. A quick run-down of some Ukelele concepts:

  • Tuning. This is very important. GCEA—Girls Can’t Eat Alone. Or, if you’re a visual learner try Gucklerhea.
  • Chords. Keep one hand still. Move the other. Congratulations, Mister Clapton!
  • Chord Progression. Requires some practice. Move both hands at once. It confuses the hell out of ’em.
  • Strumming. When you hit your hand against the stringy bits, such that you make a sound not unlike the stringy bits being dropped.
  • Tapping. ‘Percuss’ the instrument—that is to say, hit it. Hit it like it’s your bitch and it just peed the carpet. Rub it’s nose around in there.
  • Glissando. An advanced technique whereby one strips the top layer of skin off one’s fingers. It could also very well be a mixture of glitter and sand, I suppose. I don’t know—I make this stuff up.

There you have it. From these simple observations, and also about $40 of your mom’s money, you too can suck at ukelele. Look for samples of musical technique coming soon!!!

Categories
Glot

Irksome—not quite inflammatory

I tell you what, never watch a philosophical and cerebral movie with your dad right after he’s just arrived from a really long drive. Never suggest how your girfriend can improve the project she’s been working on all day. She only wants your praise and adulation. Thirdly, always test a pulgin that blocks certain content from certain people with the least irksome material you can think of. Irksome: today’s word of the day.

Categories
Glot-glot

Don’t Look at Me

Currently in a state of trasition, as you can obviously tell.

Slice off the circle ↓

chop off the circle

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