Smiling Eyes

The subtitle of this entry is “a fine example of the problems with revealing personal experiences in a public forum, especially as relates to sexual equality and hot chicks in the 21st century.”

Irish Smiling EyesSo I met this girl last Thursday. Mary Catherine. She’s Irish, full of spirit and sprite and more than a little bite. Master’s degree, English lit-er-a-ture. Carried around Jane Eyre the whole time I knew her, and had the romantic inclinations to match. We met not at a bar, but walking home from one. Thank God for girls with a poor sense of direction (and the male protection mechanism that helps their sorry situation). If not, I doubt that I’d have known her outside of a hostel stairwell. As it was, we feverishly debated feminism and modern sexual equality for the next hour. This is sometimes called “foreplay.” I was the first American with whom she could hold a conversation (so she said), and she spent a year in New York. This says a lot about me but perhaps more about New York.

By round about 2 o’clock, when all the others arrived home from the barbary-coast brewery/bar, I’m content to think I had her English-lit educated, female-favoring Gaelic greymatter headily haywire, helped certainly by our intermediate intoxication. Jane Eyre is justifiably lambastable—melodramatic moth-magnet that it is—necessitating nearly not-nice opining on my part. Being quite respectable, she took umbrage (very well). XXX yakking zinged zealosly zereafter.

Did I mention we had fun? Not just with words (which we did). The kind of fun two people of opposite sexes can have after a night of drinking and sharply sparked conversation. Oh yes, there was thumb-wrestling. Of course with 6 people per room in a hostel, it limits how much fun two people can respectably have. We passed those limits. Not too much! Just enough. Enough to wake people up, ahem. But by this time it was… what, maybe 6 o’clock in the morning? And I learned that girls who still travel with teddy bears have a tendency to fall asleep when they happen to hug them. Even if they are 24 and have a Master’s. Even if it’s not the best time to be falling asleep.

We had a good time the next few days. She gave me life outside of emailing my résumé. I gave her a sense of class, romance, and a deeper understanding of the fine line between confidence and arrogance. What can I say?—I played “the American.” She played “vulnerably self-empowered and inexperienced yet highly educated 21st-century 20-something Catholic-guilt-having yet steamy-romance-needing girl/woman with an endearing foreign manner.” She played it well. There wasn’t ever a moment when the tension left. I did things I’m certain I wouldn’t have done otherwise. It was, in short, a really good thing that happened to both of us. Our last night together was eventful. I won’t write about it here, as it’s too complicated. And still too close. And really, not the kind of story I’d share with everyone on the internet. We never… how can I say? Consumated our relationship. She left, and I haven’t heard from her since.

Around this point, most men would say something along the emotions of “dammit, I was so close, but oh well.” I know better. Everything worth doing will be bittersweet in the end. She left, and I haven’t heard from her since.

Now, here’s the problem with writing this story, and its attraction. I’m exposing myself. I’ve invited full-frontal unsolicited judgement of my character. You probably came here Googling me, seeing if I’m fit to date or employ or write a book with, and here I’ve just shared a deeply personal experience with strangers. Not only did I just voluntarily share an intimate experience in a public forum, I featured my own dummy-moves doing it! I didn’t pair it with the standard-issue “that’s the way I am” or “I don’t care what you think” attitude. Maybe you now think I’m a player who plays with girls, goes for the drunk ones cause their easy. Maybe you think I’m a love-starved loser, quick-to-love. Maybe you think I’m really, really considering this whole thing too much. I’m practically inviting, nay, demanding unseen repercussions. I’m the trenchcoat-flasher who squints his eyes closed.

That’s my problem—I’m willing to share, I’m not ready to accept the consequences for doing so. I’m unwilling to let certain people (who know who they are! who’ve been named! who’ve read too much already! who have disobeyed my specific hints!) find it and read it.

This means you, Mom.

But God, it’s fun to do. And I think I may have solved my problem, in the process of spelling it out. Being explicit about the expected judgment places that judgment in the forefront of a reader’s cerebrum, thereby making it a conscious choice instead of an pre-conscious one. This is much the same mechanism detailed in Post #45. For me, it’s also an elegant (but partial) solution to the troubling axiom proposed in Post #35. I shall henceforth refer to this as:

  • Counter-intuitive rule #110: if you expect something to happen, then say what you’re expecting, the actual result is guaranteed to change (Heisenberg’s readership principle)


Moving-its a Process

I’m in San Francisco right now. I’ve been moving to San Fran since last Sunday the 17th. I’ve walked the entire length and breadth of the city, or at least it feels that way. I’ve applied to more jobs than I care to count. I haven’t been laughed at for it. Yet. And although I don’t technically have a job right now, I really am hoping I do. So I’ve started looking around for a place. I started with the internet, and writing out things like this:

About me:
I like things that I find. This has been most apparent in the past, when I lived at CSU Monterey Bay on the old Fort Ord. My rooms were decorated with army lamps, lost art, and all manner of discarded artifacts. They’re never scrapheaps; they’re galleries, with nice lighting and curtains. I like bringing guests into my spaces and so I take care of them.

For those wanting the jist: I’m clean, I have taste (and a decent hobby), and I’m cool enough I don’t make it a big deal.

To be fair I’ll offer some negs, too: I spend too much time on the computer (in the past, anyways). I sometimes get neurotic when things are out of place. I thought I was messy until I had roommates in college, and then I was the clean one with the cool room. I dislike television. I love meat pastries, so vegetarians/vegans have hereby been warned. And I won’t remember anything you tell me upon just waking up.
-from my profile

I’ve written many emails, received none. Am I being too eager? Too honest? Too smarmy? Quite possibly. But Imma keep looking, if for no other reason than because my hostel is a fourth-floor walkup. So I’m going to an open house right now. See you in an hour.


Three Months None the Wiser

Today I’ve been three months out of Australia. Three months, being back in the U.S. without a job, or really any well-conceived plan, or a pointed direction to go. And I’ll tell you why that time period is so special as opposed to 2 months or just 1 or a single rotation of Neptune: 3 months is the limit of an Australian tourist visa. The one I never got. In other words, there’s a different reality out there where I came home today. I flew in to LAX about 10:30 this morning with a lot more knick-knacky crap and probably more money.

Flag of Official Because I can place that as my one mistake during my Australian travels. Well, no… there was a lot of mistakes, a litany of shame mostly involving stupid things I said or did around pretty girls, but none I truly regret save for that one. I didn’t make any damn money!

Right Side UpI looked for a job there the entire first month of February, which in itself is worrisome since us dumb yanks only get a four-month working visa (warning sign #1). At the end of February I accepted the one job that never asked for a resumé (warning sign #2). It was a sales job mostly for “backpackers,” youth from abroad working their way through their travels. Which was me. Stop me if you’ve heard this one before: hire a bunch of cheap foreign workers who aren’t too familiar with local labor regulations but are transient anyways and usually desperate enough that they’ll work long hours and go anywhere at the drop of a hat. Yeesh. My situation might not’ve been “migrant Mexicans farmworkers in a Steinbeck novel,” but man, having Cesar Chavez over my shoulder woulda been nice sometimes. Which is the last I’ll say about that. Mailbox Metal The worst thing for me was that some of the better “transients” were making mad bank—around to $1000-$2000/week. One week, I made $33.95 (EMERGENCY! Abort Employment!).

Kangaroo Gonna Lick My Dad says never accept anything that eats as a gift. It’s a good rule; saves a lot of explaining as to why you must turn down an actual, hooved, barn-rental-required gift horse. My newly-minted cosmic rule is “never work really hard at a job at which you don’t earn at least minimum wage.” Simple enough, and kind of stupid I should have to spell it out.

Eltham, Skyline in the Color So why did I stay so long earning peanuts and a thick skin from all the Yank-haters? Stubborn hope and plain old stubborness. Fear of what was else was out there. Camraderie and commiseration. A deeply felt and somewhat misguided feeling that applying myself to the task was helping my personal developmont. Free travel even if it was only to the suburbs. Josephine (she prefers Jo) who lives in a pretty old house on Livingstone Road in Eltham, VIC, who has a garden made from old metal scraps, who fed me crisps and told me about the war, generally made me feel like a grandson, and whom I genuinely helped with power bills. There were a lot of good, or at least excusable reasons for staying so long. But I’m just not a good salesmen. Couldn’t tell you why. Either that or Aussies don’t trust Yanks. And I could’t blame them either.

You Taka Picture Me? Bottom line: I quit after two months and the only thing that kept me from boarding a plane come May 1st was $2000 of borrowed money and a couple weeks left on a lease. I went to Brisbane, the Great Barrier Reef, and stayed in Airlie Beach (the best beach town ever), all in two weeks. I had a two-week “vacation” before my plane (the one I was really on) left June 7th. Do I regret taking that job? Duh. I have a friend who’s personal motto is: “No regrets, ever; you can’t live it over again.” Which is a fine motto to have. But the way I see it, you can and do live it over again. All the time. With everything.

And today, whenever I an reminded how different I see things and how I act and how better I am understanding everyday persuation, I can put a price tag on it. Which fortunately or unfortunately is all the time. Sales is a tough job, but what’s tougher is talking to strangers. I still haven’t mastered it. But damn if I didn’t get an expensive push.


Live! – J.J. Parree

Amazing! Two musicians, one week! Let me rephrase: I have, through good fortune of knowing about Re/seach Publications show, seen two of my remembered favorite musicians from the time when I was an avid collector and compiler of excellent music, in the past week (not to say I ain’t anymores but hey, a guy has to diversify). After Sunday’s commanding performance by the accordion virtuoso Dick Contino, how can I be anything but amazed at my good luck hearing yet another…

Jean-Jacques Perrey, already known for being French, was also a pioneer of electronic music back in the 60’s—where he had to actually use a razor blade and magnetic tape to achieve his splendid happy bouncy electro-pop. He, along with the Germano-Yank Gershon Kingsley, mid-wived electronic music into popular existance.

He related a story of how he went to Brazil out in the wilds and recorded bees at different rates, all to make “Flight of the Bumblebee” sung by real bees. He spent the next 72 hours splicing the thing the old-fashioned (painfully pain-staking) way. When he happened to run into Salvador Dali, and played it for him, Dali’s first response to it was “you are CRAZY!” Then, after a second listen a an uncomfortably pregnant silence, exclaimed: “fantastic!

So it goes, in the world of experimental music. If you aren’t crazy you’re probably boring. Full Bittorrent soon to come, until then here’s a fun little selection called “Chicken on the Rocks.”

UPDATE: Bittorrent not soon to come. The complete performance was not recorded as pristine as I’d hoped, and I simply have no time to clean up my bouncy friend Mr. Parree. However, if you desire it, ask and ye shall recieve.


Queen of the Gypsies

In 2003, I was in love with Gypsy music. Dotted my i’s with Gypsy hearts. There is something in it and you can’t know what it is—not without hearing it. Rhythms of wild abandon, strains of endless longing, mysteries of an eternally foreign tongue. And listening to it made me different. That’s very important, these days, what with individuality the commodity it is.

I remember once, I was taking a weight-training class over the summer. The music in there was shit, absolute shit. Unpalatable for all its mass palatability and wholly unlistenable. This happened to be the same year, the summer of one CD, where we listened to my legendary and unstoppable Romano-Klezmer mix all night & every day. Known as “polka music,” or “proteins” to some, this mix, among other things:

  • probably got burned about 3 dozen times
  • spun-off two sequels
  • was traded multiple times
  • got me a girlfriend (no, really!)
  • was also unashamedly played at a gay prom
  • caused fools bumpin’ 50¢ to do a double-take
  • was played on the last day of that dumb gym class and not only made me a frickin’ star for a day, but struck that teacher speechless with awe, respect, and the possible paradigm-shattering recognition of his essential lameness

It was the result of an unplanned experiment… a CD-mixing experiment… to see if I could somehow retain a coherent focus for a whole CD. Beginning in April I began a mass downloading campaign, across an ocean, utilizing my precision-strike hit/miss method. I stormed “Macedonia”, claimed everything “Romano,” “Romany,” “Roma,” and pillaged neighboring “Bulgaria” just in case. No “orkestar” was safe. As they feebly attempted to thwart my efforts, I was forced to spell “Klezmer” eight different ways. From my vantage in front of a standard Dell-issue laptop I calculated catchiness, accessibility, theme, novelty, and overall awesomeness. By the end of May I had captured nearly a gig of material—the hard part was still to come.

As it turned out, the hard part was determining what my friends would actually listen to. The final mix came down to 21 paradigm-and-silence-shattering tracks, clocking in at exactly 79 minutes 57 seconds, all of which I now know by heart. The songs gained their own characters. Some were requested more often, people choosing favorites between themselves. But the single track that could be called the group favorite: Esma Redzepova – Caje Sukarije. It was the track that inspired the subject matter—the catchiest, gypsiest track of the bunch.

The Queen of such music has to be one fine Rom. And so she is—one of the most interesting cultural pillars you’ve never heard of. She has twice been nominated for the Nobel Peace Prize, has performed in more than 8000 concerts in 30 countries, and with her late husband Stevo Teodosievski has fostered forty-seven children. Those of you paying attention will note that I just directly quoted plagiarized from the Wikipedia entry. Well smartie, that’s because I wrote it. They plagiarized me (by way of me writing it). I really have a fondness for the Gypsy music. Some might even say that I have made a conscious decision to identify with this media in order to appropriate it’s positive aspects into my own. I hereby claim this land…

To that end, I made something myself to share. I give you, a torrent: Esma Redzepova’s classic double-CD album “Queen of the Gypsies” available in convenient downloadable fashion.

link to torrent page


Musing Moving

My methods, while distracting, are just another useful approach. Downloading new productivity software is fun. Admittedly, going on a search for new productivity fonts that look like old productivity typewriters is not. What I should be doing right now is quite clear to me. I need to find a job in San Francisco.

Along with a job comes an apartment. That’s naturally the first thing to gravitate toward. It’s the fantasy part. There are so many places to live, attractive and attractively-priced places. Places to imagine yourself doing things. What I’ve learned from past experience is not to trust that initial cloudland instinct. It’s better to set oneself up to do the things you want, by doing whatever they happen to be in the moment. One will naturally progress.

Hm. Craigslist has a two week position as a Summer camp RA @ SF State. That sounds pretty nice. Accomodation, 19 meals provided/week, which is 2/day plus 5 breakfasts. Now, to go through my damnable elimination method. I usually go through a job listing looking for an unmet requirement, something to keep me back. There it is: “experience working with youth.” Nope nuh uh. Also: “First Aid/CPR Training especially sought” …I haven’t had CPR training since 9th grade. Then again, my mother is correct in her evaluation that if they’re still looking for applicants on Thursday, when the job starts Sunday, they’re probably pretty desperate. Their website advertizes “24-hour supervision by trained, experienced teachers and counselors.” Well, that’s a little white lie. It certainly couldn’t hurt to email a resumé + cell number, though. So I guess I will.

Now the problem is that I don’t have a resumé—not a decent one anyways. I have the one I hastily cobbled together in Sydney those first hectic few days. An entirely different place in every sense. And now, cobbling the sequel, I realize that for the prettiness of the fonts I’m using, I should probably just crack down and be a 15 year-old girl. Who happens to have a refined sense of layout.

Man, this is way more of a LJ post than anything else.


Writing a Post Helps

Daily Visits are going up.

Tan Tan WordPress Reports Plugin tells me the following:

During the past 7 days, your site received 56 visitors (+143%) and 373 pageviews (+604%).

That’s a fact. Pretty amazing, yes? It’s all because I took the time from coding the site and actually posted something. Somebody even took notice and put me on BlogOfTheDay. Wow. You can just write, and have people read it.

This is an important realization to have (and remember) for one such as myself. It’s really easy to be a do-nothing perfectionist. If it’s not perfect—screw it! Here I am, striving forward in my own private multi-day coding marathon, but do the means justify the end? Why have an awesome-looking blog if you only post twice in a month? I feel I should declare some sort of resolution. I know there’s supposed to be a personal challenge statement somewhere around here.

Hm. Now where could I have left it…


And this to show for it

My methods might be a little unorthodox.

I approach web design like an architect. I make careful evaluations, gather useful information about the site, sketch and refine many approaches… Then, like an architect deranged, I disregard that which I’ve hoarded and just go at the thing blunt force with a chisel and a beefy sledgehammer. I’m self-educated in this technique, in case you wondered.

Been working now for two days. I binge on the internet. I stay up till the really early hours, till way after others actually woken up and begun their day. But the layout is coming along quite nicely I reckon. You just have to account for those tiny (gigantic?) impasses where browser quirks leave you befuddled and pounding a sledgehammer into some innocent bystanding keyboard.


List of Improvements

So far I’ve refrained from calling it Glot 2.0. I’m not sure if that’s because 1.0 never officially came out, or if it’s my nagging fear of bandwagons. It’s just so trendy this season, isn’t it? Got nothing better to call it, though. And it is the second version. What the hell: GLOT 2.0.


most recent WordPress build
nice admin css (Aenonfire design & Camera On Road)
animated favicon
css color variations a la aNieto2k, Impact Switcher
random css.php file for users w/ javascript turned off
categorical css layouts


unvisited links underlined, visited crossed out (e.g. visited)
link :hover interestingness a la SevenNine
post number determines color
tags listed at end of post
SIFR rich typography replacement

very visible Comment Here link
sub-titled per-post taglines
front-page category segregation
smaller text for long posts, larger for short ones
printer-friendly version (downloadable pdf version?)


button fiend
IM status indicator
BDP Referral stats
latest Flickr photo Polaroid-framed
better-than-live search
hybrid posts/tags search
integrate links to pages (FAQ, before I die list=43 things)

New Pages

digidentity, or, more than you’d ever like to know about my life online:

SimplePie makes possible: links rss
Consumating RSS RSS
MySpace RSS
WordPress support forums

about page w/sub pages:

about glot: “what is a glot/origin of glot” page
about me: author info, contact form, real name
about faq: or, QITUYMA

all organized by brain phrenology regions

FAlbum integration
custom search pages
404 error page (100%x100% background image)
tag cloud + tag info


front-page comments (Inline Ajax Comments, Expand Comments)
custom comment text (5 of you reckon…)
comments quicktags
comments preview
canary comment (possible…)
human validation: pick three cute things method
trackback/pingback segregation/variation
gravatar inclusion (Comvatar)
gravatar signup
fake more comments on old entries
# of comments (comments meter=ProgressFly)
comments imaginary point system (points for browser, pictures, # words)
rewards for points (signed shoes, minidiscs, clothing, art crap…)


Please Welcome Sweden and the Philippines

At first it seems these two illustrious countries have nothing to do with one another.

Sweden, land of fjords, vikings, linganberry wine, and (if my travels overseas are any indication) a whole lotta amazingly-accented Indian girls. And the The Philippines! What can I say? You’ve got volcanoes that can evacuate entire regions of space, I hear sometimes you fish with dynamite, and you probably still have that beer brand with a monkey. What could these two possibly have in common? If you said, “nothing”… Ha! Well, that is true, except for maybe one thing: in the past week, stray webfarers in both those countries happen to have visited this friggin’ site. This thing actually gets read in other countries. I am an ambassador to the world, whether you believe it or not, world.

Visitor map from Google Analytics - Sweden AND the PhillipinesNot since the Rocky Horror Discovery Scare of ’04 have I even been conscious that there might be people poring over The Glot, people I hadn’t personally met. Looking for information. Googling “checklist+post+death+planning” in all seriousness, only to find my smarmy, self-bemused, wholly overrated misrepresented site pinging their naive Googledar. What if that Swede’s only brother just died, in a sled crash involving drunk reindeer perhaps, leaving that poor Swede to make all the funeral arrangements? He doesn’t know the steps! He needs me to tell him. And what do I wanna do? Get into a bar fight over beer nuts. Wonder of wonder, horror of Rocky Horrors!

Every goal has a dark side. I would like to make my blog glot a place where more people would like to visit. Even have another entity appreciate my silly writing. One outside the immediate single genetic degree of family. A human entity too, since those lurky MSNbots obviously get a hearty kick outta my material already. Comment, damned robots! But every once in a while, you’re gonna have to disappoint some grieving Swede. That’s life. Seriously though—who wants to plan post-death? Not a lot of forethought in that search, boy-o.

Sweden and Philippines, I give you my hat tip. You may not have found my site useful. You may not have stayed longer than a minute. You may have even web-snorted in contempt at this tiny, indulgent, gaudy, blog-like, and oversyllablistic web-shite that Google mis-pinged to you… maybe. I thank you for your votes of confidence nonetheless.