My Parents are so STRONG!

Some of you may remember that a mere 2 months ago it was Mother's Day. Here's my card.




My Father's Day card lovingly crafted from a CD since my dad loves cd's...ok that's a stretch. I mean everyone loves CDs. I just didn't have any cards on me at the moment.




My menu at our Black Angus Mother's Day lunch. Yes I asked for the crayons:

Go OUTSIDE for Once in Your Life!

So I haven't really posted any pictures of this lil' place called Southern California yet. About 4 months ago I bought this really nice camera, thinking I would be a professional photographer overnight...but I haven't had time to learn how to properly use it. So while here are some of my humble attempts at photography, they were taken with the little point and shoot that could.

Right now I live in a hotel designed for old people. But here's the view from my balcony:




Usually when I work downtown I get this RAD view. This time I'm not so lucky, but we'll just pretend this is still the view I see on a daily basis:




This is about a 15 minute walk from my current place (i'm borderline homeless at the moment, but that's another story). But lets be real. I never walk there. Driving only takes 3 minutes and I'm impatient:




On the way to Santa Monica. This is pretty close to the famous warning sign of the Mexican immigrants darting across the freeway:




Santa Monica sunset:




Something about this makes me of think of an 80's movie. Or maybe Baywatch?

"SATAN LIVES!"

This was screamed at me when I was about 7 years old. I was just an innocent child riding my bike, when a man sitting in his car on the side of the road threw his fast food trash at me as I passed by, peeled out, and stopped next to me to yell, "SATAN LIVES! I WORSHIP HIM!!!" (By the way, he looked like the black haired robin hood from the 80's British TV show. The man in the car. Not Satan.)

I never thought anything of this (I mean besides being terrified and emotionally scarred for life), until I actually met The Lord of all Demons.

Last night I’m turning off all my lamps in my hotel room so I can sleep, when this giant black flying bug the size of China comes out of the curtains. Not wanting the beast to fly into my face while I’m dreaming peacefully, I try to open my sliding doors to let the “little guy” out. But guess what, they're electronically LOCKED. (I guess so drunk people won't try to jump over the edge) No go there.

Of course while trying to open the doors DESPITE the lock (I actually considered pulling out the wires in an act of desperation), the monster vanishes. I poke around the room for awhile, but nope. Nothing.

3am. I hear this rapid clicking sound, wind blasting into my face from the giant wings of Satan himself. I get up. Grab a towel. And smote the demon on the side of the wall.

Being quite proud of my kill, I pick it up to admire my prize. The thing had pincers that could bite through solid cast iron, eyes that glowed bright red, and claws that Wolverine would be jealous of. I couldn’t waste such a trophy in the toilet, so I put it on the bathroom counter, figuring it'd give the maid a little scare.

Now I could return to my wonderful dreamland. The evil presence had been lifted from the room.

Brushing my teeth in the morning, I vaguely remember the battle that ensued just hours ago.

I gotta take a picture of this thing!

But wait....its nowhere to be found. Not on the counter where I so carefully placed it. Not under the counter. Not in the trash.

I'm not sure what's worse. The thought that the bug crawled away to die somewhere respectable (leaving a decaying corpse under my bed or in my underwear), or that something even bigger carried it off.

Sometimes I wonder what ever happened to that guy who screamed at me. Was he aware that Satan was staying at the Westgate? I would love to find him today, and see the look on his face when I tell him that the demon he so worshipped is now rotting in my hotel room.

you're on candid camera!

My friend Ai asked me, "do you ever draw smiling, or laughing faces?" In response I drew this:

romaji de kaite suimasen. tomodachi no Ai chan ga "waratteru kao nanka kaiteru?" to kiite, ore no kaitou wa kore:



hahaha, guess not.

(warau) ma~iika. kanashii kao ga suki kana

I'm TRYING

Yesterday my boss bought me a shiny new 6x8 Wacom tablet! I've been using the old cheap model with food stuck to it for far too long. It works, its just not that good for drawing. I tell myself I need to start practicing drawing in photoshop, but never find the time to do it (im really trying to narrow my hobbies down to one...maybe 2...3? 3's a good number.)

I don't see it at all, but people say my drawings always end up looking like me.



長い間ちっぽけなワコッムのタブレットが持っていたけど絵を描くためにあまりよくないから、社長が新しいワコッムの６ｘ８タブレットをくれました！Photoshopでいつも絵を描こう描こうと思うけどやっぱなかなか時間がないな～。趣味が多いすぎるからな。もっとよく絵を描きたい！

僕がこうと思わないけど、みんなは僕が描いた絵はいつも僕に似てるって。どう？似てる？

Burgers anyone?

I had felt sick since that drink from the water fountain.

So I'm walking home and it hits me. Halfway through the 45 minute trek, as the gag reflex kicks in, I plug my nose, hold my hand over my mouth, and manage to keep myself from losing my lunch all over the sidewalk in view of the entire neighborhood.

I couldn't believe it.

I didn't throw up! And just because I had covered my mouth and plugged my nose!

I was never going to throw up again, ever! I had discovered the secret trick. Who knew it was so simple? Maybe this was my new mutant power I had been waiting to develop! I smiled to myself the whole way home.

I was eleven. It was November. Sixth grade was tough, but throwing up? I had that completely under control.

The next 3 days I must have run to the toilet about 10 times, and not just to pee. I felt so defeated. What about the trick I learned? It worked when walking home, but it sure didn't work that evening during reruns of The Golden Girls.

Following those 3 days of pure joy, I made a vow. I had clearly lost the magic I had the other day, but I promised myself and God (no, really) that I would never, EVER throw up again. No matter what.

That promise lasted a solid 15 and a half years.

Anyone who knows me decently well knows that I am deathly, and I do mean deathly afraid of throwing up. I actually would rather die. You know in Lord of the Rings when the ring is being forged at the beginning of the movie? I would rather have that same hot, molten metal poured into my eyes, while rabid wolves tear violently at my rib cage to reach my beating heart than throw up one time in the next hundred years. That or a quick bullet to the back of the head, whichever is more convenient at the moment.

Last Saturday my family invited me over for a bbq. I saw the pictures of the last bbq on my mom's blog and got jealous. Dad was fixing burgers and I hadn't been over there in a few weeks, so why not? As usual I was a bundle of exploding energy, running around outside with my sisters, throwing rocks at the neighbor kids, charging up and down the hallway with the dogs, and pretty much just being me.

We eat outside on the deck with the new...canopy thing, and basically just have a good time. Eatin' outside, makin' up songs with Leah, watchin' the dogs eat mosquito hawks, you know? After a good burger, what's better than watching Shrek 3? Hadn't seen it yet, so hey I'm down.

About...oh 30 minutes into the movie, my stomach is killing me. Nobody better touch me cause I must have eaten too much. It keeps getting worse. Man I really do feel sick, this is weird.

The peach cobbler's ready to eat, so everyone except me scoops heaping helpings into bowls and smack after smack, devours the sticky, slimy peachyness. I can hear the cobbler squishing in their mouths, I can feel the moist peaches in my mouth and I'm not even eating it. Its grossing me out. I can't take anymore.

"I have to go to the bathroom"

For ten minutes I sit in front of the toilet.

"There's no way, there's no way. I'm fiiiiiiine. I'll be ooohhhkay."

"Don't....don't woooorry Ry, you're not gonna throw up, it's all in your head."

.....

Ok, I feel really....light. No....heavy. What's this strange feeling, it's like...there's this mist in the bathroom. Is that smoke? I can't really see very clearly right now. Why do I hear a high pitch... whistling? Mom's not making tea, she never makes tea. Maybe....maybe if I just smile I'll be ok. (Please keep in mind my fear right now. Don't laugh)

I smile. I'm in a happy place, yeah. This is just fine, just wait...wait...it out....it'll.........paaassss. No, no ok this is real, no no no no

Those hamburgers didn't taste as good the second time.

Or the third.

The fourth.

aaaand the fifth.

......

It's funny how under normal circumstances I avoid touching the toilet like the plague. Anything other than my butt cheeks are absolutely off limits. Even flushing it is a bit gross for me. So why is it that in your most vulnerable moment, you will lay your head on the toilet seat. Not even the lid, the INSIDE of the toilet. You know the place we like to pretend pee doesn't collect on. I had absolutely no qualms with my hair and my face touching every bit of that filthy, germ invested monster (my parent's toilet is actually very clean as toilet's go, but still...gross).

Writing this made me realize I owe someone an apology. So...

I'm sorry God. I broke my promise.

...

BUSY.

You can see right through him...and he flies.

Last year I lived with a few guys out in Mira Mesa. We all bonded really well, went on various adventures, experimented with various oatmeal recipes, had a petting zoo in the backyard we charged admission to, practiced our golf swing in the front yard, colored on the walls with crayons...you know, normal guy things.

All except one. The mysterious, elusive roommate no one ever met, and rarely saw. Many of my friends refuse to believe he exists, but I am here to prove you all wrong, and myself right, once and for all. I have seen him. I have proof. After months of trying I was finally able to get photographic evidence.

The other day I was at Rolando's house (the place I used to live), and while he was showing me how to make better use of my camera, I saw something move in the hallway behind us. I fumbled with the camera, raised it to my face, ripped off the lens cap, and as he was climbing the stairs snapped this picture:
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wait for it...
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wait for it...
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I expect no more doubts from any of you.

My baby.

This is a shot taken by Ro of me with with my new baby girl. Isn't she beautiful?

I'm a Believer!

My mom used to poke fun at me for believing everything people told me. You could tell me something crazy like the dinosaurs in Jurassic Park were real, and sadly, I would have believed it. Eventually I outgrew my childish gullibility, but she continued to tell people how easily I could be deceived. Determined to prove her wrong, I became who I am today - Ryan the skeptic. The one who absolutely will not be convinced something is true, unless it is reported from the most reliable news source, but even after that I'm often still unable to swallow it.

Rolando and I shared the same house for 4 months I discovered he was a drummer/bass player for the band Project Analogue. He told me this only after I asked if he was a musician when seeing the practice drum kit in his room. He had set it up beside his bed, likely due to a lack of owning a proper stool. Now...this would be ideal for one who's first thought after waking is "I gotta play drums-IMMEDIATELY." But on one finger, I can count the number of times I actually heard those drums.

I never believed him when he'd tell me he had to go to band practice.

I thought perhaps his "band" was a codename for his group of friends who played first person shooter games online, like Counter Strike. Not wanting to sound like a complete dork, he masked his obsession over videogames with the identity of a cool rock band.

Other reasons for my skepticism:

-What kind of bass player doesn't actually own a bass guitar?

-He never left for these practices with an instrument in his hands.

-His band's Myspace site at that time, had ZERO photos of him, only of some random ninjas and pirates.

-The one video he showed me of "his" band was shot at a party in a room with just enough light to make out some dark shapes playing instruments.

Well, last night, at a seedy club in an equally seedy area, complete with creepy old homeless men carrying hockey sticks in dark alleys, I saw my old roommate on stage rocking the bass like I'd never seen before. Because really...I'd never seen him play before.



These two other guys and I were without a doubt, the loudest, most abnoxious people watching the show. But hey, we had to support our bro. Besides, no band wants to play for a dud audience.



I believe him now. But I'm pretty sure that wasn't his guitar.

While I certainly feel I have proved her wrong, to this day my mom still thinks I will fall for anything you say.

(All photos taken by someone else with a real camera)