Russ and Suzi go to Asheville!

Last night as I was driving two hours into Asheville, North Carolina, to go let strange women invade my personal space and judge me I began to wonder, why exactly do I enjoy this so much? No, no It wasn't my annual proctology appointment at the local health department! Although Dr. Shemibarugh is a doll. No, I'm talking dancing! Yes, the bane of white men everywhere! I drive all this distance, on my night off from work just to put myself in uncomfortable situations that may or may not lead to a substantially deflated ego.
This does not sound something people do on a regular basis for fun, does it?
Yet here we are (Suzi and I that is), swiftly heading towards the hippy mecca of the east coast, on the hunt for swing dancing! As Suzi gets in touch with her inner "Little engine that could" I am left to ponder what exactly motivates me to go this far to engage in an activity that, by my above description, doesn't sound very appealing. Well I came up with a few conclusions on the trip down and on the trip back.

(if you've got the time)

First and foremost, it looks absolutely fantastic. The way these people have trained their bodies to move is a feat I yearn to mimic. If you have never seen any swing dancing (aside from that one scene in The Mask) then you should definitely look up some videos because it is, inarguably, and art form. The fact that one person can be so coordinated alone astounds me, now you add another compeltely free thinking individual to the mix and, contrary to what one would expect, the dance becomes more mezmerizing. This blows my mind. Two people, often time strangers, can meet and for two or three minutes be completely in tune with each other. They feel the rhythm of the music and use their bodies as a medium of expression like an sculpter might manipulate clay or a musician might improve a melody. Even more astound is, while they are creating this beautiful art, they are learning about each other. More is "said" in a three minute dance than can related over an hour of conversation. It's speaking with your entire body, not just your mouth. I want to learn how to express myself with nothing but the dynamic movments of my body. These people can make art anywhere and with virtually anyone and that is a skill I envy. But you can't create the art with another person if you don't trust them enough to respect you.

(classic) 

This is another aspect of dancing (any partner dancing that is) that impresses me to no end. You walk into a room filled with strangers, you pick one, often at random, and you almost guarentee that, if you show then trust and respect, you will get the same reciprocated. If a lead does not respect a follow, you will not be able to created anything together. The opposite is also true. This is an aspect I had never ecountered until I started socially dancing with strangers. When one learns to dance in a small group of people like I did, one tends to fall into the bad habit of learning your partners style and forgetting about your partner all together. I understand that there is a time and a place for this sort of compatability but for the purposes of social dancing, I think it was detrimental to me. I know plenty of moves but I never learned how to truly LEAD the moves. It's like trying to get directions from Ohio to California from someone who knows all the roads, has all the maps, but speaks a different language or no language at all for that matter. I lost my ability to communicate, bodily, what I needed my follow to do. These social dances help me improve this ability to communicate which is a foundation of partnered dances and, if you really break it down, life in general. Nothing here is restricted only to dancing.
One can learn to trust, communicate, respect and create in any circumstance by learning how to dance. The skills one learns in any given activity should never be restricted that that activity alone. In fact, I think it's impossible to expect that kind of behavior. The fact that educational systems stress interdiciplinary studies is just one example of the usefullness of being able to apply learning universally.
Basically I'm saying that learning to dance has made me a better person, and after noticing this I want to do it even more, regardless of the distance Suzi and I have to drive.

(P.S.) Suzi is my car! She's a trooper!
(P.P.S.) sorry about falling into the sexist convention of implying ownership of an object by imply it's female.

I feel in love with a girl on the internet, Her name was Mis-information

Chicken chicken chicken chicken chicken chicken chicken chicken

chicken chicken chicken chicken chicken chicken chicken chicken chicken chicken chicken chicken chicken     chicken chicken chicken chicken chicken chicken chicken chicken chicken chicken chicken chicken chicken   chicken chicken chicken chicken chicken chicken chicken chicken chicken chicken chicken chicken chicken chicken chicken chicken chicken chicken chicken chicken chicken chicken chicken chicken chicken chicken chicken chicken chicken chicken chicken chicken chicken ....

Okay, so here's the point I'm trying to make. For some reason, on certain occasions, a word will sometimes suddenly appear foreign to me. I have seen it, written it, and spoke it nearly all my life but suddenly I experience this surreal disconnect and the word no long seems... right. Sometimes this is cause by repetition, the word seems to lose it's value when it is rewritten ad nauseam. It may potentially be because the word has been removed from it's context and thereby loses much if its meaning, that the sentence is what truly gives meaning to it's individual words. However; this train of thought seems illogical considering that would mean words  would constantly rely on each other for literacy and relevance. But hey, wait a minute, that doesn't seem to illogical does it?

build build build build build build build build build build build build build build build build build build build build   build build build build build build build build build build build build build build build build build build build    build build build build build build build build build build build build build build build build build build build     build build build build build build build build build build build build build build build build build build

Bet you never noticed that "build" was such a strange word? Me neither, one day it just slapped me in the face. I sat, staring slack jawed at it, wondering if I had actually spelled it right or, as I assumed wrongly, actually written some Finnish profanity (i.e. paska = shit).  (Continue)

Baladeo 34G Superlight Locking Knife w/ clip review... in case you were wondering (3 out of 5)

I'm currently typing this review without the use of my left index finger, the reason for this I will reveal a bit later. 
I bought this knife after seeing its 22g cousin favorably reviewed on a website I frequent. The high praise they gave to it was more than enough to convince me that it should replace my old worn out Gerber which worked great but was bulky and impossible to sharpen. When I received it in the mail the first thing I noticed was its very tasteful packaging, no vacuum sealed, steal proof plastic container here, just a very sleek black box with some silver lettering embossed on the outside. once you open the box you are again amazed by the this sleek knife, sitting in it's foam case with the same sleek beauty that you might associate with a highly tuned German automobiles. As I mustered up the courage to actual remove this gorgeous knife from its packaging, again I was awestruck, it was incredibly light and felt fantastic in my hand. 34 grams is an ethereal number, hard to really understand until you actually get the product in your hands. I became more and more excited, looking for new tasks to test drive this new tool of mine on! But as the days went by, my love for it began to wane. It's beauty was still unphased but I began to notice a major design flaw. The Locking Mechanism. 
This being the single piece of metal that keeps the knife cutting whatever you want it to be cutting, not yourself, it was vitally important that it work without any error. First thing I noticed wrong is that when you over extend the knife but putting to much pressure on the blade you end up releasing the locking mechanism all together and leaving the knife free to swing open or closed on its hinge like a smooth silver guillotine. 
The second flaw I encountered was that if you grip the knife to tight you actually pinch the locking mechanism closed, thereby closing the knife. Generally, you only grip the knife to tightly if you are applying a reasonable amount of force onto something and when the mechanism fails that same force slams the knife shut onto your fingers. This is why I am typing without my beloved index finger today. I mistook its beauty for perfection of form AND function and was taught a lesson very quickly. 
It still earns three stars from me because of the great craftsmanship (other than the lock) that went into it. My suggestion is that if you are actually looking to put this knife to some moderate/serious work, think about looking else where, because like most things this pretty, it's just meant for looks.

Where the dermis meets the road

Ever since I discovered, as a small child, that there was a means of transportation where in people assimilated the power of a car and the design of a bicycle, I have been in love. Envy gripped me every time I would catch a fleeting glimpse of those beautiful machines and the ease with which they navigated the roads, less riding on top of the pavement and more gliding just above it. They always appeared, to me, to be pulled in tow by some invisible thread, all of their movements seeming  to lead inexorably into one and other, almost as if it were riding on a smoothly oiled track of it's own devising.
The often grungy and portly fellows with their leathery women, almost always the norm, riding on my most envied machines, always left a pretty awful taste mouth. They coveted their bikes as trophies, which isn't wrong in the least, but I did not view them in the same fashion. To me the motorcycles were a companion, much more personable than a car or truck,  often four to five times your own size, and much more versatile than a wimpy bicycle... who want's to have to expend their own effort to locomote? To see these old washed up alcoholics riding on their earth-rendingly loud noise machines just kind of irritated me. It's like Chihuahuas... you've taken one of the most humble and lasting bonds an human can make with something other than another human, and bastardized it, Adorned it to the point of gaudiness. There's a simply connection, that when made, proves all the more satisfying than they and their 15,000$ two wheeled land boat, equip with mobile cappuccino maker and a comfy fireplace, can understand.
It's the truly one on one experience that the motorcycle allows you to have with your travel that really appeals to me. The handlebars acting as a secondary steering device to that of your own body weight, each movement of your hands and feet directly effecting brakes and clutch, and the subtle differences in the texture of the road , all combining to make it an immersive and visceral experience for the rider. Or... at least, that's what I assume it's like, I've never ridden one! Soon enough though!
I have taken this bull by its goddamn horns and already gotten my Motorcycle learners permit, now the last piece of the cog (and arguably the biggest) just needs to fall into place... I need to get a bike.

My new mattress is filled with sin

I can't move, or, to be more honest with you, I don't want to move. I've been paralyzed and in no localized manner, my friends. This paralysis is encompasses both body and mind, extends from the tallest hair on my head to the very tip of my big toe nail. It is due to no poisonous plant nor any venomous insect or lizard. I have not suffered an ill fated fall or a cataclysmic car crash, no trauma or illness has occurred, I have simply bought a new mattress and it is possibly the best decision I've ever made.
 I cannot sustain my motivations anymore, all I long to do, day in, day out, is relax on this glorious slice of heaven. If Zeus had a bed, this would be it, and all the other gods of mount Olympus would conspire to kill him and steal away his glorious bed. They would all obviously fail though, Zeus would be far to well rested after a night of uninterrupted, restive, recuperative sleep, to be overwhelmed by such minor deities.
 Like Rip Van Winkle, I rise every day, feeling as if I've just slept the century away! I peek cautiously out of my window each morning, wondering if i'll catch my first glimpse of a smooth, egg-shaped hover car climbing into the air past one of the thousands of glittering towers of metal, or maybe be horrified by an arid landscape, scarred and torn by years of warfare which I apparently slept soundly through. No prophetic vision of the future ever greets me. I, contrary to this impossibly rejuvenated feeling, only slept my standard six to eight hours.
These last few nights of glorious slumber have opened my eyes to the importance of quality relaxation and rest. It is not something that can be properly explained unless you have experienced the difference between the two. This extends past the just having a good mattress and into all aspects of life. "Don't act so taxed, slow down, relax, don't be wound up so tight" good words to keep in mind, because no situation has ever been improved by stress and worry and no person is ever at their optimal when worn thin by either of these forces. So join me, my friends, and kick of your tightly laced shoes, remove those old worn socks, and feel the air caress your bare feet. Focus on the present, removing yourself from past guilts and future obligations.
My body has needed this, now Ill just have to let my mind learn to follow.

Dogs V.s. Robots: Rise of the Obedient

Suggestions welcome!



Pounding through the undergrowth towards the first slice of sun plateauing over the hills in the distance, trying desperately to make up ground. The fiery sliver of light marked the dawn, one that would find the those retched machines simulated fury once they found out what Deogie had managed to pilfer while they slept their electric sleep. No time though, for him to pause and revel in his success, in his spirited escape from that menacing compound he had tripped an alarm and it  wouldn't be long before they were trailing him. Robots, androids, cyborgs, machines... just gears and metal for all he cared. His mission only required that he transport this unwieldy grail, then he'd be off the list till the next full moon. That damn list cast a indomitable shadow over what was left of his meager life since the Masters disappeared. Glancing ahead on the trail he spotted his carefully camouflaged escape root further up, "Lets see the bastards try and follow me through here" he spat, turning  into the ferocious looking thorn bramble to his left. The briers immediately tearing through the soft skin on his muzzle as he plunged into the thicket.  Beads of hot, sticky blood began to slide into the cracks of his lips, the iron tang quickly diffusing through his entire mouth, the taste arousing his senses. Just a mile or two more of this hell and he'd be safely out of their range. That was one advantage that his kin had over those monsters, they were free to roam over whatever land they could put under their roaming paws, their four legs beating out the rhythm of the pack. Leashes were no longer for his kind to bear. An abrupt jerk reminded him of the burden bound behind him that had been slowing his pace. Now the twisted knots of thorns were tightening around him and proving to be a bigger barrier than he had thought, progress would be slow, but this route would allow him to bypass the trees. A tendril of terror began creeping from his tail slowly up his spine just at the thought of those horrors, Dog knows you didn't want to venture into the bots twisted versions of a forests.
They claim to be recreating utopia for when the humans return, and I'm sure in their minds they were succeeding, but those horrid pillars only stood to mock the beauty of those they are modeled after. A trunk, if you can call it that, perfectly smooth accept for the wart-like sensory nodes placed at distance, from top to bottom. The monolith rises up from the barren earth about 10 danes high to intersect, at its peak, a flurry of florescent green leaves, lacking in any sort of organic design. Instead they were the shape of those metal demons teeth, angular razors made for slicing and cutting. Venture to close to one of its hundreds of electric eyes and be ready to run, or part with your hide. Deogie had learned this lesson all to well on his last suicide run, the scars running from scalp to hind flank were the signatures of those unflinching wards. In a way though, it was almost endearing to see their painstaking effort in melding these "Trees" to be both a garden for their masters and sentry against their foes, but there was a intangible subtlety the mighty old ones held that these monsters can't even begin to imitate.
Shaking the thoughts of those deadly synthetic pylons from his mind, Deogie began the last few meters through the brier thicket. Once on the other side it was only a short dash to the perimeter where those bastards wouldn't venture, unless they dare to risk breaking the invisible thread that ties them umbilicaly to their hive mind. the king of the demons. A glimmer of blazing sunlight cut like a machete through the gloomy thicket, urging Deogie on, with one explosive push of his back legs he found himself suddenly released from the clawing grip of the bramble. A sense of relief washed over him as struggled free, he laid for a short while, covered in blood and bits of stubborn brier tangled in his coat, panting in an effort to regain his breath. "Just a throw of a bone from here" he uttered reassuringly to himself, and as he stood to walk away he realized that the evil mess of cruel vegetation behind him has yet to relinquish its grip on his bulky, cumbersome, plunder. What his alphas of the clan wanted with this glorified, glittering dog bowl, he could only guess, tradition had become so very important to them as their situation deteriorated. Wrenching at the lashings that bound the trophy to himself, Deogie tried desperately to free the troublesome object. After several fruitless minutes, feeling overwhelmed fatigue, he sat to rest, cursing the damned anchor that was going to end up being his tombstone. He aimed a swift kick at the nuisance out of frustration and it responded by sounding a high-pitched ring peeling out of it's dome shaped top, racing through the forest, followed immediately, like the bells eerie echo by the smooth, oiled sounds of mechanical limbs coming to life.