Christmas in Omaha

This blog post shows just how beautiful downtown Omaha is during Christmas time.

Oh what a sight this was. What a thrill and a joyous occasion Christmas time was to see.

Here, the lights reflect off the Gene Leahy Mall water. Truly marvelous.

Here is a what looks to be a boat dock, but it's really not. Its a little port area instead at the Heartland of America Park. This is a romantic little gem in the city.

Here, looking from the same boat port mentioned above is what looks to be a fast food joint at the Heartland of America Park lake. However, upon further inspection it was found to be an informative and chronological time-line of the expanding Omaha skyline. It dazzled me thoroughly.

Merry Christmas to all, and to all a goodnight

The "Hey, you stepped in that shit" video

Taken on Easter 2006, this video presents my family on a typical holiday. The Herbster (grandma) stars when she walks out into the cool spring air. This strikes up a scintilla of worry over her health. Also starring is a house cat named Elmer and his friend the Ginny bird. Finally, the main star is an old lady that tells me I stepped in some Ginny bird shit.

Old people love chatting about domesticated animals while watching them do wild and feral things. My family is no different.

The bird is running around in the far back part of the yard, so it is hard to see. While Elmer is running he tops out at 11 mph. That's pretty good for a cat that weighs 17 lbs, while also being 63 years old (cat age found using a cat calculator website) in human years. In real time he is 11 years old, so the conversion seems to be 5.727 cat years for every human year.

In conclusion, why don't old people ever talk about how gracefully animals age in comparison to themselves? Finally, the longest a cat has ever lived is 34 years. And to reiterate a bit, the shit in question is bird shit, since Elmer would never shit outside even if his ass would explode if he did not, and since my family is nominally domesticated, the shit could not possibly be of human origin.

"Hey, you stepped in that shit" video link

Brokeback Mountain

“How can they do that to my heroes?” a rough stock coworker of mine once asked, seemingly reminiscent about a life riding horseback that he’d never actually lived. To which I asked, “How can they do that to Donnie Darko? He’s my hero.”

Brokeback Mountain is a tantalizingly delectable film for the homo-erotic cowboy, sure to make those tight wrangler jean wearing saddle humpers rethink their sexuality, that is, if they would watch it.

Could riding bronc all day with your balls wedged against a leather saddle induce gaiety? Yes, and it probably happens more than anyone realizes it.

So, where did Donnie Darko and Heath Ledger fall in love in this flick? Was it when Donnie was having troubles getting his horse to ride properly, or when he was carrying that bucking little sheep playfully on his back? Or was it when Heath simply jammed it in from behind on a cold fall evening that these two tied the knot of love?

Whenever it was, it is evident that Donnie Darko may have turned Heath gay with his neediness. While Heath’s rough stock childhood left him vulnerable to the whims of perverts.

One thing is for sure here, however, if you don’t look at Ann Hathaway during the movie with lustful eyes, you’re probably homosexual. And if you don’t want to feel her up you’re probably gay. And if you do look at her and want to feel her up then you’re a damn pervert. This appears to be a quagmire that you can’t possibly quell, so you had better just end it now.

In Straight, Gay or Lying? Bisexuality Revisited, the notion that a person can be bisexual is tested through the use of genital arousal sensors. Self-proclaimed bisexual men, it seems, are usually only aroused by men. Although this test does not obviate bisexuality, it does question its prevalence. Thus, my conclusion is that Donnie and Heath were indeed gay.

For those rough-riders that were too grossed out to watch this movie, it is suggested that they watch it with a penile sensor attached to their genitals to prove, through electric potentials just how gay they might be.

Some final questions to close this movie review: Wives, is it better for your husband to cheat on you with a man or a woman? Or how about a dog or other kind of animal, another woman or a man, which of those is worse? Thus far, the answers I’ve come up with seem to place a woman as first in badness, a dog as second, and another man as third. Thus proving, some women are condoning homosexuality and semi-mild forms of bestiality. Donnie turned Heath gay and now feminists are trying to turn men gay with their feminist antics.

In conclusion, if you were one of the many that have said, "That Brokeback Mountain movie sounds so nasty and sick," I'd suggest watching it with one of those penile sensors attached to your genitals.

Also, if you're too scared to watch this movie, check out this site for a Lego simulation of the "good parts" of the movie.

Brokeback Mountain Lego Picture Story

These pants I will wear into submission

I've worked diligently all summer at wearing a pair of shorts until they wear out. I've had them for about 4 years. On a routine deposit of something into the pocket I noticed holes had developed in my pant's hand-reliquary. Thus, I stashed them away in a do-not-use drawer for a few years. This summer, I commenced a single short wear-a-thon, in which I wear this pair 5 days a week. I wash them on the weekends. It is a mental struggle turned habit to not use the front pockets, instead only using the cargo pocket. It looks like they will not wear out before it gets too cold to wear them. Thus, I have failed in my meager summer goal to wear these pants into submission. Maybe they will last me the rest of my life and I'll never have to purchase a pair of shorts again.

These shorts have a built in belt, are marketed by Old Navy, and are probably crafted by a small child in Cambodia. I've always wondered why they put the country of origin on clothes. Does it really matter what third world country they come from to most people? They should just put "Made in A Third World Country" on clothes instead.

My privileged pant wearing adventure was someone else's indentured servitude, or occupation. The fact that these pants won't wear into submission is a testament to the skill that the little Cambodian person used in crafting this garment, and to his dexterity I pay homage with each passing day.

The Worst Sports Video Ever: Husker Football, Omaha Beef, Nebraska Basketball

Here is a video that is pretty horrible, yet honorable at the same time.

I went running around Lincoln one day dressed up in mini shoulder pads and a children's husker helmet. Some hick honked at me in his bronco-like vehicle and I waived at him like an idiot. Then I chased a lineman-esque lady on her bike. I met a cat in the Sunken Gardens and named it Half-back. In conclusion, I have some sweet football moves that will surely benefit the football team this year.

The basketball footage was taken right off the TV. It's pretty cool that Coach Collier is gone now. Hopefully the new coach will instill discipline in his players and not allow them to chest bump so much in front of Calvin Sampson, that is, if we ever play Indiana.
There's also some Omaha beef footage. After the game there was a fight that we weren't able to get on video because Derek M. took 150 pictures at the game, which drained the camera battery. Thanks Derek for pictured memories of every vendor, incomplete pass, referee's ass, and other assorted nonsense. Sirloin is a great name for a mascot. However, I would name the Omaha Beef mascot Beef Chuck.

Finally, there is a Sportscenter highlight of a player swinging really late at a pitch. That sure was funny.

Also, the filler was taken off an extreme TV show. The referee stopped breathing for awhile after being punched out by that over sized player. Also, those guys that chase snow mobiles are brave. And, taking a motorcycle tire to the balls at 70 mph is never fun.



The Worst Sports Video Link

A call from an unknown number (727) 569-1515

For the past 2 Mondays I've gotten a call from (727) 569-1515. I never answer numbers I don't know. Moreover, I do not have voice mail. Thus, I have yet to make personal contact with this number. I have, however, googled (yes, I am a part of the new age linguists that use "google" as a real verb) the number and found a website called Who called us. On this site I was able to confide with other victims of this phone number through a discussion board and able to discover that this number is from Direct Student Services, a student loan company based in Florida. I even left my own message:

This number called at 2:25:01 p.m. I did not answer. I used *67 to call the
number back to no avail. I graduated in May and also in August, so I am a twice
recent graduate. The caller I.D. read 727-569-1515. I am tempted to drive down
to Florida to personally tell them to stop calling me. Thanks, you
sons-of-bitches.

Something in me wants this message to have portentous consequences. Likened to Barry in Punch Drunk Love, I would travel to Florida to personally tell these bastards that I do not have any school loans and that I am a good natured man. First, of course, I would have a series of tirades promulgated by this loan company’s incessant phone calling charade. Then, upon realizing relief was not my passive destiny, I would succumb to irrational action. A revolution would come to pass with no hopes of being quelled, ending with a series of noisome words being exchanged. I, however, would also hope that the incident would involve me smashing a large pipe wrench into someone’s face.

Other than that, I have returned Direct Student Services out of Florida’s calls with some chicanery of my own. The company should be receiving a call from Samuel L. Jackson promoting the summer blockbuster, media-marketing and ingeniously advertised movie Snakes on a Plane.

In conclusion, this company unlawfully calls recent college grads. You can have your number taken off their call list by calling 866-432-3894 and asking for Donnie.

Tis true, Cicumlocutors, Level 1 masters of syllogism, specious argumentors, spurious folk, swindling quacks, shysters, bilking sharks, charlatans, and offerers of platitudes, come in all shapes and sizes. These keep to the apocryphal idea that they possess guile and that their guile is a sought after legerdemain. These will remain prevaricators and equivocators that are truly mendacious, yet act glibly as if they're sly and unrecognized by who they believe are a guileless and ingenuous majority. This is no canard and I'm not feigning the slightest provocation.

People, their signs, and my perceived public image of them

Here are some fun pictures I've taken over the past year. Mostly they depict signs that people use to display their beliefs. Enjoy.


Here is a crazy lady-man. I met her my freshman year after my morning chemistry class, in which hundreds of students are pouring out of a one door exit. She would try to enter against the current of bodies. She would say, "Get the hell out of my (four letter expletive)-in' way. God dammit. ASSHOLES." I took this photo with 12x digital zoom while hiding behind a bush by Love Library.




This year I was able to re-meet this lovely lady or man. She handed me this pamphlet 2 days before Easter Sunday. I said, "Thank you and Jesus bless." People always say God bless, why not say Jesus bless? Apparently she is religious even though she uses the Lord's name in vain while entering an emptying chemistry class.

So, how do you get to heaven. Easy, I'll just review this extensive pamphlet, printed on a 1980's Commodore MPS-801 printer.

1) Repent your sin
2) Trust Christ to save you
3) Don't delay your decision.

Well then, count me in right now. If this crazy lady is going to heaven I want to be there with her because I love her.

Also, the pamphlet offers this:

Pray this simple prayer...
Dear Lord, I know that I am a sinner, and I deserve to die because of my sin, but I do believe you died for me and I trust you to save me and take me to heaven. Forgive me of my sin and help me to live for you. Amen!

I just said it, please say it with me so we can go to heaven together to be happy forever.

Original sin is the dumbest thing I've ever heard of and heaven sounds like an awful place. According to the pamphlet, "heaven will have walls of jasper, twelve gates of pearl and streets of gold. There will be no need of the sun or moon because heaven will be illuminated by the Glory of God and his beloved Son. Heaven will be free of death, sorrow, crying, pain, defilement and lies."

A life without sorrow, crying, and pain would not be worth living. I like lying and love defilement, and, knowing that someday I will die is comforting. I would rather take my chances with Satan himself and anyone else admitted to hell, which should be every living Homo sapien ever created, than live in God's palace of gold. Maybe heaven is filled with Homo erectus's. I hate materialism, so streets of gold and walls of jasper just aren't concurrent with my minimalist ideology.

Here is a bumper sticker on my religiously fundamentalist neighbors imported car. They also have them posted on their 1980 Chevy truck and 1990 Chevy 4 door Lumina. Also, they have something posted about babies and how they're precious. I don't respect them because their yard looks terrible. It seems Jesus would want people that take care of their yard and adorn it with flowers in his land of milk and honey. Nope, you just have to trust in God. Good works alone are not enough to get into heaven. Neither is respecting the beauty of Earth. You must believe to get in. Finally, you can't altruistically, but anonymously save humanity from aliens or a virus to get admittance into heaven.




Here is a chalk display over by the Lincoln zoo. It says, "Christ will destroy Satan. Hate Satan." The people even have their name signed as Dakota and David. Thanks, Dakota and David for enlightening me on how to hate the devil.







Here is a sign in my neighborhood. Apparently they think the U.S. should get out of Iraq or somewhere, maybe they think it is heaven that the U.S. should get out of, and that the U.N. should get in. Sorry, the U.N. does not want to go in to Iraq or heaven, so our American ideology is stuck in both places.





At the same house is this sign, "War is not the Answer," by Nebraskans for peace. I agree, that's a smart message. I like the peace dove too. According to legend the devil and witches can turn themselves into any bird shape except the dove. Also, doves raise families together, with both sexes resting upon the nest egg. What a great bird for a symbol of peace. In a rating of peace, I believe the dove is tied with the Olive Branch as a symbol for peace, since olives are high in monounsaturated fat, which is beneficial to the coronary system, allowing arterial elasticity. I like virgin olive oil, because it's extracted without the use of harmful devirginating chemicals.




This person might think that world peace can be achieved by writing WORLD PEACE on their convertible window. It sure made me happy to see and take this picture near Raymond Central High School. God Bless America and the Entire World.







Here is a picture of a the Nebraska Sower, which faces Northwest, saluting the vast expanses of our great state with his large nut sack. When I first saw this stature 18 years ago I thought it was a large nut sack. I thought he was sowing nuts for all Nebraskans to eat off the ground. I was disappointed to learn that he was just sowing seeds that, only after time, would grow into something edible.






Here is a sign for my mom's North Bend Old Settlers Days float last summer. Get it, "Lei", instead of lay? It was a Hawaiian theme.







Here is a sign from our beloved University of Nebraska at Lincoln. I believe it is trying to motivate students to get off their asses. There is a little donkey, and its poking its nose into the ass of a bigger donkey. So, let me get this straight, in order to get students off their asses, you need to poke them in the ass with a nose, which is really is an ass? See, I connected with the intention of this sign.



Ok, that was a long and arduous post. The pictures are surely better than the commentary. Long live freedom of belief and speech.

When you don't even recognize yourself

Yesterday we were taking some video surveillance of "Old Guy's" (our neighbor) wife breaking into his friend Rob's car (blue car in photo). I'll post more about this later. I went back to review the video and when a picture like the one below appeared on the screen I thought to myself, this is getting really good. Then I realized it was me in the video, poking my head out of my own doorway.

I really do look like some sort of monster. I haven't shaved in over a month and now I'm beginning to not recognize myself. I'm growing my beard out for my hometown sesquicentennial 150 years of township Old Settlers Days celebration. "Woo hoo, we're an old town." The only reason I'm doing this is because my father is also growing his beard out. Apparently, in the town there is a $2-$5 fine for being caught without a beard before the celebration begins. I currently have a lack of funds so I figured I would grow the beard as a quasi insurance investment for non-beard compliance fines.

My grandma Herb has the same self-recognition problem, which leads me to believe this might be a bi-generational genetic trait. If you show her a picture of herself and say, "Herb, this is you in the photo," she'll squint really hard at it and then say, "oh go on, that's not me. Nope."

In conclusion, I'm concentrating all of my energy right now on growing out the best beard I can possibly grow. Concentrated beard growing consists of thinking really hard about the beard and then lunging forward so as to make the hair lurch out further away from the face, thus growing a better, stronger beard.

I would rather be decapitated than live with the itch from a warm sunburn....

....however, I've never been decapitated so I don't know "what that feels like." But I do know I hate the sunburn itch more than anything else. In fact, I would rather eat a jock strap filled with cottage cheese, which I did last year, than have to experience the sunburn itch again.

Itch is not psychological and only in the mind. It exists on my back region and it about killed me twice in my lifetime with its prickly embrace. The first time was 5 years ago when I got the itch from a mild sunburn. Since, I've kept out of the sun for many a year and try to apply at least 45 SPF sunscreen when exposed to any form of light. This includes fluorescent lights, candlelight, light bulbs, UV light, and street lights.

In 2004 I went to Australia and Fiji and came back whiter than when I left. Fear of the itch must have subliminally kept me out the sun for so many years. Some Australia photos will help explain my whiteness.






Here I am underwater in my banana hammock. The effect of the water makes my skin whiter than its already level 390 through 780 nm visible light whiteness.

Here I am at Lake Mackenzie on Fraser Island off the East coast of Australia. The flash did not cause the whiteness emanating from my chest. My skin is so white it reflects sun of all kinds back into your viewing eyes. It's almost as if I'm some kind of angel. Soon I'll be translucent when all I want to be is a creamy opaque color. I want the cream of wheat color looking skin. As you can see, Ross is very tanned, but that's because he uses bronzer formula.


For the past 5 years I have maintained a strict code whiteness that can only be compared to a pristine snow yet to be sallowed by yellow dog piss.

In summer 06' I totally let myself go from 10 a.m. to 1 p.m. on a 85 degree F day. Here is a photo of my lower back that I took myself. No, that is not buttocks crack in the photo. I flexed to give the picture a better effect and more contrast. The burn is not bad, but the ensuing itch was enough to make me stay out of the sun for forever and live underground in the sewer systems like the Ninja Turtles, which I am happily doing now while also fighting crime. From this day forward, I will not allow my baby ass whiteness to recede any further.

Nebraska-Iowa Exodus will be possible by foot, bike pedal, and stroller wheel thanks to the "Bridge of Love"

The so called "back-to-the-river movement" has plans to build a pedestrian bridge connecting Omaha and Iowa. I propose calling the new bridge the "Bridge of Love," baby.

Why call the new bridge the "Bridge of Love?" Well, allow me to explain. First, the bridge idea has been brewing for nine years like a dormant, embryonic love child. It's time to let that thing out. Second, from above, the bridge is shaped like a sperm in mid tail whip, swimming from a promiscuous Council Bluffs to a more than willing Omaha. Third, the masts of the bridge look like a pitched tent, if you know what I mean. Forth, the trees on the Iowa side look like a grove of pubes, chomp, chomp. Fifth, the bridge just looks beautiful at night, so why not call it the "Bridge of Love" between lovers Omaha and Council Bluffs? Sixth, many homeless people will fornicate on the bridge's benches. Seventh, the new bridge construction will disrupt pallid sturgeon mating, and we all know how perverted those little fish are. They don't love each other at all, at least not like humans love each other.

At last, the two people of these great states will be able to unite through recreation and casual sex on the "Bridge of Love." The question will be whether Iowans and Nebraskans can remain chaste for two years and wait for the bridge to be completed. Or will we swim to unification through the muddy Missouri, and, with our feet sloshing on the polluted banks, will we face our long lost brothers and say, "brother, I love you?" All we can know with any certainty is that the bridge will be a monument that attracts the casual rambler, homeless fornicators, bike gangs, and baby walkers alike. You know the homeless of Omaha have to be thinking, "Yes, a bridge that leads to a forest area where we can hunt squirrels." Or, would it be better if the bridge led to a 100 foot drop off into a pit where the homeless could fall into? No, that is a horrible idea.

A lot of the people I know probably think this project is a poor investment, and if they know anything about political rhetoric they may even call it a pork barrel project of the federal government, which is providing $19 million in tax dollars.

“We could use the money for education, lowering taxes, or other business incentives,” they would say. Or they would mutter, “That’s just stupid. Iowa sucks.” Or they would say that private business should be given tax incentives to embark on such a project. However, the bids were competitive with a Kansas City company pulling out for the win. But I say, "do it for the kids man. The KIDS and the homeless and those baby walkers and ramblers."

I can’t wait for the bridge to be completed. It will add much needed aesthetic qualia to the river front.

John K. Green, a citizen member of the review committee, said the committee chose the design because its two towers best symbolized the partnership between the two states and two cities.

Tis true then, this bridge will help establish a bond between these two great states that has grown weak over the last century but will finally be revived when we can shake hands and dry hump together on the "Bridge of Love."

Happy Mother's Day

I got my mother a half finished scrapbook for Mother's Day. She was uninterested in it because she owns a flower shop and a cat and this is all her heart desires. Just kidding, she enjoyed the scrapbook very much even in its incompleteness.

Here is my mother's little green house filled with bedding flowers, vegetables, and hanging baskets.



In years past I’ve usually done the “quick buy” of a tacky card at the nearest grocery store. I've come to realize that that is pretty lame. Mothers should be worth more than that.

This year, I made both my parent’s scrap books. My mother’s is about horticulture and my father’s is about farming. They’re not completely done yet but they are off to a good start. I only have to put captions on my fathers and it will be finished.

On the Saturday before Mother’s Day I was the delivery boy for my mother. I delivered flowers to many old ladies. Some really like getting flowers, which was evident from their wrinkled skin blushing rosy red while others couldn’t have cared less. Perhaps a nice homemade card, poem, or song from their children would have been better.

For some it seems sentiment is lost, if there ever was any sentiment to begin with. I delivered a lady a hanging basket of bright red geraniums which she didn’t even look at because she was too busy smoking her cigarette.

One man told me a story about how he’d been holed up at his place for a week because his leg was hurt. Apparently he jumped out of the back of a truck that was going 30 mph just as it was braking. The bumper hit him on the mid-thigh. He even showed me his wound (picture not available). That cut sure was deep. The doctor said he had "perfect muscle structure" which made the damage less severe.

My dad even got to go along on one delivery on Mother's Day. Here he is holding an arrangement. The pink lilies are Asian lilies and should not be confused with stargazer lilies. They are more fragrant than their stargazing counterpart.

So, thank your mothers for giving birth to you on this day even though it has already passed. Mothers Day should be celebrated every year and also every day. Thank your fathers too for their contribution to 1/2 of your conception, also known as ejaculation. And if you are ever wondering what to get your mother, I would advise not getting her a store bought card because those really suck. Instead, utilize some creative imagination that your mother and father gave you at conception. What, they didn't give you any creative imagination? Whoops, my mistake. Please proceed to the nearest Walgreens or Hy-vee to pick up a very nice card and maybe some chocolates too.


If I've learned anything from my parents for which I should be thankful for most, it is that a house is not a home unless the outside is adorned with flowers and trees and the inside with plants. So, that is what I thanked my parents for on Mother's Day besides the whole conception thing.

Here is a picture of your standard bedding plants. Bottom left are pansies, right are geraniums, and the center has snapdragons and alyssum.

Obliviousness on Campus

Tonight I witnessed a girl taking up 2 spaces while parallel parking her car on campus. She was unconcerned with how much room she was taking up. Quite possibly, 3 Geo's, 8 West coast Choppers, 4 Yugo's, and 17 bicycles could have fit into this space.

As for me, I think I have some considerate sense. For example I don't leave pubes on soap. Also, I do not own a dog that incessantly barks at squirrels and piles of its own dog shit.

The most inconsiderate majors on campus have to be the engineers. Every time I go into any bathroom in Othmer or Nebraska Hall all the toilets and stalls are shit stained and there is piss all over the floor. However, there is always an abundance of soap which leads me to believe that 'these people' wipe their asses with their own arms and swim in their own urine and then proceed to leave the bathroom without freshening up. As for the biochemists at the Beadle Center, I've never noticed any defecate on any of the toilets. I have, however, noticed that there is never any soap there. This of course leads me to believe that the biochemists are overly worried about contracting poopteria.














This girl is cleaning off a table at a Chinese restaurant. But, is she CONSIDERATE and DILIGENT in her work ethic? Yes, I do believe she is.

Vegetables Restore Order, Promote Civility, Health, and Morality

A diet of meat and potatoes would warrant a vitamin deficiency. Green beans and milk are not a must as the skin can produce vitamin D through sun absorption. However, in order to become self-sufficient, humans must become more like plants. We must learn to utilize the sun for more than just vitamin D and tanning. Also, we must learn to emulate plants peaceful demeanor.

An article Discovery Magazine gave evidence showing that jungle inhabitants are liable for peaceful relations while arid bio-dwellers are more prone to aggression. Jungle folk are mostly extinct while arid materialists have inhabited the far reaches of the earth.

The hypothesis is: having plants indoors helps restore peace to a dwelling.

It would be interesting to see if domestic and child abuse is also reduced in an environment with plants. All I know is that having plants in my home has reduced roommate violence by 58%. Civility is up 13 points on the day. Health has increased by 3.5 years and morality is close to what jesus would have wanted 2000 years ago while walking on the beaches of the Sea of Galilee.














The dining room, dismal and drab with no signs of life save for some microbes, which we can't see anyway.














Peace, morality, civility, and eroticism are restored in the room after plants enter the scene.

I think I'm turning Japanese...

.....I think I'm turning Japanese I really think so. Forget the funny things that Asian people say, I have been name profiled. No, I'm not Jerome or Shaniqua, I'm Hamada, and to some people that implies I am of Japanese origin. It's funny because my goal in life is to meet a Japanese girl to marry or just to have kids with, and then name the kids Japanese names like Yoshi, Oda, Takeda, Nobununga, and Mitsubishi.

One time in high school I was taking Stop Class to remove a careless driving ticket from my record. I received the ticket because some girls thought it crazy to sit on the back of my convertible, like they were princesses in a parade. Let's just say they were not princesses. Anyway, at the class, during roll call, the name Hamoto was called. No one owned up to being Mr. Hamoto so I raised my hand and said, "That's me." Then later, Hamata was called, and this time I raised my hand again. The police man looked at me and asked if there was two of me there, when from the back some short, stubby Japanese man said, "I am Hamoto." I looked back and gave him the thumbs up and he gave me the honorary head bow.

So, people ask me how I pronounce my name. I don't know. My mother and father pronounce it differently every time they say it. So, I am the child without a concretely pronounced last name. I'm not an absolutist so I could care less how its pronounced. However I take the ultimate pride in my name and can't wait to give it to a Czech or Japanese girl, of course with a hyphen-(Japanese or Czech name) because I'm looking for feminist girls. At any rate, no one can argue that my last name is the coolest last name on the entire planet.

Trevor ponders the existence of Japanese people. "My how wondrous they are, Mr. Hamoto. I am so fortunate to have met you." While the old sage Mr. Hamoto responds, "There is much honor in your soul, young Trevor."

Jerry, the pumpkin eating squirrel

Here is our friend, a squirrel that eats our Halloween pumpkin. I named him Jerry. He is very smart because he doesn't eat the seeds, he just spits them out by our door. He is trying to get to the core where all the delicious juice is stored.














He has burrowed a hole into the delicious center. We put treats like candy bars and chips in there sometimes to fool him. He just ignores them and keeps right on eating the rotten, bacteria infested but juicy pumpkin.














This may be the most fowl thing I have ever looked at or smelled, and its right outside my door. I smile every day I walk up my stairs knowing how I sacrifice for the health of the squirrels. "God, god must be proud of me."

Last night I brought home some straggle and when we were entering the house she asked, "What's that?" I replied, "That's Jerry's rotten pumpkin food nest, its cool." And then I shoved her face into it. Just kidding, that did not really happen.














Here is our pumpkin treat for Jerry just outside our house. It is evident that Jerry has brought friends with him, as there is deer prints in our yard and raccoon prints next to the pumpkin in the snow. Now our goal is to trap these animals and treat them inhumanely. I suggested using many mouse traps. However, Eric suggested using traps that would not harm the animals. At any rate, the spotlight is ready for the return of Jerry, the grease, popcorn, lettuce, meat sauce and ravioli covered pumpkin eater.

Energy conservation gone right

We have vowed to save money, electricity, and thus the entire world and environment by not using the heater this Fall and Winter.

It's cold, but I think we'll make it. We are revolutionizing energy conservation as I type.














Eric with feet in toaster oven. We suggested that he just start a small fire but he wouldn't listen.














We are also thinking about starting a neighborhood recycling program. We have many cans and jimmies that could be re-used. This all came about because our garbage man stopped picking up our garbage.

Profiled Certified Asian Yet Again

I have been profiled certified Asian yet again.

I am pictured in the back giving the Texas Longhorn sign (bull horns or devil sign), wearing a white hat and white wrist band. Notice that I am the only non-Asian person in the photo and even that's questionable. Thus, if that's me in the photo, and that man is indeed Asian, I am then Asian as well.

Click on Photo to Enlarge Photo

This is the Face Book picture which allowed me to learn about my trip to Kansas City for Spring Break 06' with the Asian gang.

I even made it on to a girls blog. An excerpt of the post is below. I will give the Asians credit though, the dude does look like me. However, none of these people even know me. I just added them on Face Book randomly. We've never seen each other or chatted either online or in person. Still, I somehow managed to have my picture taken on their spring break trip. Hopping into the back of random pictures taken by strangers is something I do frequently, which this Asian Jason poser appears to be doing in the photograph.






















I apparently made the spring break 06' Asian itinerary in this blog post. First, we had coffee at Mozarts, then we went barhopping on 6th street. I was so drunk by this point but I still managed to flail about wildly in the back of this picture with a pack of random Asians.

Just kidding. I did not go to Kansas City for Spring Break 06'. Indeed, I stayed in Lincoln or North Bend the entire time. However, I was with these Asians in true Eastern spirit.














Unbelievable as it may seem, this is not the first time I've been Asian profiled. Here is an Asian dude I met at a baseball game last year.




















Click on Photo to Enlarge Photo to Grande Size

This picture was taken by me. However, in this photo, Ross seems to think that I am the Asian man taking pictures while having my own picture taken. I said, "I don't believe that's me in the photo, that man looks Asian for christ's sake."

Before the Wasteland, there was Beauty

This is a recycled post. Enjoy.

I went home this weekend and farmed. What is farmed, you ask? Well farming entails many different aspects of rural life. So this weekend, I drove a grain truck and wagon. Pictures will help explain to any urbanites.














Sunsets are beautiful on the farm, just as they are everywhere (mostly because they are aesthetic gifts from our lord)














This is the view from atop a grain bin, overlooking County Road 4 in Dodge County. (What is a grain bin? One can be visualized, it is left center and made of tin) That AT&T tower in the distance is where I went to grade school. I graduated 6th grade with 3 classmates.














This is the view from inside a bin. The gold grain is corn. The red thing is a spreader, it spreads corn around the bin evenly. Would you rather be pelted by corn all day by a spreader or pecked at by a Magpie in the right arm for 3 hours? I would choose the corn pelt, but that's just me.














This is how corn is moved from outside a bin to inside a bin. The red cart is a gravity wagon. The green thing is a tractor. A PTO (Pacific Theatre of Operations, Patent and Trademark Office, or Power Take Off, you decide) from the tractor powers (turns) the auger like a simple machine (screw) and spins the corn up into the bin.














This is a machine shed that my dad is building. It is so large that he will be able to do 360's with the combine in it.














From sunset to moonrise.














Would you rather be impaled by a bean head when the combine is going 15 mph...














Or would you rather be sucked into the cutter and rotary of a bean head? I would choose impalement, but that just me.














If I could conserve this, I would. Every sunset and every row. I would go to church on Sundays and rise with the sun every morning. But the attempt is futile. It cannot be saved.














Rural decay leaves only memories. Instilled but fleeting memories that will pass into this cool fall night. The ones we vote for work against us. They conserve nothing. I conserve something, a memory of what is felt like to walk and work on this, god's great land.

Horror Story on the Home Front

I went home this weekend. I return with chilling stories abound.





This is my dad. My mom is hanging out on his bed. My dad said some pretty funny things while I was home. He said ever so proudly, "I got a new commode." The look on his face was reminiscent of a child's telling of how they pooped for the first time on their own. I laughed for about 5 minutes (a commode is a portable toilet, one is not pictured here).






He also told me the story about how he lost his TV remote. He apparently was sitting on his commode and the remote was resting peacefully on his chest. Later, he was looking for his remote but he couldn't find it. He called for a nurse and she looked in the commode and sure enough......it had slid down his chest and WAS IN THAT Commode.

















This cat's name is JJ. It used to be Jerry Jr., but then an old man named Jerry moved into the rest home. Thus, human life took precedence over our feline friend in terms of names and Jerry Jr.'s name had to be changed to JJ. However, JJ still has it better because he can walk wherever he wants to and people pet him.

Now, notice the tube that JJ's paw is inserted in. That used to be a weight that my dad used to rehab with. Later he improved and the tool evolved to be used for leverage while he stretched his arms over his head. This picture was taken in February. The horror was to be realized in March, for the job description of the tool was change for a 3rd time.

















Here I am in March. I thought this tube was still used for either weightlifting or for stretching. Seeing a great opportunity for fun, I reverted to a kindergartner and began playing the tube like a flute. I put the tube against my lips. My dad looked at me with a sly look on his face and said, "You probably don't want to put that in your mouth. That's for my penis."

"What?" I said, "This used to be used for stretching and putting over cat paws."

This tube is now a penis extension so my father can urinate from up to 3 feet away into a dish.

If putting my mouth up against a penis extender and playing it like a flute (without knowing it of course) is as bad as my life will get, I'll take it any day of the week.

This blog is now numero uno for friends

I've taken the other blog into the blogging underground for fear of being associated with my real name. No, I will not tell you who my new alias is. Just let it be known that being two people on the internet really isn't as cool as you think it would be. It's not sneaky, I don't feel like "Muwhahahahaha, I'm fooling everyone by sneaking around on the internet as someone who's not me."

So, this will be the new place for less eccentric but more personal posts about science and politics. Yeah, I'm not happy about it either. You just can't put your name on anything these days. Great, I can't post pictures at this time either so words in color and bold are all I have to offer. Blah....

I guess I'll have to set up all the blog database stuff on this one too and try to do the blog marketing thing. Damn you internet, damn you.

Does anyone know how to set up technorati tags? Me neither. I'll figure that out later. I'll also be archiving by category in the side bar like last time.

Once again, this is personal blog turned somewhat eccentric blog. Thank you and have a restful night.

The Free Market Insomnia Obsession

This morning I went to Super Saver at 4 in the morning to partake in the free market currency for product exchange that I treasure so dearly. I live by the market and will surely die by the market if does not supply me with that which I desire.














Here is Suddenly Spring, Glade's Scented Oil Refill. Little did I know at the time of purchase that this was the fragrance that an ex-girlfriend wafted around her room. As soon as I caught a whiff I knew I was in trouble. The memories of the olfactory bulb came back to haunt me and induced night terrors that forbade sleep until my 9:30 a.m. class. To this day I can smell the difference between Clinique Happy Heart and Clinique Happy. These two perfumes were rivals among past girlfriends, each preferring the one and chastising the other. When I pass girls I take a smell to see if I can detect either, then wondering why I do this because I dislike them both.


















My roommates and I drink a lot of Nesquick. The market does not provide us with a gigantic container much larger then the 14 shown, which we would surely buy to appease our spirit for ultimate choice. A lesser quality Super Saver brand called Drink Mix can be seen at the top of the pyramid, a product that my taste buds say is inferior to Nesquick.














At 4:32 a.m., nearly completed and happy with my product choices, I experienced free market agitation. Super Saver does not sell soap in larger groups than 4 bars. Also, there is price collusion amongst all brands. They all cost $2.68. Now, thanks to unavailability of mass packaging, I will test Irish Spring, Zest, and Ivory to see which one satisfies me the most. I also bought an 8 pack of jumbo toilet paper and Fructis Styling Paste. Together, these products will ensure that my is hair has prescription, yet remains reformable and that my body is Zest fully clean, at least until I run out of Zest.














The only thing that makes me feel good about myself is making a good consumer purchase and I made one hell of a good purchase on detergent. My utils increased by 42 and self-esteem by 18 credits that I will save for bad market purchases. I have exquisite consumer tastes, and I am proud of myself for that. Next we need a twin study to verify that consumer tastes are indeed hereditary.














Michelangelo made a great purchase on some nunchucks and a tank top at American Eagle. I commended him for sticking to the market instead of trying to solve the world's lesser problems like greed and materialism.


















I define my life by the labels of the products and services I buy. Believe it or not, that half mustache, half-goatee, and dye job cost money. Thus, money leads to product choice, some people are just better choosing than others. I am claiming myself to be the best product chooser around.

West Nile Escapades

My father was recently moved from Lincoln to North Bend to continue his rehabilitation after contracting West Nile. He was bitten by a mosquito around September 14th. Small town physicians assistants are not qualified to deal with such diseases or identify their symptoms, as he was not diagnosed until he reached UNMC in Omaha. Still, it took 9 days to diagnose West Nile, which shows how elusive and degenerative this RNA virus is. It is unclear why some people have worse symptoms than others, as some people can have the virus but never display any symptoms.

Only a handful of people died this year from the virus. Genes that may lead to susceptibility include the CCR5 gene in humans, which, interestingly, encodes a co-receptor used by HIV to infect cells. So, people with a CCR5 mutation are less likely to get AIDS but more likely to get West Nile. On that note, my father was tested for HIV in Omaha. Way to go you biochemical detectives. Also in mice a BALB/c gene has been identified and is called the West Nile gene. The gene inhibits protein production inside cells that usually prevent viral reproduction.

I miss having my dad in Lincoln and being able to see him every day, as well as my mother who would stay at my house on the weekends. The town of North Bend has been very supportive. There is a benefit for my father this Sunday at the Catholic Church.














This is the first time he's been able to clasp his hands together on his own. "Look, now I can pray," he said. He can also throw things now like pens and small balls. He can eat on his own. He can also wiggle his legs to and fro only a little. The rehabilitation process may take 18 months.














Low and behold, my father is residing in the elderly home in North Bend with none other than the notorious Herb, my grandmother. Here she is with a fresh permanent. I never have smelt fresh perms and have found out they smell like fecal matter.














Here is my mother doing a pressure release. Every 15 minutes my father has to lean back in his chair to relieve his bum of gravitational pressure.

We spent Christmas in the intensive care unit, as my father came down with a pneumonia infection. His immune system must be thoroughly weakened due to the virus and to the Hodgkin's Lymphoma cancer that he had 2 years ago. I've decided that he should live in a portable bubble, so as not to get colds, the flu, or the myriad diseases caused by microorganisms.














Like father like son, here are two handsome gentlemen. Watch out ladies, I only get prettier with age. Like a bottle of fine wine I will be aged to perfection.














Here is my father's shed that he did not get to help finish. He began working on it during the summer and now it is almost complete. All that is left are the doors.














I'm ready to do some 360's with the combine inside the shed.














Here is our cat Elmer. He's missed my dad very much over the last few months as well. Elmer even sent my dad a card with his best regards, because he is a friendly cat that is very smart. The card said, "Get better soon! Meow, meow, I need someone to lay on. P.S. (Purrr shit) I miss rubbing my shit stained paws all over your face. Scratch sniff jump sleep run, come home soon, Peter son."














Here is Elmer lounging on the crotchal region of Peter (shit stained paws to the face picture not available).

Thanksgiving at the Hospital

Diseases are horrible but they allow for some interesting observations, as one is enabled to really see humanism in people.

My dad had West Nile virus. He was in the ICU for 2 months. Last Tuesday he was moved from Omaha to Lincoln. Now he is undergoing the arduous process of rehabilitation at Madonna hospital, but its better than being on a respirator like he had been for 6 weeks.














Here are players from the football team that came to Madonna to visit patients. My first thought was, how can football players change anything for these patients? I was skeptical, as my father (Pete) doesn't even like football that much. However, every patient that I saw had a great time. My dad did, getting autographs, shaking hands even though he can't move his hands. I had a great time as well. My nihilist perspective has been forever changed.

He told these guys, "Kick some ass against Colorado Friday." Then he said, "Go Big Red."

Whether its pet therapy, football player's giving you a high five, or having your limp feet rubbed down, it's the interaction that really helps. Happiness is about bonds and companionship, not money and possession. Do you think my dad or paralyzed 80 year old Gerald would have smiled had they been brought a plate full of $100 bills? No.














"Wally, you're a big guy. Can I have your autograph?"

"Pistol Pete, I'm gonna do it for you this Friday," replied Wally giving the black shirt symbol thing.

"Do what?" asked Pete.

"Get 1o sacks." Pete smiled, "Great Wally." Pete got Wally's autograph twice, apparently not recognizing him at two different locations.














Thanksgiving this year was the best ever. My mother brought sour Kraut and Dumplings, the Czechoslovakian treat and we ate a nice meal at the hospital. However, we were unable to have my dads world famous Oyster Dressing. Still, the entire family was able to be together.














My mother even brought a flower arrangement. Shown here is a nice Autumn table centerpiece with lilies and mums and an older tropical arrangement with Red Ginger and Protea.

At the days end my dad said something rather touching. "Maybe this disease is good, because now we get to hang out all the time." I said, "Yes, that's an excellent way to look at things," as I rubbed down his feet.

God bless the pain and suffering that creates happiness and love.