I think the past tense of lack should be laught instead of lacked. I doubt anyone will ever adopt this standard at least partially because I have zero reasons for it. Just sayin.

in other news:

Currently at hofstra university in upstate new york (or maybe staten island?) trying to sneak into the live debate between mccain and obama. secret service agents everywhere, lots of motorcades and shitty internet access. Everyone’s calls are getting dropped.
I have no idea why I came here. The debates embody nearly everything I detest about politics, the meaningless soundbites, the trivial format that prevents any solid exposition of issues, the savagely inept media talking head moderators who let even the most blatant of lies slip through. I wouldn’t watch this on television but for some reason decided it would be worth it to see a bullshit trumpeting competition live. Let me also add that there is a triumphant bannerism suffused into every interaction. Indeed, the candidate who’s supporters wave the largest placard is ideologically superior!! sigh, this is a massive step back from even the bumpersticker politics which I so deplore.

However, I am seriously considering a sweet moment of media reform activism by slashing the tires on a poorly attended cnn media RV control center. if there’s no blogging for a few days, it’s because I’ve been arrested.

Baku is a weird place. On the surface, it appears very European, with tons of pretty old architecture and luxury stores. But you begin to see how things are highly segregated by gender. Girls only hang out with other girls (and they all have to be home by 9 pm); boys only hang out with other boys. Girls that do hang out with boys, or are foreign, are typically assumed to be of ‘loose morals’. Emil came over one day, and saw a small shooter of vodka (don’t judge me!) on my kitchen table, and told me girls only drink wine. I said it was raspberry flavored, and thus making it OK for girls to drink.

Two weeks ago, I was mistaken for a prostitute, which I expect to become a common occurrence if I keep going out “late” at night.

This particular night was a rather uneventful one. I did end up going to the “gay” bar (that we stumbled upon a bit accidentally), and meeting some very nice friends of a friend. Aside from the fact that it was a Russian kareoke bar, the overall experience was rather pleasant. Later, we got some beer and walked around the Old City, and then my friend and I sat around Fountain Square (the downtown area). We made friends with an adorable white kitten, that I seriously considered taking home with me…But not having a litter box, and an apartment full of Azeri rugs, decided not to. At 3 am, we finally decided to go home, because to be honest, there’s really nothing fun about sitting by a fountain, totally sober at 3 am on a Saturday night.

My friend asked if I needed to be walked home, and being American, I responded in the negative. Azerbaijan is not particularly dangerous, and the walk home was only 10-15 minutes. What could possibly go wrong? Little did I know that being female, and out that late at night, can only signal one thing to the typical Azeri male: I am for sale. In retrospect, it really is the only logical conclusion.

So, on my unescorted walk home, a car pulls up to me while I am waiting at a stop light. A guy is in a white BMW convertible (which, like in the US, is the universal sign for “asshole”), and starts talking to me. Besides hearing “Where are you going?”, I don’t really know what he is saying, and I am unsure how to respond, so I simply ignore him and cross the street, figuring that would be the end of it.

WRONG. He drives around the corner to meet me while I am walking up the street. I continue to ignore him, and he proceeds to drive backwards, following me up the street. I get a little annoyed, but being at a loss for words, just keep walking, and hoping that the old men playing back gammon on the street corner will come to my rescue. A taxi drives down the street, preventing jerk-off-in-the-BMW from driving backwards up the street to follow me. I figure that this really is the end of it.

WRONG AGAIN. He just drives around a corner and continues to follow me. At this point, I get a little panicky, and I try to figure out an alternate route home. I am unsure when he actually stopped following me, but I walk down an extra block and watch every car that drives by to make sure its a white BMW. None of them are, so I feel I can safely walk to my home without fear of some creep stalking me.

I then resolved to learn how to say “Fuck off” in Azeri. In case anyone cares, it’s “sikdir.” Which has something to do with dick. Im told there are other variations, but I haven’t learned them yet…

As it turns out, J. also likes going out dancing, so it was easy to get him to take me to a club. Unfortunately, pickins are slim in Baku.

Friday was Emil’s birthday (the short one who has “very beautiful eyes” and wants to be my boyfriend). He texted J. almost hourly to remind J. to buy a present. I told J. if they go to a discotheque, I wanted to go, in spite of my reservations about Emil.

J. calls me around 9 pm to hang out with Emil. I meet them at a çayxana, where I am forced to drink a beer, which instantly signals to everyone around that I am a prostitute. Emil immediately demands in poor English, “Where is my present?” He also uses my arrival to tell me that he “likes me” and “thinks I am a very beautiful girl” and “do I like him?” I panic, and hit J. J. “reminds” me I have a boyfriend that I am going to marry. To which Emil predicitably responds “But I am here, and he is in the United States.” I say that doesn’t matter. Emil asks if he can come to the wedding. I say “of course.”

Sitting with J., Emil and Emil’s friends is a half-Georgian, half-Chechen Jew who has lived in Kazakhstan prostitute…Or so we suspect. She claims she is a cook and her boss is from Holland. However, she smokes and drinks, which indicates that she is probably a prostitute. She barely speaks Azeri, so she talks to Emil and his friends in Russian. Somehow, J. and Ilohna (the suspected prostitute) bond because she teaches J.Georgian swear words.

It’s fascinating living in a country where most people are bilingual. It’s also incredibly frustrating in cases like Friday, where neither J. nor I understand Russian (and I barely understand Azeri), so we were cut off from half the conversation. That’s neither here nor there, but just something worth noting about post-Soviet transitional countries…

J.’s friend arrives, and we end up going to a discotheque…At 10:00 in the evening. Everything happens really early here because everyone lives with their parents and they are expected home at a certain time (for girls, it’s usually 9 pm; apparently for boys, it’s later). J. didn’t want to go to a club because it was too early. I was bored listening to everyone speak in languages I didn’t understand, so I was down to go to a club.

We end up going to a club called Eniqma (the “q” in Azeri is pronounced like a “g”). On the walk to the club, both the half-Georgian, half-Chechen prostitute and Emil take either of my hands. It was a little creepy. Both of them also tell me if I don’t want to hold their hands, then I don’t have to (what a fucking relief!). I am unsure how to respond, so I walk to the club with both of them on either side of me, wondering if this means something that I am just culturally clueless about.

According to J. and others, clubs play rap music early in the night and then techno later on (later being 10:30). So when we first get to the club, we hear some Akon. As we enter, we are greeted to a pretty small “dancefloor” filled with about three typically Azrebaijani men standing in front of a large mirror watching themselves dance. Seriously. Also, there was something akin to tinfoil surrounding the mirror. And red and green lasers. And a smoke machine.

There are some dirty looking couches and tables surrounding the the areas around the dance floor, so we go and sit down. There are maybe 6 other people in the club. J. asks me to dance with him in front of the mirrors, to which I adamantly respond, “No.” Of course, this is not an acceptable answer, and I end up relenting with a “Well, OK.” So we all go on to the (now empty) dance floor and dance around to some bad top 40 rap music. Emil tells me that I am a “good dancer” and I move away from him. The half-Georgian prostitute grinds up on one of the guys in the group and I go to sit down. The music turns to really bad techno.

It was all very weird. I clearly hadn’t had enough to drink. Plus, Emil really creeped me out.

It’s too smoky inside, so I go outside. Emil follows me out and says that I should go back inside. I was told that Azeris are really controlling (and my experience with the Azeri profs I had at Bloomington only served to reinforce stereotypes…). The night ends with Emil yelling at the prostitute, and saying he has to go home because it’s “late” (it was about 11:30). We try to check out other clubs, but there’s either 1. not much going on or 2. a cover charge. So I call it a night.

1. People walking around

2. Cars

3. Cars honking

4. My landlords fighting in a way that makes me wonder if someone is going to die.

5. Muslim call to prayer

6. A FUCKING ROOSTER.

 Also, I totally got to hang out with a prostitute over the weekend, AND I was also mistaken for a prostitute on Saturday night. Ill write about it later; theoretically, when I get internet in my apartment.

After waking today i recalled the last memorable aspects of my dream: I was playing with a baby, sending it on a labrinthine jouney of my own creation using hardware and building materials (cardboard boxes and large-diameter flexible air duct) to make it crawl through a wonderful maze full of hazards and near-death dangers, a literal Mousetrap of the infant scale, built to please my unnamed esoteric and unfulfilled interest in manipulating baby humans.  I woke up and remembered that this was something familiar, something I had been curiously interested in from years gone by.  Was this particular only to me or am I on to something far more reaching and common, an affliction of a fucking-with-infants fetish which is somehow a deep seated psychological velleity, vestigial from a long-ago eon, embedded within our genetic code….

I can recall being a youngster in preschool and having such an interest even then; friends would congregate and we’d play some sort of imgainary ‘house’ or ‘life’ game of some sort, one of us being relegated to ‘baby,’ who would then be the butt of all our ridiculous childish pranks and tasks.  “OK now the baby has to sit inside this tire and we push it down the hill [not actually a hill but more of a knoll or mound (we were about five years old, after all)] ;” or “The baby is going to be sitting over this hole and then when the earthquake hits the baby’s going to fall down this hole and we can pull him by his legs over to the next hole…”  Maybe it was just me and my ideas, but I recall a universal reception of these play ideas, of messing around with this imagined ‘baby’ (in this case it was always Nolan C., who later became a star quarterback at my highschool), as if everyone really did want a baby to play with and stuff into small, dangerous places.  We were all happy to be the ones sending this so-called baby on its way to new and threatening complicated situations which put it in uncomfortable, cramped, zany scenarios which we all found satisfaction in.

This dream I awoke from had just that in it — messing with a baby purely for my delight, pushing it on its way over potentially watery graves and claustriphobia-inducing crawlspaces, merely to humor my as-of-yet- unnamed sense of  bab-as-solitary-gladiator — which strongly make a recollection of the movie Labrynth, whose ongoing theme involved something all too similar, with a young female actor with girl-next-door hackeneyed cuteness and a very glamrock sexy David Bowie thrown in for some intruiging Freudian confusion (save that for later).  Perhaps one was influenced by the other, or else Labrynth is an original and we were all under my hypnotic spell of leadership back in preschool, whose bizarre intentions within the game of ‘play’ were carried out with zeal and enjoyment, yet were never to be fully understood as merely the result of having recently watched a movie about a babysitter who has a dream about losing the baby she’s watching to a spandex- and eyeliner-wearing rockstar in a Tolkien-esque fantasy land involving mazes and riddles and hazards of all kinds.

If anyone can comment to either affirm this concept, ask critical questions or refer me to a good psychologist, please avail yourself of the comment form below.  for the record there is nothing paedophiliatory about this whole thing; on the contrary, babies disgust me.

I find it extremely helpful to keep notes on every book I read and store them in a personal wiki. I review the notes a couple times a year to remind myself what the heck I’ve been learning and thinking about. Then I read a bunch of amazon reviews of the books and sometimes I write my own (usually I write 3/4 a review and then get absorbed in checking email). Now that amazon allows people to comment sometimes I make snarky remarks about other people’s reviews, it’s quite gratifying. Previously I would take notes on index cards and then transfer those contents to the wiki but I just decided it’s way faster to just underline and make comments in the margins and then transfer to the wiki directly from the book. This process helps a lot with information retention, which is good since I can barely remember what happened yesterday.

In a perfect world I would post a link to the amazon review I write for every book I read. I’m not convinced that’s actually worth my time.

Apartment hunting is an exhausting experience, regardless of where you are; however, I will contend it’s worse in Azerbaijan. J. suggested I get the expat papers to look at the ads for an apartment. He warned me that the listings are probably all taken, but if I called an agency, told them my specifics and price range, they would be able to show me some apartments.

We were at some expat German bar (where there were no Germans), and I grabbed a few newspapers and skimmed through them. They had great journalistic features such as: “Rat meat in Demand as inflation bites” (not true, as far as I can tell), or “Cheney to visit Azerbaijan” (true). There was also some great ads for “masseuses” who give massages “in two or four hands”! Needless to say, I was a bit skeptical that I would find anything worthwhile in here.

The first place I called hung up on me when I asked in Azerbaijani if they spoke English. J. offered to call, and was much more successful. He gave them my number and said that I needed someone who spoke English. I then called like, five other agencies.

While we were waiting for people to call me back, we decided to take a trip to the airport, because my luggage had arrived. It was a long trip, but fairly uneventful. However, during the trip, a million real estate agents called me and I tried to explain that I was going to the airport. Unfortunately, although some spoke English, not all of them understood my explanation of why I couldn’t meet right away. I finally made plans to meet with someone at 4 pm.

We got back to the apartment a little bit before 4, and I felt totally gross. Baku is really humid (or maybe I say that about anywhere because Im from Denver…), and I was all sweaty and disgusting from dragging my luggage around. I decided to change and wear a tank top. I hesitated for a moment, because wearing a tank top would show off my back tattoos, and I wasn’t sure how well received that would be, especially when meeting with potential landlords. Azerbaijani women dress pretty much like everywhere else (more make up and high heels), but they still have some weird ideas about what women should look like, and I was under the impression that tattoos are not generally well-regarded in Azerbaijan. Especially on women. As J. and I were walking to the meeting spot, I noticed one car drive slowly by us and the driver stared at me as he drove by. Sigh. Also of interest, Baku doesn’t really have sidewalks, so walking down the street is a game of life or death…every single time.

Anyways, we meet with two guys, and they are about our age (mid-20s). They are totally fascinated by my tattoos. One of them cannot get over the fact that they are, in fact, permanent. I told him lasers will remove them, if I really wanted to get rid of them.

As they showed us apartments, they totally fell in love with Julian. Emil, who is short and wears mirrored sunglasses, kept asking J. to go to a discotheque with him. And they asked for his phone number. I assumed this was to introduce to Julian to prostitutes. I almost felt a little bit jealous. Why doesn’t anyone want to take me to a discotheque? Emil tried to make me feel better by saying that I had pretty eyes (not something I hear often, so I was a little bit surprised) and then told me that he also had very beautiful eyes. He removed his mirrored sunglasses to prove it to me.

The apartments they showed us were OK, but nothing really caught my eye. And then they were like “Oh…we have one more apartment to show you…Its 3, or maybe 4 or 5 rooms and it’s $900.” And they took us to this great old building that looked like something out of a Tim Burton movie. I was convinced I was going to totally love this apartment and then I wouldn’t have to search anymore, but alas, the truth will never be known. We waited for 20 min. while they tried to get a hold of the landlord, who happened to be on vacation. It was depressing. I never did get to see the inside of it, and I am sure it will haunt me until the end of my days.

The next day was a lot more exhausting. Emil and his friend were angry that J. and I were seeing other real estate agents…So, they insisted on showing us more apartments. It’s weird looking at apartments when people are still living in them. In one of the apartments, I was looking in a bedroom only to discover a tiny baby sleeping on it. I asked if the baby came with the apartment, but it didn’t (thankfully). I ultimately ended up choosing the apartment with the baby.

The next day, J. ends up hanging out with Emil and his friend. Emil tells J. that he really likes “Miss Kimberly” (an interesting note, I have to use my full name out here, because the word “kim” means “who”) and that J. should call me to tell me. J. says that’s not really how things work in the United States, and proceeds to convince Emil that the way to winning my heart does not involve him calling me incessantly until I finally consent to date him. When I discover all this, I thank J. profusely. Later, he told them that I have a serious boyfriend and I am probably getting married. J. also got to hang out with prostitutes. I cannot wait until I speak Azerbaijani and maybe I will also be able to hang out with prostitutes.

I just read this on Ze Frank’s site, which I only read sporadically, but I have since decided that I should read it a lot more. Anyways, he asked to take over someone’s facebook page on his Twitter, and was overwhelmed with responses. One of the girls he chose to imitate had some interesting insight to the whole thing, that I thought was worth sharing.

This movie was filmed in Guam last year using entirely local talent and has been in the production phase until just recently. The film is now complete, the trailer is up, and the premier is scheduled for the 2nd or 3rd week of September in Guam. After premiering on island it’ll enter the film festival circuit. The rest depends on the reception it gets at the festivals, but hopefully it will make its way to a theater near you.
It’s written and directed by the Muna Bros, Don and Kel, two incredibly talented guys who have spent the last two years living and breathing this project. They’re cool guys, check out the site and drop them an email if you have any questions about making your own independent film.

Back in SFO area now but I wanted to post a photo from new york. A panini shop called ‘Switch across the street from the NYC Google office got a lot of my business which is odd because it’s only okay. First, it took me at least a week to discover what it was. New york restaurants like to hide the fact that they actually serve food. Switch has confusing sign that requires significant deciphering and even after that’s done the facade makes it difficult to determine the purpose of the site. Is it a sandwhich shop or perhaps a high end boutique? unclear. I also felt a little silly every time I ate there. Here I am in one of earths food meccas and I’m repeatedly eating at a mediocre sandwhich shop.

One of the things that I really like about google is that they don’t force me into an unnatural schedule, that means I can work whenever and nearly where ever I want. Sometimes I really get into a groove on something and I just need food to keep my body operating. Hence, switch steps in.

Switch has a lot of stupid little dogmas that could potentially be cool, like you are allowed to give employees high fives at any time, except some internal policy is keeping the employees miserable. I could never bring myself to ask an employee for a high five because something about the place robbed workers of a basic dignity. There was a pervasive sense that any of those employees would quit the moment they had the opportunity. This sign in the bathroom definitely got a chuckle.

I just spent the last week in Okinawa, visiting family. My cousin works in the tourist industry, and occassionally, she gets to spend a night in a fancy hotel/resort in order to “review” it for potential clients. Because of this, we got to stayhere for free, and put everything on the company tab. It was pretty sweet, Im not gonna lie. I got a full body massage (no happy ending) and got to drink kir royale (one of my favorite drinks) for free!

A few things really caught my attention while I was wandering around the premise:

1. Rich people look like regular people

2. Resorts are weird because they have beaches AND swimming pools.

3. I wasn’t allowed to partake in the swimming pool because the resort has a strict policy concerning people with tattoos (I think it’s the second one down):

Additionally, a pamphlet we received upon check-in also asked guests with tattoos to refrain from wearing any clothing that exposed them. I have a rather noticeable tattoo on my back, and I happened to be wearing a shirt that was exposing them. So, I had to change.

In case anyone wonders why this policy exists, it’s essentially to prevent Yakuza from using certain facilities. I’ve heard similar policies exist for sports clubs. I decided to read up on the Yakuza, and to my surprise, the organization is still going strong. And they are responsible for the majority of crystal meth found in Hawaii.

Seriously, I guess you learn something new everyday.

On the other hand, the Yakuza have some amazing tattoos. According to the wiki, these tattoos are generally done by hand, without the use of electric tools, and they take years to complete. The idea just makes me cringe, but these tattoos are far superior to any tattoos I’ve ever seen. The details are amazing, and the color is really vibrant.

And what happened to the travelblog tag?

Not too long ago I was wandering around my building and discovered $15,000 laser cutter stashed or possibly abandoned in a corner. This is perfect because I have several projects that would be greatly aided by the use of high tech equipment such as this.

I did some research and it turns out, I guess unsurprisingly, that laser cutters are pretty dangerous! Cutting a lot of things will either fail and/or produce toxic gases and raging fires. (HP, Stanford and several other places have lost chunks of buildings to laser based disasters). Inferring that burning down part of my office would probably be a solid way to get fired (heh) I decided to take a laser cutter course at the Techshop in menlo park. It’s the funnest thing I’ve done in ages and there is a new step in all my cognitive processes which involves the question “But could I cut it with a laser?”

breakfast? yes (but not the potato because it has too much water)
My computer? etch yes, cut no
PVC? no, that releases deadly gases.
Traffic? not in any reliable way unless I had a much bigger laser.

So if anyone needs any cheap medical supplies, let me know, we just have to fab them out in adobe illustrator.

—-

The other big first is that I’m going on my first business trip! Google is flying me up to Seattle for 3-4 large projects. If anyone knows of good stuff/people in seattle let me know asap, I’m leaving tonight (wednesday)!

I’m a little delirious from driving through wyoming! the last picture I posted reminded me that sometime in late 2007 I convinced a wild raccoon to let me touch it’s tail. seemingly simple, this was a pretty big event for me. I’ve been trying to touch a raccoon for something like 13 years. At this point, I’m at least reasonably certain that I could tame a raccoon and train it to fetch me sudoku puzzles/beer.

ps the tail was more bristly than I was expecting but still pretty soft. These are the results of my frist lolcatz binge of 2008.

8: 13pm Thursday January 10th 2008

Wherethefuck, Wyoming. At a gas station/taxidermist some 200 miles ago I had the following conversation.

Me: Hi there, doesn’t look like the pumps have numbers, I like to put 20$ on the gold truck in the second lane.
Grizzled Old Man: okay
Me: …..
GOM: well start pumping and pay me for whatever you put in. If you drive off, I’ll shoot ya.

He said it playfully but I don’t think he was joking. This is the only gas station I’ve ever been to that had a bull moose mounted above the soda machine. The entire state has deliberately covered the freeway with a form of ultraslick, invisible compacted snow known to the locals as “black ice.” There is also a blizzard. Four wheel drive in effect, I am heading back to california at a pace only slightly faster than the speed of smell.

Not to get all up in Wyoming’s grill but this black ice business is just a stupid idea.

Location: Raphey’s house in Los Altos hills (near palo alto). I’m on the porch.
Mood: A respectable middleground between unnerved and scared shitless.
Time: 3am

There is a sound coming from the woods, or really more like a group of sounds. My first reaction: humans making a sound specifically designed to scare other humans? It *is* friday night but this is faaar from campus and a little too late for that kind of revelry. there it is again. It comes about minute and a half. It’s getting louder. It could be coyotes, but it doesn’t sound canine enough, howl-y enough or big enough. It sounds more…simian.

whatever. unidentified forest animals. I’m big and smell like danger to them. back to work.

fuck! it’s getting closer. there’s a lot of them (WHAT IS IT??) at least 7, no more than 20. it’s frenzied and for sure moving in a particular direction. maybe this way or on a parallel tangent. Other animals in the forest are taking notice and moving away.

again. they seem…angry or frenzied. Like they are looking for something. Whatever, I mean there’s no way wild whatevers would approach the house. but they are getting close and this is really starting to feel like a horror movie archetype. am i freaked out by this? no, i grew up in the woods. this is nothing. …but I have never heard anything like this. okay yes. i’m freaked out. maybe just a little.

something big just ran out of the woods and by the house, a deer. weird. it did not give a shit about me and was running pretty fast. it did NOT like the noise. this is very odd. if it gets any closer I’m going in the house. …. emailing …. fuck, okay now it’s close. …. emailing …. okay now it’s really close.

breathing. sigh. relaxed. in the house. it’s still out there, across the street apiece. I am a full grown adult and really want to turn out the lights and hide. this is weeeird.

…. okay, it seems to be gone. i haven’t heard the noise in like 15 minutes. W.T.F.? I seriously have no idea what animals that could have been.

There’s something wrong when I crawl out of bed craving a rockstar. Brain chemistry makes me think that the taste of robot sweat left to marinate in an ashtray is somehow delightful and refreshing. stupid caffeine.

Burning Man was great. I met heaps of incredibly awesome people, experienced significant spiritual unfolding, learned countless lessons about humanity and life and I seem to have developed a six pack from laughing my ass off. In short, the time of my life, as usual.

I’ve just gotten home and I’m realizing that, thanks to google, I haven’t personally cooked food in months. The whole process seems surreal and terribly confusing. I am fully flummoxed by a can of beans simply because I lack a can opener at 12:39am. I do however have a fully charged cordless drill, lets see what happens.

The details in brief: Aaron was a smart kid, a star student in high school. After high school, he was diagnosed as delusional. He did poorly in university, and was sort of off again, on again. He bought a gun a few months ago. Then last Monday, he bought a tuxedo and went to the capitol building. He was not holding the gun, but he did not hide it. He claimed to be the emperor. A security guard warned him that he needed to stop advancing. Poor Aaron didn’t listen, and received three fatal gunshot wounds. A story about Aaron by the Denver Post can be found here.

What I find interesting, and perhaps somewhat disturbing, is that the only ensuing debate in the aftermath of this incident is whether or not there should be metal detectors in the capitol.

Uh, hello? A security guard shot and killed a man that wasn’t shooting, nor even holding a gun? Does anyone else think this is just a teensy bit…Oh, I dunno, excessive?

The security guard, Jay Hemphill, has been lauded as a fucking hero! The Rocky Mountain News posted this article about him:

Btw, that part about refusing to put the gun down is a total lie. Several articles already said that Snyder hadn’t even pulled his gun out. Link

I’ve been thinking a lot about this for the past week. Ostensibly, one of the things that cops are supposed to do is to protect the public. They are also expected to put their life on the line, in order to protect the public. Yet, when no one’s life is on the line (as in the case at the Colorado state capitol), they still have the right to fatally wound someone? One could argue that this was self defense, but I disagree. No gun shots were fired, nor was the victim even holding his gun. Additionally, I would argue that cops should not fire their weapons until they are attacked first. It is really the only morally correct option; otherwise, they simply look like assholes for shooting people that may not pose a big threat.

For the moment, I may be in the minority with this opinion, especially in this particular case. But who is some cop to judge when someone dies, simply because he feels “threatened”? Fuck off. If your job is to preserve the peace, and our lives, then maybe you shouldn’t kill people. Additionally, you should be ready to sacrifice your life in return for someone else’s. It would have been equally tragic had the security guard in this particular scenario had been killed, but he’s the one who chose to engage in a dangerous job where he may possibly be killed. I would expect someone with a gun not to scare easily, and get all trigger happy, simply because someone was walking towards him.

Since moving to Guam I’ve taken up diving, and having scored a wicked job in a dive shop I can pretty much do it as often as I like free of charge. So I’ve been spending a lot of my time underwater. Of all that I’ve experienced in my new habitat there are a couple things I’d especially like to point out:

–Diving a wreck at night is unreal. And creepy in a way that no ghost story could ever match. When the opportunity presents itself.. DO IT.

–When you descend through a bright blue hole in the ocean floor that turns 90 degrees and pops you out of a deep, cobalt-blue cavern about 130ft down the side of an ocean drop-off with no bottom.. as you’re hovering in that warm, crystal-clear water –85degrees, 200ft viz– not only is it the most beautiful, incredible experience of your life but physics and physiology come together at that exact moment to give you a little treat called nitrogen narcosis to enhance your experience. So three cheers to science for being on top of that one.

Lastly, if you’re ever on a large dive boat chances are the captain will let you jump from the upper decks during your surface interval if you just ask them. But they’ll only do it if the engines are off, the conditions are calm, and it’s not going to piss off their other passengers.