My Time As A Lab Rat, Part V

Without a doubt, the sweating was better than the shower. It was not nearly enough though -- only an hour of soccer to purge the disgusting man-grease that has been building up in my skin. Before my shower (which was really good), I took a peek at my back and already there was only the faintest hint of pink marker remaining. Ahhhhhhhh.

The doctor revealed that I am, in fact, allergic to nothing in the shoe biohazard kit with the exception of maybe one chrome-based compound. I say maybe because apparently my skin only looked like it was thinking about turning red for this one. So, let the straw-grasping begin. This particular chrome compound is used for tanning leather and so I was instructed to avoid wearing leather shoes for the next month. Swwwweeeeeeeetah. I did not actually have any non-leather shoes and so off to REI I went to pick up a pair of new pair of all-synthetic kicks.

I am sticking to my previous analysis in that it is not the being neither clean nor sweaty, it is the not having a choice about it. Look at teenagers: they often do not clean themselves or engage in physical activity for weeks at a time without suffering any change in their mental state. Take away their car/phone/allowance/ps2 though and they are liable to embark on a murderous rampage. As a more evolved creature, I would say that I was at least three days from my absolute breaking point -- the voices were not even starting to be compelling.

So, the experiment goes on. I already told the doctor that there was no way in hell that I was going to avoid wearing leather entirely over the next month since my cleats are leather and I am NOT going to stop playing disc or soccer. The rest of the time, I do not really care; I think I'll be wearing flip-flops to work for the next month.

Anxiety: low; itchiness: tempered; stinkiness: eliminated.

My Time As A Lab Rat, Part IV

In 1998, Seattle rock band Harvey Danger released their seminal single "Flagpole Sitta". Although chock full o' poignant lyrics, today I was focused on just one.

...
but if you're bored then you're boring
the agony and the irony, they're killing me

Well fuck me with a herring knife! Today, day (one, two three, four, five) five, is the day that it gets to me. Like yesterday, it was gorgeous today in Salt Lake City; high 80's, a little breeze, a couple white fluffies in the sky. You couldn't ask for a better August day in Utah UNLESS YOU HAVE TO SPEND ALL WEEKEND INDOORS STAYING COOL SO YOUR BACK DOESN'T SWEAT THEREBY RUINING THE EXPERIMENT, THE ONLY HOPE YOU HAVE TO KNOW WHY THE SKIN ON YOUR STUPID FEET DISINTEGRATES LIKE SO MUCH TOILET PAPER GETTING PISSED ON! AHHHHHHHHHHRRRRRRRRRRR!

Really, I would have enjoyed playing disc and maybe gone for a little run in the mountains, just a little one. It's weird because I have squandered other equally lovely weekends watching endless bad movies on TNT or frittered away the time doing other nonsense. It seems that not having a choice about it is getting to me.

Fortunately, I got the proverbial smack in the face today in time for me to start a worthwhile project. [oooh "Jesusland" just hit the amarok ... gotta love that staccato piano ... wait for it ... ahh, that was nice] So I am now in the middle of [finally] painting my bathroom vanity. And by 'painting', I mean 'priming'; and by 'priming', I mean 'sanding'; and by 'sanding', I mean making a big effin' mess. This has been loosley on my agenda since I tiled my floors about two years ago. Hopefully I'll be sufficiently pleased with the result to counter the extreme annoyance I have with my back situation.

Enough blogging, I've got more mess to make.

Anxiety: peaked; itchiness: zilch; stinkiness: sawdust, latex, and b.o., yummy

The Cure: An Unhealthy Addiction?

As I was walking home tonight, I was startled to see none other than Robert Smith's face stenciled into the sidewalk along MY STREET. To get things straight, we're talking about Robert Smith of The Cure, not former Ohio State great Robert Smith. After being momentarily enamored with the craftsmanship of the stencil, I became re-aware of a question that has been bugging me for the last five years: why is The Cure so effin' worshipped in Utah?

I grew up in a musically sheltered environment listening almost exclusively to oldies until I got my first car in high school and could tune into any radio station that I wanted to. This being the case, I was not exposed to The Cure during my formative years. I jumped straight into grunge rock. What's my point? ... Oh yeah, the point is that, hypothetically, knowing nothing other than The Cure is fully embraced by white-bread Utah, I must assume that The Cure are a bunch of wanks who fall disappointingly short of being edgy or otherwise saying anything -- kinda like how Utahans tend to blurt out "What the fetch!" when they are cut-off on the highway.

Is this all in my head? Do I not have my finger on the pop-pulse of Utah? Or are The Cure that vanilla as to appeal to the masses of Utah? To dig any further would imply that I care.

Oh, and by the way, Oingo Boingo is the same way around here except that Oingo Boingo cannot even pretend to be cool.

My Time As A Lab Rat, Part III

This morning, I seriously (albeit briefly) considered jumping in the shower. In that moment I wanted the sweet, warm touch of lady Delta and her long wet fingers. But I stayed strong; I kept to the course because I knew the worst would be over soon...

Summer (today's assistant) was gentle but firm, and quick to boot. The procedure was rip off all the tape and the patches, then draw all over me with a pink highlighter. I then had to sit around for fifteen minutes to wait for my back to "settle down". I used that time to rock-out a new high score in meteos. The doctor took a quick look and did not find anything conclusive. I think he knows something, but wants to leave me in suspense over the weekend so I don't do something foolish like clean myself.

So far, I have not actually felt any itchiness. After the patches came off, I thought I felt a little twinge of itchiness, but that seems to have been entirely psycho-somatic. The lack of itchiness makes me feel a bit cheated. I half expected it to be a macho test of will to restrain myself from ravaging the skin off my back due to itching so intense that most mere mortals would wish for death just to have reprieve.

Anxiety: low; itchiness: boring; stinkiness: building.

Tit For Tat

I know, how can I post about anything besides the crap on my back? To that I say "be patient". The patches come off tomorrow and if you're good I'll post a photo (they promised to write all over my back with a pink marker).

To the point, the fabulous Erin has kindly linked to my humble space from her outstanding blog, so I've created a "blogs of interest" section dedicated to blogs that don't suck or are my brother's.

Peace.

My Time As A Lab Rat, Part II

Ninety-three. Let's get that out of the way first. Each little patch is really a shallow plastic well containing spooge of one sort or another. They come in two by six grids, so each one was not taped on separately (there was enough tape applied to get all ninety-three separately). It only took the medical assistant (I think that's what it said on her badge) about two minutes to affix the spooge traps to my back.

There is actually very little discomfort besides the feeling that there are ninety-three miniature-size biohazards stuck to my back. I have not yet passed the point where I would have normally taken a shower, so I do not yet feel like the scum-bag that I know I will become over the next (one, two, three, four, five!) five days.

Itchiness: low; anxiety: mild; stinkiness: normal.

My Time As A Lab Rat, Part I

Well, today is the day. I am just beginning my whirlwind journey through the land of dermatology and today I will have a hundred-odd patches applied to my backside. Moments ago, I got out of the shower for what will be the last time for six days. Anxiety level: low, stinkiness: low. I do not know very much about this patch testing except that substances that tend to make people itch will be stuck to my back and that hopefully I will finally know once and for all what the hell makes the skin on my feet disintegrate and itch like a mofo all the time. I must be off to Crossroads; I'm sure lifting boxes for two hours won't make me sweaty, right?

Climbing the Uintas

Since brevity was not a feature of the last post, I will make an effort to be concise here. Today was yet another banner big adventure day. Bright and early at 10:30 this morning, four of us piled into, you guessed it, Mike's Astro van. Destination: the Uintas. Since my "seat" was lying prone on a board in the back and since the Astro van is not a window-rich environment, I have absolutely no idea how we got to our destination, but after just shy of two hours of blind jostling, there we were.

The particular spot was Ruth's Lake. There is a pretty easy three-quarter mile ascent to the climbing crag. There you will find at least a dozen bolted sport routes ranging from 5.7 to 5.11+. Actually, we did not explore the entire area, but there were clearly several other climbing areas in the immediate vicinity.

The highlight of the day for me was successfully leading a 5.8 route WITHOUT DYING! This was actually the first route I have ever lead, so it was pretty sweet. Coming down off that high, I achieved the lowlight of my day by failing to lead a 5.9 route. My punishment for that offense was a couple of gouges from my shin. It has been at least a month since my last climb, so the blame for this failure, as usual, falls squarely on my fat ass.

The weather in the Uintas can be a bit unpredictable; thunderstorms tend to form without much warning. Fortunately for us, the weather remained quite lovely the entire day save for about two minutes of sprinkles. Post-climbing, we ventured over to Ruth's Lake where I had my second naked swimming session in as many weeks. I had never taken a dip in any of Utah's mountain lakes (no the Great Salt Lake doesn't count) and I was pleasantly surprised that I did not develop hypothermia.

The trip home took us through Evanston, Wyoming. It had been a long day of climbing and drinking beer by the lake, so by the time we reached Evanston mass starvation had kicked in. It being quarter til ten on a Sunday evening, our dining options were limited, but the gods smiled on us when we found Lotty's Family Restaurant with it's neon "Open" sign blazing. If you are ever in Evanston, this is the place to go. They have two sections at Lotty's: one for smoking and one for second-hand smoking, your choice. Also, the adjoining bar added much ambiance. You know you've picked the right restaurant when you can rock-out to U2's "Where The Streets Have No Name" while eating your cheese omlette and hash browns. I didn't notice the plaque, but I think it's safe to assume Lotty's earned at least the four diamond rating from AAA.

Sailing the Great Salt Lake

When you hear about fun stuff people have done in Utah, the Great Salt Lake just does not come up. Having lived in Utah for over five years, there are a couple of things I have learned about the lake. First, it stinks. Approximately once a fortnight the wind shifts such that the aroma of the lake is perceptible in the city. It's never really that bad, but it's enough to make the unaccustomed think "what is that smell?"

Today, however, was the day that all prejudices were put aside. My buddy Mike invited me to go sailing on his boat in the Great Salt Lake. What the hell, I've been on an adventure streak and there was no reason for me to break it. This was to be an evening sailing outing. Mike, who does not often mention his sailing adventures, decided that the wind might just be good enough.

We arrived at the Salt Lake Marina with plenty of daylight left in the sky. Suprisingly, there was no line at the boat ramp, so went right to work putting the boat in the water. Equipped with a swimsuit, two water bottles, sunscreen, and no fucking clue, I set foot in the Great Salt Lake for the first time. As it turns out, Mike knew what he was doing (of course), and so before I knew it we were sailing. Now, by "sailing" I mean that I was sitting on the bow rowing with a kayak paddle while Mike operated the rudder.

Before continuing with the story, some description of the Salt Lake Marina is in order. The marina is located on the South end of the Great Salt Lake just off of I-80. There is a protected bay with docks holding a hundred odd boats. All but two or three of these boats are sailboats. The most interesting characteristic of the marina is that it smells like raw sewage due to the rotting brine shrimp carcasses filling up the top six inches of water.

Mike commented that this was the worst that the marina had ever smelled. I tend to recall the lake being slightly more vile when I had the occasion to be near the lake a couple years ago for a Third Eye Blind concert at Saltaire, but that could have been the stench growing stenchier in my mind with passing years.

Eventually I applied enough strokes to get us out of the marina and onto the open water. The stink diminished markedly at this point, but the overall nastiness of the lake was still quite strong.

Oh yeah, I have forgotten to mention another very important property of the Great Salt Lake. I must have repressed this one. There are brine flies all over. The brine fly, or ephydra riparia, congregates with millions of its brethren atop the surface of the Great Salt Lake. From my observations, the flies tend to achieve their densest congregations on top of what appears to be feces floating the water. In this particular situation, upwards of ten thousand flies may be landed on the same quarter inch diameter piece of shit floating in the water. These flies have the positive property that they do not seem to bite. They also suffer from the negative property that they love to land on human bodies and creep around on your skin.

Also, this post would be wholly incomplete without a description of the brine shrimp. In the Great Salt Lake, there are approximately a jillion brine shrimp. They are small, white (when alive), and don't do much. When peering into the water, you do find yourself thinking "so this is what it would look like if the entire population of Utah blew a snot-rocket into the Great Salt Lake."

So back to the open water. Well, we did not get far; the wind was not blowing. A couple of times it gusted enough that I could perceive movement, but for the most part nada. The only logical thing for us to do at that point was to drink beer while swimming in the lake! Remember that this isn't fresh water and it isn't even the ocean; this is supersaturated brine and thus the buoyancy is outstanding! For reference, when standing straight up in the water, my head and neck were out of the water without me doing anything about it. Suspending the reality that I was in a cess pool, this was a pretty awesome experience.

A couple beers and a lot of paddling later, my adventure on the Great Salt Lake came to an end. All that was left to do was eat tasty mexican food at the Taqueria Lolita. Mmmmm, costillas de puerco...

Hello, World!

The exclamation point on the post title may be a bit of an exaggeration. Being a chronic introvert and a reluctant participant in society, opening the kimono to the world is not exactly a comfortable endeavor. Nonetheless, here we go.

Some explanation for the blog title is in order. First, the black trunk actually exists. Here is the black trunk ...



I took special care to tweak the image giving it its ominous and mysterious look (that's what sepia tones do, folks) because what is inside are my deepest darkest secrets. That is not exactly true. This is the box into which I throw items that both hold value such that I cannot bear to part with them and that I do not want anyone else to see. Photos of old girlfriends, cards from Mary the babysitter, and kind notes from friends are all mainstays in the black trunk. There may even be a yo-yo in there.

(By the way, I may alternately refer to it as the "black chest" or the "big black chest"; I was a bit reluctant to name the blog that because I think it's really rude to disappoint people searching the intarweb for porn.)

That said, have actually not gone through the contents of the chest in a long time. I normally use the trunk piggy-bank style.

It is probably worth me answering the next relevant question: why? I have considered writing a blog for a long time. Prior to right now, I had several rationalizations for why not to write a blog:

1. Everyone was already writing a blog, including my brother, and I am one who takes pride in not following the herd.
   
2. I had already had soooooo many un-blogged adventures that my blog would neccessarily be incomplete and therefore bad.
   
3. I do not like writing.
4. I do not like taking photographs.

I have systematically declared each of these to be bullshit. Thanks to my brother, I know I can exceed the quality of the herd. Number two is so obviously crap that it is not worth discussion. My new friend, Erin, has sparked a renewed interest in writing. And I still do not like taking photographs ... but I do derive considerable pleasure from tweaking them.

So why not? It's not like anybody will read this anyway, right?