I can’t believe I had some of these old personal checks still stashed away from my days up at Chico State University. AS IF I WOULD EVER NEED THEM. [click to continue…]

“An optimist stays up until midnight to see the new year in. A pessimist stays up to make sure the old year leaves.”
— Bill Vaughan

1991. A group of dudes and I were in Audio Physics 331, a required technical course that was part of our larger Music curriculum. Our professor was a dude that asked us all to call him Cho. Not Mr. Cho, not Professor Cho, not Sir Cho. We didn’t even know if Cho was his first or last name. It was just Cho, and we were fine with it.

The semester threw us into a perpetual state of wordplay, where we’d all try to out-do one another by coming up with the best Cho punchline to an improvised set-up. Rather than explaining the game, I’ll let this one represent. As a bonus, it comes with a doodle of Cho’s likeness.

An interesting study in the evolution of logo design, and trends. Some that are popping up a lot lately include Rubber Bands, Urban Vinyl, and Descending Dots. Via logolounge.com; I’m a big fan of their books.

So last night Eric and I shot over to our local watering hole, the Village Pub. I saw a dude there that I knew, but he didn’t recognize me. I had to say something.

Me: Archie? Is that you?

The dude’s eyes get about four inches wide.

Dude: How do you know that name? Nobody’s called me that since I was a kid.

Me: Nineteen seventy-four. T-Ball Pirates.

Dude: Holy sh–

And so it was. I haven’t seen Archie since I was five and he was six, which was (gulp) A THIRD OF A CENTURY AGO. He was the tall first baseman on my first baseball team, the Pirates. We got spanked that year, coming in last place. With Archie being a year ahead of me, he wasn’t around the next year when we came back to redeem ourselves and win the championship. I actually made first base my zone the following year, which is where all the action is in T-Ball.

Archie’s real name is Isaac, which I was never aware of at the time. He’s hitting 40 next week, and has two boys now. Michael, 15, and Kyle, 12. Circle of life, indeed.

Let’s do this. Cheers.

In 1991 I enrolled myself in a required upper division Humanities course that fit into my schedule. This one was called Romantic Love in the Western Tradition. We spent the whole semester reading classic Romantic-era fiction while trying to find some sort of meaning under all the fluffy bullshit. I just found these two 3×5 cards jammed with notes that helped me pass the final.

Included in this material looks to be a few notes on Socrates’ stuff, as well as some of the noteworthy symbolism found in the (yawn) epic Tristan and Isolde. Other than that, I really don’t know what anything here is all about. This class was at 4:15pm on Tuesdays and Thursdays, my first class of the day, and, well, I admit was considerably baked for this one every time.

My paternal grandmother. She’d be twenty years old. Kauai.

From Honolulu. Me, Terri, Debbi, Christine’s Aunt Terri, Sean:

Yours truly, Christine, Uncle Sonny, Auntie Joni. That’d be my mom in the background:

Notice the t-shirt. No matter what happens in this corporate world of ours, may I never forget my undying allegiance to the M-Man.

My maternal great-grandfather, Ernest W. Freeman. My mom dad’s dad. The kids called him “Big PopPop”. (Wow, I see my cousin Sarah):

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