Jimbo.Info

Posted by jimbo at 11:53 AM | Comments (6)

white out

The final ascent up the Tien Shan mountain range was the worst. Thin air muffled any sounds, or maybe it was the sound of my heart drowning out everything else. The altitude at that point made most people in our party nauseous, but thin air made me weak as a child. I could only hike up the steep terrain for five-foot intervals before I had to catch my breath again.

There was nothing at this point. No trees, no bushes, no lichen. Just snow and rock absorbing the few sounds that survived the gauntlet of thin air. Even the color of the sky was a surreal indigo. Our guide Sergei was either unaware that this level of hiking was too challenging for us, or didnít care.

Almost to the top, I spotted a dark spot on a flat area of snow some forty paces below me. There was an opening in what might have been a pond, two snow buntings were gathered around the hole in the ice. I think they were drinking from the open water, the effort of having flown over the mountain range made them thirsty.

Of course stoic Sergei was the first to reach the top, and then Richard the stalwart Brit. John from Alaska was next, also weakened like me. I had hoped to see a stunning vista of mountaintops when I reached the summit, instead I was met with a wall of white clouds. Dixie came next, followed by Jaqueline from The Netherlands. Her knee was troubling her, but luckily the deep snow kept her swelling to a minimum at this point.

We had emerged on the ëdarkí side of the Tien Shan valley. Prevailing weather patterns pushed a constant volley of wet clouds against our side of the peaks, keeping them shrouded in snow year round. When a thick cloud came through, everything became a featureless white. Your sense of balance was the only way to navigate down the slope in the whiteouts.

Finding a depression in the slope, we ascended slowly through the hip-deep snow. Our raingear was inappropriate for these conditions. Sergei had no use for gaiters, so why would anyone else? Nothing seemed to phase the athletic Russian. Further down the slope rocks peeked out from the snow, looking like Mordor in mid-winter. When we finally arrived to spring, the air was breathable again, and my strength returned.

By that point my tentmate Dixie was puking. She knew enough to keep trying to put down soups and water, and eventually most of it stayed down. We all fell to an exhausted sleep, one final day of hiking ahead of us.

Posted by jimbo at 11:18 AM | Comments (1)

November 20, 2002

3 babushkas

ëBAA-bushkaí, not ëba-BOOSH-kaí. Thatís the first thing you learn about them. Americans pronounce it wrong ñ the stress is on the first syllable, not the middle one. Babushka is Russian for grandmother, or just any old crone. Baba Yaga is a famous babushka of Russian legend, an ancient hag who ate fat little children for breakfast.

Whether they were Kazak or Russian, the babuskas always shared several commonalities. They all wore colorless wool coats with a gaily-printed scarf to keep their head warm. It gave the impression of a desert cactus in bloom, and no less prickly. These women were the matriarchs of the household, women who could carry forty pounds of potatoes in each hand. You didnít mess with them.

Somehow babushkas had the power to bend space and time to fit their massive girth into tight spaces. I believe they learned this trick in the monastery where they transformed from beautiful Soviet maidens into bent and warty cactus-women. Wielding their potato bags as battering rams, they could board a bus that any American worth his five-foot radius of personal space would pass up. Unfortunates barring their way would receive a vicious poke to the solar plexus as baba weaved her way through the can of sardines to the sole open seat on the bus. When baba was coming your way, you had better move quickly. I called this fighting style ìbabu-fuî.

In winter the babuskas would wear booties of pressed felt somewhat resembling featureless grey moonboots. The material never seemed to absorb moisture, even in the snow. The booties had no waterproofing, but never appeared to be soaked. I figured the babuskaís feet were so calloused that they didnít conduct heat very well, thus keeping their feet warm within the booties. The footgear merely concealed babuskaís cloven hooves.

But babuskas were the glue of every soviet household. Men died early due to cirrhosis or lung cancer. Years of heavy drinking and chain smoking took its toll on most Soviet men, and the disproportionate number of aging women to men was telling. If the men still lived, they were generally worthless additions to the household, going on drinking binges for days, or passed out in the streets on Soviet or military holidays. It was expected that babuska feed and care for the children and grandchildren. Unless babuska was lucky enough to have surviving and functionally alchoholic husband, little was expected of dyedushka.

During my language and cultural training in Kazakstan for Peace Corps, I spotted a very old babushka pacing slowly between apartment buildings. In each hand was a cane used for balance. She appeared to be looking for something on the ground. Her booties were worn down in several places, her dress mere tatters. Every so often a younger person would intercept her path and accidentally drop a ten- or twenty-tenge bill on the ground. No longer a Soviet republic, the Kazak social security system was nonexistent. Babuska was too proud to ask for help, so she ëlookedí for money on the ground.

Waiting for the bus in my central Kazakstan town of Karaganda, Iíd often see the Dog Lady walk by. This babuska was surrounded by a pack of severely interbred poodles. Sisters had been mated with brothers, aunts with nephews, with horrifying results. The dogs were bug-eyed, snaggle-toothed, and often lame. However, babuska was able to teach them tricks to perform for money. The dogs subsisted on the meat scraps they were forced to perform for, donated by the local butcher shop. Baba would get three of them to rear up and dance. Those of us waiting for the bus would give her money for the performance.

The milk in the state-run grocery store was always sour. Kazaks didnít mind this, but I preferred my dairy fresh. One ethnic Kazak babushka always sold her milk at the end of my apartment building. I knew her milk passed through fewer filthy hands, so I bought it from her. The fat content of her cow's milk was also wonderfully high, and I was getting skinny. You could feel the oil on your lips after eating the morning cerial. She had probably been selling her milk for years on the street judging by the leathery texture of her swarthy face. Her coat was green, her scarf a vibrant scarlet, another cactus grown from the infertile Kazak soil.

Posted by jimbo at 11:14 AM | Comments (3)

November 19, 2002

rupaul and the prisoner of kazakstan

Tokien pointed to the cassette case with a long, polished fingernail. ìWho is that?î he asked in Russian, referring to the androgyne with the massive gerri curls on the tape cover.

ìThatís RuPaul. He is a man,î I answered. Tokienís almond-shaped eyes widened in surprise. Transvestites were unheard of in Kazakstan, although I suspected Tokien had more than enough potential for dragdom. He was a lithe and graceful classical dance instructor in the small mill town, famed to have been the Soviet Unionís largest metallurgical production facility. Today the factories are obsolete and empty. Thereís nothing much to do there anymore, and teens fill their time shooting up cheap local heroin with shared family needles and ogling the new Daewoo stereos they will never afford but could some day steal. Widowed babuska pensioners stuggled to get by, often only with the potatoes grown at their summer dachas.

My RuPaul cassette was one of the few things that kept me in Peace Corps for as long as I was. On particularly cold and grey days, I would liven things up by putting in Supermodel of the World, especially the title track, Supermodel. The phrase ìYou better WORK, bitch!î had special meaning to me, and often was the only thing goading me to work in the morning. I didnít want to be there, I needed to be living elsewhere at that time. So the music took me where I needed to be, for only a few minutes.

Every so often I would travel by bus from my coal mining city to the nearby metallurgical town to visit the other volunteers. Most of them were English teachers in the public school system. Joel and Petra had met Tokien in their school. He was a refreshing change from the usual dour Kazak student or faculty member. Creative, and good in his craft, he was best described as fey. His swish was so wide that even Joel and Petraís gaydar shot to red alert status. They knew I had few companions or other gays to relate to, so they made a point of inviting him to their party.

With the advance notice I packed my gay disco compilations and favorite RuPaul album for the trip, thinking Tokien would relate to the music. I should have known that he had received no exposure to such things. The RuPaul tape was a total shock to him.

ìThis man is famous in America?î he asked in surprise.

ìYes, fairly so,î I replied in Russian. ìHeís had two hits so far.î I could see Tokien was about to ask for the cassette. In Kazakstan, loaning something to a friend meant that you basically gave it up. Nothing ever came back to you. However, I could always get another Supermodel of the World cassette, or even upgrade to CD. Tokien may never have an opportunity to be one.

ìDo you want to borrow it?î I asked Token. Speechless and glowing with glee, he accepted my sole source of sanity with graciousness. I never saw the cassette again, but Iím sure it went to a good cause. Perhaps today thereís a drag cabaret in some small Kazak mill town where an almond-eyed drag queen with massive gerri curls encourages the metalworkers with the shout out, ìYou better WORK!î

Posted by jimbo at 9:43 AM | Comments (1)

kitty punk

Kitty and the punkycats. Too cute to resist.

Posted by jimbo at 8:27 AM

November 18, 2002

gingko biloba

I used to live on Swann Street, a lovely block of gay couples emulating Mrs. Kravitz from Bewitched, lined by beautiful gingko trees. In the fall the golden leaves coat the entire street, and the whole thing looks very pretty at night under the street lamps.

Except for the gingko tree above my former basement apartment, now occupied by Gurl.

Gingko trees are bisexual, with male and female trees. In wiser cities, only male trees are planted, as they are pollution resistant and don't send their roots into the water/sewer pipes. In typical DC idiocy, female trees were planted on Swann street. They drop these huge acidic berries that smell like an old gym sock barfed up by a dog. Later in the fall, Chinese people gather the berries off the street for soup, apparently. We appreciated their help in cleaning up the mess. Even though the trees are sprayed in the spring to reduce fertility and thus fruit production, my stoop was always coated with the goopy mess every morning, and had to be swept regularly.

So I learned a new property of Ginkgo berries today from my woofy physician's assistant. I had to call him up and give him an update on the progress of my mood-moderating medications. Everything's fine, no rages anymore, nor any descents into pits of unemployment depression. I'm making sound and sane decisions, and don't fixate on my problems like I used to. However, there's one drawback to these medications...things tend to uh, take a while, if at all, in bed.

The sixgun always took a while, and now things are even more delayed. The P.A. confirmed this issue of issue, and suggested I start taking double doses of gingko extract vitamins in preparation for any fun I might have in the future. Apparently large doses of gingko biloba increases your shooting time by 30%. He also promises the problem will go away gradually...in ONE TO THREE MONTHS!!! Grrr... Perhaps I'll go lick Gurl's stoop clean every morning, and make myself some nasty gingko soup this weekend.

Makes you wonder about the premature ejaculations on Swann Street these days.
>; )

Posted by jimbo at 9:54 PM | Comments (2)

go staple yerself

Everybody is stapling their stomachs these days...whatever happened to working out? In Federal office buildings in DC, officials have observed an increase in stapler disappearances.

Posted by jimbo at 9:26 AM | Comments (4)

November 17, 2002

sad news

After adding my blog entry about the NYC trip this weekend, I did my usual blog reads down the right column list. On Fitz' page I read about the untimely demise of his friend Jay of a failed appendectomy.

Funny, I had just told a friend a story about a date with Jay that I had when I first came to DC. I think I had met him through AOL or somewhere on the Internet. I had just met up for coffee with my hometown friend and her husband, and told them I was going off on a blind date at the Brickskellar for dinner. I guess my friends had nothing better to do that evening but torment me, as they arrived at the Brickskellar a few minutes after I had sat down with Jay. They went so far as to ask the waitress for a table right next to ours, and all I could do was glare at them for their brazen desire to monitor me on a date. Kari even went so far as to snap a not-so-subtle photo of Jay and I chatting. I'm sure I have that pic somewhere, or Kari does. It was good to know you, Jay.

Posted by jimbo at 7:06 PM

boring DC gurl gets rest in city that never sleeps

For a visit to the City That Never Sleeps, I got a remarkable amount of r & r this weekend in NYC. I must be getting old. Friday the team arrived to a FABULOUS estate where Frank Lloyd Wright must have met with the Brady Bunch and Andrew Lloyd Weber before building the place. Replete with heated pool, sauna, lots of food and drink, the Renegades showed remarkable restraint in preparation for the match, due in part to the coaches' castigations to keep out of trouble. Many of them got crazy with the Jenga. Now that's a bunch of wild ruggers for ya. I spotted a long-time woofy NYC internet obsession there, as well as guys from the rugged NYC and Boston teams.

I did not crash at the Swanktuary that night, but got lots of sleep at a location near the pitch. Jimbo is ashamed he wansn't prepared for the weather, as it was cold, rainy and windy that day. I was assigned to be a touch judge on the sidelines, and was suprised to find that the ref wanted me to make actual calls during the match. So I channelled the spirit of Torm and called true, with harsh adjudication. The Renegades beat Gotham in a very heated and muddy match.

Then I jumped from pay phone to pay phone in the rain to intercept Glenn. We finally met up for Thai, and who was there but the neurotic jew, andy's chest and Sam (?). Permalinks soon to be added of all in this gang. Good to meet y'all! We gossiped about other bloggers, and pondered the existence of the Prostate Fairy. Then I crashed for a mellow evening with Glenn at the Swanktuary, sans Sparky. Where were ya, Sparky? Sadly, foul weather and foul health prevented me from visiting with jimbo.

Back in Peace Corps, I found it wise to make a personal rule not to try to do more than three chores in my town because burocracy and Soviet inefficiency really made it impossible to accomplish too many things in one day. I think for short weekends in NYC, it's impossible to commit to anything more than two accomplishments, as there's just too much shit to do in that town. I would burn myself out to ashes if I lived there. It really is a fantastic city, but too much for Jimbo.

Posted by jimbo at 6:32 PM | Comments (2)

November 16, 2002

'blush'

Aww shucks, I'm blushing.

Posted by jimbo at 6:40 PM

November 14, 2002

lovely day

Today I met up with Ghiruelle (no, not Gurl) for lunch at Cosi for a bite to eat. A lovely gilded walk down the Gingko-butressed Swann Street, and then some vital gossip. Spin was studying hard in the sun, while jimbo spotted his #2 DC Obsession coming to and fro for lunch. Plaid shirt, goatee, bubbly behind all blinding me to the fact that she's a perfume gurl and no dynamo in bed. Still obsessed though.

Taking off tomorrow at Noon for the weekend bus trip to NYC. Here's the schedule. Imagine a bus full of rugby gurls...should be fun, but I'm bringing my book nonetheless. Will be seeing Kiri and stayin' with Glenn and Sparky at the Swanktuary.

Time for a nap, and perhaps shirtlessness and beer at the Lantern later this evening.

Posted by jimbo at 4:21 PM | Comments (1)

muppets take manhattan

This morning in my snoozey daze I heard a piece on NPR about Muppets! Apparently there's a Christmas special coming up this season, and talk about a new series on Fox. I can't be more delighted. I never got enough of 'em back in the day, and after hearing that there were two lost pilots, I'd love to get my hands on them. I personally identify with Miss Piggy, would love to have the aged wit of Statler and Waldorf, but I'm more like Kermit in that I'm the glue of all around me.

Yeesh, my blog is collapsing for lack of entries...must add more. I just haven't had the time or the content to add, as I've just been working, eating and resting. However, I'm doing rather well these days, thanks to the miracles of modern pharmacology. I'm going to "come out" as a newly medicated person on mood-moderating drugs. When I started the new temp job, I fell into my third pit of depression preceded by a euphoric high, followed by a period of rage. Realizing that some day I might find myself in the wrong situation with the wrong state of mind, I took my friends' advice and went to see the doctor about it.

The medication has kicked in, and I'll have to say I'm glad to have gone forward with the decision. I'm not keen on medicating everything and think Americans are too medicated, but the situation calls for it. The real cure is a stable job and moving forward from this period of stasis, but until then I'm going to stay medicated until things clear up. No more decents into pits for now, and best of all no rages that take over when I'm driving my car or dealing with rude people on the Metro. I was starting to be mean to my friends too. I like feeling this way, and I now know that this is what my mind is like under normal situations.

Posted by jimbo at 11:33 AM | Comments (3)

November 13, 2002

holiday wish list

My holiday wish list (in order of preference):

1. a full-time job doing public affairs webmaster type stuff for a cool nonprofit or association in downtown DC with a stellar salary
2. comprehensive, affordable health care
3. CivIII Play the World expansion
4. a new set of queen-sized sheets with 5 matching pillowcases
5. a black wool-knit cap big enough to fit comfortably and look fashionable on my big head

Posted by jimbo at 5:26 PM | Comments (7)

November 11, 2002

tripe white rhinocerosness

If you're a bad person, you will be reincarnated as a pair of spandex shorts on the ass of a tripe-white tourist in Florida. Your fibers will scream against the rhinocerosness of her behind, as she sits down on a sandy beach bench admiring the baby blues and washed pinks of Ft. Lauderdale.

I didn't see no fort there, but I had a good time in that I ate and slept a lot, and even got a little sun on my white self. My woofy friend Steven and I didn't do much but lay around, but it was a great time. Ft. Lauderdale and Palm Beach are places of extremes and excesses: excessive tans, excessive bleaching, excessive plastic surgery and excessive muscles. But the food's good.

Posted by jimbo at 12:05 AM | Comments (5)

November 8, 2002

ter'r

George Bush flexed his enhanced political powers today by officially reducing the number of syllables in the word "terror" to one. The new contraction "ter'r" will replace "terror" in the next editions in English dictionaries worldwide. This also changes the word "terrorist" to a two-syllable word "ter'rist" to reflect Bush's frequent pronunciation of the word. White House spokespeople declined to say if the word "nucular" will replace "nuclear" in the near future.

Posted by jimbo at 9:55 AM | Comments (2)

November 6, 2002

regime of doom

I will keep the sad jimbo pic up another day...it was difficult waking up this morning knowing that Republicans are now in control of EVERYTHING. Normally I wouldn't mind as the cycle of power fluctuates over time, but now isn't the right time for jimbo to be looking for a job under an administration that's totally ignoring the failing economy and rising unemployment rate. Similarly, I would like to give a shit about Iraq, but the longer I'm unemployed the less I care about international issues.

Keep in mind that DOD was appropriated the largest military budget in American history this fall, and that the budget for the rest of the government has not yet been appropriated at all. This means lots of hiring freezes throughout the government, and a general slow-down of jobs in this area. It's a government town, and the entire local economy depends on cash flow from the government. This means less opportunities for moi. Sure, nonprofits are still hiring, but there is little elsewhere.

As a mutually depressed friend told me, when you're feeling down, go do something that empowers you. This is true as I do feel better after I have the time to send out resumes. So today I went to a nonprofit job fair at GWU. I met with a lot of folks from organizations that I've already applied to, and got a few leads from other sources. The rest of the day will be spent workin' on my private web work. Thanks again to all of you who've provided great critique to my designs.

Posted by jimbo at 3:50 PM | Comments (2)

November 5, 2002

getaway

5 things on or in my computer desk at the moment:

Yes, I'm off to Florida for a business/pleasure trip for the weekend, leavin' Friday. Don't worry, it wasn't me who splurged, and goddamn it I deserve it, don't ya think?

I actually had a positive experience with a headhunter for the first time ever today. Interactions with headhunters usually make me feel unclean. I got the usual blind inquiry of my availability, which I replied to with reflexive speed, not expecting a reply in return. The guy called me, sent me an e-mail, and actually answered my call as well. It's for a webmaster job in Alexandria for an association that focuses on bankruptcy. Wouldn't it be funny if I got that job? Cross your fingers...

And here's the scoop for the trip to NYC for the match against Gotham RFC:

See you at the pitch or at the Eagle?

Posted by jimbo at 8:26 PM

November 4, 2002

I'm an Oreo!

Coming home from the gym tonight on the Metro I was wearing my black Carhartt barn coat. The coat was open showing my white work tee underneath. An inquisitve toddler, no more than two years old, was pointing at me and smiling, speaking in both English and Ethiopian. One of the few recognizable words out of her mouth was "Oreo!" repeated over and over again. She thought I looked like an Oreo cookie.

Ever wonder what's up that kilt? Upyerkilt.net reveals all. Sadly, you have to pay to learn the secret. Send me the pics if you cough up the cash...I've already learned what's under them.

Thanks to Gurl for that link. By the way, I'll be using pseudonyms for any friends, acquaintances, family members or hotties mentioned in the blog from now on, unless they make front page news in the Post. Oh, and I want to get a job being a bodyguard in Posh Spice and David Beckham's elite security force.

Posted by jimbo at 8:21 PM | Comments (5)

November 3, 2002

mommie dearest

I called my Mom in Wisconsin today to chat and catch up. Her comment about my constant references to my honey pot: "Simmer down, go and chop down a tree or something."

Posted by jimbo at 3:21 PM | Comments (1)

reserving comment

Blog Faux Pas month hasn't ended. Friday I found a very angry e-mail in my box from a subject of one of my web log entries, followed by a more reserved message from one of this person's peers. Again, the argument was valid, and I either edited the entries or deleted them altogether.

Then I did a little experimenting with Google searches to see how these entries were found, as they were written early this summer. Did you know that Google will record any and all content in your blog and put it in its search database?

I'm not quite sure about how I feel about this particular incident, and am reserving comment until I process further. It's somewhat related to Spin's entry on homophobia in sports, and may become a good piece to submit to Outsports some day, albeit from a different angle. I may very well have given ammunition to the locker room arguments of lasciviousness, but a part of me agrees that those incidents are rare or nonexistent in that environment. However, I'm busy as hell these days, tired, and don't have the energy or time to fight or argue this particular battle.

Yesterday I had dinner with a Peace Corps friend of mine who's become very successful in today's sketchy IT arena. It's good to see someone in the industry is doing well. Later I went to my neighbor's place for a fun party, then home to rest. Ahh...nothing like more than six hours of sleep in a night, but I still feel like I need another weekend day. These temp job hours are killing me.

Today is yard/web/home chores again, followed by a birthday dinner for Gurl.

Posted by jimbo at 12:02 PM

November 1, 2002

memory dredge

I'm down to my oldest CD's now, like Arcadia, Annie Lennox and the earlier Prince albums. Now that I have my filing to a reflexive level, as I listen to the music and index away I fall into a mindless trance where memories tend to get dredged up with increasing frequency. Certain parts of the music stir up memories associated with the tunes. As these memories come up, I write them down for blog entry ideas. However, tonight I'm a bit tuckered out, and will save a good one for the weekend when I'm more rested. Gotta work again tomorrow, then another busy weekend.

I'll be skippin' the Peace Corps party tonight in lieu of some Jimbo Time, but tomorrow night I'll be meetin' up with Pete, another fellow returned volunteer. On Sunday it's more web work and a birthday dinner for Gurl.

Wednesday I had the woofiest date of my life with a cigar-smokin' muscle stud from NYC, here in town to market the zany Kiki and Herb cabaret show. We met up for a beer and some billiards Wednesday night, and I was a klutzy, gibbering mess. Grabbing the wrong beer, dropping the pool cue and responding to his questions with single syllable replies. Lookin' like a scruffy Colt model in a NYC fire and rescue shirt and distressed brown leather pants, his hotness reduced me to yammering idiocy. It was raining when we left the bar, and while I offered to give him a ride back to his hotel, I couldn't for the life of me remember where my car was. Nor could I remember his name. 'Doh!

Posted by jimbo at 8:21 PM | Comments (1)