Look what Just slapped me like a little girl on SoundCloud: http://soundcloud.com/computerswantmedead/computers-want-me-dead-in-your-blood

You put what where??

Between spells of dreaming about what cool song I’m gonna write next (but not actually writing it) I work for Presbyterian Health Services as a software trainer. I train docs, nurses, and clerical staff on how to use a super-elaborate electronic medical record program called Epic.

So I’ve been working this week in the Gastroenterology dept. Which is pretty much all about butts & gutts. The thing I have to admire about the folks who work here is how skilled they are at talking with people frankly about awkward topics.

I mean when do you EVER feel like discussing your private relationship with your toilet to a stranger? To anyone for that matter?

Some of you shouldn’t answer that.

But it’s a fact of life, and issues like pride or embarrasment have no place when it comes to getting help when something is wrong with your body. The men, especially, seem to have a harder time being forthright about stuff. Yet the folks who do this know that and handle that stuff openly and frankly and ask all the right questions - all with a vibe that puts people at ease - to where they feel like no matter how they answer, the person asking will not be surprised, freaked out, or phased.

Anyways - I just thought I’d take a moment to give love to anybody who works in the medical field. The healers. You folks are pretty amazing.


Olympic Heavy Medal

While I was busy winning the porcelain medal in ‘root canal gettin’ - the Olympics have been pleasantly distracting me from my oral agony with a few burning questions.

Like, how is it that McDonald’s is the “official restaurant” of the 2012 Olympics? Have you noticed in all the commercials you never actually see an Olympian eating the food? It’s always their friend or buddy.

Now I’m not, by any means, a nutritionalist or any kind of authority on healthy living. I’m not even vegan. But it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that eating McDonalds is most definitely not the key to Olympic gold.

I’ve never been able to get into professional sports. No football, baseball, basketball, or any of that stuff floats my boat at all. But the Olympics - that’s something I thoroughly enjoy. You’re competing against the entire planet and if you win, you’re pretty much the best in the world… even if you look really weird - like our amazing-but-oddly-proportioned gymnastics team.

Also, as awesome as the women’s volleyball games are - It can’t be that comfortable to be getting sand in your undies and pickin them out of your crack every other serve. Is that (lack of) uniform just the trend or is that the standard?

Some of the events are just not very fun to watch. Not being an athlete, I really can’t appreciate the distance running events. I really just want to see the first and last laps. Watching the gaggle of runners en masse during the entire first 3 quarters of the race is pretty boring for me.

Men’s water polo? I’d rather watch them play Marco Polo. Seriously.

And what’s up with those two commentator guys who are way too close to each other? You know they can smell each others breath and it’s awkward and hilarious. They’ve actually become one of my fave parts of this whole season. Cracks me up every time.

That’s all fine and great, but I’m ready for it to be over, already.

I heart root canals.

mmm so good. Especially love how cheap they are.

so awesome.


Oh, The depths…

So my wife and kids are out of town for a week and a half.

The last time this happened I thought… party! All the fellas are hanging out - my house.

I turn to the wall - “House…! Initiate Ultra Hang Zone 3000!” and the whirring of the good times engine can be felt all though the living room.

Such high hopes.

what really happened:

Let’s just say there were pizza slices next to the toilet, on the bathroom sink.

Hooray for all-time lows.

Some people need time to themselves. For me, it’s the opposite. Being alone is like a glass of wine. It’s totally relaxing and nice once in a while in proper doses. But too much of it, and your sanity begins to unravel.

So let’s break it down so far:

I made the bed.

I unloaded about 20% of the dishwasher. (I need to pace myself.)

I watered the plants as well as placed my shoes in an orderly fashion by the door.

I finished the score for a short film in the 48 hour film competition. Mexican-Irish Drum & Bass. No joke.

I watched my first episode of The Big Bang Theory and laughed. (I’ve never seen it… I know, right?)

I imposed myself on several different friends, obligating them to hang out with me.

Oh yeah, and I dressed myself.

One day down.

I know, I know…. cry me a river.

so I guess I’ll try it again

"House!! INITIATE ULTRA HANG ZONE 3000… errrrmm 2.0

The Velvet Glove of Genius v1.0

for whatever reason I’m sitting across from the CEO of Presbyterian Health Services at a party.

"What did you do before you came to us?"

I was a Genius at Apple.”

Genius? That’s a bit arrogant sounding, isn’t it?”

"Yes." I said with a smirk. I give my classic retort: "It looked amazing on a business card, but didn’t get me out of any arguments with my wife."


and the chuckles follow.

As I’m sure any past or present Apple Genius can vouch, the Genius title is something that attaches to you and stays with you forever - like it or not. I, fortunately, like it and look back on my time with Apple with extremely fond warm & fuzzies. I had a blast and have some of the best memories of some of the oddest folks I’ve ever met sitting across the bar from me. The only downside is that people, with Exchange accounts syncing over 3G, will ask me why their battery doesn’t last very long on their iPhone for the rest of my life. Still a pretty good trade, though, IMHO.

I had, what was referred to by my co-coworkers as, The Velvet Glove. This was the name for my unique ability to be blunt or sarcastic with people about their unreasonable, and often absurd, expectations and actions - and them walking away actually thanking me…

you know.. for slapping them with the velvet glove.

the best were the crazies. They would not usually reveal their true colors until about half-way through the interaction. I loved every single one of them.

her: "this thing is asking me for an email address."

me: "do you have one?"

her: "No - that’s what I need help with. I want a gmail email."

me: "Sure, I can help you with that."

we go to the google/gmail sign up page.

her: "See! Right there! It keeps asking for my name."

me: "You don’t want to do that?"

her: "No. and every time I put in a fake name and address it doesn’t let me. It says my information isn’t valid.”

me: "That’s probably because fake information can’t be validated.”

her: That’s stupid! I used to work on mainframes!


me: "You mean like in the movie Wargames?”

her: "Exactly! I’m what the government calls an empath.”


me: "Wow. That’s impressive. Well, if you’re not comfortable…"

her: "Did you see The Matrix? You know the kid that bends the spoon?”

umm… of COURSE. I’m a Genius. I have that movie memorized.

me: “yes.”

her: That’s what I do.”

[keanu] woah. [/keanu]

me: "You bend spoons with your mind?"

her: "Forks, but I have to really concentrate."

me: "Could you.. perhaps..?"

her: "No, it’s too loud in here. But I have some at home that I’ve bent - I could bring them in and show you."

me: "Oh I’d love to see them. But you probably already know that, ya know… cause of the whole empath… thing”

her: "Yes."

me: "And you can probably already feel my confidence that you’ll be totally fine signing yourself up for an email account.”

her: "I can. Thank you so much!”

me: "You’re welcome."

so very, very, welcome.

I once dreamt the number 10 died.

For reals.

It was totally craycray. We weren’t allowed to use it anymore. We had to skip from straight from 9 to 11.

I was crying my eyes out, throwing myself against the rundown concrete cemetery which had overgrown ivy and crumbling stone walls.

"Number 10…! We’re SO SORRY…!”

The number 20 was there, watching my emotional breakdown with an arrogant smirk.

"I’ll kill you, 20! You’re not even half of what 10 was!!!

I know.

Obviously, I was hysterical and needed to be slapped. I wasn’t making any sense.

I honestly couldn’t get my head around how we managed to stop using it… to the point where it died. I found myself also really sad that lightsabers weren’t real.

then I woke up.

Totally freaked out about the 10, and really bummed about the lightsabers.

I hate hearing about other people’s dreams. Anytime someone starts a sentence with "I had this crazy dream last night, that I was.." blahblahblahblah. They already ruined it. Out spews this predictably absurd story of how they were naked in the mall or whatever.

but this one… this was different. So I’m committing it to public record with this post, cause I’m done telling the story.

I must’ve told it at least 9 or 11 times…

I don’t remember.




Douché my friend, Douché.

My best friend Stevo (I’ve changed his name from Steve Jeter to protect his anonymity) is a total douchebag. And to make matters worse, he married my sister.

Her name is Chrissy. She’s not really my sister, but she’s the closest thing I have - with the exception, of course, of my actual sister Vanessa. Who, technically, really is the closest thing because - well because she is my sister. But if I had another one, one who I grew up with, it would be Chrissy. My, not technically-but-in-all-the-ways-that-matter, sister.

More on her another time, but the main thing you need to know is that my best friend, let’s call him, Douchario Dawson, married my sister. I can’t believe the nerve of this guy. I know he’s loving every minute of it, too.

It’s like when you’re tying your shoe and you don’t have anything to put your foot on, so you balance on one foot while you lift the other and tie the shoe. Except you don’t really finish without losing your balance, do you? You know why?


that’s why.

massive jerk - I hate this guy. He’s like a box of Summer’s Steve. Did I mention he works for a Christian radio station?

I know, right?

That makes absolutely no sense. How did he even get hired considering right there on his drivers license it shows he’s the devil? Purgatory’s HR department was, obviously, filling in that day. Wicked little DoucheJockey playing the hits. Can’t you see he’s actually trying to get you people to feel encouraged? It’s fully disgusting. You’re playing right into his hands. His redeemed little tattooed hands.

This deuced (yes, I just combined douche and dude) is pretty much the worst best friend a guy could have. Please do yourself a favor, and despise him with me.

And if the word douche offends you - it does me too.

it does me, too.


disclaimer: Stevo, for the most part, is not really a d-bag. quite the opposite, actually. but that other part - the part that is not “most”, however small it may be, is legitimately… douche.

and I love him.

The Swamp Thing…


Those of you who do not live in the Southwest may not have had the exquisite misfortune of having an evaporative (aka “Swamp) cooler in your house. The idea is that air gets sucked in through a giant wet something (like a pad of some kind) and cools your house. Like the way breathing through a wet rag cools your body… or kills you.

The problem is this system only works in dry/arid climates and, at best, cools the house about 10 or 15 degrees lower than the Tattooine-esque landscape outside. Also, as soon as the slightest bit of humidity gets introduced, the whole unit becomes pretty much useless. Kinda like now during monsoon season here in Albuquerque where’s it’s been fairly humid.

My swamp-cooled house feels like I’m living in a wet armpit.

A wet armpit that just stepped into the shade. It’s so gross. It blasts all day, and I come home and the house is a nice balmy 79 degrees. It makes me wanna jump into a complete state of lawlessness and yell some choice metaphors. motherfatherpieceoflipptypoopflaps. It makes me grumpy in general - to say the least.

Unfortunately, most of the homes in Albuquerque have Swamp Things. The homes that are 10 years or older, anyways, and it’s an expensive process to convert to refrigerated air. But I’m learning that it’s an investment that may be worthwhile. Especially when I can get a super gucci swank thermostat like The Nest which was designed by the guys who worked on design team for some breakthrough products like, umm I don’t know, the iPod.

Anyways, I digress. If you do not have a swamp cooler, you need to thank your lucky stars right now. If you do have one, you feel my pain. Incidently, if you’ve ever been through a conversion to central air, I’d love to hear about it and what you learned and what you’d do different.

If you don’t care at all about this rediculous venting session (pun intended) you can tell me to slap my own face, shut up, and quit all my pissing and moaning and just be happy.

I will be happy. I’m converting. No more more living in the swampy armpit of life.



I know, I know…

"I’m starting a BLOG."

Ok, so that’s a bit trite. It’s kinda like me saying “Hey I’m DJ’ing at the *** [insert your local convenient store parking lot] - come check my set!” Errr, actually, DJing live in a convenient store parking lot actually sounds pretty cool - but you get the idea.

It’s not unlike that feeling I feel when I see Bono playing the guitar. Choice phrases like “WHY??” and “Is that thing even PLUGGED IN??” come to mind, because we all know that’s The Edge’s job and he does it way better. Just sing, Bono. I love ya, but you suck at playing the guitar. (That exact sentence comes to my mind everytime I pick up a guitar myself) Crap. SO why do I keep doing it?

At least I’m not trying to be a photographer. EVERYBODY is one of those nowadays…. oh wait.


The facts:

I’m not a DJ. Even though I’m an electronic musician, I’m not a DJ. I tried, I can’t do it. When the beats of the two songs I would try to mix together get really close, I can’t listen to them simultaneously and tell which one is too fast and which one is too slow. I sound more like DJ “Shoes in the dryer”.

I’m not a guitar player. I can play some power chords that I learned out of necessity, and I can ACT like they’re the most interesting chords I ever played - but any real guitar player who stands in front of me watching has GOT to be thinking “weak sauce.”

I’m not a photographer. I’ve taken a crapload of pictures, some of them actually good. But the reality is I’m good at directing people in photos. But my wife is really the real photographer behind the curtain - dialing in the camera settings for me, answering my panicked phone calls when the camera isn’t snapping - even though I’ve held the button for, like, 2 seconds straight… Why, Heidi, Why??

So I thought it would be appropriate for me to start my first blog post by pointing out the obvious.

I’m not a blogger.

I don’t even write good.

But I think I’m going to keep doing it - so if you made it this far, let me apologize in advance. You’re NEVER going to get this time back, but, we’ll waste it together.

joey b