Why are you here? Do you seriously expect to find enlightenment or some
salient bit of insight into my gentle, loving nature from this bit of
self-serving drivel? Do you even know who I am? You do? Then you already
know this shit. There's nothing new here. Go away. God I hate writing these
things.
You're still here? OK fine. Who am I? I'm Juggler. People call me that because I am, in fact, a classically trained opera singer. No, really. Why do people keep asking me this? I juggle. 7 balls, pass 8 clubs, flaming balls of gasoline swinging around my head, unicycle, diabolo (if you have to ask, don't), and yo-yo. I can cut a cigarette out of your mouth with a bullwhip. Oh yeah, and I make Thalidomide balloon animals. I'm not a clown. Don't even go there. You want me to do birthday parties? Are you mad? Come here, little boy, hold this malproportioned inflated poodle in your mouth and stand still...
You want the stats? Fuck the stats. You'll get the stats when I say you get the stats.
Here are the stats.
Age:
Older than I want to be and young enough to still think there's some point
to resisting the warm welcoming embrace of psychosis.
Marital status:
Single. Very single. I hate my life. See above.
Residence:
Madison, Wisconsin. Thank god I've learned to drink.
Profession:
Computer software engineer. I write special effects software for movies and
TV. I work from home and I have design meetings with my boss at brew houses
and coffee shops. You don't. Ha ha.
Education:
6 years, 4 colleges, 2 degrees, and 17 indictments. Don't ask.
If you really have to know then look it up yourself.
Personality:
Unapproachable. Or so I've been told. Which has little to do with me, and
more to do with you not wanting to approach me. Don't you like me? Everybody
likes me. Seriously, though -- you should talk to me. Unless you don't have
anything to say, because I don't have much patience for people who try to talk
to me but don't have anything to say, because I'm not very good at magically
picking conversation topics out of thin air either, and then we'll both feel
uncomfortable, and you'll go away, and then I'll be sure you don't like me.
So ask me a question (but first read the section below on questions I hate).
If you're male, I'll probably try to teach you something. If you're female,
I'll probably do the same, and then try to ask you out (and fail miserably.
See above.)
Email:
fecalmarmoset@skyjuggler.com
TF #:
34
USPA #:
Why the hell would you care what my USPA number is?
First jump:
20 July 1997, AFF at JumpTown in Orange Massachusetts.
Number of jumps:
700
Wow, so are you, like, an instructor?
Yes. Yes I am. Who wants to touch me?
Style:
RW mostly (10-way, ouch!), but then I've never really had any sense of style.
Number of malfunctions:
2 (pilot chute in tow, unstowed brake toggle not diagnosed in time)
Number of reserve rides:
3
Number of reserve landings:
2
Number of low pulls as a student followed by an FXC fire, two canopies
out, cutaway, and subsequent tree entanglement under a round reserve:
1
Number of trees cut down to retrieve the rig:
2
Number of beers I bought that night:
60
Rig:
Reflex, Spectre 190, Raven II (gold), Cypres, no RSL
Drop zones:
SDC (home); JumpTown, MA; Turners Falls, MA; The Ranch, NY; ZHills, FL;
Xenia, OH; Kankakee, IL; Eloy, AZ
Aircraft:
King Air, Twin Otter, Super Otter, DC3, Cessna 182, Cessna Caravan,
Cessna Grand Caravan, Skyvan, Twin Beech 18
Personal web site:
www.skyjuggler.com
Personal skydiving web page:
www.skyjuggler.com/skydive
Another swank site I administer:
The College for the Easily Amused
Questions I Hate:
|
"I'm twenty-three years old, I have enough money to live off for the rest of my life, the critics like me, I'm graduated with extra honors, and now Cornell's taken me on as a writer-in-residence. And all for the want of a steady girlfriend." Wagging its tail, the dog licked George's hand. Whined. "No," said George. "Not unhappy. How can you be depressed in a world where a man makes a living selling concrete wildlife? Lonely, maybe. Sometimes. Restless all the time. But I have this theory, see, that Whoever's in charge is setting me up for something big -- Moby Dick, Part Two, with wheels, say, a novel to change the course of history -- and once I get it done, the Editor will ease up and let me have sex again, maybe even fall in love for real. Only, after about a month of perfect bliss, He'll turn around again and give me something else to be anxious about...." |
| Matt Ruff, Fool on the Hill |
| |
|
One more experience, one more entry in a diary, self-penned Yet another emotional suicide overdosed on sentiment and pride Too late to say I love you - Too late to restage the play Abandoning the relics in my playground of yesterday I'm losing on the swings, I'm losing on the roundabouts I'm losing on the swings, I'm losing on the roundabouts Too much, too soon, too far to go, too late to play, The game is over, the game is over [...] I act the role in classic style of a martyr carved with twisted smile To bleed the lyric for this song to write the rites to right my wrongs An epitaph to a broken dream to exercise this silent scream A scream that's borne from sorrow I never did write that lovesong, The words just never seemed to flow Now sad in reflection did I gaze through perfection And examine the shadows on the other side of morning And examine the shadows on the other side of morning Promised wedding now a wake, promised wedding now a wake, [awake] The fool escaped from paradise Will look over his shoulder and cry Sit and chew on daffodils and struggle to answer "Why?" As you grow up and leave the playground Where you kissed your prince and found your frog, Remember the jester that showed you tears, the script for tears |
| Script for a Jester's Tear, Fish, Marillion |
| |
| In the clearing stands a boxer, and a fighter by his trade, and he carries the reminders of every glove that laid him down and cut him till he cried out in his anger and his shame, "I am leaving, I am leaving." But the fighter still remains. |
| The Boxer, Simon and Garfunkel |
| |
|
I like my stupid life just the way it is And the chaos that surrounds me like a flock of screaming pigs And it hurts my brain to think of all the stupid things I've said And if I could change the future I would change the past instead And I'm dreaming again . . . and I'm dreaming again . . . |
| Change, Danny Elfman, Boingo |
| |
| Don't want to end up a cartoon in a cartoon graveyard. |
| You Can Call Me Al, Paul Simon |
| |
|
An albatross courtship marrytime tradition, Sheathed within the walkman wear the halo of distortion, Aural contraceptive aborting pregnant conversation, From the Time-Life guardians in their conscience bubbles, Safe and dry in my sea of troubles, Nine to Fives, with suitable ties, Cast adrift as their sideshow, peepshow, stereo hero, Becalm, bestill, bewitch, drowning, drowning in the real. |
| Fugazi, Fish, Marillion |
| |
|
|
| Bourdieu, Distinction: A Social Critique of the Judgment of Taste |
| |
| Hey I told you, didn't I? I live alone. My swamp. Me. Nobody else, understand? Nobody! Especially useless, pathetic, annoying talking donkeys! |
| Shrek |
| |