hibernation

It's cold, and not just by California standards. I think it's supposed to get down into the 20s tonight. Last night, I stepped out on my porch right before I went to bed, and I forgot where I was. It's almost comforting that it's this cold in November. It reminds me of home. This is the way it's supposed to be, right?

My equilibrium has been totally thrown off since I got back from Thanksgiving yesterday. I think the cold is playing some part in that, but also, one of my roommates moved out--he was living in the side house. My other roommate decided to take residence in the vacant side house and in so doing, took all his belongings with him. Unfortunately, that has left the house quite barren seeing as he was the one who had all the stuff. Now there's absolutely nothing in the house except for my computer desk and lap top, my guitar, a love seat, a dresser, and some various other things, mostly items left over from past residents of the house. I don't even know who this stuff belongs to; no one else seems to either. I just know it's not mine.

I came home to see everything gone, and was instantly bummed. It was my roommate's stuff, so he had every right to take the stuff to the side house with him, but simply because the house was so empty. We'd taken time to arrange everything and had a nice little setup going, and now it's all gone. I don't even have anything to replace it with. I suppose I could buy furniture of my own, and I would if I was broke and weren't going to be moving out of here at the end of May.

I'm so sick of moving. I don't even know where I'm going to go next, or how I'm going to afford the rent increase, but that's another story.

Since everything's gone, there's not much point hanging out in the living room, which is what I liked to do when I got home. Now, I'm confined to my bedroom, which is kinda beat. I have all the necessary comforts in my bedroom, even if it is small, but I like reserving that room for sleeping. I hate hanging out in there all day, but really, there's not much else to do. I could sit on the couch and stare at the wall, maybe read a book, but there's nothing on the walls. It looks like me and my roommate C--the only two left in the main house--are kinda squatting in someone else's abandoned house. It's kinda funny, and kind of sad at the same time.

I like having stuff, but it's not overly important to me, which is good because I dont' have the money to get stuff. It seems to me that everyone I know has stuff. I have some stuff, but nothing important like chairs and couches and stuff. Whatever furniture I do have, I've inherited from people moving out of town. The only things that are actually mine are my twin-sized bed, the little cart thing I put my DVD player/PS2/VCR on and this crappy computer desk that I bought at Wal-Mart for 25 bucks because I wouldn't think twice about throwing it out if I had to. Now, I can't even think about getting rid of the thing. I'm not even sure if I put it together right.

I don't know how people get the furniture and whatnot. Maybe it's all inherited like mine. I try not to take on too many things because I've been such a nomad since I moved to California. I hate moving, and the less stuff I have to worry about the better. I've been lucky because I've been able to move into places that were already established, that had everything set up already, and all I had to do was fill up my bedroom with things. I can fill up an 8X11 pretty good, but anything bigger than that, and we're dealing with some serious negative space.

We need to get another roommate pronto because we're footing the bill this month for the departed guy; it's not anyone's fault, it's just taxing, especially now that it's the holiday season. I have to go shopping. I think about splurging at Best Buy and what a lame ass idiot I am. I got $125 worth of things for $50, and it was the first things I'd actually bought for myself that I didn't need in I don't even remember how long. I think I'm getting too old for this.

open road

I was able to go to a friend's family's house for Thanksgiving, thanks to a ride offered by a coworker and her boyfriend. It was only Wednesday, and I already had something to be thankful for.

I guess I have a lot of things, but I don't need to list them. I'm well aware of both the kick-ass and suck-ass aspects of my life, though I'm probably not nearly as appreciative of either as I should be. The break was nice, but I think I could use a few more days. I stuffed my face on more than one occasion, lazed about like a bloated sack of turd, splurged at Best Buy and saw The Incredibles, which would've been the coolest movie I'd seen in the theaters this year if I hadn't seen Spider-Man 2. There's more fodder for the thankful pile.

I had a rent a car to bet back home--a nice new 2005 Ford Focus ZX5 with leather seats and a six-CD changer. It drove really nice--nicer than the older Focus I rented once--though it didn't seem to be as good on gas as I thought it'd be. Maybe I just miscalculated. It was a long drive, and there was some mountain driving involved too.

Most of the trip, though, was the long flat expanse of the California valley. The valley kinda depresses me, especially once you get into the thick of it with the endless fields and agriculture and purple, shadowy mountains in the distance around you. It really goes on forever. Once you get away from the coast, California really isn't all that interesting. It's kinda like Nebraska, really, if Nebraska were surrounded by mountains.

I'd only gotten a couple of hours of sleep for whatever reason, and I had to leave early in the morning to get the car back in time. I only had it for 24 hours, and I couldn't afford an extra day. I didn't get really tired until about 45 miles from home. That's when I started rubbing my eyes and yawning and speeding up and slowing down sporadically. A Burger King seemed as a good a place as any to recharge, get out of the car, and fill myself full of poisons that would keep my body awake. This Burger King was situated in this little shit town to the south of here. I suppose I shouldn't say that, even the shittiest towns are someone's home, but this place just seems really shitty. The scene inside the Burger King was something out of an independent film--the kind that exposes the shittiness that belies the glossy, Norman Rockwell image of small town America. There was an old dude in a trucker hat by one window eating his meal and hacking up a nasty cough, two non-descript guys in the back, and two girls working the registers who had probably lived in this place all their lives. The one girl who took my order seemed nice enough. When she read back my order, I saw that she had a tongue ring. She was probably a high school junior or senior. Something like that. She was really trying to be responsible; she apologized when she handed me my food in a bag and not on a tray because I hadn't ordered it to go. I didn't mind, really. I hate carrying the trays. I'm always worried I'm going to drop the thing.

I told her not to worry about it. I was happy that they held the mustard.

The burgers were kinda dry and tasteless, but I was only eating them to wake myself up. The onion rings were pretty good, and the Dr. Pepper had enough sugar in it to keep me from falling asleep at the table. As I was eating, a ketchup packet hit the floor next to me. I looked back toward the counter to notice that the other girl--probably a high school junior/senior herself--had thrown it. The responsible one shrieked the ketchup hurler's name, and the ketchup hurler apologized to me and explained that she was trying to hit the people sitting behind me.

I thought it was pretty funny. I said don't worry about it, because my mouth was on autopilot. The ketchup didn't explode or get all over me or anything. Again, I was just happy that they held the mustard. The ketchup hurler then started talking to the people behind me--about this guy and that girl and this parent and that parent and how she should quit Burger King and get a job at the McDonald's (which was directly across the street, mind you. I wish I had a camera) again because that's the only fast food she eats anyways. It was probably the exhaustion, but it made me kinda sad; it just sounded so dead end and hopeless--like this was all that girl had. She didn't sound at all upset about it, just maybe a bit indifferent, which perhaps made it that much sadder.

This is getting pretty emo.

It's a long drive, and a pretty boring one at that. I only went through one proper city on the way here to there, and the rest was fruit stands, small towns invaded by fast food restaurants and fields. I had the stereo up pretty loud, but once I got tired, it kinda faded out, and all I could do was think. The whole situation made me think of some childhood story of mine, that I wanted to write down, but I've forgotten all about it. I don't know why I thought of it on the drive, because it really had nothing to do with what was going on--which was a whole lot of nothing, really--but it just popped into my head, and now it's gone. Maybe I'll write it down if I remember it again. Just before I started writing this, I tried to remember what the story was, and the fact that I couldn't remember reminded me of the song "The Way It Is" by Bruce Hornsby and the Range. It was one of my favorite songs growing up. I guess it's kinda schmaltzy, but I still think it's really pretty in that sad kinda way. Everytime I hear that song, it reminds me of being in my parent's car as a child on the way home from Christmas Eve at our relative's house in New Jersey. We were pulled into a gas station and I was nodding out in the back seat when it came on. The more I think about it now, though, I wonder if it really was on Christmas Eve when I heard it, because we always used to listen to the stations that played Christmas carols on the drive. Still, that song reminds me of Christmas every damn time.

One holiday down...

...or shall i be damned?

It looks like it could go either way.

Counting Backwards, the Web's yin and yang.

shall i be blessed?

Hmm....

happy merries

Woah...it's Thanksgiving already. Where'd the year go? Blah blah blah.

I think that's becoming the new holiday jingle. No one knows where years go. They don't go anywhere. They just kinda happen.

I'm going to save my 2004 reflections for another blog, I think. You know...to build suspense. Mostly because I haven't really thought about it. I haven't had much time to think about the year, really. I've been too busy.

I went to my Chinese restaurant today. I like the place a lot because of its food and its atmosphere. It's a basement restaurant; you have to take a flight of stairs down to get there. It looks like it might have been swanky in the early '80s or late '70s or something. It's still nice, but it's got that lived in shabbiness that I only find appealing in Chinese restaurants. The woman who owns it--I assume she owns it--is really fascinating. I don't know why. I've never really spoken to her, but she just exudes this matriarchal vibe. To me, anyway. She's probably in her 50s or so, but she could probably pass for much younger and maybe she actually is. You can just tell by looking at her that she's in charge; not because she's curt or stern, but because of the way she holds herself and the way she walks around that restaurant. Like she could find her way around it even if it was pitch black.

Helping her run the place are people who I believe are family members, whether they're direct family or extended. I'm not sure, but they have a rappoire like they are family. There are also an assorted cast of non-family workers and waitpersons, but they're usually in and out. Among the family (if they are family) are the matriarch, a man who is usually in the kitchen, a young girl (I thought fourteen or so) and a young boy. He's like eight or something. The young boy doesn't really do anything, but he's usually hanging out in the dining room playing with his toys. Some times he's running around, but he's not annoying. He's actually kinda funny.

The young girl fills up water, but lately she's been taking orders also. She took mine today. She just got a new hairdo that looks really nice on her. She speaks fluent Cantonese and English. The matriarch speaks some English, but mostly communicates in Cantonese. The guy in the kitchen hardly says anything and the youngest boy seems to speak English only. I'd always figured that the matriarch was the mom, dude in the kitchen was dad, and the two others were their children. This may or may not be the case. I go in there enough to be a regular. I can tell they recognize me when I come in; especially the matriarch and the young girl. I usually go in there by myself and order the number 2 special plate because it has sweet and sour pork and they make the best I've had. I usually go in there right after payday as a treat for myself. They play this really mellow Chinese folk music and that and the muted light make the place really relaxing. It's really cozy.

Anyway, I think they recognize me, but not enough to know me. I don't get "hey James" or "would you like the usual" or anything like that. I go in there enough that I'm pretty familiar with them. I can tell when they get new hairdos, or hire a new staffer. Things like that. However, I don't know the first thing about them. I don't even know their names. I just see them all the time. As such, I've created a story for them--that they're a family--to better classify them, I guess.

I think there's a point to this.

Today, I began to think that my assumptions about their relationship was wrong. I saw the young girl and the little boy interacting in a way that looked more mother to son than brother to sister. I can't explain why I thought this really. And then I realized the apparent age difference between the young boy and the matriarch. She would have had to have him late in life, and years after the girl. This isn't farfetched, but it led me to create a new fiction for the proprietors of my favorite Chinese food in town. Perhaps the girl had become pregnant at a young age, and to avoid scrutiny from their town, they decided to move to America, where such things are more accepted. (That really isn't true--those things aren't accepted--but the objectors are more subtle and insidious.) It made me wonder which story was true, if any, and how I don't really know them, even though I see them more often than I see my parents.

cat, power.

This is a long story, I think.

I went to a party in the city, which probably sounds a lot more exciting than it was, but I had a great time. The traveling crew from here to there was basically the same as the Rilo Kiley show, but my roommate C came along too. It was a packed car and a cramped, but still comfortable. We hit some traffic near the city, but all in all, the ride was pretty smooth. Our first order of business was to go to the record store and sell CDs and DVDs so we would have money for the trip. I sold a bunch of discs that I didn't pay for anyway and got a rousing $145.00! I was super excited. So excited, in fact, I bought two CDs. I picked up the new PJ Harvey, which is one of the albums of the year, and You Are Free by Cat Power. I guess I've been living under a rock, but I only got introduced to Cat Power's music just recently, and it's just socks-rocking to the max. Equally as compelling is the woman behind it all, Chan Marshall, who I really, really want to be the mother of my children.

Perhaps that was too forward.

Anyway, her music rocks, and she's earned billing as my obsession of the week; it's getting to the point where there should be some kind of plaque awarded. Maybe there should be a big end-of-year extravaganza where I award obsession of the year. But I guess that would be getting obsessive. I figure it's healthy as long as I'm not hiding in the bushes.

After the record store, we ended up hanging out at a friends house, who was nice enough to put us all up for the night. She lives inthis really nice brownstone/townhouse looking thing. It looks like it's kinda old, but in that really classic kinda way.

The house is full of cats, all of whom were friendly enough. The coolest of which was this big ol' cat who didn't really do much but sleep, occasionally wake up to look around, then go back to sleep. I envied him instantly.

After pre-partying (city drinks are expensive), we hailed a cab and rolled down to the party fashionably two hours late. Most of the people I know who moved from here to the city were there and it turned out to be a reunion of sorts. I had a great time shmoozing, boozing and spending my free CD money. There were three bands, all of which bothered me, and I strolled outside at 2am feeling pretty good about life in general. C and I were tired and hungry so we decided to head back to the house. The guy who drove us down to the city had gone back a little while earlier with his girlfriend. Our host gave us directions and addresses for her house and the taqueria down the block scrawled out on the back of a receipt before hopping in a cab with four other girls to the after parter.

C and I began wandering around San Francisco, looking for a good spot to hail a cab, which was difficult, I soon realized, because we weren't five attractive women. We made our way to a busy intersection, in front of a donut shop and kept a key eye. I was giddy buzzed and happy to be in a city again so I was laughing and being probably too loud. These two girls went up to C and asked him for directions. We, of course, had no idea where they were talking about. Then some other dude rolled up to the girls trying to hit on them. I turned my attention to flagging down a cab. No one's stopping--they were either full or don't give a fuck. I was considering diving under some tires, but I didn't think they'd stop. Dude went away, not getting any play, and then Homeless Guy rolled up and started talking to us and the girls.

He said to me, "Buy me a donut, and I'll get you a cab."

I said, "Oh, no. That's okay."

Then he said, "You can't buy a brother a donut?!" Which elicited a good laugh from all. It was a compelling argument, so I asked him what he wanted and went inside and bought him a jelly donut. When I came back, the girls were gone, and Homeless Guy told us, "Don't fuck around with a cab. Those girls went to 14th and Whatever street. Follow them and you can pick up a bus to where you're going." It was better than hanging out on a street corner.

We started walking, but we realized that we didn't know where the fuck 14th and Whatever was, and we were soon heading into a fucked up part of town. There was a car full of people giving us the finger and some dude following us who looked all sorts of wasted and we decided to turn back around toward the donut shop, trying to hail cabs as we went. No one gave us the time of day. Or a cab ride, which was really what we wanted.

We found the street that we were trying to get to and saw that we were just about 14 blocks away from our destination. C said fuck it let's walk, and, again, it was better than waiting around for a cab. There was some fucked up detour that blocked up the street and we ended up on some other road and soon became lost. If I didn't think it was so funny, I probably would have been freaked out. There was a silver lining, though. This street we ended up on was crawling with taxis. They seemed to be heading to this one club to pick up people. We went a little ways down the road before I said we should head back to that club to pick up a cab. It worked! We piled in the cab and told him where we needed to go, the taqueria just one and a half blocks away from where we were staying.

The cabbie asked us, "Have fun at that club tonight?"

We said we weren't at that club, but hanging out at a different one, and he started laughing and said something to the effect that we didn't want anything to do with the club he picked us up out in front of.

I asked, "Why? What kind of club was that?"

He said it was a transvestite bar, and that they were "hungry." It was pretty funny. You gotta love the city.

Turned out that Cabbie was the surly type, but a funny type of surly. He started going off about this "Chinese" guy who was driving the cab in front of us and saying how "Chinese drivers" were crazy. Mind you, Cabbie was zipping around corners, running through lights and getting on people's bumpers, but it was dem Chinese drivers that were the pits. He zipped us over to the intersection that bore the taqueria, and he said that we didn't want to get out there, and that he wasn't going to drop us off because he didn't have his .45 with him. Fair enough...

We had him drop us off at the house and he went on his way, but before he did, he made one more mention of Chinese drivers, but this time added, "and those Koreans!"

It was about 3am, and we were just looking to crash. It was around this time that I began to wonder about things. "I bet you the door's locked," I said. And it was. Our friend who drove us down had the key, and he was asleep inside. I called him on his cell, but no answer. We called our host, who was partying somewhere, and she said she was now locked out too, because she had given our friend the key. We sat on the stoop for a minute perplexed. C said, "fuck it. I'm getting a burrito." And that sounded like a great idea.

I was a bit wary about heading down to this intersection that Cabbie was so paranoid about. It didn't help that just as we approached, there was some loud disturbance catty corner from us. The dispute, however, drew the attention of Super Cop, who, lights on and all, zoomed around the corner to deal with it. Under cover of "the man," we hustled to the taqueria, which was seriously packed.

Every walk of life was in there: drunks, lecherous skeevers, posh homosexuals, skater kids, super rich guys, cracked out skanks, hot ass party chicks, hipsters, thugs, blue collar workers; blacks, whites, Mexicans, Asians, Arabs, Indians, undeterminable others. It was the melting pot in action. This place kinda gave me hope for the country; everyone bound more or less harmoniously together by killer burritos.

I don't know if the burrito was the best I've ever had, but at 3:something in the morning, it was the most wonderful thing ever. We walked back to the house, burritos in hand, and in no need of a .45, wondering if we'd be sleeping on the stoop. I called our friend again and got no answer. We started eating.

Five minutes later, our friend emerged from upstairs and let us in. Our host had called him also, and told him we were waiting downstairs. Success! I pounded down half of my burrito in silence and then began to arrange my sleeping quarters--a couch by the window that had belonged to the big ol' cat. I moved his bed to the floor and moved myself into its place. I was too tall for the couch, but it really didn't matter. I passed out eventually. I woke up a few times during the early morning to see that the big ol' cat was fascinated by my presence. He started on the window sill. I woke up again, and he was watching me from the back of the couch. I woke up again, and he was quite at home on my chest. He would wake up, look around, then go back to sleep. Lucky cat.

We all were awake at around 8am, and we hit the road soon after. I was suprisingly awake the whole ride home. But as soon as I spilled out of the car, I was seriously beat. I went into my room, put on my new Cat Power CD and slept till the sun went down. Lucky me!

stupid cable modem

I don't know what the deal is. My cable modem works, then it doesn't, then it does, then it doesn't again. Right now it does--obviously. But I don't know what's going to happen tomorrow. It's been a neverending saga since I got the damn thing, and I'd get DSL if it wasn't so shitty.

Ah well.

I got on the computer earlier with something to say, but now after a good hour and a half of Pimp My Ride, I don't remember what it was. It definitely wasn't important.

Watching Austin Stevens battle a 17-foot long anaconda had to be the funniest thing I'd seen all day. They edited it in such a way that it looked like he was chasing the thing down as it darted down the river. It would cut to the snake swimming, then to Austin running with a purpose, then back to the snake, and so on and so forth until Austin pounced on the fucking thing. That's when it got more fun. He was wrestling with this monster, and then it took him down under water, and then there was nothing. Just ominous music--assumingly produced by some denizen of the Amazon. Suddenly, Austin appears from the water with this thing hoisted high over his head like the Stanley Cup or something, and then there's this Matrix-y multi camera effect for no god damn reason, and it was fucking awesome. It's hard to explain, but I was hooting and hollering the whole time. He may be my favorite nature show host of all time, not that I've put a lot of thought into it...

After Austin encountered and photographed the big snake, which is what he's after on every show--there's some big snake somewhere and he simply has to risk his life in order to get it all pissed off and take photos of it; to each his own, I guess--he then reflected on his journey. All quiet sitting on the bow of his house boat with his own voice over recounting his many trials and travails. I don't know why, but it's the coolest thing ever. Just watch it.

molotov cocktail

Somehow, the mix of alcoholic substances I consumed last night didn't turn Sunday into a miserable pain fest. I drank Bacardi and cokes, a few beers, some girly shots, a shot of Southern Comfort, and God knows what else, and I woke up at 10am this morning feeling oddly refreshed. Like I'd just worked out at the gym or something. Perhaps it was the late night waters that saved my ass. Or maybe that I was actually drinking good stuff last night and not the usual cheap well crap. Either way, today was a lovely relaxing shindig.

I heated up the last of my Chinese food. That stuff just lasts forever. It's like everytime you go back to the fridge, it's multiplied or something. I went to see my roommate in his play, and that was fun. Afterwards I met up with his parents who ended up footing the bill for my dinner, and that was really cool.

I don't know what set me off, but I've really wanted to write lately, so once I got home from dinner, I went straight to the laptop and got a'typing. I've been thinking of writing scripts lately, so that's what I did. I don't really know how to write a script, but I think they're more condusive to the way my mind works, at least creatively. I've tried the whole book/story type thing, and I did okay at that, I think. I just really want to tell a story through pictures. I've always had, and the book thing was kind of a personal compromise I made, since I wouldn't have to work with anyone but myself. I really don't want to work that way though. I love to collaborate, and even though I don't have anyone to collaborate with, I'm really not going to worry about that. I've written a couple of one act plays--that were all really bad--and things of that nature, but I've never really tried to write a script, and it keeps coming up as a suggestion. It's time to stop being lazy about it.

Dialog and images are what really excite me I guess. All the book back talk and description gets too heavy handed, and I get myself stuck on the details. I'm never able to portray the image I have in my head properly. Anyway, I figured I'd give it a shot, so that when it sucks and I ditch the idea, I can say I gave it a try. I have a group of scenes that are really bright in my head right now, and I thought I'd be able to do one page a day until it was done and see how it turns out. I hope it doesn't make me want to vomit. I'm not sure how long a script is supposed to be. I think over 100 pages unless I'm mistaken, but if I stay true to my one page a day, I can get a draft done in a few months. It's a nice thought anyway.

visitation

So I went against my good judgement and went out tonight. Again. I'm not sure if I had the money to do so, but my now ex-roommate swung by the house around 11:30p and asked if I was going downtown.

Of course I was.

Turned out that one of the publicists I work with on a more or less daily basis got me on the guest list at a show at the bar just beyond downtown. Not that this was a major feat or anything. This wasn't a hot ticket by any stretch of the imagination, but it was a nice gesture on her part nonetheless, especially since I told her that I probably wouldn't be able to make it. Mounting circumstance made it possible for me to go.

I arrived at the bar, and I was on the list, but I had missed the band the publicist managed, and I felt like a big old jerk...especially the old part. I had a few free drinks, purchased with my liquor stamps, and bought the band's CD to restore my scene karma. I really hope it works. The other bands on the bill were nothing special, so me and my now ex-roommate headed over to the local watering hole where we found ourselves in the company of two young ladies. The three of them were talking about something--I'm not really the talkative type, but I would chime in with laughs and knowing nods at the appropriate times, even though I couldn't hear a word that was being said. It was kinda loud in the bar, after all, and all the rock 'n' roll has done wonders on my hearing.

Since my roommate is a popular chap, we were soon surrounded by the usual flock of local scenesters. This town isn't very big, and on any given night, you're pretty sure to see everyone you know. Among the gaggle was a female coworker of ours and her roommate. Also in attendence was Huggy Guy, who I met during a recent drunken escapade. He and my now ex-roommate seemed to know each other, at least on an acquaintance level. I should have known.

Nothing of real excitement or importance happened I guess, which is also to be expected, but it was a fun time. I ended up wandering outside at the urging of the bar staff and stood in the rain, I guess, for quite some time before I truly realized it was raining. Upon my shocking reveal, I decided I should walk home because my jacket was a mere hoody, and I was already getting rather soaked.

I walked for a while when my drunkeness clashed with my laziness and my wetness and, to the right of me, I spotted a cab which looked like it had just dropped off a fare. I knocked on his window and scared the shit out of him.

"Do you have a fare?" I asked.

"No," he answered, shaking off his intial shock.

"Can I get a ride?"

"Hop in," he said.

I scampered into the back seat, and then I was soon startled by a knock on the window. It was some Random. Random asked me where I was headed. I answered with the general location of my home. He asked if it was cool if we split the cab.

Oddly enough, I've never been asked that before, so my first thought was to look at the cabby. I really had no problem with it, but was this good policy? Was it legal?

The cabby said, "It's up to you, man."

So I agreed, and the random hopped in the cab with his two random friends. They were on the way to my house anyway, and at 2:15am on an early Saturday morning, it's not like I was in a rush to get anywhere. Turned out it was a good decision to let the randoms share my cab. Their ride reduced my fare by a couple of bucks, which is a good thing when you're as broke as I am, and the three randoms provided entertainment by way of their stupid dramas.

I'm not sure what the deal was, but one random received a call from this random girl on his cell phone. He had the volume turned up hella loud, so I heard the whole conversation. Apparently, girl was pissed at her stupid boyfriend because he had done her wrong. From the conversation, it was easy to see that this was not the first time this had happened. Random guy in the car was all, " you have to dump that guy." Then other random dude asks to be let out of the car! The two remaining randoms are all, "but you don't even have a phone," but emo random is all, "I'll find you guys. I'll meet you at the house."

I guess he just needed to be all emo and walk in the rain. The cabby and I were silent. The cabby dropped the rest of the randoms off, and then the cabby and I started laughing about the whole thing. I told him I felt bad, because I was such a boring fare. I was usually just wasted and needed to get home, as was the case this evening. He told me that he was tired of the interesting fares--all the dramas and whatnot. He had had enough, though he did confess that sometimes his female passengers would flash him, and suddenly, I thought it might not be so bad to be a cabby.

*I'm drunk and sleepy...I left this post unedited. Just fix any errors in your own head. Thank you.

first-person whatever

My roommate bought Halo 2. It looks like a lot of fun--it's fun to watch anyway--but I haven't had the desire to play yet. Those first-person shoot 'em up games don't do anything for me but make me dizzy. It's been on non-stop since it has entered the house, though, and not coincidentally, the bong hasn't left the living room table.

As I may have already mentioned, today was an incredibly boring and tiresome day of work. I guess that's what makes it work. A few times I had almost drifed off to sleep at my desk, kinda like what's going on now. I should really sleep better than I do. I should eat better too, but you've gotta make money for that.

ancient wisdom

I get the best fortune cookie fortunes. I don't know why. A week before my friends came out from New York to visit me in California, I got a fortune that said "Old friends will return to you." Seriously. Last night I got my favorite ever. It read "You will have a comfortable retirement." It sounded so nice...I liked it so much I put it on my bedroom door. At least I have something to look forward to in 40 years. I only think of it now because it's 7:33 pm, I'm still in the office, and this has been the most boring, tedious day of work. Ever. I'm so over this place right now.

we have to go. now!

I missed like the first ten minutes of Lost. This greatly disturbed me, but it wasn't long before I got right into the swing of things--"woah"ing and things of that nature. It was a good episode. I love how DAW and Kate have resorted to a battle of the tank tops. One is clearly dreamy, the other is sexily cut; it's a development that is as intriguing as the plot. I liked HHA scamming on Pregnant Chick. Speaking of scamming, AAD is about to bust a bamboo shoot upside of Gw/K's head. I'd whoop his ass for macking on DAW too.

Other than Lost, today was a typical mid-week whatever. We have this new printer/copier/scanner/office god machine that prints the best color I've seen. It's also about half as tall as me and costs about as much as I make in a year. Pretty fucked up. I think it will end up replacing all of us. I did my weekly (at least that's how it seems) order-in Chinese ritual. I mixed it up this time though and got the Snow Peas Prawns (which is really difficult to say) instead of the Sweet and Sour Pork. God I love Sweet and Sour Pork; I should have swapped out something else. I just don't feel like I've truly ordered Chinese unless I get fried rice and chow mein.

...Blah.

the evil empire

I was supposed to meet with my boss today. Actually, we were supposed to meet on Monday. But really we were supposed to meet last Friday. My boss is difficult to get a hold of sometimes. I wasn't stressing about it. I hate meetings anyway. My boss is a pretty cool guy, but it's just meeting itself that bothers me. I'd rather just do it and not talk about it. We can fix any problems that arise along the way. I never leave a meeting thinking, 'wow. I'm glad we had that meeting.'

I asked my boss if we were going to meet today, and he said, 'yeah, just give me a minute,' which is what he usually says when I ask him that question. One out of every four or five times I ask, we actually meet. Again, I'm not stressing about this, that's just how it goes.

About an hour or so later, he comes to me and says, 'I'm going to get coffee, you want to come along? We'll talk about stuff on the way.' I don't drink coffee, but it's nice to get out of the office, so I grab my page of notes and follow along.

We went to get coffee at a Starbucks. Until this summer, I had never been inside a Starbucks, which is a piece of information that startles most people when I tell them. There are a variety of different reasons for this. The first being that when I was drinking coffee, Starbucks had just started its plan for world coffee domination. Being new and exciting, everyone was going to Starbucks, which meant ridiculous lines, which meant I couldn't be bothered. Also, when I was a coffee drinker, I was also rather poor, and since my coffee drinking wasn't of the compulsive variety (I never needed that cup of coffee in the morning; I only drank it when I felt like it), I didn't see the point in paying $3 for a cup. I only really drank coffee because I wasn't old enough to get into bars yet, and going to a diner or 24-hour donut shop were my only options for late night hangouts. One buck for a cup of coffee covered hours worth of loitering. Alcohol soon replaced caffeine, and I found that I never really liked the jitters that a cup of coffee gave me.

On occasion, if I'm really completely zonked and need to be awake, I'll take a small cup of coffee, black with no sugar (coffee tastes like shit, be honest, and no matter what hazel nut bullshit or Eqyptian this or that you toss in, it still tastes like coffee, so why try to hide it?), but those instances are few and far between.

My avoidance of Starbucks has nothing to do with it being a giant, all-devouring, Wal-Mart-like evil corporation, though it is, it's just a logistical decision. I don't think you can get a small cup of black coffee at a Starbucks anyway. However, since this past summer (in Washington, my friend and ex-roommate worked at one, which was the cause for my first visit), I've been in Starbucks two or three additional times, each time was with my boss.

The interior of a Starbucks is truly perplexing to me. The two I've seen were all wood and brick with quaint tables and bookshelves and things of that nature. In the Starbucks downtown, the one I went to today, there are always tons of people doing work and talking and just kind of hanging out. Today was no different. It was packed, though no one seemed to be buying coffee. The majority of the customers were unbelievably beautiful women (there were good looking guys there too, but my focus was elsewhere). They were nicely dressed, for the most part. One, a blonde who was standing in front of me at the condiments table was decked out in a stunning, form fitting business suit. She was probably just a year or two older than me. I couldn't really make eye contact. Another was your typical California girl--blonde, blue eyed and stairmaster-fit. She wore her long hair down and it was bouncy like something out of a shampoo advertisement. She walked past me to sit down next to her square-jawed, hunkish boyfriend with the starting quarterback's physique. It was then that I began to notice that I was easily the ugliest person in the Starbucks (it was like Death Cab for Cutie show deja-vu). In addition to the two more traditional beauties I mentioned, there was also a collection of sexy Asian women, sexy librarians, and girls next door types. In addition to the upsetting beauty factor, some hipster dude typed away on his sleek new Mac laptop. Pseudo-intellectuals talked about some book-learnin' shit at a table by the window. There were dudes with the man purse. It was kinda like being in a living version of an upscale catalog. I ain't trying to hate on nobody; I'm just saying. If a new Volkswagen Beetle convertible pulled up and four girls in tennis skirts with iPods showed up chatting about The OC, I probably wouldn't have batted an eyelash.

not emo

The great shows continue as Death Cab for Cutie pulled into town with Pretty Girls Make Graves to shower the city with cred. It looked like some people in the audience got new clothes and did their hair just for this event, and I wouldn't be surprised if they did. The pairs of black-rimmed glasses were in the hundreds, and there was no shortage of people who were way cooler than me. Seriously. I'm starting to get sick of going to shows where I am clearly the lamest dude in the building.

It was painfully obvious too, since I was probably in the upper age bracket, especially if you exclude the super cool rock parents who chilled in seats in the back while their kids had a rollicking coming of age experience. I'm totally going to take my kids to all the rock shows they want to go to, and I hope I hate the music they listen to and think it's just noise, but I'll be happy that they had a good time. That's the healthy and natural order of things.

Oddly enough, of the two bands, I was more familiar with the opener, Pretty Girls Make Graves. I think I interviewed one of them a year or so ago; in preparation, I listened to the CD a bunch of times. Of course, I'd completely forgotten most of the songs on the CD, but a couple did sound vaguely familiar, and I think I liked their sound better live. The group is really dance-punk-ish / new wave-y, and I thought that would translate into an energetic live show, but really, PGMG just kinda stood there. Maybe they were tired after being on the road for a month straight. Still, they sounded pretty damn good.

I was probably the only person in the audience who didn't own a Death Cab for Cutie album, again, excluding the rock parents sitting in the back, but I knew this would be another "event" type show, and I was more concerened with the spectacle of the whole thing than anything else. Well, I also got in for free, but I would have paid if I had to. It was half the price of the Built to Spill show, after all. Unfortunately, Death Cab isn't big on spectacle; they're more about good songwriting and such. Can you imagine? They were really fucking good, and it was the second time in less than a week that I went to see a band I was unfamiliar with and had a really great time. More proof that I should just go to every show I can. It's a lot more productive than hitting up the bars, and my liver could use some time off. It's time to start fucking up my hearing again. Take that ears!

Apparently, Death Cab's performance was so powerful that it caused some poor little spock kid to puke all over the floor of the auditorium, which cleared a huge spot. No one wanted to fuck up their new clothes. The clearly fabulous gaggle of hipster hotties in front of me--not to bey stereotypical, but it seems that everyone who goes to these indie rock shows is very short; I'm not a tall man, but at 5'9", I tower over a good portion of the crowd, except of course for the one beanpole dude who always ends up in front of me--all decked out and well-haired, kept holding their noses and giggling. Before I realized what had happened, I thought I was the bearer of the offensive odor; the show was pretty packed and I just seem to be genetically disposed to sweating. There. I said it. I got all self conscious and put my jacket back on and crossed my arms. It wasn't until I left the show that I found out about the indie vomit-rocker.

---

Death Cab left me all emo so I came home to watch Eternal Sunshine for the Spotless Mind, which was just about the coolest movie ever and left me even more emo. I always knew Jim Carrey had it in him, and Kate Winslet moved up ten notches on my favorite actress list. She's also devastating with blue hair. Roowrr. Excellent movie! I know everyone says that, but it's true.

you'll never take me alive

I woke up this morning--like noonish--and laid in bed for an hour or so before I decided it was time to see what the rest of the world was up to. I only got as far as my living room to see that one of my roommates had purchased Grand Theft Auto: San Andreas. These games get bad raps for good reason. They're not very nice. You have to do some pretty bad things in order to "win." And it's just sooo much fun.

Personally, I don't bother with the missions. I'm sure there's a story or whatever, but really, the story of a GTA game is about as necessary as the plotline of a porno. You're really only involved in either for one reason (albeit different reasons) so why dick around?

When I play GTA games, I go straight for the killing. I'll usually hit up police officers first because they have the weapons, then once I'm on the run, whoever is unfortunate enough to get in my way. I make up newspaper stories in my head about the massive killing spree in downtown or out by the airport or whatever, and I hoot and hollar and shout things like "Blaze of glory, muthafuckas!!!" or "Fuck off, pigs." While playing the game this evening, I beat up a police officer to grab his gun and nightstick, then I bust caps in a few more police officers and then ran into the nearest building for cover, because shit was getting too heavy outside. Little did I know, the building I ran into was a police station. There was a hail of bullets, but I moved my little virtual dude down to the jails and held up there for a while.

There were bodies everywhere. I blasted whoever peaked their head in to try to capture me. I got up to four stars on the wanted list before my virtual criminal was finally wasted. Blaze of glory, muthafucka!!!

I always feel weird after a GTA session. It's weirder to relay stories from the game because they just sound so awful--"I had to go down to the red light district and fuck some whores, then kill them and take their money." Gah! But I always feel refreshed in a way, too. Like I just worked out some dark inner demons in the safest venue possible--a stupid video game. I'm not even a violent person. Maybe being a criminal has some kind of draw to it...some romantic ideal where it's you against the law and acting without regard to society's rules. I don't know. Maybe it's just fun to watch things go boom.

I've never actually purchased a game in the series, but I don't see what the fuss is about. It's just a game, no matter how well made it is (San Andreas is mind bogglingly good). I wouldn't let my kids play it either, if I had kids, but I don't see why it should be taken off the shelves. It's harmless, mindless, extremely violent entertainment. No one's forcing anyone to buy it, and I think there a whole lot of real violent problems in the world (like why governments like to get in wars every couple of years) that are way more damaging than a little disk you slap into your PS2.

My favorite GTA story comes from my old boss who went down to Los Angeles for the E3 in 2003. He was over by the Rockstar games displays and saw a uniformed LAPD officer playing the game--slaying cops and having a grand old time at it too. My ex-boss tried to take a picture of the cop while he was playing the game, but the officer laughed and said "no way."

the after party

After the movie, I had my roommate drop me off at the local watering hole where I bumped into my other roommate and some people at work. I knew they'd be there. I'm sure I bitched about Saw to someone. I hung out for a bit. Nothing special. There's this one lady I keep seeing out at the bar, and I don't know who she is, but she's totally groovy. There's something about cold weather that makes me horny. I know...too much information...Anyway, I was talking to someone who she ended up talking to during the conversation, and we exchanged all of four words. Scream!

There was talk of an "after party." Rumor had it, it was across town and that they would be tapping a keg at 2am. That was the rumor. Groovy lady had heard about it; so had the local legend I was speaking to when Groovy lady came over. My roommate was really drunk, but I heard him screaming about it...somewhere. Other word came in that this kegger was at a different location, but that too was unconfirmed. We hung out in front of the local watering hole for a good half-hour, which in and of itself is an interesting night out, until my roommate said, let's go. I figured, why not, and tagged along. On the way, we bumped into a group of very nice looking girls all bundled up. My drunk roommate started talking to them and asking them if they were going to this "after party." The said no, but they were giving away HOT CHOCOLATE! in the park. HOT CHOCOLATE?! I was so there. We staggered into the park--I had a nice buzz myself--and sure enough, there were people giving away hot chocolate. Just giving it away! It was instant, and the water wasn't exactly hot, but it was a lot warmer than the temperature outside, so I made myself a cup. That's when I noticed people playing songs about God, which is cool. I have no problem with God, even if our president says the two of them are buddies. I asked one of the women standing there what the deal was and if they were out there all the time and she may have given me a straight answer, but I wasn't really paying attention. She also didn't tell me what organization they were with. I was really just trying to make sure there weren't ruffies in my cocoa.

It was at that time that I realized my roommate had wandered off back toward the local watering hole, which was the opposite direction of this fabled kegger. I caught up with him and we decided just to head home. No one was out in front of the local watering hole any more...even Groovy lady had gone away.

On the way to the house, we'd bumped into that group of girls who'd told us about the hot cocoa. They were talking about Krispy Kremes or something. I was nice and toasty buzzed; my roommate was still rather drunk. The head girl said something about church and 6am; I said I'd be very much asleep, but told them to keep warm and thanked them for the hot cocoa. My roommate and I headed off, and I said something about the cocoa being spiked. He said it was spiked with the Lord.

i went, i saw, i wish i'd saved the money

I went to see Saw tonight, and it was a total letdown. I'd heard mixed reviews, but part of me was still hopeful. The trailers just looked so good. I am sad to report that this is not the new Seven; it's not even close.

Here's the deal. Some serial killer doesn't actually kill anybody. He just locks them in rooms and lets them kill each other for him. There's all this music video kind of cinema photography and everything looks overly dingy. Even people's apartments look like dungeons. After a while, it got really annoying. Even the doctor character lived in this odd kind of brick mortuary. It's like, dude, if you're such a good surgeon, why don't you buy you, your wife and your daughter a place that doesn't look like Lurch's swinging bachelor pad.

Nit picking aside, the movie really did blow chunks on so many different levels. The villain was the new stereotypical villain. You know the type. The one who has every possible angle covered and just can't be caught. Even when you catch him, he's too smart for you. Don't even think about it. He's that good. It gets old really fast. Especially when the shit he can do becomes completely ridiculous. Apparently, he's able to out think everyone, he can create medieval style torture devices, had unlimited knowledge of the kind of shit that knocks people unconscious, can rewire cellphones so they can't call 911, can take a bullet or two without flinching, has staggering knowledge of stage makeup, can rig intricate traps and can be all stealthy and sneak up on you when you don't expect it. He's also a puppeteer. If you see the movie and are able to sit through it to the end, you'll see how ridiculous that all is.

He puts these people in these situations because "they don't know the real value of life." Or some such nonsense. He does though, and boy, will he learn you. Apparently it's putting people in these ridiculous situations and making torturous contraptions so they'll know that life's pretty cool. Of course, the people who actually escape--just one, I think--are so freaked out by the experience, they'll never really be able to enjoy the sanctity of life anyway. Go figure. I guess he didn't have that angle covered.

Anyway, the movie goes out of its way to make you go "that's fucked up," but the shit's so over the top and stupid looking that it never really is fucked up. Some girl gets put in some thing that will rip her head open and has to cut a key out of some dude's stomach to get out of it. Dude's supposed to be dead, but he's really just drugged up so he can't feel anything or move, but he's all looking at the chick like, what you doin'? when she's carving into his belly. They don't really show it, but they do make a quick cut to her playing with his intestines--to find the key of course!

There's a good deal of gore in it, and some of those ooo I'll jump out at you kind of scary moments, but nothing really atmospheric and creepy. After watching Seven, I felt so dirty and grimy, I thought I needed to take a shower and scrub my skin with a Brillo pad. After Saw I felt like I needed my money back. There is one creepy scene with a puppet, but puppets are just creepy, dammit. If you do see the movie, make it a drinking game and take a shot every time the film introduces a plot point that goes nowhere, makes up for the lack of story by throwing in some gore, ventures into lengthy extraneous dialog or two or more people struggle over a gun. I swear you'll get drunk real fast, and thusly, the movie will become much more enjoyable.

wear a sweater!!!

Tonight I got to see Built to Spill at this big, drafty, old theater in town. The drafty part was nice because the last time I was there to see Modest Mouse this summer, the entire building was this giant sweat factory. Even my ears were sweating and that's some shit.

Mike Johnson performed first--I was told he was the bass player for Dinosaur Jr.--and he was pretty good. His songs were slow, but I really liked his voice. He played a cream-colored Fender Telecaster, and it kinda made me drool. I really want one of those, especially after hearing how it sounds firsthand in such a large room. Mike and his bass player sat down for the entire set, so it wasn't the most exciting performance I'd ever seen--far from it--but his songs were pretty good, and he kept his set short and sweet.

Built to Spill must have ran up on stage or something, because no sooner than I had went upstairs for a beer, I saw the band with instruments in hand and pretty much ready to go. It took me two songs to swill my watered down Budweiser and head back downstairs (where beer was forbidden to tread) and watch them play up close. I've heard so much about Built to Spill, but I'd never really heard them before. I knew they came out of the movement as Sonic Youth and the Pixies and stuff like that, and I love those bands, so why not? It was only 15 bucks anyway.

It feels odd to go to a show when I'm not at all familiar with the band's music. I mostly went because Built to Spill is a respected name in the music circles I frequent, and I hate it when people in this town complain that there's no good shows and when there is a good show, no one shows up. Oh yeah, there was pretty much no one at this show either, just like both Melvins shows, the Unicorns show, blah blah blah.

The turn out was good enough though. I don't really go to concerts for the crowd anyway. I usually zone everyone else out and focus solely on the stage. I'm completely mystified by live music, unless it really sucks. Then I just get cranky. I've seen plenty of great bands put on so-so shows, and plenty of shitty bands put on great shows. That's just the way it is, I guess. Built to Spill turned out to live up to their billing. They're one of the better bands I've seen live, though their performance wasn't anything special. Sometimes they got too long and jam-y, but for their songs alone, it was worth the money. Doug Martsch played some stirring guitar parts and was kinda like a lo-fi guitar hero. His voice was pretty good too, but it was really secondary to the music; he was able to say alot more with a quick riff or change than his lyrics for the most part. They were also really loud, but not annoying loud, just powerful loud, and dynamic, and that's what I love to see. If you're going to make my ears ring, it had better be fucking worth it.

I also liked how classy they were. No extended set-up time, no mindless banter between songs. Doug just gave simple waves and thank yous. They also played for quite a long time...maybe an hour and a half or more...and they didn't bother with an encore. They didn't really need to. It was nice to see real rock stars not to have to pull all the rock star bullshit (though honestly, I really do love encores--they're just so silly). Now I have to go buy some of their albums and play them really loud.

All the guitar heroics made me want to run home and play guitar. Not that I'm good or anything, but I love to play, and watching Built to Spill got me all inspired. I said some quick goodbyes at the show and did my best to avoid the bars, but I was only a block away when my cell phone went off. It was my friend C. He and G. were out on the town looking for something to do. Turned out they were just a block away. I really wanted to go home, but I told them I'd hang out for a bit, and I'm glad I did. C. was pretty hammered. I followed them over to a bar and G. bought me a drink. Outside the bar, we were talking to some uber fine Asian hipster. She said she was a poli-sci major, but it didn't matter. I was pretty much infatuated. It doesn't take much really; but she was super smart and really pretty, and that's a deadly combination. She went off with her friends and did her thing, we went off and did ours. I had a drink with C. and G., and I think they were both out chasing tail, so they wanted to head off to another bar. I followed them out and parted ways and made the walk home. It's kinda frigid out tonight. It might be in the 30s or something.

I stopped at 7-Eleven on the way and picked up a six pack of New Castle Brown, but forgot to get the toilet paper I keep forgetting to buy. I didn't remember, of course, until I got home. I played guitar for a bit and then kinda took a nap on the couch for a bit, and then I bundled up and at like 3:30 in the morning, made the mile or so walk back to the 7-Eleven to buy two four packs of Charmin. I think I'd rather walk alone in the city in the middle of the night; here, it gets like a ghost town, which is way spookier than the muggers and drug addicts.

speaking of lost

It was fucking dope, by the way, but I'm too tired to do a recap--it can be basically summed up like this. HHA and TPG had some weird ass bonding experience; TPG said the third time you ask me for your smack, I'll give it to you; HHA was all butt hurt cuz he thought Dr. PoF was hatin'; Dr. PoF gets caught in a rock slide after HHA gets all strung out and loony; Kate goes wandering in the woods with ISG; DAW looks dreamy in a tank top; some shit goes down with bottle rockets and radio antennae; HHA is all, I'm a hobbit so send me into the little tunnel to save Dr. PoF; tunnel collapses; Kate finds out and leaves her excursion; more shit goes down with bottle rockets and radio antennae; Rebel Dude is just lame; Kate tries to dig out Dr. PoF so she can get all cuddly with him; HHA sees a moth and saves Dr. PoF; ISG finds the radio signal, but in the fucking wheelchair moment of the episode, gets fwacked upon the noggin by an unknown assailant; HHA gets his smack back from TPG and tosses it in the fire; there's another butterfly.

Much hobbit love this week.

---

In other TV news this week, I saw this funny movie where President Bush II got re-elected; oh wait, that really happened. I guess we are that stupid.

I thought it was funny to hear both Bush and Kerry talk about how it's time to "heal the nation" when they and their ilk are the ones doing all the harm. Just an opinion. I figured I'd get them in before they're illegal. I guess at least I'll have something to complain about for the next four years, or I'll finally get off my ass and go teach in Japan like I've always wanted.

of birthdays

So I'm 28 now. There's no use hiding it. I'm officially one year past the age when all good rock stars die, which means I'm not a good rock star. It's not like I thought I was, but now it's official--sorry, dude.

I can't say I recall living 28 years so far. I suppose I have, and it's not just some conspiracy. I remember the Mets winning in 1986; and I remember Gov. Cuomo being elected in New York, and I know that was in the '80s also. I was in a car in the back seat at a gas station, coming home from some family function or another when the news was on the radio. I remember being on line at Disneyworld in Florida when I was 8, but it was so damn expensive, my parents told me and my sister that we were really 6 and 4 (not 8 and 6) so we could get in for a discounted rate. I think that's the first time I saw a lie in action. And it worked! None of those things happened on my birthday, though. I'm just trying to put things in order. I think that's what people my age are supposed to do. I remember my first legal drink was at a bar in Queens. It was a bottle of Coors Light, and I made the bartender--a very cute, older woman with brown hair--card me because I was so proud. I was there with my guitar teacher's band. I still don't know if they were very good, but they treated me like a member because I helped them set shit up, and they dedicated a song of theirs that I really liked to me, so that felt good. On this, my 28th birthday, I sat at home watching movies and recovering from the seemingly endless debauchery of Halloween. Nothing major to report. I went as a bible thumper and read passages from the bible at random to people who asked me what I was supposed to be. Me and a friend bought two 24 packs of Miller High Life--cans--and they were all gone by the end of the night. I didn't drink them all, so don't even go there.

But R wouldn't let me get through a rumination on my place in the world without telling my best birthday story. Me and my sister were to have a joint birthday party in October--her birthday's in September--so my whole family could come over and celebrate. I don't remember how old I was...let's say 7 or 8. Back east, we have a chain of ice cream parlors called Carvel.

Carvel isn't a chain like a Wal-Mart or whatever. Carvel seems hopelessly lost in the '50s, but their ice cream is way nummy. It makes Baskin-Robins look like utter crap and don't even go there with Ben & Jerry's; Carvel's got them beat too. Carvel, however, wasn't only known for its ice cream, but its ice cream cakes, which were the must-have for any self-respecting grade schooler's birthday party. If you didn't have a Carvel cake, it must have meant your parents didn't love you. These cakes were usually in the standard rectangular shape, which was perfectly passable, but if you were a real kiddie baller, you simply had to have one of their character cakes--cakes formed in the shape of one of Carvel's loveable and edible characters. When I was however old I was, the new kid on the block was Cookie Puss--and me and sis just had to have him.

As the story went, Cookie Puss came from outer space to bring joy to little girls and boys--apparently, his race had no problem sacrificing their corporal forms to the greater good--and had cookie eyes, and and ice cream cone nose. I mean, just look at him! We begged our parents for a Cookie Puss, and since this was a very special event for the whole family, my parents were more than happy to oblige.

They bought the cake a couple of days before the party, and there he was in our freezer...Cookie Puss, wishing me and my sister a happy birthday with blue icing-letters. I don't think we could have been more happy. He was just so cute and wonderful and made of ice cream.

Day of the party--I honestly don't remember too much of it. I'm sure it was fine. After dinner it was time for the cake. My relatives all gathered around the table. My dad brought Cookie Puss out from the freezer. My sister and I stood ready as Cookie Puss was put into position. So cute, so smiley...so happy...And then my dad grabbed the knife, and shit went sour.

He was about to carve into Cookie Puss--our happy alien friend Cookie Puss--and that's when my sister and I lost it.

"YOU'RE GOING TO KILL COOKIE PUSS!!!" we cried and ran away, down the hallway. Now, so many years after the event, I almost wish there was a video camera running to capture the reactions on the faces of my relatives. I slammed my bedroom door and began screaming and crying. It took my mom forever to calm me down.

That totally seems like another life. I really don't know how I've made it this far. I'm at the point where I wish I'd taken better care of myself, or tried more things, or whatever, but I guess I wouldn't be me if I had. If I hadn't cried for Cookie Puss, if I hadn't smoked pot that night on the bleachers, if I didn't tell that girl something I probably didn't mean, if I hadn't moved to California. It's probably better not to think about it.