small triumph

Last night, coming off an Oscar night whisky binge, I visited once again with Yuna, Rikku and Paine for some hearty adventuring while the sounds of online Halo 2 death duels raged on the surround sound in the main room. I, locked away in my bedroom, where I spent most of Sunday, sat on my tiny stereo television, PlayStation 2 control paddle in hand. My quest was not for the accolades from the pre-teen shit-talkers and disgruntled help desk employees who frequent the broadband Halo-scape. No. My quest was slightly more personal. My quest was to defeat the rancid beast known as The Concheror of the Level 60 Cloister in Bevelle (I'd explain, but you'd stop paying attention).

Unfortunately, the beast is elusive, and I was unable to find a picture, but it was basically in the form of a giant snail with a turtle shell, armed with a killer tongue, poisonous green slime and a nasty disposition. I told myself I'd only check it out once, just to test the waters, and was dispatched with ferocious quickness. The sudden nature and ease of my defeat, of course, led me to continue going back--to formulate a strategy that would destroy this monster once and for all.

Without the use of my trusty, misplaced guide book, somewhere around 2:30 in the morning, suffering many crushing defeats and after a lengthy battle that may have took over an hour, Yuna, Rikku, Paine and I brought the monster to its knees and sent it back from whatever infernal plane it orignated from. For my trouble, I received and item called "blessed gem," which, according to an article I found on ign.com, Holy damages one opponent, and about four hours of blissful sleep.

really, it's an honor just to be nominated

I have to say the Oscars wasn't a complete waste of time, but that's probably the whisky talking. Before I go on, I'd like to thank the good Canadians at Seagram's for making not only this post, but this entire weekend possible. Even though I was flat broke and feeling all depressed and anti-social, your bottle of VO made the past few days worth living. Thank you, Seagram's; sorry about this year's NHL season. I'd also like to thank R for hanging out via the World Wide Web and laughing at my lame jokes--many of which will appear in this post.

Here's some random kudos and observations delivered in soundbyte form because I'm too drunk to type it out proper.

Chris Rock kicks Billy Crystal's old ass. I'd like to see Chris back next year, though I sincerely doubt that will happen.

Best performance by a pair of breasts at an awards show: Clearly, this award belongs to Salma Hayek's impossibly perky and large bossom. God bless you.

Renee Zellweger looks much better fat.

Favorite moments included: Dude nominated for best live action short subject pretending he was asleep when his name was called; Spider-Man 2 winning award for best special effects (Go SPIDEY!!!); Jeremy Irons rolling with a production slip; Dustin Hoffman visibly wasted while awarding best picture; Sean Penn being all hipper than thou and coming to defense of Jude Law, who Chris Rock poked some fun at, seriously Sean...21 Grams was cool and all, but chill the fuck out; PRINCE! presenting an award.

Catalina, te quiero
(photo: Wireimage.com)

Whisky-fueled lust fantasy of the evening: This was a tough one. New comer Catalina Sandino Moreno from Maria Full of Grace is all kinds of dreamy, but even she was hardpressed to topple Halle Berry, who nearly sent me into shock. It's so tough to decide, I suppose I'll just have to call this one a draw. Don't worry ladies, there's plenty of me to go around for the both of you. Who needs a little gold man when you can spend five or so hot minutes with a doughy, balding man-boy? Everyone goes home a winner on Oscar night. Congrats!

Amost hot enough to forgive
kissing Fred Durst
in that crappy video
(photo: sky.com)

The Oscars seemed to fly by this year, but I think that had a lot to do with the booze. But It was, as always, super predictable. I think I only guessed incorrectly on two major awards--best screenplay (adapted) and the big one, best picture. I thought for sure it was going to go to The Aviator. Not that I saw The Aviator, or any of the films nominated for best picture. In fact, the only movies I saw that took home nominations were The Motorcycle Diaries, Maria Full of Grace, Super Size Me, Lemony Snicket's A Series of Unfortunate Events, The Incredibles, Eternal Sunshine for the Spotless Mind and Spider-Man 2, which I guess is more than I thought, but damn if there aren't a whole bunch of categories.

so...ladies...

My bank account is near empty, less than a week after pay day. With days of scrounging for cash and running up credit card debt a head of me, I decided to stay in tonight, and I used that opportunity to catch up with some old friends I haven't seen in a while.

Yuna

Some time this morning (and when I say "morning," I mean "afternoon"), I decided that it was high-time I hanker down and complete Final Fantasy X-2. For months, the game consumed my life, of which there really wasn't much to speak of anyway.

Instead of concerning myself with the stress of the real world, I turned my attentions to more fanciful things like raising Chocobos and finding all the most powerful Garment Grids and Dresspheres, so the girls could kick ass and look good doing so.

I'd never been much for trial and error when it comes to these games, and I heard FFX-2 had multiple endings, and you couldn't see the whole ending unless you got 100% of the completion points. I never had to worry about such matters before with the Final Fantasy series, so I had no qualms about shelling out the money for the guide (cheat) book. It's more like movie than a game, anyway, and if it's going to take me upwards of 80 hours logged time to finish the thing, you can be sure that I'm only going to go through all that once; I'm certainly not going to do all that again to see the full ending.

Rikku

If this isn't geeky enough for you yet, don't worry. it gets worse.

At some point, with 92% of the game complete, and a good portion of my life pissed away for no good reason, I'd misplaced the HOLY BOOK of FFX-2 geekdom and was forced to put the game down; just for a llttle while.

That little while turned to months, as I found other ways to waste my time. I usually put Final Fantasy games on the back burner as I near their completion. When you spend so much time and effort on something, no matter how trivial, it's kinda hard to let go. When you're all locked up with a game like this for so long--with all the melodrama and character development--it really becomes difficult to say goodbye. It's kinda like the last episode of a beloved sitcom: sure all the jokes are funny, but you're going to have to fight back the misty eyes once they take their final bows. I'm really digging myself into a deep hole now, aren't I? The spiral spins ever downward...

Paine

I've spent over 100 hours with these fine and heroic ladies--over 200 with Yuna and Rikku if you count Final Fantasy X. And that's just the hours that were logged. That's not counting the times I got the girls killed, because I forgot to save and had to do it all over again. Some of you may find that ridiculous, others, sad, but while both are probably true...well, I guess there really is no "but" after all.

Even after all that time, however, the game has gone unfinished. The world of Spira is still locked in the throes of some terribly icky peril, and really, I'm the only one to blame. And Paine, Rikku and Yuna, who's already saved her homeland from a really big fishy looking monster have been unable to ascend to their rightful places as supreme heroines. Is that any way to treat friends?

Perhaps being broke was really just fate reminding me of my nerd destiny. But this morning (2pm) I vowed to make ammends, guide (lame-ass cheater) book or not, and help the girls complete their quest, return order to their world and insodoing, cementing my place in dork heaven for all eternity.

Amen.

long distance

I just got off the phone with my cousin. He's 17. I remember the day he was born; not very well, but I remember when it happened.

He called me out of the blue; I know his sister and my sister had a falling out. It's our Sicilian blood. We're all about vendettas. He told me that he was worried, because things are going to change. His friends are graduating or have graduated high school, and he's about to do so himself, and he knows things are going to be different. I sipped Seagram's VO on the rocks as he spoke and tried to give advice where I could.

He talked about his drinking and experimenting with drugs, about the girlfriend who dumped him, about wanting to make movies and that he was in a band and things like that. He was worried about how his life was going to turn out. I said it sounds like he's doing okay. "Sounds like you're doing better than I am," I joked (kinda). And he said "I hope not."

He went on about all the funny stuff he and his friends had done, why they call him "Shroom"--he said he only tried it once and ate about six of them, and I'm pretty sure it takes more than six--and I laughed and made comments in the appropriate places. He said he called me because I always gave him really good advice, and that he needed a guy to talk to sometimes. I don't have a problem with that. I felt honored, though the liquor and the late hour made me more truthful than I probably should have been.

Prior this evening, a bunch of my roommate's young friends came over. They're in high school, even younger than my cousin, and they were all wasted. Eventually, two more girls showed up, one of whom could barely stand. She was probably 15 years old. She was throwing herself at everyone and asking them to make out with her. She tried to grab me, but I moved past, drunk as I was, I'm not stupid. Eventually, I found her face down on my floor, making out with my carpet; we told her she had to leave.

Listening to my cousin and thinking about the wasted kids brought me back to how I was at that age. Any wishes I'd had of regaining my youth quickly evaporated--what an awful and terrifying time. If only it got any better.

east side

I just had a good long talk with myself in the mirror. I look like shit, but I think that's the alcohol talking. I'm not sure what the conversation was about, but I tried my best not to listen; I can go on and on.

I was fortunate enough to catch a couple of really good rappers from New Jersey today. I'm not much for hip-hop, though I understand why it's so popular right now, but I'm still a sucker for some wimpy dude taking out his frustration on a guitar. That's not my fault. Blame Kurt.

Kurt Cobain, hip-hop icon

The headlining act was particularly good--well, I thought so anyway. I'm not a really good judge of hip-hop music, but I really liked his presense and delivery, and even though the turn out was shitty, he still got everyone who actually showed up really hyped. It's kind of funny how the underground rap movement seems so much like the post-punk / grunge / indie / whatever-the-word-for-it rock movements in the mid- to late '80s. Rock music at that time was all big hair, tricked out groupies, Italian sports cars and snorting lines of coke off of plastic tits. It's good work if you can get it, I suppose, and I'm not even trying to front. The first album I ever bought with my own money was Def Leppard's Hysteria. I had been into more serious metal acts like Metallica and Iron Maiden before that, but my cousin convinced me that they were Satan worshipers, and at that young age, I was afraid I'd go to Hell for listening to such things. I'm still afraid, but at least all my favorite bands will be there.

Unfortunately, all the really exciting stuff to come out of the mid- to late '80s passed me by. I was far too young to be into underground music. I was barely old enough to be into music at all, in any serious capacity. All I really had was the radio and whatever my cousins would listen to when they'd drive me around. In my pre to early teen years, I'd gotten into the hair bands, because that was what was popular. That's what my friends listened to, and even that seemed fringe compared to the Color Me Badds and New Kids on the Blocks of the world. We listened to rock, man, or what we thought was rock, anyway.

I didn't catch wind to the Mudhoneys, Sonic Youths and Nirvanas of the world until they had the spotlight thrown upon them. The first time I heard "Smells Like Teen Spirit," I didn't get it. I didn't understand what the fuss was about. He couldn't even sing. Then one night, sitting in my backyard with my friends and a little battery-powered radio, I heard "Lithium," and as cliche as it sounds, it changed my life. I wouldn't be in the job I'm in now if it wasn't for that song, at that moment. I guess it was the best and worst thing to ever happen to me.

The hair bands were slain by three power chords, and for at least a few years, even corporate rock music seemed like it meant something. The same thing seems to be happening with hip-hop. On the radio, there's nothing but people shouting about the bitches they fuck or the Escalades they drive or how much money they have. It's like hair metal all over again. But the few underground hip-hop shows I have been to and few CDs I own seem to have an energy that I can only imagine must be similar to the shitty little rock clubs of the late '80s. I've even heard lyrics that drop Cobain's name in a verse. It's exciting to see something like that, when you can feel that it's heading somewhere. I just wish it made more sense to me.

last life in the universe

After going to print, I decided to treat myself; I felt overjoyed as a huge weight was lifted off my shoulders, so I went to the supermarket and bought a 12-pack of Miller High Life and a bottle of Canadian whiskey. My sharp focus of drinking away the past week and a half of work in the comfort of my own home, however, blinded me to my need for sustenance. I hadn't eaten since the early afternoon, so it didn't take much to have me whooping and hollering at the TV during two very good episodes of Lost and Alias.

My joy quickly gave way to the vague melancholy that I usually find myself in. I find that I don't like to feel anything too extreme, or anything at all really, which is why i do my best not to get happy, sad or mad about anything, because it doesn't take much for me to go bonkers in either direction. A simple cupcake can send me into an emotional rollercoaster, and frankly, such an ordeal is tiring. Luckily, I found the perfect piece of entertainment to match my mood.

Last Life in the Universe is so subtle, it lulls you into forgetting that you're watching a movie. It's absolutely hypnotic, quirky, charming and quiet. The two beautiful people pictured (Asano Tadanobu on the left and Sinitta Boonyasak on the right) paint heartbreaking portraits of two people who seem on the brink of total collapse. Asano playing a Japanese man (Kenji) living in Thailand under suspect circumstances and Sinitta a tragically disorganized Thai woman (Noi). Kenji is obsessed with suicide, but seems to lack the desire to go through with it. The two are brought together after Noi's sister Nid is killed in an automobile accident. Kenji himself had just witnessed the the death of his own brother.

Though the story is so understated, I thought the film was exceptionally powerful. The way the images are strung together is very subjective. Though they were sometimes surreal, the visuals felt so natural. Kenji and Noi spoke different languages, so in order to communicate they switched from what little Thai or Japanese they knew and broken English. It was little wrinkles like that that really brought the movie to life and makes me want to stop typing about it and watch it again. Asano really is a remarkable actor. Anyone who can go from Kakihara in Ichi the Killer to this role must have serious chops. For her part, Sittina was awesome in this, her first role--at least according to imdb.com, and I usually take their word as gospel (like you don't). It was hard to tell if she was acting or just sort of caught on camera; she was also all sorts of pretty, and that never hurts. I think I found another one to put on the list. How many is that now?

I also learned how to text wrap, kinda, and it only took me all night!

movie geek

The Ring really opened up my eyes to Japanese horror films, and foreign films in general. Honestly, I've only seen the American version. I thought it was pretty scary and figured it best to leave well enough alone; however, it helped open up a whole world of movies that I hadn't considered before. There seems to be a similar, quiet pacing to the Japanese horror films (and also with those from South Korea); they're doing a lot more with atmosphere as opposed to big budgets and flashy tricks, and that's what I appreciate. Ju-On, the Japanese film remade in America as The Grudge, almost literally scared the shit out of me, but I'm pretty squeamish when it comes to horror films. I don't know why I watch so many, to be honest.

Dark Water is one of my favorite horror movies, and I was leery about the American remake. The adaptations of Ju-On and The Ring were both really well done, but I was worried that they're going to the well too many times. But then they got Jennifer Connelly who's just dreamy, and seems to be getting dreamier with age, and I was happy to see that Walter Salles is directing. Salles directed The Motorcycle Diaries, which I just saw for the first time last night, and I thought it was beautifully done--really striking and visual.

The Motorcycle Diaries is about a young Che Guevara, a brilliant South American revolutionary who now appears on T-shirts of kids who own multiple Graphix bongs and live in dorms. A sad fate to be sure, but I'm not holding that against him. Gael Garcia Bernal is really intense as Guevara, and the camera work is stunning--highly recommended, especially if you like road movies or are looking to start a popular uprising. Either way is cool with me.

So now I'm looking forward to Dark Water, which I hope turns out okay. Honestly, I'd go see it just for Jennifer Connelly, but, y'know, it'd be cool if it didn't suck.

showcase

At the behest of Counting Backwards resident banner maker, please find below, for your viewing pleasure, a selection of fine works that allow the creator of this site to fool BlogExplosion members into stopping by, driving up traffic numbers and thereby validating his existence. Perhaps you're reading this after clicking one of said banners. If so, welcome, and please feel free to look around--but don't break anything.

Star Wars

Baby Jesus

In Memorium

...

Hunter S. Thompson commits suicide at age 67.

retail hell

One of my regular reads, Michelle, recently posted some of the joys of working retail (and by "joys," I mean "agonies"), which reminded me of some of my trials and tribulations as a tiny tooth on one of the countless cogs in this great big machine called capitalism. Here's one such character building experience:

For five years, I worked at a comic book store, which is the pimple on the ass of America's retail beast. Basically, people who work at comic book stores only do so because they are hopelessly addicted to comics and can't afford to support their habits otherwise. Most comic book store employees tithe roughtly 80 percent of their pay checks back to the store. In fact, I don't think any comic book store could keep itself in business with out its employees. These establishments also act as refuge to people so tragically geeky, society shuns them, or at least their fascination with four color images. Most comic book fans can function in the outside world, but must, like a vampire returning to its coffin at sunrise, shamble regularly into their prefered shop to discuss why Jack Kirby deserves more credit for the Marvel Universe than Stan Lee and why Joel Schumacher should be shot for the last two Batman films. (Oh, and by most "comic book store employees," I mean "me.")

Anyway, I don't want to get off topic. I worked at a comic book store around the time the new Star Wars figures for the special editions of A New Hope, The Empire Strikes Back and Return of the Jedi came out. For those of you who are not collectors, these little trinkets caused quite a stir in the geek community. People used to come in bragging how they had an "in" at Toys R Us who could hook them up with the rarest of the rare. It was that bonkers. As a comic book store, we had to pay retail price for our Star Wars figures, because we couldn't afford to order in the same kind of numbers that the big chain toy stores and big box stores could. The disadvantage being they were expensive for us to get, but the advantage was we could order which specific figures we wanted and could mark them up according to book value, as found in bullshit publications like ToyFare.

Still there?

I was working one Sunday morning, by myself, while our store was still located in the local mall (I could go on about that place, but perhaps another time), and an obviously frazzled mom entered with her rambunctious youngster. She didn't want to be there--most women who enter comic book stores don't want to be there. I don't mean that to be sexist; women know better. The little boy saw our selection of Star Wars figures in the front display case.

"Mommy! MOMMY!!! C-3PO!!!"

I knew this could only end badly.

"Okay," she said despondently. She then inspected the figure and looked up at me to ask "Why is this $18.00?"

I explained to her what I'd just written in the paragraph above, even though I wasn't supposed to say that stuff to customers, but I'd rather her be pleased by our service then feel like I'd ripped her off.

Me: "Look, we sell these things to collectors. Some figures are rarer than others, and sometimes collectors will pay more for the figures they want. Plus, we have to pay retail for them, so we have to mark them up. If you go to Kay-Bee or something, you might not find this figure, but if you do, it'll be much cheaper. The people who buy the toys here usually never take them out of the box...They're collectors, and they're all fucking insane. (I didn't really say that italicized part, but I was thinking it really loudly.)"

Boy: "MOMMY!!! MOMMY!!! C-3PO!!!"

Mom: "Fine, I'll buy it."

Me: "Okay."

I rang her up. She paid by credit card. It was a slow day, and we needed the sale. I did everything short of punching her in the face to get her not to buy the thing. I figured that was the end of it. But no...

I was reading a "graphic novel" (big lame ass geek for "comic book") when I heard something slap against the counter top. I look up and it's mom and kid and now two C-3PO figures.

She looked at the figures with a smirk, then looked at me, with the same fucking smirk.

Me: "Yeah?"

Mom: [so fucking smug] "I found it at Kay-Bee for five bucks."

Like I was going to give her a fucking medal.

Me: "Okay."

I didn't even bother with the "I told you so." I just wanted her to go away and take her smug grin and shrieking munchkin with her.

Mom: "I want my money back."

Me: [so fucking smug] "I'm sorry, ma'am, but we don't give refunds on credit card purchases, I can give you store credit, though."

Revenge! Believe me, at that job, those tiny victories were the only thing that kept you going at $5.65 an hour. Anytime I get all butt hurt about my current job, I think back to moments like that, take a deep breath, and stress out anyway. But it's still better than working retail.

worry about it later

[photo: Georgios M. W.]

On Friday, I got a call--another ex-roommate was coming into town with his girlfriend. I seem to have a lot of ex-roommates. I guess it should be a sign of how wonderful I am to live with that they all keep coming back, wanting to hang out.

Of course, this meant that me and Sparky were going to have to be prepared. I don't think he minds so much anymore; he knows his time is short. We're both just trying to make the best of it, my liver and I.

It turned out a whole bunch of people came into town this weekend, which I would normally enjoy, but on this particular weekend, I was flat out of cash. Since Monday, I've been below $20 in my bank account, which has prevented me from asking the ATM for more money--it dispenses its life giving cash in increments of 20 only.

But it's only money--I've never had much use for it. I'd rather not have it, which may be why I'm so bad with it. My poor handling of money isn't entirely my fault; I don't make that much, and what I do make goes to pay back the fucking government for sending me to college--eight years that will take the rest of my life to pay off.

But, again, it's only money. This weekend was a lot of fun and taught me how resourceful I can be--especially if I want to get blind drunk, which I spent a good portion of the weekend doing. I couldn't afford much food, which turned out for the best; whatever scraps I mustered couldn't stand up to the stiff, pint-sized rum and cokes I got at the local watering hole. Luckily, I had left over pizza, provisions to make a tuna fish sandwich and a credit card with just enough room on it to afford me a bomb-ass 2:30pm breakfast this late afternoon. I really can't complain. I don't have to sleep outside in the rain.

uh huh, her

She really needs to eat a sandwich, but PJ Harvey is one of the sexiest women on the planet. I love the way she sings and how her voice sounds carniverous--like she eats raw meat naked and lets the juices ooze all over her scrawny, waifish body...artistically speaking of course. It's all about the music here. Melissa auf der Maur has the same appeal, but she's a lot prettier, and though still rocking, just not as good.



Polly Jean's latest album, Uh Huh Her, is really good; it only took the first raw, buzzing guitar riff from the opening track to hook me. I'd only heard bits and pieces of her work up until then--I'd only owned To Bring You My Love, which I think may have been her most popular album--and I was thoroughly impressed. Today, our office jukebox was being very nice and played the entirety of Stories from the City, Stories from the Sea, and it made me wish I wasn't so broke. "The Whores Hustle and The Hustlers Whore" is downright lurid--really, really good stuff. Made it hard to concentrate on the job.

Polly, the Philly cheesesteak's on its way.

egon spengler, stalker

I'd just gotten done with an interview at a coffee shop on campus--talking to some frat kid. He was nice enough and the interview went well, though not exactly exciting, not that I expected it to be. But I did my job, the kid and I shook hands, and he left the table to, I presume, put another tough week of school behind him and get a head start on getting buxom sorority girls to sleep with him. I collected my tape recorder, note pad, seriously cumbersome rain coat and prepared to get continue my day of staring at a computer screen, being emo and without the possibility of getting buxom sorority girls to sleep with me.

One my way out the door, I was confronted with creepiness when an old dude with long wavy gray hair and a shocking resemblance to Egon Spengler felt the need to talk to me. Our conversation went something like this:

Egon: [while flipping through his textbook, to me as I'm walking out] "You get any good information out of him?"

Me: [surprised by the unsolicitated and random question (mind you, Egon was sitting well across the coffee shop from the frat boy and I, so he must have really been listening to know I was conducting an interview)] "Uh...yeah. It went okay."

Egon: [is looking at me]

Me: [thinking he's going to say something, trying to be polite]

Egon: [still looking at me]

Me: [trying to make the best of an awkward social situation] Uh...I'm J. [extend handshake]

Egon: [looking all weird and condescending, shakes my hand] I think we met two years back. [we didn't; to my knowledge I've never met Egon, nor his longer-haired clone]

Me: [lying] It's possible. ... Have a good one.

Of course, I left the coffee shop paranoid. I'll make sure I draw the curtains so Egon can't peek in my windows. Ew.

no, i'm pretty much always this lucky

My shitty day of self-loathing seemed to improve after work. I had a great meeting about a group creative project, and I'm really excited about doing something. It's not really my thing, meaning that it's not something I came up with or will have a big part in, but I'm happy to not be such an obsessive control freak and learn from watching--plus it sounds like it's going to be a whole lot of fun, and whatever I can do will, I hope, make me feel like I've accomplished something. Or at the very least, helped see something through to completion. I'm a terrible finisher when left to my own devices. Give me a deadline, and I'll stress like no other, but I'll get the job done every time, which is good seeing as I'm in the publication business.

On the creative front, this group project is just one of two things (I know I'm being vague, but I don't want to jinx it; I'll be more forthcoming if everything comes together) that I wish I had more time to be excited about. I've been so busy with more tedious things, that I haven't had a chance to get caught up in either, which may be for the best. In any case, as much as I hate myself and everything else at times, I couldn't be more excited about where my life is headed; I just wish it would get there already. (Did that sound convincing?)

Anyway, today was one of the bad days. Being the happy smiley nice guy all the time isn't easy. Sometimes I just want to tell everyone to go fuck themselves. I spent a good portion of the day taking deep breaths and cursing under my breath for no apparent reason. It was as if I just wanted to start screaming, and as previously reported, I couldn't stop my legs from shaking (like they are now). I actually got a lot of stuff done; but still, I felt frustrated and just kind of down. The meeting helped and afterwards, a couple of us decided to watch a movie, but we ended up deciding to forget the movie and play Burnout 3 on PlayStation 2 instead. The console was set up in such a way that required the three of us to change seats everytime we took the controller. Crashing my virtual car into other virtual cars and hollering about it was really cathartic, and I was glad I'd decided to stick around. Unfortunately, as I was moving to sit down and take control, I accidentally sat on the cord for the controller--the room was dark, and I know I need new glasses--which pulled the console off of it's perch and crashed it to the floor.

I think the thing got fucked up pretty good. It still played the game fine, but I think the one of the ports for the memory card and controller may have been damaged. I felt awful; I try my best to be careful with other people's things. I apologizes profusely and said I'd let him have my own PS2, but he refused. He said it was an accident and he was meaning to get one of the new ones anyway.

I could tell he really meant it when he said it was no big deal. If it were my PS2 and someone damaged it on accident, I'd refuse to take another one as a replacement, too, but I still felt like an idiot.

mush

My social duty kept me from watching Syd and her sister engage in a wet-suited cat fight on last night's episode of Alias. I had to tape it so I could go to see a couple bands at this smelly bar. I'm flat broke, so I had to use my credit card to get drinks, which could be seen as a sign of desperation, and it is, but rock shows and alcohol have become synonymous. I used to stay dry at shows, but at some point, I stopped. It was worrysome at first until I realized that it's just simply what I do now. I drink.

I don't think I'm an alcoholic, and that's not denial. Unfortunately, it's a no-win situation. If I say I'm an alcoholic, I am, and if I say I'm not, I'm denying that I am. I'll admit to being a social drunk. I rarely go out without drinking, but I don't grab for a bottle of Jim Beam when I wake up in the morning, so I think I'm doing okay.

Four pints of Guinness came to 16 bucks and I tacked on a four dollar tip; I didn't catch a buzz, but it made me tired and bloated. I also spilled a bunch while clapping, initially unbeknownst to me, all over my jacket.

Last night's shitty, rainy weather gave way to a beautiful day today--must have been in the 70s--which awoke the tiny flies that come out in the spring and gather in the doorways of the stores downtown. They just kind of buzz around and disappear a few weeks later. A few of them got into the office today and instinctively gathered by the door to the main room--three of them circling around each other in a random pattern. One of those little guys just got trapped in my arm hair. It must have known I was talking about it.

I can't stop my leg from shaking; it makes the toys on the bookshelf in front of me squeak in their plastic packages. It's really annyoing, but I can't stop doing it anyway.

God, that's so annoying.

mr. sandman must have been on angel dust

In Iraq, presumably on vacation. I'm with some people from work, I think, and I comment how much Iraq looks like California. I can see palm trees. We're in a fast food restaurant/deli kind of place and I'm ordering food. Many of the people there are American, though the girl behind the counter appears to be a native of the country who speaks perfect english. It turns out that my card is no good--came up declined--and she hands it back to me all torn up.

I wonder why, but I'm not too upset, and the manager, I think, let me have the food anyway. Outside, an overweight, ugly blonde woman in a large blue T-shirt, black sweat shorts and sandals is calling the people walking around--many of whom Iraqi dressed in typical American clothes--heathens and other harsh slurs. I yell at her that if she doesn't like the country, she should leave.

Now I'm in a room, still in Iraq, with my sister and her boyfriend. My sister has a pet Cheetah; it's a lithe, but scruffy little thing and its behavior is sort of erratic. I play with the cheetah for a bit. The room has one big single window that almost goes ceiling to floor and it's rather large. After playing catch with the cheetah, I get a call from my cousin--he tells me he's at the frontlines and ready to be deployed for battle. I notice the palm trees and the sunny sky outside.

Then, the room is filled with people--work associates and friends and family from back east, so I think. I realize all these people haven't met before, so I attempt to introduce them. Everyone is seated on things akin to highschool gym bleachers which line the walls. As I walk around, I realize that I don't know everyone, and I'm fumbling over names and mistaking identities. People are quickly losing interest, and I get occasionally interrupted. The last interruption came when I see that they're giving gifts to an old woman--someone's grandmother--for her birthday. I have to stop with the introductions and I'm seemingly impatient. "This shouldn't take too long," one of my girl friends from New York whispers in my ear.

---

[This is kinda graphic--you might not want to read this part. I'm going to be tasteful as possible]

I'm watching a movie at some outdoor picnic. I think it's about Vietnam. There's one scene in a village and a young woman is in a shack. I must have seen the movie before, because I know that she's smuggling explosives.

They cut to a previous scene that features the young woman inserting hand grenades into her vagina, but the act is pixelated, so our view of it is obscured. In the next scene, there's a closeup of a single grenade pin falling on a ratty wooden floor.

I tell the person sitting next to me:

"Did you see that they blurred that out? It's like the difference between 'Skin-emax' and porn [for those who might not know, 'Skin-emax' is slang for cable network Cinemax's late night movie selection, which usually involves softcore pornography; it can be applied to any softcore pornography of low quality]. Showing penetration makes it pornography. If the movie came on later, we probably would have seen it."

our friend, the cuttlefish

If you say it real fast, cuttlefish kinda sounds like 'cuddlefish,' which I think is a good description of this marvelous critter. I saw a special on Nova once about squids and octupi and such, and this deep-sea darling was also featured.

Cuttlefish are the most beguiling of cephalopods and are known as "the chamelions of the sea." They are closely related to octopi, but unlike octopi, cuttlefish can be kept as pets (apparently, a domesticated octipus will try to plan its own escape). According to Wikipedia:

Domestic cuttlefish are very reminiscent of domestic cats, even exhibiting cat-like habits such as resting, pouncing on moving prey, begging owners for food, and even begging for more food than they need or is healthy for them. Like cats, cuttlefish are not truly tame, but rather tolerate and cooperate with their owners to live a comfortable life. But unlike cats, cuttlefish will try to eat other cuttlefish.

Fascinating. Also, it's interesting to note that Whyalla in South Australia is known as "the Cuttlefish Capital of the World." And you thought your hometown was spiffy. While cuttlefish are caught and eaten by pesky humans, its most sought after commodity is its cuttlebone, which is an excellent source of calcium and bill-sharpener for pet parakeets.

our friend, the sea urchin

Since it'd become the subject of debate, and seeing as I'm unable to go to sleep early like I'd planned, I dug up some interesting facts about the sea urchin as they relate to my recent sushi experience.Wikipedia rocks.

Lets cut through all that fancy scientifical mumbo jumbo. Are they poisonous?

The spines, which in some species are long and sharp, serve to protect the urchin from predators. Sea urchins feed mainly on algae. The spines can inflict a painful wound on a human who steps on one, but they are not seriously dangerous and it is not clear that the spines are truly venomous (unlike the pedicellariae between the spines, which are).

Hmm...interesting, but just what part of the urchin does the uni come from?

Humans consume the reproductive organs ("roe") either raw or briefly cooked. Sea urchin roe is a popular food in Korean cuisine, and it is called "uni" in Japanese sushi cuisine.

Great! Thanks for clearing that up.

letting the penguins love on valentine's day, showering dead icons in gold and another sad loss

I think they make a beautiful couple. Keep fighting the power, brave gay penguins!

---

I didn't even know the Grammys were last night, and really, it's kind of my job to know. I missed the whole thing. I found out that the Grammys had passed when a coworker asked me who won at the Grammys. I said Ray Charles without even looking, and sure enough...

Ray Charles was an amazing performer, with a slew of well-deserved Grammys to his credit. It just seems that giving him eight more awards after his passing is less about the music and more about the record industry patting itself on the back. It doesn't cheapen Charles' career, no wack ass industry suit could do that, but it does tarnish some of his accolades. What does the award mean if it's swayed by sympathies and not actual merit?

It'd be nice to see the Grammys actually become more relevant and give kudos to artists who are innovative and--no offence, Ray--alive. Maybe then I'd watch.

---

I was sad to hear that Ossie Davis had passed away. It happened on Feb. 4th, but I didn't hear about it until just this weekend. He was a wonderful actor with an amazing speaking voice. Anyone who was respected enough to have delivered Malcolm X's eulogy and also had a good enough sense of humor to portray a man who believed he was John F. Kennedy, co-starring with Bruce Campbell in Bubba Ho-tep, is okay by me.



RIP, Ossie.

don't be afraid to try new things, unless they're icky

I went a local Japanese restaurant for dinner with my ex-roommate. We're both novices at the Japanese food thing, which is what I like about it. It's all so new and exciting. We were looking over the menu, and I'd been there a few more times than she was, so I was pointing out somethings that I'd tried before. We found a type of sushi called uni, which is made of sea urchin. I pointed it out to her on the menu.

"I wonder what urchin tastes like?" I asked sort of rhetorically.

"Ooh! Isn't that the stuff that can kill you?" she shot back, looking a bit too excited by the prospect. I'm not sure if it can kill you, but it certainly added an extra danger to the dish--whether it was real or imagined.

"I don't know," I answered. "But we have to try it."



The waitress came over and we started ordering; we got one of the house special rolls, hirame (halibut), unagi (fresh water eel) maguro sashimi and asked for an order of uni. The waitress said, "Hold on a second," and then called into the kitchen. She then reported back from the chef that they were all out of sea urchin. We were visably disappointed.

"Have you ever had urchin before?" the waitress asked.

We said no, but we were curious, so we wanted to try it. The waitress said, "It feels like tongue. I ate it once on a dare."

We weren't so disappointed after that. Though after drinking the liter-sized bottle of Asahi, I'm sure I could've handled that urchin no problem.

in da club

[photo: Carl Dwyer]


For the second night in a row, I went to the college meat market because a friend of mine was in town. I used to spend a lot of time there, but now I prefer the local watering hole because it's dark and more geared toward people who want to drown their sorrows in alcohol--and I mean that in the most positive way imaginable.

The college meat market is a reminder of my waning youth and all but faded cool. I didn't have much to spare as it was, but now that I'm getting on in years, I look more like "that creepy old guy" than just another face in the crowd.

I talked to some woman with Tourette's--she'd just taken her LSAT. Her friend said that "The younger they are, the less clothes they wear," referring to the other females in the crowd. I wondered if the same rule applied to men, because the slight drizzle had driven me to slump into my giant, thigh-length, rain-repelling jacket. I didn't want to catch a chill.

While I was on line outside, waiting to get in, three young co-eds waiting behind me discussed some guy that they were going to meet up with. One of the women, the one who had made plans with the guy, made it known that she was clearly attracted to this fellow, but not all to thrilled about the prospect of the relationship.

One of her friends asked, "So is this like just a kissing and some dick-touching thing?"

She answered, "Well, yeah, I guess so."

I think the groundhog was wrong. Spring came early this year.

---

From my fortune cookie: "Your joy is your sorrow unmasked."

Harsh.

call me, hot stuff

Clearly, my Lost obsession is many levels deep. The most obvious and perhaps petty of them being the cast is populated with freakishly hot women. Of course, Kate is close to the top of the list.



The actress who plays Kate, Evangeline Lilly--attractive in her own right--is almost as hot as the character she portrays. Evangeline is pretty, Kate requires girlish squealing and a cold shower. She's at the tops of my fictional character crushes, and currently ranks as the woman I'd most like to save me from drowning. I've put way to much thought into this.

She was totally unknown before Lost. So much so that she did late night dating line commercials. As a terminal insomniac, late night infomercials (I'm watching one now about investing in real estate) and dating line commercials are a part of my vernacular, and you can imagine my bleary, semi-drunken surprise the first time I saw Kate, though not all drenched and sweaty and stuff, smiled and said "Call me."

"Call me, J. Call me."

She didn't actually use my name, but I know she meant to...She meant to.

warm wishes from a small town

Earlier this week, I was told the story of a local business woman who had a plan to help our community's homeless. She would befriend a homeless person, take him/her down to the bus stop, buy the person a ticket to Los Angeles and make sure they got on the bus. One less person on the streets--our streets anyway. At least it's not in our backyard. A real humanitarian.

like he was in a fulci movie

Showtime at the Apollo has always been one of my favorite shows, but more for the audience than the performances. I've been watching it as long as I've watched Saturday Night Live, but even now that I don't watch that show anymore, I'll still watch Apollo when I get home from the bars. Though the show often features some mindboggling undiscovered talent, the people packed into the seats of the Apollo Theater steal the show. They're there to be entertained, and so many amazing performers have graced the stage, you'd better fucking bring it. My favorite part of the show is amateur night. A performer, usually a vocalist, will launch into their song, and there's about a 10 second pause. It must feel like a decade to the performer. In that short time, the audience makes their decision and their verdict is delivered. Simon Cowell ain't got nothing on the Apollo.

Tonight, I stumbled home in time to catch the Apollo, and knew right away that it was a re-run, because it featured two performances by Houston, who if you didn't know, is pretty fucked up. Dude gouged out is own eye. I can't even get eyedrops without flailing at the optometrist.

From Soundgenerator.com:

The musician's bodyguard Marco Powell looked in on Houston shortly after the balcony incident. "I went to check on him before going to bed and I saw blood on the floor," said Powell. "Houston was lying on his bed with a towel over his face and I removed the towel to find his eye hanging out. He said he had to get the devil off of his back and that's the only way he could kill the devil."

Pretty hardcore. Good thing the Apollo audience gave him some applause.

fresh coat of paint

Woo! New look, same bullshit. Thanks to Strange Things sexy-ass MILF R. for making my blog look all swank (with my visionary guidance) and only being made mildly homicidal by my incompetence.

all i want for christmas

I was about 25 when I admitted to myself I was going bald. Really, I knew it was happening before that, I'd just gotten back from a hair cut and when I looked in the mirror, I saw it. I tried to brush it--maybe it was clumped...

It wasn't clumped. There wasn't enough of it to clump. Not in the front anyway. What was worse, it wasn't as much receding as it was falling out in patches--incongruous patches. I think I stared at the mirror for a while, distraught.

My life up until that point had been a battle with my hair. It was always a sort of bane. Unruly, irregularly curled--just a mess. I tried to keep it short, then I tried to go long, then I went shorter than the last time. It really didn't matter. It'd grow back like a Chia Pet only getting sun on one side. I spent the majority of my high school and college years in a baseball cap. It was better that way, even if I did get sweaty.

But that day, my hair had played it's cruelest trick of all. It refused to grow back. Later that night I decided to just get rid of it. Shave it off--except for some stubble, I didn't want to Bic it--and show the march of time that I was still the boss of my scalp.

It turned out to be one of my better decisions--I think I've made about four good ones in my life--after the purchase of a trusty hair buzzer (just $15), I haven't had to spend money on expensive shampoos or haircuts. A beany was required for winters, it gets cold up there, but otherwise, it's been smooth sailing ever since.

Until last week when my trusty buzzer gave out. It rattles and snorts and buzzes super loud and erratic. The sound echoes in my head. It makes my brain scream. I've been unable to use it, but I've also been unable to go out to the store and buy a new one, and now the hair is marching back in full force, everywhere but the top and front of course. Worst of all, it's really itchy; the baseball cap's come back and so has the forehead sweat. At night, right before I fall asleep, I swear I can hear those follicles laughing.

it's definitely only three days to valentine's day

I think my legs are sore because I ran home from the bars. I was hanging out in this crowded back patio place--I was by myself for a time, but only because I thought I'd be meeting up with people there. I had just gotten out of a meeting for a creative project that seems very exciting, but they always seem exciting. I'm trying not to put any stock in it just yet.

I hadn't been out since last Wed. and I really don't count that because I was sick the whole time. I basically went bar hopping and sweated and tried not to pass out. It was fun, but I felt miserable, and I didn't really drink all that much.

But tonight, before I get too far away from the point, I was sitting in a seriously crowded back patio area, because I was told that this was the spot everyone was going to tonight. And indeed, it was hopping with people. Unfortunately, I didn't know a single one of them. Lingering on the outskirts and trying not to stare at the girl in the red jumpsuit (she was a pretty girl but God, this thing was hideous--and mesmerizing--in between staring lewdly and repulsively, I tried to figure out how she got into this thing as there were no discernible buttons or zippers), I eventually worked my way over to an empty table, where I settled with my dirt cheap Captain and coke (they were on special).

The DJs were blasting reggae. I love Bob Marley, "Redemption Song" chokes me up, but I can do without most reggae, really, especially the shit they play at dance clubs. I think it's a moving form of music, but I haven't heard any artists that really do anything with it but sing about weed and thump the bass. I'm sure there are plenty of good reggae artists still out there, but unfortunately, I haven't heard them.

Shortly thereafter, a group of people I knew rolled in and spotted me sitting off in the corner. They waved and headed over to the bar to get drinks. Before they made it back to the table, a rather attractive woman--tall, dark-skinned, well dressed and athletic--came over to my table and asked if she could sit down. I said sure, and she took a chair and scooted it off to the side. It looked like she'd been dancing and was just looking for a break. She went right to her cell phone and I went straight back to my drink, which had been neglected long enough.

After she got off the phone she asked me how I was doing. I probably answered "good." I'm not much for small talk, but I was happy that she'd said hello. She was dancing in her chair so I asked her if she was having a good time, and she smiled and nodded. We got into a brief conversation that ended shortly before the people I knew coming over to the table. Upon their arrival, the woman took that as her cue to get up; she said thanks and headed off back to the dance floor.

---

I found out today that the last woman I fooled around with is getting married. She called me--we're friends; it was only a one time thing--and told me how he proposed and that they already set a date for later this year because she doesn't want to have to wait until March. This seems par for the course. The woman I was with before that got married to the next guy she dated--in fact, I believe she started dating him while she was messing around with me. I was on vacation at the time. I guess that kinda sucks now that I read that.

out to pasture

It's over.

My body has had enough--I'm convinced. Two-and-a-half bottles of High Life and a shot of VO. That's all. Maybe Lost and Alias ran me ragged. One minute I was sitting down on the couch, watching the menu for Northfork cycle through. I selected Dolby Surround, Main Menu, Play Movie. It wasn't even midnight.

And then it was 7:30 am--glasses still on, TV still on, Xbox still on, computer still on. Lights? Yup. Them too. Unlike last night, there were no visions of sugar plums; no flying or carousing with beautiful women. Just blank, empty sleep.

I pulled myself off the (no)love seat in the living room and made it into bed. My room was freezing because I didn't get to put on the space heater. My bed was even colder. Eventually, my shivering generated enough heat to make things comfortable, and I went back to sleep--only to wake up seconds before my alarm went off. Thursday's looking to be a good one.

in brief 2

It must have been Carnivale, but I kept waking in and out of vivid dreams last night. None of them were particularly bad. In fact, as dreams go, they were pretty good. Hanging out with old friends, meeting beautiful women, flying around dark mansions and the like. All in all, I can't complain. I wasn't getting covered in spiders or anything. I think I was afraid of not hearing my alarm, so I never really committed to sleeping. I guess I needed space.

the Q isn't a river in egypt

I feel my body craving NyQuil gel caps. The residual warm, swoony blood feeling is starting to subside and that irks me.

Last night was my first experience sleeping beneath an Egyptian cotton blanket, and I must say it was a positive experience. I suppose I'd expect nothing less than a culture that produced the Pyramids and hieroglyphics. It's good to know that one of the birthplaces of civilization is still setting the standard for the rest of the world. I was skeptical at first, because of all the hype, and then when I pulled the blanket from the blanket baggy, I scoffed at the thin, kinda brittle-ish fabric, but once my head was swimming with the Q and I slipped under the covers...well, now I know what Gwen Stefani was rapping about in "Luxurious."

And if it's good enough for Gwen...



...I suppose it's good enough for me too.

sigh*

message in a bottle

I can't sit still without falling asleep lately. Anytime I pop on a movie, I'm out--then I have to back track to see what I missed. It's a bit of a pain in the ass.

Still, I can never get to bed early. I just popped a couple of NyQuils--there's still some residual stuffiness--so it's just a matter of time before I pass out. I have an early interview tomorrow, so I have to get up on time. I just finished watching the movie, and it was good, but right towards the end, it became impossible to keep my eyes open. I think I watched the ending four times. I'd blink, just close my eyes for a second, I thought, and when I opened them again, the credits were rolling.

---

I got a group of packages from my parents--all the Christmas gifts that I didn't have room to take on the plane. They also sent me a bunch of VHS tapes that I wasn't able to move out to California with me. A lot of them are way old, and I wonder if they still work. I got the full series of The Maxx cartoon that I'd recorded from MTV, as well as a bunch of bootleg anime that I'd bought at comic conventions and at this mall in Chinatown. The place was recommened to me by a customer of the comic book store I used to work at. The store was a mall type place in the heart of Chinatown, just off of Broadway and a few blocks away from the N/R train stop. All the stores are really small and are packed with colorful Asian pop culture paraphernalia. On the second floor, which is downstairs, there was this tiny video store that was basically a couple of racks of VHS tapes on each side and a countertop. The guy who worked the place barely spoke english, but I think he'd seen enough geeky white kids to know what I was looking for. I'd ask him what anime he had and he'd take out a binder that held the covers of everything he had in stock, which was pretty extensive. I'd just point to titles and he'd go back behind the counter and get them. I couldn't read the names of most of the titles, but I'd look for familiar characters. It was something like five dollars a tape--most of which were copied for laserdisc and poorly subtitled with lots of misspellings, but it was better than paying $29.99 for them.

I never really thought if what I was doing was legal or not, but I needed to get my fix and I was on a budget. That's one of the things I miss most about New York. You can get whatever you want for really cheap if you just look hard enough.

i'm super, thanks for asking

I didn't really care who won the game, but I'm glad this year's Super Bowl was a good one. I figured the Patriots would take it, but I thought they'd win by a larger margin. I have to say, though I'm a die-hard New York Giants fan, I was kind of pulling for the Eagles, even though I hate them very, very much. I'm a Syracuse fan in college football, and I remember watching Donovan McNabb play QB there, so for his sake, I was kinda hoping the Eagles would pull it out. I think that they would have too if it wasn't for the shitty clock management at the end of the game. I don't know if it was McNabb's fault or the coaches', but someone fucked up big-time there, which was easy for me to say sitting in my rocking chair with a bottle of Miller High Life.

The other side of the coin, the commercials, were neither spectacularly good nor bad, but there were a couple of stand-outs. There seemed to be a theme this year; I noticed a couple of the commercials kinda poked fun at commercials and the elements needed for a successful one. Most notably, there was a hillarious FedEx Kinko's ad that ran through the 10 things that make for a memorable commercial including talking animals, kicks to the groin, attractive women and celebrities. I think it was my favorite, but my pervert side gave two big thumbs up to the commercial for Godaddy.com, a cheap dot-com domain registry service, that pushed executives buttons (apparently, the spot was supposed to be run twice, but Fox execs put the kablooey on it after it ran during the first quarter). It was clearly gratuitous, but kinda made a statement by doing so, I thought. But beyond that, it featured an impossibly buxom brunette shaking her ample goodies, and who doesn't want to see that? You know you do.

The Emerald Nuts commercial with the unicorn was pretty dope, too.

The commercials have become such a part of the entertainment of the game, that I don't mind that they're just trying to get me to spend money on stuff. It kinda irks me that last night's local news had four stories about how expensive Super Bowl commercial time is, like I didn't realize that already. I just wish Budweiser would resurrect the Bud Bowl, already.



What are they waiting for? Bottles with lil helmets? Playing football? C'mon! Genius!

the long arm of the law

We ventured east into the foothills today on a sort of traveling car party. It was a beautiful day, over 60 degrees, even at higher elevations, and since the four of us and the dog weren't able to go into the zoo like we'd planned, we embarked on a bit of an adventure. The three of them smoked a lot of weed and hash, which is fine by me. Even though I gave that shit up a long time ago, I still like the smell, and the smoke doesn't bother me. The dog didn't mind either. She took turns laying on my lap or on the lap of the other guy in the back seat--she was our canine pimp.

The roads through the foothills are narrow, bumpy and windy, and a bunch of houses are spread out and rickety and all have suspect shacks. California produces a lot of meth.

The foothills--at least this area of the foothills--are kinda scenic, but they're also pretty ghetto. They're the kind of place you'd see on an episode of Cops. The officer behind the wheel would say, "it's pretty quiet, but we get a lot of tweakers and meth labs blowing up. Right now I've got to go down to break up another domestic dispute. The husband's abusive, but she's always taking him back. There's not much we can really do about it."


[from the Daily Lobo, University of New Mexico Independent Student Paper]

I just finished watching two episodes of Cops, which has been on the air forever. America must have an obsession with crack addicts in their underwear and dudes with tazers.

We were driving in this giant old Dodge truck that looked like it'd be perfect for moving crank; we weren't though, we were just trying to find this mountain spot that I really like. It's got all these chunks of volcanic looking rocks and in the spring and summer, it has all these little purple and yellow flowers. I thought the stoners would appreciate it.

There's no real sign for the place, and there's this barbed wire fence around the place, but the only way you'd know it's okay for you to go there is that there's this gravel parking lot right outside. The flowers didn't bloom yet, and there was all these lumps of cow shit, which kinda put a damper on things. We walked around a bit and found ourselves in a cow pasture, and I wondered if we were in the right spot. There was this one cow a bit away from the herd that stared at us when we crossed into his path. She didn't look too happy about it. I realized we were in the right space when I found a yellow sign that said "you are exiting state land" or something like that, so we left the cows behind, moved back to the public land, gazed off into the distance and eventually just headed back to the car.

Afterwards, we hit up an Indian casino for the buffet and ate a lot of bland food and of course prime rib, which I think is only available at weddings and casino buffets. The chocolate mousse was excellent, though.

satan rocks!

I spent a good portion of the day listening to IRON MAIDEN (caps mine). Look, MAIDEN rocks. I think they're the band I've listened to the longest in my life, and they're the only band that it's okay if you wear their shirt to their concerts.

I have a hard time picking out which MAIDEN album I like the best, but right now, it's the Seventh Son of a Seventh Son, not only does it have their only pop song--"Can I Play with Madness?"--but it's also MAIDEN at their most detached from reality. It's like a D&D campaign set to music. The only albums that can even come close are Helloween's Keeper of the Seven Keys parts one and two, which are close to the pinnacle of sword and sorcery metal--so much so that I actually did base a D&D campaign on them (there it is, I'm a recovering Dungeon Master). That's pretty hardcore (lame).

But MAIDEN is a band so fucking powerful, they have their own Armor Class (and I'd bet it's pretty damn low, too, by the old rules as R has informed me)--Seventh Son of a Seventh Son illustrates a band of swarth heroes (MAIDEN) who have reached polymath levels in their magical skills. Bruce Dickinson sounds so damn sincere singing about sorcerers and dragons and demons and shit that you can't help but want to drink grog and save lasses and Steve Harris' galloping bass lines make me feel like I'm trampling into battle on my faithful gryphon steed. For those reasons, it makes it really difficult to listen to in the work place...I really wanna do that stuff. I can slay things. Really!

This isn't some wannabe kitschy, ironic shit, either. I really like this stuff, even if it is born out of some 13-year-old boy's masturbatory fantasy. I think I was 13 when I heard them the first time, and I haven't looked back since, no matter how many people gave me funny looks as I sang that shit while driving my car. Live After Death changed my life. Thanks, MAIDEN.

man or mouse?

Hey, Bookfraud and Michelle. Thanks for your comments to the last post. They got me thinking about stuff, so I thought I'd just answer like this...I swear I'll go back to posting pictures of hot chicks soon.

I had a class on author Salman Rushdie back in 2001. Coincidentally, we were assigned to read his book The Satanic Verses the same week of 9/11. The book is about belief--well, it's about a lot of things really, but, maybe because of what had happened, belief really stuck out the most.

There is a character in the novel, Tavleen--a woman who hijacks a plane--who talks about the power of ideas. This is the passage that struck me the most:

In order to prove to her [Tavleen's] captives, and also her fellow-captors, that the idea of failure, or surrender, would never weaken her resolve, she emerged from her momentary retreat in the first-class cocktail lounge to stand before them like a stewardess demonstrating safety procedures. But instead of putting on a lifejacket and holding up a blow-tube whistle etcetera, she quickly lifted the loose black djellabah that was her only garment and stood before them stark naked, so that they could all see the arsenal of her body, the grenades like extra breasts nestling in her cleavage, the gelignite taped around her thighs, just the way it had been in Chamcha's dream. Then she slipped her robe back on and spoke in her faint oceanic voice. "When a great idea comes into the world, a great cause, certain crucial questions are asked of it," she murmured. "History asks us: what manner of cause are we? Are we uncompromising, absolute, strong, or will we show ourselves to be timeservers, who compromise, trim and yield." Her body had provided her answer.

Belief is very powerful, so much so that it can be dangerous or catastrophic. I guess I find it odd that we celebrate those who stand strongly for a cause--that changing one's mind makes someone weak--when the same mentality can be so frightening (ie 9/11). It'd be nice to say that there is something is absolutely good or bad or whatever, but with so many viewpoints, billions of them at last count, I don't think it's possible. I'm not sure if I'm making any sense, but keep in mind I'm not feeling very well.

shepherds

We have this squinty-eyed preacher fellow who comes on local television late at night. He sits behind a desk, in front of a curtain and just reads the Bible. Mostly, he talks about Armageddon and makes interpretations based on the passages he chooses. I don't think he's as crazy as some, but he's up there. He has a logic behind his arguments--a suspect one--but a logic nonetheless, and he doesn't have lame songs, nor does he wear flashy clothes then plead for money. I saw this one dude who preached in this huge theater type room and condoned killing Muslims--and this was on regular television. That guy was way fucking bonkers, but the guy I'm watching now is much more mellow, still kinda bonkers, but he's not telling me to take arms against my neighbors.

He doesn't even yell, and he's pretty matter of fact--almost scholarly--but he's way getting us all prepared for the impending Apocalypse. He says it's coming, but he hasn't mentioned when. I guess it would have been so much easier if the Bible had said when.

I don't mean to belittle this man's beliefs; I'm just jealous that I can't give myself wholeheartedly into anything.

"How are you doing, friend? How are you fixed?" he asked.

I have no clue. I'm sure this man would think I'm a heathen and a sinner--a weak soul easily swayed by the temptations of the world. But he's assuring me that his god loves the heathens and the sinners, and that's nice.

"The best is yet ahead of us, when our Father blows the Seventh Trump," he explained.

My aunt used to read my sister and I passages from the Bible--she was Born Again, but the majority of my family is Roman Catholic--and I remember sitting on the couch in my grandmother's house and being read from the Book of Revelations. My aunt told us about fires, plagues, dragons, death and destruction. She asked me, "Isn't that beautiful? It gives me the chills just reading it."

It gave me the chills, too, but because the whole matter scared the shit out of me. I couldn't have been more than 10. I think it gave me nightmares; I wondered why someone who loved us so much would put us through such a terrible ordeal. But the images were strong, and I read the ravings of John a few times myself. When I was younger, I though that if this was really to happen, that I'd want to be there to see it. Just so I'd know for sure.

That was the thing that I never liked about religion, even when I was just a kid. Faith doesn't come easy for me. I have a hard enough time believing people exist when they're not in my presence, nevermind having faith that some great force watches over us all.

confession 2

I know why people watch reality televsion, but, still, its ubiquity bothers me. I liked Real World, Who Wants to Be a Millionare and the second season of Survivor. I even watched Rich Girls on MTV about that Hillfiger girl and her buddy. I'm not an innocent, but I'd really thought the fad would be a short-lived one. Then things like this happen. Do people really enjoy being agitated that much? I'm sure it's the same mentality that leads to terrible things like terrorism and wanting to run for public office (I don't have proof, but I'm working on it).

Personally, I couldn't watch more than five minutes of The Simple Life, but I wish I could say it's because of some self-righteous gag reflex--a complete contempt for such sensationalized, mind-rotting entertainment. The sad fact is, I want Paris Hilton real bad, and I hate myself for it.



Clearly, she's not ugly (as long as you don't look at her too closely, then it looks like something weird's going on)--all that high living, pampering, blonde hair and perpetually tanned skin...

I'm so grossing myself out.

But that's got nothing to do with it, really. It's like she's everything I hate about people. That's what I like about her--all that vanity, shallowness and disregard all rolled into one disgustingly tasty piece of woman-flesh. I just want her foul, grimy, starfucking stench all over me. She's kinda like that bar of baker's chocolate you find in the fridge, unprotected and totally seductive, and then you take a big bite. Does this make me a bad person?

creepy...

It's so uncomfortable listening to someone hit on someone else, but once you hear it, it's impossible to block it out. it becomes all encompassing--or maybe I'm just nosey.

living the dream and staying awake

I spent a good portion of these late evening / early morning hours doting over my fantasy baseball team. It's a keeper league, and I'm have a really tough time trying to figure out who to keep and who to let go. I keep second guessing myself and reconsidering my options. It's driving me crazy.

Truth be told, I'm not very good at fantasy sports. I always seem to have a good team going in. I've thought out and rationalized why I should be very competitive, but things always fall apart. Last baseball season was a perfect example. We (my time and I) didn't do that good last year. In fact, we were one of the worst in the league. It didn't start off that way. Nope. In fact, I was near the top of the heap early on, but all went sour by week six. All of my major players befell some awful injury or another and left me in dire straights by midseason. I think this season will be better; it has to be, because this time we're playing for money. I haven't decided how I'm going to juggle work, blogging and fantasy baseball while I'm at the office, but I'll figure something out. I really need an intern.

I also need sleep, but my fantasy baseball team is way too important to fudge up. Also, a friend at work let me borrow a couple of discs from the first season of Kids in the Hall.



I'd forgotten how ahead of it's time the show was, and how punk rock (I also forgot how eerily feminine Dave Foley looks made up as a woman). Regardless, bits like "Running Faggot" and "Can I Keep Him?" are hilarious. The first season is already 15 years old, which I can't believe. I remember watching the show when it started and, for some reason, had Scott Thompson confused for John Ritter (I don't know either). What I also can't believe is how much stuff they were able to get away with. Kids in the Hall targetted everything, even cancer (especially cancer), and managed to make it funny.

For the most part, I let the DVDs run in the background as I tinkered with my fantasy baseball team, read blogs and put off doing my laundry, which I should really go out and check on now.