comedian mitch hedberg dead at 37...?

So, I've been seeing reports that this may be a hoax, or some April Fool's prank, but it's looking more and more like comedian Mitch Hedberg has passed away. It's a shame, too, because, well for one thing, he was pretty damn funny. I only saw one of his DVD specials, but a few friends of mine are big fans. Good comedians (I'm not talking Bob Saget here) seem to be as troubled as good rock stars. From what I've been reading, Mitch liked drugs and drinking, but then again who doesn't. I guess it's true that comedians have the least to laugh about. RIP, Mitch.

so this was my yesterday....

But since my Internet connection crapped out... far be it from me to deprive myself of one small chapter of the story of my life...la la lala story of my liiiiiiiife....la la la.

Got into work at 12:30pm. No one said anything. Once there I:

1. Read and answered a few e-mails.
2. Did some important research on statistics of long retired baseball players. Did you know Cy Young once went 36-12 in a season and had over 40 complete games and shut outs? Fucking sick.
3. Tried to calculate how many points that year would have netted in my fantasy baseball league. Was intimidated by the math. Went out to get a burrito instead.
4. Said burrito didn't sit right with stomach. Took a walk around the block to avoid a gastro-intestinal catastrophe in the office. Felt much better.
   
5. During walk around the block, stopped in video store to look around and talk to my friend who owns the place. Put aside a comedy from South Korea and a movie by Zhang Yimou starring Gong Li to be picked up later.
6. Returned to work. Looked up some more stats. Keith Hernandez only drove in 100 runs in a season once. Still think he was one of the best of his day, though.
7. Finally bought hair clippers from Amazon.com. I got a pair of $50 Wahl clippers for less than $20, but I'm so sick of hair, and more specifically the glaring spot of nothing in the middle of my forehead, I expedited the shipping. It still cost only about $30.
8. Most certainly didn't get a copy of Sleater-Kinney's new, and not yet release album, Woods, in my Gmail account, but if I did (and I didn't) I'd have to say that it's pretty damn good.
9. Faxed something. Totally work related, but required assistance because fax machines completely baffle me.
10. Signed up for MLB Gameday Audio so I can hear the Mets disappoint me firsthand from any computer with an Internet connection.
11. Did some actual work.
    
12. Actual work led to ogling distracting pictures of Devon Aoki, because I like models who never smile and look like they're addicted to heroin. There's some kind of stray puppy appeal there, I think. I like women who look like they need "fixing," but will probably leave me once I nurse them back to health and make them realize that they're worth a lot more than they thought they were. Is that weird?
    

teenage riot

This evening, I had a two-hour smile plastered on my face by three Japanese women. It's not as dirty as it sounds, or as dirty as I'd like it to be. It's not dirty at all, actually; I got to see Shonen Knife in concert at a tiny bar just south of here.

The evening didn't get on to the best of starts, though. I even got to interview the band--though only Naoko Yamano did all the talking--in a tiny boiler room in the back of the venue. It was like sitting in a steam cooker. I sat on a cannister of high pressure gas as I sweated through my questions and tried to bridge the culture gap. It wasn't easy, and I was kind of disappointed with how it turned out. I've done plenty better. I never was able to get the connection that I'm able to dig up sometimes, and found it hard to get my footing. I could blame being rushed, or that the machines that kept the bar running were chortling and making noise, or that I had an audience, which never sits well with me, but I'd just be making excuses. I could have done a better job. Still, as we got into it, I was able to get some good stuff out of Naoko--hopefully enough for something short and sweet. As we started to get into it, the opening band kicked in and the noise in the room became deafening. Then I was not only battling the language barrier but the noise. We went through a couple more questions bowing close to each other at the table before I cut it off.

I was kinda bummed. A grittier, more sexed up girl punk band took the stage first, and they were all well and good--dressed up in scandalous china-doll dresses and fishnet stockings. I listened to a couple songs, but their levels were kind of off, and they just sounded pretty green. I retreated to the bar for a Guinness and was pleased that they sounded better from the back of the venue. Still, they never really rose above background noise.



But seeing Shonen Knife was enough to turn the bust of an evening into something special. It's rare to get a chance to see a band that good and that pro that up close. They've been at it for over 20 years, and it really showed. They were so crisp and clean; they made it look so easy. But the coolest thing was, it really was that simple--loud, fast, fun, catchy. Their songs are about jelly beans, chocolate and rubber bands, but they could've sang about skinning puppies and I still would have walked out of there with a toothache. Naoko and her sister Atsuko were super energetic and genuine, and their touring drummer, Etsuko Nakanashi, who must have been half their age, blurred into a frenzy of wildly flailng pigtails. The turn out wasn't very big, but it was a decent size, and everyone on the floor was into it, huddling close to the stage and in a state of permanent bounce. People, many of whom were aging scenesters like myself, howled and raised the hand sign of rock. My inner grump cowered before the power of Shonen Knife. The euphoria didn't wear off until well into the long, desolate drive home, and on the dark state highways of rural California, I remembered what a mopey sack of negativity I am.

confessional 3

Hi, Jesus.

You get a lot of shit. Maybe that was part of the deal. Your name would forever be connected to the fun police, the close minded puritans, the wolves in sheeps' clothing, the war mongers, the hate peddlers; they even turned you into a white man. If it all went down like the story says, all you did was obey your Dad and sacrifice yourself for the good of all mankind.

Sorry, dawg. Maybe you should have been a rebelious snot in your teen age years like most of your followers. Maybe you should have told the man upstairs to go fuck himself and get a little hot loving from Mary Magdelene. I might not go to the churches they've erected in your name, but I'm down with you, Jesus. I carry you around on my key chain. Hey, if it wasn't for you, and some pagan festival, we never would have gotten Christmas, and that's pretty dope. It gets me out of this small town dead end and back to the city for a couple of weeks. I get to see my mom, dad, sister and dog, and all is right with the world. Amen.

I suppose I should confess, though I doubt you really care for such formalities, but I was a big bad sinner this weekend. I pit my immortal soul against my humanity, and as usual, the baser things in life won out. Work's been really tough on me lately, mostly because I lack confidence in myself, so after gathering all my energy and swallowing a whole lot of pride to sneak in under a deadline on the magazine I really don't like, I had to blow off some steam. I got the monthly pain in my neck and shoulder. I think that's where I store my stress. It feels terrible, too. A shooting pain that makes it tough to walk or sit at my computer. It's not getting nailed to a cross or anything, clearly, but it still kinda raw, and, well, I'm a bit of a pussy.

I drank like a fish on Friday night, Good Friday. I went to a rock show and blew through whatever bar trade I had. I ogled women in tight shirts in a lustful manner. I had impure thoughts, but not too many. I drank too much booze. That Irish Car Bomb at last call wasn't entirely my fault. It's hard to turn down a free drink, and damn near impossible when it's offered by a woman. Most of all, I enjoyed every minute of it.

It's not that I didn't repent for it, though. I knew when I passed out on the couch that the morning would not be a good one, and it wasn't. The pain in my neck, the pain in my head, I would have been happily decapitated. Three scrambled eggs, two Big Macs and a steak dinner were required to beat back the pain of being a bit too old to go out binge drinking on a Friday night.

Easter Sunday was great, though. Kudos again on that one. I went and hung out with a family, and I was in the minority. I was one of the few who didn't have a spouse and kids. I look at babies now and wonder if I'll ever get one of those things; it scares the shit out of me. We joked around, laughed a lot, and the kids ran around and acted like kids.

I ate more meat at one time than I may ever have before on a day that wasn't Thanksgiving. They had ham, chicken, hot dogs, carnitas, and I gobbled up just about all of it. By the end of the night I had to loosen my belt two notches. I wondered why I even wore the thing. I should have known better. I scrounged some leftovers, too. They're in the fridge now; I might grab myself a cupcake.

four-legged distractions

I was supposed to get a lot more work done than I did this evening, but one of my favorite canine friends showed up and demanded that we play catch. I tried to explain to her that I've gotta work, but she flashed me those big brown eyes, and I'm a total sucker. As soon as I came out of my room, she ran towards the front door and looked up at me.

"What's up?" I asked, because I like talking at dogs. I'll talk at any dog. Even dogs on the street. I'll say hello to the dog but ignore the owner. My people skills need work, but I can network like no other with man's best friend.

She just looked up at me expectantly. I said, "We can't play catch. It's dark outside"; but she wasn't having it. I opened the front door and she took off like a shot to the side of the house. By the time I'd made my way off the porch, there she was, ball in mouth.

So I blew off my article to play catch with the dog. She's very good at it; she can jump real high. She'll back up when you tell her and sit down. She'll even speak on command, give you paw or give you kisses if you ask her. I asked her for a kiss tonight, knelt down and pointed to my right cheek. She was a bit overzealous and dove right in, accidentally slamming heryucky, slimy dog tongue down my throat. The little slutbag didn't even by me dinner first.

But damn, she's a good kisser.

giant-size counting backwards #1

I just got a swank of the swank new monitors on my work computer. It's a Samsung SyncMaster 997DF. I don't know if that's good or not, but it's honkin' big and pretty and I love it. It's flat screen and all that good stuff, but the only thing that's missing are my stickers, of which I had a few.

I think it's best feature, thus far, is how large it makes my blog look--my large swollen blog. I'm enjoying this newfound confidence, and I didn't even have to get it from a Canadian pharmacy.

like bonnie and clyde, except nothing like them at all.

There's this security guard who roams the parking lot of the place I do my banking at. He's an old dude in a black baseball cap and he's always wearing dark tinted sunglasses and a very dour expression. I don't know what his deal is, but he always regards me like I'm suspected of a crime
when I go to use the ATM. I often call a cab even though I don't have any cash on me. I tell them to drop me off at the bank, which is about a block and a half away from work, and run up to use the machine so I can pay them. For some reason, this makes the security guard ornery. He doesn't say anything to me, but I'm always expecting him to.

It happened again today. The security guard glowered at me as I made my way to the ATMs so I could pay my cabbie. When I returned to the car, the driver remarked how the security guard had been watching him. We both seemed to think that the security guard took his job a little too seriously, but then the cab driver said, "well, the bank had that robbery not too long ago."

"Yeah, but it's not like I'd take a cab to rob a bank," I answered.

"Why not?" the driver shot back.

I was a bit surprised, because I didn't know why a bank robber wouldn't take a cab to rob a bank. I was also surprised at the tone in the driver's voice. He seemed a little offended, and also as if he'd given this a lot of thought.

"I'd probably steal a car or something," I said.

"You wouldn't want to have a car running and waiting for you when you got out of the bank?" the driver asked. "You don't think a cabbie would keep his mouth shut if you gave him a big enough cut?"

I never thought of that before--mostly because I've never really thought about robbing a bank. I suppose it's not the best of jobs, at least not the best paying, and talk about scoring a big fare. You could even lie and say you were held at gun point or something. Who'd fault the cabbie for that?

"Well, if I ever plan on robbing a bank, I'll make sure I give you a call," I said.

"That'll be five bucks," said the cabbie.

turtle makes pact with satan

Can you blame them? With our mindless destruction of their precious habitat? Click the picture...if you dare. Thanks to E and J for the link.

at least someone's listening

It's good to know that all my complaints, and there are plenty, don't go unanswered. Momma Nature listens. She cares. Irked by the pleasant sunshine and warm weather, because it brought insects and libidos to the fore, I voiced my hate of the spring. After my complaints were run through the system and travelled the paths of metaphysical bureaucracy, Momma decided that my complaints were valid and opened the floodgates for three straight days of rain and no end in sight. She saved the worst of it for Friday night as, at 2:30am, embarked on a three-mile walk home from the other end of town.

I'm not complaining.

Last night I saw Constantine, because I didn't want to go to the bars--or think, really. I was pleasantly surprised, because I went in expecting the worst, but found myself in a blissful state of thoughtless enjoyment for 121 minutes. I can suspend my disbelief pretty easy if I want to, which helps me through movies like Constantine. There was a good amount of CGI, but I was happy that there was more done with atmosphere, and there was even some clever camera work. Sure, John Constantine from Hellblazer (you can actually download the first issue here) is a blond Englishman, but Keanu (really, I can't believe he's 40) pulled enough tricks out of his Neo playbook to do a decent job. There were plenty of bright spots like Peter Stormare as the coolest onscreen Lucifer ever and two Rachel Weizes.

The evening's entertainment took a slightly disturbing turn when I arrived home and found a naked man passed out in the bathtub. The door was open, the light was on; I entered the room to turn off the light--I found clothes all over the floor--when I heard snoring I peaked to the left to see enough of a hairy upper torso to change my mind. I left the light on but closed the door behind me. I worried that Naked Man, whoever he was, might drown, but I had a contigency plan if he did, being I'd simply deny that I ever saw him in the tub. I practiced over and over just in case I was brought in front of a judge. "I'm sorry, your honor, but it's not like I check my tub before going to bed every night in case there may be a naked man passed out in it."

Eventually, Naked Man began thrashing around, gurgling and yelling. I had no idea who this guy was, but I assumed he was my roommate, or one of my roommate's youngster friends who had stopped over to get really, really drunk. I suspended my disbelief again, convincing myself that what I heard was just a figment of my imagination, but after 20 minutes, the good Samaritan in me said, "hey, dude, you better check and see if he's okay, even under the threat of seeing his Johnson."

I wasn't about to go in the bathroom, because Naked Man was literally throwing some kind of fit, screaming crazy shit like he was yelling at a nightmare. I knocked on the door, yelled "hello" and shouted my roommate's name in case it was him. My inner-Samaritan is kinda lax about what he expects from me. We're not trying to be heroes, just hoping to appease our Catholic guilt. We're selfish, sure, but a good deed is a good deed. Whether you give to a charity just for the tax write off or because you genuinely care, if a starving child gets a turkey sandwich, does it really matter? Anyway, I got no response, so, since he was nowhere to be found, I called my roommate to see what was up. Turned out he was passed out in the spare room.

"Someone's freaking out in our bathtub."

"Oh, that's just W."

"Is he going to be okay?"

"Yeah...Yeah. He's fine."

My Samaritan said, "At least we didn't have to see his Johnson."

the A list

I find myself constantly reminding... ...myself... ...that shit could be much, much worse. But self-imposed misery is one of the few things that keeps me happy. In an effort to keep myself as sunny as the damn weather, I've decided to reflect back on the shit that made me glad to be a denizen of the planet earth this week, or at least glad that I have a speedy Internet connection.

Brittany Murphy: Hey, Brit--do you mind if I call you Brit? Fine. Ms. Murphy. It seemed that I only found you attractive when they slapped some baddly bleached hair on you, crammed you into tight, short, cut-off jeans and paraded you around like a gum-smacking skank a la Spun. Now look at you, all grows up with a swank nose job and looking like a million bucks on the cover of Jane. I say "sigh" with two asteriks. I suppose this means we won't be screwing cans of Miller High Life into beer cozies at the tractor pull any time soon, so instead, I'll drop some of my lonely 32 oz. to you, shorty. My white trash fantasies of smelly couch cuddling on our broke-ass porch as we watch the weeds grow over our yard cars will have to be directed toward another.

Dude driving cab who was rocking out to Megadeth: I asked him, "how's it going?" He turned around and looked at me very seriously and said "Always good." Then, he cranked up the stereo so that the wailing, gurgling sounds of Dave Mustaine filled the car. I fought the urge to fist pump in the back, and he drummed feverishly on the steering wheel. "Is this a CD?" I asked. "It's on the radio," he answered, and we ventured into a sorry chorus of righteous metal fury. Which was only slightly less embarassing than the last time I was in a cab and played tenor in a rendition of "Raindrops Keep falling on My Head."

iTunes: So iWas the last person in the universe to realize iTunes kicks ass. iDidn't even know it was on my computer. iDon't remember downloading it. iThink it must have been bundled with Quicktime or something. However it got there, it's never leaving, never never. Now there's simply just not enough space on my computer to satisfy my voracious digital music hunger. You can buy any song you want for less than a dollar! A DOLLAR! i'LL just have to buy an iPod or something. Donations welcome.

Rerun of Lost: Thanks to ABC for letting me have a couple of weeks off. It's nice to have my life back. Now, please, take it back and give me my Lost.

Xiu Xiu - "I Luv the Valley OH!" (Fabulous Muscles): Dude's like the new Morrissey, but kinda girlier. But anyone who makes me want to scream, "My behind is a behive / I got a buzz in my backside" must be doing something right.

perversion: the great equalizer

St. Patty's Day turned out to be a blast. The weather was much cooler and dryer than last year, and unlike last year (or last night for that matter), I kept my alcohol intake in check and decided that I had enough fun, that I should call it a night by 9pm, so I could be all rested and whatnot for a long day of work tomorrow. I'm so totally responsible (nevermind that I'm writing this at 1:30am).

I cut out of work to play hookie around 3pm. I only ever cut class once in high school, and I ended up going to the mall with some friends. It was the last class of my last day of school of my senior year, so it didn't really count anyway. Teachers would look at me like, "You're still here?" Still, I felt like the biggest rebel ever as I sat on the bus. I was a cutter, man. Don't fuck with me.

My boss shot me a text message (so hip) to meet he and some coworkers at the SuchandSuch, but by the time I walked my lazy, napping ass down there, only two remained. They told me they were going to Shmah-shmah faux Mexican place for margheritas, and I told them I would head straight to Meathead Tavern so I could drink on the free, since they were planning on heading there anyway. There I met up with more co-workers, one of whom was gone after I returned with my drink, and two Japanese exchange students.

I don't know how the Japanese act in Japan, but the one thing I've come to learn about Japanese exchange students living here in the States is that they're super eager to meet whoever and can party pretty fucking hard. These two fellows fit the bill.

(Meanwhile, outside my window, two cats are trying to kill each other. The noise finally settled down, and I hope there's not a nasty surprise waiting outside on my front lawn for me to find in the morning.)

If I were Rivers Cuomo, I'd write
a song about her, too.

They were joined soon after by two ridiculously attractive Japanese females. I mean silly ridiculous. So much so that it wasn't even funny. One of the women was done up in total kogal style--short skirt big-ass honkin' huge socks and red-dyed hair. She was about as stunning as she was stuck up, and that made her somehow more stunning. I mean, who wants a woman who'll talk to you anyway. What's the fun in that? The seven of us made a formidible barhoppong fellowship. We were later joined by some other Asian dude of unknown origin, but he was probably born here, and then yet another Japanese exchange student with dreadlocks and a Bob Marley T-shirt.

Asian Dude X said "you guys roll deep in Asians."

I chortled back excitedly, "It's my first time!"

But like Boromir had to get punked by the orcs, our fellowship too had to disband. The kogal left along with two exchange students (and she totally waved to me, dropping her stock some) headed off to be super cool and Japanese somewhere else, and the rest of us hit up some house party in what looked like a squat near campus.

We were all pretty beat or buzzed by that point, so instead of beating a dead horse, everyone headed back downtown to their cars, and since I was close to home, I called it an early night so I could gobble up the rest of my left over pasta and crank the With the Lights Out DVD up to 11.

st. hungfuckingover day

I sprung out of bed on only a few hours sleep. I felt good, spry; I should have known.

It was shortly thereafter that I was forced to huff down two hotdogs I'd microwaved. My stomach was a gurgling gaping maw that needed to be appeased. The poison in the hotdogs was making short work of the poison from the tequilla, so I brushed my teeth, slapped on some deoderant. I got about halfway to work when I realized things weren't going as well as I hoped. I jaywalked in front of a cop; I saw two transients pass with a cardboard sign that read "Spare some green on St. Patrick's Day?" But really, it was all a sunny blur. It seems that the rain is past--at least for a little while, there may be another sprinkle or two here and there--and that sun will be blaring straight through November.

Everything's settled into a dull pain, even though a coworker slapped a green jello tequilla shot on my desk. It's in a Donald and Daisy Duck Dixie cup. Daisy's giving me the come-hither stare, but I can see the ring of noxious neon green just above the lip of the cup, and it doesn't look too appetizing. The stench of Cuervo is unbearable. Still, I've been picking at it from time to time. I need food and a blood transfusion; then I'll be ready for round two.

agave is the devil

Tequilla turned what looked to be a lonesome, boring Wednesday night into ...well, what it is now, but that's what tequilla does. My roommate came back from Tempe, AZ, where he will be attending an MFA program with a full-ride scholarship, and me, he and his girl did a good deal of celebrating. Now, there's nothing left to do but eat bread, drink water and make a dent in this stack of porn that he handed over to me in a drunken stupor. "I've got the Internet," he said as he offered the DVDs. "You take these."

In my tequilla-ridden mind, I felt strangely honored.

He almost convinced me to move to Arizona. Maybe I will. I've always been drawn to the desert, even though the idea of checking my shoes and sheets for scorpions is rather irksome. And the heat...I don't get along with the sun. Maybe it's because I spend at least one morning a week completely hung over--whatever. Nevermind that I've never spent more than a few hours in a desert. A change of scenery might be nice, though.

ze desktop? iz le pretty

Thanks to the Great White Antelope, who, by the elven magic of Photoshop and some innate artistic ability turned this picture of Audrey Tautou into a swanky new desktop pour monsieur's computer. She did it by drawing with something she called "vector shapes," but I'm sure that's just witchery speak for some such ungodly magic.

Clearly, it would be difficult to diminish the beauty of Ms. Tautou, who could be Icelandic with all her pixie-like yumminess. Instead she is French, which is okay by me. We had a French exchange student once, and she looked kind of like a young Isabella Rossellini. While she was in our home, we sat up late nights and watched independent movies together. I'm sure if either of us smoked, we would have smoked clove cigarettes out of black holders and talked about the latest art openings before having dirty monkey sex. We took her to see Pulp Fiction; I said "I liked Reservoir Dogs better." She said "So did I." Of course, we weren't meant to be, because I was head over heels for some cunt, and she had to go back to France, where she's probably saying things like "Ah yes, Kill Bill was fun, but it was so derivative," right now. Ah well. L'amour.

Anyway, Audrey Tautou is 100% groovy, and now, so is my desktop.

visionary

My visit to the eye doctor went as expected. I had to get a new perscription. I got new frames too because I've been wearing circular ones for about six years now. I got rectangular frames that looked and felt real nice even when not fitted, and they were pretty cheap. I also got them hooked up with Transition lenses, Polycarbon lenses and a non-reflective coating (thanks to work, I got it all on the free). I wasn't sure if I liked this doctor. He seemed okay enough, but he was pretty impatient, I think. Granted, I'm about the worst patient you can have in your examination chair. I freak like a feral cat in a carrier cage if you try to poke and prod me. My defense reflexes are pretty sharp, basically because I'm weak and frail and just about anything can kill me; I'm a flincher. Especially if you try to come near my eyes. I warned the doctor of this. He was about to give me drops, and I warned him. I told him that this might be difficult. I don't think he was paying attention. He chuckled it off and said, just tilt your head back. I did. He came at me with those drops, and I freaked. My eyes slammed shut tight and neither of us could pry them open. I apologized. He was getting frustrated. I think I shot him an "I told you so."

Eventually it worked, and he was able to get two more rounds of drops in there afterwards. The Poking Blue Lance of Glaucoma didn't go as well. "You won't feel a thing if you keep your eyes wide open," he said. I kept them open as wide as I could, but the Lance would keep brushing my eye lashes which caused the flinch. I was really trying. I knew it wasn't going to hurt.

"You keep pulling back," he said.

No shit. Maybe if this device looked like a fluffy bunny and not a Romulan torture device, I wouldn't have. His bedside manner left a lot to be desired, but he did a pretty good job. The last eye doctor wasn't even able to get the drops in. He was pretty busy so he had to be in and out of the examination room, which gave me time to rest my eyes and play with the various equipment, like the giant lens mask and whatever else was on a swivel arm. There was some awe-inspiring blonde patient roaming around who was looking for color contacts; she was all tall and tan and pretty much your stereotypical California girl dressed in pink, but she was upset that she had brown eyes. They were so dark, she had trouble finding color contacts that would have any affect on her. She whined, and though I couldn't see her when she said it, I assumed she pouted.

"You have beautiful brown eyes," the doctor said in a helpful, fatherly tone.

"I HATE them," she responded woefully.

They found her contacts that were able to turn her eyes a more desirable shade of blue or green (she wanted either one or the other). After analysing my glasses, Doc returned and told me that I had a vertical inversion, that my eyes had a tendency to want to pull away from each other, a worse astygmatism than most people have and that my brain has learned to compensate for all these things by actually shutting off my left eye from time to time in order to keep me from becoming too disoriented. He seemed amazed that I made a living out of reading and editing, and that my major in college was English Literature.

"You have a different way of seeing things," he said.

I kinda knew that already.

the great outdoors

It turns out that the J v. Spider: Shoes-a-Flyin' death match of a couple days ago went more poorly than I thought. The only message I sent to the thing was that it was okay to roost in my room, and right near my bed at that. This led to J v. Spider II: Mattress Murder, a long drawn out battle of wills between me and Spider. He proved to be a worthy and wily foe. I wouldn't expect anything less from a critter with twice the appendages I have. I hovered near it with my shoe of death in hand and explained how sorry I was and that karma would reward the critter in the next life when it would likely be doing the crushing and it would be I who was getting the rubber soul beatdown.

Spider didn't believe in karma though, and sensed my words and hid itself or jumped somwhere. I tore up the area in an attempt to find it.

Spider: 2
J: 0

I exited my room to find Spider, clearly mocking me, hanging out above my bathroom door. J v. Spider III: No Prisoners resulted in the whimpering defeat of my adversary, but I was unsure if this Spider was the same from my room. Perhaps it was one spider, two or even three; they weren't wearing name tags. The whole episode had me so freaked out that I had to sleep on the couch, because God forbid a spider crawl on me in my sleep. Phobias are supposed to be irrational, you know--no lectures.

I slept on the couch last night, too, but that was also out of exhaustion. Sometimes I just like to pass out on the couch. I'm going to do my best to muster the courage to reclaim my room this evening, but we'll see how that goes.

---

My relationship with Momma Nature isn't all bad. She's a sexy piece at times, especially on dry, warm days like today. I actually went to a park of all places with my roommate, his girl and her dog, who has made me her bitch. Dog is just about the most charming pitbull ever, so I'm not complaining. Roommate and Girl rode their longboard skateboards and I chilled behind with Dog, going for a nice long walk along the side of the creek that was rushing with all the snow melt. It was pretty postcard. The coolest thing about walking with a dog is that people will talk to you just because. Me and Dog got so many compliments; well, Dog did. "She's so pretty," they'd say; Or "You have the cutest dog." I said thank you like I had something to do with that, as if she were actually my dog; she was good about it, though. She didn't rat me out or nothing.

gii gaaa aaantic a big big wooooooh

Rilo Kiley's Jenny Lewis:
We'll always have Bottom of the Hill
(Photo: Steven Dewall)

I hate the spring. The weather's nice and all--and where I live, it will only last another couple weeks before the heat becomes unbearable--but it's all the other things about spring that drive me crazy. The flowery smells, the increased libido and all the god damn insects.

(I was already confronted by the season's first house spider. I saw it drop into my bedroom doorway this very evening, and it took my breath away. I'm scared shitless of spiders. I don't think my form of arachnophobia is as acute as others, but when one is that close to my fortress of solitude, I go full-on bonkers. I don't want to have to kill the poor thing just because the mere sight of one will drive me to insanity, but, unfortunately, I require sleep for my own well-being, and I can't sleep if I think one of those things has free reign in my room. Therefore, it's a matter of self-preservation, and I don't feel so bad about thwacking one into oblivion with my spider-killing shoe. At least that's how I rationalize it to myself. Today's spider met his end by the sole of the shoe.

Actually, I'm not sure if he did or not. I know I thwacked him, but I could not find a carcass. Nevertheless, if he does still live, I hope that I sent the proper message: Stay out of my way, or else.)

Still, spring has its rewards. The women in this town seem to shed clothes at the first sign of strong sun, and the weather has been slightly above room temperature for the past five to six days. Today was the first day I was able to enjoy it, though, as work has kept me indoors and plugged fast into the Matrix.

My two weeks of unbelievable stress came to an abrupt and welcome halt today. Work was wonderful and relaxed and I got a lot done; therefore I'm happy. I got out of the office while the sun was still up, and that's the first time that has happened since, well, I don't remember. I rewarded myself by taking a $30 gift certificate down to a local record store and purchasing some CDs.

I got a used copy of Sonic Youth's A Thousand Leaves, a used copy of Being John Malkovitch on DVD and Rilo Kiley's More Adventurous brand new. All three only cost me $2.15. Rock.

I've had a promo copy of More Adventurous for months; I think since last fall, but it was all protected so I couldn't put on file sharing programs. I don't have any file sharing programs, mind you, but it was protected regardless. The protection was so vigorous, that I couldn't even listen to it in my stereo because it's mp3 compatible. Still, it's pretty much perfect, and it hurt that I haven't been able to listen to it in months (I take music a bit too seriously).

It irks me how much two former child actors are able to pull at my heart strings; it's all so simple, cheesy and sentimental. Still, it turns me into a howling mess every time I listen to the damn thing. It's the kind of music I sing along to even though I don't really know the lyrics and have to make sounds that aren't really words but could be mistaken for words if you aren't really paying attention. (Don't pay attention. It's embarassing.) I know better than to operate this album under the influence of alcohol, but here I am, at 2:34 in the morning, polishing off my last bottle of MGD...and the "Absence of God" is playing for the fourth time this evening. And I really hate spring.

steering the wagon

I was so happy that I saw an entire rock show with out a sip of alcohol that I decided to go out and celebrate by getting really drunk.

Well, not really drunk--as drunk as you can get in an hour and a half without trying to kill yourself. I have no interest in killing myself. Don't believe the hype.

Two rum and cokes at the skanky ass snowboarder dude bar. What's up, bro? Fresh powder at Sugar Bowl. Whatever. We're face to face with Spring Break, so trying to get a drink was a pain in the ass, especially if you're like me and you don't have tits. It's okay, though. Seeing a lot of people out kinda validates me being out. It's that mob mentality. I feel like I'm a part of something--no matter how ridiculous. Besides, they'll all be gone next week, all the pretty co-eds, and I'll kinda miss them for a little while as I stand in short lines for drinks.


Plastic boobs and Spring Break--as American as the bald eagle.

Kids need to get drunk, too, though for them it aids them in getting laid, and for me, it only serves as a much needed sleep aid. I'm rather drowsy now, in fact. And that's good, because I have a lot of work to do tomorrow.

Two shots of Jagermeister at the basement bar, the effects of which failed to surface until the pint of Guinness a the local watering hole just a few minutes later. I talked to some woman about messy roommates. My sink is full of dishes, by the way, and I don't think any of them are mine. I don't make a big stink about it, because I'm not the neatest person myself, and I'd rather not leave myself open to similar criticism. Besides, I find washing dishes theraputic, and seeing as we're poor folk, doing the dishes never takes more than 20 minutes anyway.

The pint of Guinness was the one that put me over, but of course, that wasn't evident until I was about 10 minutes into my walk home. After that, things got blurry and I had to muster every bit of my will power not to punch a tree. I'm not an angry drunk; on the contrary, I can be a huggy drunk or a loud happy drunk. Both of which are kind of embarassing, but neither of which will result in injury. Never the less, punching a tree seemed like a good idea, because I thought it'd be funny--to shatter ever bone in my hand. Cooler heads prevailed, though, as I turned goofy aggression into hollering, and I sang unintelligibly the rest of the way home.

our friend, swoopers

Our office got an unexpected visitor last night at around 11pm. I'm not sure what it's name was, but I've dubbed the curious critter Swoopers, because it was a bat--and it liked to swoop.

Pictured to the right is the big brown bat; I'm not sure if this is the correct type of bat that paid us a visit last night, but please remember that I'm not a biologist, and I spent a good portion of its visit hiding under my desk as if we were practicing a bomb drill. I'm actually grateful that Swoopers did decide to fly in that open window, because it taught me that I can still be lightning quick, especially when faced with a tiny, furry, toothed projectile hurtling itself at me because it's freaked out by our jukebox playlist of incessant emo and just wants to get the fuck out.

The big brown bat lives in California and not as big as the name suggests. It's only a medium-sized bat and is normally 12cm long. That's approximately how large Swoopers was. After flying about like a spaz and ignoring our helpful shouts of "get out of here!" and "there's the fucking window!" Swoopers eventually calmed down and chilled with us, hanging around like a bat and just kind of observing. Maybe it will report back to its bat discussion group on the activities of humans; I don't know, but by about 2am, I was finally done with work and let Swoopers become someone else's problem.

If you're curious, the world's largest bat is the kinda cuddly looking scamp to the left. That's the golden crown flying fox, which can be found in the Philippines. It's a fruit bat and can get a wingspan of up to six feet. That's pretty big. Taller than I am by a good three inches. If one of those had gotten into the office, I don't know what I would have done, but it wouldn't have been pretty I'm sure.

The golden crown flying fox is known to roam the Subic Forest National Protected Area, which is the largest known roosting site for bats in the world.

Philippines is also the home of the giant flying fox, which is actually heavier than the golden crown, and the world's smallest bat, the Phillipines bamboo bat, which is only 4cm. In all, Philippines is the home to 56 species of bats.

from the bowels of my inbox

All this extra work I've been doing has turned my inbox into the place dreams go to die. It's pretty sad. Today, since I was at work til 1:30am, I was able to go through the electronic graveyard and read through various bios and press releases. One such e-mail praised the merits of Emiliana Torrini, a singer/songwriter from Iceland, which is apparently entirely inhabited only by beautifully freaky and extremely talented pixie-like people. I imagine, in Iceland, the air smells like mint, the blowing wind sounds like music and there are chocolates that magically appear under your pillow every morning when you wake from a sleep full of blissful dreams of sugar plums or some shit. These are the only things that can explain Bjork.

Emiliana has gotten her props; she performed the Gollum song from The Lord of the Rings and even wrote "Slow" for the world's favorite pop star and my favorite dream acquaintance Kylie Minogue (story to follow). But neither of which is why you should give Emiliana a spin. Follow the links below to watch her super cool animated video for the first single off her upcoming album and if that doesn't do it for you (you must be a sad, heartless meanie), watch the interview and prepare to be charmed into a coma by her bewitching Icelandik accent and sugar-sweet modesty.

"Sunny Road"
Real Low
Real High

WM Low
WM High

Emiliana Torrini interview

Quicktime Low
Quicktime High

WM Low
WM High

qwerty sheep

photo: Simon Cataudo

Future generations won't need a mouse or keyboard to interface with the digital world. I'm just guessing, though. Maybe it's just wishful thinking on my part. I'm looking forward to the day when the human race no longer needs its physical bodies. I doubt it will happen in this lifetime, but I'd like to think that J Reincarnate (is it referring to yourself in the third person when you're speaking about yourself in reincarnated form? Good question, huh?). Maybe in this noncorporeal future, we will have all but eliminated the need for sleep. Don't get me wrong; I enjoy sleeping, but I like in on the weekends when I can get as much of it as I damn well please. My weekday version of sleep is far less enjoyable; maybe because I get much, much less of it. Either way, right now my eyes are raw and my lids are heavy, but I have so far been unable to coax myself out of this seat and make my way to bed. It could be because I really don't want to tackle all the work I have ahead of me tomorrow (in a few hours), or it could be that I'm determined to finish this bottle of MGD, which is dangerously close to becoming piss-warm and undrinkable (they taste so much better after a few rum and coke primers).

Whatever the reason, my bladder's feeling full, and this drafty house is making the Egyptian cotton blanket and flannel sheets sound much more inviting.

taptaptaptaptaptap...

Just a few more words and I think I'll feel a yawn coming on.

pretty vacant

Work keeps me so busy now that I barely have time for myself. Today was like getting punched in the stomach when I found out a coworker's leave of absence would be extended another week and I'd have to cover for him. I heard something snap crackle pop in the back of my brain, then there was a static sound followed by the noise that plays over the test pattern of a television channel that has gone of the air for the evening.

My mind is torn in so many different directions, I can barely remember the basics, like bathing or taking out the garbage. I forgot to drop off the PG&E bill today, but it's a good thing they don't charge late fees. I'll bring it in tomorrow.

I just got paid today, but one of my bills is due on the 11th, and I'm afraid it's going to be late, even though it's going out in the mail tomorrow. I hope there's money left after I pay my bills this time, because there wasn't last time, and I almost didn't make it through the week. Oddly enough, the only thing that saved me was my new TV, which I have to start paying off now, but if it wasn't for that, and the credit card Circuit City gave me to buy it, I wouldn't have been able to eat.

This is why I plugged myself into my PlayStation 2 when I got home today. I played some baseball game for three or four hours, doing my best to feel as vacant as possible. But I'm also on two hours sleep, and that may have something to do with it.

jumping on the bandwagon: take me to your leader...

Gillian Chung

Dear, China.

What up, dawg?

It's funny that as I write this, the BBC World Service is yammering on in charming British accents about how China is emerging as the other world's super power. It's been a while since there's been another super power.

Some American business man/politician was interviewed and went going on about how America's still the best and China's way overrated. He even quoted Mark Twain saying that "the rumors of our demise have been greatly exaggerated." He sounded more like he was trying to convince himself, though.

Maybe China is overrated, kinda like buying too much into that first-round draft pick. Sure he looks good on paper, but he hasn't pitched a day in the pros. Either way, I don't see the big deal. It is the world's most populace nation, after all, and I believe the basic tenet of democracy is the majority rules...so I'd like to be the first to welcome the Chinese to global prominence. Sure, you've done some pretty shitty things in the past, but that's what governments do. I'm sure you had your reasons.

I've already been doing my best to assimilate to your culture; I eat the Americanized version of your cuisine at least twice a week (broccoli chicken, who'd have thought? It seems so simple, but I guess that's what makes it so good. Nice work!), and I also have been a big fan of your movies (and if you don't mind me saying, sir, some of your daughters are smoking hot... ...and I mean that with the utmost respect).

Daniel Wu

I'd just watched Beyond Our Ken, starring Gillian Chung and Daniel Wu, and, well, I was impressed. I liked how the director used handheld cameras, because it really made me feel like I was spying on these characters. I'm not sure if you've seen it, China, you're probably busy becoming a super power, but I totally recommend it. It's a very real and modern love story in which no one falls in love and everyone is just driven crazy and vindictive. Nice twist.

I guess no self-respecting super power can exist without a developing entertainment industry. Just look at the old Soviet Union--no good movies. That's what brought down the Berlin Wall.

Anyway, If you are to become a global super power, try to learn from the mistakes of the those that came before you. Though I doubt you will, because you're still a government, after all. Just remember who was the first to welcome you to impending world domination. An ambassadorship would be nice, daughters, whatever.

Sir.

-j.

PS. Really, I'd just settle for sweet and sour pork. I don't think that's too much to ask.

all i needed was a silent bob...well, a silenter bob

A few good things were salvaged from last night:

I made it to 7-Eleven in time to get a six pack, which is still untouched in the fridge.

I may have found my new living quarters as of June. It's a bit more expensive than where I'm living now, so I'm not sure if I'll be able to swing it, but at least I won't have to go searching for somewhere.

I guess only two good things were salvaged from last night. My mistake.

Last night was a good time thought, as my liver and I wandered from party to bar in a vaguely happy haze. The haze, however, got considerably murkier as I wandered out of the local watering hole and set out for the 7-Eleven. My legs and eyelids began to feel rather heavy. Guinness sure does make me sleepy; so much so that curling up on the sidewalk sounded like a good idea. But I wasn't that drunk, so I managed to make it inside the 7-Eleven, buy a six pack and call a cab. The dispatcher told me it'd be 40 minutes. I said that's fine. I'd been doing so much walking this week because I was so broke, but luckily a magic check made its way into my mailbox and I was able to drink away just a little bit of my parents' charity--most of it went to my utilities, and the remaining will be hoarded greedily 'til glorious payday on Monday.

I sat on the sidewalk and waited for my cab. The rest of the dregs straggled in from their respective nights of debauchery. One dude in a Hawaiian shirt quizzed a young kid in an Iron Maiden hoody about his knowledge of the band.

"Don't tell me you grew up on Iron Maiden," said the slurring Hawaiian shirted guy, handing a cigarette to the hoodied kid. "I grew up on Iron Maiden. How old are you?"

"I'm 23," answered the kid.

"I grew up on Iron Maiden," repeated the drunk.

Hawaiian shirt also gave a cigarette to this dreadlocked hippie transient girl with some kind of tribal drum. He told her "I love you," as she walked away.

Another hippie-fied woman rolled through the parking lot--she had wild curly hair and a beautiful, if not a bit grimy, face. She was wearing a tight black hoody, blue sweat pants and sneakers. Ratty as fuck, but you could tell she'd clean up nice by the way she walked. I'd like to think so anyway. It gave me something to idly ponder while waiting for that damn cab. It had to be more than 40 minutes by then; but really, it was only about 20.

Another blind drunk with a goatee was spitting and howling at the front door. He'd just made it in under the 2am shut off point for alcohol sales. He asked the passersby if they were being safe and tried to hit on one of the hottest bartenders in town--and also one of the fastest--who left her car running as she ran in for cigarettes.

An odd couple strolled up and made out with each other as if they didn't want anyone to know--sneaking kisses in the parking lot. I think I heard mention that he was her boyfriend's friend, but then again, I could have just been pretending to hear that. I was pretty tired, and that cab was late; but really, it wasn't set to arrive for another 15 minutes.

spike in the self-importance meter

I swear I cried while answering these questions. They just hit home, man. R is the next Barbara Walters so y'all better recognize.

What's your super power?
I have the uncanny ability to blend into any room of people. So acute is this power, that I cannot be seen unless I absolutely want to be. I used to be able to have control over my super power; however, now I have supreme difficulty being seen at all.

What's something that most people wouldn't know about you?
I'm a very secretive and private person in general, which may be one of the reasons why I do this lame-ass blog thing; I need an outlet to be more expressive, because I just can't do that in person. Maybe that's what most people wouldn't know.

If you could trade lives with anyone, who would you pick? Why?
As long as it wasn't permanent, I wouldn't mind swapping lives with anyone, really. I find other people pretty fascinating. It'd be cool to see the world through a different pair of eyes for a little while. I think I heard this in Total Recall, so take that into account, but one of the characters said you can never take a vacation from yourself. Y'know, no matter where you go, there you are. It'd be fun to be someone else for a little while, but I think I'd miss all my miserable bullshit before too long.

What is the most humiliatingly embarrassing cd in your collection?
I still think it's a good CD, but I guess the most humilating one would be the Kelis CD--the one with "Milkshake" on it? "My milkshake brings all the boys to the yard..." I don't care how bad it sounds. I can't stop singing it once it's on. The whole CD's pretty damn funky. I also have a string quartet tribute to Tool, which sounds cheesy as fuck, I know, but it's pretty rocking. I'm sure there are others.

Where do you see yourself in 10 years?
Probably in a monastery as a monk.

our friend, the red-tailed hawk

I've only been out of the city for a few years--only to move to another urban setting, though much, much smaller. I'd like to think that I've pretty much adapted to life out here in the vaguely settled wilderness of the West, but then I'm brought face to face with nature and am quickly reminded I'm what the yokels would refer to as 'city folk.'

I opened up my front door to leave for work this morning when I saw something alien perched on one of my fence posts. It was large and feathered and it had its back to me, but there was definitely no mistaking that it was large and feathered. Large and Feathered.

I handled it pretty well, I think. I'd seen such things of course, maybe quickly as I zoomed past in an automobile, or behind large iron bars at a zoo, but certainly not in my front yard. My first reaction was "What the fuck is that?" It certainly wasn't no pidgeon. But soon, my foothills-drive training kicked in and I recognized that this magnificent bird was indeed, our friend, the red-tailed hawk.

According to Wikipedia, this delightful beast shouldn't have been such a stranger to me after all, as they are thriving throughout the United States. There are even a pair living in my hometown megapolis:

The Red-tailed Hawk is common and widespread, partly because it has benefited from European settlement. The clearing of trees in the east provided hunting areas, and the practice of sparing woodlots left nest sites. Conversely, the planting of trees in the west provided nest sites where there had been none. The construction of highways with treeless medians and shoulders and with utility poles alongside provided perfect habitat for perch-hunting, so Red-tailed Hawks are now a common sight along highways. Finally, these birds have moved into New York and other cities, as in the successful non-fiction book Red-Tails in Love: A Wildlife Drama in Central Park, by Marie Winn. Winn wrote about one of the most famous of them, Pale Male.

The bird got all turned its head and regarded me once or twice before flapping its might wings and taking off to be Large and Feathered somewhere else. Fare thee well, mighty bird.

fuck you, martha

The light we see from the star Betelgeuse actually left its location 525 years ago. I like leaving public television on in the background, except for when it goes to the shrieking test pattern. Is that noise necessary?

According to this article, the name Betelgeuse is derived from the Arabic ibt al jauzah, which is really fun to say and translates to "armpit of the central one." It's part of the shoulder of Orion and is 1,000 times the size of our sun, which is a medium sized star. Unfortunately, though Betelgeuse is one of the most well-known stars in our sky, it is close to the end of its life cycle. It's sort of poetic, I guess, that even after its big budget, special effect-style death, that it will live on, in our eyes, for another 525 years. Of course, it's still got about a million of years to go before it goes supernova.

I'm sure I've heard this kind of stuff before. I had an astronomy class at my first of three colleges, which, honestly, bored me half to death, but at least it requried me to go to the Hayden Planetarium, which is always fun.

That's the nice thing about public television; it encourages thought and feeds a curious mind. It sent me on this late night scavenger hunt on one of the largest known stars. That's all well and good, but, let's face it, PBS isn't the most exciting thing on the tube. That's why there's shows like Lost, which encourages much whooping and hollering and doe-eyed awe, all of which are more exciting than thoughtful queries and expanding horizons.

the criminal

Unfortunately, the lead-in for Lost is an entertainment tabloid show. I'm not sure which, because I only ever catch the last two minutes of it on Wednesdays. Tonight their parting story was the impending release of domestic goddess turned faux inmate Martha Stewart.

Everyone makes mistakes. She was found guilty, and she's serving her time, and soon, upon completion of her sentence, she'll be released. Fine. Great. Perhaps Martha will now follow the straight and narrow path; the system works and everyone's happy. So what if she was sentenced to what has to be the nicest looking prisons I've ever seen. Of course, she's rich and this is America, and that's why you want to be rich in America, so when you get pinched for being a deceitful fuck, you're sentenced to a federal resort with professional landscaping and comfortable uniforms, if you're actually convicted, that is. Okay. Whatever. I try not to let those things get to me, even though they do. But please, don't tell me that I should feel sorry for Martha. The 'anchor' of this show, Pat O'Brien, tried to convince me that Martha's had it rough in lock up.

the tool

"It's true," he says. "She hasn't received any special treatment."

The tool who created Survivor and Real World to give us his take on the situation.

"She's had to clean a floor waxing machine, and that's a pretty disgusting job."

The horror. At least she's not having to sell her ass for cigarettes; now that would be a story.

slow news day

Photo: Paweł Kornacki

So...uh...it was raining really bad today. It has been off an on for the past week and a half. Sunday, it was coming down in sheets. There's something about shitty weather that I find comforting--like it's the excuse I was looking for to stay inside. It also makes me point out the obvious; as my roommate was lugging his band equipment into his car and running back into the house with the sounds of rain raging outside, I still felt the need to wax rhetorically, "It's really raining, huh?" I can be so eloquent sometimes. I suppose that Pulitzer should be arriving any time now...

I was proofing an ad for a local optometrist, which reminded me that it's been forever since I'd been to the eye doctor. The last time I went was a pretty harrowing experience as I was told that my vision had gotten so bad in the time since my last previous visit, that the doctor thought I might have something hokey going on with my eyes--like some kind of untreatable congenital defect that would render me blind. That wasn't the best news. He told me to come back in a year so they could check it out again. But then I had to fill the new perscription... and I needed a new pair of frames because the others were so uncomfortable... and I didn't have insurance ...and $400 plus on my credit card later, I decided that if my eyes were going to hell anyway, and there was nothing he could do about it, well, I might as well wait until I got insurance--because bad news is easier to take when it only costs $50.

My eyes aren't so bad that I couldn't read the number on the ad, so I called the eye doc up, asked if he took Blue Cross and made an appointment for next Tuesday. Though it seems to be the least intrusive type of medical exam, I still hate the optometrist--mostly because everytime I go, my vision is worse than the previous visit, and I've always been squeamish about my eyes; you have to hook me up in something out of Clockwork Orange to get me to sit still for eyedrops. Also, I don't like how the most important part of my treatment is really in my hands. Clearly, I'm incompetant or else I wouldn't be shelling out money for the optometrist's services; nevertheless, they slap that big old lens decoder mask on and ask "which is better, this one, or this one" and do the lens-clicky thing and basically ask me to perscribe my own treatment. After about 20 minutes of that, I'm so confused I just want it to stop. I just can't deal with that many choices and be asked to commit. I'm just going to have to come back in a year to get something stronger and thicker and more expensive anyway. If only they handled perscribing pills in the same fashion.

the silver age

Since this space has been on some new level of geek lately... Funny stuff for people who get laughed at all the time.

Superman is a dick.