bang, crash, wakka wakka

It was the day after a deadline, and I didn't do shit at work. I answered a few important e-mails, left a few voice messages and wrote a video game review, which I busted out in about ten minutes to get someone off my back. I didn't even fuss with my fantasy team--much. I annoyed R with my incessent regurgitation of that new Kelly Clarkson song, which is really the hottest song. Really.

An old boss came into town, so that meant it was time to go out and tie a few on, which is what this weekend would have meant anyway, even if he hadn't come into town. To start off, I hit up a rendition of a rock opera that didn't forget to rock, but it let out too late for me to walk home and too early for me to hit the bars, so I wandered the downtown prefecture in circles. The air was warm, and not too muggy, just moist enough before it got too sticky. I brought fast food to my friend's store and held up on his couch, watching a movie and drinking a beer until he closed and went home to his wife and kids. It weirds me out that I have adult friends now. I have friends who are adults.

I went to the ATM to get money for the night, still not sure where I would end up or who I'd meet up with. Before I got to the machine, I got a text message on my phone instructing me to go to meathead tavern. I was about to respond when I heard my name called across the parking lot; by coincidence, it was the person who sent me the text message. I guess my debauchery was pre-ordained.

Somehow, I think I drank a gallon of Guinness--not at once. Even if it seemed like I had just an hour ago. It was a kind and pleasant drunk though, the kind I've come accustomed to when I place myself in the care of this fair Irish stout. But this night felt like just a primer; I got invited to two parties and a local rock show, and I'm going to try to hit all of them.

I'm not an adult yet, I tell myself...I'm still in my 20s...I'm still in my 20s...

Tonight, when I finally pass out, I hope I won't dream of work like I have all week long. I hope I don't dream of anything--and I won't wake up til well past noon.

he's not in the MANIFEST

For shame, ABC. I was under the impression that tonight would feature a new episode of Lost, but all ABC had to offer was this cop out recap show called Lost: the Journey that ran through everything us addicts know already, but breaking it down for us even further by adding a cheesy voice over. The only good part was that I got to relive my favorite Lost moment ever. "He's not in the MANIFEST!" it's kinda fun to say, but still. I was hurt, so I watched America's Next Top Model and was surprisingly disturbed by Janice Dickinson's efforts to illustrate what passion looks like by molesting an unsuspecting Tyra Banks. It was pretty creepy. I'd rather not go into it any further, but instead of "passion" it looked more like "being coked out of your goddamn mind and trying to dry hump the first warm body you see." I flipped back and forth during commercial breaks and saw that Lost will not only be new next week but for the next four weeks. The announcement caused me to audibly woo and lurch off the couch with my arms raised. As I howled to my empty home, "Thank God!" I realized that I really have little to live for.

Syd's sister

The negativity was quickly dashed as Alias began. Alias has really been kicking ass in Lost's absence. So much so that I've stopped watching the show simply because Jen Garner makes my knees go jelly, but also because it's been kicking so much ass. The big blood sphere thing; two Sloanes; Daddy Jack going Mutant X; all those funky variations on the turtleneck; increased involvement of Syd's sister (Mia Maestro). And the ending of this week's bordered on being totally fucking wheelchair. Lost better be good when it comes back, or I'll have a new favorite show.

---

I have more writing to do, but I'm going to go to bed. In fact, this will be the first time I go to bed on the same calendar day I woke up since The Muppets Show was on the air. I'm going to go to bed and wake up early and take care of this in the morning, with a fresh outlook, because the last three days have been a real chore.

that's so high school

If I just get it done, I could go to bed early, I wouldn't stress, I wouldn't have to think about it anymore, I could goof off and watch television, I could get it out of the way, I wouldn't have to rush. But instead I watch Cheaters and Elimidate. I smirk and scoff because I think I'm better than these people. I think things like, "I can't believe I'm watching this," while I watch, pay attention (the woman on the screen said "Florida's all about being superficial," but you could say that about a lot of places), and get more disgusted at myself for watching bad television. I'll be up all night at this rate.

so it was all a dream?

I had a dream in which I was making preparations for the funeral of one of the Golden Girls. It was Estelle Getty, but we were talking about her like she was Betty White. I was making these preparations even though the woman in question was still alive. I set up pictures on a series of wooden shelves, and the scenes inside the pictures were moving.

Estelle Getty's character on the Golden Girls always reminded me of my grandmother--both were Sicilian immigrants, short and white haired, and given for fits of the dramatic. My grandmother is old--102--but she's still kicking, and everytime I speak to her, she always asks me when I'm coming home. I say, "I don't know, grandma," because honestly, I'm not sure I'm ever going back home. The dream was unsettling and it pretty much set the tone for the rest of my day.

Work was long and filled up with meetings. I stayed until 9:30pm fussing around behind my computer. I should have came home and did more work, but I went out instead and caught some local bands in a sweaty little record store.

It was 30 degrees cooler outside and the damp wind turned my sweaty T-shirt into a swamp cooler. The walk home wasn't pleasant, as it usually is, because I wasn't drunk like I usually am, walking the spider web covered tree-lined road home at 1am.

First I saw a man wrapped in a white blanket walking toward me on the sidewalk. He fidgeted and looked down at his feet as he shuffled along. It looked like he might have escaped from the hospital just a few blocks ahead. I asked "how's it going?" as I passed him just to make myself more comfortable, and he answered "fine," in a raised voice.

Later, I was singing "A Hard Rain's A-Gonna Fall," by Bob Dylanwhile talking to myself. It's one of my favorite songs, but I don't know all the words, and I thought I was alone, but I looked up to notice a man on a bike traveling toward me, staring. I said "hello," but he just kept moving. It was then that two tweakers pulled up behind me in an old Jeep Grand Cherokee. A large canoe was tied to the top like a narrow, ill-fitted roof, and inside was a host of junk that filled up the cargo area and back seat. The car pulled up beside me and the passenger opened the door and grumbled asking for directions. I got a bit closer but kept my distance. The driver toyed with a pipe used for crank and I told them how to get where they were going, but they pulled off while the door was still open, so I'm not sure if they heard the last bit. I wasn't positive I gave them the right directions, but I doubt they would've found the place even if I did.

it ain't what you do, it's the way that you do it

I spent a good portion of my waking hours at a sports pub watching the A's and Angels, which some how turned into talking politics, loudly, in a backyard with a couple of people I barely knew. I try not to get worked up about those kinds of things, but once in a while, I let myself go.

Also, I was pretty drunk, and I can get pretty loud when I'm drunk. I can turn into a "woo"ing frat boy given the right circumstances, and the right amount of booze. I'm not proud of these moments, but they happen.

We were talking so loud that we were asked to take it somewhere else by the home's owner, and then later, agreeing that we were all being pretty loud, we decided to move it inside, and the discussion turned quickly to women--a direction all good political/philosphical discussions should go, given enough time. That got a bit loud too, so we were politely asked to leave.

The small amount of beer that I had went straight to my head, which allowed me to talk a blue streak. I don't know if it was the energy, or the expedience of my intoxication, but I feel like shit now, with a rugged Monday ahead telling me I should just drink this glass of water, devour the three hard-boiled eggs in the kitchen and pass out. And maybe, not be so damn talkative the next time.

template fucking

During a search for templates this afternoon, and trying to apply said templates to this site, I completely fucked up. Completely. And accidentally clicked "save template changes" instead of "clear edits," because I'm a moron. Completely.

Everything was fine until I published a new post, so I had to do this impromptu thing. The banner's an oldie but goodie from R...it's a good thing I don't throw anything away. This is a temporary fix until I can come up with something better, but I kinda like the blue.

mechanical eyes and brain

During my recent excursion to San Francisco, my cell phone went headlong into the crapper. The LCD screen thing completely blanked out for some unknown reason. It was two years old, though, which is about 2508 in cell phone years, so I suppose it led a full life. It has now been sent off for recycling and I am now beginning a new relationship with a brand new Sanyo camera phone with a speaker phone thing on it.

The artist doing his best not to look at the camera
so as to appear more aloof and mysterious.

She seems really sweet, even though they were unable to transfer my phone book from Ol' Bessy, leaving me clueless and detached from my tiny world. I can't call anyone, except my parents. Pre cell phone, I had a photographic memory for phone numbers. I still remember my family's first phone number, but now that space in my brain has become occupied by other things, and the task of knowing how to get in touch with those who matter most was left in the capable hands of my mobile.

It's a setback to be sure, but with the new phone, I can take pictures with it, which I've been doing pretty much all day. I'm kinda enamoured with the blurry charm of cell phone photography. The technology seems so advanced and shitty at the same time. It's wonderful. I've already taken pictures of all my roommates' cars, my roommates, four pictures of myself and a Toyota Prius with spinning rims and a trailer hitch--quite possibly the coolest car ever.

Ate at In-N-Out for lunch, hit some balls at the batting cage, sipped Seagram's VO from a flask while driving around with my roommate and his girlfriend. I think I forgot to eat dinner along the way. Watched two of the Amityville Horror movies and laughed my ass off, but now I will curse my Catholic upbringing and try not to dwell on the horrors of demonic possession. Tracy Chapman's "Fast Car" gets me every fucking time.

I'm starving, but Super Troopers is hilarious.

aware of drugs and alcohol

The day started off at 8:05am, but it was really 7:55 because I set my clock 10 minutes ahead. It ended a minute thereafter when I shut off my alarm and went back to sleep.

It rang again 15 minutes later to herald Wednesday 1.01; this updated version was much more spry and lively, but just as proficient at darting across the room, turning off the alarm and falling back into bed in one fluid motion. I stared at the ceiling and reminded myself that there was no need to worry. I still had almost an hour before I had to leave.

An hour later, I shot out of bed with a start. It was Wednesday 1.02. We had finally worked out the kinks and the beta period was over. I poked my head out of the side sliding door while buttoning up my shirt to see my coworker in his car waiting. He was on his cell phone. If mine was on, I'm sure it would have been ringing.

Wednesday 1.02 was a pretty eventful day. I hung out at a monastery with a group of elderly women, had a meeting over pizza and later found myself in a miniature golf team tournament to benefit an drug and alcohol awareness program. At one hole, one of the people hosting the event handed players a pair of "beer goggles," which were supposed to simulate how being sloshed to the gills affected your vision and equilibrium. They were extremely disorienting; however, as I walked up to the tee, with some concentration, I was fine and struck my golf ball true, barely missing a hole in one.

"It's just like walking home," I said.

The rest of the mini-golfing was an exercise in frustration. This was the most treacherous mini-golf course I'd ever seen, full of hills, water hazards, rocks and other manmade perils. All that coupled with my ineptitude made for a frustrating, but laughable, good time. Afterwards, we hit up the batting cages and I swung that aggression right out.

Following the drug and alcohol awareness event, I attended a 4/20 party, because it was 4/20 maaan, so we've got to get stoned. Unfortunately, I don't get stoned anymore, and I'm starting to wonder if there's anything more boring than hanging out with people who are baked out of their minds on pot brownies and cookies when all I've had is a couple of beers.

They watched Up in Smoke in dazzled silence, laughing at the most unlikely moments.

while you were gone

The living room was wrecked while I was gone. On the coffee table is:

1. 18 mostly empty 12oz. cans of Miller High Life
2. one empty 40oz. of Mickey's malt liquor
3. two empty cans of Guinness Draught
4. three plates
5. one fork
6. one large empty can of Foster's (it's Australian for swill)
   
7. six empty bottles of Summerfest
8. one glass bong
9. one empty 40oz. bottle of Pabst Blue Ribbon with a brown paper bag shoved in it so that it looks kind of like a white trash molotov cocktail

I didn't even know they made 40oz. bottles of Pabst.

The kitchen's not much better. I couldn't find the actual garbage pail under the pile of discarded boxes of Chocolate Lucky Charms. I grabbed a garbage bag from under the sink and started to dig through the waste tower to find the garbage can full, and without a liner. I took the full bag of trash out to the dumpster and gave up.

Tomorrow I make out my last rent check for this house. I've lived here for almost a year-and-a-half; it's the longest I've lived anywhere that's not my parents' home. It'll be weird to leave, but I'm looking forward to it. I'm not really excited about having to move. I hate packing and hauling and being overwhelmed by all the stupid shit I have, but starting the first week of May, I'm going to start throwing out everything. I'm actually kind of excited about it--plates, glasses, silverware, unopened boxes, clothes, everything.

It will be good for me, I think. It'd better be.

no one knows

Homeless man in San Francisco
Photo: Erik Dungan

Work sent me on a wild goose chase in San Francisco over the weekend. On Saturday, I was supposed to conduct an interview with a band and check out a live acoustic set by the same band put on by a local radio station. The only catch was, the only word of confirmation I'd gotten was, "Everything should be fine," which I'm starting to realize means, "Yeah, look, no one actually wants to come out and say, 'no' so instead they say 'it shouldn't be a problem,' and then ignore you until you give up trying and forget about the whole thing."

I made all the calls, left the messages, wandered around the city--no interview. I did get to see the live acoustic set, though, and that was really good. I was more frustrated than bummed that the interview didn't happen; I should be used to it by now, but there's other ways I'd rather spend a Saturday than leaving multiple messages for a tour manager that I know will go unreturned and constantly checking my cell phone to see if I missed a call.

Luckily, I was down there with friends and coworkers, who were all reuniting with friends who had moved away, some of whom I knew, and some I didn't. It didn't matter, though, because we drank a lot of booze. Starting in the daylight hours, even while hunched over my phone, I sank into a pleasant Guinness buzz while listening to stories of other people's good times. I laughed and asked questions and snapped group photos so they could have keepsakes. I was a witness, someone who hadn't heard all the old familiar stories.

San Fransico's scenic and dirty at the same time, which I guess is par for the course for every city, but the hills, the bay, the bridges and the views of the ocean are breathtaking, and you can see all these things while tripping over junkies. I have mixed feelings about the city. I have a good time there, even though the hipster set in San Francisco is notably snobbish, and for some reason, I usually get lost there--luckily at seven miles by seven miles, it doesn't take long to find your way again.

Saturday made me wonder if I'd just been going to the wrong places in my previous visits. We bar hopped through the Mission district--more than a gaggle of shouting rowdy drunks--and the hipsters encountered were polite and friendly. We even hit up places where the drinks were cheap. I visited the same killer taqueria three times in the same day and ate my full each time, drank Beam and Guinness and whatever beer was cheap and still felt good enough this morning to wander around Fisherman's Wharf like a big dumb tourist. Bands should flake out on interviews more often.

date with the reaper

In 38 years, it'll be 2043...that's like the future, yo.

the world: in shimmering letter box

I finally got my new glasses today. One of my coworkers gave me a ride to the office--she's still waiting for her contacts--and the doctor was sitting behind the front desk. For some reason, he reminds me of Nick Nolte from 48 Hours, thankfully not the newer drunker scarier Nick Nolte. He asked me to give him a minute and he scurried off to the back, and a nondescript terrier showed up to take his place.

The terrier was a scruffy little floppy dog with a whisker-y face and a freshly shorn body. It would have been one of those mop looking dogs if it wasn't for his snazzy new hair-did.

I proceeded to start a one-sided discussion with the terrier, because I'm one of those crazy people who chats it up with other people's dogs, while giving him ear scratches. I couldn't tell if he was perturbed with my doting, so I stopped, which caused the terrier to scoot closer.

My glasses fit with little adjusting. They're comfortable, sleek and kinda on the sexy side, and I love them; especially because I can see very well with them. The prescription is crazy different, so it took some getting used to, but now I'm pretty used to them. Everything is in carved in crisp, bold outlines and I find myself staring at walls and examining the texture and detail. I forgot the world could be this vivid.

For years, I had round-shaped frames, so I decided to go with rectangular ones this time around. they're much smaller than my last pair of glasses, which I like, but my field of clear vision is now wildly different, like a movie in letterbox format, but the black bars are replaced by soupy blurs, separated from my crisp vision by a shimmering rectangle, caused by the light passing over the edges of my lenses.

---

My studious roommate came in around 10pm looking for parts to his motorcycle that still haven't arrived.

"You want to take shots?"

Did I?

Crappy pasta sauce I slapped together with bits of barbecued hamburger for he, his girlfriend and I; Regina Spektor after shot four; rocking out on drums and guitar after shot six--good stuff.

putting the dead back in deadlines

I stayed at work long enough to listen to the rest of the Mets game on Gameday Audio; it went into extra innings, and I was happy to hear the Mets pull it out 1-0 in 11 innings. After losing their first five, they've won three in a row, which is, of course, typical Mets baseball. Now, they'll probably lose eight before winning seven and so on and so forth for the rest of the season. They'll put me in an early grave if all the red meat, stress and alcohol don't do the job first.

At 7:45, it was barely twilight. You'd figure I'd be used to Daylight Savings time by now. It's not a new concept, but every year, around this time, I always find myself saying "I can't believe the sun's still up," as if I've just discovered something terribly amiss within the delicate fabric of the universe.

I took my time getting home because I knew Lost was a rerun, and repeats are just frustrating. Instead, I caught the last couple innings of the Athletics/Blue Jays game. It was the first baseball I'd actually seen this year, and it felt really good. I was remarkably relaxed and satisfied. So much so, after Alias ("I work for...Sloane..."), I was able to get right to work on a handful of CD reviews that were past due for a magazine I freelance for sometimes.

I'm pretty spacey when it comes to getting any writing done, but I'm focused as long as I have a deadline. I had mistaken the date these particular CD reviews were due--I thought it was later in the week--but when I went through my inbox at work, I realized that today was the deadline (being yesterday at this point). I hate being flakey, so I got right to it; they were short, so it wasn't a gargantuan task, but they're done and they're all under word count. Like a pro, god dammit. Like a fucking pro. With any luck, they'll get used, but even if they don't, I was happy to bang the reviews out in a readable fashion, I even almost kinda liked one of them a little.

if you see robert redford at a wrestling match, just let him sit back and enjoy the show.

Welcome, Robert Redford, to the wonderful place that is my dream world. I'm not sure why you were there, or why you were wearing surf shorts and a ratty tanktop while sitting in the same row as me and my friends at a World Wrestling Federation event, but it was nice to meet you. I wanted to ask you about Sundance and maybe get an autograph for my mom, because like all women from her generation, she's crazy in love with you, but my friends suggested that I shouldn't bother you, seeing as you were just out to have a good time. Even though you did butt into our conversation. That was kinda rude, Rob, but I guess I can forgive you.

usually, the movie ends after they have their first kiss

I've been sending out my resume. Even though I'm pretty happy with my job, I do this from time to time to see if I can get any bites. I doubt I'd take an offer if I got one, but I'm curious.

At my job, I'm pretty much indispensable--not because I'm particularly good at what I do, but I doubt they'd have an easy time finding someone who does as much as I do for as little pay as I get in this town. This wasn't a part of some great scheme of mine to make myself invaluable, but it just kind of happened. Nothing is as important as my work--at least locally--I don't have a girlfriend or a time consuming hobby. When I'm not at work, I think about work. I dream about work.

Now I'm blogging about work.

It's really all I've got. So when I was asked to do this or that, I said, "sure." Not because I thought it would put me in good standing, but because I didn't have anything better to do.

Now, of course, it's all catching up to me, and I'm barely able to keep focused on any given task. I feel overwhelmed, but I'm proud of the fact that I've been able to handle it so far. Sure I stress, tense up and then feel the need to drink myself into stupor, as I did tonight, but I'm still young, though old young. I'm supposed to act as if I'm trying to kill myself in my 20s; if I make it to 30, I think I'll have a pretty long life.

Though making it to 30 is kinda up in the air. Yesterday, while I was walking to work, I felt the tightness in my chest. I get it often, and I know it's jut heartburn, but everytime it happens, I wonder, and worry, that this is the time. This is all I get--28 years and an already legendary legacy of debt. Good thing those student loans are null and void as soon as I'm deceased. I've been doing my best to pay down my credit cards, because I don't want my mom and dad to get stuck with the bill--just in case.

I saw a commercial--it was supposed to be funny--where a guy fast forwards through his grandmother's video taped will. I wondered if I should make arrangements for my $200 in the bank, my mostly unpaid TV, my laptop and my PlayStation 2; but I don't have a video camera.

So I've been sending out my resume, but I haven't gotten a reply. It's a good thing I like my job.

from the belly of the beast

Lo, the antichrist, the slayer of worlds, the end of all things has been conceived of mostly human woman and skanked-out trashy man.

Check out the "latest" here.

in which jessica alba gives me a valuable lesson in personal hygene

sigh--J dreamed about me.

I often have dreams about celebrities. They're my second most recurring dream image, and again, I'm sure I could look that up in some fancy analysis, but I'd like to think that it's because all our dreamstates are connected by winding pathways and sometimes we end up in each other's subconscious. When I was a child once, I was sick and sleeping in my mother's bed. We both had a dream with the other one in it and it was the same dream. That's enough proof for me.

I'm usually not this esoteric, but it's a fun thing to believe, especially when you don't believe in much else.

Ms. Alba was the most recent visitor to my curious dreamscape, though unfortunately not in a provacative sense. We had to pick her up from the airport (planes falling from the sky are my third most popular dream topic followed closely by Jesus Christ, who once showed up to a New Year's dream party, but I woke up before I could get into the kitchen to see him)--I think my sister was interviewing the actress for a magazine or something--but whatever her reason Jessica Alba was hanging out with us, and I'm pleased to say she was very pleasant. I was able to get over my fear of women I'm attracted to (and pretty much the entirety of womankind) and speak freely, and I was pretty damn funny, too (a good sign that it was, in fact, a dream). I think we were all watching a movie or something. I was sitting on the floor in front of a bed, and Jessica was lying on the bed on her stomach and under one of my blankets--my Egyptian cotton blanket--and she mentioned that she didn't like the blanket very much. My sister who was sitting on a chair or something, seemed to get upset by the comment, but I wanted to hear her out, since she was being polite about it. She continued to say that the blanket was comfortable enough but it smelled funny, and I needed to take better care of myself. I thanked her because I needed to hear that and I agreed.

So that was it for that dream.

Back off, Alba. I saw him first.

Another recent visitor was none other than international pop star Kylie Minogue, or just plain Kylie depending upon where in the world you are. She played a show at a small club in town that was usually desiginated for the indiest of the indie touring rock bands. I was surprised that such a big name star was not only coming to town but also playing such a small club, so I decided to go check it out. The rest of the audience was the typical hipster types, who were scoffing Kylie and her music. I'm not a fan either, in fact I don't think I've heard more than three of her songs, but I was willing to give her a chance anyway. She took the stage and she started to put on a stellar performance, though I wasn't that into what she was doing, but I was willing to give her a warm reception. The rest of the crowd wasn't so willing, however, and after one and a half songs, Kylie exited the stage, though her backing band played on. I noticed through the window that she had made it out side and was leaning up against a car and looking into club. I ventured outside and started apologizing for the shittiness of the crowd, how they were only not cheering because they thought that was the cool thing to do, and that I thought she sounded really good, though I'm not a fan of her music.

We engaged in a short conversation, and I soon realized that I was kinda hitting on her and that she was kinda digging it. Then, the rest of the hipsters had started streaming out of the club and got in between us and I kinda grudgingly backed off from Kylie. Then there was a drive-by shooting or something like that and I woke up.

Perhaps showing up in my dreams will become some sort of a celebrity fad, like the new Scientology, or perhaps I should stop watching so much television.

perhaps it's for the best

A business trip to the city was cancelled this morning, so I decided to head back to bed. I didn't wake up until 3pm. I hadn't slept in that late in a long time, and I can't say that it felt good. I just didn't want to leave my bed; that happens from time to time. Eventually, when I realized I wouldn't be falling back to sleep, I through on a ratty pair of shorts and snuck out into the kitchen to take meat for stir fry out of the freezer to defrost. I scampered quickly back into my room and shut the door.

I did, however, speak to my grandmother. It was her birthday and she turned 102 (seriously). I also spoke to my sister, and she asked me to be an usher in her wedding, today her boyfriend (her fiance now) popped the question. I'm very happy for the both of them, and, of course, I agreed to be an usher in their wedding.

All in all, it was a festive day, but being so far away from home put some separation between the happy goings on and I. All I had to celebrate locally was an in-town appearance by rapper Trick Daddy, so celebrate I did.

I didn't go to the Trick Daddy show, because it was fucking expensive, and really, I had no interest in seeing him perform (even though Trick loves the kids), but the fact that a higher profile act was passing through our bland borders was cause for joy amongst the town's youth. At a tattoo parlor, just minutes before the show, tight-shirted dudes strutted around with short-skirted chicks and tried to act like they were street--the SUV that daddy paid for just a block away.

There would be parties, of course, and rather than sit home alone, I figured I'd make some calls to see what was cracking. This led me to shindig at a fraternity house on the other end of town. It was over crowded and dirty. Pretty much everything you hear about fraternities is true--make no mistake about that. The place stank of sweat, cheap booze and date rape, but a friend of mine was spinning wax, and I had a couple bottles of Guinness to keep me company.

There were way too many people, and as soon as the music started, two girls tried to beat the shit out of each other. It wasn't my scene at all, but I'd shown up with three others, and my buddy was playing some hip-hop bangers. The mating call had been sounded. The dance floor was a writhing mass of young bodies--one woman wore a Girls Gone Wild mesh cap and jeans slung so low, I wondered if she'd accidentally bought the wrong size--and I did my best to avoid it. Unfortunately, when it comes to being a pervert, as with many other things in my life, I'm all talk.

Once my Guinness was out, I couldn't wait to get out of there. At some point, I made it upstairs and heard there was a bathroom. A gaggle of women exited and I snuck in after them. The stench of urine was potent. The lone toilet was caked with soggy toilet paper, and I was thankfull that the place had a urinal. I held my breath and took a piss that seemed to last for an hour; after that, I cut my losses and split. It was a good time, for sure, but I was tired of feeling old enough to be someone's uncle.

I wandered to the bars in time for last call, then wandered home in time for a shot of tequilla, and I'm hoping to make it to bed before I pass out in this chair.

as i was saying...

[pretend you read this yesterday.]

"Solo trip for lunch?" a coworker asked after I anounced to the room that I was going to grab a bite to eat. Lunch is by far the most important aspect of my office's environment, and effectively, my most important meal of the day.

"Yep, looks that way," I answered. "It's cool. It's a nice walk."

"Good day for it, too," he said.

I was on the phone with my dad lamenting the Mets third straight loss to open the season when I noticed the clouds looming on the horizon.

"I heard it's nice over there," my dad said over my cell phone.

"Yeah it is...there's clouds, but I don't think they're rain clouds."

They were, in fact, rain clouds. I learned of this when my nubile waitress said to no one in particular, "It's really coming down out there." And it was. I stalled as I paid my bill, balancing my checkbook and watching muted ESPN, hoping the rain would subside so I could walk run to the PG&E office to pay our gas and electric bill, which was on my way back to the office, but the stream of precipitation remained steady.

I was about an hour and a half into my lunch break, so I had to suck it up and make the long walk back--at least it wasn't thunder and lightning or anything.

A block later, I picked up the place as thunder rumbled, lightning flashed and tiny bits of hail showered down upon me. It wasn't the nastiest storm I'd seen. California thunderstorms are cute compared to the ones back east or on the plains, but I never had to walk a mile in those either. I made it into the PG&E office just in time to see the storm go to cute from ugly.

I paid the bill, but was still three or four blocks away from work. There was no way I was going to walk in that, so I asked if it was cool to hang in the buidling until the storm passed. It was, but I would have stayed anyway if it wasn't. Soon, I got a phone call from one of my coworkers who had heard I was out walking in this mess. She drove over and rescued me. Such heroics were echoed in my choice of evening's entertainment, Sin City.

whimper...

I was never a big follower of the graphic novels, but working in a comic store pretty much requires you to have loads of respect for Frank Miller; and truth be told, he is one of the finest writers in modern comics. Granted, there are probably a few more than three pure writers in modern comics (the other two being Neil Gaiman and Alan Moore(there are other good ones, too, but, well, I'm not going to come off as more of a geek by listing them)), but still. Frank Miller writes from the groin, and it shows. His stories are loaded with sex, violence and adolescent male fantasy, none of which make for high art, but Miller's stuff is seems so much more over the top and self aware. It doesn't lie or pretend; it is what it is and it's brutally honest. All of these things carried over into the film, which looked like a living version of one of Frank's books. Even the storytelling was episodic, much like a comic book.

The movie is full of stylized violence, hardboiled heroism and miles of drool-enducing woman flesh, such as Jessica Alba, pictured to the right, because I'm a pervert.

This isn't a date movie. It's a lonely 13-year-old boy's violent masturbatory fantasy, but it's remarkably well done and entertaining, and Bruce Willis, Mickey Rourke and Benicio del Toro all pull down gritty, hyperbolic performances without coming off as schmaltzy.

---

I took myself to the movies, because everyone I know in town had seen it already. I had to take a cab to get there, and I called a cab to get me. Oustide, bats were treating the parking lot lights like buffets, snatching up mystified moths, and instead of going home, I instructed the driver to take me to the local watering hole. There were some people there from work, but the place was pretty emtpy, and everyone called it an early night. I craved another Guinness so I stopped at the 7-Eleven to pick up a bottle of extra stout for the walk home. I hadn't eaten a proper dinner, unless you count Red Vines, so my head was swimming a bit as I wrapped the bottle in the brown paper bag, concealing its contents in such a manner that anyone who saw it would know that I was carrying alcohol. I strolled a long the busy street that leads me home, caught up in my arts & crafts project when I was startled by someone approaching on my left.

"You're not thinking of cracking that open now are you?" he asked.

"No," I answered with a laugh. I was waiting until I went around the corner.

my destiny

Destiny: a dish best served cold...

The past two days, our tiny shit town has been assaulted by thunderstorms (I wrote about the other one yesterday, but Blogger hates me; I'll have to retro post it later). This isn't big news anywhere else in the country, but in here in Northern California, it's big news. Especially for me because I'm a walker.

Today the sky went dark, thunder rumbled and for the second day in a row, this beautifully bland little burb was pelted with pea-sized hail. It was a fair-sized thunderstorm and it raged for a while right around lunch time. This time, the thunderstorm had the added excitement of being associated with a tornado some 15 miles outside of town and heading our way.

My longest lasting recurring dream images are tornados. I'm from the New York City area, so it's not like I've ever really encountered one, but I'm always dreaming about them anyway. In fact, I just had a tornado dream some days ago. I'm sure I could look it up and find out what they're supposed to symbolize, but I'm not at all concerned with that. Instead, I've taken it to mean that it's my destiny to die by the swift windy hand of a tornado. Everytime I hear about a tornado warning, I wonder, "is this my time?"

It's kind of morbid, but it's nice to have a destiny, and there's worse ways to go, I think, than by tornado. Being eaten by a giant squid is number one on my list of ways I do not want to die.

cartoons rock

The new video for "Feel Good Inc." by Gorillaz is dope. I love the artwork, and the song's pretty good too.

Real Hi | Windows Hi

maynard and jesus and i

Maynard, bathed in the light
of the Lord

When I heard that Tool and A Perfect Circle frontman Maynard James Keenan had decided to put his bands on the back burner so he could rededicate his life to Jesus, I figured it was bullshit. The next day, I heard it was an April Fool's prank, and all was as it should have been in the world.

Then today, I heard again that Maynard, who I heard used to call Tori Amos and sing her lullabies (who does that?), had in fact found Christ--presumably hiding out next to a dumpster behind a sushi restaurant. If God, Jesus and the Holy Spirit are one, and God is everywhere, he should be pretty easy to find, right? How come it's such a big deal when someone finds Christ, then? "Hey, guys, I heard about this thing Christianity. Have you heard of this stuff?" Whatever. So Kurt Loder, who I used to have a lot of respect for before I watched the VMAs one year and he started cooing over the new Guns N' Roses after the wretchedest television performance ever, like they were the saviors of rock, wrote an e-mail to Maynard, because I guess when you're Kurt Loder you e-mail Maynard and tried to be a super sleuth and get to the bottom of things.

Maynard answered that he had in fact found the Lord.

I saw A Perfect Circle last year and it was a bit of a religious experience. The place was packed, the lights were unbelievable and Maynard sang the first three songs behind a shroud of shadows. My brain shut off halfway through from over stimulation. I felt like I was in a wind tunnel or something. I spent most of the show on the floor in a puddle of my own drool. It was some mighty fine rock. I'm not sure what Jesus thought of the peformance, but I'd assume he was there as well.

I went to check back on the latest Maynard developments, because that's what I do, and it seems like the whole thing was just indeed a hoax. Our friend, Kurt Loder, e-mailed Maynard again and asked flat out if it was true. The response was "heh heh." Waaah waaaah waaaaaaah.

heaven knows, i'm miserable now

Since he inadvertantly wrote a song about my life, I decided to check out Morrissey's new DVD, Who Put the "M" in Manchester?, hoping that it would lighten my mood. Morrissey's not known for his feel good anthems, but his songs are so damn infatuated with being completely miserable that they're actually kinda happy.

Concert videos are usually hit or miss for me, but I like to have them around, because I don't really have to watch them; I treat them like CDs that have bonus visuals if that I can choose to pay attention to or ignore. The good ones are really engaging, though. Last year, I really liked U2's Live at Sloane Castle. I'm not a big fan of the band, but the sound and camera work were excellent and the energy of the performance and the crowd was overwhelming. I mean, it's U2 in Ireland... The other concert video I really liked was Shakira Live in Rotterdam, because she really knows how to put on a show, and her hip-shaking does funny things to me. She's so slithery...like.

Anyway, Morrissey's concert DVD was a good watch. Morrissey's a pretty jumpy performer; he was always moving around and gesturing and flouncing about, and he sweated through four button-down shirts that he tossed out into the crowd, inciting a riot each time. Morrissey rocked pretty hard. I like a couple of his new songs a lot ("Irish Blood, English Heart"), but when he did "There Is a Light That Never Goes Out," shit got crazy.

I was taken back most by Morrissey's fans, who rival Slayer fans as the craziest fuckers on the planet. People flashed their Moz tattoos and even Moz lyrics tattoos and saying shit like "Morrissey saved my life." He also has more male groupies than any performer in music today. Dudes were literally throwing themselves at the stage, over a barricade and about 20 guards in yellow shirts just to get close to Morrissey. He played it up too; he'd walk to the lip of the stage and kneel down and reach out to them, sometimes clasping their hands, before the burly guards would carry the fan away, still singing along.

I guess there's something theraputic about howling along to words like "if a double decker bus, crashes into us...to die by your side, is a heavenly way to diiiiie" and watching grown men squeal like piglets in the presence of a pale blue dude with a pompador.

But like an idiot, I watched the special features, including something entitled "Meet Your Meat," which is some PETA video that shows how mistreated the pig that becomes your bacon is. It's not like this was news to me or anything. But I am super-carniverous and also highly impressionable. So now I'm checking out GoVeg.com and thinking of microwaving some hotdogs.

the MAN wants his money

Today my accountant--he's not really my accountant, it's not like I employ him or anything; once a year I give him $50 and he hands me a stack of papers that I can't make any sense of, sign them and mail them out to the president and the governor--handed me an envelope and told me I owe about $1,000 in taxes. For a part of last year, I was technically self-employed, so what little money I was getting was all tax-free.

That I owed wasn't a surprise, but the amount was kind of upsetting, seeing as I'd just come into some extra cash for filling in for a vacationing co-worker and was able to breathe easier about bills for the first time since I could remember. Things like this always seem to happen when I come into extra money--unexpected expenses, surprise deposits on my apartment, it's never ending. My accountant told me that I don't have to pay it all at once, but regardless, I'm kinda bummed, seeing as I only had $1,000 or over in my bank account once, and that was just last pay day.

Financial matters usually don't get me down, but lately everything has--even my batteries running out on my little Mpio MP3 player is cause for a deep breath. After I got the news, I returned to my desk and stared at my computer monitor for a good 20 minutes. I couldn't bring myself to do anything but watch as I moved the cursor across the big screen. I kept hearing "You're not getting any younger. You're not getting any younger." I'm a prodigy playing the world's smallest violin. It gets like this every now and again, more often than not lately, and I know how to handle it (Guinness), but that doesn't make it any less annoying.

defeat valiantly rescued from the jaws of victory

Defeat rescued from certain doom
by brave men in orange and blue.

Up 6-4 in the bottom of the ninth, and dangerously close to bringing home a "W" for new acquisition Pedro Martinez, the Mets pooled their efforts and managed to wrestle defeat from the open waiting maw of victory.

After giving up a three-run jack to Adam Dunn in the first inning, Martinez was lights out, striking out the side twice and only giving up one baserunner, in the form of a walk to Reds second baseman D'Angelo Jimenez. Martinez finished up with 12 Ks over six innings, and with his team up 6-3.

Relief pitcher heroically gave up a run in the seventh, but the Reds free-swinging bats held fast, striking out twice.

In the eighth, Korean import Dae Sung Koo, perhaps battling the language barrier, pitched a perfect inning, striking out two in the process and inducing a weak ground ball from Ken Griffey, Jr.

This left the duties of pissing away a victory solely on the shoulders of Mets closer Braden Looper, who mustered a herculean effort to blow the save. Looper surrendered a single to Austin Kearns, a two-run homer to Dunn and followed up with serving up a juicy gopher ball to third baseman Joe Randa to end the game in the bottom of the ninth. Looper didn't retire a single batter to record his first blown save of the season. Reds win 7-6.

Welcome to the Queens, Pedro.

death gives me something to write about...again!

So everyone's dying this week. Now it's Johnnie Cochran, famous for defending OJ Simpson in the coolest trial ever and injecting the phrase "If it don't fit, you must acquit," into the pop culture lexicon. Say what you want about Mr. Cochran, but if I was facing life in prison, there was no man I'd rather have defending me. Godspeed you to the special place in hell that's reserved for lawyers and politicians. I'm sure Lucifer will think twice before negotiating with you. RIP Johnnie.

just stay in bed next time

I should have known today would be a lost cause:

This town is full of pollen and there's a nagging pain right between my eyes.

My lower intestines are rebeling against the slice of pizza I ate on the walk home. I walked because the bike-taxi driver tried to charge me $8 for the ride. I wasn't born yesterday--unfortunately.

Spent a majority of the day watching Pope coverage and related documentaries. I don't know why. Later, watched a marathon of the Critters movie series with friends. Again, don't know why, but it was funny.

Went out after watching movies for unknown reason. Still haven't bumped into the woman I met and wanted to bump into. Hear nagging voice of friend in back of my head who just hooked up with one of my other friends say "You're not getting any younger."

Instead of bumping into woman I'm hoping to bump into, drink alone in a corner booth at the local watering hole and realize I'm not getting any younger and should just go home.

Instead of going home, bump into people I know who are going to another bar and go there--not quite sure why.

Some dude grabbed my ass at the bar. He explained himself, though. He was abducted by a bachelorette party, which I'd noticed on the way in, and showed me a card from some game they were playing that read, "Appreciate the male form. Grab a guy's ass and say "aaaah wooo gah." I was going to make a snarky comment about how I'm a prime example of the male form, too, but decide against it. He apologized, but I thought it was kinda funny, even though I was really embarassed myself. Later, the bachelorette party bought me a drink.

Instead of going home after said drink I hobbled to another bar where the taps are busted, so I couldn't get another pint of Guinness, which turns out to be okay in retrospect.

On the walk home, Regina Spektor made life a little better with "The Ghost of Corporate Future."

...and turning the clocks forward one hour sucks, too.

pope2k5

I had a weird morning. I really didn't want to leave bed, so I watched the rest of a movie that I'd started and kept falling asleep during. It wasn't a bad movie, I'm just never able to stay awake anymore; one minute I'm enjoying a DVD, and the next it's daylight and the interactive menu is cycling through for the umpteenth time. Finally, I got through it, and found it more or less enjoyable, if for nothing else lead starlet Ye-Jin Son, who's all sorts of girl-next-door-if-I-lived-in-Seoul fine.

I turned on my cell phone and plugged it into the wall to charge it up just in time for it to blare the theme song of Magnum PI (I know, but it's kinda funny, and it's better than "Carry on My Wayward Son," by Kansas). It was my sister; she, her boyfriend and our father were at the NYC car show at the Jacob Javitts Convention Center. They wanted to know which car they should drive out to California for me, and I said a Scion. I like the sleek sexy look of the tC sports coupe, but what I really want is the sporty utility of the xA hatchback. I think it's really good on gas, too. Plus, I have a soft spot for anything with a name that starts with a little letter and has a capital letter as its second letter, no matter what editorial nightmares such a trendy device may inspire.

It was around that time, looking for local Scion dealerships, even though I have no hopes of affording a car, that I heard that Pope John Paul II had passed away. I didn't always agree with the man; sometimes he did some stuff I thought was good and some stuff I thought was bad, but I'm sure there will be plenty to eulogize his passing, and I'm not going to use his death as a means to criticize his actions. He's out of our hands now, so to speak. RIP, John Paul.

However, though I realize his death may be too fresh in people's minds (seeing as it happened just hours ago), but I'd like to tentatively throw my hat (of the big pointy pope-y variety) into the race for Pope2k5. I'm not going to lie. My qualifications aren't great. I don't remember the last time I've been to church, but it may have been for a wedding, and God loves those. I am, however, a raised Catholic, clearly down with Jesus and The Exorcist totally freaks me out.

Plus, I think I have other qualities that would make me a good pope. I'd make sure your Sunday masses would get out early enough so you could get home for football (we had a priest like that once. He was awesome!). I love all people regardless of race, religion or sexual orientation (well, most of the time) and especially after I've been drinking. I even love sinners, because I am one, and I believe it's important that the new pope is someone of the people. Face it, the Catholic church isn't the most popular institution (children kinda scare me, so I won't go near them, another plus)--what with all the molestation and such--and it hasn't adapted well to the changing world. I think I could help. After all, some idiot was able to convince a nation that he was just as dumb as they were, and therefore, a good candidate for president; why then, shouldn't the Catholic church come out and say "hey, we're no better than you. Here's proof. We announce Pope J, who couldn't make papal coronation because he's at a Jack in the Box eating an ULTIMATE Cheeseburger to drive off that nasty hangover."

Well, it's a thought.

confessional 4 (or further proof why i'm totally fucking lame 900,478,520)

I scoffed when I got a copy of Reel Big Fish's new album in the mail. "Hah!" I thought. "This should be funny." Of course, it only took two trumpet blasts to get me chair dancing. In the office mind you. With people here. Conclusion: though the heady, intelligent sounds of jazz still escape me, I'm a sucker for trite and gooey ska/punk/pop jams as if it was still 1996 or something.

hideaki sekiguchi dead at 38

One thing you can always count on is people dying. Wild Zero is just about the coolest awful movie this side of Ed Wood. I mean a Japanese rock band battles zombies. C'mon. That's gold. You wish you'd thought of it first. One viewing rendered that band, Guitar Wolf, as one of my heroes. Today, I found out one of said heroes has fallen. Hideaki Sekiguchi, aka Billy, bass player for Guitar Wolf had cool hair and was clearly too rock 'n' roll for this world. He died of an apparent heart attack at the age of 38 and is now slaying zombies in the kingdom of heaven...one would hope anyway.