say hello to my glands

Moving sucks. Moving in the summer sucks more. Just summer in general sucks. Fuck you, summer. At one point, I squeegied about a half-gallon of sweat from my eyebrows. It was gross. I sweat a lot, I always have. But during the move, my head stubble bristled with moisture. rubbing my hand across it sent sweat spritzing in every direction, droplets fell on my glasses and beaded off my nose and earlobes. I replaced the lost gallons of sweat with beer, whiskey and fast food, but somehow, my body kept going, and when I was done, it felt good. I'm in my new place now, and I'm actually really excited about it. As excited as I can be, I guess, considering I won't be spending any time there for the next six days. I'll be here at the office. We go to print on Monday, all 116 glossy pages, and I can already feel my stomach eating away at itself.

living la vida nomad

Yeah. Moving sucks. What's worse is that my laptop decided it wanted to go all wonky. I'm typing this up on my roommate's computer. Will be back soon (Tuesday at the latest). Sorry to all three of you.

eavesdropping

I know this is supposed to be wrong, but I'm kinda drunk and they're yelling so loud, they're basically asking me to listen, right?

We had some shots of tequilla and they have a really volatile relationship. It's one of those relationships that seemingly never ends but is seemingly always turbulent. They were just yelling at each other really loud, so loud that I heard it even though they were in the side house and over the Japanese zombie movie I'm watching. It's called Stacy and it makes absolutely no sense. I don't think it's because it's Japanese and I'm not. I don't think anyone could possibly in their wildest mushroom binge make any sense of this movie. It's about teenage girls who become zombies because they're really happy or something (no really). It's exploitative, packed with nasty gore and is full of scantily clad Japanese school girls of questionable legality, but it's all tied together with some oddly philosophical spin. It's totally hypnotic if for no other reason that you figure there just has to be a point to it...there just has to be. I think I've watched it three or four times now and haven't found one yet. I'm still searching. I heard the movie was spawned out of the director's obsession with a teenage girl, who appears in the film. The Japanese truly are an interesting people.

Anyway, they really got at each other tonight--probably because of jealousy and perceived infidelity, which is really more than just perceived. I'm the roommate so I'm friendly with everyone and do my best to avoid the fall out, which isn't very easy.

After some blood curdling screams, I heard her car door slam furiously, the engine race and the gravel loosed from our driveway as she pulled away. A few moments later, I heard pebbles pop under tires as she returned. There was some more yelling, but then they went back inside. Everything's quiet now. At least I get to hang out with her dog tomorrow.

now what the fuck am i supposed to do

Hi.

So I've been thinking. Now that the season's over, I'm hoping we don't lose touch. I've enjoyed our Wednesdays together thus far. Y'know, with you running around an island and all, helping the bratty girl out when she went all wonky from her asthma, making teas for people and being all esoteric, buddying up to Kate, trying to poison your husband (I totally don't blame you for that. I know you didn't mean it); and me sitting on my couch in front of my televsion eating pizza or pork chops. The last two weeks, it was pork chops.

There was a real connection there, I think. Seeing as we have so much in common and all. I mean we're both from Staten Island.

... That's a lot.

Anyway. I guess this is good bye for a little while. See you in September when the DVD comes out.

Thanks for the Wednesdays.

Sincerely,

j.

the edge of reason

Work was such that I almost snapped. I blacked out. I went into a cave. I didn't want to talk to anyone. Those who did speak to me weren't given the courtesy of looking away from my computer screen. I feel bad, now, but at the time...

I don't know what was wrong. I just wanted to scream or walk out the window--but we're only on the second floor. I don't handle frustration well, it makes me completely useless and crabby. I felt it squirming beneath my skin like one of those chest-bursting aliens. The worst part was that I couldn't just go off and say go fuck yourself to whoever spoke to me, even though I wouldn't have meant it. No one should have to be around me. I ducked behind the wall of crap on my desk and prepared for an interview, but the questions just weren't coming. I had no idea what I was going to talk to this person about, and all I could think about was how terribly I was going to embarass myself, how I'd just reveal myself as a no-talent hack. I was in a bad place, and I'm not sure how I got there.

I retired to an unused room of the office that's become a recepticle for whatever we don't want visiting business associates to see--namely stacks of magazines and dusty tables. We've set up a phone line in there where we can conduct interviews. The air conditioning didn't quite worm its way into the room, so it was real stuffy, and I couldn't find the light, so it was dark and stuffy. I guess it suited my mood perfectly. I felt terrible as I dialed the number, because I felt I'd done the subject a disservice for not being prepared enough and for writing up lame questions just so i would have something to ask. But it felt much better when she picked up the phone. It went really well. I didn't even ask any of my lame questions.

My mood greatly improved, and after I got home and made a slew of pork chops, had three beers and had did some packing, I felt much better. Look at me--getting stuff done. Then, watching late night talk shows, I realized that I'm happy I didn't walk out that window.

Lost. The season finale. Terry O'Quinn was on Jimmy Kimmel Live, Dominic Monaghan was pretty damn funny on The Tonight Show and Evangeline Lilly (pictured in her chiseled glory) was charming and Canadian on Late Night with Conan O'Brien. I whooped and hollered for all of them, and talked back to the screen even though I'm the only one home. It's been weird the past few days, having the whole house to myself, and all the alone time is driving me crazy; but tomorrow, it will be driving me crazy as I geek out to the television event of the season. I've already got a second six pack cooling off in the fridge, more pork chops from the value pack I bought ready to be wrapped up and reheated prior to the show and no one to embarass myself in front of as I shout at a group of fictional characters. Sad? Maybe. But at this point, I can't think of a better way to blow off stress on a Wednesday night.

filler

It's scary how accurately a couple of circles and squares can so accurately represent my person. Here's me as a South Park character.

What a handsome fellow! Let's review.

• Shorn Scalp: my fuck you to Mother Nature for slowly rendering my follicles useless starting at age 19.
• Glasses: since third grade, and getting stronger all the time.
• Bloodshot Eyes: because I'll sleep when I'm dead. Also, see "Beer" below.
• Portable MP3 Player: transforming the walk home from the bars into a one man musical. Source of endless entertainment and embarassment.
• Woeful Countenance: the world is a strange and frightening place, a potentially damaging experience is probably right around the corner, so I usually hover in a state of permanent discomfort.
• Black Music-related T-shirt: thanks to my job and my flimsy financial stature, I can't afford luxuries such as new clothing. Luckily, I have access to an endless supply of promo shirts from bands and movies so I don't have to walk around naked. The world rejoices. By coincidence alone, these T-shirts are black nine times out of ten.
• Beer: where to begin? At work, at home, at play, there is usually a beer around. Sure, you cause me to look like a red-eyed zombie, but thank you for making the rest of the bullshit that much more bearable.

Thanks to R for the swanky cartoonification of my humble person.

we'll remember this summer until at least the next one, maybe...

It's the time of year when everyone leaves Collegeville, just in time before the weather gets stuffy. Today was hot, sunny, but not muggy. It was a good day to sit outside and go for a walk. I did both. I walked to a graduation party and spent much of it outside.

The party was in a part of town I rarely go to, but reasonably close to my house. I found a AAA battery in a remote control and loaded it into my MP3 player so I could tune everything out and keep my steps bouncy. It was enjoyable, though my Vans aren't much for walking extended distances. The air was dank with jasmine. The weekend's worth of end of school and graduation celebrations left the streets even more bare than they usually are on a Sunday. It was just me and the sun and the Pixies. "Gigantic" is becoming my walking theme song. It seems to match the rhythm of my steps--a perfect fit, for some reason.

The party was a multi-staged affair consisting of the family portion, followed by the friends portion. Alcohol was involved as a part of both, but it wasn't until stage two that the Puerto Rican rum arrived.

We watched the neighbors across the way deal cocaine (presumably), I related my traumatic tale of Cookie Puss and was rescued from what I was told was a rather large "jumper" spider crawling on my chair. I didn't see it, luckily, and saved some measure of embarassment.

Honestly, I'm not much for the summers here. They're long and hot and there's entirely too much moving around and you see the same people even more so than you usually do. The last part's not so bad for the most part, but there's not much relief from the monotony. But today was a nice kick off to my least favorite season.

Fuck the sun.

it's kinda like an adventure

So.

I think everyone went to see the new Star Wars today. In the first seven hours it was out, just about everyone I knew was streaming in with reports. The overwhelming feedback I got was positive, but no one seem overly stoked. It was clear they thought it was better than the Episode I and II, but then again, so was about 80 percent of the movies produced in Hollywood in the same time frame.

Face it, they just weren't that good. And I hate to break it to you, but neither were the first three that we all (including myself) hold near and dear to our hearts. We just can't look at them objectively. When I watch New Hope now, I see it with the same wide-eyed enthusiasm that I did when I was a child, and that will never go away. Phantom Menace and The Clone Wars will never be so lucky. Even though, I'll be the first to admit that I nearly jumped out of my seat when Yoda unleashed the lightsaber fury and finally showed the world that he was a Muppet to be reckoned with.

I didn't see Episode III today. I would have, though, if I wasn't working or the opportunity presented itself. People complain about packed theaters and the semi-organized chaos that insues at cinemas when a big event movie like Star Wars opens up, and these complaints are understandable, but the way I see it, with my pretty kick ass Sony Surround Sound system and a wide-screen HDTV, I've got a perfectly small and cozy mini theater to watch movies by myself in. A frothing crowd of premier-night Star Wars fans, however, are priceless, and no matter how flashy my home entertainment package gets, I still can't replicate the uncomfortable perfection of a packed and rowdy house.

Instead, I worked a 10 hour shift and then sauntered down to my friend's store to hang out and watch a woefully disturbing movie from South Korea. A few of us decided to go out afterwards, but since it's graduation weekend in Collegeville, we decided to try to hit up bars that we normally wouldn't go to. The first stop was the bar at the Holiday Inn, but that was closed--much to our disappointment, we'd planned to steal towels and toiletries--so we hit up a place far from downtown that, as it turned out, mixed the most potent and tasty rum and cokes I've had in quite some time. I'd switched almost entirely to beer in recent weeks, and the reintroduction of mixed drinks to my system came as quite a shock. Especially in such frequency and volume.

Afterwards, we thought I led us on a wild goose chase for another place I'd thought existed and failed to convince my party to head for the strip club, which was probably for the best. Instead, we head to a frightening townie bar out by the movie theater in hopes of seeing Jedis. We didn't, but instead gazed upon another fascinating sect of the population: country karaoke singers. The rum and cokes were just as potent, but I forgot to order Bacardi and had to suffer through the well toxin instead, which I'm sure will be felt in the morning.

I got spilled out into my front lawn and waddled inside to reheat some pizza. My roommate came home from the theater, dressed as a Jedi, living the most high dream of geekdom. We celebrated his impending graduation with shots of whiskey. I spit out almost half of one. The force was strong with that one.

more lunch for one

My life, as I guess many others, is an exercize in repetition. Most of the time, it's pretty boring and tedious. I do the same things all the time. I am happy, however, that I'm not incapable of breaking my usual mold. I do enjoy doing new things and going new places, though I haven't had much opportunity to do either of late.

Luckily, things have been moving too quickly for me to notice that I've been basically running around in circles, and also that I've realized that I occasionally enjoy the patterns of locked myself into. One such pattern is the Chinese restaurant that I visit weekly.

Last time, I became an official regular. And this time around, I became a trusted customer. I felt very honored. I ordered the broccoli chicken lunch special and a side order of cream cheese filled fried wantons (really good and really really bad for you). After eating my meal, I realized that I left both my credit card and my debit card in my other pants and I had no cash on me. I did, however, have my check book. I explained the situation to the owner and asked her if she took checks. She said normally they don't, but since I come in so much, she wasn't worried about it and let me pay with a check.

I felt warm and fuzzy and happy. People trust me. I'm a good person.

My fortune: "Remember this, you will find great happiness three months from now."

Even fate thinks I'm aces.

the matrix

I'm writing this entry on a Linux Web browser. Everything looks and feels the same, but there a lot of little things that are different. Like font size and style. All the icons are bright colorful and happy. It's like the OSs and browsers you see in the movies that aren't really real, but kinda look real, but really don't. I just wanted to share.

state of love and laziness

The plan was to go home and get some work done, but the reality turned into watching A Day Without a Mexican and Garden State, both of which I'd seen already. Then was a long hard look at my fantasy baseball team, which is on a modest hot streak at the moment, and I'd really like to keep it going. I tweaked, eyed stats, wasted time. Now it's almost 4am and I'm putting off going to bed by writing up this thing.

I'll work tomorrow. I will. I've been on a bit of a roll at the office, which isn't easy. It takes a lot of concentration to get work done there with all the distractions and the phone calls and the e-mails and the "oh yeah, I'll get to that right away"s.

I went to an In-N-Out, which is the most unoffensive fast food restaurant imaginable, and realized that I have a growing love affair with onions. They've replaced garlic as my bulbous food accent of choice. The burger I bought was covered in crisp, crunchy onions, and it was very, very good. I was able to relate stories from my train ride across country with a couple of friends. I'll probably type those up soon. I just have to remember. There was a swanky ATM by the door that I had to use because In-N-Out didn't take plastic. Buttons lit up and it made bleeping and booping noises and basically reminded me of a slot machine that always paid out. I'd never seen an ATM like this before, and I figured this must be the new generation of such devices. I thought I'd seen a glimpse of the future, so I had to ask, "Is that ATM new?" when I got back to the register. The somewhat over-it-but-trying-to-be-a-good-employee employee said simply, "no. We've had it for a few months." Totally ruined it, dude. Thanks for nothing.

Krisily Kennedy helped make Tuesday bearable by entrenching herself as my obligatory fantasy woman of the day. Carrying over my beer-soaked emotional attachment from the previous night's episode of The Bachelor, I took breaks from my busy work to find out that Ms. Kennedy, in addition to holding a firm grasp on my fickle affections, used to work for a New England sports channel and was Miss Rhode Island in 2003. If she turns out to be next season's Bachelorette, I'll probably watch and pine and pick apart the losers vying for her tulips, because I'm sad like that and I really don't have anything better to do. Unless of course I forget or have moved on to the next empty, hapless crush that sustains me enough so I don't have to put in the work to find a real relationship. I mean, those suck anyway.

I did do something for work this evening, though. It wasn't difficult, but no less painful. I watched a city council meeting, because I'd sent a writer to it so we can publish a story on it. I sent him because I'm the editor and I can send writers to do things that I don't want to do; but when I saw that it was televised, I decided that it was only fair to share some of his pain as I flipped back and forth between that and the Oakland A's game. City council meetings in this city is like well, watching a small city's city council meeting. They discuss things like parking meters, whether they should be a quarter or not and whether they should now charge for Saturdays. But they don't just discuss these things and move on. No. They argue and ask the same questions and reiterate the same answers over and over again. The parking debate was especially scintilating and lasted well over an hour.

There's this one city councilman who I particularly hate. I don't like most of them, because they're all a bunch of redneck good ol' boys (the fucking mayor once referred to the rise of the Latino population as "the browning" of the region (I have it on tape.) at a public address), but there's one in particular that I actually have a seething dislike for. I know he had to push kids around on the school playground, had sex with seriously drunk girls after they were passed out and without their knowledge or something equally vile and other things that are not-quite-but-probably-should-be criminal. He's a douche bag, simply put. He snapped at some old woman today, who's probably someone's great grandma, like she was an ignorant child just because she disagreed with him. It's what I would expect from him, and granted, the poem she read to illustrate her point (seriously, a poem...who does that?) at the fucking city council meeting was really lame, but the elderly should be allowed to be lame. She should also be allowed to kick that useless, no good, miserable fuckwad in the balls for being treated like that, by a public official no less. If he had any balls, of course.

with meetings like these

To prepare ourselves for the inevitability of a national publications, we've been meeting every Monday at the college meat market to hash out ideas and drink ourselves into oblivion. The meetings have been very helpful because after cycling through a few pitchers of Guinness, no task seems too daunting. This afternoon, we got especially shitty because we received good news. I'm not sure that's the reason why, but it seems as good a reason as any. The Guinness tap wasn't working properly so we were forced to drink lesser brews. I lost track of pitchers. We were there for well over four hours on the outside patio. Day became night and many drinks were spilled. All I've consumed today was beer and fried foods (fries, zucchinis, fish and chicken strips), and about half a bottle of water.

I was given a ride home and retired to the living room love seat (on which no love occurs) and got all sappy during the finale of The Bachelor (but that was the beer talking), wondered why I'm so addicted to reruns of Fear Factor and then watched a low budget movie during which I quickly fell asleep. I awoke to find my roommate entering with two pint glasses and two cans of Guinness Draught. We watched that reality show about the Orange County Choppers guys, who are even bigger whiney drama queens than I am.

But the nagging pain in my left eyebrow is telling me that I should cut my losses and get back to bed before I have to endure a waking hangover. The only remedy: late night informercials and sleep.

i made a good pot roast and my life is a mess

I just left the house for the first time all day, and that was just to take out the trash. I kept myself busy with movies and cooking; I was unable to throw more stuff out from my room because our dumpster's full, and I'm trying to be sneaky. The sanitation workers won't just take whatever you leave out there, unless it all fits in the bin. When moving out of other apartments, I would keep a close eye on when the dumpster was empty if I had to get rid of a couch. When you don't have a car or money to take something to the dump, you have to be crafty.

I've been doing my best not to worry about all the shit I'm going to have to do over the next 15 days--moving, putting out a new magazine, working on the ones I'm already working on, trying to figure out how I'm going to pay my bills. I probably shouldn't have typed that out. It's not bad during the day, but when it comes time to wind down and get ready for bed, it all comes rushing at me at once, and I feel like I'm paralyzed. My eyes go wide, and all I can do is stare off.

That's why I like watching movies, especially ones I don't have to think about. I can stare off at them and become distracted. I like the deep, think-y kind of movies, too, but that's only for when I'm relaxed and looking for something to stress me out. Clearly, I can't function any other way.


"Bring it, bitches."

Blade Trinity was one such no-brainer that got me this far, at least, without driving myself crazy. It seemed that the only things needed to be a member of the cast was to be amazingly ripped and the ability to deliver schmaltzy dialog with a straight face. I wasn't really crazy about the first two Blade movies, mostly because I can't stand Wesley Snipes. I'm not really sure why he bothers me so much, but he does. Screw you, Snipes. He works as Blade, though, and as dumb as Trinity was, it was still pretty entertaining, mostly because of the abundant explosions slick vampire tomfoolery and Parker Posey being as sexy, funny and show-stealing as she always is.

As I slurped down my delicious pork roast--that I slaved over, by the way--macaroni & cheese, cream corn, carrots and garlic bread (I think it was the biggest meal I'd ever made), I couldn't help but feel like a saggy bag of lard compared to the parade of hard bodied ass-kickers and their penchant for parading around either topless or in skin tight clothing. Even the naughty daughter from 7th Heaven looked like she could bench press me. Not that I'd mind if she did. I don't have a lot of hang ups when it comes to that sort of thing. I don't mind if the woman wears the pants as long as she doesn't expect me to wear a skirt. I'd have to shave my legs and, I must say, I'd miss my leg hair terribly. Jessica Biel could rescue my flabby ass from a burning building and I'd get all gooey-eyed and say, "my hero"and then I'd make her a pot roast. I'm sure my testicles will remain intact.

don't forget to write

[photo: Rachel Spaulding]

One of my roommates left for Arizona. She's not coming back; that's where she's going to live now. She was one of the first people I met out here, and the last of that group to move on to somewhere else. My other roommate graduates next weekend, then he'll go to hang out with his family for a week befor returning here to pack up and head down to Arizona himself. I still have a couple weeks before I move out, but it already feels like I'm just keeping the place warm for the next group of kids who are going to move in.

I still have a ton of packing to do. I started today by throwing out two boxes that I'd never unpacked that where taking up a corner of my room. I wasn't going to go through them, but I'm glad I did, because one of them contained all my Neil Gaiman books and my favorite porno mag.

Today was the first hot day. It almost hit 90 and the air was thick and soupy. I spent most of the daylight hours sitting on my porch and nursing two draught bottles of Guinness waiting for my laundry to wash and dry. I overheard conversations about graduation, about walking in the ceremony. People came over to play Halo 2 on a local area network, and my living room was transformed into a geek paradise, complete with pizza boxes and two liter bottles of soft drinks. The sounds of shit-talking wafted through the screen door. I can't play those games, because they make me nauseous after a while. I think I concentrate too hard or something.

Before she left, my roommate took me to the supermarket so I could do a little shopping. Pork must be in season, or something, because they had tons of it and were offering chops and roasts at buy one get one free. I picked up two roasts that I won't have time to cook and two value packs of chops, even though I don't have anyone to cook for but myself. After food shopping, she dropped me off downtown so I could hang out with a friend and his family for his birthday. His mom made pork ribs coated in salsa, and they were really good. It's a good thing I don't get tired of eating the same thing night after night. Thank you noble pigs for giving your lives so that I may keep my belly full.

Thank you fantasy baseball team for winning this week.

On the ride home from downtown, the streets were crawling with young people. Friday was the last day of class. At 10:30pm, it was still well into the 70s, clothing and inhibitions were scarse, but I had to get back to the house to say goodbye to my roommate, and I had no desire to be out on the town.

"There's women everywhere," the driver said.

"It's the first hot night," I answered, looking at the groups of co-eds from the passenger window.

"You can kinda feel it in the air."

"It's mating season," I said.

At home, I boiled some chicken franks (buy one get one free) and me and my roomies watched a really bad/funny Japanese horror movie. I said goodbye, safe drive and see you soon like it was my yearly mantra.

playa lane

I went to a house on Player Lane (strangely enough, it didn't intersect with Baller Boulevard); it had the look of the home of a late-'80s coke dealer to the stars with high ceilings, colorful artwork from unknown indigenous peoples and a pure bred show dog pacing out back.

It was a business meeting and I think I probably still stunk of bar from night before. I had a dream about missing the meeting and woke up just in time to put on mostly new clothes, brush my teeth, scrub off the black ink hand stamp and call a cab. I still got to the office before anyone else, even before my boss, who was supposed to go with me to the meeting and was also out partying--harder than I was.

The couple we had to speak to was nice enough. I'm not entirely sure they were a couple, really. The man was more-or-less the typical business man who made his wealth around the dot-com boom--white, approaching middle age, still vaguely hip. He said he listened to the local hard rock station. He spoke of money only in large sums--thousands, millions--I'm not sure if tens and twenties were in his vocabulary. He also gave us an impromptu seminar about business practices and how he's applied these things to his own success.

The woman was mature and not afraid to show it. She didn't try to look younger, but she did look younger than she probably was. She was fit and well-dressed. She didn't say much, but did her best to reel in the man when he went off on a tangent, which was often, reminding him of what we were looking to know for the story we were planning on writing about him. She was the VP of his company and added insight on occasion, when she was quiet, she toyed with her sandy blonde hair or smoothed her thin skirt over her thighs. I kept drifting off and thinking she was shooting me flirtatious glances; I was tired, hung over, and none of these people were speaking my language. I had nothing better to do.

It was interesting to hear the man talk about business models, plans and strategies. He used terms like product, venture capital and branding. I'm not the most organized person, so it was kinda like peeking into what amounts to an alien culture for me.

After about an hour and a half, the woman got up and began conducting business. A host of random people began wandering in and out of the house, pulling up to the driveway, lingering in front of the house but never coming in. I wondered how many people actually lived there. I wondered how long we'd be there. The meeting ran two hours and the man and my boss were chopping it up about something. When the man was speaking to me, I nodded, looked attentive, when he turned, my eyes would wander to the high vaulted ceiling, the backyard that led to the creek, the abundance of windows, the empty dining room, the loft that was turned into an office.

We were there two and a half hours. Afterwards, I got to go back to work.

not a creature was stirring

It's been quiet at the old ranch lately. I'm getting set to move at the end of the month--and by getting set, I mean I haven't done a thing--one of my roommates has already split, and the woman who took his place spends most of the time in the side house shacking up with my other roommate. Basically, I've had the whole house to myself, and I'm not quite sure if I like it or not. I don't mind the quiet or the extended alone time. I don't have to mute the television when I watch pornography, which adds a new element to the whole experience.

If anything, though, the relative isolation has made me more surly. I'm short with people who break the silence. I'm not as receptive to conversation. I don't like the sound of my voice when I talk to other people; it sounds a lot different when I talk to myself. I'm still not crazy about it, but it's much more tolerable.

I still find it hard to believe I have to leave here. I keep hoping something will happen that will make it so I don't have to move. I'm worried sick about how I'm going to afford the extra rent, how I'm going to adapt to the new living conditions, how I'm going to pay for all the extra bills the new place is going to mean--I'll have to pay water, garbage, and I think my roommate likes to use the central heating and air conditioning. Usually, I just sweat or freeze.

Work took a long time. Whe people ask me questions, I have a hard time thinking up an answer. I used to be a lot quicker making stuff up.

This is probably going to sound a lot more pretentious than it actually is, but I'm making a movie. I think I may have mentioned it before (to the five or so of you who read this, one of whom being me). The meetings went really well, and we're all pretty excited to do it. We've all been working together to develop it so it's not really just any one person, which is nice. Tomorrow I'm supposed to get in front of the camera to test for the character I created...basically because the character is painfully autobiographical, but I'm hoping personal tragedy makes for good comedy. I really don't want to get in front of the camera. The thought has been turning my stomach in knots, and no one's going to see the screen test but the two or so people who are organizing things. Still, I've blown the whole ordeal up to agonizing proportions, and I'm already wondering if there's a way I can weasel out of it. I want it to be good, obviously, even though we're just doing it to do something fun, but I only like attention until I get it, and then I want it to go away as soon as possible. Once it's gone, I wonder why it went away so fast.

I find it impossible to live with myself.

The Corporation was a pretty crazy documentary. I'd never been so captivated by two and a half hours of talking heads interviews.

lunch for one

Today was a monumental one at my favorite Chinese restaurant--I became a regular. The place isn't particularly nice, but it's kind of cool in the ghetto fabulous sort of way. There's duct tape on some of the seat cushions and the bathroom's a bit scary, but the food is very good, and it looks like the place would be decked out if it were still 1974. They play relaxing music--like shit from film scores--and it's a great place to chill out and have a meal. It's very cozy. The proprietor greeted me at the door, as she always does, and asked, "will you be eating here today?" And followed with, "will it be the number two special plate?"

I laughed and said, "no," but thanked her for remembering. In returned, I ordered a gang of food, way too much to eat in one sitting, but I wanted to have plenty of leftovers so I could eat for the next couple of days. I got a sizzling iron plate of mixed seafood, pork fried rice and broccoli chicken. I also got a plate of veggie potstickers. I barely ate a quarter of it, but I ate all the potstickers because they're that good.

When I left with boxes of leftovers in tow, the proprietor said, "see you next week," and I felt like part of the family.

My fortune cookie read: "Ignorance has no light, but error follows a false one." Gnarly.

My lucky numbers are 9, 19, 22, 31, 41 and the supplementary lucky number is 26. Just in case any of the others are unable to fulfill their lucky number duties.

our friend, swoopers redux

Swoopers, or one of his brethren, decided to pay the office a visit again. This time, he'd decided to fly as low as possible so I ducked under my desk and shielded myself with my swanky chair. I think I injured myself diving for cover, but a few scrapes and a slightly wounded pride are far better than a case of the rabies. No, I'm not proud of my cowardice, but it as kept me alive this long, so I see no reason to change my behavior. I guess what I'm saying is, if you're looking for a hero, look elsewhere. Luckily, his visit was brief this time around. He figured out the nuances of exiting through the window with only a little coaxing. Fare thee well, Swoopers. Thank you for teaching me more about myself than I ever cared to know.

in which i become a simpering fanboy

I yelped with pathetic glee when I saw a zip file of new photos from Underworld 2. I didn't particularly like Underworld (I didn't dislike it either), but I went to see it in the theater simply for Kate Beckinsale, who's pretty much my Goddess of Love. Kate can do no wrong, not even in that peculiar movie in which Gary Oldman played a dwarf. Plus, she was wrapped in skin-tight vinyl, which was just about the best and worst thing Hollywood has ever done for me. Damn you, Hollywood...damn you.

Underworld 2 looks as if it's pretty much targeted at my demographic--being lonely, aging young men who used to read too many comic books. Ms. Beckinsale is once again vacuum sealed in the vinyl cat suit, weilding a variety of weapons, generally looking like a sexy bad ass, but still able to show her soft and gushy and yummy feminine side [editor's note: hunky male lead cut from picture, because I'm that sad and jealous]. I can already feel my palms getting sweaty.

why work when you can get paid for slacking?

A coworker sent me here because she thought I'd get a kick out of it. And I did.

Toothpaste for Dinner

cinco de mayo

If California was sold back to Mexico, I'd be okay with it. I've always wanted to learn Spanish anyway. Unfortunately, these things aren't up to me, and I'm still an American citizen. Still, I find no reason for me not to take full advantage of the Golden State's, which is now my home's, cultural cross-pollenizing.

I got a call at work. My roommate said she'd be making enchiladas for Cinco de Mayo, and that she'd like me to be there for dinner. I'd never even been to Taco Bell before I moved out to California, and the first thing I do when I return after visiting my family back east is hit up a taqueria and devour a pound and a half of carne asada burrito bliss. Clearly, there would be nothing keeping me from making dinner. Free home made Mexican food? Did you have to ask? It's like my reason for being. My roommate is not of Mexican descent, however. In fact, she's one of the palest people I know (and I say that out of love), but she said she had a good recipe. And she certainly wasn't lying. My other roommate had a bunch of his actor friends over, and I knocked back shots of Sauza while they passed around a blunt wrapped in watermelon-flavored paper.

It'd been a long day. I'd almost gotten caught up from the time I missed as a result of the trip to San Francisco. Most of my catching up involved checking in on my fantasy baseball team, which is doing extremely poorly, by the way, and drooling over the picture R sent me--when no one else was looking of course--because she likes to torture me at work. But I did get plenty of stuff done, including setting up an interview I'm supposed to conduct tomorrow at 1pm. An interview I should have been preparing for instead of fraternizing with tequila. But I have all morning for that. And I have all weekend to write the article I should be writing right now. All weekend at the office, because that's where I'll be so we can make another deadline (I'm pretty good at procrastination myself, Bookfraud).

But I can write articles I couldn't care less about all the time. How often can I celebrate the independence of a country I have absolutely no ties to? Just once a year. Do the math.

---

Special thanks to Arular by M.I.A. for injecting a good deal of audible lust into an otherwise boring day.

the ancient art of sleeping in your clothes

I woke up this morning on a small rectangle of egg foam on the floor of a tiny studio apartment in Oakland. The night before, we had to work in San Francisco, interviewing a band that, luckily, wasn't flaky. They were very polite. I spoke with them in the upstairs area of the record store where they were playing an in-store performance before a proper set at a venue later in the evening. They weren't overly friendly, but they were very accomodating and pleasant, dressed in all black and wearing giant sunglasses. No doubt they'd had to deal with many of my type over the past few years, and I did my best not to ask them the same questions they would have had to answer over and over again. Afterwards, we took pictures of them in the alley beside the store; they were total pros. They knew how to pose, and we got a bunch of great shots in the matter of 10 minutes, right before they took the stage at the record store.

We stayed for a couple of songs, and then decided to grab dinner, because we had tickets and a photo pass to the real show later that night. About a block down we found a Thai restaurant. We had to climb narrow stairs to get there. The restaurant was beautiful--decked out with gilded ornaments, masks and statues that I assume are Thai in origin. Honestly, I don't know much about Thailand. I figure it must be pretty hot and muggy in the summer time and that it gets a lot of rain. I assume there are plenty of large bugs. I've heard plenty of things about Bangkok--things that are much more interesting than Bangkok having the world's longest place name--I've become hip to their growing film industry and I knew a guy from Thailand once, but that's about it really. I've only recently started trying Thai cuisine, which I think is a pretty good way of learning about a region and its people.

My brain doesn't know how to process Thai food. It's so flavorful and fragrant, and I haven't had all that much exposure to it. The combination of ingredients such as cocunut milk, lime, chicken and cilantro confuse me, but it's so good, I don't stop eating. I try not to look too much into what I'm ordering when I'm at a Thai restaurant. I don't try to pronounce the names if they're too exotic. I just point and say "I'll have this," and chow down. That system has worked thus far, but the only problem is, I never know what it was that I ordered, so I've never had the same dish twice, no matter how much I enjoyed it. This time I ordered chicken with silver noodles. I didn't have to point.

There were three waitresses, two of the, including ours, were gorgeous and attentive. They wore ankle-length silk-looking skirts and spoke in soft voices. One scooped bowls of soup and steamed rice with care. The other cleared off empty plates, refilled my glass of water constantly and said "sir" a lot. It's nice to be doted over sometimes.

We hit up the show and sold the six extra tickets we had for $10 a piece. We were going to try to let them go at full price, but the venue wasn't sold out--simple supply and demand. Still, we made enough money to go to this crusty bar in Oakland with a friend who lives down the block from it. He let us crash at his place, which was nice seeing as we didn't have to make the long drive twice in one day.

Got into the office after 1pm. Drove straight there from the city. No toothbrush, no change of clothes, only about three hours sleep. Work was pretty much a wasted effort, but I think I made a decent trade in my fantasy baseball league.

feeling it

Hey, guy.

You rule.

No, seriously. I've never seen anyone party like that before. Seeing you wearing your microphone headset and mouthing words to "Tainted Love," "I Think We're Alone Now," that song from The Breakfast Club and other hits from the '80s was inspiring.

Even when that fly-ass honey with buoyant cleavage was thrusting her firm, plump posterior into your nether regions, you didn't miss a beat. It was like you didn't even notice. You were there for the music and lip syncing and getting your groove on. Bitches be damned.

My night didn't end until early in the morning. I ended up talking movies and comedians in the back of my friend's store with my old boss and an Irish dude who'd come to America because he won a green card and now works in the entertainment industry while they ripped three-foot bong hits. It was 4am, and all I had for dinner was Guinness, so I had to inhale a 7-Eleven microwave cheeseburger to power the long walk home.

the world wide web is a strange and wonderful place

Group Hug was one of the craziest sites I'd ever seen, but this one comes close. It's the same kind of idea but it has more of a personal feel because they're scans of actual postcards sent in to the site's author. The combination of words and art makes it more fascinating somehow. This one made my jaw drop. Check out others here: PostSecret.