my fortune reads: you display the wonderful traits of charm and courtesy

[photo by Brian Dudek]

Dinner at the Chinese restaurant turned out to be pretty interesting. For me anyway. I had a huge bowl of the house special won ton soup. This thing is massive. It has a ton of won tons, bok choy, chicken, beef, pork and shrimp in a tasty broth. It's a meal in and of itself. I get emotional just thinking about its hearty goodness.

Somehow, a discussion about Korea in the 1980s--one of the people I was eating with was stationed in the army there--turned to deep philosophy and metaphysics once I said, "You know, South Korea is the most wired country in the world." I'm not sure where I'd heard that. I don't even know if it's true, but I imagine that it is.

From there we ventured into the rising prominence of China as a world super power. And then--I don't know how--but we were all talking very intently about global warming and how and why it would eventually lead into the next ice age. The conclusion from that part of the conversation was that we all needed to learn Chinese and move to Mexico. Neither of which seems like a particularly bad idea.

After that things got trippy as for some reason we were discussing why humans can't fully grasp the idea of infinite. I don't know why all of this happened. But it was fun, even though contemplating such things makes my brain hurt.

I'm supposed to take a flight tomorrow night--midnight--back to New York for my sister's engagement party on Saturday. Ted Leo/Pharmicists are playing a free show at South Street Seaport on Friday night, and I really want to go. I've liked everything I've heard from Ted Leo, even though I don't own any of his albums. It should be fun, to be outdoors for a rock show in the city, in the stomping grounds of Easty, the East River Monster (he exists. I done seen him with me own eyes) at the same place I saw the Meat Puppets for a free show on Earth Day like a billion years ago. That was a good day. I usually party the night before I go on a flight--just in case I don't get to do that again, but tonight, given my financial situation, I decided to sit home, drink the rest of my fridge beers and help my roommate clean the house because her parents are coming to stay here tomorrow night.

Right now, I'm watching Overnight, a documentary about Troy Duffy, the dude who wrote and directed Boondock Saints, which was a very excellent film, mostly because Willem Dafoe is a supreme bad ass, even when he's playing a not-so closet homosexual cop. This documentary's just as good. It tells the story of Duffy, and his cronies, who was just a Hollywood bartender originally from Boston, who wrote a really decent script and was propelled into it-boy status. His overnight success turns Duffy and co. into insufferable pricks, or more likely, just heightens the pricktitude that was always lying in wait. Dude believes the hype so much, you don't feel bad when Hollywood's more powerful pricks slap Duffy upside the head. Fuckin' hard too. It's no wonder why no one ever wanted to work with him ever again (though a sequel is in production according to Imdb.com). The movie brings new meaning to the words "uncomfortable laughter."

the sweet science

I'm not a violent person, but I've always really liked to watch boxing. I've never been in a fight, and I've only once hit someone out of anger (and I got the bastard square on the jaw, too--dropped him like a sack of potatoes, but I was a lot younger then), still, if boxing's on, I'm sure to watch it. Boxing is the oldest sport, as prostitution is the oldest profession, and both, I think, still hold merit today. It's good to know some things can stand the test of time. People will always fight, and always fuck, just some of us are better at these things, and those people get paid for doing so.

I don't know where I'm going with that. It's been a long week the past three days. Tonight I sat on the couch and drank a couple of the beers I snagged from the office and watched Boxing After Dark on HBO. Speaking of things that last forever, Larry Merchant, Jim Lampley and Harold Lederman (who's never gotten on camera as far as I know) still carry the workload of HBO's boxing commentary. I think they have since boxing was invented, or at least as long as I've been exposed to HBO, which is really all that concerns me. I kinda like them because they all bring their own neuroses to boxing. Lederman keeps a scorecard, which isn't the official scorecard, but it's pretty much treated like gospel, and he's usually right. Lederman also likes to yell about stuff. He shouts everything from his perch off-camera. Merchant speaks in long, sometimes elegant prose that eventually drifts off into the realm of what-the-fuck. I don't know if he was a boxer ever or not, but he always tries to put everything into some kind of philosophical, metaphysical context, even down to the number of jabs thrown in round four. It's fascinating to behold. Lampley seems to do his best to weather Merchant's verbal musings, but always looks like he wants to punch his elderly partner in the face and uncork some deep, hidden rage that has been brewing after watching some 47 eons worth of boxing.

I think Merchant could take Lampley in a fight, though. Ol' Merchant has a sturdy jab, I'd bet.

The undercard bought was the better fo the two. The decision was unanimous for an unknown underdog who grew up in a house made of cardboard in the middle of nowhere in Mexico. He defeated some dude from Houston, TX--an undefeated up and comer with a killer left hook who'd been on the US Olympics team. It was a really close fight. I always pull for the underdog. I jumped and shouted and drank.

i guess it all goes up from here

I'm currently over limit on two credit cards and found out quite surprisingly that I was overdrawn on my bank account by a dollar something. My sister's engagement is on Saturday, another friend, who's getting married next year, and whose wedding party I'm a part of has his engagement in early September. I don't know how I'm going to pay for any of this. There's another wedding I'm supposed to go to in October, too. I can't decide if I can go or not. Maybe I shouldn't feel so obligated. I'm always obligated.

I'm going to have to start paying back the IRS in a little while. My boss said he'd help. I don't know how much help that means, but I need a lot.

These things have a way of sorting themselves out, I guess. I've talked to the credit card companies. I've talked to my boss. I've talked to the IRS. I may just have to get a weekend job.

I snagged a free six-pack of my favorite beer from the office. It could be worse. I'm almost done with re-watching the first season of Dead Like Me so I can start watching the second. I wish I was better at the money thing. I thought I had it all taken care of.

more money, more problems

The raise I got a couple months ago only made my financial situation worse. Enamoured by the larger number on my paychecks, I figured I could finally be comfortable and do whatever the fuck I wanted to do, like go to Los Angeles to see the Mets play the Dodgers. Of course, I had stars in my eyes, and the higher salary just about covers the rising cost of my living expenses. In short, as of right now, though I'm making more money than I ever have in my life, I have $9 in my bank account.

Whatever.

I'm late on a couple credit cards, but I'll get through the weekend. I worry about money all the time, only because I'm a fucking moron and think that I'm entitled to have a good time because I'm young and single and American. These are all lies of course. If I was young and single and American and rich, I could have all the fun I want, but as it stands now, I'm still hand to mouth, and sometimes, my hand is empty by the time it gets there...which is kinda poetic in a non-poetic way.

I went out tonight because the students are back in town and it's nice to see new faces, even though they're all far too young to think I'm cool. I also have beer stamps at many of the local bars, so I can drink for free.

I'm glad I went out, because my house is empty this weekend, and I don't do well living by myself. I couldnt' really afford food so I bought a couple of slices of pizza while I was bar hopping. It's not making much of a difference now, but I'm sure it will pay dividends in the morning. It had damn fucking well better.

First, I hit up the college meat market, because they take credit card and I still had some limit left. I ordered a rum and coke and got the change back so I could leave tips elsewhere. From there, I ended up at meathead tavern because of my beer stamps. I met up with some people from work there--most of whom had played a benefit show for a local charity. I wanted to go, but it cost 10 bucks to get in.

I hate meathead tavern, but it's hard to complain too much when the drinks are free. The jukebox kinda sucks, unless you live in a snowboarding video, but occasionally some good shit will play, like some old Metallica or something. Even that's starting to grate on my nerves, but seriously, I freak out everytime I hear "Master of Puppets" and I don't care who knows it.

After there, I ended up at the local watering hole where I met up with another coworker for last call. She told me I was yelling about something, but I really hadn't had much to eat today except for a couple slices of pizza and a smoothie. The smoothie was really good.

I'm just glad I'm home now and realized that my cable's InDemand service offers music. Fucking good music too. For no additional cost, I've already watched the "Blue Orchid" by The White Stripes, a lengthy excerpt from the Yeah Yeah Yeahs live DVD, and, right now, a live performance from The Pixies when Black Francis was still all young and thin and stuff and had a full head of hair. They sound unbelievable and it's not just because I'm drunk. I keep yelling at the TV screen for them to play "Gigantic." I really, really hope they do.

the whole truth. and nothing but...

I had jury duty today. I don't mind serving jury duty. It's kinda like a really boring vacation. You get a day off of work, get to read a book and get a few bucks for your trouble (or hardship, which seemed to be the prefered nomenclature). I've served a couple times and never even got called to a panel, so, of course, I was in the first group called.

Entering a courtroom was a much more awe inspiring experience than I thought it would be. Maybe because it looked so much like the ones I'd seen on television. It was like entering an episode of Law & Order--with the late, great Jerry Orbach and everything. I don't know why the courtroom was so intimidating; maybe it was all the wood. The room wasn't very big as far as width and length, but it was very tall, and huge wood panels covered the walls. Maybe it was because I'd just gotten three hours sleep, but I was kinda freaked.

The last time I'd been in front of a judge was at a courtroom at the DMV to contest an equipment ticket I'd gotten for a busted tail light. According to New York law, I think (at least at the time), as long as you got it fixed within 24 hours, you could get the ticket thrown out without paying it. You just had to provide a receipt. I did get it fixed, however, I did so through the fabled "all Italian network," meaning, my cousin sent me to this guy who ran a junkyard, who gave me a part and charged me with simply telling my cousin "he said hello" and then my friend replaced the busted tail lights. A receipt magically appeared stating that I had indeed taken care of the tail lights in the prescribed 24-hour period, and, when I presented said evidence to the cantankerous, and unfortunately observant judge, I may or may not have been entirely forthcoming with information regarding my knowledge as to why whoever made up this magical receipt overcharged me for tax. When asked, I replied, "I dunno," and the ticket was thrown out.

Today, the judge came out and thanked us profusely and reminded us that we are the ones who make the wheels of justice turn and how some founding father said that the right to serve on a jury was more important even than the right to vote and yadda yadda. I do agree. I think it's important. I always reply and show up when called, I just wish they could chop down the ceremony some. The judge informed us that the case we were called on to hear was a one-day case. The whole thing would be heard and done with next Tuesday, and I figured if I was going to be called to serve on a jury, this would be the one to do so, because I have so much work to do and hard deadlines, that having to take a lot of time off would be disasterous. The court clerk read a list of names to enter the jurors box, and I was one of them.

Turned out the case was for a misdemeanor, minor in possession of alcohol--a common charge in this town. Sitting in the jurors box, I became extremely fascinated with the entire process. It was certainly a lot better than sitting in the waiting room and counting the fibers in the industrial carpet. I kept watching the court reporter as she typed away on the little ticker tape machine thing and stared off into space. She looked so stoic. I kept thinking of making a face at her or some ridiculous hand gesture just to see if she would react, but y'know, I didn't.

After a bunch of general questions, we began voir dire. The defense attorney asked questions of a few people, myself included because I'd mentioned I was a writer/editor. He asked a couple of specifics and seemed satisfied with the answers. He was a short, bulbous fat man, balding, and wearing round, wire-framed glasses at the edge of his nose. He looked at people with his mouth agape and his head tilted back and to the side, looking down his nose through his glasses. I liked him immediately. The prosecutor then took his stab at voir dire and launched into a speech much like the intro speech the judge gave us. It's our duty, we know it's a hardship, so on and so forth...impartiality, blah blah. The defense attorney objected.

Sustained!

Prosecutor went off on another tangent.

Objection! Sustained!

This was getting exciting. The prosecutor finally got to the point, but first made a really snide comment to the defense attorney, to which another objection was posed to the judge and the judge got all snippy with the prosecutor. I almost giggled. I really wanted to get on this jury now.

Voir dire ended, and we were given a mid-morning recess. When we returned, the judge told us that it was now time for the attorneys to excuse members of the jury that they thought were gonna fuck up their cases something awful. The judge informed us that it wasn't us, it was them, and that he was sure we'd be happy with another jury sometime because we were just wonderful people, but this was all just moving too fast and we need me time. Yeah. And that we shouldn't take being excused as an attack on our integrity.

I was the first juror excused. By the prosecution. And fuck yeah I took it personally. Of course, I was probably excused because of my affiliation with a local publication whose primary sponsors are local bars and also publishes pictures of sexy and not so sexy youths engaging in unbridled drunken debauchery, but still. It hurt, yo.

Justice truly is blind, and cold hearted, too.

Bitch.

...I didn't mean it baby, you know I love you.

the far too fresh feeling

I'm starting to get the aching suspicion that I'm wearing anti-perspirent that's strong enough for a man, but made for a woman. I ran out of roll-on a couple days ago, but I didn't fear because there was a spare in my medicine cabinet. It had been left there, unused, I assume by a previous roommate. It was the same brand as the last one I had, so I thought everything was cool. Now, I notice that the more I sweat, the more flowery I smell. My nostrils are full of a fresh fragrance, though pleasant, is quite foreign and perhaps better suited for the fairer sex. Perhaps that "it smells like someone's wearing perfume" comment earlier this morning really did have something to do with me.

hot off the presses

Someone really got paid to send out this press release. Really.

Diddy Drops The 'P' In Name Change

Sean "P. Diddy" Combs announces today that he will hence forth be known as simply "Diddy". Five letters, one word, period.

(New York, NY) Having sold over 65 million records, won several Grammy's, starred on Broadway in a Tony award winning play, been featured in a Oscar winning motion picture, won The CFDA Designer of the Year award and been named by TIME magazine as one of the most influential business men in the world, Diddy feels that the "P" is no longer needed and hopes today's announcement helps clarify how he is to be addressed.

"I feel like the "P" is getting in the way of me and the public. From now on I will simply go by "Diddy" said Diddy.

Diddy has adapted his name before as he has grown as an artist, businessman and human being; however, Diddy is now confident that this will be the final name that he will use and the name by which he will be remembered by history.

"Martha Stewart recently announced that she was using "M. Diddy" and it is rumored that Katie Couric has asked Matt to call her "K. Diddy," and we all know who is calling himself "W. Diddy" in private" Diddy said.

That doesn't leave many other letters left so Diddy is encouraging others to lay claim to the remaining letters fast. Remember that the letter "P" has been permanently retired in honor of Diddy himself.

pick your poison

On the walk home, I picked up a couple DVD rentals, a six-pack of Moose Drool Brown Ale and three tacos from the new taco truck in my neighborhood. The guy who runs the liquor store is pretty cool. We always talk about stuff and ask how the other is doing. I'm a regular customer; I probably go in at least once a week--sometimes more if I'm really stressed. Usually, I'll just buy a 22 of something dark and heavy, carry it home in a brown paper bag, and maybe get halfway through before I fall asleep on the couch for an hour or so. I didn't feel like multiple trips, so I got the six-pack to drink at my leisure. I cracked open one about an hour ago, and I don't think I'm halfway through it yet. I almost just fell asleep on the couch.

There's a liquor store closer to my house, but its beer selection isn't as good as the one I frequent regularly. The one closer to my house does have a taco stand in it though, and its burritos are really good in a disgusting sort of way. I heard the guys who run the stand got busted for selling crystal meth out of it or something. Whatever the problem was has obviously blown over, though because they are still in business.

Tonight, I wasn't sure what to get. I saw a friend of mine, a student, who'd been out of town for the summer, and has just returned because school starts next week. He's not a close friend, but we've hung out at a few parties or whatever; he was a good friend of my old roommate and on the last night we spent at my last house, the three of us polished off a handle of Seagram's VO. I guess he'd spent time in Montana where they make Moose Drool and had brought over a six-pack once. I thoguht it was pretty good. As I perused the many different six-packs in the liquor store's refrigerators, I spotted the Moose Drool and firgured it was as good as any. I hadn't had any in a while. There's so much to choose from there, it's difficult to make a decision.

I brought it up to the counter, and the guy who runs the place said in his non-descript, somewhat Middle Eastern accent, "How are you, my friend. Good choice." I thought so too. I told him that they have one of the best selections of beer in town and that it always takes me a while to decide on something. He mentioned that he was just talking about that with a customer earlier in the day. "I figured out that I have almost 150 different six packs," he boasted. I looked over at the refrigerators and figured that estimate was pretty acurate.

He then told me about a new beer he'd just started carrying. It came in six packs, but for 17.99 a shot. They were all liter bottles, and the beer was imported from Austria. He said that another customer had asked him to carry it, and that the customer said it was very good. The shop owner had almost sold out of it already. "I haven't tried it," he said. "But he says it's very good." The shop owner doesn't seem like the type who drinks; that's probably common for a pusher.

The taco truck, to my surprise, was manned by two blonde white women. It may be stereotypical thinking to expect a couple of Mexicans working a taco truck, but still, if I were to get Chinese food from a place named "Giuseppe's," it would have to come with a pretty lofty recommendation. I was already at the window, though, and I figured I might as well. The tacos were greasy (as should be expected), but palatable. The carne asada was really soft and tender, but the salsa was a bit pasty, though spicy enough. Still, next time I have a hankering for taco stand tacos, I'll prefer to tackle the language barrier with the dudes who run the window at the liquor store.

swim out past the breakers. watch the world die.

I just got back from another trip to Southern California. That's me on the beach. It's actually not a bad photo for an obnoxious self-shot cell phone photo, except that my aim's not so good. I thought I had it all lined up, but I guess the Pacific Ocean's a lot prettier than I am anyway. You may notice that I'm smiling, though, because I was, at that moment, quite happy.

I'm scared to death of the water--going in it that is--but I've always loved the beach and the coast, and I do enjoy standing in the way of the tide and letting it splash over my feet and whatnot. It's a lot more noncommital than actually going into the water. The tide comes in, splashes me for a bit, and then it goes away for a while. Sometimes, on a good day, I'll stand in the same spot until the tide buries my feet in the sand. Today was one of those days.

This picture was taken on a beach in Santa Monica. I'm not sure what the name of the beach was, but it was right of California State Highway 1 (or the Pacific Coast Highway (PCH)). It was a small beach with just a few people that cost four bucks to park at and was surrounded by mountainous terrain. It was beautiful and I could have spent the whole day there if I didn't have to catch a plane back to the sweltering valley later in the day--even though the soles of my feet, always sheltered in socks and shoes, weren't prepared for the hot sand.

After that, we drove up the coast on the PCH through Malibu and the Malibu Canyon. It was pretty and boring and I loved every minute of it. We listened to Dennis Leary's No Cure for Cancer and sang along to "Asshole" twice. I remembered all the words.

It was the shortest and least eventful day of my two day/two night mini tour of Southern Ventura County and the Los Angeles-area, but it was probably my favorite. And that's counting watching the Mets beat the Dodgers 5 - 1 on Saturday.

Los Angeles was an amazing place. Even the poor folks seemed rich. There were many busted ass cars with hot ass rims, but true wealth was sported by those in the yellow cars. Yellow Hummers, yellow Ferraris--I even saw a yellow Lamborghini Diablo in Malibu. Yellow cars are ugly as sin, but they're really easy to notice. Truth be told, though, I didn't spend much time in Los Angeles proper. There was Dodgers Stadium, and after that a trip through East LA on Sunset Blvd to get to Universal City and their frightening outdoor mall called City Walk. We parked in a parking lot cleverly titled Jurassic Parking. No really. We ate at a chain restaurant called Buca Di Beppo, which I feared would carry an Olive Garden-y blandness, but I was happily proven wrong. Their meatballs are a half-pound of meat and sauce and garlic and it took three of us to finish one. All the food was served family style, and for 40 bucks, we fed three people and had leftovers. I was stoked.

I took a picture in front of the Universal Studios globe thing and stared at the large gate to the backlot for 10 minutes before I realized that was the place that they actually filmed the movies at. I watched people play karaoke on the pathway and went into a comic book store that was playing an episode of He-Man and the Masters of the Universe. I didn't see any celebrities. I really wanted to.

Most of the time was either spent in Simi Valley, which was where they held the Rodney King trial and home to former president Ronald Reagan (I tried not to hold either of these facts against the place) or in the car, zipping around the area's many freeways. We were on the 1, 2, 5, 23, 101 and 118. I don't mind being in the car, and it was cool because each road sign reminded me of a song or a movie: the turn off for Reseda reminded me of Tom Petty's "Free Fallin'"; the exit for Encino brough back fond memories of Encino Man, the only watchable Pauly Shore movie.

Today, at the airport, I got delayed for well over an hour, so I spent a good amount of time in the airport bar nearest to my gate. There was a table full of dudes with fresh new 'dos, and I was sure they were in a band, but I couldn't place what band it was. I then had a conversation with the matronly bartender and a blonde woman who must have been a showgirl or something. She was beautiful and wearing shorts that were more like boxer shorts, but shorter and tighter. They--I'm not sure why--wanted my opinion on Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie. The Bartender awaited my answer with anticipation and threatened not to refill my rum and coke unless I answered correctly. The Blonde looked on shrewdly. Backed into a corner, I said that Angelina's sexy, but I didn't think it was right for Brad to just break his vows like that (which was an honest opinion of something I don't have an opinion of). The Blonde and the Bartender approved. My drink was refilled, and the Blonde said that she had no idea why she knew so much about celebrity gossip, and the fact that she did kinda bothered her.

I want to go back. Two days in LA is like half a rail of coke--not that I've ever done coke, but I'd imagine it'd be something like that. And since we're talking about LA, a cocaine reference seems totally applicable. I need to go back and see the whole thing, especially because I didn't have time to get on The Price is Right or take a picture of Godzilla's star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame.

you want a fresh one?

Bison's decade-long dominance over ol' J here has fallen on rough times. I served that sucka again today, this time with the slow-moving, but heavy-fisted Ken. Ken seems like a nice chap. After doing some complex judo throw to a beleaguered and dazed Bison, Ken was joined by his girlfriend Eliza, who was a little squiggle of a thing with a good head of blonde hair. She ran to his arms. Ken exclaimed his joy that they could finally be together. They embraced, and were instantly married in a small ceremony. I wish them both the best.

settling an old score

I can't even begin to imagine the number of hours I've put into Street Fighter II during the course of my lifetime. Both at the arcade and on someone's Super Nintendo, I've mashed buttons with the fervor of a rat trained to ring a certain bell at a certain time to get rewarded with a tiny cube of cheese. But I've never defeated M. Bison.

I'm not talking about all the variations of Street Figher II like the turbo version or the extreme version or whatever others there were. I'm talking the original OG version that only had like 10 characters you could play and then three more would appear who you couldn't play, but had to beat the shit out of.

I still don't know what the game was about. There seemed to be some kind of story going on. I guess the 10 or so characters all had a beef with Bison, and from what I've been able to surmise, as I haven't read any of the manga or seen the anime, or the crappy-ass American live action movie, this Bison character wasn't the nicest of guys. I do know he held up in Thailand with his buddy Sagat, and I think it's safe to assume they were transporting or somehow manufacturing illicit substances. And from his attire, I think it's also safe to assume that Bison was some sort of "general gone rogue" and had a whole bunch of military might behind him, and since he weilded such immence force of numbers, the local goverment couldn't do anything about it, so a group of scorned individuals had to take matters into their own hands to mete out vigilante justice. The only thing that doesn't make sense is why this group decided to battle each other on their way to whooping Bison's ass instead of teaming up into one mighty force of elite warriors to crumble this villain's corrupt empire.

So I'd been working for 800 days straight, and after sending the magazine on Sunday, we had another magazine to send by Tuesday. We sent it around 6pm on Tuesday, but I still had unfinished business. My office had recently acquired a standup OG arcade version of Street Fighter II, which had been serving as a tension-breaking / procastination-enabling device over the long hours of work we'd been slogging through. With work behind me, I stood at the machine with a clear sense of purpose, and with the help of Chun Li, the strongest woman in the world, I served Bison something fierce with a series of quick flying kicks, tosses and palm thrusts. I dont' remember the last time I'd been so pleased with myself. Ms. Li had avenged the death of her father, and I had closed out a chapter of my life, albeit a pointless chapter. I threw my hands in the air, gave a hearty "woo hoo," then promptly left.

I took Wednesday off. My first day off, I think, since I got back from San Diego. I woke up with a ranging hangover, because my friend and a pregnant bartender tried to kill me. I've been going to this place way outside of the downtown metroplex that's chock-full of precarious townies, old folk and sassy bartenders. The pregnant lady took care of me though. She sent the bar back down the street to get me some Carl's Jr. because I hadn't eaten all day, and the ample supply of Jagermeister she was feeding me had taken its toll. She also gave me water, and I remember vowing, though I hope I didn't say it to her, that I was "a-gonna marry that girl." Of course, someone had already beat me to the punch and gotten to the baby-making, but I believe the vow was more out of thanks for the free booze she was giving me than some cosmic love thing.

dinner in the dark

Finally. We finished the magazine. I'm a nervous wreck that the whole thing's fucked up, but I'm glad I don't have to look at it for a few days (until we get the proofs). Honestly, I don't want to see it ever again.

Afterwards, I went out to dinner with a coworker and an old roommate. We went to Olive Garden. I hate Olive Garden, but I was going for the company more than the food. And work had sentenced me to the downtown area for so long, it was nice to see someplace different. They sat us in the back underneath a fixture that didn't work. The waiter apolgized for the darkness. I didn't really care because I was starving, but honestly, I wondered if they stuck us there because we were all wearing T-shirts with heavy metal bands on them.

The food was as expected. Their sauce is pretty bland, pasta bleh, chicken cutlet parmeggiana kinda like chicken tenders with bland sauce and mozzerella drizzled on top. As long as I remind myself that it's not really Italian food, I'm fine with it. It's edible, that's for sure, and I was so hungry, flavor was more of a side note.

I'm just happy this issue's over and done with. The editing process was even more trying this time around. I'm going to sleepwalk through the next two days and take the rest of the week off. On Friday, I get to go to LA to see a friend and watch the Mets play the Dodgers at Dodgers Stadium.

Over the time we were in production, I've been growing a beard. I was so preoccupied at first that I forgot to shave, like I often do, and then, after a while, I just figured I'd keep it going until we were done. I thought we were going to be done a week ago, so the thing's getting pretty thick. Thing is now, I kinda like it, so I'm not sure if I want to shave it. It's like a face cozy or something. Granted, it's the middle of the summer and it's been fucking hot as hell, but I'm still at a loss as to what to do with my prodigious gruff. Maybe I'll just shave it and grow it back when it's a bit colder out.

more thanks

I'd also like to thank Rasputina, because "Watch TV" is making me all emotional and helping me remember that there is life outside this office. Even if that life kinda sucks, too. Melora Creager told me on the phone that I ask good questions. That's what Melora said. I'm still at work. I'm totally listening to it again.

someone. make me stop working.

Yesterday, I pulled a 25 hour shift. I haven't had a day off in two weeks. I have to come in tomorrow too. My insides are turning to puree, and if those two Advil I popped don't help this headache, I'm not sure what I'm going to do. On the bright side, though, I'd like to thank My Chemical Romance for making the last forty or so minutes of worrysome existence much more bearable. I'm usually not into Hot Topic bands, but I really like these guys for some reason. And their video for "Helena" is a mini goth epic. With dance numbers. Glorious.

Nature 3, Boy Scouts 0

Nature, God or some kind of higher power has ranked the Boy Scouts number one on its hitlist. Check this out. This is the third such incident since mid-July and the second in as many weeks. I'm so glad my parents never sent me off to camp.

the king of the ants

King of the Ants was a pretty good movie that had nothing much to do with ants. It starred some guy I'd never seen before, one of the Baldwins that no one pays any attention to, George Wendt who played Norm in Cheers and Kari Wurhrer, who used to be on that MTV game show Remote Control, and still looks really good.

Ants, however, have taken over my office. They're the harmless little black variety--all diligent and explorative. I hate bugs, but I like ants--the tiny little black ones anyway. I don't like the big mean biting ones that swarm over babies left unattended and eat them. Ants fascinate me because...I don't know why, but they just do. They converge around my desk alot, even though I don't bring food to it, except for the occasional chocolate morsel from my roommate's desk. Everyday for the last week or so, I've found a couple crawling on me, getting lost in my arm hair. I usually take a piece of paper and airlift them to my CD rack. I'm not sure where they go from there. I did kill a bunch by mistake, instinctively swatting at an odd, tickly, crawly feeling on my skin, but I usually feel bad about it. One time, I sat in an area that they were swarming on and was covered with them. I killed a few that time too, but again, I didn't mean to. They just seem so intent on what they're doing and purposeful.

Work is kicking my ass, but I got good news today from my parents that my dog back home made it through his operation okay. I guess the found some lumps on him or something that needed to be removed. They're waiting to hear back about a biopsy, but I guess the vet seemed positive. I miss my dog, even though he used to attack people and stuff. I don't think he really meant it. He just wanted to play, I think.