the infirmary

Saturday was not the best of days. I didn't get home until a quarter to five in the morning, and though I didn't really have that much to drink, I think the week of celebrating my birthday had finally caught up with me. I'd been blissfully hangover free since the bender started on Tuesday, but whater I had on Friday night into early Saturday morning opened the floodgates of bodily misery.

I forgot to turn off my alarm again. I always do. It has three settings--three types of nature sounds, a buzzer and a radio. I never tuned the radio, so I set the buzzer and nature sounds (in this case, the "sound of the ocean," ten minutes apart. I also set my clock ten minutes ahead. I haven't turned that clock back yet, but I will right before I go to bed. At 8:30am (really 8:20am) the sound of crashing waves knocked me out of bed and into a particularly nasty hangover. Luckily, I fell right back to sleep, figuring I'd be right as rain in a couple more hours.

Sadly, this wasn't the case, and when I woke up around 10:30am, the back of my head felt like it'd been chewed off by a rusty saw. This was a familiar feeling, though I've only really had it once before. I've got a pretty iron stomach when it comes to alcohol; I've only had to throw up once. Saturday morning felt like it would be the second time. I spent a good deal of time in bed, trying to figure out whether it'd be a morning of kneeling before or sitting on top of the toilet bowl. I made it into the bathroom to expell waste products in a conventional manner and took a shower, and that eased my headache somewhat. I got a glass of water and faced my roommates. The living room looked kinda line an infirmary. H was sitting on the futon and P was sunk deep in the couch. H mentioned that we should all go to the medic--the greasy spoon breakfast nook down the block--which usually fixes me right up. I couldn't tell if my stomach was being cranky because it wanted me to add or subtract from its contents, but I had to eat something eventually. We all bundled up, because we all had the shakes, and made our way to breakfast.

We had to sit outside. Some local rag wrote about how cool the place was--more specifically, the writer wrote about how cool one of the waitresses is, word has it, he's crazy in love with her, word gets around fast here--and now it's become more popular, so it's a little bit harder to get a seat. We couldn't get in to the counter, so we grabbed a table outside. And the fucking sun was seriously fucking with me. I kept my beanie cap pulled down low. I squinted my eyes. I sipped my tall glass of water. It was becoming quickly apparent that the last thing my stomach wanted was food, but when the waitress came by to ask us what we wanted, I immediately said, "ham, scrambled eggs, hashbrowns--extra crispy."

From the inside portion of the restaurant, two of the people I'd been drinking with the night before emerged. They hadn't been to sleep. They also hadn't stopped drinking, and were raging drunk and still wearing the same wine-stained clothes. I was kinda jealous, because they were still on the upswing, and I was sadly crashing really hard.

Breakfast came. I took a forkful of hashbrowns, a sliver of ham, a speck of eggs. I stood up from the table and gave H 10 bucks and told her to have them box it up for me, and I walked home. Good thing it was close. I raced straight for the bathroom and stood at the sink. I didn't feel as sick as I did when I was at the restaurant, but I didn't feel good either. I ended up suffering through a pretty bad battle with the shits. I'd won, but I was left in a weakened state. After about a half-hour on the bowl, I made it out on to the futon where I laid motionless for about eight hours.

H and her boyfriend fled town. "We can't go out again tonight," they said. There was a Halloween party at the barn going down, and everyone was going. P was again sunk deep into the couch. After H and her boyfriend left. We both sat in the living room in almost complete silence, laying down under blankets on opposite ends of the room watching television.

We watched the Fat Albert movie. Then college football--USC v. Washington State followed by Hawaii v. Fresno State--after the second thing, P got up off the couch, got dressed and headed out to another party. I was still planted firmly in the futon. H's dog laid down next to me. He didn't get drunk the night before, but I think he was feeling sympathy pains. He knew who would be feeding him dinner.

At about 8pm, the head ache was almost completely gone, but now my stomach was making noises. Different kind of noises. I got up and tested the waters with a couple of tortilla chips. No adverse reaction. I grabbed the styrofoam box of breakfast and heated it up and tore into it. Human again.

I figured I'd just stay in, but I got a call. One of the women I work with said she didn't care about my hangover and that I was to get my ass out of the house and get in my costume and meet them at another coworker's house ASAP. I didn't have a costume. And I couldn't find anything to put together, so I just got in a shirt and tie and some dress pants. I put my nice jacket on, brushed my teeth and left.

The coworker who called me was dressed as a nurse. Now that I think about it, I should have made a crack about her crappy bedside manner, but at the time, I really couldn't think that much. I still felt like roadkill. It was just me and five women at the house and they were all tanked on martinis and putting on makeup.

The party was fun. A band played a nice set. I nursed a Smirnoff Ice and a Keystone Light over the course of four hours. I was able to drive a whole slew of drunk people home safely and without getting pestered by the fun police. I guess I should get a medal.

fight or die

It was funny to hear the quasi rap group that I saw play tonight utter the phrase "fight or die" when referring to the quiet college town we all call home. Granted, shit does go down here, like it does at any place that a number of people reside at, but this place is far from "hard." I don't care what your definition of the word is. I wouldn't consider the neighborhood I grew up in as "hard" or "tough," but still, it's about three times more rugged than the most gutted out ghetto in this somewhat desert oasis.

I ended up at a hip-hop show for the second night in a row. I have no problem with hip-hop. I recognize that it is now what rock music was when it was potent and revolutionary. I think there are still good, and even great (the latest Rogue Wave album is so good it brings me to tears), rock bands playing today, but that dangerous spirit has been tamed. There's nothing wrong with that. And I think in ten years or so, we'll have another Kurt Cobain, but I'm pretty sure he'll be armed with two turntables and a microphone instead of a beat up Fender Mustang.

Fender Mustangs are gorgeous guitars.

But tonight I saw the same glut and boredom that forced rock music to turn its eyes to dirty, flannel-wearing Pacific Northwesterners for something real and potent in the form of four MCs rapping over their own mixed tracks. Their mics were turned down in the mix, and though they were producing live performances, the recorded material rang out the loudest. They boasted and rapped about their cocks and balls, but never once said anything worth repeating. The only refrain that rang clear was "fight or die," sang by a big busted female vocalist who joined the group for just that one song.

Long after we left that joint, we repeated it constantly. This place is about as street as Branson, Missouri. I don't care how many rails you've snorted in a dorm bathroom or bong loads you've smoked.

[I'm drunk on holiday ale, rum and Jagermeister. All content contained herein should be taken with at least 35 grains of salt.]

friends in a bottle

On the way home from work, I stopped at the liquor store. I hadn't been there in quite some time, and I wasn't the only one who noticed.

"Long time no see!" the owner commented instantly in his thick, vaguely Middle Eastern/Eastern European kinda accent. "Have you been on vacation?"

From drinking? Hell no. But now that the magazine has been sent, I can actually drink away from my home and not at the office or before passing out on my couch for a few hours. I forgot about my buddy at the liquor store. He was so happy to see me, he began pointing out some of his latest beers. He even knocked over a bottle of some kind of liquor walking over to the fridge to show me.

I settled on a 22oz. bottle of double IPA from Moylan's. It had 8.5% alcohol content. I asked him if it was good and he boasted that he sold two cases of it already. That was good enough for me. I wasn't super impressed, but it did taste better once it got warm, and it was thick as fuck too, which was good considering I never really got around to deciding what to have for dinner.

wally world

My roommate said I could use the car this weekend, since she'd be away camping with her boyfriend, so I took the opportunity to head to Wal-Mart to get some much needed supplies. I hate Wal-Mart, but the stuff was cheap, and I tell myself it's okay that I shop there as long as I follow some simple guidelines.

1. Spend as little there as possible. They don't need your money as much as you do.
2. Only go late, late in the night, because that's when all the carnie-type folk are working there.

I went this evening at 10:30pm, which is actually a lot earlier than I usually go. The last time I'd been there was the Monday night going into Tuesday morning that Lost Season 1 came out on DVD, and they actually had whole displays full of it waiting to be put in their proper place. I wanted one so bad, but I was really broke at the time. I could have been the first person in town to have owned a copy, and I totally would have bragged about that. I got lightbulbs instead, and a honking big package of toilet paper...and laundry detergent. Oh. And four cans of Chunky Soup, because they were on sale.

Tonight, I was in dire need of anti-perspirant, because all I have is the possibly feminine flowery stuff that has been in my bathroom's medicine cabinet for an unknown length of time and is currently giving me a slight aura of potpurri. I couldn't go to work like this again, so I took the car and headed to Wally World, where I bought two sticks of manly Gillette Cool Wave (because that's how I roll) with new Superior Protection. Protection from what, I'm not quite sure.

I try to stay on the beaten path at Wally World, but there's one thing that always leads me astray--the clearance DVD bin. Even though looking through it is just about the most futile exercise you could imagine, I find gems on occasion, like Before Sunrise (shut up!), which is my favorite love story movie (SHUT UP!).

Today, the pickings were slim. There were a few pilates DVDs, a Michelle Rodriguez movie called Girl Fight and Rambo III; but there were some winners as well, like Omen II (creepy!), Lake Placid (I love big killer animal movies, I have a growing collection), and uh...wait. I think that was it. Still, I ended up getting The Glass House with Leelee Sobieski, Diane Lane and Stellan Skarsgard. My expectations are low, though Michael Wilmington of the Chicago Tribune called it a "...a slick movie thriller..." But for $5.5o, I guess I can give it a shot. You've won the battle, Wal-Mart...but not the war.

ready for the oldies station

Last week or so some publicist sent me a copy of Goo: Deluxe Edition, a two disc set that made Sonic Youth's first major label album seem that much more important. For whatever reason, the thing never made it into my hands. I would have remembered getting such a package because Sonic Youth is my favorite band that's still intact. The package was sent and signed for by someone at the office; I asked around, but no one had seen it. I'm not saying it was taken, but with all the shit we get, things have a way of disappearing. Luckily, the publicist is more or less a friend of mine, so she sent me another one. This time, I didn't let the thing out of my sight.

After lugging office furniture up our mountainously steep steps (for some reason, we'd ordered new office furniture from a company whose delivery men were not insured to carry things up steps; I don't think I'm technically insured to carry things up the steps, but luckily for everyone involved, I and the rest of the staff made it through the task unharmed), I settles, panting and sweaty, at my comfy work station and spent a good portion of the day listening to my two-disc, remastered version of Goo.

It's not my favorite Sonic Youth album, but it's got good songs on there. I remember seeing the video for "Dirty Boots" on the old MTV show 120 Minutes, which I still think was the best MTV video show ever. Y'know, when they played videos, but I guess even that sentiment has become a bit trite. 120 Minutes was on weekly for two hours (duh) from Sunday night at midnight into the wee hours of Monday morning. Much of my musical taste of that period of my life--and even now--was dictated by what videos I saw and enjoyed on that program. I never missed one. I remember Lewis Largent (though I liked Dave Kendall better) interviewing Mark Lanegan, then of the Screaming Trees and his own solo stuff (I think he was pushing Whiskey for the Holy Ghost), and talking about how cigarettes actually helped add an earthiness to his vocal tone. I interviewed Mark over the phone a couple years ago. I think he lit two cigarettes and nearly got into an accident. At one point he asked me "y'know what I mean, man?" and instantly I thought I was the coolest guy on Earth.

Right, so I remember seeing "Dirty Boots" on 120 Minutes. This was after I'd bought Dirty and spazzed out as Sonic Youth tore up their guitars playing "100%" on the David Letterman Show. I was kinda late to the game, but I'm either very young Gen X or very old Gen Y depending on how you look at it. The "Dirty Boots" video must have been shot in mid- to late 1990 or early 1991. I was 13 or 14 and probably just becoming disenchanted with hair metal and wondering why I had no friends as a freshman in high school. I probably saw the video a year and a half after that. If I remember correctly (I guess I could look it up, but I'm trying to stay true to my nostalgia no matter how thin it has ben worn down by the sands of time), the video is a pretty basic performance clip at a small club with kids in cut off jean shorts, moppy hair, flannel and some kind of Doc Martins-like boots (presumably dirty). There were no pretty dudes or hairsprayed chicks in tight denim and halter tops. If I were old enough to be there, I might have fit right in. At least I hoped I would. I think there was some love story element to the video as well. Girl meets Boy at the indie rock show and they conquer their teen angst to have a good time and thumb their noses at the man, or something similarly romantic.

I like particular sounds I hear in Sonic Youth songs more than whole songs most of the time. Dirty is probably still my favorite, because that's the one that introduced me to the group. Though as I've gotten more familiar with them over the years, I know it's not their best album. I've grown to like their newer, more spacier and mellower stuff and I've gotten older spacier and mellower, but today, for whatever reason, turned out to be a good day to rediscover Goo.

certainly not a fairytale

There was a bomb threat in downtown tonight. I wasn't there, but my roommate was. She said they closed down a bunch of streets or something. There was a suspicious duffle bag or something and the bomb squad came out and everything. I don't know what the deal was, but they got the thing out of there. It was probably some radical pissed off about all the drunks--or most likely a prank.

The whole time, I was safe and oblivious at home--a belly full of taco salad and a little bit of red wine (I'm still sipping it now). I told a friend I'd edit a manual he'd written for a graduate school project. I like helping people out, but it's been a lot of work. It's 39 pages and I'm a third of the way through it. I'd keep going, but I have to go to bed. While I was working, I kept Scooby Doo 2 on as background noise. I think it was on HBO. I think it was the wine, or my raging hormones (which won't shut the fuck up lately), but my fleeting crush on Linda Cardellini, who plays the ultra nerdy, vaguely lesbian indie scenester Velma.

I think she was also on Freaks and Geeks or something, and she may still be on ER, but I never watch either of those two shows. I do know that she's not as homely as the be-turtlenecked heroine she portrayed (I wouldn't mind if she kept on the Velma glasses though...yum); she stars in this really cool short called Certainly Not a Fairytale (see how this all links together? I'm on some cyclical shit. That's how I roll); and, like Counting Backwards favorite Asia Argento, may very well be Italian.

I'd like to go on, but we're having a local business brouhaha at the office tomorrow. At 7fuckin'30 in the morning. It's one of those things that I don't have to be at, but it would be nice if I did go, which basically means I have to be there. I'm not really looking forward to it, but I'm hoping I can get into the office early and after all the back-slapping, ass-grabbing yokels leave, I'll be able to get a bunch of work done and get the fuck out early. Linda will have to wait another day, I suppose. Don't worry, baby. I'll make you ravioli.

sucking up to the fans

I love my new Stat Counter stat thingy because it makes me feel important. Well, it did before I realized that 95 percent of my blog's traffic is the direct result of Google image searches for Asia Argento. So, thanks to this picture, which I posted a link to in this post, I've received hits from fellow perverts all over the globe. To them, if they got this far past Asia's nubile goodies, I say "Hello" and "enjoy."






That didn't feel as dirty as I thought it would.

the spectre of death

Alias really threw me for a loop on Thursday night. I hadn't watched the episode from the week before--I'd taped it though--so I embarked upon a two-hour mini marathon. JJ Abrams knows how to make good television, or at least knows how to get me to watch television. I'll usually only watch network TV for sports and things of that nature. But I'm a sucker for cliffhangers and beautiful women--and I guess Mr. Abrams is too. Alias is in a weird transition, having killed off one of the show's main characters and writing in the pregnancy of its star. With Nadia out of commission (will someone cure her already, please?!?!) and Jen Garner all with evil spawn child (but still looking good), Alias's hottie quotient looked as if it was going to take a serious hit, which made its grasp on my fickle interests somewhat precarious. Abrams probably had a meeting with his execs on this matter, discussing how to firm their hold on the valuable J demographic. They put their heads together and came up with the answer. Agent Rachel Gibson.

I'm not sure where she came from, but I'm glad she's here. She's got that whole sexy librarian thing going for her, and if Marshall wasn't already married, he'd be all over that in a heartbeat. I'm just saying. There was totally tension when they were talking about hacking and USB ports or whatever. I guess when Jen's gotta go become a baby momma, Rachel's going to take over as queen agent, and that's fine by me. I was kinda hoping it'd be Nadia, but, y'know that's life.

Jen's not the only person in my life (well, she sorta is) who's with child. I just found out that two of my best friends (I was in their wedding party a few years back) are expecting their first child. It's only a month and a half in, but they sounded really excited over the phone. I think they'll make good parents. I know for sure the kid will listen to good music. They're the first two friends of mine from my New York youth to have kids, and I think I sounded more nervous over the phone than they did. I mean, how can they be so fucking calm?! Anyway, I'm going to be its honorary uncle J, and damn it, I've always wanted to be an uncle.

I guess I've hit that stretch in life where everyone I know is going to get married and start families. I'm a little behind the curve in both those respects, but that's probably for the best. I'd make a terrible father and husband at this point in my life. I enjoy being by myself--in most respects--and I kinda like that the deepest I get in conversation with most people is "how was your weekend." It's a lot less taxing. Though I have to admit that I've been having a few scares lately. First it was the death dream--I died in my dream and it felt like I wouldn't be able to pull myself out of it--and this morning, while I was having breakfast at this sports pub, watching the Giants/Cowboys game with a couple friends, I started to feel really bad. I don't know if I can explain it, but I thought I was going to lose consciousness or something. It hit really suddenly and lasted for a few seconds before it went away. I think it was some indigestion that went horribly wrong. This sensation shot from around my chest, up to my head, and really freaked me out.

I dunno, I've been thinking I need to go to the doctor or something. I've been trying to make up for my bad habits. I've become addicted to whole wheat anything, and I drink water constantly. I just want to be able to take it easy and not worry about everything so much. I think if I went to a doctor and he/she said, "chill out you're not dying," I wouldn't feel like shit all the time.

After I settled down, I felt fine again, just uneasy, so I decided to relax the rest of the day. I walked around downtown because it was really nice out, then went home to watch playoff baseball and bits of football games. I also napped. That was my first nap in quite some time, and I have to say I missed them terribly. When I woke up, I g33ked out something fierce and watched the cinematic sequel to Final Fantasy VII, Advent Children.

It was awesome. I think they fit too much stuff into too short a time, and at one point during one of the many fight/action sequences, I thought I thought I was going to be sent into a seizure. Still, it was 90 minutes of dazzling eye candy, and, clearly, Tifa Lockhart set the high water mark for how all subsequent Final Fantasy leading ladies are to be judged by.

I haven't played the game in years, and I didn't really get the whole story then either, so I had to scrape through the resin-encrusted pathways of my late-teen memories to piece things together. But really, I didn't want to look into it too much. When you get right down to it, the storylines for the games are pretty cheesy, ridiculously epic and full of gooey sentimentality and sappiness. But I guess that's what makes them so good.

fucking wheelchair

First Michelle Rodriguez beats the fuck out of him. Now this. Poor Sawyer.

the craze

Almost everyone at my office has fallen under the spell of this new exercize program called CrossFit. I guess it's new to town or whatever, but they're seriously freaking out over this thing, the women I work with especially. It sounds pretty intense from how they describe it, and I can see that it works because they're all getting seriously buff. Not as buff as Ms. Fitness Canada here, but I think it's just a matter of time.

One of my co-workers told me that the last time she went, she was working out so hard, she told the instructor she thought she was going to die. Apparently, he told her that if she wasn't tasting bile, she'd be fine. A picture on their local site showed a man on a weight bench who was working so hard, he puked all over himself. That's pretty hardcore. They even got them doing cartwheels and shit. I can't remember I did one of those, but I'm sure if I tried one now, all the king's horses and all the king's men wouldn't be able to reassemble my fractured spine.

I'd kinda like to be more fit. But the thing is, I know I have to get into better shape just so I'd be fit enough to exercise. I'm pretty active though, at least a lot more active than I was in my early 20s. I walk a lot now and ride a bike. Today I walked my surrogate dog home from work and he pulled me like a tractor but I managed to keep up with him. I figure I'd like to lose 10 or so more pounds, but I'm not all that motivated to get a start on that. I like to eat. I like being lazy. I had a gym membership once and hated it. I think I'm just destined to be doughy.

I've been having weird bouts of synchronicity lately. With this entry mulling around in my mind (sometimes I think about what I'm going to write here; I try not to, but it happens anyway because I'm that narcissistic), and after cackling as Michelle Rodriguez continued to make Sawyer her bitch on Lost, I caught two specials about kick-ass women on PBS. The first was about Helen of Troy, in which a kinda sexy British scholar looked around Greece and Turkey in search of historical evidence about the woman whose face launched a thousand ships (and some really bad movies). She was super stoked on it. She carried around this notebook full of little quotes and sayings that she'd translated from around that time, all of which she was able to link back to Helen and the Trojan war in one way or another. The second was about the Amazons and used DNA evidence to try to prove that this nomadic tribe of warrior women actually existed and whose bloodline is still alive today. By the end of the show, the scholar was able to show that there were in fact a tribe of warrior women, and that members of the nomadic tribes in Western Mongolia are direct descendents of them. I'm not sure what that has to do with Amazons, but it's pretty cool I guess.

I've been having these remarkably vivid dreams lately. Some of them have been so real, I'm not able to separate them from reality. In one, I died and it was really bad. I woke up from the dream still inside the dream and it felt like I had to claw myself out of some kind of hole to wake up for real. I thought I was dead for sure. Last night was a lot less dramatic. For some reason, I was trying to set up an interview with Mariah Carey, and I can't stand her. I wasn't going to do the interview though. Instead, I ended up playing this really nice semi-hollow bodied electric guitar, and I was doing a really good job. My sister was there too, jamming on a Gibson Flying V. I flipped a switch or hit a pedal and got this really spacey feedback/distortion effect and it sounded like something on a Sigur Ros album. I saw a violin on the floor and it was playing itself, jamming along with me. It sounded really good.

Today I booked my flight to Seattle. I'm really excited about it, but the jet I'm on is an Alaskan Airlines MD-80, which seems to be the most dangerous type of passenger jet ever. Good thing I'm not a rock star. I just talk to them sometimes.

life's a motherfucker

In what had to be the most improbable pool shot of all time, my boss had a sure win at our game of nine-ball, and instead of kissing the nine in the corner pocket, he wedged the two balls together between the rails on the edge of the pocket.

Soon after we sent the magazine, and incidentally, were forced to send some more of it that wasn't quite finished today. In between that fateful shot and another 14-hour Monday, I went to a wedding.

This was the second wedding I attended this year. Both brides were sisters and both were my former roommates. This event brought me back together with some of the best friends I've made since moving out here. They live all up and down the West Coast now, so it's hard to see everyone. On Thursday, the one sister's husband picked me up here to take me down to Livermore, CA, the next day. We spent Thursday night bar hopping with my current roommate and a couple of coworkers. The next late morning, it was breakfast and then straight to the road where we spent most of the time talking about cartoons and toys.

On Friday night, there was the rehearsal dinner. I didn't expect to be in attendance, but I was appreciative of the free food. It was held at an Italian restaurant called Bruno's, but it wasn't as hardcore as the name would suggest. The food was good--especially the bread--but there weren't old dudes sitting in the corner, speaking in whispers. I ordered fettucini alfredo. There was ham in it. I was pleased.

Unfortunately, I filled up on bread, and I was too busy clowning around to finish my meal, or drink any wine. It was supposed to be girls night out afterwards, for the bachelorette party, so I had to get dropped off at my ex-roommate A's new house, and since everyone else was tied up with family commitments, I spent Friday evening with two bugged out terrier puppies and a giant HDTV. I watched a high-def broadcast of a recent Pixies concert and rocked out in quiet fashion. Black Francis's head has gotten excedingly large over the years, and I was frightened to notice how eerily similar it was to my planet-sized noggin.

The wedding followed on Saturday. The ceremony got under way around 3pm and it was one of those long Catholic affairs. I grew up Catholic, but I haven't been to a mass in ages. I forgot when to sit up and when to kneel, but I did remember almost all of the refrains and speeches, even though the preacher had an indecipherable Indian accent.

Me and A were the first two to get to the reception. The party was held at a Sheraton hotel that had a few weddings going on the same day. Another ceremony occured while our party ate hors d'oeuvres. One night off for my liver was more than enough, so Sparky and I were ready to get a little silly at the reception. But not all sloppy crazy drunk, but a respectable sort of wedding drunk that older people kinda giggle about and the young kids wonder why you're being so goofy. I made friends with the bartender, and I ended up bumping into the people who thought I was Charles at the last wedding. They know that's not my name now, but they still call me Charles anyway, which is fine because I still don't know what their names are. They're a nice couple though.

It got later, and the party moved indoors from the patio. The rest of my table decided to start catching up with my drinking, and soon surpassed me. I hadn't eaten, so I got giggly real fast and had to cool my heels before I did something stupid like knock over the cake or make a pass at someone's mother. I devoured some salmon and--well, I'm not sure what else. A salad, I think. All I know is, suddenly our table was covered in empty wine bottles, and I knew that I hadn't touched one of them.

I was one of three or four single guys at the reception who had graduated junior high. Of course, we had to stand on the dance floor to catch the garter. I had a cheering section, but this lightning fast eight-year-old made a dive at the very end to snag it from my grasp. In truth, I had position on him. I coulda had it, but I backed off at the last second. I cracked under the pressure.

The groom picked a cool crop of songs that no one really could dance to. The first one that played was "Rock Lobster" by the B-52s and it was funny to watch the older people in the crowd try to decipher it. The DJ also played Beck and Blur's "Girls & Boys," which was perhaps the first time that song has ever been played at a wedding. I doubt many fathers of the bride danced with their newly married daughters over the refrain, "Girls who are boys/Who like boys to be girls/Who do boys like they’re girls/Who do girls like they’re boys/Always should be someone you really love." Good stuff.

After the wedding was the after party at El Balazo in Pleasanton. There the DJ played more the standard hip-hop fair, but once a confluence of older people began to filter over from the wedding, the DJ shifted gears and started playing Queen and The Village People, which got the older folks--who were completely demolished on wine--seriously grooving. We ended up taking over a whole corner of the bar, much to the chagrin of the locals. It was so much fun, but the best part was the joint doubled as a Mexican restaurant that served burritos and tacos til 2am, which caused me to loudly proclaim that I wanted to have sex with the place. I would have too. And made it breakfast in the morning.

sorry, you texted the wrong guy. i hope

[Editor's note: Caps aren't mine]

HEY GAYBUTT! I MISS U. CLASS OUT. SAME? ABOUT 2GO HOME. U SUCK. I JUST WANT TO HOLD U RIGHT NOW. URG! HAVE FUN WALKING HOME AND GO 2 CLASS THIS TIME.

mm...lists...

I guess there are some rules to this thing. I hate these things, but this one looked like fun, and like any good music nerd, I love lists. I guess you're supposed to go to some site, pick the year you graduated high school and bold the songs you liked, italicize the ones you hated, underline the ones you don't remember (I couldn't figure out how to do that, so I just made them red) and leave the rest alone. I graduated high school in 1994, which was fuck long ago. I'm old. Anyway, here it is.

1. The Sign, Ace Of Base
2. I Swear, All-4-One
3. I'll Make Love To You, Boyz II Men
4. The Power Of Love, Celine Dion
5. Hero, Mariah Carey
6. Stay (I Missed You), Lisa Loeb and Nine Stories
[YOOOOUUUUUUU say...you talk so all the time! So. This was totally on the Reality Bites Soundtrack, and that movie was totally supposed to speak to me. I had a big crush on Janine Garofalo...I know.]
7. Breathe Again, Toni Braxton
8. All For Love, Bryan Adams, Rod Stewart and Sting
9. All That She Wants, Ace Of Base
10. Don't Turn Around, Ace Of Base
[seriously. I can't help it. I hate myself for the whole Ace of Base thing. I was a Nirvana-loving, pot-smoking, angst-loving teen, but dammit, I sang "The Sign" in the shower. IN THE SHOWER!!!]
11. Bump N' Grind, R. Kelly
12. Again, Janet Jackson
13. I'll Remember, Madonna
14. Whatta Man, Salt-N-Pepa
15. Wild Night, John Mellencamp and Me'shell Ndegeocello
16. Without You / Never Forget You, Mariah Carey
17. You Mean The World To Me, Toni Braxton
18. Can You Feel The Love Tonight, Elton John
19. The Most Beautiful Girl In The World, Prince Symbol
20. Fantastic Voyage, Coolio
21. Baby I Love Your Way, Big Mountain
22. Regulate, Warren G and Nate Dogg
23. If You Go, Jon Secada
24. Back and Forth, Aaliyah
25. Now And Forever, Richard Marx
26. When Can I See You, Babyface
27. Please Forgive Me, Bryan Adams
28. So Much In Love, All-4-One
29. Shoop, Salt-N-Pepa
30. Any Time, Any Place / And On And On, Janet Jackson
31. Shine, Collective Soul
32. Said I Loved You...But I Lied, Michael Bolton
33. Return To Innocence, Enigma
34. All I Wanna Do, Sheryl Crow
35. Mmm Mmm Mmm Mmm, Crash Test Dummies
36. Can We Talk, Tevin Campbell
37. Funkdafied, Da Brat
38. I'd Do Anything For Love (But I Won't Do That), Meat Loaf
39. Gangsta Lean, Drs
40. Because The Night, 10,000 Maniacs
41. Cantaloop, US3
42. Whoomp! (There It Is), Tag Team
43. Come To My Window, Melissa Etheridge
44. Stroke You Up, Changing Faces
45. I'm Ready, Tevin Campbell
46. 100% Pure Love, Crystal Waters
47. Anytime You Need A Friend, Mariah Carey
48. Because Of Love, Janet Jackson
49. Linger, Cranberries
50. Loser, Beck
51. Found Out About You, Gin Blossoms
52. Gin And Juice, Snoop Doggy Dogg
53. Never Lie, Immature
54. Streets Of Philadelphia, Bruce Springsteen
55. Getto Jam, Domino
56. Endless Love, Luther Vandross and Mariah Carey
57. I Miss You w/ Aaron Hall 58, Understanding, Xscape
59. This D.J., Warren G
60. Cry For You, Jodeci
61. Keep Ya Head Up, 2Pac
62. Who Am I (What's My Name?), Snoop Doggy Dogg
63. Another Night, Real McCoy
64. Your Body's Callin', R. Kelly
65. Tootsee Roll, 69 Boyz
66. I Can See Clearly Now, Jimmy Cliff
67. Never Keeping Secrets, Babyface
68. Crazy, Aerosmith
70. At Your Best (You Are Love), Aaliyah
71. Rock And Roll Dreams Come Through, Meat Loaf
72 Amazing, Aerosmith
73. Always, Erasure
74. Groove Thang, Zhane
75. Dreams, Gabrielle
76. Mr. Vain, Culture Beat
77. Mary Jane's Last Dance, Tom Petty and The Heartbreakers
78. Anything, SWV
79. Beautiful In My Eyes, Joshua Kadison
80. Stay, Eternal
81. Flava In Ya Ear, Craig Mack
82. U.N.I.T.Y., Queen Latifah
83. Prayer For The Dying, Seal
84. Secret, Madonna
85. Here Comes The Hotstepper, Ini Kamoze
86. Everyday, Phil Collins
87. Don't Take The Girl, Tim McGraw
88. Got Me Waiting, Heavy D and The Boyz
89. December 1963 (Oh, What A Night), Four Seasons
90. Indian Outlaw, Tim McGraw
91. Always, Bon Jovi
92. I'm The Only One, Melissa Etheridge
93. Back In The Day, Ahmad
94. Love Sneakin' Up On You, Bonnie Raitt
95. I'll Take You There, General Public
96. Always In My Heart, Tevin Campbell
97. What Is Love, Haddaway
98. And Our Feelings, Babyface
99. Bop Gun (One Nation), Ice Cube
100. I Wanna Be Down, Brandy

Considering three of my favorite songs were from a Swedish pop group, 1994 must have been one totally shitty year for music. Well, it was...Kurt Cobain shot himself that April. I did get to go see Lollapalooza that year, though, and it's still one of the highlights of my life. None of those bands were on the list, like Green Day, Screaming Trees, The Breeders, Smashing Pumpkins, Beastie Boys, etc.

down cycle

Lost was so exciting tonight that my racoon buddy showed up with another racoon. I think they were after kibble, but the look in their eyes told me they were curious as to why I was hollering and carrying on. I was totally bugged out.


Especially during the "orientation video" portion of the show (I won't spoil it for you, Michelle), but it kinda creeped me out. I felt all...creeped. The first two episodes moved really slow, but I thought this one really established the mindfucks they're going to try to throw our way this season. I'm so excited about this show, that nothing else really matters.

The addition of Michelle Rodriguez (pictured above on the left) also thrills me to no end. She already slugged Sawyer something fierce. She's a total fucking bad ass, and I get the feeling that later this season she's going to have to have a showdown with Lost's alpha female Evangeline Lilly for what will be the greatest on-screen catfight of all time. I hope they have to battle in a river or under a waterfall in tight tank tops...and maybe make out a little. Y'know, but in an artistic sort of way.

I almost didn't make it to Lost. I rushed home from dinner to realize I'd locked my house keys in the house. Luckily, my residential forbears were no strangers to forgeting their keys. As my roommate says, they all had a "window of choice" for sneaking back in. Some of them even have chairs hidden by them for ease of breaking in. That kinda freaks me out a bit, but they sure came in handy tonight! I totally disregarded my fear of spiders and other crawlies to sneak behind a bush and scale my way into my home. With eight whole minutes to spare, too.

We sent the magazine yesterday after what felt like 10 years of production. No overnighters this time, but there were a lot of long days. I'm kinda happy with the way it turned out, but it also freaks me out because two of my stories are featured on the cover. I never want to see the thing again, but I'm sure I'll look at it in a couple of months, just to see how it turned out.

I had a great dinner to celebrate--linguini frutti di mare, and a copious amount at that. As I ate it, it looked like there was more on the plate than when I started. The chef is a friend of my roommate's and coincidentally a really cool guy. I guess he was born in Italy, grew up in England and eventually moved to the States. He came back with my roommate and another friend of hers, and after I made them all go outside while Lost was on--I couldn't have them talking during the show--I went outside to hang out and it was all good times. They got stoned and rambled about stuff, and I swilled on some Guinness left over from the show. After they left, my roommate and I did the dishes and I cracked open the bottle of limoncello she brought back for me from the Italian coast. It's awesome. Each sip makes me want to go to Europe more. Next year...I've promised myself.

i have friends in low places: the week in pictures (with some words)

The hoodie returns. As grungy and gross as ever. it's still got the laces that are supposed to sinch up the hood, but I don't think anyone in hoodie history has ever used them. I do chew on the tips sometimes. Because I'm disgusting.


The one thing that came out of my roommate's trip to Italy was that I bonded with her feral cat that wasn't always feral. I'd come home from work or the bars, and I'd simply call his name, and he'd come trotting out of the bushes, mewling like a hungry cat. I'd feed him and stuff, but he was still pretty whatever about me petting him. The bowl was always empty in the morning. One night, I came home, called for the cat, and he appeared on my porch to be fed. I tossed a cup of kibble in his bowl and watched him eat for a bit. After a while, he scurried off, but soon after, I heard a munching noise return to the porch. This time, It was a big ol' racoon. He shoveled food into his mouth with his lil' racoon hands and stared me down as he did so. Very photogenic. We didn't even have to go into makeup.

Woo!!! Nine Inch Nails. ... Trust me, it looked much cooler in person.


If you squint really hard, you can kinda see Trent Reznor in the center of the stage. Go on. Squint. I'm just shitting you. There's no way you can see him.

I got this in my inbox from a publicist by accident. I think she accidentally clicked on the wrong image. It is reprinted here, because I'm a pervert. I had a dream over the week that I was hanging out with people form work and kept accidentally telling one of our part time writers that i was really horny. I thought I was being funny, of course, so I kept making off-hand comments about how horny I was, thinking that she'd get the joke. By the fourth or fifth reference, I realized that I was even creeping myself out and woke up. That has nothing to do with the Pussy Cat Dolls, but damn. They fine.