The best thing about this time of year, other than the friends and family and whatnot, is that tons of little breweries put out bad ass beers. Winter seasonals comprise some of my favorite beers. They're really spicy, and they're almost always really strong. Last year, I wrote at length about the benefits of Anchor Steam's "Our Special Ale" or Anchor Christmas for short. They switch up the recipe every year, and I'm happy to say, after the past couple weeks of extensive testing, they've once again hit a home run.
Coming in as a close, but devastating second is Brown Shugga by Lagunitas. Not only is this one tasty, but it's a hefty 9.9% alcohol by volume. I usually sip one during the course of a night, in front of my television, and fall into blissful sleep. Tonight, I downed two of them and capped them off with an Anchor Christmas. I could go for a good 12-hour nap. But instead, I'm typing this and wondering what train hit me.
It's been fucking cold here, and not California cold either. Actual frigid temperatures have seeped into the valley prison, and walking to my friend's place for a movie and a couple beers was a treacherous journey. The heavy beers warmed me right up, and watching some crazy amphibian monster fuck up Seoul, Korea, got all of us hollering. Good times. But I'm sleepy. Too much time on YouTube. That Justin Timberlake "Dick in the Box" clip is really funny, but I've been on a nostalgia kick lately, and this is my favorite Weezer song.
I probably should have stayed home today, but the draw of pizza, beer and rock music proved to be too strong. I called my favorite cab driver up--he drives a limo now, a plush new Lincoln Town Car, and I get to ride around in it for cheap--and ditched my Final Fantasy XII pals (sorry, guys!) to go see some bands at a local pizza shop that's become a sort of venue.
I don't know why bands would want to play anywhere else in this town. First off, their pizza is pretty damn good for California, they have bottles of Pabst for a buck, and since it's a restaurant, it's able to stay all ages. I paid a donation at the door, got ear plugs, a slice and a beer and had a good time.
Afterwards, my friends took me over to this party. I went willingly. I wasn't kidnapped. But once I got there, I was reminded how I'm becoming increasingly less of a party person. All I do is hide in a corner and leach on to the people I showed up with. I don't mingle. And even to the folks with whom I arrived, I rarely talk.
This was certainly a good party. There was a good turn out, people weren't too wasted, and I actually knew quite a few folks there. Still, I did my best to stick to my social chameleon routine and tried to blend into the walls. One good thing that happened at the party was I heard a song I hadn't in a while.
I've been trying to find I Was Born for the 7th Time by Cornershop for quite some time now. I guess it's really not a chore. I could probably just look it up on Amazon and have it in a few days, but I still like the joy of actually finding something that I want. I guess I'm old fashioned. I've listened to it six or seven times now since coming home in the hopes that I'll get sick of it and forget about it for a while. It hasn't happened yet though.
Rediscovering this little gem led me to reminisce about other '90s one hit wonders. One of the best of that crop was Marcy Playground, who I still think got the shaft somehow. I don't know why this album didn't do better than it did. "Sex and Candy," obviously, was a big hit, but there were a lot of other good tracks on it too, like this one.
I guess that's why Time-Life makes nostalgic greatest hits collections.
I'm not going to sit here and try to defend Skid Row. I really shouldn't have to, but the era of rock that they came out of has become the butt of many jokes. And with good reason. Remember Ratt? Dangerous Toys? Great White? Dokken?! Slaughter?!???!1112?!11 These bands were awful. Even then, when I was young, and I didn't know any better, I still thought they were awful. And while i still get a kick out of the occasional Def Leppard song, I know that for the most part, all that shit was pure schlock. But, a couple summers ago, I was driving down to see No Doubt and Blink-182 (modern schlock) with my roommate at the time, and we were both drinking beers and whiskey from a flask while barreling down some two-lane country highway. He was a big rocker kinda guy. He liked fat-bottomed girls and drum solos. He was playing a mix CD he'd made on the car stereo and "I Remember You" by Skid Row popped on. I chuckled at first, but then I realized that it really stood up. It's probably the best power ballad ever. Skid Row, the band's first album, was one of the first I'd ever paid for, so I must have liked it, and listening to one of its biggest hits just then, I realized why. Sure, they were just as pretty as the rest of their contemporaries, but they definitely had a blue collar sound to them--the kind of thing Bon Jovi tried for but never quite attained. I mean, the band is what it is. It's not rocket science. Skid Row grew up in Toms River, NJ, and I don't know what it was like back then, but my aunt lives there now and it's like a city-sized retirement community where everyone eats dinner at 3pm and drives a gray/silver Buick. But maybe back in Skid Row's day, it was a rough and tumble town. Maybe one of them worked at a train yard. Or maybe knew someone who did. I'd like to think that's true.
Tonight, I scored free tickets to go see Sebastian Bach and his band here in town. They played all the hits, and even though no one was there--and Baz pointed that out to two people who were fighting ("What are you guys fighting about? There's plenty of room for everyone. There were more people on my bus last night")--they still unleashed a year's worth of fist pumping, guitar face and drum stick twirls. There was even a drum solo. And when someone threw a blunt on stage, Baz and co. sparked that bad boy up, following suit with a cheesy one-liner. Tonight was a one-off date from their tour with the new Guns N' Roses, and I'm sure they'll play in front at least a few thousand people tomorrow. And I'm sure Baz will blow doors off of Axl, because I saw GNR in the band's prime and Rose couldn't hit a fucking note. He sure could make costume changes though.
A lot of shit has happened this year that has been worthy of office water cooler chat time. Most of it has involved either Britney Spears' or Lindsay Lohan's vagina. Both of which are fine topics, but this is probably my favorite story of this year.
Two dolphins in an aquarium in China's Liaoning province ate some plastic on the edge of their tank and got themselves tummy aches. attempts at removing the deadly plastic via surgery failed because their stomachs contracted around the surgical instruments. The following is why veterinarians make the big bucks. Because they're problem solvers.
"Veterinarians then decided to ask for help from Bao Xishun, a 7-foot-9 herdsman from Inner Mongolia with 41.7-inch arms, state media said."
And it worked! Xishun was able to manually extract the plastic chunks, which revitalized the beleaguered sea mammals.
When I first heard this, I thought it had to be a hoax, but it seems pretty legit. I wish I could've been there when the frazzled veterinarian spoke up: "Guys. You might think I'm crazy...But I've got a plan." If you go to the story, there's a link to the video. And it's radical.
Ok, I just spent about half-an-hour going back over previous posts and adding labels to them. Isn't that awesome? Well? From the looks of the list, I lead a pretty sad and lonely life, which is probably why I have a blog. That is all.
I was looking for the new Heidi Klum Christmas commercial, because I saw it the other night and my palms got sweaty. Heidi Klum is way too sexy. So much so that it makes me uncomfortable. Like, I get embarrassed. I couldn't find it. YouTube, you have failed me. I did find the above ad, however, which I hadn't seen before, and it's really funny. Vader, I'm with you, bro.
The impetus for this post is twofold: 1) I love this commercial. 2) I wanted to test posting a YouTube video in the new layout. I also don't want to do a lick of work today. So that's threefold.
I spent about four hours fucking around with the new Blogger, which I'm dubbing the Messiah of Blogging. I'm not sure if it made anything easier or better yet, but it sure makes it fun to fuck around with stuff. More changes to come, I think. Any feedback?
So I upgraded to the NEW BLOGGER, which is both an exciting and baffling process, especially at this time of night. Especially after I've been out at a rock show. Rest assured, this transitional phase will be temporary, and this space will be as bland and awkward as the space you've come to know and love. Thank you for your patronage.
Cat Power's a really beguiling creature. I've seen clips of her performing live and it can get really weird. She did this dance on Letterman that at first I thought was cute and quirky, but as it continued, made me feel really awkward. I get the feeling that you'd be having a very nice conversation with her and then, without warning, she'd begin staring at the ceiling and then turn to start drawing unicorns and butterflies on the wall. I don't know what that means, but Chan Marshall can really write a beautiful song when she puts her mind to it. I really like this video for "Lived in Bars" because it's not so dour and serious as some of her songs get and it reminds me of visiting home for the holidays and getting blotto with old friends of mine. I get to listen to so much music, I sometimes forget about certain albums. The Greatest came out last year, and it's super soulful so go out and buy it.
PS. I know I'm supposed to recognize her as an artist, and I do. She's awesome, but she's got pretty awesome legs too... And I don't feel bad for noticing.
Because Monica Bellucci is pretty fucking ridiculous. And Italian. And 42.
I was watching VH1's The Fabulous Life of Celebrity Moguls today because my life is neither fabulous, nor am I even a menial sort of mogul. One of the celebrities they highlighted was Jay-Z, who I have a lot of respect for as a business man and an artist, though after seeing him slanging Budweiser with his new song, I kinda wish he'd just gone out on The Black Album, which was really fucking good. Anyway, the program's voice over ran over the Jay-Z's impressive resume outside of the rap game--how he owns this, is president of that, etc. The cherry on top was that he also owns his own color, which I'm sure grants you a previously unobtainable level of pimpdom. The voice over explained that Jay-Z has his own shade of blue, aptly titled Jay-Z Blue, and you can get your lap top or bling-mobile or whatever all done up with it. I didn't think this was at all possible. Then I found this article from a December 2005 issue of Rolling Stone. It's really long, but here's the clincher:
Next summer Jay will unveil an entirely new way of marketing himself: a color called Jay-Z Blue. “Jay-Z Blue is a license for corporations to get Jay-Z in the building,” said Steve Stoute, the head of Translation Consultation and Brand Imaging, who’s working with Jay on the project. “Cars, laptops, lots of different things. I got deals lined up like you don’t understand. But the bottom line is would a company pay to get Jay-Z involved in their product line? Yes, because of who he is and what he’s become as an icon. Consumers know that bullsh!t don’t leave his mouth. So when Jay-Z says x is cool he can singlehandedly change things. When Jay-Z says you shouldn’t have a [Range Rover] 4.0 but a 4.6, that changes Range Rover’s numbers. On ‘What More Can I Say,’ there’s a line: ‘I don’t wear jerseys, I'm thirty-plus/ Give me a crisp pair of jeans, nigga, button-up.’ That put Reebok’s NFL jersey business back to fans, removed it from fashion. He can move the cultural needle because they believe his honesty.”
I still have my doubts, but I guess if anyone could pull that off, it's Jay-Z. And "99 Problems" is a really good song with a bad ass video.
Whoever said--and there's been about 18 of you--that turning 30 would be wonderful clearly had no idea that the universe hates me. Seattle was great, Thanksgiving was fun, my fatally spicy Thai lunch today was great. I suppose I can't really blame a birthday, but other than the aforementioned, shit's been really, well, shitty. I don't know how else to say it. Today's meeting didn't go well at work, but that's only the beginning of the problem.
I haven't been able to sleep like a normal person--or a criminally psychotic person for that matter. Last night, I laid in bed until 7 in the morning before I finally fell asleep. Because of that, I didn't get to work till noon. I guess that's all well and good, but I feel like a loser when that happens, especially since no one says a thing to me when I wander in around lunch time. I shouldn't be able to get away with that, but I do, almost every day.
Today's meeting went poorly, and that's probably mostly my fault. I'm not much of a morale booster as it is, but I didn't help matters much with my morbid attitude. I felt really unprofessional, and neither that nor my indifference to regular office hours helps my confidence. I found out just before Thanksgiving that my dad has prostate cancer. This isn't an excuse for my shitty attitude. It's not even a reason--my attitude's been shitty for some time now. He doesn't need surgery. At least, he's not getting surgery. I hate doctors, pretty much, and I don't trust them at all. He got some kind of medicine thing put in his arm that's supposed to keep the swelling down. He just found out yesterday that starting in late January, he's got to go get radiation treatment five days a week for five weeks, because his prostate is about three times larger than it should be, or something like that. It just bugs me that if it's something so pressing, why does he have to wait three months before he goes into have something done about it. I know that a lot of men end up getting prostate cancer and it's usually not fatal. At least that's what I've heard.
I'm a bit of a wreck. Today didn't help. So I listened to obnoxious pop music.
I mean really obnoxious, so if you know what's good for you, you'll probably not want to watch that video. I don't know what the Vengaboys' deal is. I guess they're British, and they're obviously unaware that they're not, in fact, all boys. Or maybe the girls are "more than meets the eye." Like I said, I don't know. But I'd probably make out with the lead singer chick regardless.
I looked this song up on YouTube because I remember that when we first got Napster back in the Bronze Age of the Internet, my sister had downloaded it, and it'd always play when I turned our Sonique MP3 player on shuffle. The first 40 times, I pressed skip, but after a while, my resolve eroded and I let it play. It's like a three-and-a-half minute lobotomy. It's impossible to think of anything while the song is playing. It's aggressive Nintendo sounds are too pervasive. I'm actually playing it now. ... And I forgot what else I was going to write. So check this out.
I've officially had two hangovers at age 30, and both of them have been unbelievably miserable. In general, they've been getting worse over the past year, but the most recent ones have been really bad. Last night, during my sprint home from the bars (it was a really weird night, and power walking felt really good), I acquired a particularly nasty headache. I knew I was in for it.
I woke up, miraculously, on the pleather love seat with the Bloomberg News Network blaring its nauseating mix of headlines, stock market figures and other such stats. I really don't remember putting that on, but I may have knocked into the remote in my sleep. It was 6AM.
Immediately, I moved to the bathroom to take a dump and got really paranoid about whether or not I was about to throw up. I hustled out of the bathroom, put on my shoes and went outside. I'm not sure why, but I've made up my mind that if I am going to throw up, I'd rather do it outside like an animal than inside like a real human being. I found a good spot in the back corner, right by the fence and between two trees. It never happened. I ended up staying out side for a good hour, taking in the morning air like some kind of nature person would. It was really comforting and meditative. I'm staunchly anti-vomiting, so I won't force myself to puke even if it will make me feel better. I'd rather ride it out, which I think stems from my guilt-ridden Catholic upbringing.
I came back in the house to turn off my alarm clock and ended up sitting on my bedroom floor with my back up against my bed. I may have dozed off once or twice before I got on the bed and sat with my back against the wall. Then, I pulled my pillows closer to me and rested my head on them, laying down on my side, my feet, still in shoes were on the floor. I was fully dressed, in a hoodie. I slept, on and off, until after 1PM. When I woke up for reals, I found that all that time outside had caused me to track mud and leaves into my bedroom. I watched some college football and moved minimally.
So yeah, I didn't go out tonight. The shame that would come from spending another day in the same state would be too much to bear at my advanced age. I opted, instead, to play a lot of Final Fantasy XII, which is really coming along nicely. I spent most of the day on the pleather love seat, but around 11PM, my own sloth became just as troubling. I went downtown to get an ice cream Sunday and deposit the checks my roommates gave me for the energy, water and cable bills. I also picked up a six-pack of Lagunitas Brown Shugga', a winter seasonal beer, which isn't going down very well right now. Better luck tomorrow, I guess.
Hi, Everyone. It's me, Jenny Lewis, singer/songwriter from the band Rilo Kiley, and more recently, my own solo project Jenny Lewis and the Watson Twins. I'm writing from J's subconscious because he's pretty fried, but he wanted to let the four of you who read this (and all the pervs from Europe looking for Asia Argento n00dz) to know that he's not dead and will probably be writing soon.
Upon turning 30, he sent himself to Seattle to bask in the city's sponge-y fall weather and watch some football and stuff. While there, he was also able to catch a Seattle Sonics basketball game, visit two local microbreweries, get really shitfaced with a couple from Arizona, ate his weight in pizza and hot wings, ogled some real life NFL cheerleaders up close and saw the Dead Sea Scrolls. He also spent quality time with a friendly beagle.
Cute, huh? Upon returning home, stress-free and optimistic, he found out that his heater doesn't work, two of his coworkers are no longer employed and he has been having really bizarre dreams about right-wing Christians and lesbian nun porn (two separate dreams). I'd be worried about him if I knew him and wasn't a figment of his imagination. Luckily, he's sequestered himself in front of his living room television with an ample supply of beer and Final Fantasy XII, which I've never played, but he tells me it's the greatest thing ever. I guess I'll have to take his word for it. I'm awesomely talented and incredibly beautiful so I don't really need to play video games like he does.
Well, that's it for now. It was nice writing to all of you. Oh, I almost forgot. I actually met J once. He interviewed me in San Francisco. I'm not sure if he's mentioned it before, but we drank beer together (I had a lemon in mine), and I laughed at one of his jokes. And though I didn't really pay him much mind at first, I've come to realize that he is the most amazing and attractive man I've ever met. And I'd bet he's hung like a horse.
First off. Is Halloween over now? Good. I feel like I've been celebrating it for a month already. It was good times. A lot of fun, but no offense to all the sexy devils out there, but I'm ready to move on. I've been 30 for two hours and five minutes and I'm already grumpy.
I don't normally get wrapped up in celebrity hook ups and break ups (I mean, I do, but I don't write about them), but Reece and Ryan's descent into domestic turmoil caught my attention. Not only did the two of them manage to avoid ever being referred to in a one-name conglomerate (Brangelina, Bennifer, etc.), but the two really seemed like they'd last. Seven years is a long time for anyone, I guess, and for Hollywood A-listers, it's an eternity. Honestly, if I'd heard about this news around April 1st, I would've figured it for a prank, but since it all came down so close to my birthday, I'm taking it as a gift from the gods. My path is now clear: I'd like to throw my name in the hat to become Reece Witherspoon's next kept man.
I'm sure it'll be a crowded field, and I can accept that. I'm not afraid of the competition, but really, if I could end up with Reece Witherspoon, I really think I could turn my life around. Obviously, she's supremely attractive and talented (I finally saw Walk the Line and she was more than deserving of all the praise)--and for those two things alone, she's now the most sought after catch in the United States. But she's also classy, intelligent, powerful, charming and I'm sure a whole lot of other things. I mean, I don't really know her or anything, but she seems like a good egg. Oh...AND SHE'S FUCKING LOADED.
Clearly, I'm not as attractive as Ryan Phillipe. The dude's got great hair, pout-y lips and perfect bone structure. He's probably in damn good shape, too, but he must not have too good a head on his shoulders. He was set for life with a damn fine woman and all the luxuries one could ever want--and it seems like he may have been the one who cheated on her. Dude, bro. Real fuckin' smart.
I'm balding, flabby and mildly undeformed--my own beard kinda frightens me--but I know a good thing when I see one. I'm about $70k in debt; I drink too much; I'm spinning my wheels; I'm not even close to owning a house, car or any other type of adult-type thing; and my parents still send me money every month. I've heard Reece is a charitable sort, so I'll just make my plea here: Reece, I'll watch your kids, rub your feet, clean the house, cook you dinner, let you fuck other guys. Whatever it takes. Just give me an early retirement. And make my credit card companies happy. Thank you for your time. Hit me up on MySpace if you're interested.
I'd like to thank Ms. Lilly for her time as banner woman for Counting Backwards, but I figured since I'd renewed my license today, I might as well slap together a new look in honor of my impending birthday. Nothing will stand in its way now. Cosmic forces have conspired against me to lead me to this moment, and I'm powerless against them.
I made really good pasta today, though. Some basil, garlic, butter sauce thing and I threw zucchini in there for good measure. The chicken came out okay...I should have put it in the oven.
After dinner, I went over to my friend's store to watch Frankenhooker, which was pretty awesome. Really what made it was the actress who played the mismatched monster, Patty Mullen. She was sexy for sure, even with multi-toned skin, sutures and unfortunate late '80s style (I guess she also posed for Penthouse at some point), but more than that, her facial expressions were completely bad ass and she could shamble like nobody's business. I mean, sure, it's a movie about a girl who dies and is resurrected by her crazy-ass boyfriend using the parts of New York City crack whores, but it was really cool to see someone throw herself into a role, no matter how ridiculous it was. Is that admirable? I'd like to think so anyway. I'm sure Mary Shelley was only rolled over once in her grave over this one, which is a lot more than could be said for that Kenneth Branagh/Robert DeNiro fiasco.
I'm totally going through the motions. I'm sure anyone paying attention would be able to figure that out. I've shaved my head, but left the beard, and i don't care how bad it looks. Slap a hat on it and pull the hoodie up and I'm like the thief from the Dungeons and Dragons cartoons--I can more or less disappear. I got a text message at 11:30AM--I'd been up for a little bit--that informed me some people were down at this sports bar for champagne brunch. I hate champagne, but I was sorta hungry and I figured I could catch the last quarter of the Giants game. The waitresses at the bar all called me by name, but I don't know they are. I'm there enough though. I just don't know their names, and most of them are really cute. I sat with my coworker and her friends (I thought there'd be more people there I'd know), and they were a few bottles of champagne deep. The group was loud and never let anyone's glass go empty. One dude dressed as a pimp kept ordering shots of tequila. I drank water and ate and watched the game. I was having a good time, and they were getting really drunk. Eventually, I broke down and got a can of Pabst. They all invited me to go to see Saw 3 with them, and I would've gone, but I really didn't like the first two. My old roommate called and asked me if I wanted to go see The Departed (apparently everyone I knew wanted to go to the movies today), and I really wanted to see that, so I went. It was pretty damn good, really tense, but the ending, I thought, came up really flat. It's a good movie if you want to see people get shot in the head, though. After the movie, I tagged along to an organic food market and bought London broil, catfish, a boneless chicken breast, a ham sandwich, two zucchini and two ears of corn. I decided to cook half the London broil and save the sandwich for lunch tomorrow. I needed to do something productive. I ate the steak really rare and it gave me kind of a rush--I'm guessing it was E. coli or a tapeworm. Either way, I'll lose a couple pounds.
But really this was all foreplay. The main event was later in the evening at the meathead bar, a costume party/contest. I didn't want to wear a costume, but I went, because I must now embrace my new role in life: dirty old man.
I'm turning 30 and it sucks. I don't care what anyone says. Everyone's telling me it's going to be great, but I know it's not going to be. Maybe it will be come December, or maybe it's because other things aren't going as well as I'd hoped, and I don't know what to do next. Even when I drink, I hardly can get drunk anymore, and I can't afford to step up the dosage, so I just get a slight buzz and then a grumbly stomach, and then a head ache, and probably the shits in the morning. In this town, 30 isn't over the hill, but it's definitely approaching the top of it, and people start to wonder why you haven't left yet and what you're still doing here. Luckily, Guinness still tastes really good, and I have enough drink coupons at enough bars that I hardly have to pay for it (other than tips) and I can still find some small amount of joy in our female population's willingness to don sexy costumes for no apparent reason.
The costume contest was pretty typical. But there's a part of my catholic brain that kicks into overdrive when it's confronted with a fetishistic version of a nun's habit--especially when the woman wearing it is able to fill it out so well. Or maybe she didn't. Maybe all those catechism classes with stern, shapeless nuns just projected a nubile young woman into that costume. Not like it matters to me one way or the other.
My other two favorites were Sexy Alice and Sexy Lil' Bo Peep, and this Amazonian-sized beauty wearing a shaggy Sexy Barbarian costume. I think she was six feet tall. And it was awesome.
Of course there were guys, too. But Sexy Dude costumes don't ever go over well with the crowd. Unless of course the dude wearing it is a large man. A large drunk man, who's not afraid to show a little cheek and shake dat ass. This dude won best male costume, and probably by a landslide.
I was sitting in this local shitty diner at 2:20AM, which really turned out to be 1:20AM (because of that darn time change thing...still didn't mean the bars stayed open an extra hour), when I realized that Halloween is a good holiday because it's one of the few that gets better when you get older. When you're a kid, it rocks because you can knock on people's doors and they give you Snickers bars. When you're an adult, it means that other adults will have loosened morals and wear skimpy costumes.
There's also a lot of alcohol too, presumably, which is probably why the two dudes down the block are screaming "FUCK YOU!" at each other right now. "It was a fucking joke man! Fuck you! I came here to apologize to you? Fuck you!"
They finally shut up.
I went to some party tonight and there were lots of sexy so and sos, and I was amazed at how there seems that any kind of costume has some kind of sexy version. My favorite this year was sexy Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. I chuckled at the first one, but I was amazed to see near a dozen sexy Ninja Turtles strewn about town. One was at the diner, standing in front of me at the cashier, and she was having a problem keeping her tiny shorts in place on her shapely ass. Earlier, when she staggered by us on her way to the bathroom, I assume to puke, someone at another table shouted, "Donatello!" and she snapped back, "Raphael, asshole!" I thought that was awesome.
Some big black dude dressed as a preacher kept falling asleep at the counter, and this other dude dressed as Homer Simpson was having the same problem. He looked like he could puke at any minute. I kept hoping he would until my food came out. I was stone sober most of the night, and being at the shitty diner was even more sobering.
My neighbors are arguing again. Halloween definitely gets better with age.
Why didn't I think of this first? I figured with Halloween looming its debaucherous head, I'd post up a treat. This is probably the best magazine ever of all time. Ever.
Baseball has always done its best to teach me lessons in humility. When I was a kid--and I've probably written about this before--I played little league for a couple seasons. I was terrible, obviously, because I grew up to be a writer/editor and not the second baseman for the New York Mets, but it really wasn't for lack of trying. I really wanted to be a good baseball player, but, damn it if that ball didn't come at you awfully fast. And it hurt like a motherfucker too. I know, because one time when I was battling bronchitis, I ended up playing because the team was shorthandeded, and, since I could barely hold the bat upright, I figured the best way I could help the team was pray for a walk, or, if the pitch came a bit inside, just not get out of the way. I crowded home plate and got drilled twice in my right arm. I'm pretty sure we won that game.
One time, I actually made good contact, twice in the same game, in fact. My first at bat, I hit a screaming line drive toward the short stop, but he jumped in the air--swear to God--and caught it over his head. No biggie, I figured, I'd hit that pitcher next time up. And I did. I was seeing the ball really well that game for some reason and as soon as it left his hand, I knew I could clobber it. I drilled it to dead center, high and deep, but it was the kid in centerfield's time for little league greatness, not mine. I was busy running the ball out--like a good lil' soldier--and didn't realize that the fielder made some improbable catch to ruin my only bid for a home run (I did hit an inside the park job once, but that's because I slapped a line drive the other way in the corner, and I think the kid had trouble fielding it).
The year before, my team advanced to the finals of the East Shore Little League playoffs (not that I had much to do with it). We lost the first game of the best-of-three series, but in game two, down in the final inning, we won under some kind of dramatic circumstances. I don't remember how, but I remember being on base and running toward our dugout where we all jumped on the kid who drove in the winning run. He was this kid named Shawn, a big strapping youngster who played catcher for us, and he could hit the ball a ton. Taking the momentum of coming from behind, we rode the wave of momentum up until the final inning of game three. In fact, we rode that wave pretty fucking hard. I think we were up by 12 runs. I remember feeling confident, not cocky, but figuring that it would take a miracle for us to lose. I mean, come on...we were up by 12 runs.
The team scored a couple, then a couple more. I was playing left field, and Tony, I think that was his name, was pitching. Only one ball came anywhere near me, an errant throw to the second baseman, and I watched helplessly from left as I watched the team we had beat badly going into the final inning score the winning run. It was one of the most humbling experiences of my life.
Baseball dealt me another dose of humility this past Thursday as the Mets were defeated by the Cardinals in game 7 of the NLCS. I was not pleased. Even though Endy Chavez made just about the best catch I've ever seen in the playoffs, the Mets still couldn't muster any offence, and with the bases loaded, Carlos Beltran, arguably our best player, struck out looking to end the game and the Mets season. I told my game-watching companion--she'd watched most of the series with me at this local sports bar--the inning before Yadier Molina hit his game-winning two-run homer that "games like this usually come down to one play, you just hope your team comes up with it." They didn't. It was a great game, tied at 1 going into the 9th inning. My stomach was fucked for two days because off all the stress I put myself through.
I didn't watch a lick of sports this weekend. No World Series, no football (well just a little, and I watched the Giants beat the Cowboys tonight...woo!), I just rested and played video games and sulked around somewhat happy that I had my life back, until I realized how fucking boring it was. I did almost drive two women on mushrooms to Reno at 4 in the morning on Friday. Almost. I guess it's not that boring.
This definitely wasn't boring. I nearly shit my pants.
I've got my game face on, and a beard to match. The beard has become somewhat crucial, I think, to the success of the team. It's, at least, gotten them this far. I haven't shaved since the playoffs started, and I'm not going to until the Mets get knocked out, which very well could be tomorrow night. Either way, it's been such an exciting ride, and I'll never forget actually being able to see one of the games--the clinching game of the NLDS--live in front of a hostile crowd that wanted to kill me.
This series against the Cardinals has had so many ups and downs, I feel like I've been on a eight day rollercoaster; between all the rain outs and momentum swings, I may very well be nauseous, and I'm sure tomorrow will have all those things rolled into a single nine-inning game. Between the Stupid Mets (as my mom likes to call them when they're giving us "agita") and work, I've had about enough excitement for the rest of the year.
We're still sitting on the mag, and I'm not sure when it's going out. The past two days have been this sort of weird limbo, which I should be used to by now. I guess I'm too hopeful that things will be better this time around. I've been wanting to write more, but the thought of getting on the computer outside of work hours for anything other than mindless MySpace surfing is extremely unpleasant.
But today was a good day: my parents celebrated their 31st wedding anniversary; I busted out of work at 4pm; I got to watch TV with my roommates, who I miss and haven't seen in about a month; and LOST and the Project Runway season finale (not that I watch that show) were both pretty awesome. Afterward, me and my roomie watched the last half of 2001: A Space Odyssey, which is my all-time favorite, because she hadn't seen the ending. Everytime I see it, I have a different interpretation, but this time I saw a microcosm and a macrocosm, how infinite questions are impossible to answer by finite beings and how we'll all probably die alone in a room somewhere and never really know the answer to anything, and maybe not even the question. As if I didn't have enough on my mind.
I'm hoping for an early start tomorrow and a productive day, and with any luck, the mag will be done and around 8:30pm Pacific time, I'll get a call from father, giggling like a kid, about how the Mets are going to the Series. Until then, I better get some rest.
PS. If I did watch Project Runway, and I don't, it would probably be for moments like this:
I saw this comedian at Bumbershoot in Seattle. It's a really funny short, and I'm sure someone who reads this will get a big kick out of it, if not some awkward flashbacks. Happy Belated Birthday!!!
It's that time of year again. At least it must be, because the neighborhood be stank. I got back from drinking and Jackass Number Two and emerged from my friends car to be confronted by the overpowering skunk of ripening marijuana inundating my street. I guess it ripens. I don't know if that's the right word. It's not really a fruit I guess. At least not in the traditional sense of the word.
Whatever. My street smells like weed.
I could've sworn that the dudes got busted at some point earlier this year, but you can't keep a good dog down, so they say. I'm happy the wheels of free enterprise keep rolling ever forward, no matter what the oppressive regime tries to do to stop it. All Hail America. It sure makes me want to light up a doobie though. It's been so long since the last time I smoked, I still use the word "doobie."
Jackass Number Two was pretty much the most vile film I've ever seen. It was full of vomit, man ass, pubic hair, ball sacks and dudes getting smashed in the nuts. I couldn't stop laughing. I almost puked once. It was really good, but if I ever see another dude's ass again, it'll be way too soon.
So. The Mets clinched the NLDS in Los Angeles, and I was there. It's something I'll never forget. I was sitting in the left field pavillion, and if you were watching the game, you may have seen me, bravely wearing my Mets jersey in the bleachers, when the Dodgers Jeff Kent hit a two-run homer to tie the game at four. Some guy two seats away from me jumped over an old woman and a newborn baby to catch the ball. I was the only one not celebrating.
Never in my life had I been called so many variations of the word "faggot." In fact, I had no idea there were so many variations of the word "faggot." However, no one seriously threated or tried to kick my ass and all the things that were thrown at me ended up hitting the Dodgers fans I was sitting with. I felt bad. Kinda.
The game was really exciting--too exciting--up until the 7th inning when the Mets pretty much iced it. They jumped out to a 4-0 lead and I was feeling pretty good about that. But then the Dodgers scored two in the fourth and three in the fifth to take the lead. This was the pinnacle of the shit talking being thrown my way, and now that my team was losing, I fired back like a wounded animal. I was hit in the face with beach ball, and told one drunk dude yelling, "New York sucks" at me to keep his fucking eyes on the game because it wasn't over yet. Shawn Green led off the top of the sixth with a double and was driven in by Jose Reyes to tie the game up at five. The Mets tacked on two more in that inning and took a lead that they wouldn't relinquish. They won 9-5. I decided it best not to rub it in people's faces, but I was really excited. After the game, most people were very congratulatory. They said things like "good luck!" and "the Mets deserved it," and I was happy to see that people weren't holding a grudge. Even the guy sitting behind me who kept screaming at me that he'd heard "Mets fans give good head," and "Why don't you come up here and tickle my balls, faggot?!" gave me a congrats when I bumped into him outside the stadium.
Good times.
I just got back from LA, the drive was long and boring, until we got to the Grapevine, which is the mountain range that separates the LA basin from the long, lonely, boring valley. The change in altitude is pretty dramatic. Approaching the Grapevine on I-5 from the north, there's no subtle change in gradient. It's just flat, flat, flat, BOOM big fucking mountain range. Between driving and sleeping, I figured out I'd spent all of 5 minutes in the LA area. At least it was a good five minutes. One day I'll have to go to So Cal and give it a proper visit.
PS: Making the trip even better was that the Yankees were eliminated from the playoffs by the Detroit Tigers on the same day the Mets advanced. Oh, to be in New York and listening to WFAN when that happened. I'm sure it was wonderful.
PPS: The first episode of LOST was fucking UNREAL! Could this be the best season yet? Can't wait til Wednesday.
Tomorrow the Mets embark upon their first playoff campaign in 6 years, and I don't think I've ever been this nervous about a sporting endevor. The last thing I need right now is to become super cranky because my baseball team isn't winning, because I totally will if they don't. Also, We've lost Pedro for the playoffs, now El Duque comes up a big gimpy...it just doesn't look good. I'm trying to keep the faith, though. I'm taking a three-hour lunch to watch the game tomorrow. They can fire me if they need to. And Saturday. ... I make a trip down to LA to see my first Mets playoffs game EVER. Since I'm going, I'll be totally responsible if they don't win. It's a lot of pressure. Wish me luck.
I'm a bit of a LOST fan. And by "a bit" I mean completely, rabidly fucking obsessed. I realize there are better things to be occupied with--world peace, the environment, politics, a meaningful relationship--but those things can wait until May when the season's over.
In honor of LOST's impeding--and no doubt awe-inspiring--third season, which starts Oct. 4th for us here in the States, Ms. Lilly as Kate Austen will serve as this space's official unofficial mascot until my birthday on Nov. 1st or until I get some kind of cease and desist order (highly doubtful, but I'm keeping my fingers crossed). Look at it this way, at least it's not a picture of me, sprawled out on my belly on a sandy shore, wearing naught but well tailored skivvies and offering a coy, come-hither look. And you thought I didn't care.
For some reason, certain songs are popping in my head. I don't own any file sharing software because of my job, and I'm afraid some of the stuff that's on my computer might leak and alert record label bulldogs whose job it is to sniff out such things. Meaning, I won't be able to get free CDs any more. That's why I'm glad there's digital places like YouTube, so I can listen to stuff I don't have readily available whenever I want to.
I went to New York for my friend's wedding, and rest assured I had a good time. I'm also back home safe and sound and didn't die in some horrible plane crash. I also didn't end up on some deserted island, stranded with Evangeline Lilly. I'm stoked about the former, but somewhat bummed about the latter. I'll write a more proper post about my trip, though there's not much to talk about because it was so brief, when I'm more sober. In the mean time, here's some of the soundtrack for my last couple days, in a pleasing audio/visual format.
Hum - "Stars" I had my guitar teacher show my how to play this one. Too bad I don't remember how to do it.
Pharoahe Monch - "Simon Says" This became a favorite of mine more recently. Any song that samples Godzilla's soundtrack and uses the word "titties" is pretty fucking good in my book.
The Thermals - "Pillar of Salt" If the new Thermals album was any better, it'd be illegal in Utah.
Pras ft. Mya and ODB - "Ghetto Supastar" ODB rapping verses + Mya singing the hook = hip-pop gold.
Nirvana - "Drain You" Probably my favorite song ever written (turn your speakers up).
My fantasy baseball season is over. For the second year in a row, I was eliminated in the first round of the playoffs. I thought I had a better shot this year, but all my pitchers decided to crap themselves. None of them consulted me about it. But karma was kind to me. On the same day I was unceremoniously ejected from the playoffs, the New York Mets claimed their spot in the non-fantasy baseball playoffs, beating the Florida Marlins 4-0 and claiming their first NL East title since 1988. I was 11 years old.
My dad called me up right when it happened. I was fixing to eat a bowl of chicken won ton soup at my Chinese family's restaurant. "We did it! We won!" He was shouting and chattering on like a school girl, but I knew what he meant. I ran outside to throw my arms up in the air and shout on the phone. "I'm gonna go eat," I said. "But I guess I'll grab a drink afterward." "Grab a drink!" he shouted. I grabbed four and got home around 10 to watch the highlights on the Internets. I'm still pretty stoked about it, even though it was kind of a foregone conclusion. They had a double digit lead in the standings. It was just a matter of time. But still, being a Mets fan for as long as I could walk and talk, the one thing I know is that if there's a possibility to screw something up, they just might find a way to do it.
Today, I discovered the joys of My Name is Earl, a comedy on NBC starring Jason Lee from Mallrats. He has just about the best moustache ever. I really like the premise--that he's a life long fuck up who hits it big in the lottery and decides to undo every shitty thing he's done in his life. Instead of just throwing money at the problems he's caused, he strives to actually do something about it. It's really fucking funny too. The show also packs two powerful pieces of eye candy in Jamie Pressly and Nadine Velazquez. I used to think Jamie was a big 'ho-bag, which didn't stop me from watching that one Poison Ivy movie she was in over and over again, but I've recently noticed that even if she is a big 'ho-bag, she's a pretty talented one. She's pretty hilarious on the show. Almost as good as that moustache, but a lot easier to look at. Yay, pictures!
Will be on a plane to New York tomorrow evening, and by Thursday I'll be enjoying the fact that I'm in a place where I can get a really good sandwich whenever the fuck I want one. I can taste the chicken parms already.
450 million years ago, there weren't any plants. All life on Earth still resided in the oceans and continents--including the Gondwana supercontinent in the sounthern hemisphere--remained dry and barren. Even plants were just getting around to evolving. This is called the Ordovician period. Evidence of this primordial time can be found here, in the confines of my Never Never Land-style college town home where, on Sundays, the streets are bare and it's impossible to find an open restaurant. At least in the dear old Ordovician, you could wrangle yourself some seafood, if you had a taste for sea scorpion.
I promise to go food shopping when I get back from my friend's wedding in New York, assuming I have the money to do so. I don't want to eat out so much anymore, mostly because I'm bored with my choice of dining establishments and because my stomach can no longer be held hostage by the whims of narrowminded businesspeople who don't realize the foolishness of closing their eateries ON A WEEKEND DAY. I was unable to score two of my favorite sandwiches in town (the wasabi-lime tuna melt and the California chicken) because the establishment that offered the former was closed, and the home of the latter was opened but doesn't serve lunch items on Sunday (which is perhaps even more preposterous). I had to settle for Subway. Later, my dreams of a good sushi dinner were met with another locked door, sending me down the path of a burger and a salad, both of which were quite good. I understand that a person can have worse problems, but please remember it's all relative and since a good meal is just about the only enjoyment I get out of life, I take that shit pretty fucking personally.
When I moved out to California, I was a somewhat slim chap with a thick head of hair. It was my first time living out of my parents house and I was some 3000 miles away in a college town that has a ratio of two nubile young females to every hormone-juiced dude. Of course, as luck would have it, I almost instantly became chubby and bald, which was a big boost to my already flimsy confidence. I joined a gym for a little while with my already-athletic female roommates, and though they were very, very supportive of my efforts, I just couldn't get comfortable working out in front of all those people. I think I went about four or five times before I decided the gym wasn't for me.
Since I don't have a car, I do a lot of walking. I really like walking, and even when I don't have to go to work, I go for walks, either just downtown to grab a video or a bite to eat, or longer walks out to the batting cages or the park. It's good. It keeps me active physically, but it also keeps my mind pretty active, and it could use all the help it can get with all the shitty television shows I watch. Still, and this is embarassing me as I type almost to the level of having someone walk in on you while you're masturbating, I've been feeling the desire to exercise more (I think I'm blushing), but I'd be completely mortified if anyone caught me, so, like masturbating, I do it in my room with the door locked.
It's been going good so far. It's been a whole week. For motivational purposes, I've employed the help of Minna Lessig and Julie Upton, who are fitness gurus of Exercise TV, which is available On Demand. They're in ridiculously good shape, and they're kinda good with the motivation stuff, even though I get really embarassed when Julie asks of Minna and their third female cohort, "Ready girls?" I've only ever followed a workout video once before when my "friend" (you know who you are) asked me to do yoga with her. The instructor was Rodney Yee, no doubt an impressive specimen, but an unnervingly bendy and hairless man who comes up with mindboggling instructions like "strong eyes, soft throat," as he implores you to contort your body into impossible poses. Fuck you, Rodney. I settled on Minna and Julie because I think they're kinda hot, and I foolishly tried to convince myself that since they were "chicks" I'd be able to take whatever they threw at me. Real foolish. I've been in a constant state of sore for days now, but I can't let on because I don't want anyone to know what I've been doing. My biggest fear is that someone will walk in on me mid-crunch or knock on the door because I'm huffing and puffing and I'll have to make up some obvious lie. Maybe I'll just tell them I'm jerking off.
I would have given my left nut if I could've slept through the past three days. I'm not using it for anything anyway.
And I don't know why I buy 24oz tall cans of shitty beer like MGD, which is fine in small doses, but these cans never seem to run out. By the time I get to the end, it's always warm and gross and giving me a splitting headache. I'm persistent though. I'll finish it.
It's fucking still way too hot out and I'm cranky. The other day, someone visiting from the coast told me that she wanted to come up here before the summer ended so she could feel the hot weather, and I wanted to slap her. I wouldn't have, of course, but still. This heat is bound to make a man crazy. Tomorrow, the forecast calls for clouds and low 80s. Friday isn't supposed to get out of the 70s, with more clouds, and I couldn't be happier. If I see the sun again this year, I'll kill myself. And I'll take someone with me.
The weekend after this one, I have to go back to New York again for my friend's wedding. I'm really excited to get the fuck out of town, even though I just got back a few days ago. My parents had to buy me my ticket out, and I haven't been able to get the ticket back yet. I'll get around to it, though. Swear.
I already feel the breeze blowing through the screen windows. I hope I wake up shivering in the morning. I think my pillow is tired of my head sweating all over it. And I hate being woken up by my own perspiration to flip the damn thing so I can go back to sleep.
My grandmother, who's 103, went in to the hospital today to have an operation. I think she needed a tumor removed. I was amazed, to be honest, that she decided to go under the knife at all. She was on pills for the pain when I went home last, and they made her disoriented and loopy. I wasn't sure if she'd make it through. But she did. In fact, it only took about half an hour, and she was sent home the same day. From what I heard, the doctor was stupefied. She's a tiny old Sicilian tank and she makes me realize that I'm probably going to have to get used to the fact that no matter what I do to myself, I'm going to lead a very, very...very long life. I hope I at least get to go to Europe at some point. Or something.
I've been meaning to write about the Bumbershoot/Seattle trip, but I can't think of anything to type. It was a fun trip--maybe one of the funnest weekends I've had. I saw a lot of bands:
The Thermals
A Tribe Called Quest
Kanye West
Blondie
Jeremy Enigk
Of Montreal
Erase Errata
Nouvelle Vague
Atmosphere
The New Pornographers
Spoon
I think that's it. I also went to a comedy show with Mary Lynn Rajskub, who plays Chloe on 24 and Aziz Ansari who I think does some stuff with the Upright Citizen's Brigade and also stars in one of my favorite YouTube clips.
Aziz was great. I thought Mary Lynn was funnier when I saw her on the Tonight Show, but this one dude from LA, by way of Seattle, who opened stole the show, I thought. His name was Nick Thune. I bumped into him (almost literally) on the floor for the Kanye West show as I was trying to find a good spot near the stage. I told him I thought he was funny at the show. He said "Thanks." Later on, I was nearly trampled by Paul Scheer from Best Week Ever as he was making his way through the crowd. It was really packed. I don't think I've ever seen so many people for a concert, except perhaps for the Metallica/Guns N' Roses show I went to when I was 13. Kanye had an entire string section with him. I thought that was pretty neat. I drank Sierra Mist spiked with Jameson and tried to move to the rhythm. I'm glad no one was watching.
I caught Jeremy Enigk (formerly of Sunny Day Real Estate) at a "secret show" on this "secret stage" that was almost exclusively press only. There was a bout 25 - 30 people there, and it was the first show I saw on the last day of the event. It was probably the best one too. I liked Sunny Day's Diary album a lot, but I hadn't really followed his career since. Shit got emo in that room mighty fast. His voice was kinda otherworldly. He sang and shrieked and screamed and basically poured his heart out for 30 minutes. It was beautiful. When it was over, the Seattle radio personality who was hosting the event said, "I usually make it a point not to cry before 6pm. Me and my coworker turned to each other--we were sitting in the front row about 5 feet from the stage--and giggled, "That was awesome..."
The Thermals sounded unbelievably good in the concert hall with the worst acoustics. I sang along with all the songs from the new album to the bewilderment and aural dismay of the teenagers huddled around me. I didn't care. The place was packed, and they killed it. I think my face hurt from smiling so much.
I saw A Tribe Called Quest on Lollapalooza in '94, which was a long time ago, and I was still just about old enough to vote. That makes me want a beer. They were the first group I heard that made me appreciate hip-hop. Bumbershoot '06 was their first show together since '98, and they were a bit rusty to start off, but Tribe's kingpin Q-tip took over. I spent a few songs on the floor, then made it up to the grandstands where a group of friends of my coworker were sitting. I'd smuggled in a backpack full of wine (liquor stores are closed on holidays in Washington)--like five bottles worth--and was able to get them in without incident because I was wearing a photo pass. We passed around empty Pepsi bottles refilled with red or white wine and watched the scene below. For one of Tribe's more popular jams, Phife Dawg asked the crowd to jump and the thousands packed on the floor below did so in unison, which, from our high perch, was pretty fucking awesome looking.
A group of people from where I live came up for the festival that weekend. I didn't really know them, but they were good friends of my coworkers. We all ended up getting along really well and pretty much partied together at Bumbershoot and around Seattle all weekend. They snuck liquor into the booth for us, which kept our magazine spiel enthusiastic. They all flew up, though, me and my two coworkers had to drive--12 hours--there and back. On the way up, we were able to spend a night in Portland, OR, which is kinda like Seattle on a budget. There's also about 800,000 strip clubs. I, of course, have no problem with this, but they must employ every woman in town, because the bars we hit that night were about 90% dudes. This made my two female coworkers/travel companions very happy, but I was somewhat less stoked. That night we all ended up back at this dude's house. Some random who rolled up to us at this one bar that had some weird Star Trek name. They begged me to come, I guess, because they knew the girls weren't going anywhere without me. I said, "I don't care. Whatever they want to do." I was just happy to be drunk in a new city and not at work. We all packed in the car of one of the dude's sister and she drove us all to this really nice apartment that had some ridiculously low rent. I got free beer out of it. The Portlanders were total stoners and smoked pot out of a hookah while they were passing around a glass pipe. Talk about dedication.
We busted out of there after like an hour. I couldn't tell if these people really liked us or not (I'm pretty sure they didn't), but they were awfully hospitable. When we got back to the hotel, the girls offered to pay my way into the strip club across the street from it, because I was stuck hanging out with dudes all night. At first I was gung-ho, then I was apprehensive, because I wasn't sure if I wanted my female colleagues to see me make a fool of myself in the presense of nubile naked women, then I realized I was drunk and they were paying and I just wanted to see titties. We got to the door, but it was locked. I thought the fact that they offered was sweet, though. Instead, we all went to a ridiculously hip diner with ridiculously good food, just down the street. The quickest way to a man's heart...
That'll have to suffice for now. The whole trip felt like some coming of age story or some unreal teenage party movie, except I came of age about 12 years ago and I'm about to turn 30. Any more good times like that, and I might have to admit that my life doesn't suck all that much, and that would really suck.
I had full intention of writing about my Seattle trip tonight, but I went out and got drunk instead. I drank more rum than I have in quite some time and for no particular reason other than the hot bartender with the shoulder tattoo and the low-slung camo pants really knew how to mix her drinks. I'm a sucker for women with shoulder tattoos...and also women who serve me drinks.
It was a fun night that deposited me at the local watering hole, more fucked up than I wanted to be, and later at the shittiest pizza joint in the universe for a barely palatable piece of pepperoni. As I walked home, a cute chubby girl sitting at the town hall fountain asked me how my night went. I threw my arms up in the air and preached about its unerring awesomeness. I asked her how she did, and she said she was sober, but was yelling at all the drunks who passed by. I threw my arms up again and shouted, "Great!" and she told me I was her favorite drunk and that she loved me and that I should call her. And then she said, "No seriously." But I know she wasn't serious cuz she didn't give me her number.
Like I said, it was a fun night. But I'll credit that more to the fact that I didn't do a lick of work all day as opposed to thanking the alcohol. I did, however, do a lot of surfing and fantasy baseball and football checking. I also checked out YouTube, which, through sheer chance, led me to Ms. Reema Sen. I think she's from India, and she's a very beautiful woman. I think so anyway. And I'm assuming she's a pretty big star in her home country, because, hey, why not?
I don't want to discredit Ms. Sen's fame, because I'm sure she had to work her gorgeous ass off to get to where she is today. However--and I hate to say it--she can't dance her way out of a paper bag, and her unhealthy obsession with mustachioed creepy dudes is really unsettling. REALLY. Check out the clips below, but don't say I didn't warn you.
This one will make you wish you were a beach towel...kinda.
This one brings the pain...
Totally unrelated, but this is my favorite thing right now.
I'll admit that I want to fuck Paris Hilton. I'm not happy about it, but that's the way things go. I'm usually attracted to the worst type of people, more specifically, women who are totally wrong for and unattracted to me. I guess the draw is the feeling of accomplishment. If she's perfect for me and likes me, then what's the point? It's one of the many reasons why I'm single, and probably a lot better off that way.
Anyway, Paris Hilton is completely disgusting. She's everything I hate about people wrapped up into one tanned, processed and buffed package. I hate that she's rich, without a conscious and a selfish snob--and that kinda hate gives me a stiffy. (I told you. Gross.)
Recently, a graffiti artist named Banksy doctored up some copies of the Paris Hilton "album" Paris. The copies contain a remix of the album by an artist named "DM" believed to be ridiculously talented producer/DJ Dangermouse. There are 500 of these and they were snuck back into HMV stores in the UK and some of them are going for a ton of loot on eBay.
I suppose doing a thing like this is kinda pointless. In the end, all that's going to happen is give this crappy CD and the person who made it even more publicity than she already has, but I still like the intent behind it. If anyone wants to buy me a copy, I'd gladly trade any one or all of the three legit copies that were sent to me by the record label. I'm sure they all suck.
I'm not dead. Not quite yet, anyway. Back from Seattle where I was preaching my magazine's gospel at Bumbershoot. Yes, It was a lot of fun. I'm sure there are stories to tell, but we had to drive 12 hours to get back home today and I'm pretty tired. I just want to drink some Guinness and fall asleep. Tomorrow, we'll talk.
It's funny that I'm writing this at 4:20 am. You'll see why later. If you're cool. Are you cool, man?
I just put the finishing touches on some information I've been putting together for my mother. She called me up last week and spoke in that grave mother voice she always does. "I need you to do something for me." Like it was the most dire thing in the world.
"What mom?"
"I need you to get on the computer and find out everything you can about an actor named John Lund."
"Uh. Everything?"
"I want to know where he's buried."
"What?!"
"Would you just do it?!" She was kidding about the buried thing. I think. She likes to throw things in there like that to make sure I'm paying attention to her. I think she thinks that you can type anything into a Web browser and instantly find the answer to any question, but as we all know, unless you're looking for porn, that's not the case. John Lund--I couldn't find a picture--had his heyday in the '40s, was retired by the '60s and died in 1992. He's not well known, but he did work a lot, and he starred with some really famous people like Frank Sinatra and Grace Kelly. Aside from IMDB.com and Allmovieguide.com, I really couldn't find much, though I did find an abstract of his obit from the New York Times. It would have cost me to read the whole thing, but apparently, he died from unknown causes, though he had a history of heart problems. He was 81 and, from what I found, married to the same woman for 50 years up until the time of his death. All in all, seemed like a pretty good life.
Since I couldn't find much outside of IMDB, I spent a good portion of time typing the names of his films into Amazon.com to see if any of them where available on DVD. I think about six were. I'll mail the info out tomorrow, and I hope that she'll be stoked.
My mom has a long list of celebrity obsessions. She once found out the number of the hotel room Gordon McRae (the guy who starred in Oklahoma) was staying at when he was in New York and called it. I asked her if she realized that they call that "stalking" now, but she said there was nothing wrong with that back then. I'll have to take her word for it.
And I wonder where I get it from. As I was looking up info on Mr. Lund, I split time reading up on Mary-Louise Parker, an actress I'm very familiar with, but who I only just realized is completely badical. I think I only just realized because I spent the three hours prior to my Web search watching the first disc of the first season of Weeds, which, as it turns out, is a fucking great show and stars Ms. Parker as a well-to-do, widowed, 40-something pot dealer--pretty much my perfect woman. If anyone knows of such a woman, please have her comment here. I haven't smoked weed in many, many years, but it could never hurt to start again. I actually got in a conversation recently where at I first I was kidding--and then became somewhat serious--that I could help out my woeful financial situation if I just sold a little weed on the side. But I think I'd be the world's worst drug dealer, and I wouldn't want to cut in on the action of the dude's living down the block.
Because I keep a blog, I feel as though I'm obligated to mention Snakes on a Plane. I saw it this evening, and it was very entertaining, but I thought it ran a little too long.
Now that that's out of the way, I'd like to bid a fond farewell to Pluto, the little planet that could. Anyone who's a fan of movies like Rudy surely had a soft spot in his or her heart for Pluto, the scrawny little bundle of ice and rock that was believed to be a planet. Today, the International Astronomical Union met in Prague and unceremoniously stripped Pluto of its planet-ship. For the past 76 years (that's earth years. It takes Pluto 246 earth years to circle the sun so, if you look at it that way, Pluto has only been in our solar system for about one or two Pluto seasons), Pluto served as our most distant, icy neighor. A wonderful magical place no doubt inhabited by buxom elven women riding dragons (but I'd like to think every place is inhabited by such things). In this humorous article from Seattlepi.com, the writer commemorates the announcemen with an obituary. But really, if you think about it, Pluto didn't die. It's still there; we're just not "hanging out" with it any more. In short, Pluto got dumped, kicked to the curb, treated like a two bit 'ho.
And why? I'm sure there's some scientific mumbo jumbo to explain why we told Pluto, "It's not you, it's us," but since it's a planet, I figure a better answer could be found in the stars. Astronomers can brag about all the charts and equations they want to, but really, none of them have ever left this planet, so they're just guestimating anyway. Astrologers on the other hand tap into something much more universal: the desire to take vague, meaningless sentiments and shape them however best suits what we want to hear (in a whimsical, cosmic manner, of course). So, here's how this equation works. Since I'm just a stupid human who can't keep his own meager finances in check, let alone plot the course of celestial bodies 80 bajillion miles away from my stupid college town home, I will set Pluto's birthday at Febuary 18, 1930, which was the day it was discovered by Clyde W. Tombaugh. This means Pluto is an Aquarius.
According to Daily-Horoscopes.com, this is what Pluto has in store for Friday, August 25, 2006:
You'll feel that things are really going your way now. Others recognize your talents and potentials. You reach your goal and your charm opens new doors for you. Temper over-optimism and extravagance so you are taken seriously.
And there you have it. Optimism. Pluto was too optimistic. Maybe it thought that being one of our planets was just swell, maybe it pined for Neptune and told its moon Ceres that one day, if it kept circling that big yellow ball of gas that Neptune would figure out how special it was. Sorry Pluto. Better revolve elsewhere.
Just to start off with an aside, I have Photoshop CS thanks to a connection of mine but I haven't gotten around to installing it yet. I made the dandy graphic you see above with the janky but dependable Microsoft Photo Editor. That's my level of skillz. Recognize.
Looking at the graphic, you'll notice a malificent being with horns and fangs on the left, and on the right a plate of a meat-like substance that looks kinda like Fancy Feast cat food. Without gravy. Let's call the horned chap Satan, Lord of the Bottomless Abyss, because that's his name, and the plate of lumps on the right Seitan, because that's what it's called. I pronounce them both the same way because it's funnier that way and inspires me to make stupid graphics in Microsoft Photo Editor for my stupid blog. Everyone has their "kink" or so I'm told. This graphical device is once again stolen from Steve. It's just so damn effective, and I'm so damn drunk--well not really, but I'm pretending to be--that I can't think of anything better.
I guess if you have to explain a joke it no longer becomes funny.
It's been a shitty couple of weeks. I'm not going to lie. I'm officially sick of it, too--completely had it. The only thing that's kept me going is depressing and disturbing movies. I'm totally fucking broke, really fucking bored and good meals have been few and far between. I like to eat. It's one of my life's great joys. So far, I haven't found anything on this planet as good as a warm plate of cheese ravioli when the sauce is made just right. But I've had to go without such luxuries as grocery shopping and rely on free meals at weddings and bars that'll take my beer stamps for food. Tonight when I got home to break into a six-pack I'd liberated from the office and plunge into my fantasy football draft, my roommate emerged from her room and told me she was going to cook dinner. She's a vegetarian, the kind soul, and she confessed she wasn't much of a cook. She returned from the hippie supermarket with a bundle of items she meant to fashion into curry. I love me some Thai food or any free food for that matter, so when she offered, I didn't hesitate to belly up.
She used mushrooms, red peppers, broccoli, long grain rice, coconut milk, some kind of curry paste and a peculiar meat substitute called "Seitan." The curry was really spicy; my other roommate, her boyfriend, added some extra paste, but damn was it tasty.
I'm really carnivorous. I find it hard to consider any meal anything more than a snack if there's not some kind of carcass involved. I know this means I'm living on borrowed time, but I'm not keen on the idea of living much longer than I have to anyway. But this seitan stuff was truly a beguiling substance. I've had all sorts of soy "meat" before, but I think seitan was the closest in texture to actual dead animal. It tasted, as you would expect, like chicken, only if the chicken in question was kinda flavorless.
After the meal, and before we went out, we watched Criss Angel Mind Freak on A&E (it's kinda funny that there was a time when the Arts & Entertainment channel actually had arty stuff, but is now pretty much all dopey reality shows). Criss is a magician/daredevil, and, if you couldn't tell by the photo, is kind of a douchebag. But, for whatever reason, whenever I watch his dumb show, I always end up going from thinking, "This guy is a complete douchebag," to, "Whoa, dude, how did he...WHOA!" I guess I'm kind of a douchebag too. On this episode, he tried to suspend himself via FLESH HOOKS from a heliocopter, which, if you think about it, isn't really some crazy slight of hand, mind freaky illusion type thing, but I'm sure it's something you can parlay into getting yourself laid.
Afterwards, I caught a ride downtown where I bar hopped and got some valuable vitamin B and a healthy buzz via pints of Guinness (no, seriously, it's why the Irish rock) and returned home, quickly, because seitan was having his way with my bowels. Good thing we have a plunger.
There's a spot on the left side of my nose that's a little raw. It hurts when I poke it. Of course, I can't keep my finger off it. There's no bump I can discern, though it does seem a bit red. I think it may be a bit of a sunburn from the wedding I went to on Saturday. It was nice, casual, an outdoor affair, but the sun was a muthafucka. Luckily for me, I don't really burn like most people. I keep a constant shade of pale. But I like to think that consistancy is important.
This weekend was sort of rocky overall. I partied on Friday, had a rent a car to drive up to the wedding on Saturday, realized I was out of money in my checking account, maxed out my credit card and had about $30 left in my savings account. I don't even know why I started that fucking thing in the first place. Today I went into forebearance on one of my student loans, again, in hopes that in six months' time, I'll be in a better place financially--only to be put back in the same shitty rut. I scrapped together change on Sunday so I could buy a burrito from the liquor store window and took a 6-mile walk around the park. I walked first, though, then I had the burrito. Today I took the day off, but I ended up working from home, writing e-mails and arranging things for a meeting on Wednesday. I waited and waited to get the okay to come in and get my pay check, but it never came. I walked down to the office at a quarter to five, and it still wasn't there. I still hadn't eaten. I ended up stuffing bags for the college's information fair tomorrow before I got paid around 6. I deposited the check and took money out for Chinese. I ordered the "house special" chicken, which was served with mushrooms and zucchini squash (or something that looked like zucchini) in a spicy garlic sauce; the BBQ pork with mixed vegetables; and steamed rice. And I have plenty of leftovers. My fortune read: "Good humor is the health of the soul, sadness it's poison." I don't know what that makes feeling sorry for yourself. My lucky numbers are 7, 15, 23, 35, 43 and the supplementary 19.
When I got home, I watched part one of the Spike Lee Hurricane Katrina documentary, When the Levees Broke, because I guess I didn't feel shitty enough. It's really harrowing to watch, and it got me pretty worked up. Obviously, this isn't something that affected me personally, but I don't think any one could catch even the glimpse presented in this film of what those people went through and not be moved by it. I could parlay that into a big political argument, but as much as bureaucracy played a part in the bullshit that followed in the wake of the hurricane, people left to die in the streets isn't about politics. At least it shouldn't be.
Over the weekend, I also caught Brick, a film noir-style mystery with characters that were high school-aged. It was a lot better than it sounds. And I also saw Woody Allan's Match Point, which was excellent, but also very creepy in the same sort of way Eyes Wide Shut was. I don't like all of Woody Allan's work, but when I do, I really do, and that was the case with Match Point. Plus, Allan wasn't in it, so I didn't have to sit through that squirmy-stuttery thing he does. Scarlett Johannson was really good in it too, and no, I'm not just saying that.
But even if I was, I probably wouldn't admit to it.
The best thing about this time of year, other than the friends and family and whatnot, is that tons of little breweries put out bad ass beers. Winter seasonals comprise some of my favorite beers. They're really spicy, and they're almost always really strong. Last year, I wrote at length about the benefits of Anchor Steam's "Our Special Ale" or Anchor Christmas for short. They switch up the recipe every year, and I'm happy to say, after the past couple weeks of extensive testing, they've once again hit a home run.
Coming in as a close, but devastating second is Brown Shugga by Lagunitas. Not only is this one tasty, but it's a hefty 9.9% alcohol by volume. I usually sip one during the course of a night, in front of my television, and fall into blissful sleep. Tonight, I downed two of them and capped them off with an Anchor Christmas. I could go for a good 12-hour nap. But instead, I'm typing this and wondering what train hit me.
