diversion tactics

I'm pretty much over writing right now, but this is about the funniest thing I've seen in a while. But that's because I'm a complete Final Fantasy NERD. Other cool things that happened today was the Mets swept the Braves in Atlanta and I ate octopus at a sushi bar. It was really tasty. The sushi chef rolled it with onions, cilantro and this sauce he made to taste like kimchee pickles. He said that it was a Korean thing. Right now, I seem to be linked, inexplicably, with cephalopods. I kinda want a pet cuttlefish. So I can EAT IT.

princess calamari

Tomorrow morning, around 7am, because that's when I shoot out of bed when I've been drinking--all sweaty and miserable and burdened by a serious case of the shits--I'll wonder why I needed to drink those rum and sevens so fast. Moreso, I'll wonder why I felt the need to walk 10 blocks for the worst pizza in the universe. But for right now, I'm actually happy I went out.

This publicist convinced me to go check out this band. Not that I needed much convincing, but today was a shitty day. I felt grumpy and gassy and I really wanted to kill someone--really, anyone who had a question for me. I rolled in around noon after spending the morning on the phone with the IRS, and I'm sick of being broke and having to explain that to the government. I owe them $250 still for unpaid taxes for 2004. I owed over $1000 that year because I was an "independent contractor" at the time. In my lifetime, I've never once received a single paycheck for that much money.

By 2pm, I knew I'd have to go out tonight. The publicist really wanted me to see this band. She put me on the list, which felt weird because the venue is about three blocks from my house. They're called Giant Squid, and they're from Austin, TX. She sent me to their MySpace page, and I liked what I heard, enough to get me out of the house. Of course, I was only at the house for about 10 minutes. I got home from work at 9:30. Microwaved some pasta and tomato sauce I'd made on Sunday, and headed right out, pretty much. My roommates were astonished to see me. I was astonished that the front porch had been washed clean of spider webs and other refuse. My roommate A said he'd done it a week ago. I love my house. But that might be because my time here is so rare.

Giant Squid was so good they reminded me why I do what I do. There are so many bands so many people will never get a chance to hear, and some of them actually don't suck (but an overwhelming majority of them do). I have the opportunity to hear just about all of them, but unfortunately, I almost never have the time. Giant Squid is fronted by a husband/wife duo and they play really mind altering rock music. The two of them sound great together, but the guitars needed to be louder. They were giving away a free CD with a song or two on it, but I didn't take it because the full-length will be at my desk in a couple days. Instead, I bought a shirt, because I'd gotten in for free, and I didn't want to be greedy. I wouldn't know from experience, but it's got to be a tough hustle to be on the road in a van, playing shows in shitty towns like this one when no one knows who the fuck you are. And nevermind the price of gas. the shirt is pretty awesome. It's got a squid on it and a funky design. I love squids, though I'd never want to be eaten by one. The wife handed me a free sticker with my T-shirt. Way to make me feel guilty.

the trooper

Obviously, Iron Maiden is one of the best bands ever. And as if they're rocking wasn't enough, Bruce Dickinson just proved further his superiority by airlifting 200 people out of Beirut. Seriously. You don't see Justin Timberlake doing that. Check it out!

i'm melting

MySpace is having some issues right now. Something about a power outage and their database going kaput. Maybe it's the terrorists (!!!). It doesn't matter what it is, though, all it's doing is keeping me away from my late night MySpace-ing rituals, which really just consist of various levels of Internet stalking. Last week, I left a drunk comment on a publicist's page--nothing weird. She asked me if I was drunk when I left it, and I said, "Yeah," and she said that the fact that I left it at 2:30am was her first clue. Snap! I told her I did a lot of drunk commenting that night, and I'm not really proud of that. I had a couple drinks tonight--a whiskey and a Guinness--but I'm far from drunk.

When MySpace is down, it puts up a little Flash-based Pac-Man game, which I play to remind myself that I was never any good at Pac-Man. Though, tonight, I got 24,000 in one game. That was nice.

Meanwhile, it's still way too fucking hot. I spoke with my parents over the phone on my porch at about 6pm and just sitting there talking got me greasy sweaty. It was gross. I'm not very happy with this town right now. I ended up making pasta, then went down town around 10pm for ice cream. I had a sundae with rocky road. On the roundabout walk home, I bumped into a co-worker and a bass player and that's where the whiskey and Guinness came into play. The bass player bought the whiskey, because I wouldn't do that to myself voluntarily. Later at the same bar, I ordered a water for the walk home and I ended up speaking with another coworker and her boyfriend. We chatted about Crater Lake in Oregon, which I've only seen from outside a plane window. But it looks fucking amazing. I really need to go on vacation.

why i'm not a millionaire

I get a lot of spam e-mail in my work inbox. I know. You think you do, but really, you don't. It's ridiculous. Most of them are about how small my penis is (I guess word got out) and how their pills will make me a wonderful lover (nevermind that I can't stand people touching me) or offers for cheap software. Occasionally, African royalty will reach out to me, looking for my help. I delete hundreds of e-mails a day. It gives me something to do when I should be working. But today I got one for the most ingenuous idea ever. Live. Nude. Casino.

GrandNevada.com is a little Web site with a big dream. I'm not sure what the dream is, but I assume that it's to separate dumb dudes like me from large sums of their money in a quick and painless manner. Gambling sites are becoming quite the fad, but GrandNevada.com pushes the envelop by providing video of live nude girls as dealers. What it boils down to is strip tease and gambling rolled into one and blessed with the anonymity of the Internet. If only I'd thought of it first.

Really, that's all I have to say about that. I had two Manhattans at the neighborhood bar and they made me pretty sleepy. I watched a lot of shitty TV today including and Rock Star Supernova and America's Got Talent, and I realized that every show on network and free cable channels are variations of Star Search. The only cool things about Rock Star--besides that it sucks--is that Brooke Burke (my penis pretty much demands that we watch whatever show she's involved with) refers to all the contestants as "the Rockers," every other word out of everyone's mouth is either "dude" or "bro" (and today I heard the greatest sentence of all time, "Dude, bro."), and Zayra, the Bjork-ish "Rocker" who dreams of fronting a band starring Jason Newstead, Gilby Clarke and Tommy Lee. Supernova indeed. She's my hero. Also, some guy, I don't remember who, really needs to stop singing Nirvana songs. Please. His version of "Heart Shaped Box" made me spin in my grave. And I'm not dead.

burning, man

Yeah, so I just checked my local 10-day forecast on weather.com, and the coolest day will be 101 degrees. Farrenheit, in case you're out of town. My math may be off, but I think that's 450 degrees Celsius. Oh, and the 101? that's 10 days away. The publicists I work with in LA have said the same thing every day for the past week: "It must be really hot for you guys, huh?"

Yeah. Real hot.

Jesus hates the Valley, I think, and I can't say that I blame him.

The hottest day? In case you were wondering. 111. That's degrees. It's almost as much as my paycheck (well not really, but I'm batty from the heat). I get that on Thursday when it's a mild 106.

twice the everything

I've been bothered by dizzy spells lately, and I'm not sure where they're coming from. They usually hit me when I'm in bed and have just woken up. They're not happening often enough to really freak me out, though today, I got a small one when crouched down in front of the dishwasher. My mom said I should get it checked out, because she always does, but in this case, I think I will. I need a check up anyway.

I've been working myself hard, too. I'm getting frustrated and restless, though I've been getting along really well with my roommates. Our new roomie just moved in tonight, and I hope she works out. She seems nice enough, though. Either way, it's better than having to move again. I don't think I would have been able to take that. I probably would have just hopped a bus to Alaska and been done with it.

Anyway, I was supposed to be working tonight, too, but since there was commotion with B moving in, I decided to take it easy and watch TV. I'd gotten Underworld Evolution from Netflix over the weekend, but hadn't had a chance to watch it. I just finished it up, and I was pleased, because it was fucking awesome. They really didn't fuck around with this one. It picked up where the last one left off and there were like 45 decapitations in the first five minutes. Then there was a brief amount of dialog, then more decapitations, then a fucking bad ass truck chase sequence and then a sex scene in slow motion where The Beckinsale totally flashed side boob and arched her back for some navel closeups. It was sweet, though, I have to say, the nookie lasted for an exorbinant amount of time--in slow motion. About halfway through, I thought to myself, "Wow. They're still doing it." And then it kept on going, and going. Maybe it just seemed like forever because my new roommate was watching from the couch across the room, and I wondered if I was making a bad first impression. I mean, I had no idea...and I didn't direct it--Kate's husband did. I mean, if it were me behind the camera, I probably would have said, "Dude. That's my fucking wife, dude." But I'm not a professional or nothing.

In all, I think the packed about four hours worth of gore, tits, sex, fighting, vampires, werewolves, explosions, decapitations and British actors in about 1:40 of runtime. For that alone, they deserve applause.

so here's your future

A few nights back, I was at the laundromat. I got a ride there and the only other person there was a short thin-ish man with white hair. He looked young, though, maybe a few years older than me. I set to my task of washing my clothes because that's what one does when in a laundromat, but before I'd finished adding the detergent, the man (we'll call him Skip) started talking.

I guess he was speaking to me because I was the only other person there, but he spoke as if we'd already been engaged in conversation for a good ten minutes.

"Yeah, this one time I was driving this Camaro down..." He said quickly. His voice went in and out of a mumble so I could only pick up certain things here and there. The gist of it was, at least for this first story, he'd been speeding and was able to talk his way out of the ticket by relating to the officer that he was pretty fucked up and only kept driving only because he didn't realize the cop was behind him.

He told other stories too, one of which involved smoking crank in the parking lot of a 7-Eleven, but all of them involved the cops or drugs or being in lock up or both. And he just kept going. Like we were the best of friends.

I stood across the row of washing machines from him as he spoke. I was interested, but also wondered where this was leading. Would I end up stabbed? Would he ask me for money? Would he try to take my clothes from the drier when my back was turned? Nope. He just wanted to talk. Not to me, I don't think, but I was there and that was good enough. I got his life story in about 24 minutes, at least from when he started getting in trouble with the law until now, clean and sober, and living, as far as I could tell, in a house that used to be abandoned. He told me how he learned how to play piano in the joint using a piece of cardboard with a keyboard drawn on it. He told me a lot of other stuff too, but it was all blurred together because he was a mumbler. At the end of the one-sided conversation, he gathered up his clothes and asked me, "So what do you do?" I told him and he asked if he'd seen any of my stuff. I told him that I mostly work for our national newstand magazine now, which sounds a lot more glamorous than it actually is. He hopped on his bike and paused before he left. He said goodbye, repeated my name and said "I get the feeling I'll be seeing you in the paper real soon." Which totally creeped me the fuck out.

But wouldn't you know? I had the cover story the very next week. And it wasn't even because I was brutally stabbed and left for dead.

viva italia

On Sunday morning, I was cramped into a loud tiny bar for the World Cup final. I drank a beer-mosa (the white trash version of a mimosa consisting of light beer and orange juice--it's a lot better than it sounds), jumped, sang, cheered, cursed and got knocked in the face by an errant inflatable soccer ball. I think everyone in town was there, including the hottest waitress with the best legs ever. But even better than that, Italy won the match, and afterwards, we ended up next door at a friend's Italian restaurant--he's a natural born Italian--for a pretty loud celebration. It was such an exciting game and I think I shook like a leaf for the last 30 minutes. But the Cup was great overall this year, I thought, despite all the drama. There was great goals, better acting and a really vicious headbutt. I can't wait for 2010. Even though by then I'll be REALLY old.

I drank champagne, beer, rum and a shot of Jagermeister. All that and the hot weather was making me woozy. My shirt was drenched and I generally felt like a human sponge, albeit a happy one. But I was a tired sponge too, so around 3pm, I decided to walk home. It was probably 200 degrees and I went from sponge to liquid form rather quickly. My sweat, I'm sure, ran about 80 proof. But I made it home--air conditioned bliss--and passed out on the couch.

It was nice to have such a fun and relaxing day, because I had to use the memory of that to get me through today. Work has been very troubling and way too much for me to handle lately. There's too much for me to keep track of. Too many projects to flesh out and stories to write. There was some good stuff, though. I watched David Wright advance to the finals in the Homerun Derby and came home for lunch and watched a couple episodes of Entourage. I hope the people in Italy are still drunk, partying and conceiving children that they'll name after members of their 2006 World Cup team. At least then I can live vicariously.

taylor 30

I met my new roommate today. She was a cute, wide-eyed girl, probably a lot younger than I am. I think she's a passing acquaintance of my current roomies, but that's fine by us. None of us want to move, and we're happy that we were able to find someone, anyone, to put that off for at least another few months. I showed up at her place of employment to introduce myself and asked the girl behind the counter for her by name. The girl's brown eyes got wide. She paused. Then she said, "That's me..." I explained who I was and she took a deep breath. I liked her right away, though I'm positive she shouldn't be the one in charge of our energy bill.

Afterwards, I walked toward home happy, but I was distracted by one of downtown's only exclusive restaurants. I'd never eaten there, though I'd been there for drinks a couple times. I sauntered in, T-shirt and shorts, but they informed me that my attire was fine. The bow-tied waitress asked me if I'd like a table, and I said I'd be fine sitting at the bar. I ordered the cheapest thing I could fine, shrimp scampi and wild rice, though that was still about 20 bucks. I also got a Manhattan, with Crown Royal whisky. I got bread and salad with my meal, which was nice considering the scampi was only five pieces of shrimp (albeit of the jumbo variety, or "prawns" as they call them out here). It was all very tasty. Especially the salad. And when I was done with my meal, the waitress asked me if I'd like to see the dessert menu. I said that I wouldn't but would like to know what is good for an after dinner drink. This was an expensive restaurant, and the waiters and waitresses are supposed to know that kind of shit.

I felt like treating myself because I've been having a shitty time of it lately. I'm overwhelmed by work. I feel like I'm drowning.

She said they had a nice selection of port, and that pleased me. I love port. It's sweet and strong and gets me wasted. It also tastes good with chocolate, as I found out one day. I asked her what they had, then realizing that would do me good--because I have no knowledge of such things--I asked her what was good. She answered immediately, "Taylor's 30." I shot back even faster, "Sounds fucking good to me!" But I left out the "fucking."

Soon, the tiny stemmed glass was in front of me, filled almost to the mouth with port. I sniffed it and knew instantly that it was expensive. I took a small sip. "How is it?" she asked. I gushed, "It tastes like maple syrup!" It did. It was amazing. The check came. A glass of Taylor's 30, as it turned out, was more expensive than my entree by one dollar--$18 a glass. I sipped that fucker slow, through three innings of the Giants/Dodgers game. Some rich fuck and his bitch girlfriend sitting next to me started complaining about the price of their mochitos. "They're usually $7," she whined. But the waitress explained they got the best rum in the house--a bottle placed on a glowing blue pedistal. I wanted to scream at them for being snobby, pretentious, cheap mother fuckers who didn't know how good they had it. But the sun was still up. The portions were small, and half a glass into my port and all I could do was stare at the bottle of Grey Goose on the shelves in front of me and read the labels like they were sonnets.

old friend

While I was home, I had a dream. (I don't like posting these, but this one stuck.):

I remember being ready to go and meet up with a relative, a cousin who babysat for me many times as I was growing up and took me and my sister to Coney Island on a few occasions. Later, when I became older, we smoked pot together and played Scrabble. She was very important in my life, but a feud has broken out between her side of the family and mine. The feud revolved around my grandmother's 100th birthday. I'm not sure what most of the drama was about. We're Sicilian and even if guns aren't being fired, vendettas are very real. I was already living in California when the shit went down, so I've been excluded by much of the bad sentiment. Clearly, I back my mom, sister and father, but since I'm so far removed from everything and only see everyone once in a while, I've been placed in a position of neutrality.

Where I was going to meet up with my cousin was sort of a mix between here (California) and there (New York) but it looked more like here than there. A very specific block here, actually, where there's a concert venue. I was to meet her in the apartments upstairs from there, which I've only been to once or twice. I was going to take my dog with me to meet her, but instead of taking my current dog, I decided to take my old one--a beloved member of the family who my grandmother always honors with a sign of the cross when his name is brought up--instead. He walked ahead of me like a guide.

I spoke with my cousin for a bit and told her my dog was happy to see her. I saw him wagging his tail. I told her this, and he licked her hand. I asked her if she could see him, but she said she couldn't. I think I mentioned that that was because he had died.

It was a good dream at the time, but thinking about it now makes me kinda sad.