[insert song title referring to california here]

I feel that I've done all I can in California, because on Friday, I learned how to Frisbee golf (or disc golf, or, as I like to call it, Frolf, which sounds sort of sounds like a hobbit). You wind through the forest and drink beer (or smoke weed if you're so inclined) and toss discs at little poles with baskets on them. Exactly the sort of things hobbits would do. It was a blast, even though it was really hot. Like really hot.

Last night was my last night in the state as a resident, though I've kinda been homeless for the past week or so. We went to some oonch oonch yuppie party at a local hotel. We had $400 in free booze. I got obliterated. The bartender had spectacular cleavage, and there was a bongo player and a fashion show. I missed the fire dancers in lieu of getting booze, but the go-go dancers were tearing it up inside. Well, one was; she really knew how to shake it. The other one was kind of bland. Thumbs down, go-go girl. Anyway, the good thing about drinking Jameson all night (and I mean all night) is that I never wake up with a hangover, though sometimes it makes me act and speak in a way that's unbecoming of an upstanding gentleman. I think I did OK last night. I looked that bartender in the eye and everything.

Thanks for seven good years, California.

we almost kinda coulda had san diego

This past weekend was San Diego Comic-Con, aka the Most Wonderful Time of the Year. It's the only time people who look like me get to mingle with one another, share our nerddom and also mingle with those who are much more physically attractive than ourselves, and the only time those people have to acknowledge us.

I didn't get to go to Comic-Con this year, though I did send a writer. I really wanted to go. I asked my boss. Last year, when they didn't send me, they said that they'd made a mistake and that I would definitely go this year. Instead, I came into the office and helped an intern move, and as a result, I missed my Rendezvous with Alba.

I can already see how it would've went. I would've been perusing long boxes for Zatanna memorabilia and copies of "Kraven's Last Hunt," the greatest Spider-man story ever told (I already have it of course in single issue form, but they're in New York, and it would be nice to have some extra copies--just in case). Maybe she would be looking for issues of Sin City to bone up on her Nancy Callahan character for the sequel, or perhaps her involvement in the comic book movie world would have sparked her interest in sequential art and she would be looking to expand her comic book horizons.

Our quiet searches would've caused us to accidentally bump into one another. "Oh! I'm sorry!" she would've said. I would've gotten sweaty in response. In my haste to shield myself from her overpowering sexy lasers (its' been a long weekend), I would've stammered something illegible and tried to move away, but she'd have labeled me a savvy comics vet because of my Sandman hat, pants and T-shirt and would've asked, "Are these any good?" She would've been holding a couple copies of Love and Rockets and I would've heard cello music.

From there, we'd grab a pick bite to eat so she could "pick my brain about comics." I'd suggest Al Aqua 2 just a few blocks away. I'd tell her that I'd eaten there the last time I was at Comic-Con in 2005, and I thought it was great. We'd head over there in her Prius. I'd order some sort of fish thing. ...I haven't really thought about what she'd get. Then she'd put it on her Amex card and I'd give a big sigh of relief, because that shit was fucking expensive. On the way back, the conversation would turn to other things: work, stress, Icanhascheezburger, you know, the important things. She'd tell me she just became single and was hoping to get her mind off things. I would've silently cursed the false claims of my "all day dry" antiperspirant.

Of course, upon our return to the convention center, reality--or as reality as the Comic-Con would get--would soon set in. Her pocket PC would've been raging with messages and she'd say something like, "I almost forgot about that press junket," or, "I can't believe I have to take that photo op with Dain Cook. He's such a tool," or, "I have to meet up with my manager so we can catch our plane out in a few hours." Or something like that. We'd wave and say it was nice to meet you, and I'd become just another balding 30-something fat-ish man in the Comic-Con crowd. Back where I belong, with my brethren. If I'd gone to San Diego.

more flies with honey, i guess...

Earlier in the month, I decided, since I would no longer have cable, to subscribe to just about any YouTube channel that interested me in hopes that I would be getting the Internets back soon. One day at work, I was surfing the 'Tube for meatier stuff, newsy stuff, since I wouldn't any longer have access to The Daily Show. One of the featured videos that day was a beautiful, intelligent woman with a clipped accent and deep, dark eyes who implored viewers to leave comments and video responses for something. It didn't really matter what. I clicked subscribe. Turns out it was Ghida Fahkry and she's a news presenter for Al Jazeera English. I can listen to her say the world "English" all day. Also turns out that the channel has some really interesting stuff about places I'll probably never go to and people I don't really understand. Unfortunately, they haven't posted any more of Ghida other than the above thank you. Instead, there are actual news items that bum me out like this:

eye candy

Since I saw the first trailer, I was pretty amped up about the Transformers movie. I figured it'd be either one of the coolest action movies ever made or the worst piece of shit since the American remake of Godzilla. Over the past few months, my expectations wavered across the spectrum. But I was crazy about the toys and cartoons when I was a kid, and my love for nostalgia is just too strong. I just got back from Transformers, and I think I'm still a bit shaken up. I'm not trying to say that this was a remarkable piece of cinema that will change the way you feel about life. I mean, it might. And if it does that to you, I'm sorry; but what I am saying is that the last half hour or so left me rather shaken and in a paralyzing state of awe.

If you took a shot for every explosion in this movie, you'd die of alcohol poisoning before the second act. There was a scene where the lead character's father takes him to a used car lot to buy his first car, and even then there's an explosion. And if things weren't exploding, there were car chases, but those scenes usually just led to more explosions. I think in years to come, people who have seen the movie in theaters will end up being diagnosed with some kind of disorder like Post-Transformers Stress Syndrome or something like that. Symptoms include loss of hearing, chills and involuntary trembling.

Honestly, it was really good. It was pretty much the perfect summer blockbuster. The dialogue was triumphantly cheesy, Shia LeBeouf was kinda funny, Megan Fox held down the Sexy and the story moved right along very crisply. Even John Turturro was hilarious in a small role. I won't go into the story, because it was pretty basic. I mean, if you couldn't figure out what was going on from the trailers, you're beyond my help. All you need to know is that these robots pack a serious ass-whoopin'. A few years ago, computer animation had ceased to impress me, but the Lord of the Rings trilogy seemed to take all that shit to the next level. Though the third Spider-Man movie was a bit disappointing, I thought the computer effects were the best I'd ever seen. Transformers raised the bar even higher, because not only did the robots look amazing and interacted seamlessly with the human characters, but they also had a lot of personality which really sold the film.

My favorite was Bumblebee, because he was my favorite as a kid. I remember having the toy and transforming him so much that one of his legs fell off, but I wouldn't stop playing with him, I just had to stand him very carefully and keep him in car mode a lot. In the movie, Bumblebee's an old Camaro instead of a VW Bug, but the effect is still the same. He's still the little Transformer that could. He gets captured, he gets his ass kicked, but the little guy has a lot of heart and just keeps going out there, fighting the good fight. I mean, I suppose that could be considered just plain stupid, but "heroic" has a much nicer ring to it.

our friend, meg white

I've spent just about all the work long day listening to the new White Stripes album, Icky Thump, and except for one song, I'm thoroughly pleased. Elephant ruled, the one after that I was pretty eh about, but this one may even be better with than the former, which kinda caused me to fall in love with The White Stripes, and also, Meg, who has been bestowed with the best ta-tas in rock.



I'm tired of hearing smarmy indie rock nerds scoff at the group because they make simple music and say that Meg's a shitty drummer. First off, it's rock music, and you don't have to be Bernard Purdy to make rock music. It's all in 4-4 time. All you've gotta do is look cool and keep the beat, and she does both of those things just fine. The new album's the rock, so if you're lame enough to think music should be fun, you'll probably like it. If not, put on some more of your boring ass Tortise albums and watch your fingernails grow.

domesticated

There was a dusty cobweb hovering over my head as I watched Barbarians II in bed this morning. Yesterday, my roommates' room was open and I saw how nicely neat it was. I switched over to the Food Network and caught Nigella Bites. All of these things (even the barbarians) inspired me to clean my room. I threw out the garbage, riled up the dust, put away the clothes, vacuumed and Febreezed.

It's nice in there now, but I haven't spent much time there since this afternoon. It was the first noticeably nice day of the year. The temperature got somewhere in the 80s, and since we got to turn our clocks ahead one hour a couple weeks early this year, we were afforded an extra hour of warm day time. I really hate having to "spring forward." I'm a night-dweller by design and have never had much use for daylight hours. They're usually associated with working or going to school or running errands or other things I find tedious and unpleasant. Not like night time when I can drink beer or type blogs or go to rock shows.

After cleaning, I took a trip with my roommates to go food shopping. We went to Trader Joe's for sexy stuff (good meat, swank meals in a box, sea salt crystals in a nifty container with a built-in grinder, cold cuts), a local natural food store for tofu (them) and strong beer (me), a decidedly more ghetto supermarket for cheap canned stuff, frozen chimichangas and bulk pasta, and then Target for housewares and the like. I got a colander, AAA batteries, some to-go lunch Tupperware and aluminum foil. When we got home, we unpacked and I made myself grilled turkey breast and artichoke hearts. It was my first meal of the day, and I used too much salt.

My roommates told me about this show they were going to at a cafe around the corner, so I decided to tag along. There were three singer/songwriters playing acoustic and a band that rocked out a bit more. One female performer had an amazing voice that seemed to completely mesmerize the crowd, and the frontman of the band turned out to be an intern at my office who usually plays drums in other people's bands. He played covers of '50s/'60s pop and rock songs and did a version of "Dock of the Bay" with an older black gentleman who had a really soulful voice. A lot of fun for a Sunday night, made better by the pints of Redhook ESB.

When we got back home, it was more beer, snacking from all the food we'd bought and the Food Network. While watching Bobby Flay get in a meat loaf battle, the conversation turned to Ms. Lawson; my roommate heard she had some backlash from feminists regarding her image as a "domestic goddess." I'm all for ambitious, career-driven women. I don't think women belong in the kitchen, but I don't like the view that somehow domestic work is menial. Cooking a meal for myself or others is a hell of a lot more fulfilling than anything I accomplish at my job. Maybe I just need another job. I don't know, but Nigella's got a killer rack.



If you're wondering why things look different around here, it's because I re-did the layout. And I even made that swanky header graphic all by myself in Photoshop. It took me about two hours. And yeah, I know it's super basic looking, but that shit was hard so fuck off. I also resurrected the old "<" icons created by Strange Things' domestic bombshell/makeover artist R. who also did a lot of work on my last Magritte look and never got the credit she deserved because I'm a thoughtless person and a terrible friend who only cares about himself.

led astray

Now that LOST--which kicked major ass this week--has moved to 10pm, my entire TV-watching schedule is out of whack. I'm left to aimless surfing during the 9 o'clock hour and that has opened my eyes to a whole new world of bad television programs. Tonight, my misguided prime time idleness found me wandering to the "new" CW and its litany of schmaltzy reality programming; I was lucky enough to catch the last half-hour of The Pussy Cat Dolls Present: The Search for the Next Doll, which I guess normally airs on Tuesdays.

Since the Pussy Cat Doll brand has many forms, I wondered what exactly this new Doll would be used for. Would she be a sexy croupier at the Caeser's Palace Casino in Los Vegas? Would she be one of the dancing ladies at some Los Angeles nightclub? Or would her fate lie as window dressing/underling for ALPHA DOLL Nicole Scherzinger in the platinum-selling manufactured pop group? Clever detective work (i.e. checking out the official Web site) revealed that it is to be the latter, though I'm not sure if that means they kicked one of the other automatons out or not. Regardless, the show is the brainchild of Ken Mok, who was the genius who gave birth to America's Next Top Model, which also features scantily clad women saying mean things about one another, so it just had to be good.

And it was! By the time I tuned in, it appeared as half the Dolls-in-training were afflicted by some vigorous stomach ailment that caused the sick to vomit profusely. However, as the 18 hopefuls were set to be whittled down to nine, mere illness would not be seen as an excuse for poor performance. This shit is serious, yo. You want to be a Pussy Cat Doll. No. Maybe you didn't hear me. Do you REALLY want to be a Pussy Cat Doll?! Then get up on that stage and shake that thang girl. We don't want no pretenders here.

The show wasn't heartless though. As the rag tag group of nervous, vomiting, partially undressed females made it to the stage, they were met by their Angel of Mercy, none other than cheeseball singer-turned-plain ol' cheeseball Mark McGrath, of Sugar Ray "fame." He was greeted with giggles and melodious hellos from the girls. He regarded them kindly and reminded them of the importance of this audition. There would be cuts, and those cuts would be final. He acknowledged that some of them were ill. He's a compassionate man. "There's a doctor on-hand." Cut to doctor. "And medicine." Cut to IVs and various medical implements. "Now go get 'em." I'm paraphrasing. Then McGrath introduced ALPHA DOLL Scherzinger, who told the girls to follow their hearts and be like the mighty eagle, soaring in the sky, and never give up. Never. And she sat and joined the judges.

The girls danced and performed songs by the Pussy Cat Dolls. They were broken up into three teams of six. Finally, it was sadly time to eliminate half the contestants. It was your usual reality show elimination fare: worry, elation, sadness and relief--all jazzed up with clever editing. But then the sassy, husky-voiced Sisely was called to the fore and the emotions got very, very real. The judges praised her with the kind of tempered reassurances you'd expect, but ALPHA DOLL Scherzinger would have nothing of it.

"I love your essence," she said. "I love your rawness."

And then, finally, "I love you."

I guess I finally found something to watch on Tuesday nights.

synchronicity

Ever since I was introduced to the term in my parapsychology class (I used to smoke a lot of weed), I've been a wholehearted subscriber to the phenomenon of synchronicity. Like most ideas championed by Carl Jung, it just made sense to me. Once I was introduced to the idea, I began seeing instances of synchronicity all the time in my own life and in the world around me, and that's even after I stopped smoking a lot of weed. Today, synchronicity struck once more in the form of the impressively foreheaded and increasingly sexy-fied Christina Ricci.

I've liked Christina since she was in The Addams Family (not in that way because she was just a baby) and have more or less enjoyed her career since. If for no other reason, she's managed to transition from child star to adult actor with out too many bumps in the road or time spent in rehab (though I could be wrong about the rehab thing, it's hard to keep track lately). And in Buffalo '66 she managed to star alongside Vincent Gallo without vomiting or showing visible signs of nausea. She didn't even have to give him a blow job like some other skank. Now if those aren't signs of a true professional, I don't know what are.

But today was a particularly trying day of work in which I actually had to be a manager and man up to my boss about how I thought things were going. I had to conduct meetings and get people to contribute, which they did, and the talk went okay, so I maybe I'm not all that bad at what I do, though I'm still not at all convinced. Luckily, there were Hershey Kisses in the candy dish and these pictures of Ms. Ricci from the Black Snake Moan premier to help replace my self doubt with some good ol' fashioned lust (which is a much better thing to be mulling about, I can assure you). I don't know when Christina got so bangin' (technical term), but I'm sure glad it happened. And wouldn't you know it? When I got home, I found that Cursed, a kinda shitty werewolf movie, was playing on Encore, starring none other than Christina Ricci. I watched it happily over peas and pork chops. The Universe sure is a wacky place.

In un-Christina Ricci-related news, I went to go see Ghost Rider tonight, and it was about as good as it looks in the previews. It definitely could have been worse, especially as comic book movies go. I'd place it better than Ang Lee's Hulk, but a hell of a lot more cheesy than anything else that's come from Marvel recently. The film made me realize a few things:

• Ghost Rider is a Texan who's a motorcycle riding daredevil by day and turns into a fiery skeleton thing in a leather jacket with chains and spikes and stuff at night. Pretty much, he's a hero who appeals to white trash trailer park residents everywhere.
• I'm amazed people don't talk about Eva Mendes's butt more because it's almost as hot as her rack.
  
• Any movie, no matter how shitty (and this one was pretty damn shitty), becomes instantly cooler as soon as Sam Elliot shows up.
  

Seriously, why hasn't this guy gotten some kind of lifetime achievement award yet? Has the academy seen Roadhouse? He played Patrick Swayze's grizzled old mentor who still had a little bit of gas in the tank for a down home, bar burnin' slobber knocker. He drank shitty beer from the bottle and danced with Kelly Lynch. He was a MAN amongst men. Well, except for the beer drinkin' and dancin', he played pretty much the same role in Ghost Rider. Rough, tobacco-juice-spittin', salty, he was a man with a mysterious past who worked as a caretaker in this utterly random cemetery on the edge of nowhere and seemed to know just about everything regarding Ghost Rider's bizarre situation. He'd been there, man, to hell and fuckin' back. He bought the T-shirt and spilled shitty beer on it and used it to wipe the tears from some poor girl's eyes as she watched everything she knew burn to the ground. And he's got the best voice ever. I'm just saying. Academy, get on that shit.

now back to your regularly scheduled whining

When we got back from Vegas this evening, I dropped my friend off at his house and went inside to use the bathroom. Turned out, his girlfriend got left his Valentine's Day gifts in his room. He got a tube-thing of Toblerone (which he gave me some of because he doesn't eat chocolate (SCORE!)) and two tickets to a basketball game. I, of course, returned home to nothing. But when I checked my e-mail, it turned out that there is someone out there who loves me--Missy from Suicide Girls.

For a few short months last year, I was a proud member of the Web site, paying a scant couple bucks to peruse countless archives of photos of tattooed, pierced gothy-punky girls lounge about in their skivvies, and even completely naked. But that credit card expired, and when it did, I decided not to renew the account. I guess we weren't meant to be, but I will always have fond memories of the times we spent together on my roommate's laptop.

Since then, SG founder Missy has been trying to woo me back, making all kinds of special offers. This is the most recent attempt:

Here's what's new in the world of SuicideGirls, real quick: Our Burlesque tour is opening for Guns N Roses, some of the original SuicideGirls starred in an episode of CSI NY and Showtime is airing our newest movie, The Italian Villa.

SUMMARY: We have been having a lot of fun without you.

But something's been missing. That's right, we miss you. Seriously. Come give us another try. We'll make you a special price.

Tempting, yes, but I don't think I'll take her up on her offer. The e-mail concludes with a link to get my name taken off their marketing list, but I'm not going to click that either. I mean, it's nice to be pursued.

dreamy...

It's not like it takes much to make Scarlett Johansson look amazing, but Annie Leibovitz took my Top 5 (more like 10) starlet to a whole new level of beautiful woman-itude. I saw this and my eyes instantly turned to cartoon hearts. Swear. This was taken for some Disney thing, but really, that's none of my concern.

my hero...ine... heroine is with an e right?

It's official. A very industrious and civil-minded geek has started a petition to install Olivia Munn (now officially a friend of this space, seeing as she's now been written about twice). It can be viewed and signed here. There are certainly more noble petitions. But while this may not ensure the well being of our children and our children's children, it will, at least, give you something to do while you should be working (like me).

It would be nice to get an unknown to play such an iconic figure. I though that formula worked really well in the most recent Superman movie (even though I was really disappointed with how Kate Bosworth portrayed Lois Lane. I really expected more). Honestly, regardless of who they get, I'm getting kind of stoked about a Wonder Woman movie. Buffy's Joss Whedon is writing and directing so at the very least it'll be fun and entertaining.

i'm addicted

I can't stop signing petitions.

A MySpace bulletin from my friend, the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge (we go back) alerted me to the plight of its brethren Tongass National Forest, which is also in Alaska. I won't go into it, but it's about logging. This time, I even wrote a personal note to Forest Service Chief Dale Bosworth on why I thought he should reconsider. Nevermind that until yesterday, I never knew Alaska even had a rain forest, and even if I had, I'd be too afraid to go to it. I thought it was a good letter, though. And I like to think of Alaska as some undiscovered wilderness where you can get a pint of dark beer in the middle of the day next to a bull moose and a Kodiak bear.

Before that, I received an e-mail about a BoDog artist named Nazanin Afshin-Jam, who apparently succeeds at a lot of things, but is most notable for her ability to make me realize that I'm a selfish piece of shit. She was Miss Canada, runner up of Miss World and is now a pop star who has fought endlessly to use her position in the spotlight to raise awareness of humanitarian issues. The e-mail told the story of another Nazanin, a young girl of 17 who was sentenced to death in Iran. Afshin-Jam, herself an Iranian immigrant whose family fled Tehran during the revolution of 1979, was alerted to the story when someone who was doing a Web search for the imprisoned Nazanin found her pop star namesake instead.

Nazanin was out with her niece when a group of men tried to rape them. She ended up stabbing one of them in self-defense, and he later died. There was a petition to keep her from being executed, which must have worked because she was exonerated of the murder charges. I had already signed it though. I guess I missed the boat on that one. Anyway, now she's got to pay blood money or something for killing the dude and her family's dirt poor. There's a fund for that...but NO petition. I feel useless.

If that weren't enough, a third petition (of sorts) was brought to my attention, one the struck closer to home. Olivia Munn, co-host of G4's Attack of the Show and Queen Lord of My Fan Boy Heart, threw her lasso in the race to be the next Wonder Woman. As if being funny and beautiful and knowledgeable about video games weren't enough. I think this qualifies as evidence that there is a God, and his comics collection is about 400 long boxes deep.



(I'm also pretty stoked on parentheses.)

french fried couch potato

I've had a lot of shit I've wanted to write about, but I've been too busy watching television. Thanks to time at home, not having to go to work, I spent countless hours like a vegetable in my parents' living room watching all manners of Law & Order and the Game Show Network. I really like the original show Lingo because it deals with words, is hosted by Chuck Woolery and co-hosted by Shandi Finnessey, who is mega HAWT and as Miss USA 2004 never snorted coke off of Miss Teen USA's barely legal inner thighs...as far as I know. She smiles brilliantly, speaks respectfully to Chuck and punches buttons on a computer. She does all of which very well. Chuck flashes his signature "two-and-two" and does his best not to act like a dirty old man around Ms. Finnessey. I like Chuck. He's got a good voice and great hair. I'm also pretty sure he's always looked the same age. Slackers around the same age as me also regularly appear as contestants and are stoked to win like $600. I like that it's not big money. There are enough millionaires in the world as it is. It's kind of refreshing that there are still game shows that aren't necessarily life changing events. The scruffy dudes and dudettes on this show are just stoked to win rent money and have a few bucks left over for a case of Pabst. I'd be pretty happy with that too.

Tonight was the first two hours of the four-hour, two-night premiere of 24, which is really obnoxious, but I can't help getting sucked into it. I don't think I'd care if it weren't for Kiefer Sutherland. He is Jack Bauer. The first two hours had like nine terrorist attacks, multiple torture scenes, dude who played Kumar (!!!), a big 'SPLOOOSION, whisper-yelling, only one utterance of the phrase "in real time" and Bauer ripped some dude's throat out...WITH HIS TEETH. Yeah. It rocked, and it introduced us to Nadia Yassir, played by yummy Mexican-American actress Marisol Nichols (I'm assuming because she's a competent actress and that most Fox viewers are unable to differentiate between different kinds of brown people). According to her dossier on the official Web site, Ms. Yassir is CTU's Associate Special Agent in Charge, Los Angeles Domestic Unit; fluent in Arabic; and received her Bachelors of the Arts in Languages at the University of Michigan. She's a Wolverine, but I won't hold that against her, because she can rock a headset microphone, business suit and concerned expression like nobody's business. Well played, 24.

Afterwards, I turned on my new favorite show, MTV's I'm from Rolling Stone, which is a "reality" program about six young (and attractive and ethnically diverse (attractively, of course)) aspiring writers who are competing for a year-long job at Rolling Stone as an associate editor (or assistant editor), and all the fame and fortune that entails. This show interests me for obvious reasons. Finally, there's a "reality" show that pertains to my everyday life, though I wish someone would tell me where my fame and fortune are. It's kinda refreshing because it's nice to see people who're really enthusiastic about wanting to do what I do, but, you know, that doesn't stop me from scoffing and snickering at their every move. I'll probably just leave it at that, because I'm not in the mood to launch into a bitter tirade about how they're getting this job the easy way over people who are probably 1000 times more talented and qualified (cough), because, with any luck, I'll be fetching their coffee one day.

use the force

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.

lived in bars and danced on tables

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.

this is where i'm supposed to comment that i can't believe its december already or how it weirds me out that it gets dark so early...

Instead, I'll just post this:



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.

hello

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.

I hope we can do this again sometime. Later!

moving on

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.

open the pod bay doors, HAL

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.

are you a girl? is it halloween? part 2

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.


Work it, Girl.