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.

are you a girl? is it halloween?

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.

girls and corpses

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.

in the time of chimpanzees i was a monkey

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.

in the pit of my stomach

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:

do you ever think about butterflies?

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!!!

harvest moon

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.

i heard it through the grapevine

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.

i think i'm gonna be sick

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.

you may have noticed

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.

in lieu of something less interesting

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).

victory lap

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.

life in gondwana and the caring hands of dominatrixes

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.

piss and vinegar

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 love the onion

Full story here.

the great northwest

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:

1. The Thermals
2. A Tribe Called Quest
3. Kanye West
4. Blondie
5. Jeremy Enigk
6. Of Montreal
7. Erase Errata
8. Nouvelle Vague
9. Atmosphere
10. The New Pornographers
11. 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.

delaying the inevitable

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.

every time a register chings a no talent hack gets her wings

This is going to be gross, so I warn you.

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.

[Image stolen from Hollywoodrag.com]

zombie

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.

at least i know where i get it from

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.

pluto, we hardly knew ye

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.

hail seitan

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.

i went to see the doctor, and i said, "doctor, it hurts when i do this," and he said, "then don't do it."

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.

wino

I'm pretty sure I'm going crazy. I saw A Scanner Darkly tonight, and that kinda fucked with my head, so I'm sure that's not helping matters. A friend of mine was working the door and he let me in for free. I got the last ticket, too. It was showing at this tiny, old school art house theater here in town with really uncomfortable seats. But the sound is good and they always pick good movies to show.

Anyway, lately, at night I hear all sorts of noises. Our freezer hisses at me sometimes, and there's some cat in the neighborhood who's always getting in some kind of trouble. I can hear it screeching bloody murder after everyone goes to bed. We polished off the bottle of wine tonight, and I was supposed to be in bed about an hour ago. I promised I'd be in at 9:30 tomorrow. I'm still going to shoot for that. I have to cancel an interview because I forgot that I had to resign my lease tomorrow, and I don't want to do it anyway. Not now. Tomorrow, supposedly, I'll be done proofing the magazine and I'll be able to take a couple days off, which is good because Wednesday night my friend is throwing himself a bit of a bachelor party: strip club, bars, maybe gambling? I don't know how I'm going to afford it all, but I'll make do somehow. In the mean time, I should probably get going to bed.

how i spent my vacation 2

Yesterday was too relaxing, I guess, so today I decided to put myself through a good deal of physical and emotional stress.

I woke up to find Encore Love was playing Before Sunrise. I tried to resist the temptation, but I just couldn't. I curled up on the couch like a baby and watched Julie Delpy and Ethan Hawke roam the streets of Vienna and got nostalgic for when I first saw the movie when it was released in the theater like 11 years ago. There was pretty much nothing in the world that I wanted to do more than take a train through Europe, meet the European Woman of My Dreams and have a brief fleeting affair with her and then forever pine over what might have been. It would also help if we were both amazingly witty and intelligent and were able to poetically articulate our deepest, most intimate thoughts and philosophies in a thoroughly entertaining sort of way. Of course, my conversations with the fairer sex--of whom I'm sexually and spiritually (whatever) attracted to--usually consists of "So, uh, you having a good time tonight?" in addition to nervous side glances and awkward silences. Regardless, Before Sunrise pretty much defines what I think "love" should be and regurgitates that in under an hour and a half, which is why I find the damn thing so compelling, wonderful and unfathomably depressing. Basically, that fucking movie ruined my life.

I haven't seen it in quite some time and I was happy to see that it stood the test of time (unlike Clerks). Its witty banter and soaring romanticism put me in a sober and ponderous state that really could have only been cured by alcohol. But since it was still mid-day, I decided to walk through the park instead. There, I didn't encounter any charmingly intellectual French women, but I did notice a gathering of Mexicans off the path by the creek. They were singing and clapping and there were a lot of them. When I got around the bend, I strolled off the paved road into one of the dirt paths that lead up to the creek and saw that they were performing baptisms. One of the congregation would step into the water and the preacher would perform the ceremony before dipping the person into the water. Each person's baptism was greeted with one person shouting, "Halelujah!" before the rest would break off into song. They were clapping hands and hitting tambourines, and the whole thing seemed pretty joyous. It reminded me of the scene from O Brother, Where Art Thou, where Pete and Delmer become "saved," but only a lot more exuberant. Something made me want to join them, but I'm sure it's a sin to crash a baptism, so I continued on my walk until their loud rejoicing faded away behind me.

There were a lot of people in the park today, because it wasn't too hot out. But as I pushed deeper passed the swimming holes, the park-goers became more scarce. I walked faster and worked up a bit of a sweat. A lot of the dirt paths I liked to walk during the winter time had become rather overgrown with weeds, so I had to back track a few times. Eventually, I finished my figure 8 loop through the park and headed toward home where I made myself Spam and eggs for dinner and popped in my DVD of the sequel to Before Sunrise, Before Sunset, because, apparently, I was asking for it.

Other than Julie Delpy being ridiculously dreamy, I think the movies strike a chord with me because the main two characters are about my age. I was 18 when the first one came out and the characters were 23, now, nine years later (the movie was released in 2004), the characters have aged as the actors have (though Julie doesn't look like she's aged a day). In Before Sunset, Celine and Jesse are both 32, and I guess it's easy for me to see myself in them (though I'm not nearly as good looking). It's just as good, if not better, than the original. It's nice to see a movie without special effects or plot twists or action--well, sometimes. They just walk, and talk, and they're perfect and I hate them, which is why I'm on Guinness three.

I'm supposed to be at work in a few hours. Tomorrow starts the online proofing of the magazine, which means I basically just click a little button with my little mouse and wait for pages to load and wait for ads that may or may not come in and stress that the whole thing is fucked up and it's going to cost us hundreds of dollars to fix it. I'm not looking forward to it. With any luck, this Guinness will make me sleepy and help me dream of European cafes and beautiful women and interesting conversation and other things I won't encounter in the forseeable future.

how i spent my vacation

I woke up at 8am, then again at 10am, but I forced myself to go back to sleep and didn't really wake up till 1pm. That was nice. I stayed in my room until 5 and only left to order food. I realized around 8pm that doing nothing was driving me crazy, so I walked to the liquor store to pick up some "stay-at-home" supplies. Inside, the same fucking vagrant who asks me for money five times a week asked me if I could spot him some money as I looked over the rack of cheap wine. I have given him some cash on occasion, but it's rare for me to actually carry cash or change. I've resorted to just purchasing things with debit. I told him I didn't have any money on me and he gave me a look. I can't fucking stand that guy. Mostly because he never seems to remember me.

Luckily, day one of my two-day unplugging from society went very smoothly, thanks to the items listed below.

Finding out that this site comes up on the second page of a Google search for "counting backwards." Googling my own site, while obviously a cry for help, also informed me that Throwing Muses has a song named "Counting Backwards." I'm a fan of the band, but hadn't known that before. Though I didn't name this space after the song, finding out this tidbit of infotainment only reinforced my belief that I'm the coolest person I know.



Perving out over women's tennis. Women's tennis is sort of like the network television sports equivalent of pornography to me, basically because it's girl-on-girl action and they wear skimpy clothes, grunt and get all sweaty. Today I saw Jelena Jankovic defeat Serena Williams in straight sets. While Jelena is clearly no Maria Sharapova, she is totally hot in that really not hot at all sort of way and has a pretty rocking body. And she's Serbian...which I guess counts for something.

Madden 2006. I bought this game used a few months ago, but hadn't had the time to play it. It's really fucking detailed, like I actually have to look over the defence to decide if I should audible or change my receiver's route. Normally I'd find such technical mumbo jumbo extremely annoying, but today, I was able to let it go. I'd planned to sit in my room and play video games all day anyway, and since this one was so damn time consuming, the hours flew by in no time.

The Weatherman starring Nicholas Cage. I'm not sure why I wanted to see this movie. I think it was because the trailer had that "Passenger" song by Iggy Pop playing through it. Whatever reason, it was pretty damn good. I laughed out loud a bunch of times. The one thing me and my roommates got a kick out of was all the product placement for fast food companies. I guess that's how a small movie like that gets big stars like Cage and Michael Caine.

The Flaming Lips. They're just one of those bands I've always meant to really like but never got around to it. My roommates got the documentary about them Fearless Freaks through Netflix, so I watched it tonight, and it made me wish I had some of their albums, or at least been to see them live. I actually saw them at Lollapalooza in 1994 on one of the crappy side stages for about three songs and I remember thinking, "Wow, these guys are kinda weird," before moving on to the main stage. I guess it's kinda like how I like mushrooms now. If you want to be my friend, send me Flaming Lips music so I don't have to pay for it. I'm broke.

Yellow Tail Cabernet Sauvignon. I'm not much of a wine drinker, but my roommates usually offer me a glass and I usually take them up on the offer, so as to not feel like a total freeloader, I picked up a bottle at the liquor store. I'm now three glasses in and I have to say it's not that bad. And it only costs $7, which is way cheaper than a bottle of rum, and you don't have to get anything to mix with wine. That's savings. Being a functioning alcoholic is not a myth after all.

junk in the trunk

For me, this year's pretty much over. We're just about done sending our Sept./Oct. issue. and the next one will be the last one of the year. It'll be done some time in early October, so I'm already taking stock of 2006. I've already compiled of a compulsory list of my favorite songs of this year, and it's pretty extensive. I'd probably put just about the whole Thermals and Regina Spektor albums on there if I could.

I don't know how this leads me to Kelly Clarkson, but I'm going to try to tie this all together. This may get a little sloppy, so bear with me.

My roommate went to go see Kelly last weekend. She said she was awesome, and I'm sure she was. I was working, of course, while my roommate was enjoying my favorite (well second favorite, no one tops Shakira) pop princess in my favorite venue on the West Coast.

Actually, I'm not sure if I can tie this together. Let's just leave it at my roommie had bought a Kelly magnet for our refrigerator, and the last song I heard before I wisely evacuated the bar this evening was some dance remix of "Since U Been Gone." It wasn't as good as the regular version. If you were wondering. And I like that Kelly has some meat on dem big southern bones. It's ridiculous to me that people like to mention her weight.

Forget all that stuff about Kelly. I don't know where I was going with that. This Sept/Oct issue is going to linger around like a bad cough for the next couple days as we wait for ads and I sit in front of a computer approving the whole thing, which is the most annoying and tedious part of the process. In this lull in the action, I've had time to go through some of the albums I've received over the past few weeks and months that I haven't been able to take stock of, like the new Silversun Pickups record Carnavas, the new Heartless Bastards, All this Time, and other such stuff. It'll take a few days before I can actually bring myself to enjoy music again, however. It's enjoyable, I'll tell myself. Really.

Everyone I know--at least the bar going type--will be out of town this weekend, and I haven't decided whether I'm going to use that as an excuse to hibernate for a couple days or venture out to meet new and interesting alcoholics. Only time will decide, I guess.

ever watchful

This critter here is a remarkable creature. I don't know much about puma, but they sure look like magnificent beasts. Those eyes are very alert. I can't see for shit, really, but there are certain things my eyes are drawn to very easily. I can spot a spider with my glasses off and the lights out if there is one in my bedroom when I'm trying to get to sleep, and I also have a knack for discovering suspicious lesions on my body. Of course, I'm a bit of a hypochondriac (not in the traditional sense--I'm not obsessive about washing my hands, and I don't use toilet seat covers if I have to take a shit in a public bathroom), so any mark upon my person is suspicious. Regardless, when it comes to mysterious marks, bumps and moles, I'm much like that striking jungle cat pictured above. More or less (mostly less).

Last night I was laying in bed and discovered some discoloration on my inner right for arm--a somewhat significant, kinda tan area, which immediately raised an eyebrow because I am physically incapable of tanning (or burning for that matter). I first subjected the offending region to the old mother test, i.e. I licked my finger and rubbed at the splotches. They didn't disappear. Then, since I thought it may be a bruise, so I jabbed at it vigorously to no effect. It didn't hurt. It didn't itch, it didn't look in anyway infected, so, this morning, I decided to self-diagnose.

The Web is quite a place, basically because it's able to cater to every sort of perversion and obsessive behavior. If you're a hypochondriac, the Internet is a veritable vortex of worry and paranoia. I started my Web search modestly with "skin discoloration," but really, this was just foreplay, and I was seriously horny for some woeful distress. I stopped beating around the bush and googled "melanoma." This brought me to WebMD, which is like paradise for the hypochondriac. A few simple clicks at this site, and a simple cough could be a sign of lung cancer. It didn't take long for me to convince myself I needed a doctor, but I stopped myself pretty quick. I'd seen plenty of pictures of what real skin cancer looks like, and it's not pretty (I don't suggest doing an image search for melanoma), and I'm kinda tired of worrying, but I think I'm sort of addicted to it, or at least to the feeling of relief that comes from realizing you had nothing to worry about. Perverse indeed. I think I may block WebMD, just to avoid any further temptation.

real american heroes

It's debatable what make someone a hero, but I've had too many Guinesses to debate that now. However, I would like to nominate Tyson for such an honor. You see, Tyson is a bulldog. And he can skateboard. If you need any more convincing of this trailblazing pup's heroism, then clearly you don't have a SOUL. If you're the sad and lonely type who needs convincing of such things, you can see him in action at this Web site. However, your lack of faith will still render you quite soulless. Sorry about your luck.

KRAK-thoom

There's a bit of thunder and lightning outside, but I don't see a trace of rain. I can't remember the last time I heard and saw such things here. Probably happened some months ago--maybe before the new year. It's remarkable, sure, at least enough to distract me from watching Mets highlights to post about it here. I suppose this means there'll be fires in the foothills because of the dry lightning strikes. Weather.com says there's thunder in the vicinity. Obviously, I was aware of that, but they don't have maps like they used to so I can geek out on the radar. They want to charge $20 a year for that, but fuck that, I say. There's a video now, but it's really wack. Just some dude yammering about my local weather. I'm a pretty suggestive guy, but when it comes to weather, I want to see radar, sattelite shots and charts. Give me numbers and graphical interpretations of super cells popping up on the mountain sides. Relief maps, barometric pressure, water vapor models. Just writing about it makes me kinda giddy.

invocation

I went to the dentist for the first time in five years on Monday. I can't say whether it went well or badly. It just kinda went, I guess. The dental hygenist who gave me my cleaning was very friendly and very thorough. She was also good about explaining to me every procedure she performed. She checked to see if there was any bone damage around my teeth and called out numbers to an assistant as she went from tooth to tooth, but when she did so, she kinda sang them

Two, Two, Two. Four, Two, Two. Three, Two, Three. Three.

It was actually kind nice--soothing considering there was someone looming over me and prodding my mouth with a metal rod. It was better than being at the office anyway. The numbers were a measure, I was told, of how much bone deterioration I had around my teeth. The scale was from 1 - 6, 6 being really bad. Most of my numbers were two or three, which didn't worry her, but she told me to watch out for those fours. She showed me proper brushign and flossing techiniques, and she marveled at what little work I've had to have done--only four fillings in all my years, and I got them all one visit when I was 22. My wisdom teeth were even in. Considering I hadn't been to a dentist in such a long time, I was happy that I was in decent shape over all. But things went sour once the dentist poked in.

He shook my hand told me his name and asked how old I was. 29, I answered. The hygenist said she was close, only two years off. She thought I was 31. Burn.

Turned out I do have just one cavity. It's not hurting me at all, though, so I never noticed. All my wisdom teeth had come in pretty straight, except for one, which came in at an angle, pushing up the root of my molar above the gums--or something like that. Long story short, the cavity is between the molar and the wisdom tooth, just kinda chilling out there. He said that it'd be tough to just fill it properly, unless I got the wisdom tooth pulled. He then suggest that I get all my wisdom teeth pulled. I told him I couldn't afford all that--I don't have dental insurance--and he patted me on the shoulder and said, "Well, the ball's in your court."

They wrote up a referal for me to see an oral surgeon. I still haven't made an appointment. I'm considering just having the molar and the wisdom tooth pulled and be done with it. I'm also considering just letting it go and hoping nature sorts itself out. Pain isn't much of a problem. That's what they made pills and alcohol for.

I have so little money right now, that I had to transfer money from my savings account so my rent check wouldn't bounce. So much for my sister's wedding gift, I guess. I found out that I had less money in my account than I had thought when I was having a post-work cocktail with my old roommate and this other coworker. I kinda freaked, so, since I can drink for free, I ordered another. Later, I went back out to the same bar for a local show (I'd already taken money out for tip, which informed me of my checking account troubles), again the drinks were free. And since I was out, I ended up at an after party, though not nearly as interesting as the one this chap went to. In fact, there were a lot of "chaps" and quite a few people chattering on speed It was really annoying, but I managed to score a free can of beer from the kitchen. I drank it real slow and sat on the porch with some friends. I took this big group picture of everyone there because I didn't want to get into the shot. No reason to leave any evidence behind. This was not an event worth remembering, though I guess I will now, having written it here. I was really depressed about the sorry state of my finances, but the sunny side was that I'm still able to drown such sorrows at a low, low price. That was sarcasm, I think.

getting there

Hm. I think I'm just about bleary-eyed, but once I get started tweaking, I just can't stop. Like today, I just couldn't stop working. When there was nothing left to do, I made up another task for myself. I just couldn't stop. It's a sickness, I'm sure. I'm kinda glad I did keep working, though, because going through my mail, I found the new Heartless Bastards CD and the new Cardigans CD, neither of which I listened to just yet. I spent all day fluctuating between The Thermals' The Body, the Blood, the Machine and Blind Melon's Soup. I can always go back to that one and really enjoy it. When this issue's sent, I'm definitely taking a few days off. Maybe more than a few. I want to watch cable and be useless for a while. I just hope that doesn't drive me crazy too.

please excuse the mess

You may notice a certain blandness to this space, but that's hopefully going to change in the next couple days. I love the old design very much and I thought it was about time that I try to fuck around and do something on my own and make a site that is much less visually appealing. I'm really tired because The Three Burials of Melquiades Estrada was a huge fucking letdown. I was really disappointed. I'm babysitting the dog and he'll kill me if he doesn't get to go to bed soon so more tomorrow for sure.

PS. The house doesn't smell like shit any more. That's about the best thing to happen to me all month.

for the love of the game

My house smells like shit. I don't mean figuratively either.

I came home from work late with my old roommate's dog. I played my Boston album loudly on my computer and sang to him and everything was cool. I washed dishes. My roommates came home and for the first time in months, we were all home and awake at the same time, which was kinda nice. It was fun talking to them. I sat in the living room with my dog and then I heard a gurgling. So did the dog. then it sounded like the water was being sucked out of the house. Then there was this...smell...I did what any man would do in such a situation. I went to the bar.

Everyone I work with was there pretty much. I had a few and I was in a good mood, and when these two things coincide with one another, I get loud. Not in an aggressive way, but in a, well, I'm not gonna lie, a giggly way. It's embarrassing, but I like to laugh and I don't get to do it that often. I told one of my coworkers that on my recent work-related trip to NYC, I spent almost half of my per diem for the weekend at a strip club on the first night. He said that was the coolest thing he'd ever heard, and we continued our sporadic ongoing talks about an adult magazine that we've been planning for the past year. Honestly, I think it might happen one day.

Anyway, it was good times. And I think I talked jokingly to myself the whole way home. The jovial mood quickly faded upon entering the house and getting smacked back upside the head by the mysterious smell of feces.

The dog is innocent. I know that for a fact. And I'm reasonably sure none of my roommates took a dump in the living room. I know, because I checked with a flashlight. I know we're on the sewer system, and contractors have been working at the end of the block. Is that what's going on? If so, can I sue? Because I could use the money--at least to get a hotel room for the time being.