the week in words (and some pictures)

It's been a long week. And I've spent most of it at work. I'm going to spend a few more days at work, too. We were supposed to have sent the magazine already. We haven't though. We have til Monday. I'll be here til Monday--unless we get pushed back again, in which case, I'll be here til that day.

On Thursday, I spoke to Annie and Micah from Giant Drag. Basically the whole conversation consisted of Annie ranting about stuff and me and Micah giggling (well, I giggled, but I'm a giggler. He laughed, I suppose). She's totally dreamy. It was tons of fun, but I'm not sure how well that'll translate in print. Her vocal expressions kinda made it all work. She speaks in a gooey, spacey kinda grumble. Anyway, it was rocking.

I don't remember Friday. At all. I think I went out, but I'm not sure. Wait. I did. That's when it was cool enough to bust out my hoodie again. I really need to wash that thing.

I went out Saturday, too. I watched the Family Guy Stewie movie. I really didn't like it. I've never watched the show much though, so I figured it was because of that. They dragged out their jokes really, really long. And I guess it's part of their humor, but all it did was make me drink faster in hopes that it would get funny. But it didn't. But after a while that didn't matter because I was drunk. After the movie, me and my friends hit the bar where we got more drunk (for free mind you), and then I got a hotdog and stumbled home to find that the lights in my house were on and a stranger standing on my porch.
"Do you live here now?" he asked as I staggered through the front yard.

"Yeah," I said as shrewdly and as surly as I could.

"I'm G. Your roommate."

The fabled third roommate had returned. He'd been firefighting in the Mountain West since before I moved into the house. I met him once--for a minute--at his going away party. I was glad I cleaned the house for Wednesday's Lost party. But the drain in the shower had been acting up. I'd been meaning to try to clean it out, but I couldn't figure out how to screw the stopper thing off completely. And I've been shedding like a border collie lately. It's my hair, and since I was the only person using it, I didn't care all that much. Though, I always cleaned it out after showering, the tub was just taking forever to drain.

Anyway, there were little J hairs hanging out all around the tub, so at 2am, drinking a bottle of Guinness, I cleaned my bathtub and promptly fell asleep. In my bed. Not in the bathtub.

Sunday got off to a shaky start, but a good breakfast at the diner cured that right up. I went to work for a few hours but still wasn't able to get much done. I didn't want to get take out for dinner, so I went to the only grocery store that I could conceivably walk to and carry my groceries home from--the natural food store. It's a bit of a shock to go in there because I'm such a carnivore, but I got some tasty celery and some organic pasta and organic tomato sauce that I haven't been able to cook yet because I've been getting home after midnight this week. I also got some boca burgers, which I really like, and other non-meat meat products. And a loaf of tasty, organic oat and wheat bread that after just three fucking days on my counter had a healthy crop of organic fucking mold on it. It's now the healthiest thing in my garbage pail.

Monday and Tuesday: work.

Wednesday: work. AND I got to go see Nine Inch Nails and Queens of the Stone Age, and it was fucking epic. QOTSA were pretty cool. I really like that band, and they put on a good rock show, but NIN was on some other level, even though Trent's all muscle-y now. Like really muscle-y. You could see biceps from where I was sitting. But he still sounded all sickly and pissed off, and really, that's what everyone was there to hear.

The stage set up was mind-boggling. The light show liquified my eyes. And at one point they dropped these screens covering the entire stage and played these fucked up movies on them with like bugs and viruses and baboons eating flamingoes and stuff. But you could still see the band behind the screens and it was a total mindfuck. I jumped and bobbed--but in a really dark and brooding way--and loved just about every minute of it. It was cool hearing the old stuff, because it reminded me how far ahead of his time Trent was when he first broke. The rest of the world may have finally caught up to him, but even his new songs sounded pretty damn good. Their performance of "March of the Pigs" actually made my nipples hard. It was that crazy.

It's Thursday, 11:45pm. And I still haven't seen Lost yet...but I'm still at work. Woo.

the return of purpose

There's half a joint in an ashtray on my kitchen table. It's been there, I'd imagine, for quite some time, but I just noticed it in the middle of last week while I was cleaning up my house. I haven't smoked it yet, but I think about it from time to time. It'd be good for me, I think, to get a little high, but I don't know if I want the hassle. And anyway, I have all the escapism I need.

LOST is BACK.

I have to say, I wasn't overly impressed with the first episode. There was a lot of time off there during the summer, and this wasn't as earth-shattering and jaw-dropping as I'd hoped. Maybe I'm just irked that The Kate and Dreamy Asian Woman. didn't get a good share of screen time. They focused on Dr. Jack, who's clearly our hero, and one day, I hope to grow up and be just like him.

Still, I get the feeling there will be more episodes in season two than there were in season one, and I figure they're working toward something. There were enough seeds planted in this first episode thwt will keep me glued to the screen every Wednesday at 9 PM--except for next Wednesday when I go to see Nine Inch Nails and Queens of the Stone Age (my socks are already rocked). Of course, LOST will be taped and devoured as soon as I return home.

Tonight was a good time. A couple people came over with an ample supply of Guinness and I ordered a large pizza. Mmm...

I lingered on Invasion for a while, but quickly got bored. LOST is like smoking crack and anything else is like going back to whippets--unless it's starring Jennifer Garner.

Luckily, I had other options, the top one being Heathers. I can't remember the last time I saw this movie. When I was in high school, Christian Slater made me want to wear a trench coat and shamble through the halls with a sinister, misanthropic grin; because clearly, I was so much better than everyone else. Did it win an Oscar for something? It probably should have. It's cool watching it now, because it really feels timeless. God. People suck.

Tomorrow I get to interview Annie Hardy from Giant Drag. Interviewing bands I like is actually less preferable to interviewing those I could care less about. I end up trying too hard. I'm hoping by tomorrow afternoon, I'm too burned out on writing these things to care.

postgrad angst

When I graduated, or at least heard that I was six credits away from graduating college, I was filled with the worst sinking feeling imaginable. I never really liked going to college. I was never one for homework, or studying, or doing the papers. I did these things--sometimes--but it was rare when I actually turned them in on time. I was an English-Lit. major when i was an undergrad, though, and I went to a small, private, lavishly expensive East Coast college that no one has ever heard of. All the professors knew me pretty well, and a couple of them I really admired. There were also one or two who I knew I could get over on and didn't have to be prompt or punctual--or even show up everytime--and I took them with the most frequency.

Anyway, even after I decided to stop smoking pot, I didn't take college seriously. I didn't make the valuable connections you're supposed to make there that will ease you into the next phase of your life. It took me six years to get my bachelor's and by that time--considering I'd been in school since I was four years old--I was pretty resigned to the fact that being a student was who I was and what I did and, though I couldn't stand it, I was pretty comfortable with that.

Then, my guidance councelor or whatever she was smiled and said, "You're six credits away from graduation!" She was excited, hopeful, supportive, excited to see a young person get his start in the world. I didn't share the same feeling of joy. My world was shattered. I was paying them all this money and they were just going to cut me loose? Just like that? No warning. Nothing. I felt cold and empty inside.

Kicking and Screaming, not to be confused with the Will Ferrell movie of the same name--about soccer or something--is written and directed by Noah Baumbach, and I'm kinda watching it as I write (this has really been exciting). I don't know if I like this movie. I'm kinda sure that I don't hate it, but I've never been convinced that this is a good film. Olivia d'Abo, Eric Stoltz and Parker Posey are all on the home video release cover, but neither of them plays a large role in the film. Parker, unfortunately, only appears in three scenes. Stoltz is in about six. D'Abo kinda plays the biggest role as the whimsical coffee shop clerk who falls for our de facto hero, Grover (Josh Hamilton). And he falls for her too. Which is nice.

It's one of those movies without a plot and a lot of over-interlectual yammering, which I usually like, though a lot of this yammering is way over-interlectual and the characters basically bust out a collection of quotable quotes like, "Ok, the way I see it, if we were an old couple, dated for years, graduated, away from all these scholastic complications, and I reached over and kissed you, you wouldn't say a word, you'd be delighted, probably, but if I was to do that now it'd be quite forward, and if I did it the first time we ever met you probably would hit me." Or, "I'm nostalgic for conversations I had yesterday. I've begun reminiscing events before they even occur. I'm reminiscing this right now. I can't go to the bar because I've already looked back on it in my memory... and I didn't have a good time." Yeah. That kind of stuff.

Anyway, it's about students who've just graduated college and now have to figure out what they're going to do. I watch it everytime it's on, pretty much, and for whatever reason it's on like all the time. It makes me remember that time in my life when I didn't know what fuck else to do but move to California, and it also reminds me how I feel like I'm still stuck in that same frame of mind.

dollar fish tacos

Mmm. This town may be the middle of fucking apeshit nowhere, but, like any place, it has its great minds. One such mind is that of a local bar/restaurant owner who came up with what I imagine is called "Taco Tuesdays" in which his establishment sells fish tacos--and tiny bottles of Corona--for just a buck. Of course, this same establishment is a surfing-themed restaurant in a clearly landlocked city--our closest body of water is a creek that has no water in in this time of year, because it never rains. Genius is like lightening. You never know when and where it's going to strike.

Anyway, as you'd imagine, Taco Tuesdays is a big hit in college town. There was a line out the door and two sad and grumpy dudes were chained behind the counter churning out what had to be tons of fish tacos. The two young women working the counter were very attractive and clearly over it, though one in a skin-tight black tube top was nice enough to wrap up my remaining fish taco when she saw that I was clearly inept at such a task. I'm inept at a lot of tasks.

So, to follow up a satisfying dinner, I biked home (I've grown addicted to biking. I've been using my roommate's ancient Schwinn. It's red and beat the fuck up. It's a woman's bike frame and a bit too small for my ponderous bulk. It creaks and whines under my weight, but it rides pretty steady and smooth when the chain stays on. It's kinda like me--difficult and cranky, but it gets the job done) and the wind really started picking up tonight. It was nice and warmish cool. It was a productive day at work. I got tons of shit done and was looking forward to see what piece of shit movie I could zone out to. Luckily, I found Going Greek, which has just ended and a peppy pop-punk song played throughout the entire credits.

Going Greek posed itself as a wacky Animal House-style comedy loaded with zany hijinks and dick jokes and looked awful enough to ensure that I wouldn't have a single thought during its 90-or-so-minute span. In reality, Going Greek was a touching story of brotherhood and boy power (loaded with zany hijinks and dick jokes), and consequentally, one of the least entertaining movies I'd ever seen.

Well, it featured the Shermanator in a prominent role. That's a start. The story focused around some dude just trying to fit in and "be a part of something" so he convinces his beefy cousin to join this fraternity with him and, y'know, there's hilarity that's not very hilarious and touching moments and triumph of the human spirit and tons of dick jokes. But it did prevent the synapses in my brain from firing for a little while and Daisy, Daisy Adair was in it--from Dead Like Me--she had the only interesting bit of dialog and as it turns out, she's exactly 19 days younger than I am. Fun fact of the day.

house of 1000 lame

Anyone who says they pay for 700 channels of cable and never find anything to watch just aren't looking hard enough. Give me 35 channels and I can find something to waste my time on. Hell, when all I had was a pair of rabbit ears that only picked up four of the six shitty local channels, I still found something--reruns of Seinfeld, an infomercial, some sort of home shopping network, the crazy ass religious guy. TV, like most things, requires setting your mind to it (and then abruptly shutting it off). If you're going to do it, don't procrastinate, just apply yourself, sit back, tune in and y'know tune out.

This brings me to Rob Zombie's House of 1000 Corpses, which is on as I type (that's how I roll). When I first heard Rob Zombie was doing a horror movie, I was stoked. Not because I was a big Rob Zombie fan, but he had that kind of splatter house, gore hound horror aesthetic about him. I knew he was a big fan of horror movies, and from seeing his illustrations, I figured his horror movie would be the right mix of camp, exploitation and gratuitous splatter. House of 1000 Corpses has all of these things, and still manages to suck.

Okay, so it's got a brutal clown dude, hapless teenagers, plenty of blood an' killings, kidnapped cheerleaders, some wack-job who looks kinda like Riff Raff from Rocky Horror Picture Show, "the Legend of Dr. Satan," and a hot-as-fuck scream queen in a cowboy hat (she even shows her boobies (I know, I'm 12)). Honestly, if you can't make those elements work, your filmmaker priviledges should be revoked.

The first thing that tipped me off that House of 1000 Corpses was going to be a raging disappointment was that I'd heard that the movie had to be seriously fucked with because it was "too extreme" or something like that, and Zombie was all pissed at the studio about it. I thought that might be insider code for "yeah, this is awful, so now we're all trying to save face." But I think the blame for this stinker has to fall solely on the shoulders of Mr. Zombie. He's got a habit of using either pointless split screens or poorly placed intercuts of grainy footage and pastel-ish negative filters that, I would guess, are supposed to show a particular character's mental state, or a flashback, or to set a mood, or...I don't know, honestly what they're there for. I'm guessing they're supposed to either make the film more arty or to make it look more like a music video. It's easy to confuse the two. Either way, for shame, Mr. Zombie.

Anyway, the point is, I don't like this movie at all, really, but still, I sit here watching it, serving as living proof that you can accomplish anything, no matter how menial, if you just set your mind to it.

heal the hood

Kelefa Sanneh is probably my favorite music writer, in as much as I've enjoyed everything I've read of his. I got this article in my work inbox today. It's a review of the "Heal the Hood" concert put on my Missippi-born rapper David Banner. The concert bears the same name as Banner's foundation, both of which were set up to aid the victims of Hurricane Katrina.

September 19, 2005
Rapping for a Hometown in Hurricane Crisis

By KELEFA SANNEH

ATLANTA, Sept. 18 - "I lost my house," said one victim of Hurricane Katrina, although this particular victim was equipped with some wildly refractive ornamentation and, more importantly, a very loud microphone. The crowd fell silent. "I lost my cars," he continued. "But it ain't about me." Then, without pausing to acknowledge the absurdity, he delivered an exuberant, bare-chested ode to the shiny rims on the wheels of vehicles he no longer had.

This was, in a twisted way, one of the most moving moments of Saturday night's concert. The victim was the New Orleans rapper (and reality-TV veteran) known variously as Young City or Chopper, an aspiring star who joined loads of established ones inside the Philips Arena for a concert called Heal the Hood, a hip-hop fund-raiser for - and, in a few cases, by - victims of Hurricane Katrina. (A New York hurricane relief benefit is to be held Monday night at 10:30 at the B. B. King Blues Club and Grill in Manhattan.) On Saturday, Atlanta's famously competitive hip-hop stations had joined forces to promote an event that would be, as the jocks constantly reminded their listeners, historic.

And they were right. The night was organized by the tireless Mississippi rapper David Banner. He had corralled an impressive lineup of rappers, especially Southern rappers: Young Jeezy, T. I., Big Boi from OutKast and many others. The cause had everyone excited, but the "because" had everyone even more excited: the night was made possible by the extraordinary continuing success of Southern hip-hop.

No other event has ever mobilized so many rappers so quickly. Just about everyone heard Kanye West's impassioned claim that "George Bush doesn't care about black people." Fewer know that some stars (like T. I. and Fat Joe) hit the radio airwaves for impromptu telethons. Others, like Paul Wall, led clothing drives. And yet others, like Eminem, wrote sizable checks. Rappers from the fertile New Orleans hip-hop scene responded particularly gracefully: Juvenile was one who lost his home, but he plays down his own story, focusing instead on those who lost much more.

Even by these standards, David Banner's response has been extraordinarily energetic. He says he turned his tour bus into a relief truck for victims on the Gulf Coast. ("I got back to Mississippi before our government did, with food and supplies," he says.) And since then, he has turned his charitable foundation, Heal the Hood, into a disaster-relief clearinghouse.

>From all this came the idea for the Heal the Hood concert, a small benefit that ballooned into one of the year's most important hip-hop shows. A few hours before it started, Banner was in a small hotel room, wearing flip-flops and socks with a tight tank top that turned his enormous, shoulder-to-shoulder tattoo into a crossword clue: starts with an M, ends with an PI, lots of letters in between.

David Banner has a birth name that might be even better than his stage name. He is Lavell Crump, a Mississippi native and a graduate of Southern University in Baton Rouge. He renamed himself after the "The Incredible Hulk," and he clearly relishes playing the part of the superhero. In 2003, he released both his major-label solo debut, "Mississippi: The Album" (SRC/Universal), as well as its sequel, "MTA2: Baptized in Dirty Water" (SRC/Universal).

Those albums established him as a wildly versatile and often thrilling rapper and producer, careering from the anatomically minded club hit "Like a Pimp" to the slow-motion gospel moan, "Cadillac on 22s." On Tuesday he is to release his far-reaching but uneven new album, "Certified" (SRC/Universal). But he'd rather talk about the Gulf Coast. "If this would have happened in New York," he says, "water probably wouldn't be on the ground now. And the president would have been there the next day."

Rappers are often criticized for their perceived greed, but as Young City's bittersweet boasts made clear, being flashy doesn't mean forgetting where you came from; in fact, it can be a way of remembering. Not so coincidentally, the impoverished New Orleans neighborhoods that were hit so hard by Katrina are the same impoverished neighborhoods that popularized the term "bling bling," the name of the 1998 breakthrough hit for the New Orleans rapper B. G.

On Saturday, contradictions like that were on display all night. The Atlanta rapper Young Jeezy thrilled the crowd with his addictive rhymes about life as a drug dealer. "Look, I'm tellin' you, man/ If you get jammed up don't mention my name," he rapped, in a drawl thick enough to make the lines rhyme. Then he abruptly switched directions for a startling and effective hypothetical. "This could have been us in Atlanta right now, living in this building," he said, and suddenly the arena looked very different.

The night's program began with gospel music and ended with Nelly, a not-quite-Southerner (he's from St. Louis), who asked, "If we don't heal our own hoods, who will?" In between came five hours of entertaining and sometimes ragged earnestness, shamelessness and exuberance; the crowd was appreciative, if somewhat subdued.

T. I., who has one of the South's most elegant rhyme styles, used his set to showcase his group, P$C, which makes a solid major-label debut tomorrow with "25 to Life " (Atlantic); he also insulted his main rival, whom he didn't name. (Let's follow his example.) "If you can't put nothing up for the cause, I don't wanna hear it," he said.

The Tennessee pioneers 8Ball & MJG showed off their tough but smooth style; Big Boi spit motor-mouthed rhymes with his Purple Ribbon crew; the emerging Atlanta group D4L came armed with gaudy, infectious rhymes and gaudier (and, let's hope, less infectious) outfits.

And then, of course, there was David Banner himself. His set included a shirtless romp through "Gangster Walk" and a besuited (and then, by the end, shirtless) version of his sex-rap "Play," both from the new album. And when it came time for "Like a Pimp," he found a way to deliver a topical introduction. "Bush is giving his homeboys Halliburton the rebuilding contracts to our cities," he said, continuing, "Bush is the biggest pimp."

Banner also made a heartfelt plea to the evacuees. "I need y'all to be sure that you go back home," he said, finding a new twist on his usual message of hometown pride. "They been waiting to tear our ghettos down and separate us from our land."

Hours later, when the concert was over, Banner could still be found signing autographs and posing for pictures with a handful of the fans who remained. As he no doubt knows, the hard work is just beginning: after a concert this size, there will be lots of scrutiny of his foundation.

It's true that this concert coincides with the release of his new album, and it's true that the Heal the Hood campaign has given him more exposure than he has ever had. But skeptics should know this: Banner spent most of Saturday in front of microphones of one kind or another. And all day long, he resisted the temptation to advertise his new album.

on the couch

I'm not handling living alone very well. I don't understand why not, because I'm a pretty solitary person. I don't make phone calls. I don't invite people over. When I go out, I prefer to go out by myself. But living in an empty house drives me crazy.

I tried to break my Sunday pattern today--go out and walk around the town. I wanted to get breakfast around noon, but the place I usually go to down the street from me was already closed. It must have been closer to one than noon. So I headed to the diner downtown and positioned myself at the counter. I got the country breakfast--ham, two pancakes, two eggs (scrambled) and homefries. I drank lots of water. I was a little more hungover from last night than I thought I'd be. I think it was because I went drinking on an empty stomach, because I really didn't have that much considering, though I do remember yelling once or twice and trying to convince a few of the indie hipsters that we should all go to the frat bar because it would be, like, a sociology experiment. I couldn't convince anyone, though, so I hit the local watering hole solo and had a goodnight rum and coke at last call.

So yeah, I went out today to break my pattern. I didn't want to end up on the couch all day watching football, like I did yesterday and the weekend before. This town's good for walking around, and I had a few things that I could have done while I was out, namely spend my credit at the record store to pick up a CD and maybe a used video game, if I had enough. But while I was eating my country breakfast, I realized that I left my credit slip at home. Then I thought I'd see what was playing at the independent movie house, since it was on the way home, but my timing was off. I'd missed the matinee for the first film, and the second matinee was still an hour off. I would've hung around, but they only take cash, I think, and I'd left the waitress at the diner a $2 tip. So I walked home and planted myself on the couch to watch football. It's probably for the best. I had to scrounge up change to afford my dinner burrito.

When I get into a rut, it's really hard for me to get out of it. I'm actually almost looking forward to going to work tomorrow, so I won't have to sit in the empty house all day. Almost.

rasputin was a sorcerer, but i'm just a drunk

The hippie food store has a frightening selection of beer. Most of it is ridiculously strong--at least by American standards. Hippies know beer, and the natural food co-op is stocked with killer brews, such as Old Rasputin, a Russian imperial stout bottled by the North Coast Brewing company of Fort Bragg, CA.

I had a feeling that with Russia's mysterious sorcerer on the label, I was probably in for an interesting time. Notice how his fingers are poised in a kind of blessing fashion, as if to say, "fare thee well, impudent mortal, for you are about to embark upon a journey unlike any other found in a 11-oz. bottle. Fare thee well and may the spirits keep you safe." My feeling was correct. The first couple sips tasted somewhat like NyQuill, and once the nine percent alcohol content started to kick in, I felt as if I was possessed by some otherworldly spirit that wanted only to get me more and more intoxicated.

That was on Thursday night, I think, but Crafty Ol' Rasputin set a tone. My time at work on Friday was an exercise in futility. I'm sure I had to have done something, but nothing that required too much thought. I did go with a coworker to pick up lunch for the office. I'm sure that should count for something. When I got home, I found sweet succor on my living room couch and fell into blissful sleep until 11:30pm. It felt good to nap, even though when I awoke, I had no idea where I was or what day it was.

I bummed around motionless for a long while until I eventually made it to my room and listened to the new album by Sigur Ros. It's amazing. So amazing that it kept me awake. I had to restart it from the beginning before I went back to sleep.

Today, I spent lounging around the house like a giant slothbeast. I have some credit at a local record store, and I wanted to get out and buy the new Weezer album and/or White Stripes album, but I've put that off until tomorrow. I have enough music to listen to anyway, I guess. Instead, I watched college football until I mustered enough inspiration to get showered and head over to a backyard concert/yard sale. The bands were good. I bought a pin that has a bugged out white bunny on it and reads "have a nice day," and a lamenated list of punishments from a school, dating back to the 19th century. Playing cards at school or misbehaving to a girl got the offending student 10 lashes, which was the most you could get. It was the best dollar I'd spent in a while.

it's a drag

If it was 1992, and I was still 16, I'm sure I'd be getting stoned and falling totally in love, love with Giant Drag's Annie Hardy. As it stands now, I'm neither 16 or getting stoned, but the love, love is still there. Hearts and Unicorns rocks.

odd ends

My friend was playing the new Mark Romanek DVD, part of the Palm Pictures Directors Label series. All of them have been really good so far, and it's nice to not only see music videos, but also see good music videos, which actually do exist. I have the Spike Jonze DVD, but I really want to get the rest of them when I have the chance. Anyway, the Mark Romanek disc has this clip from Sonic Youth, featuring the wonderful, wonderful Kim Deal of the Breeders and the Pixies, called "Little Trouble Girl." I can't believe I've never seen it before. The video's good and creepy and kinda sad, but I'm in one of those kinda sad moods.

my fortune reads: you are active, full of ideas and have a generous nature

I tried a new dish--new for me anyway--at my favorite restaurant for lunch yesterday. It was beef with tomatoes and bits of green pepper, onions and egg, I think. I'd never had a dish at a Chinese restaurant with tomatoes in it before and I was pleasantly surprised. She makes really good food there. That place is my happy place.

Today was really stressful. I knew I had one high-profile interview, but it turned out that I had two. I was only able to listen to the new album on speaker phone, and yeah, I was pretty intimidated. They'd both been interviewed so many times, and I knew this would be one that people would actually read, if they got their hands on it, and I don't think I was up to the task. I tried to be too inventive and intuitive, and it almost blew up in my face. The first guy kept me on my toes. He threw me something I wasn't at all prepared for. I had to switch gears, and I did. I've done it enough times. I do my best to listen to people. Usually because I'm actually interested. That's what I ask, what I'm interested in. I didn't want a repeat of the first interview, so the second time around, I stuck to the basics. The first one probably turned out better, but the second one went much more smoothly. I'm happy they're over. I'm not happy that I have to go back to the tape. I'm going to hate how it turns out.

I was so busy preparing, I didn't have time to get lunch. Plus, I was waiting for the phone call to listen to the album, which was two hours late. There wasn't time. I went to the sports bar and had a big dinner instead--fries, shrimp and a turkey/cheddar on sourdough. It was good enough. Afterwards, I went out and drank a couple post-work cocktails at this converted townie bar. There was some tweaker drama going on. Some poor man in a wheelchair was there. I'm not sure what was wrong with him, but he wanted to leave, I think, and they were having problems finding a cab company with a working van. He was surrounded by these two older women, who seem to be drunk and spun. This businessman sitting next to me and his high-class girlfriend seemed outraged by the scene and kept trying to call whatever car service they could to get the dude in the wheelchair home to his caregiver. Before she left, one of the tweaker women cursed out someone at the bar for using the word "fuck"--though she had no problem using it herself--and ordered a kamikazee, a Bud light and a 7-Up or something. The whole scene was really depressing, and the bar was empty, so there was nothing else to get distracted by. I slammed two rum and cokes and left. I hope tomorrow is a better day.

tick, tick, tick

Ever since I got sick, I have had this off and on (more on than off) headache centered on my left eyebrow. It gets worse the more I concentrate on something, which made transcribing the last of a recent interview very trying, methodical and painful. I'd been popping Advil, just in the mornings, which got me through work today, but I don't want to become dependent on it. Now I'm trying the beer method, which I'm already dependent on, but to little or no avail. I've never gotten consistent migraines before, and I don't know if it is a migraine. I think the fever I had on Thursday night friged something in my frontal lobe and it's just a matter of time.

I just hope I get to sleep tonight, because tomorrow I have a really important interview, and I want it to go well. I forgot to turn my phone on today and missed a call from my sister. She said my grandmother wanted to talk to me. She's 102. My grandmother, not my sister. I tried calling her a couple days ago, because I heard she had pneumonia, but she couldn't hear me very well so she passed the phone on to my uncle, and I talked to him instead. I heard she's feeling better though, and that's good. I'll call her on the walk to work tomorrow. Or maybe if I can sneak away for lunch.

I watched The Al Franken Show on the Sundance Channel and sent off an idea for a comic strip to an artist friend of mine back home. I really hope it pans out. It's an idea I've been kicking around since I went to go see The Scorpion King in the theaters with two friends of mine. I'm not putting too much stock in it yet though. Everytime I've tried to work with an artist, it's gone poorly.

My head's killing me.

R got me addicted to NationStates and I'm agonizing over what decision to make on the latest issue. I know Marulak will prevail. It endures, like the fire-breathing dragons that roam the lush forests... O, Marulak, our proud and sacred home. I long for the sight of your comely women and majestic free-range dragons. My breast swells with pride...as does theirs...


Anyway, I should go to sleep.

stirring the mouse

It only took four days of an empty house for me to lose the last remaining bits of my mind. I'm a pretty quiet person, but I like background noise--television helps, I guess, but it's not the same. I've had to make my own noise.

Friday night til this morning, my roommate's ex brought over their dog. I'm kinda third on the phone tree--his godfather, I guess. He's a very personable dog, a golden retriever, and he likes constant attention, which is fine by me. I've always gotten along really well with dogs, a lot better than I get along with people. His poppa had someone else lined up to watch him, but that person backed out at the last minute, and he had to leave town for work. I said of course I'd watch the pooch. I was looking forward to the company.

I ventured out Friday night, though in retrospect, I probably shouldn't have. I'd felt a lot better, but not better enough. I guess I still had some lingering disease, because I had a headache and a general ickiness. But, it was kind of a special occasion. I didn't go out to the bars, but I got a message from one of the dudes in my fantasy baseball league letting me know that they were having a poker night here in town, and they'd like me to come by, since I was brought into the league through a mutual friend, but had never actually met the rest of them. Four or five of the guys from the league were there and a bunch of other people I didn't really know. We played a poker tournament, and I was the first to be eliminated. I made a bonehead play, kinda on purpose, because my head was killing me, and I couldn't think straight. I'm a pretty lousy poker player anyway, so I was sure I wasn't going to win.

Poker tournaments take a long time, though, and I didn't get out of there until almost 3am. They move a lot faster on TV, I guess, because they don't show all the hands where everyone folds right off the bat. Still, it was a good time, and it was nice to meet some of the people I've been playing fantasy baseball with for the past three years or so.

Last night I went to a show. I wore earplugs, but I still couldn't get the headache to go away. I eneded up drinking more than I should have, and that didn't help matters. I didn't stay out late, though. I headed back to the house with a six pack, mostly for football today, but I had one before I fell asleep. My head was killing me, and I was all out of NyQuill.

Today, the dog got picked up around 1oam, just in time for the first game. Over the past two days, I've watched countless quarters of football, both college and professional, but the best game by far was the University of Texas v. Ohio State last night. Nothing's worse than the first week of pro football. It's like Pop Warner, but without the warm fuzzy feeling of watching kids hit the snot out of each other. I've also been watching so much baseball over the last few months that I found the pro game a bit tough to get readjusted to. There's all those rules--baseball's just throw the ball, hit the ball, catch the ball. Nice easy direct. A homerun never gets called back because of an illegal shift.

I do enjoy watching football very much, but the weather's too nice right now. When it gets dark and rainy, I'll be in more of a football mood. It has been dry and cool, in the mid-70s. I've been going for walks and taking bike rides and things of that nature. I've had all the windows open. I even had to close them because it was getting too cool in the house. This morning it was a chilly 63 in here--just the way i like it. If it wasn't so damn quiet in here, it would be totally pleasant.

hanging out with my good friend Q

I woke up this morning with every intention of going to work, but my body ached so bad, I couldn't move. More accurately, I didn't want to move. So I just laid there, wrapped in 300 thread-count Egyptian cotton--my parents got it on sale--and thought I'd just need a bit more rest. Around 10:30am, it became apparent that going to work at that time would have been a terrible idea, so I called in. I said that I'd try to come in later. Maybe around 1pm.

I got out of bed around 12:30pm, feeling kinda spry, well, sprier...I'd get some chicken soup in my gut and go into work. The house is all empty with my roommate gone, so it's kinda depressing to sit around here sick and alone.

I cooked and ate the soup. I looked at the clock. I'd been moving in super-slowmotion. The soup had certainly invigorated me some. I even got dressed, but I watched the clock go to 1:30pm, and I knew I just couldn't do it. So I called in again. Talked to my boss. He said don't worry about it. Drink water. Get rest. Try to get some work done at home. Come in tomorrow. I did all those things--but I mostly just watched a lot of movies.

I watched the nun-sploitation flick first. To set a tone. It was called School of the Holy Beast, and it was awesome. Nuns whipping themselves and each other. It even turned my stomach a couple times. Then, I shifted gears and watched Chinese Box with Jeremy Irons and Gong Li. It was about the last days of Brittish occupation in Hong Kong, and it was really good. Irons played a dude who'd learned he was going to die, and struggled with that and his unrequited love for Gong Li's character. Both are really good actors and Gong Li...sigh...the script was hit and miss sometimes, but I was in the mood for a good love story. I totally have feelings.

After that, it was The Brothers McMullin, which is just like every Ed Burns movie, but I kinda like them all, because I'm from the East Coast, grew up Catholic and hit my teenage years in the '90s. I giggled and longed for flannel.

After that, things got blurry, because I started running an incredible fever for a good five hours. I think I watched Secret Window with Johnny Depp and John Turturro. I kinda guessed the end way before it happened, but I couldn't tell you much about that movie because I was plastered to the couch and quivering in agony.

Oh wait. I watched Boogie Nights, too.

And blew my nose. I'm just glad I bought a ton of toilet paper the other day. I don't buy tissues because they're harsh on the nose. Toilet paper is much better for nose-blowing because it's made for more intimate areas.

I just took some NyQuill. I want it to kick in. Pronto. I also want a beer. And some ice cream. And to not be sick anymore. That's it.

the road trip that never was

I was supposed to drive my roommate and her boyfriend down to Oakland. They're going to Amsterdam (just so you know, the first time I typed "Amerstadam"), Barcelona and touring Italy over the next three weeks. And I hate them. Well not really, but I do. I'm stuck here typing on a laptop with some movie on--I don't know what it is, but they keep playing this jazz--with a map of Italy on the wall above me. I'm also powering through a cold. Did I mention I hate them?

My lips are dry, my throat ears and whatever else is all clogged and cranky. I'm cranky. The house is empty, and this woman in the movie just asked her kid to shoot her up with heroin. She fell. God she's stoned.

Today was a pretty up and down day. I got to work early so I could prepare for an interview with Andrew Niccol, who wrote Truman Show and wrote and directed Simone and Gattaca. He's got a new one called Lord of War coming out with Nicholas Cage. It was kind of a thrill, because Truman Show is one of my favorite movies. We had a nice conversation. He was clear and to the point and very accomodating considering he was doing a press day.

After that, work was a chore. Deadlines, deadlines. I kinda knew I was coming down with something so everything bothered me--the office chatter, the loud music. I hid in my headphones and listened to A Radical Recital. I leave that CD at work now. It really helps get me through rough days.

I got to leave at 5:30, to take the travelers down to the Bay. We'd just gotten out to the country highways leaving town when we got a phone call. Turns out, I didn't have to drive them down. They could leave the car at a friend's house. Worked out for everyone, because I wasn't sure how I'd pick them up when they get back since it coincides with another deadline. I also wasn't feeling all that great. They drove me back and I got home in time to catch the 9th inning of the Mets/Braves game on ESPN2. The Mets were up 2-1. Then Looper blew the save and it went to 10th. The Mets took the lead back, only to have Looper give up a lead off single to Chipper "May he suffer a painful demise" Jones, hit Andruw Jones with a pitch, walk 800-year-old Julio Franco and exit the game for Shingo Takatsu, who popped the next two hitters up and then gave up a two run single to some scrub with two outs to end the game 4-3 muthafuckin' may they all burn in hell Braves. I don't want to say anymore out of fear for my karma. I vented my anger by watching the okay-if-I-didn't-see-the-original remake of Texas Chainsaw Massacre. Twice. It's been one of those days.

My health got progressively crappier, as I was getting the clammy forehead and dampened head stubble. I ate some leftover Chinese and head to the video store. Played some video games and got to take home three rentals--3-Iron by Kim Ki-Duk, a Japanese nun-sploitation movie (curiosity got the better of me there) and a porno starring Autumn Austin (who came highly recommended)--for the low price of free.

All and all, though. I would've slept through the entire day if I could have. Just two weeks till Lost.

party for the proletariat

It's ridiculous that anyone should have to defend their right to have a good time. I know. The world is a shitty place. There's war, famine, natural disasters; and all of these things are tragic, but to think that enjoying oneself is a trivial pursuit considering that all people at all times will eventually suffer hardships is the kind of thinking that keeps the world a shitty place. If you can't enjoy yourself, then why bother?

The town I live in made its reputation as a party town--mostly because of its college. I didn't know that when I moved out here, it's just something that people were raving about. Now that I've been here a while, I can honestly say that the parties here aren't anything out of the ordinary compared to parties in other cities, there's simply nothing else to do here but party. And granted, at least there's that.

But the elders who own everything and live out in the hills and canyons and rent shitty apartments to students for ridiculous prices have decided that the party image of the town needs to be shot in the head, buried, then dug up and shot in the penis (or vagina depending on the sex of the image). So they've done everything in their power to say that "the party's over." Of course, they haven't taken steps to give the town a new image, but that would be, I guess, the logical thing to do. Instead, they run inflammatory ads on local television warning residents about police presence, zero tolerance and warning people not to go downtown. The latest holiday to feel the wrath of the Good Ol' Boy Christian Club is Labor Day, which I consider the most hallowed day of the year.

I work all year long. Sometimes I come in on my weekends. Sometimes I work 25 hour shifts. It could be worse, I know. I'm fortunate, but that doesn't mean I don't bust my ass and am forced to question my worth as a human being on a daily basis. Hello. I work for a living. There are billions of us. Luckily, we have Labor Day weekend--a delightfully capitalist idea with just the right touch of communism. I love Labor Day weekend. It's kinda like an early Christmas gift from the fat cats. "Let them eat cake." And I do. In beer form.

When I heard that the town elders were trying to throw a wrench in the gears of my Labor Day celebration, I took it to heart. Fuck them, and fuck their town. So I vowed to ignore their warnings and go out every night, embarking on a five-day bender (starting Thursday night), of which I'm mired in day four. It wasn't the best idea, to be honest. I'm not sure if I'm going to go for day five. Thursday and Friday I got a little overzealous. Thursday especially. I knew it was going to be bad, because before I sat down at the bar, my roommate's boyfriend pushed a shot of good tequilla in front of me and told me that he didn't want to see my wallet the rest of the night. Friday, there was a work party to celebrate the national magazine's release which started at 6:30. I'd forgotten to eat dinner. I heard that Huggy J made his appearance. Huggy J likes to go up to people he knows and put his arm around their shoulders and shout their names. He's the black sheep of my social personas, but everyone else seems to dig him. These two nights may have taken a couple years off my life.

Saturday was a big fat bore, but I perservered nonetheless with the aid of my Good Friend Guinness, and tonight I ran into friends at midnight who, apparently, had decided to inhabit the same bar from 1pm to 1am; and they were plastered. Like really.

But I didn't get hassled by the cops once. I got myself home under my own power every night, and even made it into my bed each time. Imagine that. I can take care of myself. Maybe I should tell the town elders that.

ankle baldness is a real thing

So here I am. Happier than a pig in shit in the Pacific Ocean during my trip to the LA-area. Everything's great. I'm enjoying life. I'm even holding a smoothie. How about that. a healthy snack drink. In my other hand are my ratty shoes, but that's not important.

However, if you look further down, past my expanding (well, I've leveled off, actually. I even lost a few pounds) bulk, you'll notice my secret shame.

Ankle baldness.

Much like atop my ginormous melon head, no hairs grow below the sock line. Further proof why my body hates me. So I hate it right back.

john cusack graduates from pretty young things to smoking-hot forty-year-old women

The Cusack is something of an inspiration to all of us whimpy, emotional dudes. The Cusack just can't be faded. He's the only male actor I will specifically buy a movie for, no matter how much of a so-called chick flick it may or may not be. I mean, High Fidelity. Really. Over his career, he's played the romantic lead opposite pretty much every awe-inspiring, coffee house cutie imaginable, including Kate Beckinsale, which filled my heart with jealousy. But I got over it.

Clearly, The Cusack is all-knowing and all-powerful, even if he does play John Cusack in every movie. Even now, as he gets on in years, his ability to share deep, meaningful and life-enriching tender moments with some of the most beautiful actresses in the business knows no bounds. Having just unveiled Must Like Dogs with I can't believe she's 40 actress Diane Lane (I mean Damn), this fall, he'll star opposite 40-year-old future GILF, Connie Nielsen in The Ice Harvest.



Daaamn. The Cusack's ways are truly great. He is an inspiration to us all. It should come as no surprise that the new film looks awesome. Here's a trailer if you're interested.

bicoastal

Going back home isn't much of a vacation because I mostly run around visiting people and hanging out with relatives, but it was still a nice short break from work and whatnot. I like most of my family, and it's good to see my old friends. We're always pretty stoked to see each other, and, well, it's just nice to know there are people who look forward to seeing you. I get to soak up minor celebrity status for a few days and a lot of things get paid for me. I had White Castles twice, ate at The Diner and did a fair amount of celebrating.

I didn't venture into the city once, because I was too busy and actually enjoying the Staten Island nightlife, which is still lightyears behind Manhattan's after hours goings on, but a vast improvement from what it used to be. The first night, we hit up the bar at Chevy's (illustrated by the flattering picture to the right), not because we wanted to, but because my sister is an intergalactic badass and won a karaoke contest there. The prize was a $50 drink certificate, and we used that thing up right quick. We started off with quality shots of Patron Silver tequilla, but quickly dipped into the cheap stuff like drafts of Coors Light and the delightfully fruity and vaguely homosexual concoction the strapping young men in the photo are imbibing, the so-called "Staten Island Punch." It was made of orange juice, pineapple juice and four kinds of rum and garnished with two types of straws (the flamboyant crazy straw and the direct, mainline black straw, which was much more effective). But after slamming a couple of them, I can attest that the juices were only used for coloring.

Our waiter informed us that the Staten Island Punches were on special, so I ordered one, not knowing what to expect, and what I got was not one, but two fishbowl sized glasses of flashy, sweet alcohol. "They're two for one," the waiter informed me. Well, that was all I needed to know. We pressed on, masculinity somewhat smudged, but still intact.

The rest of the weekend followed suit. I ended up at an open mic night, and shared Irish car bombs with one of my favorite party companions, a tiny Irish girl who must have two hollow legs because she can drink me under the table. I also bumped into a cousin, who I knew as one of the unruly denizens of the mall (when I worked there) before I knew we were related.

Good times were had all around, though in the time I've been gone, rifts have formed between members of my friends and family. I'm kinda stuck in-between the cracks, as most of these things happened while I was away. Sometimes I wonder if I'm just pouring salt in wounds when I go back as me being around kinda brings these things to the surface. I don't like that there's animosity, but there doesn't seem like much I can do about it, since I'm there for a few days to kiss the babies and shake the hands and then I fly off 3000 miles and no longer have to deal with it on a daily basis. I have as many reasons to move back east as I do to stay out here, which makes coming and going very difficult.