domesticated

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

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

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

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

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



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

led astray

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then, finally, "I love you."

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

canned frosting + face = $$$

As awesome as The Daily Show is, Jon Stewart's greatest gift to pop culture is perhaps Stephen Colbert.

This clip had me laughing so hard I nearly threw up.

french fried couch potato

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

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

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

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:

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

why i'm not a millionaire

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

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

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

this entire summer, i'll have nothing to do, except perhaps party with jessica alba

My whole day, pretty much, was just a tedious bundle of hours waiting for the LOST season finale. I should have just slept in. I did a bunch of work and fussed my way through e-mails, but I couldn't stop looking at the clock. The season finale was awesome, and I think I was standing for most of it; but the only thing that sucked about it was the realization that I'd have to wait FOREVER to see the next new episode. It's like four months away, and I could be dead by then. All that are left now are the long, hot, Evangeline Lilly-less days of summer. Luckily, my roommates are still catching up watching season one...

I'll manage to survive somehow. LOST dominated much of the day, but there was still some other shit that happened too. I locked my door behind me this morning and instantly realized I'd left without my keys. No one was home when I got out of work, so I had to climb in through the side window, which turned out to be a very demoralizing venture. The window didn't look all that high up, but I'm not as spry as I was when I was but a lad. I opened the window and placed my arms on the sill and quickly took stock of my perdicament. The windowsill stood about chest high. I figured a simple hop would do it, and it would have, if I were an NBA star. A running start would do. For some reason, I thought I'd be able to vault myself in like Mary Lou Retton or... some... male gymnast. I took a few steps back, lurched foward, hopped, then jumped and banged up my shins something awful. I was left with no other option other than brute strength. If I couldn't pull it off, there was no telling whether or not I'd even see the finale. I muscled up to the window, planted my hands firmly hopped and leveraged against the sill.

I hung motionless above the ground, and my thighs were yelling at me to the tune of "You dumb chubby fuck! Call a locksmith!" But I perservered. Or however it's spelled. And pushed my behemoth noggin through the blinds. I'm glad no one was in earshot of my pathetic groans and wheezes. I kicked and struggled and slithered my gut over the sill and into my house. Take that Mary Lou. And I landed in a crouch on my living room floor. I thought I'd torn a quad or something the way my legs were yelling at me, but I told them to fuck off. Pizza was on the way and Evangeline would be close behind.

I also got a shout out on the MySpace page of one of the bands I interviewed (a kinda big one on Ozzfest). I was stoked and felt like a celebrity. But that may have been because I'd gotten an e-mail from Jessica Alba earlier in the day--two, in fact!

Okay, so I suppose they weren't really from Jessica Alba. Apparently she doesn't have the time, nor the desire, to e-mail ponderously bulky dudes who flop around like docked mackeral when they're trying to break into their own houses. The e-mails were sent by a marketing company plugging a contest for tickets to the MTV Movie Awards, which I suppose must be hosted by Jessica Alba this year. The e-mails had a flier with a picture of Jessica on it and some shit about how, if you won, you'd be able to interview stars and stuff, and a link to a contest page. However, when I checked the "from" line of the e-mail, they read "Jessica Alba." Well, it was funny when I was at the office. It seems to have lost something now. So here's another picture. Good night.

melting pot

I watched an episode from season 5 of The Sopranos tonight that kinda got to me. In this season, Tony Soprano's cousin, Tony B. (played by Steve Buscemi), is let out of prison and tells Soprano that he wants to go straight. He did some thinking in the pen and decided to learn a traded instead of reentering the family business. Soprano's a bit upset by this, wanting things to back as they were, but supports his cousin in his new endeavor and goes as far as to set him up with a legit job while he studies to become a state-certified masseur. Tony B.'s job is with Mr. Kim, a Korean immigrant who owns and operates a laundry business. Kim doesn't like having Tony B. around, but knows he needs Soprano's union connections to survive. In this episode, Tony B. is out on the job and while he's loading the back of the truck, it gets stolen. Kim initially blames Tony, because of his previous record, but after finding out it was the work of two kids looking for a joyride, apologizes and offers Tony a deal. Kim says that he found out that Tony is studying to better himself, and given the long hours he's working at the laundry service, Kim admires Tony's work ethic. He tells Tony that as soon as he's board-certified, Kim will let him use an old storefront he owns as an office. The two will be partners, and Kim's directionless daughter (who's smoking hot by the way) will help out as well.

Tony is elated. He's teary eyed when telling the rest of the guys and says "Getting out of prison is a lot like being an immigrant." Tony gets his certification and begins work on fixing the office while splitting time working the laundry business. One night, Tony's sharing the story of his good fortune with his girlfriend when a car comes zipping around the block and tosses a bag out the window. Tony goes over to investigate and it's full of drugs and money, $12K. He tosses the drugs and keeps the money. He says he's going to buy his girl a ring, but she advises that he should invest that money back into the business. He ends up spending it on alcohol and gambling and living the good life he was accustomed to before he went to prison. However, this time around he's still busting his ass at his two legit enterprises. It gets to be too much for Tony. The scene that got me was, after a long night of drinking and gambling, Tony was painting at the office and gets a call from his girlfriend. She tells him the massage tables were sent to his grandmother's address (the wrong place) and he snaps at her; she snaps back. He hangs up on her when Kim walks in. He says the place is looking nice and asks about the tables. Tony snaps at him and goes back to painting. Kim is in a good mood, because he's looking forward to the new venture, but Tony is bent over and angry. Kim is unbothered by the snippy remark and continues with the conversation, but Tony only becomes more agitated and makes fun of Kim's thick accent. Kim again remains positive, though he's obviously hurt by the remark and says, "So, partner, we open in three days!" To which Tony punches him hard in the nose. It was a very violent scene and very troubling to watch.

My grandparents were immigrants, obviously, because I'm a white person. My family wasn't brought here in chains or nudged out of their homes. Still, I'm sure my grandparents suffered some measure of discrimination or prejudice when they got here, which they in turn levied on to the next group that arrived. The door to the country was open, but I don't think there was a welcome mat. I haven't followed it all that much, and I don't understand a lot of the measures whatnot that Congress keeps voting on in regards to immigration. I'm not a big follower of politics, but it weirded me out when I heard that a measure to build a giant fence across the US-Mexico border was passed by an overwhelming majority. It almost seems like something out of a movie, like Escape from New York or something. Really? A fence? A giant fence? It's the message it sends out more than anything that bothers me. I mean, even I can scale a fence, and if they were going to throw all this money at something to keep Mexicans out of the country, I figured they'd put it toward something that might actually work. I always figured the more the merrier. I've driven across the country a couple times and I was surprised to see that there wasn't anything there. Just tons of empty space. I dunno, now maybe it's a good thing they build a fence so people can't get in. That way they won't find out that the American dream is rapidly turning to shit.

In that article I linked to a Republican senator from Alabama, Jeff Sessions, said that The Great Wall of Texas would be "a signal that open-border days are over." He then butchered a quote from one of my favorite poets, Robert Frost, "Good fences make good neighbors, fences don't make bad neighbors."

Of course, if Jeff Sessions had read the poem, he may have realized the irony in that statement.

Mending Wall
By Robert Frost

Something there is that doesn't love a wall,
That sends the frozen-ground-swell under it
And spills the upper boulder in the sun,
And make gaps even two can pass abreast.
The work of hunters is another thing:
I have come after them and made repair
Where they have left not one stone on a stone,
But they would have the rabbit out of hiding,
To please the yelping dogs. The gaps I mean,
No one has seen them made or heard them made,
But at spring mending-time we find them there,
I let my neighbor know beyond the hill;
And on a day we meet to walk the line
And set the wall between us once again.
We keep the wall between us as we go.
To each the boulders that have fallen to each.
And some are loaves and some so nearly balls
We have to use a spell to make them balance:
"Stay where you are until our backs are turned!"
We wear our fingers rough with handling them.
Oh, just another kind of outdoor game,
One on a side. It comes to little more:
There where it is we do not need the wall:
He is all pine and I am apple orchard.
My apple trees will never get across
And eat the cones under his pines, I tell him.
He only says, "Good fences make good neighbors."
Spring is the mischief in me, and I wonder
If I could put a notion in his head:
"Why do they make good neighbors? Isn't it
Where there are cows? But here there are no cows.
Before I built a wall I'd ask to know
What I was walling in or walling out,
And to whom I was like to give offense.
Something there is that doesn't love a wall,
That wants it down." I could say "Elves" to him,
But it's not elves exactly, and I'd rather
He said it for himself. I see him there,
Bringing a stone grasped firmly by the top
In each hand, like an old-stone savage armed.
He moves in darkness as it seems to me,
Not of woods only and the shade of trees.
He will not go behind his father's saying,
And he likes having thought of it so well
He says again, "Good fences make good neighbors."

confluence

For some reason, that word popped in my head as I stood up against the wall at meathead tavern. I was at the office until 4:45am last night, and I felt like going out. I went to work late, came home early and then went out to do laundry. I had to dip into my backup underwear reserves the past two days, which is not something I like to do. After LOST, I shaved, showered and put on my freshly washed clothes and then sat down in my living room wondering why I'd gone through so much trouble. I didn't have "plans." In fact, as I sat there on the couch, staring at the first disc of season five of the Sopranos that had just arrived from my new Netflix account, I contemplated not going out at all. Unfortunately, my wanderlust had gotten the best of me; I had gone through all this trouble. This was the first time I'd washed my three pairs of jeans in at least two and a half weeks, and the weather was nice enough.

I headed out to meathead tavern because I had plenty of drink tickets there and I figured I'd bump into someone I know. I entered to find the place crowded; and it was a total sausage fest. I said hi to a couple people and then found a spot by a television set to watch Sportscenter when the word "confluence" popped in my head. I don't think I've ever actually used it in a sentence. In fact, though I'm sure it's a word, I have no idea what it means. So I had to look it up at m-w.com, the site without which I'd never be able to function as an editor. This is what the good people at Meriam Webster had to say:

1 : a coming or flowing together, meeting, or gathering at one point
2 a : the flowing together of two or more streams b : the place of meeting of two streams c : the combined stream formed by conjunction

I guess, looking back, that had absolutely nothing to do with the evening's course of events. Maybe it did in the most basic sense as a bar is a place where people come together. At meathead tavern, I drank my Captain and 7 and stared mindlessly at the television in-between catching passing glances at the new bar maiden as she cheerily stalked around picking up empty glasses. I was checking to see if Barry Bonds had tied Babe Ruth for second on the all-time home run list. There's a lot of hate for Barry and I can understand why. I always thought he was a prick--arrogant, self-centered--but that never changed my opinion that he's perhaps the greatest ballplayer I've ever seen. Ken Griffey Jr. would have gotten that honor if he could've only stayed healthy, though, if Albert Pujols keeps going the way he is, he's going to trump both of them around the time he turns 30. As far as I'm concerned, whether or not Bonds took performance enhancing drugs is irrelevant. All modern day record seekers have come under the same amount of fire, even more likable chaps like Sammy Sosa and Mark Maguire who helped resurrect interest in the game after strikes and contract squabbles had crushed people's faith in the American pastime.

But while Sosa and Maguire were shooting for a single season mark, Bonds is going for something much more hallowed, and he's going up against the most important man in baseball history. Babe Ruth was well before my time. Even before my father's time. The only images that I have of Ruth are sped up black and white highlight reels: Babe winking at the camera, Babe swinging for the fences, Babe's legs moving at unnatural speeds as he motors his ponderous form down the first base line. I'm not denying that, in his day, Babe Ruth was the most powerful player in the sport, but I doubt he'd be the prodigy he was if he'd been playing in the modern age. Maybe it is performance enhancing drugs, or that the ball is "juiced" to produce more home runs, but I think it's ridiculous to ignore the possibility, that after well over a hundred years of playing the sport, that the players have become more fine-tuned and sophisticated. There have been countless advances in scouting, technology, training...I'm getting off base.

Maybe Bonds knew, maybe he didn't. The fact of the matter is that MLB didn't have a drug/steroid policy until 2003 and the alleged time of Bonds's steroid use was before 2003. I'm glad that MLB does have a steroid policy in place now because they're harmful and they send out a wrong message, but if baseball was concerned with that, they would've done something about it long before 2003. Now that the game's most revered icons is about to be passed up for the second time by a black man, no less, people are screaming for an asteriks. I dunno. I think about it a lot, but I don't have any solid opinion. I never liked Barry Bonds, but that doesn't change his accomplishments. Neither does a little cream. In case you were wondering, here are some letters Hank Aaron got when he approached and later demolished Babe Ruth's all-time home run record:

"Dear Nigger Henry,

You are (not) going to break this record established by the great Babe Ruth if I can help it. . . . Whites are far more superior than jungle bunnies. . . . My gun is watching your every black move."

"Dear Henry Aaron,

How about some sickle cell anemia, Hank?"

Y'know, same shit different year.

I watched the television and saw that Bonds was still stuck on 713 HRs. After the report, ESPN tacked on a montage clip at the end of Bonds smacking long balls. This caught the attention of a young woman at the bar who could barely stand and was being led toward the bathroom by a girlfriend of hers. She stopped in front of me, and, seeing that I was watching the television, pounded my chest and shouted, "He did it! Barry hit the homer!" I tried to explained to her that he hadn't, that they were just showing clips, but she was so happy about it, I felt kind of bad, and besides, she was already being hurried further into the crowd.

marketing

ABC claimed that LOST was new tonight, but really, their "new" episode was a recap of recent events in the LOST-universe. As an avid geek, I was well aware of what was going on, that being another week without my regular fix. And I was pissed. But not too pissed because I had tickets to see Ice Cube.

I'm not the biggest fan of hip-hop, but I do admire it for a variety of reasons. Since moshing has become passe, most rock shows have become rather static affairs. Dudes (and a few chicks) nod their heads and do their best to look cool and have a good time without looking like they're having a good time. This is fine by me, because I've never been a doer, really. I'm more of a watcher, but I love the energy given off by people who are unabashedly and rapturously enjoying a concert. It's one of the main reasons why I go to so many. I have seen a lot of really shitty bands, but a hyped crowd has won me over many a time.

Hip-hop shows, on the other hand, is all about crowd participation, and that's thanks in big part to the performers. I guess since they're not busy tuning instruments or fidgeting with amps and effects, they have nothing better to do than work the crowd. I went to an Eminem show once--he was on this package tour with a lot of other rap acts like Xzibit (who rocks)--and there was one dude who was always on stage between bands and his whole purpose seemed to be to grab the mic and shout "MAKE SOME MUTHAFUCKIN' NOISE!!!" Which led me and my friend to call the whole affair the "make some muthafuckin' noise" tour. The thing is, if you shout something at a group of people enough, they will eventually shout back at you. It's all about conditioning, marketing.

As I approached the venue tonight--a sweltering hot evening compared to the long, long string of raw, windy, rainy days we've had here in the usually affably climed state of California--I was enveloped by the diverse group of people filing into the show. The bass was already vibrating the pavement outside. I was also confronted with a horde of hopeful rappers plying their CDs. I bought one for five bucks, because I like to help out. Not a bad move selling your CDs outside a place where you're likely to meet every hip-hop fan in a 150 mile radius.

The show was packed and the interior of the building was unbearably hot. The base throbbing from the story-tall speakers rattled my bones and caused my empty gut (I'd forgone dinner this evening) to shutter and groan. I'd gotten there just in time for The Clipse, who I was really more interested in seeing than the headliner. Lord Willin' is one of the few hip-hop albums in my collection, and I remember running otu to buy it after hearing just one single. I wasn't disappointed. Unfortunately, I got there too late to hear one of the rawest party jams of all time, which I've posted the video of here for my own enjoyment.



The Clipse was good, for sure, but Cube was unreal. I was worried he'd come out and do one verse and a chorus from each of his big songs and call it a night after half-hour. But as soon as he came out, he attacked the mic, played full songs, and didn't even rap over his CD--a live DJ stood behind and cut records. He played old shit and new shit, and the new shit was really dope. He broke twice from his hour-and-a-half set to tell us that he had a new album coming out called Laugh Now Cry Later on June 6th, 2006 (yeah 06/06/06...there are a lot of albums planned for that date, simply so they can plug the whole 666 thing). Cube would say, "Y'all may not know, but I have a new album coming out." And his hypeman/back-up rapper WC (who held it down in his own right) would ask, "When?" And Cube would say "June. Sixth." "When?" "June. Sixth."

The first time around, they went back and forth a few times. The second time, Cube said "Y'all may not know I have a new album coming out." I laughed and shouted--drowned out, obviously, by all the noise--"I knew! You just told us." "It's called Laugh Now Cry Later and it's coming out June. Sixth." "When?" asked Dub-C. And the crowd bellowed along with Cube "June. Sixth." Cube smiled and said, "Looks like we got us a bunch of smart muthafuckas up in here." I tipped my proverbial cap to Cube. That may or may not have been the case, but I knew for sure we had at least one.

excess

I haven't showered in a few days. I can't tell if I stink or not because I'm all stuffed up. I only walked out of the house to check the mail. I think it was raining most of the day. My roommate said it was raining. Last night I went out to a show with a bunch of country-fied punk rockers being all troubadour and playing acoustic guitar. It was pretty good. I had a couple drinks, but I wasn't much in the mood to get drunk. I get worried that I'll have some kind of weird reaction because I'm on medication. But I'm just paranoid. People mix booze and pills all the time, and they're okay. And it's not really even medication like Prozac or something cool. It's just one-a-day alergy medicine--over the counter shit, Alavert, it doesn't even make me drowsy, but it is doing the trick so I can't complain. After the show, I wandered downtown because my roommate and her boyfriend were calling it a night, but it was too late for me to hit last call, so I just got a slice of pizza from the cart (since all I had for dinner was really bland split pea soup) and walked back home.

I decided before I rolled out of bed that I wasn't going to do anything today. I would've went on my walk if it wasn't raining, but other than that, I knew I wasn't going out. I had a dinner planned and season four of The Sopranos to watch, and I was determined to get through the whole thing this weekend. I loved the show before I moved out here, but since I didn't have HBO for a while, I lost track after season three. One of my coworkers convinced me that I should start watching the current season on OnDemand, and now I'm hooked all over again. I got through two of the four disks today, even though my DVD player is giving me fits, and I made myself a pretty bad ass dinner.

Since my last food shopping excursion, I've been a cooking fool. The only problem is I always seem to make too much and I don't know what to do with the leftovers. The ravioli and meatballs I made last week never seemed to run out--it even spawned a small meatloaf because I couldn't fit all the meatballs into the sauce--and I still have some of the sauce left, though I'm sure I should toss it. I had to use two containers to keep all the lentils and pasta (I had some for breakfast), and even the tuna fish sandwich I made for lunch today yielded half a bowl of unused tuna salad. All of which, I have piled in a corner of my fridge. Today, I finally got it figured out. I made a big ol' balanced meal for one: chicken cutlet parmigiana on a bed of pasta and a side of steamed broccoli. The broccoli was so green and crunchy, and the chicken parm was just unreal, my best one yet by far. I even made it look pretty by sprinkling basil on top of it. I like everything I cook, though, because I did it all by myself and I can eat it when I'm done. I cleaned up the kitchen earlier in the day, so I ate at the kitchen table like a civilized person and listened to Amandine's This Is Where Our Hearts Collide, which makes dinner sound a lot more emo than it actually was.

common people

Food shopping. My home is full of various meats and foodstuffs. I spent like 80 bucks. So far, I've had milk for cereal, and I made myself ravioli and meatballs. And it came out pretty damn good. I had some meat mixture left over so I fashioned it into a makeshift meatloaf, which I will gnaw on tomorrow at lunch. I think I'll come home for lunch. That sounds like a nice idea.

I've been getting really distracted lately. One of the reasons why I haven't been writing down in this thing so much. I've been forgetting to do the little things like pay my bills and all that jazz. And just typing that sent me to pay my Master Card. Maybe this thing is actually good for something.

Anyway, I cooked and watched 24 for the first time in three or four weeks. It's an easy show to pick up again. They lay everything out really easy and kind of brow beat you with the main points. All you have to remember is Jack this and President that and wait for the explosions. I really like Chloe, though, because she makes the best faces. It was a pretty good episode, if not somewhat anticlimactic. I also had to run back to the oven a few times to check on my meatloaf.

Afterwards, I caught some special on E! about "kept men," who are men who get hooked up with a ridiculously rich female celeb and/or billionaire heiress and basically just live on the mooch. It was very inspiring and really compelled me to practice my meatloaf making skills. Hopefully, one day they'll be good enough to snag me a pop star and I can get Rogaine and grow my new head of hair into corn rows like K-Fed. Any female celebrity reading this, please take note: I won't cost you as much as Federline. You won't have to buy me a Ferrari or nothing. I'll even cook. And cameras freak me out, so you'll always be front and center. Where you belong. You look hot in that dress. Hot.

And then I watched Domino with Keira Knightley and some other people (Mickey Rourke and Mo'nique (!!!)). My interest ebbed and flowed for this one, though it definitely had its moments. And in one scene, Ms. Knightley got topless and you could see her boobies, proving good things can come in small packages.

But other than the starlet fan service, there were some interesting themes--a lot of which went over my head, I think, or maybe I'm just giving them too much credit--and strong character development. I probably would've thought it a great movie if True Romance and Natural Born Killers weren't already made, like 10 years ago. Still, it was slick, stylish and very cleverly written (I liked a lot of the dialog), though sometimes it smacked me upside the head too much with the stylish. There were more shots packed into this movie than I think any movie of the same length ever, which didn't do much for my recent bout with ADD, nor did it allow me to take a clear mental snapshot of the aforementioned boobies scene. Still, good job, very trippy and a nice acid-soaked soundtrack.

Though Domino isn't really a true story, it's based on a real person, Domino Harvey, who was an actual model/rich girl-turned-bounty hunter. I checked out the short documentary about her in the special features after the movie. I guess she just died of a heart attack last year, but seemed to live quite a life for only 35 years. Still, not to talk smack about a dead person, but there was one person who commented about her (granted, this wasn't a direct quote from Harvey herself). He was asked, I suppose, why someone of such an affluent background (her mother was a model and her father a famous actor) would want to be a bounty hunter in the roughest streets of Los Angeles, and the commentor said that she liked to be around poor people and experiencing the kinds of struggles she never could in her own life. That kinda reminded me of a song written by Jarvis Cocker for the band Pulp called "Common People":

She came from Greece, she had a thirst for knowledge
She studied sculpture at Saint Martin's College
That's where I caught her eye
She told me that her Dad was loaded
I said "In that case I'll have rum and coca-cola
She said "fine"
And then in 30 seconds time she said
"I want to live like common people
I want to do whatever common people do
I want to sleep with common people
I want to sleep with common people like you"
Well what else could I do?
I said "I'll see what I can do"
I took her to a supermarket
I don't know why
but I had to start it somewhere
so it started there
I said "pretend you've got no money"
but she just laughed
and said "oh you're so funny"
I said "Yeah
Well I can't see anyone else smiling in here
Are you sure
you want to live like common people
you want to see whatever common people see
you want to sleep with common people
you want to sleep with common people like me?"
But she didn't understand
she just smiled and held my hand

There's more to it than that, but I really like that song. I thought it was kinda fitting, not so much for what she did, I guess, but for what that guy said about what she did. I think I had a point, but I'm already losing focus. If any one has that song, I'd love to download it from you. Because I'm broke. And I'm not smiling.

vacation from the world

Today was pretty much one of the more sublimely perfect days I've had this year:

• I watched baseball and drank beer.
• I watched and downloaded pornography.
• I watched LOST and drank beer in between watching baseball and downloading and watching pornography.
• I closely followed the comings and goings of my fantasy baseball team, which did pretty well today.
• I contacted via phone, text messages and MySpace many folks I hadn't been in contact with recently, and that was really cool.
• I got a phone call from my student loan company, which I'm hella late on payments and they told me not to worry about it and zeroed me out, putting me into forebearance until May 14th. The money I've owed went on to my principle, but at least I'm not behind anymore, and I've fully resigned myself to the fact that I will be dead before I pay it off anyways.
• Did I mention that I watched LOST? it was fucking awe-fucking-some. No really. It got off to a slower start than last season, but I'm thinking this one is even better than the first, and I swear Evangeline Lilly's getting hotter. Or I'm getting lonlier (ie. pornography). Either way, I goddamn love that show. But since we're on the lonely topic, I'm going to depart from the listing format and go of on a bit of a tangent. Since my new roommates have moved in, I've pretty much been left to my own devices (ie. pornography with the sound on, even though the sound embarasses me sometimes and even though no one else but the cat can hear it, I'll still turn it down; it's my ironic form of modesty), and while it's cool that I get to lay on the couch and drink beer and watch baseball all day, it still kinda bums me out. They both have boyfriends and whatnot, so they're either over at "his" houses or just kinda hibernating. I guess that's what couples do. They spend time with each other, but living alone doesn't sit well with me. I talk to the cat from time to time, but I don't know if he likes me, though lately he's been warming up to me because I'm the one who feeds him and is here most of the time, when I'm not stuck in the office. The house isn't very big, but it does have three bedrooms, which means it's made for at least three people, and I find myself wandering aroudn the house aimlessly and talking to myself. I'm on friendly terms with both my roommates and their boyfriends, but still I feel like I'm a leper or something. I'm kinda needy like that. If I could afford it, I guess I'd be better off getting my own place or something. But I do really love this house and its location and I promised myself that if I move again, it'll be out of this town. Anyway, I think I have one more item to list...
• I read some recipes from Rachael Ray's 30-Minute Get Real Meals cookbook (which belongs to one of my absentee roomies). Now that I've been paid and whatnot, I'd like to go food shopping at some point this week, and I was looking for something fun and easy to make. I found a recipe for "Meatball and Sausage Pizza Stoup" which doesn't sound immediately appetizing, but does combine two of my favorite meals (soup and pizza) so it can't possibly be bad. In the intro for the recipe, Rachael writes, "The meatball dumplings in the stoup [I'm not sure what "stoup" is but it sounds like a mix between soup and stew] taste okay without 2 tablespoons of breadcrumbs, but being a Sicilian girl, I simply cannot make a meatball with no breadcrumbs." Momma woulda been so proud of her baby boy if I'd brought you home, but you had to go and marry someone else. In another life perhaps.
  

Liakhovich v. Brewster

Tonight, after the hectic pace of the past few weeks had finally subdued, I nestled into my couch to watch a healthy amount of television. I watched the A's beat the Yankees, Gina get kicked off of America's Next Top Model, best of skits from The Chapelle Show and, keeping with the model theme, Super Models Gone Bad on E!. As dramatic as all of these things were, none of them could hold a candle to Liakhovich v. Brewster on Showtime--quite possibly the best heavyweight title fight I've ever seen.

The heavyweight division of boxing has been in a real mess ever since Tyson went apeshit crazy. I guess a case could be made that it was pretty messy even when Tyson was knocking fools out in the first 20 seconds of the first round. Regardless, there hasn't been a real unified champion in forever, and sports commentators and promoters are clamoring to find out who the next undisputed bad ass will be. Enter Liakhovich v. Brewster for the WBO Heavyweight Championship.

I'm not at all familiar with Lamon Brewster, the defending champ going into the match. My enjoyment of boxing is pretty pedestrian. I don't follow the sport on a daily basis, but I will watch pretty much any fight, usually as long as I catch it from the beginning, because fights tell full stories, and I don't want to miss anything. However, from the pre-fight interview, in which Brewster (the dude on the left in the picture above) was wearing a white T-shirt with his two children on it, seemed like a pretty nice guy. He mentioned his hardships growing up (it's rare that fighters come from untroubled backgrounds, I guess, because if you had it really easy, you've got no excuse to fight) and how he's using the money he's making as a fighter (a pretty good sum since he's been champion for a couple years) for his children's education. The commentators said that he has the most killer left hook in the heavyweight division, but needs to work on his defense, meaning his fights are slugfests. I liked Brewster instantly.

But then came challenger 13-ranked, 29-year-old Sergei Liakhovich, who came to the US from Belarus with $100 bucks in his pocket (that he borrowed from someone else) and a dream to become the heavyweight champion. He hadn't had a fight in 16 months, and people criticized Brewster's decision to fight him because they thought Liakhovich an unworthy adversary. He was given no chance to win. He talked about the political climate in his country and how he fights for his homeland. His beautiful wife was in attendance, sitting in the second row, and the fight was being broadcasted back to his country. It's no mystery why there are so many boxing movies.

I spent almost the whole fight standing and pacing around my living room. I pace when I get excited (I also pace when I'm bored, but this time was for excitement). Just when one fighter looked as if he was finished, he'd land a Herculean blow out of nowhere that would turn the tide for a round or two, only to have the tide turned back again. I one of the earlier rounds, Liakhovich was pinned against the ropes and Brewster went in for the kill. Liakhovich took a flurry of shots to the head but somehow, I'm still not sure how, stayed standing and after Brewster punched himself out, retaliated to have Brewster against the ropes. In the seventh round, after Liakhovich dominated, punishing Brewster with shots to the body and quick left hooks, but by the end of the round, he had run out of gas, and again, Brewster, who looked worse for wear, moved in and eventually dropped Liakhovich to the canvas at the end of the round. In the ninth, Liakhovich, who looked like he had nothing left, hit Brewster with a right hand straight to the ear that even rocked me out of my seat. The punch had a dizzying effect, sending Brewster to the ropes, where he was unloaded upon. Somehow, and again I don't know how, he managed to stay up. Liakhovich managed to ride that last momentum swing into the 12th round and emerged the new champion, winning in a close but unanimous decision.

Usually heavyweights aren't as active as these two fighters, but these guys threw so many punches at times, they could've outworked a featherweight. Epic. They're set to have a rematch, but if I want to see it, I'm probably gonna have to pay for it. And I think I just might. As Don King says, "Only in America."

dear kim bauer 2

Hey...uh. It's me again.

I know what you're probably thinking. "It's totally wee in the Sunday AMs and 24's like more than a day away." But I've got some stuff I'm mulling over in my head, and I figured you were as good a person as any seeing as you're totally fictional (and totally hot). I guess not totally fictional, but I don't know Elisha Cuthbert, per se. I'm more familiar with Ms. Bauer.

ANYWAY.

I opened my big mouth again and they made me managing editor of the mag. I totally didn't want to do it, but I thought it was the right thing to do, and my mom drilled it in my head that doing the right thing is important. At least I think she did; but I'm not trying to blame her for what I've done. Mom didn't factor into my decision to open my big mouth and volunteer myself for the position. I think that was a mixture of my ironic pride and misguided megalomania. I won't get into all the details, because it's been such a dizzying week that I've forgotten them.

I never raised my hand in class, even when I knew the answers. I'd give them when the teacher's called on me, but otherwise I kept my mouth shut. I didn't want to be seen as a suck up or a know-it-all. It was easier for me to be a background fixture. I always worked hard, though. Being lazy in my family was kind of a crime, seeing as my dearly departed grandfather used to work something like 304 jobs or something like that. The basement of my grandparents' house was a depository for all sorts of tools of his many trades. i think he even made boots. He had the tools to do so anyway, though I can't say I've ever seen any of the boots he made.

I guess that's it. I'd like to think my grandfather made nice boots. But right now, I'm more concerned about why I thought it'd be a good idea to make more work and stress for myself.

Ready for an ulcer,

-j.