eye candy

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

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

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

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

shades of gray

Some lazy afternoon when most people are at school or work, I was home. Maybe I was sick or maybe I just didn't have anything to do that day. My mother and I ended up watching some guy behind a desk giving a monologue about the trials and tribulations he faced trying to cure his macular pucker. We both really enjoyed it, and it seemed that every time I was at home when most people are at school or work, the film starring the fast-talking, paranoid-delusional and poignantly insightful gray-haired man was on IFC. It was sure better than sitting in the class room.

The movie was Gray's Anatomy, and it introduced me to one of the real treasures of New York City, Spalding Gray. He was an actor and a writer--he had roles here and there in movies like The Killing Fields--but he made a name for himself with his monologues, in which he talked candidly about his life as a writer, actor and later husband and father. I liked his sardonic sense of humor and how he blew up even the most mundane things into bigger-than-life experiences. His voice was very expressive and still bore the remnants of his New England upbringing. Other than Gray's Anatomy, two other films of his monologues are available: Monster in the Box and Swimming to Cambodia. A few years ago, he killed himself by jumping off the Staten Island Ferry. He had been missing for quite some time. His body was found washed up on the shores of Brooklyn.

Gray had a tumultuous life. His mother committed suicide. He cheated his wife and longtime collaborator with the woman who survived him and is the mother of his children. On a trip to Ireland, he was in a car accident that almost killed him, but left him scarred. Unable to cope with his injury and suffering from complications, he fell further into depression and eventually took his own life.

Monster in the Box is probably my favorite of the three. I just saw it again this evening. It's about his journey as a writer to complete his book Impossible Vacation, a mammoth 1,900 page manuscript about a New England man whose mother commits suicide while he is away on a trip. The monologue recounts Spalding's travels from New York City to Los Angeles to Nicaragua to the former Soviet Union and back to New York where, while playing The Stage Manager in a production of Our Town, he finally finishes his manuscript. (The published novel is only around 230 pages, though. I would've hated to have to edit that down.) Through out, Gray chronicles the internal and external distractions that impeded his progress on the book, and since at one time I foolishly tried to write a book, I guess I can relate to some extent.

Considering trying to figure out how to wrap this up, I've spent the last half-hour watching videos on YouTube, I guess the distraction thing really hits home. I wanted to find a quote from the movie; it was his description of his Los Angeles apartment and the ever-present California sun, but Google betrayed me. You can blame technology. RIP Spalding.

go ask alice...i think she'll know

I was doing some searching on Netflix for Kate Beckinsale movies, because even though we're madly in love (I sent her a letter about it, and since I haven't received one back, I'm going to assume that my feelings are reciprocated), I've only seen a few of them. I saw an Alice move on the list and moved it to the top of my queue. I guess it was made for British television, but it had a really good cast (Ian Holm, Steve Coogan, Ms. Beckinsale, and a few other really good British actors who I've seen a billion times but don't know their names).

It was very childish, but in a good way. It was obviously made for kids, but even the most saccharine portrayals of Lewis Carroll's work kinda freak me out. I told this to my roommate and she said that the Disney cartoon gave her nightmares when she was a kid. I still get an eerie chill when I think of some of the scenes in that.

What I like most about Carroll's work is his poetry and how he mixes it into his prose as if they were nursery rhymes passed down through generations. Ian Holm gave a beautiful reading of this poem in the telefilm, and it really got under my skin.

`I'll tell thee everything I can;
There's little to relate.
I saw an aged aged man,
A-sitting on a gate.
"Who are you, aged man?' I said.
"and how is it you live?"
And his answer trickled through my head
Like water through a sieve.

He said "I look for butterflies
That sleep among the wheat:
I make them into mutton-pies,
And sell them in the street.
I sell them unto men,' he said,
"Who sail on stormy seas;
And that's the way I get my bread --
A trifle, if you please."

But I was thinking of a plan
To dye one's whiskers green,
And always use so large a fan
That they could not be seen.
So, having no reply to give
To what the old man said,
I cried, "Come, tell me how you live!"
And thumped him on the head.

His accents mild took up the tale:
He said "I go my ways,
And when I find a mountain-rill,
I set it in a blaze;
And thence they make a stuff they call
Rolands' Macassar Oil --
Yet twopence-halfpenny is all
They give me for my toil."

But I was thinking of a way
To feed oneself on batter,
And so go on from day to day
Getting a little fatter.
I shook him well from side to side,
Until his face was blue:
"Come, tell me how you live," I cried,
"And what it is you do!"

He said "I hunt for haddocks' eyes
Among the heather bright,
And work them into waistcoat-buttons
In the silent night.
And these I do not sell for gold
Or coin of silvery shine
But for a copper halfpenny,
And that will purchase nine.

"I sometimes dig for buttered rolls,
Or set limed twigs for crabs;
I sometimes search the grassy knolls
For wheels of Hansom-cabs.
And that's the way" (he gave a wink)
"By which I get my wealth --
And very gladly will I drink
Your Honour's noble health."

I heard him then, for I had just
Completed my design
To keep the Menai bridge from rust
By boiling it in wine.
I thanked much for telling me
The way he got his wealth,
But chiefly for his wish that he
Might drink my noble health.

And now, if e'er by chance I put
My fingers into glue
Or madly squeeze a right-hand foot
Into a left-hand shoe,
Or if I drop upon my toe
A very heavy weight,
I weep, for it reminds me so,
Of that old man I used to know --

Whose look was mild, whose speech was slow,
Whose hair was whiter than the snow,
Whose face was very like a crow,
With eyes, like cinders, all aglow,
Who seemed distracted with his woe,
Who rocked his body to and fro,
And muttered mumblingly and low,
As if his mouth were full of dough,
Who snorted like a buffalo --
That summer evening, long ago,
A-sitting on a gate.'

I'm not quite sure what I think about it yet, but I love the rhythm of it, and the way Holm read it made it all seem really poignant. Maybe it was the accent. Not that I'm trying to be all "tell me your feelings" but if anyone of the four of you who read this have any thoughts about it, I'd like to hear it.

As if the Mets taking two of three from the Yankees wasn't enough to get the coming week off to a good start, I'm also going to sign my life away on a 2005 Scion xB. I got a pretty good deal on it and the payments are pretty low. I'm just really excited about having a car again, even if it means I won't be able to afford taking it anywhere. The one I'm getting is white, which isn't my favorite color (you know, it gets dirty real easy), and I'm not sure what I'm going to name her.

get it right the first time, then you wouldn't have these problems

The Mets dropped two of three at home to the fucking Braves. It's early in the season, really early, but it feels like 1990whatever - 2005 all over again. I can stomach losses to just about any other team, even the Yankees, but I take watching the Mets/Braves rivalry extremely personally. When the Mets lose to the Braves, it makes me want to throw a battery at a motherfucker.

I called my parents to bitch, but they weren't home. They called me 10 minutes later from my grandma's house to bitch about the same thing. My father used the word "fuck" liberally and then passed the phone on to my mom. She wasn't too happy about it either, but she doesn't use "fuck" too much. We said some snippy things to each other and then started laughing about it. It's only April, we reminded ourselves, we've got a whole season of aggravation to look forward to.

All day I've been putting off rewriting this cover letter and resume. I'm putting it off now too. I got some help editing it. I'm afraid of a few things: death, spiders, deadly spiders; but my worst fear is failure. Probably because I feel like I've failed at just about everything. The only reason why I'm applying for another job is because I feel like I've done poorly at this one, and another project I've had a significant hand in is struggling to survive. This doesn't make me happy. I wanted this to succeed more than anything. It still might. I don't know.

This other job seems like a good opportunity. It'll bring me back home, probably get me a bit more money, and allow me to keep doing what I like to do without a lot of the responsibility. But this folded piece of paper--the edited cover letter and resume--sitting in front of me on the desk is giving my stomach fits.

This whole weekend has been like this. A bit of a waste. I didn't do anything on Saturday. It rained all day, and I stayed in bed to read the new run of Wonder Woman comics. I only stepped outside to go to the mailbox to see if my new Netflix movie had arrived. It had. It was Art School Confidential, and I really liked it. Before that, I watched this Woody Allen flick called Anything Else. I didn't realize it was one of Allen's until I got it home. I'd only put it in my queue because Christina Ricci's in it. I liked that one a lot too, though Jason Biggs was a bit annoying. The only reason I left the house today is because my roommates invited me to go to the park. There was cheese, crackers and beer involved. This one type of cheese smelled like ass. I've washed my hands five times since, but the stench is still there. It didn't taste much better either.

I got a little buzzed at the park so we headed to Safeway for more beer. I got a bottle of wine too that I'll nurse at night before I go to bed. I also got ice cream, White Castles from the freezer section and Stephen Colbert's Americone Dream (it's tasty). All of the items were frivolous, so I put them on my credit card. I've really got to get this letter done.

you can't cross the wall...nobody crosses the wall...

Spider-Man 3 is the best movie of 2007. I haven't seen it yet, but I don't have to. The trailers give me chills. Seriously. I think about the movie and my nipples get hard. I don't even have to go see it. In fact, I might just buy tickets to it and never go. It's already really fucking good in my head, and I wouldn't want to ruin it. That being said, there will be other movies that will tickle my fancy (I have a fancy to be tickled) this coming year. Ninja Cheerleaders for one. Also, the Transformers movie. That should be good. But the best of the bunch after The Best Movie of All Time Ever may be Stardust, based on the graphic novel by Neil Gaiman and Charles Vess, both of whom I've met, so I count as close personal friends.

(OK...on a side note, here's how I think Spider-Man 3 is going to go. At first, I thought it looked like putting Venom in it would be too much, because there's already Harry Osborn taking the mantle of the Green Goblin and the Sandman as Uncle Ben's killer and I figured they couldn't do that all in one movie. BUT, then I started thinking about it: So, Spidey finds out this new supervillain is really the mofo who offed his uncle, so he seeks revenge and fucks him the fuck up. This rage causes bad feelings to swelter which opens him up to the new black suit symbiote thing. THEN! Harry Osborn is all uppity so Spidey serves him something fierce, but they were tight homies so Spidey is all bummed. He realizes the suit's making him do bad things so he tears it off and then it finds Eddie Brock and becomes Venom and then Spidey has to engage in a metaphorical and actual battle against the rage that consumed him. And he makes out with Mary Jane a bunch of times. And I'll probably lose my shit in the theater and scream "FUCK HIM UP SPIDEY!!!" I've put a lot of thought into this.)

Anyway. Stardust. Here's the trailer. It stars Michelle Pfeiffer, Robert DeNiro, Ricky Gervais and Claire Danes, who I thought was super dreamy back when the graphic novel was originally released.

In other movie related news, rumors have surfaced that Kate Beckinsale may star in the Barbarella remake.



Squee.

twists and turns

Ever since I found the love of my life in Jim Henson's Labyrinth, you can pretty much put that word on anything and I'll want it. I love that word. I like how it's got a "y" in it that you don't really pronounce. It makes the whole thing more mythical and mysterious. I even had this board game called Labyrinth where you had to navigate this marble through a wooden maze. There were holes in the board and it was nearly impossible. I never made it to the end.

Last night I saw Pan's Labyrinth, and it was pretty much more awesome than everyone says it is. It's a mix of fantasy and harsh reality (mostly harsh reality), and if you have a problem going to a movie and having to read subtitles, you should really get over it.

I was pretty much hooked from the first shot, and that wasn't the whiskey's work either. Beforehand, my friend and I went to this bar across the street called, fittingly enough, Last Call, where we got our own dose of harsh reality. It's pretty much the final resting place for this town's many lost, drunken souls. Everyone was chatty. As soon as we walked in, everyone had a story to tell and they were eager to share it, even though we were complete strangers. I bumped into another guy from Staten Island who said he ended up here when he took "a wrong turn on the freeway." He would turn and speak with me, occasionally looking up from the lottery scratch-off games he and his girlfriend were playing. Later, this other guy rambled about how fun that particular bar was the night before. He mumbled something about a band and women, and how he was supposed to be jamming at someone's house right now. I realized it was 8:30 and wondered how everyone was already so wasted.

The final act was a dude with a fresh knot in his forehead. He talked to us about the ease of getting chicks downtown, which is easy for everyone but me apparently. I mentioned something about lines, meaning lines of people, and he instantly took it to mean lines of drugs. He told us that he'd been clean for a while, but just did a few lines of crystal meth the night before. He said he knew what his triggers were, like he couldn't be around straws. Then he confided that his first baby was due in 10 days, and he'd heard about it while firefighting. He told us that he didn't want to be a father, but was going to make good on it. When the mother called him to tell her she was pregnant, he told her that he wanted her to keep the baby. "I'm a Christian," he said. "I don't believe in abortion." It's always unsettling when you're face to face with a stereotype.

synchronicity

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

open the pod bay doors, HAL

I'd like to thank Ms. Lilly for her time as banner woman for Counting Backwards, but I figured since I'd renewed my license today, I might as well slap together a new look in honor of my impending birthday. Nothing will stand in its way now. Cosmic forces have conspired against me to lead me to this moment, and I'm powerless against them.

I made really good pasta today, though. Some basil, garlic, butter sauce thing and I threw zucchini in there for good measure. The chicken came out okay...I should have put it in the oven.

After dinner, I went over to my friend's store to watch Frankenhooker, which was pretty awesome. Really what made it was the actress who played the mismatched monster, Patty Mullen. She was sexy for sure, even with multi-toned skin, sutures and unfortunate late '80s style (I guess she also posed for Penthouse at some point), but more than that, her facial expressions were completely bad ass and she could shamble like nobody's business. I mean, sure, it's a movie about a girl who dies and is resurrected by her crazy-ass boyfriend using the parts of New York City crack whores, but it was really cool to see someone throw herself into a role, no matter how ridiculous it was. Is that admirable? I'd like to think so anyway. I'm sure Mary Shelley was only rolled over once in her grave over this one, which is a lot more than could be said for that Kenneth Branagh/Robert DeNiro fiasco.

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:

harvest moon

It's that time of year again. At least it must be, because the neighborhood be stank. I got back from drinking and Jackass Number Two and emerged from my friends car to be confronted by the overpowering skunk of ripening marijuana inundating my street. I guess it ripens. I don't know if that's the right word. It's not really a fruit I guess. At least not in the traditional sense of the word.

Whatever. My street smells like weed.

I could've sworn that the dudes got busted at some point earlier this year, but you can't keep a good dog down, so they say. I'm happy the wheels of free enterprise keep rolling ever forward, no matter what the oppressive regime tries to do to stop it. All Hail America. It sure makes me want to light up a doobie though. It's been so long since the last time I smoked, I still use the word "doobie."

Jackass Number Two was pretty much the most vile film I've ever seen. It was full of vomit, man ass, pubic hair, ball sacks and dudes getting smashed in the nuts. I couldn't stop laughing. I almost puked once. It was really good, but if I ever see another dude's ass again, it'll be way too soon.

pluto, we hardly knew ye

Because I keep a blog, I feel as though I'm obligated to mention Snakes on a Plane. I saw it this evening, and it was very entertaining, but I thought it ran a little too long.

Now that that's out of the way, I'd like to bid a fond farewell to Pluto, the little planet that could. Anyone who's a fan of movies like Rudy surely had a soft spot in his or her heart for Pluto, the scrawny little bundle of ice and rock that was believed to be a planet. Today, the International Astronomical Union met in Prague and unceremoniously stripped Pluto of its planet-ship. For the past 76 years (that's earth years. It takes Pluto 246 earth years to circle the sun so, if you look at it that way, Pluto has only been in our solar system for about one or two Pluto seasons), Pluto served as our most distant, icy neighor. A wonderful magical place no doubt inhabited by buxom elven women riding dragons (but I'd like to think every place is inhabited by such things). In this humorous article from Seattlepi.com, the writer commemorates the announcemen with an obituary. But really, if you think about it, Pluto didn't die. It's still there; we're just not "hanging out" with it any more. In short, Pluto got dumped, kicked to the curb, treated like a two bit 'ho.

And why? I'm sure there's some scientific mumbo jumbo to explain why we told Pluto, "It's not you, it's us," but since it's a planet, I figure a better answer could be found in the stars. Astronomers can brag about all the charts and equations they want to, but really, none of them have ever left this planet, so they're just guestimating anyway. Astrologers on the other hand tap into something much more universal: the desire to take vague, meaningless sentiments and shape them however best suits what we want to hear (in a whimsical, cosmic manner, of course). So, here's how this equation works. Since I'm just a stupid human who can't keep his own meager finances in check, let alone plot the course of celestial bodies 80 bajillion miles away from my stupid college town home, I will set Pluto's birthday at Febuary 18, 1930, which was the day it was discovered by Clyde W. Tombaugh. This means Pluto is an Aquarius.

According to Daily-Horoscopes.com, this is what Pluto has in store for Friday, August 25, 2006:

You'll feel that things are really going your way now. Others recognize your talents and potentials. You reach your goal and your charm opens new doors for you. Temper over-optimism and extravagance so you are taken seriously.

And there you have it. Optimism. Pluto was too optimistic. Maybe it thought that being one of our planets was just swell, maybe it pined for Neptune and told its moon Ceres that one day, if it kept circling that big yellow ball of gas that Neptune would figure out how special it was. Sorry Pluto. Better revolve elsewhere.

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

There's a spot on the left side of my nose that's a little raw. It hurts when I poke it. Of course, I can't keep my finger off it. There's no bump I can discern, though it does seem a bit red. I think it may be a bit of a sunburn from the wedding I went to on Saturday. It was nice, casual, an outdoor affair, but the sun was a muthafucka. Luckily for me, I don't really burn like most people. I keep a constant shade of pale. But I like to think that consistancy is important.

This weekend was sort of rocky overall. I partied on Friday, had a rent a car to drive up to the wedding on Saturday, realized I was out of money in my checking account, maxed out my credit card and had about $30 left in my savings account. I don't even know why I started that fucking thing in the first place. Today I went into forebearance on one of my student loans, again, in hopes that in six months' time, I'll be in a better place financially--only to be put back in the same shitty rut. I scrapped together change on Sunday so I could buy a burrito from the liquor store window and took a 6-mile walk around the park. I walked first, though, then I had the burrito. Today I took the day off, but I ended up working from home, writing e-mails and arranging things for a meeting on Wednesday. I waited and waited to get the okay to come in and get my pay check, but it never came. I walked down to the office at a quarter to five, and it still wasn't there. I still hadn't eaten. I ended up stuffing bags for the college's information fair tomorrow before I got paid around 6. I deposited the check and took money out for Chinese. I ordered the "house special" chicken, which was served with mushrooms and zucchini squash (or something that looked like zucchini) in a spicy garlic sauce; the BBQ pork with mixed vegetables; and steamed rice. And I have plenty of leftovers. My fortune read: "Good humor is the health of the soul, sadness it's poison." I don't know what that makes feeling sorry for yourself. My lucky numbers are 7, 15, 23, 35, 43 and the supplementary 19.

When I got home, I watched part one of the Spike Lee Hurricane Katrina documentary, When the Levees Broke, because I guess I didn't feel shitty enough. It's really harrowing to watch, and it got me pretty worked up. Obviously, this isn't something that affected me personally, but I don't think any one could catch even the glimpse presented in this film of what those people went through and not be moved by it. I could parlay that into a big political argument, but as much as bureaucracy played a part in the bullshit that followed in the wake of the hurricane, people left to die in the streets isn't about politics. At least it shouldn't be.

Over the weekend, I also caught Brick, a film noir-style mystery with characters that were high school-aged. It was a lot better than it sounds. And I also saw Woody Allan's Match Point, which was excellent, but also very creepy in the same sort of way Eyes Wide Shut was. I don't like all of Woody Allan's work, but when I do, I really do, and that was the case with Match Point. Plus, Allan wasn't in it, so I didn't have to sit through that squirmy-stuttery thing he does. Scarlett Johannson was really good in it too, and no, I'm not just saying that.

But even if I was, I probably wouldn't admit to it.

wino

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

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

how i spent my vacation 2

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

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

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

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

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

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

how i spent my vacation

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

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

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



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

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

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

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

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

please excuse the mess

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

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

twice the everything

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

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

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

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

oh. well. it's nice to be home

I've been back for a couple of days, but I haven't stopped working since I got off the plane. I've also been falling asleep on the couch at an alarming rate. Nothing particularly notable happened while in New York, which is nice, and I had a really good time, which is also nice considering my world turned to shit once again upon my return.

I landed in Sacramento and got a message that yet another photo shoot had been cancelled. I got back to the office to sort through 900 e-mails, one of which was from an angry record label person that escalated into drama. I got back home to find out that one of my roommates is moving in with her boyfriend and my landlord might raise our rent which will force the rest of us out of here. I don't want to move again, but it looks like I might not have a choice.

Oh, but I saw Good Night and Good Luck and it was really good.

memorial

So Bonds passed the Babe on the all-time list today. I found out about it while watching the live updates of my fantasy baseball league. I got my ass handed to me this week, but I almost came back and won it. I would have, I think, if my pitchers could throw strikes...and get batters out, of course. Bonds will have to hit 30-something more home runs before everyone gets all worked up again (he sits 40 behind Hank Aaron on the all-time list). For now, the game will settle back into it's slow and steady rhythm, and all is right with the world--at least in my world--because the Mets sit at the top of their division by 3.5 games.

That's not all that's going well, I guess. It's been a good weekend, as weekends go. I did the bar circuit as per usual and I only had to go to work on Saturday. I even did laundry so I have clean underwear again. All of those things make me happy. Well, I could have done without work on Saturday, but that's why I get paid the big bucks. Oh wait, I don't. Scratch that.

Tonight I saw the new X-Men movie, which was good, but nowhere near as bad ass as the last one. It was entertaining enough though: big action, some good humor when things got too serious, nice effects, loud noises, hot women and bad ass dudes (I used to hate Wolverine, but Hugh Jackman pretty much rules). Ian McKellan really makes the whole movie work, though. He's really convincing as Magneto, and even manages not to look like an idiot when he's wearing that cape and the silly helmet. Well, not a complete idiot anyway. I was happy to see Halle Berry give Storm a bit more personality and be more of the strong character she was in the comics (at least when I was growing up), and I was just happy to see Famke Jensen as Jean Grey/Phoenix. Sweet.

What I like about the X-Men franchise is that there's been a clear storyline through out. It's not just a series of hero fights villain, hero kills villain. Though I didn't like the first one, all three have played very well off of each other, and though Bret Ratner is no Bryan Singer, the film didn't lose much with him at the helm. Ratner stuck to the themes and characterizations of the first two movies very well. Though the story doesn't follow the comics exactly, they have done a good job creating a separate X-Universe in the films that works really well.

I almost didn't get to see Hugh or Ian or Halle or Famke or anything, however. I ordered the tickets online for the first time from Cinemark.com, fearing the show would be sold out. But I didn't bother recording my confirmation number, because I do a lot of business online, or over the phone, and they're always trying to give me confirmation numbers. They'll ask "do you want your confirmation number?" and I'll ask, "do I need it?" and they'll answer, "well, no, not really." Sometimes they'll ask me if I want it, and I say, "sure," just to be polite. They'll read it off and I'll act as if I'm writing it down, but I'm really not. I'll just lose that piece of paper anyway.

But Cinemark is serious about their confirmation numbers, as I found out today. I got to the kiosk with my ID out, because in all the yammering small print, I saw the word ID pop up (I guess that's not really a word, but whatever). I told the attendant that I was here to pick up my ticket that I'd purchased online, and she asked, "Do you have your confirmation number?" though we were only separated by a small layer of glass, she spoke through the microphone and speaker system.

"Nope, but I have my ID." I slipped it through the window slot.

"I can't give you your ticket without your confirmation number," she said apologetically.

I was decidedly frazzled. I think I said something like, "Oh, uh, hm. I have my ID."

"I'm sorry, sir," she said patiently. "I can get the manager, if you'd like."

"Could you?" I asked. Of course she could. She already said so.

The manager arrived, a young portly man with red hair and goatee. He was briefed on the situation and approached me. "You don't have your confirmation number?" he asked.

"I've never done this before," I said.

"You need that confirmation number."

"I have my ID," I said futily.

"And the card I ordered the ticket with." There it was. My ace in the hole.

"The important thing is that confirmation number," he said. But I could tell he had sympathy for my plight. "I could check on your credit card, but I'd have to call the main office in Dallas, and it's late...and it's a Sunday..."

He held my movie-watching fate in his hands, as I'm sure he has to countless other poor goobers who have had trouble negotiating the trecherous world of Internet commerce. Would I be let in or sent away? It was up to him to decide. This was why he was named manager.

"Let me see what I can do."

He entered the kiosk, made a phone call, then addressed me via the microphone and speaker box. "You May Enter," he said, in not so many words. He informed the girl behind the counter of the arrangement. I signed a guest check and was given a ticket. She smiled somewhat excitedly, as if she'd just seen the everyman triumph, against all odds. "Enjoy the show!" she chirped. In my mind, a slow clap built to thunderous applause.

More proof that all is right in my world is that, thanks to my roomies ordering sexy underthings, I now receive the Victoria's Secret catalog, meaning Adriana Lima and Alessandra Ambrosio will be delivered into my home, and subsequently, my sweaty clutches, on a regular basis. The Victoria's Secret Catalog is a wonderful thing because the items showcased within help women feel sexy, beautiful and desirable, and also works well for makeshift free pornography in a pinch. I haven't had to stoop to that level yet, but I will do so without shame if the need arises.



[I totally made the above image all by my lonesome with Microsoft Photo Editor. I feel like some kind of misunderstood genius. It required not only my sad perversions, but some math as well. This is truly a great day.]