invocation

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

getting there

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

please excuse the mess

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

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

for the love of the game

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

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

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

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

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

diversion tactics

I'm pretty much over writing right now, but this is about the funniest thing I've seen in a while. But that's because I'm a complete Final Fantasy NERD. Other cool things that happened today was the Mets swept the Braves in Atlanta and I ate octopus at a sushi bar. It was really tasty. The sushi chef rolled it with onions, cilantro and this sauce he made to taste like kimchee pickles. He said that it was a Korean thing. Right now, I seem to be linked, inexplicably, with cephalopods. I kinda want a pet cuttlefish. So I can EAT IT.

princess calamari

Tomorrow morning, around 7am, because that's when I shoot out of bed when I've been drinking--all sweaty and miserable and burdened by a serious case of the shits--I'll wonder why I needed to drink those rum and sevens so fast. Moreso, I'll wonder why I felt the need to walk 10 blocks for the worst pizza in the universe. But for right now, I'm actually happy I went out.

This publicist convinced me to go check out this band. Not that I needed much convincing, but today was a shitty day. I felt grumpy and gassy and I really wanted to kill someone--really, anyone who had a question for me. I rolled in around noon after spending the morning on the phone with the IRS, and I'm sick of being broke and having to explain that to the government. I owe them $250 still for unpaid taxes for 2004. I owed over $1000 that year because I was an "independent contractor" at the time. In my lifetime, I've never once received a single paycheck for that much money.

By 2pm, I knew I'd have to go out tonight. The publicist really wanted me to see this band. She put me on the list, which felt weird because the venue is about three blocks from my house. They're called Giant Squid, and they're from Austin, TX. She sent me to their MySpace page, and I liked what I heard, enough to get me out of the house. Of course, I was only at the house for about 10 minutes. I got home from work at 9:30. Microwaved some pasta and tomato sauce I'd made on Sunday, and headed right out, pretty much. My roommates were astonished to see me. I was astonished that the front porch had been washed clean of spider webs and other refuse. My roommate A said he'd done it a week ago. I love my house. But that might be because my time here is so rare.

Giant Squid was so good they reminded me why I do what I do. There are so many bands so many people will never get a chance to hear, and some of them actually don't suck (but an overwhelming majority of them do). I have the opportunity to hear just about all of them, but unfortunately, I almost never have the time. Giant Squid is fronted by a husband/wife duo and they play really mind altering rock music. The two of them sound great together, but the guitars needed to be louder. They were giving away a free CD with a song or two on it, but I didn't take it because the full-length will be at my desk in a couple days. Instead, I bought a shirt, because I'd gotten in for free, and I didn't want to be greedy. I wouldn't know from experience, but it's got to be a tough hustle to be on the road in a van, playing shows in shitty towns like this one when no one knows who the fuck you are. And nevermind the price of gas. the shirt is pretty awesome. It's got a squid on it and a funky design. I love squids, though I'd never want to be eaten by one. The wife handed me a free sticker with my T-shirt. Way to make me feel guilty.

the trooper

Obviously, Iron Maiden is one of the best bands ever. And as if they're rocking wasn't enough, Bruce Dickinson just proved further his superiority by airlifting 200 people out of Beirut. Seriously. You don't see Justin Timberlake doing that. Check it out!

i'm melting

MySpace is having some issues right now. Something about a power outage and their database going kaput. Maybe it's the terrorists (!!!). It doesn't matter what it is, though, all it's doing is keeping me away from my late night MySpace-ing rituals, which really just consist of various levels of Internet stalking. Last week, I left a drunk comment on a publicist's page--nothing weird. She asked me if I was drunk when I left it, and I said, "Yeah," and she said that the fact that I left it at 2:30am was her first clue. Snap! I told her I did a lot of drunk commenting that night, and I'm not really proud of that. I had a couple drinks tonight--a whiskey and a Guinness--but I'm far from drunk.

When MySpace is down, it puts up a little Flash-based Pac-Man game, which I play to remind myself that I was never any good at Pac-Man. Though, tonight, I got 24,000 in one game. That was nice.

Meanwhile, it's still way too fucking hot. I spoke with my parents over the phone on my porch at about 6pm and just sitting there talking got me greasy sweaty. It was gross. I'm not very happy with this town right now. I ended up making pasta, then went down town around 10pm for ice cream. I had a sundae with rocky road. On the roundabout walk home, I bumped into a co-worker and a bass player and that's where the whiskey and Guinness came into play. The bass player bought the whiskey, because I wouldn't do that to myself voluntarily. Later at the same bar, I ordered a water for the walk home and I ended up speaking with another coworker and her boyfriend. We chatted about Crater Lake in Oregon, which I've only seen from outside a plane window. But it looks fucking amazing. I really need to go on vacation.

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.

burning, man

Yeah, so I just checked my local 10-day forecast on weather.com, and the coolest day will be 101 degrees. Farrenheit, in case you're out of town. My math may be off, but I think that's 450 degrees Celsius. Oh, and the 101? that's 10 days away. The publicists I work with in LA have said the same thing every day for the past week: "It must be really hot for you guys, huh?"

Yeah. Real hot.

Jesus hates the Valley, I think, and I can't say that I blame him.

The hottest day? In case you were wondering. 111. That's degrees. It's almost as much as my paycheck (well not really, but I'm batty from the heat). I get that on Thursday when it's a mild 106.

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.

so here's your future

A few nights back, I was at the laundromat. I got a ride there and the only other person there was a short thin-ish man with white hair. He looked young, though, maybe a few years older than me. I set to my task of washing my clothes because that's what one does when in a laundromat, but before I'd finished adding the detergent, the man (we'll call him Skip) started talking.

I guess he was speaking to me because I was the only other person there, but he spoke as if we'd already been engaged in conversation for a good ten minutes.

"Yeah, this one time I was driving this Camaro down..." He said quickly. His voice went in and out of a mumble so I could only pick up certain things here and there. The gist of it was, at least for this first story, he'd been speeding and was able to talk his way out of the ticket by relating to the officer that he was pretty fucked up and only kept driving only because he didn't realize the cop was behind him.

He told other stories too, one of which involved smoking crank in the parking lot of a 7-Eleven, but all of them involved the cops or drugs or being in lock up or both. And he just kept going. Like we were the best of friends.

I stood across the row of washing machines from him as he spoke. I was interested, but also wondered where this was leading. Would I end up stabbed? Would he ask me for money? Would he try to take my clothes from the drier when my back was turned? Nope. He just wanted to talk. Not to me, I don't think, but I was there and that was good enough. I got his life story in about 24 minutes, at least from when he started getting in trouble with the law until now, clean and sober, and living, as far as I could tell, in a house that used to be abandoned. He told me how he learned how to play piano in the joint using a piece of cardboard with a keyboard drawn on it. He told me a lot of other stuff too, but it was all blurred together because he was a mumbler. At the end of the one-sided conversation, he gathered up his clothes and asked me, "So what do you do?" I told him and he asked if he'd seen any of my stuff. I told him that I mostly work for our national newstand magazine now, which sounds a lot more glamorous than it actually is. He hopped on his bike and paused before he left. He said goodbye, repeated my name and said "I get the feeling I'll be seeing you in the paper real soon." Which totally creeped me the fuck out.

But wouldn't you know? I had the cover story the very next week. And it wasn't even because I was brutally stabbed and left for dead.

viva italia

On Sunday morning, I was cramped into a loud tiny bar for the World Cup final. I drank a beer-mosa (the white trash version of a mimosa consisting of light beer and orange juice--it's a lot better than it sounds), jumped, sang, cheered, cursed and got knocked in the face by an errant inflatable soccer ball. I think everyone in town was there, including the hottest waitress with the best legs ever. But even better than that, Italy won the match, and afterwards, we ended up next door at a friend's Italian restaurant--he's a natural born Italian--for a pretty loud celebration. It was such an exciting game and I think I shook like a leaf for the last 30 minutes. But the Cup was great overall this year, I thought, despite all the drama. There was great goals, better acting and a really vicious headbutt. I can't wait for 2010. Even though by then I'll be REALLY old.

I drank champagne, beer, rum and a shot of Jagermeister. All that and the hot weather was making me woozy. My shirt was drenched and I generally felt like a human sponge, albeit a happy one. But I was a tired sponge too, so around 3pm, I decided to walk home. It was probably 200 degrees and I went from sponge to liquid form rather quickly. My sweat, I'm sure, ran about 80 proof. But I made it home--air conditioned bliss--and passed out on the couch.

It was nice to have such a fun and relaxing day, because I had to use the memory of that to get me through today. Work has been very troubling and way too much for me to handle lately. There's too much for me to keep track of. Too many projects to flesh out and stories to write. There was some good stuff, though. I watched David Wright advance to the finals in the Homerun Derby and came home for lunch and watched a couple episodes of Entourage. I hope the people in Italy are still drunk, partying and conceiving children that they'll name after members of their 2006 World Cup team. At least then I can live vicariously.

taylor 30

I met my new roommate today. She was a cute, wide-eyed girl, probably a lot younger than I am. I think she's a passing acquaintance of my current roomies, but that's fine by us. None of us want to move, and we're happy that we were able to find someone, anyone, to put that off for at least another few months. I showed up at her place of employment to introduce myself and asked the girl behind the counter for her by name. The girl's brown eyes got wide. She paused. Then she said, "That's me..." I explained who I was and she took a deep breath. I liked her right away, though I'm positive she shouldn't be the one in charge of our energy bill.

Afterwards, I walked toward home happy, but I was distracted by one of downtown's only exclusive restaurants. I'd never eaten there, though I'd been there for drinks a couple times. I sauntered in, T-shirt and shorts, but they informed me that my attire was fine. The bow-tied waitress asked me if I'd like a table, and I said I'd be fine sitting at the bar. I ordered the cheapest thing I could fine, shrimp scampi and wild rice, though that was still about 20 bucks. I also got a Manhattan, with Crown Royal whisky. I got bread and salad with my meal, which was nice considering the scampi was only five pieces of shrimp (albeit of the jumbo variety, or "prawns" as they call them out here). It was all very tasty. Especially the salad. And when I was done with my meal, the waitress asked me if I'd like to see the dessert menu. I said that I wouldn't but would like to know what is good for an after dinner drink. This was an expensive restaurant, and the waiters and waitresses are supposed to know that kind of shit.

I felt like treating myself because I've been having a shitty time of it lately. I'm overwhelmed by work. I feel like I'm drowning.

She said they had a nice selection of port, and that pleased me. I love port. It's sweet and strong and gets me wasted. It also tastes good with chocolate, as I found out one day. I asked her what they had, then realizing that would do me good--because I have no knowledge of such things--I asked her what was good. She answered immediately, "Taylor's 30." I shot back even faster, "Sounds fucking good to me!" But I left out the "fucking."

Soon, the tiny stemmed glass was in front of me, filled almost to the mouth with port. I sniffed it and knew instantly that it was expensive. I took a small sip. "How is it?" she asked. I gushed, "It tastes like maple syrup!" It did. It was amazing. The check came. A glass of Taylor's 30, as it turned out, was more expensive than my entree by one dollar--$18 a glass. I sipped that fucker slow, through three innings of the Giants/Dodgers game. Some rich fuck and his bitch girlfriend sitting next to me started complaining about the price of their mochitos. "They're usually $7," she whined. But the waitress explained they got the best rum in the house--a bottle placed on a glowing blue pedistal. I wanted to scream at them for being snobby, pretentious, cheap mother fuckers who didn't know how good they had it. But the sun was still up. The portions were small, and half a glass into my port and all I could do was stare at the bottle of Grey Goose on the shelves in front of me and read the labels like they were sonnets.

old friend

While I was home, I had a dream. (I don't like posting these, but this one stuck.):

I remember being ready to go and meet up with a relative, a cousin who babysat for me many times as I was growing up and took me and my sister to Coney Island on a few occasions. Later, when I became older, we smoked pot together and played Scrabble. She was very important in my life, but a feud has broken out between her side of the family and mine. The feud revolved around my grandmother's 100th birthday. I'm not sure what most of the drama was about. We're Sicilian and even if guns aren't being fired, vendettas are very real. I was already living in California when the shit went down, so I've been excluded by much of the bad sentiment. Clearly, I back my mom, sister and father, but since I'm so far removed from everything and only see everyone once in a while, I've been placed in a position of neutrality.

Where I was going to meet up with my cousin was sort of a mix between here (California) and there (New York) but it looked more like here than there. A very specific block here, actually, where there's a concert venue. I was to meet her in the apartments upstairs from there, which I've only been to once or twice. I was going to take my dog with me to meet her, but instead of taking my current dog, I decided to take my old one--a beloved member of the family who my grandmother always honors with a sign of the cross when his name is brought up--instead. He walked ahead of me like a guide.

I spoke with my cousin for a bit and told her my dog was happy to see her. I saw him wagging his tail. I told her this, and he licked her hand. I asked her if she could see him, but she said she couldn't. I think I mentioned that that was because he had died.

It was a good dream at the time, but thinking about it now makes me kinda sad.

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.

the longest day of the year

It's only 8:30am, and I've already been up for a few hours. I know this is par for the course for farmers and professional people the world over, but since I live in Neverland, I rarely have to live on grown up time.

I just got back from the Econowash with a sack of clothes so I have something clean to wear on the plane and greet my parents with. I'll be in NY at 9:15pm Eastern Time, barring delays, setbacks or catastrophe. If the plane does go down, all I ask is that I'm stranded on an island with any combination of Evangeline Lilly, Emilie de Ravin, Yunjin Kim and the dude who plays Hurley because he seems pretty cool. But since there's no island between here and there--save for Grand Island, NE, and Three Mile Island in Pennsylvania, neither of which are known for buxom female heroines or wise-cracking chubby Mexican dudes, I'm probably shit out of luck. I'll be in New York for almost a week, and on Saturday, I'll be attending the Brooklyn Hip-Hop Festival. The rest of the time will be spent schmoozing with publicists, watching the Mets with my mom and dad, hanging out with my lunatic dog and eating White Castles.

Last night, about 2am, we had a blackout here in the neighborhood. I've seen enough horror movies to assume, right off, that some cankerous maniac had cut the power and was waiting outside for the right time to strike. I called the police, and the pissy operator informed me that it was just a regular old blackout and not the homicidal maniac sort. I like blackouts in the daytime, not at night, and not the night before I have to hop on a plane. I used my cell phone as a flashlight and, since I couldn't sleep in my room for fear of home invasion, I crashed on the couch in pajama pants and a Johnny the Homicidal Maniac T-shirt. My roommate found me and my gnarly feet this morning. I hope she wasn't too frightened.

Well, time to pack. I'll be updating while I'm back east (I haven't been the best blogger lately anyway...or ever for that matter), but I'll leave you with this:



Now, I love me some Cat Power...but Chan's no Paula Abdul. Straight Up! Oh yeah, I got to interview Steve Shelley from Sonic Youth. I totally geeked.

the greatest bocce ball nation on the face of the planet

We gathered for 'brunch' at 11am to watch the US take on Italy in the World Cup. Things did not go well--for either team, really. The US played much better than their last match, though, and walked away with a tie. They'll still need to beat Ghana and get a lot of help to move on to the next round, though.

It was a really sloppy game. It was more like watching kids in a schoolyard than watching a World Cup match. There were three red cards and a ton of fouls; one disallowed goal; and the only goal the US scored was kicked in by one of the Italians. But we all shouted a lot and we watched the game with an actual Italian--not a fake one like me--and it was fun to watch her get so into it. She was hanging on every pass and wasn't all that stoked that her team walked away with a tie. During the match, the announcer referred to Italy as "one of the greatest soccer nations on the face of the planet." Hyperbole is alive and well.

Afterwards, we all headed out into the backyard and I set my sights on the bocce ball set. I hadn't played in years, not since my grandfather was still alive, but I was determined to strike up a game. We got two teams of two: Myself and the Italian woman were blue, in honor of the Azzurri. About halfway through the match, I picked up my form and we won 13-9. We had to cut the game short, because I had to go to work. We've just started another project, so it looks like my free time will be a fond memory. We got it done, though, and afterwards, my boss showed up with his Affluent White Male friends and he bought me in to their game of poker. It was good times. I beat this smug bastard good: He had four aces, but I had a straight flush. Sorry dog. Later, in a game they called "Screw Your Neighbor" I advanced all the way to the end and when my opponent passed me his three, taking my queen of hearts, I thought for sure I had lost. I called for the card on the top of the deck, as it was my right to do, and he tossed me a shiny ace of hearts. I made it out of there with the boss's $20 and went and rented myself a movie.

i've heard the moons of jupiter are lovely this time of year

I'm suffering from post-partum magazine depression hella hard. So hard that I've been using "hella" at a remarkable rate--something I'm going to have to lose since I'll be back in New York for a week next week. This production cycle weighed heavily on my psyche, and what made it worse was that the Great Albert Pujols suffered a back injury, which started a windfall of big injuries and left my fantasy baseball team in shambles. But it's not only my little world that's turning to shit, so too is the macrocosm, the big picture. Namely the planet Earth.

I don't like to get topical, and I'm not an environmentalist. I don't go "hiking." Nor do I own a pair of sandals or a back pack. I think the environment is lovely and beautiful, and I respect it enough to figure it wants no part of me. If Nature truly wanted to nurse me at her supple bossom, she would consist of only of bunnies and puppies and kittens and Kate Beckinsales and not spiders and mosquitos and the like. However, all those things have the right to survive, I guess, or at least to become extinct in a tasteful manner--like thanks to the slow cycle of evolution or by some super spiffy meteor impact--and not because people like to drive Hummers to Costco.

Tonight, while watching a rerun of LOST with my roommate (I'm going to end up watching the whole thing over again), she said she'd just heard Stephen Hawking had said at some conference that humans would have to leave Earth in order to stave off extinction. What she was referring to was this. It sounds ludicrous, I guess, and normally I'd think so, but Stephen Hawking is like a living brain, so I couldn't help but feel like we are, indeed, pretty well fucked.

Anyway, though I'm sure Mr. Hawking has put a lot of thought into what he said in his Hong Kong speech, I don't think transgalactic imperialism's the way to go. I don't think there is a way to go, really. People are always going to want stuff, and when the oil's all gone, they're just going to clamor for the next thing until that's all used up. It's never going to be enough.

This sort of thing has been pissing me off lately. Maybe because gas prices are almost $4 a gallon (I don't own a car, so I don't really care, I just know that someone's getting really rich off of other people's misery, and I'm tired of people who drive SUVs complaining about the price of gas like it's someone else's fault). I ended up writing a letter through Congress.org to oppose drilling at the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge in Alaska (I know, MySpace politics are the new partisan bumper stickers). The letter went to a few California senators and President Bush. So far, the two Democratic senators (Feinstein and Boxer) responded with form letters ensuring me that My Voice Will Be Heard (I'm not holding my breath). All I wrote was that I opposed the proposal and added, "You're smart people. I'm sure you can come up with a better solution. That's what we pay you for, isn't it?"

I really do hope they leave that refuge alone, though I'm not sure why. Probably for my own selfish reasons, like somehow I helped keep this place pure and that makes me a better person than someone who drives a Chevy Tahoe. Or maybe, that when the soccer moms start burning Costcos for the last can of Castrol, or stabbing each other at Chevrons for the last drop of premium, I'll know there's at least one place I can escape to. ...Of course, I'll have to walk there.

happiness soup

I took the day off until about 2pm when I got called into work and ended up staying for a full day's worth of hours. Last night after going to this yokel bar in the north part of town where I had three drinks more than I wanted to and watched these kids from Connecticut get really really fucked up. They turned the place into their personal party palace: They were mixing their own drinks behind the bar, dancing and stripping on the back bar, making out near the pay phones, fighting in the parking lot and someone, from what I heard, puked a bucket's full of vomit in the bathroom sink. I tried this rum called VooDoo for the first time and it certainly cast some kind of weird spell on me. It wasn't anything a little Carl's Jr. couldn't fix right quick. I passed out on the couch, though I felt pretty sober when I get home. I hopped off the couch around 7:30am feeling spry and energetic. I must have had a good night's sleep. That must be what it feels like. I wouldn't know, really, because I haven't slept all that much lately. I started watching the coverage of the World Cup, and around nine, I'd decided that I wasn't going to go in today.

I called the office, because I'm stupid and responsible, though I'm sure if I hadn't, I would've gotten a call. I asked if the magazine was finally uploaded to the printer, or if we were going to finally do that today, and I was told that that was taken care of over the weekend. I was ecstatic because I figured that meant I wouldn't have to part ways with the couch at all today. However, I was told that the online proofs would probably be ready, and I would receive a call when they were. I was able to watch the US get their asses handed to them by the Czech Republic and shouted with glee as Italy defeated Ghana. My loyalties are split, and the bastards who make up the World Cup brackets put Italy and the US in the same group. I don't know who I'm going to cheer for come Saturday when they both face off, but after the US's showing (or lack thereof) today, they need the game a whole lot more than Italy does.

Going through the online proofs is as equally mind-numbing as it is soul-crushing. It's not really editing, per se, since any changes we make at that point cost us a chunk of change, so I can't go adding commas and things of that nature. We can only reupload pages for big stuff like missing pictures, misspelled headlines and things of that nature. Anything else that I see that had gotten through our rounds of editing, I just have to bite my tongue and accept. I only found one thing so far that I was 99% sure I changed when I was making corrections. No one will probably notice it but me, but that one error has pretty much destroyed any enjoyment this issue could ever bring me. Better luck on the next one.

Seeking solace, I went to my smelly underground oasis, the Chinese restaurant, for some hearty grub and a slice of zen. Again, the place was crowded, and there was a table of women locked in the throes of a sake bomb fest. I overheard one of them say she had upwards of 10. I wasn't discouraged, though, I ate my wonton soup and drank a Tsing Tao. It was another cool night tonight, so I seized the opportunity to eat a nice hot bowl of soup. We may not have another nice night like this until October.

mailing it in

I'm really only writing this so I could get July 2006 to pop up on my archive list. They're like the rings of a tree or something. I'm going to write again soon, but I haven't had the desire to do much of anything anymore. I haven't even been able to get drunk lately. I think my tolerance is too high. I might have to switch back to drugs. I can't, however, stop chewing Orbit gum. I bought a pack of the bubble gum flavor a little while ago so I could get cash back from a liquor store and I've been hooked ever since. I'm even chewing a piece now, but it's the "green" kind. Muy minty.

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.]

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."

714

My old roommate Ashley sent me a text message that read "Guess who just saw Barry Bonds hit 714." It was followed by a second message that read "That would be me." She was at the interleague game between the Giants and the A's at the McAfee Coliseum. I wrote her back and said that she was very lucky, and I was very jealous. When I was a kid, I watched David Cone go eight-plus innings with a no-hitter. It would have been the first in Mets history, and something that I'd remember--to the minutest detail--for my entire life. To this date, no Mets pitcher has ever thrown a no-hitter. That was the closest I'd ever been to baseball immortality, and even that would've paled in comparison to seeing the Babe tied at no. 2 on the all-time homerun list. I watched Bonds's press conference, and he was remarkably humble. I don't think it had set in. I could imagine it would be a surreal moment. However, I thought Brad Halsey's press conference was more interesting. Brad Halsey will appear as the answer to a question in Trivial Pursuit for years to come. He gave up the gopher ball to Bonds. Halsey was pretty laissez-faire to being a footnote in baseball history. He said that he was just one of 714 and that the homerun wasn't the first he gave up and certainly wouldn't be the last. Toward the end of the conference, he was asked if all the pomp and circumstance going into a Bonds at bat. Since he's chasing history, the baseball has to be swapped out for his at bat. A special ball is put into play in order to dissuade counterfeiters and profiteers. Halsey said the balls used for a Bonds at bat had a B on them and a number, and a pitcher of Barry. "Barry's face is on the ball?" asked a reporter. "Yeah," said Halsey. "And if you look it in the eye, it winks at you."

hang nail

Even when I was a kid, I didn't dance. I'd watch my relatives at weddings, engagements and graduations, and see how much fun they were having making fools of themselves to the electric slide, but I could never lower myself to join them. I was afraid people would laugh at me. At one of these graduation parties, the music was playing all night, and I was probably five years old. My mother encouraged me to go and have fun, but I just sat at the table and watched everyone else, telling myself I'd just go out on the floor later. When the night was about to come to a close, I realized this would be my last chance to join the fun everyone seemed to be having, so I ran on the floor and busted a move to the music (poorly of course), and a circle of happy relatives gathered around me and smiled and clapped. This wasn't fun. I was terrified. After the party, I must have come down with something, because on the ride home, I started feeling really sick. I remember laying in bed and my mom took my temperature. I felt like I was on fire, and I was burning around 103. She put cold compresses on my forehead and gave me something for the fever, and I fell asleep. When I woke up the next day, she asked me if I'd remembered what had happened the night before. Instead of my fever going down, it went up, and I was burning 106. It was like 4am or something. I started wandering around the house and I was hallucinating. I mistook the kitchen cabinet for the bathroom. She got me back into bed and got the fever under control without any further incident. I still don't remember any of that happening.

Tonight, I went to a hip-hop show, and I was content to drink and chat and enjoy the music, but some of my female friends thought it was necessary to push me out on the floor. They dragged me by my shirt, and I pleaded with them not to. I tried to be good humored and laugh and say, "oh no. I don't dance. Haha." And then they circled around me, and I froze up like rigor mortis had set in. I covered my face and joked nervously, "I'm far too modest for all this," but they giggled and pushed and prodded and grinded up against me. I covered my face and clutched my drink close. I couldn't move. It's not that I didn't want to. I wanted to let go and have fun, but I couldn't. I had painted myself into a corner. Joining in would even bring more attention. Afterwards, I felt really embarrassed, not because of what they did, but because I'd acted like such a baby. And then I felt ashamed for being so embarassed. One of the women was my more recent roommate, who I have a good relationship with, and I said that I was sorry, but I'm really uptight. She said, "You're adorable," but I find that my assessment is far more acurate.

j pop drag pop

Japanese school girls + Japanese drag queen + obnoxious disco beat + flashing lights + heaping amounts of tan-in-a-bottle = music video gold.

authenticity

It had been a trying day. Stress kept me awake 'til well into the AM, and I watched a rather large house spider narrowly escape the clutches of my dutiful house cat/bug slayer (it was quite a battle of wills). I sought the solace of my oasis within this oasis that lies in the blistering and barren Sacramento Valley. The heat blazed near 100 (95 to be exact), we had to load in magazines from a stuffy truck and off two more skids at the door; record labels changed artist schedules at the last moment (literally), and I was forced to dump a photo shoot I'd spent weeks arranging in favor of press shots; stories aren't coming in as fast as I'd like, and I'm wondering if I'm just being ruthlessly anal.

Things got better when on my desk I found the re-issue of Boston's first album, which was quickly ushered to the CD stereo and blared at an office-friendly volume (not nearly as loud as that album deserves to be played). But still, I needed more, so I went to my home away from home, the Chinese Restaurant on Second. This time, however, its soothing atmosphere was disrupted by a group of two college couples who--rightfully so--were celebrating the end of the school year. They were loud, and drunk, and by all accounts, douchebags, but douchebags are people too and have the same rights as the rest of us.

They must have just sat down to eat when I arrived. Plates of yummy food piled high were brought out by the diminutive waitresses. One of the women at the table asked for chopsticks. "We like to do it the authentic way," she said.

They ate their dinner and spoke at high volume, but mostly, they drank. Tsing Tao beers all around and, of course, warm bottles of sake. Oh, but you're thinking sake is more associated Japanese cuisine, right? Well it is. Because that's where it's from. But the Chinese Restaurant serves sake. I wanted to look it up, and the article on Wikipedia mentioned there is one theory that sake was originally developed in China and brought to Japan. It also mentioned the popularity of sake in Japan. These are both pretty good reasons why you may find sake in Chinese restaurants. However, I think in this case, sake is served at The Chinese Restaurant because enough douchebags who didn't know there was a difference between Chinese and Japanese kept coming in asking for it. Case in point:

The normally somber and reserved staff at The Chinese Restaurant seemed somewhat invigorated by the young party monsters. Their zealousness for an authentic sake-accented Chinese dining experience included the traditional sake bomb, which involves dropping the little cup of sake into half a beer and chugging the whole thing down. Each sake bomb was preceded by a chant and a pounding on the table. Before the fourth or fifth round of drunken cacophony, the Matron of the restaurant came over and taught them a new chant: "Yee, uhr, sahn. Sake sake sake bomb!" Yee, uhr, sahn, she instructed, is Chinese for one, two, three. The douchebags had problems spitting this out. Sometimes they'd say sake twice, other times, they'd say it four...ice. Sometimes they'd leave out an uhr or a yee. They certainly had plenty of practice, and the wait staff watched on with glee.

At one point, one of the waitresses walked by the rowdy table and shouted out something to the Matron in Chinese (from watching plenty of subtitled movies, I can hear the differences between Mandarin and Cantonese, but I'm still not sure which is which), and one of the drunken dude douchebags shouted out, "Hey! I know what you're saying!" To which, most in the restaurant gave a chuckle. "I can speak Japanese," he added. "They're not Japanese, they're Chine..." said the woman at the table who had been acting as the voice of reason, but she trailed off in a loud whisper toward the end of the word, and the room got rather silent.

My fortune read that I should contact a loved one who was living a far distance from me.

lycanthropy

Last night, as I headed out to a poorly attended punk show, I realized that, through the layer of yellow haze, the moon was full. Or at least mostly full. When it's more than half, I usually can't tell the difference.

If the people who lived in my part of town had money, they'd be called eccentric, but since they're all flat broke, they're just plain crazy. On my way to work yesteraday, I noticed there's a group of folks living in a maroon Ford Aerostar mini-van, nestled in the bulb of the cul-de-sac at the end of the block. That's not odd, I suppose, seeing as the creek is a popular campground for the town's transient community, but then again, it was still daytime, and the moon had yet to show its face.

I couldn't hang at the punk show. There were little more than a few handfuls of people there, and most of them were in the smoker's patio. I only went to see a coworker's performance, and after he was done, I nursed my pint of New Castle through the second band's tedious set. I was bored, and pretty lonely out in the show area, so I decided to press my luck downtown.

Most of the walk was pretty quiet, until I got to third and noticed the throngs of mini-skirted females heading to this dancehall sort of bar (a really stinky one at that). Many of them were identically dressed: cropped tops and tennis skirts in bright day-glo colors. Class is officially over in this college town, and though finals are looming just days away, the streets have been crawling with kids looking to make the most of the last couple days in their homes away from home, away from their parents' watchful eyes. Their voices were as loud as the colors they were wearing as they gathered on line for the club. A popular local '80s cover band was playing, and the kids were looking to revel in the nostalgia of songs that were released before many of them were born. The full moon watched with its indifferent eye and I said "bless you" to a woman when she belched.

I made my way to Meathead Tavern, where I've been spending too much of my time lately. It stinks worse than the dancehall, and the press of bodies in the tiny environement only enhances the funk. For some reason, someone in this town thought it would be a good idea to outfit 95% of the bars with carpet, a decision that had baffled me since my arrival.

I bumped into a gaggle of my coworkers who were already settled into their seats on the drunk train. My ticket remained unpunched. Honestly, I'd been avoiding the conductor because I'm growing tired of the aftermath: waking up to a couple hours sitting on the bowl. It's not fun. Though it'd be worth it if the previous night was more interesting. Lately, I haven't been thrilled. Being at Meathead Tavern for any length of time, however, is just asking for trouble, but I managed to ease into a hearty buzz at my own pace.

After last call came and gone, and the lights were turned on, we headed out, and I ended up at the diner with two kids almost a decade my junior. We were served water in a karrafe, and I'm amazed one of them didn't puke on the table. It had to be after 3:30 when we left, but they were convinced this party was going on by my house, and since I was heading that way anyway, to go home and sleep, they followed along. We were tailed by a sketchy group of dudes, we heard gunshots, and about three doors away from the supposed location of this alleged party, they turned around and headed home. I got home and went to bed, my belly happily full of steak, eggs and English muffin.

Tonight, I went to a play, and the moon seemed just as full. For the second night in a row, I fretted over my choice of shirts, something I almost never do. I looked at myself in the mirror--looked and fretted. I tried to convince myself that I looked fine and that no one was going to care anyway, but still I fretted. Eventually I didn't care, and the loose short-sleeved button down was comfortable, which was welcome in the warm and somewhat sticky air. The play was okay, but I was happy to get out and do something that wasn't just going to the bars. I went with my roommate and her boyfriend (who's becoming my roommate also). After the show, they had to head out of town, and I was left to my own devices. I was one of the first to show up at a party at the Queen Bee's brother's office downtown.

My choice of shirt still irked me, and those who were gathered at the party's early stages were rather worn out. The Brother told me to make myself at home and fix myself a cocktail, so I did. He looked perhaps the most haggard of all of them, telling me that he'd gone a little too crazy the night before, and the rest reported that they'd been at this party or that--parties thrown by local businesses, parties thrown at exclusive golf courses, parties that the dudes living in the van in my cul-de-sac probably wouldn't have been invited to.

More people began streaming in and the mood lightened up fast. I left for a bit--unfortunately just as Uber Milf arrived--to go meet up with my friend who was celebrating his birthday. We watched a really fucked up movie made for the Masters of Horror series by Takeshi Miike that Showtime refused to show (Bravo did however, and I can see why Showtime wouldn't touch it; it was really fucked up). We drank a couple beers and I convinced him to roll back down to the party.

Uber Milf had gone, and so had many of the others, but the cooler crowd remained. More cocktails, more conversation, two retrievers who had 40-inch verticals, and I turned out to be the last one to leave.

The streets were completely empty. Other than roving police--who had nothing better to do than watch me as I crossed the street--it was just myself, the full moon and people who pick through downtown garbage cans. I made it up to the diner when I remebered the gunshots from the night before, and checked my wallet to see if I had cash. I thought of walking the rest of the way, but I don't like being the only person on the streets, so I ended up getting the cab. There are always a few cars parked in front of the diner. I crossed the street and when I got to the corner I passed a couple drivers making idle chitchat. One of them called out and asked if I needed a cab. I said I did.

He asked me where I was going, and I said that it wasn't very far, and that I would usually walk but I don't like being the only person out at night. He chuckled and made a right. Halfway down the main drag, he told me that he was going to grab a bite to eat and head home before I'd shown up, and then he mentioned that he was talking to the other driver about how this full moon had produced more crazies than any other he could remember. I hopped forward to agree. I told him about the prayer circles I'd seen in the middle of sidewalks, and the gunshots, and the various other random occurances that had happened over the past two days.

He said (and I'm paraphrasing), "There was this woman in here with her friend last night, who was just insanely horny. They were splitting the cab with these two dudes in their 20s, and the women had to be in their 40s. One woman was sitting up front, the other was in the back with the two dudes, and she was just all over them."

I laughed, and as he pulled to a stop in front of my house, he said, "wait, it gets better."

"Eventually, she asked me if I thought it was okay if she slept with her nephew. I said, 'No! What the hell are you talking about?!' She said that he wasn't really her nephew, but that he was four when he was left with her family. 'Now it's 20 years later, and he's back, and he's really hot,' she said. We ended up at the 7-11 on East Avenue and the women went out to get beer. As soon as they got into the store, the two dudes just opened the cab doors and bolted. I told the women they went in the opposite direction."

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.

idle

I used to handle boredom really well. I wrote stories, played guitar, drew pictures and, after I was old enough to drive, went on excursions. My creativity was more industrious than inspired. I don't think I was particularly awesome at any of these things, but I was good enough to keep myself occupied for a while. And I figured if I did them enough, I'd eventually grow to really like doing one, and who knows, maybe it'd get me somewhere.

While it hasn't gotten me far, writing (more acurately editing) does pay my bills and I guess I should be grateful for that. But I'm far from the babbling brook of creativity I once was. I haven't done any fiction work for as long as I can remember, which isn't very long nowadays. And it's not because I haven't had the opportunity. I've had time to do this, I just haven't wanted to.

But now I'm going off track. Now I cure boredom with television (which was always part of the equation), beer and sitting on the Internet. Other than typing at this thing, sometimes I go perusing one of my favorite sites for mindnumbing activity, ThePlaCe.ru. It's a Russian site, so I can't really read anything, and I'm not really sure how I found it, but I've figured out that it provides large, high quality scans of celebrity magazine photos and things of that nature. Many of the images I've posted here have been taken, without credit from there, so I guess it's time I gave them their due, even if the owners of that site will have as hard a time reading this site as I do theirs. When I'm bored, like I was tonight, I sit and click through endless photos of starlets, pop stars, lingerie models, etc. and kind of zone out. It puts me in the same kind of state, more or less, as watching a baseball game between two teams that I care little about: relaxed, occupied and blissfully free of thought.

Sometimes I check out pictures of women I haven't heard of before, but most times I go by old standbys. Tonight, I happened to rifle through their large collection of Britney Spears images when, much to my chagrin, a thought creeped in there. More like a memory, really. That's kind of like a thought.

It was like seven years ago, and I was 22. I rolled downstairs, probably around 3pm after just waking up. I was still working at the comic book store and going to college. I sat down on the green carpet and tuned the 27-inch Sylvania console TV on MTV because that's what I did when I, as my sister put it (taking the line from Reality Bites), was in the bell jar. She's always been the more responsible, sensible and ambitious one. I've always been less proactive, I guess you could say. Anyway, I caught the video for "Hit Me Baby One More Time" for the first...time...and became somewhat aroused (not that I'm particularly proud of that). Then I realized that the face of pop music had once again been altered from scruffy looking dudes in beat up guitars to barely legal sex kittens. I think it happened while I was sleeping.

I was lying on the couch before as my roommate and her boyfriend watched the Lakers in the NBA playoffs and a Macintosh commercial sparked a discussion about desktop calculators for Windows. I said that I use that program to do all my math, and if not that, I use the calculator on my cell phone. I never needed one as a kid, I did it all in my head or on a piece of paper, but now writing down numbers seems too stressful and carrying the one sends me into sweats. The boyfriend mentioned that he checks his cellphone calendar all the time. My roommate showed us up and said she just writes things down, or simply remembers them. It keeps her sharp. I said, "I've gotten so dumb." I can't imagine why.

endurance

On Saturday morning, I sat in this local barbershop/tattoo parlor happy to have had a full night's rest. They're few and far between. I'd decided, on a whim, because that's usually how I decide most things, to have a proper straight razor shave (with the hot towels and everything) and head buzzing (I was sick of cleaning up the bathroom after doing it myself). My appointment was scheduled for Friday, but a three-hour black out through most of the downtown and surrounding areas of town caused me to have to reschedule. On Friday, when I showed up for my original appointment time, the shop was full of tattooed patrons and employees sitting on the various barber chairs and waiting room couches. They regarded me as an outsider as I entered, but offered me a beer or something else to drink from the fridge. It was hot as fuck, so I opted for a water and occupied an empty stool. The shop is full of retro paraphernalia, mostly pinup art and '50s and '60s barbershop signage. One such sign displayed the eight or so hair cuts for men and the phrase "we cut your hair the correct way, the way you want it" proudly emblazoned on it. It's a pretty cool place. After the crowd at the store had thinned out some, one man re-entered from the back. I was one of two left in the shop; the other guy was reading tattoo magazines in the waiting area. The man who re-entered sat on a brown barber's chair, reclined, and asked me what hair cut I wanted. I told him I wanted it buzzed to the scalp, and I wanted a shave as well. Turned out he was the owner and also the barber. The power wasn't coming back on any time soon, so he asked me if I wanted to reschedule and I said sure, so we made an appointment for 11am on Saturday. He told me the shave thing was "very relaxing," and that every man should have it done at least once in his life, and that our fathers and grandfathers all had it done. It was his sales pitch, but I didn't need one, I had my mind made up about it before I entered the shop. It just seemed like something I should have done. Which brings me back to where I started.

I was the first appointment of the day. The owner let me in and I had a beer and waited in the waiting area as he and this other woman got the place set up. I was joined in the waiting area soon after by a group of young women who the owner later accurately described as looking like "a group of sorority girls from a sorority that you had to have double Ds to get into." They were all there for tattoos, I assume of flowers or butterflies.

I drank a Corona and got all shorn and left feeling like a million or so bucks. I may have to make it a yearly thing. And since my appointment was moved because of the black out, I got five bucks off. As I was in the chair, I was informed that the shop was going to have an afterparty that evening for the girls of the roller derby and that they'd have a keg and a DJ and I should come by. Since I had tickets to the roller derby anyway, I said that I probably would. The festivities would start at 12:30am.

Meanwhile, I'd received word that the commish of my fantasy baseball league would be in town, and that he and a few other guys in the league (though some of them live here, I don't really know them. I'd gotten introduced to the league by someone I'd known through my roommates who I used to get into baseball discussions with at parties. I've only met the other members of the fantasy league once before at a poker game). I was informed that they'd be hitting up the bars and that if I could, I should meet them up.

Roller derby was fun. The action, I think, was better this week than in previous week. And at the event, I bumped into an old tenant from my apartment managing days, so we shot the shit for a while and got caught up. I also met up with some coworkers and scored a ride downtown where I thought I'd try to meet up with the fantasy baseball crew. They were at this bar close to campus, and the line to get in was really long. It was moving quick, though, so I hopped on. I ended up waiting 20 minutes. Once I got inside, the place was ridiculously packed, and it more and more became apparent to me that I really didn't know who I was looking for. I eyed people I thought was them only to receive looks of confusion or agitation in return. I made four or five sweeps of the floor to no avail, so I left.

When I got outside, I found there was a message on my phone from my coworker/LOST buddy, who was downtown at a bar a block away. It was the first of the two roller derby after parties. The place was about 20 times smaller and just as packed, but I had drink tickets there. Somehow, my order for one Summerfest yielded two, but this unexpected bounty didn't last long, as walking to the less crowded back area resulted in a collision with another intoxicated patron, turning my two full pints into two halves. I combined the two in one glass and ended up at a table with my coworker, three people I didn't know and the dude who used to be my tenant.

From there it was a pit stop at the local watering hole, then the liquor store, then the tattoo/barbershop for the after party. When we got there, the place was dead, and like all after parties, I felt totally out of place. As time went on, though, more people trickled in, we made a fruitless effort to siphon beer from the world's foamiest keg; I pissed in an alley and spilt beer on myself for the second time. I got home at 3:30am to find that my front door was wide open and a police car patrolling the street that flashed its spotlight on me three times and never stopped to ask me who I was or where I was going. The house was free of intruders nothing looked stolen, but I never checked the spices in the kitchen cabinet. We have an extensive collection for a group of people who rarely cook.

I've typed all of this while a house spider that I thought was a brown recluse (there aren't any in California, I looked it up) has been perched on the window sill above me. It hasn't moved an inch. I think it's waiting for me to leave. I haven't decided whether or not to smite it with a broom yet, but I think I'll let it be. For now. I also found out one of my old roommates became a cheerleader for the Seattle Seahawks, which delights me on a many different levels.

Sorry you had to read all that.