life in gondwana and the caring hands of dominatrixes

450 million years ago, there weren't any plants. All life on Earth still resided in the oceans and continents--including the Gondwana supercontinent in the sounthern hemisphere--remained dry and barren. Even plants were just getting around to evolving. This is called the Ordovician period. Evidence of this primordial time can be found here, in the confines of my Never Never Land-style college town home where, on Sundays, the streets are bare and it's impossible to find an open restaurant. At least in the dear old Ordovician, you could wrangle yourself some seafood, if you had a taste for sea scorpion.

I promise to go food shopping when I get back from my friend's wedding in New York, assuming I have the money to do so. I don't want to eat out so much anymore, mostly because I'm bored with my choice of dining establishments and because my stomach can no longer be held hostage by the whims of narrowminded businesspeople who don't realize the foolishness of closing their eateries ON A WEEKEND DAY. I was unable to score two of my favorite sandwiches in town (the wasabi-lime tuna melt and the California chicken) because the establishment that offered the former was closed, and the home of the latter was opened but doesn't serve lunch items on Sunday (which is perhaps even more preposterous). I had to settle for Subway. Later, my dreams of a good sushi dinner were met with another locked door, sending me down the path of a burger and a salad, both of which were quite good. I understand that a person can have worse problems, but please remember it's all relative and since a good meal is just about the only enjoyment I get out of life, I take that shit pretty fucking personally.

When I moved out to California, I was a somewhat slim chap with a thick head of hair. It was my first time living out of my parents house and I was some 3000 miles away in a college town that has a ratio of two nubile young females to every hormone-juiced dude. Of course, as luck would have it, I almost instantly became chubby and bald, which was a big boost to my already flimsy confidence. I joined a gym for a little while with my already-athletic female roommates, and though they were very, very supportive of my efforts, I just couldn't get comfortable working out in front of all those people. I think I went about four or five times before I decided the gym wasn't for me.

Since I don't have a car, I do a lot of walking. I really like walking, and even when I don't have to go to work, I go for walks, either just downtown to grab a video or a bite to eat, or longer walks out to the batting cages or the park. It's good. It keeps me active physically, but it also keeps my mind pretty active, and it could use all the help it can get with all the shitty television shows I watch. Still, and this is embarassing me as I type almost to the level of having someone walk in on you while you're masturbating, I've been feeling the desire to exercise more (I think I'm blushing), but I'd be completely mortified if anyone caught me, so, like masturbating, I do it in my room with the door locked.

It's been going good so far. It's been a whole week. For motivational purposes, I've employed the help of Minna Lessig and Julie Upton, who are fitness gurus of Exercise TV, which is available On Demand. They're in ridiculously good shape, and they're kinda good with the motivation stuff, even though I get really embarassed when Julie asks of Minna and their third female cohort, "Ready girls?" I've only ever followed a workout video once before when my "friend" (you know who you are) asked me to do yoga with her. The instructor was Rodney Yee, no doubt an impressive specimen, but an unnervingly bendy and hairless man who comes up with mindboggling instructions like "strong eyes, soft throat," as he implores you to contort your body into impossible poses. Fuck you, Rodney. I settled on Minna and Julie because I think they're kinda hot, and I foolishly tried to convince myself that since they were "chicks" I'd be able to take whatever they threw at me. Real foolish. I've been in a constant state of sore for days now, but I can't let on because I don't want anyone to know what I've been doing. My biggest fear is that someone will walk in on me mid-crunch or knock on the door because I'm huffing and puffing and I'll have to make up some obvious lie. Maybe I'll just tell them I'm jerking off.

piss and vinegar

I would have given my left nut if I could've slept through the past three days. I'm not using it for anything anyway.

And I don't know why I buy 24oz tall cans of shitty beer like MGD, which is fine in small doses, but these cans never seem to run out. By the time I get to the end, it's always warm and gross and giving me a splitting headache. I'm persistent though. I'll finish it.

It's fucking still way too hot out and I'm cranky. The other day, someone visiting from the coast told me that she wanted to come up here before the summer ended so she could feel the hot weather, and I wanted to slap her. I wouldn't have, of course, but still. This heat is bound to make a man crazy. Tomorrow, the forecast calls for clouds and low 80s. Friday isn't supposed to get out of the 70s, with more clouds, and I couldn't be happier. If I see the sun again this year, I'll kill myself. And I'll take someone with me.

The weekend after this one, I have to go back to New York again for my friend's wedding. I'm really excited to get the fuck out of town, even though I just got back a few days ago. My parents had to buy me my ticket out, and I haven't been able to get the ticket back yet. I'll get around to it, though. Swear.

I already feel the breeze blowing through the screen windows. I hope I wake up shivering in the morning. I think my pillow is tired of my head sweating all over it. And I hate being woken up by my own perspiration to flip the damn thing so I can go back to sleep.

My grandmother, who's 103, went in to the hospital today to have an operation. I think she needed a tumor removed. I was amazed, to be honest, that she decided to go under the knife at all. She was on pills for the pain when I went home last, and they made her disoriented and loopy. I wasn't sure if she'd make it through. But she did. In fact, it only took about half an hour, and she was sent home the same day. From what I heard, the doctor was stupefied. She's a tiny old Sicilian tank and she makes me realize that I'm probably going to have to get used to the fact that no matter what I do to myself, I'm going to lead a very, very...very long life. I hope I at least get to go to Europe at some point. Or something.

i love the onion

Full story here.

the great northwest

I've been meaning to write about the Bumbershoot/Seattle trip, but I can't think of anything to type. It was a fun trip--maybe one of the funnest weekends I've had. I saw a lot of bands:

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

I think that's it. I also went to a comedy show with Mary Lynn Rajskub, who plays Chloe on 24 and Aziz Ansari who I think does some stuff with the Upright Citizen's Brigade and also stars in one of my favorite YouTube clips.



Aziz was great. I thought Mary Lynn was funnier when I saw her on the Tonight Show, but this one dude from LA, by way of Seattle, who opened stole the show, I thought. His name was Nick Thune. I bumped into him (almost literally) on the floor for the Kanye West show as I was trying to find a good spot near the stage. I told him I thought he was funny at the show. He said "Thanks." Later on, I was nearly trampled by Paul Scheer from Best Week Ever as he was making his way through the crowd. It was really packed. I don't think I've ever seen so many people for a concert, except perhaps for the Metallica/Guns N' Roses show I went to when I was 13. Kanye had an entire string section with him. I thought that was pretty neat. I drank Sierra Mist spiked with Jameson and tried to move to the rhythm. I'm glad no one was watching.

I caught Jeremy Enigk (formerly of Sunny Day Real Estate) at a "secret show" on this "secret stage" that was almost exclusively press only. There was a bout 25 - 30 people there, and it was the first show I saw on the last day of the event. It was probably the best one too. I liked Sunny Day's Diary album a lot, but I hadn't really followed his career since. Shit got emo in that room mighty fast. His voice was kinda otherworldly. He sang and shrieked and screamed and basically poured his heart out for 30 minutes. It was beautiful. When it was over, the Seattle radio personality who was hosting the event said, "I usually make it a point not to cry before 6pm. Me and my coworker turned to each other--we were sitting in the front row about 5 feet from the stage--and giggled, "That was awesome..."

The Thermals sounded unbelievably good in the concert hall with the worst acoustics. I sang along with all the songs from the new album to the bewilderment and aural dismay of the teenagers huddled around me. I didn't care. The place was packed, and they killed it. I think my face hurt from smiling so much.

I saw A Tribe Called Quest on Lollapalooza in '94, which was a long time ago, and I was still just about old enough to vote. That makes me want a beer. They were the first group I heard that made me appreciate hip-hop. Bumbershoot '06 was their first show together since '98, and they were a bit rusty to start off, but Tribe's kingpin Q-tip took over. I spent a few songs on the floor, then made it up to the grandstands where a group of friends of my coworker were sitting. I'd smuggled in a backpack full of wine (liquor stores are closed on holidays in Washington)--like five bottles worth--and was able to get them in without incident because I was wearing a photo pass. We passed around empty Pepsi bottles refilled with red or white wine and watched the scene below. For one of Tribe's more popular jams, Phife Dawg asked the crowd to jump and the thousands packed on the floor below did so in unison, which, from our high perch, was pretty fucking awesome looking.

A group of people from where I live came up for the festival that weekend. I didn't really know them, but they were good friends of my coworkers. We all ended up getting along really well and pretty much partied together at Bumbershoot and around Seattle all weekend. They snuck liquor into the booth for us, which kept our magazine spiel enthusiastic. They all flew up, though, me and my two coworkers had to drive--12 hours--there and back. On the way up, we were able to spend a night in Portland, OR, which is kinda like Seattle on a budget. There's also about 800,000 strip clubs. I, of course, have no problem with this, but they must employ every woman in town, because the bars we hit that night were about 90% dudes. This made my two female coworkers/travel companions very happy, but I was somewhat less stoked. That night we all ended up back at this dude's house. Some random who rolled up to us at this one bar that had some weird Star Trek name. They begged me to come, I guess, because they knew the girls weren't going anywhere without me. I said, "I don't care. Whatever they want to do." I was just happy to be drunk in a new city and not at work. We all packed in the car of one of the dude's sister and she drove us all to this really nice apartment that had some ridiculously low rent. I got free beer out of it. The Portlanders were total stoners and smoked pot out of a hookah while they were passing around a glass pipe. Talk about dedication.

We busted out of there after like an hour. I couldn't tell if these people really liked us or not (I'm pretty sure they didn't), but they were awfully hospitable. When we got back to the hotel, the girls offered to pay my way into the strip club across the street from it, because I was stuck hanging out with dudes all night. At first I was gung-ho, then I was apprehensive, because I wasn't sure if I wanted my female colleagues to see me make a fool of myself in the presense of nubile naked women, then I realized I was drunk and they were paying and I just wanted to see titties. We got to the door, but it was locked. I thought the fact that they offered was sweet, though. Instead, we all went to a ridiculously hip diner with ridiculously good food, just down the street. The quickest way to a man's heart...

That'll have to suffice for now. The whole trip felt like some coming of age story or some unreal teenage party movie, except I came of age about 12 years ago and I'm about to turn 30. Any more good times like that, and I might have to admit that my life doesn't suck all that much, and that would really suck.

delaying the inevitable

I had full intention of writing about my Seattle trip tonight, but I went out and got drunk instead. I drank more rum than I have in quite some time and for no particular reason other than the hot bartender with the shoulder tattoo and the low-slung camo pants really knew how to mix her drinks. I'm a sucker for women with shoulder tattoos...and also women who serve me drinks.

It was a fun night that deposited me at the local watering hole, more fucked up than I wanted to be, and later at the shittiest pizza joint in the universe for a barely palatable piece of pepperoni. As I walked home, a cute chubby girl sitting at the town hall fountain asked me how my night went. I threw my arms up in the air and preached about its unerring awesomeness. I asked her how she did, and she said she was sober, but was yelling at all the drunks who passed by. I threw my arms up again and shouted, "Great!" and she told me I was her favorite drunk and that she loved me and that I should call her. And then she said, "No seriously." But I know she wasn't serious cuz she didn't give me her number.

Like I said, it was a fun night. But I'll credit that more to the fact that I didn't do a lick of work all day as opposed to thanking the alcohol. I did, however, do a lot of surfing and fantasy baseball and football checking. I also checked out YouTube, which, through sheer chance, led me to Ms. Reema Sen. I think she's from India, and she's a very beautiful woman. I think so anyway. And I'm assuming she's a pretty big star in her home country, because, hey, why not?

I don't want to discredit Ms. Sen's fame, because I'm sure she had to work her gorgeous ass off to get to where she is today. However--and I hate to say it--she can't dance her way out of a paper bag, and her unhealthy obsession with mustachioed creepy dudes is really unsettling. REALLY. Check out the clips below, but don't say I didn't warn you.

This one will make you wish you were a beach towel...kinda.



This one brings the pain...



Totally unrelated, but this is my favorite thing right now.

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

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

I'll admit that I want to fuck Paris Hilton. I'm not happy about it, but that's the way things go. I'm usually attracted to the worst type of people, more specifically, women who are totally wrong for and unattracted to me. I guess the draw is the feeling of accomplishment. If she's perfect for me and likes me, then what's the point? It's one of the many reasons why I'm single, and probably a lot better off that way.

Anyway, Paris Hilton is completely disgusting. She's everything I hate about people wrapped up into one tanned, processed and buffed package. I hate that she's rich, without a conscious and a selfish snob--and that kinda hate gives me a stiffy. (I told you. Gross.)

Recently, a graffiti artist named Banksy doctored up some copies of the Paris Hilton "album" Paris. The copies contain a remix of the album by an artist named "DM" believed to be ridiculously talented producer/DJ Dangermouse. There are 500 of these and they were snuck back into HMV stores in the UK and some of them are going for a ton of loot on eBay.

I suppose doing a thing like this is kinda pointless. In the end, all that's going to happen is give this crappy CD and the person who made it even more publicity than she already has, but I still like the intent behind it. If anyone wants to buy me a copy, I'd gladly trade any one or all of the three legit copies that were sent to me by the record label. I'm sure they all suck.

[Image stolen from Hollywoodrag.com]

zombie

I'm not dead. Not quite yet, anyway. Back from Seattle where I was preaching my magazine's gospel at Bumbershoot. Yes, It was a lot of fun. I'm sure there are stories to tell, but we had to drive 12 hours to get back home today and I'm pretty tired. I just want to drink some Guinness and fall asleep. Tomorrow, we'll talk.

at least i know where i get it from

It's funny that I'm writing this at 4:20 am. You'll see why later. If you're cool. Are you cool, man?

I just put the finishing touches on some information I've been putting together for my mother. She called me up last week and spoke in that grave mother voice she always does. "I need you to do something for me." Like it was the most dire thing in the world.

"What mom?"

"I need you to get on the computer and find out everything you can about an actor named John Lund."

"Uh. Everything?"

"I want to know where he's buried."

"What?!"

"Would you just do it?!" She was kidding about the buried thing. I think. She likes to throw things in there like that to make sure I'm paying attention to her. I think she thinks that you can type anything into a Web browser and instantly find the answer to any question, but as we all know, unless you're looking for porn, that's not the case. John Lund--I couldn't find a picture--had his heyday in the '40s, was retired by the '60s and died in 1992. He's not well known, but he did work a lot, and he starred with some really famous people like Frank Sinatra and Grace Kelly. Aside from IMDB.com and Allmovieguide.com, I really couldn't find much, though I did find an abstract of his obit from the New York Times. It would have cost me to read the whole thing, but apparently, he died from unknown causes, though he had a history of heart problems. He was 81 and, from what I found, married to the same woman for 50 years up until the time of his death. All in all, seemed like a pretty good life.

Since I couldn't find much outside of IMDB, I spent a good portion of time typing the names of his films into Amazon.com to see if any of them where available on DVD. I think about six were. I'll mail the info out tomorrow, and I hope that she'll be stoked.

My mom has a long list of celebrity obsessions. She once found out the number of the hotel room Gordon McRae (the guy who starred in Oklahoma) was staying at when he was in New York and called it. I asked her if she realized that they call that "stalking" now, but she said there was nothing wrong with that back then. I'll have to take her word for it.

And I wonder where I get it from. As I was looking up info on Mr. Lund, I split time reading up on Mary-Louise Parker, an actress I'm very familiar with, but who I only just realized is completely badical. I think I only just realized because I spent the three hours prior to my Web search watching the first disc of the first season of Weeds, which, as it turns out, is a fucking great show and stars Ms. Parker as a well-to-do, widowed, 40-something pot dealer--pretty much my perfect woman. If anyone knows of such a woman, please have her comment here. I haven't smoked weed in many, many years, but it could never hurt to start again. I actually got in a conversation recently where at I first I was kidding--and then became somewhat serious--that I could help out my woeful financial situation if I just sold a little weed on the side. But I think I'd be the world's worst drug dealer, and I wouldn't want to cut in on the action of the dude's living down the block.

pluto, we hardly knew ye

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

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

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

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

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

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

hail seitan

Just to start off with an aside, I have Photoshop CS thanks to a connection of mine but I haven't gotten around to installing it yet. I made the dandy graphic you see above with the janky but dependable Microsoft Photo Editor. That's my level of skillz. Recognize.

Looking at the graphic, you'll notice a malificent being with horns and fangs on the left, and on the right a plate of a meat-like substance that looks kinda like Fancy Feast cat food. Without gravy. Let's call the horned chap Satan, Lord of the Bottomless Abyss, because that's his name, and the plate of lumps on the right Seitan, because that's what it's called. I pronounce them both the same way because it's funnier that way and inspires me to make stupid graphics in Microsoft Photo Editor for my stupid blog. Everyone has their "kink" or so I'm told. This graphical device is once again stolen from Steve. It's just so damn effective, and I'm so damn drunk--well not really, but I'm pretending to be--that I can't think of anything better.

I guess if you have to explain a joke it no longer becomes funny.

It's been a shitty couple of weeks. I'm not going to lie. I'm officially sick of it, too--completely had it. The only thing that's kept me going is depressing and disturbing movies. I'm totally fucking broke, really fucking bored and good meals have been few and far between. I like to eat. It's one of my life's great joys. So far, I haven't found anything on this planet as good as a warm plate of cheese ravioli when the sauce is made just right. But I've had to go without such luxuries as grocery shopping and rely on free meals at weddings and bars that'll take my beer stamps for food. Tonight when I got home to break into a six-pack I'd liberated from the office and plunge into my fantasy football draft, my roommate emerged from her room and told me she was going to cook dinner. She's a vegetarian, the kind soul, and she confessed she wasn't much of a cook. She returned from the hippie supermarket with a bundle of items she meant to fashion into curry. I love me some Thai food or any free food for that matter, so when she offered, I didn't hesitate to belly up.

She used mushrooms, red peppers, broccoli, long grain rice, coconut milk, some kind of curry paste and a peculiar meat substitute called "Seitan." The curry was really spicy; my other roommate, her boyfriend, added some extra paste, but damn was it tasty.

I'm really carnivorous. I find it hard to consider any meal anything more than a snack if there's not some kind of carcass involved. I know this means I'm living on borrowed time, but I'm not keen on the idea of living much longer than I have to anyway. But this seitan stuff was truly a beguiling substance. I've had all sorts of soy "meat" before, but I think seitan was the closest in texture to actual dead animal. It tasted, as you would expect, like chicken, only if the chicken in question was kinda flavorless.

After the meal, and before we went out, we watched Criss Angel Mind Freak on A&E (it's kinda funny that there was a time when the Arts & Entertainment channel actually had arty stuff, but is now pretty much all dopey reality shows). Criss is a magician/daredevil, and, if you couldn't tell by the photo, is kind of a douchebag. But, for whatever reason, whenever I watch his dumb show, I always end up going from thinking, "This guy is a complete douchebag," to, "Whoa, dude, how did he...WHOA!" I guess I'm kind of a douchebag too. On this episode, he tried to suspend himself via FLESH HOOKS from a heliocopter, which, if you think about it, isn't really some crazy slight of hand, mind freaky illusion type thing, but I'm sure it's something you can parlay into getting yourself laid.

Afterwards, I caught a ride downtown where I bar hopped and got some valuable vitamin B and a healthy buzz via pints of Guinness (no, seriously, it's why the Irish rock) and returned home, quickly, because seitan was having his way with my bowels. Good thing we have a plunger.

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

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

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

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

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

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

wino

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

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

how i spent my vacation 2

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

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

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

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

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

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

how i spent my vacation

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

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

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



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

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

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

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

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

junk in the trunk

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

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

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

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

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

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

ever watchful

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

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

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

real american heroes

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

KRAK-thoom

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

invocation

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

getting there

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

please excuse the mess

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

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

for the love of the game

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

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

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

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

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

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.