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.