the lonliest road/western hospitality

Sometimes things don't live up to their names, but that's not the case with "The Lonliest Road in America." I figured that in this age of Internets and Walmarts and strip malls, that there weren't many places in the country that were untouched by the swift hand of progress.

I'm big enough to admit when I'm wrong.

I pulled into a town called Fallon in western Nevada. It contained--from what I could tell--nothing but fast food restaurant that looked as if they were built just an hour ago. One of which was a KFC/Long John Silver combo that employed around 10 kids, half of whom were sitting in the dining room area bored out of their minds. They each sat in different booths creating the illusion that the restaurant was busy. I had a $5 gift certificate to KFC, so I got a two-piece with some corn and the worst potato salad ever (I only took a bite). The young woman beind the counter was very pleasant and confused by the gift certificate. After about five minutes and consulting two other employees, everything was set and my order was entered into The Matrix.

I had just about over a quarter tank of gas in the car, so I asked her if she knew how far away the next town was. After all, if I was about to embark upon the Lonliest Road in America, running out of gas would create a certain amount of distress. She asked which direction, and when I answered, "East," she started as if to say something, paused, smiled and said, "Oh, I have no idea."

That was enough for me to opt for gassing up in Fallon. I pulled into a Native American-themed MegaGas stop on the edge of town, just a stones throw from Fallon's biggest attraction: a cemetary. And then I hit the road.

Within a few miles, the strip mall town had faded into obscurity, the speed limit on the two-lane highway inflated to a whopping 70mph, and I was quite literally in the middle of fucking nowhere. But I'd found a pretty sweet classic rock station on the radio, the sun was setting over the high desert and everything seemed right with the world.

But then it got darker. The scan function on my car's stereo ran through the FM dial without settling on a single station and I was stuck listening to Helloween's "Keeper of the Seven Keys" over and over again because it's on the CD that's stuck in the radio. Wildlife lurked in every corner, mostly of the benign type, and by benign, I mean dead. I was actually surprised there wasn't more roadkill strewn about this ghostly Autobahn. The few cars on the road zipped by me doing 75 as if I was in neutral and wildlife warning signs included cows, deers and Horned Gods. However, most of the carcasses were just unidentifiable forms of rodent matter.

I did see a few living beasties. One rabbit thought it would be a good idea to launch itself at my rear tire (luckily its aim was off), and outside the town of Austin, climbing to the top of a summit, I encountered two deers in the middle of the road. Since I was only doing 35 at the time, I was able to slow down to a stop. One of the deers quickly slinked into the surrounding brush, but the other dawdled on the road for a little while and walked along side of me as a I rolled to a stop before it darted away.

The bugs weren't so lucky. As my high beams shone across the dark, high desert night, hordes of flying insects swarmed toward the sweet embrace of death. But I pressed on, plowing through the bottom rung of the food chain, because I needed to get to Ely, which as I found out this evening is pronounced E-lee and not E-lie.

The first leg of the trip ended around midnight local time, and I'm currently holed up in the Historic Hotel Nevada, which has also played host to the likes of Mickey Rooney, whose suite is just a few doors down from mine. When I got my room, they handed me a heavy brass key and a coupon to a free drink at the dive bar across the street. When I went to redeem my prize, the bartender filled up a 10 oz. mug. I figured I'd have another, but when I asked her if the place took plastic, she said that it did, but the machine was acting all hokey and she wasn't sure if it would work. She then asked me what I wanted and said she'd fix it for me free of charge, so I got a Jim Beam on the rocks. When I was done, I said good night, and she came out from behind the bar, shook my hand and said, "Hey, enjoy your stay in Eeeleee." When I got back to my hotel/gambling hall, I redeemed my other ticket for a free margarita, and won $6 on the video poker machine built into the bar top. Enjoyment guaranteed.

Best Lonely Road Sing-a-long: "Here I Go Again" by White Snake, which came on as soon as I left Fallon.

Trip Rule #1: If Tom Petty comes on the radio, you must listen to it. One drink must be taken for every instance of "Free Fallin'" (I heard it twice).

[insert song title referring to california here]

I feel that I've done all I can in California, because on Friday, I learned how to Frisbee golf (or disc golf, or, as I like to call it, Frolf, which sounds sort of sounds like a hobbit). You wind through the forest and drink beer (or smoke weed if you're so inclined) and toss discs at little poles with baskets on them. Exactly the sort of things hobbits would do. It was a blast, even though it was really hot. Like really hot.

Last night was my last night in the state as a resident, though I've kinda been homeless for the past week or so. We went to some oonch oonch yuppie party at a local hotel. We had $400 in free booze. I got obliterated. The bartender had spectacular cleavage, and there was a bongo player and a fashion show. I missed the fire dancers in lieu of getting booze, but the go-go dancers were tearing it up inside. Well, one was; she really knew how to shake it. The other one was kind of bland. Thumbs down, go-go girl. Anyway, the good thing about drinking Jameson all night (and I mean all night) is that I never wake up with a hangover, though sometimes it makes me act and speak in a way that's unbecoming of an upstanding gentleman. I think I did OK last night. I looked that bartender in the eye and everything.

Thanks for seven good years, California.

so...this is awkward

Uh.

Yeah.

So I haven't done this in a while. In the past six months, or so, I did a bit of this, a bit of that, got fired and am somewhat homeless...though not the type of homeless that keeps you from accessing the Internet. All of my stuff is in the back of my lovely Scion Kimiko who will be my only accompaniment in yet another misguided journey across the Lovely United States of America.

Starting next Sunday...or Monday...or something, I'll be on my way over the Rockies and through the Great Cornfield on my way back to New York where I probably belong.

My CD player is dead and I'm pretty sure my money will run out. So in hopes I don't go crazy, I'm going to try to write about it along the way. And take crappy pictures on my cell phone. For prosperity.

In the meantime, I'm held up here, in a lovely duplex in Sacramento, which gets a pretty bad rap for sucking balls. It probably does for most people, but I think it's pretty neat. There are a lot of trees and friendly squirrels, and you can ride your bike everywhere as long as you don't live in the Big-Box clusterfuck that envelops the smallish capital like a pox-infected blanket. I hope I get back here one day. In the meantime, I'm sure there'll be time to drink a few car bombs. You should probably join me.

San Jose

San Jose
Originally uploaded by mutant moth

1000 ft of portapotties.

Tahoe

Tahoe
Originally uploaded by mutant moth

I went to Tahoe and it was awesome. Not just because it was so close to Nevada, but that was a big part of it. Here are pics of me and things prettier than me.

the polyphonic spree on lithium

Other than not going to Comic-Con this year like I wanted to, I also didn't get to go to Lollapalooza like I wanted to, and, predictably, I missed out. I hardly ever hear Nirvana covers, and I think this is the only one I've ever heard that's any good. You can really hear how beautiful the melody is when it's played on pianos and sousaphones and whatever else the Polyphonic Spree plays...Plus Tim DeLaughter just puts so much heart into it. What you can't see, unfortunately, is the crowd losing their shit. Oh well, maybe next time, right?

Here's a better sounding version from the El Rey in Los Angeles from July.



And while we're at it, Tim DeLaughter with his old band Tripping Daisy from Trees in Dallas, TX, way back in the day, filmed by Texas filmmaker Jeff Liles.



I hope to post something more substantial soon, but I've been actually working at work and I don't have the WEBS at home still. I sit and stare out my window a lot, but I can't see anything because the TV's in the way.

awesome

awesome
Originally uploaded by mutant moth

Panko-fried cod with broccoli and baby corns sauteed in garlic and olive oil.

we almost kinda coulda had san diego

This past weekend was San Diego Comic-Con, aka the Most Wonderful Time of the Year. It's the only time people who look like me get to mingle with one another, share our nerddom and also mingle with those who are much more physically attractive than ourselves, and the only time those people have to acknowledge us.

I didn't get to go to Comic-Con this year, though I did send a writer. I really wanted to go. I asked my boss. Last year, when they didn't send me, they said that they'd made a mistake and that I would definitely go this year. Instead, I came into the office and helped an intern move, and as a result, I missed my Rendezvous with Alba.

I can already see how it would've went. I would've been perusing long boxes for Zatanna memorabilia and copies of "Kraven's Last Hunt," the greatest Spider-man story ever told (I already have it of course in single issue form, but they're in New York, and it would be nice to have some extra copies--just in case). Maybe she would be looking for issues of Sin City to bone up on her Nancy Callahan character for the sequel, or perhaps her involvement in the comic book movie world would have sparked her interest in sequential art and she would be looking to expand her comic book horizons.

Our quiet searches would've caused us to accidentally bump into one another. "Oh! I'm sorry!" she would've said. I would've gotten sweaty in response. In my haste to shield myself from her overpowering sexy lasers (its' been a long weekend), I would've stammered something illegible and tried to move away, but she'd have labeled me a savvy comics vet because of my Sandman hat, pants and T-shirt and would've asked, "Are these any good?" She would've been holding a couple copies of Love and Rockets and I would've heard cello music.

From there, we'd grab a pick bite to eat so she could "pick my brain about comics." I'd suggest Al Aqua 2 just a few blocks away. I'd tell her that I'd eaten there the last time I was at Comic-Con in 2005, and I thought it was great. We'd head over there in her Prius. I'd order some sort of fish thing. ...I haven't really thought about what she'd get. Then she'd put it on her Amex card and I'd give a big sigh of relief, because that shit was fucking expensive. On the way back, the conversation would turn to other things: work, stress, Icanhascheezburger, you know, the important things. She'd tell me she just became single and was hoping to get her mind off things. I would've silently cursed the false claims of my "all day dry" antiperspirant.

Of course, upon our return to the convention center, reality--or as reality as the Comic-Con would get--would soon set in. Her pocket PC would've been raging with messages and she'd say something like, "I almost forgot about that press junket," or, "I can't believe I have to take that photo op with Dain Cook. He's such a tool," or, "I have to meet up with my manager so we can catch our plane out in a few hours." Or something like that. We'd wave and say it was nice to meet you, and I'd become just another balding 30-something fat-ish man in the Comic-Con crowd. Back where I belong, with my brethren. If I'd gone to San Diego.

odaijini

I've officially become a patron of the arts. The other day, I got a print by Audrey Kawasaki, who's one of my favorite artists right now. It's not like it's a very long list; I'm not very astute when it comes to following artsy stuff. Still, I'm extremely excited. When I ordered the print, I wasn't sure that I got through in time. Four weeks later, when I was pretty much sure that I hadn't gotten it, a well wrapped package appeared at my office and I hopped from desk to desk showing it off. It's not very big--just a 10" x 8" print--and it only cost me $55 all together with shipping, but I've never really owned a piece of art before. The print is on archival paper and is number 9 of 200, which makes the comic collector nerd in me get a stiffy (OMG!!! First TEN?!!11). Right now, she's off being framed (on the company's account) and I'm already scoping the walls of my little studio for the perfect spot. I may have to sell the car to get more of this stuff.

more flies with honey, i guess...

Earlier in the month, I decided, since I would no longer have cable, to subscribe to just about any YouTube channel that interested me in hopes that I would be getting the Internets back soon. One day at work, I was surfing the 'Tube for meatier stuff, newsy stuff, since I wouldn't any longer have access to The Daily Show. One of the featured videos that day was a beautiful, intelligent woman with a clipped accent and deep, dark eyes who implored viewers to leave comments and video responses for something. It didn't really matter what. I clicked subscribe. Turns out it was Ghida Fahkry and she's a news presenter for Al Jazeera English. I can listen to her say the world "English" all day. Also turns out that the channel has some really interesting stuff about places I'll probably never go to and people I don't really understand. Unfortunately, they haven't posted any more of Ghida other than the above thank you. Instead, there are actual news items that bum me out like this:

off the grid

I'm not dead. I've moved somewhat off the grid, meaning that I am now living in a studio apartment without cable or the Internets. I have rabbit ears and comic books and Battlestar Galactica on DVD. It's really fucking good, and that's got almost nothing to do with this or this. But they both help.

Yesterday I was at a Jack in the Box, here in downtown just half a block from my office. I stopped there to grab a quick bite to eat before heading over to see Queens of the Stone Age (they rocked). Unfortunately, the concept of fast food seems to have escaped this town's understanding. It's shitty burgers at low prices served up sorta warm and really quick. I should have my burger before I finish picking up the change.

Now, I'm a patient person, but it was just taking forever. I was sitting at a vaguely clean booth with two flies flailing through their final death throes on the table. I didn't say anything. I don't like to get uppity with people handling my food, and it turns my stomach when someone talks down to a waiter/waitress/server. I've stopped being friends with people because of it.

I just sat it out. At the tables behind me was a Christian men's group talking about the scriptures. I wasn't really paying attention, but only because they seemed to be speaking in some kind of code. I wish I could remember the word the leader kept using. Proclivity? It's lost to me. I figured I had to be in the know. I had to be born again. Or initiated. Or something. I see the group in there all the time, and I always wondered why they chose to meet in a Jack in the Box. I would've at least sprung for a Carl's Jr.

Eventually, my name was called, and I retrieved my tray of food: a Sourdough Jack and a small curly fries. It's about as good as it sounds.

I finished up at the same time as the men's group. While I was at the garbage can dumping the paper wrappers, the leader came up to me and introduced himself. His name was John. He said the group met there every Tuesday. He kept looking at my shirt--for a local metal band--that had a minotaur on it. He asked me if I had a relationship with God. I told him I did "in my own way." When I said it, I felt like a douchebag. A simple yes or no would've sufficed. I just thought a definite answer one way or the other would've led into a deeper conversation, and I really just wanted to get drunk and see a rock show, and I was lucky enough to do both. I've become increasingly proficient at giving answers that aren't answers. It sounds like it could be an answer, but it's so open-ended and esoteric that it doesn't really say anything. It seemed like a good enough response, though, because all he said in response was, "I understand." I'm glad one of us did.

eye candy

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

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

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

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

shades of gray

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

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

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

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

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

counting backwards spirit totem

You know you've hit rock bottom when you're sending out MySpace bulletins about needing room mates. I've officially run out of people I know in town. Luckily, the response has been mediocre. If this fails, I'm hoping there's a comfortable place to squat nearby, or at the very least, I can live in my cushy new car. Less expenses would be welcome, though I'm not sure how one goes about living in a car. I would ask the dudes who used to live in the van at the end of my cul-de-sac, but they've moved on. Such is the life of the nomad. Work sucks, my personal life is in turmoil, I'm not sure what my next step is. Right, you've heard it before. Like most people, when things get tough, they turn to the spiritual world, but even the picture of my boy Jesus that lives on my key chain's even giving me a look like, "Dude. It's summer. Grab a beer and chill out." He's probably right. He always is, but that's not what I need right now. Thanks to sites like Icanhascheezburger.com, I've found comfort in the animal kingdom (but not in a dirty way) and it made me think about my spirit animals, of which I have three, and I thought I'd share them.

The Owl. I've always been something of a night owl. Being active in the daylight hours really fucks my chi. Even as a young pup (there's no doggie in my totem, but I am a friend to all dogs), my parents never could get me to go to sleep. I remember laying awake in my bed thinking of all kinds of crazy shit like the Satan under my bed and the ghost in my closet. I don't think I really believed in these things, but I thought about them enough to convince myself of the possibility. Ever since Bubo from The Clash of the Titans, I've always been a friend to the owl, though only in the same way you're friends with someone you'd like to be friends with but have ever actually met, which is to say you're not really friends with them. But I'd like to be. If I ever met an owl, I'd say, "Yo, guy. How are you?" and I figure we'd hit it off from there. According to the Holistic Shop Dictionary, which I hold in the highest regard, owls represent wisdom, clairvoyance and magic. Clearly, a perfect fit.

The Turtle. When I was younger, I had a turtle. I named him Raphael after the Ninja Turtle. I didn't know how to take care of a turtle so it died. I killed Raphael, and I hate myself. His remains are buried in a shoe box (pet reptile coffin of choice) in my back yard beneath a pear tree. I think he would've wanted it that way. Holistic Shop Dictionary says turtles represent completion and protection, but for me, I think of poor Raphael and feel only remorse and regret. I am a terrible shabby person. But mostly, I kinda look like a turtle. Especially when I'm sitting down.

The Koala. You won't find him in the Holistic Shop Dictionary because Native Americans probably never seen one of these noble beasts. They live far from America, but thanks to Outback Steakhouses, I can eat myself into a stupor and gaze upon pictures of their contented visages. I used to watch a cartoon called Quickie the Koala, or something to that effect, and I even had a stuffed koala toy that I'd gotten at a flea market who I called by the same name. I like their fluffy ears and their weird noses and that every time you see a picture of these things, they're always asleep or eating, which are just about two of the most pleasurable things one can do with their free time. I guess this is what I aspire to be: small, gray, fuzzy, lazy. Godspeed, brave koala.

I get the feeling I did one of these before, but maybe with different animals, or all the same animals except one. I don't know. I just felt compelled to write something and on my way to get a tuna melt sandwich for lunch this afternoon, I couldn't stop thinking about owls. I don't know either.

our friend, meg white

I've spent just about all the work long day listening to the new White Stripes album, Icky Thump, and except for one song, I'm thoroughly pleased. Elephant ruled, the one after that I was pretty eh about, but this one may even be better with than the former, which kinda caused me to fall in love with The White Stripes, and also, Meg, who has been bestowed with the best ta-tas in rock.



I'm tired of hearing smarmy indie rock nerds scoff at the group because they make simple music and say that Meg's a shitty drummer. First off, it's rock music, and you don't have to be Bernard Purdy to make rock music. It's all in 4-4 time. All you've gotta do is look cool and keep the beat, and she does both of those things just fine. The new album's the rock, so if you're lame enough to think music should be fun, you'll probably like it. If not, put on some more of your boring ass Tortise albums and watch your fingernails grow.

Party @ the Thunderbird!

Party @ the Thunderbird!
Originally uploaded by mutant moth.

Act like you know.

the star

The days since taking home my car (I still haven't named her; I liked the Esme suggestion, though I prefer the full Esmerelda, but it just doesn't seem right) have been difficult ones. One of my best friends in town moved away, another is leaving, and another still may be leaving the office (and maybe even more). On top of that, my godmother died back home, and on the same day, a cousin out here in California also died. They passed within hours of each other. My first trip in the new car was to drive to a wake. I was there when the family first saw the body. The husband nearly collapsed on the coffin, the children wailed and cried. They hugged each other almost as if to keep themselves standing. I left the room.

I called my cousin "aunt," which is pretty common in my family if the cousin is older. I never spent a whole lot of time with her, but the time I did was great. She had a great sense of humor, and she was really kind. My godmother--my mother's sister--was very important to me. She went into a coma and passed away a few days later. She was one of the few who still called me. She even sent me birthday cards. The last time I saw her was at my sister's wedding, and I also called to wish her a happy mother's day. She'd been in and out of the hospital for a while. At my cousin's wake, the family expressed their sympathy for me. I wasn't able to get a flight back east. My mom asked me to go to Napa to pay respects in her place. I probably would've gone even if she hadn't asked.

I've been pretty out of it the past couple weeks. Everything that's been going on has been pretty overwhelming; it was just a whole lot at once. I've been mailing it in at work... I haven't been able to concentrate. I watch a lot of baseball scores and blog on my magazine's site and send a few e-mails or make some phone calls. I feel like I'm slacking--probably because I am.

But tonight was good. My roommates, a couple of friends and I drove about half-an-hour south of here to grab Indian food at this smaller town with a large Sikh population. I'd never actually had Indian food before, but everyone up here has a pretty big hard-on for it. Telling people I never tried it before was met with the same fear and suspicion as my admission that I hate avocado (I mean, really, it's gross). But I like Thai cuisine a lot, and I heard Indians use a lot of lamb, so I figured there was a good chance I'd like Indian. Plus I'm always down for a road trip.

The restaurant we went to was called Star of India, not to be confused with Taste of India, which was also in the same town. A couple of things tipped me off that the place would be good. First, an Indian friend of one of my dinner buddies said the place was the real deal. Second, the parking lot was packed. Third, we were the only white people in the restaurant. To top it off, they were hosting a party for a couple of high school graduates, so not only were we the overwhelming minority, but everyone there also knew each other. I would've felt really out of place if the owner of the restaurant--a man who looked kinda younger than I imagined his true age would dictate--wearing a red turban and dark bushy beard, came to greet us at the door with firm handshakes. He said he had a table for us, and gave us menus and water.

I drank two Dansberg beers, which the bottle claimed were made with Himalayan water, and they were really good. Then my samosas came out, and they were awesome. Later came the main course--lamb korma--along with steaming plates of basmati rice and naan. The sauce was so rich, and the level of spices were so complex, they kinda confused me, but god it was good.

Meanwhile, the party was reaching its peak. After the graduates gave a speech, the music began to blare. It was loud the whole time we were there, but now it was amazingly so. A DJ cranked music with male and/or female vocalists hollering passionately in a language I don't understand and dudes with drums, who were there at the party, pounded out infectious beats. When I walked past the party, women in bright colored dresses whirled together in a tight-knit group, and the men danced outside their circle. There was drums, whistling, screaming, stomping, clapping. At one point the partition that separated the general dining area from the private party rattled loudly. We turned to see a man peek over the top.

"Sorry about that," he said. "We're just a bunch of drunk Hindus."

Rolling.

Rolling.
Originally uploaded by mutant moth.

What I signed my life away for. She still needs a name.

american spirit

The guy at the liquor store isn't a friend of mine, but he might as well be. I see him more than most of my friends. Every time I see him, he gives a big smile and a hearty hello and he's always curious about what beer I'm going to buy. I get a lot of the weirder stuff, a lot of the stronger stuff, which he takes pride in stocking. Once he told me that he wished all his customers had the same taste in beer as I did. I said well, yeah, because it's more expensive, but really, he just seemed bored with the seemingly endless parade of Coors and Budweiser 30 packs that are slapped on his counter. Maybe my sixes of whatever broke up the monotony of his day. I don't know.

Like I said, we're not really friends. I don't know his name. I never ask people's names (I figure they'll tell me if they want me to know), but I do get weirded out when I see someone else working the counter. I think the guy's from the Middle East somewhere. I heard him talking to a younger guy who also works there in a foreign language that could've been Arabic. I'm not a linguist, but he's definitely not a white dude. Today, I picked up a six of Moose Drool and got in line behind these two guys. I wasn't paying attention. Shit can happen right in front of me without me noticing. Once my mind gets going on something, it's really hard to get my attention. It's not usual for the place to have a line, though I know it must do good business. It's just that people usually go in, get what they want, and leave. It's all very efficient. I don't know what grabbed my attention, but I could tell the dudes in front of me were riled up about something. There was a third guy too, ordering American Spirits, but I don't think he was with the two in front of me. The liquor store guy asked him if he wanted a pack or the pouch of tobacco you can roll. That's when one of the guys in front of me piped up.

"You know what he wants," he said.

I was in my own world till just about then. I have no idea what transpired before that even though it was right in front of me. But there was something about the way the guy said it that got my attention. Then I noticed his shaved head, his white wife beater, his pasty complexion and the tattoos on his large triceps that read "white" and "anger" left to right respectively.

Him and his skinhead buddy kept shooting underhanded comments at the liquor store guy, but nothing overt or all that offensive. They'd get snide, and the liquor store guy would just kinda laugh them off. He looked completely indifferent to their comments; he just kept smiling and laughing. After they paid for they're tall boys, the talkative one dropped a penny from the change on the table hard, kinda just tossing it at the liquor store guy, but not so much to hit him with it and said something else I don't remember (I know, I'm doing a great job of telling this story), and the liquor store guy said chuckling, "That's ok, I'll forgive you this time."

I thought he handled it all very well. When I got up to the counter, I joked around with him and told him that I didn't realize the storm troopers were in town. He laughed and rung me up, but the whole time I was standing in line and looking at these guys, I couldn't help getting really angry. I wondered if one of them would notice me and think I was Jewish, because I get that a lot, and try to start shit with me in the store, or wait for me outside. I thought maybe I should hit one of them with a bottle. I figured I could get one real good before the other one pummeled me something awful. As I walked home with my six pack, I got increasingly more angry, like I should've done something, even though I didn't know what or why. Any shouting or bottle clubbing wouldn't have solved anything. They'd still be racist pricks, and I'd still be a whiny liberal (but with some whiny liberal bruises). And even worse, all that hate and anger would've made me just as bad as they were.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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