Sometimes you sit at a desk, you put up a little metal pole on pile of scaffolding, and you wait for lightening to strike. Sometimes the weather is just too nice and you try to make lightening yourself out of empty tomato paste cans and paperclips, the odd brass plated 1 inch shank fastener.
Sometimes you walk down the street and a particularly good song pops onto the headphones, let's say T. Rex's Ballrooms of Mars, and you just see yourself practically floating down the street and singing at the top of your lungs. Other folks around begin an impromptu, but meticulously choreographed dance routine; the lot of you threatening to banish the nonbelievers with the sheer power of your musictude.
Sometimes you wish you hadn't ordered the meatloaf. Sometimes you wonder if a 2 Disc Special Edition is really necessary.
Sometimes you wish that you had somehow documented every day of your life, just the mundane stuff like the first sudoku puzzle you did, or that time you went to the store and the checker reminded you that the eggs were a buy one get one free deal and he sent the less than quick bagboy to run get you another dozen - and you sort of doubted that the gaping mouthed bag boy really went through the effort of checking those eggs for you. Sometimes you wish you hadn't told that girl you were tight with FBI agents 'cause now she won't leave you alone about it.
Sometimes you remember that time up on top of that steep, grassy hill and how you wanted to run down it, roll down it, but you didn't. Sometimes you remember a whole slew of people thinking you were an ass faced moron for that one thing - but you remember that thing with the biggest possible smile.
Sometimes you wish you hadn't worried so much about freaking them out by telling them how much you care.
Sometimes you want to eat regret with a nice spicy peanut sauce and then laugh and point when you poop it out.
Sometimes you want to be coated in carnauba wax and floated on a calm sea of blueberry liqueur. Sometimes you want to jump into one of those ball pits but filled with freshly roasted coffee beans.
Sometimes a nice, subtle red will go well with fish.
Wednesday, February 28, 2007
Tuesday, February 27, 2007
I'm Looking At You Ethan
Okay, I'm not going to make a big deal out of it, but when you mocked my sculpture Super Turd in the Valley of Dragons, well it really hurt. And you probably don't even remember. You said, "it looks like Super Turd in the Valley of Other Turds" and everybody laughed. And looking back now, yeah, I guess it was kinda funny, but seriously that grade school clay is tough medium to work in. You never tried it, you were always content to play it safe with glue sticks and sparkles, and shoot I gotta say it, it's been done. What envelope were you going stretch with that?
After your pack of giggling jackals left, Tom stayed behind to tell me that he thought my sculpture looked cool, and that you were a jerk. Did you know that? That Tom thought you were a jerk?
And okay, maybe it was a little uncalled for in the scheme of things, but it was me that slipped the slice of provolone into your club sandwich even though I knew you had a serious dairy allergy. I kinda thought you worked up the allergy bit as a way to get attention, I mean you always thought you were so cool bringing in stuff like candied ginger and things to share with the class and then acting like a big shot because you ate candied ginger at home all the time. Newsflash guy, your parents bought that stuff, it wasn't your idea.
So anyway, I'm sorry for the whole paramedic thing, but seriously, you were a jerk. I just had to get that off my chest. I feel bad that there was that whole cold shoulder thing at the monkey bars that one time, and I guess I just needed you to know.
Man, I've been holding onto that for 17 years...
After your pack of giggling jackals left, Tom stayed behind to tell me that he thought my sculpture looked cool, and that you were a jerk. Did you know that? That Tom thought you were a jerk?
And okay, maybe it was a little uncalled for in the scheme of things, but it was me that slipped the slice of provolone into your club sandwich even though I knew you had a serious dairy allergy. I kinda thought you worked up the allergy bit as a way to get attention, I mean you always thought you were so cool bringing in stuff like candied ginger and things to share with the class and then acting like a big shot because you ate candied ginger at home all the time. Newsflash guy, your parents bought that stuff, it wasn't your idea.
So anyway, I'm sorry for the whole paramedic thing, but seriously, you were a jerk. I just had to get that off my chest. I feel bad that there was that whole cold shoulder thing at the monkey bars that one time, and I guess I just needed you to know.
Man, I've been holding onto that for 17 years...
Monday, February 26, 2007
I Would Like To Thank...
Every year I attempt to make a stand against the Academy Awards. In theory, I hate the Academy Awards. I find the self congratulatory bullshit to be a bit much. Celebrities already get to live on a higher plane of existence, do they really need to have their asses kissed a little bit more? If you want to hand out awards for achievements in film making, okay do it, but honestly do we need any more freaking spectacle? Do we need the gameshowesque, 1 winner 4 losers aspect of suspense? Do we need the pre-show HOURS spent with bitchy anchors gabbing about what the stars are wearing? Seriously!
Every year I attempt to make a stand against the Academy Awards, but I fail nearly every year. It could be invitations to Academy Awards parties, it could be Chris and G-ra in the Haight from their tv-less outpost in Dos Rios and a hankering for Chinese Food and celebrity ass kissing. If I was really so staunch about the whole thing you'd think I'd just go into another room, read some Tolstoy, plan a sojourn into the wilds of Kentucky, masturbate fiercely...
But no, almost every year I watch the ridiculous parade. And admittedly, I do love to witness raw emotional release of an artist that I respect. If I don't respect you, or if you're acting a raw emotional release, I will mock you mercilessly.
The above mentioned year with G&C and little white boxes of Taiwan to go, I actually cried when Michael Moore won the award for Bowling For Columbine and he made a fantastic speech despite a planted crowd of jeers.
Last night, I probably could have skipped the whole affair quite easily, but Mandy invited us over to watch. It seemed like a great idea to get out of the house, have some pizza and a beer, mock people mercilessly. I feel that I must be growing up a bit because while I still feel the Academy Awards are fairly unnecessary, I don't get as self righteously worked up as I do when say someone leaves Entertainment Tonight playing on the TV at home. And I am much more willing to weed through the shrill and annoying to get to watching things like Martin Scorsese cry at seeing his friend and editor thank him when she won her award, and watching Mr. Scorsese's long awaited and deserved win get announced by his three friends - Francis Ford Coppola, George Lucas and Steven Spielberg.
And I also have to admit that my love for film wins out every time. I get emotionally involved when they do a montage of film clips. I'm reminded of why I hold film in such special place. I'm reminded that despite the audacious and ridiculous spectacle, there can still be art being made.
Every year I attempt to make a stand against the Academy Awards, but I fail nearly every year. It could be invitations to Academy Awards parties, it could be Chris and G-ra in the Haight from their tv-less outpost in Dos Rios and a hankering for Chinese Food and celebrity ass kissing. If I was really so staunch about the whole thing you'd think I'd just go into another room, read some Tolstoy, plan a sojourn into the wilds of Kentucky, masturbate fiercely...
But no, almost every year I watch the ridiculous parade. And admittedly, I do love to witness raw emotional release of an artist that I respect. If I don't respect you, or if you're acting a raw emotional release, I will mock you mercilessly.
The above mentioned year with G&C and little white boxes of Taiwan to go, I actually cried when Michael Moore won the award for Bowling For Columbine and he made a fantastic speech despite a planted crowd of jeers.
Last night, I probably could have skipped the whole affair quite easily, but Mandy invited us over to watch. It seemed like a great idea to get out of the house, have some pizza and a beer, mock people mercilessly. I feel that I must be growing up a bit because while I still feel the Academy Awards are fairly unnecessary, I don't get as self righteously worked up as I do when say someone leaves Entertainment Tonight playing on the TV at home. And I am much more willing to weed through the shrill and annoying to get to watching things like Martin Scorsese cry at seeing his friend and editor thank him when she won her award, and watching Mr. Scorsese's long awaited and deserved win get announced by his three friends - Francis Ford Coppola, George Lucas and Steven Spielberg.
And I also have to admit that my love for film wins out every time. I get emotionally involved when they do a montage of film clips. I'm reminded of why I hold film in such special place. I'm reminded that despite the audacious and ridiculous spectacle, there can still be art being made.
Thursday, February 22, 2007
Tragical
Some folks say you shouldn't speak ill of the dead, I poop all over that idea. I guess the idea is that said dead person cannot defend attacks, but I say if some dick head went to the grave a dick head, he probably knew to some degree that he was a dick head and it's fair to be called out as such. Plus they're dead, it don't matter what you say about them, they're done.
Do you want to know what I find even more surprising that the "news" continues to talk about Anna Nicole Smith? When I looked up the definition for "tragedy" (in an express attempt to show that the death of A.N.S. was technically not a tragedy) the dictionary told me that a variant of tragedy was "tragical". Seriously? That's a word? That's something I would make up to seem comically illiterate.
File this under flogging a dead horse (literally), but A.N.S. was a talent less, gold-digging junkie and it's ridiculous that people are still talking about this.
(The irony that I am also talking about it is not lost.)
I have nothing against her being a gold digger, shit if you have a shot at billions for being hot and can stomach making out with a pile of rotting flesh with a heartbeat for a couple of years, by all means do it. It beats the hell out of my job. But being a talent less junkie doesn't make you newsworthy, it makes you a former roommate of mine in some cases.
We're not talking about the body of say Julie Andrews showing up dead in a Hard Rock hotel. That may not be a tragedy either, but it would at least be noteworthy. Did anyone expect any less from A.N.S.?
Which leads me to this point, by a secondary definition, the death of A.N.S. may actually be a tragedy by default:
a serious drama typically describing a conflict between the protagonist and a superior force (as destiny)
It's a thinker, but what it is not is newsworthy. A woman famous for getting her picture taken, and then for "acting" in some movies that went straight to video, a woman who appeared to be so done up on some sort of opiate every time she was interviewed with a camera that you could cure migraines by watching said interview, was found dead in a hotel - probably with a mouthful of stomach contents.
There is a poor infant out there with the sad legacy of a dead mother whose sad, drugged out last days were captured by Entertainment Tonight and available on DVD via a reality show, and are played out ad nausea for our entertainment. That's the sad comment on Americans as voyeur monkeys, that's the tragedy.
Song Stuck In My Head Right Now: Cities by Talking Heads
Do you want to know what I find even more surprising that the "news" continues to talk about Anna Nicole Smith? When I looked up the definition for "tragedy" (in an express attempt to show that the death of A.N.S. was technically not a tragedy) the dictionary told me that a variant of tragedy was "tragical". Seriously? That's a word? That's something I would make up to seem comically illiterate.
File this under flogging a dead horse (literally), but A.N.S. was a talent less, gold-digging junkie and it's ridiculous that people are still talking about this.
(The irony that I am also talking about it is not lost.)
I have nothing against her being a gold digger, shit if you have a shot at billions for being hot and can stomach making out with a pile of rotting flesh with a heartbeat for a couple of years, by all means do it. It beats the hell out of my job. But being a talent less junkie doesn't make you newsworthy, it makes you a former roommate of mine in some cases.
We're not talking about the body of say Julie Andrews showing up dead in a Hard Rock hotel. That may not be a tragedy either, but it would at least be noteworthy. Did anyone expect any less from A.N.S.?
Which leads me to this point, by a secondary definition, the death of A.N.S. may actually be a tragedy by default:
a serious drama typically describing a conflict between the protagonist and a superior force (as destiny)
It's a thinker, but what it is not is newsworthy. A woman famous for getting her picture taken, and then for "acting" in some movies that went straight to video, a woman who appeared to be so done up on some sort of opiate every time she was interviewed with a camera that you could cure migraines by watching said interview, was found dead in a hotel - probably with a mouthful of stomach contents.
There is a poor infant out there with the sad legacy of a dead mother whose sad, drugged out last days were captured by Entertainment Tonight and available on DVD via a reality show, and are played out ad nausea for our entertainment. That's the sad comment on Americans as voyeur monkeys, that's the tragedy.
Song Stuck In My Head Right Now: Cities by Talking Heads
Wednesday, February 21, 2007
Cocktails And Deep Fried Tater Tots
Tuesday nights are now bowling nights, which makes for some less than heavenly Wednesday mornings. Last night I bowled a nice, steady crap fest. All three games broke a hundred, but barely. When I joined the league last year, I said to myself, "hey, if I break 100 a game I'm happy." It turns out that this is sort of bullshit.
It's like saying to myself, "hey, if I reach one person in the audience, if I can move that one, I feel like I've done something." Yeah, I'm not going to be really happy until I move everyone in that damn audience. And truth be told, I probably would still find something about my performance to be upset about. Sometimes I ask a lot from myself, sometimes I just want a potent drink.
Which brings us, finally, to the real point of this post.
There is the Boilermaker, a drink that has seen some days and some down and outters drinking 'em down. A pint of cheap beer and a shot of cheap whisky, the Boilermaker (or plain ol' 'beer and a shot') is meant to be drunk up fast. In some circles, the shot is dropped into the beer. This twist sort of seems like the bright idea of a drunken 22 year old, but some of my best ideas came about when I was a drunken 22 year old.
Last week, I learned about a take on the Boilermaker called the Irish Car Bomb. Ya get yourself a pint of Guinness, drop in a shot of Jamison's Irish Whisky and Bailey's Irish Cream, then you chug it down before the Bailey's can go and curdle on you. Some people say it tastes like chocolate milk. I cannot verify that as I was already pretty trashed and could only really think, "let's go to Taco Time."
One of the best things I heard after about 5 of us did these mad bastards was, "now lets get home before this hits."
And hit they will my friends. There's a reason why the word bomb is part of this drink. It's like a big ol' drunk bomb of drunkeness that will leave you pondering the general state of you and how the hell did you get lip balm where you did.
Confidential to Issach in Papillion, NE: I need you to remember pal, it's just like the sign says -
It's like saying to myself, "hey, if I reach one person in the audience, if I can move that one, I feel like I've done something." Yeah, I'm not going to be really happy until I move everyone in that damn audience. And truth be told, I probably would still find something about my performance to be upset about. Sometimes I ask a lot from myself, sometimes I just want a potent drink.
Which brings us, finally, to the real point of this post.
There is the Boilermaker, a drink that has seen some days and some down and outters drinking 'em down. A pint of cheap beer and a shot of cheap whisky, the Boilermaker (or plain ol' 'beer and a shot') is meant to be drunk up fast. In some circles, the shot is dropped into the beer. This twist sort of seems like the bright idea of a drunken 22 year old, but some of my best ideas came about when I was a drunken 22 year old.
Last week, I learned about a take on the Boilermaker called the Irish Car Bomb. Ya get yourself a pint of Guinness, drop in a shot of Jamison's Irish Whisky and Bailey's Irish Cream, then you chug it down before the Bailey's can go and curdle on you. Some people say it tastes like chocolate milk. I cannot verify that as I was already pretty trashed and could only really think, "let's go to Taco Time."
One of the best things I heard after about 5 of us did these mad bastards was, "now lets get home before this hits."
And hit they will my friends. There's a reason why the word bomb is part of this drink. It's like a big ol' drunk bomb of drunkeness that will leave you pondering the general state of you and how the hell did you get lip balm where you did.
Confidential to Issach in Papillion, NE: I need you to remember pal, it's just like the sign says -
Tuesday, February 20, 2007
Career Oppotunities
I went to go get some coffee (little cream, little sugar - thanks for asking) and within the kitchen I first saw someone work the caramel sauce bottle like an expensive whore. That effer was going get his caramel sauce and he was going to get a lot of it. I then saw a kid perusing the vending machines.
Now I thought to myself, school should be in session shouldn't it be? We're not starting a child labor program are we? We will never hear the end of that. Then again, it does give a solution to that nagging child care question...
No, someone brought their kid to work, I'm sure of it. And to sweeten the deal they tossed 'em a buck to go grab a bag of TGIFriday's Bacon and Cheddar Potato Skins to nibble on while staring at the nondescript walls of mom or dad's cubicle.
I remember going to work with dad occasionally. Dad worked in an office which sat right off of a warehouse. Sometimes me and my brother would play some sort of maze game, running around the stacked crates and boxes, inhaling forklift exhaust.
This kid seemed to be having a problem with the vending machine. He said, "no" and banged on the keys which typically allow for the ingestion of bagged heart disease, of hermetically sealed diabetes. I wanted to tell him that continually punching those keys wasn't going to get him anywhere. And while I had his attention, I also wanted to let him know that hitting the elevator or crosswalk button once was all it took; things did not work any faster the more times you punched the buttons. I decided not to lecture someone else's child and finished stirring my beverage.
The kid turned and looked at me with those sad, little kid eyes. He was trying to implore me with only his eyes. "I didn't get my snack," they seemed to say. "My daddy's poor and this is the only thing that I get to eat for a whole week. Plus I have to share it with my stupid sister who uses Papermate pens as Barbies. Because we're poor."
I was being worked by a kid. I simply shrugged and walked out of the kitchen. But then it occurred to me that he may just live here in the building, tricking people into replacing vending machine money that never existed, living off of pastries left over after meetings and bathing in the sinks that run automatically when your hand trips the sensor. This was the much heralded Wolf Child of Utah Avenue.
Now I thought to myself, school should be in session shouldn't it be? We're not starting a child labor program are we? We will never hear the end of that. Then again, it does give a solution to that nagging child care question...
No, someone brought their kid to work, I'm sure of it. And to sweeten the deal they tossed 'em a buck to go grab a bag of TGIFriday's Bacon and Cheddar Potato Skins to nibble on while staring at the nondescript walls of mom or dad's cubicle.
I remember going to work with dad occasionally. Dad worked in an office which sat right off of a warehouse. Sometimes me and my brother would play some sort of maze game, running around the stacked crates and boxes, inhaling forklift exhaust.
This kid seemed to be having a problem with the vending machine. He said, "no" and banged on the keys which typically allow for the ingestion of bagged heart disease, of hermetically sealed diabetes. I wanted to tell him that continually punching those keys wasn't going to get him anywhere. And while I had his attention, I also wanted to let him know that hitting the elevator or crosswalk button once was all it took; things did not work any faster the more times you punched the buttons. I decided not to lecture someone else's child and finished stirring my beverage.
The kid turned and looked at me with those sad, little kid eyes. He was trying to implore me with only his eyes. "I didn't get my snack," they seemed to say. "My daddy's poor and this is the only thing that I get to eat for a whole week. Plus I have to share it with my stupid sister who uses Papermate pens as Barbies. Because we're poor."
I was being worked by a kid. I simply shrugged and walked out of the kitchen. But then it occurred to me that he may just live here in the building, tricking people into replacing vending machine money that never existed, living off of pastries left over after meetings and bathing in the sinks that run automatically when your hand trips the sensor. This was the much heralded Wolf Child of Utah Avenue.
Monday, February 19, 2007
Saturday Recap and Some Mad Vegetable Love
Have you ever kept glancing at the largish cucumber sitting on your desk and started thinking vaguely dirty thoughts? I mean I know you haven't, but this one was sort of directed towards that other guy. I've recently given in fully to my love of the unpickled pickle and have been eating cucumber slices at work. I was running late this morning and hadn't had a chance to slice it. It seemed totally plausible in my exhausted state to bring the entire thing to work even though I do not have a knife to slice it
What the hell does that have to do with anything? Nothing my love, but understand that this boy is tired and little will make sense today. I'm pretty sure I'm fighting the plague that is slowly mowing its way through my coworkers. It's getting to be like that ridiculous point in a horror movie where it is no longer possible to politely ignore the fact that more of your young and drunk friends are missing than are still around, but you can always overlook a few bloody weapons as some sort of practical joke...
I spent a little dad/son time with Riley on Saturday morning while Bif went and broke the morality of beginning runners in Greenlake. I'm gonna come right and say it, when that kid smiles the rest of the freakin' world can be coming apart with toxic gas and flying rivets and I don't give a rat's ass. He keeps trying to tell me a story with these coos and song phrases that just seem to make time stand still. Even when he's screaming his face off, it's still totally worth being there for it.
Saturday night I went out with my special lady friend. We went to a "fancy" pizza place downtown, but there as quite a wait. Finally though, someone got the bright idea of taking a cell phone number with the name so you could get a call and not to have to stare at other hungry and typically impatient wannabe diners from Bellevue.
We went to the Whisky Bar for my first and last visit. Between receiving that strange phenomenon of bad bar rate version of Makers that burns going down, and the really loud and shitty metal drowning in ridiculous guitar solos that the DJ was playing, I realized that the Whisky Bar was not the bar for me. Bif said it made her feel old. I didn’t feel old, I just realized that I didn't want to be there, and no one who did was going to feel bad when I left.
Insert shrieking and repetitive guitar solo here.
Another bar that doesn’t make its name on its attitude, some real Makers and I took on the 2 hour wait for pizza undaunted; I was out of the house with a pretty lady and had some whisky in my belly. We got in and I was immediately taken with the wait staff; nice kids who were dealing with what was apparently the busiest night of the restaurant's history. I had the special which involved pancetta and frigging celery root. Celery root! Man that pizza made me so hard that I fucked the inside of my pants.
It was a good day.
What the hell does that have to do with anything? Nothing my love, but understand that this boy is tired and little will make sense today. I'm pretty sure I'm fighting the plague that is slowly mowing its way through my coworkers. It's getting to be like that ridiculous point in a horror movie where it is no longer possible to politely ignore the fact that more of your young and drunk friends are missing than are still around, but you can always overlook a few bloody weapons as some sort of practical joke...
I spent a little dad/son time with Riley on Saturday morning while Bif went and broke the morality of beginning runners in Greenlake. I'm gonna come right and say it, when that kid smiles the rest of the freakin' world can be coming apart with toxic gas and flying rivets and I don't give a rat's ass. He keeps trying to tell me a story with these coos and song phrases that just seem to make time stand still. Even when he's screaming his face off, it's still totally worth being there for it.
Saturday night I went out with my special lady friend. We went to a "fancy" pizza place downtown, but there as quite a wait. Finally though, someone got the bright idea of taking a cell phone number with the name so you could get a call and not to have to stare at other hungry and typically impatient wannabe diners from Bellevue.
We went to the Whisky Bar for my first and last visit. Between receiving that strange phenomenon of bad bar rate version of Makers that burns going down, and the really loud and shitty metal drowning in ridiculous guitar solos that the DJ was playing, I realized that the Whisky Bar was not the bar for me. Bif said it made her feel old. I didn’t feel old, I just realized that I didn't want to be there, and no one who did was going to feel bad when I left.
Insert shrieking and repetitive guitar solo here.
Another bar that doesn’t make its name on its attitude, some real Makers and I took on the 2 hour wait for pizza undaunted; I was out of the house with a pretty lady and had some whisky in my belly. We got in and I was immediately taken with the wait staff; nice kids who were dealing with what was apparently the busiest night of the restaurant's history. I had the special which involved pancetta and frigging celery root. Celery root! Man that pizza made me so hard that I fucked the inside of my pants.
It was a good day.
Friday, February 16, 2007
In Dreams
I'm pretty dang tired. So tired in fact, that the first thing I thought when I read the headline, "Florida teen has hiccups for three weeks, no cure has helped yet", I thought to myself, well that's nothing a good fisting won't take care of.
I had some really vivid dreams last night, I believe because of the tiredness that I mentioned above. Seriously you guys, I just wrote about it... I had dreams that I file into specific series as they seem to contain common threads. I had a sex dream, most of which get filed under either Sex (Coitus Interruptus) or Sex (Disturbing) and one in the Travel series.
Most of my sex dreams in the past were very disturbing affairs, scenes that would make David Lynch go, "holy crap, that ain't right". And if they weren't disturbing, they were cut short. Things would start to get really interesting, but before I could do the deed, I would need to go clean my closet out, or talk to my neighbor about a mix up with the mail, or check to see if I had left the Scrabble board out on the kitchen table. By the time I returned from these menial tasks, the shot at getting some was well over with.
Well last night's specimen was a good one with my wife (which I find sweet somehow), things getting really good, when I decided I needed to go to the bathroom first. I actually woke up at this point, but in the seriously groggy state I believed that I had come back from the bathroom and was really pissed that Bif had gone to sleep already. It took a moment to realize that I had dreamed the entire pre-coital affair, and while I was dealing with the disappointment, I fell right back asleep.
The Travel series of dreams are always about being in a foreign place, but something jamming a wrench into plans. They're always stressful affairs where I'm trying to catch up with friends and relatives in some other country but I can't find my tickets, or there's no more room on the train, or the elephant I'm riding suddenly develops explosive diarrhea - which on this elephant comes out the size of smallish watermelons...
The Travel dream last night was definitely heading down that road. Things were going good, Bif and I were in some city that was a mix of Amsterdam and Salzburg, sometimes with my dad, sometimes with Nikki 2 K's. I would begin to worry about the baby, but would check him and everything would be fine. While checking on the baby, I would lose track of my traveling companions, but with a little exploration I found them. Dad's favorite restaurant (or it may have been Nikki 2 K's favorite) was seemingly closed down, but with my in depth investigation (which simply involved me saying the word "strasse" to an annoyed looking hotel clerk) I found that we were simply looking in the wrong place.
I see the subtle shifts in the Travel dream as hopeful, as my psyche letting me know that I don't need to get worked up about the little things, just let it ride a little bit and things will generally be okay. Realizing that as I looked down the steep hill towards downtown and a pale blue Puget Sound this morning made me feel pretty good there for awhile.
Now, if I could just do something about those Driving (Steep Hill) dreams.
I had some really vivid dreams last night, I believe because of the tiredness that I mentioned above. Seriously you guys, I just wrote about it... I had dreams that I file into specific series as they seem to contain common threads. I had a sex dream, most of which get filed under either Sex (Coitus Interruptus) or Sex (Disturbing) and one in the Travel series.
Most of my sex dreams in the past were very disturbing affairs, scenes that would make David Lynch go, "holy crap, that ain't right". And if they weren't disturbing, they were cut short. Things would start to get really interesting, but before I could do the deed, I would need to go clean my closet out, or talk to my neighbor about a mix up with the mail, or check to see if I had left the Scrabble board out on the kitchen table. By the time I returned from these menial tasks, the shot at getting some was well over with.
Well last night's specimen was a good one with my wife (which I find sweet somehow), things getting really good, when I decided I needed to go to the bathroom first. I actually woke up at this point, but in the seriously groggy state I believed that I had come back from the bathroom and was really pissed that Bif had gone to sleep already. It took a moment to realize that I had dreamed the entire pre-coital affair, and while I was dealing with the disappointment, I fell right back asleep.
The Travel series of dreams are always about being in a foreign place, but something jamming a wrench into plans. They're always stressful affairs where I'm trying to catch up with friends and relatives in some other country but I can't find my tickets, or there's no more room on the train, or the elephant I'm riding suddenly develops explosive diarrhea - which on this elephant comes out the size of smallish watermelons...
The Travel dream last night was definitely heading down that road. Things were going good, Bif and I were in some city that was a mix of Amsterdam and Salzburg, sometimes with my dad, sometimes with Nikki 2 K's. I would begin to worry about the baby, but would check him and everything would be fine. While checking on the baby, I would lose track of my traveling companions, but with a little exploration I found them. Dad's favorite restaurant (or it may have been Nikki 2 K's favorite) was seemingly closed down, but with my in depth investigation (which simply involved me saying the word "strasse" to an annoyed looking hotel clerk) I found that we were simply looking in the wrong place.
I see the subtle shifts in the Travel dream as hopeful, as my psyche letting me know that I don't need to get worked up about the little things, just let it ride a little bit and things will generally be okay. Realizing that as I looked down the steep hill towards downtown and a pale blue Puget Sound this morning made me feel pretty good there for awhile.
Now, if I could just do something about those Driving (Steep Hill) dreams.
Thursday, February 15, 2007
On The Street
The word on the street is 'lugubrious'. I saw it painted in the middle of the intersection of 2nd and Columbia, defined as mournful. I think it's part of some strange SAT preparation program the city's trying out.
Last night, walking same streets, I was accosted by - wait, accosted is really a strong word choice - I was approached by a down and out, middle aged man. He gave me a "Sir? SIR?!," to get my attention. I'll usually remove my headphones for folks on the outside, way outside, chance that they're looking for directions or the time. About 99% of the time, when I'm approached by a complete stranger on the street, it's to spill a sad story and collect any sort of payment possible for said story.
I usually listen, I'll be their audience for their audacious stories of just trying to get enough money to call their brother, or to get a ride back to where their car had broke down outside of town, or how they were tourists and had trusted someone a little too much and ended up being robbed. I'll even pitch in when I can and toss some money down.
But I was tired last night, I'd had a long day and something about the ipod following up a Pavement song with an Edith Piaf song just really set me on edge. When this man gave me his two sirs, I simply shook my head and slowly stage whispered "no". "You don't even know what I want," he said. I kept walking, but really wanted to tell him that after 13 years of living in a city, I'm pretty well versed in what he wants. If he needed directions or the time or to ask what some of those mysterious Eskimo words for snow were, there were a number of people out on the sidewalks at the time.
I realized at the same time that I now get paid to spend 8+ hours a day listening to people across North America tell me sad stories in an attempt to grab a piece of a corporation's wealth. I have heard the dreaded combination of the words 'compensation', 'pain' and 'suffering' far too many times. I have now unfortunately adapted myself to being able to tell an injury scammer within 30 seconds of a telephone call. And I gotta tell you, this is not a skill I had particularly wanted to add to the resume of my life.
I remember distinctly when I went from purposefully taking a handful of change before walking down Haight Street, to simply ignoring the pleas for money. It's a constant hardening, an emotional calcification that lacks any beauty or nobility, that makes a soul unnecessarily heavier.
Song Stuck In My Mind Right Now: I am in a heavy Velvet Underground place right now, the last few days I have not been able to get enough. Today I'm going to give it to Sister Ray. Work it.
Last night, walking same streets, I was accosted by - wait, accosted is really a strong word choice - I was approached by a down and out, middle aged man. He gave me a "Sir? SIR?!," to get my attention. I'll usually remove my headphones for folks on the outside, way outside, chance that they're looking for directions or the time. About 99% of the time, when I'm approached by a complete stranger on the street, it's to spill a sad story and collect any sort of payment possible for said story.
I usually listen, I'll be their audience for their audacious stories of just trying to get enough money to call their brother, or to get a ride back to where their car had broke down outside of town, or how they were tourists and had trusted someone a little too much and ended up being robbed. I'll even pitch in when I can and toss some money down.
But I was tired last night, I'd had a long day and something about the ipod following up a Pavement song with an Edith Piaf song just really set me on edge. When this man gave me his two sirs, I simply shook my head and slowly stage whispered "no". "You don't even know what I want," he said. I kept walking, but really wanted to tell him that after 13 years of living in a city, I'm pretty well versed in what he wants. If he needed directions or the time or to ask what some of those mysterious Eskimo words for snow were, there were a number of people out on the sidewalks at the time.
I realized at the same time that I now get paid to spend 8+ hours a day listening to people across North America tell me sad stories in an attempt to grab a piece of a corporation's wealth. I have heard the dreaded combination of the words 'compensation', 'pain' and 'suffering' far too many times. I have now unfortunately adapted myself to being able to tell an injury scammer within 30 seconds of a telephone call. And I gotta tell you, this is not a skill I had particularly wanted to add to the resume of my life.
I remember distinctly when I went from purposefully taking a handful of change before walking down Haight Street, to simply ignoring the pleas for money. It's a constant hardening, an emotional calcification that lacks any beauty or nobility, that makes a soul unnecessarily heavier.
Song Stuck In My Mind Right Now: I am in a heavy Velvet Underground place right now, the last few days I have not been able to get enough. Today I'm going to give it to Sister Ray. Work it.
Wednesday, February 14, 2007
On The Shelves Of Your Video Store
Happy Love Day everyone, you're all sexy - every damn one of you. Here's a V Day card for y'all:
Without much thought behind this whatsoever, here's a list of 5 great films about love:
5) Manhattan - A little weird now knowing Woody's true life predilection for young girls, but Mariel Hemingway has that perfect sort of sexy innocence. There's also the blatant love affair of the man with the city of New York, which looks gorgeous in all of that black and white. The scene where Tracy calls to remind him to watch Grande Illusion on TV makes me smile a bittersweet smile, and the whole ending scene breaks my heart in the best way.
4) Say Anything - I haven't watched it in years, but it came to me at the right time and under the right circumstances. Ironically enough, the woman who recommended the movie to me, also left me hanging when her father entered the picture. The movie will probably seem sappy on viewing it again, but that scene of John Cusack holding up a stereo over his head to play In Your Eyes has become iconic for a reason.
3) Tron - Jeff Bridges involved in a bizarre love triangle that keeps on keeping on in the computer realm when he's digitized, pulled into the computer and encounters the look alike programs of the two other sides of said triangle. I'm sort of kidding, Tron is not a great love movie, not really a great anything, but for some reason it holds a campy little place in my heart. As an apology, I offer you:
3b) Miller's Crossing - The love here is not between the main man and the main woman. One of the sharpest, most amazing scripts written that just crackles in the deft hands of the actors.
2) Shaun of the Dead - The tagline for the movie is "A romantic comedy, with zombies", and this could not be any more true and to the point. It’s a great, funny, horrifying and ultimately very touching movie. Again the obvious love between main man and main woman almost takes a backseat to the love between two friends.
1) Red - The third movie in Krystof Kieslowski's Three Colors Trilogy is absolutely one of my favorite films of all time. An unlikely and redemptive relationship is formed, and it seems to be messing with the space/time continuum a bit as well. Irene Jacobs is absolutely beautiful and the movie generates so many emotions in me that it actually emulates the feeling of being in love. Plus the main character's name is Valentine.
Confidential to Bif: Thanks for being my Valentine once again, I have crazy, mad love for you.
Without much thought behind this whatsoever, here's a list of 5 great films about love:
5) Manhattan - A little weird now knowing Woody's true life predilection for young girls, but Mariel Hemingway has that perfect sort of sexy innocence. There's also the blatant love affair of the man with the city of New York, which looks gorgeous in all of that black and white. The scene where Tracy calls to remind him to watch Grande Illusion on TV makes me smile a bittersweet smile, and the whole ending scene breaks my heart in the best way.
4) Say Anything - I haven't watched it in years, but it came to me at the right time and under the right circumstances. Ironically enough, the woman who recommended the movie to me, also left me hanging when her father entered the picture. The movie will probably seem sappy on viewing it again, but that scene of John Cusack holding up a stereo over his head to play In Your Eyes has become iconic for a reason.
3) Tron - Jeff Bridges involved in a bizarre love triangle that keeps on keeping on in the computer realm when he's digitized, pulled into the computer and encounters the look alike programs of the two other sides of said triangle. I'm sort of kidding, Tron is not a great love movie, not really a great anything, but for some reason it holds a campy little place in my heart. As an apology, I offer you:
3b) Miller's Crossing - The love here is not between the main man and the main woman. One of the sharpest, most amazing scripts written that just crackles in the deft hands of the actors.
2) Shaun of the Dead - The tagline for the movie is "A romantic comedy, with zombies", and this could not be any more true and to the point. It’s a great, funny, horrifying and ultimately very touching movie. Again the obvious love between main man and main woman almost takes a backseat to the love between two friends.
1) Red - The third movie in Krystof Kieslowski's Three Colors Trilogy is absolutely one of my favorite films of all time. An unlikely and redemptive relationship is formed, and it seems to be messing with the space/time continuum a bit as well. Irene Jacobs is absolutely beautiful and the movie generates so many emotions in me that it actually emulates the feeling of being in love. Plus the main character's name is Valentine.
Confidential to Bif: Thanks for being my Valentine once again, I have crazy, mad love for you.
Tuesday, February 13, 2007
On The News
I was walking past one of those newspaper dispensers this morning when my attention was snagged as though in a tuna net. The navy apparently wants to use dolphins and sea lions to help protect naval bases. And I say that it's about damn time.
Those sea lions have been living off the protection the navy has given them for far too long. What have they done for us? Nothing! They lay about, they harass surfers and they're taking up seriously valuable real estate on floaters off of Pier 39 in San Francisco. Do you know how much could be charged for a floating piece of wood in that neighborhood?
It's a bit different for dolphins, I mean they do those awesome tail dancing tricks for mackerel in sea parks across the country, and they have serious killer shark ninja skills what with the punching of their phallic noses into shark gills. But then again, I do feel they kind of owe us for Flipper. That fucking show...
I think it says something about the state of our military when they have the cajones to come out and let us know this is what they have planned. And let me reiterate:
Dolphins and sea lions will patrol naval bases to keep swimming terrorists away. And as I'm sure W will tell you, swimming terrorists are among the worst kind.
I would also like to point out that a PETA representative also felt it necessary to say:
"They don't understand the consequences of what will happen if they don't carry out the mission."
You think? You're saying that dolphins don't have a vested interest in the war on terra? So much for a rational argument from the other side.
Song Stuck In My Head Right Now: Holiday Road by Lindsey Buckingham. Thanks Nikki...
Those sea lions have been living off the protection the navy has given them for far too long. What have they done for us? Nothing! They lay about, they harass surfers and they're taking up seriously valuable real estate on floaters off of Pier 39 in San Francisco. Do you know how much could be charged for a floating piece of wood in that neighborhood?
It's a bit different for dolphins, I mean they do those awesome tail dancing tricks for mackerel in sea parks across the country, and they have serious killer shark ninja skills what with the punching of their phallic noses into shark gills. But then again, I do feel they kind of owe us for Flipper. That fucking show...
I think it says something about the state of our military when they have the cajones to come out and let us know this is what they have planned. And let me reiterate:
Dolphins and sea lions will patrol naval bases to keep swimming terrorists away. And as I'm sure W will tell you, swimming terrorists are among the worst kind.
I would also like to point out that a PETA representative also felt it necessary to say:
"They don't understand the consequences of what will happen if they don't carry out the mission."
You think? You're saying that dolphins don't have a vested interest in the war on terra? So much for a rational argument from the other side.
Song Stuck In My Head Right Now: Holiday Road by Lindsey Buckingham. Thanks Nikki...
Monday, February 12, 2007
On The Radio
I was watching Fox's "Animation Domination" last night when I realized two sort of embarrassing fact about myself.
1) My fight against the addiction to television falls apart when it comes to Sunday nights.
2) I absolutely love the song Let The Sunshine In.
When I admitted to number 2, Bif threatened some sort of divorce proceedings, and I think she was only half kidding. While it is The 5th Dimension's version of the song that I am enamored of, I fully realize that the song comes from a musical Hair. I'm not particularly a fan of musicals but I have a chub for Let The Sunshine In. And most of the Rocky Horror songbook...
Oh and Hedwig, you cannot beat Hedwig with a big, rock musical stick.
All of this reminds me of my childhood infatuation with the theme song from Caddyshack, I'm Alright by Kenny Loggins. I could blame my musical taste on being a child, but truth be told if I'm Alright were to start playing in the cubicle behind me, I would smile and quietly sing along. As this child, I had once called the radio station KJR here in Seattle to request I'm Alright (Theme From Caddyshack) by Kenny Loggins. The stoned intern said, "I'm Alive? I don't know..." I reiterated that no, it was the theme from Caddyshack by Kenny Loggins, but got nowhere, and did not get to hear the song that day.
I cried. Okay, I didn't but c'mon, corporate radio trying to destroy a young fans love of a song? Whatever...
This in turn reminds me of calling San Francisco's Live 105 to get some info on a couple of songs. Big Rick Stewart had played a rocking version of Saints by the Breeders and a Nirvana song that would play fairly regularly, but wasn't on any albums. I called and spoke with yet another stoned intern. The conversation went something like:
Me: "Hey, where does that version of Saints come from? And what is the name of the Nirvana song you guys just played?"
Stoned Intern: "Saints? Yeah, I don't know... We didn't just play a Nirvana song."
Me: "Yes you did, like 9 minutes ago. It's the laundry room song?"
SI: "No, we didn't play one."
Ever since, based on two experiences, I have come to the conclusion that radio interns have made it their lives calling to screw with anyone who dares call in.
**It turns out there was a single version of Saints released (produced by J Mascis of Dinosaur Jr. fame and originally released on the vinyl only Head To Toe EP) and that the Nirvana song was called Verse Chorus Verse (although, I think there's some speculation on that) and was an unlisted track on the No Alternative collection. I know you guys were worried.
1) My fight against the addiction to television falls apart when it comes to Sunday nights.
2) I absolutely love the song Let The Sunshine In.
When I admitted to number 2, Bif threatened some sort of divorce proceedings, and I think she was only half kidding. While it is The 5th Dimension's version of the song that I am enamored of, I fully realize that the song comes from a musical Hair. I'm not particularly a fan of musicals but I have a chub for Let The Sunshine In. And most of the Rocky Horror songbook...
Oh and Hedwig, you cannot beat Hedwig with a big, rock musical stick.
All of this reminds me of my childhood infatuation with the theme song from Caddyshack, I'm Alright by Kenny Loggins. I could blame my musical taste on being a child, but truth be told if I'm Alright were to start playing in the cubicle behind me, I would smile and quietly sing along. As this child, I had once called the radio station KJR here in Seattle to request I'm Alright (Theme From Caddyshack) by Kenny Loggins. The stoned intern said, "I'm Alive? I don't know..." I reiterated that no, it was the theme from Caddyshack by Kenny Loggins, but got nowhere, and did not get to hear the song that day.
I cried. Okay, I didn't but c'mon, corporate radio trying to destroy a young fans love of a song? Whatever...
This in turn reminds me of calling San Francisco's Live 105 to get some info on a couple of songs. Big Rick Stewart had played a rocking version of Saints by the Breeders and a Nirvana song that would play fairly regularly, but wasn't on any albums. I called and spoke with yet another stoned intern. The conversation went something like:
Me: "Hey, where does that version of Saints come from? And what is the name of the Nirvana song you guys just played?"
Stoned Intern: "Saints? Yeah, I don't know... We didn't just play a Nirvana song."
Me: "Yes you did, like 9 minutes ago. It's the laundry room song?"
SI: "No, we didn't play one."
Ever since, based on two experiences, I have come to the conclusion that radio interns have made it their lives calling to screw with anyone who dares call in.
**It turns out there was a single version of Saints released (produced by J Mascis of Dinosaur Jr. fame and originally released on the vinyl only Head To Toe EP) and that the Nirvana song was called Verse Chorus Verse (although, I think there's some speculation on that) and was an unlisted track on the No Alternative collection. I know you guys were worried.
Saturday, February 10, 2007
In The Mouth A Desert
I left quickly, eventually driving through the crushing rush of Newport traffic slowly running into Inland Empire traffic. I was aching and confused, my head was shimmering with an intoxicating blend of denial and possibility. I smelled like someone else and I was looking to the mighty Mojave to wash me clean.
The suburbs of suburbs began to thin out as the highway stretched on and become darker and darker. You can keep going, I told myself. This line will take you to Vegas, into Arizona, into the ephemeral dream of the American West. But something held me to the small state highway turnoff.
There's something about only being able to see the buzzing of the highway's white lines that makes you feel like you could be flying.
Strange suburbs began to crop up again as if I had crossed some line of a mirror; these tracts echoing the very ones I had left behind with clouds of cigarette smoke and the blaring of English New Wave bands. But something about these communities sent waves of unease through my already ravaged psyche, it was like something bad had crept into the water, that the forest was tainted by something toxic.
I don't remember much about the house except that at one point we had to empty out the refrigerator as the power had gone out and so many things had gone bad. I remember sitting out back, eating military Meals Ready to Eat out of their polyurethane packaging and hearing music from the inside being dulled by the closed sliding glass door.
A few more cigarettes met their timely ends and the impossibly pink dawn ravaged across an empty desert valley as we began to drink the instant coffee that tasted so delicious at the moment. The dawn brought on this brief feeling of hope, as it tends to, but that was quickly overtaken by how cold that desert can actually get, by just how empty it was. I felt as though I were missing a piece of punctuation.
The suburbs of suburbs began to thin out as the highway stretched on and become darker and darker. You can keep going, I told myself. This line will take you to Vegas, into Arizona, into the ephemeral dream of the American West. But something held me to the small state highway turnoff.
There's something about only being able to see the buzzing of the highway's white lines that makes you feel like you could be flying.
Strange suburbs began to crop up again as if I had crossed some line of a mirror; these tracts echoing the very ones I had left behind with clouds of cigarette smoke and the blaring of English New Wave bands. But something about these communities sent waves of unease through my already ravaged psyche, it was like something bad had crept into the water, that the forest was tainted by something toxic.
I don't remember much about the house except that at one point we had to empty out the refrigerator as the power had gone out and so many things had gone bad. I remember sitting out back, eating military Meals Ready to Eat out of their polyurethane packaging and hearing music from the inside being dulled by the closed sliding glass door.
A few more cigarettes met their timely ends and the impossibly pink dawn ravaged across an empty desert valley as we began to drink the instant coffee that tasted so delicious at the moment. The dawn brought on this brief feeling of hope, as it tends to, but that was quickly overtaken by how cold that desert can actually get, by just how empty it was. I felt as though I were missing a piece of punctuation.
Friday, February 09, 2007
Conduit For Sale
While Tina went out the door plainly marked ‘Mail Machines’ to answer her cell phone, Adam, the salesman in the suit the color of the stains on the ceiling, looked at Jacob with a mischievous smile.
"Do you wanna see something cool?"
Jacob looked at him as if that's exactly what he expected him to say. "Sure," he sighed.
Adam led him to the back room. The lighting back there was going bad, the room was down to one bare florescent bulb. There was a water cooler with an empty bottle on top of it, a desk and an ancient punch clock attached to the wall. Jacob felt a faint twitch at his hairline as he began to wonder whether he should have come back here with this guy.
"There we are!" Adam announced, flourishing his arms like a child's party magician and pointing at a clumsy looking machine on the desk. Jacob gave him a patronizing 'okay' smile.
"Watch," said Adam. He picked up a paper clip and placed it close to one end of the machine, turned a dial and pressed a button on the machine and stood back. The machine emitted a humming noise that rose in pitch and intensity, and suddenly the paper clip was gone. After a moment, the paperclip materialized on the other side of the machine, no sound, no flash of light or smoke, it just showed up.
"What..." Jacob tried to ask.
"It's a matter teleporter!" Adam shouted in a stage whisper and immediately began shaking with a wet, wheezing laugh. He slapped the sides of his suit and calmed himself down. "Now watch this."
He took a pencil and placed it close to the machine. He turned the same dial and pressed the same button. After the same humming noise, the pencil disappeared, but after several seconds it had not shown up again.
"Where?" Jacob began.
"I have no idea!" Adam again began laughing his shaking laugh. "I sent it further away, but I have no idea where! But look..." Adam pointed to the wall behind Jacob.
Jacob turned and saw clinging to the wall a gelatinous globe that shimmered with some sort of primordial life. There was a faint sort of purple neon glow to the thing. Jacob had a sudden urge to put this jellyfish thing in his mouth. He was surprised to notice that his hand was actually reaching out to pluck it from the wall. He spun back towards Adam and jumped with a start to find him much closer than expected and staring with some strange hunger.
"Why are you showing me this?" Jacob asked with a hush.
"You're here with the bank, you're a young man... I'm assuming you're the president and that you might be interested in investing in something like this."
"I'm the mailroom guy! That's why I'm helping pick a mail machine!"
"Oh," Adam looked crestfallen. "Do you think Tina's got any kind of money? Probably not, huh?"
"Hello?" Tina's high pitched whine came from inside the store. Jacob walked carefully around Adam and tried to exit, but he quickly grabbed his arm.
"Don't say a word, or I swear to you, there'll be hell to pay.”
"Do you wanna see something cool?"
Jacob looked at him as if that's exactly what he expected him to say. "Sure," he sighed.
Adam led him to the back room. The lighting back there was going bad, the room was down to one bare florescent bulb. There was a water cooler with an empty bottle on top of it, a desk and an ancient punch clock attached to the wall. Jacob felt a faint twitch at his hairline as he began to wonder whether he should have come back here with this guy.
"There we are!" Adam announced, flourishing his arms like a child's party magician and pointing at a clumsy looking machine on the desk. Jacob gave him a patronizing 'okay' smile.
"Watch," said Adam. He picked up a paper clip and placed it close to one end of the machine, turned a dial and pressed a button on the machine and stood back. The machine emitted a humming noise that rose in pitch and intensity, and suddenly the paper clip was gone. After a moment, the paperclip materialized on the other side of the machine, no sound, no flash of light or smoke, it just showed up.
"What..." Jacob tried to ask.
"It's a matter teleporter!" Adam shouted in a stage whisper and immediately began shaking with a wet, wheezing laugh. He slapped the sides of his suit and calmed himself down. "Now watch this."
He took a pencil and placed it close to the machine. He turned the same dial and pressed the same button. After the same humming noise, the pencil disappeared, but after several seconds it had not shown up again.
"Where?" Jacob began.
"I have no idea!" Adam again began laughing his shaking laugh. "I sent it further away, but I have no idea where! But look..." Adam pointed to the wall behind Jacob.
Jacob turned and saw clinging to the wall a gelatinous globe that shimmered with some sort of primordial life. There was a faint sort of purple neon glow to the thing. Jacob had a sudden urge to put this jellyfish thing in his mouth. He was surprised to notice that his hand was actually reaching out to pluck it from the wall. He spun back towards Adam and jumped with a start to find him much closer than expected and staring with some strange hunger.
"Why are you showing me this?" Jacob asked with a hush.
"You're here with the bank, you're a young man... I'm assuming you're the president and that you might be interested in investing in something like this."
"I'm the mailroom guy! That's why I'm helping pick a mail machine!"
"Oh," Adam looked crestfallen. "Do you think Tina's got any kind of money? Probably not, huh?"
"Hello?" Tina's high pitched whine came from inside the store. Jacob walked carefully around Adam and tried to exit, but he quickly grabbed his arm.
"Don't say a word, or I swear to you, there'll be hell to pay.”
Thursday, February 08, 2007
Fame Throwa
I don't have anything against Tara Reid. I don't particularly have anything for her either, other than the fact that she was Bunny Lebowski and was in Josie and the Pussycats which was better than it ever had a right to be. Yeah, I said it. I just kept hearing these stories of the Tara Reid train wreck and I thought to myself, "Y'now Billy, if you were 'famous' in your twenties, there'd be plenty of pictures of you stumbling out of places blind drunk and with your breasts dangling out of outfits."
I wasn't famous, and there are plenty of above noted pictures.
But then I saw this footage, again on one of those weekday "news" programs that pass as investigatory journalism, of Paris Hilton being admitted into a club with that permasmirk glued firmly in place. I watched for a moment, hoping that I would be able to cross Paris off of my list of People I Would Like To See Kicked To Death By A Unicorn, but alas no. What I saw was a dejected Tara being barred from entering the club.
I grinned a little bit; it's gotta hurt when your credibility has fallen, when your fame has become a tad tarnished. I had to admit to myself that there was a large amount of jealousy driving that grin, which sucks. I don't want to envy any of these untalented club kids passing themselves off as artists, but there it is.
The thing that makes that jealousy palatable to me though is the understanding of the threshing machine aspect of fame. For any of these folks who sign on to make their living as a celebrity, not as an actor or artist, well they willingly or not sign on to have that addictively lavished attention suddenly taken away for no reason.
Making your living as an actor is not necessarily a noble pursuit, you're not out there teaching our children or curing diseases or helping the poor, but man it beats the holy crap out of making your living as a celebrity. There are a whole slew of people deluding themselves into thinking they're actors or musicians when in fact they get paid to be themselves. They're the ones who show up as the mouthy friend of the sit com lead, the ones on reality TV shows, the ones that Entertainment Tonight do "stories" on, the ones whose club life we are more aware of than their achievements.
When you stop and think about the void in these folks' lives that make them desire and pursue the love of the faceless blob of American consumerism instead of working on honing a craft and producing something that might be an actual value to someone, something that will actually touch someone emotionally, well it almost makes you feel sorry for them. I thankfully have a lot of love in my life, and am surrounded by amazing people who don't feel like it's not cool to express that love. Thank you and thank you.
But it certainly doesn't mean I wouldn't like to get paid a nice chunk of change to be in a movie.
Song Stuck In My Head Right Now: Big Brother by David Bowie
I wasn't famous, and there are plenty of above noted pictures.
But then I saw this footage, again on one of those weekday "news" programs that pass as investigatory journalism, of Paris Hilton being admitted into a club with that permasmirk glued firmly in place. I watched for a moment, hoping that I would be able to cross Paris off of my list of People I Would Like To See Kicked To Death By A Unicorn, but alas no. What I saw was a dejected Tara being barred from entering the club.
I grinned a little bit; it's gotta hurt when your credibility has fallen, when your fame has become a tad tarnished. I had to admit to myself that there was a large amount of jealousy driving that grin, which sucks. I don't want to envy any of these untalented club kids passing themselves off as artists, but there it is.
The thing that makes that jealousy palatable to me though is the understanding of the threshing machine aspect of fame. For any of these folks who sign on to make their living as a celebrity, not as an actor or artist, well they willingly or not sign on to have that addictively lavished attention suddenly taken away for no reason.
Making your living as an actor is not necessarily a noble pursuit, you're not out there teaching our children or curing diseases or helping the poor, but man it beats the holy crap out of making your living as a celebrity. There are a whole slew of people deluding themselves into thinking they're actors or musicians when in fact they get paid to be themselves. They're the ones who show up as the mouthy friend of the sit com lead, the ones on reality TV shows, the ones that Entertainment Tonight do "stories" on, the ones whose club life we are more aware of than their achievements.
When you stop and think about the void in these folks' lives that make them desire and pursue the love of the faceless blob of American consumerism instead of working on honing a craft and producing something that might be an actual value to someone, something that will actually touch someone emotionally, well it almost makes you feel sorry for them. I thankfully have a lot of love in my life, and am surrounded by amazing people who don't feel like it's not cool to express that love. Thank you and thank you.
But it certainly doesn't mean I wouldn't like to get paid a nice chunk of change to be in a movie.
Song Stuck In My Head Right Now: Big Brother by David Bowie
Wednesday, February 07, 2007
Two States (A Slight Return)
I came across this while I was checking my email. Apparently archeologists have unearthed a pair of people near Rome buried together in an embrace.
And this is a prime example of the two warring sides of my personality: The sarcastic, cynical side and the hopeless, emotion driven, romantical side.
At first I thought, "Well you internet news guys, your timing is all wrong, you should have saved this story for closer to Valentine's Day. It probably could have sold more cards."
And then I thought, "Aww, it's like when you went and saw Titanic on Christmas Eve, all done up on enough scotch to kill a sheep (a Scottish sheep no less) and with an arsenal of beer bottles on hand, and got to the part with the old couple in their room when the room started to flood and they just held onto each other and ended up dying in each other's arms. And you cried your eyes out and blamed it on being drunk, but really it's because you’re a softy. Admit it bitch, these two skeletons make you think of eternal love."
And then I thought, "Wait a minute; it's like anthropomorphizing a dog, assuming that you know what a dog is thinking by comparing it to human thought processes. These anthropologists have no idea what was actually happening to these two, 5000 years ago. My guess is that one of them knew a sudden death was on its way and wanted to get a final 'F you' in to their significant other." Here is how I imagine the conversation going:
"Hey Messalina, can you come over here and tell me if there's anything in my teeth."
"Hang on Longinus, tilt your head up towards the light a little bit."
As he grabs her tightly around the shoulders, "Ah hah! I told you if I died I was going to take you with me!"
"Dick."
So, cynical wins out this time, but check out how I threw anthropomorphizing in there. I love that word!
Oh, and for those who had no idea what I was talking about yesterday, here's Li'l Cletus:
Confidential To Panda Girl: I feel like I haven't seen you in years and I miss ya.
And this is a prime example of the two warring sides of my personality: The sarcastic, cynical side and the hopeless, emotion driven, romantical side.
At first I thought, "Well you internet news guys, your timing is all wrong, you should have saved this story for closer to Valentine's Day. It probably could have sold more cards."
And then I thought, "Aww, it's like when you went and saw Titanic on Christmas Eve, all done up on enough scotch to kill a sheep (a Scottish sheep no less) and with an arsenal of beer bottles on hand, and got to the part with the old couple in their room when the room started to flood and they just held onto each other and ended up dying in each other's arms. And you cried your eyes out and blamed it on being drunk, but really it's because you’re a softy. Admit it bitch, these two skeletons make you think of eternal love."
And then I thought, "Wait a minute; it's like anthropomorphizing a dog, assuming that you know what a dog is thinking by comparing it to human thought processes. These anthropologists have no idea what was actually happening to these two, 5000 years ago. My guess is that one of them knew a sudden death was on its way and wanted to get a final 'F you' in to their significant other." Here is how I imagine the conversation going:
"Hey Messalina, can you come over here and tell me if there's anything in my teeth."
"Hang on Longinus, tilt your head up towards the light a little bit."
As he grabs her tightly around the shoulders, "Ah hah! I told you if I died I was going to take you with me!"
"Dick."
So, cynical wins out this time, but check out how I threw anthropomorphizing in there. I love that word!
Oh, and for those who had no idea what I was talking about yesterday, here's Li'l Cletus:
Confidential To Panda Girl: I feel like I haven't seen you in years and I miss ya.
Tuesday, February 06, 2007
Two States
A quick restatement of the state of me:
Justin Timberlake is so far below my caring radar that it actually gave me a pain in the side to type his name there. So in some sort of karmic irony, his face shows up every time I open a web page.
It can get amazingly frustrating when a baby's goin' through a growth spurt and cries so much that all the shaking in the world wont stop it.
I'm kidding, if you shake hard enough, the crying will eventually stop.
Re-watch Eyes Wide Shut; the performances don't get any better with hindsight, but our man Kubrick was saying some heavy shit about sexual politics once you get past the sensationalism.
Will Ferrell as Li'l Cletus in Zoolander... well sometimes it just makes life worth living.
No longer a fan of cream sauces, more because my mind has learned that my body will not like it than because they don't taste good.
Woke up with a mad desire for cabbage.
Sometimes I feel like I'm right on the verge of either learning a major truth, or of letting someone else in on one.
Casting call postings for zombie films make me smile a lot.
The term 'rogue' also makes me smile a lot, but not as in 'he's a roguish chap', but as in rogue wave or rogue shark. It especially makes me inwardly giggle when rogue is brought up in a business meeting ala, 'we have some rogue sales manager out there making these decision'. It makes me think of someone from the suit and tie set being exterminated with extreme prejudice.
Rebellion (Lies) by Arcade Fire still makes me jump with all of that banked teenage passion I was saving for just that song to come along, even when I haven't heard it in months.
Justin Timberlake is so far below my caring radar that it actually gave me a pain in the side to type his name there. So in some sort of karmic irony, his face shows up every time I open a web page.
It can get amazingly frustrating when a baby's goin' through a growth spurt and cries so much that all the shaking in the world wont stop it.
I'm kidding, if you shake hard enough, the crying will eventually stop.
Re-watch Eyes Wide Shut; the performances don't get any better with hindsight, but our man Kubrick was saying some heavy shit about sexual politics once you get past the sensationalism.
Will Ferrell as Li'l Cletus in Zoolander... well sometimes it just makes life worth living.
No longer a fan of cream sauces, more because my mind has learned that my body will not like it than because they don't taste good.
Woke up with a mad desire for cabbage.
Sometimes I feel like I'm right on the verge of either learning a major truth, or of letting someone else in on one.
Casting call postings for zombie films make me smile a lot.
The term 'rogue' also makes me smile a lot, but not as in 'he's a roguish chap', but as in rogue wave or rogue shark. It especially makes me inwardly giggle when rogue is brought up in a business meeting ala, 'we have some rogue sales manager out there making these decision'. It makes me think of someone from the suit and tie set being exterminated with extreme prejudice.
Rebellion (Lies) by Arcade Fire still makes me jump with all of that banked teenage passion I was saving for just that song to come along, even when I haven't heard it in months.
Friday, February 02, 2007
My 'N' Word
My 'N' Word for the day is Nutella.
Nutella is a chocolate/hazelnut spread that comes from Italy, just in case you didn't know. And if you don't know about Nutella, man go get some and bust out a spoon.
Nutella makes me think about Squat and Gobble, the crepe place in San Francisco. It makes me think of the one on Haight Street in particular.
Nutella makes me think about RLo, and how he would bring a jar of it to work.
Thinking of RLo, makes me think of a story he told me about visiting a bar in Colorado with a friend. His friend pointed out a man sitting at the bar and told him that this guy was a gay porn star. RLo, being RLo, asked the alleged porn star for proof of his porn star status by whipping out his penis. The porn star brought his large member into the open, and RLo ordered his friend to get on his knees and suck the porn star's penis - which he did.
The three of them were quickly kicked out of the bar, which is neither here nor there. What's important to consider here is RLo's apparent gay porn mind force powers.
Song Stuck In My Head Right Now: Wig In A Box from Hedwig and the Angry Inch
Nutella is a chocolate/hazelnut spread that comes from Italy, just in case you didn't know. And if you don't know about Nutella, man go get some and bust out a spoon.
Nutella makes me think about Squat and Gobble, the crepe place in San Francisco. It makes me think of the one on Haight Street in particular.
Nutella makes me think about RLo, and how he would bring a jar of it to work.
Thinking of RLo, makes me think of a story he told me about visiting a bar in Colorado with a friend. His friend pointed out a man sitting at the bar and told him that this guy was a gay porn star. RLo, being RLo, asked the alleged porn star for proof of his porn star status by whipping out his penis. The porn star brought his large member into the open, and RLo ordered his friend to get on his knees and suck the porn star's penis - which he did.
The three of them were quickly kicked out of the bar, which is neither here nor there. What's important to consider here is RLo's apparent gay porn mind force powers.
Song Stuck In My Head Right Now: Wig In A Box from Hedwig and the Angry Inch
Thursday, February 01, 2007
German F#@k Hotel
In Malia, on the northern coast of Crete, there exists a hotel that, as years go by, I begin to believe actually only exists in my fantasies.
We had wound up in Malia pretty much by Chris pointing his finger on a map in an Iraklion bus station and telling the ticket guy that's where we wanted to go. We had visited the Palace of Knossos, checked Iraklion record stores for Iggy Pop, and now I wanted to be swimming in one of those crazy blue seas by days end.
The bus ride was uneventful, but it was some sort of twisted Cretan death march from the stop on the highway to the coast. It was 100 degree plus and we were feeling dirty. We passed numerous shops selling beach toys and towels, but could not seem to get down to the coast. We eventually found it, the hotel whose name is lost to me, but will now forever be known as the German Fuck Hotel.
We had gotten to Greece just before the seasonal mad rush of tourism, so the hotel was fairly deserted if I remember correctly. And I don't remember if it was a conclusion we all came to, or if it was a notion I forced on the group, but the place just had the air of a haven where swinging German tourists come get their crazed, leather bound and latex painted, sex game playing asses serviced. I think the first thing that brought the thought sashaying up the walkway was the strangely Bavarian wood decorations throughout the place. There were other clues, that while innocent enough, only lent themselves to the sex trade fantasies; paintings on wide walls of topless women and wait staff with bulging crotches, a pen of animals that seemed to serve no real purpose and included a goat that looked as if it had been sodomized with another larger goat.
Oh, and the beach was covered by sea urchins. This has nothing to do with the sex hotel aspect of the story, it was just a little disappointing that the refreshing swim that drove us to this place was wasted on looking out for prickly sea creatures. Oh god, and the mosquitoes at night...
But never mind all of that, the important part was the restaurant next door where we had dinner. The handsome Cretan man who played sole waiter, and possible owner, to the place was one of those wild gifts you didn't know you wanted. He was gregarious, he was immediately our friend and he provided us with a simply amazing dining experience, one that is lost in the blissful haze of the moment and leaving only grinning, hole-filled memories.
There was an austere German couple eating at a table nearby who didn't seem to be in the mood for our man's personality. In my mind, they went back to the hotel with a peacock, a small Peruvian boy and a hand cranked 110 volt power generator with alligator connector clips. The only thing that kept us from hearing their shrieks of pain and pleasure was the constant whine of mosquitoes in our ears.
We had breakfast at the same restaurant, and the same man waited on us, even sitting at our table for a bit. He was looking a little worse for wear, just a tad hungover. We strapped on our bags, checked out and began the even more meandering and blistering hot, hard core hike out of there. Our man at the restaurant came out to the street to see us off as we passed by, giving each of us a high five as we passed.
Ever since, I've always wanted to get the band together and release a live album called "Live From The German Fuck Hotel"...
We had wound up in Malia pretty much by Chris pointing his finger on a map in an Iraklion bus station and telling the ticket guy that's where we wanted to go. We had visited the Palace of Knossos, checked Iraklion record stores for Iggy Pop, and now I wanted to be swimming in one of those crazy blue seas by days end.
The bus ride was uneventful, but it was some sort of twisted Cretan death march from the stop on the highway to the coast. It was 100 degree plus and we were feeling dirty. We passed numerous shops selling beach toys and towels, but could not seem to get down to the coast. We eventually found it, the hotel whose name is lost to me, but will now forever be known as the German Fuck Hotel.
We had gotten to Greece just before the seasonal mad rush of tourism, so the hotel was fairly deserted if I remember correctly. And I don't remember if it was a conclusion we all came to, or if it was a notion I forced on the group, but the place just had the air of a haven where swinging German tourists come get their crazed, leather bound and latex painted, sex game playing asses serviced. I think the first thing that brought the thought sashaying up the walkway was the strangely Bavarian wood decorations throughout the place. There were other clues, that while innocent enough, only lent themselves to the sex trade fantasies; paintings on wide walls of topless women and wait staff with bulging crotches, a pen of animals that seemed to serve no real purpose and included a goat that looked as if it had been sodomized with another larger goat.
Oh, and the beach was covered by sea urchins. This has nothing to do with the sex hotel aspect of the story, it was just a little disappointing that the refreshing swim that drove us to this place was wasted on looking out for prickly sea creatures. Oh god, and the mosquitoes at night...
But never mind all of that, the important part was the restaurant next door where we had dinner. The handsome Cretan man who played sole waiter, and possible owner, to the place was one of those wild gifts you didn't know you wanted. He was gregarious, he was immediately our friend and he provided us with a simply amazing dining experience, one that is lost in the blissful haze of the moment and leaving only grinning, hole-filled memories.
There was an austere German couple eating at a table nearby who didn't seem to be in the mood for our man's personality. In my mind, they went back to the hotel with a peacock, a small Peruvian boy and a hand cranked 110 volt power generator with alligator connector clips. The only thing that kept us from hearing their shrieks of pain and pleasure was the constant whine of mosquitoes in our ears.
We had breakfast at the same restaurant, and the same man waited on us, even sitting at our table for a bit. He was looking a little worse for wear, just a tad hungover. We strapped on our bags, checked out and began the even more meandering and blistering hot, hard core hike out of there. Our man at the restaurant came out to the street to see us off as we passed by, giving each of us a high five as we passed.
Ever since, I've always wanted to get the band together and release a live album called "Live From The German Fuck Hotel"...
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