Notable Quotables

"It's a silly movie. ... There just isn't much there. Once you take it all apart, there's not much story, is there?" - George Lucas reviewing Spider Man 3.

I'm not really sure that George Lucas has earned the right to critique someone else’s special effects extravaganza, it reminds me of glass houses and black kettles and what not. This is like George W feeling all superior... well, to anyone. This is coming from a man who took a good adolescent male fantasy epic and introduced 2 forms of cancer called "Episode 1" and "Jar Jar Binks".

Upon encountering unfamiliar Canadian poppy quarters, U.S. Army contractors, traveling in Canada, said that they filed confidential espionage accounts about them. The worried contractors described the coins as "filled with something man-made that looked like nano-technology."

I guess I hope that U.S. Army contractors will be somewhat rational, I guess I expect too much out of people representing my country. My only guess is that these guys enjoyed some of Canada's over the counter codeine and went back to their hotel room to read a bunch of cyberpunk. Seriously? Nano technology? On a frigging quarter? Did these guys think Canada was trying to take over the world with their nano spy quarters? Don't they know Canadian quarters end up gathering dust in some novelty ashtray on a bookshelf? You can't even use 'em in a vending machine for Christ's sake. I haven't seen paranoia like this since I convinced my tripping roommate that the pizza man knocking on the door was actually building security.

"The American public who support Paris are shocked, dismayed and appalled by how Paris has been the person to be used as an example that drunk driving is wrong. She provides hope for young people all over the US and the world. She provides beauty and excitement to (most of) our otherwise mundane lives. If the late former President Gerald Ford could find it in his heart to pardon the late former President Richard Nixon after his mistake(s), we undeniably support Paris Hilton being pardoned for her honest mistake as well." - wording on a petition to keep Paris Hilton out of prison.

Wow, I don't know what to say. Oh yeah I do; fuck you, you sniveling cunt. You were drunk driving after being busted for already drunk driving. You can afford to have your skanky ass driven around in a limo, but you were dumb enough to get popped twice. No one is making an example of you, you are finally being held responsible for your actions for the first time in your spoiled life. The thought of you going to prison has brought so much happiness to my life that I only regret that you will not be being locked up in a male prison where all those post modern prison house fears, that sometimes keep the white collar section of America in line, could be perpetrated on you by big, sweaty convicts. If Fox's marketing gurus were on top of it, they would be planning the next season of The Simple Life around this; Paris crying through puffy, blackened eyes and Nicole pressing her withered breast against the glass of the visitor's vestibule.

But I'm being too harsh, after all Paris has brought beauty and excitement to my otherwise mundane life. And anyone who compares themselves to Nixon is okay in my book.

Just some things that I have read in the last couple of days to recharge my cynical battery, just wanted to share.


Song Stuck In My Head Right Now: "Bedbugs and Ballyhoo" by Echo And The Bunnymen.

The Radio Wars

I was barely into the trek home yesterday when I landed in the middle of an apparent turf war. I had passed a group of three, placing vinyl banners for The End 107.7 on every lamp post and wooden pole available. Not two blocks away I came across another three, also placing vinyl banners on all available free space for KISW 99.9.

It was as if The End kids had started from the south, marking their territory like vinyl pissing dogs, and the KISW clan came down from the north. The apparent Mason-Dixon Line is Edgar Martinez Drive, just where Safeco Field sits. When I passed the three unpaid KISW interns, the girl with eye makeup heavier than an acid trip bummer was muttering into a cell phone and looking despondently down towards the interns from Seattle's home for alternative rock.

Walking back through the war zone this morning, I was traveling through the rawk territory of KISW, all of those black banners far more insistent pollution than the empty energy drink cans and crumpled newspaper. As I was not wearing a denim jacket or longish hair, I didn't really feel safe until I crossed Edgar Martinez.

Then again, I wasn't wearing any of that strange skater/goth uniform (with some dayglo here and there for attention) that seems to be the alternative code of dress. But I did at least have my iPod as proof that I had some Smashing Pumpkins, some Modest Mouse. I just hoped that my complete catalogue of Zeppelin's studio albums wouldn't cause me to be pushed back into KISW country and make me late for work.

I believe that The End 107.7 is owned by the same company that owns Live 105 in San Francisco - they have the exact same play list, are skewed for the exact samely dressed demographic. I will assume it's Clear Channel as, due to government deregulation, they seem to own most of the western hemisphere. It would appear it's the same company that owns the once mighty World Famous KROQ.

I hold a special place in my heart for Southern California's KROQ. Back in those halcyon days of the mid to late 80's, KROQ was playing stuff that could not be heard on any other station in the area. *Well, you could hear a lot of it on 91X, but that was coming from over the Mexican border and difficult to get clearly too far outside of San Diego. My discovery of KROQ coincides with my beginning infatuations with music, so admittedly my memories are painted a bit rosy. But daily I was being seduced by the likes of The Cure, The Smiths, Oingo Boingo, The Clash, X, Depeche Mode, Love and Rockets, Pixies. Man oh man, it was love.

I look back at the original World Famous KROQ as this bastion of salvation in the sad wasteland that is suburban Southern California; a delightful, neon church in a rotting landscape of conspicuous consumption and denial. It spoke to the outsider in us, gave us some sort of power, taught us to love.

It what? Never mind...

About the time I was moving out on my own, MTV was co-opting the music I had spent the last four years listening to and selling it as "alternative". When it was discovered that there was a market for it, suddenly every douche bag programming manager was slavering over "alternative". Grunge came in, a new wave of punk came in, and eventually everything morphed in to this thrasher rap/rock amalgam that fit every station’s play list, no matter what they were selling themselves as.

I'm honestly unsure what the radio stations are playing these days. Like that codgerly old man I promised myself I would never become, I walk past lines for station sponsored shows and bemusedly shake my head at the kids who seem so willing to merge their identity with the rest of the line, all those similar outfits and hairstyles.

But hey, maybe they're cleverly playing on the idea that choice is an illusion in these corporate owned days. On checking the websites for KISW and The End 107.7 to see what their play lists are, I discovered that the websites are EXACTLY the same. Maybe I'm the douche bag living a deluded life.

Gerald And His Street Cred

Gerald, the slow rotting Easter bunny, sat on a weather worn bench and tried not to shift his vaguely itching ass for fear of getting a sliver he could not reach. Spring had moved from its wet and cold stage to its overly bright and warm stage practically overnight. It was as if someone in Season Control had flipped a switched.

Groaning, Gerald looked out over an expanse of well mowed park. He was way too hot to deal with this kind of day. He was also way too hung over to deal with this kind of day. The brightly colored flowers shot rays of pain directly into his corneas and the heat seemed to be baking his brain inside his nappy fur covered skull. The baking brain theory would be a good explanation for the pulsing headache that made him feel like sicking up his Old Crow breakfast.

"Jesus," he said to no one at all. "Shouldn't I be in a hole or something?"

Gerald didn't have a hole. He had a shitty, unclean, one bedroom apartment over on Water Street so close to the train tracks that he could feel the Burlington Northern's passing as he sat on the couch he'd pulled from the dump. Technically he talked a couple of fifteen year olds into pulling the couch out for him, promising them a bottle of cut rate vodka, of which he drank half and replaced with water.

"What up Gerald?" some college fuck sat down next to him. Gerald got the feeling that hanging out with him became some sort of bragging point within the college fuck community.

"What's up kid?" Gerald coughed which turned into a retch that he almost didn't recover from without making a mess.

"Whoah! What's that smell?"

"Your probably smelling the stench you mom left on my face last night."

The kid laughed and pulled a joint from his breast pocket, lit it up. Gerald watched him, once again fighting back the urge to vomit. The kid looked over at him with half lidded eyes and offered the joint his way. Gerald put the joint to his lips, and with one immense intake, turned the rest of the doobie to ash.

"Way to bogart it man," the kid said with an uncomfortable laugh.

Gerald began coughing, his entire shambling body shaking. It was one of those coughs that started a domino effect of more coughs. Gerald's aching eyes began tearing up.

"I mean seriously dude," the kid began. "I was trying to be..."

Gerald's coughing crossed a threshold, and with a sound like something being torn in half, Gerald ralphed all over the kid's legs.

"Better," Gerald said.

"Dude!" was all the kid could think to say.

"You're lucky I don't cover you with a bunch of little shit pellets." Gerald shifted his bulk off of the bench to begin his shuffling trek to his apartment and managed to imbed a green painted sliver into the flesh of his haunch.

"Mother puss bucket," he muttered.

Crossing Borders

Bif, like a champion, ran the Vancouver Half Marathon this weekend, a mere 5 months after having a baby extraction performed. This is Vancouver, Canada and not Vancouver, Washington. This is a distinction that many folks up here feel needs to be made. Though it seems to me like living in Dallas and telling someone you're kind of excited as your vacation to Paris is coming up in a couple of days and they ask, "Paris, Texas?"

So no, Vancouver, Washington was not hosting a marathon this weekend. Vancouver, Washington in fact touts it's city's contributions by explaining what is 30 minutes to 2 hours away from it. So yes, I crossed an international border this weekend.

It had been a number of years since I had been to Canada and over a dozen of them since I had crossed the border in a car. I don't remember the border and customs officials being so dour and all questioning like. I mean frankly, it was none of Ms. Officer McInterrogation's business why my wife was not in the car with me. But as I don't like to be facing down the barrels of multiple firearms - the last time was no frigging picnic - I answered her unsmiling questions with my own short, unsmiling answers.

I like Canada. It seems very nice, pastoral, and clean. It reminds me of being smack dab in the middle of a Sunday afternoon PBS special; not something I'd want to do all the time necessarily, but good times occasionally. I didn't really get a chance to check out Vancouver in a vacation like aspect, I was only in the country for about 19 hours, but I would certainly like to go back and spend some quality time there. The 10 block square of downtown that I got to know pretty well seemed nice. I was reminded of San Francisco quite a bit, particularly in driving through Stanley Park and onto the Lion's Gate Bridge and into North Vancouver. It felt remarkably similar to cruising through Golden Gate Park on the way to the Golden Gate Bridge and into Marin.

So a little tired (read actually A LOT tired), but in a calm and PBS kinda place, I wished my parents-in-law farewell, kissed my wife and son goodbye, and headed back across the border solo. As I sat waiting on a light in the part of town I had now driven through for the eighth time, I looked over at one of the stone buildings that sit in that city so comfortably among the tall towers that seem to have been transplanted from some European city somehow, and I saw a young man that looked like Damon at 19. He must have sensed my staring at him, because he looked over and we locked eyes for a moment.

I thought how strange it would be to run into him again here, so many years later and in another country. I wanted to know how his demons were faring. I wanted to know if he had ever found someone to love, if he had any kids, and what a strange twisting feeling in my gut that was caused by my imagining him my own age and with children. I wanted to know if he ever got into Radiohead, what he'd thought about Lost Highway and if he'd ever lifted his self imposed embargo against black and white films. I wondered if he liked Thai food, if he'd ever gotten to Germany, I wondered if he would have enjoyed Vancouver. Vancouver seemed like the sort of city that would have fit him well if he were to be in a city.

The remainder of the trip was a pulsing miasma of border crossing frustration, yawns, and that sort of bordering on hysterical laughter that seems to only be birthed with near exhaustion and hours in a car alone. But there was also a small amount of disappointment that I did not actually find Damon ambling down a Vancouver sidewalk.


Song Stuck In My Head Right Now: "Idylls Of The King" by The Mountain Goats.

Operators Are Standing By

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Check out the raves from these satisfied customers!

"Some people may think it's vain, but I want to look my sexiest when I'm reminding Shirley of her abusive childhood. I was tired of seeing all that flab when I caught my reflection in the mirror. And now I just feel hot! Look out clubs, here I come!" - Azreal P.

"I have a pretty sedentary type job, you know? I just figured that as long as I'm sitting on my gigantic, scaled ass, I can ride a stationary bike as well. This way I can get in shape, still watch The View and keep up on my job of shouting out reminders, 'you love coke, you love coke.' It's awesome." - Beazelruger F.

"The strain of simply rolling over onto my right side when the left side of my body went to sleep caused me to pass out on at least four occasions. I realized it might be time to get a little movement in my routine. The Exorbike has given me a new lease on life, and a ton more energy. So much energy that I'm pushing old Theo to suicide with the constant reminders of his deviant sexual desires. Whatever, he's a sick fuck." - Lester K.

Remember, the Exorbike makes a great gift for Mother's Day! Order today!

Take It Away

There are few times in my life that I have been genuinely embarrassed, I don't much care if I'm thought of as a fool. There is plenty of regret, plenty of moments that I wish I could go back say what I said just a little differently, but there are only a handful of moments that I'm embarrassed about, and only one that I really hang onto.

I'm hoping to exorcise it here, it's ridiculous that I'm still holding onto it.

Come here, take my hand, let's go back to San Francisco in the early 90's. Grunge was the rage, Tarantino was the name on all the film freaks' lips and I have no idea what was on television as we didn't have one that worked. Oh, and my roommate and I were smoking a lot of pot.

Now the best way to go about having that sort of daily pot habit is to have a steady dealer, or at least know someone who knew of a dealer. We did not, we relied on buying in with others when we heard about it, or lord help us, buying off the street. Back when I first moved to Magic Town, you couldn't walk two blocks down Haight Street without being offered pot or 'shroomies.

Our first street fishing experience paid off well with some transient looking fellow tossing down a baggie of green onto a table of the Happy Donuts at Shrader and Haight; a bag of some of the stoniest green I'd ever experienced by the by. Every expedition afterwards seemed to end in tears, either waiting restlessly at 6th and Mission while the rest of the expeditionary forces tried to figure out how they were going to tell your parents that you were dead, or walking away with a bag full of rolled up green paper.

So Robo Nixon comes for a visit from Chico and asks, amiably enough, if we have any green. We did not. No fears, he says, he knows a guy who lives on the San Francisco State campus who probably has some. He feels the need to go visit for a couple of minutes while he's in town anyway.

Well, Robo's friend lived in the new student apartment building on campus. The two of them stood in the living room catching up while I sat on a chair and thought about just how much money it cost to live in this place, stewed in the jealousy of friend's film major roommate's ability to have a 16mm camera lying haphazardly on the floor with the laundry. Not really paying attention to the conversation, I only picked up on the words, "titty joint."

Mistakenly thinking that he was complaining about purchasing a small joint, I threw out in commiseration, "Every time I buy drugs in this city I get ripped off."

When I took a moment to take in the bewildered and somewhat annoyed looks, and a quick moment to try to rewind the brain's recording of the conversation, I realized that Robo and friend were actually talking over a story of visiting a strip club. My irrelevant non-sequitur sat there like a monkey turd on a lace table cloth.

It must have seemed like I had a specialized form of tourette's where instead of uttering nonsensical profanities, I threw out nonsensical stories of attempts at purchasing narcotics. And granted it's not as if I had bawdily told a story of having my filthy way with a particularly nimble older woman only to discover that, after a few well placed comments as to location and household decorations, I had actually fucked this stranger's mom, but it was ridiculously embarrassing for me nonetheless.

I think that a lot of it comes from feeling out of my element to begin with, but then seeing Robo Nixon try to inelegantly bridge the chasm between conversations I had created just made me feel even worse. I feel like Robo saw me as this ass that couldn't wade through 7 minutes of pleasantries before jumping into why we were there like some axe swinging barbarian.

This one clings to me for some reason, haunts me at the oddest moments. I hope that writing it out sets it free.

6 HOT Models For Debut Music Video

This title, from an audition posting that was emailed to me, assures me that the world hasn't changed in the last couple of days. I took a vacation from the world outside my apartment for the last two days, and frankly I'm always afraid that I'm going to miss something.

There's rarely a need to worry.

A lot of times lately I feel like I'm a cartoon character who has run off a cliff. I'm pumping furiously, and it's that moment just as I'm realizing that there's no more ground underneath me; it's a dizzying mix of the exhilaration of everything and the panic of falling.

A lot of times it seems perfectly reasonable to me that I could spryly launch off some object (cliff wall, falling car, etc.) in the reverse direction, thus breaking my fall and averting a disastrous landing.

A lot of times I try to forget about that little piece of wisdom I learned as a child, that at a fall from a great height, water will be as hard as cement. I want to believe that water will receive me, welcome me. Water will slowly stop my fall in a tickling cloud of bubbles before pushing me gently back to the surface.

It's interesting to me that they specifically asked for HOT models.

It gets me wondering if there is an agency out there for ugly models. It makes me wonder if it's possible to escape the implanting that television and marketing firms have done. It makes me wonder if it does any good to point at things and laugh.