I don't know why. Just do. Really love this stuff called "Good Earth". Anyone out there have any great recommendations? I like tea that has a good, strong flavor to it. A little sweet (without having to add sugar), a little spicy, and a little bit delicious as it goes from the mug to the lips to the throat to the belly. Yum. Tea!
The screening last night went well enough. People seemed to laugh at all the right points during the film. Which of course was the whole damn thing! Although, to be honest, it's not too hard to make the crowd at the "48 Hour Film Project" laugh. Most people that are there want three things: they want to see the film they made, they want to make sure that the film they made is better than the films everyone else made, and they want to be marginally entertained. In that respect, having a goofy little movie that's well-enough put together puts you in a pretty good position. Even if it's not as funny as, say, MadTV (and what is? am I right?), the place is packed with enough drunks and idiots to make even the lamest gag seem like the funniest thing you've ever seen since that little girl on America's Funniest Home Videos put her hand on the shaky radiator and sang the Star-Spangled Banner in a warbly voice. Oh, the laughs!
This atmosphere, of course, works against earnestness, shoddy camerawork, poorly delivered lines, fat people, or admissions of love. Everything is served up as something to laugh at, and rightly so. Laugh away, you fools. The world burns around you, and you laugh! You crazy, magnificent bastards you all!!
Here's a question for you: which "religion" is crazier? Scientology or Mormonism? How can people believe this shit? Really. I want to know.
Well, moving on.
Here's something that I think would be funny to see:
Imagine there is a mother elephant and her little baby elephant running around on the African Serenghetti. Only, the little baby elephant is wearing old Adidas shoes, gold chains, some sun glasses, and a Vision Street Wear cap, cocked to the side. Oh, and he's holding a skateboard in his snout.
That's something that I think would be funny to see.
Thursday, June 30, 2005
Tuesday, June 28, 2005
MOVIE TALK
First thing's first: check out the movie that some friends and I made last weekend. It's goofy with a couple of good laughs, and we wrote it, shot it, and edited it all within 48 hours. If anyone in Los Angeles wants to watch this fine masterwork on the big screen, there is a showing tomorrow night (Wednesday the 29th) at the Laemmle Fairfax cinema at 9:30. See ya there, campers!
Second of all, I've noticed something about one of my favorite movies, Songs from the Second Floor. The thing I've noticed is that I've yet to recommend it to one person who likes it. I remember seeing this movie with my friend Sarah in New York. We both loved it and, the next day, we went to see it again, this time carting along with us a group of (we thought) like-minded connoisseurs of art and culture. Well, they all hated it. Since that time, I've recommended the film to a number of people. They've all either stopped watching soon after starting or watched the entire thing. I don't know which is worse, because those that have watched the entire thing typically have more disparaging things to say about it than those who decided to give up after 10 head-scratching minutes. Oh well. Art is art and we all have our opinion. But it does present a dilemma: how do I reconcile the fact that I love this film with the obligation to be courteous and prudent and tell people the truth: that they would probably do well to stay away from it. It's a bit pompous to say, "Well, this is my favorite movie, but you'll not like it, so don't see it," even though I think that by now I have the research to back this statement up. Is there anyone out there in internet-land who liked this movie, or are my tastes as unique as my physique is perfect?
I watched The Andy Milonakis Show Sunday night on MTV. I'd never seen or heard anything about the guy before. The show, though pretty hit and miss, can be incredibly funny. However, I'm sure there are many out there who will hate him. A lot of people hated Tom Green. Though Milonakis isn't as mean or as self-aware as Tom Green, he's certainly just as, if not more, absurd. So, go ahead and hate away. The entire show was worth it for the "10 gayest household objects" bit. Had me in stitches.
I have no interest in watching Cinderella Man. Nor have I seen or have an interest in ever seeing A Beautiful Mind. My mother, with whom I spoke last night, can't seem to understand this small fact about her son. "But...Cinderella Man is so good," she said. "And it really happened!" she could't help but add. I don't really know what to tell her. "Guess I just don't like the same movies as you, mom." Unfortunately, this is little relief for her. I imagine that at night she does not sleep well; something is wrong with her son, and she retraces all of her motherly steps to determine if the blame for this defiency falls on her shoulders or another's.
That's about it. I sort of have a desire to see You and Me and Everyone We Know, but I get that feeling, deep down in my stomach, that it's just going to be another The Saddest Music in the World, which may be the single most significant piece of pretensious hipster pseudo-retro high-brow waste yet thrown on screen. What I love, absolutely love about what I've read about YAMAEWK is that it's the story of a performance artist falling in love with... are you ready? A single father of two... wait! shhhhh! it gets better! Ok, she falls in love with a single father of two who is a (cough) shoe salesman! Because that's so... God, so, fucking - real? Yeah, that's real life, man. It's real like getting your oil changed by Sasquatch is real.
Second of all, I've noticed something about one of my favorite movies, Songs from the Second Floor. The thing I've noticed is that I've yet to recommend it to one person who likes it. I remember seeing this movie with my friend Sarah in New York. We both loved it and, the next day, we went to see it again, this time carting along with us a group of (we thought) like-minded connoisseurs of art and culture. Well, they all hated it. Since that time, I've recommended the film to a number of people. They've all either stopped watching soon after starting or watched the entire thing. I don't know which is worse, because those that have watched the entire thing typically have more disparaging things to say about it than those who decided to give up after 10 head-scratching minutes. Oh well. Art is art and we all have our opinion. But it does present a dilemma: how do I reconcile the fact that I love this film with the obligation to be courteous and prudent and tell people the truth: that they would probably do well to stay away from it. It's a bit pompous to say, "Well, this is my favorite movie, but you'll not like it, so don't see it," even though I think that by now I have the research to back this statement up. Is there anyone out there in internet-land who liked this movie, or are my tastes as unique as my physique is perfect?
I watched The Andy Milonakis Show Sunday night on MTV. I'd never seen or heard anything about the guy before. The show, though pretty hit and miss, can be incredibly funny. However, I'm sure there are many out there who will hate him. A lot of people hated Tom Green. Though Milonakis isn't as mean or as self-aware as Tom Green, he's certainly just as, if not more, absurd. So, go ahead and hate away. The entire show was worth it for the "10 gayest household objects" bit. Had me in stitches.
I have no interest in watching Cinderella Man. Nor have I seen or have an interest in ever seeing A Beautiful Mind. My mother, with whom I spoke last night, can't seem to understand this small fact about her son. "But...Cinderella Man is so good," she said. "And it really happened!" she could't help but add. I don't really know what to tell her. "Guess I just don't like the same movies as you, mom." Unfortunately, this is little relief for her. I imagine that at night she does not sleep well; something is wrong with her son, and she retraces all of her motherly steps to determine if the blame for this defiency falls on her shoulders or another's.
That's about it. I sort of have a desire to see You and Me and Everyone We Know, but I get that feeling, deep down in my stomach, that it's just going to be another The Saddest Music in the World, which may be the single most significant piece of pretensious hipster pseudo-retro high-brow waste yet thrown on screen. What I love, absolutely love about what I've read about YAMAEWK is that it's the story of a performance artist falling in love with... are you ready? A single father of two... wait! shhhhh! it gets better! Ok, she falls in love with a single father of two who is a (cough) shoe salesman! Because that's so... God, so, fucking - real? Yeah, that's real life, man. It's real like getting your oil changed by Sasquatch is real.
Friday, June 24, 2005
THIS IS THE STORY OF HOW I WAS REMINDED OF A GIRL NAMED K__ WHO MARRIED THE OLD MAYOR'S SON, A BOY WHO USED TO BE MY FRIEND AND ALSO A FELON
Had a nice shower this morning. Good shave. Good shave portends a good day. Got out of the shower, stared at my body's dry and scaly skin. Now that's a shame, I thought. That's something that's just demanding my attention. Began robing. Took a look at some pants in the corner, said, those'll do. Threw em on. Then I thought about what to wear up top. Found myself a nice, light-colored number. Better wear something dark underneath. That'll make the rest of the outfit pop out. Make it say, here I am. Say, good morning, world.
Here's a nice undershirt, I said. Navy blue. Aim High Air Force. Wonder if that's an ethos or a command. Love this shirt. Absolutely adore it. Remember when I got it. Sixth grade. Some sort of contest. Jumping rope, I believe. I won and K__ C__ got second. I said, like your prize better. She said, like yours better, too. We swapped. Traded up. I got the shirt. Sixth grade. Can you believe it? Big on me then, little on me now. Not too little. Snug and shapely. Soft. Feels nice against the scaly skin.
K__ ran funny. She lived nearby and in high school, driving home, I would pass her on the street. She'd be running. All funny like, though. Arms flapping. Boobs jiggling. She was real thin, with big boobs. I guess you could say guys liked her. I never cared for her much. She was a bit flighty. A tad empty. Lots of makeup. Most guys, though, they liked to say stuff about her. About how they'd like to get with that. I'm gonna get with that, they'd say.
K__ had issues with her father. They were close. Real close. Too close, you know? Some girls, sometimes there's no one else in the family. Maybe a mom and a dad and then them. These girls, they tend to like their dads. Get along with them better. Nothing wrong with it. Something I noticed, is all.
K__ was taken, though. The boys would have to wait to get with that. She dated the mayor's son. K__ wanted to wait until marriage to have sex, but something was wrong with her, so her doctor put her on birth control. This happens sometimes, I'm told. Sometimes it's prescribed for reasons unrelated to not having babies. I don't know what the reason was. Maybe it was to keep her regular. Maybe she had an eating disorder. Maybe it was something genetic. I don't know. Never asked her. Anyway, she took it. She figured, ah what the hell. She had sex with the mayor's son. Then she told her friends about it. She said, well, A__ and I are going to get married at some point anyway, so what does it matter?
Turns out they did get married. K__ C__ married the mayor's son. They mayor's son, see, I used to know him pretty well. We played basketball together. His dad and my dad were prominent figures in the community. I guess that goes without saying on his end. His dad was mayor. His little brother said I had a big nose. Once, he said I was ugly. When he said that, he crossed a line. A__ and I beat him up. We really did. We chased him and tripped him and when he was on the ground, we hit him.
The mayor's son liked to steal things. He stole some of my CD's and a bottle of cologne. I used to wear cologne! Let's remember that this was high school. A__ started stealing things from people on the basketball team. He stole just random things. Someone would say, I think A__ stole my mini football. Or, I think A__ stole a hat of mine. He would go to parties at girl's houses and creep up to their rooms and steal their underwear. He had the underwear of many girls from our school. He was starting to lose friends. It wasn't funny to us like it was funny to him. He thought it was great.
During senior year of high school, there were a spate of robberies in our town. Man on a bicycle would ride around at night, in the nicer neighborhoods, park his bike, walk into an unlocked house, and take off with some money. Once, he hit an old woman in the head with a flashlight when she awoke. She woke up because he had ventured into her bedroom. The Bandit was rummaging through her nightstand. The man, it doesn't need said, was brash. After awhile the whole town was scared. Scared senseless. Old men would say, just let him try to come to my house. I'll shoot that sumbitch. But the thing is, he didn't go to old mens' houses. He went to the houses of high school teachers, parents of high school students.
Everyone in the town thought it was some no good crook let loose from a prison further upstate. Why he'd come to our little town was anyone's guess. The paper gave him a name. The Bicycle Bandit. You think I'm shitting you. This all happened. The papers in Ft. Wayne and South Bend starting covering the break-ins. Bicycle Bandit Strikes Again. It was a phenomenon. It was like a radio serial from the 50's. And then, some weird things happened.
The first thing that happened was the capture of the Bicycle Bandit. The brief capture. There was a botched break-in and the police were quickly on the Bandit's path. They had seen him enter a woods next to the neighborhood he had just finished casing. A police officer ran in after him, reported back to his officers, I see the Bandit. It was night, dark, and the Bandit must have gotten his bike tied up in a tree branch or stuck in some mud. The police officer closed in. Suspect in view, he said.
The next day, in the papers, it was reported that the officer tackled the Bandit to the ground and there was a scuffle. The Bandit, however, was too large, too strong. He wrestled free and hopped on his bike and rode off. You know what was funny about that? The police officer didn't get a good description of the suspect. All that rolling around must've messed up his vision. Couldn't for the life of him begin to describe the Bandit. Big guy, strong guy, he told the papers. That's all he could come up with. Was he lying? Did he really tackle the guy? Maybe he was trying to be some sort of hero. Or maybe he really did see the Bandit's face.
Then, a week or so later, the mayor's house was targeted. The mayor's oldest son, older than me and my buddy, tussled with the Bandit. My friend wasn't home at the time. The Bandit left. Fled on his bike. The story got a lot of press. Can you imagine? But really, the whole episode seemed too bizarre. The mayor's house? Ballsy. Now here was a risk-taker, to be sure. And you wanna know something? The mayor's oldest son couldn't really remember what the Bandit looked like. Big guy, strong guy, he said. This was the last Bandit break-in, attempted or successful. How about that. Guy just up and quit his business. Closed up shop.
A few more months passed and the hysteria surrounding the Bicycle Bandit seemed to fade. People figured the guy moved on to some other city. Figured two botched break-ins were enough to send the guy packing. Rattled his nerves. Really? The same guy that walked into a woman's bedroom in the middle of the night to root through her jewelry box? Say shamone, Michael Jackson. Say shamone.
Then the mayor resigned. Our beloved mayor. The mayor who, though not particularly liked by the police department, had been a part of our little town his whole life. Decided he'd rather sell some insurance. Would rather press the meat a little. Wanted to get out there, test his mettle, prove his worth. Selling insurance? To each his own. A local CPA was elected mayor. He raised the salary of the police officers. They got new cars. What happened, Detective Holmes? What went down?
I've got my theories. I bet you can guess them. Suffice it to say, there were cookouts that summer. Bonfires. Fishing trips. Guys on the basketball would get together. So, we'd say. The Bicycle Bandit, we'd say. Yeah, I know. What do you think. It's A__, isn't it? You're guess is as good as mine. We'd smoke cigarettes under porches, drink pop. Talk about how he got away with it. It was a story all right. The quarterback of the football team, the star basketball player, the mayor's son. Big Man on Campus. Needed some excitement in his life. Got it by stealing. Then got it by stealing and running away from the cops. Can you imagine, we'd say. Can you imagine?
Nowadays, K__ C__ and the mayor's son live together somewhere and he makes a lot of money and if I remember correctly, he's a banker. Maybe not, though. Maybe he sells thing. Maybe insurance like his old man. There are secrets in every little town. I'm sort of proud to say I know of one. A good one.
I finish putting my shirt on. Stand upright and look in the mirror. Damn thing still fits snug as a glove. Thanks, K__ C__, I think to myself. Thanks for making that trade. Turned out to be a honey of a deal on my end. 13 years and going strong. Now that's a long time for a shirt to hold up. Longer than most things, anyway.
Say shamone, now.
Here's a nice undershirt, I said. Navy blue. Aim High Air Force. Wonder if that's an ethos or a command. Love this shirt. Absolutely adore it. Remember when I got it. Sixth grade. Some sort of contest. Jumping rope, I believe. I won and K__ C__ got second. I said, like your prize better. She said, like yours better, too. We swapped. Traded up. I got the shirt. Sixth grade. Can you believe it? Big on me then, little on me now. Not too little. Snug and shapely. Soft. Feels nice against the scaly skin.
K__ ran funny. She lived nearby and in high school, driving home, I would pass her on the street. She'd be running. All funny like, though. Arms flapping. Boobs jiggling. She was real thin, with big boobs. I guess you could say guys liked her. I never cared for her much. She was a bit flighty. A tad empty. Lots of makeup. Most guys, though, they liked to say stuff about her. About how they'd like to get with that. I'm gonna get with that, they'd say.
K__ had issues with her father. They were close. Real close. Too close, you know? Some girls, sometimes there's no one else in the family. Maybe a mom and a dad and then them. These girls, they tend to like their dads. Get along with them better. Nothing wrong with it. Something I noticed, is all.
K__ was taken, though. The boys would have to wait to get with that. She dated the mayor's son. K__ wanted to wait until marriage to have sex, but something was wrong with her, so her doctor put her on birth control. This happens sometimes, I'm told. Sometimes it's prescribed for reasons unrelated to not having babies. I don't know what the reason was. Maybe it was to keep her regular. Maybe she had an eating disorder. Maybe it was something genetic. I don't know. Never asked her. Anyway, she took it. She figured, ah what the hell. She had sex with the mayor's son. Then she told her friends about it. She said, well, A__ and I are going to get married at some point anyway, so what does it matter?
Turns out they did get married. K__ C__ married the mayor's son. They mayor's son, see, I used to know him pretty well. We played basketball together. His dad and my dad were prominent figures in the community. I guess that goes without saying on his end. His dad was mayor. His little brother said I had a big nose. Once, he said I was ugly. When he said that, he crossed a line. A__ and I beat him up. We really did. We chased him and tripped him and when he was on the ground, we hit him.
The mayor's son liked to steal things. He stole some of my CD's and a bottle of cologne. I used to wear cologne! Let's remember that this was high school. A__ started stealing things from people on the basketball team. He stole just random things. Someone would say, I think A__ stole my mini football. Or, I think A__ stole a hat of mine. He would go to parties at girl's houses and creep up to their rooms and steal their underwear. He had the underwear of many girls from our school. He was starting to lose friends. It wasn't funny to us like it was funny to him. He thought it was great.
During senior year of high school, there were a spate of robberies in our town. Man on a bicycle would ride around at night, in the nicer neighborhoods, park his bike, walk into an unlocked house, and take off with some money. Once, he hit an old woman in the head with a flashlight when she awoke. She woke up because he had ventured into her bedroom. The Bandit was rummaging through her nightstand. The man, it doesn't need said, was brash. After awhile the whole town was scared. Scared senseless. Old men would say, just let him try to come to my house. I'll shoot that sumbitch. But the thing is, he didn't go to old mens' houses. He went to the houses of high school teachers, parents of high school students.
Everyone in the town thought it was some no good crook let loose from a prison further upstate. Why he'd come to our little town was anyone's guess. The paper gave him a name. The Bicycle Bandit. You think I'm shitting you. This all happened. The papers in Ft. Wayne and South Bend starting covering the break-ins. Bicycle Bandit Strikes Again. It was a phenomenon. It was like a radio serial from the 50's. And then, some weird things happened.
The first thing that happened was the capture of the Bicycle Bandit. The brief capture. There was a botched break-in and the police were quickly on the Bandit's path. They had seen him enter a woods next to the neighborhood he had just finished casing. A police officer ran in after him, reported back to his officers, I see the Bandit. It was night, dark, and the Bandit must have gotten his bike tied up in a tree branch or stuck in some mud. The police officer closed in. Suspect in view, he said.
The next day, in the papers, it was reported that the officer tackled the Bandit to the ground and there was a scuffle. The Bandit, however, was too large, too strong. He wrestled free and hopped on his bike and rode off. You know what was funny about that? The police officer didn't get a good description of the suspect. All that rolling around must've messed up his vision. Couldn't for the life of him begin to describe the Bandit. Big guy, strong guy, he told the papers. That's all he could come up with. Was he lying? Did he really tackle the guy? Maybe he was trying to be some sort of hero. Or maybe he really did see the Bandit's face.
Then, a week or so later, the mayor's house was targeted. The mayor's oldest son, older than me and my buddy, tussled with the Bandit. My friend wasn't home at the time. The Bandit left. Fled on his bike. The story got a lot of press. Can you imagine? But really, the whole episode seemed too bizarre. The mayor's house? Ballsy. Now here was a risk-taker, to be sure. And you wanna know something? The mayor's oldest son couldn't really remember what the Bandit looked like. Big guy, strong guy, he said. This was the last Bandit break-in, attempted or successful. How about that. Guy just up and quit his business. Closed up shop.
A few more months passed and the hysteria surrounding the Bicycle Bandit seemed to fade. People figured the guy moved on to some other city. Figured two botched break-ins were enough to send the guy packing. Rattled his nerves. Really? The same guy that walked into a woman's bedroom in the middle of the night to root through her jewelry box? Say shamone, Michael Jackson. Say shamone.
Then the mayor resigned. Our beloved mayor. The mayor who, though not particularly liked by the police department, had been a part of our little town his whole life. Decided he'd rather sell some insurance. Would rather press the meat a little. Wanted to get out there, test his mettle, prove his worth. Selling insurance? To each his own. A local CPA was elected mayor. He raised the salary of the police officers. They got new cars. What happened, Detective Holmes? What went down?
I've got my theories. I bet you can guess them. Suffice it to say, there were cookouts that summer. Bonfires. Fishing trips. Guys on the basketball would get together. So, we'd say. The Bicycle Bandit, we'd say. Yeah, I know. What do you think. It's A__, isn't it? You're guess is as good as mine. We'd smoke cigarettes under porches, drink pop. Talk about how he got away with it. It was a story all right. The quarterback of the football team, the star basketball player, the mayor's son. Big Man on Campus. Needed some excitement in his life. Got it by stealing. Then got it by stealing and running away from the cops. Can you imagine, we'd say. Can you imagine?
Nowadays, K__ C__ and the mayor's son live together somewhere and he makes a lot of money and if I remember correctly, he's a banker. Maybe not, though. Maybe he sells thing. Maybe insurance like his old man. There are secrets in every little town. I'm sort of proud to say I know of one. A good one.
Say shamone, now.
Thursday, June 23, 2005
Wednesday, June 22, 2005
Tuesday, June 21, 2005
Monday, June 20, 2005
Friday, June 17, 2005
Wednesday, June 15, 2005
OBJECTIVE:
To write the funniest thing in the smallest amount of space.
RESULT:
One time, after mowing the lawn on a hot summer day, and finding that my ass had become irritated and chapped, I smeared a gob of Mentholatum all over my crack. Never in my life have I experienced such pain.
RESULT:
One time, after mowing the lawn on a hot summer day, and finding that my ass had become irritated and chapped, I smeared a gob of Mentholatum all over my crack. Never in my life have I experienced such pain.
Tuesday, June 14, 2005
STEVE ZISSOU JR.
If you don't know the difference between the animal in this picture and coral, then you're dumber than my two-year old nephew, who just happens to be cuter and smarter than any little kid you might happen to be related to.
In addition to knowing what this is, my nephew also loves stingrays and sea otters.
In addition to knowing what this is, my nephew also loves stingrays and sea otters.
Wednesday, June 08, 2005
POST FOR THE WEEK
Jesus, who was that humorless asshole that wrote that last post! Get a fucking life, douchebag!
Last night, watching House M.D., I became aware, for the first time, of why an old girlfriend would always shake so badly right before she fell asleep. Myoclonic jerk. No, you're a myoclonic jerk! This helpful and useful information is why I watch House.
That...and the laughs!!
Also, last night I was talking with a friend who told me of a truly odd and, as I protested, implausible and unfounded story. We both claim to have grown up in a sort of Bermuda Triangle of weirdness in Northern Indiana, and as evidence of such, he stated that when he was in high school, a nearby small town suspended its entire men's high school basketball team after it was discovered that all the players were participating members of the KKK. I unfortunately couldn't find any information about this scandal online (to which he replied, "of course not, man, this was before the internet!"), but if his story is truly verifiable, then of course there would be something on the internet. How could this not have been national fucking news?
Anyway, I'm first of all calling him a liar. You, my friend with whom I spoke to last eve, are a liar. Secondly, if any of you out there would like to exercise your Google-fu, have at it. Indiana, high school basketball, Ku Klux Klan, all that stuff. I expect some expert sleuthing.
Last night, watching House M.D., I became aware, for the first time, of why an old girlfriend would always shake so badly right before she fell asleep. Myoclonic jerk. No, you're a myoclonic jerk! This helpful and useful information is why I watch House.
That...and the laughs!!
Also, last night I was talking with a friend who told me of a truly odd and, as I protested, implausible and unfounded story. We both claim to have grown up in a sort of Bermuda Triangle of weirdness in Northern Indiana, and as evidence of such, he stated that when he was in high school, a nearby small town suspended its entire men's high school basketball team after it was discovered that all the players were participating members of the KKK. I unfortunately couldn't find any information about this scandal online (to which he replied, "of course not, man, this was before the internet!"), but if his story is truly verifiable, then of course there would be something on the internet. How could this not have been national fucking news?
Anyway, I'm first of all calling him a liar. You, my friend with whom I spoke to last eve, are a liar. Secondly, if any of you out there would like to exercise your Google-fu, have at it. Indiana, high school basketball, Ku Klux Klan, all that stuff. I expect some expert sleuthing.
Monday, June 06, 2005
CURTAIN CALL
No doubt some of you have noticed that my output, of late, has been spotty and shoddy. "Why," you ask, "can't the American Mastodon regale me bi-daily with his whimsical tales of retards, wolves, small-breasted women, and Tom Friedman?" The answer, of course, is that this isn't about what you want, you greedy bastards, it's about what I need, and what I need is to finally figure out what this whole ticker-tape parade is all about. Let me explain.
I started blogging about a year ago because I was working at a really boring, shitty job. Probably like most of you pathetic assholes. So, with nothing better to do than read "the trades" or talk shop with Betty down the hall, I started blogging. Oy vey!
Well, it's a year later, and look where it's gotten me. My job still sucks and my life is just as pathetic, lonely, and unfulfilling as it was a year ago, with the sole exception being that right now I'm listening to Teenage Fanclub's "December" and last year I was probably listening to the Sleepy Jackson or some tripe. You see, even when we slide backward we still can't help but move forward, or something.
The fact is, I need to decide what I want to do with my life. As some of you know, I've narrowed it down to being a neurologist, taxidermist, landscape architect, blown-glass artist, filmmaker, journalist, allergist, urban planner, shaman, mystic, oracle, or bum. Nowhere on that list do you see "blogger". Nor, to be honest, is there room.
And let's also face facts. Blogging is a lot like those MTV Real World/Road Rules challenges. You start watching at one in the afternoon on a Sunday and pretty soon you realize that it's six o'clock and you've wasted your entire day. It's not like it's good television - you're not going to ever buy the DVD when it comes out. It's just that you're a lazy ass with nothing better to do than watch other people act like idiots at adult summer camp. Well, maybe blogging is different than that. But if this is the day of my blogging tenure, then it's getting to be around six o'clock and I'm starting to get hungry for some Taco Bell.
Besides, blogging is dying, people. Look around you and you'll see the scattered remains of people who've tried it and decided that it's not worth it. I mean, yeah, they're fun and silly, but does the world need more fun and silly? Aren't we all just sort of prolonging our adolescence? What's up with this generation? We don't really want to grow up, we want everything to be a joke. Maybe it's because I live in LA, where 50 year olds act like they're thirteen, or maybe it's because I live in America, where we expect everything to always work out for us because we live in the Greatest Country Ever, or maybe it's finally the result of parents who actually did give their kids everything they wanted, and the result of this long succession of better-lives-than-our-parents is just confusion and self-hate and unjustified entitlement or maybe, just maybe, I take myself too seriously and can't reconcile the incessant and binding morality of my superego with the bounding recklessness of my id, and just how that all seeps into my decision to stop blogging should alert you to the fact that yes, I do take things way too seriously, yes I do think about things way too much, yes I do want my life to be more than the sum of flippant comments about bands or movies or books that I may or may not like, that I don't want to maintain old friendships through the comment section of my blog, that if I really am to be a happy, glass-blowing neurologist (who spends part of the year at his Peruvian clinic/studio), then I better get off this pot, or shit, or shit and then get off the pot, or just stop fucking around waiting for something to happen.
Basically, I can think of better ways to spend my time. These include looking for other jobs, writing something of actual quality, and acting like I'm reading the trades when really I'm reading the New Yorker or Scientific American: Mind. Of course I may still post things on a weekly or every other weekly basis, but don't count on anything consistent or significant. Just like Mr. Fisher, whose website seems to be fucked right now but who last night performed his own hari-kari, and for whom I couldn't be happier. Not because his blog was insufferable, but because I know Danny and I think he should just concentrate on being what he's trying to be right now. And if blogging factors into that, good, but if not, so be it.
Why all this endless justification? I don't know. I guess maybe because part of me feels like I'm letting some of you and myself down. Which is just absolutely ridiculous, if you think about it. What sort of fruits were to ever come from this labor? Obviously, none. This was just supposed to be a fun little place for me to ramble for my friends. Well, I'm done rambling. It's time to put this walking fossil to rest.
Fuck all y'all, and peace in the Middle East.
I started blogging about a year ago because I was working at a really boring, shitty job. Probably like most of you pathetic assholes. So, with nothing better to do than read "the trades" or talk shop with Betty down the hall, I started blogging. Oy vey!
Well, it's a year later, and look where it's gotten me. My job still sucks and my life is just as pathetic, lonely, and unfulfilling as it was a year ago, with the sole exception being that right now I'm listening to Teenage Fanclub's "December" and last year I was probably listening to the Sleepy Jackson or some tripe. You see, even when we slide backward we still can't help but move forward, or something.
The fact is, I need to decide what I want to do with my life. As some of you know, I've narrowed it down to being a neurologist, taxidermist, landscape architect, blown-glass artist, filmmaker, journalist, allergist, urban planner, shaman, mystic, oracle, or bum. Nowhere on that list do you see "blogger". Nor, to be honest, is there room.
And let's also face facts. Blogging is a lot like those MTV Real World/Road Rules challenges. You start watching at one in the afternoon on a Sunday and pretty soon you realize that it's six o'clock and you've wasted your entire day. It's not like it's good television - you're not going to ever buy the DVD when it comes out. It's just that you're a lazy ass with nothing better to do than watch other people act like idiots at adult summer camp. Well, maybe blogging is different than that. But if this is the day of my blogging tenure, then it's getting to be around six o'clock and I'm starting to get hungry for some Taco Bell.
Besides, blogging is dying, people. Look around you and you'll see the scattered remains of people who've tried it and decided that it's not worth it. I mean, yeah, they're fun and silly, but does the world need more fun and silly? Aren't we all just sort of prolonging our adolescence? What's up with this generation? We don't really want to grow up, we want everything to be a joke. Maybe it's because I live in LA, where 50 year olds act like they're thirteen, or maybe it's because I live in America, where we expect everything to always work out for us because we live in the Greatest Country Ever, or maybe it's finally the result of parents who actually did give their kids everything they wanted, and the result of this long succession of better-lives-than-our-parents is just confusion and self-hate and unjustified entitlement or maybe, just maybe, I take myself too seriously and can't reconcile the incessant and binding morality of my superego with the bounding recklessness of my id, and just how that all seeps into my decision to stop blogging should alert you to the fact that yes, I do take things way too seriously, yes I do think about things way too much, yes I do want my life to be more than the sum of flippant comments about bands or movies or books that I may or may not like, that I don't want to maintain old friendships through the comment section of my blog, that if I really am to be a happy, glass-blowing neurologist (who spends part of the year at his Peruvian clinic/studio), then I better get off this pot, or shit, or shit and then get off the pot, or just stop fucking around waiting for something to happen.
Basically, I can think of better ways to spend my time. These include looking for other jobs, writing something of actual quality, and acting like I'm reading the trades when really I'm reading the New Yorker or Scientific American: Mind. Of course I may still post things on a weekly or every other weekly basis, but don't count on anything consistent or significant. Just like Mr. Fisher, whose website seems to be fucked right now but who last night performed his own hari-kari, and for whom I couldn't be happier. Not because his blog was insufferable, but because I know Danny and I think he should just concentrate on being what he's trying to be right now. And if blogging factors into that, good, but if not, so be it.
Why all this endless justification? I don't know. I guess maybe because part of me feels like I'm letting some of you and myself down. Which is just absolutely ridiculous, if you think about it. What sort of fruits were to ever come from this labor? Obviously, none. This was just supposed to be a fun little place for me to ramble for my friends. Well, I'm done rambling. It's time to put this walking fossil to rest.
Fuck all y'all, and peace in the Middle East.
Friday, June 03, 2005
DEAR TOM FRIEDMAN:
Shut up.
Indeed, there is a huge famine breaking out all over India today, an incredible hunger. But it is not for food. It is a hunger for opportunity that has been pent up like volcanic lava under four decades of socialism, and it's now just bursting out with India's young generation.
I smell Pulitzer. Bravo stuff, dickweed!
Indeed, there is a huge famine breaking out all over India today, an incredible hunger. But it is not for food. It is a hunger for opportunity that has been pent up like volcanic lava under four decades of socialism, and it's now just bursting out with India's young generation.
I smell Pulitzer. Bravo stuff, dickweed!
HIS LITTLE HOUSE
Raya lived in a little house with his wife and his two twin boys and his old mother. Even when he was young he lived in the house; he lived in it his whole life. When he was seventeen his father died from some illness, so Raya went out and got a job. One of his friends painted buildings, and he hired Raya.
Raya would work during the day, his skin burning in the hot sun. At night when he returned home his wife would have a meal ready for him. The boys would want to play and sometimes they played soccer in the street in front of their little house. Then one day, while Raya was painting a doctor's office in town, he felt the earth shake. His paint bucket spilled and all the chemicals and dyes seeped into the ground. Raya started walking back to his little house to make sure it had not fallen over, but before he could return the streets started filling with water. People climbed up trees or they sat perched on the rooftops of buildings. Raya tried to find some way to get to his house and his family, but the current caught him and he was lucky to grab onto the iron balcony of an old hotel he once painted. He pulled himself up and waited.
His house was completely gone. He stood where he thought it once stood, but since nothing else remained, he couldn't be sure. He moved a little to the east, placed his feet on muddy and shaky dirt. Everything had been rearranged. The shoreline was different. Trees and bushes were missing in spots. He sat down and waited for his family to come back. After some time, he cried.
Raya stayed like that for two days. His old neighbors started returning, slowly. When they saw what had happened to everything, they cried. Dead bodies littered the coast and came up all the way to the edge of the neighborhood. Someone pointed way up in a tree and everyone looked and saw it was a little boy. Raya turned and tilted his head and noticed how the limbs of the tree perfectly cradled the limbs of the boy. He knew from the boy's bright orange shorts that it was one of his sons. He climbed the tree and placed his hand on the boy's ashen face. The skin was cold and slimy. Raya looked out from his high perch and saw nothing but mud and dead trees and people walking around and he wondered to himself how he was going to get his son down. Finally, he pushed him out of the tree and listened to the gasping sound the earth made when the boy landed.
The next morning, as the sun crept up over the sea, Raya lay on the ground, paralyzed by his misery. A small boy approached him and grabbed onto his leg and for some time Raya did not move. He believed that somehow, an apparition of his dead son had come to torment him for pushing the boy out of the tree. But the boy grabbed so hard that it hurt Raya's leg and Raya realized that it was his other son. He had somehow survived. He was so thankful he started crying again and between his tears he looked up to see a white man with a camera taking his picture. Snap snap. Snap snap snap he heard through his sobs.
Raya, with his son by his side, set about rebuilding their little house. With the help of his friends he found boards and planks and nails and tools. He promised to paint ten houses in exchange for some concrete blocks a neighbor found. He made his son work hard, all day, running around the village trying to get more supplies. His friends helped him with the roof and some of the more difficult aspects of the construction. Finally, after a few months, Raya had completed the house and he and his son moved in.
There had been no sign of his wife or his mother. Raya assumed they had been dragged out to the sea and drowned, and wished only that when they died they did not feel too much pain. He had heard once that drowning was a peaceful way to die and he hoped that this was true.
A couple of months after he and his son moved into their little house, soldiers with guns came to the village and began asking the people questions. Who died? Who came back? Where is the government? What are they doing for you? Raya told them that he and his son survived and that he rebuilt his house. They told him to give them money so they could protect and rebuild the area, but Raya had no money and he had no grudge against the government. He told them he needed to paint more houses to have any money, but they thought he was mocking him and they asked to see the papers for his house. There were no papers for his house. They said, you can't just build a house wherever you want. Raya told them that his house had always been there. They said they didn't believe him and that if he wanted to stay in his house, he would pay them. He said ok.
Raya went into town and asked his friends for money, told them he would pay them back when he started painting all the houses that the people were starting to build again. Raya knew that he would start making money again. But none of his friends had any money, either. They had given their money to the soldiers. He spent a week trying to get money. He even walked ten miles to where the white people had set up tents but they would not give him any money. He told them it was for his house so they gave him forms to complete, but he didn't know what to do with them. When he and his son finally returned later that night, his house and four other houses nearby were on fire. His little house burned quickly and in the morning it was just a pile of ashes on the blocks of concrete.
Raya tried to rebuild his house again, but none of his friends wanted to help. They thought that the rebels would burn their houses as well. His neighbors turned on him and called him a fool for not giving the soldiers any money. He went back to the tents with the white people and they let him stay there for a few days, feeding him and his son. Raya left his son there and went back to the village to try to make some money painting houses. The first thing he noticed was that someone was building a house on his old foundation of concrete blocks. The second thing he noticed was that all of his paint cans had been taken. No one had ever taken anything of his before. He didn't know what to do. He didn't understand why all of this had happened. He thought back to the times when he would come home from a day of work and listen to cricket games on the radio. He remembered lying in bed with his wife. He remembered going on walks with his mother. Maybe the ocean would come in and take him away. Who would notice? Who would care? He walked out to the where the tide slid against the sand and sat down. He let the water come in, come in, come in. After some time, the water came up to his chest. He thought how odd it all was. One day he was painting a building blue, the next day his house had disappeared. Pushing his son out of a tree, the soldiers burning his house, the white person taking his picture, sitting here now. The earth shakes and shimmies and we all fall down. The water hit him in the neck and he coughed, it hurt. He stood up and walked back into the village. He was hungry, he wondered if anyone would give him some food.
Raya would work during the day, his skin burning in the hot sun. At night when he returned home his wife would have a meal ready for him. The boys would want to play and sometimes they played soccer in the street in front of their little house. Then one day, while Raya was painting a doctor's office in town, he felt the earth shake. His paint bucket spilled and all the chemicals and dyes seeped into the ground. Raya started walking back to his little house to make sure it had not fallen over, but before he could return the streets started filling with water. People climbed up trees or they sat perched on the rooftops of buildings. Raya tried to find some way to get to his house and his family, but the current caught him and he was lucky to grab onto the iron balcony of an old hotel he once painted. He pulled himself up and waited.
His house was completely gone. He stood where he thought it once stood, but since nothing else remained, he couldn't be sure. He moved a little to the east, placed his feet on muddy and shaky dirt. Everything had been rearranged. The shoreline was different. Trees and bushes were missing in spots. He sat down and waited for his family to come back. After some time, he cried.
Raya stayed like that for two days. His old neighbors started returning, slowly. When they saw what had happened to everything, they cried. Dead bodies littered the coast and came up all the way to the edge of the neighborhood. Someone pointed way up in a tree and everyone looked and saw it was a little boy. Raya turned and tilted his head and noticed how the limbs of the tree perfectly cradled the limbs of the boy. He knew from the boy's bright orange shorts that it was one of his sons. He climbed the tree and placed his hand on the boy's ashen face. The skin was cold and slimy. Raya looked out from his high perch and saw nothing but mud and dead trees and people walking around and he wondered to himself how he was going to get his son down. Finally, he pushed him out of the tree and listened to the gasping sound the earth made when the boy landed.
The next morning, as the sun crept up over the sea, Raya lay on the ground, paralyzed by his misery. A small boy approached him and grabbed onto his leg and for some time Raya did not move. He believed that somehow, an apparition of his dead son had come to torment him for pushing the boy out of the tree. But the boy grabbed so hard that it hurt Raya's leg and Raya realized that it was his other son. He had somehow survived. He was so thankful he started crying again and between his tears he looked up to see a white man with a camera taking his picture. Snap snap. Snap snap snap he heard through his sobs.
Raya, with his son by his side, set about rebuilding their little house. With the help of his friends he found boards and planks and nails and tools. He promised to paint ten houses in exchange for some concrete blocks a neighbor found. He made his son work hard, all day, running around the village trying to get more supplies. His friends helped him with the roof and some of the more difficult aspects of the construction. Finally, after a few months, Raya had completed the house and he and his son moved in.
There had been no sign of his wife or his mother. Raya assumed they had been dragged out to the sea and drowned, and wished only that when they died they did not feel too much pain. He had heard once that drowning was a peaceful way to die and he hoped that this was true.
A couple of months after he and his son moved into their little house, soldiers with guns came to the village and began asking the people questions. Who died? Who came back? Where is the government? What are they doing for you? Raya told them that he and his son survived and that he rebuilt his house. They told him to give them money so they could protect and rebuild the area, but Raya had no money and he had no grudge against the government. He told them he needed to paint more houses to have any money, but they thought he was mocking him and they asked to see the papers for his house. There were no papers for his house. They said, you can't just build a house wherever you want. Raya told them that his house had always been there. They said they didn't believe him and that if he wanted to stay in his house, he would pay them. He said ok.
Raya went into town and asked his friends for money, told them he would pay them back when he started painting all the houses that the people were starting to build again. Raya knew that he would start making money again. But none of his friends had any money, either. They had given their money to the soldiers. He spent a week trying to get money. He even walked ten miles to where the white people had set up tents but they would not give him any money. He told them it was for his house so they gave him forms to complete, but he didn't know what to do with them. When he and his son finally returned later that night, his house and four other houses nearby were on fire. His little house burned quickly and in the morning it was just a pile of ashes on the blocks of concrete.
Raya tried to rebuild his house again, but none of his friends wanted to help. They thought that the rebels would burn their houses as well. His neighbors turned on him and called him a fool for not giving the soldiers any money. He went back to the tents with the white people and they let him stay there for a few days, feeding him and his son. Raya left his son there and went back to the village to try to make some money painting houses. The first thing he noticed was that someone was building a house on his old foundation of concrete blocks. The second thing he noticed was that all of his paint cans had been taken. No one had ever taken anything of his before. He didn't know what to do. He didn't understand why all of this had happened. He thought back to the times when he would come home from a day of work and listen to cricket games on the radio. He remembered lying in bed with his wife. He remembered going on walks with his mother. Maybe the ocean would come in and take him away. Who would notice? Who would care? He walked out to the where the tide slid against the sand and sat down. He let the water come in, come in, come in. After some time, the water came up to his chest. He thought how odd it all was. One day he was painting a building blue, the next day his house had disappeared. Pushing his son out of a tree, the soldiers burning his house, the white person taking his picture, sitting here now. The earth shakes and shimmies and we all fall down. The water hit him in the neck and he coughed, it hurt. He stood up and walked back into the village. He was hungry, he wondered if anyone would give him some food.
Wednesday, June 01, 2005
BESIDES, PERHAPS, GETTING A GOOD PARKING SPOT
I can't for the life of me understand why someone would want to buy a Mini Cooper.
DON'T BELIEVE THE HYPE/DO BELIEVE THE HYPE EDITION
1) Don't believe the White Stripes/Get Behind Me Satan hype. I mean, yeah, it's better than most of the shit out there, but - and here's the problem - it's not better than their other albums. Jack White has finally (in a record three years) made the successful transition from the genuine article, a fiery country preacher leading his devoted flock to the river for a rock baptism, to smarmy snake-oil salesman. Buy his balm if you wish, but it ain't gonna heal your now cancerous lack of taste.
2) Do believe the Werner Herzog hype. Sure, there's no such thing as Werner Herzog hype, but there should be. I could start it. Hey, everyone!! Check out the new Werner Herzog film! It's fucking amazing!!
3) I should've told you all not to believe the Star Wars hype, but who would have listened to me? Anyone? No, no one would have. So what would've been the point? I didn't see it, I'm not going to see it, and I don't want to see it. You saw it, and now you're regretting it. Am I right? Am I?
4) Don't believe The Mountain Goats hype. They might have one or two good songs, but so did The Spin Doctors. And since they release so many albums, their ratio of good to bad songs is roughly equal to the number of days I wake up without crying.
5) Is there Shakira hype? Shouldn't there be? Have you seen her new video? It's hands down the sexiest music video I've ever seen. That includes the Enrique Iglesias ones. I think I even popped a chub when I saw it.
6) Do believe the Cubs hype. Season of destiny? They're getting closer to the Cardinals every day. When Woods gets healthy, forget about it. Pennant, here we come. Seriously. Seriously. No, seriously, I have to be this delusional, otherwise I wouldn't be a Cubs fan. Kick it, Kyle.
2) Do believe the Werner Herzog hype. Sure, there's no such thing as Werner Herzog hype, but there should be. I could start it. Hey, everyone!! Check out the new Werner Herzog film! It's fucking amazing!!
3) I should've told you all not to believe the Star Wars hype, but who would have listened to me? Anyone? No, no one would have. So what would've been the point? I didn't see it, I'm not going to see it, and I don't want to see it. You saw it, and now you're regretting it. Am I right? Am I?
4) Don't believe The Mountain Goats hype. They might have one or two good songs, but so did The Spin Doctors. And since they release so many albums, their ratio of good to bad songs is roughly equal to the number of days I wake up without crying.
5) Is there Shakira hype? Shouldn't there be? Have you seen her new video? It's hands down the sexiest music video I've ever seen. That includes the Enrique Iglesias ones. I think I even popped a chub when I saw it.
6) Do believe the Cubs hype. Season of destiny? They're getting closer to the Cardinals every day. When Woods gets healthy, forget about it. Pennant, here we come. Seriously. Seriously. No, seriously, I have to be this delusional, otherwise I wouldn't be a Cubs fan. Kick it, Kyle.
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