Thursday, March 30, 2006


Last night, whilst attending an indie rock and roll show in Silverlake, I found myself surveying the crowd and noting the differences between me and the others in attendance. Here's where I diverge from the masses:

1) At least I tuck in my snap shirt

In the past couple of decades, the great unwashed have decided that casual wear is befitting all manner of professionals, in all number of situations. Why wear a stuffy suit when you can wear jeans and a hoodie? It's the cornerstone of a more broadly held fuck-it logic that, by its nature, is difficult to find fault with. Just try. Oh yeah? Well, fuck it. See how easy that was? However, I'm here to say that there is such a thing as going too far. Let's not throw the baby out with the bath water, people. Style isn't about the absence of effort. It's about knowing your strengths and highlighting them. And one surefire way to accentuate the positive (if you're a tall, thin man) is to tuck in your shirt. Especially if your ass is as spectacular as mine.

2. My plastic pseudo-horn-rimmed glasses are green, not black

What fuddy-duddy declared that all glasses have to be black or brown? Whoever it was didn't know a damn thing about panache, or life, or that ineffable feeling of living like a bon vivant; what the French call "joie de vie" and what Iggy Pop refers to as "lust for life." The damn hipsters surrounding me wouldn't know fun if it offered them a bag of coke and a blowjob under the table in the corner booth at Denny's. You can just tell.

3. I'm not thinking about the music video I would make for the band onstage

There was a time when I could not make this claim. Thankfully, in my current state, I just enjoy listening to the music and am not imagining vacant barns and a dying basset hound and bug zappers flickering to the beat of the music and other such images that I was, at one time, quietly (I suppose too quietly) assembling in my mind as a potential music video.

4. When a band plays a song I like, I bop my head or shimmy my hips

Maybe you need to live in LA for awhile to understand why this makes me so unique.

5. I'm wearing hand-crafted Italian leather shoes, not Chuck Taylors

I come from a modest background. My heritage is comprised of laborers and teachers and layabouts. We never had much, except each other. And that's all we ever needed. Or so I thought. Turns out it doesn't hurt to have a pair of shoes that you really love. Shoes that fit perfectly and are comfortable and look fantastic. Life's too short to buckle down and count your pennies at the end of a long day. I feel like I've solved some equation by figuring this out, and I'm happy to share the news to everyone: buy a fucking sweet ass pair of shoes. I'm not advocating mindless Carrie Bradshaw consumerism or Imelda Marcos obsession; in fact, any more than one perfect pair of shoes would ruin the whole aesthetic. Just find a pair that shouts YOU! (or would it be ME!?) and wear them into the ground. Then get another pair. Or, if you want, just keep wearing your Chuck Taylors, cause that's really fucking original.

6. These assholes aren't worried a lick about Peak Oil

Unfortunately, this is not a positive. Yes, it separates me from the other hep cats around me, but it's not a distinction I would bestow upon anyone willingly. Ignorance is bliss, they say. Unfortunately for me, I'm thinking about $7 gallons of gas, wars in China, where to sock away my money before the global economy falters, and a feasible place and way to set up shop "off the grid." The clueless Joe Cools around me are listening intently to the band and, if there any thoughts at all coursing through their well-coiffed heads, it is a worry that their band doesn't sound as good as the band onstage, or that their screenplays and head shots aren't up to muster. I don't fault them these petty concerns and in fact envy them; ultimately, how are my worries concerning the coming collapse of our society going to in any conceivable way change the course of history? Of course they won't do a damn thing. I'd rather get blindsided by a drunk driver late at night on a country road then be tied to the tracks and watch for 20 minutes as an approaching train barrels down upon me. The fools win this battle. Will they win the war?

7. They probably have a Myspace page and are going to go home and write about the show

How pathetic is that? Writing about what you did last night on the internet with some sad hope that other people will read about your evening and find it compelling enough to add their own comments. Get a life.

Wednesday, March 29, 2006



I'm now officially taking suggestions for what to do with my life. I know Krupke is a cop. Perhaps I could don the blue suit? Or maybe I should pursue my dream of taxidermy and glass sculpture. Peace Corps/adventure guide in some barren brown-skinned land seems fitting and inspiring as well. This is all I know: I can't keep going to this job. I must find a new way. A shining path.

Please. Tell me what that is.

Monday, March 27, 2006


Atta boy, Kris.

Just so long as it was back in the 70s, you know, and not, like, a week ago.


You may look at me, and my rocks, and become confused. It's happened before. In fact, it's entirely possible that you will look at me, and then my rocks, and then say to yourself, "Hey, I thought I knew this person, this person Jenny, and as I remembered it, she was just a girl from the block, but now she's got all these rocks." But here's the thing: I'm still the same person. I still break it down the same way. Regardless of my possession of rocks. Having rocks or not having rocks in no way precludes me from continuing to be from somewhere. How is that even possible? It's just a fact that I'm from the block. I could become an astronaut, fly to the moon, and live there with aliens, but I'd still be Jenny from the block. I couldn't, for instance, be Jenny from the farm, now could I? Or, say, Jenny from the subdivision. I can't go back in time. I don't have a time machine. Is that what you think these rocks are? Evidence of my ability to travel through time and space, and my application of said ability to conjure for myself an alternative history, one in which I'm no longer from the block, but am instead the daughter of a rich family, raised in a brownstone and educated at the finest schools, taking trips to Europe during the summer - all because I'm wearing a few rocks?

Listen. Don't be fooled by the rocks that I got. I'm still, I'm still Jenny from the block.

Friday, March 24, 2006


Imelda, dear, how ARE YOU? You sure do look fancy with that fancy hat sitting atop your head. I think it's BEAUTIFUL. I really do. Oh my, dear, did you hear THE NEWS this morning? Well it just so seems to be that that preacher down in Tennessee was SHOT IN THE BACK by his OWN WIFE. Now don't that just make you want to CRY? I swear on my heart I thought of you when I heard that, what with your brother being a preacher down in MONROE COUNTY and all. I thought to myself, "I hope JACK PARSON doesn't get SHOT IN THE BACK by some banshee wife," is what I said, because I know that he's a GOOD MAN. I met him once at a church social back in the 1950's, cross my heart I did. But tell me, what is it with PREACHERS' WIVES? It's like they're either robots or they're STARK-RAVING MAD, have you noticed that? Oh, I'm not saying anything about JACK'S WIFE specifically, dear, I'm just speaking in generalities. It really does seem to me that when a woman's got nothing better to do than sit around a house with a bunch of kids and make MEAL AFTER MEAL for old invalids at the church, SCREWS START LOOSENING faster than a squirrel skittering up an OAK TREE. I've thought that many times about REVEREND BICKINHAM'S WIFE, and even though I've never been in the parsonage myself I can just betcha it's filled with those little PRECIOUS MOMENTS dolls and some sort of old worn-out piano and all the carpets are shaggy and SMELL LIKE URINE. Oh, Imelda, really now, I'm not saying anything bad about her or anything, it's just that I worry about her, and of course I worry about the people she plans on SHOOTING IN THE BACK WITH A SHOTGUN because that's how that one's gonna end up, too, you can gosh darn MARK MY WORDS. People think that just because somebody get a little RELIGION they're a good person but half the time it just gives the crazy people a reason to TALK TO THE STRANGERS IN THEIR BRAIN and if they weren't spouting off about how JESUS TOLD THEM to butter their bread on both sides, we'd have locked them all away on the FUNNY FARM a long time ago. Now, Imelda, I'm not saying that EVERYBODY is like that or anything but I am saying that it doesn't surprise me ONE LICK that that poor little girl finally SNAPPED and offed her man like that. Everybody talking about how nice and charismatic he was. Can you imagine being married to that kind of man? Always making the LADIES BLUSH IN CHURCH and getting the kids to SING A HYMN before going to bed and praying about every gosh darn thing when all you want to do is watch a few minutes of WHEEL OF FORTUNE or some other sort of nonsense to get your brain off of what a SAD, SORRY LITTLE LIFE YOU LIVE. And the whole time you've got MISTER PERFECT sleeping next to you in the bed, loafing about and making half of a teacher's salary to TELL STORIES TO OLD PEOPLE once a week. It'd be enough to make me go cuckoo, I tell you that right now, Imelda, and I don't blame that girl ONE BIT for saying enough's enough - I'm just glad she didn't DROWN THOSE GIRLS OF HERS because that would have been a real tragedy. And goodness, Imelda, there's enough tragedy right here in MASON COUNTY, isn't that right. Why, just the other day they wouldn't accept my coupons in at the BURGER KING because they said they expiration date had passed. Since when do they make all the rules? Oh well, I don't want to get going about that LOUSY BURGER SHOP now, do I? Heavens no, I don't. Imelda, it was nice to see you again, as always, and BE SURE to say hello to your brother down in MONROE COUNTY and tell him to WATCH HIS BACK. Oh, you know I'm kidding, Imelda, but be well and I'll be PRAYING ABOUT YOUR HIP, dear. Okay, bye now, Jesus loves you, honey.

Thursday, March 23, 2006


Here are my thoughts on the upcoming NCAA basketball games:

This is a no-brainer in the "who should I root for" category. Always root against Duke. Rooting against Duke is like rooting against Communists, or Republicans. They represent all that is evil and boring and successful in this world. They are the man in the mirror, and I'm asking him to cha-ange his ways. Cha-ange his ways by getting beat on the basketball court, preferably embarrasingly so. LSU has that fat guy that they call "Big Baby." Can you imagine? I sure can. LSU over Duke, 95 to 32.


Kevin Pittsnoggle, West Virginia's lead scorer, is the Bryan Cook of this year's senior class. They are both 6'11" guys who think they're 6'2" and shoot threes as if they weren't aware that you're allowed to shoot any closer. But whereas Bryan Cook is black, Kevin Pittsnoggle is hands-down the whitest white-trashed hillbilly player I've ever seen play college basketball. He gets away with this by being really good, in which case people tend to leave him be. Call it the Sprewell Syndrome. Ok, now I'm a little ahead of myself. Let's go back a bit. I should explain. Most white players fit one of two very general molds: the wigger (self-explanatory) and the coach's son. There are, of course, exceptions (Steve Nash, Adam Morrison, and Larry Bird sort of break the mold). Most white-trash hillbillies fit the coach's son archetype. That is: they have short hair, they listen to Toby Keith to pump themselves up, and they are great fucking passers/dribblers. Pittsnoggle, on the other hand, looks like he just rolled out of bed, got yet another tattoo of a 12-point white-tail on his shoulder, stopped by the greasy spoon down by the mechanic's shop where his two brothers and four uncles work, smoked a quick jay, hopped in his IH and rolled into the gym about five minutes before gametime. Doesn't hurt the aura that he already has a BABY with his WIFE with whom he lives in his TRAILER in fucking WEST VIRGINIA. On the strength of his almost unbelievably unprecedented come-to-life caricature of all that is wrong with America, I must give the Mountaineers a big edge here. WV over Texas, 108-47.

I don't really know anything about either of these teams, though isn't Bradley a Christian school? I sure hope so. If they are, then surely God wants them to win more than the other teams. I do know that Memphis has that player on the team who last year missed two potentially game-winning free throws at the end of Memphis' last game. I hope he gets a chance to redeem himself this year. Then, just to show him that life isn't fair, I hope that Bradley heaves a full court shot with .4 seconds left and snatches the victory from the jaws of defeat and so on. Bradley wins, 13-11.

This is tough for me, because I hate Adam Morrison and I hate UCLA. But, if I'm being honest with myself, I hate Adam Morrison a lot less than I hate UCLA. The reason why I don't like Morrison that much is because he's an arrogant asshole. However, it's true that when you're the best player in the country, you have sort of won the right to be an asshole. I also like that he brings a little spice to the game. More than once this year I've watched extended portions of Gonzaga games because I wanted to catch Morrison play. I don't know, though, if it's because I want to watch him outperform the other players on the court or if, as in Nascar when waiting for an accident, I'm really watching because I know it's only a matter of time before he starts punching someone in the face, over and over again, screaming at the top of his lungs until a vessel in his temple explodes. It is my wish that this happens this evening, and that the young man on the receiving end of his blows is Jordan Farmar. Gonzaga over UCLA, 67-67.

And now you know . . . THE REST OF THE STORY!


Maybe not as bad as everyone thought?

Gays: Not the ruin of our society? America thinks it over.


I'm about halfway through Barack Obama's book, "Dreams of My Father," and have been quite surprised to find that he admits to smoking pot, doing cocaine, and attending socialist rallies in New York.

So tell me - how is the Moral Majority gonna handle all that when he runs for President?

Wednesday, March 22, 2006


After which, the judges give their comments.

RANDY JACKSON: Yo, dawg, check it out. That was tight. See, this is what I love about you. When I knew you were singing this song, I was like, "wha?" you know, because it's hard to see a guy like you breaking it down like that. But you got pipes, man, you can blow. I love the range, man, totally impressive that you pulled that off. Right, dog pound? Hoo hoo hoo hoo.

RAMBO: Thanks, Randy. Thanks.

PAULA ABDUL: (clapping, then standing) You're a star. The way you just command the stage. And it's like, you're such a big guy, strong, but yet you were really vulnerable up there, and I think that's what America loves about you. They think they know you, but every week you come out here and reveal another part of yourself. And, of course, you can sing. You're a born performer. You're a star. I think we're going to be seeing a lot more of you.

RAMBO: Thank you. Thanks.

SIMON COWELL: (looking at Paula incredulously, then turning to RAMBO) Hated it. (Boos and hissing from the crowd) Pathetic. I mean, I'm sorry to rain on everyone's party here, but let's have a little reality check here.

RYAN SEACREST: Yeah, Simon Cowell, king of reality! (applause from the audience)

SIMOM COWELL: Good one, Ryan. (eyeroll)

RYAN SEACREST: How about a little constructive criticism for Rambo, so he can do better next week, instead of just putting him down.

SIMON COWELL: Ok, listen, Rambo, you're what? A huge, muscular Vietnam vet with a mullet and a tattered shirt? And you're - you're out here singing a Bonnie Tyler song. It's like oil and vinegar. America wants a performer who knows who they are. You're trying too hard to be something you're not. Pick a better song. Work toward your strengths, not against them. Maybe Mellencamp or something, I don't know. Bob Seger? And for godssakes, do something with that hair. Ugh.

RAMBO: Thanks, I'll use that. Thanks, everyone.

Tuesday, March 21, 2006


On a scale of one to D'oh!, to what degree do you regret your decision?


Often I lament the fact that it is not entirely acceptable in our culture to go on walkabout. Recently, and increasingly, I have had to fight the urge to get up from my desk and walk out of my office, never to return. Perhaps even more distressing to my employers or my future therapist is that I don't simply wish to walk out the front door of the large steel and glass building in the heart of Corporate City in which I find myself gloomily trudging into most mornings, but rather that I wish to continue walking for a very, very long time. Think of Harry Dean Stanton in Paris, Texas. Dude just walked to Mexico and didn't come back for five years. I like that kind of moxie. Nevermind the moral repercussions of such an act; I don't have a small child or a wife I regularly beat, so the only people that would worry about me would be non-dependents, family and friends and so forth. Their fears would surely be assuaged by the eventual postcard, postmarked from Belize or some such place, "Craig here. Didn't die. See you when I get back."

Aboriginal cultures knew the importance of walkabout. A rite of passage, a crucible, a forging in the primeval fires of survival and solitude, it was the ultimate test, a test that asked, "do you deserve to be alive?" Today we have the SAT's which ask, slightly more sarcastically, "are you as smart as your parents hope you are?" Sure, you may know how to divine the arcsin of an unknown angle, but do you know how to filet a box turtle? Could you create a net made from twigs and branches and the pulpy bark of a birch tree to catch fish in a stream? More importantly, would you know how to find a stream? An underground current?

I guess what I'm trying to say is that it saddens and angers me to know that it is more important to have a solid resume with impressive references than it is to walk into a future employer, stand with stiff back, and exclaim, "I have sifted through the scat of muskrats and I can tell you that they do not prefer berries to minnows." It shouldn't matter that the position for which I am applying (and for which I have no applicable credentials) is Aerospace Engineer or Federal Food Safety Inspector - it should be impressive enough that I am the kind of person who has taken it upon himself to realize both the brutal harshness of the natural world and the impossible miracle of our existence. I may not know what constitutes "drag" or "lift", but I do know that I have watched swallows fly in swarms among the endless plains of the Peruvian lowlands and have killed a great many of them through the art of slingshot. This, I believe, would give me some legitamacy in talking about matters of flight. Of course, I highly doubt that NASA would see it that way, and that is exactly why this world is doomed for failure. We've screwed the pooch.

They say that Modernism is an endless march into the future. I say, "go back." It's not that hard. We'll start with walkabouts, and I'll be the first to go. If it works, and I come back alive, I will share my knowledge with you. I will also share the tanned hides of jackrabbits and water bladders I've constructed from the organs of South American antelopes. If I perish, then remember me not as the idealistic young fool that "the world" will attempt to paint me as, but as the first pioneer venturing into a new wilderness: the wilderness of our own souls.

Monday, March 20, 2006


I'm not saying she's a gold digger.

I AM saying that I've never seen her with no broke ass nigger.

How you took that to mean that I think she is a gold digger, well, I'll leave that up to you to decide. Issues much?

I guess my point is that just because I've never seen her with no broke ass nigger, I am in no way implying that I think she is a gold digger. And, to be honest, I think it's kind of fucked up that you do.

Here's a little experiment, you ready? Ok, um, well, how about this - I've never seen your mom eat a sandwich. Does that mean I think she's anorexic? No, it just means that I've never seen your mom eat a sandwich. To be honest, I've never met your mother at all, but that's beside the point. The point is, you have a tendency to take something that I say and then extrapolate those words into something that you hope or are inclined to believe, regardless of whether or not that perspective is based in fact, in some pathetic attempt to make me look petty or judgmental. Well, it's not going to work.

So, to sum, I have personally never seen with no broke ass nigger.

However: I ain't saying she's a gold digger.

Stop putting words in my mouth.


Unable to fall asleep, feverish, hot and then cold, clammy; all the while I was thinking to myself, "I have ruined my life, I have missed my calling, I will never find happiness - for I should have been a college basketball coach."

Thursday, March 16, 2006


Symbolized the discontent and fragmentation of America in the 1970's.

Who, in today's dystopian social climate, best exemplifies the American pysche?

The correct answer is House, MD.

Like Rambo, but not strong, not a war veteran, and not insane. But other than that, just like Rambo.

Wednesday, March 15, 2006


I told my roommate that I was going to buy Chipotle when it got down below $42 or so. Well, two days ago it was around $41.

I blew my chance. Damn you, you quick and delicious Mexican food chain!

Tuesday, March 14, 2006


This, I believe. By The American Mastodon.

I believe that one day, in the near future, a nuclear bomb or massive earthquake will destroy large parts of Los Angeles. I believe that when this happens, the greatest danger will not be radiation poisoning, broken infrastructure, or aftershocks; rather, it will be my fellow man. I believe that I have a sound plan for escaping the city, which I will outline below.

First of all, when the bomb goes off, or the ground shakes and the wooden houses built on hillsides buckle and slide into the hundreds of canyons north of the city, I won't panic. While the people around me scream, hurriedly pull out their cell phones (which will be inoperable) to call loved ones, and run for their cars, I'll be calm; relaxed. If one were able to witness me, moments after the disaster, they would see a man of resolute determination and utter calm, whispering softly to himself - It's go time.

The first thing I would do is grab a bag that would fit nicely on my back, or could be slung over a shoulder, and large enough to store a comfortable number of foodstuffs and necessities. I would head to the nearest grocer and loot the shit out of the place. That is, if it were closed. If it were still open, I would obviously pay for the various items needed after a large-scale disaster: water, granola bars, dried fruit, canned meat, ibuprofen: these sorts of things. If it weren't open, I would have little recourse but to throw a rock or some sort of large, heavy object through the storefront window and find for myself the necessary items, which I would place in my bag.

The next thing I would do is steal a bike. I would hope to find one in the various alleys in Santa Monica, where I live. If I could not, I would resort to finding a person on a bike, flagging them down, and jumping them; wrestling them or pushing them off of their bike and riding off quickly. Ultimately, there is a bike shop nearby and I would make my way there and steal a bike if I could not find one by other means. The search for a quality bike would be, at this early stage, my most important objective, for having a bike is the most assured way of exiting the city quickly. You may naturally ask, "why not just get a bike now?" but that is a really silly question, because what if the bomb goes off while I'm having lunch somewhere? Or if I'm playing basketball in a park? The fact of the matter is that I must be prepared to loot food and steal a bike in the event of a large scale disaster, and I am. This I believe.

Many people will be trying to leave the city by car, which is pure folly. First of all, good luck traveling east - that is either where the bomb has been detonated or where the most damage has been done by the earthquake. That leaves escape routes to the north and to the south. Going south is perilous, because the Long Beach harbor could easily be attacked (or was the source of the original nuclear attack), and various brown people live south of the city. Though I appreciate their hip-hop music and delicious Mexican dinners, they are not the kind of people that you want coming up to your parked car as it sits in the middle of miles of standing traffic on the 405. Going north is a safer bet, but the fact remains: every person in LA has a car and every person will be in one going north. This does not bode well for expedient travel time. Gas stations, one has to assume, will be inoperable, and cars that run out of gas will have to be pushed out of roadways in order for more mobile cars to pass. Do you see where I'm going with this? I will average 10 mph on my bike, while the people in cars will sit in their minivans and Acuras, freaking out because 2 million people are trying to get to Simi Valley by way of Sherman Oaks.

And as they sit in their cars, frightened for their futures and the future of America, I will be on (someone's) bike making my way up the PCH toward Malibu and beyond. If I notice something particulary nefarious (say, an invading Chinese Navy), then I will work my way inland through the canyons of Topanga. Once I get north of Pacific Palisades, I won't be overly worried. Sure, the PCH will be a parking lot, but I'll be flying by them on my bike. I may even use the beach bike path. I'll just play it by ear, you know? It is also possible that frustrated motorists will attempt to jump me on my newly acquired bike. I'm not sure what to do about this fact, but I may have to take back roads, or I may have to purchase a gun. I'm leaning toward the gun idea.

Ultimately, once I'm out of immediate harm, the objective is to make it to Oxnard. Once there, refugee camps should be set up and I'll be able to contemplate how best to return to the city, if ever.

I could go into greater detail and outline a specific route that will get me to the PCH (Sunset seems the safest bet at this point), but suffice it say that revealing any more will only show you my hand, and when the time comes, assholes, it's not about us against them. It's about you against me.

This I believe.

Monday, March 13, 2006


Like Mayberry, only in the Midwest, and labotomized.


Friday, March 10, 2006


Have you at least remembered how to laugh?

I said laugh, damn you!


I always knew that that damn site was un-American, insiduous, and the eventual ruin of modern civilization.

Remember when kids used to play around in the out-of-doors, catching insects and turtles in the pale sunset of a summer evening, returning home to a freshly made meal and a tall glass of lemonade? I do, goddamnit. Now we got the internet - halle-freaking-lujah - and with it, pornography, terrorism, and pederasts. If you listen closely, you can hear the dying sound of the American spirit. Thanks-a-fricking-lot, Al Gore.

After relying heavily on fixed — and thus vulnerable — Web sites until early 2002, al Qaeda quickly switched to hiding its online operations within more legitimate bulletin boards and Internet sites offering free upload services or connecting through such popular social network sites as Orkut and MySpace.

Thursday, March 09, 2006

Wednesday, March 08, 2006


We want a pitcher, not a baby killer! Go Cards!


Or anything, but I remember a time when queers were laughed at, blacks were enslaved, and goddamned lobsters looked like goddamned lobsters.

Sometimes it's hard for me to get up in the morning, knowing how much the world has changed.

God's idea of a damned joke or something.

Tuesday, March 07, 2006

Monday, March 06, 2006


I go on Friendster and start looking around, I get unfathomably depressed.

Does that happen with anyone else?


I was on a plane yesterday night playing chess with Phil Keoghan's daughter, so I didn't get to see the Oscars.

The question now becomes which is a less reputable-sounding title: Oscar-winner or Grammy-winner?

Friday, March 03, 2006


The new Domino's Pizza Jesus Town in Florida reminds me a lot of turn of the century Winona Lake.

I wonder if Billy Sumday will be invited to set up a Tabernacle?


In flossing my teeth.

Thursday, March 02, 2006


Is the most overrated band of all time. I provide as evidence their last three albums.

Rod Stewart is grossly underrated. I provide as evidence "Maggie May."

REM is almost perfectly accurately regarded, and are neither underrated or overrated. I provide as evidence "You are the Everything," from their completely reasonably well-received album, "Green."