This blog needs a better title

Haven't posted in a while...

2011-03-11T19:04:00.000-08:00

...and I know I don't have sufficient readership for it to matter all that much, haha.

But I've been busy.

Been writing a lot. I'm on the home stretch on finishing my first novel. It's hard to wrap up, I'm finding, in part because I love this story and it was literally designed to go on forever. So it's hard to choose an acceptable closing point. As the book is over 130,000 words long — which comes to roughly 450 pages, quite long for a first novel — I've had to do a lot of figuring to get things wrapped up. But even so I'm nearly there, and I'm confident I'll find a publisher quite rapidly.

I had a birthday last week, and one of my friends pulled together an amazing birthday party. I don't get these things very often — it just seems ostentatious to ask people to come to one's own birthday — and I was shocked, awed and above all, humbled by how many people showed up, or said they wished they could only it was too short notice.

I continue to be a total social maladroit, although I think I'm getting better at spotting the cues I miss. There's one in particular I hope I don't miss again: Twice now, a girl has seen me going to the coffee shop near work, and lingered outside until I came out. Both times, it didn't even occur to me that they lingered in hopes of engaging me in conversation.

All of these things, of course, do tie into one another. I've never been comfortable calling myself a geek or a nerd (even now, when it's pretty much entirely acceptable to so identify), because the only thing I geek out over is my own creation, the stories and universes I make. I simply can't work up the same level of enthusiasm for the worlds others create.

I know it sounds bad when I say it that way, but on the other hand, it's what makes me a writer and an artist instead of just a consumer of art.

Anyway, point is: I've spent so much time in my own universes that I never did quite learn the rules of the one I actually live in, and especially socially. And I have to admit, I honestly didn't realize how many people I've somehow endeared myself to. By the same token, I miss the hints girls drop, I misunderstand the lingering gazes (do I have something on my face?) and explain away the smiles and flirts.

Sure, some of this is a self-esteem thing — hard to be pudgy in a world populated by skeletal beauties without occasionally berating the spare tire — but that's also too easy an answer, and it hides the larger problem. Which is that somehow I missed the nuances of interpersonal interaction that facilitate relationships. Probably because I was off playing superheroes when they had that class.

So unaware, my attempts couldn't be suave enough, missing as they did the expected mark. Some called me creepy for that, and other things as hurtful. The misunderstandings and scorn acted upon the self-loathing and angst in an endless recursive roil of festering emotion.

And then I grew out of it.

I still don't know all the rules, and I still miss the cues. But I waste no time on self-abasement (haven't for some years), and people know me as a happy fellow, if snarky. And I decided, on my birthday, to get out more. To engage more often, to take a remedial class in human interaction, as it were. And not stop working at it because I've failed before and will fail again.

Not just because I want what so many do — a loving spouse, offspring, tax breaks — but because it's well past time I let myself geek out over the real world, too.

What I mean by "victim" and why I disagree

2010-11-25T09:01:00.000-08:00

I keep running afoul of people who are touchy on the subject of racism. Also sexism. Also several other "-isms" (forms of discrimination).

In fairness, I have to at least consider the problem might be with me. Or it might be that there is a "victim" mentality at work.

Those who have followed/known me for a while, likely you've heard me talk about this subject before, but this is a slightly different tack on the matter. In the interests of brevity, I'm keeping it very simple.

Here's how I see it: When a person has a bad experience (whatever that is), there are two basic things they can do. They can get over it, or they can stick on it.

Some people stick on things. They can't or won't get past bad experiences, and from my observation, the common denominator of those is, they feel like they were victimized, their power, ability, survival potential stripped from them, and woe is them.

Those not totally caved-in by the bad experience often become crusaders, and some of them have done some pretty cool things, to prevent the bad thing from happening to others.

But here's where it starts getting hinky for me: Caved or not, these types of people typically start viewing their whole world through the lens of this bad thing. They identify themselves as a "_______ survivor", for example. This bad thing has become a defining moment for that person -- how they define themselves, how they define the world. Everything becomes identified with the bad thing.

This is not always correct. Identification of dissimilar things is a hallmark of insanity, actually. Let's put that in other terms: If you think apples and oranges are the same type of fruit, that's nuts. We can agree on that, right. So how sane is a person who thinks everyone is racist? Or how about the people I know who think anything a man says is automatically suspect, because it came from a man. It doesn't matter which man, it doesn't matter what he's actually saying, or how he actually comports himself, or anything. He's a man, so can't be trusted.

I call this a "reverse -ism". It's not really reversed at all; it's still sexist, racist, etc. but it's from the viewpoint of a victim. And because they're the victim, it's "not really" racist (etc.), because they know what racism is. Well, being discriminated against, believe it or not, doesn't give license to discriminate.

My impatience with these people is fairly well known, and it stems from the fact that discrimination bothers me. I don't think it's right. It bothers me that there are people being victimized by these things. It really bugs me when such a person turns that into a justification for doing the same thing to others (if perhaps on a different scale). It bugs me when someone picks a bad experience for their defining moments.

I know that people don't always get to decide what happens to them in their lives. But I also know that like it or not, they do get to decide what to do about it. You can heal, or you can carry your pain around with you for the rest of your life and use it to bludgeon other people.

Whenever this subject comes up, inevitably someone tries an ad hominem attack, implies or states outright that because I'm male, white, etc., I can't possibly know what I'm talking about; some will even tell me I don't have a right to have this opinion about it. And right there, you have a perfect example of a reverse -ism. Because I've been discriminated against, for those same reasons, and more! I've been discriminated against because of my religion. And because I've been overweight at various points in my life. And because I'm hard of hearing. My nationality. My ancestry. My appearance or fashion sense. And sometimes just because I was there.

I've had bad experiences. I don't call myself a "divorce survivor", even though that was an enormously traumatic time. And that's only one example, not even the most major. Point is, I don't define myself by my failures, or my failings. Closest I'll come to it is the hard of hearing thing, and even then it's not like I join the society of HOH people or something. It's just something people need to know so they don't get upset with me for not hearing them.

So take your ad hominem and shove it.

I prefer to define myself through positive things. I prefer to see the world as clearly as I can, as objectively as possible and as now as possible.

I don't care what kind of body you're wearing. Or how old it is. Or how damaged or defective it might be. I don't care what kind of genitalia you prefer. I don't care what god you worship, or even whether you worship a god. What matters to me is what you do — right here, right now. To me, this is the only reasonable action.

I could go on — I could always go on — but here's where I'll stop.

And for a significantly longer and more exasperated take on this, my blog specifically about racism.

Hey Kids, Comics!

2010-09-12T18:43:00.000-07:00

I'm going to start posting my comics here when I do them. I suppose I could go back and add them ALL in, but that's more effort than I feel like going into just now, so you just get the most recent two.

Enjoy!

Sure hope they display large enough to be readable. I suppose this will be a test...

Change

2010-08-09T20:58:00.001-07:00

The more things change, the French say, the more things stay the same.

I used to live and work in Hollywood (1994-2005); it was a strange area to finish growing up in, so close to the cultural pulse yet removed and buffered by the very fact of locality. A local in Hollywood becomes a part of the scenery, a dash of color, an extension of the wild mélange that typifies the storied Boulevard.

Hollywood Boulevard in the mid-90s was a dirty and faded clapboard and sandstone alley. The façades were worn, shabby; the storefronts sagged -- yes, the boulevard was an aging prostitute, used up and haggard before her time, surviving on the sepia remnants of glamour. The shops lining the mica-flecked black sidewalks were a clash of tourist traps and attractions; cheap eateries; cheaper clothing stories. Fetishwear emporiums and head shops filled the cracks, battling stereos forcing an aural slash featuring Reznor and Marley. The fitful breezes carried leaflets and flyers for Star Maps and escort services.

Venerable structures from the former half of the century reared above the rotting stucco and plywood blocks, pressed into service as musty warehouses, their once grand, marbled entrances marred by plaster and listless, sloppy paint jobs.

You could feel the ghosts in the town; you could taste the tired desperation in the air; it had seeped into the streets and buildings like a febrile sweat; it had been there a long time. Maybe it had always been there.

Only in Hollywood could the homeless themselves become celebrities.

Around the turn of the millennium, a lot of effort, time and money was injected into the old broad; the rehabilitation of Hollywood was undertaken. She got a facelift starting essentially with the reconstruction of the Mann's (now "Graumann's") Chinese Theatre and the addition of a high-end open-air mall adjacent. The bums were liposuctioned away; clubs and class were Botoxed in.

The changes were dramatic, and being as I was in the middle of it, sometimes even participating directly, it was easy to be blinded by the new gloss -- and in those, the sun-blasted days of my youth, optimism came easily.

Had occasion to return, yesterday. It'd been only a couple, three years since I'd last really walked around my old haunt. The improvements are still there, but so too were the same old maladies. The head shops and bondage outfits were still there -- and more besides; the hucksters still hucked and the homeless still jived. You could still get the same five shirts for ten dollars at twenty different "memoribilia" stories.

Sure, some changes -- like the mall, like the posh W Hotel on the east side -- they're too big, too fat and brassy, for a few years in the sinkhole to have any appreciable effect.

But Musso and Frank's lies fallow, the building become a mausoleum housing the shrouded remains of the near-century-gone glory days.

* * *

Change is an odd thing; you can slap on a coat of paint, you can put in a new building -- but unless the change comes from within, where it's least obvious -- you're just masking the symptoms, just smoothing pancake makeup over a black eye.

Change in people is far more subtle. And change in yourself is a constant battle against the expectations of others; the unexamined avatar they hold of you is rarely altered even when you haven't been that person for a long time.

Because of course you are still that person, in a way you always will be, just as I'm still the gangling, spotty teenager who never did wear the right clothes and still loved Nirvana even when everyone else was all about NIN and the Butthole Surfers. (As I wrote this, Pepper came up on my playlist.)

In another way, though, I'm not. I'm much calmer, by far less angsty; I have changed in many ways that it's hard to see from the outside. You can't look at me and know my memory is better, that my perceptions have shifted, that now I know things.

Some of it's because it's hard to change with you watching. It's too easy to let the avatar do the work.

Drive Redux

2010-05-30T02:11:00.000-07:00

Or, "How did I not post this before?"

I wrote this a while back. It remains one of my favorite works (if it's not too early or pompous to consider any writing of mine a "work").

It was originally written as a MySpace blog, but all things considered, I elected to store it. In some ways, it's perhaps not so true as it was. In others, more true than ever.

* * *

Drive

Went for a drive today. There was no destination, no plan; only the path of least resistance.

Up in the hills, following narrow, winding roads lined by expensive houses. Few people were visible. Just the houses and cars.

Out of the hills and heading south; the sun hot through the windscreen, wind cool through open window.

It's been a long time since I've visited Laguna Beach. The last time I'd had company. Today I am alone.

More narrow, winding roads, more opulent houses staking precarious claim to treacherous land. As in the hills, follow any of these roads long enough, you hit a cul-de-sac. In the hills there'd be enough room to simply turn around. On the cliffs of Laguna Beach, you can barely manage to twist your way out by a six- or eight-point turn.

The radio doesn't work well out here, the cliffs block the signal. So the drive continues in silence.

There's a girl walking a dog. She's a little pudgy, no SoCal goddess of human perfection here, right? Except. Her skin is a lustrous bronze and her hair only a shade darker. Her walk is kinesthetic poetry. Watching her cross the street: her face is pleasant, her lips slightly curved upward even at rest. The lips of someone who smiles a lot.

I want to roll down the window and shout after her, tell her she's beautiful.

Instead I drive away.

If no one hears me, did I shout? If no one sees me, am I there?

Anonymity, invisibility: a siren song. To leave it all behind, to float unattached through the world of real people, to observe everything and participate in nothing...

I drive, and there is no thought, no emotion. I'm going down streets alone I once strode holding hands with someone. The thought, that once would have torn at me, causes no pangs. I feel nothing. It's just data. Am I empty and numb, or simply untethered?

I don't know, and the thought drifts away unanswered.

The past isn't important. I'm not important. I don't think. I don't exist, as I've existed: a shambling composite of all I've seen and done. Something's changed.

The road unspools like a black and yellow ribbon, the broken line of the divider passing under me like the ticks of seconds and minutes pass through me. The radio's still off, the only sound is the kiss of my wheels on the road and the twin roars of wind and engine.

There is nothing behind me in time or in space. There is barely a me. There is only the road, only the sun and sky and the wind that whips my hair around my ears.

* * *

Yesterday I went to a nearby open-air mall.

I sat outside on a cold concrete bench, and smoked a cigarette, and watched as the peoples of Earth passed before me.

Young, old. Quiet, loud. Male, female. Healthy, sick. Straight, gay. Beautiful, hideous. Sit there long enough, and you'll see every race represented, you'll see blacks and whites and Asians and Indians and Hispanics. Sit there long enough, you'll see every tribe: preppies, goths, punks, jocks, wiggers, cowboys. The devout and the profane, the indigent and the wealthy.

There was only one common denominator.

No one was there alone.

Except me.

It should make me sad, but somehow it doesn't.

I'm a social loner. There was never a time it was any different. Sometimes it was less obvious than others, sometimes I wedged my square self into the round holes life presented me, but I don't fit. I never have, and I don't expect I ever will.

I used to wish I wasn't invisible, railed against being cast as the outsider looking in, to perpetually being alone in the crowds. I used to think I needed someone to see me, to hear me, for me to be real.

I thought I needed to be real to be happy. So I held tight to those rare moments where it seemed I was real to someone. I guarded them jealously and I quaked with fear of losing them. And when inevitably I did lose them, I went through a withdrawal no less fierce than from any other addiction.

* * *

My mother becomes a completely different person when she's around her sister, her best friend, her daughter. It's like any rises in ambient estrogen turns her ears off and her mouth permanently on.

When my sister visited, the entire visit was endless demands for attention, nonstop meaningless chatter and constant motion. And that was after my mother's best friend had already been there a few days.

I think I got sick in self-defense.

That got me some distance, gave me an excuse for being quiet. It let me watch as the three women twittered and cawed for all the world like a trio of birds, making noises that didn't mean anything, just to prove to themselves and everyone else that they're alive, that they're there, that they're real.

It would have been fine, but none of them were really being themselves.

It was a relief when everyone went home. When I could stop pretending to be real, when I could slip back into the gray where no one sees me.

* * *

I used to think my importance depended on the attention I got from others.

I used to think I needed that attention, that I had to do things, big things, important things, so people would look at me, would listen to me, so I could be real.

I used to wish I was someone else. Someone who was good at getting attention.

But it's dawned on me over the past few days: I am not that tree in the woods. I am myself regardless of whether I'm observed. I don't need other people to tell me I'm real.

My identity isn't what they think it is. It just is.

All the pain I've felt in my life, it's been from trying to be someone I'm not.

I want to accomplish things, yes. But not so I can be important, not for the attention I so used to crave.

It's for them. From my coign of vantage, looking in from the fringe, I see more clearly. I see what they cannot. I can tell them what I see. The lone wolf, watching out for the sheep?

There's no reason to compromise the integrity of my beingness. There's no reason to pretend, no need to force my way inside.

I'm not real because they see me.

I'm real because I see them.

In which I analyze the irrational appeal of Twilight

2010-05-15T21:04:00.000-07:00

Ok so I'm writing this because I keep getting my head bit off by older women who loooooove Twilight.

DISCLAIMER: No, haven't read the books or watched the movies. I am emphatically not the target demographic (about which, more later). EDIT - But I have read essentially the Cliff's Notes so I know what happens in these books.

I don't think I know a single person who isn't aware of the Twilight phenomenon. It's like Pottermania for a slightly older crowd (teens and tweens) and a hefty dose of sexuality and hormone-drenched hand-wringing. Actually in terms of sheer fanaticism, Cullen leaves Potter in the dust.

I'm not going to make further comparisons to the respective franchises, because I don't think there's any other way they can properly relate.

From what I can tell, the target demographic was apparently clumsy, plain tweener drama queens -- based on the putative heroine of the books. Swell. Except their moms got into the books as well and this is where I actually start getting really disturbed.

If 40-year-old men went as batshit gaga over a 17-year-old girl, they would be thrown in jail and registered as sex offenders faster than you can say "Megan's Law". In fact, this has already happened. Now granted, that dude is clearly disturbed. *ahem*

Realizing this actually leads me to believe that the liking of Twilight is a cultural thing rather than a simple, inescapable matter of genitalia and chemicals.

Before I get into that, I'd like to float my theory of why Twimoms are so damned defensive about their Robsession: It's because they damned well know it's wrong, it's a double-standard AT BEST and the stories themselves are reprehensible. Based on my encounters, I honestly wonder if they've intelligence sufficient to properly deal with the "guilty pleasure" concept, so instead they invent reasons why the franchise is "wonderful" and "lovely" and why they attack naysayers all out of proportion to the disagreement.

HOWEVER, the people I know who actually are pretty damned smart yet love Twilight, are quite self-aware and entirely comfortable with the fact that it's messed up; they can take criticism of Twilight without it becoming personal.

Anyway. Here's the thing, and I know this might get up peoples' noses a bit. Also it may not be true for everyone. Hell, it might not be true for ANYONE. But as a theory, I think it hangs together pretty well. Here it is:

These women resent their emancipation and wish for the lives their predecessors had. Only they don't wanna admit it because then they'd have to admit they were wrong.*

Cultures change slowly, and it really hasn't been long enough for Women's Lib to have caught on. They're still working out the kinks (as seen in the continuing battle for equal pay for equal work, for example).

Before the '60s, the hats worn by the sexes were pretty clear and straightforward. Women worked until they landed a husband, then they became homemakers and had the care of future generations.

Within the last hundred years, women started calling bullshit (probably because the men's egos were getting big enough to form their own gravity well) and kicking back.

You all know this. But okay look: Women never really turned over their hat as homemakers and child-rearers. Nor can they, frankly - not entirely - men being physically incapable of giving birth. Don't look at me like that - pumping out progeny is where that shit starts.

So ladykind has had to not only continue wearing the hats they've had yea these endless milennia, but now also have to compete with men on more or less the same playing field. That's pretty amazing, when you think about it. I'm willing to bet most men wouldn't choose to step up to that plate short of death or desertion. So if you're thinking I'm a condescending sexist asshole - um. No.

Point is, that's a pretty rough row to hoe, and I for one don't blame 'em for sighing after simpler times.

Back when "all" women had to do was secure the future of the human race, they weren't required to be anything but what they were. They could be silly, clumsy, plain - it didn't matter as long as they could do a reasonable job in the kitchen, with the kids, and when the lights went out. Their apparently small sphere meant such things were not only forgivable but endearing.

But out in the man's world, the world of business and labor, well. Women have to let out their inner bitch, because that world is dog-eat-dog. It's how men like it (because damn it, it's manly) and they made it that way. I daresay it's not quite what they hoped for, those women of the burning bra.

So here comes a series of books about a plain, clumsy dorkgirl who, near as I can tell, wants nothing more than to find a dude who will run the show so she can chill out with her weird little Ridley Scott chest-burster baby.

The dude in question is a complete asshole by all accounts, which is perfect because assholes thrive in the business world. So, y'know. Good provider. And if he smacks you around, it's only because he loves you. Or something.

From a guy's perspective on all this, though, the first question that comes to mind when faced with Twilight is, "How the hell is it right for a 100+-year-old dude to go trolling a high school for pussy?"

* I just want to make clear that it's not that I don't think women can compete with men (because of course they can), and I cast no judgements over whether they should. My entire point here is that our society has not had enough time to get used to the idea or its proper execution. And particularly for women of a certain age, there's likely a certain amount of culture shock.

How not to be lonely when you're alone

2010-03-21T14:59:00.000-07:00

or: Solitary Entertainment Doesn't HAVE to be Private (wait, that sounds messed up)

Let me preface this by saying this is not a play for sympathy or any shit like that. This is how it is. I'm used to it, even cool with it. Relax. Being self-aware is a GOOD thing.

I'm apparently not the kind of dude people necessarily want around all the time. I don't know WHY. Maybe dealing with a deaf dude is a pain. Maybe I have a subtle yet disagreeable odor. Maybe I'm funny-looking. Social niceties being what they are, no one tells me. I do have a tendency toward deep thoughts, esoteric insights and unrestricted (often probably completely inappropriate) communication. I can see how this could be offputting and preferable in small doses. (Or maybe it's my self-deprecating humor. In which case I'm really going for full pariah with this blog. *grin*)

Point is, I'm on my own a lot. I used to think this made me a loner, but I actually do like talking to people, exploring, and generally being social. You don't devote over a decade of your life to helping your fellow man without caring a great deal about them. So: Being social + not having company. You know the answer to this equation.

Loneliness is a problem I guess a lot of people have, and each solves it their own way (or they don't, and that way lies madness). Given that a dear friend is currently dealing with a species of this, and that I just LOVE to write about shit anyway, I thought I'd share my personal anodyne. It's not perfect, but I think it's reasonably interesting (yes, I'm aware of the bloated ego. I bitchslap myself regularly to keep it down. Again, relax).

It all boils down to getting out of your own head. Loneliness is the ugly, inbred cousin of boredom. Below are some suggestions. Some may seem best suited to those whose social ineptitude borders on tragic, but hey. Maybe one of those guys will read this and be helped. Or maybe you just never thought of it yourself.

1) Explore: This is one of my favorite things to do. I'll find a part of town that seems interesting and spend hours (if not days), wandering its streets. I'm fortunate perhaps that I live in, you know, one of the biggest cities in the country, so I've lots of places to go. But whatever. I'm willing to bet most people don't venture very far off the beaten track. This is about doing so. Thus:

1a) Take the road not travelled. This is, naturally, provided it is safe for you to do so, but while exploring, try going the back way. Walk the alleys and side streets; seek out the nooks and crannies. This is where the fringe often lives, and the fringe is a lot more interesting (if sometimes a little scary) than the homogenized morass of boutique stores and franchise eateries. It's also quite literally behind the facade. There are insights to be had, if you chose to look. The unbeaten path is where you find the hidden gems; gems make you richer.

2) Talk to people. You're gonna have to use your head on this one. Not everyone can or should be spoken to. That smelly dude with needle tracks who is currently barking at traffic is probably not your best bet. But even clean-cut, good-looking people can be off their nut. They hide it better, but they're certifiable. Watch out for those ones. Especially if you're a dude and there is a pretty girl involved. If you are yourself a pretty girl - well, you've gotta watch yourself for entirely different but no less important reasons.

I think the common denominator of "who to talk to" is how connected they are. How in synch they are, how aware of their environment at that particular moment. If they're distracted or busy, no bueno. But if they're alert and looking around, if they are smiling or generally cheerful looking, chances are they'll be amenable to conversation.

But don't go around with blinders. Remember the fringe. One of the coolest people I met yesterday pretty much lives on the street. But it's by choice; he felt alienated by society so he decided to have minimal part in it.

Talk to people who are trying to solicit money for causes. You don't have to give 'em any. But learn about their cause, about their reasons for endorsing it. Find out what it's about. You'd be surprised what you can learn. It's not always all rainbows and puppies, but you can pull out of that conversation anytime you want.

You don't have to agree with these people, on anything; that's not even the point. The point is to get out of your comfort zone and to meet people. You're not even out there to make lifelong friends (although if you do, great; I've made some friends that way); this is an exercise in immersion. Its purpose is to dispel loneliness, remember.

Bonus Fun Fact: People with pets (usually dogs) are almost always totally willing to discuss their pet in detail. And let you pet the dog, which means you can also get some doggie-love. (No, not bestiality, you sick, sick reader.) Doggie-love makes everything a little brighter.

3) Sit and observe (people watch): I find this most useful (and fun) when I can tweet my observations. I tend to be fairly snarky about this, but it's also useful in training yourself to spot details. This is handy as an artist, but actually it's good in general. For instance, commenting on something you noticed about a person makes a great conversational springboard.

* Since it's generally frowned upon to compliment a strange girl on her breasts (eyes up there, boys), you're going to have to be a bit more observant. And circumspect. Question: How are tattoos like dogs? Answer: People with tats are almost always willing to talk about them. In detail.

Anyway, I digressed back to point 2. Here's an example of point 3 - my tweets from yesterday:

Yes. I have secured a tall, frosty beverage and an eminently suitable observation point. I shall now observe them in their natural habitat.

Naturally, by "them" I am referring to Pasadena passersby. #letthesnarkycommentarybegin

See the A&F-wearing douchebag, unable to muster such common courtesies as asking to sit at my table.

Does that girl know her shirt turns translucent in direct sunlight? #Idontthinkshedoes #iamSOnotcomplaining

Apropos of nothing, "Snark Fodder" is the name of my next band.

Those baby sling things kinda freak me out. They just don't seem SAFE. #idbeagooddaddy

Dude. You didn't need the gallons of ink, piercings, or earpucks to make people look at you. You're so BFU they'd do it anyway. #justsayin

Yes, "BFU" means butt-fuck ugly. #potcallingkettle #iknow

Ok - what the hell SEX are you, skinny hipster creature? Seriously, you've passed by 4 times and I still can't tell.

Oh man, do those guys realize they're MUCH too old to be fashionable? Even dbag "fashion"? Because ew.

I have outlasted the douchebag. Also the sextegenarian human beatbox wannabe. #iwin

Wow. The only way that dude could flame brighter would be rainbow rainment. #straighteyeforthequeerguy

Okay, that was enough "cleverness" outta me. Excuse me, I'm due for some of that bitchslappery, hang on a minute.

4) It's not just about people, you know: If my point 1a didn't make this clear, who's there is only part of the story. What's there is at least another half of it, and finding out why can be quite edifying. This is another aspect of getting out of your own head that I think people overlook.

There's no reason you're required to keep yourself company all the time (see, even I don't wanna hang out with me, lol). Hence the exploration, the roads untravelled. Go on a nature walk, go to an art show, or a museum, or a revival theatre. Don't just sit in a coffee shop near home and read or write (although that's okay in a pinch).

Any time you come across a restaurant or cafe, walk in and look around. Ask to see a menu. Doesn't matter if you're hungry or can even afford it. Just check it out, see what they've got. Check out the decor, the layout. Are the staff friendly and happy to work there? Are they haughty assholes? You can learn a lot about people by observing wait staff. If they're not busy, talk to them. Learn about the place, the food, whatever. If you are hungry, eat! You may uncover a great place to bring a friend later. Once you've, you know. Made some.

Or go into random stores and check out what they sell. Talk to the people who work there. This works best when it's not one of those franchise boutique places. I'm talking about the little shops with character; secondhand bookstores; ethnic places.

* That reminds me: If your city has a "Chinatown" or something like that - a whole "ethnic" area, some culture other than your own -- consider checking it out. If that area is considered "ghetto" or "dangerous", well first of all that's lame, and second of all, forget it. Better lonely than in trouble.

5) In the long run, none of this really replaces actually having friends and a group and all that good stuff. Obviously that's the true and complete cure for loneliness. And it's true that all of this stuff would be more fun with someone than on your own; but come on. In what world is nothing better than something? Not counting VD, smartass.

* * *

I think I've gone on long enough to be tiresome. But seriously - even if you're not particularly alone or lonely, even if you're the most socially connected person in the world: I recommend you do this every now and then. You don't even have to be alone when you do it. But regardless, you won't feel alone when you're done.

Mostly you'll feel tired from all that walking. *grin*

A weird feeling

2010-03-18T22:03:00.000-07:00

I just realized something tonight, and I have to admit it's sort of weirding me out.

See, if you know me at all, you know there's one thing that's pretty much a constant in my life: I'm almost always hung up over some girl.

And right now -- for the first time in a long time -- I really, truly don't have anyone on my radar. Not even looking at the damned thing, actually.

I mean shit, it's not unusual for me to be single -- ha! Being single, it would appear, is my default state! But there's generally someone I have an eye on, you know? Even if I'm being all unrequited or whatever.

Or I'm emotionally at war, my optimistic nature doing battle with the loneliness and angst that is the hallmark of singularity. My public face, I don't usually let that battle show -- and in truth, it's not that hard, being as I am kinda used to the state. But when I'm like that, I tend to be somewhat sour about other peoples' relationships, avoid reminders, that sort of thing. Or I'll throw myself into situations where I can at least maybe get laid.

But in the past few weeks, that whole aspect of my life has just gone away. In its place is a calm, almost zen feeling, this absence of worry, this lack of attention.

Not to say I don't still have an eye for the ladies -- shit, that'll never change -- but more than at any time in memory, it's an appreciation unmarred by want.

The only thing I can equate it to is that thing some people get, that almost smug assertion that "God has a plan for me". I've never liked that, because that kind of passivity frankly drives me bugshit. What about your plans, smug one?

Well. Now I think maybe I sort of understand. No, I don't think "God" has a plan for me, not in the sense of "God" that most would recognize. But without getting into the whole thing, let's just say I know I have a plan for me. And maybe I'm not fully aware of how it'll all play out, lacking as I do any conscious form of omniscience -- but I do know that the game is to have the best life possible.

I'm not the most aggressive person you'll ever meet. I'm not the guy forever hatching Machiavellian schemes to get through life.

But I do play to win.

One A.M.

2010-03-01T08:32:00.000-08:00

Awoke from thin and almost febrile dreams involving the smell of stale sweat and re-tweets of people who aren't even on Twitter.

Relieved myself by the dusky light of my toothbrush charger; went downstairs for water. The cold tiles left my feet feeling hot and prickly. In these wee hours I worry as one is wont to do; my leg has been mysteriously hurty lately and now this nerve confusion. In the darkness spectres loom, their names polysyllabic, faux-Latinate. Adult boogeymen, medical terms for poorly understood diseases one hears about on TV doctor dramas.

Got me wondering about cancer, I mean what is it really, what is the *deal* with all these little rogue cells? What are they doing and why is it so bad? And I have to wonder if the disease is actually evolution at work, our bodies attempting to adapt to this toxic world of ours, or even for trials aborning. These cells attempts to proof ourselves from that which is bad for the existing ones. Then cancer is our genetic lines' attempts to become supermen.

And I think well, it's probably not supposed to work that way; structural changes like that happen much earlier in the body's timeline: I.e. In the womb. But how does that make sense I wonder, when the great bulk of toxins will not be encountered until later? When new ones appear on a daily basis? Why wouldn't bodies be in a hurry to defend themselves in their own generation? Cells have no concept of time, why would they be patient?

Also if it is evolution, it's much too early to see real results; assuming it's a response to our industrial world, we've only HAD what, three or four generations, at most? And our genetic entities scramble to keep up with our burgeoning technology, and it kills us in the attempt. So far. But I rather suspect that for every batch of fails, there are some successes. And those are our future.

The failures we cut out because we value a single life more than the Great Genetic Experiment, more than the eventual racial survival. Not saying lives don't matter but on that broader scale maybe the insistence to preserve instead hinders; maybe our determination to solve what we in our short-term think are problems are the actual doom of our race, cutting across (as it does) the natural processes of adaptation, overcoming, survival of fittest.

No wonder I can't sleep, but at least I'm not worried about my leg anymore.

And now it's 2 a.m.

***

Fifteen minutes of tossing and turning, my thoughts tumbling into free verse. Like:

The hug he gave
His former lover
Was short but fierce.
Then he cupped her face
Twixt both hands
And kissed her forehead
Like a benediction
Then the nuclear fires consumed them.

And:

He wrote on the wall:
"We are the six billion shattered shards of God."
And wondered if he were going mad.
Not for what he wrote
But for writing it on the wall.

Sent from my Verizon Wireless BlackBerry

Some Random Shit

2010-02-27T21:17:00.000-08:00

When I was little, like around 3 or 4, people would frequently tell my mother (in my presence) that I would be a real heartbreaker someday.

I hated it when people said that. I didn't want to break anyone's heart. That would be MEAN. My wee self resented the implication that I would ever do such a thing.

So when I grew up, I grew to be the guy who doesn't break hearts, but also doesn't get to have relationships.

It's funny how shit works out.

* * *

Notes taken about a mall last week:

I wondered a bit if the high-end places like the Grove or the Americana [upscale, open-air malls] hurt the old indoor malls like the Galleria. Answer: no. It's just got older, become oddly duller. The clientele is at first glance poorer or at least lower-class and fringey. It's not that these people wouldn't be seen at the Grove or what have you; it's just they're more at home here.

Maybe my perspective has been skewed by my travels amongst the big livers (and/or wannabes), or maybe I'm just older and more jaded.

The old-school malls still have stores you don't see anywhere else, stores that can only survive in the rarified ecosystem of enclosed economics. Here franchise outlets like Mrs Fields and Sbarros, Sanrio Surprise and Swatch (Swatch! Seriously?!? There are that many people that nostalgic or ironic about the 80's?) survive if not thrive.

Amongst this seething bustle of melting-pot humanity, each willing to be parted with their money, it's hard to believe there's a recession on.

It's also hard to believe SHE's with HIM, I'm no worse a catch.

People don't change as much as we like to think. At least not in my lifespan. The trappings change but underneath we're the same now as we were in 1985. This mall could be swapped for the one I remember from my youth, in Canada, and you'd be hard-pressed to see the difference.

Also I can't find the arcade. I think maybe the Galleria doesn't have one.
Sent from my Verizon Wireless BlackBerry

* * *

Sometimes I wonder if I'm really as smart as I think I am. Given that I've been living in the outside world for five years and haven't parlayed my various talents into fame and fortune (or even an acceptably independent lifestyle), I don't think such doubts are entirely unreasonable.

Then I see a movie like Shutter Island, billed as a twisty-turny suspenseful thriller -- that I figured out the ending to, around about the halfway mark. I mean really; I missed a few details, but otherwise was pretty dead-on. Consequently I spent the whole second hour of the movie in a state of boredom.

Also, just a note on this film in particular: The camerawork and/or film editing annoyed the living SHIT out of me. I get they were trying to be arty or whatever, and in some cases I could totally tell what they were trying to do specifically for that scene. But it didn't work. It was actively distracting; the way camera angles changed (often unnaturally and unnecessarily) threw me out of the movie to such a degree I actually considered walking out.

Anyway... the friend I went with, who I consider a fairly bright person, was totally into the film, totally didn't see any of it coming, and was pretty much blown away by it. Which, you know, I'm happy for her.

But it sort of answers my question. At the very least, if I'm not smarter, my mind at least works the right way for movies and shit.

Incidentally the whole business of wondering about your own intelligence? It's documented fact that people who really are smart and capable tend to underestimate their abilities, while people who are just dumb as bricks think they're the living shit.

I find this information slightly disturbing. So does that mean I'm dumb for thinking I'm smart? You can see how easy it could be, to get into a vicious circle on that one. I choose not to dwell on it. I could be doing better things. Like figuring out ways to parlay my various skills and talents into fame and fortune, goddamn it!

The Big Fat Deal

2010-02-17T21:32:00.000-08:00

So unless you've been living under a rock, or just stay away from online news services, you've heard about the Southwest Airlines/Kevin Smith flap.

In a nutshell, he was asked to get off a full plane because he was considered (by the people on the ground dealing with him) that he was too fat for a single seat (which was all that was available) and so was a safety hazard.

Well, there's a lot been said about it and much of it by those involved, so I'm not going to hash any of that over again. Instead I'm going to talk about being fat.

It's something I know a little about, in that I've been on the "over" side of the weight debate for a large proportion of my life. Not by a HUGE amount (I was never morbidly obese), but enough that I surely wasn't the sexiest stud around. Enough that I'm somewhat familiar with the pains and humiliations of rotundity.

At the same time though, I do avoid the worst of it, the black (or awestruck) stares, the derogatory remarks, the general social ostracism from a culture that worships health and youth.

So being as I am pretty much in the middle, once again I'm in a position to moderate. Yay.

It seems like people treat being fat as something new. True, it's entirely possible that the Ballooning of America is reaching new heights, but historically speaking, girth is associated with wealth, and America pretty much defines "first-world country". In other words, despite the mammoth deficits and debts the country is in, it's still a rich country. And its citizenry do reflect that.

Now I guess some people are going to blame eating disorders and mental issues and all kinds of other stuff. Personally I consider these to be excuses. They're not the disease, they're symptoms.

I see this as a battle between economics and aesthetics. Also personal space, but that only applies to airplanes and buses.

But see, economically, it behooves the entire country to eat a lot. Because larger portions mean higher prices. Proper nutrition education is lacking, but so too are accessible and affordable healthy alternatives (which a dark corner of my mind wonders if these aren't deliberately so). Mostly though, people are in a hurry or are bored, and so they don't pay attention to what they eat. So maybe they didn't notice the portions growing bigger.

Bigger burgers and fries mean the ranchers and farmers can sell bigger herds and crops (going all the way to the far end of this particular chain). It's all a matter of keeping the highs high in terms of revenue streams. You don't want it to decrease or stay level; it needs to go up.

On the flip side of this is the popular artistic culture which promotes the hell out of beautiful, lithe young men and women who apparently lead lives of charm and grace (except when they don't), staying on the bleeding edge of fashion, gadgets, cars and sex partners. They show us the world we want, that we would give our collective and/or metaphorical left nuts to have.

Except of course, we're fat. We're also in debt. And aging, sometimes poorly. And we don't all have faces like those we see on screens all around us, and we don't all have personalities that inspire the interest and adulation of millions. (True, it's doubtful those pretty young things all do either. Just saying.) And most importantly, we don't have a team of writers to ensure that no matter what happens, we'll all be okay in the end, just before the credits roll.

But hey, we can forget about that for a bit with the help of a beer or six, or some chocolate ice cream. It's easier to do this, the perceived gain so much more immediate, than taking the real-world path to that heavenly life.

Because in the real world, true success doesn't come easy. The deck IS stacked against us, we the people, the washed or unwashed rabble. In the quest of the almighty dollar (and I'm being charitable as to objectives), economic structures were put in place decades ago that make debt and destitution inevitable to the unwary.

By the time we're old enough and hopefully wise enough to see it, we're already in the hole. And we're now too weak and tired to haul ourselves out.

I paint a grim picture, I know. But see, it's not that it HAS to be that way, merely that unless you're willing to work at it, from the cradle, yes, to the grave - it's the likeliest scenario. It's not enough to have talent, not enough to be a special snowflake.

But I digress.

Back to the whole business of being fat, and being discriminated against thereby. Well, I gotta say it: Fat people ain't pretty. And it's the nature of the human beast, that oddly enough, we don't want to be near things that aren't pretty.

Now, I'm not taking SIDES on this, or saying it's just or fair. But it's how it is. I mean shit, look at me. I know I'm an FLK. Were I fit, I'd probably be all right, but I'm not. So yes, it probably IS too much to ask that I have the prettiest girls, the ones who attract by the very rawness of their physical appeal. Because on bodies alone, my lack of physical aestheticism repels stronger than they attract me.

Now of course we all know that what really matters ain't looks. That's really not the point here. Because it's a lot harder to get the hotness inside if you can't bring yourself to get close enough to see.

Naturally, people who are themselves tubby, provided they have a realistic self-image, aren't gonna care so much. But to people who did take it upon themselves to work at being fit, who strove after those ideals and put in the effort - the tubbies harsh the buzz. It's like they're letting the team down, man. Here's me, they say, working hard in the gym, trying to stay young and hot so I'm at least not uglier than my environment, and I take that to the job too so I can afford the nice clothes and the baubles for my crack-model wannabe girlfriend, and so I can afford to get my teeth lasered and that, sir, is how I keep the economy going and isn't that so much better than being a fat slob and sweating on me?

Thing I've noticed though? With exception of those blessed with perfect metabolisms, the fit ones don't seem to think that great. Because all that running around and counting reps doesn't often leave much room for the higher order thinking that makes society worth living in.

Oh, nor do the bulbous ruminants, to be sure. Because they're hungry and usually thinking about dinner, or how horrible that man was to me when I was just walking past and the tremors I caused dumped his coffee in his lap.

And now you all know why I'm actually generally okay with being in the middle. See how I turned it around on myself? I'm a total attention whore sometimes.

No but seriously: No one's perfect. Not perfectly good nor perfectly bad, either. And no "way" is perfect for everyone, or in every facet. And every conflict I see, every Big Fat Deal someone makes, it seems to me that they always come out of forgetting the important detail that one day the problem will be you. So you'd at least better make sure today isn't that day.

A Window to My Character

2010-01-24T21:54:00.000-08:00

My heroes growing up were, in no particular order:

Sherlock Holmes

Robin Hood

Superman

James Bond

Leonardo Da Vinci

I recently realized that this actually offers a bit of insight to my character, personality and beingness. Because consciously or not, I've tried to be an amalgamation of these men. So now, because I know how fascinating I am, I'll break it down.

Sherlock Holmes: Hyper-observant, above-average intelligence; thinks before he acts, superior deductive skills. But also can be arrogant about his achievements and intellect. Haunted; prone to crutches, but not excuses.

Robin Hood: Willing to think outside the box to find solutions to problems. Also willing to face those problems, if not always head-on. Dedicated to helping others. Broad streak of romanticism. Issues with discrimination, abuse of power/authority.

Superman: Strong moral character and uncompromising code of ethics; recognizes that being more able carries with it the responsibility to channel that ability toward the common good. Generally quite selfless. Unassuming and quiet in his alter-ego. Would prefer to have others shine with him than be the brightest star, yet is perennially alone, apart -- alien.

James Bond: Suave, sharp, a ladies' man. Calm in the face of opposition or danger. Will stop at nothing to protect and serve.

Leonardo Da Vinci: Artist extrordinare. Also: Left-handed.

Now, I'm totally not saying I'm anywhere near the badass any of these men are/were. And I am most assuredly a much more cynical man these days. But the fact remains, I like to think I've done a pretty good job of it (even though I unfortunately seem to have retained the negative aspects of those personalities).

But yeah, anyway: Not trying to beat my own drum all over the place; it was just something I noticed and found interesting about myself.

The Weight

2010-01-23T23:38:00.000-08:00

I have had a rough day.

Here's a thought: I think men, as a rule, process emotional pain differently than girls do. See, girls, I think they "get" that shit better than men do (don't ask me why). Men know about it, sure, but it just does not compute. If you hurt, there should be some physical damage! Otherwise, where the hell does that pain come from? If nothing's physically wrong, it shouldn't stop you.

Maybe you should break something, then. Punch a wall or something, make your knuckles bleed. Then there's real, obvious pain. You can DO something about that.

I've have to ruthlessly suppress all such urges all. Day. Long. Not just suppress, but hide; bury. Deep.

It's sort of a joke amongst some of my friends, that I give my heart too easily, too quickly (although that's, ha ha, that's not how we describe it).

It's true I'm inclined to like people; that I'm oft willing to extend the hand of friendship as a default.

When it comes to love, though? Truth is, no. I mean yeah, I don't waste any fucking time with it when I meet someone I think would work. But I am very, very choosy about who I dare take chances with.

Apparently no less retarded, but yes. Choosy.

I almost let myself fall in love again late last year. That's what I tell myself, that it was "almost", because "almost" is easier to come back from, right? If you haven't fallen, you can catch yourself before you do, right?

Well I dunno. Maybe that's true, and maybe it isn't. Maybe I'd gotten away from myself when I wasn't looking.

All I really know is, it really hurt to find out that the girl who dumped me just a few months ago, got married last weekend. It wasn't just some schmoe, it's a dude she'd history with, who'd buggered off because -- never mind. None of my business, none of yours. Doesn't matter.

She's moving to Texas (entirely disrelated to the marriage thing). Today was the official sendoff. And although we didn't work out as a relationship, we've still kinda got something, and it behooved me to see her off. That's just how I do.

We started off with breakfast at Denny's. I noticed the ring on her left hand right after we'd ordered, and suddenly all appetite was gone. All the pieces that had been hovering in my mind slammed into place hard enough to set my ear ringing (literally). The mysterious Vegas trip. The photo of "the rose". The Facebook update about picking up so-and-so from the airport. The truth I'd been hiding from myself (as I do, oh yes; some truths are better snuck up on, if you can) was revealed, inescapable.

I wish I hadn't seen that ring. But it couldn't be unseen. Although I made no outward sign of anything wrong, I could only choke down a few bites of my meal. The whole day pretty much went like that; I'd be fine for a bit and then I'd see that fucking ring...

It shouldn't have hurt.

I had no claim on her, and no particular hope of getting back with her. And of course this was always going to happen at some point - this girl's ovaries were in full rumble. (Not to say she was a slut; it is to say she wanted kids. A lot.)

Shouldn't have hurt.

I can't be selfish in this, I wish them happiness and a wonderful life together. It's the least I can do.

When we got a moment alone (many hours later), I brought it up. Confirmed my deductions were right (they all were). I congratulated her. So very carefully, so calmly. I think, I hope, I hid that my guts were knotted and rebellious. Maybe she picked up on a little of it, don't know. But she does care about me, I know that. It isn't some "guilt" thing that she likes having me around and counts me as a close friend.

Somehow this makes it worse.

I'm not one for showing my pains to the world. Even this blog is far, far too revealing, too vulnerable and open - but it's gotta go somewhere and at least this way I don't have to face unloading on someone directly and making them deal with me when they likely have better things to do.

I have nothing to break.

On Racism

2010-01-12T20:18:00.000-08:00

I recently read an article wherein the author contended that everyone, everyone, is racist.

She further contends that being white automatically = having a life of comparative privilege.

And she still further contends that it's unlikely a white person can truly understand what it's like to be on the wrong side of racism.

To which I reply, unequivocally but with respect: Bullshit.

Now, I do realize I am currently a heterosexual white male in North America, which perhaps isn't exactly the right background upon which one would rightly base such a blanket refutual. Particularly, one could say, against this author, who is a "person of color".

Well, it's true that my own personal life experience has been a wonderful and idyllic dream compared to the travails and tragedies of the poor starving children in Africa. To say nothing of, for instance, those living in Watts in the 60s (I don't actually know what conditions are like there now, sorry). I'm not going to deny that, but I don't see any reason I should apologise for it, either.

That said, how about we deconstruct the second contention, about being white automatically inferring privilege.

It's an entirely racist comment (and to her credit, the author does not deny this), and patently untrue when taken on a global scale, to say nothing of a historic one.

I don't even need to Godwin this. How about people living in the former USSR? They're predominantly white. They had to put up with some pretty shitty conditions and the Eastern Bloc STILL isn't what I'd call a first-world zone. The disparity of living conditions between former-Soviet countries and America is still fairly stark; I'm pretty sure nearly everyone living in the USA has a MUCH better time of things than those guys. Regardless of color in either area.

How about this idea that I can't possibly understand what it's like to be discriminated against because of my skin color (just because I'm white)? Well, there are a number of things I can say to that; they can pretty much all be summed up as "Fuck you", but I realize this isn't a sufficiently cogent argument.

So: Firstly, I live in Los Angeles, California, and have for many years. And I've made my way around the block; around several, in fact. That I've remained relatively unscathed may in part have to do with my race, but I think it more has to do with the fact that I'm not stupid or suicidal; nor do I see any value in dick-swinging contests of any stripe.

Nonetheless, I have been discriminated against quite a number of times, for reasons including but not limited to skin color. I have had to deal with slurs based on my skin color, of hostility arising from it, regardless of my own personal actions, motivations or preferences. In other words, I've had to deal with racists. Did they stick a flaming cross in my front yard? No. But as I understand it, that sort of thing is passe these days, amongst the bigoted types.

Secondly, who the fuck are you, Miz Writer Person, to say what I can or do know? Are you suddenly telepathic on a globaland personal scale, can you read my deepest thoughts stretching back through my entire existence? By your own argument, you invalidate yourself. You say that not having experienced something, you can't know what it's like - but you yourself haven't experienced "not having experienced"; ergo how can you know what it's like to not have experienced something? Is it a "before and after" thing? Because your memory is ostensibly limited to your current lifetime, in which case you don't have any "before" to experience. Moreover, you haven't lived my life, so how would you know whether I know anything?

I'm not mad, really. I just think it's fucked up that people of all colors are still petty, racist little assholes even when they crusade against racism.

Now look, I'm not saying racism doesn't exist, or that it doesn't suck, and hard. Because it does, and it has, and I get pretty riled up when I see anyone being discriminated against.

But dig it: Did you notice I didn't qualify my statement with "because of their skin color"? That's because I get pretty riled up when I see anyone being discriminated against NO MATTER WHAT the excuse is.

I don't care what your biological background is. If you ever use it as an excuse for divisiveness amongst your fellow man, you are being racist. The prejudice really does go both ways, and I seriously can't believe I have to explain this, but obviously I do.

Now sure a person could walk up to me and say, "It's easy for you to say, white boy. Your people were never enslaved." And maybe they'd be right. Except I'm Irish on my dad's side, and you don't hear me pissing and moaning about English offenses against my ancestors which included wholesale slaughter, economic sanctions and other unpleasantries. In fact, I figure I could probably find some "being a slave" shit somewhere in my genetic history, considering what the hell country WASN'T someone's slave at one time or another?

Also, I'm a Scientologist and I really don't often talk about how oppressed we are, and how discriminated against in various parts of the world, and how unfair it is that people look at us funny and laugh at us because they believe what South Park told them. I mean, yeah, I'll bring it up now and then and I'll deal with it when I have to, but I don't walk around feeling aggrieved, badgered and marginalized about it my whole bloody life. I surely don't use it as a "card" to get my way or cut people down. If I have to use "I'm a victim" to win an argument or get my way, I've already fucking lost, haven't I?

I'm actually more bothered by the fact that I'm getting older which means the chicks in my age bracket will likely have less perky tits than I've been used to. And no, for the record: I'm not a shallow guy.

Race is just an excuse to foster divisiveness amongst our species. So is nationality, religion, sex, age, and literally any other arbitrary classification possible.

Here in the real world: There ARE things that some people are better suited to than others. The list of those things, if it existed, would be CONSIDERABLY shorter than bigots would have the world believe, and notably lacking in references to skin color as far as I can figure. But that doesn't refute the reality that a 7-foot-tall person can reach a higher place than a 4-foot-tall person. You can't call that discrimination; that is a PRACTICAL consideration.

Other than such practical considerations, there really is no logical reason for "us vs. them" within the human race. The only such divisions exist purely out of frankly arbitrary considerations of members of those groups.

We have better things to do than squabble about melanin; more important things to be concerned with than the past (and especially things that happened to people centuries dead). Right now is important; the future is important. We're faced with a great many gnarly issues as a race, and on every single level I can conceive as I write this, all of those have more to do with our survival as a race (which is to say, homo sapiens - not black, white, red, yellow or mulatto) than any of those arbitrary and frankly idiotic distinctions.

So, really. Still think I'm a racist?

What. The. Fuck.

2009-12-31T19:13:00.001-08:00

Okay, I didn't want to make a blog of this particularly like some fucking high school kid but I don't have anyone to talk to about this and I want to get it out of my head before I leave for the evening.

I was just sort of idly clicking around on Facebook, and I suddenly discovered the Facebook version of blogs (these "note" things). Specifically, the "Notes" of the girl who recently dumped me.

I swear I wasn't snooping, or FB-stalking, nothing like that. But something caught my eye and before I knew it I was reading about how she was so tired of being single, wondering what love was, listing all these things she loved about love, on and on. These had all been written like a month before our first date.

And I'm now sitting here with an industrial-size shitload of what the fuck, because this girl had it all handed to her on a silver platter and she didn't want it. She sent it back. With a note.

Now I swear I was being pretty restrained with the whole "let's mock up a thing" bit. I really was. Granted, I was a little giddy at first, but even that wasn't overwrought. I was very careful not to run roughshod all over this chick and get ahead of myself.

As I've alluded to elsewhere, the exception on this (and a fairly big one) was that we got nekkid a bit too soon. But that wasn't my idea, it was hers. And that's the big WTF, here. There was OBVIOUSLY an attraction there, okay. It's not like I was pursuing someone I had no business pursuing. She was digging it.

Until she wasn't. I don't send her a lot of comm lately, but she doesn't even return a "Merry Christmas" text; that's kind of fucked. She's totally backed out.

Now, I know the mechanics of this so I do know what's going on, in part. What I don't get is, well, what the hell was so wrong with me that I could be nearly everything she wanted in a man and still fall short?

Because I've spent a good portion of my life learning what the ladies like or want and knowing how to provide it. They all say they want ______ in a man and so I incorporate that into my actions. It's not even like it's some "trying too hard" thing. I'm not "trying hard" at all. I'm simply providing what apparently is needed and wanted. It's really not complicated.

(Of course, if what they want is six-pack abs and shit like that, well, I don't have those at present. But if they're THAT shallow, I'm not interested anyway.)

Somehow it's hasn't been enough, and THAT is what I do not understand.

Fuck. Maybe it's just the whole romanticism thing. Maybe it was a young girl who doesn't know what she wants, or some shit. I just wish I knew what I was doing wrong so I could fix it. Not with her, necessarily, but for the future.

Why the Great Recession Gives Me Hope for Humanity

2009-12-23T19:39:00.000-08:00

Today I read an article about the surprising changes seen by department store Santas in the kids' wishes. Instead of wishing for toys, they were asking for socks, shoes, eyeglasses. Yeah, it's sad that someone as young as five would be asking Santa for a job for his father, but I tend to look on the bright side of things.

America is learning some hard lessons right now, but by so learning, I think we can expect something of a Renaissance of Western culture and more to the point, a resurgence of what makes America great.

Look at what the Depression did for America, what it gave (at least from what I can tell): People who knew the value of a dollar, who understood that hard work and general productivity was essential to survival, people who learned and proved their mettle by surmounting obstacles and making things go right in spite of all. These people were tough, they were effective, they were honest, and they weren't whiny assholes.

I do realize I speak in broad generalities and gross simplicities, but hear me out.

The current "Entitlement Generation", to me, smacks of the Victorian-Era "idle rich"; and we all know how those guys turned out. Anyone who thinks the world owes them anything is going to be getting a ruder-than-usual surprise if they're just hitting the job markets around now.

Compared to Generations X and Y, kids today are facing some tough shit, it's true. And it does make me a little sad, that a lot of kids are having to grow up a little faster. But only a little sad. Because prolonging childhood into the 20s hasn't done the world that much good. It's just given us the "Me Generation", the "Entitlement Generation", slackers, emos, it goes on. People, in short, who think they deserve the fruits of civilization simply by having been born in one, rather than by contributing to it.

It's given us reality TV, breast implants, MySpace suicides and Tila Tequila. It's given us a country with a ridiculously disproportionate, twisted set of priorities.

The great men in history got their start early. Part of it was the educational system at the time: until I think the 20th century, schooling often included apprenticeships, which began as young as ten or twelve but rarely older than 14. Or of course the kids in rural areas were intimately involved in the farm work, which is where the current school schedule came from.

The point is, being made to take responsibility at an early age does make for healthier, saner and entirely less emo populations.

In present time, I think it's pretty hard to hide the fact that times are tough from any kid with half a brain. And I truly believe that not only will they learn from parents having to rise to new levels of ingenuity, but they will learn that the same thing is required of them, to make it out there. Knowing early on that the world isn't all rainbows and puppy dogs might make them more determined to make it so.

The children of the last significant economic downturn gave us the moon.

What will the children of today give us?

That time of year again

2009-12-20T13:44:00.000-08:00

So it's getting toward the end of 2009, and that means New Year's resolutions.

Some of these are the kind of things that show up every year, and of course when you say it you mean it but by February it's all gone, right?

Well, I really mean all of these things and I'm actually going to make it a personal game to see how many of these I can actually accomplish. I'm going for all of them.

1) Get in shape. This one is predictable, yes. But it's also multi-faceted. I want to get everything sorted, body wise. That means new hearing aid, new glasses; it means losing the gut but also actually being fairly fit, not merely emaciated. It means cutting way down on the alcohol, caffeine, cigarettes, sugar and generally unhealthy food. I'm not going to go total health nut, but there's still definitely room for improvement.

Also getting in shape does mean spiritually as well. I've made some progress on that in the past year, but really not nearly enough -- only really worked on it for two months! This year, I'm getting through all the books and whatnot, that I've been neglecting all this time, but also I'm just going to rock with the other stuff. I'm being vague because most of my readers won't know what I'm talking about; suffice it to say there is a big goal (though not the end) and there are approximately five more steps I have to take to reach it. Ideally I would like to have made the goal by this time next year, but at the very least I want to have made three of those steps.

I really think doing this will help with the next thing.

2) Get into a proper relationship with someone. This one is also a recurring theme, yeah. But it also has a lot of sub-products or sides to it. One of them is I need to really get myself out there, to actually meet someone. This is probably going to mean I have to do a fair amount of girl shopping -- which I kind of hate -- but so be it. The important thing, I think, is to be shopping in the right places. Because I really have not been (until kind of recently).

Ironically though I think the only way I'm going to get what I want here is by not being in such a hurry about it. That's one thing that I learned in my most recent relationship fiasco. I wonder if I hadn't boned her so early, maybe she would've been willing to have a relationship that lasted longer than a weekend. True, if I hadn't done it then, it may never have happened at all, but that's a risk I should start taking. It's not like I'm lacking for sexual experiences here.

It's not just the sex of course, but that was a weird enough thought that I had to share it. Because it's usually not something a guy would consider, ha ha.

3) That of course means I need to be making a lot more money. I've mentioned in earlier blogs, the whole thing about needing to kick things into gear, etc. etc. Well, that's still true, although things HAVE started rolling. It's not a product yet.

It's not just about the money; it's also about doing what I love and want to do in my life. But it does so happen that those things can and should be monetized, too.

So I resolve to do lots of writing and actually start sending things out and around. That's to happen pretty early on, mind. Like before my birthday in March. I want to have stuff out there while I'm working on other stuff.

Also I will get the webcomic truly live online, regularly being updated and acting as an income source.

Also I will be promoting and selling my services as a proofreader, for which I could make some pretty good money.

4) Isn't it kinda cool how these each lead to the next? Because my next resolution is to get my own place (for which I will NEED to be making pretty good money). And by "my own place" I really mean "my own place". No roommates, unless it's the girlfriend mentioned above. MY PLACE. And it can't be some shithole either, but a place I can be proud and happy to live in.

Seriously, I should be able to do this. Fuck the "economy is bad" shit. My car will be paid off this year; my DAY JOB income is going to at least double by March, to say nothing of what I can earn from my other three income sources (proofreading, writing, webcomic). It shouldn't be THAT huge a deal, financially.

Yeah, maybe I'll be lonelier, but fuck it, that will force me to work harder to fix the problem, won't it.

So yeah, I think that covers it for now. But these aren't even resolutions for the END of the year. I think that's another error people make. The end of the next year is far away. I'm gonna target this shit out to happen DURING the year. And most of it done by July.

Anyone else wanna get on board with their resolutions? Come play the game with me!

2009-12-14T22:22:00.000-08:00

I am the quiet one

who sits in the corner

watching

remembering

and someday I may come back

and write of what I see

and make the night immortal.

Skirting the edge

2009-12-01T20:50:00.000-08:00

I was going to write this whole big blog about love - being that my mind is on the subject lately - but after like six drafts it still wasn't happening. And I realized it's because I've been approaching it from the wrong angle.

What bugs the living shit out of me is how love is made to be so complicated. And I think it's because people don't take responsibility for their own emotions - or even know they can.

See, every time I've fallen in love - and it's only been like two or three times - I've consciously decided to do so. To me, it's relatively simple. If I think I have a chance with the girl, if I like her and all that - well, at some point I decide to love them.

It's more than just "like a lot". Because how many people do you like a lot - even say you love - but you don't consider having a relationship with them? I've got lady friends that I love, but I'd never have a relationship with them.

Sure, there are a lot of reasons the whole thing can be made complicated, but to me, simplicity is power. And I get really frustrated when people need to add a whole bunch of shit to things, and most especially this.

It does seem like the prevailing belief is that love "just happens" or you need to really know someone well before you get into a relationship.

I disagree, vehemently. TRUE: You don't wanna get married too soon, because being with someone for the rest of your life and raising kids and stuff - you do need to have grown pretty close. But marriage is a stage in a relationship. You do build up to that.

Creating a relationship starts a whole lot sooner than that. Even maybe before you decide you love them. Especially in this day and age, people date for years before they get engaged, then they hang around being engaged for a while before finally getting married. There's a lot of time added into it.

When do you decide to start creating the relationship though? When are you "in a relationship"? When do you fall in love?

To my way of thinking, that happens pretty early on, provided there is genuine liking and attraction on both sides. If there is, why mess around?

I'd like to say this doesn't have anything to do with my current life. And in a way, it doesn't. But recent events sure have brought it to mind.

I just wish it didn't have to be so damned complicated, when it's so simple for me. I know, I grew up in a different world, with different rules. Maybe I'm a fool for expecting them to hold true in this one.

But love makes fools of us all, doesn't it?

Postscript: No, I have not fallen in love again. It's not safe to, yet. But I could, in a flash. If only things were simpler.

Time to Nut Up or Shut Up.

2009-10-25T10:42:00.000-07:00

I have what my people call a high speed of particle flow. It basically means when I'm engaged in some activity, I go all Taz on it until it's done.

This is at once a terrific asset (work) and a terrible liability (relationships).

In direct contradiction to this, or maybe because of it, I do like to stop and chill. This can become a problem.

See, I'm about ready to move into the next phase of my life, which involves having my own family. Meanwhile, my existing family (particularly my parents) aren't exactly set for retirement at the moment. My mom was just telling me about this great program she's doing to improve her finances. She's trying to get debt-free and independent.

Also I do have a (relatively small) collection of debts myself.

Meanwhile I haven't been writing much lately. Even blogs like this. True, there's been a lot going on but my necessity to produce on what I consider my chosen career has been almost entirely submerged by the exigencies and passing excitements of life in general.

Hence the title of today's blog.

I'd like to be able to get both my mom and my stepdad totally clean slate and stable financially. Same thing for my lady-to-be, when she finally comes into my life (I've hopes she already has, but I've thought that before; hence the welter of scar tissue). And of course I want children, and I'll need to provide for them.

I've got plans in place for a number of projects, means to make money and improve my lot. But the most important one is the writing, and it's well past time I dusted that fucker off and used it. Because that's the one with the highest potential return.

This isn't some self-affirmation thing. I never really had any doubts I could make it. I just shied away from the work involved because I placed too high a value on being able to slack off. But frankly, if I don't do it now I may be well and truly fucked.

So yeah. It's time. I've said it before, but nothing kicks you in the pants like the fact that the fate of others, loved ones, may depend on you.

The World Doesn't Owe You a Goddamned Thing

2009-09-14T22:06:00.000-07:00

So today I was reading an article where a writer makes the point that his time is his own and he's not obligated in any way to spend it on the needs or demands of relative strangers.

I think it's a pretty good point - people do seem to think that once you've made it, or once you're a "public figure", the world owns you. I really do not think that's okay.

But that's not what I want to get into here.

The comments for the article is long as shit, and for every person who agreed (many themselves well-known writers, actors, artists of all stripes), someone else was totally cussing the writer out for being a selfish, elitist asshole.

Well, what the everloving fuck?

Here's what these people are basically saying: "Because you managed by whatever means to make it in your field, you now owe it to all comers to give us the magic ticket you used. Because if you don't, you're just holding us down. Pony up, we know it exists."

That's right. These people think there is a magic ticket. They think there's a way to get "made" without pain.

And you know, I've kind of made similar unthinking assumptions myself, though never to that degree. But now and then I'll catch myself thinking, "How did they do it? What do those people have that I don't?" This, in relation to every possible endeavor, from finding a good girlfriend to becoming a successful artist, and even to spiritual advancement.

But after all the shit I read today, I realized I was being just as idiotic as these moron commenters.

The world doesn't owe me, you, or anyone else, anything. There is not one single part of life, not one single good thing worth being, doing or having, that doesn't have to be earned.

I mean, does anyone think Hugh Jackman is just naturally ripped in his superhero movies (for example)? Because he isn't. He really had to work hard to look so cut. It didn't happen while he sat on the sofa eating Cheetos and masturbating to soft-core porn.

How about getting a decent girlfriend (or boyfriend)? Well, hate to say it but getting laid -- to say nothing of the finer elements of a relationship -- isn't actually a given. It's not an inalienable right -- and I think you'll agree, some people shouldn't breed anyway.

I look at many of my friends and marvel at how they seemingly effortlessly found incredible women to share their lives. And yeah, I envy the living shit out of them (although in no way do I begrudge them). I can't seem to do what they did. But guess what? Even though it's not exactly from lack of trying, it also kind of IS. Because all of those guys did work at it, and I'm often hard-pressed to be social, talkative, interesting/interested, and generally proving myself as a viable mate for a girl.

These writers, even the ones many seem to feel are absolute crap (I'm looking at you, Stephanie Moyer and Christopher Paolini), must have WORKED at it. Maybe I am a far superior author to a lot of stuff that's out there -- but how many times have I actually sent out a submission, tried to get published? Answer: Very few. So fuck you, me.

Every author who has made it, who does take the time to do a write-up for aspirants, stresses that you gotta get in there and keep swinging until you connect. Seems like a lot of work! I recoil and nurse the perceived insult to my talents (because I'm special and awesome and it should all just happen, and it would, too, if I could just find the right person to read my book).

I'm self-aware enough to realize that it's not true, that I haven't done nearly enough work to earn my dreams -- but a scary number out there, it seems, are not. They actually seem to believe that they are entitled to whatever they want, because they are special little snowflakes who should be able to make their mark on the world and people should help them out of the kindness of their hearts or out of adoration of their awesomeness.

Bullshit. To quote Tyler Durden, you are not a special snowflake. Anyone and everyone on this planet is only as good as they get shit done. Whatever their particular shit is. If you don't have the perseverance to do whatever it takes, if you think there's a one-shot cure or magic pill or incantation to easily get anything worthwhile, you are sadly fucking mistaken.

It is true that some very few DO luck into fame, fortune and fucking. We all make snide remarks about the no-talents in Hollywood, like Paris Hilton or the aforementioned authors. But I have to be blunt. Those people are still there, so they must have something going for them, some determination or drive that everyone who wishes they were there but isn't, lacks. And yes, sadly, this does include me, and anyone else who falters in realizing their dreams, often because it looks like too much work.

Success and happiness are not rights. Striving for them are. But this world doesn't do handouts. If you want it, it means hard work, in-ethics, doing the things that were successful. It means weeding out the things that you are doing wrong, because it is not the big, bad world's fault if you don't make it.

I know this probably reads as super preachy, but what all of this is, is exactly what I told myself this afternoon. This is my chain of realizations, because I'd made assumptions and balked at the work I'd have to do to get where I need to go.

So no, this is my reminder to myself: The world doesn't owe me a damned thing.

Update

2009-08-26T23:22:00.001-07:00

Wow, has it really been like three weeks since I've done a blog?

Well, I'm kind of in the calm before the storm. I've been busy getting my slacking in and otherwise preparing for a metric fuckton of various kinds of activity. Which starts tomorrow, pretty much.

First off, I'm helping a dude out with his business. He's working on a curriculum for aspiring writers to learn how to, among other things, get their own stuff published without going to traditional publishers. Now, I don't know if that's really the way to go, but I'll learn all about it because I'll be proofreading all of his materials. It's sort of a pro bono in that he's not paying for the service - but the exchange will be that I get all his data (he'll be selling the courses for something on the order of 3 grand) and on top of it, he knows a lot of people who need proofreading, so he'll send people my way.

I could make some serious bank doing this, even on a part-time basis.

Next up, I'm getting my bank loan extended so I can buy all the shit I need to get my webcomic going. This includes all the software I need to ALSO do freelance graphic artist work, which could really come in handy.

But the loan will also go toward some debt consolidation, which ought to give me some stress-relief.

This weekend I'm going to the Writers of the Future Awards Gala. I'm not, regrettably, one of the winners, but because I submitted, I got an invite. This means I have a chance to meet the judges, which include such literary luminaries as Anne McCafferey and a bunch of others I can't recall at this precise moment. So that will be cool.

Still all suck on the relationship front (and not the good kind of suck, either) but I've recently observed that trying to ignore that facet of my life isn't doing me any sort of good, so... I've also had it hammered home in a number of ways that I really haven't been looking in the right places on those occasions I have looked. And that, as they say, opens the door to a handling. So we'll see how it goes.

On top of all this, I'm determined to get SOMETHING rolling on my own writing projects. I've procrastinated way too fucking much on the second draft of my novel, so most likely it will be that. I still really do want to get that particular show on the road, and soon.

So yeah, my life is about to become a whirlwind of activity -- I've also gotta maintain my exercise schedule plus there are still MORE things I haven't even mentioned that will be going on next month. But this is good, you know? I'd feel like a complete fucking tool if all I ever did was talk about my plans and how I'm gonna do shit. Well, it's happening.

So I might still be a tool, but at least I'll have something to show for it.

Armor Boobs!

2009-08-09T19:23:00.000-07:00

So I saw GI Joe this afternoon.

I was kind of surprised. The acting was actually mostly pretty good. The special effects were, of course, eye-popping and for the most part they worked.

The problem was that the dialogue was utterly cheesetastic. The only person who didn't have to deliver verbal fromage was the black ninja dude. And that's because he doesn't talk at all.

I realize this is a movie based on a cartoon that was itself based on a toy line. But they couldn't come up with better lines?

Then there were the armor boobs. Now, I'm not entirely complaining, because the actress who played Scarlett was pretty hot. But since when does body armor have built-in boobs? That was worse than the robot testicles in Transformers 2.

Anyway, don't see this expecting anything other than goofy fun, but if that's what you're in the mood for, this is totally your hookup.

A good night with Mad Night

2009-07-26T13:21:00.000-07:00

Friday night turned out to be pretty decent. A friend of mine is in a band, and they were performing at a really nice venue near downtown LA. There were other performers (the place sort of had an upscale arthouse vibe), and most of them were pretty decent. The wait staff at the location were attentive, courteous and attractive.

I have, however, resolved not to even entertain anything more than friendly, harmless banter/flirting with any girls in the service industry (when they're working). It's not smart for me to mistake professional charm with real interest -- and that's all one can ever count on it being. And I'm unwilling to put anyone in the position of having to continue to be nice to a dude giving unwelcome advances, just because they can't turn business away.

So, I didn't ask for the hostess' number, even though she was cute enough and seemed like a decent girl, and even though she might actually have been interested. Ditto the bargirl -- although I did leave her a pretty good tip for keeping my water glass full. She'd certainly earned it.

I did think of striking up a conversation with the girl that sat next to me, a Vanessa Hudgens lookalike (or hell, it could actually have been Hudgens, this being LA!), but her body language said no way. I was okay with that. I have to admit, I wasn't feeling particularly conversational.

But although I mentioned all this first, the important part of the night was, of course, watching my friend Maura perform. It was the first time I'd been able to catch a show; she and her band Mad Night were actually pretty damned good.

She saw me before she went on and was pleasantly surprised to see me there. Maura is a lovely and sweet girl; I met her when she wanted to share my patio table at a Starbucks a couple years ago. Somehow we kind of stayed in touch; even though I haven't seen her or talked to her in at least a year, she totally recognized me, gave me several hugs and was really glad I came.

Before you start nodding your head knowingly: she's got a guy, she's not into me that way, and while she'd be a catch for anyone, I'm not crushing on her.

But it IS great to know her and I'm really glad I went out. I get to find out about new places in LA, see good music performed, and be in the same room as (if not actually meet, lol) interesting people.

Unfortunately, having crunched some numbers, that low-budget evening out was all I can afford to do this weekend.

But my plans for creating new income sources are progressing! I've got a solid solution for getting the money I need to get things started; all I need to do now is nail down exactly how much I'll need, and things will get rolling. The research is almost complete. So it looks like I'll be making these plans a reality before summer's end -- exactly as I'd originally hoped.

Thereafter, it will take a little while, I know, for the money to start coming in. But it will come in. It's two to four years now. And I'm prepared to work for it.

I do recognize the irony of blogging this

2009-07-11T13:29:00.000-07:00

I recently had the shocking realization that I talk too much.

Specifically I talk about myself too much.

It's understandable (playing Devil's Advocate): I've got plans and dreams and I'm excited about them, and I like to talk about them. Sure.

I wanted to inspire, but I suspect what I've done instead is bore. Or worse.

Not everyone's got live dreams; not everyone has epic plans. But I rather suspect that those who don't, wish they did or even feel guilty that they don't.

So when someone comes along all fired up about their own awesome shit, it's gonna get a mixed reaction. On the one hand, that is indeed awesome shit. But on the other, they don't have awesome shit. It's sorta like how I feel when I see people in relationships. Or those fucking eHarmony commercials.

Or, maybe they do have awesome shit, but I've spent so much time talking about my awesome shit, we never get around to talking about their awesome shit.

This is utterly unacceptable. It's rude, boorish. It's probably one reason some people don't wanna talk to me often. It doesn't help that I'm utterly horrible at picking up hints. Because this happened recently, hanging out with a buddy of mine. He gave me several opportunities to shut up about my book already and find out what was up with him. And I totally missed them.

When I realized this - the day after our visit - I felt like a total ass. And then I got to thinking and realized this has been a recurring theme.

Well, now I know, which is, as we're all aware, half the battle. I'm kinda glad I figured it out myself, but on the other hand, it took me long enough and I kinda wish someone actually had said something.

I know, too, that this sin isn't unique or cardinal or irredeemable. Probably almost everyone suffers from this at some point in their lifetime.

But I try to tell myself these things, that it's not so bad. I'm probably right - my social issues are likely much deeper, broader and more complex than just being a blowhard. But I still feel like an ass. And, of course, I resolve to do better.

Then I write a 13-paragraph blog about it.

Why Are We Still Talking About These People?

2009-07-04T12:12:00.001-07:00

I wish I had some answers so this would be a useful blog. But it's really more of a rant.

Some people are attention whores. I get it, I really do. But what I don't get is why we feed their desires, why we feel compelled to give so much attention to people we've never met and who have no value in our lives. And I'm not just talking about myself, personally. As far as I can see, some of these people have no value in anyone's life.

Paris Hilton is, of course, an excellent example. If not for the fact that plant life can feed off her CO2 emissions, I'm pretty sure she'd be a complete waste of human and planetary resources. Even her dog hates her, according to such pictures as have made it past my anti-Hilton filter.

How about those Jon & Kate morons? I've never seen the show, okay. So in all fairness, my calling them morons may be excessive. But why should I care that they're doing stupid stunts like alleged infidelity and whatnot? It's none of my business, for one thing.

That could lead into a tangent on things about people, particularly celebrities, that the media forces on us but that are none of our business. But I'll leave that alone for the moment.

This South Carolina Governor who put his dipstick in the wrong oil tank -- that's a little tougher. The man is in a position of public responsibility, it is necessary to know if he's involved in things unbefitting of his position. But do we need to drag the women into it? Do we really need to invade the lives of his family in what must already be a difficult time? No, we don't. We really do not.

I'm also sick of hearing about Sarah Palin. This is not a political statement. I stay the hell out of politics. No, it's because the woman is NOT a legitimate national figure anymore. Sarah: You had your moment. Let it go.

Finally, I'm really tired of seeing all the Michael Jackson coverage. I was a fan for a while, back when everyone loved him. I idly followed some of his exploits over the past fifteen years while waiting in checkout lines and such. It's true that the man had a huge impact on the world and popular culture. It's true he's left an enduring legacy and will probably be the next Elvis Presley in terms of merchandising (I just hope they go with the 80's Thriller-era Jackson, not the travesty of nature he became in later years). But the media saturation is just too damned much. It really is. I don't need minute-to-minute updates on his embalming. I don't need to know who is getting custody of his kids. I'm not concerned about the disposition of his estate.

Here's the thing. A lot of this news is stuff that's being thrown in my face at every turn. I'm not saying that, in some cases, the information shouldn't be available. This is, after all, the Information Age. What I'm saying is, can't we have the info we want, rather than this other bullshit? And why are we more interested in peccadilloes than products?

Take the activities of celebrities as an example. I'm always interested in the activities of artists. By which I mean, I'm interested in what projects they are working on, when said projects will be available, and whether the resulting product was any good. I like knowing that Anne Hathaway is doing Shakespeare on Broadway -- and doing a decent job. I don't need to know that she likes getting it up the ass. I like knowing that Robert Downey Jr. will be playing Sherlock Holmes (and that Rachel McAdams will co-star). I don't need to know about their torrid off-screen affair.*

The thing is, none of this info would be available if there wasn't a demand. I recognize that. But it would be nice if the demands of gossipy, bored housewives (apologies to my housewife friends) weren't forced upon the rest of us. The Yahoo Entertainment section should be about entertainment. Not about celebrity gossip. And especially when said celebrities are really only celebrities because the media makes them so.

Honestly, I'd rather know about the real celebrities in my life: My friends and family. But even then, I still don't need to know who likes it up the ass.

* I made that up. You get my point.

The Truth is Out There

2009-06-28T20:30:00.000-07:00

Okay, so I'm doing a little studying, and out of the blue I realized something.

You know how all those scientists are looking out into space, checking out other galaxies and shit like that, getting all excited because they're finding planets that could support life -- but not finding any evidence of extra-terrestrial life?

If you don't, take my word for it. There are a lot of people doing just that.

Well, I got curious. I wondered just how close these other galaxies are. I Googled it, and according to Wikipedia (granted, not the best possible source, but fine for my purposes), the closest proper galaxy is over a million light-years from ours (if I'm reading the chart correctly).

I think pretty much everyone knows that a light-year is the distance that light travels in a year. Okay. So that means the light we are seeing from that galaxy is over a million years old.

What was happening on Earth a million years ago? Near as I can tell, not a whole lot. Apparently the first Homo Sapiens didn't even show up until about 100,000 years ago. The walking monkeys that were around before that were just getting funky with rocks.

Now, I'm no expert, or even an educated amateur -- I'm occasionally interested and I read science and astronomy articles when they're featured on Yahoo. But from what I can tell, our current technology is incapable of zooming in very closely to these planets they're finding. Certainly not enough to see what's really going on there. So a lot of their conclusions is based on, really, educated guesswork -- and that based on the only life we do know of, that of Earth.

Add to that the fact that Earth, in galactic terms, is kind of fucking remote. Seriously! We're like hicks! There are places out there where solar systems are packed together like tenements in a ghetto. Earth is Nebraska, these places are like SoCal or New York. Or Sao Paolo.

So... I'm just saying, what the hell are these guys doing, shaking their heads sadly and saying there can't be life out there? They are basing these conclusions on information that's millions of years old, and using a very narrow view of what constitutes "life".

I'm sure I'm not the first to realize this, but it did just come to me as a revelation. And yes, it is true that I already believed in extra-terrestrial life. But still, man. I'm not even saying this proves anything. I'm just saying that unless we get more up-to-date news, we can't disprove anything, either.

Expectations Addendum and other stuff

2009-06-24T20:45:00.001-07:00

Just wanted to say that yes, I do realize those "sitcom" expectations were unrealistic. Especially now that my face has been smushed into that truth. But I don't think it's unusual to paint an overly rosy picture when planning the future. You gotta picture the ideal, so there's something to strive for. Otherwise, what? No plans or expectations means a ho-hum, accidental sort of life. Not for me.

Also I didn't mean to imply that I'm just going to dump all of my existing friends. Because that would be unbelievably stupid. No, in truth I'm simply going to acquire more friends, and given that many of my existing "cast" have moved to a different plane of existence (marriage and family), this is only sensible until I rejoin those ranks.

In other news:

Wizard magazine has answered prayers I didn't even know I was making. The latest issue has a rundown of everything I need to get in order to start my webcomic, including hardware, software, web hosting and tips from successful creators. Some of the recommended tablets are DIRT CHEAP (30 bucks!) which is a lot better than the two grand I was expecting to shell out. I can get a software application for roughly $50, which should do me until I can afford to shell out a grand or so for Adobe software.

That's really good news, because it means once my paychecks are flowing regularly and have taken the necessary hike, I can get that project back on the front burners.

Brings me to the money scene: Things are tight, can't lie. But this is primarily due to things still being slow at the new workplace. Once production kicks up, that should improve. Add to that a guaranteed raise (which should already have happened, actually) when the guy I'm replacing checks out in two weeks, and I should be sitting pretty by August if not sooner. All requisite knocking on wood applies, of course.

I'm currently in a bit of a battle with the Evil Credit Card Company, which is being a consistent pain in the ass. This is my first credit card and honestly I should probably never have got involved. Or at least gone with a bank credit card, because those guys (one would think) are more trustworthy. The account I have now is a sinister web of hidden fees, unreceived statements and whispering customer service representatives. As soon as I possibly can, I'm paying those fuckers off and terminating my account. I don't need them anyway, I really don't. Not anymore, at any rate. But things are slowly getting sorted out as I continue to insist they give me the information I need to pay them (you wouldn't think this would be hard to do). Eventually I'll get through to someone. It's harder to do via email than you might think.

I almost asked a girl out today but I sorta chickened out. I mean, truth be told I'm not sure I want to go out with her, but on the other hand, why the hell not? Plus of course it's just as likely, if not more so, that we'll share an awkward moment while she shoots me down.

On the writing front: Not going that well. But I recognize the need for me to buckle down and start slaving away on the second draft. What little feedback I've gotten tells me what I need to work on (and that's as much from the feedback itself as the fact that there hasn't been much). So I shall grit my teeth and get my ass to work on what every writer hates: The second draft.

Meanwhile, and more pleasantly, I've got some ideas simmering for the rewrite of another short story (which is only slightly related to the current project), which could well be the second publishable book, as well as being the genus of another full series. So that's good.

Finally, I am a mass of twingey, misfiring muscles from my exercise last night. I ran (mostly) a mile, did about 50 reps of 15 pounds per hand (which sounds kind of weak when I write it out) and a bunch of things with the weird pulley gadget. And lots of sit-ups. Gonna do it all again tonight once dinner settles, and it's going to continue until I've dropped 30-50 pounds of blubber. I want to be in the same shape I was when I got married -- only better, because instead of being skinny I'll be all ripped. I figure that'll take a couple months at least. But maybe I'll end up being a Spartan for Halloween this year after all, ha ha.

In Which Expectations Are Not Met

2009-06-22T23:04:00.000-07:00

I think I kind of expected my life to turn into a sitcom when I moved to LA.

Maybe because the last time I moved to LA, it kind of did.

You know what I mean: A bunch of friends that you hang out with all the time, or who drop by regularly, silly relationship hijinks (of one kind or another), going out all the time, lots of snappy one-liners.

That's not actually how it's been playing out. I think with a lot of my LA friends, I've been outta sight, outta mind for so long they're still not used to me being nearby. And I hate being the guy who's constantly calling people up and trying to hang out. I'm actually on my own as much as -- if not more than -- I was in OC.

I'm also getting pretty over going out on my own. I can do it, and I have fun as much as not, but it's really not the same. In a lot of respects.

Rather than just whinging about it though, I will of course do something about it. I've started volunteering at a non-profit -- many of the key people there know me of old and they fucking love me, no exaggeration. I'm gonna check out a few other things I can get involved in.

(Obviously I've gotta arrange it so I'm not spending so much time doing other things that I'm not writing -- which is exactly the mistake I made when I lived in LA before -- but I think that's pretty doable. Besides, I'm not exactly going great guns on that front at the moment. Another thing I need to address.)

The other factor in this: You know how you're hanging with people who've known you for years, and you kinda slip into the familiar patterns? I'm not the guy I was four years ago. But I do find myself being him when I'm around people who've got expectations of my behavior. I really need to break myself of that. And much as I love my peeps, maybe I would in fact be better off amongst new people, who have no preconceptions on how I'm "supposed to be".

Heh. Maybe I should've moved a lot farther than I did. But whatever. There are millions of people in LA county. Shouldn't be that hard to recast the sitcom.

Music Week day 5: FRIDAY

2009-06-12T00:02:00.000-07:00

Sorry for the lack of formatting (like anyone cares, ha ha) but I forgot about this until kinda late...

Fun Friday

Or Favorite Friday, or Freakin' Awesome Friday. Take your pick.

I'm actually doing pretty much the same thing as Typhoid Ashley on this one: These are songs that make me want to dance. Or in some cases, I just really like them, and a lot of them have endured innumerable replays.

I've left quite a number out, simply because I don't know or can't (at this moment) remember titles or artists. That frankly goes for all of the lists made this past week.

Radiate (Dubious Mike)

Isn't it awesome I can cite a Dubious song for almost every category this week? I think it's awesome.

Counting Blue Cars (Dishwalla)

Got way too much airplay back in the late 90s but it somehow manages to evoke summertime imagery to me even now.

Desecration Smile (Red Hot Chili Peppers [RHCP])

Kids (MGMT)

This is one of my favorite songs now. And I love the video. A lot.

Young Folks (Peter, Bjorn and John)

Battle Without Honor or Humanity

Extreme Ways (Moby)

Kids With Guns (Gorillaz)

Spybreak (Propellerheads)

Such Great Heights (Postal Service)

19-2000 Soulchild Remix (Gorillaz)

Smells Like Teen Spirit (Nirvana)

By the Way (RHCP)

Cafe Mambo Mix (Syndicate)

Funky Monks (RHCP)

ABC (Jackson 5)

Everyone Else Has Had More Sex Than Me (TISM)

You've seen the video by now, I'm sure. What's not to love? If you haven't, check it out on YouTube. You'll laugh, I can guarantee.

Tell Me Something Good (Rufus & Chaka Khan)

Wake Up (Arcade Fire)

This is the song on the Where the Wild Things Are trailer, in case you didn't know. That was the first time I'd heard it, and I'll never forget it. This is the trailer, y'all, that made Kevin Smith cry.

Humble Neighborhood (Pink)

One Week (Barenaked Ladies)

God Shuffled His Feet (Crash Test Dummies)

Black Betty (Ram Jam)

Around the World (ATC)

I know, right? A much shorter list. But hell, a guy can only have so many favorites.

If anyone wants to listen to any of the songs I've listed, a lot of them are on my playlists here. Particularly the now-misnamed "September" list.

Thursday Throwback

2009-06-10T22:31:00.000-07:00

Honestly I can't really remember a lot of what I used to groove to before moving to LA. Particularly what I listened to before I was introduced to Pearl Jam, Nirvana, Depeche Mode, The Cure, and Red Hot Chili Peppers. So nearly every one of these songs are ones I've discovered in the past fifteen years or so.

The Classics -- 80s and earlier

Don't You Forget About Me (Simple Minds)

I know I'm admitting to liking The Breakfast Club, which guys are apparently not supposed to do -- but who wouldn't wanna be Judd Nelson in that flick, neh? He was 80s cool before it turned into 80s lame. Although even when I was six, I would rather have gone with the brunette than the redhead. Still would, in fact.

Shit, watching that video made me want to see the movie again. Unbelievable.

Cry Little Sister (Gerard McMann)

I can't think of the late 80s without thinking of The Lost Boys, and I can't think of The Lost Boys without thinking of this haunting song. Or more importantly, Jamie Gertz, schwing!

Bohemian Rhapsody (Queen)

Speaking of schwing, ha ha ha ha hah ha. Actually, since Queen did the soundtrack to Highlander, a movie that got a lot of play in mi casa, a lot of Queen songs take me back.

Great Balls of Fire (Jerry Lee Lewis)

Everybody Get Together (Dick Clark Five)

Stop, Hey What's That Sound (Buffalo Springfield)

Three classics that I'll never stop loving. And while I wasn't going to add any specific Beatles songs (too obvious, right?), they definitely deserve a shout-out. In fact, I'm absolutely positive I remember Day Tripper from 1968. But Come Together may yet take the day as my favorite.

Joyride (Roxette)

Call Me (Blondie)

Joey (Concrete Blonde)

Roxette, Blondie and Concrete Blonde all left deep impressions in my youthful self. Almost entirely through mis-heard and misunderstood lyrics, but the sound, at least, remained pure. Now that I know what they were actually saying, I can't for the life of me remember what I thought they were saying. But I do remember laughing my ass off when I found out the truth.

As may be apparent, my early musical tastes were heavily influenced by what my sisters were listening to at the time.

Do Do Do, De Da Da Da (The Police)

I remember dancing in my diapers to this song. Or maybe I was naked. The song came out in what, 82, 83? I was too old for diapers at that point. Yup, guess I was naked.

Personal Jesus

Or anything by Depeche Mode, frankly. Do they even record anymore? Anyone know?

People Are Strange (Echo and the Bunnymen)

San Francsico (Scott McKenzie)

Fortunate Son (Creedence Clearwater Revival)

I have to disagree with Justin Long's character in Live Free or Die Hard. Fortunate Son is an awesome song. Naturally, it's inextricably tied with anti-war sentiment (it is, after all, a protest song), and in today's world, it's still, unfortunately, quite relevant.

The 90s

The 90s were my period of musical awakening. I listened to more music, bought more albums (prior to 1989 or 90, the only "album" I personally owned was a Michael Jackson cassette I was given for my 8th birthday). I gradually developed my own tastes in music, with limited influence from others. It did become alternative/grunge rock for a time, but always the important thing has been the sound.

U Can't Touch This (MC Hammer)

Early 90s rap (dubbed cRap by my friend Damon) was like a gateway drug. You start listening to it and the next thing you know, you're wearing neon parachute pants and shaving designs into your hair. I count myself lucky, however: Vanilla Ice killed any affinity I had for the genre, preventing me from ever being interested in gangsta. I think I would have been a singularly pathetic wigger.

Must Have Been Love (Roxette)

This is one of the last songs I loved before I found grunge. I'm faintly embarrassed by this now, but the fact remains the chick's got a great voice. There was another one around that same time that had to do with looking into someone's eyes and wiping the tears away. I have no idea who did that one, and the lyrics were embarrassingly maudlin even then, but I liked the harmonics. And that's what it's really about to me: how it sounds, not always what they say.

Circles (Soul Coughing)

Lovefool (The Cardigans)

Gotta give Typhoid Ashley credit for this one. She reminded me of it on her first list, and I just had to add it. Lovefool was one of those songs that made the 90s what it was, along with:

American Werewolf in Paris Soundtrack

I have to include this as a collection, because although I never saw the movie, the soundtrack -- including the works of Cake, Better Than Ezra, Eva Trout, Bush, and Vanessa Daou -- kept me awake through many a long, busy night. As did:

The Faculty Soundtrack

Including the works of Stabbing Westward, Class of 99, Offspring, Creed and Neve. I listened to this soundtrack so many times I could sing along in perfect time even when I couldn't hear it. And by "sing along" I actually mean "mutter nonsense words in rough approximation of tune".

Pepper (Butthole Surfers)

I don't mind the sun sometimes/the images it shows/I can taste you on my lips and smell you in my clothes/cinnamon and sugary and softly spoken lies/you never know just how you look through other peoples' eyes

This is one song I did get the lyrics to. And I liked that, and them. Also, because much of the song wasn't really sung, I could get away with more obvious singing along. Heh.

Round Here (Counting Crows)

I'm a Bitch I'm a Lover (Alanis Morissette)

My ex-wife loved this song. I did too, although as much out of Canadian Solidarity as the song itself.

Picked this vid out of whimsey. Also because I figure Ash will like it, lol. And maybe she can tell me what movie that green-eyed girl comes from. It's the only one I can't figure out (how weird is that; I hardly ever watch cartoon movies).

Bittersweet Symphony (The Verve)

Another "classic" 90s song, by which I mean it got so much airtime no one wanted to hear from these guys ever again.

Zombie (Garbage)

Steal My Sunshine (ZEN)

Incidentally, I'm leaving out the songs that I fucking hated, the ones that would get stuck in my head or whatever. There were a fair number of lounge-singer types in the early 90s that earned my eternal enmity for their effluvium (can you say "Don't hurt me, no more?). Seeing as how I do not want to inflict that on myself, I'm not getting into the hate list on this or any other edition of Music Week.

This one's already getting too long, so a quick, anecdote free list of some of the other "best of the 90s" tunes:

Smells Like Teen Spirit & Come as You Are (Nirvana)

Drive, Losing My Religion & Everybody Hurts (REM)

Jeremy (Pearl Jam)

Gangsta's Paradise (Coolio)

Wonderwall (Oasis)

1979 (Smashing Pumpkins)

Lightning Crashes (Live)

Mr. Jones (Counting Crows)

Ironic (Alanis Morrissette)

One Week (Barenaked Ladies)

God Shuffled His Feet (Crash Test Dummies)

One of Us (Joan Osborne) -- truly one of the most ubiquitous and ultimately annoying songs of this era, it yet deserves a mention because, yes, I did play it on my own, because I liked it. For a while, anyway.

All right, that's the end of Memory Lane. If you take a right, you'll find yourself on Amnesiac Avenue, which will bring you back to Procrastination Plaza -- I assume that's your starting point. Get back to whatever you were supposed to be doing! Ha ha!

Music Week day 3: Weepy Wednesday

2009-06-09T23:53:00.000-07:00

I'm avoiding torch songs. Just FYI. Well, trying to. Largely because I don't wanna go research the ones I don't know. But this is as close as I'll get to 'em -- sometimes emo, sometimes profound, this is the sad, lonely and lovelorn song list.

Black (Pearl Jam)
Needs no explanation, introduction, or excuse. If this one doesn't touch you, you have no soul.

Last Kiss (Pearl Jam)
Ditto. Although I have to admit the "aaaaa ooooo" bit in the end sort of makes me snicker sometimes.

I Know (Dubious Mike)
I first heard this song when I was going through pretty much exactly what the song describes. So I listened to it a lot. Which probably, in retrospect, didn't help me get over it any faster.

Boulevard of Broken Dreams (Green Day)

God of Wine (Third Eye Blind)

Grace is Gone (Dave Matthews Band)

Love Song (The Cure)
I liked this song even before I learned what they were saying (this happens all the time). Just the energy and artistry of the music itself captured my attention. Then I saw the official music video. With hair like that, I'm not sure I can quite respect Robert Smith anymore. I know, it was the 80s and Aquanet stocks soared. Doesn't matter.

Fallin' (Alicia Keys)
Love her voice. Love her face. Love the piano. Her apparent bad-boy fetish, as depicted in the video for this song: Not so much.

Come Away With Me (Nora Jones)
They played this one at a funeral for a good friend of mine. He was younger than me and just stroked out one day (by which I mean he had a fatal stroke). I'd had people die on me before but this was probably the most jarring, for a lot of reasons. Since then, I've never liked listening to this song. Which is kind of a shame, because Jones is fairly bangable. What does that have to do with it, you ask? Well, if you have to, you'll never know. Which is good, really.

Creep (Radiohead)

Creep (Stone Temple Pilots)

Listen To Your Heart (Roxette)
I get goosebumps when they do that thing with the... whatever it is. Is it an xylophone? I don't even know. Maybe it's just a piano. Yeah, it's probably a piano. I like that bit. Which reminds me of...

I Will Be Right Here Waiting For You (Bryan Adams)
Good piano here, too. I'm a total sucker for piano, have I mentioned that yet? Side note: Was watching How I Met Your Mother tonight. Robin, bless her heart: "I love Springsteen! He's like the American Bryan Adams!" So true. So very true.

Sometime Around Midnight (Airborne Toxic Event)
I kinda have a thing for the violinist. She's adorable. But seriously, one thing I love about this song is it entirely disposes of the verse chorus verse formula that 99% of songs have these days. And the fact they even have a violinist is kinda unique; I'm a big fan of unique. Even when it's only kinda.

Loser (Beck)

Hurt (Johnny Cash)
It took a while to grow on me, but now I like the Man in Black's version better than Reznor's. Cash brought gravitas and depth to a song that, in its original incarnation, now seems petulant and shrill. Also his chord changes still give me chills. I listen closely to such things. Sometimes it's all I can hear, after all.

Outside (Staind)

Where'd You Go (Fort Minor)
I've always been kind of fond of fusion songs (and covers), but this one took the cake for me. Simply put, combining pianos and drums -- that's like auditory peanut butter and chocolate to me, for reasons I know I'll never be able to explain. It's just how it is -- if done well.

Something I Can Never Have (Nine Inch Nails)
I'm a little ashamed to admit it now, but there was a time this song was pretty much my anthem. Which was stupid in many ways, but hey -- when you're 16, being angsty is "romantic". Or something. Yeah, I was an idiot when I was 16.

...and of course pretty much anything by Evanescence, ha ha! But actually, Bring Me Back to Life was another example of arresting fusion; and I don't care what anyone else says, it made that scene in Daredevil damned cool. Yes, I did like Daredevil. I will buy it, if I see it on sale. But it never is on sale, is it, hmm? What's THAT tell you? People buy it, and hide it, perhaps under their beds. For some reason, liking Daredevil is a guilty pleasure. I can understand feeling that way about the spinoff (Elektra), but I thought they did a good job on Daredevil!

Okay, I digress. That's a subject I should revisit, though.

As a final note, reading back on this I realize I must sound a bit like a horny teenager with all the liking shit because the artist involved is attractive. That's not really it, seriously. It just doesn't hurt. Remember, my first introduction to these is always the voice and more importantly, the music and harmonies. This is even true with Phantom of the Opera, which is a movie; Emmy Rossum won me over not with her looks (ravishing though she is) but her rendition of the Phantom of the Opera song.

It does seem weird, even to me, that a voice should create such an effect on a deaf guy, but there it is. Maybe it's just that any beauty or artistry that can fully reach me, has to be pretty powerful to do it.

Nevertheless, I truly am a sucker for a pretty face. So when that's involved too, I'm pretty much done for.

Review: The Road

2009-06-09T23:51:00.000-07:00

Sometimes the best art is the kind that breaks the forms.

The Road, by Cormac McCarthy, impinges heavily in its every line, each plodding, desolate paragraph reinforcing the shuddering silence of a world lost. A world that has moved on, leaving a wearily desperate few behind.

It does take a few pages to get used to the writing style, a style that emphasizes the numb, foggy world in its lack of quotes and apostrophes, in its lack of exposition and even in the at once jarring and perfectly natural absence of names for the two primary characters.

I can't really say anything more without spoiling anything. I haven't even really decided if it was worth the journey. A lot of people seem to think it was. Personally, I'd rather the sun break through the clouds a little more often.

Although I suppose it says something that of the four books I've read over the past week, this was the only one I was moved to write about.

Music Week day 2: Twisted Tuesday

2009-06-08T22:48:00.000-07:00

Typhoid Ashley has shamed me with her first music blog. She went and made her list deeply personal, giving us a little insight into the Ash That Was. And that's what blogs are supposed to be about, innit?

Well, I don't know if I can do that for my pre-prepared lists (I "wrote" the blogs for the whole week last Saturday). But I'll see what I can do.

I chose "Twisted Tuesday" more for the alliterative potential than because I can think of a lot of these. Part of the problem is I don't know the names of almost any Garbage song, worse luck. And I've made a point to stay the hell away from Marilyn Manson. But here's a few songs that are just messed up.

Bang Bang (Nancy Sinatra)

Medication (Garbage)

I know what I said. This one was a gimme. Also Stupid Girl, but I'm not sure if it counts for "twisted".

All the Things She Said (TATU)

Polly (Nirvana)

Nirvana was my first self-determined foray into "cool" music. My sisters had for some time been trying to get me to listen to something other than the homogenized pap I'd been listening to until I was ten or eleven. One had me listening to Jane's Addiction and Depeche Mode, Nine Inch Nails and The Cure. Another loaned me Blood Sugar Sex Magic and Pearl Jam's Ten. I loved them all but none seized my attention like poor, doomed Cobain and his angst-ridden, drug-soaked lyrics and music. I'm just sorry that I "found Nirvana" through the media circus in the wake of his suicide. My late arrival made me feel like a poseur, but in those days, when the blood was barely dry, no one had to know.

Used to Love Her (Guns N Roses)

Natural (Dubious Mike)

Relax (Mika)

I was introduced to this song by the lovely Ask A Chola, who posted the video as a bulletin one night, describing it as "campy and rad". I dare you to disagree. My quasi-creepy interest in Chola notwithstanding, the song IS both fun and fucked up, making it a worthy addition to any playlist of mine.

Mrs. Robinson (pick your version)

My mom doesn't "get" this song. Far as I'm concerned, there's nothing to get. We all know why it's tied to adulterous cougars, but I like it because anyone can sing along with "do do do do do doo doo doo doo doo do". Here's to you Mrs. Robinson.

Stan (Eminem featuring Dido)

Blue Dress (Depeche Mode)

As relevant (if not more) as it was 20 years ago, this song skewers those obsessed with celebrity to the exclusion of all else.

Burning Man (Third Eye Blind)

I know a guy who refuses to believe this song is about sex. As far as I know, he's still never been laid. Coincidence? I think not.

Slow Motion (Third Eye Blind)

The music of this song is almost transcendentally beautiful. The lyrics, not so much.

Twisted Nerve (Bernard Harrmann)

Sure to burrow into your ear and have you whistling allllll day. If you're not a fan of whistling endlessly, do not listen to this song.

Heart-Shaped Box (Nirvana)

Torn (Natalie Imbruglia)

...and pretty much anything by Trent Reznor, especially the Pretty Hate Machine album.

That's all I've got for the moment. But I've already written ahead (again); Wednesday's installment has a lot more crap you never really cared to find out about me. Seriously though, I think I was able to make it a little more entertaining/enlightening. Cheers.

Music Week: Monday Misanthropy

2009-06-08T08:31:00.000-07:00

So the idea is to give a list of songs that fit some theme or other. With videos.

Now I figure, adding too many videos is pointless. Most people aren't gonna take the time to watch every one, or maybe even any. Especially since I doubt I have very many readers, ha ha! So I'm only including a few videos, if the song is relatively obscure, or particularly interesting, or fun.

Monday Misanthropy

It's Monday. I don't know many people who fucking love this day. So here's a short list of songs that feed the rage -- and sometimes help diffuse it.

After the Flesh (My Life With the Thrill Kill Cult)

Snakedriver (Jesus & Mary Chain)

In the End (Linkin Park)

Let Me Down (Dubious Mike)

Slip Slide Melting (For Love Not Lisa)

Friend is a Four-Letter Word (Cake)

Beautiful People (Marilyn Manson)

Better Off Alone (Alice Deejay)

A note about that video: The dude in it has got to be the biggest idiot I've ever seen. But the girl's kinda cute...

Bad Habit (Offspring)

Extreme Ways (Moby)

Numb (Linkin Park)

In which financial concerns are expressed

2009-06-07T11:43:00.000-07:00

I've come to the conclusion that barring dramatic changes in my current income sources, secondary income is a necessity.

The company I'm newly working at is going through some changes right now, and as a result pay has been sporadic and frankly too low. Of course, that was starter pay but still. I've talked to the owner, he said they're working out a handling for that.

Well, cool. I believe him, and all of the other people, they've been making good money working there, so it can be done. But I'm feeling this is the wrong economic climate and definitely the wrong time of my life to depend solely on them for my survival. I'll definitely keep that as my day job -- it's not that it's a bad company or even that the pay is horrible (a lot of people get by on less). The problem is I have, at the moment, sufficient creditor demand that the current paycheck pretty much vanishes with barely enough left over for groceries, much less good times. And damn it, I want good times. That was the whole damned point of moving and all.

(The weirdest thing about all this, to me, is that in a year or two, almost all of my major bills will be paid off, and I won't need to worry about them anymore. But I do need to have "made it"anyway, by then. The timing of all of this is really kind of messing with my head.)

So. This is actually kind of a blessing in disguise. Because every writer mentions how real it gets when their writing is needed to put food on the table. And I mean, right now I'm just talking about MY food. I also need to think with putting food on the table for someone else. Whoever that will eventually be, ha ha. It's gonna happen. But it's less likely if I'm staying home every night because I can't afford to go out, neh?

But seriously. It's time to put my money (so to speak) where my mouth is, to really put my talents to work not merely for fun, but for profit as well. I have a few ideas about how to accomplish that with relative speed and minimal capital. I've enough avenues to pursue:

I've a friend who runs a scriptwriting contest. He's got reams of scripts that need reading. I read with awe-inspiring speed (honest, I have inspired awe!). That's a no-brainer. He can pay me. It probably won't be great sums, but it'll make a difference, and I can start immediately.

Those same reading skills could come in handy elsewhere, too. Particularly my proofreading skills. Maybe it's time to look for people in the LA area who need their shit proofread. Hmmm.

I've got a webcomic already sort of established. A little research, maybe a little help from some friends, I could have my own website up. I've already got lines established for merchandise (especially t-shirts). It might even be in my interest to get a small business loan (just a couple, three grand) so I can get the needed hardware and software to actually continue. A few hours a day could turn into some good bucks.

And of course, there's the writing. My stepdad outlined a net-based business model for getting my work out there; it'd more or less be self-publishing but word of mouth and online buzz could bring me the attention of a major publisher in a matter of months. For which, incidentally, I will need the help of my online friends.

So what am I going to do?

ALL OF THE ABOVE.

Because I can, because multiple income sources are better than one or two, and because shit, I'd need to do some of that stuff to achieve my ultimate goals anyway.

The irony is, I might get too busy providing for my life to actually live it. Heh. Nah. I've been down that road before. I'd recognize the landmarks in time to turn around.

Random Stuff

2009-06-04T22:49:00.000-07:00

So today was the end of my 30-day probation period at the new job.

And the owner said I'm doing great and needn't worry.

I'd actually forgotten all about that shit.

But now that he's reminded me, I have to remember to mention that raise I was told about when I agreed to work for them...

In other news, just in case random others than my followers are tuning in: Next week is music week, as proposed by Typhoid Ashley (http://typhoidashley.blogspot.com/). She got the idea, apparently, from a MySpace thread I started way back when. The idea is to make a list of music for each day. I guess she's got themes planned out for each day.

So I'll be doing the same, at her behest (can't deny that girl anything, sadly [lol]), although I won't be using the same themes. Because, like, I didn't go to high school. And I'm not a girl. But most importantly, because I'm deaf and I don't know songs like you normies do.

Which reminds me, the aforementioned owner has set me up with an audiologist who can maybe give me some really good deals on a new hearing aid. Which is good because I kinda need one. I do have an audiologist already that I know and trust, but the bottom line has to be, well, the bottom line. We'll see what happens on that.

Not much else to report. I just watched the first Entourage (season 1) DVD and I liked it a lot more than I thought I would. Granted, regular appearances by Leighton Meester or whatever her fucking name is, along with plenty of other hotties and familiar locales, all those helped. But it made me really crave a beer (or six) and some socialising. I'll have to see what I can do about that, this weekend. Like tomorrow...!

Happens to the best of us, right?

2009-05-31T12:53:00.000-07:00

I don't usually procrastinate, but when I do, it quickly assumes paralytic proportions.

For example, this morning. I promised myself I would go on a hike today (actually, yesterday, but I successfully put it off until today). Except I don't really feel like it. I know I should (gotta lose the gut) but it really seems like all kinds of more effort than I really want to make (which, yes, rather does explain the presence of the gut in the first place).

I thought, "Well, I should have breakfast." But I didn't want to take a shower because I'd be all sweaty and in need of showering after the hike. So that meant I couldn't wear fresh clothes (because that feels kinda gross). So I'm wearing yesterday's clothes.

I made breakfast and ate it, and then cleaned up after myself, which was a wonderful way to knock off a few hours. But now I'm done with that and need further excuses to not go hiking.

One of them is, I do need to do laundry. Except I'm still wearing last night's clothes (stripy club-slash-party shirt included), which I also need to get clean. But if I did that I'd have to change, which would mean I'd have to shower, which I don't want to do because of the hike I don't want to go on.

So instead I'm writing this blog.

Footnote:

Incidentally last night ended up being fun. The day was boring (though reasonably productive) and finally around eleven I decided I needed to get out of the house and I really wanted a beer (I haven't been drinking much alcohol lately). Walked to a place I'd driven past, but it was closed. Didn't want to hit the biker bar that was much closer to home. Ended up calling a cab that took like half an hour to get there. The cab driver was an ass and with the tip cost me $15, kind of a fucking rip-off. But the place I went, a tiny establishment frequented by mostly stoner-punker types and their large-breasted girlfriends (maybe weed attracts large breasts, like magnetism? Someone should do a study). I very quickly found myself talking to one of the few normal-looking people there, a very sweet young lady named Gina. Shortly thereafter met her boyfriend Justino. They were there with the band that had just wrapped up when I'd arrived. Another band came on. They were pretty good, for punk. I did have to turn my hearing aid off, however.

Who says footnotes can't be more than one paragraph? After last call, rather than getting a cab I got a ride with Gina and Justino, for which they have mucho gratitude from me. I gave Justino the remaining six bucks cash I had in my wallet, for the gas. It was a much better deal than asshole cabbie ripoff.

Odd how I used to think it was hard to make friends. True, alcohol makes fast bonds, but it doesn't seem to be a factor, since no alcohol was present in other recent cases. I have noticed however that regardless of whether my religious affiliation comes up (and it usually doesn't), non-Scientologists are more impressed by me than Scientologists. Hmmmm. That's kinda fucked, but understandable as well. And now I'm just rambling.

I really should go take a shower.

There's Something About Mary...

2009-05-24T12:26:00.000-07:00

So I recently discovered Hulu.com (kudos to Brewmaster Dave), which allowed me to watch a few episodes of one of the more amusing and engaging TV shows on my must-see list: Psych.

If you haven't heard of it, the show follows Shaun Spencer, a Santa Barbara resident trained from childhood by his policeman father to be the best policeman ever. The problem? Shaun doesn't want to be a cop. But he can't deny the responsibility that comes with his "power", so Shaun creates a loophole, pretending to be a psychic so the SBPD will hire him as a consultant.

It's a really, really funny show and I do highly recommend it. It's also absolutely loaded with pop-culture references (many of them 80s pop culture references) which can add a layer of entertainment if you get them.

Okay, now you're up to speed. And this is really mainly for the LOSTies out there. Please watch at least the first ten or 15 minutes of the embed below. Tell me if you can figure out who Mary is.

It was bugging me through the whole damned episode, and I'm kind of ashamed to admit I didn't figure it out until the last 5 minutes. I really should've nailed it earlier. His voice is still pretty similar.

Anyway, here you go:

Movie Reviews: Star Trek, Wolverine and Terminator: Salvation

2009-05-23T00:37:00.000-07:00

Okay so this is a big year for me in terms of movies. So many to see! And it pains me to say I really can't afford to see them all. Especially since some of them I definitely want to see more than once.

Star Trek was awesome. See it even if you're not a fan of the show(s). If you like high-concept adventure paired with down and dirty fight scenes, plus fantastic cast chemistry -- and all of it in Outer Space! -- you'll like this. I mean really, it's just plain good times.

I like space opera in general. I'm not at all biased to any particular "universe" (except possibly my own, ha ha): Trek, Wars, Galactica, Firefly -- I enjoy all of them, each for their own reasons but overall because it's space opera.

Trek, however, is a bit unique of the pack in that it's very much an optimistic view of the future. True, bad things happen. Redshirts die in nearly every episode. True, the fleet could be considered a paramilitary outfit, and for some that's blah. But hell with that -- it's all about exploration external and internal; the more you learn of others, the more you find out about yourself. And it's got a liberal dash of humor, even goofiness. The overall vision of Trek is a brighter future, and I'm not talking about the tunics. I love that kind of thing.

The acting in this movie was mostly superb for the genre. The casting was note-perfect. The character interactions were spot-on and enjoyable.

See the frakking movie already, if you haven't.

Moving on: Wolverine, sorry to say, just didn't compare to Trek. I kinda wish I'd seen it first, because Trek is turning out to be the flick I compare everything else to, ha ha.

Wolverine was adequate, and not through any fault of Jackman's (or many, many others involved) did it fall short of greatness. It's a simple matter of: I don't find joy in revenge stories, and that is essentially what they did with this. They didn't have to go that route (although, granted, it is logical and true to the character), but that they did made the movie a little less interesting to me.

The other issue I had was that the storytelling felt unbalanced. Again, it's no one's fault -- I totally see why they did it that way and I can't argue the decision. But the first act felt too overloaded; the second too light, and the third frankly didn't make up for either. A few storytelling choices I can and do argue with definitely fall into the spoilers category, so I won't get into them here. Suffice it to say, given the size of the sandbox the writers had to play in, I really don't get why they felt it necessary to use the characters they did in the end. They could have picked any number of OTHER characters who could have pulled off pretty much exactly the same effect and it would have been hunky fuckin' dory.

All of that said, I did like it and I will definitely see it again. I kind of doubt I'd buy it though, unless I happen to find it in the bargain bin at Blockbuster a year hence.

So now we come to Salvation, and I think I've got more to say about this one because it's still fresh in my mind.

Terminator: Salvation is the one of the bunch I'm going to see twice in theatres (although I really hope I can wrangle a Star Trek encore). That's primarily because of scheduling issues and my demanding bladder. The latter needs no further explanation, but the former: I agreed with two different people to see the movie with them, and then it turned out they couldn't both see it the same day. So tonight I saw it with one; next week I'll see it with the other. Which is good because hopefully I'll get to see the bit I missed while taking the piss.

My analysis of this fourth installment in the franchise: It is, at best, a second cousin to the original film. Don't get me wrong, it was a good summer movie. It retained the messages of hope, redemption and survival that Terminator and T2 had, but I'm going to have to agree with many other reviewers that the heart and soul of the concept was lost; blown away, perhaps, by the bombs of Judgement Day.

Salvation is nevertheless a better movie than T3 by many orders of magnitude.

Part of the problem as I see it is the fact that the franchise has let itself slide into an entirely different genre from the original film. Terminator was essentially an excellent science fiction story. It wasn't about the explosions and fights. It was a commentary on human dependence on technology and the hope of averting catastrophe that inevitably awaits us if we do not deal with that dependance in a responsible fashion. And also of course a tale of the indomitable strength of the human spirit to survive. It wasn't the Terminator, after all, that was truly unstoppable.

T2 was much the same, only with more action and cooler special effects (also, Linda Hamilton kept her shirt on this time around). The same themes were there, but with the volume up a little. And that the heroes decided to stop running and actually attempt to do something about the doom they knew was coming -- well, there's a message in that, too, wasn't there.

Unfortunately someone decided to exhume the endoskeleton one more time and throw the T&A back in, and that was T3. T3 sucked. The explosions were impressive...and that's really pretty much it. John Connor was a twat. I liked the tough kid in T2 a shit-ton more.

T3 was a popcorn flick with a downer of an ending. Perhaps following the trend (at the time, thanks to Messrs. Lucas and Christansen perhaps) of dooming-and-glooming once bright franchises, T3 took the hopeful message of the first two movies (no fate but what you make) and wiped its ass with it.

Hollywood politics being what they are, it was inevitable. But the franchise was no longer smart storytelling, no longer thought-provoking sci-fi. I can't pick the best simile for what the franchise had become: it's either a roller-coaster ride, an arcade game, or porn. Fun now and then, visually stimulating, but ultimately unfulfilling.

So that brings us to Terminator: Salvation. Now that the franchise has made the evolution from sci-fi to popcorn action-adventure -- I pretty much didn't expect much of it beyond eye candy, and I was more or less okay with that. I wasn't disappointed in that regard.

They did, however, manage to add several very nice touches throughout the story, and I certainly can't fault anyone's acting per se. The issue is, of course, that this was an action movie. There was very little time amongst the apocalyptic backdrop and frequent mechanical disruption for anyone to emote anything but grim determination tinged with despair and the faintest silver lining of hope -- primarily in the form of, naturally, John Connor.

But don't go thinking this was John Connor's story. Because I don't know if anyone else has realized it, but not one of these movies is John Connor's story. Closest one came to it was T2, and that was really more the Terminator's story.

As a storyteller, I'll give you a little tip: Your key to who's your main character is, just ask yourself "who's evolving in this story?" And much as Christian Bale and the studio executives would like people to believe, Bale's role is actually just a supporting character.

I'm not going to get spoilerific on you for this either, but when you see it, you'll know what I mean, and I doubt there will be any question who the story IS about.

I will say this however: Despite the difficulty in connecting emotionally to, really, any of the characters, Salvation did bring back some of the hope, some of the "spitting in the face of fate" that made the first two movies great. But even this is not without issue: The worst has happened. The fate has come to pass. So now we have to consider: What fate are they going to make for themselves now? (I suppose they did give me a tiny morsel of food for thought, after all.)

Which is why we'll probably see at least two more movies. Maybe one of them will finally give us the story of the legendary John Conner.

Gatherings, gas and a girl named Gabe

2009-05-17T21:08:00.000-07:00

I'm gradually getting settled into my new life. It's still new and exciting; routine hasn't yet had a chance to settle its dreary weight on me and I'm ill-inclined to let it. My world is, after all, New and Improved, with considerably broader horizons (even taking into account the omnipresent LA smog). Why should I let it settle back into humdrum day-to-day, when I can continue to have adventures, continue to create something New and Improved?

I've done the routine thing. It seems like it should be inevitable, that it might even allow one some measure of power and security.

Well, that's mistaking routine for stability. I can do stability without also slipping back into a rut.

Anyway, in pursuit of this rejuvenated thirst for life, I've discovered one obvious but overlooked fact: Broader horizons means everything's further away!

Even just driving to and from work and running sundry errands, I have quadrupled my gas use. Where I used to fill my tank twice a month, I now have to fill it twice a week. I should have been expecting this (after all, my morning commute is easily four times the time I spent driving at my old job), but such prosaic considerations really didn't occur to me until I was faced with them.

Undaunted by the startling increase in my carbon footprint, I've been bouncing around like a psychotic... bouncy ball. Yeah, I had a better simile, but the fucker got away from me. Because, I suppose, of its inherent bounciness.

But yeah, last Friday night a friend invited me to someone's birthday party. Guy I know but not all that well (all hail the friend-of-a-friend network). He looks like Shia LaBoeuf. Like, to the point it's kind of freaking eerie. I kept expecting him to run around saying, "Oh no, no no no nononononono." But as it was, after all, his birthday, I guess he wasn't overly distressed.

He's a good guy though. I mean absolutely no slight toward him. The uncanny resemblance is not his fault. But he really should think about capitalising on it. I mean, he was grousing about wanting to meet one or more girls that night, and... well... I'm just saying is all. This is LA. It wouldn't be that hard to believe.

I certainly had no trouble meeting new girls, as our Shia Lookalike has an astonishing array of curvy friends, most of whom I'd never met before (and a few that I had and, much to my chagrin, did not immediately recognize).

As often happens in such instances, one in particular attracted my attention. I do remember her name, but as I do not know who will read this and whose tongues may wag, it will not here be mentioned. But she was a lovely girl, bright and full of life. I liked her, but felt hampered by the decibel level and the humidity.

Oh -- right. Um. I've not quite worked out the correct amount of hair product to use in this new climate. Too much and my hair looks greasy. Too little, and I run the distinct risk of being confused for Seth Rogen (the Knocked Up version, not the Observe and Report version).

Which reminds me: Another thing I've already sort of embarked upon is a crusade to get in shape. But I digress mightily...

Anyway so, I erred on the side of caution that night and... guess what happened? Yeah. I must have looked scary. I didn't find out until I visited the men's room. That rather did explain the tendency of people to sidle away...

Naw, it wasn't horrible. I looked kinda 80s, was all. Which, okay, that could be considered horrible. *sigh*

The week passed fairly uneventfully. I'm doing pretty well at my new job. They're gradually giving me more work and I'm doing well at getting it done, pretty much like I figured I would. My immediate senior is a... very... emphatic person. After the first few days working there, I had a few people take me aside and let me know it wasn't anything to take personally. I shrugged and replied, "Well, he's American, so I can't really expect him to know any manners."

Sorry guys, but I gotta call 'em like I see 'em.

Whoa, this is getting long already.

I went to another birthday party this Friday just past. This was actually a birthday party-cum-housewarming, as one of my very oldest friends had just moved his family into a modest home in Valley Village, I believe it was called. Anyway, it was a distinctly different crowd than the Shia party, being that singularities such as myself were the exception rather than the rule (in fact, there were a quite a number of small children running around). But many of them were mutual friends. One in particular, a gentleman who has apparently become a World of Warcraft hermit since the last time I saw him -- which was last Halloween, holy shit -- came out of the woodwork. Which was great.

Good times, good times. One thing of note: At neither party could I partake of any alcoholic beverages. I've returned to my strict rule of absolute separation of matters vehicular and alcoholic. In fact, excepting a single beer with dinner a few weeks ago, I haven't had a drop of booze in two weeks. Actually makes life a little MORE interesting, in that I can again clearheadedly observe how silly drunk people are.

Anyway... This brings us to Saturday (yesterday, as of this writing). In the morning I needed groceries.

Wait wait, before you go "ho-hum, this is getting boring", just bear with me, okay. First, you're right. You don't care about the birthdays of strangers and rebuilding of bridges thought lost. That's fair. How about a girl named Gabe?

I've been taking one of my coworkers home, and as can happen amongst men, the travel discussion turned to past conquests. Now, I'm not one to kiss and tell particularly, but he was curious as to my exploits since my divorce. So I gave him a number. The 18-month total, I call it. (I've been divorced longer than 18 months. The 18 months in question is a distinct time period in my life.)

Well, he was impressed. I'm kind of blase about it; it's not really something I'm overly proud of, although I suppose I could or should be. But something he said kinda took me by surprise: he said I must have a way with women.

Heh.

Saturday morning I was shopping at Trader Joe's. I'd forgotten to pick up sundry breakfast items. So I hadn't ate. TJ's, as I call it, often has a "demo station", and so they did that morning. Proudly displaying microwave mac & cheese, coffee, OJ and... something else, was a dark, diminutive damsel whose dimpled cheeks (and alliterative potential) drew me over directly. Or it could have been the smell of fresh coffee.

Nah, it was the girl. It always is. We chatted for a few minutes, me pretending to be enthralled by the merits of microwave mac & cheese; I don't think she was overly fooled once the discussion ranged away from nuked pasta dishes, as it rather quickly did. In the course of this discussion, I noted her name tag, which proudly named her GABE.

After ascertaining that this was indeed her name, and short for Gabriela, I expressed my surprise: "I'd expect someone with a name like that to be some shorn and inked anarchist, not a pretty little girl!"

She liked that. Oh yes, she did. She was sure to tell me she was frequently on duty at the TJ's. And no, not abruptly to get rid of me. That was after a good five minutes of further discussion. I left with a smile on my face, an echo of hers.

That night, I decided to check out a place near the office which promised a live band after 10pm on Saturdays, so that's what I did. In spite of my initial reservations, they actually rocked shit, and I ended up staying until closing. Of course, the Malin Ackerman lookalike (it's LA, everyone looks like a movie star, lol) in the formhugging minisheath had something to do with that, too. We danced. She's a very energetic dancer. It was fun, and that's all I'll say since I've already more than lived up to the promise (some would say threat) of blah blah blah blah blah in my blog's title.

Suffice it to say, it would seem my coworker might actually have a point. And I'm gonna say straight out, the quality of women around these parts is a marked improvement to those in my former county of residence. No offense to anyone, honest. But the snob quotient is way down. At least so far, ha ha.

So, yeah. My life is pretty much made of awesome right now. And it's only getting better from here. Because aside from all of the above, I'm also working on the second book again.

Made. Of. Awesome. Yeah, I said it.

Department of Massive Vacillation

2009-05-17T20:42:00.000-07:00

So last weekend I drove back down to OC to spend Mother's Day with my mom. Being the dutiful son that I am, and all that.

Had some mail waiting for me, most notably four separate notices from the DMV. Curious, I opened them on the spot.

The first was nice. Dated May 1, it was an Order of Reinstatement for my driver's license. Now, for the past several months (since being convicted of driving under influence), my license status has been in question, because earlier the DMV had told me that they wouldn't revoke it. But then I got messages from my insurance carrier telling me they needed proof of reinstatement. Which means someone thought my license had been suspended.

So before I moved, I went over to the DMV to get it sorted out, which turned out to be a rather painless action.

Thus the official notice from the DMV was no surprise; it was nice to see.

Then I opened the next envelope. Also dated May 1, this thicker missive was an Order of Suspension. Something to do with my insurance, which made zero sense, because as far as I know my insurance company loves me (especially with the higher premiums attendant with the DUI conviction, oh joy).

Well, this was troubling.

I still had two envelopes to open, so I figured I may as well find out what those had in store for me before I freaked out.

The next one was a notice that my registration is due in June. I'm not going to get started on the subject of paying more than two hundred bucks for registration. It's total... just... it's... okay fine, I'm not going to get started. Bullshit is what I was going to say. If I was going to get started. Which I won't.

Anyway, I just kinda shrugged at that one and proceeded to the fourth and final DMV letter.

It was dated May 4th, the day before the Order of Suspension was to go into effect (and almost a week prior to my reading it). The single sheet read Order of Reinstatement. I blinked and checked the date again. Then shuffled through the other Orders. Came back to the May 4th one, read it again. It appeared I was all good.

I hadn't even had to do anything.

Now, I'm certainly not complaining, as such -- I'm terrifically glad that my driving privileges were somehow saved at, apparently, the eleventh hour.

But seriously: What. The. Fuck.

I rather suspect this all may have come about because some bureaucrats needed to make their quotas to keep their jobs. Nothing else makes any sense. But reinstating and revoking my license on the same day -- at the very least it's a recipe for confusion. If I hadn't had the new paperwork on the same day, I would certainly have been sitting there for three or four days trying to figure out if my license was good or not (and basically freaking out).

Bloody pencil-pushers. But I guess everyone's gotta make a living... right?

Moving Day

2009-05-03T08:37:00.000-07:00

Friday night I went out just to try to catch the last few people on my list that I wanted to say goodbye to. Surprisingly, I ran into more people who deserved goodbyes and they weren't even ON my list. As well as three out of five of the people who actually were.

Played a thoroughly shitty two games of pool. I was already tired, a little drunk, and feeling just a touch sick. Those are my excuses for sucking so bad. I'm sticking to them. Oh, and that I haven't played pool in months. Yeah.

My friend got tired of kicking my ass at pool and some other friends had showed up so I went to talk to them. One of them had promised to help me move but I could already tell he was going to flake on me. Whatever. It was just good to get to see him before I left. Also there was a chick who came up to me and told me she was totally hot for him and could I hook them up. Now, Eric is not a bad-looking dude, but he's hardly an Adonis. I don't know how he fucking does it but women literally throw themselves at him.

This particular girl wasn't bad, so I did relay the message. Then I went back to talking to her friends, who were both a little chunky but both cute and, as it turned out, both lesbians. Which actually turned out to be really fun because I could let my comments and compliments spin wildly out of control and they wouldn't take it seriously. In fact, I'm still not sure if they were laughing with me or at me. But it was still at least fun to make 'em laugh.

Anyway, I got home MUCH later than I had intended (around 2am) and went right to bed. Approximately five and a half hours later, my mom is waking me up telling me we needed to move my room now!

I've said it before and I'll say it again. Mexicans impress the hell out of me when it comes to moving shit. They had arrived at 7am. It took them half an hour to move almost everything in the apartment over to the other apartment. Half an hour. Of course, my room had the heavy desk and weird bed thingy so it was definitely the most complicated part. Also some stuff was going across the hall to my mom's new apartment and some was going with me to mine.

Anyway, a guy who's kinda crushing on my mom came over to help, too, and he totally saved my bacon. Because while I don't have a lot of stuff, what I do have is still more than I can fit in my car. I would have had to make two or three trips to bring everything, had it been necessary to do it on my own. But Dave had his big old Jeep SUV thing. Between our two vehicles, we needed only one trip. That was awesome.

So this was around the noon hour. I now had to move all my stuff upstairs. Dave had to be elsewhere so he just unloaded his truck and took off. I spent the next couple hours going up and down stairs, then going through boxes and figuring out how to arrange shit. By around 4:30 I was done and I could finally take a shower and change. Except, oops -- I didn't have any soap! I ended up going shopping and also getting to explore my neighborhood a bit. Got the stuff I needed, finally made it back about an hour and a half later. My stomach was rumbling crossly -- I hadn't eaten since about 9am (when I left at approximately the worst possible time to get coffee and food).

Finally I got my shower, changed, went out for dinner. I spent a good half hour looking for something that wasn't a fast-food franchise. There are actually quite a few such places around here, but I didn't feel like Armenian, Thai, Korean, Italian, Ukranian, doughnuts, ice cream or liquor.

I finally found a bar & grill which looked like it might serve a decent hamburger. It didn't. But there are lots of other items on the menu, the burger was still better than a greasy Quarter Pounder with Cheese, and most importantly there were a lot of pretty girls there.

Brings me to another point. There are a lot of pretty girls around here. I'm not totally certain, but I think a fair percent of them are jailbait, though. It's kind of hard to tell because they dress the same, have the same haircuts and wear the same makeup -- if they're high-schoolers, they're pretty sophisticated high-schoolers.

This is actually one reason I felt safer going to bars back in OC, too. Because there you could at least be certain no one was, you know, statutory rape waiting to happen.

Anyway I crashed early that night. I forced myself to stay up until 10 so I wouldn't wake up too early, but I was gone shortly thereafter.

This morning I woke up and it's apparent that not getting enough sleep or water yesterday screwed me. My nose is runny and my throat a little sore. So I'm going to have to go back to Trader Joe's and pick up some vitamins and stuff. Because tomorrow I'm supposed to start my first day at my new job and I'm NOT going to do it by making everyone there sick (or even just being sick myself).

I've left out a lot of stuff, believe it or not -- but this is already getting too long. I'm going to go do some more exploring today. I wish I had a camera so I could take pictures. The house I'm staying at is very aesthetic; the neighborhood is all right although we've got upper middle crust block and white trash block side by side, which is a little disconcerting. The main drag has tons of interesting-looking restaurants, stores, stuff like that - and I only went a couple miles.

The place is right up into the hills which means the weather is constantly changing and when I drive home the hills rear up before me like a fairy-tale destination.

And most importantly to me, living here means I'm closer to old friends and many new ones, it means I'm closer to the type of connections that will help me get published, and it means that I'm finally out on my own two feet again. Limping, perhaps; almost certainly shuffling -- but I'll pick up speed. It's all uphill from here, but that doesn't have to mean it's more difficult.

Two days left

2009-04-29T20:28:00.000-07:00

I never thought I would feel at all nostalgic for Orange County.

I don't, not really. I mean, for one thing that would be somewhat premature, since I haven't left yet. But truth is, I did suddenly realize last night that although I haven't felt like my life was all that great here -- it wasn't OC's fault.

True, when I move I'll be more connected to "my kind of people". In theory, at least. And I've plenty of friends there. And I figure my chances of meeting Monica Raymund, Eliza Dushku, Morena Baccharin, Eva Mendes, et al and sweeping them off their feet are considerably better in LA county than Orange County.

But the thing is, I have to admit I didn't make much effort to forge new bonds here. Of the new friends I made in the past four years, I considered the best of them people from MySpace (and there's certainly some truth to that).

Over the past week, however, I've had to say my goodbyes and it's dawned on me how many people I do know and like here; I somehow hovered on the edge of a large social scene without ever plunging into it. It's not OC I'm going to miss, but there surely are some people.

If I'm going to be honest with myself, I have sort of been that way my whole life. My "crowd" usually only consisted of maybe three or four really close friends and everyone else was, well, everyone else.

I think that can change now though. I am a different person now in many ways. Not to say I'll become some kind of shallow social butterfly, but come on. It's time to have a proper social life, damn it.

In three days' time I'm going to be starting a very new chapter in my life, and everything about me is going to change or start to change. New job, new digs. I've already got a new haircut (by employer request, ha ha), and I know I'm going to get in shape, so new body of sorts. I can embrace my evolving personality and become the guy I'm supposed to be; I can cast off the expectations and preconceived notions of others, step out of my family's shadows (which have dogged me for years) to marked extent. I'll live my own life -- for real and true.

In three days.

I can hardly wait.

What a day

2009-04-14T22:24:00.000-07:00

Well, I'm exhausted.

Today was eventful. I took a "personal day" so I could drive up to LA for a job interview and to check out a room in Tujunga.

My appointment was at 1pm in Pasadena, so I didn't have to leave the house until around 11. And that was just in case traffic was bad -- as it often is (and was). I figured I'd get a little extra sleep, then start the day off with some webcomics and whatnot before Mapquesting directions.

Well, our ISP was having glitches and service was, as it turned out, down in the entire neighborhood while they sorted it out. Somehow, miraculously, I was able to access Mapquest in spite of this and get the directions I needed(!).

Then I messed around for a while figuring out what to wear. This was mostly a matter of deciding which tie to wear, since I've only got one suit per se. Well, and what shirt. I went with the blue one. Big surprise, ha ha.

Driving to Pasadena was kinda stressful, more or less as usual. Since my DUI, I get a definite, instinctive sphincter clench whenever I see a police car anywhere on my road. It doesn't matter than I'm not speeding, etc. etc. -- I just get really tense, my knuckles white on the wheel and pulse thundering in my temples. That happened twice on the way there. Not pleasant, but nothing happened.

But by the time I got to Pasadena, that was mostly forgotten. It was a lovely day and Old Town Pasadena is very quaint. It's kinda dirty, yes -- but it's LA, so that's to be expected. But there's a lot of cool old architecture (as well as some more modern stuff) and it's just a really nice place. That's where I'll be working if they take me on.

The interview went really well -- so I think they will. I hope they will -- I really like the office, the kind of work I'll be doing, and the people there seem like good people to work with.

After that I went to a prospective living space -- a room in a house in Tujunga. And THAT looked really good, too! I mean, it's not "my own place" but it's a foothold and it's a really nice house, in a fairly nice area, and the guy I talked to was a really nice guy. Plus they have a cat! And an exercise room with gadgets! And a really nice backyard! The rent/utilities amount is a little scary but only a little. I can handle it.

I'll know by the end of the week whether the company will hire me. If they do, it'll be an upgrade in many ways. I should say WHEN they do -- I really think I killed at this interview, and frankly I'm super-qualified for it. They'd be fools NOT to hire me. And they didn't seem like fools.

So yeah, once they hire me, I'll give notice at my current job and in two weeks, I'll be living my own life -- on my own for real, not cloistered or with family. That's simultaneously exhilarating and terrifying. But I figure hell, dumber, less capable people than I have managed; I can too.

N is for...

2009-04-13T19:56:00.000-07:00

Nachos.

Two weekends ago, I was at one of my haunts and the people at a neighboring table gave me a free plate of nachos. They'd ordered them but decided they were too full to eat them. So they gave 'em to me.

That was the most exciting thing that happened that night.

Sadly, I haven't been having any awesome dance experiences, no righteous makeouts, no bone-bruising liaisons, and no mind-blowing parties lately. I'm okay with that. I'm sort of saving my money for my move, which is happening within the next few weeks. Well, I'm trying to. All of a sudden, as mentioned in an earlier blog, people are even more eager to take my money than usual.

The only reason I've been going out at all is to try to say my goodbyes to the few people around here who will actually give a shit that I've gone. Sadly, most of those were bartenders.

That's going to have to change when I move. I won't have as much disposable income unless I can get a few things straightened out. But it'll be worth it in many ways. For one thing, the fact that I'll only be able to afford to eat ramen for every meal will allow me to lose weight quickly! In a few months, my skeletal appearance will be a guaranteed chick magnet. And naturally I'll be in LA, where the cool people live. So who cares if I can only afford a room in the basement of a flophouse. The kind of chicks I'll bring in won't care about the peeling wallpaper, or anything else -- as long as I can score them a hit. I figure I can lie about that.

Okay wow, that went way darker than I set out for, ha ha. No seriously, I've got some really good prospects. I'm going up there tomorrow to check out a couple of rooms that seem reasonably priced, and also -- more importantly -- to have my job interview. Which I'm gonna rock. And it's a really good company in a lot of ways, so I think I'll be in good shape.

I will definitely have to watch my money a bit closer but with everything I've got going on, I figure that'll be a temporary issue. Because soon... SOON I will rule the world!

Excuse me. I just finished watching an outrageous B movie. Heh.

Regarding last post

2009-03-29T23:00:00.000-07:00

I usually hate those pretentious artists who go on and on about what was behind their art and what they were trying to do and blah blah blah. I feel the art should speak for itself, generally. But in this case, I have to break my own rule and add a footnote of sorts.

I was trying to do something with wildly conflicting emotions, ultimately silly but with dark undertones. It wasn't a chronicle of my life so much as an experiment. I don't consider myself a poet but I sometimes like to dabble in the form. "She" was intended as a darkly funny freestyle tone poem.

It was inspired in part by not being able to fall asleep even though I was exhausted, and in part by the webcomic "A Softer World" (www.asofterworld.com), which has some severely fucked up (but often funny) stuff.

Anyway, I guess I got a big fail on that one, but it was the kind of thing that sticks in my head unless I write it down, so I did.

There you go, the DVD extra for the last post.

She

2009-03-28T20:52:00.000-07:00

smells like roses now

not knowing

it was the coconut scent

that drove me crazy

The rose perfume just makes me want to sneeze.

Last night, insomniac; her

arms around me

lend no solace, no comfort

they are the wrong arms

Also that damned perfume is giving me a headache.

I'll be moving soon

she misses me already, she says

There's nothing I can say to that

So instead I roll over

But I sure won't miss that perfume.

Later I stare at patterns

on the ceiling

Thoughts torpid and muddy; darkly existential

(dwelling perhaps on the

unbroken chain of wrong arms)

She sleeps beside me, sated

And I try not to sneeze.

Movie Review: I Love You, Man

2009-03-28T20:17:00.001-07:00

I saw I Love You, Man last night.

I gotta say, I laughed my fucking ass off through most of the movie. Jason Siegel and Paul Rudd really have earned their place as comedic rising stars. And they actually CAN act, as witness the fact that in the various projects I've seen each of these guys in, they are noticeably different people, even down to body language.

The movie IS hilarious, but it's also actually pretty damned original, which is no small thing in this day and age of endless adaptations, remakes and revamps. Not that those are all bad, but it's kinda nice to see something that really hasn't been done before.

If you've seen the trailers, you know what the movie is about. But I was pleasantly surprised that the trailer really can't replace the movie (as is often the case, particularly with comedies: they put the best stuff in the trailer; the rest is just filler). In this case, the trailer really just tells you the plot, in the broadest of broad strokes. It does not convey the impressively nuanced characters, nor does it destroy the best jokes.

In case you've been living under a rock (or in North Carolina), I Love You, Man is about Peter, a dude who never had a male best friend -- he always found himself closer to women. Which was never a problem until he pops the question and suddenly finds himself in need of a Best Man.

So, in typical movie fashion, our boy forays out into the world of "Man-Dates" and internet connections, in search of bromance. As to be expected, hilarity ensues through a series of mismatches (some thoroughly disastrous). But obviously he finds eventually finds a kindred soul of sorts, in the form of Sidney (Jason Siegel) and that's where the real fun begins.

I'm not going to spoil any of the jokes -- and honestly I'm not sure I could. A lot of it is situational/character-driven humor (I had to bite my hand hard, repeatedly, to keep from yelling at the poor fool to stop trying to be cool, dude -- it ain't working) rather than any form of slapstick, sarcasm or witty one-liners, which is also kind of refreshing.

As said, Rudd and Siegel do an excellent job filling out their roles, making their characters believable and relatable. Somewhat less impressive was Zooey, played by The Office's Rashida Jones. Now don't get me wrong, this woman is gorgeous in a very down to earth way and I love seeing her. And I don't think her acting ability is to blame. But her character didn't seem to connect with me. She seemed predictable and flat, even as her mysteriously Technicolor bronze skin tone leapt from the screen and tried to stab my eyes.

Whoever was in charge of the overall color scheme around that poor girl should be tied naked to a chair at the end of the Santa Monica Pier, liberally coated in breadcrumbs and fish guts. You don't give an olive complected girl nothing but yellow. Yellow light, yellow walls, yellow shirt -- it looks fucking weird, like she's the love child of Doc Savage and Jill Masterson (the girl who died in Goldfinger).

Anyway, the fact that that is my biggest complaint about the movie says a lot, I think. Well, not really, because I don't complain much about movies. But I really did like this one, for a lot of reasons. If you want a good solid couple hours of laughs and feel-good shit, check this one out.

Oh, word to the wise: There are extra scenes during the credits that are well worth staying for.

Shit's not bad...

2009-03-22T13:40:00.000-07:00

I've been hearing a lot of trash talk about Joss Whedon's new show, Dollhouse. Apparently quite a few people aren't liking it but some continue to watch it out of loyalty to Whedon and/or in hopes the show will start to not suck. But they SAY this, in tones of near derision.

No one, however, seems willing to talk about just why they think it sucks. They use generalities, they say it would take too long to list all the reasons. Could it be they just don't actually have any articulated reasons?

Also I find it interesting that they've conveniently forgotten the whole first season or two of Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Come on, a giant praying mantis was better than Eliza Dushku running around looking pretty?

Moreover, you gotta realize that the show's conceit is going to create problems with the studio's executives. They don't wanna be seen as condoning human trafficking, prostitution, et cetera. So they're going to interfere, in the best interests (they think) of their studio. Thus guaranteeing that we're not really seeing what Whedon wants us to be seeing. Not really.

I've been watching, and I gotta say that it's building up into something intricate and interesting a lot faster than a lot of other shows have. How many "great" TV shows took three or four seasons to hit their stride and actually become good? Try pretty much all of them. LOST is about the only exception I can think of, frankly -- and even that show needed time to become what it did. Don't try to deny it. You know I'm right.

I think people aren't loving the show not because it's not a good show, but because they don't like the idea of being a doll, or a slave. The concept is liable to induce a knee-jerk reaction particularly amongst (I think) Americans, for whom slavery is to this day an extremely charged and volatile subject. So much so that they can't or won't look past the apparent trappings to see what the show really is.

* * *

Another new show that's not bad is Lie to Me, which has also had its share of detractors, apparently.

Now, I'm going to admit, the thing that closed me on this show was not the subject matter, but one of the actresses.

Monica Raymund pretty much blew me away with those eyes, that jaw, those lips. Plus she plays a little fireball, which always tickles me. I like little fireballs.

But the more I watched, the more I found the show itself compelling. At its heart, the show is about observation, about seeing what most people don't. Which resonates with me as an artist, because that of course is what I do, what all artists do. And to use that to track down the truth, whatever that might be -- well, that's noble. We need a bit more nobility in the world, if only people would see it.

So yeah, these shows aren't bad. Even my guilty pleasure (How I Met Your Mother) seems a hell of a lot better than the crap I remember watching while I was growing up.

If it weren't for the popularity of these freaking reality shows, I'd think America was getting spoiled by good stuff. But when you factor those in, I guess it evens out.

It's a Solid Bet

2009-03-16T21:41:00.000-07:00

At least five out of the top 10 "winners" in the 2009 Darwin Awards will involve cell phones.

This is not just me talking, oh no. This bears the sombre weight of prediction.

It's nothing new that people don't think. It's a well-known pet peeve of mine, in point of fact. People in general do not think. You might think they're thinking, but all they're really doing is running on a series of automaticities that preserve their carefully-constructed facade of a productive, valuable member of society. If any thought at all could be said to be occurring, I guarantee it is not about whatever they're doing, when they're doing it.

Case in point: I got rear-ended the weekend before last. Wasn't a big deal, didn't do any real damage to either car. But I was at a full and complete stop, and so was the rear-ender, when she suddenly decides to take her foot off her brakes and give me a little love-tap.

I turned around, all aghast, to see her giggling away on her cell phone. That she'd just been involved in a minor vehicular collision had completely passed her by. Or maybe it hadn't, because she got the hell out of my lane as quickly as she could, though she never acknowledged me in any way.

Not only is it currently illegal to drive and talk on the cell phone (barring bluetooth), what the hell is up with the bump from a full stop? Well, she couldn't have been thinking about her driving, could she now?

I've seen women with strollers stop in the middle of a driveway to answer a call. Not a residential driveway, either. One next to a busy parking lot. But then, you'd have to think to know that parking lots reduce aggregate IQ by 15-20% upon entry. It's not like you'd lose the call forever if you don't answer right away, either. Most, if not all, cell phones keep call records.

Today I went to the bathroom at work. There's an outer door and a short hallway that leads to the respective genders' excretion depositories. I opened said outer door and was immediately confronted with a very large, blue-jeaned ass.

This woman had stopped less than a yard into the hallway, while holding a loaded baby carrier, to pick up some sundries she'd dropped. While she was also talking on her bloody cell phone.

If I'd been any slower on the uptake, she would've gotten an assful of door and a faceful of linoleum.

As it was, she barely acknowledged my presence as she shuffled forward, juggling phone, baby and whatever the hell she'd dropped (which she dropped again, with perfectly Keatonesque inevitability).

I feel so very, very sorry for that baby. Because the daddy can't be all that either, to pick Moby Denim for a baby mama. Not that her ass is her -- you should please excuse the double entendre -- biggest problem. Or even that it makes her a bad person. It's her notable lack of intelligence that I'm insulting yours by belaboring.

Mark my words. The '09 Darwin Awards will be rife with cell-phone deaths.

I can't in good conscience say I'm entirely sorry about that. These unthinking cyphers are best removed from society. But sadly, as evidenced by that sure-to-be-orphaned bundle of joy -- not before they reproduce.

When Life Gives You Shit...

2009-03-14T13:48:00.000-07:00

...You can still make a profit selling to gardeners.

This past week has been unbelievably crazy. Everyone's got drama, everyone needs money, everyone is uptight blah blah blah wah wah wah.

I've mentioned before somewhere that we have a houseguest in the form of my mom's best friend. It's been over a year now that she's been staying with us, less a few months here and there when she was visiting her family or whatever. A year to not get a job, not get her own place and basically not do anything of value besides cleaning up the apartment now and then, and sometimes cooking.

I recently found out she has a long history of living off her friends to the point where they can't take it anymore and kick her out -- and then she acts like the injured party and badmouths the erstwhile friend.

Also she apparently snores so stentoriously that my mom hasn't had a proper night's sleep for a year. Even with earplugs. Which contributes now to my mother's physical collapse from exhaustion.

Basically the woman is a parasite. A big, fat, covertly evil parasite. Seriously.

My stepdad has had enough of all of it. His various interests will require he stay here for an extended period, so he's elected to move to a different, cheaper apartment. Our current place is his apartment but my arrival left him sleeping on the floor in the living room when he visited. No one liked it but he insisted on it so ... yeah. But now that he's getting a new place, he wants one of the two bedrooms (my mother gets the other [they're not married anymore, just friends], which means I'd be the one sleeping in the living room.

And if the Parasite stays with us for any length of time, she'll be in the living room too.

Which is not acceptable to either of us. And my stepdad knows it.

So I need to get a new place. In that I really kinda fucking hate OC (although to be fair, I've been a total social maladroit until recently), and I don't wanna move twice, this means that by sometime in May, I'll be living in Los Angeles County. Don't know where yet, exactly, but it'll probably be in the Glendale/Burbank area, or possibly in a loft apartment downtown. I'm hoping to score some roomies, actually. Much as I'd love to have my very own place, I'm really not in a financial position for that to be realistic at all.

Which brings me to the next issue: Money and jobs.

Money-wise, it seems like suddenly, just when I really need to be saving as much as possible, everyone suddenly wants my fucking paycheck. The bank docked me $70 for a bogus overdraft (which I need to deal with), the credit card company suddenly originates that I owe them $60 in addition to usual fees (which I will also deal with). Oh, and all the bills I pay arrived in the mail yesterday.

So here's me, two months from needing to get a new place (which = all kinds of costs) and a new job (which will need to pay at least half again as much as my current one). It would be smart to save up, right? Except no one seems to want me to. So for the next two months, I'm going to be even more hermitic than usual, saving every possible penny. Last night was the last time I'll be going out for a while. Well, maybe St. Patrick's Day. But only maybe.

Meanwhile, work this past week was insanely busy, and the customers I had to deal with were total idiotic bitches. Seriously. I won't get into gory details but my senior turns around and yells at ME -- the dude who put in like 5 hours of unpaid overtime and skipped three lunches to get the job done, and that was on my own origination -- because the customer always has to be right.

Those customers can suck it.

So yeah, the contemplation of a new job is actually kind of a nice one. I mean, I do generally like working where I do, but it's definitely time to move on.

All of this made for a crazy, stressful week, one where all my stable points, all the things I more or less took for granted, or as problems solved, are suddenly unstable, ungranted, unsolved.

Hells yes I'm nervous -- my previous experiences on my own were significantly different from what this will be -- but I'm also muy excited.

Because the waiting is over, you see. I've spent the last three or four years basically waiting for certain conditions to be fulfilled so I could go out and live my life at last. Well, those conditions have not been fulfilled (although they eventually will be), but the waiting is over. It's carpe diem time, boys and girls.

Carpe fucking diem.

It's been a movie weekend

2009-03-08T21:22:00.000-07:00

Well yeah, I do see a lot of movies anyhow, but over the past four days I've had my ass in a theatre chair a little more than usual.

Thursday night I went and saw The International. Clive Owen, Naomi Watts? Snooze-fucking-fest. I mean, true, I was already tired as fuck and I couldn't hear shit -- something was up with the speakers and/or my hearing aid that night -- so the flick already had two strikes. But I basically saw the movie by watching the trailer. Don't waste money on it. Wait for it to come on TV or pirate it if you absolutely must see it. But even then you'll wish you got those hours of your life back.

Funny thing though was we saw it on Thursday and there was a line forming for the 12:01 showing of Watchmen. The line had two people in it at 7pm. They'd been waiting two hours already. I felt so sorry for them; had I been less tired and not working the next day, I would totally have joined them. When we came out of our movie, the line was a whopping 7 people long.

It wasn't like that in Burbank. Went to see Watchmen on Saturday evening on IMAX. Forty-five minutes before the show time, the line stretched from the doors almost halfway around the building. I was glad I got there early so I could save seats for all my amigos who came to watch it with me.

Watchmen was a terrific movie. It was long and involved (and unless you've read the book you probably won't realize just how involved) but absolutely great to see. I don't think there's really a whole lot else I can say about it other than see it -- but don't expect it to be anything like the other comic book movies you may have seen. It's rated R for a reason. Some critics made pooh-pooh about "campy" elements. To them I say psh. It's a movie about people dressing up in weird outfits and wearing domino masks to fight crime. Yeah, there's gonna be some camp vibes. But you can't deny the movie has style. Some others have made noises about the fact that some elements are different from the book. I think it worked, and there's no call for disappointment on anyone's part.

Tonight I went to see Slumdog Millionaire. Having seen it, I can totally understand why it won Best Picture. It's very artistically done, as well as having a good message, good acting, and also opening your eyes to the realities of life in some parts of the world. Rare these days in that while it's intense, dramatic and has very serious themes, it's also not afraid to have a little fun here and there, particularly in the closing credits. It was brilliant, and I'm glad I saw it.

Okay, that's the movie review for now. Cheers.

Carpe diem

2009-03-08T12:26:00.000-07:00

Today is a beautiful day in Tustin.

The recent rains have hosed the city down, giving it a depth and sparkle normally obscured by dust and smog and the oily veneer of overweening materialism.

The sky is a perfect, delicate eggshell blue, punctuated by a benign armada of puffy clouds. It's a storybook sky, a classic Spring sky. It makes you want to grab children, dress them in pale pastels and dash to a broad expanse of bright green parkland with baskets in search of hidden plastic ovipoforms.*

The air temperature is in the mid- to low-60s, a pleasant, clement temperature. It's not too humid or too dry; it's warm enough to feel comfortable in shirtsleeves and maybe a light sweater but not so warm that you keep taking the sweater off.

The sun is bright enough for sunglasses but not actinic or piercing. It's a calm light, a loving light, the light one remembers from one's youth when the world was safe and clean and full of adventure and mystery.

It's the kind of day that makes you want to dig out the hibachi, or find the old catcher's mitt, or strap on the hiking shoes. The kind of day that makes me want to get in my car and explore. It's a day for the Great Outdoors, for communion with nature, for appreciating the world we live on and that gives us such wonderful days.

So of course I got back inside as soon as possible, my back to the window, to write this blog.

*Yes, that means "egg shapes".

His Name is Not Ickett

2009-03-06T17:50:00.000-08:00

An article on the Yahoo landing page (http://omg.yahoo.com/blogs/goddess/m-i-a-my-baby-is-not-called-ickett/191?nc) made me laugh uncontrollably.

I don't really give a shit about MIA, her baby, her baby's name, or even rap in general. I only saw this because it's on the entertainment landing page and you can't blame me for wtfing my way to a story with a title like that.

Come on. "Ickett"? And people believed that?

I'm still giggling.

Although that may also be attributable to my excitement for the weekend...

M is for Magnetic

2009-03-03T17:29:00.000-08:00

Don't really have a whole lot to say here. I think most who would read this are on MySpace and know of my recent shenanigans.

But just in case: I've somehow managed to break down a barrier I've had in my life for some time. See, for a long time I've been what could charitably be called an introvert. I've tended to be quiet and maybe appear a little withdrawn. While I have had no real problems with talking to anyone (besides the obvious sensory issues), it would be pretty rare that I would attract complete strangers and company would be mutually enjoyed.

In the last two weeks, I have noticed a change in this.

My last blog detailed (a little too explicitly, perhaps) what happened a couple weeks ago. Last weekend I was at various social functions and such, and somehow I've become fucking magnetic. Moreover, I'm magnetizing people who actually seem pretty interesting and cool (unlike before, when the only type of person I could count on magnetizing was a cougar).

Friday night, Bear Brewing Company beer tasting and Joe's 30th. I never lacked for company. I mean, they're a friendly bunch but this was unusual. Specifically a slender hipster girl named Jacqueline (if I remember correctly -- it was kinda noisy when she introduced herself). That was interesting and fun.

Went home, hit my bars. Jamie cuddled me and kissed my neck. Can't say I didn't see that coming, but bears mentioning.

Saturday night. A long-term friend's birthday party in LA. The prettiest girl there spent the whole evening talking to me, and others tried but at inopportune moments. When she wasn't talking to me, other people were. And it wasn't desultory bored conversation on either side, either. We all kept each other entertained; whereas before I'd have quickly run out of things to say and awkward silence would ensue, now I'm a bottomless well of interesting shit. Apparently.

Went home, hit my bars, where Summer danced me to the ground. Someone else, whose name I didn't get, felt me up very thoroughly (and surprisingly. But I totally gained points with her friends and her husband by reacting with aplomb). I also danced with Summer's boyfriend, which was pretty fucking funny. I made more friends, people I know I'll happily hang with in the future.

The greatest thing about all of this: I never once froze up or felt intimidated by the hot chicks or whatever. I never felt self-conscious, and I never had to worry about being caught checking them out, because that just didn't enter into it. I'm successfully not making any kind of romantic or overbearing conversational overtures on anyone, and maybe people sense that and have to fill the vacuum.

Or maybe I've just grown up a little, these few short weeks before I turn 30, and have finally begun to become the person I should be.

Last Night...

2009-02-22T15:39:00.000-08:00

I feel weird today. Invigorated somehow. Powerful. I don't know what's up with that. But I totally feel like I could get any chick I wanted.

I was just at the grocery store, picking some stuff up. And there were some totally hot chicks there. And I'm pretty sure I scared one of them. It may have been my expression. It was probably predatory. Like a fox eyeing a chicken. Licking its chops. Drooling.

On the other hand, the other chick looked like she might not mind an advance. It's a crying shame I got tied up at the register, because I would happily have asked for her number.

Where is this all coming from? It's coming from last night, baby.

It was a weird night. Around 10:30 I moseyed on over to my bar. It was a sausage fest of alarming proportions. But the bartender made up for that. Oh, this girl is unbelievably gorgeous. In the cute way, not the haughty "I'm too sexy for this planet" way that is so popular in SoCal. Dark hair, strikingly bright green eyes. Great smile. Very sexy body. Which she had on display in her tiny skirt.

Apparently she and one of the regulars (Tron -- a good guy. Bastard's so ripped he could be an underwear model) have started fucking, because they were pretty much making out all over the bar. Tron was playing pool at a table near mine; she went over to him and started cheesecaking on his table, jumping up onto the edge of the table, leaning back and shaking her boobs. I happened to be lining up a shot just as she crossed her legs. Let's just say I totally fucking missed my shot. Damn.

Anyway, they were interesting enough to keep me there for a couple beers. There was also Jamie, a cute blonde chick. Can't decide whether she's flirting with me or not. It's been a few weeks now, still haven't figured it out. But she doesn't mind me being around, so whatever. She's been drama queen all weekend, so there wasn't much flirting lately. Instead I got to talking with some random dude there; turns out he's a graphic artist, like me, so we end up having a fifteen minute conversation about fonts and graphics programs. He's into Corel, I use Illustrator, etc, etc.

Still and all, in spite of the ongoing softcore porn show behind the bar, I decided to go to my other bar and see what was what there. What was what was that hardly anyone was there, either. Which is just weird, because usually on a Saturday night there are a lot of people there. A few I knew. A Carrie Fisher-lookalike was giggling at me across the bar. She was with a friend and a gentleman with an iron-gray beard had his arms over both their shoulders. I'm pretty sure he was trying to set up a three-way. I went over to her and asked her about it. She giggled some more, said, "I don't know, I'm just going with the flow. I'm easy." She looked up at me and actually batted her eyes.

Now, when I compare her to Carrie Fisher, I'm not talking about Slave Leia. She looks like Carrie Fisher does now. No thanks. I nodded and patted her hand. "I'm sure you are." My teeth are bared, but I am not smiling. Bye bye.

The band was pretty good. I even knew some of the songs they were playing. Such patrons as were there and ambulant were on the floor getting their groove on. The bulk of these were a bevy of South American women. One was playing with her scarf, draping it over her face so just her eyes showed. It was an improvement. She caught me looking at her and crooked her finger at me. I was saved by one of her friends distracting her.

I circulated around the bar a few times, making small talk with the staff and some of the people I knew. Suddenly someone was at my elbow. It was one of the SouthAm women. Up close her crow's feet made her look almost Asian. She said, "A lot of people are looking at you."

Great, I'm about to be mauled by a pack of cougars, I thought. "Is that so," I said instead.

"Yes," all smiley. "What's that you're drinking?"

"Rum and coke."

"Wow, that is such a coincidence. I'm from Guatemala and we make rum there."

Holy crap, it's a sign! We must be made for each other! Ravish me now, cougar lady. "That's cool. What's it called? Can you get it here?"

"No, no, I don't think so. They're local. But it's the best rum."

"Well, I'll be sure to ask about it if I'm ever in Guatemala." Right, give me the no-name rum that the cougars like. It's the best stuff.

"Would you like to join us? There are five of us here."

Why yes, I can count, thanks. "Hmmm." What the hell -- what else am I doing? And only one of them is actually gross. "Sure, why not? Hi, hi, hi, hi, hi. Those names have way too many fucking syllables. I'm sorry, there's no way I'm gonna remember them. I'm not even sure I'm going to want to. Oh, I said, sorry, I'm not getting your names. It's too loud, I'm deaf, it's how it is." Actually, a couple of them don't look that much older than me. That one, I make 35, tops. That one could actually be my age. But damn, she's tall. They grow 'em big down there. Hel-lo Amazon woman.

The women arrayed themselves on stools around the booth, most of them wearing their coats. "Oh, you were about to go? That sucks. Come on, you guys were checking me out, now's your chance. Sit down, relax!" They did.

I hate the questions that inevitably come next. I hate asking them, I hate being asked them. But they always happen. It's part of the trifecta: "What's your name", "what do you do", "do you live around here". Sometimes "do you come here often" replaces "do you live around here". But they're always asked. It's inescapable.

Then the band started playing Sweet Home Alabama. You can't not dance to that song. And here I was with five women. "Hey, I like this song."

"You wanna dance? With all of us?"

Someone please get a camera. This shit needs to go on YouTube. "Yeah, let's hit the floor!"

The began. And it was fun. There was no thought on my part of getting it on with any of these women, so I could just enjoy myself. Two of them sat down after the second song, so for the third I gave them lap dances. They were two of the younger girls (although "younger" was still older than me). The youngest had been pretty distant, but she warmed up after that.

Then there was the girl in yellow. Her, I danced with more than the others. She was short and had hazel eyes and a nice laugh; she was probably about 35.

We pretty much danced until last call. My legs were, by then, killing me with malice aforethought and my forehead was sheened with sweat. I am sadly, sadly out of shape. I seriously need to deal with that.

The girls all got the coats back on, I made my goodbyes as everyone went outside. The woman who first spoke to me said, "You like my friend, don't you?"

"Eh?"

She pointed. The girl in yellow was standing by the car. "Go kiss her."

I did a double take. "You're seriously telling me to mack on your friend?"

"We'll wait in the car," she said, suiting action to her words. It was just me and yellow girl.

"Thanks for the dancing," I said. "It was nice to meet you." We hugged. "Your friend said I should kiss you," I laughed. She tipped her eyes up at me, her lips quirking. "Oh," I said. "You actually want me to kiss you. Cool, okay."

What followed was hands-down the best kiss I've had since 2006. When we broke, we were both pretty dazed. "Whoa damn."

"We need to do that again," she said. "But only once, or the girls will get mad."

"Hells yes," I said.

After a few minutes: "You know, I really don't live far. You could totally..."

"No, I'm driving," she said.

"Heh. I could go with you, then."

She was actually considering it when the first lady appeared at my elbow again. "No no," she said. "You have to get to know us first. We're not... We're not... not..."

"Sluts?" I offered.

"Yes, sluts. We're not sluts. You have to get to know us first."

"What do you think I'm trying to do? I want to get to know her very intimately." She put her hands on her hips and gave me that stern look women do. Yellow slipped out of my arms and got in the car. "Are you seriously cock-blocking me now? After you threw me at her?"

"Call her later. We need to go now."

"Call her?" I protested as she got in the car. "How the hell am I going to do that? I don't have your number?" They backed out, waving at me. "You gonna give me your number?"

Yellow smiled sweetly at me and waved. Then they drove off.

What the fuck?

There's a 7-11 across the street; I went in. "Can you still sell beer this late?"

"You've got about ten minutes, yeah."

"Ring 'em up."

Guy stirring coffee: "Dude, you were on fire out there."

"What?"

"That was you just now, in the parking lot? I saw you at McClure's, too. You get her number?"

"No man, her friend cockblocked me and they drove off."

"Ah, sucks man. She was really into you."

"Fuckin'... I could see myself getting it on with her," I replied. "I suppose. I'm getting tired of being cougar bait but this chick wasn't that much older than me."

"No yeah, she was like 35, tops." He was still stirring the coffee.

One of the 7-11 guys came up, holding yesterday's unsold doughnuts. "Guys want free?"

"Yeah, sure," I said, helping myself. "Anyway, what's up with that," I continued, for the benefit of the other guys, who looked like they hadn't seen a real vag since birth. "She was the one that threw me at the chick, and then she cock blocks me? But that girl in yellow, she was a damned good kisser..."

Dude was still stirring the damned coffee. "I think they come here now and then, you'll see them again."

"Thing is, I don't go there that often. Say, if you see them, would you give them my number for me? Or get theirs for me?"

"Oh sure," he replied. "Be happy to."

"Cool," I said, and walked out of the store, secure in my knowledge that some random drunk guy who I've never met before would help me take care of business.

It didn't occur to me until I got home that I hadn't given that guy my number, either. So much for that idea.

The rest of the night is kind of a haze. I watched "How I Met Your Mother" and slammed back the whole six pack. I smoked some cigarettes, I went to the bathroom a lot. I fell down three times. Fortunately not while I was going to the bathroom.

At some point I fell asleep. I could still smell Yellow's scent, could still taste her.

I really hope next time I see her, I don't discover that alcohol was all that made her attractive. I mean, I've come to terms with the fact that I'm unlikely to score with a chick like the hot bartender, but I've still got some kind of standard... But still, whatever. Those kisses were bloody amazing. Hence my good mood today.

Now I just gotta work on the predatory thing. Predatory bad.

K is for "Kill me now"

2009-02-14T14:22:00.001-08:00

My head hurts. It's not as bad as it was when I woke up this afternoon, but it still hurts.

I got way too drunk last night. The "falling down for no reason" kind of drunk. The "willing to at least mack on anything with a vagina" kind of drunk. But unfortunately, not the "can't remember anything that happened" kind of drunk.

Not that it was all bad. But seeing a beautiful young girl with red underwear throwing herself at men old enough to be her grandfather still causes me emotional anguish.

No, I wasn't at a strip club. That I would have understood. It was one of my two local bars, and it was thanks to her low-riders that I know the color of the pretty girl's undies. I forget her name. I learned it when I offered to dance with her. (She refused, citing exhaustion. Thirty seconds later she was dancing with her friend. Mmm-hm.)

I did end up dancing. Some woman whose name I also forget. She was probably about 40 and frankly not very pretty. But she had on blue suede boots. Royal blue, my favorite color. And she was friendly. So I danced with her because she wanted to dance, and a few drinks later there was some macking outside. I'm not proud of it but at that stage of insobriety I'll kiss pretty much anyone who's willing. It's one of the major reasons I don't drink that much anymore.

The irony of this, of course: If I'm that drunk, my junk goes on strike. Essential services only. Which is actually kind of awesome. Because it prevents me from going too much further down the "anything with a vag" path.

Before the debauchery I was up in LA visiting a friend and her friends that she wanted me to meet. That was interesting and fun. But the night would have been a lot better -- and the two hour drive there more worth it -- if I could have met up with some of my other friends in the area afterward. Sadly, my primary contact wasn't returning my calls or texts.

Note to self: Don't drink a can of Red Bull immediately before plunging into the Friday-Night Crawl. Not unless the drive also involves a catheter.

This put me in a somewhat foul mood exacerbated by the endless stream of Valentine's Day-themed commercials on the radio. Hence: debauchery.

I know. I'm telling this all out of order. This is essentially a stream of unconsciousness blog, a otnemoM blog; ramblings of a man drinking lousy coffee and pushing too-curly hair out of bleary eyes. Trying to jump-start my mind, trying to bootstrap myself to humanity. This is my second cup of coffee and I want to go back to sleep.

This morning my phone chirped from somewhere. I'm pretty sure it wasn't what woke me up. Might have been. More likely it was the necessity for various types of excretion. My clothes were all over the room, my computer was on the floor, unplugged. Miraculously, the half-emptyfull can of beer on my makeshift bed-table was still upright.

It took a few minutes to find my phone. It was in my pants pocket, half under the bed. I had three messages; the first made no sense but appeared to be a recording from Verizon. I think someone paged me, but the recording doesn't wait for your greeting. It just starts. Another was from a friend here in OC who wanted to go see a movie tonight. And the third was from my buddy who didn't return my calls last night. Apparently he's been unwell and had gone to sleep at an early hour last night, well before I called him.

So I needn't have been worried about possible friend alienation. But I could still be annoyed by the Valentine's Day commercials.

J is for...

2009-02-08T15:53:00.000-08:00

Well, I sure could go easy and use my name for this. But frankly, that's boring.

So I have to think of something else.

Now that I've started writing this, though, I suddenly realize I don't really feel like thinking of something esoteric or interesting. I could be watching my Netflix DVD or even working on one of my books (which I really should be doing).

I could do a movie-review thing and talk about Jumper, a movie I own primarily because it filled out the 4 movies requirement so I could get three others for $20 at Blockbuster. But aside from the fact that it was a halfway decent movie about teleportation that I would have enjoyed a whole lot more if Darth Emo hadn't been the lead actor -- there isn't much to say. It's too old a movie now anyhow. If you haven't seen it yet, odds are you won't anyway.

So. That leaves funny. So the topic will be juice.

It must be exterminated.

I did my part today. I visited a Jamba Juice where my order was taken by a young lady with a terrific smile (making me wish suddenly that I was about a decade younger, if that doesn't sound creepy, ha ha). I bought a Razzmatazz and I consumed it.

Do your part today to end the juice menace.