Monday, February 28, 2005

Island

Sunday, February 27, 2005

The Demise of Sita and the Return of the Chihuahua Hive Mind

Aside from the individual mini-novellas we all have to write for my creative fiction class, we're also doing a group novella. Each person in class writes a page. The next person has to add onto what the previous person did, but they can't edit what they get — you have to work with what people give you. As the group novella has progressed, what people have been giving each other is shit. I read all the previous installments in sequence and I still don't know what's going on or why anybody's doing what they're doing.

I never like the idea of doing group work. It's rough and you have to work your schedule around people that aren't you, which is way harder than working centering everything around yourself, which I enjoy. In any case, my grade depends on me writing something for this trainwreck, so I did my contribution tonight. In retrospect, starting another project — however small — after forty-eight hours of writing was probably a bad idea. Too late now.

I'm reproducing my installment here because I think it's funny. I should preface it by saying that I felt people were introducing too many characters to an already complicated story. My installment eliminated many of those characters — notably, in ways that would keep people from bringing them back to life like Dina did.

I will not, however, preface this with a synopsis of what happened before. Even if you had the ten or so preceding chapters, I swear this wouldn't make any more sense. All I'll say is that the installment that led into mine ended with two Chihuahuas being dropped by a vulture and said Chihuahuas wondering if they'll look like carne asada upon impact.
And carne asada is exactly what Tiny and Jose turned into the moment they landed. They did, in fact, hit the car, but that did nothing to break the fall. In fact, landing on the metal hurt them infinitely more than the desert sand ever could. Splattered and chunky, Tiny and Jose were very much so dead — certainly in a way that no means, whether medical or supernatural, could ever revive them.

"Oh, those two dogs are dead now," Sita said. "I'm hot."

"Me too. I'm sure it's been hours since I've had anything to drink," Jason said.

"And, being a bum, I only drink alcohol," said Fred. "So I'm dehydrated as well."

Time passed as the three people and two Chihuahuas trudged onward, in search of some refuge from the brutal heat. Their bodies, already weakened from the stress of the day's events, soon gave out. Fred Durst was the first to fall. His bodily literally depleted of every drop of water, he collapsed, a pile of filthy rags and matted hair coughing and choking in the desert.

"I—I—I always loved you, Sita," he said before all life rushed from his body in a final violent spasm. Needless to say, he voided his bowels.

A mile or so later, Jason and Sita collapsed as well, falling onto Luis the Chihuahua in the process. Jason's head hit a large rock, critically wounding his brain in a way that surely no doctor could ever repair. Dehydration wracked ever muscle in Sita's body in pain. As she lay atop Jason, her limbs twitched slightly. She heaved — alas, she had nothing to throw up. She to died in a very definite and final manner.

Flor, the girl Chihuahua, yapped and nibbled at the human cage that imprisoned her companion, but to no avail. Her tiny frame could budge neither Sita or Jason and the weight of their two, sagging corpses quickly choked all life from Luis, the other Chihuahua.

I—I—I always loved you, Sita, he said before all life rushed from his body in a final, violent spasm. Luis also voided his bowels.

In seconds, an army of flesh-eating ants covered the heap of death and skeletonized Sita, Jason and Luis. The ants thereupon scattered their bones throughout the desert, ensuring that not only would no one ever bring them back from the dead — no one would ever find them, either.

Alone and feeling more insignificant than ever, Flor sat on a sand dune and wondered if death would soon come for her.

I sure wish we hadn't given that dead guy all of our magical Chihuahua power, she thought. O Chihuahua hive mind! How can you help me now?

Meanwhile, all the way in Hawaii, Joss and Carl sipped fancy drinks on a beautiful, golden beach. Joss wondered for a moment if Twyla was taking good care of her puppy dogs. Oh, that's silly, she thought. I'm sure that stripper who dresses like a whore and uses a fake name was the most responsible person I could have picked to watch my dogs, which I apparently cherish.

"Oh Carl, my husband, I love you so. I'm glad we are married now," Joss said adoringly.

"And I love you as well, wife," said Carl.

Just then, Joss suddenly felt much warmer than she had only moments before. She at first wondered if perhaps the sun had shifted, causing the rays to strike her at a more direct angle. No, this was not the case. Flames had mysteriously engulfed Joss.

"Help! Help! I'm on fire!" she cried.

"Would if I could, woman!" Carl shouted back.

Just before her eyes melted, Joss saw that Carl too was also burning to death. Crowds of beach goers surrounded the burning newlyweds. Some grabbed logs and umbrella stands and tried to beat their flames out, but it only made Joss and Carl die faster.

"I'm dying!" Joss cried.

"Me too!" Carl cried.

"I'm dead now," Joss said.

"Me too," Carl said.
I hope my class doesn't hate me.

Directions for Using an Emery Board

I am looking at a package of emery boards and the how-to-use instructions are ridiculously lengthy. I quote:
Nails should always be filed when dry to insure [sic] smooth edges. Place the emery board under the nail edge at a slant and file in one direction only. Back-and-forth filing will result in cracking and splitting. For best results, nails should be filed into an oval shape following the fingertip contour. Filing into a point weakens nail. The emery board has two distinct surfaces: a coarser side for shaping and a finer-textured surface for smoothing.
This is why I don't use such things. Too complicated. The last part is what really gets me:
Keep out of reach of children.
I know this is good advice for most things, but how much damage could a little kid do with Dr. Roger-brand emery boards?

"Kaboom, Huh?"

This girl I went to high school with keeps a blog, "High Heeled Poise." It's through Salon.com. I didn't even know Salon.com did blogs and I don't think I care for the interface. Nonetheless, here she is. When I knew her, everyone called her Kathy, but she apparently shortened it to Kat now. (I think if I could shorten my name to some cute animal word, I think I would too.)

I can't even remember, but I don't think Kat/Kathy/Kathleen and I graduated high school being especially friendly with each other. I honestly can't remember. It's been that long. Nonetheless, I can now know all kinds of personal stuff about her — that is, if it's there on the blog. (I haven't had time to read much of it yet.) I decided against contacting her because, really, what could I say that would be worth her time?

Strange.

Anyone with a keyboard and a clue about how to use Google can find this blog fairly easily. (Until just a few days ago, my Blogger profile was the number one hit if you searched "[my name goes here]." This seems to have changed — I hope temporarily.) I wonder how many of my former classmates are reading this blog, quietly and anonymously. I wonder how many of them know about my personal life and decided against ever contacting me.

Joe and Judy

My lost weekend has just been rescued.

I stopped in at Professor Scott's office hours a few days ago. He's a nice guy, that Professor Scott. We talked about Janet Leigh and "Roswell" and my novella-in-progress and he mentioned that I had to have my piece done by Sunday. Like, done done — climax, falling action, everything. So I sunk nearly my whole weekend into the continuing — and, as of yet untitled — adventures of Joe Roman and Judy Ng.

I just realized that I, in fact, do not present my piece this week. I go next week. I don't resent having lost this weekend though. I feel like for the first time since midterms I did a decent impression of a good student.

In a way, I'm almost disappointed that I lost the hard-charging drive to finish this thing today. I have the vaguest ideas of where the story is headed, but they always spill out onto the page in a way I didn't anticipate. Maybe I'm growing to attached to this characters, but for the life of me I can't stop imagining what might happen next.

Saturday, February 26, 2005

Another Name in the Newspaper

g t o r r e s 27: somebody's been stealing my apples
g t o r r e s 27: its a first for fruit
kidicarus222: you're a first for fruit
g t o r r e s 27: hmmm... im trying to think how that might make sense
kidicarus222: don't think too hard
kidicarus222: i'd hate to send you into another phonehead spiral
g t o r r e s 27: i'll phonehead you right in the eye
kidicarus222: greg, that makes absolutely no sense
kidicarus222: you couldn't possibly phonehead someone in the eye
g t o r r e s 27: think outside the box
kidicarus222: if you're not going to use my words right, then don't use them
kidicarus222: a proper use of the phrase would sound something like this: "fatty fatty phonehead / greg woke up, his butt was dead"

Satan (Disguised as a Goose)

I normally go for Shelley Long, but this works too.
[ link: unmitigated hatred for Teri Garr ]

Bucket of Truth

What am I feeling — is this love or just Pac-Man Fever?

The Little Donny Foundation

I think somebody has siphoned the gasoline out of my car. I feel like I just got gas on Sunday and when I started my car yesterday, I was down to nearly empty. I can either assume that I am getting horrendous gas mileage or I am the victim of petroleum theft.

I am Kuwait.

Lady of the Lake

The roommate and his girlfriend just took a shower together. I have no objection to this. However, I can hear everything in the bathroom and therefore know two things. One: he accused me of using his body wash. This is true, in a sense. Well, every sense. I tried to defend myself by explaining that I don't use much soap, but I think I just made myself sound like a dirty thief instead of just a thief. Two: they did not have sex. I normally do not take such an interest in my roommate's sex life, but it seems to be that sharing a shower would only be worth it if you had sex while you were in there. Otherwise, it seems like you're both just getting an inferior shower experience.

Said girlfriend also totaled her car yesterday. She claims she was "T-boned right at the front of her car," but as Daniel points out, that's doesn't make a T. Thus, she was L-boned. (Not to be confused with "elbowed.")

Face Therapy

The original title for this post was going to be "California Clementines."

Spaghetti Jesus

I had a five-minute conversation with Daniel on the phone yesterday before I realized that I had called the wrong Daniel.

The Story of the Toad

I'm tired again, right down to my bones.

I'm also losing my voice. It's tragically funny because this happens when I get stressed out. I get stressed out because I have too much work to do. That work invariably involves a lot of writing. Thus, deprived of my voice, I am able only to comfortably communicate through writing, which made me lose my voice to begin with.

Mater Dialectician

Whenever people tell me they're busy, I usually assume they're full wrong and have no idea what a real workload feels like. I'm often right. I feel like most students at UCSB have shit excuses for not doing the required reading.

Saigon Suicide Show

If there ever was an all-Asian Aerosmith cover band, I think a good name for it would be "Sweet and Sour Emotion."

Infested With Friars

Best Jack Handey quote ever: "The crows seem to be calling my name, thought Caw."

Thursday, February 24, 2005

With the Speed of a Special Olympics Hurdler

Oh me.

I'm so proud of this review. I'm proud because I'm the one who got to tell a bunch of UCSB students that "Cruel Intentions 3" is set in Santa Barbara. I'm the one who made a bunch of loyal Artsweek readers scan through an entire 500-word review of it. But most of all, I'm proud that I got to introduce the phrase "couldn't get picked up if she queefed beer" into online lexicon.

My proudest accomplishment:
When Choderlos de Laclos wrote Dangerous Liaisons in 1778, he probably wasn’t thinking about Santa Barbara. Nonetheless, somebody else managed to connect our picture-perfect town with de Laclos’ story about the sex games played by French aristocrats for “Cruel Intentions 3” - a direct-to-DVD threequel that technically isn’t soft-core porn, but still makes you feel sleazy when you watch it.

Alexander Payne’s “Sideways” generated a lot of interest locally by being set in Santa Barbara County. Residents could walk to the multiplex and slap down their eight dollars too see pictures of the place they live in. But all this interest in locally set, locally filmed movies has neglected this second-generation offspring of the 1999 update of “Cruel Intentions,” in which Sarah Michelle Gellar and Ryan Phillippe made incest seem fun.

Any doubts that director Scott Ziehl used actual Santa Barbara locales for “Cruel Intentions 3” are quickly dispelled by the film’s opening shot - the Santa Barbara Municipal Airport. Any local frequent flyer will identify this tiny airstrip one of the most picturesque in the state. And it’s at this spot that we meet our protagonists, Jason Argyle (Kerr Smith, formerly of “Dawson’s Creek”) and Cassidy Merteuil (Kristina Anapau), both of whom have flown in to begin another year at Prestridge, a pretentiously named fictional university that combines Westmont affluence with UCSB libido.

The script hastily ties the West Coast action to the original films by explaining that Cassidy is the cousin of Kathryn, the schemer Gellar played in the original “Cruel Intentions.” Kathryn, we’re told, has since traded in her posh Manhattan digs for residency at a methadone clinic. Anapau, a poor man’s Charisma Carpenter, oozes creepiness when she should burn with seduction. Though her skank-zombie character couldn’t get picked up in Isla Vista if she queefed beer, she’s somehow the hottest girl at Prestridge.

The film’s plot boils down to a series of escalating sexual bets - or, like, something. I hoped the bets would spiral wildly out of control - “Dude, I will give you a $10,000 if you do your dad” - but they don’t. Instead, one of the lead characters (Nathan Wetherington) blackmails and then rapes a naíve coed, and you lose any sympathy you might have had for the protagonists.

Yes, “Cruel Intentions 3” sucks just as much as you’d think it would, but it still worth a rent to see our hometown depicted as a luxury resort - and the setting of a spinoff of a movie most of us sat through in high school. It sounds ridiculous, but there’s fun inherent to seeing smutty escapades unfold at, say, the Santa Barbara Museum of Art or under the downtown pier. And who knows - for all the average UCSB student knows, “Cruel Intentions 3” portrays the local well-to-do lifestyle fairly and accurately.

Sure, it would have been better if the film had taken place at UCSB - just think about seeing the lagoon digitally altered to sparkle clear blue - but locals may want to slap this clunker on their Netflix queue nonetheless.

Just be sure to steer clear of “Cruel Intentions 4: Freaky in Fresno.”
Two small gripes, however. I wasn't able to work the movie's worst quote — and, appropriately, the last sentence spoken in the film — anywhere into the review. That quote is "The thing about having sex with someone as fucked up as you are is that you're having sex with someone as fucked up as you are." Yuck.

Secondly, some copy girl apparently thought "queef" was the right spelling — not "queaf." Personally, I always thought "queaf" looked right. Every time I've ever used the word — and I've used it a lot — I mentally spelled it like "leaf" and not "beef." Double yuck.

Creamsicle Sky While the Sun Sets in the West

I shouldn't stay up late. Whenever I do, I go a little crazy. I should do my work in a timely manner and cut myself off from all the weird things that happen when normal people are sleeping. I honestly believe I had a hearse following me tonight — to Freebirds, no less. I'm sure a black cat crossed my path, which has never actually happened to me before. And I'm surprised as hell all of February 23 went by without me remembering what it's an anniversary of.

And that's especially weird, considering an as-yet-unidentified person sent the following text message to me Tuesday morning; "do u remember what tomorrow is???"

Yet to do tonight: my share of the group novella, Dina, Bri, Andrea, Dave and finding out who my friend in the 909 might be.

Wednesday, February 23, 2005

Trendburger With Special Sauce

Another minor tech note: I've made so that every picture that appears on my journal is now a link to a larger version of that picture. And I mean LARGE. In the picture below, for example, you can zoom in close enough to see individual flecks of ash on the raisin box.

And that makes me happy.


Tuesday, February 22, 2005

Every Inch of Me Will Resist You!

I have a lot of work to do, so naturally I'm thinking about suicide again. I'm not depressed or bipolar or anything, you should know. I'm just lazy. To me, for just a fleeting moment, suicide seems like a way to weasel out of work. Of course, I always realize that the implications of killing myself would a bigger pain in the long run and I decide to just do my work. Or watch TV. You know, whatever. For the record, I also often consider chopping off my hands. Everyone would feel totally bad for me if I did — at least until they found out I did it myself. But still, no one could realistically expect me to get much of anything done if I was handless. Except watch TV. Win-win, really.

Anyway, all the suicide thought — however fleeting, of course — got me thinking about my funeral. I've always said that I wanted a cheap funeral. Why throw a big party for me when I'm not around to appreciate it? I understand that grieving drags on and funerals do something to help my loved ones to get through that dark period, so I figured I'd compromise and ask for the cheapest possible funeral that will still give the survivors the closure they need. As long as they play the Simple Minds' "Don't Forget About Me," I'd be happy and whatever money they don't spend on the funeral, they can buy a nice TV set. And they can think of me whenever they watch it.

Today, I took this a step further.

Even if I died today, I would still leave behind a lot of stuff — some of it nice, some of it not worthless. Things like my car and the money in my bank accounts would naturally go to my family, but I feel like my mom and dad and brother wouldn't really want stuff like my CDs, my video games, the DVD collection, the posters, my paintings, my cool clothes. And I'd hate to think of all my rad stuff just sitting in the attic in Hollister. So I propose one of the following options for divvying up my stuff:
[ OPTION A ]
Immediately following my funeral, anybody who wants any of my stuff will be handed a map and then must follow the most mind-bending treasure hunt ever. Like wicked hard. Whoever wins gets everything. Ideally, I'd design the hunt myself in my final days. However, I may not know when my number is up and death may strike like a swift, steely-clawed eagle from hell. (Those who know me well must guess that this is more likely the case.) Fortunately, I have...
[ OPTION B ]
Immediately following my funeral, the chairs or pews or whatever are cleared out for a dance floor. Anyone interested in any of my stuff — while still wearing my funeral clothes — must participate in a dance-a-thon. Whoever lasts the longest wins everything. The music will consist of the following 80s dance hits:
  1. Oingo Boingo - "Dead Man's Party"
  2. Erasure - "Stop!"
  3. Rick James - "Superfreak"
  4. B-52s - "Monster (in My Pants)"
  5. Billy Idol - "Dancin' With Myself"
  6. Dramarama - "Anything, Anything"
  7. E.G. Daily - "Mind Over Matter"
  8. Dead or Alive - "You Spin Me Round (Like a Record Player)"
  9. Falco - "Der Kommisar"
  10. Olivia Newton John - "Let's Get Physical"
  11. Real Life - "Send Me an Angel"
  12. David Bowie - "Let's Dance"
  13. Human League - "Obsession"
  14. New Order - "Blue Monday"
  15. Aneka - "Japanese Boy"
  16. Yaz - "Situation"
  17. Electric Light Orchestra - "Don't Bring Me Down"
I'm not sure if the last song actually came out in the 80s or not, but come on — it's my fucking funeral, picky. Also, I haven't checked if this mix comes in under eighty minutes. It very well might not, in which case I say to please work around this difficult. Again, it's my funeral. And please, no remixes.

So those are the choices. I think I should mention that I'm 100 percent serious about this. I suppose the right thing to do would be to talk to my lawyer and get this all official, but I'm really bad and getting stuff like that done in a timely manner. This is where you come in. If you've read this far, you clearly have some passing interest in me and my life. Thus, if I die without getting this officialized, please present those in charge of my funeral and will with a print-out of this journal entry in hopes that some legal precedent will grant my one last wish.

And now, suicide. No. TV. Definitely TV.

(So maybe Hunter S. Thompson just didn't want to write another book?)

Monday, February 21, 2005

Relax — Don't Think About the Way I Treat You

Sure, sometimes the rain falls so hard that I can't hear what's coming out of my speakers. But even that doesn't stop me from finally — finally — compiling Numbers Eleven and Twelve. I haven't burned a "what I'm listening to" CD since July. Frankly, there hasn't been much to listen to. But that's changed and I'm proud to present the matching set.
NUMBER ELEVEN
  1. Scissor Sisters - "Laura"
  2. Louis XIV - "Finding Out True Love Is Blind"
  3. Donnas - "Take It Off"
  4. Arcade Fire - "Power Out"
  5. Interpol - "Length of Love"
  6. Rilo Kiley - "Execution of All Things"
  7. Chromeo - "Rage!"
  8. Le Tigre - "After Dark"
  9. Depeche Mode - "Policy of Truth"
  10. Bravery - "Unconditional"
  11. Bravery - "Hey Sunshiney Day"
  12. Bravery - "Honest Mistake"
  13. Cure - "The Love Cats"
  14. Tegan and Sara - "Walking With a Ghost"
  15. Killers - "Midnight Show"
  16. Postal Service - "Nothing Better"
  17. Starlight Mints - "Pages"
  18. Arcade Fire - "Rebellion"
  19. Goldfrapp - "Strict Machine"
  20. Beck - "Everybody's Gotta Learn Some Time"
NUMBER TWELVE
  1. Caesars - "Jerk It Out"
  2. Bloc Party - "Banquet"
  3. Arcade Fire - "Laika"
  4. Belle and Sebastian - "I'm a Cuckoo"
  5. Scissor Sisters - "Tits on the Radio"
  6. Bees - "Chicken Playback"
  7. Detroit Cobras - "Ya Ya Ya"
  8. Detroit Cobras - "The Slum"
  9. Detroit Cobras - "Heartbeat"
  10. Cure - "alt.end"
  11. Cars - "Hello Again"
  12. When in Rome - "The Promise"
  13. Morrissey - "Irish Blood, English Heart"
  14. Chromeo - "Needy Girl"
  15. Chromeo - "Way Too Much"
  16. Chromeo - "Mercury Tears"
  17. Fiery Furnaces - "I Lost My Dog"
  18. Ambulance LTD - "Primitive"
  19. Blonde Redhead - "Doll Is Mine"
  20. Scissor Sisters - "Comfortably Numb"
  21. Animal Collective - "Leaf House"
  22. Postal Service - "Against All Odds"
Sure, it's a mishmash of the past sonic year and true I did pillage A CD for DC and Musica Geodesica and true there's way more 80s tracks than on Numbers One through Ten, but I'm really pleased with both this albums.

Sunday, February 20, 2005

Trendburger, Supersized

Tomorrow marks the two-year anniversary of the Drew Mackie's Back of the Cereal Box blog. It seems like I should commemorate this anniversary somehow, but I refuse to recap. The nature of the online journal means that all the content is still there, so if you'd really like to examine my last year — or, at least the pieces of the last year that made the blog — please feel free to do so. Besides, if you really cared, you've been reading the Box often enough to know how I got here and where I'm coming from.

Two years, though. That's either a long time or a drop in the bucket, depending on how you look at it.

I plan to continue writing, so I hope you'll still read. Bare with me, and I promise to amuse you while putting everything in perspective — specifically mine and no one else's. As long as things keep happening, I'll keep writing. For example, Sandra Dee and Hunter S. Thompson are both dead as of this evening. Puts things in perspective, doesn't it?

Oh? It doesn't?

I guess I was wrong. But you can't deny that — much like Janet Leigh and Rodney Dangerfield or John Ritter and Johnny Cash — Sandra and Hunter's coinciding demises gave them the first, last and only opportunity to be discussed in the same sentence, no? That's something I like to think about.

It's not much, but I went back and reformatted my entire journal to work with the new template I started using at the end of the summer. That means resizing pictures and adding titles for entries that didn't already have titles. (And yes, the titles have little bearing on the actual content of the entries, so please stop asking about it.) Now, with the mere click of a link, you can zap back to the first entryI ever wrote, the unfortunately named "Trendburger" post. Go ahead. Marvel at its overwhelming blandness.

The pictures I was once so fond of posting no longer jut into their surrounding text boxes in an aesthetically offensive way. Resizing them made them look a bit pixilated and they're now all smaller and therefore not as good, but I guess I have to be cool with that. Looking back on those months reminded me of how much I liked the combination of image and text and how much less boring my journal looked, so I've decided to reinstate that practice.

Saturday, February 19, 2005

Water

The Mystery of Life, Vol. 841, Chapter 26: "All life begins with Nu and ends with Nu... This is the truth! This is my belief! ... at least for now." Sometimes I just never know what happens next. I can't wait to turn the next page. Honestly, I have no idea.

Friday, February 18, 2005

I'm a Cuckoo

I use Axe body deodorant unabashedly. I don't care if it's the poor man's cologne — or, more correctly, frat guy stink. I like it and will continue using it until I begin to feel too old to do so. While lost in the hygiene aisle today, however, I noticed a trend among the names of Axe's various scents.
  • Orion.
  • Voodoo.
  • Kilo.
  • Tsunami.
  • Essence.
  • Phoenix.
All vaguely natural-sounding, vaguely spiritual, vaguely elemental, vaguely manly. Makes sense, really, considering that they're marketing to guys who want to smell good without paying much or seeming feminine. (Although I think I'd buy at least one novelty can of the scent called Fagtastic.) But I have a quibble with Tsunami. Recent events on the other side of the world lead be to believe that it's not an appropriate name for a scent, especially because I'd imagine the actual scent of a tsunami would be somewhere between sea water and decomposing Indonesian people. And who really wants to smell like that? Thus, please allow me to propose ten possible re-names for the Tsunami scent.
  • Squall. Still wet and powerful and exotic seeming, but not as widely associated with dead.
  • Lynx. Powerful and quick — and coincidentally the name Axe goes by in England.
  • Genesis. Not particularly masculine, but a word a lot of guys would have a positive association with nonetheless.
  • Super Nintendo. Like Lynx and Genesis, it's a defunct video game system. Why not?
  • Hot Asphalt. About as manly as you could get.
  • Peeing on Hot Asphalt. Okay, this is about as manly as you can get.
  • Cobalt. Or Quartz. Or Slate. Most rocks have a sturdy, manly sound to them.
  • Megaton. For that "kaboom" effect. Now that I mention it, Kaboom wouldn't be too bad either.
  • Pickle. Because I like it.
  • Boner. Ultimately, this is what every cologne wants to suggest.
They might as well be up front about it. I'm honestly surprised there isn't a cologne named Boner already. And it wouldn't have to smell like a boner, either. It could smell like anything. The name is just a concept, you see.Thoughts?

Tuesday, February 15, 2005

I Want to Be Your Technicality

Maggi, Roommate Daniel's girlfriend, leaves Us magazine lying around the house. Its frequent home, appropriately, is on the toilet lid. But I can only stare at the wall opposite the shitter for so long before I start craving something to read. Something light, something quick, something that will not linger — the literary equivalent of one of those Listerine strips.

Hello, Us magazine.

I've decided this publication is the worst one I've ever read. It's like a yearbook for some fashionable, glamorous high school that you're not allowed to attend. A third of its pages are reserved for making snarky remarks about people's clothes. It even contains a section called "They're Just Like US!" that proves celebs are real people by showing them doing everyday activities. Ever wanted to know what Alyssa Milano looks like carrying groceries to her car? Flip open Us. And, by the way, no celebrities aren't just like you and me. When we rake our leaves, no one cares. When Benjamin Bratt does it, they take a picture of him and get paid quite handsomely for it. I'm waiting for Us to show me what Naomi Watts' unflushed toilet bowl looks like. "They're just like us! Their bodies expel waste through their anuses!" And thank god for us — I'm sure some of us were beginning to wonder if we were the only ones.

The worst part is that this magazine is hard to ignore. If it's there and your brain is idle, you flip through it. Again, like those Listerine strips. If someone offers you one and you don't have anything in your mouth, you take it. You know your dirty mouth will taste bad again in ten minutes, but you take the strip. Unlike Listerine products, however, I feel Us is making me stupider. I think I'm going to ask Maggi to stop leaving them around the house, before the roommates and I self-devo and start watching E! all day.

Seriously, I'd rather she left loaded guns around the house. At least then we could use them to kill spiders. If I roll up an Us for bug-swatting, I'm scared I'll let one of the words on the cover slip into my head. Then I'd be lost for good.

EDIT: I decided yesterday that Us magazine is also the most poorly named publication ever. A more suitable title: Them.

One Night in Bangkok

How proud am I of me? More than usual. I just used the phrase "technicolor bloodbath" in an academic paper — and with good reason, too.

In town this weekend: Hilly, Nate, Moe, Glenn. It's the "Real World"-"Road Rules" reunion I never had.

We Looked Like Giants

alkiehorn0307: anyway, go do your paper. AIMless is the only way to be when you need to do work.
alkiehorn0307: ooh, punny.
kidicarus222: puny
alkiehorn0307: oooh, burn.
alkiehorn0307: ...truthful but burn.
kidicarus222: we're too hard on ourselves
kidicarus222: (punny?)

Monday, February 14, 2005

The Swing

Apparently, I love the Underdog Girl.

So I'm discussing death with Geo over IM, because it's Valentine's Day and, well, yes. And I'm explaining the origin of my cute little synonym for "dead" — "Cici Cooper." As in, "Julia Child is totally Cici Cooper" or "Didn't you hear that Arthur Miller went Cici Cooper?"

I don't really use it much. It makes me sound stupid, I think. But I explained to Geo anyway that me and a friend saw "Scream 2" back when it came out in the theaters and we both felt oddly troubled when Sarah Michelle Gellar's character got tossed out a window and went splat on the pavement outside her sorority house. The character only appears in two scenes and I didn't watch "Buffy" when I saw "Scream 2." For whatever reason, her death lingered a bit, even though I can't remember discussing it much.

Anyway, two years later, I'm hanging out with the same guy and someone told us that this friend-of-a-friend that we kinda-sorta knew had died. And my friend and I are a little stunned and don't know what to say until he finally comes out with "Wow. He Cici Coopered." And it's in bad taste because. This real person is dead from a car accident and he brings up this stupid girl from a slasher movie. But we started laughing, even though both of us were sad.

So I explain this to Geo and I realize that I always feel bad when the underdog girl dies. In the first "Scream," I was pissed that Tatum gets crunched in a garage door. And I felt bad for Jenny McCarthy's character in "Scream 3" when she dies. And then every other scary movie. And then every other movie and TV show and book. I always felt like Margot would was secretly interesting and that we just didn't know it because Anne's the one who chose to write the diary. I could give a shit about Catwoman. I'll take Poison Ivy. And if I have the choice, I'll pick Birdo over Princess Peach — and hasn't she been in enough games anyway? — I hate the lead girl. I always have. If there's more than one female character in anything, I always like her better and fall a little more in love with her and resent that she's not better developed.

I can remember when Kat told me about "Antigoteen." I was so pissed that when I read "Atigone" and found that Sophocles totally gave Ismene the shaft. She's the sister. She wants to help. She's a good person, but Atigone has this bratty martyr complex and steals the spotlight and in the end we never even find out what happens to Ismene. And then Kat made me all angry again when she told me that "Antigoteen" has no Ismene analogue. I can understand, since the original play doesn't give Ismene much to make her memorable, but still.

It's just another blow for the Underdog Girl. On this lonesome Valentine's evening, I'd just like to send my love to the second fiddle, whoever that might be.

Flying Battery Zone

Dear Valentine,

On this special day, I wish you love and romance and sweet giggles and gushes of twinkle-fairy kisses from heaven. I'd like nothing more in the whole, wonderful world than to take you to a dewy meadow blooming with love blossoms and feed you bonbons that I made myself with love and beauty and corn starch and love. I'd stuff you so full you'd be plump with candy heart goodness, then you'd vomitgasm into my mouth and all over my face with rainbows — except instead of normal rainbows, they'd be just red and pink and purple, because those are the only true colors of love.

Then I'd pull your heart from your chest with tongs of love and squish it against mine, with a schloppy-squooshy noise that can only be the true noise of true love.

Truly.

Engorged,
Drew

I Shot Cupid and Gave Venus a Venereal Disease

This showed up in the Nexus. That opinion snit Meghan would like to think I wrote it, but did not. Somebody forged my name on some claptap he or she didn't have the guts to sign. So in retaliation, I set fire to Meghan's car.
Nobody Benefits From V-Day Spending but the Economy
Venting on Valentine's

"Be Mine."

"Hot Stuff."

"Let's Kiss."

Until they start making conversation hearts big enough to fit "Can I Buy Your Love With These Chalky, Unpleasant Shitty Candies?" I think I'm going to boycott the big V-Day itself. Today we commemorate the torture, bludgeoning and decapitation of a third-century Christian martyr by exchanging trinkets of affection, buying each other fancy dinners and plastering pastel hearts on our walls. Yes, it's Valentine's Day, a special holiday that allows us to disregard the notions of altruism, family togetherness or friendship that we usually use to justify gift-giving. Instead, we get to be honest and admit that we're just buying stuff to get laid.

That's a bad thing.

Lovers, would-be lovers and the generally amorous shouldn't have to qualify their emotions with an object. Whether it be jewelry or the cheap, "Tiny Toons"-themed cards that I bought and distributed to my third-grade class, such bric-a-brac cheapens the giver, the recipient and the relationship — compromising the very idea of love itself. I'm begging anyone who might shell out for his or her date tonight to think otherwise. If you're lucky enough not to be broken-hearted, don't go out of your way to break yourself. The students of UCSB live in a beautiful section of California, whic allows such simple pleasures as an afternoon in the butterfly groves, a shared 40 on one of Isla Vista's nicer backyard couches or — weather willing — enjoy walk on the beach together. Why not enjoy one of these simple, cheaper pleasures today rather than fighting for reservations at some upscale downtown joint that charges $30 a plate?

St. Valentine died alone and unloved in some dank dungeon. That doesn't mean your Valentine's Day should be spent rotting in jail, but you also shouldn't feel forced to spend money you probably can't afford to spend anyway. Strip away all lace and pink wrapping paper and make your Valentine's Day doing something meaningful. Think about how much more surprised your date would be if you picked another saint's feast day to treat them to dinner. "Put on your good shoes, honey! It's the Feast of St. Barnaby and I'm taking you to Sizzler." I'll bet they don't make a conversation heart for that, either.

Daily Nexus training editor Drew Mackie's goal in life is to create conversation hearts that read: "Let's get tanked in the sack, baby."
And then I guess you could read what she said. If you wanted to.
Quit the Pity Parties — It’s Just Another Day of the Year
Venting on Valentine’s

I am single.

I am single and it’s Valentine’s Day.

I am single, it’s Valentine’s Day, and I’m not angry or sad.

Weird, huh?

Tonight I’m not going to go out to dinner, bury myself in a pint of Starbucks java chip ice or watch “Pretty Woman” with my single girl friends. I’m not going to wear black in protest or curse Hallmark for forcing such a day on society. For me, it’s just another Monday. For others, it’s the worst day of the year — a day for gawking at happy couples and wallowing in self-pity.

Get over yourself. The pity party is over.

It’s not Valentine’s Day that I despise. What I can’t stand is that so many relationshipless people make such a big deal about being single on Valentine’s Day.

I find it unfortunate that so many people allow Valentine’s Day to make them feel miserably single. Sure, having a significant other who cares about you in a way that’s different from how your friends feel about you would be nice. But the fact is that it would be nice the other 364 days of the year, too.

The curtain lifts and the drama queens come out of their dressing rooms when February rolls around. Don’t cry because you’re single; cry because you think being single makes you less worthwhile.

I’m not a bad person because I’m single. And I’m neither depressed nor pathetic because I’m not in a relationship. The only thing that upsets me is the fact that so many people, girls especially, feel the need to be depressed if they’re single on Valentine’s Day.

The difference between Valentine’s Day and any other Hallmark holiday, say Mother’s Day or Father’s Day, is that a person who does not have a parent to share Mother’s Day or Father’s Day with has a legitimate reason to dislike the holiday and feel sad.

No one has a legitimate reason to let Valentine’s Day make him or her feel low. You’re not any more single on the 14th than you are on Feb. 13 or 15.

One day I hope to be struck by Cupid’s arrow and fall ridiculously in love. Maybe then I’ll spend Valentine’s Day the way it’s supposed to be spent - in clichŽd fashion with candles and chocolates and teddy bears. Well, maybe not the teddy bears. Until that day comes, I won’t let Valentine’s Day make me feel any less fabulous than I feel on any other given day throughout the rest of the year.

The only reason Daily Nexus sports editor Lauren Creamer will cry on Valentine’s Day is because Matt Leinart is taken.

Silly Hats Only

I haven't seen this in a year or two, at least. I nearly forgot how great Don Hertzfeldt is.

Wednesday, February 09, 2005

Big Eater

Some one-liners I have floating around my head — each invented accidentally by my brain and each one having no reason or justification for its existence. Separately, they make me laugh. Together, they don't make much sense. So don't read them that way, okay?

Me, to a roommate: "Yeah, dude, we're out of toilet paper so I just took a shower instead."

Me, explaining sex: "Timmy, when two adults love each other, they often do so drunk and only for one night. Afterwards, they see each other at work and it will be awkward. One day, you'll understand."

Me, writing my fantasy critique for someone's poorly punctuated pile of pap in my creative writing class: "The theme of your piece, as nearly I can tell, is that periods and commas are stupid and that writing an entire short story without them will make me go cross-eyed and die."

Also, regarding the short stories, I think it would be fun to fuck with the authors I don't like and give them ridiculous criticisms and suggestions. Like "I think you're using too many verbs. Many of your sentences would be fine without them. You're that good of a writer." Or "Have you thought about making your narrator retarded? I think your story could really go places then." Or "Try writing your whole piece in dialect."

Put on the Ritz But Skimp on the Glitz

Almost forgot I wrote this.
Hollywood on State Street
SB Film Festival Gets Liberal With Award Distribution

I’d be breathing a sigh of relief if I were Leonardo DiCaprio.

The dreamboat accepted the Santa Barbara International Film Festival’s Platinum Award on Jan. 30 for his performances in such films as “Titanic,” “What’s Eating Gilbert Grape?” and “Critters 3.” In his speech, however, DiCaprio seemed to miss the point of the award.

“From what I understand, it’s a lifetime achievement award, which is completely and utterly surreal, given I’m only 30 years old,” he said. “But what has it been? Almost 17 years now. I’ve done quite a few films.”

Whoops. Some intern had goofed and not explained to the former “Growing Pains” actor that the award celebrated his work to date — not his lifetime’s achievement. For a second there, I could have sworn that the apparently psychic festival directors had foreseen DiCaprio’s untimely demise happening in the not-too-distant future and doled out the Platinum Award before he gets carried off by a predatory bird or crushed underfoot by a mob of overzealous teenaged girls.

Unfortunately, the Associated Press news article about the award ceremony focused on the lifetime achievement remark. Though a clarification followed the next day, the widely syndicated article had already popped up in newspapers and in online celebrity troughs. Matt Drudge even posted the article on the Drudge Report. The site ignored similar news items regarding awards given to other celebs, so one could easily guess that the ridiculousness of honoring a 17-year acting career led to the often-snarky Drudge to post it.

Yes, Santa Barbara briefly looked like a bunch of mathematically challenged lunatics who gave a 30-year-old a lifetime achievement award. And while the Associated Press issued a clarification promptly, one might take this blunder as an opportunity to examine how the Santa Barbara International Film Festival’s awards affect its prestige.

Now, I like the film festival. I attended and enjoyed and clapped this year like a lot of Santa Barbara residents. That’s actually one of the reasons I like the festival so much - it’s one of the few cultural events that draws a healthy cross section of people, from hipster film studies majors to well-to-do Montecito folk to celebrities who’d rather duck into the confines of their mansions. And although I enjoyed the films offered this year, I wonder if the celebrity-adoring awards might raise a few eyebrows.

In addition to the Platinum Award, the festival also honored Annette Bening with the Montecito Award, Kate Winslet with the Sapphire Inspired Award for Outstanding Performance of the Year and Kevin Bacon with the American Riviera Award. Last year, the festival only honored Charlize Theron and director Peter Jackson. And Jeff Bridges and Sean Penn received honors in 2003 and 2002, respectively.

I can’t help but consider the notion that festival directors created awards bearing the names of Santa Barbara locales as a means to amp up the event’s star wattage. It’s not as ridiculous as celebrating the lifetime achievement of a young man just beginning his acting career, but it could sully the prestige of a festival that has a reputation for delivering a diverse array of films every year.

Image is everything. If that’s not already a cardinal rule of life in Hollywood, I think it should be. And I think it applies even when your film festival happens in a sunny, postcard-perfect city just north of Hollywood. Those behind the event clearly pulled through in organizing a great line-up of movies that a lot of people enjoyed, but I hope they think twice about giving out the awards like they’re sticks of gum.

Promoting the film festival requires a few famous faces to pop out of limos, smile and wink. I understand this. But I’d be happy if I didn’t suspect that the motives for the festival were less pure than the beauty and art of cinema. If Dakota Fanning gets a lifetime achievement award next year, I’ll be pissed.

DiCaprio has a long, healthy life ahead of him. With a little restraint with the celebrity adulation, the prestige of the Santa Barbara International Film Festival does as well.

Daily Nexus training editor Drew never got over his junior high heartthrob dumping him for that DiCaprio fucker.

Tuesday, February 08, 2005

Laugh Hard — It's a Long Ways to the Bank

MsMsweety: hello?
MsMsweety: can I ask your opinion on something? Its really quick...
kidicarus222: shoot
MsMsweety: I need to pick a stage name to use for my acting because MONICA SWEET actually belongs to a porn star...
kidicarus222: yeah, i think i knew that
MsMsweety: Yea, i did... i was just stubborn
MsMsweety: so my choices are narrowed down to two names...
MsMsweety: Renee Sweet OR Monica Renee
MsMsweety: I can give you the other two choices also if you'd like
MsMsweety: but no one except for my mom and this one girl chose them
kidicarus222: yes
MsMsweety: yes, you want the other two choices?
kidicarus222: yes
MsMsweety: Monica Mulcahy OR Renee Mulcahy
kidicarus222: ew
kidicarus222: no
MsMsweety: see?
kidicarus222: where the hell did "mulcahy" come from?
MsMsweety: Niall's last name
MsMsweety: it sounds cool, but its hard to read
MsMsweety: and say for some
kidicarus222: monica kwan would be better than monica mulcahy
MsMsweety: so its either... renee sweet or monica renee
kidicarus222: monica de la fuente
MsMsweety: lol
kidicarus222: i guess renee sweet
kidicarus222: monica renee sounds too... ann-margaret, you know?
MsMsweety: yea
MsMsweety: okay, well i'll tally you for Renee Sweet
kidicarus222: or monica kwan
MsMsweety: right
kidicarus222: monica djumbe
MsMsweety: nice
kidicarus222: four years
MsMsweety: yea
kidicarus222: crazy huh?
kidicarus222: we might not even recognize each other
MsMsweety: well i'm like 10 feet tall now
MsMsweety: and i have orange and black hair
MsMsweety: and i'm a man!
kidicarus222: yes, i am a woman and my name is monica kwan
kidicarus222: i just think it's such a goddamn cool name
kidicarus222: no, that's a lie
MsMsweety: a lie! how dare you
kidicarus222: my name is actually josephine kwan
MsMsweety: my name is Jose!

Any further input would be great appreciated, both by me and Monica/Renee/Betty/Diane.

Dirty Life

Happy Skinny Tuesday. Rather than party with Marty, I'm hitting the books tonight. Weep for me, drink for me. Just don't forget about me.

Monday, February 07, 2005

From the Freezer to Believe Her

Meet Megan.

Megan is a nice girl who was in my London program. She could sing and she goes to Davis and I haven't spoken to her in more than a year even though she was one of the best people in my program. The first night, we were the only two who didn't go out to the Black Widow and became out each other's first friends in London.

Apparently, she found my blog and thought enough of it to link to it. The chaps of Freestats.com tell me that quite a few people have peeked since she put this post up. I figured the least I could do would be to redirect some traffic back her way. Plus, I thought everybody should check out the second sentence. In case there was ever any doubt, I am considered by some to be "remotely attractive." Score!

Thanks, Megan. "Pineapple grass." I like the image.

Cooler (The Adjective, Not the Noun)

But is Musica Geodesica half as geometrically cools this?
[ link: potentially even cooler ]

Musica Geodesica

A CD that I just burned.
  1. Goldfrapp - "Train"
  2. Chromeo - "Rage!"
  3. E.G. Daily - "Mind Over Matter"
  4. 5.6.7.8's - "I Walk Like Jayne Mansfield"
  5. Electric Light Orchestra - "Mr. Blue Sky"
  6. Luscious Jackson - "Ladyfingers"
  7. Mohammed Rafi - "Jaan Pehechan Ho"
  8. Julee Cruie - "Artificial World"
  9. Broadcast - "The Book Lovers"
  10. Captain Beefheart - "Her Eyes Are Blue a Million Miles"
  11. Icicle Works - "Birds Fly"
  12. Funki Porcini - "Sixteen Megatons"
  13. Pristeens - "Beat You Up"
  14. Grand Funk Railroad - "The Locomotion"
  15. Brothers Johnson - "Strawberry Letter 22"
  16. Electric Six - "Improper Dancing"
  17. Castaways - "Liar Liar"
  18. Clinic - "Welcome"
  19. Aneka - "Japanese Boy"
  20. Myrtle Hilo - "Lover's Prayer"
And I've mentioned Myrtle Hilo, Hawaii's singing cab driver, before in this journal. I haven't listened to her song since summer until today and I still think it's weirdly moving. The lyrics are simple but I think it might be the my favorite long song. So here again are those lyrics.
I do believe the lord above
Created you for me to love
He picked me out from all the rest
Because he knew I'd love you best
I once had a heart that was true
But now it's gone from me to you
Take care of it as I have done
For you have two and I have none
[something indecipherable about heaven]
I'll put your name on a golden spell
If you're not there by judgment day
I'll kow you went the other way
I'll give the angels back their wings
Their golden harps and all those things
And just to prove my love is true
I'll go hell to be with you
I dunno. Something about being willing to go to hell — that's to hell, not through hell — just for love is beautiful. Or horrible. I can't tell and I like that. And I like how casually she throws it into the song. It's nothing. Hell's nothing.

Saturday, February 05, 2005

Why Are Your Clothes Hanging in the Bathroom?

"So, I guess you've heard by now about the whole thing. How I'm actually an alien and I'm actually from the planet Illucia and I only came to Earth to collect the Power Stones to give my planet energy for the next thousand years. And I'm totally sorry I didn't say anything earlier, but, you know, it was just all awkward with me collecting the Power Stones and all. But I'm glad it's out in the open now. So are we cool?"

Where I'm from the birds sing a pretty song and sometimes my arms bend all the way back. Regardless, I feel like the worst part about keeping a secret is the conversation in which you have to explain the secret.

And you say it.

And you watch.

And you see the person you've just revealed something to go through all the stages of just-having-learned-a-secret: surprise, shock, anger, confusion, curiousity and eventually boredom, at which point you move onto talking shit about your friends again.

I hate it.

I appreciate that people need to unload secrets — believe me, I know — but that requisite period where the secret-revealer has to explain themselves and follow up with the whole "So do you have any questions?" is a pain. I just guess it's a necessary one that people have been going through ever since they started keeping secrets, which I would guess happened about five seconds after they learned to speak.

Everyone is more interesting than you'd expect, it's true. I don't even know what would surprise me anymore. I'd just wonder if I can safely assume that we've all unloaded our skeletons and our closets are now safe for the storage of clothes and suitcases?

"So are we cool?"

Saucy!

I've seen the smiling face of technicolor joy — and that face belongs to a woman named Cutie Honey.

Thursday, February 03, 2005

The Queen of Spleen

I dreamed about my new apartment for the first time. I've been here for about a month. I guess that's how long it takes for new digs to work their way into my subconscious lexicon-o'-meaninglessness.
I was in my apartment and I saw my cat — an ornery, sixteen-year-old calico who's lived her whole life at our house and has seen two dogs die and a third one arrive and I swear she's plotting how to get ride of him. In the dream, I only saw her for a second before she slipped behind the sofa. I reached down to pick her up and I realized it wasn't my cat, but a smaller orange one that seemed pretty pissed at me.

This mystery cat bit me and clawed me and I tried to put it down but it only spun around on my arm, an oversized bracelet of furry, blurry fury — like how you'd picture an angry cat attacking someone's arm in a cartoon. I asked the roommates for help, but then the cat started speaking in a little girl's voice. The cat told me it hated me and that I should leave.

My leg started to hurt too now. I looked down. A thorny rose stem was growing out both sides of my ankle.
I'm awake now and scratch-free. It's another beautiful day in this postcard town, but I'm stuck writing a paper on "The Rape of the Lock," which turned out to be about a chick getting her hair stolen and not, as I had hoped, about a guy picking a padlock open with his dick.

Wednesday, February 02, 2005

Five Teenagers With Attitude

I was never even the biggest fan of the Power Rangers. They hit TV just after I had aged beyond being able to appreciate it. However, I sometimes lingered on Channel 35 for the half-hour after the animated "Batman" show was on and as a result I find this pretty damn interesting. It's a list of differences between the Japanese version of the show, "Dinosaur Task Force ZyuRanger," and its American cousin.

And believe me, I've noticed that the scorpion girl's name is "Lammy" in the Japanese version and I appreciate the humor.

No, It's Not Cold in Here — That's You Dying

We motored down to LA to see Sarah Silverman perform at a comedy place last night. I enjoy how trashy Hollywood is, because anybody who doesn't know better always associates Hollywood with southern California glamour. And Vine Street is pretty scummy. And the venue, which was just called "M," was in a strip mall. Yes, we went to a show in a strip mall on Vine.

Despite all these bad omens, however, Sarah Silverman's sweetly spoken racist quips stole my heart.

She's like the one Ku Klux Klan member with a posey pinned to her white sheet. Her Jewishness fades into this beautiful swirl of hateful racism that equally dings all people except whites and Jews. It's quaint and refreshing. When she said that Mexicans are make-believe, I could have married her right there. We sat directly in front and she made eye contact with me twice. I counted. Of course, she didn't really have a choice, since I was the only person in her direct line of vision, but still she could have looked at the roommate and she totally didn't.

Aside from Sarah, we also saw Chris Hardwick — you know, the person from "Singled Out" who wasn't Jenny McCarthy — and then Greg Proops — the gay-seeming guy from "Whose Line Is It, Anyway?" — and they both did a really good job. Proops nailed the audience when he said that all hipsters like to laugh at is rape jokes. He then proceeded to tell some good ones and they killed. Louis CK's entire set basically consisted of his desire to rape his father as a means of getting him to stop calling him so much. Sideswept bangs flew into all different angles over these hipsters' faces.

I'd repeat some of the better jokes here, but I can't remember them. I should have not ordered the last martini. I know I laughed, though.

Things learned: Mexicans, apparently, are make-believe. And hipsters like rape jokes.