Wednesday, December 31, 2003

Porpoise Song

One last tied-up plot thread before the end of the year.

nerdyitch: hello! anyone there?
kidicarus222: hello?
nerdyitch: i read your blog
kidicarus222: who is this?
nerdyitch: and i thought i'd say hello
nerdyitch: i'm one of your "fans"
kidicarus222: oh!
kidicarus222: hey
kidicarus222: yeah, i read yours too
nerdyitch: oh cool
kidicarus222: yeah, have i met you?
nerdyitch: no sir
nerdyitch: i don't think i have
kidicarus222: oh
kidicarus222: i was just wondering how you ever came accross my page
kidicarus222: these things interets me
nerdyitch: its interesting stuff
nerdyitch: but i found it on the side of the main blogger website
kidicarus222: ah
nerdyitch: yeah random
kidicarus222: can i ask why you linked to me?
nerdyitch: my friends are dorks like me, so i thought they'd like it too
kidicarus222: ah
kidicarus222: well i'm glad you like it
kidicarus222: it makes me happy to know if anybody's reading this
nerdyitch: thanks, sorry for intruding in your life
nerdyitch: :D
kidicarus222: oh no
kidicarus222: it's totally cool
kidicarus222: honestly, i'm flattered
nerdyitch: aren't you a writer or something though?
kidicarus222: reporter
kidicarus222: yeah
kidicarus222: what do you do?
nerdyitch: i'm just a college student
nerdyitch: studying bio
kidicarus222: where at?
nerdyitch: ucla
kidicarus222: cool
kidicarus222: i'm at ucsb
nerdyitch: oh nice
nerdyitch: is it true what they say?
kidicarus222: what do they say?
nerdyitch: univ of sex and beer?
kidicarus222: well yeah
kidicarus222: but you can get an education too
kidicarus222: i did, anyway
kidicarus222: they also say "u can stay buzzed"
kidicarus222: which you could, if you wanted
nerdyitch: hehehe

Tuesday, December 30, 2003

Liminal Realty

I took the new digital camera to the environs of the lodge, a two-room structure at the edge of my development off Cienega Road. Since I was little, I always associated the lodge with the boundary between the human and natural worlds. Somehow, this little structure stood just at the point of where charted territory gave way to the wild, thistle-choked trails that could lead to the Yukon or even farther.

With age, I’ve learned the area is actually just pastureland for grazing cattle, only slightly more wild than my backyard. Beyond this, a tennis court, complete with regulation green and red demarcations, sits next to the lodge. So much for all the rustic. Nonetheless, this spot draws me back.

Walking around gives me with the same feeling I get when I walk on through a graveyard. Just as a tombstones mark that a certain plot of land belongs to the dead, I think the overgrown bushes and dilapidated human structures mark the lodge area as a small chunk of land nature itself is trying to reclaim.

So much there is odd. So much catches my eye. Decaying wooden planks. A plastic necklace lost by some careless little girl. A desiccated baseball, having rotted in the brush for God knows how long. In the bleak gray of late December, even the house on the hill overlooking the lodge looms with an eerie starkness like you might see in a Tim Burton film.

Nature hasn’t yet subjugated humans. It’s still a conflict in progress, or so I thought while I snapped a picture of an old fence running up a hill and alongside a giant oak. Surely, the oak will one day win.

I didn’t see another soul during the two hours I walked around taking pictures. When I was young, I used to think that some evil hobo lived in the lodge. I’ve never fully convinced myself that one doesn’t.

Some places are better of left alone.

Monday, December 29, 2003

Walk Away, Renee

Nobody likes rain more than I do, but today it's raining mean.

Sunday, December 28, 2003

Ride the Snake

Ride the snake.
Jimmy Tango: Hi! Do you recognize this tub of crap? That's me, three-and-a-half weeks ago! Since then, I've lost 155 pounds! Yes, you heard me right! I lost 155 pounds in less than three weeks! How did I lose all that gross fat? By combining the miracle of technology with ordinary street junkies! Producing this: Jimmy Tango's Fat Busters! It's this simple: wear my patented vibrating heat-bead suit, then jam an unbelievable amount of pure, raw crystal meth into your system!

You might ask, "Isn't crystal meth illegal?" You bet! But my scientist, Dr. Cody, spends his days in a tin shed deep inside a small canyon outside San Bernadino, constantly altering the scientific formula of a bathtub crank that keeps us one step ahead the law, and keeps you one step ahead of the fat farm! Fatties, here's my promise: wear my vibrating heat beads, while blasting down handfuls of crrystal meth, and you'll drop weight so fast you'll lose your mind! Any questions? You!

Male Audience Member: Jimmy, I like what I hear, but even though I'm not a doctor, it sounds unhealthy. Does the kind of dramatic weight loss you describe have any side effects?

Jimmy Tango: You betcha!

In my case, when I close my eyes, all I see are spiders and snails! My skin is clammy! My mouth is very dry! I think of suicide nonstop! And five minutes ago, I vomited the strangest colors into my stage manager's fanny pack! But you know what? The main side effect is, these days when I'm wearing a blue suit, and I yawn, people don't try to stuff a letter into my mouth!

Get off!! Folks, if you're serious about weight loss, then you shouldn't be afraid to... "Ride The Snake!"
— ride the snake — Now! Let's talk to some of my clients! Hi, Olive Oyl! Have you always been so thin, hmm?

Female Client: No! I used to be a 220-pound land monster! And, in eight days, by "Riding The Snake"
— ride the snake — I lost 124 pounds! I've never had a date in my life, but two days ago, I made out with Scott Baio at a party!

Jimmy, by using your method, I really lost weight fast! Probably too fast! The stress you put on my body made me slip into the bowels of a red nightmare! I sleep in my oven! My hair falls out in clumps! I cry when I see a tree! And I burn symbols into my housepets with a curling iron! But it's worth it, because, these days, when I'm wearing a black jumpsuit, I look like a closed umbrella! Thank you, Jimmy!

Wednesday, December 24, 2003

I Got a Haircut

Hollister has to substitute the traditional white Christmas with a wet, gray one — not that I’m complaining. Christmas lights twinkle all the more brilliantly through raindrops on a window pane.
Lonesome tears
I can't cry them anymore
I can't think of what they're for
Oh they ruin me every time

But I'll try
And leave behind some days
These tears just can't erase
I don't need them anymore
I got a haircut.

The last time I let someone take the scissors to me was in England, in late July. I’ve never seen five months’ worth of my own hair on the floor before, and I’ve never noticed the shape of my skull looking so weird. It’s a lot less blonde now, too. And in a way, I miss that most of all; the blonde on my head had gotten that way from summer sunlight in Roma and Interlaken.
I’ve seen the end of the day come too soon
Not a lot to say, not a lot to do
You played the game, you owe nothing to yourself
Rest a day, for tomorrow you can't tell

The Super Cuts next to the grocery store is now staffed by a bunch of chubby Hispanic girls I graduated high school with. In Hollister, it seems like chubby Hispanic girls are the only ones who give haircuts. Funny how I trust my hair to people with crispy, shiny bangs. They asked me if I've talked to people I haven't talked to in years.
There's too many people you used to know
They see you coming they see you go.
They know your secrets and you know theirs
This town is crazy, but nobody cares
Despite the holidays, I’m happy. Quietly happy. Or happily quiet. By why can’t I listen to anything but the saddest songs Beck ever wrote?
People pushing harder
Up against themselves
Make their daggers sharper
Than their faces tell

Babe, its your time now
Loose change we could spend
Where we are going
Round, round, round the bend
In twelve hours, it'll be Christmas. Why was I counting down to this again?

Tuesday, December 23, 2003


I think if I had to chose between visiting the Greater Antilles and the Lesser Antilles, I'd go for the Greater Antilles. I've heard the Lesser Antilles were a bit disappointing.

Monday, December 22, 2003

Mister, Can You Tell Me Where My Love Has Gone?

I was at the Home Depot in Gilroy, where they stack two-by-fours and pickaxes and other mining equipment two stories high, when it occurred to me that Home Depot would be the worst place to be during an earthquake. Toppling, tumbling, sharp things pinning people here and there.

I got to the checkout lane, though, and everybody else was talking about earthquakes. [confusion] Outside, a ton of car alarms were going off. [weirdness]

I called Mom and asked her what was up. Apparently, about when I was thinking about earthquakes, a 6.5 temblor rolled through Cambria and San Simeon. People felt it as far north as San Francisco and as far south as Los Angeles. I made a beeline for Costco to look at digital cameras, but scores of Christmas shoppers were gathered around the TV displays, just like people are always gathered around store display TVs whenever a natural disaster happens or the presidential addresses the nation or JFK gets assassinated. They were all watching a special report about the Cambria earthquake. [Pretty much the only time Cambria’s made national news, I’ll bet.] Why did I think about earthquakes right before one shook most of central California? Obviously, I have ESP. But there’s still a chance I somehow just barely noticed the shaking — a gentle rolling motion, Twyla says, that lasted about 45 seconds — and got thrown just slightly off balance and then subconsciously remembered every other earthquake I’ve ever been in. Or something.

[Hollister, California: earthquake capital of the world. And the only place where people don’t give a damn how much the earth moves under our feet.]

I got a roll of film developed. Odds and ends: Andy’s apartment, Cory and me driving from Hollister back to I.V., and Halloween. Me, the non-Japanese Crazy 88, and Kami the slutty flamingo (slutmingo?).

Kami's from Cambria. I should give her a call and find out if anything fell on her. Let’s hear it for aftershocks.

Shining, Streaming, Gleaming, Flaxen, Waxin'


So I found this nifty little website that tells you what webpages link to what webpages. Just type in a web address and BAM! You know who's telling people you're cool. So I slapped in the Cereal Box's address.

The first one is the girl who keeps this site, a blog entitled either nerdy*itch or Superficial Nice Girl. A nice girl, I think, with an Audrey fixation (Hepburn/Tautau). She put me one notch above the Onion! Hey hey! I tried sending her a nice email inquiring who she was and how she found out about me, but it bounced back. Nice lady: if you can read this, IM me at kidicarus222. We should talk.

Less pleasantly, I also got a shout out from the guy who keeps a blog called The Great Satan Quarterly. Huh. His email didn't bounce back. Should be interesting.

And finally, the only other unknown was some guy running a site called Kid B.

Online weirdness.

[ three days ]

Sunday, December 21, 2003

Susan Biddle Ross

She's not really gone if we find a way to remember her.

Friday, December 19, 2003

Like a Wild Potato

Only five types of people post on Friendster: poseur indie kids (so "fashion," as Kami says), Asians, computer nerds, and gay guys, and a handful of normals. Me? I span genres.

[ six days ]

Wednesday, December 17, 2003

Said a Giant Clam

Jessica and I saw Rob Lowe at Borders.

[ eight days left ]

Monday, December 15, 2003

Cory and the Small Soda

kidicarus222: you left your stupid grateful dead tickets on the floor behind the couch
Satellite1818: i know
kidicarus222: no you don't
Satellite1818: i remembered them on the plane.
kidicarus222: they were nearly under the couch
Satellite1818: yeah, i put 'em there whilst watching harold and maude
kidicarus222: i know
kidicarus222: i remember
kidicarus222: i didn't think you would, though
kidicarus222: how's the small soda?
Satellite1818: is there anyone there, or is nate the only person in the whole town for you to hang out with? soda?
Satellite1818: right
Satellite1818: it's damn cold
Satellite1818: and very snowy. i went out to do 180s in a parking lot today, and that was all my fun since nobody else is back yet.
kidicarus222: nate and jill and jessica and brie are here
kidicarus222: and some more...
kidicarus222: yeah
kidicarus222: and internship application
kidicarus222: he's here too
kidicarus222: some other people are here too, see?
kidicarus222: some people i don't think i would ever have talked to if everyone else hadn't skipped town
kidicarus222: anyway, it's cold and boring here
kidicarus222: but possibly less cold and less boring than where you are
Satellite1818: indeed
Satellite1818: and two hours later
kidicarus222: i am having a war with jingle kitty
Satellite1818: no casualties yet, i hope
Satellite1818: i mean later
kidicarus222: a tomato
Satellite1818: poor guy
kidicarus222: he had it coming
kidicarus222: but yeah
kidicarus222: sad stuff
Satellite1818: i assume you started it
kidicarus222: he was seeing this nice pickle back home
kidicarus222: in the fridge
Satellite1818: the pickle will probably never even know what happened
kidicarus222: especially since i will eat her
kidicarus222: as food is running out
Satellite1818: end her pain, drew
Satellite1818: i have to sleep
kidicarus222: i'm wearing an article of your clothing right now
Satellite1818: dah!
kidicarus222: it's like a sweater
kidicarus222: black
kidicarus222: with a zipper
kidicarus222: it looked warm
Satellite1818: black?
Satellite1818: gray
kidicarus222: dark gray
Satellite1818: yeah. i stole it from someone else
kidicarus222: like
kidicarus222: pretty fucking near black
Satellite1818: jah
kidicarus222: well, it's mine now
Satellite1818: fair enough
kidicarus222: and i spilled bear all over it
kidicarus222: no
kidicarus222: beer
Satellite1818: i was wondering where you got the bear
kidicarus222: who did you steal this from?
Satellite1818: hampton
kidicarus222: the tiny toon?
kidicarus222: hampton j. pig?
kidicarus222: the one that dates fifi the skunk?
kidicarus222: confusingly, i might add
Satellite1818: yes. hampton j. pig. but, as a result of heavy methamphetamine use, he's lost a good deal of weight
Satellite1818: you wouldn't even recognize him, really
kidicarus222: you'd be surprised
Satellite1818: except for the snout
kidicarus222: i'm very perceptive
kidicarus222: i was a reporter, after all
Satellite1818: i need sleep, i go bed now
kidicarus222: this is something i have to remind myself when i type internship applications
kidicarus222: i was a reporter
kidicarus222: i am a reporter
kidicarus222: but whatever
kidicarus222: good night, irene
Satellite1818: night maude

Saturday, December 13, 2003

Bacon and Potatoes, Baking in the Sun

Things I learned from movies yesterday.

1) I think "Harold and Maude" taught us all some valuable lessons on life — and living.

2) "Batman: Mystery of the Batwoman" taught me that Carrie Mae Weems is well-known enough to warrant mention in a superhero cartoon.

3) And "The Manchurian Candidate" taught me that Angela Lansbury can be so evil.

[ pipers piping. twelve days ]

Wednesday, December 10, 2003

A Monkey in a Turban

Commencing the Holly Jolly Countdown.
Last night I had the strangest dream
Saw everybody running in the streets
Leapfrogging salmon trying to get upstream
The dream was over but I could not sleep
I had to put on the lights when she said that

Last night I had the strangest dream
The sky was dark and I could not see
Felt underwater when I tried to scream
When I heard the rooster I was finally free
I was a little bit frightened when he said that

Last night I had the strangest dream
Me and the chickens running in the streets
We met a monkey with an eye that gleamed
He drew that line — we couldn't move our beaks
A doggie woke me and he said hey rooster

Last night I had the strangest dream
The war was over but I had no peace
The moon was waning so it wasn't the beams
It's just a dream but I have no peace
I eavesdropped on my masters they said that

Last night we had the strangest dream
It was disturbing, oh what does it mean?
Monkey in a turban, oh what does it mean?
Last night we had the strangest dream
We better go to the mayor then we drove
Downtown to have a talk with the mayor
He told my masters uh, oh, can't you see?
What we have here is a prophecy
Cross your fingers people say a prayer
I'm not a religious dog but I say that

Better pray for the girls
Better pray for the girls
Ain't no other hope in this whole world

In sleep we searched behind the sun
A funny place to find someone
We did not find them on the moon
We dreamed that's where they disappeared
We dreamed perhaps another pearl
Or dangling on some other dune
But darker dreams we fear
Where'd you go this time, girls?

Better pray for the girls
Better pray for the girls
Ain't no other hope in this whole world

I Follow Where My Mind Goes

Later the next afternoon, the realization hits me.

YoAmoEMO: i had so much fun though
kidicarus222: yeah
YoAmoEMO: i can't belive we were drinking straight sake
kidicarus222: we were, weren't we?
kidicarus222: wow
kidicarus222: i forgot that

And tonight: the Holly Jolly Christmas Party. Whee.

[ fifteen days ]

Tuesday, December 09, 2003

Searching for Even Steven

I killed a shrub monster today and got a shovel as a reward. Conversely, my alarm clock has taken a vacation. But I guess if I was a person's most hated possession, I'd need a holiday too.

[ sixteen days ]

Sunday, December 07, 2003


A: I am first.
B: I am last.
A: I am the master.
B: I am the slave.
A: I am the Gentile.
B: I am the Jew.
A: I the west.
B: I am the east.
A: I am the rabbit.
B: I am the hunter.
A: I am the eucalyptus leaf.
B: I am the koala bear.
A: I am the maiden.
B: I am the maiden's slutty older sister.
A: I am the lemur.
B: I am whatever eats lemurs.
A: I am Frank.
B: I am the man who steps on the back of Frank's shoe.

Saturday, December 06, 2003

My Beloved Cocksuckasaur

Sure, it's finals, but why study? There's an Al Sharpton-hosted Saturday Night Live on in half an hour and it's too rainy to go outside. I'm so not in the mindset to study that I can even waste my time rating the women of Mario Kart.

Last place: Daisy. Fuck you. I can't believe you can fit so much retardedness in your body. No one else feels the need to repeatedly introduce themselves every time they take the wheel. "Hi! I'm Daisy!" Hi, you're a fucking moron and I hate you. You may have had hot short-shorts in Mario Golf, but now I realize that you suck.

Third place: Toadette. What the fuck? Toadette? I didn't even know Toads had gender, but this Strawberry Shortcake wannabe changes all that. I don't go for midgets with mushrooms growing out of their braids, so I hate you too. But I hate Daisy more, so you get third. Eat me.

Second place: Peach. Ah, Princess Toadstool herself. Beautiful, kind, regal, wise — she's the pinnacle of femininity, really. Plus, she has Barbie-like proportions and she's not an infuriating chatterbox like Daisy. She'd easy snag first place if it wasn't for...

The winner: Birdo. Yes, Birdo is a dinosaur... or something. Yes, she quacks in lieu of speech. Yes, she technically used to be a transvestite, but that apparently never happened now. And yes, she spits eggs out of her mouth. But look at that bazooka beak. With a mouth like that, she must suck cock like nobody's business.

Love of my life? Or a physical manifestation of my willingness to exchange human-to-human romance for a cocksuckasaur?

[ nineteen days ]

Friday, December 05, 2003

Sun and Air, Sun and Heir

I dined at the Rendezvous des Cherminots. The patronne was there and I had to kiss her, but it was mainly out of politeness. She disgusts me a little. She is too white and besides, she smells like a newborn child. She pressed my head against her breast in a burst of passion: she thinks it is the right thing. I played distracted with her sex under the cover; then, my arm when to sleep.

I thought about de Rollebon: after all, why shouldn't I write a novel on his life? I let my arm run along the woman's thigh and suddenly saw a small garden with low, wide trees on which immense hairy, leaves were hanging. Ants were running everywhere, centipedes and ringworm. There were even more horrible animals: their bodies were made from a slice of toast, the kind you put under roast pigeons; they walked sideways with legs like a crab. The larger leaves were black with beasts. Behind the cactus and the Barbary fig trees, the Velleda of the public park pointed a finger at her sex.

"This park smells like vomit," I shouted.
Nausea, Jean-Paul Sartre.

[ twenty days ]

Tuesday, December 02, 2003

Just Like Everybody Else Does

Now with "Tampopo," "Ringu," "Ran," "Yune," and "Battle Royale," I've just realized that I've never seen a Japanese movie that didn't have the ocean in it. Yeah, Japan's an island. And being so skinny, it would be damn hard not to have the ocean. But that's just an odd aspect of Japanese movies, I guess. They can't not have the ocean in them. Unlike us, who usually don't put the ocean in movies.

Funny stuff.

Monday, December 01, 2003

Yoyo Ellenboggan

Three Thanksgiving dinners under my belt — literally — plus one Hamsgiving desecration to pilgrim heritage equals dreamy weirdness for Drew. (An equation.)
I’m in a bar or some place where people go to listen to music. I am meeting Cory and his new girlfriend (who exists only within this dream.) But when I sit down at the table, I recognize her. I tell her that I know her already and that I remember her name is Ellen. But she laughs. She tells me that when she said her name was Ellen, she was lying. Her real name, she says, is Yoyo Ellenboggan.

I’m totally confused. Cory explains that when she said her name was Ellen, it was a joke. I don’t get it. They do. They laugh. I don’t.

Who the fuck is this Yoyo Ellenboggan?
After watching "Battle Royale," I’ve decided that if I — as a 14-year-old — were forced to kill my classmates in some government-initiated high school fight-the-death last-man-standing kill-a-thon, I’d probably crack and kill myself. But if somehow I survived and it was just me and another guy who had come out on top together, I would know that he would be a true friend, having not taken these multiple chances to off me.

My soul, I'm told, is four nickels. And so begins a new countdown. Twenty-four days until Christmas.

Tuesday, November 25, 2003

Questions in a World of Blue

"If I had a nickel for every cigarette your mother smoked, I'd be dead," said Donna Hayward somewhere in a time loop I can't figure out.

David Lynch nailed it. Life, like his visions, is really just a reel of ambiguous images jumbled together in a meaningless sequence. But stuff keeps coming up, and even though you question the director's plan — or even if he has a plan or even if the director exists — these weird recurrences beg you to interpolate a meaning.

Saturday, November 22, 2003

Not to Mention the Robo-Ginas

The metal petals.
She-Bot Factoid Box
by Drewbot Mackietron

"Oh, those marvelous metal men!" But what about history's metal women? Too long have history's ladytrons stood in the shadows of their robo-brothers. Here's a look at the great women robots:
  • Robot precision experts or nympho golems? According to Greek myth, Hephaestus, god of fire and ugly, had two female assistants made entirely of gold.
  • Rosie, the Jetsons' live-in maid, set the standard for wide-framed, house-cleaning sassbots for years to come.
  • Vickie, the robo-daughter from '80s sitcom "Small Wonder." The role effectively killed the career of child actress Tiffany Brissette.
  • Futura, woman-turned robot of Fritz Lang's "Metropolis" and the aesthetic model for C-3PO.
  • Roll, the quizzically named female counterpart to video game icon Megaman.
  • The mojo-susceptible Fembots from the first "Austin Powers," led by Internet download queen Cindy Margolis.
  • April, the girlfriendbot who battled Buffy the Vampire Slayer.
  • Elita-1, Optimus Prime's girlfriend from "Transformers." Yeah, apparently Transformers have gender. And sex. God, what do they transform into when they have sex?
  • Anime goddess Motoko Kusanagi from "Ghost in the Shell." She did in 1995 what Carrie-Anne Moss got credit for in "The Matrix."
  • The T-X, the Terminator who most recently tried to kill John Connor. A leather-suited Kristanna Loken could stalk me any day.
  • Crushinator, the glamorous trash-compacting robot from "Futurama."
  • Lindsay Wagner from "The Bionic Woman." True, she's a cyborg. But come on - cyborgs aren't cool?
  • "Kill Bill" reminded us that Daryl Hannah is cool, but Hannah never kicked more ass than in 1982's "Blade Runner." She played Pris, the raccoon-makeup android.
  • The Borg Queen and Seven of Nine from "Star Trek." Nothing sexier than the word "Borg."
  • And of course, Olivia Newton-John.

Ka-chunk ka-chunk.

Annie, Are You Okay?

Nearly thirty-hours of work later, the Here to There bicycle taxi service of Huntington Beach, California is done, never to haunt the hour of 6 a.m. again. One Thanksgiving dinner down and three to go, even if Nate fucked up the turkey and served ham instead.

All apologies to the pilgrims.

The in-betweenus:
Twelve-Year-Old Boy Hot Line

Those twelve-year-old boys have got it pretty damn easy: chasing bullfrogs down at the creek, stealing apple pies from neighborhood windowsills and playing tickle-fight until the wee hours of the morning with Michael Jackson. Sweet! But seriously, 12-year-old boys get this week's Hot Line because with Jacko back in town, every parent in Santa Barbara will lock their Billys and Tylers up tight. Twenty-four-hour curfew ain't fun. But to the twelve-year-old girls of Santa Barbara: Enjoy the baseball diamond. This weekend belongs to you.

Drink of the Week: Hi-C Screwdriver
  • 3 oz. vodka
  • Hi-C
  • Pour vodka into a cocktail glass and fill it with Hi-C. Make like Michael Jackson and taint something childlike and innocent with the vices of the adult world.
"Honest, Your Honor!"

Michael Jackson's probable explanations for lurking around the Boy Scout Jamboree:
  • "I was looking for my nose."
  • "They kicked me off the Little League field."
  • "I teach the Boy Scouts a knot-tying class."
  • "I was ... umm... well, see... umm... hey! Remember 'Thriller'?"
  • "Jamboree? Oh, I thought they said 'tambourine!'"
  • "I was returning all these old Boy Scout uniforms I had sitting in my basement."
  • "I was burying the Elephant Man's bones."
  • "I wanted to go where I didn't have the highest voice."
  • "Well, I was moonwalking and I just ended up here. Hey! Remember 'Thriller'?

Tuesday, November 18, 2003

Lier X Aggregate

a late-night intermission from tabloid dreams.

i keep hearing this girl's voice in my head. i can't see her and i've never met her before, but she talks to me somehow and asks me for help. i think i'm going crazy but i give in and listen to her. she's being held against her will and she's asking me if i can find her. wanting this psychic squatter evicted from my head, i devote my time to figuring out where she is, which i do successfully, somehow. a blur. unimportant, apparently.

she's in a commune in the hills, at the center of a cult of people who paint things blue to find nirvana. cows, apple trees, houses — all painted blue. blue blue. they were blue robes. to find this girl, i trek through the biggest building in town, which looks like a circus tent and functions like a new wave crazy city hall or something. paradoxically, the room is square on the inside. enormous, too. i weave through well-choreographed patterns of blue, trancing cultists, hoping not to disturb them. eventually, i find the door. she's in behind bars in a small, plain room with no windows. she has a teddy bear and she's blonde and looking like one of the newer girls from work. we escape, again via the mysterious somehow.

i'm home now, at my front door in isla vista. the girl has vanished, i notice without much concern. i can hear whistling behind me. disturbing and coming from the garden. i open the door and the pasado house looks pretty much like it should. the opinion box, which i recently kidnapped and painted, is even on the corner table. instinctually, i go to the box, spin the combination lock and pop it open. an opinion, neatly folded:

"tell a story you won't mind forgetting."

what is that whistling? i can hear it through the front door. did i lock the front door?

[ a work of fiction by lier x aggregate ]

Reasons to Open Other People's Mail

  • spite
  • malice
  • revenge
  • boredom
  • curiosity
  • greed
  • confusion
  • absent-mindedness
  • stupidity
  • illiteracy
  • superstition
  • mental illness
  • drunkenness
  • hunger
  • mischief
  • love

Monday, November 17, 2003

Head Over Heels

Wilted plants make me happy.

I leave and the plants go droopy. Sure, they're week-old sproutlings that go droopy if you shoot them a nasty look, but it's oddly comforting to know that something suffers when I leave. I'm needed — by plants, of course, but needed nonetheless.

Saturday, November 15, 2003


The Hot Line.
Being purple must suck. As valid as the other five-sixths of the spectrum, it regularly gets the shaft nonetheless. Being split into indigo and violet, for example — totally lame. Not convinced? Purple M&Ms only showed up last year. Purple grapes are called "red grapes." Ever wonder why there was never a purple Power Ranger? Chromatic bigotry, I tell you! Sure, "Purple Haze" rocks and the Purple Heart medal still commands respect, but with this paltry hot line, maybe we can raise purple from its lowly status as a shrinking violet up to pigmental royalty.

Drink of the Week: the Purple Hooter
  • 1/2 oz. vodka
  • 1/2 oz. raspberry liqueur
  • splash 7-Up
Strain from a shaker into a shotglass.
Further proof of the anti-purple bias: this, the sissiest drink ever.

Purple: a History of Persecution
  • Purple as the epitome of lame: Barney the Talking Dinosaur.
  • Purple as pain: titty twister synonym "purple nurple."
  • Purple as potential murderer: Clue suspect Prof. Plum.
  • Purple as carnivore: 1950s hit song "Purple People Eater."
  • Purple as weird fucking monster: Grimace, freakish icon of McDonald's.
  • Purple as sex maniac: Tiny Toons regular Fifi LaFume, hormone-driven slut and the only toon not wearing clothes.
  • Purple as obese greed: Mario Bros. villain Wario.
  • Purple as obese greed, part 2: Willy Wonka patron Violet Beauregard.
  • Purple as pansy: Tinky-Winky, purse-toting Teletubbie.
  • Purple as gross vegetation: the eggplant.

The Show of Life

A short play by the little-known Billy Shakesbad.
Old Nick: Woe be woman, whose fate it is to serve.

Mephista: May thy tongue shrivel, that it spews such falsehoods.

Old Nick: Ah, but does not a man pull thy strings?

Mephista: We are all but puppets of greater powers.

Old Nick: Puppets? As in the show of life? Truly, birth doth draw wide the curtains. And woman, are thy lines scripted? In that I can be no one but myself, I can say only my lines. So sad, to be so constrained.

Mephista: It is I who feel for thee. Thine own role and fate has ever been written, while mine own changes with each breath. Yea, tho puppet I be, it is hope, faith, and love that pulls my strings.

Old Nick: Woman, mine ears do sting from thy tongue. I shall away in search of easier folly!
I have no idea what made me think of these devilish puppets after all these years. I wonder if I will think of them again.

Thursday, November 13, 2003

Wednesday, November 12, 2003

S, I'm Late

I return from the smoggy snarl of highways called the Greater Los Angeles area, the land where Jake Gittes got his nose slashed and Betty Elms killed her dream. I hate LA. It's a nasty place where bad people come from, I think. Nonetheless, it's also where three things are presently situated:
  • Marisa, who's leaving soon
  • the Los Angeles Times, which is probably staying)
  • possibly, my future.
The Times newsroom is like the Nexus newsroom, if it grew out in every direction so far that I can't see the end of the hallways. I could have gotten lost in cubicles and paper stacks. People work, hunched at cluttered desks — just like the Nexus, only older and less attractive. The constrained glee I like about the Nexus is gone however.

That must be how grown-ups get work done: sans glee.

I would have to mail in an application for a summer internship by January 1. I think I will, even if the hiring editor Marisa introduced me to today is the very definition of a hardass, a guy I couldn't impress with a case of roid rage and a baseball bat. Returning to the LA Times newsroom would mean totally victory and utter defeat of everything I have ever worked for. Moving to LA would be triumph and anti-triumph — yes and no — all and nothing — cucumbers and pomegranates.

I dread ever going back to LA. Ever. There's so much opportunity, true. But I'm picky enough that digging through that dry scab of a city doesn't hold the appeal, especially when life in Saint Foreigner is easy, what with sprouts in the backyard and lightning over the ocean. Still, there's nothing for me here. And I got a little charge — the square root of lightning? — watching Marisa write a news story out of the Amber Alerts I saw on the drive down.

Figgidy figgidy figgidy. Think, man. Think.

Monday, November 10, 2003

For Esme, With Love and Squalor

Somehow, El Colegio Road reminded me that I miss this last summer. I haven't thought about places like London and Paris in weeks, but I realized on the drive home from work that I wished I could go back — right now — and then I could appreciate it all again, even though I wanted to leave so badly those last few days.

Maybe it's Isla Vista that's gotten old and maybe it's a good idea that I'm heading home this weekend, even it's to an empty house (plus a dog). I think I remembered Europe on the streets of I.V. because they're so empty and ugly and leading to nowhere I want to go. The Pasado House is different; it's my sanctuary against all the stuff I don't want to deal with. The Nexus office, too, I guess, even with it's high stone walls and drainy fluorescent lights — a womb if I was a stucco-and-wax robot. Like a movie set, kind of, but far from the train station in Florence, for sure.

No, I'm trapped on the set of some workplace sitcom...

[ a [[brackets]] break ]

[twyla cut ten inches off her hair and i think it looks awful but she donated the hair she cut to wigs for cancer children, so i think it actually looks very pretty on her.]

[bonnie is moving back to colorado, to solve the jon benet murder, i imagine. i feel bad that she's not happy enough to stay, because beyond a talent for words she has a quality about her that other people sorely lack, even if i can't put my finger on it. i guess she's a real person, after all, and i shouldn't keep her around to make me feel better. besides, kidnapping is illegal.]

I thought about Agnes and Kristen and Charlie today, too, and those three haven't been a unit in my mind since before school started. I wonder how they are now, in Paris, Capetown, and Berkeley, respectively. I finally triumphed over the Mystery Mono. I guess November must seem dull, especially in the wake of Halloween. It's been a while since they changed of scenery and I'm getting terribly bored.

Medication or not, I've been acting out lately. It's not like me to destroy a painting. To black it out then drown it in red and then let Nate take an axe to it.

Maybe I'm changing again.


Sunday, November 09, 2003

The End of the Mushroom Kingdom

(A weekend tally) Axe: One; Art: Zero. Realizing that my painting would never resolve itself and would therefore continue to dominate my mind like some evil taskmaster, I threw it into the rain. As the canvas glided over me, it clipped the back of my head. I now have a big lump at the site of impact.

Wait five minutes.

Damned if I didn't think the rain streaks somehow improved the painting. I tried to rescue it. I had actually brought it back inside when I realized my follow and handed the piece to Nate and told him to go to town with the axe.

It was for the better.

End intermission. Resume regular broadcast.

Thursday, November 06, 2003

Old Me

Sick. Too sick to write.

The doctor said the steroids might make me confused and irritible, so basically I am an elderly person now.

Sunday, November 02, 2003

The Whore of Britneylon

An appropriately demonic Media Gadfly column for Halloween.
Burn, Britney, Burn

Britney Spears is going to hell.

But she didn’t get her reservations in Perdition for D-grade musical stylings, her vapid personality or her contamination of American young women with her whorish fashion sense.

I wouldn’t have ever expected I would write a column about the most needlessly overexposed media muffin surging through airwaves today. But several hangovers ago, I spent the morning parked on the couch watching a VH1 special on “South Park” that segued into another special called “The Fabulous Life of Britney Spears.” Normally, I avoid anything with the words “Britney Spears” or “fabulous” in the title. Too beat from the previous night to reach for the remote or leave the room, I reluctantly watched the documentary of Spears’ superstar extravagance.

If any celebrity deserved to spend her afterlife writhing in the bowels of hell, her ass stuffed to its hair-lined rim with burning-hot coals, it’s Spears. She is the epitome of the evil celebrity, a phony American princess with a plastic crown and a kingdom of excess and hedonism.

Spears, one of the wealthiest 21-year-olds on the planet, has what VH1 refers to as “a seemingly unending cash flow.” This money, according to the creators of the “Fabulous Life of…” series, purchases designer dresses, animal skin purses and underwear made from tulle. Spears stops at no expense to pamper herself. Like some James Bond supervillain, she even pays several yeti-sized thugs to flank her every move and protect her from the rabid fan base she has built.

The most disgusting of Spears’ indulgences involves her use of a private jet, the fuel for which costs $5,000. Major celebrities often need their own jets to skip around the globe and make all their necessary appearances. Spears, however, uses her jet for runs to the Coffee Bean & Tea Leaf, a West Coast-only franchise that apparently makes magic coffee that keeps Spears’ boobs from rotting.

We’ve got a Coffee Bean on State Street. The thought of Spears wasting thousands of dollars to bring coffee from our area back to her home in Cousinfucker, La. makes me angry. The money that pays for the jet fuel for one coffee run could easily turn another year of destitution for some poor family somewhere in the world into a chance at a better life.

Yet Spears continues to live like royalty. One must assume she either has selfishly nixed any thoughts of using her considerable financial resources to help others, or is simply too bubbleheaded to consider the idea. The bulk of the charity work Spears has done is limited to an admittedly admirable $1 million donation in 2001 to orphans of the 9/11 attacks and the Britney Spears Camp for the Performing Arts, a summer program that offers “deserving youth” a chance at cracking into the glitter-dipped show business that made Spears famous. This isn’t enough.

Celebrities with faces as recognizable and pockets as deep as Britney’s have an obligation to the world that made them famous. Their pull could make changes that average Joes like me never could. For example, Pamela Anderson, arguably Spears’ equal in terms of fame and singing talent, has spearheaded a boycott of Kentucky Fried Chicken because she feels their treatment of chickens in inhumane. Anderson even used her famous body in advertisements, posing in a lettuce leaf bikini for People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals. Sure, it’d be great if Anderson helped out people as well as chickens, but she uses her celebrity effectively nonetheless.

Celebrities as indulgently hell bound as Spears - and yes, there are others - should mend their ways, or else they’ll have a lot to answer for, both when they meet the disadvantaged fans they could have somehow helped and in the moment of soulful introspection when they realize they could have made the world a better place, but instead bought a $5,000 soy macchiato.

Saturday, November 01, 2003


I'm a tired li'l Crazy 88. Hally Happoween indeed.

Wednesday, October 29, 2003

Ballrooms of Mars

I'm only 82 percent sure who Alan Freed is.
You gonna look fine
Be primed for dancing
You're gonna trip and glide
All on the trembling plane
Your diamond hands
Will be stacked with roses
And wind and cars
And people of the past

I'll call you thing
Just when the moon sings
And place your face in stone
Upon a hill of stars
And gripped in the arms
Of the changeless madman
We'll dance our lives away
In the Ballrooms of Mars

You talk about day
I'm talking 'bout nighttime
When monsters call out
The names of men
Bob Dylan knows
And I bet Alan Freed did
There are things in night
That are better not to behold

You dance
With your lizard leather boots on
And pull the strings
That change the faces of men
You diamond-browed hag
You're a gutter-gaunt gangster
John Lennon knows your name
And I've seen his

Saturday, October 25, 2003

A Perfect Day for Bananafish

J.D. Salinger taught me something important.

Prof. Corum said in his lecture that the underlying message of Salinger's Nine Stories is that the only real form of happiness in the world hides in the world of children. The further into the adult world people slip, the less chance they have of ever achieving true happiness. Throughout the stories, which I think I'll like even more when I read them again, the characters try different methods of masking their dissatisfaction with life: alcohol, repression, and — most shockingly in the first story, "A Perfect Day for Bananafish" — suicide. However, Salinger suggests one possible solution: to draw from another of his books, being the catcher in the rye — some wise adult who's there to help make the adult world seem just a bit less sinister to wide-eyed children. Boo Boo Tannenbaum does it in one story. She's the coolest mom ever. Boo Boo's brother, Seymore Glass, does it in "A Perfect Day for Bananafish," but he's the one who commits suicide immediately after when he realizes that the happiness he gives to kids is one he can't have.

I'm probably not a catcher in the rye for anyone. This is something I have to work on. But what did strike me is the notion of true happiness being the claim of children only. I agree.

Everything I've done to make myself a happy person has drawn me back to my childhood: my preoccupation with cartoons, my refusal to stop playing video games, the Walter Mitty daydreams, the movies I watch that have these boundlessly creative structures that defy traditional narrative conventions — more like a child's story than anything. Even my tendency to act like a selfish asshole — that's me as a kid, not considering other's feelings because I would rather I had been never taught to do that. It's funny to admit, but I honestly never want to grow up.

Ha. Look at me, typing away before I go to bed. I just realized I'm Doogie freaking Howser.

Wednesday, October 22, 2003

Say Yes — Say No

What turned out to be strep throat — not mono, thank God — kept me home all day. Jessica called and told me that Elliot Smith was dead. He stabbed himself in the heart.

Monday, October 20, 2003

Come Back, Mr. Messenger Pigeon!

My ineptitude has likely disqualified me from ever working at the Seattle Times.

So I'm emailing these various newspapers and asking them about how the summer intern application process works, and when I write to the lady in charge at the Seattle Times, I say something like "blah blah blah fourth year English student blah blah blah intern this summer at the Washington Post," because apparently Seattle made me think of Washington state and I said the wrong paper.

The consequences of this action:
  1. This lady is gonna think I'm a complete retard.
  2. Humor. It's funny that I would write the Seattle Times and ask for a job at the Washington Post. I might as well have asked them for a pie. "Dear Seattle Times. Make me a pie. I like pie. Do you like pie? P.S., I am not a lunatic."
  3. This follow-up letter:
Ms. Lesch:

I just mailed you asking about internships, but possibly because I was thinking about Washing state, I said I was interested in an internship at the Washington Post. I meant, of course, to say the Seattle Times.

Sorry about that.

Drew Mackie
Here's to summer school — and becoming an office snicker at a place I don't even work at.


Take a little walk to the edge of town
Go across the tracks
Where the viaduct looms like a bird of doom
As it shifts and cracks
Where secrets lie in the border fires in the humming wires
Hey man, you know you're never coming back
Past the square, past the bridge,
past the mills, past the stacks
On a gathering storm comes a tall handsome man
In a dusty black coat with a red right hand

Run Fay Run

Sitting in a dirty Mustang and listening to Isaac Hayes, I think the decades preceding the death of cool collapse and, truly, 2003 is 1975.

Sunday, October 19, 2003

Queen of the Crime Council

As your leader, I encourage you from time to time (and always in a respectful manner) to question my logic. If you're unconviced a particular plan of action is the wisest, tell me so. But allow me to convince you and I promise, right here and now, no subject will ever be taboo — except, of course, the subject that was just under discussion. The price you pay for bringing up either my Chinese or American heritage as a negative is — I collect your fucking head.

Just like this fucker here.

Now if any of you sons of bitches got anything else to say, NOW'S THE FUCKING TIME!

I didn't think so.

— O-ren Ishii

Saturday, October 18, 2003

Made in India


I don't care what Nate says. The purple, pig-faced frog of India is cute. This little guy and Shobhna — that's two Indian imports I find cute.

(Something else I thought was cute)

The mini-keg I picked up today. It's the same proportions as a normal keg, just a bit more squatty. Cute and filled with alcohol is the best kind of cute.

Friday, October 17, 2003

The Big One

There was a big earthquake fourteen years, three hours, and twenty-seven minutes ago.

Everyone Deserves a Visit to the House of Blue Leaves

Thrice, as of the time of this writing.
When Uma Thurman's character steps into the House of Blue Leaves, a jumping Tokyo nightspot frequented by Yakuza thugs, she marks the beginning of a 20-minute stretch of action movie perfection. It's a choreographed, gory jaunt that filmmakers in the action genre will be scrambling to top for the next five years.

Thurman, a nameless blonde swordswoman in a motorcycle suit with a yellowjacket color scheme, slices through countless Yakuza, the mad schoolgirl Gogo Yubari (Chiaki Kuriyama) and the notorious crime boss Johnny Mo (Gordon Liu). Finally, hardly dazed by the preceding ordeal, she duels samurai-style with O-Ren Ishii (Lucy Liu), the queen of the Japanese underworld, in a serene snowfield.

The fight ends. White snow turns red. The audience gets up and leaves the theater, itching to see how the next half of "Kill Bill" will unfold.

"Kill Bill: Vol. 1" is a good movie. More than that, it's a flurry of sharp, shining metal that dazzles, boils the blood and satisfies the viewer more than any other movie in recent memory. "Kill Bill" combines popping visuals with an assured technical prowess befitting both the labels "film" and "flick" - terms usually on opposite ends of the cinematic spectrum.

The complaints against "Kill Bill: Vol. 1" however, are obvious.

First, Quentin Tarantino basically wrote a predictable, "Death Wish"-style revenge plot.

Second, dialogue steps aside for over-the-top blood and flashy fight scenes and staple elements from the kung fu, samurai, cowboy and blaxpolitation genres.

The entire spectacle is a big blowjob from and to Quentin Tarantino - until it ends with a blue balls-inducing cliffhanger.

And finally, like one poor Yakuza, this movie got cut in half.

And yet, as far as halves of movies go, "Kill Bill" is the best half-a-movie ever. Nobody should be watching this movie for its plot. Those fools should have gotten tickets to "Intolerable Cruelty" instead. No, "Kill Bill" merely throws perfectly timed punches with a flair unmatched by even Tarantino's earlier efforts. Appreciating "Kill Bill" means watching a movie in the truest sense of the word "watching."

The story is simple. For reasons likely disclosed in "Kill Bill: Volume Vol. 2," Thurman's character is attacked by her former fellow assassins on her wedding day. The groom dies; the bride goes into a coma. Once awake, she seeks out those who did her in. Between the spurts of blood, however, something deeper does exist. Given the minimal amount of dialogue, the actors commendably squeeze actual characters out of the script.

When Thurman's character wakes from a four-year-long coma, for example, her first reaction is to touch her temple where - as per her last memory - her boss, Bill (David Carradine) put a bullet. Her head clanks - a metal plate. The audience laughs. Immediately, Thurman then clutches her empty womb, where she had previously carried her unborn daughter. She screams in shock and anger. No one laughs.

It's this balance between violent, dark humor and realistic trauma that lends "Kill Bill" a certain emotional gravity. Vernita Green (Vivica A. Fox) balances life as a happy homemaker and as an assassin. The result is both funny — Vernita trashes her lovely living room brawling with Thurman's character — and awful — the fight pauses only to allow Vernita's daughter through.

Tarantino characteristically makes the movie sound as good as it looks. The RZA's score punctuates the fight scenes well enough, but the real sonic virtue is the selection of already existing tracks to illuminate any given scene's mood. Nancy Sinatra's version of "Bang Bang" opens the film with an appropriate mood as the silhouetted body of the protagonist slowly fades into view. Sound effects work well, too. From the gurgling of blood to the crunch of Vernita's shattered living room, "Kill Bill" sounds good.

Anyone who can stomach eye-gouging, tomahawk-chucking, head-lopping violence should see "Kill Bill" in theaters. "Jackie Brown" came out six years ago, meaning that "Kill Bill" is the first chance most of us have to legally see a Tarantino spectacle on the big screen.

See "Kill Bill" and let the best half-a-movie ever tantalize you. Witness Tarantino's mastery of both the camera and your own bloodlust. Clench your fists. Grit your teeth. And get ready to open your wallet again in February.

After all, everyone deserves a visit to the House of Blue Leaves.
Katie: "O-Ren totally blew her top." And I think Beatrix is a lovely name.

The End of the Purple Shirt

I got dragged fifteen feet by a moving vehicle. It would almost be funny if I wasn't bleeding in so many places.

Miss Brown, you have no mercy.

Monday, October 13, 2003


BLINK1233: whats up drew how are you?
kidicarus222: hey
BLINK1233: hello
kidicarus222: why are you sick, loser?
BLINK1233: because i am friends with a loser like you
kidicarus222: i hope you're sick because you have crotch rot
BLINK1233: nah i took care of that problem before school started
BLINK1233: its the herpes again. they are back an inflamed now
BLINK1233: there is a nice visual for you
kidicarus222: yeah, it totally killed the attraction of the porn i was looking at
BLINK1233: sorry... just focus on your computer and maybe the porn will regain its effectiveness
kidicarus222: right
kidicarus222: stop talking to me, herpina
BLINK1233: sorry king crotch rot!
kidicarus222: i like that
kidicarus222: call me KING CROTCH ROT!
BLINK1233: it almost sounds like a fairy tale character
kidicarus222: or... a superhero
kidicarus222: the adventures of king crotch rot and diptheria boy
kidicarus222: against evil queen herpina
BLINK1233: i think it would make a better disney story...where the evil king crotch rot tries to kidnap the princess
BLINK1233: of course the faithful servant herpina learns of this plot and she saves the day
kidicarus222: princess... princess lydia chlamydia
BLINK1233: yuck! lydia chlamydia sounds like the dirty kid nobody wanted to play with in grade school
kidicarus222: (you)
BLINK1233: or your mom
kidicarus222: your mom = ass cancer annie
BLINK1233: my mom is not ass cancer annie your dad is ass farting frank
kidicarus222: we should stop this before one of us cries
kidicarus222: (you)
BLINK1233: or your mom

Pumpkin Three-One-Four

kidicarus222: hi glenn
kidicarus222: hi
CAZephyr: the pi was good, thanks
kidicarus222: the pi?
kidicarus222: you enjoyed my 22/7?
CAZephyr: pumpkin ~22/7

"Pumpkin 3.14" sounds like an anime series.

Friday, October 10, 2003

Volume One

An afternoon with Quentin Tarantino.

Seriously, I blew the whole Friday afternoon watching "Kill Bill." Twice, whistling twisted nerves and all. I can't remember a cinematic experience that was so satisfying. I left a piece of me in the House of Blue Leaves — like so many hapless Yakuza — and I want my own personal Gogo Yuburi. I suppose I'll never know if blood really gushes out high-pressure like that, but just assuming the movies got it right is good enough for me. Simple and clean splatter, if such a thing could be.
Who's out:
No. Five: Copperhead.
No. Four: Cotton Mouth.

Who's left:
Viper No. Three: Sidewinder.
Viper No. Two: California Mountain Snake

And then there's Bill himself.
February is a ways away. I should make my own to-kill lists and leave them about the house in the meantime. Lucy Liu owns me, but eye patches can be sexy, too. Everything should come in two volumes.

Your Virtuous Tights

Media Gadfly speaks again:
Orson Welles' Alter-Ego: Discovery May Rewrite Comic Book to Film History... Or Not

It's a great time to wear tights, even if Orson Welles never thought so.

Since the success of 2002's "X-Men," which both earned subtle praise from critics and grossed $157,299,717 during its theatrical run, Hollywood has cast a kinder gaze upon the superhero.

Men with capes. Women in bodysuits. Explosions, gadgets and cackling supervillains. No wonder films detailing the heroic exploits of such heroes were regarded as mere live-action versions of Saturday morning cartoons. And disregarding Tim Burton's two Batman films and the first two Superman films, superhero films were just that. Case in point: 1984's head-scratching "Supergirl," 1989's dreadful "Punisher" or 1994's never-released "Fantastic Four."

But all this changed when "X-Men" proved that such films entertain at least as well as any James Bond spy flick. Hollywood stars like Halle Berry joined real actors like Ian McKellen and made a damn good movie. Suddenly, reputable directors began unabashedly scanning the Marvel and DC universe for the next blockbuster. Most notably, "Sense and Sensibility" director Ang Lee adapted Stan Lee's "The Incredible Hulk."

This plethora of gloved, superstrong thumbs raised approvingly upward coincides neatly with a recent rumor about Orson Welles' newly uncovered plans to direct a Batman film — back in 1946.

Comic book fanboys' ill-fitting pants got a little moister when Mark Millar, a columnist at, reported Sept. 26 that a Welles biographer had stumbled across production notes for a Batman film that never made it to celluloid. According to the article, Welles, a well-known fan of superhero radio dramas like "The Shadow" and the brains behind the infamous "War of the Worlds" hoax, had seriously considered bringing the Caped Crusader to the big screen. Allegedly, Welles had even drawn interest from major stars of the 40s, casting James Cagney as the Riddler, Basil Rathbone as the Joker and Marlene Dietrich as Catwoman.

Disputes over whether the 31-year-old Welles could play Batman and Bruce Wayne ended the production, according to the report.

Fanboys went mad, ignoring the sheer incredibility of the whole story. Linking a cinematic visionary like Welles to a cult figure like Batman is like finding out Jodie Foster was the first choice for the lead in "Buffy the Vampire Slayer."

Even Harry Knowles, the mound of sweaty red hair who runs the popular website Ain't It Cool News bought the story, writing, "To think of it. ... That in all the history books on Batman, that it was never mentioned, whispered or screamed at the top of their lungs. ... I'm stunned. Stunned."

It's simple, Mr. Knowles. Like Batman himself, the story is fiction. Dead for nearly 15 years, Welles can still pull off a good hoax.

Lionel Hutton, the alleged Welles biographer whom Millar mentioned, hides from even the all-seeing eye of Google. Besides, the Riddler doesn't start trouble in Gotham City until 1948 in Detective Comics #140. And would James Cagney ever play second fiddle to Basil Rathbone?

Nonetheless, Lionel Hutton (a soundalike for "Simpsons" shyster Lionel Hutz) got the best of even the people who know Batman best. But rather than fault the fanboys' gullibility, I think the hoax's success is instead indicative of the growing acceptance of superhero cinema.

Would anyone have believed the Orson Welles-Batman story 15 years ago, back when the word "superhero" conjured up images of Adam West and Lynda Carter? It's also debatable whether Welles would be at the reigns of a Batman film had he been a promising young filmmaker now instead of 50 years ago.

Nonetheless, "Memento" director Christopher Nolan, who is alive, recently began pre-production on a fifth Batman installment. Reputable actor Christian Bale has agreed to don the cape and cowl in the lead; meanwhile, X-Woman Halle Berry is set to slink around in an unrelated Catwoman film. Countless sequels and new franchises are scheduled to wham and bam on screens for years to come.

The superhero will guard the movie theater for a while yet — no hoax, I swear.

Thursday, October 09, 2003

The Secret Diary of Drew

It's approaching three o'clock and I'm all Fox Mulder "Trust No One" paranoia and George Constanza anxiety of worlds colliding. Everything is knotted up so tightly I wonder if Viola was wrong — even time itself could not undo all the snags and loops. Loop. That's a good word right now. Somehow, a paper on James Joyce's Dubliners will be written, but somehow I feel I've been double crossed when I logically know I haven't.

I think I would need a second, secret blog to write all this down. The Secret Diary of Drew. And then I would give it to some shut-in and we could Hardy Boys it back later.

Nothing's ever easy. Nothing's every simple. Nothing is as ever as basic as I think when I first look at it. Why can't I remember that?

kidicarus222: what makes me tick:
kidicarus222: pride
kidicarus222: insecurity
kidicarus222: a small chemical imbalance
kidicarus222: a healthy sex drive
kidicarus222: the journalistic pursuit of the truth
kidicarus222: james joyce
kidicarus222: gale weathers
kidicarus222: naomi watts
kidicarus222: david cross
kidicarus222: and
kidicarus222: the knowledge that i will leave the world a changed place when i die
kidicarus222: the nexus is just a monkey house i work at sometimes

I've tied these goddamn knots all by myself. Maybe they're keeping me whole. Maybe without my knots, my insides would be on the outside.
He turned his eyes to the grey, gleaming river, winding along towards Dublin. Beyond the river he saw a good train winding out of Kingsbridge Station, like a worm with a fiery head winding through the darkness, obstinately and laboriously. It passed slowly out of sight; but still he heard in his ears the laborious drone of the engine reiterating the syllables of her name.
Run all the way to the McKenzies' house.

From the Inside as Well

Friendster ate my free time. I've been on three days. Like blogs, some trends are worth the inherent indignity.

Wednesday, October 08, 2003

Turning Japanese

jessicaiscool143: today in my english class we were discussing punk and this film about the Sex Pistols and this guy in the class that was leading the group discussion ....are you ready...put a quote from your Nexus article up on the board. i was like yoo-hooo Drew rules but then i was like oh man does this mean that Drew has gone mainstream and that i should therefore reject him as a sell-out to consumerism and then i was like...jessica stop thinking

Of Luigi and Buttercup

kidicarus222: yeah, he's totally the underdog
kidicarus222: and green is better
baby b1ue eyes: I know. I like those underdogs. I'm really into green lately acutally. just, in general. i've started to fixate on people wearing green shirts.
kidicarus222: maybe you're horny
kidicarus222: green, you know?
baby b1ue eyes: possibly. if I eat green MnMs, but yesterday my pack had almost all red MnMs. something was wrong
kidicarus222: i wonder what red means
kidicarus222: probably
kidicarus222: like
kidicarus222: cancer or something
baby b1ue eyes: THANKS. now i'll be dead soon.
kidicarus222: or maybe like
kidicarus222: love
kidicarus222: or something good
baby b1ue eyes: yeah, cancer is more like it.
baby b1ue eyes: :-)
kidicarus222: cancer, love... really just two words for the same thing
baby b1ue eyes: did you vote for ahnold?
kidicarus222: no
kidicarus222: i voted for bustamante, even though i felt i should have been voting for camejo
baby b1ue eyes: I didn't vote. I'm bad. especially since I go to berkeley.
kidicarus222: very bad
baby b1ue eyes: yeah, ahnold scares me. I hope he doesn't try to be all republican. I hope his wife beats him with a large stick if he does
kidicarus222: his wife? bones mcshriver?
baby b1ue eyes: yep, skeleton.
baby b1ue eyes: it's weird, but for some reason they kind of look alike, have you ever noticed that?

Run, Sarah Connor, Run

I leave the Nexus office just as Tuesday becomes Wednesday, twelve chiming bells and all. I did the opinion page all by myself for the first time, yet I'm going to wake up with a new governor — one made of metal and circuits.

Monday, October 06, 2003

No Palm Trees, No Surfboards and About a Mile From the Ocean

The truth. Someone had to tell it.
The Artful Dodger: Hollister Co. Shirts Endorse Earthquakes, Mediocrity

After the towers at the World Trade Center fell, people everywhere started wearing those "I Heart NY" shirts. Even if they didn't live in the Big Apple, the shirts helped them feel like they were supporting a worthy cause. I understand this.

But why the fuck do people wear T-shirts with my hometown's name?

I am from Hollister, Calif. Hollister, the seat of San Benito County, is a small community that sprung up around the area's once-booming agricultural business. Its neighbors include Gilroy, the garlic capital of the world, and Salinas, the "Salad Bowl of the World." Hollister once tried to tout itself as the earthquake capital of the world to boost tourism interest, but this poorly thought-out moniker just frightened people away. Now, mostly, Hollister serves as a bedroom area for Silicon Valley commuters.

We have lots of apricots, a Target, this one Marlon Brando movie about us, a high teenage pregnancy rate and that's about it.

So why the fuck, I repeat, would anyone wear Hollister brand T-shirts?

I see people strutting around campus everyday with shirts, hats, and visors bearing the name "Hollister." The most egregious offenders are the ones referring to the Hollister Surf Company. Believe me, the city lies a full hour's drive from the beach. There's isn't a goddamn surf company.

Since the Hollister brand - a subdivision of the equally irksome Abercrombie & Fitch line - has grown in popularity during my time at college, even the responses to my explanation of where I'm from have changed accordingly.

Before, people would wrinkle their noses and say, "Oh, yeah. I think I've driven by the exit on the 101," or "Hey! That's close to Gilroy! Can you smell the garlic from there?" Now, I get, "Oh! Like the clothes company!" Yes, you douche bag, exactly like the clothes company. In fact, I make all the clothes myself.

Truthfully, when Abercrombie & Fitch named the Hollister line, they might not have completely missed the mark. While my Hollister couldn't have less to do with surfing or fashion, a man named Colonel W.W. Hollister drove a flock of sheep across the North American continent in the late 1800s, naming things after himself left and right. Incredibly, a string of even lesser Podunks named Hollister dot the nation; less incredibly, Santa Barbara County's own Hollister Avenue got its name from the same self-important trailblazer.

Thus, wearing the Hollister name on your clothes endorses both a dead, eponym-crazy shepherd and a truly mediocre town. Take my word for it: You can be a shameless, walking billboard for a much more reputable clothing company than the Hollister Company.

Daily Nexus assistant opinion editor Drew is sponsoring a bonfire for unwanted Hollister apparel.

Fake Words TV Has Taught Me

  • opinionation
  • perpittity
  • bitzelcocker (disagreeable vagabond)
  • persefunctant
  • acribits (an action stock markets can take)
  • kwyjibo (a big, bald North American ape)
  • embiggen (to make bigger)
  • cromulent (valid)
  • pathetisad
  • sarcastabitch
  • vondruke
  • spooknife (spoon-knife)
  • kniffoon (knife-spoon)
  • comfortador (not a conquistador)
  • crelbow (the spot on your arm opposite your elbow)
And who says TV rots your brain?

Saturday, October 04, 2003

He's a Japanese Boy

I don't know who Aneka is, but her fucking song is stuck in my head like a dagger to the skull.
He said that he loved me — never would go
Now I find I'm sitting here on my own
Was it something I said or done?
That made him pack his bags up and run
Could it be another he's found?
It's breaking up a happy home

Mister, can you tell me where my love has gone?
He's a Japanese boy
I woke up one morning and my love was gone
Oh my Japanese boy
Oh — I miss my Japanese boy

People ask about him every day
Don't know what to tell them what can I say
If only he would write me or call
A word of explaination — that's all
It would stop me climbing the wall
It's breaking up a happy home

Mister, can you tell me where my love has gone?
He's a Japanese boy
I woke up one morning and my love was gone
Oh my Japanese boy
Oh — I miss my Japanese boy

Was it something I said or done
That made him pack his bags up and run?
Could it be another he's found?
He's breaking up a happy home

Mister can you tell me where my love has gone?
He's a Japanese boy
I woke up one morning and my love was gone
Oh my Japanese boy

Mister can you tell me where my love has gone?
He's a Japanese boy
I woke up one morning and my love was gone
Oh my Japanese boy

Aisle of Thea Tease.

Friday, October 03, 2003

Stay Up Late

Twenty minutes into Writing for Economics, God smiled on me; the Girvetz Hall fire alarm started ringing. Ringing? Maybe not. Beeping, like from the world's biggest cell phone. We all shuffled outside.

Now fire drills have long gone the way of Ducktales and video games employing vegetable-chucking as a mode of self-defense. But nonetheless, I felt like I should be lining up single file. But I gotta hand it to Dr. Behrens. He's two quarters away from retirement and lecturing to a bunch of kids who would rather chew cement than learn about the etiquette of business writing. Beyond this considerable hurdle, he also has us standing outside under a tree in the courtyard. This tree is dripping rotten berries and there's birds and flies everywhere, plus no one's answered the giant cell phone and a fire engine's pulled up and there's flashing lights and firemen and mostly everybody else has given up trying to conduct any kind of edumatory procedure. And here's softspoken Dr. Behrens, lecturing like he's in a primo learning environment, showing us examples of model business plans.

Let's hear it for dedicated educators.

Mister Manners

Judith Martin, meet Kristen's little brother.

escalift: i hope my away message today went on the cereal box
kidicarus222: i haven't seen it
kidicarus222: put it back up
escalift: ok, hang on a second
kidicarus222: NOW!
kidicarus222: who is miss manners?

Auto response from escalift: picking up miss manners at the airport

kidicarus222: i need clarification
kidicarus222: clarify!
escalift: she has a syndicated advice column originating in the washington post and running in hundreds of newspapers around the country. she tells america how rude it is, and the proper way to cut brie at parties
kidicarus222: i know
kidicarus222: you're picking up THE miss manners?
escalift: i picked her up already
escalift: pick yourself up off the floor!
escalift: (i was excited too)
kidicarus222: what?
kidicarus222: how?
kidicarus222: why?
escalift: she's giving a lecture to all the republican assholes on campus tonight on "the state of culture" and someone i vaguely know happened to mention he was supposed to go pick her up
escalift: so i begged and pleaded to go along
kidicarus222: what was she like?
escalift: she was politely distant
escalift: i asked her how the flight was, and all she did was press her lips together and raise her eyebrow and go, "mmh..."
kidicarus222: did she say anything bitchy?
escalift: and then i asked her if she wanted a cookie (my mother baked them herself, i said), and she just said, "oh goodness, no thank you!" and she chuckled
escalift: nothing especially bitchy
escalift: although i thought her response to my first question was a little cold
kidicarus222: yeah, me and my roommates that that was cold too
kidicarus222: i am narrating this to them
escalift: i'm thinking about going to her lecture tonight. when we dropped her off at her hotel she said, "thank you so much for the ride. i expect i'll be seeing you at the conference?"
escalift: and we stood there and said, "uh..."
escalift: as if to say, "we're not really the asshole type."
escalift: but i might go just to see all the assholes in action
escalift: and there's a rumor that after the first event of the conference every year, the professor who runs all this takes everyone--students, faculty, alums--over to the lord jeff and gets them shitfaced at the bar
escalift: i doubt it's completely true but i want to see what the truth is
escalift: and if it is the truth, i want to run up a big tab because i've never met this professor but all i ever hear about him is what a massive fucking tool he is and how much he shouldn't be allowed to teach. he testified before a senate subcommittee in defense of the defense of marriage act. people like to say that about him a lot
kidicarus222: my roommate wears jammies
escalift: mine too
escalift: our roommates are such adorable little boys
kidicarus222: yes
escalift: so... end of this conversation, i guess
kidicarus222: yes

Wednesday, October 01, 2003


Govinda bowed low. Incontrollable tears trickled down his old face. He was overwhlemed by a feeling of great love, of the most humble veneration. He bowed low, right to the ground, in front of the man sitting there motionless, whose smile reminded him of everything that he had ever loved in his life, if everything that had ever been of value and holy in his life.
— Herman Hesse, Siddharta

I Remember Susie Derkins

Props to Cory for the tagline.
The Artful Dodger: Just Try to Ignore the Talking Pavement

"You know this isn't wrong." The pavement near the edge of the 6600 block of Pasado Road told me so.

If I'm not mistaken, this mysterious message of reassurance became part of the Isla Vista landscape when some pro-war local spray-painted it on the street in response to anti-war protests last spring. Substitute "the invasion of Iraq and the toppling of Hussein's regime" for "this" and the message makes a whole lot more sense.

However, after skating over these words every time I visit I.V. Theater or the Bagel Cafe, I've realized they represent the worst kind of graffiti: the ambiguous kind. Passing months have shuffled news of American involvement in Iraq off the top of the news page, thus rendering the graffiti completely meaningless. Really, to what could "You know this isn't wrong" refer? Cannibalism? The vandalism itself?

"You know this isn't wrong" poses a worse threat to I.V. residents than mere confusion, however. Taken out of its political context, the graffiti blindly grants permission to all manner of wrongdoing. The casual passerby considering the innate morality of, for instance, skipping class or stealing a bagel, could easily let that smooth-talking Pasado Road goad them into a life of crime. And hooky and bagel filching are the least of the pavement graffiti's evil temptations.

You know it isn't wrong to sniff glue and drive a forklift.

You know it isn't wrong to get drunk and go down on your roommate.

You know it isn't wrong to steal babies and sell them to barren couples.

You know it isn't wrong to feed the body to the fish in the Storke Plaza pond.

You know it isn't wrong to unplug that machine that's been keeping your aunt alive.

And really, who could blame these potential wrongdoers? The odds of meeting a talking road are small enough that the odds of meeting a talking, lying road are nearly nil.

Granted, the people poised to decide whether to unplug the machine or where to hide the body should maybe incorporate the council of other sources into their decision, but if ever any town needed graffiti against sinful indulgences, it's this den of debauchery called I.V.

Perhaps a stern warning against such no-nos could better serve residents. Imagine how "What would your mother think?" scrawled where Del Playa Drive meets the UCSB campus could deter an unwary freshmen girl from dressing like a midsummer night's hooker when it's midwinter weather out. A shrewdly placed "Get that out of your mouth - you don't know where it's been" could preemptively halt much drunken I.V. sex. And "You're gonna be sick tomorrow morning" could convince a strolling reveler to maybe forgo that last red cup of Natty Lite.

Nonetheless, Pasado Road continues to give a bug thumbs-up to anybody with an ethical dilemma. Until some wholesome-minded individual replaces "You know this isn't wrong," we must continue to ponder its implications.

Pasado's misinformation will continue unabated.

"You know this isn't wrong" — Flagstaff really is the capital of Arizona. "You know this isn't wrong" — gnomes really do cause earthquakes. "You know this isn't wrong" — I.V.'s roads really do talk and dispense advice.

Daily Nexus assistant opinion editor Drew wishes to extend a heartfelt apology to UCSB facilities management for his irresponsible use of their forklift.

Tuesday, September 30, 2003


Eventually, the pendulum must swing to the left. Tonight — struggling, consuming, drowning, masking, melting, and sipping when I should be chugging. I can't imagine what I did or who I wronged to suffer this voodoo curse: pins in my hands, my eyes, my balls. Why can't anyone see that i want the pins out and why won't anyone get inside?

A field at night with fog lying low (like me) and a woman gyrating about a six full feet off the ground, making love to the gators in the swamp and she knows the motives of my mood. There's a mirror under a table in the town by the water and you, Pauline, were the last high.

Monday, September 29, 2003

Words That Sound Dirty But Aren't

  • gesticulate
  • fallacious
  • hoary
  • pussy willow
  • muk-luk
  • penal
  • titmouse
  • clean and jerk
  • cumin
  • cumquat
  • frock
  • Beefeater
  • testy
  • highness
  • ungulate
  • anually
  • Uranus
  • cock-of-the-rock
  • masticate
  • matriculate
  • angina
  • corkscrew
  • testaceous
  • phalange
  • sextet
  • shebang
  • blowhole
  • Mulva
  • seamen
  • seersucker
  • gangbanger
  • debrief
  • uvula
  • dictate
  • rectory
  • Grand Tetons*
  • animal husbandry
  • bushwack
  • jackanape
  • sirloin
  • Dick Butkus
  • testatrix
  • bushtit
  • backhoe
  • Assowoman Bay
  • Lake Titicaca
  • crankshaft
  • cherry picker
  • butternut
  • nutjob
  • Bangkok
  • swallowtail
  • pusillanimous
  • Tony Danza
* We printed this in Friday's paper, but some guy actually left us a note explaining that the Grand Tetons rightfully are dirty, as the explorers first saw them and thought they looked like big breasts, hence the name.

Friday, September 26, 2003


Perhaps foolishly, I watched "Lost Highway" late last night with Cory and Tristan. We watched it with the lights off and bedtime was quickly postponed for Lynch's tale of random identity. Though I'd seen it twice before, I never realized how much I liked Lou Reed's "This Magic Moment." When I finally checked out for the night, I wondered cautiously if I'd wake up as some one else. O Hoodoo Guru, why do you haunt me when I'm still coping with the subconscious image of poor Bonnie, as a little girl, attacked by patchwork dragonflies and caterpillars from Loie's art show? I think I have found the Armagosa Hotel and inside I realized my brain is poison.

Tuesday, September 23, 2003

Your Face Is a Toilet Seat

More, more more.
The Artful Dodger: A GOLDen Shower for All

Subheadline: Computer System Failure Makes First Day of School Damp, Salty

Normally, if I said so-and-so went down on me and didn't come up all night, I'd get a high five. But when the so-and-so that started to blow has the initials G-O-L-D, the result complicates my life considerably.

Thanks to the failings of Gaucho On-Line Data (GOLD), UCSB's temperamental Internet arbiter of class schedules, grades and probably other useful stuff, my three years of experience here on campus went down the tubes this morning. I never received a copy of my schedule in that rusting antique on my driveway - my parents tell me it's some non-electronic mailbox - and Registration by Telephone (RBT), GOLD's frog-sounding telephone counterpart, croaked last year. Thus, this morning brought me the painful realization that I had no idea where or when any of my classes were.

Instantly, I was no better than any of the doughy, innocent-looking pups wandering campus with darting eyes and the "oh-my-god-I'm-in-college" expressions on their faces. Lacking the guts to simply skip the first day of school due to technical difficulties, I raced into the Nexus office and swiped someone's copy of the Fall Quarter Schedule of Classes. I slid into class late (but not too late), realizing that in the rush to undo GOLD's harm, I'd forgotten to bring anything to write with or on - a lapse made all the worse because it was a drawing class.

The obvious response to my dilemma is that I'm technologically dependent and probably should have prepared myself with old-fashioned paper in case GOLD put me back in the Bronze Age. After all, machines malfunction. Cars sometimes break down, robots sometimes kill their human masters and computer systems, apparently, sometimes take huge shits and refuse to let you see your class schedule.

However, my morning trauma is indicative of problems beyond the unreliability of machines. Had RBT still been allowing students to access their vital information on their phones, GOLD's technical trouble would not have inconvenienced so many students. But barring the Fall Quarter schedules that most students bought in June -ones printed on paper as flimsy and quickly disintegrating as the newspaper stock you're reading now - students were left in the dark, or rather the bland yellow background of the GOLD error screen.

Although I've usually scheduled my classes on GOLD without too much trouble, GOLD and I have never been friends. Granted, I work better with words than with the numbers and buttons that make the computer think, but consistently over the past three years, GOLD has returned my polite caution with unexplained foul-ups and misdirecting menus and the like.

Furthermore, GOLD's untimely seizure struck days after many other students and I signed the largest checks we have ever written to the UC Regents. If they're going to take vast quantities of money out of our pockets, UCSB could at least superficially appear to facilitate our education, not confound and irritate minds still baked from sun exposure this past summer.

Likely, GOLD's damage has already been done. It didn't work the one day of the year when students needed it most. I can only hope some poor freshman already overwhelmed with the stress of this brave new world called college didn't end up hiding under his bed, crying and frantically trying to make a last minute transfer from technologically inept UCSB to the safety of CSU Podunk.

If UCSB insists that GOLD be the only method for students to, well, basically be students, GOLD's caretakers should mend its wounds and prevent any further inconveniences, especially during periods of mass class scheduling. Presently, GOLD is functional again. After having gone down for most of Sunday, however, somebody should offer it a breath mint.

Daily Nexus assistant opinion editor Drew wants a mint, too.
Nothing quite like getting the urine-based paraphilias into the face of every UCSB student first thing in the morning. The top-of-the-front page refer Cory wrote: "Your Face Is a Toilet Seat... Or So Says GOLD."

Other headlines of note: Former opinion editor Steven wrote an article about gay rights and Prop. 22 and conservative senator Pete Knight. Thus, the headline: "Knight Jousts with Queers on Prop. 22."

Saturday, September 20, 2003

Leave Tomorrow Behind

A summary: Hollister to Santa Barbara, Santa Barbara to Cayucos, Cayucos to Santa Barbara, Santa Barbara to Hollister, Hollister to Santa Barbara. Fuck. I found out my grandparents and mom met John Ritter twenty-some odd years ago, plus Carrie Fisher and Debbie Reynolds. Then I had lunch with Todd and April at a burger joint that used to be owned by Scott and Laci Peterson.

The past is not at rest.

Thursday, September 18, 2003


When problems overwhelm us and sadness smothers us,
Where do we find the will and the courage to continue?
Well, the answer may come in the caring voice of a friend,
A chance encounter with a book, or from a personal faith.
For Janet, help came from her faith, but it also came from a squirrel.
Shortly after her divorce, Janet lost her father.
Then she lost her job. She had mounting money problems.
But Janet not only survived, she worked her way out of despondency
And now she says life is good again.
How could this happen?
She told me that late one autumn day
While she was at her lowest
She watched a squirrel storing up nuts for the winter.
One at a time, he woudl take them to the nest.
And she thought "If that squirrel can take care of himself
With the harsh winter coming on, so can I.
Once I lumped my problems into small pieces,
I was able to carry them, just like those acorns.
One at a time.
Be like the squirrel, girl.

Tuesday, September 16, 2003

Four Giants

"Sometimes the only thing worse than the weight of the world on your shoulders is the weight of the moon."

She's Not There

A list of the posters gracing my walls as of this early morning hour.
  • a Radiohead poster with Thom and the rest in Tokyo
  • a small poster I got at the the first "Lord of the Rings" at Premiere in Hollister
  • one for Hitchcock's "Vertigo" with the original orange pop art spyrograph design
  • a jumbo poster from "Pulp Fiction" that everybody bought at Just Play with Uma as Mia
  • Dali's "The Persistence of Memory"
  • another big one of Radiohead's Kid A album cover
  • a Mega Man II foldout that I rescued from an old Nintendo Power
  • the Happy Tree Friends autographed one Moe bought me for my birthday
  • the Italian "Psycho" poster I bought in London
  • a postcard I got along time ago with Pinky and the Brain on it
  • a mostly hidden "Army of Darkness"
  • a glossy black-and-white still from "Blue Velvet"
  • a pretty rare promotional poster for Mario Kart 64 with Jinglish sound effects like "clash!" instead of "crash!"
  • one for Radiohead's OK Computer
  • Lang's "Metropolis" with Futura totally looking like C-3PO
  • Munch's "The Scream"
  • the "Mulholland Drive" poster with Naomi Watts
  • a cover of Wrapped in Plastic with Coop and Laura Palmer in the Red Room from "Fire Walk With Me"
  • "Jaws" with the original artwork
  • one with Beck performing at some random concert
  • a Nike ad I tore out of an old Rolling Stone with a tennis player in a radiation suit on a smoldering, post-apocalyptic tennis court, inexplicably
  • the French ad for "Fire Walk With Me" with Laura in the front and a shadowy Coop behind red curtains
  • a way hot four-year-old Rolling Stone shot of Alicia Witt — billed as a "hot starlet" — with a whip
  • another Dali painting with creepy giraffe-elephants and a red sunset
  • the "Wild at Heart" with Nicolas Cage and Laura Dern
  • the cover of a San Jose Mercury Eye insert from when "Mars Attacks" came out full of the brainy martian noggins
  • a glossy photo of Rose MacGowan looking hot
  • a four-fifths obscured yellow poster from the Beastie Boys concert tour for Hello Nasty
  • a big black-and-white Just Play find for Zeppelin's "Stairway to Heaven" with the first six lines
Because I'm obsessive. Why are you reading this?

Monday, September 15, 2003

Moira MacTaggart

Like so many drunk and horny college students, the Nexus retreat at Cayucos came and went. I only prayed for death twice, so I'm calling it a successful venture at a seaside cabin where somebody must have either filmed a porno or snuff film. Fun, maybe even, if you call listening to Donovan and then drizzling conditioner on my semi-erect dick to stage lewd photos on poor drunk Jenny's camera. And I do call that fun. And I did.

I managed to avoid most direct conversation with that smoke-smuggered Lorax and go kayaking and share a hypothermerrific night swim with four naked Nexites and even make a few good jokes about goo babies and that crazy bitch Frida. Taryn nailed it on the head with "Cay-useless." I planned to flee Sunday evening but realized I had plans I didn't realize I had, like seeing Hearst Castle's Neptune Pool with Dan and Jessica.

I think I like driving with David Cross and Holly Golightly and may invite them along for future trips. It surely is neither September nor 2003 and I have all the time I need. All of it.

Friday, September 12, 2003

Cici Cooper

As of this morning, the following are totally Cici Cooper (a summer deathtoll recap).
  • Barry White
  • Gregory Hines
  • The Brothers Hussein
  • Katharine Hepbern
  • Bob Hope
  • Drewfish
  • Idi Amin
  • Bobby Bonds
  • Celia Cruz
  • Charles Bronson
  • Steve Christy
  • Warren Zevon
  • Larry Hovis of "Hogan's Heroes"
  • Most of my plants (thank you, selfish and thoughtless Nate)
  • Bernice Jones
  • Katherine Hepbern
  • John Ritter (Jack Tripper himself, who once portrayed a psychotic robot on "Buffy")
  • Johnny Cash
But hey — at least Joyce DeWitt gets her name in the papers again. R.I.P., Man in Black. R.I.P. also, Conchita Ramirez.

Coming up next: the Nexus Retreat, where I get to be Moira MacTaggart. I'm driving with MTA, whose name always reminds me of those cute, three name actresses, like Jennifer Love Hewitt or Sarah Michelle Gellar. (The latter, I've since realized, is not Swiss royalty, contrary to what the Interlaken train station led me to believe.) I think I traded a land of permanent Sunday afternoon for one of permanent Friday night, and I don't know if this deal put me on top. I miss my mom and dad.

They boarded up the back passageway and it's a dark day for the Pasado House when no one can tell me why the sink basin is stained yellow.

Wednesday, September 10, 2003

Love Is Such a Sweet Thing But I Love to Eat Things

Shocking — shocking! — revelations from Nate at the dawn of a new quarter.

kidicarus222: so what else is new?
n8rs81: dunno, ive been thinking abouy stuff
kidicarus222: like what?
n8rs81: just how stuff ended up last year with the girls
kidicarus222: yeah?
n8rs81: yea
n8rs81: i think i realize why i didnt get along with meghan
kidicarus222: because you're from the jerk planet?
n8rs81: no
n8rs81: cuz i love her
n8rs81: more than any other girl
n8rs81: she's totally the one for me
kidicarus222: dude, you gotta be shitting me
n8rs81: no
n8rs81: its totally true
n8rs81: and she feels the same way
n8rs81: meghan and i have been having an affair since summer began
n8rs81: no one else knows about it
kidicarus222: no shit!
kidicarus222: i thought you were in love with jill
n8rs81: not any more
n8rs81: jiggilian was just a physical thing
n8rs81: it's about meghan now
n8rs81: meghan makes me the happiest man in the world
[ a work of fiction ]

Tuesday, September 09, 2003

The Hardest Button to Button

Auto response from coolbeansmoe: not talking to the drew, aka the london whore
kidicarus222: fine
kidicarus222: don't talk to me
kidicarus222: then i won't talk to you and tell you what a gigantic moron you are
kidicarus222: you have so much stupid inside you, you had to gain weight to maintain your level of stupidiosity
kidicarus222: and then
kidicarus222: your head would explode
kidicarus222: and there would be stupid everywhere
kidicarus222: and people would walk by and say
kidicarus222: jeez
kidicarus222: what smells so stupid?
kidicarus222: and other people would be like
kidicarus222: oh
kidicarus222: moe exploded
kidicarus222: too stupid, you know?
kidicarus222: and then the first people
kidicarus222: they'd be all
kidicarus222: oh
kidicarus222: yeah
kidicarus222: that figures
kidicarus222: i never liked her
kidicarus222: and then
kidicarus222: squirrels would come and eat all the stupid molecules that you shot everywhere when you exploded
kidicarus222: and then those squirrels would get all swollen with stupid
kidicarus222: and then they'd look like you
kidicarus222: and then scientists would come
kidicarus222: and they'd look at the squirrels and say
kidicarus222: well, it's a new species we've got here
kidicarus222: a new, stupid species
kidicarus222: and then the government would get involved
kidicarus222: because when the moe sherman squirrels bred, there'd be dangerously high amounts of stupid in the nation
kidicarus222: and they'd wipe them out
kidicarus222: but they'd take out santa barbara too
kidicarus222: and everyone would be
kidicarus222: oh
kidicarus222: how sad
kidicarus222: santa barbara was such a nice place
kidicarus222: it's so sad they had to destroy it
kidicarus222: and then people's mothers would be all
kidicarus222: well, if you think about it
kidicarus222: it's really the fault of that moe sherman girl
kidicarus222: you know
kidicarus222: i remember her
kidicarus222: and she used to be so stupid
kidicarus222: i heard she made other things stupid just by being around them
kidicarus222: like, she's the reason mtv got stupid
kidicarus222: like, the real world used to be a really good show
kidicarus222: but then that moe girl started watching
kidicarus222: and then everyone got way stupid on it
kidicarus222: you're not just stupid: you're stupid with donkeys!