Wednesday, December 29, 2004

Tuesday, December 28, 2004

A Distant Ship Floats on the Horizon

"just so you know, if things were different... things would be different."


In the process of moving my stuff from Isla Vista to Hollister to Santa Barbara, I've found a yellow post-it note with a world scrawled on it: "kamekubaba." It's mysterious. It's in my hand-writing. And I have no idea what it means.

Google doesn't recognize it either, which means I'm totally out of luck. I wrote this word in my rush writing and not my neat writing, which means it could also be a few other things. I could have also written "kainekubaba," which also means nothing, or "karekubaba," which Google suggests might actually be "karubaba," which seems to have something to do with New Guinea but still, alas, means nothing to me.

One useless post-it note.

The After-Dinner Candy Most Preferred by Indie Rock Stars

I think it was this Rolling Stone article that explained where the White Stripes got their name. When trying to conceive that unique Jack White-Meg White sound, the two decided that one common, everyday object best represented their goal: those round, red and white after-dinner mints you get at restaurants. Simple. Classic. Beloved. But not knowing the name, they simply called them — and, thus, themselves — the White Stripes. Appropriate, really. The candies jelled with the barebones rock aesthetic and the two ran with it.

A funny story: I'm at the grocery store looking at the bags of Bracch's candy. You know, the nasty, chalky stuff parents hand out at birthday parties after the kids are sufficiently rattled with the good sugar. But those same red and white candies, according to the Bracch's company, are called the Starlight Mints, a name shared by a lesser known but also wonderful indie rock band.

Two bands, one candy and essentially the same name.

Monday, December 27, 2004

Super Fan-Tast-Eek

One more.

I'm done.

Intern Clique No. One and the Mysterious Little Door

On the last day of work, I finally got to photodocument the John Malkovich door. It's a little curiosity on the stairwell that I used to get to my floor — a door that's about three-quarters the size of a typical National Geographic Society door. Some wise individual rocked my world and placed a name placard on this door. It's just like every other placard in the complex — same brown fake wood background, same font, everything — that reads "J. Malokovich's Head."

Me standing next to the door so as to emphasize it's smallitude. You can just kinda-sorta make out the text on the placard.

The other two members on the intern clique, playing about the door in the manner of monkeys. Upwardly mobile, professional monkeys that I like very much, but you have to admit they do look just like a bit like monkeys.

A CD for DC

I've decided to commemorate the whole Washington experience with music. I got this far and then bam — musical brick wall. Interns and intern groupies, I'm now accepting suggestions.
1. Scissor Sisters - "Laura"
2. Kinks - "Picture Book"
3. Beck - "Everybody's Gotta Learn Sometime"
4. Louis VIX - "Finding Out True Love Is Blind"
5. Shivaree - "Good Night Moon"
6. Starland Vocal Band - "Afternoon Delight"
7. Digable Planets - "Rebirth of the Slick"
8. Europe - "Final Countdown"
9. Polyphonic Spree - "Night and Day"
10. Chromeo - "Mercury Tears"
11. Who - "Who Are You?"
12. Scissor Sisters - "Comfortably Numb"

Saturday, December 25, 2004


My cousin is seriously considering auditioning for the next season of "The Apprentice." What's scarier: I could actually see her being on the show. My dad wants me to find out how to apply for the next "Amazing Race." I just like that the popularity of reality shows have made them a viable option for people's lives.

I haven't really cared about the whole "Real World"-"Road Rules" universe since I applied to write a story for the paper last year — and, you know, I totally didn't even care and it still kind of sucks when they didn't want me. Ahem. But I've been inexplicably drawn to the latest "Real World"-"Road Rules" challenge between the Real Worlders and the Road Rulers. I can't stop watching. I don't even know who most of these kids are anymore, but I just keep watching. (I blame Jet Blue — I saw it on the flight out of Washington.) But it occurred to me that once you're one of these shows, you've got it made. You just keep going back for reunion shows and challenges with different shows. Pretty soon, you're whole life revolves around the casting decisions of the madmen at Bunim-Murray. You'd spare any personal development for the cameras. You'd become a TV character. We'd watch you date, eat, live, age and gradually devolve into the likes of Eric from "Real World" season one. Yikes.

Maybe I'm happy that MTV finds me undesirable. But if they wanted me and I ran with it, at least then I'd be able to count on semi-annual, televised reunions with all my friends.

("real world"-"road rules" challenge is a bitch to punctuate in AP style.)

Santa Claus Gave Me a Hangover for Christmas

Well, that and an electric toothbrush.

Thursday, December 23, 2004


Thoughts while sitting on the toilet and playing Super Mario Advance: My love of typos and mistranslations arose all the way back in childhood, during the closing credits of Super Mario Bros. 2, of which Super Mario Advance is a remake. Instead of seeing who actually made the game, you see the characters in it, including the bosses. If you avoided warping and actually played the whole game through, you'd encounter a surly crab monster, Clawgrip, as the boss of the fifth world. He's identified as such in the game's instruction manual, but the credits fall victim to that infamous Japanese-to-English problem with "R" and "L" and we instead see the text "Clawglip."

Anyway, that's not the revelation here. No, I realized that this stupid, easy-to-beat crab monster holds the unique honor of being the first and possibly only Super Mario Bros. character created specifically for American audiences. In its original form, Doki Doki Panic, the game had a different boss for this world: an albino version of the same bomb-tossing mouse that serves as boss for the first and third worlds. That was apparently considered too dull, and so Mr. Clawglip made his grand debut when Doki Doki Panic became the American Super Mario Bros. 2.

Well, it seemed noteworthy to me.

Christmas break, in case you didn't realize, means playing portable video games while using the bathroom.

Tuesday, December 21, 2004

The Cold Set

I left late for Santa Barbara on the shortest day of the year.

The 101 was weirdly empty. No rush hour. No cops. Not much of anyone going anywhere. No one to see me pull over because the box lamp took a header en route, flipped end-over-end and suck one corner into the upholstery of my dad’s new Tahoe.

It’s a strange feeling to walk around normally well-populated places when no one’s around. As corny as it may sound, it made me feel like breaking into some cold set from a movie about me.

I’d actually forgotten to expect a deserted Isla Vista. Winter break. Quite possibly that last winter break I’ll enjoy without the obligation of a nine-to-five. The idea of pulling into the Pasado House driveway had been tying knots for the whole drive. I halfway expected a big, smoking crater, so seeing the house basically intact made me feel good, even if the backyard was littered in a way that made it looks like we were having a yard sale for all our rain-soaked cardboard.

The inside was manageably dirty, especially considering how bad it could have been. And from Monday afternoon on, I’ve pretty much been working on eliminating my presence from that house. Oddly, I didn’t even mind having to clean the living room and kitchen and backyard when Subleaser Keith saw the mess and began doubting whether the Pasado House was the right place to be living. I’ve done it so many times, it was lamely familiar to be vacuuming that same pool table green carpet.

But I empathized with the new guy. If I were him and just getting to Isla Vista, I’m not sure I’d want to live there either. Like he pointed out, the place “has potential.” It totally does. I’m sure that’s why the girls ended up there to begin with. For me, the Pasado House has more than potential. It has history.

When I think about how many people from my various intersecting social circles have actually called 6768 Pasado Road home at one point or another, I have to count with both hands. It started out with Meghan, Brie, Monique, Taryn and Shana. Jesusa and Natasha subleased. Then I moved in that summer, followed by Nate. Then we had those shithead subleasers, Drunko and Kaspar. Then Jill finally moved in. Then Cory moved in that summer while Owen and Beth subleased. Then Tristan and Glenn. Then the pasty one and the Russian potato subleaser. Then Kristen. Then Jono and Skippy. And now Subleaser Keith, who thankfully seems intent on keeping the place nice, if the present shithole décor hasn’t completely scared him off. And, somehow, I feel Hillary O’s presence as strong as anyone’s, simply because her whole living room set presently resides in the house.

In my mind, all of these people still belong there. I remember them being there. And they all still seem to receive mail there. (Admittedly, fake people such as Gilles Tanguay, Fannie Fay Silverstein, the entire Colossocorp staff and Cassidy Madison Reed also still receive a great deal of mail there.)

I can remember sitting in the living room with some assortment of some of the roommates — I can even remember who it might have been — and wondering how old that house was and if a family used to life there when the far bedroom was still an apartment and, if so, what purpose the Taryn-Moe bedroom might have had. A den? A nursery? Did some little kid grow up there?

In a few years, that house will be out of our chain of friends for good. Whoever lives there probably will never know about all the cool stuff that happened there — all the puke and beer and sex fluids spilled in that house and all the good stories behind each individual spillage, all senses of all virginities lost, all theme parties appropriately attended and all petty fights shouted and gossip spread and songs drunkenly sung along to and movies drunkenly fallen asleep to.

Before I left for Washington, I broke apart the wine barrel potter that had been home to this large succulent bush. As the plant got bigger, the barrel had begun to burst at the seams and I figured the plant would grow itself to death if given enough time. I dug a hole in the corner of the yard, a non-intrusive spot where I hoped people would leave it alone. It’s alive now and as healthy as ever, so if it can withstand Cory and Tristan’s neglect it can live through mostly anything, the hardy fucker. It’ll be there at least. I guess I can only hope that somebody sometime will notice it and how thick it’s trunk is and think that somebody sometime must have planted it and that that happened a long time ago.

I live downtown now.

To tie back in with that corny, trite movie-of-my-life metaphor, I guess we’ve filmed all the scenes on that set. It’s not so bad. They’re good scenes, for the most part. I guess I’m doing something else now.

(At the moment, I feel directionless and kind of scared. I had a thought while picking out what I hope would be the last of Jonna’s New Year’s Eve 2003 glitter from the bushes. I thought that if I was in a plane that was crashing into the ocean, I’d be scared but at least I’d know where I was going: towards the ocean at a fatal speed. A short future, for sure, but least I’d know.)

A Letter to My Former Roommates

I really sent this. True story.
hey guys.

so i think i might have finished cleaning the pasado house for the last time. oddly, i didn't even really mind cleaning it this time.

to fill you in, subleaser keith showed up this morning to start moving in and freaked out. the house was in a pretty sorry state — shit everywhere and dirty dishes all over the counter and stove and ants and just general badness. i don't know whose fault is was and it kind of doesn't matter now, but keith started having second thoughts about living in the place. i explained that part of the mess was the fact that i was moving out and that everyone left in a rush for break, which may or may not have been a lie, but he was still not happy with the idea of living in a sty. on top of that, he couldn't tell if there'd be any room in the house for his stuff, even with everyone else's stuff square and tidy. he also asked what the rat kill list on the white board meant. i couldn't think of a good enough explanation, so i asked if he had seen the rest of the house yet. that also turned out kind of badly, since the rest of the house was also pretty messy.

i told him to come by tomorrow, since i'd have my stuff out and i could clean up a bit.

anyway, nearly all of my furniture is gone. my white couch is still in the living room and so is the green checkered chair and my rolling office chair. i'm gonna have to pick those up after school starts, but they will be gone soon enough. presently, the living room is arranged so that i can move my furniture out easily. the white couch is where the tv used to be, and since i had to remove the tv stand, the whole stereo-playstation-speaker set entertainment center had to come apart. it's now resting, unplugged and useless, on the coffee table. now, from wherever you sit in the living room, you have nothing but that to stare at. it's funny to me.

a few other things i also left behind but still intend to pick up, including the waterfall picture and the vacuum, even though the latter is missing a part i assume you guys threw out. it's a funnel shaped filter that sits in the center tube that kind of looks like lamp shade. sound familiar? i'd guess you guys threw it out when you were emptying the vacuum out. the thing now doesn't work as well. also, the axe now belongs to you guys for good. i figure it's probably soaked in rat blood, which would be the worst kind of blood, and i don't want any weird rat blood diseases.

i left a few things for you guys, according to your skills and interests. i had a perfectly good external zip drive that i have no use for that's now on phil's desk, along with a super nintendo-type controller with a usb port. for cory, i left water balloons. and for tristan, i left some mail for him, since his name was on it. i also am leaving the shipwreck picture in the living room, since someone drew all over it in permanent marking. i know that was a cheap thing i got at a thrift store, but i really liked it and i wished you guys hadn't done that or let your friends do it.

keith seems like a really nice guy. he also really liked the house. please don't scare him away. i really need him to lease my room. he also seems like a bit of a workhorse who wouldn't mind keeping the place looking nice. please please please don't break him.


Sunday, December 19, 2004

Don't Smoke — But If You Do, Smoke Fictional Brands

Names of all the fictional cigarette brands I can think of.
  • Laramie (from "The Simpsons")
  • Morley (the ones the cigarette-smoking man smokes on "The X-Files")
  • Red Apple (from the QT universe)
  • El Dorado (from "Family Guy")
  • Kentucky Slims' Chicken Flavored Cigarettes (from "Futurama")
  • Dromes (from Lolita)
  • Bilsons (I think I saw this label on "Lost," which is my new televised obsession.)
I could have sworn there were more.


Anxiety attacks be damned, my parents took me to Valley Fair, which apparently decided that “Valley Fair” didn’t adequately enough shout “upper-class shopping” and now calls itself “Westfield” or else that sounds like a track housing development. I got new glasses from the nice people at LensCrafters and they dilated my pupils in the process. Puppy dog black with the tiniest ring of blue around them. I look into mirror and think, “Shit. I look like a Powerpuff Girl.”

Faulty Structure

Another thought about shopping: I remembered how much I hate how Structure changed its name to Express for Men. Bad idea. I’m not sure if the name change happened in cooperation with the country’s overall movement towards a trendier and more feminine form of masculinity. Anyway, the name Structure just worked so much better. I’m fairly certain the store shifted its general clothes style a few more notches toward gay, but there’s no reason why it couldn’t have done that with the old name. “Structure” gives me connotations of firmness and stability, whereas the new name makes me think “girly shit — but for dudes.” Not cool.

All I Want For Christmas Is Earworms


It's the number of times I heard that goddamn Mariah Carey Christmas song that Jardine played the last night in New York. So catchy and so ingratiating and so very much so caught in my head. I just wish I new what it was called so I could download it and exorcise it from my poor brain.

Saturday, December 18, 2004

Drew and the Big Bronze Ram

I said I'd do it and I did do it and here it is.

National Geographic, I'll never forget you.

Determined Deciduous

A short-term time capsule. I wrote this while travelling and just found it. Post-worthy, I guess.
I like you, Massachusetts, but somehow I think it’ll be a long time before I see you again.

As I write this, my train is speeding through the Boston outskirts. On the left, we’re passing through what looks like the bedroom community for the Massachusetts shit factory workers, judging from the patchwork scrap metal architecture. On my side, however, the trees go by. Some leafless skeletons being showed up by a few determined deciduous covering their tree-privates with red and orange.

Inside the train, I can enjoy this perfect, contained environment. The snow from yesterday turned into rain but I’m dry and shoeless. My phone’s recharging, I finished Wigfield and I’m about to start with Diary, I have a scarf and my credit debt is so far manageable. I have this TV screen window that’s constantly changing, interrupted only by the three-second head rush cameo of a train heading towards Boston instead of away from it. And I’m not even pissed that all my seventh grade geography has failed me when I try to visualize which states I’m passing through.

I guess that’s why I’ve chosen to deface the final, blank — and otherwise useless — back page of Wigfield. I want to remember that even while traveling through the shit weather after being gone for three months, I can still feel comfortable.

Friday, December 17, 2004


I’m waiting out the Hollister doldrums — periods of holiday season stillwater that can stay even the fastest ships. As a result, I dove into the chest of used and abandoned video games in my closet and pulled one out that features a minor villain named Astos. He’s a Dark Elf. (Needless to say, my childhood had periods strangeness and introversion — the kind that often involve Dark Elves, in capital letters and everything. I can remember fighting this Astos character as a child. (He was a lot harder then, by the way.) And I remember my brother calling him “Ass Toast.” It seemed funny at the time — less so now.I have no idea what ass toast might be. Might it be similar to — should I really write it? — butt crust?

Buck, Butch and Buzz

Allegedly, "Meli Kalikimaka" is the thing to say. I heard the song playing in Target yesterday and it annoyed me. You see, I've recently learned that "Meli Kalikimaka" amounts to Hawaiian gibberish. It's just how "Merry Christmas" translates into the limited Hawaiian alphabet. The process changes R to L and S to K and inserts vowels between every syllable. Honest. Swear to Pele the volcano goddess. It's Polynesian Spanglish. It's el trucke.

I suppose it would have been naive of me to think the native Hawaiians had an actual way of expressing yuletide greetings, but I never really thought about it before. Nevertheless, I'm as disappointed as when I learned where that white stuff on Californian Christmas windows came from.

I'm wishing I had a flock-free Christmas, but it's seventy degrees outside.

Tuesday, December 14, 2004

One Powdered, One Glazed

Not to be a complete whore for celebrity news, but what person writing the life story of Portia de Rossi suddenly started pulling names from a hat? Seriously — Ellen!?

The DNA Thieves

I'm alarmed by the presence of Paz Vega.

In case you haven't noticed, this star of the upcoming Adam Sandler-Tea Leoni feature "Spanglish" has somehow stolen Penelope Cruz's DNA. Look at her. She looks just like Penelope Cruz. Return Penelope’s DNA, Paz, and peel back your Penelope face to reveal your real face in the manner of a Scooby Doo villain, please. We don't really need another Penelope. We still have the first and she is enough, I guess. But at least Paz' voice doesn't cut through my brain like some kind of frisbee-tossed saw blade.

My worries do not stop with Paz, however. No, she represents a disturbing trend that I've noticed among celebrities in the past few years — and I'm not bitching about their kids' names this time.
  • Monica Potter so clearly has stolen Julia Robert's DNA, spliced with blonde genes.
  • I've long suspected that Leelee Sobieski is the result from some cloning experiment with Helen Hunt's bodily leavings.
  • And I swear I can't tell the difference between Marley Shelton and Kate Bosworth.
  • Remember Skeet Ulrich? Remember how he looked just like Johnny Depp? Remember how his role in "Scream" was eerily like Johnny Depp's debut in "A Nightmare on Elm Street"? Remember how Wes Craven directed both? Clearly, a case of DNA-thievery.
Spooky stuff, really, but I'm not sure what scares me more: the thought that Hollywood's trying to pull a fast one on us or the inherent crime in that human cloning and DNA manipulations has already begun. It's happening under our noses, people!

Nobody Loves an Albatross

Boy and dog are reunited and all is right in the world.

I read in a Tom Robbins novel that a person's dreams are affected by where they sleep. If you sleep in someone else's bed, for example, you dream like them. I'm not sure whether this occurs as a result of some mystical connection between a body and its bed or olfactory memories created by inhaling that person's lufted skin cells and whatnot. The book didn't elaborate. But it's a neat thought to entertain. Anyway, according to Robbins, a bed that no one has slept in for a while leaves no impression.

I haven't dreamed at all since I got home. I've slept well, but it's that dreamless deadweight sleep, like when I've had to much to drink. Only I haven't.

Otherwise, home is good. I have perhaps the most disparate collection of Netflix deliveries: "Charade," "Irreversible" and "The Muppets Take Manhattan."

Dreamy or not, life is good.

Saturday, December 11, 2004

Red Eyes, Brave Heart

Super Shuttle picks Adam and me up at three-thirty — as in, in a few hours from now. We got a few final beers at Big Hunt and it occurred to me that three-thirty in the morning is by far the latest-earliest-ungodliest hour I've ever been expected to do anything. Our only solace is the hope that somehow Dulles will have a bar open that will provide the martinis that will make our flight a little less unpleasant.

At the moment, I'm eagerly anticipating tonight's "SNL," as the Scissor Sisters are the musical guest. I can't remember the last time I was eager to see the "SNL" musical guest perform.

By the time many of you read this, I'll be in California again. If, somehow, I'm not and it's not yet Sunday morning, wish me luck and pray for nice weather and perplexingly buoyant aircraft.

Friday, December 10, 2004

I Want It Now!

Even the exhaustion of being away from home for three months must step aside for the sheer joy that is Wonka. Click here for the trailer to the new Johnny Depp-starring, Tim Burton-directed and altogether snarifilicous Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. (And if that doesn't work or takes to long to load, try approaching it from the link at the bottom of this news article.) The only downside: the release date of July 2005.


No more money. No more energy. Home in thirty-six hours.

We we did (the last installment):
  • Ate at Katz's Deli, where they filmed the fake orgasm scene in "When Harry Met Sally."
  • Ordered the corned beef sandwich and consequently ate more cow product than I had in a year.
  • Failed miserably at getting tickets to Avenue Q or Wicked.
  • Instead got tickets to see Brian Regan at Caroline's.
  • Saw he Chrysler Building.
  • Saw Grand Central Station, the most beautiful train station in the world. (I realized now that the new music stage on "Saturday Night Live" was designed with this place in mind.)
  • Saw the U.N. (Lame.)
  • Saw the Rockefeller Christmas tree. (For serious.)
  • Found that both Conan and Letterman are on hiatus this week. (Assholes.)
  • Went with Jess and Katie to some bars near Ludlow: Iggy's and Welcome to the Johnsons', the latter of which was set up to look like a house party in Midwest suburbia.)
Brian Regan sucked balls, by the way.

Thursday, December 09, 2004

Me and My Terrycloth Kilt

I'm writing this on dueling iBooks.

Did I mention that Jessica's apartment is a toaster? It is. It's not, but it is, in nearly every sense of the world. Not that I'm ungrateful for this swelter shelter, but the place is small, rectangular and cursed with a runaway heating system that makes every night feel like that night I had the fever that gave me the weird dreams about spiders.

What we did:
  • Saw what we thought was a sizable chunk of Central Park but actually was the tiniest sliver of the southernmost section. (The park actually covers like fifty blocks vertically and maybe ten horizontally. It's also a rectangle but much, much bigger than Jessica's apartment and not nearly as thermally kooky.
  • Saw MOMA, which just opened and rocks.
  • Saw Fifth Avenue and all the fancypants shopping areas thereabouts. (We bought nothing.)
  • Saw FAO Schwartz, which was lousy with sticky fingered children and pushy moms with strollers. (Anxiety attack.)
  • Saw the Rainbow Room, where "Conan" and "SNL" tape.
  • Saw Radio City Music Hall.
  • Possibly saw the Rockefeller Christmas tree. (Honestly, we're not sure. I told Adam that if we really did see it, we'd know and there shouldn't be any question whether a given tree was the Rockefeller Christmas tree or not.)
  • Saw Times Square. (The Vegas Strip with peacoats.)
  • Had time to kill so we saw another movie. ("House of Flying Daggers." Shitty. I've never before fallen asleep in a movie theater but I think it's funny that the first flick to put me under would be called "House of Flying Daggers."
  • The nicest Sbarro's ever.
And then I was a tired puppy — to tired to go out last night.

Today's plans: pending.

Wednesday, December 08, 2004


I'm here and that's what's important.

I just woke up in Jessica Jessica's apartment on the lower east side. That geographical term means nothing to me, really. I have a vague knowledge that I'm on an island. Jessica tells me that "Seinfeld" took place on the upper west side and the only time the show ever went to this neck of the woods is when Kramer gets lost and has to call Jerry for help. "I'm at the corner of first and... first?! How can that be? I must be at the nexus of the universe?"

The intersection of First Street and First Avenue does in fact exist, though I haven't seen it yet.

We got in later yesterday evening, so we didn't have time to see sights, so to speak, but Jessica's neighborhood is a lot to take in anyway. She says she somehow unknowingly moved into the DP of the lower east side. There's actually a shop called Paul's Boutique here, though it's apparently named after the album and not the other way around. We ate at a geographically vague Latin bar and saw "Bad Education" and then just hung out.

I'm here and that's what's important. Adam's showering and then I'm in and then we're gonna try to hit as much of the city as possible. It's not warm but it's actually a little sunny out. I think Adam and I are going to check out Central Park soon, before it gets dark and all the weirdos go crazy.

I don't smoke, but I'm somehow compelled to have one cigarette on Jessica's fire escape.

I'm here and that's what's important.

Monday, December 06, 2004

That Tricky Fucker Called Time

Boston is cold. Boston is old. Pretty good seafood, too.

Adam and I met up with Jessica Twin last night in Cambridge, which turned out to be pretty cool. We had fondue at a bar called the Grendel's Den and then saw a kickass brass band at a pub called the Plough and the Stars. People apparently drink literary in Massachusetts. Jessica Twin showed us some spots where "Good Will Hunting" had been filmed and told us that that movie was a big reason she moved to Boston. I think that's as good a reason as any to move anywhere.

We're staying at a hostel instead of Jessica Twin's place. It's totally cool though -- American hostels blow Euro ones out of the water.

We woke up early this morning and saw Fanieul Hall, which is different from Nathaniel Hall, which doesn't exist, we learned. I like the Boston, even if it doesn't like me and tries to push me away with biting cold. There's a massive shopping area downtown wherein I experienced the most Christmasy moment of my life: a department store display of "A Christmas Story" tableus, the bell tower chiming out "Come All Ye Faithful" and the sweet smell of roasted nuts. Plus the biting cold, of course. I never realized how integral cold was to my perfect mental picture of Christmas. Now I've got to learn to Christmas without it.

I thought I could see random specks of snow all day. By the time we were walking through Boston Common, it snowed for real -- the first time I've seen snow in at least four years. There was this string of statue ducks that the city commissioned in honor of Make Way for Ducklings, which I haven't looked at since I was a kid. Adam says Holden sees them in Catcher in the Rye and wonders why they they just stand still in the park in the middle of winter. Someone has to tell him that they're statues. I don't remember that part of the book.

We had dinner at the "Cheers" Bar, which isn't really the "Cheers" bar but the Bull and Finch and then we got tired of fighting cold and saw "Closer." I spent the whole movie trying to spot locations in London that I remember from two years ago, but couldn't. (The movie, meanwhile, made painful moments seem beautiful and reminded me that I haven't had a relationship in nearly a year.)

We wandered around the cold city for a while then eventually ended up seeing a different Jude Law movie about relatonships at the Mariott movie theater. I'm starting to feel like this extended holiday with Adam is one prolonged platonic date, though I guess it could be a lot worse.

Jessica Jessica finally called back and I think things are set for New York tomorrow. She's being distant again, but maybe things will warm up a bit when we actually get there. I can't believe I'll finally get to see all that: the Statue of Liberty and the rest of the iconic bullshit I've seen on screens since I was a kid.

Thursday, December 02, 2004

It's a Shpadoinkle Day

Today's the last time I have to roll out of bed and trudge zombie-like to National Geographic. I can't believe all the little passwords and I.D. badges and NG-specific terminologies become obsolete at 5:30 this evening. I can' believe I've done everything of consequence that I will do for this company. And I really can't believe that I must one day return to this eight-hour morning-to-evening work day.

Wednesday, December 01, 2004

Hot Pocket of Hate

I think I've just committed the biggest act of academic hubris yet in my short life: I used myself as a source in my research paper. I asked Tricia and she said it would be okay — even common among certain fields of study. So I went ahead and parenthetically cited the Florida hurricane article I wrote for Traveler back in October.

I see my name a lot, but there's some special spark in seeing it squeezed nice and tight between a pair of parentheses. It's nearly sexual.

Stats for my UCDC research paper, "“Keeping Up Appearances: The Fight to Restore a Disaster-Stricken Tourist Destination’s Appeal”
  • Pages written: 19
  • Pages left to be written: minimum of one
  • Total words written: 5,541
  • Number of times I used the word "travel": 148
It's 11:59 and I'm blogging when I should be powering through the last of this shitbag paper. Tomorrow, will be my last day working for the National Geographic Society. I should be concerned, I suppose, but instead I'm sitting, lost in the oddest mix CD I've ever heard.

Sometimes I burn CDs and I don't have enough tracks so I just stick something random onto the end. It's efficient. Lulwa, the creator of this music mosaic, seems to have extended that concept to an entire random album that has so far included "These Are a Few of My Favorite Things," the Spice Girls, Shakira, the Strokes, the Buggles and a mix of hip hop and boy bands that I honestly couldn't identify if I tried. And yet oddly, it's intriguing.

Lulwa: one; predictability: zero.

(i'm afraid shakira will make me write the final page of my paper in as scrambled an order as she speaks english)

Tuesday, November 30, 2004

Answers in the Form of a Pop Culture Footnote

To my neighbor to the south, Nancy Zerg of Ventura, California: Congratulations. You are now and forever embedded in popular culture. Way to have a good story at cocktail parties.

I'm No Ruth Buzzi

I've decided that whatever the content of my first book, the title should be Touching My Ass With a Feather." That way, when somebody comes up to me and says, "Oh, Drew! I'm a huge fan of Touching My Ass With a Feather," I can respond, "That's terrific. But how do you feel about my book?"

Don't Shoot Until You See the Reds, Blues and Aquamarines of Her Eyes

A rerun of the "Drew Carey Show" airs on the local FOX station before midnight during the week. I haven't watched the show in a few years and I believe it's not even on the air anymore, but back when I was younger, I used to think it was funny. The roommates and I couldn't even sit through a full half-hour of the what we saw. I'm pretty sure the episode was from the show's last season, since Mimi had lost a lot of weight and Drew's brother wasn't a character anymore and Kate had been replaced with the blonde chick from "Titus." Also, it was pretty evident that the writers had just stopped trying, as everything that's wrong with generic sitcoms was wrong with this episode.

Anyway, seeing the show reminded me of this one Christmas episode some years back that had a surprisingly touching scene. Granted, I was slightly intoxicated at the time, but thinking back on it sober — tired, but sober — still moves me, just a little.

In the episode, Winferd-Louder, the department store Drew works for, had decided to have a nativity scene in the window. They'd also decided to cut costs by using store employees as the various characters. Some clerical error had made Mimi the Virgin Mary and when shoppers saw the Holy Mother smeared with clown make-up they protested. Eventually, Mimi has to explain herself to the whole angry mob. She explains that, in her mind, the Virgin Mary must have been the most beautiful woman in the world. That's what would make the whole virgin angle exciting. Ugly virgin: who cares? Pretty virgin: we're still talking about it two thousand years later. And then Mimi went on to say that she wears her make-up because that's what makes her feel pretty and she's only doing it because she wants to make Mary look as beautiful as she knows how.

Of course, she follows that with something like "And if you don't like that, you can shove it up your filthy anus" or something like that. But for a moment, I feel like they gave her character actual depth, made her seem more like a real person instead of some garish accident at the crayon factory. Considering that Mimi is basically a one-joke character, I think that's pretty remarkable.

That's gotta be the reason I've remembered it all this time.

Monday, November 29, 2004


  • Pages left to write for my research paper: eleven
  • Days left living in the UCDC center: four
  • Cost of flight from Dulles to Boston: about $25
  • Days in Boston: three
  • Days in New York: five
  • Number of girls named Jessica that Adam and I may mooch off while traveling: two
  • Amount of debt this trip has accumulated so far: twice what's in my bank account
  • Reliable sources I've spoken to for my Flores article: zero
  • Number of articles on Ebo Gogo I've read: seven
  • Episodes of "Arrested Development" aired last night: zero
  • Number of strangers who were unusually chatty with me this morning: three
  • Number of days until I'm back in California: thirteen
("do any of these figures even check out?" — drew's fleeting thought)

An Unkind Cut

Though my hair was longer than it ever had been before, I was happy with the length, more or less. And even though I have only one more week at Traveler, I felt I had to make the effort to put forward the smallest efforts toward looking professional. So I found the only salon open on Black Friday, this spot just west of Dupont Circle, and got a haircut.

“It just too long. I’m pretty happy with the length in front, but the top needs a bit cut off. The sides and back are way long too.”

The hundred-pound hair fairy immediately buzzes the clippers on the shortest setting across my left temple. Bam — just like that, months of length obliterated with the mere buzzing of a handheld device no bigger than a Game Boy.

“Whoa. That’s not what I wanted, dude. That’s not what I asked for.”

He tells me that I said it was too long. He’s right. I did. But never — never — did I tell him that I wanted to shear my head within an inch of my life.

“Well I guess there’s no point in stopping now, since you’ve already started.”

And from there begins the longest fucking haircut of my life. He buzzes the rest of my head, taking off nearly everything I’d grown. Fuck. That hair had a history, I remembered thinking. It was still blond from the summer, when I was actually outside, before I sacrificed my free time for the nine-to-five drag. Fuck fuck fuck. Eventually, he finished, spun me around in my chair and gave me a hand mirror. Hair fairy tells me that he thinks I look better this way.

“You gave me your haircut,” I proclaim.

I’m right. This guy ignored everything I asked for and cut and styled my hair precisely how he wears his. It’s short, spiky, pulled together in the middle. We look like two cadets in the some lightweight gay army squadron.

“I’m not paying for this. I hate it. I don’t like your hair and I don’t like it on me.”

Eventually, the guy at the cash register agrees that I shouldn’t have to pay full price for something I didn’t want. They charge me ten bucks. I have yet to decide whether I was still ripped off. A more sympathetic — yet equally fey — hairdresser chatting with the register guy has witnessed the entire transaction and puts in his three dollar bill of wisdom: “I say if he hates it that much, we should pay him the ten dollars so he can buy a hat.”

Highs in the forties today — definitely the kind of weather that would demand more head covering instead of less. I guess I could make better use of the scarf. It’s not the end of my follicle world; a few months would bring me back to where I was, and in Santa Barbara I at least know and trust certain hair professionals when I ask them not to enlist me in gay boot camp.

When I think about it, I hope I made my barber cry. To paraphrase the Sisters, this really will be the last time you ever do my hair.

Sunday, November 28, 2004

The Great Frog Society

In no particular order, a list of musicians who died young:
  • Kurt Cobain
  • Buddy Holly
  • Aaliyah
  • Stevie Ray Vaughan
  • Wendy O. Williams of the Plasmatics
  • Jim Morrison
  • The Notorious B.I.G.
  • Sid Vicious
  • Janis Joplin
  • Ritchie Valens
  • Karen Carpenter
  • Jeff Buckley
  • Jimi Hendrix
  • Nick Drake
  • Ronnie Van Zant, Steve Gaines and Cassie Gaines of Lynyrd Skynyrd
  • Tupac Shakur
  • Otis Redding
  • Bob Marley
  • Layne Stanley of Alice in Chains
  • Elliott Smith
  • Ol’ Dirty Bastard
  • Bobby Darin
  • Patsy Cline
  • Marc Bolan of T. Rex
  • John Coltrane
  • Selena
  • Michael Hutchence of INXS
  • Lisa “Left Eye” Lopes of TLC
  • Hank Williams
Anybody missing?

Saturday, November 27, 2004

But Not Martin Scorsese

Indulge my nerdish leanings for a moment.

With some exceptions, virtually all words ending in the suffix “-ese” are adjectival forms of places. “Chinese,” for example, is the word describing somebody from China. (I guess I should mention that most “-ese” words are homographs, or words with more than one meaning, because they often appear as an adjective describing place of origin as well as a noun describing the language of that place.)

This suffix doesn’t really show up in any other instances in English. It’s either a place of origin or a language. That being said, I’m suspicious of what kind of geographic locations that word gets attached to.

Think about it: Chinese, Japanese, Burmese, Cantonese, Lebanese, Maltese, Pekinese, Siamese, Sudanese, Nepalese, Taiwanese, Vietnamese. A pretty specific geographic area, huh? All the words that use this suffix refer to Asian, African or Middle Eastern places. There are some exceptions, however. For some reason, a few western European locations take the “-ese” suffix as well, as evidenced by Genoese, Tyrolese, San Marinese, Milanese, Viennese and Portuguese as well. The sole standout is “Guyanese,” whose root country is located in South America.

And finally, a small group of Americanism born from the suffix exists, including “journalese,” or the verbal style of newspaper headlines; “officialese,” the style of official or bureaucratic documents; “computerese,” tech talk; “motherese,” or the way moms talk; and the most common, “legalese,” or the language of legal documents.

But I’m still not exactly clear why a certain word is “-ese” appropriate.

If I look at the ending letters of the countries whose adjective take “-ese,” many end in the sounds classified linguistically as liquids: [l], [m], [n] or [r]. The textbook definition of a liquid is a sound that you make without any friction (as you would with a [p], for example.) Also, the liquids can be prolonged like vowels, while other consonants cannot.

Place names ending in liquids:
  • Japan
  • Lebanon
  • Siam
  • Canton
  • Sudan
  • Nepal
  • Taiwan
  • Vietnam
  • Tyrol
  • Milan
  • Portugal
Others take the “-ese” suffix by chopping of the last letter of the word, usually a vowel. For example:
  • China
  • Burma
  • Malta
  • Peking
  • Genoa
  • San Marino
  • Vienna
So apparently when using this suffix, the final letter is negligible as long as the penultimate letter is a liquid.

The rule even works for the American “-ese” inventions like “legalese” and “officialese.” I just think it’s remarkable that while very few people would have actually considered how the suffix works, they used the rule correctly in inventing these little words that describe specific breeds of jargon. They could have easily ignored it and invented something that didn’t apply, but anyone who did never heard their invention work into the national lexicon.

What’s especially interesting to me, however, is one last group of words that includes “Congolese” and “Javanese.” Each of these, for some reason, actually adds as a liquid to the end of the location they describe in order to use the “-ese” suffix. Why? It seems like Congan or Javan would have sufficed just as well, but English speakers mashed them into the pattern.

Historically, the suffix traces it roots back to the Latin “-ensis” ending, which denoted place of origin even back then. We still use it in certain scientific taxonomy, like the name Homo floresiensis that scientists used to describe the “Hobbit” fossils found on the island Flores. That “-ensis” leaked through the years and continues to influence how we describe place of origin even today in English, though the Oxford English Dictionary cautions that suffix only suckered onto the end of foreign towns — always the places “way over there,” never “here.”

I’d guess that we still have that mindset when it comes to the “-ese” suffix. It’s not a word part to describe home, even today. So when English needed an adjective for “from the Congo” or “from Java,” we viewed them as being “over there” and unconsciously obeyed the linguistic rule of the “-ese” suffix. This would explain why I’ve never heard anyone describe the mannerisms of my hometown as being “Hollisterese,” as the town’s name sounds too Western. Come to think of it, I’ve never heard “Hollisterian” either, but that might be because people tend to not bring up my hometown in polite conversation.

(One would think that recently born nations, such as Eritrea would also take that suffix. Alas, no. Perhaps there’s too many vowels at the end. Also, The OED tells me that there’s a trend in the speech of illiterate Americans to drop the [s] when using the suffix when referring to certain nationalities. It’s “Chinee” or “Portugee,” the latter being what people in Hollister refer to the local Portuguese families. Apparently, it’s somewhat disparaging, though I’d imagine it probably defames the speaker more than anyone.)

This bit of linguistic pondering was made possible in part by a contribution from professional intern Canada Sue.

Friday, November 26, 2004

Twice on the Pipe

Brendon Small, venerable creator of the late "Home Movies" and all-round cool guy, muses amusingly on the nature of knock-knock jokes in the latest installment of the The Onion A.V. Club.
Hatred and fear are the root of all comedy—maybe. Hatred. The core of all humor. Look deep within the bowels of any knock-knock joke and you'll find white-knuckled fists pounding angrily at the door, only to ruin the self-esteem and mind-fuck the answerer. And we (as a country) must never let the knocker in. Why? Because he's there to kill you. Every knock-knock joke, when magnified, is a recipe for murder. Think about it, shitheads: a strange person who you could never recognize, spinning lies—he's the devil and he wants your soul. Because he's going to eat it. For dinner. And you're invited to the dinner, too. That you're the food for. The main course for.
Love that Brendon Small.

Thursday, November 25, 2004

Wind Me Up and Make Me Crawl to You

Happy Thanksgobble.

I'm off to Tristan's house. Not to be confused with Tristan, Kristen and I exchanged music: I recommended Scissor Sisters and she shot back with Louis XIV's "Finding Out That True Love Is Blind," because she couldn't get it out of her head. And now I can't get it out of my head.

Also, I retroactively updated the journal with entries for the past week, some of which I just backdated and some of which I had posted as drafts and hadn't yet made it on stage. Expect more in like — what? — another week?

Tuesday, November 23, 2004

The Ballad of Bardo Boppie Bip

Please excuse the lack of updates. I have a Power Point presentation to give on tourism crisis management on Monday and a paper to not completely fuck up. My verbal energies must flow elsewhere.

Oh, and I finished Villa Incognito. If anybody else would like to read a thrilling novel about mythological Japanese badger-raccoons, Lao whores named Miss Ginger Sweetie and Miss Pepsi Please, a lesbian circus clown and Vietnam MIAs who would rather stay missing, drop me a line.


So my last project at Traveler is writing an article about tourism on the Indonesian isle of Flores. For those of you who are too stupid to live, the announcement of three-foot-tall humanoid fossils on Flores a month ago catapulted it into the news. (It also forced evolutionary science to re-examine itself somewhat, but that’s a different post for a different blog — probably Science Josh’s.)

I was hoping to write an article about the boom in tourism interest for the island, particularly the village of Liang Bua. Few had ever heard of the place before, but suddenly news articles talking about its rustic, almost primeval charm, had motivated people to try to go there. The French version of the Associated Press even ran a story on specifically that subject, so I was hoping I could springboard off that short article into something larger.

My research, unfortunately, has made me realize that Flores is the Indonesian equivalent of the Ozarks.

There’s not a whole lot to do or see there, and for three good reasons:
  • You can’t actually see the “Hobbit” fossils, as they were shipped away to be studied.
  • Furthermore, the closest you can get to said fossils is a distance away from the excavation site, which is a cave. Basically, the island’s tourism highlight is a cave.
  • The island is near Komodo, which has the famous Komodo Dragons, the largest predatory reptiles in the world. They can eat a goat whole. If you had to chose between one and the other, what would you want to see?
  • What Flores does have is these three lakes with colored water: one blue, one red and one green. However, the green one recently turned to a color they euphemistically refer to as “café au lait.” Shit brown, I’d assume.
On top of that, Indonesia is basically on the opposite side of the world from Washington, D.C. The eleven-hour time difference makes phone interviews difficult.

Nonetheless, I received an email from some Indonesian tourism jockey that attempted to answer some of my questions. While the letter offered very little in the way of information, I found it highly entertaining, as did Canada Sue and UCSB Melanie. And now for your entertainment, I present selections of it here. (For legal reasons, I’ve changed his name to “Babu.” The capitalization is Babu’s, not mine, though I have bolded a certain section in which he mentions having successfully starting a war.)
Dear Mr. Drew Mxxxxx,
Thank you very much for your email about some questions.
Here are some point of my response:

Our company has recently success in organising the Pasola War on Sumba island specially hosted for the guest from Hapag Lloyd Germany. A hundred guests attend the event which we organised worked with the local government and local people.

This year our begining success was with Sri Chinmoy (the most popular prayer) from your lovely city Washington city, then Happag Lloy ships to West Timor on February.

Now we focus our attention to make the LIANG BUA as one of the HIGHLIGHTS on Flores and Komodo trip. We are fully aware the beginner may not be a successor but we want to be a frontier to get the LIANG BUA to be promote as the HIGHLIGHTS.

We always explain at the beginning to the people that their visit mainly NOT to see the FOSSILS but at least to make them understand the real site where NATIONAL GEOGRAPHY found the place and fossil.

EBO GOGO, OLA BULA ARE not yet on the people questions. But many of the visitors, specially from the archiogist traveling from village to village asking people whether they know some ancient ruins or any for their studies. From what I knew, every findings are similar to the story of the Flores legend such ANA DEO and more traditional legend.


YES.... I THINK SO THAT MORE PEOPLE WILL VISIT FLORES. The National Geography on your news has given a significant values of the broadcasting to contribute the islands from the eyes of the world. So i think it could be more and more eyes paying to the lovely island Flores, as they are much more and many ancients heritage.

I feel and trust as local there will be many people coming in to Flores specially those who are interested in special interest tours and adventure. One point may be we upset was WHY THE FOSSIL DOES NOT PLACED IN FLORES...?? This is a questions that of course will never influence those who are on the upper people.


Thank you very much for your kind support.
Best regards,
Personally, I think it’s funniest if you try to read it out loud, in a serious newscaster voice like the lack of grammar doesn’t matter.

Friday, November 19, 2004

Science Josh Explains It All

In this week's episode:
Okay, so in the snail cartoon, this is what's going on.

The (apparently) female snail and her (apparent) husband are watching the two other snails go past. The two snails going past are wearing shells that don't cover their underwear, and the older female snail says to her husband, "I find these mini-shells to be scandalous." And the husband, who is clearly enjoying watching the half-naked snail-women, is cowering sheepishly and biting histongue as he stares. So it's a cheap joke about mini-skirts and how marriage keeps you from publicly enjoying girl-watching, using snails for no apparent reason.

So, now you owe me a coke.
And the language in question apparently is Portuguese.

Thursday, November 18, 2004

This'll Be the Last Time I Ever Do Your Hair

I caved.

Since this blog first began occupying valuable realty on the information superhighway, I rejected the idea of allowing comments. Shit — this is my journal, right? It's not some forum for Joe Suitcase and Mabel Puffybush to discuss their piddly lives. However, it occurred to me that installing the comment feature might prove interesting. If it does, I might keep it. Besides, allowing comments might give me more idea about who checks out this site.

So here you go, you Joes and Mabels and Leons and Barbaras. I'm interested in your input. Dazzle me.

"S Hatter Ed Dweams"

You know you want to see it: the best blog ever.

KZMB — All Zombie, All the Time

Part of my internship involves writing up travel deals, some to places I'd like to go and some to shit-ass slice-of-Americana fuckbergs on the east coast that I'd rather didn't exist. An example from today: this hotel in Litchfield County, Connecticut that's offering a Christmas sleigh ride package. Puke. I hate it. But what I like is the name of the county: "Litchfield" literally translates to "field of bodies" or "corpse yard" or something like that. I think that should just officially change the whole area from Litchfield County to Zombiopolis — "where being dead won't stop you from enjoying life. Beautiful. Tranquil. Undead. Zombiopolis."

(i should do PR)

Oh, and I left a message today for a woman named Luke.
"Why aren't there more boys named lucy? That's what i want to know."
— Canada Sue

The Queens of Spades, Clubs, Hearts and Diamonds, Respectively

So the William Jefferson Clinton library opened today. Whether they wanted to or not, the Carters and all four Bushes were in attendance for the opening ceremony. This picture, which I would have flagrantly reprinted without permission if My Way News allowed me to download images, shows the four First Ladies.

I think there's something perfectly iconic about this picture of these women carrying umbrellas. I'm not sure what though.

Maybe it's that Hillary is carrying the only white umbrella. Maybe it's that Laura is the only one wearing pink — and at that, she's wearing the pinkest pink she could get her hands on. Maybe it's Laura and her mother-in-law's apparent amazement at the function of their umbrellas? And just maybe it's Rosalynn Carter putting as much distance between herself and the other three as possible while still remaining in the shot.

Wednesday, November 17, 2004


My excuse: my roommates were watching it while I was ironing on Sunday. Nonetheless, something stuck me as odd about the fake boss's name: N. Paul Todd. Not all that bossy sounding, really. And why the initial? To sound haughty? Like J. Peterman or something? When I actually saw it written in an article discussing "My Big Fat Obnoxious Boss," it finally hit me: it looks like an anagram.

As it turns out: Mr. N. Paul Todd = Donald Trump. I beat you, FOX. I beat you.

Tuesday, November 16, 2004

T.I.L.T., R.I.P

The Thanksgiving international leisure travel story just died and I couldn't be happier.

Monday, November 15, 2004

Drew and the Mysterious Bathroom

Lying in bed, I hear the upstairs neighbors' toilet lid drop and I instantly remember this lost, random anecdote...

So this lady is having dinner at some fancy house owned by this rich people and she really has to take a piss. But she wants to be polite so she asks to use the "washroom," as she thinks "bathroom" or "restroom" might sound too vulgar. The hosts show her down the big houses complicated corridors to the washroom, which consists of a sink basin, a mirror and nothing more. Again, not wanting to appear impolite she steps into the bathroom. She's rather not, but the urge to urinate is so powerful that she has no choice. She balances on this antique sink basin, drops her pants and squats... Only the antique basin is way fragile and it snaps partway through the piss and she falls to the floor. Time passes, and eventually the dinner hosts wonder what's become of their polite guest. They finally wrench the locked door open and find her unconscious on the floor, drenched in urine and sink water and lying besides the porcelain shards of the ruined bathroom fixture.

Unfortunately, I have no idea where I've heard this anecdote. Some drunken conversation? A movie? I haven't got a clue.

King of All Blasting Matter

I walked around Georgetown by myself yesterday and though I was among hundreds of shoppers, I enjoyed a sense of privacy I rarely do: invisibility in a crowd.

The air stings a little more every week. I'm told that's what real winter is like -- a general sort of pain that rattles all your exposed skin. Since I was downtown and cold, I gave in a bought a scarf, meaning I made the transition from "guy who doesn't wear scarves" to "guy who does," a change in categories that I think only an insecure guy from California could really appreciate. I wandered around for a while, and because I had "Wonderwall" stuck in my head again I went into a music store and bought the Ryan Adams album that has his cover of it. I still haven't listened to it. Then I looked at some children's Christmas books. Seeing Polar Express reminded me that I had a dream about riding a open-air train a few nights back. It was freezing, that train. I myself have never read Polar Express.

I'm not going to be in Washington for very much longer, and even though I'll be returning to a different Santa Barbara than I left, I'm really going to miss parts of this city.


Gee, I know I've been posting links in lieu of real chunks of writing. I'm gosh awful sorry, but here's another one I'd forgotten about. The IMDB 100 Worst Movies of All Time, at least according to how the site's users rank them. Okay, most of them I can deal with, but "Piranha Part Two: The Spawning"? I saw that movie on KICU when I was a kid, and it thought it was pretty good... Noticeably absent: "Wolfen."

Sunday, November 14, 2004

Brothers in Burial

Yassir Arafat and Old Dirty Bastard die days apart, confirming my belief that the two were one and the same. But seriously, do I have to pretend I'm sad?

Friday, November 12, 2004

Iron Horse, Iron Terror

The following includes original subject matter I dreamed, scenes my subconscious gleaned from movies and movie trailers, things that actually happened and plot connections I strung together in the moments I woke up after the dream in an effort to jam a serious of unrelated images into a cohesive narrative.
Marcy, Jill and I lived together in some big city. (I presume Washington D.C., but we're working on dream logic here so it could be the Vancouver, for all I know.) We have an apartment in some high-rise building. Despite its age, it looks a lot like the UCDC complex. In any case, we have problems with our upstairs neighbors. They play their music too loudly and, from what we can hear, they spend their evenings rearranging their living room set — every night.

Frustrated, we go to our building superintendent to complain. He asks us what room we live in and we tell him and explain that the source of the noise comes from directly above us. The super looks at us funny, then says that such a situation would be impossible: the room directly above ours is vacant and has been for years.

We're suspicious. After all, we can hear the noise. So we venture upstairs that afternoon and check it out for ourselves. Sure enough, the door is boarded shut. No one's been in or out in a while. Then we can hear a woman's voice in the room across the hall. She's repeating the same word over and over again.

"Hello?" She opens the door.

"Oh hi. I didn't mean to disturb you. I was calling for my cat, Psyche," she tells us.

"That's fine. But while you're out here, do you know if anybody lives in the apartment across the hall?" we ask.

"No. Not since I've been here"

"Okay thanks. Hope you find your cat. Has she been missing long?"

"Yeah," she says sadly. "Nearly a year."

She closes the door.

In a transition that evidences that my subconscious has the foresight to make plausible scene transitions, I wake up to the upstairs noise again. I go to the living room and me the other roommates and we stand, groggy and annoyed, and look at the ceiling, from which a series of loud bangs can be heard — three at a time, in the same pattern.

We figure we have nothing to lose, so we go upstairs to the mystery apartment. The door is wide open.

As we walk through the house, I notice that it’s much bigger than our apartment. More nicely furnished, too, even though sheets dusty cover much of it. It really doesn’t look like anybody lives here. It’s cold, too. I can feel it in my lungs. And I’m jeebing like I never have before, but the girls insist that we should see the whole apartment.

We keep going through the chain of rooms until we find the farthest back one. It looks very much so lived in. I even notice a cup of coffee steaming on a table. I’ve about reached my addreno-limit when we hear the front door slam shut. Someone is home and they’re moving toward us.
“We need to get out of here now,” I say.

“I think there might be a place we can hide behind that couch,” the girls say.

Without even questioning the logistics of this claim or even how they might now that, I pull one side of the couch away from the way. Sure enough, there’s a tiny door there — no more than two feet tall but wide enough that I could fit through it.

“How did you guys know that would be there?” I say, turning around to face my roommates.

They’re gone.

“Fuck it,” I think and I throw open the tiny door and dive through. I’m crawling through what feels like a carpeted air conditioning duct forever until I finally reach the other end. I pull open a second tiny door and then tumble out onto the floor of my apartment.
No denouement. That’s the dream, more or less.

Thursday, November 11, 2004

Not to Be Confused With Switzerland

Dear Swaziland,

If you really want me to visit your country, please improve your national tourism website. Why can't you be more like that nice Senegal?


Wednesday, November 10, 2004

Suck It, Haier!

And also thanks, Haier, for this wonderful glimpse into the intersection of pop culture and Christianity.

Yellow Meat Pounder With Ping-Pong Ball Eyes

Characters on "The Simpsons" who have undergone long-range changes in lifestyle or personality:
  • Kirk and Luann van Houten got divorced in "A Milhouse Divided."
  • Barney is sober now (and less funny).
  • Principal Skinner and Mrs. Krababel started dating in "Grade School Confidential," then got engaged and then finally broke off the engagement on their wedding day.
  • Skinner also was revealed to be Armin Tanzerian, which Lisa brought up again in a later episode despite Judge Snyder's decree that no one in Springfield could ever do so.
  • Apu married Manjula, they had octuplets and Apu cheated with the Squishee Lady. Now they go to marriage counseling.
  • Lisa became a vegetarian and then a Buddhist (though I can't actually recall her Buddhism being mentioned after the episode dealing with her conversion).
  • Maude Flanders died, making Ned a widower.
  • Bleeding Gums Murphy died, which is fairly life-altering.
  • Dr. Marvin Monroe died off screen, then re-appeared inexplicably.
  • Lenny and Carl developed this gay-vague affection for each other (like so many male-male pairs on "The Simpsons" do).
And then, I've read that this season will see a prominent regular character come out of the closet. And it's not Smithers, though it's still pretty obvious once you hear it.Characters that have become regulars in the past few years:
  • Lindsay Naegel, the blonde, professional-seeming but apparently alcoholic businesslady
  • Cokie Kwan, the shrewd realtor
  • Gil, the only guy in Springfield with worse luck than Hans Moleman
  • Judge Constance Harm
Characters who don't show up anymore because the actors who provided their voices either left or died:
  • Troy McClure
  • Lionel Hutz
  • Lunchlady Doris
  • Helen Lovejoy — haven't heard her near-catchphrase, "Won't somebody please think of the children?" in a while.
  • Maude Flanders
  • Does Miss Hoover ever talk anymore?
  • Princess Khashmir
I know my yellow people. What can I say?

Tuesday, November 09, 2004

Forty Feet Remain

Melanie and I saw the officialization of a jenn-u-wine Guinness World Record today. National Geographic Kids made the longest continuous line of footprints: 11,000, adding up to 1.8 miles of foot. But not realy that cool: Children just traced their feet and colored them. It was cold. Melanie and I stayed for a few minutes. Then we left.

High of forty-six degrees today.

I Sowed Love and Reaped the Heartache

Working at a national magazine in Washington, D.C., I'm continually boggled by the sheer lack of necessary information.

One would think that if you could think of a reasonable question — for example, how many Americans left the country during or around the Thanksgiving holiday for the purposes of leisure travel between 2000 and 2003? —someone, somewhere would be privy to that information.

I call someone and ask them. They don’t know. I ask them who might. They give me phone numbers.

Nearly an entire work day goes by and I eventually make a circle of phone call referrals that leaves me back with the first incompetent organization, which only keeps records from 2001 — not 2000, for some reason, and certainly not anything more recent than 2001.

I’m sure it would take quite a bit of research to find something like that — certainly something beyond the means of the average person. But when your organization is called the Bureau of Transportation Statistics or the American Society of Travel Agents or the United States Department of Travel and Tourism, one should expect that you or someone you know might have some inkling as to what these numbers might be.


Monday, November 08, 2004

Not Aunt Lindsay's Real Nose

I'm blogging at work. Don't tell on me.

Presently, I should be writing a news article on the burgeoning industry of Thanksgiving leisure travel — that is, Americans heading out to South America, Europe, the Caribbean, Asia and Australia rather than traveling within the country to meet with relatives. People have finally realized that braving snow and holiday traffic just isn't worth it and instead have chosen to go somewhere nice.

People can be smart sometimes.

However, I have nothing to write because no one will call me back. I'm floating in that limbo space that all journalists know: desperately wanting to write but having to words to put on paper because you're waiting for calls. I tried going downstairs to buy coffee. I tried using the bathroom. I wish I smoked so I could step outside to do that, just so I could have a reason to leave my office. (As any reporter should know, stepping out of the office is the easiest way to get called back. At least playing phone tag means having something to do.)

So in lieu of a travel story, I will instead write about "Arrested Development."

If you don't already watch this show, you're missing out. It's the best sitcom on network TV, easily. It's likely in the running for best thing on TV on any channel, though that's surely a tighter race. In any case, "Arrested Development" assembles a strong cost of performers, including well-known comedic actors — like David Cross and Jeffrey Tambour — relatively unknown but nonetheless solid actors — Jessica Walter, better known as the evil dean from "PCU" and the voice of Fran Sinclair on "Dinosaurs" — and who-knew-they-were-funny types — like Jason Bateman and Portia de Rossi.

Sitcoms detailing the interactions of dysfunctional families are nothing new, but I think the show's true strength lies in its emulation of recently established new forms of comedy. The quasi-mockumentary and the animated sitcom.

If you really think about it, "Arrested Development" owes a great debt to "The Royal Tennenbaums." Both works present a screwed-up family in a narrated manner that suggests "Best in Show" or "Drop Dead Gorgeous." However, the mockumentarians are never mentioned. They're just floating there, capturing the family's intimate moments in the way a normal sitcom would, just using the trappings of the mockumentary.

Besides that connection, both the Bluths and the Tennenbaums have financially criminal patriarchs and interfamily crushes that flirt with incest. Both families are rich, famous and, in their own way, outstanding.

"Arrested Development" also shares a prominent stylistic feature with animated sitcoms like "The Simpsons" or several of the Adult Swim shows.

Most non-animated sitcoms are constrained to a certain linearity. The plot goes along steadily and rarely ranges beyond the confines of immediate space and time. Episodes eschew subplots and instead contain several long scenes.

"Arrested Development," however, frequently flashes back to different points in the characters' lives — from childhood to a few minutes ago, and often both within one half-hour episode. Furthermore, the show also isn't above cutting away to a joke — something funny happening away from the setting of the current scene's main plot — just for a laugh. Ultimately, these little asides usually don't affect the main plot, but they're still funny as hell. "The Simpsons" does this a lot by jumping for a few seconds to a scene involving some Springfield resident and only tangentially relating to the plot, then jumping back. As far as I can remember, "Arrested Development" is the first non-animated show to mimic this fast and loose handle on what can appear within the scope of an episode.

And aside from these two points, I like "Arrested Development" because it's funny. I think it gives hope for sitcoms and television shows in general. The genre's nearly dead. The only truly funny stuff besides "Arrested Development" is acted out by cartoon characters or actors on "Curb Your Enthusiasm." Think about it.

One small note: Before "Oliver Beene" got canned, David Cross was on two FOX Sunday night sitcoms. He provided the voice of the adult Oliver — the narrator — and then played Tobias Fünke on a different show with a never-seen narrator.

Another small note: The never-seen narrator on "Arrested Development" is Ron Howard. He's also a producer, and his daughter Bryce Dallas Howard appeared in "The Village" this summer as Ivy Walker. Her character had a sister named Kitty, who was played by the talented Judy Greer, who appears regularly on "Arrested Development" as the conniving secretary, Kitty Sanchez.

Friday, November 05, 2004

"My Roommate Likes Le Tigre and She Isn't Kidding"

The long-delayed results of the Neil Sedaka trivia challenge. Me (and my phone): “Emergency trivia: Is Neil Sedaka Asian or not? I need to know!”
First place: “No,” Josh

Second place: “Deanna says no,” Marcy

Third place: “It means ‘friendship’ in Hebrew. Not Asian,” Meghan

Fourth place: “No he is not!” Kristen

Honorable mention: “It I had to guess, I’d go with yes, but I’m not 100 percent sure. I’d have to remember who that was to be sure,” Other Drew

Wednesday, November 03, 2004

Floris, Get Guinness on the Phone

[ one ]
Jill's parents bought me lunch and gelato. Adam's mom bought me dinner and drinks. What a great day it's been, even if it's windy as reverse blow job and all the city's fountains have been drained in order to protect them against the coming weather. High in the forties next week. Forties!
[ two ]
Damn this UCDC atmosphere. Do any of you have any idea how frustrating it is to desperately want to have sex with someone but be unable to due to the antisocial boundaries constructed between the various UC campuses?
[ three ]
For the record, I saw “Crossfire” again on Wednesday. Tucker Carlson and Paul Begala were way more civil towards each other. I can only imagine that the ghost of John Stewart’s ambush lingers and has doused their bipartisan fire.

Dyluck (or "Die, Luck")

My brain connections sometimes connect inappropriately.

Walking through the city on the day immediately following the election, I noticed that everything felt just a little heavier. I didn’t see any of the emotional meltdown — the hysterical crying like the women in the streets just after Kennedy got shot — though if I had I surely would have stopped and watched. And the black shirt I was wearing wasn’t picked out necessarily as a sign of mourning. I’m not that dramatic. I just think I look good in black. Sure, the sun didn’t come out today. Sure, I can feel that nasty east coast winter coming. But knowing that the vast majority of DC residents voted for Kerry instead of Bush, I shouldn’t have been surprised that people seems just a little down.

Strangely, I had a song stuck in my head that I’m sure I couldn’t have heard more recently than eighth grade. When I was a kid, I played this game called Secret of Mana. It’s like Legend of Zelda, just not. Early in the game, the hero happens onto the first city — not a village, a full-on city with a castle and everything. The town, which I think was called Pandora, however, is cursed. Everyone’s mute. You talk to them and all you get is “……………” That’s how text-intensive video games represent silence: with ellipses.

Anyway, I can remember all this clearly now, when I haven’t really given it much thought since then. But the memory that seems to outweigh all the others is the music for that area: a sad, repetitive ditty that doesn’t go away until you beat the witch who’s cursed the area.

Sometimes, my brain connections things inappropriately. No symbolism. No foreshadowing. Just an odd song from my childhood composed for the primitive sonic capabilities of the Super Nintendo sound processor.

I wish it would connect to a melody that I wouldn’t mind forgetting.

I'm not really mad. And I guess I'd be kidding myself if I said I was all that disappointed. I'm not even all that surprised that to so many people, everything that happened in the last four years — 9/11, Afghanistan, Iraq, the Patriot Act, the prison torture, Michael Moore and other things which surely must matter, regardless of a person's political affiliation — added up to equal four more years of the same administration. What really gets me is that there's that much difference in Americans. I could probably no better understand some Bible-thumping Mississippi native than I could Joe Eskimo. Statistically, I'm the odd one, not Bible-thumper.

I wish I could unearth the Super Nintendo and play video games all day.

Monday, November 01, 2004

ThE FIsh BEhInd thE FIshstIcks

The newly computer-savvy strikes again.

And Jean Pascal, apparently, is still alive.

No Rubber Hoses

I can take this latest development as a sign of mental instability or burgeoning perversion.

Somehow, amidst all the nasal passage-cleaning of this sinus infection which has recently made my life more interesting, I've realized that I kind of enjoy the sensation of pulling my nosehairs. And not just a gentle tug -- I'm talking about yanking those fuckers out entirely. It's a pain and then a release and it's altogether not completely odious. Quite possibly, this little philia grew out of my fondness for sneezing. I like to sneeze. It's fun. It's a chemical release. Maybe this nosehair think works along the same principles.

The biggest drawback to this, however, is that I find myself once or twice a day compelled to yank. If someone catches me mid-yank, I'm done for; they'll think I'm picking my nose, which I'm totally not. That's gross.

"No no no," I'll calmly explain to him or her or them. "You see, Bob and Lupe, I wasn't picking my nose at all. I was yanking out my nosehairs. I'm not weird and neither are you."

Ah-Koo-Bah-Nay, Porters

I heard about this on Thursday and can't believe I didn't post it: there's a new branch on the human family tree, albeit one half the size of the normal branches. The species homo twig, if you will.
[ link: tiny little cavemen ]

Sunday, October 31, 2004

Poltergeists in My Handheld Vacuum

So I randomly check the website for the Hollister Free Lance, my hometown paper, the one I used to work for, and their feature is about how the parents of this guy who went to SBHS and UCSB with me and the ghosts that lived in their house.
[ link: ha ha — your mom is mentally unwell ]
I like it when other people's parents sound nuts. Example: "The Dustbuster would be turned on and off in the middle of the night," Sheridan said. "It was one of those battery-powered ones. It was kind of crazy."

Yes, it clearly was the dustbuster that was crazy.

Hally Happoween from the Blue Team!

Despite having had, among others, a drink called a Mind Eraser, I'm not hung over this morning. I didn't even feel all that drunk, honestly. Jill, Marcy, Adam and I went as "Double Dare" — "Hey baby, how's about you take my physical challenge?" — and the people who got it seemed to like it. Who didn't like it? The other "Double Dare" team we saw. So for it being the morning after already, I feel fine. Maybe the difference is not being in Isla Vista for the first time in four years.

Saturday, October 30, 2004

Full-On Double Incisor Chomp

I like it when people bite stuff I've written about and then pass it off as something they found out about themselves. I like it even more when someone brings it to my attention. Thanks all.

How I'm going to do it. Ex-Nexite Valles found this. It made me laugh. Now you laugh too.
[ link: Valles' site and what he found ]

Pieces of Me, Too

I know no one cares about this as much as I do. I even decided against writing a Nexus column about it on that basis. However, I still think Ashlee Simpson's fuck-up is a big deal. CBS has some backstage footage some people might find interesting.
[ link: Lorne Michaels says Lip-Sync an 'SNL' No-No ]

Friday, October 29, 2004

"Bun Bun," in the Japanese Dialect

So the roommate has this “Kill Bill” poster above his computer. It’s on the opposite wall from where I sleep, so more often than not it’s the first thing I see when I wake up: Uma in the yellow and black tracksuit with semi-transparent images of Bill, Gogo, Elle and Pai Mei behind her. Looking at that track suit, I realized that the movie is rife with bee symbolism I hadn’t noticed before.

I think the most obvious example of this occurs in the last chapter of Volume Two. In the Salina hotel room, Bill is explaining to Beatrix that he ambushed her wedding in order to help her realize her true nature as a warrior. “You're a renegade killer bee, not a worker bee," he says. And he’s right. I hadn’t realized before, but during the last chapter of Volume One, the film very clearly portrays her as a killer bee. Like a bee’s stripes, Beatrix sports all yellow and black, ignoring the bloodstains. She literally is wearing a yellow jacket. And she wears this in the scene in which she kills the most people. Furthermore, on the flight into Tokyo, the soundtrack plays the Al Hirt trumpet version of “Flight of the Bumblebee,” which just happens to be the theme song to the old TV show, “The Green Hornet.”

So yeah, a lot of bees, which means throughout the movie, the character gets referred to as
  • a bee
  • a lioness — “The lioness has rejoined her cub and all is right in the jungle”
  • a snake — “Black Mamba”
  • and a rabbit — “Silly rabbit… Tricks are for kids.”
And that is the end of that.

Oh, and the tour guide lady at the Library of Congress was right; it actually is the most beautiful building I’ve ever seen in the United States.

Thursday, October 28, 2004

Today's Chromatic Diet: Orange, Yellow and Green

If anybody can tell what the fuck is going on in this picture...

I'll owe them a Coke when I get back to California. Oh, and I resisted the urge not to vote.

Wednesday, October 27, 2004

A Year's Worth of Islands

"Diamondized." Adjective. A condition in which one's head is so congested with mucus that it retains the physical properties of a solidified mass, as in a diamond. [origin: 1996, “Earthbound.”]

I wonder if this journal, which can be so easily accessible via Google will ever hurt me professionally. I swear a bit, but I exclude too much of my personal life for it to be too much of a problem. I think. I guess I could just continue, but only post entries involving mature, well-thought our subject matter.

(and then i would never post anything again --- goatballs dicklicker purple monkey dishwasher)

We caught Nick Swardson at the Improv last night. You may know him as the roller-blading hustler on "Reno 911." Good stuff.

Tuesday, October 26, 2004

The Other Other Other Plumber

A conversation today made me feel that an explanation on a certain matter was in order. It concerns this lanky mustache-twiddling villain:

No, that's not Dick Dastardly.

Today I heard the claim that this resident of the Super Mario Bros. universe sucks, and though I'm not willing to dispute that, I will call foul on one of the reasons most often cited for his suckitude. His name. Many feel that his name just sounds too awkward. "Waluigi" — Luigi plus the syllable "wa" in front of it, weirdly identifying this guy as the evil Luigi. My geekiness has actually allowed me to dispel this myth, somewhat. Though "Waluigi" is nonetheless hard to say, there's a good enough reason for why his name is what it is.

Basically, Nintendo set up a verbal system to identify Mario characters that exist as evil versions of other Mario characters with Wario, the evil Mario. Whereas Mario is chubby and honorable, Wario is obese and greedy. From a western standpoint, one might seem that Wario's name derives from a simple inversion of the "M" to a "W." After all, Wario is a sort of "flipped" Mario. However, that's actually just a happy coincidence. Wario's name is actually a portmanteau of "Mario" and warui, the Japanese word for "evil." It was natural, then, that an associate of Wario who happened to be a "flipped" version of Luigi would have a name that followed the same pattern.

The name, however, makes a lot more sense in Japanese. Remember that the stereotypical ambiguity between "R" and "L" when translating from Japanese to English is actually true and that, coming from a Japanese mouth, the names would be "Ruigi" and Waruigi." Thus, Luigi's name slides perfectly out of warui as they share a syllable. What's more, Waluigi's name, when spelled with the "R," happens to be a anagram for the Japanese word igiwaru, which can translate as "a bad person" in English.

In short, it's a halfway decent pun, once you consider Japanese into the equation.

The notion of Wario's name beginning with the flipped Mario "M" is also reflected in Waluigi, if somewhat nonsensically. The logo on his cap — and his response to the "M," "L," or "W" on Mario, Luigi or Wario's caps — is an upside-down "L."

The trail ends there, as far as Super Mario Bros. characters anybody would actually recognize. A evil, dark blue Yoshi that appeared in Super Mario RPG was named "Boshi" in America but "Washi" in Japan. And "Washi" could be considered a contraction of "Warui Yoshi," or "bad Yoshi."

On a side note, there's a widely distributed theory that Mario and Luigi's names come from the Japanese words marui and ruigi, meaning "round" and "similar," respectively. I don't know if that's true, though it would be neat if it were. Nearly just as often, there's the theory that Mario got his name from a Mr. Mario Segali, landlord for Nintendo of America's office. People who have done their homework have more often claimed this story is true, and I'm inclined to believe them. However, even if that's true, then the ruigi story isn't necessarily false, as Luigi's original in-game sprite and even concept art for him was just Mario's look in an alternate color scheme. As it if wasn't complicated enough, there's another widely cited story about Luigi having been named after Mario & Luigi's, a pizza parlor near Nintendo of America's Washington office. Again, who knows what's true, but it's a coincidence worth noting anyway.

Monday, October 25, 2004

"I Memorize Every Line..."

After weeks of delays — most of them children of my own laziness and my embarrassing dread of reading — I finally finished Franny and Zooey about two weeks into the Washington program. I liked it. It was good. But one of its major plot points — the siblings’ fixation on this certain prayer — really snagged me.

In the book, the two youngest children in the Glass family discuss the significance of this Jesus prayer — a sentence which ostensibly answers a European pilgrim’s question of how to “pray incessantly,” as a certain Bible passage instructs him — and us — to do. (I actually haven’t researched the passage or the prayer itself or even the possible fictionality of the book the Glass children read about it in. Maybe I will. More likely, someone will read this entry and tell me about it in some strange, nameless email.) The pilgrim finds out that all he must to do be in compliance with this biblical command is to simply recite one sentence — “Lord Jesus Christ, have mercy on me, a miserable sinner” or something like that — over and over until it suddenly transforms him — or you or anyone who spends the time to recite — and alters his outlook on the entire world. It’s more characteristic of Eastern philosophies than Christianity, really, but it’s the repetition and recitation that changes you, melts your brain and forms it into something new and better.

I liked the book. It was good. I don’t quite understand the Jesus prayer. It changes Franny dramatically, I understand. And although I think about the prayer and the book a lot, I only seriously process thoughts about religion or God or prayer or anything in the brief span of time after my head hits the pillow but before my brain turns into an internal porno theater that blocks out the day’s noise until I fall asleep, whereupon my brain continues to be an internal porno theater.

This morning, I woke up sick. My alarm clock blasted away any memories of my dreams or anything that had happened while I was asleep, but a small ghost of those memories remained and haunted me all day. I don’t know why, but I felt like the ghost clung to my forehead, hanging on to the front of my face by my eyelids, pulling them down slightly so as to inadvertently create a drowsy feeling and to creating a certain oily slickness on them that I only noticed in the shower this evening — my third shower of the day. For some reason, I think I dreamed about God and the Jesus prayer.

Occasionally, I preface sleep with prayer. Occasionally, I actually mean it. Some vestige of my Catholic school education steeps up and rattle off an Our Father and a Glory Be in the staccato, syllables-running-together style that doesn’t allow me to actually process the words I’m saying — or not saying, I guess. I don’t know why I do it. But tonight I have the strange urge to say the Jesus prayer from Franny and Zooey. Even though I know my mind could never make room to endlessly loop that prayer through my internal monologue, I feel like I should at least start now. Maybe that’s a ridiculous thought.

Maybe if I say it enough, I have that dream again and remember what the morning took away.

Saturday, October 23, 2004

The Weekend That Amnesia Forgot

I really feel like Jack Daniels and I need some distance between us. Not that he and I have ever been all that close — anybody who knows my drinking habbits knows that whiskey isn't my friend. But when he and I hang out, I always end up feeling just slightly steamrolled the next morning. Hence, I've accomplished nothing on this Saturday and I'm liking to be so overwhelmed with the prospect of cramming the productivity into Sunday that I will, again, accomplish nothing.

I'm home right now, in the UCDC apartment building that I swore I would spend as little time in as possible. It's drafty and air-conditioned and fluorescent-lighted and way more modern than I'm used to. I like my haunts to be just a little more lived in, just a little less Biosphere-y. Everyone's out and I decided my body and my wallet need a reprieve from bars so I'm on Adam's computer, though twenty minutes ago I was in the computer lab, where I was happily working — and listening to headphones — until I realized the other guys were talking about me. So I left.

I tried to do research — and failed — and tried to write a column for the Nexus — and failed at that too — and ended up on Friendster reading random messages from strangers I've been accumulating and not reading. I looked over my profile, which I wrote more than a year ago, and realized how gross and artificial and and and phony that goddamn bio made me feel and it kind of made me mad.

I was thinking about that when I got back to the room and decided to log back on and adjust my "Interested in Meeting People for" status to "Dating Men and Women" in addition to "Friends."

I know that must seem simple and obvious and tries and and and meaningless to anyone who knows me, but somehow that made me feel a little more honest, even if I don't have any real notions of using Friendster to supplement my dating life.

Big changes come through mouse-clicks at half past eleven on a Saturday night, alone, in an apartment building just off Dupont Circle.

Friday, October 22, 2004

Homonyms Are Your Friends

A text message Marcy sent me from the bus ride she, Moe and Jill were taking to New York City:
Moe got locked in the bus bathroom 4 half an hour.
Some things never change.

Thursday, October 21, 2004

King Kong on Cocaine

Coasting through the mid-quarter blahs generally leaches out my creative energy. The end result: no blog entries, no Nexus opinion columns and no astounding feats of National Geographic journalism to sequel my initial effort. Creative output looks as bleak as the east coast perma-glower that has replaced my California sunshine. Even this, this little something-nothing, requires every iota of will power.

I watched “Mulholland Drive” again.

I hadn’t watched it in two years, at least, but I convinced Daniel and Adam that they should see it, especially since it made a nice thematic link to the previous night’s feature, “L.A. Confidential.” I guess I almost forgot what an important movie “Mulholland Drive” is to me. Before that movie, I took a much more passive role in viewing a movie — into reading great literature and viewing art too, when I really think about it. Before anything else, “Mulholland Drive” challenged me to analyze a presentation for any meaning or value and then develop an actual defense of it against those people who would call it a piece of shit. (They exist.) Its the only work of anything I can think of that simultaneously helped me realized the brilliance and conniving falsity of theater.

So after I related the three explanations of the film to Adam and Daniel — (1) Betty’s dream world; (2) electric blue and the world inside the television box; and (3) the hard truth behind “no hay banda” — I went online. Turns out a whole online community has developed since the last time I looked around online. Some very astute viewers have come up with some enticing explanations for all the controlled chaos of my favorite movie, including a neat line of thought involving Aunt Ruth as the story’s most important character.

I’m always going to fear Mulholland Drive. And no, the absence of quotations marks around that last reference wasn’t a typo. That movie’s version of the city of dreams is so fascinatingly, dangerously enticing that I’m even scared of the actual place. But I'm so thankful that David Lynch had the foresight to see this movie through, in spite of so much adversity. Hopefully, before too long, I won't mind being lost in the dark again, before too long.The weekend: work, research and drinking. I'm going to convince somebody to go see "The Grudge," even if it's the same group that I dragged to "Ju-On" last week. (Betty Elms, you're not the only one stuck in a time loop.)