Friday, August 30, 2002

I don't really like Rolling Stone. In fact, I really fucking hate the magazine. I've never liked its lazy, self-satisfied writing, its flewxible standards, and its staid, compromised view of rock music. One year, Paul McCartney was on the cover three times. And you know how much everyone loves Paul McCartney. Anyway, this time they actually have something entertaining, like Rock's 50 Greatest Meltdowns. Naturally, even weak-0sister competetor Spin did a better job of this a decade ago, but that doesn't stop Jann Wenner and the boys. I disagree starting it with Michael Jackson at #1, although if they were going in reverse chronological order it might make sense. And they ridicule one-time cover-boy Vanilla Ice in a passage that allows coke-head psycho Naomi Campbell and Big Daddy Kane (remember him?) to pass by inscathed. There are some moments I didn't know existed, like the punk-rock episode of Quincy. And mixing up publicity stunts like U2's "Popmart" tour with genuine moments of madness like James Brown's cross-state driving spree shows questionable judgement. And it's unforgiveably incomplete; in the passage on Bill Wyman's marriage to a nineteen year old, they miss the most equisite freakery of it all: Wyman's son married the teen bride's mother, establishing a menage that looked like an Appalatian family tree. Of course, the most infurating thing is how many of these "meltdowns" were covered in all serious by heavy breathing Rolling Stone sycophants. In the end, it isn't so much the quality of the story as it is being reminded of very special exhibits in the pop culture freak show.
Quote of the day: " lowering our standards to the point that a basset hound with a broken leg and freakishly large testicles could still easily hurdle it..."
Artist of the day: Eminem

Two trailer park girls go round the outside,
round the outside, round the outside.
Two trailer park girls go round the outside,
round the outside, round the outside.

Guess who's back, back again
Shady's back, tell a friend
Guess who's back, guess who's back,
guess who's back, guess who's back,
guess who's back, guess who's back,
guess who's back...

I've created a monster, cuz nobody wants to
See Marshall no more they want Shady
I'm chopped liver
Well if you want Shady, then this is what I'll give ya
A little bit of weed mixed with some hard liquor
Some vodka that will jumpstart my heart quicker
Then a shock when I get shocked at the hospital
By the Dr. when I'm not cooperating
When I'm rocking the table while he's operating "Hey"
You waited this long to stop debating
Cuz I'm back, I'm on the rag and ovulating
I know you got a job Ms. Cheney
But your husbands heart problems complicating
So the FCC won't let me be
Or let me be me so let me see
They tried to shut me down on MTV
But it feels so empty without me
So come on dip, bum on your lips
Fuck that cum on your lips and some on your tits
And get ready cuz this shit's about to get heavy
I just settled all my lawsuits, "Fuck you Debbie!"

Now this looks like a job for me
So everybody just follow me
Cuz we need a little controversy,
Cuz it feels so empty without me

I said this looks like a job for me
So everybody just follow me
Cuz we need a little controversy,
Cuz it feels so empty without me

Little hellions, kids feeling rebellious
Embarrassed, their parents still listen to Elvis
They start feeling like prison is helpless,
Til someone comes along on a mission and yells "bitch"
A visionary, vision is scary, could start a revolution,
Pollutin' the air waves a rebel
So let me just revel and bask,
In the fact that I got everyone kissing my ass
And it's a disaster such a catastrophe
For you to see so damn much of my ass you ask for me?
Well I'm back (*Batman Noise*) fix your bent antenna
Tune it in and then I'm gonna enter
Into the front of your skin like a splinter
The center of attention back for the winter
I'm interesting, the best thing since wrestling
Infesting in your kids ears and nesting
Testing "Attention Please"
Feel the tension soon as someone mentions me
Here's my 10 cents my 2 cents is free
A nuisance, who sent, you sent for me?

Now this looks like a job for me
So everybody just follow me
Cuz we need a little controversy,
Cuz it feels so empty without me

I said this looks like a job for me
So everybody just follow me
Cuz we need a little controversy,
Cuz it feels so empty without me

Now this looks like a job for me
So everybody just follow me
Cuz we need a little controversy,
Cuz it feels so empty without me

I said this looks like a job for me
So everybody just follow me
Cuz we need a little controversy,
Cuz it feels so empty without me

A tisk-it a task-it,
I go tit for tat with anybody who's talking this shit that shit
Chris Kirkpatrick, you can get your ass kicked
Worse than them little Limp Bizkit bastards,
And Moby, you can get stomped by Obie,
You 36 year old bald headed fag blow me
You don't know me, you're too old
Let go, it's over, nobody listens to techno
Now lets go, just give me the signal
I will be there with a whole list full of new insults
I've been dope, suspenseful with a pencil
Ever since Prince turned himself into a symbol
But sometimes the shit just seems,
Everybody only wants to discuss me
So this means I'm disgusting,
But its just me I'm just obscene
Though I'm not the first king of controversy
I am the worst thing since Elvis Presley,
To do Black Music so selfishly
And use it to get myself wealthy (Hey)
There's a concept that works
20 million other white rappers emerge
But no matter how many fish in the sea
It'll be so empty without me

Now this looks like a job for me
So everybody just follow me
Cuz we need a little controversy,
Cuz it feels so empty without me

I said this looks like a job for me
So everybody just follow me
Cuz we need a little controversy,
Cuz it feels so empty without me

Now this looks like a job for me
So everybody just follow me
Cuz we need a little controversy,
Cuz it feels so empty without me

I said this looks like a job for me
So everybody just follow me
Cuz we need a little controversy,
Cuz it feels so empty without me

Hum dei la la la, la la la la la, la la la la la, la la la la
Hum dei la la la, la la la la la, la la la la la, la la la la
I watched this guy get his bike stolen the other day. I was at a party, looking out the window, and was thinking, that guy down there is sure is spending a long time unhooking his bike. And then I thought, huh, I wonder what it means when someone takes a bike and leaves the chain on the ground. Then someone else watching it said, I think the bike belongs to someone at the party. Sure enough.
Today we had out 100th visitor. About fucking time. I'd like to thank God and the Academy.
From Page Six: "Val Kilmer stunned staffers at Singer Island's Canopy Palm Resort when he strolled in and booked the "Me Tarzan, You Jane" jungle suite for a night. The actor, in the Palm Beach area to develop a rock band, invited employees to his room to party into the wee hours and liked the place so much, he stayed another night."

Not the point of the item, but a rock band? When will they learn?
Artis of the millenium?

Happy birthday, Michael. May you one day see Mr. Rat again.
I always think of that scene in Boogie Nights where they're at Alfred Molina's house, trying to sell him a pound of corn flour. So many times in my life that scene has been a touchstone for so many questionable activites I've engaged in.


The Corvette pulls up in front of a tacky one-story house in the hills of Studio City. The Corvette stops and CAMERA DOLLIES IN QUICK. Dirk, Reed, Todd sit in the parked car. In sotto;


You guys ready for this?

I am.


Me? Yeah . . . yeah, I'm ready. I was born ready.


Todd takes out a .45 AUTOMATIC PISTOL and loads a cartridge.

What the fuck is that?

It's a big gun.

I know, but why?

Just in case, just in case. Let's go.

They pile out of the damaged Corvette and walk up. CAMERA (STEADICAM) follows them.

I'm nervous.

It'll be okay.

Let's get in and out, in and out.

Not too quick -- that looks suspicious.
Lemme do the talking --

They arrive and ring the doorbell.



A really big fat black BODYGUARD comes to the door and opens up:

Hello. Come on in.

The bodyguard leads them down a hall and into a tacky and spacious, sunken LIVING ROOM.

They're greeted by a man in a silk robe, slightly open to show some bikini briefs and a thin sheen of sweat covering his body: RAHAD JACKSON (late 40s).

Off in a corner of the room, a YOUNG ASIAN KID is casually throwing some FIRECRACKERS around.

Rahad is DANCING around by himself to NIGHT RANGER, "SISTER CHRISTIAN." He spots the men;

Hello, friends. Which one is Todd?

That's me. We met before at the club --

Oh, yeah. Come on in here.

These are my friends Dirk and Reed.

Great to meet you. You guys want something
to drink -- or a pill -- or some coke --
or some dope?

No thank you, thanks, no.

So what do we have, we have, something, yeah?

Here it is . . . half a key . . . it's really good,
if you wanna test it out --

Oh, wait a minute, I love this part:
(sings along)
(to Dirk)
This song is so amazing.
Anyway: What's the price?

We were thinking five thousand.

That's good. No problem, cool, cool.

The Bodyguard brings over a PAPER BAG FULL OF CASH and hands the bag to Todd in exchange for the PAPER BAG FULL OF BAKING SODA.

Reed watches the Bodyguard take the bag and notices something. REED'S POV: a SHOULDER HOLSTER holds a .45 Automatic Pistol.

Rahad does an air guitar solo to the Night Ranger song . . . he walks across the room, picks up a COKE PIPE and looks to the guys;

You wanna play baseball?

No thank you.

Rahad strokes the pipe while dancing. Dirk looks across to an open bedroom door.

DIRK'S POV: Through the crack in the door, we can see a bloody, battered YOUNG BLACK WOMAN in a silk robe . . .she's followed by another YOUNG WHITE GIRL in nothing.

Check this out --

He takes out a nickel plated REVOLVER and loads a single bullet, spins the chamber and puts it to his head and sings;

THE ONLY ONE TO SAY . . . OK . . .

He pulls the trigger . . . Click . . . he smiles and casually speaks;

I put a mix tape together of all
my favorite songs . . . This is song number
three . . . I love putting mix tapes together,
you know . . . if you buy an album or tape or
something, those guys put the songs in their
order and they try and say how you should listen
to the songs, but I don't like that.
I don't like to be told what to listen
to, when to listen to or anything . . .

The Night Ranger song FADES OUT . . . BEAT . . . Rahad smiles at the Asian Kid who's casually throwing some firecrackers around.

(to Dirk/Reed/Todd)
He's Chinese . . . he loves to set
off firecrackers . . .



Well . . . I think maybe . . . we better get going --

No, stay. Hang out. We'll party.

No, we really gotta split.
We have to be somewhere and we --

Dirk and Rahad continue to haggle about leaving/not leaving. CAMERA BEGINS A SLOW DOLLY INTO A CU ON TODD.

We're Not Leaving Yet.

Dirk and Reed look at Todd. He stands up.

We're here now and we want something else.
Hey -- Hey. We Want Something Else From You.


Todd -- what the hell are you doing?

In the master bedroom, under the bed,
in a floor safe . . . You understand?

The Bodyguard turns his head. Dirk and Reed are confused;

Todd . . . what the fuck, man, c'mon --

Shut up, Dirk. I told you I got a plan.
I got a good plan.

Are you kiddin' me kittie?

No I'm not. I'm not kidding. We want
what's in the safe. We want what's in
the safe in the floor under the bed in
the master bedroom.

Todd -- don't be crazy.
(to Rahad)
Sir -- we don't know anything about this.
This is not the thing that we wanted.


The BODYGUARD reaches into his coat . . .

. . . Todd pulls his REVOLVER quickly and AIMS at the Bodyguard.

Don't reach for your gun.

. . . Rahad reacts by AIMING HIS GUN AT TODD . . .

You don't wanna do this, friendly.

You've only got one bullet.

Rahad PULLS THE TRIGGER . . . a bullet FIRES from the gun and strikes Todd in the SHOULDER . . . the gun in his hand falls to the floor and he stumbles back . . .

. . . The Bodyguard takes this moment to GRAB HIS OWN GUN from the holster and FIRE off shots at Dirk and Reed . . .

. . . Bullets graze past them and they DUCK FOR COVER . . .

. . . The GIRLS in the bedroom SCREAM and SHOUT at the gunfire . . .

. . . A STRAY BULLET HITS the ASIAN KID in the heart, but he doesn't fall .. .

. . . TODD reaches hold of his gun, crouches for cover and FIRES a bullet STRAIGHT INTO the Bodyguard . . . who falls back DEAD . . . Todd looks right and sees:

RAHAD scuttles into the bedroom with the women . . . Todd looks over his shoulder to Dirk and Reed;


He went in the bedroom.


He's got cash and coke in the safe
under the bed -- if we leave here
without it we're fools.

Let's just split, let's just split
right now, Todd. Don't be stupid.
This wasn't part of the deal.

I'm goin' in that bedroom and get what's
in that safe. Are you coming?

Fuck no. Todd. Don't. Don't do it.

Todd gets up and heads for the bedroom with his revolver at the ready . . . he inches closer to the door and twists the door knob, then KICKS THE DOOR OPEN;

. . . Rahad is standing right there, holding a SAWED OFF SHOTGUN. He pulls the trigger . . . Todd blinks . . .

. . . Rahad's SHOTGUN BLAST blows Todd BACK and UP in the air about fifteen feet . . . he FALLS to the ground with a HOLE in his STOMACH about the size of a basketball . . . Rahad calls out to Dirk and Reed;

C'mon out, little puppies. You want to
come and see, come and see, to get what
is coming down. Coming down.

Rahad peers out from his bedroom, sees a sliver of Dirk behind the wall. Rahad FIRES HIS SHOTGUN . . . which cuts right past Dirk's head and SHREDS the wall near him . . .

Reed and Dirk make a DASH for the front door . . .

. . . Rahad FIRES another shot . . .


Dirk and Reed make it OUTSIDE . . . Rahad chases after them . . .



Reed and Dirk make a dash for the Corvette -- they're steps away when a SHOTGUN BLAST BLOWS INTO THE PASSENGER'S SIDE DOOR -- Reed heads away from the car -- makes a run diagonally across the street for shelter behind some SHRUBS and TREES -- (he gets lost from CAMERA) Dirk gets around to the driver's side of the Corvette, shielded and crouched -- he opens the door and starts to get in --



Dirk stumbles back from the car. He looks to the house:

Rahad is about to FIRE the shotgun again . . .

. . . he looks down the street: the Corvette is ROLLING away and picking up speed as it goes down the hill -- Dirk gets on his feet and makes a run for the car, Rahad FIRES . . .

. . . Dirk catches up with the car, hops in -- gets the key in the ignition and starts it up, peels off down the street --

Thursday, August 29, 2002

I sort of hate annoying crap like this. On the bright side, if you fail, buildings fall down.

Wednesday, August 28, 2002

Tuesday, August 27, 2002

I always knew there was something about Supergirl. Why is she throwing a giant metal dildo?
This week in Savage Love:

I have a girlfriend and everything is pretty good. However, she has yet to give up her ass to me. She says that's for her husband on her wedding night, so she can offer him something no other man has had. I told her that in order to get me to marry her, she must give up the ass first. Either way, she's scared and thinks it will hurt. Do you have any suggestions on how I might be able to sway her?
Fetus Found in 6-Month-Old Boy

CALCUTTA (Reuters) - Indian doctors have removed a fetus weighing one kilogram (2.2 lbs) from a 6-month-old boy.

"We could not believe that we would have to remove a dead fetus weighing a kilogram from a child weighing 6.5 kilograms," Dr. Pradip Kumar Mukherjee, who led the team of Calcutta doctors that operated on the boy on Monday, told Reuters.

"It is a rare case."

Doctors use the medical term "fetus in fetu" to describe a phenomenon in which an imperfect fetus is contained within the body of its sibling.

In November 2000, doctors at another nursing home in Calcutta removed a fetus weighing 230 grams from a 40-day-old infant.

Monday, August 26, 2002

In an email exhange with my good friend Emily today, I had a realization: I currently enjoy Britney Spears more than I ever did U2's Joshua Tree album. And it isn't prurient; I like mass-market girl-sung teeny pop better than self-satisfied earnest relevance rock from any decade. I like U2's "fuck off we're rock stars" period better than their Amnesty International stint, which I guess they're going back to, to the delight of all their aging, bloated fans. I didn't like Pearl Jam for the same reason. Just as a side note, is that why Eddie Vedder mumbles all the time? He wants to seem important, but doesn't have anything to say? Just a thought.

I think U2 only made us feel important in the 1980's. Meanwhile, the pop songstresses who perform the soundtrack of what I've christened "The New Me Decade" were busy being born, trying on their mom's make-up and trying out their cock-teasing performances with friends who had the bad luck to put on weight and not make the Mickey Mouse Club. There's a moral, somewhere. If we keep it up, maybe it'll be The New Me Millenium.
Would Rufies put her into a coma? Apparently, whoever the hell this drooling fuck-up is has taken America by storm. There's a fan page and a fan club, and here I am, adding to the spotlight glare. Proof all you have to do is make a public retard out of yourself and the fans will flock your way.
I went to a party at yet another trailer this weekend. Another fucking trailer. This is like the third time I've partied in a trailer. More on this subject later.

Friday, August 23, 2002

There was an article about Cake in this month's Vanity Fair. New tred New York sex club for the ladies. I've encouraged my friend in NYC to join. It's only $100, and she can bring guy friends along to the parties, which appear to be "you-go-girl" versions orgies. I am so down for that. She signed up for their mailing list, and got this email:

>From: "CAKE"
>Subject: CAKE Byte - The Pleasure Mission
>Date: Fri, 16 Aug 2002 18:01:05 -0400
> CAKE Byte - The Pleasure Mission
> It’s getting hot in here so take off all your clothes…no wait
>that is not until the end of the month at CLUB.CAKE - for those of you who
>didn’t know, it’s CAKE’s 2nd birthday this month and boy are we ready to
>rock it out! (details on that coming up very, very soon…)
> Okay, okay – now that we got that out of the way, last week
>set you out on a pleasure mission to explore mutual masturbation with a
>partner or two. Here’s a little taste of what you accomplished:
> Mission absolutely completed!...After I read the new Vanity
>I was intrigued by the article about Cake...Long story short I am going to
>tell you about my first pleasure mission...I had the website up late in the
>office and my boss who is a dead ringer for Bruce Willis and who I am
>extremely attracted to came to my desk to make sure I had a key to lock
>up...I was going through the website and we read the pleasure mission
>together...He is 13 years older than I am (but,I can tell that he is very
>attracted to me).. so we got into a talk about what 25 year olds do
>to what he did 13 years ago to get off...Sex and masturbation was the
>ultimate goal in both of our minds and eventually we were totally engrossed
>in the most erotic conversation...I told him that I love the female body
>especially mine and whenever I feel the need or urge I never deny
>myself...we sat across from each other and I hiked my skirt up (no
>undies,ever!) and brought myself to an amazing orgasm as he did also...we
>were a little uncomfortable as first but, really got into it...he jokes
>me now in the office about the next "mission" we need to tackle!!!
> Such a timely and immediate response! With obvious demand
>the air, we are to kicking it up to a whole new level.
> CAKE is sending you all on a PLEASURE MISSION where you take
>your pleasure into your own hands. Think of it as your very own sexy
>treasure hunt through your imagination.
> You know how we feel here at CAKE about women’s sexual
>fantasies – not only are we always amazed by the diversity and nuances of
>women's fantasies, but we are constantly impressed by your ability to pull
>your fantasies OFF – in the real world. Generationally speaking, this is
>main difference between say our mother’s fantasies – majorly taboo – and
>own. Moreover, though, the fabulous thing these days for women is that some
>of our fantasies directly reflect things you want to experience in real
>life, while other fantasies are best left in the realm of impossible to
>achieve, and stay centered and desirable only in your mind. It's all up to
> This week your pleasure mission is to tap your mind for a
>fantasy you would like to live out - and then GO FOR IT. You are the
>Pleasure Spy - on an under-the-covers mission to get off in a new, hot way.
>You have until next Friday to complete your mission when you will be asked
>to report how you attempted your assignment. Any challenge set out and
>attempted will be considered a successful mission. There is no failure -
>except if you don't try of course. Use all resources available to make it
>happen. For inspiration, here are some previously completed missions by
>accomplished Pleasure Spies:
> a.. Find that ever elusive G-spot
> b.. See if the threesome fantasy is as good as it sounds
> c.. Use a new prop while getting down with a partner
> d.. Disclose a desire to a secret sex interest to a partner
> e.. Use that lube for what it's really made for
> f.. Talk as dirty as your mind
> g.. Pick up a new vibrator and try it out
> h.. Strap it on for a very special guy
> i.. Rent it, watch it
> Don't forget to tell CAKE about it so we can put together The
>Pleasure Report - Girls and boys who save the world.
> Love,
> *You must be subscribed to the CAKE Factory Mailing List to be
>eligible to attend CLUB.CAKE events. To unsubscribe from CAKE, please reply
>to this email with "unsubscribe" in the subject line. Thank you.
> Question of the Week:
> What is your pleasure mission for the week and how will
>you or did you accomplish it?
> Tell CAKE the juicy details
> The British are coming - literally or figuratively
>whatever your potion. One thing is for sure - CAKE is invading London next
>month. To inaugurate the occasion, we have designed the Brits their very
>CAKE.Tee to strut their stuff in. Are you a CAKE.Girl or Boy? Wear it and
>find out. Available in the CAKE.Boutique for both Brits and Yanks alike.
> Have you seen yourself in this month's Vanity Fair? You
>look marvelous!
> CLUB.CAKE is coming soon - CAKE celebrates its 2nd
>Birthday at the end of the month!
> Check out the coverage of the last CLUB.CAKE event -
> Enjoy!

A dead-ringer for Bruce Willis! I can certainly see the appeal. How dreamy...

Thursday, August 22, 2002

I was kidnapped by a UFO once. The anal probe wasn't so bad, but the alien jerking off in the corner while it happened sort of creeped me out.

"...this cruel world of hatchet-faced bitches"

I hate joke emails. Fucking hate them. My father could email me to tell me that his cancer was out of remission, and I
would delete it because it would come in surrounded by ten racist jokes he felt that I just had to see. 
Man, that shit is annoying.

Sometimes, there is in fact diamonds in the coal. My co-worker Heather sent the following out. An email so good I am
forever willing to kill for her, in gratitude.

Grossly overweight Louth turfcutter, 42 years old and 23 stone, Gemini, seeks nimble sexpot, preferably South American, for tango sessions, candlelit dinners and humid nights of screaming passion. Must have own car and be willing to travel. Box 09/08

Following a sad recent loss, teetotal Tipperary man, 53, seeks Replacement mammy. Must like biscuits and answer to the name Minnie. Thurles area. Box 08/73

Galway man, 50, in desperate need of a ride. Anything considered. Box 06/03

Heavy drinker, 35, Cork area, seeks gorgeous sex addict interested in pints, fags, Glasgow Celtic football club and starting scraps on Patrick Street at three in the morning. Box 73/82.

Bitter, disillusioned Kerryman lately rejected by longtime fiancee seeks decent, honest, reliable woman, if such a thing still exists in this cruel world of hatchet-faced bitches. Box 53/41

Ginger-haired Galwegian trouble-maker, gets slit-eyed and shirty after a few scoops, seeks attractive, wealthy lady for bail purposes, maybe more. Box 84/87

Artistic Clare woman, 53, petite, loves rainy walks on the beach, writing poetry, unusual sea-shells and interesting brown rice dishes, seeks mystic dreamer for companionship, back rubs and more as we bounce along like little tumbling clouds on life's beautiful crazy journey. Strong stomach esssential. Box 12/32

Chartered accountant, 42, seeks female for marriage. Duties will include cooking, light cleaning and accompanying me to office social functions. References required. No timewasters. Box 23/45

Bad-tempered, foul-mouthed old bastard living in a damp cottage in the arse end of Roscommon seeks attractive 21 year old blonde lady with big chest. Box 40/27

Devil-worshipper, Offaly area, seeks like-minded lady for wining and dining, good conversation, dancing, romantic walks and slaughtering cats in cemeteries at midnight under the flinty light of a pale moon. Box 52/07

Attractive brunette, Macroom area, winner of Miss Wrangler competition at Jolenes Nightclub, Macroom, in September 1978, seeks nostalgic man who's not afraid to cry for long nights spent comfort drinking and listening to old Abba records. Please, Please! Box 30/41

Limerick man, 27, medium build, brown hair, blue eyes, seeks alibi for the night of February 27 between 8pm and 11.30pm. Box 30/41

"...this cruel world of hatchet-faced bitches" is the best existential lament I've heard in a long time. My next book of
poetry will bear that title.

Those bastards at Buffy.

Wednesday, August 21, 2002

Is it just me, or does the chick on the left look like the type of lawyer who would have sex with her client who is on trial for murder?

Click here for the details. At least the kid isn't a cannibal or gay or anything like that.

Monday, August 19, 2002

Someday, I'm going to be described as model, writer, co-artist, and star, just like BANZAI GIRL model, writer, co-artist, and star Jinky Coronado.

She should be proud.
So. Abu Nidal is dead. I remember a time when he was the man. When you thought terrorism, you thought Abu Nidal. Now he's dead. They said the reports they received from Baghdad suggested Abu Nidal had committed suicide but did not explain how that was possible when there was more than one bullet wound. Yikes. Think of all the people he pissed off. The possibilities are endless. Of course, a really painful and botched suicide is one of the possiblities. Could you imagine trying to shoot yourself, but missing vital organs repeatedly? It would be like trying to circumcise yourself by using a string and slamming a door.
Check out this madman. Apparently a one time friend of acclaimed comic book writer Kurt Busiek, things went sour. It's a bit of a journey, but there are many entertaining moments in this tale of geeks gone bad. This is my favorite part:

Something none of you know about Scott MacLeod is that he ran a killer roleplaying campaign. Because Scott was by far the most studious of all of us, and had the most demanding curriculum (being in Visual and Performing Arts, and taking it seriously) he rarely had time to game with us. I recall only one time where he ever roleplayed with us, and rare occasions when he would agree to dust off his own roleplaying 'dungeon' and referee a run were avidly enjoyed by all participants. Well, mostly.

On one occasion, we were all playing, and Kurt's character, Welkin, had picked up a Star Trek type phaser from somewhere. We were walking by a room and we saw some Star Wars storm troopers in it. Naturally, Kurt leaned around the doorway and blasted them. (Actual 'roleplaying' was not at a premium in these long ago games. Enacting as much random, senseless, gratuitous violence, while perfunctorily trying to fulfill some arbitrary 'quest', was pretty much the deal.) Scott rolled dice and determined that Kurt's phaser beam had struck a Storm Trooper's blaster rifle, resulting in a huge explosion that did rather a lot of damage to Kurt, and my character, Donnybrook, who happened to be standing in the doorway. 

Kurt was furious, and promptly began to argue with Scott that "Star Trek phasers don't work that way". Furthermore, "everyone knows" that physics didn't work that way, and it was all ridiculous, and if it DID work that way, then his character should have known it, and wouldn't have done it. 

Scott, for a wonder, actually overruled him. In fact, Scott, very unusually for him, actually got a little angry, and told Kurt to shut up and stop arguing. This hardly ever happened, but then, Scott hardly ever refereed. Usually I refereed, or Jeff Webb, or Andy Gillespie, and Kurt was very used to molding our judgments to suit his whim, regardless of established precedent, anyone else's superior knowledge of how some aspect of reality actually worked, or the way the dice had come up. 

Got that? I admit, I played my share of Dungeons and Dragons before I became a teenager, so the spectacle of college students getting in such a row over it that it poisons their friendship for twenty years is a bit unsettling. But what do I know?
My boss is out of town until after Labor Day. Now, I'm all for fucking around, but here it is, almost 10:30, and I'm still the only person in the office. Lazy fucks. I'm going home early.

Tuesday, August 13, 2002

Check out this headline:

Net romance ends in knifing, beating, fire

Ay yi yi. That headline ain't kidding either:

[Spencer] King of Lot 10, Sundown Mobile Home Park, 38 Sundown Road, Palermo, said he grew angry because he found out as they talked throughout Saturday night and early Sunday that Drummond had lied to him about herself in their previous conversations, according to his statement. So he helped her cover her eyes with a bandanna about 5:30 a.m. Sunday, telling her, "I have a surprise for you," his statement said. He did not specify what angered him.

Then he tipped her head back and began stabbing Drummond in the throat with an 8- to 10-inch carving knife that he got from the kitchen and hid in the pocket of his cargo pants, his statement said. Drummond fell off a stool and began fighting, King told police in the statement, so King began stabbing her all over her body more times than he could count.

King told police that when he realized Drummond was still alive, he beat her repeatedly with her TV set, a fan, a kitchen chair and a leg that had broken off the stool, according to his statement.

After cleaning himself, he tossed the smashed TV and a bloody towel in the bushes, discarded the leg of the stool in some weeds and threw the knife in a small pond, court papers said. He then found a bill in the house, which he lighted from the stove and used to set the house ablaze, according to his statement.

King told police that he had thrown a blue blanket over the body and set it ablaze with the flaming envelope.


He beat her with a TV set. Fuuuck...

Monday, August 12, 2002

I was just walking back from the store with my diet pepsi and potato chips. This dog was tied up in front of the laundry mat, hopelessy tangled in his leash. I set down my snacks and helped him out of his wrangle, and the dog jumped up excitedly, licked my face, then chomped down on the bag of chips. There's gratitude for you.
New Get Your War On. This guy is fucking brilliant. Read 'em all!

Here's an older one...

Man, I love days like today.

Friday, August 09, 2002

To quote my good friend Jen: heh. loser.
Ah, snuff films. This article, from the party poopers at CSICOP tells the real story. I'm willing to bet there's gotta be at least a couple real ones floating around.

Sometimes I feel...

Thursday, August 08, 2002

The infidels have taken over the site. They are tracking you. The man doing this is an infidel, a pornographer.

I would like to commend CNN for their cowardly reporting of this story. If Jon Messner is a patriot, then his adult entertainment site,, deserves a link, rather than a few euphemistic references. The ingratitude. The cowardice. I am happy to provide such a link. USA! USA!
Margaret Cho's new concert film, NOTORIOUS C.H.O., opens tomorrow. I'm not going to review the film. I'm not going to see the film. It would be dishonest to discuss something without first-hand knowledge (except public freak-show behavior; news stories are fair game).

But I did attend the live concert that was filmed for the movie, so I believe I do have some insights that can be offered.

Christina Nation, my good friend and star of Shoot the Girl, a mvoei I directed that is in post production, worked as a P.A. She was coordinating interviews out front of the theatre.

Just so we're clear on this, I was there because a friend had an extra ticket. One of her gay friends skipped out. I still have not paid her back. Hopefully, she won't remember. Liz, my friend, her boyfriend Eric was visiting from Boston. Big guy. BIG fucking guy. Nice though, although on first impression I thought he was going to beat the shit out of me just to see my expression change. That Boston demeanor, you know. But he came to visit Liz in Seattle, and as a nice gesture, bought four tickets to the Margaret Cho concert, for her and the homosexual couple of her choice. But if I understand things correctly, Robert and Adam broke up, so it would have been awkward. I might have the chronology mixed, maybe they broke up months before. I don't know. It doesn't matter.

I was hoping to be interviewed, and Christina was all ready to set me up. I was going to say I didn't know who the fuck Cho was. Oh wait, I did see that show All-American Girl when Quentin Tarantino guest-starred. God, that show was deservedly short-lived. God. Unfunny, tedious. Blah. That wouldn't have made the final cut, but it would have been nice to have something like that out there Marge to maybe see. It would have been a nice contrast from the ridiculous, in-clubby audience that contantly cheered and bellowed out front, as if they were attending a political rally and not some comedy show (but considering the state of gay politics, a comedy show is probably the closest thing to a political rally the Queer Nation USA will see for a long time). They were awful, 80% gay and 30% body fat: men who are homosexual, and women who are homosexual, overweight and/or single. Eric and I may well have been the only straight men there. I half-expected us to be roasted in a pot and eaten.

To borrow the Onion's review: How to write a Margaret Cho joke: 1) Pick a really smutty topic, such as fisting or colonics. 2) Divide Roseanne by Janeane Garofalo, subtract Richard Pryor. 3) Acknowledge loyal gay cult following. 4) Repeat punchline three or more times. 5) Hold contorted facial expression for 10 seconds. 6) Wait for applause.

To be fair, I thought the fisting bit was kind of funny. And she did a decent routine about bondage clubs that I appreciated. For the most part the show was a horrid, self-satisfied extravaganza. The worst part was that everyone in the audience was going berserk. They had no idea they were being pandered to in the most insulting way ("if men had periods..." "if GAY men had periods..." Yuck, yuck!). No wait. The worst part were the facial expressions, adding ugliness to a face that didn't look like it could contain much more. She was on a video screen, which added a half-face extra below her chin. And for a woman whose audience is supposed to consist of mostly gay men, she does the worst gay man impression ever. It's this gutteral redneck roar, miles away from the gentle drawling semi-lisp I associate with the thousands of homosexuals I have met in my travels.

What gets me is she is considered daring in some circles. I don't think preaching to the choir is daring.

Coincidentally, as I was writing this, I received the following form email from Marge Cho:

Dear FiLM Club Member,

I had an amazing time filming "Notorious C.H.O." in Seattle. The tour was in full swing, and the road crew and I arrived at the Sea-Tac airport completely wiped out from putting on two shows a night and traveling in between. Thankfully, Lorene Machado and our wonderfully talented film crew handled everything for us before we arrived. An hour before I was about to leave for the first show, I was lying in the bathtub, filling it with icy water, trying to stay awake. It was rainy and cold, but there was still a long line of fans waiting around the block trying to get into the theater. I realized I had nothing to complain about. All I had to do was get on stage and perform. These people had to stand outside in the rain! The shows were awesome. Seattle audiences are the best! A fan gave me 5 boxes of chocolates! My groupies feed me. I am so lucky. The film rocks, and I think it is even better than my last effort, "I'm the One That I Want." It is funnier, and my Mom's in it! Enjoy - and don't forget to bring me more candy!

- Margaret Cho

I had forgotten about the rain. That bitch.

Wednesday, August 07, 2002

Right by where I work is this park, mostly utilized by transients, panhandling teenagers, and the occasional jogger. There was a recent outcry when the city re-zoned parking in the area; now there is a three-hour limit, which essentially forced people living in their cars to find somewhere else to camp during the day. I was as outraged as the next liberal, but I have to admit the change has really improved the walk to and from getting espresso in the morning.

Today, in addition to a larger-than-normal police presence, I noticed the unusual spectacle of a dozen or so lost youth laying in a pile by a bench, sleeping, or sleeping it off. In that pile was a dog. I always feel bad for dogs who are companions for lost youth. I've been a dog person my whole life; my family bred dachsunds for years. We've since moved on to bigger, less freakish breeds like labs. I always feel a bit of a twinge when a dog-owner pnahndles me; I hope the dog will realize its real power and best interest, and open the punk owner's throat, drag the body into the bushes and eat for a week, before setting off on his own like Benji.

I really hate those punks. One time, this kid asked me if I had any spare change. I said, "No, I'm afraid not." The little bastard got in my face and said, "What are you afraid of, yo?" I wanted to punch the prick. I said, "Listen, you little son of a bitch. I at least acknowledged you. Fuck you, you rude little prick." At least I said something like that.

I used to work at the King County Bar Association, raising money for their community legal service programs, so you'd think I'd be more sympathetic.

Joe Rogan, so sadly underused as the host on TV's Fear Factor, has posted an excellent review of a bizarre Elvis impersonator with a small cock and a prediliction for water sports on his web log. I don't know how long it will be there, so I moved it off the links and into the body here.

Speaking of Fear Factor, I've noticed that every time I watch it, it involves the torture of some celebrity (the episode I saw involved models being put in a tube with fruit flies and forced under water). Is this a trend? I appreciate the desire to see someone like Tom Arnold humiliated, but going to the point of making him eat worms or spraying him with excrement seems extreme. Or maybe not. Just so we're clear, there is in fact no actual episode where Tom Arnold was sprayed with excrement. At least it hasn't been aired yet. I doubt I'm the first Cassandra on this, but I bet within a few years you can go to a lawless hell-hole like Serbia and actually put someone like Pauly Shore to the blade on live television. A minor celebrity gets a famous-person death they probably don't deserve, a star-fucker (or psycho) get the pleasure of linking themselves to fame, the television-watching public enjoys another geek biting the head off a chicken (metaphorically speaking) and FOX enjoys another ratings hit. Everyone wins.

Has anyone seen 7 Lives Exposed on Playboy TV? I would kill for a tape of this. Reading the synopses of the first season, it seems like the ultimate freaskshow, as if that episode of Big Brother with the knife and the fucking was stretched out for a whole season. If anyone out there is willing to send me tapes of this show, I will make it worth your while. And yes, I realize it would have been just as easy to get cable. I'll settle for a DVD release date.
According to Rush & Malloy, Mike Tyson has embarked on yet another rampage. Nothing new, of course; it's the basic story of him running amok, scaring people, and calling them "b------" and "m------------" as the Daily News likes to put it. Some funny quotes: "Tyson was apparently hungry," said an eyewitness. "You see Mike Tyson with a knife, it's a little bit scary," said one hotel staffer. I'll say. Man, he needs a weapon now? The champ sure has gone soft.

My prediction: in a few years Mike Tyson will be dead, shot off the Empire State Building by airplanes, or killed by air-to-surface missiles when he becomes entangled in the George Washington Bridge. Hopefully, we'll discover his nest and destroy all the eggs before they hatch. In the meantime, we can enjoy his thrilling battles with Mothra and Rodan.

a blast from the past: on the campaign trail year 2000

Jesus Christ...

... that's what George W. Bush said when I offered her to him. Man, I'm running for president, he said. What am I doing here, he said.

I motioned with the revolver. Go ahead and have a piece, I said. It don't cost nothing.

Animal House, George said. 

We both laughed. 

You got any more of that great toot? Dubya said. 

Yeah I said. Go ahead.

Off me, bitch, George said, roughly turning the cock-hungry Dominican off his crown jewels. I'm gonna get me some nose candy. He leaned across me to get to my cocaine. He leaned almost close enough to kiss him, so I did. It was a sweet moment, although one destined to never be repeated. 

Republican Presidential Nominee George W. Bush narrowed his eyes at Heather. Now bitch, he said. It's your turn...

Tuesday, August 06, 2002

I wrote this review for The Comics Journal last year. Through what they kindly called an editorial mix-up, someone else's essay on the same two books saw print instead of mine. It might as well go somewhere. I have not proofread this. Maybe later.

Pantheon’s new book Peanuts: The Art of Charles M. Schulz, is absolutely beautiful and needs to be purchased by every student of comic art in general and every fan of Peanuts in particular. This book is amazing in many, many ways. Some wags on the Internet have been predicting an inevitable Chip Kidd backlash after the recent Jack Cole opus, but it won’t come from this book, which manages an almost perfect meeting of both the material and the aesthetic.

The inside cover sports a sketch and autograph by Schultz that almost looks hand-inscribed. From there, we see marvels including a photo of Schulz’s drawing tools (although preserved exactly as he left them when he stopped drawing, which is sort of creepy), a high school yearbook page starring a ridiculously young-looking Charles Schulz (underneath a girl named Schroeder) and sketchbook pages dating from his stint in the army (which reveal a surprisingly white and crisp style). From there, we move on to the true meat of the book: reproduction of the strips from original art and ancient newspaper clippings, astonishing for their fidelity.

Peanuts: The Art of Charles M. Schulz elegantly conveys the experiences of looking at different presentations of the strip. Because the newspaper strips, the original art and the sketchbook drawings were photographed in situ rather than digitally scanned and restored, the reader experiences the works represented on the page as similarly as possible to the experience of seeing them in the original.
The amount of care and fidelity that went into the reproductions is amazing, bringing to mind the disclaimer that appears on compact discs, which warns, “… high resolution also reveals limitations in the master… including noise and other distortions.”

Those distortions, which in this case include dirt, smudges, creases, fingerprints and coffee stains, are part of what makes this book so poignant and so real. It would be a real pleasure and privileges to have the opportunity to page through Sparky’s sketchbooks, to touch his original art and sit in his workspace and eavesdrop as he created. Chip Kidd practically has had that, and has given us the next best thing: a book that replicates the experience.

The strips are not reprinted from the original art; instead, they are reproduced from vintage strips clipped, mounted and preserved, and photographed as is for this book. It’s just like looking that original collection!
Not having seen any of Schulz’s original art, I’ll have to take it on faith that seeing the strips printed from the originals is JUST LIKE SEEING THE ORIGINALS THEMSELVES. Even if that isn’t the case, there’s a nice tactile pleasure to being able to see the edges from the paste-overs, or the brushstrokes in the blacks.

There’s more to the book than the propeller-head thrill of design and faithful reproduction, though. More than half of the strips date from the Fifties, many being reprinted for the first time. Much of what made Peanuts great in there in embryo. That should itself be a hell of an encouragement, to see these seminal pieces, in which Snoopy walked on four legs, Lucy was a baby and Charlie Brown was a spunky wise-ass. Even then, however, there is still a strip from 1951 about how no one likes him, which isn’t even remotely funny. Shades of the future. And it’s refreshing to see that even a genius like Schulz plagiarized himself within the first few years of the strip. Once Schulz hit his stride, it took him decades to swipe wholesale from his best ideas again.

Hopefully, this book’s success will give the keepers of the flame reason to believe the public might indeed be ready and appreciative of the early Peanuts, and give some impetus to an orderly, complete reprinting of the greatest comic strip of the second half of the twentieth century.

To step down for a moment from foaming-at-the-mouth praise, Peanuts: The Art of Charles M. Schulz certainly has its flaws. Chip Kidd’s commentary has the air of an informed if hardly expert writer composing from memory, and so, mistakes are made. The biggest error I noticed (I suppose it was the biggest precisely because I did notice) was Kidd’s statement that Schulz wanted Peanuts to be titled Good Ol’ Charlie Brown. In fact, Schulz always preferred the title Li’l Folks. The mistake is particularly nonsensical when one considers the prominence other characters have always had in Peanuts. Also, if I know that, Kidd certainly should have.

More disturbing is much of what Kidd includes as "art" in addition to the strips. Admittedly, it is difficult to evaluate Peanuts overall without acknowledging the massive amount of merchandizing, shilling and selling out that have been part of the Peanuts experience from almost the beginning. But to title a book The Art of Charles M. Schulz is to call attention to the art, first and foremost, and it is hard to see tacky figurines of the more popular characters with spring-set bobbing heads as being "art" in even the broadest, most philistine sense.

The selection and ordering of strips itself has its ups and down. Kidd has arranged the strips in his own idiosyncratic order, roughly chronological in the sense that the early ones are near the beginning and the later ones are near the end, and focusing on the strips as art rather than continuity, which suits the purpose of the book. I suppose leaving this reader wanting more isn’t necessarily a bad thing, but it still left this reader wanting more. But with something like 15,000 strips to choose from, it was unavoidable.
That said, I was driven nuts by Kidd’s habit of quoting from strips not reproduced. Anyone who has tried to describe a comic to someone inevitably fails to it justice, and Kidd shouldn’t have tried to do it here. Even that is understandable: there are few strips more quotable than Peanuts. And the strips he quoted might not have been what he was looking for visually. But still, annoying.

That’s just gripes, though.

It is understandable and forgivable in that this is not a work of scholarship. Much like Viking Press’ recent Jorge Luis Borges series, this is a work of appreciation and discovery. The aim is taking joy in exploring long out of print strips, and reveling in the gorgeous reproduction. There are no claims of definiteness or comprehensiveness.

I refer the reader to the foaming-at-the-mouth praise in the first two-thirds of this review, or better yet, to the book itself. The pleasure outweighs the pain by far. The reproduction. The sense of both discovery, and re-discovery. And the strips themselves. There is even a sketch of the little red haired girl.

In an unimaginative segue, this brings us more or less to Jack Cole and Plastic Man: Forms Stretched to Their Limits.

Many of the annoyances in the Peanuts book are present in Jack Cole and Plastic Man. So are many of its strengths, but in this case, they come close to sinking the whole thing.

The book contains multiple pleasures. Art Spiegelman’s New Yorker essay on Cole from 1999 is reprinted, five complete comic book reprints, including four Plastic Man stories, one featuring a solo Woozie Winks, his famous “injury to the eye” story “Murder, Morphine and Me,” and selection of his panel cartooning in Playboy. Strangely, even though Spiegelman points to Betsy and Me as the skeleton key to Cole’s suicide, only a few strips are reprinted. The rest of the book is filled with clippings, collaged and expanded and enlarged.

While this approach worked for Peanuts: The Art of Charles M. Schulz, it fails here. One reason for its success in the Schulz book is by virtue of the source material: a clipping of a four panel daily strip can easily contain the whole strip; a clipping of a comic book page will be necessity separate the panels from the others with which it was juxtaposed.

As a result, the focus here is much more on Kidd’s design. Which is too bad. The best way to enjoy comic art is in its context, and we have so little of that here. Continuity and page design are sacrificed in order to call attention to the caricature, grotesques and distortions Cole often committed to the comic book page, as if he were Basil Wolverton.

The story reprints are presented on browned and yellowed paper, the better, apparently, to capture that old feeling of reading the musty originals. There has never been any virtue to the crappy paper, off-register color and shrill melodrama, and Kidd does a disservice to the art form by trying to claim that is so. It is ridiculous to present the cheap ten-cent comics of a half-century ago as art objects, and if the stories themselves are to be viewed as art, they need to hold up on their own. If Cole’s stories, or anyone’s, of interest only as nostalgia, then they are of no interest at all.

The difference, at least between the Cole book and Schulz book, may be the difference between art in general and comic books in general. The overall effect of Kidd’s design of the Peanuts book is personalization. For something as personal and sentimental as Peanuts, a strip that is and has always been a part of the lives of just about everyone on the planet, this is an important thing, and feels like a gift. Peanuts justifies itself though its own depth and quality.

For better or for worse, Jack Cole’s lesser-known work is better served by being evaluated on its own terms, uncluttered by another’s visual verbiage. And it isn’t here. As a result, Jack Cole and Plastic Man: Forms Stretched to Their Limits is not so much a book on or about Jack Cole as it is a book inspired by Jack Cole. Luckily, Cole’s work is strong enough to lend itself to such translation, although the originals are better.

One element in Kidd’s design sense that has been flawless has been his endings. The closing pages of Peanuts: The Art of Charles M. Schulz brings a tear to the eye, and at a crucial point, Forms Stretched to Their Limits provokes a similar reaction.

The reprinted Spiegelman essay is excellent, one of the best prose pieces he has ever written. The piece is informative and engaging, telling the story of Cole’s life, explaining the importance of his work, and illuminating the historical context in which it first appeared. At the end of his essay, near the end of the book, Spiegelman notes, “As he climbed his ladder of success, up from the primal mulch of the comic books, he finally arrived at air that was too thin to breather: Jack Cole, a comics genius, died of growing up,” which Kidd follows with eighteen pages of blown up images clipped from Silver Streak Comics, Plastic Man, CRIME Does Not Pay and other comics, as well as Playboy, and Cole’s own obituary. Spiegelman’s word’s provide, in the end, touching lyrics bridging to an imagistic coda derived from the many themes discernable in Cole’s work. It’s heartbreaking.

New link today.  This is my favorite part:

Or it demonstrates conclusively I don't know fuck-all about HTML. We'll see...

New Page 1

I'm getting used to this blog thing, so I'm running a bit behind.  I had
no idea people would read it.  So, my friend Emily is sending me my
greatest hit emails to post while I get my act together.  Here is one of

My sister graduated from University of San Francisco in May. She's three years my junior. Seven years, and she still beat some people I attended high school with. I told her she should send them graduation announcements. 

That weekend was a wonder to behold.

My trained monkey Eric and myself saw Star Wars at 4:00 am before I went to the airport. Thanks to caffeine and diet pills, I was able to make it through, and onto my airplane. I liked the Star Wars movie by the way. Not quite sure what the hell the movie was about, but I enjoyed seeing an 80-year-old Christopher Lee fight Yoda. Sleep-deprivation enhanced the experience.

Arrived in Oakland at noon. Picked up by Rebecca and Kristin (my older sister). Ate lunch. Went back to Rebecca's place, where I slept for four hours.

Awoke refreshed, and spent an hour or two of agony deciding on dinner. We want Japanese. Oh, mom says, but I wanted steak! What happened to that Japanese place. Jesus, mom, you said you wanted steak! Well, the Japanese place can't get us in until 9:00 at this point, so we go for one of my mother's selections: the restaurant where Sam Spade hung out in the Maltese Falcon. I suggested we get an idea of the menu, figuring that any place that focuses more on it being the meeting place of the Dashiell Hammett Society — that’s right — and less on say its world famous crab louie might not be the best place to eat. So we go there. How right I was. Jazz guitarist playing TV show themes. Bad food. Gay Asian waiter, whose combined accents and lisps made him incomprehensible. We ordered the 2000 Coppola Cabernet, which Kristin hated, and was actually quite good. Rebecca gets off the first brilliant line of the weekend: "Well, maybe next time we can have the waiter shake it up for you." We leave. Suggestions that maybe we could walk around the city are shot down. Then we get ice cream. My blood sugar drops. Home to sleep.

Side note: Mom insisted on driving the rental car. A poor driver and a hostile excitable woman, Mom is not the best choice for driving in any circumstance, let alone in the mean streets of San Francisco, with its confusing turns and impossible parking. The suggestion that Rebecca drive was greeted with a shrill No!

Friday. Graduation morning. Mom and Dad call to let us know they are about six blocks away. I said, why don't you just call when you're out front? No! Rebecca tells me to remind them the chapel doesn't open until 8:45 (it was actually 8:15, she mis-spoke). I do so, and my mom, who was not using the phone, screams, "I don't care!" This officially became a long vacation at 7:38 AM. No parking at the church. We go to a garage that is also full. Someone in front of us has tried to violate the height restriction, and need to back up. My parents roll down their windows and start making sarcastic remarks to the driver. I suggest that in honor of Rebecca's graduation, perhaps making snide remarks to strangers could be set aside for another day. I am ignored. Luckily a street space opens up next to the building. After much undue agony, we park there.

The church is packed. My mom and dad scam some handicapped spaces near the front. Kristin and I stand in back. Watch the chaos ensue. An announcement is made that anyone holding seats should give them up now. In the stampede, a man actually pushes two people down. He is removed by security, after a long discussion in which the guards asked the victims to please let it go. They didn't, and the man left. Long boring ceremony. 

The speaker was a linguist from Geaorgetown. I assume that the students wanted Noam Chomsky, and figured one
linguist was as good as another. Basic speech: belive in yourself, blah blah blah. There was a video projection for those of us in back when the diplomas are handed out. The AV kids manning the cam seemed to think we were all interested in seeing the face of the University President and the back of the students. Idiots. 

It ends, we wait around before going to the reception. To my disappointment, there are no mimosas. There were mimosas at Gonzaga University's graduation. Why would two Jesuit schools be so different? Too bad, because I'm going to need the sedation. So we all go to lunch. Nice place in Sausalito. I had a pretty good seafood salad.

Then we all split up for a while. My sisters nap, I see Star Wars again, because I am a nerd.

Then its time for dinner. Absurdly, the decision is made to get appetizers and drinks, because gosh, none of us are hungry. We go to this observation deck on the top of a hotel. Nice
view. Order drinks. I had a Long Island (Kristin derided it as a college drink), and later what amounted to an Irish whiskey mudslide. I saw a lot of absolutely beautiful women come through, accompanied by trollish beta males. Maybe SF is the town for me. We had a few snacks, my mother insisting that the hummus plate, the delicious hummus plate, be kept away from her, because the smell sickened her. By then, I'm hungry and suggest we go somewhere else for a meal.

Pizza is decided upon. Place called Georgio's, by Rebecca's house. Parking is tight, as it is everywhere. We witness a parking spot stand-off. An old woman stood in a spot, while a car tried to park. We circled four times, and she was there. We all sided with the car. A few spots
opened up, and Mom refused to u-turn, so we lost them. Finally, she decided she wanted to go home to prove some point. Kristin also decided to go home to prove some point. No idea what they were trying to prove, but off they went. Rebecca Dad and I go to get pizza. Pretty good. We enjoyed beers outside as we waited. I wandered a few blocks looking for an SF Weekly, nowhere to be found. Very cute waitresses. We got the cute waiter. He was cool. Laughed when I offered him $20 to sit on Dad's lap. A one point, I hear a waitress say, "let me tell you about this fucking idiot," but I didn't hear the rest. At the table next to us, a couple, one side of which was very attractive, sat in serious conversation. First date, or break up? No ongoing relationship is that tense.

After pizza, we go drinking. The Abbey, an Irish bar, full of colonized British subjects and young women with watches set to bar time. Also one of the wink-wink allowing smoking bars in California. Hateful place. I keep trying to leave, but Dab and Becky keep giving me drinks. We go home, plastered.

Saturday. Start out with a coffee from Rebecca. She suggests I could have ran up to Starbucks and seen Warren Beatty. I decline. I also have a play date with Griffin, the 5 year-old Rebecca babysits. I go over, play math games and i-spy for an absurdly long time before Rebecca rescues me, and the whole tribe goes down the Napa. Mom had made reservations on the very expensive wine train, which I opposed, suspecting some awful pre-fab tourist thing. But this was Mom's thing, so we all agreed, not without complaint. As long as we went to some wineries. Dress on the train was jacket, so I wore a ties and slacks, shocking my redneck family with my willingness to wear a tie for more almost five hours when I didn't have to. It also prompted many an insulting comment about how I've cleaned up. Assholes. 

We got to Napa at 1:00, giving us about four hours until the wine train, which started boarding at 5:30. First stop,
Peju. Rebecca and I's favorite place. My dad wandered around, apparently despising wine for some reason, while the rest of us enjoyed a tasting. I wanted to get a few bottles there, a few bottles elsewhere. Mom and I end up getting a case between us, which means I'll have to write her a check. Or more accurately, that she will be badgering me for money I will never pay. Of course, I buy their delicious high-end reserve wine, Mom gets their lowest common denominator crap. And an $85 Reserve Cabernet, for when Kristin gets engaged — hint hint. Love the winery, they know Rebecca, so it was a good time. Then we head to the next place. 

Despite my entreaties, we continued past the Sutter Home winery. Rebecca wanted to go to the Sterling Winery, but you need to ride a tram, and there was a huge line, so we decided to move on. Rebecca and I both point out wineries we should stop at, up ahead. Mom keeps driving. We pass the wineries, suggest a u-turn. Mom keeps driving, PRETENDING SHE DOESN'T HEAR US. This was my breaking point. I was like, we don't have a whole lot of time, let's go to some places we know are good, and why the fuck aren't you acknowledging us? At this point it was too late. And Mom
was like, I want to be closer to the wine train before we stop. To which I responded, I
have non desire to wait an extra half-hour in the fucking parking lot of this stupid goddamn train I have no desire to go on anyway, let's go to some wineries. And so we drive. Finally, we encounter a name we all recognize: Rutherford Hill, available in many supermarkets nation-wide. Fine. We go there. After being ignored at the reserve tasting, we get a $5 standard tasting of a half-dozen kind of flavorless wines. Luckily, a pack of drunken girls showed up to liven things up. I wanted to go with them. No luck. Now it's too late, we head for the train, setting a new record of spending 4.5 hours in the Napa valley, and somehow being able to squeeze in tastings at two, count 'em, two wineries.

Wine train. Lots of old people. Get an introductory wine tasting, one red one white, and a condescending lecture from some twit who needed a savage bare knuckle beating. That was our tasting by the way. You get two wine samples on the Napa Valley wine train, for the $99 price. And while I expected a stupid, pre-fab trap for unimaginative tourists without initiative, it was even worse. It was a three hour trip, with a dinner, and nothing else. The wine was sold at premium. I expected a wine tasting. None of that. Just an overpriced dinner on a train that went about 10 miles per hour on a road, not countryside, but the Napa Valley main drag, that we had already traveled earlier. Our waiter had amazing hair. Like
Joe Pesce with a pompadour. Long trip. Looooooooong. Mom wanted sparkling, so we got sparkling. I got drunk enough to sleep on the way home. I went inside and went to sleep when we got home.

Sunday. Monterey. We drive down along the scenic route. When everyone saw the sign saying 90 miles to
Monterey, they all objected, insisting on a faster route. So we cut over to the freeway. Which took us two hours. By the time we reached San Jose (and irritatingly, every time we saw a sign for San Jose, parents would sing this idiotic song I've never heard before), we would have been there already, and we still had an hour to go. 

Five hour drive to Monterey. We eat lunch, some basic place, then go to the aquarium, which was worth it for the jellyfish exhibit and the penguins. The penguin exhibit has this
bizarre music emanating from a puppet show in the back, while the penguins freak out and do tricks for the kids. Lots of kids. I figured if one wants advice of child-rearing, one could do worse than watching parents take their kids to a museum, and do the exact opposite of what you see there. Loud assholes. So we head back. Mom misses the pertinent exit, and we spend a long time wandering through some weird Mexican town with five formal wear stores.

And off to dinner with the Kael-Sollats, Becky's family, the ones she baby-sits for. Long story. We didn't know where we were going, so Mom and Dad dropped us off at the house while we figured things out. Claire and Carl, the parents for whom Becky baby-sits, suggested a Chinese place nearby. I was really looking forward to seeing Mom and Kristin meeting Clair, who is young, wealthy attractive and Jewish, everything they'd like to be. I figured they think she was throwing her life in their faces. 

So, the Miller kids and the Chinese Jewish family march about five blocks to the hard-core Chinese place. We see Mom and Dad cruise by periodically, looking for parking. Rebecca runs out to suggest she park the car, while Mom and Dad go in, in the same style that Hitler declined capture by the Russians in WWII. We order, see them drive by every few minutes. Then we don't see them for a while. We joke that maybe they went back to the hotel. Then we call the hotel. Dad answer. He'll be over to join us shortly. No, Mom isn't coming. The family has to leave, it being the kid's bed time. Dad arrives, eating leftovers at the lonely table. Apparently, the parking freaked mom out so badly she jumped out of the car, insisting she should walk back to the hotel. She also vomited. True to the tradition that it isn't a family gathering without tears, Rebecca cries, mortified by her treatment in front of the family she baby-sits for, and so desperately didn't want to be humiliated in front of. Kristin snottily informs us that we should just accept Mom's behavior, I explain my position that the reason she acts like such a creep is because people put up with it. Kristin tells me to lower my voice. I point out we're in a Chinese restaurant in the middle of SF China-town, nobody understands a fucking word I'm saying, as evidenced by the waiter who took my drink orders, then wandered off to smoke a cigarette. Of course, there was another table of honkies right next to us, so I guess Kristin was right. Fuck it, we left to get ice cream, and then go home.

Monday. I wake up, watch the Others. Dad said he would pick me up for the airport at 8:00. We're leaving from the Oakland airport, me at 10:20, the rest of the family at 11:45 or something. At 8:30 I get nervous, wonder if I should call a cab. They arrive at 8:45, explaining that since I said last time I made it to my gate in 4 minutes, they figured I could do it again. We say good-bye to Rebecca, all of us but Mom, who has nothing to say to her. Of course there's traffic. My flight is scheduled to board at 9:50; I'm at the gate at 9:55. The plane was late. The family shows, gives me $40. Mom then accuses me of getting money from Dad earlier. While this is happening, my row is called. I board the plane and get the fuck away from my family. Thank fucking god.

Monday, August 05, 2002

Already, the first comments have come in, specifically to paragraph 8:

"The candle that burns twice as bright, burns half as long." Tyrell to Roy, just before Roy kissed Tyrell on the lips and pushed his thumbs through Tyrell's eyes and into the frontal lobe.

Thanks for the feedback, Hogge!
My friend, we'll call her "Trixy" returns from her parents' pace in Nevada this past Saturday. Nice guy that I am, I pick her up from the airport at 10:00 am. Broke guy that I am, I accept $11 for gas money. Nice guy that I am, I give back the $21 she originally gave me in exchange for the $11 she thought she gave me. I believe that shows some integrity.

Later on in the day we decide to see SIGNS. It was okay, I guess. Like so many films released in the past decade, it would have benefited from a musical number. I like the contrast to films like WAR OF THE WORLDS. Instead of a virus, humanity's secret weapon turns out to be a baseball bat and some abandoned glasses of water.

Trixie was in Vegas visiting her mother. Mom told Trixie she should feel free to take anything she'd like. Trixie came home with a multitude of cheap, hep, thrift store find-type clothes, some vinyl records, and prescription drugs, basically anything with a warning not to operate heavy machinery while using.

So, we each take a couple Xanax before SIGNS. Which helped the film. I wasn't feeling too drugged, while Trixie was staggering around; our theory is that someone who actually needs antidepressants (i.e. me) is going to feel an antidepressants less than someone who doesn't. So after the movie, we head to my place and kick it for a while drinking wine.

Then we go to this party. It was a housewarming party. There were a lot of homosexual man there, and not many women. None of them, not the homosexuals, not the women, were interested in me. I thought the hostess was attractive. It turns out I met her before. Someday I'll tell the story of the midget, the hostess was the one who dropped her off later in that story. It’s a funny story. Trust me.

Anyway, my chances with this good-looking, semi-goth nineteen year-old dropped from zero to less-than-zero when I spilled a glass of wine all over the north side of her new apartment. It looked like I had slaughtered a family. I tried to clean up, but was shoved roughly out of the way while the hostess and a number of men in eyeliner brought out the sponges and club soda.

The party ended early, and we were among the last to leave at 11:30 pm. The only reason we were there as long as we were was that a friend, we'll call her Jen, was on her way. Jen was a bit delayed because she needed to fix her hair, put on some makeup, drink a bottle of wine, and snort some dilauded. So we planned on going to some party in the University District of Seattle.

We stopped at Trixie's place for some pill popping. We didn't know what half the shit was, and there was no internet connection to help us out. We were very stupid. There was a couple new-comers to our crowd: a tall gay African American we’ll call Ricki, and Laura, a short chubby white girl, who reminded me of a forty-year old I slept with when I was 23; speaking of said forty-year old, that woman had a simpering attitude and pathetic demeanor, always wanting to walk arm and arm, and she thanked me after sex. Horrible. Having looked into Laura's future, I knew she was not for me. Both Laura and Ricki expressed an interest in coming back to my place. Both, I'm sure, will be kept up for many long nights with the disappointment. I haven’t spoiled the end of the story, I hope.

So we go out to the party. A different party, not in the University District, a mile from my apartment, of course, but back about four blocks away from the party where we came from. It was some weird rave thing. Lots of freaks in costumes. They wanted $10 for entry. Jen paid her money. My turn was next, and I said there was no fucking way I was paying. They let the rest of us in for Jen's admission charge. "Jen, you're a sucker!" Trixie exclaimed.

This party was weird, and then the pills kicked in. The hostess of the previous party was there as well, with one of her guests, a short, emaciated man who looked like Edward Scissorhands if he were a member of the Knack: spiked hair, thin tie, turned-up collar. I believe he was wearing blush. Interestingly, I had been to this place before. One of my work’s board members used to live in the space, before moving out and apparently leaving it to squatters who decided to throw a party.

All I really remember about the party was having the hiccups. I tried the drinking upside down method of cure, and fell on my face. Luckily nobody saw me. I still had the hiccups, and looked like I'd received a beating.

This paragraph is all reconstructed from circumstantial evidence. We all went back to Trixie’s place. More drinks are drunk, more pills are popped. I gave Laura a ride home. She sat quietly in my car after we pulled up. After a moment, I leaned over, and said, "Listen, I need to get back. Back at Trixie’s, we all hung out. Ricki got a cab home. Jen drove home ( a cursory reading of the police blotter tells me she made it okay). It was just me, Trixie, the hostess of the previous party and the guy who looked like Edward Scissorhands. I went home at 7:00 am. I woke up at 5:30 pm. I watched BULLY. I went back to sleep at 9:00 pm. I woke up again at 6:30 am.

Now I am at work, torn between telling people the bruises on my face are from a fight, or the truth. One friend suggested I tell people I joined a fight club over the weekend.

None of the above is bragging. I am a stupid, aging lunatic. Fuck me, this is a self-absorbed document.