9/07/2002

Hey, how's it goin', Solution To World Hunger?


Not too bad, actually.


Good to hear. I'm surprised to actually have found you.


Most are.


Say, Solution To World Hunger, why are you so damned elusive?


That's just my nature, man. You can't really find me when you need me, can't really pin me down. Sometimes I'll just leave a party without even saying goodbye. Just blow right outta there.


You get invited to a lot of parties?


Oh, yea.


Even though you're an abstract theoretical concept and not a person?


Totally. We have these bitchin' Unattainable Ideals keggers, me and The Cure For The Common Cold and The Four-Minute Mile and The Woman Who Is Completely Satistfied With Her Body.


Sounds like a good time.


It is.


Where do you guys usually hang out?


If I told you, we wouldn't be Unattainable Ideals, now would we? We'd be all...like...'tainable.


So I'm pretty lucky to have you here long enough to interview.


You're quick, what can I say.


It's weird, having you here, Solution To World Hunger. You involve a lot more cigars and needless hitting than I thought you would.


A lot of people say that. They think I'm all about sustainable farming and hydroponics and shit...


But you're not.


Not even. It's all about smoking and hitting people.


How does that feed everyone?


If I told you...


Yea, I know, I know. But you could save a lot of lives.


And I could enjoy the music of Michael Bolton, but just 'cause I could doesn't neccesarily mean I'm gonna, now does it?


I guess not.


Well, I gotta be goin'. Me and the Economically Viable Alternative To Fossil Fuel are gonna smoke out and play PS2.


See ya 'round.


No you won't.


ASU sophomore and photographic genius Dana left me a comment on last night's entry. Which is weird, because my comments barely work, and second because she said: your photos inspire me to want a digital camera myself. Because the thing is, this picture thing is just a stupid experiment I don't even know if I'll keep doing. But it's weird for Dana to say something like that. Every time I write, I'm trying to sound like Tony Pierce or James Lileks or numerous other people, and every time I take a picture, I'm trying to make it look like one of Dana's. The girl has this amazing talent to take the ordinary, the every day, and capture it at just the right angle from just the right distance from just the right light, revealing something you would never have noticed if it hadn't been pressed through her lens. So while I don't think she was necessarily commenting on the quality (most of my pictures are blurry pieces of shit because I don't like to turn the flash on), it was a lovely thing to hear. Thanks, Dana.


A fun game you can play with the picture above: Which one is Matt, and which one is a naked Cabbage Patch doll lying on a chair?
Bonus Points if you answer in the form of a series of grunts and whistles

9/06/2002

Good music to write plays to: Claude Bolling, Suite for Violin and Jazz Piano


Inspiration hit and before you know it I had spilled over from the required-by-today five pages onto the sixth. "Great," I thought, "Now I can go to bed!"


But I didn't. I went running because I haven't the past two days, an impermissible lapse for a fatass such as myself, then I came back. Remembered that there’s a September 11th assembly at school next week that is in need of people to give speeches, read poems, etc.
One on the meaning of the flag, one commemorating September 11th, and finally, one “celebrating the spirit of America.” I chose to tackle the third one, because the other two already have volunteers. I feel like America gets a bad rap for being the best. Time to yell into a microphone about it. I tried writing it, using the second-last-paragraph of my 4th of July OD rant as a baseline and trying to work from there. I got some good stuff, but it has no shape yet and doesn’t flow. Unlike America. We flow like a motherfucker.


Maybe that should be my opening sentence.


Didn’t go to school today. Ever since I was a young schoolchild, I have had this innate ingrown fear of missing a day of school. I didn’t have one absence in all of elementary school. Not a single one. Cold? Fuck it, a cold can’t keep you from spelling M-I-S-S-I-P-P-I or doing simple addition. Bleeding from the eyes? Catch it in a Dixie cup and go back for the last five minutes of recess. But today I didn’t have the slightest qualms about leaving Lori a note saying “Call me in sick” and sleeping ‘till eleven. I was barely sick at all, except for the re-experiencing dinner thing last night. I ate some Raisin Bran before bed, kept it down fine. Had a peanut butter sandwich when I got up today, we agreed to be friends. Then I went to the Theatre Co. meeting and rehearsal and then Wiseacre’s band practice (which didn’t actually happen.) If I was ever sick at all, I didn’t really notice. Doesn’t matter. I am a fucking senior. I stays home when I feels like it. This is my first time asserting that right, and it feels damn good.


Even though it’s no longer technically September 5th:



HAPPY 18th BIRTHDAY to Trevor: You are the best psuedo-asian friend a guy could have since 4th grade. Hopefully your new access to cigarettes and porno will not change you in any significant way.



photo courtesy of Lil’ Chelsea H. Used completely without permission from anyone, including Shaq.

HAPPY 16th BIRTHDAY to Amanda, purveyor of one of the top five best smiles of all time, and one heck of a chum.

9/05/2002

Take THAT, women's sports! Not that I have anything against 'em, but come on...it was a joke. A good one, too. Go look.
Before We Begin: Listen To THE SHINS.


No pictures today. I took some, but I'm thinking probably picture-fest once a week is a good idea, because it took about two hours to put together that thing last night, mostly because I'm a damned HTML mongoloid, but it's still pretty work-intensive and I still have to get good at this word stuff.


Tonight, especially.


Tommorow I have to turn in a full outline and the first five pages of the play I'm supposed to write by December.


Tonight I cooked dinner for my family (in the play, Matt, my son, Mindy, my wife). Steak and potatoes.

Matt's comment upon hearing I would be cooking dinner: Are we gonna have macaroni and cheese?

But I pulled it off, I think. They seem pleased enough. Then Mindy made dessert, like the wonderful mother/wife she is, it was some cookie/ice cream concoction that's apparently Italian. Good, like most things with warm chocolate chip cookie and ice cream are.


Tonight, sitting in the bathroom thinking about this monumental task of writing an outline and five pages of a play for which I only have a barebones conception, I started to feel sick. Not nervous sick, either, but sick, stomach-deciding-this-food-is-not-to-its-liking-and-sending-it-back-from-whence-it-came sick. Dinner was great on the way down. Not nearly as pleasant on the way back up.


Tonight, I have the flu.


Tommorow, I will not be going to school.


Tonight, I have three pages of dialogue and I'm starting again to like the feeling of shifting back and forth from keyboard to mouse, emboldening character's names at the beginning of every line.


Tonight, I'm on my way.

9/03/2002

Tony Pierce encouraged me to take my camera to school today. I did. Some of the results are below, some may end up on his site. Who knows. I'm new to this pictures-and-words thing. Time will tell whether I keep doing it.


I woke up ALL late today. I showered and all, but I had just ducked inside the school as the bell rang. I haven't had a haircut in a while and it was hot and I was tired, so I figured I looked like a total mook.

Yes indeed. Total mook status confirmed.



I managed to duck in to first hour without getting swept (we have a brand new gestapo tardy policy), 'cause this mook can bolt when he has to. The air conditioning in the school was broken because of a water main break (the first incident of the kind this year, but it's happened before.) so it was like a less educational version of hell all day. The legendary Asian kid Kelly Nam summed it up accurately:








A room was flooded in the "Special" hall, causing the surrounding area to smell like sewage and be generally hotter than Satan's asshole. And I had to go there once, on a field trip. So I know. It's all red and hairy. The classroom in question, and YES, I am a Pulitzer-prize winning photographer.




But certain things made a long, sticky, hellish day tolerable.






Things like Chelsea in 1st, 2nd, and 4th hour.













Things like Theatre Company officer meetings.













Things like girls that couldn't be any cuter or sweeter if they tried, but the funny thing is they keep trying.












Things like when Trevor gets "Cotton Eyed Joe" stuck in his head and goes slowly insane.












Things like Honors Chemistry. No, wait. Fuck Honors Chemistry. Fuck it right in its stupid asshole.












Things like bad photography that makes it look like you go to a school full of hurried ghosts.







Yup, photographic evidence confirms it. On any given day, even when the air conditioning's broken, you could do a lot worse than be me.

I used to worry that my life was passing me by.

I used to think I was an unattractive lout stuck in a dead-end job, with no prospects for future improvement.

Every day was another note in a melody that was starting to sound like a funeral march.

Children's laughter mocked my meaningless existence, I loathed those happier and more successful than myself.

Just getting out of bed was an immense challenge with positively zero payoff.

I found myself wishing for death.

That was until I invented the remix.

9/02/2002


Pictures pictures pictures. Perhaps if I make everything more visually interesting you won't notice the inherent lifeless crapiness of everything I write. And then everybody's happy.


You cannot make friends with the rock stars.



LOOK! Pictures!
Just got back from Labor Day Half-Price Poverty-Line Bonanza at Savers. The haul:


  • 1 set of scrubs, to replace the ones I borrowed from my aunt for my one-act last year and subsequently lost
  • 1 pair of scrub pants, for the same purpose
  • 1 Mountain View Little League jersey, reading All Star #10
  • 1 tiny painting featuring two dogs
  • 1 happy ceramic elephant

Total: $9.60


The quality of the merchandise reflected the fact that it was all half-off. It had already been picked through by the more early-rising hipsters, no doubt. Plus everything is always XXL, and I am, at best, an L.


Now to work for four hours, then softball.
I have never, that I recall, met a Magilla Stevenson or a Magilla Puntz-Jones. I only know of one Magilla, and I think it one of history's great coincidences that his last name was "Gorilla."
Strange mood and can't explain it. Actually, I can. It's a Sunday night. Sunday nights are just typically marred with weird moods. I think it's this vestigal instinct, left over from the days when Sunday night was the last gasp of freedom, but you could never quite enjoy it because the specter of school the next day loomed large and terrible. I don't really feel that way too much anymore, but that Sunday-night feeling lingers anyway.



Gather 'round, children, and I shall tell you a tale. The tale of the lonely one-sided semi-mullet. That's what I have right now. I haven't gotten a haircut for maybe a month, and a month is usually the time the hair starts to run off the rails and look really stupid. We are hitting that point, and this time, it's personal: one side of my hair in the back is growing in all funny, giving me what can only be described as a one-sided semi-mullet...yes, yes, that is the only way it can be described. It's not full and curly and flowering from beneath my checkered Jeff Gordon hat, but it's definitely there. And it's definitely stupid.



It's like Stephen King's IT. This horrifying creature from my childhood calling to me now in my psuedo-adult world. Remember when you had hockey hair? Beep-beep, Richie! WE ALL FLOAT DOWN HERE. And have stupid mullets. 'Cause it's true, in middle school, I had hockey hair. It wasn't full-blown Randy Johnson mullet action, but it was still humilating. Not at the time or anything. At the time I thought it was tight as hell. Until my friends started in with the intense mockery, and even then it persisted stubbornly for a year or so. Same with when I had a center-part and bitchin' spit curls. I have to be incessantly mocked for a good 12-16 months before I consider altering my 'do. It really doesn't matter, I could do anything and my hair would still be an unruly nerdish mass on a laughably large head. It's true.


I have to do a full plot outline for the play, plus the first five pages, by Wednesday. And I have all these ideas, but I have yet to actually put the first word down on the page. It's almost like I'm afraid to start it, because you don't just start something, starting is a commitment to a bunch of sleepless nights and pacing and struggle, starting is a commitment to finishing, and I'm positively no good at finishing. That is why I have all these crazy deadlines. Because it forces me to finish. Starting, I can do. I am the king of beginning. Follow-through, me and follow-through got problems. So I'm afraid to start at all. But I will. By Wednesday.



Still weird mood. Could be because I was listening to The Smiths. I think you could be King of The World and be up late-night rogering a supermodel and smoking a fat cigar while your other eight wives sleep quiety in one of the thousands of rooms in your palatial estate, but then a Smiths song comes on the radio and suddenly you're weeping like a baby. You could be the most content guy in the world and hear "Please Please Please Let Me Get What I Want" and suddenly you'd think, "I've got problems." And you thought Dashboard Confessional was defeatist. Jesus P. Christ.



But there's pie in the kitchen.



When I AM King of The World and I do have nine wives, somebody remind me to always keep plenty of pie around. It will be hell on the ol' physique, but it's not like they're fucking me for my good looks at that point anyway. Whatever problems you may have, if you can end a sentence, "but at least there's pie in the kitchen" things really can't be all that bad. Poor, lonely, friendless, one-legged, with a big slice of razzleberry pie. Quit your whining. You could be poor, lonely, friendless, one-legged, and have NO pie. Think about how much that would suck.



And keep thinking. While I steal your pie.
NASAL CONGESTION CAN EAT A BIG FAT COCK. So can arm-dislocating Navajos. They can have themselves a big ol' cock buffet.
Nose is stuffed up and my shoulder still hurts like a bitch. I did get a call. Went with Trevor to Subway, where the stoner nightcrew hooked us up with freeness, then returned a bunch of books to the Ironwood library, because they have started sending collection notices. I plan never to return. It's a stupid fucking bookshack anyway. Then to Alecia's, where there was Matt, Jack, and, in an unlikely turn of events, Alecia. Tim and Emily showed up. We went to Tom's house, Tom from Lakeshore Drive, Lakeshore Drive, Brian's band. (These sorts of details are important) People were apparently hanging out there. People were, just not people we knew. Corona people, including one big jock guy with the most X-TREME hair that has ever graced a big jock head. We exited promptly. Then my house, video games. MISSION: DO SOMETHING will go down in the books as a moderate success. I did SOMETHING. Next time "fun" will have to be included in the mission goals, although maybe that's asking too much.

Now Playing: The Police, "Don't Stand So Close To Me"

You know, when I was a British schoolteacher having an illicit affair with an attractive student, it was NOTHING like this.

I have a ton of things to do. One of those things is just the big sweaty effort that goes into remembering all the things I have to do. I can constantly feel things just slipping out of my head, these things I have to do, doing a complete orbit of a day or so, then coming back and smacking me jarringly after it's too late.

Late, dawg.

9/01/2002

Sunday evening the day before Labor Day is weird because it has all the trappings of a typical Sunday night and none of the consequences, that is to say, there's no school tommorow, so I could very well go out with my friends and raise hell 'till all hours of the evening and it wouldn't matter and it would be all the more fun because it's SUNDAY NIGHT, MAN! That's THE LORD'S NIGHT! Usually spent buckled to homework and the Simpsons, usually, I haven't done anything all day. Today is no different but tonight is mine 'cause there's no school tommorow. And what am I doing?

Waiting for a call. From anyone, really. Who has plans? C'mon, fess up. I'm bored.

Dinner tonight: Lasagna. Lori has been hovering over these big vats of sauce all day, stirring and spicing and what-have-you. This is a ritual every couple of months, stockpiling all this sauce for a quarter-year's worth of weekly Wedensday spaghetti nights. She's also making bruschetta, which will be the first time I've had it since my grandma and I got a plate of it while we watched greasy waiters bicker with each other across a street in Little Italy, New York, New York. We'll see how it stacks up.

Call. Me. Now.
Hmm. Never mind. Sudden pre-bedtime change of heart. The background is now, to borrow from The Stranger in The Big Lebowski, darker than a steer's tuckus on a moonless prarie night.
Drank a lot of caffeine and got bored and decided to wrestle with a scary bear called HTML.

The product is the big white boring you see before you. I used Front Page to figure out the tags I'd need to make some tables, then copied the tags into the Blogger template window and fooled around more there. I cheated, basically. Oh well. Now I need to make the font on the side smaller and get rid of the ugly-ass bars and pay Blogger $15 to get rid of the ads at the top, and we should be a little closer to being in business. Anyone know where/how I can host images for free? Tripod won't let me. Jerkoffs.

This thing is one step closer to being mine.

Big, pasty white, and not entirely easy on the eyes. She's beginning to resemble her owner.
Now Playing: The Hives, Main Offender


Just got back from the Fourbanger show at The Nile, and my ears are blown out, so now The Hives at full volume sounds like The Hives playing in a broom closet a block away. Maybe we will rock something quieter, so I won't notice the difference.


At the show, there was a giant fucking Indian (native fucking American, not Calcutta-curry-red dot Indian) guy who would barge through the crowd in a vain attempt to start a circle pit with his comparatively tiny little Indian friends. One of us deemed it a rain dance. Anyway, it was perhaps the most annoying thing ever, and I've been around so I know annoying when I see it, and this was big and sweaty and annoying, and painful. I got fed up and got tempted into the pit a couple of times, just so I could have an excuse to elbow these kids somewhere soft and sensitive. And of course, one of these times I fucked up my leg, another time Big Chief Psuedo-Punk basically dislocated my arm. Now lifting it more than twenty degrees means sharp pains. Now I know how they felt when we took their land. The keyboard is sitting on my lap, the mouse is resting inches away on the computer tower, so I don't have to lift my arm. Ha. Take that, Dances With Retards.


Young Chelsea's site has tossed me an obscene amount of hits, that is to say, seven. (That's a lot for me.) For that reason, combined with her general asskickitude, she is now permalinked on the side there. If you know what's good for you, you'll take a look. Old Chelsea has yet to so much as link me at all. BELABORED SIGH.


My dad's cousin, a missionary visiting from Taiwan, who's staying with us, asked me what usually goes on Sunday mornings here.
"Uh..." I said.
"Do you go to mass, or..." he said, like it's pretty much an afterthought.
"Not...lately," I said, because it's the truth. My family hasn't been in much of a "church" mood lately, says my dad, and I'm never in much of a church mood, the atheism thing tends to get in the way. Still, why did I feel guilty saying it?


A word of advice for the ladies: Whenever possible, avoid being a lying cunt.
A word of advice for the fellas: Whenever possible, avoid lying cunts.


Peace.