I was supposed to go see Chicago tonight, but myself, Trevor, and Jack were unceremoniously ditched by the girls that were supposed to accompany us. And as much as we wanted to be three teenage boys at a musical...yea, exactly.

I really do want to see it, though. And Adaptation. And About Schmidt. I really miss having a dedicated movie-going partner, because getting your friends to agree to see the same movie is like organizing a coup of an oppressive third-world regime. Wait, no, that shit is way easier than getting my friends to agree on a movie. Hell, I'll overthrow the Castro government in much the same amount of time as it takes to get everyone to the same theater at the same time and not bitch and moan.

We ended up at Matt's aunt's house playing board games with his family. And as lame as that sounds, and as much as I want that to be a front for something dirty and dangerous, like some kind of Hong Kong hooker drug-dealer shoout-out rendezvous (which is actually the name of my uncle's restaurant), it was quite a lot of fun. Mostly because his cousin is purdy and laughs at my jokes, and she's moving to New York like somone else I know. So what if she's twenty-four? If Aayliah taught me anything before she was, you know, killed in a plane crash, it's that age ain't nothin' but a number. Oh, and apparently, throwin' down ain't nothin' but a thang. Trevor, you owe my five bucks.

On a note that is only related by the presence of late R&B pop sensation Aaliyah, evidently, when you die, you become wallpaper in all your friend's rap videos. See also: Everything Missy Elliot has released since last year. When I die, I know I want all of my closest pals and relations to have giant spray-painted pictures of me everywhere, preferrably with the caption "Thug Angel." Got that, guys?


You know when a person you hate likes your favorite song? Yea, I got a Google hit tonight that reminded me of that feeling. So revolting (and poorly spelled, at that) I won't even link it or mention it for comic effect. Ugh. I don't want you looking at my site, person who likes...that. How do you even turn on the computer?

Of course, maybe this is karmaic revenge for running the Herpes Hit-A-Thon. (Fifty herpes-related hits by the end of January, remember?) You want to get hits with something gross? Here, how about THE GROSSEST THING EVER.

In other news, I've gotten seven HERPES HERPES hits since the beginning of the 'Thon. That shit is just as contagious on New Year's Eve as any other time, people.

In other other news, if this picture is any indication, a girl with very pretty eyes permalinked me today. Wasn't that sweet?

And to continue tonight's theme of bloggers-blogging-about-blogging, a long time ago (can't find the link in the ol' archives because I'm lazy) I said it was my mission to get all my friends blogging. Alecia was probably the first to take me up on the offer, and has definitely been the most successful, if blog success is defined by permalinks and hits. She doesn't have a hitcounter, but if she did it would probably double mine, easy.

The Reason? Glad you asked. Hot, Smart, and Funny will get you almost everywhere in life, and the blogosphere is absolutely no exception. Need proof? Look at Madpony. Look at Cliff Yablonski. Look at this. H-O-T spells S-U-C-C-E-S-S, which sort of seems spelled wrong in the first place.

I, for one, am proud of her. She used to write hilarious things on Free Open Diary, and then not update for months. Killed me, it did. But it turns out all she needed to become a prolific web-publisher was the remote adulation of countless legions of weirdos with nothing better to do. (Although, in the case of The Ward, weirdos with bitchin' web design skills and funny posts.)

Meanwhile, we here at Ham Fisted Theatrics are still looking for someone willing to trade Hot for some old sweaters and Elvis Costello's "Imperial Bedroom", which I got for Christmas and really am not all that fond of. Hot is the final key to blog success we just can't seem to find. We can only be so witty and have SO many pictures of Norm from Cheers, here, people.

I REALLY only care about sports four or five times a year, but I'd like to think I pick important times to do so. Tonight was one of those times.

I used to be a huge, HUGE ASU football fan. The Piersons have been season ticket holders since God was knee-high to some larger more imposing god, and my dad and I used to go to all the games. He still does, in nicer seats, usually accompanied by my stepmom and little brother. But there was a time when every Saturday night was spent rooting on the maroon and gold. The highlight of that period was the 1997 Rose Bowl.

"You want to go?" my dad said.

I laughed it off.

"No, really." And so we did, after an all-night roadtrip to Pasadena, and trips to both Del Taco and In-and-Out-Burger (California delicacies at the time which have since become hometown late-night staple foods.) It was glorious. Exciting up until the very last second. It was the last time Jake Plummer every impressed anyone on the field. It was also a heartbreaking defeat for the Sun Devils, and the party responsible was the Iowa State Buckeyes. And oh, how I hated them.

Tonight, I buried the hatchet. I said, Buckeyes, I feel bad for ya. Everyone says you're going to be crushed by the juggernaut that is Miami. I have never been crushed by a juggernaut of any kind, but I imagine it sucks a heck of a lot. Even the word "juggernaut" sends me running from the room yelling "Don't crush me!" Pops says it's important to root for the underdog.

So, Ohio State, when the big black guy in Miami garb started hooting and running around the sports bar tonight, prompted by some first-quarter finesse from the Hurricanes, I felt it necessary to holler "Flag on the play!" even when there wasn't one. And when you snagged couple of absolutely unbelievable interceptions, I revelled in your triumph. I watched as you took it to the next level, gave a hundred and ten percent, and every other sports cliche in the book, and I said "Why not take it to a level after this one? Why not give a hundred and FIFTEEN percent?" And when ABC's cameras showed us a couple of stunning co-eds in red caught up in the drama of the fourth quarter, I felt the overwhelming urge to find out about application requirements for Ohio State University. I believed in you, Buckeyes.

And you came through for me, and possibly also for the millions of people who actually followed your season and know the names of your players. You didn't get crushed by the juggernaut. You did whatever it is one does when one is not crushed by a juggernaut, but instead rises to its challenge and beats it in double overtime. So, from the heart of a boy who often couldn't care less about sports and who's not quite sure what the rule on pass interference is, thank you.

Got a checking account today.

Monumental, I know. But you have to understand that up until this point, my most complex savings system consisted of a Spam can full of pay-stubs and the occasional bill of large denomination. I would've gotten a bank account earlier, but you have to be eighteen to open one, and I didn't want to drag a parent the whole block and a half to the bank inside Fry's. I don't actually plan to use the checks, but having an ATM card is nice. Hopefully it will provide more net gains than Spam-Can-Full-Of-Twenties, which I always suspected didn't pay out any actual interest.

This officially counts as my entry until the world of High Finance. My next moves are converting all my liquid assets into Fabrege eggs, subscribing to Rocket-Yacht Enthusiast, buying two third-world countries on the eastern coast of Africa, placing titanic amounts of high explosives along their borders, detonating it, and seeing which one collides with Australia. Wagers will be placed by myself and other multi-trillionaires. I'm thinking Entrea and Djibouti, which I had not heard of until seeing this map just now. Three railroads and an orphanage on Djibouti. It looks way more aerodynamic.

I have to work at seven tomorrow. After I win the Collide-With-Australia I am SO quitting my job.


Winners never quit.

But even winners have curfews.

I fought Matt to a transatlantic standstill in Risk tonight, (a bunch of us played) but he had to be home at midnight.

The pain, the pain of it all. So we called the game. In a way, we both won. And in the way that I didn't win, no one won. Argh. We resolved to start at six next time instead of eight, since it takes a while to conquer the world decisively. I know, I know. If we were truly Fucking Hardcore™, we would've played through, curfews be damned. But I never claimed to be Fucking Hardcore™. It was a tie.

After everyone left, I played Snood instead, because I had to win at something, dammit. And I beat my high score by four thousand points, just to satisfy my inner Napoleon.

Au contraire, you have not provided me with baguettes as promised.

Shut up, inner Napoleon.

It is with great trepidation that I link to Snood. I'm assuming most of you have played it already, but if you haven't...oh my. If you should follow the link, be ye warned: it will swallow your life, but not whole. It will swallow your life in little tiny pieces, so's you don't notice your life is being slowly consumed by this deceptive bit of shareware. I was a certifiable Snood addict a year or so ago. I remember when I introduced my girlfriend at the time to it; it was like a heartbreaking scene in a movie about drug addiction, only with little colored icons taking the place of smack or coke or what have you. We'd be on the phone at night, and we'd reach an eerie silence in the conversation:

Are you playing Snood?

No. Are you?



What? AW FUCK, I MISSED THE-- What? No.

It destroys lives, and homes, and grades. I'm fairly convinced it jumps out of your computer at night and carjacks old ladies. It's terrible. And terribly fun. I broke myself of the habit eventually, but I reinstalled it a couple days ago, 'cause what else am I doing. The answer, apparently? Less than nothing. I've been playing it so damn much it's sad. Playing Snood and listening to Death Cab and enjoying not having anything better to do for once.

Am I really this pathetic? If we follow the dictionary definition of "Arousing sorrowful pity," then, most definitely. But if you should make the mistake of looking at the word ABOVE pathetic in the dictionary and think that pathetic means "a member of the prinicipal ethnic group of Afghanistan," then, hell no, I'm not pathetic. I've never even been there, for cryin' out loud.

Tony Pierce has resolved to try and update twice a day and have at least two really quality posts in a week. I think that's an honorable goal, although I think seven obscenely mediocre ones about computers and Risk should count as one really good post.

Don't you?




All things you can expect when my browser isn't working.

IE just decided randomly last night not to load any pictures, and in a binge of anti-spyware fury, I went through that mysterious realm called "Program Files" and just started deleting shit. Anybody who looked suspicious. Call it software profiling. If it had a name that resembled some tech startup company's attempt to be clever while infiltrating my hard drive secretly, it was gone. Anything I didn't remember specifically asking for? Gone. Unfortunately, one of these things was a tricky fucker called NewDotNet. I didn't use its special little uninstall device, I didn't go to "Add/Remove Programs," I straight-up deleted that bastard, Dirty-Harry-style. Only to find out, after I rebooted, it had done the computer equivalent of kicking me in the shins on the way out: I couldn't open anything in IE. Dastardly spyware.

So if you want to know why there was no HFT update before you went to sleep last night, direct your complaints to the annoyingly named NewDotNet, who feel that if you don't want their version of the Internet, you shouldn't be allowed to have any Internet at all.

Anyway, rather than trying to figure all this out today I went upstairs at about eleven after going to breakfast with my granparents and siblings, half-heartedly attempted to clean my room, and ended up sleeping, then awaking again to finish half-heartedly cleaning while watching the E! True Hollywood Story about Cheers. That show just went on and on. Both Cheers and the show about it. And whenever they ran out of things to say they could just say, "And Kelsey Grammer's drinking problem continued to worsen. It was really bad. Seriously."

I suppose I should appreciate this, not being obligated to be anywhere or do anything at any given time. Although watching E! through a half-asleep haze is a dubious way of appreciating anything.

Gonna go work out. More later.


The annual death rate for the US is 8.7 per one thousand people.

First of all, let's round up to nine, just to keep things simple.

Then, let's say that from now on, granted that nine people have to die, each group of a thousand people gets to choose, from their group, who those people are going to be. Each group has a big meeting, snacks are provided, everybody gets up and pleads their case. You get two minutes to prove your worth to the rest of the thousand people. Bonus points are awarded for flashy presentations, or the candidate who hands out candy to everyone. Come to think of it, it would be a lot like student council elections, only the idea here would be not to get votes.

Of course, everyone would get a copy of everybody else's bank statements, arrest record, pictures of their wife and kids. You may decide, on the basis of these things, that kids these cute really ought to be liberated from the clutches of the sweaty rube up on stage, and as a bonus you'd have a shot at the widow, who, if this picture is recent, you wouldn't mind a shot at.

At the end of this meeting (which would probably stretch over a period of days, so the people towards the end would do well to make theirs extra-special-interesting), you fill out your ballot. You'd pick nine people, that way you can get rid of the real scum-of-the-earth types and still have room for a couple of throwaway type votes, you know, somebody with an annoying voice or something. The votes are tallied, and the top nine vote-getters are led off to who-knows-where, to be dealt with in ways no one wants to contemplate. Everyone else gets to return home knowing that they are guaranteed at least another year of life. A week later, they are mailed the complete results of the voting, so they can find out just how close they were to being democratically rubbed out.

The idea being, eventually we'd become a race of attractive falsely sincere public-speaking geniuses. The presentations would get bigger and better every year, everyone trying outdo the next guy, soon we'd be voting for people just because their PowerPoint presentations crashed. But the best thing would be the interceding years: you'd be sure there are at least 999 people around the world attempting to be super-nice to you, be it through cookies, sexual favors, high-powered automobiles, whatever. Anything to make sure you won't be putting a check mark next to their name in a year's time.

It would render human life one gigantic popularity contest, which most of us suspect it of being anyway. So there's no downside. I'm ready if you are. Mortality through democracy. Majority rules. Let's do this.
I can't post anything much longer than this.

What's up, Blogger?


Music night tonight.

The Format are the best band you've never heard of.

You've never heard of them because they haven't even been together a year and they've only recorded a five-song EP, but they're already signed to Elektra Records and are going into the studio to lay down a whole album.

Oh, and by the way, they kick fucking ass. I recommend them if you like any of the following: Drum machines, acoustic guitar, a high-voiced guy singing eight parts at once (and well, I might add) and obscenely good, catchy songwriting. Trevor said it best when he said they're local, but not for long. I was hesisitant to publicly recommend them for a while, because their website was so sparse, and it's mean to say, "Here's this great band you can't listen to." But now they have downloads, and you can buy the EP. Best seven bucks you ever spent, unless lapdances are cheap in your postal district.

If the songs we saw them play a week ago at the Bash are indicative of how good the album is going to be, they may very well end up being the best thing to be born in Tempe since yours truly.

If my CD burner worked I would make a mix CD consisting of the following tunes, because I am currently in love with them:

"Blow My Cool," Soundtrack of Our Lives
"Cornered," Rx Bandits
"Tell Me What You Want," Ultimate Fakebook
"The Seed 2.0," The Roots
"Full Moon," The Reunion Show
"Something In The Air," Kind Of Like Spitting
"Le Le Low," Hot Hot Heat
"The Closest Thing," The Juliana Theory
"A Drag In D Flat," Saves The Day
"Clocks," Coldplay
"Photobooth," Death Cab For Cutie

and it would be called "Nobody Cares What You Would Put On Your Imaginary Mix CD" and you'd listen to it every night as you drifted off to sleep.

everything that I said was true
As the flashes blinded us in the photobooth


Another Vice Night tonight.

But I've had eighteen years of the straight-and-narrow, figure I've earned it, even if it was only a sip and a puff.

As Dan said, I hope more than ever no one in my family Googles me. Although I think they'd respect my honesty.

They could also find me by searching for Advanced Lip Herpes Pictures, apparently. Someone did. Herpes has been a mad hit magnet for me this week. And with that in mind:

HERPES HERPES HERPES pictures of HERPES I've got HERPES HERPES how do you know if granpa gave you HERPES HERPES HERPES.

New goal: 50 herpes related hits by the end of this HERPES month of January.

More tomorrow. Promise.
This is fantastic. I'll believe anything in Lego.