Coolest. Morning. Ever.

It was like the clouds got tired and descended on our little desert paradise. I've seen, maybe, five mornings like this in my entire life (born and raised in the P-H-X, what can I say.) They never get old. Everything looks different, and the air feels crystalline and wet, and you just keep expecting something mysterious to loom up out of the gloom, like a Ringwraith, or some hellhounds are something, but nothing appears except the yellow road lines ten feet in front of you, other people's headlights, and eventually...school. I would've prefered a Ringwraith, tell you what.

It would've been a perfect morning for Pinback, if my car had a stereo and I had their CD. But alas, I had neither, and the radio is on the fritz again so my misty morning soundtrack was a remix "The Streets," one of the seminal works of Dub C featuring Doggs both Nate and Snoop, as well as X-Zibit, on Power 92.3.

Some of us threw caution to the wind and decided to take pictures while driving like skinny maniacs through the thick morning air-dew, throwing caution to the wind to capture the moment for blogternity. By some of us, I mean Alecia, who's not that great of a driver when visibilty is good and she isn't grappling with a digital camera. But we thank here at for her sacrafice anyway, and here at HFT we thank people by stealing blatantly from them, note the pretty fog picture up top. Plus she has what may be THE quinessential picture of me, counting up change to see if I could get me an expensive-as-hell movie theatre soda before Adaptation last night.

The soda I would eventually purchase in quarters and dimes may be my last for a while. I'm actually giving this whole "nutrition" voodoo a crack, to see if I can get working out to stick. You know those numbers on the back of the Pringles can? Yea, apparently those mean something, although I always assumed it had something to do with their Delicioustasity Factor.

We tried to convince our Humanities teacher to let us go play hide-and-seek in the fog. I had the perfect hiding spot picked out: The fog. But he said no.

A lecture about long-dead Romans teaches me nothing compared to playing hide-and-seek with a bunch of eighteen-year-old high school seniors at nine on a foggy morning, I wanted to say. Number one lesson that could've been learned: Hide-and-seek is awesome. I already know that. But reinforcement is always necessary.

Anything I say to you is gonna come out wrong anyway


Yea, you may have walked through Central Park with someone who would one day be Star Search contestant.

You may very well have, boy-o. And that's fine, so have I, as of tonight. So now we share a common life experience, you and I, something we can discuss over drinks, a starting point to the gentlemanly conversation we can have now that we're on equal footing, at least where previous associations with Star Search contestants are concerned. That's nice.

But you have not walked through Central Park with this Star Search contestant.

And I have. So I'll understand if you want to slink shame-facedly from the room at this point.

The girl pictured is Melanie, the finest, sweetest, smartest most down-to-earth model/actress I have ever had the privelege of sharing the stage, and then a year or so later, a peanut butter cookie from a shop in Greenwich Village with. Later we were insulted by world's most bitter comedian Marc Maron in the Comedy Cellar while her Judo expert psuedo-boyfriend sat hand-rolling cigarettes. It was a good night, and I promised myself the only thing I'd fall in love with was the city, and I'd like to think it's a promise I've kept.

I didn't actually see it, but Goldstein gave me a recap, along with the video capture and a priceless clip of Ben Stein coming onto a girl I'm always proud to call friend.

She lost by one stinkin' point. Man, what is with you, American Viewing Public?

Saw Adaptation, finally.

There's no genre that has a tendency to trip into self-absorbtion and tedium than writers writing about writing. So a movie about a writer writing about writing, well, what can you expect?

Apparently, when the movie is written by Charlie Kaufman and directed by Spike Jonze, a lot. Even when it's a movie about a writer writing a movie about a writer struggling to write a movie adaptation of a book about a writer. This may be the closest we'll ever get to seeing Dave Eggers' A Heartbreaking Work Of Staggering Genius on the big screen. They share the same self-aware conceit: That you can use a cliche as long as you note, loudly, that you're using it. And both works take it one step further, by noting the fact that even though they're being detached and ironic about the cliches, that in itself is a cliche. The author then proceeds to beat himself up about it, to our delight and amusement.

In anyone else's hands, it might just seem cynical and self-absorbed. It seems cynical and self-absorbed here, too, but they manage to find a really good movie among all that. Funny, moving, touching, especially for those of us in the "Sheltered Awkward Writers Who Get Nervous Around Women" camp. (This is a pretty lame camp, by the way, and I'm still waiting for a care package from mom and dad.)

Was it my favorite movie ever, like it was for Kate? No. Not by a long shot. That place of honor belongs to another "writer" movie. But if it fairs well on repeated viewings, it may just get up there, among the Lord Of The Ringses and Star Warses and American Beautyses at the top.

Any movie where the two main character's names can be combined to make the first two thirds of my own (in this case, Charles and Donald) and "Alison" by Elvis Costello, the greatest song in the history of songs, plays in the background at a party is a winner in my book.

The problem is, it's a book about a writer writing a review about a movie about a writer writing...yea, you get the idea.

Big ups again to Brian
This is awesome.

If you purchased a "recorded music product" between 1995 and 2000, you're entitled to anywhere between five and twenty bucks because of a class action lawsuit over CD price fixing.

The music industry would never be in this mess if they'd have listened to my advice. A CD should cost five bucks. No more, no less. If a CD cost five bucks I would immediately take ten bucks of my paycheck every week and go get a couple of new albums. I might actually be able to take chances at the record store for once. That's ten dollars a week they'd get from me, twenty, if I was feeling generous. As of now, they get about twenty every couple of months, if they're lucky. And it's the same story all over town.

Link via The Agitator


No, we are not supermodels.

I checked in the mirror this morning, and the above statement is still true for me, and probably for you. But it's okay. There is hope.

No, we are not supermodels.

Which is why we have blogs, and guitars, and souped-up cars, the military, and the space program. Anything that requires any sort of great effort, even if it seems superflous. Animals are designed to make more animals. They survive so they can make more animals. How do they do it? Hint: It's the reason the Mormon kid had to leave the class that fateful day in sixth grade when the teacher was going to put in that video about...changes.

We survive so we can make more animals. And cult hoaxes aside, so far there's only one way we can do this.

Everything else? Everything else is a placeholder. The Coliseum, the concrete struts of the underpass, the Pythagorean Theorum, "Are You Experienced?" All things people did to pass the time between the time between the sheets, usually things to hopefully decrease the interval between those times. You know The Coliseum was just the Roman equivalent of a Dave Matthews song or a dozen roses and a bad poem.

"All this marching up and down and cheering and waving flags is simpIy sex gone sour."

This is not an original thought. It's just true, and worth repeating, 'till you think maybe the world itself is maybe someone's great big attempt to get some.
Senioritis is a cliche. But a damned valid one.

I wanted to be in school today. Really, I did. I could've thought of places I'd rather be (bed, San Diego, in your arms oh girl oh girl). But it was better than being, say, at work. The people were nice. I missed them, especially Chelsea W., who I only have one class with now. It was a beautiful day but I didn't mind spending it inside neglecting work with fun people.

The pain of it was the work. The WORK. They keep wanting me to do things, the large people, who apparently have some sort of authority, and sit at the front of the room. They hand me things and expect me to give them more than a cursory glance before I start doodling on them and throwing them at people. They want me to do things for them at home. It's ridiculous. Don't they realize that "Class of 2003" means something? I used to know WHAT, exactly, but I assume it has something to do with the changing of the year and the fact that I can literally feel my brain atrophying and rappeling, cell by cell, down out of my ear to seek refuge in warmer heads. I stomp on them as they run, and emit a guffaw from my drooling idiot mouth. Serves them right.

I don't want to do anything but read and blog and sleep and play video games and Risk and listen to Death Cab and Pinback.

Pinback is a fucking good band, by the way. Thank you Nicole.

Speaking of bands, in a monumental event that only occurs once or twice every presidential term, I purchased a CD today. Granted, I had a gift certificate, but it was at Sam Goody, which is the most moronic music store in the history of recorded sound, so even with the ten dollars from Aunt Angie the damn thing ended up costing me nine bucks. I blame Sam Goody, not Angie. I think I'm a better person because of it.

Anyway, I got Yankee Hotel Foxtrot by Wilco, which, despite being roundly praised as the best album of the year in critical circles, manages to be a really, really good record. "Jesus Etc," "Heavy Metal Drummer," and "I'm the man who loves you" are favorites right out of the gate, but it's all good. I think "Ashes Of American Flags" is maybe the sexiest song ever, not in a Marvin Gaye kind of way, but in the sense that it feels like resignation and darkly lit rooms and things I don't have words for. Smoky and mysterious. Good song, anyway.

I apologize for the slim post. But hey...SENIOR!! Yea, exactly.


Oh, all you hipsters can rot in hell, where all they play is Top 40 radio.

Except Nicole, who is tolerant and understanding of people whose musical taste doesn't necessarily hinge on whether or not a band's name starts with "Belle" and ends with "Sebastian."
Winter Break is gone. It packed its things like my grandparents, and left, like my grandparents will do at three o'clock this afternoon. Is Winter Break also going back to Pittsburgh? Who the heck knows. If someone could catch it at the airport, that would be great. I could use a few more days of sleeping in.

Here I am in second hour, with a terminal lack of anything interesting to say. I had fourth hour Advanced Studies (the king of BS classes) last semester, this semester, it's this hour. I'm used to having this class when I'm already through with the dread specter of Honors Chemistry, but with my schedule the way it is now, I have an extra free fifty two minutes to do my homework for that class. In fact, the only thing I'll have to do at home now is Humanities.

But I won't.

Weapons Of Mass Destruction was voted "Word Of The Year," despite the fact that words interspersed with spaces are usually known as "phrases."

What I find most alarming is the word "Neuticles," voted the year's most outrageous. It apparently is the name of a brand of fake testicles for neutered pets. What alarms me isn't that there is such a product, but that, with a name like "Neuticles" and a use like...you know...that it completely escaped my attention up until now. Are there other hilariously titled prosthetic pet organs I'm unaware of? This scares me.

Neuticles Neuticles Neuticles. Oh, mercy.

It's going to be a long semester.

Link via Instapundit