Hi, I'm a balding, mustachioed man on the wrong end of fifty-five. My life hasn't worked out the way I wanted it to (note the fact that my wife has more wrinkles than a whole box of Sun-Maid Raisins and my shirt is fucking retarded) and as such I feel it's my privilege, hell, even my duty to belittle and verbally abuse the bag-boy at my local grocery store. Man, I can't wait for him to bag my produce in the bag in the wrong order (Oranges first, THEN apples! I mean, come ON!) so I can berate him. In fact, I'm going to phrase all my special bagging requests in the form of an exasperated disappointment, as if he should have known my particular bagging preferences at birth. And then, get this: I'm going to further put him down when he attempts to accomodate my aggresively-stated whims! HA! That'll teach him who's boss.

My intent is to leave him trembling with barely contained rage, his head full of images of smashing my stupid pumpkin pie, profaning my bananas and running me down in the parking lot with his truck. Certainly that will make up for my shitty childhood and less-than-satisfactory adult life. I can't wait for when he says "Have a nice day!" like the company he works for requires him to, even to the most loutish and undeserving of puckered-anus-faced customers! Oh, and here's the best part: when my rumpled burlap sack of a spouse and I head for the exit, I'm going to glance over my shoulder and scowl at him just long enough to catch him mouthing expletives to the cashier, who no doubt sympathizes with his anti-cranky-old-people sentiment. But who cares what he thinks? I'm a nearly retirement-age upper-middle-class male! I've earned the right to deride everyone who doesn't meet with my impossible standards, because apparently I've lost the right to a natural erection.

So have a nice day! At least one fewer person will be, thanks to me!


You can learn a lot about a person by reading their blog. Or at least I hope you can, because for this very brief moment in history, everybody I know has one. About half the people I've made social contact with in, let's say the past 72 hours, I was just able to go through and read exactly what they were thinking when last we met.

Well, okay, not exactly. Let's face it, if that were true, if everybody's blogs and journals consisted of exactly what they were thinking, their uncensored highlights interior monologues, it would either be the most boring thing in the world, or it would be too good to be true and we would never stop reading. Probably a combination of both.

Unless it were my blog, in which case, on the average day, you'd learn not a damn thing.

We're all driven by our wants and needs. T-Murder wants to get laid. Tom wants his mysterious identical twin to stop getting laid. Hosemonster wants somebody to hire him. Tony wants somebody to hire him to do what he does for free every day. Alecia doesn't want a long term committment, wait, no she does, wait, yes she doesn't. People don't have to put this in banner headline across the top of their pages for you to get it. But tonight I realized, reading this, unless you know me personally you probably know fuck all about why I get out of bed in the morning.

People are always doing getting to know you type surveys, so here's the official HFT comprehensive everything-you-never-wanted-to-know-but-weren't-afraid-to-ask one-question survey to end all surveys:

What do you want?

Thought you'd never ask.

I want to be a writer. I would like to get to a point in my life where my day job consisted of what goes on between me and the keyboard. Plays, screenplays, short fiction and long. I don't think it's too arrogant of me to say that at some point I might be able to make a go of it.

I also want to act in whatever venue, professionally. And direct, for both stage and screen. Time was all I wanted to do was be a movie director. But my tastes expanded, and rather than change my one overriding goal I just sort of...added to it. And now, of course, I feel like I'm overloading my plate at the buffet of Life's Passions, and who the hell knows if I'll ever be able to eat all this. Some people couldn't honestly name one thing they wanted to do for the rest of their lives, and here I am, in typical arrogant-douchebag style, with three or four. But as I've said many times, it's not like I want to be a pearl-diver and curate the Whitney Museum. My career choices are all kind of in the same arena, that is to say, the Arena of Touchy-Feely Drama Crap.

Of course, while I picked out a bunch of possible careers I also had to pick out the hardest ones to succeed in, where most of the time it's not how good you are, it's who you know. I won't have a good fallback career. But it's not a feeling I'm unaccustomed to, by any stretch. Most of my life is improvised, and my back-up plan always reads something like, "Uhm...change my name and try again, I guess." Breathe in, breathe out, and here goes.

I want my blog to load quicker, goddammit. I hope this is just a temporary phenomenon. Oh also, I want to know exactly what to write in here every time I sit down. As opposed to never knowing what to write, which is really starting to get tiresome.

I want to get married, someday. And kids. Maybe this is a weird instinct for an eighteen-year-old male to have. I'm not saying I want that right now, or in the forseeable future, in fact, there's nothing I'd like less. They would just put a damper on my swingin' bachelor M.O. But sometime around thirty or thirty-five, I want to have this being-an-individual thing down pat enough where I can stop worrying about myself for once and start working on minions...I mean, uh, kids. I blame Lileks for this. He glorifies the house-husband lifestyle like it was sex or violence.

I want game. I talk a good game about having game, but let’s face it, B, I got no game. There's apparently a stage after casual flirting, and I know I've been there but lord knows I can never retrace my steps. To flog a painfully overused sports-cliche, I can never take it to "the next level." I need someone to draw me a diagram. I need that guy in the Navy commercials on the deck of an aircraft carrier with the incandescent vest and the big orange wands, waving in the jets like he was conducting the London Philharmonic. I need that guy to wave me in. Give me the "OK" sign. I need game.

I want a vehicle where the radio stays at one constant volume. Instead of one where sometimes it's rattling the windows of the cars around me, and then I go over a speedbump and suddenly it turns off and can't be resurrected. But then I'll be having a heart-to-heart conversation with someone while I'm driving them home...

"So I guess what I'm trying to say is that I'm willing to leave my modeling career behind and have me and my nymphomaniac twin move in with you. I guess what I'm trying to say, DC, is that I love--" (radio crackles to life) ONE WEEK ONLY SALE AT AUDIO EXPRESS YOUR HOME home home OF THE ONE DOLLAR INSTALL

"Wait, what was I saying?"

Yea, that would be nice.

I want someone to go to movies with.

I want to be a better person.

I just want someone to bite my earlobes. Is that so much to ask?
I don't live in Pacific Standard or Mountain or Central time. No sir. I only set my watch according to one Time Zone. Procrastinators Standard Time, that's the one for me. The clock has fifty-nine notches that read "Chill out. Eat some cereal. Watch TV." Then the sixtieth, and LAST minute, says "HOLY SHIT DO EVERYTHING YOU HAVE NEGLECTED TO DO, WHICH SURE IS A LOT."

But I wouldn't have it any other way. The first fifty-nine minutes are fun, and if you do the last minute right, you feel like a bad ass. And after it's over, you've got fifty-nine more minutes to chill out. Eat some cereal. Watch TV.


There are kids, and trust me, I know because most of them go to my school, who'll crash their tricked out Audi A4s in ditches, and as punishment, their parents will buy them Escalades. Happens all the time. Of course, I no longer have moral superiority over these people, which simply kills me.

Because last night, my blog passed out at the wheel and slammed into a retaining wall called my commenting service. And today, I went out and bought it Blogspot Plus. Spare the rod, spoil the blog, that's what we say here at HFT. Fifteen bucks later, I have no advertisements but if I try to reload the comments my page won't open at all. Any webheads out there have any idea what might be wrong? I don't think it's a BlogOut-end problem, because lots of people have it and they're all loading just fine.

Then, this afternoon, drunk on the power of eliminating the banner ad from the top, I decided to put a banner up there, since it looked sort of...bald. You may have seen it, it was up for about five hours. I realized after I came home that it only loaded about half the time and was kind of an eyesore when it actually did come up correctly. So I took it down again. Still wondering what to do with all that space up there.

Some people's blogs are finely tuned animals, streamlined, built for speed. I like to think of my blog as a gorilla. Subhuman, but it gets the job done. And if some people's coding is God creating the universe in six days, mine is the occasional bellow of HULK SMASH!!! as I rearrange the room with my fists.

And while this blog implodes technically, other people's are going nova emotionally. Say it ain't so, Ward!

Naturally, while the HTML on this site fractures and recongeals Pangea-like, I had one of my all-time highest hit days, thanks to Listen Missy, proving definitively that stalking always pays off.

I broke down and got another commenting service. But I really hope I can get the old ones back...nothing is a worse tragedy than losing a bunch of ego-stroking praise to your own web incompetence.

My new favorite lyric of all time, from the Death Cab lead singer's tremendous side project The Postal Service. And I quote:

DC sleeps alone tonight

They say the best lyrics are true. Don't they say that?
Nothing to keep a boy up 'till 1:30 like TOTAL BLOG MELTDOWN.

I was in the middle of composing the posts to end all posts (end them all through sheer mediocrity so all the other posts get bored and want to go home, that is) when the truest playa alive IMs me to ask why my blog is being all retarded. He may not have used those words, exactly, but the blog was being just that. I asked Alecia to try and load it on her computer. Wasn't happening.

Something was amiss. I undid and re-applied my format about ten times, tried taking out the header picture, even considered, gasp, PAYING for Blogspot Plus just to get my poor blog to be something more than a blank white screen and the little blue bar that's supposed to indicate progress but in this case, to me, just indicated my total failure as King of the Entire Internet.

Turned out it was BlogOut, my commenting service, screwing things up. So comments are temporarily disabled.

But if you know of anything else to keep a boy up 'till 1:30 AM, possibly even later, you know where to find me.


Facts about Missy

by DC Pierson

She dances.

She lives in a city named after me.

She likes good movies.

She appears to have the Pi sign tattooed above her hindparts.

She appreciates the much-underappreciated 25th Hour (see the above fact about liking good movies.)

She authors one hell of a blog.

The question now becomes: Will she marry eighteen-year-olds, namely, me?

Facts about About Abraham Lincoln

by Matthew Pierson

He live in a woold caben

He dident have a cimnea

He tall black hat


No, I'm not ignoring you.

If you should happen to IM me and I don't respond, and the box should sit, unblinking, for a long, long time, I promise I'm not ignoring you. I'm ignoring my computer. Something shiny or loud has just happened elsewhere, and I'm not right in front of the computer to answer your query/insult/proposition right this very second.

At the gym, the treadmills have those little things you can clip on to your shirt so if you should get too distracted by, oh, I don't know, The Golden Girls, and go flying off the thing, it stops automatically. I need one of those with the computer and Instant Messenger. Because I leave that thing on for untold hours at a time when I'm at school, at work, and sometimes in other time zones completely.

So today, after auditions, I took a FAT nap (three hours) and got out of bed sometime around seven to see a bunch of those blinking boxes saying "Congratulations!" Well, cool, that means I got a part. But now a bunch of people think I'm a conceited Internet jerk who has more important things to do than respond to their sincere good tidings. And while I was doing something better, (I love all y'all, but sleeping trumps anything else hands down) I still could've had the common courtesy to get a gal-darn away message or something.

So, long story short, if you IM me and I'm not there it doesn't mean I hate you. If you IM me and I respond "What the fuck do you want, fucking cuntwad whoreslut? GOD do I ever hate you!" well, that doesn't mean I hate you either. That just means Grandpa's hi-jacked my screenname again.

At a party tonight, myself, a slightly intoxicated Trevor and a really intoxicated Guillermo discussed that most light-hearted of party topics: how fucking cosmically unjust it was for Mr. Rogers to go and die on us. Other bloggers have already eulogized him better than I could, so I'll dispense with that. But I do think it's interesting, that after the Columbia disaster the media wondered where all the great public sorrow was. And granted, Columbia was a terrible tragedy, but I think my generation has been infinitely more affected by Mr. Rogers dying. Even kids you'd normally dismiss as heartless tools were heard to utter "Mister Rogers, man...what the fuck?" It just seems so wrong. If you had to designate a couple of people to be granted eternal life, the man who kept the Trolley to the land of make-believe running on time would be pretty high on the list of nominees.

We actively throw away pieces of our childhood all the time. We trade in the allowances of youthful inexperience for added priveleges, the lack of responsibility for ignorance of responsibilty. But we still want that warm core of memories to look back at, anchors that remind us that a few short years ago, we were innocent. Not too long ago, we voluntarily woke up at eight AM to watch a man feed his fish and play with a tiger puppet. So while we can't wait to put aside childish things, we get rather upset when they get stolen from us.

Man, I said I wouldn't eulogize and I totally did. And then I ended up sounding like a bad valedictorian speech. Oh well. Some things defy irony and cynicism, and the fact that we just lost the nice man the nation's kids spent their mornings with, that's one of them.