Don't Give A Fuck About Shitaly

...is a line from a newish Headliners song (i.e., one with which I am not involved at all) called "Bike Tour." Apparenty this version of the line beat out "don't give a shit about Fuckaly."

On Sunday, I had a much better lesson with Lester than the last one, even managing to extract some praise from him regarding the smoothness of my parallel parks.

Last night Nina and I had planned to meet up at that place Chickpea at St. Marks Place to go to Continental to see the band of a guy who we'd gone to high school with way back when. I was waiting outside for her when I ran into Perri, a dude I'd gone to Wesleyan with and with whom I'd appeared in a mime show called The Dumb Show (I was the upright bass player in the "mime band"). Embarrassingly, his name escaped me for minutes on end and by the grace of God popped into my head as I was taking down his cell number. He and a few other Wesleyan friends were hanging out in the back room of Chickpea eating falafel, and I sat down at caught up with them for a while. There was this elderly Jewish guy sitting by himself one table over who would occasionally say something out loud in response to something in our conversation, but we ignored him. I kept worrying that Nina wasn't going to be able to find me in the back, so finally I got up to back outside, but the Jewish guy called out to me on my way out and asked me to sit down for a second.

He clearly didn't have any teeth -- he had ordered some kind of pita and egg concoction that he was gumming messily, spraying egg whites at me after separating them from the yolk with a plastic spoon. The first things he told me were that he had learned to chew better without the teeth than with them (but that he had a set of $3000 dentures somewhere that he just didn't like to take out to dinner with him) and that he could do more to a woman with just his tongue than other men could do with their entire bodies. Then he asked if I'd like to hear the rap / reggae song he'd composed -- the words, spoken, were as follows:

The truth comes from the Torah
Not Sodom and Gomorrah

I'll make you queen of the 'hood
If you love me good

I'll make you queen of the night
If you fuck and suck me right

Immediately after repeating the last couplet, he addressed the ceiling and said, "I'm sorry; I know I'm supposed to be humble. But sometimes it's hard to be humble." He explained that he'd had five Cokes to drink already that night and that they made him feel crazy. Almost without stopping for breath, he started telling me about growing up in Brooklyn as the son of a guy named Bullet Joe, whom he claimed was a prominent figure in the Jewish mafia in the 40s. "Ask me why they called him Bullet Joe," he said.

"Why did they call him Bullet Joe?"

"Because he only ever needed one bullet. He'd always carry around one bullet. And a lot of ammunition."

"Wait, I thought he only needed one bullet."

"One bullet per guy. There might be more than one guy, though."

Nina showed up soon after -- she'd had train trouble and we were now too late to see the show, so she sat down in time to hear Ellie, which was the guy's name, talk about how he'd been on the run for the past six months from members of his father's old gangs, having to duck in and out of hospitals where'd he'd seek treatment for "physical conditions" only to be confined for psychiatric counseling by doctors he referred to as "Jew Nazis." He'd been followed by mafiosi as he hid out at synagogues and friends' houses, as far as Stamford, CT -- "I look out the window," he said, "and see them circling the block" -- to the extent that he'd decided that day that he could never return to Brooklyn. "It's Manhattan and Israel only, now," he said. I can't remember the order of the points he hit on in the extended lecture he gave us, but the following is, hopefully, a representative survey:

• "There's a war going on in Brooklyn right now between the Jews, the Puerto Ricans, and the niggers. You see the movie Munich? I didn't see it, I bought a bootleg from the Latin guy who sells movies, but there's a line in it: 'The only fucking blood I care about is Jewish blood.' That's how I feel."
• Despite the above, he would like to make pornographic films with Guyanese women. "Nobody gets hurt to make a film."
• He's had six heart attacks since 1990, but is getting his cholesterol and arterial plaque under control. Nemacor and Zocor should be avoided; they are shit.
• As a teenager, he'd dated a hot girl named Barbara Ann Chertman. After a memorable evening on the beach under a blanket, she told him she wanted to see other guys. Months later he got a letter from her saying, "I missed you more than I thought I would." They trysted in a motel room on an uncomfortable bed. Now she's married. She'd said it was a marriage of convenience, and that she'd like to see him again. After several unreturned phone calls and letters, you know what he thinks? "Barbara Ann, you can suck my fucking dick."
• Would I like to see how strong he is, even at 60? He had me shake his hand with my strongest grip. He did have a strong hand for an old guy, but he wasn't killing me or anything. "Had enough?" he asked? "I'm getting there," I said. "No, you've had enough. You should give up now."
• After my friend Perri left the restaurant, Ellie informed me he was a member of the gang that was gunning for him and which was waiting outside Chickpea. "You wanna take me tonight, Perri, you scum? Go right ahead. But I'll be in Heaven. You'll be burning in Hell with my father and his boys. I'll be watching you burn in Hell."

He'd taken a real creepy shine to Nina from the get-go and at some point asked her for a piece of blank paper. She offered him a relatively empty page from the Harper's she was carrying, and he took out a ball-point pen and scribbled the following across the page:

Dearest Ninotchka,

May you always know and enjoy the happiness and beauty the mirror reflects and...

It took him fucking forever to do this, because he insisted on holding the pen like a knife and going over each huge letter several times ("I like to go hard and deep"). He wouldn't let Nina read it at all, and he wouldn't let me read the last line, which is why I don't know how it ends -- she got a call from her mother and had to escape Ellie's attempts to physically wrest the phone from her by retreating towards the entrance. After a few minutes alone with him, I realized she'd left and went outside to find her; we decided to ditch the Harper's and just skedaddle.

Holy Fucking Ow

What are some things that have happened to me?

A few Sundays ago I was eatin' pizza and watchin' the Oscars and my cheek and gums over on the upper righthand side of my mouth started hurting fairly badly. At first I assumed it was another motherfucker of a canker sore like the one I got last year around this time, but then my cheek swelled up and by Wednesday I couldn't really eat at all. So I called Dr. Dorato on Thursday and he prescribed me some Amoxicillin, which I have been taking assiduously, even though the capsules it comes in are fucking huge. My fucking mouth is still sore as shit, but at least I can basically talk and eat again.

I've been going to a lot of shows, lately -- dragged Alana to Billy's show at CGBG, going to Previn's show at The Delancey tonight.

Things to look forward to:

• FSF meeting on April 1st
• Yankees / Red Sox game with Emma on May 10th

Yesterday I had a driving lesson with Lester that I totally blew because I'd been up late the night before. My hands were shaking the whole time, and Lester got pretty mad at me. At one point he had me pull over and he actually got out and got into the driver's seat and showed me how to do something; he'd never done that before. It was kind of scary -- he's an extremely fast and precise driver, sort of like when Atticus Finch shoots the rabid dog. On the curb we found a few scattered plastic garbage bag ties and collected them so we could re-attach the vanity mirror in the car, which had basically fallen off.

I'm still really tired; time for bed.

Direct From Hollywood Cemetery

Yeah, so I'm going to start writing in this thing again, I think. I just had to take a breather for a while. You don't want anyone to watch you try to swallow a pill that is far too large to swallow.

On Thursday Nina and Eve and I went to the Ted Leo show at The Hook, which is a rock club in Red Hook. The show was great, but the audience was probably one of the worst I've ever seen -- no one was dancing around, and it was all sort of mild-looking chubby dudes with huge beards wearing flannel shirts, and then these tiny little girls wearing fancy-looking clothes and hats. Look, it's been a while since I considered myself "up" on rock music, but The Pharmacists are basically a punk band, right? And if you're standing like 2 feet from the stage at a show, it's okay to dance around a little bit, right? I started shoving Eve and Nina around, but these girls standing next to me said, "Stop it." Christ.

Ted Leo says "thanks" when the audience applauds after every song. This would be pretty lame, except that he says it in a kind of snotty way that reminds me of Leonard Graves Phillips.

The two opening bands were Direct From Hollywood Cemetery, which I liked, even if no one else did, and Les Aus, which I hated, even if no one else did. Call me a contrarian; I can take it.

I just got back from my first driving lesson in about a year -- I'd tried to schedule something before today, but Lester's a real popular teacher and then I had to postpone a lesson I'd scheduled for the blizzard. Lester's as good a teacher as I remember, and within half an hour I felt pretty confident behind the wheel again. And, as usual, there was some excitement: We were practicing parallel parking near the Red Hook Project in Red Hook when we heard people shouting over at this bus shelter. When we got closer, we saw two girls kicking another girl who they'd knocked down. After a few seconds they ran off into the projects. Lester grabbed the wheel with one hand, heading us into the project parking lot ("Give gas," he said), and started dialing 911 on his cell with the other. We turned around a bend into this sort of cul-de-sac where we found a police cruiser just kind of sitting there. Lester jumped out and ran over to them, pointing at the fleeing girls, who were running in the opposite direction. The cruiser took off, but they didn't seem like they were in a particular hurry, and the girls got away, much to Lester's chagrin. He had me circle around the block several times, muttering all the while about the brazenness of a daylight mugging at a bus stop. And then he had me parallel park practically every car on the next two blocks.

Right now FOX 5 is showing this frustrating, moody Hal Hartley movie called No Such Thing. Do they know who watches TV on a Saturday afternoon? Okay, I guess they're right; it's me.

I'm feeding the cat of one of the IT guys at work, and as payment he is allowing me to host a karaoke party at his house using his Time Warner On-Demand Karaoke Channel. So far the response to my invitations has been... lukewarm. But we'll see what happens.

Spit Stix Las Vegas

I don't really have anything to say about Las Vegas, except to avoid the shrimp cocktail at the Golden Gate -- especially during the muscular dystrophy telethon. I'm sure you all can read about it our trip in other people's blogs.

In place of all that, here's a recipe for the drink I've been drinking this week -- just like granddad used to make:

5 parts bourbon
2 parts sweet vermouth
Bitters
A cherry

It's a Manhattan! Welcome home, everyone.

The Mantii Are My Only Friends

Today's Times has an article about the differences (shock: they are significant) between Howard Stern and David Lee Roth, who is replacing him in certain markets after his move to Sirius. The article includes one of the more accurate characterizations I've read of what it is the Howard Stern Show is all about:

Mr. Stern, as his fans know, is born for radio: his on-air character is an unwashed basement figure, best kept out of sight -- a haggard masturbator and morbid misanthrope who must hang out with deformed and desperate men because he can hardly perform with women. The fact that the pinup girls who come on his show now seem to want to have sex with him is, in his telling, evidence only of the women's ambition and depravity.

The Stern character simply hates his guests and co-hosts as he hates himself; he's a mean little pornography-addicted freak whose self-loathing reverses itself only in fits of equally grotesque narcissism, as when he flashes his listeners with a dirty raincoat by disclosing disgusting secrets about himself. But his relentlessly loser style makes him seem honest, and wins him a privileged relationship with the truth; fans believe what he says -- about everything from politics to back pain to etiquette. He has hewn his character brilliantly.

This is a bit florid, but, yeah, that's why I used to listen (I tuned out after he went through a pretty creepy period right after September 11th, 2001). I've always felt there are two groups of Stern fans -- there are the "desperate men" types who listen for the chance to hear some stripper's measurements described, and then there are guys like me and Razor who (correct me if I'm wrong, Bill) get off on the "character" described above because it's sort of an acknowledgment or expiation of the things we most dislike about ourselves. I don't think it's a more intellectual way of appreciating the show -- the urge towards self-effacement is about as visceral as the desire to hear about titties on the radio. At least, it is for me.

I'm not gonna pay 13 bucks a month for it, though.

Oh, Berlin

...your heart has been / drawn and quartered again.

At the behest of Jeremy, I went to go see my old summer camp / high school friend Alana's band Cherryfix play tonight at the Mercury Lounge. She and the lovely Serena used to be in an outfit called Contraband, whose patch I still have on my "punk" sweatshirt that my dad got me from the Gap. This new band has a very different sound -- it's kind of a not-so-hard hard rock thing. Which is not to say it's not good; they're certainly a lot better than I remember from listening to the MP3s on their web site. Those readers who are up on their Juliology may remember that the Headliners had a song about her called I Wanna Be Alana's Boyfriend (MP3 no longer available, sadly, from Hey Suburbia), that went a little like this:

Last time I saw her, she was lyin' on the street
Kids were all dancin' to that punk rock beat
Took her for a ride on the ferris wheel
But she'll never know just how I feel

I wanna be Alana's boyfriend
I wanna hold her so tight
I wanna be Alana's boyfriend... tonight...

I tell you, I still kind of want to be Alana's boyfriend. I really really wanted it on the bus to summer camp in Long Island when I was 12 years old. And her band covered "Heart Shaped Box" last night. So they've got my vote, Mr. A & R man.

In preparation for Vegas, I've been watching gambling movies this week. Last night I watched Rounders with Tom, who claims, inexplicably, that Matt Damon is a better actor than Ed Norton (I mean, I'm not a guy who likes either of those creeps that much, but Matt is obviously Bigger Scumbag). That movie is not so good -- like Sophie said, it's not a movie that presents poker as a metaphor for human interaction or anything, it's just a movie that's literally about poker. And it doesn't really even involve Vegas, which made me feel foolish after I figured that out. Tonight I rented The Cooler, which is an extremely dopey movie, even though everyone in it is sort of working really hard to make sure you don't find out. Alec Baldwin's quite good, though, and so is Maria Bello. This sounds like a movie review... I'm just talking about some movies that I watched, man.

What else, what else. Tom and I hung out with Eve at O'Connor's on Monday night and stuffed ourselves on these delicious cookies that she baked. I'd never been to that place before -- it's nice and quiet (at least on a Monday) and it's got a good jukebox. And you can't beat $2.50 gin-and-tonics, even though they're so weak you gotta drink like 10 of them to get effed up. Eve: What a gal.

Listening to the fucking Strokes album non-stop at work. What the fuck is wrong with me?

Reminder: Change the cat litter before getting on that fucking plane!

Crying In The Handicapped Bathroom

Honest to God, I hadn't seen the movie The Squid and the Whale when I posted that picture last time, and I didn't, for some reason, even think I wanted to go see it, but Emma wanted to go on Monday night, so I tagged along, and it was really, really great. All of the actors are fantastic, particularly the two kids. Not that my parents got divorced or anything, nor is my dad quite as pompous as Jeff Daniels' character, but as Emma pointed out, there's a lot to identify with in there. I was a weird little kid, too, not unlike the younger brother character, though somewhat less perverse. I guess the one problem with the movie is that, like Wes Anderson, who I think was producer on this one, this Baumbach guy doesn't really make any effort to explain (or doesn't understand) what motivates any of his female characters. They're like some kind of religious mystery. I don't know. I don't get it, either, though, so...

I bought the new Strokes album yesterday (along with a repurchase of Dawn of the Dickies, which I'd lost, and Rancid's Life Won't Wait -- which is supposed to be their smartest and best album, but is, predictably, kind of unlistenable, or at least about 0% catchy), and it's actually pretty good. It's certainly got more good material than the second one. I was getting annoyed the other day about how pathetic the "new rock" sound was the last time I checked in on it, but I don't know why I like The Strokes but hate, say, The Postal Service and The Killers and every other sort of folky-sounding piece of limp garbage. Maybe it's the "neat" production. Or that the guy's name is Julian. So far my favorite songs are "Heart In A Cage," "On The Other Side," and "Vision Of Division."

Every year this science "zine" called Edge publishes an article called The Question, in which they ask a bunch of famous scientists and sciencey-types a sort of thought-question. This is a great way to kill literally an hour or two of your work-day because there are a lot of responses and they are pretty long. Last year the question was "What do you believe that you cannot prove?" This year it's "What is your most dangerous idea?" I feel like a lot of the people who answered didn't really understand it, because most of them described an idea that they hoped wasn't true but probably was, like that global warming is pretty much unstoppable at this point. I was surprised to see that a lot of the responses were like... materialist explanations for consciousness, and the idea that "this is all there is" -- I thought that shit was pretty well-accepted at this point, particularly among scientists. Here are some of the ones I thought were interesting:

Jeremy Bernstein:

The most dangerous idea I have come across recently is the idea that we understand plutonium. Plutonium is the most complex element in the periodic table. It has six different crystal phases between room temperature and its melting point. It can catch fire spontaneously in the presence of water vapor and if you inhale minuscule amounts you will die of lung cancer. It is the principle element in the "pits" that are the explosive cores of nuclear weapons. In these pits it is alloyed with gallium. No one knows why this works and no one can be sure how stable this alloy is.

Scott Sampson:

The purpose of life is to disperse energy.

Haim Harari:

Democracy may be on its way out. Future historians may determine that Democracy will have been a one-century episode. It will disappear. This is a sad, truly dangerous, but very realistic idea (or, rather, prediction).

I'm finally getting back to doing some writing, after, gee... about four years, roughly. Isn't it funny how time can just pass like that?

Hatriotism

Happy New Year, everyone. 2005 was not the best year ever, let's just say, for many different reasons. I'm a complainer, I admit it, but there was some stuff I didn't even complain about that was bad, and, you know... But I think this new year can really be a good one -- I mean, by the law of Star Trek movie sequels, it practically has to be -- and I wish all of you, really all of you, a really great one. I really mean it. This is my little prayer for everyone. There it is, done. Happy New Year! Resolutions:

• Deal with my anxiety problems... maybe
• Drink more. Literally! Time to stop being such a baby on this one
  • Be able to drink shots without sipping and spluttering like a cat taking a pill
• Get my Driver's License
• Keep working on various computer projects, etc.

Just checked the archives, and it looks like I didn't write any resolutions down last year, but I think they were to become vegetarian (did it for about 6 months) and to run more (did it!).

So tuffytuffins turned out to be Maggie, somewhat predictably, though I admit I was sort of stumped for a long time. I've given her enough of a hard time in person, so I won't go into it further here, but suffice it to say that a stuffed animal roughly meeting her description arrived in the mail, causing a bit of consternation in our household. But how can anyone stay mad at Maggie when she gives such nice Christmas presents:

Compton; Compton; Apple Bottom

I think the presents I gave worked out well, except that I gave KT something Katharine had been talking about. That was embarrassing. Really wonderful holiday parties, pretty much. Razor and Chris even came to the big New Year's party at Tom's place. I was sort of preoccupied; I don't know if they had a good time.

Katharine and Emma and I made plans to go to Las Vegas in a couple of weeks for Maggie's birthday. I've never been there before, period, so I think that'll be very exciting, plus maybe I can use it to somehow recoup the two weeks I'm just coming off of where I just sat around here and sulked the whole time. Reading the ineffable Jon Konrath's Dealer Wins as preparation. What am I doing?

I'd thought I'd be at work today six months ago when I made the dentist's appointment I just got back from, but I'm not, so I just had to get up and go into Manhattan just for that this morning. Good news is I've got clean teeth; the bad news is that the x-rays they took today show that the wisdom teeth I've got that haven't come in yet aren't moving, which apparently means that they might have to come out? They weren't super clear on that point. I guess it's not an issue until I'm in excruciating pain. Not looking forward to that, though.

Super-depressing encounter on the way home: This enormous man-child -- think Lenny from Of Mice And Men -- had sort of button-holed what I think was a poor young Yeshiva student by the window seat. This guy was enormous, had long stringy hair and a brutal face covered in what looked like scars from a car accident, but he had the voice and mannerisms of a petulant child. He was very much concerned with his eternal salvation -- particularly, it seemed, as to whether hedging his bets when it came to believing in both Judaism and Christianity would get him into "heaven."

"Do you people think that this... this earth is the same thing as hell?"

"Well..." said the Jew.

"You know, some people think that, you know, the train is evil, because it's moving around in this dark tunnel all the time. What do you guys think about that?"

He also said, pricelessly, "My name is Leonard [something], and, you know, Leonard has L-O-R-D in it. My father was an atheist when he gave me that name, so I guess that name actually came from God. It's a very precious name."

Am I a mean guy? I think about that sometimes. My deeply-held suspicion is that, despite what they might say, everyone likes to be excited a little bit by nastiness. I'm not an angry person, though. I'm not like the squid, nor am I like the whale. I'm just a guy, you know?

All teeth and suckers

I Think I Just Shitted On Myself

Maggie's not kidding when she says that Trapped In The Closet is crazy. It's totally bonkers. Imagine the Buffy musical episode, but subtract out any self-awareness and sort of the contextual propriety of the music, and then replace that gay tap-dancing demon with R. Kelly with a real serious look on his big dumb face, and you're getting close. Oh yeah, and make the writing real stupid. A quick run-down for those of you unfamiliar with the material: Trapped In The Closet is a 24+ part R&B opera that's being released in little 4 minute chapters; it's a story of infidelity and betrayal, beginning with R. Kelly's character Sylvester waking up in a woman's bedroom after cheating on his girlfriend with her in a club. The woman, hearing her husband enter the house, hustles Sylvester into a closet to hide. In the story that unfolds, all the characters are cheating on each other in clandestine and surprising ways. The following is an edited (because people on the Internet are fucking illiterate) transcript of my favorite chapter that, I hope, will highlight some of the important themes. To set the stage: Sylvester's girl Gwen has been cheating on him with police officer whom he's discovered earlier in the story and who accidentally shot Sylvester's "cousin," Twan. The police officer has a wife himself, whom he's just found out to be cheating on him -- with a midget, no less.

Now the midget jumps out of the cabinet and stomps the policeman on his toe
The policeman's hoppin' around on one leg, screamin' out "son of a bitch!" while he runs under the table
He yells "freeze," dives over the table, and lands on the midget, while the midget kickin'
Real fast screamin' out "Bridget, Bridget!"
She yells, "Darlin, don't hurt him!"
He says, "Bridget, get yo' ass back,"
Then he continues to rough up the midget as if the midget was under attack
Then Bridget runs up to her room, goes into her purse and pulls a number out
The policeman puts him on the table and yells, "Man, what the hell you doin' in my house?"
He wipes cherry pie crust off his mouth and says, "Man, I was payed not to tell you."
Then the policeman pulls his gun out and yells, "Trespassin', man -- I got the right to shoot you!"
The midget says, "Mister, the man that payed me to do this would kill me if I tell."
He points the gun in his face, the midget says, "God, I think I just shitted on myself!"

There's more, but I want you to wait for it. Props to Maggie and Katie for totally getting me to not be a lonely creep yesterday and the day before -- we went to a Mediterranean restaurant on Tuesday and I totally ate the fuck out of some rosemary-flavored chicken thing and a canoli from Rocco's. Then, yesterday, Maggie and I met Katie at her office in the New York Times building (I'd never been there before -- it's strange and dark and depressing) and went to the Museum of Natural History to see the Darwin show, but, wouldn't you know it, it was a sort of limited admission dealie that was sold out for the hours we were gonna be there. So instead we just kind of wandered around the museum, which I always love. Best of all, the fucking whale was open again -- the last time I'd been there they were "cleaning" it. That's gotta be my favorite thing in the whole collection. I took some pictures, but I'd have to turn on the big computer to upload them, and I don't know... not in the mood. You all know what that looks like, anyway. As Maggie mentioned, I did indeed work up the courage to touch the elephant, but it wasn't no fucking toe I touched. I copped a feel off that motherfucker's flank. We also saw a real live pigeon in the gift shop; racial, so...

After that, we parted ways and I went up to my friend Asta's house for her holiday party. That was fun, kind of, but I've noticed that all my Harvard friends from high school have chosen to be these sort of blissed-out intellectual dilettantes, none of whom has (ever had) a real job, and it makes me kind of uncomfortable about what I've chosen to do, which is to be a cranky working stiff. Asta has this neat little hollowed-out wooden bear that you put incense in, and then you can watch the smoke waft out of its nostrils. I had weird dreams and stomach problems all night, and now it's raining.

Now at Sylvester's house, Twan's got a patch on his shoulder, playin' cards, getting along
They're laughin' and talking when Sylvester says, "Gwen, baby, get the phone,"
Then she walks away from the table picks it up and says hello
Theres a lady on the other line panickin' and cryin' and talkin' all off the wall,
Gwen says, "Wait, slow, slow down -- who am I talkin' to?"
"My name's Bridget and I found your number in my husband's pocket -- I had to call you."
Two minutes later Gwen's shakin' her head sayin', "girl, I understand."
Sylvester says, "Who is it, baby?"
She hangs up and gives him the address

I spent Christmas at my parents' house, and it was really nice and relaxing. Got along great with my sister, which is sort of a rarity. They got me several nice sweaters, but the best present was, well, you guys already know. My dad is really into downloading movies off the Internet these days; like I've been telling people, it's almost as if he'll watch any awful movie out there as long as he can steal it. It kind of runs contrary to the way he normally operates. We watched Minority Report together awkwardly, sitting in chairs in front of his new wide-screen G5 because he "couldn't remember what the movie was about."

I finally met up with Billy to give him his birthday present, Castlevania: Dawn of Sorrow for the Nintendo DS. That little machine is pretty neat -- the game that comes with it, WarioWare, is a total blast. It's an endless supply of these tiny little mini-games that practically never repeat and that you have about 5 seconds to figure out and win each round. I bet the multiplayer version on the Gamecube is utterly delightful. We sat around and ate oranges and chocolates and then I went back to Brooklyn.

Now, meanwhile, back at the policeman's house, the midget's cryin' his ass off
While he's lyin' through his teeth about to get his li'l ass told off,
Then Bridget busts into the kitchen with a double barrel, sayin', "James, I can't let you do this"
Then he looks at her and says, "What? You'd shoot me for this fuckin' midget?"
She says, "I love him!"
The midget says, "No, Bridget!"
And then James points his gun and says, "We all gon' die up in this kitchen"
Now Bridget and James starin' each other down, slowly backin' apart
Then the midget takes his inhaler out and says, "This is not good for my heart"
Then James says, "Bridget, don't make me do this, baby put the gun down"
That's when Sylvester and Twan busted up in the house and say, "You put the gun down!"
Twan and Sylvester are sniffin' around trying to figure out what's that smell
As they turn and look at each other like, "What the hell?"

The smell is the shit in the midget's pants.

A Strange Encounter

Today seems to be going absurdly nice, weather-wise, so I went out for a run around the park. I haven't been running consistently since it's gotten colder, so I did have to stop twice and walk a tiny little bit -- though on the whole I think I rocked the loop pretty hard. But one of the walking parts was the initial slope of that hill that Tom and Emma can identify as The Widowmaker, and as I was psyching myself up to start running again, this strange rumpled little old guy in a button-up shirt and a leather hat who looked like he could've been one of the engineers on the Manhattan Project came up to me and started talking:

"You... American?"

"Yes."

"You American citizen? You born this country?"

"Yes..."

"You human... humanity? Or technical?"

"Uh... technical."

"What type technical?"

"Computers."

"Computer is technical? Hmmm... Like what computer -- programming or hardware?"

"Programming."

"Maybe you could tell me question, okay? Let's say you are engineer... science... scientist, and you have proposal for new [unintelligible], and you send to company, institution, you know, and they [unintelligible], you know, give you the brush-off."

"What's the problem?"

"They give you the brush-off."

"Well, you could submit your proposal to a different organization."

"I submit already to multiple company."

"Or you could publish it yourself."

"Publish it... no... I need verification from expert."

At this point he let me go, and warned me to be careful running in the cold -- advise I could have used, perhaps, earlier in the week. "Good luck," I said. Now I'm going over to my parents' house to help them do holiday things and hopefully give Razor his birthday present. Send me e-mails!

Tuffy Tuffins Sings The Blues

Last night I went out for dinner and drinks with my old friend Eve, who I'd stood up the night before when I got stuck in Manhattan. I had a bunch of errands to do on the way, so I gave myself an extra long time to get there, like an hour and a half, and then, wouldn't you know it, I got to our appointed meeting place with an hour to kill in the freezing cold. If I'd had a cell phone, I guess I could've called her house and come over or had her meet me, but I don't have one for another few days at least, so. So I tried to think of what one of my cool friends would do were he/she in a situation like this, and the answer is "go to a bar and have a drink and maybe meet a pretty girl while you are sitting by yourself at the bar." So I walked up and down Smith St. for a while peeking in the windows of all the bars and trying muster up the courage to be the only person in an empty bar or the only single person in a bar crowded with corporate happy-hour revelers. And I couldn't do it, which was humiliating and depressing, so I ducked into the Cafe St. Clair, as recommended by T. Rounsaville, and had the loneliest cup of hot chocolate ever, feeling like the most pathetic and small creature ever to spend Christmas by himself. And after that I was still 30 minutes early, so I wandered in and out of some of the trendy little boutiques on Smith. I found this one place selling little house and home trinkets, and in one corner of the store they had this bucket of old comic books from the 70s, some of which must have been at least a little valuable, and which included such titles as Kull The Destroyer and Devil Dinosaur. Then I read the Voice for a while on the street. Here's some more of my dealings with tuffytuffins:

(23:25:03) tuffytuffins: Did you miss me?
(23:55:26) Nintendo Julian: Who... who are you?
(23:55:32) tuffytuffins: You did. Didn't you?
(23:56:21) tuffytuffins: It's OK. I missed you too.
(23:57:44) tuffytuffins: Are you there? Please don't ignore me!
(23:57:50) Nintendo Julian: Look.
(23:57:54) Nintendo Julian: What... what's the deal?
(23:57:55) tuffytuffins: I think I am in love with you.
(23:58:03) Nintendo Julian: Alright, that's enough.
(23:58:09) tuffytuffins: Why are you toying with my emotions?

Then Eve showed up and we went to this great Peruvian restaurant with a menu distinctly similar to the venerable Coco Roco's. We ordered a plate of ceviche to start with, which I'd never had before and which was absolutely delicious. My spirits picked up after I got some food in me and warmed up (the cold can really put a damper on brain function), and we chatted about life and love and how awful things can seem sometimes. Then we hoofed it over to Angry Wades and had some drinks and managed, by increments, to secure the seat next to the fireplace again, though we had to share it with one of the off-shift bartenders who was reading a Robert Jordan novel, of all things. He revealed that the fireplace is, in fact, not real -- it burns natural gas and the logs are all ceramic. Which doesn't make it any less cozy. After that we took a walk over to the Gowanus Canal and watched the moon for a while, which is when we noticed a train going by over the elevated tracks around Smith and 9th, which clued us in that the strike was, in fact, completely over. And then I went home.

(00:11:46) tuffytuffins: Well I guess we can only be friends.
(00:12:01) Nintendo Julian: If that. Who are you?
(00:12:11) tuffytuffins: I'm your new friend.
(00:12:29) Nintendo Julian: Alright, I think I've had enough of you.
(00:12:34) tuffytuffins: Why?
(00:12:41) Nintendo Julian: I want to know who you are.
(00:12:47) tuffytuffins: You want my name? Why do we need labels?
(00:12:55) Nintendo Julian: Because this is creepy is why.
(00:13:06) tuffytuffins: What is creepy?
(00:13:11) tuffytuffins: Friendship?

So what are we all doing for Christmas? Some of you are away, I know, but I have presents for practically all of you, and wouldn't it be nice if we all sort of sat down and did the presents thing in one shot? Everyone's going to that New Year's Eve party, right? What if we all showed up a little early to that and traded gifts before the party really got underway. I'm just saying. And I totally want to do the whole Jew holiday thing the week of the 26th; we can do it at my place or yours.

(00:13:13) Nintendo Julian: Where did you get my name?
(00:13:40) tuffytuffins: I searched for people who like Nintendo.
(00:13:47) tuffytuffins: I like Duck Hunt.
(00:13:57) Nintendo Julian: Alright.
(00:14:10) tuffytuffins: Then you were very nice.
(00:14:17) tuffytuffins: And that's when I fell in love with you.
(00:14:19) Nintendo Julian: I'm going to block you.
(00:14:34) tuffytuffins: No friendship?

The kicker is that I wasn't actually able to block her using my weird Linux AIM client, so she's still out there somewhere, waiting. I'm still sort of hoping this is someone I know in disguise, in which case the joke's on me but which will also mean I won't have had a totally creepy exchange with a female version of the main character from Notes From Underground.

The Big Vacation, Day Four

Billy cancelled his party on account of the transit strike, which sucks. I was kind of counting on having something to do, but can see why he'd wanna put it off. Now, as per Katharine's advice, I'm doing the vacation thing -- I bought some Doritos and a pint of Ben & Jerry's Peanut Butter Cup ice cream (as far as I can tell, no flavor is better than this) and I'm chilling out watching David Cronenberg's Dead Ringers, which, sad to say, is not quite as creepy as I'd hoped. There is, however, a pretty hot sex scene involving rubber tubing and various types of calipers in the gynecologist's office. Okay, I finished watching the movie -- depression-city, and not quite the body-horror diddle-fest I was hoping for. Turns out it's based on a real set of gynecologist twins named Steven and Cyril Marcus who totally went bananas and killed themselves with barbituates.

Here's an interesting thing: The saga of tuffytuffins. The other day I got an IM from somebody I'd never heard of before, but whose screen name I kind of thought I recognized on account of it reminding me of this joke that Tom and Maggie used to use to "wind me up" -- so I sort of played along, thinking that the person would eventually reveal themselves to one of my friends (or one of their friends). That's not quite what happened (edited for the salient points):

(23:13:16) tuffytuffins: Hello.
(23:14:24) Nintendo Julian: hello

(23:14:52) tuffytuffins: Have you ever danced with the devil in the pale moonlight?
(23:15:25) Nintendo Julian: is that the same thing as...
(23:15:27) Nintendo Julian: ...no
(23:16:04) tuffytuffins: Well, I have.
(23:16:21) Nintendo Julian: how was that
(23:16:32) Nintendo Julian: you find out what you need to find out about yourself?
(23:16:33) tuffytuffins: He looked like the blond guy from Queer Eye
(23:17:06) tuffytuffins: Is that what I was supposed to be doing? Finding out about myself? Because I was just kind of dancing.

Ted and I saw King Kong last night after finishing up our Christmas shopping. The theater -- and Times Square -- was practically deserted, or at least as empty as I'd ever seen it except maybe for that dumb movie Vanilla Sky. It took me more than two hours to get into Manhattan, thanks to the strike -- I was worried that by staying at home I was missing out on the official "transit strike" experience, but no longer. The transit strike experience is basically all about sitting in traffic for two hours. So I was late meeting Ted, but he was gracious in his irritation. We went shopping at the Virgin Mega-store, which, did you know, has this weird little movie theater in the basement that plays strange foreign short films? We didn't see any of them. I bought a present for The Rase and Ted picked up some stuff for his family, and then we went to go see King Kong at the big AMC 25-screen theater around the corner, stuffing some contraband McDonalds hamburgers into Ted's messenger bag before going in.

The theater was practically empty, which seemed to give the impression to the two latin types sitting next to me that it was totally cool to talk the whole time, literally. Also, there was a real live homeless person sleeping across the three seats behind us, and during the opening credits he kept sort of wheezing and snuffling, which made me think, before I turned around and realized he was a homelo, that it was some funny person making monkey noises for a laugh. The movie was okay -- Andy Serkis did a great job with the monkey poses and facial expressions, but Jack Black... he's no Laurence Olivier. And the whole thing is 90 minutes too long. And what the fuck does it mean?

(23:20:09) tuffytuffins: Do you believe stuffed animals can be art?
(23:20:48) Nintendo Julian: Yes, of course. Case in point: The beanie-baby named Pinchers The Crab
(23:21:07) tuffytuffins: Exactly my point. Beanie Babies were my inspiration.
(23:21:15) tuffytuffins: That's what I do. I create stuffed animals
(23:21:24) Nintendo Julian: Out of what do you create them>
(23:22:21) tuffytuffins: Whatever materials are laying around. Maybe orange peels for stuffing. Maybe old underwear for lining. Once, I used cat hair.
(23:22:52) Nintendo Julian: Because, you know, whatever.
(23:23:05) Nintendo Julian: The orange peels keep the stuffed animal "moist" inside
(23:23:19) tuffytuffins: You have to give them souls. Otherwise they won't be art. Then they're just stuffed animals.
(23:23:31) Nintendo Julian: And the souls have to be gross is the other thing.

The cabbie for the ride home I shared with Ted was real talkative. After Ted got out of the cab, he asked me where I was from. I told him I grew up on the Bowery, and he said I had a strange accent, one that he couldn't place. "You go to school in California or something?" he asked. Then he asked what I do for a living, and when I told him I'm a programmer, he said, "I got a thing I want to sell on eBay -- I collect stamps, and I got $500,000 worth of stamps, you know from like 100 years ago, in an album at home. You could help me sell that?" That sounds like a lot of money, I said. I don't now if I can help you with that -- maybe you should go to eBay's web site and talk to one of the staff. "No, no, where do you live? I live in Williamsburg -- you could come to my house on Sunday and help me take a picture of the stamps and make a web site?"

(23:29:14) tuffytuffins: Would you like to subscribe to any magazines?
(23:29:21) tuffytuffins: I can get you a discount.
(23:29:42) Nintendo Julian: Which is your least popular magazine? I like to go my own way.
(23:30:17) tuffytuffins: People don't like the gardening ones. Do you have a "green thumb?"
(23:31:11) tuffytuffins: I also sell porn.
(23:31:19) Nintendo Julian: No thanks, Internet person.
(23:31:21) Nintendo Julian: None of that for me.
(23:31:31) tuffytuffins: There's lots to choose from.
(23:32:03) tuffytuffins: Do you want to know our least popular porn?
(23:32:21) tuffytuffins: Hold on. I'm checking
(23:32:56) tuffytuffins: Not child porn. That's pretty popular.
(23:33:11) tuffytuffins: Not midget porn. That gets a good college student following.
(23:34:00) Nintendo Julian: That's one of the roots of townie-student strife; a college moves into town and pretty soon the place is stinking with drifts of dead, naked midgets.
(23:34:14) tuffytuffins: Oh, the worst-selling category is "Tragedy Porn." Like sex in the aftermath of hurricanes and things.
(23:34:28) Nintendo Julian: I'd imagine most of that sex is pretty great, though.
(23:34:37) Nintendo Julian: Maybe it's the kind of thing that doesn't photograph well

So who is this person? She's got a sense of humor, I'll grant you, but boy does she not want to say who she is. I'll put the rest of our conversation into a separate entry. The transit strike is over!

The Big Vacation, Day One

Last night, Chrissy Rodney came back to the East Coast from UCLA and I hung out with him and Razor (and Razor's girl, SJ) at Razor's apartment. I didn't know this, but their Australian Shepherd dog Fry had gotten hit by a car around Thanksgiving and died! That's terrible. But they have a new dog now, Job (named for the Arrested Development character, but not spelled like that for some reason), which is some kind of Huskie-mix thing, that is absolutely adorable: It rolls around on its little mat with its legs in the air like a cat and gives kisses a'plenty. We drank lots of beers and I ate a double cheeseburger that they had in the fridge. My appetite has been absolutely zero for the past couple of days. Maybe I've got what Ted's recovering from. Tomorrow is Billy's birthday. I know what I'm getting him as a b-day present, but not as a Christmas present. Maybe he just won't get one -- it's the curse of the Saggitarius.

So I'm on vacation now for two weeks. Don't really know what I'm gonna do with myself -- I went running in the early afternoon, which was pretty unpleasant, given the temperature and the fact that I haven't run in a couple of months. I had to walk, I think, most of the way. The rest of the day I spent working on little projects, but that's not going to hold me over for two weeks. Literally e-mail me and tell me which of you are here and not at work. Want to see "Kong?"

I rented American Pie, which, believe it or not, I'd never seen. I actually thought it was pretty great -- the actors all have a sort of refreshingly gross look to them, and their delivery is often novel, if not always natural. Observations:

• Is it just me or is Chris Klein's character actually a pretty awful singer? It seems like 'Oz' rises to the top echelon of the jazz singing club pretty quickly given that he can't really hit the right notes all the time
• What's up with everyone cheering on Jason Biggs while he's doing that strip tease on the webcam? I feel like I'd be more inclined not to want to see this guy in my trig class take all his clothes off. Not that it's gay, it's just, you know, not good porno. Also, what's the deal with there being no narrative retribution for him putting that girl all over the Internet? I mean, I guess he has his own humiliation televised as well -- I will say that I've never really understood the little problem he has in that scene. That's probably the one awful sex thing that's never happened to me.
• Favorite character by far: Shit-Break. It's time the movies had a hero who looks a little bit less like Chris Klein and more like a fresh corpse that's just entered the "bloat" stage of decomposition
• How creepy is Natasha Lyonne? I could've called that Hepatitis thing if I'd seen this movie when it came out

I was going through some of my old journals this evening trying to collate some of my more continuous threads of writing to use towards a more cohesive long-form thing, and I was struck by how weird I've always been -- or at least, how weird I was even back then -- and how I still kind of worry about the same irrational things and characterize things to myself in the same ways. It sort of freaked me out, but it was not a wasted errand, since I got several pages of good material that I think I can expand upon.

The Rase was wondering what the actual meaning of the word crapulence was, since she often references that line from the Who-Shot-Mr.-Burns Simpsons episode ("wallowing in my own crapulence"). I do that do, but I didn't know what it meant, either, so we looked it up:

crap·u·lence (krpy-lns)
n.

1. 1. Sickness caused by excessive eating or drinking.
2. 2. Excessive indulgence; intemperance.

So, literally, it means "crapulence."

It never fails to surprise me how alcohol can make you feel pretty okay no matter how awful you're feeling.

UPDATE: COCKBLOCKERS

Single White Shemale

[11:36] Me: so I leered at her tits all night
[11:36] Tom: That doesn't sound like you.
[11:36] Tom: It must've been really liberating to finally do something "creepy."

I'm writing this at work. In other words, the strike did not go down -- they're going to "phase it in," starting with the private bus companies in the outer boroughs. My commute was a disaster, though, because of a "very sick passenger" at 4th Ave., one stop away from my house. They stopped the train for like 20 minutes in the tunnel, and then announced, loudly and repeatedly, that if we didn't want to wait any longer, we could walk to the front of the train and exit up there. So I stayed on board, because, you know, fuck it. Then a little while later they said that we all actually had to get off because the train was going out of service. So I queued up with everyone else and eventually made it to the middle of the train, at which point the conductor came on again and told us all to sit down because we were actually going to start moving again. The whole thing took about 45 minutes, no lie. The worst part was that I was sitting right near this revolting old I-Ti / Hispanic lady who would not shut up talking, apropos of nothing, to these two Muslim girls sitting right next to me whom she'd just met. I guess there's some reading of second-and-third-world culture in which complainy old women are sort of exercising some kind of powerful social force with the yakking and the clucking and the whining, but come on, people. The highlights:

• "He got so bad, with the gangrene, that he was rolling around in the car. Some people might say in that situation that death is better than living, but not me. Because when someone dies you lose something 'dat you love, right?"
• "They do the fistula surgery on her, and two weeks later, she's back driving the emergency truck, you know, to rescue people what needs help. It's not fair; there's no recovery time. And now the doctors're tellin' her there's another fistula."
• "At first, I thought it was funny, my niece, with the lipstick, but this morning I woke up and there's lipstick all over the walls! My niece, she so cute, you know that she loves her mama because anyone else tries to talk to her, she be screamin', screamin', and she don't never stop."

Okay, so these don't sound too funny in retrospect, but just imagine these two nervous Muslim girls covered up in their weird little insane-person headdresses nervously spinning the wheels on their iPods and praying that this woman with her wheedling, whiny voice will just STFU.

But I finally got in (at around 11:00) and stopped off at Han's to get a delicious breakfast sandwich: Egg, provolone, tomato, and bacon, on whole wheat toast. I recommend you give it a spin the next time you're eatin'.

Strikethrough

Haven't blogged in forever, and I'm only blogging now because I don't feel like working on my computer projects. Is there gonna be a transit strike tomorrow? It sure looks that way. And thus I stand to lose two dollars to Tom -- I made two bets, and I've already lost out on one in that Tower Video did let us come in and browse around with our Tall Chai Lattes. The times they are a-changin'. My job has a "contigency plan" in place so that we'll all be able to work from home, but you know what that amounts to? SNOW DAY! For those who aren't blessed to live in New York, the Metropolitan Transit Authority is one of the most grotesquely mismanaged bureaucracies in... well, in New York City; on the other hand, the strike we're looking at is basically going to cripple the city. I mean, literally, there will be no public transportation tomorrow, and everybody rides public transportation here. So. And then the next two weeks I have off. Anyone wanna take me on a trip with you? I'm rich and I love "fun."

I finished Call of Cthulhu: Dark Corners of the Earth, and while it was beautiful in many ways, I still have the same complaint about it that I did at the outset -- that is, that the narrator is so goddamn affectless and, I don't know, fucking blase that it totally spoils the impact of you know, the cosmic horror. I think their design problems began when they named the guy "Jack Walters." Clearly he's gonna be a boring guy. And, I mean, you'd think he'd have a bit more of an internal monologue having been diagnosed as an "acute schizophrenic"

I bought Christmas presents for practically all of my friends this year, which is pretty rare for me, Fagin. Got a lot of the shit on eBay, and I actually ran into a bit of a sticky situation -- I bid on an auction before looking at the seller's feedback rating, and when a conscientious eBay user notified me, it turned out the seller's rating was 0 -- equal positive and negative feedback, which is extremely rare for eBay, which is basically a big cuddle-fest around the clock. Well, I read up on the rules on bid retraction, and it turned out I didn't have much recourse except to watch in terror as the seller's rating dropped to -2 and I got two more e-mails from other eBay members claiming to have been "scammed" by the seller. Well, the auction ended, and I won the item, but by the grace of the eBay fraud prevention team, the seller's account was suspended, releasing me from the contract I'd entered when I placed the bid. The seller responded a few days later to the panicky e-mails I'd sent her with an e-mail that includes the following excerpt (sic):

I know that this is a inconvience to you, but imagine my situation, I am having to close down all my checkings and savings accounts even the accounts I have for my boys college funds even though they have just been started due to they are only 2 and 4, but it pays to start early on things like this for the kids now a days with the economy and the world in the shape that it is in... I am sending the item out that day, that is if it is before 12:00, because at noon is when we take the packages up,. the boys lay down for their nap and we have my niece to babysit them while we run to the post office

Well, cry me a river, sister.

Congratulations to Tom on getting a line in on the episode of The Colbert Report introducing Bob Costas! Really... really proud of you, I guess.

So who wants to see King Kong with me? Who wants to see The Gay Cowboy Movie with me? Merry Christmas!

Wreckin' Booty Socks

OMGSNOW! I woke up to this scraping sound outside my window, and I was picturing this little kid dragging a two-by-four behind him up and down the sidewalk behind him. I was all ready to open the window and holler at him, but then I opened the window, and, you know. There it all was. Can't wait to go outside and walk around in it, maybe do some shopping, maybe just have a look around.

Sophie made some Indian dish last night that involved coating every surface in the kitchen golden with turmeric. When she was hosing it off with fantastik this morning, we made a fascinating discovery -- fantastik turns turmeric a deep chartreuse color -- something like grapefruit juice, or Emma's Furby: Our Lord The Flayed One.

So the message that girl left about her iPod the other night turned out to be a lot crazier than I'd thought when I was listening to it be recorded. She says something like (I deleted the actual message in a fit of annoyance): "Hi, this is Sam, I took your bag last night, and you took my bag... you took my iPod. Please give me a call, my number is..." Wha? The second message was (I think) from her boyfriend and sounded a lot more... conciliatory, I guess. He says something like, "Hey, uh, my name's Dan, and, uh, I think you might have left that bar last night with my iPod? If you don't mind, could you give me a call? My number is..." Clearly trying to strike a balance between appeasing his histrionic Jew girlfriend and trying to come off like a normal person. So I left her a voicemail wherein I delicately suggest that I know fucking nothing about her stupid iPod.

Two funny dreams: Friday night I dreamed Ted was taking us all to Ikea, and we bought a bookcase or shelves or something that required both screws and wood glue to put together. On the way back in the car, I was fiddling with the packaging for this furniture, and, without thinking, I opened the little tube of glue and squeezed a bunch of it into my mouth and swallowed it. In the dream it had this sort of sugary orange taste, a little like the filling of those little hard candies that come in the white wrapper with a picture of a piece of fruit on it. Anyway, though, once I realized what I'd done I started rifling through the instruction manual that came with the stuff and found an ingredients list for the glue that had a bunch of complicated-sounding chemicals on it and an ominous message like, "Toxic if swallowed." I asked Ted to drop me off at the emergency room, but he said, "No, you'll probably be fine." Last night, I dreamed that Tom (I think) was on a date with this girl who really wanted to go to this one particular restaurant -- in fact, he said she'd be crushed if they couldn't go there -- but it just so happened that said restaurant was closed the evening they were going out. So he enlists me along with the security guard who's patroling the restaurant to open the place up and act as waiters for him and this girl. And we do, but she wants to order a bunch of stuff that we have no idea how to cook. So we have to run out to a bunch of stores / other restaurants to round up the components of the meal. What a riot!

On Sunday The Rase and I and one of her co-workers went to that RUSSIA! show at the Guggenheim. I hadn't been up to that neighborhood in eons, and I'd forgotten how much I like just walking around up there around all those nice old buildings and mean old white folks. The show was pretty interesting -- I tried to pay attention to the historical aspects of the pieces, because that's, you know, how grown-ups look at art, I think. According to the accompanying information, Russian painting in the 15th and 16th centuries was mostly stylized religious iconography (which was actually pretty sweet, especially the wall-hangings made out of silver and gold thread) and then, by a combination of wars and varying travel restrictions / incentives, Russian painters were exposed to a more naturalistic composition in use by Western painters. Notably, all the important artistic reforms were top-down (i.e., coming directly or indirectly by edict of the tsar) -- the exhibit even described the "revolution" in portrait-painting that introduced the use of middle-class subjects as being a result of Alexander II's liberation of the serfs. I think my favorite painting was that famous one of the barge-haulers, because, man, those guys really look like they wanna rape something, but Sophie and I both discovered this other guy that we both liked, a landscape painter named Arkhip Kuindzhi. I also found a little machine in one of the corners of the floors that looked kind of like a cross between a seismograph and food processor, apparently measuring some important thing going on in the museum. That was almost as good as the paintings. Unfortunately, the museum closed before we got to the top of the spiral, so we only got to see until about the beginning of the 20th century. Lotta homeless people on the train.

After that, Sophie wanted to stop off at this fair-trade goods expo that some of her friends were participating in over at a private party in TriBeCa, so we went to that and homphed down like a million little hors'doeuvres sandwiches.

Fight The Future

Ahoy-hoy! Look what I found -- Comedy Central, weeks later, finally decided to put up the clip of Bring 'Em Back / Leave 'Em Dead: Asian Edition from the taping of the Colbert Report that I went to. So after many arduous attempts at screenshot-taking (Windows or DirectX has this video feature called "overlays" which, while enabled, makes it virtually impossible to grab a frame of video -- also makes it so that every pixel of a particular color on the screen becomes transparent down to the window containing the overlayed video; kind of bush-league if you ask me), I present you with the following:

As noted earlier, Tom and Ted are visible (in the first row on the right-hand side), but I am, unfortunately, just off-camera. Boy, Tom looks mad. The question put to us was about the 1980s band Asia: "Leave 'em dead!"

The Sarah Silverman movie was good, but it didn't, you know, give you any kind of insight into what she thinks about anything; it was basically just an hour and a half of pretty good stand-up. My favorite bit was probably the one she did at the beginning about de-boning Ethiopian babies to get at the precious "jewels" in their tailbones. "They have to... de-bone the babies," she said. She is cute as all get-out, I tell you. Hard to believe that she's going out with Jimmy Kimmel.

One of The Rase's friends got us SRO tickets to Sweeney Todd last weekend, which was, I hear, "so exciting that it is almost unbearable" for the theater critic from some New York paper. I don't know if I'd go that far, but it was pretty great as far as musicals go -- neat staging, good singing, etc., and the cast doubled as the orchestra, which was novel if not explicable. And this musical is probably the most operatic and least... catchy of all of Sondheim, in my limited experience. Here's the thing, though -- I find it harder, as time goes on, not to find musical theater anything but grotesque, in a way that regular theater isn't. Is that weird? It's just so hard to get over the idea that breaking into song is anything but ridiculous. Also, there was a little inset in the Playbill from the Broadway Cares AIDS charity that segued into asking for money by claiming that the chorus' demand that we "attend the tale of Sweeney Todd" is some kind of acknowledgment of the common tie that binds us all through triumph and tragedy, etc., etc. I'm pretty sure that's not what it means, but, you know, what do I know?

On Thursday I finished the nth-hundredth test case for this little software package I'm working on and put together a release, which made me feel pretty good. And then five minutes later I got back to thinking about how much more work there is to be done.

Last night I went out with Tom and Ted and The Rase to Great Lakes (after cramming in a gross burger at Bonnie's Grill), and when we got up to leave, I couldn't find my backpack. I'd probably have just written it off as lousy luck, but Tom insisted that we search the area, and we ended up finding a bag that nobody near our table would lay claim to and that was identical to mine except that it had a whole bunch of different stuff in it (laptop, wallet, etc.). So I wrote a note explaining that we thought someone had grabbed mine by mistake -- and it would have had to have been a pretty big mistake, considering that all mine had in it was my skinny little journal of "important thoughts" and a paperback copy of Phineas Finn -- and gave the other person's backpack to the bartender. Sure enough, about an hour after I got home I got a call from the owner of the backpack confirming the switcheroo and that she'd dropped mine off at the bar. Luckily Tom was still there and brought mine back to his house. But the story doesn't end there: I got a couple of phone calls this morning (that I let the machine handle) at like 5:00 AM from this unlucky girl who was wondering whether I'd accidentally taken the iPod out of her bag. Pretty sure I didn't, and pretty sure it was still in her bag when I gave it to the bartender, so... good luck with all that. We'll see what happens.

I'm shopping online for Christmas presents.

Jesus Is Tragic

So I'm feeding my boss's cats and one of the system administrators' cat this holiday weekend, and they both have HBO On Demand, so I've been catching up with Season 2 of Deadwood. Tom Nuttall's got hisself a bicycle, about which he says, memorably (approx.)

My bicycle can traverse boardwalk and ravine with equal aplomb; anyone who disagrees... sucks cock by choice!

Ain't that the truth. And then Bullock's step-son dies. So. The guy who plays Wolcott (also known as the guy who played the coward Jack McCall) sure is a motherfucker of a motherfucker-player.

Had a pleasant Thanksgiving with the family last night (though a postprandial cup of coffee at like 10:00PM gave me nightmares and panic attacks all night). My dad has this story that he tells about when he was in boarding school, in which this friend of his orders a teach-yourself-hypnotism kit off the back of a comic book or something, and the guy actually learns how to hypnotize people effectively enough that he's able to have some fun with some of their friends in the dorm (incidentally, this has gotta be the only time something purchased through the mail like this has not been a ravenous disappointment). So he hypnotizes a guy to believe that he's got a pair of sunglasses that'll let him see through girls' clothes, and the guy follows this one girl around for a few weeks wearing a goofy pair of sunglasses, and, you know, he hypnotizes some dudes to bark like dogs, etc. But the piece-de-resistance is when he hypnotizes this big dumb jocky guy to think that he's a log, and then... that's it -- he can't snap him out of it, presumably, as my dad explains, because a log can't see or hear or anything. The guy had to be brought down to the infirmary and eventually to the local hospital to get zapped or gassed or whatever to bring him out of it. And eventually he's totally fine and everything, but it was a tense three or four days, apparently. So I always bought that bit about a log not being able to communicate, but last night I was thinking about it a little more and it seems a bit implausible that this meathead is so deeply in tune with the concept of "logness" that he becomes completely comatose. I bet it was something deeper and creepier that happened, like some neural switch that my dad's friend accidentally toggled in this guy's brain. Anyway, moral of the story: Not. Getting. Hypnotized.

So it's looking like I might be getting a cell phone -- my mom gets some kind of special deal if I piggy-back onto her Verizon plan, so I think I'll probably be doing that pretty soon. If that's the case, I'd need to start paying for my own Internet, so I might want to sign up for one of those trifecta dealies that Time Warner does where you get cable modem, cable TV, and VoIP for like $100 a month. If you work it all out that's basically what I'm paying now, but without the cable TV. I'm oddly excited -- up until a few weeks ago, I was pretty goddamn sure the cell phone was bullshit, but I've been paying attention to how much fun my friends seem to be having snapping photos and hooking up and storing each others' numbers and all that, and I do understand that when in Rome, etc. So I'm giddy.

On the RMS-fanboy front, in case M-Biddy or someone missed this on Slashdot, Bruce Perens relates an incident of beardo hellraising at, I think, some UNESCO function:

I humorously remind Richard that he and I both have immunity as delegates, and he responds "You mean, I should have shot that guy Kramer?" Kramer is the CompTIA representative who comes along to these things to relate an pro-software-patenting and generally anti-Free-Software viewpoint which gets Richard very steamed up. There's a laugh, and I explain that our immunity probably doesn't go that far.

I saw the Harry Potter movie with Devin on Tuesday, and it was okay, you know. Not as much vision, let's say, as the one that Cuaron directed, but it's fun and exciting, and Ralph Feinnes sure does a fucking good job. That guy who plays Harry Potter, though: Not. A good. Actor. Tonight I'm going to try to see the Sarah Silverman movie with Tom and K-Rod. Also trying to throw together a dinner party tonight with The Rase and some friends. No luck as of yet; we'll see how that goes.

Good Morning, Heartache

You're like an old friend,
Come to see me again.

I went to The Game this weekend! It was me, Devin, Maggie, Tom, Ted, Katie, Dan, Emma, Katharine, Previn, Nate, and some cetera. I'd never been to this or any other football game at all, ever, and I hadn't been back to campus (as far as I remember) since graduation.

We arrived in New Haven at around 9:00ish, I think, and stopped off at Rudy's (across the street from 123 Howe where I lived the summer after junior year) for drinks. It was a real mad-house, and New Haven was absolutely goddamn freezing. I think there's something wrong with my boots -- my toes were like ice the whole weekend whenever we were outside, and my socks would be wet whenever I took the boots off, even when there it hadn't been raining outside. Maggie said, helpfully, that I should get myself checked for diabetes. But I digress. Devin and I broke away from the group for a while to take a walk around campus. We talked about what it would be like if we sort of jumped back into student life after having been in the working world for two and a half years; I still find it hard to believe that we (or I, at least) made it all the way through. It's sort of like a four-year pressure cooker. At the same time, though, I think people can pretty much adapt to anything; I never really felt like I couldn't handle it at any point of my college career, even when I actually couldn't handle it. Anyway, we all got totally blasted and eventually returned to Ted's house and conked out.

The next morning at around 10:00 AM we headed out to the tailgate, which is this big binge-drink that happens before the game actually starts. I tagged along with Previn while he said hello to a bunch of his friends at the Harvard half of the tailgate; I was hoping I might run into some of my Harvard "friends," but none of them seemed to be there. We ended up grabbing some gross little hamburgers from the Yale Dining Services tent -- the staff recognized us, which was nice and unexpected. I miss having an unlimited supply of gummy (yet fiber-rich) cafeteria food. The tailgate was a little dispiriting, since it was so chock-a-block with assholes; the Yale Heavyweight Crew team, for example, was having a "homeless party," replete with a trashcan fire and a bunch of douchebags from Greenwich, CT who'd slashed up their leather bomber jackets and sewed patches into their corduroy pants. I took a picture for evidence's sake but it didn't come out.

A cold morning in the Elm City

At around 1:30 we hit the stadium. Half-time was just finishing up and Yale was ahead 14-3. I tried to follow the action on the field, but I was so cold and it was so far away that I ended up just watching the clock wind down. No funny pranks or anything this year as far as we could tell, though some Harvard kids managed to lure Handsome Dan over to their side of the stadium, and the campus police had to go retrieve him. The fourth quarter finished in a tie, 24-24, and during overtime Yale fudged two or three plays and Harvard was able to score another point or something; we left before that happened. Pictures follow:

The new Handsome Dan inflatable: Wrinkly

The Yale Bowl, 180 BC

A happier group of fans have I never seen

At one point, this guy in front of us a few rows down just put his head down and started puking. He and his buddy were eventually herded away by security, but afterwards people would keep walking through the puke like they weren't seeing it was all over the goddamn ground. We kept yelling at them, "You're walking in puke! You just stepped in vomit!" But they never learned. Turns out that guy wasn't the only puker -- the tunnel we used to exit the Bowl during Yale's last-second choke session had like four pukes in it. Boola boola!

It was already getting dark as we walked back to campus from the Bowl; we headed over to Master Krauss's residence at Silliman for a little alumni reception. I crapped in the dining hall bathroom, which brought back some memories. Dean Flick stopped by for a chat while we were all reclining in the Master's common room. Apparently he thought I'd been dating The Rase all this time; I set him straight on that one. After Master Krauss kicked us out, some people wanted to "see the new couches in the dining hall common room," so we went over there, but there were no new couches. Some people went to this sushi place called Miya's to drink "sake bombs," which I think are shots of sake mixed with a half pint of Japanese beer. Katharine and Emma and I ditched out and went back to Rudy's, though I did take a picture of a swordfish at Miya's.

Don bites the bullet

Real or really really real?

Later on, in front of Yorkside Pizza, Katharine and I saw this girl sitting on the curb who looked borderline vomitous. We were going to offer her some help, but Ran, who'd showed up out of nowhere, alerted us to the fact that the Ford Explorer that the girl looked ready to puke on had D.C. plates and was actually packed with Secret Service. "If she throws up, they can handle it," he said. I'd hope so.

We played Mafia at Ted's house that night; the Mafia took the initiative by eliminating one of their own during the first night, which totally threw Ted for a loop. It was a very long day. I still feel kind of strung-out from being consecutively pickled. But, you know, when in Rome...

I got home late and drunk from a work-related party last Thursday and found the following message on my answering machine -- I couldn't even make it out completely at the time and I just decided it was a wrong number. Well, I just sat down and transcribed it:

Hello, how do you do? Do you notice that a lot of Spanish still have that itching powder, like, in the schools, they have 'em a lot and they don't like the teacher or something. They'll throw it on 'em, that white itching powder. Like in Dodge High School in uh... and John F. Kennedy in the Bronx. They don't like the teacher or the substitute or something, they'll just throw it on 'em all day long, they think it's funny. Anyway, this is a random phone call. Have a nice day. Bye.

Hmmm. Not clear what this means.

On the way home from CT we stopped off at a rest stop on the Hutch and we bought some gross things for lunch. While I was waiting on line to pay, though, I caught a glance of myself from behind in the security camera monitor, and it turns out I have this huge bald spot right in the back of my head. Not like a thin part that's exposed by combing my hair a certain way, but an honest-to-god bald spot. Jesus. I don't want to put any of that hair tonic shit on my scalp; if this is what Mendel had in mind for me, then so be it. But maybe Mer was right when she said I should find someone to marry me before I lose all my hair.

Cheese Lice

Devlin brought over two choice little ironic movies last night. The first was called Funky Monkey, and it was about a trained chimpanzee assassin that's rescued by his handler (Matthew Modine, who plays Alec McCall with remarkable skill, considering the character is apparently, not kidding, a black ops commando with the IQ of precocious 7-year-old) and teaches a fatherless little boy how to win at football. Not kidding. Highlights of the movie include

• The chimp actor's propensity to finger its nipples absent-mindedly whenever it's not doing something else
• A bumbling security guard's off-hand joke about having to take a job at ZIT (Zoology International Technology) because he didn't have a college degree -- if you have a college degree, chances are you're not gonna think that's funny; if you don't have a college degree, chances are you're not gonna think that's funny
• Matthew Modine's character literally crippling / murdering a whole bunch of dudes in fairly gruesome ways -- skateboard to the teeth, thrown into a bunch of buffet tables and chairs, whacked senseless with a fiberglass surfboard.

So that was good.

The second had been shipped to him along with the first, for pretty much no reason that we could discern. It was an animated version of the movie Ben-Hur, refocused, by Good Times Entertainment (of Quigley fame), so that it dwelt a whole fuck of a lot more on the Jesus shit in the original novel by General Lew Wallace. Best of all, though, Judah Ben-Hur is voiced by Charlton Heston, who sounds a whole goddamn lot older than the little Jew on the screen. Heston gives an interview that's included on the DVD that consists of a bunch of responses to what must be questions by some interviewer (though you never hear what they are), edited together in a series of disorienting 30-second takes. A choice segment (approx.):

This story is a classic. Whenever they produce a film or a stage show out of it, it plays around the world; millions of people see it... Why do I think this story has endured? One reason... apart from many others: Whenever they show the film, it plays around the world. And it keeps coming back.

Another great part was late in the interview he's talking about how great it is to work with the middling assortment of voice talent they'd assembled, and he cuts a noisy, heedless old-man fart. Like, "frrrrrp!" Tom and Devstar thought it might be somebody shifting around in a squeaky chair on the set, but I'm gonna stick to my guns. T'was a fart.

On Tuesday, T-Bone's friend Alex had gotten me and Ted tickets to a taping of The Colbert Report, so we checked that out and it was super fun. We had to wait on line for a real goddamn long time, but once we got inside, Colbert was real nice and the taping of the show itself was a marvel of efficiency. They literally do a single take for practically everything, and there was a bit with audience participation (the Bring 'Em Back / Leave 'Em Dead face-off) that they taped during the warm-up that was ready to go and on the monitors at the time they taped the actual segment like 10 minutes later. Since we were in the front row (the theater's tiny; only about 100 seats), I saw that Ted was visible in one of the shots. Tom claims that he could see himself, too, which, I think, would have meant that I'd be there, too, given the order we were sitting in (actually, come to think of it, maybe not...). I wanted to check when the put the clip on the web site, but it doesn't seem like that was one of the ones they picked. Stephen took some questions from the audience at the beginning of the show, and my only regret was that I didn't ask, "Can you give Marc Maron a job?" The production staff was real serious that we be really high-energy, lest we kill Stephen's "buzz," so I was worried about putting him off his game. Probing questions from the audience included, "What do I need to do to get a job writing for your show?" and "I heard you used to be in an improv comedy group. Is that true?" Jesus fuck, people.

So Stallman mentions his (former?) girlfriend on his 'blog sometimes, and I think I found some pictures of her. She's not half bad-looking, considering she's a Bride of Beardo, eh?

Yesterday, on a whim, I bought the Misfits album American Psycho at Best Buy, and it has this great song on it called "Hate The Living, Love The Dead." I'd forgotten how much the Misfits sound like HEAetc., esp. with regard to the sort of fast, straight-ahead drums and well-articulated guitar. There was a different Misfits album (think it was Famous Monsters) playing on some speakers at the store, and when I asked the clerk he said they didn't have it in stock, but he also mentioned that Michale Graves has a solo project he's working on that I should check out, so I did -- I'd forgotten until I got to his site that he's a real contemptible Republican nut-job. So, you know, there's that.