Monday, December 30, 2002

I will not watch tonight's Real World/Road Rules: Battle of the Sexes....I will not watch tonight'sReal World/Road Rules: Battle of the Sexes....I will not watch tonight's Real World/Road Rules: Battle of the Sexes.

Oh, forget it.

"Come on be my baby tonight
Come on be my baby tonight
I've seen the way you've treated other thugs you've been with
Come on be my baby tonight..."

Back in the saddle again.



Once again, nothing to say. I'm tired, cranky and feel a cold coming on. Which is just swell, especially considering I just got over one a month ago. On the other hand, it'll give me an excuse to not do something tomorrow night because deep down, I'm feeling pretty gosh darn lazy and wouldn't mind nothing but renting a flick and getting some sleep. But I can't. It's New Year's Eve and I'm single so I have to go out just to give myself the illusion that I'm hip, I'm happening, I'm a Man About Town. Besides, living in like where I do, there's no way I'd be able to just watch a movie and sleep considering there's about twenty bars within a two-block radius.

It's all the fault of this stupid weather and work. My poor, hard-working department is all sick and frazzled from too much stress, too much to do, and too much whackiness getting in their way. We're all a torn and frayed at the edges. Everyone's sick and cranky and stressed and spending way too much time trying to hold onto whatever little sanity we have left. Or maybe it just felt like that because it's Monday.

So because I'm feeling fluish, I went to the vending machine at work and bought myself some yummy Cup o' Noodle soup. Mmm-mmm. I follow the instructions as given, even though I've made enough Cup o' Noodle soup on days like this to know how to do it, but, well, you never know. I fill it up right up to the line I'm supposed to fill it up and put it into one of the microwaves in the Factory's break-room.

Now, I'm not really a cook. Or can cook for that matter. I do know, however, how microwaves work and I'm pretty sure Microwaves don't make things bounce up and down. I mean, when you microwave soup, it's not supposed to splash and gurgle all over the place and spill everywhere, right? And I'm not just saying a little- I'm saying in the microwave itself, onto the table it rested, and down onto the floor. And because sometimes I'm not the brightest bulb in the world, I kept at it. Because, damnit, microwaves aren't supposed to shake, rattle and roll. So I'd put it in, see it gurgle and see it spill, then stop it, clean it up, and put it back in. Several times. I even convinced myself that it just might be the microwave and so I put my soup into another microwave. And the same thing happened. Spill city.

I must have spent ten minutes putting the soup in then grabbing tons of paper towels to clean up the mess I made.

Stupid monday.

Sunday, December 29, 2002

I know, there hasn't been much posting going on round these parts the past couple of days.

Well, it is the holidays. And I actually have been working long hours lately. Not to mention I had a friend in town.

Truth is, I haven't been having that ole blogging feeling these past couple of days.

Sorry.

Don't worry, though, there's plenty of stuff to write about. Maybe. Like if we don't actually go to war, would all the Cable News Channels be upset because they spent all that money on graphics, experts, and music for nothing? And if you're not a "retired general" and aren't used as an expert, would you feel left out? Like you're some sort of loser because CNN won't call you? Do all these "retired generals" have agents now?

Then there's this bit of horror I saw ads for- The Surreal Life, a play on The Real World except with B-Level (and that's pushing it) celebs. Including, yes, Corey Feldman. Not to mention Andrea from BH 90210 and Natalie from The Facts of Life (!). The whole pop-cultural significance- this many Grade B celebrities in one place at one time- could cause a rift in the space/time continuum. The cheese factor is so overwhellming and huge that the sheer power of it could cause a black hole of cheese that will swallow us up whole.

Oh yeah, and next week starts The Real World/Road Rules:Battle of the Sexes. My going cold-turkey to MTV reality shows will never be put to the test like it will this time. We're talking Puck, Mormon Julie, David "Come on Be My Baby Tonight", Ruthie the alcholic, Hosella, and Tony and her kidneys. Not to mention my ex-TV girlfriend Emily.

Yes sirree, 2003 is shaping up to be some sort of year.
There's whacky, there's crazy, and then there's totally completely nuts. This cult that's cloning people-totally, freakin' bonkers. Because they're not some red-neck nuts, but smart nuts. Nuts that are trying to clonse themselves.

And I don't know what's scarier, the idea that they're cloning people or the idea that they're cloning themselves

Thursday, December 26, 2002

Okay, so here's what I want to know. In The Lord of the Rings, what's up with the Elves? Why are the Elves bailing for some other lands? It's not like the fate of Middle Earth hangs in the balance or anything. You got Sauron gaining power, Saruman going to the Dark side, Mankind not exactly having their act together, and a Hobbit controls the future of the land. Yet, despite it all, the Elves are bailing. What's up with that? Things get a little rough and they're immediately all "fuck this, we're outta here."

Thanks for coming.

Let's see- the Elves have a high self of sense, think there lands and the people who inhabit them the fairest of all, love poetry and singing, and dress sharper than all the other people in Middle Earth. Which, of course, means the Elves are the French. Great culture, but as soon as trouble starts, they're out of there (and since the Dwarves don't even do anything other than send Gimli and worry about their riches, that would make them the Swiss).

And what's up with the whole immortaility thing? It looked like there were a lot of Elves getting killed in the Helms Deep battle. Does that mean that the only elves who die are those who get killed in battle? Not a great way to recruit people, if you ask me. "Join the army and kiss immortality goodbye!" Maybe they're just a bunch of immortal Elves who've gotten so bored with the whole living forever thing that they're willing to possibly sacrifice themselves to end the boredom. After all, living forever can probably get kind of boring after awhile (although, personally, there are worse kinds of boredom). I don't, however, think that's what would make up a great army- bored, ennui-filled, suicidal elves.

Speaking of which, I do have to say it was rather nice of the Elves to send a troop of Elves to help Rohan out at the Battle of Helms Deep. Especially since most of the Elves seemed in too much of a rush to pack up and get the hell out of there to care. You gotta feel sorry for those elves, though. Wonder how they laid-out that plan to the poor suckers who had to go fight in the battle- "Hey, so we got several thousand men trapped in some old fortress and being laid seige by a tens of thousands of Orcs and other Nasties. They're pretty much fucked, but since we think it's nice to honor some old allegiances, we're sending you guys over to go down with them. Thanks." Or maybe they had a big army and decided to split them, kind of like "Okay, Team A gets to pack everything up in boxes, put them on our Elf trucks, go to the boats and drink some hot cocoa. Team B, on the other hand, has to go fight off some Orcs."
Don't normally like to do this, but this site cracks me up- it's Trent Lott's Kwanzaa Message.

And yes, it's a joke site. It's funny, see....
Damn, that girl in the Justin Timberlake video does look exactly like Britney. Gotta say, it's a pretty twisted video too.

And yeah, if the reigning Pre-Fab, plastic Pop ex-couple wants to duke it out with each other on TRL Live I'm down. I mean, it's not like Britney's next album is gonna be her Blue or Justin's gonna come up with something as painfully twisted as "You Know You're Right" or "Heart Shaped Box," so you gotta get your enjoyment where you can.

Wednesday, December 25, 2002

So, yep, it's Christmas. And what did this lonely Jew doing at Christmas? Nothing. Didn't even get out of bed til 12:30 or so. It's not my fault, really, I swear. I may be lazy, but not that lazy.

I woke up at 9, turned on the TV for a second and caught Fellowship of the Ring on cable. That was over at 11, but Oceans 11 just started and as I caught the second half the other night, I might as well watch the beginning part since that's the best part. At 12, I thought about getting out of bed, but flipped through the channels one last time, only to catch Luca Brazzi swimming with the fishes for the umpteenth showing of The Godfather on the Bravo Channel.

Now, considering nothing's open, there's nobody around, there's nothing to do and my apartment is just the perfect chilly temperature to make lying in bed that much more attractive, what else was I supposed to do?

You come up with a reason why I should have gotten up?

Did finally make it out the house at 1 or so for some coffee.

At least I'm not going on Google and searching for kiddy porn like some of you people are….
"Dear George, remember no man is a failure who has friends. Thanks for the wings, Love Clarence."

Monday, December 23, 2002

I think I'm a little late this year, but Happy Festivus! We here at Hooray For Anything already have our pole all lubed up and ready to go (umm, maybe I should rephrase that). Luckily, the Airing of Grievances shouldn't take long as that's what this hear thing is for. Or, at least, when the man doesn't have me down.

Anyways, so it looks like I'm gonna be doing kind of anti-list thing this year. I've already done the 50 Most Loathesome People in America list, so here's another one, courtesy of the always brilliant The Onion:

The Least Essential Albums of 2002.

What can you say about a year that features both a new Boston CD as well as one by Toto

So, yeah, The Two Towers….

I'm not exactly sure I can really say anything about it, let alone say anything reviewish about it. In fact, I probably won't be able to do it until I see it for the second time. It's hard to think critically when your mind is being blown into a billion directions. It's just …epic. Big E, small e- epic. And oy it's long. Three hours of epicness.

This movie is exhausting. And it's not just the length, it's just that almost every scene, every couple of minutes, there's some big, huge epic moment where the music rises and the camera zooms in and all the characters look as if the weight of the world is upon the shoulders. Which it is, of course, but at times, it's almost kind of a parody. Like Frodo would emerge out of the woods and say "wow, Samgee, I just took the biggest shit" and then the music would swell and rise as if the fate of Middle Earth rested on that shit. Of course, that's what makes the movie what it- money shot after money-shot after money-shot. I didn't want to go to the bathroom during the movie because I was afraid I'd miss something amazing.

In some ways it's not as good as the first movie- less of straight-line story and not as much forward movement. In other ways, it's better- less exposition and man oh man, what a battle scene. It ranks up there with the battle scenes in "Saving Private Ryan," "Apocalypse Now" and Kurosawa flicks in terms of sheer oh-my-God-ness (and yes, I have seen Kurosawa flicks and the guys' battle scenes are pretty kick-ass). You can't but help get a feeling of dread when you see the hordes of Orcs approach Helm's Deep. And during the battle you keep on thinking that if you were in the exact position, you'd be the scared guy in Aliens, looking for the easiest way out and constantly telling everyone how fucked you are.

Yeah, there are quibbles. My friends who I saw it with spent a large part of the time after the movie dissecting it and tearing it apart, like any fan-geek on a message board complaining about minor plot consistencies on "Buffy." It is the middle movie and does have major Jan Brady issues. But what do you expect? We've had almost six hours of movies and it's impossible to do six hours of film without having some problems. Especially when it's based on a book that millions of people have read at least twice. Some of the quibbles I don't buy. Like the complaint about how during the battle scenes Aragorn, Gimli, and Legolas seem to have it too easy killing the Orcs (as if the Imperial Storm Troopers weren't the worst shots in the universe). I'm also okay with some of the story changes, even the Aragorn and Arwen love bit because who wouldn't fall in love with an Elven Princess? Especially when they look like Liv Tyler (Elven women are hippie chicks except they shower and shave don't have that anemic thing going due to an overabundance of tofu in their diets).

Some of the quibbles, however, I do share- like the Rohan sets were a bit underwhelming and little too Ren Faire. Or that the movie lacks magic (as in Elven magic or Gandalf magic) because it's main concern is with the battles of Men. Then there's Gimli as comic relief which gets a bit too much C-3PO'ish for my taste. And don't even get me started on the hair. With all the flowing haircuts and robes I sometimes thought I was watching a production of Jesus Christ Superstar


But so what? It doesn't matter. Once this whole thing is over next year, we're gonna be looking at one of the greatest cinematic events in movie history. That is, of course, if the director doesn't blow it with Return of the King, which I seriously doubt (memo to Peter Jackson- no Ewok's). Which is what blows me away the most, the level of film making. We're talking about the fact that somehow, somebody took one of the most beloved and read novels in the world and put it all onto film. Just think of the many ways the movie could go wrong or the expectations of the people who'd see the flick would get blown. One false move- like say putting Ben Afleck in the role of Frodo or adding Ewok's to get the kiddies and you're gonna have one very pissed off fan-base. Not to mention a film company that blew $300 million bucks on a movie that blows.

Yet it's better than good. It's fucking great. It's everything the books should be as a flick and everything you could hope for. It's what happens when a guy with talent and an incredible imagination is given enough money to do whatever the hell he wants to do. The movie's are even so good that once they're done, they could probably stand alone without the books. And it's all due to Peter Jackson. The guy is a stud. It's like he was put onto this earth just for the express purpose of making these movies. He's got all the detail and imagination that Lucas put into Star Wars I and II (afterwards, we had all talked about the fact that every single character except the Elves looked really dirty and even their fingernails were full of dirt), but whereas Lucas comes off as not giving a crap about dialogue, acting or anything that doesn't involve cool-ass space ships, Jackson does. And whereas the guy who does the Harry Potter movies does a good job adapting the books, there's nothing else to the movies other than the books. There's no life, no imagination to them. There's no sense of poetry or artistry in either of those franchises, yet there is in the LoTR flicks. Every shot, every moment, every scene has something to it, whether it be an amazing visual thing or a poignant moment between characters. There's not a single frame in the movie in which Jackson doesn't pour his soul, and that of everyone whose ever read the books, into it. From the first swooping camera shot over the mountains that starts the movie, you get that "oh yeah" feeling, the feeling that comes knowing that you're about to be taken on a wild ride by someone who has complete confidence in what they're doing. Instead of cowering behind the weight of the book, Jackson dives fully into it, goes for broke, and goes for not just a home run, but a Barry Bonds into the Bay home run with bases loaded and the game in the late innings. He's aiming for a Roy Hobbs home-run that blasts the light stands

These movies aren't just movies, there something else entirely. I don't know what they are, but to compare something like The Two Towers to your run-of-the-hill Hollywood flick (see recent Sandra Bullock flick, or hell, any Sandra Bullock flick) just isn't right. They're miles beyond anything else out there. It's everything film promises as a medium.

Did I mention I loved the movie?

Sunday, December 22, 2002

Ahhh.....San Francisco......

I went to go see Bowling For Columbine this afternoon. Not suprisingly, it's doing gang-busters here. It's a brilliant movie, but preaches to the choir. The audience applauds at the end of the flick.

I go home and hop on BART. As BART comes, I notice that the car that stops in front of me features a (probably) crazy (probably) homeless black woman who is lugging what appears to be a garbage can down the aisle. Not wanting to look to obvious about my discomfort about getting on that car, I get on. She's yabbering away and asking for spare change. It's always intersting when a crazy homeless person gets on Pub Trans. Nothing like the tension that comes as all the riders on the bus/train all collectively try and ignore the obviously crazy, smelly person walking by them. Everyone just sits there, eyes focused in front of them, doing everything possible to completely ignore what's going on around them, all hoping that whatever could happen, doesn't happen to them.

As I sit there for awhile, I notice that a black male, upper middle class and rocking the Spike Lee look mumbles to the left of me, bitching about the poor excuse of a human dragging her garbage can around. His stop comes and he gets out, but right before he leaves, he turns to the lady and starts yelling at her "take your God-damn garbage can off this train. Your stinking up the whole train!" He goes on and gets into it with the lady, saying everything that everyone else on the train was probably thinking but would never say. He steps off and meets up with friends at the platform. As he stands there, talking to his friends and obviously commiserating about the incident, your typical San Francisco white boy (complete with bike and goatee) looks up from his Palm Pilot and seeing the other guy still there, gets up to the front of the door and starts yelling at the guy. "Hey, don't yell at her. Try doing something to help her instead of yelling at her." As the doors close, he self-righteously sits back down and enters something else into his Palm Pilot.

Speaking of which, saw this headline in the Comical this morning:

Bush seeks sweeping overhaul of federal rules - Health regulations, environmental protections among hundreds of targets.

Hey, all you Green Party people- how's that voting for Nader thing working out for you?

Saturday, December 21, 2002

As I'm sitting here, getting myself psyched up for seeing The Towers by listening to nothing but Zeppelin and Dio, I flip on the TV and catch a little of this: Ray Charles Tribute On Ice- A tribute show to Ray Charles' renowned musical career with Brian Boitano, Jamie Sale & David Pelletier, Brian Orser and many more. Musical guest star: Ray Charles.

So now I'm wondering, will the The Towers now be anti-climatic after watching Brian Boitano skate around to a Ray Charles tune? How can an army of Ents, an hour long battle between the men of Rohan & the Uruk-Hai, and Gollum compare to that? And wouldn't Ray be so thrilled by the whole performance, considering he's blind and can't really see anything the skaters do?

Five hours and counting. Woo to the fucking hoo.

Thursday, December 19, 2002

There is unrest in the forest,
There is trouble with the Geeks,
For the battle lines are drawing
Between Star Wars and the Ring Three.

Or, as someone at work put it: "fuckin' Han Solo, Dude!"

PS- I'M SEEING THE MOVIE IN TWO DAYS AND I CAN'T FUCKING WAIT BECAUSE IT'S GONNA BE LIKE SO GOOD AND I'VE TALKED TO PEOPLE WHO'VE SEEN IT AND THEY SAY IT ROCKS AND THAT THE FINAL BATTLE SCENE IS AN HOUR LONG AND HOW CAN AN HOUR LONG BATTLE SCENE INVOLVING HUMANS AND ORCS BY ANYTHING BUT OFF THE HOOK AND GOLLUM IS SUPPOSED TO BE INCREDIBLE AND I GET GOOSEBUMPS JUST SEEING THE COMMERCIALS ON TV AND.....

can you tell I'm really excited about seeing the movie?

Wednesday, December 18, 2002


I had originally wanted to post a long story about Saturday Night. It was going to be the Great San Francisco Essay. It was about party hopping throughout the city and mating rituals of the single and desperate. It had it all- more woe is me type stuff, bitterly nasty comments about high-society types who think that wearing what could only be described as a chain mail tube top is classy, and long excitations about what constitutes a real San Franciscan and whether a party is really "varied" because it has both really fit white people and really rich white people. It was, in short, the Moby Dick of essays. It also sucked. Alas.

Here, however, is a brief rewrite of part of it. The excerpt as it were (unfortunately, it's still shite):


At a birthday party near North Beach. Didn't know either people whose birthday party it was, but knew people who knew one of the birthday people. I'm out with Jimmy and Sammy. Jimmy had already paired off with someone, leaving me alone on one couch and Sammy had left me to do shots. I like Sammy. He talks a big game, but usually winds up with me on the couch bemoaning his fate.

So I go up to the bar where Sammy and another guy are. We do what most guys do in situations like this, what guys have done in time in memoriam- sat on the edge of the party, stare at all the women, and occasionally say something to one another just to show people that we actually knew someone there and aren't that pathetic of a loser. It's amazing how years later, life is still often like a high-school dance.

I decide to say screw it. I've done way too much standing at a bar making occasional comments to other guys just make me feel comfortable. In front of us is this cool, living room like set up with couches facing each other, a coffee table, and chairs off to one side. Someone had gotten up from a nice, comfy chair, leaving it not only free but conveniently located between two women on the left and two women to the right. Sometimes, I tell Sammy, you have to go the party, and sometimes you have to have the party go to you. I'm kind of Zen like that.

I sit down, almost stumbling into it. The blonde woman closest to me on the right immediately leans into me and starts jabbering away about the bus boy taking her wine. She thought I had come over because I saw her beckoning. I didn't. She's too drunk to notice I didn't. We start talking, or at least she does. It's one of those conversations where one person goes on a long, drunken roll about something and after realizing that they're lost in the nether-regions, all you can do is nod your head and try to get in whatever you can.

For some reason, she goes on a long rant about Martha Stewart. I quickly realize she's too drunk to notice any of my brilliant witticisms or understand my cognizant analysis that Martha's merely being the fall-guy because she's a much easier, less politically connected person than Ken Lay so I just sit back and listen. Drunk people can be really amusing sometimes. And I feel like a little game of Play With the Drunk Girl.

She then goes on about her fascination of Condeeleza Rice, I realize I'm stuck. She's going on and on, leaning in to me, and she's too drunk to stop and give me a chance to leave. She's also kind of a cute blonde with knee-length black boots. I love knee-length black boots. And the chair was really comfortable. But as she goes on and on, I also realize that through her drunkenness, she actually sounds kind of interesting. Or maybe it's just because she keeps on leaning into me and putting her hand on my shoulder, but either way, I realize there might be a bit more to her than I originally thought. She's a High School Psychiatrist, which makes anyone A-OK in my book and she makes an insightfully cynical comment about how Condeeleza uses her southern charm and womanly wiles to be the brains behind the Bush administration. She even knows that Rice is a huge Cleveland Browns fan. I like insightfully cynical comments. I like the fact she knows the inner-workings of our government. Hell, most people (of either sex) probably have no idea who Condeeleza Rice is let alone know who her favorite football team is.

Sammy comes to tell me where off to go. I'm kind of relieved, given the chance to finally free myself. But what now? Ask for her number? Just say goodbye? Part of me thinks I should ask for a number- after all, I spent half an hour listening to her yammering away. On the other hand, she also is pretty drunk and there's a really good chance she won't remember any of it (see spending half an hour yammering away to me). I get up to go. I decide to do nothing, chalk it up as an idle prop to occupy the time. As I do, she tells me that I should give her my number because she and her roommate throw a lot of big parties and she thinks I'd enjoy them. She tells me that Tom Ammiano goes to them and some other political bigwigs. I'm down. I like a good party. I also like her boots.

One problem. I don't have a business card or a pen. Now what am I going to do?

I go off to find a pen. I go to the bar looking for a pen, I go to friends looking for a pen, I go everywhere looking for a pen. No pen. I feel silly. Like the guy in college who finds that he's about to score but is out of condoms and is finding himself knocking on all of his roommates doors for theirs. Use your cellphone, Sammy tells me, you can add new numbers to your cell phone. It's easy.

Ahh, my cell-phone. My brand new cell-phone. My new baby. What a wonderful thing my new cell phone is turning out to be. I just enter in her name and phone number and I'm good to go. Except, as I am new to the whole cell-phone thing, I barely have any idea how to work my phone. I can barely make a phone call, let alone enter in a new number.

I go back to her. She makes her roommate grab someone's cell phone and enters in my digits, asking me what my name was again. I start to enter her number, asking her what her name was again. It's a long name and I have no idea how to really do this. Plus, Sammy, Jimmy and a few others are on their way out the door to go to another party. I do what I can. Her name is Christina or Christine or something like that, but in my haste, it's entered as something like Chptsgm. I get her number, though, which is all that matters. I'm not drinking and I should be able to figure out who Chptsgm was. So I close my phone and leave. I got someone's digits. Well how 'bout that?

(Here's where all the brilliant snarkiness would come in and lots of roasting of high society types with their perfect teeth and Dockers uniforms, there anexoric bony bodies and there "rode hard and put away wet" look would be. Just pretend it was brilliant).

Jimmy and I head home, cabbing it back to my neck of the woods. We get out for pizza and I decide to show off a bit. After all, Jimmy and Sammy got digits. Nobody saw me pulling some out. Plus, I thought Jimmy would get a kick out of how inept I still am at this whole cell-thing. As we get out of the cab and head for the pizza place, I look through my phone book, trying to find Chptmn or whatever I entered her as.

It's not there.

No Christine, No Christina, not even a Chris or Kris or Chptmn. I guess I forgot to save it. After all that work, after all that effort, the number is gone. Lost somewhere in the ether.

Stupid cell-phone. No number for me.

Tuesday, December 17, 2002

Now here's a shocker:
Bush Is Expected to Say Iraq Failed to Meet U.N. Terms


Anyone surprised by this? Anyone think the Bushies were ever gonna own up to the possibility that Saddam might not have any "weapons of mass destruction?" Anyone ever think that after inspectors had left, they'd come out and announce to the world "well, whadda ya know, how about that? Turns out the guy's clean. Oh well, nevermind."

Generals gathered in their masses…just like witches at black masses

And here's another story, this one about those crazy Mormons, them of the Jesus Jammies and the and the no drinking Coke thing. Turns out they have been "posthumously" baptizing people who are dead. Meaning way dead, not just recently deceased, just had a funeral dead. Which is kind of hard, if you think about it, because it's not like there's a body around to actually dunk in water and if there is- ewwww. Some of those people who have been baptized Mormon, it turns out, are Jews.

This, for some reason, has pissed off leaders of the Jewish community. Some Jews are a little miffed that instead of taking all the time to try and convert Jews while they're alive, the Mormons have been saving themselves the hassle and converting them after their dead. Not only that, they've been "baptizing" Jews who were killed during the Holocaust, including the most famous murdered Jew of them all- Anne Frank.

Which is really sweet of the Mormons, if you think about it. It's really, really nice that they're honoring people who were killed for being Jewish by trying to keep the souls from going to hell for being Jewish. Do I even have to draw a map of the irony there?

The even weirder thing is that they've also posthumously baptised Ghengis Khan, Joan of Arc, Adolf Hitler, Josef Stalin and Buddha". In other words, the founder of one of the biggest and most benevolent faiths in the world, a Saint, a noted Big Bad Barbarian/ruler of Central Asia, and two of the most evil people ever put on the face of the earth. And that's an understatement. I can't say for sure, but I think it would be a safe guesstimate that between Stalin and Hitler, they were responsible for at least the deaths of 30 million people. And often, in not the nicest of ways (see Anne Frank).

First of all, huh? Why them? Why not baptize, say, Caesar, Trotsky, or Elvis too? Especially Elvis? Second of all, what does it say to all those poor Jews whose souls have been saved if they've also gone to the trouble of saving the souls of Stalin and Hitler? Also, not that I believe in Heaven, but if there were ever two people who deserved to go to Hell- and not just in a spending all eternity in the fiery pits of hell kind of hell but a going-medieval-on-their-ass while being-forced- to-listen-to-Mariah-Carey kind of hell, it would be those two.

So, speaking as a Jew, I'd just like to add this little note to those Mormons- bite me.
Damit, I wish I was clever enough to write this. It's the 50 Most Loathsome People in America, 2002

While I don't agree with some of it (you gotta give Michael Moore his props for being the only guy on the Left with any balls), anyone who brilliantly nails the suck-assness of Ari Fleischer, Bill O'Reilly, the unborn baby of J-Lo and Ben Afleck, and Jim Rome gets my props. Plus, you gotta like anyone who writes this about Asheligh Banfield :

"Aggravating Factor:   Has quite possibly the whitest name you can imagine. Her name is the equivalent of a black person named La' Shawna Jackson-Watkins."

Oh, and the most Loathesome People of them all- Anne Coulter.
Ummm, should I be worried that when I came home today and checked my mail, there was a name that wasn't mine suddenly up on my mailbox?

Monday, December 16, 2002

Sorry. I got nothing to say but it's okay.

Long day, long night. It's late and I'm drunk and want to go to bed to rest up for what's going to be a long frickin' day- meetings, deadlines, hangovers, lots of "uh-ohs" at work, new Buffy, and the knowledge that I came one point away from winning at least (at least!) a thousand bucks in Fantasy Football. One fucking point. Or, a Morten Anderson missed field goal or an Atlanta Falcon missed field goal or a Tiki Barber not being taken out early because the Giants were blowing out the Cowboys.

One point. And it's not even like I lost, I tied. It's just that I lost the tie-breaker and-boom (here comes the boom!), a thousand to two thousand bucks go bye-bye.

And people thought I'd have nothing to post now that I'm happily employed.

Did I mention I'm drunkk right now?

Sunday, December 15, 2002

I'm out shopping at Stacey's, the bookstore. I have to get something for my department's Secret Santa party on Tuesday. I frickin' hate the whole Secret Santa thing. Out of all the things I have to worry about, the last thing I want to worry about is trying to find some cute gift between $5-$10 bucks for someone I barely know and who'll probably pretend it's great to be polite and then throw away within hours.

Anyways, as I'm there, running around frantically cause I l have a lot of other errands to do and somewhere to be in an hour, I run into someone I used to work with. Ruh-oh.

Yep, another dilemma. Do the stop n' chat or the moving hello?

We used to work in the same department (in fact, at one point her office looked right out at my cubicle) and we were kind of friends in that co-worker kind of way. She was also on the fringe of a really close circle of co-worker friends, which meant that we'd often hang out after work with our other co-workers. I hadn't seen her in a long time, or at least talked to her because I have seen her a few times, but mainly when she was being all Shmoopyish with her boyfriend.

Now, I'm kind of happy to see her, kind of curious about what she was up to as the last thing I had heard was that she had been (surprise, surprise) laid off, but on the other hand, for various reasons, I kind of didn't care. Especially since I'm in a rush trying to find my stupid stupid Secret gift.

Unfortunately, she's walking right at me and there's no avoiding the fact we're about to have a run-in. Now, the stop n' chat would be the polite thing to do, but I don't really have the time nor in the mood for chit-chat. The moving hello, however, would be kind of rude. What kind of friends were we? Does she care? What does she want to do?

So I hedge my bets. As we pass each other and say hi, I pause, just for a second, in case she wants to talk. She doesn't. She says hi and moves on. She gives me the moving hello (bitch- umm, that's a joke). Luckily, I think her family was with her and she didn't have time. And she's also probably thinking all the same things I was. Because us neurotic people know how other neurotic people think.

Emergency averted, I continued on for my search for the perfect Secret Santa gift.

Saturday, December 14, 2002

If, say, you were a big Hollywood producer, this should be a sign that your big-budget, super-action flick is in trouble- the trailer builds and builds to it's climatic moment and as the music rises, the masked super-hero pulls off his mask to reveal himself as........Ben Afleck.

And the audience roars with laughter.

Daredevil looks craptacular.

What movie did I go see that allowed me to figure this out? Star Trek: Nemesis. Look, if you're gonna remake Wrath of Khan, right down to the almost exact same final scenes (so obvious that I kept on saying out loud "don't say it, don't say it"), but do it without Shatner or Montalban, you should just forget it and maybe try and remake, like, Star Trek IV. Because it can't be done, no matter how many Shakespearan plays Patrick Stewart has performed. It was laughibly bad with such a huge ret-con of an ending that I'm sure the internet, as I'm typing this now, is almost bursting at the seems with Trekkies in fury over the huge lapse of continuity.
Yesterday morning, Friday morning, was one of those mornings. No sleep, slightly hungover, it's raining outside and cold in my apartment. It is also Friday the 13th, as if that means anything. It was the type of morning in which the last thing I wanted to do was get my ass out of bed and go to work. Naturally, as befitting a morning like that, everything that could go wrong did- overslept, dozed off in the shower, came down with a rumbly tummy. And then the coup de grace- I cut myself shaving.

Of course I cut myself shaving. You always cut yourself shaving on a morning like that one. It's a given. Whenever you are having a really crappy morning and you're late to work, you will cut yourself shaving.

Which raises the philosophical question- do you cut yourself shaving because it's that kind of morning or do you cut yourself shaving because it's that type of morning.

Eh wait. What the hell did I just say? Strike that.

What I mean is you're having one of those mornings and it's just your fate to cut yourself shaving or is it because you're having one of those mornings and are stressed, in a rush, and not paying too much attention? In other words, is it the fates mocking you or is it your own damn fault?

Now, some people would say that it's your own damn fault. That there is no such thing as fate, destiny and kismet. They'd say that we bring everything upon ourselves due to various and sundry reasons and that we are responsible for all of our actions. The French would go farther and say that the cutting while shaving proves that there is no God and this shows the utter meaningless and absurdity of life. Psychaitrists, on the other hand, would also say that it's probably a result of some deep, dark psychological condition, probably brough on by self-sabotage and Inferiority complexes, and besides, it's really all our mother's fault.

Others, however, would argue the opposite. The Hindus might argue that it's karma for maybe eating that cheddar port wine bacon cheeseburger last weekend. Catholics might argue it's what happens for having naughty dreams about Catherine Bell. Other religious types would argue that the shave cutting is some sort of part of God's master plan and that all will be revealed at some point, probably either when the Messiah comes or when we die and go to the Pearly Gates to meet your reckoning ("sorry you had to miss the bus because God made you slice your chin up like that. Here, have a pass into Heaven and we'll give you Free TiVo just to make up for it"). And, of course, the ancient Greeks would argue that it's because not only are we lusting after someone, but that someone is our mother.

Me? I just think that one some crappy days, crappy things just happens. Maybe the Greek's had it right, except for the whole lusting after your mother thing.

Thursday, December 12, 2002

Just a reminder out there to people- if you ever have to buzz yourself into an apartment at, say 2 in the morning, please make sure it's the right apartment. Because nothing wakes your ass up faster than the sound of a loud buzz going through your an apartment. And nothing keeps you from getting anymore sleep like the pounding of your heart after having the shit scared out of you.

Hope someone does a ring-n-run on my neighbor one night. See how she feels when someone wakes her ass up out of bed when she's not expecting it.

Wednesday, December 11, 2002

Oh, what the hell....


Trent Lott on Bob Jones University keeping it's tax-exempt status despite it's ban on inter-racial dating:

"Racial discrimination does not always violate public policy," Lott, then a congressman from Mississippi, wrote in a 1981 friend of the court brief that cited prior court rulings upholding affirmative action programs at colleges.


And then there's this...

The Jackson Clarion-Ledger in Mississippi reported Wednesday that Lott made a very similar statement when he appeared with Thurmond at a rally in Jackson, Miss., on Nov. 2, 1980. After Thurmond spoke against federal pre-emption of state laws, Lott said, "You know, if we had elected this man 30 years ago, we wouldn't be in the mess we are today."
Friday night. Bowling.

The night draws to a close and the group I'm with is dispersing. It's down to just six people. With me is a really good friend, another person who I've known for awhile, and a bunch of people who I used to work with and while don't know all that well, always liked. I am the only guy. Now, how shall I put this….hmmmm….let's just say that two thirds of the group of six are more attracted to women than men (drunken experimental phases while playing women's softball doesn't count- just kidding Samela, you know I love ya!).

With the night dwindling, the idea is bandied about to continue on and go to a bar. The bar that gets decided upon is a lesbian bar.

Now, I am dead tired. Way tired. A result of too much running around at work, too much beer drinking, too many corn dogs, and some serious bowling. If I'd a have my druthers, I'd go home. The only problem is that the bowling alley is oh so far away (Daly City) and the only way home for me is to rely on the kindness of strangers (or, more like my friend, but the phrase is strangers so I'm gonna stick with that). That means my fate isn't necessarily in my hands and I have to do what the person driving wants to do. Don't want to be a killjoy, after all. She wants to continue on. Because I'm relying on her for a ride home- not to mention the fact I was having a good time despite the fact I was dead tired- when asked, I said I had no problem continuing on.

I could, however, go to the bar and then say I was tired and head home from there. We were going back into the city and the bar wasn't that far from my apartment. But there's a problem in doing that. We were gonna to go to a lesbian bar. This, of course, meant I had a dilemma.

If I excused myself and said I was too tired to continue on, I could come off as the kind of guy who couldn't deal with going into a lesbian bar. But if I stayed, I earn myself some street cred. Get some much-needed sleep or prove my non-uptightness? What to do...what to do.....

I went in for a drink.

Truth was, I had no problems going into the bar. It wasn't a hard-core lesbian bar full of 200-pound radical man-hating dykes. In fact, it was quite a nice bar- cozy with couches a fire, and an outdoor patio- the kind of place I like to hang out in. I also was enjoying the company, so much so I was kind of wishing I wasn't so gosh-darn tired that I could be more social.

None of this prevented everyone I was with from keep on asking me if I was okay with being there, which was kind of ironic because I went in just to prove to everyone that I had no problem being there. I did, however, find myself looking around for any non-lesbian types when I got in there, but that's more of a knee-jerk reaction type thing. Everyone, when going into a place a little out of their element, always first tries to find something similar. Again, not that I cared, but I just did it automatically.

After a drink and the realization I was about to pass-out, I got up and left, wishing I could stay but hearing my couch call like one of those shrieking plants in the new Harry Potter flick. Turns out too I had nothing to prove. Already proved my mettle years ago in going out with drinks with the very same crew. Not to mention hosting party for all of them, but that's a story for another time.
Is it totally awful of me that no matter what else is on, if Monster's Ball is on cable, I'll keep on flipping back and forth just to watch the sex scene?

I don't even really want to see the movie, but I've flipped back and forth enough times, I've pretty much seen most of it.

To paraphrase the mighty George Costananza, a guy would sit through any movie just to see a little nudity.

Tuesday, December 10, 2002

So yeah, checking the site's stats and I noticed someone came across my site by doing a search on Google using just the word "anything." In other words, they did a Web search for "anything."

Kind of cool isn't it in a meta-physical, Star-Trekky kind of way. Not to mention cool in that kind of bored, ambivelant, ennui kind of way. Think about it. This person was so bored, they did a search on Google looking for "anything."

What we have here is a person with the true understanding of the phrase, "hooray for anything."

And yeah, that's all I got tonight.
Ann Coulter needs to get laid. Not only does she need to get laid, she needs a big dick.

Monday, December 09, 2002

Bunch of random thoughts for a random day….

-Are we at war with Iraq yet? It's like the Ross & Rachel of newstories. Just get it over with, damnit.
At least we don't have to deal with Saddam going around and trying to excuse himself by saying "we were on a break."

-Memo to NFL executives: Uniforms in which the shirt and pants are the same color - SO tacky. The NFL is supposed to be class. It's John Facenda recounting highlights of games played on the "Frozen Tundra" as if it was the equivalent of Hitler's seize of Stalingrad. You're the league of Bronco Nagurski and Dick Butkus. Of Vince Lombardi and Jim Brown. Aqua blue shirts with aqua blue pants is a bunch of guys in Vegas for a bachelor party.

- I called it. The fact that our Senate Major Leader wistfully looked back to days or segregated yore was a complete non-story. I wonder what would happen if Nancy Pelosi admitted she occasionally likes to go the Power Exchange and get nailed from behind by a Dominatrix with a strap-on? Oh, the press will be all over that, but a huge political figure waxing nostalgic for Jim Crow is no big deal. Nobody seems to care either that our new House Minority Leader, Tom DeLay, is so whacked that he once blamed what happened at Columbine on Day Care.

-The ABC Family Network is indeed showing "The Year Without a Santa Claus." It was on late at night on Saturday and will later be shown on Christmas Eve. I tried watching it, but it was late and I fell asleep. Oh well, I knew I should have taped it.

I did, however, download the Heat Miser and Cold Miser song. Gotta love the internet.

- Here's the bit from the Adam Sandler song about Jennifer Connelly:

Gwyneth Paltrow is half Jewish but a full-time Oscar winner. Jennifer Connelly is half Jewish, too, and I'd like to put some more in her.

Don't know what to say. First, I don't know where Adam gets that from cause I haven't read it anywhere else. Plus, the thought of it is just too much for my fragile little mind to get around.

-Does every movie ever made in the '80's have to have one of those cheesy, fake drum and synth-laden songs on the soundtrack that's either about "chasing your dream," "pushing to the limit" or "what a feeling?" I watched Scarface over the weekend and even that movie had one of those songs. What were people thinking back then? Was it all the hairspray? Was it Reagan? Was it all the coke?

And finally….

- So, that was it? A year and a half of waiting, thirteen episodes where not much happened, and all we got for the ending was Carmela finally kicking Tony's ass out? Okay, it was a good episode and Edie Falco was brilliant- the acting acting equivalent of say Pedro Martinez pitching a 2-hit, 16 K shut-out, but that's all? Get ready for The Sopranos backlash- it's gonna be a long nine months until the next episode.. Man, that's a long ass time to wait.

Everyone thought HBO was so bright too, by running series' unlike the wau the networks do. No 22 episodes per season, no September start, and no pressure on the Creator to do anything that would appeal to a large audience. Which is cool, but allows the self indugent wank-off that was this year's season. We got two episodes of Bobby Bacala, whom I love, but nothing about Junior's trial. And nothing about Adriana and the Feds. Or Ralphie getting whacked. Not even any more shots of Valentina's ass. Say this for Network TV, if in the last episode of the season the main character sacrifices herself to save the world the Apocalypse, you only have to wait another three months to find out what happens.
Rainy days and Monday always get me down. Especially when I leave my umbrella on the bus.

D'oh!

Sunday, December 08, 2002

I finally worked on my Web site (yes, I have a Web site). All part of my master plan to, well, I don't know what, but I'm working on it. Anyways, for anyone who cares, I've added three new bits.

Ideally, these suckers might be published one day, but whose gonna publish:

1)My tribute to Graphix bongs (Go, Go Graphix)
2)An essay about why it's kind of cool to not celebrate Christmas (
A Lonely Jew at Christmas). I think maybe the story about taking acid and going to Midnight Mass might be considered kind of sacrilegious.
3)A long essay on temping that was deemed by the people in my "How To Get Published" class that it was too dark and dreary to be published. (This Isn't Happening). And they all wrote about dying relatives.

Hopefully, sometime next week I'll post my almost-but-not-quite finished deconstruction of the Hogwarts Academy. It's kind of a "Harry Potter" Meets the "Breakfast Club" kind of thing, only demented and sad, yet social.
I bought a yoga mat. And not only that, one of those yoga mat holders that goes over your shoulder with which you put your mat in.

I am now one of those people- the person who goes everywhere with their yoga mat in tow.

I didn't want to do it, didn't want to go there, but it just happened. I went to go sign up for a month's worth of classes, got shown the Holiday specials and gave in. Totally suckered into it. What can I say? The teacher is so nice, so sweet, and so blonde that the next thing I know, I now own a yoga mat.

But wait, it gets worse.

I have a cell phone now. An actual, real live, state of the art cell phone. I am one of those people now too. I actually found myself frantically running through a BART station, cell phone by ear, trying to reach someone to tell them I was gonna be late. Just like everyone else in this world. I even got a call while at a friend's house and answered it.


Life takes some strange turns sometimes, doesn't it?


And hell, why I'm confessing all my embarassing sins, here's a few more

- I downloaded a couple of Janet Jackson songs from Napster
-"Yummy, Yummy, Yummy I Got Love in My Tummy" and "Mmm-Bop" too
-I also like the new Santana/Michelle Branch song
-I love "It's a Wonderful Life" and yes, it does make me cry. Every single time.
-When I was a kid, I used to put Cheez Whiz on toasted bagels and would still do it if I wasn't so ashamed about it.
-I love watching all the political wonk-fest shows. Like "The Capital Gang" and "Washington Week in Review," even an occasional "Hardball." Or, at least I liked too before darkness fell over the land and the fires of Mordor started flaming anew.

Saturday, December 07, 2002

Hee.....

Lott's tribute to Thurmond seen as racist - Oldest U.S. lawmaker headed pro-segregation ticket in 1948

Senate Republican leader Trent Lott of Mississippi has provoked criticism by saying the United States would have been better off if then- segregationist candidate Strom Thurmond had won the presidency in 1948.

Speaking Thursday at a 100th birthday party and retirement celebration for Thurmond, the retiring Republican senator from South Carolina, Lott said, "I want to say this about my state: When Strom Thurmond ran for president, we voted for him. We're proud of it. And if the rest of the country had followed our lead, we wouldn't have had all these problems over all these years, either. "

Thurmond, until then a Democrat, was the presidential nominee of the breakaway Dixiecrat Party in 1948. He carried Mississippi, Alabama, Louisiana and his home state.

He declared during his campaign against Democrat Harry S. Truman, who supported civil rights legislation, and Republican Thomas Dewey: "All the laws of Washington and all the bayonets of the Army cannot force the Negro into our homes, our schools, our churches."


You know in all those horror movies when the bad guys are trying to do the "we're not really bad" thing and then somebody catches them doing something which reveals their true, bad guy intention? Like when the guy realizes that "To Serve Man" is actually a cookbook? Or in that great old mini-series V when Marc Singer knew the aliens were up to no good when he saw the hot alien leader swallowing a rat whole? That's what Trent Lott just did- slip up and show the world the black-heart that lies in much of Republican-land.

But why is it that this story will probably only get a little play here and there, while there was all this big hullaballoo about Nancy Pelosi becoming House Minority Leader because she's a "San Francisco Liberal" (ie- she likes gay people!)? Sen. Lott is only, oh, the House Majority Leader. And it's not like he's never gotten in hot water for making semi-racist statements before. Why is Nancy Pelosi being associated with Gay ole SF seen as a bigger liability than Trent Lott making a statement about how much better the country would be if the whole Civil Rights thing didn't happen?

Must be that liberal media bias.

Thursday, December 05, 2002

I wonder if in Wonder Woman's universe (the one in which she's the Super Hero in town) many of her enemies just gave themselves up. No, not one of her arch-nemesis's (nemesi?) as they'd have too much to risk (although arch-nemesis's do have an amazing ability to get free from jail), but more like one of their lackey henchman. The one's who wouldn't get in too much trouble if they got caught.

I mean, Wonder Woman would show up to stop them and it would be like "oh, no Wonder Woman, please, don't wrestle me to the ground. No! Anything but that! Please don't grab me in a bear hug!" And how many of the guys she captured refused to tell the truth just because they knew if she thought they were lying, she'd tie them up with her magic lasso?

I know I'd give myself up pretty easily.


Bikram. Again.

This time, I didn't get sick, but I'm not sure how good it was that my face kept on turning violet, Violet (and a very special Hooray for Anything t-shirt to anyone who gets that pop-cult allusion. That is if I had any to give).

I hate it when I'm barely able to do just one of the basic poses while someone decides to show off and goes into full Swan lake, Pretzel pose. It's usually some woman too, which makes it that much harder to concentrate on your breathing.

One of the middle-aged Chinese women next to me farted during a stretch.

Wednesday, December 04, 2002

This was written about three weeks ago. I haven't been able to post it up til now…..

They got me. They finally got me. After years of pooh-poohing even the thought of it, saying I'd never do it on general principle, I had to do it. I finally had to do the ole piss in the cup thing. El testo de druggio.

I knew I'd have to- it was on my acceptance letter- so it wasn't like a big surprise. Everyone at work told me not to worry about it, that nobody had ever failed it, and I have been a really good boy lately, but part of me was just a teensy bit worried. Everything else has gone wrong, why not failing a drug test? I know they were just checking to make sure the people they hired weren't, say, pulling a Christophuh and riding the Horse all day, but I'm way past the point of being rational about things like this.

On my first day of work, during my Orientation meeting with the HR person, I got it- the referral slip and the map to where I had to go. It was conveniently located way in the middle of fucking nowhere- somewhere in South San Francisco near the airport. There was no other place to do it

The big question, though, was when. I had a week to do it. Luckily, if I take the bus I normally take farther down the line, it would stop by the clinic. I'm not, however, to keen on taking a bus route I don't know very well, to a place I don't know very well, with only a rudimentary schedule. And did I mention that tonight's new Buffy? Not only new Buffy, but Sweeps Week, Spike-is-so-gonna- get-it Buffy. There was no way in hell I was gonna miss it. But I also I know that if I didn't do it tonight, I would never do it. I'm just that way. Plus, as it was my first day of work I was gonna get out of work earlier than normal. So off I went. If everything broke right, I could pull it all off.

First thing went right and I got the bus pretty quickly. Not much of a wait. Next came the first big fun of the night- knowing when to get off the bus. I had a basic map and instructions, but I still didn't know I to get off. I so love being on a bus, going in the completely opposite direction of my home, not knowing where I'm going or when to get off. When it came to the moment where I thought I should get off, I asked the bus driver, got the info, and got off where I was supposed to. So far, so good.

The place I had to do it in was some sterile clinic way off the beaten track. I had to pass a bunch of warehouses just to get there. The place was all white & halogen bright and there weren't many people there. I just might be able to pull this off.

I gave them my name and referral slip and went to go wait. My name was quickly called and up I went, into the back. An overly-made up but still pretty Hispanic girl took me into the back, gave me the cup, and told me to go into the bathroom and do my thing. I thought about asking for a magazine to help as a joke (think about it), but chickened out. Off I went, into the bathroom. Just me and the cup.

Problem. I didn't realize I had to piss just enough to make it to a line on the cup. Someone at work made a joke about not pissing before I left because she did and had to wait a half an hour before she could fill it all the way to the line, but I didn't take it seriously. I am sick and have been drinking tea all day, but it also means, I've also been pissing all day, including right before I left. And 2 hours to go til Buffy with God only knows how long of a commute back.

Come one ole faithful.

Ole faithful came through. Filled it to the rim with brim. I proudly brought the cup back to the pretty Hispanic girl who poured the contents into a vial. Poor girl- that was her job. She was a Piss Pourer. I wonder just how much piss she had to pour during the average day. I wonder how many times she scrubbed her hands just to make sure. I wonder if that's how she ever thought she'd grow up into being. She told me to flush whatever was left into the toilet and away I went.

The bus came pretty quickly. Only a fifteen minute wait, which wasn't bad considering I watched a bus pull away from the stop just as I left the clinic. Made it in back plenty of time to watch my beloved Buffy too.

Still, I can't but help add it all up. It took me about two and a half hours for me to get from my office back to home. All for fifteen seconds of pissing.

Is that right?
Why is it around this time of year that everytime you turn on the TV, the only classic Christmas shows (I'm talking about those claymation things that were on endlessly when I was a kid) they show are the one's everyone's seen a billion times. It's always "Rudolph the Rednosed Reindeer" or "Frosty the Snowman" or "Rudolph Meets Frosty." Hell, I'm sure there's even "Rudolph Meets Scrappy Doo." Those are all well and good, but the only one anyone wants to see is "The Year Without a Santa Claus."

And you know what I'm talking about. Two words- Heat Miser.

Everyone knows the episode, everyone knows the songs, everyone knows the hair. Hell, there was even a band called "Heat Miser" from the late 80's, early 90's. In terms of cultural significance, is there anything bigger than that?

Yet I never see it on TV. Somehow, this huge, pop-cultural giant has somehow fallen under the radar of all the TV execs (which, of course, makes it that much cooler) who should be showing it nearly as much as they show "A Christmas Story." God-damnit, if Vh-1 can try to be cool by showing "Pets of the Rock Stars" over and over again, can't they show this epic?

God damnit, is it too much to ask for a little Heat Miser?

I'm Mister Green Christmas
I'm Mister Sun
I'm Mister Heat Blister
I'm Mister Hundred and One
They call me Heat Miser,
What ever I touch
Starts to melt in my clutch
I'm too much!

He's Mister Green Christmas
He's Mister Sun
He's Mister Heat Blister
He's Mister Hundred and One

They call me Heat Miser,
What ever I touch
Starts to melt in my clutch

He's too much!

Tuesday, December 03, 2002

So I'm at this place, going over what's looking like a huge computer related project with the person who requested it. I'm envisioning schematic diagrams to lay out what needs to be done. I'm envisioning tons of time tromping back and forth with the computer people. I'm envisioning a hard time explaining what needs to happen.

And then it occurs to me, in order to do what needs to be done, all you have to do is go into the program and do a "command" S. Viola- instant prioritizing.

Thank you very much.

So not only did I save myself a lot of work to do, but I'm rocking everyone's world because I solved what was looking like a huge thing with some random knowledge I was able to muster out of sleep deprived head.

When it was over, I thought to myself, I should just go home. You know, pull a Costanza and leave on a high note. Gotta leave them wanting more.
Oh my God. So there's like this Online Dating Service. They sent me a spam-mail the other day saying that they have already found me three women who are perfect for me. I even got photos and names of them too!

This is so amazing cause, you know, it's not like I signed up with them. Or that they'd have any idea what I'm like. But still, they somehow figured out what I'm like and found me my dream dates! I know.

And the amazing thing is they already have a profile all set for me too! With all sorts of information about me that's true and makes me really, really wonder how they got all the information (not to mention if these poor girls know they're part of some stupid spam-mail-that is, of course, if they are real girls- cause the last thing I'd want to happen if I signed up for an online dating service is have my desperate singleness used as fish-food for other desperate singles).

Man, it's kind of scary the kind of things people can find out about you on the Web these days.

Do you think it has anything to do with the new John Poindexter, "we're gonna hire a convicted felon to spy on you and help make the world save for democracy thing?" You know, like it's just fringe benefit, a way of harshening the obvious Big Brotherness of it all? You know, don't worry, cause when we read all about you on the Web, we'll be able to save you from terrorism AND set-up you up on a date.

Monday, December 02, 2002

Sometimes in life, things take you take a weird place, a place you'd never ever think you'd see yourself. Yesterday was one of those days. Bikram, baby, Bikram.

Yep, went to go do yoga in a room intentionally (intentionally!) heated up so that it's around 100 degrees. This is supposed to be good for me.

Yeah, I know, yoga? It's so trendy, so au courant, so disgustingly IN my normal ordinary reaction would be to mercilessly mock anyone even thinking about doing yoga, just on general principle. After all, yoga mats are the new Razar Scooter. All of which is true but I have tried it and I actually liked it. I just haven't done it in awhile due to various reasons (see no money). And as far as trends go, everyone doing yoga is not such a bad thing. Beats the hell out of joining dot.com's.

But Bikram, that's a whole other thing. It's like Extreme Yoga. It's like for people who think regular yoga is too mellow. It's like for people who think regular yoga is for wussies. And I'm a wuss. But my 34 year old body has been telling me for awhile that I need to get in shape, lose weight, and fix my back. I also need something that'll help alleviate stress and make me less cranky. Viola- bikram. It's yoga, but because of how it's done and what you work won, it helps me relax, helps me get in shape, and helps my back. But wait! There's more! Because it's in a 100 degree room, you sweat so much that you lose weight. It takes care of four (four!) of my "need to do" things in one fell shot.

Plus, people who do it regularly says it completely changes you. Makes you lose weight and get in shape. Makes you want to eat less, exercise more, and stop adding pollutants to your body (that meaning beer and pizza). Sign me up. I wanna be a new me. I wanna see if I could give up beer and pizza (as the Duke would say, that'll be the day).

How was it?

First off, it's really fucking hot in there. Really fucking hot. And I hate the heat. It's one of the reasons I don't want to move back East. Most of the moves aren't that difficult or strenuous, but when you do it in that kind of heat, it feels like it's strenuous. I mean, you know something's pretty fucked up when the teacher gives the class instructions before the class starts on what to do if they feel like they're gonna throw.

And man, did I sweat. I haven't sweated that much since my last "oh fuck, I really need this job" job interview. And I haven't felt so sick since that night a few weeks ago when I went bar-hopping through the neighborhood and spent all morning watching my apartment go round and round.

The strange thing was that it wasn't necessarily the yoga moves that made me feel that way, it was the move the teacher had everyone do to relax. After a move, she'd have us turn around the other way and lie down on our chests to do a push up. All of the turning around is what did it to me. I wonder how many times they've had to hose down someone's up-chuck after a class?

Hours afterward, though, I feel pretty damn good. Good enough to try it again (maybe). Even full-well knowing I spent most of the time staring at the big clock and wondering how soon the whole thing would be over.

We'll see.
I already have tickets for The Two Towers. Bought them over the weekend. Yeah, I know the movie doesn't open for another couple of weeks. And your point is?

This movie is gonna rock. Like Zeppelin's The Rover gonna rock. Like AC/DC's Hell's Bells gonna rock. Like Dokken's Breaking the Chains gonna rock.

Frodo Lives.

Sunday, December 01, 2002

Walgreen's does sell Hannukah Candles, just not at the one that's closest to me.

We have Menorah.
Everytime I log into Hotmail, I get one of those annoying little "please check out our super-exciting content" ad's that MSN often throws at you in an attempt to get you to really care that Hotmail's part of the MSN Network. Whatever. The ad yesterday was this: "Remember Brittany? Find out what she's up to!"

First of all, how could anyone forget Brittany? She's only been shoved down our throats for the past four or five years. And has she gone away? I know her album kind of bombed and nobody cares about her anymore, but we're still getting Brit-Brit shoved down our throats.

And finally, if she did go away, do we really want anyone reminding us?

I guess it's a little better than today's "Find Out if You're Smarter than Shakira!" Oh boy.