And the Jay-Z song came on

Hi again. It's me, your fearless leader. The one who's afraid of lots of things, and never really leads anyone anywhere.

I moved into my new place in Santa Monica, which is cool. I have zebra-print sheets, and Batman bedspread, a lamp shaped like a giant martini glass, and a Miami Vice poster. It's safe to say that no girls have come over.

This week has been all about job-hunting. Luckily, I've made a handful of friends in the industry (I still feel like an ass saying that) which is good. I'm talking about the post-production industry. Videos and sounds and editing and special effects. Nice things like that. There's this weird little hotbed of 'em in downtown Santa Monica, and I've gone around and given my resume to and shaken hands with a bunch people much more important than me.

Then I went over to Urban Outfitters, The Gap and Barnes & Noble and got job applications to fill out. Because I need to pay rent. Like, bad.

Uhhh. Let's see. I'm miserable, mostly. It's sort of a temporary thing until I have something better to be. I hate this time of year. The immediate post-birthday letdown. Oh yeah, I turned on twenty-three on the fifth. I had the flu and I went to a job interview, then came home and took Nyquil before watching half of The Terminator and passing out.

I need to make some friends, and to have something to do. Beginning of the week, I was definitely loafing around too much. Then I went out and walked around doing the job-hunting thing (the analog way. Craigslist can get pretty dismal.) and felt a little better.

For the first time, I have a stable network in place. I have my dad and stepmom and various new sibling-like creatures, all of whom know people. Through Ashley, my stepsister, I met a bunch of really cool industry people. This seems to be gradually helping me out in terms of finding work, but still. It's been a while since I hung out with friends.

I miss San Francisco. Living there seems so much easier from a distance. Seven miles by seven miles. On my birthday, I got a wonderful mess of "happy birthday!" messages on Facebook. It was all heartwarming and I was stoked that people thought of me, but it really just made me miss everyone.

Anyway, I don't wanna depress anyone. I'm pressing on, regardless. Something's gotta give. And if it doesn't? Well. I'll join the Coast Guard or something.

I'm a GoBot that's gone nuts, it's kinda scary, job's a cover I'm really a revolutionary

So, I was thinking about how I don't write in here anymore. Sometimes I say it's because I don't have anything to write. Other times I say it's because the stuff I wanna write about is top secret, and I proceed to just vaguely hint at it. I think overall, I've been in the habit of blogging for so long that it's sorta made me a little warped. I mean, I started blogging before that was a word. I had a GeoCities page that was covered in Dragonball Z animated .GIFs where I talked about girls I had crushes on. That was 2002. Now, it's like I sort of get off on this kind of reversed exhibitionism... Like it's some kind of bizarre novelty when I don't talk about all the little facets of my personal life on the internet.

A friend of my dad's, the illustrious John Barlow (wiki HERE, because namedropping is cool) said he read a bit of this silly blog of mine and commented on the lack of privacy I gave myself. Which is so funny, because this is the tip of the iceberg. I tend to keep my sex life relatively unpublished... Though at the moment that's not a huge problem. At the moment, that's one thing I can't blame solely on writer's block.

Also, my mom reads this. She told me not to swear so fucking much. Hmph.

Things are in the middle of changing for me, right now. Halloween was super-rad, and the weekend surrounding it was equally cool. Through a series of magical events, I secured a job interview, got the flu, had to cancel the job interview, and I think I'm moving to Santa Monica on Sunday. Oh, well. Oh. And my birthday's on Thursday. Busy week.

Again, these are all things that are like, just about to happen. I have the horrible habit of jinxing myself. High expectations are the root of disappointment.

In other news, ages and ages ago, when I was at art school (IE, last february) a friend asked me if I wanted to be in his movie, which was going to be a super-awkward art school coming-of-age story. He wanted me to play the "guy with the rolled up sleeves who exposes the main character to pot."



There's the first scene. It's a pretty long movie, but it involves webbed feet, the most awkward sex scene I've ever watched OR participated in, and there's also a scene where my next door neighbor's totally foxy older sister pours Slurpee all over herself. That part was kind of awesome. Also, most of the soundtrack is MIDI versions of 90s pop songs. There's nothing quite like a love scene that got a Sisqo ringtone playing in the background.

Here's my scene.



It's weird watching this, since about three hours after we shot this, I fucked up my ankle and ended up in the ER and then proceeded to go Howard Hughes-crazy for the next few months. Sorta forgot about what I was doing on camera.

I've got the flu. Which is nasty. And I'm gonna go take a hot shower and drink some Robotussin.

Can't put up with the push-ups and the crunches make me cranky

So, I've been working out. Which is such an absurd novelty to me. And considering it's about the only thing I've been doing that can be considered a "thing" that someone "does," that's probably why I keep bringing it up. I need a muhfuggin' jay-oh-bee.

I was talking to a friend -- I realize this is the second post in a row that I've started this way, but I should explain that about the only other thing I do with my time is talk to girls on Facebook -- Um. So I was talking to a friend, and she asked what I was doing these days, and I told her about how totally ripped I've been getting, and how I can totally bench like a million pounds (I lied, I don't bench anything. I just jazzercise like a muthafucka) and if she wanted tickets to the gun show, et cetera.

We talked more, about random stuff, small-talk, our sex-lives, stuff like that. Eventually I had to go to bed, so I said my goodnights, and said we'd get together eventually.

But then something strange happened. I said "We should go work out together some time."

I have never said these words before -- seriously, anyway -- in my life. What the fuck have I become? I'm one of those guys.

Ugh. Revolting.

The way I see it... Working out, exercising for the sake of exercising... it's a chore. It might be a chore that's fun for some people, like gardening, but it's still a chore. You can hire people to do it for you. If I could hire someone to work out for me, I would. But that's impossible, even if I was a billionaire. I'd just get surgery.

Aside from the fact that it's a stock douchebag phrase, "we should work out together" is just sort of rude. It's like, "Hey, I've got a fuckton of yard work that needs doing. You wanna come over and help me?" Sure, friends help each other out, but it's so presumptuous to try and make it sound like a great fun idea.

"Dude, I got a kickass new dishwasher. I mean, it's sort of kickass. You still have to pre-rinse. We should totally get together and do the dishes sometime."

Fuck that. I go to the gym because I try to partake in some kind of self-abusive behavior on a daily basis. Key word being "self." I don't really like to involve other people in this, otherwise I'd probably just put up an ad on Craigslist saying "I need someone to punch me in the face for listening to Nickelback," or I'd go to one of those clubs where they play a lot of KMFDM and you can go in the back and have a German chick in fuck-me boots step on your face.

The fact that working out enough might result in me looking good naked, or resembling the kind of person who could kick someone's ass is just a nice side effect. I guess on a good day, working out is a chore, with end results in mind. On a bad day, it's something horrible I deserve to force myself to do.

Point is, I'm just appalled that I'd ask someone to join in with my self-abuse/chores. "Hey, we should work out sometime." Ugh. Such an obnoxious thing to say.

Speaking of... Well, nothing, here's a video of Hard-Gay, the Japanese... TV... Uh. Just watch the video.



Seriously. Japan crossed with flaming homosexuality. Could there be anything more campy?

I'm as dark as December, I'm as cold as the man in the moon

A friend and I were arguing. She said, "I'm an awesome human." I replied with "Yeah, but you're still a human. I've surpassed you, muthafucka." At this, she told me that robots dont dream and suffer long winters of stiff, chattering smalltalk.

(I wish I remembered the context of this conversation.)

Anyway, at this, I reminded her that she'd lived in California her whole life, and that she knew nothing about suffering long winters of anything, let alone stiff smalltalk. There's nothing like a nor'easter heaping three feet of snow on everything to make WASPish New Englanders more frigid and tight-lipped.

She said "Well, I've been to the snow..." which is an absolutely adorable California expression.

"Go to the snow" makes me think of "going to visit Grandma." Like, it's a special occasion. Maybe you do it for holidays or because the kids really want to, but it's at your leisure. If you had your way, you wouldn't do it at all.

In New England, the snow comes to you. There, it's more like crazy uncle Donnie, who shows up uninvited and ruins everything. Sits around the house and drinks all the beer, and gets in the way. Maybe the kids like him when they're little, because he plays with them, but as they get older, the begin to see why he's a hassle.

California's the only place I've ever been where people go visit different seasons and weather conditions. Aside from rain and the occasional earthquake or wildfire, it's pretty much always summer, or some kind of lower-key version of summer.

Kids here get totally stoked when it rains. People get more stoked about rain here than kids in New England get about snow. And snow, mind you, allows for snowboarding, skiing, sledding, snowmen, snowball fights, building snow men, making igloos, and writing your name with urine.

When it rains, you can jump in puddles. I don't know a whole lot of other fun rain-related activities. Staying inside playing Monopoly.

It's odd, and I don't get it. I don't see the appeal in rain at all. Snow, I'm not a huge fan of, but at least I can see why it's fun. Rain's pretty fucking useless unless you're a brooding depressed kid.

I like the rain when I'm playing Film Noir Detective, but when it's snowy, I can play Han Solo: Hoth Explorer.

Or I can pretend I'm Kurt Russell in The Thing. Which is an even better game, and one I hope to play this winter sometime:




And on that note, I'm gonna go outside and enjoy the lovely California sunshine. Not a cloud in the sky.

It's time to be an android, not a man

You know, in a perfect world, a lobster-tank would be a vehicle. Unfortunately, we live in a cruel, awful world where it's just a thing you find in the back of some grocery stores.

You know what you never see? A black guy with a unibrow. That, and vampires with braces. But I guess you don't really see vampires that much anyway, so I don't know what I'm talking about.

I'd like to note that my dad was just trying to get something in the kitchen, and the dog got under foot. My dad said "Get out of my way, you scrotum on a stick..." Bear in mind, the dog is a little Yorkshire terrier, which has the texture/odor/appeal of a soiled Ewok.

What I'm writing has pretty much no point. Less so than normal.

I spend a good portion of my limited brain-power thinking of what my ideal house would be like. Which is remarkably impractical, since I don't really do anything, let alone something that would put me on a path towards to having a house. Someday, if I ever figure out how to be rich, I plan to live up to the old maxim "a fool and his money are soon parted."

I think I want a normal living room. You know. Framed Patrick Nagel prints. Gargoyles, for the sacrifices. On the coffee table -- which I'm sure will be made from an old arcade machine or something -- I'll have reading material for my houseguests... Except it'll be ironic as fuuuuuck. Lifetime subscription to Cat Fancy magazine... And lifetime subscription to Soldier of Fortune.

My coffee table is gonna be kickass. That's a given.

And one thing that I've always promised myself... Assuming my delusions pan out... Is an "As Seen On TV" room. It'd be a room. With a TV. And phone. And chair.

I would sit in this room, and I would watch TV. And every time I saw an infomercial for some amazingly stupid Billy Mays contraption, I would order it. And then I would put it in the room. And... Maybe I'd use it, I don't know. But eventually the room would fill up. And when it did, I would have the most kickass yard sale ever.

And you know how some people have stuffed animal heads in their Den, or whatever? I'm thinking a hyper-realistic replica of a stuffed Ted Nugent head. It would be garish and horrid and great.

And I think I'd have a fake fridge, so when you opened it, there'd just be a room with Louie Anderson hanging out inside. He'd be sitting under a bare bulb in a folding chair, and you'd open the door, ya know, looking for cold cuts or something, and Louie would be there, looking up sheepishly and going "Ehhhh, I ate all the deviled eggs... Sorrryyyyyy."

Oh, and how about the LEGO room. Floor. Walls. Ceiling. All LEGO baseplates. And I don't even know if I wanna have kids. Wouldn't want them messing with my guns and booze.

I think the overall goal is just to star in the first feature-length episode of MTV Cribs. And have it win an Oscar. For being the greatest thing ever filmed.

I hope I've given you something to think about while going to sleep. And if I haven't, here's this:

Sweet dreams.

This is like the worst blog I've ever written. I hate writing. You want a bestseller? Just get me drunk and write down what I say.

SPECIAL EDITION 100TH POST!!!

Wow, oh my fucking Godzilla. This is my 100th entry. What a momentous occasion.

Oddly enough, I actually have something to write about besides how I'm not doing anything of interest and how I need to get laid.

I've recently had more and more of a bone to pick with people who misuse words. Not in like, the proper sense. More in terms of semantics. Words like "random" or "epic" or "badass." People think that "epic" can translate to "cool." Or think "random" just means "weird and hilarious."

Language is always changing, and that's kind of what makes it cool. A long time ago, if you told someone he looked awful, he'd probably be flattered. Of course, he'd probably look awful by today's standards, so I guess awful's a good word for passive-aggressive time-travelers to know.

Let me clarify a few things. Smoking is cool. Motorcycles are cool. Recycling is not cool. Neither is organic food. That's not to say that smoking and motorcycles are good, or good for you, or anyone else... But they're cool.

Remember that movie that James Dean was in where he drove around in his Prius going to farmers markets and buying farm-fresh produce/supporting local business?

Exactly.

I quit smoking. Smoking is bad for you. Smoking makes you get cancer and die, and hot well-behaved girls will complain about the smell. I'm not advocating smoking. But smoking is cool. That's just what it is. Old jazz guys smoke. Badass cops smoke. That really mysterious guy in the corner of the bar who's smoking a cigarette? He smokes.

To clarify: Rock and roll is about living fast, dying young, and leaving a good-looking corpse. Or one that's horribly mangled, depending how you go out.


Here's Keith Richards in the seventies. He's really cool. I shudder to think of the number of toxic chemicals he's got in his system in that picture, but still. He's really cool. This picture is rock and roll.


Now, there's Jack Johnson. Chances are, he's pretty sober in that picture. Maybe he smoked some pot, I don't know. Either way, he's not wearing shoes. Jack Johnson isn't cool. I'm not saying that to knock him, but he's totally low-key and non-threatening. He's chill. He's laid back. But he's not cool.

Jack Johnson isn't rock and roll. He's musical date rape. You put on his CD when you're hanging out with some girl in your dorm room, and you're 1) a total wuss 2) probably gonna get laid. Especially if you can play some songs on acoustic guitar.

This is the part where girls disagree with me, and the part where I say something offensive and childish as a rebuttal.

Anyway. Back to the matter at hand. "Badass" is another good one. Badass is like "cool," but turned up to eleven. Fonzie is cool. Lemmy is badass. James Dean is cool. Wolverine is badass. Get it?

The current pop-culture "what's hot, what's not" landscape right now is all kinds of screwed up. Gone are the days when celebrities could be decadent and ridiculous and be praised for it. Now it's trendy to get married and have children/adopt children from a third-world country, drive a Prius, and support some kind of charity. Or be politically active.

This is all very progressive and socially responsible, but come on. Remember when Billy Idol would fuck up hotel rooms? When Hendrix would set guitars on fire? When Johnny Cash would get caught at customs with more pills than a Walgreens?

I want to be a celebrity. This is a given. I'm a stupid nitwit with delusions of grandeur and I'm a rampant narcissist. For some reason I'm compelled to add that I'm also rather fiddleheaded, and I don't even know what that means.

Point is, I'm ready to make a big ol' moron of myself and piss everyone off. But then win everyone over. And then get caught making out with some other guy's girlfriend, and getting in a fight with the guy. And then maybe have a TV holiday special with Vin Diesel where we go caroling and play Dungeons and Dragons.

I just wanna make people laugh. Whether it's with me or at me... Just as long as they're not laughing on me. That's gross. Say it, don't spray it.




PS: JACK JOHNSON SUCKS!

I got drag-strip courage, I can really drive a bed

Yesterday was a remarkably good day. I met up with my dear old friend Leah, with whom I basically shared a house last summer, since she was dating Cal, the guy who was crashing there too. It was a house for wayward children.

Leah and I go way back. I had a crush on her in high school, but since I watched anime, and she played sports, nothing ever really came of that. But then I got really cool all of sudden, and then we ended up being buddies. We've never had any kind of romantic involvement, which is sort of odd. More like, always trading war stories from our hilariously calamitous love-lives.

Anyway, Leah was down vacationing, and she brought along this guy she's been seeing. Cool guy. We hit it off and exchanged business cards, because, ya know. That's what ya do. Leah also introduced me to her cute friend, who is cute, and uh, not thirty.

(That was the first time I've hung out with people close to my age in six weeks or something.)

While I was hanging around, I went in Barnes & Noble and read a rather amazing comic. Mark Millar's 1985. It made me get all sentimental like good comics do. It's about a kid who's thirteen, and depressed, and his parents are divorced -- it's set in 1985, btw -- and then he finds out that a bunch of Marvel Supervillains moved into the house down the street. It's a total goofy throwback plot, but it was pulled off quite well. It was sort of like The Goonies crossed with... I dunno. Cinema Paradiso, but if that old dude who worked at the movie theatre was Doctor Doom.

It was a love letter to the medium (as queer as that sounds) and it hit all the right notes. I get sentimental over comics, same way as I do over Star Wars. I had some really rough times when I was a kid, and that's where I went when shit got tough.

When I was eight, I was given a massive pile of comics from 1984-1987. Total mixed bag. They were in the back of Mike Redmond, my great aunt's groundskeeper's, pickup along with a bunch of old weird crap. He was taking them to the dump.

In this pile was a massive amount of X-Men, Conan (which never got into, really), Judge Dredd, Power-Man and Iron Fist, Daredevil, and even a copy of the first issue of Frank Miller's Ronin. My feelings about Frank Miller have recently changed, since the release the the 300 movie, and after seeing Sin City too many times, and then hearing his retarded political ideals that seem to have changed drastically since he got rich and famous. But regardless, Frank Miller in the 80s was OJ Simpson in the 70s. Nuff said.

Growing up, I probably spent too much time alone, reading comics that were older than I was, and watching too many reruns. I've been bashing my head against this stupid idea that I don't act my age. I feel like I'm trying to justify it, and it's stupid. Like trying to buy beer with a permission slip from my mom. Yes, I'm trying to sleep with older women. No, I have no idea why. Maybe because if I make a joke about Buckaroo Banzai or Night Ranger, I'm not met with a blank stare.

My mom was pop-culturally celibate for the 1980s. When she wasn't living in France, listening to Mozart, she was spending all her time in a kitchen, being really busy and probably probably kind of an asshole too. When chefs are "on" they're like that. When she wasn't doing that, she was raising me. So, by some weird fuckupery of the universe, I've actually had my mom ask me "Wait, who's Kenny Loggins?" It's really sad that I could totally school my own mom on 80s trivia, and I was only alive for like 30% of the decade.

Back to this comic I read. 1985. It just made me all nostalgic for something I never even witnessed first-hand. The mid-eighties were such a golden age for comics. And somehow I managed to grow up with that, thanks to the big hand-me-down stack of comics. And along with that, I saw ads for things that I'd never get to experience first hand. Long-dead Saturday morning cartoon shows. Long discontinued toy lines. And Bonkers. The candy. Which I will never get to eat. And because I will never eat it, I will never get to send in the proofs of purchase required to get the kickass transforming robot digital watch.

Seriously. That's a fucking depressing realization.