Cuz you know I got the candy chrome

Hey. So, good things and bad things are happening, and fun fact: David Duchovny has his Master's in English Lit. Go figger.

Laughing time is ovah.

I don't have a whole shitbunch of anything to say, but I've been getting the itch to write and draw a lot more, and I recently got recruited to work on a sort of art co-op blog:

DavidCrockettDestroys.blogspot.com


Which is a pretty neat idea, and I'm gonna try and stay involved. Basically, every week (?) my buddy Donta gives everyone involved a topic, or subject to draw. First one was self-portraits, the second was Hanna Barbera cartoon characters. I can't wait for the next topic. It's like an advent calendar.

So check it out.

It's come to my attention that I'm violently incapable of taking things seriously. I mean, I can act appropriately in situations, but I'll still be thinking of jokes and shit. A friend of mine told me about how someone they knew died in a boating accident, and how she was going home to see fellow mourners. I was about to say, "Well, at least you're all in the same boat," but then I realized how it was a terrible pun. That's just a for instance. I can't do the serious thing. Even when I'm completely miserable, I still see the humor in things. And when someone else is miserable, I still see the humor in things, but I can't say anything about it because then I'd be a real fucker.

Is this a good thing or a bad thing? I can't tell. If someone points a gun in my face, yeah, I'll be like "Oh fuck." But I'd probably still think something like "If I told him the safety was on... Would that work? Maybe I'll tell him that his safety's on and his shoes are untied and uh, his fly's open."

I can't tell how I feel about myself these days. This past year of school has endowed me with totally rad levels of confidence that I didn't have before. It's pretty nice, but I mean, I've probably gotten cockier and am now more of a jerk. Like, on a closer-to-alpha-male level. I think I've embraced that 'Nice Guys Finish Last' concept, and now I'm basically Ryan Reynolds' character in Just Friends (which is an okay movie thanks to his performance.) I think of Michael Cera and I just wanna kick him in the pussy. Duckie from Pretty In Pink? I wanna set that motherfucker on fire.

I think I'm sort of like a Byronic hero. I don't think that's an egotistical thing to say, I just mean if I was the central character in a book. Check the Wiki on it, it's like a friggin' checklist of descriptive terms and character defects that I exhibit on a regular basis. I also read up on The Dark Triad, which sounds like a total metal trio of Witch King Phantom Reavers or some shit, but it refers to being narcissistic, Machiavellian, and psychotic. I don't think I've got much going in the latter two categories. I was thinking it over and realized that Ryan, Brandon and I are kind of a dark triad (I'm pretty sure it's not supposed to apply to a group of people, shush.)

I've got the narcissism:


Ryan's Machiavellian as fuck:


And there've been a few times when Brando would've killed a waitress at Denny's if we didn't stop him.


We've adventured together a fair amount, too. There was one total vision quest of a trip to Santa Cruz. Ended up driving there, staying for six hours, and driving back. So leaving at 7PM and coming pack at 7AM. Eerie night.

Speaking of Ryan, I forgot about this. Good juicy details, though I'm sure most people stopped reading this by now because I'm just rambling.

Saturday was Gabe's birthday. I showed up at like eleven, and at that point everyone was pretty good and sloshed. Dan just moved in (on-and-off guy I hate, former best friend, sort of ran off with my girlfriend a few years ago) and I was sort of avoiding him, and the elephant in the room was that I hated him. Also, we had an elephant in the room. Long story short, Dan and I are cool.

Ryan and I, however, aren't such best buds right now. He's been a huge flake lately, and we hung out once a few weeks back. I bought him dinner and booze and stuff, and homeboy already owed me for a medical bill I threw him some money for when I was straight ballin' last summer. But yeah. He had a girlfriend, that took up his time. She dumped him, and by all logic we'd start hanging out again. But no, he just sorta was never around. So we're hanging out last week, and pretty much all he does is complain. Arusha's going away party was the next night, and he promised he'd be there. Never showed up. And he'd texted me saying he was on his way early in the party.

I know this sounds stupid, but bear with me. No, really. I have a bear with me. Call the ranger, please.

I see him for the first time since then at Gabe's party, and he's already just shitfaced. More drunk than I've seen him in about a year, and he's the worst drunk I know. Says rotten shit to everyone and makes an ass of himself. I see him in the hallway, and he's wearing a stained v-neck that's way too big for him, a pair of almost daisy-duke jean cutoffs, and two black socks. One had Santas on it, the other had spiders. He was being pretty revolting. And basically saying that nobody loved me.

It sort of came to a head when he blew his nose in his hands, and then wiped snot all over my jacket. I proceeded to scream in his face, which is sort of a hard thing to get me to do. Marcus had never seen me get mad. I don't really get mad.

So, after some bickering, which is a bit blurry, and just slapped Ryan really hard in the face. Which is how you strike someone as horrid as him. If it's good enough for cocker spaniels and prostitutes, it's good enough for him. Then he sort of grabbed me hands because I think maybe I was trying to choke him, and he's pretty strong for a disgusting little weasel. So I just headbutted him. He said something like "That didn't hurt at all," so I headbutted him again, a lot harder. The kind where everyone went "OWWW! I could hear that!" and then Ryan sort of backed down a little bit, and then I just punched him really hard in the top of the head. Then I was pretty adrenalized, and forced myself to back the fuck off. I don't know what he was doing, sort of stunned. More by the fact that I actually punched him in the head than by the punch itself.

Then, I said something like "Stay the fuck away from me. We're not cool right now, and I've had enough of your shit." Then I grabbed a bottle of vodka. I realized, even through my rage-blindness, how stupid I sounded, and also the fact that I'd just picked up a bottle of raspberry flavored Smirnoff. So then I said "Yeah, Uh. Fuck you. I'm gonna take my fucking, um, my raspberry girl booze, you fucking check yourself."

So yeah, I'm apparently the type of guy who performs an almost Three Stoogian attack combo (bitchslap, headbutt, bonk on the top of the head. Nyuk nyuk nyuk) and then proceeds to deliver a pissed off speech about how I'm going to go drink Raspberry girl liquor, and go into the back room and shout about how cool I think the fishtank is.

Someone has a fish named Bonesaw, and there's an army man in the tank. I was pretty stoked on that.

Eh, so there's that. And there's other stuff that doesn't go on the internet.

I've talked enough.

I'm flyin' first class you ain't even got a TV on your plane

Ahoy, fleshlings

Here I am again. What's new and deadly. Hmm. Well, I'm working at Current full-time, doing my internship. Not getting paid, but enjoying myself thoroughly and consuming just as much free Mountain Dew as you'd expect. Actually, probably more than you expect. I feel like I'm sort of turning back into an older version of myself. Maybe not completely, like sort of a reboot. Darker and scruffier and generally less pleasant, but still nerdcore as fuck and guzzling epic quantities neon yellow soda.

I work on a friggin' video game TV show. I'm going to be on it. I'm going to have stuff I've written on it. I'm going to be a household name. Sort of. Depends on the household. If it's a household where Jessica Chobot is a household name, then maybe.



I think I might be working with her in the future. I don't know if I'm supposed to keep that a secret, but if I am then I'll retract my statement and dismiss it as absolute lies and fantasies. Fantacrap.

But yeah. That broad's a bigger nerd than I am. Not like, physically. I can't imagine she's over 5'11", but you know what I mean. Got sorta e-famous for this picture that was floating around of her licking a PSP in a seductive fashion.

Yeaaaah.

Oh, I think there's going to a puppet on the show! Spoiler alert!

So yeah, everything's amazing as the grandest of fuck-all, at least in the fun half of reality. Otherwise, I'm a little bit scared shitless about what comes next. Like I said, internship. I don't get paid, even if I'm gonna be on TV. So, I'm working this half-assed front desk job at my dorm, which is cool, except I can only work until next month. And then I have to be broke. And move out, presumably to Arusha's house. For another month, and then I don't know where I'm going to go.

Arusha's in London for two months. That really sucks. I seem to end up in this sort of situation a lot.

So yeah, aside from being two steps from quasi-fame and one from homelessness, things are... good? As always there's so much I'd love to put into writing, but can't for whatever reason. Be it because of a non-disclosure agreement I signed, or the fact that I don't know how to spell "amphibious." (I'm kidding. See previous word.)

I've found that I'm acting mostly like a grown-up, kind of, sort of. I mean. Yes, I get up to work every morning and go to work to play video games and make up jokes about them, and then drink soda and eat candy... And I did my laundry this weekend. I still haven't folded it, but hey, I'm a busy guy. Yeah, as I was saying. I'm BASICALLY a grownup.

Again, I'm kidding. I'm a fucking retarded person. I wish PepsiCo would just endorse me already and give me a little corral at their corporate headquarters to live in and do Mountain Dew related tricks in their commercials.

You know all those parts in the Harry Potter books where it almost seems like everything's gonna work out for him, but then he ends up having to go back to live with his shitty relatives? Like, you think the Weasleys are gonna let him crash out in their guestroom, or Sirius Black'll get exonerated and then adopt Harry, but then there's some shitstorm of magical bureaucracy, or a bunch of evil flying skeletons in robes fuck everything up? It sorta feels like that right now. You know, a little bit. Right now, going back to school is the last thing I wanna do, but it sorta seems like that's gonna be what happens. Unless some amazing shit goes down for me at Current, it seems like I'm gonna have to scuttle around as an intern or a freelance guy for a while. Eventually, shit'll probably work out, and I'll shoot Voldemort in the fucking face with magical spells, but for the time being, I've gotta put up with Uncle Vernon's hideous fatness and shouting.

By the way, the dude who played Uncle Vernon is in this hilarious British movie called Withnail and I, where he plays this big fancy gay cousin. Good movie. Pretty much Midnight Cowboy, but set in England. And without the prostitution or tuberculosis. It's also got that awesome roadie from Wayne's World 2 who keeps telling that story about the time he had to kill the owners of a Thai candy shop in order to get Ozzy Osbourne a brandy snifter full of brown M&M's.

Okay, I need to stop. Peace, homies. I'm Audi Quattro.

News of the world

Okay. Again with me being a total deadbeat blogger.

First, the short and sweet stuff:

1) I am walking again. I still can't run, but I can walk. Sometimes. I still wear an Ace bandage. I dunno, it's bullshit, but I sprained my shit real good, apparently. It's cool, I've never really liked running anyway.

2) I've got a girlfriend. She's Arusha, the lovely British girl I've mentioned a few times. Unfortunately, she's leaving for England on Monday for two months. So yeah. That kind of really sucks. Regardless, she's rad as hell and doesn't mind hanging out watching total guy movies. We've also got basically the same sense of humor, which is a wonderful thing.

And now, the big thing. I've been sort of hinting at this for quite a while now, but I didn't want to say anything: I'm interning for CurrentTV/Current.com, thanks to Christina's cousin Scott. If you're not familiar with Current, it was founded by Al Gore, and it's mostly viewer-created content, though recently they've started doing some full-scale original shows. So, more specifically, I'm working with the gaming team. Which basically means that I research video games all day, and pretty soon, I'll get to hang out and play them. Which is, ya know. Totally hard work. Actually, Scott and company are at Best Buy right now buying three grand worth of gaming consoles and accessories.

Current is a genuinely cool website, and I highly recommend checking it out. It's sort of like if YouTube, Twitter, and Digg had a big nasty orgy, and then YouTube got preggers with twins, but they didn't know who the dad was, and then the twins ended up fucking, and they had a baby, and that baby turned out to be really awesome, despite the fact that it was the bastard incest lovechild of a bunch of fucking websites. I genuinely recommend checking it out, and not just because I work there. It's like got basically all the worthwhile YouTube videos, without all the bullshit videos of retarded 13-year-olds lipsyching or playing with their cats or giggling like morons and shaking the camera.

I don't get paid (yet?) but I get free Mountain Dew, and hey, I'm sitting around watching YouTube videos and looking for stuff about video games. That's the kind of thing I do anyway.

If you actually bother to check the site out, and maybe find yourself remotely compelled to make an account on there, you should add me. Did I mention you can upload stuff that, if popular enough, gets put on TV? That's cool, right?

Here's my thing: THERE IS A LINK HERE

I post some pretty cool stuff, I think. Because, hey. I'm interesting, right? And also... I spend entirely too much time on the internet.

Oh, and I met Al Gore. Sort of. I was in the bathroom and he came in and went pee next to me. The end.

Short people got no reason to live

Here it goes again. I was hoping to save an update until I had something new and exciting to talk about, but I don't wanna count any chickens before they hatch. There are, however, hopefully going to be some interesting developments in what I'm doing with my dumb life. I'll give you a hint: if my calculations are correct, when/if my chickens hatch, there will be tons of them, and they will all be resplendent birds that lay golden eggs and shit... golden shit.

Okay, that wasn't really a hint, it was closer to the ramblings of a senile fairy tale author.

I don't know. I haven't really gotten back to school yet, which is infuriating, because I don't like school, and if there's one thing worse than doing something you don't like doing, it's feeling guilty for not doing it. Actually, I think there are a lot of things worse than doing things you don't like doing. Centipedes, for instance, are terrible things. So is cottage cheese and asparagus. It was a figure of speech, though. I feel guilty for not being on my shit.

I shouldn't feel guilty, because a number of legitimate factors have kept me grounded. On top of the sprained ankle, I ran out of my anti-depressants. I called up my pharmacy to have them fax my shrink for a refill. They did that, and he denied the refill until I scheduled an appointment. What the fuck. I mean, yeah, I told him I'd be calling him around the fourteenth of January to schedule an appointment... And then didn't... Until last week, when the lady at Walgreens told me that was the story. But fuck, I was out of Wellbutrin, and if you're unfamiliar, suddenly stopping taking an antidepressant really fucks with your head. Even if I skip the shit for a couple days, everything slows down a little bit and starts feeling a tad bit David Lynchian.

Eh. Somewhere after I ran out of pills, I started walking a little bit again, which is nice. Of course, immediately after this, I came down with a nasty cold. It was around here that I became a total zombie. I was limping around, dragging one foot, totally brain-dead and all whacked out on cold medicine.

I miss the part where I was healthy and miserable. Ya know, last semester.

Kidding, though not being able to walk does fuck with my head about as much as finding out my ex ran off with some dingo-diddling Australian.

Speaking of Nikki, this is where coincidence continues to make my movie seem like a bad screenplay. Christina, one of my oldest and dearest Sonoma friends recently moved to Brooklyn, which sucks because I miss her. This is the second loved one to move to Brooklyn since August (Nikki, the ex, was the first, for those not up to date on my fascinating life). Anyway, the two of them never really got along, because... Well, women are like cats... And it entertains me greatly when cats fight each other. No, nevermind. That's nothing to do with it.

ANYWAY. Sorry. Point of the story is... Nikki is now Christina's manager at a sushi restaurant. My ex is now my friend's boss, basically. I mean, I'm making it sound more dramatic than it is. Nikki did a really nice thing and got Christina the interview, even after a bunch of mutual dislike a while back, and now they're buds.

This is weird for me, because now two women who both know me really well can get drunk together and discuss things about me that make me uncomfortable, and I'm narcissistic enough to think that's what they're gonna do.

That's how interesting my life is right now. My stories entail gossip about what my friends are doing in Brooklyn. In other news, Gabe finally got his ass outta Sonoma and moved in with Sam in the city, which is good, because he's a champ, and now I've got a whole house full of homies a short busride away. This is bad, because I also have a whole house full of homies a short busride away.

Last night we did a little housewarming thing, which entailed me reading comics in the corner for about seven hours straight while everyone else played video games. Then we drank beer and had a long discussion about masturbation. Basically... This house is now a treehouse. No girls allowed... We don't want 'em making fun of us for being a bunch of dorks. I don't know why girls would wanna go there anyway.

It's nice being a dude. Girls get together and paint each others nails and talk about boys. We get together and play the old Ninja Turtles arcade game, drink beer, and piss off Sean by asking nosy questions about his girlfriend's vagina. We know nothing about Sean's girlfriend's vagina, and we're not really that interested in it, but it's pretty amusing to simultaneously make someone laugh AND piss them off.

Uhhhh.

Yeah, shit hasn't gotten real yet, so I don't have anything good to write.

Oh, here's a question:

Should I upload my old newspaper columns?

Feel like Jimmy Stewart, nobody sees my Harvey

Okay, honestly, this is completely inexcusable. I really have absolutely no excuse to let a month go by without a damn word on this silly thing.

Without any further hemming and hawwing (HAWWWW!) I'll just say what's up.

At the moment, I'm a week into nursing a sprained ankle back to walkability. "Walkability" isn't actually a word. It might be used somewhere in some kind of orthopedic slipper advertisement, but no, it's not a word.

How I fucked my ankle up:

Last weekend, at about four on Sunday morning, I was lying in bed sending lewd, lascivious, and totally charming Facebook messages to girls I went to high school with. The night had been one of those ones that leads you on. Like a shitty dad who isn't gonna take the kids to the fucking aquarium, but is kind of waiting to see how much his wife will harangue him if he doesn't, and she's off in Concord visiting her sister, so he's gonna keep saying "Hmm... We'll see" whenever the kids ask if they can go see the fucking hammerhead sharks.

Does that make sense? Note to self: That last line might not have made much sense.

Supposedly, homeboy Ryan (the toe-headed homunculus that looks like something that came out of Ellen Degeneres after she was ravaged senselessly by David Arquette) and his pretty girlfriend Megan (every time one of his old friends sees her, they say "Wait, what the fuck? She's Ryan's girlfriend? RYAN has a GIRLFRIEND?") and my new friend Arusha (that's Swahili for "in the shadow of Mount Kilamanjaro") were sort of going to let me know the status of some party up on Potrero Hill. Megan and Arusha have international mutual friends who may or may not be related to former members of Bananarama.

"Oh my, Max's writing is so colorful and riddled with well-placed non-sequiturs." Pshht. Yeah, I'm not kidding about the Bananarama.

So there I am, at four in the morning, after debating the arduous and generally frustrating journey to Potrero Hill for a party that nobody could give me a straight answer about (Of course, I usually ask stuff like "If the party was a Spice Girl, which one would it be?" or "If the party was a food, could you picture that faggy little urchin from Radiohead eating it?") I ended up getting drunk with my neighbors and then retreating to my lair to say regrettable and forgettable things over the internet. Then I got a phonecall from Ryan, who said that all my favorite people were having a small after-party/cozy gathering at his house, a much more accessible location than Potrero Hill, which to me sounded like "Hey, we just discovered Revenge Of Chrome-Plated Christmas, the holiday that's too hot for TV. We need you to be reptile handler for the pageant, and breast inspector for the other pageant."

Bear in mind, it was four AM and I was drunk, they might as well have said "We're watching Schindler's List and discussing things we don't like about you." I was antsy and bored, and a bunch of my friends were having a gathering without me. I only had a short amount of time before my character defects become a topic of discussion.

So, I put on my new shoes and bounded out the fucking door like some kind of greased-up Irish Wolfhound on angel dust, and ran down the stairs to catch the next train.

Now, I am an abomination of a man. My feet are the size of the kind of toboggans jackrabbits would use if jackrabbits were remotely interested in sledding, (Which they're not) and I'm pretty sure that my entire dorm is a quarter-scale replica of something built to Michael Clarke Duncan-sized specifications. So, in a nutshell, I got big feet and live in a place with little stairs.

So there I am, running down the stairs, kind of at an angle for inexplicable reasons -- honestly, yes, I was drunk, but this is the kind of thing I do sober. The kind of thing that's caused to to trip while sober, too -- and at about the second to last step before I was on the third floor, I lost my footing and, well... if my foot was a boat, it would look like this:



I never actually fell. Simple explanation would be, shit, Max got drunk and fell down the stairs. But no, stubbornness and semantics must prevail.

I landed on it, immediately picked it up off the ground, like that one daring Flamingo who was like "Hey, maybe I'll put both feet down..." and then promptly steps in dog shit, regretting his rebelliousness and recoiling in disgust. So, I grabbed the banister and stood in Crane Stance for a second.

Okay, sorry. Karate Kid reference time.



Like that, the one on the right. Ralph Macchio. The one on the left is Billy Zabka, who is much cooler because he rides a dirtbike and isn't afraid to smash Elizabeth Shue's gay boombox, even though she's way hot.

So, there I am, and I think "Hey, I wonder if I can put any weight on it..." so I put my foot down, and it hurts like so many weird combinations of swearwords that I haven't even tried yet, and I was like, "No fucking way am I going out tonight. Or this morning, whatever."

Thankfully I was only ten feet from the elevator, so I hopped over there on one foot, got in, and then went back up to my floor. Alas, my room is at the exact opposite side of the floor from the elevator. So I commenced the hobbling. I got maybe fifteen feet from my door and then felt kind of like I was gonna hurl or die or turn into the Hulk, maybe. I've never fainted, blacked out, or gone into shock, and I'm pretty sure I was on the verge of doing one of those things at that point. I mean, between whiskey, pain, adrenaline, and looking like Ralph fucking Macchio (that's the title of my memoir, motherfucker) I'm pretty sure a weaker man would've shit his pants and burst into flame. I got to my door and was fumbling with my keys, and then I either passed out and woke up on the floor, or just decided to lie down on the floor. I'm not trying to be dramatic, I'm honestly not sure. I'm pretty sure it was the latter.

So, I came to my senses a bit and then called up Ryan to tell him I wouldn't be coming because I'd just about almost blacked out from an excruciating ankle injury. He told me to walk it off or sleep it off or something else equally unaware of how THE SECOND MY FOOT IS BETTER I'M GONNA PUT IT UP HIS ASS.

So, I managed to get inside... and managed to get my shoe off... And then listened to the Rocky IV soundtrack twice in a row while making myself a '1980's movie training montage' playlist. I'm not kidding. I'm that much of a retard. The thing I think is best for me is to listen to this song, and nine others that were equally integral in defeating communism:




Then, a few minutes later, I got a call from Arusha, who wanted to come see if I was okay. So she did, and shortly before her arrival I discovered that my ankle was the size of a grapefruit. She showed up and just went "You're going to the hospital right now."

The first cab that arrived wouldn't take us to the hospital because California is the most litigious place in the world, and foreign cab-drivers are terrified of laws. Um. This was one of those definite "there is no God who would allow society to mutate to this rotten, abusive-boyfriend degree of crappiness" moments, and Arusha promptly went off on the cabbie, but I interjected and was like "Dude, I'm guessing it's policy, which is fucked up, but listen... If you hate your boss, which I'm sure you do, do me a favor and hate him a little bit more than usual for me. And if you get the chance, tell him to go fuck himself, alright?"

The cabbie smiled apologetically and nodded, probably because out of my short speech, he understood the words "Dude, boss favor" and totally agreed.

Thankfully, there was another cab directly behind the first one, and this one didn't hesitate to take us to the the hospital... Unfortunately, he took us to the front of the hospital, the uh, "Loved Ones" entrance, where people sign in to see patients. A place that's deserted at five in the morning.

Anyway, while Arusha went to find a wheelchair, I figured I'd have a cigarette, and if anyone bugged me about it being a hospital, I'd wave my disgusting Marlon-Brando-circa-1995 foot in their face and tell them it was full of Martian spores and that it would burst without nicotine. But I forgot my lighter, so I couldn't sit there smoking and looking like a badass.

Wheelchair showed up. I filled out some forms. Uh. Got brought into the ER and they asked me questions and I said funny jokes, because if one thing makes me funnier, it's having my foot look like this:



The doctor-lady was nice and explained after X-Rays that it was just a really bad sprain, which means I shredded the fuck outta my ligaments and tendons, and all those other things that aren't cool enough to be part of my skeleton... Then she said "So, Narcotics?" and I said sure.

Then it's sort of blurry.

Arusha got me home okay, and I spent a few days on Vicodin, and I still can't fucking walk. Uh. Here's my foot right now.



For the record, I don't usually have cankles. Also, my foot doesn't usually look like a squished boysenberry pastry. Also, that picture's inverted. It's actually my left foot. And that black thing is the brace I have to wear, which currently smells sort of like Caesar salad, because that's what things tend to smell like when you wear them on your foot for a week.

There's my story. It's been a while since I actually had half an anything to write about. The last week has been super-advanced levels of dawdling. Watched a lot of British comedy and beat Half-Life 2. Uh. Downloaded things. Sat in bed and popped pills and complained and basically felt like this dork:



Except without the awesome PJs and rampant voyeurism.

I apologize for my ramblings. It's been too long, and at this point, going off on tangents is just kind of masturbatory. Stupid jokes and references I've been kicking around my head all week.

I can't think of a worthwhile subject

I think I've had writer's block lately. I don't know if that's even possible, since I never really even write anything of substance in here. Still, lately I've been totally incapable of making words come out of anything besides my mouth. Mostly, I've been living the dream, or at least dreaming the dream, and having a roaring good time otherwise. I'm pretty impressed with myself, though -- I've been in school for a month and I've only missed one class so far, which compared to last semester is quite the accomplishment.

Knowing people helps. I've got friends in all my classes, or at least people I can stand next to and feel fractionally less insecure. There's a new kid, Marcus, with whom I've definitely hit it off. He's from Connecticut/Brooklyn, and he's what I call "normal." Sort of a relative term at art school, but I mean that we can sit around drinking beer and making gay jokes and saying stupid shit in bad guido accents. He likes movies with explosions and robots and stuff like that, and that's good. We've got three classes together, so that's cool.

Of course, everyone here sees us hanging out all the time and says stuff like "you guys look so cute together!" and we say stuff like "You're gayer than body wash, you fuckin' homo." Homos don't understand friendship.

In other news, I've befriended a band called The Downer Party (Check 'em out right here or I'll get irate). Somehow or other, I've become a regular at their gatherings as well as their art director. So that's kickass. They've got their shit together. They got together in November and they've already got an EP on the way, but like, a real one that came from a studio.

See, this is what happens when I don't write in this thing for too long. I don't fucking say anything substantial or funny, I'm too preoccupied sifting through all the crap I've spent my time doing for however long, trying to think of what's interesting, and really... It's all interesting on some level, because I'm really fun.

I'm broke as fuck. Like, really hilariously fuckshit broke. I've basically got a job, but the wretched Korean whore at the human resources office says I can't start working/getting paid until I present her with certain legal documents, the originals of which I've managed to misplace. I love America, but if I made up the rules, anyone who doubted that I am who I am would be subject to swift evisceration by my hands in the Thunderdome. Also, the fact that my name is legally Julien and that I was born in France...? Uh, I'm kinda sick of that. It's fun to tell girls about, but Jesus fucking Christ. Who's the last Julien (not counting black guys) who was remotely awesome? Fuck that. And France? I'm sorry, there are parts of me that dig French culture (mostly the girls) but I'm more stoked on glamorizing the American dream.

Tangent, anyone?

Point is, I've got a job on hold, but until I get some shit sorted out, I'm broke as a fucking joke. I've got food and I've got a bus pass, but that's not really enough to take a girl out on a date. I actually woke up at a reasonable hour today, and I'd be so game to go wandering around, but my headphones are all fucked up, and I can't buy new ones. That sucks.

Ew, when I think about all this stuff, I worry a bunch. And I don't like worrying so much. I've got too much to worry about. I've gotta go. Tuition? Taxes? Financial aid application? Getting a prescription filled? Wisdom teeth? Doctor's appointment? Ugh.

I'm not really capable of taking care of myself. Clearly I need to be awesome enough to get my own personal assistant, at whom I can shout and hurl things, but who will endure my cruelty because of the pay.

And all this science I don't understand, it's just my job five days a week

So in lieu of a halfway decent update on exactly how awesome I am and how everything I do is super fucking entertaining, here's my most recent homework assignment for my English class. I'm supposed to write about a place in San Francisco I've never been to.

One of the places in San Francisco I haven't visited is The Rock. I mean Alcatraz. I think I like calling it The Rock better, because of the Michael Bay movie. I saw the movie when I was eight, and ya know, thought it kicked ass, since I was eight and all. I still think it kicks ass, but that's only because I still have the brain of an eight year old.

When I saw it, Alcatraz was just the setting of a movie, along with the rest of San Francisco. It never occurred to me that it'd end up being a landmark that I got to see on a daily basis. I still want to visit it, but I'm afraid that that I'll have to follow around some stupid tour guide, and I won't be allowed to run around and climb on stuff and do bad imitations of Sean Connery and Nicholas Cage, or crawl around in the sewers and secret passages, which, ya know, might not actually even exist in real life. I'm a sucker for movies. In addition to The Rock, I also have vague mental images from Escape From Alcatraz, which I frequently get mixed up with The Shawshank Redemption, which I confuse with The Green Mile. Actually, come to think of it, the way I imagine Alcatraz is just a collage of scenes from various prison movies. Not so much the shower scene in American History X, though, and that’s probably for the best.

But really, when it comes down to it, I’m not sure I ever want to visit Alcatraz, because I have too many expectations for what it looks like, and high expectations tend to lead to disappointment. I think it’s almost better to just look out over the bay at it and imagine there’s a bunch of irate Marines who wanna launch a bunch of missiles at the city I live in, but it’s okay, because they’re gonna send in a crack team of Navy SEALs.

Okay, um, secret confession? The Rock played a part in my choice to come to school at SFAI. I figured, hey, no matter how pretentious and fine-artsy things might get, I can always look out the window and see Alcatraz, and remind myself that there will always be people like Michael Bay to make stupid movies, filled with explosions and swearwords. Movies that allow me to turn off my brain, have a beer, and feel like I’m an eight-year-old again.

Um. An eight-year-old who’s allowed to drink beer.