God Don't Make No Mistakes

People are always telling me "You can't sell slick to an oil can". I don't know if they mean that I personally can not, or if one in general is incapable of doing so... either way I'm not selling any slick to oil cans... whatever that means.



But I will tell you some things. First and foremost, don't go see "Idlewild". Many of you know that I love Outkast more than I love the three children I've fathered. They had a profound impact on my life, so it came as no surprise that I was at "Idlewild" on opening night.

Now, to be fair, recently Andre's been getting on my nerves. I know everyone's all up on his shit, saying he's so brilliant and creative... and it's true. But I didn't get into Andre because of his grand Pop sensibilities.

I got into Outkast, the duo, because they wrote some fucking great rap albums... not "Hey Ya'". Andre, for all his need for musical expression and "artistic" "freedom" needs to check himself before he wrecks himself. I like him as an actor, and I like him as a pop star, but he's one half of something amazing and he better recognize that. But back to the movie.



So, aside from some problems maintaining historical accuracry (Cab Calloway was not a rapper, and rap did not exist in the 30's... nor did modern Coke machines) the movie was fun. I mean, sure there was some weird stuff, Big Boi's talking flask or Andre's best friend the cat, but one learns to expect that kind of thing from Outkast, they're experimental. But what was this movie about? Andre and Big Boi are barely in it together, and when they are their characters hardly know each other, except for some tangential "boyhood friendship".


(who didn't like Macaully Culkin in Saved? Nobody, but having him play a young Andre? Weird... just plain weird)

Was it a story about 1930's bootlegging in Atlanta? Was it a musical about a gifted pianist, a cocky entertainer, and a beautiful dame with a great pair? Who knows, certainly not Dre, Big Boi or Brian Barber.



In the end it felt like a 2 hour rap video, and not a particularly good one at that. Maybe my expectations were too high, but I wanted something along the lines of Pink Floyd's "The Wall"... only with Outkast. Brian Barber may be a great music video director, but he's not much of a screenwriter. Also a musical to an album released three years ago might not be a good idea to then name after a brand new album that's barely featured in the movie.



And lastly, what's the guy from Zoobilee Zoo doing playing Andre's father? Is Andre just trying to explain why his character would befriend a talking cat? Is it because his Dad used to be a cat?


I need to stop Robotripping (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Robotripping) before movies.

So with all the hub bub around Outkast, the constant "Is Andre leaving" and Big Boi consistently stating that everything's fine, I'd just like to take this opportunity to point out that I am a rapper. So if you're Big Boi, and you're reading this blog... which I think is likely, know that I could completely take Andre's place... though we'd have to rename Aquemini to Aquancer or Cancarious.

The Importance of being Active

I've decided, in light of all of the horrible things happening world wide, and in my life, to duck my head deep into the sand and ignore it all. Iran next up on Bush's to-do list? Climactic climatic changes happening world wide? I got dumped? Yes, yes, yes! On all counts yes. Do I care? Yes. But what can one man do besides shut out the bad thoughts and think about something happy?

Something happy like writing a play.

Many of you know that as an elementary, junior high, and highschooler I was immersed in the theater community. My Mother thought it was important to foster artistic expression in me (though why she couldn't have pushed me like some of the other theater moms did I don't know. Shit, I could be the next Freddie Prinze Jr. right now). I took summer theater, I auditioned for plays, and when high school rolled around I enrolled in the Central High School Touring Theater.


(This is Jan Mandell, director of the Central Touring Theater)


Now, with this long glorious tradition of participating in, and writing, plays one would ask "what have you been up to lately?" Not plays. That's for damn sure. I discovered, when I was 19, a medium in which moving pictures could be paired with sound to create the illusion of watching a play on a screen. Through careful editing you can condense the "play" or change it up altogether so it's not so much a "play" anymore as it is something entirely it's own. But these moving plays are time consuming and difficult to put together. They require actors, scripts, directors, crew, equipment and money. A play however is the poor mans moving picture (movie).


(Who is this dapper fellow? Why, it's the biggest pimp in playwriting, Oscar Wilde)


Now sure, my heart wasn't broken by the dumping, but it left me confused and rejected. How do I take this bitter no-good feeling and translate it into words? I could go the Neil Labute direction and write plays about bitter men misogynistically ruining women's lives, and how the women really deserve it anyway, but I don't think like that. Yes, I could write something autobiographical that paints me as a charming (true), handsome (true) and devilishly clever (oh so true) man trying to figure out the world, but who would care? You have to keep the people in their seats. Considering most people flee from talking to their friends about "emotions" and "feelings", I doubt putting it into a play would fare well. Instead I think of Shakespear, Wilde and Shepard and their comedies and I feel inspired. Yes a comedy is exactly what's needed. A comedy... of errors!

So over the rest of this summer and well into the fall look for me in your local coffee shop (assuming your local coffee shop is the Verb Cafe on Bedford in Williamsburg Brooklyn) casually sucking on the end of a pen and staring wistfully up at the sky. It may just be a pose to show the girls I'm "deep" but it may also be you witnessing brilliance. You'll know by the signs. If I start writing: Brilliance. If I sigh loudly and then consciously look around the room to see who noticed: Posing.

Heartbrakes (sic)

I've noticed that the summer, a summer that was supposed to be great, is nearly done. What is there to show for it? Heart ache and pain. Not mine so much, my heart died in 'Nam, but it seems like everyone is getting dumped. I have many friends who are pretty/handsome, smart, funny and so on and they're getting shit canned.

What gives? Is there something in the water that's turning the significant others of my homies retarded? I mean seriously it's out of control. If you're reading this (you're not, no one is reading this) and you're single I guarantee I could hook you up with someone awesome. Not me though, I only date models and we all know models can't read or turn on computers.

P.S. If you are a model and want to date a really tall geek, you're in the right place.

Welcome to the Machine

Oh dear gentle reader,

So much has happened since I last wrote lines of digital information to you. I cannot fathom where to begin with you all. Firstly, you may notice that you are not on Friendster. This is because you are not on Friendster. I have moved Toilet Time For Tiny Town to give myself the ease allowed through the wonderful programmers (nerds) at Blogspot. I also moved because I have friends with blogs here and I am a sheep.


Secondly, I am once again single. Some of you may be scratching your heads (or lower) and saying "I didn't realize he'd been off the market". I had, I was, and I am not now. Yes, once again I am on the market. Unfortunetly, due to some cruel Japanese price fixing, I am currently undervalued at being cute and sort of funny. I should, by any standards, be valued at hot and genius. Unfortunetly I have been unable to remedy my standing on the Nasdaq.


Thirdly, Video Gaga has begun to suck up much of my creative life. This is a good thing, as my only other outlet is this blog. Let's face facts people. I couldn't give two shits about any of you, but if I'm up on stage I might get famous. If I get famous I'll finally be able to afford the sycophants I've always deserved.


Fourthly, I recently came back from Minnesota where I saw many dear friends, and Dan Itzkowitz. Yes, my friends back home are doing quite well. Some are home owners, some are in stable loving relationships, some have great jobs.

I ask you, who wouldn't give up all that to move to a city of eight million people, none of whom know your name? Who wouldn't trade loving friendships for backstabbing assholes and emotionally crippling friends? Who doesn't prefer the joy of lonely annonymity to the

careful questions of a caring pal? I'll tell you who, people with no self respect... Certainly not yours truly.





Fifthly, I wrote, recorded and shot a video for Colonel Bastard, my rapper alter ego. I have yet to put it up on Youtube, but mostly because the DVD will not fit through the mouth piece on my cell phone, and unless I can get that fixed I'm out of alternatives.

So that's where I'm at this moment. Back from a trip, loving every moment of work. Looking forward to more of the mind numbing, soul crushing, ass dripping heat that summer in NY brings. Praying for a quick and timely death before anymore angst/pain/tragedy befalls me.

So to you and yours I wish the best. Let's hope this next week sees an end to Lebanese/Israeli hostilities, a less aggressive Iran, and a littly smoochy smoochy for me.

Bombs over B-Burg

When Dr. Henry Jekyll first drank the potion that ultimately turned him into Mr. Hyde he had a brief moment to wonder "what is happening to me?" before he changed. When Bruce Banner had a similar instance he too took moment's notice before becoming the Hulk. I had no notice of the moment... one day I was John Kingman, the next, Spring came and my hormones turned me into that cartoon wolf who's eyes bug out every time he sees a "dame". Yes my friends, Spring is in the air. With it comes birds and bees and sh*t.

Now, I happen to be somewhat cynical about the whole romance thing. It's good because the cynicism keeps my very fragile heart shielded from all those nasty things like "heart break". I have found though, that nothing ever prepares me for the horrors of being single during this worst of seasons. For in Spring there is no refuge. With warmer weather people begin dressing brazenly, as if to say "look at me, am I not attractive?". One can not help but wonder "Can I not also find happiness? If I wear shorts will I not attract the fairer sex?" In my case no, I have chicken legs, but the thought process is correct.
With all Hipster bashing aside, I must say that Williamsburg has more than it's fair share of attractive 20-30 somethings running around. One need only walk down Bedford on a Saturday to see the bevy of women (or men for you ladies) who call Williamsburg their home, or at least hang out there on weekends. They come in all shapes, sizes, races and backgrounds. There is literally someone for everyone, again excluding me... I am cripplingly shy and no one will ever love me.
But what does one do in this situation? Pardon me for some frankness in the following thoughts. Though I come off as saintly like the Pope or Buddha, I am in fact... a man. And as such I have compulsions which are hard to quiet. What does one do when Spring is in the air and you find yourself single? I myself do not believe in the merit of "one night stands" as they leave me feeling scummy and guilty. I do not believe in casual "friends" either since you're not really friends and the ambiguity can be crushing. But I also do not have a "steady", as I believe the kids call it these days, so what does one do? I have found drinking helps, but I can't seem to drink enough, and it's expensive. Of course there are other outlets for this type of energy.



(Those warehouses finally got their comeuppance)

But starting fires is hardly a constructive outlet. I find nothing wrong with being single. In fact, in New York it seems to be the axiom for the twenty something. But what does one do when one hears the birds and bees singing their tune, when one senses the change of season, when one sees a multitude of women dressed like Harlots? If one is me, and realizes the futility of even leaving my apartment, one writes raps.
Yes, once again, I will be attempting to use these clement summer months to record a rap album. The first track is already nearing completion, which is a vast improvement over last summer's failed attempt.
So, since I am not spoken for and my ethics (stupid stupid ethics) will continue to keep me away from the vile forays the rest of my age group partakes in, I will do the only rational thing available to myself. I will use the opportunity of my metamorphosis into Professor Murder to stay away from the girls my brother warned me about and instead hole up in my office and "bust" "phat" "beats".


This is, unfortunetly, mostly not a joke... at least I'm not kidding about the rap album.

Malaise, Apathy and f*cked up haircuts

Dearest readers, as many of you know I recently switched postal codes. I did this not through mail fraud and trickery but instead with a moving truck and a new apartment... A new palatial apartment. I'm now living in my "friend" Brian's apartment. I use the quotation marks to denote the fact that Brian openly dislikes me.

Brian's apartment is located squarely in the Bedford, Mini-mall, Metropolitan section of Williamsburg... Land of the dreaded Hipster.
Some of you hail from areas that have no Hipsters, or places where people think they're Hipsters but wouldn't know a real one if that said Hipster bit them on the ass. Of course a real Hipster would never bite someone's ass unless the act of biting the persons ass sent a message exactly opposite of a normal ass biting. The point being no self respecting ass biting Hipster is going to bite a non-Hipster or Hipster wannabe's ass. Why would I put so much effort into that explanation? If the clarification means absolutely nothing to the real world it is paramount to the Hipster.
There are advantages though to living in the realm of the Hipster. One is that they cannot see you. Hipsters exist in a parallel universe that bisects our own. Though we can touch Hipsters, talk with them, or smell them they cannot be effected by us in any way.

It's actually pretty refreshing for me. In Park Slope it seemed like you couldn't go anywhere without being accosted by couples with McLaren baby strollers and dogs. In Williamsburg even the dogs are disaffected. They won't even sniff your feet when you walk by them.
But contrary to Craigslist, Williamsburg is about more than just Hipsters. There's also the businesses they started. Trendy cafes and shops, art galleries and boutiques, there's pretty much something for everyone there, unless you're poor. If you're poor go to Bed-Stuy or something. Though it may not look like, Williamsburg has some money circulating in it and we don't need you pan handling or looking all mooney eyed through our restaurant windows... Especially not when I'm dropping a hondo on four courses.
So far my favorite spots have been:
Teddy's Bar 96 Berry St, Brooklyn, NY (718) 384-9787
Roebling Tea Room 143 Roebling St, Brooklyn, NY (718) 963-0760
Barcade 388 Union Ave, Brooklyn, NY (718) 302-6464
If you can put up with the apathy, disfigured hair cuts, and clothes reminiscent of a salvation army bombing then Williamsburg might be for you. In fact give me a call and we'll go get drinks*†.
*All offers to get drinks are subject to you being cool enough to get drinks with me.
† You are not cool enough to get drinks with me.

California Dreaming Pt. 2

So I want to start out this second part first with an apology. It has recently come to my attention that every time I post you all receive a notification that I have done so. This is ridiculous and I hadn't posted the second part earlier because I was trying to figure out how to turn it off. Unfortunately what Friendster's tech people told me is that you dear reader have to turn off the receive notification option. So, if you're sick of hearing that I've patted myself on the back again with another self inflated ego stroking post, you'll have to go into "My Settings" in the upper right section of your account page and turn off the receive notifications. And now into the post.

As I was saying, plane rides make life so much easier. So after we unloaded Dan, Chris and I went back to the apartment, grabbed Chris' girlfriend Lisa and walked to a pancake house in Palo Alto's downtown shopping district. When Chris and I were in High school we had comparable appetites. It hurts me to say that Chris is no longer capable of keeping "it" real. He and Lisa shared three pancakes and couldn't finish them. I ate two by myself and could have easily eaten another. I won't eat someone else’s left overs because that's what poor people do and I was still feeling rocky from the night before so they got a to-go box. Afterwards we went back to the apartment and took Lisa's car to Half Moon Bay.

On the way there Chris told me the truth about California. I was shocked that one, Dan had never said anything about these facts and that two, I had never read this stuff anywhere. Someone high up has been keeping y'all ignorant and I'm about to set it straight.


1) California has the most Space lasers of any state in the Union.
2) Most of these Space lasers are located beneath fake lakes.
3) All lakes in California are fake, the California the Spanish encountered only had the ocean and some rivers.
4) California is on a fault line. Some day a giant Earthquake will happen and the rest of the country will fall into the ocean leaving only the Californians.
5) Californians are sure they're better than you.

Half Moon bay was pretty but I'm pretty sure Chris only made us go there because his last name is Moon.




(Chris and Lisa at Half Moon Bay)


After the bay we went back to Palo Alto, had some dinner at a nice pizza place called Patxi's. The waiter kept calling it "Patchi's" and I felt bad because he was clearly too stupid to pronounce it correctly as "Pattexis".
Sunday Lisa went back to school in San (some other southern part of California) and Chris and I went over to the physics lab. Chris is building, along with a few other people, a world-class electron microscope. It is capable of seeing an atom.

The lab is in a sub basement and nearly soundproof. I saw a picture of an Atom but it just looked like a weird hexagon. Science is kind of unimpressive actually.
Afterwards we played more GTA San Andreas and I went to sleep. The next morning I hopped on three planes to get back to NY and was in bed by 10pm EST.


The high points of the flight? Sleeping, sleeping through the in flight movie on the way to Atlanta (can anyone say Aeon Flux?) and the one hour between Atlanta and Cincinnati where I flew first class. I drank a lot of free coke and ate a lot of free pretzels. I also took the remote control from my personal entertainment console, the sleeping man next to me's laptop, the emergency oxygen mask in the panel above me (I jimmied the panel open with a pen) and I joined the mile high club by myself. All in all I give California a thumb up.

California Dreaming Pt. 1

Last Thursday at around 1:30 I got on a plane bound for San Jose, California. Don't worry reader: I had purchased tickets for this flight, this was no spur of the moment plane jacking. I had planned for some weeks to go out to Palo Alto and visit Dan and Chris at Stanford. I hope if nothing else this story proves that I'm smart, if only by association.
The first leg of the trip was a quick jaunt over to Minneapolis where I had a five hour layover. Mommy came to the airport to pick me up and we went back to the house of my birth (which is being sold) and I ate sandwiches and regailed my mother with off color stories from New York. I think it's the first time I told her a story ending with myself exclaiming (in the story and not to my mother) "Damn those some tig ol' bitties!!!".
Around 8pm I got back on a plane headed to San Jose and the greater West Coast (that's where the rappers what hated on the East coast are from). The second plane ride was equally uneventful. Perhaps the only good things to come from Aero-planes are thus: 1)They are much faster than cars and trains. 2) You can take neat pictures out their windows.


I touched down in San Jose at 10:50. Chris and Dan were there waiting for me along with Chris' girlfriend Lisa, who I hadn't met before. The four of us went to the grocery store and bought ice cream and then went back to their apartment. The weather was very nice, especially since MN had snow.
The next morning I awoke and Dan and I went over to Stanford's campus. Dan had to work on some school related computer things, so I thought I'd take advantage of the day by sitting around campus reading a book and ogling undergrads... which I did. Stanfords campus is very big and easily defendable, let that be a lesson to the Japanese if their expansionist eyes happen upon Stanford. It is a complex of giant courtyards, passageways and mamoth school buildings filled with classrooms to teach young minds.

That night Dan and I went to a grad students birthday party and I drank a wee bit too much. No pukey, but the next morning/mid-day/afternoon wasn't so much fun. Chris, Lisa and I went and ate giant pancakes and then played Grand Theft Auto San Andreas. I killed a lot of hookers, and I only wanted to find a knife so I could slit a cops throat...
The next morning Chris and I took Dan to the airport so's he could go to New York where his gal pal Jen is. It's kind of funny to me that in the olden days it took people nearly a year to get from the east coast to the west and usually involved canabalism, and now it's a six hour plane ride (assuming you don't have layovers).

Super intelligent hyper dog invasion!!!

Friends, I have never been more terrified in my life. I'm not talking about the war in Iraq, the rising ultra nationalism in Serbia, or tensions with Iran over their nuclear ambitions. I am talking specifically and in hushed tones about the new menace... Dogs who know how to use computers.
I was browsing my Friendster page and noticed that in the singles in my area section was a picture of "Muffin". I thought, "how odd. A girl with the screen name Muffin. She must be a freak in the bedroom." Indeed she is freaky, freaky terrifying.



(Muffin)

Muffin is a super smart computer savvy dog. And Muffin isn't the only canine using Friendster... Oh no, I found hundreds more! Average dogs with names like "Cookie", "Pixie" and "Bubba"...



(Cookie)

...are infiltrating Friendster.
Now, the question comes up... How are these dogs logging into Friendster and why? As far as I could tell most of these dogs got a great sense of satisfaction out of being pets to their "masters" but, right there in the terminology something was unsettling. To have a master implies a derogatory power structure with a "slave" to the "master". So, if the dogs here see themselves as "slaves" are they intending to overthrow this system? If so do they see their "masters" as their enemy or all humans? Further investigation into these doggy accounts revealed that these dogs were mostly interested in eating, pooping and meeting other dogs. I could tell below the surface that something sinister was happening but I couldn't put my finger on it. That's when I found the most frightening link...



(Peanut)

The dogs were Friendsters with cats. Anyone who knows anything about anything ever in the course of the world knows that dogs and cats hate each other. Sure liberal Hollywood wants you to believe they can get along but if you've ever seen the split nose of a puppy or the half eaten corpse of a kitten you know this is typical big screen bullsh*t. Yet on Friendster I was finding connections between hundreds of thousands of dogs and cats. Is there an alliance? Is the enemy of my enemy truly my friend?
I tried to dig deeper. I started contacting these dogs and cats, innocently prodding for information. It didn't take long before I was told to stay away.




(Shiro)

"Hey jerk off, I don't know who you think you're fooling with your little messages but let's get something straight. Whatever you think is going on is much much bigger, and unless you like the idea of ending up in an industrial meat grinder in Jersey you better keep your questions to yourself. You've been warned by the IPLF (International Pet Liberation Front)"
After wetting myself I became calm, almost serene. That's when I decided to tell all. Stay vigilant reader, the cats and dogs are everywhere. If you see them in packs, run for your life. Keep your fire arms locked away (they don't have opposable thumbs so they can't use keys). Be prepared because whether we like it or not... the war is coming.

My best Fiend

In a few short weeks (a week and a half) I'm moving out of 107 St. Marks place and making my way north through Bed-Stuy and into the venerable Willy-B (Williamsburg, hipster not historic). Before I do this I want to address a particular fixture of 107 St. Marks Place #1. No, I'm not talking about the fact that the hot and cold water handles are reversed in my bathroom, I'm talking about Nugget... my nemesis.



(This is an actual, undoctored photo)






Many of you have made fun of me for my deep distrust of Nugget. Some have commented that my fear of the cat somehow makes me less of a man. You who mock haven't been subjected to the terrors of living with him. Go to the survivor of the Texas Chainsaw Masacre and say "Leatherface isn't so bad, you're just a p*ssy".
In detail, living with Nugget is exactly the same as living with a roommate who has schizophrenia and a violent streak. For instance one time Nugget was sitting in the middle of the living room. I picked up my shoes off the floor and Nugget, in a fit of rage, ran and wrapped his front legs around my leg and repeatedly bit me. Another time he bit Dave's face because Dave was petting him, and he'd grown tired of it. He drew blood one morning when I was walking back from the kitchen to my room and hadn't paid him enough attention after feeding him. Come to think of it, one of our first altercations as roomies was when Dave was visiting his parents and I was feeding Nugget. I put his full bowl of food down and he bit my hand... hard. Quite literally Nugget bites the hand (mine) that feeds.
Now Nugget isn't all scratching, biting and drawing blood. Sometimes he's really sweet. When I watch that show... um, you know that 70's show. What's it called?
Get it?!? Like I couldn't remember the name... but that is the name!!!
Anyway, when I'm watching that he'll come over and lie next to me and put his front paw out. If I touch his paw he'll bite me, but if I leave well enough alone we're fine. He'll even let me pick him up now, something that Dave can't get away with. Sometimes I hear him purr. But all of these gestures of docility are merely weighed for their effect in getting my gaurd down. Whenever I think we've hit some point of understanding between us and that maybe, just maybe the violence will end... Nugget bites me.
So when I move next week and leave behind 107 St. Marks place, Dave and my landlords Joe and Lizzie, I'll also be leaving behind the worse pet I've ever co-habitated with. Nugget I hope you die at an early age in a painful way. You're a little bastard.

Why we fight

Some people have been curious exactly what it is that I do at work and I'll admit to being pretty tight lipped about it. But lest people continue to propagate the myth that I work at a Clinique counter, or that I actually still work at the video store, I will do my best to explain the work process and my role in it.

This is where I work. The 37th floor of the illustrious GM building, built by George Montgomery in 1853 and surprisingly modern looking. The first ten floors used to be Mr. Montgomery's private zoo but the smell wafting up the elevator shaft made business flee and the zoo was eventually removed in 1914. Most of the animals were sent to fight in WWI and many died at Verdun.

This is my cubicle. You may notice a mirror effect taking place on the screen of my computer. Every week I take a picture of my cubicle at roughly the same angle and then set that as my desktop. So when I take the weeks following picture of my desktop my desktop from the week before is being displayed. In this picture six weeks have passed since I started the process. I'm clearly very busy.

These are, in order from right to left, Rochelle, Ted and Kimia. Ted is my boss, the head of packaging. Kimia and Rochelle give me projects. Not pictured: Jillian, Christie, Joanne, Rosanna, Jessica and Les.

These are my two rubber stamps. About a third of my responsibility lies in processing invoices. We work with a lot of companies who make comps, take pictures, retouch and so on. These companies charge us outlandish sums higher than my yearly pay. I am the last in the line that makes sure they're paid. If it weren't for me, many New York CEO's wouldn't be able to line their swimming pools with gold this year.

These markers are used for the nest third of my job. At one point Ted saw me doodling and called me an "illustrator". This is apparently what one calls a person who doodles. So now instead of drawing crude pictures of B52s dropping bombs on my old grade school JJ Hill, I now draw crude pictures of B52s dropping their payloads on to lipstick tubes and white women.

The last third of my job is photo retouching. When I finally got a computer made in the last twenty years it came pre-loaded with photoshop. At that point Ted decided that I would also start assisting Kimia (both pictured above) in some of her work with Travel Retail (sh*t you buy at airport duty free shops when you're bored between flights). This entails taking digital photo's of products and then making them look prettier than I did in the crappy job I did of taking their picture. It's very complicated. It's also allowed me to train in Photoshop which has resulted in the above image, and many pictures of co-workers I had doctored.
The other key points of my job:
Drinking coffee
Making sarcastic comments
Blendwourthe & Biddle the ebay company run by Ted and myself
Coming up with exciting new ways to make the time here go just a little quicker...
If anyone knows of any video stores that are hiring I can attach my resume to this.

Mama don't take my Kodachrome down by the shoolyard

I bought a digital camera recently. For those of you not in the know, a digital camera is exactly like a film camera except it uses digital instead of film. Also when you want to see your film pictures you have to take them to Duane Reade and have "Jason" develop them and probably look at them before you do. With digital you just plug in a tube between your camera and a computer and the pictures go through that. It's really easy.
I got a little Canon 5 mega whozit ma jiggy camera. It's nice, it's about the size of a deck of cards, has a good sized display on the back so I can see what I'm doing and it's sturdy for dropping. It's ability to handle low light situations leaves something to be desired but that's sort of the curse of photography in general. The image resolution is good, a little grainy or whatever one calls the digital equivalent. All I know is my dick looks funny in my cock shots but the city scapes I took turned out very well.









I've taken enough pictures of myself at this point, the best example being my current Friendster picture as an old timey mayor or pirate as my friend Sarah suggested. I decided to do a series called "Lunch" where I take photos of what I'm eating each day. Here is yesterdays:












Of course this presents a problem since I eat the same four things every week. I don't know, there's a party this weekend where I'll get some good drunk pictures. I still need to develop the rolls I took on New Years... Still have to piece together those three missing hours.

Reflections

Today marked three weeks since I sucked off a cancer stick. Here's what I think...
I think smoking makes you cool and now I have to adjust to being a "normal" person. I put normal in quotation marks because my lack of smoking certainly hasn't cleaned my mouth up or made me stop thinking about violence.
I haven't noticed being able to smell any better than I used to, but I have again noticed how much this city smells like poo poo and pee pee in certain parts. Poo poo and pee pee are standing in for P*ss and Sh*t which are both words prohibited by F****dster.
As some of you may remember I was very hyper even through high school. This has returned much to my chagrin and I now have been exercising daily for two weeks. I run around my apartment and scare Nugget (Dave's cat) and Dave (Nugget's b*tch).
Throughout my appetite has remained consistently abusive.
So that's that. Three weeks and I'm apparently cured. I think I'll celebrate by taking up heroin.

My so called life with Joe Camel

I've made it two weeks now. I have one week left and b all accounts I'll have made it past the hardest parts of quitting smoking. I want to say thank you to all of you who have been their for me offering support. It's harder than it should be. To all the kids out there: don't smoke... unless you want to look cool. If you want to look cool you should smoke, 'cause smoking is cool. God I want a cigarette.

Rejection

Rejection is a hard thing to face. Whether it be from an employer, a friend or a lover, it is always hard. It's the negation of hope and longing. The moment when everything you've tied up into a person or thing is cruelly crushed into fine powder before your once happy heart... or so I've heard. I myself have never faced "rejection" so I'm paraphrasing what a bunch of losers once told me it felt like.
Tonight however I did participate in the "Rejection Show". Jon Friedman hosts a forum where people who work in the arts and have had their projects "rejected", as the name suggests, share with the audience. Why was I there? Certainly not because of anything I did.
Some of you may recall that during the summer I teamed up with Sara Schaefer (now Genoa) to do a little short she wrote. A little short called "The Super" f*cking "Awesome 10 Show" (The word f*cking was added for emphasis and did not appear in the actual title sequence). This short was a gem and Sara and I poured a lot of love and effort into it. We put so much effort and love in to it that I thought the hearts of a million children might implode, it didn't happen, but I thought it might. After nearly two months of using every bit of free time I had available to create this masterpiece it was rejected by the Channel102 committee. Bullsh*t but there you have it. Now clearly Sara was the one rejected, because my work is indisputably brilliant, but I couldn't help but feel... letdown? I don't know, it felt like the time I really wanted a Prada wallet for my 16th birthday and instead I got cuff links that once belonged to Hitler. I guess it's what the losers said rejection feels like. From the point it was shot down to this evening it had rarely seen the light of day. It was only whispered about at comedy shows and rest stop glory holes. Then Jon put it up there for the sold out audience and they liked it... they really really liked it. So to all of you that didn't come out to see it, and I'm mostly pointing my finger (middle) towards Minnesota, eat it. I may not know the sting of rejection, but I sure as sh*t know what it feels like to have such a lousy group of friends.

p.s.
In all seriousness it was nice to get it screened. I actually was happy about that. I did not receive Hitler's cuff links for my 16th birthday. I got a tooth my Uncle Walter swore was Hitler's but was more likely Uncle Walter's.

Bare naked ladies

You remember that song... by the Bare naked ladies... One week? Well that's how long it's been since I quit smoking. I haven't cheated, snuck a smoke and lied about it. Nope, I've done a full week sans cigarettes. What have I learned? Don't smoke, quitting later sucks.
There's the Monday incident. Tuesday I was so afraid to put the patch on that I went cold turkey. I was making comp boxes and jumped the line with my exacto into and through much of my thumb. Wednesday was okay except I kept having urges to hurt people I didn't know. On the elevator at work all the lawyers got on at 25 and I contemplated smacking this guys head into the door. It's funny that I think these things when having a craving. Have I repressed my animal nature through smoking? I went out with Charlie, Cesa and Al last night and didn't smoke even after drinking mas cervesa's. Things would appear to be on the up and up. Here's to some smooth *ss sailing y'all.

Nicotine Dreams and Rude New Yorkers: AKA My journey with the patch

So I went on the patch last Friday after my lunch break. That last cigarette was great, but I've known now for some time that I should quit smoking. Maybe it was the diminished energy, or the coughing, but I think what it came down to was the wheezing. Nothing says health and well being like wheezing from time to time.

Buying the patch was easy, no prescription necessary. I walked back to the office with six weeks of patches and two smokes, one burning in my mouth. At my cubicle (my palace of office efficiency) I took the last cigarette and made a three dimensional no smoking sign with it. It sits next to my computer to remind me. I slapped on a patch and began my journey.

In the brochure they tell you that wearing the patch overnight is recommended but that if you have "vivid" dreams you should take it off before bed and re-apply in the morning. They're not kidding about the dreams. They also say that you shouldn't cut them in half to get a half dose, because of the way they're designed. Oh good reader, I'll get back to that last point later... oh yes I will.
So the first night I woke up somewhere between three and five times after having "vivid" dreams. By vivid the Nicoderm company is implying a sense of realism that the dreamer cannot detach from reality. In reality "vivid" from now on will be used to mean "skull f*cking horror-core nightmares that made me contemplate my sanity".

I only remember two specifically. The rest faded when I realized upon waking that the grim reaper had not just decapitated me or that my family was indeed still alive, not gunned down. The first dream I remember, Friday night/Saturday morning, was that 9/11 was happening again but I didn't want to mention that it had already happened since everyone else didn't seem to notice. The second, last night/this morning, that I remember was being in my Mom's backyard playing with my brother. Seth had three toy tanks and I had a shovel and some manure. A stealth jet flew over and dropped a big metal egg, which I thought was a bomb. When it didn't explode my brother and I ran into the house. At that point the egg started making Sputnik noises and then opened, revealing a claymation fire hose. The hose sprayed water at Seth, knocking him unconscious and then my alarm went off. For some reason that dream was really unpleasant to me when it happened, but writing it makes it play out like Pee-Wee's playhouse.

The instructions for the patch say not to cut it in half. It's designed to slowly release nicotine into your blood stream over the course of 24 hours, replicating the experience of smoking throughout the day. If you cut it in half, the barrier which regulates the release is compromised allowing ALL the nicotine to go straight into your blood stream. So this morning I tried to peal the patch from it's backing from the wrong side. I thought nothing of possible damage I could have done until I got to the station and was waiting for the train.

I was tired yes, but I felt really weird. Being the dutiful soldier I got on the train to go to work. After the train left our station I started to feel sweaty and mildly nauseous. I convinced myself that I was creating these sensations because I had thought I might have tore the patch, not because I had torn the patch. I had torn the patch. Deciding it was worth risking the chance I was right, I took the patch off. I was becoming quite light headed and was in the process of asking a fellow passenger for a seat (not an easy task) when I found myself walking through a field on a cloudless summers day.

The next thing I knew I was lying on the floor of the train while a woman, who would later tell me her name was Rita, asked if I was "okay". I don't like to be woken from sleep and I would have told her off if I hadn't been so confused about why I'd gone to sleep on the floor of the N train. She suggested I take a seat that had opened up, presumably from someone fleeing from the sick passenger. I took the seat and met the concerned, and annoyed faces of my fellow travelers. Rita was very nice, seeing if anyone had water, asking if this had happened to me before and what not. I answered by leaving her, and the rest of the train, for the field again.

What a glorious wheat field it was, and the sky was such a dark blue for such a sunny day. When I came to again I was still seated but now Rita was suggesting that we get an ambulance and get me off the train at the next stop, Canal St. After a wee bout of vomiting I felt considerably more in charge. I got off the train with Rita and Ann(e?) and sat waiting for the EMTs. Thanks again to Rita, Ann and the NY EMTs. You all showed a considerable amount of patience and care. To all of you reading this, thanks for nothing. See what happens next time you get sick. I'm not helping and there won't be any goddamn chicken soups.

Just to sort out some details, I did not have to go to the hospital. The EMT's checked my blood pressure (Which according to them was very good for a healthy person), my pupils and my pulse. Everything was fine, I just felt funny at that point. I am writing this addendum at work after eating 18 pieces of sushi... KINGMAN'S BACK!

No pants

So I, among 160 others, participated in No Pants 2K6. Good times were had by all as far as I could tell. It was fun watching peoples faces on the staging car as one, then two, then whole groups of people stood up at each station and de-pantsed. The woman sitting next to the door I was standing in front of seemed to think it was over when I dutifully removed my trousers and tossed them to the front of the car. On the target car things were pretty crowded and I think my long coat prevented most people from realizing I was pantsless. I won't forget the asian man standing next to me taking peeks just to make sure that, I indeed, was not wearing pants. Then the cops came and the missions was scrapped. Kudos to Kula for not breaking character the entire way back to Brooklyn Bridge. He kept saying things like "strange happenings on the train".
Forgot to plug the sight: Improveverywhere.com
Check it out.

My first fisher price post

So this is the first post I've done for my "blog". Apparently "blog" is short for Web(internet) log(diary). Huh... "Cool". So for the film topic which I claimed would be the point of my Weblog(blog) I will fill everyone (my mom reading this) in on the film so far. I have most of a treatment done. I don't want to go into great detail, lest someone steal my idea, but let's just say it's the story of America in the last fifty years as told by a sweetly retarded man who witnessed and participated in some of the greatest moments. I'm going to call it Munich.

In other news the transit strike is over but the tourists are still here. I'm going to buy an umbrella so I can start poking tourists that have huddled together in groups of three or more in the middle of the sidewalk. Tourists are as bad as pigeons in this city.

New Years is coming up in a few days. If you don't have a date yet, now is the time to find anyone and cling desperately to them so that the new year isn't rung in with you still being pathetically single... oh my god... oh god... my life is such a waste. Happy New Years!