Guilty as charged, or the language police and their glowing, throbbing nightsticks

I'm a little bit late to this post, as it comments on a list in the November issue of Esquire (if available, you can't miss it, what with Kate Beckinsale's exposed midriff on the cover).

But I digress, digression being a familiar, joyful past time for me. One of the main articles is a breakdown of things a man should and should not say. While the list of terms that need to re-enter the lexicon are noble, notable and disastrously underused (e.g., today, with the wind, it's colder than a witch's tit. But we're not talking about that. We're talking about this one: "19 Things a Man Should Never Say."

To make the viewing of the list more appropriate, I've included my personal scorecard below for derisive purposes.

The list:

• reach out (not the physical act of stretching arm in sleeve)
  
  GM's take: Thank god I don't. For the time being, I am not one of those guys. You know who you are, California.
  Score: 0


• panties
  
  GM's take: Do I admit to saying "Don't get your panties in a bunch"? Do I admit to using the diminutive of the female underthings? No. Or at least, not until there's a produced recording.
  Score: 0


• Über-
  
  Check. Though not as much as some may think. I've relegated this to the land of surferdom and Tool albums. One of those may apply to me.

Score: 0.5 (a half-point taken off for good behavior)

• mixed bag
  
  Guilty. As in, "But really, [insert the following key phrases Bellow novel, Dentist's office, my dating life, geo-nuclear Realpolitik, using a cockring is completely a mixed bag."
  Score: 1.5


• tummy
  
  I initially wrote "no" instead of this word, which should hint at my feelings for it.
  Score: 1.5


• veggie
  
  There are certain words, that, were one to fess to their usage, would completely, utterly, irrevocably resign a man to a life of solitary confinement, dick shrivel and seventeen cats in a locked room. With one litter box.
  Score: 2.5


• vino
  
  I want to say no. I want to say no and know there are no tapes out there, no audible record of me ensconced on lawn chair, pinkie finger extended, white shirt billowing while I stare into a red-ringed empty plastic cup. I think Cat Stevens was playing.
  Score: 3.5


• natch
  
  See above. And the one before it.
  Score: 4.5


• wingin' it
  
  Okay, I can take a breather. I have never used this phrase ever in all my days as a reckless mangler of language and colloquialisms.
  Score: 5.5


• nippy
  
  With the inclusion of a single letter, National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation ruined this word permanently. But how else would one describe the weather?
  Score: 6.5


• The first name of any female celebrity when you don't follow it with her last name, "Miley," for instance
  
  If this has happened (and note, I feign innocence at all times), it's most likely because I couldn't remember her last name. See scattered comments about my dating life (not necessarily in the post).
  Score: 6.5


• pee
  

Thus ends the "relatively unscathed" section of this list. Final score for section one: 6.5. Out of twelve. For the next stage, add one point for each phrase listed.

• belly button


• c---


• derring-do


• going forward


• It is what it is


• boobs


• folks


• teens


• slacks (the pants>


• gen

Thus ends the lightning round. Collect your prize, run home, cry to mommy, cut out your tongue with rusty pubic hair.

Score: 16.5


In my defense, how else does one say "Shortly after dropping off my folks, a little gen-y c--- with a tulip in her boobs took a pee on my slacks in a fit of derring-do. It is what it is, I have to remind myself this. I was on the way to the dentist, which is a whole other mixed bag within itself."?

I'm out of steam. And I lost count.

Notes from the field: Dec. 18 (Or, ravings, trailers, gluhwein and a moment in mute)

The tasks today: Finish Christmas shopping. That was fine. Fix cell phone. Also fine. Not necessarily in that order. If any order can be applied.

How to put this? What do you do when you have a malfunctioning phone still under warranty and can't find the receipt?

• Rip up the apartment looking for it? Check.


• Search old boxes, bags, anything that might have contained articles of paper before and after move to new apartment? Check.


• Explore the contents of coffee pots, refrigerator, jackets, books, underwear shelf, guitar bags, closet floor, bowling shoe bag on said closet floor? Check (minus the refrigerator, but that might be tomorrow).

To put it into context, this was a very bad week for me and connective technology. Last Friday, my phone decides it no longer wants to allow any speech to be heard. Except on speakerphone. There is absolutely no way to validate all conversations being held over speakerphone. Even with the President.

Now, no problem, I will just run it in on the first day I can, easy as pie. Now the hitch: Saturday, the internet dies. In the ensuing days, this means the only way for any e-conversation whatsoever (email, facebook, what have you) is via my cell phone. Which throws a crimp into solution in the first sentence.

The short form of this: I run into the office, not there, I run to Sprint anyway, we interact in an essential roll of the eyes, they check for a replacement phone, give me a headset, say they'll have a new one by Tuesday or Wednesday (I had to confirm that Saturday was not a business day, a question I'm still not sure about).

Fine. Problem solved. Now to task two: Geof will not fuck up Christmas. I had made some promises, or at least said I'd look into things, and the circuitous path lead through Bryant Park to Union Square. Bryant Park being closest, I check there, and immediately realize I have no idea what I'm supposed to pick up there. Cue part three: the call to the folks.

Now usually, my conversations will look like this:
[ed. note: due to circumstance will throw in a brief synopsis/dramatization. Imagine this happening in the course of fifteen seconds, via split screen of Tommie and Johnny Gavin, courtesy of Rescue Me. Also, please infer the existence of these two characters as being portrayed by Denis Leary and Dean Winters. And also scriptwriters were somewhat competent.]
T: Listen Johnny.
J: Tommy.
T: You do not get my godson involved in this crap.
J: Tommy, you told me to get some dirt, so I went to the guy I knew who could.
T: You do not involve my godson. He's family, Johnny.
J: The kid's a computer geek, Tommy. And anyway there wasn't anything to get.
T: ...Nothing?
J: The guy's squeaky clean. If we could have found some cheat on his tax records, history of beat up wives, parking tickets, whether he cheated in school, he would have.
T: And nothing? Nothing at all?
J: I'm telling you, Tommy, the guy's a saint.
T: Okay, talk to him, Johnny, see if he can do something to him. Mess up his computers or something. But Johnny....

So, that's how it should sound. Only not in the sense that I'd be yelling at my folks and trying to hack into someone else's file for my own personal benefit. In other words, I might have messed up the details, but the tone was there.

Anyway, this, with my newfound stop-gap headset, is how I looked:

(That would be the best approximation, by the way, of me, the guy in the fence, if you add more hair, a beard, and put it in the middle of the sidewalk).

Brilliant, Metz. I can't wait for the new phone to come in.

* * *

On a final note, ended up hanging out with friend Randi at a Chelsea place called Trailer Park Lounge. And of course broke out the camera. The results:

That was probably the best. The lessons:

a) Take more photos,
b) Don't take photos from your camera, and
c) Take more photos from a real camera and, when presented, immediately and always take the action shot in the fake bowling alley.

I love being trash.

Is that a chocolate chip in your brain tissue or are you just trying to get in my good graces?

I start off the morning, now 12:13 or so thus perceptibly pushed towards the most scant entrance of afternoon-ness, reading an article on the potential irreducibility of mind-body dualism, although not put exactly into those terms. Substitute consciousness for soul and you have a general idea of what essentially breaks down the modern equivalent of the ongoing concern. I'm not sure how convinced I am, although years ago I would have taken on the negating position.

Put succinctly: we are organic creatures, body, brain, heart, lungs, intestines and the shit contained therein. We exist in a physical world, and, our body, the multi-stimulus-sucking antenna that is, absorbs the offshoots, the radiations, sound waves, reports and smells and lights of things bouncing and colliding with one another. But what is it that makes sense of it? I smell dog poo, which signals a series of brain bursts that eventually lead to me checking my shoe, but at what point do the words "Stinky, not cheese, I hate Fido"? come into being for me. For the dualist, that can't be measured. For the materialist, it can and eventually will.

More succinctly: Say Geof is eating a cookie. Delicious, gooey, chocolate-spattered fingers and jowls, the whole shebang. Now, Zombie-Geof comes along, thinks this looks delicious, and eats Geof's brain. First off, he is going to only taste brain, even though at the time the brain was experiencing the joyful deliciousness that was that cookie at the time. Now, not ever having tried Geof-brain before, I can make this even more hypothetical -- say I could taste the cookie on Geof's brain, the shambling decomposing festering version of myself. What I would not experience would be Geof's version of that cookie, it would be my own version of the cookie from the moment it hit my taste buds. And that was definitely a fine cookie.

[Ed. note: This is actually a paraphrasing of an argument made in philosophical circles. I cannot lay claim to it.]

So what was the fallacy of the Tallis argument (the linked one, I mean)? 1) I think in some ways he belittles the evolutionary arguments, and as thus doesn't really advance the dialogue much. 2) He doesn't seem to be asking -- or answering -- much of anything.

Get me started on this point in a little bit. I've got an entire theory of consciousness in the human species, and as should be expected from this otherwise curmudgeonly opiner, it's not pretty. And -- also a symptom, but of something probably more disturbing -- probably being conflated with another issue entirely. Stay tuned, kids.

And in walks the boogieman

And it's about time to break out the political shtick again. I've been avoiding the conversation for about two weeks, but the New York 23 is too interesting and, frankly, keeps getting better. A quick recap: A relatively conservative district has a dogfight between a token democrat and a semi-moderate republican. In walks a non-shamefaced carpetbagger (he actually lives in another district), from a third (literally, Conservative) party, gets national news and support from certain right-wing superficial loudmouths. Republican party candidate drops out on eve of election, not in enough time to get her name off the ballot, and Conservative party guy loses to Democrat by some 5000+ votes, concedes, Dem is sworn in.

Now: ACORN stole the election. Okay, so there was also a quick little blurb in there about unions, but really, even then it's mentioned as a castoff.

The joyful thing about this is that I think it represents an official passing of the torch for conservative boogiemen: it used to be unions (see Nixon, R.) that would hand elections to the Dems through their pandering, intimidation, etc. And sure, there might have been a grain of truth in that somewhere -- this is America, after all, and a little election fraud is usually considered par for the course, and doesn't amount to more than the usual margin of error for a completely clean vote. But the unions have gotten old, they're not a selling point, they're trite and mustachioed and frankly went out of favor whenever the Hoffa rumors died. No pun intended.

[Quick aside: to my more conservative and Republican friends out there, the left has the grand Diebold conspiracy, so this is by no means isolated.]

Okay, great, we get it. You lost, you're sore, you need someone to blame. ACORN is now big leagues, in no small part thanks to the efforts of the scree team decrying them. Great. And if it makes the conservative Mr. Hoffman, and by extension, all of the people who voted for him -- no slim number, btw -- sleep better at night knowing that they couldn't shouldn't wouldn't have lost in a fair fight, so be it as well. Also so be it that the candidate himself was nothing more than a talking points shill with no actual substance to his arguments (not, again, uncommon in American politics, esp. on the House level), whose only claim to fame was being a champion of a guy who links the Rockefeller family to communism (or is it fascism?) because of a bunch of commissioned works on a collection of buildings that bears the same-said name. So be it.

That he lost the election by stolen votes from a left-leaning organization, nevermind that the margin was well within the number of votes cast for his other, Republican, challenger, that she might have siphoned off votes in the too-late drop-out, that a movement that seemingly can't even get its act together long enough to present a unified vision and model of a candidate does not account for anything to do with it, so be it.

Hoffman, and I address you by name here -- you're a lightweight. Give it up, you've had your fame, now sit down and let the big people go about their business.

[Special points, dear readers, if you can figure out another person that last line could apply to.]

and you will know us by the trail of the read (?)

I've been awol from here for a while, kids, and I apologize. And even more distressingly, I actually have nothing to report, save for the ever changing floor plan of my apartment and some random, weird bumpings in the night that's playing completely off my imagination.

But how do I spend my time in these situations? Easy, I read. And reading I have been doing.

So below is a digest of what's been through my system:

• An indictment, and for my two cents a compelling one, of a certain type of contemporary parenthood.


• Yes, Heidegger was an ideological nightmare, but can we separate the man from the legacy from the belief system?


• Finally, how much cute can a normal man take before he wants to break out the panda steaks with a hello kitty au jus

Feel free to discuss amongst yourselves. I'm thinking about reading some Louis Lamour.

An Open Letter to Mr. Agassi

Dear Mr. Agassi,

So I understand you had a bit of a problem. A drug problem, with a particularly nasty dance partner. I guess the millions from tennis and shitty camera ads, a model wife, a long career doing something you love that typically has a shelf-life of about ten years tops, that didn't cut it. The swooning of a certain branch of the intelligentsia females who hold a particular sport in high-regards, usually playing it what with those skimpy skirts, and you, with your place in the throne of said competition, were anointed to make their hearts moisten and melt. But that wasn't enough.

No, when it all came down to it, you had to develop a drug habit. Now, this is not unheard of in your profession -- as athlete, but even as professional entertainer, what with the annals cutting back to everything from opium to mescalin to scips and what-have-you. In fact, this would be room for celebration in a lot of places, a comeback story, but really, and maybe this is the truest testament to bad decisions, it was the substance: Crystal Meth. Because really, your fame would have grown, you could have used it as something to showcase your further bravery (we can't all be Lance Armstrong, after all), but instead you picked up a drug that, for all intents and purposes, is left to the likes of truck stop whores in the most barren stretches of Oregon and Wyoming.

But I understand. Maybe you didn't know. Maybe you were unaware that there is a hierarchy to these things. A habit is a habit after all, but quite frankly the habit you chose could easily have been a boon, a statement, an altogether triumphal second (third?) career as university- or rally-lecturing shill. And it's all about the social acceptability.

Well, I've taken that into account. In fact, I've done something better. Below you'll find a list of the top drugs by social acceptability, with explainers as to why and how each could have affected your image. In fact, how you could have used them to advantage yourself and exactly the career choice you could have made.

So Mr. Agassi, for your perusal:
1) Weed. The Fountain of Youth doesn't exist. But this thing -- a former mainstay of college life now far removed from that environ -- has enabled children of all ages to maintain that sense of immaturity, slackerness, detachment. Best of all, it's apparently been found by the same people who promise all those helpful things on dietary supplements to be a veritable cure-all. Granted, the field is a bit crowded, what with Woody Harrelson and Willie Nelson taking all the spotlight glare, but don't let a couple of bloodshot eyes get in the way of the fact that you were number one in one arena, you can be number one in another. With the cache it has in the current arts community (and California, for that matter), could you imagine the cash in with the Rebel commercials (idea: play tennis, then smoke a spliff).

2) Prescription drugs. Now we're talking the proper, more age appropriate stuff. Vicodin, Percocet, Valium for god's sakes. Now, I don't want to get on my high horse, but I understand where you were at. A little older, a little paler and not so spry, but frankly this would have paved the way for exactly the new spokesperson. Let's face it: Prescription drugs are the new laudanum, and it's not just for women and feinting couches anymore. Yes, there is a bit more of a celebrity angle (think Brett Favre and Rush Limbaugh, among others), but those aside, you can most certainly get a few people interested in your life story with a few misplaced tears in a press conference and a trip to Betty Ford.

3) Cocaine. Teeth grinding and disintegrated nasal cavities aside, the juice behind power brokers and PR chicks can be your ticket to stardom. There's not too much to say here, but if it's good enough for Bernie Madoff, maybe it would have been a good enough choice for you. Besides, when somebody asks you how it all got started, you can respond with: "Five words: Now Sampras with the serve."

4) Alcohol. You know the drill, and being from Las Vegas I am almost positive you've seen it, you've seen the stories. Granted, the story has been a little bit done, but it's always good for a few sob stories and a quick day of reckoning from the more sociable of drinkers out there. Unfortunately, unless you're trying out for a role in Mad Men or a Bukowski novel, you might want to pass. The drug that has fueled many an Irish bout of black rage might not be the best choice, but it still has some points and is something many a person can identify with. My recommendation would be to put a contemporary spin on it: a $4 mil a day habit on this stuff. And really, who can cry about those bottles?

5) Nicotine. You know what I'm taking about: those filthy tar-drenched filters lining the gutter, padding an old coffee can, the clothes that smell like the inside of a defunct coal-furnace. The black lung, the morning cough, the twitches, headaches, and cravings, cravings, cravings. And after all that, I have a hard time recommending this one. Unfortunately, the drug of choice for near-on the twentieth century and the plant that built the American empire has really lost its luster as society moved to a post-industrial, less smelling of a chimney swoop day-in-day-out existence. With the effects being largely mild and fast, this could be a tough one to sell. However, if spinned properly, this could really work to your advantage: "I just needed a smoke while I driving with the baby on my lap" or "When those cravings hit, I couldn't help but break out a stick at the casket." This has its third rails, but with the proper massaging, could be quite lucrative.

6) Heroin. I know what you're thinking: I'm not sitting on a gritty novel in a loft somewhere in Edinburgh/San Francisco/Williamsburg. And you're right. I understand that's tough. And yes, the drug's limelight and heyday really was somewhere between the release of 1994'sPulp Fiction and 2000's Requiem for a Dream, but the drug really has a certain bohemian quality to it. You're a rebel, and it puts you in the same league as Billie Holiday, Miles Davis and Robert Downey Jr. Not bad company. And if all else fails, there's a spot on Celebrity Rehab waiting for you.

7) Hallucinogenics. While the stories you could tell would be interesting -- and who doesn't like day-to-day life looking like Pole Position on the Colecovision? -- its luster has long since rubbed off and is now really more of a curio and frankly a point of sadness mixed with indifference for everyone around. Although it still has the white vote, I'd recommend a pass on this.

8) MDMA, Ecstacy, Speed, etc. While this might get you a bit of attention and an invite to Blackrock City, in general the respectability of this is passed even among the youths, who have sine moved on to item 2. I'd suggest a pass on this as well, if only because it's still considered too recreational to merit anything but scorn.

9) Crack. Now, I have heard an account from a friend of mine, who has gone a bit native among the savages, that in fact this is a substance that best codifies and embodies that sensation of love. Cheap, dirty, alley sex with a cuddle session afterwards, like we all wished we had while we were still suckling. Unfortunately, it's also a dirty, cheap version of number 3, and as Whitney Houston proved a quick grounds to obscurity and Republicanism. Bobby Brown aside.

10) Crystal Methamphetamine. See comments in the intro. The drug of desert trailer parks and places with bar closings of ten p.m.

So in summation, Mr. Agassi, I hope this has been informative for when the sequel to the memoir is published. While I can't condone the use of any of these substances, cashing in on them can be an entirely different matter, if the particular substance has been chosen properly.

Now if you will excuse me, I have to go back to my bourbon.

Sincerely,

-Geof

Excuse me while I attend to my Brecht

Having been slightly chided for my last, football-referencing post, the Good Addler will now refrain for exactly fifteen minutes and instead talk about his weekend. In tones mauve and taupe. Think of it as his summer vacation post, a one-day snippet from the permanent vacation that is his life, and rather only two events from it. Like canoeing and poison sumac, only not in that order and not comparable in the enjoyability department.

First off: Bronson. Saw the movie, had some thoughts. But to get you all caught up, here's the trailer --

Now, to catch you guys up, this was the same director as the well-regarded Pusher series, which I have not seen but understand that it gives him some indie street cred. The story: A biopic based on the most dangerous man in the UK prison system. The story on the story: The prisoner realizes that he's always wanted to be famous, and further realizes he's become so in prison by beating up guards. The story behind all that: You have to do something to be famous, you idiot. Besides beat up guards. Now cue the Brecht, now cue A Clockwork Orange.

So I guess the best news of all of this is that it's oh-so timely (I should probably underline that, but it'd be too much). A black comedy to the point that when Tom Hardy strips to his skin-suit (literally, he fights the guards in the buff), all I can think as his junk is dangling there is how hilarious it all looks. The mustache doesn't help. Of course, I didn't realize I was going in costume, what with the neglect for getting dressed and the mustache and chrome-top I was rocking at the theater. You get the idea, and that is an aside.

Tom Hardy, however, is the reason to see this. Some of the direction I'm not sure about, but Hardy pulls off both menacing wild dog and and absolute dopiness at the same time. Which seemed about right for the character -- the character is essentially a big mewling baby, and the facial expressions, the fighting angry, the craving for attention, the general cluelessness. As an artistic direction, they also threw in some cabaret elements. Again, interesting, and Hardy pulls it off, but ultimately I'm not convinced it couldn't have been a better film.

And if we could just get the guy a loincloth.

@ @ @

And on the other front, I went to see roller derby on Saturday. All female, naturally, tons of hip checks, women displaying inhumanity to other women. With cheerleaders and bondage gear on the sideline. There should be pictures, but I couldn't sneak into the locker room.

There's your sumac.

The college blog

In an odd turn of events, I walked through the apartment to the kitchen today to find out that one of my roommates, the MD student, was engaging in the medical history portion of a medical examination today. Odd, and I felt like I was walking through something I shouldn't have, which is true because I really shouldn't have.

I haven't said much about the roommates yet, have I? The one mentioned above is a med student at SUNY downstate hospital, Syrian, actually a very affable guy. The other, a painting student at Pratt, I have now not seen in about a week. Oddly enough, this situation makes me feel like I'm perpetually imposing. Which I'm sure I am.

In other odd, much more banal news, I've been getting back to following Delaware football. Delaware, being part of the FCS, is basically impossible to find on TV, but I had established years ago that it was possible to find them online through the radio station. And so I've been listening to them when I have the chance. Now, the Blue Hens are currently ranked 23, which is really irrelevant within itself, but they've lost two games to Bill and the Bitch (William and Mary to those not in the know) and #1 Richmond.

Which gets to the reason I'm bringing this up: the team at #2: Montana. The only reason why this has any bearing -- really, it should be completely irrelevant -- is that I dated a girl from Montana, and, being first off FCS and so just as impossible to know anything about, I didn't realize that they had a decent football team, in Delaware's NCAA class. So the words were thrown about, a little friendly gibing and sparring as to which program is better (it's still Delaware, Jenn, championships won be damned), but frankly now they're on my radar, and now I'm curious, for no rational reason, to see the two teams play. Hopefully in the playoffs.

I guess this is chalked up to the "What you take from the people around you" category. You should hear my rants against Massachusetts. At least, the old ones.

Nothing to report in my balloon here, kids

Except that this might be the luckiest man alive, or the start of a new summer sport:

Okay, so I lied. The balloon boy thing -- yes, that balloon boy, the one with the mysterious flying saucer, a mysterious falling (or not) box, and a mysterious appearance on a tv show after the hoax was all but exposed (including on-cue projectile vomiting).

Now, all I'm going to say is that if you feed the animals (in this case the food is late-20th century narcissism via the construct of the reality tv show. To pull an out-of-context quote from an article in this month's Atlantic: "Is it possible that being on television was not good for these people?").

Ahem -- that parenthetical was too long, so I'll restart the thought: If you feed the animals, don't be surprised when you can't get rid of them. It's a lesson to us all.

Nor'easter ghosts

It's 11:30 at night, I'm listening to spirituals in the form of chorale music while waiting for the melatonin to kick in. In my incredibly comfortable, warm cozy bed setup. Now, which of these things does not make sense? That's right, the melatonin. Why am I taking melatonin you might ask? I understand, I'm having a conversation with an imaginary audience which in general means nobody at all, so I'll cut with the pretense and have a dialogue with myself:

G1: Geof 2, why exactly are you popping the melatonin?
G2: Well, Geof 1, there's a funny story about that. See, I was wracked with insomnia all last week...
G1: I knew that. That's been well-established and in some ways very incredibly not surprising -- Geof can't sleep, maybe Geof drinks too much coffee, maybe he should lay off the nicotine and the caffeine and just let his body do what it's designed to do.
G2: Are you done?
G1: You have to let it shut down every now and then. It's sort of a given. Now I'm done.
G2: Did you save up any energy for the punchline, or is that narcolepsy you're so proposing interfering with your usefulness as a listening partner.
G1: No, I'm really done. And awake. You're not letting me not stay awake.
G2: I'm going to start.
G1: About the alarm clock?
G2: Yes about the alarm clock, you frakking ninny. Of course you know my stories, you're just the vessel of my brain that contains my left ear in its vicinity. Take a pillow. You're more interesting sleeping.
G1: When you let me.
G2: I'm letting you right now.
G1: Right.
G2: Now, as I was saying. I've been known to become so used to my alarm clocks they don't wake me.
G1: And you still buy them.
G2: You're sleeping and not interrupting. Emphasis on the not interrupting. And I buy them -- no words -- because I enjoy being, upon occasion, a functioning member of society.
G1: And yet.
G2: Anymore or I smother you.

So the story is essentially true -- I'd been using the alarm on my cell phone to cajole me out of sleep, which, although useful for the first few months, has now stopped allowing me to wake. Meaning I'm suddenly in the twilight zone of figuring which buttons to depress on the cruise model my parents sent me from a west Indies trip. There's a reason why zombies originate there.

@ @ @

Shit, melatonin is starting to take hold, so this might become a little incoherent. Or it might be to-be-continued. MOst likely the latter.

UPDATE: Today there is sun. The air is still a little crisp and birds are still singing. This weekend was a nor'easter-ish nightmare, what with the wind and the rain and the frightening damp, dank cold. I'd experienced some of these during my time at delaware, but even then my understanding was this was nothing like the cold of the climes farther north. So I got my first taste. I survived, but need a damned scarf.

@ @ @

As for the ghost. You don't get to hear about it. Grand Central is a small microcosm of the world, east and west. Last week was filled with psychological pop rocks of the type that get screened and grabbed at the airport. It's been a rarity.

Insomnia ruminations

As should be gathered by the title and the fruitlessness of my melatonin, I can't sleep and am officially annoyed by this. Again. It's turning into an old story. So you get a blog post in return.

Thoughts:

1) The slate gabfest plugged an article which I cannot find, but sounds freaking great: The breakdown of all sounds considered's top albums list. Which, long story short and to further prove my disdain, simply reminds me of the middlebrow banality of the entire NPR franchise. Half the time I think Congress would be doing the country a favor if they followed through on the cutting of the damned funding, if only for the fact that people might actually experience

2) I made a batch of chili last night, which should have turned out delicious and actually was quite tasty, but the damned thing smells like someone upchucked in the frakkin soup. Now, I don't know if this is a bad beer experiment or what, but it's overall quite annoying. Which leads to point three:

3) The fridge in the apartment here is actually not working. Seriously. The freezer is absolutely fine, but the fridge? It's noticeably cooler in the kitchen than there. And we've had the windows shut in this nor'easter.

4) I need some more coffee right now. But I need sleep even more. Enjoy this, enjoy the nothingness of this post, nihilism sucks, creation ex nihilo is a lie (but the truth isn't that compelling, either). Later, kids.

One last thing, and yes, I know this is a postscript but I'm still sleep-optional at this point:

Monday morning one-off

I'm procrastinating getting ready for work, and so in doing I stumbled on this article in the NYtimes: "A Quest to Read a Book a Day for 365 Days." Okay, so this is admirable: basically, this woman has decided to read a book every day for a year. I'm cool with that, to a point. But really, browsing her blog (Read All Day), her assessments are largely superficial. How many book are "beautiful," "wonderful," "one of the best"? Really, while I appreciate what this is, the act of reading, reading a piece of art should elicit a response beyond just the "hey, look, I'm reading."

Now, my father used to read quite a bit as well. Mack Bolan, Marcinko, the occasional Ludlum. Which is fine also, but nobody is going to equate this to reading of depth. These are novels designed for consumption, serving much the same purpose as a big loud explosiony hollywood blockbuster, and should be considered as such. What's my point here? Basically, reading a lot can dangerously lead to treating all books as crap.

To my avid readers out there, take stock. I'm talking (somewhat) to you. Not to complain, but mainly to say that there's more to a novel that sheer rampant consumption is not going to help. It's like physics: every action has its consequences. Reading is still a slow activity, that's where it gets its power. Reading fast is just wasting time.

Hmmm...this post felt like a waste of time. I'll revise it when I think of a point later.

To Whittle this Down to One

I've had a lot come across my plate the last few days that seem blog-worthy. Or rather, rant-worthy and I need to talk about it: The implicit racism of Barbara Walters (or the denial of such underlying racism from Whoopi Goldberg), the fuck-you-in-the-face-W-Bush granting of the Nobel to Obama, the rise and codification of the vocal level "squee," the reminder to my San Francisco denizens that you don't mess with the Chinese woman on the bus.

No, what really got my attention was this:

Now, I know what you're thinking: it's about the cheesecake. And taken into account along with the prostitute story from earlier, that's understandable. But that's not it. Okay, a little bit, but not much.

See, I view this picture -- and mind you, we ran this at work -- I view this picture, and the eternal flipping rolodex that is my fractured memory system remembers a book: Ballard's Crash. Sex, car crashes, removable prosthetics. Beautiful shit. But no, that wasn't the full end of it: From Crash to "Good Country People." Preachers, hollowed-out Bibles containing condoms and whiskey, a hayloft, another prosthetic. And if this is what Hulga looked like, then I can suddenly go to sleep (well, pre-sleep) content.

Thank you, ESPN The Magazine, for re-invigorating this fine, fine work.

The Whores of Midtown

I'm taking a break tonight from the sweltering newsroom (read: the only thing enjoyable about saunas are the humidity and semi-circulating air), when this girl walks up to me, pink dress covered by a studded black cotton jacket, and asks me if I need company.

Reflexively, naturally, I say I'm doing just fine, and frankly I was, the sting of the pre-autumn air doing wonders for my mood, but that was not the reason. Let's face it: she was a whore. Really, a bonafide woman-of-the-discretionary-last-minute-hotel-rooms whore. But that wasn't even the reason. More on that later.

We're going to now rewind to another episode, this time to a planned post-BW retirement celebration about three, maybe four weeks prior. I have the chance to mingle with some of the people in full on decent mood, what now that I'm at this point finally getting my feet on the ground out here. For avid followers, this was the same weekend I moved into the new digs.

And so I'm outside smoking, listening to a shoot-the-shit conversation from a bunch of this-establishment regulars, when I see an african american girl, all decked in white like it's a clubbing outfit (and like it is the 85 degrees at night it was), who waves. I nod, turn my head, ignore her for the ministrations of my tobacco inhalations. She doesn't leave, and instead stops and crosses the street.

"What's a guy like you doing out here all alone tonight?"

"Smoking."

"Well you know, you need someone to keep you company?"

"I'm doing well, but thanks."

"Oh, you don't have a girl in there, do you? Nobody to come in and break all this up?"

"She's waiting on me, actually."

That's essentially how the conversation ended, a few idle lines passed, then she goes clomping along -- clomping not being the proper term but what is the term for somebody wearing knee-high thick-heeled patent-leather boots who still walks with grace? -- and I go back to my smoke.

The bouncer: Holy shit, I haven't seen one of those in years. (descriptor: the guy is a seriously tatted up biker-looker who regaled me later on about going for his gun if t his one guy on the pool table would not...just...quit...egging him on...while he was working.)

Regular: One of what?

The bouncer: She was a whore. Haven't seen one of those around here in a while.

And so, this is my frame of reference. Were I a journalist, I'd probably pull out some prostitution stats showing the increase in such-and-such numbers over the last x number of years. But I'm lazy and a pontificator and a fictionalizer, so I digress. The sound of my voice is what I'm really looking for in all these.

Which cuts back to the story tonight: I'm walking, it's a whore, I'm reflexively prone to not trusting and say no. After the incident happened I dissected it for what it was: It wasn't that she was so obviously a woman of the trades, an ex-mortgage broker or derivatives trader (because really, both these scenarios tell me Pretty Woman might not be a figment, at least in that prostitutes exist that aren't completely cracked out and gumming for the next available stupid cash-laden john. See Spitzer, Eliot.)

No, the real reason why I said thanks, I'll pass, has just been a thing of breeding, an axiom I have: Never trust a woman whose wardrobe consists almost entirely of pink.

Up in the attic

So I'm breaking in my new desk setup, my computer, my spot aloft in the top of a three-bedroom apartment setup, with this blog post. Consider this the pissing-to-mark-my-writerly-territory blog. Today was the day to hang up pictures, to move around more furniture, to make the ever-cascading mound of cds seem less likely to avalanche on my toes.

As some of you may know, I've moved to brooklyn. I've also dumped the facebook (still not sure how temporarily), started reading saul bellow, bought a platform bed base (with no mattress -- at least I got a twin-size bed with the deal), and picked up a desk from my boss, the Karen-Ball of this post (who is in fact Karen Ball). In other words, in the week I've been in this unit, I've started to adjust. There will be pictures, but not yet.

Some of you -- in this survey-style blogpost of my life since the last one -- some of you may appreciate that I've also gone on a cleaning jag. At least, with my portion of the unit. And that, the rumors, are well substantiated by the first few steps into my place. The rest of it will have to be determined.

Anyway, enough of this simmering shithole of a rambling, stupid blog. I think I've pissed in the corner enough.

and yet i feel so european.

photo taken at the kitchen table this afternoon. i'll work on the shot -- the subject is not going anywhere.

And that bright light you will see will be the light reflected off the skin of my legs

Yesterday I had a conversation with my mother. I know, big news. Yesterday, I had a conversation with my mother about how long it takes to get rid of the San Francisco suntan. For this (and for anyone who has never graced the vaunted streets on the tip of the peninsula), this will need some context: apart from the rest of california -- what with it's sun-drenched vistas, playas, etc., san francisco is a city that was kidnapped by fog at some point. The sun is non-existent for save maybe three hours a day, and even when it is visible, it's typically wrapped around such a chilly day that carrying around a jacket is probably a very good idea. Shorts are not an option, and layers upon layers are what typically provide the SPF one would need throughout the day.

Well, I'm no longer in that. I'm back east, walking around, and lo and behold my legs are doubling as traffic reflectors. I've gotten by with wearing jeans as much as I can so as not to be a public or traffic menace, but frankly they're hot and feel ungainly inappropriate for the weather. Cue the conversation with my mother, a 33-year SF veteran before moving who also has twice the Latin blood I do:

Female Parent: So have you started getting any sun yet?
Me: No way, Ma. I'm still trying to get that skin tone that I lost in Frisco.
F: [laughs] It took me about three years, you know. Three years of looking sickly and no skintone before I started getting some color.

Well, at least the feeling's mutual, but now I have to wonder if it's something to even attempt to remedy, or should I just go back to the pale? This is a false problem, really, but kind of funny that the two of us went through it.

The Coffee-fueled blog: now solar-powered.

another goody from the spam folder

The subject from a message in my spam folder:

Cunnilingus - Powermful Technique, Exercise and Position to Maake Her Orgasm

You have to like the double-a.

I will have you know this is probably the reason why I got strep the last three times. It's an incredibly power(m)ful technique.

from a little bird on the interwireds

Great quote from the Rescue Me hulu page:

"Arguing on the internet is like running in the Special Olympics. Even if you win your [sic] still retarted."

And yeah, I'm hooked on the show. Deal with it.

Cue the Alanis quote

At least I can sleep soundly knowing that no Vegetarians were hurt in the creation of my pasta sauce.

raindrops are falling on my head

So I used to think that there was a time of night when, typically, the bar next door or one of the many vietnamese restaurants would drain whatever cold ice chest they were using to keep things frigid. It was almost a nightly sound, peering out my window, and with such Old-Faithful predictability it couldn't be just random street chaos.

Nope. 

It was somebody pissing. Probably every time.

The questionnaire

So I'm not sending this out about anyone, mainly as a rumination of my dating life in SF. Because it's sucked, and partially it's my fault, partially it's because of the calibre of women I've met. Which ultimately gets back to me.

This is a joking questionnaire that came up awhile back, talking about my terrible luck with women. About how I seem to meet the crazies. Now, I'm not going to say they're all crazy, but essentially that's the pattern I've been in and probably promote. 

Without further ado, here's the questionnaire, to see if you're suitable for dating. The Geoffery Metz. This might be long.

1) Have we ever gotten along on a superficial level when first meeting? (+1 pt)

1a) Was it in a bar? (+5 pts.)

1b) Did we meet online? (-1 pt.)

2) Has your need for travel ever superseded plans for musical or dramatic performance? (+3 pts.)

2a) Was the performer your friend? (+5 pts)

3) Are you a fan of David Sedaris? (+5 pts.)

4) Have you ever seen Brick? (+1 pt.)

4a) Without me forcing you? (+5 pts.)

4b) Stood me up when I suggested we see it in the theater? (+10 pts.)

5) Are you a fan of David Lynch? (-1 pt.)

6) Have you ever engaged regular in one of the following drugs (+1 pt. each answer):

a) Cocaine

b) Anti-depressant

c) Tobacco

d) Crystal Meth

e) Beer Breakfast

[Note: add two points if you engaged in any of (a)-(d) on a regular basis. For (e), only add a point if this was before work.]

7) Which one of these regions strikes you as the best region for wine:

a) Napa (+5 pts.)

b) Sonoma (+2 pts.)

c) Spain (+2 pts.)

d) France (+3 pts., but really, who drinks French wine?)

e) Italy (+1 pt.)

f) Australia (+3 pts.)

8) Are you a Capricorn or Aries? (5 pts. for either)

9) Are we separated by more than a subway trip (i.e., a trip on a plane, train, automobile)

a) Yes (-10 pts)

b) No (+2 pts.)

10) Have I ever called you when you're drunk?

a) Yes (+5 pts.)

b) No (-2 pts.)

Bonus question: Have you ever been a cheerleader? (+2 pts.)

Add up the score. The closer to 52 means I've probably dated you and it was a short affair with a lot of chemistry at the top. The farther away, we'd probably be awesome together but will never meet.

Remnants

Well, this is exciting. I've been picking up my apartment in anticipation of liquidating much of it and giving me more organizaiton in the process. And the shit I've unearthed:

• A note from old college friend Shana (which I've subsequently misplaced).
• My old teamster card. Yes, I'm a box dragger.
• My high school hockey jersey. This wasn't a complete loss, but I hadn't seen the damned thing in years.
• A tarot set I'd thought I'd lost. I do not know how to read tarot, but the damned thing was humorous enough to keep around and made me enjoy my esotericism. 

So, what to do except pick up some more, see what else I can find. Go figure. Ugh, I smell right now, but think I'll have hockey to watch in a little bit. Before I head to work. 

Speaking of puck, I was hanging out with friend Matt at Kilowatt. To watch the Sharks put up a stinker to the Ducks, but that's neither here nor there. However, in the corner there was  of the bar there was a group of Blackhawks fans, watching the Hawks take on the Flames. And they were yelling, carrying on, going freaking ballistic over the game. And I loved it. Every hit, every shot, cheers, jeers, really going at it. Like hockey should be watched.

I'm not going to say too much about my hockey experience here, but I've gotten the impression over the years that Bay Area sports fans basically watch their sports like they're in a library. I'd actually gotten bored with the sport because nobody knew how to watch it. And seeing them (and nearly getting into a fight with one of them), was awesome. 

T-minus two months and counting. Time to fetch my laundry.

clap trap

Another discussion at work — this time about movies — which made me think about pet peeves. Of them:

• I dislike people talking in movies. Sorry, we're getting a world given to us with no breaks. Grant us the time to get it (see: case study 2046 where friends were giggling about the entire thing while I was trying to watch an awesome movie. Almost ruined the thing for me, although I still haven't seen it fresh.).
  
• Clapping in movies. Yes, I have no problem with this if the actual people involved are there, but a round of applause or standing ovation makes about as much sense as clapping at the end of a book. It's self-congratulatory bullshit.
  
• Exclamation points. Most of you know this.
  
• Taxes.

Okay, so this really is just for me to point out that I still haven't finished my taxes, although that may even change today. But really, does it matter that much?

* * *

Most recently on the facebooks I've been getting ads for Match.com. I'm not sure quite why this is happening, mainly because while yes, I am single, I'm not looking and have a history with dating sites:

So a few years back, I was reading an article in The Atlantic (I think) about the modern pseudo-science of the contemporary romantic enabler. Virtual Yenta, as it were. I figure what the fuck, for shits and giggles (take a drink), I'll try it, what me being perpetually and habitually single and with pretty much no luck by default in the SF genetic wasing pool.

I jump on one of them, put in the hour or so to fill out the psychological exam or whatever, filling question after ridiculous question just to see what type of response I would get. What the machine would say about me. I think it believed I was a cylon. It's actual response: "Sorry, but we can't do anything with your makeup, you neurotic, psychotic loser/douchebag. Get a sex change, find a mortgage broker." I think that was it.

And now, I guess I get ads from them. I should tell them I still have a codpiece.

post. it.

I need to rush this post, as I'm sitting in my bath towel and have to run to work. But it's very near official -- I'm leaving. SF. Gone like a distant memory (please grant me the cliche — again, I'm rushing).

The transfer to New York finally came through, and as of mid-June, I'll be packed and absconded.

I've been spending the last few nights looking at apartments in NY. Big, scary move, but at least I have the job so all I need now is a place to live, less I'll be spending nights at Grand Central sans shower. And I've realized how pointless that is at this time.

More to the point, though — I want to remember San Fran in a good light. Yesterday I took a walk past the Contemporary Jewish Museum, and the view from there was refreshing at worst. My history here has been spotted at best, and I'd pretty much tired of it five years ago, but there was something here when I first showed. And I want to spend the next two plus months finding it again.

First — (and this is going off a suggestion from Rik) the Tonga Room will have to be in the offing. It's closing, I'm leaving, so this makes sense. In my nine-plus years, I've never been there, so might as well end with a piece of history, as it was one of the last tiki lounges in the city and apparently worth every bit of the notoriety and repute it got.

As for everything else, well the explorer's cap is coming back. We'll see where it takes me.

Tea and crumpets

At work the other day we ended up a conversation about curse words. Namely, 

Party A: What's your favorite curse word?

Party B: Why, that would have to "fuck."

Party C: I agree wholeheartedly with my colleague.

Party D (me): It's "cunt." I won't say it in mixed company, but it's "cunt."

Party E (female): What's all the hubbub over there?

Party A: Do you have a favorite curse word?

Party E:  [thinks] "Shitbag?" I think I use that one the most.

Party D: It's still "cunt." Sorry, but it's the last one left. Unless you're Irish or a Brit, they've already used their allotment like its government whiskey rations.

This might not be the exact breakdown of the conversation, but it was close. I am not that witty sober. 

And I will have you know I was wrong. Completely, utterly wrong.

I should have remembered this article from slate awhile back (http://www.slate.com/id/2213558/ for the browserly retarded) that expounded on the virtues of matriarchal incest as a slur in nearly every language. And the other day a friend of mine texted me about losing his glasses after talking to a female bartender about Booker's being 'crazy juice' (a new one to me as that's a term I reserve for other much more personal things, namely about other people). I responded "Did you check her snatch?" I had to hide this response from my female company — too vulgar, too ultimately base for the moment.

Which brings up the question: why do all the good ones revolve around the female genitalia? I mean, you call a guy a dickhead, a putz, limpdick or micropecker and he'll probably not give a shit. Won't even think he's being yelled at, unless you're yelling at the time. But throw out "You dirty fucking cunt" to anyone and they'll just about rip your eyes out. Unless they're a Brit or Irish, and then they'll laugh and buy you a pint. Unless you're yelling at them. Seems like a sexist bias in there somewhere.

I will have you know, I also like the word "skullfuck," but thanks to the onion that's even gotten a little old.

The Music Blog

For shits and giggles (one of my favorite cliches btw, if anybody is regularly following this they will probably have already seen that pattern), I put my iPod on shuffle. No classical. Three out of three songs so far I forgot or didn't realize I had. This astounds me.

Now, I'm not going to talk up my musical knowledge — to be quite honest (and as intimated in the previous post), I'm usually quite far behind on any musical trend and have lost my taste and connections for it — but I have always enjoyed knowing I know what's in my freaking collection. It's up to 2222 songs now, a good third of that probably classical, but dammit if it this state isn't a result of pure negligence. 

Case in point: I made a friend a classical guitar mixer the other day. Got two cds out of it. And I'd forgotten how much I actually enjoyed a lot of that music. So now I'm trying to take stock of why that's happened. The usual lineup of co-mingling events are there: not enough time, a lot of music compiled in 33 years, and I've been so wide-reaching with my tastes that it's hard to get consistent thread between all of them. However, when I was younger, on my own, in SF, I'd sit around my apartment as something fantastic to do, chill and read and listen to music, usually sans the reading part (I'm guilty of trying to make myself sound to noble). And I've lost it somewhere, and sort of want to get it back, sooner rather than later.

So, the first part of this process is arranging my apartment for however long into a place I can again relax and sit and really listen to my tunes. The second — and now I'm challenging all my loyal readers out there — is to get back to making mixes. I'm guessing most of you are on the facebooks, where this blog is mirrored — send me a note, tell me what you want. I'll see what I can do. 

And if I've already made you one, then don't get too spoiled.

Anyway, this blog has now

.

rediscovering the shit on my shoes

I had a revelation tonight that, were I living back east or at least were I living in Baltimore, where I lived would be a tony neighborhood. I mean, the fucking former CAA building might as well be The Belvedere. Not to be confused with the Mister. 

Fuck, location is central, basics are almost perfect, you even get a walk past city hall and its gilded dome to go to work -- but this qualifies as inner city west-coast style. The respectable neighborhoods are all up the hill or less developed "neighborhoods," that, while they qualify as such, are much too large to substantiate basic civil existence on an old-world scale (meaning -- before cars existed). And I've met too many people here who will get their car to go half a block. True story. But that's an aside, and let's talk about the hill thing.

Now, make no mistake I don't think this is a bad idea: in general the riff-raff is less inclined to climb, esp. when it means they get farther away from freeway traffic, but something in this idea strikes me as horribly wrong. The buildings here are some of the oldest, not this pretty victorian shit but something that survived the quakes by being made well, or were made after it and are made even better.

Moreover, the monuments, arts, structure of the area says it should be so much better. And what is it? An effing ghetto. If I have one thing that always pissed me off about suburban life back east and west-of-the-appalachian culture in general is that if it means you have to be around people regularly, you must live in a ghetto. Not in a place that requires more substantive existence and people always being on their wits. No, you need to acclimate to the stupidity of the ghetto to get around beauty.

I've always said that if I ever went back to Europe, I'd never come back. I'm still tempted, but next stop (cross my fingers) will be New York. I'm done here. For several years now.

late night ruminations because i'm not sleeping

there will be no theme to this post, as quite frankly i'm only writing it in a fit of insomnia and disappointment because of it. so the list of random thoughts:

• Finished watching season three of Battlestar Galactica. Wow. I'd heard about this show for awhile, but frankly I'm amazed they've managed to pull off a show that's so bizarre, brilliant and absolutely unpredictable in a sci-fi setting. not that I have anything against sci-fi, but the genre usually relies on so many tropes it's not all that watchable. BSG...no. Easily one of the weirdest and most inventive shows I've seen since Twin Peaks, but without the Twin Peaks lulls.
  
• I miss days where I could just steal off to nowhere in particular, hang out, do nothing. Not to say I don't enjoy living in the city, but I miss the idea of going somewhere on a whim with no planning or agenda. That's the most nostalgia you'll hear from me for awhile.
  
• Music hasn't had the same power it once did for me. I still love it, but it used to be something that would just floor me and I would plan nights around. Maybe it's the prospects of not sharing.
• Grendel. Read it recently, made me realize that American authors do not write novels like that anymore. Slim, metaphysical, but also a full on monster story. Who knew? Too many American novels remind me too much of the author, like that was its purpose. 
• I'm taking a stab at making red sauce in my crockpot. We'll see what happens.
• I removed the last comment. It's too embarrassing.
• I need to get back to writing. My apartment is too much of a disaster to do so, though. Mainly to work on my portfolio.

for shits and giggles

I'm reopening an old blog. not restarting it, just reopening it to outside. Nocturnal SF. Enjoy the old shit. Also linked from my profile.

Shriveling, like a spider under a hot lamp

It just dawned on my that Virgin is closing. Granted, I'd already been there at least once since the discount signs went up, but it just registered with me today -- cons slicking the pavement right in front -- that it will be gone. It's one of those weird demarcation points I'm experiencing in SF in my tenth year here, and it was brought on by wondering what the hell is going to fill its space.

And the realization: nothing. Not for awhile.

CompUSA died. Circuit City died. Red Box is either closed or on life support. Tower and now Virgin. Some of these are places I gave a shit about, others just happened to exist but I wouldn't take the time to spit on the pavement in front of them out of their relative insignificance.

But Virgin -- I spent a shitload of time there. Not that it was anything respectable. It was overpriced, full of itself and generally a tourist trap. But it was also a great place to get DVDs and had a respectable jazz and classical selection, and I wasted quite a few lunch breaks there throughout the years. And now, seeing the sign that all the marketing bullshit is now on sale, it sort of gets driven home.

Pity the corpse of Virgin. Pity the phoenician San Francisco. Nobody likes to watch a bird while it's burning.

The Teachings of Donnie B.

Here's an amazing argument in the most recent copy of the New Yorker, taken from an article about Donald Barthelme's place in the postmodernist canon:

What killed that distinction [between high and commercial art] wasn't defining pop art up [to the level of high art]. It was defining high art down. It was the recognition that serious art, too, is produced and consumed in a marketplace. The point of [Andy] Warhol's Campbell's soup-can paintings was not that a soup can is like a work of art. It was that a work of art is like a soup can: they are both commodities.

This was courtesy of Louis Menand, and it blew my fucking mind. Not for the observation of it, which is a trivial distinction. What mindfucked me was the way it put so succinctly an essential complaint I have had with a mood permeating the circles I've been around.

What does this really mean? Essentially, Warhol's soup cans brought the world to its logical summation. It's kitsch. Cultural criticism mistaken as artistic relevance. It's not constructive but nihilistic. And that's not the world want to live in. It's a dead outlook.

If art is not striving to find at least the odd, the weird dissonances associated with everyday life and find some type of tether between them, then all it really is is a pretty little trifle. We don't feel it, we don't need it. It isn't essential in the way that food, fucking and -- for some -- religion is. Maybe for all -- I've always held that Modernists biggest failure was the path they took to make art the new religion, and therefore as essential as Sunday Mass was to the 1300s.

With its push to emphasis on titillation and the superficial, the contemporary era essentially pulled high art and art in general to the levels of porn, minus the stache or what have you. It's all superficial -- and not even satisfactorially animalistic -- fucking. It's not attempting to be anything else.

So here's my ultimate manifesto:

If you're looking at a piece of street art, ask the fundamental question "So what?" With any gallery opening or new track of music: "So what?" Any film: "So what?" What else did the work bring to the table? What was this looking to do to me or change or mold or push or punch or spit on me?

Not everything is going to be effective here, but shit if you're not going to find -- if the artist is taking his audience seriously and not just completely absorbed in his- or herself -- that incrementally you have changed. Your life, whatever. Your outlook, your world view has been altered in such a way that you eventually look at yourself and say "I can't go back now." Even if it's not apparent what the "what" is, there's still a "what" that has already happened. And it's unsettling, in a good way.

Faithful readers, I promise not to talk your head off in the next one. I'll find some toilet humor for next time.

And now a note from your friendly neighborhood tenderloin resident

I get home last night, and granted I'm a bit tipsy as a result of a Valentine's Day that was mercilessly locked in singleness. Stumble through the apartment, jump on the computer and make a pizza. Go to the window for a quick smoke.

So as a point of reference, I live across from the Phoenix Hotel. Literally I overlook the parking lot and have an angle on four of the rooms that face it. Of course you had the regular emotional outcrying, the drunken aborted near-blows, the dealers staying clear because it's in their best interest to just stand by and laugh. And one room, a spotlight shining out, I do a double-take when I realize there's a couple going at it doggy-style.

Of course I do the natural thing and grab my binoculars. I size them up.

I have to throw in caveat upon caveat here. I am not a pervert (at least, not this type). I respect people's privacy and have no problem looking the other way if I happen to catch a glimpse of something that was meant to be a private event, private gesture or private otherwise.

But please, people. I'm also a red-blooded male, as well as a study of human nature and necessity, and it's not like it isn't obvious that there is a full set of apartments right within eyeshot. If you're in a city, close your fucking drapes! I don't care if you're twenty stories up, pull the fucking drapes. Now I'm on the fourth floor, the phoenix is only two stories, and here are these two people going at it. If they're going to be that fearless, I'm not going to give a shit.

After about four minutes, they got the hint.

So how was it? Mechanical. I got the impression watching them that, for all the seeming enjoyment and energy, there was no connection. It was fucking, and not even animal fucking. These two people either had never met before or, if they had, don't know a thing about each other.

That, and in spite of the fact the woman still had her dental floss on -- merely pulled aside for the activity -- she was completely uninteresting.

The ritualistic Saturday death spiral

As some of you may know, I waste my saturdays watching Sci-Fi, movies descended from an absolute pile of dreck. Upon occasion you might get a feature film that had some sort of official release (seriously, though, how did Bloodrayne and its sequel get a full release?), but the usual fare doesn't stray far from the in-house productions. And what a team they are.

I am personally convinced that the SciFi studios must have an army of six-year-olds thinking up this shit. I mean, how many movies can you see about raptors and pterodactyls and giant squids? The most recent example: Attack of the Sabertooths, a shitty take-off on Jurassic Park, but with the sexier, far more intriguing concept of -- wait for it -- sabertooth tigers. Rocking.

But then it gets more twisted than that. See, the movies are thought up in a day care facility, but the damned things have so much crappy blood effects that you might as well be watching slaughterhouse footage. Who exactly is the intended audience? When I was old enough to savor guts splattered across the screen, I had long graduated from anything to do with dinos. (okay, so I was playing forgtotten worlds and phantasy star II on my sega genesis, but who's really asking?) I wanted something terrifying, like zombies or vampires or werewolves or something.

Oh wait, they have those weekends to. I'll shut up now. And drink my coffee.

A&P

I had a very short relationship with John Updike. I know, a great man of American letters, he was marvelously productive career. But I never read the novels, not the Rabbits or the Witches or really anything else save a few short stories. And maybe this explains my relatively messed up outlook on the world literature, but essentially I do end up getting a lot of my general judgments through my relationship to shorts. Whatever. I will shamelessly stick to that, understanding that the the bulk of the reading world holds writers more to their novelistic achievements versus work in the shorter, more direct and hybridized form. (quick bit of gm/sf lit theory: because of the limitations of style, the weight of each word in a short more often approaches the rules of poetry, but I'm digressing and not caring much.)

Anyway, my first taste of Updike was in a non-counting English course on Short fiction back at the University of Delaware. The story: "A&P." Funny enough, it's online, so read it and enjoy:
http://www.tiger-town.com/whatnot/updike/

So of that generation, what's left? Vonnegut is long dead. Bellow passed, probably swatting the Grim Reaper in the nose on the way out. Stanley Elkin -- whose A Poetics for Bullies stands as one of my favorite shorts, period -- has been relegated to obscurity. Philip Roth now seems intent on only writing about the inevitable, to varying (mostly bad) degrees of success.

Well, in some ways it's about time. I would comment more, but the entire damned generation in some ways, while hitting a lot of the realistic flaneur notes (Thanks, James Wood), ultimately created a body of work that never punched me in the gut, with the few noted exceptions. That's my $0.02, but frankly for all its histrionics a lot of it felt flat. Whatever. A pure stylist can be decent but is ultimately lacking in emotional heft, a champion of the people dates him- or herself the second the words are put to page, a culture-specific icon can ultimately only go so far as the confines of cultural experience will allow: everything else will seem alien and somehow lack the all-important cultural punch to an Auslander of that culture. It's still going on, and at some point it's all navel-gazey, anyyway.

Okay, that was a tangential rant, my apologies if you all started to zone out there. My last image of Updike: on Charlie Rose a few weeks back, he was describing what it was like to revisit the Witches of Eastwick for his most recent title. And it was almost sad to watch somebody who I'd held in some esteem try to talk about lesbianism, etc. on a talk show. He sounded like a cross between a dirty old man and the prudish schoolnun. It's a weird combo, but he pulled it off. (btw, sorry about not being able to embed -- here's a link to the clip:
http://www.charlierose.com/view/interview/9495)

So I lost my train of thought after that one. Guess I shouldn't be so surprised -- I've probably bored the shit out of all you all anyway. Time for more coffee.

facebook has ruined my brain (or, the nerd blog to end all blogs)

I think facebook has ruined my brain. Not in the same way that say bourbon/beer chaser corrodes the thing, but the damned thing has made it so I can only seem to write in five word increments. Thank you headlines.

Before, I was able to compose somewhat cogent paragraphs, now, I'm thinking in sentences, short little snippets of info mixed with snark and sarcasm, little tiny quips to alleviate any literary itch. I had a hard time writing that sentence. I still don't think it works.

In other news:
Geof, the proverbial rocket scientist, just commented completely by accident on an anonymous website, which will invariably mean I get the pleasure of deleting/ignoring more spam in my inbox come tomorrow. (aside: worst new pickup line "Want a little spam in your inbox?")

The scenario -- friend dave posted a link to an album of movie themes, courtesy of Geoff Love and His Orchestra. Thinking I was commenting on his blog, I threw out the comment "Damn, I have to change my porn name now." Only I wasn't commenting on his blog. He had warned me about this.

Haha. (face forces a laugh, then just as suddenly goes slack and cold) I am a nerd. I don't even hide it well.

red light special: intelligentsia personals

From the back of the New York Review of Books:

Erotic Explosion. Let me blow your mind, your ultimate erogenous zone. Provocative talk with educated beauty. No limits.

So let me ask, because I can and will do so:
1) I'm assuming the topic of conversation is not going to be phrenology.
2) you know what, let's stop at one.

Is anybody else as amused by this as I am? Somehow I want to get involved in this racket. My sample add:

Mentally Dextrous. Nimble charlatan will tickle and test your depths. Clean, discreet, available for bah mitzvahs.

Yup. Think I might submit that one.

old, gray lady. bury it already.

I'm getting a bit annoyed by all the prattle (thanks for the word, Romalyn) over the demise of the nytimes, and the printed news in general.

Here's the doomsayers (shortlist, just today): An article in The Atlantic (with little to no actual insight) and a quasi-conversation on bat segundo (ostensibly over a conversation on the nature of snark, another topic completely) both talked about it, and I personally think its impending funeral is the reason behind the Noir City theme this year (not today). I mean, seriously, who starts a film festival with a movie about a sold-and-soon-to-be-shuttered newspaper and says it isn't the reason?

So I'm getting tired of it. Yes, it's bad. And yes, it will probably lead to a loss of some sort of collective national intelligence, but its general demise is overblown. it will have to change its delivery model and go through lean times, but, well, something will adapt. The market is still there. Whatever, I'm prattling, and apparently not up to my regular ranting quality.

So attached to this profile is an unfortunate abortion of a blog I previously tried about three years ago. I was trying to make do with late hours, and just got drunk and incomprehensible. As if that's a surprise.

And since this blog is somewhat new, I'm not sure if I'm digging the upholstery. I might have to change this.

Day 1, Vicodin ruminations

First off, this is will be my first attempt at posting on something other than myspace for the last two+ years. That sight had its uses, but it's stale, old, and I don't even post there nowadays. So that's going to way of the dodo, starting probably today.

I've had a previous stab at blogging here, on livejournal, and of course the long run on myspace. And that one, to put it in the most quaint of words, while it got me the most feedback, sucked. Well, here's take two here, we'll see how it goes.

And now for what you've all been waiting for, the grist:

I am going stir crazy today (how's that as a 'get to know you'?). I've essentially been stuck indoors fighting off the urge to take a long spoon to my throat while I wait for the long needle stuck in my ass to take care of all this strep bacteria. Yes, I got strep again, and the second time (the first time, naturally enough, right before Thanksgiving) has been a joy. And a bear. And basically a good excuse for another four-day diet of water and saltines.

So in addition to the antibiotics, I've been given my first chance to try to the wonder drug that is vicodin. At least as its regarded on "the street" (I am hep enough I can refer to it in those terms). Sum total: besides the quick, passing dizzying feeling, it's given me an onslaught of discombobulating dreams filled with leering gypsies, dreams that are viewed through a veneer of oh-shit-the-antenna-is-down static, and one where -- although I had already opened my eyes -- I felt the mattress grab me by the sides and start pushing me up. Normal stuff.

When discernible, though, the stuff has been the fodder of Grimm Fairy Tales as painted by Max Beckmann. See below:

And so that's that. I'm still stir crazy, and have not had coffee since Thursday. This is an aberration bordering on a Geneva Violation.