Uch

The glow stick at the end of the tunnel

It's 9:09. I'm still in a foul mood. However it has lessend somewhat thanks to this and a little [that].

Muchas gracias stereogum.

It's nice to know that all of the drugs have not dampened my potential for anger

It started last night at about 5:45, continuing until this very moment and, apparently, is getting worse. To each and every one of you who has fucked me over and/or added to my discontent in the past 20+ hours I have this to say:

My memory is outstanding. I know how to hold a grudge. And I believe in stealth retribution.

UPDATE: For the first time ever in my professional career, I gave a lawyer for the other side an ultimatum ("close tomorrow or I kill the deal") and then hung up on him. Although I'm still pissed as hell, it certainly felt good to figuratively bitchslap that asshole. Who's next?

Just because I don’t celebrate my own doesn’t mean I’m a cold-hearted bastard

While dropping my car off at the dealer this morning, I listened to Morning Edition on KCRW. Steve Inskeep was kind of enough to inform his listeners that today, September 29th, was the birthday of British actress Emily Lloyd. While I am a fan of Ms. Lloyd (blonde hair, blue eyes, great accent, quite attractive, wonderful in “A River Runs Through It” --what’s not to like?), I couldn’t believe that there was no one above her on the September 29th birthday pyramid.*

Well, NPR fucked up. There is someone who truly merits birthday wishes today. So, “Happy 29th on the 29th” and all that jazz. And thanks for the hours of wonderful distraction you have provided over the last several months.

And I would be truly remiss if I didn't wish Lily a very happy 8th birthday. Your Auntie ET is a fucking rock star.



*At least NPR chose her over Tom Sizemore, Andrew Dice Clay, Erika Eleniak and, no offense to my brother, Natasha Gregson Wagner. Anita Ekberg would have been a suitable replacement, however.

Lacuna

When your dinner companion for the evening takes a 2 mg Xanax before you have even left the house and then proceeds to inhale her first glass of pinot grigio before the bread has been served, you must prepare yourself for that inevitable moment when the table scene transitions from lively dialogue to forced soliloquy. Although sometimes abrupt, this sea change in the dining dynamic can be quite entertaining, especially if your dinner companion remains upright, conscious and able to ask the occasional question. Not having to suffer through the inanity of *nod* and “uh-huh” conversations is a great thing. Not feeling guilty for dominating the discourse is even better.

Independently, my dinner companion and I were scheduled to attend a young woman’s birthday party this past weekend. Independently, we both skipped said woman’s birthday celebration. Neither one of us felt any regret. The birthday girl is not a particularly close friend of ours. However, I quite fancy some of her friends and, presumptively, was looking forward to seeing all of them for the first time in almost six months. But, as it turns out, I didn’t get to see them; nor will I anytime in the foreseeable future. Which got me thinking and, as I was the only one at the table sufficiently coherent to complete sentences, talking. Too much talking.

The birthday girl in question has three friends; let’s call them A, B, and C. A, B and C live together.

I’ve been friends with A for as long as I’ve lived in LA. We’ve indifferently (read: drunkenly) snogged (an expert’s term of art) a couple of times, but nothing more. A is the perfect special occasion friend: I only see her at sizable get-togethers, she is a wonderful “drinking” buddy, we get along quite well and we are both perfectly content with not seeing one another for several months at a time. I honestly am bummed that I did not get to hang with A this past weekend.

Although I know B fairly well (once upon a time she dated my cousin), I would not count her among the people in my essential LA. My relationship with B is contextually defined by my friendship with A: Not B But For A. Not A, Then Not B. While I fancy myself a secular humanist in the guise of a non-practicing member of the tribe, I am agnostic when it comes to B. As a result, my soul remains unaffected by her absence. If I see B, fine. If not, also fine.

Last night I recalled that A & B live with a third woman, but could not begin to remember anything about her. Upon the asking, my dinner companion rose from her halcyon languor long enough to chidingly say, “You know. They live with C. C’mon, you had a huge crush on her.” With that, my dinner companion slumped in her chair and began to gaze hypnotically at last night’s mist-encased full moon.

Damn. Yes. Indeed. Fuck. I remember C.

I met C well after I met A and B. It was one of those generic indistinguishable omnipresent birthdays for one of those generic indistinguishable omnipresent twenty-somethings at one of those generic indistinguishable omnipresent LA bars. My immediate impression was that C was quite alluring (certainly attractive enough to pass the requisite initial superficiality hurdle). Turns out C was clever, to boot. Not only did we share an alma mater (a positive, albeit non-definitive sign), but when she spoke, substance underlay her musings. Further, C was successful: she had a great position of reasonable importance and a wealth of outstanding connections. And, the kicker, C was recently (and traumatically) single.

At that exact moment and continuing for the next several months, C epitomized my notion of tangible consociational perfection. I was not obsessed, per se. I was, however, enthralled. Every moment spent with her was relished. Every conversation, savored. C was beautiful and great and fun and difficult and sharp and mischievous and bitchy and dynamic. C was, however, still smarting from her previous break-up. And I was at the peak of my law firm disgruntlement and overall malaise. Therefore, I was even less proactive than normal. Never actually asked C out. Never did more, in fact, than buy her a few drinks, chat a bit, and a peck here or there. She was still recovering. And, more likely, I was just a big ‘ol wuss.

Those who know me best certainly know how the story ends. Per usual, it ends not with a magnificent salvo, but with the softest of whimpers, petering out. C & I never got together and, as is my history, out of sight invariably became out of mind. To the point where, lacking a semi-conscious prompt from across the table, I would not have remembered a woman who, just over one year ago, was indelibly branded upon my everyday being.

Ultimately you don’t need a company to erase someone from your memory; it only requires a bit of time and finding someone (or many many someones) to fill in the void. Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da.

And come Thursday evening, as I continue on my neverending quest, the void shall be filled once again. Take care C. I’ll remember you fondly. Or, more likely, maybe not at all.

A sneak preview of Thursday night's debate








courtesy of Gary Trudeau

Exactly what I wanted to read first thing on a Monday morning

From today's NYT:

Six Sigma: A Hollywood Studio Learns the G.E. Way

In many ways, the timing of the NBC acquisition could not have been worse for Universal Pictures executives. Even though the studio succeeded this year with "Along Came Polly" with Jennifer Aniston and the thriller "The Bourne Supremacy," its summer was one of its worst in years. Big budget extravaganzas like "Van Helsing" and "Chronicles of Riddick" failed to live up to Universal's expectations, and smaller films like "Connie and Carla," "Two Brothers" and "Thunderbirds" barely registered with moviegoers.

Just when I think I have finally escaped from it's emotional clutches, she pulls me right back in

I was all set to write about tonight's special screening of "The Motorcycle Diaries" (outstanding; see it this weekend) and my chat with Gael García Bernal and Walter Salles until Uncle Grambo pointed me toward this:

Before Sunset is a sequel to Before Sunrise, which starred Ethan and myself as younger version of the same characters, Jesse and Celine. And of course it was directed by Rick. Everybody calls him Rick, not Richard.

When you first think of what this film is, two people walking around Paris and talking for an hour and a half...it sounds like you want to kill yourself rather than see it. There's no "plot" but there is a plot...it's just an emotional one. It's about an emotional progression between two people, and that's a very hard thing to do. To define the energy between people that makes everything so exciting.

...

I've never been offered sexy-woman parts. I've been with men who've thought of me as sexy. My boyfriend thinks of me as sexy. But until recently, in movies, I've never seen myself as sexy, or wanted to satisfy that male sexpot thing. I was maybe a little scared of that part of me. Somehow today I'm more self assured, and I'm not as scared of my sexuality as I used to. Before it really scared me. I didn't want to be an object.

I auditioned once for Krystoff Kieslowski for The Double Life of Veronique, and he told me to do something sexy, like touch my hair or look sexily into the camera, and I remember I just put my finger in my ear. That was my reaction when that male fantasy of wanting a girl to be sexy for him. So I didn't do Veronique but I was right for White.

...

The reactions to the film exceeded my expectations. I'm a little surprised that people have liked it as much as they have. We had such a fun time doing it, I almost feel guilty that people like it as much as they do. It's not just respect. People are really moved by the film. It really talks to them. People see themselves in it...single people, married people. Life is difficult. Relationships are hard.

Yes, that's Julie Delpy writing her "Sunset Story" exclusively for Hollywood elsewhere. (Be sure to also check out Jeffrey Wells's fascinating mini-interview with Walter Salles.) To see why my sense of contentment has suddenly been replaced by an air of disconsolation, one must only read this and this. What's even worse is that if it wasn't for my bloody afternoon meeting on the westside and the fact that she was running incredibly late, I wouldn't be sleeping alone tonight (or on the internet right now) in the first place. Two cars on a Thursday night always results in two separate final destinations. Fuck. And I didn't even drink enough pinot at dinner to warmly drift me into slumber.

Nothing says true love like knocking boots to "Sussudio"

Britney Really Married...Still

Saturday's ceremony, while having the appearance of another quickie ceremony, was planned right down to the post-wedding "Pimp" sweat suits worn by Federline and his groomsmen.

In People, Spears called the service "my fairy-tale dream."

In the magazine, the couple dished on every detail of their weekend, from their pre-wedding night--they stayed at the Fairmont Miramar Hotel, lit candles and played Phil Collins' greatest hits--to their actual wedding night--they stayed at the Hotel Bel-Air, lit candles and jumped into a bed covered with rose petals.

Said the gentleman Federline of his and Spears' first evening as a wedded couple: "It was great--all night."

Actually, I have the distinct memory of either "Aqualung" or "Freebird" being played at my stepbrother's wedding.

The magnifico rack comes to my hometown

Found on page 4 of today's LA Times food section [tip via ES]:

A (sic) anonymous non-food blogger who takes the moniker "eurotrash" and the persona of a wild and foul-mouthed girl on the town is a Tama Janowitz for the new millennium. Her (his?) rantings on New York Times food writer Amanda Hesser are as unfair as they are hilarious. This is the blog wilderness, defined by its distaste for mainstream journalism: The niceties do not apply here.

I'm loving that Laurie Winer doubts the sincerity of ET's self-descriptions.

For your reference---

Here's a link to the Hesser piece in question.

And here's Tama "Slaves of New York" Janowitz:

Oh peace train take this country, come take me home again

The Former Cat Stevens Gets Plane Diverted [via AP]

A London-to-Washington flight was diverted to Maine on Tuesday when it was discovered passenger Yusuf Islam — formerly known as singer Cat Stevens — was on a government watch list and barred from entering the country, federal officials said.

United Airlines Flight 919 was en route to Dulles International Airport when the match was made between a passenger and a name on the watch list, said Nico Melendez, a spokesman for the Transportation Security Administration. The plane was met by federal agents at Maine's Bangor International Airport around 3 p.m., Melendez said.

Homeland Security Department spokesman Dennis Murphy identified the passenger as Islam. "He was interviewed and denied admission to the United States on national security grounds," Murphy said, and would be put on the first available flight out of the country Wednesday.

Officials had no details about why the peace activist might be considered a risk to the United States. Islam had visited New York in May to promote a DVD of his 1976 MajiKat tour.

I will sleep so much safer tonight knowing that the geniuses at Homeland Security have my back.

Folks, they diverted a plane on national security grounds because of Cat Fucking Stevens. Let me repeat that: DIVERTED A PLANE. While it may be a bit harsh, I really don't think that the protection of Salman Rushdie rises to the level of a genuine U.S. national security interest.

Another Bot Crushed™

sac strikes a major blow for all humankind ---- tmftml has zipped up his pants and is heading for home:

This blog has sucked lately, and our heart hasn't been in it. (We've been too busy writing slash fiction about that guy in the red pants from The Apprentice.) As our friend herself admitted, we've had a good run. We are deeply appreciative of all the people we've come into contact with as a result of this blog, even that guy who always posts comments like, "Not funny" or "Don't get it." (Us either, pal.) But we hate to continually disappoint so many of you with substandard service, so we are seriously considering hanging it up. We are, at the very least, taking a looooong hiatus, in hopes that this time our frequent attempts at retirement are somewhat more successful. We'll leave the links up (from what we understand, that's what most of you come here for in the first place), and if something really fascinating occurs (read: Alessandra Stanley/Virginia Heffernan cage match) we'll pop back up, but in all likelihood, this is goodbye. It's been a pleasure, kids. Do a shot for us.

Although the fucker never linked to me, he still made for a good read now and again. That said, grand announcements of one's blogging retirement are a tad overly masturbatory for my taste. Just shut the hell up and go away; most of the audience will figure it out after a year or two goes by without any posts.

Please observe a moment of silence for Joe Strummer before you push play

Tomorrow, Epic/Legacy releases the 25th Anniversary Legacy Edition of "London Calling", which is one of the two (along with The VU's "Loaded") most listenable rock & roll records of all time. From the opening pulse of "London Calling" through the final "Did you stand by me? No way." of "Train in Vain" this album does not have a weak moment.

Oh yeah, this hits the streets tomorrow, as well. As a public service announcement, I remind you to always wash thoroughly after transacting business with a whore.

Another day, still the butt of the joke

Yesterday, my coworkers made fun of me for not taking the day off like every other Jew in the office.

Today, they are all laughing at my reason for going to today’s executive screening of this, even though I’ve already seen the film.

Thanks for the ringing endorsement

"This is not a great movie, and you will be able to live quite happily without seeing it, but what it does, it does with a certain welcome warmth."

From Roger Ebert's 3-star review of Wimbledon.

It's a bit disconcerting to be in total agreement with the living embodiment of George Costanza

Larry David makes a cameo appearance in today’s NYT Op-Ed:

Are You Undecided? Or Not?

The truth is, Undecideds, you're getting on our nerves. We Decideds hate all the attention you're getting and that you're jerking us around. Anyone who can't make up his or her mind at this point in the campaign should forget about the election entirely, buy a pint of ice cream and get into bed.

We'd love to tell you to take a hike, but we're afraid to alienate you. If we really had any brains, we wouldn't spend another second on you, but on the people who can truly make a difference: the "unlikely" voters. And there are millions more of them than there are of you. Those people aren't after attention, they're just incredibly lazy. The only way they'll register to vote is if someone shows up at their door with a form. And then the only way they'll actually vote is if you carry them to the booth.

Not only are they lazy, they're also indifferent. They just don't believe that voting can have an effect on their lives. Well, it just so happens that right after I voted for the first time, I landed myself a big fat job in Hollywood, a biopsy came back benign and I met my future wife as soon as I walked out of the voting booth. Coincidence? You decide.

FYI- production on the fifth season of "Curb Your Enthusiasm" begins in January.

I'm a bad bad Jew

(Non-Jewish) Co-worker: Did you remember to bring in your copy of "Friday Night Lights"?

Me: Shit, I forgot. Sorry about that.

Co-worker: Don't worry. Try to remember to bring it in on Friday if you can.

Me [looking puzzled]: Friday? Tomorrow's Thursday, right? I'll bring it in tomorrow.

Co-worker: Aren't you taking off for Rosh Hashanah?

Me: Wait a sec. It starts tonight? For real? I could've sworn it started tomorrow night. Nah, I'll be in the office tomorrow. And Friday too, for that matter.

Co-worker: You're not really up on the whole Jewish thing anymore, are you?

Me: G, if we actually believed in hell that's exactly where I'd be headed.


Notwithstanding the above exchange, I want to wish all of my fellow Members of the Tribe a happy and sweet new year and a joyous High Holiday season (or at least until that whole Yom Kippur day of atonement fast thing kicks off).

L'SHANAH TOVAH TIKATEYVU.

An admonition

Bizarre, mildly unsettling dreams result when one views the final 45 minutes of "Lost in Translation" and the first hour of "St. Elmo's Fire" in sequence as one vainly attempts to fall asleep.

The Season Finale

Now that the 24-hour cooling off period/moratorium has elapsed, I have this to say about the “Six Feet Under” fourth season finale:

At 9:53 pm, I looked at the clock on my cable box and said, “There’s no fucking way they are going to be able to tie this all up in seven minutes. I can’t believe they are going to stick us with some shitty unresolved cliffhanger.”

Well, folks, I was wrong. Dead. Solid. Wrong. Alan Ball (who, along with Alan Poul, should never be permitted to direct another episode again. Period.) & Co. abruptly tied a pretty red bow around the Fishers, the Chenowiths and the Diazes and now the rotting corpse of their former masterpiece will lie in a state of rigor mortis for the next nine months.

Disappointment from something (or someone) you count on as a gimme is just a bummer.

At least there was one authentic and moving moment--David and Elevator Man’s ex-wife's discussion about how love truly does remain in one’s heart, long surviving the literal death of the relationship.

Don’t worry. Although tempted, I’m not so obsessed as to fly back to New York just for this.

Since I genuinely, personally know (and have been charmed by) four of the readers at tonight’s Cupcake reading series, I thought it only fitting I give them a shout-out and wish them all best of luck (particularly to the one [public reading] virgin in the group), so......

Rachel, Elizabeth, Maccers and ET, go out there and break a leg. And remember: they’re laughing at you, not with you. Or they just don’t understand your accents.

To those of you in New York looking for something to do on a Tuesday: venture down to the LES and watch these truly amazing women do their thing. And feel free to picture them naked; I’m certain they’re doing the same to you.

I actually find this strangely touching

From the Telegraph:

Sir John Mortimer, the celebrated playwright and author, has discovered that he has an illegitimate son from a brief but passionate affair with Wendy Craig, the actress, more than 40 years ago. The result of their liaison was a boy, Ross. Miss Craig and her husband, who already had their own son, brought him up as their own.

Sir John, 81, found out about the child only in the past year, when Miss Craig, now 70, fearing that the story was about to become public, confirmed to him that the child was his.

"I am not ashamed about this and I don't think that my son, Ross, is either," he said at his Oxfordshire home yesterday. "I think this discovery has actually made us both very happy."

"I met him earlier this year and got along very well with him. He is in his forties now and works in television production and has, funnily enough, done some writing. He met the rest of my family over lunch and got along well with them, too. We all hope to see a lot more of him."

Sir John's relationship with Miss Craig began in 1960 when she was appearing in one of his first plays, The Wrong Side of the Park, at the Cambridge Theatre in London. Both the playwright, then 37, and the 26-year-old Craig were married to other people at the time.

"It was the Sixties and we were all a lot more excitable then," said the creator of Rumpole of the Bailey.

"My relationship with Wendy lasted only as long as that play and the one we did after it, called Lunch Hour, which was performed in 1961. Wendy ended the relationship because her husband had found out about it and she hadn't actually felt comfortable about the situation we had got into for a while. She must have been pregnant when we broke up, but she hadn't told me. We didn't see each other after that except, maybe, later in life where we might have seen each other at public events."

For some time now, I’ve been quite a fan of two of Sir John’s progeny: the brilliant “Rumpole of the Bailey” and the exquisite Emily Mortimer. His response to this entire episode helps to further solidify his well-deserved sterling reputation.

When Splenda™ just won’t cut it

At around 3:30 am Saturday morning, I found myself in a very focused and very intense conversation with a stunning 21-year-old model-cum-actress. One of the myriad of topics we touched upon (and I use “touch” in every sense of the word) was her last boyfriend, aka her sugar daddy (her words). It appears this older gentleman (his exact age and occupation have apparently escaped my superpower of keen recollection; c’mon, folks, this girl was smoking---all details will, by definition, by hazy and/or rose-colored at best) would, on a whim, take this deserving young lady to the boutiques on Robertson, Melrose or Rodeo or to the great Wilshire triumvirate (Barneys, Saks, NM) and think nothing of dropping $10K on clothing for her. She said that she ended it with him when he started to get “too possessive.”

Now, don’t get me wrong; I don’t begrudge anyone the opportunity to use their genetic advantages to their benefit (superficial or otherwise). And I can certainly understand why trust fund beneficiaries would utilize every dollar at their disposal to blow away 21-year-old models who recently moved to LA from a small town within spitting distance of authentic Pennsylvania Dutch: when you lack a personality or anything remotely interesting to say or are truly scary looking when exposed to natural light, your AMEX Centurion card may be your only asset, so pull that sucker out.

That said, I see the problem as two-fold:

1. All these “trophy-girls” are fucked when the well runs dry. There are hundreds (if not thousands) of women throughout LA who are attractive-enough and willing to do almost anything to live the life. There certainly are not an equivalent number of men willing to play the caretaker role. If a young lady is “fortunate” enough to lasso one of these guys, the second he walks, she is, in all likelihood, in a worse position than if he never entered the picture. Not only is our formerly nubile heroine not-as-young-as-she-once-was, she is now accustomed to a semi-destructive lifestyle in a truly-destructive city that will be impossible to duplicate without the backing of the bank account. And since most, if not all, of her acquaintances will be tied to this former life, her friendships may be fleeting. One thing I have noticed, the other 20-something women in similar circumstances are awfully quick to cut the cord when someone in their peer group can’t keep up. Women are definitely more vicious than men. No question.

2. I have a functional Y-chromosome; therefore, I can’t play the same game (and I also can’t afford to be a sugar daddy, but that’s a whole other post). I’m sure there are scores of “kept-men” out there servicing the Mira Sorvinos and Britney Spears of this world, however I am not, nor do I truly think I could ever be, one of them. I have dated at least three women (and by dated, I mean multiple dates/carnal knowledge) who personally could buy-and-sell me and most of you without blinking (one of whom is a legitimate 9-figure heiress), yet I refuse to let them (or anyone) pay for anything. The intermittent splitting of the bill is o.k. The special occasion dinner or present is cool, too. However, when it comes down to it, the one gender stereotype I have never been able to overcome is that it’s the man’s job to provide-- to provide food, shelter, clothing, presents, flowers, NFL Sunday Ticket and at least 20 minutes of attentive foreplay. Yep, I’m old fashioned that way. I’m all for dating a successful, professional, multi-dimensional, wholly-independent woman. I just think I need this one little guideline to reaffirm the existence of my cojones.

Damn it. I guess I’m feeling my age this morning.

Repeat until it sinks in: This will not work in your personal life. This will not work in your personal life.

This morning, after nine straight months of refusing to accept “no” from the other side in a fairly contentious deal, I finally wore them down to the point where they caved completely and agreed to all of my remaining terms. I am a certifiable hero within the office. Drinks all around . . . on my boss.

One caveat: I truly must remember that what is successful within the professional arena does not consequently apply to those occasions where one has been continuously shot down by the same woman for months on end.

Excuse me, but who the fuck do you think you are?

From IMDb:

Hollywood actor Billy Crudup is keen to remain an enigma off screen - and has little interest in becoming a target for journalists. The Stage Beauty star, 36, believes the best actors are those who manage to keep their private lives out of the media glare - because it makes their screen performance more credible.

Crudup says, "I want everything I'm in to be wildly successful, but I don't think that means I want everybody to know anything about me. The entire Hollywood publicity machine was built on 'whatever it takes to get our people out there' but, for me, I've had incredible opportunities to be able to play the roles I want to play, and make a living, so why do I need to pursue that? I'm not sure what it serves. I mean, what do you know about Robert DeNiro? The best actors are the actors we don't know anything about. If people know lots about me, then it becomes difficult for me to do my job of telling people I am someone else."

This from a man who dumped his 8-month pregnant girlfriend in favor of the woman with whom he had been cheating for at least a year. Yeah, Billy, that's exactly right -- the more that people know that you're an utter piece of shit in real life, the harder it is for them to not see you as the asshole you truly are when you're on screen.

Too good to throw away so lightly

Someone was kind enough to comment on my return-to-LA post. I quickly responded with the following, which, in retrospect, I find way too apropos to consign to a lowly comment:

It just felt appropriate upon my return from New York. Unfortunately, so did this:

But he didn't despise himself and it didn't turn out as he had imagined. He had intended, probably, to take what he could and go — but now he found that he had committed himself to the following of a grail.

He knew that Daisy was extraordinary, but he didn't realize just how extraordinary a "nice" girl could be. She vanished into her rich house, into her rich, full life, leaving Gatsby — nothing.

Although I'm still at the office missing what appears to be a terrific NFL season opener (New England just scored a 3rd quareter TD to take a 20-17 lead over Indy -- I'll be leaving in five minutes), I'm damn glad to be home. Yep. Damn glad.

I think I'm going to be violently ill

My stomach has been giving me fits lately (unfortunately, it was particularly distressed following my birthday dinner), however it reached the point of complete and total agony upon the occurrence of the following:

Today, I authorized the payment of $250,000 to a writer for ONE WEEK of services.

I can't fucking believe it. One-quarter of one million dollars for seven days (actually more like five days) of polishing a pre-existing screenplay. We're not even talking about an original screenplay here!

Ugh.

If it was not for the fact that I just returned from an expensed lunch (w/gallons of sake) at the incomparable Nozawa, there would undoubtedly be an additional horror (some serious projectile vomiting) for the tram riders to witness as they traverse Amity Island.

While I may occasionally have a "stamina" problem, I was completely unaware that it was now public knowledge

Ladies & Gentlemen, at this very moment, I am a TOP 10 Google search result for 'seeking dry hump'.


References available upon request.

At first there was shock. Followed immediately by awe. With nausea advancing quickly up the rear.

A Krucoff (who apparently doesn't remember me although I bought him at least three drinks) online audio exclusive:

The anonymous bloggers known as Maccers and Sac team up to read a selection from the Ask Cronos Advice Column. In a curious and most befitting dialect reversal, Maccers applies a rousing Scouse accent to "Lynne Finley of Dardanelle, AK" while Sac attempts to cloak death-metal crooner Cronos as a post-Faulkner character in deep conflict with the unrepressed savagery of a late 80's PMRC hearing.

#1 Maccers

#2 sac

I have lost the power of speech . . .

Damn. I kinda was hoping to get fired.

Today I learned that absence does, indeed, make the heart grow fonder. Prior to this morning's glorious reunion in his office, I had not seen my boss in 20 days. Not a word was mentioned of either the short notice preceding or length of my absence. In fact, we had a remarkably unusual non-superficial chat about my trip, the wedding, Republicans, his health, and our respective cars. All the exhausted angst foreshadowing my return to the office was truly for naught.

And not only was I welcomed back with reasonably open arms, but there were seven individual birthday cards waiting for me in my mailbox and a "happy b-day" voicemail from the (marginally scary) 22 year-old. In fact, all of this unprecedented affection almost makes up for the disappointment I felt upon not getting any goodbye lovin' prior to last night's flight out of New York. I guess I'll just have to wait until my vacation days are replenished on January 1, 2005.

The Final Chapter

And as I sat there brooding on the old, unknown world, I thought of Gatsby's wonder when he first picked out the green light at the end of Daisy's dock. He had come a long way to this blue lawn, and his dream must have seemed so close that he could hardly fail to grasp it. He did not know that it was already behind him, somewhere back in that vast obscurity beyond the city, where the dark fields of the republic rolled on under the night.

Gatsby believed in the green light, the orgastic future that year by year recedes before us. It eluded us then, but that's no matter - tomorrow we will run faster, stretch out our arms further... And one fine morning -

So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.

My last day in NYC *sniffle* *sniffle* *tear* *tear*

The sounds you hear in the background are the somewhat muffled coughs of those wonderful people who agreed to hang out with me on my final evening in New York, despite various physical ailments strongly suggesting their immediate removal from society and possible quarantine. However, they gamely soldiered onward to truly make my final evening an eventful, rewarding, fun, friend-filled time.

As for NYC, I will provide much more detailed (and multi-post) entries describing those bits in a level of detail that will still get around my (albeit extremely liberal) firewall at work.

If you are looking for a nice accurate narration of my trip to Scores with the wonderful RKB, check out her summary right here. It's damn accurate, including how much we really enjoyed the English stripper and the girl in the glasses. It's very self-affirming when you share pretty similar taste with an expert in all that is erotica and pornography and who loves women just as much as you do.

As for the wedding . . . as much as I dreaded running into family and friends-of-the-family who I haven't seen in years (thus leading to the same inevitable answers to the same inevitable lines of inquiry: still single, no one particularly special; work for studio; baby sit movies; new apartment, just south of hollywood; yes, wake up to the hollywood sign every morning; (ex-) roomie movied into a great little house in the hills with her now current fiancee; still like LA, most of the time; still don't meet enough decent women; not moving to Chicago ever; NY or London are always possible, but no plans at present; car is still wonderful, thanks for asking; yes, i did put the kerry-edwards bumper sticker on the car; and, no, i haven't seen "Passion of the Christ"), I had a remarkably great time at a remarkably sweet, genuine and picturesque wedding. The bride looked stunning and my brother even shed a tear or two. This was one best man who clearly was unable to remain his completely staid self throughout this day.

Oh, yeah . . . for all of those people who may think they saw me kiss a bridesmaid on the dancefloor, relish the memory . . . it was an alcoholically-induced momentary lapse of protocol on my part that will never happen again. But I will thank the bride and groom for introducing us.

Where the fuck is everyone?

Other than a few token Republicans in god-awful suits and even worse hats, a bunch of alcohol swilling members of the print media, the cast of "Avenue Q" and a transplanted friend (ipod forthcoming, I promise), New York currently resembles post-viral "28 Days Later" London a bit too closely for my taste.

Now I understand what all the Angelenos are talking about when they say that the best driving in the history of LA was during the 1984 Olympics.